10588	----	SEEING EUROPE WITH FAMOUS AUTHORS Selected And Edited With Introductions, Etc. By Francis W. Halsey _Editor of "Great Epochs in American History" Associate Editor of "The Worlds Famous Orations and of The Best of the World's Classics" etc._ In Ten Volumes Illustrated Vol. I Great Britain And Ireland Part One GENERAL INTRODUCTION A two-fold purpose has been kept in view during the preparation of these volumes--on the one-hand, to refresh the memories and, if possible, to enlarge the knowledge, of readers who have already visited Europe; on the other, to provide something in the nature of a substitute for those who have not yet done so, and to inspire them with new and stronger ambitions to make the trip. Readers of the first class will perhaps find matter here which is new to them--at least some of it; and in any case should not regret an opportunity again to see standard descriptions of world-famed scenes and historic monuments. Of the other class, it may be said that, in any profitable trip to Europe, an indispensable thing is to go there possest of a large stock of historical knowledge, not to say with some distinct understanding of the profound significance to our American civilization, past, present, and future, of the things to be seen there. As has so often been said, one finds in Europe what one takes there--that is, we recognize there exactly those things which we have learned to understand at home. Without an equipment of this kind, the trip will mean little more than a sea-voyage, good or bad, a few rides on railroads somewhat different from our own, meals and beds in hotels not quite like ours, and opportunities to shop in places where a few real novelties may be found if one searches for them long enough. No sooner has an American tourist found himself on board a ship, bound for Europe, than he is conscious of a social system quite unlike the one in which he was born and reared. On French ships he may well think himself already in France. The manners of sailors, no less than those of officers, proclaim it, the furniture proclaims it, and so do woodwork, wall decorations, the dinner gong (which seems to have come out of a chateau in old Touraine), and the free wine at every meal. The same is quite as true of ships bound for English and German ports; on these are splendid order, sober taste, efficiency in servants, and calls for dinner that start reminiscences of hunting horns. The order and system impress one everywhere on these ships. Things are all in their proper place, employees are at their proper posts, doing their work, or alert to do it when the need comes. Here the utmost quiet prevails. Each part of the great organization is so well adjusted to other parts, that the system operates noiselessly, without confusion, and with never a failure of cooperation at any point. So long as the voyage lasts, impressions of a perfected system drive themselves into one's consciousness. After one goes ashore, and as long as he remains in Europe, that well ordered state will impress, delight and comfort him. Possibly he will contrast it with his own country's more hurried, less firmly controlled ways, but once he reflects on causes, he will perceive that the ways of Europe are products of a civilization long since settled, and already ancient, while the hurried and more thoughtless methods at home are concomitants of a civilization still too young, too ambitious, and too successful to bear the curbs and restraints which make good manners and good order possible among all classes. It is from fine examples in these social matters, no less than from visits to historic places, that the observing and thoughtful tourist derives benefit from a European tour. The literature of travel in Europe makes in itself a considerable library. Those who have contributed to it are, in literary quality, of many kinds and various degrees of excellence. It is not now so true as it once was that our best writers write for the benefit of tourists. If they do, it is to compile guide-books and describe automobile trips. In any search for adequate descriptions of scenes and places, we can not long depend on present-day writers, but must hark back to those of the last century. There we shall find Washington Irving's pen busily at work for us, and the pens of others, who make up a noble company. The writings of these are still fresh and they fit our purposes as no others do. Fortunately for us, the things in Europe that really count for the cultivated traveler do not change with the passing of years or centuries. The experience which Goethe had in visiting the crater of Vesuvius in 1787 is just about such as an American from Kansas City, or Cripple Creek, would have in 1914. In the old Papal Palace of Avignon, Dickens, seventy years ago, saw essentially the same things that a keen-eyed American tourist of today would see. When Irving, more than a century ago, made his famous pilgrimage to Westminster Abbey, he saw about everything that a pilgrim from Oklahoma would see today. It is believed that these volumes, alike in their form and contents, present a mass of selected literature such as has not been before offered to readers at one time and in one place. FRANCIS W. HALSEY. INTRODUCTION TO VOLS. I AND II Great Britain and Ireland The tourist who has embarked for the British Isles lands usually at Liverpool, Fishguard, or Plymouth, whence a special steamer-train takes him in a few hours to London. In landing at Plymouth, he has passed, outside the harbor, Eddystone, most famous of lighthouses, and has seen waters in which Drake overthrew the Armada of Philip II. Once the tourist leaves the ship he is conscious of a new environment. Aboard the tender (if there be one) he will feel this, in the custom house formalities, when riding on the steamer-train, on stepping to the station platform at his destination, when riding in the tidy taxicab, at the door and in the office of his hotel, in his well-ordered bedroom, and at his initial meal. First of all, he will appreciate the tranquility, the unobtrusiveness, the complete efficiency, with which service is rendered him by those employed to render it. When Lord Nelson, before beginning the battle of Trafalgar, said to his officers and sailors that England expected "every man to do his duty," the remark was merely one of friendly encouragement and sympathy, rather than of stern discipline, because every man on board that fleet of ships already expected to do his duty. Life in England is a school in which doing one's duty becomes a fundamental condition of staying "in the game." Not alone sailors and soldiers know this, and adjust their lives to it, but all classes of public and domestic servants--indeed, all men are subject to it, whether servants or barristers, lawmakers or kings. Emerging from his hotel for a walk in the street, the tourist, even tho his visit be not the first, will note the ancient look of things. Here are buildings that have survived for two, or even five, hundred years, and yet they are still found fit for the purposes to which they are put. Few buildings are tall, the "skyscraper" being undiscoverable. On great and crowded thoroughfares one may find buildings in plenty that have only two, or at most three, stories, and their windows small, with panes of glass scarcely more than eight by ten. The great wall mass and dome of St. Paul's, the roof and towers of Westminster Abbey, unlike the lone spire of old Trinity in New York, still rise above all the buildings around them as far as the eye can reach, just about as they did in the days of Sir Christopher Wren. Leaving a great thoroughfare for a side street, a stone's throw may bring one to a friend's office, in one of those little squares so common in the older parts of London. How ancient all things here may seem to him, the very street doorway an antiquity, and so the fireplace within, the hinges and handles of the doors. From some upper rear window he may look out on an extension roof of solid lead, that has survived, sound and good, after the storms of several generations, and beyond may look into an ancient burial ground, or down upon the grass-plots and ample walks around a church (perchance the Temple Church), and again may see below him the tomb of Oliver Goldsmith. In America we look for antiquities to Boston, with her Long Wharf, or Faneuil Hall; to New York, with her Fraunccs Tavern and Van Cortlandt Manor House; to Jamestown with her lone, crumbling church tower; to the Pacific coast with her Franciscan mission houses; to St. Augustine with her Spanish gates; but all these are young and blushing things compared with the historic places of the British Isles. None of them, save one, is of greater age than a century and a half. Even the exception (St. Augustine) is a child in arms compared with Westminster Hall, the Tower of London, St. Martin's of Canterbury, the ruined abbey of Glastonbury, the remains of churches on the island of Iona, or the oldest ruins found in Ireland. What to an American is ancient history, to an Englishman is an affair of scarcely more than yesterday. As Goldwin Smith has said, the Revolution of 1776 is to an American what the Norman conquest is to an Englishman--the event on which to found a claim of ancestral distinction. More than seven hundred years divide these two events. With the Revolution, our history as a nation began; before that we were a group of colonies, each a part of the British Empire. We fought single-handed with Indians, it is true, and we cooperated with the mother country in wresting the continent from the French, but all this history, in a technical sense, is English history rather than the history of the United States. Our Revolution occurred in the reign of the Third George; back of it runs a line of other Hanoverian kings, of Stuart kings, of Tudor kings, of Plantagenet kings, of Norman kings, of Saxon kings, of Roman governors, of Briton kings and queens, of Scottish tribal heads and kings, of ancient Irish kings. Long before Caesar landed in Kent, inhabitants of England had erected forts, constructed war chariots, and reared temples of worship, of which a notable example still survives on Salisbury Plain. So had the Picts and Scots of Caledonia reared strongholds and used war chariots, and so had Celts erected temples of worship in Ireland, and Phoenicians had mined tin in Cornwall. When Cavaliers were founding a commonwealth at Jamestown and the Puritans one on Massachusetts Bay, the British Isles were six hundred years away from the Norman conquest, the Reformation of the English church had been effected, Chaucer had written his "Tales," Bacon his "Essays," and Shakespeare all but a few of his "Plays." Of the many races to whom belong these storied annals--Briton, Pict, Scot, Saxon, Dane, Celt, Norman--we of America, whose ancestral lines run back to those islands, are the far-descended children, heirs actual. Our history, as a civilized people, began not in Independence Hall, Philadelphia, not at Jamestown, not at Plymouth Rock, but there in the northeastern Atlantic, in lands now acknowledging the sway of the Parliament of Westminster, and where, as with us, the speech of all is English. Not alone do we share that speech with them, but that matchless literature, also English, and more than that, racial customs, laws and manners, of which many are as old as the Norman conquest, while others, for aught we know, are survivals from an age when human sacrifices were made around the monoliths of Stonehenge. It is not in lands such as these that any real American can ever feel himself a stranger. There lies for so many of us the ancestral home--in that "land of just and of old renown," that "royal throne of kings," that "precious stone set in the silver sea," that "dear, dear land, dear for her reputation through the world." F.W.H. CONTENTS OF VOLUME I GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND--PART ONE GENERAL INTRODUCTION AND INTRODUCTION TO VOLS. I AND II--By the Editor I--LONDON A GENERAL SKETCH--By Goldwin Smith WESTMINSTER ABBEY--By Washington Irving THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT--By Nathaniel Hawthorne ST. PAUL'S--By Augustus J.C. Hare THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND THE CRYSTAL PALACE--By H.A. Taine THE TEMPLE'S GALLERY OF GHOSTS PROM DICKENS--By J.R.G. Hassard THE TEMPLE CHURCH--By Augustus J.C. Hare LAMBETH CHURCH AND PALACE--By Augustus J.C. Hare DICKENS'S LIMEHOUSE HOLE--By J.E.G. Hassard WHITEHALL--By Augustus J. C. Hare THE TOWER--By W. Hepworth Dixon ST. JAMES'S PALACE--By Augustus J. C. Hare LITERARY SHRINES OF LONDON--By William Winter II--CATHEDRALS AND ABBEYS CANTERBURY--By the Editor OLD YORK--By William Winter YORK AND LINCOLN COMPARED--By Edward A. Freeman DURHAM--By Nathaniel Hawthorne ELY--By James M. Hoppin SALISBURY--By Nathaniel Hawthorne EXETER--By Anna Bowman Dodd LICHFIELD--By Nathaniel Hawthorne WINCHESTER--By William Howitt WELLS--By James M, Hoppin BURY ST. EDMUNDS--By H. Claiborne Dixon GLASTONBURY--By H. Claiborne Dixon TINTERN--By H. Claiborne Dixon III--CASTLES AND STATELY HOMES LIVING IN GREAT HOUSES--By Richard Grant White WINDSOR--By Harriet Beecher Stowe BLENHEIM--By the Duke of Marlborough WARWICK--By Harriet Beecher Stowe KENILWORTH--By Sir Walter Scott ALNWICK--By William Howitt HAMPTON COURT--By William Howitt CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL--By Elihu Burritt EATON HALL--By Nathaniel Hawthorne HOLLAND HOUSE--By William Howitt ARUNDEL--By Anna Bowman Dodd PENSHURST--By William Howitt IV--ENGLISH LITERARY SHRINES STRATFORD-ON-AVON--By Washington Irving NEWSTEAD ABBEY--By Nathaniel Hawthorne HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH (Byron's Grave)--By William Winter DR. JOHNSON'S BIRTHPLACE--By Nathaniel Hawthorne _(English Literary Shrines continued in Vol. II)_ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME I FRONTISPIECE TRAFALGAR SQUARE, LONDON PRECEDING PAGE I WESTMINSTER ABBEY RIVER FRONT OF THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL INTERIOR OF ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL CHAPEL OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR, WESTMINSTER ABBEY THE TOWER OF LONDON CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL TINTERN ABBEY DRYEURGH ABBEY WINDSOR CASTLE FOLLOWING PAGE 95 THE ALBERT MEMORIAL CHAPEL, WINDSOR THE THRONE ROOM, WINDSOR CASTLE POETS' CORNER, WESTMINSTER ABBEY THE GREAT HALL AT PENSHURST THE ENTRANCE HALL OF BLENHEIM PALACE GUY'S TOWER AND THE CLOCK TOWER, WARWICK CASTLE WARWICK CASTLE THE BEAUCHAMP CHAPEL, WARWICK THE RUINS OF KENILWORTH CASTLE CHATSWORTH ALNWICK CASTLE HOLLAND HOUSE EATON HALL I LONDON A GENERAL SKETCH [Footnote: From articles written for the Toronto "Week." Afterward (1888) issued by The Macmillan Company in the volume entitled "The Trip to England."] BY GOLDWIN SMITH The huge city perhaps never imprest the imagination more than when approaching it by night on the top of a coach you saw its numberless lights flaring, as Tennyson says, "like a dreary dawn." The most impressive approach is now by the river through the infinitude of docks, quays, and shipping. London is not a city, but a province of brick and stone. Hardly even from the top of St. Paul's or of the Monument can anything like a view of the city as a whole be obtained. It is indispensable, however, to make one or the other of these ascents when a clear day can be found, not so much because the view is fine, as because you will get a sensation of vastness and multitude not easily to be forgotten. There is, or was not long ago, a point on the ridge which connects Hampstead with Highgate from which, as you looked over London to the Surrey Hills beyond, the modern Babylon presented something like the aspect of a city. The ancient Babylon may have vied with London in circumference, but the greater part of its area was occupied by open spaces; the modern Babylon is a dense mass of humanity.... The Empire and the commercial relations of England draw representatives of trading committees or subject races from all parts of the globe, and the faces and costumes of the Hindu, the Parsee, the Lascar and the ubiquitous Chinaman mingle in the motley crowd with the merchants of Europe and America. The streets of London are, in this respect, to the modern what the great Palace of Tyre must have been to the ancient world. But pile Carthage on Tyre, Venice on Carthage, Amsterdam on Venice, and you will not make the equal, or anything near the equal, of London. Here is the great mart of the world, to which the best and richest products are brought from every land and clime, so that if you have put money in your purse you may command every object of utility or fancy which grows or is made anywhere without going beyond the circuit of the great cosmopolitan city. Parisian, German, Russian, Hindu, Japanese, Chinese industry is as much at your service here, if you have the all-compelling talisman in your pocket, as in Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Benares, Yokohama, or Peking. That London is the great distributing center of the world is shown by the fleets of the carrying trade of which the countless masts rise along her wharves and in her docks. She is also the bank of the world. But we are reminded of the vicissitudes of commerce and the precarious tenure by which its empire is held when we consider that the bank of the world in the middle of the last century was Amsterdam. The first and perhaps the greatest marvel of London is the commissariat. How can the five millions be regularly supplied with food, and everything needful to life, even with such things as milk and those kinds of fruits which can hardly be left beyond a day? Here again we see reason for excepting to the sweeping jeremiads of cynicism, and concluding that tho there may be fraud and scamping in the industrial world, genuine production, faithful service, disciplined energy, and skill in organization, can not wholly have departed from the earth. London is not only well fed, but well supplied with water and well drained. Vast and densely peopled as it is, it is a healthy city. Yet the limit of practical extension seems to be nearly reached. It becomes a question how the increasing multitude shall be supplied not only with food and water, but with air. The East of London, which is the old city, is, as all know, the business quarter. Let the worshiper of Mammon when he sets foot in Lombard Street adore his divinity, of all whose temples this is the richest and the most famous. Note the throng incessantly threading those narrow and tortuous streets. Nowhere are the faces so eager or the steps so hurried, except perhaps in the business quarter of New York. Commerce has still its center here; but the old social and civic life of the city has fled. What once were the dwellings of the merchants of London are now vast collections of offices. The merchants dwell in the mansions of the West End, their clerks in villas and boxes without number, to which when their offices close they are taken by the suburban railways. On Sunday a more than Sabbath stillness reigns in those streets, while in the churches, the monuments of Wren's architectural genius which in Wren's day were so crowded, the clergyman sleepily performs the service to a congregation which you may count upon your fingers. It is worth while to visit the city on a Sunday. Here and there, in a back street, may still be seen what was once the mansion of a merchant prince, ample and stately, with the rooms which in former days displayed the pride of commercial wealth and resounded with the festivities of the olden time; now the sound of the pen alone is heard. These and other relics of former days are fast disappearing before the march of improvement, which is driving straight new streets through the antique labyrinth. Some of the old thoroughfares as well as the old names remain. There is Cheapside, along which, through the changeful ages, so varied a procession of history has swept. There is Fleet Street, close to which, in Bolt Court, Johnson lived, and which he preferred, or affected to prefer, to the finest scenes of nature. Temple Bar, once grimly garnished with the heads of traitors, has been numbered with the things of the past, after furnishing Mr. Bright, by the manner in which the omnibuses were jammed in it, with a vivid simile for a legislative deadlock.... Society has migrated to the Westward, leaving far behind the ancient abodes of aristocracy, the Strand, where once stood a long line of patrician dwellings, Great Queen Street, where Shaftesbury's house may still be seen; Lincoln's Inn Fields, where, in the time of George II, the Duke of Newcastle held his levee of office-seekers, and Russell Square, now reduced to a sort of dowager gentility. Hereditary mansions, too ancient and magnificent to be deserted, such as Norfolk House, Spencer House and Lansdowne House, stayed the westward course of aristocracy at St. James's Square and Street, Piccadilly, and Mayfair; but the general tide of fashion has swept far beyond. In that vast realm of wealth and leisure, the West End of London, the eye is not satisfied with seeing, neither the ear with hearing. There is not, nor has there ever been, anything like it in the world. Notes of admiration might be accumulated to any extent without aiding the impression. In every direction the visitor may walk till he is weary through streets and squares of houses, all evidently the abodes of wealth, some of them veritable palaces. The parks are thronged, the streets are blocked with handsome equipages, filled with the rich and gay. Shops blaze with costly wares, and abound with everything that can minister to luxury. On a fine bright day of May or early June, and days of May or early June are often as bright in London as anywhere, the Park is probably the greatest display of wealth and of the pride of wealth in the world. The contrast with the slums of the East End, no doubt, is striking, and we can not wonder if the soul of the East End is sometimes filled with bitterness at the sight. A social Jeremiah might be moved to holy wrath by the glittering scene. The seer, however, might be reminded that not all the owners of those carriages are the children of idleness, living by the sweat of another man's brow; many of them are professional men or chiefs of industry, working as hard with their brains as any mechanic works with his hands, and indispensable ministers of the highest civilization. The number and splendor of the equipages are thought to have been somewhat diminished of late by the reduction of rents. The architecture of the West End of London is for the most part drearily monotonous; its forms have too plainly been determined by the builder, not by the artist, tho since the restoration of art, varieties of style have been introduced, and individual beauty has been more cultivated. It is the boundless expanse of opulence, street after street, square after square, that most impresses the beholder, and makes him wonder from what miraculous horn of plenty such a tide of riches can have been poured. A beautiful city London can not be called. In beauty it is no match for Paris. The smoke, which not only blackens but corrodes, is fatal to the architecture as well as to the atmosphere. Moreover, the fine buildings, which if brought together would form a magnificent assemblage, are scattered over the immense city, and some of them are ruined by their surroundings. There is a fine group at Westminster, and the view from the steps under the Duke of York's column across St. James's Park is beautiful. But even at Westminster meanness jostles splendor, and the picture is marred by Mr. Hankey's huge tower of Babel rising near. London has had no edile like Haussmann. The Embankment on the one side of the Thames is noble in itself, but you look across from it at the hideous and dirty wharves of Southwark. Nothing is more charming than a fine water street; and this water street might be very fine were it not marred by the projection of a huge railway shed. The new Courts of Law, a magnificent, tho it is said inconvenient, pile, instead of being placed on the Embankment or in some large open space, are choked up and lost in rookeries. London, we must repeat, has had no edile. Perhaps the finest view is that from a steamboat on the river, embracing the Houses of Parliament, Somerset House, and the Temple, with St. Paul's rising above the whole. WESTMINSTER ABBEY [Footnote: From "The Sketch Book." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] BY WASHINGTON IRVING On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. I spent some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes the place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure; but the intercourse between the author and his fellow men is ever new, active and immediate. From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchers of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious name; or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously prest together; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates with croziers and miters; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying, as it were, in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city where everything had been suddenly transmuted into stone. In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art, but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from its fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the specter. But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tombs of those we love? The grave should be surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchers. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery and scooped into niches, crowded with statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, tho with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixt the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulcher of its founder--his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing.... When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world, some tossing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors; the melancholy reward of a monument. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the grave; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the opprest, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher continually echo with sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem--the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself at the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary.... Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulcher vocal! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! What solemn, sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful--it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls--the ear is stunned--the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee--it is rising from the earth to heaven--the very soul seems rapt away and floated upward on this swelling tide of harmony!... I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchers of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs; where warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen lie moldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulcher. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness, to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude?... The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapt in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, tho I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, "find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." [Footnote: Sir Thomas Browne.] What, then, is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower--when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column; and the foxglove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus the man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT [Footnote: From "English Note Books." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers of Hawthorne's works, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870-1898.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE A little before twelve, we took a cab, and went to the two Houses of Parliament--the most immense building, methinks, that ever was built; and not yet finished, tho it has now been occupied for years. Its exterior lies hugely along the ground, and its great unfinished tower is still climbing toward the sky; but the result (unless it be the river-front, which I have not yet seen) seems not very impressive. The interior is much more successful. Nothing can be more magnificent and gravely gorgeous than the Chamber of Peers--a large oblong hall, paneled with oak, elaborately carved, to the height of perhaps twenty feet. Then the balustrade of the gallery runs around the hall, and above the gallery are six arched windows on each side, richly painted with historic subjects. The roof is ornamented and gilded, and everywhere throughout there is embellishment of color and carving on the broadest scale, and, at the same time, most minute and elaborate; statues of full size in niches aloft; small heads of kings, no bigger than a doll; and the oak is carved in all parts of the paneling as faithfully as they used to do it in Henry VII.'s time--as faithfully and with as good workmanship, but with nothing like the variety and invention which I saw in the dining-room of Smithell's Hall. There the artist wrought with his heart and head; but much of this work, I suppose, was done by machinery. It is a most noble and splendid apartment, and, tho so fine, there is not a touch of finery; it glistens and glows with even a somber magnificence, owing to the deep, rich hues and the dim light, bedimmed with rich colors by coming through the painted windows. In arched recesses, that serve as frames, at each end of the hall, there are three pictures by modern artists from English history; and tho it was not possible to see them well as pictures, they adorned and enriched the walls marvelously as architectural embellishments. The Peers' seats are four rows of long sofas on each side, covered with red morocco; comfortable seats enough, but not adapted to any other than a decorously exact position. The woolsack is between these two divisions of sofas, in the middle passage of the floor--a great square seat, covered with scarlet, and with a scarlet cushion set up perpendicularly for the Chancellor to lean against. In front of the woolsack there is another still larger ottoman, on which he might lie at full length--for what purpose intended, I know not. I should take the woolsack to be not a very comfortable seat, tho I suppose it was originally designed to be the most comfortable one that could be contrived. The throne is the first object you see on entering the hall, being close to the door; a chair of antique form, with a high, peaked back, and a square canopy above, the whole richly carved and quite covered with burnished gilding, besides being adorned with rows of rock crystals--which seemed to me of rather questionable taste.... We next, after long contemplating this rich hall, proceeded through passages and corridores to a great central room, very beautiful, which seems to be used for purposes of refreshment, and for electric telegraphs; tho I should not suppose this could be its primitive and ultimate design. Thence we went into the House of Commons, which is larger than the Chamber of Peers, and much less richly ornamented, tho it would have appeared splendid had it come first in order. The Speaker's chair, if I remember rightly, is loftier and statelier than the throne itself. Both in this hall and in that of the Lords we were at first surprized by the narrow limits within which the great ideas of the Lords and Commons of England are physically realized; they would seem to require a vaster space. When we hear of members rising on opposite sides of the House, we think of them but as dimly discernible to their opponents, and uplifting their voices, so as to be heard afar; whereas they sit closely enough to feel each other's spheres, to note all expression of face, and to give the debate the character of a conversation. In this view a debate seems a much more earnest and real thing than as we read it in a newspaper. Think of the debaters meeting each other's eyes, their faces flushing, their looks interpreting their words, their speech growing into eloquence, without losing the genuineness of talk! Yet, in fact, the Chamber of Peers is ninety feet long and half as broad and high, and the Chamber of Commons is still larger. ST. PAUL'S [Footnote: From "Walks in London."] BY AUGUSTUS J.C. HARE It will be admitted that, tho in general effect there is nothing in the same style of architecture which exceeds the exterior of St. Paul's, it has not a single detail deserving of attention, except the Phenix over the south portico, which was executed by Cibber, and commemorates the curious fact narrated in the "Parentalia," that the very first stone which Sir Christopher Wren directed a mason to bring from the rubbish of the old church to serve as a mark for the center of the dome in his plans was inscribed with the single word _Resurgam_--I shall rise again. The other ornaments and statues are chiefly by Bird, a most inferior sculptor. Those who find greater faults must, however, remember that St. Paul's, as it now stands, is not according to the first design of Wren, the rejection of which cost him bitter tears. Even in his after work he met with so many rubs and ruffles, and was so insufficiently paid, that the Duchess of Marlborough, said, in allusion to his scaffold labors, "He is dragged up and down in a basket two or three times in a week for an insignificant £200 a year."... The interior of St. Paul's is not without a grandeur of its own, but in detail it is bare, cold, and uninteresting, tho Wren intended to have lined the dome with mosaics, and to have placed a grand baldacchino in the choir. Tho a comparison with St. Peter's inevitably forces itself upon those who are familiar with the great Roman basilica, there can scarcely be a greater contrast than between the two buildings. There, all is blazing with precious marbles; here, there is no color except from the poor glass of the eastern windows, or where a tattered banner waves above a hero's monument. In the blue depths of the misty dome the London fog loves to linger, and hides the remains of some feeble frescoes by Thornhill, Hogarth's father-in-law. In St. Paul's, as in St. Peter's, the statues on the monuments destroy the natural proportion of the arches by their monstrous size, but they have seldom any beauty or grace to excuse them. The week-day services are thinly attended, and, from the nave, it seems as if the knot of worshipers near the choir were lost in the immensity, and the peals of the organ and the voices of the choristers were vibrating through an arcaded solitude.... The most interesting portion of the church is the Crypt, where, at the eastern extremity, are gathered nearly all the remains of the tombs which were saved from the old St. Paul's. Here repose the head and half the body of Sir Nicholas Bacon (1579), Lord Keeper of the Great Seal in the reign of Elizabeth, and father of Francis, Lord Bacon. Other fragments represent William Cokain, 1626; William Hewit, 1597; and John Wolley and his wife, 1595. There are tablets to "Sir Simon Baskerville the rich," physician to James I. and Charles I., 1641; and to Brian, Bishop of Chester, 1661. The tomb of John Martin, bookseller, and his wife, 1680, was probably the first monument erected in the crypt of new St. Paul's.... In the Crypt, not far from the old St. Paul's tombs, the revered Dean Milman, the great historian of the church (best known, perhaps, by his "History of the Jews," his "History of Latin Christianity," and his contributions to "Heber's Hymns"), is now buried under a simple tomb ornamented with a raised cross. In a recess on the south is the slab of Sir Christopher Wren, and near him, in other chapels, Robert Mylne, the architect of old Blackfriars Bridge, and John Rennie, the architect of Waterloo Bridge. Beneath the pavement lies Sir Joshua Reynolds (1742), who had an almost royal funeral in St. Paul's, dukes and marquises contending for the honor of being his pallbearers. Around him are buried his disciples and followers--Lawrence (1830), Barry (1806), Opie (1807), West (1820), Fuseli (1825); but the most remarkable grave is that of William Maillord Turner, whose dying request was that he might be buried as near as possible to Sir Joshua. Where the heavy pillars and arches gather thick beneath the dome, in spite of his memorable words at the battle of the Nile--"Victory or Westminster Abbey"--is the grave of Lord Nelson. Followed to the grave by the seven sons of his sovereign, he was buried here in 1806, when Dean Milman, who was present, "heard, or seemed to hear, the low wail of the sailors who encircled the remains of their admiral." They tore to pieces the largest of the flags of the "Victory," which waved above his grave; the rest were buried with his coffin. The sarcophagus of Nelson was designed and executed for Cardinal Wolsey by the famous Torregiano, and was intended to contain the body of Henry VIII. in the tomb-house at Windsor. It encloses the coffin made from the mast of the ship "L'Orient," which was presented to Nelson after the battle of the Nile by Ben Hallowell, captain of the "Swiftsure," that, when he was tired of life, he might "be buried in one of his own trophies." On either side of Nelson repose the minor heroes of Trafalgar, Collingwood (1810) and Lord Northesk; Picton also lies near him, but outside the surrounding arches. A second huge sarcophagus of porphyry resting on lions is the tomb where Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, was laid in 1852, in the presence of 15,000 spectators, Dean Milman, who had been present at Nelson's funeral, then reading the services. Beyond the tomb of Nelson, in a ghastly ghost-befitting chamber hung with the velvet which surrounded his lying in state at Chelsea, and on which, by the flickering torchlight, we see emblazoned the many Orders presented to him by foreign sovereigns, is the funeral car of Wellington, modeled and constructed in six weeks, at an expense of £13,000, from guns taken in his campaigns. In the southwest pier of the dome a staircase ascends by 616 steps to the highest point of the cathedral. No feeble person should attempt the fatigue, and, except to architects, the undertaking is scarcely worth while. An easy ascent leads to the immense passages of the triforium, in which, opening from the gallery above the south aisle, is the Library, founded by Bishop Compton, who crowned William and Mary, Archbishop Seeker refusing to do so. It contains the bishop's portrait and some carving by Gibbons. At the corner of the gallery, on the left, a very narrow stair leads to the Clock, of enormous size, with a pendulum 16 feet long, constructed by Langley Bradley in 1708. Ever since, the oaken seats behind it have been occupied by a changing crowd, waiting with anxious curiosity to see the hammer strike its bell, and tremulously hoping to tremble at the vibration. Returning, another long ascent leads to the Whispering Gallery, below the windows of the cupola, where visitors are requested to sit down upon a matted seat that they may be shown how a low whisper uttered against the wall can be distinctly heard from the other side of the dome. Hence we reach the Stone Gallery, outside the base of the dome, whence we may ascend to the Golden Gallery at its summit. This last ascent is interesting, as being between the outer and inner domes, and showing how completely different in construction one is from the other. The view from the gallery is vast, but generally, beyond a certain distance, it is shrouded in smoke. Sometimes, one stands aloft in a clear atmosphere, while beneath the fog rolls like a sea, through which the steeples and towers are just visible "like the masts of stranded vessels." Hence one may study the anatomy of the fifty-four towers which Wren was obliged to build after the Fire in a space of time which would only have properly sufficed for the construction of four. The same characteristics, more and more painfully diluted, but always slightly varied, occur in each. Bow Church, St. Magnus, St. Bride, and St. Vedast are the best. The Great Bell of St. Paul's (of 1716), which hangs in the south tower, bears the inscription, "Richard Phelps made me, 1716." It only tolls on the deaths and funerals of the royal family, of Bishops of London, Deans of St. Paul's, and Lord Mayors who die in their mayoralty. THE BRITISH MUSEUM AND THE CRYSTAL PALACE [Footnote: From "Notes on England." By arrangement with the publishers, Henry Holt & Co.] BY HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE TAINE I have letters of introduction and a ticket of admission to the British Museum. About the Grecian marbles, the original Italian drawings, about the National Gallery, the Hampton Court galleries, the pictures at Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, and the private collections, I shall say nothing. Still, what marvels and what historical tokens are all these things, five or six specimens of high civilization manifested in a perfect art, all differing greatly from that which I now examine, and so well adapted for bringing into relief the good and the evil. To do that would fill a volume by itself. The Museum library contains six hundred thousand volumes; the reading-room is vast, circular in form, and covered with a cupola, so that no one is far from the central office, and no one has the light in his eyes. All the lower stage of shelves is filled with works of reference--dictionaries, collections of biographies, classics of all sorts--which can be consulted on the spot, and are excellently arranged. Moreover, a small plan placed on each table indicates where they are placed and the order in which they stand. Each seat is isolated; there is nothing in front but the woodwork of the desk, so that no one is annoyed by the presence of his neighbor. The seats and the tables are covered with leather, and are very clean; there are two pens to each desk, the one being steel, the other a quill pen; there is also a small stand at the side, upon which a second volume, or the volume from which the extracts are being copied may be placed. To procure a book, the title is written on a form, which is handed to the central office. The attendant brings the book to you himself, and does so without delay. I have made trial of this, even in the case of works seldom asked for. The holder of the book is responsible till he has received back the form filled up when he applied for it. For ladies a place is reserved, which is a delicate piece of attention. What a contrast if we compare this with our great library at the Louvre, with its long room, with half of the readers dazzled by the light in their eyes, the readers being packed together at a common table, the titles of the books being called out in loud tones, the long time spent in waiting at the central office. The French Library has been reformed according to the English model, yet without being rendered as convenient. Nevertheless, ours is the more liberally conducted; its doors are opened to all comers. Here one must be a "respecable" person; no one is admitted unless vouched for by two householders. This is said to be enough; as it is, those gain admission who are worse than shabby--men in working clothes, and some without shoes--they have been introduced by clergymen. The grant for buying new books is seven or eight times larger than ours. When shall we learn to spend our money in a sensible way? In other matters they are not so successful, such as the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, for instance, which formed the building for the Great Exhibition, and which is now a sort of museum of curiosities. It is gigantic, like London itself, and like so many things in London, but how can I portray the gigantic? All the ordinary sensations produced by size are intensified several times here. It is two miles in circumference and has three stories of prodigious height; it would easily hold five or six buildings like our Palace of Industry, and it is of glass; it consists, first, of an immense rectangular structure rising toward the center in a semicircle like a hothouse, and flanked by two Chinese towers; then, on either side, long buildings descend at right angles, enclosing the garden with its fountains, statues, summer houses, strips of turf, groups of large trees, exotic plants, and beds of flowers. The acres of glass sparkle in the sunlight; at the horizon an undulating line of green eminences is bathed in the luminous vapor which softens all colors and spreads an expression of tender beauty over an entire landscape. Always the same English method of decoration--on the one side a park and natural embellishments, which it must be granted, are beautiful and adapted to the climate; on the other, the building, which is a monstrous jumble, wanting in style, and bearing witness not to taste, but to English power. The interior consists of a museum of antiquities, composed of plaster facsimiles of all the Grecian and Roman statues scattered over Europe; of a museum of the Middle Ages; of a Revival museum; of an Egyptian museum; of a Nineveh museum; of an Indian museum; of a reproduction of a Pompeiian house; of a reproduction of the Alhambra. The ornaments of the Alhambra have been molded, and these molds are preserved in an adjoining room as proofs of authenticity. In order to omit nothing, copies have been made of the most notable Italian paintings, and these are daubs worthy of a country fair. There is a huge tropical hothouse, wherein are fountains, swimming turtles, large aquatic plants in flower, the Sphinx and Egyptian statues sixty feet high, specimens of colossal or rare trees, among others the bark of a Sequoia California 450 feet in height and measuring 116 feet in circumference. The bark is arranged and fastened to an inner framework in such a manner as to give an idea of the tree itself. There is a circular concert room, with tiers of benches as in a Colosseum. Lastly, in the gardens are to be seen life-size reproductions of antediluvian monsters, megatheriums, dinotheriums, and others. In these gardens Blondin does his tricks at the height of a hundred feet. I pass over half the things; but does not this conglomeration of odds and ends carry back one's thoughts to the Rome of Caesar and the Antonines? At that period also pleasure-palaces were erected for the sovereign people; circuses, theaters, baths wherein were collected statues, paintings, animals, musicians, acrobats, all the treasures and all the oddities of the world; pantheons of opulence and curiosity; genuine bazaars where the liking for what was novel, heterogeneous, and fantastic ousted the feeling of appreciation for simple beauty. In truth, Rome enriched herself with these things by conquest, England by industry. Thus it is that at Rome the paintings, the statues, were stolen originals, and the monsters, whether rhinoceroses or lions, were perfectly alive and tore human beings to pieces; whereas here the statues are made of plaster and the monsters of goldbeater's skin. The spectacle is one of second class, but of the same kind. A Greek would not have regarded it with satisfaction; he would have considered it appropriate to powerful barbarians, who, trying to become refined, had utterly failed. THE TEMPLE'S GALLERY OF GHOSTS FROM DICKENS [Footnote: From "A Pickwickian Pilgrimage." The persons mentioned in Mr. Hassard's Pilgrimage to the Temple and its neighborhood will be recognized as characters In the novels of Charles Dickens. By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1881.] BY JOHN R.G. HASSARD The Temple is crowded with the ghosts of fiction. Here were the neglected chambers, lumbered with heaps and parcels of books, where Tom Pinch was set to work by Mr. Fips, and where old Martin Chuzzlewit revealed himself in due time and knocked Mr. Pecksniff into a corner. Here Mr. Mortimer Lightwood's dismal office-boy leaned out of a dismal window overlooking the dismal churchyard; and here Mortimer and Eugene were visited by Mr. Boffin offering a large reward for the conviction of the murderer of John Harmon; by that honest water-side character, Rogue Riderhood, anxious to earn "a pot o' money" in the sweat of his brow by swearing away the life of Gaffer Hexam; by Bradley Headstone and Charley Hexam; by "Mr. Dolls," negotiating for "three-penn'orths of rum." It was in Garden Court of The Temple, in the house nearest the river, that Pip, holding his lamp over the stairs one stormy night, saw the returned convict climbing up to his rooms to disclose the mystery of his Great Expectations. Close by the gateway from The Temple into Fleet Street, and adjoining the site of Temple Bar, is Child's ancient banking house, the original of Tellson's Bank in a "Tale of Two Cities." The demolition of Temple Bar made necessary some alterations in the bank, too; and when I was last there the front of the old building which so long defied time and change was boarded up. Chancery Lane, opposite The Temple, running from Fleet Street to Holborn--a distance only a little greater than that between the Fifth and Sixth Avenues in New York--is the principal pathway through the "perplexed and troublous valley of the shadow of the law." At either end of it there are fresh green spots; but the lane itself is wholly given up to legal dust and darkness. Facing it, on the farther side of Holborn, in a position corresponding with that of The Temple at the Fleet Street extremity, is Gray's Inn, especially attractive to me on account of the long grassy enclosure within its innermost court, so smooth and bright and well-kept that I always stopt to gaze longingly at it through the railed barrier which shuts strangers out--as if here were a tennis lawn reserved for the exclusive vise of frisky barristers. At No. 2 Holborn Court, in Gray's Inn, David Copperfield, on his return from abroad near the end of the story, found the rooms of that rising young lawyer, Mr. Thomas Traddles. There was a great scuttling and scampering when David knocked at the door; for Traddles was at that moment playing puss-in-the-corner with Sophy and "the girls." Thavies' Inn, on the other side of Holborn, a little farther east, is no longer enclosed; it is only a little fragment of shabby street which starts, with mouth wide open, to run out of Holborn Circus, and stops short, after a few reds, without having got anywhere. The faded houses look as if they belonged to East Broadway; and in one of them lived Mrs. Jellyby.... The buildings within the large enclosure of Lincoln's Inn are a strange mixture of aged dulness and new splendor; but the old houses and the old court-rooms seem to be without exception dark, stuffy, and inconvenient. Here were the chambers of Kenge and Carboy, and the dirty and disorderly offices of Sergeant Snubbin, counsel for the defendant in the suit of Bardell against Pickwick. Here the Lord Chancellor sat, in the heart of the fog, to hear the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. At the back of the Inn, in the shabby-genteel square called Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr. Tulkinghorn was murdered in his rusty apartment. The story of "Bleak House" revolves about Lincoln's Inn. The whole neighborhood has an air of mystery and a scent like a stationer's shop. Always I found Mr. Guppy there, with a necktie much too smart for the rest of his clothes, and a bundle of documents tied with red tape. Jobling and young Smallweed sometimes stopt to talk with him. The doors of the crowded court-rooms opened now and then, and gentlemen in gowns and horsehair wigs came out to speak with clients who waited under the arches.... The climax of "Bleak House" is the pursuit of Lady Dedlock, and the finding of the fugitive, cold and dead, with one arm around a rail of the dark little graveyard where they buried the law-copyist, "Nemo," and where poor Jo, the crossing-sweeper, came at night and swept the stones as his last tribute to the friend who "was very good" to him. There are three striking descriptions of this place in the novel. "A hemmed-in churchyard, pestiferous and obscene--a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk would reject as a savage abomination, and a Kafir would shudder at. With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death in action close on life; here they lower our dear brother down a foot or two; here sow him in corruption to be raised in corruption; an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside; a shameful testimony to future ages how civilization and barbarism walked this boastful island together." The exact situation of the graveyard is not defined in the novel; but it was evidently near Lincoln's Inn, and Mr. Winter told us, in one of his delightful London letters, that it was also near Drury Lane. So strangely hidden away is it among close and dirty houses that it was only after three long searches through all the courts thereabouts that I found the "reeking little tunnel," and twice I passed the entrance without observing it. Opening out of Drury Lane, at the back and side of the theater, is a network of narrow, flagged passages built up with tall houses. There are rag and waste-paper shops in this retreat, two or three dreadful little greengrocers' stalls, a pawnbroker's, a surprizing number of cobblers, and in the core of the place, where the alley widens into the semblance of a dwarfed court, a nest of dealers in theatrical finery, dancing-shoes, pasteboard rounds of beef and cutlets, stage armor, and second-hand play-books. Between Marquis Court on the one hand, Russell Court on the other, and a miserable alley called Cross Court which connects them, is what appears at first sight to be a solid block of tenements. The graveyard is in the very heart of this populous block. The door of one of the houses stood open, and through a barred staircase window at the back of the entry I caught a glimpse of a patch of grass--a sight so strange in this part of London that I went around to the other side of the block to examine further. There I found the "reeking little tunnel." It is merely a stone-paved passage about four feet wide through the ground floor of a tenement. House doors open into it. A lamp hangs over the entrance. A rusty iron gate closes it at the farther end. Here is the "pestiferous and obscene churchyard," completely hemmed in by the habitations of the living. Few of the graves are marked, and most of the tombstones remaining are set up on end against the walls of the houses. Perhaps a church stood there once, but there is none now. The burials are no longer permitted in this hideous spot, the people of the block, when they shut their doors at night, shut the dead in with them. The dishonoring of the old graves goes on briskly. Inside the gate lay various rubbish--a woman's boot, a broken coal scuttle, the foot of a tin candlestick, fragments of paper, sticks, bones, straw--unmentionable abominations; and over the dismal scene a reeking, smoke-laden fog spread darkness and moisture. THE TEMPLE CHURCH [Footnote: From "Walks in London."] BY AUGUSTUS J.C. HARE By Inner Temple Lane we reach the only existing relic of the residence of the Knights Templars in these courts, their magnificent Temple Church (St Mary's), which fortunately just escaped the Great Fire in which most of the Inner Temple perished. The church was restored in 1839-42 at an expense of £70,000, but it has been ill-done, and with great disregard of the historic memorials it contained. It is entered by a grand Norman arch under the western porch, which will remind those who have traveled in France of the glorious door of Loches. This opens upon the Round Church of 1185 (fifty-eight feet in diameter), built in recollection of the Round Church of the Holy Sepulcher, one of the only four remaining round churches in England; the others being at Cambridge, Northampton, and Maplestead in Essex. Hence, between graceful groups of Purbeck marble columns, we look into the later church of 1240; these two churches, built only at a distance of fifty-five years from each other, forming one of the most interesting examples we possess of the transition from Norman to Early English architecture. The Round Church is surrounded by an arcade of narrow Early English arches, separated by a series of heads, which are chiefly restorations. On the pavement lie two groups of restored effigies of "associates" of the Temple (not Knights Templars), carved in freestone, being probably the "eight images of armed knights" mentioned by Stow in 1598.... Against the wall, behind the Marshalls, is the effigy of Robert Ros, Governor of Carlisle in the reign of John. He was one of the great Magna Charta barons, and married the daughter of a king of Scotland, but he was not a Templar, for he wears flowing hair, which is forbidden by the rites of the Order; at the close of his life, however, he took the Templars' habit as an associate, and was buried here in 1227. On the opposite side is a Purbeck marble sarcophagus, said to be that of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, but her effigy is at Fontevrault, where the monastic annals prove that she took the veil after the murder of Prince Arthur. Henry II. left five hundred marks by his will for his burial in the Temple Church, but was also buried at Fontevrault. Gough considers that the tomb here may be that of William Plantagenet, fifth son of Henry III., who died in infancy, and (according to Weaver) was buried in the Temple in 1256. A staircase in the walls leads to the triforium of the Round Church, which is now filled with the tombs, foolishly removed from the chancel beneath. Worthy of especial notice is the colored kneeling effigy of Martin, Recorder of London, and Reader of the Middle Temple, 1615. Near this is the effigy--also colored and under a canopy--of Edmund Plowden, the famous jurist, of whom Lord Ellenborough said that "better authority could not be cited"; and referring to whom Fuller quaintly remarks: "How excellent a medley is made, when honesty and ability meet in a man of his profession!" There is also a monument to James Howell (1594-1666), whose entertaining letters, chiefly written from the Fleet, give many curious particulars relating to the reigns of James I. and Charles I.... The church (eight-two feet long, fifty-eight wide, thirty-seven high), begun in 1185 and finished in 1240, is one of our most beautiful existing specimens of Early English Pointed architecture: "the roof springing, as it were, in a harmonious and accordant fountain, out of the clustered pillars that support its pinioned arches; and these pillars, immense as they are, polished like so many gems." [Footnote: Hawthorne.] In the ornaments of the ceiling the banner of the Templars is frequently repeated--black and white, "because," says Fawyne, "the Templars showed themselves wholly white and fair toward the Christians, but black and terrible to them that were miscreants." The letters "Beausean" are for "Beauseant," their war cry. In a dark hole to the left of the altar is the white marble monument of John Selden, 1654, called by Milton "the chief of learned men reputed in this land." The endless stream of volumes which he poured forth were filled with research and discrimination. Of these, his work "On the Law of Nature and of Nations" is described by Hallam as among the greatest achievements in erudition that any English writer has performed, but he is perhaps best known by his "Table Talk," of which Coleridge says, "There is more weighty bullion sense in this book than I ever found in the same number of pages of any uninspired writer."... On the right of the choir, near a handsome marble piscina, is the effigy of a bishop, usually shown as that of Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, by whom the church was consecrated, but he left England in a fury, after Henry II. refused to perform his vow of joining the Crusades in person, to atone for the murder of Becket. The figure more probably represents Silverston de Eversdon, Bishop of Carlisle, 1255. In the vestry are monuments to Lords Eldon and Stowell, and that of Lord Thurlow (1806) by Rossi. The organ, by Father Smydt or Smith, is famous from the long competition it underwent with one by Harris. Both were temporarily erected in the church. Blow and Purcell were employed to perform on that of Smith; Battista Draghi, organist to Queen Catherine, on that of Harris. Immense audiences came to listen, but tho the contest lasted a year they could arrive at no decision. Finally, it was left to Judge Jefferies of the Inner Temple, who was a great musician, and who chose that of Smith. LAMBETH--CHURCH AND PALACE [Footnote: From "Walks in London."] BY AUGUSTUS J.C. HARE The Church of St. Mary, Lambeth, was formerly one of the most interesting churches in London, being, next to Canterbury Cathedral, the great burial place of its archbishops, but falling under the ruthless hand of "restorers" it was rebuilt (except its tower of 1377) in 1851-52 by Hardwick, and its interest has been totally destroyed, its monuments huddled away anywhere, for the most part close under the roof, where their inscriptions are of course wholly illegible!... Almost the only interesting feature retained in this cruelly abused building is the figure of a pedler with his pack and dog (on the third window of the north aisle) who left "Pedlar's Acre" to the parish, on condition of his figure being always preserved on one of the church windows. The figure was existing here as early as 1608. In the churchyard, at the east end of the church, is an altar tomb, with the angles sculptured like trees, spreading over a strange confusion of obelisks, pyramids, crocodiles, shells, etc., and, at one end, a hydra. It is the monument of John Tradescant (1638) and his son, two of the earliest British naturalists. The elder was so enthusiastic a botanist that he joined an expedition against Algerine corsairs on purpose to get a new apricot from the African coast, which was thenceforth known as "the Algier Apricot." His quaint medley of curiosities, known in his own time as "Tradeskin's Ark," was afterward incorporated with the Ashmolean Museum.... "Lambeth, envy of each band and gown," has been for more than 700 years the residence of the Archbishops of Canterbury, tho the site of the present palace was only obtained by Archbishop Baldwin in 1197, when he exchanged some lands in Kent for it with Glanville, Bishop of Rochester, to whose see it had been granted by the Countess Goda, sister of the Confessor. The former proprietorship of the Bishops of Rochester is still commemorated in Rochester Row, Lambeth, on the site of a house which was retained when the exchange was made, for their use when they came to attend Parliament. The Palace is full of beauty in itself and intensely interesting from its associations. It is approached by a noble Gateway of red brick with stone dressings, built by Cardinal Moreton in 1490. It is here that the poor of Lambeth have received "the Archbishops' Dole" for hundreds of years. In ancient times a farthing loaf was given twice a week to 4,000 people. Adjoining the Porter's Lodge is a room evidently once used as a prison. On passing the gate we are in the outer court, at the end of which rises the picturesque Lollards' Tower, built by Archbishop Chicheley, 1434-45; on the right is the Hall. A second gateway leads to the inner court, containing the modern (Tudor) palace, built by Archbishop Howley (1828-48), who spent the whole of his private fortune upon it rather than let Blore the architect be ruined by exceeding his contract to the amount of £30,000. On the left, between the buttresses of the hall, are the descendants of some famous fig trees planted by Cardinal Pole. The Hall was built by Archbishop Juxon in the reign of Charles II., on the site of the hall built by Archbishop Boniface (1244), which was pulled down by Scot and Hardyng, the regicides, who purchased the palace when it was sold under the Commonwealth. Juxon's arms and the date 1663 are over the door leading to the palace. The stained window opposite contains the arms of many of the archbishops, and a portrait of Archbishop Chicheley. Archbishop Bancroft, whose arms appear at the east end, turned the hall into a Library, and the collection of books which it contains has been enlarged by his successors, especially by Archbishop Seeker, whose arms appear at the west end, and who bequeathed his library to Lambeth. Upon the death of Laud, the books were saved from dispersion through being claimed by the University of Cambridge, under the will of Bancroft, which provided that they should go to the University if alienated from the see; they were restored by Cambridge to Archbishop Sheldon. The library contains a number of valuable MSS., the greatest treasure being a copy of Lord Rivers's translation of the "Diets and Sayings of the Philosophers," with an illumination of the Earl presenting Caxton on his knees to Edward IV. Beside the King stand Elizabeth Woodville and her eldest son, and this, the only known portrait of Edward V., is engraved by Vertue in his Kings of England. A glass case contains: The Four Gospels in Irish, a volume which belonged to King Athelstan, and was given by him to the city of Canterbury; a copy of the Koran written by Sultan Allaruddeen Siljuky in the fifteenth century, taken in the Library of Tippoo Saib at Seringapatam; the Lumley Chronicle of St. Alban's Abbey; Queen Elizabeth's Prayer-Book, with illuminations from Holbein's Dance of Death destroyed in Old St. Paul's; an illuminated copy of the Apocalypse, of the thirteenth century; the Mazarine Testament, fifteenth century; and the rosary of Cardinal Pole. A staircase lined with portraits of the Walpole family, leads from the Library to the Guard Room, now the Dining-Hall. It is surrounded by an interesting series of portraits of the archbishops from the beginning of the sixteenth century. Through the paneled room, called Cranmer's Parlor, we enter the Chapel, which stands upon a Crypt supposed to belong to the manor-house built by Archbishop Herbert Fitzwalter, about 1190. Its pillars have been buried nearly up to their capitals, to prevent the rising of the river tides within its wall. The chapel itself, tho greatly modernized, is older than any other part of the palace, having been built by Archbishop Boniface, 1244-70. Its lancet windows were found by Laud--"shameful to look at, all diversely patched like a poor beggar's coat," and he filled them with stained glass, which he proved that he collected from ancient existing fragments, tho his insertion of "Popish images and pictures made by their like in a mass book" was one of the articles in the impeachment against him. The glass collected by Laud was entirely smashed by the Puritans: the present windows were put in by Archbishop Howley. In this chapel most of the archbishops have been consecrated since the time of Boniface.... Here Archbishop Parker erected his tomb in his lifetime "by the spot where he used to pray," and here he was buried, but his tomb was broken up, with every insult that could be shown, by Scot, one of the Puritan possessors of Lambeth, while the other, Hardyng, not to be outdone, exhumed the Archbishop's body, sold its leaden coffin, and buried it in a dunghill. His remains were found by Sir William Dugdale at the Restoration, and honorably reinterred in front of the altar, with the epitaph, "Corpus Matthaei Archiepiscopi tandem hic quiescit." His tomb, in the ante-chapel, was re-erected by Archbishop Sancroft, but the brass inscription which encircled it is gone. The screen, erected by Laud, was suffered to survive the Commonwealth. At the west end of the chapel, high on the wall, projects a Gothic confessional, erected by Archbishop Chicheley. It was formerly approached by seven steps. The beautiful western door of the chapel opens into the curious Post Room, which takes its name from the central wooden pillar, supposed to have been used as a whipping-post for the Lollards. The ornamented flat ceiling which we see here is extremely rare. The door at the northeast corner, by which the Lollards were brought in, was walled up, about 1874. Hence we ascend the Lollard's [Footnote: The name Lollard was used as a term of reproach for the followers of Wyclif. Formerly derived from Peter Lollard, a Waldensian pastor of the thirteenth century, more recently from the Middle Dutch "lollen," to hum.] Tower, built by Chicheley--the lower story of which is now given up by the Archbishop for the use of Bishops who have no fixt residence in London. The winding staircase, of rude slabs of unplaned oak, on which the bark in many cases remains, is of Chicheley's time. In a room at the top is a trap-door, through which as the tide rose prisoners, secretly condemned, could be let down unseen into the river. Hard by is the famous Lollard's Prison (13 feet long, 12 broad, 8 high), boarded all over walls, ceiling, and floor. The rough-hewn boards bear many fragments of inscriptions which show that others besides Lollards were immured here. Some of them, especially his motto "Nosce te ipsum," are attributed to Cranmer. The most legible inscription is "IHS cyppe me out of all al compane. Amen." Other boards bear the notches cut by prisoners to mark the lapse of time. The eight rings remain to which the prisoners were secured: one feels that his companions must have envied the one by the window. Above some of the rings the boards are burned with the hot-iron used in torture. The door has a wooden lock, and is fastened by the wooden pegs which preceded the use of nails; it is a relic of Archbishop Sudbury's palace facing the river, which was pulled down by Chicheley. From the roof of the chapel there is a noble view up the river, with the quaint tourelle of the Lollard's Tower in the foreground. The gardens of Lambeth are vast and delightful. Their terrace is called "Clarendon's Walk" from a conference which there took place between Laud and the Earl of Clarendon. The "summer-house of exquisite workmanship," built by Cranmer, has disappeared. A picturesque view may be obtained of Cranmer's Tower, with the Chapel and the Lollard's Tower behind it. DICKENS'S LIMEHOUSE HOLE [Footnote A: From "A Pickwickian Pilgrimage." The persons mentioned in Mr. Hassard's account of Limehouse Hole will be recognized as characters in the novels of Charles Dickens. By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1881.] BY JOHN R.G. HASSARD I took a steamboat one day at Westminster Bridge, and after a voyage of 40 minutes or so landed near Limehouse Hole, and followed the river streets both east and west. It was easy enough to trace the course of Mortimer Lightwood and Eugene Wrayburn, as they walked under the guidance of Riderhood through the stormy night from their rooms in The Temple, four miles away, past the Tower and the London Docks, and down by the slippery water's edge to Limehouse Hole, when they went to cause Gaffer Hexam's arrest, and found him drowned, tied to his own boat. The strictly commercial aspect of the Docks--the London Docks above and the West India Docks below--shades off by slight degrees into the black misery of the hole. The warehouses are succeeded by boat-builders' sheds; by private wharves, where ships, all hidden, as to their hulls, behind walls and close fences, thrust unexpected bowsprits over the narrow roadway; by lime-yards; by the shops of marine store-dealers and purveyors to all the wants and follies of seamen; and then by a variety of strange establishments which it would be hard to classify. Close by a yard piled up with crates and barrels of second-hand bottles, was a large brick warehouse devoted to the purchase and sale of broken glass. A wagon loaded with that commodity stood before the door, and men with scoop-shovels were transferring the glass into barrels. An enclosure of one or two acres, in an out-of-the-way street, might have been the original of the dust-yard that contained Boffin's Bower, except that Boffin's Bower was several miles distant, on the northern outskirt of London. A string of carts, full of miscellaneous street and house rubbish, all called here by the general name of "dust," were waiting their turn to discharge. There was a mountain of this refuse at the end of the yard; and a party of laborers, more or less impeded by two very active black hogs, were sifting and sorting it. Other mounds, formed from the sittings of the first, were visible at the sides. There were huge accumulations of broken crockery and of scraps of tin and other metal, and of bones. There was a quantity of stable-manure and old straw, and a heap, as large as a two-story cottage, of old hoops stript from casks and packing-cases. I never understood, until I looked into this yard, how there could have been so much value in the dust-mounds at Boffin's Bower. Gradually the streets became narrower, wetter, dirtier, and poorer. Hideous little alleys led down to the water's edge where the high tide splashed over the stone steps. I turned into several of them, and I always found two or three muddy men lounging at the bottom; often a foul and furtive boat crept across the field of view. The character of the shops became more and more difficult to define. Here a window displayed a heap of sailor's thimbles and pack-thread; there another set forth an array of trumpery glass vases or a basket of stale fruit, pretexts, perhaps, for the disguise of a "leaving shop," or unlicensed pawnbroker's establishment, out of which I expected to see Miss Pleasant Riderhood come forth, twisting up her back hair as she came. At a place where the houses ceased, and an open space left free a prospect of the black and bad-smelling river, there was an old factory, disused and ruined, like the ancient mill in which Gaffer Hexam made his home, and Lizzie told the fortunes of her brother in the hollow by the fire. I turned down a muddy alley, where 12 or 15 placards headed "Body Found," were pasted against the wall. They were printed forms, filled in with a pen. Mr. Forster tells us in his life of Dickens that it was the sight of bills of this sort which gave the first suggestion of "Our Mutual Friend." At the end of the alley was a neat brick police-station; stairs led to the water, and several trim boats were moored there. Within the station I could see an officer quietly busy at his desk, as if he had been sitting there ever since Dickens described "the Night Inspector, with a pen and ink ruler, posting up his books in a whitewashed office as studiously as if he were in a monastery on the top of a mountain, and no howling fury of a drunken woman were banging herself against a cell-door in the back yard at his elbow." A handsome young fellow in uniform, who looked like a cross between a sailor and a constable, came out and asked very civilly if he could be of use to me. "Do you know," said I, "where the station was that Dickens describes in 'Our Mutual Friend'?" "Oh, yes, sir! this is the very spot. It was the old building that stood just here: this is a new one, but it has been put up in the same place." "Mr. Dickens often went out with your men in the boat, didn't he?" "Yes, sir, many a night in the old times." "Do you know the tavern which is described in the same book by the name of The Six Jolly Fellowship Porters?" "No, sir, I don't know it; at least not by that name. It may have been pulled down, for a lot of warehouses have been built along here, and the place is very much changed; or it may be one of those below." Of course, I chose to think that it must be "one of those below." I kept on a little farther, by the crooked river lanes, where public houses were as plentiful as if the entire population suffered from a raging and inextinguishable thirst for beer. The sign-boards displayed a preference for the plural which seems not to have escaped the observation of the novelist. If I did not see The Six Porters, I came across The Three Mariners, The Three Cups, The Three Suns, The Three Tuns, The Three Foxes, and the Two Brewers; and in the last I hope that I found the original of the tavern so often mentioned in the story. I had first noticed it from the steamboat--"a narrow, lop-sided wooden jumble of corpulent windows heaped one upon another as you might heap as many toppling oranges, with a crazy wooden veranda impending over the water,"--a tavern of dropsical appearance, which had not a straight floor in its whole constitution, and hardly a straight line. I got at the entrance on the land side after a search among puzzling alleys, and there I found still stronger reminders of "Our Mutual Friend." Stuck against the wall was an array of old and new hand-bills, headed, "Drowned," and offering rewards for the recovery of bodies. The value set upon dead persons in Limehouse Hole is not excessive: the customary recompense for finding them seems to be ten shillings, and in only one instance did the price reach the dazzling amount of one pound. By the side of the house is an approach to the river: most of the buildings near are old and irregular, and at low tide a great deal of the shore must be exposed. Going upon the slippery stones, beside which lay a few idle and rickety boats, I found the expected range of windows with "red curtains matching the noses of the regular customers." I looked in at the door. A long passage opened a vista of pleasant bar-parlor, or whatever it may have been, on the river-side; and, perhaps, I should have seen Miss Abbey Potterson if I had gone to the end. Several water-side characters were drinking beer at the lead-covered counter, waited upon by a sharp young woman, who seems to have replaced Bob Gliddery. Instead of the little room called "Cozy," where the Police Inspector drank burned sherry with Lightwood and Wrayburn, there was an apartment labelled "The Club." A party of "regular customers," all evidently connected with water (or mud), sat around a table: beyond question they were Tootle, and Mullins, and Bob Glamour, and Captain Joey; and at ten o'clock Miss Abbey would issue from the bar-parlor, and send them home. If The Jolly Fellowship Porters is still extant, this must be it. WHITEHALL [Footnote: From "Walks in London."] BY AUGUSTUS J.C. HARE The present Banqueting-House of Whitehall was begun by Inigo Jones, and completed in 1622, forming only the central portion of one wing in his immense design for a new palace, which, if completed, would have been the finest in the world. The masonry is by a master-mason, Nicholas Stone, several of whose works we have seen in other parts of London. "Little did James think that he was raising a pile from which his son was to step from the throne to a scaffold." The plan of Inigo Jones would have covered 24 acres, and one may best judge of its intended size by comparison with other buildings. Hampton Court covers 8 acres; St. James's Palace, 4 acres; Buckingham Palace, 2-1/2 acres. It would have been as large as Versailles, and larger than the Louvre. Inigo Jones received only 8s. 4d. a day while he was employed at Whitehall, and £46 per annum for house-rent. The huge palace always remained unfinished. Whitehall attained its greatest splendor in the reign of Charles I. The mask of Comus was one of the plays acted here before the king; but Charles was so afraid of the pictures in the Banqueting-House being injured by the number of wax lights which were used, that he built for the purpose a boarded room called the "King's Masking-House," afterward destroyed by the Parliament. The gallery toward Privy Garden was used for the king's collection of pictures, afterward either sold or burned. The Banqueting-House was the scene of hospitalities almost boundless. The different accounts of Charles I.'s execution introduce us to several names of the rooms in the old palace. We are able to follow him through the whole of the last scenes of the 30th of January, 1648. When he arrived, having walked from St. James's, "the King went up the stairs leading to the Long Gallery" of Henry VIII, and so to the west side of the palace. In the "Horn Chamber" he was given up to the officers who held the warrant for his execution. Then he passed on to the "Cabinet Chamber," looking upon Privy Garden. Here, the scaffold not being ready, he prayed and conversed with Bishop Juxon, ate some bread, and drank some claret. Several of the Puritan clergy knocked at the door and offered to pray with him, but he said that they had prayed against him too often for him to wish to pray with them in his last moments. Meanwhile, in a small distant room, Cromwell was signing the order to the executioner, and workmen were employed in breaking a passage through the west wall of the Banqueting House, that the warrant for the execution might be carried out which ordained it to be held "in the open street before Whitehall.".... Almost from the time of Charles's execution Cromwell occupied rooms in the Cockpit, where the Treasury is now, but soon after he was installed "Lord Protector of the Commonwealth" (December 16, 1653), he took up his abode in the royal apartments, with his "Lady Protectress" and his family. Cromwell's puritanical tastes did not make him averse to the luxury he found there, and, when Evelyn visited Whitehall after a long interval in 1656, he found it "very glorious and well furnished." But the Protectress could not give up her habits of nimble housewifery, and "employed a surveyor to make her some little labyrinths and trap-stairs, by which she might, at all times, unseen, pass to and fro, and come unawares upon her servants, and keep them vigilant in their places and honest in the discharge thereof." With Cromwell in Whitehall lived Milton, as his Latin Secretary. Here the Protector's daughters, Mrs. Rich and Mrs. Claypole, were married, and here Oliver Cromwell died (September 3, 1658) while a great storm was raging which tore up the finest elms in the Park, and hurled them to the ground, beneath the northern windows of the palace. In the words of Hume, Cromwell upon his deathbed "assumed more the character of a mediator, interceding for his people, than that of a criminal, whose atrocious violation of social duty had, from every tribunal, human and divine, merited the severest vengeance." Having inquired of Godwin, the divine who attended him, whether a person who had once been in a state of grace could afterward be damned, and being assured it was impossible, he said, "Then I am safe, for I am sure that I was once in a state of grace." Richard Cromwell continued to reside in Whitehall till his resignation of the Protectorate. On his birthday, the 29th of May, 1660, Charles II returned to Whitehall. The vast labyrinthine chambers of the palace were soon filled to overflowing by his crowded court. The queen's rooms were facing the river to the east of the Water Gate. Prince Rupert had rooms in the Stone Gallery, which ran along the south side of Privy Gardens, beyond the main buildings of the palace, and beneath him were the apartments of the king's mistresses, Barbara Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine, afterward Duchess of Cleveland, and Louise de Querouaille, Duchess of Portsmouth. The rooms of the latter, who first came to England with Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans, to entice Charles II into an alliance with Louis XIV., and whose "childish, simple, baby-face" is described by Evelyn, were three times rebuilt to please her, having "ten times the richness and glory" of the queen's. Nell Gwynne did not live in the palace, tho she was one of Queen Catherine's Maids of Honor! Charles died in Whitehall on February 6, 1684. With his successor the character of the palace changed. James II, who continued to make it his principal residence, established a Roman Catholic chapel there. It was from Whitehall that Queen Mary Beatrice made her escape on the night of December 9, 1688. The adventure was confided to the Count de Lauzun and his friend M. de St. Victor, a gentleman of Avignon. The queen on that terrible evening entreated vainly to be allowed to remain and share the perils of her husband; he assured her that it was absolutely necessary that she should precede him, and that he would follow her in twenty-four hours. The king and queen went to bed as usual to avoid suspicion, but rose soon after, when the queen put on a disguise provided by St. Victor. The royal pair then descended to the rooms of Madame de Labadie, where they found Lauzun, with the infant Prince James and his two nurses. The king, turning-to Lauzun, said, "I confide my queen and my son to your care: all must be hazarded to convey them with the utmost speed to France." Lauzun then gave his hand to the queen to lead her away, and, followed by the two nurses with the child, they crossed the Great Gallery, and descended by a back staircase and a postern gate to Privy Gardens. At the garden gate a coach was waiting, the queen entered with Lauzun, the nurses, and her child, who slept the whole time, St. Victor mounted by the coachman, and they drove to the "Horse Ferry" at Westminster, where a boat was waiting in which they crossed to Lambeth. On the 11th the Dutch troops had entered London, and James, having commanded the gallant Lord Craven, who was prepared to defend the palace to the utmost, to draw off the guard which he commanded, escaped himself in a boat from the water-entrance of the palace at three o'clock in the morning. At Feversham his flight was arrested, and he returned amid bonfires, bell-ringing, and every symptom of joy from the fickle populace. Once more he slept in Whitehall, but in the middle of the night was aroused by order of his son-in-law, and hurried forcibly down the river to Rochester, whence, on December 23, he escaped to France. On the 25th of November the Princess Anne had declared against her unfortunate father, by absconding at night by a back staircase from her lodgings in the Cockpit, as the northwestern angle of the palace was called, which looked on St. James's Park. Compton, Bishop of London, was waiting for her with a hackney coach, and she fled to his house in Aldersgate Street. Mary II arrived in the middle of February, and "came into Whitehall, jolly as to a wedding, seeming quite transported with joy." But the glories of Whitehall were now over. William III., occupied with his buildings at Hampton Court and Kensington, never cared to live there, and Mary doubtless stayed there as little as possible, feeling opprest by the recollections of her youth spent there with an indulgent father whom she had cruelly wronged, and a stepmother whom she had once loved with sisterly as well as filial affection, and from whom she had parted with passionate grief on her marriage, only nine years before. The Stone Gallery and the late apartments of the royal mistresses in Whitehall were burned down in 1691, and the whole edifice was almost totally destroyed by fire through the negligence of a Dutch maidservant in 1697. The principal remaining fragment of the palace is the Banqueting-House of Inigo Jones, from which Charles I. passed to execution. Built in the dawn of the style of Wren, it is one of the most grandiose examples of that style, and is perfect alike in symmetry and proportion. That it has no entrance apparent at first sight is due to the fact that it was only intended as a portion of a larger building. In the same way we must remember that the appearance of two stories externally, while the whole is one room, is due to the Banqueting-House being only one of four intended blocks, of which one was to be a chapel surrounded by galleries, and the other two divided into two tiers of apartments. The Banqueting-House was turned into a ehapel by George I., but has never been consecrated, and the aspect of a hall is retained by the ugly false red curtains which surround the interior of the building. It is called the Chapel Royal of Whitehall, is served by the chaplains of the sovereign, and is one of the dreariest places of worship in London. The ceiling is still decorated with canvas pictures by Rubens (1635) representing the apotheosis of James I. The painter received £3,000 for these works. The walls were to have been painted by Vandyke with the History of the Order of the Garter. "What," says Walpole, "had the Banqueting-House been if completed?" Over the entrance is a bronze bust of James I. attributed to Le Soeur. THE TOWER [Footnote: From "Her Majesty's Tower."] BY W. HEPWORTH DIXON Half-a-mile below London Bridge, on ground which was once a bluff, commanding the Thames from St. Saviour's Creek to St. Olave's Wharf, stands the Tower; a mass of ramparts, walls, and gates, the most ancient and most poetic pile in Europe.... The Tower has an attraction for us akin to that of the house in which we were born, the school in which we were trained. Go where we may, that grim old edifice on the Pool goes with us; a part of all we know, and of all we are. Put seas between us and the Thames, this Tower will cling to us, like a thing of life. It colors Shakespeare's page. It casts a momentary gloom over Bacon's story. Many of our books were written in its vaults; the Duke of Orleans's "Poesies," Raleigh's "Historie of the World," Eliot's "Monarchy of Man," and Penn's "No Cross, No Crown." Even as to length of days, the Tower has no rival among places and prisons, its origin, like that of the Iliad, that of the Sphinx, that of the Newton Stone, being lost in the nebulous ages, long before our definite history took shape. Old writers date it from the days of Caesar; a legend taken up by Shakespeare and the poets in favor of which the name of Caesar's tower remains in popular use to this very day. A Roman wall can even yet be traced near some parts of the ditch. The Tower is mentioned in the Saxon Chronicle in a way not incompatible with the fact of a Saxon stronghold having stood upon this spot. The buildings as we have them now in block and plan were commenced by William the Conqueror; and the series of apartments in Caesar's tower--hall, gallery, council-chamber, chapel--were built in the early Norman reigns, and used as a royal residence by all our Norman kings. What can Europe show to compare against such a tale? Set against the Tower of London--with its 800 years of historic life, its 1,900 prisons of traditional fame--all other palaces and prisons appear like things of an hour. The oldest bit of palace in Europe, that of the west front of the Burg in Vienna, is of the time of Henry the Third. The Kremlin in Moscow, the Doge's Palazzo in Venice, are of the fourteenth century. The Seraglio in Stamboul was built by Mohammed the Second. The oldest part of the Vatican was commenced by Borgia, whose name it bears. The old Louvre was commenced in the reign of Henry the Eighth; the Tuilleries in that of Elizabeth. In the time of our civil war Versailles was yet a swamp. Sans Souci and the Escurial belong to the eighteenth century. The Serail of Jerusalem is a Turkish edifice. The palaces of Athens, of Cairo, of Teheran, are all of modern date. Neither can the prisons which remain in fact as well as in history and drama--with the one exception of St. Angelo in Rome--compare with the Tower. The Bastile is gone; the Bargello has become a museum; the Piombi are removed from the Doge's roof. Vincennes, Spandau, Spilberg, Magdeburg, are all modern in comparison with a jail from which Ralph Flambard escaped so long ago in the year 1100, the date of the First Crusade. Standing on Tower Hill, looking down on the dark lines of wall--picking out keep and turret, bastion and ballium, chapel and belfry--the jewel-house, armory, the mounts, the casemates, the open leads, the Bye-ward-gate, the Belfry, the Bloody tower--the whole edifice seems alive with story--the story of a nation's highest splendor, its deepest misery, and its darkest shame. The soil beneath your feet is richer in blood than many a great battle-field; for out upon this sod has been poured, from generation to generation, a stream of the noblest life in our land. Should you have come to this spot alone, in the early days when the Tower is noisy with martial doings, you may haply catch in the hum which rises from the ditch and issues from the wall below you--broken by roll of drum, by blast of bugle, by tramp of soldiers--some echoes, as it were, of a far-off time, some hints of a Mayday revel, of a state execution, of a royal entry. You may catch some sound which recalls the thrum of a queen's virginal, the cry of a victim on the rack, the laughter of a bridal feast. For all these sights and sounds--the dance of love and the dance of death--are part of that gay and tragic memory which clings around the Tower. From the reign of Stephen down to that of Henry of Richmond, Caesar's tower (the great Norman keep, now called the White Tower), was a main part of the royal palace; and for that large interval of time the story of the White Tower is in some part that of our English society as well as of our English kings. Here were kept the royal wardrobe and the royal jewels; and hither came with their goody wares the tiremen, the goldsmiths, the chasers and embroiderers, from Flanders, Italy, and Almaigne. Close by were the Mint, the lion's den, the old archery-grounds, the Court of King's Bench, the Court of Common Pleas, the Queen's gardens, the royal banqueting-hall, so that art and trade, science and manners, literature and law, sport and politics, find themselves equally at home. Two great architects designed the main parts of the Tower: Gundulf the Weeper and Henry the Builder; one a poor Norman monk, the other a great English king. Gundulf, a Benedictine friar, had, for that age, seen a great deal of the world; for he had not only lived in Rouen and Caen, but had traveled in the East. Familiar with the glories of Saracenic art, no less than with the Norman simplicities of Bec, St. Ouen, and St. Etienne, a pupil of Lanfranc, a friend of Anselm, he had been employed in the monastery of Bec to marshal with the eye of an artist all the pictorial ceremonies of his church. But he was chiefly known in that convent as a weeper. No monk at Bec could cry so often and so much as Gundulf. He could weep with those who wept, nay, he could weep with those who sported, for his tears welled forth from what seemed to be an unfailing source. As the price of his exile from Bec, Gundulf received the crozier of Rochester, in which city he rebuilt the cathedral and perhaps designed the castle, since the great keep on the Medway has a sister's likeness to the great keep on the Thames. His works in London were the White Tower, the first St. Peter's Church, and the old barbican, afterward known as the Hall Tower, and now used as the Jewel House. The cost of these works was great; the discontent caused by them was sore. Ralph, Bishop of Durham, the able and rapacious minister who had to raise the money, was hated and reviled by the Commons with peculiar bitterness of heart and phrase. He was called Flambard, or Firebrand. He was represented as a devouring lion. Still the great edifice grew up, and Gundulf, who lived to the age of fourscore, saw his great keep completed from basement to battlement. Henry the Third, a prince of epical fancies as Corffe, Conway, Beaumaris and many other fine poems in stone attest, not only spent much of his money in adding to its beauty and strength, ... but was his own chief clerk of the works. The Water Gate, the embanked wharf, the Cradle Tower, the Lantern, which he made his bedroom and private closet, the Galleyman Tower, and the first wall appear to have been his gifts. But the prince who did so much for Westminster Abbey, not content with giving stone and piles to the home in which he dwelt, enriched the chambers with frescoes and sculptures, the chapels with carving and glass, making St. John's Chapel in the White Tower splendid with saints, St. Peter's Church on the Tower Green musical with bells. In the Hall Tower, from which a passage led through the Great Hall into the King's bedroom in the Lantern, he built a tiny chapel for his private use--a chapel which served for the devotions of his successors until Henry the Sixth was stabbed to death before the cross. Sparing neither skill nor gold to make the great fortress worthy of his art, he sent to Purbeck for marble and to Caen for stone. The dabs of lime, the spawls of flint, the layers of brick which deface the walls and towers in too many places are of either earlier or later times. The marble shafts, the noble groins, the delicate traceries, are Henry's work. Traitor's Gate was built by him. In short, nearly all that is purest in art is traceable to his reign. Edward the First may be added, at a distance, to the list of builders. In his reign the original Church of St. Peter's fell into ruin; the wrecks were carted away, and the present edifice was built. The bill of costs for clearing the ground is still extant in Fetter Lane. Twelve men, who were paid twopence a day wages, were employed on the work for twenty days. The cost of pulling down the old chapel was forty-six shillings and eight pence; that of digging foundations for the new chapel forty shillings. That chapel has suffered from wardens and lieutenants; yet the shell is of very fine Norman work. From the days of Henry the builder down to those of Henry of Richmond the Tower, as the strongest place in the south of England, was by turns the magnificent home and the miserable jail of all our princes. Here Richard the Second held his court and gave up his crown. Here Henry the Sixth was murdered. Here the Duke of Clarence was drowned in wine. Here King Edward and the Duke of York was slain by command of Richard. Here Margaret of Salisbury suffered her tragic fate. Henry of Richmond kept his royal state in the Tower, receiving his ambassadors, counting his angels, making presents to his bride, Elizabeth of York. Among other gifts to that lady on her nuptial day was a Royal Book of verse, composed by a prisoner in the keep. ST. JAMES'S PALACE [Footnote: From "Walks in London."] BY AUGUSTUS J.C. HARE The picturesque old brick gateway of St. James's Palace still looks up St. James's Street, one of the most precious relics of the past in London, and enshrining the memory of a greater succession of historical events than any other domestic building in England, Windsor Castle not excepted. The site of the palace was occupied, even before the Conquest, by a hospital dedicated to St. James, for "fourteen maidens that were leprous." Henry VIII. obtained it by exchange, pensioned off the sisters, and converted the hospital into "a fair mansion and park," in the same year in which he was married to Anne Boleyn, who was commemorated here with him in love-knots, now almost obliterated, upon the side doors of the gateway, and in the letters "H.A." on the chimney-piece of the presence-chamber or tapestry room. Holbein is sometimes said to have been the king's architect here, as he was at Whitehall. Henry can seldom have lived here, but hither his daughter, Mary I., retired, after her husband Philip left England for Spain, and here she died, November 17, 1558. James I., in 1610, settled St. James's on his eldest son, Prince Henry, who kept his court here for two years with great magnificence, having a salaried household of no less than two hundred and ninety-seven persons. Here he died in his nineteenth year, November 6, 1612. Upon his death, St. James's was given to his brother Charles, who frequently resided here after his accession to the throne, and here Henrietta Maria gave birth to Charles II., James II., and the Princess Elizabeth. In 1638 the palace was given as a refuge to the queen's mother, Marie de Medici, who lived here for three years, with a pension of £3,000 a month! Hither Charles I. was brought from Windsor as the prisoner of the Parliament, his usual attendants, with one exception, being debarred access to him, and being replaced by common soldiers, who sat smoking and drinking even in the royal bedchamber, never allowing him a moment's privacy, and hence he was taken in a sedan chair to his trial at Whitehall. On the following day the king was led away from St. James's to the scaffold. His faithful friends, Henry Rich, Earl of Holland, the Duke of Hamilton, and Lord Capel were afterward imprisoned in the palace and suffered like their master. Charles II., who was born at St. James's (May 29, 1630), resided at Whitehall, giving up the palace to his brother, the Duke of York (also born here, October 25, 1633), but reserving apartments for his mistress, the Duchess of Mazarin, who at one time resided there with a pension of £4,000 a year. Here Mary II. was born, April 30, 1662; and here she was married to William of Orange, at eleven at night, November 4, 1677. Here for many years the Duke and Duchess of York secluded themselves with their children, in mourning and sorrow, on the anniversary of his father's murder. Here also Anne Hyde, Duchess of York, died, March 31, 1671, asking, "What is truth?" of Blandford, Bishop of Worcester, who came to visit her. In St. James's Palace also, James's second wife, Mary of Modena, gave birth to her fifth child, Prince James Edward ("the Old Pretender") on June 10, 1688. It was to St. James's that William III. came on his first arrival in England, and he frequently resided there afterward, dining in public, with the Duke of Schomberg seated at his right hand and a number of Dutch guests, but on no occasion was any English gentleman invited. In the latter part of William's reign the palace was given up to the Princess Anne, who had been born there February 6, 1665, and married there to Prince George of Denmark July 28, 1683. She was residing here when Bishop Burnet brought her the news of William's death and her own accession. George I., on his arrival in England, came at once to St. James's. "This is a strange country," he remarked afterward; "the first morning after my arrival at St. James's I looked out of the window, and saw a park with walks, and a canal, which they told me were mine. The next day Lord Chetwynd, the ranger of my park, sent me a fine brace of carp out of my canal; and I was told I must give five guineas to Lord Chetwynd's servant for bringing me my own carp, out of my own canal, in my own park." The Duchess of Kendal, the king's mistress, had rooms in the palace, and, toward the close of his reign, George I. assigned apartments there on the ground floor to a fresh favorite, Miss Anne Brett. When the king left for Hanover, Miss Brett had a door opened from her rooms to the royal gardens, which the king's granddaughter, Princess Anne, who was residing in the palace, indignantly ordered to be walled up. Miss Brett had it opened a second time, and the quarrel was at its height when the news of the king's death put an end to the power of his mistress. With the accession of George II. the Countesses of Yarmouth and Suffolk took possession of the apartments of the Duchess of Kendal. As Prince of Wales, George II. had resided in the palace till a smoldering quarrel with his father came to a crisis over the christening of one of the royal children, and the next day he was put under arrest, and ordered to leave St. James's with his family the same evening. Wilhelmina Caroline of Anspach, the beloved queen of George II., died in the palace, November 20, 1737, after an agonizing illness, endured with the utmost fortitude and consideration for all around her. Of the daughters of George II. and Queen Caroline, Anne, the eldest, was married at St. James's to the Prince of Orange, November, 1733, urged to the alliance by her desire for power, and answering to her parents, when they reminded her of the hideous and ungainly appearance of the bridegroom, "I would marry him, even if he were a baboon!" The marriage, however, was a happy one, and a pleasant contrast to that of her younger sister Mary, the king's fourth daughter, who was married here to the brutal Frederick of Hesse Cassel, June 14, 1771. The third daughter, Caroline, died at St. James's, December 28, 1757, after a long seclusion consequent upon the death of John, Lord Harvey, to whom she was passionately attached. George I. and George II. used, on certain days to play at Hazard at the grooms' postern at St. James's, and the name "Hells," as applied to modern gaming-houses is derived from that given to the gloomy room used by the royal gamblers. The northern part of the palace, beyond the gateway (inhabited in the reign of Victoria by the Duchess of Cambridge), was built for the marriage of Frederick Prince of Wales. The State Apartments (which those who frequent levees and drawing-rooms have abundant opportunities of surveying) are handsome, and contain a number of good royal portraits. The Chapel Royal, on the right on entering the "Color Court," has a carved and painted ceiling of 1540. Madame d'Arblay describes the pertinacity of George III. in attending service here in bitter November weather, when the queen and court at length left the king, his chaplain, and equerry "to freeze it out together."... When Queen Caroline (wife of George II.) asked Mr. Whiston what fault people had to find with her conduct, he replied that the fault they most complained of was her habit of talking in chapel. She promised amendment, but proceeding to ask what other faults were objected to her, he replied, "When your Majesty has amended this I'll tell you of the next." It was in this chapel that the colors taken from James II. at the Battle of the Boyne were hung up by his daughter Mary, an unnatural exhibition of triumph which shocked the Londoners. Besides that of Queen Anne, a number of royal marriages have been solemnized here; those of the daughters of George II., of Frederick Prince of Wales to Augusta of Saxe Cobourg, of George IV. to Caroline of Brunswick, and of Queen Victoria to Prince Albert. The Garden at the back of St. James's Palace has a private entrance to the Park. It was as he was alighting from his carriage here, August 2, 1786, that George III. was attacked with a knife by the insane Margaret Nicholson. "The bystanders were proceeding to wreak summary vengeance on the (would-be) assassin, when the King generously interfered in her behalf. 'The poor creature,' he exclaimed, 'is mad: do not hurt her; she has not hurt me.' He then stept forward and showed himself to the populace, assuring them that he was safe and uninjured." LITERARY SHRINES OF LONDON [Footnote: From "Shakespeare's England." By arrangement with the publishers, Moffat, Yard & Co. Copyright by William Winter, 1878-1910.] BY WILLIAM WINTER The mind that can reverence historic associations needs no explanation of the charm that such associations possess. There are streets and houses in London which, for pilgrims of this class, are haunted with memories and hallowed with an imperishable light that not even the dreary commonness of everyday life can quench or dim. Almost every great author in English literature has here left some personal trace, some relic that brings you at once into his living presence. In the time of Shakespeare,--of whom it should be noted that, wherever found, he is found in elegant neighborhoods,--Aldersgate was a secluded, peaceful quarter of the town, and there the poet had his residence, convenient to the theater in Blackfriars, in which he owned a share. It is said that he dwelt at No. 134 Aldersgate Street (the house was long ago demolished), and in that region, amid all the din of traffic and all the discordant adjuncts of a new age, those who love him are in his company. Milton was born in a court adjacent to Bread Street, Cheapside, and the explorer comes upon him as a resident in St. Bride's churchyard,--where the poet Lovelace was buried,--and at No. 19 York Street, Westminster, in later times occupied by Jeremy Bentham and by William Hazlitt. When secretary to Cromwell he lived in Scotland Yard, now the headquarters of the London police. His last home was in Artillery Walk, Bunhill Fields, but the visitor to that spot finds it covered by the Artillery barracks. Walking through King Street, Westminster, you will not forget the great poet Edmund Spenser, who, a victim to barbarity, died there, in destitution and grief. Ben Jonson's terse record of that calamity says: "The Irish having robbed Spenser's goods and burnt his house and a little child new-born, he and his wife escaped, and after he died, for lack of bread, in King Street." Ben Jonson is closely associated with places that can still be seen. He passed his boyhood near Charing Cross--having been born in Hartshorn Lane, now Northumberland Street; he attended the parish school of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields; and persons who roam about Lincoln's Inn will call to mind that he helped to build it--a trowel in one hand and a volume of Horace in the other. His residence, in his day of fame, was outside the Temple Bar, but all that neighborhood is new. The Mermaid,--which Jonson frequented, in companionship with Shakespeare, Fletcher, Herrick, Chapman, and Donne,--was in Bread Street, but no trace of it remains, and a banking house stands now on the site of the old Devil Tavern, in Fleet Street, a room in which, called "The Apollo," was the trysting place of the club of which he was the founder. The famous inscription, "O, rare Ben Jonson!" is three times cut in the Abbey; once in Poets' Corner and twice in the north aisle, where he was buried,--a little slab in the pavement marking his grave. Dryden once dwelt in a quaint, narrow house, in Fetter Lane,--the street in which Dean Swift has placed the home of "Gulliver," and where the famous Doomsday Book was kept,--but, later, he removed to a liner dwelling, in Gerrard Street, Soho, which was the scene of his death. (The house in Fetter Lane was torn down in 1891.) Edmund Burke's house, also in Gerrard Street, is a beer-shop, but the memory of the great orator hallows the abode, and an inscription upon it proudly announces that here he lived. Dr. Johnson's house, in Gough Square, bears (or bore) a mural tablet, and standing at its time-worn threshold, the visitor needed no effort of fancy to picture that uncouth figure shambling through the crooked lanes that afford access to this queer, somber, melancholy retreat. In that house he wrote the first dictionary of the English language and the characteristic, memorable letter to Lord Chesterfield. The historical antiquarian society that has marked many of the literary shrines of London has rendered a signal service. The custom of marking the houses that are associated with renowned names is, obviously, a good one, because it provides instruction, and also because it tends to vitalize, in the general mind, a sense of the value of honorable repute: it ought, therefore, to be everywhere adopted and followed. A house associated with Sir Joshua Reynolds and a house associated with Hogaith, both in Leicester Square, and houses associated with Benjamin Franklin and Peter the Great, in Craven Street; Sheridan, in Savile Row; Campbell, in Duke Street; Carrick, in the Adelphi Terrace; Mrs. Siddons, in Baker Street, and Michael Faraday, in Blandford Street, are only a few of the notable places which have been thus designated. More of such commemorative work remains to be done, and, doubtless, will be accomplished. The traveler would like to know in which of the houses in Buckingham Street Coleridge lodged, while he was translating "Wallenstein"; which house in Bloomsbury Square was the residence of Akenside, when he wrote "The Pleasures of Imagination," and of Croly, when he wrote "Salathiel"; or where it was that Gray lived, when he established his residence in Russel Square, in order to be one of the first (as he continued to be one of the most constant) students at the then newly opened British Museum (1759).... These records, and such as these, may seem trivialities, but Nature has denied an unfailing source of innocent pleasure to the person who can feel no interest in them. For my part, when rambling in Fleet Street it is a special delight to remember even so little an incident as that recorded of the author of the "Elegy"--that he once saw there his contemptuous critic, Dr. Johnson, shambling along the sidewalk, and murmured to a companion, "Here comes Ursa Major." For true lovers of literature "Ursus Major" walks oftener in Fleet Street to-day than any living man. A good leading thread of literary research might be profitably followed by the student who should trace the footsteps of all the poets, dead and gone, that have held, in England, the office of laureate. John Kay was laureate in the reign of King Edward the Fourth; Andrew Bernard in that of King Henry the Seventh; John Skelton in that of King Henry the Eighth, and Edmund Spenser in that of Queen Elizabeth. Since then the succession has included the names of Samuel Daniel, Michael Drayton, Ben Jonson, Sir William Devenant, John Dryden, Thomas Shadwell, Nahum Tate, Nicholas Rowe, Lawrence Eusden, Colley Cibber, William Whitehead, Thomas Warton, Henry James Pye, Robert Southey, William Wordsworth, and Alfred Tennyson. Most of those bards were intimately associated with London, and several of them are buried in the Abbey. It is, indeed, because so many storied names are written upon gravestones that the explorer of the old churches of London finds in them so rich a harvest of instructive association and elevating thought. Few persons visit them, and you are likely to find yourself comparatively alone, in rambles of this kind. I went one morning into St. Martin's,--once "in-the-fields," now at the busy center of the city,--and found there only a pew-opener, preparing for the service, and an organist, practising music. It is a beautiful structure, with graceful spire and with columns of weather-beaten, gray stone, curiously stained with streaks of black, and it is almost as famous for theatrical names as St. Paul's, Covent Garden, or St. George's, Bloomsbury, or St. Clement Danes. There, in a vault beneath the church, was buried the bewitching, generous Nell Gwynn; there is the grave of James Smith, joint author with his brother Horace,--who was buried at Tunbridge Wells,--of "The Rejected Addresses"; there rests Richard Yates, the original "Sir Oliver Surface"; and there were laid the ashes of the romantic Mrs. Centlivre, and of George Farquhar, whom neither youth, genius, patient labor, nor sterling achievement could save from a life of misfortune and an untimely, piteous death. A cheerier association of this church is with the poet Thomas Moore, who was there married. At St. Giles's-in-the-Fields are the graves of George Chapman, who translated Homer; Andrew Marvel, who wrote such lovely lyrics; Rich, the manager, who brought out "The Beggar's Opera," and James Shirley, the fine dramatist and poet, whose immortal couplet has often been murmured in such solemn haunts as these: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. Shirley was one of the most fertile, accomplished, admirable, and admired of writers, during the greater part of his life (1596-1666), and the study of his writing amply rewards the diligence of the student. His plays, about forty in number, of which "The Traitor" is deemed the best tragedy and "The Lady of Pleasure" the best comedy, comprehend a wide variety of subject and exhibit refinement, deep feeling, and sustained fluency of graceful expression. His name is associated with St. Albans, where he dwelt as a school-teacher, and, in London, with Gray's Inn, where at one time he resided. II CATHEDRALS AND ABBEYS CANTERBURY [Footnote: From "Two Months Abroad." Printed privately. (1878.)] BY THE EDITOR An Anglo-Saxon man may get down to first principles in Canterbury. He reaches the dividing point in England between the old faith of Pagans and the new religion of Jesus the Christ. The founder of the new gospel had been dead five hundred years when England accepted Him, and acceptance came only after the Saxon King Ethelbert had married Bertha, daughter of a Frankish prince. Here in Canterbury Ethelbert held his court. Bertha, like her father, was a Christian. After her marriage, Bertha herself for some years held Christian services here alone in little St. Martin's Church, but Ethelbert still loved his idols; indeed, for many years, he continued to worship Odin and Thor. St. Patrick had been in Ireland a full century before this. Bertha as a Christian stood almost alone in Saxon England, but her persistence at last so wrought upon Ethelbert that he wrote a letter to Pope Gregory the Great, asking that a missionary be sent to England. This was in the sixth century. St. Augustine and forty monks were dispatched by Gregory to the English shore. To-day I have seen the church where this great missionary preached. It still contains the font from which he baptized his many English converts. In this church King Ethelbert himself embraced Christianity, and so it was that the union of Church and State was here effected. Canterbury then became the mother of the Church of England--a title she has retained through all succeeding years. Few towns in England can interest an educated man more. Its foundation dates from years before the Christian era--how long before no man knows. It is rich in history, secular as well as ecclesiastical. The Black Prince, beloved and admired as few princes ever were, had a strong attachment for it, and here lies buried. Opposite his tomb sleeps Henry IV, the king who dethroned Richard II, son of this same Black Prince. Thomas à Becket, and those marvelous pilgrimages that followed his murder for three hundred years, have given it lasting renown. The "father of English poetry" has still further immortalized it in his "Tales." Indeed, there are few towns possessing so many claims on the attention of the churchman, the antiquarian, and the man of letters. One of the densest fogs I ever knew settled upon the ancient town the morning after my arrival. It was impossible to see clearly across streets. This fog increased the gloom which long ago came over these ancient monuments and seemed to add something unreal to the air of solemn greatness that appeared in every street and corner. Chance threw me into Mercury Lane. Here at once was historic ground. On a corner of the lane stands the very old inn that is mentioned by Chaucer as the resort of the pilgrims whose deeds he has celebrated. It is now used by a linen-draper. The original vaulted cellars and overhanging upper stories still remain. Pressing onward, I soon reached a Gothic gateway, handsomely carved, but sadly old and decayed. It led into the grass-covered cathedral yard. Through the thick fog could now be distinguished some of the lofty outlines of the majestic cathedral. Its central tower, which is among the best specimens of the pointed style in England, could be seen faintly as it rose ponderously into the clouded air. No picture, no figures, no mere letter, can place before the reader's mind this enormous edifice. Its total length is 520 feet--Westminster Abbey is more than 100 feet less. As we enter, the immensity of it grows. It is a beautiful theory that these great Gothic churches, as outgrowths of the spirit of Christianity, in their largeness and in the forms of their windows and aisles, were meant to represent the universality and lofty ideals of the Christian faith. Pagans worshiped largely in family temples which none but the rich could build. The new faith opened its temples to all men, and it built churches large enough for all classes and conditions to enter and find room. Two styles of architecture are shown in the interior of Canterbury, Norman and Early Gothic. In the former style are the transept, choir and Becket chapel, each with its noble series of lofty columns and arches. Beneath the choir and chapel is a crypt, also Norman and the oldest part of the cathedral, some of it undoubtedly dating from St. Augustine's time. He is known to have built a church soon after his arrival upon ground formerly occupied by Christians in the Roman army, and this is believed to be its site. The crypt, in a splendid state of preservation, extends under the entire Norman portion of the building. When the Gothic style came into vogue, succeeding the Norman, the remainder of the present edifice was added. Either part--Norman or Gothic--would in itself make a large church. One will meet few grander naves anywhere than this Gothic nave in Canterbury, formed of white stone and wonderfully symmetrical in all its outlines. A screen, richly wrought, divides the Norman from the Gothic part. Two flights of stone steps lead from one to the other. It will not be easy to forget the impression made that dark December morning when I entered the little doorway of this cathedral and first walked down its long, gray, lofty nave to this flight of steps. The chanting in the choir of the morning service which echoed throughout the vast edifice gave profound solemnity to a scene that can never pass from recollection. When the service had closed, an intelligent verger acted as my guide. New chapels and aisles seemed to open in all directions. Before we had completed the circuit, it seemed as if we were going through another Westminster Abbey. In one cornear is the "Warrior's Chapel," crowded with the tombs of knights whose effigies, in full armor, lie recumbent on elaborate bases. Henry IV. and his second queen lie in the Becket Chapel under an elegant canopy, between two immense Norman pillars. On the other side, between two other pillars, lies the Black Prince, with recumbent statue in full armor. Suspended above the canopy are his coat of mail and the helmet and shield he wore at Cressy. In the center of this chapel, and between these two monuments, formerly stood Thomas à Becket's famous shrine. The chapel was added to the cathedral for the express purpose of receiving his remains. At the height of the pilgrimages, about 100,000 people are said to have visited it every year. The steps that lead to it show how they were deeply worn by pilgrims, who ascended in pairs on their knees. Where stood the shrine the pavement has also been worn deeply down to the shape of the human knee by pilgrims while in prayer. Each pilgrim brought an offering, and nothing less than gold was accepted. Not alone the common people, but princes, kings and great church dignitaries from foreign lands came with gifts. Erasmus was here in 1510 and wrote of the Becket shrine that it "shone and glittered with the rarest and most precious jewels of an extraordinary largeness, some larger than the egg of a goose." The brilliant duration of these pilgrimages came finally to a sudden end. During the Reformation, Henry VIII. seized and demolished the shrine. The treasure, filling two large chests, and which eight men could with difficulty carry, was seized, and on the adjoining pavement the bones of the saint were burned. Not a single relic of Becket now remains in Canterbury. With no ordinary feeling does one stand amid the scene of this most interesting and curious chapter in church history. Not far from the shrine is the place where the murder of Becket was committed. You are shown the actual stone that was stained with his blood. A piece of this stone, about four inches square, was cut out of the pavement at the time of the murder and sent to Rome, where it is still preserved. Among many interesting tombs not already referred to are those of the great St. Dunstan; of Admiral Rooke, the hero of Gibraltar; of Stephen Langton (immortal with Magna Charta), and of Archbishop Pole, of Mary Tudor's time, who died the same day as that queen, and thus made clear Elizabeth's path to a restoration of Protestantism. After the cathedral, the most interesting place in Canterbury is St. Martin's Church. With few exceptions--including, perhaps, a very early and well-preserved church in Ravenna--it is doubted if an older Christian church now remains in Europe. There certainly is none that can claim more interest for Englishmen and for descendants of Englishmen in the New World. St. Martin's is somewhat removed from the town, where it stands alone on a sloping knoll, and is very simple in form. The tower that rises over the doorway is built of plain Roman brick and broken flint stones, and has occasionally a piece of drest stone on corners. The tower is square and rises about ten feet above the roof. Almost any mason could have built this church. A luxuriant growth of ivy covers nearly all its parts. Rude in outline and finish are all its parts, ivy has added to St. Martin's the only beauty it could possibly claim. The interior bears heavier marks of age than do the walls outside. The chancel has walls built almost entirely of Roman brick, and the nave is without columns. The old font--certainly one of the first constructed in England--stands in the chancel. It was probably from this font that King Ethelbert was baptized. Both chronicle and tradition say good Bertha was buried here. A recess in the wall of the chancel contains an old stone coffin, which is believed to contain the dust of England's first Christian queen. Standing within this ancient structure, one feels that he has reached the source for Anglo-Saxon people of this modern faith, Christianity, and the civilization it has given to the world. A new race of pilgrims, as numerous as those who went to Becket's shrine, might well find as worthy an object of their gifts and their journeys in this ivy-mantled relic of ancient days. OLD YORK [Footnote: From "Gray Days and Gold." By arrangement with the publishers, Moffat, Yard & Co. Copyright by William Winter, 1890.] BY WILLIAM WINTER The pilgrim to York stands in the center of the largest shire in England, and is surrounded by castles and monasteries, now mostly in ruins, but teeming with those associations of history and literature that are the glory of this delightful land. From the summit of the great central tower of the cathedral, which is reached by 237 steps, I gazed, one morning, over the vale of York and beheld one of the loveliest spectacles that ever blest the eyes of man. The wind was fierce, the sun brilliant, and the vanquished storm-clouds were streaming away before the northern blast. Far beneath lay the red-roofed city, its devious lanes and its many great churches,--crumbling relics of ancient ecclesiastical power,--distinctly visible. Through the plain, and far away toward the south and east, ran the silver thread of the Ouse, while all around, as far as the eye could see, stretched forth a smiling landscape of green meadow and cultivated field; here a patch of woodland, and there a silver gleam of wave; here a manor house nestled amid stately trees, and there an ivy-covered fragment of ruined masonry; and everywhere the green lines of the flowering hedge.... In the city that lies at your feet stood once the potent Constantine, to be proclaimed Emperor, A.D. 306, and to be vested with the imperial purple of Rome. In the original York Minster (the present is the fourth church that has been erected upon this site) was buried that valiant soldier, "old Siward," whom "gracious England" lent to the Scottish cause, under Malcolm and Macduff, when time at length was ripe for the ruin of Glamis and Cawdor. Close by is the field of Stamford, where Harold defeated the Norwegians with terrible slaughter, only nine days before he was himself defeated, and slain, at Hastings. Southward, following the line of the Ouse, you look down upon the ruins of Clifford's Tower, built by King William the Conqueror in 1068, and destroyed by the explosion of its powder magazine in 1684. Not far away is the battlefield of Towton. King Henry the Sixth and Queen Margaret were waiting in York for news of the event of that fatal battle,--which, in its effect, made them exiles, and bore to supremacy the rightful standard of the White Rose. In this church King Edward the Fourth was crowned, 1464, and King Richard the Third was proclaimed king and had his second coronation. Southward you can see the open space called the Pavement, connecting with Parliament Street, and the red brick church of St. Crux. In the Pavement the Earl of Northumberland was beheaded for treason against Queen Elizabeth, in 1572, and in St. Crux, one of Wren's churches, his remains lie buried, beneath a dark blue slab which is shown to visitors. A few miles away, but easily within reach of your vision, is the field of Marston Moor, where the impetuous Prince Rupert imperiled and well-nigh lost the cause of King Charles the First in 1644; and as you look toward that fatal spot you almost hear, in the chamber of your fancy, the paeans of thanksgiving for the victory, that were uttered in the church beneath. Cromwell, then a subordinate officer in the Parliamentary army, was one of the worshipers. Of the fifteen kings, from William of Normandy to Henry of Windsor, whose sculptured effigies appear upon the chancel screen in York Minster, there is scarcely one who has not worshiped in this cathedral.... There it stands, symbolizing, as no other object on earth can ever do, except one of its own great kindred, the promise of immortal life to man and man's pathetic faith in that promise. Dark and lonely it comes back upon my vision, but during all hours of its daily and nightly life sentient, eloquent, vital, participating in all the thought, conduct, and experience of those who dwell around it.... York is the loftiest of all the English cathedrals, and the third in length,--both St. Alban's and Winchester being longer. The present structure is 600 years old, and more than 200 years were occupied in the building of it. They show you, in the crypt, some fine remains of the Norman church that preceded it on the same site, together with traces of the still older Saxon church that preceded the Norman. The first one was of wood, and was totally destroyed. The Saxon remains are a fragment of stone staircase and a piece of wall built in the ancient herring-bone fashion. The Norman remains are four clustered columns, embellished in the zig-zag style. There is not much of commemorative statuary at York, and what there is of it was placed chiefly in the chancel. YORK AND LINCOLN COMPARED [Footnote: From "English Towns and Districts."] BY EDWARD A. FREEMAN The towers of Lincoln, simply as towers, are immeasurably finer than those of York; but the front of York, as a front, far surpasses the front of Lincoln. As for the general outline, there can be no doubt as to the vast superiority of Lincoln. Lincoln has sacrificed a great deal to the enormous pitch of its roofs, but it has its reward in the distant view of the outside. The outline of York is spoiled by the incongruity between the low roofs of the nave and choir and the high roofs of the transepts. The dumpiness of the central tower of York--which is, in truth, the original Norman tower cased--can not be wholly made a matter of blame to the original builders. For it is clear that some finish, whether a crown like those at Newcastle and Edinburgh or any other, was intended. Still the proportion which is solemn in Romanesque becomes squat in perpendicular, and, if York has never received its last finish, Lincoln has lost the last finish which it received. Surely no one who is not locally sworn to the honor of York can doubt about preferring the noble central tower of Lincoln, soaring still, even tho shorn of its spire. The eastern transept, again, is far more skilfully managed at Lincoln than at York. It may well be doubted whether such a transept is really an improvement; but if it is to be there at all, it is certainly better to make it the bold and important feature which it is at Lincoln, than to leave it, as it is at York, half afraid, as it were, to proclaim its own existence. Coming to the east end, we again find, as at the west, Lincoln throwing away great advantages by a perverse piece of sham. The east window of Lincoln is the very noblest specimen of the pure and bold tracery of its own date. But it is crusht, as it were, by the huge gable window above it--big enough to be the east window of a large church--and the aisles, whose east windows are as good on their smaller scale as the great window, are absurdly finished with sham gables, destroying the real and natural outline of the whole composition. At York we have no gables at all; the vast east window, with its many flimsy mullions, is wonderful rather than beautiful; still the east end of York is real, and so far it surpasses that of Lincoln. On entering either of these noble churches, the great fault to be found is the lack of apparent height. To some extent this is due to a cause common to both. We are convinced that both churches are too long. The eastern part of Lincoln--the angels' choir--is in itself one of the loveliest of human works; the proportion of the side elevations and the beauty of the details are both simply perfect. But its addition has spoiled the minster as a whole. The vast length at one unbroken height gives to the eastern view of the inside the effect of looking through a tube, and the magnificent east window, when seen from the western part of the choir, is utterly dwarfed. And the same arrangement is open to the further objection that it does not fall in with the ecclestiastical arrangements of the building.... In the nave of York, looking eastward or westward, it is hard indeed to believe that we are in a church only a few feet lower than Westminster or Saint Ouens. The height is utterly lost, partly through the enormous width, partly through the low and crushing shape of the vaulting-arch. The vault, it must be remembered, is an imitation of an imitation, a modern copy of a wooden roof made to imitate stone. This imitation of stone construction in wood runs through the greater part of the church; it comes out specially in the transepts, where a not very successful attempt is made to bring the gable windows within the vault--the very opposite to the vast space lost in the roofs at Lincoln. Yet with all this, many noble views may be got in York nave and transepts, provided only the beholder takes care never to look due east or west. The western view is still further injured by the treatment of the west window--in itself an admirable piece of tracery--which fits into nothing, and seems cut through the wall at an arbitrary point. But the nave elevation, taken bay by bay, is admirable. Looking across out of the aisle--the true way to judge--the real height at last comes out, and we are reminded of some of the most stately minsters of France.... DURHAM [Footnote: From "English Note Books." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers of Hawthorne's works, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870 and 1898.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Durham Cathedral has one advantage over the others I have seen, there being no organ-screen, nor any sort of partition between the choir and nave; so that we saw its entire length, nearly 500 feet, in one vista. The pillars of the nave are immensely thick, but hardly of proportionate height, and they support the round Norman arch; nor is there, as far as I remember, a single pointed arch in the cathedral. The effect is to give the edifice an air of heavy grandeur. It seems to have been built before the best style of church architecture had established itself; so that it weighs upon the soul, instead of helping it to aspire. First, there are these round arches, supported by gigantic columns; then, immediately above, another row of round arches, behind which is the usual gallery that runs, as it were, in the thickness of the wall, around the nave of the cathedral; then, above all, another row of round arches, enclosing the windows of the clerestory. The great pillars are ornamented in various ways--some with a great spiral groove running from bottom to top; others with two spirals, ascending in different directions, so as to cross over one another; some are fluted or channeled straight up and down; some are wrought with chevrons, like those on the sleeve of a police inspector. There are zigzag cuttings and carvings, which I do not know how to name scientifically, round the arches of the doors and windows; but nothing that seems to have flowered out spontaneously, as natural incidents of a grand and beautiful design. In the nave, between the columns of the side aisles, I saw one or two monuments.... I left my seat, and after strolling up and down the aisle a few times sallied forth into the churchyard. On the cathedral door there is a curious old knocker, in the form of a monstrous face, which was placed there, centuries ago, for the benefit of fugitives from justice, who used to be entitled to sanctuary here. The exterior of the cathedral, being huge, is therefore grand; it has a great central tower, and two at the western end; and reposes in vast and heavy length, without the multitude of niches, and crumbling statues, and richness of detail, that make the towers and fronts of some cathedrals so endlessly interesting. One piece of sculpture I remember--a carving of a cow, a milkmaid, and a monk, in reference to the legend that the site of the cathedral was, in some way, determined by a woman bidding her cow go home to Dunholme. Cadmus was guided to the site of his destined city in some such way as this. It was a very beautiful day, and tho the shadow of the cathedral fell on this side, yet, it being about noontide, it did not cover the churchyard entirely, but left many of the graves in sunshine. There were not a great many monuments, and these were chiefly horizontal slabs, some of which looked aged, but on closer inspection proved to be mostly of the present century. I observed an old stone figure, however, half worn away, which seemed to have something like a bishop's miter on its head, and may perhaps have lain in the proudest chapel of the cathedral before occupying its present bed among the grass. About fifteen paces from the central tower, and within its shadow, I found a weather-worn slab of marble, seven or eight feet long, the inscription on which interested me somewhat. It was to the memory of Robert Dodsley, the bookseller, Johnson's acquaintance, who, as his tombstone rather superciliously avers, had made a much better figure as an author than "could have been expected in his rank of life." But, after all, it is inevitable that a man's tombstone should look down on him, or, at all events, comport itself toward him "de haut en bas." I love to find the graves of men connected with literature. They interest me more, even tho of no great eminence, than those of persons far more illustrious in other walks of life. I know not whether this is because I happen to be one of the literary kindred, or because all men feel themselves akin, and on terms of intimacy, with those whom they know, or might have known, in books. I rather believe that the latter is the case. We went around the edifice, and, passing into the close, penetrated through an arched passage into the crypt, which, methought, was in a better style of architecture than the nave and choir.... Thence we went into the cloisters, which are entire, but not particularly interesting. Indeed, this cathedral has not taken hold of my affections, except in one aspect, when it was exceedingly grand and beautiful. ELY [Footnote: From "Old England: Its Scenery, Art, and People." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] BY JAMES M. HOPPIN I was attracted around by the way of Ely, to see the cathedral there, instead of taking the Huntingdon route more directly to Cambridge. This was quite a loss, for Oliver Cromwell was born in Huntingdon. Hinchinbroke House, the property of his family, now belongs to the Earl of Sandwich. But Ely Cathedral was not to be lost. It is frozen history as well as "frozen music." I value these old structures because such wealth of English history is embodied in them; their human interest, after all, is greater than their artistic. Ely is said to be derived from "willow," or a kind of willow or ozier island, upon which the abbey and town were built in the midst of marshes. Among these impenetrable marshes Hereward the Saxon retreated; and here, too, we have that bit of genuine antique poetry which from its simplicity must have described a true scene; and we catch a glimpse of that pleasing and soothing picture, amid those rude and bloody days, of King Canute and his knights resting for a moment upon their toiling oars to hear the vesper song of the monks. The foundation of the cathedral was laid in 1083, and it was finished in 1534. In printed lists of its bishops, as in those of other English cathedral churches, I have noticed that they are given in their chronological succession, right on, the bishops of the Reformed Church being linked upon the Roman Catholic bishops. The bishopric of Ely was partially carved out of the bishopric of Lincoln, and comprizes Cambridge in its jurisdiction. It has, therefore, had all the riches, influence, taste, and learning of the University to bear upon the restoration of its noble old cathedral; and of all the old churches of England this one exhibits indications of the greatest modern care and thought bestowed upon it. It glows with new stained-glass windows, splendid marbles, exquisite sculptures, and bronze work. Its western tower, 266 feet in height, turreted spires, central octagon tower, flying buttresses, unequaled length of 517 feet, and its vast, irregular bulk soaring above the insignificant little town at its foot, make it a most commanding object seen from the flat plain. What is called the octagon, which has taken the place of the central tower that had fallen, is quite an original feature of the church. Eight arches, rising from eight ponderous piers, form a windowed tower, or lantern, which lets in a flood of light upon the otherwise gloomy interior. Above the keystone of each arch is the carved figure of a saint. The new brasses of the choir are wonderfully elaborate. The bronze scroll and vine work of the gates and lamps, for grace and Oriental luxuriance of fancy, for their arabesque and flower designs, might fitly have belonged to King Solomon's Temple of old. The modern woodwork of the choir compares also well with the ancient woodwork carving. Gold stars on azure ground, and all vivid coloring and gilding, are freely used. The new "reredos," or altar screen, is one marvelous crystallization of sculptures. The ancient Purbeck marble pillars have been scraped and re-polished, and form a fine contrast to the white marbles on which they are set. If, indeed, one wishes to see what modern enthusiasm, art, and lavish wealth can do for the restoration and adorning of one of these old temples, he must go to Ely Cathedral. SALISBURY [Footnote: From "English Note Books." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers of Hawthorne's works, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870 and 1898.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE I do not remember any cathedral with so fine a site as this, rising up out of the center of a beautiful green, extensive enough to show its full proportions, relieved and insulated from all other patchwork and impertinence of rusty edifices. It is of gray stone, and looks as perfect as when just finished, and with the perfection, too, that could not have come in less than six centuries of venerableness, with a view to which these edifices seem to have been built. A new cathedral would lack the last touch to its beauty and grandeur. It needs to be mellowed and ripened, like some pictures; altho I suppose this awfulness of antiquity was supplied, in the minds of the generation that built cathedrals, by the sanctity which they attributed to them. Salisbury Cathedral is far more beautiful than that of York, the exterior of which was really disagreeable to my eye; but this mighty spire and these multitudinous gray pinnacles and towers ascend toward heaven with a kind of natural beauty, not as if man had contrived them. They might be fancied to have grown up, just as the spires of a tuft of grass do, at the same time that they have a law of propriety and regularity among themselves. The tall spire is of such admirable proportion that it does not seem gigantic; and, indeed, the effect of the whole edifice is of beauty rather than weight and massiveness. Perhaps the bright, balmy sunshine in which we saw it contributed to give it a tender glory, and to soften a little its majesty. When we went in, we heard the organ, the forenoon service being near conclusion. If I had never seen the interior of York Cathedral, I should have been quite satisfied, no doubt, with the spaciousness of this nave and these side aisles, and the height of their arches, and the girth of these pillars; but with that recollection in my mind they fell a little short of grandeur. The interior is seen to disadvantage, and in a way the builder never meant it to be seen; because there is little or no painted glass, nor any such mystery as it makes, but only a colorless, common daylight, revealing everything without remorse. There is a general light hue, moreover, like that of whitewash, over the whole of the roof and walls of the interior, pillar, monuments, and all; whereas, originally, every pillar was polished, and the ceiling was ornamented in brilliant colors, and the light came, many-hued, through the windows, on all this elaborate beauty, in lieu of which there is nothing now but space. Between the pillars that separate the nave from the side aisles there are ancient tombs, most of which have recumbent statues on them. One of these is Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, son of Fair Rosamond, in chain mail; and there are many other warriors and bishops, and one cross-legged Crusader, and on one tombstone a recumbent skeleton, which I have likewise seen in two or three other cathedrals. The pavement of the aisles and nave is laid in great part with flat tombstones, the inscriptions on which are half obliterated, and on the walls, especially in the transepts, there are tablets, among which I saw one to the poet Bowles, who was a canon of the cathedral.... Between the nave and the choir, as usual, there is a screen that half destroys the majesty of the building, by abridging the spectator of the long vista which he might otherwise have of the whole interior at a glance. We peeped through the barrier, and saw some elaborate monuments in the chancel beyond; but the doors of the screen are kept locked, so that the vergers may raise a revenue by showing strangers through the richest part of the cathedral. By and by one of these vergers came through the screen with a gentleman and lady whom he was taking around, and we joined ourselves to the party. He showed us into the cloisters, which had long been neglected and ruinous, until the time of Bishop Dennison, the last prelate, who has been but a few years dead. This bishop has repaired and restored the cloisters in faithful adherence to the original plan; and they now form a most delightful walk about a pleasant and verdant enclosure, in the center of which sleeps good Bishop Dennison, with a wife on either side of him, all three beneath broad flat stones. Most cloisters are darksome and grim; but these have a broad paved walk beneath the vista of arches, and are light, airy, and cheerful; and from one corner you can get the best possible view of the whole height and beautiful proportion of the cathedral spire. On one side of this cloistered walk seems to be the length of the nave of the cathedral. There is a square of four such sides; and of places for meditation, grave, yet not too somber, it seemed to me one of the best. While we stayed there, a jackdaw was walking to and fro across the grassy enclosure, and haunting around the good bishop's grave. He was clad in black, and looked like a feathered ecclesiastic; but I know not whether it were Bishop Dennison's ghost or that of some old monk. On one side of the cloisters, and contiguous to the main body of the cathedral, stands the chapterhouse. Bishop Dennison had it much at heart to repair this part of the holy edifice; and, if I mistake not, did begin the work; for it had been long ruinous, and in Cromwell's time his dragoons stationed their horses there. Little progress, however, had been made in the repairs when the bishop died; and it was decided to restore the building in his honor, and by way of monument to him. The repairs are now nearly completed; and the interior of this chapter-house gave me the first idea, anywise adequate, of the splendor of these Gothic church edifices. The roof is sustained by one great central pillar of polished marble--small pillars clustered about a great central column, which rises to the ceiling, and there gushes out with various beauty, that overflows all the walls; as if the fluid idea had sprung out of that fountain, and grown solid in what we see. The pavement is elaborately ornamented; the ceiling is to be brilliantly gilded and painted, as it was of yore, and the tracery and sculptures around the walls are to be faithfully renewed from what remains of the original patterns. EXETER [Footnote: From "Cathedral Days." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Little, Brown & Co. Copyright, 1887.] BY ANNA BOWMAN DODD A very obvious part of the charm of Exeter Cathedral lies in the fact that it has to be sought for. It is so well and dexterously concealed from view, as one passes along High Street, that one might be some days in town without so much as suspecting that one of the finest cathedrals in England was a near neighbor. It was almost by chance, I remember, that as we turned into a long, quaint alley-way, filled up with little, low shops, we caught a glimpse of a green plot of grass and some trees in the distance. Our guiding instinct divined these to be the cathedral close.... To analyze the beauties of Exeter is only to add another note to one's joy in them, their quality and rarity being of such an order as to warrant one's cooler admiration. The front is as unique in design as it is architecturally beautiful. There is that rarest of features in English cathedrals--an elaborately sculptured screen, thoroughly honest in construction. In originality of conception this front is perhaps unrivalled, at least on English soil; there are three receding stories, so admirably proportioned as to produce a beautiful effect in perspective. The glory of the great west window is further enhanced by the graduated arcades which have the appearance of receding behind it. Above the west window rises a second and smaller triangular window in the gabled roof. Thus the triangular motif is sustained throughout, from the three low doorways in the screen up to the far-distant roof. This complete and harmonious front is nobly enriched by the splendid note of contrast in the two transeptal Norman towers, whose massive structural elegance and elaborateness of detail lend an extraordinary breadth and solidity to the edifice. The grandeur which distinguishes the exterior is only a fitting preparation for the solemnity and splendor of the interior. Passing beneath the thickly massed sculptures of the low portals, the effect of the vastness of the nave is striking in its immensity. Curiously enough, in this instance, this effect of immensity is not due to an unbroken stretch of nave-aisles or to a lengthy procession of pier-arches, but to the magnificent sweep of the unencumbered vaulting in the roof. An organ screen intercepts the line of vision at the entrance to the choir. This, however, is the sole obstruction which the eye encounters. Above, the great roof, with its unbroken 300 feet of interlacing lines, rises like some mighty forest, its airy loftiness giving to the entire interior a certain open-air atmosphere of breadth and vastness.... What most deeply concerned us was the desire to secure an uninterrupted session of contemplative enjoyment. We had lost our hearts to the beauty of the cathedral, and cared little or nothing for a clever dissecting of its parts. We came again and again; and it was the glory of the cathedral as a whole--its expressive, noble character, its breadth and grandeur, the poetry of its dusky aisles, and the play of the rich shadows about its massive columns--that charmed and enchained us. It was one of the few English cathedrals, we said to each other, that possess the Old-World continental charm, the charm of perpetual entertainment, and whose beauty has just the right quality of richness and completeness to evoke an intense and personal sympathy; for in all the greatest triumphs of art there is something supremely human. LICHFIELD [Footnote: From "Our Old Home." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE I know not what rank the Cathedral of Lichfield holds among its sister edifices in England, as a piece of magnificent architecture. Except that of Chester (the grim and simple nave of which stands yet unrivaled in my memory), and one or two small ones in North Wales, hardly worthy of the name of cathedrals, it was the first that I had seen. To my uninstructed vision, it seemed the object best worth gazing at in the whole world; and now, after beholding a great many more, I remember it with less prodigal admiration only because others are as magnificent as itself. The traces remaining in my memory represent it as airy rather than massive. A multitude of beautiful shapes appeared to be comprehended within its single outline; it was a kind of kaleidoscopic mystery, so rich a variety of aspects did it assume from each altered point of view, through the presentation of a different face, and the rearrangement of its peaks and pinnacles and the three battlemented towers, with the spires that shot heavenward from all three, but one loftier than its fellows. Thus it imprest you, at every change, as a newly created structure of the passing moment, in which yet you lovingly recognized the half-vanished structure of the instant before, and felt, moreover, a joyful faith in the indestructible existence of all this cloudlike vicissitude. A Gothic cathedral is surely the most wonderful work which mortal man has yet achieved, so vast, so intricate, and so profoundly simple, with such strange, delightful recesses in its grand figure, so difficult to comprehend within one idea, and yet all so consonant that it ultimately draws the beholder and his universe into its harmony. It is the only thing in the world that is vast enough and rich enough. Inside of the minster there is a long and lofty nave, transepts of the same height, and side-aisles and chapels, dim nooks of holiness, where in Catholic times the lamps were continually burning before the richly decorated shrines of saints. In the audacity of my ignorance, as I humbly acknowledge it to have been, I criticized this great interior as too much broken into compartments, and shorn of half its rightful impressiveness by the interposition of a screen betwixt the nave and chancel. It did not spread itself in breadth, but ascended to the roof in lofty narrowness. A great deal of white marble decorates the old stonework of the aisles, in the shape of altars, obelisks, sarcophagi, and busts. Most of these memorials are commemorative of people locally distinguished, especially the deans and canons of the cathedral, with their relatives and families; and I found but two monuments of personages whom I had ever heard of--one being Gilbert Walmesley, and the other Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a literary acquaintance of my boyhood. It was really pleasant to meet her there; for after a friend has lain in the grave far into the second century, she would be unreasonable to require any melancholy emotions in a chance interview at her tombstone. It adds a rich charm to sacred edifices, this time-honored custom of burial in churches, after a few years, at least, when the mortal remains have turned to dust beneath the pavement, and the quaint devices and inscriptions still speak to you above.... A large space in the immediate neighborhood of the cathedral is called the Close, and comprises beautifully kept lawns and a shadowy walk, bordered by the dwellings of the ecclesiastical dignitaries of the diocese. All this row of episcopal, canonical, and clerical residences has an air of the deepest quiet, repose, and well-protected, tho not inaccessible seclusion. They seemed capable of including everything that a saint could desire, and a great many more things than most of us sinners generally succeed in acquiring. Their most marked feature is a dignified comfort, looking as if no disturbance or vulgar intrusiveness could ever cross their thresholds, encroach upon their ornamented lawns, or straggle into the beautiful gardens that surround them with flower-beds and rich clumps of shrubbery. The episcopal palace is a stately mansion of stone, built somewhat in the Italian style, and bearing on its front the figures of 1687, as the date of its erection. A large edifice of brick, which, if I remember, stood next to the palace, I took to be the residence of the second dignitary of the cathedral; and in that case it must have been the youthful home of Addison, whose father was Dean of Lichfield. I tried to fancy his figure on the delightful walk that extends in front of those priestly abodes, from which and the interior lawns it is separated by an open-work iron fence, lined with rich old shrubbery, and overarched by a minster-aisle of venerable trees. WINCHESTER [Footnote: From "Visits to Remarkable Places."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT On entering the cathedral enclosure on its north side from High Street, you are at once struck with the venerable majesty and antique beauty of the fine old pile before you, and with the sacred quietude of the enclosure itself. In the heart of this tranquil city it has yet a deeper tranquillity of its own. Its numerous tombs and headstones, scattered over its greensward, and its lofty avenues of limetrees, seem to give you a peaceful welcome to the Christian fame and resting-place of so many generations. If you enter at the central passage, you tread at once on the eastern foundations of the Conqueror's palace, and pass close to the spot on which formerly rose the western towers of Alfred's Newan Mynstre, and where lay his remains, after having been removed from the old mynstre, till Hyde Abbey was built. It is impossible to walk over this ground, now so peaceful, without calling to mind what scenes of havoc and blood, of triumph and ecclesiastical pomp, it has witnessed--the butchery of the persecution of Diocletian, when the Christians fell here by thousands; the repeated massacres and conflagrations of the Danes; the crowning of Saxon and of English kings; the proud processions of kings and queens, nobles, mitered prelates, friars, and monks, to offer thanksgivings for victory, or penance for sins, from age to age; and, finally, the stern visitation of the Reformers and the Cromwellian troopers. The venerable minster itself bears on its aspect the testimonies of its own antiquity. The short and massy tower in the center, the work of Bishop Walkelin, the cousin of the Conqueror, has the very look of that distant age, and, to eyes accustomed to the lofty and rich towers of some of our cathedrals, has an air of meanness. Many people tell you that it never was finished; but besides that there is no more reason that the tower should remain unfinished through so many centuries than any other part of the building, we know that it was the character of the time, of which the tower of the Norman church of St. Cross affords another instance just at hand. In fact, the spire was then unknown. Having arrived at the west front, we can not avoid pausing to survey the beauty of its workmanship--that of the great William of Wykeham; its great central doorway, with its two smaller side-doors; the fretted gallery over it, where the bishop in his pontificals was wont to stand and bless the people, or absolve them from the censures of the church; its noble window, rich with perpendicular tracery; its two slender lantern turrets; its crowning tabernacle, with its statue of the builder; and its pinnacled side aisles. I must confess that of all the cathedrals which I have entered, none gave me such a sensation of surprize and pleasure. The loftiness, the space, the vast length of the whole unbroken roof above, I believe not exceeded by any other in England; the two rows of lofty clustered pillars; the branching aisles, with their again branching and crossing tracery; the long line of the vaulted roof, embossed with armorial escutcheons and religious devices of gorgeous coloring; the richly painted windows; and, below, the carved chantries and mural monuments, seen amid the tempered light; and the sober yet delicate hue of the Portland stone, with which the whole noble fabric is lined, produce a tout ensemble of sublime loveliness which is not easily to be rivaled.... But we have made the circuit of the church without beholding the choir, and we must not quit its precincts without entering there. Ascending the flight of steps which lead to it, we front that elegant screen with which modern good taste has replaced the screen of Inigo Jones, who, blind to all the beauty of the Gothic architecture, not only placed here a Grecian screen, but also affixt a Grecian bishop's throne to the beautiful Gothic canopy-work of the choir. In the niches of this screen are two bronze statues of James I and Charles I. We are now on the spot of the ancient rood-loft, where formerly stood the great rood, or crucifix, with the attendant figures of the Virgin and St. John, of vast size and value, being of silver, which were bequeathed to the minster by the notorious Archbishop Stigand, before the Conquest. As we enter the choir through the door in the screen, we are struck with the great beauty of the place. Around us rises the rich dark woodwork of the stalls, contrasting well with the pale delicacy of the walls above. Overhead is seen to swell the fine vault of the roof, with its rich tracery, and its central line, and orbs at the junction of its timbers, embossed with bold armorial shields of the houses of Tudor, Lancaster, and Castile, as united in John of Gaunt and Beaufort, with those of various episcopal sees, and stretching on to the splendid east window in that direction, emblazoned with "the several implements of our Savior's Passion--the cross, crown of thorns, nails, hammer, pillar, scourges, reed, sponge, lance, sword, with the ear of Malchus upon it, lantern, ladder, cock, and dice; also the faces of Pilate and his wife, of the Jewish high priest, with a great many others, too numerous to be described, but worthy of notice for the ingenuity of design," and the richness of their tints. They are, indeed, emblazoned in the most gorgeous colors--scarlet, blue and gold; and, to a fanciful eye, may resemble, many of them, huge sacred beetles of lordly shapes and hues. On each side rise up, into the very roof, the tall pointed windows glowing with figures of saints, prophets, and apostles, who seem to be ranged on either hand, in audience of the divine persons in the great east window--the Savior and the Virgin, with apostles and other saints. But what is the most striking to the eye and mind of the spectator is to behold, on the floor of the sanctuary before him, a plain beveled stone of dark marble--the tomb of William Rufus; and arranged on the top of the beautiful stone partitions on each side of the sanctuary, dividing it from the aisles, are six mortuary chests, three on a side, containing the bones of many of the most eminent Saxon princes. The bones which, from the repeated rebuildings and alterings of the cathedral, must have been in danger of being disturbed, and the places of their burial rendered obscure, or lost altogether, Bishop de Blois, in the twelfth century, collected and placed in coffins of lead over the Holy Hole. At the rebuilding of the choir, as it was necessary again to remove them, Bishop Fox had them deposited in these chests, and placed in this situation. The chests are carved, gilt, and surmounted with crowns, with the names and epitaphs, in Latin verse and black letter, inscribed upon them. But if we had quitted Winchester Cathedral without paying a visit to the grave of one of the best and most cheerful-hearted old men who lie in it, we should have committed a great fault. No, we stood on the stone in the floor of Prior Silkstede's chapel in the old Norman south transept, which is inscribed with the name of Izaak Walton. There lies that prince of fishermen, who, when Milner wrote his history of this city, was so little thought of that he is not once mentioned in the whole huge quarto! WELLS [Footnote: From "Old England: Its Scenery, Art and People." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] BY JAMES M. HOPPIN The city of Wells, which we now visit, has a romantic situation on the southern slope of the Mendip Hills, twenty miles equi-distant from Bath, Bistol, and Bridgewater. It takes its name from the ancient well dedicated to St. Andrew, which rises within the Episcopal grounds, and runs through the city down the sides of the principal streets in clear, sparkling' streams. There is no place which, taken altogether, preserves a more antique air of tranquil seclusion than Wells. In the precincts of Chester Cathedral, and at many other points in England, there broods the same antique calm, but here the whole place is pervaded by this reposeful spirit of the past; and this culminates in the neighborhood of St. Andrew's Cathedral, the bishop's palace, the old moat, the conventual buildings, and the three venerable gates, or "eyes," as they are called, of the cathedral yard. The moat about the bishop's palace, overhung by a thick curtain of aged elms mingled with ivy, growing like a warrior's crest upon the high-turreted interior walls, and reflected in deep shadows in the smooth, dark mirror of the water, has a thoroughly feudal look, which is heightened by the drawbridge over the moat, and the frowning castellated gateway. How strange the state of society when a Christian bishop lived in such jealously armed seclusion, behind moated walls and embattled towers! What a commentary, this very name of "the close"! One of these old bishops was himself a famous fighting character, who, at the age of sixty-four, commanded the king's artillery at the battle of Sedgmoor.... The Cathedral of St. Andrew was built upon the site of a still more ancient church founded by Ina, king of the West Saxons in 704. It also goes back to a remote antiquity, for its choir and nave were rebuilt in the middle of the twelfth century. The central tower, which is the noblest and most finished part of the structure, is of the early English style to the roof; the upper part is of the Decorated, with a mixture of the early Perpendicular styles. It has an elegant appearance from its rich pinnacles, and is of a softened and gray tint. Beginning to show signs of sinking, it was raised in the fourteenth century, and was strengthened by the introduction beneath it of inverted buttressing-arches, which give to the interior a strange effect. These arches, architecturally considered, are undoubtedly blemishes, but they are on such a vast scale, and so bold in their forms, and yet so simple, that they do not take away from the plain grandeur of the interior. They are quite Oriental or Saracenic. The top of the eastern window is seen bright and glowing over the lower part of the upper arch. The west front, 235 feet in length, has two square towers, with a central screen terminated by minarets, and is divided into distinct compartments of eight projecting buttresses; all of these projections and recessed parts are covered with rich sculpture and statuary, of which there are 153 figures of life-size, and more than 450 smaller figures.... The other most striking features of Wells Cathedral are the Chapter House and the Ladye Chapel. The first of these, on the rear of the church, is an otagonal structure with pinnacled buttresses at each angle. It is approached from the interior by a worn staircase of 20 steps of noble architectural design. Among the grotesque carvings that line the staircase, I remember in particular one queer old figure with a staff, or rather crutch, thrust in a dragon's mouth, supporting a column. While thus holding up the cathedral with its head and hand above, and choking a writhing dragon beneath, he looks smiling and unconcerned, as if it were an everyday affair with him, as indeed it is. The whole church abounds in these old sculptures, little demoniac figures with big heads, faces with enormous fish mouths, old men with packs on their backs, and angels with huge armfuls of flowers. They seem to let one into the interior chambers of fancy, the imaginative workings of the human mind in the middle ages.... Wells Cathedral, on the whole, is distinguished for a dignified but rich simplicity, arising from its plain large surfaces, mingled and edged here and there with fine-cut and elegant ornamentation. The court and buildings of the Wells Theological College have a thoroughly quaint, old-fashioned look, quiet, rigid, and medieval; as if the students reared there could not but be Churchmen of the "Brother Ignatius" stamp, gentlemen, scholars, and--priests. I can not leave Wells without speaking of the two splendid "cedars of Lebanon" standing in the environs of the church. They are not very tall, but they sweep the ground majestically, and grow in a series of broad, heavy masses of foliage, gracefully undulating in their outline. BURY ST. EDMUNDS [Footnote: From "The Abbeys of Great Britain."] BY H. CLAIBORNE DIXON The history of the Abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, altho veiled in much legendary and mythical lore, tells, nevertheless, in its actual history of the progress of civilization and of the enlightenment of the human mind. Sigberet, King of the East Angles, is said to have founded the first monastery at Beodericsworth (a town known to the Romans, ancient Britains, Saxons, and Danes), and to have subsequently laid aside his royal dignity by joining the brotherhood which he had established. Following his example of religious devotion, Edmund, last King of the Angles, sacrificed not only his crown but his life in defense of the Christian faith, for he was beheaded by the Danes at Eglesdene in 870.... His head was cast into a forest, and, as the story goes, was miraculously discovered and found to be guarded by a wolf. It was then buried with the body at the village of Hoxne, where it remained until 903. In this year, "the precious, undefiled, uncorrupted body of the glorious king and martyr" was translated to the care of the secular priests at Beodericsworth, since when the town has been called St. Edmundsbury, in memory of the sainted monarch. Other wonderful traditions are associated with the shrine of St. Edmund. Sweyn, the violent Danish king, coming in hot pursuit of a woman who had claimed sanctuary, was miraculously killed by an imaginary spear which came out of the shrine when he was about to seize the woman who was clinging to its side. Bishop Herfastus, too, was struck blind, when on a visit to the abbot, in the attempt to establish his new see in the monastical demesne, and afterward miraculously healed. For centuries the highest in the land brought gifts and laid them before the venerated shrine. Canute was the actual founder of the monastery proper, for in the eleventh century he brought over Benedictine monks from Hulm, granting them a charter and many benefactions. The monastery yearly became more prosperous, and, with the exception of Glastonbury, exceeded in magnificence and privileges all other ecclestiastical establishments in the country. In the height of its glory it must have been a most beautiful and dignified structure. Leland writes: "A monastery more noble, whether one considers the endowments, largeness, or unparalleled magnificence, the sun never saw. One might think the monastery alone a city: it has three grand gates for entrances, some whereof are brass, many towers, high walls, and a church than which nothing can be more magnificent." The immense minster, with its lofty western and central towers, rose above the monastic buildings, which were enclosed by a wall. To the north was a great cloister, with the various conventual offices, to the southwest lay the cemetery and church of St. Mary, while immediately before the west front of the church stood the Norman tower leading to St. James's Church. Sufficient is left of the reverend walls to convey some idea of the former vastness of the abbey and its attendant buildings. Of the minster itself little remains--some arches of the west front, now converted into private houses, and the bases of the piers which supported the central tower. The site of St. Edmunds' Chapel--the part of the building which contained the famous and much-visited shrine--is at the east end of the church. Besides these relics of the minster, there still exists the Norman tower--built during the time of Abbot Anselm, and formerly known as the principal entrance to the cemetery of St. Edmund, and latterly as the "Churchgate" and bell tower of St. James's Church--the abbot's bridge (Decorated) of three arches; portions of the walls, and the abbey gateway.... First among the abbots of Bury stands the name of Samson, "the wolf who raged among the monks." Many of the brothers had become entangled with Jewish money-lenders in the twelfth century, and Abbot Samson, while protecting the Jews at the time of the massacre, discharged all the debts of his house, established many new rules, and set a godly and strenuous example to his followers. Later, in 1205, the chief barons met at Bury in opposition to King John, and swore at the second meeting, four years later, in the presence of the king and Archbishop Langton, to stand by their cause till the king should be induced to sign the Great Charter, and to establish those liberties which we still enjoy. GLASTONBURY [Footnote: From "The Abbeys of Great Britain."] BY H. CLAIBORNE DIXON Tho once surrounded by fenland, the Abbey of Glastonbury--a veritable treasure-house of legendary lore--stands now amid orchards and level pasture lands engirt by the river Bure. The majestic Tor overshadows this spot, where, undoubtedly, the first British Christian settlement was established. The name of the new builder of the first early church can never be ascertained, so that in want of more substantial evidence the old legend of St. Joseph of Arimathaea must be accepted, however slight its claims to historical authority. Certain it is that Christianity was introduced into this land on the island of Yniswytryn, or "Isle of Glass" (so called on account of its crystal streams), in the very early centuries. According to the Arthurian legends, St. Philip, Lazarus, Martha, Mary and Joseph of Arimathaea, having been banished by their countrymen, journeyed to Marseilles, from whence Joseph, with twelve companions and holy women, was sent by St. Philip to Britain. They landed on the southwest coast and made their way to Glastonbury, then Avalon (and so named in allusion to its apple orchards), and by means of preaching and many miraculous deeds persuaded the people to adopt Christianity. Gaining the good will of King Arviragus, they built a church of wattle and twigs on the ground given to them by their royal patron. The Benedictine, with its later developments in Norman times of Augustine and Cluniac orders, was the first religious order introduced into this country. It was instituted in Italy early in the sixth century by St. Benedict of Nursia. Many monasteries established before the Conquest came under its sway, and were, centuries later, after the Dissolution, converted into cathedral churches. A sharp distinction should be drawn between the monasteries established previous to the Conquest and those subsequently founded by the Cistercian and other orders. The former were national houses--in every way belonging to the English people and untouched by Papal influence; while the latter, which were under the immediate control of the Bishop of Rome, were essentially of foreign foundation.... King Ina, persuaded by St. Aldhelm, rebuilt and reendowed the abbey in the eighth century, renounced his royal state, and lived as an ordinary civilian, being induced to do so by extraordinary devices on the part of his wife Ethelburgh. On one occasion, after King Ina had given a great feast to his barons, he and his queen left the castle and proceeded to another of the royal residences. Before leaving, Ethelburgh had commanded the servants to strip the castle of all its valuables, furniture, etc., and to fill it with rubbish, and to put a litter of pigs in the king's bed. A short distance on their journey, Ethelburgh persuaded the king to return, and, showing him over the desecrated palace, exhorted him to consider the utter worthlessness of all earthly splendor and the advisability of joining her on a pilgrimage to Rome. Imprest by her words, Ina acted as she advised, and later endowed a school in Rome in which Anglo-Saxon children might become acquainted with the customs of foreign countries. Ina and Ethelburgh spent the remainder of their days in privacy in the Holy City. The famous Dunstau, one of the greatest of ecclesiastical statesmen, was born in Glastonbury, and, after proving his many marvelous capabilities and aptitude for learning, was made abbot of the Benedictine house in his native town in the reign of Edmund the Magnificent. Many strange stories are told of him--the most fantastic, perhaps, being that of his interview with the natural enemy of man, the Devil himself, during which the reverend man became either so irritated or terrified that he was provoked to seize the nose of his ghostly visitor with a pair of red-hot pincers.... The fame belonging to this noble foundation exceeded that of any other great building in England. An old writer tells us, "Kings and queens, not only of the West Saxons, but of other kingdoms; several archbishops and bishops; many dukes; and the nobility of both sexes thought themselves happy in increasing the revenues of this venerable house, to ensure themselves a place of burial therein." The story of the burial of St. Joseph of Arimathaea at Glastonbury, to us a mere shadowy legend, was accepted as a fact in the early English ages, and that it figured in the mind of these worthies as endowing Glastonbury with extraordinary sanctity is beyond doubt. At the time of the Dissolution no corruption whatever was revealed at Glastonbury, nor any blame recorded against its management. It was still doing splendid work, having daily services and extending its educational influence for miles around. There was but scanty comfort for its inmates, who rested on a straw mattress and bolster on their narrow bedstead in a bare cell, and whose food, duties and discipline were marked by an austere simplicity. Nor were they idle, these monks of Glastonbury--some taught in the abbey school, others toiled in the orchards, and the beauty of the stained glass, designed within the abbey walls, found fame far and wide. Richard Whiting was Abbot of Glastonbury when, in 1539, Henry VIII. ordered inquiries to be made into the condition and property of the abbey. Altho he recognized the monarch as supreme head of the church, he respected the Glastonbury traditions and met the "visitors" in a spirit of passive resistance. With the object of preserving them from desecration, the abbot had concealed some of the communion vessels, and for this offense the venerable man was tried and condemned to death. His head, white with the touch of eighty years, was fixt upon the abbey gate, and the rest of his body quartered and sent to Bath, Wells, Bridgwater, and Ilchester. The abbey building--one of the most perfect examples of architecture in the land--served as a stone quarry, much of the material being used to make a road over the fenland from Glastonbury to Wells. The revenue at the time of the Dissolution was over £3,000, a big income in those days. TINTERN [Footnote: From "The Abbeys of Great Britain."] BY H. CLAIBORNE DIXON More than one great artist has immortalized the secluded vale, where, on a bend of the Wye and surrounded by wooded hills, the ruins of Tintern Abbey stand. The somber-looking heights, which close in to the east and west, create the atmosphere of loneliness and separation from the world so sought after by the Cistercian monks, who doubtless found inspiration in the grandeur of the surrounding mountains and in the peacefulness of the sweet valley below. Tho the church of the Early English abbey is roofless and the central tower gone, the noble structure, with its many graceful arches, seems to attest to the spirit of religious fervor and devotion so intimately associated with the history of its gray and lichen-covered walls. The finest part of the ruins is undoubtedly the church, which, with the exception of the roof and the north piers of the nave, still stands complete. It has a nave of six bays with aisles, a choir of four bays with aisles, the transepts with eastern aisles having two chapels. A transverse Galilee stood formerly beyond the western entrance. In the north transept are remains of the dormitory stairs, and on this side the cloisters, too, were situated. The aumbry, parlor, sacristy, chapterhouse, slype to the infirmary, day-stairs to dormitory and undercroft were on the east side of the cloisters; the postern and river gate, over which was the abbot's lodge on the north side, and also the buttery, refectory, and kitchen. The delicacy of design and execution to be seen in the ruins is unrivaled in the kingdom--the tracery of the windows being particularly fine. The ruined church possesses the grace and lightness of architecture peculiar to the twelfth century, and is, even in its decay, of truly sublime and grand proportions. Time has been unable to obliterate the skilful work of our forefathers, for the Early English transition arches, the delicate molding, and the exquisite stone tracery in the windows still delight the eye. The history of Tintern is almost a hidden page in the chronicles of time. On the surrender of Raglan Castle to the Cromwellian troops by the Marquis of Worcester, the castle was razed to the ground, and with it were lost the abbey records, which had been taken from Tintern when the abbey was granted to the Marquis's ancestor by Henry VIII. It is known, however, that the first foundation on the site was in the hands of a cousin of William the Conqueror, Richard Bienfaite by name. He founded the abbey in 1131, and was succeeded by his nephew, Gilbert "Strongbow." His granddaughter Isabel married the then Earl of Pembroke, and her daughter, marrying Hugh Bigod, brought the estates to the ducal house of Norfolk. III CASTLES AND STATELY HOMES LIVING IN GREAT HOUSES [Footnote: From "England Without and Within." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1881.] BY RICHARD GRANT WHITE Now I will tell you a little--it can be but a little--about life in the "great houses," as they are called here. When you are asked to come to one, a train is suggested, and you are told that a carriage will be at the station to meet you. Somehow the footman manages to find you out. At ---- which is a little station at which few people get out, I had hardly left the train when a very respectable-looking person, not a footman, stept up to me and said, "Lord ----'s carriage is waiting for you, sir." The carriage and the footman and coachman were, of course, on the other side of the building. My drive from the station to ---- took quite as long a time as it took me to come down by rail from London, altho we went at a grand trot. The country was beautiful, stretching off on both sides in broad fields and meadows, darkened in lines by hedges, and in spots by clumps of trees. The roads were very narrow--they seemed rather like lanes--and this effect was increased by the high walls and hedges on either side. Two carriages had hardly room to pass in some places, with careful driving. Being in Lord ----'s well-known carriage, I was quite in state, and the country folk, most of them, bowed to me as I went on; and of course I followed the apostolic injunction, and condescended unto men of low estate. And, by the way, yesterday afternoon (for a day has passed since I began this letter, and I am now at ----) Lady ---- drove me through their park and off to ----, the dowager Lady ----'s jointure house, and I had the honor of acknowledging for her all the numerous bobs and ducks she received from the tenants and their children. So, you see, I shall be in good training when I come into my estate. When and where I entered the park, either here or at ----, I could not exactly make out. There were gates and gates, and the private grounds seemed to shade off gradually into the public. I know that the park extended far beyond the lodge. The house at ---- is very ugly. It was built by Inigo Jones, and, never handsome, was altogether spoiled by tasteless alterations in the last century. The ugliness of English country houses built at that time is quite inexpressible. I ought to have said that the ----s are in mourning;... and it was very kind of them to invite me. I was met at the door by a dignified personage in black, who asked me if I would go up to Lady ----'s room. She welcomed me warmly, said that Lord ---- had been called away for a few hours, and offered me tea from a tiny table at her side. And, by the way, you are usually asked to come at a time which brings you to five-o'clock tea. This gives you an opportunity to rub off the rough edge of strangeness, before you dress for dinner. Lady ----'s own room was large and hung with tapestry, and yet it was cosy and homelike. The hall is large and square, and the walls are covered with old arms. The staircase is good, but not so grand as others that I have seen; that at ----, for instance, where there was an oriel window on the first landing. This one has no landing; it is of polished oak, but is carpeted. Lady ---- is a very attractive and elegant woman, sensible, sensitive, and with a soft, gentle way of speech and action, which is all the more charming, as she is tall. Her tea was good. She talked well, and we got on together very satisfactorily. Presently a nurse brought in her two little daughters. I thought she must have approved of her savage Yankee guest; for she encouraged them to come to me and sit upon my knees; and all mothers are shy about that. Soon in popped Lord ----, and gave me the heartiest welcome that I have received since I have been in England. He has altered somewhat since he was in New York; is grown a little stouter, and a very little graver, but is just the same frank, simple fellow as when you saw him. About seven o'clock I was asked if I would like to go up to my room. He went with me,--an attention which I found general; and "directly he had left me," according to the phrase here, a very fine-mannered person, in a dress coat and a white tie, appeared, and asked me for my keys. I apprehended the situation at once, and submitted to his ministrations. He did everything for me except actually to wash my face and hands and put on my clothes. He laid everything that I could need, opened and laid out my dressing-case, and actually turned my stocking's. Dinner at eight. I take in Lady ----. Butler, a very solemn personage, but not stout nor red-faced. I have seen no stout, red-faced butler since I have been in England. Dining room large and handsome. Some good portraits. Gas in globes at the walls; candles on the table. Dinner very good, of course. Menu written in pencil on a porcelain card, with the formula in gilt and a coronet. Indeed, the very cans that came up to my bedroom with hot water were marked with coronet and cipher. I was inclined to scoff at this, at first, as ostentatious; but after all, as the things were to be marked, how could it be done better? After dinner, a very pleasant chat in the drawing-room until about eleven o'clock, when Lord ---- sent Lady ---- to bed. She shakes hands on bidding me good-night, and asks if half-past nine o'clock is too early for breakfast for me. I was tempted to say that it was, and to ask if it couldn't be postponed till ten; but I didn't. The drawing-room, by the way, altho it was handsome and cheerful, was far inferior in its show to a thousand that might be found in New York, many of which, too, are quite equal to it in comfort and in tasteful adornment. Lord ---- and I sit up awhile and chat about old times and the shooting on Long Island, and when I go to my room I find that, altho I am to stay but two days, my trunk has been unpacked and all my clothes put into the wardrobe and the drawers, and most carefully arranged, as if I were going to stay a month. My morning dress has been taken away. In the morning the same servant comes, opens my window, draws my bed curtain, prepares my bath, turns my stockings, and in fact does everything but actually bathe and dress me, and all with a very pleasant and cheerful attentiveness. At a quarter past nine the gong rings for prayers. These are generally read by the master of the household in the dining-room, with the breakfast table laid; but here in a morning-room. After breakfast you are left very much to yourself. Business and household affairs are looked after by your host and hostess; and you go where you please and do what you like. On Sunday I of course went to church with the family: a charming old church; tower of the time of Edward III.; some fine old monuments. We merely walked through the park a distance of about the width of Washington Square, passed through a little door in the park wall, and there was the church just opposite. It was Harvest Thanksgiving day, a festival recently introduced in England, in imitation of that which has come down to us from our Puritan forefathers. There was a special service; and the church was very prettily drest with oats, flowers, grass, and grapes, the last being substituted for hops, as it was too late for them. The offerings were for the Bulgarians; for everything now in England is tinged with the hue of "Turkish horrors." After service Lord ---- took me to the chantry, where the tombs of the family are. It was to show me a famous statue, that of a Lady ---- and her baby, at the birth of which she died, it dying soon, too. The statue is very beautiful, and is the most purely and sweetly pathetic work in sculpture that I ever saw. It had a special interest for me because I remembered reading about it in my boyhood; but I had forgotten the name of the subject, and I had no thought of finding it here in a little country church. WINDSOR [Footnote: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE About eleven o'clock we found ourselves going up the old stone steps to the castle. It was the last day of a fair which had been holden in this part of the country, and crowds of the common people were flocking to the castle, men, women, and children pattering up the stairs before and after us. We went first through the state apartments. The principal thing that interested me was the ball room, which was a perfect gallery of Vandyke's paintings. Here was certainly an opportunity to know what Vandyke is. I should call him a true court painter--a master of splendid conventionalities, whose portraits of kings are the most powerful arguments for the divine right I know of. The queen's audience chamber is hung with tapestry representing scenes from the book of Esther. This tapestry made a very great impression upon me. A knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome in the material part of painting is undoubtedly an unsuspected element of much of the pleasure we derive from it; and for this reason, probably, this tapestry appeared to us better than paintings executed with equal spirit in oils. We admired it exceedingly, entirely careless what critics might think of us if they knew it.... From the state rooms we were taken to the top of the Round Tower, where we gained a magnificent view of the Park of Windsor, with its regal avenue, miles in length, of ancient oaks; its sweeps of greensward; clumps of trees; its old Herne oak, of classic memory; in short, all that constitutes the idea of a perfect English landscape. The English tree is shorter and stouter than ours; its foliage dense and deep, lying with a full, rounding outline against the sky. Everything here conveys the idea of concentrated vitality, but without that rank luxuriance seen in our American growth. Having unfortunately exhausted the English language on the subject of grass, I will not repeat any ecstasies upon that topic. After descending from the tower we filed off to the proper quarter, to show our orders for the private rooms. The state apartments, which we had been looking at, are open at all times, but the private apartments can only be seen in the queen's absence, and by special permission, which had been procured for us on this occasion by the kindness of the Duchess of Sutherland. One of the first objects that attracted my attention when entering the vestibule was a baby's wicker wagon, standing in one corner; it was much such a carriage as all mothers are familiar with; such as figures largely in the history of almost every family. It had neat curtains and cushions of green merino, and was not royal, only maternal. I mused over the little thing with a good deal of interest.... In the family breakfast room we saw some fine Gobelin tapestry, representing the classical story of Meleager. In one of the rooms, on a pedestal, stood a gigantic china vase, a present from the Emperor of Russia, and in the state rooms before we had seen a large malachite vase from the same donor. The toning of this room, with regard to color, was like that of the room I described in Stafford House--the carpet of green ground, with the same little leaf upon it, the walls, chairs, and sofas covered with green damask. The whole air of these rooms was very charming, suggestive of refined taste and domestic habits. The idea of home, which pervades everything in England, from the cottage to the palace, was as much suggested here as in any apartments I have seen. The walls of the different rooms were decorated with portraits of the members of the royal family, and those of other European princes. After this we went thro the kitchen department--saw the silver and gold plate of the table; among the latter were some designs which I thought particularly graceful. To conclude all, we went through the stables. The men who showed them told us that several of the queen's favorite horses were taken to Osborne; but there were many beautiful creatures left, which I regarded with great complacency. The stables and stalls were perfectly clean, and neatly kept; and one, in short, derives from the whole view of the economies of Windsor that satisfaction which results from seeing a thing thoroughly done in the best conceivable manner. BLENHEIM [Footnote: From "Famous Homes of Great Britain and Their Stories." A.H. Malan, Editor. By arrangement with the publishers, G.P. Putnam's Sons. Copyright, 1899.] BY THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. The architecture of the house itself clearly indicates the taste and training of its builder. Vanbrugh shared the enthusiasm of the day for classical work, as understood and developed, whether well or ill, by the Italians of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; but with characteristic disregard of law, he thought to combine classical severity with the fancifulness natural in a northerner and a playwright. Thus, while the general scheme of the south front, for instance, is distinctly severe, the massive towers at its ends are surmounted by fantastic masses of open stone-work, most quaintly finished off with arrangements of cannon-balls and coronets. Throughout he repeatedly made use of classical members with strange disregard to their structural intention. Silvester, the French artist employed to make designs for the decoration of the salon, sniffed contemptuously at Vanbrugh's Gothic tendencies. "I can not approve of that double line of niches. It suggests the façade of a Gothic church." And then with savage delight he announced his discovery that much of the design was merely an unintelligent imitation of the Palazzo Farnese at Florence. Certainly, in spite of Vanbrugh's attempt to achieve at once dignity and lightness, the probable impression made by the building on the casual observer is, that it is ponderous without being stately, and irregular without being tasteful. But the final feeling of any one whose fate it is to study it at leisure will assuredly be one of respect, even of enthusiasm, for the ability of Vanbrugh. It takes time to realize the boldness of the general design and the solidity of the masonry. In many parts there are about as many feet of solid stone as a modern architect would put inches of lath and plaster. The negative qualities of integrity and thoroughness are rare enough in work of the present day, now that the architect has delegated to the contractor the execution of his design. The interior proportions of the rooms are generally admirable, and so perfectly was the work carried out that it is possible to look through the keyholes of ten doors, and see daylight at the end, over three hundred feet off. It is noticeable, further, that the whole was designed by a single man, there being no subsequent additions, as there are, for instance, at Chatsworth and Wentworth. Vanbrugh is responsible for good and bad qualities alike. One would imagine a priori that he had everything in his favor--unlimited money and a free hand. Far from this being the case, the stupendous work was accomplished under difficulties greater than any long-suffering architect ever had to contend with. The beginning of the building was most auspicious. In 1705, the year after Blenheim, Queen Anne, in accordance with an address of the Commons, granted Marlborough the royal estate of which Woodstock was the center, with moneys to build a suitable house. The nation was anxious to show its gratitude to the General under whom English troops had won their first considerable victory on foreign soil since Agincourt; the Queen was for doing all in her power for her dear Mrs. Freeman; Marlborough saw in the scheme a dignified and legitimate method of perpetuating his fame; and so Vanbrugh was commissioned to build a house which should be worthy of all three. The work was at once begun on the existing scale. Difficulties sprang up when the Duchess began to lose, by her abuse of it, the power which she had always possessed over the Queen; when, too, it was seen that the architect's estimate bore no sort of relation to the actual cost. Vanbrugh was often in the greatest straits for money, and wrote piteously to the Duchess and the Lord Treasurer Godolphin without the slightest effect. Things naturally grew worse when both the Duke and Duchess were dismissed from all their posts, in 1711; and at last, in 1721, the disputes culminated in a lawsuit successfully brought against the Duke by the workmen for arrears of pay, the defendant's contention being that the Treasury was liable for the whole expense. The Duchess vented her displeasure on the unfortunate architect, whom she never credited with doing anything right. She carefully kept his letters, and made spiteful endorsements on them for the benefit of her counsel at the trial. While Sarah was perpetually involving herself in quarrels with her architect, the Duke was indirectly furthering the progress of the building by a succession of victories abroad. Without taking an active part, he was yet much interested in the house, always looking forward to the time when he should live there in peace with his wife. When on a campaign he wrote to her nearly every other day, and in almost every letter there is a personal touch, showing his ever-present love for her, his keen anxiety to keep her love, and to win her approval of everything he did. The main interest of Marlborough's later life centered in Blenheim. The Duchess had done the lion's share of the work of superintendence; it remained for him to arrange the many works of art he had bought and had been given during the war. There still exists an account of the prices he paid for tapestries made in Brussels, most of which are now on the walls of the house. Over the south front was placed a bust of Louis XIV., a trophy taken from the gates of Tournay.... Changes of fashion and of taste have left their mark on Blenheim; and, as the old oaks recall the joyousness of the Middle Ages, and the elms and cedars have a certain air of eighteenth-century stateliness, so perhaps the orchids, with their exotic delicacy, may be held typical of the decadent present. From the house many treasures, once part of its adornment, are now missed; and while books, pictures, and gems have disappeared, modern ideas of comfort have suggested the insertion of electric lights and telephones. To regret the treasures of the past is a commonplace; it would seem fitter to make the best of the advantages of the present. WARWICK [Footnote: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."] BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE When we came fairly into the courtyard of Warwick Castle, a scene of magnificent beauty opened before us. I can not describe it minutely. The principal features are the battlements, towers, and turrets of the old feudal castle, encompassed by grounds on which has been expended all that princely art of landscape gardening for which England is famous--leafy thickets, magnificent trees, openings, and vistas of verdure, and wide sweeps of grass, short, thick, and vividly green, as the velvet moss we sometimes see growing on rocks in New England. Grass is an art and a science in England--it is an institution. The pains that are taken in sowing, tending, cutting, clipping, rolling, and otherwise nursing and coaxing it, being seconded by the misty breath and often falling tears of the climate, produce results which must be seen to be appreciated.... Here, under the shade of lofty cedars, has sprung and fallen an hereditary line of princes. One can not but feel, in looking on these majestic trees, with the battlements, turrets, and towers of the old castle everywhere surrounding him, and the magnificent parks and lawns opening through dreamy vistas of trees into what seems immeasurable distance, the force of the soliloquy which Shakespeare puts into the mouth of the dying old king-maker, as he lies ebreathing out his soul in the dust and blood of the battlefield.... I have described the grounds first, but, in fact, we did not look at them first, but went into the house where we saw not only all the state rooms, but, through the kindness of the noble proprietor, many of those which are not commonly exhibited; a bewildering display of magnificent apartments, pictures, gems, vases, arms and armor, antiques, all, in short, that the wealth of a princely and powerful family had for centuries been accumulating. The great hall of the castle is sixty-two feet in length and forty in breadth, ornamented with a richly carved Gothic roof, in which figures largely the family cognizance of the bear and ragged staff. There is a succession of shields, on which are emblazoned the quarterings of successive Earls of Warwick. The sides of the wall are ornamented with lances, corselets, shields, helmets, and complete suits of armor, regularly arranged as in an armory. Here we saw the helmet of Cromwell, a most venerable relic. Before the great, cavernous fireplace was piled up on a sled a quantity of yew-tree wood. The rude simplicity of thus arranging it on the polished floor of this magnificent apartment struck me as quite singular. I suppose it is a continuation of some ancient custom. Opening from this apartment on either side are suites of rooms, the whole series being three hundred and thirty-three feet in length. These rooms are all hung with pictures, and studded with antiques and curiosities of immense value. There is, first, the red drawing-room, and then the cedar drawing-room, then the gilt drawing-room, the state bedroom, the boudoir, etc., etc., hung with pictures by Vandyke, Rubens, Guido, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Paul Veronese, any one of which would require days of study. I walked to one of the windows of these lordly apartments, and while the company were examining buhl cabinets, and all other deliciousness of the place, I looked down the old gray walls into the amber waters of the Avon, which flows at their base, and thought that the most beautiful of all was without. There is a tiny fall that crosses the river just above here, whose waters turn the wheels of an old mossy mill, where for centuries the family grain has been ground. The river winds away through the beautiful parks and undulating foliage, its soft, grassy banks dotted here and there with sheep and cattle, and you catch farewell gleams and glitters of it as it loses itself among the trees. Gray moss, wallflowers, ivy, and grass were growing here and there out of crevices in the castle walls, as I looked down, sometimes trailing their rippling tendrils in the river. This vegetative propensity of walls is one of the chief graces of these old buildings. In the state bedroom were a bed and furnishings of rich crimson velvet, once belonging to Queen Anne, and presented by George III. to the Warwick family. The walls are hung with Brussels tapestry, representing the gardens of Versailles as they were at the time. The chimney-piece, which is sculptured of verde antique and white marble, supports two black marble vases on its mantel. Over the mantel-piece is a full-length portrait of Queen Anne, in a rich brocade dress, wearing the collar and jewels of the garter, bearing in one hand a scepter, and in the other a globe. There are two splendid buhl cabinets in the room, and a table of costly stone from Italy; it is mounted on a richly carved and gilt stand. The boudoir, which adjoins, is hung with pea-green satin and velvet. In this room is one of the most authentic portraits of Henry VIII., by Holbein, in which that selfish, brutal, unfeeling tyrant is veritably set forth, with all the gold and gems which, in his day, blinded mankind; his fat, white hands were beautifully painted.... After having examined all the upper stories, we went down into the vaults underneath--vaults once grim and hoary, terrible to captives and feudal enemies, now devoted to no purpose more grim than that of coal cellars and wine vaults. In Oliver's time, a regiment was quartered there; they are extensive enough, apparently, for an army. The kitchen and its adjuncts are of magnificent dimensions, and indicate an ancient amplitude in the way of provision for good cheer worthy an ancient house; and what struck me as a still better feature was a library of sound, sensible, historical, and religious works for the servants. We went into the beer vaults, where a man drew beer into a long black jack, such as Scott describes. It is a tankard, made of black leather, I should think half a yard deep. He drew the beer from a large hogshead, and offered us some in a glass. It looked very clear, but, on tasting, I found it so exceedingly bitter that it struck me there would be small virtue for me in abstinence. KENILWORTH [Footnote: From Scott's "Kenilworth." Kenilworth is now the most stately ruined castle in England. Its destruction dates from the Civil War, when it was dismantled by soldiers under Cromwell. Then it was allowed to decay. Scott describes it as it was in Queen Elizabeth's time.] BY SIR WALTER SCOTT The outer wall of this splendid and gigantic structure enclosed seven acres, a part of which was occupied by extensive stables, and by a pleasure garden, with its trim arbors and parterres, and the rest formed the large base-court, or outer-yard, of the noble castle. The lordly structure itself, which rose near the center of this spacious enclosure, was composed of a huge pile of magnificent castellated buildings, apparently of different ages, surrounding an inner court, and bearing in the names attached to each portion of the magnificent mass, and in the armorial bearings which were there blazoned, the emblems of mighty chiefs who had long passed away, and whose history, could ambition have lent ear to it, might have read a lesson to the haughty favorite, who had now acquired and was augmenting the fair domain. A large and massive keep, which formed the citadel of the castle, was of uncertain tho great antiquity. It bore the name of Cæsar, perhaps from its resemblance to that in the Tower of London so called. Some antiquaries ascribe its foundation to the time of Kenelph, from whom the castle had its name, a Saxon King of Mercia, and others to an early era after the Norman Conquest. On the exterior walls frowned the escutcheon of the Clintons, by whom they were founded in the reign of Henry I., and of the yet more redoubted Simon de Montfort, by whom, during the Barons' wars, Kenilworth was long held out against Henry III. Here Mortimer, Earl of March, famous alike for his rise and his fall, had once gaily revelled in Kenilworth, while his dethroned sovereign, Edward II. languished in its dungeons. Old John of Gaunt, "time-honored Lancaster," had widely extended the castle, erecting that noble and massive pile which yet bears the name of Lancaster's buildings: and Leicester himself had outdone the former possessors, princely and powerful as they were, by erecting another immense structure, which now lies crusht under its own ruins, the monument of its owner's ambition. The external wall of this royal castle was, on the south and west sides, adorned and defended by a lake partly artificial, across which Leicester had constructed a stately bridge, that Elizabeth might enter the castle by a path hitherto untrodden, instead of the usual entrance to the northward, over which he had erected a gate-house, or barbican, which still exists, and is equal in extent, and superior in architecture, to the baronial castle of many a northern chief. Beyond the lake lay an extensive chase, full of red-deer, fallow-deer, roes, and every species of game, and abounding with lofty trees, from among which the extended front and massive towers of the castle were seen to rise in majesty and beauty. We can not but add that of this lordly palace, where princes feasted and heroes fought, now in the bloody earnest of storm and siege, and now in the games of chivalry, where beauty dealt the prize which valor won, all is now desolate. The bed of the lake is but a rushy swamp and the massive ruins of the castle only serve to show what their splendor once was, and to impress on the musing visitor the transitory value of human possessions, and the happiness of those who enjoy a humble lot in virtuous contentment. ALNWICK [Footnote: From "Visits to Remarkable Places."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT A visit to Alnwick is like going back into the old feudal times. The town still retains the moderate dimensions and the quiet air of one that has grown up under the protection of the castle, and of the great family of the castle. Other towns, that arose under the same circumstances, have caught the impulse of modern commerce and manufacture, and have grown into huge, bustling, and noisy cities, in which the old fortified walls and the old castle have either vanished, or have been swallowed up, and stand, as if in superannuated wonder, amid a race and a wilderness of buildings, with which they have nothing in common. When, however, you enter Alnwick, you still feel that you are entering a feudal place. It is as the abode of the Percys has presented itself to your imagination. It is still, quaint, gray, and old-worldish.... In fact, the whole situation is fine, without being highly romantic, and worthy of its superb old fabric. In the castle itself, without and within, I never saw one on English ground that more delighted me; because it more completely came up to the beau ideal of the feudal baronial mansion, and especially of that of the Percys, the great chieftains of the British Border--the heroes of Otterburn and Chevy Chase. Nothing can be more striking than the effect at first entering within the walls from the town; when, through a dark gloomy gateway of considerable length and depth, the eye suddenly emerges into one of the most splendid scenes that can be imagined; and is presented at once with the great body of the inner castle, surrounded with fair semi-circular towers, finely swelling to the eye, and gaily adorned with pinnacles, battlements, etc. The impression is still further strengthened by the successive entrances into the second and third courts, through great massy towers, till you are landed in the inner court, in the very center of this great citadel. An idea may be formed of the scale of this brave castle, when we state that it includes, within its outer walls, about five acres of ground; and that its walls are flanked with sixteen towers, which now afford a complete set of offices to the castle, and many of them retain not only their ancient names, but also their original uses. The castle courts, except the center one, are beautifully carpeted with green turf, which gives them a very pleasant aspect. In the center of the second court is a lion with his paw on a ball, a copy of one of the lions of St. Mark at Venice.... The inner court is square, with the corners taken off; and on the wall opposite to the entrance are medallion portraits of the first Duke and Duchess. Near the gateway appear the old wheels and axle which worked the great well, over which is the figure of a pilgrim blessing the waters. Within the gateway you enter an octagon tower, where the old dungeon still remains in the floor, covered with its iron grate. It is eleven feet deep, by nine feet eight inches and a half square at the bottom. In the court are two other dungeons, now or formerly used for a force-pump to throw water up to the top of the castle; and one now not used at all--which could all be so closed down as to exclude the prisoners from both sound and light.... Having wandered thus around this noble pile, it is time to enter it. Of the interior, however, I shall not say much more than that it is at once a fitting modern residence for a nobleman of the high rank and ancient descent of the proprietor, and in admirable keeping with its exterior. The rooms are fitted up with light Gothic tracery on the walls, very chaste and elegant; and the colors are so delicate and subdued, that you are not offended with that feeling of over-fineness that is felt at Raby. You ascend by a noble staircase, surrounded with armorial escutcheons instead of a cornice, to a suite of very spacious and handsome rooms, of which the principal are the saloon, dining-room, breakfast-room, library, and chapel. The ceilings are finely worked into compartments with escutcheons and pendants. The walls of the saloon are covered with crimson silk, sprigged with yellow flowers; those of the dining-room, with pale buff, and white moldings, rich tracery and elegant compartmented ceiling. In the center of some of the arches you see the crescent, the crest of the Percys. On the whole, it is a noble and highly satisfactory mansion; but still it is when you get without again that you feel the real antiquity and proud dignity of the place. The fame of the Percy and the Douglas seems to be whispered by every wind that plays around those old towers. HAMPTON COURT [Footnote: From "Visits to Remarkable Places."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT To the visitors of cultivated taste and historic knowledge, Hampton Court abounds with subjects of reflective interest of the highest order. It is true, that, compared with some of our palaces, it can lay no claims to antiquity; but from the days of Henry VIII. to those of George III., there are few of them that have witnessed more singular or momentous events. Overbearing despot as Wolsey [who built it] was, there is something magnificent in the sweep of his ambition, and irresistibly interesting in the greatness of his fall. He was the last of those haughty prelates in the good old Catholic times who rose up from the dust of insignificance into the most lordly and overgrown magnificence; outdoing monarchs in the number of their servants, and in the pomp of their state. Equaling the great Cardinals who have figured on the Continent, Ximenes, Richelieu, Mazarin, and De Retz, in political ability and personal ambition, he exceeded all in the wealth which he unhesitatingly seized, and the princely splendor in which he lived. When we enter, therefore, the gates of Hampton Court, and are struck with the magnificent extent of the erection, which at that time not only, according to Rapin, "was a stately palace, and outshined all the king's houses," but was one of the most splendid structures in Europe, we can not help figuring to ourselves the proud Cardinal surveying its progress, and musing over the wonders of that career which had brought him, if not from the humble estate of the son of a butcher, yet from an origin of no great condition, or it could not have remained dubious to this period--the wealthiest man in Europe, the most potent in political influence, and the ardent aspirant to the Popedom itself.... It was only at Hampton Court that his vast train of servants and attendants, with the nobility and ambassadors who flocked about him, could be fully entertained. These, as we learn from his gentleman-usher, Cavendish, were little short of a thousand persons; for there were upon his "cheine roll" eight hundred persons belonging to his household, independent of suitors, who were all entertained in the hall. In this hall he had daily spread three tables. At the head of the first presided a priest, a steward; at that of the second a knight, as treasurer; and at the third his comptroller, who was an esquire.... Besides these, there was always a doctor, a confessor, two almoners, three marshals, three ushers of the hall, and groom. The furnishing of these tables required a proportionate kitchen; and here were two clerks, a clerk-comptroller, and surveyor of the dressers; a clerk of the spicery; two cooks, with laborers and children for assistants: turnspits a dozen; four scullery-men; two yeomen of the pastry, and two paste-layers. In his own kitchen was his master-cook, daily drest in velvet or satin, and wearing a gold chain. Under him were two other cooks and their six laborers; in the larder a yeoman and groom; in the scullery a yeoman and two grooms; in the ewry two yeomen and two grooms; in the buttery the same; in the cellar three yeomen and three pages; in the chandlery and the wafery, each two yeomen; in the wardrobe the master of the wardrobe and twenty assistants; in the laundry, yeoman, groom, thirteen pages, two yeoman-purveyors and groom-purveyor; in the bake-house, two yeomen and two grooms; in the wood-yard one yeoman and groom; in the barn a yeoman; at the gate two yeomen and two grooms; a yeoman of his barge; the master of his horse; a clerk and groom of the stables; the farrier; the yeoman of the stirrup; a maltster; and sixteen grooms, each keeping four horses. There were the dean and sub-dean of his chapel; the repeater of the choir; the gospeler, the epistler, or the singing priest; the master of the singers, with his men and children. In the vestry were a yeoman and two grooms. In the procession were commonly seen forty priests, all in rich copes and other vestments of white satin, or scarlet, or crimson. The altar was covered with massy plate, and blazed with jewels and precious stones. But if such were his general establishment, not less was the array of those who attended on his person. In his privy chamber he had his chief chamberlain, vice-chamberlain, and two gentlemen-ushers. Six gentlemen-waiters and twelve yeomen; and at their head nine or ten lords to attend on him, each with their two or three servants, and some more, to wait on them, the Earl of Derby having five. Three gentlemen-cupbearers, gentlemen-carvers, and servers to the amount of forty in the great and the privy chamber; six gentlemen-ushers and eight grooms. Attending on his table were twelve doctors and chaplains, clerk of the closet, two clerks of the signet, four counsellors learned in the law, and two secretaries. He had his riding-clerk; clerk of the crown; clerk of the hamper and chaffer; clerk of the cheque for the chaplains; clerk for the yeomen of the chamber; and "fourteen footmen garnished with rich running-coates, whensoever he had any journey;" besides these, a herald-at-arms, sergeant-at-arms, a physician, an apothecary, four minstrels, a keeper of the tents, an armorer; an instructor of his wards in chancery; "an instructor of his wardrop of roabes;" a keeper of his chamber; a surveyor of York, and clerk of the green cloth.... I am afraid the story of Henry VIII. coming to see this splendid palace on its first being built, and saying in a jealous surprize, "My Lord Cardinal, is this a dwelling for a subject?" and the courtly Cardinal replying, "My gracious liege, it is not intended for a subject; it is meant only for the greatest and most bounteous king in Christendom," is too good to be true; for altho Wolsey did give up this favorite palace to his royal master, it was long afterward, and only on the palpable outbreak of his displeasure, as a most persuasive peace-offering; an offering which, tho especially acceptable, failed nevertheless to ensure lasting peace. The sun of the great Cardinal was already in its decline.... Henry VIII. used to keep his court here frequently in great state, and here he used to celebrate Christmas in all its ancient festivity. Here he lost his third wife, Jane Seymour, a few days after the birth of his son Edward VI., and felt or affected much grief on that account, perhaps because he had not had the pleasure of cutting off her head. Here he married his sixth wife, Lady Catherine Parr, widow of Neville, Lord Latimer, and sister of the Marquis of Northampton. This lady, who had the hardihood to marry this royal Bluebeard, after he had divorced two wives and chopped off the heads of two others, narrowly escaped the fate she so rashly hazarded. The very warrant for her committal to the Tower, whence she was only to be brought forth to be burned at the stake for heresy, was signed, and on the point of execution, when she accidentally became aware of it, and managed to soothe the ferocious tyrant by the most artful submission to his conceit of his theological learning, and by rubbing his ulcerated leg. Here, as we have said, Edward VI. was born; and three days after he was baptized in the king's chapel in the palace in great state--Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, and the Duke of Norfolk, being god-fathers. Hampton Court was appropriated by the guardians of Edward as his residence, and he was residing here when the council rose against the authority of the Protector Somerset, and was removed by him hence to Windsor Castle, lest the council should obtain possession of his person. Here Bloody Mary, and her husband, Philip of Spain, passed their honeymoon in great retirement; and here--when they were desirous of effacing from the mind of their sister, the Princess Elizabeth, the recollection of her imprisonment at Woodstock, and the vain attempts of their arch-rascal priest Stephen Gardiner, Lord Chancellor and Bishop of Winchester, to coerce her into popery, or to convict her of heresy, and probably bring her to the flaming stake--they invited her to spend some time with them, and set on foot banquets, maskings, and all sorts of revelries. Here they kept Christmas with her as royally as the father, Henry VIII., had kept it in his day; Elizabeth being seated at the royal table with their majesties, next the cloth of state, and, at the removal of the dishes, served with a perfumed napkin and plate of confect by the Lord Paget. Here, too, during her stay, they gave a grand tournament, wherein two hundred spears were broken by contending knights. Here Elizabeth also, when she was become the potent queen instead of the jealously-watched sister, continued occasionally to assemble her brilliant court, and to hold merry Christmas, as Mary, Edward, and her father had done before. Here also the especial festivals of the Christmases of 1572 and 1593 were kept by her.... The entrance to the portion of the palace built by Wolsey is by a sort of outer court of great extent, the gates of which have their pillars surmounted by a large lion and unicorn as supporters of the crown royal, and each of the side gates by a military trophy. Along the left side of the area are barracks and such offices; the greater part of the right side is open toward the river, and there stand nine as lofty and noble elms, in a row, as perhaps any part of England can match. Two gateways are before you; the one to the left leading to the kitchen-court, the center one to the first quadrangle. This chief gateway has been restored, in excellent keeping with the old building, and has a noble aspect as you approach it, being flanked with octagon towers, pierced with a fine pointed arch, over which are cut, in rich relief, the royal arms, and above them projects a large and handsome bay-window, framed of stone. You now enter by a Gothic archway the first of the courts of Wolsey remaining. These two are said to have been the meanest then in the palace. There were originally five; the three finest of which were pulled down to make way for William III.'s great square mass of brickwork. The writers who saw it in its glory, describe it in entireness as the most splendid palace in Europe. Grotius says, "other palaces are residences of kings, but this is of the gods." Hentzner, who saw it in Elizabeth's time, speaks of it with astonishment, and says, "the rooms being very numerous, are adorned with tapestry of gold, silver, and velvet, in some of which were woven history pieces; in other Turkish and Armenian dresses, all extremely natural. In one chamber are several excessively rich tapestries, which are hung up when the queen gives audience to foreign ambassadors. All the walls of the palace shine with gold and silver. Here is likewise a certain cabinet called Paradise, where, besides that every thing glitters so with silver, gold, and jewels, as to dazzle one's eyes, there is a musical instrument made all of glass except the strings." It was, indeed, a Dutch taste which leveled all these stately buildings to the ground, to erect the great square mass which replaced them. A glorious view, if old drawings are to be believed, must all that vast and picturesque variety of towers, battlements, tall mullioned windows, cupolas and pinnacles, have made, as they stood under the clear heaven glittering in the sun.... The hall, the chapel, the withdrawing-room, are all splendid specimens of Gothic grandeur, and possess many historic associations. In the hall, Surrey wrote on a pane of glass some of his verses to Géraldine; and there, too, it is said, the play of Henry VIII., exhibiting the fall of Wolsey in the very creation of his former glory, was once acted, Shakespeare himself being one of the performers! CHATSWORTH AND HADDON HALL [Footnote: From "A Walk From London to John O'Groats."] BY ELIHU BURRITT It was a pleasure quite equal to my anticipation to visit Chatsworth for the first time, after a sojourn in England, off and on, for sixteen years. It is the lion number three, according to the American ranking of the historical edifices and localities of England. Stratford-upon-Avon, Westminster Abbey and Chatsworth are the three representative celebrities which our travelers think they must visit if they would see the life of England's ages from the best standpoints. And this is the order in which they rank them. Chatsworth and Haddon Hall should be seen the same day if possible; so that you may carry the impression of the one fresh and active into the other. They are the two most representative buildings in the kingdom. Haddon is old English feudalism edificed. It represents the rough grandeur, hospitality, wassail and rude romance of the English nobility five hundred years ago. It was all in its glory about the time when Thomas-à-Becket, the Magnificent, used to entertain great companies of belted knights of the realm in a manner that exceeded regal munificence in those days--even directing fresh straw to be laid for them on his ample mansion floor, that they might not soil the bravery of their dresses when they bunked down for the night. The building is brimful of the character and history of that period. Indeed, there are no two milestones of English history so near together, and yet measuring such a space of the nation's life and mariners between them, as this hall and that of Chatsworth. It was built, of course, in the bow and arrow times, when the sun had to use the same missiles in shooting its barbed rays into the narrow apertures of old castles--or the stone coffins of fear-hunted knights and ladies, as they might be called. What a monument this to the dispositions and habits of the world, outside and inside of that early time! Here is the porter's or warder's lodge just inside the huge gate. To think of a living being with a human soul in him burrowing in such a place!--a big, black sarcophagus without a lid to it, set deep in the solid wall. Then there is the chapel. Compare it with that of Chatsworth, and you may count almost on your fingers the centuries that have intervened between them. It was new-roofed soon after the discovery of America, and, perhaps, done up to some show of decency and comfort. But how small and rude the pulpit and pews--looking like rough-boarded potato-bins! Here is the great banquet-hall, full to overflowing with the tracks and cross-tracks of that wild, strange life of old. There is a fire-place for you, and the mark in the chimney-back of five hundred Christmas logs. Doubtless this great stone pavement of a floor was carpeted with straw at banquets, after the illustrious Becket's pattern. Here is a memento of the feast hanging up at the top of the kitchenward door--a pair of roughly-forged, rusty handcuffs amalgamated into one pair of jaws, like a muskrat trap. What was the use of that thing, conductor? "That sir, they put the 'ands in of them as shirked and didn't drink up all the wine as was poured into their cups, and there they made them stand on tiptoe up against that door, sir, before all the company, sir, until they was ashamed of theirselves." Descend into the kitchen, all scarred with the tremendous cookery of ages. Here they roasted bullocks whole, and just back in that dark vault with a slit or two in it for the light, they killed and drest them. There are relics of the shambles, and here is the great form on which they cut them up into manageable pieces. It would do you good, you Young America, to see that form, and the cross-gashes of the meat ax in it. It is the half of a gigantic English oak, which was growing in Julius Caesar's time, sawed through lengthwise, making a top surface several feet wide, black and smooth as ebony. Some of the bark still clings to the under side. The dancing-hall is the great room of the building. All that the taste, art and wealth of that day could do, was done to make it a splendid apartment, and it would pass muster still as a comfortable and respectable salon. As we pass out, you may decipher the short prayer cut in the wasting stone over a side portal, "God Save the Vernons." I hope this prayer has been favorably answered; for history records much virtue in the family, mingled with some romantic escapades, which have contributed, I believe, to the entertainment of many novel readers. Just what Haddon Hall is to the baronial life and society of England five hundred years ago, is Chatsworth to the full stature of modern civilization and aristocratic wealth, taste and position. Of this it is probably the best measure and representative in the kingdom; and as such it possesses a special value and interest to the world at large. Were it not for here and there such an establishment, we should lack way-marks in the progress of the arts, sciences and tastes of advancing civilization. EATON HALL [Footnote: From "English Note Books." By permission of, and by arrangement with, the publishers of Hawthorne's works, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870 and 1898.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE The Church of St. John is outside of the city walls of Chester. Entering the East gate, we walked awhile under the Rows, bought our tickets for Eaton Hall and its gardens, and likewise some playthings for the children; for this old city of Chester seems to me to possess an unusual number of toy-shops. Finally we took a cab, and drove to the Hall, about four miles distant, nearly the whole of the way lying through the wooded Park. There are many sorts of trees, making up a wilderness, which looked not unlike the woods of our own Concord, only less wild. The English oak is not a handsome tree, being short and sturdy, with a round, thick mass of foliage, lying all within its own bounds. It was a showery day. Had there been any sunshine, there might doubtless have been many beautiful effects of light and shadow in these woods. We saw one or two herds of deer, quietly feeding, a hundred yards or so distant. They appeared to be somewhat wilder than cattle, but, I think, not much wilder than sheep. Their ancestors have probably been in a half-domesticated state, receiving food at the hands of man, in winter, for centuries. There is a kind of poetry in this, quite as much as if they were really wild deer, such as their forefathers were, when Hugh Lupus used to hunt them. Our miserable cab drew up at the steps of Eaton Hall, and, ascending under the portico, the door swung silently open, and we were received very civilly by two old men--one, a tall footman in livery; the other, of higher grade, in plain clothes. The entrance-hall is very spacious, and the floor is tessellated or somehow inlaid with marble. There was statuary in marble on the floor, and in niches stood several figures in antique armor, of various dates; some with lances, and others with battle-axes and swords. There was a two-handed sword, as much as six feet long; but not nearly so ponderous as I have supposed this kind of weapon to be, from reading of it. I could easily have brandished it. The plainly drest old man now led us into a long corridor, which goes, I think, the whole length of the house, about five hundred feet, arched all the way, and lengthened interminably by a looking-glass at the end, in which I saw our own party approaching like a party of strangers. But I have so often seen this effect produced in dry-goods stores and elsewhere, that I was not much imprest. There were family portraits and other pictures, and likewise pieces of statuary, along this arched corridor; and it communicated with a chapel with a scriptural altar-piece, copied from Rubens, and a picture of St. Michael and the Dragon, and two, or perhaps three, richly painted windows. Everything here is entirely new and fresh, this part having been repaired, and never yet inhabited by the family. This brand-newness makes it much less effective than if it had been lived in; and I felt pretty much as if I were strolling through any other renewed house. After all, the utmost force of man can do positively very little toward making grand things or beautiful things. The imagination can do so much more, merely on shutting one's eyes, that the actual effect seems meager; so that a new house, unassociated with the past, is exceedingly unsatisfactory, especially when you have heard that the wealth and skill of man has here done its best. Besides, the rooms, as we saw them, did not look by any means their best, the carpets not being down, and the furniture being covered with protective envelops. However, rooms can not be seen to advantage by daylight; it being altogether essential to the effect, that they should be illuminated by artificial light, which takes them somewhat out of the region of bare reality. Nevertheless, there was undoubtedly great splendor--for the details of which I refer to the guide-book. Among the family portraits, there was one of a lady famous for her beautiful hand; and she was holding it up to notice in the funniest way--and very beautiful it certainly was. The private apartments of the family were not shown us. I should think it impossible for the owner of this house to imbue it with his personality to such a degree as to feel it to be his home. It must be like a small lobster in a shell much too large for him. After seeing what was to be seen of the rooms, we visited the gardens, in which are noble conservatories and hot-houses, containing all manner of rare and beautiful flowers, and tropical fruits. I noticed some large pines, looking as if they were really made of gold. The gardener (under-gardener I suppose he was) who showed this part of the spectacle was very intelligent as well as kindly, and seemed to take an interest in his business. He gave S---- a purple everlasting flower, which will endure a great many years, as a memento of our visit to Eaton Hall. Finally, we took a view of the front of the edifice, which is very fine, and much more satisfactory than the interior--and returned to Chester. HOLLAND HOUSE [Footnote: From "Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT Of Holland House, the last residence of Addison, it would require a long article to give a fitting idea. This fine old mansion is full of historic associations. It takes its name from Henry Rich, earl of Holland, whose portrait is in Bilton. It was built by his father-in-law, Sir Walter Cope, in 1607, and affords a very good specimen of the architecture of that period. The general form is that of a half H. The projection in the center, forming: at once porch and tower, and the two wings supported on pillars, give great decision of effect to it. The stone quoins worked with a sort of arabesque figure, remind one of the style of some portions of Heidelberg Castle, which is what is called on the Continent roccoco. Here it is deemed Elizabethan; but the plain buildings attached on each side to the main body of the house, with their shingled and steep-roofed towers, have a very picturesque and Bohemian look. Altogether, it is a charming old pile, and the interior corresponds beautifully with the exterior. There is a fine entrance-hall, a library behind it, and another library extending the whole length of one of the wings and the house upstairs, one hundred and five feet in length. The drawing-room over the entrance-hall, called the Gilt Room, extends from front to back of the house, and commands views of the gardens both way; those to the back are very beautiful. In the house are, of course, many interesting and valuable works of art; a great portion of them memorials of the distinguished men who have been accustomed to resort thither. In one room is a portrait of Charles James Fox, as a child, in a light blue dress, and with a close, reddish, woolen cap on his head, under which show lace edges. The artist is unknown, but is supposed to be French. The countenance is full of life and intelligence, and the "child" in it is, most remarkably, "the father of the man." The likeness is wonderful. You can imagine how, by time and circumstance, that child's countenance expanded into what it became in maturity. There is also a portrait of Addison, which belonged to his daughter. It represents him as much younger than any other that I have seen. In the Gilt Room are marble busts of George IV. and William IV. On the staircase is a bust of Lord Holland, father of the second earl and of Charles Fox, by Nollekens. This bust, which is massy, and full of power and expression, is said to have brought Nollekens into his great repute. The likeness to that of Charles Fox is very striking. By the same artist there are also the busts of Charles Fox, the late Lord Holland, and the present earl. That of Frere, by Chantry, is very spirited. There are also, here, portraits of Lord Lansdowne, Lord John Russell, and family portraits. There is also a large and very curious painting of a fair, by Callot, and an Italian print of it. In the library, downstairs, are portraits of Charles James Fox--a very fine one; of the late Lord Holland; of Talleyrand, by Ary Scheffer, perhaps the best in existence, and the only one which he said that he ever sat for; of Sir Samuel Romilly; Sir James Mackintosh; Lord Erskine, by Sir Thomas Lawrence; Tierney; Francis Horner, by Raeburn, so like Sir Walter Scott, by the same artist, that I at first supposed it to be him; Lord Macartney, by Phillips; Frere, by Shea; Mone, Lord Thanet; Archibald Hamilton; late Lord Darnley; late Lord King, when young, by Hoppner; and a very sweet, foreign fancy portrait of the present Lady Holland. We miss, however, from this haunt of genius, the portraits of Byron, Brougham, Crabbe, Blanco White, Hallam, Rogers, Lord Jeffrey, and others. In the left wing is placed the colossal model of the statue of Charles Fox, which stands in Bloomsbury Square. In the gardens are various memorials of distinguished men. Among several very fine cedars, perhaps the finest is said to have been planted by Charles Fox. In the quaint old garden is an alcove, in which are the following lines, placed there by the late earl: "Here Rogers sat--and here for ever dwell With me, those pleasures which he sang so well." Beneath these are framed and glazed a copy of verses in honor of the same poet, by Mr. Luttrell. There is also in the same garden, and opposite this alcove, a bronze bust of Napoleon, on a granite pillar, with a Greek inscription from the Odyssey, admirably applying the situation of Ulysses to that of Napoleon at St. Helena: "In a far-distant isle he remains under the harsh surveillance of base men." The fine avenue leading down from the house to the Kensington road is remarkable for having often been the walking and talking place of Cromwell and General Lambert. Lambert then occupied Holland House; and Cromwell, who lived next door, when he came to converse with him on state affairs, had to speak very loud to him, because he was deaf. To avoid being overheard, they used to walk in this avenue. The traditions regarding Addison here are very slight. They are, simply, that he used to walk, when composing his "Spectators," in the long library, then a picture gallery, with a bottle of wine at each end, which he visited as he alternately arrived at them; and that the room in which he died, tho not positively known, is supposed to be the present dining-room, being then the state bed-room. The young Earl of Warwick, to whom he there address the emphatic words, "See in what peace a Christian can die!" died also, himself, in 1721, but two years afterward. The estate then devolved to Lord Kensington, descended from Robert Rich, Earl of Warwick, who sold it, about 1762, to the Right Honorable Henry Fox, afterward Lord Holland. Here the early days of the great statesman, Charles James, were passed. ARUNDEL [Footnote: From "Cathedral Days." By permission of, and by arrangement with, the publishers, Little, Brown & Co. Copyright, 1887.] BY ANNA BOWMAN DODD Such a vast architectural mass as Arundel Castle, implanted in Saxon, Roman, and feudal military necessities, strikes its roots deep and wide. The town appeared, in comparison, to be but an accidental projection on the hillside. The walls grow out of the town as the trunks of a great tree shoot forth from the ground--of a different growth, but an integral part of it. Topographically, Arundel has only a few features, yet they are fine enough to form a rich ensemble. There is the castle, huge, splendid, impressive, set like a great gray pearl on the crown of the hill. On one side spreads the town; on the other, the tall trees of the castle park begirt its towers and battlements. At the foot of the hill runs the river--a beautiful sinuous stream, which curves its course between the Down hillsides out through the plains to the sea. Whatever may have been the fate of the town in former times, held perhaps at a distance far below in the valley, during troublous times when the castle must be free for the more serious work of assault or defense, it no longer lies at the foot of its great protector. In friendly confidence it seems to sit, if not within its arms, at least beside its knee.... There is no escaping the conclusion that a duke, when one is confronted with his castle, does seem an awfully real being. The castle was a great Catholic stronghold, the Dukes of Norfolk being among the few great families which have remained faithful, since the Conquest, to the See of Rome. The present Duke of Norfolk, by reason of the fervor of his piety, his untiring zeal and magnificent generosity, is recognized as the head of the Catholic party in England. To learn that he was at present on a pilgrimage to Lourdes, and that such was his yearly custom, seemed to shorten distance for us. It made the old--its beliefs, its superstitions, its unquestioning ardor of faith--strangely new. It invested the castle, which appealed to our consciousness as something remote and alien, with the reality of its relation to medieval life and manners. The little cathedral which crowns the hill--the most prominent object for miles about, after the castle--is the gift of the present Duke. It is a pretty structure, pointed Gothic in style, consciously reproduced with all the aids of flying buttresses, niches, pinnacles, and arches. It was doubtless a splendid gift. Perhaps in the twenty-first century, when the weather has done its architectural work on the exterior, and when the interior has been finely dimmed with burned incense, when stained glass and sculptured effigies of saints have been donated by future dukes, it will be a very imposing edifice indeed. But all the beauty of ecclesiastical picturesqueness lies across the way. Hidden behind the lovely beech-arched gateway rests the old parochial church. In spite of restoration the age of six centuries is written unmistakably on the massive square bell-tower, the thirteenth-century traceries, and the rich old glass. It is guarded by a high wall from the adjoining castle-walls, as if the castle still feared there were something dangerously infectious in the mere propinquity of such heresies. It has had its turn at the sieges that have beset the castle. From the old tower there came a rattling hail when Waller's artillery flashed forth its fire upon the Royalist garrison in the castle. The old bells that peal out the Sunday chimes seem to retain something of the jubilant spirit of that martial time. There was a brisk military vigor in their clanging, suggestive of command rather than of entreaty, as if they were more at home when summoning fighters than worshipers. All is peace now. The old church sits in the midst of its graves, like an old patriarch surrounded by the dead whom he has survived.... In looking up at the castle from the river, as a foreground, one has a lovely breastwork of trees, the castle resting on the crown of the hill like some splendid jewel. Its grayness makes its strong, bold outlines appear the more distinct against the melting background of the faint blue and white English sky and the shifting sky scenery.... The earliest Saxon who built his stronghold where the castle now stands must have had an eye for situation, pictorially considered, as well as that keen martial foresight which told him that the warrior who commanded the first hill from the sea, with that bastion of natural fortifications behind him, the Downs, had the God of battle already ranged on his side. The God of battle has been called on, in times past, to preside over a number of military engagements which have come off on this now peaceful hillside. There have been few stirring events in English history in which Arundel Castle has not had its share. As Norman barons, the Earls of Arundel could not do less than the other barons of their time, and so quarreled with their king. When the Magna Charta was going about to gain signers, these feudal Arundel gentlemen figured in the bill, so to speak. The fine Baron's Hall, which commemorates this memorable signing, in the castle yonder, was built in honor of those remote but far-sighted ancestors. The Englishman, of course, has neither the vanity of the Frenchman nor the pride of the Spaniard. But for a modest people, it is astonishing what a number of monuments are built to tell the rest of the world how free England is. The other events which have in turn destroyed or rent the castle--its siege and surrender to Henry I., the second siege by King Stephen, and later the struggle of the Cavaliers and Roundheads for its possession, during the absence abroad of the then reigning Earl--have been recorded with less boastful emphasis. The recent restorations, rebuildings, and enlargements have obliterated all traces of these rude shocks. It has since risen a hundred times more beautiful from its ruins. It is due to these modern renovations that the castle presents such a superb appearance. It has the air of careful preservation which distinguishes some of the great royal residences--such as Windsor, for instance, to which it has often been compared; its finish and completeness suggests the modern chisel. It is this aspect of completeness, as well as the unity of its fine architectural features, which makes such a great castle as this so impressive. As a feudal stronghold it can hardly fail to appeal to the imagination. As the modern palatial home of an English nobleman, it appeals to something more virile--to the sense that behind the medieval walls the life of its occupants is still representative, is still deep and national in importance and significance. Pictorially, there is nothing--unless it be a great cathedral, which brings up quite a different order of impressions and sensations--that gives to the landscape such pictorial effect as a castle. PENSHURST [Footnote: From "Visits to Remarkable Places."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT England, among her titled families, can point to none more illustrious than that of Sidney. It is a name which carries with it the attestation of its genuine nobility. Others are of older standing in the realm. It is not one of those to be found on the roll of Battle Abbey. The first who bore it in England is said to have come hither in the reign of Henry III. There are others, too, which have mounted much higher in the scale of mere rank; but it may be safely said that there is none of a truer dignity, nor more endeared to the spirits of Englishmen. Of this distinguished line, the most illustrious and popular was unquestionably Sir Philip. The universal admiration that he won from his contemporaries is one of the most curious circumstances of the history of those times. The generous and affectionate enthusiasm with which he inspired both his own countrymen and foreigners, has, perhaps, no parallel.... The first view which I got of the old house of Penshurst, called formerly both Penshurst Place and Penshurst Castle, was as I descended the hill opposite to it. Its gray walls and turrets, and high-peaked and red roofs rising in the midst of them; and the new buildings of fresh stone, mingled with the ancient fabric, presented a very striking and venerable aspect. It stands in the midst of a wide valley, on a pleasant elevation; its woods and park stretching away beyond, northward; and the picturesque church, parsonage, and other houses of the village, grouping in front. From whichever side you view the house, it strikes you as a fitting abode of the noble Sidneys. Valleys run out on every side from the main one in which it stands; and the hills, which are everywhere at some distance, wind about in a very pleasant and picturesque manner, covered with mingled woods and fields, and hop-grounds. The house now presents two principal fronts. The one facing westward, formerly looked into a court, called the President's Court, because the greater part of it was built by Sir Henry Sidney, the father of Sir Philip, and Lord President of the Council established in the Marches of Wales. The court is now thrown open, and converted into a lawn surrounded by a sunk fence, and overlooking a quiet valley of perhaps a mile in length, terminated by woody hills of great rural beauty. This front, as well as the northern one, is of great length. It is of several dates and styles of architecture. The façade is of two stories, and battlemented. The center division, which is of recent erection, has large windows of triple arches, with armorial shields between the upper and lower stories. The south end of the façade is of an ancient date, with smaller mullioned windows; the northern portion with windows of a similar character to those in the center, but less and plainer. Over this façade shows itself the tall gable of the ancient banqueting-hall which stands in the inner court. At each end of this façade projects a wing, with its various towers of various bulk and height; some square, of stone, others octagon, of brick, with a great diversity of tall, worked chimneys, which, with steep roofs, and the mixture of brick-work and stone-work all through the front, give a mottled, but yet very venerable aspect to it. The north and principal front, facing up the park, has been restored by its noble possessor, and presents a battlemented range of stone buildings of various projections, towers, turrets, and turreted chimneys, which, when the windows are put in, which is not yet fully done, will have few superiors among the castellated mansions of England.... In the center of the inner court stands the old banqueting-hall, a tall gabled building with high red roof, surmounted with the ruins of a cupola, erected upon it by Mr. Perry, who married the heiress of the family, but who does not seem to have brought much taste into it. On the point of each gable is an old stone figure--the one a tortoise, the other a lion couchant--and upon the back of each of these old figures, so completely accordant with the building itself, which exhibits under its eaves and at the corners of its windows numbers of those grotesque corbels which distinguish our buildings of an early date, both domestic and ecclesiastical, good Mr. Perry clapped a huge leaden vase which had probably crowned aforetime the pillars of a gateway, or the roof of a garden-house.... The south side of the house has all the irregularity of an old castle, consisting of various towers, projections, buttresses, and gables. Some of the windows show tracery of a superior order, and others have huge common sashes, introduced by the tasteful Mr. Perry aforesaid. The court on this side is surrounded by battlemented walls, and has a massy square gatehouse leading into the old garden, or pleasaunce, which sloped away down toward the Medway, but is now merely a grassy lawn, with the remains of one fine terrace running along its western side.... The old banqueting-hall is a noble specimen of the baronial hall of the reign of Edward III., when both house and table exhibited the rudeness of a martial age, and both gentle and simple revelled together, parted only by the salt. The floor is of brick. The raised platform, or dais, at the west-end, advances sixteen feet into the room. The width of the hall is about forty feet, and the length of it about fifty-four feet. On each side are tall Gothic windows, much of the tracery of which has been some time knocked out, and the openings plastered up. At the east end is a fine large window, with two smaller ones above it; but the large window is, for the most part, hidden by the front of the music gallery. In the center of the floor an octagon space is marked out with a rim of stone, and within this space stands a massy old dog, or brand-iron, about a yard and a half wide, and the two upright ends three feet six inches high, having on their outer sides, near the top, the double broad arrow of the Sidney arms. The smoke from the fire, which was laid on this jolly dog, ascended and passed out through the center of the roof, which is high, and of framed oak, and was adorned at the spring of the huge groined spars with grotesque projecting carved figures, or corbels, which are now taken down, being considered in danger of falling, and are laid in the music gallery. IV ENGLISH LITERARY SHRINES STRATFORD-ON-AVON [Footnote: From "The Sketch Book." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.] BY WASHINGTON IRVING Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. GARRICK. I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant; and present a striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also with which he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross; of which there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakespeare's chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly-revolving spit, with all the longing of an urchin; or, of an evening, listening to the crones and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times in England. In this chair it is the custom of everyone who visits the house to sit: whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard, I am at a loss to say; I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me that, tho built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new-bottomed at least once in three years. From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to his grave.... We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in them something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds: "Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare To dig the dust inclosèd here. Blessed be he that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones." The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with the remains so awfully guarded by a malediction; and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished, and the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones; nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare. I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucy's at Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, in company with some of the roisterers of Stratford, committed his youthful offense of deer-stealing. The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly interesting from being connected with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and windings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes glittering from among willows, which fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath green banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and making an azure sweep around a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, while all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon. After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into a foot-path, which led along the borders of fields and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park; there was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian; there being a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which everyone has a kind of property--at least as far as the foot-path is concerned. I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue, and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the opening. I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbican; being a kind of outpost and flanked by towers; tho evidently for mere ornament, instead of defense. The front of the house is completely in the old style; with stone shafted casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders; and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living; there is a fine old oaken staircase; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty; and at one end is a gallery, in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fire-place, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying place of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the court-yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558.... I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country Squire of former days was wont to sway the scepter of empire over his rural domains; and in which might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state, when the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of butler, pages, and the blue-coated serving-men with their badges; while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of game-keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the Knight leaned gracefully forward, eying the youthful prisoner with that pity "that dwells in womanhood." Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a country Squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes; the theme of all tongues and ages; the dictator to the human mind; and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon! I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possest by the imaginary scenes and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. Everything brought them as it were before my eyes; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty: "Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, And welcome merry Shrove-tide!" On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular gift of my poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature; to give to things and places a charm and character not their own, and to turn this "working-day world" into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in complete delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff, and his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow down to the gentle Master Slender, and the sweet Anne Page. NEWSTEAD ABBEY [Footnote: From "English Note Books." By permission of, and by arrangement with, the publishers of Hawthorne's works, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870-1898.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Our drive to Newstead lay through what was once a portion of Sherwood Forest, tho all of it, I believe, has now become private property, and is converted into fertile fields, except where the owners of estates have set out plantations.... The post-boy calls the distance ten miles from Nottingham. He also averred that it was forbidden to drive visitors within the gates; so we left the fly at the inn, and set out to walk from the entrance to the house. There is no porter's lodge; and the grounds, in this outlying region, had not the appearance of being very primly kept, but were well wooded with evergreens, and much overgrown with ferns, serving for cover for hares, which scampered in and out of their hiding-places. The road went winding gently along, and, at the distance of nearly a mile, brought us to a second gate, through which we likewise passed, and walked onward a good way farther, seeing much wood, but as yet nothing of the Abbey. At last, through the trees, we caught a glimpse of its battlements, and saw, too, the gleam of water, and then appeared the Abbey's venerable front. It comprises the western wall of the church, which is all that remains of that fabric, a great, central window, entirely empty, without tracery or mullions; the ivy clambering up on the inside of the wall, and hanging over in front. The front of the inhabited part of the house extends along on a line with this church wall, rather low, with battlements along its top, and all in good keeping with the ruinous remnant. We met a servant, who replied civilly to our inquiries about the mode of gaining admittance, and bade us ring a bell at the corner of the principal porch. We rang accordingly, and were forthwith admitted into a low, vaulted basement, ponderously wrought with intersecting arches, dark and rather chilly, just like what I remember to have seen at Battle Abbey; and, after waiting here a little while, a respectable elderly gentlewoman appeared, of whom we requested to be shown round the Abbey. She courteously acceded, first presenting us to a book, in which to inscribe our names. I suppose ten thousand people, three-fourths of them Americans, have written descriptions of Newstead Abbey; and none of them, so far as I have read, give any true idea of the place; neither will my description, if I write one. In fact, I forget very much that I saw, and especially in what order the objects came. In the basement was Byron's bath--a dark and cold and cellar-like hole, which it must have required good courage to plunge into; in this region, too, or near it, was the chapel, which Colonel Wildman has decorously fitted up, and where service is now regularly performed, but which was used as a dogs' kennel in Byron's time. After seeing this, we were led to Byron's own bed-chamber, which remains just as when he slept in it--the furniture and all the other arrangements being religiously preserved. It was in the plainest possible style, homely, indeed, and almost mean--an ordinary paper-hanging, and everything so commonplace that it was only the deep embrasure of the window that made it look unlike a bed-chamber in a middling-class lodging-house. It would have seemed difficult, beforehand, to fit up a room in that picturesque old edifice so that it should be utterly void of picturesqueness; but it was effected in this apartment, and I suppose it is a specimen of the way in which old mansions used to be robbed of their antique character, and adapted to modern tastes, before medieval antiquities came into fashion. Some prints of the Cambridge colleges, and other pictures indicating Byron's predilections at the time, and which he himself had hung there, were on the walls. This, the housekeeper told us, had been the Abbot's chamber, in the monastic time. Adjoining it is the haunted room, where the ghostly monk whom Byron introduces into "Don Juan," is said to have his lurking-place. It is fitted up in the same style as Byron's, and used to be occupied by his valet or page. No doubt, in his lordship's day, these were the only comfortable bedrooms in the Abbey; and by the housekeeper's account of what Colonel Wildman has done, it is to be inferred that the place must have been in a most wild, shaggy, tumble-down condition, inside and out, when he bought it. It is very different now. After showing us these two apartments of Byron and his servant, the housekeeper led us from one to another and another magnificent chamber, fitted up in antique style, with oak paneling, and heavily carved bedsteads, of Queen Elizabeth's time, or of the Stuarts, hung with rich tapestry curtains of similar date, and with beautiful old cabinets of carved wood, sculptured in relief, or tortoise-shell and ivory. The very pictures and realities, these rooms were, of stately comfort; and they were called by the names of kings--King Edward's, King Charles II.'s, King Henry VII.'s, chamber; and they were hung with beautiful pictures, many of them portraits of these kings. The chimney-pieces were carved and emblazoned; and all, so far as I could judge, was in perfect keeping, so that if a prince or noble of three centuries ago were to come to lodge at Newstead Abbey, he would hardly know that he had strayed out of his own century. And yet he might have known by some token, for there are volumes of poetry and light literature on the tables in these royal bed-chambers, and in that of Henry VII. I saw "The House of the Seven Gables," and "The Scarlet Letter," in Routledge's edition. Certainly the house is admirably fitted up; and there must have been something very excellent and comprehensive in the domestic arrangements of the monks, since they adapt themselves so well to a state of society entirely different from that in which they originated. The library is a very comfortable room, and provocative of studious ideas, tho lounging and luxurious. It is long, and rather low, furnished with soft couches, and, on the whole, tho a man might dream of study, I think he would be most likely to read nothing but novels there. I know not what the room was in monkish times, but it was waste and ruinous in Lord Byron's. Here, I think, the housekeeper unlocked a beautiful cabinet, and took out the famous skull which Lord Byron transformed into a drinking-goblet. It has a silver rim and stand, but still the ugly skull is bare and evident, and the naked inner bone receives the wine. There was much more to see in the house than I had any previous notion of; but except the two chambers already noticed, nothing remained the least as Byron left it. Yes, another place there was--his own small dining-room, with a table of moderate size, where, no doubt, the skull-goblet has often gone its rounds. Colonel Wildman's dining-room was once Byron's shooting-gallery, and the original refectory of the monks. It is now magnificently arranged, with a vaulted roof, a music-gallery at one end, suits of armor and weapons on the walls, and mailed arms extended, holding candelabras. We parted with the housekeeper, and I with a good many shillings, at the door by which we entered; and our next business was to see the private grounds and gardens. A little boy attended us through the first part of our progress, but soon appeared the veritable gardener--a shrewd and sensible old man, who has been very many years on the place. There was nothing of special interest as concerning Byron until we entered the original old monkish garden, which is still laid out in the same fashion as the monks left it, with a large oblong piece of water in the center, and terraced banks rising at two or three different stages with perfect regularity around it; so that the sheet of water looks like the plate of an immense looking-glass, of which the terraces form the frame. It seems as if, were there any giant large enough, he might raise up this mirror and set it on end. In the monks' garden, there is a marble statue of Pan, which the gardener told us, was brought by the "Wicked Lord" (great-uncle of Byron) from Italy, and was supposed by the country people to represent the devil, and to be the object of his worship--a natural idea enough, in view of his horns and cloven feet and tail, tho this indicates at all events, a very jolly devil. There is also a female statue, beautiful from the waist upward, but shaggy and cloven-footed below, and holding a little cloven-footed child by the hand. This, the old gardener assured us was Pandora, wife of the above-mentioned Pan, with her son. Not far from this spot, we came to the tree on which Byron carved his own name and that of his sister Augusta. It is a tree of twin stems,--a birch-tree, I think--growing up side by side. One of the stems still lives and flourished, but that on which he carved the two names is quite dead, as if there had been something fatal in the inscription that has made it for ever famous. The names are still very legible, altho the letters had been closed up by the growth of the bark before the tree died. They must have been deeply cut at first. There are old yew-trees of unknown antiquity in this garden, and many other interesting things; and among them may be reckoned a fountain of very pure water, called the "Holly Well," of which we drank. There are several fountains, besides the large mirror in the center of the garden; and these are mostly inhabited by carp, the genuine descendants of those which peopled the fishponds in the days of the monks. Coming in front of the Abbey, the gardener showed us the oak that Byron planted, now a vigorous young tree; and the monument which he erected to his Newfoundland dog, and which is larger than most Christians get, being composed of a marble, altar-shaped tomb, surrounded by a circular area of steps, as much as twenty feet in diameter. The gardener said, however, that Byron intended this, not merely as the burial-place of his dog, but for himself, too, and his sister. HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH [Footnote: From "Gray Days and Gold." By permission of, and by arrangement with, the publishers, Moffat, Yard & Co. Copyright by William Winter, 1890-1911.] [Byron's Grave] BY WILLIAM WINTER It was near the close of a fragrant, golden summer day when, having driven from Nottingham, I alighted in the market-place of the little town of Hucknall-Torkard, on a pilgrimage to the grave of Byron. The town is modern and commonplace in appearance,--a straggling collection of low brick dwellings, mostly occupied by colliers. On that day it appeared at its worst; for the widest part of its main street was filled with stalls, benches, wagons, and canvas-covered structures for the display of vegetables and other commodities, which were thus offered for sale, and it was thronged with rough, noisy, dirty persons, intent on barter and traffic, and not indisposed to boisterous pranks and mirth, as they pushed and jostled each other among the crowded booths. This main street terminates at the wall of the graveyard in which stands the little gray church wherein Byron was buried. There is an iron gate in the center of the wall, and in order to reach this it was necessary to thread the mazes of the marketplace, and to push aside the canvas flaps of a pedler's stall which had been placed close against it. Next to the churchyard wall is a little cottage, with a bit of garden, devoted, at that time, to potatoes; and there, while waiting for the sexton, I talked with an aged man, who said that he remembered, as an eye-witness, the funeral of Byron. He stated his age and said that his name was William Callandyne. Pointing to the church, he indicated the place of the Byron vault. "I was the last man," he said, "that went down into it before he was buried there. I was a young fellow then, and curious to see what was going on. The place was full of skulls and bones. I wish you could see my son; he's a clever lad, only he ought to have more of the _suaviter in modo_." Thus, with the garrulity of wandering age, he prattled on, but his mind was clear and his memory tenacious and positive. There is a good prospect from the region of Hucknall-Torkard Church, and pointing into the distance, when his mind had been brought back to the subject of Byron, my aged interlocutor described, with minute specification of road and lane,--seeming to assume that the names and the turnings were familiar to me,--the course of the funeral train from Nottingham to the church. "There were eleven carriages," he said. "They didn't go to the Abbey" (meaning Newstead), "but came directly here. There were many people to look at them. I remember all about it, and I'm an old man--eighty-two. You're an Italian, I should say," he added. By this time the sexton had come and unlocked the gate, and parting from Mr. Callandyne we presently made our way into the Church of St. James, locking the churchyard gate to exclude rough and possibly mischievous followers. A strange and sad contrast, I thought, between this coarse, turbulent place, by a malign destiny ordained for the grave of Byron, and that peaceful, lovely, majestic church and precinct at Stratford-upon-Avon which enshrine the dust of Shakespeare.... The sexton of the Church of St. James and the parish clerk of Hucknall-Torkard was Mr. John Brown, and a man of sympathetic intelligence, kind heart, and interesting character I found him to be,--large, dark, stalwart, but gentle alike in manner and feeling, and considerate of his visitor. The pilgrim to the literary shrines of England does not always find the neighboring inhabitants either sympathetic with his reverence or conscious of especial sanctity or interest appertaining to the relics which they possess; but honest, manly John Brown of Hucknall-Torkard understood both the hallowing charm of the place and the sentiment, not to say the profound emotion, of the traveler who now beheld for the first time the tomb of Byron. The church has been considerably altered since Byron was buried in it, 1824, yet it retains its fundamental structure and its ancient peculiarities. The tower, a fine specimen of Norman architecture, dark, ragged, and grim, gives indication of great age. It is of a kind often met with in ancient English towns; you can see its brothers at York, Shrewsbury, Canterbury, Worcester, Warwick, and in many places sprinkled over the northern heights of London; but amid its tame surroundings in this little colliery settlement it looms with a peculiar frowning majesty, a certain bleak loneliness, both unique and impressive. The edifice is of the customary crucial form,--a low stone structure, having a peaked roof, which is supported by four great pillars on each side of the center aisle. The ceiling, which is made of heavy timbers, forms almost a true arch above the nave. There are four large windows on each side of the nave, and two on each side of the chancel, which is beneath a roof somewhat lower than that of the main building. Under the pavement of the chancel, and back of the altar rail,--at which it was my privilege to kneel while gazing upon this sacred spot,--is the grave of Byron.... Nothing is written on the stone that covers his sepulcher except the simple name of BYRON with the dates of his birth and death, in brass letters, surrounded by a wreath of leaves in brass, the gift of the King of Greece; and never did a name seem more stately or a place more hallowed. The dust of the poet reposes between that of his mother on his right hand, and that of his Ada,--"sole daughter of my house and heart,"--on his left. The mother died on August 1, 1811; the daughter, who had by marriage become the Countess of Lovelace, in 1852. "I buried her with my own hands," said the sexton, John Brown, when, after a little time, he rejoined me at the altar-rail. "I told them exactly where he was laid when they wanted to put that brass on the stone; I remembered it well, for I lowered the coffin of the Countess of Lovelace into this vault, and laid her by her father's side." And when presently we went into the vestry, he produced the Register of Burials and displayed the record of that interment in the following words: "1852. Died at 69 Cumberland Pl. London. Buried December 3. Aged thirty-six.--Curtis Jackson." The Byrons were a short-lived race. The poet himself had just turned thirty-six; his mother was only forty-six when she passed away. This name of Curtis Jackson in the register was that of the rector or curate then incumbent but now departed.... A book has been kept for many years, at the church of Hucknall-Torkard, in which visitors desiring to do so, can write their names. The first book provided for this purpose was an album given to the church by the poet, Sir John Bowling, and in that there was a record of visitations during the years from 1825 to 1834.... The catalog of pilgrims to the grave of Byron during the last eighty years is not a long one. The votaries of that poet are far less numerous than those of Shakespeare. Custom has made the visit to Stratford "a property of easiness," and Shakespeare is a safe no less than a rightful object of worship. The visit to Hucknall-Torkard is neither as easy nor as agreeable. Torkard is neither as easy nor as agreeable.... On the capital of a column near Byron's tomb I saw two moldering wreaths of laurel, which had hung there for several years; one brought by the Bishop of Norwich, the other by the American poet Joaquin Miller. It was good to see them, and especially to see them beside the tablet of white marble which was placed on that church wall to commemorate the poet, and to be her witness in death, by his loving and beloved sister Augusta Mary Leigh,--a name that is the synonym of noble fidelity, a name that cruel detraction and hideous calumny have done their worst to tarnish. That tablet names him "The Author of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," and if the conviction of thoughtful men and women throughout the world can be accepted as an authority, no name in the long annals of English literature is more certain of immortality than the name of Byron. His reputation can afford the absence of all memorial to him in Westminster Abbey,--can endure it, perhaps, better than the English nation can,--and it can endure the neglect and censure of the precinct of Nottingham. That city rejoices in many interesting associations, but all that really hallows it for the stranger is its association with the name of Byron. The stranger will look in vain, however, for any adequate sign of his former connection with that place. It is difficult even to find prints or photographs of the Byron shrine, in the shops of Nottingham. [Footnote: Since this paper was written the buildings that flanked the front wall of Hucknall-Torkard churchyard have been removed, the street in front of it has been widened, and the church has been "restored" and considerably altered.--Author's note to the Editor.] DR. JOHNSON'S BIRTHPLACE [Footnote: From "Our Old Home." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Seeking for Dr. Johnson's birthplace, I found it in St. Mary's Square (Lichfield), which is not so much a square as the mere widening of a street. The house is tall and thin, of three stories, with a square front and a roof rising steep and high. On a side-view, the building looks as if it had been cut in two in the midst, there being no slope of the roof on that side. A ladder slanted against the wall, and a painter was giving a livelier hue to the plaster. In a corner-room of the basement, where old Michael Johnson may be supposed to have sold books, is now what we should call a dry-goods store, or, according to the English phrase, a mercer's and haberdasher's shop. The house has a private entrance on a cross-street, the door being accessible by several much worn stone-steps, which are bordered by an iron balustrade. I set my foot on the steps and laid my hand on the balustrade, where Johnson's hand and foot must many a time have been, and ascending to the door, I knocked once, and again, and again, and got no admittance. Going round to the shop-entrance, I tried to open it, but found it as fast bolted as the gate of Paradise. It is mortifying to be so balked in one's little enthusiasms; but looking round in quest of somebody to make inquiries of, I was a good deal consoled by the sight of Dr. Johnson himself, who happened, just at that moment, to be sitting at his ease nearly in the middle of St. Mary's Square, with his face turned toward his father's house. Of course, it being almost fourscore years since the doctor laid aside his weary bulk of flesh, together with the ponderous melancholy that had so long weighed him down--the intelligent reader will at once comprehend that he was marble in his substance, and seated in a marble chair, on an elevated stone-pedestal. In short, it was a statue, sculptured by Lucas, and placed here in 1838, at the expense of Dr. Law, the reverend chancellor of the Diocese. The figure is colossal (tho perhaps not much more so than the mountainous doctor himself) and looks down upon the spectator from its pedestal of ten or twelve feet high, with a broad and heavy benignity of aspect, very like in feature to Sir Joshua Reynold's portrait of Johnson, but calmer and sweeter in expression. Several big books are piled up beneath his chair, and, if I mistake not, he holds a volume in his hand, thus blinking forth at the world out of his learned abstraction, owl-like, yet benevolent at heart. The statue is immensely massive, a vast ponderosity of stone, not finely spiritualized, nor indeed, fully humanized, but rather resembling a great stone-boulder than a man. You must look with the eyes of faith and sympathy, or possibly, you might lose the human being altogether, and find only a big stone within your mental grasp. On the pedestal are three bas-reliefs. In the first, Johnson is represented as hardly more than a baby, bestriding an old man's shoulders, resting his chin on the bald head which he embraces with his little arms, and listening earnestly to the high-church eloquence of Dr. Sacheverell. In the second tablet, he is seen riding to school on the shoulders of two of his comrades, while another boy supports him in the rear. The third bas-relief possesses, to my mind, a great deal of pathos, to which my appreciative faculty is probably the more alive, because I have always been profoundly imprest by the incident here commemorated, and long ago tried to tell it for the behoof of childish readers. It shows Johnson in the market-place of Uttoxeter, doing penance for an act of disobedience to his father, committed, fifty years before. He stands bare-headed, a venerable figure, and a countenance extremely sad and wo-begone, with the wind and rain driving hard against him, and thus helping to suggest to the spectator the gloom of his inward state. Some market-people and children gaze awe-stricken into his face, and an aged man and woman, with clapsed and uplifted hands, seem to be praying for him. These latter personages (whose introduction by the artist is none the less effective, because, in queer proximity, there are some commodities of market-day in the shape of living ducks and dead poultry,) I interpreted to represent the spirits of Johnson's father and mother, lending what aid they could to lighten his half-century's burden of remorse. I had never heard of the above-described piece of sculpture before; it appears to have no reputation as a work of art, nor am I at all positive that it deserves any. For me, however, it did as much as sculpture could under the circumstances, even if the artist of the Libyan Sibyl had wrought it, by reviving my interest in the sturdy old Englishman, and particularly by freshening my perception of a wonderful beauty and pathetic tenderness in the incident of the penance. The next day I left Lichfield for Uttoxeter, on one of the few purely sentimental pilgrimages that I ever undertook, to see the very spot where Johnson had stood. Boswell, I think, speaks of the town (its name is pronounced Yuteox'eter) as being about nine miles off from Lichfield, but the county-map would indicate a greater distance; and by rail, passing from one line to another, it is as much as eighteen miles. I have always had an idea of old Michael Johnson sending his literay merchandise by carrier's wagon, journeying to Uttoxeter afoot on market-day morning, selling "books" through the busy hours, and returning to Lichfield at night. This could not possibly have been the case. Arriving at the Uttoxeter station, the first objects that I saw, with a green field or two between them and me, were the tower and gray steeple of a church, rising among red-tiled roofs and a few scattered trees. A very short walk takes you from the station up into the town. It had been my previous impression that the market-place of Uttoxeter lay immediately round about the church; and, if I remember the narrative aright, Johnson, or Boswell in his behalf, describes his father's book-stall as standing in the market-place close beside the sacred edifice. It is impossible for me to say what changes may have occurred in the topography of the town, during almost a century and a half since Michael Johnson retired from business, and ninety years, at least, since his son's penance was performed. But the church has now merely a street of ordinary width passing around it, while the market-place, tho near at hand, neither forms a part of it nor is really contiguous, nor would its throng and bustle be apt to overflow their boundaries and surge against the churchyard and the old gray tower. Nevertheless, a walk of a minute or two brings a person from the center of the market-place to the church-door; and Michael Johnson might very conveniently have located his stall and laid out his literary ware in the corner at the tower's base; better there, indeed, than in the busy center of an agricultural market. But the picturesque arrangement and full impressiveness of the story absolutely require that Johnson shall not have done his penance in a corner, ever so little retired, but shall have been the very nucleus of the crowd--the midmost man of the market-place--a central image of Memory and Remorse, contrasting with and overpowering the petty materialism around him. He himself, having the force to throw vitality and truth into what persons differently constituted might reckon a mere external ceremony, and an absurd one, would not have failed to see this necessity. I am resolved, therefore, that the true site of Dr. Johnson's penance was in the middle of the market-place. How strange and stupid it is that tradition should not have marked and kept in mind the very place! How shameful (nothing less than that) that there should be no local memorial of this incident, as beautiful and touching a passage as can be cited out of any human life! No inscription of it, almost as sacred as a verse of Scripture on the wall of the church! No statue of the venerable and illustrious penitent in the market-place to throw a wholesome awe over its earthliness, its frauds and petty wrongs of which the benumbed fingers of conscience can make no record, its selfish competition of each man with his brother or his neighbor, its traffic of soul-substance for a little worldly gain! Such a statue, if the piety of the people did not raise it, might almost have been expected to grow up out of the pavement of its own accord on the spot that had been watered by the rain that dript from Johnson's garments, mingled with his remorseful tears. 
28108	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES 1. Quotes, parentheses and other punctuation are sometimes missing or missplaced in the original. These have been made consistent with modern convention. 2. Apostrophes, where missing in the original, have been added. 3. Footnotes have been numbered sequentially and moved to the end the book. 4. Misspelled words have been corrected and such changes noted at the end of the book. THE PENNYLES PILGRIMAGE, OR The Money-lesse perambulation, of JOHN TAYLOR, _Alias_ the Kings Majesties _Water-Poet_. HOW HE TRAVAILED ON FOOT from _London_ to _Edenborough_ in _Scotland_, not carrying any Money to or fro, neither Begging, Borrowing, or Asking Meate, drinke or Lodging. _With his Description of his Entertainment_ in all places of his Journey, and a true Report of the unmatchable Hunting in the _Brea_ of _Marre_ and _Badenoch_ in _Scotland_. With other Observations, some serious and worthy of Memory, and some merry and not hurtfull to be Remembred. _Lastly that (which is Rare in a Travailer) all is true._ LONDON Printed by _Edw: Allde_, at the charges of the Author. 1618 TO THE TRULY NOBLE AND RIGHT HONORABLE LORD GEORGE MARQUIS of Buckingham, Viscount Villiers, Baron of Whaddon, Justice in Eyre of all his Majesty's Forests, Parks, and Chases beyond Trent, Master of the Horse to his Majesty, and one of the Gentlemen of his Highness Royal Bed-Chamber, Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter, and one of his Majesty's most Honorable Privy Council of both the Kingdoms of England and Scotland. Right Honorable, and worthy honoured Lord, as in my Travels, I was entertained, welcomed, and relieved by many Honourable Lords, Worshipful Knights, Esquires, Gentlemen, and others both in England and Scotland. So now your Lordship's inclination hath incited, or invited my poor muse to shelter herself under the shadow of your honorable patronage, not that there is any worth at all in my sterile invention, but in all humility I acknowledge that it is only your Lordship's acceptance, that is able to make this nothing, something, and withal engage me ever. Your Honors, In all observance, JOHN TAYLOR. [Decorative thought break] TO ALL MY LOVING ADVENTURERS, BY WHAT NAME OR TITLE SOEVER, MY GENERAL SALUTATION. _Reader, these Travels of mine into_ Scotland, _were not undertaken, neither in imitation, or emulation of any man, but only devised by myself, on purpose to make trial of my friends both in this Kingdom of_ England, _and that of_ Scotland, _and because I would be an eye-witness of divers things which I had heard of that Country; and whereas many shallow-brained Critics, do lay an aspersion on me, that I was set on by others, or that I did undergo this project, either in malice, or mockage of Master_ Benjamin Jonson, _I vow by the faith of a Christian, that their imaginations are all wide, for he is a gentleman, to whom I am so much obliged for many undeserved courtesies that I have received from him, and from others by his favour, that I durst never to be so impudent or ungrateful, as either to suffer any man's persuasions, or mine own instigation, to incite me, to make so bad a requital, for so much goodness formerly received; so much for that, and now Reader, if you expect_ That I should write of cities' situations, Or that of countries I should make relations: Of brooks, crooks, nooks; of rivers, bournes and rills, Of mountains, fountains, castles, towers and hills, Of shires, and piers, and memorable things, Of lives and deaths of great commanding kings, I touch not those, they not belong to me; But if such things as these you long to see, Lay down my book, and but vouchsafe to read The learned _Camden_, or laborious _Speed_. _And so God speed you and me, whilst I rest Yours in all thankfulness:_ JOHN TAYLOR. [Decorative thought break] TAYLOR'S PENNILESS PILGRIMAGE. List Lordlings, list (if you have lust to list) I write not here a tale of had I wist: But you shall hear of travels, and relations, Descriptions of strange (yet English) fashions. And he that not believes what here is writ, Let him (as I have done) make proof of it. The year of grace, accounted (as I ween) One thousand twice three hundred and eighteen, And to relate all things in order duly, 'Twas Tuesday last, the fourteenth day of July, Saint _Revels_ day, the almanack will tell ye The sign in _Virgo_ was, or near the belly: The moon full three days old, the wind full south; At these times I began this trick of youth. I speak not of the tide, for understand, My legs I made my oars, and rowed by land, Though in the morning I began to go Good fellows trooping, flocked me so, That make what haste I could, the sun was set, E're from the gates of _London_ I could get. At last I took my latest leave thus late, At the Bell Inn, that's _extra Aldersgate_. There stood a horse that my provant[1] should carry, From that place to the end of my fegary,[2] My horse no horse, or mare, but gelded nag, That with good understanding bore my bag: And of good carriage he himself did show, These things are excellent in a beast you know. There in my knapsack, (to pay hunger's fees) I had good bacon, biscuit, neat's-tongue, cheese With roses, barberries, of each conserves, And mithridate, that vigorous health perserves: And I entreat you take these words for no-lies, I had good _Aqua vitæ, Rosa_ so-lies: With sweet _Ambrosia_, (the gods' own drink) Most excellent gear for mortals, as I think, Besides, I had both vinegar and oil, That could a daring saucy stomach foil. This foresaid Tuesday night 'twixt eight and nine, Well rigged and ballasted, both with beer and wine, I stumbling forward, thus my jaunt begun, And went that night as far as _Islington_. There did I find (I dare affirm it bold) A Maidenhead of twenty-five years old, But surely it was painted, like a whore, And for a sign, or wonder, hanged at door, Which shows a Maidenhead, that's kept so long, May be hanged up, and yet sustain no wrong. There did my loving friendly host begin To entertain me freely to his inn: And there my friends, and good associates, Each one to mirth himself accommodates. _At Well-head_ both for welcome, and for cheer, Having a good _New ton_, of good stale beer: There did we _Trundle_[3] down health, after health, (Which oftentimes impairs both health and wealth.) Till everyone had filled his mortal trunk, And only _No-body_[3] was three parts drunk. The morrow next, Wednesday Saint _Swithin's_ day, From ancient _Islington_ I took my way. At _Holywell_ I was enforced carouse, Ale high, and mighty, at the Blindman's House. But there's a help to make amends for all, That though the ale be great, the pots be small. At _Highgate_ Hill to a strange house I went, And saw the people were to eating bent, In either borrowed, craved, asked, begged, or bought, But most laborious with my teeth I wrought. I did not this, 'cause meat or drink was scant, But I did practise thus before my want; Like to a Tilter that would win the prize, Before the day he'll often exercise. So I began to put in use, at first These principles 'gainst hunger, 'gainst thirst. Close to the Gate,[4] there dwelt a worthy man, That well could take his whiff, and quaff his can, Right Robin Good-fellow, but humours evil, Do call him _Robin Pluto_, or the devil. But finding him a devil, freely hearted, With friendly farewells I took leave and parted, And as alongst I did my journey take, I drank at _Broom's well_, for pure fashion's sake, Two miles I travelled then without a bait, The Saracen's Head at _Whetstone_ entering straight, I found an host, that might lead an host of men, Exceeding fat, yet named _Lean_, and _Fen_.[5] And though we make small reckoning of him here, He's known to be a very great man there. There I took leave of all my company, Bade all farewell, yet spake to _No-body_. Good reader think not strange, what I compile, For _No-body_ was with me all this while. And _No-body_ did drink, and, wink, and scink, And on occasion freely spent his chink. If anyone desire to know the man, Walk, stumble, _Trundle_, but in _Barbican_. There's as good beer and ale as ever twang'd, And in that street kind _No-body_[6] is hanged. But leaving him unto his matchless fame, I to St. _Albans_ in the evening came, Where Master _Taylor_, at the Saracen's Head, Unasked (unpaid for) me both lodged and fed. The tapsters, hostlers, chamberlains, and all, Saved me a labour, that I need not call, The jugs were filled and filled, the cups went round, And in a word great kindness there I found, For which both to my cousin, and his men, I'll still be thankful in word, deed, and pen. Till Thursday morning there I made my stay, And then I went plain _Dunstable_ highway. My very heart with drought methought did shrink, I went twelve miles, and no one bade me drink. Which made me call to mind, that instant time, That drunkenness was a most sinful crime. When _Puddle-hill_ I footed down, and past A mile from thence, I found a hedge at last. There stroke we sail, our bacon, cheese, and bread, We drew like fiddlers, and like farmers fed. And whilst two hours we there did take our ease, My nag made shift to mump green pulse[7] and peas. Thus we our hungry stomachs did supply, And drank the water of a brook hard by. Away toward _Hockley_ in the Hole, we make, When straight a horseman did me overtake, Who knew me, and would fain have given me coin, I said, my bonds did me from coin enjoin, I thanked and prayed him to put up his chink, And willingly I wished it drowned in drink. Away rode he, but like an honest man, I found at _Hockley_ standing at the Swan, A formal tapster, with a jug and glass, Who did arrest me: I most willing was To try the action, and straight put in bail, My fees were paid before, with sixpence ale, To quit this kindness, I most willing am, The man that paid for all, his name is _Dam_, At the Green Dragon, against _Grays-Inn_ gate, He lives in good repute, and honest state. I forward went in this my roving race, To _Stony Stratford_ I toward night did pace, My mind was fixed through the town to pass, To find some lodging in the hay or grass, But at the _Queen's Arms_, from the window there, A comfortable voice I chanced to hear, Call _Taylor, Taylor_, and be hanged come hither, I looked for small entreaty and went thither, There were some friends, which I was glad to see, Who knew my journey; lodged, and boarded me. On Friday morn, as I would take my way, My friendly host entreated me to stay, Because it rained, he told me I should have Meat, drink, and horse-meat and not pay or crave. I thanked him, and for his love remain his debtor, But if I live, I will requite him better. (From _Stony Stratford_) the way hard with stones, Did founder me, and vex me to the bones. In blustering weather, both for wind and rain, Through _Towcester_ I trotted with much pain, Two miles from thence, we sat us down and dined, Well bulwarked by a hedge, from rain and wind. We having fed, away incontinent, With weary pace toward _Daventry_ we went. Four miles short of it, one o'ertook me there, And told me he would leave a jug of beer, At _Daventry_ at the Horse-shoe for my use. I thought it no good manners to refuse, But thanked him, for his kind unasked gift, Whilst I was lame as scarce a leg could lift, Came limping after to that stony town, Whose hard streets made me almost halt right down. There had my friend performed the words he said, And at the door a jug of liquor staid, The folks were all informed, before I came, How, and wherefore my journey I did frame, Which caused mine hostess from her door come out, (Having a great wart rampant on her snout.) The tapsters, hostlers, one another call, The chamberlains with admiration all, Were filled with wonder, more than wonderful, As if some monster sent from the _Mogul_, Some elephant from _Africa_, I had been, Or some strange beast from the _Amazonian_ Queen. As buzzards, widgeons, woodcocks, and such fowl, Do gaze and wonder at the broad-faced owl, So did these brainless asses, all amazed, With admirable _Nonsense_ talked and gazed, They knew my state (although not told by me) That I could scarcely go, they all could see, They drank of my beer, that to me was given, But gave me not a drop to make all even, And that which in my mind was most amiss, My hostess she stood by and saw all this, Had she but said, come near the house my friend, For this day here shall be your journey's end. Then had she done the thing which [she] did not, And I in kinder words had paid the shot. I do entreat my friends, (as I have some) If they to _Daventry_ do chance to come, That they will baulk that inn; or if by chance, Or accident into that house they glance, Kind gentlemen, as they by you reap profit, My hostess care of me, pray tell her of it,[8] Yet do not neither; lodge there when you will, You for your money shall be welcome still. From thence that night, although my bones were sore, I made a shift to hobble seven miles more: The way to _Dunchurch_, foul with dirt and mire, Able, I think, both man and horse to tire. On _Dunsmoor_ Heath, a hedge doth there enclose Grounds, on the right hand, there I did repose. Wit's whetstone, Want, there made us quickly learn, With knives to cut down rushes, and green fern, Of which we made a field-bed in the field, Which sleep, and rest, and much content did yield. There with my mother earth, I thought it fit To lodge, and yet no incest did commit: My bed was curtained with good wholesome airs, And being weary, I went up no stairs: The sky my canopy, bright _Phoebe_ shined Sweet bawling _Zephyrus_ breathed gentle wind, In heaven's star-chamber I did lodge that night, Ten thousand stars, me to my bed did light; There barricadoed with a bank lay we Below the lofty branches of a tree, There my bed-fellows and companions were, My man, my horse, a bull, four cows, two steer: But yet for all this most confused rout, We had no bed-staves, yet we fell not out. Thus nature, like an ancient free upholster, Did furnish us with bedstead, bed, and bolster; And the kind skies, (for which high heaven be thanked,) Allowed us a large covering and a blanket; _Auroras_ face 'gan light our lodging dark, We arose and mounted, with the mounting lark, Through plashes, puddles, thick, thin, wet and dry, I travelled to the city _Coventry_. There Master Doctor _Holland_[9] caused me stay The day of _Saturn_ and the Sabbath day. Most friendly welcome, he me did afford, I was so entertained at bed and board, Which as I dare not brag how much it was, I dare not be ingrate and let it pass, But with thanks many I remember it, (Instead of his good deeds) in words and writ, He used me like his son, more than a friend, And he on Monday his commends did send To _Newhall_, where a gentleman did dwell, Who by his name is hight _Sacheverell_. The Tuesday _July's_ one and twentieth day, I to the city _Lichfield_ took my way, At _Sutton Coldfield_ with some friends I met, And much ado I had from thence to get, There I was almost put unto my trumps, My horse's shoes were worn as thin as pumps; But noble _Vulcan_, a mad smuggy smith, All reparations me did furnish with. The shoes were well removed, my palfrey shod, And he referred the payment unto God. I found a friend, when I to _Lichfield_ came, A joiner, and _John Piddock_ is his name. He made me welcome, for he knew my jaunt, And he did furnish me with good provant: He offered me some money, I refused it, And so I took my leave, with thanks excused it, That Wednesday, I a weary way did pass, Rain, wind, stones, dirt, and dabbling dewy grass, With here and there a pelting scattered village, Which yielded me no charity, or pillage: For all the day, nor yet the night that followed. One drop of drink I'm sure my gullet swallowed. At night I came to a stony town called _Stone_. Where I knew none, nor was I known of none: I therefore through the streets held on my pace, Some two miles farther to some resting place: At last I spied a meadow newly mowed, The hay was rotten, the ground half o'erflowed: We made a breach, and entered horse and man, There our pavilion, we to pitch began, Which we erected with green broom and hay, To expel the cold, and keep the rain away; The sky all muffled in a cloud 'gan lower, And presently there fell a mighty shower, Which without intermission down did pour, From ten a night, until the morning's four. We all that time close in our couch did lie, Which being well compacted kept us dry. The worst was, we did neither sup nor sleep, And so a temperate diet we did keep. The morning all enrobed in drifting fogs, We being as ready as we had been dogs: We need not stand upon long ready making, But gaping, stretching, and our ears well shaking: And for I found my host and hostess kind, I like a true man left my sheets behind. That Thursday morn, my weary course I framed, Unto a town that is _Newcastle_ named. (Not that _Newcastle_ standing upon _Tyne_) But this town situation doth confine Near _Cheshire_, in the famous county _Stafford_, And for their love, I owe them not a straw for't; But now my versing muse craves some repose, And whilst she sleeps I'll spout a little prose. In this town of _Newcastle_, I overtook an hostler, and I asked him what the next town was called, that was in my way toward _Lancaster_, he holding the end of a riding rod in his mouth, as if it had been a flute, piped me this answer, and said, _Talk-on-the-Hill_; I asked him again what he said _Talk-on-the-Hill_: I demanded the third time, and the third time he answered me as he did before, _Talk-on-the-Hill_. I began to grow choleric, and asked him why he could not talk, or tell me my way as well there as on the hill; at last I was resolved, that the next town was four miles off me, and that the name of it was, _Talk-on-the-Hill_: I had not travelled above two miles farther: but my last night's supper (which was as much as nothing) my mind being informed of it by my stomach. I made a virtue of necessity, and went to breakfast in the Sun: I have fared better at three Suns many times before now, in _Aldersgate Street_, _Cripplegate_, and new _Fish Street_; but here is the odds, at those Suns they will come upon a man with a tavern bill as sharp cutting as a tailor's bill of items: a watchman's-bill, or a welsh-hook falls not half so heavy upon a man; besides, most of the vintners have the law in their own hands, and have all their actions, cases, bills of debt, and such reckonings tried at their own bars; from whence there is no appeal. But leaving these impertinences, in the material Sunshine, we eat a substantial dinner, and like miserable guests we did budget up the reversions. And now with sleep my muse hath eased her brain I'll turn my style from prose, to verse again. That which we could not have, we freely spared, And wanting drink, most soberly we fared. We had great store of fowl (but 'twas foul way) And kindly every step entreats me stay, The clammy clay sometimes my heels would trip, One foot went forward, the other back would slip, This weary day, when I had almost past, I came unto Sir _Urian Leigh's_ at last, At _Adlington_, near _Macclesfield_ he doth dwell, Beloved, respected, and reputed well. Through his great love, my stay with him was fixed, From Thursday night, till noon on Monday next, At his own table I did daily eat, Whereat may be supposed, did want no meat, He would have given me gold or silver either, But I, with many thanks, received neither, And thus much without flattery I dare swear, He is a knight beloved far and near, First he's beloved of his God above, (Which love he loves to keep, beyond all love) Next with a wife and children he is blest, Each having God's fear planted in their breast. With fair demaines, revenue of good lands, He's fairly blessed by the Almighty's hands, And as he's happy in these outward things, So from his inward mind continual springs Fruits of devotion, deeds of piety, Good hospitable works of charity, Just in his actions, constant in his word, And one that won his honour with the sword, He's no carranto, cap'ring, carpet knight, But he knows when, and how to speak or fight, I cannot flatter him, say what I can, He's every way a complete gentleman. I write not this, for what he did to me, But what mine ears, and eyes did hear and see, Nor do I pen this to enlarge his fame But to make others imitate the same, For like a trumpet were I pleased to blow, I would his worthy worth more amply show, But I already fear have been too bold, And crave his pardon, me excused to hold. Thanks to his sons and servants every one, Both males and females all, excepting none. To bear a letter he did me require, Near _Manchester_, unto a good Esquire: His kinsman _Edmund Prestwitch_, he ordained, That I was at _Manchester_ entertained Two nights, and one day, ere we thence could pass, For men and horse, roast, boiled, and oats, and grass; This gentleman not only gave harbour, But in the morning sent me to his barber, Who laved, and shaved me, still I spared my purse, Yet sure he left me many a hair the worse. But in conclusion, when his work was ended, His glass informed, my face was much amended. And for the kindness he to me did show, God grant his customers beards faster grow, That though the time of year be dear or cheap, From fruitful faces he may mow and reap. Then came a smith, with shoes, and tooth and nail, He searched my horse's hoofs, mending what did fail, Yet this I note, my nag, through stones and dirt, Did shift shoes twice, ere I did shift one shirt: Can these kind things be in oblivion hid? No, Master _Prestwitch_, this and much more did, His friendship did command and freely gave All before writ, and more than I durst crave. But leaving him a little, I must tell, How men of _Manchester_ did use me well, Their loves they on the tenter-hooks did rack, Roast, boiled, baked, too--too--much, white, claret, sack, Nothing they thought too heavy or too hot, Can followed can, and pot succeeded pot, That what they could do, all they thought too little, Striving in love the traveller to whittle. We went into the house of one _John Pinners_, (A man that lives amongst a crew of sinners) And there eight several sorts of ale we had, All able to make one stark drunk or mad. But I with courage bravely flinched not, And gave the town leave to discharge the shot. We had at one time set upon the table, Good ale of hyssop, 'twas no Æsop-fable: Then had we ale of sage, and ale of malt, And ale of wormwood, that could make one halt, With ale of rosemary, and betony, And two ales more, or else I needs must lie. But to conclude this drinking aley-tale, We had a sort of ale, called scurvy ale. Thus all these men, at their own charge and cost, Did strive whose love should be expressed most, And farther to declare their boundless loves, They saw I wanted, and they gave me gloves, In deed, and very deed, their loves were such, That in their praise I cannot write too much; They merit more than I have here compiled, I lodged at the Eagle and the Child, Whereas my hostess, (a good ancient woman) Did entertain me with respect, not common. She caused my linen, shirts, and bands be washed, And on my way she caused me be refreshed, She gave me twelve silk points, she gave me bacon, Which by me much refused, at last was taken, In troth she proved a mother unto me, For which, I evermore will thankful be. But when to mind these kindnesses I call, Kind Master _Prestwitch_ author is of all, And yet Sir _Urian Leigh's_ good commendation, Was the main ground of this my recreation. From both of them, there what I had, I had, Or else my entertainment had been bad. O all you worthy men of _Manchester_, (True bred bloods of the County _Lancaster_) When I forget what you to me have done, Then let me headlong to confusion run. To noble Master _Prestwitch_ I must give Thanks, upon thanks, as long as I do live, His love was such, I ne'er can pay the score, He far surpassed all that went before, A horse and man he sent, with boundless bounty, To bring me quite through _Lancaster's_ large county, Which I well know is fifty miles at large, And he defrayed all the cost and charge. This unlooked pleasure, was to me such pleasure, That I can ne'er express my thanks with measure. So Mistress _Saracoal_, hostess kind, And _Manchester_ with thanks I left behind. The Wednesday being _July's_ twenty nine, My journey I to _Preston_ did confine, All the day long it rained but one shower, Which from the morning to the evening did pour, And I, before to _Preston_ I could get, Was soused, and pickled both with rain and sweat, But there I was supplied with fire and food, And anything I wanted sweet and good. There, at the Hind, kind Master _Hind_ mine host, Kept a good table, baked and boiled, and roast, There Wednesday, Thursday, Friday I did stay, And hardly got from thence on Saturday. Unto my lodging often did repair, Kind Master _Thomas Banister_, the Mayor, Who is of worship, and of good respect, And in his charge discreet and circumspect. For I protest to God I never saw, A town more wisely governed by the law. They told me when my Sovereign there was last, That one man's rashness seemed to give distaste. It grieved them all, but when at last they found, His Majesty was pleased, their joys were crowned. He knew, the fairest garden hath some weeds, He did accept their kind intents, for deeds: One man there was, that with his zeal too hot, And furious haste, himself much overshot. But what man is so foolish, that desires To get good fruit from thistles, thorns and briars? Thus much I thought good to demonstrate here, Because I saw how much they grieved were; That any way, the least part of offence, Should make them seem offensive to their Prince. Thus three nights was I staid and lodged in _Preston_, And saw nothing ridiculous to jest on, Much cost and charge the Mayor upon me spent, And on my way two miles, with me he went, There (by good chance) I did more friendship get, The under Sheriff of _Lancashire_ we met, A gentleman that loved, and knew me well, And one whose bounteous mind doth bear the bell. There, as if I had been a noted thief, The Mayor delivered me unto the Sheriff. The Sheriff's authority did much prevail, He sent me unto one that kept the jail. Thus I perambuling, poor _John Taylor_, Was given from Mayor to Sheriff, from Sheriff to Jailor. The Jailor kept an inn, good beds, good cheer, Where paying nothing, I found nothing dear, For the under-Sheriff kind Master _Covill_ named, (A man for house-keeping renowed and famed) Did cause the town of _Lancashire_ afford Me welcome, as if I had been a lord. And 'tis reported, that for daily bounty, His mate can scarce be found in all that county. The extremes of miser, or of prodigal, He shuns, and lives discreet and liberal, His wife's mind, and his own are one, so fixed, That _Argus_ eyes could see no odds betwixt, And sure the difference, (if there difference be) Is who shall do most good, or he, or she. Poor folks report, that for relieving them, He and his wife, are each of them a gem; At the inn, and at his house two nights I staid, And what was to be paid, I know he paid: If nothing of their kindness I had wrote, Ungrateful me the world might justly note: Had I declared all I did hear, and see, For a great flatterer then I deemed should be, Him and his wife, and modest daughter _Bess_, With earth, and heaven's felicity, God bless. Two days a man of his, at his command, Did guide me to the midst of _Westmoreland_, And my conductor with a liberal fist, To keep me moist, scarce any alehouse missed. The fourth of August (weary, halt, and lame) We in the dark, to a town called _Sedbergh_ came, There Master _Borrowed_, my kind honest host, Upon me did bestowed unasked cost. The next day I held on my journey still, Six miles unto a place called _Carling_ hill, Where Master _Edmund Branthwaite_[10] doth reside, Who made me welcome, with my man and guide. Our entertainment, and our fare were such, It might have satisfied our betters much; Yet all too little was, his kind heart thought, And five miles on my way himself me brought, At _Orton_ he, I, and my man did dine, With Master _Corney_ a good true Divine, And surely Master _Branthwaite_'s well beloved, His firm integrity is much approved: His good effects, do make him still affected Of God and good men, (with regard) respected. He sent his man with me, o'er dale and down, Who lodged, and boarded me at _Penrith_ town, And such good cheer, and bedding there I had, That nothing, (but my weary self) was bad; There a fresh man, (I know not for whose sake) With me a journey would to _Carlisle_ make: But from that city, about two miles wide, Good Sir _John Dalston_ lodged me and my guide. Of all the gentlemen in _England's_ bounds His house is nearest to the Scottish grounds, And fame proclaims him, far and near, aloud, He's free from being covetous, or proud; His son, Sir _George_, most affable, and kind, His father's image, both in form and mind, On Saturday to _Carlisle_ both did ride, Where (by their loves and leaves) I did abide, Where of good entertainment I found store, From one that was the mayor the year before, His name is Master _Adam Robinson_, I the last English friendship with him won. He (_gratis_) found a guide to bring me through, [Sidenote: _My thanks to Sir John and Sir Geo. Dalston, with Sir Henry Curwin._] From _Carlisle_ to the city _Edinburgh_: This was a help, that was a help alone, Of all my helps inferior unto none. Eight miles from _Carlisle_ runs a little river, Which _England's_ bounds, from _Scotland's_ grounds doth sever. Without horse, bridge, or boat, I o'er did get [Sidenote: _Over Esk I waded._] On foot, I went, yet scarce my shoes did wet. I being come to this long-looked-for land, Did mark, remark, note, renote, viewed, and scanned; And I saw nothing that could change my will, But that I thought myself in _England_ still. The kingdoms are so nearly joined and fixed, There scarcely went a pair of shears betwixt; There I saw sky above, and earth below, And as in _England_, there the sun did show; The hills with sheep replete, with corn the dale, [Sidenote: _The afore-named knights had given money to my guide, of which he left some part at every ale-house._] And many a cottage yielded good Scottish ale; This county (_Avondale_) in former times, Was the cursed climate of rebellious crimes: For _Cumberland_ and it, both kingdoms borders, Were ever ordered, by their own disorders, Some sharking, shifting, cutting throats, and thieving, Each taking pleasure in the other's grieving; And many times he that had wealth to-night, Was by the morrow morning beggared quite: Too many years this pell-mell fury lasted, That all these borders were quite spoiled and wasted, Confusion, hurly-burly reigned and revelled, The churches with the lowly ground were levelled; All memorable monuments defaced, All places of defence o'erthrown and razed. That whoso then did in the borders dwell, Lived little happier than those in hell. But since the all-disposing God of heaven, Hath these two kingdoms to one monarch given, Blest peace, and plenty on them both have showered, Exile, and hanging hath the thieves devoured, That now each subject may securely sleep, His sheep and neat, the black the white doth keep, For now those crowns are both in one combined, Those former borders, that each one confine, Appears to me (as I do understand) To be almost the centre of the land, This was a blessed heaven expounded riddle, To thrust great kingdoms skirts into the middle. Long may the instrumental cause survive. From him and his, succession still derive True heirs unto his virtues, and his throne, That these two kingdoms ever may be one; This county of all _Scotland_ is most poor, By reason of the outrages before, Yet mighty store of corn I saw there grow, And as good grass as ever man did mow: And as that day I twenty miles did pass, I saw eleven hundred neat at grass, By which may be conjectured at the least, That there was sustenance for man and beast. And in the kingdom I have truly scanned, There's many worser parts, are better manned, For in the time that thieving was in ure, The gentles fled to places more secure. And left the poorer sort, to abide the pain, Whilst they could ne'er find time to turn again. The shire of gentlemen is scarce and dainty, Yet there's relief in great abundance plenty, Twixt it and England, little odds I see, They eat, and live, and strong and able be, So much in verse, and now I'll change my style, And seriously I'll write in prose awhile. To the purpose then: my first night's lodging in _Scotland_ was at a place called _Moffat_, which they say, is thirty miles from _Carlisle_, but I suppose them to be longer than forty of such miles as are betwixt _London_ and Saint _Albans_, (but indeed the Scots do allow almost as large measure of their miles, as they do of their drink, for an English gallon either of ale or wine, is but their quart, and one Scottish mile (now and then, may well stand for a mile and a half or two English) but howsoever short or long, I found that day's journey the weariest that ever I footed; and at night, being come to the town, I found good ordinary country entertainment: my fare and my lodging was sweet and good, and might have served a far better man than myself, although myself have had many times better: but this is to be noted, that though it rained not all the day, yet it was my fortune to be well wet twice, for I waded over a great river called _Esk_ in the morning, somewhat more than four miles distance from _Carlisle_ in _England_, and at night within two miles of my lodging, I was fain to wade over the river of _Annan_ in _Scotland_, from which river the county of _Annandale_, hath its name. And whilst I waded on foot, my man was mounted on horseback, like the _George_ without the Dragon. But the next morning, I arose and left _Moffat_ behind me, and that day I travelled twenty-one miles to a sorry village called _Blythe_, but I was blithe myself to come to any place of harbour or succour, for since I was born, I never was so weary, or so near being dead with extreme travel: I was foundered and refoundered of all four, and for my better comfort, I came so late, that I must lodge without doors all night, or else in a poor house where the good wife lay in child-bed, her husband being from home, her own servant maid being her nurse. A creature naturally compacted, and artificially adorned with an incomparable homeliness: but as things were I must either take or leave, and necessity made me enter, where we got eggs and ale by measure and by tail. At last to bed I went, my man lying on the floor by me, where in the night there were pigeons did very bountifully mute in his face: the day being no sooner come, and having but fifteen miles to _Edinburgh_, mounted upon my ten toes, and began first to hobble, and after to amble, and so being warm, I fell to pace by degrees; all the way passing through a fertile country for corn and cattle: and about two of the clock in the afternoon that Wednesday, being the thirteenth of August, and the day of _Clare_ the Virgin (the sign being in _Virgo_) the moon four days old, the wind at west, I came to take rest, at the wished, long expected, ancient famous city of _Edinburgh_, which I entered like Pierce Penniless,oeee11] altogether moneyless, but I thank God, not friendless; for being there, for the time of my stay, I might borrow, (if any man would lend) spend if I could get, beg if I had the impudence, and steal, if I durst adventure the price of a hanging, but my purpose was to house my horse, and to suffer him and my apparel to lie in durance, or lavender instead of litter, till such time as I could meet with some valiant friend, that would desperately disburse. Walking thus down the street, (my body being tired with travel, and my mind attired with moody, muddy, Moor-ditch melancholy) my contemplation did devotely pray, that I might meet one or other to prey upon, being willing to take any slender acquaintance of any map whatsoever, viewing, and circumviewing every man's face I met, as if I meant to draw his picture, but all my acquaintance was _Non est inventus_, (pardon me, reader, that Latin is none of my own, I swear by _Priscian's Pericranium_, an oath which I have ignorantly broken many times.) At last I resolved, that the next gentleman that I meet withal, should be acquaintance whether he would or no: and presently fixing mine eyes upon a gentleman-like object, I looked on him, as if I would survey something through him, and make him my perspective: and he much musing at my gazing, and I much gazing at his musing, at last he crossed the way and made toward me, and then I made down the street from him, leaving to encounter with any man, who came after me leading my horse, whom he thus accosted. My friend (quoth he) doth yonder gentleman, (meaning me) know me, that he looks so wistly on me? Truly sir, said my man, I think not, but my master is a stranger come from _London_, and would gladly meet some acquaintance to direct him where he may have lodging and horse-meat. Presently the gentleman, (being of a generous disposition) overtook me with unexpected and undeserved courtesy, brought me to a lodging, and caused my horse to be put into his own stable, whilst we discoursing over a pint of Spanish, I relate as much English to him, as made him lend me ten shillings, (his name was Master _John Maxwell_) which money I am sure was the first that I handled after I came from out the walls of _London_: but having rested two hours and refreshed myself, the gentleman and I walked to see the City and the Castle, which as my poor unable and unworthy pen can, I will truly describe. The Castle on a lofty rock is so strongly grounded, bounded, and founded, that by force of man it can never be confounded; the foundation and walls are unpenetrable, the rampiers impregnable, the bulwarks invincible, no way but one it is or can be possible to be made passable. In a word, I have seen many straits and fortresses, in _Germany_, the _Netherlands_, _Spain_ and _England_, but they must all give place to this unconquered Castle, both for strength and situation. Amongst the many memorable things which I was shewed there, I noted especially a great piece of ordnance of iron, it is not for battery, but it will serve to defend a breach, or to toss balls of wild-fire against any that should assail or assault the Castle; it lies now dismounted.[12] And it is so great within, that it was told me that a child was once gotten there: but I, to make trial crept into it, lying on my back, and I am sure there was room enough and spare for a greater than myself. So leaving the Castle, as it is both defensive against my opposition, and magnific for lodging and receite,[13] I descended lower to the City, wherein I observed the fairest and goodliest street that ever mine eyes beheld, for I did never see or hear of a street of that length, (which is half an English mile from the Castle to a fair port which they call the _Nether-Bow_) and from that port, the street which they call the _Kenny-gate_ is one quarter of a mile more, down to the King's Palace, called _Holy-rood-House_, the buildings on each side of the way being all of squared stone, five, six, and seven stories high, and many bye-lanes and closes on each side of the way, wherein are gentlemen's houses, much fairer than the buildings in the High Street, for in the High Street the merchants and tradesmen do dwell, but the gentlemen's mansions and goodliest houses are obscurely founded in the aforesaid lanes: the walls are eight or ten foot thick, exceeding strong, not built for a day, a week, or a month, or a year; but from antiquity to posterity, for many ages; there I found entertainment beyond my expectation or merit, and there is fish, flesh, bread and fruit, in such variety, that I think I may offenceless call it superfluity, or satiety. The worst was, that wine and ale was so scarce, and the people there such misers of it, that every night before I went to bed, if any man had asked me a civil question, all the wit in my head could not have made him a sober answer. I was at his Majesty's Palace, a stately and princely seat, wherein I saw a sumptuous chapel, most richly adorned with all appurtenances belonging to so sacred a place, or so royal an owner. In the inner court I saw the King's arms cunningly carved in stone, and fixed over a door aloft on the wall, the red lion being in the crest, over which was written this inscription in Latin, _Nobis hæc invicta miserunt, 106 proavi._ I enquired what the English of it was? it was told me as followeth, which I thought worthy to be recorded. _106, forefathers have left this to us unconquered._ This is a worthy and memorable motto, and I think few kingdoms or none in the world can truly write the like, that notwithstanding so many inroads, incursions, attempts, assaults, civil wars, and foreign hostilities, bloody battles, and mighty foughten fields, that maugre the strength and policy of enemies, that royal crown and sceptre hath from one hundred and seven descents, kept still unconquered, and by the power of the King of Kings (through the grace of the Prince of Peace) is now left peacefully to our peaceful king, whom long in blessed peace, the God of peace defend and govern. But once more, a word or two of _Edinburgh_, although I have scarcely given it that due which belongs unto it, for their lofty and stately buildings, and for their fair and spacious street, yet my mind persuades me that they in former ages that first founded that city did not so well in that they built it in so discommodious a place; for the sea, and all navigable rivers being the chief means for the enriching of towns and cities, by the reason of traffic with foreign nations, with exportation, transportation, and receite of variety of merchandizing; so this city had it been built but one mile lower on the seaside, I doubt not but it had long before this been comparable to many a one of our greatest towns and cities in _Europe_, both for spaciousness of bounds, port, state, and riches. It is said, that King _James_ the fifth (of famous memory) did graciously offer to purchase for them, and to bestow upon them freely, certain low and pleasant grounds a mile from them on the seashore, with these conditions, that they should pull down their city, and build it in that more commodious place, but the citizens refused it; and so now it is like (for me), to stand where it doth, for I doubt such another proffer of removal will not be presented to them, till two days after the fair. Now have with you for _Leith_, whereto I no sooner came, but I was well entertained by Master _Barnard Lindsay_, one of the grooms of his Majesties bed-chamber, he knew my estate was not guilty, because I brought guilt with me (more than my sins, and they would not pass for current there) he therefore did replenish the vaustity[14] of my empty purse, and discharged a piece at me with two bullets of gold, each being in value worth eleven shillings white money; and I was creditably informed, that within the compass of one year, there was shipped away from that only port of _Leith_, fourscore thousand boles of wheat, oats, and barley into _Spain_, _France_, and other foreign parts, and every bole contains the measure of four English bushels, so that from _Leith_ only hath been transported three hundred and twenty thousand bushels of corn; besides some hath been shipped away from Saint _Andrews_, from _Dundee_, _Aberdeen_, _Dysart_, _Kirkaldy_, _Kinghorn_, _Burntisland_, _Dunbar_, and other portable towns, which makes me to wonder that a kingdom so populous as it is, should nevertheless sell so much bread-corn beyond the seas, and yet to have more than sufficient for themselves. So I having viewed the haven and town of _Leith_, took a passage boat to see the new wondrous Well,[15] to which many a one that is not well, comes far and near in hope to be made well: indeed I did hear that it had done much good, and that it hath a rare operation to expel or kill divers maladies; as to provoke appetite, to help much for the avoiding of the gravel in the bladder, to cure sore eyes, and old ulcers, with many other virtues which it hath, but I (through the mercy of God, having no need of it, did make no great inquisition what it had done, but for novelty I drank of it, and I found the taste to be more pleasant than any other water, sweet almost as milk, yet as clear as crystal, and I did observe that though a man did drink a quart, a pottle, or as much as his belly could contain, yet it never offended or lay heavy upon the stomach, no more than if one had drank but a pint or a small quantity. I went two miles from it to a town called _Burntisland_, where I found many of my especial good friends, as Master _Robert Hay_, one of the Grooms of his Majesty's Bed-chamber, Master _David Drummond_, one of his Gentlemens-Pensioners, Master _James Acmootye_, one of the Grooms of the Privy Chamber, Captain _Murray_, Sir _Henry Witherington_ Knight, Captain _Tyrie_, and divers others: and there Master _Hay_, Master _Drummond_, and the good old Captain _Murray_ did very bountifully furnish me with gold for my expenses, but I being at dinner with those aforesaid gentlemen, as we were discoursing, there befel a strange accident, which I think worth the relating. I know not upon what occasion they began to talk of being at sea in former times, and I (amongst the rest) said, I was at the taking of _Cadiz_; whereto an English gentleman replied, that he was the next good voyage after at the Islands: I answered him that I was there also. He demanded in what ship I was? I told him in the Rainbow of the Queens: why (quoth he) do you not know me? I was in the same ship, and my name is _Witherington_. Sir, said I, I do remember the name well, but by reason that it is near two and twenty years since I saw you, I may well forget the knowledge of you. Well said he, if you were in that ship, I pray you tell me some remarkable token that happened in the voyage, whereupon I told him two or three tokens; which he did know to be true. Nay then, said I, I will tell you another which (perhaps) you have not forgotton; as our ship and the rest of the fleet did ride at anchor at the Isle of _Flores_ (one of the Isles of the _Azores_) there were some fourteen men and boys of our ship, that for novelty would go ashore, and see what fruit the island did bear, and what entertainment it would yield us; so being landed, we went up and down and could find nothing but stones, heath and moss, and we expected oranges, lemons, figs, musk-mellions, and potatoes; in the mean space the wind did blow so stiff, and the sea was so extreme rough, that our ship-boat could not come to the land to fetch us, for fear she should be beaten in pieces against the rocks; this continued five days, so that we were almost famished for want of food: but at last (I squandering up and down) by the providence of God I happened into a cave or poor habitation, where I found fifteen loaves of bread, each of the quantity of a penny loaf in _England_, I having a valiant stomach of the age of almost of a hundred and twenty hours breeding, fell to, and ate two loaves and never said grace: and as I was about to make a horse-loaf of the third loaf, I did put twelve of them into my breeches, and my sleeves, and so went mumbling out of the cave, leaning my back against a tree, when upon the sudden a gentleman came to me, and said, "Friend, what are you eating?" "Bread," (quoth I,) "For God's sake," said he, "give me some." With that, I put my hand into my breech, (being my best pantry) and I gave him a loaf, which he received with many thanks, and said, that if ever he could requit it, he would. I had no sooner told this tale, but Sir _Henry Witherington_ did acknowledge himself to be the man that I had given the loaf unto two and twenty years before, where I found the proverb true, that men have more privilege than mountains in meeting. In what great measure he did requite so small a courtesy, I will relate in this following discourse in my return through _Northumberland_: so leaving my man at the town of _Burntisland_, I told him, I would but go to _Stirling_, and see the Castle there, and withal to see my honourable friends the Earl of _Mar_, and Sir _William Murray_ Knight, Lord of _Abercairney_, and that I would return within two days at the most: but it fell out quite contrary; for it was and five and thirty days before I could get back again out of these noble men's company. The whole progress of my travel with them, and the cause of my stay I cannot with gratefulness omit; and thus it was. A worthy gentleman named Master _John Fenton_, did bring me on my way six miles to _Dunfermline_, where I was well entertained, and lodged at Master _John Gibb_ his house, one of the Grooms of his Majesty's Bed-chamber, and I think the oldest servant the King hath: withal, I was well entertained there by Master _Crighton_ at his own house, who went with me, and shewed me the Queens Palace; (a delicate and Princely Mansion) withal I saw the ruins of an ancient and stately built Abbey, with fair gardens, orchards, meadows belonging to the Palace: all which with fair and goodly revenues by the suppression of the Abbey, were annexed to the crown. There also I saw a very fair church, which though it be now very large and spacious, yet it hath in former times been much larger. But I taking my leave of _Dunfermline_, would needs go and see the truly noble Knight Sir _George Bruce_, at a town called the _Culross_: there he made me right welcome, both with variety of fare, and after all, he commanded three of his men to direct me to see his most admirable coal mines; which (if man can or could work wonders) is a wonder; for myself neither in any travels that I have been in, nor any history that I have read, or any discourse that I have heard, did never see, read, or hear of any work of man that might parallel or be equivalent with this unfellowed and unmatchable work: and though all I can say of it, cannot describe it according to the worthiness of his vigilant industry, that was both the occasion, inventor, and maintainer of it: yet rather than the memory of so rare an enterprise, and so accomplished a profit to the common-wealth shall be raked and smothered in the dust of oblivion, I will give a little touch at the description of it, although I amongst writers, am like he that worse may hold the candle. The mine hath two ways into it, the one by sea and the other by land; but a man may go into it by land, and return the same way if he please, and so he may enter into it by sea, and by sea he may come forth of it: but I for variety's sake went in by sea, and out by land. Now men may object, how can a man go into a mine, the entrance of it being into the sea, but that the sea will follow him, and so drown the mine? To which objection thus I answer, that at low water mark, the sea being ebbed away, and a great part of the sand bare; upon this same sand (being mixed with rocks and crags) did the master of this great work build a round circular frame of stone, very thick, strong, and joined together with glutinous or bituminous matter, so high withal that the sea at the highest flood, or the greatest rage of storm or tempest, can neither dissolve the stones so well compacted in the building or yet overflow the height of it. Within this round frame, (at all adventures) he did set workmen to dig with mattocks, pickaxes, and other instruments fit for such purposes. They did dig forty feet down right into and through a rock. At last they found that which they expected, which was sea coal, they following the vein of the mine, did dig forward still: so that in the space of eight and twenty, or nine and twenty years, they have digged more than an English mile under the sea, so that when men are at work below, an hundred of the greatest ships in _Britain_ man sail over their heads. Besides, the mine is most artificially cut like an arch or a vault, all that great length, with many nooks and bye-ways: and it is so made, that a man may walk upright in the most places, both in and out. Many poor people are there set on work, which otherwise through the want of employment would perish. But when I had seen the mine, and was come forth of it again; after my thanks given to Sir _George Bruce_, I told him, that if the plotters of the Powder Treason in England had seen this mine, that they (perhaps) would have attempted to have left the Parliament House, and have undermined the Thames, and so to have blown up the barges and wherries, wherein the King, and all the estates of our kingdom were. Moreover, I said, that I could afford to turn tapster at _London_, so that I had but one quarter of a mile of his mine to make me a cellar, to keep beer and bottled ale in. But leaving these jests in prose, I will relate a few verses that I made merrily of this mine. I that have wasted, months, weeks, days, and hours In viewing kingdoms, countries, towns, and towers, Without all measure, measuring many paces, And with my pen describing many places, With few additions of mine own devising, (Because I have a smack of _Coryatizing_[16]) Our _Mandeville_, _Primaleon_, _Don Quixote_, Great _Amadis_, or _Huon_, travelled not As I have done, or been where I have been, Or heard and seen, what I have heard and seen; Nor Britain's _Odcombe_ (_Zany_ brave _Ulysses_) In all his ambling, saw the like as this is. I was in (would I could describe it well) A dark, light, pleasant, profitable hell, And as by water I was wafted in, I thought that I in _Charon's_ boat had been, But being at the entrance landed thus, Three men there (instead of _Cerberus_) Convey'd me in, in each one hand a light To guide us in that vault of endless night, There young and old with glim'ring candles burning Dig, delve, and labour, turning and returning, Some in a hole with baskets and with bags, Resembling furies, or infernal hags: There one like _Tantalus_ feeding, and there one, Like _Sisyphus_ he rolls the restless stone. Yet all I saw was pleasure mixed with profit, Which proved it to be no tormenting Tophet[17] For in this honest, worthy, harmless hell, There ne'er did any damned Devil dwell; And th' owner of it gains by 't more true glory, Than _Rome_ doth by fantastic Purgatory. A long mile thus I passed, down, down, steep, steep, In deepness far more deep, than _Neptunes_ deep, Whilst o'er my head (in fourfold stories high) Was earth, and sea, and air, and sun, and sky: That had I died in that _Cimmerian_[18] room, Four elements had covered o'er my tomb: Thus farther than the bottom did I go, (And many Englishmen have not done so;) Where mounting porpoises, and mountain whales, And regiments of fish with fins and scales, 'Twixt me and heaven did freely glide and slide, And where great ships may at an anchor ride: Thus in by sea, and out by land I past, And took my leave of good Sir _George_ at last. The sea at certain places doth leak, or soak into the mine, which by the industry of Sir _George Bruce_, is all conveyed to one well near the land; where he hath a device like a horse-mill, that with three horses and a great chain of iron, going downward many fathoms, with thirty-six buckets fastened to the chain, of the which eighteen go down still to be filled, and eighteen ascend up to be emptied, which do empty themselves (without any man's labour) into a trough that conveys the water into the sea again; by which means he saves his mine, which otherwise would be destroyed with the sea, besides he doth make every week ninety or a hundred tons of salt, which doth serve most part of _Scotland_, some he sends into _England_, and very much into _Germany_: all which shows the painful industry with God's blessings to such worthy endeavours: I must with many thanks remember his courtesy to me, and lastly how he sent his man to guide me ten miles on the way to _Stirling_, where by the way I saw the outside of a fair and stately house called _Allaway_, belonging to the Earl of _Mar_ which by reason that his honour was not there, I past by and went to _Stirling_, where I was entertained and lodged at one Master John _Archibalds_, where all my want was that I wanted room to contain half the good cheer that I might have had there! he had me into the castle, which in few words I do compare to _Windsor_ for situation, much more than _Windsor_ in strength, and somewhat less in greatness: yet I dare affirm that his Majesty hath not such another hall to any house that he hath neither in _England_ or _Scotland_, except Westminster Hall which is now no dwelling hall for a prince, being long since metamorphosed into a house for the law and the profits. This goodly hall was built by King _James_ the fourth, that married King _Henry_ the Eight's sister, and after was slain at _Flodden field_; but it surpasses all the halls for dwelling houses that ever I saw, for length, breadth, height and strength of building, the castle is built upon a rock very lofty, and much beyond _Edinburgh_ Castle in state and magnificence, and not much inferior to it in strength, the rooms of it are lofty, with carved works on the ceilings, the doors of each room being so high, that a man may ride upright on horseback into any chamber or lodging. There is also a goodly fair chapel, with cellars, stables, and all other necessary offices, all very stately and befitting the majesty of a king. From _Stirling_ I rode to Saint _Johnstone_,[19] a fine town it is, but it is much decayed, by reason of the want of his Majesty's yearly coming to lodge there. There I lodged one night at an inn, the goodman of the house his name being _Patrick Pitcairne_, where my entertainment was with good cheer, good lodging, all too good to a bad weary guest. Mine host told me that the Earl of _Mar_, and Sir _William Murray_ of _Abercairney_ were gone to the great hunting to the _Brae_ of _Mar_[20]; but if I made haste I might perhaps find them at a town called _Brekin_, or _Brechin_, two and thirty miles from Saint _Johnstone_ whereupon I took a guide to _Brechin_ the next day, but before I came, my lord was gone from thence four days. Then I took another guide, which brought me such strange ways over mountains and rocks, that I think my horse never went the like; and I am sure I never saw any ways that might fellow them I did go through a country called _Glen Esk_, where passing by the side of a hill, so steep as the ridge of a house, where the way was rocky, and not above a yard broad in some places, so fearful and horrid it was to look down into the bottom, for if either horse or man had slipped, he had fallen without recovery a good mile downright; but I thank God, at night I came to a lodging in the Laird of _Edzell's_ land, where I lay at an Irish house, the folks not being able to speak scarce any English, but I supped and went to bed, where I had not laid long, but I was enforced to rise, I was so stung with Irish musquitoes, a creature that hath six legs, and lives like a monster altogether upon man's flesh, they do inhabit and breed most in sluttish houses, and this house was none of the cleanest, the beast is much like a louse in _England_, both in shape and nature; in a word, they were to me the _A._ and the _Z._ the prologue and the epilogue, the first and the last that I had in all my travels from _Edinburgh_; and had not this Highland Irish house helped me at a pinch, I should have sworn that all _Scotland_ had not been so kind as to have bestowed a louse upon me: but with a shift that I had, I shifted off my cannibals, and was never more troubled with them. The next day I travelled over an exceeding high mountain, called mount _Skene_, where I found the valley very warm before I went up it; but when I came to the top of it, my teeth began to dance in my head with cold, like Virginal's jacks;[21] and withal, a most familiar mist embraced me round, that I could not see thrice my length any way: withal, it yielded so friendly a dew, that did moisten through all my clothes: where the old Proverb of a Scottish mist was verified, in wetting me to the skin. Up and down, I think this hill is six miles, the way so uneven, stony, and full of bogs, quagmires, and long heath, that a dog with three legs will out-run a horse with four; for do what we could, we were four hours before we could pass it. Thus with extreme travel, ascending and descending, mounting and alighting, I came at night to the place where I would be, in the Brae of _Mar_, which is a large county, all composed of such mountains, that Shooter's Hill, Gad's Hill, Highgate Hill, Hampstead Hill, Birdlip Hill, or Malvern's Hills, are but mole-hills in comparison, or like a liver, or a gizard under a capon's wing, in respect of the altitude of their tops, or perpendicularity of their bottoms. There I saw Mount _Ben Aven_, with a furred mist upon his snowy head instead of a night-cap: (for you must understand, that the oldest man alive never saw but the snow was on the top of divers of those hills, both in summer, as well as in winter.) There did I find the truly Noble and Right Honourable Lords _John Erskine_ Earl of Mar, _James Stuart_ Earl of Murray, _George Gordon_ Earl of Enzie, son and heir to the Marquess of Huntly, _James Erskine_ Earl of Buchan, and _John_ Lord _Erskine_, son and heir to the Earl of Mar, and their Countesses, with my much honoured, and my best assured and approved friend, Sir _William Murray_ Knight, of _Abercairney_, and hundred of others Knights, Esquires, and their followers; all and every man in general in one habit, as if _Lycurgus_ had been there, and made laws of equality: for once in the year, which is the whole month of August, and sometimes part of September, many of the nobility and gentry of the kingdom (for their pleasure) do come into these Highland Countries to hunt, where they do conform themselves to the habit of the Highland men, who for the most part speak nothing but Irish; and in former time were those people which were called the _Red-shanks_.[22] Their habit is shoes with but one sole apiece; stockings (which they call short hose) made of a warm stuff of divers colours, which they call tartan: as for breeches, many of them, nor their forefathers never wore any, but a jerkin of the same stuff that their hose is of, their garters being bands or wreaths of hay or straw, with a plaid about their shoulders, which is a mantle of divers colours, of much finer and lighter stuff than their hose, with blue flat caps on their heads, a handkerchief knit with two knots about their neck; and thus are they attired. Now their weapons are long bows and forked arrows, swords and targets, harquebusses, muskets, dirks, and Lochaber axes. With these arms I found many of them armed for the hunting. As for their attire, any man of what degree soever that comes amongst them, must not disdain to wear it; for if they do, then they will disdain to hunt, or willingly, to bring in their dogs: but if men be kind unto them, and be in their habit; then are they conquered with kindness, and the sport will be plentiful. This was the reason that I found so many noblemen and gentlemen in those shapes. But to proceed to the hunting. My good Lord of _Mar_ having put me into that shape,[23] I rode with him from his house, where I saw the ruins of an old castle, called the castle of _Kindroghit_ [Castletown]. It was built by King _Malcolm Canmore_ (for a hunting house) who reigned in _Scotland_ when _Edward_ the Confessor, _Harold_, and Norman _William_ reigned in _England_: I speak of it, because it was the last house that I saw in those parts; for I was the space of twelve days after, before I saw either house, corn field, or habitation for any creature, but deer, wild horses, wolves, and such like creatures, which made me doubt that I should never have seen a house again.[24] Thus the first day we travelled eight miles, where there small cottages built on purpose to lodge in, which they call Lonchards, I thank my good Lord _Erskine_, he commanded that I should always be lodged in his lodging, the kitchen being always on the side of a bank, many kettles and pots boiling, and many spits turning and winding, with great variety of cheer: as venison baked, sodden, roast, and stewed beef, mutton, goats, kid, hares, fresh salmon, pigeons, hens, capons, chickens, partridge, moor-coots, heath-cocks, capercailzies, and termagants [ptarmigans]; good ale, sack, white, and claret, tent, (or Alicante) with most potent _Aquavitæ_. All these, and more than these we had continually, in superfluous abundance, caught by Falconers, Fowlers, Fishers, and brought by my Lord's tenants and purveyors to victual our camp, which consisted of fourteen or fifteen hundred men and horses; the manner of the hunting is this: five or six hundred men do rise early in the morning, and they do disperse themselves divers ways, and seven, eight, or ten miles compass, they do bring or chase in the deer in many herds, (two, three, or four hundred in a herd) to such or such a place, as the Nobleman shall appoint them; then when day is come, the Lords and gentlemen of their companies, do ride or go to the said places, sometimes wading up to their middles through bournes and rivers: and then: they being come to the place, do lie down on the ground, till those foresaid scouts which are called the Tinchel, do bring down the deer: but as the proverb says of a bad cook, so these Tinchel-men do lick their own fingers; for besides their bows and arrows, which they carry with them, we can hear now and then a harquebuss or a musket go off, which they do seldom discharge in vain: Then after we had stayed there three hours or thereabouts, we might perceive the deer appear on the hills round about us, (their heads making a show like a wood) which being followed close by the Tinchel, are chased down into the valley where we lay; then all the valley on each side being waylaid with a hundred couple of strong Irish greyhounds, they are let loose as the occasion serves upon the herd of deer, so that with dogs, guns, arrows, dirks, and daggers, in the space of two hours, fourscore fat deer were slain, which after are disposed of some one way, and some another, twenty and thirty miles, and more than enough left for us to make merry withal at our rendezvous. I liked the sport so well, that I made these two sonnets following. Why should I waste invention to indite, _Ovidian_ fictions, or Olympian games? My misty Muse enlightened with more light, To a more noble pitch her aim she frames. I must relate to my great Master JAMES, The Caledonian annual peaceful war; How noble minds do eternize their fames, By martial meeting in the Brae of _Mar_: How thousand gallant spirits came near and far, With swords and targets, arrows, bows, and guns, That all the troop to men of judgment, are The God of Wars great never conquered sons, The sport is manly, yet none bleed but beasts, And last the victor on the vanquished feasts. If sport like this can on the mountains be, Where _Phoebus_ flames can never melt the snow; Then let who list delight in vales below, Sky-kissing mountains pleasure are for me: What braver object can man's eyesight see, Than noble, worshipful, and worthy wights, As if they were prepared for sundry fights, Yet all in sweet society agree? Through heather, moss, 'mongst frogs, and bogs, and fogs, 'Mongst craggy cliffs, and thunder-battered hills, Hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs, Where two hours hunting fourscore fat deer kills. Lowland, your sports are low as is your seat, The Highland games and minds, are high and great. Being come to our lodgings, there was such baking, boiling, roasting, and stewing, as if Cook Ruffian had been there to have scalded the devil in his feathers: and after supper a fire of fir-wood as high as an indifferent May-pole: for I assure you, that the Earl of _Mar_ will give any man that is his friend, for thanks, as many fir trees (that are as good as any ship's masts in England) as are worth if they were in any place near the Thames, or any other portable river) the best earldom in England or Scotland either: For I dare affirm, he hath as many growing there, as would serve for masts (from this time to the end of the world) for all the ships, caracks, hoys, galleys, boats, drumlers, barks, and water-crafts, that are now, or can be in the world these forty years. This sounds like a lie to an unbeliever; but I and many thousands do know that I speak within the compass of truth: for indeed (the more is the pity) they do grow so far from any passage of water, and withal in such rocky mountains, that no way to convey them is possible to be passable, either with boat, horse, or cart. Thus having spent certain days in hunting in the Brae of _Mar_, we went to the next county called _Badenoch_, belonging to the Earl of _Enzie_, where having such sport and entertainment as we formerly had; after four or five days pastime, we took leave of hunting for that year; and took our journey toward a strong house of the Earl's, called _Ruthven_ in _Badenoch_, where my Lord of _Enzie_ and his noble Countess (being daughter to the Earl of _Argyle_) did give us most noble welcome three days. From thence we went to a place called _Balloch Castle_,[25] a fair and stately house, a worthy gentleman being the owner of it, called the Laird of _Grant_; his wife being a gentlewoman honourably descended being sister to the right Honourable Earl of _Athol_, and to Sir _Patrick Murray_ Knight; she being both inwardly and outwardly plentifully adorned with the gifts of grace and nature: so that our cheer was more than sufficient; and yet much less than they could afford us. There stayed there four days, four Earls, one Lord, divers Knights and Gentlemen, and their servants, footmen and horses; and every meal four long tables furnished with all varieties: our first and second course being three score dishes at one board; and after that always a banquet: and there if I had not forsworn wine till I came to _Edinburgh_ I think I had there drunk my last. The fifth day with much ado we gate from thence to _Tarnaway_, a goodly house of the Earl of _Murrays_,[26] where that Right Honourable Lord and his Lady did welcome us four days more. There was good cheer in all variety, with somewhat more than plenty for advantage: for indeed the County of _Murray_ is the most pleasantest and plentiful country in all _Scotland_; being plain land, that a coach may be driven more than four and thirty miles one way in it, alongst by the sea-coast. From thence I went to _Elgin_ in _Murray_,[27] an ancient City, where there stood a fair and beautiful church with three steeples, the walls of it and the steeples all yet standing; but the roofs, windows, and many marble monuments and tombs of honourable and worthy personages all broken and defaced: this was done in the time when ruin bare rule, and Knox knocked down churches. From _Elgin_ we went to the Bishop of _Murray_ his house which is called _Spiny_, or _Spinay_: a Reverend Gentleman he is, of the noble name of _Douglas_, where we were very well welcomed, as befitted the honour of himself and his guests. From thence we departed to the Lord Marquess of _Huntlys_ to a sumptuous house of his, named the _Bog of Geethe_, where our entertainment was like himself, free, bountiful and honourable. There (after two days stay) with much entreaty and earnest suit, I gate leave of the Lords to depart towards _Edinburgh_: the Noble Marquess, the Earl of _Mar_, _Murray_, _Enzie_, _Buchan_, and the Lord _Erskine_; all these, I thank them, gave me gold to defray my charges in my journey. So after five and thirty days hunting and travel I returning, past by another stately mansion of the Lord Marquesses, called _Stroboggy_, and so over _Carny_ mount to _Brechin_, where a wench that was born deaf and dumb came into my chamber at midnight (I being asleep) and she opening the bed, would feign have lodged with me: but had I been a _Sardanapalus_, or a _Heliogabulus_, I think that either the great travel over the mountains had tamed me; or if not, her beauty could never have moved me. The best parts of her were, that her breath was as sweet as sugar-candian,[28] being very well shouldered beneath the waste; and as my hostess told me the next morning, that she had changed her maiden-head for the price of a bastard not long before. But howsoever, she made such a hideous noise, that I started out of my sleep, and thought that the Devil had been there: but I no sooner knew who it was, but I arose, and thrust my dumb beast out of my chamber; and for want of a lock or a latch, I staked up my door with a great chair. Thus having escaped one of the seven deadly sins as at _Brechin_, I departed from thence to a town called _Forfor_; and from thence to _Dundee_, and so to _Kinghorn_, _Burntisland_, and so to _Edinburgh_, where I stayed eight days, to recover myself of falls and bruises, which I received in my travel in the Highland mountainous hunting. Great welcome I had showed me all my stay at _Edinburgh_, by many worthy gentlemen, namely, old Master _George Todrigg_, Master _Henry Livingston_, Master _James Henderson_, Master _John Maxwell_, and a number of others, who suffered me to want no wine or good cheer, as may be imagined. Now the day before I came from _Edinburgh_, I went to _Leith_, where I found my long approved and assured good friend Master _Benjamin Jonson_, at one Master _John Stuarts_ house; I thank him for his great kindness towards me: for at my taking leave of him, he gave me a piece of gold of two and twenty shillings[29] to drink his health in _England_. And withal, willed me to remember his kind commendations to all his friends: So with a friendly farewell, I left him as well, as I hope never to see him in a worse estate: for he is amongst noblemen and gentlemen that know his true worth, and their own honours, where, with much respective love he is worthily entertained. So leaving _Leith_ I returned to _Edinburgh_, and within the port or gate, called the _Nether-Bow_, I discharged my pockets of all the money I had: and as I came pennyless within the walls of that city at my first coming thither; so now at my departing from thence, I came moneyless out of it again; having in company to convey me out, certain gentlemen, amongst the which Master _James Acherson_, Laird of _Gasford_, a gentleman that brought me to his house, where with great entertainment he and his good wife did welcome me. On the morrow he sent one of his men to bring me to a place called _Adam_, to Master _John Acmootye_ his house, one of the Grooms of his Majesty's Bed-chamber; where with him and his two brethren, Master _Alexander_, and Master _James Acmootye_, I found both cheer and welcome, not inferior to any that I had had in any former place. Amongst our viands that we had there, I must not forget the Sole and Goose (_sic_), a most delicate fowl, which breeds in great abundance in a little rock called the _Bass_, which stands two miles into the sea. It is very good flesh, but it is eaten in the form as we eat oysters, standing at a side-board, a little before dinner, unsanctified without grace; and after it is eaten, it must be well liquored with two or three good rouses[30] of sherry or canary sack. The Lord or owner of the _Bass_ doth profit at the least two hundred pound yearly by those geese; the _Bass_ itself being of a great height, and near three quarters of a mile in compass, all fully replenished with wild fowl, having but one small entrance into it, with a house, a garden, and a chapel in it; and on the top of it a well of pure fresh water. From _Adam_, Master _John_ and Master _James Acmootye_ went to the town of _Dunbar_ with me, where ten Scottish pints of wine were consumed, and brought to nothing for a farewell: there at Master _James Baylies_ house I took leave, and Master _James Acmootye_ coming for _England_, said, that if I would ride with, that neither I nor my horse should want betwixt that place and _London_. Now I having no money nor means for travel, began at once to examine my manners and my want: at last my want persuaded my manners to accept of this worthy gentleman's undeserved courtesy. So that night he brought me to a place called _Cockburnspath_, where we lodged at an inn, the like of which I dare say, is not in any of his Majesty's Dominions. And for to show my thankfulness to Master _William Arnot_ and his wife, the owners thereof, I must explain their bountiful entertainment of guests, which is this: Suppose ten, fifteen, or twenty men and horses come to lodge at their house, the men shall have flesh, tame and wild fowl, fish with all variety of good cheer, good lodging, and welcome; and the horses shall want neither hay or provender: and at the morning at their departure the reckoning is just nothing. This is this worthy gentlemen's use, his chief delight being only to give strangers entertainment _gratis_: and I am sure, that in _Scotland_ beyond _Edinburgh_, I have been at houses like castles for building; the master of the house his beaver being his blue bonnet, one that will wear no other shirts, but of the flax that grows on his own ground, and of his wife's, daughters', or servants' spinning; that hath his stockings, hose, and jerkin of the wool of his own sheep's backs; that never (by his pride of apparel) caused mercer, draper, silk-man, embroiderer, or haberdasher to break and turn bankrupt: and yet this plain home-spun fellow keeps and maintains thirty, forty, fifty servants, or perhaps, more, every day relieving three or fourscore poor people at his gate; and besides all this, can give noble entertainment for four or five days together to five or six earls and lords, besides knights, gentlemen and their followers, if they be three or four hundred men, and horse of them, where they shall not only feed but feast, and not feast but banquet, this is a man that desires to know nothing so much, as his duty to God and his King, whose greatest cares are to practise the works of piety, charity, and hospitality: he never studies the consuming art of fashionless fashions, he never tries his strength to bear four or five hundred acres on his back at once, his legs are always at liberty, not being fettered with golden garters, and manacled with artificial roses, whose weight (sometime) is the last reliques of some decayed Lordship: Many of these worthy housekeepers there are in _Scotland_, amongst some of them I was entertained; from whence I did truly gather these aforesaid observations. So leaving _Cockburnspath_, we rode to _Berwick_, where the worthy old Soldier and ancient Knight, Sir _William Bowyer_, made me welcome, but contrary to his will, we lodged at an Inn, where Master _James Acmootye_ paid all charges: but at _Berwick_ there was a grievous chance happened, which I think not fit the relation to be omitted. In the river of _Tweed_, which runs by _Berwick_, are taken by fishermen that dwell there, infinite numbers of fresh salmons, so that many households and families are relieved by the profit of that fishing; but (how long since I know not) there was an order that no man or boy whatsoever should fish upon a Sunday: this order continued long amongst them, till some eight or nine weeks before Michaelmas last, on a Sunday, the salmons played in such great abundance in the river, that some of the fishermen (contrary to God's law and their own order) took boats and nets and fished, and caught near three hundred salmons; but from that time until Michaelmas day that I was there, which was nine weeks, and heard the report of it, and saw the poor people's miserable lamentations, they had not seen one salmon in the river; and some of them were in despair that they should never see any more there; affirming it to be God's judgment upon them for the profanation of the Sabbath. The thirtieth of September we rode from _Berwick_ to _Belford_ from _Belford_ to _Alnwick_, the next day from _Alnwick_ to _Newcastle_, where I found the noble Knight, Sir _Henry Witherington_; who, because I would have no gold nor silver, gave me a bay mare, in requital of a loaf of bread that I had given him two and twenty years before, at the Island of _Flores_, of the which I have spoken before. I overtook at _Newcastle_ a great many of my worthy friends, which were all coming for _London_, namely, Master _Robert Hay_, and Master _David Drummond_, where I was welcomed at Master _Nicholas Tempests_ house. From _Newcastle_ I rode with those gentlemen to _Durham_, to _Darlington_, to _Northallerton_, and to _Topcliffe_ in _Yorkshire_, where I took my leave of them, and would needs try my pennyless fortunes by myself, and see the city of _York_, where I was lodged at my right worshipful good friend, Master Doctor _Hudson_ one of his Majesty's chaplains, who went with me, and shewed me the goodly Minster Church there, and the most admirable, rare-wrought, unfellowed[31] chapter house. From _York_ I rode to _Doncaster_, where my horses were well fed at the Bear, but myself found out the honorable Knight, Sir _Robert Anstruther_ at his father-in-law's, the truly noble Sir _Robert Swifts_ house, he being then High Sheriff of _Yorkshire_, where with their good Ladies, and the right Honourable the Lord _Sanquhar_, I was stayed two nights and one day, Sir _Robert Anstruther_ (I thank him) not only paying for my two horses' meat, but at my departure, he gave me a letter to _Newark_ upon _Trent_, twenty eight miles in my way, where Master _George Atkinson_ mine host made me as welcome, as if I had been a French Lord, and what was to be paid, as I called for nothing, I paid as much; and left the reckoning with many thanks to Sir _Robert Anstruther_. So leaving _Newark_, with another gentleman that overtook me, we came at night to _Stamford_, to the sign of the Virginity (or the Maidenhead) where I delivered a letter from the Lord _Sanquhar_; which caused Master _Bates_ and his wife, being the master and mistress of the house, to make me and the gentleman that was with me great cheer for nothing. From _Stamford_ the next day we rode to _Huntington_, where we lodged at the Postmaster's house, at the sign of the Crown; his name is _Riggs_. He was informed who I was, and wherefore I undertook this my pennyless progress: wherefore he came up to our chamber, and supped with us, and very bountifully called for three quarts of wine and sugar, and four jugs of beer. He did drink and begin healths like a horse-leech and swallowed down his cups without feeling, as if he had had the dropsy, or nine pound of sponge in his maw. In a word, as he is a post, he drank post, striving and calling by all means to make the reckoning great, or to make us men of great reckoning. But in his payment he was tired like a jade, leaving the gentleman that was with me to discharge the terrible shot, or else one of my horses must have lain in pawn for his superfluous calling, and unmannerly intrusion. But leaving him, I left _Huntington_, and rode on the Sunday to _Puckeridge_, where Master _Holland_ at the Falcon, (mine old acquaintance) and my loving and ancient host gave me, my friend, my man, and our horses excellent cheer, and welcome, and I paid him with, not a penny of money. The next day I came to _London_, and obscurely coming within Moorgate, I went to a house and borrowed money: and so I stole back again to _Islington_, to the sign of the Maidenhead,[32] staying till Wednesday, that my friends came to meet me, who knew no other, but that Wednesday was my first coming; where with all love I was entertained with much good cheer: and after supper we had a play of the Life and Death of _Guy of Warwick_,[33] played by the Right Honourable the Earl of _Derby_ his men. And so on the Thursday morning being the fifteenth of October, I came home to my house in _London_. [Decorative thought break] THE EPILOGUE TO ALL MY ADVENTURERS AND OTHERS. Thus did I neither spend, or beg, or ask, By any course, direct or indirectly: But in each tittle I performed my task, According to my bill most circumspectly. I vow to God, I have done SCOTLAND wrong, (And (justly) against me it may bring an action) I have not given it that right which doth belong, For which I am half guilty of detraction: Yet had I wrote all things that there I saw, Misjudging censures would suppose I flatter, And so my name I should in question draw, Where asses bray, and prattling pies do chatter: Yet (armed with truth) I publish with my pen, That there the Almighty doth his blessings heap, In such abundant food for beasts and men; That I ne'er saw more plenty or more cheap. Thus what mine eyes did see, I do believe; And what I do believe, I know is true: And what is true unto your hands I give, That what I give, may be believed of you. But as for him that says I lie or dote, I do return, and turn the lie in's throat. Thus gentlemen, amongst you take my ware, You share my thanks, and I your moneys share. _Yours in all observance and gratefulness, ever to be commanded_, JOHN TAYLOR. FINIS. [Decoration] [Footnote 1: PROVANT.--Provender; provision.] [Footnote 2: FEGARY.--A vagary.] [Footnote 3: TRUNDLE.--_i.e._, John Trundle of the sign of _No-body_ (see note page 6).] [Footnote 4: It is reasonable to conjecture that at this date the custom of "Swearing-in at Highgate was not in vogue--or, _No-body_ would have taken the oath.] [Footnote 5: NAMED LEAN AND FEN.--Some jest is intended here on the Host's name.--Qy., Leanfen, or, the anagram of A. FENNEL.] [Footnote 6: NO-BODY was the singular sign of John Trundle, a ballad-printer in Barbican in the seventeenth century [and who seems to have accompanied our author as far as _Whetstone_ on his "Penniless Pilgrimage"--and, certainly up to this point a very "wet" one!] In one of Ben Jonson's plays Nobody is introduced, "attyred in a payre of Breeches, which were made to come up to his neck, with his armes out at his pockets and cap drowning his face." This comedy was "printed for John Trundle and are to be sold at his shop in Barbican at the sygne of No-Body." A unique ballad, preserved in the Miller Collection at Britwell House, entitled "The Well-spoken No-body," is accompanied by a woodcut representing a ragged barefooted fool on pattens, with a torn money-bag under his arm, walking through a chaos of broken pots, pans, bellows, candlesticks, tongs, tools, windows, &c. Above him is a scroll in black-letter:-- "Nobody.is.my.Name.that.Beyreth.Every.Bodyes.Blame." The ballad commences as follows:-- "Many speke of Robin Hoode that never shott in his bowe, So many have layed faultes to me, which I did never knowe; But nowe, beholde, here I am, Whom all the worlde doeth diffame; Long have they also scorned me, And locked my mouthe for speking free. As many a Godly man they have so served Which unto them God's truth hath shewed; Of such they have burned and hanged some. That unto their ydolatrye wold not come: The Ladye Truthe they have locked in cage, Saying of her Nobodye had knowledge. For as much nowe as they name Nobodye I thinke verilye they speke of me: Whereffore to answere I nowe beginne-- The locke of my mouthe is opened with ginne, Wrought by no man, but by God's grace, Unto whom be prayse in every place," &c. Larwood and Hotten's _History of Signboards_.] [Footnote 7: PULSE.--All sorts of leguminous seeds.] [Footnote 8: See Dedication to _The Scourge of Baseness_.] [Footnote 9: MASTER DOCTOR HOLLAND.--The once well-known Philemon Holland, Physician, and "Translator-General of his Age," published translations of Livy, 1600; Pliny's "Natural History," 1601; Camden's "Britannica," &c. He is said to have used in translation more paper and fewer pens than any other writer before or since, and who "would not let Suetonius be Tranquillus." Born at Chelmsford, 1551; died 1636.] [Footnote 10: EDMUND BRANTHWAITE.--Robert Branthwaite, William Branthwaite _Cant._, and "Thy assured friend" R. B., have each written Commendatory Verses to ALL THE WORKS OF JOHN TAYLOR. London 1630. And Southey in his "Lives and Works of Uneducated Poets," has the following:--"One might have hoped in these parts for a happy meeting between John Taylor and Barnabee, of immortal memory; indeed it is likely that the Water-Poet and the Anti-Water-Poet were acquainted, and that the latter may have introduced him to his connections hereabout, Branthwaite being the same name as Brathwait, and Barnabee's brother having married a daughter of this Sir John Dalston."] [Footnote 11: PIERCE PENNILESS, by Thomas Nash. London, 1592.] [Footnote 12: This "ordnance of iron" still exists there, and is historically known as "Mons Meg" and popularly as "Long Meg."] [Footnote 13: RECEITE.--A receptacle.] [Footnote 14: VAUSTITY.--Emptiness.] [Footnote 15: _See_ Anderson's The Cold Spring of Kinghorn Craig, Edinb. 1618.] [Footnote 16: CORYATIZING.--Thomas Coryate, an English traveller, who called himself the "Odcombian leg-stretcher." He was the son of the rector of Odcombe, and in 1611 published an account of his travels on the Continent with the singular title of "Coryates Crudities. Hastily gobled up in five Moneths travells in France, Savoy, Italy, Rhetia, commonly called the Grisons country, Helvetia, alias Switzerland, some parts of high Germany, and the Netherlands; Newly digested in the hungary aire of Odcombe in the county of Somerset, and now dispersed to the nourishment of the travelling members of this Kingdome, &c. London, printed by W. S., Anno Domini 1611." Taylor had an especial grudge against Coryat, for having had influence enough to procure his "Laugh and be Fat"--directed against the traveller--to be burned; and that he never failed to "feed fat the ancient grudge," may be seen in the many pieces of ridicule levelled at the author of the "Crudities," even after his death.] [Footnote 17: TOPHET.--The Hebrew name for _Hell_.] [Footnote 18: CIMMERIAN.--Pertaining to the Cimmerii, or their country; extremely and perpetually dark. The Cimmerii were an ancient people of the land now called the Crimea, and their country being subject to heavy fogs, was fabled to be involved in deep and continual obscurity. Ancient poets also mention a people of this name who dwelt in a valley near Lake Avernus, in Italy, which the sun was said never to visit.] [Footnote 19: PERTH.] [Footnote 20: BRAEMAR.] [Footnote 21: VIRGINAL JACK.--A keyed instrument resembling a spinet.] [Footnote 22: RED-SHANKS.--A contemptuous appellation for Scottish Highland clansmen and native Irish, with reference to their naked hirsute limbs, and "As lively as a _Red-Shank_" is still a proverbial saying:--"And we came into Ireland, where they would have landed in the north parts. But I would not, because there the inhabitants were all _Red-shanks_."--_Sir Walter Raleigh's_ Speech on the Scaffold.] [Footnote 23: PUT ME INTO THAT SHAPE.--That is, invested him in Highland attire.] [Footnote 24: "Probably the district around the skirts of Ben Muicdui."--_Chambers'_ Domestic Annals of Scotland.] [Footnote 25: BALLOCH CASTLE.--Now called Castle-Grant.] [Footnote 26: MORAY.] [Footnote 27: MORAYLAND.] [Footnote 28: SUGAR-CANDIAN.--_i.e._, Sugar-candy.] [Footnote 29: A PIECE OF GOLD OF TWO-AND-TWENTY SHILLINGS.--"This was a considerable present; but Jonson's hand and heart were ever open to his acquaintance. All his pleasures were social; and while health and fortune smiled upon him, he was no niggard either of his time or talents to those who needed them. There is something striking in Taylor's concluding sentence, when the result of his (Jonson's) visit to Drummond is considered:--but there is one _evil that walks_, which keener eyes than John's have often failed to discover.--I have only to add, in justice to this honest man (Taylor) that his gratitude outlived the subject of it. He paid the tribute of a verse to his benefactor's memory:--the verse indeed, was mean: but poor Taylor had nothing better to give."--Lt. Col. Francis Cunningham's edition of Gifford's Ben Jonson's Works, p. xli. "In the summer of 1618 Scotland received a visit from the famous Ben Jonson. The burly Laureate walked all the way, among the motives for a journey then undertaken by few Englishmen, might be curiosity regarding a country from which he knew that his family was derived, his grandfather having been one of the Johnsons of Annandale. He had many friends too, particularly among the connections of the Lennox family, whom he might be glad to see at their own houses. Among those with whom he had amicable intercourse, was William Drummond, the poet, then in the prime of life, and living as a bachelor in his romantic mansion of Hawthornden, on the Esk, seven miles from Edinburgh. It is probable that Drummond and Jonson had met before in London, and indulged together in the "wit-combats" at the Mermaid and similar scenes. Indeed, there is a prevalent belief in Scotland that it was mainly to see Drummond at Hawthornden that Jonson came so far from home, and certain it is, from Drummond's report of his '_Conversations_,' that he designed 'to write a Fisher or Pastoral (Piscatory?) Play--and make the stage of it on the Lomond Lake--he also contemplated writing in prose his 'Foot Pilgrimage to Scotland,' which, with a feeling very natural in one who found so much to admire where so little had been known, he spoke of entitling 'A DISCOVERY.' Unfortunately, this work, as well as a poem in which he called Edinburgh-- 'The Heart of Scotland, Britain's other eye,' has not been preserved to us. We can readily see that the work contemplated must have been of a general character, from Jonson's letters to Drummond on the subject of it. How much to be regretted that we have not the Scotland of that day delineated by so vigorous a pen as that of the author of _Sejanual_"--_Chambers'_ Domestic Annals of Scotland, vol. 1. Whether Taylor's "Penniless Pilgrimage" really did interfere with, and prevent the publication of Ben Jonson's 'Foot Pilgrimage' would now be difficult to say. It is very evident from Taylor's remarks in his Dedication "To all my loving adventurers, &c.," he had been accused by the critics that he "_did undergo this project, either in malice, or mockage of Master Benjamin Jonson_." It is quite certain that Taylor lost no time in getting his "Pilgrimage" printed "at the charges of the author" immediately on his return to London on the fifteenth of October 1618.] [Footnote 30: ROUSE.--A full glass, a bumper.] [Footnote 31: UNFELLOWED.--_i.e._, not matched.] [Footnote 32: TO ISLINGTON TO THE SIGN OF THE MAINDENHEAD.--This then roadside Public-house, we are informed from recent enquiries, was situate at the corner of Maiden Lane, Battle Bridge, now known as King's Cross, from a statue of George IV.--a most execrable performance taken down 1842. The "Old Pub" is turned into a gin palace, and named the Victoria, while Maiden Lane--an ancient way leading from Battle Bridge to Highgate Hill--is known now as York Road.] [Footnote 33: GUY OF WARWICK.--There are several versions and editions of this work. In the book of the Stationers' Company, John Trundle--he at the sign of NO-BODY--on the 15th of January, 1619, entered "a play, called the Life and Death of Guy Earl of Warwick, written by John Day and Thomas Dekker." See Baker's Biog. Dram., page 274, vol. 2.--"Well, if he read this with patience I'll be gelt, and troll ballads for Master Trundle yonder, the rest of my mortality."--_Ben Jonson's_ Every Man in his Humour, act i. sc. 2.] Corrections Made by Transcriber Page 16, line 16: "hls" changed to "his." Page 36: "forgotton" changed to "forgotten." Page 46: "musquitoes" changed to "mosquitoes." Footnote 6, last line of poem: "he" changed to "be." Page 46: Orphaned right parenthesis removed. 
20528	----	ROUND ABOUT A GREAT ESTATE BY RICHARD JEFFERIES AUTHOR OF 'THE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME' 'WILD LIFE IN A SOUTHERN COUNTY' 'THE AMATEUR POACHER' 'GREEN FERNE FARM' 'HODGE AND HIS MASTERS' LONDON SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 1880 [_All rights reserved_] PREFACE. There is an old story which in respect of a modern application may bear re-telling. Once upon a time in a lonely 'coombe-bottom' of the Downs, where there was neither church, chapel, nor public building of any kind, there lived a cottage-girl who had never seen anything of civilisation. A friend, however, having gone out to service in a market-town some few miles distant, she one day walked in to see her, and was shown the wonders of the place, the railway, the post-office, the hotels, and so forth. In the evening the friend accompanied her a short way on the return journey, and as they went out of the town, they passed the church. Looking suddenly up at the tower, the visitor exclaimed, 'Lard-a-mussy! you've got another moon here. Yourn have got figures all round un!' In her excitement, and prepared to see marvels, she had mistaken the large dial of the church clock for a moon of a different kind to the one which shone upon her native home. This old tale, familiar to country folk as an illustration of simplicity, has to-day a wider meaning. Until recent years the population dwelling in villages and hamlets, and even in little rural towns, saw indeed the sun by day and the moon by night, and learned the traditions and customs of their forefathers, such as had been handed down for generations. But now a new illumination has fallen upon these far-away places. The cottager is no longer ignorant, and his child is well grounded in rudimentary education, reads and writes with facility, and is not without knowledge of the higher sort. Thus there is now another moon with the figures of education all round it. In this book some notes have been made of the former state of things before it passes away entirely. But I would not have it therefore thought that I wish it to continue or return. My sympathies and hopes are with the light of the future, only I should like it to come from nature. The clock should be read by the sunshine, not the sun timed by the clock. The latter is indeed impossible, for though all the clocks in the world should declare the hour of dawn to be midnight, the sun will presently rise just the same. RICHARD JEFFERIES. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. OKEBOURNE CHACE. FELLING TREES. 1 II. CICELY. THE BROOK. 20 III. A PACK OF STOATS. BIRDS. 42 IV. HAMLET FOLK. 61 V. WIND-ANEMONES. THE FISHPOND. 82 VI. A FARMER OF THE OLDEN TIMES. 103 VII. THE CUCKOO-FIELDS. 125 VIII. CICELY'S DAIRY. HILARY'S TALK. 144 IX. THE WATER-MILL. FIELD NAMES. 163 X. THE COOMBE-BOTTOM. CONCLUSION. 183 ROUND ABOUT A GREAT ESTATE. CHAPTER I. OKEBOURNE CHACE. FELLING TREES. The great house at Okebourne Chace stands in the midst of the park, and from the southern windows no dwellings are visible. Near at hand the trees appear isolated, but further away insensibly gather together, and above them rises the distant Down crowned with four tumuli. Among several private paths which traverse the park there is one that, passing through a belt of ash wood, enters the meadows. Sometimes following the hedges and sometimes crossing the angles, this path finally ends, after about a mile, in the garden surrounding a large thatched farmhouse. In the maps of the parish it has probably another name, but from being so long inhabited by the Lucketts it is always spoken of as Lucketts' Place. The house itself and ninety acres of grass land have been their freehold for many generations; in fact, although there is no actual deed of entail, the property is as strictly preserved in the family and descends from heir to heir as regularly as the great estate and mansion adjacent. Old Hilary Luckett--though familiarly called 'old,' he is physically in the prime of life--is probably about the most independent man in the county. Yet he is on terms of more than goodwill with the great house, and rents one of the largest farms on the estate, somewhere between six and seven hundred acres. He has the right of shooting, and in the course of years privilege after privilege has been granted, till Hilary is now as free of the warren as the owner of the charter himself. If you should be visiting Okebourne Chace, and any question should arise whether of horses, dog, or gun, you are sure to be referred to Hilary. Hilary knows all about it: he is the authority thereabout on all matters concerning game. Is it proposed to plant fresh covers? Hilary's opinion is asked. Is it proposed to thin out some of the older trees; what does Hilary say? It is a fact that people really believe no part of a partridge is ever taken away after being set before him. Neither bones nor sinews remain: so fond is he of the brown bird. Having eaten the breast, and the juicy leg and the delicate wing, he next proceeds to suck the bones; for game to be thoroughly enjoyed should be eaten like a mince-pie, in the fingers. There is always one bone with a sweeter flavour than the rest, just at the joint or fracture: it varies in every bird according to the chance of the cooking, but, having discovered it, put it aside for further and more strict attention. Presently he begins to grind up the bones in his strong teeth, commencing with the smallest. His teeth are not now so powerful as when in younger days he used to lift a sack of wheat with them, or the full milking-bucket up to the level of the copper in the dairy. Still they gradually reduce the slender skeleton. The feat is not so difficult if the bird has been well hung. He has the right to shoot, and need take no precautions. But, in fact, a farmer, whether he has liberty or not, can usually amuse himself occasionally in that way. If his labourer sees him quietly slipping up beside the hedge with his double-barrel towards the copse in the corner where a pheasant has been heard several times lately, the labourer watches him with delight, and says nothing. Should anyone in authority ask where that gun went off, the labourer 'thenks it wur th' birdkippur up in th' Dree Vurlong, you.' Presently the pheasant hangs in the farmer's cellar, his long tail sweeping the top of the XXX cask; and the 'servant-wench,' who is in and out all day, also says nothing. Nor can anything exceed the care with which she disposes of the feathers when she picks the bird. There is a thorough sympathy between master and man so far. Hilary himself, with all that great estate to sport over, cannot at times refrain from stepping across the boundary. His landlord once, it is whispered, was out with Hilary shooting, and they became so absent-minded while discussing some interesting subject as to wander several fields beyond the property before they discovered their mistake. At Lucketts' Place the favourite partridge always comes up for supper: a pleasant meal that nowadays can rarely be had out of a farmhouse. Then the bright light from the burning log outshines the lamp, and glances rosy on the silver tankard standing under a glass shade on a bracket against the wall. Hilary's father won it near half a century since in some heats that were run on the Downs on the old racecourse, before it was ploughed up. For the wicked turnip is responsible for the destruction of old England; far more so than the steam-engine. Waste lands all glorious with golden blossoming furze, with purple foxglove, or curious orchis hiding in stray corners; wild moor-like lands, beautiful with heaths and honey-bottle; grand stretches of sloping downs where the hares hid in the grass, and where all the horses in the kingdom might gallop at their will; these have been overthrown with the plough because of the turnip. As the root crops came in, the rage began for thinning the hedges and grubbing the double mounds and killing the young timber, besides putting in the drains and driving away the wild-ducks. The wicked turnip put diamonds on the fingers of the farmer's wife, and presently raised his rent. But now some of the land is getting 'turnip-sick,' the roots come stringy and small and useless, so that many let it 'vall down.' After the last crop it is left alone, the couch grows, the docks spread out from the hedges, every species of weed starts up, till by-and-by the ploughed land becomes green and is called pasture. This is a process going on at the present moment, and to which owners of land should see without delay. Hilary has been looked on somewhat coldly by other tenants for openly calling the lord of the manor's attention to it. He sturdily maintains that arable land if laid down for pasture should be laid down properly--a thing that requires labour and expenditure just the same as other farming operations. So the silver tankard, won when 'cups' were not so common as now, is a memorial of the old times before the plough turned up the sweet turf of the racecourse. Hilary does not bet beyond the modest 'fiver' which a man would be thought unsociable if he did not risk on the horse that carries the country's colours. But he is very 'thick' with the racing-people on the Downs, and supplies the stable with oats, which is, I believe, not an unprofitable commission. The historical anecdote of the Roman emperor who fed his horse on gilded oats reads a little strange when we first come across it in youth. But many a race-horse owner has found reason since to doubt if it be so wonderful, as his own stud--to judge by the cost--must live on golden fodder. Now, before I found this out about the stable, it happened one spring day that I met Hilary in the fields, and listened to a long tirade which he delivered against 'wuts.' The wheat was then showing a beautiful flag, the despised oats were coming out in jag, and the black knots on the delicate barley straw were beginning to be topped with the hail. The flag is the long narrow green leaf of the wheat; in jag means the spray-like drooping awn of the oat; and the hail is the beard of the barley, which when it is white and brittle in harvest-time gets down the back of the neck, irritating the skin of those who work among it. According to Hilary, oats do not flourish on rich land; and when he was young (and everything was then done right) a farmer who grew oats was looked upon with contempt, as they were thought only fit for the poorest soil, and a crop that therefore denoted poverty. But nowadays, thundered Hilary in scorn, all farmers grow oats, and, indeed, anything in preference to wheat. Afterwards, at the Derby that year, methought I saw Hilary as I passed the sign of the 'Carrion Crow:' the dead bird dangles from the top of a tall pole stuck in the sward beside a booth. I lost him in the crowd then. But later on in autumn, while rambling round the Chace, there came on a 'skit' of rain, and I made for one of his barns for shelter. There was Hilary in the barn with his men, as busy as they could well be, winnowing oats. It seemed to me that especial care was being taken, and on asking questions, to which the men silently replied with a grin, Hilary presently blurted out that the dust had to be carefully removed, because the grain was for the racing-stable. The dainty creatures up there must have food free from dust, which makes them too thirsty. The hay supplied, for the same reason, had to be shaken before being used. No oats would do under 40 lb. the bushel, and the heavier the better. Luckett was a man whom every one knew to be 'square;' but, if the talk of the country-side is to be believed, the farmers who have much to do with the stables do not always come off successful. They sometimes become too sharp, and fancy themselves cleverer than a class of men who, if their stature be not great, are probably the keenest of wit. The farmer who obliges them is invariably repaid with lucrative 'tips;' but if he betrays those 'tips' may possibly find his information in turn untrustworthy, and have to sell by auction, and depart to Texas. Luckett avoids such pitfalls by the simple policy of 'squareness,' which is, perhaps, the wisest of all. When the 'skit' blew past he took his gun from the corner and stepped over the hatch, and came down the path with me, grumbling that all the grain, even where the crop looked well, had threshed out so light. Farming had gone utterly to the dogs of late seasons; he thought he should give up the land he rented, and live on the ninety acres freehold. In short, to hear him talk, you would think that he was conferring a very great favour upon his landlord in consenting to hold that six or seven hundred acres at a rent which has not been altered these fifty years at least. But the owner was a very good fellow, and as Hilary said, 'There it is, you see.' My private opinion is that, despite the late bad seasons, Hilary has long been doing remarkably well; and as for his landlord, that he would stand by him shoulder to shoulder if defence were needed. Much as I admired the timber about the Chace, I could not help sometimes wishing to have a chop at it. The pleasure of felling trees is never lost. In youth, in manhood--so long as the arm can wield the axe--the enjoyment is equally keen. As the heavy tool passes over the shoulder the impetus of the swinging motion lightens the weight, and something like a thrill passes through the sinews. Why is it so pleasant to strike? What secret instinct is it that makes the delivery of a blow with axe or hammer so exhilarating? The wilder frenzy of the sword--the fury of striking with the keen blade, which overtakes men even now when they come hand to hand, and which was once the life of battle--seems to arise from the same feeling. Then, as the sharp edge of the axe cuts deep through the bark into the wood, there is a second moment of gratification. The next blow sends a chip spinning aside; and by-the-bye never stand at the side of a woodman, for a chip may score your cheek like a slash with a knife. But the shortness of man's days will not allow him to cut down many trees. In imagination I sometimes seem to hear the sounds of the axes that have been ringing in the forests of America for a hundred years, and envy the joy of the lumbermen as the tall pines toppled to the fall. Of our English trees there is none so pleasant to chop as the lime; the steel enters into it so easily. In the enclosed portion of the park at Okebourne the boughs of the trees descended and swept the sward. Nothing but sheep being permitted to graze there, the trees grew in their natural form, the lower limbs drooping downwards to the ground. Hedgerow timber is usually 'stripped' up at intervals, and the bushes, too, interfere with the expansion of the branches; while the boughs of trees standing in the open fields are nibbled off by cattle. But in that part of the park no cattle had fed in the memory of man; so that the lower limbs, drooping by their own weight, came arching to the turf. Each tree thus made a perfect bower. The old woodmen who worked in the Chace told me it used to be said that elm ought only to be thrown on two days of the year--_i.e._ the 31st of December and the 1st of January. The meaning was that it should be cut in the very 'dead of the year,' when the sap had retired, so that the timber might last longer. The old folk took the greatest trouble to get their timber well seasoned, which is the reason why the woodwork in old houses has endured so well. Passing under some elms one June evening, I heard a humming overhead, and found it was caused by a number of bees and humble-bees busy in the upper branches at a great height from the ground. They were probably after the honey-dew. Buttercups do not flourish under trees; in early summer, where elms or oaks stand in the mowing-grass, there is often a circle around almost bare of them and merely green, while the rest of the meadow glistens with the burnished gold of that beautiful flower. The oak is properly regarded as a slow-growing tree, but under certain circumstances a sapling will shoot up quickly to a wonderful height. When the woodmen cut down a fir plantation in the Chace there was a young oak among it that overtopped the firs, and yet its diameter was so small that it looked no larger than a pole; and the supporting boughs of the firs being now removed it could not uphold itself, but bent so much from the perpendicular as to appear incapable of withstanding a gale. The bark of the oak, when stripped and stacked, requires fine weather to dry it, much the same as hay, so that a wet season like 1879 is very unfavourable. In the open glades of the Chace there were noble clumps of beeches, and if you walked quietly under them in the still October days you might hear a slight but clear and distinct sound above you. This was caused by the teeth of a squirrel nibbling the beech-nuts, and every now and then down came pieces of husk rustling through the coloured leaves. Sometimes a nut would fall which he had dropped; and yet, with the nibbling sound to guide the eye, it was not always easy to distinguish the little creature. But his tail presently betrayed him among the foliage, far out on a bough where the nuts grew. The husks, if undisturbed, remain on all the winter and till the tree is in full green leaf again; the young nuts are formed about midsummer. The black poplars are so much like the aspen as to be easily mistaken, especially as their leaves rustle in the same way. But the true aspen has a smooth bark, while that of the black poplar is scored or rough. Woodmen always call the aspen the 'asp,' dropping the termination. In the spring the young foliage of the black poplar has a yellow tint. When they cut down the alder poles by the water and peeled them, the sap under the bark as it dried turned as red as if stained. The paths in spring were strewn with the sheaths of the young leaves and buds pushing forth; showers of such brown sheaths came off the hawthorn with every breeze. These, with the catkins, form the first fall from tree and bush. The second is the flower, as the May, and the horse-chestnut bloom, whose petals cover the ground. The third fall is that of the leaf, and the fourth the fruit. On the Scotch fir the young green cones are formed about the beginning of June, and then the catkin adjacent to the cone is completely covered with quantities of pale yellow farina. If handled, it covers the fingers as though they had been dipped in sulphur-flour; shake the branch and it flies off, a little cloud of powdery particles. The scaly bark takes a ruddy tinge, when the sunshine falls upon it, and would then, I think, be worthy the attention of an artist as much as the birch bark, whose peculiar mingling of silvery white, orange, and brown, painters so often endeavour to represent on canvas. There is something in the Scotch fir, crowned at the top like a palm with its dark foliage, which, in a way I cannot express or indeed analyse, suggests to my mind the far-away old world of the geologists. In the boughs of the birch a mass of twigs sometimes grows so close and entangled together as to appear like a large nest from a distance when the leaves are off. Even as early as December the tomtits attack the buds, then in their sheaths, of the birch, clinging to the very extremities of the slender boughs. I once found a young birch growing on the ledge of a brick bridge, outside the parapet, and some forty or fifty feet from the ground. It was about four feet high, quite a sapling, and apparently flourishing, though where the roots could find soil it was difficult to discover. The ash tree is slowly disappearing from many places, and owners of hedgerow and copse would do well to plant ash, which affords a most useful wood. Ash poles are plentiful, but ash timber gets scarcer year by year; for as the present trees are felled there are no young ones rising up to take their place. Consequently ash is becoming dearer, as the fishermen find; for many of the pleasure yachts which they let out in summer are planked with ash, which answers well for boats which are often high and dry on the beach, though it would not do if always in the water. These beach-boats have an oak frame, oak stem and stern-post, beech keel, and are planked with ash. When they require repairing, the owners find ash planking scarce and dear. Trees may be said to change their garments thrice in the season. In the spring the woods at Okebourne were of the tenderest green, which, as the summer drew on, lost its delicacy of hue. Then came the second or 'midsummer shoot,' brightening them with fresh leaves and fresh green. The second shoot of the oak is reddish: there was one oak in the Chace which after midsummer thus became ruddy from the highest to the lowest branch; others did not show the change nearly so much. Lastly came the brown and yellow autumn tints. CHAPTER II. CICELY. THE BROOK. In the kitchen at Lucketts' Place there was a stool made by sawing off about six inches of the butt of a small ash tree. The bark remained on, and it was not smoothed or trimmed in any way. This mere log was Cicely Luckett's favourite seat as a girl; she was Hilary's only daughter. The kitchen had perhaps originally been the house, the rest having been added to it in the course of years as the mode of life changed and increasing civilisation demanded more convenience and comfort. The walls were quite four feet thick, and the one small lattice-window in its deep recess scarcely let in sufficient light, even on a summer's day, to dispel the gloom, except at one particular time. The little panes, yellow and green, were but just above the ground, looking out upon the road into the rickyard, so that the birds which came searching along among the grasses and pieces of wood thrown carelessly aside against the wall could see into the room. Robins, of course, came every morning, perching on the sill and peering in with the head held on one side. Blackbird and thrush came, but always passed the window itself quickly, though they stayed without fear within a few inches of it on either hand. There was an old oak table in the centre of the room--a table so solid that young Aaron, the strong labourer, could only move it with difficulty. There was no ceiling properly speaking, the boards of the floor above and a thick beam which upheld it being only whitewashed; and much of that had scaled off. An oaken door led down a few steps into the cellar, and over both cellar and kitchen there sloped a long roof, thatched, whose eaves were but just above the ground. Now, when there was no one in the kitchen, as in the afternoon, when even the indoor servants had gone out to help in the hayfield, little Cicely used to come in here and sit dreaming on the ash log by the hearth. The rude stool was always placed inside the fireplace, which was very broad for burning wood, faggots and split pieces of timber. Bending over the grey ashes, she could see right up the great broad tunnel of the chimney to the blue sky above, which seemed the more deeply azure, as it does from the bottom of a well. In the evenings when she looked up she sometimes saw a star shining above. In the early mornings of the spring, as she came rushing down to breakfast, the tiny yellow panes of the window which faced the east were all lit up and rosy with the rays of the rising sun. The beautiful light came through the elms of the rickyard, away from the ridge of the distant Down, and then for the first hour of the day the room was aglow. For quite two hundred years every visible sunrise had shone in at that window more or less, as the season changed and the sun rose to the north of east. Perhaps it was that sense of ancient homeliness that caused Cicely, without knowing why, to steal in there alone to dream, for nowhere else indoors could she have been so far away from the world of to-day. Left much to herself, she roamed along the hedgerow as now and then a mild day came, soon after the birds had paired, and saw the arrow-shaped, pointed leaves with black spots rising and unrolling at the sides of the ditches. Many of these seemed to die away presently without producing anything, but from some there pushed up a sharply conical sheath, from which emerged the spadix of the arum with its frill. Thrusting a stick into the loose earth of the bank, she found the root, covered with a thick wrinkled skin which peeled easily and left a white substance like a small potato. Some of the old women who came into the kitchen used to talk about 'yarbs,' and she was told that this was poisonous and ought not to be touched--the very reason why she slipped into the dry ditch and dug it up. But she started with a sense of guilt as she heard the slow rustle of a snake gliding along the mound over the dead, dry leaves of last year. In August, when the reapers began to call and ask for work, she found the arum stalks, left alone without leaves, surrounded with berries, some green, some ripening red. As the berries ripen, the stalk grows weak and frequently falls prone of its own weight among the grasses. This noisome fruit of clustering berries, like an ear of maize stained red, they told her was 'snake's victuals,' and to be avoided; for, bright as was its colour, it was only fit for a reptile's food. She knew, too, where to find the first 'crazy Betties,' whose large yellow flowers do not wait for the sun, but shine when the March wind scatters king's ransoms over the fields. These are the marsh marigolds: there were two places where she gathered them, one beside the streamlet flowing through the 'Mash,' a meadow which was almost a water-meadow; and the other inside a withy-bed. She pulled the 'cat's-tails,' as she learned to call the horse-tails, to see the stem part at the joints; and when the mowing-grass began to grow long, picked the cuckoo-flowers and nibbled the stalk and leaflets to essay the cress-like taste. In the garden, which was full of old-fashioned shrubs and herbs, she watched the bees busy at the sweet-scented 'honey-plant,' and sometimes peered under the sage-bush to look at the 'effets' that hid there. By the footpath through the meadows there were now small places where the mowers had tried their new scythes as they came home, a little warm with ale perhaps, from the market town. They cut a yard or two of grass as they went through the fields, just to get the swing of the scythe and as a hint to the farmer that it was time to begin. With the first June rose in the hedge the haymaking commenced--the two usually coincide--and then Cicely fluctuated between the haymakers and the mowers, now watching one and now the other. One of the haymaking girls was very proud because she had not lost a single wooden tooth out of her rake, for it is easy to break or pull them out. In the next field the mowers, one behind the other in echelon, left each his swathe as he went. The tall bennets with their purplish anthers, the sorrel, and the great white 'moon-daisies' fell before them. Cicely would watch till perhaps the sharp scythe cut a frog, and the poor creature squealed with the pain. Then away along the hedge to the pond in the corner, all green with 'creed,' or duckweed, when one of the boys about the place would come timidly up to offer a nest of eggs just taken, and if she would speak to him would tell her about his exploits 'a-nisting,' about the bombarrel tit--a corruption apparently of nonpareil--and how he had put the yellow juice of the celandine on his 'wurrut' to cure it. Then they pulled the plantain leaves, those that grew by the path, to see which could draw out the longest 'cat-gut;' the sinews, as it were, of the plant stretching out like the strings of a fiddle. In the next meadow the cows had just been turned into fresh grass, and were lazily rioting in it. They fed in the sunshine with the golden buttercups up above their knees, literally wading in gold, their horns as they held their heads low just visible among the flowers. Some that were standing in the furrows were hidden up to their middles by the buttercups. Their sleek roan and white hides contrasted with the green grass and the sheen of the flowers: one stood still, chewing the cud, her square face expressive of intense content, her beautiful eye--there is no animal with a more beautiful eye than the cow--following Cicely's motions. At this time of the year, as they grazed far from the pens, the herd were milked in the corner of the field, instead of driving them to the yard. One afternoon Cicely came quietly through a gap in the hedge by this particular corner, thinking to laugh at Aaron's voice, for he milked there and sang to the cows, when she saw him sitting on the three-legged milking-stool, stooping in the attitude of milking, with the bucket between his knees, but firm asleep, and quite alone in his glory. He had had too much ale, and dropped asleep while milking the last cow, and the herd had left him and marched away in stately single file down to the pond, as they always drink after the milking. Cicely stole away and said nothing; but presently Aaron was missed and a search made, and he was discovered by the other men still sleeping. Poor 'young Aaron' got into nearly as much disgrace through the brown jug as a poaching uncle of his through his ferrets and wires. When the moon rose full and lit up the Overboro'-road as bright as day, and the children came out from the cottages to their play, Cicely, though she did not join, used to watch their romping dances and picked up the old rhymes they chanted. When the full moon shone in at her bedroom window, Cicely was very careful to turn away or cover her face; for she had heard one of the mowers declare that after sleeping on the hay in the moonlight one night he woke up in the morning almost blind. Besides the meadows around Lucketts' Place, she sometimes wandered further to the edge of Hilary's great open arable fields, where the green corn, before it came out in ear, seemed to flutter, flutter like innumerable tiny flags, as the wind rushed over it. She learned to rub the ripe ears in her hands to work the grain out of the husk, and then to winnow away the chaff by letting the corn slowly drop in a stream from one palm to the other, blowing gently with her mouth the while. The grain remained on account of its weight, the chaff floating away, and the wheat, still soft though fully formed, could thus be pleasantly tasted. The plaintive notes of the yellowhammer fell from the scanty trees of the wheat-field hedge, and the ploughboy who was put there to frighten away the rooks told her the bird said, repeating the song over and over again, 'A little bit of bread and _no_ cheese.' And indeed these syllables, with a lengthening emphasis on the 'no,' come ludicrously near to represent the notes. The ploughboy understood them very well, for to have only a hunch of bread and little or no cheese was often his own case. Two meadows distant from the lower woods of the Chace there is what seems from afar a remarkably wide hedge irregularly bordered with furze. But on entering a gateway in it you find a bridge over a brook, which for some distance flows with a hedge on either side. The low parapet of the bridge affords a seat--one of Cicely's favourite haunts--whence in spring it is pleasant to look up the brook; for the banks sloping down from the bushes to the water are yellow with primroses, and hung over with willow boughs. As the brook is straight, the eye can see under these a long way up; and presently a kingfisher, bright with azure and ruddy hues, comes down the brook, flying but just above the surface on which his reflection travels too. He perches for a moment on a branch close to the bridge, but the next sees that he is not alone, and instantly retreats with a shrill cry. A moorhen ventures forth from under the arches, her favourite hiding-place, and feeds among the weeds by the shore, but at the least movement rushes back to shelter. A wood-pigeon comes over, flying slowly; he was going to alight on the ash tree yonder, but suddenly espying some one under the cover of the boughs increases his pace and rises higher. Two bright bold bullfinches pass; they have a nest somewhere in the thick hawthorn. A jay, crossing from the fir plantations, stays awhile in the hedge, and utters his loud harsh scream like the tearing of linen. For a few hours the winds are still and the sunshine broods warm over the mead. It is a delicious snatch of spring. Every now and then a rabbit emerges from the burrows which are scattered thickly along the banks, and, passing among the primroses, goes through the hedge into the border of furze, and thence into the meadow-grass. Some way down the brook they are so numerous as to have destroyed the vegetation on the banks, excepting a few ferns, by their constant movements and scratching of the sand; so that there is a small warren on either side of the water. It is said that they occasionally swim across the broad brook, which is much too wide to jump; but I have never seen such a thing but once. A rabbit already stung with shot and with a spaniel at his heels did once leap at the brook here, and, falling short, swam the remainder without apparent trouble, and escaped into a hole on the opposite shore with his wet fur laid close to the body. But they usually cross at the bridge, where the ground bears the marks of their incessant nightly travels to and fro. Passing now in the other direction, up the stream from the bridge, the hedges after a while cease, and the brook winds through the open fields. Here there is a pond, to which at night the heron resorts; for he does not care to trust himself between the high hedgerows. In the still shallow, but beyond reach, there floats on the surface a small patch of green vegetation formed of the treble leaves of the water crow-foot. Towards June it will be a brilliant white spot. The slender stems uphold the cup-like flowers two or three inches above the surface, the petals of the purest white with a golden centre. They are the silver buttercups of the brook. Where the current flows slowly the long and somewhat spear-shaped leaves of the water-plantain stand up, and in the summer will be surmounted by a tall stalk with three small pale pink petals on its branches. The leaf can be written on with a pencil, the point tracing letters by removing the green colouring where it passes. Far larger are the leaves of the water-docks; they sometimes attain to immense size. By the bank the 'wild willow,' or water-betony, with its woody stem, willow-shaped leaves, and pale red flowers, grows thickly. Across where there is a mud-bank the stout stems of the willow herb are already tall. They quite cover the shoal, and line the brook like shrubs. They are the strongest and the most prominent of all the brook plants. At the end of March or beginning of April the stalks appear a few inches high, and they gradually increase in size, until in July they reach above the waist, and form a thicket by the shore. Not till July does the flower open, so that, though they make so much show of foliage, it is months before any colour brightens it. The red flower comes at the end of a pod, and has a tiny white cross within it; it is welcome, because by August so many of the earlier flowers are fading. The country folk call it the sod-apple, and say the leaves crushed in the fingers have something of the scent of apple-pie. Farther up the stream, where a hawthorn bush shelters it, stands a knotted fig-wort with a square stem and many branches, each with small velvety flowers. If handled, the leaves emit a strong odour, like the leaves of the elder-bush; it is a coarse-growing plant, and occasionally reaches to a height of between four and five feet, with a stem more than half an inch square. Some ditches are full of it. By the rushes the long purple spike of the loose-strife rises, and on the mud-banks among the willows there grows a tall plant with bunches of flower, the petals a bright yellow: this is the yellow loose-strife. Near it is a herb with a much-divided leaf, and curious flowers like small yellow buttons. Rub one of these gently, and it will give forth a most peculiar perfume--aromatic, and not to be compared with anything else; the tansy once scented will always be recognised. The large rough leaves of the wild comfrey grow in bunches here and there; the leaves are attached to the stem for part of their length, and the stem is curiously flanged. The bells are often greenish, sometimes white, occasionally faintly lilac; they are partly hidden under the dark-green leaves. Where undisturbed the comfrey grows to a great size, the stems becoming very thick. Green flags hide and almost choke the shallow mouth of a streamlet that joins the brook coming from the woods. Though green above, the flag where it enters its sheath is white. Tracing it upwards, the brook becomes narrower and the stream less, though running more swiftly; and here there is a marshy spot with willows, and between them some bulrushes and great bunches of bullpolls. This coarse grass forms tufts or cushions, on which snakes often coil in the sunshine. Yet though so rough, in June the bullpoll sends up tall slender stalks with graceful feathery heads, reed-like, surrounded with long ribbons of grass. In the ditches hereabout, and beside the brook itself, the meadow-sweet scents the air; the country-folk call it 'meadow-soot.' And in those ditches are numerous coarse stems and leaves which, if crushed in the fingers, yield a strong parsnip-like smell. The water-parsnip, which is poisonous, is said to be sometimes gathered for watercress; but the palate must be dull, one would think, to eat it, and the smell is a sure test. The blue flower of the brooklime is not seen here; you must look for it where the springs break forth, where its foliage sometimes quite conceals the tiny rill. These flowers do not, of course, all appear together; but they may be all found in the summer season along the brook, and you should begin to look for them when the brown scum, that sign of coming warmth, rises from the bottom of the waters. Returning to the pond, it may be noticed that the cart-horses when they walk in of a summer's day paw the stream, as if they enjoyed the cool sound of the splash; but the cows stand quite still with the water up to their knees. There is a spot by a yet more quiet bridge, where the little water-shrews play to and fro where the bank overhangs. As they dive and move under water the reddish-brown back looks of a lighter colour; when they touch the ground they thrust their tiny nostrils up just above the surface. There are many holes of water-rats, but no one would imagine how numerous these latter creatures are. One of Hilary's sons, Hugh, kept some ferrets, and in the summer was put to it to find them enough food. The bird-keepers brought in a bird occasionally, and there were cruel rumours of a cat having disappeared. Still there was not sufficient till he hit on the idea of trapping the water-rats; and this is how he did it. He took three small twigs and ran them into the bank of the brook at the mouth of the water-rat's hole and just beneath the surface of the stream. These made a platform upon which the gin was placed--the pan, and indeed all the trap, just under the water, which prevented any scent. Whether the rat came out of his hole and plunged to dive or started to swim, or whether he came swimming noiselessly round the bend and was about to enter the burrow, it made no difference; he was certain to pass over and throw the gin. The instant the teeth struck him he gave a jump which lifted the trap off the twig platform, and it immediately sank in the deep water and soon drowned him; for the water-rat, though continually diving, can only stay a short time under water. It proved a fatal contrivance, chiefly, as was supposed, because the gin, being just under the water, could not be smelt. No fewer than eleven rats were thus captured in succession at the mouth of one hole. Altogether 150 were taken in the course of that summer. Hugh kept a record of them by drawing a stroke with chalk for every rat on the red brick wall of the stable, near his ferret-hutch. He only used a few traps--one was set not at a hole, but at a sharp curve of the brook--and the whole of these rats were taken in a part of the brook about 250 or 300 yards in length, just where it ran through a single field. The great majority were water-rats, but there were fifteen or twenty house-rats among them: these were very thin though large, and seemed to be caught as they were migrating; for sometimes several were trapped the same day, and then none (of this kind) for a week or more. Three moorhens were also caught; a fourth was only held by its claw in the gin; this one, not being in the least injured, he let go again. It had been observed previously that the water-rats, either in making their burrows or for food, gnawed off the young withy-stoles underneath the ground in the withy-beds, and thus killed a considerable amount of withy; but after all this slaughter the withy-beds recovered and bore the finest crop they ever grew. But who could have imagined in walking by the brook that only in its course through a single meadow it harboured 150 rats? Probably, though, some of them came up or down the stream. The ferrets fared sumptuously all the summer. CHAPTER III. A PACK OF STOATS. BIRDS. The sweet scent from a beanfield beside the road caused me to linger one summer morning in a gateway under the elms. A gentle south wind came over the beans, bearing with it the odour of their black-and-white bloom. The Overboro' road ran through part of the Okebourne property (which was far too extensive to be enclosed in a ring fence), and the timber had therefore been allowed to grow so that there was an irregular avenue of trees for some distance. I faced the beanfield, which was on the opposite side, leaning back against the gate which led into some of Hilary's wheat. The silence of the highway, the soft wind, the alternate sunshine and shade as the light clouds passed over, induced a dreamy feeling; and I cannot say how long I had been there when something seemed as it were to cross the corners of my half-closed eyes. Looking up I saw three stoats gallop across the road, not more than ten yards away. They issued from under the footpath, which was raised and had a drain through it to relieve the road of flood-water in storm. The drain was faced with a flat stone, with a small round hole cut in it. Coming from the wheat at my back, the stoats went down into the ditch; thence entered the short tunnel under the footpath, and out at its stone portal, over the road to the broad sward on the opposite side; then along a furrow in the turf to the other hedge, and so into the beanfield. They galloped like racehorses straining for the victory; the first leading, the second but a neck behind, and the third not half a length. The smooth road rising slightly in the centre showed them well; and thus, with the neck stretched out in front and the tail extended in the rear, the stoat appears much longer than on a mound or in the grass. A second or so afterwards two more started from the same spot; but I was perhaps in the act to move, for before they had gone three yards they saw me and rushed back to the drain. After a few minutes the larger of these two, probably the male, ventured forth again and reached the middle of the road, when he discovered that his more timorous companion had not followed but was only just peeping out. He stopped and elevated his neck some five or six inches, planting the fore-feet so as to lift him up high to see round, while his hindquarters were flush with the road, quite flat in the dust in which his tail was trailing. His reddish body and white neck, the clear-cut head, the sharp ears, and dark eye were perfectly displayed in that erect attitude. As his companion still hesitated he cried twice, as if impatiently, 'check, check'--a sound like placing the tongue against the teeth and drawing it away. But she feared to follow, and he returned to her. Thinking they would attempt to cross again presently, I waited quietly. A lark came over from the wheat, and, alighting, dusted herself in the road, hardly five yards from the mouth of the drain, and was there some minutes. A robin went still closer--almost opposite the hole; both birds apparently quite unconscious of the bloodthirsty creatures concealed within it. Some time passed, but the two stoats did not come out, and I saw no more of them: they probably retreated to the wheat as I left the gateway, and would remain there till the noise and jar of my footsteps had ceased in the distance. Examining the road, there was a trail where the first three had crossed in quick succession. In the thick white dust their swift feet had left a line drawn roughly yet lightly, the paws leaving not an exact but an elongated, ill-defined impression. But where the fourth stopped, elevated his neck, and cried to his mate, there was a perfect print of the fore-feet side by side. So slight a track would be obliterated by the first cart that came by. Till that day I had never seen so many as five stoats together hunting in a pack. It would seem as if stoats and weasels had regular routes; for I now recollected that in the previous winter, when the snow was on the ground, I surprised two weasels almost exactly in the same spot. At other times, too, I have seen solitary stoats and weasels (which may have had companions in the hedge) hunting along that mound, both before and since. I was at first going to tell Hilary about the pack, but afterwards refrained, as he would at once proceed to set up gins in the run, while I thought I should like to see the animals again. But I got him to talk about stoats and weasels, and found that he had not himself seen so many together. There was, however, a man about the place who told a tale of some weasels he had seen. It was 'that rascal old Aaron;' but he could not listen to such a fellow. Hilary would tell me nothing further, having evidently a strong dislike to the man. It seems there were two Aarons--uncle and nephew: old Aaron was the arch-poacher of the parish, young Aaron worked regularly at Lucketts' Place. This young labourer (the man who fell asleep on the milking-stool) was one of the best of his class--a great, powerful fellow, but good-natured, willing, and pleasant to speak to. He was a favourite with many, and with reason, for he had a gentleness of manner beyond his station; and, till you knew his weakness, you could not but take an interest in him. His vice was drink. He was always down at Lucketts' Place; and through him I made acquaintance with his disreputable uncle, who was at first rather shy of me, for he had seen me about with Hilary, and between the two there was a mortal feud. Old Aaron could not keep out of Okebourne Chace, and Hilary was 'down' upon him. Hilary was, indeed, keener than the keepers. The old poacher saw the weasels in the 'Pitching.' This was a private lane, which ran through the recesses of the Chace where the wood was thickest and most secluded. It had been made for the convenience of communication between the upper and lower farms, and for hauling timber; the gates at each end being kept locked. In one place the lane descended the steepest part of the wooded hill, and in frosty weather it was not easy even to walk down it there. Sarsen stones, gathered out of the way of the plough in the arable fields, had been thrown down in it at various times with the object of making a firm bottom. Rounded and smooth and very hard, these stones, irregularly placed, with gaps and intervals, when slippery with hoar frost were most difficult to walk on. Once or twice men out hunting had been known to gallop down this hill: the extreme of headlong bravado; for if there was any frost it was sure to linger in that shady lane, and a slip of the iron-shod hoof could scarcely fail to result in a broken neck. It was like riding down a long steep flight of steps. Aaron one day was engaged with his ferret and nets in the Pitching, just at the bottom of the hill, where there grew a quantity of brake-fern as tall as the shoulder. It was shrivelled and yellow, but thick enough to give him very good cover. Every now and then he looked out into the lane to see if any one was about, and on one of these occasions saw what he imagined at first to be a colony of rats migrating; but when they came near, racing down the lane, he found they were weasels. He counted fourteen, and thought there were one or two more. Aaron also told me a curious incident that happened to him very early one morning towards the beginning of spring. The snow was on the ground and the moon was shining brightly as he got on the railway (a few miles from Okebourne) and walked some distance up it: he did not say what for, but probably as the nearest way to a cover. As he entered a deep cutting where the line came round a sharp curve he noticed strange spots upon the snow, and upon examination found it was blood. For the moment he thought there had been an accident; but shortly afterwards he picked up a hare's pad severed from the leg, and next a hare's head, and presently came on a quantity of similar fragments, all fresh. He collected them, and found they had belonged to six hares which had been cut to pieces by a passing train. The animals were so mutilated as not to be of the least use. When I told Hilary of this, he at once pronounced it impossible, and nothing but one of Aaron's lies. On reflection, however, I am not so sure that it is impossible, nor can I see any reason why the old poacher should invent a falsehood of the kind. It was just a time of the year when hares are beginning to go 'mad,' and, as they were not feeding but playing together, they might have strayed up the line just as they do along roads. Most persons must have observed how quietly a train sometimes steals up--so quietly as to be inaudible: a fact that has undoubtedly been the death of many unfortunates. Now, just at this spot there was a sharp curve, and if the driver shut off steam as he ran round it the train very likely came up without a sound. The sides of the cutting being very steep, the hares, when at last they perceived their danger, would naturally rush straight away along the metals. Coming at great speed, the engine would overtake and destroy them: a miserable end for the poor creatures in the midst of their moonlight frolic. But what Aaron laid stress on was the fact that he could not even sell the skins, they were so cut to pieces. The rooks' nests in the Chace were very numerous, and were chiefly built in elm trees, but some in tall spruce firs. It was easy to know when the birds had paired, as a couple of rooks could then be often seen perched gravely side by side upon an old nest in the midst of leafless boughs, deliberating about its repair. There were some poplars near a part of the rookery, and when the nests were fully occupied with young the old birds frequently alighted on the very top of an adjacent poplar. The slender brush-like tip of the tree bent with their weight, curving over like a whip, to spring up when they left. The rooks were fond of maize, boldly descending among the poultry kept in a rickyard within a short distance of their trees. If any one has a clump of trees in which rooks seem inclined to build and it is desired to encourage them, it would appear a good plan to establish a poultry-yard in the same field. They are certain to visit the spot. One day I watched a rook pursuing a swift and making every effort to overtake and strike it. The rook displayed great power of wing, twisting and turning, now descending or turning on one side to glide more rapidly, and uttering short 'caws' of eagerness or anger; but, just eluding the heavy rush of its pursuer, the swift doubled and darted away before it, as if tempting the enemy to charge, and then enjoying his disappointment. Several other swifts wheeled above at a distance, apparently watching. These evolutions lasted some minutes, rook and swift rising higher and higher into the air until, tired of being chased, the swift went straight away at full speed, easily outstripping the rook, which soon desisted from the attempt to follow. When birds are thus combating, the chief aim of each is to get above the other, as any elevation gives an advantage. This may be continually noticed in spring, when fighting is always going on, and is as characteristic of the small birds as the larger. At first I thought it was a crow after the swift, but came to the conclusion that it must be a rook because the battle began over the rookery and afterwards the aggressor sailed away to where some rooks were feeding. Nor would a crow have exhibited such agility of wing. Swallows often buffet a crow; but this was a clear case of a rook attacking. In the country rooks never perch on houses, and but seldom on sheds, unless fresh thatched, when they come to examine the straw, as also on the ricks. But in Brighton, which is a treeless locality, a rook may sometimes be seen on a chimney-pot in the midst of the town, and the pinnacles of the Pavilion are a favourite resort; a whole flock of rooks and jackdaws often wheel about the domes of that building. At the Chace a rook occasionally mounted on a molehill recently thrown up and scattered the earth right and left with his bill--striking now to one side and now to the other. Hilary admitted that rooks destroyed vast quantities of grubs and creeping things, but was equally positive that they feasted on grain; and indeed it could not be denied that a crop of wheat almost ripe is a very favourite resort of a flock. He had seen rooks carry away ears of wheat detached from the stalk to an open spot for better convenience. They would follow the dibbling machine, taking each grain of seed-wheat in succession, guided to the exact spot by the slight depression made by the dibble. Every evening all the rooks of the neighbourhood gathered into vast flocks and returned to roost in the woods of the Chace. But one winter afternoon there came on the most dense fog that had been known for a length of time, and a flock of rooks on their way as usual to the Chace stopped all night in a clump of trees on the farm a mile from the roosting-place. This the oldest labourer had never known them do before. In the winter just past (1879-80) there were several very thick fogs during sharp frost. One afternoon I noticed a small flock of starlings which seemed unable to find their way home to the copse where I knew vast numbers of them roosted. This flock as it grew dusk settled in an elm by the roadside, then removed to another, shaking down the rime from the branches, and a third time wheeled round and perched in an oak. At that hour on ordinary days the starlings would all have been flying fast in a straight line for the copse, but these were evidently in doubt and did not know which direction to take. Hilary disliked to see the wood-pigeons in his wheat-fields: the wood-pigeon beats the grains out of a wheat-ear with the bill, striking it while on the ground. The sparrows, again, clear the standing wheat-ears, which at a little distance look thin and disarranged, and when handled are empty. There were many missel-thrushes about the Chace; they are fond of a wooded district. They pack together in summer and part in winter--just opposite in that respect to so many other birds, which separate in warm weather and congregate as it grows cold, so that the lower the temperature the larger the flock. In winter and spring the missel-thrushes fly alone or not more than two together. After their young have left the nest they go in small packs. I saw ten or twelve rise from an arable field on the 18th of June last year; there do not often seem to be more than a dozen together. I have counted ten in a pack on the 16th of September, and seven together as late as the 2nd of October. Soon after that they appear to separate and act on their individual wishes. Starlings in like manner pack after their young can fly, but then they do not separate in autumn. It may be remarked that by autumn the young missel-thrushes would not only fly well, but would have been educated by the old birds, and would have come to maturity. Their natural independence might then come into play. But these are effects rather than causes, besides which I think birds and animals often act from custom rather than for advantage. Among men customs survive for centuries after the original meaning has been lost. I had always been told by country people that the missel-thrush was a solitary bird, and when I first observed a pack and mentioned it some incredulity was expressed. Very naturally in summer people do not see much but hay and wheat. It was noticed on the farms about the Chace in the springs of 1878 and 1879 that the corncrakes, which had formerly been so numerous and proclaimed their presence so loudly, were scarcely heard at all. It is a little outside my subject, since it did not occur in the Chace, but the other day a friend was telling me how he had been hunted by bucks while riding a bicycle. He was passing through a forest in the summer, when he suddenly became aware of six or seven bucks coming down a glade after him. The track being rough he could not ride at full speed--probably they would have outstripped him even if he had been able to do so--and they were overtaking him rapidly. As they came up he saw that they meant mischief, and fearing a bad fall he alighted by a tree, behind which he thought to dodge them. But no sooner did he touch the ground than the bucks so furiously rushing after him stopped dead in their career; he stepped towards them, and directly they saw him walking they retreated hastily to a distance. The first berries to go as the autumn approaches are those of the mountain-ash. Both blackbirds and thrushes began to devour the pale-red bunches hanging on the mountain-ashes as early as the 4th of September last year. Starlings are fond of elder-berries: a flock alighting on a bush black with ripe berries will clear the bunches in a very short time. Haws, or peggles, which often quite cover the hawthorn bushes, are not so general a food as the fruit of the briar. Hips are preferred; at least, the fruit of the briar is the first of the two to disappear. The hip is pecked open (by thrushes, redwings, and blackbirds) at the tip, the seeds extracted, and the part where it is attached to the stalk left, just as if the contents had been sucked out. Greenfinches, too, will eat hips. Haws are often left even after severe frosts; sometimes they seem to shrivel or blacken, and may not perhaps be palatable then. Missel-thrushes and wood-pigeons eat them. Last winter in the stress of the sharp and continued frosts the greenfinches were driven in December to swallow the shrivelled blackberries still on the brambles. The fruity part of the berries was of course gone, and nothing remained but the seeds or pips, dry and hard as wood; they were reduced to feeding on this wretched food. Perhaps the last of the seeds available are those of the docks. This is well known to bird-fowlers, and on a dry day in January they take two large bunches of docks--'red docks' they call them--tied round the centre like faggots and well smeared at the top with birdlime. These are placed on the ground, by a hedge, and near them a decoy goldfinch in a cage. Goldfinches eat dock-seed, and if any approach the decoy-bird calls. The wild bird descends from the hedge to feed on the dock-seed and is caught. Goldfinches go in pairs all the winter and work along the hedges together. In spring the young green buds upon the hawthorn are called 'cuckoo's bread and cheese' by the ploughboys. CHAPTER IV. HAMLET FOLK. It happened one Sunday morning in June that a swarm of bees issued from a hive in a cottage garden near Okebourne church. The queen at first took up her position in an elm tree just outside the churchyard, where a large cluster of bees quickly depended from a bough. Being at a great height the cottager could not take them, and, anxious not to lose the swarm, he resorted to the ancient expedient of rattling fire-tongs and shovel together in order to attract them by the clatter. The discordant banging of the fire-irons resounded in the church, the doors being open to admit the summer air; and the noise became so uproarious that the clerk presently, at a sign from the rector, went out to stop it, for the congregation were in a grin. He did stop it, the cottager desisting with much reluctance; but, as if to revenge the bee-master's wrongs, in the course of the day the swarm, quitting the elm, entered the church and occupied a post in the roof. After a while it was found that the swarm had finally settled there, and were proceeding to build combs and lay in a store of honey. The bees, indeed, became such a terror to nervous people, buzzing without ceremony over their heads as they stood up to sing, and caused such a commotion and buffeting with Prayer-books and fans and handkerchiefs, that ultimately the congregation were compelled to abandon their pews. All efforts to dislodge the bees proving for the time ineffectual, the rector had a temporary reading-desk erected in the porch, and there held the service, the congregation sitting on chairs and forms in the yard, and some on the stone tombs, and even on the sward under the shade of the yew tree. In the warm dry hay-making weather this open-air worship was very pleasant, the flowers in the grass and the roses in the little plots about the tombs giving colour and sweet odours, while the swallows glided gracefully overhead and sometimes a blackbird whistled. The bees, moreover, interfered with the baptisms, and even caused several marriages to be postponed. Inside the porch was a recess where the women left their pattens in winter, instead of clattering iron-shod down the aisle. Okebourne village was built in an irregular way on both sides of a steep coombe, just at the verge of the hills, and about a mile from the Chace; indeed, the outlying cottages bordered the park wall. The most melancholy object in the place was the ruins of a windmill; the sails and arms had long disappeared, but the wooden walls, black and rotting, remained. The windmill had its genius, its human representative--a mere wreck, like itself, of olden times. There never was a face so battered by wind and weather as that of old Peter, the owner of the ruin. His eyes were so light a grey as to appear all but colourless. He wore a smock-frock the hue of dirt itself, and his hands were ever in his pockets as he walked through rain and snow beside his cart, hauling flints from the pits upon the Downs. If the history of the cottage-folk is inquired into it will often be found that they have descended from well-to-do positions in life--not from extravagance or crime, or any remarkable piece of folly, but simply from a long-continued process of muddling away money. When the windmill was new, Peter's forefathers had been, for village people well off. The family had never done anything to bring themselves into disgrace; they had never speculated; but their money had been gradually muddled away, leaving the last little better than a labourer. To see him crawling along the road by his load of flints, stooping forward, hands in pocket, and then to glance at the distant windmill, likewise broken down, the roof open, and the rain and winds rushing through it, was a pitiful spectacle. For that old building represented the loss of hope and contentment in life as much as any once lordly castle whose battlements are now visited only by the jackdaw. The family had, as it were, foundered and gone down. How they got the stray cattle into the pound it is difficult to imagine; for the gate was very narrow, and neither bullocks nor horses like being driven into a box. The copings of the wall on one side had been pushed over, and lay in a thick growth of nettles: this, almost the last of old village institutions, was, too, going by degrees to destruction. Every hamlet used to have its representative fighting-man--often more than one--who visited the neighbouring villages on the feast days, when there was a good deal of liquor flowing, to vaunt of their prowess before the local champions. These quickly gathered, and after due interchange of speeches not unlike the heroes of Homer, who harangue each other ere they hurl the spear, engaged in conflict dire. There was a regular feud for many years between the Okebourne men and the Clipstone 'chaps;' and never did the stalwart labourers of those two villages meet without falling to fisticuffs with right goodwill. Nor did they like each other at all the worse, and after the battle drank deeply from the same quart cups. Had these encounters found an historian to put them upon record, they would have read something like the wars (without the bloodshed) between the little Greek cities, whose population scarcely exceeded that of a village, and between which and our old villages there exists a certain similarity. A simplicity of sentiment, an unconsciousness as it were of themselves, strong local attachments and hatreds, these they had in common, and the Okebourne and Clipstone men thwacked and banged each other's broad chests in true antique style. Hilary said that when he was a boy almost all the cottages in the place had a man or woman living in them who had attained to extreme old age. He reckoned up cottage after cottage to me in which he had known old folk up to and over eighty years of age. Of late the old people seemed to have somehow died out: there were not nearly so many now. Okebourne Wick, a little hamlet of fifteen or twenty scattered houses, was not more than half a mile from Lucketts' Place; on the Overboro' road, which passed it, was a pleasant roadside inn, where, under the sign of The Sun, very good ale was sold. Most of the farmers dropped in there now and then, not so much for a glass as a gossip, and no one from the neighbouring villages or from Overboro' town ever drove past without stopping. In the 'tap' of an evening you might see the labourers playing at 'chuck-board,' which consists in casting a small square piece of lead on to certain marked divisions of a shallow tray-like box placed on the trestle-table. The lead, being heavy, would stay where it fell; the rules I do not know, but the scene reminded me of the tric-trac contests depicted by the old Dutch painters. Young Aaron was very clever at it. He pottered round the inn of an evening and Saturday afternoons, doing odd jobs in the cellar with the barrels; for your true toping spirit loves to knock the hoops and to work about the cask, and carry the jugs in answer to the cry for some more 'tangle-legs'--for thus they called the strong beer. Sometimes a labourer would toast his cheese on a fork in the flame of the candle. In the old days, before folk got so choice of food and delicate of palate, there really seemed no limit to the strange things they ate. Before the railways were made, herds of cattle had of course to travel the roads, and often came great distances. The drovers were at the same time the hardiest and the roughest of men in that rough and hardy time. As night came on, after seeing their herd safe in a field, they naturally ate their supper at the adjacent inn. Then sometimes, as a dainty treat with which to finish his meal, a drover would call for a biscuit, large and hard, as broad as his hand, and, taking the tallow candle, proceed to drip the grease on it till it was well larded and soaked with the melted fat. At that date, before the Government stamp had been removed from newspapers, the roadside inn was the centre and focus of all intelligence. When the first railway was constructed up in the North the Okebourne folk, like the rest of the world, were with good reason extremely curious about this wonderful invention, and questioned every passer-by eagerly for information. But no one could describe it, till at last a man, born in the village, but who had been away for some years soldiering, returned to his native place. He had been serving in Canada and came through Liverpool, and thus saw the marvel of the age. At the Sun the folk in the evening crowded round him, and insisted upon knowing what a steam-engine was like. He did his best to describe it, but in vain; they wanted a familiar illustration, and could not be satisfied till the soldier, by a happy inspiration, said the only thing to which he could compare a locomotive was a great cannon on a timber-carriage. To us who are so accustomed to railways it seems a singular idea; but, upon reflection, it was not so inapt, considering that the audience had seen or heard something of cannons, and were well acquainted with timber-carriages. The soldier wished to convey the notion of a barrel or boiler mounted on wheels. They kept up the institution of the parish constable, as separate and distinct from the policeman, till very recently at Okebourne, though it seems to have lapsed long since in many country places. One year Hilary, with much shrugging of shoulders, was forced into the office; and during his term there was a terrible set-to between two tribes of gipsies in the Overboro' road. They fought like tigers, making the lovely summer day hideous with their cries and shrieks--the women, the fiercer by far, tearing each other's hair. One fiendish creature drew her scissors, and, using them like a stiletto, drove the sharp point into a sister 'gip's' head. 'Where's the constable?' was the cry. Messengers rushed to Lucketts' Place; the barn, the sheds, the hayfield, all were searched in vain--Hilary had quite disappeared. At the very first sound he had slipped away to look at some cattle in Chequer's Piece, the very last and outlying field of the farms, full a mile away, and when the messengers got to Chequer's Piece of course he was up on the Down. So much for the parish constable's office--an office the farmers shirked whenever they could, and would not put in force when compelled to accept it. How could a resident willingly go into a neighbour's cottage and arrest him without malice and scandal being engendered? If he did his duty he was abused; if he did not do it, it was hinted that he favoured the offender. As for the 'gip' who was stabbed, nothing more was heard of it; she 'traipsed' off with the rest. Sometimes when the 'tangle-legs' got up into their heads the labourers felt an inclination to resume the ancient practices of their fore-fathers. Then you might see a couple facing each other in the doorway, each with his mug in one hand, and the other clenched, flourishing their knuckles. 'Thee hit I.' 'Thee come out in th' road and I'll let thee knaw.' The one knew very well that the other dared not strike him in the house, and the other felt certain that, however entreated, nothing would induce his opponent to accept the invitation and 'come out into th' road.' The shadows of the elm have so far to fall that they become enlarged and lose the edge upon reaching the ground. I noticed this one moonlight night in early June while sitting on a stile where the footpath opened on the Overboro' road. Presently I heard voices, and immediately afterwards a group came round the curve of the highway. There were three cottage women, each with a basket and several packages; having doubtless been into Overboro' town shopping, for it was Saturday. They walked together in a row; and in front of them, about five yards ahead, came a burly labourer of the same party, carrying in his arms a large clock. He had taken too much ale, and staggered as he walked, two steps aside to one forward, and indeed could hardly keep upright. His efforts to save himself and the clock from destruction led to some singular flexures of the body, and his feet traced a maze as he advanced, hugging the clock to his chest. The task was too much for his over-taxed patience: just opposite the stile he stood still, held his load high over his head, and shouting, 'Dang th' clock!' hurled it with all his force thirty feet against the mound, at the same time dropping a-sprawl. The women, without the least excitement or surprise, quietly endeavoured to assist him up; and, as he resisted, one of them remarked in the driest matter-of-fact tone, 'Ourn be just like un--as contrary as the wind.' She alluded to her own husband. When I mentioned this incident afterwards to Mrs. Luckett, she said the troubles the cottage women underwent on account of the 'beer' were past belief. One woman who did some work at the farmhouse kept her cottage entirely by her own exertions; her husband doing nothing but drink. He took her money from her by force, nor could she hide it anywhere but what he would hunt it out. At last in despair she dropped the silver in the jug on the wash-hand basin, and had the satisfaction of seeing him turn everything topsy-turvy in a vain attempt to find it. As he never washed, it never occurred to him to look in the water-jug. The cottage women when they went into Overboro' shopping, she said, were the despair of the drapers. A woman, with two or three more to chorus her sentiments, would go into a shop and examine half-a-dozen dress fabrics, rubbing each between her work-hardened fingers and thumb till the shopkeeper winced, expecting to see it torn. After trying several and getting the counter covered she would push them aside, contemptuously remarking, 'I don't like this yer shallygallee (flimsy) stuff. Haven't'ee got any gingham tackle?' Whereat the poor draper would cast down a fresh roll of stoutest material with the reply: 'Here, ma'am. Here's something that will wear like pin-wire.' This did better, but was declared to be 'gallus dear.' Even within recent years, now and then a servant-girl upon entering service at the farmhouse would refuse to touch butcher's meat. She had never tasted anything but bacon at home, and could only be persuaded to eat fresh meat with difficulty, being afraid she should not like it. One girl who came from a lonely cottage in a distant 'coombe-bottom' of the Downs was observed never to write home or attempt to communicate with her parents. She said it was of no use; no postman came near, and the letters they wrote or the letters written to them never reached their destination. 'Coombe-bottom' is a curious duplication--either word being used to indicate a narrow valley or hollow. An unfortunate child who lived there had never been so well since the stone roller went over his head. She had a lover, but he was 'a gurt hummocksing noon-naw,' so she was not sorry to leave him. The phrase might be translated, 'great loose-jointed idiot.' They sometimes had lettuce-pudding for dinner, and thought nothing of eating raw bacon. In the snow the men wound hay-bands round their legs to serve as gaiters, and found it answered admirably. One poor girl had been subject to fits ever since a stupid fellow, during the haymaking, jokingly picked up a snake and threw it round her neck. Yet even in that far-away coombe-bottom they knew enough to put an oyster-shell in the kettle to prevent incrustation. The rules of pronunciation understood about Okebourne seemed to consist in lengthening the syllables that are usually spoken quick, and shortening those that are usually long. Hilary said that years ago it really appeared as if there was something deficient in the organs of the throat among the labourers, for there were words they positively could not pronounce. The word 'reservoir,' for instance, was always 'tezzievoy;' they could not speak the word correctly. He could not explain to me a very common expression among the men when they wished to describe anything unusual or strange for which they had no exact equivalent. It was always 'a sort of a meejick.' By degrees, however, we traced it back to 'menagerie.' The travelling shows of wild beasts at first so much astonished the villagers that everything odd and curious became a menagerie, afterwards corrupted to 'meejick.' 'Caddle no man's cattle' was a favourite proverb with a population who were never in a hurry. 'Like shot out of a show'l,' to express extreme nimbleness, was another. A comfortless, bare apartment was 'gabern;' anything stirred with a pointed instrument was 'ucked'--whether a cow 'ucked' the fogger with her horn or the stable was cleaned out with the fork. The verb 'to uck' was capable indeed of infinite conjugation, and young Aaron, breaking off a bennet, once asked me to kindly 'uck' a grain of hay-dust out of his eye with it. When a heron rose out of the brook 'a moll ern flod away.' With all their apparent simplicity some of the cottage folk were quite up to the value of appearances. Old Aaron had a little shop; he and his wife sold small packets of tea, tobacco, whipcord, and so forth. Sometimes while his wife was weighing out the sugar, old Aaron--wretched old deceiver--would come in rustling a crumpled piece of paper as if it were a banknote, and handing it to her with much impressiveness of manner whisper loudly, 'Now you take un and put un away; and mind you don't mix um. You put he along with the fives and not with the tens.' Hilary once showed me the heel of a boot which had just been mended by the hedge carpenter and cobbler who worked for him; and offered to bet that not all the scientific people in Europe, with microscope, spectrum analysis, all their appliances, could tell what leather the new heel-piece was made of. Unable to guess, I gave it up; it was of bacon. A pig that was never a 'good doer' was found in a ditch dead. There is always a competition among the labourers for a dead pig or sheep; it was the cobbler's turn, and he had it, cut it up, and salted it down. But when in course of time he came to partake of his side of bacon, behold it was so tough and dried up that even he could not gnaw it. The side hung in the cottage for months, for he did not like to throw it away, and could not think what to do with it, for the dogs could not eat it. At last the old fellow hit upon the notion of using it as leather to mend shoes; so half his customers walked about the world on bacon heels. So far as I could discover, the cottage folk did not now use many herbs. They made tea sometimes of the tormentil, whose little yellow flowers appear along the furrows. The leaves of the square-stemmed figwort, which they called 'cresset' or 'cressil,' were occasionally placed on a sore; and the yarrow--locally 'yarra'--was yet held in estimation as a salve or ointment. It would be possible for any one to dwell a long time in the midst of a village, and yet never hear anything of this kind and obtain no idea whatever of the curious mixture of the grotesque, the ignorance and yet cleverness, which go to make up hamlet life. But so many labourers and labouring women were continually in and out of the kitchen at Lucketts' Place that I had an opportunity of gathering these items from Mrs. Luckett and Cicely. Years since they had employed even more labour, before machinery came into use so much: then as many as twenty-four women might have been counted in one hayfield, all in regular rank like soldiers, turning the hay 'wallows' with their rakes. 'There's one thing now you have forgotten,' said Cicely. 'They pick the canker-roses off the briars and carry them in the pocket as a certain preventive of rheumatism.' CHAPTER V. WIND-ANEMONES. THE FISHPOND. The only spot about the Chace where the wind-anemones grew was in a small detached copse of ash-poles nearly a mile from the great woods. Between the stoles, which were rather far apart, the ground was quite covered in spring with dark-green vegetation, so that it was impossible to walk there without treading down the leaves of bluebells, anemones, and similar woodland plants. But if you wished to see the anemones in their full beauty it was necessary to visit the copse frequently; for if you forgot it, or delayed a fortnight, very likely upon returning you would find that their fleeting loveliness was over. Their slender red stems rise but a few inches, and are surrounded with three leaves; the six white petals of the cup-shaped flower droop a little and have a golden centre. Under the petal is a tinge of purple, which is sometimes faintly visible through it. The leaves are not only three in number, but are each cut deeply thrice; they are hardy, but the flower extremely delicate. On the banks dividing the copse from the meadows around it the blue dog-violets, which have no perfume, often opened so large and wide as to resemble pansies. They do not appear like this till just as their flowering time is almost over. The meadows by the copse were small, not more than two or three acres each. One which was marshy was white for weeks together with the lady's-smock or cuckoo-flower. The petals of these flowers are silvery white in some places, in others tinted with lilac. The hues of wild flowers vary with their situation: in shady woodlands the toadflax or butter-and-eggs is often pale--a sulphur colour; upon the Downs it is a deep and beautiful yellow. In a ditch, of this marshy meadow was a great bunch of woodruff, above whose green whorls the white flowers were lifted. Over them the brambles arched, their leaves growing in fives, and each leaf prickly. The bramble-shoots, as they touch the ground, take root and rise again, and thus would soon cross a field were they not cut down. Pheasants were fond of visiting this copse, following the hedgerows to it from the Chace, and they always had one or more nests in it. A green woodpecker took it in his route, though he did not stay long, there not being many trees. These birds seem to have their regular rounds; there are some copses where they are scarcely ever heard. They prefer old trees; where there is much large and decaying timber, there the woodpeckers come. Such little meadows as these about the copse are the favourite resort of birds and the very home of flowers--more so than extensive woods like the Chace, or the open pastures and arable fields. Thick hedgerows attract birds, and behind such cover their motions may be watched. There is, too, more variety of bush and tree. In one such hedgerow leading from the copse the maple-bushes in spring were hung with the green flowers which, though they depend in their season from so many trees, as the oak, are perhaps rarely observed. The elder-bushes in full white bloom scented the air for yards around both by night and day; the white bloom shows on the darkest evening. Besides several crab-stoles--the buds of the crab might be mistaken for thorns growing pointed at the extreme end of the twigs--there was a large crab tree, which bore a plentiful crop. The lads sharpen their knives by drawing the blade slowly to and fro through a crab-apple; the acid of the fruit eats the steel like aquafortis. They hide stores of these crabs in holes in the hayricks, supposing them to improve by keeping. There, too, they conceal quantities of the apples from the old orchards, for the fruit in them is often almost as hard and not much superior in flavour to the crab. These apples certainly become more mellow after several months in the warm hay. A wild 'plum,' or bullace, grew in one place; the plum about twice the size of a sloe, with a bloom upon the skin like the cultivated fruit, but lacking its sweetness. Yet there was a distinct difference of taste: the 'plum' had not got the extreme harshness of the sloe. A quantity of dogwood occupied a corner; in summer it bore a pleasing flower; in the autumn, after the black berries appeared upon it, the leaves became a rich bronze colour, and some when the first frosts touched them curled up at the edge and turned crimson. There were two or three guelder-rose bushes--the wild shrub--which were covered in June with white bloom; not in snowy balls like the garden variety, but flat and circular, the florets at the edge of the circle often whitest, and those in the centre greenish. In autumn the slender boughs were weighed down with heavy bunches of large purplish berries, so full of red juice as to appear on the point of bursting. As these soon disappeared they were doubtless eaten by birds. Besides the hawthorn and briar there were several species of willow--the snake-skin willow, so called because it sheds its bark; the 'snap-willow,' which is so brittle that every gale breaks off its feeble twigs, and pollards. One of these, hollow and old, had upon its top a crowd of parasites. A bramble had taken root there, and hung over the side; a small currant-bush grew freely--both, no doubt, unwittingly planted by birds--and finally the bines of the noxious bitter-sweet or nightshade, starting from the decayed wood, supported themselves among the willow-branches, and in autumn were bright with red berries. Ash-stoles, the buds on whose boughs in spring are hidden under black sheaths; nut-tree stoles, with ever-welcome nuts--always stolen here, but on the Downs, where they are plentiful, staying till they fall; young oak growing up from the butt of a felled tree. On these oak-twigs sometimes, besides the ordinary round galls, there may be found another gall, larger, and formed, as it were, of green scales one above the other. Where shall we find in the artificial and, to my thinking, tasteless pleasure-grounds of modern houses so beautiful a shrubbery as this old hedgerow? Nor were evergreens wanting, for the ivy grew thickly, and there was one holly-bush--not more, for the soil was not affected by holly. The tall cow-parsnip or 'gicks' rose up through the bushes; the great hollow stem of the angelica grew at the edge of the field, on the verge of the grass, but still sheltered by the brambles. Some reeds early in spring thrust up their slender green tubes, tipped with two spear-like leaves. The reed varies in height according to the position in which it grows. If the hedge has been cut it does not reach higher than four or five feet; when it springs from a deep, hollow corner, or with bushes to draw it up, you can hardly touch its tip with your walking-stick. The leaders of the black bryony, lifting themselves above the bushes, and having just there nothing to cling to, twist around each other, and two bines thus find mutual support where one alone would fall of its own weight. In the watery places the sedges send up their dark flowers, dusted with light yellow pollen, rising above the triangular stem with its narrow, ribbed leaf. The reed-sparrow or bunting sits upon the spray over the ditch with its carex grass and rushes; he is a graceful bird, with a crown of glossy black. Hops climb the ash and hang their clusters, which impart an aromatic scent to the hand that plucks them; broad burdock leaves, which the mouchers put on the top of their baskets to shield their freshly gathered watercresses from the sunshine; creeping avens, with buttercup-like flowers and long stems that straggle across the ditch, and in autumn are tipped with a small ball of soft spines; mints, strong-scented and unmistakable; yarrow, white and sometimes a little lilac, whose flower is perhaps almost the last that the bee visits. In the middle of October I have seen a wild bee on a last stray yarrow. On the higher and drier bank some few slender square stems of betony, with leaves in pairs like wings, stand up tall and stiff as the summer advances. The labiate purplish flowers are all at the top; each flower is set in the cup by a curve at the lesser end, like a crook; the leaves and stalk are slightly rough, and have an aromatic bitter perfume when crushed. On the flower of a great thistle a moth has alighted, and hidden under its broad wing is a humble-bee, the two happy together and neither interfering with the other. Sometimes a bee will visit the white rose on the briar. Near the gateway, on the edge of the trodden ground, grows a tall, stout, bushy plant, like a shrub, with pale greyish-green leaves, much lobed and divided: the top of each branch in August is thick with small whitish-green flowers tipped with brown. These, if rubbed in the hand, emit a strong and peculiar scent, with a faint flavour of lavender, and yet quite different. This is the mugwort. Still later on, under the shade of the trees on the mound, there appear bunches of a pale herb, with greenish labiate flowers, and a scent like hops: it is the woodsage, and if tasted the leaf will be found extremely bitter. In the mornings of autumn the webs of the spiders hang along the hedge bowed a little with dew, like hammocks of gossamer slung from thorn to thorn. Then the hedge-sparrows, perching on the topmost boughs of the hawthorn, cry 'peep-peep' mournfully; the heavy dew on the grass beneath arranges itself in two rows of drops along the edges of the blades. From the day when the first leaf appears upon the hardy woodbine, in the early year, to the time when the partridge finds the eggs in the ant-hill, and on again till the last harebell dies, there is always something beautiful or interesting in these great hedgerows. Indeed, it is impossible to exhaust them. I have omitted the wild geranium with its tiny red petals scarce seen in the mass of green, the mosses, the ferns, and have scarcely said a word about the living creatures that haunt it. But then one might begin to write a book about a hedgerow when a boy and find it incomplete in old age. A much-neglected path led from the park through some fir plantations down to the fishpond. After the first turn of the narrow track the close foliage of the firs, through which nothing could be seen, shut out the world with green walls. The strip of blue sky visible above was wider than the path, because the trees sloped away somewhat, their branches shortening towards the top; still it was so contracted that a passing woodpigeon was seen but for a second as he went over. Every step carried me into deeper silence--the sudden call of a jay was startling in its harsh contrast. Presently the path widened where the thickly planted firs were succeeded by sycamores, horse-chestnuts, alders, and aspen--trees which stand farther apart, and beneath which some underwood grew. Here there were thickets of hawthorn and bramble and elder bushes which can find no place among firs. The ground now sloped rapidly down into a hollow, and upon this descent numbers of skeleton leaves were scattered. There was no other spot all over the Chace where they could be seen like this; you might walk for hours and not find one, yet here there were hundreds. Sometimes they covered the ground in layers, several leaves one on the other. In spring violets pushed up through them and blue-bells--sweet hope rising over grey decay. Lower down a large pond almost filled the hollow. It was surrounded on three sides by trees and thickets; on the fourth an irregular margin of marshy grass extended. Floating leaves of weeds covered the surface of the water; these weeds had not been disturbed for years, and there was no check to their growth except their own profusion, for they choked each other. The pond had long ceased to supply fish for the table. Before railways brought the sea so near, such ponds were very useful. At that time almost everything consumed came from the estate itself: the bread, the beef, the mutton, the venison, game, fish, all was supplied by the adjacent woods, the fields, or the water. The lord in old days hunted the deer on his own domain, brought down game with a crossbow or captured it with nets, and fished or netted his own streams and ponds. These great parks and chaces enclosed everything, so that it was within easy reach of his own door. Sometimes the lord and his visitors strolled out to see the fishponds netted. This pond had originally been one of a series, but the others had been drained and added to the meadows. It was said to be staked at the bottom to prevent illicit netting; but if so, the stakes by this time were probably rotten or buried in mud formed from the decaying weeds, the fallen leaves, and branches which were gradually closing it up. A few yards from the edge there was a mass of ivy through which a little brown thatch could be distinguished, and on approaching nearer this low roof was found to cover the entrance to a cave. It was an ice-house excavated in the sloping ground or bank, in which, 'when George the Third was King,' the ice of the ponds had been preserved to cool the owner's wine in summer. Ice was then a luxury for the rich only; but when so large a supply arrived from America, a supply increased by freezing machines, the ice-house lost its importance. The door, once so jealously closed, was gone, and the dead leaves of last year had gathered in corners where the winds had whirled them. The heat of a warm June day seemed still more powerful in this hollow. The sedges, into which two or three moorhens had retired at my approach, were still, and the leaves on the boughs overhanging the water were motionless. Where there was a space free from weeds--a deeper hole near the bank--a jack basked at the surface in the sunshine. High above on the hill stood a tall dead fir, from whose trunk the bark was falling; it had but one branch, which stood out bare and stark across the sky. There came a sound like distant thunder, but there were no clouds overhead, and it was not possible to see far round. Pushing gently through the hawthorn bushes and ash-stoles at the farther end of the pond, I found a pleasant little stream rushing swiftly over a clear chalky bottom, hastening away down to the larger brook. Beyond it rose a mound and hedgerow, up to which came the meadows, where, from the noise, the cattle seemed racing to and fro, teased by insects. Tiny black flies alighting on my hands and face, irritated the skin; the haymakers call them 'thunder-flies;' but the murmur of the running water was so delicious that I sat down on a bulging tree-root, almost over the stream, and listened to the thrushes singing. Had it been merely warm they would have been silent. They do not sing in dry sunshine, but they knew what was coming; so that there is no note so hated by the haymaker as that of the thrush. The birds were not in the firs, but in the ash-trees along the course of the rill. The voice of the thrush is the most 'cultivated,' so to speak, of all our birds: the trills, the runs, the variations, are so numerous and contrasted. Not even the nightingale can equal it: the nightingale has not nearly such command: the thrush seems to know no limit. I own I love the blackbird best, but in excellence of varied music the thrush surpasses all. Few birds, except those that are formed for swimming, come to a still pond. They like a clear running stream; they visit the sweet running water for drinking and bathing. Dreaming away the time, listening to the rush of the water bubbling about the stones, I did not notice that the sky had become overcast, till suddenly a clap of thunder near at hand awakened me. Some heavy drops of rain fell; I looked up and saw the dead branch of the fir on the hill stretched out like a withered arm across a black cloud. Hastening back to the ice-house, I had barely entered the doorway when the lightning, visible at noonday, flashed red and threatening, the thunder crackled and snapped overhead, and the rain fell in a white sheet of water. There were but two of these overpowering discharges with their peculiar crack and snap; the electricity passed on quickly, and the next clap roared over the woods. But the rain was heavier than before, the fall increased after every flash, however distant, and the surface of the pond was threshed by the drops which bore down with them many leaves weakened by blight. Doubtless the mowers in the meadows had hidden the blades of their scythes under the swathe, and the haymakers had placed their prongs in the ditches: nothing is so likely to attract a shock of lightning as a prong carried on the shoulder with the bright steel points upwards. In the farmhouses the old folk would cover up the looking-glasses lest the quicksilver should draw the electric fluid. The haymakers will tell you that sometimes when they have been standing under a hedge out of a storm a flash of lightning has gone by with a distinct sound like 'swish,' and immediately afterwards the wet ground has sent forth a vapour, or, as they say, smoked. Woodpigeons and many other birds seem to come home to woods and copses before and during a storm. The woodpigeon is one of the freest of birds to all appearance: he passes over the highest trees and goes straight away for miles. Yet, though it is usual to speak of wild birds and of their freedom, the more you watch their ways the more you feel that the wildest have their routes and customs: that they do not act entirely from the impulse of the moment, but have their unwritten laws. How do the gnats there playing under the horse-chestnut boughs escape being struck down by the heavy raindrops, each one of which looks as if it would drown so small a creature? The numbers of insects far exceed all that words can express: consider the clouds of midges that often dance over a stream. One day, chancing to glance at a steeple, I saw what looked like thin smoke issuing from the top of it. Now it shot out in a straight line from the gilded beak of the weathercock, now veered about, or declined from the vane. It was an innumerable swarm of insects, whose numbers made them visible at that height. Some insects are much more powerful than would be supposed. A garden was enclosed with fresh palings formed of split oak so well seasoned (split oak is the hardest of wood) that it was difficult to train any creepers against them, for a nail could not be driven in without the help of a bradawl. Passing along the path one afternoon I heard a peculiar rasping sound like a very small saw at work, and found it proceeded from four wasps biting the oak for the materials of their nest. The noise they made was audible four or five yards away, and upon looking closer I found the palings all scored and marked in short shallow grooves. The scores and marks extended along that part of the palings where the sunshine usually fell; there were none on the shady side, the wasps preferring to work in the sunlight. Soon the clouds began to break, and then the sun shone on innumerable rain-drops. I at once started forth, knowing that such a storm is often followed by several lesser showers with brief intervals between. The deserted ice-house was rarely visited--only, perhaps, when some borage was wanted to put in summer drinks. For a thick growth of borage had sprung up by it, where perhaps a small garden patch had once been cultivated, for there was a pear-tree near. The plant, with its scent of cucumber, grew very strong; the blue flowers when fallen, if they had not been observed when growing, might be supposed to have been inserted exactly upside down to their real manner of attachment. In autumn the leaves of the pear-tree reddened, and afterwards the ivy over the entrance to the ice-house flowered; then in the cold months of early spring the birds came for the ivy-berries. CHAPTER VI. A FARMER OF THE OLDEN TIMES. The winding paths traced by a hare in spring as he roams over an arable field show that he must cover a mile within a furlong. From a gateway one morning I watched a hare busy in this way, restlessly passing to and fro over the 'lands.' Every motion was visible, because, although the green wheat was rising in an adjacent field, no crop had yet appeared here. Now the hare came direct towards me, running down a furrow; then he turned short and followed a course like the letter V; next he crossed the angle of the field and came back along the shore of the ditch, under the hedge. Then away to the centre of the field, where he stayed some time exploring up one furrow and down another, his ears and the hump of his back only seen above the clods. But suddenly he caught a scent of something that alarmed him, and away he went full speed: when on the open ground the peculiar way in which the hind limbs are thrown forward right under the body, thus giving an immense 'stride,' was clearly displayed. I had been so interested in the hare that I had not observed Hilary coming along on the other side of the low fence, looking at his wheat. The hare, busy as he was and seeming to see nothing, had crossed his 'wind.' Hilary came to me, and we walked together along the waggon-track, repassing the wheat. He was full about it: he was always grieving over the decadence of the wheat crop. There was nothing, he went on, so pleasant to watch as it came up, nothing that required so much care and skill, nothing so thoroughly associated with the traditions of English farming as wheat, and yet nothing so disappointing. Foreign importations had destroyed this the very mainstay. Now, that crop which he had just left had 'tillered out' well; but what profit should he get from the many stalks that had tillered or sprung from each single grain, thus promising a fiftyfold return? It had been well got in, and, as the old saw had it, 'Well sown, half grown;' it had been in the ground the proper time ('Long in the bed, big in the head'); but likely enough the price next autumn would not much more than pay the expenses of preparation. The thunderstorm before Christmas was not perhaps a favourable omen, since Winter's thunder and summer's flood Bode old England no good. Last year showed that 'summer's flood' was as destructive as in the olden time. But then there would have been a rise of prices, according to the saying,-- When the vale shall feed the hill, Every man shall eat his fill. But when the hill shall feed the vale, The penny loaf shall be but small. Now, last season, so far as our home harvests were concerned, the 'hill' did feed the 'vale,' but the penny loaves were as large and as plentiful as usual, owing to foreign grain. In those old days, seventy or eighty years since, the whole population of the kingdom watched the weather with anxiety; and it was then that the signs and tokens of birds and plants and the set of the wind at particular times were regarded as veritable oracles to be inquired into not without fear and trembling. Hilary heard all about it when he was a lad from old Jonathan, who had a corn-farm up on the hills, and where he used to go to plough. Hilary never stated the exact degree, but there was some relationship between them--two branches, I fancy, of the same family. He seemed to have a very bitter memory of the old man (now dead), who had been a hard master to him in his youth; besides which, some family jar had arisen over money matters; still, he was fond of quoting Jonathan in reference to wheat and the heyday of corn-farming. Jonathan remembered when a load of wheat fetched 55_l._--a load being five quarters or ten sacks--or 11_l._ a quarter. The present average of wheat was about 2_l._ 6_s._ per quarter. At the same time bread was at 3_s._ a gallon; it is now about 1_s._ 6_d._ The wages of an agricultural labourer were 6_s._ a week. It was gambling, positive gambling, in the staff of life. No farmer was held in any esteem if he did not keep his wheat ricks till harvest came again before threshing them out: men grew rich suddenly and knew not what to do with their money. Farmers who had been brought up 'hard,' living like labourers, working like labourers, and with little more amusement than labourers, all at once found their pockets full of coin. The wheat they had been selling at 5_l._ a load ran up to 50_l._ With their purses thus crammed full, what were they to do? There was nothing but drink, and they did drink. In those days the farmer in his isolated homestead was more cut off from the world than the settler at the present time in the backwoods or on the prairies. The telegraph wires span the continent of America, and are carried across the dry deserts of Australia. Wherever the settler may be, he is never very far from the wires or the railway; the railway meets the ocean steamer; and we can form no conception of the utter lack of communication in the old world of our immediate forefathers. The farmer, being away from the main road and the track of the mail coaches, knew no one but his neighbours, saw no one, and heard but little. Amusements there were none, other than could be had at the alehouse or by riding into the market town to the inn there. So that when this great flush of prosperity came upon them, old Jonathan and his friends had nothing to do but drink. Up at The Idovers, as his place was called, a lonely homestead on a plain between the Downs, they used to assemble, and at once put up the shutters, whether it was dark or not, not wishing to know whether it was day or night. Sometimes the head carter would venture in for instructions, and be gruffly told to take his team and do so and so. 'Eez, zur,' he would reply, 'uz did thuck job isterday.' His master had ordered him to do it the day before, but was oblivious that twenty-four hours had passed. The middle-aged men stood this continuous drinking without much harm, their constitutions having become hardened and 'set,' but it killed off numbers of the younger men. They drank ale principally--strong ale, for at that time in lonely farmhouses they were guiltless of wines and spirits. But the enormous price of 50_l._ per load suggested luxuries, and it was old Jonathan at The Idovers who introduced gin. Till then no gin even--nothing but ale--had been consumed in that far-away spot; but Jonathan brought in the gin, which speedily became popular. He called it 'spoon-drink' (a spoon being used with the sugar) as a distinguishing name, and as spoon-drink accordingly it was known. When any one desired to reduce the strength of his glass, they did indeed pour him out some more water from the kettle; but having previously filled the kettle with the spirit, his last state became worse than the first. While thus they revelled, the labourers worked with the flails in the barn threshing out the truly golden grain. The farmers used to take pains to slip round upon them unexpectedly, or meet them as they were going home from work, in order to check the pilfering of the wheat. The labourer was not paid wholly in cash; he had a bushel of the 'tail,' or second flour, from the mill in lieu of money, settling once a month. Their life was hard indeed. But the great prosperity which had come upon the farmers did them no good. In too many cases it melted away in drink. The habit of drinking became settled in a family. Bad habits endured after the prosperity had departed; and in some cases those who had once owned their farms as well as occupied them had to quit the homes of their forefathers. Here and there one, however, laid the foundation of a fortune, as fortunes are understood in the country; and shrewd old Jonathan was one of these. Even down to very recent days a spell of drinking--simple drinking--was the staple amusement of many an otherwise respectable farmer. Not many years since it was not unusual for some well-to-do farmer of the old school to ride off on his nag, and not be heard of for a week, till he was discovered at a distant roadside inn, where he had spent the interval in straightforward drinking. These habits are now happily extinct. It was in those old times that wheat was bought and hoarded with the express object of raising the price to famine pitch: a thing then sometimes practicable, though not always successful. Thus in 1801 the price of wheat in March was 55_l._ per load, while in October it had fallen to 15_l._ Men forgot the misery of the poor in their eagerness for guineas. Hilary, with all his old prejudices, was not so foolish as to desire a return of times like that. He had undergone privation himself in youth, for farmers' sons were but a little better off than plough-lads even in his early days; and he did not wish to make money by another man's suffering. Still he was always grieving about the wheat crop, and how it had fallen in estimation. It was a sight to see the gusto with which he would run his hand into a sack of wheat to sample it. 'Here, feel this,' he would say to me, 'you can slip your hand in up to your elbow; and now hold up your palm--see, the grains are as plump as cherry-stones.' After hearing Hilary talk so much of old Jonathan I thought I should like to see the place where he had lived, and later in the season walked up on the hills for that purpose. The stunted fir-trees on the Down gave so little shadow that I was glad to find a hawthorn under whose branches I could rest on the sward. The prevalent winds of winter sweeping without check along the open slope had bent the hawthorn before them, and the heat of the sultry summer day appeared the greater on that exposed height. On either hand hills succeeded to hills, and behind I knew they extended farther than the eye could reach. Immediately beneath in front there was a plain, at its extreme boundary a wood, and beyond that the horizon was lost in the summer haze. Wheat, barley, and oats--barley and wheat and beans, completely occupied the plain. It was one vast expanse of cereals, without a sign of human life; for the reaper had not yet commenced, and the bailiffs' cottages were hidden among the ricks. There was an utter silence at noonday; nothing but yellowing wheat beneath, the ramparts of the hills around, and the sun above. But, though out of sight, there was a farmhouse behind a small copse and clump of elms full of rooks' nests, a short way from the foot of the Down. This was The Idovers, once the residence of old Jonathan; it was the last farm before reaching the hill district proper, and from the slope here all the fields of which it consisted were visible. The house was small, for in those days farmers did not look to live in villas, and till within the last few years even the parlour floor was of stone flags. Rushes used to be strewn in the halls of palaces in ancient times, and seventy years ago old Jonathan grew his own carpets. The softest and best of the bean straw grown on the farm was selected and scattered on the floor of the sitting-rooms as warm and dry to the feet, and that was all the carpet in the house. Just before sheep-shearing time, too, Jonathan used to have the nettles cut that flourished round the back of the sheds, and strewn on the floor of the barn. The nettles shrivelled up dry, and the wool did not stick to them, but could be gathered easily. With his own hands he would carry out a quart of beans to the pigs---just a quart at a time and no more, that they might eat every one and that none might be wasted. So, too, he would carry them a few acorns in his coat-pocket, and watch the relish with which the swine devoured their favourite food. He saved every bit of crooked wood that was found about the place; for at that date iron was expensive, and wood that had grown crooked and was therefore strong as well as curved was useful for a hundred purposes. Fastened to a wall, for instance, it did for a hook upon which to hang things. If an apple-tree died in the orchard it was cut out to form part of a plough and saved till wanted. Jonathan's hard head withstood even the whirl of the days when corn was at famine prices. But these careful economies, this continual saving, put more money in his purse than all that sudden flush of prosperity. Every groat thus saved was as a nail driven into an oak, fixed and stable, becoming firmer as time went on. How strangely different the farmers of to-day, with a score of machines and appliances, with expensive feeding-stuffs, with well-furnished villas! Each one of Jonathan's beans in his quart mug, each one of the acorns in his pocket became a guinea. Jonathan's hat was made to measure on his own special block by the hatter in Overboro' town, and it was so hard and stout that he could sit upon it without injury. His top-boots always hung near the fireplace, that they might not get mouldy; and he rode into market upon his 'short-tail horse,' as he called his crop-tail nag. A farmer was nothing thought of unless he wore top-boots, which seemed a distinguishing mark, as it were, of the equestrian order of agriculture. But his shoes were made straight; not as now one to each foot--a right and left--but each exactly alike; and he changed his shoes every morning, wearing one on one foot one day and on the other the next, that they might not get worn to either foot in particular. Shoes lasted a great length of time in those days, the leather being all tanned with oak bark only, and thoroughly seasoned before it was cut up. There is even a story of a farmer who wore his best shoes every Sunday for seven years in Sundays--fifty years--and when he died had them buried with him, still far from worn out. A traveller once returned from America--in those days a very far-off land--and was recounting the wonders he had seen, and among them how the folk there used sleighs, not only for driving in but for the removal of heavy goods. But Jonathan did not think it strange, since when he was young wheeled vehicles were not so common. He had himself seen loads of hay drawn home on 'sleds' from English meadows, and could tell where a 'sled' had last been used. There were aged men living about the hamlet in his day--if that could be called a hamlet in which there were barely a score of people, all told--who could recollect when the first waggon came to The Idovers. At all events, they pointed out a large field, called the Conigers, where it was taken to turn it round; for it was constructed in so primitive a style that the forewheels would not pass under the body, and thus required a whole field to turn in. At that date folk had no banking accounts, but kept their coin in a strong chest under the bed, sometimes hiding it in strange places. Jonathan was once visiting a friend, and after they had hobnobbed a while the old fellow took him, with many precautions that they should not be observed, into the pig-sty and showed him fifty guineas hid in the thatch. That was by no means all his property, but the old fellow said, with a wink, that he liked to have a little hoard of his own that his wife knew nothing about. Some land being put up for sale, after biddings by the well-to-do residents, an old dealer in a very small way, as was supposed, bid above them all. The company looked upon him with contempt, and his offer was regarded as mere folly; but he produced a nail-bag from under his coat and counted out the money. A nail-bag is made of the coarsest of all kinds of sacking. In this manner the former generation, eschewing outward show, collected their money coin by coin, till at last they became substantial men and owners of real estate. So few were the conveniences of life that men had often to leave the road and cross several fields out of their way to light their pipes at a burning couch-heap or lime-kiln. They prided themselves then in that hill district that they had neither a cow nor a poor married man in the parish. There was no cow, because it was entirely a corn-growing place. The whole resident population was not much over a score, and of the labourers they boasted not one was married. For in those old times each parish kept its own poor, and consequently disliked an increase of the population. The farmers met in vestry from time to time to arrange for the support of the surplus labour; the appearance of a fresh family would have meant a fresh tax upon them. They regarded additional human beings as an incumbrance. The millers sent their flour round the country then on packhorses; waggons and carts were not so common as now, while the ways, when you once quitted the main road, were scarcely passable. Even the main roads were often in such a state that foot-passengers could not get along, but left the road and followed a footpath just inside the hedge. Such footpaths ran beside the roads for miles; here and there in country places a short section of such tracks may still be found. 'Pack-roads,' too, may be occasionally met with, retaining their designation to this day. It was the time of the great wars with the First Napoleon; and the poor people, as the wheat went up to famine prices, were often in a strait for bread. When the miller's packhorse appeared the cottagers crowded round and demanded the price: if it had risen a penny, the infuriated mob of women would sometimes pull the miller's boy off the horse and duck him in the village pond. The memory of those old times is still vivid in farmhouses, and at Hilary's I have myself handled old Jonathan's walking-staff, which he and his father before him used in traversing on foot those perilous roads. It was about five feet long, perhaps more, an inch and a half in diameter, and shod with an iron ferrule and stout spike. With this he could prod the sloughs and ascertain their depth, or use it as a leaping-pole; and if threatened by sturdy rogues whirl it about their heads as a quarter-staff. Wars and famines were then terrible realities--men's minds were full of them, and superstition flourished. The foggers and shepherds saw signs in the sky and read the stars. Down at Lucketts' Place one winter's night, when folk almost fancied they could hear the roar of Napoleon's cannon, the old fogger came rushing in with the news that the armies could be seen fighting in the heavens. It was an aurora, the streamers shooting up towards the zenith, and great red spots among the stars, the ghastly stains of the wounded. The old fogger declared that as he went out with his lantern to attend to the cows calving he could see the blood dripping on the back of his hand as it fell down from the battling hosts above. To us the ignorance even of such comparatively recent times is almost incredible. As Hilary was telling me of such things as we sat in his house one evening, there grew upon our ears a peculiar sound, a humming deep bass, somewhat resembling the low notes of a piano with a pressure on the pedal. It increased and became louder, coming from the road which passed the house; it was caused by a very large flock of sheep driven slowly. The individual 'baa' of each lamb was so mixed, as it were, with the bleat of its fellow that the swelling sound took a strange, mysterious tone; a voice that seemed to speak of trouble, and perplexity, and anxiety for rest. Hilary, as a farmer, must of course go out to see whose they were, and I went with him; but before he reached the garden gate he turned back, remarking, 'It's Johnson's flock; I know the tang of his tankards.' The flat-shaped bells hung on a sheep's neck are called tankards; and Hilary could distinguish one flock from another by the varying notes of their bells. Reclining on the sweet short sward under the hawthorn on the Down I looked over the Idover plain, and thought of the olden times. As I gazed I presently observed, far away beside some ricks, the short black funnel of an engine, and made it out to be a steam-plough waiting till the corn should be garnered to tear up the stubble. How much meaning there lay in the presence of that black funnel! There were the same broad open fields, the same beautiful crops of golden wheat, the same green hills, and the same sun ripening the grain. But how strangely changed all human affairs since old Jonathan, in his straight-made shoes, with his pike-staff, and the acorns in his pocket, trudged along the footpaths! CHAPTER VII. THE CUCKOO-FIELDS. The cuckoos came so frequently to some grass-land just outside the Chace and sloping down to the brook that I gave the spot the name of the Cuckoo-fields. There were two detached copses in them of no great extent, and numerous oaks and hawthorns, while the brook below was bordered with willow-stoles. This stretch of grass was divided into two large fields by a line of decaying posts and rails, and it became a favourite resort of mine in the warm days of spring, because I could almost always see and hear the cuckoos there. Why they should love it so much is not easy to tell, unless on account of the comparatively barren character of the soil. The earth seemed to be of a very different kind to that in the rich and fertile meadows and fields close by; for the grass was rough, short, and thin, and soon became greyish or brown as the summer advanced, burning or drying up under the sun. It may often be observed that a piece of waste, like furze, when in the midst of good land, is much frequented by all birds and animals, though where there is nothing else but waste they are often almost entirely absent. As the oaks come out into full leaf, the time when the meadows become beautiful, the notes of the cuckoo sound like a voice crying 'Come hither' from the trees. Then, sitting on the grey and lichen-covered rail under the cover of a hawthorn, I saw sometimes two and sometimes three cuckoos following each other courting, now round the copse, now by the hedge or the brook, and presently along the rails where they constantly perched. Occasionally one would alight on the sward among the purple flowers of the meadow orchis. From the marshy meadow across the brook apeew it rose from time to time, uttering his plaintive call and wheeling to and fro on the wing. At the sound a second and a third appeared in succession, and after beating up and down for a few minutes settled again in the grass. The meadow might have been called a plovery--as we say rookery and heronry--for the green plovers or peewits always had several nests in it. The course of the humble bees that went by could be watched for some way--their large size and darker colour made them visible--as they now went down into the grass, and now started forward again. The honey bees, small and somewhat lighter in colour, could not be seen so far. They were busy in the sunshine, for the hive bee must gather most of its honey before the end of July, before the scythe has laid the grass in the last meadow low. Few if any flowers come up after the scythe has gone over, except the white clover, which almost alone shows in the aftermath, or, as country people call it, the 'lattermath.' Near me a titlark every few minutes rose from the sward, and spreading his wings came down aslant, singing with all his might. Some sarsen stones just showed above the grass: the old folk say that these boulders grow in size and increase in number. The fact is that in some soils the boulder protrudes more and more above the surface in the course of time, and others come into view that were once hidden; while in another place the turf rises, and they seem to slowly sink into the earth. The monotonous and yet pleasing cry of the peewits, the sweet titlark singing overhead, and the cuckoos flying round, filled the place with the magic charm of spring. Coming to these Cuckoo-fields day after day, there was always something to interest me, either in the meadows themselves or on the way thither. The very dust of the road had something to show. For under the shadowy elms a little seed or grain had jolted down through the chinks in the bed of a passing waggon, and there the chaffinches and sparrows had congregated. As they moved to and fro they had left the marks of their feet in the thick white dust, so crossed and intertangled in a maze of tracks that no one could have designed so delicate and intricate a pattern. If it was cloudy, still, glancing over the cornfields, just as you turned partly round to look, there seemed a brilliant streak of sunshine across them. This was a broad band of charlock: its light yellow is so gaudy and glaring in the mass that as it first catches the eye it seems as if the land were lit up by the sun. After it the buttercups appear of a quiet colour, like dead gold in contrast. Under-foot, almost in the very dust of the road, the silverweed opened its yellow petals, and where there was a dry bank, or by the gateways leading into the corn, the pink pimpernel grew. For some time I suspected the pimpernel of not invariably closing its petals before rain, and at last by precise observation found that it did not. Twice in a comparatively short period I noted the petals wide open within a few minutes of a shower. It appears rather to close during the atmospheric change which occurs previous to rain than to rain itself. Once now and then a shower seems to come up in the driest weather without warning or change in the atmosphere: the cloud is over and gone almost before it seems worth while to take shelter. To the approach of such shower-clouds the pimpernel does not invariably respond, but it is perfectly accurate if anything serious be brewing. By a furrow in the sward by the roadside there grew a little piece of some species of gorse--so small and delicate, with the tiniest yellow flowers, that it was well worthy of a place where it would be admired; for few could have seen it hidden there. Birds'-foot lotus covered the sward of one part of the Cuckoo-fields, on the higher ground near the woods, where the soil was dry; and by the hedge there were some bushy plants of the rest-harrow, whose prickly branches repel cattle and whose appearance reproaches the farmer for neglect. Yet though an outcast with animals and men, it bears a beautiful flower, butterfly-shaped and delicately tinted with pink. Now, as the days roll on, the blue succory and the scarlet poppies stand side by side in the yellow wheat but just outside my Cuckoo-fields, and one or two stray corncockles bloom; they are not common here and are perhaps brought from a distance. Here you may walk many miles and even wait several harvests to see a corncockle. The thistledown floats; and see, yonder the white balls are rolling before the gentle air along the very tips of the bronzing wheat-ears. By the hedge the straggling stalks of St. John's wort lift the yellow petals dotted with black specks above the bunches of grass. The leaves, held up to the light, seem to have numerous eyelets, as if pricked but not quite through--windows in the leaf. In the grass the short selfheal shows; and, leaning over the gate, on the edge of the wheat you may see the curious prickly seed-vessels of the corn buttercup--the 'hedgehog'--whose spines, however, will not scratch the softest skin. Resting on the rail under the hawthorn for a minute or two in early spring, when it was too chilly to stay long, I watched a flock of rooks and jackdaws soaring in the sky. Round and round and ever upwards they circled, the jackdaws of course betraying their presence by their call; up towards the blue, as if in the joy of their hearts, they held a festival, happy in the genial weather and the approach of the nesting-time. This soaring and wheeling is evidently done for recreation, like a dance. Presently the flock seems to tumble and fall, and there comes the rushing sound of the air swiftly parted by their out-spread wings as they dive a hundred feet in a second. The noise is audible a quarter of a mile off. This, too, is play; for, catching themselves and regaining their balance just above the elms, they resume their steady flight onwards to distant feeding-grounds. Later in the season, sitting there in the warm evenings, I could hear the pheasants utter their peculiar roost-cry, and the noise of their wings as they flew up in the wood: the vibration is so loud that it might almost be described as thumping. By-and-by the cuckoo began to lose his voice; he gurgled and gasped, and cried 'cuck--kuk--kwai--kash,' and could not utter the soft, melodious 'oo.' The latest date on which I ever heard the cuckoo here, to be certain, was the day before St. Swithin, July 14, 1879. The nightingales, too, lose their sweet notes, but not their voices; they remain in the hedges long after their song has ceased. Passing by the hawthorn bushes up to the end of July, you may hear a bird within that seems to threaten you with a loud 'sweet-kurr,' and, looking in, you will find it to be a nightingale. The spelling exactly represents the sound, 'r' being twirled. 'Sweet-kurr-kurr' comes from the interior of the bushes with an angry emphasis. Along the lower part of these meadows there was a brook, and the brook-sparrows were chattering ceaselessly as I walked among the willow-stoles by it one morning towards the end of June. On the left hand the deep stream flowed silently round its gentle curves, and on the other through the willows and alders the grassy slope of the Cuckoo-fields was visible. Broad leaves of the marsh marigold, the flower long since gone, covered the ground; light-green horsetails were dotted thickly about; and tall grasses flourished, rising to the knee. Dark shallow pools were so hidden under these grasses and plants that the presence of the black and yet clear water could not be perceived until the foot sank into it. The sedge-birds kept just in front of me, now busy on a willow-stole, and concealed in the grasses and moss which grew out of the decaying wood; now among the sedges covering the mudbanks where the brook had silted up; now in the hedge which divided the willows from the meadow. Still the peculiar sparrow-like note, the ringing chirp, came continually from their throats; the warm sultry day delighted them. One clung to the side of a slender flag, which scarcely seemed strong enough to support it, yet did not even bend under its weight; then on again as I came nearer--but only two or three yards--to recommence singing immediately. Pushing through the brushwood and past the reddish willow-poles, I entered a very thicket of flags, rising to the shoulder. These were not ribbed or bayonet-shaped, but flat, like a long sword. Three or four sprang from a single root, broad and tall, and beside them a stalk, and on it the yellow iris in fall flower. The marsh seemed lit up with these bright lamps of colour under the shadowy willows and the dark alders. There were a dozen at least within a few yards close around, and others dimly visible through the branches--three large yellow petals drooping, and on the curve of each brownish mottled markings or lines delicately stippled, beside them a rolled spike-like bloom not yet unfolded: a flower of the waters, crowned with gold, above the green dwellers by the shore. Here the sedge-birds left me, doubling back to their favourite willow-stoles and sedges. Further on, the ground rose, and on the drier bank the 'gicks' grew shoulder high, towering over the brambles. It was difficult to move through the tangled underwood, so I went out into the Cuckoo-fields. Hilary had drained away much of the water that used to form a far larger marsh about here, and calculated his levellings in a most ingenious manner with a hollow 'gicks.' He took a wooden bowl, and filled it to the brim with water. Then cutting a dry 'gicks' so that it should be open at either end, like a tube, he floated it--the stalk is very light--on the bowl. Looking through this tube he could get his level almost as accurately as with an engineer's instrument, though of course it was more cumbrous to use. There was a corner here that had not been mown for a long time, and in the autumn the wild carrots took possession of it, almost to the exclusion of grass and other plants. The flower of the wild carrot gathers together as the seeds mature, and forms a framework cup at the top of the stalk, like a bird's-nest. These 'bird's-nests,' brown and weather-beaten, endured far into the winter. The brook-sparrows still sang as I passed by again in the evening; they seem the most unwearied of birds, for you may hear them all day, all the evening, and at one o'clock next morning; indeed, at intervals, all night. By night the note is, or appears to be, less sparrow-like, or perhaps the silence of night improves it to the ear. I stayed that evening in a corner of a wheatfield not yet yellow, and watched the shadows of the trees grow longer and broader as the sun declined. As the breeze rushed over the corn there was a play of various shades of green, the stalks as they bent this and that way taking different hues. But under the hedge it was still; the wind could not come through, though it moved the boughs above. A mass of cloud like flocks of wool, mottled and with small spaces of blue between, drifted slowly eastwards, and its last edge formed an arch over the western horizon, under which the sun shone. The yellow vetchling had climbed up from the ditch and opened its flower, and there were young nuts on the hazel bough. Far away in a copse a wood-pigeon called; nearer the blackbirds were whistling; a willow wren uttered his note high in the elm, and a distant yellowhammer sang to the sinking sun. The brook had once been much wider, and in flood times rendered the Overboro' road almost impassable; for before a bridge was built it spread widely and crossed the highway--a rushing, though shallow, torrent fifty yards broad. The stumps of the willows that had grown by it could still be found in places, and now and then an ancient 'bullpoll' was washed up. This grass is so tough that the tufts or cushions it forms will last in water for fifty years, even when rooted up--decayed of course and black, but still distinguishable. In those times just previous to the construction of railways, when the lord of the manor came down after Parliament rose, there used to be a competition to get hold of his coachman. So few agricultural people travelled, and news came so slowly and in such distorted fashion, that the coachman became a great authority. Such a brook as this was then often a serious obstacle. There was still an old punt, seldom used, to be found in a rickyard of Hilary's, close by which was an extensive pond. The punt was thatched over with flags from the stream. The moorhens were fond of this pond because it was surrounded with a great quantity of rushes; they were numerous all up the brook. These birds, being tame and common, are not much regarded either for sport or the table, yet a moorhen shot at the right time of the year--not till the frosts have begun--is delicious eating. If the bird were rare it would be thought to rival the woodcock; as it is, probably few people ever taste it. The path to Lucketts' Place from this rickyard passed a stone-quarry, where the excavated stone was built up in square heaps. In these heaps, in which there were many interstices and hollows, rabbits often sat out; and by stopping the entrance and carefully removing the stones they might occasionally be taken by hand. Next by the barn where in spring the sparrows made a continuous noise, chirping and quarrelling as they carried on their nesting operations: they sometimes flew up with long green bennets and grass fibres as well as with dry straws. Then across the road, where the flint-heaps always put me in mind of young Aaron; for he once gravely assured me that they were the very best places in the world on which to rest or sleep. The flints were dry, and preserved the slumbering wayfarer from damp. He had no doubt proved this when the ale was too strong. At the house, as I passed through the courtyard, I found him just on the point of starting for Overboro' with a wallet, to bring back some goods from the shops. The wallet is almost unknown even in farmsteads now: it is a kind of long bag closed at each end, but with a slit in the centre for the insertion of the things to be conveyed. When filled it is slung over the shoulder, one end in front and the other behind, so as to balance. Without knowing the shape of a wallet the story of Jack the Giant-Killer stowing away such enormous quantities of pudding is scarcely to be understood: children nowadays never see such a thing. Many nursery tales contain allusions of this kind, the meaning of which must be obscure to the rising generation. Within doors I found a great discussion going forward between Hilary and a farmer who had called, as to the exact relationship of a man who had just quitted his tenancy and another who died nearly forty years before. They could not agree either as to the kinship or the date; though the visitor was the more certain because he so well remembered that there was an extraordinary cut of 'turvin' that year. The 'turvin' is the hay made on the leaze, not the meadows, out of the rough grass and bennets left by the cows. To listen to the zest with which they entered into the minutest details of the family affairs of so long ago, concerning people with whom neither had any connection--how they recollected the smallest particulars--was astonishing. This marvellous capacity for gossip seemed like a revelation of a totally different state of society. The memory of country people for such details is beyond belief. When the visitor left with his wife we walked to the gate and saw them down the road; and it was curious to note that they did not walk side by side. If you meet a farmer of the old style and his wife walking together, never do you see them arm-in-arm. The husband walks a yard or two in front, or else on the other side of the road; and this even when they are going to church. CHAPTER VIII. CICELY'S DAIRY. HILARY'S TALK. Just outside the palings of the courtyard at Lucketts' Place, in front of the dairy, was a line of damson and plum trees standing in a narrow patch bordered by a miniature box-hedge. The thrushes were always searching about in this box, which was hardly high enough to hide them, for the snails which they found there. They broke the shells on the stone flags of the garden path adjacent, and were often so intently occupied in the box as to seem to fly up from under the very feet of any one who passed. Under the damson tree the first white snowdrops came, and the crocuses, whose yellow petals often appeared over the snow, and presently the daffodils and the beautiful narcissus. There were cowslips and primroses, too, which the boys last year had planted upside down that they might come variegated. The earliest violet was gathered there, for the corner was enclosed on three sides, and somehow the sunshine fell more genially in that untrimmed spot than in formal gardens where it is courted. Against the house a pear was trained, and opened its white bloom the first of all: in its shelter the birds built their nests. The chaffinches called cheerfully on the plum-trees and sang in the early morning. When the apples bloomed, the goldfinches visited the same trees at least once a day. A damask rose opened its single petals, the sweetest-scented of all the roses; there were a few strawberries under the wall of the house; by-and-by the pears above enlarged, and the damsons were coated with the bloom. On the tall plum-trees hung the large purplish-red plums: upon shaking the tree, one or two came down with a thud. The branches of the damsons depended so low, looking, as it were, right into the court and pressing the fruit against your very face as you entered, that you could not choose but take some when it was ripe. A blue-painted barrel-churn stood by the door; young Aaron turned it in the morning, while the finches called in the plum-trees, but now and then not all the strength of his sturdy shoulders nor patient hours of turning could 'fetch' the butter, for a witch had been busy. Sometimes on entering the dairy in the familiar country way, you might find Cicely, now almost come to womanhood, at the cheese-tub. As she bent over it her rounded arms, bare nearly to the shoulder, were laved in the white milk. It must have been from the dairy that Poppæa learned to bathe in milk, for Cicely's arms shone white and smooth, with the gleam of a perfect skin. But Mrs. Luckett would never let her touch the salt, which will ruin the hands. Cicely, however, who would do something, turned the cheeses in the cheese-room alone. Taking one corner of the clean cloth in her teeth, in a second, by some dexterous sleight-of-hand, the heavy cheese was over, though ponderous enough to puzzle many a man, especially as it had to come over gently that the shape might not be injured. She did it without the least perceptible exertion. At the moment of the turn, when the weight must have been felt, there was no knot of muscle visible on her arm. That is the difference; for When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw the muscles of the man's limb knot themselves and stand out in bold relief. The smooth contour of Cicely's arm never varied. Mrs. Luckett, talking about cheese as we watched Cicely one morning, said people's taste have much altered; for she understood they were now fond of a foreign sort that was full of holes. The old saying was that bread should be full of holes, cheese should have none. Just then Hilary entered and completed the triad by adding that ale should make you see double. So he called for the brown jug, and he and I had a glass. On my side of the jug stood a sportsman in breeches and gaiters, his gun presented, and ever in the act to fire: his dog pointed, and the birds were flying towards Hilary. Though rude in design the scene was true to nature and the times: from the buttons on the coat to the long barrel of the gun, the details were accurate and nothing improved to suit the artist's fancy. To me these old jugs and mugs and bowls have a deep and human interest, for you can seem to see and know the men who drank from them in the olden days. Now a tall Worcester vase, with all its elegance and gilding, though it may be valued at 5,000_l._, lacks that sympathy, and may please the eye but does not touch the heart. For it has never shared in the jovial feast nor comforted the weary; the soul of man has never communicated to it some of its own subtle essence. But this hollow bowl whispers back the genial songs that were shouted over it a hundred years ago. On the ancient Grecian pottery, too, the hunter with his spear chases the boar or urges his hounds after the flying deer; the women are dancing, and you can almost hear the notes of the flute. These things were part of their daily life; these are no imaginary pictures of imaginary and impossible scenes: they are simply scenes in which every one then took part. So I think that the old English jugs and mugs and bowls are true art, with something of the antique classical spirit in them, for truly you can read the hearts of the folk for whom they were made. They have rendered the interpretation easy by writing their minds upon them: the motto, 'Prosperity to the Flock,' for instance, is a good one still; and 'Drink fair; don't swear,' is yet a very pleasant and suitable admonition. As I looked at the jug, the cat coughed under the table. 'Ah,' said Mrs. Luckett, 'when the cat coughs, the cold goes through the house.' Hilary, returning to the subject of the cheese, said that the best was made when the herd grazed on old pastures: there was a pasture field of his which it was believed had been grazed for fully two hundred years. When he was a boy, the cheese folk made to keep at home for eating often became so hard that, unable to cut it, they were obliged to use a saw. Still longer ago, they used to despatch a special cheese to London in the road-waggon; it was made in thin vats (pronounced in the dairy 'vates'), was soft, and eaten with radishes. Another hard kind was oval-shaped, or like a pear; it was hung up in nets to mature, and traded to the West Indies. He looked to see when the moon changed in 'Moore's Almanac,' which was kept for ready reference on the mantelpiece. Next to Bible and Prayer-book comes old Moore's rubric in the farmhouse--that rubric which declares the 'vox stellarum.' There are old folk who still regret the amendments in the modern issue, and would have back again the table which laid down when the influence of the constellations was concentrated in each particular limb and portion of the body. In his oaken cabinet Hilary had 'Moore' from the beginning of the century, or farther back, for his fathers had saved them before him. On the narrow margins during his own time he had jotted down notes of remarkable weather and the events of the farm, and could tell you the very day cow 'Beauty' calved twenty years ago. I thought the ale good, but Hilary was certain it was not equal to what he used to brew himself before he had so large an acreage to look after, and indeed before the old style of farm-life went out of fashion. Then he used to sit up all night watching--for brewing is a critical operation--and looking out of doors now and then to pass the long hours saw the changes of the sky, the constellations rising in succession one after the other, and felt the slight variations of the wind and of moisture or dryness in the air which predict the sunshine or the shower of the coming day. He seemed to have thought a good deal in those lonely watches; but he passed it off by referring to the malting. Barn barley was best for malting--_i.e._ that which had been stored in a barn and therefore kept perfectly dry, for ricks sometimes get wet before they can be thatched. But barn barley was not often come by nowadays, as one by one the old barns disappeared: burned perhaps, and not rebuilt. He had ceased to brew for some time; Cicely could, however, remember sipping the sweet wort, which is almost too sweet for the palate after childhood. They still baked a batch of bread occasionally, but not all that was required. Cicely superintended the baking, passing the barm through a sieve with a wisp of clean hay in it. The hay takes off any sourness, and ensures it being perfectly sweet. She knew when the oven was hot enough by the gauge-brick: this particular brick as the heat increased became spotted with white, and when it had turned quite white the oven was ready. The wood embers were raked out with the scraper, and the malkin, being wetted, cleaned out the ashes. 'Thee looks like a gurt malkin' is a common term of reproach among the poor folk--meaning a bunch of rags on the end of a stick. We went out to look at the oven; and then Mrs. Luckett made me taste her black-currant gin, which was very good. Presently we went into the orchard to look at the first apple-tree out in bloom. While there a magpie flew across the meadow, and as I watched it Mrs. Luckett advised me to turn my back and not to look too long in that direction. 'For,' said she, 'one magpie is good luck, but two mean sorrow; and if you should see three--goodness!--something awful might happen.'[1] [1] See Notes. One lovely June afternoon as Hilary and I strolled about the fields, we passed some lambs at play. 'Lamb is never good eating without sunshine,' said Hilary. Not only wheat and plants generally but animals also are affected by the absence of sun, so that the epicure should hope as devoutly as the farmer that the dull and overcast season of 1879 will not be repeated. Hilary's remark was founded upon the experience of long years--such experience as is only to be found in farmhouses where kindred succeed each other, and hand down practical observations from father to son. The thistles were showing rather strongly in the barley--the result of last year's rain and the consequent impossibility of proper clearing. These thistles he thought came from portions of the root and not from seed. Last year all the farmers had been Latter Lammas men. The 1st of August is Lammas Day; and in the old time if a farmer had neglected his work and his haymaking was still unfinished on August 13 (_i.e._ old style), he was called in reproach a Latter Lammas man. But last year (1879) they were all alike, and the hay was about till September; yet Hilary could recollect it being all done by St. Swithin's, July 15. Sometimes, however, the skilled and careful agriculturist did not succeed so well as the lazy one. Once in seven years there came a sloven's year, according to the old folk, when the sloven had a splendid crop of wheat and hardly knew where to put it. Such a harvest was as if a man had gone round his farm with the sun in one hand and the watering-pot in the other! Last year there had been nearly as much mathern (wild camomile) and willow-wind (convolvulus and buckwheat) as crop, and he did not want to see the colt's tail in the sky so often again. The colt's tail is a cloud with a bushy appearance like a ragged fringe, and portends rain. I remarked that it was curious how thunderstorms sometimes returned on the same day of the week and at the same hour for a month running. Hilary said they had been known to return every day at the same hour. The most regular operation on a farm is the milking: one summer his fogger declared it came on to thunder day after day in the afternoon just as he took his yoke off his shoulders. Such heavy and continuous downpour not only laid the crops, but might spoil them altogether; for laid barley had been known to sprout there and then, and was of course totally spoiled. It was a mistake to associate thunder solely with hot weather; the old folk used to say that it was never too cold to thunder and never too warm to snow. A sweet yet faintly pungent odour came on the light breeze over the next field--a scent like clover, but with a slight reminiscence of the bean-flower. It arose from the yellow flower of the hop-trefoil: honey sometimes has a flavour which resembles it. The hop-trefoil is a favourite crop for sheep, but Hilary said it was too soft for horses. The poppies were not yet out in the wheat. When in full bloom some of the cottagers gather the scarlet flowers in great quantities and from them make poppy wine. This liquor has a fine colour and is very heady, and those who make it seem to think much of it. Upon the hills where furze grows plentifully the flowers are also collected, and a dye extracted from them. Ribbons can thus be dyed a bright yellow, but it requires a large quantity of the flowers. A little farther a sheep-dog looked at us from a gateway; and on coming nearer we found the shepherd busily engaged cutting the feet of his sheep one by one with a keen knife. They had got the foot-rot down in a meadow--they do not suffer from it on the arable uplands where folded--and the shepherd was now applying a caustic solution. Every shepherd has his own peculiar specific, which he believes to be the only certain remedy. Tar is used in the sheepfold, just as it used to be when sweet Dowsabell went forth to gather honeysuckle and lady's-smock nearly three centuries since. For the shepherd with whom she fell in love carried His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong. So, too, He leared his sheepe as he him list When he would whistle in his fist; and the shepherd still guides and encourages his sheep by whistling. Hilary said that years ago the dogs kept at farmhouses in that district did not seem of such good breeds, nor were there so many varieties as at present. They were mostly sheep-dogs, or mongrels of the sheep-dog cast; for little attention was paid to breed. Dogs of this kind, with shaggy black coats and stump tails, could be found at most farms, and were often of a savage disposition; so much so that it was occasionally necessary to break their teeth that they might not injure the sheep. From his description the dogs at the present day must be far superior; indeed, there seems to have been no variety of dog and no purity of breed at that time (in that neighbourhood); meaning, of course, outside the gamekeeper's kennels, or the hounds used for hunting. Shepherds like to keep their flock in hurdles, folded as much as possible, that they may not rub their wool off and so get a ragged appearance. Once now and then in wet weather the ground becomes so soft that a flock will not move, their narrow feet sinking so deeply in the mud. It is then necessary to 'dog them out'--to set the dog at them--and the excitement, fright, and exertion have been known to kill one or more of the flock. Passing on to the lower grounds, we entered the meadows, where the men were at haycart. The cart-horses wore glittering brazen ornaments, crescent-shaped, in front of the neck, and one upon the forehead. Have these ornaments a history?[2] The carters and ploughmen have an old-world vocabulary of their own, saying 'toward' for anything near or leaning towards you, and 'vrammards' for the reverse. 'Heeld' or 'yeeld,' again, is ploughman's language; when the newly sown corn does not 'heeld' or 'yeeld' it requires the harrow. In the next field, which the mowers had but just cut, the men were 'tedding'--_i.e._ spreading the swathe with their prongs. Hilary said that hay was a safe speculation if a man could afford to wait; for every few years it was sure to be extremely dear, so that the old people said, 'Old hay, old gold.' [2] See Notes. As we returned towards Lucketts' Place, he pointed out to me a distant house upon which he said slates had been first used in that neighbourhood. Fifty or sixty years since no slates were to be seen there, and when they began to be introduced the old folk manifested great opposition. They said slate would never last--the moss would eat through it, and so cause holes; and, in fact, some of the slate that was brought up did decay and become useless. But that was, of course, an inferior kind, quite different to what is now employed. In so comparatively short a period has everything--even the mode of roofing--changed that the introduction of slates is still in many places within the memory of man. Hilary had still a lingering preference for thatch; and though he could not deny the utility of slate, his inclination was obviously in favour of straw. He assured me that good straw from a good harvest (for there was much difference in it), well laid on by a good thatcher, had been known to keep out the weather for forty-five years. We looked into the garden at the Place, where Hilary particularly called my attention to the kidney-beans; for, said he, if the kidney-beans run up the sticks well, with a strong vine, then it would be a capital hop-year. On the contrary, if they were weak and poor, the hops would prove a failure. Thus the one plant was an index to the other, though they might be growing a hundred miles apart, both being particularly sensitive to the same atmospheric influences. In a distant tree beyond the rickyard there was something hanging in the branches that I could not quite make out: it was a limb of a dead horse. A cart-horse belonging to a neighbouring farmer had met with an accident and had to be killed, when, according to old custom, portions were sent round to each adjacent farmstead for the dogs, which then had a feast. Thus, said Hilary, according to the old saw, the death of a horse is the life of a dog. CHAPTER IX. THE WATER-MILL. FIELD NAMES. 'Our time be a-most gone by,' said the miller looking up from his work and laying aside the millpeck for a moment as he rubbed his eyes with his white and greasy sleeve. From a window of the old mill by Okebourne I was gazing over the plain green with rising wheat, where the titlarks were singing joyously in the sunshine. A millstone had been 'thrown off' on some full sacks--like cushions--and Tibbald, the miller, was dexterously pecking the grooves afresh. The millpeck is a little tool like a double adze, or perhaps rather like two chisels set in the head of a mallet. Though age was stealing upon him, Tibbald's eye and hand were still true, and his rude sculpture was executed with curious precision. The grooves, which are the teeth of the millstone, radiate from the centre, but do not proceed direct to the edge: they slant slightly. 'There bean't many as can do this job,' he said, 'I can put in sixteen or twenty to the inch. These old French burrs be the best stone; they be hard, but they be mild and takes the peck well.' Ponderous as the millstones appear, they are capable of being set so that their surfaces shall grind with extreme accuracy. The nether, called the 'bed stone,' is stationary; the upper millstone, or 'runner,' revolves, and the grain crushed between the two works out along the furrows to the edge. Now and then the miller feels the grain as it emerges with his pudgy thumb and finger, and knows by touch how the stones are grinding. It is perceptibly warm at the moment it issues forth, from the friction: yet the stones must not grind too close, or they 'kill' the wheat, which should be only just cracked, so as to skin well. To attain this end, first, the surfaces of the stones must be level, and the grooves must be exactly right; and, secondly, the upper stone must be hung at the exact distance above the other to the smallest fraction of an inch. The upper millstone is now sometimes balanced with lead, which Tibbald said was not the case of old. 'We used to have a good trade at this mill,' he continued, as he resumed his pecking; 'but our time be a-most gone by. We be too fur away up in these here Downs. There! Listen to he!' A faint hollow whistle came up over the plain, and I saw a long white cloud of steam miles away, swiftly gliding above the trees beneath which in the cutting the train was running. 'That be th' express. It be that there steam as have done for us. Everything got to go according to that there whistle: they sets the church clock by he. The big London mills as be driven by steam does the most of the work; and this here foreign wheat, as comes over in the steamers, puts the market down, so as we yent got a chance to buy up a lot and keep it till the price gets better. I seed in the paper as the rate is gone down a penny: the steamers be going to ship the American wheat a penny a bushel cheaper. So it bean't much good for Hilary to talk about his wheat. I thenks that'll about do.' He laid down the millpeck, and took his millstaff to prove the work he had done. This was made of well-seasoned oak, two pieces put together so that they should not warp. He rubbed the edge with ruddle, and, placing the millstaff on the stone, turned it about on its shorter axis: where the ruddle left its red mark more pecking would be required. There was but one small spot, and this he quickly put right. Even the seasoned oak, however, is not always true, and to be certain on the point Tibbald had a millstaff prover. This is of rigid steel, and the staff is put on it; if any daylight is visible between the two the staff is not accurate--so delicately must these great stones be adjusted for successful grinding. The largest of them are four feet two inches diameter; and dangerous things they are to move, for if the men do not all heave or 'give' at the same moment the stone may slip, and the edge will take off a row of fingers as clean as the guillotine. Tibbald, of course, had his joke about that part of the machinery which is called the 'damsel.' He was a righteous man enough as millers go, but your miller was always a bit of a knave; nor could he forbear from boasting to me how he had been half an hour too soon for Hilary last Overboro' market. He said the vast water-wheel was of elm, but it would not last so long up so near the springs. Upon a river or brook the wheel might endure for thirty years, and grind corn for a generation. His millpond was close to the spring-head, and the spring-water ate into the wood and caused it to decay much quicker. The spokes used to be mortised in, now they used flanges, ironwork having almost destroyed the business of the ancient millwright. Of all manual workers, probably the old style of millwright employed the greatest variety of tools, and was the cleverest in handling them. There seemed no end to the number of his chisels and augers; some of the augers of immense size. In winter time the millwright made the millstones, for the best stones are not in one piece but composed of forty or fifty. The French burrs which Tibbald preferred come over in fragments, and these are carefully fitted together and stuck with plaster of Paris. Such work required great nicety: the old millwright was, in fact, a kind of artist in his handicraft. I could not help regretting, as Tibbald dilated on these things, that the village millwright no longer existed; the care, the skill, the forethought, the sense of just proportion he exhibited quite took him out of the ranks of the mere workman. He was a master of his craft, and the mind he put into it made him an artist. Tibbald went on that he did not care for the Derby or Welsh millstones. These were in one piece, but they were too hard for the delicate grinding necessary to make the fine flour needed for good bread. They answered best for barley meal. Now, the French burr was not only hard but mild, and seemed to feel the corn as it crushed it. A sack of wheat lost 4 lb. in grinding. I asked about the toll: he showed me the old measure, reckoned at the tenth of a sack; it was a square box. When the lord's tenants in the olden times were forced to have their corn ground at the lord's mill, the toll was liable to be abused in a cruel manner; hence the universal opinion that a miller must be a knave. Even in much more recent times, when the labourers took part of their wages in flour, there is said to have been a great deal of sleight-of-hand in using the toll-box, and the miller's thumb grew fat by continually dipping into other folk's sacks. But Tibbald had an argument even here, for he said that men nowadays never grew so strong as they used to do when they brought their own wheat to be ground at the mill, and when they made their bread and baked it at home. His own father once carried the fattest man in the parish on his back half a mile; I forget how much he weighed exactly, but it was something enormous, and the fat man, moreover, held a 56 lb. weight in each hand. He himself remembered when Hilary used to be the strongest man in the place; when the young men met together they contended who should lift the heaviest weight, and he had seen Hilary raise 5 cwt., fair lifting, with the hands only, and without any mechanical appliance. Hilary, too, used to write his name with a carpenter's flat cedar pencil on the whitewashed ceiling of the brewhouse, holding the while a 1/2 cwt. of iron hung on his little finger. The difficulty was to get the weight up, lifting it fairly from the ground; you could lift it very well half-way, but it was just when the arm was bent that the tug came to get it past the hip, after which it would go up comparatively easily. Now this great strength was not the result of long and special training, or, indeed, of any training at all; it came naturally from outdoor life, outdoor work, plain living (chiefly bacon), and good bread baked at home. At the present time men ate the finest and whitest of bread, but there was no good in it. Folk grew tall and big--taller than they used to be, he thought--and they could run quick, and so forth; but there was no stamina, no power of endurance, of withstanding exposure like there was formerly. The mere measure of a man, he was certain, had nothing to do with his strength; and he could never understand how it was that the army folk would have men precisely so high and so many inches round. Just then he was called away to a carter who had brought up his team and waggon at the door, and as he was gone some time I went up under the roof, whence there was a beautiful view down over the plain. The swifts, which had but just arrived, were rushing through the sky in their headlong way; they would build presently in the roof. The mill was built at the mouth of a coombe on the verge of the Downs; the coombe was narrow and steep, as if nature had begun a cutting with the view of tunnelling through the mass of the hills. At the upper end of the coombe the spring issued, and at the lower was the millpond. There is something peculiarly human in a mill--something that carries the mind backwards into the past, the days of crossbow and lance and armour. Possibly there was truth in Tibbald's idea that men grow larger in the present time without corresponding strength, for is it not on record that some at least of the armour preserved in collections will not fit those who have tried it on in recent times? Yet the knight for whom it was originally made, though less in stature and size, may have had much more vigour and power of endurance. The ceaseless rains last year sent the farmers in some places to the local millers once more somewhat in the old style. Part of their wheat proved so poor that they could not sell it at market; and, rather than waste it, they had it ground at the village mills with the idea of consuming as much of the flour as possible at home. But the flour was so bad as to be uneatable. As I parted with Tibbald that morning he whispered to me, as he leaned over the hatch, to say a good word for him with Hilary about the throw of oak that was going on in one part of the Chace. 'If you was to speak to he, he could speak to the steward, and may be I could get a stick or two at a bargain'--with a wink. Tibbald did a little in buying and selling timber, and, indeed, in many other things. Pleased as he was to show me the mill, and to talk about it by the hour together, the shrewd old fellow still had an eye to business. After a while, in walking along the footpaths of the meadows and by the woods, a feeling grew upon me that it would be pleasant to know something of their history. It was through inquiring about the age of the rookery that this thought took shape. No one could tell me how long the rooks had built there, nor were there any passing allusions in old papers to fix the date. There was no tradition of it among the oldest people; all they knew was that the rooks had always been there, and they seemed to indicate a belief that there the rooks would always remain. It seemed to me, however, that the site of their city was slowly travelling, and in a few generations might be found on the other side of the Chace. Some of the trees where the nests were most numerous were decaying, and several were already deserted. As the trees died, the rooks moved to the next clump, and thus gradually shifted their city. This inquiry led to further reflections about the past of the woods and meadows. Besides the birds, the flowers, and animals that had been there for so many, many centuries, there were the folk in the scattered homesteads, whose ancestors might have left some record. In these times history is concerned only with great cities or strategical positions of world-wide renown; interest is concentrated on a siege of Paris or a march towards Constantinople. In days of yore battles were often fought in or near what seem to us mere villages; little places whose very names are uncertain and exact site unascertainable were the centres of strife. Some of these places are buried under the sward as completely as Herculaneum under the lava. The green turf covers them, the mower passes over with his scythe and knows not of them. Hilary had observed in one of his meadows that the turf turned brown or burnt up in squares during hot summer weather. This he conjectured to be caused by the shallowness of the soil over some ancient foundations; and some years before he had had the curiosity to open a hole, and soon came upon a hidden wall. He did not excavate farther, but the old folk, when they heard of it, remembered a tradition of a village having once existed there. At present there were no houses near; the place, whatever it was, had disappeared. The mention of this meadow led to some conversation about the names of the fields, which are often very curious. Such names as Lea, Leaze, Croft, and so on, are readily explained; but what was the original meaning of The Cossicles? Then there were Zacker's Hook, the Conigers,[3] Cheesecake, Hawkes, Rials, Purley, Strongbowls, Thrupp, Laines, Sannetts, Gaston, Wexils, Wernils, Glacemere, several Hams, Haddons, and Weddingtons, Slades, and so on, and a Truelocks. These were quickly put down; scores of still more singular names might be collected in every parish. It is the meadows and pastures which usually bear these designations; the ploughed fields are often only known by their acreage, as the Ten Acre Piece, or the Twelve Acres. Some of them are undoubtedly the personal names of former owners. But in others ancient customs, allusions to traditions, fragments of history, or of languages now extinct, may survive. [3] See Notes. There was a meadow where deep trenches could be traced, green now, but clearly once a moat, but there was not even a tradition about it. On the Downs overlooking the Idovers was an earthwork or entrenchment, of which no one knew anything. Hilary believed there was an old book--a history of Overboro' town--which might perhaps contain some information, but where it could be found he did not know. After some consideration, however, he thought there might be a copy at the Crown, once an old posting-inn, at Overboro': that was about the only place where I should be likely to find it. So one warm summer day I walked into Overboro', following a path over the Downs, whose short sward affords the best walking in the world. At the Crown, now no more an inn but an hotel, the archway was blocked up with two hand-trucks piled with trunks and portmanteaus, the property of commercial gentlemen and just about to be conveyed to the station. What with the ostler and the 'boots' and the errand-boys, all hanging about for their fees, it was a push to enter; and the waiters within seemed to equally occupy the passage, fetching the dust-coats and walking-sticks and flourishing coat-brushes. Seeing a door marked 'Coffee-room,' I took refuge, and having ordered luncheon began to consider how I should open my subject with the landlord, who was clearly as much up to the requirements of modern life as if his house had been by a London terminus. Time-tables in gilt-stamped covers strewed the tables; wine lists stood on edge; a card of the local omnibus to the station was stuck up where all could see it; the daily papers hung over the arm of a cosy chair; the furniture was new; the whole place, it must be owned, extremely comfortable and the service good. But it was town and not country--to-day and not the olden time; and I did not feel courage enough to ask for the book. I believe I should have left the place without mentioning it, but, fortunately looking round the room while the lunch was prepared, I found it in the bookcase, where there was a strange mixture of the modern and antique. I took down the history from between Rich's thin grey 'Ruins of Babylon' and a yellow-bound railway novel. Towards the close of the eighteenth century a learned gentleman had taken much pains to gather together this account of the town. He began with the story of Brutus, and showed that one of the monarchs descended from the illustrious Trojan founded a city here. Some fossil shells, indeed, that had been dug up furnished him with conclusive proof that the Deluge had not left the site uncovered, since no how else could they have got there: an argument commonly accepted in his day. Thus he commenced, like the monks themselves, with the beginning of the world; but then came a wide gap down to Domesday Book. The hides and yardlands held by the conquerors--how much was in demesne, how many acres were wood and how many meadow--the number of servi, and what the mill paid were duly translated and recorded. The descent of the manors through the monasteries and the persons who purchased them at the Dissolution filled several pages, and was supplemented with a charter recognising rights of infang and outfang, assize of bread and ale, and so forth. Finally, there was a list of the mayors, which some one had carried on in manuscript on a fly-leaf to within ten years of date. There was an air of precision in the exact sentences, and the writer garnished his tale with frequent quotations from Latin writers. In the midst was a wood-cut of a plant having no sort of relevancy to the subject-matter, but for which he returned thanks for the loan of the block. But he had totally omitted his own times. These quotations, these lists and charters, the extracts from Domesday, read dry and formal--curious, and yet not interesting. Had he described the squires and yeomen, the townspeople of his own day, their lives and manner of thinking, how invaluable and pleasing his work would have been! Hilary said that in these little country towns years ago people had to be very careful how they acted, lest they should offend some local magnate. He remembered a tradesman telling him how once he had got into great disgrace for putting a new knocker on his private side door, without first asking permission and sending round to obtain the opinion of an old gentleman. This person had nothing whatever to do with the property, but lived retired and ruled his neighbours with a rod of iron. The old knocker was quite worn out, but the new one had scarcely been fastened on when the unfortunate owner was summoned to the presence of the irate old gentleman, who demanded with great wrath what on earth he meant by setting himself up above his station in this way. It was only by a humble answer, and by begging the old gentleman to walk down and look at the discarded knocker, promising that it should be replaced if he thought proper, that he could be appeased. A man then hardly dared appear in a new hat without first suggesting the idea to his social superior. CHAPTER X. THE COOMBE-BOTTOM. CONCLUSION. 'There is "two-o'clock bush,"' said Cicely, pointing to a large hawthorn; 'the shepherds look from the corner of the entrenchment, and if the sun is over that bush they know it is two o'clock.' She was driving me in the pony-trap over the Downs, and we were going to call on Mrs. Luckett's brother, who had a farm among the hills. He had not been down to Lucketts' Place for more than twelve months, and Cicely was resolved to make him promise to come. Though they may be in reality much attached and affectionate, country folk are apt to neglect even their nearest and dearest. The visit is put off from month to month; then comes the harvest, and nothing else can be thought of; and the longer the lapse the more difficult is the remedy. The footpath of friendship, says the ancient British triad, if not frequently travelled becomes overgrown with briars. Those who live by the land forget the passage of the years. A year is but a harvest. After the ploughing and sowing and cleaning, the reaping and thatching and threshing, what is there left of the twelvemonth? It has gone like a day. Thus it is that a farmer talks of twenty years since as if it was only last week, and seems unable to grasp the flight of time till it is marked and emphasised by some exceptional occurrence. Cicely meant to wake her uncle from this slumber. We started early on a beautiful July morning--partly to avoid the heat, and partly because Cicely wished to be away when young Aaron shortened the tails of the puppies in the rickyard. (This he did in the old-fashioned way, with his teeth.) Besides we thought that, if we waited till later, Uncle Bennet might be gone to market at Overboro'. We passed several farmers leaning or sitting on the stiles by the road, watching for a friend to come along and give them a lift into town. Some of them had waited like this every market morning for years. There were fewer on the road than usual, it being near harvest, when many do not so much care to leave home. Upon reaching the foot of the Downs, Cicely left the highway and entered a narrow lane without hedges, but worn low between banks of chalk or white rubble. The track was cut up with ruts so deep that the bed of the pony-trap seemed almost to touch the ground. As we went rather slowly along this awkward place we could see the wild thyme growing on the bank at the side. Presently we got on the slope of the hill, and at the summit passed the entrenchment and the shepherds' timepiece. Thence our track ran along the ridge, on the short sweet turf, where there were few or no ruts, and these easily avoided on that broad open ground. The quick pony now put out his speed, and we raced along as smoothly as if the wheels were running on a carpet. Far below, to the right, stretched wheatfield after wheatfield in a plain between two ranges of the hills. Over the opposite slope, a mile away, came the shadows of the clouds--then down along the corn towards us. Stonechats started from the flints and low bushes as we went by; an old crow--it is always an old crow--rose hastily from behind a fence of withered thorn; and a magpie fluttered down the hill to the fields beneath, where was a flock of sheep. The breeze at this height made the sunshine pleasant. Cicely said that once some snow lingered in the fosse of the entrenchment we had left behind till the haymaking. There was a snowstorm late in the spring, and a drift was formed in a hollow at the bottom of the fosse. The weather continued chilly (sometimes even in June it is chilly, and the flowers seem out of harmony with the temperature), and this drift, though of course it was reduced, did not melt but became consolidated like ice: a part still remained when the haymaking commenced. The pony now slackened his pace at a sharp ascent, and as he walked up we could hear the short song of the grasshoppers. There was a fir copse at the summit through which the track went; by the gateway as we entered there was a convolvulus out. Cicely regretted to see this sign that the sun had reached his greatest height: the tide of summer was full. Beyond the copse we descended by a deep-worn track into a 'coombe-bottom,' or valley, where were some cottages. Cicely, who knew some of the old people, thought she would call, though most probably they would be away. We stopped at a garden-gate: it was open, but there was no one about. Cicely lifted the latch of the door to step in, country fashion, but it was locked; and, hearing the noise, a cat came mewing round the corner. As if they had started out of the ground, a brown-faced boy and a thin girl suddenly appeared, having come through the hedge. 'Thaay be up to barken' (rickyard), said the boy: so we went on to the next door. It was locked too, but the key was in the lock outside. Cicely said that was a signal to callers that the wife had only gone out for a few minutes and would return soon. The children had followed us. 'Where is she?' asked Cicely. 'Hur be gone to dipping-place,' replied the boy. We went to a third door, and immediately he cried out, 'Thuck's our feyther's: the kay's in the thatch.' We looked and could see the handle of the key sticking out of the eave over the door. 'Where are they all?' I said. 'Aw, Bill's in the clauver; and Joe--he's in th' turmuts; and Jack be at public, a' spose; and Bob's wi' the osses; and----' 'They will be home to luncheon?' said Cicely. 'Aw, no um wunt; they wunt be whoam afore night; thaay got thur nuncheon wi' um.' 'Is there no one at home in all the place?' I inquired. 'Mebbe Farmer Bennet. Thur beant nobody in these yer housen.' So we went on to Uncle Bennet's, whose house was hidden by a clump of elms farther down the coombe. There were cottagers in this lonely hill hamlet, not only old folk but young persons, who had never seen a train. They had not had the enterprise or curiosity to walk into Overboro' for the purpose. Some of the folk ate snails, the common brown shell-snail found in the hedges. It has been observed that children who eat snails are often remarkably plump. The method of cooking is to place the snail in its shell on the bar of a grate, like a chestnut. And well-educated people have been known, even in these days, to use the snail as an external medicine for weakly children: rubbed into the back or limb, the substance of the snail is believed to possess strengthening virtues.[4] [4] See Notes. We found Uncle Bennet just taking his lunch in the stone-flagged sitting-room, which, however, had a square of cocoa-nut matting. He was getting on in years, but very active. He welcomed us warmly: still I thought I detected some uneasiness in his manner. His conscience warned him that Cicely was going to attack him for his remissness; and how was he to defend himself? Without any preliminary, she at once demanded why he had not come down to see them. 'Mary,' said he, calling the servant, as if he did not hear her, 'Some ale, and the ginger wine, and the grey-beard--mebbe you'd like a drop a' shart'--to me; but I declined. She repeated her question, but Uncle Bennet was looking towards me. 'The wuts be very forrard,' said he, 'I got some a-most ready to cut.' 'Do you hear?' cried Cicely, angrily. 'Niece,' replied the farmer, turning to her, 'there's them summer apples as you used to like, there be some ready; will 'ee have one?' 'I don't want your apples; why didn't you come down?' 'Aw; that's what you be a-talking about.' 'Yes, that's it.' 'The turmots wants some rain terrable bad' (to me)--'you med see the fly a-hopping about 'em.' 'I hope they will spoil your turnips,' said Cicely; 'you are a very rude man not to answer a lady when she speaks to you.' 'You be a-coming on nicely, Cissy,' said he. 'Have 'ee got are a gage-ring yet?' 'How dare you!' (blushing). 'Tell me instantly why have you not been to see us? You know how angry it makes me.' 'Well, I was a-coming,' deliberately. 'When were you coming?' 'Well, I got to see a man down your way, Cissy; a' owes me for a load a' straw.' 'Then why don't you come down and get the money?' 'I telled 'ee I was a-coming. He wants some of our sheep to feed off a meadow; s'pose I must see about it'--with a sigh, as if the idea of a decision was insupportable. 'Why didn't you come before?' 'Aw, I don't seem to have no time'--farmers having more time than anybody else. 'You could have come in June.' 'Bless 'ee, your feyther's got the hay about; a' don't want no strangers bothering.' 'As if you were a stranger! Well, why didn't you come in May?' 'Lor bless 'ee, my dear.' 'In April?' 'Us was main busy a-hoeing.' 'In March?' 'I had the rheumatism bad in March.' 'Well, then,' concluded Cicely, 'now just change your coat and come to-day. Jump up in the pony-trap--we will make room.' 'To-day!' in hopeless bewilderment, his breath quite taken away at the idea of such sudden action. 'Couldn't do't--couldn't do't. Got to go down to Thirty Acre Corner: got to get out the reaping machine--a' wants oiling, a' reckon; got some new hurdles coming; 'spects a chap to call about them lambs;' a farmer can always find a score of reasons for doing nothing. 'All rubbish!' cried Cicely, smiling. 'Nieces be main peart now-a-days,' said he, shutting one eye and keeping it closed, as much as to say--I won't be driven. Then to me, 'There won't be many at market to-day.' 'I am hungry,' said Cicely softly; 'I should like some bread and honey.' 'Aw; should 'ee?' in gentler tones; 'I'll get 'ee some: will'ee have it in th' comb? I got a bit left.' She knew his pride in his bees and his honey; hill farmers still keep large stocks. He brought her a slice of home-baked bread and a piece of comb. She took the comb in her white fingers, and pressed the liquid gold from the cells; the luscious sweetness gathered from a thousand flowers making her lips still sweeter. Uncle Bennet offered me a jar full to the brim: 'Dip your vinger in,' said he. 'Why is the honey of the hills so much nicer?' asked Cicely, well knowing, but drawing him on. 'It be th' clover and th' thyme, and summat in the air. There bean't no hedges for um to fly up against, and so um carries home a bigger load.' 'How many hives have you?' I inquired. 'Let's see'--he counted them up, touching a finger for each twenty--'There be three score and sixteen; I have a' had six score years ago, but folk don't care for honey now sugar be so cheap.' 'Let us go and see them,' said Cicely. We went out and looked at the hives; they were all in a row, each protected by large 'pan-sherds' from heavy rain, and placed along beneath the wall of the garden, which sheltered them on one side. Uncle Bennet chatted pleasantly about his bees for an hour, and would, I believe, have gossiped all day, notwithstanding that he had so little time for anything. Nothing more was said about the delayed visit, but just as we were on the point of departure, and Cicely had already taken the reins, he said to her, as if it were an afterthought, 'Tell your mother, I s'pose I must look down that way next week.' We passed swiftly through the little hamlet; the children had gathered by a gateway to watch us. Though so far from the world, they were not altogether without a spice of the impudence of the city arab. A tall and portly gentleman from town once chanced to visit this 'coombe-bottom' on business, and strolled down the 'street' in all the glory of shining boots, large gold watch-chain, black coat and high hat, all the pomp of Regent-street; doubtless imagining that his grandeur astonished the rustics. A brown young rascal, however, looking him up--he was a tall man--with an air of intelligent criticism, audibly remarked, 'Hum! He be very well up to his ankles--and then a' falls off!' That evening was one of the most beautiful I remember. We all sat in the garden at Lucketts' Place till ten o'clock; it was still light and it seemed impossible to go indoors. There was a seat under a sycamore tree with honeysuckle climbing over the bars of the back; the spot was near the orchard, but on slightly higher ground. From our feet the meadow sloped down to the distant brook, the murmur of whose stream as it fell over a bay could be just heard. Northwards the stars were pale, the sun seems so little below the horizon there that the glow of the sunset and the glow of the dawn nearly meet. But southwards shone the dull red star of summer--Antares, seen while the wheat ripens and the ruddy and golden tints come upon the fruits. Then nightly describing a low curve he looks down upon the white shimmering corn, and carries the mind away to the burning sands and palms of the far south. In the light and colour and brilliance of an English summer we sometimes seem very near those tropical lands. So still was it that we heard an apple fall in the orchard, thud on the sward, blighted perhaps and ripe before its time. Under the trees as the months went on there would rise heaps of the windfalls collected there to wait for the cider-mill. The mill was the property of two or three of the village folk, a small band of adventurers now grown old, who every autumn went round from farm to farm grinding the produce of the various orchards. They sometimes poured a quantity of the acid juice into the mill to sharpen it, as cutting a lemon will sharpen a knife. The great press, with its unwieldy screw and levers, squeezed the liquor from the cut-up apples in the horse-hair bags: a cumbersome apparatus, but not without interest; for surely so rude an engine must date back far in the past. The old fellows who brought it and put it up with slow deliberative motions were far, far past the joy with which all the children about the farm hailed its arrival. With grave faces and indifferent manner they ground the apples, and departed as slowly and deliberately as they came; verily men of the autumn, harbingers of the fall of the year. As I dreamed with the honeysuckle over my shoulder, and Antares southwards, Hilary talked at intervals about his wheat as usual and the weather, but I only caught fragments of it. All the signs were propitious, and as it had been a fine harvest under similar conditions before, people said it would be fine this time. But, unlike the law, the weather acknowledged no precedent, and nobody could tell, though folk now thought they knew everything. How all things had changed since the Queen ascended the throne! Not long since Hilary was talking with a labourer, an elderly man, who went to the feast in Overboro' town on the day of the coronation. The feast was held in the market-place, and the puddings, said the old fellow regretfully, were so big they were brought in on hand-barrows. It was difficult since he himself remembered even to learn the state of the markets. So few newspapers came into country places that before service on Sundays the farmers gathered round anybody in the churchyard who was known to take in a paper, to get particulars from this fortunate individual. Letters rarely came to the farmhouse door then. The old postman made a very good thing of his office--people were so eager for news, and it was easy to take a magpie glance at a newspaper. So he called at the butcher's before he started out, and in exchange for a peep at the paper got a little bit of griskin, or a chop, and at the farmhouses as he passed they gave him a few eggs, and at the inns a drop of gin. Thus a dozen at least read scraps before it reached the rightful owner. If anything very extraordinary had happened he would shout it out as he went through the hamlet. Hilary said he well remembered being up on the roof of the house one morning, mending the thatch, when suddenly a voice--it was the postman's--cried from the road, 'Royal Exchange burned down!' In this way news got about before the present facilities were afforded. But some of the old folk still regretted the change and believed that we should some day be punished for our worship of steam. Steam had brought us to rely on foreign countries for our corn, and a day would come when through a war, or a failure of the crops there, the vast population of this country would be in danger of famine. But 'old folk' are prone to prophesy disaster and failure of all kinds. Mrs. Luckett chimed in here, and said that modern ways were not all improvements, the girls now were so fond of gadding about. This was a hint for Cicely, who loved a change, and yet was deeply attached to the old home. She rose at this, doubtless pouting, but it was too dusky to see, and went indoors, and presently from the open window came the notes of her piano. As she played I dreamed again, till presently Mrs. Luckett began to argue with Hilary that the shrubs about the garden ought to be cut and trimmed. Hilary said he liked to see the shrubs and the trees growing freely; he objected to cut and trim them. 'For,' said he, 'God made nothing tidy.' Just then Cicely called us to supper. NOTES. The following interesting correspondence has been received. MAGPIE OMENS. _Page 153._--In reference to the superstition that one magpie is good luck, but two sorrow, 'R. F.' writes from Wiesbaden:--'In the north of England the contrary belief holds good, witness the following saw which I heard many years ago in the county of Durham:-- "One for sorrow, two for mirth; Three a marriage, four a birth; Five for heaven, six for hell, Seven--the devil's own sel!" As to seventeen, which number I once saw together, Mrs. Luckett's exclamation "Goodness! something awful might happen" might have been appropriate; only nothing dreadful did occur.' CART-HORSE ORNAMENTS. _Page 159._--As to the history of the crescent-shaped ornaments on carthorses, 'J. D.' writes from Dover: 'Anyone who has lived in Spanish countries must be struck on going to East Kent by the gay trappings of the farmers' horses on gala days, in which the national colours of Spain, scarlet and orange yellow, and the "glittering brazen" ornament of the crescent and the cross, so generally prevail. Their history must date from the introduction of the Flemish breed of horses to this country, showing that as the Moors carried the crescent to Spain, so the Spaniards took it to Flanders, and the Flemings here, whence it has been adopted pretty generally by the farmers of England.' NAMES OF FIELDS. _Page 176._--'The Conigers is evidently the same as Coningar, a word sometimes occurring in Scottish local nomenclature, and which meant a rabbit-warren--Coniger, Coney-garth. I know two Coningars in Aberdeenshire, but the meaning of the word is as much forgotten there also.--H. W. L.' MEDICINAL USE OF SNAILS. _Page 189._--In Dorset, writes 'S. C. S. S.,' an extract of snails for external use is still sometimes prepared, and, mixed with rum, is rubbed into weak backs, or legs, especially of children. LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
31678	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations in color. See 31678-h.htm or 31678-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31678/31678-h/31678-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31678/31678-h.zip) IN THE BORDER COUNTRY * * * * * POPULAR BOOKS ON ART. Edited by W. Shaw Sparrow THE ART AND LIFE LIBRARY. 1. "THE BRITISH HOME OF TO-DAY" (_out of print_). 2. "THE GOSPELS IN ART." 3. "WOMEN PAINTERS OF THE WORLD." 4. "THE OLD TESTAMENT IN ART," Vol. I. 5. "THE MODERN HOME" (_out of print_). 6. "THE OLD TESTAMENT IN ART," Vol. II. 7. "THE APOSTLES IN ART." HISTORY, TRAVEL, RUSTIC LIFE. 1. "MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS," with 26 Pictures in Colour by Sir James Linton, R.I., and James Orrock, R.I.; the text by Walter Wood. 2. "IN THE BORDER COUNTRY," with 25 Pictures in Colour by James Orrock, R.I., and Historical Notes by W. S. Crockett. 3. "IN RUSTIC ENGLAND," with 25 Pictures in Colour by Birket Foster; the text by A. B. Daryll. THE ART AND LIFE MONOGRAPHS. 1. "ETCHINGS BY VAN DYCK," in Rembrandt Photogravure the full size of the Original Proofs. Also an Édition de Luxe with Carbon Print Photographs of all the Etchings; the text by Prof. Dr. H. W. Singer. 2. "INGRES--MASTER OF PURE DRAUGHTSMANSHIP." Twenty-four Rembrandt Photogravures of important Drawings and Pictures; the introductions by Arsène Alexandre and W. Shaw Sparrow. ARTISTS OF THE PRESENT DAY. I. "FRANK BRANGWYN, A.R.A." the introductions by Léonce Bénédite and W. Shaw Sparrow. 2. "LUCY E. KEMP-WELCH," the introductions by Professor Hubert von Herkomer and Edward F. Strange. SERIES OF BIBLE PICTURES. "THE SAVIOUR IN MODERN ART." London: Hodder & Stoughton * * * * * [Illustration] FRONTISPIECE VIEW OF DUNSTANBOROUGH FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. IN THE BORDER COUNTRY With Pictures in Colour by JAMES ORROCK R I And Historical Notes by W. S. CROCKETT Edited by W. Shaw Sparrow Hodder & Stoughton London 1906 DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT PREFACE Most of us prefer to spend our holiday tours away from our own country. There is a feeling of mild adventure when the land we behold is unknown to us, and when the language we hear filters into our questioning minds through an interpreter's suavity and chatter. And if we go to Switzerland we may earn even a reputation for intrepid pluck among the friends who listen to us on our return home, while the unlucky guides, who found for our trembling feet a pathway around each danger, will amuse their families during the winter with little tales at our expense, told with rough satire and with short, gruff peals of laughter resembling the noise of a crackling ice-sheet when it begins to slip downhill. No doubt, heroism on the hillside has a vast attraction to brave, fearless hearts like our own; but we should find, here in our own country, quite as much adventure as is good for us, and quite as much novelty also, if only we could bring ourselves to believe that knowledge of native scenes and traditions does not come to us in baptism or by virtue of our birth as British folk. If you ask a friend whether he knows the Border Country, he will probably answer yes, and then go on to say that he when a lad at school was a great reader of Scott, and thank heaven! his memory is a good one. Push the matter further, ask whether he has verified the truth of Scott's descriptions by a visit to the places described, and you will probably hear that your friend would rather dream of the North Pole or be bitten fiercely by the swarms of lively insects treasured throughout Brittany in every cottage and hotel. All this being somewhat commonplace, you may wish to get closer to this subject, and your friend at last, driven to bay, comes to the real point that pricks and distresses him. "You see," he will say, "a holiday tour at home is such a dickens of a gamble. You can't say how much it will cost. The only thing at all certain about it is that the cost will be more than you can afford. Wherever you go you become a goose to be plucked." Let us rebel against this iniquity! It is not a question of cheating, it is a trait of the national character. In Great Britain, as among the Americans, the gift of long sight in business has become very common, and few persons think it worth their while to see the practical good things within easy reach of the blessed short sight of common sense. Our chief aim is not to keep a market open and steady, but to glut it with over-production or to block it with excessive prices. "Here is a holiday-tripper, so let us make him pay!" That seems to be the unconquerable maxim at all seaside resorts and in every place where tired workers seek rest and health. I have known a week's holiday in the New Forest to cost as much as a tour of three weeks in the beautiful and bracing Ardennes. The Belgian is content to draw his customers back to him, while the Englishman grasps all he can get and sends us away discontented. It is true that the railway companies are doing all in their power to make holidays at home welcome and inexpensive. Their enterprise in this respect has no limits. But we cannot live on cheap railway tickets alone, whether single or return. Something should be done--and the newspapers could help--to establish in all attractive districts a reasonable tariff for board and lodging. It is only thus that Great Britain will be made popular during the holiday season, and that the great stream of gold--the holiday-making Pactolus--will be drawn from the Continent to nourish our own country sides and rural folk. It seems to be certain that, during the reign of the old stage coach, life in rustic England was cheaper than it is to-day. At any rate we must account in some way or other for the immense number of county histories and illustrated topographical books which teemed from the press from the middle of the eighteenth century to the time of J. M. W. Turner. To study these works is to be sure that our forefathers took the greatest delight in their own country, and that huge sums of money were spent in procuring fine sketches and adequate engravings. Side by side with these books on British topography were volumes on foreign travel, like those by William Alexander, who in 1792 accompanied Lord Macartney's embassy to China, where he made many exquisite sketches, brimful of humour and playful observation. John Webber, R.A., in 1776, accompanied Captain Cook on his third and last voyage, and made a drawing of Cook's death, which Byrne and Bartolozzi engraved. Two other Royal Academicians, Thomas and William Daniell, made India their sketching-ground, and in their great work on "Oriental Scenery," published in 1808, they devoted six volumes to a subject as fascinating as it was unhackneyed. Many other artists, too, travelled and made sketches for books, ranging from Girtin's Paris Views to Turner's "Rivers of France," and from Sir David Wilkie's Eastern sketches, reproduced in lithography by Nash, to the familiar work of Prout, Harding, J. F. Lewis, R.A., and Louis Haghe. But these books on foreign travel, admirable as they were, did not eclipse the many volumes on British scenery and landscape antiquities. All the ablest men among the earlier water-colour painters--Hearne, Malton, Dayes, Girtin, Turner, Francia, Havell, De Wint, David Cox, Cotman--made topographical sketches for illustrations, and lucky is he who "finds" their earliest efforts. To-day, happily, there are signs of renewed life in the old taste for picture books on the beauty and romance of our own country. It is a taste that invigorates, storing the mind with tonic memories and filling the eyes with beautiful scenes and colours; and we may be sure that it needs for its gratification books which are easy to carry and to read. The great folio of other days, as heavy almost as a country squire, is rightly treasured in the British Museum, like the remains of the Neolithic Man discovered in Egypt. The subject of the present book--the Border Country--should set us thinking, not of one holiday, but of many; and he who has once tasted the Border's keen rich air will long to return both to it and to the traditions that dwell among the vast landscapes and in the ruined castles. The distinguished connoisseur and painter whose sketches are here reproduced, has gone back to the Border Country a dozen times and more, always to find there a renewal of his first pleasure and a host of fresh subjects, that form a delightful connecting-link between each to-day and the armoured epochs of the long ago. And if the Border Country, with its enchanted places and memories, delights a landscape-painter, it is equally attractive to students of architecture, to lovers of folk-lore and literary history, to writers of romance in search of traditions and local colour, and to those of us also who indulge a passion for collecting either as botanists or as geologists. The rivers and streams have a rare fascination, and anglers, having made their choice, can come by all the sport which they desire. As to the hills, they have a certain modesty of height deceptive to the unwary, for although they have not won for themselves a reputation for fatalities to be described as Alpine, they are yet so dangerous when a mist gathers about them and thickens, that a climber may lose his life there quite comfortably, and without enjoying more than the customary amount of rashness or inexperience. Briefly, men may find in the Border Country nearly all their hobbies, and nearly all their professional studies. In this book the historical notes are written by one who lives by the Tweed, and whose name is associated with Border subjects. Mr. Crockett's work is filled with the Past, while the outdoor sketches by Mr. Orrock are at once so faithful topographically, and so much in sympathy with the classic traditions of English Water-Colour, that they show us what the Border Country is to-day, when seen through the medium of a painter's observation and knowledge. W. SHAW SPARROW. CONTENTS Page Title Page. By David Veazey 3 Dedication Page 5 Preface. By Walter Shaw Sparrow 7 Contents 12 IN THE BORDER COUNTRY BY W. S. CROCKETT Page I. Introduction 17 The Making of the Border 23 The Christianizing of the Border 26 Border Warfare 36 II. The English Border: Northumberland 44 "Merrie Carlisle" 60 III. The Tweed and Its Associations 75 IV. "Pleasant Teviotdale" 94 V. In the Ballad Country 105 VI. The Leader Valley 117 VII. Liddesdale 124 PLATES IN COLOUR BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. FRONTISPIECE. To face View of Dunstanborough Title page PLATE 2 Crag Loch and the Roman Wall 24 PLATE 3 Bamborough from Stag Rock 32 PLATE 4 Holy Island Castle: Harvest Time 36 PLATE 5 View of Norham Castle 40 PLATE 6 Twizel Bridge of the XIV. Century 44 PLATE 7 Flodden Field and the Cheviot Hills 48 PLATE 8 View of Warkworth 52 PLATE 9 View of Alnwick Castle 56 PLATE 10 View of Prudhoe-on-Tyne 60 PLATE 11 View of Carlisle 64 PLATE 12 View of Naworth Castle 68 PLATE 13 View of Lanercost Priory 72 PLATE 14 View of Bewcastle 76 PLATE 15 View of Melrose 80 PLATE 16 Melrose and the Eildons from Bemersyde Hill: Scott's favourite View 84 PLATE 17 Dryburgh Abbey and Scott's Tomb 88 PLATE 18 The Remnant of Wark Castle 92 PLATE 19 Berwick-on-Tweed 96 PLATE 20 Hollows Tower (sometimes called Gilnockie Tower) 100 PLATE 21 Goldilands, near Hawick 104 PLATE 22 "He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower" 112 PLATE 23 View of New Abbey and Criffel 116 PLATE 24 Criffel and Loch Kindar 120 PLATE 25 Caerlaverock Castle 124 I. INTRODUCTION From Berwick to the Solway as the crow flies is little more than seventy miles. Between these two points lies the line that divides England from Scotland. But to follow this line literally along its every little in and out means a distance of no fewer than forty good miles more. Stretching diagonally across the country--north-east or south-west--we have the river Tweed as eastmost boundary for a considerable space--close on twenty miles; then comes the lofty barrier of the Cheviots extending to thirty odd miles, constituting the middle portion of the Border line; and finally, the Kershope Burn, with the Liddel and Esk Waters, and the small stream of the Sark, make up the westmost division, another twenty miles, at least. But to follow the Border on foot, by every bend of Tweedside, and over every nick and nook of the Cheviots, and the remaining water-marches, means, as has been indicated, a walk of not less than one hundred and ten miles. Almost everywhere in the land portion of the Border line--the Cheviots generally--the boundary is such that one may stand with one foot in England and the other in Scotland, and the rather curious fact will be noted, says one who has made this Border pilgrimage _par excellence_, that Scotland nowhere receives a single rivulet from England, whilst she sends to England tiny head-streams of the Coquet and Tyne only. The delimitation is thus a quite natural and scientific one, coinciding pretty closely to the water-parting of the two countries. Upon either side of this line of demarcation stretches the Border Country, famous in war and verse the whole world over--Northumberland and Cumberland to the south-east on English soil, and to the north-west, Berwickshire, Roxburghshire, with part of Dumfriesshire, the distinctively Border counties on the Scottish side. A wider radius, however, has been given to the Scottish Border from a very early period. Old Scots Acts of Parliament, applying to the Border district, embrace the counties of Peebles and Selkirk within the term, though these nowhere touch the frontier line, and portions of Lanarkshire and the Lothians have been also included. But on the face of it, these latter lie entirely outside the true Border limit. A line drawn on the map from Coquetmouth to "Merrie Carlisle," thence to the town of Dumfries, and again, almost due north, to Tweedsmuir (the source of the Tweed) in Peeblesshire, and to Peebles itself, and from Peebles eastward by the Moorfoots and Lammermoors to the German Ocean at St. Abbs, will give us for all practical purposes what may be regarded as the Border Country in its widest signification, geographical and historical. There is, of course, a narrower sense in which the phrase, the Border Country, is used--the literary. That, however, applies almost entirely to the Scottish side, for neither of the English Border counties owns a tithe of the associations in literature and romance that belong to those beyond the Tweed. The extraordinary glamour which has been cast over the Tweed and its tributaries by the writings of Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, John Leyden, and others, has given a prominence to the Scottish side which is nowhere shared by its southern neighbour. But to say so is no disparagement to the English side. For what it lacks in literature it makes up in other admirable characteristics. Both Borders are rich in historical memories. Their natural features are not dissimilar, and in commercial prosperity they are much akin. In union they have long been happily wedded. The Border Country is a region of streams and hills which hardly rise to the dignity of rivers and mountains. Unlike the Clyde, the Tweed has no broad estuary laden with the commerce of the world. And the highest summits, Broad Law (2754 feet) in Scotland, and the great Cheviot (2676 feet) in England, have nothing in common with the rugged Highland peaks except their height. Both, it has been said, are monuments of denudation only, "lofty because they have suffered less wear than their neighbours." It is difficult to imagine all this attractive Border Country as at one period a vast ocean-bed, over which waves lashed in furious foam, and sea-birds shrieked and flew amid the war of waters. Yet geology assures us such was its condition ages ago. By-and-by, it became a great rolling plain or table-land, and in age after age--how many and how long it were vain to speculate--there was carried on that stupendous process by which those fair green hills and glens have been so marvellously scooped out, and moulded and rounded into the objects of beauty that we see about us now. In the great glacier movements, in the working of the ice-sheets, and under the influences of frost, beating rain, and a constant water-flow operating through a countless series of years, we have the scientific explanation of their present benign and comfortable-looking appearance. The Border hills are of a purely pastoral type, grass-grown from base to summit, and usually easy of ascent. Here and there one meets with a distinctly Highland picture--in the deep dark glens down Moffatdale, for instance, but in the main they exhibit "the sonsie, good-humoured, buirdly look," for which Dr. "Rab" Brown expressed the liveliest predilection. Once at the curiously plateau-like summit of Broadlaw (out-topped in Southern Scotland by the Galloway Merrick only) or Hart Fell (2651 feet), or the Cheviot, the feeling amounts to a kind of awe even. Scott speaks of the silence of noonday on the top of Minchmoor, and the acute sense of human littleness one always feels amidst the "mountain infinities." "I assure you," he says, "I have felt really oppressed with a sort of fearful loneliness when looking around these naked towering ridges of desolate barrenness." The picture seen from such a height is both an inspiring and a humbling one. Beneath, it is a veritable earth-ocean that we are gazing upon. On all sides an innumerable series of what look like huge elephant-backed ranges are seen to be chasing each other like waves of the sea, as it were, ridge after ridge, rising, flowing, falling, and passing into the one beyond it, as far as the eye can reach. Enclosed between each we know are the rushing hill-burns and broader streams by which the Border country is everywhere so much blessed and beautified. At such a height we are entirely outside the human touches--altogether alone with Nature at her simplest and solemnest. The cry of a startled sheep and the summer hum of insects on the hill-top-- "That undefined and mingled hum, Voice of the desert, never dumb"-- are the only indications of life where all trace and feeling of man and his work have disappeared. Occasionally we shall meet by chance with the shepherd, maybe, who has his dwelling far down among the "hopes"--the cul-de-sacs of the uplands. Amongst those hills he lives and moves and has his being. All sorts of weather-conditions find him at his work. He never thinks of the loneliness, and the winter storms have not the terrors for him as for his predecessors. In some respects his life is an ideal one, and his class has a goodly record for intelligence and fine physique. The best specimens, indeed, of the country's manhood are drawn from the agricultural labouring classes--the "herds" and "hinds" who make up the bulk of the population in the purely rural districts. For agriculture, it need scarcely be said, is the staple business of both Borders. The Tweed industry, to be sure, affords employment to thousands, but on the Borders, as elsewhere, the land is the crucial problem. Within recent years many of the rural parishes have been woefully depleted, and until the land question is fairly tackled there seems small hope for a fresh and brighter chapter in the domestic history of the Border Country. A hundred years have transformed the face of the Border Country in a marked manner. The development of agriculture, and the growth of the tree-planting spirit, which began to bestir itself about the beginning of last century, have given to the Border its modern picturesqueness and its look of prosperity. Sir Walter Scott himself may be said to be the father of arboriculture in the South of Scotland. In the creation of Abbotsford, forestry was his main out-of-doors hobby, and the example set by one who had studied the subject thoroughly, and who discoursed pleasantly upon it, was quickly followed by all the neighbouring lairds and many others besides. Not that the country was altogether treeless before Scott's day. Here and there "ancestral oaks" clumped themselves about the great castles and mansions, with perhaps some further attempt at embellishment. But that was rare enough. It needed a man like Scott to popularize the notion, and to take the lead in an undertaking fraught, as this age well sees, with results so beneficent. We do not forget, of course, that in earlier historic times practically the whole of the Border Country was covered with wood. Its inhabitants, whose very names--Gadeni and Ottadini--signified "dwellers in the wood," were found by the Romans in their dense forests, and the first settlements were only possible through clearances of growing timber. Across the country, from Cadzow, in Renfrewshire, to the Ettrick, there stretched the vast Wood of Caledon (whence Caledonia), known at a later period as the Forest of Ettrick, or simply as the Forest (_e.g._, the "Flowers of the Forest"). There is no doubt that it was largely a forest in the ordinary acceptation, and not a mere deer-forest use of the term. Over and over again we have the various charters, as to the Abbeys, for instance, authorising the monks to cut down for building purposes and fuel oaks "from the forest," both in Selkirk and in Melrose, in Kelso and the Ettrick. The original religious house of Melrose was entirely of oak. So were the first churches founded by Kentigern and Cuthbert, and those even of a later date. The Forest of Ettrick survived to the time of the Stuarts, who had here their favourite hunting expeditions, James V. and Queen Mary especially being frequent visitors to the Borderland. The Forest of Megget, or Rodono (a sub-division of that of Ettrick), yielded on one occasion no fewer than five hundred head of game, bird and beast of the chase, and at another time eighteen score of red deer. In the reign of Mary there was issued a proclamation limiting and prohibiting the slaughter of deer in the Forest on account of their growing scarcity. And by the time of James VI. the hunting possibilities of the Border were at an end. More than anything else, the laying down of the great railway lines and the immense road improvements of last century have opened up practically every corner of the Border Country. There are now no places so utterly inaccessible as Liddesdale was during Scott's visits. It is possible to reach the most out-of-the-way parts with comparative comfort. And with the dawn of the motor age, still greater hopes and possibilities appear in store. PLATE 2 CRAG LOCH AND THE ROMAN WALL FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 24, 44, 45, 71, 73_) [Illustration] THE MAKING OF THE BORDER It is from the Roman historian Tacitus that the light of history falls for the first time on the Border Country. It is a mere glimpse, however. But it is enough to show us the calibre of the men who held its forests and fastnesses at that remote period. They were the Brigantes, a branch probably of the Celts, who were the first to reach Britain, coming from the common home-land of the Ayrian race somewhere in Central Asia. Their kingdom, Brigantia, embraced all the country between the Mersey and Humber and the Links of Forth. They are spoken of as a strong, courageous and warlike people, able for many years to keep the Roman cohorts at bay and to check the northward progress of the invaders. The Roman Conquest of Britain, as is well known, was begun by Julius Caesar as far back as B.C. 55. It was not, however, till the time of Julius Agricola (A.D. 78-84) that the Romans obtained a firm footing on the island. Agricola's generalship was more than a match for the sturdy Brigantes. He carried the Roman eagles to the Forth and Clyde, fixing his main line of defence and his northmost frontier on the isthmus between these two firths. But about A.D. 120, when the Emperor Hadrian visited Britain, his chief work was the delimitation of the Roman territory by the great stone wall still bearing his name, stretching from the Tyne to the Solway, a distance of 73-1/2 miles. Twenty years later, however, Lollius Urbicus, the Emperor's lieutenant in Britain, appears to have revived and restored Agricola's boundary, so that what we now know as the Border Country, for more than three hundred years (A.D. 78-410), formed a part of the mightiest empire of the ancient world. Hadrian's rampart, the great camps at Cappuck, near Jedburgh, at Lyne in Peeblesshire, and Newstead at the base of the Eildons--the undoubted Roman Trimontium--with the roads known as Watling Street and the Wheel Causeway are the chief memorials of a singularly historic Occupation. Following the withdrawal of the Roman legions the district became the arena of constant warfare between Picts and Scots and Britons, until the sixth century, when it appears again in history as a kingdom of the Saxon Heptarchy under the name of Bernicia, and occupied by a colony of Angles and Saxons from the Low Countries of the Continent, the progenitors of the English-speaking race. Ida the Good governed Bernicia, having for his capital the proud rock-fortress of Bibbanburgh (so named from his queen Bibba), the modern Bamborough. In the following century Bernicia was combined with Deira, its southern neighbour (corresponding to Yorkshire) to form the powerful kingdom of Northumbria, extending, as Brigantia had done, from the Humber to the Forth. For the next three or four hundred years the story of the Border was little more than a wild record of lawlessness and bloodshed. It had grown to be a kind of happy hunting-ground for every hostile tribe within fighting distance, and for some even who were drawn from long distances, like the Danes, the latest of the invading hordes. But there is nothing of importance to narrate at this period. From a monarchy, Northumbria fell to the level of an Earldom in 954, and in 1018, the Scots, consolidated to some extent under Malcolm II., crushed the Angles of Northumbria in a great victory at Carham-on-Tweed (near Coldstream), of which the result was the cession to Scotland of the district known as Lothian--the land lying between the Tweed and Forth. Thus at the dawn of the 11th century we have the Tweed constituting the virtual boundary between the two countries. Cumberland, to be sure, was for a time Scots territory, but this the intrepid Rufus wrested back in 1092. So that by the close of that century the Border line appears to have taken the quite natural course of delimitation--the Tweed, the Cheviots, and the Solway, though it was not till as late as 1222 that a commission of both countries was appointed to adjust the final demarcation. THE CHRISTIANIZING OF THE BORDER It would be interesting to know precisely when and how the light of the Christian faith first penetrated the Border Country, but neither the time nor the manner can be ascertained with certainty. Indeed, it is impossible to say who were the real pioneers of the Gospel within the realm itself. The probability is that in the first instance it was the beneficent work of the Romans in whose legions were to be found many sincere Christians, many faithful soldiers of the Cross. From the "saints of Cæsar's household"--not a mere picturesque dream--mayhap the Gospel found its way to the coasts of Britain, the greatest boon that could be conferred on a nation. An unvarying Peeblesshire tradition, for example, avers that among the first to witness for Christ and His truth by the banks of the Tweed and its tributaries were Roman soldiers from the great military station at Hall Lyne, and out of whose quiet fellowship-meetings in the recesses of the Manor, sprang the church of that valley, one of the oldest in the county, and dedicated to Saint Gordian, either the Emperor of that name, or what is more likely, "Gordian the well-beloved," Deputy of Gaul, who suffered martyrdom about the year 362. Be that as it may, it is at any rate certain that long before the departure of the Romans from Britain, Christianity had made considerable headway in the island. St. Ninian's is the earliest definite name which has come down to us, about the end of the 4th and beginning of the 5th century. His labours were confined chiefly to the Galloway side of the Border, where the remains of his Candida Casa, or White House, may still be seen at Whithorn on the shores of Wigtown Bay. It is more than possible that some of Ninian's missionaries, or a rumour of his work and teaching at all events, had passed beyond the Solway to the Clyde and Tweed watersheds. But, on the other hand, the difficulties following the departure of the Romans in the constant incursions from the Continent and the terrible internecine struggles of the time, would be sufficient to extinguish whatever light had faintly begun to shine. And it is not until well on in the 6th century that the darkness begins to grow less dense. Such names as Augustine, Paulinus, Columba, Kentigern or Mungo, Aidan and Cuthbert, come upon the scene, with each of whom seems to rest, as it were, the hope of the Church of Christ in Britain. In the year 597 Augustine arrived in Kent with forty monks in his train. The incident, apocryphal perhaps, which led to his mission, is at least interesting. The story has been told again and again, but it will bear repeating. Ælla, King of Deira, had defeated his northern neighbour, and with a portion of the spoil hastened to fill the Roman slave-market. Gregory the Great, in the days that preceded his pontificate, passed one day through the market-place when it was crowded with people, all attracted by the arrival of fresh cargoes of merchandise; and he saw three boys set for sale. They were white-complexioned, fair and light, and with noble heads of hair. Filled with compassion, he enquired of the dealer from what part of the world they had come, and was told "from Britain, where all the inhabitants have the same fair complexion." He next asked whether the people of this strange land were Christians or pagans, and hearing that they were pagans he heaved a deep sigh, and remarked it was sad to think that beings so bright and fair should be in the power of the Prince of Darkness. He next enquired the name of their nation. "Angles," was the reply. "'Tis well," he answered, playing on the word, "rightly are they called _Angles_, for their faces are the faces of angels, and they ought to be fellow-heirs with the angels of heaven." "And what is the name," he proceeded, "of the province from which they have been brought?" "From Deira," was the answer. Catching its name, he rejoined, "Rightly are they named _Deirans_. Plucked from _ire_, and called to the mercy of Christ." "And who," he asked once more, "is the King of this province?" "Ælla," was the reply. The word recalled the Hebrew expression of praise, and he answered, "Allelujah! the praise of God shall be chanted in that clime!" And as Green so beautifully puts it in his "Making of England," "he passed on, musing how the angel faces should be brought to sing it." And brought to sing it they were when the evangelist Paulinus found his way in the best sense, to the heart of heathen Northumbria. Paulinus, whom men long remembered, "Of shoulders curved, and stature tall, Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek." had come from Rome with Bishop Justus in 601, and laboured with Augustine in the evangelization of Kent. When Ethelburga, daughter of Ethelbert of Kent, Augustine's convert, became wedded to Edwin, the still idolatrous King of Northumbria, Paulinus accompanied her as chaplain, and at the same time as missionary among the rude Northumbrians. The field of his labours was a wide one. For a long time he made no progress until Edwin himself, moved by his escape from assassination at the hands of the King of Wessex, and by his victory over Wessex, and under the gentle constraint of Paulinus, resolved that both he and his nobles should be baptized, and this resolution was carried into effect at York, in a hastily-built chapel (the precursor of the Minster), on Easter Eve, 627. The conversion of Edwin was followed by a great social revolution. Having convoked the National Assembly, he unfolded the reasons for his change of faith. Everywhere he was applauded. Crowds of the nobility, chiefs of petty states, and the great mass of the people followed the example of their King. The worship of the ancient gods was solemnly renounced, and even Coifi, the high priest, was the first to give the signal for destruction by hurling his lance at an idol in the pagan temple. Paulinus was now one of the most popular figures in Northumbria. Wherever he preached, crowds gathered to hear him and to be received, like their Overlord, into the Christian communion. Many spots in Northumberland are identified with the name of this early and ardent Apostle of the North. Pallinsburn, overlooking Flodden Field, is, of course, Paulinus's Burn, where large numbers were baptized. In one of his missionary journeys we are told (Bede) how he was occupied for six and thirty consecutive days from early morn until nightfall, in teaching the people and in "washing them with the water of absolution" in the river Glen, which flowed by the royal "vill" of Yeavering (anciently Ad-gebrin) in Glendale. At the Lady's Well near Holystone, in the vale of the Coquet, about three thousand converts were welcomed into the Church of Christ. A graceful Runic cross erected on the spot bears the following inscription:-- +IN THIS PLACE PAVLINVS THE BISHOP BAPTIZED THREE THOUSAND NORTHVMBRIANS. EASTER, DCXXVII.+ But after six years of incessant labours, the death of Edwin in battle with Penda, King of the Mercians, and Cadwallon of North Wales, put a sudden stop to his work. He did not wait for the honour of martyrdom, but went back with the widowed queen to Kent, where he became Bishop of Rochester, and she the Abbess of Lyminge. Paulinus died in 644, and was buried in the chapter-house at Rochester. PLATE 3 BAMBOROUGH FROM STAG ROCK FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 25, 58, 59_) [Illustration] But it is ever the darkest hour that precedes the dawn. It was impossible that England should lose her faith and fall back under the rule of a mere heathen conqueror. After the "thoughtful Edwin, mightiest of all the kings of the isle of Britain," as he has been called (he was, by the way, the founder of Edinburgh), there arose another champion of the new light in the person of Oswald, Edwin's nephew. Oswald's history connects him with Columba the Irishman, and "Apostle of Scotland," to whose splendid work the nation owed its first real religious advance. About 563, when in his forty-second year, and accompanied by twelve companions, Columba found a resting-place on the little island of Hy or Iona, off the west coast of Scotland, whence he set himself to the great work of his life--the conversion of the Pictish tribes beyond the Grampians. At Iona Oswald had sheltered during the home troubles, and many valuable lessons he must have learned for the strenuous life that lay in front of him. Called to lead his countrymen against their oppressors, Oswald literally fought his way to the throne. On a rising ground, a few miles from Hexham, near the Roman Wall, he gathered in 634 a small force, which pledged itself to become Christian if it conquered in the engagement. Causing a cross of wood to be hastily made, and digging a hole for it in the earth, he supported it with his own hands while his men hedged up the soil around it. Then, like Bruce at Bannockburn years afterwards, he bade his soldiers kneel with him and entreat the true and living God to defend their cause, which he knew to be just, from the fierce and boastful foe. This done they joined battle, and attacked Cadwallon's far superior forces. The charge was irresistible. The Welsh army fled down the slope towards the Deniseburn,--a brook near Dilston which has been identified with the Rowley Burn,--and Cadwallon himself, the hero of fourteen battles and sixty skirmishes, was caught and slain. This was the battle of Hefenfelt, or Heaven's Field, as after-times called it. Not only was the last hero of the old British races utterly routed, but Oswald, King of once more reunited Bernicia and Deira, proved himself to the Christian cause all that Edwin had been, and more, a prince in the prime of life, and fitted by his many good qualities to attract a general enthusiasm of admiration, reverence, and love. Resolved to restore the national Christianity, and to realize the ambitions of his exile life, he turned naturally to Iona and to the teachers of his youth for missionaries who would accomplish the holy task. At his request, Aidan, one of the fittest of the Columban band, was sent to carry on the work of evangelization in Northumbria, which happy event may be reckoned as the first permanent planting of the Gospel in the Eastern Border. The light which he kindled was never afterwards quenched. And as Columba had chosen Iona, so for Aidan there was one spot to which his heart went out above all others. This was the island-peninsula of Lindisfarne, off the Northumbrian coast, so called from the little river Lindis, which here enters the sea, and the Celtic _fahren_, "a recess." Bede has a fine passage which is worth quoting:--"On the arrival of the Bishop (Aidan) King Oswald appointed him his episcopal see in the isle of Lindisfarne, as he desired. Which place as the tide flows and ebbs twice a day, is enclosed by the waves of the sea like an island; and again, twice in the day, when the shore is left dry, becomes contiguous to the land. The King also humbly and willingly in all cases giving ear to his admonitions, industriously applied himself to build and extend the church of Christ in his kingdom; wherein, when the Bishop, who was not skilful in the English tongue, preached the gospel, it was most delightful to see the King himself interpreting the Word of God to his commanders and ministers, for he had perfectly learned the language of the Scots during his long banishment. From that time many of the Scots came daily into Britain, and with great devotion preached the word to those provinces of the English over which King Oswald reigned, and those among them that had received priest's orders, administered to them the grace of baptism. Churches were built in several places; the people joyfully flocked together to hear the Word; money and lands were given of the King's bounty to build monasteries; the English, great and small, were, by their Scottish masters, instructed in the rules and observance of regular discipline; for most of them that came to preach were monks." (Eccl. Hist. Bk. iii., c. 2). Than Lindisfarne, or Holy Island, as it came to be called, there is no more sacred spot in Northumbria--in England even. Its history is coeval with that of the nation, and it was from that hallowed centre of Christian activity that the gospelizing of both sides of the Border was planned and prayed over many an anxious hour and day. Aidan's missionaries went forth planting churches in various places. One of the best known of these settlements was Old Melrose, the original shrine by the beautiful bend of the Tweed, a mile or two down the river from the second and more celebrated Melrose. Here Eata, "a man much revered and meek;" and Boisil, who gave his name to the neighbouring St. Boswells; and Cuthbert, the most illustrious of them all, served God with gladness. Of the latter, certainly the most conspicuous Borderer of his day, something more must be said. Three kingdoms claim his birthplace. The Irish Life of the Saint alleges him to be sprung of her own blood royal; he is affirmed also to have come of noble Northumbrian descent; whilst the Scottish tradition makes him the child of humble parents, born and reared in Lauderdale, one of the sweetest valleys of the Border. It is a fact, at any rate, that when the light of record first falls upon him the youthful Cuthbert is seen as a shepherd lad by the Leader; he is religiously inclined, and whilst his comrades sleep, he spends whole nights in prayer and meditation. One day he hears voices from out the unseen calling to him. Another night it is a vision of angels that he fancies he beholds bearing the soul of the sainted Aidan to the skies. Such was Cuthbert, a kind of mystic, a dreamer of strange dreams, destined apostle and Bishop, and next to Augustine himself the most illustrious figure in the annals of English monasticism. The church of Channelkirk (anciently Childeschirche) dedicated to the Saint, probably indicates his birth-spot. The Leader valley is full of legends of his boyhood, the whole west of Berwickshire, indeed, being haunted ground for Cuthbert's sake. Other great names in the history of early Border Christianity are those of Benedict Biscop, the founder of the monasteries of Jarrow and Monk Wearmouth; Wilfrid, the founder of Hexham; and the Venerable Bede--the "father of English learning"--whose "Church History of the English People" is the greatest of the forty-five works that bear his name. By far the most flourishing epoch in the religious development of the Border was the founding of the great Abbeys under David I.--"St. David"--as he is often called, though he was never canonized. Whilst still a Prince, he founded a monastery at Selkirk, and after his accession to the throne, there arose the four stately fanes of Kelso (1128), Melrose (1146), Jedburgh (1147), and Dryburgh (1150)--those rich and peaceful homes of art and intellectual culture whose ruins now strike us with marvel and regret. There is probably no other country district equally small in area that can boast a group of ruins at once so grand and interesting as those that lie within a few miles of each other along the banks of the Tweed and Jed. Founded almost contemporaneously, they were destroyed about the same time, by the same ruthless hands. The story of each is the story of all--burned and rebuilt, then spoiled and restored again, time after time, until finally at the dismal Hertford Invasion, in 1545, they all received their death-stroke. Other religious centres on the Scottish side were Coldingham in Berwickshire, founded in 1098 by King Edgar, son of Canmore and St. Margaret; Dundrennan, in Kirkcudbrightshire, founded in 1142 by Fergus, Lord of Galloway; and Sweetheart or New Abbey, founded in 1275 by Devorgoil, great-great-granddaughter of David the First. On the English side, the Church had a less vigorous growth, having no such munificent patron as King David, but there, too, it could boast of Carlisle Cathedral, the Abbey of Alnwick, the Priories of Lanercost, and Hexham, and the still more renowned and classic Lindisfarne. The history of the latter began, as we saw, with the year 635, when Saint Aidan accepted the invitation of King Oswald to teach the new faith to the Northumbrians. Aidan's church, built of wood, and thatched with the coarse bents of the links, could not long withstand the storms or the brands of the wild sea-rovers. And of the stone sanctuary reared under the rule of succeeding bishops no portion of the present ruin can be considered as forming a part. Sir Walter Scott has thrown the spell of his genius around the picturesque ruins, but the tragical story of Constance of Beverley has no foundation in fact. PLATE 4 HOLY ISLAND CASTLE: HARVEST-TIME FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 32, 33, 36_) [Illustration] BORDER WARFARE Of Border warfare it were impossible to treat within the limits of a library. In no part of the kingdom was the fighting and raiding spirit more rampant. The Border clans were constantly at war with one another, the slightest excuse provoking an attack, and not unfrequently was there no _raison d'être_ whatever for the accompanying ruin and desolation. It ran apparently in the blood of those old Borderers to live on unfriendly terms with their neighbours, and to seize every possible opportunity against them. The record of the raids does not lean more to one side than another for aggressiveness, though generally the Scot has been credited for this quality. But as a matter of fact both sides were equally at fault and equally determined. And the onslaughts were often of the most savage and persistent kind, and were almost entirely unchecked by the legal restraints which were set in force. The division of the district into East, West and Middle Marches, with a sort of vice-regal Warden appointed over each, was not always conducive to peace and good feeling. At certain times, a day of truce was held when the Wardens of both sides met and settled any questions that might be in dispute between their followers, but occasionally the decision was anything but harmonious--as in the case of the Reidswire, for instance. In the "Debateable or Threep Lands," which lay partly in England and partly in Scotland, between the Esk and the Sark, no end of worry and difficulty was experienced. "Its chief families were the Armstrongs and Grahams, both clans being noted as desperate thieves and freebooters. They had frequently to be dealt with by force of arms till in the 17th century, the Grahams were transported to Ireland, and forbidden to return upon pain of death. Other districts of the Borders from time to time called forth hostile visitations from the Scottish kings or their commissioners, when great numbers of the robbers were frequently seized and hanged. So late as 1606, the Earl of Dunbar executed as many as 140 of them. The Union of the Crowns removed some obvious grounds of contention between the English and Scottish people, and after the middle of the 17th century the Borders gradually subsided into a more peaceful condition." It was doubtless due to the exigencies occasioned by those frequently recurring wars and raids from the 13th to the 16th century that the whole country on both sides of the frontier became so thickly studded with castles and peel-towers, the numerous ruins of which still form a distinctive feature in Border scenery, although from times much earlier the castles and strongholds were characteristic elements in the old Scottish landscape. Alexander Hume, of Polwarth, the poet-preacher of Logie, near Stirling, in his fine description of a "Summer's Day," thus refers to them:-- "The rayons of the sunne we see Diminish in their strength; The shade of everie tower and tree, Extended is in length. Great is the calm for everie quhair The wind is settlin' downe; The reik thrawes right up in the air, From everie tower and towne." Generally these towers were planted on heights overlooking the river-valleys, and, as a rule, within sight of one another, in order that the signals of invasion or alarm--flashed by means of the bale fire--might be the more rapidly spread from point to point. Very few of them are now entire--the best-preserved on the Scottish side being, perhaps, Barns, at the entrance to the Manor valley; Bemersyde, still inhabited; and Oakwood on the Ettrick, incorporated in the present farm buildings; and on the English side, Corbridge and Doddington and Whittingham. From a return made in 1460 we find that Northumberland alone possessed 37 castles and 78 towers, and the Scottish side was equally well strengthened and defended. Amongst the larger and more important fortresses on the English side were the Castles of Alnwick, Bothal, Carlisle, Cockermouth, Coupland, Dilston, Elsdon, Etal, Ford, Naworth, Norham, Prudhoe, Wark, Warkworth; and on the Scottish side, Berwick, Branxholme, Caerlaverock (the true Ellangowan of "Guy Mannering"), Cessford, Ferniherst, Hermitage, Hume, Jedburgh, Neidpath, Peebles, Roxburgh, Threave, Traquair, besides, as has been said, hundreds of peel and bastle-houses scattered all over the country. It would be a quite impossible task to chronicle the incessant clan-raids of the Border, and to narrate all the invasions that took place on either side would be to repeat in great measure the general history of England and Scotland. But at least two authentic reports, covering little more than a year, may be quoted as showing the extraordinary havoc and destruction caused by the latter. "In 1544 Sir Ralph Evers and Sir Brian Latoun, with an English army, invaded the Scottish Border, and between July and November they destroyed 192 towns, towers, barmkyns, parish churches, etc.; slew 403 Scots and took 816 prisoners; carried off 10,386 head of cattle, 12,492 sheep, 1296 horses, 200 goats, and 850 bolls of corn, besides an untold quantity of inside gear and plenishing. In one village alone--that of Lessudden (now St. Boswells)--Sir Ralph Evers writes that he burned 16 strong bastle-houses. Again in September of the following year, the Earl of Hertford a second time invaded the country, and between the 8th and the 23rd of that month, he razed and cast down the abbeys of Jedburgh, Kelso, Dryburgh, and Melrose, and burned the town of Kelso. At the same time he destroyed about 30 towns, towers and villages on the Tweed, 36 on the Teviot, 12 on Rulewater, 13 on the Jed, 45 on the Kale, 19 on the Bowmont, 109 in the parishes of Eccles and Duns in Berwickshire, with 20 other towns and villages in the same county. The places destroyed are all named in the report to the English king, along with a classified list of that terrible sixteen days' destruction, embracing 7 monasteries and friars' houses, 16 castles, towers and peels, 5 market-towns, the immense number of 243 villages, with 13 mills, and 3 hospitals." It cannot be forgotten that upon Border soil were fought at least six of the great historical battles of the nation, _viz._, Halidon Hill (1333); Otterburn (1388); Homildon Hill (1402); Flodden (1513); Solway Moss (1542); and Ancrum Moor (1544). Of mere internal contests there are the fight at Arkinholm (Langholm, 1455), between Scotsmen, where James II. broke the power of the Douglases; the battle of Hedgeley Moor (1464), and of Hexham (1464) between the English adherents of Lancaster and York, when the Lancastrians were defeated; the affair of Melrose (Skirmish Hill, 1526) between Borderers under the Earl of Angus and Buccleuch; and Philiphaugh (1645) when Leslie drove Montrose from the field. Of what were purely faction fights and deeds of daring such as the Raid of the Reidswire (1575), and the rescue of Kinmont Willie (1596), the ancient ballads will keep their memory green for many a year to come. PLATE 5 VIEW OF NORHAM CASTLE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 39, 60, 93_) [Illustration] Two great incidents of Border warfare stand out before all others--Otterburn and Flodden. Old Froissart has told the story of Otterburn. The Scottish barons, tired of the fickleness and inactivity of their king, determined to invade England, met at Aberdeen, and arranged the preliminaries for a great gathering at Southdean, beyond Jedburgh. On the day appointed the best blood in Scotland was assembled. "There had not been for sixty years so numerous an assembly--they amounted to twelve hundred spears and forty thousand other men and archers." The Earl of Douglas, the Earl of March and Dunbar, and the Earl of Moray, with three hundred picked lancers and two thousand infantry, burst into Northumberland, rode south as far as Durham, and laid waste the country. In one of their encounters before Newcastle-on-Tyne the Earl of Douglas had a hand-to-hand combat with Sir Henry Percy--- Hotspur,--who was overthrown, Douglas seizing his pennon--the silken streamer bearing his insignia, which was fastened near the head of his lance. In triumph he exclaimed: "I will carry this token of your prowess with me into Scotland, and place it on the tower of my castle at Dalkeith, that it may be seen from afar." "By God, Earl of Douglas," replied Hotspur, "you shall not even bear it out of Northumberland; be assured you shall never have this pennon to boast of." "You must come then," answered Douglas, "this night and seek for it. I will fix your pennon before my tent, and shall see if you will venture to take it away." On the following evening the Scottish army "lighted high on Otterburn," in Redesdale, and there Sir Henry and Ralph Percy, with six hundred spears of knights and squires and upwards of eight thousand infantry, fell upon the Scots, who were but three hundred lances, and two thousand others. The fight that followed was one of the most spirited in history, and ended in the death of Douglas, the capture of Hotspur, the serious wounding of his brother, and the killing or capture of one thousand and forty Englishmen on the field, the capture of eight hundred and forty others in the pursuit, and the wounding of a thousand more. The Scots lost only one hundred slain and two hundred captured. "It was," says Froissart, "the hardest and most obstinate battle ever fought." The tragic incidents of this encounter have been kept alive not historically but poetically. It is the immortality of song which preserves the memory of Otterburn. No contest was more emphatically the "ballad-singer's joy." Two ballads, the one Scots, the other English, give their respective versions of the event with those natural discrepancies between the two, which may easily be accounted for on patriotic grounds. That given in Scott's "Minstrelsy" is unquestionably the finer, and contains the lines so often quoted by Scott himself, and at no occasion more pathetically than during his visit--pretty near the end--to the old Douglas shrines in Lanarkshire, the locality of "Castle Dangerous": "My wound is deep. I fain would sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the braken bush That grows on yonder lilye lea. "O bury me by the braken bush, Beneath the blooming brier; Let never living mortal ken That ere a kindly Scot lies here." The story of Flodden is the darkest, perhaps, on the page of Scottish history, and like Otterburn, has been written in strains grand and majestic, and certainly the most heart-moving in the whole realm of northern minstrelsy. There Scotland lost her King, the Archbishop of St. Andrew's, James's natural son, two abbots, twelve earls, seventeen lords, four hundred knights, and fifteen thousand others, all sacrificed to the fighting pride of James IV. of Scotland. Pierced by several strong arrows, the left hand hacked clean from the arm, the neck laid open in the middle, James's body was carried mournfully to Berwick. He had died a hero's death, albeit a foolish one. His last words have lived in the lines of the rhymer: "Fight on, my men, Yet Fortune she may turn the scale; And for my wounds be not dismayed, Nor ever let your courage fail. Thus dying did he brave appear Till shades of death did close his eyes; Till then he did his soldiers cheer, And raise their courage to the skies." The era of Blood and Iron on the Borders has passed long since. Peace and prosperity prevail on both sides of the Tweed. Old animosities are seldom spoken of, and hardly ever remembered. A cordial amity and good-will and co-operation evidence the strength of the cementing element which no loyal heart, either north or south, can ever desire to see broken. PLATE 6 TWIZEL BRIDGE OF THE XIV. CENTURY FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_Famous in connection with Flodden Field_) [Illustration] II. THE ENGLISH BORDER NORTHUMBERLAND A line drawn from Berwick to Carlisle, and across England to the Coquet, thence north again, coast-wise, to the old Tweedside borough will give us, for all practical purposes, the English Border Country. Only a part of the Roman Wall, as far as Crag Loch and Borcovicus (Housesteads), will come within the present purview, which excludes Newcastle itself and the "coaly Tyne." We are to deal with rural Northumberland rather, and with a little corner of Cumberland, the immediate and true Border. Even at this time of day much of the English Border is still a kind of _terra incognita_ to the tourist and holiday-maker. For travelling facilities have not been of the best hitherto. But it is a new order of things now, and even the most outlying spots can be reached with a wonderful degree of comfort impossible not so very long ago. Bewcastle, for instance, and the once wild and trackless "Debateable Land" between Canonbie and the Solway, have come within comparatively easy distance of railroad and coaching centres. The crossing of the Solway Moss by the Caledonian Route, and the opening out of the line from Alnwick to Wooler and Cornhill, together with the numerous driving tours that are in daily operation during the summer at least, have become the _open sesame_ to a district practically shut up even less than a half century since. It is now possible to breakfast in Carlisle, or Newcastle, or much further south for that matter (or north), and within an hour or two to be revelling in the most delightful rusticities at the foot of the Cheviots, or in the very heart of them. The remotest localities are rendered accessible even for a single day's outing, and a holiday on the English Border is not likely to be a disappointing one. There is something to suit every taste. If one is archaeologically inclined, for instance, Northumberland has one of the finest collections of military antiquities in the kingdom, from the rude circular camps and entrenchments of the primitive inhabitants to the great castles and peel-towers of mediæval times. The Romans have left a mighty monument of their power--none more significant--in the huge barrier thrown across the lower half of the county, and in the stations and roads connected with it. In some respects the Roman Wall may be accounted Northumberland's principal attraction, and a pilgrimage between Tyne and Solway must always repay itself. If one is artistically inclined, there are beauty-spots for all canvases--as befits the birthplace of such masters as Bewick and Foster. And as an angler's paradise the Cheviot uplands have long been popular. The historical memories of the English Border are outstanding. For centuries this little fringe of country was a continuous warring-ground for the two nations that are now happily one. Upon its soil were fought some of the bloodiest, and it must be added, some of the most fool-hardy and unjustifiable fights on record. In its religious story it has much to boast of. By its missionaries and by its sword it won England from heathendom to the Christian Church. The development of the monastic system in Northumbria did more than anything else to civilise and colonise the entire realm, Scotland included. "Its monasteries," as Green says, "were the seat of whatever intellectual life the country possessed, and above all, it had been the first to gather together into a loose political unity the various tribes of the English people, and by standing at their head for nearly a century to accustom them to a national life out of which England as we have it now was to spring." The physical conditions, generally speaking, are similar on both sides of the Border. Wide arable expanses, well-wooded and fertile, cover the chief valleys and much of the Northumbrian coast-line. But in the main, the landscape is purely pastoral for miles, showing few signs of human life, and the nearest habitation often at a considerable distance. The Northumbrian uplands are confined chiefly to the Cheviots, the Pyrenees on a small scale; two-thirds of their whole three hundred square miles are in the county, constituting perhaps the loveliest cluster of pastoral hills in the island. Of this group, Cheviot--to be more distinctive, _the_ Cheviot--(2676 feet) sits in the centre almost, dignified and massive, the "recumbent guardian of the great lone moorland." Others, taking them according to height, are Cairn Hill (2545), Hedgehope (2348), Comb Fell (2132), Cushat Law (2020), Bloody Bush Edge (2001), Windy Gyle (1963), Dunmore (1860), Carter Fell (1600), and Yeavering Bell (1182)--a graceful cone overlooking the pretty hamlet of Kirknewton. A climb to the broad back of the Cheviot, or the rounded top of Yeavering, should be made by every tourist who rambles along the Border. Both are reachable from the Scottish and English sides, as by Bowmont and Colledge Waters, or by that loveliest of all the upland dales, Langleeford. Despite the somewhat quagmire character of its flat summit, the view from the Cheviot, as one might expect, is a truly inspiring one, comprising the whole coast-line between Berwick and Tynemouth, and the vast inland expanse from Midlothian to the Solway--the Scottish Border _in toto_. The Cheviots are hills rather than the "mountains blue" of poetic licence. Yet all are imposing to a degree, and exhibit an excellent contour against the sky-line. They have none of the wildness and savagery of the Highland ranges, and even the steepest are grass-grown from skirt to summit, being easy of ascent, and commanding the most varied and brilliant prospects. Robert Crawford sings of them as "Cheviot braes so soft and gay," and Gilpin likens the hirsels browsing on the most acclivitous to pictures hung on immense green walls. From time immemorial those charming uplands have been grazed by the quiet, hardy, fine-wooled, white-faced breed of sheep which bear their name; and in the days of the raids (for this is the true "raider-land" of history) they were resonant, more than any other part of Scotland, with the clang of freebootery and the yell of strife. Mrs. Sigourney's apostrophe to the present day flocks may be quoted: Graze on, graze on, there comes no sound Of Border warfare here, No slogan cry of gathering clan, No battle-axe, or spear. No belted knight in armour bright, With glance of kindled ire, Doth change the sports of Chevy-Chase To conflict stern and dire. Ye wist not that ye press the spot, Where Percy held his way Across the marches, in his pride, The "chiefest harts to slay;" And where the stout Earl Douglas rode Upon his milk-white steed, With "fifteen hundred Scottish spears," To stay the invaders' deed. Ye wist not, that ye press the spot Where, with his eagle eye, King James, and all his gallant train, To Flodden-Field swept by. The Queen was weeping in her bower, Amid her maids that day, And on her cradled nursling's face Those tears like pearl-drops lay: Graze on, graze on, there's many a rill Bright sparkling through the glade, Where you may freely slake your thirst, With none to make afraid. There's many a wandering stream that flows From Cheviot's terraced side, Yet not one drop of warrior's gore Distains its crystal tide. PLATE 7 FLODDEN FIELD AND THE CHEVIOT HILLS FROM A WATER COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 40, 48, 99, 103, 121_) [Illustration] Of the river valleys running south of the Border line, the chief are the Breamish, or the Till, as it is termed from Bewick Brig--the "sullen Till" of "Marmion"; the Aln, from Alnham Kirk to the sand-banks of Alnmouth, a glen emphatically rich in legendary lore; the Coquet, the most picturesque and most popular trouting-stream in the North of England; and Redesdale, redolent of "Chevy Chase," rising out of Carter Fell, and joining the North Tyne at Redesmouth, a little below the pleasant market-town of Bellingham. The chief towns are Berwick and Alnwick, Hexham being outside our present delimitation. Many of the smaller places, and the villages, are models of their kind. Wooler, at the base of the Cheviots, is a choice mountaineering and angling centre, from which, by way of Langleeford, is the favourite route to Cheviot top. It was at the Whitsun Tryst or Wooler sheep fair, that Scott's grandfather spent his old shepherd's thirty pounds in buying a horse instead of sheep, but with such happy results in the sequel. And hither came Scott himself in August, 1791, to imbue his mind with the legends, the history, and scenery of the neighbourhood. "Behold a letter from the mountains," he writes to his friend William Clerk, "for I am very snugly settled here, in a farmer's house (at Langleeford), about six miles from Wooler, in the very centre of the Cheviot hills, in one of the wildest and most romantic situations, which your imagination, fertile upon the subject of cottages, ever suggested. 'And what the deuce are you about there?' methinks I hear you say. Why, sir, of all things in the world, drinking goat's whey; not that I stand in the least need of it, but my uncle having a slight cold, and being a little tired of home, asked me last Sunday evening if I would like to go with him to Wooler; and I, answering in the affirmative, next morning's sun beheld us on our journey through a pass in the Cheviots, upon the backs of two special nags, and man Thomas behind with a portmanteau, and two fishing-rods fastened across his back, much in the style of St. Andrew's cross. Upon reaching Wooler we found the accommodation so bad that we were forced to use some interest to get lodgings here, where we are most delightfully appointed, indeed. To add to my satisfaction we are amidst places renowned by feats of former days; each hill is crowned with a tower, or camp, or cairn; and in no situation can you be near more fields of battle--Flodden, Otterburn, and Chevy Chase. Ford Castle, Chillingham Castle, Coupland Castle and many another scene of blood are within the compass of a forenoon's ride. Out of the brooks with which the hills are intersected, we pull trouts of half a yard in length, as fast as we did the perches from the pond at Pennicuik, and we are in the very country of muirfowl.... My uncle drinks the whey here, as I do ever since I understood it was brought to his bedside every morning at six, by a very pretty dairymaid. So much for my residence. All the day we shoot, fish, walk, and ride; dine and sup on fish struggling from the stream, and the most delicious heath-fed mutton, barn-door fowls, pies, milk cheese, etc, all in perfection; and so much simplicity resides amongst those hills that a pen, which could write at least, was not to be found about the house, though belonging to a considerable farmer, till I shot the crow with whose quill I write this epistle." (See Lockhart, chapter vi.). In this passage we have an interesting glimpse of what Northumberland was a hundred years ago, and of the great author enjoying a holiday while yet reading for the law, and before fame began to blow her trumpet in his praise. Sweeter villages than Etal and Ford could scarcely be imagined out of Arcadia. Etal Castle was destroyed by James IV. previous to Flodden, and has never been restored. Ford Castle, built originally in 1287, has been frequently renovated and enlarged, and is now a most excellent example of the military style of architecture plus the modern mansion house. Formerly held by the Herons, its chatelaine figures in "Marmion" as the syren who detained the King when he ought to have been in the field. The frescoes in Ford schoolroom, painted by the late Lady Waterford, are objects not only of good art but of a well-conceived philanthropy. Ancroft and Lowick, Chatton and Chillingham are delightful summer resorts. Chillingham is famous for its Elizabethan Castle, but still more so, perhaps, for its herds of wild cattle, the survivors of the wild ox of Europe, and the supposed progenitors of our domestic cattle. Other summer resorts are Belford and Doddington, but the whole coast-line, indeed, is dotted with the most desirable holiday-nooks in the county. PLATE 8 VIEW OF WARKWORTH FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 39, 51, 52, 56_) [Illustration] The Coquet bears the palm for picturesqueness amongst Northumbrian valleys, and is about forty miles in length. From Alwinton, the first village after crossing the Cheviots, where the Alwine joins the Coquet--"a place of slumber and of dreams remote among the hills"--to Warkworth Castle, the stream carries history and romance in every league of its course. Here are such names as Biddlestone, the "Osbaldistone," of "Rob Roy" (there are other claimants such as Chillingham and Naworth); Harbottle, a hamlet of venerable antiquity; Holystone, mentioned already in connection with Paulinus; Hepple, with the remnant of a strong peel tower of the Ogles; and Rothbury, the capital of Upper Coquetdale, a snug township in the midst of an amphitheatre of the wild, stony Simonside hills. In the old days it was a reiving centre of notoriety. All this part of Northumberland, indeed, was a constant freebooting arena, neither Scots nor English being content without some fray on hand. There is not a village, or a town, or farmhouse even, but has some tale to tell of that uncanny period. Cragside, Lord Armstrong's palatial seat, reclaimed, like Abbotsford, from the barren mountain side, is within a mile of Rothbury. Then come Brinkburn Priory, "an ancient fabric awful in repose," founded by William de Bertram, lord of Mitford, in the reign of Henry I.; Felton, a neat little village, where Alexander of Scotland received the homage of the Northumbrian barons; and Warkworth, "proud of the Percy name," one of the quaintest and oldest towns in Northumberland, and teeming with historical and romantic associations. So near the sea, and with some of the rarest river scenery in the county close at hand, the place is in high favour as a holiday resort. A Saxon settlement, all interest centres around its dismantled Castle, believed to have been built by Roger Fitz-Richard, to whom Henry II. granted in 1158 the manor of Warkworth. Strengthened from time to time, it became a Percy possession, and was the chief residence of the family to the middle of the 15th century. At the height of its power it must have been well-nigh impregnable, encircled on three sides by the winding banks and overhanging woods of the Coquet, and on a commanding eminence above it; and though time and many devastating hands have long since riven its ancient walls, the pile still presents a splendid example of a baronial stronghold, second to few on the Borders. Among Northumbrian towns, Alnwick (the county town) ranks next to Newcastle. But whilst the rise of the latter and its prosperity and colour have been each affected by the great industrial changes of the century, Alnwick's development has been very different. Lying peacefully amidst pastoral hills, by the side of a river unpolluted by modern commerce, this ancient Border town still presents the plain and austere aspect which it wore when the great stage-coaches passed through on their way from London to Edinburgh. In Newcastle, despite its numerous relics of antiquity, one's mind is ever dominated by the potent Present, whereas in Alnwick, it is ever under the spell of the dreamy Past. The quaint, irregular stone-built houses are touched with the sober hues of antiquity, and seem to take their character from the great baronial relic of feudal times. The history of the town is chiefly a record of "Old unhappy far-off things, And battles long ago." It was founded by the Saxons, who styled it Alainwick, "the town on the clear water." Like Carlisle, its history is largely one of attack and retaliation. The Scottish Sovereigns were peculiarly unfortunate at Alnwick. For here Malcolm Canmore was speared to death in 1093, and William the Lion made prisoner in 1174, and inside the castle of to-day with its gilded ceilings, luxurious upholstery, and majestic mantels of Italian workmanship and marbles, are still to be seen the dour dungeons in which many a Scot died miserably while the Percy and his retainers feasted above. King John burned Alnwick to the ground in 1216, David I. besieged and captured it. Each of the Edwards visited the place. It was again devastated by the Scots in 1427. In 1463, it was held for Edward IV., and in 1464 it fell into the hands of Queen Margaret. Royalists and Roundheads occupied Alnwick during the wars between Charles and his Parliament, but after 1700 it settled down to comparative quiet. The Castle, of course, dominates the place. There is what William Howitt calls "an air of solemn feudality" overhanging the whole town. Streets and buildings, and the general tone harmonize well with the prevailing conditions. Only one of its four gates survives--the gloomy, old, weather-beaten Bondgate, built by the haughty Hotspur about the year 1450. The Cross dates from the same period. The most interesting and venerable structure is the Church of St. Mary and St. Michael, founded about the beginning of the 14th century, Perpendicular in style, and abundant in Percy memorials. But the chief object of interest is the Castle with the Castle enclosure (some five acres in extent). The Castle itself is the most magnificent specimen of a feudal fortress in England, a verdict in which all who see it will agree. What an extraordinarily fascinating and profoundly impressive place, from the very stones of the courtyard to the defiant-looking warrior figures on the battlements of the barbican, and elsewhere. What an endless succession of towers and turrets (some of them with distinctive names, Hotspur and Bloody Gap) archways and corridors, walls and embrasures, and all the grim massive paraphernalia of the past, apparently as doggedly determined as ever. Perhaps, as one writer puts it, only a Percy could live quite at his ease as master of Alnwick Castle. One cannot imagine the average man making himself congenially at home here. But the inside comforts are an overflowing compensation for a somewhat forbidding exterior. We are told that even the towers at the angles of the encircling walls are museums of British and Egyptian antiquities, and game trophies, collected by members of the family. The fourth Duke has left much to show for the quarter of a million he lavished upon the building--exquisite wood carving, frescoes, marbles, and canvases. Mantovani, who restored the Raphael frescoes in the Vatican, was not too great a man to be hired by a Percy to adorn his Border castle. The walls of the grand staircase are panelled with beautiful marbles. There are unique paintings: the dining-room, a noble apartment, is pompous with Percys in fine frames, bewigged, robed and plain; the first Duke and his wife, who helped him to a dignity neither his money nor his courtly manners could have won for him, hang suitably in the place of honour above the hearth. Vandyck, Moroni, and Andrea del Sarto are worthily represented in the castle. Giorgione, who did so well the comparatively little he had time for, is here in his "Lady with the Lute." Raphael, Guido, and Titian are also within these swarthy outer walls, Titian's landscape contribution being specially notable, like Giovanni Bellini's "The Gods enjoying the Fruits of the Earth." One looks from it to the fair Northumberland country beyond the windows and then at the splendour and taste of the castle, and fancies, inevitably, that the Percys themselves have in these later days obtained quite their share of the privileges of Bellini's gods. Nothing that makes for domestic pleasure is lacking at Alnwick Castle. There is a stately library of some 15,000 books, with chairs for dreaming and chairs for study; and, not to slight meaner comforts, there is a kitchen that is a model of its baronial kind, about fifty yards distant from the dining-hall, with which it communicates by an underground passage. The first English possession acquired by the house of Percy north of the Tees was Dalton, afterwards called Dalton-Percy. Then came Alnwick, originally owned by the De Vescis, and purchased from them about 1309; Warkworth; Prudhoe-on-Tyne, one of the most picturesque of Northumbrian fortresses; Cockermouth; and Keeldar, in the Cheviots. And what of the Percys who ruled, and still rule, at Alnwick in their day of might? Very ancient is the name, numbering among its early patriarchs such grand old heroes as Manfred the Dane, and "Brave Galfred, who to Normandy With vent'rous Rollo came; And from his Norman Castles won, Assumed the Percy name." The pedigree traces the descent of Angus de Perci up to Manfred, and that of Josceline de Louvain up from Gerberga, daughter and heiress of Charles, Duke of Lorraine, to Charlemagne, and in the male line to the ancient Dukes of Hainault. This same Josceline, who was brother-in-law to King Henry I., married in 1168, Agnes, the great Percy heiress, and assumed the name of his wife: "Lord Percy's heir I was, whose noble name By me survives unto his lasting fame; Brabant's Duke's son I wed, who, for my sake, Retained his arms, and Percy's name did take." Their youngest son, Richard de Percy, then head of the family, was one of the chief barons who extorted Magna Charta from King John, and the ninth Lord, Henry, gave much aid to Edward I. in the subjugation of Scotland. It was he who purchased Alnwick. His son--another Henry--defeated David II. at Neville's Cross (1346); his grandson fought at Crécy; his great-grandson, the fourth Lord Percy of Alnwick, was marshal of England at the coronation of Richard II., and was created the same day Earl of Northumberland. By far the greater part of the romance of the Percys has centred round Harry Hotspur (eldest son of the preceding), whom the dead Douglas defeated at Otterburn, and who fell himself at Shrewsbury (1403) fighting against Henry IV. The soubriquet of Hotspur was given him because "in the silence of the night, when others were quietly sleeping, he laboured unwearied, as though his spur were hot." PLATE 9 VIEW OF ALNWICK CASTLE FROM A WATER COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 38, 49, and 53 to 58_) [Illustration] The first Earl was slain at Bramham Moor (1408). The second Earl fell fighting for Henry VI. at St. Albans in 1455. The third at Towton (1461), and it was his brother the fourth Earl who comforted himself as he lay bleeding to death on Hedgley Moor (1464) that he had "saved the bird in his bosom." The fifth Earl was murdered in 1489. The sixth Earl was the lover of Anne Boleyn, maid of honour to Queen Catherine, and had King Henry VIII. for his rival, who in great wrath commanded Cardinal Wolsey to break off the engagement between them. The seventh Earl for espousing the cause of Mary, Queen of Scots, was beheaded in 1572. The eighth Earl in 1585 was found dead in bed with three pistol shots through his breast, whether by suicide or murder. The ninth Earl was imprisoned for fifteen years in the Tower on a baseless suspicion of being privy to the Gunpowder Plot. The tenth Earl fought on the Parliamentary side in the Civil War, and with the death of Josceline, the eleventh Earl, in 1670, the male line of the family came to an end. The eleventh Earl's only child--an heiress--married the Duke of Somerset, who was created in 1749 Baron Warkworth, and Earl of Northumberland, with remainder (having no male issue) to his son-in-law Sir Hugh Smithson, of Stanwick, a Yorkshire knight who in his youth had been an apothecary in Hatton Gardens. Sir Hugh succeeded to the Earldom in 1750, and was created in 1766 Earl Percy and Duke of Northumberland. The seventh Duke succeeded in 1899. From Alnwick it is fourteen miles to Bamborough, "King Ida's castle, huge and square." No traveller along the great north road between Alnwick and Berwick can fail to be struck with an object so boldly prominent as Bamborough. Far and wide it meets the vision, and is the more conspicuous from the flat character of its surroundings and the very open coast. Its base is an almost perpendicular mass of basaltic rock overlooking the sea, at a height of 150 feet. Founded in 547, it suffered many a siege, most of all at the hands of the Danes in 933. In the years that followed it was being constantly rebuilt, and as constantly stormed and broken again. As the great bombards left it in the fourth Edward's reign, so it lay dismantled for centuries. In 1720, Lord Crewe, the philanthropic Bishop of Durham, purchased the Castle and bequeathed it for charitable purposes--the reception and care of the poor, etc. In 1894 it was acquired by the late Lord Armstrong, at a cost of a quarter of a million, and fitted up as a convalescent home. The charming village of Bamborough, nestling within easy distance, has some celebrity as a health resort. The church in which St. Aidan died is one of the oldest in the country, and the churchyard contains Grace Darling's tomb. The Farne Islands, the scene of her brave exploit, are easily visible from the shore. There are seventeen in all, forming three distinct groups, Longstone, the heroine's home, lying farthest out. It was from the lighthouse on this latter island that the noble maiden of barely twenty-two descried the wreck of the _Forfarshire_, the 7th September, 1838, and formed her resolve at rescue. "He that goes out and sees the savage and iron nature of the rocks will not avoid wondering at the desperate nature of the attempt," crowned by an almost superhuman triumph. On the great Farne, or House Island, his favourite place of retirement, St. Cuthbert died in 687. How his followers bore, from shrine to shrine, the uncorrupted body of their Bishop is a tradition well-known. "For the space of seven years," says Reginald of Durham, "Saint Cuthbert was carried to and fro on the shoulders of pious men through trackless and waterless places; when no house afforded him a hospitable roof, he remained under covering of tents." Further, we are told how the monks first carried their precious burden to the stone church at Norham; thence towed it up the river to Tillmouth; on to Melrose, the Saint's home-sanctuary by the Tweed; thence through the Lowland glens towards the English Border where, descending the head-waters of the Tyne, they came to Hexham; passing westward to Carlisle in Cumberland, and Dufton Fells in Westmoreland, and over into Lancashire; then once more eastward to the monastery at York; and finally northward again to a last resting place in Durham, when "After many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last Where his Cathedral, huge and vast, Looks down upon the Wear." "MERRIE CARLISLE" A glance at the outskirts of Carlisle suggests at once the fact that its founders had considered the strategic value of the site. The old Brigantes never planted their towns without due examination of the whole lie of the land, and especially with a view to its defencibleness. The river-junctions were often their favourite settling places. Hence the origin of Carlisle, and many others of the Border towns--Hawick, Selkirk, Kelso, etc. With its three encompassing streams--the Eden, the Caldew, and the Petteril, which still enclose the Castle and Cathedral hills in a sort of quasi-island, Carlisle has been aptly called "the city of the waters." Its situation certainly is all but perfect, whilst the picturesqueness and the extensiveness of its surrounding scenery are the admiration of all who see it. Built upon a hill which its walls once enclosed but which would now shut out its most populous suburbs, Carlisle commands a prospect only limited by the lofty mountain chain that encircles the great basin in which Cumberland lies. From the summit of the Cathedral or from the Keep of the Castle, the eye sweeps without interruption a vast prepossessing landscape, rich in wood and water and fertile valleys, over which the light and shade are ever gambolling, and the seasons spreading their variegated hues. Southward, across this fair expanse, the majestic Skiddaw rears his noble crest, and Helvellyn his wedge-like peak, radiant with the first and last rays of the sun. Saddleback, and the lesser hills, link the apparently unbroken chain with Crossfell and the eastern range; while further to the left the Northumberland fells bound the horizon. Then come the uplands by Bewcastle and the Border and the pastoral Cheviots. Away round to the west, the magnificent belt is terminated by "huge Criffel's hoary top" standing in solemn grandeur above the Solway. PLATE 10 VIEW OF PRUDHOE-ON-TYNE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 39 and 56_) [Illustration] There are few fairer or wider panoramas in Britain, and none more permeated with the very spirit of romance. What Lockhart said of Sandyknowe is equally true of this singularly fascinating view-point. To whichever hand we turn we may be sure there is "not a field but has its battle, and not a rivulet without its song." Unlike Melrose, which may claim to be the literary capital of the Border Country, Carlisle is the fighting capital. Its most stirring memories are of raiders and rescues, and its very air is "full of ballad notes Borne out of long ago." Despite its Cathedral, Carlisle is really more Scottish than English. A town which proclaimed the Pretender must be Scottish enough. No other English town fills so large a place in Scottish history. And even its present manners and customs, and no little part of its dialect, are coloured with Scottish sentiment and tradition. For which it cannot be a whit the worse! Walk about Carlisle, and one is charmed with the exquisite pleasantness of the place, the sense of comfort and prosperity that reigns in its streets and suburbs, the steady flow of traffic running through it, and the welcome geniality of its inhabitants. What a delightful spot is Stanwix yonder, for instance! And the banks of the Eden have something of those "Eden scenes" about them which Burns claimed for the Jed. That Bridge is not unlike Rennie's at Kelso. The public buildings are worth a more minute examination than the passing stranger usually gives. An atmosphere of delicious semi-antiquity is the crowning feature of "Merrie Carlisle," and one feels instinctively that under the inevitable modernity of the place there is an older story written on its stones-- "Old legends, of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of eld." It is so old a town that one cannot be certain of its origin. The name is apparently British, derived probably from _Caer Lywelydd_, or simply Caer Lywel, "the town or fort of Lywel," but whether this was a tribal, or local, or personal name it would be hazardous to say. By the Romans it was known as _Luguvallium_ or _Luguballia_, possibly "the town or fort by the Wall." This the Saxons abbreviated and altered to _Luel_, the original name, with the prefix _Caer_, hence Caer-Luel, Caerleil, Carleol, Karluil, Karliol, Carliol, Carlile, and Carlisle. "No English city," says Bishop Creighton, "has a more distinctive character than Carlisle, and none can claim to have borne its character so continuously through the course of English history. Carlisle is still known as 'the Border city,' and though the term 'the Border' has no longer any historical significance, it still denotes a district which has strongly marked peculiarities and retains a vigorous provincial life. There was a time when the western Border was equally important with the Border on the north, when the fortress on the Dee had to be stoutly held against the foe, and when the town which rose among the scrub by the upper Severn was a place of conflict between contending races. But this struggle was not of long duration, and Chester and Shrewsbury ceased to be distinctly Border towns. On the north, however, the contest continued to be stubbornly waged, till it raised up a population inured to warfare, who carried the habits of a predatory life into a time when they were mere survivals of a well-nigh forgotten past. Of this period of conflict Carlisle is the monument, and of this lawless life it was long the capital. Berwick-upon-Tweed alone could venture to share its glory or dispute its supremacy; but Berwick was scarcely a town; it was rather a military outpost, changing hands from time to time between the combatants; it was neither Scottish nor English, more than a castle, but less than a town, an accidental growth of circumstances, scarcely to be classed as an element of popular life. Carlisle, on the other hand, traces its origin to times of venerable antiquity, and can claim through all its changes to have carried on in unbroken succession the traditions of an historic life. It was the necessary centre of a large tract of country, and whether its inhabitants were British or English its importance remained the same. It was not merely a military position, but a place of habitation, the habitation of a people who had to trust much to themselves, and who amidst all vicissitudes retained a sturdy spirit of independence. This is the distinguishing feature of Carlisle; it is 'the Border city.' But though this is its leading characteristic which runs through all its history, it has two other marks of distinction, when compared with other English towns. It is the only town on British soil which bears a purely British name; and it is the only town which has been added to England since the Norman Conquest." PLATE 11 VIEW OF CARLISLE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 44, and 60 to 70_) [Illustration] Briefly, the headlines of Carlisle's history are these. Founded originally by the Britons, it was held by the Romans for close on four centuries. Many Roman remains (coins, medals, altars, etc.) have been unearthed, and Hadrian's big Wall (murus and vallum) is still traceable in several quarters. A sad spoliation by Pict and Scot followed the Roman withdrawal. They scarcely left one stone on another. Then came the Saxon supremacy under the good King Egfrith, with the spiritual oversight under Saint Cuthbert, to whom and his successors at Lindisfarne were bestowed in perpetuity the city with fifteen miles around it. But for Egfrith's death fighting the Picts on the far-off moorland of Nechtansmere (Dunnichen in Forfarshire) Carlisle might have risen early and rapidly to a sure place as one of the leading cities in the land. From 685, however, to the Conquest (1066) the place was virtually extinct. It was only then that a new epoch arose for the broken city as for the whole of England. The Conqueror himself is said to have commenced the rebuilding of Carlisle, but the town owes its restoration rather to his son William the Red, who, on his return from Alnwick, after concluding a peace treaty with the King of Scotland in 1092, "observed the pleasantness of its situation, and resolved to raise it from its ruins." The Castle, the Priory, the once massive city walls, were all the work of the Rufus regime, completed by Henry I., who gave cathedral dignity to the church at Carlisle. David I., the "Sair Sanct," raided Carlisle in 1136, and kept court for a time within its walls, which he heightened. It was at Carlisle that his death took place in 1153. From that date to the 'Forty-five, Carlisle's history is mainly that of a kind of "buffer-state" between the two kingdoms. Few cities recall so many martial memories. It was Edward's base of operations in his Scottish wars. It was besieged by Wallace in 1298, by Bruce in 1315--the year after Bannockburn, and again in 1322. Queen Mary's captivity at Carlisle in 1568; Buccleuch's daring and gallant rescue of Kinmont Willie in 1596, immortalised in the best of the Border ballads; the protracted siege by General Leslie in 1644 during the Parliamentary War; and the Pretender's short-lived triumph--these are the rest of its leading events. Of the historic Carlisle little is left, the Castle, the Cathedral, and the Guildhall being almost the sole relics of a long and notable past. Yet how vastly changed the place is from the quiet little Border town of a century ago even! Then it had barely ten thousand inhabitants, now there are over forty thousand. As the county town of Cumberland, and next to Newcastle the greatest railway centre in the north of England, its prosperity has grown by leaps and bounds. It is the terminus of no fewer than eight different lines, and its busy, never-at-rest Citadel Station is known all the world over. Gates and walls have long since vanished from "Merrie Carlisle." The streets are wide and airy, and altogether it presents a most comfortable and thriving appearance. At 40, English Street, the chief thoroughfare, Prince Charlie slept for four nights during the '45. And from 79 to 83, Castle Street, the corner building (now a solicitor's office), between Castle Street and the Green-market, Scott led Miss Carpenter to the altar. Carlisle Castle, a huge, irregular reddish-brown stone structure, grim and defiant, with its almost perfect specimen of a Norman Keep, and battlements frowning towards the north, is still a place to see. But it is the Cathedral which is Carlisle's chief glory. Rising in the centre of the city, high above all other buildings except the factory chimneys, there is an air of importance about it not altogether justifiable. The building is small and not of very great account, the reason being that Carlisle was only erected into a See in 1133, and then out of Durham. The result was that the parish church was promoted to the dignity of a cathedral. Nevertheless, it has several striking features--a delightful Early English choir and magnificent east window, reputed to be unsurpassed by any other in the kingdom, if indeed in the world. From 1092, the date of the original building, to 1400-19, in Bishop Strickland's time, when the north transept was restored and the central tower rebuilt, and down to the present day, the edifice contains every variety of style, from Norman to Perpendicular, with admirable specimens of nineteenth century work. Of the original Norman minster the only parts remaining are two bays of the nave, the south transept, and the piers of the tower. How long the church remained in its pristine state it is impossible to say. The first alteration was probably the enlargement of the choir, towards the middle and close of the thirteenth century, immediately before the great fire of 1292, the worst the cathedral has experienced in its four burnings. The work of reconstruction after 1292 appears to have been somewhat slow, so slow that little was done till the year 1352, when Bishop Welton and his successor set themselves in earnest to the task. "The king, the city treasury, and the leading families of the neighbourhood contributed towards the restoration, in response to the urgent appeals of the bishops and to the indulgences issued for the remission of forty days' penance to such laity as should by money, materials, or labour, contribute to the pious work." Towards the close of the reign of Edward III. the renovated pile rose from it ruins. To this period belongs the entire east end, with its grand window, the triforium, the carved capitals of the arches, and the Decorated windows of the clerestory. The ceiling was painted and gilded and panelled, the intersections glowing with the armorial bearings of the rich donors by whose liberality the work had been carried to completion. The windows were filled with stained glass, and the nine lights of the east window with figures. PLATE 12 VIEW OF NAWORTH CASTLE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 39 and 74_) [Illustration] In this state the cathedral appears to have remained till 1392, when another fire occurred, which destroyed the north transept. A lack of funds was again felt, and it was not till the lapse of nine or ten years that the restoration was completed. Only about a century later, however, Carlisle shared the fate of the monastic institutions, and was suppressed, and the church shorn of many of its enrichments. The Civil Wars witnessed the worst acts of spoliation, when nearly the whole of the nave, the chapter-house and cloisters were destroyed, the materials being used for guard-house purposes in the city. The reign of the "Puritan patchwork" may then be said to have begun, with plaster partitions here and there in horrifying evidence, the niches emptied of their treasures, and the fine old stained glass removed from the windows--and all, as was declared, in the spirit of "repairing and beautifying." "A great, wild country church," is its description about this time, "and as it appeared outwardly, so it was inwardly, ne'er beautify'd, nor adorn'd one whit." Not till 1853-57 was a general restoration, costing £15,000, inaugurated. Both internally and externally the edifice underwent a total renovation. Old and crumbled portions were pulled down and rebuilt; other parts were fronted anew; missing ornaments were supplied; ugly doorways were blocked up, and one grand entrance made befitting the church. The renaissance was complete as it was judicious. There was just sufficient of the old left to show the original structure, and sufficient of the new imparted to save the venerable fane from crumbling to pieces. Externally, the east is certainly the finest part of the building, with its unrivalled window--58 feet high and 32-1/2 feet wide, of nine lights, gracefully proportioned, the head filled with the most exquisite tracery-work, comprising no fewer than 263 circles. A uniquely ornamented gable, with a row of crosses on either shoulder, and a large cross at the apex, completes a highly finished centre. On either side stands out, in massive relief, a majestic buttress, containing full length statues of St. Peter, St. Paul, St James, and St. John, above which are light and elegant pinnacles. These great buttresses are flanked by the lesser ones of the aisles, tapering upwards with chastely carved spires--the whole forming an eastern front of great beauty and richness. The main entrance by a new doorway in the south transept is a triumph of the sculptor's skill. The great tower, 112 feet high, has been thoroughly renovated, and much of its former ornamentation restored. Of the interior, the nave is in length 39 feet, and in width about 60 feet. The Scots are said to have destroyed 100 feet of it in 1645, but that is quite uncertain. It has never been rebuilt, and has a serious effect on the general proportions, inducing a feeling of want of balance. Up to 1870 the nave was used as the parish church of St. Mary, and it was here--close by the great Norman columns--that Sir Walter Scott was married to Charlotte Carpenter, on December 24th, 1797. The spot might well be indicated by a small memorial brass. The richly-decorated choir, in no respect inferior to that of any other English cathedral, is 134 feet long, 71 feet broad, and 75 feet high. The warm red of the sandstone, the blue roof powdered with golden stars, the great east window filled with stained glass, and the dark oak of the stalls, make up a picture that enforces attention before the architectural details can receive their due admiration. The Cathedral contains several interesting monuments. Here is the tomb of Archdeacon Paley (1805), author of the "Evidences of Christianity" and "Horæ Paulinæ," both written at Carlisle, and the richly-carved pulpit inscribed to his memory. There are tablets to Robert Anderson (1833), the "Cumberland Bard;" to John Heysham, M.D. (1834), the statistician, and compiler of the "Carlisle Tables of Mortality;" George Moore (1876), the philanthropist; M. L. Watson (1847), the sculptor; Dean Cranmer (1848), Canon Harcourt (1870), and Dean Close (1882). Several military monuments are in evidence. One of the windows commemorates the five children of Archbishop Tait (then Dean), who died between March 6th and April 9th, 1856. Recumbent figures of Bishop Waldegrave (1869), Bishop Harvey Goodwin (1891) and Dean Close are by Acton Adams, Hamo Thorneycroft, R.A., and H. H. Armistead, R.A., respectively. The older altar-tombs and brasses to Bishop Bell, Bishop Everdon, and Prior Stenhouse, should not be overlooked, and attention may be drawn also to the quaint series of fifth-century paintings from the monkish legends of St. Augustine, St. Anthony, and St. Cuthbert, and to the misereres of the stalls. Scarcely less interesting than Carlisle itself is the immediate neighbourhood of the Border city. And with what sterling picturesqueness does it appeal to us! One does not wonder that Turner and others found some of their masterpieces here. A wondrously historic countryside, too, is all this pleasantly-rolling tableland, mile upon mile to the Liddesdale and Eskdale heights with the Langholm Monument fairly visible as a rule, and sometimes even the famous Repentance Tower opposite Hoddom Kirk. Within twenty miles or so of Carlisle, up through the old Waste and Debateable Lands, or over into the romantic Vale of the Irthing, the dividing-point betwixt Cumberland and Northumberland, the district is full of the most fascinating material for the geographer and the historian. It is impossible to do more than mention a few of its memory-moving names. At Burghby-Sands, Edward I., "the Hammer of the Scots," having offered up his litter before the high altar at Carlisle, vowing to reduce Scotland to the condition of a mere English province, was forced to succumb to a grimmer adversary than lay anywhere beyond the Solway. Bowness-by-the-Sea was the western terminus of the Roman Wall. Arthuret has its name from the "Flower of Kings," one of whose twelve battles is said to have been fought there. Archie Armstrong, jester to King James VI., lies buried in its churchyard. At Longtown, on the Esk, the Jacobite troops forded the river "shouther to shouther," as Lady Nairne's lyric has it, dancing reels on the bank till they had dried themselves. Netherby, the _locale_ of "Young Lochinvar," Lady Heron's song in "Marmion," is in the near neighbourhood. So are Gilnockie or the Hollows, Johnie Armstrong's home, and Gretna Green, that once so popular but now defunct shrine of Venus. All this once bleak and barren bog-land is under generous cultivation now to a large extent, stretching from the Sark to the Esk, and eastward to Canonbie Lea; it was the treacherously Debateable, or No Man's Land of moss-trooping times, the most troubled and unsafe period of Border history. Solway Moss, some seven miles in circumference, is not likely to be forgotten--by Scotsmen, at any rate. It was the disastrous Rout of the Solway which hastened James V.'s death from a broken heart. PLATE 13 VIEW OF LANERCOST PRIORY FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 36 and 74_) [Illustration] The Irthing valley is replete with historical remains and literary associations. Over there, to the north of Bewcastle (Beuth's Castle), there is a celebrated Runic Cross nearly fifteen feet high, of the Caedmon order, similar to that at Ruthwell. The Irthing flows through the wide moorish wilderness known as Spade-Adam, or the Waste, crosses the Roman Wall at Gilsland, thence courses amongst some of the richest scenery in Cumberland until it meets the Eden. Gilsland Spa has long been noted for the excellence of its waters and the remarkable salubrity of the district. Scott stayed at the old Shaw's Hotel in July, 1797, not the present palatial Convalescent Home (as it now is) which was rebuilt after a fire about fifty years since. Charlotte Carpenter was a guest at Wardrew House, directly opposite. They met often, and the result was love and marriage. On a huge boulder by the banks of the Irthing, where the glen comes to its steepest and wears its most enchanting aspect, Scott is said to have "popped the question," and the "Kissing Bush" where the compact was sealed is also pointed out close by. At Gilsland it is interesting to recall that one is to some extent in "Guy Mannering Land." A small private dwelling adjoining the Methodist Chapel claims to stand on the site of the notorious Mumps Ha', "a hedge ale-house, where the Border farmers of either country often stopped to refresh themselves and their nags on their way to and from the fairs and trysts in Cumberland." It was there that young Harry Bertram first met Dandie Dinmont and the weird figure of Meg Merrilies, who, by the way, was not buried at Upper Denton, as the guide-books say. It was the treacherous landlady, Meg Mumps or Margaret Carrick, who is there interred. The more important Meg--the real heroine of the story--was drowned in the Eden at Carlisle. Gilsland is a centre for some delightful excursions. Much of the Roman Wall may be visited from this centre, its two chief stations Borcovicus (Housesteads) and Burdoswald being within easy distances. The little Northumberland lakes, and the prettiest of them all, Crag Loch, the Nine Nicks of Thirlwall, seen from the Shaws with fine effect, Thirlwall and Blenkinsop Castles, Haltwhistle Church, all to the east, are objects of deep and abiding interest. Westward are Burdoswald--the Roman Amboglanna--covering an area of 5-1/2 acres, and overlooking a singularly graceful bend of the Irthing (not unlike that on the Tweed at Bemersyde); Lanercost Priory[A], founded by Robert de Vaux about 1166, frequently plundered by the Scots, and used now partly as the parish church and burial-place of the Carlisle family; Naworth,[B] the historic seat of the Earl of Carlisle, whose ancestor, Lord William Howard, was the famous "Belted Will" of Border story, who died in 1640:-- "His Bilboa blade, by marchmen felt, Hung in a broad and studded belt; Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still Call noble Howard, 'Belted Will,'"-- and Triermain Castle, all but vanished, whence Scott's "Bridal of Triermain"-- "Where is the Maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Triermain? She must be lovely, and constant and kind, Holy and pure, and humble of mind, Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood, Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood-- Lovely as the sun's first ray, When it breaks the clouds of an April day, Constant and true as the widow'd dove, Kind as a minstrel that sings of love." [A] Lanercost is a fine example of Early English. The church consists of a nave with north aisle, a transept with aisles on the east side used as monumental chapels and choir, a chancel, and a low square tower. The nave is used as the Parish Church. The crypt contains several Roman altars from Burdoswald, etc. Some of the inscriptions are of great interest. [B] Naworth is said to be one of the oldest and best specimens existing of a baronial residence. It is associated largely with the turbulent times of Border warfare. "Belted Will," a terror to all marauders, is its best-known name, "a singular lover of venerable antiquities, and learned withal," as Camden describes him. The British Museum contains some of his letters, and his library is still preserved at Naworth. "Belted Will's" Tower, to the north-east of the Castle, is the most notable feature at Naworth. III. THE TWEED AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. "Both are good, the streams of north and south, but he who has given his heart to the Tweed as did Tyro in Homer to the Enipeus, will never change his love." So does Mr. Andrew Lang remind us of his affection for Tweedside and the Border. Elsewhere he speaks of Tweed shrining the music of his cradle song, and the requiem he would most prefer--may that day be long in coming! "No other hymn I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim, Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear." Lockhart's description of Sir Walter's death-scene, so touching in its very simplicity, has never been matched in literary biography. From the first years of his life, Scott was wedded to the Tweed. It was his ancestral stream. And it stood for all that was best and fairest in Border story. It was by the Tweed that he won his greatest triumphs, and faced his greatest defeats, where he spent the happiest as well as the most strenuous period of his career. So that, to breathe his last breath by its pleasant banks--a desire oft repeated--was as natural as it was keen and eager. We know how at length he was borne back to Abbotsford, the house of his dreams, and how on one of those ideal days during the early autumn that crowning wish was realised; "It was a beautiful day, so warm that every window was wide open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear--the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles--was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes." Of course, it is owing, in great measure, to Scott that the Tweed has so exalted a place in literature. To speak of the Tweed at once recalls Scott and all that the Tweed meant to him. Both in a sense are names inseparable and synonymous. It is almost entirely for Scott's sake that Tweedside has become one of the world-Meccas. What Scott did for the Tweed--the Border--renders it (to speak reverently) holy ground for ever. Hence the affection with which the world looks on Scott--as a patriot,--as one who has helped to create his country, and as a great literary magnet attracting thousands to it, and as the medium of some of the most pleasurable of mental experiences. Of the great names on Scotland's roll of honour, Scott, even more than all of them (even more than Burns), has wedded his country to the very best of humankind everywhere. But do not let us forget that Tweed had its lovers many before Scott's day. Burns's pilgrimage to the Border was a picturesque episode in his poetic history. "Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tune owre Scotland rings," he wrote, and other lines represent a warm admiration for the district. Tweed was a "wimpling stately" stream, and there were "Eden scenes on crystal Jed" scarcely less fascinating. James Thomson, the poet of the "Seasons," a Tweedsider, though the fact is often forgotten, pays grateful homage to the Tweed as the "pure parent-stream, whose pastoral banks first heard my Doric reed." Allan Ramsay and Robert Crawford, West-country men both, came early under the spell of the fair river. Crawford's lines are painted with the usual exaggeration of the period: "What beauties does Flora disclose! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed. No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield." Hamilton of Bangour, best known for his "Braes of Yarrow," has an autumn and winter description of Tweedside which naturally suggests the like picture by Scott in the Introduction to Canto I. of "Marmion," and it is more than probable that Sir Walter had this in his mind when penning his own more perfect lines. PLATE 14 VIEW OF BEWCASTLE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 44, 67, 72_) [Illustration] Robert Fergusson--Burns's "elder brother in the Muses," had his imagination fired by the memories of the Border, and was one of the first to celebrate that land over which lies the light of so much poetic fancy: "The Arno and the Tiber lang Hae run full clear in Roman sang; But, save the reverence o' schools! They're baith but lifeless dowy pools, Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed, As clear as ony lammer-bead?" Wordsworth, too, sang of the "gentle Tweed, and the green silent pastures," though his winsome Three Yarrows is the tie that most endears him to the Lowland hearts. Since Scott's day the voices in praise of Tweed have been legion. "Who, with a heart and a soul tolerably at ease within him, could fail to be happy, hearing as we do now the voice of the Tweed, singing his pensive twilight song to the few faint stars that have become visible in heaven?" says John Wilson in his rollicking "Streams" essay (no "crusty Christopher" there, at any rate). Thomas Tod Stoddart, king of angling rhymers, "Angled far and angled wide, On Fannich drear, by Luichart's side; Across dark Conan's current," and all over Scotland, but found not another stream to match with the Tweed: "Dearer than all these to me Is sylvan Tweed; each tower and tree That in its vale rejoices; Dearer the streamlets one and all That blend with its Eolian brawl Their own enamouring voices!" Remember, too, Dr. John Brown's exquisite Tweed's Well meditation, a prose sermon to ponder over any Sabbath, and Ruskin's homely reverie--"I can never hear the whispering and sighing of the Tweed among his pebbles, but it brings back to me the song of my nurse as we used to cross by Coldstream Bridge, from the south, in our happy days-- "For Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view, With her barefooted lasses, and mountains so blue." One thinks also of George Borrow's fascination for the Scottish Border, when he asks ("Lavengro") "Which of the world's streams can Tweed envy, with its beauty and renown?" and of Thomas Aird's pathetic retrospect--"the ever-dear Tweed, whose waters flow continually through my heart, and make me often greet in my lonely evenings." Nor do we forget John Veitch, that truest Tweedsman of his time, always musing on the Tweed, never at home but beside it, and of whose Romance and History there has been no abler exponent. Of the name Tweed itself, the meaning and origin are uncertain, and it is hopeless to dogmatize on the subject except to say that there is an apparent connection with the Cymric Tay, Taff, Teith, and Teviot--more properly "Teiott," the common pronunciation above Hawick. Mr. Johnston ("Place-Names of Scotland") traces it to the Celtic _twyad_--"a hemming in"--from "_twy_ to check or bind," which is a not unlikely derivation. As to the source of the Tweed there is the curious paradox that what passes for its source is not the real _fons et origo_ of the stream. Poetically, the Tweed is said to take its rise in the tiny Tweed's Well among the Southern Highlands, 1250 feet above sea level, and close to where the marches of Peeblesshire, Lanarkshire, and Dumfriesshire meet. But strictly speaking, the correct source is the Cor or Corse Burn, a little higher up, which, dancing its way to the glen beneath, receives the outflow of the Well as a sort of first tributary. For purposes of romance, however, Tweed's Well will always be reckoned as the source, as indeed it must have been so regarded ages ago. The likelihood is that Tweed's Well was one of the ancient holy wells common to many parts of Scotland. And since tradition speaks of a Mungo's Well somewhere in these solitudes, the probability is that we have it here in the heart of these silent lonely hills. There is the tradition of a cross, too, at or near Tweed's Well, borne out in the place-name Corse, which, we know, is good Scots for Cross. That such a symbol of the ancient faith stood here long since "to remind travellers of their Redeemer and to guide them withal across these desolate moors," is more than a mere picturesque legend. It is a prolific watershed this from which Tweed starts its seaward race. South and west, Annan and Clyde bend their way to the Solway and the Atlantic, as the quaint quatrain has it: "Annan, Tweed, and Clyde Rise a' oot o' ae hillside, Tweed ran, Annan wan, Clyde brak his neck owre Corra Linn." Tweed turns its face to the north, and running for the most part, as old Pennecuik puts it, "with a soft yet trotting stream," it pursues a course of slightly over a hundred miles, and drains a basin of no less than 1870 square miles, a larger area than any other Scottish river except the Tay. PLATE 15 VIEW OF MELROSE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 23, 35, 39, 60, 61, 89, 90, 91, 123_) [Illustration] Tweed's Well lies in the bosom of solemn, bare hills. There is nothing attractive about the spot. Grey moorlands, riddled with innumerable inky peat-bogs, the whaups crying as Stevenson heard them in his dreams, and the bleat of an occasional sheep are the chief characteristics. There is little heather, and the hills are hardly so shapely as their neighbours further down the valley. A first glance is disappointing, but the memories of the place are compensation enough. For what a stirring place it must have been in the early centuries! Here, as tradition asserts, the pagan bard Merlin was converted to Christianity through the preaching of the Glasgow Saint Mungo. Here Michael Scot, the "wondrous wizard," pursued his mysteries. And even the Flower of Kings himself wandered amongst those wilds, "of fresh aventours dreaming." One of his twelve battles is claimed for the locality. More historic, perhaps, is the picture of the good Sir James of Douglas (red-handed from dirking the Comyn) plighting his troth to the Bruce at Ericstane Brae, close to Tweed's Well, which latter spot, by the way, Dr. John Brown characteristically describes in one of his shorter "Horæ" papers. Readers of the "Enterkin" also will remember his reference to the mail-coach tragedy of 1831, when MacGeorge and his companion, Goodfellow, perished in the snow in a heroic attempt to get the bags through to Tweedshaws. At Tweedsmuir, (the name of the parish--disjoined from Drumelzier in 1643)--eight miles down, the valley opens somewhat, and vegetation properly begins. Of Tweedsmuir Kirk--on the peninsula between Tweed and Talla--Lord Cockburn said that it had the prettiest situation in Scotland. John Hunter, a Covenant martyr, sleeps in its bonnie green kirk-knowe--the only Covenant grave in the Border Counties outside Dumfries and Galloway. Talla Linns recalls the conventicle mentioned in the "Heart of Midlothian," at which Scott makes Davie Deans a silent but much-impressed spectator. In the wild Gameshope Glen, close by, Donald Cargill and James Renwick, and others lay oft in hiding. "It will be a bloody night this in Gemsop," are the opening words of Hogg's fine Covenant tale, the "Brownie of Bodsbeck." The Talla Valley contains the picturesque new lake whence Edinburgh draws its augmented water supply. Young Hay of Talla was one of Bothwell's "Lambs," and suffered death for the Darnley murder. At the Beild--regaining the Tweed--Dr. John Ker, one of the foremost pulpiteers of his generation, was born in 1819. Oliver Castle was the home of the Frasers, Lords of Tweeddale before they were Lords of Lovat. The Crook Inn was a noted "howff" in the angling excursions of Christopher North and the Ettrick Shepherd. Mr. Lang thinks that possibly the name suggested the "Cleikum Inn" of "St. Ronan's Well." At the Crook, William Black ends his "Adventures of a Phæton" with the climax of all good novels, an avowal of love and a happy engagement. Polmood, near by, was the scene of Hogg's lugubrious "Bridal of Polmood," seldom read now, one imagines. Kingledoors in two of its place-names preserves the memory of Cuthbert and Cristin, the Saint and his hermit-disciple. Stanhope was a staunch Jacobite holding, one of its lairds being the infamous Murray of Broughton, Prince Charlie's secretary, the Judas of the cause. Murray, by the way, was discovered in hiding after Culloden at Polmood, the abode of his brother-in-law, Michael Hunter. Linkumdoddie has been immortalized in Burns's versicles beginning, "Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed"--a study in idiomatic untranslateable Scots. Here is the picture of Willie's wife--a philological puzzle. "She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; She's twisted right, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter; She has a hump upon her breast, The twin o' that upon her shouther; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her. "Auld bandrons by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a-washin'; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad 'fyle the Logan Water; Sic a wife as Willie had, I wadna gie a button for her." At Drumelzier Castle the turbulent, tyrannical Tweedies reigned in their day of might. Of their ghostly origin, the Introduction to the "Betrothed" supplies the key. They were constantly at feud with their neighbours, specially the Veitches, and were in the Rizzio murder. See their history (a work of genuine local interest) written quite recently by Michael Forbes Tweedie, a London scion of the clan. In the same neighbourhood, the fragment of Tinnis Castle (there is a Tinnis on Yarrow, too,) juts out from its bold bluff, not unlike a robber's eyrie on the Rhine. Curiously, this is a reputed Ossian scene (see the poem, "Calthon and Colmal.") The "blue Teutha," is the Tweed--"Dunthalmo's town," Drumelzier. Merlin's Grave, near Drumelzier Kirk, should not be forgotten. Bower's "Scotichronicon" narrates the circumstances of his death: "On the same day which he foretold he met his death; for certain shepherds of a chief of a country called Meldred set upon him with stones and staves, and, stumbling in his agony, he fell from a high bank of the Tweed, near the town of Drumelzier (the ridge of Meldred), upon a sharp stake that the fishers had placed in the waters, and which pierced his body through. He was buried near the spot where he expired." "Ah! well he loved the Powsail Burn (_i.e._, the burn of the willows) Ah! well he loved the Powsail glen; And there, beside his fountain clear, He soothed the frenzy of his brain. Ah! Merlin, restless was thy life, As the bold stream whose circles sweep Mid rocky boulders to its close By thy lone grave, in calm so deep. For no one ever loved the Tweed Who was not loved by it in turn; It smiled in gentle Merlin's face, It soughs in sorrow round his bourn." A prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer-- "When Tweed and Powsail meet at Merlin's Grave, England and Scotland shall one monarch have," is affirmed to have been literally fulfilled on the coronation day of James VI. and I. Passing on, we reach the resplendent Dawyck Woods. Here are some of the finest larches in the kingdom, the first to be planted in Britain, having that honour done them by the great Linnaeus himself, it is said. Stobo--semi-Norman and Saxon--was the _plebania_ or mother-kirk of half the county. Here lies all that is mortal of Robert Hogg, a talented nephew of James Hogg. He was the friend and amanuensis of both Scott and Lockhart, whom he assisted in the _Quarterly_. Possessed of a keen literary sense, he would almost certainly have taken a high place in literature but for the consumption which cut short his promising career. (See "Life of Scott," vol. ix). At Happrew, in Stobo parish, Wallace is said to have suffered defeat from the English in 1304. One of the most perfect specimens (recently explored) of a Roman Camp is in the Lyne Valley, to the left, a little above the Kirk of Lyne. On a height overlooking the Tarth and Lyne frowns the massive pile of Drochil, planned by the Red Earl of Morton, who never lived to occupy it, or to finish it, indeed, the "Maiden," in 1581, cutting short his pleasures, his treacheries and hypocrisies. Now we touch the Black Dwarf's Country--in the Manor Valley, to the right. Barns Tower, a very complete peel specimen, stands sentinel at the entrance to this "sweetest glen of all the South." It is around Barns that John Buchan's "John Burnet of Barns" centres. The Black Dwarf's grave is at Manor Kirk, and the cottage associated with his misanthropic career is also pointed out. Scott, in 1797, visited Manor (Hallyards) at his friend Ferguson's, and foregathered with David Ritchie, the prototype of one of the least successful and most tedious of his characters. (See William Chambers's account of the visit). St. Gordian's Cross, mentioned in a previous chapter, is further up the valley, where also are the ruins of Posso, a place-name in the "Bride of Lammermoor." Presently we come to Neidpath Castle, dominating Peebles, the key to the Upper Tweed fastnesses. When or by whom it was built is unknown. In 1795, it was held by "Old Q," fourth Duke of Queensberry. Wordsworth's sonnet on the spoliation of its magnificent woods (an act done to spite the heir of entail) stigmatises for all time the memory of one of the worst reprobates in history. PLATE 16 MELROSE AND THE EILDONS FROM BEMERSYDE HILL: SCOTT'S FAVOURITE VIEW FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 89 and 123_) [Illustration] Both Scott and Campbell have sung of the unhappy Maid of Neidpath spent with grief and disease, waiting her lover on the Castle walls, and beholding him ride past all unconscious of her identity. "He came--he passed--a heedless gaze, As o'er some stranger glancing; Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser's prancing-- The Castle arch whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken." The literary associations of Peebles--a charming township--are outstanding. William and Robert Chambers (founders of _Chambers's Journal_) were natives. So were Thomas Smibert and John Veitch, poets and essayists both. Mungo Park (a Gideon Gray prototype) was the town's surgeon for a time--an eternal longing for Africa in his soul. "Meg Dods," the best landlady in fiction, was one of its heroines. And "Peblis to the Play," probably by James I., is a Scots classic. Traquair is poetic ground every foot of it. At its "bonnie bush" how many singers have caught inspiration from Crawford of Drumsoy in 1725, to Principal Shairp in our own day! Shairp's lyric may well be quoted in full. It is by far the finest contribution to modern Border minstrelsy. "Thank ye again for this exquisite song; I would rather have been the man to write it than Gladstone in all his greatness and goodness," was the exuberant "Rab" Brown's compliment to the author: "Will ye gang wi' me and fare To the bush aboon Traquair? Owre the high Minchmuir we'll up and awa', This bonny simmer noon, While the sun shines fair aboon, And the licht sklents saftly doun on holm and ha'. "And what would you do there, At the bush aboon Traquair? A lang dreich road, ye had better let it be; Save some auld skrunts o' birk I' the hillside lirk, There's nocht i' the warld for man to see. "But the blithe lilt o' that air, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,' I need nae mair, it's eneuch for me; Owre my cradle its sweet chime, Cam' soughin' frae auld time, Sae tide what may, I'll awa' and see. "And what saw ye there At the bush aboon Traquair? Or what did ye hear that was worth your heed? I heard the cushies croon Thro' the gowden afternoon And the Quair burn singing doun to the Vale o' Tweed. "And birks saw I three or four, Wi' grey moss bearded owre,-- The last that are left o' the birken shaw, Whar mony a simmer e'en Fond lovers did convene, Thae bonny, bonny gloamins that are lang awa'. "Frae mony a but and ben, By muirland, holm, and glen, They cam' ane hour to spen' on the greenwood swaird; But lang hae lad an' lass I Been lying 'neth the grass, The green, green grass o' Traquair kirkyard. "They were blest beyond compare, When they held their trysting there, Among thae greenest hills shone on by the sun; And then they wan a rest, The lownest and the best, I' Traquair kirkyard when a' was dune. "Now the birks to dust may rot, Names o' lovers be forgot, Nae lads and lasses there ony mair convene; But the blithe lilt o' yon air Keeps the bush aboon Traquair, And the love that ance was there, aye fresh and green." PLATE 17 DRYBURGH ABBEY AND SCOTT'S TOMB FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 35, 39, 91, 92, 103_) [Illustration] Traquair House--possibly Scott's Tully-Veolan, "pallid, forlorn, stricken all o'er with eld," claims to be the oldest inhabited house in Scotland. It certainly looks it. The great gate, flanked with the huge Bradwardine Bears, has not been opened since the '45. There seems no reason to question the legend. It is not so "foolish" as Mr. Lang supposes. Innerleithen, Scott's "St. Ronan's," is near at hand, and the peel of Elibank--a mere shell. Harden's marriage to Muckle-mou'ed Meg Murray was not quite accounted for in the traditional way, however,--a choice between the laird's dule-tree and the laird's unlovely daughter. The legend is not uncommon to German folk-lore. At Ashestiel, thrice renowned, Scott spent the happiest years of his life (1804-1812), writing "Marmion," the "Lady of the Lake," and the first draft of "Waverley." In many respects the place is more important to students of Scott than Abbotsford itself. Yet for a thousand who rush to Abbotsford only a very few find their way up here. Yair, a Pringle house, and Fairnalee, comfortable little demesnes, lie further down the Tweed. At the latter, Alison Rutherford wrote her version of the "Flowers of the Forest"--"I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling." Abbotsford was Cartley Hole first--not Clarty--which is a mere vulgar play on the original. From a small villa about 1811 it has grown to the present noble pile. After Scott's day, Mr. Hope Scott did much for the place. But it is of Sir Walter that one thinks. What a strenuous life was his here! What love he lavished on the very ground that was dear to him--in a double sense! And what longing for home during that vain sojourn under Italian skies! "To Abbotsford; let us to Abbotsford!"--a desire now echoed on ten thousand tongues year by year from all ends of the earth. Behind Abbotsford are the Eildons, the "Delectable Mountains" of Washington Irving's visit, "three crests against a saffron sky" always in vision the wide Border over. Scott said he could stand on the Eildons and point out forty-three places famous in war and verse. "Yonder," he said, "is Lammermoor and Smailholm; and there you have Galashiels, and Torwoodlee, and Gala Water; and in that direction you see Teviotdale and the Braes of Yarrow, and Ettrick stream winding along like a silver thread to throw itself into the Tweed. It may be pertinacity, but to my eye these grey hills, and all this wild Border Country have beauties peculiar to themselves. When I have been for some time in the rich scenery about Edinburgh which is like ornamented garden land, I begin to wish myself back again among my own honest grey hills; and if I did not see the heather at least once a year, I think I should die." Melrose is the "Kennaquhair" of the "Monastery" and the "Abbot." Its glory, of course, is its Abbey, unsurpassed in the beauty of death, but all grace fled from its environment. Were it possible to transplant the Abbey together with its rich associations to the site of the original foundation by the beautiful bend at Bemersyde, Melrose would sit enthroned peerless among the shrines of our northern land. Within Melrose Abbey, near to the High Altar, the Bruce's heart rests well--its fitful flutterings o'er. Here, too, lie the brave Earl Douglas, hero of Chevy Chase; Liddesdale's dark Knight--another Douglas; Evers and Latoun, the English commanders at Ancrum Moor, that ran so deadly red with the blood of their countrymen; and, according to Sir Walter, Michael Scot-- "Buried on St. Michael's night, When the bell toll'd one, and the moon shone bright, Whose chamber was dug among the dead, When the floor of the chancel was stained red." One is not surprised at Scott's love for Melrose. As the grandest ecclesiastical ruin in the country, it must be seen to be understood. Mere description counts for little in dealing with such a subject. Every window, arch, cloister, corbel, keystone, door-head and buttress of this excellent example of mediæval Gothic is a study in itself--all elaborately carved, yet no two alike. The sculpture is unequalled both in symmetry and in variety, embracing some of the loveliest specimens of floral tracery and the most quaint and grotesque representations imaginable. The great east oriel is its most imposing feature. But the south doorway and the chaste wheeled window above it are equally superb. For what is regarded as the finest view of the building, let us stand for a little at the north-east corner, not far from the grave of Scott's faithful factotum, Tom Purdie. Here the _coup d'oeil_ is very striking; and the contour of the ruins is realised to its full. Or if it be preferred, let us look at the pile beneath the lee light o' the moon--the conditions recommended in the "Lay." "If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white, When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go--but go alone the while-- Then view St. David's ruined pile; And, home returning, soothly swear Was never scene so sad and fair!" Three inscriptions--one inside, two in the churchyard, are worth halting by. "HEIR LYIS THE RACE OF YE HOVS OF ZAIR," touches many hearts with its simple pathos. "The Lord is my Light," is the expressive text (self-chosen) on Sir David Brewster's tomb--the greatest master of optics in his day; and the third, covering the remains of a former Melrose schoolmaster was frequently on the lips of Scott: "The earth goeth on the earth, Glist'ring like gold, The earth goes to the earth Sooner than it wold. The earth builds on the earth Castles and towers, The earth says to the earth All shall be ours." If half the grace of Melrose is lost by reason of its environment, the situation of Dryburgh is queenly enough. It is assuredly the most picturesque monastic ruin in Great Britain. Scott's is the all-absorbing name, and as a matter of fact he would himself have become by inheritance the laird of Dryburgh, but for the financial folly of a spendthrift grand-uncle. "The ancient patrimony," he tells us, "was sold for a trifle, and my father, who might have purchased it with ease, was dissuaded by my grandfather from doing so, and thus we have nothing left of Dryburgh but the right of stretching our bones there." So here, the two Sir Walters, the two Lady Scotts, and Lockhart, await the breaking light of morn. Dryburgh, be it noted, is in Berwickshire--in Mertoun parish, where (at Mertoun House) Scott wrote the "Eve of St. John." Not far off is Sandyknowe (not Smailholm, as it is generally designated) Tower, the scene of the ballad, and the cradle of Scott's childhood, where there awoke within him the first real consciousness of life, and where he had his first impressions of the wondrously enchanted land that lay within the comparatively small circle of the Border Country. Ruined Roxburgh, between Tweed's and Teviot's flow, and the palatial Floors Castle represent the best of epochs old and new, and even more than in Scott's halcyon school days is Kelso the "Queen of the South Countrie." Coldstream, lying in sylvan loveliness on the left bank of the Tweed--a noble river here--has been the scene of many a memorable crossing from both countries from the time of Edward I. to the Covenanting struggle. So near the Border, Coldstream had at one time a considerable notoriety for its runaway marriages, the most notable of which was Lord Brougham's in 1819. Within an easy radius of Coldstream are Wark Castle, the mere site of it rather--where in 1344 Edward III. instituted the Order of the Garter; Twizel Bridge, with its single Gothic arch, cleverly crossed by Surrey and his men (it is the identical arch) at Flodden, that darkest of all dark fields for Scotland, "Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield." Of Norham Castle, frowning like Carlisle, to the North, and set down as it were to over-awe a kingdom, Scott's description is always the best. Ladykirk Church was built by James IV. in gratitude for his escape from drowning while fording the Tweed. Last of all, we reach Berwick, at one period the chief seaport in Scotland--a "second Alexandria," as was said, now the veriest shadow of its former self. Christianized towards the close of the fourth century, according to Bede, as a place rich in churches, monasteries and hospitals, Berwick held high rank in the ecclesiastical world. Its geographical position, too, as a frontier town made it the Strasburg for which contending armies were continually in conflict. Century after century its history was one red record of strife and bloodshed. Its walls, like its old Bridge spanning the Tweed, were built in Elizabeth's reign, and its Royal Border Bridge, opened to traffic in 1850, was happily characterised by Robert Stephenson, its builder, as the "last act of the Union." PLATE 18 THE REMNANT OF WARK CASTLE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 39 and 92_) [Illustration] IV. "PLEASANT TEVIOTDALE" Ettrick and Yarrow between them comprise most of Selkirkshire. The Teviot and Jed are the main arteries running through Roxburghshire, or Teviotdale, as was the ancient designation, colloquially Tividale and Tibbiedale. On the source-to-mouth principle--the most natural and the most instructive--the best approach into Teviotdale is by way of Langholm, locally _the_ Langholm, pleasantly situated on the Dumfriesshire Esk, at the junction of the Ewes and Wauchope Waters. In the fine pastoral valley of the Ewes--the Yarrow of Dumfriesshire--we pass several places of note before striking Teviothead and the main course of the Teviot. At Wrae, William Knox, author of "The Lonely Hearth," and writer of the stanzas on "Mortality," so constantly quoted by Abraham Lincoln, had his home for a time. George Gilfillan, no mean judge, characterises him as the best sacred poet in Scotland. Further on is the birth-spot of another well-known singer, Henry Scott Riddell, whose patriotic "Scotland Yet" has won its way to the ends of the earth, wherever Scotsmen gather. At Unthank Kirkyard--none more lonely save St. Mary's on Yarrow, perhaps--we examine the graves of the hospitable and kindly Elliots of "Dandie Dinmont" immortality. Mosspaul Inn, lately restored, is close to the boundary between the two counties. From the Wisp Hill (1950 feet) the view on a clear day from Carlisle in the south to the distant north, is one to be remembered. The Wordsworths were at Mosspaul in 1803, and Dorothy's description is still fairly correct: "The scene with its single dwelling, was melancholy and wild, but not dreary, though there was no tree nor shrub; the small streamlet glittered, the hills were populous with sheep; but the gentle bending of the valley and the correspondent softness in the forms of the hills were of themselves enough to delight the eye. The whole of the Teviot and the pastoral steeps about Mosspaul pleased us exceedingly." PLATE 19 BERWICK-ON-TWEED FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 43, 49, 63, 93_) [Illustration] At Teviothead we touch the Teviot proper. The upper basin of the Teviot is mainly a barren vale, flanked by lofty rounded hills. For a greater distance it is a strip of alluvial plain, screened by terraced banks clad with the rankest vegetation, and with long stretches of undulating dale-land, and overhung at from three to eight miles by terminating heights, and in its lower reaches it is a richly variegated champaign country, possessing all the luxuriance without any of the tameness of a fertile plain, and stretching away in resulting loveliness to the picturesque Eildons on the one hand and the dome-like Cheviots on the other. Teviothead, formerly Carlanrigg, is full of traditionary lore. Teviot Stone, extinct now, a landmark for centuries--its position being marked on some of our earliest maps--recalls Scott's favourite lines from the "Lay," imprinted on the Selkirk monument: "By Yarrow's streams, still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan." Teviothead Churchyard contains the graves of Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, and his gallants. James V. (a mere boy-king at the time) never planned a more despicable or more atrocious deed than the betrayal and summary execution of this most picturesque of the freebooters. And posterity has never forgiven him. Nor can it. Scott's "Minstrelsy" ballad commemorating the incident is far and away the most dramatic of its kind, Johnie's scathing answer to the King being specially characteristic: "To seik het water beneith cauld ice, Surely it is a greit follie; I have asked grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me!" There is a tradition that the trees on which they were hanged became immediately blasted; and Scott, in parting with the Wordsworths directed them to look about for "some old stumps of trees," but "we could not find them," adds Miss Wordsworth. Hard by are the graves of Scott Riddell and his third son, William, a youth of remarkable promise. Teviothead Cottage, where Riddell resided till his death in 1870, is passed on the left. The church in which he preached (he was in charge of the then preaching station here) is now the parish school, and his monument, like a huge candle extinguisher, crowns the neighbouring Dryden Knowes. Still keeping to the Teviot, now a fair-sized stream, rich in the variety and beauty of its scenery-- "Pleasant Teviotdale, a land Made blithe by plough and harrow"-- we pass Gledsnest and Colterscleuch, figuring in the well-known "Jamie Telfer" ballad; Commonside, mentioned in "Kinmont Willie"; Northhouse, Teindside, Harwood, and Broadhaugh, snug farms all, till the hamlet of Newmill is reached, the quarrel scene between the "jovial harper" of the "Lay" and "Sweet Milk," "Bard of Reull," in which the latter was slain: "On Teviot's side, in fight they stood, And tuneful hands were stained with blood, Where still the thorn's white branches wave Memorial o'er his rival's grave." Allan Cunningham's version of "Rattlin', Roarin' Willie" should be read in this connection. Branxholme (poetically Branksome) is a particularly interesting portion of the Teviot valley. Its Braes recall the old ditty: "As I came in by Teviot side And by the Braes of Branksome, There first I saw my bonnie bride, Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome." And looming up before us is the massive white pile of Branxholme itself, the master-fort of the Teviot, and the key of the pass between the Tweed basin and Merrie Carlisle. The Castle occupies a strong position, has been much modernised, and is now a residence for Buccleuch's Chamberlain. Up to 1756, it was the chief seat of the Buccleuch family. Branxholme's main glory, however, is not its past history, or the pomp and circumstance surrounding it in the hey-day of its power. If there was "another Yarrow" to Wordsworth, there is "another Branxholme" to us. It is not the memory of the fighting barons of Buccleuch, with their tumultuous raids and unending quarrels, which draws the pilgrim's feet to Branxholme's Tower, but the memory of events which the imagination of the Minstrel has conjured up, and which have made for themselves a local habitation and a name. For here Scott placed the leading incidents of the "Lay,"--the first and finest of his Border efforts: "Nine-and-twenty knights of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall, Nine-and-twenty squires of name Brought them their steeds to bower from stall." From Branxholme to the russet-grey Peel of Goldielands is scarcely two miles. Minus gables or parapet now, and standing among the haystacks and buildings of a farm, it is still in tolerable preservation. Here dwelt amongst others of its old heroes, "the Laird's Wat, that worthie man," who led the Scots at the Reidswire in 1575. Not improbably is Goldielands the peel associated with Willie of Westburnflat's operations in the "Black Dwarf." At Goldielands Gate one gets a fine view to the right of the Borthwick valley, "Where Bortha hoarse that loads the meads with sand, Rolls her red tide to Teviot's western stand." And up the Borthwick, a mile or two, on its steep bank sits Harden, a place of more than ordinary note to the Scott student. Here Auld Wat, Sir Walter's grandsire seven times removed, reigned a king among Border reivers, whose deeds of derring-do have been long shrined by the balladists, and graven deep on the tablets of memory. Hawick, the Glasgow of the Borders, comes next in sight,--where Slitrig and Teviot meet. An ancient town, but possessing few relics of antiquity, except St. Mary's Church, and the Tower Inn, a dwelling of the Drumlanrig Douglases, with the mysterious Moat "where Druid shades still flitted round." The modernity of the place is, however, lost sight of annually in the "riding of the marches," a custom which prevails also in Selkirk and Langholm. It is the great public festival of the year, and dates from time immemorial. Its memories are mostly of Flodden, and the brave stand at Hornshole in the neighbourhood, the year after. The Flodden flag, splendidly "bussed," is carried in civic and cornetal procession with crowds continually singing--as only Teridom can--the rousing martial air of "Teribus," the Hawick slogan, which expresses more than any other the wild and defiant strain of the war-trump and the battle-shout. Hawick, including Wilton, has several elegantly architectured buildings, over a score of Tweed mills and factories, seventeen churches, and boasts a population of nearly twenty thousand. From Hawick to Kelso the distance is 21 miles, with a finely undulating road all through. The railway journey _via_ St. Boswells is about double the distance. Our way lies through some of the most storied scenery in the Lowlands. The names on the map will give us an idea of the exceedingly romantic character of this second half of the Teviot. Here we come into touch with such song-haunted tributaries as the Jed and Oxnam, the Rule and Kale, and Ale, and with many of the great houses whose history has contributed more than any other to the making of the Border Country. The names of Scott and Ker, Elliot and Douglas, Turnbull and Riddell are patent to every parish through which we pass. At Minto, the home of the Elliots and seat of the present Indian Viceroy, one is reminded of the distinguished place which that family has held both in the stormy and in the more peaceful times of Border story. Here Jean Elliot wrote the "Flowers of the Forest," and Thomas Campbell his "Lochiel's Warning." From Minto Crags, crowned with Fatlips Castle and Barnhill's Bed, (729 feet) there is no more pleasing prospect in the Borderland. The windings of the Teviot are traceable for miles, the Liddesdale and Dumfriesshire heights hemming in the view on one side, and the blue Cheviots on the other. Ruberslaw rises immediately in front, with Denholm Dene on the right, and the narrow bed of the "mining Rule" on the left, while behind to the north are distinctly seen the three-coned Eildons, Earlston Black Hill, Scott's Sandyknowe, Hume Castle, and the wavy line of the Lammermoors. Hassendean (suggesting "Jock o' Hazeldean") Cavers, a Douglas house, where the pennon of the great Earl, and the Percy gauntlets are still shown; Denholm, Leyden's birthplace, Henlawshiel and Kirkton, scenes in his boyhood, lie all in the neighbourhood. Dr. Chalmers was for a time assistant in Cavers Kirk, and in later life delighted to recall his connection with the Border district. Adjoining Minto, Ancrum stands bonnie on Ale Water--a village of considerable antiquity. Its Cross, dating from David I.'s time, is one of the best-preserved of the market-crosses of the Border. Ancrum was the birthplace of Dr. William Buchan of "Domestic Medicine" celebrity, and John Livingston, its minister during the Covenant, was a man of mark and piety in his day. The place naturally suggests Ancrum Moor, a mile or two to the north-west, one of the last great battlefields of the international struggle. In February, 1544, an English army under Sir Ralph Evers and Sir Brian Latoun desolated the Scottish frontier as far north as Melrose, defacing the Douglas tombs in the abbey. On returning with their booty towards Jedburgh, they were overtaken at Ancrum Moor, and severely beaten by a Scottish force led by the Earl of Angus and Scott of Buccleuch. In this battle, according to tradition, fought Maiden Lilliard, a brave Scotswoman from Maxton, who fell beneath many wounds and was buried on the spot. Her grave, in the midst of a thick fir-wood, carries the somewhat doggerel epitaph: "Fair Maiden Lilliard Lies under this stane; Little was her stature, But muckle was her fame Upon the English loons She laid monie thumps, An' when her legs were cuttit off, She fought upon her stumps."[C] [C] An attempt has been made to discredit this story by an appeal to the antiquity of the place-name, which is admittedly much earlier than Lilliard's day. This, however, does not dispose of the tradition. The likelihood is that originally the first line was really "the Fair Maid _of_ Lilliard." The monument has been frequently restored. Lady John Scott made the last repairing touches, adding the words: "To A' TRUE SCOTSMEN. By me it's been mendit, To your care I commend it." PLATE 20 HOLLOWS TOWER (SOMETIMES CALLED GILNOCKIE TOWER) FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 72 and 96_) [Illustration] The Jed, joining the Teviot close to Jedfoot Station, reminds us that the county town of Roxburgh--Jedburgh--is within easy access, and the fascinating valley of the Jed which Burns so vigorously extolled. The Jed takes its rise between Needslaw and Carlintooth on the Liddesdale Border. Its general course is east and north, and its length about seventeen miles. The places of chief interest on its banks are Southdean, where the Scottish chiefs assembled previous to Otterburn, and where the poet Thomson spent his boyhood; Old Jedworth, the original township, a few grassy mounds marking the spot; Ferniherst Castle, a Ker stronghold; Lintalee, the site of a Douglas camp described in Barbour's "Bruce;" the Capon Tree, a thousand years old, one of the last survivors of "Jedworth's forest wild and free;" and the Hundalee hiding caves. The charm of Jedburgh consists in its old-world character and its semi-Continental touches. Its fine situation early attracted the notice of the Scottish Kings, though Bishop Ecfred of Lindisfarne is believed to have been its true founder. He could not have chosen a more sweet or appropriate nook for his little settlement. Nestling in the quiet valley, and creeping up the ridge of the Dunion, the song of the river ever in its ears, freshened by the scent of garden and orchard, and surrounded by finely-wooded heights, Nature has been lavish in filling with new adornments, as years sped by, a spot always bright and fair. "O softly Jed! thy sylvan current lead Round every hazel copse and smiling mead, Where lines of firs the glowing landscape screen, And crown the heights with tufts of deeper green." The modern beauty of the place notwithstanding, Jedburgh's history has been a singularly troubled one. As a frontier town and the first place of importance north of the Cheviots, it was naturally a scene of strife and bloodshed. Around it lay the famous Jed Forest, rivalling that of Ettrick. The inhabitants were brave warriors, and noted for the skill with which they wielded the Jeddart staff or Jedwood axe. Their presence at the Reidswire decided that skirmish in favour of the Scottish Borderers: "Then rose the slogan wi' ane shout, Fye, Tynedale, to it! Jeddart's here." And at Flodden the men from the glens of the Jed were conspicuous for their heroism. Jedburgh Abbey is the chief "lion" of the locality. Completer than Kelso and Dryburgh, and simpler and more harmonious than Melrose, it stands in the most delightful of situations, girt about with well-kept gardens, overlooking the bosky banks of the Jed--a veritable poem in Nature and Art. Queen Mary's House (restored) the scene of her all but mortal illness in 1566 is still existing, and well worth a visit. The literary associations of the burgh are more than local. James Thomson was a pupil at its Grammar School. Burns was made a burgess during his Border tour in 1787. Scott made his first appearance as a criminal counsel at Jedburgh, pleading successfully for his poacher client. The Wordsworths visited Jedburgh in 1803. Sir David Brewster and Mary Somerville were natives, and here the "Scottish Probationer" lived and died. Samuel Rutherford was born at Crailing, the next parish, where also David Calderwood, the Kirk historian, was minister. Cessford Castle, in Eckford parish, was the residence of the redoubtable "Habbie Ker," ancestor of the Dukes of Roxburghe. Marlefield, "where Kale wimples clear 'neath the white-blossomed slaes," is a supposed scene (erroneous) of the "Gentle Shepherd." Yetholm, on the Bowmont, near the Great Cheviot, has been the headquarters of Scottish gypsydom since the 17th century. Opposite Floors Castle, at the confluence of the Tweed and Teviot is the green tree-clad mound with a few crumbling walls, all that remains of the illustrious Castle of Roxburgh, one of the strongest on the Borders, the birthplace and abode of kings, and parliaments, and mints, and so often a bone of bitter contention between Scots and English. The town itself, the most important on the Middle Marches, has entirely disappeared, its site and environs forming now some of the most fertile fields in the county: "Roxburgh! how fallen, since first, in Gothic pride, Thy frowning battlements the war defied, Called the bold chief to grace thy blazoned halls, And bade the rivers gird thy solid walls! Fallen are thy towers; and where the palace stood, In gloomy grandeur waves yon hanging wood. Crushed are thy halls, save where the peasant sees One moss-clad ruin rise between the trees; The still green trees, whose mournful branches wave In solemn cadence o'er the hapless grave. Proud castle! fancy still beholds thee stand, The curb, the guardian, of this Border land; As when the signal flame that blazed afar, And bloody flag, proclaimed impending war, While in the lion's place the leopard frowned, And marshalled armies hemmed thy bulwarks round." PLATE 21 GOLDILANDS NEAR HAWICK FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 98, 99_) [Illustration] V. IN THE BALLAD COUNTRY To a shepherd in Canada Dr. Norman Macleod is said to have remarked, "What a glorious country this is!" "Ay," said the man, "it is a very good country." "And such majestic rivers!" "Oh, ay," was all the reply. "And such good forests!" "Ay, but there are nae linties in the woods, and nae braes like Yarrow!" Of course, the answer was from a purely exile point of view, but even to those of the Old Country the name of Yarrow wields the most wondrous fascination. Like Tweed, Yarrow is known everywhere, for who has not heard of its "Dowie Dens," or of its lovers' tragedies? Certainly no stream has been more besung. The name is redolent of all that is most pathetic in Border poetry. This is the centre of the Border ballad country--the birthplace, or, at all events, the nursing-ground of a romance than which there is none richer or more extensive on either side of the Border. The Yarrow is the Scottish Rhine-land on a small scale, even more so than the Tweed. Tweedside, indeed, has not a tithe of Yarrow's ballad wealth, and the Tweed ballads and folk-lore are absolutely different in respect both of subject-matter and of manner. The curious feature about Yarrow is the wonderful sameness which characterises the whole of its minstrelsy. For hundreds of years that has been so. Sadness is the uppermost note that is sounded. All through we are face to face with a feeling of dejection as remarkable as it is common. One could have understood a stray effusion or so couched in this strain, but for an entire minstrelsy to breathe such a spirit is extraordinary. Why should Yarrow be the personification, as it were, of a grief and a melancholy that nothing seems able to assuage? Is there anything in the scenery to account for it--anything in the physical conditions of the glen itself that solves the secret? There is, and there isn't. To a mere outsider--a mere summer tripper hurrying through--Yarrow is little different from others of the southland valleys. Its main features are identical with those of the Ettrick, and the Tweed uplands, or with the Ewes and the Teviot. All of them exhibit the same pastoral stillness. The same play of light and shade are on their hills. The same soothing spirit broods over them. But of Yarrow alone it is the element of sadness that prevails. To understand this, one has to _live_ in Yarrow--to come under the influence of its environment. And whether it be fancy or not, whether it be the result of one's reading, and of one's pre-conceived notions of the place, the Yarrow landscape does lend itself to the realisation of that feeling which the ballads so well portray. The configuration of the glen as seen especially from a little above Yarrow Manse--the "Dowie Dens" of popular tradition--together with its climatic conditions, may very easily interpret for us the spirit of those old singers. Here, if anywhere in the valley, the answer to the Yarrow enigma will be found. Professor Veitch thinks that the whole district affords such an answer: "Nor will anyone," he says, "who is familiar with the Vale of Yarrow have had much difficulty in understanding how it is suited to pathetic verse. The rough and broken, yet clear, beautiful, and wide-spreading stream has no grand cliffs to show; and it is not surrounded by high and overshadowing hills. Here and there it flows placidly, reflectively, in large liquid lapses, through an open valley of the deepest summer green; still, let us be thankful, in its upper reaches at least, mantled by nature and untouched by plough and harrow. There is a placid monotone about its bare treeless scenery--an unbroken pastoral stillness on the sloping braes and hillsides, as they rise, fall, and bend in a uniformly deep colouring. The silence of the place is forced upon the attention, deepened even by the occasional break in the flow of the stream, or by the bleating of the sheep that, white and motionless amid the pasture, dot the knowes. We are attracted by the silence, and we are also depressed. There is the pleasure of hushed enjoyment. The spirit of the scene is in those immortal lines:-- "Meek loveliness is round thee spread A softness still and holy; The grace of Forest charms decayed And pastoral melancholy." Those deep green grassy knowes of the valley are peculiarly susceptible of change. In the morning with a blue sky, or with breaks of sunlight through the fleeting clouds, the green hillsides and the stream smile and gleam in sympathy with the cheerfulness of heaven. But under a grey sky, or at the gloaming, the Yarrow wears a peculiarly wan aspect--a look of sadness. And no valley I know is more susceptible of sudden change. The spirit of the air can speedily weave out of the mists that gather upon the massive hills at the heads of the Megget and the Talla, a wide-spreading web of greyish cloud--the 'skaum' of the sky--that casts a gloom over the under green of the hills; and dims the face of loch and stream in a pensive shadow. The saddened heart would readily find there fit analogue and nourishment for its sorrow. Which is all very true. But, as has been said, Tweed and Teviot show exactly these conditions, and what of their minstrelsy remains is not touched with this strangely morose sense. May not the solution lie in the very legend of the "Dowie Dens" itself, and in the remarkable cup-like configuration of the valley as seen from the point already indicated and under the wan aspects which are admittedly a distinctive feature of the Yarrow at all seasons of the year? Out of this have emerged very probably the spirit of the balladists and their ballads. One after another have simply followed suit, and the likelihood is that had gladness and not gloom been the burden of some far back strain, we should not have had the Yarrow we possess to-day. Men of the most diverse temperaments have come under the sad spell of the Yarrow. The most lighthearted sons of song have succumbed to the general feeling. Wordsworth himself would have preferred to strike another note, but the enchantment of the spot held him fast: "O that some Minstrel's harp were near To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness!" All the verse writers of the last century were mere continuators of their fellow-bards centuries before. There are, to be sure, some flippant spirits who would dare to alter the very atmosphere of Yarrow, but what a poor attempt at the impossible! Yarrow must ever abide the embodiment of the most heart-piercing, and at the same time, the most winsome melody the world has listened to. Popularly speaking, the best of the Yarrow ballads concerns itself with the famous "Dowie Dens" tragedy, of which there seems to be some authentic reference in the Selkirk Presbytery Record for 1616. It is there narrated how Walter Scott of Tushielaw made "an informal and inordinate marriage with Grizell Scott of Thirlestane without consent of her father." Just three months later, the same Record contains entry of a summons to Simeon Scott, of Bonytoun, an adherent of Thirlestane, and three other Scotts "to compear at Melrose to hear themselves excommunicated for the horrible slaughter of Walter Scott." We have here probably the precise incident on which the unknown "makar" founded his crude but intensely picturesque and dramatic lay. How much of womanly winsomeness and heroism, of knightly dignity and daring, and the unconquerable strength of love are portrayed in the following stanzas! There are, indeed, few ballads in any language that match its strains: "She kiss'd his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, As oft she had done before, O; She belted him with his noble brand, And he's away to Yarrow. * * * * * "'If I see all, ye're nine to ane; And that's an unequal marrow; Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.' * * * * * "Four has he hurt, and five has slain; On the bloody braes of Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, And ran his body thorough. * * * * * "Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; I fear there will be sorrow! I dream'd I pu'd the heather green Wi' my true love on Yarrow. * * * * * "She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair; She search'd his wounds all thorough; She kiss'd them till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow." A fragment of rare beauty, believed to be based on the same incident (unlikely however) was one of Scott's special favourites. Rather does it shrine a similar tragedy, one of many such which must have been common enough in those troubled and lawless times. How melting is the pathos of the following verses, for instance! "Willie's rare and Willie's fair, And Willie's wondrous bonny, And Willie's hecht to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony. "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I'll make it narrow, For a' the livelong winter night, I'll lie twin'd of my marrow. She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne, in the cleaving of a craig She found him drown'd in Yarrow. Somewhat akin is the "Lament of the Border Widow," located at Henderland, in Meggetdale, not far from St. Mary's Loch. In the preface to this ballad in the "Minstrelsy," Scott states that it was "obtained from recitation in the Forest of Ettrick, and is said to relate to the execution of Cockburn of Henderland, a Border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by James V. in the course of that memorable expedition in 1529 which was fatal to Johnie Armstrong, Adam Scott of Tushielaw, and many other marauders." The grave of "Perys of Cockburne and hys wyfe Marjory" on a wooded knoll at Henderland, is still pointed out. But the historicity of the ballad has been questioned from the statement (which seems to be correct) that Cockburn was actually executed at Edinburgh, instead of at his own home. There is no evidence, however, to assume that the ballad commemorates this particular occurrence or that it has any connection with the grave referred to. For genuine balladic merit it will be difficult to match: My love he built me a bonny bower, And clad it a' wi' lilye flower, A brawer bower ye ne'er did see Than my true love he built for me. There came a man, by middle day He spied his sport, and went away, And brought the King that very night, Who brake my bower and slew my knight. He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear; My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. I sewed his sheet, making my mane; I watched the corpse myself alane; I watch'd his body night and day; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; O think na ye my heart was wae, When I turned about away to gae? Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain, Wi ae lock of his yellow hair, I'll chain my heart for evermair. PLATE 22 "HE PASS'D WHERE NEWARK'S STATELY TOWER LOOKS OUT FROM YARROW'S BIRCHEN BOWER" FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. (_See pp. 116_) [Illustration] One might speak, too, of the "Douglas Tragedy," the scene of which is laid in the Douglas Glen, in the heart of the quiet hills forming the watershed betwixt Tweed and Yarrow. Here lived the "Good Sir James"--Bruce's right-hand man, who strove to carry his heart to the Holy Land. It was from this Tower at Blackhouse that Margaret the Fair was carried off by her lover, and about a mile further up on the hillside the seven stones marking the spot where Lord William alighted and slew the Lady's seven brothers in full pursuit of the pair, are objects of curious interest. This ballad, it is interesting to note, is one widely diffused throughout Europe, being specially rich in Danish, Icelandic, Norse, and Swedish collections. Indeed, almost all the Yarrow ballads--and many others--are common to Continental _volks-lieder_, and are found in extraordinary profusion from Iceland to the Peloponesus. Here is evidence, by no means slight, of the theory that ballads originate from a common stock, and that in the course of ages they have simply become transplanted and localized. Then the Yarrow valley contains the scene of the "Song of the Outlaw Murray"--a distinctively Border production (74 verses in all) composed during the reign of James V. Murray divides with Johnie Armstrong the honour of being the Border Robin Hood, but to Murray a very different treatment was meted out. The Outlaw's lands at Hangingshaw and elsewhere were his own, though he held them minus a title. James fumed at this, and determined to bring the Forest chief to submission: "The King of Scotland sent me here, And, gude Outlaw, I am sent to thee; I wad wot of how ye hald your lands, O man, wha may thy master be?" "Thir lands are MINE! the Outlaw said: I ken nae King in Christendie; Frae England I this Forest won When the King and his knights were not to see." Upon which the King's Commissioner assures the Outlaw that it will be worse for him if he fails to give heed to the royal desire: "Gif ye refuse to do this He'll compass baith thy lands and thee; He hath vow'd to cast thy castle down And mak a widow of thy gay lady." But Murray is defiant, and James is equally resolved to crush him. Friends are pressed into the Outlaw's service, and very soon he has a goodly number of troopers all ready to render service in the hour of their kinsman's need, well knowing that in aiding him they would be doing the best thing for themselves, as "landless men they a' wad be" if the King got his own way in Ettrick Forest. But, like all good ballads, this, too, ends happily. A compromise is effected, by which the Outlaw obtains the post he had long coveted--Sheriff of the Forest: "He was made Sheriff of Ettrick Forest, Surely while upward grows the tree; And if he was na traitour to the King, Forfaulted he should never be. "Wha ever heard, in ony times, Siccan an Outlaw in his degree Sic favour get before a King As the Outlaw Murray of the Forest free?" Of right "Tamlany"--by far the finest of the Border fairy ballads--belongs more to Ettrick than to Yarrow. The scene is laid in Carterhaugh, at the confluence of the two streams, two miles above Selkirk. The ballad (24 stanzas) is too long to quote, but may be read in all good collections. For the same reason also we must pass over the "Battle of Philiphaugh," commemorating Leslie's victory over Montrose in 1645; and the "Gay Goss-Hawk," the dramatic ending of which is laid at St. Mary's Kirk, high upon the hillside overlooking the waters of the Loch. Nothing is left now save the site, and a half-deserted burying-ground where "Covenanter and Catholic, Scotts, and Kers and Pringles--all sorts and conditions of men--sleep their long sleep at peace together." Among the shrines of Yarrowdale, this is not the least notable. Like the grave of Keats outside the walls of Rome, as some one has said, "it would almost make one in love with death to be buried in so sweet a spot among the heather and brackens, and the sighing of the solitary mountain ash." St. Mary's Loch lies shimmering at our feet. Scott's "Marmion" picture is still wonderfully correct: "Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, By lone Saint Mary's silent lake; Thou know'st it well--nor fen, nor sedge Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view; Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, Save where, of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine, Yet even this nakedness has power, And aids the feeling of the hour." All this delightsome countryside is Hogg-land too, let us remember, as well as Scott-land. For here, in ballad-haunted Yarrow, the immortal James spent the best years of his life, failing so tantalizingly as farmer, but as poet, "King of the Mountain and Fairy school," dreaming so well of that most bewitching of all his conceptions--"Bonnie Kilmeny." Yonder, overlooking Tibbie Shiel's "cosy beild"--a howff of the Noctes coterie--stands the solitary white figure of the beloved Shepherd as Christopher North's prophetic soul felt that it must be some day. Hogg was born in the neighbouring Ettrick valley--in 1770 presumably. His birth-cottage is extinct now, but a handsome memorial marks the spot. Most of his life, as has been said, was passed in the sister vale, first at Blackhouse, then at Mount Benger, and at Altrive (now Eldinhope), where he died three years after his truest of friends--Sir Walter. The Ettrick homeland guards his dust. Close by is the resting-place of Thomas Boston, that earlier "Ettrick Shepherd" whose "Fourfold State" and "Crook in the Lot" are not yet forgotten. In the sequestered Yarrow churchyard sleeps Scott's maternal great-grandfather, John Rutherford, who was minister of the parish from 1691 to 1710. Scott spoke of Yarrow as the "shrine of his ancestors," and himself, like Hogg, and Willie Laidlaw, frequently worshipped within its old grey walls. Further down the stream, the "shattered front of Newark's towers" reminds us that here Scott placed the recital of the "Lay." He would fain have fitted up the ancient fabric as a residence, had it been possible. Almost opposite, the birthplace of Mungo Park, the first of the knight-errantry of Africa, attracts attention, and a mile or two nearer Selkirk, are Philiphaugh, and "sweet Bowhill," the two finest domains in the Forest. The Covenanters' Monument within Philiphaugh grounds is worthy of notice, and on the Ettrick side, Kirkhope and Oakwood, both in fairly good repair, are excellent specimens of the peel period. At Selkirk, the capital of Ettrickdale, Scott's statue as "the Shirra"--a most admirable representation--looks out at scenes upon which his eyes in life must often have feasted. Here we read the lines that express his heart's deep love for a district interwoven so closely with all the years of his working life: "By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek." PLATE 23 VIEW OF NEW ABBEY AND CRIFFEL FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. [Illustration] VI. THE LEADER VALLEY. To the present writer, the valley of the Leader, or Lauderdale, has attractions and memories that are second to none in the Border. "Here, first,"--to use Hogg's lines-- "He saw the rising morn, Here, first, his infant mind unfurled To ween the spot where he was born The very centre of the world." Lauderdale constitutes one of the "three parts" into which Berwickshire, like Ancient Gaul, is divided. The others are the Merse, (_i.e._, March-Land)--often a distinctive designation for the entire county, but applicable especially to the low-lying lands beside the Tweed; Lammermoor, so named from the Lammermoor Hills ranging across the county from Soutra Edge and Lammer Law in the extreme north-west, to the coastline at Fast Castle and St. Abbs. Lauderdale, the westernmost division, running due north and south, embraces simply the basin of the Leader and its tributaries so far as the basin is in Berwickshire. Its total length is not more than twenty-one miles, from Kelphope Burn, the real origin of the Leader, to Leaderfoot, about two miles below Melrose, where it meets the waters of the Tweed. Leaderdale and Lauderdale are but varieties of the name. A little off the beaten track, perhaps, it can be easily reached by rail to St. Boswells and Earlston, or to Lauder itself, from Fountainhall, on the Waverley Route, by the light railway recently opened. Its upper course among the Lammermoors is through bleak, monotonous hill scenery; but the middle and lower reaches pass into a fine series of landscapes--the "Leader Haughs" of many an olden strain--- flanked by graceful green hills and swells, and plains, that are hardly surpassed in Scotland for agricultural wealth and beauty. Of Berwickshire generally, it may be said that it has few industries and no mineral wealth to speak of. Its business is chiefly in one department--agriculture. For that the soil is particularly well adapted. Especially is this true of the Merse and Lauderdale districts, where the farmers take a high place in agricultural affairs, many of them being recognised experts and authorities on the subject. Thousands of acres on the once bald and featureless hill-lands of Lauderdale have been brought within the benign influence of plough and harrow, and are choice ornaments in a county famous for its agricultural triumphs all the world over. But Romance, rather than agriculture, is the true glory of the Leader Valley. It will be difficult to find a locality--Yarrow excepted--which is more under the spell of the past. May not Lauderdale, indeed, be claimed as the very birthplace of Scottish melody itself? Robert Chambers styled it "the Arcadia of Scotland," and was not Thomas of Ercildoune the "day-starre of Scottish poetry?" This, too, is the country of St. Cuthbert. At Channelkirk, he was probably born. At all events the first light of history falls upon him here, as a shepherd lad, watching his flocks by the Leader, and striving to think out the deep things of the divine life, with the most ardent longings in his soul after it. The traditional meadow, whence he beheld the vision which changed his career, is still pointed out, and his reputed birthplace at Cuddy Ha' keeps his memory green amongst those sweet refreshing solitudes. It is interesting to note Berwickshire's connection with the three most famous Borderers of history--St. Cuthbert, Thomas the Rhymer, and Walter Scott, of Merse extraction, whose dust Berwickshire holds as its most sacred trust. Lauder and Earlston are the only places of importance in the valley. The former--it is, by the way, the only royal burgh in the shire--boasts a considerable antiquity. It is still a quaint-looking but clean town, with long straggling street, and one or two buildings--the parish kirk and Tolbooth--offering decidedly Continental suggestions. Lauder's old-worldness and isolation are at an end, however. After much agitation, a railway-line now connects it with the rest of the world, and already the signs of a new life are apparent. Within a very few years the inevitable changes will be sure to have passed over this once quiet and exclusive little town. It is the "Maitland blude," which dominates Lauder, and Thirlestane Castle, built, or renovated rather, in the time of Charles II., is still a place to see. Amongst Scottish families, the Maitlands were first in place and power. Not a few of them were greatly distinguished as statesmen and men of letters--the blind poet and ballad-collector, Sir Richard; William Maitland, the celebrated Secretary Lethington; Chancellor Maitland, author of the satirical ballad, "Against Sklanderous Tongues;" Thomas, and Mary, Latin versifiers both; and the infamous "Cabal" Duke, the only bearer of the title. Within the well-kept policies of Thirlestane, tradition has located the site of the historic Lauder Bridge, so fatal to James III.'s favourites in 1482. Dr. John Wilson, of Bombay, Orientalist and scholar, was born at Lauder in 1804, and James Guthrie, the first Scottish martyr after the Reformation, was its minister for a short period. Earlston is seven miles down stream from Lauder. Before reaching the town of the Rhymer some spots of interest call for notice. At St. Leonard's--a little way out--a hospital off-shoot of Dryburgh, lived Burne the Violer, the last of the minstrel fraternity, a supposed prototype of the Minstrel of the "Lay," and author of the fine pastoral poem, "Leader Haughs and Yarrow," the verse-model for Wordsworth's "Three Yarrows." One verse was a great favourite with Scott and Carlyle, both of whom were known to repeat it frequently:-- "But Minstrel Burne can not assuage His grief, while life endureth, To see the changes of this age, Which fleeting time procureth; For mony a place stands in hard case, Where blythe folk ken'd nae sorrow, With Humes that dwelt on Leader-side, And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow." Blainslie, famous for its oats ("There's corn enough in the Blainslies"), and Whitslaid Tower, a long ago holding of the Lauder family, are passed a mile or two on. At Birkhill and Birkenside the road forks leftwards to Legerwood, where Grizel Cochrane of Ochiltree (afterwards Mrs. Ker of Morriston), heroine of the stirring mail-bag adventure narrated in the "Border Tales," sleeps in its lately restored kirk chancel. Chapel, and Carolside with a fine deer park, and most charming of country residences--at the latter of which Kinglake wrote part of his "Crimean War"--sit snugly to the right, in the bosky glen below. PLATE 24 CRIFFEL AND LOCH KINDAR FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. [Illustration] Earlston, the Ercildoune of olden time--name much better suited to the quiet beauty of its charming situation--has no unimportant place both in Scottish history and romance. It has been honoured by many royal visits. Here David the Sair Sanct subscribed the Foundation Charter of Melrose Abbey in 1136, and his son the Confirmatory Charter in 1143. Other royal visitors followed; there James IV. encamped for a night on his way from Edinburgh to Flodden; Queen Mary made a brief stay at Cowdenknowes as she passed from Craigmillar to Jedburgh; and lastly came Prince Charlie (unwelcome) on his march to Berwick-on-Tweed. But above all it is renowned as having been the residence (and birthplace probably) of Thomas the Rhymer, or True Thomas, or simply, as literary history prefers to call him, Thomas of Ercildoune. The Rhymer's Tower, associated with this remarkable personage, stands close to the Leader. Only a mere ivy-clad fragment remains (some 30 feet in height), but the memories of the place stretch back to more than six centuries, when Thomas was at the height of his fame as his country's great soothsayer and bard--the _vates sacer_ of the people. His rhymes are still quoted, and many of them have been realised in a manner which Thomas himself could scarcely have anticipated. Scott makes him the author of the metrical romance "Sir Tristrem," published from the Auchinleck _MS._ in 1804, but the Rhymer is unlikely to have been the original compiler. With his Fairyland adventures and return to that mysterious region, everybody is familiar. A quaint stone in the church wall carries the inscription: Auld Rymr's Race Lyes in this place, and the probability is that Thomas sleeps somewhere amidst its dark dust, unless, indeed, he be still spell-bound in some as yet undiscovered cavern underneath the Eildons, waiting with Arthur, and Merlin, the blast of that irresistible horn which is to "peal their proud march from Fairyland." Mellerstain in Earlston Parish, is the burial-place of Grisell Baillie, the Polwarth heroine and songstress, and author of the plaintive "Werena My Heart Licht I wad Dee." Cowdenknowes, "where Homes had ance commanding," one of the really classical names in Border minstrelsy is the scene of that sweetest of love lyrics, the "Broom o' the Cowdenknowes":-- "How blithe, ilk morn, was I to see My swain come o'er the hill! He skipt the burn and flew to me: I met him with good-will." Sandyknowe, Scott's cradling-ground in romance, and Bemersyde, one of the oldest inhabited houses in the Tweed Valley (partly peel), still evidencing the Rhymer's couplet:-- "Tyde what may betyde, Haig shall be Haig of Bemersyde,--" are both in the near neighbourhood. A charming bit of country road lies between Earlston and Dryburgh, passing Redpath, the Park, Gladswood, and round by Bemersyde Hill, from which Scott had his favourite view of the Tweed--the "beautiful bend" shrining the site of the original Melrose, and the graceful Eildons--and by which his funeral procession wended its mournful way just seventy-four years ago. Half-way between Earlston and Melrose (by road 4-1/2 miles), and close to "Drygrange with the milk-white yowes, Twixt Tweed and Leader standing," the latter stream blends its waters with those of the Tweed, where the foliage is ever at its thickest and greenest; and looking up the glen towards Newstead and Melrose, another vision of rare beauty meets the eye. Framed in the tall piers of the railway viaduct (150 feet high)--not at all a disfigurement--the gracefully-bending Tweed, no more fair than here, with the smoke rising above the Abbeyed town, Eildon in the foreground, and the blue barrier of the hills beyond, make up a picture such as may come to us in dreams. VII. LIDDESDALE _From the Author's chapter in Cassell's "British Isles."_ (_By permission._) The Liddel rises in the Cheviot range, close to Jedhead, at an altitude of six hundred and fifty feet above sea level, and after a course of seven-and-twenty miles, with a fall of five hundred and forty-five feet, it joins the Esk at the Moat of Liddel, below Canonbie, near the famous Netherby Hall, twelve miles north of Carlisle and about eight from Langholm. It is fed by a score of affluents, of which the chief are the Hermitage and Kershope Waters, the latter constituting for nine miles or so the immediate boundary between the two countries. From its geographical position as cut off from the main division of the county, Liddesdale has little in common with the valleys of the Tweed and Teviot. A Liddesdaler, for instance, seldom crosses over to Tweedside, nor can a Tweedsider be said to have other than a comparatively slight acquaintanceship with his southern neighbour of the shire. Indeed, Liddesdale has been described as belonging in some respects more to England than to Scotland, and in a sense, it may be said to be the very centre of the Border Country itself. PLATE 25 CAERLAVEROCK CASTLE FROM A WATER-COLOUR SKETCH PAINTED BY JAMES ORROCK, R.I. [Illustration] If now-a-days one may roam through Liddesdale with some degree of comfort, it was a very different matter for Scott and Shortreed little more than a hundred years since. They knew scarcely anything of the district, which lay to them, as was said, "like some unkenned-of isle ayont New Holland." But Scott was bent on his Minstrelsy ballad-huntings. And it was the very inaccessibility of the Liddel glens which inspired him with the hope of treasure. For seven autumns in succession they "raided" Liddesdale, as Scott phrased it, and, as he anticipated, some of the finest specimens in the Minstrelsy were the outcome of these excursions. Evidence of the utter solitariness and roadlessness of the region is found in the fact that no wheeled vehicle had been seen in Liddesdale till the advent of Scott's gig about 1798. Nor was there a single inn or public-house to be met with in the whole valley. Lockhart describes how the travellers passed "from the shepherd's hut to the minister's manse, and again from the cheerful hospitality of the manse to the rough and jolly welcome of the homestead, gathering wherever they went songs and tunes and occasionally more tangible relics of antiquity." But a hundred years have wrought wondrous transformation on the wild wastes of the Liddel. The "impenetrable savage land" of Scott's day, trackless and bridgeless, is now singularly well opened up to civilisation and the modern tripper. The Waverley Route of the North British Railway passes down the valley within a few miles of its best-known landmarks. The Road Committees are careful as to their duty, and a well-developed series of coaching tours has proved exceedingly popular. From a miserable expanse of bleak moors and quaking moss-hags, the greater portion of lower Liddesdale, at least, has passed into a picturesque combination of moor and woodland with rich pastoral holms and fields in the highest state of cultivation. But the main glory of Liddesdale is the romance that hangs over it. There is probably no parish in Scotland--for be it remembered that Liddesdale is virtually one parish--which could show such an extraordinary number of peel-houses to its credit. Their ruins, or where these have disappeared, the sites are pointed out with surprising frequency. A distinctively Border district, this was to be expected, and the like is true of the English side also. A Liddesdale Keep, still in excellent preservation--"four-square to all the winds that blow"--and far and away the strongest and the most massive pile on the Border frontier is Hermitage, in the pretty vale of that name, within easy reach from Steele Road or Riccarton stations, three and four miles respectively. Built by the Comyns in the thirteenth century, it passed to the Soulises, the Angus Douglases, to "Bell-the-Cat" himself, the Hepburn Bothwells, and the "bold Buccleuch," whose successor still holds it. Legend may almost be said to be indigenous to the soil of Hermitage, and one wonders not that Scott found his happy hunting-ground here. The youngest child will tell us about that "Ogre" Soulis, who was so hated by his vassals for his awful oppression of them, that at last they boiled him alive--horrible vengeance--on the Nine-Stane Rig, a Druidic circle near by. In part confirmation of the tragedy it is asserted that the actual cauldron may still be seen at Dalkeith Palace. Scott was constantly quoting the verses from Leyden's ballad: "On a circle of stones they placed the pot, On a circle of stones but barely nine; They heated it red and fiery hot Till the burnish'd brass did glimmer and shine They rolled him up in a sheet of lead, A sheet of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, And melted him, lead, and bones, and all." The Nine-Stane Rig is the scene also of the fragmentary "Barthram's Dirge"--a clever Surtees forgery undetected by Scott. Leyden's second Hermitage ballad--two of the best in the "Minstrelsy"--deals with the Cout or Chief of Keeldar, in Northumberland, done to death by the "Ogre" in the Cout's Pool close to the Castle. In the little God's-acre at Hermitage the Cout's grave is pointed out (Keeldar also shows what purports to be the Cout's resting-place). Memories of Mary and Bothwell come to us, too, at Hermitage. Here the wounded Warden of the Marches was visited by the infatuated Queen, who rode over from Jedburgh to see him, returning the same day--a rough roundabout of fifty miles--which all but cost her life. Dalhousie's Dungeon, in the north-east tower, recalls the tragic end of one of the bravest and best men of his time--Sir Alexander Ramsay, of Dalhousie, who was starved to death at the instance of Liddesdale's Black Knight, here anything but the "Flower of Chivalry." One may wander all over the Hermitage and Liddel valleys without ever being free from the romance-feeling which haunts them. Relics of the Roman occupation are in abundance on every hillside-- "Many a cairn's grey pyramid, Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid." This was the homeland of the Elliots, "lions of Liddesdale," and the sturdy Armstrongs, of the crafty Nixons and Croziers--"thieves all": "Fierce as the wolf they rushed to seize their prey: The day was all their night, the night their day." It is to be regretted that so few of the dozens of clan-strengths which at one time studded the district are any longer in evidence. Hartsgarth, Roan, (so named from the French Rouen), Redheugh, Mangerton--"Kinmont Willie's" Keep--Syde--"He is weel kenned Jock o' the Syde," Copshaw Park--the abode of "little Jock Elliot"--Westburnflat--an "Old Mortality" name--Whithaugh, Clintwood, Hillhouse, Peel, and Thorlieshope, have mostly all disappeared since Scott's day. A generation more utilitarian in its tastes has arisen, and the stones taken to set up dykes and fill drains. Near the junction of the Liddel and Hermitage stood the strongly posted Castle of the "Lords of Lydal," and the important township of Castleton--not unlike the Roxburghs between Tweed and Teviot; and, like them also, both have long since passed from the things that are. Only the worn pedestal of its "mercat-cross" and a lone kirkyard have been left to tell the tale. Two miles farther down is the village of Newcastleton, formerly Copshawholm, planned by the "good Duke Henry" in 1793, a rising summer resort with a population of about a thousand. We cannot quit Liddesdale without recalling that this is "Dandie Dinmont's" Country. In writing "Guy Mannering" Scott drew largely from his earlier experiences amongst the honest-souled store-farmers and poetry-loving peasants of Liddelside. At Millburn, on the Hermitage, he enjoyed the hospitality of kindly Willie Elliot, who stood for the "great original" of "Dandie Dinmont." THE END. PRINTED AND BOUND BY PERCY LUND, HUMPHRIES AND CO., LTD., THE COUNTRY PRESS, BRADFORD; AND 3, AMEN CORNER, LONDON, E.C. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. The missing Plate number for Plate 11 has been re-instated. 
13271	----	RIDES ON RAILWAYS by Samuel Sidney. PREFACE. The following pages are an attempt to supply something amusing, instructive, and suggestive to travellers who, not caring particularly where they go, or how long they stay at any particular place, may wish to know something of the towns and districts through which they pass, on their way to Wales, the Lakes of Cumberland, or the Highlands of Scotland; or to those who, having a brief vacation, may wish to employ it among pleasant rural scenes, and in investigating the manufactures, the mines, and other sources of the commerce and influence of this small island and great country. In performing this task, I have relied partly on personal observation, partly on notes and the memory of former journeys; and where needful have used the historical information to be found in cyclopaedias, and local guide-books. This must account for, if it does not excuse, the unequal space devoted to districts with equal claims to attention. But it would take years, if not a lifetime, to render the manuscript of so discursive a work complete and correct. I feel that I have been guilty of many faults of commission and omission; but if the friends of those localities to which I have not done justice will take the trouble to forward to me any facts or figures of public general interest, they shall be carefully embodied in any future edition, should the book, as I hope it will, arrive at such an honour and profit. S. S. LONDON, AUGUST, 1851. CONTENTS. LONDON AND NORTH WESTERN RAILWAY EUSTON STATION THE MIXED TRAIN CAMDEN STATION AYLESBURY WOBURN AND BEDFORD THE BUCKS RAILWAY BANBURY OXFORD WOLVERTON STATION BLISWORTH, NORTHAMPTON WEEDON RUGBY AND ITS RAILWAYS ARNOLD AND HIS SCHOOL COVENTRY TO BIRMINGHAM BIRMINGHAM WARWICK, LEAMINGTON, KENILWORTH, STRATFORD-ON-AVON SOHO THE BLACK COUNTRY (WALSALL, DUDLEY, WEDNESBURY, DARLASTON) STAFFORD LIVERPOOL MANCHESTER THE ROAD TO YORKSHIRE YORKSHIRE LEEDS THROUGH LINCOLNSHIRE TO SHEFFIELD SHEFFIELD DERBYSHIRE FROM CHESTER TO NORTH STAFFORDSHIRE THE LAKES HOME LIST OF ENGRAVINGS. EUSTON SQUARE, LONDON HARROW-ON-THE-HILL VIADUCT OVER THE RIVER COLNE, NEAR WATFORD LOOKING FROM THE HILL ABOVE BOXMOOR STATION TOWARDS BERKHAMSTED BERKHAMSTED STATION LEIGHTON BUZZARD DENBIGH HALL BRIDGE THE WOLVERTON VIADUCT BRIDGE IN THE BLISWORTH EMBANKMENT VIEW FROM TOP OF KILSBY TUNNEL, LOOKING TOWARDS RUGBY COVENTRY THE SHERBORNE VIADUCT, NEAR COVENTRY THE AVON VIADUCT THE ASTON VIADUCT ASTON HALL NEWTON ROAD STATION, NEAR BIRMINGHAM THE RAILWAY NEAR PENKRIDGE STAFFORD VIEW NEAR WHITMORE VALE-ROYAL VIADUCT EXCAVATION AT HARTFORD VIADUCT OVER THE MERSEY AND MERSEY AND IRWELL CANAL, KINGSTON THE DUTTON VIADUCT THE WARRINGTON VIADUCT LONDON AND NORTH WESTERN RAILWAY. According to Mr. Punch, one of the greatest authorities of the day on all such subjects, the nearest way to Euston Station is to take a cab; but those who are not in a hurry may take advantage of the omnibuses that start from Gracechurch Street and Charing Cross, traversing the principal thoroughfares and calling at the George and Blue Boar, Holborn, the Green Man and Still, Oxford Street, and the Booking Offices in Regent Circus. Euston, including its dependency, Camden Station, is the greatest railway port in England, or indeed in the world. It is the principal gate through which flows and reflows the traffic of a line which has cost more than twenty-two millions sterling; which annually earns more than two millions and a-half for the conveyance of passengers, and merchandise, and live stock; and which directly employs more than ten thousand servants, beside the tens of thousands to whom, in mills or mines, in ironworks, in steam-boats and coasters, it gives indirect employment. What London is to the world, Euston is to Great Britain: there is no part of the country to which railway communication has extended, with the exception of the Dover and Southampton lines, which may not be reached by railway conveyance from Euston station. The Buckinghamshire lines from Bletchley open the way through Oxford to all the Western counties, only interrupted by the break of gauge. The Northampton and Peterborough, from Blisworth, proceeds to the Eastern coast of Norfolk and Lincoln. At Rugby commences one of several roads to the North, either by Leicester, Nottingham, and Lincoln, or by Derby and Sheffield; and at Rugby, too, we may either proceed to Stafford by the direct route of the Trent Valley, a line which is rendered classical by the memory of Sir Robert Peel, who turned its first sod with a silver spade and honoured its opening by a celebrated speech; or we may select the old original line through Coventry, Birmingham, and Wolverhampton, passing through a network of little railways leading to Warwick and Leamington, the result of unprofitable competition. A continuation of the Trent Valley line intersects the Pottery district, where the cheapest Delft and the most exquisite specimens of China ware are produced with equal success; and thus we reach Liverpool and Manchester by the straightest possible line. At Stafford we can turn off to Shrewsbury and Chester, or again following the original route arrive at Crewe, the great workshop and railway town of the London and North Western. Crewe affords an ample choice of routes--1st, to Leeds by Stockport (with a branch to Macclesfield) and Huddersfield, or from Leeds to York, or to Harrogate, and so on by the East Coast line through Durham, Newcastle, and Berwick, to Edinburgh; 2dly, direct to Manchester; 3rdly, to Warrington, Newton, Wigan, and the North, through the salt mining country; and, 4thly, to Chester. At Chester we may either push on to Ireland by way of the Holyhead Railway, crossing the famous Britannia Tubular Bridge, or to Birkenhead, the future rival of Liverpool. At Liverpool steamers for America warranted to reach New York in ten days are at our command; or, leaving commerce, cotton, and wool, we may ride through Proud Preston and Lancaster to Kendal and Windermere and the Lake district; or, pressing forward through "Merry Carlisle," reach Gretna at a pace that defies the competition of fathers and guardians, and enter Scotland on the direct road to Glasgow, and, if necessary, ride on to Aberdeen and Perth. A short line from Camden Station opens a communication with the East and West India Docks and the coast of Essex, and another, three miles and a half in length, from Willesden Station, will shortly form a connexion with the South Western, and thereby with all the South and Western lines from Dover to Southampton. The railway system, of which the lines above enumerated form so large a part, is barely twenty-five years old: in that space of time we have not only supplied the home market but taught Europe and America to follow our example; even Egypt and India will soon have their railways, and we now look with no more surprise on the passage of a locomotive with a few hundred passengers or tons of goods than on a wheelbarrow or Patent Hansom Cab. Grouse from Aberdeen, fat cattle from Norfolk, piece goods from Manchester, hardwares from Sheffield, race horses from Newmarket, coals from Leicestershire, and schoolboys from Yorkshire, are despatched and received, for the distance of a few hundred miles, with the most perfect regularity, as a matter of course. We take a ticket to dine with a friend in Chester or Liverpool, or to meet the hounds near Bletchley or Rugby, as calmly as we engage a cab to go a mile; we consider twenty miles an hour disgustingly slow, and grumble awfully at a delay of five minutes in a journey of a hundred miles. Millions have been spent in order to save an hour and a half between London and Liverpool; yet there are plenty of men not much past thirty who remember when all respectable plain practical common sense men looked upon the project for a railway between London and Birmingham as something very wild if not very wicked; and who remember too, that in winter the journey from London to Liverpool often occupied them twenty-two hours, costing 4 pounds inside and 2 pounds out, besides having to walk up the steepest hills in Derbyshire,--the same journey which is now completed in six hours at a cost of 2 pounds 5s., and in twelve hours for 16s. 9d., by the Parliamentary train in an enclosed carriage. It may be perhaps a useful wholesome lesson to those who are in the habit of accepting as their just due--without thought, without thankfulness--the last best results of the industry and ingenuity of centuries, if, before entering the massive portals of Euston Station, we dig up a few passages of the early history of railways from dusty Blue Books and forgotten pamphlets. In 1826, the project of a railway from Liverpool to Manchester came before a Committee of the House of Commons, and, after a long investigation, the principle was approved, but the bill thrown out in consequence of defects in the survey. The promoters rested their case entirely on a goods' traffic, to be conveyed at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. The engineer was George Stephenson, the father of the railway system, a man of genius, who, although he clearly foresaw the ultimate results of his project, had neither temper nor tact enough to conciliate the ignorant obstinacy of his opponents; in fact, he was a very bad witness and a very great man. It is curious, in reading the evidence, to observe the little confidence the counsel for the bill had in their engineer, and the contempt with which the counsel for the opposition treated him. The promoters of the railway expected few passengers, hoped to lower the rates of the canals, and had not made up their minds whether to employ locomotives or horses; George Stephenson looked forward confidently at that same period to conveying the greater portion of the goods and passenger traffic by a complete railway system; but he either would not or could not explain the grounds of his confidence, and therefore we find Mr. Harrison, the most eminent Parliamentary counsel of that day, speaking in the following insolent strain of a man whose genius he and his friends were unable to appreciate:-- "Every part of this scheme shows that this man (George Stephenson) has applied himself to a subject of which he has no knowledge, and to which he has no science to apply. . . . . When we set out with the original prospectus, we were to gallop at the rate of twelve miles an hour, with the aid of the devil in the form of a locomotive, sitting as postillion on the fore horse. But the speed of these locomotives has slackened. The learned Sergeant would like to go seven, but he will be content with six miles an hour. I will show that he cannot go six. Practically, or for any useful purposes, they may go at something more than four miles an hour. The wind will affect them: any gale of wind which would affect the traffic on the Mersey, would render it impossible to set off a locomotive engine, either by poking the fire, or keeping up the pressure of the steam until the boiler burst. A shower of rain retards a railway, and snow entirely stops it." In reply, Mr. Adams modestly observed, "I should like my learned friend to have pointed out any part of the publication in favour of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, which justified his statement that we professed that goods were to be carried at the rate of twelve miles an hour; we have proved that they can be carried at seven miles an hour, and it was never intended they should be conveyed at a higher rate." In the following year the Liverpool and Manchester Bill was carried, and in 1830 the career of the civilizing locomotive commenced, but it took many more years to convince "Practical men" that the Railway would successfully compete with the Coach and Canal. When, in 1831, the scheme of a Railway between London and Birmingham was made public, a very clever pamphlet appeared under the title of "Beware the Bubbles," in which we find the following comical prognostications of the results of Railways:-- "After all, what advantage does the London and Birmingham Railway hold out? Only one,--celerity of motion; and, after all, the ten miles an hour is absolutely slower than the coaches, some of which go as fast as eleven or twelve miles an hour; and, with the length of time that the engine and its cumbrous train requires ere it can stop, and the other contingencies, there would be little difference in the time of a twelve miles an hour coach and a fifteen miles an hour engine, supposing twenty or thirty stoppages, to pick up little parcels, between London and Birmingham. The conveyance is not so safe as by coach." After enumerating a series of theoretical dangers, he proceeds. "Another consideration, which would deter invalids, ladies, and children from making use of the Railway, would be want of accommodation along the line, unless the Directors of the Railway chose to build inns at their own expense. But those inns the Directors would have, in great part, to support, because they would be out of the way of any business except that arising from the Railway, and that would be trifling. Commercial travellers would never, by any chance, go by the Railroad. The occasional traveller, who went the same route for pleasure, would go by the coach-road also, because of the cheerful company and comfortable dinner. "Not one of the nobility, the gentry, or those who travel in their own carriages, would really like to be drawn at the tail of a train of waggons, in which some hundreds of bars of iron were jingling with a noise that would drown all the bells of the district, and in momentary apprehension of having his vehicle broken to pieces, and himself killed or crippled by the collision of those thirty-two ton masses. Even if a man had no carriage of his own, what inducement could he have to take so ungainly a conveyance. Three hours is more than the maximum difference by which the ordinary speed of coaches could be exceeded; and it is not one traveller in a thousand to whom an arrival in London and Birmingham three hours sooner would be of the slightest consequence. "Then as to goods. The only goods that require velocity in coming to London, are ribands from Coventry. Half the luggage room of a coach, on a Saturday night, is quite adequate to the conveyance of them. The manufacturers of Coventry will never be such fools as to send their property on an errand by which it must travel further and fare worse. For heavy goods, the saving by canal would be as twelve to one, beside the perfect safety. In the canal boat there is no danger of fracture, even to the most delicate goods; whereas, if fine China goods were to be brought by the rapid waggons, the breakage would probably be twenty-five per cent. "As to the profits of the undertaking let us be extravagantly liberal. Suppose that the Railway was to get one-third of the goods, as well as one- third of the passengers, see what they would make of it:-- One-third of the Goods . . . 96,540 pounds One-third of the Passengers . 30,240 -------- 126,780 pounds -------- Annual expenses . . . . . 385,000 pounds Returns. . . . . . . . 126,780 -------- Annual deficiency . . . . 258,220 pounds -------- To meet an outlay of 7,500,000 pounds. "But the probability is that canals would reduce their rates one-half; and thus, competing wholesomely, extinguish the railway. The coach-masters would do the same thing--run for twelve months at half the present fares, and then not one man in his senses would risk his bones on the railway. The innkeepers would follow a course precisely similar, and give nice smoking dinners, foaming tankards and bottles of beeswing at so cheap a rate, and meet their customers with so good humoured faces, and do so many of those kind offices that legions would flock to the hospitable road. And while all this was going on, and the thousands of men which the authors of this ridiculous scheme had expected to send upon the parish were thriving, the solitary stranger who had nobody to tell him better would go swinging at the tail of the engine, bumping first on the iron plates on this side and then on the iron plates on that side; and if he escaped being scalded to death by the bursting of his engine, or having all his bones broken by collision with another, he would be fain to rest for the night within some four bare walls and gnaw a mouldy crust which he brought in his pocket, or, as an alternative of luxury, wade some ten miles through the mire, and feast upon a rasher of rusty bacon and a tankard of the smallest ale at the nearest hedge alehouse." All this now sounds inexpressibly droll, and yet this prophet of evil was not entirely wrong; nay, in some important particulars he was more right than the railway promoters, whom he so heartily detested. The railway did cost nearly seven millions instead of four millions as calculated by the projectors, and the cost of working before the amalgamation with the Grand Junction did amount to 380,000 pounds per annum: two figure facts which would have effectually crushed speculation could they have been proved in 1831; but then the per contra of traffic was equally astounding in its overflow, instead of one-third of the existing traffic, or 126,780 pounds a-year allowed by the pamphleteer, the London and Birmingham earned a gross revenue of nearly 900,000 pounds, while still leaving a traffic in heavy goods on the canals sufficient to pay from 6 to 30 pounds per cent. to the proprietors, in spite of a reduction of rates of upwards of 50 pounds per cent. Indeed this traffic actually increased on the Grand Junction Canal, since the opening of the Birmingham Railway, from 750,000 pounds in 1836, to 1,160,000 pounds in 1847. Perhaps on no point would the expectation of the most sanguine among the early projectors of railways been more satisfactorily exceeded than in regard to safety. Swiftness, and cheapness, and power, acute intelligent engineers foresaw; but that millions of passengers should be whirled along at a speed varying from twenty to fifty miles an hour with more safety than they could have secured by walking a-foot, would have seemed an anticipation of the very wildest character. Yet such is the case. In 1850, upwards of seventy millions of souls were conveyed by railway; when eleven passengers were killed and fifty-four injured, or less than one to each million of passengers conveyed. Even at the risk of seeming trite, prosy, and common-place, it is right to remind the young generation who consider the purchase of a railway ticket gives them a right to grumble at a thousand imaginary defects and deficiencies in railway management, how great are the advantages in swiftness, economy, and safety, which they enjoy through the genius, enterprise, and stubborn perseverance of George Stephenson and his friends and pupils in 1825. EUSTON STATION. This station was an after-thought, the result of early experience in railway traffic. Originally the line was to have ended at Camden Town, but a favourable opportunity led to the purchase of fifteen acres, which has turned out most convenient for the public and the proprietors. It is only to be regretted that it was not possible to bring the station within a few yards of the New Road, so as to render the stream of omnibuses between Paddington and the City available, without compelling the passenger to perspire under his carpet-bag, railway-wrapper, umbrella, and hat-box, all the way from the platform to the edge of Euston Square. The great gateway or propylaeum is very imposing, and rather out of place; but that is not the architect's fault. It cost thirty thousand pounds, and had he been permitted to carry out his original design, no doubt it would have introduced us to some classic fane in character with the lofty Titanic columns: for instance, a temple to Mercury the winged messenger and god of Mammon. But, as is very common in this country,--for familiar examples see the London University, the National Gallery, and the Nelson Column,--the spirit of the proprietors evaporated with the outworks; and the gateway leads to a square court-yard and a building the exterior of which may be described, in the language of guide books when referring to something which cannot be praised, as "a plain, unpretending, stucco structure," with a convenient wooden shed in front, barely to save passengers from getting wet in rainy weather. [EUSTON SQUARE, LONDON: ill1.jpg] As Melrose should be seen by the fair moonlight, so Euston, to be viewed to advantage, should be visited by the gray light of a summer or spring morning, about a quarter to six o'clock, three-quarters of an hour before the starting of the parliamentary train, which every railway, under a wise legislative enactment, is compelled to run "once a-day from each extremity, with covered carriages, stopping at every station, travelling at a rate of not less than fifteen miles an hour, at a charge of one-penny per mile." We say wise, because the competition of the Railway for goods, as well as passengers, drove off the road not only all the coaches, on which, when light-loaded, foot-sore travellers got an occasional lift, but all the variety of vans and broad-wheeled waggons which afforded a slow but cheap conveyance between our principal towns. At the hour mentioned, the Railway passenger-yard is vacant, silent, and as spotlessly clean as a Dutchman's kitchen; nothing is to be seen but a tall soldier-like policeman in green, on watch under the wooden shed, and a few sparrows industriously yet vainly trying to get breakfast from between the closely packed paving-stones. How different from the fat debauched-looking sparrows who throve upon the dirt and waste of the old coach yards! It is so still, so open; the tall columns of the portico entrance look down on you so grimly; the front of the booking-offices, in their garment of clean stucco, look so primly respectable that you cannot help feeling ashamed of yourself,--feeling as uncomfortable as when you have called too early on an economically genteel couple, and been shown into a handsome drawing-room, on a frosty day, without a fire. You cannot think of entering into a gossip with the Railway guardian, for you remember that "sentinels on duty are not allowed to talk," except to nursery maids. Presently, hurrying on foot, a few passengers arrive; a servant-maid carrying a big box, with the assistance of a little girl; a neat punctual-looking man, probably a banker's clerk on furlough; and a couple of young fellows in shaggy coats, smoking, who seem, by their red eyes and dirty hands, to have made sure of being up early by not going to bed. A rattle announces the first omnibus, with a pile of luggage outside and five inside passengers, two commercial travellers, two who may be curates or schoolmasters, and a brown man with a large sea-chest. At the quarter, the scene thickens; there are few Hansoms, but some night cabs, a vast number of carts of all kinds, from the costermonger's donkey to the dashing butcher's Whitechapel. There is very little medium in parliamentary passengers about luggage, either they have a cart-load or none at all. Children are very plentiful, and the mothers are accompanied with large escorts of female relations, who keep kissing and stuffing the children with real Gibraltar rock and gingerbread to the last moment. Every now and then a well-dressed man hurries past into the booking-office and takes his ticket with a sheepish air as if he was pawning his watch. Sailors arrive with their chests and hammocks. The other day we had the pleasure of meeting a travelling tinker with the instruments of his craft neatly packed; two gentlemen, whose closely cropped hair and pale plump complexion betokened a recent residence in some gaol or philanthropic institution; an economical baronet, of large fortune; a prize fighter, going down to arrange a little affair which was to come off the next day; a half- pay officer, with a genteel wife and twelve children, on his way to a cheap county in the north; a party of seven Irish, father, mother, and five grown- up sons and daughters, on their way to America, after a successful residence in London; a tall young woman and a little man, from Stamford, who had been up to London to buy stone bottles, and carried them back rattling in a box; a handsome dragoon, with a very pretty girl,--her eyes full of tears,--on his arm, to see him off; another female was waiting at the door for the same purpose, when the dragoon bolted, and took refuge in the interior of the station. In a word, a parliamentary train collects,--besides mechanics in search of work, sailors going to join a ship, and soldiers on furlough,--all whose necessities or tastes lead them to travel economically, among which last class are to be found a good many Quakers. It is pleasing to observe the attention the poor women, with large families and piles of packages, receive from the officers of the company, a great contrast to the neglect which meets the poorly clad in stage-coach travelling, as may still be seen in those districts where the rail has not yet made way. We cannot say that we exactly admire the taste of the three baronets whom a railway superintendent found in one third-class carriage, but we must own that to those to whom economy is really an object, there is much worse travelling than by the Parliamentary. Having on one occasion gone down by first-class, with an Oxford man who had just taken his M.A., an ensign of infantry in his first uniform, a clerk in Somerset House, and a Manchester man who had been visiting a Whig Lord,--and returned third-class, with a tinker, a sailor just returned from Africa, a bird-catcher with his load, and a gentleman in velveteens, rather greasy, who seemed, probably on a private mission, to have visited the misdemeanour wards of all the prisons in England and Scotland; we preferred the return trip, that is to say, vulgar and amusing to dull and genteel. Among other pieces of information gleaned on this occasion, we learned that "for a cove as didn't mine a jolly lot of readin and writin, Readin was prime in winter; plenty of good vittles, and the cells warmed." It must be remarked that the character of the Parliamentary varies very much according to the station from which it starts. The London trains being the worst, having a large proportion of what are vulgarly called "swells out of luck." In a rural district the gathering of smock-frocks and rosy-faced lasses, the rumbling of carts, and the size, number, and shape of the trunks and parcels, afford a very agreeable and comical scene on a frosty, moonlight, winter's morning, about Christmas time, when visiting commences, or at Whitsuntide. No man who has a taste for studying the phases of life and character should fail to travel at least once by the Parliamentary. The large cheap load having rumbled off from the south side of the station, about nine o'clock preparations are commenced for the aristocratic Express, which, on this line, is composed of first-class carriages alone, in which, at half the price of the old mail coach fares, the principal stations on the line are reached at railway speed. To attend the departure of this train, there arrive not only the republican omnibi and cabs, from the damp night crawler to the rattling Hansom, but carriages, with coronets and mitres emblazoned, guarded by the tallest and most obsequious of footmen, and driven by the fattest and most lordly of coachmen; also the neatest of broughams, adorned internally with pale pink and blue butterfly bonnets; dashing dogcarts, with neat grooms behind, mustached guardsmen driving; and stately cabriolets prance in, under the guidance of fresh primrose-coloured gloves. But, although the passengers by the Express train are, in every respect, a contrast to those by the Parliamentary, the universal and levelling tendency of the railway system is not less plainly exhibited. The earl or duke, whose dignity formerly compelled him to post in a coupe and four, at a cost of some five or six shillings a mile, and an immense consumption of horse-flesh, wax-lights, and landladies' curtsies on the road, now takes his place unnoticed in a first-class carriage next to a gentleman who travels for a great claret and champagne house, and opposite another going down express to report a railway meeting at Birmingham for a morning paper. If you see a lady carefully and courteously escorted to a carriage marked "engaged," on a blackboard, it is probably not a countess but the wife of one of the principal officers of the company. A bishop in a greatcoat creates no sensation; but a tremendous rush of porters and superintendents towards one carriage, announces that a director or well-known engineer is about to take his seat. In fact, civility to all, gentle and simple, is the rule introduced by the English railway system; every porter with a number on his coat is, for the time, the passenger's servant. Special attention is bestowed on those who are personally known, and no one can grumble at that. Some people, who have never visited the continent, or only visited it for pleasure, travelling at their leisure, make comparisons with the railways of France and Germany, unfavourable to the English system. Our railways are dearer than the foreign, so is our government,--we make both ourselves; but compare the military system of the continental railways; the quarter of an hour for admission before the starting of the train, during which, if too early or too late, you are locked out; the weighing of every piece of baggage; the lordly commanding airs of all the officials if any relaxation of rules be required; the insouciance with which the few porters move about, leaving ladies and gentlemen to drag their own luggage;--compare all this with the rapid manner in which the loads of half-a-dozen cabs, driving up from some other railway at the last moment, are transferred to the departing Express; compare the speed, the universal civility, attention, and honesty, that distinguish our railway travelling, and you cannot fail to come to the conclusion that for a commercial people to whom time is of value, ours is the best article, and if we had not been a lawyer-ridden people we might also have had the cheapest article. Before starting the Express train, we must not fail to note one new class of passengers, recruited by the speed of railways, viz., the number of gentlemen in breeches, boots, and spurs, with their pinks just peeping from under their rough jackets, who, during the season, get down to Aylesbury, Bletchley, and even Wolverton, to hunt, and back home again to dinner. But the signal sounds. The express train moves off; two gentlemen at the last moment are, in vain, crying out for Punch and the Times, while an unheeded hammering at the closed door of the booking-office announces that somebody is too late. There is always some one too late. On this occasion it was a young gentleman in a pair of light top-boots, and a mamma and papa with half-a-dozen children and two nursery-maids in a slow capacious fly. We cannot bestow unqualified praise upon the station arrangements at Euston. Comfort has been sacrificed to magnificence. The platform arrangements for departing and arriving trains are good, simple, and comprehensive; but the waiting-rooms, refreshment stand, and other conveniences are as ill-contrived as possible; while a vast hall with magnificent roof and scagliola pillars, appears to have swallowed up all the money and all the light of the establishment. The first-class waiting-room is dull to a fearful degree, and furnished in the dowdiest style of economy. The second-class room is a dark cavern, with nothing better than a borrowed light. The refreshment counters are enclosed in a sort of circular glazed pew, open to all the drafts of a grand, cold, uncomfortable hall, into which few ladies will venture. A refreshment-room should be the ante-room to the waiting-room, and the two should be so arranged with reference to the booking-office and cloak-rooms, that strangers find their way without asking a dozen questions from busy porters and musing policemen. Euston Station reminds us of an architect's house, where a magnificent portico and hall leads to dungeon-like dining-room, and mean drawing-room. Why are our architects so inferior to our engineers? On the platform is the door of the telegraph office, which also has offices for receiving and transmitting messages at all the principal stations. THE MIXED TRAIN. The Mixed train on this line holds an intermediate rank between the Parliamentary and the Express, consisting as it does of first and second- class carriages, at lower fares than the one and higher than the other, stopping at fewer stations than the Parliamentary, and at more than the Express; but worth notice on the present occasion, because it is by these trains only that horses and carriages are allowed to be conveyed. Carriages require very careful packing on a truck. At the principal stations this may be very well left to the practised porters, but at road-side stations it is a point which should be looked to; for it has not unfrequently happened that the jogging, lateral motion of the railway has heated the axles of a carriage or truck, so that at the end of the journey the wheels have been found as fast as if they had been welded, and quite unfit to travel. Travelling in a carriage on a truck is by no means safe: some years since Lady Zetland and her maids were nearly burned to death, sparks from the engine having set fire to their luggage. The maid threw herself off the truck, and had an extraordinary escape. The arrangements of the boxes for carrying horses are now very complete, and when once a horse, not of a naturally nervous disposition, has been accustomed to travel by rail, it will often be found better to take him on to hunt at a distance than to send him overnight to a strange place with all the disadvantages of change of food, and temptations to neglect in the way of the groom. It is, however, a class of traffic to which few of the railway companies have paid much attention; yet, in our opinion, capable of great development under a system of moderate fares, and day tickets. The rates are not always stated in the time tables, but on the London and North Western a day ticket for a horse costs fourteen shillings for thirty miles. Besides horses, packs of hounds, and even red deer are occasionally sent by rail. But deer travel in their own private carriages. Hounds are generally accompanied by the huntsman, or whip, to keep them in order. And on the Great Western line a few years ago a huntsman was nearly stifled in this way. The van had been made too snug and close for travelling comfortably with twenty couple of warm fox-hounds. If there is the slightest doubt about a horse entering the van quietly, the best way is to blindfold him before he becomes suspicious. Among other pursuits, horse racing has been completely revolutionised by the rail. The posting race-horse van was a luxury in which only the wealthiest could indulge to a limited extent, but now the owner of a string of thoroughbreds, or a single plater, can train in the South or the North, and in four and twenty hours reach any leading course in the kingdom; carrying with him, if deemed needful, hay, straw, and water. As we move slowly off toward Camden Station, by the fourth of the eighteen passenger trains which daily depart from Euston, and emerging with light whirl along within sight of rows of capital houses, whose gardens descend to the edge of the cuttings, we are reminded that under the original act for taking up Euston, it was specially provided, at the instance of Lord Southampton, that no locomotive should be allowed to proceed further to the south than Camden Town, lest his building land should remain neglected garden land for ever. This promise was accepted with little reluctance by the company, because in 1833 it was popularly considered that the ascent to reach Camden Town could not be easily overcome by a heavily loaded locomotive. Consequently a pair of stationary engines were erected at Camden Town, and a pair of tall chimneys to carry off their smoke and steam. But the objections in taste, and difficulties in science, have vanished. On this line, as on all others, tenants are readily found for houses fringing a cutting; locomotives run up even such ascents as the Bromsgrove Lickey, between Worcester and Birmingham, with a load of 500 tons. So ten minutes have been saved in time, and much expense, by doing away with the rope traction system. The stationary engines have been sold, and are now doing duty in a flax mill in Russia, and the two tall columns, after slumbering for several years as monuments of prejudices and obstacles overcome, were swept away to make room for other improvements. It is, however, very odd, and not very creditable to human nature, that whenever a railway is planned, the proprietors are assailed by unreasonable demands for compensation, in cases where past experience has proved that the works will be an advantageous, and often an ornamental addition. In 1846 a Sheffield line was vehemently opposed by a Liverpool gentleman, on the ground that it would materially injure the prospect from a mansion, which had been the seat of his ancestors for centuries. The tale was well told, and seemed most pitiful; an impression was produced on the committee that the privacy of something like Hatfield, or Knebworth, was about to be infringed on by the "abominable railway." A stiff cross-examination brought out the reluctant fact, however, that this "house of my ancestors," this beautiful Elizabethan mansion had been for many years let as a Lunatic Asylum at 36 pound per annum. In another instance a railway director sold a pretty country seat, because the grounds were about to be intersected by a railway embankment; two years after the completion of the railway he wished to buy it back again, for he found that his successor, by turfing and planting the slope, had very much increased the original beauty of the gardens. CAMDEN STATION. But thus gossiping, we have reached Camden Station, and must take advantage of an unusual halt to look into the arrangements for building waggons and trucks, and conveying coals, merchandise, goods, and all live stock included between pigs and bullocks. Not without difficulty did Mr. Robert Stephenson succeed in inducing the directors to purchase thirty acres of land here; it was only by urging, that, if unused, the surplus could be sold at a profit, that he carried out his views. Genius can foresee results which, to ordinary capacities, are dark and incomprehensible. Since 1845 it has been found necessary to take in an additional plot of three more acres, all now fully occupied. In no respect were the calculations of parties engaged in the construction of railways more at fault than with regard to the station accommodation needed for goods traffic, which, on the principal lines, has added full twenty-five per cent. to the original estimates. George Stephenson calculated the cost of getting over Chat Moss at 40,000 pounds; his opponent proved that it would cost four hundred thousand: but it was executed at exactly the sum Stephenson set down, while the capital involved in providing Station Room for merchandise at Liverpool and at Manchester, has probably exceeded the original estimate for the whole line. On this railway the increase of the goods traffic has been of very recent date. At a very early period after the opening of the line, the merchandise department became the monopoly of the great carriers, who found it answer their purpose to divide the profits afforded by the discount allowed to carriers by the railway company, without seeking to develop an increase of occupation. Under this system, while carriers grew rich, the goods traffic remained stationary. But when the amalgamation with the Grand Junction, which had always been its own carrier, took place, a great reduction in rates was made, as well as arrangements for encouraging the conveyance of every kind of saleable article. The company became a common carrier, but employing Messrs. Pickford, and Chaplin and Horne to collect goods. The result was a marvellous increase, which has been progressing ever since. A regular trade is now carried on between London and the most remote parts of the kingdom in every conceivable thing that will bear moving. Sheep have been sent from Perth to London, and Covent Garden has supplied tons of the finer description of vegetables to the citizens of Glasgow; every Saturday five tons of the best fish in season are despatched from Billingsgate to Birmingham, and milk is conveyed in padlocked tins, from and beyond Harrow, at the rate of about one penny per gallon. In articles which are imported into both Liverpool and London, there is a constant interchange, according to the state of the market; thus a penny per pound difference may bring a hundred chests of congou up, or send as many of hyson down the line. All graziers within a day of the rail are able to compete in the London market, the probability of any extraordinary demand increases the number of beasts arriving weekly at Camden Station from the average of 500 to 2000, and the sheep from 2000 to 6000; and these animals can be brought from the furthest grazing grounds in the kingdom without any loss of weight, and in much better condition than the fat oxen were formerly driven to Smithfield from the rich pastures round Aylesbury, or the Valley of the Thames. Camden station, under the alterations effected in 1848-9, has a double line, for goods waggons only, 2,500 feet in length, entirely clear of the main line. The length of single lines, exclusive of the main line, exceeds twelve miles. To describe it in detail would be a very unsatisfactory task; because, in the first place, it can ill be understood without a map, and in the next, changes are constantly taking place, and still greater changes will be forced on the company by the increase of goods traffic, which, great as it is, is only in its infancy. Even now freights are paid to the London and North Western for all the way to China. But, as an agricultural implement of commerce, the locomotive has been comparatively as little used as the stationary engine, although hundreds of trades of a semi-rural character are drawing toward the railway lines, and away from the country towns, which were formerly the centre of rural commerce, because standing on the highways or near canals. But such a revolution can only be effected slowly. At Camden will be found a large yard for the reception of the Midland Counties' coal, the introduction of which has had a considerable effect in bringing down the price of sea-borne coal. The cattle pens have lately been altered and enlarged. Just before Christmas this place is almost as amusing and exciting as a Spanish bull-fight; although, as a general rule, the silence of a place where, during every quarter of an hour, of day and night, so enormous a business is being carried on, is very surprising. Twenty-four steam waggon horses, or engines, for heavy loads are kept in a circular engine-house, or stable, 160 feet in diameter, with an iron roof. This form renders every engine accessible at a moment's notice. The steam race-horses for the passenger work are kept in an oblong building opposite the carters. The demand being more regular, there is no need for the expensive circular arrangement of stables for this class of engines. In a large boiler-house, boiling water and red-hot coke are kept ready night and day, so that on the occasion of any sudden demand no time need be lost in getting up steam. There is besides a waggon-building department, a shop for executing such trifling repairs in the locomotives as need no reference to the great workshop at Wolverton. The passenger carriages are most of them built at Euston station, by Mr. Wright. The carrying department is very conveniently situated close to the Regent's Canal, so as to have easy communication with inland as well as sea navigation. A series of sheds occupy an area of 135,000 superficial feet, and the platforms to receive goods from railway trucks on one side and from waggons on the other, occupy 30,000 feet. These platforms and sheds are provided with 110 cranes, for loading and unloading, with a power varying from one ton and a half to twenty tons. By these appliances, work of the most miscellaneous character goes on all day, and part of the night. The railway trucks and waggons are moved about by horses: it is amusing to see the activity with which the heavy brutes often bring a waggon up at a trot, jump out of the way just at the right moment, and allow the waggon to roll up to the right spot by its own momentum. The horses are lodged in stables in the underground vaults, which we cannot commend, as they are dark, damp, full of draughts, and yet ill ventilated; but it was necessary to use these vaults, and difficult to find stabling for such a number of horses close at hand. The carrying department at Camden is very miscellaneous, and moves everything, from the contents of a nursery ground to a full grown locomotive, but they do not impress a stranger so much as the arrangements at Manchester and Liverpool. The annual consumption of gas at Camden exceeds six million cubic feet. Under the railway system the certainty and rapidity with which merchandise can be transmitted, changes and simplifies more and more every year the operations of trade. For instance, Southampton is the great port for that part of our Indian, South American, and Mediterranean trade which is conducted by steamers. When a junction has been effected between the London and North Western and the South Western, costly packages of silk, muslin, gold tissue, jewellery, may be sent under lock from the Glasgow manufacturers to the quay alongside at Southampton in a few hours, without sign of damage or pilferage, and at the last moment before the departure of the steamer. The communication between the docks on the Thames and Camden Town, will enable a grocer in Manchester to have a hogshead of sugar or tobacco sent in answer to a letter by return of post, at a saving in expense which may be imagined from the fact, that it costs more to cart a butt of sherry from the London Docks to Camden Town, than to send it by rail all the way to Manchester. To provide for the enormous and annually increasing traffic in passengers and merchandise, there are:-- 1 State carriage. 260 Horse boxes. 555 Locomotives and tenders. 132 Sheep vans. 494 First-class mails. 7385 Goods waggons. 420 Second-class carriages. 14 Trolleys. 342 Third-class. 1155 Cribb rails. 25 Post-offices. 5150 Sheets. 242 Carriages,--trucks for 162 Cart horses. letters and newspapers. 41 Parcel carts. 201 Guards' brakes. Making a grand total rolling stock of 10,663. The passenger carriages afford eleven miles of seat room, and would accommodate 40,196 individuals, or the whole population of two such towns as Northampton. The loading surface of the goods equals eleven acres, and would convey 40,000 tons. If the tires of all the company's wheels were welded into one ring, they would form a circle of seventy-two miles. To keep this rolling stock up in number and efficiency, there are two establishments, one at Camden Town, and one at Wolverton. Camden Town is the great coach house of the line, where goods waggons are built and repaired in one division, where sound locomotives, carriages and trucks are kept ready for use in another. The waggon building department of Camden is worth visiting, especially by railway shareholders. Every one is interested in railways being worked economically, for economy gives low rates and increased profits, which both increase trade and multiply railways. Hitherto the details of carrying, especially as to the construction of waggons and trucks, have been much neglected. On one line running north, it is said that the loss in cheese stolen by the railway servants, amounts to as much as the whole sum paid for carrying agricultural produce, and on the line on which we are travelling, breakages have sometimes amounted to 1,200 pounds a-month. The fact is, that railway carriers have been content to use rude square boxes on wheels, covered when loaded, if covered at all, with a tarpaulin, without any precautions for draining off the wet, to which it was constantly exposed when out of use,--without "buffers" or other protecting springs, so that the wear and tear of the waggon and its load, from inevitable shocks, was very great. The imperfect protection of a tarpaulin was, and is, a great temptation to pilferage. These sources of expense, in wear and tear of conveyances, loss of tarpaulin coverings, each worth 6 pounds 6s., breakage, pilferage of goods, combine to sum up a formidable discount from the profits of railway carrying, and, in the case of certain goods, lead the owners to prefer the slower transit of a canal boat. Even iron suffers in market value from exposure to the weather; porcelain and glass are liable to perpetual smashes, on waggons without buffers, in spite of the most careful packing; while tea, sugar, cheese, and all untraceable eatables are pilfered to an enormous extent, besides more valuable goods. It was hoped that railway transit would put an end to the dishonesty which was carried on wholesale on the canals; but, where open trucks are used, this expectation has been only partly realised, for the temptation of opportunity has been too strong, for even the superior class of men employed on railways. In order to meet these evils, Mr. Henson, who has the charge of the waggon- building department at Camden, has built and patented a covered waggon with buffers, which unites with great strength, safety, capacity, and smoothness of motion. The scientific manner in which these waggons are framed, gives them strength in proportion to their weight. The buffers with which they are fitted, and the roof, protecting from the weather, render them altogether durable, and therefore economical; while the construction, as will be seen from our vignette, renders pilferage, unless by collusion with the respectable party who overlooks the unloading, almost impossible. A diminution of the cost for repairs of rolling stock (on an average equal to 12 pounds per ann.), and of the cost for compensation to customers for breakage and pilferage, should be a leading object with every sensible railway director. Indeed these losses, with deadweight, and lawyer's bills, are the deadly enemies of railway directors. Further improvements in these waggons have been effected by the use of corrugated iron, which is light and strong at the same time; and the iron waggons have been again improved by employing iron covered with a thin coating of glass, under a new patent, which renders rust impossible and paint unnecessary. The simple contrivance by which the door and moveable roof is locked and unlocked by one motion, is worthy of the notice of practical men. 600 of these lock-up waggons, with springs and buffers, are in use on the London and North Western Railway. Mr. Henson has also succeeded in establishing a traffic in gunpowder, by inventing a carriage of sheet iron, lined with wood, in which four-and-a-half tons of gunpowder can be conveyed without fear of explosion either from concussion or external combustion. The shops at Camden have room for building or repairing 100 waggons. They are to be seen in every stage of progress. The great object is to combine strength with lightness. If the strength being the same, the saving of a ton can be effected in a waggon, it will amount to from thirty to ninety tons in an ordinary goods train. An important consideration, for deadweight is the great enemy of the railway, and ninety tons of useless weight is equivalent to a loss of 90 pounds in sending a goods train a journey to Birmingham. British oak is the favourite wood for the frames of railway waggons; teak, if of equal quality, is dearer, and the inferior is heavier, without being so strong. If in any of the many countries with which we trade a wood can be discovered as good and as cheap as English oak, the railways which are constantly extending their carrying stock, can afford a steady demand. About the passenger carriages, which every one can see and examine for himself, there is not much to be said. On the Continent, where they cannot afford to use mahogany, they use sheet-iron and papier-machee for the panels; in England, mahogany chiefly in the first class. When we began, stage coaches were imitated; there are some of the old cramped style still to be seen on the Richmond line; then came enormous cages--pleasant in summer, fearfully cold in winter, without fires, which have not been introduced in England, although they are found in the north of Europe and America. A medium size has now come into favour, of which some fine specimens are to be seen in the Hyde Park Exhibition. On the Great Northern line some second-class carriages have been introduced, varnished, without paint, and very well they look. Economy again, and the increase of branches, have led to the use of composite carriages for first and second-class passengers all on one body. These, which were in use years ago on the northern coal lines, are now revived and improved. The Camden station has received an entirely new feature by the completion of the line to the docks and to Fenchurch Street, with stations at Islington, Hackney, and Bow. Already an immense omnibus traffic has been obtained--a sort of traffic which produces the same effect on engines as on horses. They are worn out rapidly by the continual stoppages. But horses show wear and tear directly, whereas iron and brass cannot speak except through increased expenses and diminished dividends. Leaving Camden, at which trains stop only on arriving, we swiftly pass Kilburn, where an omnibus station is to be established for the benefit of the rising population of citizens, to Willesden, where the junction line through Acton to the South Western is to commence. Willesden has been rendered classic ground, for the Hero-worshippers who take highwaymen within the circle of their miscellaneous sympathies, by Mr. Harrison Ainsworth's "Jack Sheppard,"--the "cage" where this ruffian was more than once confined still remains in its original insecurity. Sudbury affords nothing to detain us. The next station is within a mile of Harrow-on-the-Hill, with its beacon-like church spire. Rich pasture lies around, famous for finishing off bullocks fed in the north. Harrow school is almost as much one of the institutions of England as Oxford and Cambridge Universities. It is one of the great public schools, which, if they do not make the ripest scholars, make "men" of our aristocracy. This school was founded by one John Lyon, a farmer of the parish, who died in 1592. [HARROW-ON-THE-HILL: ill2.jpg] Attached to it there are four exhibitions of 20 pounds each, and two scholarships of 50 pounds each. The grand celebrity of the school rests upon the education of those who are not on the foundation. The sons of noblemen and wealthy gentlemen, who in this as in many other instances, have treated those for whose benefit the school was founded, as the young cuckoo treats the hedge sparrow. Among its illustrious scholars Harrow numbers Lord Byron and Sir Robert Peel. An old saw runs: "Eton fops, Harrow gentlemen, Winchester scholars, and Westminster blackguards." Since the palmy days when Dr. Drury was master and Byron and Peel were pupils, Harrow has declined to insignificance, and been by the abilities of Dr. Wordsworth raised again. The term of Harrow gentlemen still deservedly survives, Harrow being still the gate through which the rich son of a parvenu family may most safely pass on his way to Oxford, if his father desires, as all fathers do in this country, that his son should amalgamate with the landed aristocracy. At Pinner, the next station, we pass out of Middlesex into Hertfordshire. Watford, a principal station, is within a mile of the town of that name, on the river Colne. Here Henry VI. encamped with his army before the battle of St. Albans. Cassiobury Park, a favourite spot for picnics, is close to the station. It was the opposition of the late proprietor, the Earl of Essex, that forced upon the engineer of the line the formidable tunnel, which was once considered an astonishing railway work,--now nothing is astonishing in engineering. [VIADUCT OVER THE RIVER COLNE: ill3.jpg] Near King's Langley we pass the Booksellers' Provident Retreat, erected on ground given by Mr. Dickenson, the great paper maker, who has seven mills on the neighbouring streams, and reach Boxmoor, only noticeable as the first station opened on the line. [LOOKING FROM THE HILL ABOVE BOX MOOR STATION TOWARDS BERKHAMSTED: ill4.jpg] The next station is Berkhamsted. Cowper the poet was born here, his father was rector of the parish. Berkhamsted Castle is part of the hereditary property of the Prince of Wales and Duke of Cornwall. At this castle William the Conqueror, after the battle of Hastings, met the Abbot of St. Albans with a party of chiefs and prelates, who had prepared to oppose the Norman, and disarmed their hostility by swearing to rule according to the ancient laws and customs of the country. Having, of course, broken his oath, he bestowed the castle on his half-brother, Robert Moreton, Earl of Cornwall. King John strengthened the castle, which was afterwards besieged by the Dauphin of France. When Edward III. created the Black Prince Duke of Cornwall, the castle and manor of Berkhamsted were bestowed upon him "to hold to him, and the heirs of him, and the eldest sons of the kings of England, and the dukes of the said place;" and under these words through civil wars and revolutions, and changes from Plantagenet to Tudor, from Tudor to Stuart, with the interregnum of a republic, an abdication, and the installation of the Brunswick dynasty. The castle is now vested in Albert Prince of Wales. [BERKHAMSTED STATION: ill5.jpg] The Chiltern Hills, including the Chiltern Hundreds, the only office under the crown always open to the acceptance of all without distinction of parties, lies within a short distance of Berkhamsted. Ashdridge Park, formerly the seat of the Duke of Bridgewater, the originator and author, with the aid of Brindley and Telford, of our great canal system, lies about a mile to the eastward. The scenery of the park and gardens are fine. The house is modern. Tring station, a mile and a half from the town, may be reached from London, 31.5 miles, in less than an hour by the express train, and the traveller arrives in as wild a district as any in England. Three miles north of Tring lies the town of Ivinghoe, possessing a large cruciform church, worthy of a visit from the students of "Christian architecture," with an old sculptured timber roof, and containing a tomb with a Norman French inscription,--according to some the tomb of Henry de Blois, Bishop of Winchester, brother of King Stephen. At the Rose and Crown we are informed venison is to be had in perfection at moderate charges during the season. The station is the highest point on the line, being 420 feet above the sea, 300 above Camden Town, and 52 above Birmingham. In the course of the Tring excavation in the gravel deposits above the chalk, the tusk and teeth of an elephant were found, and in crossing the Icknield or Roman Way, about thirty-three miles, were sixteen human skeletons, and several specimens of Roman pottery: two unique urns are now in the possession of the Antiquarian Society. Two miles from Tring we pass from Hertfordshire into Buckinghamshire. It remains a disputed point whether the name of the county is derived from bucken or boccen, a deer, according to Spelman, or with Lysons, boc, a charter, or with Camden from bucken, beech trees, which, as in his time, still abound and flourish. Unfortunately the state of agriculture does not allow the pastors of the country to take the ease and rest that was enjoyed by the celebrated Mr. Tityrus before the repeal of the Roman corn laws, an ease which has cost many an unfortunate schoolboy a flogging. Our next halt, Cheddington, is noticeable only because it stands on the fork, of which a short branch, nine miles in length, leads to Aylesbury. AYLESBURY. Aylesbury, standing on a hill, in the midst of one of the richest, if not the richest, tracts of pasture lands in England, is very ancient without being venerable. The right of returning two members to Parliament is found periodically profitable to the inhabitants, and these two MP's with a little lace, constitute its only manufactures. The loss of the coaching trade by the substitution of the railroad, was a great blow to its local prosperity. Among other changes, the Aylesbury butchers often go to London to buy meat, which has passed in the shape of oxen through the town to ride to London. The Berry field, said to be the best field in England, lies in the Vale of Aylesbury. The saying of "good land bad farmers," is not belied among the mass of those who meet in the markets of Aylesbury. With a few exceptions the farming is as bad as it can be, the farmers miserably poor, and the labourers ignorant to a degree which is a disgrace to the resident clergy and gentry. We had some experience of the peasantry during the railway surveys of 1846, 1847, and found them quite innocent of thinking and reading, with a timid hatred of their employers, and perfect readiness to do anything not likely to be found out, for a pot of beer. They get low wages, live low, and work accordingly. It was round Aylesbury, that for many years, the influence of the insolvent Duke of Buckingham was paramount. To city sportsmen, Aylesbury has interest as the centre of Baron Rothschild's (stag) hunt; to politicians, because of great meetings of the country party held there. We must not omit to notice the duck trade carried on by the poorer order of people round the town. They hatch the ducks under hens generally in their living rooms, often under their beds, and fatten them up early in spring on garbage, of which horse flesh not unfrequently forms a large part. The ducks taste none the worse if for the last fortnight they are permitted to have plenty of clean water and oats, or barleymeal. Most of the Aylesbury ducks never see water except in a drinking pan. The cheap rate at which the inferior grain can be bought has been a great advantage to these duck feeders. The many means now open of reaching the best markets of the country will probably change the style and make the fortunes of a new race of Bucks farmers. Those of the present generation who have neither capital nor education can only be made useful by transplantation. Returning from Aylesbury, and gliding out of the deep cuttings over a fine open country, we approach the Leighton Buzzard station, and see in the distance the lofty octagonal spire of the Leighton Buzzard church. The town is half a mile from the station, and commands the attention of the church antiquary from its fine church and cross. The church, says a very competent authority on such matters, "is one of the most spacious, lightsome, and well-proportioned perpendicular churches, cruciform, with a handsome stone spire. The roof, stalls, and other wood- work very perfect. The windows, some ironwork, and other details, full of interest." The cross stands in an open area in the centre of the market place, and is twenty-seven feet high above the basement, which is raised by rows of steps about five feet. At Leighton Buzzard a branch line of seven miles communicates with DUNSTABLE. [LEIGHTON BUZZARD: ill6.jpg] Dunstable is situated in the centre of the Dunstable Chalk Downs, where the celebrated Dunstable larks are caught which are made mention of in one of Miss Edgeworth's pretty stories. The manufactures are whiting and straw hats. Of an ancient priory, founded in 1131, by Henry I., and endowed with the town, and the privileges of jurisdiction extending to life and death, nothing remains but the parish church, of which the interior is richly ornamented. Over the altar-piece is a large painting representing the Lord's Supper, by Sir James Thornhill, the father-in-law of Hogarth. In a charity school founded in 1727, forty boys are clothed, educated, and apprenticed. In twelve almshouses twelve poor widows are lodged, and in six houses near the church, called the Maidens' Lodge, six unmarried gentlewomen live and enjoy an income of 120 pounds per ann. With this brief notice we may retrace our steps. On leaving Leighton, within half a mile we enter a covered tunnel, and we strongly recommend some artist fond of "strong effects" in landscape to obtain a seat in a coupe forming the last carriage in an express train, if such are ever put on now, sitting with your back to the engine, with windows before and on each side, you are whirled out of sight into twilight and darkness, and again into twilight and light, in a manner most impressive, yet which cannot be described. Perhaps the effect is even greater in a slow than in an express train. But as this tunnel is curved the transition would be more complete. At Bletchley the church (embowered in a grove of yews, planted perhaps when Henry VIII. issued his decrees for planting the archer's tree) contains an altar tomb of Lord Grey of Wilton, A.D. 1412. The station has now become important as from it diverge the Bedford line to the east, and the lines to Banbury and Oxford to the west. A branch connects Bletchley with Bedford 16.25 miles in length, with the following stations:- FENNY STRATFORD. LIDLINGTON. WOBURN SANDS. AMPTHILL. RIDGMOUNT. BEDFORD. WOBURN AND BEDFORD. Woburn is one of those dull places, neat, clean, and pretentious in public buildings, which are forced under the hot-house influence of a great political family. We pass it to visit Woburn Abbey, the residence of the Russell family, with its extensive and magnificent gardens, its model farms, its picture gallery, and other accessories of a great nobleman's country seat. It was at Woburn that Francis, Duke of Bedford, held his sheep-shearing feasts, and by patronising, in conjunction with Coke of Norfolk and Mr. Western, improvements and improvers in agriculture and stock-breeding, did so much to promote agricultural improvement in this county, and to create that large class of wealthy educated agriculturists, which confers such great benefits on this country. Now that every country gentleman has at least one neighbour who is, or professes to be, an agricultural improver, it is difficult to give an adequate idea of the benefit we have derived from the agricultural enthusiasm of the noblemen and gentlemen who first made the science of cultivating breeding fashionable, we must be excused the word, among a class which had previously been exclusively devoted to field sports or to town life. They founded that finest of all modern characters--the English country gentleman, educated, yet hearty, a scholar and a sportsman, a good farmer, and an intelligent, considerate landlord; happy to teach, and ready to learn, anything connected with a pursuit which he follows with the enthusiasm of a student and the skill of a practical man. The other stations have nothing about them to induce a curious traveller to pause. Not so can we say of BEDFORD. Bedford has been pauperised by the number and wealth of its charities. A mechanic, or small tradesman, can send his child if it be sick to a free hospital; when older to a free school, where even books are provided; when the boy is apprenticed a fee may be obtained from a charity; at half the time of apprenticeship, a second fee; on the expiration of the term, a third; on going to service, a fourth; if he marries he expects to obtain from a charity fund "a portion" with his wife, also educated at a charity; and if he has not sufficient industry or prudence to lay by for old age, and those are virtues which he is not likely to practise, he looks forward with confidence to being boarded and lodged at one of Bedford's fifty-nine almshouses. The chief source of the charities of Bedford is derived from an estate of thirteen acres of land in the parish of St. Andrew, Holborn, London, bequeathed by Sir William Harpur, an alderman of that city, in the reign of Edward VI., for founding a free school for instructing the children of the town in grammar, and good manners. This land, now covered with valuable houses, produces some 16,000 pounds per annum. On this fund there are supported, 1st. a Grammar School, with eighty boys on the foundation, and as many private boarders; a Commercial School, containing 100 to 150 boys; a National School, of 350 boys, where on the half holidays 170 girls are received, a regular Girls' School and an Infant School. Beside which, the girls in the hospital for poor children, another branch of the charity, are taught household duties, needlework, reading and writing. In these schools the children of all resident parishioners of Bedford's five parishes are entitled to receive gratuitous instruction. In the National School twenty-five boys are clothed from a fund left by Alderman Newton, of Leicester. The Warden and Fellows of New College, Oxford, are visitors, and appoint the master and second master of the Grammar School. There are four masters, viz., the head, with two assistant masters; a mathematical master, and a writing master. The scholars enjoy the advantage of eight exhibitions, of 80 pounds per annum each, six of which must be bestowed on town boys, the remaining two may go to boarders. The cheap and good education attainable as a matter of right in this borough, have rendered it a favourite resort of half-pay officers and unbeneficed clergymen, blessed with large families. The church of St. Paul is large, with a nave and a south aisle, divided by early English piers and arches. A stone pulpit, ornamented with gilt tracery, on a blue ground, has been removed in favour of an oak one, with the chancel. The church of St. Peter has an old Norman door, a fine antique front, and some curious stained glass in the windows. John Bunyan, author of the "Pilgrim's Progress," was co-pastor in a Baptist Meeting House, in Mill-lane, from 1671 until his death in 1688. The chair in which he used to sit is still preserved in the vestry as a relic. A few miles from Bletchley, is a forgotten, but once celebrated spot, Denbigh Hall, over which the traveller whirls without notice, yet worthy of remembrance, because it affords a name and date for tracing the march of railway enterprise. In 1838, a gap in the intended railway from London to Birmingham extended from an obscure public-house, called Denbigh Hall, to Rugby. At either point travellers had to exchange the rail for the coach or chaise. On June 28, 1838, when Queen Victoria was crowned, for days before the coronation, the coaches for the intermediate space were crammed; the chaises and post horses were monopolised, and at length, to cover thirty odd miles, every gig, standing waggon, cart, and donkey cart that could be obtained in the district, was engaged, and yet many were disappointed of their journey to London. On this London and Birmingham line, in addition to, and without disturbing the ordinary traffic, 2,000 souls have been conveyed in one train, at the rate of thirty miles an hour. Truly Queen Victoria can set the railway conquests of her reign against the glories of the war victories of Queen Anne and her grandfather, King George. [DENBIGH HALL BRIDGE: ill7.jpg] THE BUCKS RAILWAY. A recent extension from Bletchley traverses Buckinghamshire, and by a fork which commences at Winslow, passes through Buckingham and Brackley to Banbury by one line, and by Bicester to Oxford by the other. We need not pause at Brackley or Winslow. Buckingham is notable chiefly as being on the road to Princely Palatial Stowe, the seat of the Buckingham family, now shorn of its internal glories in pictures, sculptures, carvings, tapestry, books, and manuscripts. Its grounds and gardens, executed on a great scale in the French style, only remain to delight the traveller; these would require, and have been often described in, illustrated volumes. Here we shall not dwell upon the melancholy scene of grandeur, power, and wealth frittered away in ignoble follies. BANBURY. Banbury is more celebrated than worth seeing. Commercial travellers consider it one of the best towns in England, as it is a sort of metropolis to a great number of thriving villages. Banbury cakes are known wherever English children are bred, and to them, where not educated in too sensible a manner, the Homeric ballad of-- "Ride a cock horse To Banbury Cross," is sung. Unfortunately, the Puritans, in the time of Edward VI., pulled this famous cross down. They were in great force there; for as Drunken Barnaby, in his tour, tells us:-- "There I found a Puritan one, Hanging of his cat on Monday For killing of a rat on Sunday." At Banbury was fought, after the English fashion, one of the great fights that preceded the carrying of the Reform Bill. Previous to that change, sixteen electors had the privilege of sending a member to Parliament. During the Reform excitement six of these privileged gentlemen seceded from their usual compact, and determined to set up on their own account. For want of a better man, they pitched upon Mr. Easthope, of the Morning Chronicle, since that period, much to his own astonishment no doubt, pitchforked into a baronetcy. The old original M.P. was Colonel Hutchinson, the companion of Sir Robert Wilson in carrying off Lavalette. On entering the town, ten thousand Reformers set up such a howling, that Colonel Hutchinson, thinking his last hour at hand, drew a dagger. Upon which more groans and shrieks followed, with such threats as made it prudent for the friends of the Colonel to compel him to retreat. Under these circumstances, the streets of the town were crammed full with an excited mob; the poll was opened; the six, amid tremendous plaudits, voted for Easthope, and Reform; the ten very discreetly staid at home, and thus, by six votes, a baronetcy was secured to the unopposed candidate. It is droll to look back upon the movement which led public opinion to prefer a stockjobber to a gallant soldier. Banbury manufactures horse girths and other kinds of webbing, as well as excellent ale. There are two inns, both good. The Buckinghamshire Railway has reduced the price of coal to the inhabitants from 22s. to 15s. per ton, on 150,000 tons per annum. BICESTER, commonly pronounced Bister, is thirteen miles by the road from Oxford, a town as ancient as the Heptarchy; famous for a well once sacred and dedicated to St. Edburgh, for its well attended markets and cattle fairs, and especially for its excellent ale. It is in the centre of a capital hunting country. The women make a little bone lace. OXFORD. Oxford is one of the great gates through which our rich middle classes send their sons to be amalgamated with the landed and titled aristocracy, who are all educated either there or at Cambridge. To say of any one that he is an "Oxford man," at once implies that he is a gentleman, and when a well-looking, well-mannered, and even moderately endowed young gentleman has passed respectably through his curriculum at Christchurch or Magdalen, Balliol, Oriel, University, or any other of the correct colleges, it rests with himself whether he runs the race of public life in England on equal terms with the sons of the oldest of the titled and untitled aristocracy, even though his father were an eminent retired dust contractor, and his mother laundry maid or factory girl. But money alone won't do it, and the pretension, the display, the coxcombry permitted in a peer, must be carefully avoided by a parvenu. Thus Oxford interests classes who care very little for its educational, antiquarian, or architectural resources, as one of the institutions of the country by which any capable man may cut off his plebeian entail, and start according to the continental term "noble." The material beauty of Oxford is great--the situation, in a rich valley bounded by softly flowing rivers, fine--the domes, and spires, and old grey towers rising in clusters, prepare the mind of the approaching traveller for the city where the old colleges and churches, planting out and almost composing it, afford at every bend of the long streets, at every turn of the narrow thoroughfares, some grand picture, or charming architectural effect; even our Quakers are proud of Oxford in England when they travel in America. Then Oxford is so decorously clean, so spotlessly free from the smoke of engines and the roar of machinery; the groves and gardens, and trim green turf seen through richly-carved and corbeled archways, give such a feeling of calm study, and pleasant leisure, that we will defy the bitterest radical and the sourest dissenter not to be softened and charmed by his first impressions. To those who arrive prepared to be pleased, stored with associations of the past, fortunate enough to have leisure and introductions to some affable don long resident, and proud to display the treasures and glories of his beloved Alma Mater, Oxford affords for many days a treat such as no other city in the world can supply to an Englishman. The best known route from London is by the Great Western Railway, which, according to the original plan, would have passed close to the city. But all the University and ecclesiastical dignitaries were up in arms; they saw, in their mind's eye, the tender, innocent undergraduates flying from the proctor-guarded precincts, where modesty, virtue, and sobriety ever reign, to the vice-haunted purlieus of London, at all hours of the night and day. The proctors and professors triumphed; the railway was obliged to leave a gap of ten miles of common road between its invading, unhallowed course, and the sacred city; and great was the rejoicing in the Convocation Chamber, and many the toasts in the Senior Common Rooms to the health of the faithful sons of Oxon, who in Parliament had saved the city from this commercial desecration. But as even Grosvenor-square was at length glad to admit gas after abiding longest of all in the genteel gloom of oil lamps, so was Oxford in the end glad to be put on a branch, as it could not be put on a main line; and now, beside the rail on which we are travelling, Worcester, Banbury, and Wolverhampton, and two roads to London and Birmingham are open to the wandering tastes of the callow youth of the University; as may be ascertained by a statistical return from the railway stations whenever a steeple-chase or Jenny Lind concert takes place in or near any of the towns enumerated. The entrance from Bletchley is, perhaps, the finer, as rolling round a semicircle, we sweep into sight of the dome of Radcliffe Library and the spire of St. Mary's Church, descend, enter the city by the Cheltenham-road, and passing through an inferior suburb, reach the head of High-street, of which a great German art critic declared, "that it had not its equal in the whole world." Wide, long, and gently curving, approached from either end, it presents in succession the colleges of Lincoln, Brasenose, University, All Souls, Queen's, St. Mary's Church, with peeps of gardens with private houses, and with shops, which do not detract, but rather add, to the dignity and weight of the grand old buildings. Having slowly sauntered up and down, and scanned the various characters peculiar to the City of Universities--as, for instance, an autocrat in the person of a Dean of Christchurch, a Principal of Balliol, or a Master of Jesus, a Proctor newly made, but already endowed with something of the detective police expression; several senior fellows, plump, shy, proud, and lazy--walking for an appetite, and looking into the fishmongers on their way to the parks; a "cocky" Master of Arts, just made, and hastening to call on all his friends and tradesmen to show off his new dignity, and rustle the sleeves of his new gown; three lads, just entered from a public school (last month they laid out tip in Mother Brown's tarts), on their way to order three courses and dessert at the Mitre, where very indifferent fare is provided for fashionable credit prices; a pale student, after Dr. Pusey's own heart, in cap and gown, pacing monk-like along, secretly telling his beads; a tuft (nobleman) lounging out of the shop of a tailor, who, as he follows his lordship to the door, presents the very picture of a Dean bowing to a Prime Minister, when a bishop is very sick. A few ladies are seen, in care of papas in caps and gowns, or mammas, who look as if they were Doctors of Divinity, or deserved to be. The Oxford female is only of two kinds--prim and brazen. The latter we will not describe; the former seem to live in perpetual fear of being winked at, and are indescribable. From these street scenes, where the ridiculous only is salient, for the quiet and gentlemanly pass by unnoticed, while pompous dons and coxcombical undergraduates are as certain of attention as turkeycocks and bantams, we will turn into the solemn precincts of a few of the colleges. At the head stands Christchurch in dignity and size, founded by Cardinal Wolsey, Pope Clement VII. consenting, in 1525, on the revenues of some dozen minor monasteries, under the title of Cardinal College. The fall of Wolsey--England's last Cardinal, until by the invitation of modern mediaeval Oxford, Pius IX. sent us a Wiseman--stopped the works. One of Wolsey's latest petitions to Henry was, "That his college at Oxford might go on." And by the King, after some intermediate changes, it was finally established as Christchurch. The foundation now consists of a dean, eight canons, eight chaplains, a schoolmaster, an organist, eight choristers, and 101 students, of whom a considerable number are exhibitioners from Westminster School. It is in symbolism of these students that the celebrated Great Tom of Christchurch clangs each evening 101 times. Besides these students, there are generally nearly 1000 independent members, consisting of noblemen, gentlemen commoners, and commoners. To be a gentleman commoner of Christchurch, all other advantages being equal, is the most "correct thing" in the University; none can compete with them, unless it be the gentlemen commoners of Magdalen. The Christchurch noblemen, or tufts, are considered the leaders of fashion, whether it be in mediaeval furniture, or rat hunting, boating, or steeple- chase riding, old politics or new religions. Among the illustrious men it claims as pupils are, Sir Philip Sydney and Ben Jonson, Camden and South, Bolingbroke and Locke, Canning and Sir Robert Peel, whom Oxford rejected. The front is in Aldate's-street, for which consult Mr. Spier's pretty guide card, the entrance under the lofty clock tower, whence, at ten minutes past nine every evening, the mighty tom peals forth his sonorous summons. The "Tom Gateway" leads into the quadrangle familiarly termed "quad," 264 feet by 261, the dimensions originally planned by Wolsey; but the buildings which bound it on three sides were executed after the destruction of the old edifice in the great civil wars from designs by Sir Christopher Wren in 1688. The Hall on the south side is ancient; we ascend to it by a flight of steps under a handsome groined roof supported by a single pillar. The Hall is 115 feet long, 40 wide, and 50 high. The open roof of oak richly carved, decorated with the arms of Wolsey and Henry VIII. Other carvings adorn the fire-place and a fine bay window. On the sides of the rooms are hung a series of 120 portraits of ecclesiastics, poets, philosophers (these are few), statesmen, and noblemen, representing distinguished students of the College. The dinner hour, when the dean and chief officers sit in state on the dais, masters and bachelors at the side tables, and undergraduates at the lower end, is an impressive sight, recalling feudal times. The feeding is the worst of any in Oxford, much to the advantage of the taverns and pastrycooks. When in 1566 Queen Elizabeth visited Oxford, a play was performed before her in this hall by the students, in the course of which, "a cry of hounds belonging to themselves" having been counterfeited in the quadrangle, the students were seized with a sudden transport; whereat her Majesty cried out, "O excellent! these boys in very truth are ready to leap out of the window to follow the hounds." Amid the many changes of taste and opinion since the days of Queen Bess, the love of hunting still prevails in Christchurch, not one of the least healthy tastes, in an age of perpetual competing work; and the Christchurch drag is one of the stock amusements anathematized toward the end and permitted at the beginning of every hunting term, for the glory of the chief tuft and the benefit of hard-reading men, who cannot waste their time in trotting from cover to cover dependent on the vagaries of such an uncertain animal as a fox, and are therefore content to hunt a "cad" armed with a red herring over the stiffest country he can pick. After the Hall, the Kitchen should be visited. It is the most ancient part of the building, for Wolsey, with a truly ecclesiastical appreciation of the foundation of all sound learning, began with the kitchen, and it survived him. Agriculture, gardening, cooking, and confectionery, were among the civilizing arts brought to great perfection by religious houses and lost for a long period after the Reformation, which, like other strong medicines, cleared our heads at the expense of our stomachs. In Wolsey's kitchen may be seen the huge gridiron on which our ancestors roasted sheep whole and prepared other barbarous disgusting dishes. In the Peckwater Quadrangle are to be found the Library and the Guise collection of pictures, which contains curious specimens of that early school which the mad mediaevalists are now fond of imitating, and a few examples of the famous Italian masters who rose on the force of genius, which did not disdain study but did disdain imitation. Wickliff was a warden, and Sir Thomas More a student, in Canterbury Hall, which was amalgamated in Wolsey's College. The Chapel of Christchurch is the Cathedral of Oxford. The oldest parts belonged to the church of St. Frideswide's Priory, consecrated A.D. 1180. Wolsey pulled down fifty feet of the nave and adapted it to the use of his college. The stained glass windows, without which every Gothic cathedral has a bare, naked, cold appearance, and which were peculiarly fine, nearly all fell a sacrifice to puritanical bigotry. For the many curious and beautiful architectural features we must refer in this instance, as in all others, to the architectural guides, such as Parker's, with which every one who feels any interest in the subject will provide himself. Leaving Christchurch by the Canterbury Gate up Merton-lane, we pass on one hand Corpus Christi, founded in the reign of Henry VIII., where Bishop Sewel, author of "The Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity," and Richard Hooker, a Protestant whom even a Pope praised, were bred; on the other, Oriel, where studied Walter Raleigh, one of England's greatest men, a poet and philosopher, soldier and statesman, mariner and historian; not guiltless, yet worthy of pity in his fall and long imprisonment, and of honour in his brave and Christian death,--the victim of the ever feeble treacherous Stuarts. What other line of kings has had the fate to sign away the lives of two such men as Raleigh and Strafford? Oriel also claims as students Prynne, who, with his libels and his ears, laid the foundation of our liberty of the press; Bishop Butler, whose "Analogy" showed how logic and philosophy could be applied to support the cause of Christian truth; Dr. Arnold, the reformer of our modern school system, whom Oxford persecuted during life and honoured in death; and lastly, the clever crotchety Archbishop Whateley, who has not only proved that Napoleon Bonaparte never existed, but that Mr. Gibbon Wakefield's bankrupt schemes of colonization were triumphant successes. Next we come to Merton, the most ancient of all the colleges, founded 7th January 1264. The oldest of its buildings now standing is the library, the oldest in England, erected 1377. Wickliff was a student of Merton. University College, which next falls in our way, claims to date from King Alfred, but has no charters so ancient as those of Merton. The buildings are not more early than Charles I., but the chapel contains some of Grinling Gibbons's best carvings, and a monument by Flaxman of Sir William Jones, who was a fellow of this University. The modern part, fronting High-street, is from the designs of Barry, the architect of the Palace of Westminster. University College has one of the old customs, of which several are retained in Oxford, called "chopping at the tree." On Easter Sunday a bough is dressed up with flowers and evergreens, and laid on a turf by the buttery. After dinner each member, as he leaves the hall, takes up a cleaver and chops at the tree, and then hands over "largess" to the cook, who stands by with a plate. The contribution is, for the master half a guinea, the fellows five shillings, and other members half a crown each. In like manner, at Queen's College, which stands opposite University, on Christmas day a boar's head is brought into the hall in procession, while the old carol is sung-- The boar's head in hand bear I Bedecked with bays and rosemary, And I pray you, my masters, be merry. Qui estis in convivio, Caput apri defero, Reddens laudes Domino. While on New Year's day the bursar presents to every member a needle and thread with the words, "Take this and be thrifty." We have not been able to obtain a statistical return of the standing of the Queen's men in the books of the tradesmen of Oxford as compared with members of other colleges, but we recommend the question to Mr. Newdegate or some other Oxonian figure monger. This college was founded by Philippa, queen of Edward III. It was directed by the statutes that there should be twelve fellows and seventy poor scholars, who were to be summoned to dinner by the sound of a trumpet; when the fellows, clothed in scarlet robes, were to sit and eat, while the poor scholars, kneeling in token of humility, were to dispute in philosophy. The kneeling, disputing, and scarlet robes have been discontinued, but the trumpet still sounds to dinner. There are usually about 300 members on the books of this college. Lower down the High-street is All-Souls, whose two towers are picturesque centres of most views of Oxford. The buildings are various in character and merit, and well worth examination. The grand court was designed by Hawksmoor rather on the principles of a painter than an architect; he wished it to make a good picture with the existing buildings, and he succeeded. All-Souls is composed entirely of fellows, who elect from other colleges gentlemen whose qualification consists in being "bene nati, bene vestiti, et moderater docti in arte musica." With so easy a qualification as that of being well born, well dressed, and able to sing the Old Hundredth Psalm, Old King Cole, or Kilruddery, it may be imagined that All-Souls has never done anything to disturb the minds of kings, cabinets, or reviewers, or even of the musical critics. Pleasant gentlemanly fellows, when they do get into parliament it is usually as the advocates of deceased opinions. Had Joanna Southcote been genteel, the fellows of All-Souls and some other colleges would have continued Joanna Southcotians fifty years after her decease. All-Souls, too, has its legend and its commemorative ceremony. The diggers of the foundations found in an old drain a monstrous mallard, a sort of alderman among wild ducks, thriving and growing fat amid filth. On being cooked he was found first-rate, and, in memory of this treasure-trove and of the foundation-day, annually on the 14th January the best mallard that can be found is brought in in state, all the mallardians chanting-- O the swapping swapping mallard, etc. From Queen's we proceed to New College, built in the palmiest days of Gothic architecture by William of Wykeham, also architect of Windsor Castle and of Winchester Cathedral, of which he was bishop, as well as Chancellor of England under Edward III. He was indeed a learned, pious, earnest man. "A worker-out of the glorious dreams he dreamed." According to his plan, a certain number of poor boys, of origin as humble as his own, were to receive a training in the best learning of the age; from these, the ablest were to be selected annually and sent to New College, with the enjoyment of such an income as would support them while studying philosophy and theology. At present, after a year's probation, youths at eighteen or nineteen become actual fellows, in enjoyment of an income varying from 190 to 250 pounds per annum, until such time as they marry or are provided with a college living. "Wykeham laid the first stone of his new college on the 5th March 1380. Being finished, the first warden and fellows took possession of it April 14, 1386, at three o'clock in the morning." The original buildings consist of the principal quadrangle, containing the hall, chapel, and library, the cloisters, and the tower. Additions, quite out of keeping with the rich simplicity of the original design, were made by Sir Christopher Wren. The chapel, first shorn of its ancient splendour by puritan zeal, and since restored in mistaken taste, is still one of the most beautiful edifices of the kind in England,--perhaps in Europe. Weeks of study will not satisfy or exhaust the true student of Gothic architecture here. We trust that, sooner or later, some of the funds now spent on guttling and guzzling will be devoted to substituting facsimiles of ancient coloured glass for the painted mistakes of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and restoring the ancient glories of gilt and colour to the carved work. If possible, the stranger should attend the service, when he will hear grand singing and accompanied by a magnificent organ. The silver gilt crozier of Wykeham, formerly studded with rich gems, is one of the few relics of value preserved by New College. Charles I. received the greater part of a rich collection of plate as a contribution to his military chest in the great civil war. This crozier interests, for, gazing on it, we are carried back five centuries, when it was not a bauble made in Birmingham, but a symbol of actual power and superior intelligence. The sceptre of a prince of a church which then absorbed almost all the intellect and all the learning of the age. The garden with its archery-ground, and the "Slipe," with its stables and kennels, complete what was meant to be a temple of sacred learning and active piety, but which has become a very Castle of Indolence, a sort of Happy Valley, for single men. Winchester School still retains its ancient character for scholarship. (It is said to be almost impossible to "pluck" a Wykehamist); but the foundation has been grossly abused, the elected being not poor boys but the sons of wealthy clergymen and gentlemen, as indeed they had need be, for, by another abuse, the parents of boys on the foundation have to pay about 40 pounds a-year for their board. But, when a boy, distinguished for diligence and ability among his fellows, has been, at eighteen or nineteen years, elected to a Fellowship of New College, his work for life is done,--no more need for exertion,--every incentive to epicurean rest. Fine rooms, a fine garden, a dinner daily the best in Oxford, served in a style of profusion and elegance that leaves nothing to be desired, wine the choicest, New College ale most famous, a retiring-room, where, in obsequious dignity, a butler waits on his commands, with fresh bottles of the strong New College port, or ready to compound a variety of delicious drinks, amid which the New College cyder cup and mint julep can be specially recommended. Newspapers, magazines, and novels, on the tables of both the junior and senior common rooms, and a stable for his horse and a kennel for his dog, form part of this grand club of learned ignorance. And so, in idle uselessness, he spends life, unless by good fortune he falls in love and marries; even then, we pity his wife and his cook for the first twelve months,--or, by reaction, flies into asceticism and becomes a father of St. Philip Neri or a follower of Saint Pusseycat. But, after all this virtuous remonstrance on the misdirection of William of Wykeham's noble endowment, we must own that, of our Oxford acquaintance, none are more agreeable than those New College fellows of the old school, "who wore shocking bad hats and asked you to dinner." Much better than the cold- blooded "monks without mass" who are fast superseding them, just as idle and more ill-natured. From New College we will go on to Magdalen, the finest--the wealthiest of all: it cannot be described, it must be seen; with its buildings occupying eleven acres and pleasure-grounds a hundred acres, its tower whereon every May morning at daybreak a mass used to be and a carol is still sung, and its deer-park. Here we may say, as of New College, is too much luxury for learning. The sons of dukes have become mathematicians; we have known an attorney's clerk, the son of a low publican, become an accomplished linguist in his leisure hours,--but such men are mental miracles, almost monsters: a fellow of Magdalen or New College who works as hard as other men deserves to be canonized. We have not space to say anything of the other Colleges. St. John's is noted for its gardens, Pembroke because Samuel Johnson lodged there for as long a space as his poverty would permit. The Colleges visited, we proceed to "The Schools," which contain the Bodleian Library, founded by Sir Thomas Bodley in 1573, and by bequests, gifts from private individuals, by the expenditure of a sum for the last seventy years out of the University chest, and the privilege of a copy of every new British publication, has become one of the finest collections in Europe; especially rich in Oriental literature. The books are freely open to the use of all literary men properly introduced, and the public are permitted to view the rooms three times a week. The Picture Gallery contains a collection of portraits of illustrious individuals connected with the University, by Holbein, Vandyke, Kneller, Reynolds, Wilkie, and others. Among these are Henry VIII., the Earl of Surrey, and Sir Thomas More, by Holbein. Among the sculptures are a bust of the Duke of Wellington by Chantrey, and a brass statue of the Earl of Pembroke, Chancellor of the University from 1616 to 1630, which is said to have been executed from a design by Rubens. There is also a chair made from timber of the ship in which Drake sailed round the world, and the lantern of Guy Fawkes. On the ground floor are the Arundel marbles, brought from Smyrna in the seventeenth century by the earl of that name. The Theatre, close at hand, built by Sir Christopher Wren, will contain three thousand persons, and should be seen to be appreciated when crowded by the elite of the University and of England, on the occasion of some of the great Oxford festivals, when the rich costumes of the University, scarlet, purple, and gold, are set off by the addition of England's beauty not unadorned; as, for instance, on the last visit of the Queen and Prince Albert. The Clarendon Press, built from designs of Vanbrugh out of the profits of the University (garbled) edition of "Clarendon's History of the Great Rebellion," and the Ashmolean Museum, where may be seen the head of the dodo, that extinct and deeply to be regretted bird, are close at hand, as also the Radcliffe Library, from the dome of which an excellent view of the city may be obtained. The University Galleries, which present an imposing front to St. Giles- street, contain, beside antique sculpture, the original models of all Chantrey's busts, and a collection of original drawings of Michael Angelo and Raffaelle, made by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and purchased after his death by the University, the present Earl of Eldon contributing two-thirds of the purchase-money. CONSTITUTION AND COSTUME OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. The University is a corporate body, under the style of "The Chancellor, Masters, and Scholars of the University of Oxford." It includes nineteen Colleges and five Halls, each of which is a corporate body, governed by its own head and statutes respectively. The business of the University, as such, is carried on in the two Houses of Convocation and of Congregation; the first being the House of Lords, and the other, which includes all of and above the rank of Masters of Arts, the House of Commons. The Chancellor--elected by Convocation, for life--never, according to etiquette, sets his foot in the University, excepting on occasions of his installation, or when accompanying Royal visitors. He nominates as his representative a Vice Chancellor from the heads of colleges, annually, in turn, each of whom holds his office for four years. The Vice Chancellor is the individual who may occasionally be seen walking about in state, preceded by a number of beadles carrying maces, or, as they are profanely called, "pokers." The two proctors are next in authority to the Vice Chancellor. Their costume is a full dress gown, with velvet sleeves, and band-encircled neck. They are assisted by two deputies, or pro-proctors, who have a strip of velvet on each side of the gown front, and wear bands. The proctors have certain legislative powers; but are most conspicuous as a detective police force, supported by "bulldogs," i.e., constables. A proctor is regarded by an undergraduate, especially by a fast man, with the same affection that a costermonger looks on a policeman. In the evenings, it is their duty to prowl round, and search, if necessary, any house within three miles, for so far does their authority extend. The dread of the proctor compels tandem drivers to send their leaders a distance out of town; and many an excited youth, on the day of a neighbouring steeplechase, is stopped, when driving out of the city, with--"Your name, sir, and of what college?" "Lord R. Christchurch." "Go back to your rooms, my lord, and call on me in an hour at Worcester." The members of the University are divided into those who are on the foundation and those who are not. Those on the foundation are the dean, president, master, warden, according to the charter of the College; the fellows, scholars, called demies at Magdalene, and post-masters at Merton; chaplains, bible-clerks, servitors, at Christchurch and Jesus. The qualifications for these advantages vary; but leading colleges--Oriel and Balliol--have set an example likely to be followed of throwing fellowships and scholarships open to the competition of the whole university, so that the best man may win. The disadvantage of the system lies in the fact, that having won, the incentives are all in the direction of idleness. The degree was formerly obtained by passing first through a preliminary examination termed a "little go," and afterwards through the "great go." The latter, successfully performed, entitles, at choice, to the title of B.A. (Bachelor of Arts), or S.C.L. (Student of Civil Law). With time and money, the degrees of M.A. or B.C.L., and eventually D.C.L., may be obtained, without farther examination. But very recently an intermediate examination has been imposed. A candidate for a degree in music has only to perform an exercise previously approved by the professor of music in the music schools. Doctors of Divinity and Masters of Arts wear a stuff gown, with two long sleeves, terminating in a semicircle. The full dress of Doctors of Divinity is scarlet, with sleeves of black velvet--pink silk for Doctors of Law and Medicine. Bachelors wear a black stuff gown, with long sleeves tapering to a point, and buttoned at the elbow; noblemen undergraduates a black silk gown, with full sleeves, "couped" at the elbows, and a velvet cap with gold tassel; scholars the same shaped gown, of a common stuff, with ordinary cloth cap; gentlemen commoners a silk gown with plaited sleeves, and velvet cap; if commoners, a plain black gown without sleeves, which is so hideous that they generally carry it on their arm. The expense of maintaining a son at the University may be fixed at from 200 pounds, as a minimum, to 300 pounds a-year; the latter being the utmost needful. But a fool may spend any amount, and get nothing for it. The fashion of drinking has gone out to a great extent; and the present race of undergraduates are not more random and extravagant than any set of young men of the same age and number would be if thrown together for two or three years. At the same time, it is not the place to which a father to whom economy is an object should send a son, least of all one previously educated on the milk and water stay-at-home principle. As a general rule, it is not among the nobility, and sons of the wealthy gentry, that much excess is found to prevail; but among those who at the University find themselves for the first time without control, with money and with credit at command. In a summer or autumnal visit, Christchurch Meadow, and some of the many beautiful walks round Oxford, should be sought out and visited alone; on such occasions, on no account be tormented with one of the abominable parrot-like guides. These horrid fellows consider it their duty to chatter. We have often thought that a dumb guide, with a book for answering questions, would make a great success. In winter, when the flooded meadows are frozen over, those who love to see an army of first-class skaters will find an Oxford day ticket well worth the money--youth, health, strength, grace, and manly beauty, in hundreds, cutting round and round, with less of drawback from the admixture of a squalid mob than in any other locality. And then again in the hunting season, take the ugliest road out of Oxford, by the seven bridges, because there you may see farthest along the straight highway from the crown of the bridges, and number the ingenuous youth as on hunters they pace, or in hack or in dogcart or tandem they dash along to the "Meet." Arrived there, if the fox does get away--if no ambitious youngster heads him back--if no steeplechasing lot ride over the scent and before the hounds, to the destruction of sport and the master's temper--why then you will see a fiery charge at fences that will do your heart good. There is not such raw material for cavalry in any other city in Europe, and there is no part of our social life so entirely novel, and so well worth exhibiting to a foreigner, as a "Meet" near Oxford, where in scarlet and in black, in hats and in velvet caps, in top-boots and black-jacks, on twenty pound hacks and two hundred guinea hunters, finest specimens of Young England are to be seen. On returning, if the sport has been good, you may venture to open a chat with a well-splashed fellow traveller on a beaten horse, but in going not--for an Oxford man in his normal state never speaks unless he has been introduced. The only local manufactures of Oxford, except gentlemen, are boots, leather- breeches, and boats; these last in great perfection. The regattas and rowing-matches on the Isis are very exciting affairs. From the narrowness of the stream, they are rather chases than races; the winners cannot pass, but must pursue and bump their competitors. The many silent, solitary wherries, urged by vigorous skilful arms, give, on a summer evening, a pleasing life to river-side walks, although that graceful flower, the pretty pink bonnet and parasol, peculiar to the waters of Richmond and Hampton, is not often found growing in the Oxford wherry. Comedies, in the shape of slanging matches with the barges, are less frequent than formerly, and melodramatic fistic combats still less frequent. But old boatmen still love to relate to their peaceable and admiring pupils how that pocket Hercules, the Honourable S--- C---, now a pious clergyman, had a single combat with a saucy six foot bargee, "all alone by they two selves," bunged up both his eyes, and left him all but dead to time, ignorant then, and for months after, of the name of his victor. Oxford sometimes contends with Cambridge on neutral waters in an eight-oared cutter match, but is generally defeated, for a very characteristic reason--Cambridge picks a crew of the best men from the whole University; Oxford, more exclusive, gives a preference to certain colleges over men. Christchurch, Magdalene, and a few others, will take the lead in all arrangements, and will not, if they can help it, admit oarsmen from the unfashionable colleges of Jesus, Lincoln, or Worcester! It is worth knowing that in the long vacation, commencing on July 6, there is no place like Oxford for purchasing good dogs and useful horses. Oxford hacks have long been famous, and not without reason. Nothing slow would be of any use, whether for saddle or harness; and although the proportion of high-priced sound unblemished animals may be small, the number of quick runners is large. There is an establishment in Holywell Street which is quite one of the Oxford sights. There, early in winter mornings, more than a hundred stalls are to be found, full of blood cattle, in tip-top condition, and on summer afternoons no barracks of a cavalry regiment changing quarters are more busy. We must not leave Oxford without visiting Blenheim, the monument of one of our greatest captains and statesmen, with whom, perhaps, in genius and fortune, none can rank except Clive and Wellington. Blenheim should be seen when the leaves are on the trees. The House is only open between eleven o'clock and one. The better plan is to hire a conveyance, of which there are plenty and excellent to be had in the city, at reasonable charges. When we remember this splendid pile--voted by acclamation, but paid for by grudging and insufficient instalments by the English Parliament--was finished under the superintendence of that beautiful fiery termagant, Sarah Duchess of Marlborough, who was at once the plague and the delight of the great Duke's life, every stone and every tree must be viewed with interest. We should advise you, before passing a day at Blenheim, to refresh your memory with the correspondence of the age of Queen Anne and her successors, including Swift, Bolingbroke, Pope, and Walpole; not forgetting the letters of Duchess Sarah herself, and Disraeli's "Curiosities of Literature," for the history of the building of Blenheim, and how the Duchess worried the unfortunate architect, Vanbrugh. Blenheim contains a large number of first class paintings, including an altar-piece by Raffaelle, several good Titians, a very fine collection of Rubens, choice specimens of Vandyke and Sir Joshua Reynolds. After returning to Bletchley our next halt is at Wolverton station. WOLVERTON STATION. Wolverton, the first specimen of a railway town built on a plan to order, is the central manufacturing and repairing shop for the locomotives north of Birmingham. The population entirely consists of men employed in the Company's service, as mechanics, guards, enginemen, stokers, porters, labourers, their wives and children, their superintendents, a clergyman, schoolmasters and schoolmistresses, the ladies engaged on the refreshment establishment, and the tradesmen attracted to Wolverton by the demand of the population. This railway colony is well worth the attention of those who devote themselves to an investigation of the social condition of the labouring classes. We have here a body of mechanics of intelligence above average, regularly employed for ten and a-half hours during five days, and for eight hours during the sixth day of the week, well paid, well housed, with schools for their children, a reading-room and mechanics' institution at their disposal, gardens for their leisure hours, and a church and clergyman exclusively devoted to them. When work is ended, Wolverton is a pure republic--equality reigns. There are no rich men or men of station: all are gentlemen. In theory it is the paradise of Louis Blanc, only that, instead of the State, it is a Company which pays and employs the army of workmen. It is true, that during work hours a despotism rules, but it is a mild rule, tempered by customs and privileges. And what are the results of this colony, in which there are none idle, none poor, and few uneducated? Why, in many respects gratifying, in some respects disappointing. The practical reformer will learn more than one useful lesson from a patient investigation of the social state of this great village. [THE WOLVERTON VIADUCT: ill8.jpg] Those who have not been in the habit of mixing with the superior class of English skilled mechanics will be agreeably surprised by the intelligence, information, and educational acquirements of a great number of the workmen here. They will find men labouring for daily wages capable of taking a creditable part in political, literary, and scientific discussion; but at the same time the followers of George Sand, and French preachers of proletarian perfection will not find their notions of the ennobling effects of manual labour realised. There are exceptions, but as a general rule, after a hard day's work, a man is not inclined for study of any kind, least of all for the investigation of abstract sciences; and thus it is that at Wolverton library, novels are much more in demand than scientific treatises. In Summer, when walks in the fields are pleasant, and men can work in their gardens, the demand for books of any kind falls off. Turning from the library to the mechanics' institution, pure science is not found to have many charms for the mechanics of Wolverton. Geological and astronomical lectures are ill attended, while musical entertainments, dissolving views, and dramatic recitations are popular. It must be confessed that dulness and monotony exercise a very unfavourable influence on this comfortable colony. The people, not being Quakers, are not content without amusement. They receive their appointed wages regularly, so that they have not even the amusement of making and losing money. It would be an excellent thing for the world if the kind, charitable, cold-blooded people of middle age, or with middle-aged heads and hearts, who think that a population may be ruled into an every-day life of alternate work, study, and constitutional walks, without anything warmer than a weak simper from year's end to year's end, would consult the residents of Wolverton and Crewe before planning their next parallelogram. We commend to amateur actors, who often need an audience, the idea of an occasional trip to Wolverton. The audience would be found indulgent of very indifferent performances. But to turn from generalities to the specialities for which Wolverton is distinguished, we will walk round the workshops by which a rural parish has been colonised and reduced to a town shape. * * * * * WOLVERTON WORKSHOPS.--To attempt a description of the workshops of Wolverton without the aid of diagrams and woodcuts would be a very unsatisfactory task. It is enough to say that they should be visited not only by those who are specially interested in machinery, but by all who would know what mechanical genius, stimulated as it has been to the utmost during the last half century, by the execution of profitable inventions, has been able to effect. At Wolverton may be seen collected together in companies, each under command of its captains or foremen, in separate workshops, some hundreds of the best handicraftsmen that Europe can produce, all steadily at work, not without noise, yet without confusion. Among them are a few men advanced in life of the old generation; there are men of middle age; young men trained with all the manual advantages of the old generation, and all the book and lecture privileges of the present time; and then there are the rising generation of apprentices--the sons of steam and of railroads. Among all it would be difficult to find a bad-shaped head, or a stupid face--as for a drunkard not one. It was once remarked to us by a gentleman at the head of a great establishment of this kind, that there was something about the labour of skilled workmen in iron that impressed itself upon their countenances, and showed itself in their characters. Something of solidity, of determination, of careful forethought; and really after going over many shops of ironworkers, we are inclined to come to the same opinion. Machinery, while superseding, has created manual labour. In a steam-engine factory, machinery is called upon to do what no amount of manual labour could effect. To appreciate the extraordinary amount of intellect and mental and manual dexterity daily called into exercise, it would be necessary to have the origin, progress to construction, trial, and amendment of a locomotive engine from the period that the report of the head of the locomotive department in favour of an increase of stock receives the authorization of the board of directors. But such a history would be a book itself. After passing through the drawing-office, where the rough designs of the locomotive engineer are worked out in detail by a staff of draughtsmen, and the carpenters' shop and wood-turners, where the models and cores for castings are prepared, we reach, but do not dwell on the dark lofty hall, where the castings in iron and in brass are made. The casting of a mass of metal of from five to twenty tons on a dark night is a fine sight. The tap being withdrawn the molten liquor spouts forth in an arched fiery continuous stream, casting a red glow on the half-dressed muscular figures busy around, which would afford a subject for an artist great in Turner or Danby-like effects. But we hasten to the steam-hammer to see scraps of tough iron, the size of a crown-piece, welded into a huge piston, or other instrument requiring the utmost strength. At Wolverton the work is conducted under the supreme command of the Chief Hammerman, a huge-limbed, jolly, good-tempered Vulcan, with half a dozen boy assistants. The steam-hammer, be it known, is the application of steam to a piston under complete regulation, so that the piston, armed with a hammer, regularly, steadily, perpendicularly descends as desired, either with the force of a hundred tons or with a gentle tap, just sufficient to drive home a tin tack and no more. At a word it stops midway in stroke, and at a word again it descends with a deadly thump. On our visit, an attempt was being made to execute in wrought, what had hitherto always been made in cast iron. Success would effect a great saving in weight. The doors of the furnace were drawn back, and a white glow, unbearable as the noon-day sun, was made visible, long hooked iron poles were thrust in to fish for the prize, and presently a great round mass of metal was poked out to the door of the fiery furnace--a huge roll of glowing iron, larger than it was possible for any one or two men to lift, even had it been cold. By ingenious contrivances it was slipped out upon a small iron truck, dragged to the anvil of the steam-hammer, and under the direction of Vulcan, not without his main strength, lodged upon the block. During the difficult operation of moving the white-red round ball, it was beautiful to see the rapid disciplined intelligence by which the hammerman, with word or sign, regulated the movements of his young assistants, each armed with an iron lever. At length the word was given, and thump, thump, like an earthquake the steam- hammer descended, rapidly reducing the red-hot Dutch cheese shape to the flatter proportions of a mighty Double Gloucester, all the while the great smith was turning and twisting it about so that each part should receive its due share of hammering, and that the desired shape should be rapidly attained, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with the other, he interposed a flat poker between the red mass and the hammer, sharing a vibration that was powerful enough to dislocate the shoulder of any lesser man. "Hold," he cried: the elephant-like machine stopped. He took and hauled the great ball into a new position. "Go on," he shouted: the elephant machine went on, and again the red sparks flew as though a thousand Homeric blacksmiths had been striking in unison, until it was time again to thrust the half-welded cheese into the fiery furnace, and again it was dragged forth, and the jolly giant bent, and tugged, and sweated, and commanded,--he did not swear over his task. At length having succeeded in making the unwieldy lump assume an approach to the desired shape, he observed, in a deep, bass, chuckling, triumphant aside, to the engineer who was looking on, "I'm not a very little one, but I think if I was as big again you'd try what I was made of." Since that day we have learned that the experiment has been completely successful, with a great diminution in the weight and an increase of the strength of an important part of a locomotive. We have dwelt upon the picture because it combined mechanical with manual dexterity. A hammerman who might sit for one of Homer's blacksmith heroes, and machinery which effects in a few minutes what an army of such hammermen could not do. If our painters of mythological Vulcans and sprawling Satyrs want to display their powers over flesh and muscle, they may find something real and not vulgar among our iron factories. After seeing the operations of forging or of casting, we may take a walk round the shops of the turners and smiths. In some, Whitworth's beautiful self-acting machines are planing or polishing or boring holes, under charge of an intelligent boy; in others lathes are ranged round the walls, and a double row of vices down the centre of the long rooms. Solid masses of cast or forged metal are carved by the keen powerful lathe tools like so much box- wood, and long shavings of iron and steel sweep off as easily as deal shavings from a carpenter's plane. At the long row of vices the smiths are hammering and filing away with careful dexterity. No mean amount of judgment in addition to the long training needed for acquiring manual skill, is requisite before a man can be admitted into this army of skilled mechanics; for every locomotive contains many hundred pieces, each of which must be fitted as carefully as a watch. If we fairly contemplate the result of these labours, created by the inventive genius of a line of ingenious men, headed by Watt and Stephenson, these workshops are a more imposing sight than the most brilliant review of disciplined troops. It is not mere strength, dexterity, and obedience, upon which the locomotive builder calculates for the success of his design, but also upon the separate and combined intelligence of his army of mechanics. Considering that in annually increasing numbers, factories for the building of locomotive, of marine steam-engines, of iron ships, and of various kinds of machinery, are established in different parts of the kingdom, and that hence every year education becomes more needed, more valued, and more extended among this class of mechanics, it is impossible to doubt that the training, mental and moral, obtained in factories like those of Wolverton, Crewe, Derby, Swindon, and other railway shops, and in great private establishments like Whitworth's and Roberts' of Manchester, Maudslay and Field's of London, Ransome and May of Ipswich, Wilson of Leeds, and Stephenson of Newcastle, must produce by imitative inoculation a powerful effect on the national character. The time has passed when the best workmen were the most notorious drunkards; in all skilled trades self-respect has made progress. A few passenger carriages are occasionally built at Wolverton as experiments. One, the invention of Mr. J. M'Connel, the head of the locomotive department, effects several important improvements. It is a composite carriage of corrugated iron, lined with wood to prevent unpleasant vibration, on six wheels, the centre wheels following the leading wheels round curves by a very ingenious arrangement. This carriage holds sixty second-class passengers and fifteen first-class, beside a guard's brake, which will hold five more; all in one body. The saving in weight amounts to thirty-five per cent. A number of locomotives have lately been built from the designs of the same eminent engineer, to meet the demands of the passenger traffic in excursion trains for July and August, 1851. It must be understood that although locomotives are built at Wolverton, only a small proportion of the engines used on the line are built by the company, and the chief importance of the factory at Wolverton is as a repairing shop, and school for engine-drivers. Every engine has a number. When an engine on any part of the lines in connection with Wolverton needs repair, it is forwarded with a printed form, filled up and signed by the superintendent of the station near which the engine has been working. As thus--"Engine 60, axle of driving-wheel out of gauge, fire-box burned out," etc. This invoice or bill of particulars is copied into a sort of day-book, to be eventually transferred into the account in the ledger, in which No. 60 has a place. The superintendent next in command under the locomotive engineer-in-chief, places the lame engine in the hands of the foreman who happens to be first disengaged. The foreman sets the workmen he can spare at the needful repairs. When completed, the foreman makes a report, which is entered in the ledger, opposite the number of the engine, stating the repairs done, the men's names who did it, and how many days, hours, and quarters of an hour each man was employed. The engine reported sound is then returned to its station, with a report of the repairs which have been effected. The whole work is completed on the principle of a series of links of responsibility. The engineer-in-chief is answerable to the directors for the efficiency of the locomotives; he examines the book, and depends on his superintendent. The superintendent depends on the foreman to whom the work was entrusted; and, should the work be slurred, must bear the shame, but can turn upon the workmen he selected for the job. In fact, the whole work of this vast establishment is carried on by dividing the workmen into small companies, under the superintendence of an officer responsible for the quantity and quality of the work of his men. The history of each engine, from the day of launching, is so kept, that, so long as it remains in use, every separate repair, with its date and the names of the men employed on it, can be traced. Allowing, therefore, for the disadvantage as regards economy of a company, as compared with private individuals, the system at Wolverton is as effective as anything that could well be imagined. The men employed at Wolverton station in March, 1851, numbered 775, of whom 4 were overlookers, 9 were foremen, 4 draughtsmen, 15 clerks, 32 engine- drivers, 21 firemen, and 119 labourers; the rest were mechanics and apprentices. The weekly wages amounted to 929 pounds 11s. 10d. Of course these men have, for the most part, wives and families, and so with shopkeepers, raise the population of the railway town of Wolverton to about 2,000, inhabiting a series of uniform brick houses, in rectangular streets, about a mile distant from the ancient parish church of Wolverton, and the half-dozen houses constituting the original parish. For the benefit of this population, the directors have built a church, schools for boys, for girls, and for infants, which are not the least remarkable or interesting parts of this curious town. The clergyman of the railway church, the Rev. George Waight, M.A., has been resident at Wolverton from the commencement of the railway buildings. His difficulties are great; but he is well satisfied with his success. In railway towns there is only one class, and that so thoroughly independent, that the influence of the clergyman can only rest with his character and talents. The church is thinly attended in the morning, for hard-working men like to indulge in rest one day in the week; in the evening it is crowded, and the singing far above average. To the schools we should like to have devoted a whole chapter now, but must reserve an account of one of the most interesting results of railway enterprise. There is a literary and scientific institution, with a library attached. Scientific lectures and scientific books are very little patronized at Wolverton; astronomy and geology have few students; but there is a steady demand for a great number of novels, voyages, and travels; and musical entertainments are well supported. The lecture-room is extremely miserable, quite unfit for a good concert, as there is not even a retiring room, but the directors are about to build a better one, and while they are about it, they might as well build a small theatre. Some such amusement is much needed; for want of relaxation in the monotony of a town composed of one class, without any public amusements, the men are driven too often to the pipe and pot, and the women to gossip. In the summer, the gardens which form a suburb are much resorted to, and the young men go to cricket and football; but still some amusements, in which all the members of every family could join, would improve the moral tone of Wolverton. Work, wages, churches, schools, libraries, and scientific lectures are not alone enough to satisfy a large population of any kind, certainly not a population of hard-handed workers. * * * * * WOLVERTON EMBANKMENT was one of the difficulties in railway making, which at one period interested the public; at present it is not admitted among engineers that there are any difficulties. The ground was a bog, and as fast as earth was tipped in at the top it bulged out at the bottom. When, after great labour, this difficulty had been overcome, part of the embankment, fifty feet in height, which contained alum shale, decomposed, and spontaneous combustion ensued. The amazement of the villagers was great, but finally they came to the conclusion expressed by one of them, in "Dang it, they can't make this here railway arter all, and they've set it o' fire to cheat their creditors." On leaving Wolverton, before arriving at Roade, a second-class station, after clearing a short cutting, looking westerly, we catch a glimpse of the tower of the church of Grafton, where, according to tradition, Edward IV. married Lady Gray of Groby. The last interview between Henry VIII. and Cardinal Campeggio, relative to his divorce from Catherine of Aragon, took place at the Mansion House of this parish, which was demolished in 1643. About this spot we enter Northamptonshire, and passing Roade, pause at Blisworth station, where there is a neat little inn. BLISWORTH, NORTHAMPTON. Miles. Miles. BLISWORTH. 34.5 OUNDLE. 4.75 NORTHAMPTON. 40.75 WANSFORD. 15.75 WELLINGBOROUGH. STAMFORD by Coach. 20 HIGHAM FERRERS. 47.25 PETERBOROUGH. 26 THRAPSTON. From Blisworth branches out the line to Peterborough, with sixteen stations, of which we name above the more important. The route presents a constant succession of beautiful and truly English rural scenery, of rich lowland pastures, watered by the winding rivers, and bounded by hills, on which, like sentinels, a row of ancient church towers stand. The first station is Northampton. * * * * * NORTHAMPTON, on a hill on the banks of the river Nene, is a remarkably pleasant town, with several fine old buildings, an ancient church, an open market square, neat clean streets, and suburbs of pretty villas, overlooking, from the hill top, fat green meadows, flooded in winter. Shoemaking on a wholesale scale, is the principal occupation of the inhabitants. For strong shoes Northampton can compete in any foreign market, and a good many light articles, cut after French patterns, have been successfully made since the trade was thrown open by Peel's tariff. There are several factories, in which large numbers of young persons are employed, but the majority work by the piece at home for the master manufacturers. Northampton is also great in the fairs and markets of a rich agricultural district, and rejoices over races twice a year, in which the facilities of the railroad have rendered some compensation to the inn-keepers for the loss of the coaching trade. Northampton was originally intended to be a main station of the railway between London and Birmingham. The inhabitants were silly enough to resist the bestowal of this benefit upon them, and unfortunate enough to be successful in their resistance. In after years, when experience had rendered fools wise, they were glad to obtain the present branch through to Peterborough; but the injury of the ill-judged opposition can never be cured. The church of All Saints, in the centre of the town, has an ancient embattled tower which escaped the great fire of 1675. St. Peter's, near the West Bridge, a remarkably curious specimen of enriched Norman; St. Sepulchre's, a round church of the twelfth century, all deserve enumeration. There are also two hospitals, the only remains of many religious houses which existed before the Reformation. St. John's consists of a chapel and a large hall, with apartments for inferior poor persons; St. Thomas's is for twenty poor alms- women. No vestiges, beyond the earthworks, remain of the castle built by Simon de St. Liz, who was created Earl of Northampton by William the Conqueror. Northampton was a royal residence during the reigns of Richard I., John, and Henry III.; a battlefield during the wars of the Barons and the wars of the Roses; but the ancient character of the town was almost entirely destroyed by the great fire of 1675,--not without benefit to the health, though at the expense of the picturesqueness of this ancient borough. Northampton is important as the capital town of one of our finest grazing and hunting counties, where soil and climate are both favourable to the farmer. Large numbers of the Scotch, Welch, and Herefords sold in Smithfield, are fed in the yards and finished in the pastures of Northamptonshire. The present Earl of Spencer keeps up, on a limited scale, the herd of short- horns which were so celebrated during the lifetime of his brother, better known as Lord Althorpe,--at his seat of Althorpe, six miles from the town, and also carries on a little fancy farming. The late Earl of Spencer was much more successful as a breeder than as a farmer; indeed, it may be questioned whether the prejudices of that amiable and excellent man in favour of pasture land, did not exercise an injurious influence over the proceedings of the Royal Agricultural Association. Northampton returns two members to Parliament, and has a mayor and corporation. The railway route from Northampton to Peterborough presents a series of pleasant views on either side,--so pleasant that he who has leisure should walk, or ride on horseback, along the line of Saxon villages, visit the series of curious churches at Wellingborough, Higham Ferrers, with its collegiate church and almshouse, Thrapston and Oundle, and other stations. Within two miles of Thrapston is Drayton House, Lowick, the seat of the Sackville family, which retains many of the features of an ancient castle, and has a gallery of paintings by the old masters. The church of Lowick contains several monuments, brasses, and windows of stained glass. Near Oundle is to be found the earthwork of Fotheringay Castle, where Mary Queen of Scots was confined, tried, and executed. The castle itself was levelled to the ground by order of her son, James I. On leaving Oundle we pass a station appurtenant to Wansford in England, of which we shall say a word presently. Here we may take coach across to Stamford in Lincolnshire (see Stamford), unless we prefer the rail from Peterborough. There is a point somewhere hereabouts where the three counties of Northampton, Lincoln, and Huntingdon all meet. * * * * * WANSFORD IN ENGLAND.--If about to investigate the antiquities of Stamford or Peterborough, the traveller will do well to stop at Wansford for the sake of one of the best inns in Europe, well known under the sign of "The Haycock at Wansford in England." This sign represents a man stretched floating on a haycock, apparently in conversation with parties on a bridge. It is intended to illustrate the legend of Drunken Barnaby, who, travelling during the time of the plague from London northward, tasting and criticising the ale on the road, drank so much of the Northamptonshire brewst that he fell asleep on a haycock, in one of the flat meadows. In the night time, as is often the case in this part of the country, a sudden flood arose, and our toper awaked to find himself floating on a great tide of water, which at length brought him to a bridge, upon which, hailing the passengers, he asked, "Where am I?" in full expectation of having floated to France or Spain; whereupon they answered, "at Wansford." "What!" he exclaimed in ecstacy, "Wansford in England!" and landing, drank the ale and gave a new name to the inn of this village between three counties. The inn (which belongs to the Duke of Bedford) affords a sort of accommodation which the rapid travelling and short halts of railways have almost abolished. But an easy rent, a large farm, and a trade in selling and hiring hunters, enables the landlord to provide as comfortably for his guests, as when, in old posting days, five dukes made the Haycock their night halt at one time. On entering the well carpeted coffee- room, with its ample screen, blazing fire, and plentiful allowance of easy chairs, while a well appointed tempting dinner is rapidly and silently laid on the spotless table-cloth,--the tired sportsman or traveller will be inclined to fancy that he is visitor to some wealthy squire rather than the guest of an innkeeper. When we add that the bed-rooms match the sitting- rooms, that the charges are moderate, that the Pytchley, Earl Fitzwilliam's, and the Duke of Rutland's hounds (the Beevor), meet within an easy distance; that the county abounds in antiquities, show-houses like Burleigh, that pleasant woodland rides are within a circle of ten miles, that good pike- fishing is to be had nearly all the year round, while in retirement Wansford is complete; we have said enough to show that it is well worth the notice of a large class of travellers,--from young couples on their first day's journey, to old gentlemen travelling north and needing quiet and a bottle of old port. The last station, Peterborough, presents an instance of a city without population, without manufactures, without trade, without a good inn, or even a copy of the Times, except at the railway station; a city which would have gone on slumbering to the present hour without a go-a-head principle of any kind, and which has nevertheless, by the accident of situation, had railway greatness thrust upon it in a most extraordinary manner. * * * * * PETERBOROUGH is one of the centres from which radiate three lines to London, viz., by the Northampton route, on which we have travelled; by the direct line, through Herts, of the Great Northern; and by the Eastern Counties, with all its Norfolk communications. From Peterborough also proceeds an arm of the Midland Counties, through Stamford, Oldham, and Melton Mowbray, and the best Leicestershire grass country, to Leicester or to Nottingham,--while the Great Northern, dividing, embraces the whole of Lincolnshire and makes way to Hull, by the Humber ferries, on the one hand, and to York on the other. There is, therefore, the best of consolation on being landed in this dull inhospitable city, that it is the easiest possible thing to leave it. Peterborough dates from the revival of Christianity among the Saxons; destroyed by the Danes A.D. 870, rebuilt by Edgar in 970, it was attacked and plundered by Saxon insurgents from the fens under Hereward the Wake, in the time of William the Conqueror. At the dissolution of religious houses under Henry VIII., Peterborough was one of the most magnificent abbeys, and, having been selected as the seat of one of the new bishoprics, the buildings were preserved entire. In the civil wars, the Lady Chapel and several conventual buildings were pulled down and the materials sold. At present the cathedral is a regular cruciform structure of Norman character, remarkable for the solidity of its construction. It was commenced 1117, by John de Saiz, a Norman. The chancel was finished, A.D. 1140, by Abbot Martin de Vecti. The great transept and a portion of the central tower were built by Abbot William de Vaudeville, A.D. 1160 to 1175, and the nave by Abbot Benedict 1177-1193. The fitting up of the choir is of woodwork richly carved. The greater number of the monuments, shrines, and chantry chapels, were destroyed by the Parliamentary troops. Two queens lie buried here, Catherine of Aragon and Mary of Scotland, without elegy or epitaph, monument or tombstone. The Cathedral viewed, nothing remains to detain the traveller in this peculiarly stupid city. Within a pleasant ride of five miles lies Milton House, the seat of Earl Fitzwilliam. * * * * * STAMFORD.--Although Stamford is not upon this line of railway, travellers passing near should not fail to visit so ancient and interesting a town. Few English boroughs can trace back more distinctly their antiquity. Six churches still remain of the fifteen which, beside many conventual buildings, formerly adorned it. For Stamford was one of the towns which, had not the Reformation intervened, would have been swallowed up by the ever hungry ecclesiastical maw. Stamford awakens many historic recollections. It has a place in Domesday Book, being there styled Stanford: King Stephen had an interview there with Ranulph, Earl of Chester. In 1190, the Jews of Stamford were plundered and slain by the recruits proceeding to the crusades; and, ten years afterwards, when Edward I. expelled the Jews from England, "their synagogue and noble library at Stamford were profaned and sold." Many of the books were purchased by Gregory of Huntingdon, a monk of Ramsey Abbey, a diligent student of ancient languages; and thus the result of much learning, collected in Spain and Italy, and handed down from the times when the Jews and Arabs almost alone cultivated literature as well as commerce, was sown in England, the last of European kingdoms to become distinguished in letters. Stamford was the refuge of Oxford students on the occasion of disturbances in 1333. It was taken by the Lancastrian army of the North under Queen Margaret in 1461, and given up to plunder; and, in 1462, when thirty thousand Lincolnshire men marched, under the command of Sir Robert Wells, against Edward IV., under the walls of Stamford they were defeated, and, flying, left their coats behind. But the latest battles of Stamford have been between Whig and Tory, and even these have ceased. The houses and public buildings are all built of a rich cream-coloured stone, which gives an air of cleanliness and even distinction, which is an immense advantage. There are two fine hotels. The borough returns two members, both nominated by the Marquis of Exeter, who owns a large proportion of the vote- giving houses. The bull-running has been abolished here, as also at Tutbury, in Staffordshire; but those who are curious to see the ceremony may have occasional opportunities in the neighbourhood of Smithfield market, where it is performed under the especial patronage of the aldermen of the city of London. WEEDON. The next station after Blisworth is Weedon, properly, Weedon Bec, so called because formerly there was established here a religious house, or cell, to the Abbey of Bec in Normandy. The Church, a very ancient building, contains portions of Norman, and various styles of English, architecture. [BRIDGE IN THE BLISWORTH EMBANKMENT: ill9.jpg] The importance of Weedon rests in its being the site of a strongly fortified central depot for artillery, small arms, and ammunition, with extensive barracks, well worth seeing, but not to be seen without an order from the Board of Ordnance. In passing, a few mild soldiers may be seen fishing for roach in the canal, and a few active ones playing cricket in summer. The Weedon system of fortification eschews lofty towers and threatening battlemented walls, and all that constitutes the picturesque; so that Weedon Barracks look scarcely more warlike than a royal rope manufactory. After Weedon we pass through Kilsby Tunnel, 2,423 yards long, which was once one of the wonders of the world; but has been, by the progress of railway works, reduced to the level of any other long dark hole. [VIEW FROM THE TOP OF KILSBY TUNNEL: ill10.jpg] RUGBY AND ITS RAILWAYS. Rugby, 83 miles from London, the centre of a vast network of railways, is our next halting place. That is to say, First, an arm of the Midland to Leicester, to Burton, to Derby, to Nottingham, and through Melton Mowbray to Stamford and Peterborough; thus intersecting a great agricultural and a great manufacturing district. Second, the Trent Valley Line, through Atherstone, Tamworth and Lichfield, to Stafford, and by cutting off the Birmingham curve, forming part of the direct line to Manchester. Third, A line to Leamington, which may be reached from this point in three- quarters of an hour; and fourth, a direct line to Stamford, by way of Market Harborough; which, with the Leamington line, affords the most direct conveyance from Norfolk, and Lincolnshire, through Peterborough to Birmingham, Gloucester, and all that midland district. The Oxford and Rugby Line, which was one of the subjects of the celebrated Battles of the Gauges, has not been constructed; and it may be doubted whether it ever will. The town lies about a mile from the station on the banks of the Avon, and owes all its importance to Laurence Sheriff, a London shopkeeper in the time of Queen Elizabeth, who, in 1567, endowed a school in his native village with eight acres of land, situated where Lamb's Conduit-street, in London, now stands, whence at present upwards of 5000 pounds a year is derived. Rugby was long considered the most snobbish of English public schools, a sad character in a country where style and name go so far. Some twenty years ago, when the Rugbaeans had the "presumption" to challenge the Wykehamists to play at football, the latter proudly answered, that the Rugbaeans might put on worsted stockings and clouted soles, and the Wykehamists in silk stockings and pumps would meet them in any lane in England. But, since that time, the Harrow gentlemen, the Eton fops, the Winchester scholars, and the Westminster blackguards, have had reason to admit that Arnold, a Wykehamist, long considered by the fellows of that venerable institution an unworthy son, succeeded in making Rugby the great nursery of sound scholars and Christian gentlemen, and in revolutionizing and reforming the educational system of all our public schools. The following, by one of Arnold's pupils, himself an eminent example of cultivated intellect and varied information, combined with great energy in the practical affairs of life and active untiring benevolence, is a sketch of "ARNOLD AND HIS SCHOOL." In the year 1827, the head mastership became vacant of the Grammar School at Rugby, and the trustees, a body of twelve country gentlemen and noblemen, selected, to the dismay of all the orthodox, the Rev. Thomas Arnold, late fellow of Oriel College, Oxford, and then taking private pupils at Laleham, Middlesex. Transplanted from Oriel, the hotbed of strange and unsound opinions, out of which the conflicting views of Whateley, Hampden, Keble, and Newman, were struggling into day; himself a disciple of the suspected school of German criticism; known to entertain views at variance with the majority of his church brethren on all the semipolitical questions of the day; an advocate for the admission of Roman Catholics to Parliament, for the reform of the Liturgy and enlargement of the Church, so as to embrace dissenters; the distrust with which he was regarded by all who did not know him may be imagined. It was a critical time, the year 1827; the mind of the country was then undergoing that process of change which shortly afterwards showed itself in the emancipation of the Roman Catholics, the passing of the Reform Bill, the foundation of the London University, and the publications of the Useful Knowledge Society. Old opinions were on all sides the objects of attack. At such a period, public schools, with their exclusively classical teaching and their "fagging" systems, were naturally regarded as institutions of the past not adapted to the present. It seemed probable that a remodelling, or, according to the phrase of the day, a "reform" of them, would be attempted by the new intellectual school of which Lord Brougham was regarded as the type. It was the views of this party which, it was anticipated, Dr. Arnold would hasten to introduce into Rugby. We now know that he did not do this, although he did reform not only the school of Rugby, but gave a bias to the education of the sons of what is still the most influential class in this country, which has lasted to the present day, and that in a direction and in a manner which surprised his opponents, and at one time provoked even his friends. It may not be uninteresting to such of our readers as love to trace the origin of those changes of opinion, which are at times seen to diffuse themselves over portions of society from an unseen source, to learn how this original man commenced his task of training the minds committed to him in those peculiar tendencies, both as to feeling and thinking, which enter appreciably into the tone of the upper classes of the present generation. Dr. Arnold, from the day on which he first took charge of the school, adopted the course which he ever after adhered to, of treating the boys like gentlemen and reasonable beings. Thus, on receiving from an offender an answer to any question he would say, "If you say so, of course I believe you," and on this he would act. The effect of this was immediate and remarkable; the better feeling of the school was at once touched; boys declared, "It is a shame to tell Arnold a lie, because he always believes you;" and thus, at one bold step, the axe was put to the root of the inveterate practice of lying to the master, one of the curses of schools. In pursuance of the same views, when reprimanding a boy, he generally took him apart and spoke to him in such a manner as to make him feel that his master was grieved and troubled at his wrong-doing; a quakerlike simplicity of mien and language, a sternness of manner not unmixed with tenderness, and a total absence of all "don-ish" airs, combined to produce this effect. Nor were his personal habits without their effect. The boys saw in him no outward appearance of a solemn pedagogue or dignified ecclesiastic whom it was a temptation to dupe, or into whose ample wig javelins of paper might with impunity be darted; but a spare active determined man, six feet high, in duck trousers, a narrow-brimmed hat, a black sailor's handkerchief knotted round his neck, a heavy walking-stick in his hand,--a strong swimmer, a noted runner; the first of all the masters in the school-room on the winter mornings, teaching the lowest class when it was his turn with the same energy which he would have thrown into a lecture to a critical audience, listening with interest to an intelligent answer from the smallest boy, and speaking to them more like an elder brother than the head master. {67} They soon perceived that they had to deal with a man thoroughly in earnest, acute, active, and not easily deceived; that he was not only a scholar but a gentleman, who expected them to behave as the sons of gentlemen themselves. Their attention was awakened, and, although their fears were somewhat excited, their sympathies and interest were at the same time aroused. This was a good commencement; but Arnold was ready with other means no less effectual for engaging their thoughts. He opened out to them at once "fresh fields and pastures new," in the domain of knowledge; he established periodical examinations, at which (if a tolerable proficiency in the regular studies was displayed) a boy might offer to be examined in books on any subject he might prefer, and prizes were awarded accordingly. The offer was eagerly seized; modern history, biography, travels, fiction, poetry, were sought after; the habit of general reading was created, and a new intellectual activity pervaded the school. The writer well remembers the effect produced on him when he heard that Arnold had lent one of the boys Humphrey Clinker, to illustrate a passage in his theme. He felt from that time forth that the keys of knowledge were confided to him, and, in proof of this, his own little library, and those in the "studies" of many of his neighbours, shortly doubled their numbers. French, German, and mathematics, were encouraged by forming distinct classes on these subjects, and by conferring for high standing in them some of the privileges as to exemption from fagging, which previously had only attached to a similar standing in classics. Modern history was also introduced as a recognised branch of school study. The advantage of this was, that many of the boys, who, from deficient early training or peculiar turn of mind, were unable to bring themselves to proficiency in the regular Latin and Greek course of the school, and consequently were idle and listless, found other and more congenial paths in which intelligence and application would still meet with their reward. By these simple means, now generally adopted in classical schools, but up to that time supposed to be incompatible with high accomplishments in classical learning, the standard of intelligence and information was incalculably raised, and the school, as a place of education in its wider sense, became infinitely more efficient. We should have stated that Dr. Arnold's skill as a teacher was unrivalled; he imparted a living interest to all he touched, to be attributed mainly to his habit of illustrating ancient events by "modern instances." Thus, Thucydides and Napier were compared almost page by page; thus the "High Church party" of the Jews was pointed to as a type of "the Tories." By means of his favourite topic, physical geography, he sought to bring the actual theatre of events before his pupils. Thus he would describe (when living at Laleham), the Vatican and Janiculum hills of Rome, as being "like the hills on the right bank of the Thames behind Chertsey;" the Monte Marie as being "about the height and steepness of Cooper's Hill," and "having the Tiber at the foot of it like the Thames at Anchorwick." To philology even, the deadly science of dead languages, and the great business of public schools, he contrived to impart life by continually pointing out its bearing on the history of the races of mankind. The interest thus given to study was something before unknown in schools. So far we have confined ourselves to the effect of Arnold's system on the mind, but the source of his most anxious thoughts and constant solicitude lay deeper than this; it related to the spiritual condition, or, according to the German phrase, "the inner life," of the boys. With his usual indifference to personal labour he assumed the preachership of the chapel, declining however, also, with characteristic disinterestedness, the salary attached, hitherto given to increase the stipend of a junior master, and his famous "quarter of an hour" sermons, into which he threw all the power of his character and his intellect, no doubt gave him an opportunity of confirming, on certain minds, that influence which was primarily due to his earnest acts of heart and head. We here approach a portion of his career on which difference of opinion must always exist. Impressed with an abiding conviction that all earthly things were subordinate to the relation between man and his Maker; keenly appreciating all that was "of good report," and impatient of evil, or what seemed to him to be of evil tendency, even to intolerance, it must be admitted that in Arnold there was something of the zealot. With his acute sense of responsibility as to the spiritual state of the boys, it was natural that he should seek to impress those with whom he was brought in contact, and he did so. The personal notice he bestowed on boys of serious tendencies, asking them to his house and conversing with them on solemn subjects had this effect, and soon engendered "a sect" in the school. Now, the boys who were thus susceptible and formed this sect, were generally of the milder order of character, and not of that precocious virility which always gives influence in a great school; hence arose among the natural leaders of the school, the strong in character and the stout in heart and hand, a reaction against Arnold and against Arnold's views, as being opposed to the traditional notions of the school. This reaction was strengthened by the peculiar nature of some of these views, such, for instance as those on the subject of the code of honour. Arnold, although himself a man actuated by a nice sense of honour, felt it his duty to set himself strongly in words against the code of honour; it was the constant object of vituperation on his part, even from the pulpit. His notions on this point, however, never gained ground with his hearers, who could not be brought to believe that their master (himself as true a knight errant as ever drew sword or pen,) was serious when he told them that the spirit of chivalry was "the true Antichrist." The attempt to introduce a more highly-wrought tone of religious feeling than was perhaps of wholesome growth in very young minds was, therefore, not without its drawbacks; the antagonism to some of his own views which it called forth, combined with the utter disregard to established views which characterized his own teaching, and which the school caught from him, told upon the boys' minds. The direct and indirect effect of Arnold's school of thought may indeed, now, we think, be traced in the general distrust of hitherto received opinions, which, but little tinged in England it is true with either licentiousness or irreverence, is nevertheless characteristic of the present generation. These effects are also more manifest now that Arnold's personal influence can no longer be exercised. So long as he was at his post, his earnest simplicity of character, his purity of life, his intellectual vigour, his fearless seeking after truth, carried away the sympathies of all who were brought in contact with him; not one of whom but will say, on looking back to the impression he left on them, "Behold an Israelite indeed in whom there was no guile!" Thus the reform introduced into Rugby by Arnold, and indirectly into other public schools through him, was then very different from that which was anticipated from him. He did, it will be seen, none of the things he was expected by his party to do. He strenuously inculcated the views of Christian doctrine most opposed to those of the Latitudinarian party. {71} He stoutly adhered to the system of "fagging," as being the best mode of responsible government for the school "out of school," founding his opinion on his own experience at Winchester, on which he often dwelt. He raised and improved the standard of classical learning in its wider sense, so that the scholars of Rugby gained a high standing at the universities; and by showing that this was attainable consistently with acquirements in other branches of learning, and with the utmost amount of intelligent interest in the knowledge of the day, he confirmed that opinion in favour of the advantage of classical learning, as a sound philosophical means of training the faculties for worldly affairs, which we have seen lately advocated and applauded even in the heart of Manchester itself, at the opening of Owen's College. The change he introduced was thus more thorough, more deep and comprehensive, than any which the suggestions of his partisan supporters would have accomplished. It was a change in the very spirit of education, reaching beyond the years of boyhood or the limits of school walls. COVENTRY TO BIRMINGHAM, Instead of turning off from Rugby by the new route to Leamington, we will keep the old road, and so push on straight to the great Warwickshire manufactory and mart of ribands and watches. First appears the graceful spire of St. Michael's Church; then the green pastures of the Lammas, on which, for centuries, the freemen of Coventry have fed their cattle, sweep into sight, and with a whiz, a whirl, and a whistle, we are in the city and county of Coventry--the seat of the joint diocese of Lichfield and Coventry--which return two members to Parliament, at the hands of one of the most stubbornly independent constituencies in England; a constituency which may be soft-sawdered, but cannot be bullied or bribed. A railroad here branches off to Nuneaton, distant ten miles, a sort of manufacturing dependency of the great city; and on the other, at the same distance, to Leamington, with a station at Kenilworth. In addition to its manufacturing importance, an importance which has survived and increased in the face of the changes in the silk trade and watch trade, commenced by Huskisson, and completed by Peel, Coventry affords rich food for the antiquarian, scenes of deep interest to the historical student, a legend for poets, a pageant for melodramatists, and a tableau for amateurs of poses plastiques. Once upon a time Kings held their Courts and summoned Parliaments at Coventry; four hundred years ago the Guilds of Coventry recruited, armed, clothed, and sent forth six hundred stout fellows to take part in the Wars of the Roses; at Coventry the lists were pitched for Mary of Lancaster, and Phillip Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, to decide in single combat their counter- charges before the soon-to-be-dethroned Richard II. At Coventry you will find the effigy of vile Peeping Tom, and can follow the course through which the fair Godiva rode naked, veiled by her modesty and flowing tresses, to save her townsmen from a grievous tax. To be sure, some English Niebuhrs have undertaken to prove the whole story a legend; but, for our parts, we are determined to believe in tradition and Alfred Tennyson's sonnet. There are three ancient churches in Coventry, of which St. Michael's, built in the reign of Henry I., is the first; the spire rising 303 feet from the ground, the lofty interior ornamented with a roof of oak, curiously carved, and several windows of stained glass. [COVENTRY: ill11.jpg] St. Mary's Hall, a large building, now used for corporation council meetings, and festivities, erected in the reign of Henry VI., is one of the richest and most interesting vestiges of the ornamental architecture of England. The principal room has a grotesquely-carved roof of oak, a gallery for minstrels, an armoury, a chair of state, and a great painted window, which need only the filling up of royal and noble personages, their attendants, and the rich burgesses of Coventry, to recall the time when Richard II. held his Court in this ancient city, and, with "old John of Gaunt," settled the sentence on Harry of Hereford, and Philip of Norfolk. In this chamber is to be seen a beautiful piece of tapestry, executed in 1450, measuring thirty feet by ten, and containing eighty figures. In the free school, founded by John Moles, in the reign of Henry VIII., Sir William Dugdale, the antiquarian and historian of Warwickshire, was educated. The income is about 900 pounds a-year, and the scholars have open to competition two fellowships of St. John's College, Oxon, one at Catherine's Hall, Cambridge, and six exhibitions at either University. Previous to the investigations of the Charity Commissioners, the fine school-room was locked up, and the books of the library torn for waste paper to light fires. At present, under the reformed system, the school is attended by a large number of scholars. There are more than a dozen educational and other charities for the benefit of the poor, enjoying a revenue of many thousands a-year. There are also several curious specimens of domestic architecture of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to be found in Coventry. It is, however, on the whole, a dark, dirty, inconvenient city. The surrounding belt of Lammas lands on which the freemen have the right of pasturing their horses and cows, has prevented any increase in the limits of the city. In the middle ages Coventry was celebrated for its "mysteries and pageants," of which an account has been published by Mr. Reader, a local bookseller. The chief manufactures are of ribands and of watches, both transplantations from the Continent. The electors of Coventry distinguished themselves by their consistency during the Free-trade agitation. They exacted a pledge from their members in favour of Free-trade, except in watches and ribands. More recently these same Coventry men have had the good sense to prefer a successful man of business, the architect of his own fortunes, to a Right Honourable Barrister and ex-Railway Commissioner. [THE SHERBORNE VIADUCT, NEAR COVENTRY: ill12.jpg] One thing needful to preserve the manufacturing position of Coventry is, a first-rate School of Design--labour, and coal, and ample means of conveyance they have, east and west, and north and south; and now the manufacturers only need the cultivation of true principles of taste among the whole riband- weaving population. For taste is a rare article, and many draughts of small fry must be made before one leviathan salmon can be caught. Great advances have been made recently in the production of the best kinds of ribands. A specimen produced by subscription for the Hyde Park Exhibition of 1851, proved that Coventry was quite able to rival the choicest work of France in the class of machine-made ribands. The application of steam power to this class of manufactures is of but recent date. Coventry surveyed, and this may be done in a few hours, unless the traveller is able and willing to examine its rich manufactories, it is difficult to resist the invitation of the railway porter, bawling, to Kenilworth, Leamington, and Warwick, names calling up a crowd of romantic associations, from Shakspeare to Scott and Bulwer; but for the present we must keep steadily on to Birmingham, where steam finds the chief raw materials of poetry and fashioner of beauty. BIRMINGHAM. A run of nineteen miles brings us to what the inhabitants call the Hardware Village, a healthy, ugly town, standing upon several hills, crowned with smoke, but free from fog. The old railway station stands at the foot of one of these hills, leaving a drive of a quarter of a mile through a squalid region, almost as bad as the railway entrance into Bristol, before entering into the decent part of the town; but the new station, now in course of rapid completion, will land passengers behind the Grammar School, in New Street, the principal, and, indeed, only handsome street of any length in Birmingham. At the old station there is an excellent hotel, kept by Mr. Robert Bacon, who was so many years house steward to the Athenaeum Club, in Pall Mall; and at the refreshment-rooms a capital table d'hote is provided four times a-day, at two shillings a-head, servants included, an arrangement extremely acceptable after a ride of 118 miles. [NEWTON ROAD STATION, NEAR BIRMINGHAM: ill16.jpg] At the new station similar refreshment-rooms are to be provided, and it is to be hoped that the architect will plan the interior first, and the exterior afterwards, so that comfort may not be sacrificed, as it usually is in English public buildings, to the cost of an imposing portico and vestibule. As a railway starting point, Birmingham has become a wonderful place. In addition to those main lines and branches passed and noted on our journey down, it is also the centre at which meet the railroads to Derby and Sheffield; to Worcester, Cheltenham, Gloucester, and Bristol; to London through Oxford, by the Broad Gauge Great Western, to Shrewsbury and Chester through Wolverhampton, beside the little South Staffordshire lines, which form an omnibus route between Birmingham, Walsall, Dudley, and Lichfield, and other iron nets "too tedious to describe." To a stranger not interested in manufactures, and in mechanic men, this is a very dull, dark, dreary town, and the sooner he gets out of it the better. There are only two fine buildings. The Town Hall, an exact copy externally of the Temple of Jupiter Stator at Rome, built of a beautiful grey Anglesey marble, from the designs of Messrs. Hansom and Welch, who also undertook to execute it for 24,000 pounds. It cost 30,000 pounds, and the contractors were consequently ruined. A railway company would probably have paid the difference; but, in such cases, communities have no conscience, so the people of Brummagem got the Hall of which they are justly proud "a bargain." The interior is disappointing, and wants the expenditure of some more thousand pounds in sculptures and decorative details, to bring it into harmony with its noble external effect. The great room, 145 feet in length, by 65 feet in width and height, will contain upwards of 8,000 persons. Musical meetings are held here periodically, for the benefit of certain charities; but the sight best worth seeing, is the Hall at the period of an election, or of political excitement, crowded with a feverish army of workmen, cheering, groaning, swaying to and fro, under the speeches of their favourite orators. Then in this Pagan temple may be seen a living specimen of a Brummagem Jupiter, with a cross of Vulcan, lion-faced, hairy, bearded, deep-mouthed swaggering, fluent in frank nonsense and bullying clap-trap, loved by the mob for his strength, and by the middle classes for his money. The lofty roof re-echoes with applause. The temple, the man, and the multitude, all together, are well worth a journey to Birmingham to see. There is also the Free School of King Edward VI., in New Street, a stately pile, built by Barry, before he had become so famous as he is now; which supplies first-rate instruction in classics, mathematics, modern languages, and all branches of a useful English education, after the plan introduced into our public schools by Dr. Arnold, to the sons of all residents, at an extremely cheap, almost a nominal rate. Ten exhibitions of 50 pounds each for four years at Oxford or Cambridge are open to the competition of the scholars. The salary of the Head Master is 400 pounds a-year, with a residence, and the privilege of boarding eighteen pupils. Of the Second Master, 300 pounds. Beside Under Masters. These liberal appointments have secured a succession of competent masters, and cannot fail to produce a permanent and favourable change in the character of young Birmingham. The diffusion of sound classical learning was much needed to mitigate the coxcombical pretensions of the half-educated, and the vulgar coarseness of the uneducated. The inhabitants of manufacturing towns are apt to grow petty Plutocracies, in which after wealth, ignorance and assumption are the principal qualifications. Brass turns up its nose at iron, and both look down upon tin, although half an hour in the world's fire make all so black as to be undistinguishable. Besides this, which we may term the High School, there are four schools supported out of King Edward VI.'s foundation, where reading, writing, and arithmetic, are taught. The funds on which these magnificent ecclesiastical establishments are supported, arise from lands in the neighbourhood which originally produced only 21 pounds a year, and were part of the estates of the Guild of the "Holy Cross." After being occupied first as fields and then as gardens, the rise of manufactures and extension of the town of Birmingham, converted a great portion into building land. The present revenue amounts to about 11,000 pounds per annum, and are likely to be still further increased. Twenty years ago, school lands which are now leased for terms of years, and covered with buildings, were occupied as suburban gardens at trifling rents. Eventually the Birmingham Free School will enjoy an income equal to the wants of a university as well as a school. Meagre accounts of the income and expenditure of this noble foundation are published annually, under the regulations of an Act of Parliament passed in 1828; but no report of the number of scholars, or the sort of education communicated, is attached to this balance sheet. It would be very useful; and we hope that the self- elected corporation, who have the management, will see the propriety of supplying it. Birmingham also possesses a chartered college, "Queen's College," similar to that at Durham; first established as a medical school by the exertions of the present dean, Mr. Sands Cox, since liberally endowed by the Rev. Dr. Warneford to the extent of many thousand pounds, and placed in a position to afford the courses in law, physic, and divinity, required for taking a degree at the University of London. Also a Blue Coat School, and School for the Blind. In a picturesque point of view there are few towns more uninviting than Birmingham; for the houses are built of brick toned down to a grimy red by smoke, in long streets crossing each other at right angles,--and the few modern stone buildings and blocks of houses seem as pert and as much out of place as the few idle dandies who are occasionally met among the crowds of busy mechanics and anxious manufacturers. What neatness--cleanliness--can do for the streets, bell-pulls, and door-knockers, has been done; the foot- pavements are, for the most part flagged, although some of the round pebble corn-creating footways still remain in the back streets. One suburb, Edgbaston, is the property of Lord Calthorpe, and has been let out on building leases which entirely exclude all manufactories and inferior classes of houses. The result has been a crop of snug villas, either stucco or polished red brick; many of them surrounded by gardens and shrubberies, and a few of considerable pretension. Of this suburb the Birmingham people think a great deal; but, as it is built upon a dead flat in long straight lines, its effect is more pleasing to the citizen after a hard day's work, than to the artist, architect, landscape gardener, or lover of the picturesque. Birmingham is, in fact, notable for its utility more than its beauty,--for what is done in its workshops, rather than for what is to be seen in its streets and suburbs. Nowhere are there to be found so numerous a body of intelligent, ingenious, well educated workmen. The changes of fashion and the discoveries of science always find Birmingham prepared to march in the van, and skilfully execute the work needed in iron, in brass, in gold and silver, in all the mixed metals and in glass. When guns are no longer required at the rate of a gun a minute, Birmingham steel pens become famous all over the world. When steel buckles and gilt buttons have had their day, Britannia teapots and brass bedsteads still hold their own. No sooner is electrotype invented, than the principal seat of the manufacture is established at Birmingham. No sooner are the glass duties repealed than the same industrious town becomes renowned for plate glass, cut glass, and stained glass; and, when England demands a Palace to hold the united contributions of "The Industry of the World," a Birmingham banker finds the contractor and the credit, and Birmingham manufacturers find the iron, the glass, and the skill needful for the most rapid and gigantic piece of building ever executed in one year. In order to appreciate the independent character and quick inventive intelligence of the Birmingham mechanic, he should be visited at his own home. A system of small independent houses, instead of lodgings, prevails in this town, to the great advantage of the workmen. It is only within a very few years that the working classes have had, in a local School of Design, means of instruction in the principles of taste, and arts of drawing and modelling; while, until the patent laws are put upon a just foundation, their inventive faculties can never be fully developed. When the artizans of Birmingham have legislative recognition of their rights as inventors, and free access to a first-rate school of design, their "cunning" hands will excel in beauty as well as ingenuity all previous triumphs. The wealthier classes have, from various causes, deteriorated within the last sixty years, while the workmen have improved within that time. Men who have realized fortunes no longer settle down in the neighbourhood of their labours. They depart as far as possible from the smoke of manufactures and the bickerings of middle class cliques, purchase estates, send their sons to the universities, and in a few years subside into country squires. Professional men, as soon as they have displayed eminent talent, emigrate to London; and the habit, now so prevalent in all manufacturing towns, of living in the suburbs, has sapped the prosperity of those literary and philosophical institutions and private reunions, which so much contributed to raise the tone of society during the latter half of the last century. The meetings of an old Literary and Philosophical Society have been discontinued, and the News Room was lately on the brink of dissolution. Instead of meeting to discuss points of art, science, and literature, the middle classes read the Times and Punch, and consult the Penny Cyclopaedia. The literary and scientific character which Birmingham acquired in the days when Boulton, Watt, Priestly, Darwin, Murdoch, and their friends, met at the Birmingham Lunarian Society, to discuss, to experiment, and to announce important discoveries, have passed away never to return; and we are not likely to see again any provincial town occupying so distinguished a position in the scientific world. The only sign of Birmingham's ancient literary pre- eminence is to be found in several weekly newspapers, conducted with talent and spirit far beyond average. It is an amusing fact, that the sect to which Priestly belonged still trade on his reputation, and claim an intellectual superiority over the members of other persuasions, which they may once have possessed, but which has long been levelled up by the universal march of education. The richer members publish little dull books in bad English on abstruse subjects, and, like Consuelo's prebendary, have quartos in preparation which never reach the press. In fact, the suburban system of residence and the excessive pretension of superiority by the "pots over the kettles" have almost destroyed society in Birmingham, although people meet occasionally at formal expensive parties, and are drawn together by sympathy in religion and politics. Nothing would induce an educated gentleman to live in Birmingham except to make a living, yet there are residing there, seldom seen out of their factories, men of the highest scientific and no mean literary attainments. There are a number of manufactories, which, in addition to their commercial importance, present either in finished articles, or in the process of manufacture, much that will interest an intelligent traveller. GLASS.--Messrs. F. & C. Oslers, of Broad Street, have attained a very high reputation for their cut and ornamental, as well as the ordinary, articles of flint glass. The have been especially successful in producing fine effects from prismatic arrangements. Their gigantic chandeliers of great size, made for Ibrahim Pacha, and the Nepalese Prince, were the steps by which they achieved the lofty crystal fountain, of an entirely original design, which forms one of the most novel and effective ornaments of the Crystal Palace. The manufactory as well as the show-room is open to the inspection of respectable strangers. Messrs. Rice and Harris are also extensive manufacturers of cut and coloured glass; and Messrs. Bacchus and Sons have been very successful in their imitations of Bohemian glass, both in form and colour. Messrs. Chance have acquired a world-wide reputation by supplying the largest quantity of crown glass in the shortest space of time for Paxton's Palace. These works, in which plate and every kind of crown glass is made, are situated at West Bromwich. The proprietors have benevolently and wisely made arrangements for the education of their workmen and their families, which are worthy of imitation in all those great factories where the plan, which originated in Lancashire, has not been already adopted. A letter of introduction will be required in order to view Messrs. Chance's establishment, of which we shall say more when noting the social state of the Birmingham operatives. PAPIER MACHE.--Messrs. Jennens and Bettridge's works are so well known that it is only necessary to refer to them for the purpose of saying that in their show-rooms some new application of the art which they have carried to such perfection is constantly to be found. Pianos, cradles, arm-chairs, indeed complete drawing-room suites, cornices, door-plates, and a variety of ornaments are displayed, in addition to the tea-trays and tea-chests in which the art of japanning first became known to us. Although Messrs. Jennens and Co. have the largest establishment in Birmingham, there are several others who produce capital work; among them may be named Mr. Thomas Lane and Messrs. M'Callum and Hodgson, who both exhibited specimens of great merit at the last Birmingham Exhibition of manufactures. But metals afford the great staple of employment in Birmingham, and we shall avail ourselves, in describing the leading trades, and touching on the social position of the workmen, of the admirable letters on Labour and the Poor in Birmingham which appeared in the Morning Chronicle in the course of 1850. {81} * * * * * BIRMINGHAM BUTTONS.--"A Brummagem Button" is the old-fashioned nickname for a Birmingham workman. The changes of fashion, and the advances of other manufactures, have deprived that trade of its ancient pre-eminence over all other local pursuits; but the "button trade," although not the same trade which made great fortunes in a previous generation, still employs five or six thousand hands, of which one-half are women and children. In the middle of the eighteenth century a plain white metal button was made, which may occasionally be seen in remote rural districts, on the green coats of old yeomen, wearing hereditary leather breeches. At that period the poorer classes wore coarse horn or wooden buttons, chiefly home made, and the tailor made, as well as the clothes, buttons covered with cloth. By degrees very handsome gilt buttons came into wear, and continued to employ many hands, while the blue coat which figures in the portraits of our grandfathers remained in fashion. In 1826, the Florentine, or covered button, now in almost universal use, which is manufactured by machinery with the aid of women and children, was introduced, and by 1829 the gilt button trade had been almost destroyed. The change produced great distress, vast numbers of persons were thrown out of work, who could not at once turn to any other employment. In 1830 a deputation from the gilt button trade waited upon George IV. and the principal nobility, to solicit their patronage. The application succeeded, coloured coats with metal buttons came into fashion, and dandies of the first water appeared in bright snuff-coloured, pale green, and blue coats, such as are now only worn by Paul Bedford or Keeley, in broad farce. In 1836 a cheap mode of gilding, smart for a day, dull and shabby in a week, completely destroyed the character of gilt buttons, and brought up the Florentine again. This change was, no doubt, materially assisted and maintained by Bulwer's novel of "Pelham," which set all young men dressing themselves up like crows with white shirts. In 1840 a deputation to Prince Albert attempted another revival of the gilt button trade, and at the same time the silk stocking weavers waited on the Prince to endeavour to drive out the patent leather boots, and bring in the low shoe. Both attempts failed. At present there are symptoms of a turn of fashion toward coloured coats and bright buttons, which may be successful, because the fashionable world abhors monotony. The flame coloured coats, long curls, and pink under waistcoats of George IV., were succeeded by the solemn sables of an undertaker; the high tight stock made way for a sailor's neckcloth. For a time shawl waistcoats, of gay colours, had their hour. Then correct tight black yielded to the loosest and shaggiest garments that could be invented. Perhaps the year 1852 may see our youth arrayed in blue, purple and pale brown. But a very little consideration will prove that these artificial changes, although they may benefit a class, are of little advantage to the community. If a man gives 10s. more for a coat with gilt buttons than for one with plain buttons, he has 10s. less to expend with some other tradesman. The Florentine Button, first invented in 1820, and since much improved, is a very curious manufacture. It is made--as any one may see by cutting up a button--of five pieces; first, the covering of Florentine, or silk; second, a cover of metal, which gives the shape to the button; third, a smaller circle of mill-board; fourth, a circle of coarse cloth, or calico; fifth, a circle of metal, with a hole punched in the centre, through which the calico or cloth is made to protrude, to form the shank, to be sewed on to the garment. "Ranged in rows on either side of a long room of the button factory, (says the correspondent of the Morning Chronicle) are from 50 to 100 girls and young women, from the age of fourteen to four or five and twenty, all busily engaged, either at hand or steam presses, in punching out metal circles slightly larger than the size of the button which is to be produced. Before each press the forewoman is seated, holding in her hand a sheet of zinc or iron, about two feet long, and four inches broad. This she passes rapidly under the press if worked by hand, and still more rapidly if worked by steam, punching and cutting at the rate of from fifty to sixty disks in a minute. As they are cut they fall into a receptacle prepared to receive them. The perforated sheets are sold to the founder to be melted up, and made into other sheets. In other rooms younger women are engaged in cutting up Florentine cloth, or other outside covering material, paste board and calico. Of these a young woman can punch 57,000 a-day, and of metal, 28,000 a-day. The upper discs are submitted by another set of girls to presses from which each receives a blow that turns up an edge all round, and reduces it to the exact size of the button. The lower disk is punched for the shank to come through, stamped with the maker's name, or the name of the tailor for whom the buttons are made, and coated with varnish, either light or black. "The five pieces then pass into a department where a woman superintends the labours of a number of children from seven to ten years of age. "These little creatures place all five pieces, one after another, in regular order, in a small machine like a dice-box, constructed to hold them, which is placed under a press, when a firm touch compresses the whole together in the neat form, which any one may examine on a black dress coat, without stitch or adhesive matter." This patent was the subject of long litigation between rival inventors, to the great benefit of the lawyers, and loss of the industrious and ingenious. Within the last twelve months Messrs. Chadbourne, button-makers, of Great Charles Street, have adapted this Florentine button to nails for furniture and carriages. The Patent Linen sewn-through Button is another recent invention, which has superseded the old wire button for under garments, than which it is cheaper, neater, and more durable. It is composed of linen and circles of zinc. Horn Buttons, with shanks, which are extensively used for cloth boots and sporting jackets, are made from the hoofs of horned cattle, which are boiled, cut, punched, dyed, stamped when soft, and polished by brushes moved by steam power; the chief part of the work being done by women and children. Pearl Buttons have become an important part of the Birmingham manufactures, partly on the decline of metal buttons. They are extensively used on coats and waistcoats, where gilt buttons were formerly employed. The shell used in the manufacture of buttons, studs, card counters, etc., is the mother of pearl, the Concha margaritifera of naturalists. Five kinds of shell are employed:--First. The Buffalo Shell, so named because it arrived packed in buffalo skins; it comes chiefly from Panama, is the smallest and commonest, and sells to the trade at about 15 pounds a ton.--Second. The Black Scotch, from the Sandwich Islands, whence it is sent to Valparaiso and to Sydney, New South Wales, worth from 15 to 30 pounds a ton. The large outer rim is of a blackish, or rather greenish, tint, the centre only being white. The outer rim was formerly considered worthless, and large quantities were thrown away as rubbish. Change of fashion has brought the prismatic hues of the dark pearl into fashion for shooting-coats, waistcoats, and even studs. It used to be a standing story with a Bristol barber that a square in that city had been built on thousands of pounds worth of tobacco stalks, thrown away as useless, until it was discovered that that part of the plant was capable of making a most saleable snuff. And so in Birmingham; the Irvingite Church, on New Hall Hill, is said to be built on hundreds of tons of refuse shell, which would now be worth from 15 to 20 pounds per ton. The third shell is the Bombay, or White Scotch, worth from 20 to 50 pounds per ton. The fourth comes from Singapore, and is brought there to exchange for British manufactures by the native craft which frequent that free port. It is a first-rate article, white to the edge, worth from 80 to 90 pounds per ton. The fifth is the Mother of Pearl Shell, from Manilla, of equal value and size, but with a slight yellow tinge round the edge. Pearl buttons are cut out and shaped by men with the lathe, polished by women with a grinding-stone, and sorted and arranged on cards by girls. Glass Buttons were formerly in use among canal boatmen, miners, and agricultural labourers, in certain districts. They are now chiefly made for the African market. The process of making them and studs is well worth seeing. Beside the buttons already enumerated, they make in Birmingham the flat iron and brass buttons, for trowsers; steel buttons, for ladies' dresses; wooden buttons, for overcoats; agate buttons, for which material is imported from Bohemia; and, in fact, every kind of button and stud, including papier mache. The manufacture of brass shanks is a separate trade, and the writer of the letters already quoted, states the annual production at, or upwards of, three millions per working day. Of these, part are made by hand, but the greater number by a shank-making machine, wrought by steam power, and only requiring the attendance of one tool-maker. "The machine feeds itself from a coil of brass or iron wire suspended from the roof, and cuts and twists into shanks, by one process, at the rate of 360 per minute, or nearly 75,000,000 per annum. Some button manufacturers employ one of these machines; the majority buy the shanks." * * * * * GUNS AND SWORDS.--According to Hutton, the historian of Birmingham, the town was indebted for its occupation in supplying our army with fire-arms, to an ancestor of a gentleman who now represents a division of Warwickshire, a Sir Roger Newdigate, in the time of William III. The story, however, seems only half-true. Hutton would imply that the first muskets manufactured in England were made in Birmingham. It seems more likely, that the connexion with William III. arose from the desire of that monarch to have the flint-lock, which was superseding the match-lock on the Continent, made in his own dominions. At any rate, the revolution of 1688, which the romantic anti-commercial party of Young England so deeply regret, gave Birmingham its gun trade, as well as Hampton Court its asparagus beds. When Walpole gave us peace, the attention of the manufacturers was directed to fowling-pieces, and from that time forward Birmingham has contained the greatest fire-arm factory in the world, although, of course, subject to many fluctuations. Twenty years ago, "A long war soon," was as regular a toast at convivial meetings of Birmingham manufacturers, as at any mess-room or in any cock-pit in her majesty's service. The government has made several attempts, by establishing manufactories with public money and under official control, to become independent of Birmingham, but the end has invariably been great loss and pitiful results in the number of arms produced. We hope to live to see the time when our navy will be built as economically as our guns are made--by private contract--and our public ship-yards confined to the repairing department. During the war which ended at the battle of Waterloo, the importance and prosperity of the gun-makers were great. It was calculated that a gun a minute was made in Birmingham on the average of a year, but the Peace threw numbers out of work and reduced wages very considerably. Time has brought the trade to a level; indeed, it is one of the great advantages of Birmingham, that the prosperity of the town does not rest on any one trade; so that if some are blighted others are flourishing, and when one fails the workmen are absorbed into other parallel employments. The gun trade now depends for support on the demand for--first, cheap muskets for African and other aboriginal tribes; secondly, on cheap fowling-pieces, rifles, pistols, blunderbusses, etc., for exportation to America, Australia, and other countries where something effective is required at a moderate price; thirdly, on the home demand for fowling-pieces of all qualities, from the commonest to those sold at the West End of London, at fancy prices; fourthly, on that for fire-arms required by our army and navy; and, lastly, on occasional uncertain orders created by wars and revolutions on the Continent. There are a vast number of guns, or parts of guns, made in Birmingham, which bear the names of retailers in different parts of the kingdom. Even very fashionable gun-makers find it worth their while to purchase goods in the rough state from Birmingham manufacturers on whom they can depend, and finish them themselves. This is rendered easy by the system. No one in Birmingham makes the whole of a gun. The division of labour is very great; the makers of the lock, the barrel, and the stock, are completely distinct, and the mechanics confine themselves to one branch of a department. The man who makes the springs for a lock has nothing to do with the man who makes the nipple or the hammer; while the barrel-forger has no connexion with the stock-maker or lock-maker. The visitor who has the necessary introductions, should by no means omit to visit a gun-barrel factory, as there are a good many picturesque effects in the various processes, beside the mechanical instruction it affords. The following is the order of the fabrication of a common gun:-- The sheets for barrels are made from scraps of steel and iron, such as old coach-springs, knives, steel chains, horse shoes and horseshoe nails, and sheets of waste steel from steel pen manufactories. These, having been sorted, are bound together, and submitted first to such a furnace, and then to such a steam hammer as we described in our visit to Wolverton, until it is shaped into a bar of tough iron, which is afterwards rolled into sheets of the requisite thickness. From one of these sheets a length sufficient to make a gun barrel is cut off by a pair of steam-moved shears, of which the lower jaw is stationary and the upper weighs a ton, of which plenty of examples may be seen in every steam engine factory. The slip of iron is made red hot, placed between a pair of rollers, one of which is convex and the other concave, and comes out in a semicircular trough shape; again heated, and again pressed by smaller rollers, by which the cylinder is nearly completed. A long bar of iron is passed through the cylinder, it is thrust into the fire again, and, when red hot, it is submitted to the welder, who hammers it and heats it and hammers it again, until it assumes the form of a perfect tube. Damascus barrels are made by incorporating alternate layers of red hot steel and iron, which are then twisted into the shape of a screw while at white heat. The bar thus made is twisted in a cold state by steam power round a bar into a barrel shape, then heated and welded together. These are the barrels which present the beautiful variegated appearance which gives them the name of Damascus. The barrels, whether common or twisted, are then bored by a steel rod, kept wet with water or oil, and turned by steam. The process occupies from two to three hours for each barrel. The next operation is that of grinding the outside of the barrel with sandstone wheels, from five to six feet in diameter when new, driven by steam. These stones chiefly come from the neighbouring district of Bilston; in four months' work, a stone of this size will be reduced to two feet. The employment is hard, dangerous from the stones often breaking while in motion, in which case pieces of stone weighing a ton have been known to fly through the roof of the shop; unwholesome, because the sand and steel dust fill eyes, mouth, and lungs, unless a certain simple precaution is taken which grinders never take. After grinding, a nut is screwed into the breech, and the barrel is taken to the proof house to be proved. The proof house is a detached building, the interior of which is lined with plates of cast iron. The barrels are set in two iron stocks, the upper surface of one of which has a small gutter, to contain a train of powder; in this train the barrels rest with their touchholes downwards, and in the rear of the breeches of the barrels is a mass of sand. When the guns, loaded with five times the quantity of powder used in actual service, have been arranged, the iron-lined doors and windows are closed, and a train extending to the outside through a hole is fired. Some barrels burst and twist into all manner of shapes; those which pass the ordeal are again examined after the lapse of twenty-four hours, and, if approved, marked with two separate marks, one for viewing and one for proving. The mark for proving consists of two sceptres crossed with a crown in the upper angle; the letters B and C in the left and right, and the letter P in the lower angle. For viewing only, V stands instead of P underneath the crown, the other letters omitted. After proving, the jiggerer fastens the pin, which closes up the breech. In the mean time the construction of the lock, which is an entirely different business, and carried on in the neighbouring towns of Wednesbury, Darleston, and Wolverhampton, as well as in Birmingham, has been going on. The gun lock makers are ranged into two great divisions of forgers and filers, beside many subdivisions. The forgers manufacture the pieces in the rough, the filers polish them and put them together. In the percussion lock, there are fifteen pieces; in the common flint lock, eight. By a process patented about eleven years ago, parts of a gun lock formerly forged by hand are now stamped with a die. The use of this invention was opposed by the men, but without success. The barrel and lock next pass into the hands of the stocker. The stocks, of beechwood for common guns, of walnut for superior, of which much is imported from France and Italy, arrive in Birmingham in a rough state. The stocker cuts away enough of the stock to receive the barrel, the lock, the ramrod, and shapes it a little. The next workman employed is the screw-together. He screws on the heel plate, the guard that protects the trigger, puts in the trigger plate, lets in the pipes to hold the ramrod, puts on the nozzle cap, and all other mountings. After all this, a finisher takes the gun to pieces, and polishes, fits all the mountings, or sends them to be polished by women; the lock is sent to the engraver to have an elephant and the word "warranted," if for the African market, put on it; a crown and the words "tower proof," if for our own military service; while the stock is in the hands of the maker off and cleanser, it is carved, polished, and, if needful, stained. Common gun barrels are polished or browned to prevent them from rusting, real Damascus barrels are subjected to a chemical process, which brings out the fine wavy lines and prevents them from rusting. All these operations having been performed, the barrel, the lock, and the stock, are brought back by the respective workmen who have given them the final touch, and put together by the finisher or gun maker, and this putting together is as much as many eminent gunmakers ever do. But, by care and good judgment, they acquire a reputation for which they can charge a handsome percentage. For these reasons, with local knowledge, it is possible to obtain from a Birmingham finisher who keeps no shop, a first-rate double gun at a very low figure compared with retail prices. Belgium and Germany compete with Birmingham for cheap African guns, and even forge the proof marks. Neither in quality nor in price for first-rate articles can any country compete with us. * * * * * SWORDS AND MATCHETTS.--The sword trade of Birmingham is trifling compared with that in guns. The foreign demand has dwindled away until it has become quite insignificant, and the chief employment is afforded by our own army and navy. Nevertheless, good swords are made in Birmingham, which is the only town in England where any manufacture of the kind exists, although the blades often bear the names of more fashionable localities. It is among the traditions of the Birmingham trade, that in 1817, when our Government was about to transfer its orders for swords to Germany, in consequence of the inferiority of English swords, a Mr. Gill claimed to compete for the contract; and that in order to show what he could do, he appeared before the Board of Ordnance with a sword, which he tied round his thigh, and then untied, when it immediately became straight. In the end Mr. Gill was the means of retaining the sword trade in Birmingham. Sword-grinding is worth seeing. Sword-makers find their principal employment in producing Matchetts, a tool or weapon very much like the modern regulation cutlass, but stronger and heavier, with a plain beech-wood handle, worth wholesale from 6d. to 9d. each. They are used in the East and West Indies, Ceylon, and South America, for cutting down sugar-canes and similar uses. We take the name to be Spanish; it is used by Defoe and Dampier. We only mention the article as one of the many odd manufactures made, but never sold retail, in England. * * * * * STEEL PENS.--All the steel pens made in England, and a great many sold in France, Germany, and America, whatever names or devices they may bear, are manufactured in Birmingham. In this respect, as in many others of the same nature, the Birmingham manufacturers are very accommodating, and quite prepared to stamp on their productions the American Eagle, the Cap of Liberty, the effigy of Pio Nono, or of the Comte de Chambord, if they get the order, the cash, or a good credit. And they are very right; their business is to supply the article, the sentiment is merely a matter of taste. There are eighteen steel pen manufacturers in the Birmingham Directory, and eight penholder makers. Two manufacturers employ about 1,000 hands, and the other seventeen about as many more. We can most of us remember when a long hard steel pen, which required the nicest management to make it write, cost a shilling, and was used more as a curiosity than as a useful comfortable instrument. About 1820, or 1821, the first gross of three slit pens was sold wholesale at 7 pounds 4s. the gross of twelve dozen. A better article is now sold at 6d. a gross. The cheapest pens are now sold wholesale at 2d. a gross, the best at from 3s.6d. to 5s.; and it has been calculated that Birmingham produces not less than a thousand million steel pens every year. America is the best foreign customer, in spite of a duty of twenty-four per cent; France ranks next, for the French pens are bad and dear. Mr. Gillott, who is one of the very first in the steel-pen trade, rose by his own mechanical talents and prudent industry from a very humble station. He was, we believe, a working mechanic, and invented the first machine for making steel pens, which for a long period he worked with his own hands; he makes a noble use of the wealth he has acquired; his manufactory is in every respect a model for the imitation of his townsmen, as we shall show when we say a few words about the condition of the working population; a liberal patron of our best modern artists, he has made a collection of their works, which is open to the inspection of any respectable stranger. The following description of his manufactory, which is not open to strangers without special cause shown, will be found interesting in a social as well as a commercial and mechanical point of view. * * * * * GILLOTT'S STEEL-PEN FACTORY.--In the first department, sheets of steel received from Sheffield are passed through rolling mills driven by steam, under charge of men and boys, until they are reduced to the thinness of a steel pen, to the length of about thirty inches, and the breadth of about three inches. These steel slips are conveyed to a large roomy workshop, with windows at both sides, scrupulously clean, where are seated in double rows an army of women and girls, from fourteen to forty years of age, who, unlike most of the women employed in Birmingham manufactories, are extremely neat in person and in dress. A hand press is opposite each; the only sound to be heard is the bump of the press, and the clinking of the small pieces of metal as they fall from the block into the receptacle prepared for them. One girl of average dexterity is able to punch out one hundred gross per day. Each division is superintended by a toolmaker, whose business it is to keep the punches and presses in good working condition, to superintend the work generally, and to keep order among the workpeople. The next operation is to place the blank in a concave die, on which a slight touch from a concave punch produces the shape of a semitube. The slits and apertures which increase the elasticity of the pen, and the maker's or vendor's name, are produced by a similar tool. When complete all but the slit, the pens are soft and pliable, and may be bent or twisted in the hand like a piece of thin lead. They are collected in grosses, or great grosses, into small square iron boxes, and placed by men who are exclusively employed in this department in a furnace, where they remain until box and pens are of a white heat. They are then taken out and immediately thrown hissing into oil, which cures them of their softness, by making them as brittle as wafers. On being taken out they are put in a sieve to drain, and then into a cylinder full of holes, invented by Mr. Gillott, which, rapidly revolving, extracts the last drop of moisture from the pens, on a principle that has been successfully applied to drying sugar, salt, and a vast number of other articles of the same nature. By this invention Mr. Gillott saves in oil from 200 to 300 pounds a-year. The pens having been dried are placed in other cylinders, and polished by mutual friction, produced by reverberatory motion. They are then roasted or annealed, so as to procure the requisite temper and colour, whether bronze or blue. The last process is that of slitting, which is done by women, with a sharp cutting tool. One girl, with a quick practised finger, can slit as many as 28,800 pens in a day. They are now ready for the young girls whose duty it is to count and pack them in boxes or grosses for the wholesale market. It has lately been stated by one of a deputation to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, on the subject of the paper duties, that steel pens for the French market are sent in bags instead of arranged on cards to the loss of paper makers and female labour, in consequence of the heavy excise duty on card board. * * * * * BRASSWORK.--Birmingham is by far the greatest producer of ornamental and useful brasswork. In the directory will be found a list which affords some idea of the number and varieties of the brass trade, as all these employ a certain number of working hands, varying from two or three apprentices to many hundred skilled workmen. It includes bell-founders, bottle-jack makers, brass founders, bronze powder makers, brass casters, clasp makers, coach lamp furniture, ornament makers, cock founders, compass makers, copper-smiths, cornice pole makers, curtain ring, bronze wire fender, gas-fitting, lamps, chandeliers (partly brass, partly glass), ecclesiastical ornament, lantern, letter-clip, mathematical instrument, brass and metallic bedstead, military ornament, brass nail, saddlers' ironmonger, (chiefly brass), scale, beam, and weighing machines, stair rod, moulding and astrigal, brass thimble makers, tube, brass and copper-wire drawers, wire workers and weavers, and many other trades less directly connected with brass. New articles are made in this metal every day. One manufacturer, who first hit upon the hand-clip for papers, made a very handsome sum by it. The Registration of Designs Act has been a great stimulus to certain branches of this trade. Lucifer boxes are quite a new article, unknown the other day, now manufactured in thousands for all quarters of the globe, Germany, Russia, Holland, India, Australia, California. Then there are ornaments for South American and Cuban saddles and harness; rings for lassos, and bells for sheep, cattle, and sledges, brass rings, as coins for Africa; and weights for weighing gold in California. Among the branches of the brass trade which have become important, since the increase of emigration about 5000 ship lamps have been made in one year, at a cheap rate; and within the last five years brass egg cups have been sent in enormous numbers to Turkey, where they are used to hand round coffee. South America is a great mart for cheap brass ware. Of this trade, it may be said, in the words of a vulgar proverb, "as one door shuts another opens." The use of china and glass, in conjunction with brass for house furniture and chandeliers, has also created a variety, and afforded an advantageous impetus to the trade. Mr. Winfield is one of the manufacturers in brass whose showrooms are open to the public. He also has claims on our attention for the wise and philanthropic manner in which he has endeavoured to supply the lamentable deficiency of education among the working classes. He holds a very leading position as a manufacturer of balustrades, tables, window-cornices, candelabra chandeliers, brackets, curtain-bands, and above all of metal bedsteads, which last he has supplied to some of the chief royal and princely families of Europe, besides Spain, Algeria, and the United States. In all these works great attention has been paid to design as well as workmanship, as was amply proved both at the local exhibition in 1849, where a large gas bracket, in the Italian style, of brass, with Parisian ornaments, excited much admiration; and in 1851, in Hyde Park, where we especially noted an ormolu cradle and French bedstead in gilt and bronze, amid a number of capital works of his production. Mr. Winfield is patentee of a curious process for drawing out the cylinders used in making bedsteads. Messrs. Messengers and Sons have one of the finest manufactories in ornamental iron, brass, and bronze, for lamps, chandeliers, and table ornaments. For a long series of years they have spared no expense in obtaining the best models and educating their workmen in drawing and modelling. In their show-rooms will be found many very pleasing statues in gold-colour, in bronze, and copies from antique types of vases, lamps, candelabra, etc. Messrs. Salt and Lloyd are also eminent lamp makers, and generally exhibit, beside table-lamps, the last and best carriage-lamps. Messrs. Ratcliffes are another enterprising firm. All such of these manufactories as have show-rooms open to strangers, will be found by an inquiry at any hotel; for although Birmingham is a large town, everybody knows everybody, and the cab drivers will usually be found competent to guide through the voyage of investigation. Next, after brass, we will take steel, divided into heavy and light steel toys. * * * * * HEAVY STEEL TOYS.--Heavy steel toys are the name by which, by a sort of Brummagem Bull, a variety of articles which are the very reverse of toys, and which are often not made of steel at all, are designated. Heavy steel toys are tools or articles of an implement nature, used in domestic economy. The list includes nearly 600 articles. Among these are included the tools of carpenters, coopers, gardeners, butchers, glaziers, farriers, saddlers, tinmen, shoemakers, weavers, wheelwrights, as well as corkscrews, sugar- tongs, sugar-nippers, boot-hooks, button-hooks, door-scrapers, calipers, printing-irons, dog-collars, chains, whistles, tinderboxes, and tobacco- stoppers. Hammers occupy a leading place, of which there are two or three hundred varieties, belonging to different trades, each of which is divided into eight or ten different weights. Birmingham has the largest share of the heavy toy trade, although there are extensive manufacturers in Sheffield and Wolverhampton. Fine edge tools are chiefly and best made at Sheffield. This trade increases annually in importance, as it consists of articles which are greatly in demand in new countries; and new markets are opened by every new colonising enterprise of the Anglo-Saxon race. The manufacture includes a great deal of wood-work for handles, as well as iron and steel. For although many axes are made for the American market, after special patterns, and with national mottoes, no handles are ever sent, as the backwoodsmen have better wood for their purpose at command. Our axe handles are stiff; a backwoodsman must have a flexible handle or haft. The Germans once tried to compete with us in the home market, but the attempt was a failure. As an instance of the odd accidents that affect the Birmingham trade, about three years ago, when flounces were in fashion, a great demand sprang up for pinking irons, previously only used for ornamenting the hems of shrouds. A workman informed the correspondent of the Morning Chronicle that he had earned about 3 pounds a week for two years at making them. The scientific tools of housebreakers are known to be made by certain journeymen in the steel toy trade. On the other hand, hand-cuffs, leg-irons, and similar restraining instruments are manufactured for home use and exportation. Occasionally, London and Liverpool houses in the Brazilian or Cuban trade have ordered suits of chains, intended for the use of slave-ships. These are cheap, coarse, painted black, and horrid looking. Among the orders on the books of a manufacturer, were several dozen pair of hand-cuffs for ladies. * * * * * THE EDGE TOOL MANUFACTURE, which is increasing in Birmingham, probably in consequence of the repeated strikes at Sheffield, added to the superior position of Birmingham as regards coal, and the markets of London, Liverpool, and Bristol, is often carried on in conjunction with that of steel toys. There are forty-five different kinds of axes; fourteen for the American market, twelve adzes, twenty-six bills and bill-hooks, and upwards of seventy hoes for different foreign countries--Spain, Portugal, South America, the United States, and Australia, which will soon consume as much hardware as America did fifty years ago. * * * * * LIGHT STEEL TOYS.--These include chatelains, watch chains, keys, seals, purses, slides, beads, waist buckles, dress swords, steel buttons for court dresses, bodkins, spectacle frames, knitting and netting implements, and steel snuffers. Shoe and knee buckles, which were once universally worn, alone employed five thousand persons in their manufacture, when it was the staple trade of the town. The expense and inconvenience of shoe buckles sent them out of fashion. Dragoons hung in the stirrup, and cricketers tore the nails of their fingers in picking up cricket balls, from the inconvenient buckle. The trade is extremely fluctuating, and depends very much on inventive taste in which we are manifestly inferior to the French. Some articles we can make better than they can, but they are always bringing out something new and pretty. In small beads they undersell us enormously, while in beads of 1/6th of an inch in diameter, and upwards, we can undersell them. A visit to a manufactory of light steel toys will afford a great deal of amusement and instruction. * * * * * MEDALLING.--DIE SINKING.--Here again are trades by which Birmingham keeps up its communication with all the civilised, and part of the uncivilised world. The first great improvements in coining the current money of the realm originated at Soho, near Birmingham, at the manufactories of two men whose memory Englishmen can never hold in sufficient respect--Matthew Boulton and James Watt. They were the inventors of the machinery now in use in the Royal Mint; for a long period they coined the copper money, as also some silver money for the United Kingdom, as well as money of all denominations for many foreign countries, tokens, and medals innumerable. They made coins for the French Convention. During the war, when money was scarce and small notes were in circulation, many tradesmen, and several public establishments issued "tokens," which were, in fact, metal promissory notes, as they were seldom of the intrinsic value stamped on them. By this expedient retailers advertised themselves, and temporarily increased their capital. Some successful speculators made fortunes, others were ruined by the presentation of all their metal notes of hand at periods of panic. At any rate, the manufacture of these articles had a great deal to do with the education of workmen for the medal manufacture which is now so extensively carried on. The dies from which coins and medals are struck, are, of course, all executed by hand, and the excellence of each coin or medal depends on the skill of each individual workman; therefore there has been no great improvement in execution--indeed, some medals and coins struck two thousand years ago, rival, if they do not excel, the best works of the present day. The improvements of modern mechanical science are all in the die presses, and in producing cheap metal. These improvements have enabled Birmingham to establish a large trade in cheap medals, which are issued in tens of thousands on every occasion that excites the public mind. Jenny Lind and Father Mathew were both excellent customers of the medallists in their day. The medallists are not confined to the home market; France has been supplied with effigies of her rival Presidents, Louis Napoleon and Cavaignac, and we should not be surprised to find that some day a contract has been taken for the medals which the Pope blesses and distributes. Schools and Temperance Societies are good customers, and occasionally a good order comes in from a foreign state or colony, for coins. In 1850 Mr. Ralph Heaton made ten tons of copper coin for Bombay, called cock money, so called because bearing a cock on the obverse, from dies purchased at the sale at Soho. The late Sir Richard Thomason was a considerable manufacturer of medals, and a very curious collection may be seen at the showrooms of his successor, Mr. G. R. Collis, who carries on the same trade, and is consul for a number of countries between Turkey and Timbuctoo. The most important part of the die-sinking trade, is that for making patterns in brass, mixed metal, and iron in curtain bands, pins, lamp pillars, cornices, coffin furniture, and all articles in which stamping has superseded the more expensive process of hammering out. Within the last twenty years, and notably within the last ten years, public taste has required an increased amount of ornament in all domestic manufactures; stimulated by this demand, great improvements have been made in stamping, and excellence in the art of die-sinking has become more widely diffused. The Birmingham die-sinkers admit that they are inferior to the French in design, while in the execution of cutting heavy steel dies, they are decidedly superior. Die-sinking is an art, like painting or sculpture, which requires personal aptitude to enable an apprentice to acquire excellence. It is carried on in Birmingham by men who work themselves, employing two or three journeymen. The names of these artists seldom appear. A London or Parisian tradesman undertakes an order which is passed to some noted Birmingham House, which transmits it to a hard-handed man in a back street. * * * * * COFFIN ORNAMENTS.--The manufacture of ornaments for coffins is a very important part of the trade, and it is curious to find, that even in this last concession to human vanity, there is a constant demand for new designs. Who is it that examines and compares the ornaments of one coffin with that of another? We never heard of the survivors of a deceased examining an undertaker's patterns. And yet, a house which consumes forty tons of cast iron per annum for coffin handles, stated to the gentleman to whose letters we are indebted for this information, "Our travellers find it useless to show themselves with their pattern books at an undertaker's, unless they have something tasteful, new, and uncommon. The orders for Ireland are chiefly for gilt furniture for coffins. The Scotch, also, are fond of gilt, and so are the people in the west of England. But the taste of the English is decidedly for black. The Welsh like a mixture of black and white. Coffin lace is formed of very light stamped metal, and is made of almost as many patterns as the ribbons of Coventry. All our designs are registered, as there is a constant piracy going on, which it is necessary to check." Dies are cut in soft metal and then hardened. Die-sinking is one of the arts so interesting in all its branches, from the first design to the finished coin or ornament, that every intelligent traveller should endeavour to see it. * * * * * PLATERS, GILDERS, AND ELECTRO-PLATERS.--Large fortunes have been made in Birmingham by plating copper, "in the good old times;" but Sheffield was, until within the last ten years, the principal seat of the manufacture. Sheffield plate was a very superior article, and for years would look and stand wear like silver. Plating was effected by laying a thin film of silver on a sheet of copper, which was afterwards shaped into tea or coffee services, forks, spoons, candlesticks, trays, tea urns, and other articles for house use. It was also applied to harness, saddlery, and every thing formerly made of silver alone. A great impetus was given to this trade by our intercourse with the continent at the close of the war, which sent steel pronged forks out of fashion. The first inroad upon the plates on copper was made by the invention of white metal, called German silver. The next was the discovery of the art of plating by galvanic instead of mechanical agency, now known as electro-plating. The result of the application of electric power to plating, however, has been to transfer a large share of the Sheffield plate business to Birmingham. It is a curious fact that a veterinary surgeon (of the name of Askew) invented the first German silver manufactured in England, and that a Dr. Wright, of the same town, discovered the practicability of electro-plating about the same time that several other persons had discovered that metal could be deposited by a galvanic current, but had not thought of applying it practically to manufactures. The old system of plating is still carried on both in Sheffield and in Birmingham; improvements have been introduced by the employment of a white metal instead of copper as the foundation, and by grafting on, as it were, silver tips to forks and silver edges to prominent ornaments; but the balance of advantage in economy and facility are so greatly in favour of the electro- plating process, that, no doubt, when the patents under which it is now worked expire, its use will become universal. Since the first patent was published, important improvements have been made in France, Germany, and America, which the original patentees have incorporated. Copperplates cast from wood cuts and stereotypes can be reproduced with great facility and economy, and the exact touches of an artist in clay or wax can be reproduced in metal without the translation of casting. Nothing is too small or too large,--the colossal statue of an Amazon on horseback spearing a lioness, by Kiss, the Berlin sculptor, exhibiting in the Hyde Park Exhibition of 1851, was copied in zinc and bronzed by this process; and, by the same means, flowers, feathers, and even spiders' webs have been covered with a metal film. At present, a handsome electro-plated teapot, exactly resembling silver, may be purchased at what a Britannia metal one cost fifteen years ago. Messrs. Elkington and Mason, the purchasers of the secret from the original discoverer and authors of valuable improvements, are at the head of one of the finest and most interesting silver and electroplating establishments in the kingdom. In commencing this new manufacture, the commercial difficulties they had to overcome, in addition to those of a practical and mechanical nature, were very formidable. The Messrs. Elkingtons originally intended to confine themselves to plating for the trade. But the prejudice against the new process was so great, that the manufacturers of the needful articles could not be induced to try it. Messrs. Elkington were, therefore, very unwillingly, compelled to invest a capital in becoming manufacturers of plated forks, spoons, cruets, candlesticks, tea services, and all the et ceteras of imitation silver. The additional venture did not serve their purpose. The retail dealers, equally prejudiced, refused or neglected to push off the new plate. More anxiety and more expenditure of capital followed, for the patentees were obliged to establish retail establishments in several cities in this country, America, and our Colonies. The struggle ended in complete success; the use of electro plate has become universal, and the manufacture is not confined to Messrs. Elkington, but is carried on, under licence from the Patentees, by a vast number of firms. The result, however, has been, as already stated, to transfer a good deal of the plated trade of Sheffield to Birmingham, for the former town has slowly and unwillingly adopted the new method, which has deprived its manufacturers of their ancient pre-eminence. Electro-plating has not, as was imagined on its first discovery, lessened the demand for manual labour in the plate trade; on the contrary, it has largely increased it, while extending the sale of a superior, and superseding an inferior, class of goods. Although for all ordinary articles, such as forks, spoons, teapots, etc., there are, no doubt, many manufacturers in Birmingham quite equal to Messrs. Elkingtons, their manufactory is especially worth visiting; because, in the first place, the whole manufactory is open, and conveniently arranged for the inspection of visitors; and, in the next place, the firm pay great attention to the artistic merit of their more expensive work. They spare no expense to obtain copies from the best antique models, and original designs from living artists, beside keeping up a staff of draughtsmen and modellers. In the manufactory may be seen the whole history of a plated dinner service, from the pickle fork to the epergne, or vase, which crowns the centre of the table at a grand banquet. In one room men are at work in cutting out forks and spoons from flat sheets of white metal, which is afterwards shaped, ornamented, engraved, and then, if to be covered with silver, subjected to the action of a current of electricity, produced by an immense pair of magnets--if to be coated with gold, to the action of galvanic batteries; this process requires explanation which must be sought in works, like Mr. Alfred Smee's, especially devoted to the subject. Then comes the burnishing, by the action of leather-covered wheels and wire brushes, in steam-driven motion, and then the burnishing by hand, which is chiefly performed by young girls and women. And an agreeable and profitable occupation it seems to be. The manufacture of such articles as teapots is equally interesting. In the process of joining such parts as the handle and spout by hard solder, that is to say, solder as difficult to melt as the main body of the object, one of the most valuable inventions for chemical processes, the blow-pipe, is employed with the aid of two other great scientific aids of modern times. The flame of the blow-pipe is made by a stream of gas, and driven, instead of by a man's breath, by a steam blast, so that the mechanic has a power and a facility of manipulation which would be unattainable under the old system of working with a lamp and puffed out cheeks. There is great matter for reflection in the sight of the hundreds of ingenious industrious workmen and workwomen under one roof, employed mainly through the agency of three powers, which, if not discovered, were utilised in the last years of the eighteenth, and early years of the nineteenth century--Steam, Gas and Electricity. In one series of the workshops of this same establishment, a considerable manufacture of genuine silver plate is carried on, and it is curious to find mechanics engaged in hammering out or chasing plate, using exactly the same tool that was employed in the fifteenth century, or perhaps in Roman times. No improvement has, or, as it would appear, can be, effected; all superiority now, as then, depending on the workmen. A great deal of ornamental work, of a stereotype character, is done by stamping instead of chasing. The steel dies for this purpose form a very costly stock in trade. A single pair of dies for a sacramental cup will sometimes cost 150 pounds. Among the modern improvements, we must not fail to note the patent seamless teapots of Britannia metal, and white metal, electrotyped--capital things for bachelors, the spouts are not likely to melt off on the hob. The show rooms of this establishment contain, in addition to the ordinary contents of a silversmith's shop, a number of exquisite copies in gold, silver, and bronze electro-plate of cups and vases of Greek and Etruscan execution, and of chased work by Benvenuto Cellini, and other master goldsmiths of the fifteenth century. The Messrs. Elkington have doubled their trade since the Birmingham Exhibition in 1848, and there is reason to believe that, instead of displacing labour as was anticipated, this invention has increased the number and the wages of the parties employed. * * * * * The Britannia Metal manufacture is closely allied to the plate trade; an ingenious improvement, well worth examination, has recently been introduced by Messrs. Sturgis of Broad Street, by which teapots are cast whole, instead of having the spouts and handles soldered on. * * * * * The Gilt Toy and Mock Jewellery Trade, once one of the staple employments of Birmingham artizans, has dwindled away until it now occupies a very insignificant place in the Directory. Bad cheap articles, with neglect of novelty and taste in design, ruined it. In cheap rubbish foreigners can always beat us, but the Birmingham gilt toy men made things "to sell" until no one would buy. * * * * * FOX AND HENDERSON'S MANUFACTORY.--The London works conducted by Messrs. Fox, Henderson, and Co., who have become known to all the world by their rapid and successful erection of the Crystal Palace, are situated at Smethwick, about four miles from Birmingham on the Dudley Road. They were established after the commencement of the London and Birmingham Railway, for the manufacture of iron and machinery required in the construction of railways. The shops, which are of large dimensions, are built in a quadrangle, enclosing a large area or open space, which is employed as a yard for material or finished goods as may be accidentally required. The first place into which the stranger is shown is called the Truck shop, and will accommodate three hundred carriage builders and carpenters. Adjoining it is the Boiler Makers' shop, or, more properly, a shop for workers in plate-iron, for boilers are not made in the establishment, but iron doors, navy casks, and wrought iron railway carriages are produced in this department. These shops form one side of the quadrangle. The forges, which are very numerous, occupy the first department of another side of the range of buildings. The forges, as is now usual, are supplied with air by the motion of a fan worked by the engine, and by the side of them many strong and stalwart arms are wielded with as much skill and ingenuity as distinguished some of the smiths of the middle ages. The Mechanical Engineering shops join the forges, and in them will be found many of those beautiful self-acting tools for which this age is so remarkable. There are drilling, planing, screwing, and slotting machines of various designs and adapted to different purposes, as well as numerous expensive and very perfect lathes. Here the switches used for conducting trains from one line to another are made, as well as all kinds of machine work. Connected with this is the Turntable shop, which is, to a stranger, as interesting as any part of the establishment, from the magnitude of the machinery and the ease with which gigantic masses of iron are carried about by the traveller to and from the planing and other machines. The Wheel shop, which is next visited, is chiefly used for the manufacture of railway carriage wheels, of which, as must be well known, there are many varieties. The Foundry and Anchor manufactory must not be omitted in an enumeration of the departments. The other two sides of the quadrangle are occupied by saw-pits, painters' shops, stores, offices, and all the conveniences required for carrying on a business which frequently gives employment to eleven or twelve hundred men. The reputation of Messrs. Fox, Henderson, and Co., has been long established among engineers for the construction of railway bridges, iron roofs, and works of a similar kind; but it has been made European, if not universal, by the rapidity and skill with which they have constructed the Industrial Exhibition. Strangers, if introduced, are permitted to see the works. Besides the manufactures we have enumerated and described, there are many others of more or less importance; and new inventions and the spur of enterprise are creating new manufactures in Birmingham every day. There are manufacturers of steam-engines and other machinery, of stoves, grates, and other iron foundry. One firm (Messrs. Hardman Iliffe) employs a great number of workmen in making every kind of church furniture, from the most approved mediaeval models and the designs of Mr. Pugin. Another executes stained-glass windows. Saddlery and harness, or parts of saddles and whips, employ a certain number of hands; and not only imitation but a good deal of real jewellery is made. There is one large and curious manufactory of gold chains. In a word, there is no town in the world in which the execution of work, however new or complex, in metal, wood, horn, or ivory, can be so certainly effected as in Birmingham. There are not many merchants in Birmingham, in the large sense of the term. The chief mercantile business is done by parties termed factors, who in effect are, if not actually, the agents of great merchants. These "factors" purchase what they need for their wholesale customers from the manufacturers. About 2,000 of the Birmingham manufacturers are what are termed garret- masters; they work themselves, and employ a few hands. The "factor" buys as few as half-a-dozen tea-pots, or a hundred gross of pearl buttons, from these little men, until he makes up his number. His business partakes more of the character of retail than wholesale, and the grinding--technically slaughtering--system of the factors of Birmingham has an unfavourable Yankeefying effect on their character. The principal mercantile houses are in direct communication with American houses, if not actual partners or agents. A panic in New York finds an immediate echo in Warwickshire and Staffordshire, just as a fall or rise of cotton in New Orleans is immediately felt in Lancashire. It is worth observing, that in some instances great transactions are carried on with wonderfully little show in Birmingham, and no state. We could not give a better instance of the difficulty of "judging by appearances" than in the following sketch from nature. There is a broad street of tall mean houses, which, except at the workmen's dinner hour, seems always empty. In this street is a large house of a dirty, faded appearance; the cobwebbed windows blocked up; the door with a broken knocker and a sad want of paint. It is evidently the ci-devant residence of a Birmingham manufacturer of the old school, before the suburbs of Edgbaston and Handsworth sprang up, now turned into a warehouse or receptacle for lumber. As to apply to the front door would be useless, you turn up a dark passage at the side, and reach another dingy door, which gives way with a rattle at your touch, and closes with a rattle and a bang; passing through you ascend a flight of creaking deal stairs, and reach a suite of low rooms, about as imposing in appearance as a deserted printing-office. A few juvenile clerks--the very converse of the snug merchants' clerks of the City of London--are distributed about. A stranger would not give 50 pounds for the furniture, capital, and credit, of the whole concern. And yet, in this strange place, is conducted a trade of many tens of thousands per annum, with branches in all the principal towns of Germany, Spain, Portugal, South America, and British India! A rapid idea of the Birmingham hardware trade may be obtained from the extensive show-rooms of Messrs. Herbert, in the Bull-ring. If we have failed to do justice to any branch of manufacture, we have a very sufficient excuse in the difficulty we experienced in obtaining access to manufactories, or even information as to what was worth examination. HEALTH AND EDUCATION. After detailing at such length the material advantages of this interesting and important community, we should not be doing right if we did not present the reverse of the medal in certain drawbacks and deficiencies which seriously interfere with the prosperity and progress of "the hardware village." The Birmingham public are so often in the habit of hearing from their favourite orators that they are the most intelligent, moral, and intellectual people in the world,--that their town is the healthiest, and their opinions the soundest, of any community in England, that it is not extraordinary if they overlook blots which are plain enough to a stranger. Perhaps they are quite right; perhaps they are more honest, more sensible, more sound politicians, than any other British community. Perhaps, too, they are cleaner, more sober, and better educated than the towns of A, B, and C; but, without entering into comparisons, which, in such cases, are of no practical benefit, we shall proceed to show that, with all their excellent industrious, intelligent, and ingenious qualities, the people of Birmingham are much more dirty, drunken, and uneducated than they ought to be, considering that the town is in a very healthy situation; that the mass of the population is engaged in skilled employments, and that patriots, bearded and unbearded, are plentiful, who seem to have a great deal of influence, for good or evil. First, then, as to drunkenness, the great parent of British poverty and crime--drunkenness, which is a greater tax upon us than the National Debt; let us see what share that has in the grievances of Birmingham. It appears that in 1850 there were, including hotels, taverns, gin-shops, and beer-shops, altogether 1293 establishments for the supply of intoxicating liquors. The total number of houses in the borough being 43,000, it results that in every 33 houses one is a wine, beer, or spirit shop. That as the number of bakers' and chandlers' shops is only 871, there are 422 more shops engaged in selling drink than in selling bread, and if only four persons be supposed to be supported by selling liquors, that will be more than twice as many as are engaged in the gun trade, viz., 2400. Or to put the calculation in another form, if we allow the sum of 50 pounds per annum as the wages of the five thousand persons who live by the sale of intoxicating drinks, it will be found that the people of Birmingham must expend at least a quarter of a million on wine, beer, and spirits. That too much is so expended is proved by the police returns, which show that out of 3400 persons taken into custody in 1849, nearly half the offences arose from intoxication. In other respects, considering the population, the crime of Birmingham is rather below than above average. It cannot be said that it is either a brutal or dishonest, but it is essentially a drunken town. The causes of the prevalence of this degrading vice are several, and may be traced out very clearly. Metal work is hard and thirsty work, but it may be doubted whether what is really drunk while at work, or immediately after work, does harm. But it has long been, and still is, the habit of the mechanics in a number of trades, to make a holiday of Monday; it has even a local name--it is called Shackling day, "Shackling" being a term which can be perfectly translated by the French verb, flaner. A Shackler must drink, if not smoke. The more plentiful and pressing the work is, the more determined are the men engaged to make Saint Monday, and very often Tuesday and Wednesday also. The time so lost when trade is at high water, and the losses imposed on the manufacturer by the consequent non-fulfilment of contracts, eventually form a second drawback on the earnings of the workman, in addition to the day's wages lost, and the days' wages spent on "shackling days." Secondly, it has been proved that a large percentage of the married women engaged in work factories are compelled so to work to support their families in consequence of the improvidence of their husbands. Thirdly, in the same way children, from a very early age,--seven years, and even younger,--work in order to support their improvident parents. Women engaged in work all day cannot keep comfortable houses for their husbands. An uncomfortable home drives a husband, no matter of what rank, to the tavern or the club. The custom of sending children to work from the time they can earn sixpence a-week, renders education impossible. In the evenings they are only fit to sleep: on Sundays, in fine weather, the majority very naturally prefer walking in the fields to the dry task of acquiring knowledge, the value of which they are not sufficiently educated to appreciate. The effect of the want of education and the habit of idle Mondays on the male population is sufficiently lamentable. A man who can neither read nor write, in addition to the abstract pleasure Saxons have in drinking, finds an occupation and a substitute for ideas in a pot and pipe. The effect on the female population is even more baneful. They are so fully occupied that they have neither time to write, nor to cook, to read nor to sew, and they become wives and mothers with no better qualification for their important duties than girls educated in a fashionable school, without being able to obtain the assistance of servants and governesses. Wives engaged in factories are obliged to leave their children to the care of strangers or elder children, themselves scarcely above the age of children. One consequence is, that according to the report of a committee of physicians and surgeons in 1840: "The ratio of infant mortality in Birmingham is very considerable, greatly exceeding that of the metropolis, and of the agricultural districts, though not as high as in some provincial towns." "Severe burns and scalds, particularly the former, are so numerous, that in the general hospital two rooms are devoted for their reception." We have not been able to obtain any precise statistics of education among the operative classes; but we find that among criminals upwards of ninety per cent. are either totally or very imperfectly educated, and that of 15,000 young persons between the age of ten and fifteen engaged in manufacture, not more than 1,000 have an opportunity of education, except from Sunday schools. In Sunday schools the instruction is confined to reading the scriptures and religious books, except in the schools attached to the meeting-houses of the Society of Friends and the Unitarians, the conductors of which have had the good sense to accommodate their plans to the peculiar wants of a manufacturing district. No general movement seems to have been attempted to correct this crying evil of infant employment and neglected education, none of the patriots, bearded or shaven, have ventured to exert their strong lungs in so unpopular a cause: it is so much easier to stand on your own dunghill and abuse the lord of the manor than to put on an apron and a cap, mix up the lime and water, and whitewash your own cottage. But several manufacturers have honourably distinguished themselves by beginning the work of reformation at home. Mr. Gillet, the pen manufacturer, whose work is principally done by females, admits no girls into his shops under thirteen; he makes ability to read indispensable, and gives a preference in obtaining employment to those who can write; and requires a certificate of regular attendance from a Sunday school teacher. Mr. Winfield, who employs nearly five hundred hands, of whom few are women, established an evening school in 1844, at a charge of a penny a week, for his own work people, in which reading, writing, arithmetic, English grammar, geography, and drawing, are taught, with occasional lectures on the principles of mechanics, natural philosophy, and history. A small library is attached to the school. "When the school was first established, it was remarked that scarcely a boy knew his companion except by a nickname, and that fights on entering and leaving school were of common occurrence. At present the practice of nicknames has disappeared, and a fight does not take place once in three months. "The proceedings of the evening commenced with a hymn. An orphan boy, fourteen years of age, a self-taught musician, placed himself before a small organ, provided by Mr. Winfield, and played the evening hymn. All the boys accompanied him with their voices, and sang very creditably; after this they were formed into their usual classes. "The school labours under great disadvantages; the hours of attendance are not sufficiently long; even these few hours are infringed on when trade is brisk, and the men, working over-hours, require the boys to assist them; and from physical exhaustion of the boys after the labour of the day, they sometimes fall asleep over their books. "A hymn is sung, a prayer said, and the bible read without comment, no catechism or doctrinal point is introduced. The school includes the sons of people of the Church of England, Roman Catholics, Wesleyans, Presbyterians, and Unitarians." Messrs. Peyton & Barlow, metal-bedstead makers, Mr. Bacchus, glass-maker, Mr. Middlemore, currier, and Messrs. Chance, glassmakers, have also established schools for the parties in their employ. Mr. William Chance is an earnest philanthropist; he has established a ragged school, at his own expense, in Birmingham, open to all, and at his works in Spon Lane, West Bromwich, one school for his workmen alone, and another open to the neighbourhood. The first school, in Spon Lane, is divided into three departments, for infants, for girls, and for boys. A weekly charge of 3d. is made, for which books and stationery are provided; punctual attendance and cleanliness are conditions insisted upon. The number of scholars, of whom one-third are from Messrs. Chance's works, has steadily increased from the time of opening. The boys are instructed in reading, writing, arithmetic, grammar, geography, and the elements of drawing. The girls are taught plain needlework instead of drawing. No catechism is taught, but the bible is read without comment. One- half are the children of parents in communion with the Church of England, and the other half of Dissenters. In 1850 it contained 190 boys, 80 girls, and 150 infants. It is difficult to rate too highly the advantage the operative classes obtain from the preliminary training afforded by infant schools. But infant schools are useless, if the education is to cease at seven years old. The other school is strictly confined to the boys and men employed in the glass works. It opened July, 1850, with 110 scholars, all boys from twelve years of age, before which none are admitted into the manufactory. By degrees the men, at first deterred by shame, began to attend, and at present a considerable number avail themselves of the advantage for commencing or extending the imperfect education they had obtained at Sunday Schools. These schools are not self-supporting, but are found, even in a commercial point of view, to repay the philanthropic firm by whom they have been founded and supported. The Birmingham Free and Industrial School, founded in 1847 by the energetic exertions of the Hon. and Rev. Grantham Yorke, Rector of St. Philip, includes a day school for boys and girls above seven years of age; two industrial classes; and an asylum for deserted and orphans. The scholars are not of the class to which we are specially calling attention. We shall, therefore, content ourselves with mentioning the existence of such a School for the refuse population of this large town. The deficient education of the working classes, consequent on unregulated infant labour, would alone be sufficient to account for the prevalence of the idle custom of losing at least one day every week in busy times, and the drinking habits, which are a blot upon a population of superior intelligence. But a still more demoralizing influence exists in the state of the dwellings of the working classes in Birmingham, which, although at first sight very attractive in appearance, forming neat courts of cottages, compared with the crowded lodging-houses of many manufacturing towns, are, nevertheless, lamentably deficient in two essentials for health and decency, viz., efficient drainage, and a sufficient supply of wholesome water. In two thousand courts, inhabited by fifty thousand people, the supply of water is either obtained at great loss of time from wells, often dirty, sometimes fetid, or purchased at an extravagant rate from itinerant water- carriers. A Private Water Company exists, but has scarcely been called upon at all to supply the houses of the working classes. Under these circumstances, with a clean external appearance, the filth in which fifty thousand people live seems to be only understood by the local Medical Inspectors, whose reports have hitherto produced so little effect, it is not extraordinary that after long hours of toil, the inhabitants fly to the bright saloons of gin shops, and the snug tap-rooms of beer shops. We have dwelt thus at length upon the moral, and educational, and sanitary shortcomings of a town which can, no doubt, draw comparisons, very much to its own advantage, with other manufacturing district towns, because Birmingham is in a position to set an example, to lead the way in an all- important reform without consulting the opinions of the Ministers or the Parliament of the day. Birmingham may, if it pleases, go far toward affording every working man the means of drinking and washing in an ample supply of clean water, of living in a well-drained cottage, and of sending his children to school for two hours every day, without waiting for the decision of Parliament upon all the crotchets of the Chartists, or plans of the Financial Reform Association. Pity it is that none of the well-applauded Brummagem patriots have pluck enough to battle a little unpopularity in so honest a cause. But clap-trap costs less trouble than work, and gets more cheers. It is the misfortune of Birmingham to be sacrificed to the disagreements of two rival factions, one calling itself Conservative, and the other Radical, both filling the pockets and doing the work of lawyers at the expense of the ratepayers. Nothing can be done until the municipal Corporation obtains the powers now vested in several sets of virtually irresponsible Commissioners. When these wars of the Pots and Kettles are ended, the ratepayers will be able to turn their undivided attention to local reforms without having their minds distracted by those little legal squabbles, under cover of which business is neglected, and pockets are picked. It is to be hoped that the session of 1851 will settle this point. The whole kingdom is interested in the good government and prosperity of its greatest inland town. {113} WARWICK, LEAMINGTON, KENILWORTH, STRATFORD ON AVON. Before leaving Birmingham, it will be convenient to say something about Warwick, Leamington, Kenilworth, and Stratford on Avon, of which the one is the assize town, another the watering place, and the third and fourth the antiquarian or rather romantic lions of the county in which Birmingham stands first, for wealth, population, manufacturing, and political importance. Warwick, in spite of its parliamentary, municipal, and assize honours, would soon be as much forgotten as a hundred other dull little country towns, without local trade or local attractions, if it were not for the castle, the church, and the river, which, in connection with striking epochs in England's history, will ever render it a favourite pilgrimage. After being destroyed by the Danes, Warwick was restored by Ethelfreda, the daughter of Alfred the Great, who built a fort there, A.D. 913. At Domesday Survey it was a borough, and contained 261 houses, of which 126 belonged to the king. Members were sent to Parliament in the time of Edward I., when also the paving of the town and the erection of a wall round it were commenced. In the time of Philip and Mary, the first charter of incorporation was granted. The town stands on the west side of the river Avon,--Shakspeare's Avon, from which it is separated by Warwick Castle and grounds. It was formerly a little county metropolis, many of the families of rank and fortune had winter residences there; the Warwick balls were frequented by a select and exclusive set; a small theatre was well supported, and few races assembled more distinguished company than used to throng the Warwick course once a year, in family coaches and four-in-hands. All this grandeur has departed, Leamington has absorbed the wealth and fashion of Warwick, the town mansions have fallen into plebeian hands, the theatre has ceased to be a training school for the London boards, the streets are silent except when a little temporary bustle is produced by an influx of Birmingham attorneys, their clients, and witnesses, at the assizes, of stout agriculturists and holiday labourers on "fair days," or the annual "mop," when an ox is roasted whole, and lads and lasses of rosy rural breed range themselves along the pavement to be hired, or at the races twice a year, when, although the four horses with postilions and outriders are seldom seen, railroads from a distance, and Leamington from close at hand, pour a variegated stream of sightseers and gamblers on one of the prettiest pieces of ground in England. Warwick has no manufactures, but, being a borough very evenly balanced between the two contending political parties, its inhabitants have enjoyed a fuller share of the favours of Government than has fallen to the lot of towns of more commercial importance. Warwick stands on solid rock, in which the cellars are excavated; and this circumstance, added to its position on the top of a hill, renders it particularly dry and clean. There are several excellent inns, supported by the surrounding' farmers, which are much to be preferred to more fashionable hotels. The roast geese to be found at the farmers' ordinaries on market days about Michaelmas time, are worthy of commendation; and the farmers themselves, being of a jovial and hospitable turn of mind, render these dinners pleasanter to a stranger who can dine at an unfashionable hour, than the eternal "anything you please, sir; steak or chop, sir," in a solitary box, which haunts us for our sins in the coffee-rooms of English hotels. Warwick deserves a long journey, if it were only for the sake of the fine woodland scenery which surrounds it for ten miles, but the castle is the especial object of attraction,--a castle which realizes almost more than any other those romantic ideas of a feudal abode which were first put into circulation by the "Castle of Otranto," and became part of the education of our youth under the influence of the genius of Sir Walter Scott. The castle rises upon the brink of the river, which foams past over the weir of an ancient mill, where once the inhabitants of the borough were bound by feudal service to grind all their corn. The best approach is from the Leamington Lower Road, over a bridge of one arch, built by a late Earl of Warwick. Caesar's and Guy's towers rise into sight from a surrounding grove. The entrance is through an arched gateway, past a lodge, where the relics of Earl Guy, the dun cow slayer, are preserved; and a winding avenue cut in solid rock effects a sort of surprise, which, as the castle comes again suddenly into view, is very pleasing. The exterior realizes a baronial abode of the fourteenth or fifteenth century; the interior has been modernized sufficiently to be made comfortable, still retaining many striking features of its ancient state. A closely cropped green sward covers the quadrangle, which was formerly the tilting ground. The date of Caesar's tower, the oldest part of the building, is uncertain. Guy's tower, of the latter part of the fourteenth century, is in fine preservation. The great entrance hall, a grand old room sixty-two feet by thirty-seven, is adorned with armour and other appurtenances to feudal state. At a great fire-place with fire dogs, room might be found for a cartload of faggots. A suite of rooms, commanding views of delightful scenery, are adorned with ancient tapestry, armour, and pictures by Rubens, Vandyke, Velasquez, and other eminent painters. Among the portraits are Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, Prince Rupert, and Charles I. on horseback, by Vandyke. Hours may be profitably and agreeably spent in investigating the treasures of Warwick Castle. The grounds, although not extensive, are picturesquely arranged; in one of the greenhouses, the Warwick vase, an antique celebrated for its size and beauty, will be found. The numerous copies in various materials, but especially in metals, cast in Birmingham, have rendered the form of this relic of classic art well known. After the Castle, St. Mary's Church must be visited for its beautiful chapel with altar tomb, on which lies prostrate in humble prayer the effigy of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, styled "the Good." This Beauchamp was Regent of France in 1425, during the absence of the Duke of Bedford, and carried on the war there with signal success. He was afterwards governor of the infant king, Henry VI. While a second time ruling over France, he died at Rouen on the 30th April, 1439. It was the daughter of the Good Earl who married Richard Nevil, created, on succeeding to the Warwick estates through his wife, Earl of Warwick, known as "the king maker;" a grand character in Shakspeare's Henry VI., and the hero of Sir Bulwer Lytton's "Last of the Barons." Then there is Leicester Hospital, founded in the time of Richard II., as two guilds, in honour of the Virgin and St. George the Martyr, which, after the Reformation, was re-established under its present name by Queen Elizabeth's favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, as an almshouse for a master and twelve brethren, "being impotent or infirm men." These last have been, in consequence of the improved value of the trust-funds, increased to twenty, and receive each an allowance of 80 pounds per annum: the master has 400 pounds. The buildings of this charity consist of a quadrangle, formed by the brethren's lodgings and public kitchen, of a chapel of ancient architecture over the west gate of the town, and an ancient hall. Previous to the Reform Bill, the influence of the Warwick family returned two members for the borough of Warwick: since that period they have as yet only returned one; but, in the absence of the countervailing influence of any manufactures, it seems likely that a popular Earl, of whatever politics, would be able to resume the ancient influence of the house, and again return two. * * * * * LEAMINGTON, about two miles distant, may be reached by two turnpike roads and a pleasant footpath; the distance of all being about two miles. Mineral waters, fashion, a clever physician, the Warwickshire hounds, the surplus capital of Birmingham, speculative builders, and excellent sanitary regulations have contributed to the rapid rise of this picturesque and fashionable watering-place; in what proportions it would be difficult to say. The waters, which resemble mild Epsom salts, first brought the village into notice in 1794, although the existence of mineral springs at Leamington Priory had been recorded by Camden and Dugdale. In 1794 people drank harder than they do now, read less, played cards more, were altogether "faster," and had more need of purifying waters and pump-room amusements. A long war shut out our idlers from the Continent, and created an additional demand for our native mineral produce. At a later period the talents of Dr. Jephson attracted an army of invalids and would-be invalids; Sir Walter Scott's novels brought Kenilworth and Warwick Castle into fashion, just as Garrick, like a second Peter the Hermit, preached up a pilgrimage to Stratford-on- Avon. So land-jobbers and builders rushed to prepare tempting abodes for the armies of the sick, the sporting, and the romantic, who gathered round the springs. Although the beautiful stone which has made Bath the queen of watering- places, was not to be had, the materials for Roman cement, then lately invented, were plentiful. With these aids the town authorities had the good sense to enforce cleanliness, and all manner of rules for making the streets fit for the lounging promenades of the well-dressed. Water-carts and brooms were kept in active employment; beggars and dust-heaps were under the eye of a vigilant police. The result was, that at the expense of many ruined builders and speculators, Leamington grew from a pretty village into a fine town, peopled not only by invalids in the water-drinking season, and sportsmen in the winter season, but by a number of permanent residents of independent fortune, of all ranks between retired manufacturers and Irish peers. Attached to the manufacturing districts, it has become what Brighton is to the London Stock Exchange. As hunting quarters, Leamington is convenient for men with few horses, as the meets are near and the railways convenient. An ill-natured opinion prevails that the scarlet coat is more worn there by fortune-hunters than fox-hunters, and that the tailor is a person of more importance with the majority of the field than the huntsman; but this story probably originates in the number of carriages full of pretty faces to be found at the cover sides round Leamington. The country cannot be compared with Northamptonshire or Leicestershire, or even Oxfordshire. The farmers are better sportsmen than agriculturists. Warwickshire landlords think more of the politics of their tenants, than of their intelligence or capital. Great improvements have, however, been effected within the last ten years, and we must not forget to mention that the Birmingham Agricultural and Poultry Show, which is the finest local exhibition in the kingdom, draws a great many of its exhibitors from this county. Leamington, long without direct railway communication, is now wrapped up between the broad-gauge and the narrow-gauge, like a hare in a bottle-spit. The opening of the line to Rugby affords a new short way to London. The population will henceforward increase at the expense of its gentility, but the police and sanitary arrangements before alluded to, will always make Leamington a favourite with invalids, hypochondriacs, and flaneurs. The multiplicity of these railroads compels us to abandon the plan of describing, as we pass, the more celebrated towns, mansions, or castles, because it would be impossible to follow out such a zig-zag of topography. It is better to take it for granted that the traveller will stop at certain places, and from them make excursions to everything worth seeing in the neighbourhood. In this manner, as Birmingham gave occasion for an examination into the leading manufactures, we presume that Leamington will be the best central encampment for a survey of everything within a circle of ten miles interesting to the Antiquarian, the Historian, the Artist, the Poet, the Agriculturist, and the happy beings who have a taste for all these pursuits. The number of interesting places within an easy walk or drive of Leamington, forms one of its great advantages as a watering place. Either on foot or in a carriage (and Leamington is extremely well provided with carriages for hire), Warwick Castle, or Stratford-on-Avon, or Guy's Cliff, and Kenilworth, or Stoneleigh Abbey, may be visited in the course of a day, or part of a day. The detailed beauties of these places will be found fully set forth in county histories and local guides. A brief reference, sufficient to enable a traveller to make up a plan of campaign, will be all we shall attempt. * * * * * STONELEIGH ABBEY, the residence of Lord Leigh, is noticeable for its fine woodland scenery,--splendid oaks adorn the Park, and as having been the subject of a series of very extraordinary trials at the suit of claimants of the estate and ancient title. The true heirs of this estate have never been discovered; many claimants have successively appeared, and endeavoured to prop up their claims by extraordinary fabrications of evidence. For instance, a certain tombstone, bearing inscriptions of great importance, was not only described and sworn to by a cloud of witnesses, as having been at a certain year in Stoneleigh Church, but other witnesses, with equal circumstantiality, related how, on a particular occasion, this said tombstone was taken down and destroyed. And yet, it was clearly proved before the House of Lords that no such tombstone ever existed. The present family are now secure in the estates under the Statute of Limitations, but the late Peer, up to a short period before the old title was revived in his favour, occupied Stoneleigh as a trustee, as it were, for want of a better claimant. In the incidents of the Leigh Peerage, are the materials of half-a-dozen romances. * * * * * GUY'S CLIFF--where Guy, Earl of Warwick, and slayer of the Dun Cow, lived and died as a hermit, fed daily by his Countess, little knowing whom she fed--is situated on the banks of the Avon, about a mile from Warwick, on the high road to Kenilworth, and may also be approached by footpaths across the fields leading to the same village. The pictures of Guy's Cliff have been extravagantly praised, but the natural and artificial beauties of its gardens and pleasure grounds constitute its chief attraction. For, says Dugdale, it is "a place of so great delight in respect to the river gliding below the rock, the dry wholesome situation, and the fair grove of lofty elms overshadowing it, that to one who desireth a retired life, either for his devotions or study, the like is hardly to be found." What Dugdale said two hundred years ago may truly be repeated now, especially in a warm autumn or summer evening, when the click of a water-mill adds sound to the pleasure to be derived from the thick shade of the lofty trees overhead, mossy turf under the feet, and the sight of flowing water. Henry V. visited this hermitage; and Shakspeare, on what authority we know not, is said to have frequented it. * * * * * KENILWORTH follows Guy's Cliff, once a retired country village of one street, one church, and one inn, now vulgarized by being made the site of a railway station. At the risk of offending the Kenilworthians, we strongly advise the romantic youths and maidens inspired by Sir Walter Scott's romance not to visit the ruins, which, although an excellent excuse and pleasant situation for a picnic, have nothing romantic about them beyond grey walls. The woods and waters which formed so important a part of the scenery during Queen Elizabeth's visit, have disappeared, as well as all the stately buildings. At the same time, imagination will go a long way, and it may not be a day ill spent after reading Laleham's "Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth," in which he describes what he himself saw when Queen Elizabeth visited the Earl of Leicester there in 1575, to journey over, especially if accompanied by a cold collation, including a salad of the Avon crawfish, and a little iced punch. It would be still better for good pedestrians to walk the distance by the fields and push on to the inn for refreshment, without which all tame scenery is so very flat. In the sublimity of the Alps, the Pyrenees, or even the great Highland hills, a man may forget his dinner; but, when within the verge of the horizon church-towers and smoking chimneys of farm-houses continually occur, visions of fat, brown, sucking pigs, rashers of ham and boiled fowls, with foaming tankards, will intrude unbidden after an hour or two of contemplation. * * * * * STRATFORD ON AVON, with SHOTTERY, where Ann Hathaway was courted by Shakspeare and CHARLECOTE, the residence of the Sir Thomas Lucy whom the poet immortalised as Justice Shallow, are all within ten miles of Leamington. On all these so much has been written that we will not venture to "pile up the agony" any higher. The best companion on the road to Stratford is Charles Knight's Life of Shakspeare, which colours all the scenes of the poet's life in Warwickshire with the atmosphere of the sixteenth century, and summons to meet us in the streets of Stratford costumes and characters contemporary with Falstaff, Shallow, and Dogberry so well, that we do not see the Clods in corduroys, the commercial Gents in paletots, and the Police in trim blue, whom we really meet. [THE AVON VIADUCT: ill13.jpg] SOHO. WATT, BOULTON, MURDOCH. On leaving Birmingham, the railway almost immediately passes from Warwickshire into Staffordshire, through two parishes, Handsworth and Aston, which, presenting nothing picturesque in natural scenery or remarkable in ancient or modern buildings, with one exception, yet cannot be passed over without notice, because they were residences of three remarkable men, to whom we are largely indebted for our use of the inventions which have most contributed to the civilisation and advance of social comfort in the nineteenth century. Two miles from old Birmingham, now part of the modern town, lies Soho, in the suburb of Handsworth, which, in 1762, was a bleak and barren heath. In that year Matthew Boulton, the son of a wealthy Birmingham hardwareman, purchased Soho, and erected on it a mansion, with pleasure grounds, and a series of workshops, for carrying on the then staple trades of the town, in shoe buckles, buttons, and other articles included in the general title of "toys." In 1774, Boulton entered into partnership with James Watt, and commenced, in concert with him, the experiments in which Watt had been for some years engaged for improving Savary's imperfect Steam-Pumping Engine. After years of the concentrated labour of genius of the highest order, and the expenditure of not less than 47,000 pounds, their success was complete, and Watt's inventions, in the words of Lord Jeffrey, rendered the Steam Engine "capable of being applied to the finest and most delicate manufactures, and its power so increased, as to set weight and solidity at defiance. By his admirable contrivances, it became a thing stupendous alike for its force and its applicability, for the prodigious power it can exert, and the ease and precision, and ductility with which that power can be varied, distributed, and applied. The trunk of an elephant that can pick up a pin or rend an oak, is as nothing to it. It can engrave a seal, and crush masses of obdurate metal like wax before it; draw out, without breaking, a thread as fine as gossamer, and lift a ship of war like a bauble in the air. It can embroider muslin, and forge anchors, cut steel into ribands, and impel loaded vessels against the fury of the winds and waves." The march of death and time have removed all the men who were engaged in assisting James Watt and Matthew Boulton in their great works. The numerous mechanical trades in coining, plating, and other Birmingham manufactures, in addition to the construction of steam engines, which first turned the waste of Soho into the largest workshop in Europe, have passed into other hands, and been transplanted. The manufactory of steam engines, removed to another site, still exists under the name of the old firm; but within a very recent period the pleasure grounds in which James Watt often walked, in earnest converse with the partner to whose energetic and appreciative mind he owed so much, have been invaded by the advances of the neighbouring town, and sliced and divided into building lots. Aston Hall and Park must soon suffer the same fate. [ASTON VIADUCT: ill14.jpg] Very soon there will be no vestiges of the homes of these great men, but they need no monuments, no shrines for the reverence of admiring pilgrims. Every manufactory in the town of Birmingham is a monument of the genius which first fully expanded within the precincts of Soho. Thousands on thousands find bread from inventions there first perfected or suggested. When Watt explained to Smeaton, the architect of Eddystone Lighthouse and the greatest engineer of the day, the plan of his steam engine, he doubted whether mechanics could be found capable of executing the different parts with sufficient precision; and, in fact, in 1769, when Watt produced, under the patronage of Dr. Roebuck, his third model, with a cylinder of block tin eighteen inches in diameter, there were only one or two men capable of giving the requisite truth of workmanship to air-pump cylinders of two inches in diameter. At the present day, as before observed in reference to Wolverton, there are thousands of skilled workmen employed at weekly wages, to whom the most difficult problems of Watt's early experiments are familiar handiwork. At Handsworth, too, working for a long life in the Soho manufactories as the servant, confidential assistant, and friend, lived another remarkable man, William Murdoch, the inventor of illumination by gas, and the author of the first locomotive steam engine, and of several important contributions to practical science, to which justice has scarcely been done. William Murdoch employed coal gas so early as 1792, for the purpose of lighting his house and offices at Redruth, in Cornwall, when he was superintending the pumping engines erected there by Messrs. Boulton and Watt; for it was he who erected for them in that district the first Cornish pumping engine, with separate condenser. He had at that time in regular use a portable gas lantern, formed by filling a bladder with gas, and fixing to it a jet, which was attached to the bottom of a glass lantern, which he used for the purpose of lighting himself home at night across the moors from the mining engines. His locomotive engine, made upon the non-condensing principle (since adopted in all engines for that purpose), was constructed, in consequence of a lameness which confined him to the sofa, and set to work at Redruth in 1784. It is still in existence in perfect working order, and was exhibited before a meeting of the Mechanical Engineers at Birmingham, in the year 1850, when a memoir of Mr. Murdoch was read, which has been kindly forwarded to us by the President, John M'Connell, Esq., C.E. It is among the traditions of Redruth, that one night William Murdoch, wishing to try an experiment with his new invention, lighted the lamp under the boiler, and set it a-going on a narrow, smooth, hard-rolled gravel walk leading to the church, a mile distant. The little engine went off at a great pace, whistling and hissing as it went, and the inventor followed as fast as he could in chase. Soon he heard cries of alarm, horror, despair, and came up to the worthy clergyman of the parish cowering up against the hedge, almost in a fainting fit, under a strong impression that it was the Evil One in person who just hissed past him in a fire-flaught. Those of this generation who remember their first encounter with a locomotive in a dark night, can realize the terror of a country clergyman on encountering so strange an apparition in a night walk. It speaks as highly for Messrs. Boulton and Watt, in whose service he passed all the active years of his life, as for Mr. Murdoch, that on leaving Cornwall, he refused 1000 pounds a-year, which was offered him by the mining adventurers to remain in the county, in charge of the steam-pumping engines. Liberal as the offer seems, it would have paid them well, for on his departure the engines lost twenty-five per cent. of their working power. Handsworth Church, near Soho, contains a marble statue of James Watt, by Chantrey, a copy of that erected in Westminster Abbey. The railway passes Aston Hall, where James Watt and his only surviving son lived until his death a few years ago. The park contains some fine trees, and the house is a good specimen of the domestic architecture of the time of Elizabeth. [ASTON HALL: ill15.jpg] It was sold for a trifling sum, with an imperfect title, which time has cured, to a speculating banker; and, after having been let to the late James Watt on a long lease, is now likely to exchange mansion and park for a congeries of cottages in rows, forming forty-shilling freeholders. The passion which the mechanics of Birmingham have for investing in land has rendered land near that town dearer than in parallel situations near London. THE BLACK COUNTRY. WALSALL, DUDLEY, WEDNESBURY, DARLASTON. The first diverging railway after leaving Handsworth, on the road to the north, is what, for want of a better name, is called the South Staffordshire, which connects Birmingham with Dudley, Walsall, Lichfield, and Tamworth, thus uniting the most purely agricultural with the most thoroughly manufacturing districts, and especially with that part of the great coal-field which is locally known as the "Black Country." In this Black Country, including West Bromwich, Wednesbury, Dudley, and Darlaston, Bilston, Wolverhampton, and several minor villages, a perpetual twilight reigns during the day, and during the night fires on all sides light up the dark landscape with a fiery glow. The pleasant green of pastures is almost unknown, the streams, in which no fishes swim, are black and unwholesome; the natural dead flat is often broken by huge hills of cinders and spoil from the mines; the few trees are stunted and blasted; no birds are to be seen, except a few smoky sparrows; and for miles on miles a black waste spreads around, where furnaces continually smoke, steam-engines thud and hiss, and long chains clank, while blind gin-horses walk their doleful round. From time to time you pass a cluster of deserted roofless cottages of dingiest brick, half-swallowed up in sinking pits or inclining to every point of the compass, while the timbers point up like the ribs of a half-decayed corpse. The majority of the natives of this Tartarian region are in full keeping with the scenery--savages, without the grace of savages, coarsely clad in filthy garments, with no change on week-days and Sundays, they converse in a language belarded with fearful and disgusting oaths, which can scarcely be recognized as the same as that of civilized England. On working days few men are to be seen, they are in the pits or the ironworks, but women are met on the high-road clad in men's once white linsey-woolsey coats and felt hats, driving and cursing strings of donkeys laden with coals or iron rods for the use of the nailers. On certain rare holidays these people wash their faces, clothe themselves in decent garments, and, since the opening of the South Staffordshire Railway, take advantage of cheap excursion trains, go down to Birmingham to amuse themselves and make purchases. It would be a useful lesson for any one who is particularly well satisfied with the moral, educational, and religious state of his countrymen, to make a little journey through this Black Country. He will find that the amiable enthusiasts who meet every May at Exeter Hall to consider on the best means of converting certain aboriginal tribes in Africa, India, and the Islands of the Pacific, need not go so far to find human beings more barbarous and yet much more easily reclaimed. The people of this district are engaged in coal-mining, in ironworks, in making nails, and many other articles, or parts of articles, for the Birmingham trade. Their wages are, for the most part, good; fuel is cheap; well supplied markets, and means of obtaining the best clothing are close at hand. But, within sixty years a vast dense population has been collected together in districts which were but thinly inhabited as long as the value lay on the surface, instead of in the bowels of the earth. The people gathered together and found neither churches, nor schools, nor laws, nor customs, nor means for cleanliness at first, nor even an effective police to keep order. And thus they became one of the most ignorant, brutal, depraved, drunken, unhealthy populations in the kingdom, unless it be a set of people in the same occupations in the neighbourhood of Manchester. We shall never forget, some five-and-twenty years ago, passing near Bilston on a summer's holiday, and seeing a great red, pied bull foaming, and roaring, and marching round a ring in which he was chained, while a crowd of men, each with a demoniacal-looking bulldog in his arms, and a number of ragged women, with their hair about their ears, some of them also carrying bull-dog pups, yelled about the baited bull. It gave us an awful fright, and haunted our childish dreams for years after. The first change forced upon the governing classes, by feelings of self- protection was an organized police, and the "Black" people are now more disgusting than dangerous. The cholera of 1832, which decimated Bilston and Wednesbury, did something toward calling attention to the grievous social and sanitary wants of this district. In that pestilence several clergymen and medical men died, like heroes, in the discharge of their duties. Some churches were built, some schools established; but an immense work remains to be done. Bull-baiting has been put down, but no rational amusements have been substituted for that brutal and exciting sport. In the northern coal fields, near Newcastle-on-Tyne especially, we have noticed that when the miner ascends from the pit in the evening, his first care is to wash himself from head to foot, and then to put on a clean suit of white flannel. As you pass along the one street of a pitman's village, you will see the father reading a Chambers' Journal or a cheap religious magazine at the door of his cottage while smoking a pipe, and nursing a child or two on his knee; and through the open door, a neat four-post bed and an oak or mahogany chest of drawers bear witness to his frugality. In Wednesbury, Bilston, and all that district, when work is over you find the men drinking in their dirty clothes and with grimy faces at the beer-shop of the "Buttey," that is to say, the contractor or middleman under whom they work, according to the system of the country, and the women hanging about the doors of their dingy dwellings, gossiping or quarreling,--the old furies and the young slatterns. In the face of such savagery, so evidently the result of defective education, two opposite and extreme parties in the State, the anti-church Mialls and the pro-church Anthony Denisons, combine to oppose the multiplication of education that teaches decency if it teaches nothing else. One great step has been made by the Health of Town's Act, which is about to be applied to some of these coal towns; and railways have rendered the whole district so accessible that no foul spot can long remain unknown or unnoticed. * * * * * WALSALL, eight miles from Birmingham, the first town in our way, which may be reached directly by following the South Staffordshire, or by an omnibus, travelling half-a-mile from Bescot Bridge, lies among green fields, out of the bounds of the mining country, although upon the edge of the Warwickshire and Staffordshire coalfield,--indeed the parliamentary borough includes part of the rough population just described. It is very clean, without antiquities or picturesque beauties, and contains nothing to attract visitors except its manufactures, of which the best known is cheap saddlery for the American, West Indian, and Australian markets. They make the leather and wooden parts, as well as stirrups and bridles; also gunlocks, bits, spurs, spades, hinges, screws, files, edge tools, and there is one steel-pen manufactory, besides many articles connected with the Birmingham trade, either finished or unfinished, the number of which is constantly increasing. Walsall is celebrated for its pig-market, a celebrity which railroads have not destroyed, as was expected, but rather increased. Special arrangements for comfortably disembarking these, the most interesting strangers who visit Walsall, have been made at the railway station. The principal church, with a handsome spire, stands upon a hill, and forms a landmark to the surrounding country. The ascent to it, by a number of steps, has, according to popular prejudice, produced an effect upon the legs of the inhabitants more strengthening than elegant, which has originated the provincial phrase of "Walsall-legged." But this is, no doubt, a libel on the understandings of the independent borough. The houses are chiefly built of brick, but it seems as if some years ago the inhabitants had been seized with an architectural disease, which has left its marks in the shape of an eruption of stucco porticoes, and one or two pretensious mansions, externally resembling jails or infirmaries, internally boasting halls which bear the same proportion to the living rooms as Falstaff's gallon of sack to his halfpennyworth of bread. No doubt there are persons whom this style of house exactly suits, the portico represents their pride, the parlour their economy. What was intended for the Walsall public library consists of a thin closet behind a gigantic Ionic portico, now tottering to its fall; and in like manner a perfectly dungeon-like effect has been given to the principal hotel by another portico, which affords a much better idea of the charges than of the accommodation to be found within. As a general rule in travelling, we pass by all hotels with porticoes to take refuge in more modest Green Dragons or Blue Boars. Walsall has a municipal corporation of six aldermen and eighteen councillors. The Reform Bill, to increase the troubles of this innocent borough, placed it in schedule B, and gave it the privilege of making one M.P. Fierce contests at every general election have been the result, in which some blood, much money, and more beer, have been expended. But neither party has thought it worth while to make the education of the savages of the Black Country a piece of politics, and, if any one did, he would only be torn to pieces between Church and Dissenters. * * * * * DUDLEY in Worcestershire, about six miles from Walsall by the South Staffordshire Railway, has a castle and more than one legend for the antiquarian, a cave, and limestone pits full of fossils for the geologist, and especial interest for the historical economist, being the centre of the district where the first successful attempts were made to smelt iron by coal,--a process which has contributed, almost as much as our success in textile manufactures, to give this small island a wealth and power which a merely agricultural non-exporting community could never have attained. Iron was manufactured with charcoal in England from the time of the Romans till the middle of the eighteenth century, when the timber of many counties had been entirely exhausted by the process. In 1558, in the reign of Elizabeth, it was enacted that "no timber of the breadth of one foot square at the stub, and growing within fourteen miles of the sea, or any part of the river Thames or Severn, or any other river, creek, or stream, by the which carriage is commonly used by boat or other vessel, to any part of the sea, shall be converted to coal, or fuel for making iron;" {125a} and, in 1581, a further Act was passed to prevent the destruction of timber. "For remedy whereof it was enacted that no new iron works should be erected within twenty-two miles of London nor within fourteen miles of the river Thames, nor in the several parts of Sussex near the sea therein named. This Act not to extend to the woods of Christopher Durrell, in the parish of Newdigate, within the weald of Surrey, which woods have been coppiced by him for the use of his iron works in those parts." At the same period, we find from a letter in the Stradling Correspondence, {125b} that, while iron was made in Surrey, Sussex, and Kent, where not a pound is now manufactured, in Glamorganshire, at present a great seat of iron manufacture, iron was so scarce that an anvil was leased out at the rent of 3s. 4d. a year, {126} a rent at which, taking the then value of money, a very tolerable anvil could now be purchased. When the woods of the kingdom began to be exhausted, attention was turned to pit coal, which had long been in use for fuel in the counties where it was plentifully found. A curious account of the first successful experiments is to be found, told in very quaint language, in the Metallum Martis of Dudley Dudley, son of Lord Edward Dudley (an ancestor of the late Earl Dudley and Ward, and of the present Lord Ward, who now enjoys the very estates referred to, and derives a princely income from the mineral treasures, the true value of which was discovered by his unfortunate ancestor), published in the reign of Charles II. This Mr. Dudley was an early victim of the patent laws, which, to this day, have proved to be for the benefit of lawyers and officials, and the tantalization of true inventors and discoverers. The following extracts contain his story, and enable us to compare the present with the then state of iron manufacture:-- "Having former knowledge and delight in ironworks of my father's when I was but a youth, afterwards, at twenty years old, was I fetched from Oxford, then of Baliol College, anno 1619, to look after and manage three ironworks of my father's, one furnace and two forges in the chace of Pensnel, in Worcestershire; but wood and charcoal growing very scanty, and pit-coals in great quantities abounding near the furnace, did induce me to alter my furnace and to attempt by my new invention, the making of iron with pit-coal, and found at my trial or blast, facere est addere inventioni. After I had proved by a second blast and trial, the feasibility of making iron with pit- coal and sea-coal, I found by my new invention the quality good and profitable, but the quantity did not exceed above three tons a week." After this, the inventor obtained a patent from King James I., for thirty-one years in the nineteenth year of his reign. "But the year following the grant there was so great a flood of rain,--to this day called the great May-day flood,--that it ruined the author's ironworks and inventions, and at a market town called Sturbridge, in comitatu Wigorniae, one resolute man was carried from the bridge in the day time." "As soon as the author had repaired his works, he was commanded to send all sorts of bar iron up to the Tower of London, fit for making of muskets and carbines, {127} and the iron being so tried by artists and smiths, that the ironmasters and ironmongers who had complained that the author's iron was not merchantable, were silenced until the twenty-first of King James." "At the then parliament all monopolies were made null, and divers of the ironmeasters endeavoured to bring the invention of making iron with pit-coal within the compass of a monopoly; but the Lord Dudley and the author did prevail, yet the patent was limited to continue but fourteen years." This exception in the Statute of Monopolies, which incontestably proves the claim of the Dudley family to the honour of having invented the art of smelting iron with coal, runs in the following terms:--"Provided also that this Act shall not extend to, or be prejudicial to, a graunt or priviledge for the melting of iron ewer, and of maling the same into sea coals or pit coals, by His Majesties letters Patent under the Great Seale of England, made or graunted to Edward Lord Dudley." After the passing of the Act, it seems that Dudley Dudley made "great store of iron and sold it at 12 pounds a ton, and also cast-iron wares, as brewing cisterns, pots, mortars;" but, being ousted of his works, he again set up a furnace at "Himley, in the county of Stafford." Himley Hall is the present residence of Lord Ward, the representative of the Dudley family. From that time forward, the life of the unfortunate inventor was but one series of misfortunes. Under Charles I. he got into law-suits, was the victim of riots set on by the charcoal ironmasters, and was eventually lodged in prison in the Compter. Then came the Great Rebellion, during which he had the disadvantage of being a Royalist as well as an inventor, and of having "Cromwell, with Major Wildman and many of his officers, as opponents in rival experiments tried in the Forest of Dean, where they employed an ingenious glassmaster, Edward Dagney, an Italian then living in Bristow," but they failed. And so he was utterly ruined. On the accession of Charles II., he petitioned, and eventually sent in the statement from which the preceding extracts have been made, but apparently without any success. The king was too busy making dukes and melting the louis d'ors of his French pension, to think of anything so common as iron or so tiresome as gratitude. The iron manufacture, for want of the art of smelting by coal, and of a supply of wood, which the march of agriculture daily diminished, dwindled away, until, in the middle of the eighteenth century, it was revived at Colebrook Dale by the Darbys. In the intermediate period, we were dependent on Russia, Spain, and Sweden for the chief part of the iron used in manufactures. But one of the most curious passages in Dudley's Metallum Martis, is the following picture of the Dudley coal-field:--"Now let me show some reasons that induced me to undertake these inventions. Well knowing that within ten miles of Dudley Castle, there be near 20,000 smiths of all sorts, and many ironworks within that circle decayed for want of wood (yet formerly a mighty woodland country); secondly, Lord Dudley's woods and works decayed, but pit- coal and iron stone or mines abounding upon his lands, but of little use; thirdly, because most of the coal mines in these parts are coals ten, eleven, and twelve yards thick; fourthly, under this great thickness of coal are very many sorts of ironstone mines; fifthly, that one-third part of the coals gotten under the ground are small, when the colliers are forced to sink pits for getting of ten yards thick, and are of little use in an inland country, unless it might be made use of by making iron therewith; sixthly, these colliers must cast these coals and slack out of their ways, which, becoming moist, heat naturally, and kindle in the middle of these great heaps, often sets the coal works on fire and flaming out of the pits, and continue burning like AEtna in Sicily or Hecla in the Indies." (sic.) At present, for more than ten miles round Dudley Castle, iron works of one kind or another are constantly at work; no remains of mighty woodland are to be found. The value of the ten yard coal is fully appreciated, but the available quantity is far from having been worked out. The untouched mineral wealth of Lord Ward in this district was valued, ten years ago, at a million sterling. The small coal is no longer wasted, but carefully raised from the pits and conveyed by the numerous canals, tram-roads, and railroads, to iron works, glass works, and chemical works. But still heaps of waste, moistened by rain, do smoke by day, and flaming by night in conjunction with hundreds of fiery furnaces and natural gases blazing, do produce, on a night's journey from Dudley to Wolverhampton, not the effect of one AEtna or Hecla, but of a broad "inferno," from which even Dante might have gathered some burning notions. The political croakers who are constantly predicting that the last inevitable change, whether it be a Municipal Corporation Reform, a Tithe Commutation, or a Corn Tax Repeal, will prove the ruin of England, should study the geographical march of our manufactures, and mark how, on the whole population, the rise of a new staple in one district, or the invention of a new art, constantly creates a new demand for labour. The exhaustion of our forests, instead of destroying, founded one great element of our world-wide commercial influence. We make no apology for this digression, knowing that, to many minds, facts connected with the rise of the iron trade will have as much interest as notes on the scene of a battle or the birthplace of a second-rate poet, besides, as we omit to say what we do not know, it is necessary we should say what we do. Besides mining and smelting iron ore, a considerable population in and around Dudley is engaged in the manufacture of glass and of nails; the latter being a domestic manufacture, at which men, women, and children all work at home. The castle dates from a Saxon prince, Dodo, A.D. 700; but, like the bird of the same name, the original building is extinct. But very interesting ruins of a Norman gateway, tower, and keep, are in existence; and form, with the caves, a show-place leased by the South Staffordshire as an attraction to their excursion trains. The caves are lighted up on special occasions, and were honoured by a visit from the geologists of the British Association when last they met at Birmingham. A fossil, called the Dudley locust, is found in great quantities and varieties in the limestone quarries, which form part of the mineral wealth of the neighbourhood. The broad gauge line through Birmingham and Oxford will shortly afford Dudley a direct and rapid communication with London. To passengers this will be a great convenience, but a mode of conveyance so unwieldy, clumsy, and costly, is singularly ill fitted for a mineral district, as experience among the narrow tram-ways of the north has amply proved. Dudley returns one member to Parliament; whose politics must, it is supposed, be those of the holder of the Ward estate. Returning from Dudley through Walsall to Bescot Bridge, the rail pursues its course through a mining country to Bilston and Wolverhampton. On the road we pass in sight of the Birmingham canal, one of the finest works of the kind in the kingdom. An enormous sum was spent in improving the navigation, in order to prove that any railway was unnecessary. The proprietors, under the influence of their officials, a snug family party, shut their eyes and spent their money in opposing the inevitable progress of locomotive power to the last possible moment. Even when the first London and Birmingham railway was nearly open, a scheme for a new canal was industriously hawked round the county; and, although there were not enough subscribers found to execute the work, a small percentage was sufficient to furnish a surveyor's new house very handsomely. Still, there is no probability of the canal ever ceasing to be an important aid to the coal trade in heavy freights. * * * * * WEDNESBURY, {130} pronounced Wedgebury, and spelt Wednesberie in Domesday Book, stands in the very heart of the coal and iron district, and is as like Tipton, Darlaston, Bilston, and other towns where the inhabitants are similarly employed, as one sweep is like another. Birmingham factors depend largely on Wedgebury for various kinds of ironwork and "heavy steel toys." The coal pits in the neighbourhood are of great value, and there is no better place in the kingdom to buy a thoroughbred bull dog that will "kill or die on it," but never turn tail. The name is supposed to incorporate that of the Saxon god Woden, whose worship consisted in getting drunk and fighting, and, to this day, that is the only kind of relaxation in which many of the inhabitants ever indulge. The church stands upon a hill, where Ethelfleda, Lady of Mercia, built a castle to resist the Danes, A.D. 914, about the time that she erected similar bulwarks at Tamworth and other towns in the Midland counties, but there are no antiquities worth the trouble of visiting. Parties who take an interest in the progress of education in this kingdom among those classes where it is most needed, that is to say, masses of miners and mechanics residing in districts from which all the higher and most of the middle classes have removed; where the clergy are few, hard worked, and ill paid; where the virtues of a thinly peopled agricultural district have been exchanged for the vices, without the refinements, of a crowded town population, should traverse this part of Staffordshire on foot. They will own that, in spite of the praiseworthy labours of both Church and Dissent,--in spite of the progress of Temperance Societies and Savings' Banks,--a crowd of children are daily growing up in a state of ignorance, dirt, and degradation fearful to contemplate. To active philanthropists, not to seekers of the picturesque, archaeologists, and antiquarians, do we address ourselves. Still we ought to add that, in the iron works and rolling mills, there are studies of half naked men in active motion at night, with effect of red firelight and dark shade, in which the power of painting flesh and muscular development might be more effectively displayed than in the perpetual repetition of model Eves and sprawling nymphs. * * * * * WOLVERHAMPTON formerly lay away from railroads, at a convenient omnibus distance; but competition has doubly pierced it through and through. One line connects it with Shrewsbury; another, on the point of completion, will connect it with Dudley, Birmingham, and Oxford, and another with Worcester,--add to these means of communication the canals existing before railroads commenced, extending to Hull, Liverpool, Chester, and London, and it will be seen that Wolverhampton is most fortunately placed. The great railway battle of the gauges commenced at Wolverhampton, and has been carried on ever since at the cost of more than a million sterling in legal and parliamentary expenses, beside the waste of capital in constructing three railways where one would have been sufficient, and the extra cost of land traversed where a price was paid, 1st, for the land; 2nd, for the revenue; 3rd, for compulsion; 4th, for influence, and 5th, for vote, if the landowner were a member of either House of Parliament. At the end of the battle, a competing line to London has been established, which will end shortly in a compromise; and, if one district has two railways, others, much needing, have none. The shareholders on both sides have lost their money, the engineers have reaped a harvest, and the lawyers have realized a fortune. The experience of water companies, gas companies, canal companies, and railway companies, has distinctly been, that, between great monied corporations with large capitals sunk in plant, competition is impossible and must end in a compromise. But these contests are profitable to lawyers, who must always win, whether their clients do or not. It is no exaggeration to say that, as surely as Spain and Portugal are priest-ridden, so surely is Great Britain lawyer- ridden. No sooner does the science, the industry, and the enterprise of the country carve out some new road to commercial prosperity, than the attorney sets up a turnpike upon it and takes toll; and, if dispute arises as to the right of road, however the contest be decided, it ends in two attornies taking toll. In chancery, in the laws affecting patents of inventions, in the law affecting canals, in railways, a standing army of lawyers are constantly engaged in fighting battles, which end in our bearing the wounds and their sharing the spoil. So it was in these battles of the gauges. But to return to Wolverhampton, the name of which recalled battles wherein so much useful money has been wasted, the town, although of rising importance in a commercial point, offers no other attraction to the curious traveller than its numerous manufactories of hardware, and machinery of various kinds, including firearms, tinned ware, locks and keys, of extraordinary cheapness, gun locks, files, screws, and japanned ware. The tea trays, and other japanned ware of Wolverhampton, are equal in taste and execution to anything produced in Birmingham; indeed, it was at the manufactory of the Messrs. Walton that the plan of skilfully copying the landscapes of our best artists on japan were originated. The first tea-tray of the kind was copied from one of Turner's Rivers of France, by a gentleman who has since taken up a very important position in applying the true principles of art to British manufactures. Wolverhampton, and all the towns and villages in the coal and iron district, are only so many branch-Birminghams; in that hardware metropolis the greater part of the goods made are ordered and sold. The town is of great antiquity, although with as few remains as most flourishing towns built of brick, where manufactures have chased away mansions. The name is derived from Walfrana, a sister of King Edgar, who founded a monastery there in A.D. 996, and collected a village round it named Walfrana Hampton, which was eventually corrupted into Wolverhampton. In the oldest Church, St. Peter's, there is a pulpit formed of a single stone, elaborately sculptured, and a font, with curious bas-relief figures of saints. The Church is collegiate, and the College consists of a dean, who holds the prebend of Wolverhampton, which was annexed by Edward IV. to his free chapel of St. George, within the Castle of Windsor. A Free Grammar School, supported by endowments, affords a head master 400 pounds a-year; the second master 200 pounds; and a third master 120 pounds. Some years ago these gentlemen had only seventy scholars to teach, but we trust this is, or will be, amended. Wolverhampton was made a Parliamentary borough by the Reform Act, returning two members from boundaries which include the townships of Bilston, Willenhall, Wednesfield, and the parish of Sedgeley. The population has increased more than five fold in the last forty years. Bird, the artist, Congreve, inventor of the rockets which bear his name, and Abernethy, the eminent surgeon, were natives of Wolverhampton; Huskisson, who began the commercial reforms which Peel finished, was born at Oxley Hall, in the immediate neighbourhood. Close to the town is a good racecourse, well frequented once a year, formerly one of the most fashionable meetings in the country. The ladies' division of the Grand Stand used to be a complete parterre of the gayest flowers; but railroads, which have added to the quantity, have very much deteriorated the quality of the frequenters of races, and unless a change takes place, a Grand Stand will soon be as dark, as busy, and as dull as the Stock Exchange. From Wolverhampton a line nineteen miles in length, through Albrighton (where Staffordshire ends and Shropshire begins) and Shifnal to Wellington, shortens the route to Shrewsbury by cutting off an angle; but as there is nothing to be said about this route except that at Albrighton are the kennels of the hunt of that name, (a hunt in which the greater or less luxury in horseflesh of the young ironmasters affords a thermometer of the state of the iron trade,) we shall on this occasion take the Stafford line. Within an easy distance of Wolverhampton are a very large number of the noblemen's and gentlemen's seats, in which Staffordshire is so rich; more than one ancient and dilapidated family has been restored by the progress of smoke-creating manufactures, which have added to the wealth even more than they destroyed the picturesqueness of the country. If we were conducting a foreigner over England with the view of showing him the wealth, the power, and the beauties of our country, we should follow exactly the course we have hitherto pursued, and after an exhausting inspection of the manufactories of the coal country, should turn off the rail, after leaving Wolverhampton on our road to Stafford, and visit some of the beautiful mansions surrounded by that rich combination of nature and art which so eminently distinguishes the "stately homes of England." For instance, before reaching Penkridge we pass--on the right hand, Moseley Court, where the ancestors of the proprietors, the Whitgreaves, concealed Charles II. after the Battle of Worcester,--on the left, Wrottesley Hall, the seat of the scientific nobleman of that name, and Chellington Park, the residence of the ancient Roman Catholic family of the Giffords, where an avenue of oaks, the growth of centuries, with a magnificent domain stocked with deer and game, afford the admirers of English scenery delicious vistas of wood, water, and rich undulating pasture. The contrast between the murky atmosphere and continued roar of the ironmaking country, and the silence of the deer-haunted green glades is most striking, and most grateful to eye and ear. As we rush along the valley of the Penk, too rapidly to drink in its full beauties; on the right, Teddesley Hall, the mansion of Lord Hatherton, rising above the tops of the trees, reminds us that the noble lord's farms are well worth a visit from any one taking an interest in agriculture. Poor land has been rendered comparatively fertile, and by a complete system of drainage, mere marshy rush-growing meadows have been made capable of carrying capital root and wheat crops, while the waste water has been carried to a head, and then by a large overshot water wheel, working below the surface of the ground, made useful for thrashing, chaff and root cutting, and other operations of the farm. At Penkridge, a rural village of considerable antiquity, ten miles from Wolverhampton, adorned by a Gothic Church, and several picturesque houses of the Elizabethan style of domestic architecture, it will be convenient to descend, if an expedition is intended, over Cannock Chase to Beaudesert, the seat of the Marquis of Anglesey. [THE RAILWAY NEAR PENKRIDGE: ill17.jpg] This Cannock Chase completes the singular variations of soil and occupation to be found in Staffordshire. From the densely-populated iron districts, and the model agriculture of disciples of the same school as Lord Hatherton, we can turn our faces to a vast moorland, forty miles square, stretching from where it is first seen on the banks of the railway to the banks of the Trent, as wild as any part of Wales or Scotland, intersected by steep hills, by deep valleys, covered with gorse and broom, dotted with peat marshes, tenanted by wild deer and feathered game, and fed over by the famous "Kenk" sheep, nearly as wild as deer, and in flavour rivalling the best mountain mutton. This great waste was once covered with dense forests, in which the wolf, the bear, the wild boar, and the wild bull were hunted by our Saxon Kings. It is not among the least wonders effected by the locomotive that a short hour can transport us from the midst of the busiest centres of manufactures to a solitude as complete as is to be found in the prairies of America or Australia, unless we by chance stumble upon a prying gamekeeper or an idle rustic seeking whortle-berries or snaring hares. On this chase, begged by his ancestors from an easy king as a kitchen garden, the hero of the Light Cavalry at Waterloo annually takes his sport, mounted on a perfect shooting cob, and with eighty years upon his shoulders, can still manage to bring down his birds right and left. Long may such blanks of solitude and wild nature remain amid the busy hum of commerce to remind us of what all England once was, to afford, at a few holidays in the year, a free breathing place to the hardworking multitude, and to the poet and student that calm delight which the golden fragrance of a gorse-covered moor can bestow. Before we reach Stafford we leave on the right, although not in sight, Shugborough, the deserted mansion of the Earl of Lichfield, a descendant of the Lord Anson who "sailed round the world but was never in it." STAFFORD. STAFFORD CASTLE, on the summit of a high hill, whose slopes are clothed with forest trees, gives in the romantic associations it awakens a very false idea of the town to be found below. The towers of the Castle built by the son of Robert de Tonei, the Standard Bearer of William the Conqueror, have survived the Wars of the Roses and the contests of the Great Rebellion, while the remainder has been restored in an appropriate style by the family of the present possessors, representatives of the ancient barony of Stafford--no relation of the Staffords who in another part of the county enjoy the Dukedom of Sutherland. But the town, prosperous in spite of many changes of fashion, has completely lost any antique air it may ever have enjoyed, and now, in all the smugness of brick, quite realises the idea of a borough which at every election is for sale to the highest bidder. [STAFFORD: ill18.jpg] The principal manufacture is that of shoes for exportation. Many remarkable men have represented Stafford, some as remarkable for their talent as for their folly. Sheridan's most brilliant speeches, and Urquhart's most undeniable failures in the House of Commons, were both due to the borough of Stafford. It is, in fact, a stepping-stone to the House of Commons, always ready for the highest bidder and promiser, but whoever would sit for Stafford for a series of Parliaments, would need the use of the Philosopher's Stone. The independent electors would exhaust California if they had the chance. As the Stafford shoemakers, to the deep disappointment of its agricultural neighbours, have not yet been ruined by the influx of foreign boots and shoes, its chief interest at present is derived from its being the point from which several important railways radiate. * * * * * STAFFORD TO MANCHESTER.--Beside the old Grand Junction line to Crewe, the Trent Valley line, about which we intend to say a few words on our return journey, ends, strictly speaking, at Stafford, after passing by Atherston, Tamworth, and Lichfield; but, since the construction of the North Staffordshire, which joins the Trent Valley at Colewich, the most direct way to Manchester is through the pottery district and Macclesfield, instead of by Stafford and Crewe. Direct lines have generally proved a great mistake, except so far as they have accommodated the local traffic through which they passed. To the shareholders they have been most unprofitable wherever the original shareholders were not lucky enough to bully the main lines into a lease, and, to the average of travellers very inconvenient, by dividing accommodation. But shareholders should look at the local traffic of a proposed direct line, on which alone good dividends can be earned. These direct projects were partly the result of the imperfect manner in which, in consequence of opposition and from want of experience, the original main branch lines were executed, and partly in that plethora of money, which, in this thriving country, must be relieved from time to time by the bleeding of ingenious schemers. We are enjoying, in this year of 1851, the advantages derived from money spent, and lost to the spenders, in our own country instead of being sunk in Greek or Spanish bonds, South American mines, or the banks and public works of the United States. At one period, in the height of the ten per cent. mania, a school of railway economists sprang up which advocated placing the construction and the profits of railways in the hands of government, and they supported their theories by ex post facto criticism on the blunders of railway companies,--on the astonishing dividends of Mr. George Hudson's lines,--and on the hard terms on which capitalists had agreed to execute French railways for the French government. These ingenious reasons did not prevail. People were reminded that the steam boats, the public works, the "Woods and Forests" under government charge, were not managed with remarkable success or economy. The tempting dividends melted away, and projects for French railways, on the principle of the State taking profits and the speculators the risk, which had excited the admiration of Cato Morrisson, first hung fire and then exploded, so that rich districts of France which, on the system of "profits to private enterprise," would have enjoyed railway conveyance ten years ago, are still left to the mercy of the slow diligences and slower waggons to this hour. To a commercial country like England, the waste of a few millions on railways badly planned, are of little importance compared with the national saving effected by the cheap conveyance of produce. The great importance of the direct line between Rugby, Macclesfield, and Manchester, is not that it saves an hour in the transit of an impatient traveller, but that it places in easy communication purely agricultural and thoroughly manufacturing communities, so as to render an interchange of produce easy. Shareholders sometimes suffer, but the public always gains. On the other hand, Parliament should take care that railway extension to blank districts is not prevented by conceding parallel lines to directors hunting for a dividend, by dividing instead of increasing the existing traffic. When an alteration of the law settlement has released from parish bondage and vegetation those adscripti glebae agricultural labourers, the advantage of our network of railways will be still more felt. * * * * * STAFFORD TO SHREWSBURY.--The third line diverging from Stafford, counting the continuation of the London as a fourth, is the railway to Shrewsbury, passing through NEWPORT and WELLINGTON, where it joins the direct line from Wolverhampton, and affording, by a continuation which passes near Oswestry, Chirk, and Llangollen, {138} to Wrexham, Chester, and Birkenhead, another route to Liverpool, and, through Chester, the nearest way to Holyhead and Ireland. * * * * * NEWPORT.--The first station after leaving Stafford for Shrewsbury, and immediately after crossing into Shropshire, is a small market town and borough, with a corporation, which can be traced back to Henry III. The church, of the fifteenth century, with an interior of great beauty, has been frightfully disfigured by aisles built of bricks in a common builders' style of architecture. This corporation offers an example which might be with advantage followed by greater men holding the same office; they have but a small income, and they apply it to keeping in order cisterns and conduits which supply the town with water. There is a free grammar school founded by one William Adams in 1756, which has a library attached to the school and five scholarships. The best, of 80 pounds a year, to Christchurch, Oxford. * * * * * WELLINGTON stands at the base of the Wrekin, is the centre of the Shropshireman's toast and the chief town of the coal and iron district, and is the point where the line from Wolverhampton makes a junction, affording the nearest road from Birmingham to Shrewsbury. It was here that Charles I., on his march from Wellington to Shrewsbury, assembled his troops, and, in order to allay the growing disaffection among them, declared that he would "support the reformed religion, govern by law, uphold the privileges of parliament, and preserve the liberty of the subject." From Wellington you may proceed by omnibus to Coalbrookdale, where the first iron bridge was built over the Severn, where the Darbys and Dickensons have carried on iron works for more than a century, where coal was first applied profitably to smelting iron, and where the fine iron castings of Berlin have been rivalled, and successful attempts have been made to introduce the principles of the fine arts into domestic manufactures. The firm are members of the Society of Friends. Fortunately their tenets do not prevent them from selling us coal-scuttles of beautiful design, although their wives and daughters are bound, according to the conservative principles of their sect, to wear bonnets of an unvarying and hideous coal-scuttle shape. * * * * * SHREWSBURY, 10 miles from Wellington, is, in more respects than one, an interesting town, situated partly on a precipitous peninsula formed by the swift clear waters of the Severn, united to the opposite side by bridges, in one of which the huge undershot waterwheels of a corn mill are for ever turning. A stranger without letters of introduction, condemned to spend a few hours here with nothing to do, may easily pass the time pleasantly in hunting out picturesque bits of river scenery, or even in chucking pebbles into the stream, instead of drinking sherry negus he does not want, or poking about the dull streets of a modern town, while all the respectable inhabitants are lost in wonder "who that strange man in the white hat is." The manufactures of Shrewsbury are not very important; thread, linen, and canvas, and iron-works in the neighbouring suburb of Coleham; a considerable and ancient trade is carried on in Welsh flannel and cloths from the neighbouring counties of Denbigh, Montgomery, and Merioneth, and markets and fairs are held for the benefit of the rich agricultural district around, in which, besides fine butter, cheese, poultry, and live stock, a large assemblage of the blooming, rosy, broad-built Shropshire lasses show the advantage of a mixture of Welsh and English blood. But Shrewsbury is most famous for its school, its cakes, its ale, and the clock mentioned by Falstaff, for which on our last visit we found an ingenuous Frenchman industriously searching. The royal free grammar school, endowed by Edward VI., was raised, by the educational talents of the late Dr. Butler, afterwards Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, to a very high position among our public schools; a position which has been fully maintained by the present master, Dr. Kennedy. As for the cakes and ale, they must be tasted to be appreciated, but not at the same time. In the history of England and Wales, Shrewsbury plays an important part. It is supposed that the town was founded by the Britons of the kingdom of Powis, while they were yet struggling with the Saxons, or rather the Angles, for the midland counties, and, it is probable, was founded by them when they found Uttoxeter (the Uriconiam of the Romans), no longer tenable. On the conquest of the town by the Anglo-Saxons it received the name of Scrobbes- byrig; that is to say Scrub-burgh, or a town in a scrubby or bushy district, and, in the Saxon Chronicle, Scrobbesbyrig-scire is mentioned, now corrupted or polished into Shropshire. Ethelfleda, whose name we have so often had occasion to mention as the builder of castles and churches, founded the collegiate church of St. Alkmund; and Athelstan established a mint here. It is evident that the "Athelstan the Unready," mentioned in Ivanhoe, must have very much degenerated from the ancestor who established a mint for ready money. According to Domesday-Book, Shrewsbury had, in Edward the Confessor's time, two hundred and fifty-two houses, with a resident burgess in each house, and five churches. It was included in the Earldom of Shrewsbury, granted by William the Conqueror to his kinsman, Roger de Montgomery, who erected a castle on the entrance of the peninsula on which the town now stands, pulling down fifty houses for that purpose. In the wars between Stephen and the Empress Maude, the Castle was taken and retaken; and in the reign of John the town was taken by the Welsh under Llewellyn the Great, who had joined the insurgent Barons in 1215; and again attacked and the suburbs burned by the Welsh in 1234. Shrewsbury was again taken by Simon de Montfort and his ally, Llewellyn, grandson of Llewellyn the Great, in 1266, the year before de Montfort fell on the field of Evesham. And here, in 1283, David, the last Prince of Wales, was tried, condemned, and executed as a traitor. Here, too, in 1397, in the reign of Richard II., a Parliament was held, at which the Earl of Hereford (afterwards Henry IV.) charged the Duke of Norfolk with treason. The charge was to have been decided by a trial of battle at Coventry. On the appointed morning, "Hereford came forth armed at all points, mounted on a white courser, barded with blue and green velvet, gorgeously embroidered with swans and antelopes of goldsmiths' work. The Duke of Norfolk rode a horse barded with crimson velvet, embroidered with lines of silver and mulberries." At that time it took more days to travel from Shrewsbury to Coventry than it now does hours. The cloth of gold was as splendidly, perhaps more splendidly, embroidered than anything we can do now; but in the matter of shirts, shoes, stockings, and the clothing necessary for health and comfort, and of windows and chimneys, and matters necessary for air and shelter, mechanics and day labourers are better provided than the squires and pages of those great noblemen. Five years after, the Harry of Hereford having become Henry IV. of England, assembled an army at Shrewsbury to march against Owen Glendower, and the following year he fought the battle of Shrewsbury against Hotspur, and his ally the Douglas, which forms the subject of a scene in Shakspeare's play of Henry IV. At that battle Percy Hotspur marched from Stafford toward Shrewsbury, hoping to reach it before the King, and by being able to command the passage of the Severn to communicate with his ally Glendower; but Henry, who came from Lichfield, arrived there first, on the 19th July, 1403. The battle was fought the next day at Hateley Field, about three miles from the town. In the Wars of the Roses Shrewsbury was Yorkist. In the great Civil War Charles I. came to Shrewsbury, there received liberal contributions, in money and plate, from the neighbouring gentry, and largely recruited his forces; and in the course of the war the town was taken and retaken more than once. Thus it will be seen that Shrewsbury is connected with many important events in English history. The first Charter of incorporation extant is of Richard I. Two members are returned to Parliament of opposite politics at present; but a few years ago it was the boast of the Salopians, that the twelve members returned by the different constituencies of the county were all of that class of politics which, for want of a better name, may be called "Sibthorpian." Shrewsbury is a good starting point for an expedition into Wales, and we can strongly recommend the walk from Chirk, one of the stations on the line to Chester, over the hills by footpaths to Llangollen: from one point a view may be caught of the three great civilizers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. A splendid viaduct, carrying the Shropshire Canal over a deep valley, in its day considered a triumph of engineering art--the Holyhead mail road, perhaps the best piece of work of the kind in the world, and the railway, which has partly superseded both. There is more than one pleasant spot on the bye-path we have suggested where a thoughtful pedestrian may sit down, and, smoking a cigar in the presence of a sweetly calm landscape of grassy valleys and round-topped hills, ponder over these things, not without advantage, to the sound of bells borne by lively Welsh sheep, whose mutton has been raised 2d. a pound in value by Stephenson's steam-engines. But our road lies by the English rail this time, therefore we must return to Stafford. * * * * * STAFFORD TO CREWE.--On leaving Stafford for Crewe we pass on the right Ingestrie Park, the seat of the Earl of Talbot; the ruins of Chartley Castle, the property of Earl Ferrers, the defendant in the action brought by Miss Smith for breach of promise of marriage; and Sandon Park, the seat of the Earl of Harrowby, who for many years, before succeeding his father, represented Liverpool in the House of Commons as Lord Sandon. Soon after passing Norton Bridge Station, about seven miles from Stafford, we come in sight of Swinnerton Hall, the seat of the ancient family of Fitz- Herbert. The first lord of the manor of Swinnerton received this name at the hands of the Norman Conqueror. One of the farms of the present proprietor of Swinnerton Hall is held by a Liverpool merchant, who has carried out modern agricultural improvements, especially in stock feeding, with great success; having availed himself of the facilities of the railroad and his commercial knowledge, to import from Liverpool various kinds of nutritive pulse and grain. Near the Whitmore Station the railway winds for two miles through an excavation in solid stone, enclosed by intermediate slopes of turf, ending, as it were in an arch, which, spanning the road, forms a sort of frame to a wild region that stretches on beyond. [VIEW NEAR WHITMORE: ill19.jpg] Without anything very important to induce a halt by the way, the train runs into Crewe. Crewe is a wonderful place; sixteen years ago, the quietest of country- villages, now intersected in every direction with iron roads pointing from it to almost every point of the compass. A story is extant, with what foundation of truth we know not, of a gentleman who purchased a small farm here, as a safe investment and occasional retreat from the bustle of Manchester, and eventually realized from it, when a railway station was erected, more hundreds than he had paid pounds. At any rate, if it is not true, it might have been. At present, besides the line formerly called the Grand Junction, until its amalgamation with the London and Birmingham, there is a line from Crewe to Chester and Birkenhead; another to Manchester direct, by Macclesfield, formerly known as the Manchester and Birmingham--both are now merged in the London and North Western; and lastly, a short cross branch of fifteen miles, forming a union with Burslem on the North Staffordshire. In addition to the bustle created by the arrival and departure of innumerable trains at Crewe, the London and North Western Company have a large establishment for building and repairing the locomotives and other machinery in use on their lines north of Birmingham. This establishment is under the charge of Mr. Trevethick, C.E., a son of the Trevethick who, in 1802, in conjunction with Vivian, took out the first patent for a locomotive engine, which they executed the following year. {144} The railway village of Crewe is on the same plan as that of Wolverton, but situated in much prettier scenery; and includes a church, infant, boys' and girls' schools, a Library and Literary Institution, held in the Town-hall, where a fine room is occasionally well filled by popular lectures, and balls in the winter. On one occasion, about three years ago, the name of a gentleman looking over the works in company with a foreman was recognized as that of a writer on a popular subject, and he was requested by a deputation of the men to deliver a lecture the same evening in the Town-hall. He consented; and a written notice, stuck up in the workshops at one o'clock, assembled at six o'clock upwards of six hundred of the mechanics and their wives and families, forming a most attentive and intelligent audience. This establishment was considerably reduced during the depression in railway property, and several of the mechanics emigrated to the United States. One of these, a Chartist politician, a Methodist preacher, and a coach-spring maker, with a little taste for sporting, expressed himself, in a letter which found its way into the "Emigrant's Journal," well pleased with the people, the laws, and the institutions amongst which he had transplanted himself; but when he came to speak of the railroads, he considered them "not fit to carry hogs to market." So much for a man criticising his own trade. We must not pause to describe as we could wish, in detail, the arrangements of this interesting village; for we have heavy work before us, and must press on. Parties passing, who have leisure to stay a day, will find very fair accommodation at the inn overlooking the station, and often, about one o'clock, a fine hot joint of grass-fed beef of magnificent dimensions. In winter, this hotel is one of the quarters of gentlemen going to meet the Cheshire hounds, a first-rate pack, with a country which, if not first-rate, is far from second-rate, including certain parts of grass country which may be fairly compared to Leicestershire and Northamptonshire. Crewe Hall, one of the "Meets," is the seat of Lord Crewe, the grandson of the beautiful Mrs. Crewe, so celebrated for her wit and Buff and Blue politics, in the time of Charles James Fox, the Duchess of Devonshire, the Westminster Election, and "All The Talents of the last century." The Hall is picturesquely situated on a rising ground, well wooded, near a small lake, and contains, among other pictures, portraits of Fox, "Coke of Norfolk," and several other political friends with whom the first Lord Crewe was closely associated. The hounds meet there occasionally, when a "find" is sure, and a gallop through the park a thing to be remembered. * * * * * NANTWICH, about five miles from Crewe, is one of the towns which supplies Cheshire's salt exports, Middlewich and Northwich being the other two. In all, rich brine springs are found, but the celebrated mines of rock-salt are found at Northwich only. It is vulgarly imagined that the word wich has something to do with salt, these three towns being often described as the "Wiches." This is an error; and wich is merely an Anglo-Saxon corruption of the Roman word vicus, as in Harwich. The salt-works of Nantwich are mentioned in "Domesday Book." The town was more than once besieged during the great civil wars, lastly by Lord Byron, unsuccessfully, with an army chiefly Irish, which was compelled to raise the siege and defeated by Sir Thomas Fairfax and Sir William Brereton. Among the antiquities remaining is a cross Church, in a mixture of styles, partly early English and partly decorated English, and a several curious old houses of black timber and plaster. The trade of this place has derived much advantage from the junction of the Chester, Ellesmere, and Liverpool and Birmingham canals, close by. At the Nantwich yearly fairs, samples of the famous Cheshire cheese made in the neighbourhood, of the best brands, may be found. Major-General Harrison, one of the Regicides who was put to death on the Restoration of Charles II., was a native of Nantwich, and Milton's widow, who was born in the neighbourhood, died there in 1726. Just before reaching the Hartford Bridge Station, on the way to Chester, we pass Vale Royal Abbey, the seat of the Cholmondeley family, pronounced Chumleigh, whose head was created in 1821 Lord Delamere. [VALE ROYAL VIADUCT: ill20.jpg] The Abbey lies in a valley sheltered by old trees, the remains of a great forest; wood-covered hills rise behind it, closing in the vale; below runs the Weaver, "that famous flood," whose praises were sung by Michael Drayton in his Polyolbion. In this instance, as in many others, the "monks of old" showed their taste in choosing one of the most beautiful and fertile sites in the county for their residence. The Cheshire prophet, Nixon, lived as ploughboy with the Cholmondeley family, according to tradition, for which we no more answer than for his prophecies, doubts having recently been thrown on both. A breed of white cattle with red ears are preserved at Vale Royal, in memory of the preservation of part of the family by a white cow when in hiding during the Civil Wars. But we have not space to enter into the details of this, or the historical reminiscences connected with the ruins of Beeston Castle, which also falls in our way to Chester; for we must get on to Liverpool and leave for the present Cheshire, with its cheesemaking pastures, ancient mansions, and more ancient families, as well as its coal mines and cotton mills, to visit the twin capitals of Liverpool and Manchester, which are at once the objects of the contempt and sources of the rent of the Cheshire territorial aristocracy. The antiquarian and historical student may linger long in Cheshire, which abounds in interesting architectural remains of several centuries, particularly of the black and white timbered mansions, and is studded with the sites of famous stories. [EXCAVATION AT HARTFORD: ill21.jpg] We shall pass Hartford Station without notice, and shall not pause to visit Northwich and the celebrated Marston Salt Pits, although well worth visiting, for which purpose a cricketer's suit of flannel will be found the best costume, and a few good Bengal lights an assistance in viewing the wonders of the salt caves. On across the long Dutton viaduct, spanning the Weaver navigation, we drive until, crossing the Mersey and Irwell canal and the river Mersey, we quit Cheshire and enter Lancashire, to run into the Warrington Station. [THE DUTTON VIADUCT: ill23.jpg] * * * * * WARRINGTON may be dismissed in a very few words. It is situated in the ugliest part of Lancashire, in a flat district, among coal mines, on the banks of a very unpicturesque river, surrounded by a population in character much resembling that described in the "Black Country" of Staffordshire, and Worcestershire, and Shropshire. It was one of the earliest seats of manufacture in Lancashire, and has the advantage of coal close at hand, with canal and river navigation and railways to Chester through Runcorn (nineteen miles), to Crewe, to Liverpool, to Manchester, and thereby to all quarters in the north of England. [THE WARRINGTON VIADUCT: ill22.jpg] Coarse linens and checks, then sailcloth, were its first manufactures; at present, cotton spinning, power-loom weaving, the manufacture of glass, machinery, and millwork, pins, nails, tools, spades, soap, hats, and gunpowder, and many other trades, are carried on here. The markets for live stock of the district and from Ireland are important, and market gardening is carried on to a considerable amount in the neighbourhood of the town. The Mersey is navigable up to Warrington at spring tides for vessels, "flats," of from seventy to one hundred tons. A salmon and smelt fishery, which formerly existed, has disappeared from the waters by so many manufactories. Warrington, under the Reform Act, returns one member to Parliament. Its ale is celebrated: it formerly returned an M.P. The inhabitants enjoy the benefit of three endowed schools, one of them richly endowed. Howard's work on Prisons was first printed at Warrington. [WARRINGTON: ill24.jpg] On leaving Warrington, a few minutes bring us to Newton junction, upon the old Manchester and Liverpool Railway, where George Stephenson established the economy of steam locomotive conveyance twenty-one years ago. In half an hour we are rolling down the Edgehill Tunnel into Liverpool. LIVERPOOL. When you land on the platform, if you can afford it, go to the Adelphi Hotel, where the accommodation is first-rate, but the charges about the same as in Bond Street or St. James's Street, London. There are others to suit all purses, and plenty of dining-houses on the London system, so that it is not absolutely necessary to submit to the dear and often indifferent dinners which are the rule in the coffee-rooms of most English hotels. Liverpool has no antiquities of any mark; the public buildings and works worth seeing are few but important, although a page might be filled with the names of Institutions of various kinds. By far the most interesting, original, and important, are those connected with the commerce of the town. That is to say, the docks and the gigantic arrangements at the railways for goods' traffic. St. George's Hall, a splendid building in the Corinthian style, containing the Law Courts and a hall for public meetings, as a sort of supplement to the Town-hall, meets the view immediately on leaving the railway station. The Mechanics' Institution in Mount Street, one of the finest establishments of the kind in the kingdom, provides an excellent education for the young, and for adults, at a very cheap rate. A Collegiate Institution, opened in 1843, for affording a first-class education on the plan of the Durham and Marlborough Colleges, at a less expense than at Oxford or Cambridge, is to be found at Everton in a handsome Elizabethan building. The Town-hall, with its auxiliary buildings, encloses the Exchange on three sides. The vestibule contains a statue of George Canning by Chantrey: in the centre of the Exchange stands a monument to Nelson, which we cannot admire. On the occasion of an invitation to dinner from the Mayor, or of a grand ball, it is worth while to penetrate beyond the vestibule, otherwise the walk through tolerably handsome rooms is scarcely worth the trouble, although it costs nothing. The immense News-rooms of the Exchange, under one of the Arcades, are open to every respectable stranger introduced,--we may almost say without introduction. There are several other News-rooms with libraries attached. The Lyceum in Bold Street, and the Athenaeum in Church Street, which was founded by purchases from the library of William Roscoe, contain a number of valuable works of reference. The Royal Institution of Science and Literature, founded by William Roscoe in 1814, by the subscription of shareholders, contains a museum of natural history of considerable value, some curious pictures, a set of casts from the AEgina and Phigaleian marbles, and a collection of philosophical instruments, with a laboratory and a theatre in which lectures are occasionally delivered. This Institution is not flourishing. It was lately offered to the Corporation as a free gift by the proprietors, on condition that the museum, etc., were to be open free to the town. The offer was declined by a small majority. There are several cemeteries, one of which has been ingeniously arranged in an exhausted stone quarry, and contains a marble statue of Huskisson, by Gibson, commemorating the facts of his having represented Liverpool in several Parliaments, and been killed on the 15th Sept., 1830, by a locomotive, at the opening of the Manchester and Liverpool Railway. On the last occasion of his election for Liverpool, in conjunction with the late General Gascoigne, without opposition, the windows of Huskisson's friends were smashed by the High Tory mob which accompanied Gascoigne's chairing procession. Such are the changes of time. Where could a High Tory mob be found now, or who now differs with the mild liberalism of Huskisson? A Workhouse on a very extensive scale, capable of affording indoor relief to 1800; a Blind Asylum, celebrated for the singing of the inmates, two Infirmaries, are far from completing the list of public institutions of a town with nearly 400,000 inhabitants; but, in the greater number, resemble all other institutions of the same kind, and, for the rest, a local guide may be consulted. The best part of the town may be seen in a walk from St. Lukes' Church at the top of Bold Street, a short distance from the Adelphi Hotel, through Church Street, Lord Street, crossing Castle Street, down to St. George's Pier. By this line the best and the busiest streets of Liverpool will be seen, with shops nearly equal to the finest in London, and with customers in fine ladies, who are quite as pretty, and much more finely dressed, than the residents of that paradise of provincial belles, Belgravia. Indeed both sexes in this town are remarkable for their good looks and fashionable costume, forming a strong contrast to the more busy inhabitants of Manchester. In Bold Street is the Palatine, a miniature copy of the Clubs of Pall Mall: at the doors and windows may be seen, in the intervals of business, a number of young gentlemen trying very hard to look as if they had nothing to do but dress fine and amuse themselves. But so far from being the idle fellows they would be thought, the majority are hardworking merchants and pains-taking attornies, who bet a little, play a little, dote upon a lord, and fancy that by being excessively supercilious in the rococo style of that poor heathen bankrupt Brummel, they are performing to perfection the character of men of fashion. This, the normal state of young Liverpool, at a certain period the butterfly becomes a grub, a money grub, and abandoning brilliant cravats, primrose gloves, and tight shiny boots, subsides into the respectable heavy father of genteel comedy, becomes a churchwarden, a patron of charities, a capitalist, and a highly respectable member of society. The Manchester man is abrupt, because his whole soul is in the money-making business of the day; the Liverpool gentleman's icy manners are part of his costume. The "cordial dodge," which has superseded Brummel's listless style in the really fashionable world, not having yet found its way down by the express train to the great mart of cotton-wool. 'Change hours, which are twice a-day, morning and afternoon, afford a series of picturesque groups quite different to those of any other town, which should be kept in mind when visiting Manchester. But perhaps the pleasantest thing in Liverpool is a promenade on one of the piers, or rather quays (for they run along and do not project into the river) when the tide is coming in, the wind fair for the Mersey, and fleets of merchantmen are driving up with full-bellied sails to take their anchorage ground before going into dock. An examination of the Docks, with the curious Dock arrangements of the Railway Companies, and the Sailor's Home, of which Prince Albert laid the first stone in 1846, will take a day. The Cheshire side of the Mersey forms a suburb of Liverpool, to which steamers are plying every ten minutes from the villages of Rock Ferry, Tranmere, Birkenhead, Monk's Ferry, Seacombe, Liskeard, Egremont, and New Brighton. The best idea of the extent of the Liverpool Docks may be obtained from the Seacombe Hotel, an old-fashioned tavern, with a bowling green, where turtle soup, cold punch, and claret are to be had of good quality at moderate charges. In fine weather a seat after dinner at the window of this tavern is not a bad place for considering the origin, rise, progress, and prospects of the commerce of Liverpool. There is the river, with its rapidly-flowing muddy waters before you, ploughed in all directions by boats, by ships, by steamers, by river barges and flats; on the opposite side five miles of Docks, wherein rise forest after forest of masts, fluttering, if it be a gala day, with the flags of every nation--Russian, Sardinian, Greek, Turkish, French, Austrian, but chiefly, after our own, with the stripes and stars of the Great Republic. No better text for such a contemplation can be found than the following inscription, copied from the model, contributed by Liverpool to the Great Exhibition of Industry:-- PROGRESS OF THE COMMERCE OF LIVERPOOL. Under Queen Elizabeth, | Queen Anne, | Queen Victoria, A.D.1570. | A.D.1710. | A.D.1850. | | Population. 800 | 8,168 | About 400,000 | | Tonnage {151} 268 | 12,636 | 3,336,337 | | Number of 15 | 334 | 20,457 Vessels | | | | Dock Dues. - | 600 | 211,743 pounds | | Income of 20 | 1,115 | 139,152 pounds Corporation | | | | Customs Dues 272 | 70,000 | 3,366,284 pounds This extraordinary progress, of which we have far from seen the limits, has been founded and supported by a position which every commercial change, every new invention relating to sea-borne coasting trade, or inland conveyance, has strengthened. The discovery of the passage around the Cape of Good Hope, and improvements in the art of navigation, destroyed the commercial importance of Venice, and extinguished a line of river ports from Antwerp to Cologne. In our own country, the Cinque Ports, Harwich, Great Grimsby, and other havens, fell into decay when navigators no longer cared to hurry into the first harbour on coming within sight of land. But Liverpool, situated on the banks of a river which, until buoyed and improved at a vast expense, was a very inferior port for safety and convenience, has profited by the changes which have rendered the American the most important of our foreign customers, and Ireland as easily reached as Runcorn in a sailing flat. The rise of the cotton manufacture has been as beneficial to Liverpool as to those districts where the yarn is spun and woven. The canal system has fed, not rivalled or "tapped," the trade of the Mersey. The steamboats on which the seafaring population of Liverpool at first looked with dislike and dismay, have created for their town--first, a valuable coasting trade, independent of wind or tide, which with sailing vessels on such a coast and with such a river could never have existed; and next, a transatlantic commerce, which, through Liverpool, renders New York nearer to Manchester than Dublin was five and twenty years ago; while, at the same time, the opposite coast of Cheshire has been transformed into a suburb, to which omnibus-steamers ply every five minutes. And yet little more than five and twenty years ago there was only one river steamer on the Mersey, and that a flat bottomed cattle boat, with one wheel in the centre. Bristol took the lead in establishing transatlantic steamers; but Liverpool, backed by Manchester, transplanted to her own waters the new trade, and even the steamers that proved the problem. Railways (the only great idea in this generation that Liverpool has ventured to originate and execute) have not, as was promised, transferred any part of the Liverpool trade to Manchester; but, on the contrary, largely increased and strengthened their connection with the cotton metropolis. An hour now takes the cotton broker to his manufacturing customers twice a week, who formerly rose at five o'clock in the morning to travel by coach in four hours to Manchester, and returned wearied at midnight. The Electric Telegraph, the next great invention of this commercial age was not less beneficial to this port by facilitating the rapid interchange of communication with the manufacturing districts, and settling the work of days in a few hours. A hundred miles apart merchants can now converse, question, propose, and bargain. By all these improvements uncertainties have been reduced to certainties, and capital has been more than doubled in value. On the expected day, well calculated beforehand, the steamer arrives from America; with the rapidity of lightning the news she brings is transmitted to Manchester, to Birmingham, to Sheffield, to London, to Glasgow; a return message charters a ship, and a single day is enough to bring down the manufactured freight. Thus news can be received and transmitted, a cargo of raw material landed, manufactured goods brought down by rail from the interior of England, and put on board a vessel and despatched, in less time than it occupied a few years ago to send a letter to Manchester and get an answer. And under all these changes, while commerce grows and grows, the porters and the brokers, the warehousemen and the merchants, are able to take toll on the consumption of England. Even the old dangerous roadstead, and far-falling tides of the Mersey, proved an advantage to Liverpool; by driving the inhabitants to commence the construction of Docks before any other port in the kingdom, and thus obtain a certain name and position in the mercantile world, from having set an example which cities provided with more safe and convenient natural harbours were unwilling to follow. The first Dock ever constructed in England is now the site of the Liverpool Custom House; a large building erected at a period when our architects considered themselves bound to lodge all public institutions in Grecian temples. This Dock was constructed in 1708, and twelve others have since been added, occupying the shore from north to south for several miles, including one which will accommodate steamers of the largest class. These Docks are far from perfect in their landing arrangements. Cargo is discharged in all but one, into open sheds. The damage and losses by pilferage of certain descriptions of goods are enormous. Attempts have been repeatedly made to establish warehouses round the docks into which goods might be discharged without the risk or expense of intermediate cartage. But the influence of parties possessed of warehouse property is too great to allow the execution of so advantageous a reform. Whigs and Radicals are, in this instance, as determined conservators of abuses which are not time-honoured as any Member for Lincoln City or Oxford University. In 1764 more than half the African slave trade was carried on by Liverpool merchants. The canal system commenced by the Duke of Bridgewater next gave Liverpool an improved inland communication. After Arkwright's manufactures stimulated the trade of America, cotton imports into Liverpool soon began to rival the sugar and tobacco imports into Bristol. The Irish trade was rising at the same time, and the comparatively short distance between the midland counties, where Irish livestock was chiefly consumed, soon brought the Irish traders to Liverpool. The progress of steam navigation presently gave new openings to the coasting trade of Liverpool. In 1826 the admirable canal system, which united Liverpool with the coal and manufacturing districts in the kingdom, was found insufficient to accommodate the existing traffic, and the railroad was the result. By the railroad system Liverpool has been brought within an hour of Manchester, two hours of Leeds, and four hours of London; and into equally easy, cheap, and certain communication with every part of England and Scotland; while fully retaining all the advantages of being the halfway house between the woollen districts, the iron districts, and the cotton districts, and America--the intermediate broker between New Orleans, Charleston, New York, and Manchester. Six-sevenths of all the woollen imported into England comes through Liverpool, besides a large trade in sugar, tobacco, tea, rice, hemp, and every kind of Irish produce. Thus Liverpool is in a position to take toll on the general consumption of the kingdom; and this toll in the shape of dock dues, added to the increase in the value of landed property, occupied by warehouses, shops, and private residences, has enabled the municipal corporation to bestow on the inhabitants fine buildings, and greatly improve the originally narrow streets. Liverpool has no manufactures of any special importance. Few ships are built there in comparison with the demands of the trade, in consequence of the docks having taken up most of the space formerly occupied by the building-yards. The repairs of ships are executed in public graving docks, chiefly by workmen of a humble standing, called pitchpot masters,--a curious system, whether advantageous or not to all parties, is a matter of dispute. The environs of Liverpool are particularly ugly, remarkably flat, and deficient in wood and water. There are scarcely any rides or drives of any kind. The best suburb, called Toxteth Park, although no park at all, lies on the southern side of the town, parallel with the Mersey. In this direction the wealthiest merchants have erected their residences, some of great size and magnificence, surrounded by pleasure-grounds and fancy farms, presenting very favourable instances of the rural tastes of our countrymen in every rank of life. But there is nothing in the environs of Liverpool to make a special ride necessary, unless a stranger possesses a passport to one of the mansions or cottages of gentility to be found on each side of the macadamized road behind rich plantations, where hospitality is distributed with splendour, and not without taste. The north shore of the Mersey consists of flat sands, bounded on the land side by barren sand hills, where, driven by necessity, and tempted by a price something lower than land usually bears near Liverpool, some persons have courageously built houses and reclaimed gardens. On this shore are the two watering-place villages of Waterloo and Crosby, less populous, but as pleasant as Margate, with salt river instead of salt sea bathing, in shade and plenty of dust. The hard flat sands, when the tide is down, afford room for pleasant gallops. The best settlement on the opposite shore, called New Brighton, has the same character, but enjoys a share of the open Irish sea, with its keen breezes. It must be bracing, healthy, dreary, and dull. * * * * * BIRKENHEAD is a great town, which has risen as rapidly as an American city, and with the same fits and starts. Magical prosperity is succeeded by a general insolvency among builders and land speculators; after a few years of fallow another start takes place, and so on--speculation follows speculation. Birkenhead has had about four of these high tides of prosperous speculations, in which millions sterling have been gained and lost. At each ebb a certain number of the George Hudsons of the place are swamped, but the town always gains a square, a street, a park, a church, a market-place, a bit of railway, or a bit of a dock. The fortunes of the men perish, but the town lives and thrives. Thus piece by piece the raw materials of a large thriving community are provided, and now Birkenhead is as well furnished with means for accommodating a large population as any place in England, and has been laid out on so good a plan that it will be one of the healthiest as well as one of the neatest modern towns. It has also the tools of commerce in a splendid free dock, not executed so wisely as it would have been if Mr. Rendel, the original engineer, (the first man of the day as a marine engineer), had not been overruled by the penny-wise pound-foolish people, but still a very fine dock. Warehouses much better planned than anything in Liverpool; railways giving communication with the manufacturing districts; in fact, all the tools of commerce--gas, water, a park, and sanitary regulations, have not been neglected. Some people think Birkenhead will be the rival of Liverpool, we think not: it will be a dependency or suburb of the greater capital. "Where the carcase is, there the eagles will be gathered together." Birkenhead is too near to be a rival; shipping must eventually come to Birkenhead, but the business will still continue to be done in Liverpool or Manchester, where are vested interests and established capital. An hour or two will be enough to see everything worth seeing at Birkenhead. To those who enjoy the sight of the river and shipping, it is not a bad plan to stop at one of the hotels there, as boats cross every five minutes, landing at a splendid iron pontoon, or floating stage, on the Liverpool side, of large dimensions, constructed with great skill by Mr. W. Cubitt, C.E., to avoid the nuisance of landing carriages at all times, and passengers at low tides in boats. At Liskeard, a ferry on the Cheshire side, Mr. Harold Littledale--a member of one of the first firms in Liverpool--has established a model dairy farm, perhaps one of the finest establishments of the kind in the kingdom. All the buildings and arrangements have been executed from the plans and directions of Mr. William Torr, the well known scientific farmer and short- horn breeder, of Aylsby Manor, Lincolnshire. No expense has been spared in obtaining the best possible workmanship and implements, but there has been no waste in foolish experiments; and, consequently, there is all the difference between the farm of a rich man who spends money profusely, in order to teach himself farming, and a farm like that at Liskeard, where a rich man had said to an agriculturist, at once scientific and practical, "Spare no expense, and make me the best thing that money can make." The buildings, including a residence, cottages, and gardens, occupy about four acres, and the farm consists of 350 acres of strong clay land, which has been thoroughly drained and profusely manured, with the object of getting from it the largest possible crops. Fifty tons of turnips have been obtained from an acre. Eighty cows are kept in the shippons, ranged in rows, facing the paths by which they are all fed at the head. They are fed on turnips, mangels, or potatoes, with cut chaff of hay and straw, everything suitable being cut and steamed, in the winter--on green clover, Italian ray-grass, and a little linseed-cake, in the summer. They are curry-combed twice a day, and the dung is removed constantly as it falls. The ventilation and the drainage has been better managed than in most houses, so that the shippons have always a sweet atmosphere and even temperature. The fittings, fastenings, and arrangements of the windows, hanging from little railways, and sliding instead of closing on hinges, are all ingenious, and worth examination. Mr. Littledale makes use of a moveable wooden railway, carted over by a donkey in a light waggon, to draw root crops from a field of heavy land. The churn in use in the dairy makes eighty pounds of butter at a time, and is worked by the steam-engine also used for cutting and steaming the food of the cows. The milk and cream produced at this dairy is sold by retail, unadulterated, and is in great demand. A brief account of this farm appeared in the "Farmer's Magazine" of May, 1848, with a ground plan; but several improvements have been made since that time. To parties who take an interest in agricultural improvement, a visit to Liskeard Farm will be both interesting and profitable. We believe that Mr. Torr also farms another estate, which he purchased, in conjunction with friends, from Sir William Stanley, at Eastham, near Hooton (a pleasant voyage of an hour up the river), and cultivates after the North Lincolnshire style, in such a manner as to set an example to the Cheshire farmers--not a little needed. The country about Eastham is the prettiest part of the Mersey. While on the subject of agricultural improvements, we may mention that Mr. Robert Neilson, another mercantile notability, holds a farm, under Lord Stanley, at a short railroad ride from Liverpool, which we have not yet had an opportunity of examining, but understand that it is a very remarkable instance of good farming, and consequently heavy crops, in a county (Lancashire) where slovenly farming is quite the rule, and well worth a visit from competent judges, whom as we are also informed Mr. Neilson is happy to receive. If, as seems not improbable, it should become the fashion among our merchant princes to seek health and relaxation by applying capital and commercial principles to land, good farming will spread, by force of vaccination, over the country, and plain tenant-farmers will apply, cheaply and economically, the fruits of experience, purchased dearly, although not too dearly, by merchant farmers. A successful man may as well--nay, much better--sink money for a small return in such a wholesome and useful pursuit as agriculture, than in emulating the landed aristocracy, who laugh quietly at such efforts, or hoarding and speculating to add to what is already more than enough. If a visit be paid to Mr. Neilson's farm, it would be very desirable to obtain, if possible, permission to view the Earl of Derby's collection of rare birds and animals, one of the finest in the world. But permission is rarely granted to strangers who have not some scientific claim to the favour. Lord Derby has agents collecting for him in every part of the world, and has been very successful in rearing many birds from tropical and semi-tropical countries in confinement, which have baffled the efforts of zoological societies. The aviaries are arranged on a large scale, with shrubs growing in and water flowing through them. In fine weather some beautiful parrots, macaws, and other birds of a tame kind, are permitted to fly about the grounds. There is something very novel and striking in beholding brilliant macaws and cockatoos swinging on a lofty green-leaved bough, and then, at the call of the keeper, darting down to be fed where stately Indian and African cranes and clumsy emus are stalking about. The late Earl was celebrated as a cockfighter, and the possessor of one of the finest breeds of game fowls in the kingdom. A few only are now kept up at Knowsley, as presents to the noble owner's friends. Knowsley lies near Prescott, about seven miles from Liverpool. The family are descended from the Lord Stanley who was created Earl of Derby by the Earl of Lancaster and Derby, afterwards Henry IV., for services rendered at the battle of Bosworth Field. An ancestress, Charlotte de la Tremouille, Countess of Derby, is celebrated for her defence of Latham House against the Parliamentary forces in the Great Civil War, and is one of the heroines of Sir Walter Scott's novel of "Peveril of the Peak." {159} Liverpool is particularly well placed as a starting point for excursions, in consequence of the number of railways with which it is connected, and the number of steamboats which frequent its port, where a whole dock is especially devoted to vessels of that class. By crossing over to Birkenhead, Chester may be reached, and thence the quietest route to Ireland, by Britannia Bridge and Holyhead; or a journey through North Wales may be commenced. By the East Lancashire, starting from the Station behind the Exchange, a direct line is opened through Ormskirk to Preston, the lakes of Cumberland, and to Scotland by the west coast line. From the same station a circuitous route through Wigan and Bolton, on the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, opens a second road to Manchester, and affords a complete communication with the manufacturing districts of Lancashire and Yorkshire. On the roads to London it is not now necessary to treat. The steam accommodation from Liverpool has always been excellent, far superior to that afforded in the Thames. No such wretched slow-sailing tubs are to be found as those which plied between London and Boulogne and Calais, until railway competition introduced a little improvement. The interior fittings and feeding on board Liverpool boats are generally superior. The proprietors have taken the Scotch and Americans as models, and not the stingy people of the Thames. It is very odd that while the French and Scotch can contrive to give a delicious breakfast or dinner on shipboard, while the Germans on the Rhine are positively luxurious, and while we know that a steam-boiler offers every convenience for petits plats, the real old English steam-boats of the General Steam Navigation Company never vary from huge joints and skinny chickens, with vegetables plain boiled. We remember, some years ago, embarking on a splendid French steamer, afterwards run down and sunk in the Channel, to go to Havre, and returning by Boulogne to London. In the French vessel it was almost impossible to keep from eating,--soups, cutlets, plump fowls, all excellent and not dear. On board the English boat it was necessary to be very hungry, in order to attack the solid, untempting joints of roast and boiled. This is a travelling age, and both hotel keepers and steam-boat owners will find profit in allowing the spirit of free trade and interchange to extend to the kitchen. Our public cooks are always spoiling the best meat and vegetables in Europe. More than twenty lines of steamers ply from Liverpool to the various ports of Ireland; the Isle of Man, which is a favourite watering-place for the Lancashire and Cheshire people; Glasgow and other parts of Scotland, Whitehaven and Carlisle, Bangor, Caernarvon, and other ports of Wales, beside the deep-sea steamers to New York, Philadelphia, and Boston; to Constantinople, Malta, and Smyrna; and to Gibraltar, Genoa, Leghorn, Civita Vecchia (for Rome), Naples, Messina, and Palermo; so that an indifferent traveller has ample choice, which is sometimes very convenient for a man who wants to go somewhere and does not care where. The amusements of Liverpool include two theatres, an amphitheatre for horsemanship, and several sets of subscription concerts, for the use of which a fine hall has been erected. The race-course is situated at some miles distant from the town; races take place three times a-year, two being flat races, and the third a steeple- chase. They are well supported and attended, although not by ladies so much as in the Midland and Northern Counties. The Liverpool races are chiefly matters of business, something like the Newmarket, with the addition of a mob. A large attendance comes from Manchester, where more betting is carried on than in any town out of London. Gambling of all kinds naturally follows in the wake of cotton speculation, which is gambling. The crashes produced in Liverpool by the sacra fames auri are sometimes startling, and they come out in visible relief, because, in spite of its size, gossip flourishes as intensely as in a village. During one of the cotton manias a young gentleman, barely of age, in possession of an income of some two thousand a-year from land, and ready money to the extent of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, joined an ingenious penniless gentleman in speculating in cotton, and found himself in less than twelve months a bankrupt; thus sacrificing, without the least enjoyment, a fortune sufficient for the enjoyment of every rational pleasure, or for the support of the highest honours in the State. Such instances are not uncommon, although on a less magnificent scale; indeed, it is well to be cautious in inquiring after a Liverpool merchant or broker after an absence of a few years; a very few years are sufficient to render the poor rich and the rich poor, an eighth of a penny in the pound of cotton will do it. The Municipal Corporation of Liverpool is the wealthiest in England after London, and virtually richer than London, inasmuch as the expenses are trifling, the property is improving, and the Liverpool aldermen and common- councillors have no vested claims to costly entertainments. The majority is in the hands of the Conservative party, the Liberal party having only enjoyed the sweets of power for a brief period after the passing of the Financial Reform Bill; but the principle of representation keeps down any inclination toward the inevitable jobberies of a close self-elected body, and pushes local legislators on, quite up to the mark of the public opinion of the locality they govern. A stranger, who has no interest in party squabbles, must confess that the funds of this wealthy estate are on the whole fairly and wisely distributed. The Irish population, amounting to many thousands of the poorest and most ignorant class, who find a refuge from the miseries of their own country in the first port from Dublin, and employment in the vast demand for unskilled labour caused by the perpetual movement in imports and exports, impose a heavy tax on the poor-rates and police-rates of this borough. In the education of this part of the community, the Liberal Corporation made provision in the extensive Corporation schools, by adopting the Irish Government scheme of instruction, permitting the Roman Catholics to make use of their own translation of the Bible, and to absent themselves from the religious instruction of the orthodox. On this question the municipal elections were fought. The general education party were eventually beaten. The Roman Catholics were withdrawn from the schools, and thrown entirely upon the priests or the streets for education, and great was the rejoicing among the party who carried a large wooden Bible as their standard. But subsequent events have induced those who have given any attention to the state of the operative classes in Liverpool, of whatever politics, to doubt whether it would not have been better to have been busy, for the last fifteen years, in teaching those classes something, who, knowing nothing, supply very expensive customers to the Liverpool courts of law and jail. Liverpool returns two members to the House of Commons. The election contests were formerly wonderfully bitter and absurd, for on one occasion, just before the passing of the Reform Bill, nearly two hundred thousand pounds were spent by two parties, between whose politics there was scarcely a shade of difference. William Roscoe represented Liverpool for a short time, but was rejected at a second election, in consequence of his opposition to the Slave Trade. He was the son of a publican, and rose from an office boy to be an attorney in large practice, and eventually a banker. He was ruined by the stopping of his bank, which, after being for many years under the taxing harrows of the old corrupt bankrupt system, paid twenty shillings in the pound. William Roscoe was a voluminous writer of political pamphlets and poetry, which are now quite forgotten; his literary reputation deservedly rests upon his lives of Lorenzo de Medici, published in 1796, and of Leo X; the former of which has recently been republished by Mr. Bohn, in his cheap series of reprints. Of even more value than his literary productions, was the school, or party, which he founded in Liverpool, while he was still wealthy and influential, embracing all who had a taste for literature and art. At that period Liverpool was rising into wealth on a vigorous prosecution of the Slave Trade, of which its parliamentary representatives were the avowed supporters. At that time vulgar wealth was the only distinction, and low debauchery the almost only amusement of the principal merchants. Absurd as it may now seem, when all the well-to-do world profess to be educated and temperate, Roscoe and his friends rendered inestimable service by making elegant tastes and temperate habits respectable, and by raising up an opposition to the old Slave Trade party, whose paradise lay in turtle soup, port wine, and punch. He set an example to merchants of stocking a library as well as a cellar, which has been followed, until now it is considered a matter of course. William Roscoe died in 1831, at a very advanced age. He was a remarkably fine-looking man, with a grand aristocratic head. In addition to Huskisson and George Canning, Liverpool once very nearly had the honour of sending to Parliament Henry Brougham, in days when the Chancellorship and the House of Lords could scarcely have been expected by that versatile genius, even in a dream. At present Liverpool interests are well represented in the House of Commons. The borough has had the good sense to prefer a merchant townsman, Sir Thomas Birch, and the son of a merchant, and friend and co-minister of the late Sir Robert Peel, Mr. Cardwell, to a soldier, and the dreamy poetical son of a Protectionist duke. A place like Liverpool ought to find in its own body better men than young lords or old soldiers. But young Liverpool dearly loves a lord, of any politics; and a little polite attention from a duke will produce an unconscious effect even on the trade report of a broker of "fashion." Mr. William Brown, at the head of the greatest American house in the world, after Baring's, represents South Lancashire, but on Manchester influence, scarcely with the consent of Liverpool. Mr. Brown, who is an Irishman by birth, has been entirely the architect of his own fortune, and began business--on a very limited scale indeed--within the memory of persons now living. The firm has now agents in every town of any importance in the United States, and is the means of keeping in active employment hundreds of traders in all our manufacturing districts. The relations with Birmingham and the hardware country are very close. Another Liverpool man of whom the Liverpool people are justly proud, is the best debater in the House of Commons, if he only knew his own mind, the Right Honourable William Gladstone, the son of Sir John Gladstone, Bart., of Fasque, N.B., formerly a Liverpool merchant. Sir John Gladstone is a Scotchman, and in conjunction with another gentleman, also the head of a first-rate Liverpool house, Mr. Sandbatch, went out to the West Indies (Demerara) as journeymen bakers, in the same way that Mr. Miles, the grandfather of the members for East Somerset and Bristol, and founder of the great Bristol banking house, went out to Barbadoes as a journeyman cooper. If we add to these instances that the first Sir Robert Peel and Mr. Brotherton (who himself told the House, in a debate on the Factory Time Bill, that he had commenced life as a factory operative), beside many others, too numerous to mention, it will be found that our House of Commons is not so far out of the reach of industrious merit as foreigners usually imagine. In conclusion, we may note that Liverpool, which gave very cold and niggard support to the Great Exhibition (chiefly because the project was ill received by the ducal house which patronizes the fashionables of the town), sent a contribution which very completely represented its imports, specifying the scientific and commercial name of each article, country of production, and quantity imported. This collection occupies a considerable space, but it will be found, on examination, that a few staples employ the greater part of the shipping inwards. Cotton occupies by far the largest place, the air is filled with floating motes of cotton all round the business quarters of the town; timber probably stands next in the tonnage it employs; West Indian produce is less important than it was formerly; a great trade is done with South America, in hides, both dry and salted; tobacco, both from the United States and Cuba, arrives in large quantities. There are several great snuff and cigar manufactories in Liverpool. The hemp and tallow trade is increasing, as is the foreign corn trade. The Mediterranean, and especially the Italian, trade, has been rendered more important by steam communication. The China trade has not increased as much as was expected. When the Docks and Public Institutions have been examined, and the places of interest on the Cheshire shore visited, Liverpool presents nothing to detain the traveller who has no private claims on his attention. It must be acknowledged that the general appearance of the town and of the people is more agreeable than that of Birmingham or Manchester, although Liverpool can claim none of the historical and antiquarian interest in which Bristol and Chester are rich. There are parts of the town devoted to low lodging houses, and accommodation for the poor Irish and emigrants, as bad as the worst parts of St. Giles's or Spitalfields. Indeed, the mortality is greater than that of any other town in England. Liverpool is a great port for emigration to the United States and Canada. On the line of packet ships the accommodation for those who can pay 5 pounds and upwards is excellent; in the timber ships they are packed like herrings after being lodged like pigs. But what can be expected for the fare. At 2 pounds the shipowners undertake to give a passage, and find two quarts of water and a pound of bread per day. The Government Emigration Agents are indefatigable in their efforts, municipal and Parliamentary regulations have been from time to time applied to the subject, nevertheless the frauds and cruelties inflicted on emigrants are frightful. An attempt was made some short time since to have an Emigrant's Home as a sort of Model Barrack, erected in one of the New Docks, so as to form a counterpoise to the frauds of emigration lodging-house keepers, but local jealousies defeated a plan which would have been equally advantageous to the town and the emigrants. The state of poverty and crime in Liverpool, fed as it is by the overflowings of many districts, is an important subject, which has excited the anxious attention of several enlightened residents, among others of the late Police Magistrate, Mr. Edward Rushton, who died suddenly without being able to bring his plans to maturity. In conclusion we may say of Liverpool, that it is a town which has a great and increasing population, a wealthy Corporation, a thriving trade, yet less of the materials of a metropolis than many other towns of less commercial importance. For further temporary information, a traveller may advantageously consult the Liverpool papers, of which there is one for every day in the week--that is to say, an Albion, a Times, a Mail, a Standard, a Mercury, a Journal, a Chronicle--of all shades of politics, of large size, conducted with great ability, and affording, in addition to the news and politics of the day, a great deal of general information, in the shape of extracts from popular works and original articles. If we would learn why the opinions of inhabitants of towns prevail over the opinions of landowners and agriculturists, we have only to compare the active intelligence of the two as exhibited by such journals as are to be found in Liverpool, Manchester, and Birmingham with those supported by the rural community. A single sect expends more on the support of the press than all the farmers and farmers' friends united, who are more numerous, more wealthy, not wanting in intelligence in their own pursuits, but quite without cohesion or combination. * * * * * LIVERPOOL TO MANCHESTER.--There are two ways from Liverpool to Manchester, one by the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, through Bolton, which has a station behind the Exchange, and one by the old route, through Newton. The line by the new one has Bolton upon its course, and renders the Aintree Racecourse half as near Manchester as Liverpool. For choice take a Tuesday or Saturday, and travel up by the early Cotton Brokers' Express to Manchester, so as to see one more phase of the English commercial character. The Brokers are a jovial set and hospitable, as keen as Yankees and as industrious. There is a marked difference between them and the Spinners, but they are of no particular country. Liverpool, like Manchester, although not to the same degree, is colonised by strangers. Both Irishmen and Scotchmen are to be found among the most respectable and successful, and a considerable number of Americans are settled there as merchants and shipping agents; indeed it is half American in its character. In this year of 1851, to describe the Liverpool and Manchester Railway would be absurd; acres of print, in all civilized languages, and yards of picture- illustration, have been devoted to it. At Newton Station you see below you a race-course of great antiquity, and what was once a huge hotel, built to supply a room large enough for the Mother Partingtons of Lancashire to meet and prepare their mops for sweeping back the Atlantic tide of public opinion. There they met, and dined and drank and shouted, and unanimously agreed that it was foolish legislation which transferred the right of representation from the village of Newton to the great city of Manchester; after which they went home, and wisely submitted to the summons which found its speaking-trumpets at Manchester. Fortunately for this country, a minority knows how to submit to a majority, and the Conservative Hall, by a sort of accidental satire on its original uses, has been turned into a printing office. A little farther on is Chat-Moss, a quaking bog, which the opponents of the first railway proved, to the satisfaction of many intelligent persons, to be an impassable obstacle to the construction of any solid road. We fly across it now reading or writing, scarcely taking the trouble to look out of the window. But if we do, we may see reclamation and cultivation, in the shape of root-crops and plantations, extending over the wet waste. William Roscoe was one of the first to attempt to reclaim this Moss; and it is worthy of note, that it was among the literary and scientific friends of Roscoe that George Stephenson's idea of a railroad from Liverpool to Manchester, through Chat-Moss, found its warmest supporters, at a time when support was much needed; for the shares were hawked, and even distributed among friends who were guaranteed against loss, in order to make up a fitting parliamentary subscription to what has proved one of the most successful speculations in public works, of this century. MANCHESTER. As we roll into Manchester, and mark by what successive invasions the city has been half-surrounded by railways, it is amusing to remember the fears which landowners expressed in 1829, and really felt, lest the new flaming and smoking carriage-apparatus should damage the value of property which has been more than doubled in value by the new invention. Manchester is the greatest manufactory in the world. The cradle and metropolis of a trade which employs a million and a half of souls, beside the sailors, the merchants, the planters and the slaves, who grow or carry or buy the raw material, it is the second city in the empire, and perhaps, considered in relation to the commercial influence of Great Britain, scarcely second. Blot out the capital, the credit, the living enterprise, the manufacturing power of Manchester, and we have lost a century of commercial progress. Manchester is essentially a place of work and action, carried on by men recruited from every district where a mental grenadier of the Manchester standard is to be found. Suffolk and Devonshire, Norfolk and Cornwall send their quota, as well as the neighbouring manufacturing schools of Yorkshire, Cheshire, and Lancashire. Scotchmen in great numbers, and some Irishmen, chiefly from the north, are also at home there. We are speaking now not of operatives, but of those who rise to be manufacturers or merchants. The Americans are rather constant visitors than permanent residents; but the Germans are sufficiently numerous to be able to form a society of their own, the most agreeable in Manchester; and the commerce of Greece is represented by a great number of houses, which are increasing in number and importance. Then Manchester, although only an inland canal port, trades largely and directly, through Liverpool chiefly, to the most parts of the world, consuming one-tenth of the whole imports of that town. The correspondence of a first-class house for one morning would alone be a lesson in geography. Then again, the ceaseless enterprise and enormous powers of manufacture are supported by a constantly-improving mechanical ingenuity, which seems to those unaccustomed to such works nothing less than miraculous: as, for instance, some of the inventions of Mr. Whitworth and of Mr. Roberts. But all this is hidden from the eye of a stranger; and Manchester is a dark and dingy ledger, closely clasped, unless he comes prepared to open a good account, or armed with letters of introduction of a more than ordinarily pressing nature. The gentleman who was all smiles while accepting your civilities, and energetically amusing himself on a tour of pleasure, has scarcely time to look up from his desk to greet you when enthroned in his counting-house. The fact is, that these Manchester men rise early, work hard, dine at one o'clock, work again, and go home, some distance out of town, to work or to sleep,--so they have no time for unprofitable hospitality or civility. We do not say this by way of idle reproach to the people of Manchester, who follow their vocation, and do work of which we as Englishmen have reason to be proud, but partly by way of warning to travellers who, armed with the sort of letters that have proved passports to everything best worth seeing throughout the rest of Europe, may expect to pass an agreeable day or two in the cotton metropolis; and partly by way of hint to politicians who, very fond of inveighing against the cold shade of aristocracy, would find something worth imitating in the almost universal courtesy of modern nobility, which is quite consistent with the extremest liberality of abstract opinions. Dr. Dalton, the celebrated natural philosopher, for many years a resident in Manchester, has proved that Manchester is not so damp and rainy a place as is generally imagined; that the mean annual fall of rain is less than that of Lancaster, Kendal, and Dumfries. Nevertheless, it is better to expect rain, for although the day at Liverpool, Halifax, or Sheffield may have been brilliantly fine, the probability is that you will find the train, as it approaches the city, gradually slipping into a heavy shower or a Scotch mist. The walk from any of the stations is very disheartening; tall warehouses, dingy brick houses, a ceaseless roar of carts and waggons in the main streets, and a population of which all the better dressed march at double quick time, with care-brent brows, and if pausing, only to exchange gruff monosyllables and short words. At one o'clock the factory hands are dismissed, and the masters proceed to dinner on horseback and in all sorts of vehicles at a thundering pace. The working-class population will be found less unhealthy and better looking than would be expected. The costume of the women, a cap and a short sleeved jacket fitting the waist, called a Lancashire bedgown, is decidedly picturesque. For a quarter of an hour some streets are almost impassable, and the movement gives the idea of a population deserting a city. An hour's silence follows, after which the tide flows again: the footpaths are filled with the "hands;" and the "heads," with very red faces, furiously drive their hundred guinea nags back to business. Now this is one of the sights of Manchester. Again, Tuesday is the business day at the Exchange, in St. Ann's Square. The room is one of the finest in the kingdom; the faces and the scene generally afford much curious matter for the study of the artist and physiognomist. Compare it with the groups of well dressed dawdlers at Leamington, Cheltenham, Bath, with the very different style of acute intellect displayed at a meeting of the Institute of Civil Engineers, or with the merchants of Liverpool, part of whom also attend Manchester. The personal appearance of the Manchester manufacturers and their customers, as seen on 'Change, fully justifies the old saw, "Liverpool gentlemen, Manchester men, Rochdale fellows (fellies), and Wigan chaps." In Liverpool all are equal,--merchant deals with merchant; in Manchester the millowner is an autocrat, restrained by customs of the trade and occasional strikes, and he carries his rough ways into private life. But facts show that, with all its plate and varnish, Liverpool is as inferior to Manchester in an intellectual, as it is superior in an external point of view. In politics Manchester leads, and Liverpool and Lancashire unwillingly follow,--in the education of the operative and middle classes,--in literary, scientific, and musical associations,--in sanitary measures,--in the formation of public parks and pleasure grounds, Manchester displays an incontestable superiority; being more rapid, more energetic, and more liberal than her more fashionable neighbours. A list of a few of the institutions and public establishments will show this. The Royal Institution in Mosley Street occupies a large building, established for the encouragement of the Fine Arts by exhibitions of paintings and sculptures, and the delivery of lectures. The Philosophical Society was established in 1781, and has numbered among its members Dr. Dalton, Dr. Henry, and Dr. Percival, and has had its Transactions translated into French and German. The Natural History Society has filled a museum in Peter Street with objects of natural history, and opens it during holiday seasons to the public at a nominal charge, when thousands of visitors, chiefly operatives, attend. The Mechanics' Institution, founded in 1824, after surviving many difficulties, has become one of the most flourishing and useful institutions of the kind in the kingdom. Its chief activity is displayed in the education of the operative members in the class-rooms. The library is large, well selected, and in constant requisition. In one department the School of Design is carried on, and could not be conducted in a more appropriate building. This School of Design, supported by the Government for the purpose of promoting design as applied to the staple manufactures, and diffusing a general feeling for art amongst the manufacturing community, was formerly accommodated within the walls of the Royal Institution as a tenant, paying a rent, strangely enough, for the use of a building which had ostensibly been erected for promoting art and science! It was not until 1836, that, on the recommendation of a Committee of the House of Commons, active steps were taken to establish in England that class of artistic instruction applied to manufactures which had been cultivated in France ever since the time that the great Colbert was the minister of Louis XIV. At Manchester, some of the leading men connected with the calico-printing trade and looms of art, established a School of Design within the Royal Institution, where two rooms were lent rent-free; but, as soon as Government apportioned a part of a special grant to the Manchester School, the Committee, who were also as nearly as possible the Council of the Royal Institution, with that appetite for public money which seems incident to men of all nations, all classes, and all politics, voted 100 out of the 250 pounds per annum for rent. This school did nothing of a practical nature, and consequently did not progress in public estimation. The master was a clever artist, but not up, perhaps he would have said not down, to his work. A School of Design at Manchester is meant, not to breed artists in high art, but to have art applied to the trades of the city. The master was changed, and, at the request of the local committee, the Council of the School of Design at Somerset House sent down, in 1845, Mr. George Wallis, who had shown his qualifications as an assistant at Somerset House and as master of the Spitalfields school. At that time the Manchester school had been in existence five years, and had done nothing toward its original object. In two years from the time of Mr. Wallis taking the charge, the funds of the school were flourishing; the interest taken in it by the public was great, and nearly half the Institution was occupied by the pupils, while the applications for admission were more numerous than could be accommodated. Under this management the public, who care little for abstract art, were taught the close connexion between the instruction of the School of Design and their private pursuits. This is what is wanted in all our towns. It is not enough to teach boys and girls,--the manufacturers and purchasers need to be taught by the eye, if not by the hand. According to part of Mr. Wallis's plan, an exhibition was held of the drawings executed by the pupils for the annual prizes, which had a great influence in laying the foundation for the efforts made by Manchester at the Great Exhibition of Industry in Hyde Park. While matters were proceeding so satisfactorily, the Somerset House authorities (who have since been tried and condemned by a Committee of the House of Commons), proceeded to earn their salaries by giving instructions which could not be carried out without destroying all the good that had been done. The Manchester Committee and Mr. Wallis protested against this red tapish interference. It was persisted in; Mr. Wallis {172} resigned, to the great regret of his pupils and manufacturing friends in the managing council. The result was that the undertaking dwindled away rapidly to less than its original insignificance,--the students fell off, and a deficit of debt replaced the previously flourishing funds. Out of evil comes good. The case of Manchester enabled Mr. Milner Gibson, M.P. for Manchester, to get his Committee and overhaul the Schools of Design throughout the kingdom. Certain changes were effected. The school, no longer able to pay the high rent required by the Royal Institution, was removed to its present site in Brown Street, placed under the management of Mr. Hammersley, who had previously been a successful teacher at Nottingham, and freed from the meddling of incompetent authorities. And now pupils anxiously crowd to receive instruction, and annually display practical evidence of the advantages they are enjoying. The Manchester Mechanics' Institution was one of the pioneers in the movement which led to the Great Exhibition. In 1831, was held its first Polytechnic Exhibition for the purpose of showing the connexion between natural productions, science, and manufactures. Subsequent Exhibitions were carried out with great effect as a means of instruction and education, and with such success as to pay off a heavy debt which had previously cramped the usefulness of the Institution. There are also several other institutions of the same class, amongst others Salford, Ancoats, and Miles Platting Auxiliary Mechanics' Institutes. The Athenaeum constitutes a kind of literary club for the middle classes, who are provided with a good library and reading-room in a very handsome building. The Manchester Library contains 10,000 volumes, the Manchester Subscription Library, established 1765, has the most extensive collection of books in the city. A Concert Hall in Peter Street, exclusively used for the purposes indicated by its name, is supported by 600 subscribers at five guineas each. The Chetham Society has been founded for the purpose of publishing ancient MSS. and scarce works connected with the history of Lancashire. The Exchange has upwards of two thousand subscribers. By way of helping the body as well as the mind, in 1846 the inhabitants of Manchester formed by subscription three public parks, called Queen's Park, Peel's Park, and Philip's Park, in three different parts of the suburbs. * * * * * THE FREE GRAMMAR SCHOOL was founded by Hugh Oldham, Bishop of Exeter, in the early part of the sixteenth century. It was originally founded for the purpose of furnishing simple and elementary instruction to the poor. This design is sufficiently proved by the language of the foundation deed, which describes those sought to be benefited as persons who had been long in ignorance "on account of the poverty of their parents." The present income of the school is upwards of 5000 pounds a-year, leaving a considerable income over its expenditure, notwithstanding that the operations of the school have been extended by a decree of the Court of Chancery. In the year 1833 the Court authorised the erection of a new building to include a residence for the master. There are two schools, called the Higher and Lower. The instructions given embrace the Greek and Latin, and the French, German, and other modern languages; English literature, mathematics, the modern arts and sciences, etc. A library is attached to the school for the use of the pupils. There are twelve exhibitions, of the annual value of 60 pounds each, for four years, in the gift of the Warden and High Master, who, however, respect the recommendations of the Examiners. These gentlemen are three in number, being Masters of Arts and Bachelors of Law of two years' standing, two of them appointed by the Professor, and one by the High Master. They each receive 20 pounds for their services. In addition to the twelve exhibitions mentioned above, there are fifteen others connected with the school, the bequest of a merchant named Hulme. These are appropriated to under-graduates of Brasenose College, Oxford. Their value is to be fixed by the patrons, but cannot exceed the sum of 220 pounds a year. They are to be held for four years from the thirteenth term after matriculation. There are sixteen scholarships to the same College; and sixteen to St. John's, Cambridge, varying in value from l8 to 26 pounds, stand in rotation with the pupils of Marlborough and Hereford Schools, and six scholarships of 24 pounds to Magdalen College, Oxford, Manchester pupils having the preference. The Examiners have also the power of making awards of books or mathematical instruments, to the value of 25 pounds, in any cases of great merit. The High Master's salary is fixed not to exceed 600 pounds, with house-rent and taxes free. He is also allowed to take twenty boarders. He has the assistance of an Usher (salary 300 pounds, with house and fifteen boarders); an Assistant (salary 200 pounds, with house and twelve boarders); an Usher's Assistant (salary 150 pounds, with house and ten boarders). There are, in addition, a Master of the Lower School, a Writing, and a Mathematical Master, a teacher of English literature, and another of foreign languages; all, with the exception of the last, having houses, and their aggregate salaries amounting to 800 pounds. Four hundred scholars attended in 1850. MANCHESTER NEW COLLEGE is an institution belonging to the Unitarian body, on the plan of King's College, London, and was opened for the reception of students on the 5th October, 1840. The curriculum of instruction embraces every department of learning and polite literature. THE LANCASHIRE INDEPENDENT COLLEGE is one of the affiliated Colleges of the London University, and was established for the education of candidates for the Christian Ministry amongst Congregational dissenters. There are three resident Professors, the principal being the Rev. Dr. Vaughan, formerly Professor of History in the University of London. OWEN'S COLLEGE has recently been opened on the testamentary endowment of a Mr. Owen, for affording an education on the plan of University College, London. CHETHAM'S HOSPITAL, or, as it is more properly termed, "College," was founded by Charter in the year 1665, by Humphrey Chetham, a Manchester citizen and tradesman, who had, during his lifetime, brought up, fed, and educated fourteen boys of Manchester and Salford. He paid a heavy fine to Charles I. for persisting in his refusal of a baronetcy, and in 1634 was appointed Sheriff of his county. By his will Chetham directed that the number of boys he had previously provided for should be augmented by the addition of one from Droylsden, two from Crumpsall, four from Turton, and ten from Bolton; and left the sum of 7000 pounds to be devoted to their instruction and maintenance, from six to fourteen years of age, and for their apprenticeship afterwards to some trade. The funds having since increased, 80 boys are now received, in the following proportions, from the several places mentioned in the founder's will, viz.:--Manchester, 28; Salford, 12; Droylsden, 6; Crumpsall, 4; Bolton, 20; Turton, 10. They are clothed, fed, boarded, lodged, and instructed in reading, writing, grammar, and arithmetic. The boys are selected by the Feoffees in annual meeting at Easter, within six days before the Monday in which week an application must be sent in to the Governor, accompanied by a printed note of recommendation, signed by the overseers and churchwardens of the place in which the candidate resides. THE COLLEGE LIBRARY is situated in the same old building in which accommodation is found for the College, and is a fine collection of upwards of 25,000 volumes. The germ of this library consisted of the books bequeathed by Humphrey Chetham, many of them of great scarcity and value. The collection contains comparatively few volumes of modern date. The library is open to the use of the public without charge or restriction, and a small, but convenient, reading-room is provided for their accommodation. Books are not allowed to be removed from the premises, and every reader is obliged to make an entry of each volume he wishes to obtain. Notwithstanding the immense population of Manchester and Salford, this valuable institution is comparatively little used, the number of readers averaging less than twenty per day. SWINTON SCHOOL.--In connexion with the Workhouse an Industrial House and School has been erected at Swinton, five miles from the City, which affords so admirable an example for imitation by all manufacturing or crowded communities, that we are glad to be able to extract the main facts concerning it from a graphic description in the first volume of Dickens's Household Words:-- "Swinton School cost sixty thousand pounds, and is a handsome building in the Tudor style of architecture, with a frontage of 450 feet, containing more than 100 windows. Pleasure grounds and play grounds surround it, and it resembles more a nobleman's palace than the Home of Pauper Children. The inmates consist of 630 children, of whom 305 are orphans, and 124 deserted by their parents, under charge of a Chaplain, a Head Master, a Medical Officer, a Roman Catholic Priest, a Governor, a Matron, six Schoolmasters, and four School-mistresses, with a numerous staff of officials, Nurses, and Teachers of Trades, receiving salaries and wages amounting to 1,800 pounds a-year, besides board. Some in the institution are as young as one year and a half. All are educated, and those who are old enough are taught trades and domestic employments. When they leave they are furnished with two suits of clothes. The character of the Institution stands so high, that the public are eager for the girls as domestic servants. If it has not already been done, we hope that the cultivation of land on the system of market gardens will be added to the trades, as affording a more certain, and, in some respects, more generally useful employment. Educated agricultural labourers are rare, much prized, and soon promoted to be overseers and bailiffs. The education at Swinton is conducted on the modern plan, which prevails in the best schools under Government inspection. The children are taught to love and look upon their masters and mistresses as friends, to be consulted and applied to as they would to kind parents. For instance take this bit, familiar to visitors of Infant Schools, but still new to many:-- The children under six years of age, summoned by the sound of a whistle from the play ground, trooped in glad groups to an anteroom, and girls and boys intermixed, at a signal from the Master marched into the schoolroom singing a tune. Then followed such viva voce instruction as too many better endowed children do not get for want of competent teachers. Indeed a better education is now given in Workhouses than can be obtained for children under twelve years of age at any paid school that we know of. For instance:-- "What day is this?" "Monday." "What sort of a day is it?" "Very fine." "Why is it fine?" "Because the sun shines, and it does not rain." "Is rain a bad thing, then?" "No." "What is it useful for?" "To make the flowers and the fruit grow." "Who sends rain and sunshine?" "God." "What ought we to do in return for his goodness?" "Praise him." "Let us praise him, then," added the Master. And the children altogether repeated, and then sang, a part of the 149th psalm." Now all this is very fine, and a wonderful improvement on the old dog-eared Redinmadeasy, but better follows. After a time the children grew tired and sleepy, one fell asleep. Did the Master slap them all round and pull the ears of the poor little fat somnus? No. He marched them all out singing and beating time to play for a quarter of an hour. We commend Swinton to the consideration of the credulous disciples of the firebrand school of economists, who believe that Manchester men devour little children daily, without stint or mercy for their poor little bodies or souls. Manchester obtained a municipal corporation under the provisions of the general act for that purpose, passed in the reign of his late Majesty William IV. Gas works, established in 1817, are the property of the town, and produce a surplus income amounting to between three and four thousand pounds a year, which are devoted to public improvements. The corporation have recently obtained power to establish water works, and to purchase up the plant of an existing company. The guardians of the workhouses of Manchester have a most difficult task to perform, especially in times of commercial depression, as thousands are thrown upon their hands at once. Among the most troublesome customers are the Irish, who flock to Manchester through Liverpool in search of work, and form a population herding together, very ignorant, very poor, and very uncleanly. MANCHESTER MANUFACTURES. It is quite impossible to give the same sort of sketch of the manufactures of this city as we gave of Birmingham, because they are on so much larger and more complicated a scale. One may understand how a gun-barrel or a steel-pen is made at one inspection; but in a visit to a textile mill, a sight of whizzing machinery, under the charge of some hundred men, women, boys, and girls, only produces an indefinable feeling of confusion to a person who has not previously made himself acquainted with the elements of the subject. To attempt to explain how a piece of calico is made without the aid of woodcuts, would be very unsatisfactory. Premising, then, that the cotton in various forms is the staple manufacture of Manchester, and that silk, mixed fabrics of cotton and silk, cotton and wool, etc., are also made extensively, we advise the traveller to prepare himself by reading the work of Dr. Ure or the articles on Textiles in the Penny Cyclopaedia. A visit to the workshops of the celebrated machinists Messrs. Sharpe, Roberts, & Co. would probably afford a view of some parts of the most improved textile machinery in a state of rest, as well as a very excellent idea of the rapid progress of mechanical arts. Improvements in manufacturing machines are so constant and rapid, that it is almost a proverb--"that before a foreigner can get the most improved machinery which he has purchased in England home and at work, something better will be invented." A Manchester manufacturer, on the approach of a busy season, will sometimes stop his factories to put in new machines, at a cost of twenty thousand pounds. Of equal interest with Messrs. Sharpe, Roberts, & Co., are the works of Messrs. Whitworth, the manufacturers of exquisite tools, more powerful than any elephant, more delicately-fitted than any watch for executing the metalwork of steam-engines, of philosophical instruments, and everything requiring either great power or mathematical nicety. Some of these tools for planing, boring, rivetting, welding, cutting iron and other metals, are to be found in great iron manufactories. Indeed, Mr. Roberts and Mr. Whitworth are of a class of men who have proved that the execution of almost all imitations of natural mechanics are merely a question of comparative expense. If you choose to pay for it, you may have the moving fingers of a man, or the prehensile trunk of an elephant, perfectly executed. From the manufacture of machines, the next step lies naturally to some branch of cotton manufactures. COTTON.--The rise of this manufacture has been wonderfully rapid. In the time of Henry VIII., the spinning wheel came into use in England, superseding the spindle and distaff, which may still be seen in the south of France and Italy, and in India, where no other tools are used. In the same reign Manchester became distinguished for its manufactures. In the seventeenth century, Humphrey Chetham, whose name has already been mentioned as the founder of a splendid charity, was among the eminent tradesmen. The barbarities of the Duke of Alva on the Protestants of the Netherlands, and the revocation of the edict of Nantes, by which the persecutions of the French Protestants was renewed, supplied all our manufacturing districts with skilful Artisans and mechanics in silk and woollen. In 1786, the importation of raw cotton only amounted to nineteen million pounds weight, obtained from the West Indies, the French, Spanish, and Dutch colonies, and from Turkey and Smyrna. Two years previously an American ship which imported eight bags was seized, on the ground that so much cotton could not be the produce of the United States! So early as 1738, one Charles Wyatt, of Birmingham, took out a patent for spinning yarn by machinery, which he tried at Northampton, but reaped no profits from the invention, which was discontinued and forgotten. In 1767, James Hargreaves, an illiterate weaver residing near Church, in Lancashire, who seven years previously had invented a carding machine, much like that in use at the present day, invented the spinning jenny,--by which eighty spindles were set to work instead of the one of the spinning wheel. Hargreaves derived no benefit from his invention; twice a mob of spinners on the old principle rose and destroyed all the machinery made on his plan, and chased him away. In 1769, Richard Arkwright took out his first patent (having Mr. Need of Nottingham and Mr. Strutt of Derby as partners,) for spinning with rollers. Arkwright was born in the humblest class of life at Preston in Lancashire. At "Proud Preston" he first followed the business of a barber, then became a dealer in hair, travelling the country to collect it, and selling it prepared to the wigmakers. Having accumulated a little money, he set about endeavouring to invent perpetual motion, and, in the search, invented, or sufficiently adapted and improved, a cotton spinning apparatus to induce two practical men like the Messrs. Need and Strutt to join him. His claim to original invention has been disputed. That he was not the first inventor is clear, and it is equally clear that he must have been a man of very considerable and original mechanical genius. With Arkwright's patent, the rise of the cotton trade began. In 1786, Mr. Samuel Crompton's invention came into use, called the mule jenny, because partaking of the movements of both Hargreaves' and Arkwright's inventions, by which, for the first time, yarn fine enough for muslins could be spun. Crompton did not, probably could not, afford to take out a patent, but worked his mule jenny with his own hands in an attic at Bolton, where he carried on a small spinning and weaving business. Already, in 1812, there were between four and five million spindles on this principle, but the inventor continued poor and almost unknown. Mr. Kennedy (author of a brief memoir of Crompton), and Mr. Lee, raised 500 pounds for him by subscription, and he afterwards received a grant of 8000 pounds from Parliament, which his sons lost in business. Mr. Kennedy again exerted himself and raised an annuity of 63 pounds, which the unfortunate inventor only lived two years to enjoy. The spinning machines threatened to out-travel the weaving powers of the country, when, in 1785, Dr. Cartwright, a clergyman of Kent, with no previous knowledge of weaving, after an expenditure of 40,000 pounds, invented the power-loom, for which he afterwards received a grant of 10,000 pounds from Parliament. To supply our cotton manufactures, there were imported in 1849 1,900,000 bales of 330lbs. each. Of this quantity, 1,400,000 bales came from the United States. The Manchester manufacturers have lately raised a small fund by subscription, and sent out Mr. Mackay, a barrister, author of The Western World, to examine and report on the prospects of obtaining cotton from India; and the son of the late Mr. John Fielden, a great manufacturer, has embarked a considerable sum at Natal in the cultivation of cotton. The dependence on the United States for such a staple has begun to render our Manchester men uncomfortable. They have not, however, displayed the spirit and energy that might have been expected either from their usual political vigour or from the tone of their advice to the farmers in distress. The successive improvements in weaving by machinery we shall not attempt to trace. To use the phrase of a Nottingham mechanic, "there are machines now that will weave anything, from a piece of sacking to a spider's web." But fine muslins and fancy goods are chiefly woven by hand. The power-loom has recently been adapted, under Bright's patent, to weaving carpets, which are afterwards printed. With respect to spinning; fine yarns which cost twenty guineas a pound have been reduced to four shillings by improved machinery, and in the Great Exhibition of Industry Messrs. Houldsworth exhibited as a curiosity, a pound of cotton spun 2,000 miles in length. Arkwright, among the early improvers, was the only one who realized a large fortune, which his patience, his energy, his skill, his judgment, his perseverance well deserved, whether he was an original inventor or not. The large supplies of cheap coals by canal soon made Lancashire the principal seat of the manufacture. Among the many who realized great wealth by the new manufacture, was the first Sir Robert Peel, who began life near Bolton as a labouring man, by frugality accumulated enough money to commence first with a donkey a small coal trade, and then to enter on a cotton mill, which eventually placed him in a position to become a Member of Parliament and a baronet, and to give his son that starting place in education and society of which he availed himself so wisely and so patriotically, to his own honour and the permanent benefit of his country. There are several mills and factories in Manchester in which the most perfect productions of mechanical skill may be seen in operation; but it is a trade which will be seen under much more favourable circumstances in some of those valleys near Manchester, where the masters of the mill provide the cottages of their "hands," or where the cottages are held in freehold by the more frugal workmen themselves, with little gardens attached, in pure air in open situations. There are many cotton lords, and the number is increasing, who take the warmest interest in the condition of the people in their employ, and who do all they can to promote their health, their education, and their amusements. A visit to one of these establishments, will convince those who have taken their ideas of a manufacturing population from the rabid novelettes and yet more rabid railings of the Ferrand school, that there is nothing in the factory system itself, properly conducted, opposed to the permanent welfare of the working classes. On the contrary, in average times, the wages are sufficient to enable the operatives to live in great comfort, and to lay by more than in other trades; while between the comfort of their position and that of the agricultural labourer there is no comparison, so infinitely are the advantages on the side of the factory hand. There have also been a series of legislative and other changes during the last twenty years, all tending to raise the condition of this class. At the same time, it is impossible not to observe that, quite irrespective of political opinions, there is a wide gulf between the great mass of the employers and the employed. There is dislike--there is undefined distrust. Those who doubt this will do well to investigate working-class opinions for themselves, not at election time, and in such a familiar manner as to get at the truth without compliments. Probably in times of prosperity this feeling is not increasing--we are strongly inclined to think it is diminishing; but it is a question not to be neglected. Manchester men, of the class who run at the aristocracy, the army, and the navy just as a bull runs at a red rag, will perhaps be very angry at our saying this; but we speak as we have found mobs at fires, and chatty fustian jackets in third class trains on the Lancashire and Yorkshire line; and, although a friend protests against the opinion, we still think that the ordinary Manchester millhand looks on his employer with about the same feelings that Mr. John Bright regards a colonel in the guards. We hope we may live to see them all more amiable, and better friends. Manchester during the last seventy years, has been peopled more rapidly than the "Black Country" which we have described, with a crowd of immigrants of the most ignorant class, from the agricultural counties of England, from Ireland, and from Scotland. These people have been crowded together under very demoralising circumstances. But we do not dwell or enter further into this important part of the condition of Manchester, because, unlike Birmingham, the Corn Law discussions have, to the enormous advantage of the city, drawn hundreds of jealous eyes upon the domestic life of the poor; and because men of all parties, Church and Dissent, Radicals and Conservatives, are trying hard and as cordially as their mutual prejudices will allow them, to work out a plan of education for raising the moral condition of a class, who, if neglected in their dirt and ignorance, will become, in the strongest sense of the French term, Dangereuse! But to return to the Manchester of to-day; it has become rather the mercantile than the manufacturing centre of the cotton manufacture. There are firms in Manchester which hold an interest in woollen, silk, and linen manufactures in all parts of the kingdom and even of the continent. From a pamphlet published last year by the Rev. Mr. Baker, it appears that there are five hundred and fifty cotton manufactories of one kind or other in the cotton district of Lancashire and Cheshire. Of these, in Ashton-under- Lyne, Dukinfield, and Mosley, there are fifty-three mills, Blackburn fifty- seven, Bolton forty-two, Burnley twenty-five spinning manufactories, at Heywood twenty-eight mills, Oldham one hundred and fifty-eight, Preston thirty-eight, Staley Bridge twenty, Stockport forty-seven mills, Warrington only four, Manchester seventy-eight. The following is a brief outline of the stages of cotton manufacture which may be useful to those who consider the question for the first time. When cotton has reached Manchester from the United States, which supplies 75 per cent. of the raw material; from Egypt, which supplies a good article in limited quantity; from India, which sends us an inferior, uncertain, but increasing, quantity, but which with railroads will send us an improved increasing quantity; or from any of the other miscellaneous countries which contribute a trifling quota--it is stowed in warehouses, arranged according to the countries from which it has come. It is then "passed through the willow, the scuthing machine, and the spreading machine, in order to be opened, cleaned, and evenly spread. By the carding engine the fibres are combed out, and laid parallel to each other, and the fleece is compressed into sliver. The sliver is repeatedly drawn and doubled in the drawing frame, more perfectly to strengthen the fibres and to equalize the grist. The roving frame, by rollers and spindles, produces a coarse loose thread, which the mule or throstle spins into yarn. To make the warp, the twist is transferred from cops to bobbins by the winding machine, and from the bobbins at the warping machine to a cylindrical beam. This being taken to the dressing machine, the warp is sized, dressed, and wound upon the weaving beam. The weaving beam is then placed in the power loom, by which machine, the shuttle being provided with cops with weft, the cloth is woven." Sometimes the yarn only is exported, in other cases the cloth is bleached, or dyed, or printed, all of which operations can be carried on in Manchester or the surrounding auxiliary towns. The best mode of obtaining a general idea of the trade carried on in Manchester will be to visit two or three of the leading warehouses in which buyers from all parts of the world supply their respective wants. For instance, Messrs. J. N. Phillips and Co., of Church Street; Messrs. Bannermans and Sons, York Street; Messrs. J. and J. Watts and Co., of Spring Gardens; and Messrs. Wood and Westhead, of Piccadilly. Next, to go over one of the leading Cotton Mills, say Briley's or Houldsworth's; then Messrs. Lockett's establishment for engraving the plates used in calico-printing, and Messrs. Thomas Hoyle and Son's print works. This work completed, the traveller will have some idea of Manchester, not without. * * * * * SILK.--The silk trade of Manchester and of Macclesfield, which for that purpose is a suburb of Manchester, arose in the restrictions imposed upon Spitalfields, at the request of the weavers, by successive acts of Parliament, for the purpose of regulating employment in that district. In 1830 there were not 100 Jacquard looms in Manchester and its neighbourhood, whilst at the present time there are probably 12,000 employed either on silk or some branch of figure weaving. The most convenient silk manufactory for the visit of the stranger is that of Messrs. James Houldsworth of Portland Street, near the Royal Infirmary. This firm was established by a German gentleman, the late Mr. Louis Schwabe, an intelligent German, who introduced the higher class of silk manufacture with such success as to enable him to compete with even the very first class of Lyons silks for furniture damasks. In addition to the extensive application of the Jacquard loom, Mr. Schwabe introduced, and Mr. Henry Houldsworth improved and perfected, the embroidering machines invented by Mr. Heilmann of Mulhausen. The improvements are so great that the original inventor cannot compete with them. Rows of needles elaborate the most tasteful designs with a degree of accuracy to which hand labour cannot approach. Messrs. Winkworth and Proctor are also producers of high class silks for ladies' dresses and gentlemen's waistcoats. Manchester is particularly celebrated for plain silk goods of a superior quality at a moderate price. There are also manufactories of small wares, which include parasols and umbrellas. A parasol begins at 4.5d. wholesale. In Manchester the tastes and costumes of every country are consulted and suited. The brown cloak of the Spaniard, the poncho of the Chilean, the bright red or yellow robe of the Chinese, the green turban of the pilgrim from Mecca, the black blanket of the Caffre, and the red blanket of the American Indian may all be found in bales in one Manchester warehouse. In passing through the streets, the sign "Fents" is to be seen on shops in cellars. These are the odd pieces, of a yard or two in length, cut off the goods in the manufactories to make up a certain even quantity; and considerable trade is driven in them. Selections are sometimes bought up as small ventures by sea captains and emigrants. Paper-making is carried on extensively in the neighbourhood of Manchester from cotton waste. This was formerly thrown away; scavengers were even paid to cart it away. After a time, as its value became quietly known among paper-makers, parties were found willing to take on themselves the expense of removing it. By degrees the waste became a regular article of sale; and now, wherever possible, a paper-mill in this part of the country is placed near, or worked in conjunction with, a cotton-mill. The introduction of cotton waste has materially reduced the price of paper. No doubt, when the excise is abolished, many other articles will be employed for the same purpose. To describe the railroads, which are every hour departing for every point of the compass, would take up too much space. But the railway stations, several of which have been united by works as costly, and almost as extensive, as the Pyramids of Egypt, are not among the least interesting sights. At these stations barrels of flour will be found, literally filling acres of warehouse room, and cucumbers arrive in season by the ton. * * * * * THE CANALS must be mentioned, and remind us that at Worsley, near Manchester, the Duke of Bridgwater, "the Father of Inland Navigation," aided by the genius of Brindley (another of the great men, who, like Arkwright and Stephenson, rose from the ranks of labour, and directly contributed to the rise of this city) commenced the first navigable canal constructed for commercial purposes in Great Britain. At the present day the construction of a canal is a very commonplace affair, but it is impossible to doubt the high qualities of the mind of the Duke of Bridgwater, when we consider the education and prejudices of a man of his rank at that period, and observe the boldness with which he accepted, the tenacity with which he adhered to, the energy and self-sacrifice with which he prosecuted the plans of an obscure man like Brindley. A disappointment in love is said to have first driven the Duke into retirement, and rendered him shy and eccentric, with an especial objection to the society of ladies, although he had once been a gay, if not dissipated, young gentleman, fond of the turf. He rode a race at Trentham Hall, the seat of his brother-in-law, the Marquis of Stafford. When he retired from the pleasures of the fashionable world, his attention was directed to a rich bed of coal on his estate at Worsley, the value of which was almost nominal in consequence of the expense of carriage. He determined to have a canal, and, if possible, a perfect canal, and who to carry out this object he selected Brindley, who had been born in the station of an agricultural labourer, and was entirely self-educated. To the last he conducted those engineering calculations, which are usually worked out on paper and by rule, by a sort of mental arithmetic. Brindley must have been about forty years of age when he joined the Duke. He died at fifty-six, having laid the foundation of that admirable system of internal commerce which is better described in Baron Charles Dupin's Force Commerciale de la Grande Bretagne than in any English work. One often-told anecdote well illustrates the characters of the nobleman and his engineer, if we remember that no such works had ever been erected in England at that time. "When Brindley proposed to carry the canal over the Mersey and Irwell Navigation, by an aqueduct 39 feet above the surface of the water, he desired, for the satisfaction of his employer, to have another engineer consulted. That individual, on being taken to the place where the intended aqueduct was to be constructed, said, that 'he had often heard of castles in the air, but never was shown before where any of them were to be erected.'" But the Duke had faith in Brindley, persevered and triumphed, although, before the completion of all his undertakings, he was more than once reduced to great pecuniary difficulties. The canal property of the Duke of Bridgwater, with the Lancashire estates, are now vested in the Earl of Ellesmere, a nobleman who well knows, and conscientiously works out, the axiom, "that property has its duties as well as its rights." A visit to Worsley will prove what an enlightened and benevolent landowner can do for a population of colliers and bargemen. The educational and other arrangements of a far-sighted character show that there are advantages in even such large accumulations of property as have fallen to the share of the present representative of the Duke of Bridgwater. Those who desire to pursue closely the state of the operative population in Manchester, will find ample materials in the annual reports of factory inspectors, and school inspectors, under the Committee of the Council of Education, and of the municipal officers of health. * * * * * FIRES.--Dreadful fires occur occasionally in Manchester. If such a catastrophe should take place during the stay of a visitor, he should immediately pull on an overcoat, even although it be midnight, and join in the crowd. An excellent police of 300 officers and men renders the streets quite safe at all hours; and a fire of an old cotton factory, where the floors are saturated with oil and grease, is indeed a fearfully imposing sight. It also affords an opportunity of some familiar conversation with the factory hands. * * * * * In taking leave of Manchester, which is indeed the great heart of our manufacturing system, we may truly say that it is a city to be visited with the deepest interest, and quitted without the slightest regret. On our political railroad we are under deepest obligations to the Manchester stokers; but Heaven forbid that we should be compelled to make them our sole engineers. THE ROAD TO YORKSHIRE. MIDDLETON.--And now, before taking a glance at the woollens and hardware of Yorkshire, we suggest, by way of change from the perpetual hum of busy multitudes and the whizzing and roaring of machinery, that the traveller take a holiday, and spend it in wandering over an agricultural oasis encircled by hills, and so far uninvaded by the stalks of steam-engines, where the air is comparatively pure and the grass green, although forest trees do not flourish. The visit requires no distant journey. It is a bare six miles from the heart of Manchester to Middleton. Nine times a-day omnibuses ply there. These original, if not primitive vehicles, are constructed to carry forty-five passengers, and on crowded market-days may sometimes be seen loaded with seventy specimens of a note-worthy class. Middleton, lately a dirty straggling town, of 15,000 inhabitants, a number at which it has remained stationary for ten years, built without plan, without drains, without pavement, without arrangements for common decency, stands on the borders, and was the manorial village, of the Middleton and Thornham estates, which had been in the family of the late Lord Suffield for many hundred years. In the village, land was grudgingly leased for building, and no steam-engine manufactories were permitted. The agricultural portion of some 2500 acres of good land for pasturage and root crops, celebrated for its fine supplies of water and for its (unused) water-power, was divided into little farms of from twenty to seventy acres, very few exceeding fifty acres, inhabited by a race of Farmer-Weavers, who, from generation to generation, farmed badly and wove cleanly in the pure atmosphere of Middleton. They were, most of them, bound to keep a hound at walk for the Lord of the Manor. Now the old Lords of the Manor and owners of the estate of Middleton (the Harbords, afterwards Barons Suffield), were proud men and wealthy, who despised manufactures and resisted any encroachment of trade on the green bounds within which their old Manor House had stood for ages. So when the inventions of Crompton, Hargreaves, Arkwright, and Cartwright began to coin gold like any philosopher's stone, for well-managing cotton manufacturers, speculators cast their eyes upon the pleasant waters of Middleton and Thornham, proposing to erect machinery and spin the yarn or thread, and otherwise to use the abundant water-power. But the Lords of Middleton would have none of such profits, (and if they could afford to reject them, we will not say that up to a certain point they were not wise), and so they gave short answers to the applicants, who went away and found, half-a-mile off, on the borders of Yorkshire, similar conveniences and more accessible ground- landlords in the Byrons, Lords of the Manor of Rochdale. And when, some time afterwards, a like application met with a like answer, other manufacturers went away to another corner, and built Oldham. So the Middleton farms continued very pretty picturesque farms; Middleton village grew into a miserable town, and was passed over in 1830, when every population was putting forth its claims to a share in making the laws of the United Kingdom; while Oldham, with 30,000 inhabitants, was allotted two members, (an honour which cost the life of one of them, our best describer of English rural scenery, in racy Saxon English, William Cobbett); Rochdale, with 24,000, obtained one, and eventually made itself loudly heard in the House, in the person of John Bright, a gentleman of pluck not without eloquence, who has done a good deal, considering the disadvantages he has laboured under, in not having been brought to his level in a public school, and in having been brought up in the atmosphere of adulation, to which the wealthy and clever of a small sect are as much exposed as the scions of a "proud aristocracy." A few years ago, the late lord, who had occasionally lived on the estate, died. His successor pulled down the Manor House, became an absentee, always in want of ready money, and introduced the Irish system into the management of his estate. That is to say, good farming became a sure mode of inviting an increase of rent--for indispensable repairs no ready money was forthcoming, so tenants who had an indisputable claim to such allowances, received a reduction of rent instead; they generally accepted the reduction, and did no more of the repairs than would just make shift. The land in the town suitable for building was let at chief rents to the highest bidder, with no consideration for the mutual convenience of neighbours, or the welfare of future residents. Thus mismanaged and dilapidated, the estates were brought into the market, and purchased for Messrs. Peto & Betts, by their land agent, Mr. Francis Fuller, for less than 200,000 pounds; and the lands of the aristocracy of blood passed into the possession of the aristocracy of trade. Here was a subject for a doleful ballad from "A Young Englander," commencing-- "Ye tenants old of Middleton ye cannot need but sigh, Departed are the traces of your own nobility, The Locomotivocracy have gone and done the trick, And England's aristocracy's obliged to cut its stick." A visit to Middleton, however, will show that on this occasion the tenantry have no reason either to sigh or weep, and the visit is worth making, independently of the pleasantness of a change from town to country, because it affords an opportunity of seeing what can be done with a neglected domain when it passes into the hands of men of large capital, liberal views, and a thorough determination that whatever they take in hand shall be done in the best possible manner. Messrs. Peto & Betts are managing this estate on the same principles that they have conducted the undertaking by which, in a very few years, they have acquired a large fortune and an influential position. Not by avariciously grasping, and meritlessly grinding all the subordinates whose services they required; not by squeezing men like oranges, and throwing them away when squeezed; but by choosing suitable assistants for every task they undertook, and making those assistants, or advisers, feel that their interests were the same, that they were prepared to pay liberally for services strenuously rendered. By this system servants and sub-contractors worked for them with all the zeal of friends, and by this system the tenantry of Middleton will attain a degree of comfort and prosperity hitherto unknown, while the estate they occupy will be largely increased in value. It is most fortunate that, at a time when so much landed property is passing into the hands of men of the class of which these gentlemen may be considered the intellectual leaders, an example has been set, by them, of liberal and judicious management. For this reason we do not think these rough notes on Middleton will be considered a useless digression. * * * * * DRAINS AND REPAIRS.--Instead of the ordinary system of bit-by-bit repairs and instead of arrangements for the tenants to execute drains, as the first step after the change of proprietorship, a complete survey was made of the defects and of the value of all the holdings. On this survey the rents were fixed, with the understanding that while no increase of rent would be imposed on a good tenant, lazy slovenly farming would be forthwith taxed with an additional ten per cent. The landlords have themselves undertaken to execute a complete deep drainage of the whole property at a cost of 20,000 pounds. For this they charge the tenants five per cent. on the outlay per acre occupied. Farm buildings and farm houses are being put in thorough repair, and tenants are expected so to keep them. In the course of these repairs farm houses were found in which the windows were fixtures, not intended to open! While as to the farming, it is scarcely possible to imagine anything more barbarous. It is not a corn-growing district, and what corn is grown these weaver farmers, indifferent apparently to loss of time, first lash against a board to get part of the grain out, and then thrash the rest out of the straw! Market garden cultivation, stall feeding, and root crops would answer well, but at the time of the survey only two gardens were cultivated for the sale of produce in the unlimited markets of Oldham, Rochdale, and Manchester; and little feeding except of pigs. Orchard trees are now supplied by the landlords, free of cost, to all willing to take charge of them. It will be very difficult to induce these people to change their old slovenly style of farming, for their chief pride is in their weaving, which is excellent, and many of them are in possession of properties held for two and three generations without change. But the system of encouraging the good, and getting rid of the lazy, will work a reformation in time, especially as there are some very good examples on the estate. For instance, Benjamin Johnson, who, paying the highest rent per acre, has creditably brought up ten children on nine acres of land, without other employment. Middleton is a district especially suited for small farms, so much so that it has been determined to divide one or two of the larger ones. Altogether it is a very primitive curious place, with several originals among the tenantry, and some beautiful natural scenery, among whom a morning may be spent with profit and pleasure. With the town and building land an equally comprehensive system has been adopted. The defects of the existing buildings are to be cured as soon as, and in the best manner, that circumstances will admit; while all new houses are to be built and drained on a fixed plan, and all roadside cottages to have at least a quarter of an acre of ground for a garden. It will take some years to work out complete results; it is, however, gratifying to see a landowner placing himself in the hands of competent advisers, planning not for the profits of the hour, but for the future, for the permanent health, happiness, and prosperity of all dwelling on his property. The pecuniary results promise to be highly satisfactory; it is already evident that increased rents will be accompanied by increased prosperity, and it is thought in the neighbourhood that in the next ten years, the property will, from the judicious expenditure of 30,000 pounds, be worth at least 300,000 pounds. So much for employing a scientific and practical agriculturist as land agent, instead of a fashionable London attorney. {193} YORKSHIRE. From Manchester to Leeds is a journey of forty-five miles, and about two hours. We should like to describe Yorkshire, one of the few counties to which men are proud to belong. We never hear any one say, with conscious pride, "I am a Hampshireman or an Essex man, or even a Lancashireman," while there are some counties of which the natives are positively ashamed. But we have neither time nor space to say anything about those things of which a Yorkshireman has reason to be proud--of the hills, the woods, the dales, the romantic streams,--above all, of the lovely Wharfe, of the fat plains, the great woods, the miles of black coal mines, where we have heard the little boys driving their horses and singing hymns, sounding like angels in the infernal regions, the rare good sheep, the Teeswater cattle, that gave us short-horns, of horses, well known wherever the best are valued, be it racer, hunter, or proud-prancing carriage horse; hounds that it takes a Yorkshire horse to live with; and huntsmen, whom to hear tally-away and see ride out of cover makes the heart of man leap as at the sound of a trumpet; foxes stanch and wily, worthy of the hounds; and then of those famous dalesmen farmers, tall, broad-shouldered, with bullet heads, and keen grey eyes, rosy bloom, high cheek bones, foxy whiskers, full white-teethed, laughing mouths, hard riders, hard drinkers, keen bargainers, capital fellows; and besides those the slips, grafts, and thinnings from the farms, who in factories, counting-houses, and shops, show something of the powerful Yorkshire stamp. Everything is great in Yorkshire, even their rogues are on a large scale; in Spain, men of the same calibre would be prime ministers and grandees of the first class; in France, under a monarchy, a portfolio, and the use of the telegraph, with no end of ribands, would have been the least reward. Here the honours stop short between two dukes, as supporters arm in arm; but still we are obliged to own that no one but a Yorkshireman could have so bent all the wild beasts of Belgravia and Mayfair, from the Countess Gazelle to the Ducal Elephant, to his purpose, as an ex-king did. Our task will be confined on the present occasion to a sketch of Huddersfield and Leeds, centres of the woollen manufacture, which forms the third great staple of English manufactures, and of Sheffield, famed for keen blades. * * * * * HUDDERSFIELD, twenty-six miles from Manchester, is the first important town, on a road studded with stations, from which busy weavers and spinners are continually passing and repassing. It is situated in a naturally barren district, where previously to 1811 the inhabitants chiefly lived on oaten cake, and has been raised to a high degree of prosperity by the extension of the manufactures, a position on the high road between Manchester and Leeds, intersected by a canal, uniting the east and west, or inland navigation, and more recently by railroads, which connect it with all the manufacturing towns of the north. An ample supply of water-power, with coal and building stone, have contributed to this prosperity, of which advantage has been taken to improve the streets, thoroughfares, and public buildings. The use of a light yellow building stone for the houses has a very pleasant appearance after the bricks of Manchester and Liverpool. The Huddersfield Canal, which connects the Humber and Mersey, is a very extraordinary piece of work. It is carried through and over a backbone of hills by stairs of more than thirty locks in nine miles, and a tunnel three miles in length. At one place it is 222 yards below the surface, and at another 656.5 feet above the level of the sea. When we examine such works, so profitable to the community, so unprofitable to the projectors, how can we doubt the capability of our country to hold its own in any commercial race? Men make a country, not accidents of soil or climate, mines or forests. For centuries California and Central America have been in the hands of an Iberian race, fallow. A few months of Anglo-Saxon rule, and land and sea are boiling with fervid elements of cultivation, commerce, and civilization. With time the dregs will disappear, and churches and schools, cornfields and fulling-mills, will supersede grizzly bears and wandering Indians. All the land in Huddersfield belongs to the Ramsden family, by whom the Cloth Hall was erected. Six hundred manufacturers attend this hall every Tuesday. The principal manufactures are of broad and narrow cloths, serges, kerseymeres, cords, and fancy goods of shawls and waistcoatings, composed of mixed cotton, silk, and wool. The neighbourhood of Huddersfield was the centre of the Luddite outbreak, when a large number of persons engaged in the cloth manufacture, conceiving that they were injured by the use of certain inventions for dressing cloth, banded together, traversed the country at night, searching for and carrying off fire-arms, and attacking and destroying the manufactories of persons supposed to use the obnoxious machines. Great alarm was excited, some expected nothing less than a general insurrection; at length the rioters were attacked, dispersed, a large number arrested, tried, and seventeen hanged. Since that period not one but scores of mechanical improvements have been introduced into the woollen manufacture without occasioning disturbance, and with benefit in increased employment to the working classes. The case of the Luddites was one of the few on which Lord Byron spoke in the Upper House, and Horace Smith sang for Fitzgerald . . . "What makes the price of beer and Luddites rise? What fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?" The population is about 30,000, and returns one member to the House of Commons. About half a mile from the town is Lockwood Spa, of strongly sulphurous waters, for which a set of handsome buildings have been provided. LEEDS. LEEDS, seventeen miles from Huddersfield, is the centre of five railways, by which it has direct connection with Hull, Liverpool, Manchester, Newcastle, on the east, and Carlisle on the west coast, Sheffield, Nottingham, Derby, and Birmingham, in the Midland counties, possesses one of the finest central railway stations in the kingdom, and has also the advantage of being in the centre of inland navigation (a great advantage for the transport of heavy goods), as it communicates with the eastern seas by the Aire and Calder navigation to the Humber, and westward by the Leeds and Liverpool to the Mersey. The town stands on a hill, which rises from the banks of the river Aire. Leeds has claims to antiquity, but few remains. When Domesday Book was compiled it appears to have been an agricultural district. Wakefield was formerly the more important town. Lord Clarendon, in 1642, speaks of Leeds, Halifax, and Bradford, "as three very rich and populous towns, depending wholly upon clothing." The first charter was granted to Leeds by Charles I., and the second by Charles II., on petition of the clothworkers, merchants, and others, "to protect them from the great abuses, defects and deceits, discovered and practised by fraudulent persons in the making, selling, and dyeing of woollen cloths." The principal manufacture of Leeds is woollen cloth. Formerly the trade was carried on by five or six thousand small master clothiers, who employed their own families, and some thirty or forty thousand servants, and also carried on small farms. But the extension of the factory system has somewhat diminished their numbers. There are still, however, in connection with Leeds, several small clothing villages, in which the first stages of the operation are carried on, in spinning, weaving, and fulling. Large quantities of worsted goods are brought to Leeds to be finished and dyed, which have been purchased, in an undyed state, at Bradford and Halifax. The dye-houses and dressing-shops of Leeds are very extensive. Goods purchased in a rough state in the Cloth Halls and Piece Halls are taken there to be finished. There are also extensive mills for spinning flax for linen, canvas-sailing, thread, and manufactures of glass and earthenware. In connection with Messrs. Marshall's flax factory, the same firm are carrying on extensive experiments near Hull in growing flax. Cloth Halls.--Previous to 1711, the cloth market was held in the open street. In 1755, the present Halls were erected, and in them the merchants purchase the half manufactured article from the country manufacturers. The Coloured Cloth Hall is a quadrangular building, 127.5 yards long, and 66 broad, divided into six departments called streets. Each street contains two rows of stands, and each stand measures 22 inches in front, and is inscribed with the name of the clothier to whom it belongs. The original cost was 3 pounds 3s. This price advanced to 24 pounds at the beginning of the present century; but it has now fallen below its original value--not owing to a decrease in the quantity of manufactured goods, but owing to the prevalence of the factory system--in which the whole operation is performed, from sorting the piece to packing the cloth fit for the tailor's shelves--over the domestic system of manufacturing. An additional story, erected on the north side of the Coloured Cloth Hall, is used chiefly for the sale of ladies' cloths in their undyed state. The White Cloth Hall is nearly as large as the Coloured Cloth Hall, and on the same plan. The markets are held on Tuesdays and Saturdays, on which days alone the merchants are permitted to buy in the Halls. The time of the sale is in the forenoon, and commences by the ringing of a bell, when each manufacturer is at his stand, the merchants go in, and the sales commence. At the end of an hour the bell warns the buyers and sellers that the market is about to close, and in another quarter of an hour the bell rings a third time, and the business of the day is terminated. The White Cloth Hall opens immediately after the other is closed, and the transactions are carried on in a similar manner. The public buildings of Leeds are not externally imposing, and it is, without exception, one of the most disagreeable-looking towns in England--worse than Manchester; it has also the reputation of being very unhealthy to certain constitutions from the prevalence of dye-works. The wealthy and employing classes in Leeds (we know no better term) have a reputation for charity, and good management of charitable institutions. Howard the philanthropist visited the workhouse, and praised the management, at a period when to deserve such praise was rare. The subscriptions to public charities are large, and there is an ancient fund for pious uses, said to amount to upwards of 5000 pounds a-year, managed by a close self-elected corporation, about the distribution of which they do not consider themselves bound to give any detailed information. Dr. Hook, the Vicar of Leeds, has organized a system of house-to-house visitation, for the purpose of affording aid, in poverty and sickness, to the deserving and religious, and educational instruction to all, which has effected a great deal of good, and would have done more, had not well known circumstances shaken the confidence of the Leeds public in the honesty of some of the teachers. All parties agree, however differing in opinions, that Dr. Hook himself is a most excellent, charitable, self-sacrificing man. A New Grammar School--first founded in 1552 by the Rev. Sir William Sheafield, and since endowed by several other persons--is lodged in a building of ample size, with residence for the head master, and enjoys an income of 2000 pounds a-year; and there are four Exhibitions of 70 pounds a-year to Magdalen College, Cambridge, tenable till degree of M.A. has been taken; one Exhibition of 100 pounds a-year, tenable for five years, at Queen's College, Oxford, open to a candidate from Leeds school; and four of 50 pounds each, at Oxford or Cambridge, for four years. There were 174 scholars in 1850. It is open to the sons of all residents in Leeds, without any fee to the masters, who are liberally paid. The elements of mathematics are taught. The Charity Commissioners reported it to be satisfactorily and ably conducted. The Leeds Philosophical and Literary Society, the Leeds Literary Institution, and the Leeds Mechanics Institute, are all respectable in their class. The Mechanics Institute forms the centre of a union of Yorkshire associations of the same kind. Three newspapers are published in Leeds, of large circulation, representing three shades of political opinion. The Leeds Mercury--which has, we believe, the largest circulation of any provincial paper--was founded, and carried on for a long life, by the late Mr. Edward Baines, who represented his native town in the first reformed parliament, and for some years afterwards--a very extraordinary man, who, from a humble station, by his own talents made his way to wealth and influence. He was the author of the standard work on the cotton trade, as well as several valuable local histories. The Mercury is still carried on by his family. One son is the proprietor of a Liverpool paper, and another, the Right Honourable Matthew Talbot Baines, represents Hull, and is President of the Poor-Law Board. Among the celebrated natives of Leeds, were Sir Thomas Denison, whose life began like Whittington's; John Smeaton, the engineer of Eddystone Lighthouse, the first who placed civil engineering in the rank of a science; the two Reverend Milners (Joseph, and Isaac, Dean of Carlisle), great polemical giants in their day, authors of "The History of the Church of Christ;" Dr. Priestly, inventor of the pneumatic apparatus still used by chemists, and discoverer of oxygen and several other gases; David Hartley, the metaphysician whom Coleridge so much admired that he called his son after him; and Edward Fairfax, the translator of Tasso. Nor must we forget Ralph Thoresby, author of "Ducatus Leodiensis, or the Topography of the Town and Parish of Leeds"--a valuable and curious book, published in 1715; and of "Vicaria Leodiensis, a History of the Church of Leeds," published in 1724. Wool Growing, and Woollen Manufactures.--Yorkshire is the ancient seat of a great woollen manufacture, founded on the coarse wools of its native hills; but coal and cheap conveyance, with the stimulus mechanical inventions have applied in the neighbouring counties to cotton, have given Yorkshire such advantages over many ancient seats of manufacture, that it has transplanted and increased a considerable portion of the fine cloth trade formerly carried on in the west of England alone, besides engrafting and erecting a variety of other and new kinds of textiles, in which wool or hair have some very slight part. It is quite certain that woollen garments were among the first manufactured among barbarous tribes. We have seen this year, in the Exhibition in Hyde Park, specimens of white felted cloth from India, equal, if not superior, to anything that we can manufacture for strength and durability, which must have been made with the rude tools, of the form which has been in use for probably at least two thousand years. English coarse wools have been celebrated, and in demand among foreign nations, from the earliest periods of our history. In the time of William the Conqueror, an inundation in the Netherlands drove many clothiers over, and William of Malmesbury tells us that the king welcomed them, and placed them first in Carlisle, where there are still manufactories, and then in the western counties, where they could find what was indispensable for their trade--streams for washing and plenty of wood for boiling their vats. Very early the manufacturers applied to restrain the exportation of English wool. In the time of Edward I., we find a duty of twenty shillings to forty shillings per bag on importation. Edward III. prohibited the export of wool, at the same time he took his taxes and subsidies in wool, which became a favourite medium of taxation with our monarchs, and sent his wool abroad for sale. Under his reign, Flemish weavers were encouraged to settle here and improve the manufacture, which became spread all over England thus--Norfolk fustians, Suffolk baize, Essex serges and says, Kent broadcloth, Devon kerseys, Gloucestershire cloth, Worcestershire cloth, Wales friezes, Westmoreland cloth, Yorkshire cloth, Somersetshire serges, Hampshire, Berkshire, and Sussex cloth: districts from a great number of which woollen manufactures have now disappeared. We have Parliamentary records of the mutual absurdities by which the woollen manufacturers, on the one hand, sought to obtain a monopoly of British wool, and the wool growers endeavoured to secure the exclusive right to supply the raw material. Act after act was laid upon everything connected with wool, so that it is only extraordinary that, under such restrictive trammeling, the trade survived at all. "Odious! In woollen! 'twould a saint provoke! Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke." In 1781, when, the price of wool being low, the Lincolnshire woolgrowers met under the chairmanship of their great landowners, and resolved on petitions praying "that British might be exported and that Irish wool might be excluded from England;" thereupon the Yorkshire manufacturers met and resolved that "the exportation of wool would be ruinous to the trade and manufactures of England," that the manufacturers would be obliged to leave the kingdom for want of employment, and that the importation of Irish woollen yarn ought to be interdicted. The manufacturers were under the impression that no other country than England could produce the long wools suitable for the manufacture of worsted. Some time afterwards the woollen manufacturers thought themselves likely to be ruined by the introduction of cotton cloth, "to the ruin of the staple trade of the kingdom," and succeeded in placing an excise duty upon the new fabric. The contention between sheepowners and manufacturers continued until, in 1824, when the influence of Mr. Huskisson's opinions on trade were beginning to be felt in Parliament, and to the disgust of both parties, a compromise was effected by a reduction of all wool duties to a uniform duty of ld. per lb. on the export of British and importation of foreign wool. The last step was a total repeal of all duties. English wools may be divided into long and short staples. The long is used for worsted, which is finished when it leaves the loom; the short for cloth, which is compacted together, increased in bulk and diminished in breadth, by fulling; that is, so beating as to take advantage of the serrated edges of the wool which lead it to felt together. Foreign wool, known as merino, has been used from an early period. In the time of the Stuarts, an attempt was made to monopolize all the Spanish wool exported. Wars and bad government in Spain have destroyed the export trade in merino wool, but the breed, transplanted into Germany, has multiplied and even improved. Our finest wool is obtained from Silesia, and the breed is cultivated with more or less success in many parts of the European continent. In England, all attempts to cultivate the merino with profit have failed. Next to Germany in quality, and exceeding that country in quantity, we obtain our greatest supply of fine wool from Australia, where, in the course of twenty-five years, the merino sheep has multiplied to the extent of twelve or thirteen million head, and is still increasing; thus doubling our supply of a fine article, not equal to German, but, at the low price at which it can be furnished, helping to create entirely new manufactures by intermixing with our own coarse wools, which it renders more available and valuable. We also obtain wool from the Cape of Good Hope, from India, from Egypt, and from South America. Besides pure wool, our manufacturers use large quantities of goat's hair, called mohair, from the Mediterranean, of camel hair, of Thibet goat's hair, of the long grey and black hair of the tame South American llama and alpaca, and of the short soft red hair of the vicuna, a wild animal of the same species. Indeed, almost every year since the repeal of all restrictions on trade, has introduced some new raw material in wool or hair to our manufacturers. The alpaca and vicuna, now an important article of trade and manufacture, although well known to the native Peruvians at the time of the conquest by the Spaniards, has only come into notice within the last twenty years. The first article of the kind that excited any attention was a dress made for Her Majesty from a flock of llamas belonging to Her Majesty, under the superintendence of Mr. Thomas Southey, the eminent wool broker. The stock from the small flock of merinos taken out by Colonel Macarthur to what was then only known as Botany Bay, now supports 300,000 souls in prosperity in Australia, and supplies exports to the amount of upwards of a million and a half sterling per annum. The Great Exhibition afforded an excellent display of the variety and progress of Yorkshire woollen manufactures, proving the immense advantage they derived from choice and mixture of various qualities and materials. In several examples the body was of stout English wool, with a face of finest Australia,--in some cases, of mohair,--and, in one instance, a most beautiful article was produced by putting a face of vicuna on British wool. As at present conducted, the process of a woollen factory up to certain stages of machinery is the same as that of a cotton factory. But it will be seen that a great deal depends on an ample supply of water of good quality. Cloth Manufacture.--(1.) The first operation is that of sorting the wool. Each fleece contains several qualities,--the division and arrangement requires judgment; the best in a Silesian fleece may be worth 6s. a pound, and the rest not worth half the money. After sorting, wools are mixed in certain proportions. (2.) The mixture is first soaked in a hot ley of stale urine and soap, rinsed in cold water, and pressed between rollers to dry it. (3.) If the cloth is to be dyed in that operation, next succeeds the scouring. Supposing it dyed, (4) wyllying follows, by which it is subject to the operation of the spikes of revolving wheels, for the purpose of opening the fibres and sending it out in a light cloud-like appearance, to where a stream of air driven through it, clears away all impurities by a sort of winnowing process, and sends it out in a smooth sheet. (5.) If any impurities remain, it is hand picked. (6.) It is laid on the floor, sprinkled with olive oil, and well beaten with staves. (7.) The operation of the scribbling machine follows, by which it is reduced to a fleecy sheet and wound on rollers. (8.) The carding machine next reduces it to hollow loose short pipes. These are joined (9) in the slubbing machine into a weak thread, and here we see the use of the young hands, boys and girls, who piece one of these pipes as they are drawn through the machine by a slow clockwork motion, bending one knee every time as they curtsey sideways toward the machine. They earn very good wages and look healthy; but, where the wool is dyed, what with the dye and what with the oil, the piecers are all ready toileted to sing to a banjo; and sometimes, with rubbing their faces with their dirty hands, they get sore eyes. (10.) Spinning hardens the thread. (11.) Weaving is done by hand or by power-loom. The power-looms are becoming more common. After weaving, it is washed in soap-water and clean water by machinery,--then stretched on tenterhooks and allowed to dry in a smooth extended state: (l2) then examined for all hair and impurities to be picked off by "burlers." After this follows (13) fulling, or felting, which gives woollen goods that substance which distinguishes them. Every hair of wool is saw-edged, and this by beating will mass together. Superfine cloth with a thick solution of soap spread between each layer, and, folded into many piles, is exposed to the long continued action of revolving wooden hammers on wheels, three separate times, for four hours each time. This process diminishes both breadth and length nearly one half. After "fulling" cloth is woolly and rough; to improve the appearance it is first (14) teazled--that is, raked with cylinders covered with the round prickly heads of the teazle plant. Many attempts have been made to invent wire and other brushes for the same purpose, but hitherto nothing has been found more effective and economical than the teazle. To apply them the cloth is stretched on cloth beams, and made to move in one direction, while the teazle cylinders turn in another. When the ends of the fibres have been thus raised, they are (15) sheared or clipped, in order to produce the same effect as clipping the rough coat of a horse. Formerly this operation was performed by hand. The introduction of machinery created formidable riots in the west of England. At present the operation is performed with great perfection and rapidity, by more than one process. When the cloth has been raised and sheared once, it is in the best possible condition for wear; but in order to give superfine cloth beauty, it is sheared several times, then exposed to the action of steam, and at the same time brushed with cylinder brushes. Other operations, of minor importance, are carried on for the purpose of giving smoothness and gloss. It may be observed that a brilliant appearance does not always, in modern manufactures, betoken the best cloth. An eminent woollen manufacturer having been asked what cloth he would recommend for wear and warmth to a backwoodsman, answered quickly, "Nothing can wear like a good blanket." The small manufacturers generally dispose of their cloth in the rough state. The progress of machinery has called into existence a great number of factories, especially in worsted and mixed stuffs, has given value to many descriptions of wool formerly valueless, and, coupled with the repeal of the duty, brought into the market many kinds unknown a few years ago. "Properties once prized," Mr. Southey remarks in his Essay on Wools, "have given way to some other property upon which machinery can better operate, and yield more desirable results. Spanish wool, once deemed indispensable, is now little sought after. It is supplanted by our colonial wool, which is steadily advancing in quality and quantity, while angora goat, and alpaca wools are forcing their way into and enhancing the value of our stuff trade." . . . "Machinery has marshalled before its tremendous power the wool of every country, selected and adopted the special qualities of each. Nothing, in fact, is now rejected. Even the burr, existing in myriads in South America and some other descriptions of wool, at one time so perplexing to our manufacturers, can now, through the aid of machinery, be extracted, without very material injury to the fibre." . . . "In no description of manufacture connected with the woollen trade has machinery been more fertile in improvements than in what may be termed the worsted stuff trade." "The power-looms employed, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, in the worsted stuff trade, increased from 2,763 in 1836, to 19,121 in 1845 (and are probably not far from 28,000 at the present time). Worsted goods formerly consisted chiefly of bombazets, shalloons, calamancoes, lastings for ladies' boots, and taminies. Now the articles in the fancy trade may be said to be numberless, and to display great artistic beauty. These articles, made with alpaca, Saxony, fine English and Colonial wools, and of goats' hair for weft, with fine cotton for warp, consist of merinoes, Orleans, plain and figured Parisians, Paramattas, and alpaca figures, checks, etc." The machines for combing and carding, of the most improved make, will work wool of one and a half inch in the staple, while for the old process of hand- combing four inches was the minimum. But we must not enter further into these details, as it is our purpose rather to indicate the interest and importance of certain manufactures than to describe the process minutely. The Yorkshire woollen manufacture is distributed over an area of nearly forty miles by twenty, occupied by clothing towns and villages. Leeds, Bradford, Halifax, Huddersfield, Dewsbury, and Wakefield, are the great manufacturing centres. Mixed or coloured cloths are made principally in villages west of Leeds and Wakefield; white or undyed cloths are made chiefly in the villages occupying a belt of country extending from near Wakefield to Shipley. These two districts are tolerably distinct, but at the margins of the two both kinds of cloth are manufactured. Flannels and baizes are the principal woollen articles made in and near Halifax, together with cloth for the use of the army. Blankets are made in the line between Leeds and Huddersfield. Bradford provides very largely the spun worsted required for the various manufactures. Stuffs are made at Bradford, Halifax, and Leeds, and narrow cloths at Huddersfield. Saddleworth furnishes broadcloth and kerseymeres. As a specimen of the variety of articles produced in one factory, take the following list, exhibited in the Crystal Palace by a Huddersfield manufacturer:--"Summer shawls; summer coatings; winter woollen shawls; vestings; cloakings; table covers; patent woollen cloth for gloves; do. alpaca do.; do. rabbits' down do.; trowserings; stockingnett do." We may observe, that there is no more pleasant mode of investigating the processes of the woollen manufacture, for those resident in the south of England, than a visit to the beautiful valley of the Stroud, in Gloucestershire, where the finest cloths, and certain shawls and fancy goods, are manufactured in perfection in the midst of the loveliest scenery. White- walled factories, with their resounding water-wheels, stand not unpicturesque among green-wooded gorges, by the side of flowing streams, affording comfortable well-paid employment to some thousand working hands of men and women, boys and girls. THROUGH LINCOLNSHIRE TO SHEFFIELD. On leaving Leeds there is ample choice of routes. It is equally easy to make for the lake districts of Cumberland and Westmoreland, or to proceed to York, and on by Newcastle to Scotland, or to take the road to the east coast, and compare Hull with Liverpool--a comparison which will not be attended with any advantage to the municipal authorities of Hull. The aldermen of Hull are of the ancient kind--"slow," in the most emphatic sense of the term. For proof,--we have only need to examine their docks, piers, and landing-places; the last of which are being improved, very much against the will of the authorities, by a Lincolnshire railway company. From Hull there is a very convenient and swift railway road open to London through Lincolnshire, which, branching in several directions, renders easy a visit either to the Wolds, where gorse-covered moors have been turned, within the last century, into famous turnip-land, farmed by the finest tenantry in the world; or to the Fens, where the science of engineers learned in drainage, greatly aided by the pumping steam-engine, has reclaimed a whole county from eels and wild ducks. Lincolnshire is not a picturesque county; both the wet half and the dry half, both the Fen district and the Wold district, are treeless; and the Wolds are only a line of molehills, of great utility, but no special beauty. But it is the greatest producing county in England, and the produce, purely agricultural, is the result of the industry and intellect of the men who till the soil. In Devonshire and Somersetshire we are charmed by the scenery, and amazed by the rich fertility of the soil, while we are amazed by the stolidity of the farmers and their labourers--nay, sometimes of the landlords--whose two ideas are comprised in doing what their forefathers did, and in hating every innovation. There fences, guano, pair-horse ploughs, threshing machines, and steam-engines, are almost as much disliked as cheap bread and Manchester politics. But on the Wolds of Lincolnshire a race of agriculturists are to be found who do not need to be coddled and coaxed into experiments and improvements by the dinners and discourses of dilettanti peers; but who unite the quick intelligence of the manufacturer with the hearty hospitality for which the English used to be famous. Among the Lincolnshire farmers rural life is to be seen in its most agreeable aspect. The labourers are as superior to the southern peasantry as their employers to the southern tenantry. Books, newspapers, and music may be found in the farm-houses, as well as old ale and sound port wine. At Aylsby, six miles from Great Grimsby, Mr. William Torr has a fine herd of short horns and a flock of pure Leicester sheep, well worth a visit. The celebrated Wold farmers are about ten miles distant. Any one of them is worth six Baden barons. After crossing from Hull, if a visit to these Wold Farms be intended, Grimsby is the best resting-place, a miserable town of great antiquity, which, after slumbering, or rather mouldering, for centuries on the profits of Parliamentary privileges and a small coasting trade, has been touched by the steam-enchanter's wand, and presented with docks, warehouses, railways, and the tools of commerce. These, aided by its happy situation, will soon render it a great steam-port, and obliterate, it is to be hoped, the remains of the squalid borough, which traces back its foundation to the times of Saxon sea- kings. We must record, for the credit of Great Grimsby, that it evinced its improved vitality by subscribing a larger sum to the Exhibition of Industry than many towns of ten times its population and more than ten times its wealth. The execution of the railway and dock works, which will render Great Grimsby even more important than Birkenhead, has been mainly due to the exertions of the greatest landowner in the county, the Earl of Yarborough, who has wisely comprehended the value of a close connexion between a purely agricultural and manufacturing district. His patriotic views have been ably seconded by Mr. John Fowler, the engineer of the Manchester and Lincolnshire Railways, and Mr. James J. M. Rendel, the engineer of these docks as well as of those at Birkenhead. The Grimsby docks occupy thirty-seven acres, cut off from the sea. The work was courageously undertaken, in the midst of the depression which followed the railway panic, by Messrs. Thomas, Hutchins, & Co., contractors, and has been carried through in an admirable manner, in the face of every kind of difficulty, without an hour's delay. They will open in March next. The first stone was laid by Prince Albert in May 1849, when he electrified the audience at dinner by one of those bursts of eloquence with which the events of the Great Exhibition have made us familiar. It was on the occasion of his ride to Brocklesby that Lord Yarborough's tenantry rode out to meet the Prince, and exhibited the finest farmers' cavalcade for men and horses in England. Lord Yarborough has done for Lincolnshire what the Duke of Bridgwater did for Lancashire; and, like the Duke, he has been fortunate in having for engineering advisers gentlemen capable of appreciating the national importance of the task they undertook. It is not a mere dock or railway that Messrs. Fowler and Rendel have laid out--it is the foundation of a maritime colony, destined not only to attract, but to develop new sources of wealth for Lincolnshire and for England, as any one may see who consults a map, and observes the relative situation of Great Grimsby, the Baltic ports, and the manufacturing districts of Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Cheshire. For the sake of the future it may be well worth while to visit these great works. It may be a pleasant recollection for the man who, in some ten or twenty years, beholds the docks crowded with steamers and coasters, and the railway busy in conveying seaborne cargoes, to recall the fact that he saw the infancy, if not the birth, of that teeming trade; for it is not to every man that it is given to behold the commencement of such a future as seems promised to gloomy, swampy Great Grimsby. At Great Grimsby we are in a position to take a large choice of routes. We may go back to London by Louth, famous for its church, spire, and comical coat of arms; {209} by Boston and Peterborough; or take our way through the ancient city of Lincoln to Nottingham and the Midland Counties, where the famous forest of Robin Hood and the Dukeries invite us to study woodland scenery and light-land farming; but on this occasion we shall make our way to Sheffield, over a line which calls for no especial remark--the most noticeable station being East Retford, for the franchise of which Birmingham long and vainly strove. What delay might have taken place in our political changes if the M.P.'s of East Retford had been transferred to Birmingham in 1826, it is curious to consider. SHEFFIELD. The approach to Sheffield from Lincolnshire is through a defile, and over a long lofty viaduct, which affords a full view of the beautiful amphitheatre of hills by which it is surrounded. The town is situated in a valley, on five small streams--one the "Sheaf," giving the name of Sheffield, in the southern part of the West Riding of Yorkshire, only six miles from Derbyshire. The town is very ugly and gloomy; it is scarcely possible to say that there is a single good street, or an imposing or interesting public building,--shops, warehouses and factories, and mean houses run zigzagging up and down the slopes of the tongues of land, or peninsulas, that extend into the rivers, or rather streamlets, of the Porter, the Riveling, the Loxley, the Sheaf, and the Don. Almost all the merchants and manufacturers reside in the suburbs, in villas built of white stone on terraces commanding a lovely prospect. The picturesqueness, the wild solitude of the immediate neighbourhood of Sheffield, amply compensates for the grimy gloom in which the useful and disagreeable hardware trade is carried on. All around, except where the Don opens a road to Doncaster, great hills girdle it in, some of which at their summit spread out into heath-covered moorlands, where the blackcock used lately to crow. Almost in sight of the columns of factory smoke, others of the surrounding ridge are wood-crowned, and others saddlebacked and turfed; so that a short walk transports you from the din of the workshop to the solitude of "the eternal hills." We do not remember any manufacturing town so fortunately placed in this respect as Sheffield. For an excellent and truthful description of this scenery, we may turn to the poems of Ebenezer Elliott, who painted from nature and knew how to paint in deep glowing colours. "Hallamshire, which is supposed by antiquarians to include the parish of Sheffield, forms a district or liberty, the importance of which may be traced back to even British times; but Sheffield makes its first appearance as a town some time after the Conquest. In the Domesday Book the manor of Sheffield appears as the land of Roger de Busk, the greater part held by him of the Countess Judith, widow of Waltheof the Saxon. In the early part of the reign of Henry I. it is found in the possession of the De Levetot family, and the site of their baronial residence. They founded an hospital, called St. Leonard's (suppressed in the reign of Henry VIII.), upon an eminence still called Spital Hill, established a corn mill, and erected a bridge there, still called the Lady's Bridge, from the chapel of the Blessed Lady of the Bridge, which had previously stood near the spot; and their exertions and protection fixed here the nucleus of a town. The male line of the Levetots became extinct by the death of William de Levetot, leaving an infant daughter, Maud, the ward of Henry II. His successor, Richard, gave her in marriage to Gerard de Furnival, a young Norman knight, who by that alliance acquired the lordship of Sheffield. There is a tradition that King John, when in arms against his barons, visited Gerard de Furnival (who espoused his cause), and remained for some time at his Castle of Sheffield. "On the 12th of November, 1296, Edward I. granted to Lord Furnival a charter to hold a market in Sheffield on Tuesday in every week, and a fair every year about the period of Trinity Sunday. This fair is still held on Tuesday and Wednesday after Trinity Sunday, and another on the 28th of November. The same Lord Furnival granted a charter to the town, the provisions of which were of great liberality and importance at that period, viz., that a fixed annual payment should be substituted for the base, uncertain services by which they had previously held their lands and tenements, that Courts Baron should be held every three weeks for the administration of justice, and that the inhabitants of Sheffield should be free from the exaction of toll throughout the entire district of Hallamshire, whether they were vendors or purchasers." About this time Sheffield began to be famous for the manufacture of falchion heads, arrows, files, and whittles. Chaucer tells us of the miller that "A Sheffield thwytle bare he in his hose, Round was his face, and camysed was his nose." The ample water-power, the supply of iron ore close at hand, and in after times, when its value for smelting was discovered, the fields of coal--all helped Sheffield. "Another only daughter, and another Maud, transferred by her marriage the lordship of Sheffield to the more noble family of Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. William Lord Furnival died 12th April 1383, in his house in Holborn, where now stands Furnival's Inn, leaving an only daughter, who married Sir Thomas Nevil, and he in 1406 died, leaving an only daughter, Maud, who married John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. George, fourth Earl of Shrewsbury, built the lodge, called Sheffield Manor, on an eminence a little distance from the town, and there he received Cardinal Wolsey into his custody soon after his apprehension. It was on his journey from Sheffield Manor up to London, in order to attend his trial, that the Cardinal died at Leicester Abbey. In the reign of Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, who had been committed to the custody of George, sixth Earl of Shrewsbury, after being confined in Tutbury Castle, was removed in 1570 first to Sheffield Castle, and then to Sheffield Manor House, where she spent fourteen years. It was for the alleged intention of moving her hence that Thomas Duke of Norfolk, an ancestor of the ducal family, still closely connected with Sheffield, suffered on the scaffold. The grandson of this Duke of Norfolk, at whose trial the Earl of Shrewsbury presided as High Steward, afterwards married the granddaughter of the Earl, and thereby became possessed of this castle and estate." And now, in 1851, another son of Norfolk is about to acquire a large fortune by a Talbot. During the reign of Elizabeth, the Duke of Alva, whose persecutions did more for extending and improving the manufactures of this country than any amount of parchment protection, drove over, in addition to the weavers of linen and fullers of cloth, artizans in iron and steel. These, according to the wise rule of settling all one craft in one spot, were by the advice of the Queen's Chamberlain, the Earl of Shrewsbury, settled on his own estate at Sheffield, and the neighbourhood thenceforward became known for the manufacture of shears, sickles, knives of every kind, and scissors. About this time (1613), according to a survey, Sheffield contained about 2207 inhabitants, of whom the most wealthy were "100 householders, which relieve the others, but are poore artificers, not one of whom can keep a team on his own land, and above ten have grounds of their own, which will keep a cow." In 1624, an act of the incorporation of cutlers was passed, entituled "An act for the good order and government of the makers of sickles, shears, scissors, and other cutlery wares in Hallamshire and parts near adjoining." Gilbert, seventh Earl of Shrewsbury, the last of the male line of the house of Talbot, who inherited the Hallamshire estates, died on the 8th May 1616, leaving three daughters, co-heiresses. The Lady Alethea Talbot, the youngest, married the Earl of Arundel, and the other two, dying without issue in 1654, the whole estates descended to her grandson, Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, who was restored to the title of Duke of Norfolk by Charles II., on his restoration, and in that family a considerable property in Sheffield remains to this day--not without narrow escapes of extinction. Charles James Fox's friend, Jockey of Norfolk, was one of a family which seems to afford every contrast of character in possession of the title. In the great civil wars, Sheffield was the scene of more than one contest. In 1644, on the 1st August, after the battle of Marston Moor, the castle was besieged by twelve thousand infantry dispatched by the Earl of Manchester, compelled to surrender in a few days, and demolished by order of parliament. The manor was dismantled in 1706 by order of Thomas Duke of Norfolk, and the splendid park, shaven of its great trees, was converted into building land, or accommodation land, part of which is still known by the name of the Park. During the eighteenth century the Sheffield trade was entirely confined to the home market, and chiefly conducted by pack horses. In 1751 a step toward extension was made by the completion of works, which rendered the Don navigable up to Tinsley. In 1819 the Sheffield and Tinsley Canal was completed; and now Manchester, Leeds, Hull, and Liverpool, are all within a morning's ride. The art of silver-plating was invented at Sheffield by Thomas Bolsover, an ingenious mechanic, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, and extensively applied by Mr. Joseph Hancock. This trade has been seriously affected by the invention of electro-plating, which has transferred much of the Sheffield trade to Birmingham. The invention of Britannia metal speedily followed that of plating. In 1750 a direct trade to the continent was opened by Mr. Thomas Broadbent. The example was soon followed. The first stage-coach to London, started in 1760, and the first bank was opened in 1762. At present the population can be little short of 120,000. The passing of the Reform Bill gave to Sheffield two representatives. The constituency is one of the most independent in the kingdom. No "Man in the Moon" has any room for the exercise of his seductive faculties in Sheffield. What is still more strange, until after the enactment of the Municipal Corporation Bill, Sheffield had no local authorities. The Petty Sessions business was discharged by county magistrates, and the Master Cutler acted as a sort of master of the ceremonies on occasions of festivity, without any real power. That honorary office is still retained, although Sheffield has now its aldermen and common councillors. There is a "Royal Free Grammar School" founded in 1649, with an income from endowments of about 150 pounds a-year. Free to thirty boys, as regards classics, subject to a charge of four guineas per annum for instruction in the commercial department. In 1850 there were eighty-one scholars. Manufactures.--Sheffield, through every change, has deservedly retained its reputation for the manufacture of razors, surgical instruments, and the highest class of cutlery, and a considerable number of carpenters' and other steel tools. In the coarser steel articles Birmingham does a considerable and increasing business, and Sheffield workmen settling in Germany and in the United States have, from time to time, alarmed their native town by the rivalry of their pupils; nevertheless, it may confidently be asserted, that with its present advantages Sheffield can never lose her pre-eminence in cutlery if her sons are only true to her and themselves. The steel consumed in England is manufactured chiefly from iron imported from Sweden and Russia. It has not been exactly ascertained whence arises the superiority of this iron for that purpose. But all foreign iron converted into steel is composed of magnetic iron ore, smelted with charcoal. This kind of ore is found in several countries, particularly in Spain. In New Zealand, at New Plymouth it is said to be found in great quantities; but from the two countries first mentioned we obtain a supply of from 12,000 to 15,000 tons, of which about 9000 come from Sweden. The celebrated mines of Danemora produce the finest Swedish iron, and only a limited quantity is allowed to be produced each year. All the steel-iron used in England is imported into Hull. Bar-steel is manufactured by heating the iron, divided into lumps, in pots, with layers of charcoal, closely covered over with sand and clay, for several days. By this means the iron is carbonized and converted into what is commonly called blistered steel. The heat is kept up a longer or shorter time according to the hardness required. Bar-steel, as it comes from the furnace, is divided and sorted, and the pieces free from flaws and blisters are rolled out and converted into files, knives, coach-springs, razors, and common implements, according to quality. It will be seen that there is a good deal of science and judgment required to manufacture the best steel. Sheer steel is made from bar-steel by repeated heating, hammering, and welding. Cast steel, a very valuable invention, which has in a great degree superseded sheer steel for many purposes, was first made in 1770 by Mr. Hunstman, at Allercliff, near Sheffield. It is made by subjecting bar-steel, of a certain degree of hardness, to an intense heat, for two or three hours, in a crucible, and then casting it in ingots. The Indian Wootz steel, of which such fine specimens were exhibited in the Exhibition, and from which extraordinary sabres have been made, is cast steel, but, from the rudeness of the process, rarely obtained perfect in any quantity. Whenever we have the good fortune to intersect India with railroads, steel-iron will be among the number of our enlarged imports. The hard and elastic qualities of steel, known as "temper," are obtained by heating and then cooling rapidly. For this purpose baths of mercury and of boiling oil are used. Some waters are supposed to have peculiar virtues for tempering steel. Case-hardening, a process much used for tools and plough-shares, consists in superficially hardening cast iron or wrought iron by heating it in a charcoal crucible, and so converting it into steel. The successful operations for converting steel into various kinds of instruments, depends very much upon manual skill. The mechanics are united in trades' unions of great power, and have exercised an influence over the manufacturers of the town of a very injurious nature. At one period, the razor-grinders and superior mechanics in several branches, were able to earn as much as five and six, and even ten, pounds a-week. At that period, when they had almost a monopoly of the cutlery trade, on a very trifling excuse they would decide on taking a holiday, or, as it is termed, "playing." Strikes for higher wages generally took place whenever any good orders from foreign markets were known to have reached the town. By these arbitrary proceedings, arising from an ignorance of the common principles of political economy, which it is to be hoped that the spread of education will remove, the Sheffield cutlery trade has been seriously injured. A few years ago large numbers of the cutlers emigrated. Further depression was produced by the rivalry of Birmingham in the electrotype process, which has, to a considerable degree, superseded the Sheffield plate and other trades, the latter town being better placed for the foreign trade, while the workmen are less turbulent. Beside cutlery and Sheffield plate, Britannia metal, and other similar ornamental and domestic articles, a good deal of heavy ironware is made in Sheffield. We may notice the fire-grates, stoves, and fenders, of which all the best, wherever sold and whatever name and address they bear, come from Sheffield. In this branch of manufacture a great deal of artistic taste has been introduced, and many scientific improvements for distributing and economizing heat. The firm of Stuart and Smith, Roscoe Place, distinguished themselves at the Great Exhibition, by producing a series of beautiful grates, at prices between two pounds and one hundred guineas. There are some establishments for the manufactory of machinery. Within the last year or two Sheffield has enjoyed a revival of prosperity, especially in the article of edge tools. The mechanics of Sheffield are a very remarkable and interesting set of people, with a more distinct character than the mechanics of those towns which are recruited from various parts of the country. They are "Sheffielders." A public meeting at Sheffield is a very remarkable scene. The rules of public business are perfectly understood and observed; unless in periods of very great excitement, the most unpopular speaker will receive a fair hearing. A fair hearing does not express it. The silence of a Sheffield audience, the manner in which they drink in every word of a stranger, carefully watching for the least symptom of humbug, and unreduced by the most tempting claptrap, is something quite awful. A man with a good coat on his back must dismiss all attempts at compliments, all roundabout phrases, and plunge into the middle of the business with the closest arguments he can muster, to produce any effect on the Sheffield blades. Although they look on all gentlemen with the greatest distrust, and have a most comical fear of imaginary emissaries from Government wandering to and fro to seduce them, they thoroughly understand and practise fair play. The sterling qualities of these men inspire one with respect, and regret that they should be imposed upon by such "blageurs" as Feargus O'Connor and his troop. Perhaps they are wiser now. The Sheffielders, by way of relaxation, are fond of gardening, cricket, dog fighting, and formerly of hunting. They are very skilful gardeners,--their celery is famous. A few years ago, one of the trades hired land to employ their unemployed members. Many possess freehold cottages. Cricket and similar amusements have been encouraged by the circumstance that, in summer droughts, the water-power on which the grindstones depend often falls short, and then there is a fair reason for turning out to play or to garden, as the case may be, according to taste. Sheffield bulldogs used to be very famous, and there are still famous ones to be found; but dog fighting, with drinking, is going out of fashion. But, although other towns play at cricket, and love good gardening and good dogs, we presume that the Sheffielders are the only set of mechanics in Europe who ever kept their own pack of hounds. Such was the case a few years ago, when we had the pleasure of seeing them; and, if they are still in existence, they are worth going a hundred miles to see. The hounds, which were old English harriers, slow and deep-mouthed, were quartered at various cottages in the suburbs. On hunting mornings, when the men had a holiday, the huntsman, who was paid by a general subscription, took his stand on a particular hill top and blew his horn. In a few minutes, from all quarters the hounds began to canter up to him, and he blew and blew again until a full complement, some ten or twelve couples, had arrived. The subscribers came up in twos and threes on the hacks of the well known "Shanks," armed with stout sticks; and then off they set, as gay and much more in earnest than many dozen who sport pink and leathers outside on hundred guinea nags. Music is a good deal cultivated among all classes in Sheffield. There are two scientific associations, but of no particular mark. Sheffield has produced two poets of very different metal, James Montgomery and Ebenezer Elliott, both genuine; and a sculptor, Chantrey, who was apprenticed there to a wheelwright. The railway communications of Sheffield were long imperfect,--they are now excellent. The clothing districts of Yorkshire are united by two lines. The North Midland connects it with Derbyshire, and affords a short road by Derby and through Leicestershire to London on one side, and by Burton to Birmingham on the other. The Lincolnshire line has shortened the distance to Hull, whence the steel-iron comes, and fat cattle; the Manchester line carries away the bars converted into cutlery, and all the plated ware and hardware, by Liverpool, to customers in America, North or South. We must not forget that there are coal-pits close to the town, of extensive workings, which are extremely well suited for the visit of an amateur. Even a courageous lady might, without inconvenience, travel underground along the tramways in the trucks, if she did not mind the jolting. The miners are not at all like our Staffordshire friends, but are very decent fellows. There are a good many Wesleyan Methodists among them, and hymns may be heard sometimes resounding along the vaulted galleries, and rising from behind the air-doors, where children sit all day on duty,--dull work, but not hard or cold. A well managed coal mine is a very fine sight. DERBYSHIRE. From either Sheffield or Manchester a most delightful journey is open through Derbyshire to a good pedestrian, or to a party of friends travelling in a carriage with their own horses. For the latter purpose an Irish outside car, fitted either with a pole or outrigger for a pair of horses, is one of the best conveyances we know. The front seat holds the driver; two ladies and two gentlemen fill up the two sides. The well contains ample space for the luggage of sensible people; umbrellas and waterproof capes can be strapped on the intermediate cushion, and then, if the horses are provided with military halters and nosebags, you are prepared for every eventuality. To other impedimenta it is not amiss to add a couple of light saddles, so that, if necessary, some of the party may ride to any particular spot. This mode of travelling is particularly well suited for Derbyshire, Wales, Devonshire, and all counties where there are beautiful spots worth visiting to which there are no regular conveyances, and which, indeed, are often only accidentally discovered. By this mode of travelling you are rendered perfectly independent of time and taverns, so long as you reach an inn in time to go to bed; for you can carry all needful provant for both man and beast with you. Derbyshire is in every respect one of the most beautiful counties in England, and deserves a closer investigation than can be obtained from the outside of a coach, much less from the windows of a flying train, whenever the promised railway line, which we propose to traverse, shall be completed. Derbyshire possesses two kinds of scenery totally distinct in character, but both remarkably picturesque, several natural curiosities of a very striking character, two very pleasant bath towns,--Buxton and Matlock; beside the antiquarian glories of Hardwicke and Haddon, and the palatial magnificence of Chatsworth, with its porticoes, its fountains, its pleasure grounds, its Victoria Regia, and the House of Glass that has been the means of making Joseph Paxton famous all over the civilized world. While the country round the Peak is wild, bare, and rugged, the line of valleys and dales on which lies the road from Matlock to Burton and Manchester, presents the most charming series of pictures of undulating woodland scenery, adorned by mansions and cottages, that it is possible to imagine. The high road continually runs along the steep side of valleys,--on one side are thick coverts climbing the rocky hill-sides, all variegated with wild flowers, briars, and brushwood; on the other side, sometimes on a level with the road, sometimes far below, a river winds and foams and brawls along; if lost for a short distance, again coming in sight of the road, enlivening and refreshing the scene. In the main avenue of the Crystal Palace, Mr. Carrington exhibited a model which represented with extraordinary accuracy all this country, and which gave a very exact picture of Derbyshire, with all the undulations of its hills and rivers worked to a scale. Those who have never been in the county should endeavour to see it, as it will teach them that we have a Switzerland in England of which they knew not. One charm of this part of Derbyshire is the intermixture of cultivation and wild nature, or woods so planted as to well emulate nature. On bits of level space you meet a cottage neatly built of stone, all covered with roses and woodbines, which flourish wonderfully on the loose soil in the showery atmosphere. The cottages of Derbyshire are so pretty that you are at first inclined to imagine that they are for show,--mere fancy buildings. But no; the cheapness of good building stone, the suitability of the soil for flowering shrubs, and perhaps something in the force of example, create cottage after cottage fit for the dwellings of Arcadian lovers. And every now and then the landscape opens on a villa or mansion so placed that there is nothing left for the landscape gardener to do. The farm buildings, and corn mills, and silk mills, are equally picturesque: game abounds. Early in the morning and in the evening you may often see the pheasants feeding close to the roadside, and, in the middle of the day, the sudden sharp noise of a detonating ball will set them crowing in the woods all around. We cannot say that the streams now swarm with trout and grayling as they did when honest Isaac Walton sung their praises in quaint poetical prose, although they still twine and foam along their rocky beds all overhung with willows and tufted shrubs; but, where the waters are preserved, there good sport is to be had. The roadside inns are not bad. The half-mining, half-farming people are quaint and amusing. The caverns of the Peak and the lead mines, afford something strange and new. Altogether we can warmly commend a trip through Derbyshire, as one affording great variety of hill and dale, wood and stream, barren moors, and rich cultivation, fine parks and mansions, and beautiful hamlets, cottages, and roadside gardens, where English peasant life is to be seen under most favourable aspects. * * * * * HARDWICKE.--Supposing that we proceed from Sheffield, we would take the railway to Chesterfield, which is not a place of any interest. Thence make our way to Hardwicke, on the road to Mansfield. Hardwicke Hall is a good specimen of the style of domestic architecture in the time of Queen Elizabeth, which has remained unaltered since that period. Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned here, and some remains of tapestry worked by her are exhibited, as well as furniture more ancient than the house itself. It belongs to the Duke of Devonshire. From Hardwicke we proceed to Matlock, which may be reached by an unfinished railway, intended to traverse the vales, and thence run into Manchester. The village and baths are in the centre of a dale through which the river Derwent flows, along between overhanging trees, except where, in some parts, its course lies through the narrow gut of perpendicular rocks. On either side rise hills, for the most part adorned with wood, to the height of three hundred feet. The waters, which are supplied to several small and one large swimming bath, have a temperature of from 66 to 68 degrees of Fahrenheit. They are not now much in fashion, therefore the village has continued a village, and is extremely quiet or dull according to the tastes of the visitor. At the same time, there are a number of delightful expeditions to be made in the neighbourhood, on foot or horseback, and on donkeys,--hills to be ascended and caves to be explored. By permission of Sir Richard Arkwright of Willersley Castle, close to Matlock and several other river preserves, good fishing may be obtained. From Matlock, the next halt should be at Bakewell, where there is an excellent inn, which is a good encampment for visiting both Chatsworth and Haddon Hall. Chatsworth is three miles from Bakewell. The present building occupies the site of that which was long occupied by Mary Queen of Scots during her captivity, and which was taken down to make room for the present structure at the close of the seventeenth century. The park is ten miles in circumference, and is intersected by the river Derwent, which flows in front of the mansion. This place has long been celebrated for its natural and artificial beauties, but within the last few years the Duke of Devonshire has largely added to its attractions, by alterations carried on at an immense expense, under the direction of Mr. Joseph Paxton, which, among other things, include the largest greenhouse in the world--the house where the Victoria Regia was first made to flower, and a fountain of extraordinary height and beauty. These grounds, with the house, containing some fine pictures, are open to the visits of all well-behaved persons. Indeed, from the arrangements made for the convenience of visitors, it would seem as if the Duke of Devonshire has as much pleasure in displaying, as visitors can have in examining, his most beautiful domains, which is saying a great deal. Haddon Hall, one of the most perfect specimens of a mansion of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, is situated on the left bank of the Wye, at a short distance from Bakewell. The "interiors" of Mr. Joseph Nash have rendered the beauties of the architecture of Haddon Hall well known, but it also enjoys the advantage of a very fine situation, backed by old trees. It is the property of the Duke of Rutland, uninhabited, but perfectly preserved. Good fishing is to be obtained near Bakewell, through the landlord of the hotel. BUXTON may be the next halt, the Leamington of Manchester, but although more picturesquely situated, it has not enjoyed anything like the tide of prosperity which has flowed for the Warwickshire watering place. The thermal waters of Buxton have been celebrated from the time of the Romans. The town is situated in a deep basin, surrounded by bleak hills and barren moors, in strong contrast to the verdant valley in which the village of Matlock lies. The only entrance to and exit from this basin is by a narrow ravine, through which the river Wye flows on its way to join the Derwent toward Bakewell. The highest mountains in Derbyshire are close at hand, one of which is one thousand feet above the valley in which Buxton stands, and two thousand one hundred feet higher than the town of Derby. From this mountain four rivers rise, the Wye, the Dove, the Goyt, and the Dean. Buxton consists of a new and old town. In the old town is a hall, in which Mary Queen of Scots lodged whilst visiting the Buxton waters for her health, as a prisoner under charge of the Earl of Shrewsbury. A Latin distich, a farewell to Buxton, scratched on the window of one of the rooms, is attributed to the hand of that unhappy princess. The new part of the town commences with the Crescent, which contains two houses, a library, an assembly-room, a news-room, baths, and other buildings, and is one of the finest structures of the kind in the kingdom. The stables, on a magnificent scale, contain a covered ride, a hundred and sixty feet long. This immense pile was built by the late Duke of Devonshire in 1781, and cost 120,000 pounds. The public baths are very numerous and elegant; and indeed every comfort and luxury is to be obtained there by invalids and semi-invalids, except that perpetual atmosphere of amusement, without form, or fuss, or much expense, which forms the great charm of German watering places. We cannot understand why at the present moderate price of all kinds of provisions in England, a tariff of prices, and a set of customs of expense are kept up, which send all persons of moderate fortune to continental watering places, or compel them to depart at the end of a fortnight, instead of staying a month. Why do we English,--after dining at a table d'hote, all the way from Baden- Baden to Boulogne, for something not exceeding half-a-crown a-head, without drinking wine, unless we like,--find ourselves bound, the moment we set our foot in England, to have a private or stereotyped dinner at five or six shillings a-head, and no amusement. In London, for gentlemen only, there are three or four public dinners at a moderate figure. When will some of our bell-wethers of fashion, to whom economy is of more consequence than even the middle classes, set the example at Leamington, Tunbridge Wells, Buxton, and Cheltenham, of dining with their wives and daughters at the public table? How long are we to be slaves of salt soup, fried soles, and fiery sherry? The decayed watering places, ruined by the competition of the continent, should try the experiment of commercial prices, as an invitation to idlers and half-invalids to stay at home. Another great help to our watering places and farmers, would be the repeal of the post-horse tax. It brings in a mere trifle. The repeal would be an immense boon to places where the chief attraction depends on rides and drives. It would largely increase the number of horses and vehicles for hire, and be a real aid to the distressed agricultural interest, by the increased demand it would make for corn, hay, and straw. Besides, near a small place like Matlock, or Ilfracombe, in Devonshire, farmers would work horses through the winter, and hire them out in summer. It is a great tax to pay four shillings and sixpence as a minimum for going a mile in any country place where flies and cabs have not been planted. The environs of Buxton afford ample room for rides, drives, picnics, and geological and botanical explorations. Beautifully romantic scenes are to be found among the high crags on the Bakewell road, overhanging the river Wye. Among the natural curiosities is a cave called Poole's Hole, five hundred and sixty yards in length, with a ceiling in one part very lofty, and adorned with stalactites, which have a beautiful appearance when lighted up by Roman candles or other fireworks. As Buxton is only twenty-two miles from Manchester, travellers who have the time to spare should on no account omit to visit one of the most romantic and remarkable scenes of England. * * * * * MACCLESFIELD.--From Buxton it will not be a bad plan to proceed to Macclesfield, and again in Cheshire, on the borders of Derbyshire, take advantage of the rail. The turnpike road to that improving seat of the silk manufacture is across one of the highest hills in the district, from the summit of which an extensive view into the "Vale Royal" of Cheshire is had. The hills and valleys in the vicinity of Whaley and Chapel-en-le-Frith are equally delightful. Macclesfield has one matter of attraction--its important silk manufactories. In other respects it is externally perfectly uninteresting. The Earl of Chester, son of Henry III., made Macclesfield a free borough, consisting of a hundred and twenty burgesses, and various privileges were conferred by Edward III., Richard II., Edward IV., Elizabeth, and Charles II. One of the churches, St. Michael's, was founded by Eleanor, Queen of Edward I., in 1278. It has been partly rebuilt, but there are two chapels, one the property of the Marquis of Cholmondeley, which was built by Thomas Savage, Archbishop of York, whose heart was buried there in 1508. The other belongs to the Leghs of Lyme. A brass plate shows that the estate of Lyme was bestowed upon an ancestor for recovering a standard at the battle of Cressy. He was afterwards beheaded at Chester as a supporter of Richard II. Another ancestor, Sir Piers Legh, fell fighting at the battle of Agincourt. We do not know what manner of men the Leghs of Lyme of the present generation are, but certainly pride is pardonable in a family with an ancestry which took part in deeds not only recorded by history, but immortalized by Shakspeare. There is a grammar school, of the foundation of Edward VI., with an income of 1500 pounds a-year, free to all residents, with two exhibitions of 50 pounds per annum, tenable for four years. But there must be some mismanagement, as it appears from Parker's useful Educational Register, that in 1850 only twenty-two scholars availed themselves of these privileges; yet Macclesfield has a population exceeding thirty thousand. The education of the working classes is above average, and music is much cultivated. We abstain from giving the figures in this as in several other instances, because the census, which will shortly be published, will afford exact information on all these points. The establishment of silk factories on the river Bollen brought Macclesfield into notice in the beginning of this century. Unhampered by the restrictions which weighed upon the Spitalfields manufacturers, and nurtured by the monopoly accorded to English silks, the silk weaving trade gradually attained great prosperity between 1808 and 1825. At that period the commencement of the fiscal changes, which have rendered the silk trade quite open to foreign competition, produced a serious effect on the prosperity of Macclesfield. In 1832 the number of mills at work had diminished nearly one-half, and the number of hands by two-thirds. Since that period, after various vicissitudes, the silk trade has acquired a more healthy tone, and we presume that the inhabitants do not now consider the alterations commenced by Huskisson, and completed by Peel, injurious to their interests; since, at the last election, they returned one free-trader, a London shopkeeper, in conjunction with a local banker and manufacturer. Macclesfield has now to contend with home as well as foreign competition, for silk manufactories have been spread over the kingdom in many directions. We may expect to see in a few years, as the result of the universal extension of railway communication, a great distribution and transplantation of manufacturing establishments to towns where cheap labour and provisions, or good water or water-power, or cheap fuel, offer any advantages, There is something very curious to be noted in the manner in which certain of our principal manufactures have remained constant, while others have been transplanted from place to place, and in which ports have risen and fallen. The glory of the Cinque Ports seems departed for ever, unless as harbours of refuge, while Folkestone, by the help of a railway, has acquired a considerable trade at the expense of Dover. The same power which has rendered Southampton great has reduced Falmouth and Harwich to a miserably low ebb. The sea-borne trade of Chester is gone for ever, but Birkenhead hopes to rise by the power of steam. No changes can seriously injure Hull, although railways will give Great Grimsby a large share of the overflowings of the new kind of trade created by large steam boats and the repeal of duties on timber; and so we might run through a long list of commercial changes, past, present, and to come. Macclesfield has shared largely in these influences. Having acquired its commercial importance as one of the glasshouses in which, at great expense, we raised an artificial silk trade, when it lay at a distance of at least three hours from Manchester for all heavy goods, and at least three days from London; it has now communication with London in five hours, and with the port of Liverpool, through Manchester, in two hours if needful. Thus it enjoys the best possible means of obtaining the raw material and sending off the manufactured article. In the time of Queen Charlotte, the wife of George III., it was contrary to the laws of the palace for any servant to wear a silk gown; but extended commerce and improved machinery have rendered it almost a matter of course for the respectable cook of a respectable lawyer or surgeon, to afford herself a black silk gown without extravagance or impertinence,--which is so much the better for the weavers and sailors. We shall not attempt to describe the silk manufacture, which is on the same principles as all other textiles, except that less work can be done by machinery. But it is one of the most pleasant and picturesque of all our manufacturing operations. The long light rooms in which the weaving is conducted are scrupulously clean and of a pleasant temperature,--no dust, no motes are flying about. The girls in short sleeves, in the course of their work are, as it were, obliged to assume a series of graceful attitudes. The delicacy of their work, and the upward position in which they hold them, render their hands white and delicate, and the atmosphere has something of the same effect on their complexion. Many of the greatest beauties of Belgravia might envy the white hands and taper fingers to be found in a silk mill. Unfortunately this trade, which in factory work is healthy and well paid, is, more than any other, subject to the vicissitudes of fashion. The plain qualities suffer from such changes less than the rich brocades and fancy patterns. It must be remarked that, although the repeal of protective duties to eighteen per cent. produced a temporary depressing effect on the trade of Macclesfield, the general silk trade has largely increased ever since 1826, and has spread over a number of counties where it was before unknown, and has become an important article of export even to France. An example of the readiness with which, in these railroad days, a manufacture can be transplanted, was exhibited at Tewkesbury four years ago. The once- fashionable theatre of that decayed town was being sold by auction; it hung on the auctioneer's hammer at so trifling a sum that one of the new made M.P.'s of the borough bought it. Having bought it, for want of some other use he determined to turn it into a silk mill. In a very short space of time the needful machinery was obtained from Macclesfield, with an overseer. While the machinery was being erected, a bevy of girls were acquiring the art of silk weaving, and, in less than twelve months, five or six hundred hands were as regularly engaged in this novel process, as if they had been so engaged all their lives. Without railroads, such an undertaking would have been the work of years, if possible at all. Raw silk is obtained from Italy, from France in small quantities, as the exportation of the finest silk is forbidden, from China, from India in increasing quantities, and from Brusa in Asia Minor through Constantinople. The raw silk, imported in the state in which it is wound from the cocoons, has to be twisted into thread, after being dyed, so as to approach the stage of yarn in the cotton manufacture. This twisting is technically called throwing, and is one of the departments in which the greatest improvements have been introduced, as shown by silk throwers from Macclesfield in the machine department of the Great Exhibition; and, by the improvements, the cost of throwing, or twisting, has been reduced from 10s. per lb. to 3s. It takes about twelve pounds of cocoons to make one pound of reeled silk, and that pound will produce from fourteen to sixteen yards of gros de Naples. Many attempts have been made to naturalize the silk-worm in this country, but, after rather large sums have been expended on it, it is now quite clear that, although it be possible to obtain large quantities of silk of a certain quality, the undertaking cannot be made to pay: the climate is an obstacle. For centuries the silk-worm was only known to the Chinese,--the Greeks and Romans used the substance without knowing from what it was produced or whence it came. In the sixth century, in the reign of Justinian, the eggs of the silk-worm were brought secretly to Constantinople from China by the Nestorian monks in a hollow cane, hatched, and successfully propagated. For six centuries the breeding of silk-worms was confined to the Greeks of the Lower Empire. In the twelfth century the art was transferred to Sicily, and thence successively to Italy, Spain, and France. Great efforts were made in the reign of James I. to promote the rearing of silk-worms in England, and mulberry trees were distributed to persons of influence through many counties. The scheme failed. But in 1718 a company was incorporated, with a like purpose, and planted trees, and erected buildings in Chelsea Park. This scheme also failed. Great efforts were made to plant the growth of silk in the American colonies, and the brilliant prospects of establishing a new staple of export formed a prominent feature in the schemes for American colonization, of which so many were launched in the beginning of the eighteenth century. But up to the present time no progress has been made in it in that country, although silk-worms are found in a natural state in the forests of the Union. Indeed, it seems a pursuit which needs cheap attentive labour as well as suitable climate. Some attempts have been made in Australia, but there again the latter question presents an insurmountable obstacle. If the mulberry would thrive in Natal, where native labour is cheap, it would be worth trying there, although we cannot do better than develop the resources of the silk-growing districts of India, where the culture has been successfully carried on for centuries. At the Great Exhibition an extremely handsome banner was exhibited, manufactured from British silk, cultivated by the late Mrs. Whitby of Newlands, near Southampton, who spent a large income, and many years in the pursuit, solely from philanthropic motives, and carried on an extensive correspondence with parties inclined to assist her views; but, although to the last she was sanguine of success in making silk one of the raw staples of England, and a profitable source of employment for women and children, we have seen no commercial evidence of any more real progress than that of gardeners in growing grapes and melons without glass-houses. Almost every country in Europe has made the same attempts, but with very moderate success. Russia has its mulberry plantations, so has Belgium, Austria Proper, Hungary, Bavaria, and even Sweden; but Lombardy and Cevennes in France bear away the palm for excellence, and there is an annual increase in the quantity and quality of silk from British India. But no matter where it grows, we can buy it and bring it to our own doors nearly as cheap as the natives of the country, often cheaper. In Macclesfield every kind of silk article is produced, including ribbons, narrow and richly-ornamented satin, velvet, silk embroidered for waistcoats and gown pieces. FROM CHESHIRE TO NORTH STAFFORDSHIRE. On leaving Macclesfield we are, as usual, embarrassed by a choice of routes, due to the perseverance of Mr. Ricardo, one of the members for the Potteries, who has endowed his constituents with a set of railways, which cut through their district in all manner of ways. These North Staffordshire lines, Tria juncta in uno, form an engineering continuation of the Trent Valley, and are invaluable to the manufacturers of porcelain and pottery in that district. To the shareholders they have proved rather a disappointment. The ten per cent. secured to the Trent Valley Company, by the fears of the London and North- Western, has not yet rewarded the patriotism of the North Staffordshire shareholders. But to our route, we may either make our way by Leek, Cheadle, Alton, and Uttoxeter to Burton, famous for the ale of Bass and game of cricket nourished on it, and through Burton to Derby. (The learned and lively author of the "Cricket Field" remarks, that the game of cricket follows malt and hops--no ale, no bowlers or batsmen. It began at Farnham hops, and has never rolled further north than Edinburgh ale.) Or by Congleton, Burslem, Hanley, and Stoke upon Trent (the very heart of the Potteries), then either pushing on to Uttoxeter to the north, or keeping the south arm past Trentham to Norton Bridge, which will convey you to the Trent Valley Line, the shortest way to London. * * * * * CONGLETON is an ancient borough of Cheshire, on the borders of Staffordshire, containing a number of those black and white oak frame and plaster houses, which are peculiar to that county, and well worth examining. It is situated in a deep romantic valley on the banks of the river Dane, and enjoys a greater reputation for health than commercial progress. The population does not appear to have increased between the two last census. The Municipal Corporation dates from a remote period. It appears from the Corporation Books that the Mayor and Aldermen patronised every kind of sport--plays, cock fights, bear baiting, morris dancing. So fond were they of bear baiting, that in 1621, by a unanimous vote, they transferred the money intended for a bible to the purchase of a bear. Times are changed; every inhabitant of Congleton can now have his own bible for tenpence. Bear baiting and cock fighting have been discontinued; but we hope the inhabitants have grown wiser than they were some fifteen years ago, when they allowed themselves, for the sake of petty political disputes, to be continually drawn through the Courts of Law and Chancery--a process quite as cruel for the suitors, and more expensive and less amusing than bear-baiting. At the Town Hall is to be seen a "bridle" for a scold, which the ladies of the present generation are too well behaved ever to deserve. President Bradshaw, the regicide, was a Cheshireman, born and christened at Stockport. He practised as barrister, and served the office of mayor in 1637, at Congleton, of which he afterwards became high steward. At Macclesfield, according to tradition, he wrote, when a boy, on a tombstone, these prophetic lines:-- "My brother Henry must heir the land, My brother Frank must be at his command, Whilst I, poor Jack! will do that, That all the world shall wonder at." Bradshaw became Chief Justice of the County Palatine of Chester under the Commonwealth, was dismissed by Cromwell for his Republican opinions, died in 1659, was magnificently buried in Westminster Abbey, and disinterred and gibbeted with Cromwell and Ireton at the Restoration. A piece of vengeance on poor dead bones that remained unimitated until one of the mobs of the first French Revolution scattered the bones of the French Kings buried in the vaults of St. Denis. THE LAKES. Some of our readers may feel disposed to visit the charming scenery with which Cumberland and Westmoreland abound; and that they may be assisted in their route thereto, and in their rambles through that beautiful district, we will furnish a few notes descriptive of the most convenient and pleasant routes. From Congleton an easy diversion may be made, by railway, to Crewe, and from thence the journey, along the North-Western line, passing Northwich (Cheshire) and Warrington (Lancashire), via Parkside, to Preston, Garstang, and Lancaster, is rapid and agreeable. The approach to Preston is remarkably pleasing, the railway being carried across a magnificent vale, through which the river Lune, a fine, wide stream, equalling in beauty the far-famed Dee, runs towards the Irish Channel. * * * * * PRESTON is a populous manufacturing town, in which cotton-spinning is carried on to a very large extent, and is surrounded by a rich agricultural district, which furnishes in abundance every kind of farming produce. The borough returns two members to Parliament, is a corporate town, and has acquired a distinction by its Guilds, which are conducted with great spirit every twenty years. The market, which is held on the Saturday, is well supplied with fruits, vegetables, and fish, salmon included, taken from the river Lune. * * * * * LANCASTER, twenty miles northward, is also a borough town, returning two members to Parliament, and is governed by a mayor and town council. It is one of the ancient ports of Lancashire, and, being the county town, the assizes for North Lancashire are held there. Some years ago the assizes for the whole of Lancashire were regularly holden at Lancaster, and in those palmy days, as the judicial sittings generally extended to sixteen or twenty days, a rich harvest was reaped, not only by "the gentlemen of the long robe," but also by the numerous innkeepers in the place. The assize business for South Lancashire was at length removed to Liverpool, as the most convenient site for the large number of suitors from that part of the county; and since that period the town of Lancaster has lost much of its importance. There are many objects of especial interest within the town and in the immediate district. The ancient castle (now the county gaol), once the residence of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster; the Nisi Prius Court, an elegant and spacious building from a design by the late Mr. Harrison of Chester; and the old parish church, are worthy of close inspection; whilst from the castle terrace and churchyard delightful views of the river, Morecambe Bay, and the distant hills of Cumberland and Westmoreland, are commanded. The village of Hornby, a few miles northward, situated on the banks of the Lune, is one of the most picturesque and retired spots in the kingdom. The river, for several miles from Lancaster, is studded with enchanting scenery, and is much frequented by the lovers of the rod and line. From Lancaster the tourist may proceed easily, via the Lancaster and Carlisle railway, into the very midst of the Lake district. Kendal is about twenty miles from Lancaster, and from the former pretty town a branch line runs direct to Windermere, whence parties may proceed to Bowness, Ambleside, Keswick, and other delightful and time-honoured places in Westmoreland and Cumberland. From Kendal also Sedburgh, Orton, Kirkby Stephen, Shap, Brough, and the high and low lands circumjacent, may be visited. Ulverston, Ravenglass, Whitehaven, Cockermouth, all nearly equally accessible from the Kendal railway station, will furnish another interesting route to the traveller. The midland part of Cumberland consists principally of hills, valleys, and ridges of elevated ground. To the tourist the mountainous district in the south-west is the most interesting and attractive. This part comprises Saddleback, Skiddaw, and Helvellyn, with the lakes of Ulleswater, Thirlmere, Derwent-water, and Bassenthwaite. Besides these lakes there are several of smaller size, equally celebrated for their diversified and striking scenery. Buttermere, whose charms are sweetly sung by many of our poets, Crummock- water, Loweswater, Ennerdale, Wast-water, and Devock-lake, are frequented by hosts of travellers, and retain no small number of admirers. The most remarkable phenomena connected with the Lakes are the Floating Island and Bottom-Wind, both of which are occasionally seen at Derwent-water, and neither of which has yet received a satisfactory explanation. Most of the lakes abound in fish, especially char, trout, and perch; so that anglers are sure of plenty of sport in their visits to these fine sheets of water. In Cumberland there are several waterfalls, namely, Scale Force and Sour Milk Force, near Buttermere; Barrow Cascade and Lowdore Cascade, near Keswick; Airey Force, Gowbarrow Park; and Nunnery Cascade, Croglin. The highest mountains in the same county are,--Scaw Fell (Eskdale), 3166 feet, highest point; Helvellyn (Keswick), 3055; and Skiddaw (Keswick), 3022. The climate of Cumberland is various; the high land cold and piercing; the lower parts mild and temperate. The district is generally considered to be healthy, and many remarkable instances of longevity are noted by the local historians. The oldest inhabitants on record are John Taylor, of Garrigall, who died in 1772, aged 132 years, and Mr. R. Bowman, of Irthington, who died June 13, 1823, aged 118 years. The oldest oak tree in Cumberland of which there is any record--a tree which had stood for 600 years in Wragmire Moss, Inglewood Forest--fell from natural decay on the day of Mr. Bowman's demise. Cumberland is wholly in the diocese of Carlisle, with the exception of the wood of Allerdale-above-Derwent, in the diocese of Chester, and the parish of Alston, in that of Durham. It contains 104 parishes. It is comprehended in the province of York, and in the northern circuit. The assizes are held at Carlisle twice a-year. The principal coach roads in Westmoreland are the old mail road from Lancaster to Carlisle and Glasgow; and the road (formerly a mail road) through Stamford, Newark, Doncaster, and Greta Bridge, to Carlisle and Glasgow. There is a second road from Lancaster to Kendal, through Milnthorp. Roads lead from Kendal south-westward to Ulverston and Dalton-in- Furness; westward to Bowness, and across Windermere by the ferry to Hawkshead, and Coniston Water in Furness, and to Egremont and Whitehaven in Cumberland; north-westward by Ambleside to Keswick, Cockermouth, and Workington, in Cumberland; north-eastward by Orton to Appleby, with a branch road to Kirkby Stephen to Brough; eastward to Sedbergh, and onwards to Yorkshire. The railways in the district are, the Preston and Carlisle, the Kendal and Windermere, the Cockermouth and Workington, the Furness (between Fleetwood, Furness Abbey, Ulverston, Broughton, and the Lakes), the Maryport and Carlisle, Whitehaven Junction, and Whitehaven and Furness Junction (between Whitehaven, Ravenglass, Bootle, and Broughton). Wordsworth, whose soul, as well as body, was identified with this district, says of the mountains of Westmoreland, that "in magnitude and grandeur they are individually inferior to the most celebrated of those in some other parts of the island; but in the combinations which they make, towering above each other, or lifting themselves in ridges like the waves of a tumultuous sea, and in the beauty and variety of their surfaces and colours, they are surpassed by none." The lakes are numerous, beautiful, and extensive in size. Ulleswater is embosomed in the centre of mountains, of which Helvellyn forms part. The upper part of it belongs wholly to Westmoreland, while its lower part, on the border of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is about seven miles long, with an average breadth of half a mile. The higher portion of the lake is in Patterdale. Haweswater is formed by the expansion of the Mardale-beck; and all the larger affluents of the Eden, which join it on the left bank, rise on the northern slope of the Cumbrian ridge. The river Leven, which flows out of Windermere, belongs to Lancashire; but the Rothay, or Raise-beck, which drains the valley of Grasmere, the streams which drain the valleys of Great and Little Langdale, and the Trout-beck, which all flow into Windermere, and may be regarded as the upper waters of the Leven, belong to Westmoreland. Elterwater, Grasmere, and Rydal Water, are connected with the streams which flow into Windermere. This last-named lake has been described as situated in Lancashire; whilst in a county survey, and in the court rolls at Lowther Castle, it is included in Westmoreland. All the lakes, large and small, have some distinguishing feature of beauty. Their boundary lines are either gracefully or boldly indented; in some parts rugged steeps, admitting of no cultivation, descend into the water; in others, gently sloping lawns and rich woods, or flat and fertile meadows, stretch between the margin of the lake and the mountains. Tarns, or small lakes, are generally difficult of access, and naked, desolate, or gloomy, yet impressive from these very characteristics. Loughrigg Tarn, near the junction of the valleys of Great and Little Langdale, is one of the most beautiful. The county of Westmoreland is divided between the dioceses of Carlisle and Chester. The parishes are only thirty-two in number. The population in 1841 was 56,454. Of monumental remains there are but few in the county. "Arthur's Round Table," near Eamont Bridge, is worthy of a visit, as well as other fragments, supposed to be druidical, in the same district. There are several ancient castles which will attract the attention of the antiquary, if he should be near, in his journeyings, to the site of any of them. The most conspicuous remnant of other days in Cumberland is the druidical temple near Kirkoswald, consisting of a circle of sixty-seven unhewn stones, called Long Meg and her Daughters. A brief description of the leading towns within the Lake District will be useful. * * * * * KENDAL, as we have already stated, is about twenty miles by railway from Lancaster. It is a market-town, pleasantly situated on the slope of a hill rising from the river Kent; contains two churches, and several dissenting places of worship; the ruins of the old castle of the barons of Kendal; and a town-hall, the town being governed by a Corporation under the Municipal Reform Act. The Kendal and Windermere Railway runs no farther than Birthwaite, which is nine miles from Kendal, two from Bowness, and five from Ambleside. From the railway terminus coaches and omnibuses meet all the trains in the summer, and convey passengers onwards to Bowness, Ambleside, and other places. * * * * * BOWNESS is a picturesque village placed on the banks of Windermere, and contains an ancient church, with square tower, dedicated to St. Martin. In the churchyard are deposited the remains of the celebrated Bishop Watson, author of "The Apology for the Bible," he having resided at Calgarth Park, in the neighbourhood, for several years. In the vicinity are the residences of Professor Wilson (Elleray), the Earl of Bradford (St. Catherine's), and the Rev. Thomas Staniforth (Storrs Hall, formerly the residence of Colonel Bolton, of Liverpool, the intimate friend of the late Mr. Canning). From the school-house, which stands on an eminence, delightful views of Windermere, and other parts of the district, are seen to great advantage, Belle Isle, on the lake, appearing to be part of the mainland. This island is more than a mile in circumference, and comprises about thirty acres. We may add, that Storrs Hall, whilst occupied by Colonel Bolton, was frequently the retreat of many "choice spirits," Canning, Wordsworth, Southey, and Wilson, of the number. Mr. Bolton was a princely merchant of Liverpool, and Colonel of a Volunteer Regiment whilst England was in dread of French invasion. He was one of Mr. Canning's warmest political friends, and always took an active part in the electioneering contests for Liverpool in which Canning was engaged. Lockhart, referring to one of these "gatherings," says:--"A large company had been assembled at Mr. Bolton's seat in honour of the minister; it included Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Southey. There was high discourse, intermingled with as gay flashings of courtly wit as ever Canning displayed. There were beautiful and accomplished women to adorn and enjoy this circle. The weather was as Elysian as the scenery. There were brilliant cavalcades through the woods in the mornings, and delicious boatings on the lake by moonlight; and the last day Professor Wilson ('the Admiral of the Lake,' as Canning called him) presided over one of the most splendid regattas that ever enlivened Windermere. The three bards of the lakes led the cheers that hailed Scott and Canning." Looking back on that bright scene, of which nothing now remains but a melancholy remembrance, Wilson remarks, "Windermere glittered with all her sails in honour of the Great Northern Minstrel, and of him the Eloquent, whose lips are now mute in dust. Methinks we see his smile benign--that we hear his voice--silver sweet." * * * * * WINDERMERE has been termed, not inaptly, the English Zurich. Before its diversified beauties were "married to immortal verse," it was the favourite resort of thousands who admired external nature. But the "Lake Poets," as Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge and others were once derisively termed, have linked the Lake District with the language of the nation. Windermere Lake is eleven miles in length, and one mile in breadth. Numerous islands diversify its surface, one of which (Belle Isle) we have already referred to. Its depth in some parts is about 240 feet. "The prevailing character of the scenery around Windermere is soft and graceful beauty. It shrinks from approaching that wildness and sublimity which characterise some of the other lakes." It abounds with fish, especially char (salmo alpinus), one of the epicurean dainties. * * * * * AMBLESIDE, fourteen miles north-west of Kendal, is partly in Windermere, but chiefly in Grasmere parish. This is one of the favourite resorts of travellers in quest of pleasure. It has been compared to a delightful Swiss village, the town reposing in a beautiful valley, near the upper end of Windermere Lake; "no two houses being alike either in form or magnitude," and the entire place laid out in a rambling irregular manner, adding to its peculiarity and beauty. The pretty little chapel which ornaments the place was erected in 1812, on the site of an older structure. The neighbourhood is studded with attractive villas; but the most interesting of the residences is that of the lamented Poet Wordsworth, at Rydal Mount. * * * * * RYDAL VILLAGE is one mile and a quarter from Ambleside, and is planted within a narrow gorge, formed by the advance of Loughrigg Fell and Rydal Knab. Rydal Hall, the seat of Lady le Fleming, stands in the midst of a finely-wooded park, in which are two beautiful waterfalls, shown on application at the lodge. RYDAL MOUNT, Wordsworth's residence for many years, stands a little above the chapel erected by Lady le Fleming. Mrs. Hemans describes it as "a lovely cottage-like building, almost hidden by a profusion of roses and ivy." "From a grassy mound in front, commanding a view always so rich, and sometimes so brightly solemn, that one can well imagine its influence traceable in many of the poet's writings, you catch a gleam of Windermere over the grove tops." "A footpath," Mr. Phillips says, "strikes off from the top of the Rydal Mount road, and, passing at a considerable height on the hill side under Nab Scar, commands charming views of the vale, and rejoins the high road at White Moss Quarry. The commanding and varied prospect obtained from the summit of Nab Scar, richly repays the labour of the ascent. From the summit, which is indicated by a pile of large stones, eight different sheets of water are seen, viz., Windermere, Rydal, Grasmere, and Coniston Lakes, and Loughrigg, Easdale, Elterwater, and Blelham Tarns. The Solway Firth is also distinctly visible." Knab, a delightful residence formerly occupied by De Quincy, "the English Opium Eater," and by Hartley Coleridge, eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, is situated close by. In the walk from Ambleside to Rydal, should the tourist pursue his course along the banks of the Rothay, he will, having crossed the bridge, pass the house built and inhabited by the late Dr. Arnold, Master of Rugby School. Grasmere Village is a short walk from Rydal, and only four miles from Ambleside. Wordsworth lived here for eight years, at a small house at Town End; here he wrote many of his never-dying poems; to this spot be brought his newly-wedded wife in 1822; and in the burial ground of the parish church are interred his mortal remains. Wordsworth quitted this sublunary scene, for a brighter and a better, on April 23, 1850. Gray once visited Grasmere Water, and described its beauties in a rapturous spirit. Mrs. Hemans, in one of her sonnets, says of it:-- "--------------------- Fair scene, Most loved by evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallowed, jar The perfect music of the charm serene! Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear, Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer." A comfortable hotel has recently been opened, from which, as it stands on an eminence, a fine view is obtained; and at the Red Lion and Swan Inns every necessary accommodation for tourists may be had. In the neighbourhood there is some delightful panoramic scenery. From Butterlip How and Red Bank the lake and vale are seen to great advantage. "The Wishing Gate," about a mile from Grasmere, should be visited. It has been so called from a belief that wishes indulged there will have a favourable issue. Helm Crag, a singularly-shaped hill, about two miles from the inn, commands an extensive and delightful prospect; Helvellyn and Saddleback, Wansfell Pike, the upper end of Windermere, Esthwaite Water, with the Coniston range, and Langdale Pikes, are all distinctly visible. The Glen of Esdaile, marked by highly-picturesque features, lies in a recess between Helm Crag and Silver How, and the ascent commands fine retrospective views. Throughout this district the hills and dales are remarkably interesting, and offer numerous attractions to the tourist. Delightful excursions may be made from Grasmere into Langdale and Patterdale, and the ascent from Grasmere to the top of Helvellyn, to Langdale Pikes, and to Dunmail Raise will be events not easily to be forgotten. A heap of stones on the summit of Dunmail Raise marks the site of a conflict in 945 between Dunmail, King of Cumberland, and Edmund, the Saxon King. In descending this hill Thirlmere comes into view. Thirlmere lies in the Vale of Legberthwaite, and the precipices around it are objects of special admiration. The ascent of Helvellyn is sometimes begun at the foot of Thirlmere. * * * * * KESWICK is a market town, in the county of Cumberland, and parish of Crosthwaite, and is situated on the south bank of the Greta, in a large and fertile vale, about a mile from Derwent Water. Coleridge, describing the scene, says:--"This vale is about as large a basin as Loch Lomond; the latter is covered with water; but in the former instance we have two lakes (Derwent Water and Bassenthwaite Mere), with a charming river to connect them, and lovely villages at the foot of the mountain, and other habitations, which give an air of life and cheerfulness to the whole place." The town consists only of one street, and comprises upwards of two thousand inhabitants. Some manufactures are carried on, including linsey-woolsey stuffs and edge tools. Black-lead pencils made here have acquired a national repute: the plumbago of which they are manufactured is extracted from "the bowels of the earth," at a mine in Borrowdale. The parish church, dedicated to St. Kentigern, is an ancient structure standing alone, about three-quarters of a mile distant, midway between the mountain and the lake. Within this place of worship the remains of Robert Southey, the poet and philosopher, lie buried. A marble monument to his memory has recently been erected, representing him in a recumbent position, and bearing an inscription from the pen of Wordsworth, his more than literary friend for many years, and his successor to the poet- laureate-ship. A new and beautiful church, erected at the eastern part of the town by the late John Marshall, Esq., adds much to the quiet repose of the scene. Mr. Marshall became Lord of the Manor by purchasing the forfeited estates of Ratcliffe, Earl of Derwentwater, from the Commissioners of Greenwich Hospital, to whom they were granted by the Crown. The town contains a well-stocked public library, purchased from funds left for that purpose by Mr. Marshall; two museums, containing numerous specimens illustrating natural history and mineralogy; and a model of the Lake District, made by Mr. Flintoff, and the labour of many years. The residence of the poet Southey (Greta Hall) is, however, perhaps the most interesting object in the neighbourhood to visitors. The house is situated on an eminence near the town. Charles Lamb, describing it many years since, says:--"Upon a small hill by the side of Skiddaw, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by a nest of mountains" dwells Robert Southey. The poet himself, who delighted in his beautiful and calm mountain-home, and in the charming scenery by which he was surrounded, remarks:--"Here I possess the gathered treasures of time, the harvest of so many generations, laid up in my garners, and when I go to the window there is the lake, and the circle of mountains, and the illimitable sky." On another occasion, when dallying with the muse, he says, in his finely-descriptive verse:-- "'Twas at that sober hour when the light of day is receding, And from surrounding things the hues wherewith the day has adorned them Fade like the hopes of youth till the beauty of youth is departed: Pensive, though not in thought, I stood at the window beholding Mountain, and lake, and vale, the valley disrobed of its verdure; Derwent retaining yet from eve a glassy reflection, Where his expanded breast, then smooth and still as a mirror, Under the woods reposed; the hills that calm and majestic Lifted their heads into the silent sky, from far Glaramara, Bleacrag and Maidenmawr to Grisedale and westernmost Wythop; Dark and distant they rose. The clouds had gather'd above them, High in the middle air huge purple pillowy masses, While in the west beyond was the last pale tint of the twilight. Green as the stream in the glen, whose pure and chrysolite waters Flow o'er a schistous bed, and serene as the age of the righteous. Earth was hush'd and still; all motion and sound were suspended; Neither man was heard, bird, beast, nor humming of insect. Only the voice of the Greta, heard only when all is stillness." The scenery in the neighbourhood of Keswick is replete with beauty, and the numerous walks and rides possess brilliant attractions. Villas and prettily- built cottages add grace and quietness to the landscape. Gray, on leaving Keswick, was so charmed with the wonders which surrounded him, that he felt great reluctance in quitting the spot, and said, "that he had almost a mind to go back again." From the eminence near Keswick on which the Druidical circle stands a magnificent view is obtained of Derwentwater, Latrigg, Skiddaw, Helvellyn, Dunmail Raise, with the vale of St. John and the Borrowdale mountains. * * * * * BUTTERMERE stands near the foot of the lake, and by Seatoller is fourteen miles from Keswick. Taking the vale of Newlands by the way, the distance is much less. In the vicinity of Seatoller is the celebrated mine of plumbago, or black lead. "It has been worked at intervals for upwards of two centuries; but, being now less productive, the ore has been excavated for several years consecutively. This is the only mine of the kind in England, and there are one or two places in Scotland where plumbago has been discovered, but the lead obtained there is of an inferior quality. The best ore produced at the Borrowdale mine sells for thirty shillings a pound. All the ore extracted from the mine is sent direct to London before a particle is sold." Buttermere is a mere hamlet, comprising a small episcopal chapel, only a few farm-houses, with the Victoria and another inn for the accommodation of visitors. De Quincy, who has long been a resident of the Lake District, and a fervent admirer of its many beauties, describes this secluded spot as follows:--"The margin of the lake, which is overhung by some of the loftiest and steepest of the Cumbrian mountains, exhibits on either side few traces of human neighbourhood; the level area, where the hills recede enough to allow of any, is of a wild, pastoral character, or almost savage. The waters of the lake are deep and sullen, and the barren mountains, by excluding the sun in much of his daily course, strengthen the gloomy impressions. At the foot of this lake lie a few unornamented fields, through which rolls a little brook, connecting it with the larger lake of Crummock, and at the edge of this miniature domain, upon the road-side, stands a cluster of cottages, so small and few, that in the richer tracts of the island they would scarcely be complimented with the name of hamlet." The well-known story of Mary, the Beauty of Buttermere, with the beautiful poem describing her woes, entitled, "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," has given to the village a more than common interest. As the melancholy tale is told, Mary possessed great personal beauty, and, being the daughter of the innkeeper, she fulfilled the duty of attendant upon visitors to the house. Among these was a dashing young man who assumed the aristocratic title of the Honourable Colonel Hope, brother of Lord Hopeton, but whose real name was Hatfield, and who had taken refuge from the arm of the law in the secluded hamlet of Buttermere. Attracted by Mary's charms, he vowed love and fidelity to her, and she, in the guilelessness of her youth, responded to his overtures, and became his wife. Soon after her marriage her husband was apprehended on a charge of forgery--a capital crime in those days; he was convicted at Carlisle of the offence, and forfeited his life on the scaffold. Mary, some years afterwards, took to herself a second husband, a respectable farmer in the neighbourhood, with whom she lived happily throughout the remainder of her days. She died a few years ago amidst her native hills. While in this district the tourist will derive pleasure from visiting Crummock Water, Lowes Water, and Wast Water. A coach travels daily between Birthwaite (the terminus of the Kendal and Windermere railway,) and Cockermouth, connecting the Whitehaven and Maryport line with the former railway. By this or other conveyances Cockermouth may easily be visited, as well as Whitehaven, Maryport, etc. * * * * * COCKERMOUTH is a neat market-town, and sends two members to Parliament. The ancient castle was a fortress of great strength, but since the Civil Wars it has lain in ruins. Traces of a Roman castrum, with other antique remains, are to be seen in the neighbourhood. Wordsworth was a native of Cockermouth, and Tickell, the poet, and Addison's friend, was born at Bridekirk, two miles distant. Inns:--The Globe and Sun. Maryport is seven miles from the town, Workington eight miles, Keswick (by Whinlatter) twelve miles, by Bassenthwaite Water thirteen and a half miles, Whitehaven fourteen miles, Wigton sixteen miles, and Carlisle twenty-seven miles. * * * * * WHITEHAVEN, a market-town and seaport, in Cumberland, near the cliffs called Scilly Bank, in the parish of St. Bees, contains about 16,000 inhabitants. The Lowther family have large estates around the town, with many valuable coal-mines. Coarse linens are manufactured in the place; and a large maritime and coal trade is carried on there. There is a spacious harbour, giving excellent accommodation to vessels within it. "The bay and harbour are defended by batteries, formerly consisting of upwards of a hundred pieces, but lately suffered to fall into decay. These batteries received extensive additions after the alarm caused by the descent of the notorious Paul Jones in 1778. This desperado, who was a native of Galloway, and had served his apprenticeship in Whitehaven, landed here with thirty armed men, the crew of an American privateer which had been equipped at Nantes for this expedition. The success of the enterprise was, however, frustrated by one of the company, through whom the inhabitants were placed on the alert. The only damage they succeeded in doing was the setting fire to three ships, one of which was burnt. They were obliged to make a precipitate retreat, and, having spiked the guns of the battery, they escaped unhurt to the coast of Scotland, where they plundered the house of the Earl of Selkirk." Among the principal residences in the neighbourhood of Whitehaven are, Whitehaven Castle, the seat of the Earl of Lonsdale, and Moresby Hall, built after a design by Inigo Jones. Inns.--Black Lion and Golden Lion. * * * * * ST. BEES, in which parish Whitehaven is situated, is four miles to the south of Whitehaven. The church, dedicated to St. Bega, is an ancient structure, and is still in tolerable preservation. Until 1810 the chancel was unroofed, but in that year it was repaired, and is now occupied as a college, for the reception of young men intended for the church, but not designed to finish their studies at Oxford or Cambridge. The grammar-school adjacent was founded by Archbishop Grindal. Ennerdale Lake is nine miles to the east of Whitehaven, from which town it is easily reached. * * * * * MARYPORT is a modern seaport on the river Ellen. The town is advancing in prosperity, and the population rapidly increasing: an excellent maritime trade is carried on between Maryport, Liverpool, Dublin, and other places. The village of Ellenborough, from which the late Lord Chief Justice Law derived his title, is in the vicinity of the town. * * * * * WORKINGTON stands on the south bank of the Derwent. Workington Hall afforded an asylum to Mary Queen of Scots when she visited the town. * * * * * PENRITH, an ancient market town, containing about 7000 inhabitants, is on the line of the Preston and Carlisle railway. The ruins of the Castle, supposed to have been erected by Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, overlook the town from the west. It is built of the red stone of the district, and has suffered much from the action of the weather. The court is now used as a farm-yard. The parish church, dedicated to St. Andrew, is a plain structure of red stone. There are several ancient monuments within the church; and in the south windows are portraits of Richard, Duke of York, and Cicely Neville, his wife, the parents of Edward IV. and Richard III. In the churchyard is a monument called the "Giant's Grave," said to be the burial-place of Owen Caesarius, who was "sole king of rocky Cumberland" in the time of Ida. Not far distant is another memorial, called the "Giant's Thumb." Sir Walter Scott, on all occasions when he visited Penrith, repaired to the churchyard to view these remains. The new church, recently built at the foot of the Beacon Hill, is in the Gothic perpendicular style of architecture. "The Beacon," a square stone building, is erected on the heights to the north of the town. "The hill upon which the beacon-tower stands," we are informed by Mr. Phillips, "is one of those whereon fires were lighted in former times, when animosities ran high between the English and the Scotch, to give warning of the approach of an enemy. A fiery chain of communication extended from the Border, northwards as far as Edinburgh, and southwards into Lancashire. An Act of the Scottish Parliament was passed, in 1455, to direct that one bale should signify the approach of the English in any manner; two bales that they were coming indeed; and four bales that they were unusually strong. Sir Walter Scott, in his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," has given a vivid description of the beacons blazing through the gloom like ominous comets, and startling the night:-- "A score of fires From height and hill and cliff were seen; Each with warlike tidings fraught, Each from each the signal caught, Each after each they glanced to sight As stars arise upon the night." The antiquities in the neighbourhood are numerous and interesting; and the prospects from the heights are extensive and picturesque. Ulleswater, Helvellyn, Skiddaw, Saddleback, some of the Yorkshire hills, and Carlisle Cathedral can be distinctly seen on a clear day. BROUGHAM CASTLE is situated one mile and three-quarters from Penrith. It was one of the strongholds of the great Barons of the Borders in the feudal times. At present it is in a very decayed state, but still is majestic in its ruins. Its earliest owner was John de Veteripont, from whose family it passed by marriage into the hands of the Cliffords and Tuftons successively, and it is now the property of Sir John Tufton. Tradition records, but on what authority we know not, that Sir Philip Sidney wrote part of his "Arcadia" at this baronial mansion. Wordsworth's "Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle" is one of his noblest lyrical effusions. "The Countess's Pillar," a short distance beyond the castle, was erected in 1656 by Lady Anne Clifford, as "a memorial of her last parting at that place with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, the 2nd of April, 1616, in memory whereof she has left the annuity of 4 pounds, to be distributed to the poor, within the parish of Brougham, every 2nd day of April for ever, upon a stone hereby. Laus Deo." This was the Lady Anne Clifford of whom it was said by the facetious Dr. Donne, that she could "discourse of all things, from predestination to slea silk." Her well-known answer, returned to a ministerial application as to the representation of Appleby, shows the spirit and decision of the woman:--"I have been bullied by an usurper (the Protector Cromwell), I have been neglected by a Court, but I'll not be dictated to by a subject--your man shan't stand!" About two miles from Penrith is the curious antique relic called Arthur's Round Table, already referred to. It is a circular area above twenty yards in diameter, surrounded by a fosse and mound. Six miles north-east of Penrith are the ancient remains, Long Meg and her Daughters. DACRE CASTLE is situated five miles west-south-west of Penrith. BROUGHAM HALL, the seat of Henry, Lord Brougham and Vaux, stands on an eminence near the river Lowther, a short distance from the ruins of Brougham Castle. It has been termed, from its elevated position and the prospects it commands, "The Windsor of the north." The mansion and grounds are exceedingly beautiful, and will repay the tourist for his visit thereto. LOWTHER CASTLE, the residence of the Earl of Lonsdale, is in the same district, and is one of the most princely halls in the kingdom, erected in a park of 600 acres. Hackthorpe Hall, a farm- house, is contiguous, and was the birth-place of John, first Viscount Lonsdale. Shap (anciently Heppe), a long straggling village in the vicinity, and near which is a station on the Preston and Carlisle Railway, has derived some note from the elevated moors close by, known by the name of Shap Fells. Shap Spa, in the midst of the moors, attracts crowds of visitors during the summer season. The spring is said to yield medicinal waters similar to those of Leamington. Inns.--Greyhound, and King's Arms. In closing this rapid sketch of the Lake District we may add, that the leading mountains in Cumberland and Westmoreland are thirty-five in number; the passes, five; the lakes, eighteen; and the waterfalls, twelve. "WANDERINGS AMONG THE LAKES," a companion volume to this, now in preparation, will form a useful illustrated guide to their most remarkable features. HOME. Following that plan of contrasts which travellers generally find most agreeable, we should advise that tourists, taking their route southward, will avail themselves of the North Staffordshire lines to visit two of the most beautiful mansions, if they were foreign we should say palaces, in England--Alton Towers, the seat of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and Trentham Hall, the seat of the Duke of Sutherland, and conclude by investigating the Porcelain Manufactories, which, founded by Wedgwood, are carried on with excellent spirit and taste by a number of potters, among whom Alderman Copeland and Mr. Herbert Minton are pre-eminent. Alton Towers stand near Cheadle, on the Churnet Valley Line; Trentham Hall not far from Stoke. A day may be pleasantly spent in examining the elaborate gardens of Alton, which are a magnificent specimen of the artificial style of landscape gardening. Mr. Loudon gives a very elaborate description of them in his large work on the subject of gardens to great houses. At Cheadle the Earl of Shrewsbury has erected at his own expense, Mr. Pugin being his architect, a small Roman Catholic Church, which is a magnificent specimen of that gentleman's taste in the "decorated" style. "Heraldic emblazonments, and religious emblems, painting and gilding, stained glass, and curiously-wrought metal work, imageries and inscriptions, rood loft and reredos, stone altar and sedilia, metal screenwork, encaustic paving, make up the gorgeous spectacle." The doors of the principal entrance are painted red, and have gilt hinges fashioned in the shape of rampant lions spreading over nearly their entire surface. In one of the canopied niches is a figure, representing the present Earl of Shrewsbury kneeling, with a model of the church in his hand as the founder, with his "patron," St. John the Baptist, standing behind him. This Cheadle Church, in which Mr. Pugin has had full scope on a small scale for the indulgence of his gorgeous faith and fancies, reminds us that at Oscot College, within sight of the smoke of Birmingham and Wolverhampton, towns where the best locks, clasps, hasps, bolts, and hinges can be made; the doors and windows, in deference to Mr. Pugin's mediaeval predilections, are of the awkward clumsy construction with which our ancestors were obliged to be content for want of better. On the same principle the floors ought to have been strewed with rushes, the meat salt, the bread black rye, and manuscript should supersede print. But it is not so, there is no school in the kingdom where the youth are better fed, or made more comfortable than at Oscot. TRENTHAM has a delicious situation on the Trent, which forms a lake in the park, inhabited by swans and monstrous pike. The Hall used to be one of the hideous brick erections of the time of pigtails and laced waistcoats,--the footman style of dress and architecture. But the genius of Barry (that great architect whom the people on the twopenny steamboats seem to appreciate more than some grumbling members of the House of Commons) has transformed, without destroying it, into a charming Italian Villa, with gardens, in which the Italian style has been happily adapted to our climate; for instance, round- headed laurels, grown for the purpose, taking the place of orange trees. This Trentham Hall used to be one of the magical pictures of the coach road, of which the railway robbed us. For miles before reaching it, we used to look out for the wooded park, with its herds of mottled deer, and the great lake, where the sight of the swans always brought up that story of the big pike, choked like a boa, with a swan's neck. A story that seems to belong to every swan-haunted lake. But what one railway took from us another has restored much improved. So we say to all friends, at either end of the lines, take advantage of an excursion, or express train, according to your means, and go and see what we cannot at this time describe, and what exceeds all description. For the hour, you may enjoy Trentham Hall as much as if it were your own, with all the Bridgwater Estates, Mines, Canals, and Railways to boot. And that is the spirit in which to enjoy travelling. Admiration without envy, and pity without contempt. From Trentham you may proceed through the Potteries. You will find there a church built, and we believe endowed, by a manufacturer, Mr. Herbert Minton. And then you may have a choice of routes. But to London the most direct will be by Tamworth and Lichfield, on the Trent Valley line. To those who look below the surface, who care to know something about the workman as well as the work, such a tour as we have traced could not fail to be of the deepest interest. It embraces the whole course of the emigration from low wages to higher that is constantly flowing in this country. New sources of employment daily arising in mines, in ports, in factories, demand labour; to supply that labour recruits are constantly marching from the country lane to the paved city. The agricultural districts of Staffordshire have a population of under two hundred souls per square mile. The pottery and iron districts of the same county of over seven hundred. These swarms of men are not had where they labour, they are immigrants. Take another instance, in Kent and Devonshire, the wages of farm labourers are eight to nine shillings a-week. In North Cheshire they are fifteen. The cost of living to the labourer in both places is about the same; fuel is cheap in Cheshire. What makes the difference in the demand for labour in Cheshire but the steam-engines? Towns must be prepared to lodge decently, and educate carefully, children of rural immigrants, or woe betide us all. It is education that has saved the United States from the consequences of the tide of ignorant misery daily disembarking on the Atlantic shores. Sometimes we hear fears for the condition of farmers under manufacturer landlords. Those who express these fears must have travelled with their ears shut. More than seventy per cent. of the great landowners in the great travelling counties are manufacturers, or merchants, or lawyers, by one or two descents. In Lancashire, Cheshire, Yorkshire, or Warwickshire, examine closely, and you will find it so. As a general rule, a rich pawnbroker retired will make a better landlord than a poor baronet. But in this country two generations will make one of the baronet's sons a successful shopkeeper, and the pawnbroker's a baronet, or even a peer. "I tell you what, sir," said a talkative stud groom once, in charge of race horses for Russia, and travelling first class, "I've been in Petersburg, in Vienna, and in Berlin, and I lived ten years with the Earl of ----. For all the points of blood our aristocracy will beat any of these foreign princes, counts, and dukes, either for figure or for going; but it won't do to look into their pedigree, for the crosses that would ruin a race of horses, are the making of the breed of English noblemen." Here our irregular imperfect guidance ceases. Perhaps, although deficient in minuteness of detail, this pot pourri of gossip, history, description, anecdote, suggestion, and opinion, may not only amuse the traveller by railway, but assist him in choosing routes leading to those scenes or those pursuits in which he feels an interest. NOTES. {67} The operation of this personal influence on the individual boys with whom he was brought into contact, was much assisted by the system which about this time began to prevail at public schools, of giving each boy a small room called "a study" of his own, in which he might keep his books, and where he could enjoy privacy. The writer, who was at a public school both when all the boys lived in one great school-room in which privacy was impossible and after the separate studies were introduced, would wish to record his earnest conviction of the advantage of the present plan of separate studies,--of the vital influence it has on the formation of character, no less than of habits of study in the young. He can well remember how every better impression or graver thought was effaced, often never to return, as the boy came out from the master's room or from reading a letter from home, and was again immersed in the crowd and confusion of the one common school-room of such a school as Winchester. He would here venture to suggest that the plan of separate sleeping-rooms, like those in the model lodging-houses, would present equal advantage with that of separate studies, and might be introduced at little expense in public schools. It has already been introduced in the Roman Catholic College at Oscot. {71} He appeared, in religious feeling, to approach the Evangelical party at more points than any other; pungently describing them, nevertheless, when he said--"A good Christian, with a low understanding, a bad education, and ignorance of the world, becomes an Evangelical." He appears to have died before he came to the application of the rules of German criticism (in which he followed Niebuhr in history) to theological subjects. It is curious to speculate on what the result would have been in the mind of this ardent Anglo-Protestant and lover of truth. {81} These letters, full of information and suggestion, are attributed to Charles Mackay, Esq., LL.D., the well-known poet and prose writer. {113} We were happy to find, while these sheets were passing through the press, that the Birmingham Corporation have introduced a Bill for absorbing the petty commissionership of the suburbs, which, once distant villages, now form part of the borough; and that they seek for power to compel efficient drainage and ample supply of water. To do all this will be expensive, but not extravagant; nothing is so dear to a town as dirt, with its satellites, disease, drunkenness, and crime. We sincerely trust that the Corporation will succeed in obtaining such ample powers as will render thorough drainage compulsory, and cause clean water to be no longer a luxury. Some of the opposition call themselves Conservatives. In this instance it means of dirt, fees, and bills of costs. {125a} 1 Eliz., c.15. {125b} Edited by the Rev. Montgomery Maherne. {126} "Touchinge an anvyle wch he did sett for a yere. The bargayne is witnessed by two persons, viz., John Wallis Clerke, minister of Porlocke, and John Bearde of Selworthye, who sayeth that about our Lady-day last past, R. H. did sell to heire the said anvyle to the said Thomas Sulley at a rent of iii.s. iiii.d. for the yere." {127} Showing that the manufactory of muskets had then commenced in England, contrary to Hutton's statement, see p.85 ante. {130} The best way to Wednesbury is by an iron Canal Boat, drawn by horses, at ten miles an hour. The Inn is the Royal Oak, kept by a droll character. The event of his life is having seen the Duke of Wellington driving over Westminster Bridge in a curricle. To obtain a good view, as the horses went slowly up the ascent, he caught hold of a trace and hopped backwards for twenty yards with his mouth open. {138} See Cathrall's Wanderings in North Wales. {144} See Heberts on Railroads, p.19. {151} We may add that, in 1850, about 160,000 emigrants embarked from the port chiefly for the United States, employing 600 large vessels of 500,000 tons. {159} The Earl of Derby has died while these sheets were passing through the press. {172} At the Great Exhibition of Industry of 1851, Mr. G. Wallis, at the suggestion of the Board of Trade, had the management and arrangement of the department of manufactures. {193} Mr. Francis Fuller, whose plan of management on this estate affords a model for both English and Irish landowners, is the gentleman, who, after taking most active and vigorous means, in co-operation with Mr. Scott Russell and Mr. Henry Cole, for bringing before the public Prince Albert's plan of a Great Exhibition of Industry of All Nations, alone saved the whole scheme from being abandoned before it was made public, by finding contractors in Messrs. Mundays to advance the 100,000 pounds, and who did actually advance 21,000 pounds, without which the President of the Board of Trade refused to issue the Royal Commission, on which the whole success of the scheme rested. Until the scheme was safely launched, Mr. Fuller, as a Member of the Executive Committee, devoted his time, and freely expended his money, for the purpose of supporting this great undertaking. When it was fairly launched the care of his important business, of which Middleton forms a very small part, occupied the greater part of his time, and hence his name has appeared less in conjunction with that splendid triumph of Industry than those of other gentlemen. {209} A little boy undergoing the operation of being flogged, in the manner that Mother Hubbard performed the deed before sending the children to bed. 
15830	----	Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Bibliothèque nationale de France. See http://visualiseur.bnf.fr/Visualiseur?Destination=Gallica&O=NUMM-103524 THREE YEARS IN EUROPE; Or, Places I Have Seen and People I Have Met by W. WELLS BROWN A Fugitive Slave. With A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR by WILLIAM FARMER, Esq. London: Charles Gilpin, 5, Bishopsgate Street, Without. Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd. 1852 [Illustration: W. Wells Brown.] CONTENTS. MEMOIR OF WILLIAM WELLS BROWN, _Page_ ix-xxix AUTHOR'S PREFACE, xxxi-xxxii LETTER I. Departure from Boston--the Passengers--Halifax--the Passage-- First Sight of Land--Liverpool, 1-9 LETTER II. Trip to Ireland--Dublin--Her Majesty's Visit--Illumination of the City--the Birth-Place of Thomas Moore--a Reception, 9-21 LETTER III. Departure from Ireland--London--Trip to Paris--Paris--The Peace Congress: first day--Church of the Madeleine--Column Vendome-- the French, 21-38 LETTER IV. Versailles--The Palace--Second Session of the Congress--Mr. Cobden--Henry Vincent--M. Girardin--Abbe Duguerry--Victor Hugo: his Speech, 38-49 LETTER V. M. de Tocqueville's Grand Soiree--Madame de Tocqueville--Visit of the Peace Delegates to Versailles--The Breakfast--Speechmaking-- The Trianons--Waterworks--St. Cloud--The Fete, 50-59 LETTER VI. The Tuileries--Place de la Concorde--The Egyptian Obelisk--Palais Royal--Residence of Robespierre--A Visit to the Room in which Charlotte Corday killed Marat--Church de Notre Dame--Palais de Justice--Hotel des Invalids--National Assembly--The Elysee, 59-73 LETTER VII. The Chateau at Versailles--Private Apartments of Marie Antoinette--The Secret Door--Paintings of Raphael and David-- Arc de Triomphe--Beranger the Poet, 73-82 LETTER VIII. Departure from Paris--Boulogne--Folkstone--London--Geo. Thompson, Esq., M.P.--Hartwell House--Dr. Lee--Cottage of the Peasant--Windsor Castle--Residence of Wm. Penn--England's First Welcome--Heath Lodge--The Bank of England, 83-104 LETTER IX. The British Museum--A Portrait--Night Reading--A Dark Day--A Fugitive Slave on the Streets of London--A Friend in the time of need, 104-116 LETTER X. The Whittington Club--Louis Blanc--Street Amusements--Tower of London--Westminster Abbey--National Gallery--Dante--Sir Joshua Reynolds, 117-134 LETTER XI. York-Minster--The Great Organ--Newcastle-on-Tyne--The Labouring Classes--The American Slave--Sheffield--James Montgomery, 134-145 LETTER XII. Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern Abbey--Redcliffe Church, 145-162 LETTER XIII. Edinburgh--The Royal Institute--Scott's Monument--John Knox's Pulpit--Temperance Meeting--Glasgow--Great Meeting in the City Hall, 163-176 LETTER XIV. Stirling--Dundee--Dr. Dick--Geo. Gilfillan--Dr. Dick at home, 177-184 LETTER XV. Melrose Abbey--Abbotsford--Dryburgh Abbey--The Grave of Sir Walter Scott--Hawick--Gretna Green--Visit to the Lakes, 185-196 LETTER XVI. Miss Martineau--"The Knoll"--"Ridal Mount"--"The Dove's Nest"--Grave of William Wordsworth, Esq.--The English Peasant, 196-207 LETTER XVII. A Day in the Crystal Palace, 207-219 LETTER XVIII. The London Peace Congress--Meeting of Fugitive Slaves-- Temperance Demonstration--The Great Exhibition: Last Visit, 219-226 LETTER XIX. Oxford--Martyrs' Monument--Cost of the Burning of the Martyrs-- The Colleges--Dr. Pusey--Energy, the Secret of Success, 227-235 LETTER XX. Fugitive Slaves in England, 236-250 LETTER XXI. A Chapter on American Slavery, 250-273 LETTER XXII. A Narrative of American Slavery, 273-305 LETTER XXIII. Aberdeen--Passage by Steamer--Edinburgh--Visit to the College--William and Ellen Craft, 305-312 MEMOIR OF WILLIAM WELLS BROWN. A narrative of the life of the author of the present work has been most extensively circulated in England and America. The present memoir will, therefore, simply comprise a brief sketch of the most interesting portion of Mr. Brown's history while in America, together with a short account of his subsequent cisatlantic career. The publication of his adventures as a slave, and as a fugitive from slavery in his native land, has been most valuable in sustaining a sound anti-slavery spirit in Great Britain. His honourable reception in Europe may be equally serviceable in America, as another added to the many practical protests previously entered from this side of the Atlantic, against the absolute bondage of three millions and a quarter of the human race, and the semi-slavery involved in the social and political proscription of 600,000 free coloured people in that country. William Wells Brown was born at Lexington, in the state of Kentucky, as nearly as he can tell in the autumn of 1814. In the Southern States of America, the pedigree and age of a horse or a dog are carefully preserved, but no record is kept of the birth of a slave. All that Mr. Brown knows upon the subject is traditionally, that he was born "about corn-cutting time" of that year. His mother was a slave named Elizabeth, the property of Dr. Young, a physician. His father was George Higgins, a relative of his master. The name given to our author at his birth, was "William"--no second or surname being permitted to a slave. While William was an infant, Dr. Young removed to Missouri, where, in addition to his profession as a physician, he carried on the--to European notions--incongruous avocations of miller, merchant, and farmer. Here William was employed as a house servant, while his mother was engaged as a field hand. One of his first bitter experiences of the cruelties of slavery, was his witnessing the infliction of ten lashes upon the bare back of his mother, for being a few minutes behind her time at the field--a punishment inflicted with one of those peculiar whips in the construction of which, so as to produce the greatest amount of torture, those whom Lord Carlisle has designated "the chivalry of the South" find scope for their ingenuity. Dr. Young subsequently removed to a farm near St. Louis, in the same State. Having been elected a Member of the Legislature, he devolved the management of his farm upon an overseer, having, what to his unhappy victims must have been the ironical name of "Friend Haskall." The mother and child were now separated. The boy was levied to a Virginian named Freeland, who bore the military title of Major, and carried on the plebeian business of a publican. This man was of an extremely brutal disposition, and treated his slaves with most refined cruelty. His favourite punishment, which he facetiously called "Virginian play," was to flog his slaves severely, and then expose their lacerated flesh to the smoke of tobacco stems, causing the most exquisite agony. William complained to his owner of the treatment of Freeland, but, as in almost all similar instances, the appeal was in vain. At length he was induced to attempt an escape, not from that love of liberty which subsequently became with him an unconquerable passion, but simply to avoid the cruelty to which he was habitually subjected. He took refuge in the woods, but was hunted and "traced" by the blood-hounds of a Major O'Fallon, another of "the chivalry of the South," whose gallant occupation was that of keeping an establishment for the hire of ferocious dogs with which to hunt fugitive slaves. The young slave received a severe application of "Virginia play" for his attempt to escape. Happily the military publican soon afterwards failed in business, and William found a better master and a more congenial employment with Captain Cilvers, on board a steam-boat plying between St. Louis and Galena. At the close of the sailing season he was levied to an hotel-keeper, a native of a free state, but withal of a class which exist north as well as south--a most inveterate negro hater. At this period of William's history, a circumstance occurred, which, although a common incident in the lives of slaves, is one of the keenest trials they have to endure--the breaking up of his family circle. Her master wanted money, and he therefore sold Elizabeth and six of her children to seven different purchasers. The family relationship is almost the only solace of slavery. While the mother, brothers, and sisters are permitted to meet together in the negro hut after the hour of labour, the slaves are comparatively content with their oppressed condition; but deprive them of this, the only privilege which they as human beings are possessed of, and nothing is left but the animal part of their nature--the living soul is extinguished within them. With them there is nothing to love--everything to hate. They feel themselves degraded to the condition not only of mere animals, but of the most ill-used animals in the creation. Not needing the services of his young relative, Dr. Young hired him to the proprietor of the _St. Louis Times_, the best master William ever had in slavery. Here he gained the scanty amount of education he acquired at the South. This kind treatment by his editorial master appears to have engendered in the heart of William a consciousness of his own manhood, and led him into the commission of an offence similar to that perpetrated by Frederick Douglass, under similar circumstances--the assertion of the right of self-defence. He gallantly defended himself against the attacks of several boys older and bigger than himself, but in so doing was guilty of the unpardonable sin of lifting his hand against white lads; and the father of one of them, therefore, deemed it consistent with his manhood to lay in wait for the young slave, and beat him over the head with a heavy cane till the blood gushed from his nose and ears. From the effects of that treatment the poor lad was confined to his bed for five weeks, at the end of which time he found that, to his personal sufferings, were superadded the calamity of the loss of the best master he ever had in slavery. His next employment was that of waiter on board a steam-boat plying on the Mississippi. Here his occupation again was pleasant, and his treatment good; but the freedom of action enjoyed by the passengers in travelling whithersoever they pleased, contrasted strongly in his mind with his own deprivation of will as a slave. The natural result of this comparison was an intense desire for freedom--a feeling which was never afterwards eradicated from his breast. This love of liberty was, however, so strongly counteracted by affection for his mother and sisters, that although urgently entreated by one of the latter to take advantage of his present favourable opportunity for escape, he would not bring himself to do so at the expense of a separation for life from his beloved relatives. His period of living on board the steamer having expired, he was again remitted to field labour, under a burning sun. From that labour, from which he suffered severely, he was soon removed to the lighter and more agreeable occupation of house-waiter to his master. About this time Dr. Young, in the conventional phraseology of the locality, "got religion." The fruit of his alleged spiritual gain, was the loss of many material comforts to the slaves. Destitute of the resources of education, they were in the habit of employing their otherwise unoccupied minds on the Sunday in fishing and other harmless pursuits; these were now all put an end to. The Sabbath became a season of dread to William: he was required to drive the family to and from the church, a distance of four miles either way; and while they attended to the salvation of their souls within the building, he was compelled to attend to the horses without it, standing by them during divine service under a burning sun, or drizzling rain. Although William did not get the religion of his master, he acquired a family passion which appears to have been strongly intermixed with the devotional exercises of the household of Dr. Young--a love of sweet julep. In the evening, the slaves were required to attend family worship. Before commencing the service, it was the custom to hand a pitcher of the favourite beverage to every member of the family, not excepting the nephew, a child of between four and five years old. William was in the habit of watching his opportunity during the prayer and helping himself from the pitcher, but one day letting it fall, his propensity for this intoxicating drink was discovered, and he was severely punished for its indulgence. In 1830, being then about sixteen years of age, William was hired to a slave-dealer named Walker. This change of employment led the youth away south and frustrated, for a time, his plans for escape. His experience while in this capacity furnishes some interesting, though painful, details of the legalized traffic in human beings carried on in the United States. The desperation to which the slaves are driven at their forced separation from husband, wife, children, and kindred, he found to be a frequent cause of suicide. Slave-dealers he discovered were as great adepts at deception in the sale of their commodity as the most knowing down-easter, or tricky horse dealer. William's occupation on board the steamer, as they steamed south, was to prepare the stock for the market, by shaving off whiskers and blacking the grey hairs with a colouring composition. At the expiration of the period of his hiring with Walker, William returned to his master rejoiced to have escaped an employment so repugnant to his feelings. But this joy was not of long duration. One of his sisters who, although sold to another master had been living in the same city with himself and mother, was again sold to be sent away south, never in all probability to meet her sorrowing relatives. Dr. Young also, wanting money, intimated to his young kinsman that he was about to sell him. This intimation determined William, in conjunction with his mother, to attempt their escape. For ten nights they travelled northwards, hiding themselves in the woods by day. The mother and son at length deemed themselves safe from re-capture, and, although weary and foot-sore, were laying down sanguine plans for the acquisition of a farm in Canada, the purchase of the freedom of the six other members of the family still in slavery, and rejoicing in the anticipated happiness of their free home in Canada. At that moment three men made up to and seized them, bound the son and led him, with his desponding mother, back to slavery. Elizabeth was sold and sent away south, while her son became the property of a merchant tailor named Willi. Mr. Brown's description of the final interview between himself and his mother, is one of the most touching portions of his narrative. The mother, after expressing her conviction of the speedy escape from slavery by the hand of death, enjoined her child to persevere in his endeavours to gain his freedom by flight. Her blessing was interrupted by the kick and curse bestowed by her dehumanized master upon her beloved son. After having been hired for a short time to the captain of the steam-boat _Otto_, William was finally sold to Captain Enoch Price for 650 dollars. That the quickness and intelligence of William rendered him very valuable as a slave, is favoured by the evidence of Enoch Price himself, who states that he was offered 2000 dollars for Sanford (as he was called), in New Orleans. William was strongly urged by his new mistress to marry. To facilitate this object, she even went so far as to purchase a girl for whom she fancied he had an affection. He himself, however, had secretly resolved never to enter into such a connexion while in slavery, knowing that marriage, in the true and honourable sense of the term, could not exist among slaves. Notwithstanding the multitude of petty offences for which a slave is severely punished, it is singular that one crime--bigamy--is visited upon a white with severity, while no slave has ever yet been tried for it. In fact, the man is allowed to form connections with as many women, and the women with as many men, as they please. At St. Louis, William was employed as coachman to Mr. Price; but when that gentleman subsequently took his family up the river to Cincinnati, Sanford acted as appointed steward. While lying off this city, the long-looked-for opportunity of escape presented itself; and on the 1st of January, 1834--he being then almost twenty years of age--succeeded in getting from the steamer to the wharf, and thence to the woods, where he lay concealed until the shades of night had set in, when he again commenced his journey northwards. While with Dr. Young, a nephew of that gentleman, whose christian name was William, came into the family: the slave was, therefore, denuded of the name of William, and thenceforth called Sanford. This deprivation of his original name he had ever regarded as an indignity, and having now gained his freedom he resumed his original name; and as there was no one by whom he could be addressed by it, he exultingly enjoyed the first-fruits of his freedom by calling himself aloud by his old name "William!" After passing through a variety of painful vicissitudes, on the eighth day he found himself destitute of pecuniary means, and unable, from severe illness, to pursue his journey. In that condition he was discovered by a venerable member of the Society of Friends, who placed him in a covered waggon and took him to his own house. There he remained about fifteen days, and by the kind treatment of his host and hostess, who were what in America are called "Thompsonians," he was restored to health, and supplied with the means of pursuing his journey. The name of this, his first kind benefactor, was "Wells Brown." As William had risen from the degradation of a slave to the dignity of a man, it was expedient that he should follow the customs of other men, and adopt a second name. His venerable friend, therefore, bestowed upon him his own name, which, prefixed by his former designation, made him "William Wells Brown," a name that will live in history, while those of the men who claimed him as property would, were it not for his deeds, have been unknown beyond the town in which they lived. In nine days from the time he left Wells Brown's house, he arrived at Cleveland, in the State of Ohio, where he found he could remain comparatively safe from the pursuit of the man-stealer. Having obtained employment as a waiter, he remained in that city until the following spring, when he procured an engagement on board a steam-boat plying on Lake Erie. In that situation he was enabled, during seven months, to assist no less than sixty-nine slaves to escape to Canada. While a slave he had regarded the whites as the natural enemies of his race. It was, therefore, with no small pleasure that he discovered the existence of the salt of America, in the despised Abolitionists of the Northern States. He read with assiduity the writings of Benjamin Lundy, William Lloyd Garrison, and others; and after his own twenty years' experience of slavery, it is not surprising that he should have enthusiastically embraced the principles of "total and immediate emancipation," and "no union with slaveholders." In proportion as his mind expanded under the more favourable circumstances in which he was placed, he became anxious, not merely for the redemption of his race from personal slavery, but for the moral elevation of those among them who were free. Finding that habits of intoxication were too prevalent amongst his coloured brethren, he, in conjunction with others, commenced a temperance reformation in their body. Such was the success of their efforts that in three years, in the city of Buffalo alone, a society of upwards of 500 members was raised out of a coloured population of 700. Of that society Mr. Brown was thrice elected President. The intellectual powers of our author, coupled with his intimate acquaintance with the workings of the slave system, recommended him to the Abolitionists as a man eminently qualified to arouse the attention of the people of the Northern States to the great national sin of America. In 1843 he was engaged as a lecturer by the Western New-York Anti-Slavery Society. From 1844 to 1847 he laboured in the anti-slavery cause in connection with the American Anti-Slavery Society, and from that period up to the time of his departure for Europe, in 1849, he was an agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. The records of those societies furnish abundant evidence of the success of his labours. From the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society he early received the following testimony:-- "Since Mr. Brown became an agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, he has lectured in very many of the towns of this Commonwealth, and won for himself general respect and approbation. He combines true self-respect with true humility, and rare judiciousness with great moral courage. Himself a fugitive slave, he can experimentally describe the situation of those in bonds as bound with them; and he powerfully illustrates the diabolism of that system which keeps in chains and darkness a host of minds, which, if free and enlightened, would shine among men like stars in a firmament." Another member of that Society speaks thus of him:--"I need not attempt any description of the ability and efficiency which characterized his speaking throughout the meetings. To you who know him so well, it is enough to say that his lectures were worthy of himself. He has left an impression on the minds of the people, that few could have done. Cold, indeed, must be the heart that could resist the appeals of so noble a specimen of humanity, in behalf of a crushed and despised race." Notwithstanding the celebrity Mr. Brown had acquired in the north, as a man of genius and talent, and the general respect his high character had gained him, the slave spirit of America denied him the rights of a citizen. By the constitution of the United States, he was every moment liable to be seized and sent back to slavery. He was in daily peril of a gradual legalized murder, under a system one of whose established economical principles is, that it is more profitable to work up a slave on a plantation in a short time, by excessive labour and cheap food, than to obtain a lengthened remuneration by moderate work and humane treatment. His only protection from such a fate was the anomaly of the ascendancy of the public opinion over the law of the country. So uncertain, however, was that tenure of liberty, that even before the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law, it was deemed expedient to secure the services of Frederick Douglass to the anti-slavery cause by the purchase of his freedom. The same course might have been taken to secure the labours of Mr. Brown, had he not entertained an unconquerable repugnance to its adoption. On the 10th of January, 1848, Enoch Price wrote to Mr. Edmund Quincy offering to sell Mr. Brown to himself or friends for 325 dollars. To this communication the fugitive returned the following pithy and noble reply:-- "I cannot accept of Mr. Price's offer to become a purchaser of my body and soul. God made me as free as he did Enoch Price, and Mr. Price shall never receive a dollar from me or my friends with my consent." There were, however, other reasons besides his personal safety which led to Mr. Brown's visit to Europe. It was thought desirable always to have in England some talented man of colour who should be a living lie to the doctrine of the inferiority of the African race: and it was moreover felt that none could so powerfully advocate the cause of "those in bonds" as one who had actually been "bound with them." This had been proved in the extraordinary effect produced in Great Britain by Frederick Douglass in 1845 and 1846. The American Committee in connection with the Peace Congress were also desirous of sending to Europe coloured representatives of their Society, and Mr. Brown was selected for that purpose, and duly accredited by them to the Paris Congress. On the 18th of July, 1849, a large meeting of the coloured citizens of Boston was held in Washington Hall to bid him farewell. At that meeting the following resolutions were unanimously adopted:-- "_Resolved_,--That we bid our brother, William Wells Brown, God speed in his mission to Europe, and commend him to the hospitality and encouragement of all true friends of humanity. "_Resolved_,--That we forward by him our renewed protest against the American Colonization Society; and invoke for him a candid hearing before the British public, in reply to the efforts put forth there by the Rev. Mr. Miller, or any other agent of said Society." Two days afterwards he sailed for Europe, encountering on his voyage his last experience of American prejudice against colour. On the 28th of August he landed at Liverpool, a time and place memorable in his life as the first upon which he could truly call himself a free man upon God's earth. In the history of nations, as of individuals, there is often singular retributive mercy as well as retributive justice. In the seventeenth century the victims of monarchical tyranny in Great Britain found social and political freedom when they set foot upon Plymouth Rock in New England: in the nineteenth century the victims of the oppressions of the American Republic find freedom and social equality upon the shores of monarchical England. Liverpool, which seventy years back was so steeped in the guilt of negro slavery that Paine expressed his surprise that God did not sweep it from the face of the earth, is now to the hunted negro the Plymouth Rock of Old England. From Liverpool he proceeded to Dublin where he was warmly received by Mr. Haughton, Mr. Webb, and other friends of the slave, and publicly welcomed at a large meeting presided over by the first named gentleman. The reception of Mr. Brown at the Peace Congress in Paris was most flattering. In a company, comprising a large portion of the _elite_ of Europe, he admirably maintained his reputation as a public speaker. His brief address, upon that "war spirit of America which holds in bondage three million of his brethren," produced a profound sensation. At its conclusion the speaker was warmly greeted by Victor Hugo, the Abbe Duguerry, Emile de Girardin, the Pastor Coquerel, Richard Cobden, and every man of note in the Assembly. At the soiree given by M. De Tocqueville, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and the other fetes given to the Members of the Congress, Mr. Brown was received with marked attention. Having finished his Peace mission in France, he commenced an Anti-slavery tour in England and Scotland. With that independence of feeling which those who are acquainted with him know to be his chief characteristic, he rejected the idea of anything like eleemosynary support. He determined to maintain himself and family by his own exertions--by his literary labours, and the honourable profession of a public lecturer. His first metropolitan reception in England was at a large, influential, and enthusiastic meeting in the Music Hall, Stone Street. The members of the Whittington Club--an institution numbering nearly 2000 members, among whom are Lords Brougham, Dudley Coutts Stuart, and Beaumont; Charles Dickens, Douglass Jerrold, Martin Thackeray, Charles Lushington, M.P., Monckton Milnes, M.P., and several other of the most distinguished legislators and literary men and women in this country--elected Mr. Brown an honorary member of the Club, as a mark of respect to his character; and, as the following extract from the Secretary, Mr. Stundwicke, will show, as a protest against the distinctions made between man and man on account of colour in America:--"I have much pleasure in conveying to you the best thanks of the managing committee of this institution for the excellent lecture you gave here last evening on the subject of 'Slavery in America,' and also in presenting you in their names with an honorary membership of the Club. It is hoped that you will often avail yourself of its privileges by coming amongst us. You will then see, by the cordial welcome of the members, that they protest against the odious distinctions made between man and man, and the abominable traffic of which you have been the victim." For the last three years Mr. Brown has been engaged in visiting and holding meetings in nearly all the large towns in the kingdom upon the question of American Slavery, Temperance, and other subjects. Perhaps no coloured individual, not excepting that extraordinary man, Frederick Douglass, has done more good in disseminating anti-slavery principles in England, Scotland, and Ireland. In the spring of 1851, two most interesting fugitives, William and Ellen Craft, arrived in England. They had made their escape from the South, the wife disguised in male attire, and the husband in the capacity of her slave. William Craft was doing a thriving business in Boston, but in 1851 was driven with his wife from that city by the operation of the Fugitive Slave Law. For several months they travelled in company with Mr. Brown in this country, deepening the disgust created by Mr. Brown's eloquent denunciation of slavery by their simple but touching narrative. At length they were enabled to gratify their thirst for education by gaining admission to Lady Byron's school at Oakham, Surrey. In the month of May, Mr. Brown and Mr. and Mrs. Craft were taken by a party of anti-slavery friends to the Great Exhibition. The honourable manner in which they were received by distinguished persons to whom their history was known, and the freedom with which they perambulated the American department, was a salutary rebuke to the numerous Americans present, in regard to the great sin of their country--slavery; and its great folly--prejudice of colour. A curious circumstance occurred during the Exhibition. Among the hosts of American visitors to this country was Mr. Brown's late master, Enoch Price, who made diligent inquiry after his lost piece of property--not, of course, with any view to its reclamation--but, to the mutual regret of both parties, without success. It is gratifying to state that the master spoke highly of, and expressed a wish for the future prosperity of, his fugitive slave; a fact which tends to prove that prejudice of colour is to a very great extent a thing of locality and association. Had Mr. Price, however, left behind him letters of manumission for Mr. Brown, enabling him, if he chose, to return to his native land, he would have given a more practical proof of respect, and of the sincerity of his desire for the welfare of Mr. Brown. It would extend these pages far beyond their proposed length were anything like a detailed account of Mr. Brown's anti-slavery labours in this country to be attempted. Suffice it to say that they have everywhere been attended with benefit and approbation. At Bolton an admirable address from the ladies was presented to him, and at other places he has received most honourable testimonials. Since Mr. Brown left America, the condition of the fugitive slaves in his own country has, through the operation of the Fugitive Slave Law, been rendered so perilous as to preclude the possibility of return without the almost certain loss of liberty. His expatriation has, however, been a gain to the cause of humanity in this country, where an intelligent representative of the oppressed coloured Americans is constantly needed, not only to describe, in language of fervid eloquence, the wrongs inflicted upon his race in the United States, but to prevent their bonds being strengthened in this country by holding fellowship with slave-holding and slave-abetting ministers from America. In his lectures he has clearly demonstrated the fact, that the sole support of the slavery of the United States is its churches. This knowledge of the standing of American ministers in reference to slavery has, in the case of Dr. Dyer, and in many other instances, been most serviceable, preventing their reception into communion with British churches. Last year Mr. Brown succeeded in getting over to this country his daughters, two interesting girls twelve and sixteen years of age respectively, who are now receiving an education which will qualify them hereafter to become teachers in their turn--a description of education which would have been denied them in their native land. In 1834 Mr. Brown married a free coloured woman, who died in January of the present year. The condition of escaped slaves has engaged much of his attention while in this country. He found that in England no anti-slavery organization existed whose object was to aid fugitive slaves in obtaining an honourable subsistence in the land of their exile. In most cases they are thrown upon the support of a few warm-hearted anti-slavery advocates in this country, pre-eminent among whom stands Mr. Brown's earliest friend, Mr. George Thompson, M.P., whose house is rarely free from one or more of those who have acquired the designation of his "American constituents." This want has recently been attempted to be supplied, partly through Mr. Brown's exertions, and partly by the establishment of the Anglo-American Anti-Slavery Association. On the 1st of August, 1851, a meeting of the most novel character was held at the Hall of Commerce, London, being a soiree given by fugitive slaves in this country to Mr. George Thompson, on his return from his American mission on behalf of their race. That meeting was most ably presided over by Mr. Brown, and the speeches made upon the occasion by fugitive slaves were of the most interesting and creditable description. Although a residence in Canada is infinitely preferable to slavery in America, yet the climate of that country is uncongenial to the constitutions of the fugitive slaves, and their lack of education is an almost insuperable barrier to their social progress. The latter evil Mr. Brown attempted to remedy by the establishment of a Manual Labour School in Canada. A public meeting, attended by between 3000 and 4000 persons, was convened by Mr. Brown, on the 6th of January, 1851, in the City Hall, Glasgow, presided over by Mr. Hastie, one of the representatives of that city, at which meeting a resolution was unanimously passed approving of Mr. Brown's scheme, which scheme, however, never received that amount of support which would have enabled him to bring it into practice; and the plan at present only remains as an evidence of its author's ingenuity and desire for the elevation of his depressed race. Mr. Brown subsequently made, through the columns of the _Times_ newspaper, a proposition for the emigration of American fugitive slaves, under fair and honourable terms, to the West Indies, where there is a great lack of that tillage labour which they are so capable of undertaking. This proposition has hitherto met with no better fate than its predecessor. Mr. Brown's literary abilities may be partly judged of from the following pages. The amount of knowledge and education he has acquired under circumstances of no ordinary difficulty, is a striking proof of what can be done by combined genius and industry. His proficiency as a linguist, without the aid of a master, is considerable. His present work is a valuable addition to the stock of English literature. The honour which has hitherto been paid, and which, so long as he resides upon British soil, will no doubt continue to be paid to his character and talents, must have its influence in abating the senseless prejudice of colour in America, and hastening the time when the object of his mission, the abolition of the slavery of his native country, shall be accomplished, and that young Republic renouncing with penitence its national sin, shall take its proper place amongst the most free, civilized, and Christian nations of the earth. W.F. PREFACE. While I feel conscious that most of the contents of these Letters will be interesting chiefly to American readers, yet I may indulge the hope, that the fact of their being the first production of a Fugitive Slave, as a history of travels, may carry with them novelty enough to secure for them, to some extent, the attention of the reading public of Great Britain. Most of the letters were written for the private perusal of a few personal friends in America; some were contributed to "Frederick Douglass's paper," a journal published in the United States. In a printed circular sent some weeks since to some of my friends, asking subscriptions to this volume, I stated the reasons for its publication: these need not be repeated here. To those who so promptly and kindly responded to that appeal, I tender my most sincere thanks. It is with no little diffidence that I lay these letters before the public; for I am not blind to the fact, that they must contain many errors; and to those who shall find fault with them on that account, it may not be too much for me to ask them kindly to remember, that the author was a slave in one of the Southern States of America, until he had attained the age of twenty years; and that the education he has acquired, was by his own exertions, he never having had a day's schooling in his life. W. WELLS BROWN. 22, CECIL STREET, STRAND, LONDON. LETTER I. _Departure from Boston--the Passengers--Halifax--the Passage--First Sight of Land--Liverpool._ LIVERPOOL, _July 28_. On the 18th July, 1849, I took passage in the steam-ship _Canada_, Captain Judkins, bound for Liverpool. The day was a warm one; so much so, that many persons on board, as well as several on shore, stood with their umbrellas up, so intense was the heat of the sun. The ringing of the ship's bell was a signal for us to shake hands with our friends, which we did, and then stepped on the deck of the noble craft. The _Canada_ quitted her moorings at half-past twelve, and we were soon in motion. As we were passing out of Boston Bay, I took my stand on the quarter-deck, to take a last farewell (at least for a time), of my native land. A visit to the old world, up to that time had seemed but a dream. As I looked back upon the receding land, recollections of the past rushed through my mind in quick succession. From the treatment that I had received from the Americans as a victim of slavery, and the knowledge that I was at that time liable to be seized and again reduced to whips and chains, I had supposed that I would leave the country without any regret; but in this I was mistaken, for when I saw the last thread of communication cut off between me and the land, and the dim shores dying away in the distance, I almost regretted that I was not on shore. An anticipated trip to a foreign country appears pleasant when talking about it, especially when surrounded by friends whom we love; but when we have left them all behind, it does not seem so pleasant. Whatever may be the fault of the government under which we live, and no matter how oppressive her laws may appear, yet we leave our native land (if such it be) with feelings akin to sorrow. With the steamer's powerful engine at work, and with a fair wind, we were speedily on the bosom of the Atlantic, which was as calm and as smooth as our own Hudson in its calmest aspect. We had on board above one hundred passengers, forty of whom were the "Viennese children"--a troop of dancers. The passengers represented several different nations, English, French, Spaniards, Africans, and Americans. One man who had the longest pair of mustaches that mortal man was ever doomed to wear, especially attracted my attention. He appeared to belong to no country in particular, but was yet the busiest man on board. After viewing for some time the many strange faces around me, I descended to the cabin to look after my luggage, which had been put hurriedly on board. I hope that all who take a trip of so great a distance may be as fortunate as I was, in being supplied with books to read on the voyage. My friends had furnished me with literature, from "Macaulay's History of England" to "Jane Eyre," so that I did not want for books to occupy my time. A pleasant passage of about thirty hours, brought us to Halifax, at six o'clock in the evening. In company with my friend the President of the Oberlin Institute, I took a stroll through the town; and from what little I saw of the people in the streets, I am sure that the taking of the Temperance pledge would do them no injury. Our stay at Halifax was short. Having taken in a few sacks of coals, the mails, and a limited number of passengers, we were again out, and soon at sea. After a pleasant run of seven days more, and as I was lying in my bed, I heard the cry of "Land a-head." Although our passage had been unprecedentedly short, yet I need not inform you that this news was hailed with joy by all on board. For my own part, I was soon on deck. Away in the distance, and on our larboard quarter, were the grey hills of Ireland. Yes! we were in sight of the land of Emmett and O'Connell. While I rejoiced with the other passengers at the sight of land, and the near approach to the end of the voyage, I felt low spirited, because it reminded me of the great distance I was from home. But the experience of above twenty years' travelling, had prepared me to undergo what most persons must lay their account with, in visiting a strange country. This was the last day but one that we were to be on board; and as if moved by the sight of land, all seemed to be gathering their different things together--brushing up their old clothes and putting on their new ones, as if this would bring them any sooner to the end of their journey. The last night on board was the most pleasant, apparently, that we had experienced; probably, because it was the last. The moon was in her meridian splendour, pouring her broad light over the calm sea; while near to us, on our starboard side, was a ship with her snow-white sails spread aloft, and stealing through the water like a thing of life. What can present a more picturesque view, than two vessels at sea on a moonlight night, and within a few rods of each other? With a gentle breeze, and the powerful engine at work, we seemed to be flying to the embrace of our British neighbours. The next morning I was up before the sun, and found that we were within a few miles of Liverpool. The taking of a pilot on board at eleven o'clock, warned us to prepare to quit our ocean palace and seek other quarters. At a little past three o'clock, the ship cast anchor, and we were all tumbled, bag and baggage, into a small steamer, and in a few moments were at the door of the Custom-House. The passage had only been nine days and twenty-two hours, the quickest on record at that time, yet it was long enough. I waited nearly three hours before my name was called, and when it was, I unlocked my trunks and handed them over to one of the officers, whose dirty hands made no improvement on the work of the laundress. First one article was taken out, and then another, till an _Iron Collar_ that had been worn by a female slave on the banks of the Mississippi, was hauled out, and this democratic instrument of torture became the centre of attraction; so much so, that instead of going on with the examination, all hands stopped to look at the "Negro Collar." Several of my countrymen who were standing by, were not a little displeased at answers which I gave to questions on the subject of Slavery; but they held their peace. The interest created by the appearance of the Iron Collar, closed the examination of my luggage. As if afraid that they would find something more hideous, they put the Custom-House mark on each piece, and passed them out, and I was soon comfortably installed at Brown's Temperance Hotel, Clayton Square. No person of my complexion can visit this country without being struck with the marked difference between the English and the Americans. The prejudice which I have experienced on all and every occasion in the United States, and to some extent on board the _Canada_, vanished as soon as I set foot on the soil of Britain. In America I had been bought and sold as a slave, in the Southern States. In the so-called free States, I had been treated as one born to occupy an inferior position,--in steamers, compelled to take my fare on the deck; in hotels, to take my meals in the kitchen; in coaches, to ride on the outside; in railways, to ride in the "negro car;" and in churches, to sit in the "negro pew." But no sooner was I on British soil, than I was recognised as a man, and an equal. The very dogs in the streets appeared conscious of my manhood. Such is the difference, and such is the change that is brought about by a trip of nine days in an Atlantic steamer. I was not more struck with the treatment of the people, than with the appearance of the great seaport of the world. The grey appearance of the stone piers and docks, the dark look of the magnificent warehouses, the substantial appearance of every thing around, causes one to think himself in a new world instead of the old. Every thing in Liverpool looks old, yet nothing is worn out. The beautiful villas on the opposite side of the river, in the vicinity of Birkenhead, together with the countless number of vessels in the river, and the great ships to be seen in the stream, give life and animation to the whole scene. Every thing in and about Liverpool seems to be built for the future as well as the present. We had time to examine but few of the public buildings, the first of which was the Custom-House, an edifice that would be an ornament to any city in the world. For the first time in my life, I can say "I am truly free." My old master may make his appearance here, with the Constitution of the United States in his pocket, the Fugitive Slave Law in one hand and the chains in the other, and claim me as his property, but all will avail him nothing. I can here stand and look the tyrant in the face, and tell him that I am his equal! England is, indeed, the "land of the free, and the home of the brave." LETTER II. _Trip to Ireland--Dublin--Her Majesty's Visit--Illumination of the City--the Birth-Place of Thomas Moore--a Reception._ DUBLIN, _August 6_. After remaining in Liverpool two days, I took passage in the little steamer _Adelaide_ for this city. The wind being high on the night of our voyage, the vessel had scarcely got to sea ere we were driven to our berths; and though the distance from Liverpool to Dublin is short, yet, strange to say, I witnessed more effects of the sea and rolling of the steamer upon the passengers, than was to be seen during the whole of our voyage from America. We reached Kingstown, five miles below Dublin, after a passage of nearly fifteen hours, and were soon seated on a car, and on our way to the city. While coming into the bay, one gets a fine view of Dublin and the surrounding country. Few sheets of water make a more beautiful appearance than Dublin Bay. We found it as still and smooth as a mirror, with a soft mist on its surface--a strange contrast to the boisterous sea that we had left a moment before. The curious phrases of the Irish sounded harshly upon my ear, probably, because they were strange to me. I lost no time on reaching the city in seeking out some to whom I had letters of introduction, one of whom gave me an invitation to make his house my home during my stay, an invitation which I did not think fit to decline. Dublin, the Metropolis of Ireland, is a city of above two hundred thousand inhabitants, and is considered by the people of Ireland to be the second city in the British Empire. The Liffey, which falls into Dublin Bay a little below the Custom-House, divides the town into two nearly equal parts. The streets are--some of them--very fine, especially upper Sackville Street, in the centre of which stands a pillar erected to Nelson, England's most distinguished Naval Commander. The Bank of Ireland, to which I paid a visit, is a splendid building, and was formerly the Parliament House. This magnificent edifice fronts College Green, and near at hand stands a bronze statue of William III. The Bank and the Custom-House are two of the finest monuments of architecture in the city; the latter of which stands near the river Liffey, and its front makes an imposing appearance, extending to three hundred and seventy-five feet. It is built of Portland stone, and is adorned with a beautiful portico in the centre, consisting of four Doric columns supporting an enriched entablature, decorated with a group of figures in alto-relievo, representing Hibernia and Britannia presenting emblems of peace and liberty. A magnificent dome, supporting a cupola, on whose apex stands a colossal figure of Hope, rises nobly from the centre of the building to a height of one hundred and twenty-five feet. It is, withal, a fine specimen of what man can do. From this noble edifice, we bent our steps to another part of the city, and soon found ourselves in the vicinity of St. Patrick's, where we had a heart-sickening view of the poorest of the poor. All the recollections of poverty which I had ever beheld, seemed to disappear in comparison with what was then before me. We passed a filthy and noisy market, where fruit and vegetable women were screaming and begging those passing by to purchase their commodities; while in and about the market-place were throngs of beggars fighting for rotten fruit, cabbage stocks, and even the very trimmings of vegetables. On the side walks, were great numbers hovering about the doors of the more wealthy, and following strangers, importuning them for "pence to buy bread." Sickly and emaciated-looking creatures, half naked, were at our heels at every turn. After passing through a half dozen, or more, of narrow and dirty streets, we returned to our lodgings, impressed with the idea that we had seen enough of the poor for one day. In our return home, we passed through a respectable looking street, in which stands a small three storey brick building, which was pointed out to us as the birth-place of Thomas Moore, the poet. The following verse from one of Moore's poems was continually in my mind while viewing this house:-- "Where is the slave, so lowly, Condemn'd to chains unholy, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly?" * * * * * Yesterday was the Sabbath, but it had more the appearance of a holiday than a day of rest. It had been announced the day before, that the Royal fleet was expected, and at an early hour on Sunday, the entire town seemed to be on the move towards Kingstown, and as the family with whom I was staying followed the multitude, I was not inclined to remain behind, and so went with them. On reaching the station we found it utterly impossible to get standing room in any of the trains, much less a seat, and therefore determined to reach Kingstown under the plea of a morning's walk; and in this we were not alone, for during the walk of five miles the road was filled with thousands of pedestrians and a countless number of carriages, phaetons, and vehicles of a more humble order. We reached the lower town in time to get a good dinner, and rest ourselves before going to make further searches for Her Majesty's fleet. At a little past four o'clock, we observed the multitude going towards the pier, a number of whom were yelling at the top of their voices, "It's coming, it's coming;" but on going to the quay, we found that a false alarm had been given. However, we had been on the look-out but a short time, when a column of smoke rising as it were out of the sea, announced that the Royal fleet was near at hand. The concourse in the vicinity of the pier was variously estimated at from eighty to one hundred thousand. It was not long before the five steamers were entering the harbour, the one bearing Her Majesty leading the way. As each vessel had a number of distinguished persons on board, the people appeared to be at a loss to know which was the Queen; and as each party made its appearance on the promenade deck, they were received with great enthusiasm, the party having the best looking lady being received with the greatest applause. The Prince of Wales, and Prince Alfred, while crossing the deck were recognised and greeted with three cheers; the former taking off his hat and bowing to the people, showed that he had had some training as a public man although not ten years of age. But not so with Prince Alfred; for, when his brother turned to him and asked him to take off his hat and make a bow to the people, he shook his head and said, "No." This was received with hearty laughter by those on board, and was responded to by the thousands on shore. But greater applause was yet in store for the young prince; for the captain of the steamer being near by, and seeing that the Prince of Wales could not prevail on his brother to take off his hat, stepped up to him and undertook to take it off for him, when, seemingly to the delight of all, the prince put both hands to his head and held his hat fast. This was regarded as a sign of courage and future renown, and was received with the greatest enthusiasm--many crying out, "Good, good: he will make a brave king when his day comes." After the greetings and applause had been wasted on many who had appeared on deck, all at once, as if by some magic power, we beheld a lady rather small in stature, with auburn or reddish hair, attired in a plain dress, and wearing a sky-blue bonnet, standing on the larboard paddle-box, by the side of a tall good-looking man, with mustaches. The thunders of applause that now rent the air, and cries of "The Queen, the Queen," seemed to set at rest the question of which was Her Majesty. But a few moments were allowed to the people to look at the Queen, before she again disappeared; and it was understood that she would not be seen again that evening. A rush was then made for the railway, to return to Dublin. * * * * * _August 8_. Yesterday was a great day in Dublin. At an early hour the bells began their merry peals, and the people were soon seen in groups in the streets and public squares. The hour of ten was fixed for the procession to leave Kingstown, and it was expected to enter the city at eleven. The windows of the houses in the streets through which the Royal train was to pass, were at a premium, and seemed to find ready occupants. Being invited the day previous to occupy part of a window in Upper Sackville Street, I was stationed at my allotted place, at an early hour, with an out-stretched neck and open eyes. My own colour differing from those about me, I attracted not a little attention from many; and often, when gazing down the street to see if the Royal procession was in sight, would find myself eyed by all around. But neither while at the window, or in the streets, was I once insulted. This was so unlike the American prejudice, that it seemed strange to me. It was near twelve o'clock before the procession entered Sackville Street, and when it did all eyes seemed to beam with delight. The first carriage contained only Her Majesty and the Prince Consort; the second, the Royal children; and the third, the Lords in Waiting. Fifteen carriages were used by those that made up the Royal party. I had a full view of the Queen and all who followed in the train. Her Majesty--whether from actual love for her person, or the novelty of the occasion, I know not which--was received everywhere with the greatest enthusiasm. One thing, however, is certain, and that is--Queen Victoria is beloved by her subjects. But the grand _fete_ was reserved for the evening. Great preparations had been made to have a grand illumination on the occasion, and hints were thrown out that it would surpass anything ever witnessed in London. In this they were not far out of the way; for all who witnessed the scene admitted that it could scarcely have been surpassed. My own idea of an illumination, as I had seen it in the backwoods of my own native land, dwindled into nothing when compared with this magnificent affair. In company with a few friends, and a lady under my charge, I undertook to pass through Sackville and one or two other streets, about eight o'clock in the evening, but we found it utterly impossible to proceed. Masses thronged the streets, and the wildest enthusiasm seemed to prevail. In our attempt to cross the bridge, we were wedged in and lost our companions; and on one occasion I was separated from the lady, and took shelter under a cart standing in the street. After being jammed and pulled about for nearly two hours, I returned to my lodgings, where I found part of my company, who had come in one after another. At eleven o'clock we had all assembled, and each told his adventures and "hairbreadth escapes;" and nearly every one had lost a pocket handkerchief or something of the kind: my own was among the missing. However, I lost nothing; for a benevolent lady, who happened to be one of the company, presented me with one which was of far more value than the one I had lost. Every one appeared to enjoy the holiday which the Royal visit had caused. But the Irish are indeed a strange people. How varied their aspect--how contradictory their character. Ireland, the land of genius and degradation--of great resources and unparalleled poverty--noble deeds and the most revolting crimes--the land of distinguished poets, splendid orators, and the bravest of soldiers--the land of ignorance and beggary! Dublin is a splendid city, but its splendour is that of chiselled marble rather than real life. One cannot behold these architectural monuments without thinking of the great men that Ireland has produced. The names of Burke, Sheridan, Flood, Grattan, O'Connell, and Shiel, have become as familiar to the Americans as household words. Burke is known as the statesman; Sheridan for his great speech on the trial of Warren Hastings; Grattan for his eloquence; O'Connell as the agitator; and Shiel as the accomplished orator. But of Ireland's sons, none stands higher in America than Thomas Moore, the Poet. The vigour of his sarcasm, the glow of his enthusiasm, the coruscations of his fancy, and the flashing of his wit, seem to be as well understood in the new world as the old; and the support which his pen has given to civil and religious liberty throughout the world, entitled the Minstrel of Erin to this elevated position. Before leaving America I had heard much of the friends of my enslaved countrymen residing in Ireland; and the reception I met with on all hands while in public, satisfied me that what I had heard had not been exaggerated. To the Webbs, Allens, and Haughtons, of Dublin, the cause of the American slave is much indebted. I quitted Dublin with a feeling akin to leaving my native land. LETTER III. _Departure from Ireland--London--Trip to Paris--Paris--The Peace Congress: first day--Church of the Madeleine--Column Vendome--the French._ PARIS, _August 23_. After a pleasant sojourn of three weeks in Ireland, I took passage in one of the mail steamers for Liverpool, and arriving there was soon on the road to the metropolis. The passage from Dublin to Liverpool was an agreeable one. The rough sea that we passed through on going to Ireland had given way to a dead calm, and our noble little steamer, on quitting the Dublin wharf, seemed to understand that she was to have it all her own way. During the first part of the evening, the boat appeared to feel her importance, and, darting through the water with majestic strides, she left behind her a dark cloud of smoke suspended in the air like a banner; while, far astern in the wake of the vessel, could be seen the rippled waves sparkling in the rays of the moon, giving strength and beauty to the splendour of the evening. On reaching Liverpool, and partaking of a good breakfast, for which we paid double price, we proceeded to the railway station, and were soon going at a rate unknown to those accustomed to travel on one of our American railways. At a little past two o'clock in the afternoon, we saw in the distance the out-skirts of London. We could get but an indistinct view, which had the appearance of one architectural mass, extending all round to the horizon, and enveloped in a combination of fog and smoke; and towering above every other object to be seen, was the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. A few moments more, and we were safely seated in a "Hansom's Patent," and on our way to Hughes's--one of the politest men of the George Fox stamp we have ever met. Here we found forty or fifty persons, who, like ourselves, were bound for the Peace Congress. The Sturges, the Wighams, the Richardsons, the Allens, the Thomases, and a host of others not less distinguished as friends of peace, were of the company--many of whom I had heard of, but none of whom I had ever seen; yet I was not an entire stranger to many, especially to the abolitionists. In company with a friend, I sallied forth after tea to take a view of the city. The evening was fine--the dense fog and smoke having to some extent passed away, left the stars shining brightly, while the gas light from the street lamps and the brilliant shop windows gave it the appearance of day-light in a new form. "What street is this?" we asked. "Cheapside," was the reply. The street was thronged, and every body seemed to be going at a rapid rate, as if there was something of importance at the end of the journey. Flying vehicles of every description passing each other with a dangerous rapidity, men with lovely women at their sides, children running about as if they had lost their parents--all gave a brilliancy to the scene scarcely to be excelled. If one wished to get jammed and pushed about, he need go no farther than Cheapside. But every thing of the kind is done with a degree of propriety in London, that would put the New Yorkers to blush. If you are run over in London, they "beg your pardon;" if they run over you in New York, you are "laughed at:" in London, if your hat is knocked off it is picked up and handed to you; if, in New York, you must pick it up yourself. There is a lack of good manners among Americans that is scarcely known or understood in Europe. Our stay in the great metropolis gave us but little opportunity of seeing much of the place; for in twenty-four hours after our arrival we joined the rest of the delegates, and started on our visit to our Gallic neighbours. We assembled at the London Bridge Railway Station on Tuesday morning the 21st, a few minutes past nine, to the number of 600. The day was fine, and every eye seemed to glow with enthusiasm. Besides the delegates, there were probably not less than 600 more, who had come to see the company start. We took our seats and appeared to be waiting for nothing but the iron-horse to be fastened to the train, when all at once, we were informed that we must go to the booking-office and change our tickets. At this news every one appeared to be vexed. This caused great trouble; for on returning to the train many persons got into the wrong carriages; and several parties were separated from their friends, while not a few were calling out at the top of their voices, "Where is my wife? Where is my husband? Where is my luggage? Who's got my boy? Is this the right train?" "What is that lady going to do with all these children?" asked the guard. "Is she a delegate: are all the children delegates?" In the carriage where I had taken my seat was a good-looking lady who gave signs of being very much annoyed. "It is just so when I am going anywhere: I never saw the like in my life," said she. "I really wish I was at home again." An hour had now elapsed, and we were still at the station. However, we were soon on our way, and going at express speed. In passing through Kent we enjoyed the scenery exceedingly, as the weather was altogether in our favour; and the drapery which nature hung on the trees, in the part through which we passed, was in all its gaiety. On our arrival at Folkstone, we found three steamers in readiness to convey the party to Boulogne. As soon as the train stopped, a general rush was made for the steamers; and in a very short time the one in which I had embarked was passing out of the harbour. The boat appeared to be conscious that we were going on a holy mission, and seemed to be proud of her load. There is nothing in this wide world so like a thing of life as a steamer, from the breathing of her steam and smoke, the energy of her motion, and the beauty of her shape; while the ease with which she is managed by the command of a single voice, makes her appear as obedient as the horse is to the rein. When we were about half way between the two great European Powers, the officers began to gather the tickets. The first to whom he applied, and who handed out his "Excursion Ticket," was informed that we were all in the wrong boat. "Is this not one of the boats to take over the delegates?" asked a pretty little lady, with a whining voice. "No, Madam," said the captain. "You must look to the committee for your pay," said one of the company to the captain. "I have nothing to do with committees," the captain replied. "Your fare, Gentlemen, if you please." Here the whole party were again thrown into confusion. "Do you hear that? We are in the wrong boat." "I knew it would be so," said the Rev. Dr. Ritchie, of Edinburgh. "It is indeed a pretty piece of work," said a plain-looking lady in a handsome bonnet. "When I go travelling again," said an elderly looking gent with an eye-glass to his face, "I will take the phaeton and old Dobbin." Every one seemed to lay the blame on the committee, and not, too, without some just grounds. However, Mr. Sturge, one of the committee, being in the boat with us, an arrangement was entered into, by which we were not compelled to pay our fare the second time. As we neared the French coast, the first object that attracted our attention was the Napoleon Pillar, on the top of which is a statue of the Emperor in the Imperial robes. We landed, partook of refreshment that had been prepared for us, and again repaired to the railway station. The arrangements for leaving Boulogne were no better than those at London. But after the delay of another hour, we were again in motion. It was a beautiful country through which we passed from Boulogne to Amiens. Straggling cottages which bespeak neatness and comfort abound on every side. The eye wanders over the diversified views with unabated pleasure, and rests in calm repose upon its superlative beauty. Indeed, the eye cannot but be gratified at viewing the entire country from the coast to the metropolis. Sparkling hamlets spring up as the steam horse speeds his way, at almost every point--showing the progress of civilization, and the refinement of the nineteenth century. We arrived at Paris a few minutes past twelve o'clock at night, when, according to our tickets, we should have been there at nine. Elihu Burritt, who had been in Paris some days, and who had the arrangements there pretty much his own way, was at the station waiting the arrival of the train, and we had demonstrated to us, the best evidence that he understood his business. In no other place on the whole route had the affairs been so well managed; for we were seated in our respective carriages and our luggage placed on the top, and away we went to our hotels without the least difficulty or inconvenience. The champion of an "Ocean Penny Postage" received, as he deserved, thanks from the whole company for his admirable management. The silence of the night was only disturbed by the rolling of the wheels of the omnibus, as we passed through the dimly lighted streets. Where, a few months before was to be seen the flash from the cannon and the musket, and the hearing of the cries and groans behind the barricades, was now the stillness of death--nothing save here and there a _gens d'arme_ was to be seen going his rounds in silence. The omnibus set us down at the hotel Bedford, Rue de L'Arend, where, although near one o'clock, we found a good supper waiting for us; and, as I was not devoid of an appetite, I did my share towards putting it out of the way. The next morning I was up at an early hour, and out on the Boulevards to see what might be seen. As I was passing from the Bedford to the Place de La Concord, all at once, and as if by some magic power, I found myself in front of the most splendid edifice imaginable, situated at the end of the Rue Nationale. Seeing a number of persons entering the church at that early hour, and recognising among them my friend the President of the Oberlin (Ohio) Institute, and wishing not to stray too far from my hotel before breakfast, I followed the crowd and entered the building. The church itself consisted of a vast nave, interrupted by four pews on each side, fronted with lofty fluted Corinthian columns standing on pedestals, supporting colossal arches, bearing up cupolas, pierced with skylights and adorned with compartments gorgeously gilt; their corners supported with saints and apostles in _alto relievo_. The walls of the church were lined with rich marble. The different paintings and figures, gave the interior an imposing appearance. On inquiry, I found that I was in the Church of the Madeleine. It was near this spot that some of the most interesting scenes occurred during the Revolution of 1848, which dethroned Louis Philippe. Behind the Madeleine is a small but well supplied market; and on an esplanade east of the edifice, a flower market is held on Tuesdays and Fridays. * * * * * The first session of the Peace Congress is over. The Congress met this morning at 11 o'clock, in the Salle St. Cecile, Rue de la St. Lazare. The Parisians have no "Exeter Hall:" in fact, there is no private hall in the city of any size, save this, where such a meeting could be held. This hall has been fitted up for the occasion. The room is long, and at one end has a raised platform; and at the opposite end is a gallery, with seats raised one above another. On one side of the hall was a balcony with sofas, which were evidently the "reserved seats." The hall was filled at an early hour with the delegates, their friends, and a good sprinkling of the French. Occasionally, small groups of gentlemen would make their appearance on the platform, until it soon appeared that there was little room left for others; and yet the officers of the Convention had not come in. The different countries were, many of them, represented here. England, France, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, Greece, Spain, and the United States, had each their delegates. The Assembly began to give signs of impatience, when very soon the train of officials made their appearance amid great applause. Victor Hugo led the way, followed by M. Duguerry, curé of the Madeleine, Elihu Burritt, and a host of others of less note. Victor Hugo took the chair as President of the Congress, supported by Vice-presidents from the several nations represented. Mr. Richard, the Secretary, read a dry report of the names of societies, committees, &c., which was deemed the opening of the Convention. The President then arose, and delivered one of the most impressive and eloquent appeals in favour of peace that could possibly be imagined. The effect produced upon the minds of all present was such as to make the author of "_Notre Dame de Paris_" a great favourite with the Congress. An English gentleman near me said to his friend, "I can't understand a word of what he says, but is it not good?" Victor Hugo concluded his speech amid the greatest enthusiasm on the part of the French, which was followed by hurrahs in the old English style. The Convention was successively addressed by the President of the Brussels Peace Society; President Mahan of the Oberlin (Ohio) Institute, U.S.; Henry Vincent; and Richard Cobden. The latter was not only the _lion_ of the English delegation, but the great man of the Convention. When Mr. Cobden speaks, there is no want of hearers. The great power of this gentleman lies in his facts and his earnestness, for he cannot be called an eloquent speaker. Mr. Cobden addressed the Congress first in French, then in English; and, with the single exception of Mr. Ewart, M.P., was the only one of the English delegation that could speak to the French in their own language. The Congress was brought to a close at five o'clock, when the numerous audience dispersed--the citizens to their homes, and the delegates to see the sights. I was not a little amused at an incident that occurred at the close of the first session. On the passage from America, there were in the same steamer with me, several Americans, and among these, three or four appeared to be much annoyed at the fact that I was a passenger, and enjoying the company of white persons; and although I was not openly insulted, I very often heard the remark, that "That nigger had better be on his master's farm," and "What could the American Peace Society be thinking about to send a black man as a delegate to Paris." Well, at the close of the first sitting of the Convention, and just as I was leaving Victor Hugo, to whom I had been introduced by an M.P., I observed near me a gentleman with his hat in hand, whom I recognized as one of the passengers who had crossed the Atlantic with me in the _Canada_, and who appeared to be the most horrified at having a negro for a fellow passenger. This gentleman, as I left M. Hugo, stepped up to me and said, "How do you do, Mr. Brown?" "You have the advantage of me," said I. "Oh, don't you know me; I was a fellow passenger with you from America; I wish you would give me an introduction to Victor Hugo and Mr. Cobden." I need not inform you that I declined introducing this pro-slavery American to these distinguished men. I only allude to this, to show what a change comes over the dreams of my white American brother, by crossing the ocean. The man who would not have been seen walking with me in the streets of New York, and who would not have shaken hands with me with a pair of tongs while on the passage from the United States, could come with hat in hand in Paris, and say, "I was your fellow-passenger." From the Salle de St. Cecile, I visited the Column Vendome, from the top of which I obtained a fine view of Paris and its environs. This is the Bunker Hill Monument of Paris. On the top of this pillar is a statue of the Emperor Napoleon, eleven feet high. The monument is built with stone, and the outside covered with a metallic composition, made of cannons, guns, spikes, and other warlike implements taken from the Russians and Austrians by Napoleon. Above 1200 cannons were melted down to help to create this monument of folly, to commemorate the success of the French arms in the German Campaign. The column is in imitation of the Trajan pillar at Rome, and is twelve feet in diameter at the base. The door at the bottom of the pillar, and where we entered, was decorated above with crowns of oak, surmounted by eagles, each weighing 500 lbs. The bas-relief of the shaft pursues a spiral direction to the capitol, and displays, in a chronological order, the principal actions of the French army, from the departure of the troops from Boulogne to the battle of Austerlitz. The figures are near three feet high, and their number said to be two thousand. This sumptuous monument stands on a plinth of polished granite, surmounted by an iron railing; and, from its size and position, has an imposing appearance when seen from any part of the city. Everything here appears strange and peculiar--the people not less so than their speech. The horses, carriages, furniture, dress, and manners, are in keeping with their language. The appearance of the labourers in caps, resembling nightcaps, seemed particularly strange to me. The women without bonnets, and their caps turned the right side behind, had nothing of the look of our American women. The prettiest woman I ever saw was without a bonnet, walking on the Boulevards. While in Ireland, and during the few days I was in England, I was struck with the marked difference between the appearance of the women from those of my own country. The American women are too tall, too sallow, and too long-featured to be called pretty. This is most probably owing to the fact that in America the people come to maturity earlier than in most other countries. My first night in Paris was spent with interest. No place can present greater street attractions than the Boulevards of Paris. The countless number of cafés, with tables before the doors, and these surrounded by men with long moustaches, with ladies at their sides, whose very smiles give indication of happiness, together with the sound of music from the gardens in the rear, tell the stranger that he is in a different country from his own. LETTER IV. _Versailles--The Palace--Second Session of the Congress--Mr. Cobden--Henry Vincent--M. Girardin--Abbe Duguerry--Victor Hugo: his Speech._ VERSAILLES, _August 24_. After the Convention had finished its sittings yesterday, I accompanied Mrs. M. C---- and sisters to Versailles, where they are residing during the summer. It was really pleasing to see among the hundreds of strange faces in the Convention, those distinguished friends of the slave from Boston. Mrs. C----'s residence is directly in front of the great palace where so many kings have made their homes, the prince of whom was Louis XIV. The palace is now unoccupied. No ruler has dared to take up his residence here since Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette were driven from it by the mob from Paris on the 8th of October, 1789. The town looks like the wreck of what it once was. At the commencement of the first revolution, it contained one hundred thousand inhabitants; now it has only about thirty thousand. It seems to be going back to what it was in the time of Louis XIII., when in 1624 he built a small brick chateau, and from it arose the magnificent palace which now stands here, and which attracts strangers to it from all parts of the world. I arose this morning before the sun, and took a walk through the grounds of the Palace, and remained three hours among the fountains and statuary of this more than splendid place. But as I intend spending some days here, and shall have better opportunities of seeing and judging, I will defer my remarks upon Versailles for the present. Yesterday was a great day in the Congress. The session was opened by a speech from M. Coquerel, the Protestant clergyman in Paris. His speech was received with much applause, and seemed to create great sensation in the Congress, especially at the close of his remarks, when he was seized by the hand by the Abbe Duguerry, amid the most deafening and enthusiastic applause of the entire multitude. The meeting was then addressed in English by a short gentleman, of florid complexion. His words seemed to come without the least difficulty, and his jestures, though somewhat violent, were evidently studied; and the applause with which he was greeted by the English delegation, showed that he was a man of no little distinction among them. His speech was one continuous flow of rapid, fervid eloquence, that seemed to fire every heart; and although I disliked his style, I was prepossessed in his favour. This was Henry Vincent, and his speech was in favour of disarmament. Mr. Vincent was followed by M. Emile de Girardin, the editor of _La Presse_, in one of the most eloquent speeches that I ever heard; and his exclamation of "Soldiers of Peace," drew thunders of applause from his own countrymen. M. Girardin is not only the leader of the French press, but is a writer on politics of great distinction, and a leader of no inconsiderable party in the National Assembly; although still a young man, apparently not more than thirty-eight or forty years of age. After a speech from Mr. Ewart, M.P., in French, and another from Mr. Cobden in the same language, the Convention was brought to a close for the day. I spent the morning yesterday, in visiting some of the lions of the French capital, among which was the Louvre. The French Government having kindly ordered, that the members of the Peace Congress should be admitted free, and without ticket, to all the public works, I had nothing to do but present my card of membership, and was immediately admitted. The first room I entered, was nearly a quarter of a mile in length; is known as the "Long Gallery," and contains some of the finest paintings in the world. On entering this superb palace, my first impression was, that all Christendom had been robbed, that the Louvre might make a splendid appearance. This is the Italian department, and one would suppose by its appearance that but few paintings had been left in Italy. The entrance end of the Louvre was for a long time in an unfinished state, but was afterwards completed by that master workman, the Emperor Napoleon. It was long thought that the building would crumble into decay, but the genius of the great Corsican rescued it from ruin. During our walk through the Louvre, we saw some twenty or thirty artists copying paintings; some had their copies finished and were going out, others half done, while many had just commenced. I remained some minutes near a pretty French girl, who was copying a painting of a dog rescuing a child from a stream of water into which it had fallen. I walked down one side of the hall and up the other, and was about leaving, when I was informed that this was only one room, and that a half-dozen more were at my service; but a clock on a neighbouring church reminded me that I must quit the Louvre for the Salle de St. Cecile. * * * * * This morning the Hall was filled at an early hour with rather a more fashionable looking audience than on any former occasion, and all appeared anxious for the Congress to commence its session, as it was understood to be the last day. After the reading of several letters from gentlemen, apologising for their not being able to attend, the speech of Elihu Burritt was read by a son of M. Coquerel. I felt somewhat astonished that my countryman, who was said to be master of fifty languages, had to get some one to read his speech in French. The Abbe Duguerry now came forward amid great cheering, and said that "the eminent journalist, Girardin, and the great English logician, Mr. Cobden, had made it unnecessary for any further advocacy in that assembly of the Peace cause--that if the principles laid down in the resolutions were carried out, the work would be done. He said that the question of general pacification was built on truth--truth which emanated from God--and it were as vain to undertake to prevent air from expanding as to check the progress of truth. It must and would prevail." A pale, thin-faced gentleman next ascended the platform (or tribune, as it was called) amid shouts of applause from the English, and began his speech in rather a low tone, when compared with the sharp voice of Vincent, or the thunder of the Abbe Duguerry. An audience is not apt to be pleased or even contented with an inferior speaker, when surrounded by eloquent men, and I looked every moment for manifestations of disapprobation, as I felt certain that the English delegation had made a mistake in applauding this gentleman who seemed to make such an unpromising beginning. But the speaker soon began to get warm on the subject, and even at times appeared as if he had spoken before. In a very short time, with the exception of his own voice, the stillness of death prevailed throughout the building. The speaker, in the delivery of one of the most logical speeches made in the Congress, and despite of his thin, sallow look, interested me much more than any whom I had before heard. Towards the close of his remarks, he was several times interrupted by manifestations of approbation; and finally concluded amid great cheering. I inquired the gentleman's name, and was informed that it was Edward Miall, editor of the _Nonconformist_. After speeches from several others, the great Peace Congress of 1849, which had brought men together from nearly all the governments of Europe, and many from America, was brought to a final close by a speech from the President, returning thanks for the honour that had been conferred upon him. He said, "My address shall be short, and yet I have to bid you adieu! How resolve to do so? Here, during three days, have questions of the deepest import been discussed, examined, probed to the bottom; and during these discussions, counsels have been given to governments which they will do well to profit by. If these days' sittings are attended with no other result, they will be the means of sowing in the minds of those present, gems of cordiality which must ripen into good fruit. England, France, Belgium, Europe, and America, would all be drawn closer by these sittings. Yet the moment to part has arrived, but I can feel that we are strongly united in heart. But before parting I may congratulate you and myself on the result of our proceedings. We have been all joined together without distinction of country; we have all been united in one common feeling during our three days' communion. The good work cannot go back, it must advance, it must be accomplished. The course of the future may be judged of by the sound of the footsteps of the past. In the course of that day's discussion, a reminiscence had been handed up to one of the speakers, that this was the anniversary of the dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew: the rev. gentleman who was speaking turned away from the thought of that sanguinary scene with pious horror, natural to his sacred calling. But I, who may boast of firmer nerve, I take up the remembrance. Yes, it was on this day, two hundred and seventy-seven years ago, that Paris was roused from slumber by the sound of that bell which bore the name of _cloche d'argent_. Massacre was on foot, seeking with keen eye for its victim--man was busy in slaying man. That slaughter was called forth by mingled passions of the worst description. Hatred of all kinds was there urging on the slayer--hatred of a religious, a political, a personal character. And yet on the anniversary of that same day of horror, and in that very city whose blood was flowing like water, has God this day given a rendezvous to men of peace, whose wild tumult is transformed into order, and animosity into love. The stain of blood is blotted out, and in its place beams forth a ray of holy light. All distinctions are removed, and Papist and Huguenot meet together in friendly communion. (Loud cheers.) Who that thinks of these amazing changes can doubt of the progress that has been made? But whoever denies the force of progress must deny God, since progress is the boon of Providence, and emanated from the great Being above. I feel gratified for the change that has been effected, and, pointing solemnly to the past, I say let this day be ever held memorable--let the 24th of August, 1572, be remembered only for the purpose of being compared with the 24th of August, 1849; and when we think of the latter, and ponder over the high purpose to which it has been devoted--the advocacy of the principles of peace--let us not be so wanting in reliance on Providence as to doubt for one moment of the eventful success of our holy cause." The most enthusiastic cheers followed this interesting speech. A vote of thanks to the government, and three times three cheers, with Mr. Cobden as "fugleman," ended the great Peace Congress of 1849. Time for separating had arrived, yet all seemed unwilling to leave the place, where for three days men of all creeds and of no creed had met upon one common platform. In one sense the meeting was a glorious one--in another, it was mere child's play; for the Congress had been restricted to the discussion of certain topics. They were permitted to dwell on the blessings of peace, but were not allowed to say anything about the very subjects above all others that should have been brought before the Congress. A French army had invaded Rome and put down the friends of political and religious freedom, yet not a word was said in reference to it. The fact is, the Committee permitted the Congress to be _gagged_, before it had met. They put padlocks upon their own mouths, and handed the keys to the government. And this was sorely felt by many of the speakers. Richard Cobden, who had thundered his anathemas against the Corn Laws of his own country, and against wars in every clime, had to sit quiet in his fetters. Henry Vincent, who can make a louder speech in favour of peace, than almost any other man, and whose denunciations of "all war," have gained him no little celebrity with peace men, had to confine himself to the blessings of peace. Oh! how I wished for a Massachusetts atmosphere, a New England Convention platform, with Wendell Phillips as the speaker, before that assembled multitude from all parts of the world. But the Congress is over, and cannot now be made different; yet it is to be hoped that neither the London Peace Committee, nor any other men having the charge of getting up such another great meeting, will commit such an error again. LETTER V. _M. de Tocqueville's Grand Soiree--Madame de Tocqueville--Visit of the Peace Delegates to Versailles--The Breakfast--Speechmaking--The Trianons--Waterworks--St. Cloud--The Fête._ VERSAILLES, _August 24_. The day after the close of the Congress, the delegates and their friends were invited to a soirée by M. de Tocqueville, Minister for Foreign Affairs, to take place on the next evening (Saturday); and, as my coloured face and curly hair did not prevent my getting an invitation, I was present with the rest of my peace brethren. Had I been in America, where colour is considered a crime, I would not have been seen at such a gathering, unless as a servant. In company with several delegates, we left the Bedford Hotel for the mansion of the Minister of Foreign Affairs; and, on arriving, we found a file of soldiers drawn up before the gate. This did not seem much like peace: however, it was merely done in honour of the company. We entered the building through massive doors and resigned ourselves into the hands of good-looking waiters in white wigs; and, after our names were duly announced, were passed from room to room till I was presented to Madame de Tocqueville, who was standing near the centre of the large drawing-room, with a bouquet in her hand. I was about passing on, when the gentleman who introduced me intimated that I was an "American slave." At the announcement of this fact the distinguished lady extended her hand and gave me a cordial welcome--at the same time saying, "I hope you feel yourself free in Paris." Having accepted an invitation to a seat by the lady's side, who seated herself on a sofa, I was soon what I most dislike, "the observed of all observers." I recognised among many of my own countrymen, who were gazing at me, the American Consul, Mr. Walsh. My position did not improve his looks. The company present on this occasion were variously estimated at from one thousand to fifteen hundred. Among these were the Ambassadors from the different countries represented at the French metropolis, and many of the _elite_ of Paris. One could not but be interested with the difference in dress, looks, and manners of this assemblage of strangers whose language was as different as their general appearance. Delight seemed to beam in every countenance as the living stream floated from one room to another. The house and gardens were illuminated in the most gorgeous manner. Red, yellow, blue, green, and many other coloured lamps, suspended from the branches of the trees in the gardens, gave life and animation to the whole scene out of doors. The soirée passed off satisfactorily to all parties; and by twelve o'clock I was again at my Hotel. * * * * * Through the politeness of the government the members of the Congress have not only had the pleasure of seeing all the public works free, and without special ticket, but the palaces of Versailles and St. Cloud, together with their splendid grounds, have been thrown open, and the water-works set to playing in both places. This mark of respect for the Peace movement is commendable in the French; and were I not such a strenuous friend of free speech, this act would cause me to overlook the padlocks that the government put upon our lips in the Congress. Two long trains left Paris at nine o'clock for Versailles; and at each of the stations the company were loudly cheered by the people who had assembled to see them pass. At Versailles, we found thousands at the station, who gave us a most enthusiastic welcome. We were blessed with a goodly number of the fair sex, who always give life and vigour to such scenes. The train had scarcely stopped, ere the great throng were wending their ways in different directions, some to the cafés to get what an early start prevented their getting before leaving Paris, and others to see the soldiers who were on review. But most bent their steps towards the great palace. At eleven o'clock we were summoned to the _dejeuner_, which had been prepared by the English delegates in honour of their American friends. About six hundred sat down at the tables. Breakfast being ended, Mr. Cobden was called to the chair, and several speeches were made. Many who had not an opportunity to speak at the Congress, thought this a good chance; and the written addresses which had been studied during the passage from America, with the hope that they would immortalize their authors before the great Congress, were produced at the breakfast table. But speech-making was not the order of the day. Too many thundering addresses had been delivered in the Salle de St. Cecile, to allow the company to sit and hear dryly written and worse delivered speeches in the Teniscourt. There was no limited time given to the speakers, yet no one had been on his feet five minutes, before the cry was heard from all parts of the house, "Time, time." One American was hissed down, another took his seat with a red face, and a third opened his bundle of paper, looked around at the audience, made a bow, and took his seat amid great applause. Yet some speeches were made, and to good effect, the best of which was by Elihu Burritt, who was followed by the Rev. James Freeman Clark. I regretted very much that the latter did not deliver his address before the Congress, for he is a man of no inconsiderable talent, and an acknowledged friend of the slave. The cry of "The water-works are playing," "The water is on," broke up the meeting, without even a vote of thanks to the Chairman; and the whole party were soon revelling among the fountains and statues of Louis XIV. Description would fail to give a just idea of the grandeur and beauty of this splendid place. I do not think that any thing can surpass the fountain of Neptune, which stands near the Grand Trianon. One may easily get lost in wandering through the grounds of Versailles, but he will always be in sight of some life-like statue. These monuments, erected to gratify the fancy of a licentious king, make their appearance at every turn. Two lions, the one overturning a wild boar, the other a wolf, both the production of Fillen, pointed out to us the fountain of Diana. But I will not attempt to describe to you any of the very beautiful sculptured gods and goddesses here. With a single friend I paid a visit to the two Trianons. The larger was, we were told, just as king Louis Philippe left it. One room was splendidly fitted up for the reception of Her Majesty Queen Victoria; who, it appeared, had promised a visit to the French Court; but the French Monarch ran away from his throne before the time arrived. The Grand Trianon is not larger than many noblemen's seats that may be seen in a day's ride through any part of the British empire. The building has only a ground floor, but its proportions are very elegant. We next paid our respects to the Little Trianon. This appears to be the most Republican of any of the French palaces. I inspected this little palace with much interest, not more for its beauty than because of its having been the favourite residence of that purest of Princesses, best of Queens, and most affectionate of mothers, Marie Antoinette. The grounds and building may be said to be only a palace in miniature, and this makes it still a more lovely spot. The building consists of a square pavilion two stories high, and separated entirely from the accessory buildings, which are on the left, and among them a pretty chapel. But a wish to be with the multitude, who were roving among the fountains, cut short my visit to the trianons. The day was very fine, and the whole party seemed to enjoy it. It was said that there were more than one hundred thousand persons at Versailles during the day. The company appeared to lose themselves with the pleasure of walking among the trees, flower beds, fountains, and statues. I met more than one wife seeking a lost husband, and _vice versa_. Many persons were separated from their friends and did not meet them again till at the hotels in Paris. In the train returning to Paris, an old gentleman who was seated near me said, "I would rest contented if I thought I should ever see my wife again!" At four o'clock we were _en route_ to St. Cloud, the much loved and favourite residence of the Emperor Napoleon. It seemed that all Paris had come out to St. Cloud to see how the English and Americans would enjoy the playing of the water-works. Many kings and rulers of the French have made St. Cloud their residence, but none have impressed their images so indelibly upon it as Napoleon. It was here he was first elevated to power, and here Josephine spent her most happy hours. The apartments where Napoleon was married to Marie Louise; the private rooms of Josephine and Marie Antoinette, were all in turn shown to us. While standing on the balcony looking at Paris one cannot wonder that the Emperor should have selected this place as his residence, for a more lovely spot cannot be found than St. Cloud. The palace is on the side of a hill, two leagues from Paris, and so situated that it looks down upon the French capital. Standing, as we did, viewing Paris from St. Cloud, and the setting sun reflecting upon the domes, spires, and towers of the city of fashion, made us feel that this was the place from which the monarch should watch his subjects. From the hour of arrival at St. Cloud till near eight o'clock, we were either inspecting the splendid palace or roaming the grounds and gardens, whose beautiful walks and sweet flowers made it appear a very Paradise on earth. At eight o'clock the water-works were put in motion, and the variagated lamps with their many devices, displaying flowers, stars, and wheels, all with a brilliancy that can scarcely be described, seemed to throw everything in the shade we had seen at Versailles. At nine o'clock the train was announced, and after a good deal of jamming and pushing about, we were again on the way to Paris. LETTER VI. _The Tuileries--Place de la Concorde--The Egyptian Obelisk--Palais Royal--Residence of Robespierre--A Visit to the Room in which Charlotte Corday killed Marat--Church de Notre Dame--Palais de Justice--Hotel des Invalids--National Assembly--The Elysee._ PARIS, _August 28_. Yesterday morning I started at an early hour for the Palace of the Tuileries. A show of my card of membership of the Congress (which had carried me through so many of the public buildings) was enough to gain me immediate admission. The attack of the mob on the palace, on the 20th of June, 1792, the massacre of the Swiss guard on the 10th of August of the same year, the attack by the people in July 1830, together with the recent flight of king Louis Philippe and family, made me anxious to visit the old pile. We were taken from room to room, until the entire building had been inspected. In front of the Tuileries, are a most magnificent garden and grounds. These were all laid out by Louis XIV., and are left nearly as they were during that monarch's reign. Above fifty acres surrounded by an iron rail fence, fronts the Place de la Concorde, and affords a place of promenade for the Parisians. I walked the pleasing grounds, and saw hundreds of well dressed persons walking under the shade of the great chestnuts, or sitting on chairs which were kept to let at two sous a piece. Near by is the Place de Carrousel, noted for its historical remembrances. Many incidents connected with the several revolutions occurred here, and it is pointed out as the place where Napoleon reviewed that formidable army of his before its departure for Russia. From the Tuileries, I took a stroll through the Place de la Concorde, which has connected with it so many acts of cruelty, that it made me shudder as I passed over its grounds. As if to take from one's mind the old associations of this place, the French have erected on it, or rather given a place to, the celebrated obelisk of Luxor, which now is the chief attraction on the grounds. The obelisk was brought from Egypt at an enormous expense; for which purpose a ship was built, and several hundred men employed above three years in its removal. It is formed of the finest red syenite, and covered on each side with three lines of hieroglyphic inscriptions, commemorative of Sesostris--the middle lines being the most deeply cut and most carefully finished; and the characters altogether number more than 1600. The obelisk is of a single stone, is 72 feet in height, weighs 500,000 lbs., and stands on a block of granite that weighs 250,000 lbs. He who can read Latin will see that the monument tells its own story, but to me its characters were all blank. It would be tedious to follow the history of this old and venerated stone, which was taken from the quarry 1550 years before the birth of Christ; placed in Thebes; its removal; the journey to the Nile, and down the Nile; thence to Cherbourg, and lastly its arrival in Paris on the 23d of December, 1833--just one year before I escaped from slavery. The obelisk was raised on the spot where it now stands, on the 25th of October, 1836, in the presence of Louis Philippe and amid the greetings of 160,000 persons. Having missed my dinner, I crossed over to the Palais Royal, to a dining saloon, and can assure you that a better dinner may be had there for five francs, than can be got in New York for twice that sum, and especially if the person who wants the dinner is a coloured man. I found no prejudice against my complexion in the Palais Royal. Many of the rooms in this once abode of Royalty, are most splendidly furnished, and decorated with valuable pictures. The likenesses of Madame de Stael, J.J. Rousseau, Cromwell, and Francis I., are among them. * * * * * After several unsuccessful attempts to-day, in company with R.D. Webb, Esq., to seek out the house where once resided the notorious Robespierre, I was fortunate enough to find it, but not until I had lost the company of my friend. The house is No. 396, Rue St. Honore, opposite the Church of the Assumption. It stands back, and is reached by entering a court. During the first revolution it was occupied by M. Duplay, with whom Robespierre lodged. The room used by the great man of the revolution, was pointed out to me. It is small, and the ceiling low, with two windows looking out upon the court. The pin upon which the blue coat once hung, is still in the wall. While standing there, I could almost imagine that I saw the great "Incorruptible," sitting at the small table composing those speeches which gave him so much power and influence in the Convention and the Clubs. Here, the disciple of Rousseau sat and planned how he should outdo his enemies and hold on to his friends. From this room he went forth, followed by his dog Brunt, to take his solitary walk in a favourite and neighbouring field, or to the fiery discussions of the National Convention. In the same street, is the house in which Madame Roland--one of Robespierre's victims--resided. A view of the residence of one of the master spirits of the French revolution inclined me to search out more, and therefore I proceeded to the old town, and after winding through several small streets--some of them so narrow as not to admit more than one cab at a time--I found myself in the Rue de L'Ecole de Medecine, and standing in front of house No. 20. This was the residence, during the early days of the revolution, of that bloodthirsty demon in human form, Marat. I said to a butcher, whose shop was underneath, that I wanted to see La Chambre de Marat. He called out to the woman of the house to know if I could be admitted, and the reply was, that the room was used as a sleeping apartment, and could not be seen. As this was private property, my blue card of membership to the Congress was not available. But after slipping a franc into the old lady's hand, I was informed that the room was now ready. We entered a court and ascended a flight of stairs, the entrance to which is on the right; then crossing to the left, we were shown into a moderate-sized room on the first floor, with two windows looking out upon a yard. Here it was where the "Friend of the People" (as he styled himself,) sat and wrote those articles that appeared daily in his journal, urging the people to "hang the rich upon lamp posts." The place where the bath stood, in which he was bathing at the time he was killed by Charlotte Corday, was pointed out to us; and even something representing an old stain of blood was shown as the place where he was laid when taken out of the bath. The window, behind whose curtains the heroine hid, after she had plunged the dagger into the heart of the man whom she thought was the cause of the shedding of so much blood by the guillotine, was pointed out with a seeming degree of pride by the old woman. With my Guide Book in hand, I again went forth to "hunt after new fancies." * * * * * After walking over the ground where the guillotine once stood, cutting off its hundred and fifty heads per day, and then visiting the place where some of the chief movers in that sanguinary revolution once lived, I felt little disposed to sleep, when the time for it had arrived. However, I was out this morning at an early hour, and on the Champs Elysees; and again took a walk over the place where the guillotine stood, when its fatal blade was sending so many unprepared spirits into eternity. When standing here, you have the Palace of the Tuileries on one side, the arch on the other; on a third, the classic Madeleine; and on the fourth, the National Assembly. It caused my blood to chill, the idea of being on the identical spot where the heads of Louis XVI. and his Queen, after being cut off, were held up to satisfy the blood-thirsty curiosity of the two hundred thousand persons that were assembled on the Place de la Revolution. Here Royal blood flowed as it never did before or since. The heads of patricians and plebians, were thrown into the same basket, without any regard to birth or station. Here Robespierre and Danton had stood again and again, and looked their victims in the face as they ascended the scaffold; and here, these same men had to mount the very scaffold that they had erected for others. I wandered up the Seine, till I found myself looking at the statue of Henry the IV. over the principal entrance of the Hotel de Ville. When we take into account the connection of the Hotel de Ville with the different revolutions, we must come to the conclusion, that it is one of the most remarkable buildings in Paris. The room was pointed out where Robespierre held his counsels, and from the windows of which he could look out upon the Place de Greve, where the guillotine stood before its removal to the Place de la Concorde. The room is large, with gilded hangings, splendid old-fashioned chandeliers, and a chimney-piece with fine antiquated carvings, that give it a venerable appearance. Here Robespierre not only presided at the counsels that sent hundreds to the guillotine; but from this same spot, he, with his brother St. Just and others, were dragged before the Committee of Public Safety, and thence to the guillotine, and justice and revenge satisfied. The window from which Lafayette addressed the people in 1830, and presented to them Louis Philippe, as the king, was shown to us. Here the poet, statesman, philosopher and orator, Lamartine, stood in February 1848, and, by the power of his eloquence, succeeded in keeping the people quiet. Here he forced the mob, braved the bayonets presented to his breast, and, by his good reasoning, induced them to retain the tri-coloured flag, instead of adopting the red flag, which he considered the emblem of blood. Lamartine is a great heroic genius, dear to liberty and to France; and successive generations, as they look back upon the revolution of 1848, will recall to memory the many dangers which nothing but his dauntless courage warded off. The difficulties which his wisdom surmounted, and the good service that he rendered to France, can never be adequately estimated or too highly appreciated. It was at the Hotel de Ville that the Republic of 1848 was proclaimed to the people. I next paid my respects to the Column of July that stands on the spot formerly occupied by the Bastile. It is 163 feet in height, and on the top is the Genius of Liberty, with a torch in his right hand, and in the left a broken chain. After a fatiguing walk up a winding stair, I obtained a splendid view of Paris from the top of the column. I thought I should not lose the opportunity of seeing the Church de Notre Dame while so near to it, and, therefore, made it my next rallying point. No edifice connected with religion has had more interesting incidents occurring in it than this old church. Here Pope Pius VII. placed the Imperial Crown on the head of the Corsican--or rather Napoleon took the Crown from his hands and placed it on his own head. Satan dragging the wicked to ----; the rider on the red horse at the opening of the second seal; the blessedness of the saints; and several other striking sculptured figures were among the many curiosities in this splendid place. A hasty view from the gallery concluded my visit to the Notre Dame. Leaving the old church I strayed off in a direction towards the Seine, and passed by an old looking building of stately appearance, and recognised, among a throng passing in and out, a number of the members of the Peace Congress. I joined a party entering, and was soon in the presence of men with gowns on, and men with long staffs in their hands--and on inquiry found that I was in the Palais de Justice; beneath which is the Conciergerie, a noted prison. Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette were tried and condemned to death here. A bas-relief, by Cortat, representing Louis in conference with his Counsel, is here seen. But I had visited too many places of interest during the day to remain long in a building surrounded by officers of justice, and took a stroll upon the Boulevards. The Boulevards may be termed the Regent Street of Paris, or a New Yorker would call them Broadway. While passing a café, my German friend Faigo, whose company I had enjoyed during the passage from America, recognised me, and I sat down and took a cup of delicious coffee for the first time on the side walk, in sight of hundreds who were passing up and down the street every hour. From three till eleven o'clock, P.M., the Boulevards are lined with men and women sitting before the doors of the saloons drinking their coffee or wines, or both at the same time, as fancy may dictate. All Paris appeared to be on the Boulevards, and looking as if the great end of this life was enjoyment. * * * * * Anxious to see as much as possible of Paris in the limited time I had to stay in it, I hired a cab yesterday morning and commenced with the Hotel des Invalids, a magnificent building, within a few minutes' walk of the National Assembly. On each side of the entrance gate are figures representing nations conquered by Louis XIV., with colossal statues of Mars and Minerva. The dome on the edifice is the loftiest in Paris--the height from the ground being 323 feet. Immediately below the dome is the tomb of the man at whose word the world turned pale. A statue of the Emperor Napoleon stands in the second piazza, and is of the finest bronze. This building is the home of the pensioned soldiers of France. It was enough to make one sick at the idea of war, to look upon the mangled bodies of these old soldiers. Men with arms and no legs; others had legs but no arms; some with canes and crutches, and some wheeling themselves about in little hand carts. About three thousand of the decayed soldiers were lodged in the Hotel des Invalids, at the time of my visit. Passing the National Assembly on my return, I spent a moment or two in it. The interior of this building resembles an amphitheatre. It is constructed to accommodate 900 members, each having a separate desk. The seat upon which the Duchesse of Orleans, and her son, the Comte de Paris, sat, when they visited the National Assembly after the flight of Louis Philippe, was shown with considerable alacrity. As I left the building, I heard that the President of the Republic was on the point of leaving the Elysee for St. Cloud, and with the hope of seeing the "Prisoner of Ham," I directed my cabman to drive me to the Elysee. In a few moments we were between two files of soldiers, and entering the gates of the palace. I called out to the driver and told him to stop; but I was too late, for we were now in front of the massive doors of the palace, and a liveried servant opened the cab door, bowed, and asked if I had an engagement with the President. You may easily "guess" his surprise when I told him no. In my best French, I asked the cabman why he had come to the palace, and was answered, "You told me to." By this time a number had gathered round, all making inquiries as to what I wanted. I told the driver to retrace his steps, and, amid the shrugs of their shoulders, the nods of their heads, and the laughter of the soldiers, I left the Elysee without even a sight of the President's mustaches for my trouble. This was only one of the many mistakes I made while in Paris. LETTER VII. _The Chateau at Versailles--Private apartments of Marie Antoinette--The Secret Door--Paintings of Raphael and David--Arc de Triomphe--Beranger the Poet._ VERSAILLES, _August 31_. Here I am, within ten leagues of Paris, spending the time pleasantly in viewing the palace and grounds of the great Chateau of Louis XIV. Fifty-seven years ago, a mob, composed of men, women, and boys, from Paris, stood in front of this palace and demanded that the king should go with them to the capital. I have walked over the same ground where the one hundred thousand stood on that interesting occasion. I have been upon the same balcony, and stood by the window from which Maria Antoinette looked out upon the mob that were seeking her life. Anxious to see as much of the palace as I could, and having an offer of the company of my young friend, Henry G. Chapman, to go through the palace with me, I set out early yesterday morning, and was soon in the halls that had often been trod by Royal feet. We passed through the private, as well as the public, apartments, through the secret door by which Marie Antoinette had escaped from the mob of 1792, and viewed the room in which her faithful guards were killed, while attempting to save their Royal mistress. I took my seat in one of the little parlour carriages that had been used in days of yore for the Royal children; while my friend, H.G. Chapman, drew me across the room. The superb apartments are not now in use. Silence is written upon these walls, although upon them are suspended the portraits of men of whom the world has heard. Paintings, representing Napoleon in nearly all his battles, are here seen; and wherever you see the Emperor, there you will also find Murat, with his white plume waving above. Callot's painting of the battle of Marengo, Hue's of the retaking of Genoa, and Bouchat's of the 18th Brumaire, are of the highest order; while David has transmitted his fame to posterity, by his splendid painting of the Coronation of Napoleon and Josephine in Notre Dame. When I looked upon the many beautiful paintings of the last named artist, that adorn the halls of Versailles, I did not wonder that his fame should have saved his life, when once condemned and sentenced to death during the reign of terror. The guillotine was robbed of its intended victim, but the world gained a great painter. As Boswell transmitted his own name to posterity with his life of Johnson, so has David left his, with the magnificent paintings that are now suspended upon the walls of the palaces of the Louvre, the Tuileries, St. Cloud, Versailles, and even the little Elysee. After strolling from room to room, we found ourselves in the Salle du Sacre, Diane, Salon de Mars, de Mercure, and d'Apollon. I gazed with my eyes turned to the ceiling till I was dizzy. The Salon de la Guerre is covered with the most beautiful representations that the mind of man could conceive, or the hand accomplish. Louis XIV. is here in all his glory. No Marie Antoinette will ever do the honours in these halls again. After spending a whole day in the Palace and several mornings in the Gardens, I finally bid adieu to the bronze statue of Louis XIV. that stands in front of the Palace, and left Versailles, probably for ever. * * * * * PARIS, _September 2_. I am now on the point of quitting the French Metropolis. I have occupied the last two days in visiting places of note in the city. I could not resist the inclination to pay a second visit to the Louvre. Another hour was spent in strolling through the Italian Hall and viewing the master-workmanship of Raphael, the prince of painters. Time flies, even in such a place as the Louvre with all its attractions; and before I had seen half that I wished, a ponderous clock near by reminded me of an engagement, and I reluctantly tore myself from the splendours of the place. During the rest of the day I visited the Jardin des Plantes, and spent an hour and a half pleasantly in walking among plants, flowers, and in fact everything that could be found in any garden in France. From this place we passed by the column of the Bastile, and paid our respects to the Bourse, or Exchange, one of the most superb buildings in the city. The ground floor and sides of the Bourse, are of fine marble, and the names of the chief cities in the world are inscribed on the medallions, which are under the upper cornice. The interior of the edifice has a most splendid appearance as you enter it. The Cemetery of Père la Chaise was too much talked of by many of our party at the Hotel for me to pass it by, so I took it after the Bourse. Here lie many of the great marshals of France--the resting place of each marked by the monument that stands over it, except one, which is marked only by a weeping willow and a plain stone at its head. This is the grave of Marshal Ney. I should not have known that it was his, but some unknown hand had written with black paint, "Bravest of the Brave," on the unlettered stone that stands at the head of the man who followed Napoleon through nearly all his battles, and who was shot after the occupation of Paris by the allied army. Peace to his ashes. During my ramble through this noted place, I saw several who were hanging fresh wreaths of everlasting flowers on the tombs of the departed. A ride in an omnibus down the Boulevards, and away up the Champs Elysees, brought me to the Arc de Triomphe; and after ascending a flight of one hundred and sixty-one steps, I was overlooking the city of statuary. This stupendous monument was commenced by Napoleon in 1806; and in 1811 it had only reached the cornice of the base, where it stopped, and it was left for Louis Philippe to finish. The first stone of this monument was laid on the 15th of August, 1806, the birth-day of the man whose battles it was intended to commemorate. A model of the arch was erected for Napoleon to pass through as he was entering the city with Maria Louisa, after their marriage. The inscriptions on the monument are many, and the different scenes here represented are all of the most exquisite workmanship. The genius of War is summoning the obedient nations to battle. Victory is here crowning Napoleon after his great success in 1810. Fame stands here recording the exploits of the warrior, while conquered cities lie beneath the whole. But it would take more time than I have at command to give anything like a description of this magnificent piece of architecture. That which seems to take most with Peace Friends, is the portion representing an old man taming a bull for agricultural labour; while a young warrior is sheathing his sword, a mother and children sitting at his feet, and Minerva crowned with laurels, stands shedding her protecting influence over them. The erection of this regal monument is wonderful, to hand down to posterity the triumphs of the man whom we first hear of as a student in the military school at Brienne, whom in 1784 we see in the Ecole Militaire, founded by Louis XV. in 1751; whom again we find at No. 5, Quai de Court, near Rue de Mail; and in 1794 as a lodger at No. 19, Rue de la Michandère. From this he goes to the Hotel Mirabeau, Rue du Dauphin, where he resided when he defeated his enemies on the 13th Vendimaire. The Hotel de la Colonade, Rue Neuve des Capuchins is his next residence, and where he was married to Josephine. From this hotel he removed to his wife's dwelling in the Rue Chanteriene, No. 52. In 1796 the young general started for Italy, where his conquests paved the way for the ever memorable 18th Brumaire, that made him dictator of France. Napoleon was too great now to be satisfied with private dwellings, and we next trace him to the Elysee, St. Cloud, Versailles, the Tuileries, Fontainbleau, and finally, came his decline, which I need not relate to you. After visiting the Gobelins, passing through its many rooms, seeing here and there a half-finished piece of tapestry; and meeting a number of the members of the late Peace Congress, who, like myself had remained behind to see more of the beauties of the French capital than could be overtaken during the Convention week. I accepted an invitation to dine with a German gentleman at the Palais Royal, and was soon revelling amid the luxuries of the table. I was glad that I had gone to the Palais Royal, for here I had the honour of an introduction to M. Beranger, the poet; and although I had to converse with him through an interpreter, I enjoyed his company very much. "The people's poet," as he is called, is apparently about seventy years of age, bald on the top of the head, and rather corpulent, but of active look, and in the enjoyment of good health. Few writers in France have done better service to the cause of political and religious freedom, than Pierre Jean de Beranger. He is the dauntless friend and advocate of the down-trodden poor and oppressed, and has often incurred the displeasure of the Government by the arrows that he has thrown into their camp. He felt what he wrote; it came straight from his heart, and went directly to the hearts of the people. He expressed himself strongly opposed to slavery, and said, "I don't see how the Americans can reconcile slavery with their professed love of freedom." Dinner out of the way, a walk through the different apartments, and a stroll over the court, and I bade adieu to the Palais Royal, satisfied that I should partake of many worse dinners than I had helped to devour that day. Few nations are more courteous than the French. Here the stranger, let him come from what country he may, and be ever so unacquainted with the people and language, he is sure of a civil reply to any question that he may ask. With the exception of the egregious blunder I have mentioned of the cabman driving me to the Elysee, I was not laughed at once while in France. LETTER VIII. _Departure from Paris--Boulogne--Folkstone--London--Geo. Thompson, Esq., M.P.--Hartwell House--Dr. Lee--Cottage of the Peasant--Windsor Castle--Residence of Wm. Penn--England's First Welcome--Heath Lodge--The Bank of England._ LONDON, _Sept. 8th_. The sun had just appeared from behind a cloud and was setting, and its reflection upon the domes and spires of the great buildings in Paris made everything appear lovely and sublime, as the train, with almost lightning speed, was bringing me from the French metropolis. I gazed with eager eyes to catch a farewell glance of the tops of the regal palaces through which I had passed, during a stay of fifteen days in the French capital. A pleasant ride of four hours brought us to Boulogne, where we rested for the night. The next morning I was up at an early hour, and out viewing the town. Boulogne could present but little attraction, after a fortnight spent in seeing the lions of Paris. A return to the hotel, and breakfast over, we stepped on board the steamer, and were soon crossing the channel. Two hours more, and I was safely seated in a railway carriage, _en route_ to the English metropolis. We reached London at mid-day, where I was soon comfortably lodged at 22, Cecil Street, Strand. As the London lodging-houses seldom furnish dinners, I lost no time in seeking out a dining-saloon, which I had no difficulty in finding in the Strand. It being the first house of the kind I had entered in London, I was not a little annoyed at the politeness of the waiter. The first salutation I had, after seating myself in one of the stalls, was, "Ox tail, Sir; gravy soup; carrot soup, Sir; roast beef; roast pork; boiled beef; roast lamb; boiled leg of mutton, Sir, with caper sauce; jugged hare, Sir; boiled knuckle of veal and bacon; roast turkey and oyster sauce; sucking pig, Sir; curried chicken; harrico mutton, Sir." These, and many other dishes which I have forgotten, were called over with a rapidity that would have done credit to one of our Yankee pedlars, in crying his wares in a New England village. I was so completely taken by surprise, that I asked for a "bill of fare," and told him to leave me. No city in the world furnishes a cheaper, better, and quicker meal for the weary traveller, than a London eating-house. * * * * * After spending a day in looking about through this great thoroughfare, the Strand, I sallied forth with letters of introduction, with which I had been provided by my friends before leaving America; and following the direction of one, I was soon at No. 6, A, Waterloo Place. A moment more, and I was in the presence of one of whom I had heard much, and whose name is as familiar to the friends of the slave in the United States, as household words. Although I had never seen him before, yet I felt a feeling akin to love for the man who had proclaimed to the oppressors of my race in America, the doctrine of _immediate emancipation_ for the slaves of the great Republic. On reaching the door, I sent in my letter; and it being fresh from the hands of William Lloyd Garrison, the champion of freedom in the New World, was calculated to insure me a warm reception at the hands of the distinguished M.P. for the Tower Hamlets. Mr. Thompson did not wait for the servant to show me in; but met me at the door himself, and gave me a hearty shake of the hand, at the same time saying, "Welcome to England. How did you leave Garrison." I need not add, that Mr. T. gave me the best advice, as to my course in Great Britain; and how I could best serve the cause of my enslaved countrymen. I never enjoyed three hours more agreeably than those I spent with Mr. T. on the occasion of my first visit. George Thompson's love of freedom, his labours in behalf of the American slave, the negroes of the West Indies, and the wronged millions of India, are too well known to the people of both hemispheres, to need a word of comment from me. With the single exception of the illustrious Garrison, no individual is more loved and honoured by the coloured people of America, and their friends than Mr. Thompson. A few days after my arrival in London, I received an invitation from John Lee, Esq., LL.D., whom I had met at the Peace Congress in Paris, to pay him a visit at his seat, near Aylesbury; and as the time was "fixed" by the Dr., I took the train on the appointed day, on my way to Hartwell House. I had heard much of the aristocracy of England, and must confess that I was not a little prejudiced against them. On a bright sunshine day, between the hours of twelve and two, I found myself seated in a carriage, my back turned upon Aylesbury, the vehicle whirling rapidly over the smooth macadamised road, and I on my first visit to an English gentleman. Twenty minutes' ride, and a turn to the right, and we were amid the fine old trees of Hartwell Park; one having suspended from its branches, the national banners of several different countries; among them, the "Stars and Stripes. I felt glad that my own country's flag had a place there, although Campbell's lines"-- "United States, your banner wears, Two emblems,--one of fame; Alas, the other that it bears, Reminds us of your shame. The white man's liberty in types, Stands blazoned by your stars; But what's the meaning of your stripes, They mean your Negro-scars"-- were at the time continually running through my mind. Arrived at the door, and we received what every one does who visits Dr. Lee--a hearty welcome. I was immediately shown into a room with a lofty ceiling, hung round with fine specimens of the Italian masters, and told that this was my apartment. Hartwell House stands in an extensive park, shaded with trees, that made me think of the oaks and elms in an American forest, and many of whose limbs had been trimmed and nursed with the best of care. This was for seven years the residence of John Hampden the patriot, and more recently that of Louis XVIII., during his exile in this country. The house is built on a very extensive scale, and is ornamented in the interior with carvings in wood of many of the kings and princes of bygone centuries. A room some 60 feet by 25 contains a variety of articles that the Dr. has collected together--the whole forming a museum that would be considered a sight in the Western States of America. The morning after my arrival at Hartwell I was up at an early hour--in fact, before any of the servants--wandering about through the vast halls, and trying to find my way out, in which I eventually succeeded, but not, however, without aid. It had rained the previous night, and the sun was peeping through a misty cloud as I strolled through the park, listening to the sweet voices of the birds that were fluttering in the tops of the trees, and trimming their wings for a morning flight. The silence of the night had not yet been broken by the voice of man; and I wandered about the vast park unannoyed, except by the dew from the grass that wet my slippers. Not far from the house I came abruptly upon a beautiful little pond of water, where the gold fish were flouncing about, and the gentle ripples glittering in the sunshine looked like so many silver minnows playing on the surface. While strolling about with pleasure, and only regretting that my dear daughters were not with me to enjoy the morning's walk, I saw the gardener on his way to the garden. I followed him, and was soon feasting my eyes upon the richest specimens of garden scenery. There were the peaches hanging upon the trees that were fastened to the wall; vegetables, fruit, and flowers were there in all their bloom and beauty; and even the variegated geranium of a warmer clime, was there in its hothouse home, and seemed to have forgotten that it was in a different country from its own. Dr. Lee shows great taste in the management of his garden. I have seldom seen a more splendid variety of fruits and flowers in the southern States of America, than I saw at Hartwell House. I should, however, state that I was not the only guest at Hartwell during my stay. Dr. Lee had invited several others of the American delegation to the Peace Congress, and two or three of the French delegates who were on a visit to England, were enjoying the Doctor's hospitality. Dr. Lee is a staunch friend of Temperance, as well as of the cause of universal freedom. Every year he treats his tenantry to a dinner, and I need not add that these are always conducted on the principle of total abstinence. During the second day we visited several of the cottages of the work people, and in these I took no little interest. The people of the United States know nothing of the real condition of the labouring classes of England. The peasants of Great Britain are always spoken of as belonging to the soil. I was taught in America that the English labourer was no better off than the slave upon a Carolina rice-field. I had seen the slaves in Missouri huddled together, three, four, and even five families in a single room not more than 15 by 25 feet square, and I expected to see the same in England. But in this I was disappointed. After visiting a new house that the Doctor was building, he took us into one of the cottages that stood near the road, and gave us an opportunity, of seeing, for the first time, an English peasant's cot. We entered a low whitewashed room, with a stone floor that showed an admirable degree of cleanness. Before us was a row of shelves filled with earthen dishes and pewter spoons, glittering as if they had just come from under the hand of a woman of taste. A Cobden loaf of bread, that had just been left by the baker's boy, lay upon an oaken table which had been much worn away with the scrubbing brush; while just above lay the old family bible that had been handed down from father to son, until its possession was considered of almost as great value as its contents. A half-open door, leading into another room, showed us a clean bed; the whole presenting as fine a picture of neatness, order, and comfort, as the most fastidious taste could wish to see. No occupant was present, and therefore I inspected everything with a greater degree of freedom. In front of the cottage was a small grass plot, with here and there a bed of flowers, cheated out of its share of sunshine by the tall holly that had been planted near it. As I looked upon the home of the labourer, my thoughts were with my enslaved countrymen. What a difference, thought I, there is between the tillers of the soil in England and America. There could not be a more complete refutation of the assertion that the English labourer is no better off than the American slave, than the scenes that were then before me. I called the attention of one of my American friends to a beautiful rose near the door of the cot, and said to him, "The law that will protect that flower will also guard and protect the hand that planted it." He knew that I had drank deep of the cup of slavery, was aware of what I meant, and merely nodded his head in reply. I never experienced hospitality more genuine, and yet more unpretending, than was meted out to me while at Hartwell. And the favourable impression made on my own mind, of the distinguished proprietor of Hartwell Park, was nearly as indelible as my humble name that the Doctor had engraven in a brick, in the vault beneath the Observatory in Hartwell House. On my return to London I accepted an invitation to join a party on a visit to Windsor Castle; and taking the train at the Waterloo Bridge Station, we were soon passing through a pleasant part of the country. Arrived at the castle, we committed ourselves into the hands of the servants, and were introduced into Her Majesty's State apartments, Audience Chamber, Vandyck Room, Waterloo Chambers, St. George's Hall, Gold Pantry, and many others whose names I have forgotten. In wandering about the different apartments I lost my company, and in trying to find them, passed through a room in which hung a magnificent portrait of Charles I., by Vandyck. The hum and noise of my companions had ceased, and I had the scene and silence to myself. I looked in vain for the king's evil genius (Cromwell), but he was not in the same room. The pencil of Sir Peter Lely has left a splendid full-length likeness of James II. George IV. is suspended from a peg in the wall, looking as if it was fresh from the hands of Sir Thomas Lawrence, its admirable painter. I was now in St. George's Hall, and I gazed upward to view the beautiful figures on the ceiling, until my neck was nearly out of joint. Leaving this room, I inspected with interest the ancient _keep_ of the castle. In past centuries this part of the palace was used as a prison. Here James the First of Scotland was detained a prisoner for eighteen years. I viewed the window through which the young prince had often looked to catch a glimpse of the young and beautiful Lady Jane, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, with whom he was enamoured. From the top of the Round Tower I had a fine view of the surrounding country. Stoke Park, once the residence of that great friend of humanity and civilization, William Penn, was among the scenes that I viewed with pleasure from Windsor Castle. Four years ago, when in the city of Philadelphia, and hunting up the places associated with the name of this distinguished man, and more recently when walking over the farm once occupied by him on the banks of the Delaware, examining the old malt house which is now left standing, because of the veneration with which the name of the man who built it is held, I had no idea that I should ever see the dwelling which he had occupied in the Old World. Stoke Park is about four miles from Windsor, and is now owned by the Right Hon. Henry Labouchere. The castle, standing as it does on an eminence, and surrounded by a beautiful valley covered with splendid villas, has the appearance of Gulliver looking down upon the Lilliputians. It rears its massive towers and irregular walls over and above every other object; it stands like a mountain in the desert. How full this old palace is of material for thought! How one could ramble here alone, or with one or two congenial companions, and enjoy a recapitulation of its history! But an engagement to be at Croydon in the evening cut short my stay at Windsor, and compelled me to return to town in advance of my party. * * * * * Having met with John Morland, Esq., of Heath Lodge, at Paris, he gave me an invitation to visit Croydon, and deliver a lecture on American Slavery; and last evening, at eight o'clock, I found myself in a fine old building in the town, and facing the first English audience that I had seen in the sea-girt isle. It was my first welcome in England. The assembly was an enthusiastic one, and made still more so by the appearance of George Thompson, Esq., M.P., upon the platform. It is not my intention to give accounts of my lectures or meetings in these pages. I therefore merely say, that I left Croydon with a good impression of the English, and Heath Lodge with a feeling that its occupant was one of the most benevolent of men. The same party with whom I visited Windsor being supplied with a card of admission to the Bank of England, I accepted an invitation to be one of the company. We entered the vast building at a little past twelve o'clock to-day. The sun threw into the large halls a brilliancy that seemed to light up the countenances of the almost countless number of clerks, who were at their desks, or serving persons at the counters. As nearly all my countrymen who visit London pay their respects to this noted institution, I shall sum up my visit to it, by saying that it surpassed my highest idea of a bank. But a stroll through this monster building of gold and silver brought to my mind an incident that occurred to me a year after my escape from slavery. In the autumn of 1835, having been cheated out of the previous summer's earnings, by the captain of the steamer in which I had been employed running away with the money, I was, like the rest of the men, left without any means of support during the winter, and therefore had to seek employment in the neighbouring towns. I went to the town of Monroe, in the state of Michigan, and while going through the principal streets looking for work, I passed the door of the only barber in the town, whose shop appeared to be filled with persons waiting to be shaved. As there was but one man at work, and as I had, while employed in the steamer, occasionally shaved a gentleman who could not perform that office himself, it occurred to me that I might get employment here as a journeyman barber. I therefore made immediate application for work, but the barber told me he did not need a hand. But I was not to be put off so easily, and after making several offers to work cheap, I frankly told him, that if he would not employ me I would get a room near to him, and set up an opposition establishment. This threat, however, made no impression on the barber; and as I was leaving, one of the men who were waiting to be shaved said, "If you want a room in which to commence business, I have one on the opposite side of the street." This man followed me out; we went over, and I looked at the room. He strongly urged me to set up, at the same time promising to give me his influence. I took the room, purchased an old table, two chairs, got a pole with a red stripe painted around it, and the next day opened, with a sign over the door, "Fashionable Hair-dresser from New York, Emperor of the West." I need not add that my enterprise was very annoying to the "shop over the way"--especially my sign, which happened to be the most expensive part of the concern. Of course, I had to tell all who came in that my neighbour on the opposite side did not keep clean towels, that his razors were dull, and, above all, he had never been to New York to see the fashions. Neither had I. In a few weeks I had the entire business of the town, to the great discomfiture of the other barber. At this time, money matters in the Western States were in a sad condition. Any person who could raise a small amount of money was permitted to establish a bank, and allowed to issue notes for four times the sum raised. This being the case, many persons borrowed money merely long enough to exhibit to the bank inspectors, and the borrowed money was returned, and the bank left without a dollar in its vaults, if, indeed, it had a vault about its premises. The result was, that banks were started all over the Western States, and the country flooded with worthless paper. These were known as the "Wild Cat Banks." Silver coin being very scarce, and the banks not being allowed to issue notes for a smaller amount than one dollar, several persons put out notes from 6 to 75 cents in value; these were called "Shinplasters." The Shinplaster was in the shape of a promissory note, made payable on demand. I have often seen persons with large rolls of these bills, the whole not amounting to more than five dollars. Some weeks after I had commenced business on my "own hook," I was one evening very much crowded with customers; and while they were talking over the events of the day, one of them said to me, "Emperor, you seem to be doing a thriving business. You should do as other business men, issue your Shinplasters." This, of course, as it was intended, created a laugh; but with me it was no laughing matter, for from that moment I began to think seriously of becoming a banker. I accordingly went a few days after to a printer, and he, wishing to get the job of printing, urged me to put out my notes, and showed me some specimens of engravings that he had just received from Detroit. My head being already filled with the idea of a bank, I needed but little persuasion to set the thing finally afloat. Before I left the printer the notes were partly in type, and I studying how I should keep the public from counterfeiting them. The next day my Shinplasters were handed to me, the whole amount being twenty dollars, and after being duly signed were ready for circulation. At first my notes did not take well; they were too new, and viewed with a suspicious eye. But through the assistance of my customers, and a good deal of exertion on my own part, my bills were soon in circulation; and nearly all the money received in return for my notes was spent in fitting up and decorating my shop. Few bankers get through this world without their difficulties, and I was not to be an exception. A short time after my money had been out, a party of young men, either wishing to pull down my vanity, or to try the soundness of my bank, determined to give it "a run." After collecting together a number of my bills, they came one at a time to demand other money for them, and I, not being aware of what was going on, was taken by surprise. One day as I was sitting at my table, strapping some new razors I had just got with the avails of my "Shinplasters," one of the men entered and said, "Emperor, you will oblige me if you will give me some other money for these notes of yours." I immediately cashed the notes with the most worthless of the Wild Cat money that I had on hand, but which was a lawful tender. The young man had scarcely left when a second appeared with a similar amount, and demanded payment. These were cashed, and soon a third came with his roll of notes. I paid these with an air of triumph, although I had but half a dollar left. I began now to think seriously what I should do, or how to act, provided another demand should be made. While I was thus engaged in thought, I saw the fourth man crossing the street, with a handful of notes, evidently my "Shinplasters." I instantaneously shut the door, and looking out of the window, said, "I have closed business for the day: come to-morrow and I will see you." In looking across the street, I saw my rival standing in his shop-door, grinning and clapping his hands at my apparent downfall. I was completely "done _Brown_" for the day. However, I was not to be "used up" in this way; so I escaped by the back door, and went in search of my friend who had first suggested to me the idea of issuing notes. I found him, told him of the difficulty I was in, and wished him to point out a way by which I might extricate myself. He laughed heartily, and then said, "You must act as all bankers do in this part of the country." I inquired how they did, and he said, "When your notes are brought to you, you must redeem them, and then send them out and get other money for them; and, with the latter, you can keep cashing your own Shinplasters." This was indeed a new job to me. I immediately commenced putting in circulation the notes which I had just redeemed, and my efforts were crowned with so much success, that before I slept that night my "Shinplasters" were again in circulation, and my bank once more on a sound basis. As I saw the clerks shovelling out the yellow coin upon the counters of the Bank of England, and men coming in and going out with weighty bags of the precious metal in their hands, or on their shoulders, I could not but think of the great contrast between the monster Institution, within whose walls I was then standing, and the Wild Cat Banks of America! LETTER IX. _The British Museum--A Portrait--Night Reading--A Dark Day--A Fugitive Slave on the Streets of London,--A Friend in the time of need._ LONDON, _Sept. 24_. I have devoted the past ten days to sight-seeing in the Metropolis--the first two of which were spent in the British Museum. After procuring a guide-book at the door as I entered, I seated myself on the first seat that caught my eye, arranged as well as I could in my mind the different rooms, and then commenced in good earnest. The first part I visited was the Gallery of Antiquities, through to the north gallery, and thence to the Lycian Room. This place is filled with tombs, bas-reliefs, statues, and other productions of the same art. Venus, seated, and smelling a lotus flower which she held in her hand, and attended by three graces, put a stop to the rapid strides that I was making through this part of the hall. This is really one of the most precious productions of the art that I have ever seen. Many of the figures in this room are very much mutilated, yet one can linger here for hours with interest. A good number of the statues are of uncertain date; they are of great value as works of art, and more so as a means of enlightening much that has been obscure with respect to Lycia, an ancient and celebrated country of Asia Minor. In passing through the eastern Zoological Gallery, I was surrounded on every side by an army of portraits suspended upon the walls; and among these was the Protector. The people of one century kicks his bones through the streets of London, another puts his portrait in the British Museum, and a future generation may possibly give him a place in Westminster Abbey. Such is the uncertainty of the human character. Yesterday, a common soldier--to-day, the ruler of an empire--to-morrow, suspended upon the gallows. In an adjoining room I saw a portrait of Baxter, which gives one a pretty good idea of the great Nonconformist. In the same room hung a splendid modern portrait, without any intimation in the guide-book of who it represented, or when it was painted. It was so much like one whom I had seen, and on whom my affections were placed in my younger days, that I obtained a seat from an adjoining room and rested myself before it. After sitting half an hour or more, I wandered to another part of the building, but only to return again to my "first love," where I remained till the throng had disappeared one after another, and the officer reminding me that it was time to close. It was eight o'clock before I reached my lodgings. Although fatigued by the day's exertions, I again resumed the reading of Roscoe's "Leo X.," and had nearly finished seventy-three pages, when the clock on St. Martin's Church apprised me that it was two. He who escapes from slavery at the age of twenty years, without any education, as did the writer of this letter, must read when others are asleep, if he would catch up with the rest of the world. "To be wise," says Pope, "is but to know how little can be known." The true searcher after truth and knowledge is always like a child; although gaining strength from year to year, he still "learns to labour and to wait." The field of labour is ever expanding before him, reminding him that he has yet more to learn; teaching him that he is nothing more than a child in knowledge, and inviting him onward with a thousand varied charms. The son may take possession of the father's goods at his death, but he cannot inherit with the property the father's cultivated mind. He may put on the father's old coat, but that is all: the immortal mind of the first wearer has gone to the tomb. Property may be bequeathed, but knowledge cannot. Then let him who would be useful in his day and generation be up and doing. Like the Chinese student who learned perseverance from the woman whom he saw trying to rub a crow-bar into a needle, so should we take the experience of the past to lighten our feet through the paths of the future. The next morning at ten, I was again at the door of the great building; was soon within its walls seeing what time would not allow of the previous day. I spent some hours in looking through glass cases, viewing specimens of minerals, such as can scarcely be found in any place out of the British Museum. During this day I did not fail to visit the great Library. It is a spacious room, surrounded with large glass cases filled with volumes, whose very look tells you that they are of age. Around, under the cornice, were arranged a number of old black-looking portraits, in all probability the authors of some of the works in the glass cases beneath. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, and around these were a number of men busily engaged in looking over some chosen author. Old men with grey hairs, young men with mustaches--some in cloth, others in fustian, indicating that men of different rank can meet here. Not a single word was spoken during my stay, all appearing to enjoy the silence that reigned throughout the great room. This is indeed a retreat from the world. No one inquires who the man is who is at his side, and each pursues in silence his own researches. The racing of pens over the sheets of paper was all that disturbed the stillness of the occasion. From the Library I strolled to other rooms, and feasted my eyes on what I had never before seen. He who goes over this immense building, cannot do so without a feeling of admiration for the men whose energy has brought together this vast and wonderful collection of things, the like of which cannot be found in any other museum in the world. The reflection of the setting sun against a mirror in one of the rooms, told me that night was approaching, and I had but a moment in which to take another look at the portrait that I had seen the previous day, and then bade adieu to the Museum. Having published the narrative of my life and escape from slavery, and put it into the booksellers' hands--and seeing a prospect of a fair sale, I ventured to take from my purse the last sovereign to make up a small sum to remit to the United States, for the support of my daughter, who is at school there. Before doing this, however, I had made arrangements to attend a public meeting in the city of Worcester, at which the mayor was to preside. Being informed by the friends of the slave there, that I would, in all probability, sell a number of copies of my book, and being told that Worcester was only ten miles from London, I felt safe in parting with all but a few shillings, feeling sure that my purse would soon be again replenished. But you may guess my surprise when I learned that Worcester was above a hundred miles from London, and that I had not retained money enough to defray my expenses to the place. In my haste and wish to make up the ten pounds to send to my children, I had forgotten that the payment for my lodgings would be demanded before I should leave town. Saturday morning came; I paid my lodging bill, and had three shillings and fourpence left; and out of this sum I was to get three dinners, as I was only served with breakfast and tea at my lodgings. Nowhere in the British empire do the people witness as dark days as in London. It was on Monday morning, in the fore part of October, as the clock on St. Martin's Church was striking ten, that I left my lodgings, and turned into the Strand. The street lamps were yet burning, and the shops were all lighted as if day had not made its appearance. This great thoroughfare, as usual at this time of the day, was thronged with business men going their way, and women sauntering about for pleasure or for the want of something better to do. I passed down the Strand to Charing Cross, and looked in vain to see the majestic statue of Nelson upon the top of the great shaft. The clock on St. Martin's Church struck eleven, but my sight could not penetrate through the dark veil that hung between its face and me. In fact, day had been completely turned into night; and the brilliant lights from the shop windows almost persuaded me that another day had not appeared. Turning, I retraced my steps, and was soon passing through the massive gates of Temple Bar, wending my way to the city, when a beggar boy at my heels accosted me for a half-penny to buy bread. I had scarcely served the boy, when I observed near by, and standing close to a lamp post, a coloured man, and from his general appearance I was satisfied that he was an American. He eyed me attentively as I passed him, and seemed anxious to speak. When I had got some distance from him I looked back, and his eyes were still upon me. No longer able to resist the temptation to speak with him, I returned, and commencing conversation with him, learned a little of his history, which was as follows. He had, he said, escaped from slavery in Maryland, and reached New York; but not feeling himself secure there, he had, through the kindness of the captain of an English ship, made his way to Liverpool; and not being able to get employment there, he had come up to London. Here he had met with no better success; and having been employed in the growing of tobacco, and being unaccustomed to any other work, he could not get to labour in England. I told him he had better try to get to the West Indies; but he informed me that he had not a single penny, and that he had nothing to eat that day. By this man's story, I was moved to tears; and going to a neighbouring shop, I took from my purse my last shilling, changed it, and gave this poor brother fugitive one-half. The poor man burst into tears as I placed the sixpence in his hand, and said--"You are the first friend I have met in London." I bade him farewell, and left him with a feeling of regret that I could not place him beyond the reach of want. I went on my way to the city, and while going through Cheapside, a streak of light appeared in the east that reminded me that it was not night. In vain I wandered from street to street, with the hope that I might meet some one who would lend me money enough to get to Worcester. Hungry and fatigued I was returning to my lodgings, when the great clock of St Paul's Church, under whose shadow I was then passing, struck four. A stroll through Fleet Street and the Strand, and I was again pacing my room. On my return, I found a letter from Worcester had arrived in my absence, informing me that a party of gentlemen would meet me the next day on my reaching that place; and saying, "Bring plenty of books, as you will doubtless sell a large number." The last sixpence had been spent for postage stamps, in order to send off some letters to other places, and I could not even stamp a letter in answer to the one last from Worcester. The only vestige of money about me was a smooth farthing that a little girl had given to me at the meeting at Croydon, saying, "This is for the slaves." I was three thousand miles from home, with but a single farthing in my pocket! Where on earth is a man without money more destitute? The cold hills of the Arctic regions have not a more inhospitable appearance than London to the stranger with an empty pocket. But whilst I felt depressed at being in such a sad condition, I was conscious that I had done right in remitting the last ten pounds to America. It was for the support of those whom God had committed to my care, and whom I love as I can no others. I had no friend in London to whom I could apply for temporary aid. My friend, Mr. Thompson, was out of town, and I did not know his address. The dark day was rapidly passing away--the clock in the hall had struck six. I had given up all hopes of reaching Worcester the next day, and had just rung the bell for the servant to bring me some tea, when a gentle tap at the door was heard--the servant entered, and informed me that a gentleman below was wishing to see me. I bade her fetch a light and ask him up. The stranger was my young friend Frederick Stevenson, son of the excellent minister of the Borough Road Chapel. I had lectured in this chapel a few days previous; and this young gentleman, with more than ordinary zeal and enthusiasm for the cause of bleeding humanity, and respect for me, had gone amongst his father's congregation and sold a number of copies of my book, and had come to bring me the money. I wiped the silent tear from my eyes as the young man placed the thirteen half-crowns in my hand. I did not let him know under what obligation I was to him for this disinterested act of kindness. He does not know to this day what aid he has rendered to a stranger in a strange land, and I feel that I am but discharging in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to this young gentleman, in acknowledging my obligation to him. As the man who called for bread and cheese, when feeling in his pocket for the last threepence to pay for it, found a sovereign that he was not aware he possessed, countermanded the order for the lunch, and bade them bring him the best dinner they could get; so I told the servant when she brought the tea, that I had changed my mind, and should go out to dine. With the means in my pocket of reaching Worcester the next day, I sat down to dinner at the Adelphi with a good cut of roast beef before me, and felt myself once more at home. Thus ended a dark day in London. LETTER X. _The Whittington Club--Louis Blanc--Street Amusements--Tower of London--Westminster Abbey--National Gallery--Dante--Sir Joshua Reynolds._ LONDON, _October 10_. For some days past, Sol has not shown his face, clouds have obscured the sky, and the rain has fallen in torrents, which has contributed much to the general gloom. However, I have spent the time in as agreeable a manner as I well could. Yesterday I fulfilled an engagement to dine with a gentleman at the Whittington Club. One who is unacquainted with the Club system as carried on in London, can scarcely imagine the conveniences they present. Every member appears to be at home, and all seem to own a share in the Club. There is a free-and-easy way with those who frequent Clubs, and a licence given there that is unknown in the drawing-room of the private mansion. I met the gentleman at the Club, at the appointed hour, and after his writing my name in the visitors' book, we proceeded to the dining-room, where we partook of a good dinner. We had been in the room but a short time, when a small man, dressed in black, with his coat buttoned up to the chin, entered the saloon, and took a seat at the table hard by. My friend in a low whisper informed me that this person was one of the French refugees. He was apparently not more than thirty years of age, and exceedingly good looking--his person being slight, his feet and hands very small and well shaped, especially his hands, which were covered with kid gloves, so tightly drawn on, that the points of the finger nails were visible through them. His face was mild and almost womanly in its beauty, his eyes soft and full, his brow open and ample, his features well defined, and approaching to the ideal Greek in contour; the lines about his mouth were exquisitely sweet, and yet resolute in expression; his hair was short--his having no mustaches gave him nothing of the look of a Frenchman; and I was not a little surprised when informed that the person before me was Louis Blanc. I could scarcely be persuaded to believe that one so small, so child-like in stature, had taken a prominent part in the Revolution of 1848. He held in his hand a copy of _La Presse_, and as soon as he was seated, opened it and began to devour its contents. The gentleman with whom I was dining was not acquainted with him, but at the close of our dinner he procured me an introduction through another gentleman. As we were returning to our lodgings, we saw in Exeter Street, Strand, one of those exhibitions that can be seen in almost any of the streets in the suburbs of the Metropolis, but which is something of a novelty to those from the other side of the Atlantic. This was an exhibition of "Punch and Judy." Everything was in full operation when we reached the spot. A puppet appeared eight or ten inches from the waist upwards, with an enormous face, huge nose, mouth widely grinning, projecting chin, cheeks covered with grog blossoms, a large protuberance on his back, another on his chest; yet with these deformities he appeared uncommonly happy. This was Mr. Punch. He held in his right hand a tremendous bludgeon, with which he amused himself by rapping on the head every one who came within his reach. This exhibition seems very absurd, yet not less than one hundred were present--children, boys, old men, and even gentlemen and ladies, were standing by, and occasionally greeting the performer with the smile of approbation. Mr. Punch, however, was not to have it all his own way, for another and better sort of Punch-like exhibition appeared a few yards off, that took away Mr. Punch's audience, to the great dissatisfaction of that gentleman. This was an exhibition called the Fantoccini, and far superior to any of the street performances which I have yet seen. The curtain rose and displayed a beautiful theatre in miniature, and most gorgeously painted. The organ which accompanied it struck up a hornpipe, and a sailor, dressed in his blue jacket, made his appearance and commenced keeping time with the utmost correctness. This figure was not so long as Mr. Punch, but much better looking. At the close of the hornpipe the little sailor made a bow, and tripped off, apparently conscious of having deserved the undivided applause of the bystanders. The curtain dropped; but in two or three minutes it was again up, and a rope was discovered, extended on two cross pieces, for dancing upon. The tune was changed to an air, in which the time was marked, a graceful figure appeared, jumped upon the rope with its balance pole, and displayed all the manoeuvres of an expert performer on the tight rope. Many who would turn away in disgust from Mr. Punch, will stand for hours and look at the performances of the Fantoccini. If people, like the Vicar of Wakefield, will sometimes "allow themselves to be happy," they can hardly fail to have a hearty laugh at the drolleries of the Fantoccini. There may be degrees of absurdity in the manner of wasting our time, but there is an evident affectation in decrying these humble and innocent exhibitions, by those who will sit till two or three in the morning to witness a pantomime at a theatre-royal. * * * * * An autumn sun shone brightly through a remarkably transparent atmosphere this morning, which was a most striking contrast to the weather we have had during the past three days; and I again set out to see some of the lions of the city, commencing with the Tower of London. Every American, on returning home from a visit to the old world, speaks with pride of the places he saw while in Europe; and of the many resorts of interest he has read of, few have made a more lasting impression upon his memory than the Tower of London. The stories of the imprisoning of kings, and queens, the murdering of princes, the torturing of men and women, without regard to birth, education, or station, and of the burning and rebuilding of the old pile, have all sunk deep into his heart. A walk of twenty minutes, after being set down at the Bank by an omnibus, brought me to the gate of the Tower. A party of friends who were to meet me there had not arrived, so I had an opportunity of inspecting the grounds and taking a good view of the external appearance of the old and celebrated building. The Tower is surrounded by a high wall, and around this a deep ditch partly filled with stagnated water. The wall incloses twelve acres of ground on which stand the several towers, occupying, with their walks and avenues, the whole space. The most ancient part of the building is called the "White Tower," so as to distinguish it from the parts more recently built. Its walls are seventeen feet in thickness, and ninety-two in height, exclusive of the turrets, of which there are four. My company arrived, and we entered the tower through four massive gates, the innermost one being pointed out as the "Water, or Traitors' Gate"--so called from the fact that it opened to the river, and through it the criminals were usually brought to the prison within. But this passage is now closed up. We visited the various apartments in the old building. The room in the Bloody Tower, where the infant princes were put to death by the command of their uncle, Richard III.; also, the recess behind the gate where the bones of the young princes were concealed, were shown to us. The warden of the prison who showed us through, seemed to have little or no veneration for Henry VIII.; for he often cracked a joke, or told a story at the expense of the murderer of Anne Boleyn. The old man wiped the tear from his eye, as he pointed out the grave of Lady Jane Grey. This was doubtless one of the best as well as most innocent of those who lost their lives in the Tower; young, virtuous, and handsome, she became a victim to the ambition of her own and her husband's relations. I tried to count the names on the wall in "Beauchamp's Tower," but they were too numerous. Anne Boleyn was imprisoned here. The room in the "Brick Tower," where Lady Jane Grey was imprisoned, was pointed out as a place of interest. We were next shown into the "White Tower." We passed through a long room filled with many things having a warlike appearance; and among them a number of equestrian figures, as large as life, and clothed in armour and trappings of the various reigns from Edward I. to James II., or from 1272 to 1685. Elizabeth, or the "Maiden Queen," as the warden called her, was the most imposing of the group; she was on a cream coloured charger. We left the Maiden Queen to examine the cloak upon which General Wolf died, at the storming of Quebec. In this room Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned, and here was written his "History of the World." In his own hand, upon the wall, is written, "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." His Bible is still shown, with these memorable lines written in it by himself a short time before his death:-- "Even such is Time that takes on trust, Our youth, our joy, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days." Spears, battle-axes, pikes, helmets, targets, bows and arrows, and many instruments of torture, whose names I did not learn, grace the walls of this room. The block on which the Earl of Essex and Anne Boleyn were beheaded, was shown among other objects of interest. A view of the "Queen's Jewels" closed our visit to the Tower. The Gold Staff of St. Edward, and the Baptismal Font used at the Royal christenings, made of solid silver, and more than four feet high, were among the jewels here exhibited. The Sword of Justice was there, as if to watch the rest of the valuables. However, this was not the sword that Peter used. Our acquaintance with De Foe, Sir Walter Raleigh, Chaucer, and James Montgomery, through their writings, and the knowledge that they had been incarcerated within the walls of the bastile that we were just leaving, caused us to look back again and again upon its dark grey turrets. I closed the day with a look at the interior of St. Paul's Cathedral. A service was just over, and we met a crowd coming out as we entered the great building. "Service is over, and two pence for all that wants to stay," was the first sound that caught our ears. In the Burlesque of "Esmeralda," a man is met in the belfry of the Notre Dame at Paris, and being asked for money by one of the vergers says:-- "I paid three pence at the door, And since I came in a great deal more: Upon my honour you have emptied my purse, St. Paul's Cathedral could not do worse." I felt inclined to join in this sentiment before I left the church. A fine statue of "Surly Sam" Johnson was one of the first things that caught our eyes on looking around. A statue of Sir Edward Packenham, who fell at the Battle of New Orleans, was on the opposite side of the great hall. As we had walked over the ground where this General fell, we viewed his statue with more than ordinary interest. We were taken from one scene of interest to another, until we found ourselves in the "Whispering Gallery." From the dome we had a splendid view of the Metropolis of the world. A scaffold was erected up here to enable an artist to take sketches from which a panorama of London was painted. The artist was three years at work. The painting is now exhibited at the Colosseum; but the brain of the artist was turned, and he died insane! Indeed, one can scarcely conceive how it could be otherwise. You in America have no idea of the immensity of this building. Pile together half-a-dozen of the largest churches in New York or Boston, and you will have but a faint representation of St. Paul's Cathedral. * * * * * I have just returned from a stroll of two hours through Westminster Abbey. We entered the building at a door near Poets' Corner, and, naturally enough, looked around for the monuments of the men whose imaginative powers have contributed so much to instruct and amuse mankind. I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw. In almost any church-yard you may see monuments and tombs far superior to anything in the Poets' Corner. A few only have monuments. Shakspere, who wrote of man to man, and for man to the end of time, is honoured with one. Addison's monument is also there; but the greater number have nothing more erected to their memories than busts or medallions. Poets' Corner is not splendid in appearance, yet I observed visiters lingering about it, as if they were tied to the spot by love and veneration for some departed friend. All seemed to regard it as classic ground. No sound louder than a whisper was heard during the whole time, except the verger treading over the marble floor with a light step. There is great pleasure in sauntering about the tombs of those with whom we are familiar through their writings; and we tear ourselves from their ashes, as we would from those of a bosom friend. The genius of these men spreads itself over the whole panorama of Nature, giving us one vast and varied picture, the colour of which will endure to the end of time. None can portray like the poet the passions of the human soul. The statue of Addison, clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of Shakspere. He looks as if he had just left the study, after finishing some chosen paper for the _Spectator_. This memento of a great man, was the work of the British public. Such a mark of national respect was but justice to one who has contributed more to purify and raise the standard of English literature, than any man of his day. We next visited the other end of the same transept, near the northern door. Here lie Mansfield, Chatham, Fox, the second William Pitt, Grattan, Wilberforce, and a few other statesmen. But, above all, is the stately monument to the Earl of Chatham. In no other place so small, do so many great men lie together. To these men, whose graves strangers from all parts of the world wish to view, the British public are in a great measure indebted for England's fame. The high pre-eminence which England has so long enjoyed and maintained in the scale of empire, has constantly been the boast and pride of the English people. The warm panegyrics that have been lavished on her constitution and laws--the songs chaunted to celebrate her glory--the lustre of her arms, as the glowing theme of her warriors--the thunder of her artillery in proclaiming her moral prowess, her flag being unfurled to every breeze and ocean, rolling to her shores the tribute of a thousand realms--show England to be the greatest nation in the world, and speak volumes for the great departed, as well as for those of the living present. One requires no company, no amusements, no books in such a place as this. Time and death have placed within those walls sufficient to occupy the mind, if one should stay here a week. On my return, I spent an hour very pleasantly in the National Academy, in the same building as the National Gallery. Many of the paintings here are of a fine order. Oliver Cromwell looking upon the headless corpse of King Charles I., appeared to draw the greatest number of spectators. A scene from "As You Like it," was one of the best executed pieces we saw. This was "Rosalind, Celia, and Orlando." The artist did himself and the subject great credit. Kemble, in Hamlet, with that ever memorable skull in his hand, was one of the pieces which we viewed with no little interest. It is strange that Hamlet is always represented as a thin, lean man, when the Hamlet of Shakspere was a fat, John Bull-kind of a man. But the best piece in the Gallery was "Dante meditating the episode of Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta, S'Inferno, Canto V." Our first interest for the great Italian poet was created by reading Lord Byron's poem, "The Lament of Dante." From that hour we felt like examining everything connected with the great Italian poet. The history of poets, as well as painters, is written in their works. The best written life of Goldsmith is to be found in his poem of "The Traveller," and his novel of "The Vicar of Wakefield." Boswell could not have written a better life of himself than he has done in giving the Biography of Dr. Johnson. It seems clear that no one can be a great poet without having been sometime during life a lover, and having lost the object of his affection in some mysterious way. Burns had his Highland Mary, Byron his Mary, and Dante was not without his Beatrice. Whether there ever lived such a person as Beatrice seems to be a question upon which neither of his biographers have thrown much light. However, a Beatrice existed in the poet's mind, if not on earth. His attachment to Beatrice Portinari, and the linking of her name with the immortality of his great poem, left an indelible impression upon his future character. The marriage of the object of his affections to another, and her subsequent death, and the poet's exile from his beloved Florence, together with his death amongst strangers--all give an interest to the poet's writings, which could not be heightened by romance itself. When exiled and in poverty, Dante found a friend in the father of Francesca. And here, under the roof of his protector, he wrote his great poem. The time the painter has chosen is evening. Day and night meet in mid-air: one star is alone visible. Sailing in vacancy are the shadows of the lovers. The countenance of Francesca is expressive of hopeless agony. The delineations are sublime, the conception is of the highest order, and the execution admirable. Dante is seated in a marble vestibule, in a meditating attitude, the face partly concealed by the right hand upon which it is resting. On the whole, it is an excellently painted piece, and causes one to go back with a fresh relish to the Italian's celebrated poem. In coming out, we stopped a short while in the upper room of the Gallery, and spent a few minutes over a painting representing Mrs. Siddons in one of Shakspere's characters. This is by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and is only one of the many pieces that we have seen of this great artist. His genius was vast, and powerful in its grasp. His fancy fertile, and his inventive faculty inexhaustible in its resources. He displayed the very highest powers of genius by the thorough originality of his conceptions, and by the entirely new path that he struck out in art. Well may Englishmen be proud of his name. And as time shall step between his day and those that follow after him, the more will his works be appreciated. We have since visited his grave, and stood over his monument in St. Paul's. LETTER XI. _York Minster--The Great Organ--Newcastle-on-Tyne--The Labouring Classes--The American Slave--Sheffield--James Montgomery._ _January, 1850_. Some days since, I left the Metropolis to fulfil a few engagements to visit provincial towns; and after a ride of nearly eight hours, we were in sight of the ancient city of York. It was night, the moon was in her zenith, and there seemed nothing between her and the earth but glittering gold. The moon, the stars, and the innumerable gas-lights, gave the city a panoramic appearance. Like a mountain starting out of a plain, there stood the Cathedral in all its glory, looking down upon the surrounding buildings, with all the appearance of a Gulliver standing over the Lilliputians. Night gave us no opportunity to view the Minster. However, we were up the next morning before the sun, and walking round the Cathedral with a degree of curiosity seldom excited within us. It is thought that a building of the same dimensions would take fifty years to complete it at the present time, even with all the improvements of the nineteenth century, and would cost no less than the enormous sum of two millions of pounds sterling. From what I had heard of this famous Cathedral, my expectations were raised to the highest point; but it surpassed all the idea that I had formed of it. On entering the building, we lost all thought of the external appearance by the matchless beauty of the interior. The echo produced by the tread of our feet upon the floor as we entered, resounding through the aisles, seemed to say "Put off your shoes, for the place whereon you tread is holy ground." We stood with hat in hand, and gazed with wonder and astonishment down the incomparable vista of more than five hundred feet. The organ, which stands near the centre of the building, is said to be one of the finest in the world. A wall, in front of which is a screen of the most gorgeous and florid architecture and executed in solid stone, separates the nave from the service choir. The beautiful workmanship of this makes it appear so perfect, as almost to produce the belief that it is tracery work of wood. We ascended the rough stone steps through a winding stair to the turrets, where we had such a view of the surrounding country, as can be obtained from no other place. On the top of the centre and highest turret, is a grotesque figure of a fiddler; rather a strange looking object, we thought, to occupy the most elevated pinnacle on the house of God. All dwellings in the neighbourhood appear like so many dwarfs couching at the feet of the Minster; while its own vastness and beauty impress the observer with feelings of awe and sublimity. As we stood upon the top of this stupendous mountain of ecclesiastical architecture, and surveyed the picturesque hills and valleys around, imagination recalled the tumult of the sanguinary battles fought in sight of the edifice. The rebellion of Octavius near three thousand years ago, his defeat and flight to the Scots, his return and triumph over the Romans, and being crowned king of all Britain; the assassination of Oswald king of the Northumbrians; the flaying alive of Osbert; the crowning of Richard III; the siege by William the Conqueror; the siege by Cromwell, and the pomp and splendour with which the different monarchs had been received in York, all appeared to be vividly before me. While we were thus calling to our aid our knowledge of history, a sweet peal from the lungs of the ponderous organ below cut short our stay among the turrets, and we descended to have our organ of tune gratified, as well as to finish the inspection of the interior. I have heard the sublime melodies of Handel, Hayden, and Mozart, performed by the most skilful musicians; I have listened with delight and awe to the soul-moving compositions of those masters, as they have been chaunted in the most magnificent churches; but never did I hear such music, and played upon such an instrument, as that sent forth by the great organ in the Cathedral of York. The verger took much delight in showing us the Horn that was once mounted with gold, but is now garnished with brass. We viewed the monuments and tombs of the departed, and then spent an hour before the great north window. The designs on the painted glass, which tradition states was given to the church by five virgin sisters, is the finest thing of the kind in Great Britain. I felt a relief on once more coming into the open air and again beholding Nature's own sun-light. The splendid ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, with its eight beautiful light gothic windows, next attracted our attention. A visit to the Castle finished our stay in York; and as we were leaving the old city we almost imagined that we heard the chiming of the bells for the celebration of the first Christian Sabbath, with Prince Arthur as the presiding genius. * * * * * England stands pre-eminently the first government in the world for freedom of speech and of the press. Not even in our own beloved America, can the man who feels himself oppressed speak as he can in Great Britain. In some parts of England, however, the freedom of thought is tolerated to a greater extent than in others; and of the places favourable to reforms of all kinds, calculated to elevate and benefit mankind, Newcastle-on-Tyne doubtless takes the lead. Surrounded by innumerable coal mines, it furnishes employment for a large labouring population, many of whom take a deep interest in the passing events of the day, and, consequently, are a reading class. The public debater or speaker, no matter what may be his subject, who fails to get an audience in other towns, is sure of a gathering in the Music Hall, or Lecture Room in Newcastle. Here I first had an opportunity of coming in contact with a portion of the labouring people of Britain. I have addressed large and influential meetings in Newcastle and the neighbouring towns, and the more I see and learn of the condition of the working-classes of England the more I am satisfied of the utter fallacy of the statements often made that their condition approximates to that of the slaves of America. Whatever may be the disadvantages that the British peasant labours under, he is free; and if he is not satisfied with his employer he can make choice of another. He also has the right to educate his children; and he is the equal of the most wealthy person before an English Court of Justice. But how is it with the American Slave? He has no right to himself, no right to protect his wife, his child, or his own person. He is nothing more than a living tool. Beyond his field or workshop he knows nothing. There is no amount of ignorance he is not capable of. He has not the least idea of the face of this earth, nor of the history or constitution of the country in which he dwells. To him the literature, science, and art--the progressive history, and the accumulated discoveries of bygone ages, are as if they had never been. The past is to him as yesterday, and the future scarcely more than to-morrow. Ancestral monuments, he has none; written documents fraught with cogitations of other times, he has none; and any instrumentality calculated to awaken and expound the intellectual activity and comprehension of a present or approaching generation, he has none. His condition is that of the leopard of his own native Africa. It lives, it propagates its kind; but never does it indicate a movement towards that all but angelic intelligence of man. The slave eats, drinks, and sleeps--all for the benefit of the man who claims his body as his property. Before the tribunals of his country he has no voice. He has no higher appeal than the mere will of his owner. He knows nothing of the inspired Apostles through their writings. He has no Sabbath, no Church, no Bible, no means of grace,--and yet we are told that he is as well off as the labouring classes of England. It is not enough that the people of my country should point to their Declaration of Independence which declares that "all men are created equal." It is not enough that they should laud to the skies a constitution containing boasting declarations in favour of freedom. It is not enough that they should extol the genius of Washington, the patriotism of Henry, or the enthusiasm of Otis. The time has come when nations are judged by the acts of the present instead of the past. And so it must be with America. In no place in the United Kingdom has the American Slave warmer friends than in Newcastle. * * * * * I am now in Sheffield, and have just returned from a visit to James Montgomery, the poet. In company with James Wall, Esq., I proceeded to The Mount, the residence of Mr. Montgomery; and our names being sent in, we were soon in the presence of the "Christian Poet." He held in his left hand the _Eclectic Review_ for the month, and with the right gave me a hearty shake, and bade me "Welcome to old England." He was anything but like the portraits I had seen of him, and the man I had in my mind's eye. I had just been reading his "Pelican Island," and I eyed the poet with no little interest. He is under the middle size, his forehead high and well formed, the top of which was a little bald; his hair of a yellowish colour, his eyes rather small and deep set, the nose long and slightly aquiline, his mouth rather small, and not at all pretty. He was dressed in black, and a large white cravat entirely hid his neck and chin: his having been afflicted from childhood with salt-rhum, was doubtless the cause of his chin being so completely buried in the neckcloth. Upon the whole, he looked more like one of our American Methodist parsons, than any one I have seen in this country. He entered freely into conversation with us. He said he should be glad to attend my lecture that evening, but that he had long since quit going out at night. He mentioned having heard William Lloyd Garrison some years before, and with whom he was well pleased. He said it had long been a puzzle to him, how Americans could hold slaves and still retain their membership in the churches. When we rose to leave, the old man took my hand between his two, and with tears in his eyes said, "Go on your Christian mission, and may the Lord protect and prosper you. Your enslaved countrymen have my sympathy, and shall have my prayers." Thus ended our visit to the Bard of Sheffield. Long after I had quitted the presence of the poet, the following lines of his were ringing in my ears:-- "Wanderer, whither dost thou roam? Weary wanderer, old and grey, Wherefore has thou left thine home, In the sunset of thy day. Welcome wanderer as thou art, All my blessings to partake; Yet thrice welcome to my heart, For thine injured people's sake. Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam? To what region far away? Bend thy steps to find a home, In the twilight of thy day. Where a tyrant never trod, Where a slave was never known-- But where Nature worships God In the wilderness alone." Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted, is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost amounting to superstition, for the poet who deals with nature. And who is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle weaknesses of Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of Freedom, than our own Whittier? LETTER XII. _Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern Abbey--Redcliffe Church._ _January 29_. In passing through Yorkshire, we could not resist the temptation it offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale, about three miles from Leeds. A pleasant drive over a smooth road, brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and pensive beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral luxuriance, and amidst the touching associations of seven centuries, is almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it. After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls frowning with age. At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur. We could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:-- "Beautiful fabric! even in decay And desolation, beauty still is thine; As the rich sunset of an autumn day, When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine To render homage to its slow decline, Is more majestic in its parting hour: Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine Possesses now a more subduing power, Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower." The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is supposed, and not without foundation, to be connected with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the name of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher. The anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it. It, however, is briefly this:-- "One stormy night, as two travellers sat at the inn, each having exhausted his news, the conversation was directed to the Abbey, the boisterous night, and Mary's heroism; when a bet was at last made by one of them, that she would not go and bring back from the nave a slip of the alder-tree growing there. Mary, however, did go; but having nearly reached the tree, she heard a low, indistinct dialogue; at the same time, something black fell and rolled towards her, which afterwards proved to be a hat. Directing her attention to the place whence the conversation proceeded, she saw, from behind a pillar, two men carrying a murdered body: they passed near the place where she stood, a heavy cloud was swept from off the face of the moon, and Mary fell senseless--one of the murderers was her intended husband! She was awakened from her swoon, but--her reason had fled for ever." Mr. Southey wrote a beautiful poem founded on this story, which will be found in his published works. We spent nearly three hours in wandering through these splendid ruins. It is both curious and interesting to trace the early history of these old piles, which become the resort of thousands, nine-tenths of whom are unaware either of the classic ground on which they tread, or of the peculiar interest thrown around the spot by the deeds of remote ages. During our stay in Leeds, we had the good fortune to become acquainted with Wilson Armistead, Esq. This gentleman is well known as an able writer against Slavery. His most elaborate work is "A Tribute for the Negro." This is a volume of 560 pages, and is replete with facts refuting the charges of inferiority brought against the Negro race. Few English gentlemen have done more to hasten the day of the American slave's liberation, than Wilson Armistead. * * * * * We have just paid a visit to Newstead Abbey, the far-famed residence of Lord Byron. I posted from Hucknall over to Newstead one pleasant morning, and, being provided with a letter of introduction to Colonel Wildman, I lost no time in presenting myself at the door of the Abbey. But, unfortunately for me, the Colonel was at Mansfield, in attendance at the Assizes--he being one of the County Magistrates. I did not however lose the object of my visit, as every attention was paid in showing me about the premises. I felt as every one must, who gazes for the first time upon these walls, and remembers that it was here, even amid the comparative ruins of a building once dedicated to the sacred cause of Religion and her twin sister, Charity, that the genius of Byron was first developed. Here that he paced with youthful melancholy the halls of his illustrious ancestors, and trode the walks of the long-banished monks. The housekeeper--a remarkably good looking and polite woman--showed us through the different apartments, and explained in the most minute manner every object of interest connected with the interior of the building. We first visited the Monks' Parlour, which seemed to contain nothing of note, except a very fine stained window--one of the figures representing St. Paul, surmounted by a cross. We passed through Lord Byron's Bedroom, the Haunted Chamber, the Library, and the Eastern Corridor, and halted in the Tapestry Bedroom, which is truly a magnificent apartment, formed by the Byrons for the use of King Charles II. The ceiling is richly decorated with the Byron arms. We next visited the grand Drawing-room, probably the finest in the building. This saloon contains a large number of splendid portraits, among which is the celebrated portrait of Lord Byron, by Phillips. In this room we took into our hand the Skull-cup, of which so much has been written, and that has on it a short inscription, commencing with--"Start not--nor deem my spirit fled." Leaving this noble room, we descended by a few polished oak steps into the West Corridor, from which we entered the grand Dining Hall, and through several other rooms, until we reached the Chapel. Here we were shown a stone coffin which had been found near the high altar, when the workmen were excavating the vault, intended by Lord Byron for himself and his dog. The coffin contained the skeleton of an Abbot, and also the identical skull from which the cup, of which I have made mention, was made. We then left the building, and took a stroll through the grounds. After passing a pond of cold crystal water, we came to a dark wood in which are two leaden statues of Pan, and a female satyr--very fine specimens as works of art. We here inspected the tree whereon Byron carved his own name and that of his sister, with the date, all of which are still legible. However, the tree is now dead, and we were informed that Colonel Wildman intended to have it cut down so as to preserve the part containing the inscription. After crossing an interesting and picturesque part of the gardens, we arrived within the precincts of the ancient Chapel, near which we observed a neat marble monument, and which we supposed to have been erected to the memory of some of the Byrons; but, on drawing near to it, we read the following inscription:-- "Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery, if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of BOATSWAIN, a dog, Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, and died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808." By a will which his Lordship executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog. This feeling of affection to his dumb and faithful follower, commendable in itself, seems here to have been carried beyond the bounds of reason and propriety. In another part of the grounds we saw the oak tree planted by the poet himself. It has now attained a goodly size, considering the growth of the oak, and bids fair to become a lasting memento to the Noble Bard, and to be a shrine to which thousands of pilgrims will resort in future ages, to do homage to his mighty genius. This tree promises to share in after times the celebrity of Shakspere's mulberry, and Pope's willow. Near by, and in the tall trees, the rooks were keeping up a tremendous noise. After seeing everything of interest connected with the great poet, we entered our chaise, and left the premises. As we were leaving, I turned to take a farewell look at the Abbey, standing in solemn grandeur, the long ivy clinging fondly to the rich tracery of a former age. Proceeding to the little town of Hucknall, we entered the old grey Parish Church, which has for ages been the last resting-place of the Byrons, and where repose the ashes of the Poet, marked only by a neat marble slab, bearing the date of the poet's birth, death, and the fact that the tablet was placed there by his sister. This closed my visit to the interesting scenes associated with Byron's strange eventful history--scenes that ever acquire a growing charm as the lapse of years softens the errors of the man, and confirms the genius of the poet. * * * * * _May 10_. It was on a lovely morning that I found myself on board the little steamer _Wye_, passing out of Bristol harbour. In going down the river, we saw on our right, the stupendous rocks of St. Vincent towering some four or five hundred feet above our heads. By the swiftness of our fairy steamer, we were soon abreast of Cook's Folly, a singular tower, built by a man from whom it takes its name, and of which the following romantic story is told:--"Some years since a gentleman, of the name of Cook, erected this tower, which has since gone by the name of 'Cook's Folly.' A son having been born, he was desirous of ascertaining, by means of astrology, if he would live to enjoy his property. Being himself a firm believer, like the poet Dryden, that certain information might be obtained from the above science, he caused the child's horoscope to be drawn, and found, to his dismay, that in his third, sixteenth, or twenty-first year, he would be in danger of meeting with some fearful calamity or sudden death, to avert which he caused the turret to be constructed, and the child placed therein. Secure, as he vainly thought, there he lived, attended by a faithful servant, their food and fuel being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, until he was old enough to wait upon himself. On the eve of his twenty-first year, his parent's hopes rose high, and great were the rejoicings prepared to welcome the young heir to his home. But, alas! no human skill could avert the dark fate which clung to him. The last night he had to pass alone in the turret, a bundle of faggots was conveyed to him as usual, in which lay concealed a viper, which clung to his hand. The bite was fatal; and, instead of being borne in triumph, the dead body of his only son was the sad spectacle which met the sight of his father." We crossed the channel and soon entered the mouth of that most picturesque of rivers, the Wye. As we neared the town of Chepstow the old Castle made its appearance, and a fine old ruin it is. Being previously provided with a letter of introduction to a gentleman in Chepstow, I lost no time in finding him out. This gentleman gave me a cordial reception, and did what Englishmen seldom ever do, lent me his saddle horse to ride to the Abbey. While lunch was in preparation I took a stroll through the Castle which stood near by. We entered the Castle through the great door-way and were soon treading the walls that had once sustained the cannon and the sentinel, but were now covered with weeds and wild flowers. The drum and fife had once been heard within these walls--the only music now is the cawing of the rook and daw. We paid a hasty visit to the various apartments, remaining longest in those of most interest. The room in which Martin the Regicide was imprisoned nearly twenty years, was pointed out to us. The Castle of Chepstow is still a magnificent pile, towering upon the brink of a stupendous cliff, on reaching the top of which, we had a splendid view of the surrounding country. Time, however, compelled us to retrace our steps, and after partaking of a lunch, we mounted a horse for the first time in ten years, and started for Tintern Abbey. The distance from Chepstow to the Abbey is about five miles, and the road lies along the banks of the river. The river is walled in on either side by hills of much beauty, clothed from base to summit with the richest verdure. I can conceive of nothing more striking than the first appearance of the Abbey. As we rounded a hill, all at once we saw the old ruin standing before us in all its splendour. This celebrated ecclesiastical relic of the olden time is doubtless the finest ruin of its kind in Europe. Embosomed amongst hills, and situated on the banks of the most fairy-like river in the world, its beauty can scarcely be surpassed. We halted at the "Beaufort Arms," left our horse, and sallied forth to view the Abbey. The sun was pouring a flood of light upon the old grey walls, lighting up its dark recesses, as if to give us a better opportunity of viewing it. I gazed with astonishment and admiration at its many beauties, and especially at the superb gothic windows over the entrance door. The beautiful gothic pillars, with here and there a representation of a praying priest, and mailed knights, with saints and Christian martyrs, and the hundreds of Scriptural representations, all indicate that this was a place of considerable importance in its palmy days. The once stone floor had disappeared, and we found ourselves standing on a floor of unbroken green grass, swelling back to the old walls, and looking so verdant and silken that it seemed the very floor of fancy. There are more romantic and wilder places than this in the world, but none more beautiful. The preservation of these old abbeys should claim the attention of those under whose charge they are, and we felt like joining with the poet and saying:-- "O ye who dwell Around yon ruins, guard the precious charge From hands profane! O save the sacred pile-- O'er which the wing of centuries has flown Darkly and silently, deep-shadowing all Its pristine honours--from the ruthless grasp Of future violation." In contemplating these ruins more closely, the mind insensibly reverts to the period of feudal and regal oppression, when structures like that of Tintern Abbey necessarily became the scenes of stirring and highly-important events. How altered is the scene! Where were formerly magnificence and splendour; the glittering array of priestly prowess; the crowded halls of haughty bigots, and the prison of religious offenders; there is now but a heap of mouldering ruins. The oppressed and the oppressor have long since lain down together in the peaceful grave. The ruin, generally speaking, is unusually perfect, and the sculpture still beautifully sharp. The outward walls are nearly entire, and are thickly clad with ivy. Many of the windows are also in a good state of preservation; but the roof has long since fallen in. The feathered songsters were fluttering about, and pouring forth their artless lays as a tribute of joy; while the lowing of the herds, the bleating of flocks, and the hum of bees upon the farm near by, all burst upon the ear, and gave the scene a picturesque sublimity that can be easier imagined than described. Most assuredly Shakspere had such ruins in view when he exclaimed-- "The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve-- And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, Leave not a wreck behind." In the afternoon we returned to Bristol, and I spent the greater part of the next day in examining the interior of Redcliffe Church. Few places in the West of England have greater claims upon the topographer and historian than the church of St. Mary's, Redcliffe. Its antiquity, the beauty of its architecture, and above all the interesting circumstances connected with its history, entitle it to peculiar notice. It is also associated with the enterprise of genius; for its name has been blended with the reputation of Rowley, of Canynge, and of Chatterton; and no lover of poetry and admirer of art can visit it without a degree of enthusiasm. And when the old building shall have mouldered into ruins, even these will be trodden with veneration as sacred to the recollection of genius of the highest order. Ascending a winding stair, we were shown into the Treasury Room. The room forms an irregular octagon, admitting light through narrow unglazed apertures upon the broken and scattered fragments of the famous Rowleian chests, that with the rubble and dust of centuries cover the floor. It is here creative fancy pictures forth the sad image of the spirit of the spot--the ardent boy, flushed and fed by hope, musing on the brilliant deception he had conceived--whose daring attempt has left his name unto the intellectual world as a marvel and a mystery. That a boy under twelve years of age should write a series of poems, imitating the style of the fifteenth century, and palm these poems off upon the world as the work of a monk, is indeed strange; and that these should become the object of interesting contemplation to the literary world, and should awaken inquiries, and exercise the talents of a Southey, a Bryant, a Miller, a Mathias, and others, savours more of romance than reality. I had visited the room in a garret in High Holborn, where this poor boy died. I had stood over a grave in the burial-ground of the Lane Workhouse, which was pointed out to me as the last resting-place of Chatterton; and now I was in the room where it was alleged he obtained the manuscripts that gave him such notoriety. We descended and viewed other portions of the church. The effect of the chancel, as seen behind the pictures, is very singular, and suggestive of many swelling thoughts. We look at the great east window, it is unadorned with its wonted painted glass; we look at the altar-screen beneath, on which the light of day again falls, and behold the injuries it has received at the hands of time. There is a dreary mournfulness in the scene which fastens on the mind, and is in unison with the time-worn mouldering fragments that are seen all around us. And this dreariness is not removed by our tracing the destiny of man on the storied pavements or on the graven brass, that still bears upon its surface the names of those who obtained the world's regard years back. This old pile is not only an ornament to the city, but it stands a living monument to the genius of its founder. Bristol has long sustained a high position as a place from which the American Abolitionists have received substantial encouragement in their arduous labours for the emancipation of the slaves of that land; and the writer of this received the best evidence that in this respect the character of the people had not been exaggerated, especially as regards the "Clifton Ladies' Anti-Slavery Society." LETTER XXIII.[A] [A] This letter is rather out of its proper place here. I had mislaid the MS., and my distance from the printer prevented the matter being rectified. In another edition, the transposition can be effected. _Aberdeen--Passage by Steamer--Edinburgh--Visit to the College--William and Ellen Craft._ I have visited few places where I found more warm friends than in Aberdeen. This is the Granite City of Scotland. Aberdeen reminds one of Boston, especially in a walk down Union Street, which is said to be one of the finest promenades in Europe. The town is situated on a neck of land between the rivers Dee and Don, and is the most important place in the north of Scotland. During our third day in the city, we visited among other places the Old Bridge of Don, which is not only resorted to on account of its antique celebrity and peculiar appearance, but also because of the notoriety that it has gained by Lord Byron's poem of the "Bridge of Don." An engagement to be in Edinburgh and vicinity, cut short our stay in the north. The very mild state of the weather, and a wish to see something of the coast between Aberdeen and Edinburgh, induced us to make the journey by water. On Friday evening, the 14th, after delivering a lecture before the Total Abstinence Society, in company with William and Ellen Craft, I went on board the steamer bound for Edinburgh. On reaching the vessel, we found the drawing-room almost entirely at our service, and prejudice against colour being unknown, we had no difficulty in getting the best accommodation which the steamer could furnish. This is so unlike the pro-slavery, negro-hating spirit of America, that the Crafts seemed almost bewildered by the transition. I had been in the saloon but a short time, when, looking at the newspapers on the table, I discovered the _North Star_. It was like meeting with a friend in a strange land. I looked in vain on the margin for the name of its owner, but as I did not feel at liberty to take it, and as it appeared to be alone, I laid the _Liberator_ by its side to keep it company. The night was a glorious one. The sky was without a speck; and the clear, piercing air had a brilliancy I have seldom seen. The moon was in its zenith--the steamer and surrounding objects were beautiful in the extreme. The boat got under weigh at a little past twelve, and we were soon out at sea. The "Queen" is a splendid craft, and without the aid of sails, was able to make fifteen miles within the hour. I was up the next morning before the sun, and found the sea as on the previous night--as calm and smooth as a mirror. It was a delightful morning, more like April than February; and the sun, as it rose, seemed to fire every peak of the surrounding hills. On our left, lay the Island of May, while to the right was to be seen the small fishing town of Anstruther, twenty miles distant from Edinburgh. Beyond these, on either side, was a range of undulating blue mountains, swelling as they retired, into a bolder outline and a loftier altitude, until they terminated some twenty-five or thirty miles in the dim distance. A friend at my side pointed out a place on the right, where the remains of an old castle or look-out house, used in the time of the border wars, once stood, and which reminded us of the barbarism of the past. But these signs are fast disappearing. The plough and roller have passed over many of these foundations, and the time will soon come, when the antiquarian will look in vain for those places that history has pointed out to him, as connected with the political and religious struggles of the past. The steward of the vessel came round to see who of the passengers wished for breakfast, and as the keen air of the morning had given me an appetite, and there being no prejudice on the score of colour, I took my seat at the table and gave ample evidence that I was not an invalid. On returning to the deck again, I found we had entered the Forth, and that "Modern Athens" was in sight; and, far above every other object, with its turrets almost lost in the clouds, could be seen Edinburgh Castle. After landing, a pleasant ride over one of the finest roads in Scotland, with a sprinkling of beautiful villas on either side, brought us once more to Cannon's Hotel. In a city like Edinburgh, there is always something to keep the public alive, but during our three days' stay in the town, on this occasion, there were topics under discussion which seemed to excite the people, although I had been told that the Scotch were not excitable. Indeed all Edinburgh seemed to have gone mad about the Pope. If his Holiness should think fit to pay a visit to his new dominions, I would advise him to keep out of reach of the Scotch. In company with the Crafts, I visited the Calton Hill, from which we had a delightful view of the city and surrounding country. I had an opportunity during my stay in the city, of visiting the Infirmary, and was pleased to see among the two or three hundred students, three coloured young men, seated upon the same benches with those of a fairer complexion, and yet there appeared no feeling on the part of the whites towards their coloured associates, except of companionship and respect. One of the cardinal truths, both of religion and freedom, is the equality and brotherhood of man. In the sight of God and all just institutions, the whites can claim no precedence or privilege, on account of their being white; and if coloured men are not treated as they should be in the educational institutions in America, it is a pleasure to know that all distinction ceases by crossing the broad Atlantic. I had scarcely left the lecture room of the Institute and reached the street, when I met a large number of the students on their way to the college, and here again were seen coloured men arm in arm with whites. The proud American who finds himself in the splendid streets of Edinburgh, and witnesses such scenes as these, can but behold in them the degradation of his own country, whose laws would make slaves of these same young men, should they appear in the streets of Charleston or New Orleans. After all, our country is the most despotic in the wide world, and to expose and hold it up to the scorn and contempt of other nations, is the duty of every coloured man who would be true to himself and his race. During my stay in Edinburgh, I accepted an invitation to breakfast with the great champion of Philosophical Phrenology. Few foreigners are more admired in America, than the author of "The Constitution of Man."[B] Although not far from 70 years of age, I found him apparently as active and as energetic as many men of half that age. He was much pleased with Mr. and Mrs. Craft, who formed a part of the breakfast party. It may be a pleasure to the friends of these two fugitive slaves, to know that they are now the inmates of a good school where they are now being educated. For this, they are mainly indebted to that untiring friend of the Slave, John B. Estlin, Esq., of Bristol, whose zeal and co-operation with the American Abolitionists, have gained for him an undying name with the friends of freedom in the New World. [B] George Combe, Esq. LETTER XIII. _Edinburgh--The Royal Institute--Scott's Monument--John Knox's Pulpit--Temperance Meeting--Glasgow--Great Meeting in the City Hall._ EDINBURGH, _January 1, 1851_. You will see by the date of this that I am spending my New-Year's-Day in the Scottish Capital, in company with our friend, William Craft. I came by invitation to attend a meeting of the Edinburgh Ladies' Emancipation Society. The meeting was held on Monday evening last, at which William Craft gave, for the first time, since his arrival in this country, a history of his escape from Georgia, two years ago, together with his recent flight from Boston. Craft's reception was one of deep enthusiasm, and his story was well told, and made a powerful impression on the audience. I would that the slaveholders, Hughes and Knight, could have been present and heard the thundering applause with which our friend was received on the following evening. Craft attended a meeting of the Edinburgh Total Abstinence Society, before which I lectured, and his appearance here was also hailed with much enthusiasm. Our friend bids fair to become a favourite with the Scotch. Much regret was expressed that Ellen was not present. She was detained in Liverpool by indisposition. But Mrs. Craft has so far recovered, that we expect her here to-morrow. The appearance of these two fugitives in Great Britain, at this time, and under the circumstances, will aid our cause, and create a renewed hatred to the abominable institution of American slavery. I have received letters from a number of the friends of the slave, in which they express a wish to aid the Crafts; and among the first of these, were our good friends, John B. Estlin, Esq., of Bristol, and Harriet Martineau. But I must give you my impression of this fine city. Edinburgh is the most picturesque of all the towns which I have visited since my arrival in the father-land. Its situation has been compared to that of Athens, but it is said that the modern Athens is superior to the ancient. I was deeply impressed with the idea that I had seen the most beautiful of cities, after beholding those fashionable resorts, Paris and Versailles. I have seen nothing in the way of public grounds to compare with the gardens of Versailles, or the _Champs Elysees_ at Paris; and as for statuary, the latter place is said to take the lead of the rest of the world. The general appearance of Edinburgh prepossesses one in its favour. The town being built upon the brows of a large terrace, presents the most wonderful perspective. Its first appearance to a stranger, and the first impression, can scarcely be but favourable. In my first walk through the town, I was struck with the difference in the appearance of the people from the English. But the difference between the Scotch and the Americans, is very great. The cheerfulness depicted in the countenances of the people here, and their free and easy appearance, is very striking to a stranger. He who taught the sun to shine, the flowers to bloom, the birds to sing, and blesses us with rain, never intended that his creatures should look sad. There is a wide difference between the Americans and any other people which I have seen. The Scotch are healthy and robust, unlike the long-faced, sickly-looking Americans. While on our journey from London to Paris, to attend the Peace Congress, I could not but observe the marked difference between the English and American delegates. The former looked as if their pockets had been filled with sandwiches, made of good bread and roast beef, while the latter appeared as if their pockets had been filled with Holloway's Pills, and Mrs. Kidder's Cordial. I breakfasted this morning in a room in which the Poet Burns, as I was informed, had often sat. The conversation here turned upon Burns. The lady of the house pointed to a scrap of poetry which was in a frame hanging on the wall, written, as she said, by the Poet, on hearing the people rejoicing in a church over the intelligence of a victory. I copied it and will give it to you:-- "Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks, To murder men and give God thanks? For shame! give o'er, proceed no further, God won't accept your thanks for murder." The fact that I was in the room where Scotland's great national poet had been a visitor, caused me to feel that I was on classic, if not hallowed ground. On returning from our morning visit, we met a gentleman with a coloured lady on each arm. Craft remarked in a very dry manner, "If they were in Georgia, the slaveholders would make them walk in a more hurried gait than they do." I said to my friend, that if he meant the pro-slavery prejudice would not suffer them to walk peaceably through the streets, they need go no further than the pro-slavery cities of New York and Philadelphia. When walking through the streets, I amused myself, by watching Craft's countenance; and in doing so, imagined I saw the changes experienced by every fugitive slave in his first month's residence in this country. A sixteen months' residence has not yet familiarized me with the change. * * * * * LAUREL BANK, _Jan. 18, 1851_. Dear Douglass,--I remained in Edinburgh a day or two after the date of my last letter, which gave me an opportunity of seeing some of the lions in the way of public buildings, &c., in company with our friend Wm. Craft. I paid a visit to the Royal Institute, and inspected the very fine collection of paintings, statues, and other productions of art. The collection in the Institute is not to be compared to the British Museum at London, or the Louvre at Paris, but is probably the best in Scotland. Paintings from the hands of many of the masters, such as Sir A. Vandyke, Tiziano, Vercellio and Van Dellen, were hanging on the wall, and even the names of Reubens, and Titian, were attached to some of the finer specimens. Many of these represent some of the nobles, and distinguished families of Rome, Athens, Greece, &c. A beautiful one representing a group of the Lomellini family of Genoa, seemed to attract the attention of most of the visitors. In visiting this place, we passed close by the monument of Sir Walter Scott. This is the most exquisite thing of the kind that I have seen since coming to this country. It is said to be the finest monument in Europe. There sits the author of "Waverley," with a book and pencil in hand, taking notes. A beautiful dog is seated by his side. Whether this is meant to represent his favourite dog, Camp, at whose death the Poet shed so many tears, we were not informed; but I was of opinion that it might be the faithful Percy, whose monument stands in the grounds at Abbotsford. Scott was an admirer of the canine tribe. One may form a good idea of the appearance of this distinguished writer, when living, by viewing this remarkable statue. The statue is very beautiful, but not equal to the one of Lord Byron, which was executed to be placed by the side of Johnson, Milton, and Addison, in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey; but the Parliament not allowing it a place there, it now stands in one of the Colleges at Cambridge. While viewing the statue of Byron, I thought he, too, should have been represented with a dog by his side, for he, like Scott, was remarkably fond of dogs, so much so that he intended to have his favourite, Boatswain, interred by his side. We paid a short visit to the monuments of Burns and Allan Ramsay, and the renowned old Edinburgh Castle. The Castle is now used as a barrack for Infantry. It is accessible only from the High Street, and must have been impregnable before the discovery of gunpowder. In the wars with the English, it was twice taken by stratagem; once in a very daring manner, by climbing up the most inaccessible part of the rock upon which it stands, and where a foe was least expected, and putting the guard to death; and another time, by a party of soldiers disguising themselves as merchants, and obtaining admission inside the Castle gates. They succeeded in preventing the gates from being closed, until reinforced by a party of men under Sir Wm. Douglas, who soon overpowered the occupants of the Castle. We could not resist the temptation held out to see the Palace of Holyrood. It was in this place that the beautiful, but unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, resided for a number of years. On reaching the palace, we were met at the door by an elderly looking woman, with a red face, garnished with a pair of second-hand curls, the whole covered with a cap having the widest border that I had seen for years. She was very kind in showing us about the premises, especially as we were foreigners, no doubt expecting an extra fee for politeness. The most interesting of the many rooms in this ancient castle, is the one which was occupied by the Queen, and where her Italian favourite, Rizzio, was murdered. But by far the most interesting object which we visited while in Edinburgh, was the house where the celebrated Reformer, John Knox, re-resided. It is a queer-looking old building, with a pulpit on the outside, and above the door are the nearly obliterated remains of the following inscription:--"Lufe. God. Above. Al. And. your. Nichbour. As you. Self." This was probably traced under the immediate direction of the great Reformer. Such an inscription put upon a house of worship at the present day, would be laughed at. I have given it to you, punctuation and all, just as it stands. The general architecture of Edinburgh is very imposing, whether we regard the picturesque disorder of the buildings, in the Old Town, or the symmetrical proportions of the streets and squares in the New. But on viewing this city which has the reputation of being the finest in Europe, I was surprised to find that it had none of those sumptuous structures, which like St. Paul's, or Westminster Abbey, York Minster, and some other of the English provincial Cathedrals, astonish the beholder alike by their magnitude and their architectural splendour. But in no city which I have visited in the kingdom, is the general standard of excellence better maintained than in Edinburgh. I am not sure, my dear friend, whether or not I mentioned in my last letter the attendance of Wm. Craft and myself at a splendid Soiree of the Edinburgh Temperance Society, and our being voted in life members, in the most enthusiastic manner, by the whole audience. I will here give you a part of the speech of the President, as reported in the _Christian News_. This should cause the pro-slavery whites, and especially negro-hating Sons of Temperance, who refuse the coloured man a place in their midst, to feel ashamed of their unchristian conduct. Here it is, let them judge for themselves:-- "A great feature in our meeting to-night, is that we have beside us two individuals, who, according to the immaculate laws of immaculate Yankeedom, have been guilty of the tremendous crime of stealing themselves. (Applause.) Mr. Craft, who sits beside me, has stolen his good wife, and Mrs. Craft has stolen her worthy husband; and our respected friend, Mr. Brown, has cast a covetous eye on his own person. In the name of the Temperance reformers of Edinburgh--in the name of universal Scotland, I would welcome these two victims of the white man's pride, ambition, selfishness, and cupidity. I welcome them as our equals in every respect. (Great applause.) What a humiliating thought it will be, surely, for our American friends on the other side of the water, when they hear (and we shall endeavour to let them hear) that the very man whom they consider not worthy to sit in a third class carriage along with a white man, and that too in a district of country where the very aristocracy deal in cheap cheese--(great applause) traffic in tallow candles, and spend their nights and days among raw hides and train oil--(applause)--what a humbling thought it will be for them to know that these very men in the centre of educated Scotland, in the midst of educated Edinburgh, are thought fit to hold even the first rank upon our aristocratic platform. Let us, then, my friends, lift our voices this evening in one swelling chorus for the down-trodden slave. Let us publish abroad the fact to the world, that the sympathies of Scotland are with the bondsman everywhere. Let us unite our voices to cry, Down with the iniquitous Slave Bill!--Down with the aristocracy of the skin!--Perish forever the deepest-dyed, the hardest-hearted system of abomination under heaven!--Perish the sum of all villanies! Perish American slavery. (Great applause.)" But I must leave the good and hospitable people of the Scottish Capital for the present. I have taken an elaborate stock of notes, and may speak of Edinburgh again. I left William and Ellen Craft (the latter of whom has just come to Edinburgh), and took the Glasgow train, and after a ride of two hours through a beautiful country, with its winding hills on either side--its fertile fields, luxuriant woods, and stately mansions lying around us, arrived in the muddy, dirty, smoky, foggy city of Glasgow. As I had had a standing invitation from a distinguished gentleman with whom I became acquainted in London, to partake of his hospitality, should I ever visit Glasgow, and again received a note while in Edinburgh renewing the invitation, I proceeded to his residence at Partick, three miles from Glasgow. This is one of the loveliest spots which I have yet seen. Our mansion is on the side of Laurel Bank, a range of the Kilpatrick hills. We have a view of the surrounding country. On Monday evening, Jan. 6, a public meeting was held in the City Hall, to extend a welcome to the American fugitive slaves. The hall, one of the largest in the kingdom, was filled at an early hour. At the appointed time, Alex. Hastie, Esq., M.P., entered the great room, followed by the fugitives and most of the leading abolitionists, amid rapturous applause. With a Member of Parliament in the chair, and almost any number of clergymen on the platform, the meeting had an influential appearance. From report, I had imbibed the opinion that the Scotch were not easily moved, but if I may judge from the enthusiasm which characterised the City Hall demonstration, I should place them but little behind the English. After an excellent speech from the Chairman, and spirited addresses from several clergymen, William Craft was introduced to the meeting, and gave an account of the escape of himself and wife from slavery, and their subsequent flight from Boston. Any description of mine would give but a poor idea of the intense feeling that pervaded the meeting. I think all who were there, left the hall after hearing that noble fugitive, with a greater abhorrence of American slavery than they previously entertained. LETTER XIV. _Stirling--Dundee--Dr. Dick--Geo. Gilfillan--Dr. Dick at home._ PERTH, SCOTLAND, _Jan. 31, 1851_. I am glad once more to breathe an atmosphere uncontaminated by the fumes and smoke of a city with its population of three hundred thousand inhabitants. In company with our friends Wm. and Ellen Craft, I left Glasgow on the afternoon of the 23d inst., for Dundee, a beautiful town situated on the banks of the river Tay. One like myself, who has spent the best part of an eventful life in cities, and who prefers, as I do, a country to a town life, feels a greater degree of freedom when surrounded by forest trees, or country dwellings, and looking upon a clear sky, than when walking through the thronged thoroughfares of a city, with its dense population, meeting every moment a new or strange face which one has never seen before, and never expects to see again. Although I had met with one of the warmest public receptions with which I have been greeted since my arrival in the country, and had had an opportunity of shaking hands with many noble friends of the slave, whose names I had often seen in print, yet I felt glad to see the tall chimneys and smoke of Glasgow receding in the distance, as our 'iron horse' was taking us with almost lightning speed from the commercial capital of Scotland. The distance from Glasgow to Dundee is some seventy or eighty miles, and we passed through the finest country which I have seen in this portion of the Queen's dominions. We passed through the old town of Stirling, which lies about thirty miles distant from Glasgow, and is a place much frequented by those who travel for pleasure. It is built on the brow of a hill, and the Castle from which it most probably derived its name, may be seen from a distance. Had it not been for a "professional" engagement the same evening at Dundee, I would most assuredly have halted to take a look at the old building. The Castle is situated or built on an isolated rock, which seems as if Nature had thrown it there for that purpose. It was once the retreat of the Scottish Kings, and famous for its historical associations. Here the "Lady of the Lake," with the magic ring, sought the monarch to intercede for her father; here James II. murdered the Earl of Douglas; here the beautiful but unfortunate Mary was made Queen; and here John Knox, the Reformer, preached the coronation sermon of James VI. The Castle Hill rises from the valley of the Forth, and makes an imposing and picturesque appearance. The windings of the noble river till lost in the distance, present pleasing contrasts, scarcely to be surpassed. The speed of our train, after passing Stirling, brought before us, in quick succession, a number of fine valleys and farm houses. Every spot seemed to have been arrayed by Nature for the reception of the cottage of some happy family. During this ride, we passed many sites where the lawns were made, the terraces defined and levelled, the groves tastefully clumped, the ancient trees, though small when compared to our great forest oaks, were beautifully sprinkled here and there, and in everything the labour of art seemed to have been anticipated by Nature. Cincinnatus could not have selected a prettier situation for a farm, than some which presented themselves, during this delightful journey. At last we arrived at the place of our destination, where our friends were in waiting for us. As I have already forwarded to you a paper containing an account of the Dundee meeting, I shall leave you to judge from these reports the character of the demonstration. Yet I must mention a fact or two connected with our first evening's visit to this town. A few hours after our arrival in the place, we were called upon by a gentleman whose name is known wherever the English language is spoken--one whose name is on the tongue of every student and school-boy in this country and America, and what lives upon their lips will live and be loved for ever. We were seated over a cup of strong tea, to revive our spirits for the evening, when our friend entered the room, accompanied by a gentleman, small in stature, and apparently seventy-five years of age, yet he appeared as active as one half that age. Feeling half drowsy from riding in the cold, and then the sudden change to a warm fire, I was rather inclined not to move on the entrance of the stranger. But the name of Thomas Dick, LL.D., roused me in a moment, from my lethargy; I could scarcely believe that I was in the presence of the "Christian Philosopher." Dr. Dick is one of the men to whom the age is indebted. I never find myself in the presence of one to whom the world owes so much as Dr. Dick, without feeling a thrilling emotion, as if I were in the land of spirits. Dr. Dick had come to our lodgings to see and congratulate Wm. and Ellen Craft upon their escape from the republican Christians of the United States; and as he pressed the hand of the "white slave," and bid her "welcome to British soil," I saw the silent tear stealing down the cheek of this man of genius. How I wished that the many slaveholders and pro-slavery professed Christians of America, who have read and pondered the philosophy of this man, could have been present. Thomas Dick is an abolitionist--one who is willing that the world should know that he hates the "peculiar institution." At the meeting that evening, Dr. Dick was among the most prominent. But this was not the only distinguished man who took part on that occasion. Another great mind was on the platform, and entered his solemn protest in a manner long to be remembered by those present. This was the Rev. George Gilfillan, well known as the author of the "Portraits of Literary Men." Mr. Gilfillan is an energetic speaker, and would have been the lion of the evening, even if many others who are more distinguished as platform orators had been present. I think it was Napoleon who said that the enthusiasm of others abated his own. At any rate, the spirit with which each speaker entered upon his duty for the evening, abated my own enthusiasm for the time being. The last day of our stay in Dundee, I paid a visit, by invitation, to Dr. Dick, at his residence in the little village of Broughty Ferry. We found the great astronomer in his parlour waiting for us. From the parlour we went to the new study, and here I felt more at ease, for I went to see the Philosopher in his study, and not in his drawing-room. But even this room had too much the look of nicety to be an author's _sanctum_; and I inquired and was soon informed by Mrs. Dick, that I should have a look at the "_old study_." During a sojourn of eighteen months in Great Britain, I have had the good fortune to meet with several distinguished literary characters, and have always managed, while at their places of abode, to see the table and favourite chair. Wm. and Ellen Craft were seeing what they could see through a microscope, when Mrs. Dick returned to the room, and intimated that we could now see the old literary workshop. I followed, and was soon in a room about fifteen feet square, with but one window, which occupied one side of the room. The walls of the other three sides were lined with books. And many of these looked the very personification of age. I took my seat in the "_old arm chair_;" and here, thought I, is the place and the seat in which this distinguished man sat, while weaving the radiant wreath of renown which now in his old age surrounds him, and whose labours will be more appreciated by future ages than the present. I took a farewell of the author of the "Solar System," but not until I had taken a look through the great telescope in the observatory. This instrument, through which I tried to see the heavens, was not the one invented by Galileo, but an improvement upon the original. On leaving this learned man, he shook hands with us, and bade us "God speed" in our mission; and I left the philosopher, feeling I had not passed an hour more agreeably, with a literary character, since the hour which I spent with Poet Montgomery a few months since. And, by-the-bye, there is a resemblance between the poet and the philosopher. In becoming acquainted with great men, I have become a convert to the opinion, that a big nose is an almost necessary appendage to the form of a man with a giant intellect. If those whom I have seen be a criterion, such is certainly the case. But I have spun out this too long, and must close. LETTER XV. _Melrose Abbey--Abbotsford--Dryburgh Abbey--The Grave of Sir Walter Scott--Hawick--Gretna Green--Visit to the Lakes._ YORK, _March 26, 1851_. I closed my last letter in the ancient town of Melrose, on the banks of the Tweed, and within a stone's throw of the celebrated ruins from which the town derives its name. The valley in which Melrose is situated, and the surrounding hills, together with the Monastery, have so often been made a theme for the Scottish bards, that this has become the most interesting part of Scotland. Of the many gifted writers who have taken up the pen, none have done more to bring the Eildon Hills and Melrose Abbey into note, than the author of "Waverley." But who can read his writings without a regret, that he should have so woven fact and fiction together, that it is almost impossible to discriminate between the one and the other. We arrived at Melrose in the evening, and proceeded to the chapel where our meeting was to be held, and where our friends, the Crafts, were warmly greeted. On returning from the meeting, we passed close by the ruins of Melrose, and, very fortunately, it was a moonlight night. There is considerable difference of opinion among the inhabitants of the place as regards the best time to view the Abbey. The author of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," says:-- "If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight: For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins gray." In consequence of this admonition, I was informed that many persons remain in town to see the ruins by moonlight. Aware that the moon did not send its rays upon the old building every night in the year, I asked the keeper what he did on dark nights. He replied that he had a large lantern, which he put upon the end of a long pole, and with this he succeeded in lighting up the ruins. This good man laboured hard to convince me that his invention was nearly, if not quite as good, as Nature's own moon. But having no need of an application of his invention to the Abbey, I had no opportunity of judging of its effect. I thought, however, that he had made a moon to some purpose, when he informed me that some nights, with his pole and lantern, he earned his four or five shillings. Not being content with a view by "moonlight alone," I was up the next morning before the sun, and paid my respects to the Abbey. I was too early for the keeper, and he handed me the key through the window, and I entered the rooms alone. It is one labyrinth of gigantic arches and dilapidated halls, the ivy growing and clinging wherever it can fasten its roots, and the whole as fine a picture of decay as imagination could create. This was the favourite resort of Sir Walter Scott, and furnished him much matter for the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." He could not have selected a more fitting place for solitary thought than this ancient abode of monks and priests. In passing through the cloisters, I could not but remark the carvings of leaves and flowers, wrought in stone in the most exquisite manner, looking as fresh as if they were just from the hands of the artist. The lapse of centuries seems not to have made any impression upon them, or changed their appearance in the least. I sat down among the ruins of the Abbey. The ground about was piled up with magnificent fragments of stone, representing various texts of Scripture, and the quaint ideas of the priests and monks of that age. Scene after scene swept through my fancy as I looked upon the surrounding objects. I could almost imagine I saw the bearded monks going from hall to hall, and from cell to cell. In visiting these dark cells, the mind becomes oppressed by a sense of the utter helplessness of the victims who once passed over the thresholds and entered these religious prisons. There was no help or hope but in the will that ordered their fate. How painful it is to gaze upon these walls, and to think how many tears have been shed by their inmates, when this old Monastery was in its glory. I ascended to the top of the ruin by a circuitous stairway, whose stone steps were worn deep from use by many who, like myself, had visited them to gratify a curiosity. From the top of the Abbey, I had a splendid view of the surrounding hills and the beautiful valley through which flows the Gala Water and Tweed. This is unquestionably the most splendid specimen of Gothic architectural ruin in Scotland. But any description of mine conveys but a poor idea to the fancy. To be realized, it must be seen. During the day, we paid a visit to Abbotsford, the splendid mansion of the late Sir Walter Scott, Bart. This beautiful seat is situated on the banks of the Tweed, just below its junction with the Gala Water. It is a dreary looking spot, and the house from the opposite side of the river has the appearance of a small, low castle. In a single day's ride through England, one may see half a dozen cottages larger than Abbotsford House. I was much disappointed in finding the premises undergoing repairs and alterations, and that all the trees between the house and the river had been cut down. This is to be regretted the more, because they were planted, nearly every one of them, by the same hand that waved its wand of enchantment over the world. The fountain had been removed from where it had been placed by the hands of the Poet to the centre of the yard; and even a small stone that had been placed over the favourite dog "Percy," had been taken up and thrown among some loose stones. One visits Abbotsford because of the genius of the man that once presided over it. Everything connected with the great Poet is of interest to his admirers, and anything altered or removed, tends to diminish that interest. We entered the house, and were conducted through the great Hall, which is hung all round with massive armour of all descriptions, and other memorials of ancient times. The floor is of white and black marble. In passing through the hall, we entered a narrow arched room, stretching quite across the building, having a window at each end. This little or rather narrow room is filled with all kinds of armour, which is arranged with great taste. We were next shown into the Dining-room, whose roof is of black oak, richly carved. In this room is a painting of the head of Queen Mary, in a charger, taken the day after the execution. Many other interesting portraits grace the walls of this room. But by far the finest apartment in the building is the Drawing-room, with a lofty ceiling, and furnished with antique ebony furniture. After passing through the Library, with its twenty thousand volumes, we found ourselves in the Study, and I sat down in the same chair where once sat the Poet; while before me was the table upon which was written the "Lady of the Lake," "Waverley," and other productions of this gifted writer. The clothes last worn by the Poet were shown to us. There was the broad skirted blue coat, with its large buttons, the plaid trousers, the heavy shoes, the black vest and white hat. These were all in a glass case, and all looked the poet and novelist. But the inside of the buildings had undergone alterations as well as the outside. In passing through the Library, we saw a granddaughter of the Poet. She was from London, and was only on a visit of a few days. She looked pale and dejected, and seemed as if she longed to leave this secluded spot and return to the metropolis. She looked for all the world like a hothouse plant. I don't think the Scotch could do better than to purchase Abbotsford, while it has some imprint of the great magician, and secure its preservation; for I am sure that, a hundred years hence, no place will be more frequently visited in Scotland than the home of the late Sir Walter Scott. After sauntering three hours about the premises, I left, but not without feeling that I had been well paid for my trouble in visiting Abbotsford. In the afternoon of the same day, in company with the Crafts, I took a drive to Dryburgh Abbey. It is a ruin of little interest, except as being the burial place of Scott. The poet lies buried in St. Mary's Aisle. His grave is in the left transept of the cross, and close to where the high altar formerly stood. Sir Walter Scott chose his own grave, and he could not have selected a sunnier spot if he had roamed the wide world over. A shaded window breaks the sun as it falls upon his grave. The ivy is creeping and clinging wherever it can, as if it would shelter the poet's grave from the weather. The author lies between his wife and eldest son, and there is only room enough for one grave more, and the son's wife has the choice of being buried here. The four o'clock train took us to Hawick; and after a pleasant visit in this place, and the people registering their names against American Slavery, and the Fugitive Bill in particular, we set out for Carlisle, passing through the antique town of Langholm. After leaving the latter place, we had to travel by coach. But no matter how one travels here, he travels at a more rapid rate than in America. The distance from Langholm to Carlisle, twenty miles, occupied only two and a-half hours in the journey. It was a cold day and I had to ride on the outside, as the inside had been taken up. We changed horses, and took in and put out passengers with a rapidity which seems almost incredible. The road was as smooth as a mirror. We bid farewell to Scotland, as we reached the little town of Gretna Green. This town being on the line between England and Scotland, is noted as the place where a little cross-eyed, red-faced blacksmith, by the name of Priestly, first set up his own altar to Hymen, and married all who came to him, without regard to rank or station, and at prices to suit all. It was worth a ride through this part of the country, if for no other purpose than to see the town where more clandestine marriages have taken place than in any other part in the world. A ride of eight or nine miles brought us in sight of the Eden, winding its way slowly through a beautiful valley, with farms on either side, covered with sheep and cattle. Four very tall chimneys, sending forth dense columns of black smoke, announced to us that we were near Carlisle. I was really glad of this, for Ulysses was never more tired of the shores of Ilion than I of the top of that coach. We remained over night at Carlisle, partaking of the hospitality of the prince of bakers, and left the next day for the Lakes, where we had a standing invitation to pay a visit to a distinguished literary lady. A cold ride of about fifty miles brought us to the foot of Lake Windermere, a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded by mountains that seemed to vie with each other which should approach nearest the sky. The margin of the lake is carved out and built up into terrace above terrace, until the slopes and windings are lost in the snow-capped peaks of the mountains. It is not surprising that such men as Southey, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and others, resorted to this region for inspiration. After a coach ride of five miles (passing on our journey the "Dove's Nest," home of the late Mrs. Hemans), we were put down at the door of the Salutation Hotel, Ambleside, and a few minutes after found ourselves under the roof of the authoress of "Society in America." I know not how it is with others, but for my own part, I always form an opinion of the appearance of an author whose writings I am at all familiar with, or a statesman whose speeches I have read. I had pictured in my own mind a tall, stately-looking lady of about sixty years, as the authoress of "Travels in the East," and for once I was right, with the single exception that I had added on too many years by twelve. The evening was spent in talking about the United States; and William Craft had to go through the narrative of his escape from slavery. When I retired for the night, I found it almost impossible to sleep. The idea that I was under the roof of the authoress of "The Hour and the Man," and that I was on the banks of the sweetest lake in Great Britain, within half a mile of the residence of the late poet Wordsworth, drove sleep from my pillow. But I must leave an account of my visit to the Lakes for a future letter. When I look around and see the happiness here, even among the poorer classes, and that too in a country where the soil is not at all to be compared with our own, I mourn for our down-trodden countrymen, who are plundered, oppressed, and made chattels of, to enable an ostentatious aristocracy to vie with each other in splendid extravagance. LETTER XVI. _Miss Martineau--"The Knoll"--"Ridal Mount"--"The Dove's Nest"--Grave of William Wordsworth, Esq.--The English Peasant._ _May 30, 1851_. A series of public meetings, one pressing close upon the heel of another, must be an apology for my six or eight weeks' silence. But I hope that no temporary suspense on my part will be construed into a want of interest in our cause, or a wish to desist from giving occasionally a scrap (such as it is) to the _North Star_. My last letter left me under the hospitable roof of Harriet Martineau. I had long had an invitation to visit this distinguished friend of our race, and as the invitation was renewed during my tour through the North, I did not feel disposed to decline it, and thereby lose so favourable an opportunity of meeting with one who had written so much in behalf of the oppressed of our land. About a mile from the head of Lake Windermere, and immediately under Wonsfell, and encircled by mountains on all sides, except the south-west, lies the picturesque little town of Ambleside, and the brightest spot in the place is "The Knoll," the residence of Miss Martineau. We reached "The Knoll" a little after nightfall, and a cordial shake of the hand by Miss M., who was waiting for us, soon assured us that we had met with a warm friend. It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of domestic life at "The Knoll," nor to describe the social parties of which my friends and I were partakers during our sojourn within the hospitable walls of this distinguished writer; but the name of Miss M. is so intimately connected with the Anti-slavery movement, by her early writings, and those have been so much admired by the friends of the slave in the United States, that I deem it not at all out of place for me to give the readers of the _North Star_ some idea of the authoress of "Political Economy," "Travels in the East," "The Hour and the Man," &c. The dwelling is a cottage of moderate size, built after Miss M.'s own plan, upon a rise of land from which it derives the name of "The Knoll." The Library is the largest room in the building, and upon the walls of it were hung some beautiful engravings and a continental map. On a long table which occupied the centre of the room, were the busts of Shakspere, Newton, Milton, and a few other literary characters of the past. One side of the room was taken up with a large case, filled with a choice collection of books, and everything indicated that it was the home of genius and of taste. The room usually occupied by Miss M., and where we found her on the evening of our arrival, is rather small and lighted by two large windows. The walls of this room were also decorated with prints and pictures, and on the mantle-shelf were some models in _terra cottia_ of Italian groups. On a circular table lay casts, medallions, and some very choice water-colour drawings. Under the south window stood a small table covered with newly opened letters, a portfolio and several new books, with here and there a page turned down, and one with a paper knife between its leaves as if it had only been half read. I took up the last mentioned, and it proved to be the "Life and Poetry of Hartly Coleridge," son of S.T. Coleridge. It was just from the press, and had, a day or two before, been forwarded to her by the publisher. Miss M. is very deaf and always carries in her left hand a trumpet; and I was not a little surprised on learning from her that she had never enjoyed the sense of smell, and only on one occasion the sense of taste, and that for a single moment. Miss M. is loved with a sort of idolatry by the people of Ambleside, and especially the poor, to whom she gives a course of lectures every winter gratuitously. She finished her last course the day before our arrival. She was much pleased with Ellen Craft, and appeared delighted with the story of herself and husband's escape from slavery, as related by the latter--during the recital of which I several times saw the silent tear stealing down her cheek, and which she tried in vain to hide from us. When Craft had finished, she exclaimed, "I would that every woman in the British Empire, could hear that tale as I have, so that they might know how their own sex was treated in that boasted land of liberty." It seems strange to the people of this county, that one so white and so lady-like as Mrs. Craft, should have been a slave and forced to leave the land of her nativity and seek an asylum in a foreign country. The morning after our arrival, I took a stroll by a circuitous pathway to the top of Loughrigg Fell. At the foot of the mount I met a peasant, who very kindly offered to lend me his donkey, upon which to ascend the mountain. Never having been upon the back of one of these long eared animals, I felt some hesitation about trusting myself upon so diminutive looking a creature. But being assured that if I would only resign myself to his care and let him have his own way, I would be perfectly safe, I mounted, and off we set. We had, however, scarcely gone fifty rods, when, in passing over a narrow part of the path and overlooking a deep chasm, one of the hind feet of the donkey slipped, and with an involuntary shudder, I shut my eyes to meet my expected doom; but fortunately the little fellow gained his foothold, and in all probability saved us both from a premature death. After we had passed over this dangerous place, I dismounted, and as soon as my feet had once more gained _terra firma_, I resolved that I would never again yield my own judgment to that of any one, not even to a donkey. It seems as if Nature has amused herself in throwing these mountains together. From the top of the Loughrigg Fell, the eye loses its power in gazing upon the objects below. On our left, lay Rydal Mount, the beautiful seat of the late poet Wordsworth. While to the right, and away in the dim distance, almost hidden by the native trees, was the cottage where once resided Mrs. Hemans. And below us lay Windermere, looking more like a river than a lake, and which, if placed by the side of our own Ontario, Erie or Huron, would be lost in the fog. But here it looks beautiful in the extreme, surrounded as it is by a range of mountains that have no parallel in the United States for beauty. Amid a sun of uncommon splendour, dazzling the eye with the reflection upon the water below, we descended into the valley, and I was soon again seated by the fireside of our hospitable hostess. In the afternoon of the same day, we took a drive to the "Dove's Nest," the home of the late Mrs. Hemans. We did not see the inside of the house, on account of its being occupied by a very eccentric man, who will not permit a woman to enter the house, and it is said that he has been known to run when a female had unconsciously intruded herself upon his premises. And as our company was in part composed of ladies, we had to share their fate, and therefore were prevented from seeing the interior of the Dove's Nest. The exhibitor of such a man would be almost sure of a prize at the great Exhibition. At the head of Grassmere Lake, and surrounded by a few cottages, stands an old gray, antique-looking Parish Church, venerable with the lapse of centuries, and the walls partly covered with ivy, and in the rear of which is the parish burial-ground. After leaving the Dove's Nest, and having a pleasant ride over the hills and between the mountains, and just as the sun was disappearing behind them, we arrived at the gate of Grassmere Church; and alighting and following Miss M., we soon found ourselves standing over a grave, marked by a single stone, and that, too, very plain, with a name deeply cut. This announced to us that we were standing over the grave of William Wordsworth. He chose his own grave, and often visited the spot before his death. He lies in the most sequestered spot in the whole grounds, and the simplicity and beauty of the place was enough to make one in love with it, to be laid so far from the bustle of the world, and in so sweet a place. The more one becomes acquainted with the literature of the old world, the more he must love her poets. Among the teachers of men, none are more worthy of study than the poets; and, as teachers, they should receive far more credit than is yielded to them. No one can look back upon the lives of Dante, Shakspere, Milton, Goethe, Cowper, and many others that we might name, without being reminded of the sacrifices which they made for mankind, and which were not appreciated until long after their deaths. We need look no farther than our own country to find men and women wielding the pen practically and powerfully for the right. It is acknowledged on all hands in this country, that England has the greatest dead poets, and America the greatest living ones. The poet and the true Christian have alike a hidden life. Worship is the vital element of each. Poetry has in it that kind of utility which good men find in their Bible, rather than such convenience as bad men often profess to draw from it. It ennobles the sentiments, enlarges the affections, kindles the imagination, and gives to us the enjoyment of a life in the past, and in the future, as well as in the present. Under its light and warmth, we wake from our torpidity and coldness, to a sense of our capabilities. This impulse once given, a great object is gained. Schiller has truly said, "Poetry can be to a man, what love is to a hero. It can neither counsel him nor smite him, nor perform any labour for him, but it can bring him up to be a hero, can summon him to deeds, and arm him with strength for all he ought to be." I have often read with pleasure the sweet poetry of our own Whitfield of Buffalo, which has appeared from time to time in the columns of the _North Star_. I have always felt ashamed of the fact that he should be compelled to wield the razor instead of the pen for a living. Meaner poets than James M. Whitfield, are now living by their compositions; and were he a white man he would occupy a different position. After remaining a short time, and reading the epitaphs of the departed, we again returned to "The Knoll." Nothing can be more imposing than the beauty of English park scenery, and especially in the vicinity of the lakes. Magnificent lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there a sprinkling of fine trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage, and then the forests with the hare, the deer, and the rabbit, bounding away to the covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the wing--the artificial stream, the brook taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into the glassy lake, with the yellow leaf sleeping upon its bright waters, and occasionally a rustic temple or sylvan statue grown green and dark with age, give an air of sanctity and picturesque beauty to English scenery that is unknown in the United States. The very labourer with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground-plot before the door, the little flower-bed, the woodbine trimmed against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the windows, and the peasant seen trudging home at nightfall with the avails of the toil of the day upon his back--all this tells us of the happiness both of rich and poor in this country. And yet there are those who would have the world believe that the labourer of England is in a far worse condition than the slaves of America. Such persons know nothing of the real condition of the working classes of this country. At any rate, the poor here, as well as the rich, are upon a level, as far as the laws of the country are concerned. The more one becomes acquainted with the English people, the more one has to admire them. They are so different from the people of our own country. Hospitality, frankness, and good humour, are always to be found in an Englishman. After a ramble of three days about the lakes, we mounted the coach, bidding Miss Martineau farewell, and quitted the lake district. LETTER XVII. _A Day in the Crystal Palace._ LONDON, _June 27th, 1851_. Presuming that you will expect from me some account of the great World's Fair, I take my pen to give you my own impressions, although I am afraid that anything which I may say about this "Lion of the day," will fall far short of a description. On Monday last, I quitted my lodgings at an early hour, and started for the Crystal Palace. This day was fine, such as we seldom experience in London, with a clear sky, and invigorating air, whose vitality was as rousing to the spirits as a blast from the "horn of Astolpho." Although it was not yet 10 o'clock when I entered Piccadilly, every omnibus was full, inside and out, and the street was lined with one living stream, as far as the eye could reach, all wending their way to the "Glass-House." No metropolis in the world presents such facilities as London for the reception of the Great Exhibition, now collected within its walls. Throughout its myriads of veins, the stream of industry and toil pulses with sleepless energy. Every one seems to feel that this great Capital of the world, is the fittest place wherein they might offer homage to the dignity of toil. I had already begun to feel fatigued by my pedestrian excursion as I passed "Apsley House," the residence of the Duke of Wellington, and emerged into Hyde Park. I had hoped that on getting into the Park, I would be out of the crowd that seemed to press so heavily in the street. But in this I was mistaken. I here found myself surrounded by and moving with an overwhelming mass, such as I had never before witnessed. And, away in the distance, I beheld a dense crowd, and above every other object, was seen the lofty summit of the Crystal Palace. The drive in the Park was lined with princely-looking vehicles of every description. The drivers in their bright red and gold uniforms, the pages and footmen in their blue trousers and white silk stockings, and the horses dressed up in their neat, silver-mounted harness, made the scene altogether one of great splendour. I was soon at the door, paid my shilling, and entered the building at the south end of the Transept. For the first ten or twenty minutes I was so lost in astonishment, and absorbed in pleasing wonder, that I could do nothing but gaze up and down the vista of the noble building. The Crystal Palace resembles in some respects, the interior of the cathedrals of this country. One long avenue from east to west is intersected by a Transept, which divides the building into two nearly equal parts. This is the greatest building the world ever saw, before which the Pyramids of Egypt, and the Colossus of Rhodes must hide their diminished heads. The palace was not full at any time during the day, there being only 64,000 persons present. Those who love to study the human countenance in all its infinite varieties, can find ample scope for the indulgence of their taste, by a visit to the World's Fair. All countries are there represented--Europeans, Asiatics, Americans and Africans, with their numerous subdivisions. Even the exclusive Chinese, with his hair braided, and hanging down his back, has left the land of his nativity, and is seen making long strides through the Crystal Palace, in his wooden-bottomed shoes. Of all places of curious costumes and different fashions, none has ever yet presented such a variety as this Exhibition. No dress is too absurd to be worn in this place. There is a great deal of freedom in the Exhibition. The servant who walks behind his mistress through the Park feels that he can crowd against her in the Exhibition. The Queen and the day labourer, the Prince and the merchant, the peer and the pauper, the Celt and the Saxon, the Greek and the Frank, the Hebrew and the Russ, all meet here upon terms of perfect equality. This amalgamation of rank, this kindly blending of interests, and forgetfulness of the cold formalities of ranks and grades, cannot but be attended with the very best results. I was pleased to see such a goodly sprinkling of my own countrymen in the Exhibition--I mean coloured men and women--well-dressed, and moving about with their fairer brethren. This, some of our pro-slavery Americans did not seem to relish very well. There was no help for it. As I walked through the American part of the Crystal Palace, some of our Virginian neighbours eyed me closely and with jealous looks, especially as an English lady was leaning on my arm. But their sneering looks did not disturb me in the least. I remained the longer in their department, and criticised the bad appearance of their goods the more. Indeed, the Americans, as far as appearance goes, are behind every other country in the Exhibition. The "Greek Slave" is the only production of Art which the United States has sent. And it would have been more to their credit had they kept that at home. In so vast a place as the Great Exhibition one scarcely knows what to visit first, or what to look upon last. After wandering about through the building for five hours, I sat down in one of the galleries and looked at the fine marble statue of Virginius, with the knife in his hand and about to take the life of his beloved and beautiful daughter, to save her from the hands of Appius Claudius. The admirer of genius will linger for hours among the great variety of statues in the long avenue. Large statues of Lords Eldon and Stowell, carved out of solid marble, each weighing above twenty tons, are among the most gigantic in the building. I was sitting with my 400 paged guide-book before me, and looking down upon the moving mass, when my attention was called to a small group of gentlemen standing near the statue of Shakspere, one of whom wore a white coat and hat, and had flaxen hair, and trousers rather short in the legs. The lady by my side, and who had called my attention to the group, asked if I could tell what country this odd-looking gentleman was from? Not wishing to run the risk of a mistake, I was about declining to venture an opinion, when the reflection of the sun against a mirror, on the opposite side, threw a brilliant light upon the group, and especially on the face of the gentleman in the white coat, and I immediately recognized under the brim of the white hat, the features of Horace Greeley, Esq., of the New York "Tribune." His general appearance was as much out of the English style as that of the Turk whom I had seen but a moment before--in his bag-like trousers, shuffling along in his slippers. But oddness in dress, is one of the characteristics of the Great Exhibition. Among the many things in the Crystal Palace, there are some which receive greater attention than others, around which may always be seen large groups of the visitors. The first of these is the Koh-i-noor, the "Mountain of Light." This is the largest and most valuable diamond in the world, said to be worth £2,000,000 sterling. It is indeed a great source of attraction to those who go to the Exhibition for the first time, but it is doubtful whether it obtains such admiration afterwards. We saw more than one spectator turn away with the idea that after all it was only a piece of glass. After some jamming, I got a look at the precious jewel, and although in a brass-grated cage, strong enough to hold a lion, I found it to be no larger than the third of a hen's egg. Two policemen remain by its side day and night. The finest thing in the Exhibition, is the "Veiled Vestal," a statue of a woman carved in marble, with a veil over her face, and so neatly done, that it looks as if it had been thrown over after it was finished. The Exhibition presents many things which appeal to the eye and touch the heart, and altogether, it is so decorated and furnished, as to excite the dullest mind, and satisfy the most fastidious. England has contributed the most useful and substantial articles; France, the most beautiful; while Russia, Turkey, and the West Indies, seem to vie with each other in richness. China and Persia are not behind. Austria has also contributed a rich and beautiful stock. Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and the smaller states of Europe, have all tried to outdo themselves in sending goods to the World's Fair. In Machinery, England has no competitor. In Art, France is almost alone in the Exhibition, setting aside England. In natural productions and provisions, America stands alone in her glory. There lies her pile of canvassed hams; whether they were wood or real, we could not tell. There are her barrels of salt, beef, and pork, her beautiful white lard, her Indian-corn and corn-meal, her rice and tobacco, her beef tongues, dried peas, and a few bags of cotton. The contributors from the United States seemed to have forgotten that this was an exhibition of Art, or they most certainly would not have sent provisions. But the United States takes the lead in the contributions, as no other country has sent in provisions. The finest thing contributed by our countrymen, is a large piece of silk with an eagle painted upon it, surrounded by stars and stripes. After remaining more than five hours in the great temple, I turned my back upon the richly laden stalls and left the Crystal Palace. On my return home I was more fortunate than in the morning, inasmuch as I found a seat for my friend and myself in an omnibus. And even my ride in the close omnibus was not without interest. For I had scarcely taken my seat, when my friend, who was seated opposite me, with looks and gesture informed me that we were in the presence of some distinguished person. I eyed the countenances of the different persons, but in vain, to see if I could find any one who by his appearance showed signs of superiority over his fellow-passengers. I had given up the hope of selecting the person of note when another look from my friend directed my attention to a gentlemen seated in the corner of the omnibus. He was a tall man with strongly marked features, hair dark and coarse. There was a slight stoop of the shoulder--that bend which is almost always a characteristic of studious men. But he wore upon his countenance a forbidding and disdainful frown, that seemed to tell one that he thought himself better than those about him. His dress did not indicate a man of high rank; and had we been in America, I would have taken him for an Ohio farmer. While I was scanning the features and general appearance of the gentleman, the Omnibus stopped and put down three or four of the passengers, which gave me an opportunity of getting a seat by the side of my friend, who, in a low whisper, informed me that the gentleman whom I had been eyeing so closely, was no less a person than Thomas Carlyle. I had read his "Hero-worship," and "Past and Present," and had formed a high opinion of his literary abilities. But his recent attack upon the emancipated people of the West Indies, and his laborious article in favour of the re-establishment of the lash and slavery, had created in my mind a dislike for the man, and I almost regretted that we were in the same Omnibus. In some things, Mr. Carlyle is right: but in many, he is entirely wrong. As a writer, Mr. Carlyle is often monotonous and extravagant. He does not exhibit a new view of nature, or raise insignificant objects into importance, but generally takes commonplace thoughts and events, and tries to express them in stronger and statelier language than others. He holds no communion with his kind, but stands alone without mate or fellow. He is like a solitary peak, all access to which is cut off. He exists not by sympathy but by antipathy. Mr. Carlyle seems chiefly to try how he shall display his own powers, and astonish mankind, by starting new trains of speculation or by expressing old ones so as not to be understood. He cares little what he says, so as he can say it differently from others. To read his works, is one thing; to understand them, is another. If any one thinks that I exaggerate, let him sit for an hour over "Sartor Resartus," and if he does not rise from its pages, place his three or four dictionaries on the shelf, and say I am right, I promise never again to say a word against Thomas Carlyle. He writes one page in favour of Reform, and ten against it. He would hang all prisoners to get rid of them, yet the inmates of the prisons and "work-houses are better off than the poor." His heart is with the poor; yet the blacks of the West Indies should be taught, that if they will not raise sugar and cotton by their own free will, "Quashy should have the whip applied to him." He frowns upon the Reformatory speakers upon the boards of Exeter Hall, yet he is the prince of reformers. He hates heroes and assassins, yet Cromwell was an angel, and Charlotte Corday a saint. He scorns everything, and seems to be tired of what he is by nature, and tries to be what he is not. But you will ask, what has Thomas Carlyle to do with a visit to the Crystal Palace? My only reply is, "Nothing," and if my remarks upon him have taken up the space that should have been devoted to the Exhibition, and what I have written not prove too burdensome to read, my next will be "a week in the Crystal Palace." LETTER XVIII. _The London Peace Congress--Meeting of Fugitive Slaves--Temperance Demonstration--The Great Exhibition: last visit._ LONDON, _August 20_. The past six weeks have been of a stirring nature in this great metropolis. It commenced with the Peace Congress, the proceedings of which have long since reached you. And although that event has passed off, it may not be out of place here to venture a remark or two upon its deliberations. A meeting upon the subject of Peace, with the support of the monied and influential men who rally around the Peace standard, could scarcely have been held in Exeter Hall without creating some sensation. From all parts of the world flocked delegates to this practical protest against war. And among those who took part in the proceedings, were many men whose names alone would, even on ordinary occasions, have filled the great hall. The speakers were chosen from among the representatives of the various countries, without regard to dialect or complexion; and the only fault which seemed to be found with the Committee's arrangement was, that in their desire to get foreigners and Londoners, they forgot the country delegates, so that none of the large provincial towns were at all represented in the Congress, so far as speaking was concerned. Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, and all the important towns in Scotland and Ireland, were silenced in the great meeting. I need not say that this was an oversight of the Committee, and one, too, that has done some injury. Such men as the able Chairman of the late Anti-Corn Law League, cannot be forgotten in such a meeting, without giving offence to those who sent him, especially when the Committee brought forward, day after day, the same speakers, chosen from amongst the metropolitan delegation. However, the meeting was a glorious one, and will long be remembered with delight as a step onward in the cause of Peace. Burritt's Brotherhood Bazaar followed close upon the heels of the Peace Congress; and this had scarcely closed, when that ever-memorable meeting of the American Fugitive Slaves took place in the Hall of Commerce. The Temperance people made the next reformatory move. This meeting took place in Exeter Hall, and was made up of delegates from the various towns in the kingdom. They had come from the North, East, West, and South. There was the quick-spoken son of the Emerald Isle, with his pledge suspended from his neck; there, too, the Scot, speaking his broad dialect; also the representatives from the provincial towns of England and Wales, who seemed to speak anything but good English. The day after the meeting had closed in Exeter Hall, the country societies, together with those of the metropolis, assembled in Hyde Park, and then walked to the Crystal Palace. Their number while going to the Exhibition, was variously estimated at from 15,000 to 20,000, and was said to have been the largest gathering of Teetotalers ever assembled in London. They consisted chiefly of the working classes, their wives and children--clean, well-dressed and apparently happy: their looks indicating in every way those orderly habits which, beyond question, distinguish the devotees of that cause above the common labourers of this country. On arriving at the Exhibition, they soon distributed themselves among the departments, to revel in its various wonders, eating their own lunch, and drinking from the Crystal Fountain. And now I am at the world's wonder, I will remain here until I finish this sheet. I have spent fifteen days in the Exhibition, and have conversed with those who have spent double that number amongst its beauties, and the general opinion appears to be, that six months would not be too long to remain within its walls to enable one to examine its laden stalls. Many persons make the Crystal Palace their home, with the exception of night. I have seen them come in the morning, visit the dressing-room, then go to the refreshment room, and sit down to breakfast as if they had been at their hotel. Dinner and tea would be taken in turn. The Crystal Fountain is the great place of meeting in the Exhibition. There you may see husbands looking for lost wives, wives for stolen husbands, mothers for their lost children, and towns-people for their country friends; and unless you have an appointment at a certain place at an hour, you might as well prowl through the streets of London to find a friend, as in the Great Exhibition. There is great beauty in the "Glass House." Here, in the transept, with the glorious sunlight coming through that wonderful glass roof, may the taste be cultivated and improved, the mind edified, and the feelings chastened. Here, surrounded by noble creations in marble and bronze, and in the midst of an admiring throng, one may gaze at statuary which might fitly decorate the house of the proudest prince in Christendom. He who takes his station in the gallery, at either end, and looks upon that wondrous nave, or who surveys the matchless panorama around him from the intersection of the nave and transept, may be said, without presumption or exaggeration, to see all the kingdoms of this world and the glory of them. He sees not only a greater collection of fine articles, but also a greater as well as more various assemblage of the human race, than ever before was gathered under one roof. One of the beauties of this great international gathering is, that it is not confined to rank or grade. The million toilers from mine, and factory, and workshop, and loom, and office, and field, share with their more wealthy neighbours the feast of reason and imagination spread out in the Crystal Palace. It is strange indeed to see so many nations assembled and represented on one spot of British ground. In short, it is one great theatre, with thousands of performers, each playing his own part. England is there, with her mighty engines toiling and whirring, indefatigable in her enterprises to shorten labour. India spreads her glitter and paint. France, refined and fastidious, is there every day, giving the last touch to her picturesque group; and the other countries, each in their turn, doing what they can to show off. The distant hum of thousands of good humoured people, with occasionally a national anthem from some gigantic organ, together with the noise of the machinery, seems to send life into every part of the Crystal Palace. When you get tired of walking, you can sit down and write your impressions, and there is the "post" to receive your letter, or if it be Friday or Saturday, you may, if you choose, rest yourself by hearing a lecture from Professor Anstead; and then before leaving take your last look, and see something that you have not before seen. Every thing which is old in cities, new in colonial life, splendid in courts, useful in industry, beautiful in nature, or ingenious in invention, is there represented. In one place we have the Bible translated into one hundred and fifty languages; in another, we have saints and archbishops painted on glass; in another, old palaces and the altars of a John Knox, a Baxter, or some other divines of olden time. In the old Temple of Delphi, we read that every state of the civilized world had its separate treasury, where Herodotus, born two thousand years before his time, saw and observed all kinds of prodigies in gold and silver, brass and iron, and even in linen. The nations all met there on one common ground, and the peace of the earth was not a little promoted by their common interest in the sanctity and splendour of that shrine. As long as the Exhibition lasts, and its memory endures, we hope and trust that it may shed the same influence. With this hasty scrap, I take leave of the Great Exhibition. LETTER XIX. _Oxford--Martyrs' Monument--Cost of the Burning of the Martyrs--The Colleges--Dr. Pusey--Energy, the Secret of Success._ OXFORD, _September 10th, 1851_. I have just finished a short visit to the far famed city of Oxford, which has not unaptly been styled the City of Palaces. Aside from this being one of the principal seats of learning in the world, it is distinguished alike for its religious and political changes in times past. At one time it was the seat of Popery; at another, the uncompromising enemy of Rome. Here the tyrant, Richard the Third, held his court, and when James the First, and his son Charles the First, found their capital too hot to hold them, they removed to their loyal city of Oxford. The writings of the great Republicans were here committed to the flames. At one time Popery sent Protestants to the stake and faggot; at another, a Papist King found no favour with the people. A noble monument now stands where Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, proclaimed their sentiments and faith, and sealed them with their blood. And now we read upon the Town Treasurer's book--for three loads of wood, one load of faggots, one post, two chains and staples, to burn Ridley and Latimer, £1 5s. 1d. Such is the information one gets by looking over the records of books written three centuries ago. It was a beautiful day on which I arrived at Oxford, and instead of remaining in my hotel, I sallied forth to take a survey of the beauties of the city. I strolled into Christ Church Meadows, and there spent the evening in viewing the numerous halls of learning which surround that splendid promenade. And fine old buildings they are: centuries have rolled over many of them, hallowing the old walls, and making them grey with age. They have been for ages the chosen homes of piety and philosophy. Heroes and scholars have gone forth from their studies here, into the great field of the world, to seek their fortunes, and to conquer and be conquered. As I surveyed the exterior of the different Colleges, I could here and there see the reflection of the light from the window of some student, who was busy at his studies, or throwing away his time over some trashy novel, too many of which find their way into the trunks or carpet bags of the young men on setting out for College. As I looked upon the walls of these buildings, I thought as the rough stone is taken from the quarry to the finisher, there to be made into an ornament, so was the young mind brought here to be cultivated and developed. Many a poor unobtrusive young man, with the appearance of little or no ability, is here moulded into a hero, a scholar, a tyrant, or a friend of humanity. I never look upon these monuments of education, without a feeling of regret, that so few of our own race can find a place within their walls. And this being the fact, I see more and more the need of our people being encouraged to turn their attention more seriously to self-education, and thus to take a respectable position before the world, by virtue of their own cultivated minds and moral standing. Education, though obtained by a little at a time, and that, too, over the midnight lamp, will place its owner in a position to be respected by all, even though he be black. I know that the obstacles which the laws of the land, and of society, place between the coloured man and education in the United States, are very great, yet if _one_ can break through these barriers, more can; and if our people would only place the right appreciation upon education, they would find these obstacles are easier to be overcome than at first sight appears. A young man once asked Carlyle, what was the secret of success. His reply was, "Energy; whatever you undertake, do it with all your might." Had it not been for the possession of energy, I might now have been working as a servant for some brainless fellow who might be able to command my labour with his money, or I might have been yet toiling in chains and slavery. But thanks to energy, not only for my being to-day in a land of freedom, but also for my dear girls being in one of the best seminaries in France, instead of being in an American school, where the finger of scorn would be pointed at them by those whose superiority rests entirely upon their having a whiter skin. But I am straying too far from the purpose of this letter. Oxford is indeed one of the finest located places in the kingdom, and every inch of ground about it seems hallowed by interesting associations. The University, founded by the good King Alfred, still throws its shadow upon the side-walk; and the lapse of ten centuries seems to have made but little impression upon it. Other seats of learning may be entitled to our admiration, but Oxford claims our veneration. Although the lateness of the night compelled me, yet I felt an unwillingness to tear myself from the scene of such surpassing interest. Few places in any country as noted as Oxford is, but what has some distinguished person residing within its precincts. And knowing that the City of Palaces was not an exception to this rule, I resolved to see some of its lions. Here, of course, is the head quarters of the Bishop of Oxford, a son of the late William Wilberforce, Africa's noble champion. I should have been glad to have seen this distinguished pillar of the Church, but I soon learned that the Bishop's residence was out of town, and that he seldom visited the city except on business. I then determined to see one who, although a lesser dignitary in the church, is nevertheless, scarcely less known than the Bishop of Oxford. This was the Rev. Dr. Pusey, a divine, whose name is known wherever the religion of Jesus is known and taught, and the acknowledged head of the Puseyites. On the second morning of my visit, I proceeded to Christ Church Chapel, where the rev. gentleman officiates. Fortunately I had an opportunity of seeing the Dr., and following close in his footsteps to the church. His personal appearance is anything but that of one who is the leader of a growing and powerful party in the church. He is rather under the middle size, and is round shouldered, or rather stoops. His profile is more striking than his front face, the nose being very large and prominent. As a matter of course, I expected to see a large nose, for all great men have them. He has a thoughtful, and somewhat sullen brow, a firm and somewhat pensive mouth, a cheek pale, thin, and deeply furrowed. A monk fresh from the cloisters of Tintern Abbey, in its proudest days, could scarcely have made a more ascetic and solemn appearance than did Dr. Pusey on this occasion. He is not apparently above forty-five, or at most fifty years of age, and his whole aspect renders him an admirable study for an artist. Dr. Pusey's style of preaching is cold and tame, and one looking at him would scarcely believe that such an apparently uninteresting man could cause such an eruption in the Church as he has. I was glad to find that a coloured young man was among the students at Oxford. A few months since, I paid a visit to our countryman, Alexander Crummel, who is still pursuing his studies at Cambridge--a place, though much inferior to Oxford as far as appearance is concerned, is yet said to be greatly its superior as a place of learning. In an hour's walk through the Strand, Regent, or Piccadilly Streets in London, one may meet half a dozen coloured young men, who are inmates of the various Colleges in the metropolis. These are all signs of progress in the cause of the sons of Africa. Then let our people take courage, and with that courage let them apply themselves to learning. A determination to excel is the sure road to greatness, and that is as open to the black man as the white. It was that which has accomplished the mightiest and noblest triumphs in the intellectual and physical world. It was that which has made such rapid strides towards civilization, and broken the chains of ignorance and superstition, which have so long fettered the human intellect. It was determination which raised so many worthy individuals from the humble walks of society, and from poverty, and placed them in positions of trust and renown. It is no slight barrier that can effectually oppose the determination of the will--success must ultimately crown its efforts. "The world shall hear of me," was the exclamation of one whose name has become as familiar as household words. A Toussaint, once laboured in the sugar field with his spelling-book in his pocket, amid the combined efforts of a nation to keep him in ignorance. His name is now recorded among the list of statesmen of the past. A Soulouque was once a slave, and knew not how to read. He now sits upon the throne of an Empire. In our own country, there are men who once held the plough, and that too without any compensation, who are now presiding at the editor's table. It was determination that brought out the genius of a Franklin, and a Fulton, and that has distinguished many of the American Statesmen, who but for their energy and determination would never have had a name beyond the precincts of their own homes. It is not always those who have the best advantages, or the greatest talents, that eventually succeed in their undertakings; but it is those who strive with untiring diligence to remove all obstacles to success, and who, with unconquerable resolution, labour on until the rich reward of perseverance is within their grasp. Then again let me say to our young men--Take courage; "There is a good time coming." The darkness of the night appears greatest just before the dawn of day. LETTER XX. _Fugitive Slaves in England._ The love of freedom is one of those natural impulses of the human breast which cannot be extinguished. Even the brute animals of the creation feel and show sorrow and affection when deprived of their liberty. Therefore is a distinguished writer justified in saying, "Man is free, even were he born in chains." The Americans boast, and justly, too, that Washington was the hero and model patriot of the American Revolution--the man whose fame, unequalled in his own day and country, will descend to the end of time, the pride and honour of humanity. The American speaks with pride of the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill; and when standing in Faneuil Hall, he points to the portraits of Otis, Adams, Hancock, Quincy, Warren, and Franklin, and tells you that their names will go down to posterity among the world's most devoted and patriotic friends of human liberty. It was on the first of August, 1851, that a number of men, fugitives from that boasted land of freedom, assembled at the Hall of Commerce in the City of London, for the purpose of laying their wrongs before the British nation, and at the same time, to give thanks to the God of Freedom for the liberation of their West India brethren, on the first of August, 1834. Little notice had been given of the intended meeting, yet it seemed to be known in all parts of the city. At the hour of half-past seven, for which the meeting had been called, the spacious hall was well filled, and the fugitives, followed by some of the most noted English Abolitionists, entered the hall, amid the most deafening applause, and took their seats on the platform. The appearance of the great hall at this juncture was most splendid. Besides the committee of fugitives, on the platform there were a number of the oldest and most devoted of the Slave's friends. On the left of the chair sat Geo. Thompson, Esq., M.P.; near him was the Rev. Jabez Burns, D.D.; and by his side the Rev. John Stevenson, M.A., Wm. Farmer, Esq., R. Smith, Esq.; while on the other side were the Rev. Edward Mathews, John Cunliff, Esq., Andrew Paton, Esq., J.P. Edwards, Esq., and a number of coloured gentlemen from the West Indies. The body of the hall was not without its distinguished guests. The Chapmans and Westons of Boston, U.S., were there. The Estlins and Tribes had come all the way from Bristol to attend the great meeting. The Patons of Glasgow had delayed their departure, so as to be present. The Massies had come in from Upper Clapton. Not far from the platform sat Sir Francis Knowles, Bart., still farther back was Samuel Bowly, Esq., while near the door were to be seen the greatest critic of the age, and England's best living poet. Macaulay had laid aside the pen, entered the hall, and was standing near the central door, while not far from the historian stood the newly-appointed Poet Laureat. The author of "In Memoriam" had been swept in by the crowd, and was standing with his arms folded, and beholding for the first time (and probably the last) so large a number of coloured men in one room. In different parts of the hall were men and women from nearly all parts of the kingdom, besides a large number who, drawn to London by the Exhibition, had come in to see and hear these oppressed people plead their own cause. The writer of this sketch was chosen Chairman of the meeting, and commenced its proceedings by delivering the following address, which we cut from the columns of the _Morning Advertiser_:-- "The Chairman, in opening the proceedings, remarked that, although the metropolis had of late been inundated with meetings of various character, having reference to almost every variety of subject, yet that the subject they were called upon that evening to discuss differed from them all. Many of those by whom he was surrounded, like himself, had been victims to the inhuman institution of Slavery, and were in consequence exiled from the land of their birth. They were fugitives from their native land, but not fugitives from justice, and they had not fled from a monarchical, but from a so-called republican government. They came from amongst a people who declared, as part of their creed, that all men were born free, but who, while they did so, made slaves of every sixth man, woman, and child in the country (hear, hear). He must not, however, forget that one of the purposes for which they were met that night was to commemorate the emancipation of their brothers and sisters in the isles of the sea. That act of the British Parliament, and he might add in this case with peculiar emphasis, of the British nation, passed on the 12th day of August, 1833, to take effect on the first day of August, 1834, and which enfranchised 800,000 West Indian slaves, was an event sublime in its nature, comprehensive and mighty in its immediate influences and remote consequences, precious beyond expression to the cause of freedom, and encouraging beyond the measure of any government on earth to the hearts of all enlightened and just men. This act was the commencement of a long course of philanthropic and Christian efforts on the part of some of the best men that the world ever produced. It was not his intention to go into a discussion or a calculation of the rise and fall of property, or whether sugar was worth more or less by the act of emancipation. But the abolition of Slavery in the West Indies, was a blow struck in the right direction, at that most inhuman of all traffics, the slave trade--a trade which would never cease so long as slavery existed, for where there was a market there would be merchandise; where there was demand there would be a supply; where there were carcases there would be vultures; and they might as well attempt to turn the water, and make it run up the Niagara river, as to change this law. It was often said by the Americans that England was responsible for the existence of slavery there, because it was introduced into that country while the colonies were under the British Crown. If that were the case, they must come to the conclusion that, as England abolished Slavery in the West Indies, she would have done the same for the American States if she had had the power to do it; and if that was so, they might safely say that the separation of the United States from the mother country was (to say the least) a great misfortune to one-sixth of the population of that land. England had set a noble example to America, and he would to heaven his countrymen would follow the example. The Americans boasted of their superior knowledge, but they needed not to boast of their superior guilt, for that was set upon a hill top, and that too, so high, that it required not the lantern of Diogenes to find it out. Every breeze from the western world brought upon its wings the groans and cries of the victims of this guilt. Nearly all countries had fixed the seal of disapprobation on slavery, and when, at some future age, this stain on the page of history shall be pointed at, posterity will blush at the discrepancy between American profession and American practice. What was to be thought of a people boasting of their liberty, their humanity, their Christianity, their love of justice, and at the same time keeping in slavery nearly four millions of God's children, and shutting out from them the light of the Gospel, by denying the Bible to the slave! (Hear, hear.) No education, no marriage, everything done to keep the mind of the slave in darkness. There was a wish on the part of the people of the northern States to shield themselves from the charge of slave-holding, but as they shared in the guilt, he was not satisfied with letting them off without their share in the odium. And now a word about the Fugitive Slave Bill. That measure was in every respect an unconstitutional measure. It set aside the right formerly enjoyed by the fugitive of trial by jury--it afforded to him no protection, no opportunity of proving his right to be free, and it placed every free coloured person at the mercy of any unprincipled individual who might wish to lay claim to him. (Hear.) That law is opposed to the principles of Christianity--foreign alike to the laws of God and man, it had converted the whole population of the free States into a band of slave-catchers, and every rood of territory is but so much hunting ground, over which they might chase the fugitive. But while they were speaking of slavery in the United States, they must not omit to mention that there was a strong feeling in that land, not only against the Fugitive Slave Law, but also against the existence of slavery in any form. There was a band of fearless men and women in the city of Boston, whose labours for the slave had resulted in good beyond calculation. This noble and heroic class had created an agitation in the whole country, until their principles have taken root in almost every association in the land, and which, with God's blessing, will, in due time, cause the Americans to put into practice what they have so long professed. (Hear, hear.) He wished it to be continually held up before the country, that the northern States are as deeply implicated in the guilt of slavery as the South. The north had a population of 13,553,328 freemen; the south had a population of only 6,393,756 freemen; the north has 152 representatives in the house, the south only 81; and it would be seen by this, that the balance of power was with the free States. Looking, therefore, at the question in all its aspects, he was sure that there was no one in this country but who would find out, that the slavery of the United States of America was a system the most abandoned and the most tyrannical. (Hear, hear.)" At the close of this address, the Rev. Edward Matthews, last from Bristol, but who had recently returned from the United States, where he had been maltreated on account of his fidelity to the cause of freedom, was introduced, and made a most interesting speech. The next speaker was George Thompson, Esq., M.P.; and we need only say that his eloquence, which has seldom or ever been equalled, and never surpassed, exceeded, on this occasion, the most sanguine expectations of his friends. All who sat under the thundering anathemas which he hurled against slavery, seemed instructed, delighted, and animated. No one could scarcely have remained unmoved by the pensive sympathies that pervaded the entire assembly. There were many in the meeting who had never seen a fugitive slave before, and when any of the speakers would refer to those on the platform, the whole audience seemed moved to tears. No meeting of the kind held in London for years created a greater sensation than this gathering of refugees from the "Land of the free, and the home of the brave." The following appeal, which I had written for the occasion, was unanimously adopted at the close of the meeting, and thus ended the great Anti-Slavery demonstration of 1851. AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE OF GREAT BRITAIN AND THE WORLD. We consider it just, both to the people of the United States and to ourselves, in making an appeal to the inhabitants of other countries, against the laws which have exiled us from our native land, to state the ground upon which we make our appeal, and the causes which impel us to do so. There are in the United States of America, at the present time, between three and four millions of persons, who are held in a state of slavery which has no parallel in any other part of the world; and whose numbers have, within the last fifty years, increased to a fearful extent. These people are not only deprived of the rights to which the laws of Nature and Nature's God entitle them, but every avenue to knowledge is closed against them. The laws do not recognise the family relation of a slave, and extend to him protection in the enjoyment of domestic endearments. Brothers and sisters, parents and children, husbands and wives, are torn asunder, and permitted to see each other no more. The shrieks and agonies of the slave are heard in the markets at the seat of government, and within hearing of the American Congress, as well as on the cotton, sugar and rice plantations of the far South. The history of the negroes in America is but a history of repeated injuries and acts of oppression committed upon them by the whites. It is not for ourselves that we make this appeal, but for those whom we have left behind. In their Declaration of Independence, the Americans declare that "all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." Yet one-sixth of the inhabitants of the great Republic are slaves. Thus they give the lie to their own professions. No one forfeits his or her character or standing in society by being engaged in holding, buying or selling a slave; the details of which, in all their horror, can scarcely be told. Although the holding of slaves is confined to fifteen of the thirty-one States, yet we hold that the non-slave-holding States are equally guilty with the slave-holding. If any proof is needed on this point, it will be found in the passage of the inhuman Fugitive Slave Law, by Congress; a law which could never have been enacted without the votes of a portion of the representatives from the free States, and which is now being enforced, in many of the States, with the utmost alacrity. It was the passing of this law that exiled us from our native land, and it has driven thousands of our brothers and sisters from the free States, and compelled them to seek a refuge in the British possessions in North America. The Fugitive Slave Law has converted the entire country, North and South, into one vast hunting-ground. We would respectfully ask you to expostulate with the Americans, and let them know that you regard their treatment of the coloured people of that country as a violation of every principle of human brotherhood, of natural right, of justice, of humanity, of Christianity, of love to God and love to man. It is needless that we should remind you that the religious sects of America, with but few exceptions, are connected with the sin of slavery--the churches North as well as South. We would have you tell the professed Christians of that land, that if they would be respected by you, they must separate themselves from the unholy alliance with men who are daily committing deeds which, if done in England, would cause the perpetrator to be sent to a felon's doom; that they must refuse the right hand of Christian fellowship, whether individually or collectively, to those implicated, in any way, in the guilt of slavery. We do not ask for a forcible interference on your part, but only that you will use all lawful and peaceful means to restore to this much injured race their God-given rights. The moral and religious sentiment of mankind must be arrayed against slave-holding, to make it infamous, ere we can hope to see it abolished. We would ask you to set them the example, by excluding from your pulpits, and from religious communion, the slave-holding and pro-slavery ministers who may happen to visit this country. We would even go further, and ask you to shut your doors against either ministers or laymen, who are at all guilty of upholding and sustaining this monster sin. By the cries of the slave, which come from the fields and swamps of the far South, we ask you to do this! By that spirit of liberty and equality of which you all admire, we would ask you to do this. And by that still nobler, higher, and holier spirit of our beloved Saviour, we would ask you to stamp upon the head of the slaveholder, with a brand deeper than that which marks the victim of his wrongs, the infamy of theft, adultery, man-stealing, piracy, and murder, and, by the force of public opinion, compel him to "unloose the heavy burden, and let the oppressed go free." LETTER XXI. _A Chapter on American Slavery._ The word Englishman is but another name for an American, and the word American is but another name for an Englishman--England is the father, America the son. They have a common origin and identity of language; they hold the same religious and political opinions; they study the same histories, and have the same literature. Steam and mechanical ingenuity have brought the two countries within nine days sailing of each other. The Englishman on landing at New-York finds his new neighbours speaking the same language which he last heard on leaving Liverpool, and he sees the American in the same dress that he had been accustomed to look upon at home, and soon forgets that he is three thousand miles from his native land, and in another country. The American on landing at Liverpool, and taking a walk through the great commercial city, finding no difficulty in understanding the people, supposes himself still in New-York; and if there seems any doubt in his own mind, growing out of the fact that the people have a more healthy look, seem more polite, and that the buildings have a more substantial appearance than those he had formerly looked upon, he has only to imagine, as did Rip Van Winkle, that he has been asleep these hundred years. If the Englishman who has seen a Thompson silenced in Boston, or a Macready mobbed in New-York, upon the ground that they were foreigners, should sit in Exeter Hall and hear an American orator until he was hoarse, and wonder why the American is better treated in England than the Englishman in America, he has only to attribute it to John Bull's superior knowledge of good manners, and his being a more law-abiding man than brother Jonathan. England and America has each its reforms and its reformers, and they have more or less sympathy with each other. It has been said that one generation commences a reform in England, and that another generation finishes it. I would that so much could be said with regard to the great object of reform in America--the system of slavery! No evil was ever more deeply rooted in a country than is slavery in the United States. Spread over the largest and most fertile States in the Union, with decidedly the best climate, and interwoven, as it is, with the religious, political, commercial, and social institutions of the country, it is scarcely possible to estimate its influence. This is the evil which claims the attention of American Reformers, over and above every other evil in the land, and thanks to a kind providence, the American slave is not without his advocates. The greatest enemy to the Anti-Slavery Society, and the most inveterate opposer of the men whose names stand at the head of the list as officers and agents of that association, will, we think, assign to William Lloyd Garrison, the first place in the ranks of the American Abolitionists. The first to proclaim the doctrine of immediate emancipation to the slaves of America, and on that account an object of hatred to the slave-holding interest of the country, and living for years with his life in danger, he is justly regarded by all, as the leader of the Anti-Slavery movement in the New World. Mr. Garrison is at the present time but little more than forty-five years of age, and of the middle size. He has a high and prominent forehead, well developed, with no hair on the top of the head, having lost it in early life; with a piercing eye, a pleasant, yet anxious countenance, and of a most loveable disposition; tender, and blameless in his family affections, devoted to his friends; simple and studious, upright, guileless, distinguished, and worthy, like the distinguished men of antiquity, to be immortalized by another Plutarch. How many services never to be forgotten, has he not rendered to the cause of the slave, and the welfare of mankind! As a speaker, he is forcible, clear, and logical, yet he will not rank with the many who are less known. As a writer, he is regarded as one of the finest in the United States, and certainly the most prominent in the Anti-Slavery cause. Had Mr. Garrison wished to serve himself, he might, with his great talents, long since, have been at the head of either of the great political parties. Few men can withstand the allurements of office, and the prize-money that accompanies them. Many of those who were with him fifteen years ago, have been swept down with the current of popular favour, either in Church or State. He has seen a Cox on the one hand, and a Stanton on the other, swept away like so much floating wood before the tide. When the sturdiest characters gave way, when the finest geniuses passed one after another under the yoke of slavery, Garrison stood firm to his convictions, like a rock that stands stirless amid the conflicting agitation of the waves. He is not only the friend and advocate of freedom with his pen and his tongue, but to the oppressed of every clime he opens his purse, his house, and his heart: yet he is not a man of money. The fugitive slave, fresh from the whips and chains, who is turned off by the politician, and experiences the cold shoulder of the divine, finds a bed and a breakfast under the hospitable roof of Mr. Lloyd Garrison. The party of which he is the acknowledged head, is one of no inconsiderable influence in the United States. No man has more bitter enemies or stauncher friends than he. There are those among his friends who would stake their all upon his veracity and integrity; and we are sure that the coloured people throughout America, bond and free, in whose cause he has so long laboured, will, with one accord, assign the highest niche in their affection to the champion of universal emancipation. Every cause has its writers and its orators. We have drawn a hasty and imperfect sketch of the greatest writer in the Anti-Slavery field: we shall now call attention to the most distinguished public speaker. The name of Wendell Phillips is but another name for eloquence. Born in the highest possible position in America, Mr. Phillips has all the advantages that birth can give to one in that country. Educated at the first University, graduating with all the honours which the College could bestow on him, and studying the law and becoming a member of the bar, he has all the accomplishments that these advantages can give to a man of a great mind. Nature has treated him as a favourite. His stature is not tall, but handsome; his expressive countenance paints and reflects every emotion of his soul. His gestures are wonderfully graceful, like his delivery. There is a fascination in the soft gaze of his eyes, which none can but admire. Being a great reader, and endowed by nature with a good memory, he supplies himself with the most complicated dates and historical events. Nothing can equal the variety of his matter. I have heard him more than twenty different times on the same subject, but never heard the same speech. He is personal, but there is nothing offensive in his personalities. He extracts from a subject all that it contains, and does it as none but Wendell Phillips can. His voice is beautifully musical, and it is calculated to attract wherever it is heard. He is a man of calm intrepidity, of a patriotic and warm heart, with manners the most affable, temper the most gentle, a rectitude of principle entirely natural, a freedom from ambition, and a modesty quite singular. As Napoleon kept the Old Guard in reserve, to turn the tide in battle, so do the Abolitionists keep Mr. Phillips in reserve when opposition is expected in their great gatherings. We have seen the meetings turned into a bedlam, by the mobocratic slave-holding spirit, and when the speakers had one after another left the platform without a hearing, and the chairman had lost all control of the assembly, the appearance of this gentleman upon the platform would turn the tide of events. He would not beg for a hearing, but on the contrary, he would lash them as no preceding speaker had done. If, by their groans and yells, they stifled his voice, he would stand unmoved with his arms folded, and by the very eloquence of his looks put them to silence. His speeches against the Fugitive Slave Law, and his withering rebukes of Daniel Webster and other northern men who supported that measure, are of the most splendid character, and will compare in point of composition with anything ever uttered by Chatham or Sheridan in their palmiest days. As a public speaker, Mr. Phillips is, without doubt, the first in the United States. Considering his great talent, his high birth, and the prospects which lay before him, and the fact that he threw everything aside to plead the slave's cause, we must be convinced that no man has sacrificed more upon the altar of humanity than Wendell Phillips. Within the past ten years, a great impetus has been given to the anti-slavery movement in America by coloured men who have escaped from slavery. Coming as they did from the very house of bondage, and being able to speak from sad experience, they could speak as none others could. The gentleman to whom we shall now call attention is one of this class, and doubtless the first of his race in America. The name of Frederick Douglass is well known throughout this country as well as America. Born and brought up as a slave, he was deprived of a mother's care and of early education. Escaping when he was little more than twenty years of age, he was thrown upon his own resources in the free states, where prejudice against colour is but another name for slavery. But during all this time he was educating himself as well as circumstances would admit. Mr. Douglass commenced his career as a public speaker some ten years since, as an agent of the American or Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Societies. He is tall and well made. His vast and well-developed forehead announces the power of his intellect. His voice is full and sonorous. His attitude is dignified, and his gesticulation is full of noble simplicity. He is a man of lofty reason, natural, and without pretension, always master of himself, brilliant in the art of exposing and of abstracting. Few persons can handle a subject with which they are familiar better than Mr. Douglass. There is a kind of eloquence issuing from the depth of the soul, as from a spring, rolling along its copious floods, sweeping all before it, overwhelming by its very force, carrying, upsetting, engulphing its adversaries, and more dazzling and more thundering than the bolt which leaps from crag to crag. This is the eloquence of Frederick Douglass. He is one of the greatest mimics of the age. No man can put on a sweeter smile or a more sarcastic frown than he: you cannot put him off his guard. He is always in good humour. Mr. Douglass possesses great dramatic powers; and had he taken up the sock and buskin, instead of becoming a lecturer, he would have made as fine a Coriolanus as ever trod the stage. However, Mr. Douglass was not the first coloured man that became a lecturer, and thereby did service to the cause of his countrymen. The earliest and most effective speaker from among the coloured race in America, was Charles Lennox Remond. In point of eloquence, this gentleman is not inferior to either Wendell Phillips or Frederick Douglass. Mr. Remond is of small stature, and neat figure, with a head well developed, but a remarkably thin face. As an elocutionist, he is, without doubt, the first on the anti-slavery platform. He has a good voice, a pleasing countenance, a prompt intelligence, and when speaking, is calculated to captivate and carry away an audience by the very force of his eloquence. Born in the freest state of the Union, and of most respectable parents, he prides himself not a little on his birth and descent. One can scarcely find fault with this, for, in the United States, the coloured man is deprived of the advantages which parentage gives to the white man. Mr. Remond is a descendant of one of those coloured men who stood side by side with white men on the plains of Concord and Lexington, in the battles that achieved the independence of the colonies from the mother country, in the war of the Revolution. Mr. Remond has felt deeply, (probably more so than any other coloured man), the odious prejudice against colour. On this point he is sensitive to a fault. If any one will sit for an hour and hear a lecture from him on this subject, if he is not converted, he will at least become convinced, that the boiling cauldron of anti-slavery discussion has never thrown upon its surface a more fiery spirit than Charles Lennox Remond. There are some men who neither speak nor write, but whose lives place them in the foremost ranks in the cause which they espouse. One of these is Francis Jackson. He was one of the earliest to give countenance and support to the anti-slavery movement. In the year 1835, when a mob of more than 5000 merchants and others, in Boston, broke up an anti-slavery meeting of females, at which William Lloyd Garrison and George Thompson were to deliver addresses, and when the Society had no room in which to hold its meetings (having been driven from their own room by the mob), Francis Jackson, with a moral courage scarcely ever equalled, came forward and offered his private dwelling to the ladies, to hold their meeting in. The following interesting passage occurs in a letter from him to the Secretary of the Society a short time after, on receiving a vote of thanks from its members:-- "If a large majority of this community choose to turn a deaf ear to the wrongs which are inflicted upon their countrymen in other portions of the land--if they are content to turn away from the sight of oppression, and 'pass by on the other side'--so it must be. "But when they undertake in any way to impair or annul my right to speak, write, and publish upon any subject, and more especially upon enormities, which are the common concern of every lover of his country and his kind--so it must not be--so it shall not be, if I for one can prevent it. Upon this great right let us hold on at all hazards. And should we, in its exercise, be driven from public halls to private dwellings, one house at least shall be consecrated to its preservation. And if, in defence of this sacred privilege, which man did not give me, and shall not (if I can help it) take from me, this roof and these walls shall be levelled to the earth, let them fall if they must; they cannot crumble in a better cause. They will appear of very little value to me after their owner shall have been whipt into silence." There are among the contributors to the Anti-Slavery cause, a few who give with a liberality which has never been surpassed by the donors to any benevolent association in the world, according to their means--the chief of these is Francis Jackson. In the month of May, 1844, while one evening strolling up Broadway, New York, I saw a crowd making its way into the Minerva Rooms, and, having no pressing engagement, I followed, and was soon in a splendid hall, where some twelve or fifteen hundred persons were seated, and listening to rather a strange-looking man. The speaker was tall and slim, with long arms, long legs, and a profusion of auburn or reddish hair hanging in ringlets down his shoulders; while a huge beard of the same colour fell upon his breast. His person was not at all improved by his dress. The legs of his trousers were shorter than those worn by smaller men: the sleeves of his coat were small and short, the shirt collar turned down in Byronic style, beard and hair hid his countenance, so that no redeeming feature could be found there; yet there was one redeeming quality about the man--that was the stream of fervid eloquence which escaped from his lips. I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Charles C. Burleigh. Nature has been profuse in showering her gifts upon Mr. Burleigh, but all has been bestowed upon his head and heart. There is a kind of eloquence which weaves its thread around the hearer, and gradually draws him into its web, fascinating him with its gaze, entangling him as the spider does the fly, until he is fast: such is the eloquence of C.C. Burleigh. As a debater he is unquestionably the first on the Anti-slavery platform. If he did not speak so fast, he would equal Wendell Phillips; if he did not reason his subject out of existence, he would surpass him. However, one would have to travel over many miles, and look in the faces of many men, before he would find one who has made more personal sacrifices, or done more to bring about the Emancipation of the American Slaves, than Mr. Charles C. Burleigh. Whoever the future historian of the Anti-Slavery movement may be, he will not be able to compile a correct history of this great struggle, without consulting the writings of Edmund Quincy, a member of one of the wealthiest, patriotic, and aristocratic families in New England: the prestige of his name is a passport to all that the heart could wish. Descended from a family, whose name is connected with all that was glorious in the great American Revolution, the son of one who has again and again represented his native State, in the National Congress, he too, like Wendell Phillips, threw away the pearl of political preferment, and devoted his distinguished talents to the cause of the Slave. Mr. Quincy is better known in this country as having filled the editorial chair of _The Liberator_, during the several visits of its Editor to Great Britain. As a speaker, he does not rank as high as some who are less known; as a writer, he has few equals. The "Annual Reports" of the American and Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Societies for the past fifteen or twenty years, have emanated from his pen. When posterity, in digging among the tombs of the friends of mankind, and of universal freedom, shall fail to find there the name of Edmund Quincy, it will be because the engraver failed to do his duty. Were we sent out to find a man who should excel all others in collecting together new facts and anecdotes, and varnishing up old ones so that they would appear new, and bringing them into a meeting and emptying out, good or bad, the whole contents of his sack, to the delight and admiration of the audience, we would unhesitatingly select James N. Buffum as the man. If Mr. Buffum is not a great speaker, he has what many accomplished orators have not--_i.e._, a noble and generous heart. If the fugitive slave, fresh from the cotton-field, should make his appearance in the town of Lynn, in Massachusetts, and should need a night's lodging or refreshments, he need go no farther than the hospitable door of James N. Buffum. Most men who inherit large fortunes, do little or nothing to benefit mankind. A few, however, spend their means in the best possible manner: one of the latter class is Gerrit Smith. The name of this gentleman should have been brought forward among those who are first mentioned in this chapter. Some eight or ten years ago, Mr. Smith was the owner of large tracts of land, lying in twenty-nine counties in the State of New York, and came to the strange conclusion to give the most of it away. Consequently, three thousand lots of land, containing from thirty to one hundred acres each, were given to coloured men residing in the State--the writer of this being one of the number. Although universal suffrage is enjoyed by the whites in the State of New York, a property-qualification is imposed on coloured men; and this act of Mr. Smith's not only made three thousand men the owners of land, but created also three thousand voters. The ability to give, and the willingness to do so, is not by any means the greatest quality of this gentleman. As a public speaker, Mr. Smith has few equals; and certainly no man in his State has done more to forward the cause of Negro Emancipation than he. We have already swelled the pages of this chapter beyond what we intended when we commenced, but yet we have called attention to only one branch of American Reformers. The Temperance Reformers are next to be considered. This cause has many champions, and yet none who occupy a very prominent position before the world. The first temperance newspaper published in the United States, was edited by William Lloyd Garrison. Gerrit Smith has also done much in promulgating temperance views. But the most noted man in the movement at the present time, and the one best known to the British public, is John B. Gough. This gentleman was at one time an actor on the stage, and subsequently became an inebriate of the most degraded kind. He was, however, reclaimed through the great Washingtonian movement that swept over the United States a few years since. In stature, Mr. Gough is tall and slim, with black hair, which he usually wears too long. As an orator, he is considered among the first in the United States. Having once been an actor, he throws all his dramatic powers into his addresses. He has a facility of telling strange and marvellous stories which can scarcely be surpassed; and what makes them still more interesting, he always happens to be an eyewitness. While speaking, he acts the drunkard, and does it in a style which could not be equalled on the boards of the Lyceum or Adelphi. No man has obtained more signatures to the temperance pledge than he. After all, it is a question whether he has ever been of any permanent service to this reform or not. Mr. Gough has more than once fallen from his position as a teetotaler; more than once he has broken his pledge, and when found by his friends, was in houses of a questionable character. However, some are of opinion that these defects have been of use to him; for when he has made his appearance after one of these debaucheries, the people appear to sympathize more with him, and some thought he spoke better. If we believe that a person could enjoy good health with water upon the brain, we would be of opinion that Mr. Gough's cranium contained a greater quantity than that of any other living man. When speaking before an audience, he can weep when he pleases; and the tears shed on these occasions are none of your make-believe kind--none of your small drops trickling down the cheeks one at a time;--but they come in great showers, so as even to sprinkle upon the paper which he holds in his hand. Of course, he is not alone in shedding tears in his meetings, many of his hearers usually join him; especially the ladies, as these showers are intended for them. However, no one can sit for an hour and hear John. B. Gough, without coming to the conclusion that he is nothing more than a theatrical mountebank. The ablest speaker on the subject of Peace, is Charles Sumner. Standing more than six feet in height, and well proportioned, Mr. Sumner makes a most splendid and commanding appearance before an assembly. It is not his looks alone that attract attention--his very countenance indicates a superior mind. Born in the upper circle, educated in the first College in the country, and finally becoming a member of the Bar, he is well qualified to take the highest possible position as a public speaker. As an orator, Charles Sumner has but one superior in the United States, and that is Wendell Phillips. Mr. Sumner is an able advocate for the liberation of the American Slaves as well as of the cause of Peace, and has rendered great aid to the abolition movement. The name of Elihu Burritt, for many reasons, should be placed at the head of the Peace Movement. No man was ever more devoted to one idea than he is to that of peace. If he is an advocate of Temperance, it is because it will promote peace. If he opposes Slavery, it is upon the grounds of peace. Ask him why he wants an "Ocean Penny Postage," he will tell you to engender the principles of peace. Everything with him hinges upon the doctrine of peace. As a speaker, Mr. Burritt does not rank amongst the first. However, his speeches are of a high order, some think them too high, and complain that he is too much of a cloud-traveller, and when he descends from these aerial flights and cloudy thrones, they are unwilling to admit that he can be practical. If Mr. Burritt should prove as good a statesman as a theorist, he would be an exception to most who belong to the aerial school. As a writer he stands deservedly high. In his "Sparks from the Anvil," and "Voice from the Forge," are to be found as fine pieces as have been produced by any writer of the day. His "Drunkard's Wife" is the most splendid thing of the kind in the language. His stature is of the middle size, head well developed, with eyes deeply set, and a prepossessing countenance, though not handsome; he wears an exterior of remarkable austerity, and everything about him is grave, even to his smile. Being well versed in the languages, ancient and modern, he does not lack variety or imagination, either in his public addresses or private conversation; yet it would be difficult to find a man with a better heart, or sweeter spirit, than Elihu Burritt. LETTER XXII. _A Narrative of American Slavery._ Although the first slaves, introduced into the American Colonies from the coast of Africa, were negroes of a very dark complexion with woolly hair, and it was thought that slavery would be confined to the blacks, yet the present slave population of America is far from being black. This change in colour, is attributable, solely to the unlimited power which the slave owner exercises over his victim. There being no lawful marriage amongst slaves, and no encouragement to slave women to be virtuous and chaste, there seems to be no limits to the system of amalgamation carried on between master and slave. This accounts for the fact, that most persons who go from Europe, or from the Free States, into Carolina or Virginia, are struck with the different shades of colour amongst the slaves. On a plantation employing fifty slaves, it is not uncommon to see one third of them mulattoes, and some of these nearly white. In the year 1831, there resided in the state of Virginia, a slave who was so white, that no one would suppose for a moment that a drop of African blood coursed through his veins. His skin was fair, hair soft, straight, fine and white; his eyes blue, nose prominent, lips thin; his head well formed, forehead high and prominent; and he was often taken for a white free person, by those who did not know him. This made his condition as a slave still more intolerable; for one so white, seldom ever receives fair treatment at the hands of his fellow slaves; and the whites usually regard such slaves as persons, who, if not often flogged and otherwise ill treated, to remind them of their condition, would soon "forget" that they were slaves, and "think themselves as good as white folks." During that year, an insurrection broke out amongst the slave population, known as the Southampton Rebellion, or the "Nat Turner Insurrection." Five or six hundred slaves, believing in the doctrine that "all men are created equal," armed with such weapons as they could get, commenced a war for freedom. Amongst these was George, the white slave of whom we have spoken. He had been employed as a house servant, and had heard his master and visiters speak of the down-trodden and oppressed Poles; he heard them talk of going to Greece to fight for Grecian liberty, and against the oppressors of that ill-fated people. George, fired with the love of freedom, and zeal for the cause of his enslaved countrymen, joined the insurrection. The result of that struggle for liberty is well known. The slaves were defeated, and those who were not taken prisoners, took refuge in the dismal swamps. These were ordered to surrender; but instead of doing so, they challenged their proud oppressors to take them, and immediately renewed the war. A ferocious struggle now commenced between the parties; but not until the United States troops were called in, did they succeed in crushing a handful of men and women who were fighting for freedom. The negroes were hunted with dogs, and many who were caught were burnt alive; while some were hung, and others flogged and banished from the State. Among those who were sentenced to be hanged, was George. He was placed in prison to await the day of execution, which would give him ten days to prepare for his doom. George was the son of a member of the American Congress, his mother being a servant in the principal hotel in Washington, where members of Congress usually put up. After the birth of George, his mother was sold to a negro trader, and he to a Virginian, who sent agents through the country to buy up young slaves to raise for the market. George was only about nineteen years of age, when he unfortunately became connected with the insurrection. Mr. Green, who owned George, was a comparatively good master, and prided himself on treating his slaves better than most men. This gentleman was also the owner of a girl who was perfectly white, with straight hair and prominent features. This girl was said to be the daughter of her own master. A feeling of attachment sprang up between Mary and George, which proved to be more than mere friendship, and upon which we base the burden of this narrative. After poor George had been sentenced to death and cast into prison, Mary begged and obtained leave to visit George, and administer to him the comforts of religion, as she was a member of a religious body, while George was not. As George had been a considerable favourite with Mrs. Green, Mary had no difficulty in obtaining permission to pay a daily visit to him, to whom she had pledged her heart and hand. At one of these meetings, and only four days from the time fixed for the execution, while Mary was seated in George's cell, it occurred to her that she might yet save him from a felon's doom. She revealed to him the secret that was then occupying her thoughts, viz., that George should exchange clothes with her, and thus attempt his escape in disguise. But he would not for a single moment listen to the proposition. Not that he feared detection; but he would not consent to place an innocent and affectionate girl in a position where she might have to suffer for him. Mary pleaded, but in vain--George was inflexible. The poor girl left her lover with a heavy heart, regretting that her scheme had proved unsuccessful. Towards the close of the next day, Mary again appeared at the prison door for admission, and was soon by the side of him whom she so ardently loved. While there, the clouds which had overhung the city for some hours, broke, and the rain fell in torrents amid the most terrific thunder and lightning. In the most persuasive manner possible, Mary again importuned George to avail himself of her assistance to escape from an ignominious death. After assuring him that she not being the person condemned, would not receive any injury, he at last consented, and they began to exchange apparel. As George was of small stature, and both were white, there was no difficulty in his passing out without detection: and as she usually left the cell weeping, with handkerchief in hand, and sometimes at her face, he had only to adopt this mode and his escape was safe. They had kissed each other, and Mary had told George where he would find a small parcel of provisions which she had placed in a secluded spot, when the prison-keeper opened the door, and said, "Come, girl, it is time for you to go." George again embraced Mary, and passed out of the gaol. It was already dark and the street lamps were lighted, so that our hero in his new dress had no dread of detection. The provisions were sought out and found, and poor George was soon on the road towards Canada. But neither of them had once thought of a change of dress for George when he should have escaped, and he had walked but a short distance before he felt that a change of his apparel would facilitate his progress. But he dared not go amongst even his coloured associates for fear of being betrayed. However, he made the best of his way on towards Canada, hiding in the woods during the day, and travelling by the guidance of the North Star at night. One morning, George arrived on the banks of the Ohio river, and found his journey had terminated, unless he could get some one to take him across the river in a secret manner, for he would not be permitted to cross in any of the ferry boats; it being a penalty for crossing a slave, besides the value of the slave. He concealed himself in the tall grass and weeds near the river, to see if he could embrace an opportunity to cross. He had been in his hiding-place but a short time, when he observed a man in a small boat, floating near the shore, evidently fishing. His first impulse was to call out to the man and ask him to take him over to the Ohio side, but the fear that the man was a slaveholder, or one who might possibly arrest him, deterred him from it. The man after rowing and floating about for some time fastened the boat to the root of a tree, and started to a neighbouring farm-house. This was George's moment, and he seized it. Running down the bank, he unfastened the boat, jumped in, and with all the expertness of one accustomed to a boat, rowed across the river and landed on the Ohio side. Being now in a free state, he thought he might with perfect safety travel on towards Canada. He had, however, gone but a few miles, when he discovered two men on horseback coming behind him. He felt sure that they could not be in pursuit of him, yet he did not wish to be seen by them, so he turned into another road, leading to a house near by. The men followed, and were but a short distance from George, when he ran up to a farm house, before which was standing a farmer-looking man, in a broad-brimmed hat and straight collared coat, whom he implored to save him from the "slave-catchers." The farmer told him to go into the barn near by; he entered by the front door, the farmer following, and closing the door behind George, but remaining outside, and gave directions to his hired man as to what should be done with George. The slaveholders by this time had dismounted, and were in the front of the barn demanding admittance, and charging the farmer with secreting their slave woman, for George was still in the dress of a woman. The Friend, for the farmer proved to be a member of the Society of Friends, told the slave-owners that if they wished to search his barn, they must first get an officer and a search warrant. While the parties were disputing, the farmer began nailing up the front door, and the hired man served the back door in the same way. The slaveholders, finding that they could not prevail on the Friend to allow them to get the slave, determined to go in search of an officer. One was left to see that the slave did not escape from the barn, while the other went off at full speed to Mount Pleasant, the nearest town. George was not the slave of either of these men, nor were they in pursuit of him, but they had lost a woman who had been seen in that vicinity, and when they saw poor George in the disguise of a female, and attempting to elude pursuit, they felt sure they were close upon their victim. However, if they had caught him, although he was not their slave, they would have taken him back and placed him in goal, and there he would have remained until his owner arrived. After an absence of nearly two hours, the slave owner returned with an officer and found the Friend still driving large nails into the door. In a triumphant tone, and with a corresponding gesture, he handed the search-warrant to the Friend, and said, "There, Sir, now I will see if I can't get my Nigger." "Well," said the Friend, "thou hast gone to work according to law, and thou can now go into my barn." "Lend me your hammer that I may get the door open," said the slaveholder. "Let me see the warrant again." And after reading it over once more, he said, "I see nothing in this paper which says I must supply thee with tools to open my door; if thou wishes to go in, thou must get a hammer elsewhere." The sheriff said, "I will go to a neighbouring farm and borrow something which will introduce us to Miss Dinah;" and he immediately went in search of tools. In a short time the officer returned, and they commenced an assault and battery upon the barn door, which soon yielded; and in went the slaveholder and officer, and began turning up the hay and using all other means to find the lost property; but, to their astonishment, the slave was not there. After all hope of getting Dinah was gone, the slave-owner in a rage, said to the Friend, "My Nigger is not here." "I did not tell thee there was any one here." "Yes, but I saw her go in, and you shut the door behind her, and if she was not in the barn, what did you nail the door for?" "Can't I do what I please with my own barn door? Now I will tell thee; thou need trouble thyself no more, for the person thou art after entered the front door and went out at the back door, and is a long way from here by this time. Thou and thy friend must be somewhat fatigued by this time, wont thou go in and take a little dinner with me?" We need not say that this cool invitation of the good Quaker was not accepted by the slaveholders. George, in the meantime, had been taken to a Friend's dwelling some miles away, where, after laying aside his female attire, and being snugly dressed up in a straight collared coat, and pantaloons to match, was again put on the right road towards Canada. Two weeks after this found him in the town of St. Catharines, working on the farm of Colonel Strut, and attending a night school. George, however, did not forget his promise to use all means in his power to get Mary out of slavery. He, therefore, laboured with all his might, to obtain money with which to employ some one to go back to Virginia for Mary. After nearly six months' labour at St. Catharines, he employed an English missionary to go and see if the girl could be purchased, and at what price. The missionary went accordingly, but returned with the sad intelligence that on account of Mary's aiding George to escape, the court had compelled Mr. Green to sell her out of the State, and she had been sold to a Negro trader and taken to the New Orleans market. As all hope of getting the girl was now gone, George resolved to quit the American continent for ever. He immediately took passage in a vessel laden with timber, bound for Liverpool, and in five weeks from that time he was standing on the quay of the great English seaport. With little or no education, he found many difficulties in the way of getting a respectable living. However, he obtained a situation as porter in a large house in Manchester, where he worked during the day, and took private lessons at night. In this way he laboured for three years, and was then raised to the situation of a clerk. George was so white as easily to pass for a white man, and being somewhat ashamed of his African descent, he never once mentioned the fact of his having been a slave. He soon became a partner in the firm that employed him, and was now on the road to wealth. In the year 1842, just ten years after George Green (for he adopted his master's name) arrived in England, he visited France, and spent some days at Dunkirk. It was towards sunset, on a warm day in the month of October, that Mr. Green, after strolling some distance from the Hotel de Leon, entered a burial ground and wandered long alone among the silent dead, gazing upon the many green graves and marble tombstones of those who once moved on the theatre of busy life, and whose sounds of gaiety once fell upon the ear of man. All nature around was hushed in silence, and seemed to partake of the general melancholy which hung over the quiet resting place of departed mortals. After tracing the varied inscriptions which told the characters or conditions of the departed, and viewing the mounds 'neath which the dust of mortality slumbered, he had now reached a secluded spot, near to where an aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage to the ground, as though anxious to hide from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the grave beneath it. Mr. Green seated himself upon a marble tomb, and began to read Roscoe's Leo X., a copy of which he had under his arm. It was then about twilight, and he had scarcely gone through half a page, when he observed a lady in black, leading a boy some five years old up one of the paths; and as the lady's black veil was over her face, he felt somewhat at liberty to eye her more closely. While looking at her, the lady gave a scream and appeared to be in a fainting position, when Mr. Green sprang from his seat in time to save her from falling to the ground. At this moment, an elderly gentleman was seen approaching with a rapid step, who from his appearance was evidently the lady's father, or one intimately connected with her. He came up, and in a confused manner, asked what was the matter. Mr. Green explained as well as he could. After taking up the smelling bottle which had fallen from her hand, and holding it a short time to her face, she soon began to revive. During all this time, the lady's veil had so covered her face, that Mr. Green had not seen it. When she had so far recovered as to be able to raise her head, she again screamed, and fell back into the arms of the old man. It now appeared quite certain, that either the countenance of George Green, or some other object, was the cause of these fits of fainting; and the old gentleman, thinking it was the former, in rather a petulant tone said, "I will thank you, Sir, if you will leave us alone." The child whom the lady was leading had now set up a squall; and amid the death-like appearance of the lady, the harsh look of the old man, and the cries of the boy, Mr. Green left the grounds and returned to his hotel. Whilst seated by the window, and looking out upon the crowded street, with every now and then the strange scene in the grave-yard vividly before him, Mr. Green thought of the book he had been reading, and, remembering that he had left it on the tomb, where he had suddenly dropped it when called to the assistance of the lady, he immediately determined to return in search of it. After a walk of some twenty minutes, he was again over the spot where he had been an hour before, and from which he had been so unceremoniously expelled by the old man. He looked in vain for the book; it was no where to be found: nothing save a bouquet which the lady had dropped, and which lay half-buried in the grass from having been trodden upon, indicated that any one had been there that evening. Mr. Green took up the bunch of flowers, and again returned to the hotel. After passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six, he dropped into a sweet sleep, from which he did not awake until roused by the rap of a servant, who, entering his room, handed him a note which ran as follows:--"Sir,--I owe you an apology for the inconveniences to which you were subjected last evening, and if you will honour us with your presence to dinner to-day at four o'clock, I shall be most happy to give you due satisfaction. My servant will be in waiting for you at half-past three. I am, sir, your obedt. servant, J. Devenant. October 23, to George Green, Esq." The servant who handed this note to Mr. Green, informed him that the bearer was waiting for a reply. He immediately resolved to accept the invitation, and replied accordingly. Who this person was, and how his name and the hotel where he was stopping had been found out, was indeed a mystery. However, he waited impatiently for the hour when he was to see this new acquaintance, and get the mysterious meeting in the grave-yard solved. The clock on a neighbouring church had scarcely ceased striking three, when the servant announced that a carriage had called for Mr. Green. In less than half an hour, he was seated in a most sumptuous barouch, drawn by two beautiful iron greys, and rolling along over a splendid gravel road, completely shaded by large trees which appeared to have been the accumulating growth of many centuries. The carriage soon stopped in front of a low villa, and this too was imbedded in magnificent trees covered with moss. Mr. Green alighted and was shown into a superb drawing room, the walls of which were hung with fine specimens from the hands of the great Italian painters, and one by a German artist representing a beautiful monkish legend connected with "The Holy Catherine," and illustrious lady of Alexandria. The furniture had an antique and dignified appearance. High backed chairs stood around the room; a venerable mirror stood on the mantle-shelf; rich curtains of crimson damask hung in folds at either side of the large windows; and a rich Turkey carpet covered the floor. In the centre stood a table covered with books, in the midst of which was an old fashioned vase filled with fresh flowers, whose fragrance was exceedingly pleasant. A faint light, together with the quietness of the hour gave beauty beyond description to the whole scene. Mr. Green had scarcely seated himself upon the sofa, when the elderly gentleman whom he had met the previous evening made his appearance, followed by the little boy, and introduced himself as Mr. Devenant. A moment more, and a lady--a beautiful brunette--dressed in black, with long curls of a chesnut colour hanging down her cheeks, entered the room. Her eyes were of a dark hazel, and her whole appearance indicated that she was a native of a southern clime. The door at which she entered was opposite to where the two gentlemen were seated. They immediately rose; and Mr. Devenant was in the act of introducing her to Mr. Green, when he observed that the latter had sunk back upon the sofa, and the last word that he remembered to have heard was, "It is her." After this, all was dark and dreamy: how long he remained in this condition it was for another to tell. When he awoke, he found himself stretched upon the sofa, with his boots off, his neckerchief removed, shirt collar unbuttoned, and his head resting upon a pillow. By his side sat the old man, with the smelling bottle in the one hand, and a glass of water in the other, and the little boy standing at the foot of the sofa. As soon as Mr. Green had so far recovered as to be able to speak, he said, "Where am I, and what does this mean?" "Wait a while," replied the old man, "and I will tell you all." After the lapse of some ten minutes he rose from the sofa, adjusted his apparel, and said, "I am now ready to hear anything you have to say." "You were born in America," said the old man. "Yes," he replied. "And you were acquainted with a girl named Mary," continued the old man. "Yes, and I loved her as I can love none other." "The lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening is Mary," replied Mr. Devenant. George Green was silent, but the fountains of mingled grief and joy stole out from beneath his eye lashes, and glistened like pearls upon his pale and marble-like cheeks. At this juncture the lady again entered the room. Mr. Green sprang from the sofa, and they fell into each other's arms, to the surprise of the old man and little George, and to the amusement of the servants who had crept up one by one, and were hid behind the doors or loitering in the hall. When they had given vent to their feelings, they resumed their seats and each in turn related the adventures through which they had passed. "How did you find out my name and address," asked Mr. Green? "After you had left us in the grave-yard, our little George said, 'O, mamma, if there aint a book!' and picked it up and brought it to us. Papa opened it, and said 'the gentleman's name is written in it, and here is a card of the Hotel de Leon, where I suppose he is stopping.' Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was all a fancy of mine that I had ever seen you before, but I was perfectly convinced that you were my own George Green. Are you married?" "No, I am not." "Then, thank God!" exclaimed Mrs. Devenant. The old man who had been silent all this time, said, "Now, Sir, I must apologize for the trouble you were put to last evening." "And you are single now." "Yes," she replied. "This is indeed the Lord's doings," said Mr. Green, at the same time bursting into a flood of tears. Although Mr. Devenant was past the age when men should think upon matrimonial subjects, yet this scene brought vividly before his eyes the days when he was a young man, and had a wife living, and he thought it time to call their attention to dinner, which was then waiting. We need scarcely add, that Mr. Green and Mrs. Devenant did very little towards diminishing the dinner that day. After dinner the lovers (for such we have to call them) gave their experience from the time that George Green left the gaol, dressed in Mary's clothes. Up to that time, Mr. Green's was substantially as we have related it. Mrs. Devenant's was as follows:--"The night after you left the prison," said she, "I did not shut my eyes in sleep. The next morning, about 8 o'clock, Peter, the gardener, came to the gaol to see if I had been there the night before, and was informed that I had, and that I left a little after dark. About an hour after, Mr. Green came himself, and I need not say that he was much surprised on finding me there, dressed in your clothes. This was the first tidings they had of your escape." "What did Mr. Green say when he found that I had fled?" "O!" continued Mrs. Devenant, "he said to me when no one was near, I hope George will get off, but I fear you will have to suffer in his stead. I told him that if it must be so I was willing to die if you could live." At this moment George Green burst into tears, threw his arms around her neck, and exclaimed, "I am glad I have waited so long, with the hope of meeting you again." Mrs. Devenant again resumed her story:--"I was kept in gaol three days, during which time I was visited by the Magistrates and two of the Judges. On the third day I was taken out, and master told me that I was liberated, upon condition that I be immediately sent out of the State. There happened to be just at that time in the neighbourhood a negro-trader, and he purchased me, and I was taken to New Orleans. On the steam-boat we were kept in a close room where slaves are usually confined, so that I saw nothing of the passengers on board or the towns we passed. We arrived at New Orleans and were all put into the slave-market for sale. I was examined by many persons, but none seemed willing to purchase me; as all thought me too white, and said I would run away and pass as a free white woman. On the second day while in the slave-market, and while planters and others were examining slaves and making their purchases, I observed a tall young man with long black hair eyeing me very closely, and then talking to the trader. I felt sure that my time had now come, but the day closed without my being sold. I did not regret this, for I had heard that foreigners made the worst of masters, and I felt confident that the man who eyed me so closely was not an American. "The next day was the Sabbath. The bells called the people to the different places of worship. Methodists sang, and Baptists immersed, and Presbyterians sprinkled, and Episcopalians read their prayers, while the ministers of the various sects preached that Christ died for all; yet there were some twenty-five or thirty of us poor creatures confined in the '_Negro Pen_' awaiting the close of the Holy Sabbath, and the dawn of another day, to be again taken into the market, there to be examined like so many beasts of burden. I need not tell you with what anxiety we waited for the advent of another day. On Monday we were again brought out, and placed in rows to be inspected; and fortunately for me, I was sold before we had been on the stand an hour. I was purchased by a gentleman residing in the city, for a waiting-maid for his wife, who was just on the eve of starting for Mobile, to pay a visit to a near relation. I was then dressed to suit the situation of a maid-servant; and, upon the whole, I thought that in my new dress I looked as much the lady as my mistress. "On the passage to Mobile, who should I see among the passengers, but the tall, long-haired man that had eyed me so closely in the slave-market a few days before. His eyes were again on me, and he appeared anxious to speak to me, and I as reluctant to be spoken to. The first evening after leaving New Orleans, soon after twilight had let her curtain down, and pinned it with a star, and while I was seated on the deck of the boat, near the ladies' cabin, looking upon the rippled waves, and the reflection of the moon upon the sea, all at once I saw the tall young man standing by my side. I immediately rose from my seat, and was in the act of returning to the cabin, when he in a broken accent said, 'Stop a moment; I wish to have a word with you. I am your friend.' I stopped and looked him full in the face, and he said, 'I saw you some days since in the slave-market, and I intended to have purchased you to save you from the condition of a slave. I called on Monday, but you had been sold and had left the market. I inquired and learned who the purchaser was, and that you had to go to Mobile, so I resolved to follow you. If you are willing, I will try and buy you from your present owner, and you shall be free.' Although this was said in an honest and off-hand manner, I could not believe the man to be sincere in what he said. 'Why should you wish to set _me_ free?' I asked. 'I had an only sister,' he replied, 'who died three years ago in France, and you are so much like her, that had I not known of her death, I would most certainly have taken you for her.' 'However much I may resemble your sister, you are aware that I am not her, and why take so much interest in one whom you never saw before?' 'The love,' said he, 'which I had for my sister is transferred to you.' I had all along suspected that the man was a knave, and this profession of love confirmed me in my former belief, and I turned away and left him. "The next day, while standing in the cabin and looking through the window, the French gentleman (for such he was) came to the window while walking on the guards, and again commenced as on the previous evening. He took from his pocket a bit of paper and put into my hand, and at the same time saying, 'Take this, it may some day be of service to you, remember it is from a friend,' and left me instantly. I unfolded the paper, and found it to be a 100 dols. bank note, on the United States Branch Bank, at Philadelphia. My first impulse was to give it to my mistress, but upon a second thought, I resolved to seek an opportunity, and to return the hundred dollars to the stranger. Therefore, I looked for him, but in vain; and had almost given up the idea of seeing him again, when he passed me on the guards of the boat and walked towards the stem of the vessel. It being now dark, I approached him and offered the money to him. He declined, saying at the same time, 'I gave it to you--keep it.' 'I do not want it,' I said. 'Now,' said he, 'you had better give your consent for me to purchase you, and you shall go with me to France.' 'But you cannot buy me now,' I replied, 'for my master is in New Orleans, and he purchased me not to sell, but to retain in his own family.' 'Would you rather remain with your present mistress, than be free?' 'No,' said I. 'Then fly with me to-night; we shall be in Mobile in two hours from this, and, when the passengers are going on shore, you can take my arm, and you can escape unobserved. The trader who brought you to New Orleans exhibited to me a certificate of your good character, and one from the Minister of the Church to which you were attached in Virginia; and upon the faith of these assurances, and the love I bear you, I promise before high heaven that I will marry you as soon as it can be done.' This solemn promise, coupled with what had already transpired, gave me confidence in the man; and rash as the act may seem, I determined in an instant to go with him. My mistress had been put under the charge of the captain; and as it would be past ten o'clock when the steamer would land, she accepted an invitation of the captain to remain on board with several other ladies till morning. I dressed myself in my best clothes, and put a veil over my face, and was ready on the landing of the boat. Surrounded by a number of passengers, we descended the stage leading to the wharf and were soon lost in the crowd that thronged the quay. As we went on shore we encountered several persons announcing the names of hotels, the starting of boats for the interior, and vessels bound for Europe. Among these was the ship _Utica_, Captain Pell, bound for Havre. 'Now,' said Mr. Devenant, 'this is our chance.' The ship was to sail at 12 o'clock that night, at high tide; and following the men who were seeking passengers, we went immediately on board. Devenant told the Captain of the ship that I was his sister, and for such we passed during the voyage. At the hour of twelve the _Utica_ set sail, and we were soon out at sea. "The morning after we left Mobile, Devenant met me as I came from my state-room and embraced me for the first time. I loved him, but it was only that affection which we have for one who has done us a lasting favour: it was the love of gratitude rather than that of the heart. We were five weeks on the sea, and yet the passage did not seem long, for Devenant was so kind. On our arrival at Havre, we were married and came to Dunkirk, and I have resided here ever since." At the close of this narrative, the clock struck ten, when the old man, who was accustomed to retire at an early hour, rose to take leave, saying at the same time, "I hope you will remain with us to-night." Mr. Green would fain have excused himself, on the ground that they would expect him and wait at the hotel, but a look from the lady told him to accept the invitation. The old man was the father of Mrs. Devenant's deceased husband, as you will no doubt long since have supposed. A fortnight from the day on which they met in the grave-yard, Mr. Green and Mrs. Devenant were joined in holy wedlock; so that George and Mary, who had loved each other so ardently in their younger days, were now husband and wife. Without becoming responsible for the truthfulness of the above narrative, I give it to you, reader, as it was told to me in January last, in France, by George Green himself. A celebrated writer has justly said of woman: "A woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless--for it is a bankruptcy of the heart." Mary had every reason to believe that she would never see George again; and although she confesses that the love she bore him was never transferred to her first husband, we can scarcely find fault with her for marrying Mr. Devenant. But the adherence of George Green to the resolution never to marry, unless to his Mary, is, indeed, a rare instance of the fidelity of man in the matter of love. We can but blush for our country's shame, when we recall to mind the fact, that while George and Mary Green, and numbers of other fugitives from American slavery, can receive protection from any of the Governments of Europe, they cannot return to their native land without becoming slaves. FINIS. AYR: PRINTED AT THE ADVERTISER OFFICE. Transcriber's notes: ==================== ERRATA from the original volume, applied to the text. ====== Page 8, eleventh line from bottom, _for_ villages _read_ villas The beautiful villages [**Erratum: villas] on the opposite side of the 145, fourth line from top, _for_ Dante _read_ Whittier our own Dante? [**Erratum: Whittier?] 205, second line from bottom, _for_ towns _read_ lawns in the vicinity of the lakes. Magnificent towns [**Erratum: lawns] 264, seventh line from top, _for_ 1834 _read_ 1844 In the month of May, 1834, [**Erratum: 1844,] while one evening 273, eighth line from top, _for_ vanity _read_ variety lack vanity [**Erratum: variety] or imagination, either in his public Letter XXIII displaced to be between XII and XIII, as per editor's footnote. TYPOS ===== All "Mr" replaced with "Mr." (~10%). Similarly for "Mrs". play," was to flag [**typo: flog] his slaves severely, and tyranny in Great Britian [**typo: Britain] found social and passengers, forty of whom were the "Vienneise [**typo: Viennese] we were in sight of the land of Emmitt [**typo: Emmett] and Rev. Dr. Ritchie, of Edinburgh. [** quote deleted] "It is indeed a by M. Duguery, [**typo: Duguerry,] curé of the Madeleine, The column is in imitation of the Trojan [**typo: Trajan] XVI. and Marie Antionette [**typo: Antoinette] were driven from it by building. [** full-stop added] The speaker, in the delivery of one of Fète. [**typo: Fête.] soirèe [**typo: soirée] by M. de Tocqueville, Minister for to the whole scene out of doors. The soirèe [**typo: soirée] announced, and after a good deal of jambing [**typo: jamming] and same basket, without any regard to birth or station. [** full-stop added] had more interesting incidents occuring [**typo: occurring] in it than of Raphael and David--Arc de Triomphe--Beranger [** final em-dash added] Jardin des Plantes, and spent an hour and a-half [**typo: a half] Were [**typo: were] at the time continually running through my meeted [**typo: meted] out to me while at Hartwell. And the I will see you." [** missing quote inserted] In looking across the street, I great contrast beetween [**typo: between] the monster Institution, The Tower is surounded [**typo: surrounded] by a high wall, and skilful muscians; [**typo: musicians;] I have listened with delight history, and the accumulated discoveries of byegone [**typo: bygone] acquiline, [**typo: aquiline] his mouth rather small, and not at all and died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808." [**missing quote inserted] with the poet and saying:-- [**colon added] had such ruins in view when he exclaimed:-- [**colon added] Elyses [**typo: Elysees] at Paris; and as for statuary, the latter where the celebrated Reformer, John Knox, re-resided.[**typo: resided.] lake is carved out and and [**typo: deleted second "and"] built up into terrace through to the north gallery, and and [**typo: deleted second "and"] thence to myself upon so diminutive a looking [**typo: looking a] creature. upon the wing--the artifical [**typo: artificial] stream, the brook seemed to have forgotton [**typo: forgotten] that this was an exhibition "Sartar [**typo: Sartor] Resartus," and if he does not rise from its the cloisters of Tinterran [**typo: Tintern] Abbey, in its proudest that which has accomplished the mightest [**typo: mightiest] and That measure was in every respect an unconsitutional [**typo: unconstitutional] practice what they have so long professsd [**typo: professed]. (Hear, I had writen [**typo: written] for the occasion, was unanimously taken him back and placed him in goal [**typo: gaol], and was kept in goal [**typo: gaol] three days, during into my hand, and at the sametime [**typo: same time] saying, be a 100 dols. Bank [**typo?: bank] note, on the United States But the adherence of George Green to the re-resolution [**typo: resolution] Apparent errata, but possibly acceptable period words: (left as-is in text). =============== without the least difficulty, and his jestures, [**typo: gestures,] Per OED, jesture obs. form of gesture. May be typo? motion, and the variagated [**typo: variegated] lamps with their many Per OED, verb variagate was known variant of variegate up to the 19th century enemies on the 13th Vendimaire [**typo: Vendémiaire]. The Hotel de May be British variant used at the period observed visiters [**typo: visitors] lingering about it, as if they May be valid past spelling being conveyed to them by means of a pully-basket, [**typo: pulley-basket,] Per OED, pully known variant of pulley, 15th-19th centuries under heaven!--Perish the sum of all villanies! [**typo: villainies!] Per OED, known alternate spelling, 16th-19th centuries force, carrying, upsetting, engulphing [**typo: engulfing] its adversaries, Per OED, known alternate spelling (along with ingulf and ingulph); an example of engulph quoted from an 1871 source. master and visiters [**typo: visitors] speak of the down-trodden May be valid past spelling with long curls of a chesnut [**typo: chestnut] colour hanging down Per OED, chesnut was the most common spelling as late as 1820. Johnson set "chestnut" as the standard... Others found to be acceptable variants: Bastile, plebians, laureat, trode, Shakspere. 
17297	----	Distributed Proofreaders Europe at http://dp.rastko.net. [Illustration: OLD HALF-TIMBERED HOUSES IN LEDBURY. From Water Color by B. McGuinness.] British Highways and Byways From a Motor Car BEING A RECORD OF A FIVE THOUSAND MILE TOUR IN ENGLAND, WALES AND SCOTLAND BY Thos. D. Murphy With Sixteen Illustrations in Colour and Thirty-two Duogravures From Photographs; Also Two Descriptive Maps. BOSTON L.C. Page & Company MDCCCCVIII _Copyright_, 1908 BY L.C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ A FOREWORD In this chronicle of a summer's motoring in Britain I have not attempted a guide-book in any sense, yet the maps, together with the comments on highways, towns, and country, should be of some value even in that capacity. I hope, however, that the book, with its many illustrations and its record of visits to out-of-the way places, may be acceptable to those who may desire to tour Britain by rail or cycle as well as by motor car. Nor may it be entirely uninteresting to those who may not expect to visit the country in person but desire to learn more of it and its people. Although our journey did not follow the beaten paths of British touring, and while a motor car affords the most satisfactory means of reaching most of the places described, the great majority of these places are accessible by rail, supplemented in some cases by a walk or drive. A glance at the maps will indicate the large scope of country covered and the location of most places especially mentioned in the text. It was not a tour of cities by any means, but of the most delightful country in the world, with its towns, villages, historic spots and solitary ruins. Whatever the merits or demerits of the text, there can be no question concerning the pictures. The color-plates were reproduced from original paintings by prominent artists, some of the pictures having been exhibited in the London Royal Academy. The thirty-two duogravures represent the very height of attainment in that process, being reproductions of the most perfect English photographs obtainable. T.D.M. January 1908. FOREWORD TO SECOND EDITION The first edition of BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR was printed from type--instead of from electrotype plates--thus giving an opportunity for additional care in the press work, with better results than with the ordinary book printed from plates. The publishers thought also that some time might elapse before a second edition would be called for. However, the unexpected happened and in less than a year a new edition is required. This has afforded opportunity for numerous additions and corrections--since it was hardly possible that a book covering such a wide scope could be entirely free from mistakes, though, fortunately, these were mainly minor ones. I have to thank numerous readers for helpful suggestions. That there is a distinct field for such a book is proven by the unexpectedly large demand for the first edition. I hope that the new and revised edition may meet with like favor. T.D.M. March 1, 1909. CONTENTS Page I A FEW GENERALITIES 1 II IN AND ABOUT LONDON 11 III A PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY 26 IV A RUN THROUGH THE MIDLANDS 40 V THE BORDER TOWNS, SHREWSBURY AND LUDLOW 58 VI LONDON TO LAND'S END 80 VII FROM CORNWALL TO SOUTH WALES 100 VIII THROUGH BEAUTIFUL WALES 115 IX CHESTER TO THE "HIELANDS" 137 X THROUGH HISTORIC SCOTLAND 156 XI FROM EDINBURGH TO YORKSHIRE 173 XII IN OLD YORKSHIRE 190 XIII A ZIG-ZAG TRIP FROM YORK TO NORWICH 206 XIV PETERBOROUGH, FOTHERINGHAY, ETC 221 XV THE CROMWELL COUNTRY; COLCHESTER 235 XVI THE HAUNTS OF MILTON AND PENN 247 XVII A CHAPTER OF DIVERS PLACES AND EXPERIENCES 260 XVIII IN SURREY AND SUSSEX 275 XIX KNOLE HOUSE AND PENSHURST 290 XX SOME MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS 299 INDEX 311 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS COLOUR PLATES Page OLD HALF-TIMBEREID HOUSES IN LEDBURY Frontispiece OLD COTTAGE AT NORTON, NEAR EVESHAM 1 HARVESTING IN HERTFORDSHIRE 16 THE THREE SPIRES OF LICHFIELD 48 SUNSET ON THE MOOR 56 A COTTAGE IN HOLDENHURST, HAMPSHIRE 86 ROCKS OFF CORNWALL 96 NEAR LAND'S END 100 ON DARTMOOR 104 IN GLOUCESTERSHIRE 112 ENTRANCE TO LOCH TYNE 144 THE PATH BY THE LOCH 150 IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS 160 A SURREY LANDSCAPE 272 A BIT OF OLD ENGLAND 300 THE CALEDONIAN COAST 308 DUOGRAVURES HADLEY CHURCH, MONKEN HADLEY 22 DICKENS' HOME, GAD'S HILL, NEAR ROCHESTER 30 CATHEDRAL, CANTERBURY 33 RUINS OF URICONIUM, NEAR SHREWSBURY 64 STOKESAY MANOR HOUSE, NEAR LUDLOW 66 THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW 68 LUDLOW CASTLE, THE KEEP AND ENTRANCE 72 A GLADE IN NEW FOREST 88 ST. JOSEPH'S CHAPEL, GLASTONBURY ABBEY 108 DISTANT VIEW OF ROSS, SOUTH WELSH BORDER 114 RUINS OF RAGLAN CASTLE, SOUTH WALES 120 KILCHURN CASTLE, LOCH AWE 152 TOWERS OF ELGIN CATHEDRAL, NORTH SCOTLAND 162 DUNNOTTAR CASTLE, STONEHAVEN, NEAR ABERDEEN 164 TOWN HOUSE, DUNBAR, SCOTLAND 180 BAMBOROUGH CASTLE, NORTHUMBERLAND 184 OLD COTTAGE AT COCKINGTON 200 SOMERSBY RECTORY, BIRTHPLACE OF TENNYSON 210 SOMERSBY CHURCH 212 ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH FROM THE RIVER, BOSTON 216 A TYPICAL BYWAY 224 JOHN WYCLIF'S CHURCH, LUTTERWORTH 232 BYRON'S ELM IN CHURCHYARD, HARROW 246 MILTON'S ROOM IN COTTAGE AT CHALFONT ST. GILES 250 DISTANT VIEW OF MAGDALEN TOWER, OXFORD 256 RINGWOOD CHURCH 260 WINDMILL NEAR ARUNDEL, SUSSEX 274 ARUNDEL CASTLE 276 PEVENSEY CASTLE, WHERE THE NORMANS LANDED 280 WINCHELSEA CHURCH AND ELM TREE 282 ENTRANCE FRONT BODIAM CASTLE, SUSSEX 286 PENSHURST PLACE, HOME OF THE SIDNEYS 292 MAPS MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES 310 MAP OF SCOTLAND 318 [Illustration: OLD COTTAGE AT NORTON, NEAR EVESHAM. From Water Color by G.F. Nicholls.] British Highways and Byways From a Motor Car I A FEW GENERALITIES Stratford-on-Avon stands first on the itinerary of nearly every American who proposes to visit the historic shrines of Old England. Its associations with Britain's immortal bard and with our own gentle Geoffrey Crayon are not unfamiliar to the veriest layman, and no fewer than thirty thousand pilgrims, largely from America, visit the delightful old town each year. And who ever came away disappointed? Who, if impervious to the charm of the place, ever dared to own it? My first visit to Stratford-on-Avon was in the regulation fashion. Imprisoned in a dusty and comfortless first-class apartment--first-class is an irony in England when applied to railroad travel, a mere excuse for charging double--we shot around the curves, the glorious Warwickshire landscapes fleeting past in a haze or obscured at times by the drifting smoke. Our reveries were rudely interrupted by the shriek of the English locomotive--like an exaggerated toy whistle--and, with a mere glimpse of town and river, we were brought sharply up to the unattractive station of Stratford-on-Avon. We were hustled by an officious porter into an omnibus, which rattled through the streets until we landed at the Sign of the Red Horse; and the manner of our departure was even the same. Just two years later, after an exhilarating drive of two or three hours over the broad, well-kept highway winding through the parklike fields, fresh from May showers, between Worcester and Stratford, our motor finally climbed a long hill, and there, stretched out before us, lay the valley of the Avon. Far away we caught the gleam of the immortal river, and rising from a group of splendid trees we beheld Trinity Church--almost unique in England for its graceful combination of massive tower and slender spire--the literary shrine of the English-speaking world, the enchanted spot where Shakespeare sleeps. About it were clustered the clean, tiled roofs of the charming town, set like a gem in the Warwickshire landscape, famous as the most beautiful section of Old England. Our car slowed to a stop, and only the subdued hum of the motor broke the stillness as we saw Stratford-on-Avon from afar, conscious of a beauty and sentiment that made our former visit seem commonplace indeed. But I am not going to write of Stratford-on-Avon. Thousands have done this before me--some of them of immortal fame. I shall not attempt to describe or give details concerning a town that is probably visited each year by more people than any other place of the size in the world. I am simply striving in a few words to give the different impressions made upon the same party who visited the town twice in a comparatively short period, the first time by railway train and the last by motor car. If I have anything to say of Stratford, it will come in due sequence in my story. There are three ways in which a tourist may obtain a good idea of Britain during a summer's vacation of three or four months. He may cover most places of interest after the old manner, by railway train. This will have to be supplemented by many and expensive carriage drives if he wishes to see the most beautiful country and many of the most interesting places. As Professor Goldwin Smith says, "Railways in England do not follow the lines of beauty in very many cases," and the opportunity afforded of really seeing England from a railway car window is poor indeed. The tourist must keep a constant eye on the time-tables, and in many of the more retired places he will have to spend a day when an hour would suffice quite as well could he get away. If he travels first-class, it is quite expensive, and the only advantage secured is that he generally has a compartment to himself, the difference in accommodations between first and third-class on the longer distance trains being insignificant. But if he travels third-class, he very often finds himself crowded into a small compartment with people in whom, to say the least, he has nothing in common. One seldom gets the real sentiment and beauty of a place in approaching it by railway. I am speaking, of course, of the tourist who endeavors to crowd as much as he can into a comparatively short time. To the one who remains several days in a place, railroad traveling is less objectionable. My remarks concerning railroad travel in England are made merely from the point of comparison with a pleasure journey by motor, and having covered the greater part of the country in both ways, I am qualified to some extent to speak from experience. For a young man or party of young men who are traveling through Britain on a summer's vacation, the bicycle affords an excellent and expeditious method of getting over the country, and offers nearly all the advantages of the motor car, provided the rider is vigorous and expert enough to do the wheeling without fatigue. The motor cycle is still better from this point of view, and many thousands of them are in use on English roads, while cyclists may be counted by the tens of thousands. But the bicycle is out of the question for an extended tour by a party which includes ladies. The amount of impedimenta which must be carried along, and the many long hills which are encountered on the English roads, will put the cycle out of the question in such cases. In the motor car, we have the most modern and thorough means of traversing the highways and byways of Britain in the limits of a single summer, and it is my purpose in this book, with little pretensions to literary style, to show how satisfactorily this may be done by a mere layman. To the man who drives his own car and who at the outstart knows very little about the English roads and towns, I wish to undertake to show how in a trip of five thousand miles, occupying about fifty days, actual traveling time, I covered much of the most beautiful country in England and Scotland and visited a large proportion of the most interesting and historic places in the Kingdom. I think it can be clearly demonstrated that this method of touring will give opportunities for enjoyment and for gaining actual knowledge of the people and country that can hardly be attained in any other way. The motor car affords expeditious and reasonably sure means of getting over the country--always ready when you are ready, subservient to your whim to visit some inaccessible old ruin, flying over the broad main highways or winding more cautiously in the unfrequented country byways--and is, withal, a method of locomotion to which the English people have become tolerant if not positively friendly. Further, I am sure it will be welcome news to many that the expense of such a trip, under ordinary conditions, is not at all exorbitant or out of the reach of the average well-to-do citizen. Those who have traveled for long distances on American roads can have no conception whatever of the delights of motor traveling on the British highways. I think there are more bad roads in the average county, taking the States throughout, than there are in all of the United Kingdom, and the number of defective bridges in any county outside of the immediate precincts of a few cities, would undoubtedly be many times greater than in the whole of Great Britain. I am speaking, of course, of the more traveled highways and country byways. There are roads leading into the hilly sections that would not be practicable for motors at all, but, fortunately, these are the very roads over which no one would care to go. While the gradients are generally easier than in the States, there are in many places sharp hills where the car must be kept well under control. But the beauty of it is that in Britain one has the means of being thoroughly warned in advance of the road conditions which he must encounter. The maps are perfect to the smallest detail and drawn to a large scale, showing the relative importance of all the roads; and upon them are plainly marked the hills that are styled "dangerous." These maps were prepared for cyclists, and many of the hills seem insignificant to a powerful motor. However, the warning is none the less valuable, for often other conditions requiring caution prevail, such as a dangerous turn on a hill or a sharp descent into a village street. Then there is a set of books, four in number, published by an Edinburgh house and illustrated by profile plans, covering about thirty thousand miles of road in England and Scotland. These show the exact gradients and supply information in regard to the surface of the roads and their general characteristics. Besides this, the "objects of interest" scattered along any particular piece of road are given in brief--information at once so desirable and complete as to be a revelation to an American. There are sign-boards at nearly every crossing; only in some of the more retired districts did we find the crossroads unmarked. With such advantages as these, it is easily seen that a tour of Britain by a comparative stranger is not difficult; that a chauffeur or a guide posted on the roads is not at all necessary. The average tourist, with the exercise of ordinary intelligence and a little patience, can get about any part of the country without difficulty. One of the greatest troubles we found was to strike the right road in leaving a town of considerable size, but this was overcome by the extreme willingness of any policeman or native to give complete information--often so much in detail as to be rather embarrassing. The hundreds of people from whom we sought assistance in regard to the roads were without exception most cheerful and willing compliants, and in many places people who appeared to be substantial citizens volunteered information when they saw us stop at the town crossing to consult our maps. In getting about the country, little difficulty or confusion will be experienced. Generally speaking, the hotel accommodations in the provincial towns throughout England and Scotland are surprisingly good. Of course there is a spice of adventure in stopping occasionally at one of the small wayside inns or at one of the old hostelries more famous for its associations than for comfort, but to one who demands first-class service and accommodations, a little of this will go a long way. Generally it can be so planned that towns with strictly good hotel accommodations can be reached for the night. Occasionally an unusually comfortable and well-ordered hotel will tempt the motorist to tarry a day or two and possibly to make excursions in the vicinity. Such hotels we found at Chester and York, for instance. The country hotel-keeper in Britain is waking up to the importance of motor travel. Already most of the hotels were prepared to take care of this class of tourists, and in many others improvements were under way. It is safe to say that in the course of two or three years, at the farthest, there will be little to be desired in the direction of good accommodations in the better towns. Rates at these hotels are not low by any means--at least for the motorist. It is generally assumed that a man who is in possession of an automobile is able to pay his bills, and charges and fees are exacted in accordance with this idea. There is, of course, a wide variation in this particular, and taking it right through, the rates at the best hotels would not be called exorbitant. The Motor Club of Great Britain and Ireland have many especially designated hotels where the members of this association are given a discount. These are not in every case the best in the town, and we generally found Baedeker's Hand Book the most reliable guide as to the relative merits of the hotels. It is a poorly appointed hotel that does not now have a garage of some sort, and in many cases, necessary supplies are available. Some even go so far as to charge the storage batteries, or "accumulators," as they are always called in Britain, and to afford facilities for the motorist to make repairs. It goes without saying that a motor tour should be planned in advance as carefully as possible. If one starts out in a haphazard way, it takes him a long time to find his bearings, and much valuable time is lost. Before crossing the water, it would be well to become posted as thoroughly as possible on what one desires to see and to gain a general idea of the road from the maps. Another valuable adjunct will be a membership in the A.C.A. or a letter from the American motor associations, with an introduction to the Secretary of the Motor Union of Great Britain and Ireland. In this manner can be secured much valuable information as to the main traveled routes; but after all, if the tourist is going to get the most out of his trip, he will have to come down to a careful study of the country and depend partly on the guide-books but more upon his own knowledge of the historical and literary landmarks throughout the Kingdom. II IN AND ABOUT LONDON London occurs to the average tourist as the center from which his travels in the Kingdom will radiate, and this idea, from many points of view, is logically correct. Around the city cluster innumerable literary and historic associations, and the points of special interest lying within easy reach will outnumber those in any section of similar extent in the entire country. If one purposes to make the tour by rail, London is pre-eminently the center from which to start and to which one will return at various times in his travels. All the principal railways lead to the metropolis. The number of trains arriving and departing each day greatly exceeds that of any other city in the world, and the longest through journey in the island may be compassed between sunrise and sunset. The motorist, however, finds a different problem confronting him in making London his center. I had in mind the plan of visiting the famous places of the city and immediate suburbs with the aid of my car, but it was speedily abandoned when I found myself confronted by the actual conditions. One attempt at carrying out this plan settled the matter for me. The trip which I undertook would probably be one of the first to occur to almost anybody--the drive to Hampton Court Palace, about twelve or fifteen miles from the central part of the city. It looked easy to start about two or three o'clock, spend a couple of hours at Hampton Court and get back to our hotel by six. After trying out my car--which had reached London some time ahead of me--a few times in localities where traffic was not the heaviest, I essayed the trip without any further knowledge of the streets than I had gained from the maps. I was accompanied by a nervous friend from Iowa who confessed that he had been in an automobile but once before. He had ridden with a relative through a retired section of his native state, traversed for the first time by an automobile, and he had quit trying to remember how many run-aways and smash-ups were caused by the fractious horses they met on the short journey. Visions of damage suits haunted him for months thereafter. In our meanderings through the London streets, the fears for the other fellow which had harassed him during his former experience, were speedily transferred to himself. To his excited imagination, we time and again escaped complete wreck and annihilation by a mere hair's breadth. The route which we had taken, I learned afterwards, was one of the worst for motoring in all London. The streets were narrow and crooked and were packed with traffic of all kinds. Tram cars often ran along the middle of the street, with barely room for a vehicle to pass on either side. The huge motor busses came tearing towards us in a manner most trying to novices, and it seemed, time after time, that the dexterity of the drivers of these big machines was all that saved our car from being wrecked. We obtained only the merest glimpse of Hampton Palace, and the time which we had consumed made it apparent that if we expected to reach our hotel that night, we must immediately retrace our way through the wild confusion we had just passed. It began to rain, and added to the numerous other dangers that seemed to confront us was that of "skidding" on the slippery streets. When we finally reached our garage, I found that in covering less than twenty-five miles, we had consumed about four hours and we had been moving all the time. The nervous strain was a severe one and I forthwith abandoned any plan that I had of attempting to do London by motor car. With more knowledge and experience I would have done better, but a local motorist, thoroughly acquainted with London, told me that he wouldn't care to undertake the Hampton Court trip by the route which we had traveled. On Saturday afternoons and Sundays, the motorist may practically have freedom of the city. He will find the streets deserted everywhere. The heavy traffic has all ceased and the number of cabs and motor busses is only a fraction of what it would be on business days. He will meet comparatively few motors in the city on Sunday, even though the day be fine, such as would throng the streets of Chicago or New York with cars. The Englishman who goes for a drive is attracted from the city by the many fine roads which lead in every direction to pleasure resorts. One of the most popular runs with Londoners is the fifty miles to Brighton, directly southward, and the number of motors passing over this highway on fine Sundays is astonishing. I noted a report in the papers that on a certain Sunday afternoon no less than two hundred cars passed a police trap, and of these, thirty-five were summoned before the magistrates for breaking the speed limit. To the average American, this run to Brighton would not be at all attractive compared with many other roads leading out of London, on which one would scarcely meet a motor car during the day and would be in no danger from the machinations of the police. Of course the places frequented by tourists are often closed on Sunday--or at least partially so, as in the case of Windsor Castle, where one is admitted to the grounds and court, but the state apartments, etc., are not shown. Even the churches are closed to Sunday visitors except during the regular services. Within a radius of thirty miles of London, and outside its immediate boundaries, there are numerous places well worth a visit, most of them open either daily or at stated times. A few of such places are Harrow on the Hill, with its famous school; Keston, with Holwood House, the home of William Pitt; Chigwell, the scene of Dickens' "Barnaby Rudge;" Waltham Abbey Church, founded in 1060; the home of Charles Darwin at Downe; Epping Forest; Hampton Court; Rye House at Broxborne; Hatfield House, the estate of the Marquis of Salisbury; Runnymede, where the Magna Charta was signed; St. Albans, with its ancient cathedral church; Stoke Poges Church of Gray's "Elegy" fame; Windsor Castle; Knole House, with its magnificent galleries and furniture; Penshurst Place, the home of the Sidneys; John Milton's cottage at Chalfont St. Giles; the ancient town of Guildford in Surrey; Gad's Hill, Dickens' home, near Rochester; the vicarage where Thackeray's grandfather lived and the old church where he preached at Monken Hadley; and Whitchurch, with Handel's original organ, is also near the last-named village. These are only a few of the places that no one should miss. The motor car affords an unequalled means of reaching these and other points in this vicinity; since many are at some distance from railway stations, to go by train would consume more time than the average tourist has at his disposal. While we visited all the places which I have just mentioned and many others close to London, we made only three or four short trips out of the city returning the same or the following day. We managed to reach the majority of such points by going and returning over different highways on our longer tours. In this way we avoided the difficulty we should have experienced in making many daily trips from London, since a large part of each day would have been consumed merely in getting in and out of the city. [Illustration: HARVESTING IN HERTFORDSHIRE. From Painting by Alfred Elias. Exhibited in 1906 Royal Academy.] Our first trip into the country was made on the Sunday after our arrival. Although we started out at random, our route proved a fortunate one, and gave us every reason to believe that our tour of the Kingdom would be all we had anticipated. During the summer we had occasion to travel three times over this same route, and we are still of the opinion that there are few more delightful bits of road in England. We left London by the main highway, running for several miles through Epping Forest, which is really a great suburban park. It was a good day for cyclists, for the main road to the town of Epping was crowded with thousands of them. So great was the number and so completely did they occupy the highway, that it was necessary to drive slowly and with the greatest care. Even then, we narrowly avoided a serious accident. One of the cyclists, evidently to show his dexterity, undertook to cut around us by running across the tramway tracks. These were wet and slippery, and the wheel shot from under the rider, pitching him headlong to the ground not two feet in front of our car, which was then going at a pretty good rate. If the cyclist did not exhibit skill in managing his wheel, he certainly gave a wonderful display of agility in getting out of our way. He did not seem to touch the ground at all, and by turning two or three handsprings, he avoided being run over by the narrowest margin. His wheel was considerably damaged and his impedimenta scattered over the road. It was with rather a crestfallen air that he gathered up his belongings, and we went on, shuddering to think how close we had come to a serious accident at the very beginning of our pilgrimage. A policeman witnessed the accident, but he clearly placed the blame on the careless wheelman. Passing through the forest, we came to Epping, and from there into a stretch of open country that gave little suggestion of proximity to the world's metropolis. Several miles through a narrow but beautifully kept byway brought us to the village of Chipping-Ongar, a place of considerable antiquity, and judging from the extensive site of its ancient castle, at one time of some military importance. At Ongar we began our return trip to London over the road which we agreed was the most beautiful leading out of the city, for the suburbs do not extend far in this direction and one is comparatively soon in the country. The perfectly surfaced road, with only gentle slopes and curves, runs through the parklike fields, here over a picturesque stone bridge spanning a clear stream, there between rows of magnificent trees, occasionally dropping into quiet villages, of which Chigwell was easily the most delightful. Chigwell became known to fame through the writings of Charles Dickens, who was greatly enamored of the place and who made it the scene of much of his story of "Barnaby Rudge." But Dickens, with his eye for the beautiful and with his marvelous intuition for interesting situations, was drawn to the village by its unusual charm. Few other places can boast of such endorsement as he gave in a letter to his friend, Forster, when he wrote: "Chigwell, my dear fellow, is the greatest place in the world. Name your day for going. Such a delicious old inn facing the church; such a lovely ride; such glorious scenery; such an out-of-the-way rural place; such a sexton! I say again, name your day." After such a recommendation, one will surely desire to visit the place, and it is pleasant to know that the "delicious old inn" is still standing and that the village is as rural and pretty as when Dickens wrote over sixty years since. The inn referred to, the King's Head, was the prototype of the Maypole in "Barnaby Rudge," and here we were delighted to stop for our belated luncheon. The inn fronts directly on the street and, like all English hostelries, its main rooms are given over to the bar, which at this time was crowded with Sunday loafers, the atmosphere reeking with tobacco smoke and the odor of liquors. The garden at the rear was bright with a profusion of spring flowers and sheltered with ornamental trees and vines. The garden side of the old house was covered with a mantle of ivy, and, altogether, the surroundings were such as to make ample amends for the rather unprepossessing conditions within. One will not fully appreciate Chigwell and its inn unless he has read Dickens' story. You may still see the panelled room upstairs where Mr. Chester met Geoffry Haredale. This room has a splendid mantel-piece, great carved open beams and beautiful leaded windows. The bar-room, no doubt, is still much the same as on the stormy night which Dickens chose for the opening of his story. Just across the road from the inn is the church which also figures in the tale, and a dark avenue of ancient yew trees leads from the gateway to the door. One can easily imagine the situation which Dickens describes when the old sexton crossed the street and rang the church bells on the night of the murder at Haredale Hall. Aside from Dickens' connection with Chigwell, the village has a place of peculiar interest to Americans in the old grammar school where William Penn received his early education. The building still stands, with but little alteration, much as it was in the day when the great Quaker sat at the rude desks and conned the lessons of the old-time English schoolboy. When we invited friends whom we met in London to accompany us on a Sunday afternoon trip, we could think of no road more likely to please them than the one I have just been trying to describe. We reversed our journey this time, going out of London on the way to Chigwell. Returning, we left the Epping road shortly after passing through that town, and followed a narrow, forest-bordered byway with a few steep hills until we came to Waltham Abbey, a small Essex market town with an important history. The stately abbey church, a portion of which is still standing and now used for services, was founded by the Saxon king, Harold, in 1060. Six years later he was defeated and slain at Hastings by William the Conqueror, and tradition has it that his mother buried his body a short distance to the east of Waltham Church. The abbey gate still stands as a massive archway at one end of the river bridge. Near the town is one of the many crosses erected by Edward I in memory of his wife, Eleanor of Castile, wherever her body rested on the way from Lincoln to Westminster. A little to the left of this cross, now a gateway to Theobald Park, stands Temple Bar, stone for stone intact as it was in the days when traitors' heads were raised above it in Fleet Street, although the original wooden gates are missing. Waltham Abbey is situated on the River Lea, near the point where King Alfred defeated the Danes in one of his battles. They had penetrated far up the river when King Alfred diverted the waters from beneath their vessels and left them stranded in a wilderness of marsh and forest. Another pleasant afternoon trip was to Monken Hadley, twenty-five miles out on the Great North Road. Hadley Church is intimately associated with a number of distinguished literary men, among them Thackeray, whose grandfather preached there and is buried in the churchyard. The sexton was soon found and he was delighted to point out the interesting objects in the church and vicinity. The church stands at the entrance of a royal park, which is leased to private parties and is one of the quaintest and most picturesque of the country churches we had seen. Over the doors, some old-fashioned figures which we had to have translated indicated that the building had been erected in 1494. It has a huge ivy-covered tower and its interior gives every evidence of the age-lasting solidity of the English churches. Hadley Church has a duplicate in the United States, one having been built in some New York town precisely like the older structure. We noticed that one of the stained-glass windows had been replaced by a modern one, and were informed that the original had been presented to the newer church in America--a courtesy that an American congregation would hardly think of, and be still less likely to carry out. An odd silver communion service which had been in use from three to five hundred years was carefully taken out of a fire-proof safe and shown us. Hadley Church is a delight from every point of view, and it is a pity that such lines of architecture are not oftener followed in America. Our churches as a rule are shoddy and inharmonious affairs compared with those in England. It is not always the matter of cost that makes them so, since more artistic structures along the pleasing and substantial lines of architecture followed in Britain would in many cases cost no more than we pay for such churches as we now have. [Illustration: HADLEY CHURCH, MONKEN HADLEY.] Our friend the sexton garrulously assured us that Thackeray had spent much of his time as a youth at the vicarage and insisted that a great part of "Vanity Fair" was written there. He even pointed out the room in which he alleged the famous book was produced, and assured us that the great author had found the originals of many of his characters, such as Becky Sharp and Col. Newcome, among the villagers of Hadley. All of which we took for what it was worth. Thackeray himself told his friend, Jas. T. Fields, that "Vanity Fair" was written in his London house; still, he may have been a visitor at the Hadley vicarage and might have found pleasure in writing in the snug little room whose windows open on the flower garden, rich with dashes of color that contrasted effectively with the dark green foliage of the hedges and trees. The house still does duty as a vicarage; the small casement windows peep out of the ivy that nearly envelops it, and an air of coziness and quiet seems to surround it. Near at hand is the home where Anthony Trollope, the novelist, lived for many years, and his sister is buried in the churchyard. A short distance from Hadley is the village of Edgeware, with Whitchurch, famous for its association with the musician Handel. He was organist here for several years, and on the small pipe-organ, still in the church though not in use, composed his oratorio, "Esther," and a less important work, "The Harmonious Blacksmith." The idea of the latter came from an odd character, the village blacksmith, who lived in Edgeware in Handel's day and who acquired some fame as a musician. His tombstone in the churchyard consists of an anvil and hammer, wrought in stone. Afterwards Handel became more widely known, and was called from Whitchurch for larger fields of work. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. The road from Edgeware to the city is a good one, and being Saturday afternoon, it was nearly deserted. Saturday in London is quite as much of a holiday as Sunday, little business being transacted, especially in the afternoon. This custom prevails to a large extent all over the Kingdom, and rarely is any attempt made to do business on Saturday. The Week-End holiday, as it is called, is greatly prized, and is recognized by the railroads in granting excursions at greatly reduced rates. There is always a heavy exodus of people from the city to the surrounding resorts during the summer and autumn months on Saturday afternoon and Sunday. Owing to the extreme difficulty of getting about the city, we made but few short excursions from London such as I have described. If one desires to visit such places in sequence, without going farther into the country, it would be best to stop for the night at the hotels in the better suburban towns, without attempting to return to London each day. The garage accomodations in London I found very good and the charges generally lower than in the United States. There is a decided tendency at grafting on the part of the employes, and if it is ascertained that a patron is a tourist--especially an American--he is quoted a higher rate at some establishments and various exactions are attempted. At the first garage where I applied, a quotation made was withdrawn when it was learned that I was an American. The man said he would have to discuss the matter with his partner before making a final rate. I let him carry on his discussion indefinitely, for I went on my way and found another place where I secured accommodations at a very reasonable rate without giving information of any kind. With the miserable business methods in vogue at some of the garages, it seemed strange to me if any of the money paid to employes ever went to the business office at all. There was no system and little check on sales of supplies, and I heard a foreman of a large establishment declare that he had lost two guineas which a patron had paid him. "I can't afford to lose it," he said, "and it will have to come back indirectly if I can't get it directly." In no case should a motorist pay a bill at a London garage without a proper receipt. III A PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY No place within equal distance of London is of greater interest than Canterbury, and, indeed, there are very few cities in the entire Kingdom that can vie with the ancient cathedral town in historical importance and antiquity. It lies only sixty-five miles southeast of London, but allowing for the late start that one always makes from an English hotel, and the points that will engage attention between the two cities, the day will be occupied by the trip. Especially will this be true if, as in our case, fully two hours be spent in getting out of the city and reaching the highway south of the Thames, which follows the river to Canterbury. Leaving Russell Square about ten o'clock, I followed the jam down Holborn past the Bank and across London Bridge, crawling along at a snail's pace until we were well beyond the river. A worse route and a more trying one it would have been hard to select. With more experience, I should have run down the broad and little-congested Kingsway to Waterloo Bridge and directly on to Old Kent road in at least one-fourth the time which I consumed in my ignorance. Nevertheless, if a novice drives a car in London, he can hardly avoid such experiences. Detailed directions given in advance cannot be remembered and there is little opportunity to consult street signs and maps or even to question the policeman in the never-ending crush of the streets. However, one gradually gains familiarity with the streets and landmarks, and by the time I was ready to leave London for America, I had just learned to get about the city with comparative ease. Old Kent road, which leads out of London towards Canterbury, is an ancient highway, and follows nearly, if not quite, the route pursued by the Canterbury pilgrims of the poet Chaucer. In the main it is unusually broad and well kept, but progress will be slow at first, as the suburbs extend a long way in this direction, and for the first twenty-five miles one can hardly be said to be out of the city at any time. Ten miles out the road passes Greenwich, where the British observatory is located, and Woolwich, the seat of the great government arsenals and gun works, is also near this point, lying directly by the river. Nearly midway between London and Rochester is the old town of Dartford, where we enjoyed the hospitality of the Bull Hotel for luncheon. A dingy, time-worn, rambling old hostelry it is, every odd corner filled with stuffed birds and beasts to an extent that suggested a museum, and as if to still further carry out the museum feature, mine host had built in a small court near the entrance a large cage or bird-house which was literally alive with specimens of feathered songsters of all degrees. The space on the first floor not occupied by these curios was largely devoted to liquor selling, for there appeared to be at least three bars in the most accessible parts of the hotel. However, somewhat to the rear there was a comfortable coffee room, where our luncheon was neatly served. We had learned by this time that all well regulated hotels in the medium sized towns, and even in some of the larger cities--as large as Bristol, for instance--have two dining rooms, one, generally for tourists, called the "coffee room," with separate small tables, and a much larger room for "commercials," or traveling salesmen, where all are seated together at a single table. The service is practically the same, but the ratio of charges is from two to three times higher in the coffee room. We found many old hotels in retired places where a coffee room had been hastily improvised, an innovation no doubt brought about largely by the motor car trade and the desire to give the motorist more aristocratic rates than those charged the well-posted commercials. Though we stopped in Dartford no longer than necessary for lunch and a slight repair to the car, it is a place of considerable interest. Its chief industry is a large paper-mill, a direct successor to the first one established in England near the end of the Sixteenth Century, and Foolscap paper, standard throughout the English-speaking world, takes its name from the crest (a fool's cap) of the founder of the industry, whose tomb may still be seen in Dartford Church. A short run over a broad road bordered with beautiful rural scenery brought us into Rochester, whose cathedral spire and castle with its huge Norman tower loomed into view long before we came into the town itself. A few miles out of the town our attention had been attracted by a place of unusual beauty, a fine old house almost hidden by high hedges and trees on one side of the road and just opposite a tangled bit of wood and shrubbery, with several of the largest cedars we saw in England. So picturesque was the spot that we stopped for a photograph of the car and party, with the splendid trees for a background, but, as often happens in critical cases, the kodak film only yielded a "fog" when finally developed. When we reached Rochester, a glance at the map showed us that we had unwittingly passed Gad's Hill, the home where Charles Dickens spent the last fifteen years of his life and where he died thirty-six years ago. We speedily retraced the last four or five miles of our journey and found ourselves again at the fine old place with the cedar trees where we had been but a short time before. We stopped to inquire at a roadside inn which, among the multitude of such places, we had hardly noticed before, and which bore the legend, "The Sir John Falstaff," a distinction earned by being the identical place where Shakespeare located some of the pranks of his ridiculous hero. The inn-keeper was well posted on the literary traditions of the locality. "Yes," said he, "this is Gad's Hill Place, where Dickens lived and where he died just thirty-six years ago today, on June 9th, 1870; but the house is shown only on Wednesdays of each week and the proprietor doesn't fancy being troubled on other days. But perhaps, since you are Americans and have come a long way, he may admit you on this special anniversary. Anyway, it will do no harm for you to try." [Illustration: DICKENS' HOME, GAD'S HILL, NEAR ROCHESTER.] Personally, I could not blame the proprietor for his disinclination to admit visitors on other than the regular days, and it was impressed on me more than once during our trip that living in the home of some famous man carries quite a penalty, especially if the present owner happens to be a considerate gentleman who dislikes to deprive visitors of a glimpse of the place. Such owners are often wealthy and the small fees which they fix for admittance are only required as evidence of good faith and usually devoted to charity. With a full appreciation of the situation, it was not always easy to ask for the suspension of a plainly stated rule, yet we did this in many instances before our tour was over and almost invariably with success. In the present case we were fortunate, for the gentleman who owned Gad's Hill was away and the neat maid who responded to the bell at the gateway seemed glad to show us the place, regardless of rules. It is a comfortable, old-fashioned house, built about 1775, and was much admired by Dickens as a boy when he lived with his parents in Rochester. His father used to bring him to look at the house and told him that if he grew up a clever man, he might possibly own it some time. We were first shown into the library, which is much the same as the great writer left it at his death, and the chair and desk which he used still stand in their accustomed places. The most curious feature of the library is the rows of dummy books that occupy some of the shelves, and even the doors are lined with these sham leather backs glued to boards, a whim of Dickens carefully respected by the present owner. We were also accorded a view of the large dining room where Dickens was seized with the attack which resulted in his sudden and unexpected death. After a glimpse of other parts of the house and garden surrounding it, the maid conducted us through an underground passage leading beneath the road, to the plot of shrubbery which lay opposite the mansion. In this secluded thicket, Dickens had built a little house, to which in the summer time he was often accustomed to retire when writing. It was an ideal English June day, and everything about the place showed to the best possible advantage. We all agreed that Gad's Hill alone would be well worth a trip from London. The country around is surpassingly beautiful and it is said that Dickens liked nothing better than to show his friends about the vicinity. He thought the seven miles between Rochester and Maidstone the most charming walk in all England. He delighted in taking trips with his friends to the castles and cathedrals and he immensely enjoyed picnics and luncheons in the cherry orchards and gardens. A very interesting old city is Rochester, with its Eleventh Century cathedral and massive castle standing on the banks of the river. Little of the latter remains save the square tower of the Norman keep, one of the largest and most imposing we saw in England. The interior had been totally destroyed by fire hundreds of years ago, but the towering walls of enormous thickness still stand firm. Its antiquity is attested by the fact that it sustained a siege by William Rufus, the son of the Conqueror. The cathedral is not one of the most impressive of the great churches. It was largely rebuilt in the Twelfth Century, the money being obtained from miracles wrought by the relics of St. William of Perth, a pilgrim who was murdered on his way to Canterbury and who lies buried in the cathedral. Rochester is the scene of many incidents of Dickens' stories. It was the scene of his last unfinished work, "Edwin Drood," and he made many allusions to it elsewhere, the most notable perhaps in "Pickwick Papers," where he makes the effervescent Mr. Jingle describe it thus: "Ah, fine place, glorious pile, frowning walls, tottering arches, dark nooks, crumbling staircases--old cathedral, too,--earthy smell--pilgrims' feet worn away the old steps." Across the river from Rochester lies Chatham, a city of forty thousand people and a famous naval and military station. The two cities are continuous and practically one. From here, without further stop, we followed the fine highway to Canterbury and entered the town by the west gate of Chaucer's Tales. This alone remains of the six gateways of the city wall in the poet's day, and the strong wall itself, with its twenty-one towers, has almost entirely disappeared. We followed a winding street bordered with quaint old buildings until we reached our hotel--in this case a modern and splendidly kept hostelry. The hotel was just completing an extensive garage, but it was not ready for occupancy and I was directed to a well equipped private establishment with every facility for the care and repair of motors. The excellence of the service at this hotel attracted our attention and the head waiter told us that the owners had their own farm and supplied their own table--accounting in this way for the excellence and freshness of the milk, meat and vegetables. The long English summer evening still afforded time to look about the town after dinner. Passing down the main street after leaving the hotel, we found that the river and a canal wound their way in several places between the old buildings closely bordering on each side. The whole effect was delightful and so soft with sunset colors as to be suggestive of Venice. We noted that although Canterbury is exceedingly ancient, it is also a city of nearly thirty thousand population and the center of rich farming country, and, as at Chester, we found many evidences of prosperity and modern enterprise freely interspersed with the quaint and time-worn landmarks. One thing which we noticed not only here but elsewhere in England was the consummate architectural taste with which the modern business buildings were fitted in with the antique surroundings, harmonizing in style and color, and avoiding the discordant note that would come from a rectangular business block such as an American would have erected. Towns which have become known to fame and to the dollar-distributing tourists are now very slow to destroy or impair the old monuments and buildings that form their chief attractiveness, and the indifference that prevailed generally fifty or a hundred years ago has entirely vanished. We in America think we can afford to be iconoclastic, for our history is so recent and we have so little that commands reverence by age and association; yet five hundred years hence our successors will no doubt bitterly regret this spirit of their ancestors, just as many ancient towns in Britain lament the folly of their forbears who converted the historic abbeys and castles into hovels and stone fences. Fortunately, the cathedral at Canterbury escaped such a fate, and as we viewed it in the fading light we received an impression of its grandeur and beauty that still keeps it pre-eminent after having visited every cathedral in the island. It is indeed worthy of its proud position in the English church and its unbroken line of traditions, lost in the mist of antiquity. It is rightly the delight of the architect and the artist, but an adequate description of its magnificence has no place in this hurried record. Time has dealt gently with it and careful repair and restoration have arrested its decay. It stands today, though subdued and stained by time, as proudly as it did when a monarch, bare-footed, walked through the roughly paved streets to do penance at the tomb of its martyred archbishop. It escaped lightly during the Reformation and civil war, though Becket's shrine was despoiled as savoring of idolatry and Cromwell's men desecrated its sanctity by stabling their horses in the great church. The next day being Sunday, we were privileged to attend services at the cathedral, an opportunity we were always glad to have at any of the cathedrals despite the monotony of the Church of England service, for the music of the superb organs, the mellowed light from the stained windows, and the associations of the place were far more to us than litany or sermon. The archbishop was present at the service in state that fitted his exalted place as Primate of all England and his rank, which, as actual head of the church, is next to the king, nominally head of the church as well as of the state. He did not preach the sermon but officiated in the ordination of several priests, a service full of solemn and picturesque interest. The archbishop was attired in his crimson robe of state, the long train of which was carried by young boys in white robes, and he proceeded to his throne with all the pomp and ceremony that so delights the soul of the Englishman. He was preceded by several black-robed officials bearing the insignia of their offices, and when he took his throne, he became apparently closely absorbed in the sermon, which was preached by a Cambridge professor. We were later astonished to learn that the archbishop's salary amounts to $75,000 per year, or half as much more than that of the President of the United States, and we were still more surprised to hear that the heavy demands made on him in maintaining his state and keeping up his splendid episcopal palaces are such that his income will not meet them. We were told that the same situation prevails everywhere with these high church dignitaries, and that only recently the Bishop of London had published figures to show that he was $25,000 poorer in the three years of his incumbency on an annual salary of $40,000 per year. It is not strange, therefore, that among these churchmen there exists a demand for a simpler life. The Bishop of Norwich frankly acknowledged recently that he had never been able to live on his income of $22,500 per year. He expressed his conviction that the wide-spread poverty of the bishops is caused by their being required to maintain "venerable but costly palaces." He says that he and many of his fellow-churchmen would prefer to lead plain and unostentatious lives, but they are not allowed to do so; that they would much prefer to devote a portion of their income to charity and other worthy purposes rather than to be compelled to spend it in useless pomp and ceremony. Aside from its cathedral, Canterbury teems with unique relics of the past, some antedating the Roman invasion of England. The place of the town in history is an important one, and Dean Stanley in his "Memorials of Canterbury," claims that three great landings were made in Kent adjacent to the city, "that of Hengist and Horsa, which gave us our English forefathers and character; that of Julius Caesar, which revealed to us the civilized world, and that of St. Augustine, which gave us our Latin Christianity." The tower of the cathedral dominates the whole city and the great church often overshadows everything else in interest to the visitor. But one could spend days in the old-world streets, continually coming across fine half-timbered houses, with weather-beaten gables in subdued colors and rich antique oak carvings. There are few more pleasing bits of masonry in Britain than the great cathedral gateway at the foot of Mercery Lane, with its rich carving, weather-worn to a soft blur of gray and brown tones. Near Mercery Lane, too, are slight remains of the inn of Chaucer's Tales, "The Chequers of Hope," and in Monastery Street stands the fine gateway of the once rich and powerful St. Augustine's Abbey. Then there is the quaint little church of St. Martins, undoubtedly one of the oldest in England, and generally reputed to be the oldest. Here, in the year 600, St. Augustine preached before the cathedral was built. Neither should St. John's hospital, with its fine, half-timbered gateway be forgotten; nor the old grammar school, founded in the Seventh Century. [Illustration: CATHEDRAL, CANTERBURY.] Our stay in the old town was all too short, but business reasons demanded our presence in London on Monday, so we left for that city about two o'clock. We varied matters somewhat by taking a different return route, and we fully agreed that the road leading from Canterbury to London by way of Maidstone is one of the most delightful which we traversed in England. It led through fields fresh with June verdure, losing itself at times in great forests, where the branches of the trees formed an archway overhead. Near Maidstone we caught a glimpse of Leeds Castle, one of the finest country seats in Kent, the main portions of the building dating from the Thirteenth Century. We had a splendid view from the highway through an opening in the trees of the many-towered old house surrounded by a shimmering lake, and gazing on such a scene under the spell of an English June day, one might easily forget the present and fancy himself back in the time when knighthood was in flower, though the swirl of a motor rushing past us would have dispelled any such reverie had we been disposed to entertain it. We reached London early, and our party was agreed that our pilgrimage to Canterbury could not very well have been omitted from our itinerary. IV A RUN THROUGH THE MIDLANDS I had provided myself with letters of introduction from the American Automobile Association and Motor League, addressed to the secretary of the Motor Union of Great Britain and Ireland, and shortly after my arrival in London, I called upon that official at the club headquarters. After learning my plans, he referred me to Mr. Maroney, the touring secretary, whom I found a courteous gentleman, posted on almost every foot of road in Britain and well prepared to advise one how to get the most out of a tour. Ascertaining the time I proposed to spend and the general objects I had in view, he brought out road-maps of England and Scotland and with a blue pencil rapidly traced a route covering about three thousand miles, which he suggested as affording the best opportunity of seeing, in the time and distance proposed, many of the most historic and picturesque parts of Britain. In a general way, this route followed the coast from London to Land's End, through Wales north to Oban and Inverness, thence to Aberdeen and back to London along the eastern coast. He chose the best roads with unerring knowledge and generally avoided the larger cities. On the entire route which he outlined, we found only one really dangerous grade--in Wales--and, by keeping away from cities, much time and nervous energy were saved. While we very frequently diverged from this route, it was none the less of inestimable value to us, and other information, maps, road-books, etc., which were supplied us by Mr. Maroney, were equally indispensable. I learned that the touring department of the Union not only affords this service for Great Britain, but has equal facilities for planning tours in any part of Europe. In fact, it is able to take in hand the full details, such as providing for transportation of the car to some port across the Channel, arranging for necessary licenses and supplying maps and road information covering the different countries of Europe which the tourist may wish to visit. This makes it very easy for a member of the Union--or anyone to whom it may extend its courtesies--to go direct from Britain for a continental trip, leaving the tourist almost nothing to provide for except the difficulties he would naturally meet in the languages of the different countries. When I showed a well posted English friend the route that had been planned, he pronounced very favorably upon it, but declared that by no means should we miss a run through the Midlands. He suggested that I join him in Manchester on business which we had in hand, allowing for an easy run of two days to that city by way of Coventry. On our return trip, we planned to visit many places not included in our main tour, among them the Welsh border towns, Shrewsbury and Ludlow, and to run again through Warwickshire, taking in Stratford and Warwick, on our return to London. This plan was adopted and we left London about noon, with Coventry, nearly one hundred miles away, as our objective point. A motor car is a queer and capricious creature. Before we were entirely out of the crush of the city, the engine began to limp and shortly came to a stop. I spent an hour hunting the trouble, to the entertainment and edification of the crowd of loafers who always congregate around a refractory car. I hardly know to this minute what ailed the thing, but it suddenly started off blithely, and this was the only exhibition of sulkiness it gave, for it scarcely missed a stroke in our Midland trip of eight hundred miles--mostly in the rain. Nevertheless, the little circumstance, just at the outset of our tour, was depressing. We stopped for lunch at the Red Lion in the old town of St. Albans, twenty miles to the north of London. It is a place of much historic interest, being a direct descendant of the ancient Roman city of Verulamium; and Saint Albans, or Albanus, who gave his name to the town and cathedral and who was beheaded near this spot, was the first British martyr to Christianity of whom there is any record. The cathedral occupies the highest site of any in England, and the square Norman tower, which owes its red coloring to the Roman brick used in its construction, is a conspicuous object from the surrounding country. The nave is of remarkable length, being exceeded only by Winchester. Every style of architecture is represented, from early Norman to late Perpendicular, and there are even a few traces of Saxon work. The destruction of this cathedral was ordered by the pious Henry VIII at the time of his Reformation, but he considerately rescinded the order when the citizens of St. Albans raised money by public subscription to purchase the church. Only an hour was given to St. Albans, much less than we had planned, but our late start made it imperative that we move onward. Our route for the day was over the old coach road leading from London to Holyhead, one of the most perfect in the Kingdom, having been in existence from the time of the Romans. In fact, no stretch of road of equal distance in our entire tour was superior to the one we followed from St. Albans to Coventry. It was nearly level, free from sharp turns, with perfect surface, and cared for with neatness such as we would find only in a millionaire's private grounds in the United States. Everywhere men were at work repairing any slight depression, trimming the lawnlike grasses on each side to an exact line with the edges of the stone surface, and even sweeping the road in many places to rid it of dust and dirt. Here and there it ran for a considerable distance through beautiful avenues of fine elms and yews; the hawthorne hedges which bordered it almost everywhere were trimmed with careful exactness; and yet amid all this precision there bloomed in many places the sweet English wild flowers--forget-me-nots, violets, wild hyacinths and bluebells. The country itself was rather flat and the villages generally uninteresting. The road was literally bordered with wayside inns, or, more properly, ale houses, for they apparently did little but sell liquor, and their names were odd and fantastic in a high degree. We noted a few of them. The "Stump and Pie," the "Hare and Hounds," the "Plume of Feathers," the "Blue Ball Inn," the "Horse and Wagon," the "Horse and Jockey," the "Dog and Parson," the "Dusty Miller," the "Angel Hotel" the "Dun Cow Inn," the "Green Man," the "Adam and Eve," and the "Coach and Horses," are a few actual examples of the fearful and wonderful nomenclature of the roadside houses. Hardly less numerous than these inns were the motor-supply depots along this road. There is probably no other road in England over which there is greater motor travel, and supplies of all kinds are to be had every mile or two. The careless motorist would not have far to walk should he neglect to keep up his supply of petrol--or motor spirit, as they call it everywhere in Britain. Long before we reached Coventry, we saw the famous "three spires" outlined against a rather threatening cloud, and just as we entered the crooked streets of the old town, the rain began to fall heavily. The King's Head Hotel was comfortable and up-to-date, and the large room given us, with its fire burning brightly in the open grate, was acceptable indeed after the drive in the face of a sharp wind, which had chilled us through. And, by the way, there is little danger of being supplied with too many clothes and wraps when motoring in Britain. There were very few days during our entire summer's tour when one could dispense with cloaks and overcoats. Coventry, with its odd buildings and narrow, crowded streets, reminded Nathaniel Hawthorne of Boston--not the old English Boston, but its big namesake in America. Many parts of the city are indeed quaint and ancient, the finest of the older buildings dating from about the year 1400; but these form only a nucleus for the more modern city which has grown up around them. Coventry now has a population of about seventy-five thousand, and still maintains its old-time reputation as an important manufacturing center. Once it was famed for its silks, ribbons and watches, but this trade was lost to the French and Swiss--some say for lack of a protective tariff. Now cycles and motor cars are the principal products; and we saw several of the famous Daimler cars, made here, being tested on the streets. Coventry has three fine old churches, whose tall needlelike spires form a landmark from almost any point of view in Warwickshire, and give to the town the appellation by which it is often known--"The City of the Three Spires." Nor could we well have forgotten Coventry's unique legend, for high up on one of the gables of our hotel was a wooden figure said to represent Peeping Tom, who earned eternal ignominy by his curiosity when Lady Godiva resorted to her remarkable expedient to reduce the tax levy of Coventry. Our faith in the story, so beautifully re-told by Tennyson, will not be shaken by the iconoclastic assertion that the effigy is merely an old sign taken from an armourer's shop; that the legend of Lady Godiva is common to half a dozen towns; and that she certainly never had anything to do with Coventry, in any event. Leaving Coventry the next day about noon in a steady rain, we sought the most direct route to Manchester, thereby missing Nuneaton, the birthplace and for many years the home of George Eliot and the center of some of the most delightful country in Warwickshire. Had we been more familiar with the roads of this country, we could have passed through Nuneaton without loss of time. The distance was only a little greater and over main roads, whereas we traveled for a good portion of the day through narrow byways, and the difficulty of keeping the right road in the continual rain considerably delayed our progress. We were agreeably surprised to find that the car did not skid on the wet macadam road and that despite the rain we could run very comfortably and quite as fast as in fair weather. I had put up our cape top and curtains, but later we learned that it was pleasanter, protected by water-proof wraps, to dash through the rain in the open car. English spring showers are usually light, and it was rather exhilarating to be able to bid defiance to weather conditions that in most parts of the United States would have put a speedy end to our tour. A few miles farther brought us to Tamworth with its castle, lying on the border between Warwickshire and Staffordshire, the "tower and town" of Scott's "Marmion." The castle of the feudal baron chosen by Scott as the hero of his poem still stands in ruins, and was recently acquired by the town. It occupies a commanding position on a knoll and is surrounded by a group of fine trees. A dozen miles more over a splendid road brought in view the three spires of Lichfield Cathedral, one of the smallest though most beautiful of these great English churches. Built of red sandstone, rich with sculptures and of graceful and harmonious architecture, there are few cathedrals more pleasing. The town of Lichfield is a comparatively small place, but it has many literary and historical associations, being the birthplace of Dr. Samuel Johnson, whose house is still standing, and for many years the home of Maria Edgeworth. Here, too, once lived Major Andre, whose melancholy death in connection with the American Revolution will be recalled. The cathedral was fortified during the civil war and was sadly battered in sieges by Cromwell's Roundheads; but so completely has it been rebuilt and restored that it presents rather a new appearance as compared with many others. It occurred to us that the hour for luncheon was well past, and we stopped at the rambling old Swan Hotel, which was to all appearances deserted, for we wandered through narrow halls and around the office without finding anyone. I finally ascended two flights of stairs and found a chambermaid, who reluctantly undertook to locate someone in authority, which she at last did. We were shown into a clean, comfortable coffee room, where tea, served in front of a glowing fire place, was grateful indeed after our long ride through the cold rain. [Illustration: THE THREE SPIRES OF LICHFIELD. From Photograph.] It became apparent that owing to our many delays, we could not easily reach Manchester, and we stopped at Newcastle-under-Lyme for the night. This town has about 20,000 people and lies on the outer edge of the potteries district, where Josiah Wedgewood founded this great industry over one hundred years ago. The whole region comprising Burslem, Hanley, Newcastle, Stoke-on-Trent and many smaller places may be described as a huge, scattered city of about 300,000 inhabitants, nearly all directly or indirectly connected with the manufacture of various grades of china and earthenware. The Castle Hotel, where we stopped, was a very old inn, yet it proved unexpectedly homelike and comfortable. Our little party was given a small private dining room with massive antique furniture, and we were served with an excellent dinner by an obsequious waiter in full-dress suit and with immaculate linen. He cleared the table and left us for the evening with the apartment as a sitting room, and a mahogany desk by the fireside, well supplied with stationery, afforded amends for neglected letters. In the morning, our breakfast was served in the same room, and the bill for entertainment seemed astonishingly low. Mine host will no doubt be wiser in this particular as motorists more and more invade the country. An hour's drive brought us to Manchester. The road by which we entered the city took us direct to the Midland Hotel, which is reputed to be the finest in the Kingdom. Manchester is a city of nearly a million inhabitants, but its streets seemed almost like those of a country town as compared with the crowded thoroughfares of London. It is a great center for motoring and I found many of the garages so full that they could not take another car. I eventually came to one of the largest, where by considerable shifting they managed to accommodate my car. But with all this rush of business, it seemed to me that the owners were in no danger of becoming plutocrats, for the charge for a day's garage, cleaning the car, polishing the brass and making a slight repair, was five shillings. For half the way from Manchester to Leeds, the drive was about as trying as anything I found in England. The road is winding, exceedingly steep in places, and built up on both sides with houses--largely homes of miners and mill operatives. The pavement is of rough cobble-stones, and swarms of dogs and children crowded the way everywhere. Under such conditions, the numerous steep hills, narrow places and sharp turns in the road made progress slow indeed. It was evident that the British motorists generally avoid this country, for we met no cars and our own attracted attention that showed it was not a common spectacle. However, the trip was none the less an interesting one as showing a bit of the country and a phase of English life not usually seen by tourists. There is little to detain one within the city of Leeds itself, but there are many places of interest in its immediate vicinity. There are few more picturesque spots in Yorkshire than Wharfdale, with its riotous little river and ruins of Bolton Abbey and Barden Tower. This lies about fifteen miles to the northwest, and while for special reasons we went to Ilkley Station by train, the trip is a fine motor drive over good roads. The park which contains the abbey and castle is the property of the Duke of Devonshire, who keeps it at all times open to the public. The River Wharfe, rippling over shingly rocks, leaping in waterfalls and compressed into the remarkable rapids called the Strid, only five or six feet wide but very deep and terribly swift, is the most striking feature of the park. The forest-clad cliffs on either side rise almost precipitously from the edges of the narrow dale, and from their summit, if the climb does not deter one, a splendid view presents itself. The dale gradually opens into a beautiful valley and here the old abbey is charmingly situated on the banks of the river. The ruins are not extensive, but the crumbling walls, bright with ivy and wall flowers, and with the soft green lawn beneath, made a delightful picture in the mottled sunshine and shadows of the English May day. On our return to Leeds, our friend who accompanied us suggested that we spend the next day, Sunday, at Harrogate, fifteen miles to the north, one of the most famous of English watering places. It had been drizzling fitfully all day, but as we started on the trip, it began to rain in earnest. After picking our way carefully until free from the slippery streets in Leeds, we found the fine macadam road little affected by the deluge. We were decidedly ahead of the season at Harrogate, and there were but few people at the splendid hotel where we stopped. The following Sunday was as raw and nasty as English weather can be when it wants to, regardless of the time of year, and I did not take the car out of the hotel garage. In the afternoon my friend and I walked to Knaresborough, one of the old Yorkshire towns about three miles distant. I had never even heard of the place before, and it was a thorough surprise to me to find it one of the most ancient and interesting towns in the Kingdom. Not a trace of modern improvement interfered with its old-world quaintness--it looked as if it had been clinging undisturbed to the sharply rising hillside for centuries. Just before entering the town, we followed up the valley of the River Nidd to the so-called "dripping well," whose waters, heavily charged with limestone, drip from the cliffs above and "petrify" various objects in course of time by covering them with a stonelike surface. Then we painfully ascended the hill--not less than a forty-five per cent grade in motor parlance--and wandered through the streets--if such an assortment of narrow foot-paths, twisting around the corners, may be given the courtesy of the name--until we came to the site of the castle. The guide-book gives the usual epitaph for ruined castles, "Dismantled by orders of Cromwell's Parliament," and so well was this done that only one of the original eleven great watch-towers remains, and a small portion of the Norman keep, beneath which are the elaborate vaulted apartments where Becket's murderers once hid. No doubt the great difficulty the Cromwellians had in taking the castle seemed a good reason to them for effectually destroying it. At one time it was in the possession of the notorious Piers Gaveston, and it was for a while the prison-house of King Henry II. There are many other points of interest in Knaresborough, not forgetting the cave from which Mother Shipton issued her famous prophecies, in which she missed it only by bringing the world to an end ahead of schedule time. But they deny in Knaresborough she ever made such a prediction, and prefer to rest her claims to infallibility on her prophecy illustrated on a post card by a highly colored motor car with the legend, "Carriages without horses shall go, And accidents fill the world with woe." Altogether, Knaresborough is a town little frequented by Americans, but none the less worthy of a visit. Harrogate is an excellent center for this and many other places, if one is insistent on the very best and most stylish hotel accommodations that the island affords. Ripon, with its cathedral and Fountains Abbey, perhaps the finest ruin in Great Britain, is only a dozen miles away; but we visited these on our return to London from the north. On Monday the clouds cleared away and the whole country was gloriously bright and fresh after the heavy showers. We returned to Leeds over the road by which we came to Harrogate and which passes Haredale Hall, one of the finest country places in the Kingdom. A large portion of the way the road is bordered by fine forests, which form a great park around the mansion. We passed through Leeds to the southward, having no desire to return to Manchester over the road by which we came, or, in fact, to pass through the city at all. Our objective point for the evening was Chester, and this could be reached quite as easily by passing to the south of Manchester. Wakefield, with its magnificent church, recently dignified as a cathedral, was the first town of consequence on our way, and about twenty-five miles south of Leeds we came to Barnsley, lying on the edge of the great moorlands in central England. There is hardly a town in the whole Kingdom that does not have its peculiar tradition, and an English friend told us that the fame of Barnsley rests on the claim that no hotel in England can equal the mutton chops of the King's Head--a truly unique distinction in a land where the mutton chop is standard and the best in the world. An English moor is a revelation to an American who has never crossed one and who may have a hazy notion of it from Tennyson's verse or "Lorna Doone." Imagine, lying in the midst of fertile fields and populous cities, a large tract of brown, desolate and broken land, almost devoid of vegetation except gorse and heather, more comparable to the Arizona sagebrush country than anything else, and you have a fair idea of the "dreary, dreary moorland" of the poet. For twenty miles from Barnsley our road ran through this great moor, and, except for two or three wretched-looking public houses--one of them painfully misnamed "The Angel"--there was not a single town or habitation along the road. The moorland road began at Penistone, a desolate-looking little mining town straggling along a single street that dropped down a very sharp grade on leaving the town. Despite the lonely desolation of the moor, the road was excellent, and followed the hills with gentle curves, generally avoiding steep grades. So far as I can recall, we did not meet a single vehicle of any kind in the twenty miles of moorland road--surely a paradise for the scorcher. Coming out of the moor, we found ourselves within half a dozen miles of Manchester--practically in its suburbs, for Stalybridge, Stockport, Altrincham and other large manufacturing towns are almost contiguous with the main city. The streets of these towns were crowded with traffic and streetcar lines are numerous. There is nothing of the slightest interest to the tourist, and after a belated luncheon at a really modern hotel in Stockport, we set out on the last forty miles of our journey. After getting clear of Manchester and the surrounding towns, we came to the Chester road, one of the numberless "Watling Streets," which one finds all over England--a broad, finely kept high way, leading through a delightful country. Northwich, famous for its salt mines, was the only town of any consequence until we reached Chester. We had travelled a distance of about one hundred and twenty miles--our longest day's journey, with one exception--not very swift motoring, but we found that an average of one hundred miles per day was quite enough to thoroughly satisfy us, and even with such an apparently low average as this, a day's rest now and then did not come amiss. [Illustration: SUNSET ON THE MOOR. From Painting by Termohlen.] It would be better yet if one's time permitted a still lower daily mileage. Not the least delightful feature of the tour was the marvelous beauty of the English landscapes, and one would have a poor appreciation of these to dash along at forty or even twenty-five miles per hour. There were many places at which we did not stop at all, and which were accorded scant space in the guide-books, that would undoubtedly have given us ideas of English life and closer contact with the real spirit of the people than one could possibly get in the tourist-thronged towns and villages. V THE BORDER TOWNS, SHREWSBURY AND LUDLOW I shall say but little of Chester, as of every other place on the line of our journey so well known as to be on the itinerary of nearly everybody who makes any pretensions at touring Britain. The volumes which have been written on the town and the many pages accorded it in the guide-books will be quite sufficient for all seekers after information. Frankly, I was somewhat disappointed with Chester. I had imagined its quaintness that of a genuine old country town and was not prepared for the modern city that surrounds its show-places. In the words of an observant English writer: "It seems a trifle self-conscious--its famous old rows carry a suspicion of being swept and garnished for the dollar-distributing visitor from over the Atlantic, and of being less genuine than they really are. However that may be, the moment you are out of these show-streets of Chester, there is a singular lack of charm in the environment. The taint of commerce and the smoke of the north hangs visibly on the horizon. Its immediate surroundings are modern and garish to a degree that by no means assists in the fiction that Chester is the unadulterated old-country town one would like to think it." Such a feeling I could not entirely rid myself of, and even in following the old wall, I could not help noting its carefully maintained disrepair. I would not wish to be understood as intimating that Chester is not well worth a visit, and a visit of several days if one can spare the time; only that its charm was, to me, inferior to that of its more unpretentious neighbors, Shrewsbury and Ludlow. Our stay was only a short one, since our route was to bring us to the town again; still, we spent half a day in a most delightful manner, making a tour of the "rows" and the odd corners with quaint buildings. The tourist, fortified with his red-backed Baedecker, is a common sight to Chester people, and his "dollar-distributing" propensity, as described by the English writer I have quoted, is not unknown even to the smallest fry of the town. Few things during our trip amused me more than the antics of a brown, bare-foot, dirt-begrimed little mite not more than two or three years old, who seized my wife's skirts and hung on for dear life, pouring out earnestly and volubly her unintelligible jargon. We were at first at a loss to understand what our new associate desired, and so grimly did she hang on that it seemed as if another accession to our party was assured--but a light dawned suddenly on us, and, as the brown little hand clasped a broad English copper, our self-appointed companion vanished like a flash into a neighboring shop. Even when touring in your "wind-shod" car, as an up-to-date English poet puts it, and though your motor waits you not a stone's throw from your hotel, you may not entirely dispense with your antiquated equine friend as a means of locomotion. So we learned when we proposed to visit Eaton Hall, the country place of the Duke of Westminster, which lies closely adjoining Chester, situated deep in the recesses of its eight-thousand-acre park. A conspicuous sign, "Motors strictly forbidden," posted near the great gateway, forced us to have recourse to the hackman, whose moderate charge of eight shillings for a party of three was almost repaid by his services as a guide. He was voluble in his information concerning the Duke and especially dwelt on his distinction as the richest man in the world--an honor which as good and loyal Americans we could not willingly see wrested from our own John D. of oleaginous fame. Eaton Hall is one of the greatest English show-places, but it is modern and might well be matched by the castles of several of our American aristocracy. Tame indeed seemed its swept and garnished newness, its trim and perfect repair, after our visits to so many time-worn places, with their long succession of hoary traditions. The great library, with its thousands of volumes in the richest bindings and its collections of rare editions, might well be the despair of a bibliophile and the pictures and furnishings of rare interest to the connoisseur--but these things one may find in the museums. Over a main road, almost level and as nearly straight as any English road merits such a description, we covered the forty miles from Chester to Shrewsbury without incident. The most trying grade given in the road-book is one in twenty-five, and all conditions are favorable for record time--in absence of police traps. Four miles out of Chester we passed Rowton Station, lying adjacent to Rowton Moor, where King Charles, standing on the tower of Chester Wall which bears his name, saw his army defeated by the Parliamentarians. We made a late start from Chester, but reached Shrewsbury in time to visit many parts of the town after dinner. We found it indeed a delightful old place, rich in historic traditions, and the center of a country full of interesting places. The town is built on a lofty peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the River Severn, and the main streets lead up exceedingly steep hills. In fact, many of the steepest and most dangerous hills which we found in our travels were in the towns themselves, where grades had been fixed by buildings long ago. The clean macadam in Shrewsbury made it possible to drive our car without chains, though it rained incessantly, but so steep and winding are some of the streets that the greatest caution was necessary. Shrewsbury is described by an English writer as a "sweet-aired, genuine, dignified and proud old market town, the resort of squires, parsons and farmers, and mainly inhabited by those who minister to their wants. It never dreams of itself as a show-place." He also adds another strong point in its claim to distinction: "Some years ago a book was published by a zealous antiquarian, enumerating with much detail all the families of England of a certain consequence who still occupied either the same estate or estates contiguous to those upon which they were living in the Fifteenth Century. The shire of which Shrewsbury is the capital very easily headed the list in this honorable competition and thereby justified the title of 'proud Salopians,' which the more consequential of its people submit to with much complacency, even though it be not always applied in a wholly serious way." It is a genuine old border town, so far unspoiled by commercialism. Modern improvements have not invaded its quaint streets to any great extent, and many of these still retain their old names--Dog-pole, Wylecop and Shoplatch--and are bordered by some of the finest half-timbered houses in Britain. Nor is Shrewsbury wanting in famous sons. In front of the old grammar school building is a bronze statue of Charles Darwin, the man who changed the scientific thought of a world, who was born here in 1809. This same grammar school was built in 1630 and is now converted into a museum of Roman relics, which have been found in the immediate vicinity. In its earlier days, many distinguished men received their education here, among them Sir Philip Sidney and Judge Jeffreys. The Elizabethan market-house and the council-house which was visited by both Charles I and James II on different occasions are two of the most fascinating buildings to be seen in the town. There are scant remains, principally of the keep of the castle, built by the Norman baron to whom William the Conqueror generously presented the town. St. Mary is the oldest and most important church, and in some particulars it surpasses the cathedral at Chester. It is architecturally more pleasing and its windows are among the finest examples of antique stained glass in the Kingdom. We spent some time among the remarkable collection of relics in the museum, and as they mainly came from the Roman city of Uriconium, we planned a side-trip to this place, together with Buildwas Abbey and the old Saxon town of Much Wenlock, all of which are within twenty miles of Shrewsbury. When we left the Raven Hotel it was raining steadily, but this no longer deterred us, and after cautiously descending the steep hill leading out of the town we were soon on the road to Wroxeter, the village lying adjacent to the Roman ruins. We found these of surprising extent and could readily believe the statement made in the local guide-book that a great city was at one time located here. Only a comparatively small portion has been excavated, but the city enclosed by the wall covered nearly one square mile. One great piece of wall about seventy-five feet long and twenty feet in height still stands above ground to mark the place, but the most remarkable revelations were found in the excavations. The foundations of a large public building have been uncovered, and the public baths to which the Romans were so partial are in a remarkable state of preservation, the tile flooring in some cases remaining in its original position. There is every indication that the city was burned and plundered by the wild Welsh tribes sixteen hundred or more years ago. A few miles farther, mainly through narrow byways, brought us to Buildwas Abbey, beautifully situated near the Severn. Evidently this fine ruin is not much frequented by tourists, for we found no custodian in charge, and the haunts of the old monks had been converted into a sheepfold by a neighboring farmer. Yet at one time it was one of the richest and most extensive monasteries in England. On our return to Shrewsbury, we passed through Much Wenlock, a very ancient town, which also has its ruined abbey. It is remarkable how thickly these monastic institutions were at one time scattered over the Kingdom, and when one considers what such elaborate establishments must have cost to build and to maintain, it is easy to understand why, in the ages of church supremacy, the common people were so miserably poor. [Illustration: RUINS OF URICONIUM, NEAR SHREWSBURY.] Aside from the places of historic interest that we visited on this trip, the country through which we passed would have made our half day a memorable one. Though the continual rain intercepted the view much of the time, yet from some of the hilltops we had vistas of the Severn Valley with its winding river that we hardly saw surpassed in a country famous for lovely landscapes. We regretted later that our stay at Shrewsbury was so short, for we learned that in the immediate vicinity there are many other places which might well have occupied our attention; but in this case, as in many others, we learned afterwards the things we should have known before our tour began. Late in the afternoon we started for Ludlow. It was still raining--a gray day with fitful showers that never entirely ceased but only varied in intensity. Much of the beauty of the landscape was hidden in the gray mist, and the distant Welsh hills, rich with soft coloring on clear days, were entirely lost to us. Yet the gloomy day was not altogether without its compensation, for if we had visited Stokesay when the garish sunshine gilded "but to flaunt the ruins gray," we should have lost much of the impression which we retain of the gloom and desolation that so appropriately pervaded the unique old manor with its timbered gatehouse and its odd little church surrounded by thickly set gravestones. [Illustration: STOKESAY MANOR HOUSE, NEAR LUDLOW.] It was only by an accidental glance at our road-book that we saw Stokesay Castle as an "object of interest" on this road about eight miles north of Ludlow. This old house is the finest example in the Kingdom of a fortified manor as distinguished from a castle, its defensive feature being a great crenolated tower, evidently built as a later addition when the manor passed from a well-to-do country gentleman to a member of the nobility. This is actually the case, for there is on record a license granted in 1284 to Lawrence de Ludlow permitting him to "crenolate his house." The house itself was built nearly two hundred years earlier and was later surrounded by a moat as a further means of defense. Considering its age, it is in a wonderfully good state of preservation, the original roof still being intact. We were admitted by the keeper, who lives in the dilapidated but delightfully picturesque half-timbered gatehouse. The most notable feature of the old house is the banqueting hall occupying the greater portion of the first floor, showing how, in the good old days, provision for hospitality took precedence over nearly everything else. Some of the apartments on the second floor retain much of their elaborate oak paneling and there are several fine mantel-pieces. A narrow, circular stairway leads to the tower, from which the beauty of the location is at once apparent. Situated as the mansion is in a lovely valley, bounded by steep and richly wooded hills at whose base the river Onny flows through luxuriant meadows, one is compelled to admire the judgment of the ancient founder who selected the site. It indeed brought us near to the spirit and customs of feudal times as we wandered about in the gloom of the deserted apartments. How comfortless the house must have been--from our standard--even in its best days, with its rough stone floors and rude furnishings! No fireplace appeared in the banqueting hall, which must have been warmed by an open fire, perhaps in the center, as in the hall of Penshurst Place. How little these ancient landmarks were appreciated until recently is shown by the fact that for many years Stokesay Manor was used as a blacksmith-shop and a stable for a neighboring farmer. The present noble proprietor, however, keeps the place in excellent repair and always open to visitors. In one of the rooms of the tower, is exhibited a collection of ancient documents relating to the founding of Stokesay and to its early history. After visiting hundreds of historic places during our summer's pilgrimage, the memory of Ludlow, with its quaint, unsullied, old-world air, its magnificent church, whose melodious chime of bells lingers with us yet, its great ruined castle, redolent with romance, and its surrounding country of unmatched interest and beauty, is still the pleasantest of all. I know that the town has been little visited by Americans, and that in Baedeker, that Holy Writ of tourists, it is accorded a scant paragraph in small type. Nevertheless, our deliberately formed opinion is still that if we could re-visit only one of the English towns it would be Ludlow. Mr. A.G. Bradley, in his delightful book, "In the March and Borderland of Wales," which everyone contemplating a tour of Welsh border towns should read, gives an appreciation of Ludlow which I am glad to reiterate when he styles it "the most beautiful and distinguished country town in England." He says: "There are towns of its size perhaps as quaint and boasting as many ancient buildings, but they do not crown an eminence amid really striking scenery, nor yet again share such distinction of type with one of the finest mediaeval castles in England and one possessed of a military and political history unique in the annals of British castles. It is this combination of natural and architectural charm, with its intense historical interest, that gives Ludlow such peculiar fascination. Other great border fortresses were centers of military activities from the Conquest to the Battle of Bosworth, but when Ludlow laid aside its armour and burst out into graceful Tudor architecture, it became in a sense the capital of fourteen counties, and remained so for nearly two hundred years." [Illustration: THE FEATHERS HOTEL, LUDLOW.] We were indeed fortunate in Ludlow, for everything conspired to give us the best appreciation of the town, and were it not for the opinion of such an authority as I have quoted, I might have concluded that our partiality was due to some extent to the circumstances. We had been directed to a hotel by our host in Shrewsbury, but on inquiring of a police officer--they are everywhere in Britain--on our arrival in Ludlow, he did us a great favor by telling us that "The Feathers" hotel just opposite would please us better. We forthwith drew up in front of the finest old black and white building which we saw anywhere in the Kingdom and were given a room whose diamond-paned windows opened toward church and castle. No modern improvements broke in on our old-time surroundings--candles lighted us when the long twilight had faded away. The splendid dark-oak paneling that reached to the ceiling of the dining room and the richly carved mantel-piece, they told us, were once in rooms of Ludlow Castle. As we sat at our late dinner, a familiar melody from the sonorous chimes of the church-tower came through the open window to our great delight. "O, what a nuisance those bells are," said the neat waiting maid, "and a bad thing for the town, too. Why, the commercials all keep away from Ludlow. They can't sleep for the noise." "Do the chimes ring in the night?" we asked. "At midnight and at four o'clock in the morning," she said, and I was fearful that we would not awake. But we did, and the melody in the silence of the night, amid the surroundings of the quaint old town, awakened a sentiment in us no doubt quite different from that which vexed the soul of the commercial. But we felt that credit was due the honest people of Ludlow, who preferred the music of the sweet-toned bells to sordid business; and, as the maid said, the bells did not awaken anyone who was used to them--surely a fit reward to the citizens for their high-minded disregard of mere material interests. I said we were fortunate at Ludlow. The gray, chilly weather and almost continual rain which had followed us for the last few days vanished and the next morning dawned cool and fair, with sky of untainted blue. Our steps were first turned towards the castle, which we soon reached. There was no one to admit us. The custodian's booth was closed, but there was a small gate in the great entrance and we walked in. We had the noble ruin to ourselves, and a place richer in story and more beautiful and majestic in decay we did not find elsewhere. A maze of gray walls rose all around us, but fortunately every part of the ruin bore a printed card telling us just what we wanted to know. The crumbling walls surrounded a beautiful lawn, starred with wild flowers--buttercups and forget-me-nots--and a flock of sheep grazed peacefully in the wide enclosure. We wandered through the deserted, roofless chambers where fireplaces with elaborate stone mantels and odd bits of carving told of the pristine glory of the place. The castle was of great extent, covering the highest point in Ludlow, and before the day of artillery must have been well-nigh impregnable. The walls on the side toward the river rise from a cliff which drops down a sharp incline toward the edge of the water but leaving room for a delightful foot path between rows of fine trees. The stern square tower of the keep, the odd circular chapel with its fine Norman entrance, the great banqueting hall, the elaborate stone fireplaces and the various apartments celebrated in the story of the castle interested us most. From the great tower I saw what I still consider the finest prospect in England, and I had many beautiful views from similar points of vantage. The day was perfectly clear and the wide range of vision covered the fertile valleys and wooded hills interspersed with the villages, the whole country appearing like a vast beautifully kept park. The story of Ludlow Castle is too long to tell here, but no one who delights in the romance of the days of chivalry should fail to familiarize himself with it. The castle was once a royal residence and the two young princes murdered in London Tower by the agents of Richard III dwelt here for many years. In 1636 Milton's "Mask of Comus," suggested by the youthful adventures of the children of the Lord President, was performed in the castle courtyard. The Lord of the castle at one time was Henry Sidney, father of Sir Philip, and his coat-of-arms still remains over one of the entrances. But the story of love and treason, of how in the absence of the owner of the castle, Maid Marion admitted her clandestine lover, who brought a hundred armed men at his back to slay the inmates and capture the fortress, is the saddest and most tragic of all. We saw high up in the wall, frowning over the river, the window of the chamber from which she had thrown herself after slaying her recreant lover in her rage and despair. A weird story it is, but if the luckless maiden still haunts the scene of her blighted love, an observant sojourner who fitly writes of Ludlow in poetic phrase never saw her. "Nearly every midnight for a month," he says, "it fell to me to traverse the quarter of a mile of dark, lonely lane that leads beneath the walls of the castle to the falls of the river, and a spot more calculated to invite the wanderings of a despairing and guilty spirit, I never saw. But though the savage gray towers far above shone betimes in the moonlight and the tall trees below rustled weirdly in the night breeze and the rush of the river over the weir rose and fell as is the wont of falling water in the silence of the night, I looked in vain for the wraith of the hapless maiden of the heath and finally gave up the quest." [Illustration: LUDLOW CASTLE, THE KEEP AND ENTRANCE.] When we left the castle, though nearly noon, the custodian was still belated, and we yet owe him sixpence for admittance, which we hope to pay some time in person. A short walk brought us to the church--"the finest parish church in England," declares one well qualified to judge. "Next to the castle," he says, "the glory of Ludlow is its church, which has not only the advantage of a commanding site but, as already mentioned, is held to be one of the finest in the country." It is built of red sandstone and is cruciform in shape, with a lofty and graceful tower, which is a landmark over miles of country and beautiful from any point of view. I have already mentioned the chime of bells which flings its melodies every few hours over the town and which are hung in this tower. The monuments, the stained-glass windows and the imposing architecture are scarcely equalled by any other church outside of the cathedrals. We had made the most of our stay in Ludlow, but it was all too short. The old town was a revelation to us, as it would be to thousands of our countrymen who never think of including it in their itinerary. But for the motor car, it would have remained undiscovered to us. With the great growth of this method of touring, doubtless thousands of others will visit the place in the same manner, and be no less pleased than we were. From Ludlow we had a fine run to Worcester, though the road was sprinkled with short, steep hills noted "dangerous" in the road-book. Our fine weather was very transient, for it was raining again when we reached Worcester. We first directed our steps to the cathedral, but when nearly there beheld a large sign, "This way to the Royal Porcelain Works," and the cathedral was forgotten for the time by at least one member of our party. The Royal Porcelain Works it was, then, for hadn't we known of Royal Worcester long before we knew there was any cathedral--or any town, for that matter? It is easy to get to the Royal Porcelain Works: a huge sign every block will keep you from going astray and an intelligent guide will show you every detail of the great establishment for only a sixpence. But it is much harder and more costly to get away from the Royal Worcester Works, and when we finally did we were several guineas poorer and were loaded with a box of fragile ware to excite the suspicions of our amiable customs officials. Nevertheless, the visit was full of interest. Our guide took us through the great plant from the very beginning, showing us the raw materials--clay, chalk and bones--which are ground to a fine powder, mixed to a paste, and deftly turned into a thousand shapes by the skilled potter. We were shown how the bowl or vase was burned, shrinking to nearly half its size in the process. We followed the various steps of manufacture until the finished ware, hand-painted, and burned many times to bring out the colors, was ready for shipment. An extensive museum connected with the works is filled with rare specimens to delight the soul of the admirer of the keramic art. There were samples of the notable sets of tableware manufactured for nearly every one of the crowned heads of Europe during the last century, gorgeous vases of fabulous value, and rare and curious pieces without number. When we left the porcelain works it was too late to get into the cathedral, and when we were ready to start in the morning it was too early. So we contented ourselves with driving the car around the noble pile and viewing the exterior from every angle. We took the word of honest Baedeker that the interior is one of the most elaborate and artistic in England but largely the result of modern restoration. The cathedral contains the tomb of King John, who requested that he be buried here, though his life was certainly not such as to merit the distinction. Here, too, is buried the elder brother of King Henry VIII, Prince Arthur, who died at Ludlow Castle in 1502; and had he lived to be king in place of the strenuous Henry, who can say what changes might have been recorded in English history? All these we missed; nor did we satisfy ourselves personally of the correctness of the claim that the original entry of the marriage contract of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway is on file in the diocese office near the gateway of the cathedral. Along with the other notable places of the town mentioned in the guide-book as worthy of a visit is the great factory where the fiery Worcestershire sauce is concocted, but this did not appeal to our imagination as did the porcelain works. Our early start and the fine, nearly level road brought us to Stratford-upon-Avon well before noon. Here we did little more than re-visit the shrines of Shakespeare--the church, the birthplace, the grammar school--all familiar to the English-speaking world. Nor did we forget the Red Horse Inn at luncheon time, finding it much less crowded than on our previous visit, for we were still well in advance of the tourist season. After luncheon we were lured into a shop across the street by the broad assurance made on an exceedingly conspicuous sign that it is the "largest souvenir store on earth." Here we hoped to secure a few mementos of our visit to Stratford by motor car. We fell into a conversation with the proprietor, a genial, white-haired old gentleman, who, we learned, had been Mayor of the town for many years--and is it not a rare distinction to be Mayor of Shakespeare's Stratford? The old gentleman bore his honors lightly indeed, for he said he had insistently declined the office but the people wouldn't take no for an answer. It is only a few miles to Warwick over winding roads as beautiful as any in England. One of these leads past Charlecote, famous for Shakespeare's deer-stealing episode, but no longer open to the public. We passed through Warwick--which reminded us of Ludlow except for the former's magnificent situation--without pausing, a thing which no one would do who had not visited that quaint old town some time before. In Leamington, three miles farther on, we found a modern city of forty thousand inhabitants, noted as a resort and full of pretentious hotels. After we were located at the Manor House there was still time for a drive to Kenilworth Castle, five miles away, to which a second visit was even more delightful than our previous one. For the next day we had planned a circular tour of Warwickshire, but a driving, all-day rain and, still more, the indisposition of one of our party, confined us to our hotel. Our disappointment was considerable, for within easy reach of Leamington there were many places that we had planned to visit. Ashow Church, Stoneleigh Abbey, George Eliot's birthplace and home near Nuneaton, the cottage of Mary Arden, mother of Shakespeare, Rugby, with its famous school, and Maxstoke Castle--an extensive and picturesque ruin--are all within a few miles of Leamington. From Leamington to London was nearly an all-day's run, although the distance is only one hundred miles. A repair to the car delayed us and we went several miles astray on the road. It would have been easier to have returned over the Holyhead Road, but our desire to see more of the country led us to take a route nearly parallel to this, averaging about fifteen miles to the southward. Much of the way this ran through narrow byways and the country generally lacked interest. We passed through Banbury, whose cross, famous in nursery rhyme, is only modern. At Waddesdon we saw the most up-to-date and best ordered village we came across in England, with a fine new hotel, the Five Arrows, glittering in fresh paint. We learned that this village was built and practically owned by Baron Rothschild, and just adjoining it was the estate which he had laid out. The gentleman of whom we inquired courteously offered to take us into the great park, and we learned that he was the head landscape gardener. The palace is modern, of Gothic architecture, and crowns an eminence in the park. It contains a picture gallery, with examples of the works of many great masters, which is open to the public on stated days of the week. On reaching London, we found that our tour of the Midlands had covered a little less than eight hundred miles, which shows how much that distance means in Britain when measured in places of historic and literary importance, of which we really visited only a few of those directly on the route of our journey or lying easily adjacent to it. VI LONDON TO LAND'S END The road from London to Southampton is one of the oldest in the Kingdom and passes many places of historic interest. In early days this highway, leading from one of the main seaports through the ancient Saxon capital, was of great importance. Over this road we began the trip suggested by the Touring Secretary of the Motor Union. As usual, we were late in getting started and it was well after noon when we were clear of the city. At Kingston-on-Thames, practically a suburb, filled with villas of wealthy Londoners, we stopped for lunch at the Griffin Hotel, a fine old inn whose antiquity was not considered sufficient to atone for bad service, which was sometimes the case. Kingston has a history as ancient as that of the capital itself. Its name is peculiar in that it was not derived from King's Town, but from King's Stone; and at the town crossing is the identical stone, so says tradition, upon which the Saxon kings were crowned. It would seem to one that this historic bit of rock would form a more fitting pedestal for the English coronation chair than the old Scottish stone from Dunstafnage Castle. After a short run from Kingston, we passed down High Street, Guildford, which, a well qualified authority declares, is "one of the most picturesque streets in England." Guildford might well detain for a day or more anyone whose time will permit him to travel more leisurely than ours did. William Cobbett, the author and philosopher, who was born and lived many years near by, declared it "the happiest looking town he ever knew"--just why, I do not know. The street with the huge town clock projecting half way across on one side, the Seventeenth Century Town Hall with its massive Greek portico on the other, and a queerly assorted row of many-gabled buildings following its winding way, looked odd enough, but as to Guildford's happiness, a closer acquaintance would be necessary. Shortly after leaving the town, the ascent of a two-mile hill brought us to a stretch of upland road which ran for several miles along a tableland lying between pleasantly diversified valleys sloping on either side. From this a long, gradual descent led directly into Farnham, the native town of William Cobbett. The house where he was born and lived as a boy is still standing as "The Jolly Farmers' Inn." One may see the little house which was the birthplace of the Rev. Augustus Toplady, whose hymn, "Rock of Ages," has gained world-wide fame. On the hill overlooking the town is the ancient castle, rebuilt in the Sixteenth Century and from that time one of the palaces of the bishops of Winchester. Here, too, lingers one of the ubiquitous traditions of King Charles I, who stopped at Vernon House in West Street while a prisoner in the hands of the Parliamentarians on their way to London. A silk cap which the king presented to his host is proudly shown by one of the latter's descendants, who is now owner of the house. One must be well posted on his route when touring Britain or he will pass many things of note in sublime ignorance of their existence. Even the road-book is not an infallible guide, for we first knew that we were passing through Chawton when the postoffice sign, on the main street of a straggling village, arrested our attention. We were thus reminded that in this quiet little place the inimitable Jane Austin had lived and produced her most notable novels, which are far more appreciated now than in the lifetime of the authoress. An old woman of whom we inquired pointed out the house--a large square building with tiled roof, now used as the home of a workingmen's club. Less than two miles from Chawton, though not on the Winchester road, is Selborne, the home of Gilbert White, the naturalist, and famed as one of the quaintest and most retired villages in Hampshire. But one would linger long on the way if he paused at every landmark on the Southampton road. We had already loitered in the short distance which we had traveled until it was growing late, and with open throttle our car rapidly covered the last twenty miles of the fine road leading into Winchester. From an historical point of view, no town in the Kingdom surpasses the proud old city of Winchester. The Saxon capital still remembers her ancient splendor and it was with a manifest touch of pride that the old verger who guided us through the cathedral dwelt on the long line of kings who had reigned at Winchester before the Norman conquest. To him, London at best was only an upstart and an usurper. Why, "When Oxford was shambles And Westminster was brambles, Winchester was in her glory." And her glory has never departed from her and never will so long as her great cathedral stands intact, guarding its age-long line of proud traditions. The exterior is not altogether pleasing--the length exceeding that of any cathedral in Europe, together with the abbreviated tower, impresses one with a painful sense of lack of completeness and a failure of proper proportion. It has not the splendid site of Durham or Lincoln, the majesty of the massive tower of Canterbury, or the grace of the great spire of Salisbury. But its interior makes full amends. No cathedral in all England can approach it in elaborate carvings and furnishings or in interesting relics and memorials. Here lie the bones of the Saxon King Ethelwulf, father of Alfred the Great; of Canute, whose sturdy common sense silenced his flatterers; and of many others. A scion of the usurping Norman sleeps here too, in the tomb where William Rufus was buried, "with many looking on and few grieving." In the north aisle a memorial stone covers the grave of Jane Austen and a great window to her memory sends its many-colored shafts of light from above. In the south transept rests Ike Walton, prince of fishermen, who, it would seem to us, must have slept more peacefully by some rippling brook. During the Parliamentary wars Winchester was a storm center and the cathedral suffered severely at the hands of the Parliamentarians. Yet fortunately, many of its ancient monuments and furnishings escaped the wrath of the Roundhead iconoclasts. The cathedral is one of the oldest in England, having been mainly built in the Ninth Century. Recently it has been discovered that the foundations are giving away to an extent that makes extensive restoration necessary, but it will be only restored and not altered in any way. But we may not pause long to tell the story of even Winchester Cathedral in this hasty record of a motor flight through Britain. And, speaking of the motor car, ardent devotee as I am, I could not help feeling a painful sense of the inappropriateness of its presence in Winchester; of its rush through the streets at all hours of the night; of its clatter as it climbed the steep hills in the town; of the blast of its unmusical horn; and of its glaring lights, falling weirdly on the old buildings. It seemed an intruder in the capital of King Alfred. There is much else in Winchester, though the cathedral and its associations may overshadow everything. The college, one of the earliest educational institutions in the Kingdom, was founded about 1300, and many of the original buildings stand almost unchanged. The abbey has vanished, though the grounds still serve as a public garden; and of Wolvesley Palace, a castle built in 1138, only the keep still stands. How usual this saying, "Only the keep still stands," becomes of English castles,--thanks to the old builders who made the keep strong and high to withstand time, and so difficult to tear down that it escaped the looters of the ages. A day might well be given to the vicinity of Winchester, which teems with points of literary and historic interest. In any event, one should visit Twyford, only three miles away, often known as the "queen of the Hampshire villages" and famous for the finest yew tree in England. It is of especial interest to Americans, since Benjamin Franklin wrote his autobiography here while a guest of Dr. Shipley, Vicar of St. Asaph, whose house, a fine Elizabethan mansion, still stands. To Salisbury by way of Romsey is a fine drive of about thirty miles over good roads and through a very pleasing country. Long before we reached the town there rose into view its great cathedral spire, the loftiest and most graceful in Britain, a striking landmark from the country for miles around. Following the winding road and passing through the narrow gateway entering High Street, we came directly upon this magnificent church, certainly the most harmonious in design of any in the Kingdom. The situation, too, is unique, the cathedral standing entirely separate from any other building, its gray walls and buttresses rising sheer up from velvety turf such as is seen in England alone. It was planned and completed within the space of fifty years, which accounts for its uniformity of style; while the construction of most of the cathedrals ran through the centuries with various architecture in vogue at different periods. The interior, however, lacks interest, and the absence of stained glass gives an air of coldness. It seems almost unbelievable that the original stained windows were deliberately destroyed at the end of the Eighteenth Century by a so-called architect, James Wyatt, who had the restoration of the cathedral in charge. To his everlasting infamy, "Wyatt swept away screens, chapels and porches, desecrated and destroyed the tombs of warriors and prelates, obliterated ancient paintings; flung stained glass by cart loads into the city ditch; and razed to the ground the beautiful old campanile which stood opposite the north porch." That such desecration should be permitted in a civilized country only a century ago indeed seems incredible. [Illustration: A COTTAGE IN HOLDENHURST, HAMPSHIRE. From Water Color by Noelsmith.] No one who visits Salisbury will forget Stonehenge, the most remarkable relic of prehistoric man to be found in Britain. Nearly everyone is familiar with pictures of this solitary circle of stones standing on an eminence of Salisbury Plain, but one who has not stood in the shadow of these gigantic monoliths can have no idea of their rugged grandeur. Their mystery is deeper than that of Egypt's sphynx, for we know something of early Egyptian history, but the very memory of the men who reared the stones on Salisbury Plain is forgotten. Who they were, why they built this strange temple, or how they brought for long distances these massive rocks that would tax modern resources to transport, we have scarcely a hint. The stones stand in two concentric circles, those of the inner ring being about half the height of the outer ones. Some of the stones are more than twenty feet high and extend several feet into the ground. There are certain signs which seem to indicate that Stonehenge was the temple of some early sun-worshiping race, and Sir Norman Lockyer, who has made a special study of the subject, places the date of construction about 1680 B.C. No similar stone is found in the vicinity; hence it is proof positive that the builders of Stonehenge must have transported the enormous monoliths for many miles. The place lies about eight miles north of Salisbury. We went over a rather lonely and uninteresting road by the way of Amesbury, which is two miles from Stonehenge. We returned by a more picturesque route, following the River Avon to Salisbury and passing through Millston, a quaint little village where Joseph Addison was born in 1672. A few miles south of Salisbury we entered New Forest, an ancient royal hunting domain covering nearly three hundred square miles and containing much of the most pleasing woodland scenery in England. This is extremely diversified but always beautiful. Glades and reaches of gentle park and meadow and open, heathlike stretches contrast wonderfully with the dark masses of huge oaks and beeches, under some of which daylight never penetrates. We stopped for the night at Lyndhurst, directly in the center of the forest and sometimes called the capital of New Forest. It looks strangely new for an English town, and the large church, built of red brick and white stone, shows its recent origin. In this church is a remarkable altar fresco which was executed by the late Lord Leighton. The fine roads and splendid scenery might occupy at least a day if time permitted; but if, like us, one must hasten onward, a run over the main roads of New Forest will give opportunity to see much of its sylvan beauty. [Illustration: A GLADE IN NEW FOREST.] Our route next day through the narrow byways of Dorsetshire was a meandering one. From Lyndhurst we passed through Christchurch, Blandford and Dorchester and came for the night to Yeovil. We passed through no place of especial note, but no day of our tour afforded us a better idea of the more retired rural sections of England. By the roadside everywhere were the thatched roof cottages with their flower gardens, and here and there was an ancient village which to all appearances might have been standing quite the same when the Conqueror landed in Britain. Oftentimes the byways were wide enough for only one vehicle, but were slightly broadened in places to afford opportunity for passing. Many of the crossings lacked the familiar sign-boards, and the winding byways, with nothing but the map for a guide, were often confusing, and sharp turns between high hedges made careful driving necessary. At times we passed between avenues of tall trees and again unexpectedly dropped into some quiet village nestling in the Dorset hills. One of the quaintest of these, not even mentioned in Baedeker, is Cerne Abbas, a straggling village through which the road twisted along--a little old-world community, seemingly severed from modern conditions by centuries. It rather lacked the cozy picturesqueness of many English villages. It seemed to us that it wanted much of the bloom and shrubbery. Everywhere were the gray stone houses with thatched roofs, sagging walls and odd little windows with square or diamond-shaped panes set in iron casements. Nowhere was there a structure that had the slightest taint of newness. The place is quite unique. I do not recall another village that impressed us in just the same way. Our car seemed strangely out of place as it cautiously followed the crooked main street of the town, and the attention bestowed on it by the smaller natives indicated that a motor was not a common sight in Cerne Abbas. Indeed, we should have missed it ourselves had we not wandered from the main road into a narrow lane that led to the village. While we much enjoyed our day in the Dorset byways, our progress had necessarily been slow. In Yeovil, we found an old English town apparently without any important history, but a prosperous center for a rich farming country. The place is neat and clean and has a beautifully kept public park--a feature of which the average English town appears more appreciative than the small American city. From Yeovil to Torquay, through Exeter, with a stop at the latter place, was an unusually good day's run. The road was more hilly than any we had passed over heretofore, not a few of the grades being styled "dangerous," and we had been warned by an English friend that we should find difficult roads and steep hills in Devon and Cornwall. However, to one who had driven over some of our worst American roads, even the "bad" roads of England looked good, and the "dangerous" hills, with their smooth surface and generally uniform grade, were easy for our moderate-powered motor. Exeter enjoys the distinction of having continuously been the site of a town or city for a longer period than is recorded of any other place in England. During the Roman occupation it was known as a city, and it is believed that the streets, which are more regular than usual and which generally cross each other at right angles, were first laid out by the Romans. It is an important town of about fifty thousand inhabitants, with thriving trade and manufactures, and modern improvements are in evidence everywhere. The cathedral, though not one of the largest or most imposing, is remarkable for the elaborate carving of the exterior. The west front is literally covered with life-sized statues set in niches in the wall, but the figures are all sadly time-worn, many of them having almost crumbled away. Evidently the Roundheads were considerate of Exeter Cathedral that such a host of effigies escaped destruction at their hands; and they were not very well disposed towards Exeter, either, as it was always a Royalist stronghold. Possibly it was spared because the Cromwellians found it useful as a place of worship, and in order to obtain peace and harmony between the two factions of the army the cathedral was divided into two portions by a high brick wall through the center, the Independents holding forth on one side and the Presbyterians on the other. The road from Exeter to Torquay follows the coast for some distance, affording many fine views of the ocean. We were now in the "limestone country," and the roads are exceedingly dusty in dry weather. The dust, in the form of a fine white powder, covers the trees and vegetation, giving the country here and there an almost ghostly appearance. No wonder that in this particular section there is considerable prejudice against the motor on account of its great propensity to stir up the dust. So far as we ourselves were concerned, we usually left it behind us, and it troubled us only when some other car got in ahead of us. Torquay is England's Palm Beach--a seacoast-resort town where the temperature rarely falls below forty degrees, thanks to the warm current of the Gulf Stream; and where the sea breezes keep down the summer heat, which seldom rises above sixty degrees. It is especially a winter resort, although the hotels keep open during the year. Most of the town is finely situated on a high promontory overlooking a beautiful harbor, studded with islands and detached rocks that half remind one of Capri. From our hotel window we had a glorious ocean view, made the more interesting for the time being by a dozen of King Edward's men-of-war, supposed to be defending Torquay against "the enemy" of a mimic naval warfare. On the opposite side of Tor Bay is the quiet little fishing village of Brixham, the landing-place of Prince William of Orange. We reached here early on a fine June day when everything was fresh after heavy showers during the night. The houses rise in terraces up the sharp hillside fronting the harbor, which was literally a forest of fishing-boat masts. A rather crude stone statue of William stands on the quay and a brass foot-print on the shore marks the exact spot where the Dutch prince first set foot in England, accompanied by an army of thirteen thousand men. Our car attracted a number of urchins, who crowded around it and, though we left it unguarded for an hour or more to go out on the sea-wall and look about the town, not one of the fisher lads ventured to touch it or to molest anything--an instance of the law-abiding spirit which we found everywhere in England. From Brixham, an hour's drive over bad roads brought us to Dartmouth, whither we had been attracted by the enthusiastic language of an English writer who asserts that "There is scarcely a more romantic spot in the whole of England than Dartmouth. Spread out on one of the steep slopes of the Dart, it overlooks the deep-set river toward the sea. Steep wooded banks rising out of the water's edge give the winding of the estuaries a solemn mystery which is wanting in meadows and plough-land. In the midst of scenery of this character--and it must have been richer still a few centuries back--the inhabitants of Dartmouth made its history." As we approached the town, the road continually grew worse until it was little better than the average unimproved country highway in America, and the sharp loose stones everywhere were ruinous on tires. It finally plunged sharply down to a steamboat ferry, over which we crossed the Dart and landed directly in the town. There are few towns in England more charmingly located than old Dartmouth, and a hundred years ago it was an important seaport, dividing honors about equally with Plymouth. The road to Dartmouth was unusually trying; the route which we took to Plymouth was by odds the worst of equal distance we found anywhere. We began with a precipitous climb out of the town, up a very steep hill over a mile long, with many sharp turns that made the ascent all the more difficult. We were speedily lost in a network of unmarked byways running through a distressingly poor-looking and apparently quite thinly inhabited country. After a deal of studying the map and the infrequent sign-boards we brought up in a desolate-looking little village, merely a row of gray stone, slate-roofed houses on either side of the way, and devoid of a single touch of the picturesque which so often atones for the poverty of the English cottages. No plot of shrubbery or flower-garden broke the gray monotony of the place. We had seen nothing just like it in England, though some of the Scotch villages which we saw later, matched it very well. Here a native gave us the cheerful information that we had come over the very road we should not have taken; that just ahead of us was a hill where the infrequent motor cars generally stalled, but he thought that a good strong car could make it all right. Our car tackled the hill bravely enough, but slowed to a stop before reaching the summit; but by unloading everybody except the driver, and with more or less coaxing and adjusting, it was induced to try it again, with a rush that carried it through. The grade, though very steep, was not so much of an obstacle as the deep sand, with which the road was covered. We encountered many steep hills and passed villages nearly as unprepossessing as the first one before we came to the main Plymouth-Exeter road, as excellent a highway as one could wish. It was over this that our route had originally been outlined, but our spirit of adventure led us into the digression I have tried to describe. It was trying at the time, but we saw a phase of England that we otherwise would have missed and have no regrets for the strenuous day in the Devonshire byways. Plymouth, with the adjoining towns of Devonport and Stonehouse, is one of the most important seaports in the Kingdom, the combined population being about two hundred thousand. The harbor is one of the best and affords safe anchorage for the largest ocean-going vessels. It is protected by a stupendous granite breakwater, costing many millions and affording a delightful promenade on a fine day. Plymouth is the principal government naval port and its ocean commerce is gaining rapidly on that of Liverpool. To Americans it appeals chiefly on account of its connection with the Pilgrim Fathers, who sailed from its harbor on the Mayflower in 1620. A granite block set in the pier near the oldest part of the city is supposed to mark the exact spot of departure of the gallant little ship on the hazardous voyage, whose momentous outcome was not then dreamed of. I could not help thinking what a fine opportunity is offered here for some patriotic American millionaire to erect a suitable memorial to commemorate the sailing of the little ship, fraught with its wonderful destiny. The half day spent about the old city was full of interest; but the places which we missed would make a most discouraging list. It made us feel that one ought to have two or three years to explore Britain instead of a single summer's vacation. [Illustration: ROCKS OFF CORNWALL. From Painting by Warne Browne. Exhibited 1906 Royal Academy.] From Plymouth to Penzance through Truro runs the finest road in Cornwall, broad, well kept and with few steep grades. It passes through a beautiful section and is bordered in many places by the immense parks of country estates. In some of these the woods were seemingly left in their natural wild state, though close inspection showed how carefully this appearance was maintained by judicious landscape gardening. In many of the parks, the rhododendrons were in full bloom, and their rich masses of color wonderfully enlivened the scenery. Everything was fresh and bright. It had been raining heavily the night before and the air was free from the dust that had previously annoyed us. It would be hard to imagine anything more inspiring than the vistas which opened to us as we sped along. The road usually followed the hills in gentle curves, but at places it rose to splendid points of vantage from which to view the delightful valleys. Then again it lost itself under great over-arching trees, and as we came too rapidly down a steep hill on entering Bodmin, the road was so heavily shaded that we were near our undoing. The loose sand had been piled up by the rain and the dense shade prevented the road from drying. The car took a frightful skid and by a mere hair's breadth escaped disastrous collision with a stone wall--but we learned something. After leaving Truro, an ancient town with a recently established cathedral, the road to Penzance, though excellent, is without special interest. It passes through the copper-mining section of Cornwall and the country is dotted with abandoned mines. A few are still operated, but it has come to the point where, as a certain Englishman has said, "Cornwall must go to Nevada for her copper," and there are more Cornish miners in the western states than there are in their native shire. Penzance is another of the South of England resort towns and is beautifully situated on Mounts Bay. One indeed wonders at the great number of seacoast resorts in Britain, but we must remember that there are forty millions of people in the Kingdom who need breathing places as well as a number of Americans who come to these resorts. The hotels at these places are generally excellent from the English point of view, which differs somewhat from the American. Probably there is no one point on which the difference is greater than the precise temperature that constitutes personal comfort and makes a fire in the room necessary. On a chilly, muggy day when an American shivers and calls for a fire in the generally diminutive grate in his room, the native enjoys himself or even complains of the heat, and is astonished at his thin-skinned cousin, who must have his room--according to the British notion--heated to suffocation. The hotel manager always makes a very adequate charge for fires in guest-rooms and is generally chary about warming the corridors or public parts of the hotel. In one of the large London hotels which actually boasts of steam heat in the hallways, we were amazed on a chilly May day to find the pipes warm and a fine fire blazing in the great fireplace in the lobby. The chambermaid explained the astonishing phenomenon: the week before several Americans had complained frequently of the frigid atmosphere of the place without exciting much sympathy from the management, but after they had left the hotel, it was taken as an evidence of good faith and the heat was turned on. But this digression has taken me so far away from Penzance that I may as well close this chapter with it. VII FROM CORNWALL TO SOUTH WALES In following a five-thousand-mile motor journey through Britain, there will be little to say of Penzance, a pleasant resort town, yet without anything of notable importance. A mile farther down the coast is Newlyn, a fishing-village which has become a noted resort for artists and has given its name to a school of modern painting. A handsome building for a gallery and art institute, and which also serves as headquarters for the artists, has recently been erected by a wealthy benefactor. We walked over to the village, hoping to learn that the fisher-fleet would be in the next morning, but were disappointed. A man of whom we inquired informed us that the fishermen would not bring in their catch until two days later. He seemed to recognize at once that we were strangers--Americans, they all know it intuitively--and left his task to show us about the immense quay where the fishermen dispose of their catch at auction. He conducted us out on the granite wall, built by the Government to enclose the harbor and insuring the safety of the fisher-fleet in fiercest storms. He had been a deep-sea fisherman himself and told us much of the life of these sturdy fellows and the hardships they endure for little pay. [Illustration: NEAR LAND'S END. From Water Color by Wm. T. Richards.] The ordinary fishing boat is manned by five or six men and makes two trips each week to the deep-sea fishing "grounds," seventy-five to one hundred miles away. The craft is rude and comfortless in the extreme and so constructed as to be nearly unsinkable if kept off the rocks. The fish are taken by trawling great nets and drawing them aboard with a special tackle. The principal catch of the Newlyn fishermen is herring, which are pickled in the village and exported, mainly to Norway and Sweden. The value of the fish depends on the state of the market, and the price realized is often as low as a shilling per hundred weight. The majority of the population of Cornwall is engaged directly or indirectly in the fisheries, and considering the inferiority of most of the country for agriculture and the extensive coast line with its numerous harbors, it is not strange that so many of the natives should follow this life. In earlier days, smuggling and wrecking constituted the occupation of a large number of the Cornishmen, but under modern conditions these gentle arts can no longer be successfully practiced, and fishing furnishes about the only alternative. Just across the peninsula is St. Ives, another fishing village, even more picturesque than Newlyn and quite as much in favor with the artists. To reach this town we turned a few miles from the main road on the following day, but missed the fisher-fleet as before. The bay on which St. Ives is situated is the most beautiful on the Cornish coast, and on the day of our visit the bright stretch of water, sleeping placidly under the June skies and dotted with glistening sails, well maintained its reputation for surpassing loveliness. Before we entered the town a man of whom we inquired the way advised us to leave our car and walk down the sharp descent to the coast, where the village mostly lies. The idea of the return trip was not pleasing, and we boldly started down, only to wish we had been more amenable to the friendly advice, for a steeper, narrower, crookeder street we did not find anywhere. In places it was too narrow for vehicles to pass abreast, and sharp turns on a very steep grade, in streets crowded with children, made the descent exceedingly trying. However, we managed to get through safely and came to a stop directly in front of the Fifteenth Century church, an astonishingly imposing structure for a village which showed more evidences of poverty than of anything else. The church was built at a time when the smugglers and wreckers of Cornwall no doubt enjoyed greater prosperity and felt, perhaps, more anxiety for their souls' welfare than do their fisher-folk descendants. On re-ascending the hill we stopped at the Castle for our noonday luncheon, but the castle in this instance is a fine old mansion built about a hundred years ago as a private residence and since passed into the possession of a railway company, which has converted it into an excellent hotel. Situated as it is, in a fine park on the eminence overlooking the bay, few hostelries at which we paused seemed more inviting for a longer sojourn. Four miles from Penzance is Marazion, and St. Michael's Mount, lying near at hand, takes its name from the similar but larger and more imposing cathedral-crowned headland off the coast of France. It is a remarkable granite rock, connected with the mainland by a strip of sand, which is clear of the water only four hours of the day. The rock towers to a height of two hundred and fifty feet and is about a mile in circumference. It is not strange that in the days of castle-building such an isolated site should have been seized upon; and on the summit is a many-towered structure built of granite and so carefully adapted to its location as to seem almost a part of the rock itself. When we reached Marazion, the receding tide had left the causeway dry, and as we walked leisurely the mile or so between the town and the mount, the water was already stealthily encroaching on the pathway. We found the castle more of a gentleman's residence than a fortress, and it was evidently never intended for defensive purposes. It has been the residence of the St. Aubyn family since the time of Charles II, and the villagers were all agog over elaborate preparations to celebrate the golden wedding anniversary of the present proprietor. The climb is a wearisome one, and we saw little of the castle, being admitted only to the entrance-hall and the small Gothic chapel, which was undergoing restoration; but the fine view from the battlements alone is worth the effort. The castle never figured in history and is remarkable chiefly for its unique location. By the time of our return the tide had already risen several feet and we were rowed to the mainland in a boat. On our return to Truro we took the road by which we came, but on leaving there our road roughly followed the Northern Cornish coast, and at intervals we caught glimpses of the ocean. For some distance we ran through a rough moorland country, although the road was comparatively level and straight. We passed Camelford--which some say is the Camelot of the Arthur legends--only five miles distant from the ruins of Tintagel Castle on the coast, and came early to Launceston, where the clean hospitable-looking White Hart Hotel offered strong inducements to stop for the night. A certain weariness of the flesh, resulting from our run over the last long stretch of the moorland road, was an equally important factor in influencing our action. [Illustration: ON DARTMOOR. From Water Color by Vincent.] Launceston was one of the surprises that we frequently came across--a town that we had never heard of before and doubtless one that an American seldom sees. Yet the massive castle, whose circular keep crowns an eminence overlooking the town, was one of the objects that loomed into view long before we reached the place, and its gloomy grandeur, as we wandered through its ruins in the fading twilight, deeply impressed us. A rude stairway led to the top of the great circular tower, rising high above the summit of the hill, which itself dominates the country, and the view stretching away in every direction was far-reaching and varied. The castle has been gradually falling into ruin for the last six hundred years, but in its palmy days it must have been one of the grimmest and most awe-inspiring of the fortresses in the west country. Scarcely another ruin did we see anywhere more imposing in location and more picturesque in decay. Masses of ivy clung to the crumbling walls and all around spread a beautiful park, with soft, velvety turf interspersed with shrubbery and bright dashes of color from numerous well cared-for flower beds. Not less unique is St. Steven's church, the like of which is not to be found elsewhere in Britain. Its walls are covered with a network of fine carving, vine and flower running riot in stone, and they told us that this was done by English stonecutters, though nearly all such carving on the cathedrals was the work of artisans from the continent. The Launceston church is pointed to as an evidence that English workmen could have done quite as well had they been given the chance. Aside from this wonderful carving, which covers almost every stone of the exterior, the church is an imposing one and has lately been restored to its pristine magnificence. Launceston had its abbey, too, but this has long since disappeared, and all that now remains of it is the finely carved Norman doorway built into the entrance of the White Hart Hotel. Our next day's run was short, covering only forty-two miles between Launceston and Exeter. For about half the distance the road runs along the edge of Dartmoor, the greatest of English moorlands. A motor trip of two or three days through the moor itself would be time well spent, for it abounds in romantic scenery. The road which we followed is a good one, though broken into numerous steep hills, but a part of the way we might as well have been traveling through a tunnel so far as seeing the country was concerned. A large proportion of the fences are made of earth piled up four or five feet high, and on the top of this ridge are planted the hedges, generally reaching three or four feet higher. There were times when we could catch only an occasional glimpse of the landscape, and if such fences were everywhere in England they would be a serious deterrent upon motoring. Fortunately, they prevail in a comparatively small section, for we did not find them outside of Cornwall and Devon. This experience served to impress on us how much we lost when the English landscapes were hidden--that the vistas which flitted past us as we hurried along were among the pleasantest features of our journey. It was little short of distressing to have mud fences shut from view some of the most fascinating country through which we passed. The greatest part of the day we spent in Exeter. The Rougemont Hotel, where we stopped for the night, is spacious and comfortable, and a series of stained-glass windows at the head of the great staircase tells the story of Richard Ill's connection with Exeter; how, according to Shakespeare's play, the Rougemont of Exeter recalled to the king's superstitious mind an ancient prophecy of his defeat at the hands of Richmond, later Henry VII. Leaving Exeter early, we planned to reach Bath in the evening--only eighty-one miles over an almost perfect road--not a very long run so far as actual distance is concerned, but entirely too long considering the places of unusual interest that lie along the way. We passed through the little town of Wellington, noted chiefly for giving his title to the Iron Duke, and it commemorates its great namesake by a lofty column reared on one of the adjacent hills. No town in Britain has an ecclesiastical history more important than Glastonbury, whose tradition stretches back to the very beginning of Christianity in the Island. Legend has it that St. Joseph of Arimathea, who begged the body of Christ and buried it, came here in the year 63 and was the founder of the abbey. He brought with him, tradition says, the Holy Grail; and a thorn-tree staff which he planted in the abbey grounds became a splendid tree, revered for many centuries as the Holy Thorn. The original tree has vanished, though there is a circumstantial story that it was standing in the time of Cromwell and that a Puritan who undertook to cut it down as savoring of idolatry had an eye put out by a flying chip and was dangerously wounded by his axe-head flying off and striking him. With its awe-inspiring traditions--for which, fortunately, proof was not required--it is not strange that Glastonbury for many centuries was the greatest and most powerful ecclesiastical establishment in the Kingdom. The buildings at one time covered sixty acres, and many hundreds of monks and dignitaries exerted influence on temporal as well as ecclesiastical affairs. It is rather significant that it passed through the Norman Conquest unscathed; not even the greedy conquerors dared invade the sanctity of Glastonbury Abbey. The revenue at that time is said to have been about fifty thousand pounds yearly and the value of a pound then would equal twenty-five to fifty of our American dollars. However much the Normans respected the place, its sanctity had no terrors for the rapacious Henry VIII. The rich revenues appealed too strongly and he made a clean sweep, hanging the mitered abbot and two of his monks on the top of Tor Hill. The Abbey is the traditional burial-place of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and four of the Saxon kings sleep in unmarked graves within its precincts. Considering its once vast extent, the remaining ruins are scanty, although enough is left to show how imposing and elaborate it must have been in its palmy days. And there are few places in the Kingdom where one is so impressed with the spirit of the ancient order of things as when surrounded by the crumbling walls of Glastonbury Abbey. [Illustration: ST. JOSEPH'S CHAPEL, GLASTONBURY ABBEY.] At Wells is the cathedral that gives the town an excuse for existence. Although one of the smallest of these great English churches, it is in many respects one of the most symmetrical and beautiful. Its glory is centered chiefly in its west front, with deep buttresses and many sculptured images of kings and saints. We had only an unsatisfactory glimpse of the interior, as services happened to be in progress. The town of Wells is a mere adjunct to the cathedral. It has no history of its own; no great family has ever lived there; and it can claim no glory as the birthplace of distinguished sons. Still it has a distinct charm as a quiet little Somersetshire town which has preserved its antiquity and fascination. Its name is taken from the natural wells still found in the garden of the Bishop's palace. Bath, though it has the most remarkable Roman relics in the Kingdom, is largely modern. It is now a city of fifty thousand and dates its rise from the patronage of royalty a century and a half ago. It is one of the towns that a motorist could scarcely miss if he wished--so many fine roads lead into it--and I shall not attempt especial comment on a place so well known. Yet, as in our case, it may be a revelation to many who know of it in a general way but have no adequate idea of the real extent of the Roman baths. These date from 50 to 100 A.D. and indicate a degree of civilization which shows that the Roman inhabitants in Britain must have been industrious, intelligent and cleanly. Excavations have been conducted with great difficulty, since the Roman remains lie directly under an important part of the city covered with valuable buildings. Nearly all of the baths in the vicinity of the springs have been uncovered and found in a surprising state of perfection. In many places the tiling with its mosaic is intact, and parts of the system of piping laid to conduct the water still may be traced. Over the springs has been erected the modern pump-house and many of the Roman baths have been restored to nearly their original state. In the pump-house is a museum with hundreds of relics discovered in course of excavation--sculpture, pottery, jewelry, coin and many other articles that indicate a high degree of civilization. Outside of the Roman remains the most notable thing in Bath is its abbey church, which, in impressive architecture and size, will compare favorably with many of the cathedrals. In fact, it originally was a cathedral, but in an early day the bishopric was transferred to Wells. There is no ruined fortress or castle in Bath, with its regulation lot of legends. Possibly in an effort to remedy the defect, there has been erected on one of the hills that overlook the town a structure which goes by the epithet of the Sham Castle. On leaving Bath, we followed the fine London road as far as Chippenham, a prosperous agricultural town celebrated for its wool market. To the north of this is Malmesbury, with an abbey church whose history goes back to the Ninth Century. A portion of the nave is still used for services and is remarkable for its massive pillars and Norman doorway, the great arch of which has perhaps a hundred rude carvings illustrating scenes from scripture history. The strong walls of the church caused it to be used at times as a fortress, and it underwent sieges in the different wars that raged over the Kingdom. The verger pointed out to us deep indentations made by Cromwell's cannon and told us that one of the abbey's vicissitudes was its use for some years as a cloth manufacturing establishment. From Malmesbury we followed the road through Cirencester to Cheltenham, one of the most modern-looking cities which we saw in England. Like Bath, it is famous for its springs, and a large share of its population is made up of retired officers of the army and navy. The main streets are very wide, nearly straight, and bordered in many places with fine trees. However, its beginning dates from only about 1700, and therefore it has little claim on the tourist whose heart is set upon ancient and historic things. Of much greater interest is its neighbor, Gloucester, about twelve miles away. The two cities are almost of the same size, each having about fifty thousand people. Gloucester can boast of one of the most beautiful of the cathedrals, whether considered from its imposing Gothic exterior or its interior, rich with carvings and lighted by unusually fine stained-glass windows, one of which is declared to be the largest in the world. The cathedral was begun in 1088, but the main tower was not completed until nearly five hundred years later, which gives some idea of the time covered in the construction of many of these great churches. Gloucester boasts of great antiquity, for it is known that the Britons had a fortified town here which they defended against the Roman attacks; and after having become possessed of it, the Romans greatly strengthened it as a defense against incursions from the Welsh tribes. Before the Norman Conquest, it was of such importance that Edward the Confessor held his court in the town for some time. Being in the west country, it naturally was a storm-center in the parliamentary struggle, during which time a great deal of the city was destroyed. But there are many of the old portions still remaining and it has numbers of beautiful half-timbered buildings. One of these was the home of Robert Raikes, known to the world as the founder of the Sunday School. Gloucester is worthy of a longer stay than we were able to make, and in arranging an itinerary one should not fail to provide for a full day in the town. [Illustration: IN GLOUCESTERSHIRE. From Water Color by A. Waters.] From Gloucester to Ross runs an excellent highway, though rather devoid of interest. It was thronged with motorists who generally dashed along in sublime disregard of the speed limits. We passed several who were occupied with "roadside troubles" and we were in for an hour or so ourselves, due to a refractory "vibrator." The Welsh farmers who passed joked us good-naturedly and one said he would stick to his horse until he had money to buy a motor--then, he added, he wouldn't buy it, but would live on the income of the money. We told him that he was a man after Solomon's own heart. Suddenly the evil spirit left the car and she sprang away over the beautiful road in mad haste that soon landed us in Ross. Ross is a pretty village, situated on a green hillside overlooking the Wye, and the tall, graceful spire of its church dominates all views of the town. Although it was growing quite late, we did not stop here, but directed our way to Monmouth, twelve miles farther on, which we reached just as the long twilight was turning into night. [Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF ROSS, SOUTH WELSH BORDER.] VIII THROUGH BEAUTIFUL WALES Of no part of our tour does a pleasanter memory linger than of the five or six hundred miles on the highways of Wales. The weather was glorious and no section of Britain surpassed the Welsh landscapes in beauty. A succession of green hills, in places impressive enough to be styled mountains, sloping away into wooded valleys, with here and there a quaint village, a ruined castle or abbey, or an imposing country mansion breaking on the view--all combined to make our journey through Wales one of our most pleasing experiences. Historic spots are not far apart, especially on the border, where for centuries these brave people fought English invaders--and with wonderful success, considering the greatly superior number of the aggressors. I have already written of Ludlow and Shrewsbury on the north, but scarcely less attractive--and quite as important in early days--are the fine old towns of Hereford and Monmouth on the southern border. We were everywhere favorably impressed with the Welsh people as being thrifty and intelligent. The roadside drinking-houses were not so numerous as in England, for the Welsh are evidently more temperate in this regard than their neighbors. My observation in this particular is borne out by an English writer well qualified to judge. He says: "There is, of a truth, very little drinking now in rural Wales. The farming classes appear to be extremely sober. Even the village parliament, which in England discusses the nation's affairs in the village public house, has no serious parallel in Wales, for the detached cottage-renting laborer, who is the mainstay of such gatherings, scarcely exists, and the farmer has other interests to keep him at home." Evidently the Welsh farmer does attend to his business in an industrious manner, for he generally has a substantial and prosperous appearance. People with whom we engaged in conversation were always courteous and obliging and almost everything conspired to heighten our good opinion of the Welsh. The fusion with England is nearly complete and the Welsh language is comparatively little used except by the older people. King Edward has no more loyal subjects than the Welshmen, but apparently they do not greatly incline towards admitting his claims as their spiritual head. The Church of England in Wales is greatly inferior in numbers and influence to the various nonconformist branches. This is especially true of the more rural sections. We found Monmouth an unusually interesting town on account of its antiquity and the numerous historic events which transpired within its walls. At the King's Head Hotel, which of course afforded shelter to Charles I when he was "touring" Britain, we were able with difficulty to find accommodation, so crowded was the house with an incursion of English trippers. Monmouth's chief glory and distinction is that it was the birthplace of King Henry V, Shakespeare's Prince Hal, whom William Watson describes as "The roystering prince that afterward Belied his madcap youth and proved A greatly simple warrior lord Such as our warrior fathers loved." The scanty ruins of the castle where the prince was born still overlook the town. Thus King Henry became the patron of Monmouth, and in front of the town hall has been erected an inartistic effigy of a knight in full armour, with the inscription, "Henry V, born at Monmouth, August 9, 1387." The old bridge over the river Monnow is unique, with an odd, castellated gateway at one end, probably intended not so much for defense as for collecting tolls. After dark we wandered about the streets until the church-tower chimes warned us of the lateness of the hour. And even these church bells have their history. When King Henry sailed from a seaport in France on one occasion the inhabitants rang the bells for joy, which so incensed the monarch that he ordered the bells removed and presented them to his native town. We saw too little of Monmouth, for the next morning we were away early, taking the fine road that leads directly south to Tintern and Chepstow. The abbey-builders chose their locations with unerring judgment, always in a beautiful valley near a river or lake, surrounded by fertile fields and charming scenery. Of the score of ruined abbeys which we visited there was not one that did not fulfill this description, and none of them to a greater extent--possibly excepting Fountain's--than Tintern. In the words of an enthusiastic admirer, "Tintern is supremely wonderful for its situation among its scores of rivals. It lies on the very brink of the River Wye, in a hollow of the hills of Monmouth, sheltered from harsh winds, warmed by the breezes of the Channel--a very nook in an earthly Eden. Somehow the winter seems to fall more lightly here, the spring to come earlier, the foliage to take on a deeper green, the grass a greater thickness, and the flowers a more multitudinous variety." Certainly the magnificent church--almost entire except for its fallen roof--standing in the pleasant valley surrounded by forest-clad hills on every side, well merits such enthusiastic language. It is well that this fine ruin is now in the possession of the Crown, for it insures that decay will be arrested and its beauties preserved as an inspiration to art and architecture of later times. From Tintern to Chepstow we followed an unsurpassed mountain road. For three miles our car gradually climbed to the highest point, winding along the hillside, from which the valley of the Severn, with its broad river, spread out beneath us in all the freshness of June verdure; while on the other hand, for hundreds of feet sheer above us, sloped the hill, with its rich curtain of forest trees, the lighter green of the summer foliage dashed with the somber gloom of the yew. Just at the summit we passed the Wyndcliffe, towering five hundred feet above us, from which one may behold one of the most famous prospects in the Island. Then our car started down a three-mile coast over a smooth and uniform grade until we landed at the brow of the steep hill which drops sharply into Chepstow. A rude, gloomy fortress Chepstow Castle must have been in its day of might, and time has done little to soften its grim and forbidding aspect. Situated on a high cliff which drops abruptly to the river, it must have been well-nigh invincible in days ere castle walls crumbled away before cannon-shot. It is of great extent, the wails enclosing an area of about four acres, divided into four separate courts. The best-preserved portion is the keep, or tower, in which the caretaker makes his home; but the fine chapel and banqueting hall were complete enough to give a good idea of their old-time state. We were able to follow a pathway around the top of the broad wall, from which was afforded a widely extended view over the mouth of the Severn towards the sea. "This is Martin's Tower," said our guide, "for in the dungeon beneath it the regicide, Henry Martin, spent the last twenty years of his life and died." The man spoke the word "regicide" as though he felt the stigma that it carries with it everywhere in England, even though applied to the judge who condemned to death Charles Stuart, a man who well deserved to die. And when Britain punished the regicides and restored to power the perfidious race of the Stuarts, she was again putting upon herself the yoke of misgovernment and storing up another day of wrath and bloodshed. [Illustration: RUINS OF RAGLAN CASTLE, SOUTH WALES.] From Chepstow it is only a short journey to Raglan, whose ruined castle impressed us in many ways as the most beautiful we saw in Britain. It was far different from the rude fortress at Chepstow. In its best days it combined a military stronghold with the conveniences and artistic effects of a palace. It is fortunately one of the best-preserved of the castellated ruins in the Kingdom. Impressive indeed were the two square towers flanking its great entrance, yet their stern aspect was softened by the heavy masses of ivy that covered them almost to the top. The walls, though roofless, were still standing, so that one could gain a good idea of the original plan of the castle. The fire places, with elaborate mantels still in place, the bits of fine carvings that clung to the walls here and there, the grand staircase, a portion of which still remains, all combined to show that this castle had been planned as a superb residence as well as a fortress. From the Gwent tower there was an unobstructed view stretching away in every direction toward the horizon. The day was perfect, without even a haze to obscure the distance, and save from Ludlow Castle, I saw nothing to equal the prospect which lay beneath me when standing on Raglan Tower. Raglan's active history ended with its surrender August 15, 1646, to the Parliamentary army under General Fairfax, after a severe siege of more than two months. It was the last fortress in England to hold out for the lost cause of King Charles, and a brave record did its gallant defenders make against an overwhelmingly superior force. The Marquis of Worcester, though eighty-five years of age, held the castle against the Cromwellians until starvation forced him to surrender. The old nobleman was granted honorable terms by his captors, but Parliament did not keep faith, and he died a year later in the Tower of London. On being told a few days before his death that his body would be buried in Windsor Chapel, he cheerfully remarked: "Why, God bless us all, then I shall have a better castle when I am dead than they took from me when I was alive." After the surrender the castle was dismantled by the soldiers, and the farmers in the vicinity emulated the Parliamentary destroyers in looting the fine edifice. Seventeen of the stone staircases were taken away during the interval and the great hall and chapel were seriously injured. Enough of the massive walls is left to convey a vivid idea of the olden grandeur of the castle. The motto of the time-worn arms inscribed over the entrance speaks eloquently of the past, expressing in Latin the sentiment, "I scorn to change or fear." A quiet, unpretentious old border town is Hereford, pleasantly located on the banks of the always beautiful Wye. The square tower of the cathedral is the most conspicuous object when the town first comes into view. Though dating in part from the Eleventh Century, work on the cathedral occupied the centuries until 1530, when it was practically completed as it now stands. The vandal Wyatt, who dealt so hardly with Salisbury, had the restoration of the cathedral in hand early in the Eighteenth Century. He destroyed many of its most artistic features, but recently his work was undone and a second restoration was completed in about 1863. The structure as it now stands is mainly Norman in style, built of light-brown stone, and remarkably beautiful and imposing. Hereford Castle has entirely vanished, though a contemporary writer describes it as "one of the fairest, largest, and strongest castles in England." The site which it occupied is now a public garden, diversified with shrubbery and flowers. An ornamental lake indicates where once was the moat, but the outlines of the walls are shown only by grass-covered ridges. Its history was no doubt as stirring as that of others of the border castles, which more fortunately escaped annihilation. Despite its present atmosphere of peace and quietude, Hereford saw strenuous times in the fierce warfare which raged between the English and Welsh, though few relics of those days remain. The streets are unusually wide and with few exceptions the buildings are modern. Surrounding the town is a stretch of green, level meadow, upon which graze herds of the red and white cattle whose fame is wider than that of their native shire. No doubt there are many familiar with the sleek Herefords who have no idea from whence they take their name. Our hotel, the Green Dragon, had recently been re-furnished and brightened throughout, and its excellent service was much better than we often found in towns the size of Hereford. Its well planned motor garage, just completed, showed that its proprietors recognized the growing importance of this method of touring. Our run from Hereford up the Wye Valley to the sea, we agreed was one of our red-letter days. We passed through greatly varied scenery from the fertile, level country around Hereford to the rough, broken hills near the river's source, but the view was always picturesque in the highest degree. The road runs along the edge of the hills, and the glorious valley with its brawling river spread out before us almost the entire day. At times we ran through forests, which cover the immense parks surrounding the country estates along the river. We saw many fine English country-seats, ranging from old, castellated structures to apparently modern mansions. There are also a number of ruins along the valley, each with its romantic legends. At Hay, on the hill overlooking the town, is the castle, partly in ruins and partly in such state of repair as to be the summer home of the family that owns it. A little farther, upon a knoll directly overhanging the river, are crumbling piles of stone where once stood Clifford Castle, the home of Fair Rosamond, whose melancholy story Tennyson has woven into one of his dramas. As we advanced farther up the valley, the country grew wilder and more broken and for many miles we ran through the towering hills that pass for mountains in Wales. These were covered with bright-green verdure to their very tops, and the flocks of sheep grazing everywhere lent an additional charm to the picture. At the foot of the hills the road follows the valleys with gentle curves and easy grades. The Wye dwindles to the merest brook, and some miles before we reached the coast, we passed the head waters of the river and followed a brook flowing in an opposite direction. The road over which we had traveled is not favorable for fast time. Though comparatively level and with splendid surface, it abounds in sharp curves and in many places runs along high embankments. The Motor Union has recommended that eighteen miles per hour be not exceeded on this road. The distance from Hereford to Aberyswith is only ninety miles, yet we occupied the greater part of the day in the trip, and had time permitted, we would gladly have broken the journey at one of the quaint towns along the way. At many points of vantage we stopped to contemplate the beauty of the scene--one would have to be a speed maniac indeed to "scorch" over the Wye Valley road. Aberyswith is a seaside resort, somewhat similar to Penzance. It is situated on the harbor at the foot of a high bluff, and its principal feature is the long row of hotels fronting on the ocean. Though mostly modern, it is by no means without history, as evidenced by its ruined castle overlooking the sea and vouching for the antiquity of the town. We left Aberyswith next morning with considerable apprehensions. Our books and maps showed that we would encounter by odds the worst roads of our entire tour. A grade of one in five along the edge of an almost precipitous hill was not an alluring prospect, for we were little inclined toward hill-climbing demonstrations. Shortly after leaving the town we were involved in poorly kept country byways without sign-boards and slippery with heavy rains of the night before. After meandering among the hills and inquiring of the natives for towns the names of which they could not understand when we asked and we could not understand when they answered, we came to Dinas Mowddwy, where there was little else than a handsome hotel. This reminded us that in our wanderings the hour for luncheon had passed. We stopped at the hotel, but found difficulty in locating anybody to minister to our wants; and so deliberate were the movements of the party who finally admitted responsibility that an hour was consumed in obtaining a very unpretentious repast. The hotelkeeper held out a discouraging prospect in regard to the hills ahead of us. He said that the majority of the motorists who attempted them were stalled and that there had been some serious accidents. We went on our way with considerable uneasiness, as our car had not been working well, and later on trouble was discovered in a broken valve-spring. However, we started over the mountain, which showed on our road-book to be not less than three miles in length. There were many dangerous turns of the road, which ran alongside an almost precipitous incline, where there was every opportunity for the car to roll a mile or more before coming to a standstill if it once should get over the edge. We crawled up the hill until within about fifty yards from the top, and right at this point there was a sharp turn on an exceedingly stiff grade. After several trials at great risk of losing control of the car, I concluded that discretion was (sometimes) the better part of valor, and with great difficulty turned around and gave it up. We made a detour by way of Welshpool and Oswestry, where we came into the London and Holyhead road, bringing up for the night at Llangollen. We found it necessary to travel about sixty miles to get to the point which we would have reached in one-fourth the distance had we succeeded in climbing the hill. It proved no hardship, as we saw some of the most beautiful country in Wales and traveled over a level road which enabled us to make very good time with the partly crippled car. Although Llangollen is a delightful town, my recollections of it are anything but pleasant. Through our failure to receive a small repair which I ordered from London, we were delayed at this place for two days, and as it usually chances in such cases, at one of the worst hotels whose hospitality we endured during our trip. It had at one time been quite pretentious, but had degenerated into a rambling, dirty, old inn, principally a headquarters for fishing parties and local "trippers." And yet at this dilapidated old inn there were a number of guests who made great pretensions at style. Women "dressed for dinner" in low-necked gowns with long trains; and the men attired themselves in dress-suits of various degrees of antiquity. While we were marooned here we visited Vale Crucis Abbey, about a mile distant. The custodian was absent, or in any event could not be aroused by vigorously ringing the cowbell suspended above the gate, and we had to content ourselves with a very unsatisfactory view of the ruin over the stone wall that enclosed it. The environments of Llangollen are charming in a high degree. The flower-bordered lanes lead past cottages and farm houses surrounded by low stone walls and half hidden by brilliantly colored creepers. Bits of woodland are interspersed with bright green sheep pastures and high, almost mountainous, bluffs overhang the valley. On the very summit of one of these is perched a ruined castle, whose inaccessible position discouraged nearer acquaintance. The country around Llangollen was beautiful, but the memory of the hotel leaves a blight over all. We were happy indeed when our motor started off again with the steady, powerful hum that so delights the soul of the driver, and it seemed fairly to tremble with impatience to make up for its enforced inaction. Though it was eight o'clock in the evening, it was anything to get away from Llangollen, and we left with a view of stopping for the night at Bettws-y-Coed, about thirty miles away. With our motor car racing like mad over the fine highway--there was no danger of police traps at that hour--we did not stop to inquire about the dog that went under the wheels in the first village we passed. However, the night set in suddenly and a rain began to fall heavily before we had gone half the distance we proposed. We had experienced trouble enough in finding the roads in Wales during the daytime, and the prospect of doing this by night and in a heavy rain was not at all encouraging, and we perforce had to put up at the first place that offered itself. A proposition to stop at one of the so-called inns along the road was received with alarm by the good woman who attended the bar. She could not possibly care for us and she was loud in her praises of the Saracen's Head at Cerrig-y-Druidion, only a little farther on, which she represented as a particular haven for motorists. The appearance of our car with its rapidly vibrating engine and glaring headlights before the Saracen's Head created considerable commotion among the large family of the host and the numerous guests, who, like Tam-O'-Shanter, were snug and cozy by their inglenook while the storm was raging outside. However, the proprietor was equal to the occasion and told me that he had just come from Liverpool to take charge of the inn and that he hoped to have the patronage of motorists. With commendable enterprise he had fitted up a portion of his barn and had labeled it "Motor Garage" in huge letters. The stable man was also excited over the occasion, and I am sure that our car was the first to occupy the newly created garage, which had no doubt been cut off from the cow-stable at a very recent date. The shelter of the Saracen's Head was timely and grateful none the less, and no one could have been kindlier or more attentive than our hostess. We had a nicely served lunch in the hotel parlor, which was just across the hallway from the lounging room, where the villagers assembled to indulge in such moderate drinking as Welshmen are addicted to. The public room was a fine old apartment with open-beamed ceiling--not the sham with which we decorate our modern houses, but real open beams that supported the floor--and one end of the room was occupied by a great open fireplace with old-time spits and swinging cranes. Overhead was hung a supply of hams and bacon and on iron hooks above the door were suspended several dressed fowls, on the theory that these improve with age. We were given a small but clean and neat apartment, from which I suspicion the younger members of the landlord's family had been unceremoniously ousted to make room for us. The distressing feature was the abominable beds, but as these prevailed in most of the country hotels at which we stopped we shall not lay this up too strongly against the Saracen's Head. I noticed that on one of the window-panes someone had scribbled with a diamond, "Sept. 4, 1726," which would seem to indicate that the original window was there at that time. The house itself must have been considerably older. If rates had been the sole inducement, we should undoubtedly have become permanent boarders at the Saracen's Head, for I think that the bill for our party was seven shillings for supper, room and breakfast. We left Cerrig-y-Druidion next morning in a gray, driving rain, with drifting fogs that almost hid the road at times. A few miles brought us to the Conway River, the road closely following the stream through the picturesque scenery on its banks. It was swollen by heavy rains and the usually insignificant river was a wild torrent, dashing in rapids and waterfalls over its rocky bed. The clouds soon broke away and for the remainder of the day the weather was as fine as could possibly be wished for. Bettws-y-Coed is the most famous of mountain towns in Wales, and its situation is indeed romantic. It is generally reputed to be the chief Welsh honeymoon resort and a paradise for fishermen, but it has little to detain the tourist interested in historic Britain. We evidently should have fared much differently at its splendid hotel from what we did at Cerrig-y-Druidion, but we were never sorry for our enforced sojourn at the Saracen's Head. The road from Bettws-y-Coed to Carnarvon is a good one, but steep in places, and it passes through some of the finest mountain scenery in Wales. It leads through the Pass of Llanberis and past Snowdon, the king of the Welsh mountains--though tame indeed to one who has seen the Rockies. Snowdon, the highest in the Kingdom, rises not so much as four thousand feet above the sea level. Carnarvon Castle is conceded from many points of view to be the finest ruin in the Kingdom. It does not occupy an eminence, as did so many castles whose position contributed much to their defense, but it depended more on its lofty watch-towers and the stupendous strength of its outer walls. These are built of solid granite with a thickness of ten feet or more in vital places, and it is doubtful if even the old-time artillery would have made much impression upon them. Its massive construction no doubt accounts for the wonderful preservation of the outer walls, which are almost entire, and Carnarvon Castle, as viewed from the outside, probably appears very much the same as it did when the builders completed the work about 1300. It was built by King Edward I as a royal residence from which to direct his operations against the Welsh, which finally resulted in the conquest of that people by the English invaders. In a little dungeonlike room, tradition declares that Edward II, first Prince of Wales, was born. This is vigorously insisted upon in the local guide-book as an actual historic fact, although it is quite as vigorously disputed by numerous antiquarians, uninfluenced by Carnarvon's interests. The castle is now the property of the town and is well looked after. Leaving Carnarvon, our next objective was Conway, whose castle is hardly less famous and even more picturesque than that of its neighbor, though in more ruinous condition. The road we followed closely skirts the coast for a great part of the distance, running at times on the verge of the ocean. In places it reminds one of the Axenstrasse of Lake Lucerne, being cut in the side of the cliffs overhanging the sea, with here and there great masses of rock projecting over it; and passes occasionally through a tunnel cut in the stone. A few miles north of Carnarvon we passed through Bangor, one of the most prosperous-looking towns in North Wales and the seat of one of the few Welsh cathedrals--a long, low, though not unpleasing, building. The site of this cathedral had been continuously occupied by a church since the Sixth Century, although the present structure dates from the Thirteenth. An hour's run after leaving Bangor brought us in sight of the towers of Conway Castle. Nowhere in Britain does the spirit of mediaevalism linger as it does in the ancient town of Conway. It is still surrounded by its old wall with twenty-one watch-towers and the three gateways originally leading into the town have been recently restored. The castle stands on the verge of a precipitous rock and its outer walls are continuous with those of the town. It is a perfect specimen of a Thirteenth Century military fortress, with walls of enormous thickness, flanked by eight huge, circular towers. It was built by Edward I in 1284. Several times it was besieged by the Welsh and on one occasion came near falling into their hands while the king himself was in the castle. It was besieged during the Parliamentary wars, but for some unaccountable reason it was not destroyed or seriously damaged when captured. Its present dilapidated state is due to the action of its owner, Lord Conway, shortly after, in dismantling it to sell the lead and timber of the building, and it was permitted to fall into gradual decay. The castle, with its eight towers and bridge, which matches it in general style and which was built about fifty years ago, is one of the best known objects in the whole Kingdom. It has been made familiar to everybody through innumerable photographs and pictures. When we drew our car up in front of the castle it was in gala attire and was the scene of activity which we were at a loss to account for. We soon learned that the Wesleyans, or Welsh Methodists, were holding a festival in the castle, and the shilling we paid for admission included a nicely served lunch, of which the Welsh strawberries were the principal feature. The occasion was enlivened by music from the local band and songs by young girls in the old Welsh costume. This led us to ask if the Welsh language were in common use among the people. We were told that while the older people can speak it, it does not find much favor among the younger generation, some of whom are almost ashamed to admit knowledge of the old tongue. English was spoken everywhere among the people at the gathering, and the only Welsh heard was in some of the songs by the girls. We wandered about the ruin and ascended the towers, which afford a fine view of the town and river. There seems to have been little done in the way of restoration, or repair, but so massive are the walls that they have splendidly stood the ravages of time. On leaving Conway we crossed the suspension bridge, paying a goodly toll for the privilege. It was already growing late when we left the town, but the fine level road and the unusually willing spirit evinced by our motor enabled us to cover the fifty miles to Chester before night set in. IX CHESTER TO "THE HIELANDS" Chester stands a return visit well, and so does the spacious and hospitable Grosvenor Hotel. It was nearly dark when we reached the city and the hotel was crowded, the season now being at its height. We had neglected to wire for reservation, but our former stop at the hotel was not forgotten and this stood us in good stead in securing accommodations. So comfortably were we established that we did not take the car out of the garage the next day but spent our time in leisurely re-visiting some of the places that had pleased us most. The next day we were early away for the north. I think that no other stretch of road of equal length was more positively unattractive than that we followed from Chester to Penrith. Even the road-book, whose "objects of interest" were in some cases doubtful, to say the least, could name only the battlefield of 1648 near Preston and one or two minor "objects" in a distance of one hundred miles. I recalled the comment of the Touring Secretary of the Motor Union as he rapidly drew his pencil through this road as shown on the map: "Bad road, rough pavement, houses for thirty miles at a stretch right on each side of the street, crowds of children everywhere--but you cannot get away from it very well." All of which we verified by personal experience. At starting it seemed easy to reach Carlisle for the night, but progress was slow and we met an unexpected delay at Warrington, twenty miles north of Chester. A policeman courteously notified us that the main street of the city would be closed three hours for a Sunday School parade. We had arrived five minutes too late to get across the bridge and out of the way. We expressed our disgust at the situation and the officer made the conciliatory suggestion that we might be able to go on anyway. He doubted if the city had any authority to close the main street, one of the King's highways, on account of such a procession. We hardly considered our rights so seriously infringed as to demand such a remedy, and we turned into the stable-yard of a nearby hotel to wait until the streets were clear. In the meantime we joined the crowd that watched the parade. The main procession, of five or six thousand children, was made up of Sunday Schools of the Protestant churches--the Church of England and the "Non-Conformists." The Catholics, whose relations in England with Protestants are strained to a much greater extent than in the United States, did not join, but formed a smaller procession in one of the side streets. The parade was brilliant with flags and with huge banners bearing portraits of the King and Queen, though some bore the names and emblems of the different schools. One small fellow proudly flourished the Stars and Stripes, which was the only foreign flag among the thousands in the procession. In this connection I might remark that one sees the American flag over here far oftener than he would traveling in America. We found nothing but the kindest and most cordial feeling toward Americans everywhere; and the very fact that we were Americans secured us special privileges in not a few cases. After the procession had crossed the bridge, a policeman informed us that we could proceed. We gained considerable time by making a detour through side streets--not an altogether easy performance--and after much inquiry regained the main road leading out of the city. Warrington is a city of more than one hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants, a manufacturing place with nothing to detain the tourist. On the main street near the river is a fine bronze statue of Oliver Cromwell, one of four that I saw erected to the memory of the Protector in England. Our route from Warrington led through Wigan and Preston, manufacturing cities of nearly one hundred thousand each, and the suburbs of the three are almost continuous. Tram cars were numerous and children played everywhere with utter unconcern for the vehicles which crowded the streets. When we came to Lancaster we were glad to stop, although our day's journey had covered only sixty miles. We knew very little of Lancaster and resorted to the guide-books for something of its antecedents, only to learn the discouraging fact that here, as everywhere, the Romans had been ahead of us. The town has a history reaching back to the Roman occupation, but its landmarks have been largely obliterated in the manufacturing center which it has become. Charles Dickens was a guest at Lancaster, and in recording his impressions he declared it "a pleasant place, dropped in the midst of a charming landscape; a place with a fine, ancient fragment of a castle; a place of lovely walks and possessing many staid old houses, richly fitted with Honduras mahogany," and followed with other reflections not so complimentary concerning the industrial slavery which prevailed in the city a generation or two ago. The "fine, ancient fragment of a castle" has been built into the modern structure which now serves as the seat of the county court. The square tower of the Norman keep is included in the building. This in general style and architecture conforms to the old castle, which, excepting the fragment mentioned by Dickens, has long since vanished. Near at hand is St. Mary's Church, rivaling in size and dignity many of the cathedrals, and its massive, buttressed walls and tall, graceful spire do justice to its magnificent site. From the eminence occupied by the church the Irish Sea is plainly visible, and in the distance the almost tropical Isle of Man rises abruptly out of the blue waters. The monotony of our previous day's travel was forgotten in lively anticipation as we proceeded at what seemed a snail's pace over the fine road leading from Penrith to Carlisle. We had been warned at Penrith, not against the bold highwaymen, the border moss-troopers or the ranting Highlandmen of song and story, but against a plain, Twentieth Century police trap which was being worked very successfully along this road. Such was our approach in these degenerate days to "Merrie Carlile," which figured so largely in the endless border warfare between the Scotch and English. But why the town should have been famed as "Merrie Carlile" would be hard to say, unless more than a thousand years of turmoil, bloodshed and almost ceaseless warfare through which it passed earned it the cheerful appellation. The trouble between the English and the Welsh ended early, but it has been only a century and a half ago since the closing scene of the long and bitter conflict between the north and south was enacted at Carlisle. Its grim old castle was the scene of the imprisonment and execution of the last devoted followers of Prince Charlie, and according to Scott's Waverly the dashing but sadly deluded young chieftain, Fergus McIvor, was one of those who suffered a shameful death. In this connection one remembers that Scott's marriage to Miss Carpentier took place in Carlisle, an event that would naturally accentuate our interest in the fine old border city. As we had previously visited Carlisle, our stay was a short one, but its remarkable history, its connection with the stories of Walter Scott, its atmosphere of romance and legend and the numerous points of interest within easy reach--all combine to make it a center where one might spend several days. The Romans had been here also, and they, too, had struggled with the wild tribes on the north, and from that time down to the execution of the last adherents of the Stuarts in 1759 the town was hardly at any time in a state of quietude. As described by an observant writer, "every man became a soldier and every house that was not a mere peasant's hut was a fortress." A local poet of the Seventeenth Century summed it up in a terse if not elegant couplet as his unqualified opinion "That whoso then in the border did dwell Lived little happier than those in hell." But Carlisle is peaceful and quiet enough at the present time, a place of considerable size and with a thriving commerce. Its castle, a plain and unimpressive structure, still almost intact, has been converted into military barracks, and its cathedral, which, according to an old chronicle, in 1634 "impressed three observant strangers as a great wild country church," has not been greatly altered in appearance since that period. It suffered severely at the hands of the Parliamentary soldiers, who tore down a portion of the nave to use the materials in strengthening the defenses of the town. But the story of Carlisle could not be told in many volumes. If the mere hint of its great interest which I have given here can induce any fellow tourist to tarry a little longer at "Merrie Carlile," it will be enough. Leaving Carlisle, we crossed "Solway Tide" and found ourselves in the land of bluebells and heather, the "Bonnie Scotland" of Robert Burns. Shortly after crossing the river, a sign-board pointed the way to Gretna Green, that old-time haven of eloping lovers, who used to cross the Solway just as the tide began to rise, and before it subsided there was little for the paternal ancestors to do but forgive and make the best of it. But we missed the village, for it was a mile or two off the road to Dumfries, which we hoped to reach for the night. An unexpected difficulty with the car nearly put this out of the range of possibility, but by grace of the long Scotch twilight, we came into Dumfries about ten o'clock without finding it necessary to light our lamps. Our day's journey had been a tiresome one, and we counted ourselves fortunate on being directed to the Station Hotel, which was as comfortable and well managed as any we found. The average railway hotel in America is anything but an attractive proposition, but in Scotland and in England conditions are almost reversed, the station hotels under the control of the different railway companies being generally the best. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO LOCH TYNE. From Water Color by Stewart.] We had been attracted to Dumfries chiefly because of its association with Robert Burns, who spent the last years of his life in the town or in its immediate vicinity. Our first pilgrimage was to the poet's tomb, in St. Michael's churchyard. A splendid memorial marks the place, but a visit to the small dingy house a few yards distant, in which he died, painfully reminded us of his last years of distress and absolute want. Within easy reach of Dumfries lie many points of interest, but as our time permitted us to visit only one of these, we selected Caerlaverock Castle, the Ellangowan of Scott's "Guy Mannering," lying about ten miles to the south. In location and style of construction it is one of the most remarkable of the Scotch ruins. It stands in an almost level country near the coast and must have depended for defense on its enormously thick walls and the great double moat which surrounded it, rather than the strength of its position. The castle is built of dark-brown stone, and the walls, rising directly from the waters of the moat and covered with masses of ivy, are picturesque, though in a sad state of disrepair. Bits of artistic carving and beautiful windows showed that it was a palace as well as a fortress, though it seems strange that the builder should select such a site. In common with most British castles, it was finally destroyed by Cromwell, and the custodian showed us a pile of cannon balls which he had gathered in the vicinity. On one of the stones of the inner wall were the initials, "R.B.," and the date, "1776," which our guide assured us were cut by Robert Burns; and there are certain peculiarities about the monogram which leave little doubt that it was the work of the poet. From the battlements of the castle the old man pointed to a distant hill, where, he told us, the home of the Carlyles had been for many years and where Thomas Carlyle, who was born at Ecclefechan, lies buried. Within a few miles of Dumfries is Ellisland Farm, where Robert Burns was a tenant for several years, and many of his most famous poems were written during that period. And besides, there were old abbeys and castles galore within easy reach; and glad indeed we should have been had we been able to make the Station Hotel our headquarters for a week and devote our time to exploring. But we were already behind schedule and the afternoon found us on the road to Ayr. A little more than half the distance from Dumfries to Ayr the road runs through the Nith Valley, with river and forest scenery so charming as to remind us of the Wye. The highway is a splendid one, with fine surface and easy grades. It passes through an historic country, and the journey would consume a long time if one should pause at every point that might well repay a visit. A mile on the way is Lincluden Abbey, in whose seclusion Burns wrote many of his poems, the most famous of which, "The Vision of Liberty," begins with a reference to the ruin: "As I stood by yon roofless tower Where wall flowers scent the dewy air, Where the owlet lone in her ivy bower, Tells to the midnight moon her care--" Ellisland Farm is only a few miles farther on the road, never to be forgotten as the spot where "Tam-O'-Shanter" was written. The farm home was built by Burns himself during what was probably the happiest period of his life, and he wrote many verses that indicated his joyful anticipation of life at Ellisland Farm. But alas, the "best laid plans o' mice and men gang oft agley," and the personal experience of few men has more strikingly proven the truth of the now famous lines than of Robert Burns himself! Many old castles and magnificent mansions crown the heights overlooking the river, but we caught only glimpses of some of them, surrounded as they were by immense parks, closed to the public. Every one of the older places underwent many and strange vicissitudes in the long years of border warfare, and of them all, Drumlanrigh Castle, founded in 1689, is perhaps the most imposing. For ten years its builder, the first Earl of Queensbury, labored on the structure, only to pass a single night in the completed building, never to revisit it, and ending his days grieving over the fortune he had squandered on this many-towered pile of gray stone. We may not loiter along the Nithdale road, rich as it is in traditions and relics of the past. Our progress through such a beautiful country had been slow at the best, and a circular sign-board, bearing the admonition, "Ten Miles Per Hour," posted at each of the numerous villages on the way, was another deterrent upon undue haste. The impression that lingers with us of these small Scotch villages is not a pleasant one. Rows of low, gray-stone, slate-roofed cottages straggling along a single street--generally narrow and crooked and extending for distances depending on the size of the place--made up the average village. Utterly unrelieved by the artistic touches of the English cottages and without the bright dashes of color from flowers and vines, with square, harsh lines and drab coloring everywhere, these Scotch villages seemed bleak and comfortless. Many of them we passed through on this road, among them Sandquhar, with its castle, once a strong and lordly fortress but now in a deplorable state of neglect and decay, and Mauchline, where Burns farmed and sang before he removed to Dumfries. It was like passing into another country when we entered Ayr, which, despite its age and the hoary traditions which cluster around it, is an up-to-date appearing seaport of about thirty thousand people. It is a thriving business town with an unusually good electric street-car system, fine hotels and (not to be forgotten by motorists) excellent garages and repair shops. Ayr is one of the objective points of nearly every tourist who enters Scotland. Its associations with Burns, his birthplace, Kirk Alloway, his monument, the "Twa Brigs," the "Brig O' Doon," and the numerous other places connected with his memory in Ayr and its vicinity, need not be dwelt on here. An endless array of guide-books and other volumes will give more information than the tourist can absorb and his motor car will enable him to rapidly visit such places as he may choose. It will be of little encumbrance to him, for he may leave the car standing at the side of the street while he makes a tour of the haunts of Burns at Alloway or elsewhere. It was a gloomy day when we left Ayr over the fine highway leading to Glasgow, but before we had gone very far it began to rain steadily. We passed through Kilmarnock, the largest city in Ayrshire. Here a splendid memorial to Burns has been erected, and connected with it is a museum of relics associated with the poet, as well as copies of various editions of his works. This reminds one that the first volume of poems by Burns was published at Kilmarnock, and in the cottage at Ayr we saw one of the three existing copies, which had been purchased for the collection at an even thousand pounds. We threaded our way carefully through Glasgow, for the rain, which was coming down heavily, made the streets very slippery, and our car showed more or less tendency to the dangerous "skid." Owing to former visits to the city, we did not pause in Glasgow, though the fact is that no other large city in Britain has less to interest the tourist. It is a great commercial city, having gained in the last one hundred years three quarters of a million inhabitants. Its public buildings, churches, and other show-places--excepting the cathedral--lack the charm of antiquity. After striking the Dumbarton road, exit from the city was easy, and for a considerable distance we passed near the Clyde shipyards, the greatest in the world, where many of the largest merchant and war vessels have been constructed. Just as we entered Dumbarton, whose castle loomed high on a rocky island opposite the town, the rain ceased and the sky cleared with that changeful rapidity we noticed so often in Britain. Certainly we were fortunate in having fine weather for the remainder of the day, during which we passed perhaps as varied and picturesque scenery as we found on our journey. [Illustration: THE PATH BY THE LOCH. From Photograph.] For the next thirty miles the road closely followed the west shore of Loch Lomond, and for the larger part of the way we had a magnificent panorama of the lake and the numberless green islands that rose out of its silvery waters. Our view in places was cut off by the fine country estates that lay immediately on the shores of the lake, but the grounds, rich with shrubbery and bright with flowers, were hardly less pleasing than the lake itself. These prevailed at the southern portion of the lake only, and for at least twenty miles the road closely followed the shore, leading around short turns on the very edges of steep embankments or over an occasional sharp hill--conditions that made careful driving necessary. Just across the lake, which gradually grew narrower as we went north, lay the low Scotch mountains, their green outlines subdued by a soft blue haze, but forming a striking background to the ever-varying scenery of the lake and opposite shore. Near the northern end on the farther side is the entrance to the Trosachs, made famous by Scott's "Lady of the Lake." The roads to this region are closed to motors--the only instance that I remember where public highways were thus interdicted. The lake finally dwindled to a brawling mountain stream, which we followed for several miles to Crianlarich, a rude little village nestling at the foot of the rugged hills. From here we ran due west to Oban, and for twenty miles of the distance the road was the worst we saw in Scotland, being rough and covered with loose, sharp stones that were ruinous to tires. It ran through a bleak, unattractive country almost devoid of habitations and with little sign of life excepting the flocks of sheep grazing on the short grasses that covered the steep, stony hillsides. The latter half of the distance the surroundings are widely different, an excellent though winding and narrow road leading us through some of the finest scenes of the Highlands. Especially pleasing was the ten-mile jaunt along the north shore of Loch Awe, with the glimpses of Kilchurn Castle which we caught through occasional openings in the thickly clustered trees on the shore. Few ruins are more charmingly situated than Kilchurn, standing as it does on a small island rising out of the clear waters--the crumbling walls overgrown with ivy and wall-flowers. The last fifteen miles were covered in record time for us, for it was growing exceedingly chilly as the night began to fall and the Scotch July day was as fresh and sharp as an American October. Oban is one of the most charming of the north of Scotland resort towns, and is becoming one of the most popular. It is situated on a little land-locked bay, generally white in summer time with the sails of pleasure vessels. Directly fronting the town, just across the harbor, are several ranges of hills fading away into the blue mists of the distance and forming, together with the varying moods of sky and water, a delightful picture. Overhanging the town from the east is the scanty ruin of Dunollie Castle, little more than a shapeless pile of stone covered over with masses of ivy. Viewed from the harbor, the town presents a striking picture, and the most remarkable feature is the great colosseum on the hill. This is known as McCaig's Tower and was built by an eccentric citizen some years ago merely to give employment to his fellow townsmen. One cannot get an adequate idea of the real magnitude of the structure without climbing the steep hill and viewing it from the inside. It is a circular tower, pierced by two rows of windows, and is not less than three hundred feet in diameter, the wall ranging in height from thirty to seventy-five feet from the ground. It lends a most striking and unusual appearance to the town, but among the natives it goes by the name of "McCaig's Folly." [Illustration: KILCHURN CASTLE, LOCH AWE.] From Oban as a center, numberless excursions may be made to old castles, lakes of surpassing beauty and places of ancient and curious history. None of the latter are more famous than the island of Iona, lying about thirty-five miles distant and accessible by steamer two or three days of each week in summer time. We never regretted that we abandoned the car a day for the trip to this quaint spot and its small sister island, Staffa, famed for Fingall's cave and the curious natural columns formed by volcanic action. The round trip covers a distance of about seventy-five miles and occupies eight or ten hours. Iona is a very small island, with a population of no more than fifty, but it was a place of importance in the early religious history of Scotland; and its odd little cathedral, which is now in ruins--except the nave, but recently restored--was originally built in the Eleventh Century. Weird and strange indeed is the array of memorials rudely cut from Scotch granite that mark the resting places of the chiefs of many forgotten clans, while a much higher degree of art is shown in the regular and even delicate designs traced on the numerous old crosses still standing. In olden days Iona was counted sacred ground after the landing of St. Columba in 563, and its fame even extended to Sweden and Denmark, whose kings at one time were brought here for interment. We were fortunate in having a fine day, the sky being clear and the sea perfectly smooth. We were thus enabled to make landing at both isles, a thing that is often impossible on account of the weather. This circular trip--for the return is made by the Sound of Mull--is a remarkably beautiful one, the steamer winding in and out through the straits among the islands and between shores wild and broken, though always picturesque and often impressive. Many of the hills are crowned with ruined fortresses and occasionally an imposing modern summer residence is to be seen. Competent judges declare that provided the weather is fine no more delightful short excursion by steamer can be made on the British coast than the one just described. Three miles from Oban lies Dunstafnage Castle, a royal residence of the Pictish kings, bearing the marks of extreme antiquity. It occupies a commanding position on a point of land extending far into the sea and almost surrounded by water at high tide. We visited it in the fading twilight, and a lonelier, more ghostly place it would be hard to imagine. From this old castle was taken the stone of destiny upon which the Pictish kings were crowned, but which is now the support of the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey. A place so rich in romantic legend could not be expected to escape the knowledge of the Wizard of the North and Scott made more than one visit to this solitary ruin. As a result the story of Dunstafnage has been woven into the "Legend of Montrose" as "Ardenvohr" and the description may be easily recognized by any one who visits the old castle. Oban is modern, a place of many and excellent hotels fronting on the bay. So far, only a small per cent of its visitors are Americans, and the indifferent roads leading to the town discourage the motorist. Had we adhered to the route outlined for us by the Motor Union Secretary, we should have missed it altogether. We had made a stop in the town two years before, and yet there are few places in Britain that we would rather visit a third time than Oban. X THROUGH HISTORIC SCOTLAND The north of Scotland is rapidly becoming little more than a pleasure-ground for the people of the Kingdom, and its attractions are yearly drawing a larger number of Americans. There are practically no European visitors, but that is largely true of the entire Kingdom. The people of the Continent consider Britain a chilly, unattractive land. Its historic and literary traditions, so dear to the average American, who holds a common language, do not appeal to those who think their own countries superior to any other in these particulars. It is only a natural consequence that Scotland, outside of the three or four largest cities, is becoming, like Switzerland, a nation of hotelkeepers--and very excellent ones they are. The Scotch hotels average as good as any in the world. One finds them everywhere in the Highlands. Every lake, every ruin frequented by tourists has its hotel, many of them fine structures of native granite, substantially built and splendidly furnished. We left Oban over the route by which we came, since no other was recommended to motorists. Our original plan to follow the Caledonian Canal to Inverness was abandoned on account of difficult roads and numerous ferries with poor and infrequent service. After waiting three hours to get an "accumulator" which had been turned over to a local repair man thirty-six hours before with instructions to have it charged and returned promptly, we finally succeeded in getting off. This delay is an example of those which we encountered again and again from failure to get prompt service, especially when we were making an effort to get away before ten or eleven in the morning. It was no hardship to follow more leisurely than before the road past Loch Awe, whose sheet of limpid water lay like a mirror around Kilchurn Castle under the cloudless, noonday sky. A little farther on, at Dalmally, we paused at a pleasant old country hotel, where the delicious Scotch strawberries were served fresh from the garden. It was a quaint, clean, quiet place, and the landlord told us that aside from the old castles and fine scenery in the vicinity, its chief attraction to guests was trout-fishing in neighboring streams. We were two days in passing through the heart of the Highlands from Oban to Inverness over about two hundred miles of excellent road running through wild and often beautiful scenery, but there were few historic spots as compared with the coast country. The road usually followed the edge of the hills, often with a lake or mountain stream on one hand. From Crianlarich we followed the sparkling Dochart until we reached the shore of Loch Tay, about twenty miles distant. From the mountainside we had an unobstructed view of this narrow but lovely lake, lying for a distance of twenty miles between ridges of sharply rising hills. White, low-hung clouds half hid the mountains on the opposite side of the loch, giving the delightful effect of light and shadow for which the Scotch Highlands are famous and which the pictures of Watson, Graham and Farquharson have made familiar to nearly everyone. At the northern end of the lake we caught distant glimpses of the battlemented towers of Taymouth Castle, home of the Marquis of Breadalbane, which, though modern, is one of the most imposing of the Scotch country seats. If the castle itself is imposing, what shall we say of the estate, extending as it does westward to the Sound of Mull, a distance of one hundred miles--a striking example of the inequalities of the feudal system. Just before we crossed the bridge over the Tay River near the outlet of the lake, we noticed a gray old mansion with many Gothic towers and gables, Grandtully Castle, made famous by Scott as the Tully-Veolan of Waverly. Near by is Kinniard House, where Robert Louis Stevenson wrote "Treasure Island." A few miles farther on we came to Pitlochry, a surprisingly well built resort with excellent hotels and a mammoth "Hydropathic" that dominates the place from a high hill. The town is situated in the very center of the Highlands, surrounded by hills that supply the gray granite used in its construction; and here we broke our journey for the night. Our way to Inverness was through a sparsely inhabited, wildly broken country, with half a dozen mean-looking villages at considerable distances from each other and an occasional hut or wayside inn between. Although it was July and quite warm for the north of Scotland, the snow still lingered on many of the low mountains, and in some places it seemed that we might reach it by a few minutes' walk. There was little along the road to remind one of the stirring times or the plaided and kilted Highlander that Scott has led us to associate with this country. We saw one old man, the keeper of a little solitary inn in the very heart of the hills, arrayed in the full glory of the old-time garb--plaid, tartan, sporran and skene-dhu, all set off by the plumed Glengarry cap--a picturesque old fellow indeed. And we met farther on the way a dirty-looking youth with his bagpipes slung over his shoulder--in dilapidated modern garb he was anything but a fit descendant of the minstrels whose fame has come down to us in song and story. Still, he was glad to play for us, and despite his general resemblance to an every-day American tramp, it was something to have heard the skirl of the bag-pipe in the Pass of Killiekrankie. And after all, the hills, the vales and the lochs were there, and everywhere on the low green mountains grazed endless flocks of sheep. They lay leisurely in the roadway or often trotted unconcernedly in front of the car, occasioning at times a speed limit even more unsatisfactory than that imposed in the more populous centers by the police traps. Incidentally we learned that the finest sheep in the world--and vast numbers of them--are produced in Great Britain. When we compare them with the class of animals raised in America it is easy to see why our wool and mutton average so greatly inferior. [Illustration: IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS. From Painting by D. Sherrin.] A clean, quiet, charming city is Inverness, "the capital of the Highlands," as the guide-books have it. It is situated on both shores of its broad, sparkling river--so shallow that the small boys with turned-up pantaloons wade across it in summer time--while an arm of the sea defines the boundary on the northeast. Though tradition has it that Macbeth built a castle on the site of the present structure, it disappeared centuries ago, and there is now little evidence of antiquity to be found in the town. The modern castle is a massive, rambling, brown-stone building less than a hundred years old, now serving as a county court. The cathedral is recent, having been completed in the last quarter of a century. It is an imposing church of red stone, the great entrance being flanked by low, square-topped towers. As a center for tourists, Inverness is increasingly popular and motor cars are very common. The roads of the surrounding country are generally excellent, and a trip of two hundred miles will take one to John O'Groats, the extreme northern point of Scotland. The country around has many spots of interest. Cawdor Castle, where tradition says Macbeth murdered Duncan, is on the Nairn road, and on the way to this one may also visit Culloden Moor, a grim, shelterless waste, where the adherents of Prince Charlie were defeated April 16th, 1746. This was the last battle fought on British soil, and the site is marked by a rude round tower built from stones gathered from the battlefield. From Inverness an unsurpassed highway leads to Aberdeen, a distance of a little over one hundred miles. It passes through a beautiful country, the northeastern Scottish Lowlands, which looked as prosperous and productive as any section we saw. The smaller towns appeared much better than the average we had so far seen in Scotland; Nairn, Huntly, Forres, Keith and Elgin more resembling the better English towns of similar size than Scotch towns which we had previously passed through. At Elgin are the ruins of its once splendid cathedral, which in its best days easily ranked as the largest and most imposing church in Scotland. Time has dealt hardly with it, and the shattered fragments which remain are only enough to confirm the story of its magnificence. Fire, and vandals who tore the lead from the roof for loot having done their worst, the cathedral served the unsentimental Scots of the vicinity as a stone-quarry until recent years, but it is now owned by the crown and every precaution taken to arrest further decay. The skies were lowering when we left Inverness and the latter half of the journey was made in the hardest rainstorm we encountered on our tour. We could not see ten yards ahead of us and the water poured down the hills in torrents, yet our car ran smoothly on, the fine macadam road being little affected by the deluge. The heavy rain ceased by the time we reached Inverurie, a gray, bleak-looking little town, closely following a winding street, but the view from the high bridge which we crossed just on leaving the place made full amends for the general ugliness of the village. [Illustration: TOWERS OF ELGIN CATHEDRAL, NORTH SCOTLAND.] It would be hard to find anywhere a more beautiful city than Aberdeen, with her clean, massively built structures of native gray granite, thickly sprinkled with mica facets that make it fairly glitter in the sunlight. Everything seems to have been planned by the architect to produce the most pleasing effect, and careful note must have been taken of surroundings and location in fitting many of the public buildings into their niches. We saw few more imposing structures in Britain than the new postoffice at Aberdeen, and it was typical of the solidity and architectural magnificence of the Queen City of the North. But Aberdeen will be on the route of any tourist who goes to Northern Scotland, so I will not write of it here. It is a great motoring center, with finely built and well equipped garages. As originally planned we were to go southward from Aberdeen by the way of Braemar and Balmoral in the very heart of the Highland country--the route usually followed by British motorists. It passes through wild scenery, but the country has few historic attractions. The Motor Union representative had remarked that we should probably want to spend several days at Braemar, famous for its scenic surroundings--the wild and picturesque dales, lakes and hills near at hand; but to Americans, from the country of the Yellowstone and Yosemite, the scenery of Scotland can be only an incident in a tour. From this consideration, we preferred to take the coast road southward, which, though it passes through a comparatively tame-looking country, is thickly strewn with places replete with stirring and romantic incidents of Scottish history. Nor had we any cause to regret our choice. Fifteen miles south of Aberdeen we came in sight of Dunnottar Castle, lying about two miles from the highway. We left the car by the roadside and followed the footpath through the fields. The ruin stands on a high, precipitous headland projecting far out into the ocean and cut off from the land side by a deep, irregular ravine, and the descent and ascent of the almost perpendicular sides was anything but an easy task. A single winding footpath leads to the grim old gateway, and we rang the bell many times before the custodian admitted us. Inside the gate the steep ascent continues through a rude, tunnellike passageway, its sides for a distance of one hundred feet or more pierced with many an embrasure for archers or musketeers. Emerging from this we came into the castle court, the center of the small plateau on the summit of the rock. Around us rose the broken, straggling walls, bare and bleak, without a shred of ivy or wall-flower to hide their grim nakedness. The place was typical of a rude, semi-barbarous age, an age of rapine, murder and ferocious cruelty, and its story is as terrific as one would anticipate from its forbidding aspect. Here it was the wont of robber barons to retire with their prisoners and loot; and later, on account of the inaccessibility, state and political prisoners were confined here from time to time. In the frightful "Whig's Vault," a semi-subterranean dungeon, one hundred and sixty covenanters--men and women--were for several months confined by orders of the infamous Claverhouse. A single tiny window looking out on the desolate ocean furnished the sole light and air for the great cavern, and the story of the suffering of the captives is too dreadful to tell here. The vault was ankle deep in mire and so crowded were the prisoners that no one could sit without leaning upon another. In desperation and at great risk, a few attempted to escape from the window, whence they clambered down the precipitous rock; but most of them were re-taken, and after frightful tortures were thrown into a second dungeon underneath the first, where light and air were almost wholly excluded. Such was Scotland in the reign of Charles Stuart II, and such a story seemed in keeping with the vast, dismal old fortress. [Illustration: DUNNOTTAR CASTLE, STONEHAVEN, NEAR ABERDEEN.] But Dunnottar, secluded and lonely as it was, did not escape the far-reaching arm of the Lord Protector, and in 1562 his cannon, planted on the height opposite the headland, soon brought the garrison to terms. It was known that the Scottish regalia--the crown believed to be the identical one worn by Bruce at his coronation, the jewelled scepter and the sword of state presented to James IV by the pope--had been taken for safety to Dunnottar, held in repute as the most impregnable stronghold in the North. The English maintained a close blockade by sea and land and were in strong hopes of securing the coveted relics. The story is that Mrs. Granger, the wife of a minister of a nearby village, who had been allowed by the English to visit the castle, on her departure carried the relics with her, concealed about her clothing. She passed through the English lines without interference, and the precious articles were safely disposed of by her husband, who buried them under the flagstones in his church at Kinneff, where they remained until the restoration of 1660. The English were intensely disappointed at the loss. The minister and his wife did not escape suspicion and were even subjected to torture, but they bravely refused to give information as to the whereabouts of the regalia. We wandered about, following our rheumatic old guide, who pointed out the different apartments to us and, in Scotch so broad that we had to follow him very closely, told us the story of the fortress. From the windows everywhere was the placid, shimmering summer sea, its surface broken into silvery ripples by the fresh morning wind, but it was left to the imagination to conceive the awful desolation of Dunnottar Castle on a gray and stormy day. The old man conducted us to the keep, and I looked over a year's record in the visitors' book without finding a single American registered, and was more than ever impressed as to the manner in which the motor car will often bring the tourist from the States into a comparatively undiscovered country. The high tower of the keep, several hundred feet above the sea, afforded scope for a most magnificent outlook. One could get a full sweep of the bleak and sterile country through which we had passed, lying between Aberdeen and Stonehaven, and which Scott celebrated as the Muir of Drumthwacket. It was with a feeling of relief that we passed out of the forbidding portals into the fresh air of the pleasant July day, leaving the old custodian richer by a few shillings, to wonder that the "American Invasion" had reached this secluded old fortress on the wild headland washed by the German Ocean. From Stonehaven we passed without special incident to Montrose, following an excellent but rather uninteresting road, though an occasional fishing-village and frequent view of the ocean broke the monotony of the flying miles. Montrose is an ancient town delightfully situated between the ocean and a great basin connected with the sea by a broad strait, over which a suspension bridge five hundred feet long carried us southward. I recall that it was at Montrose where an obliging garage man loaned me an "accumulator"--my batteries had been giving trouble--scouting the idea of a deposit, and I gave him no more than my agreement to return his property when I reached Edinburgh. At Arbroath are the ruins of the most extensive of the Scotch abbeys, scanty indeed, but still enough to show its state and importance in the "days of faith." Here once reigned the good abbott celebrated by Southey in his ballad of Ralph the Rover, familiar to every schoolboy. Ten miles off the coast is the reef where "The abbott of Aberbrothok Had placed a bell on the Inchcape rock. Like a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung." And where the pirate, out of pure malice, "To vex the abbott of Aberbrothok," cut the bell from its buoy only to be lost himself on the reef a year later. The abbey was founded by William the Lion in 1178, but war, fire and fanaticism have left it sadly fragmentary. Now it is the charge of the town, but the elements continue to war upon it and the brittle red sandstone of which it is built shows deeply the wear of the sea wind. Dundee, no longer the "Bonnie Dundee" of the old ballad, is a great straggling manufacturing city, whose ancient landmarks have been almost swept away. Its churches are modern, its one remaining gateway of doubtful antiquity, and there is little in the city itself to detain the tourist. If its points of interest are too few to warrant a stay, its hotels--should the one given in the guide-book and also locally reputed to be the best, really merit this distinction--will hardly prove an attraction. It is a large, six-story building, fairly good-looking from the outside, but inside dirty and dilapidated, with ill-furnished and uncomfortable rooms. When we inquired of the manageress as to what might be of especial interest in Dundee, she considered awhile and finally suggested--the cemetery. From our hotel window we had a fine view of the broad estuary of the Tay with its great bridge, said to be the longest in the world. It recalled the previous Tay bridge, which fell in a storm in 1879, carrying down a train, from which not a single one of the seventy or more passengers escaped. Around Dundee is crowded much of historic Scotland, and many excursions worth the while may be made from the city by those whose time permits. From Dundee an excellent road leads to Stirling by the way of Perth. There is no more beautiful section in Scotland than this, though its beauty is not the rugged scenery of the Highlands. Low hills, rising above the wooded valleys, with clear streams winding through them; unusually prosperous-looking farm-houses; and frequent historic ruins and places--all combine to make the forty or fifty miles a delightful drive. We did not pause at Perth, a city with a long line of traditions, nor at Dunblane, with its severely plain cathedral founded in 1100 but recently restored. Stirling, the ancient capital, with its famous castle, its memories of early kings, of Wallace, Bruce and of Mary Stuart, and with its wonderfully beautiful and historic surroundings, is perhaps the most interesting town of Scotland. No one who pretends to see Scotland will miss it, and no motor tour worthy of the name could be planned that would not lead through the quaint old streets. From afar one catches a glimpse of the castle, perched, like that of Edinburgh, on a mighty rock, rising almost sheer from a delightfully diversified plain. It is a many-towered structure, piercing the blue sky and surrounded by an air of sullen inaccessibility, while the red-cross flag flying above it proclaims it a station of the king's army. It is not by any means the castle of the days of Bruce and Wallace, having been rebuilt and adapted to the purpose of military barracks. True, many of the ancient portions remain, but the long, laborious climb to the summit of the rock and the battlements of the castle will, if the day be fine, be better repaid by the magnificent prospect than by anything else. If the barrack castle is a little disappointing, the wide sweep of country fading away into the blue mountains on the west---Ben Venue, Ben Ledi and Ben Lomond of "The Lady of the Lake"--eastward the rich lowlands, running for miles and miles down the fertile valley of the Forth, dotted with many towns and villages; the wooded hills to the north with the massive tower of the Wallace monument and the dim outlines of the ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey; or, near at hand, the old town under your very eye and the historic field of Bannockburn just adjoining, will make ample amends. The story of "The Lady of the Lake" pictures Stirling in its palmiest days, and no one who visits the castle will forget the brilliant closing scene of the poem. Here too, "The rose of Stuart's line Has left the fragrance of her name," for Mary was hurried for safety to the castle a few days after her birth at Linlithgow Palace, and as a mere baby was crowned Queen of Scotland in the chapel. The parish church was also the scene of many coronations, and in the case of James VI, later James I of England, John Knox preached the sermon. One cannot go far in Scotland without crossing the path of Prince Charlie or standing in the shadow of some ancient building associated with the melancholy memory of Queen Mary, and, despite the unquestioned loyalty of the Scottish people to the present government, there seems to linger everywhere a spirit of regret over the failure of the chevalier to regain the throne of his fathers. Perhaps it is scarcely expressed--only some word dropped in casual conversation, some flash of pride as you are pointed to the spots where Prince Charlie's triumphs were won, or some thinly veiled sentiment in local guide-books will make it clear to you that Scotland still cherishes the memory of the prince for whom her fathers suffered so much. Passing Falkirk, now a large manufacturing town, dingy with the smoke from its great furnaces, we were reminded that near here in 1746 the prince gained one of his most decisive victories, the precursor of the capture of Edinburgh by his army. A few miles farther on is Linlithgow with its famous palace, the birthplace of the Queen of Scots. This more accords with our idea of a royal residence than the fortified castles, for it evidently was never intended as a defensive fortress. It stands on the margin of a lovely lake, and considering its delightful situation and its comparative comfort, it is not strange that it was a favorite residence of the Scottish kings. It owes its dismantled condition to the wanton spite of the English dragoons, who, when they retreated from Linlithgow in face of the Highland army in 1746, left the palace in flames. From Linlithgow the broad highway led us directly into Edinburgh by the way of Princess Street. XI FROM EDINBURGH TO YORKSHIRE Two men above all others and everything else are responsible for the romantic fame which the bleak and largely barren Land of Scots enjoys the English-speaking world over. If Robert Burns and Walter Scott had never told the tales and sung the songs of their native land, no endless streams of pilgrims would pour to its shrines and its history and traditions would be vastly second in interest to those of England and Wales. But the Wizard of the North touched Scotia's rough hills with the rosy hues of his romance. He threw the glamour of his story around its crumbling ruins. Through the magic of his facile pen, its petty chiefs and marauding nobles assumed heroic mould and its kings and queens--rulers over a mere handful of turbulent people--were awakened into a majestic reality. Who would care aught for Prince Charlie or his horde of beggarly Highlanders were it not for the song of Burns and the story of Scott? Nor would the melancholy fate of Queen Mary have been brought so vividly before the world--but wherefore multiply instances to illustrate an admitted fact? In Edinburgh we were near the center from which Scott's vast influences radiated. The traditions of Burns overshadowed Southwestern Scotland and the memories of Scott seem to be indentified with the cities, the villages, the solitary ruins, the hills and vales of the eastern coast. We note as we pass along Princess Street, one of the finest thoroughfares in Britain, the magnificent monument to the great author--the most majestic tribute ever erected to a literary man--a graceful Gothic spire, towering two hundred feet into the sky. The city is full of his memories. Here are many of the places he celebrated in his stories, his haunts for years, and the house where he retired after financial disaster to face a self-chosen battle with a gigantic debt which he might easily have evaded by a mere figment of the law. However, one can hardly afford to take from a motor tour the time which should rightly be given to Edinburgh, for the many attractions of the Athens of the North might well occupy a solid week. Fortunately, a previous visit by rail two years before had solved the problem for us and we were fairly familiar with the more salient features of the city. There is one side-trip that no one should miss, and though we had once journeyed by railway train to Melrose Abbey and Abbottsford House, we could not forego a second visit to these famous shrines and to Dryburgh Abbey, which we had missed before. Thus again we had the opportunity of contrasting the motor car and the railway train. I remembered distinctly our former trip to Melrose by rail. It was on a Saturday afternoon holiday when crowds of trippers were leaving the city, packed in the uncomfortable compartments like sardines in a box--not one in a dozen having a chance to sit. We were driven from Melrose to Abbottsford House at a snail's pace, consuming so much time that a trip to Dryburgh Abbey was out of the question, though we had left Edinburgh about noon. By motor, we were out of the city about three o'clock, and though we covered more than eighty miles, we were back before lamp-lighting time. The road to Dryburgh Abbey runs nearly due south from Edinburgh, and the country through which we passed was hardly so prosperous looking as the northeastern section of Scotland--much of it rather rough-looking country, adapted only for sheep-grazing and appearing as if it might be reclaimed moorland. The tomb of Walter Scott is in Dryburgh Abbey, and with the possible exception of Melrose it probably has more visitors than any other point in Scotland outside of Edinburgh. The tourist season had hardly begun, yet the caretaker told us that more than seventy people had been there during the day and most of them were Americans. The abbey lies on the margin of the River Tweed, the silver stream so beloved of Scott, and though sadly fragmentary, is most religiously cared for and the decay of time and weather held in check by constant repairs and restoration. The many thousands of admission fees every year no doubt form a fund which will keep this good work going indefinitely. The weather-beaten walls and arches were overgrown with masses of ivy and the thick, green grass of the newly mown lawn spread beneath like a velvet carpet. We had reached the ruin so late that it was quite deserted, and we felt the spirit of the place all the more as we wandered about in the evening silence. Scott's tomb, that of his wife and their eldest son are in one of the chapels whose vaulted roof still remains in position. Tall iron gates between the arches enclose the graves, which are marked with massive sarcophagi of Scotch granite. Dryburgh Abbey was at one time the property of the Scott family, which accounts for its use as their burial-ground. It has passed into other hands, but interments are still made on rare occasions. The spot was one which always interested and delighted Scott and it was his expressed wish that he be buried there. We had been warned that the byways leading to the abbey from the north of the Tweed were not very practicable for motors and we therefore approached it from the other side. This made it necessary to cross the river on a flimsy suspension bridge for foot-passengers only, and a notice at each end peremptorily forbade that more than half a dozen people pass over the bridge at one time. After crossing the river it was a walk of more than a mile to the abbey, and as we were tempted to linger rather long it was well after six o'clock when we re-crossed the river and resumed our journey. Melrose is twelve miles farther on and the road crosses a series of rather sharp hills. We paused for a second glimpse of Melrose Abbey, which has frequently been styled the most perfect and beautiful ecclesiastical ruin in Britain. We were of the opinion, however, that we had seen at least three or four others more extensive and of greater architectural merit. Undoubtedly the high praise given Melrose is due to the fame which it acquired from the poems and stories of Scott. The thousands of pilgrims who come every year are attracted by this alone, since the abbey had no extraordinary history and no tomb of king or hero is to be found in its precincts. Were it not for the weird interest which the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" has thrown around Melrose, its fame would probably be no greater than that of the abbeys of Jedburgh and Kelso in the same neighborhood. Abbottsford House is only three miles from Melrose, but it is closed to visitors after five o'clock and we missed a second visit, which we should have liked very much. Upon such things the motorist must fully inform himself or he is liable to many disappointments by reaching his objective point at the wrong time. We returned to Edinburgh by the way of Galashiels, a manufacturing town of considerable size that lay in a deep valley far below the road which we were following along the edges of the wooded hills. This road abounded in dangerous turns and caution was necessary when rounding sharp curves that, in places, almost described a circle. We had a clear right-of-way, however, and reached Edinburgh before nine o'clock. A delightful feature of summer touring in Britain is the long evening, which is often the pleasantest time for traveling. The highways are usually quite deserted and the mellow effect of the sunsets and the long twilights often lend an additional charm to the landscapes. In the months of July and August in Scotland daylight does not begin to fade away until from nine to ten, and in northern sections the dawn begins as early as two or three o'clock. During our entire tour we found it necessary to light our lamps only two or three times, although we were often on the road after nine o'clock. Though Edinburgh has unusually broad and well paved streets, it is a trying place for a motorist. The people make little effort to keep to the sidewalk, but let the fellow who is driving the car do the looking out for them. In no city through which we passed did I find greater care necessary. Despite all this, accidents are rare, owing to the fact that drivers of motor cars in Great Britain have had the lesson of carefulness impressed upon them by strict and prompt enforcement of police regulations. We left Edinburgh the next forenoon with a view of making Berwick-on-Tweed our stopping place for the evening--not a long distance in miles but a considerable one measured in spots of historical importance. The road much of the way skirts the ocean and is a magnificent highway leading through a number of quaint towns famous in Scotch song and story. Numerous battlefields are scattered along the way, but we found it difficult to locate a battlefield when we passed it, and generally quit trying. In fact, in the days of border warfare the whole south of Scotland was the scene of almost continuous strife, and battles of greater or less importance were fought everywhere with the English in the centuries of fierce hatred which existed between the two nations. The Scots held their own wonderfully well, considering their greatly inferior numbers and the general poverty of their country. The union, after all, was brought about not by conquest but by a Scotch king going to London to assume the crown of the two kingdoms. The famous old town of Berwick-on-Tweed bore the brunt of the incursions from both sides on the eastern coast, as did Carlisle on the west. The town of Dunbar, situated on the coast about midway between Edinburgh and Berwick, was of great importance in border history. It had an extensive and strongly fortified castle, situated on the margin of a cliff overhanging the ocean, and which was for a time the residence of Queen Mary after her marriage with Darnley. Nothing now remains of this great structure save a few crumbling walls of red sandstone, which are carefully propped up and kept in the best possible repair by the citizens, who have at last come to realize the cash value of such a ruin. If such a realization had only come a hundred years ago, a great service would have been done the historian and the antiquarian. But this is no less true of a thousand other towns than of Dunbar. No quainter edifice did we see in all Britain than Dunbar's Fifteenth Century town hall. It seemed more characteristic of an old German town than of Scotland. This odd old building is still the seat of the city government. [Illustration: TOWN HOUSE, DUNBAR, SCOTLAND.] Our route from Dunbar ran for a long way between the hills of Lammermoor and the ocean and abounded in delightful and striking scenery. We were forcibly reminded of Scott's mournful story, "The Bride of Lammermoor," as we passed among the familiar scenes mentioned in the book, and it was the influence of this romantic tale that led us from the main road into narrow byways and sleepy little coast towns innocent of modern progress and undisturbed by the rattle of railways trains. No great distance from Berwick and directly on the ocean stands Fast Castle, said to be the prototype of the Wolf's Crag of "Lammermoor." This wild story had always interested me in my boyhood days and for years I had dreamed of the possibility of some time seeing the supposed retreat of the melancholy Master of Ravenswood. We had great difficulty in locating the castle, none of the people seeming to know anything about it, and we wandered many miles among the hills through narrow, unmarked byways, with little idea of where we were really going. At last, after dint of inquiry, we came upon a group of houses which we were informed were the headquarters of a large farm of about two thousand acres, and practically all the people who worked on the farm lived, with their families, in these houses. The superintendent knew of Fast Castle, which he said was in a lonely and inaccessible spot, situated on a high, broken headland overlooking the ocean. It was two or three miles distant and the road would hardly admit of taking the car any farther. He did not think the ruin was worth going to see, anyhow; it had been cared for by no one and within his memory the walls had fallen in and crumbled away. Either his remarks or the few miles walk discouraged me, and after having traveled fully thirty miles to find this castle, I turned about and went on without going to the place at all, and of course I now regret it as much as anything I failed to do on our whole tour. I shall have to go to Fast Castle yet--by motor car. After regaining the main road, it was only a short run along the edge of the ocean to Berwick-on-Tweed, which we reached early in the evening. I recall no more delightful day during our tour. It had been fresh and cool, and the sky was perfectly clear. For a great part of the way the road had passed within view of the ocean, whose deep unruffled blue, entirely unobscured by the mists which so often hang over the northern seas, stretched away until it was lost in the pale, sapphire hues of the skies. The country itself was fresh and bright after abundant rains, and as haymaking was in progress in many places along the road, the air was laden with the scent of the newly mown grasses. Altogether, it was a day long to be remembered. Berwick-on-Tweed lies partly in England and partly in Scotland, the river which runs through it forming the boundary line. An odd bridge built by James I connects the two parts of the town, the highest point of its archway being nearest the Scottish shore and giving the effect of "having its middle at one end," as some Scotch wit has expressed it. The town was once strongly fortified, especially on the Scottish side, and a castle was built on a hill commanding the place. Traces of the wall surrounding the older part of the city still remain; it is easy to follow it throughout its entire course. When the long years of border warfare ended, a century and a half ago, the town inside of the wall must have appeared much the same as it does today. It is a town of crooked streets and quaint buildings, set down without the slightest reference to the points of the compass. The site of the castle is occupied by the railway station, though a few crumbling walls of the former structure still remain. The station itself is now called The Castle and reproduces on a smaller scale some of the architectural features of the ancient fortress. We started southward from Berwick the following morning over the fine road leading through Northumberland. About ten miles off this road, and reached by narrow byways, is the pleasant little seacoast village of Bamborough, and the fame of its castle tempted us to visit it. I had often wondered why some of the old-time castles were not restored to their pristine magnificence--what we should have if Kenilworth or Raglan were re-built and to their ancient glory there were added all the modern conveniences for comfort. I found in Bamborough Castle a case exactly to the point. Lord Armstrong, the millionaire shipbuilder, had purchased this castle--almost a complete ruin--and when he began restoration only the Norman tower of the keep was intact; and besides this there was little except the foundation walls. Lord Armstrong entirely rebuilt the castle, following the original plan and designs, and the result is one of the most striking and pleasing of the palatial residences in England. The situation, on a high headland extending into the ocean, commands a view in every direction and completely dominates the sleepy little village lying just beneath. The castle is of great antiquity, the records showing that a fortress had been built on this side in the Fifth Century by Ida, King of Northumberland, though the present building largely reproduces the features of the one founded in the time of the Conqueror. [Illustration: BAMBOROUGH CASTLE, NORTHUMBERLAND.] Lord Armstrong died the year before the work on the castle was completed and it passed into the hands of his nephew. It is open to visitors only one day in the week, and it happened, as usual, that we had arrived on the wrong day. Fortunately, the family were absent, and our plea that we were Americans who had come a long distance to see the place was quite as effective here as in other cases. The housekeeper showed us the palace in detail that we could hardly have hoped for under other circumstances. The interior is fitted in the richest and most magnificent style, and I have never seen the natural beauties of woodwork brought out with better effect. How closely the old-time construction was followed in the restoration is shown by the fact that the great open roof of the banqueting hall is put together with wooden pins, no nail having been used. The castle has every modern convenience, even hot-water heating--a rare thing in England--being installed. When we saw what an excellent result had been attained in the restoration, we could not but wonder that such a thing has not oftener been done. In the village churchyard is the massive gray granite monument erected to the memory of Grace Darling, who lived and died in Bamborough, and a brass tablet in the ancient church is inscribed with the record of her heroism. The lighthouse which was kept by her father is just off Bamborough Head, and it was from this, in the face of a raging storm, that she launched her frail boat and saved several people from a foundering ship. Only four years later she succumbed to consumption, but her unparalleled bravery has made the name of this young girl a household word wherever the English language is spoken. On leaving Bamborough we came as nearly getting lost in the narrow, winding byways as at any time during our tour. A bridge under repair on the direct route to the main road compelled us to resort to byways which were unmarked by signboards and in as ill condition as many American roads. Nor could the people of whom we inquired give us intelligent direction. We finally reached the road again after a loss of an hour or more. A short time afterwards we came to Alnwick, whose castle is one of the most extensive and complete specimens of mediaeval architecture in England. In the last century it has been largely restored, following out the original design of the exterior, at least, and is now the residence of the Duke of Northumberland. Usually it is open to visitors, but in the confusion that followed the visit of the king the day before, the castle and its great park had been closed until the next week. We had seen the interior of so many similar places that this was not so much of a disappointment, especially as we had a splendid view of the old fortress from the outside and also from the courtyard. On the battlements of this castle are numerous stone figures of men in the act of hurling down missiles on the heads of foes who might besiege it. This was quite common in early days and feudal barons perhaps thought to make up for their shortage of real men by placing these effigies on the walls of their fortresses, but Alnwick is the only castle on which the figures still remain. The town itself was still in holiday attire in honor of its royal guest of the preceding day. The buildings were covered with the national colors and many decorations and illuminations had been planned to celebrate the occasion. Alnwick is one of the most typical of the English feudal towns. It is owned largely by the Duke of Northumberland, who appears to be popular with his tenantry, the latter having erected, in honor of their noble landlord, a lofty column surmounted by the figure of a lion. Every view from the distance for miles around is dominated by the battlemented and many-towered walls of the castle, which surmounts a hill overlooking the town. The story of Alnwick and its castle would be long to tell, for they bore the brunt of many Scotch incursions and suffered much at the hands of the fierce marauders from the north. Our afternoon's run led us from Alnwick to Durham, passing through Newcastle-on-Tyne. Newcastle is a large commercial city, famous for its mining and shipbuilding industries, and has but little to engage the attention of the tourist. Our pause was a short one, and we reached Durham in good time after a run of over one hundred miles, broken by several lengthy stops on the way. The main street of Durham in many places is barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. It winds and twists through the town in such a way that one seems to be almost moving in a circle at times and constant inquiry is necessary to keep from being lost on the main street of a city of fifteen or twenty thousand. The town is almost as much of a jumble as if its red, tile-roof buildings had been promiscuously thrown to their places from Cathedral Hill. Durham is strictly an ecclesiastical center. There is little except the cathedral, which, in addition to being one of the most imposing, occupies perhaps the finest site of any of the great English churches. Together with Durham Castle, it monopolizes the summit of a hill which at its base is three-quarters surrounded by the river. The greater part of the cathedral dates back seven or eight hundred years, but additions have been made from time to time so that nearly all styles of architecture are represented. Tradition has it that it was founded by St. Cuthbert, whose chief characteristic is declared to have been his antipathy toward women of all degrees. A curious relic of this peculiarity of the saint remains in a granite cross set in the center of the floor of the nave, beyond which, in the earlier days, no woman was ever allowed to pass. The interior of the church is mainly in the massive and imposing Norman style. The carved stone screen is one of the most elaborate and perfect in Britain, and dates back from the Thirteenth Century. The verger told us of the extreme care which must be taken to preserve this relic. He said that the stone of the screen is rather soft and brittle, and that in cleaning it was never touched, the dust being blown away with bellows. Durham, in common with most of the cathedrals, suffered severely at the hands of the Parliamentarians under Cromwell. It was used as a prison for a part of the Scotch army captured at the battle of Dunbar, and as these Presbyterians had almost as much contempt for images as the Cromwellians themselves, many of the beautiful monuments in the cathedral were broken up. Durham, like Canterbury, is a town that is much favored by the artists, and deservedly so. The old buildings lining the winding river and canal form in many places delightful vistas in soft colors almost as picturesque as bits of Venice itself. The hotels, however, are far from first-class, and one would probably be more comfortable at Newcastle. Speaking of hotels, we did not at any time engage accommodations in advance, and Durham was the only town where we found the principal hotel with all rooms taken. With the rapid increase of motoring, however, it will probably become necessary to telegraph for accommodations at the best hotels. And telegraphing is an exceedingly easy thing in England. A message can be sent from any postoffice at a cost of sixpence for the first ten words. XII IN OLD YORKSHIRE York is by far the largest of the English shires, a widely diversified country, ranging from fertile farm land to broken hills and waste moorland, while its river valleys and considerable coast line present greatly varied but always picturesque scenery. The poet describes the charms of Yorkshire as yielding "Variety without end, sweet interchange Of hill and valley, river, wood and plain." Nor did we find this description at all inapt as we drove over its excellent roads during the fine July weather. But the Yorkshire country is doubly interesting, for if the landscape is of surpassing beauty, the cities, the villages, the castles and abbeys, and the fields where some of the fiercest battles in Britain have been fought, have intertwined their associations with every hill and valley. Not only the size of the shire, but its position--midway between London and the Scottish border, and extending almost from coast to coast--made it a bulwark, as it were, against the incursions of the Scots and their numerous sympathizers in the extreme north of England. No part of England is more thickly strewn with attractions for the American tourist and in no other section do conditions for motor travel average better. From London to York, the capital city of the shire, runs the Great North Road, undoubtedly the finest highway in all Britain. It is laid out on a liberal scale, magnificently surfaced and bordered much of the way by wide and beautifully kept lawns and at times skirted with majestic trees. We saw a facsimile of a broadside poster issued about a century ago announcing that the new lightning coach service installed on this road between London and York would carry passengers the distance of one hundred and eighty-eight miles in the astonishingly short space of four days. This coach, of course, traveled by relays, and at what was then considered breakneck speed. Over this same highway it would now be an easy feat for a powerful car to cover the distance in three or four hours. The great North Road was originally constructed by the Romans to maintain the quickest possible communication between London and Eboracum, as York was styled during the Roman occupation. The limitation of our time had become such that we could but feel that our tour through Yorkshire must be of the most superficial kind. Not less than two weeks of motoring might well be spent in the county and every day be full of genuine enjoyment. The main roads are among the best in England and afford access to most of the important points. We learned, however, that there is much of interest to be reached only from byways, but that these may lead over steep and even dangerous hills and are often in not much better condition than our American roads. We left Durham about noon, following a rather indirect route to Darlington; from thence, through hawthorne-bordered byways, we came to Richmond, one of the quaintest and most representative of the old Yorkshire towns. We happened here on market day and the town was crowded with farmers from the surrounding country. Here we saw many types of the Yorkshire man, famed for his shrewdness and fondness for what we would call "dickering." Much of the buying and selling in English towns is done on market day; live stock, produce, farm implements, and almost every kind of merchandise are sold at auction in the public market place. If a farmer wants to dispose of a horse or to buy a mowing machine, he avails himself of this auction and the services of a professional auctioneer. Such an individual was busily plying his vocation in front of the King's Head Hotel, and the roars of laughter from the farmers which greeted his sallies as he cried his wares certainly seemed to indicate that the charge that Englishmen can not appreciate humor--at least of a certain kind--is a base slander. As Richmond is the center of one of the best farming districts in Yorkshire, its market day was no doubt a typical one. Richmond Castle at one time was one of the most formidable and strongly situated of the northern fortresses. It stands on an almost perpendicular rock, rising one hundred feet above the River Swale, but with the exception of the Norman keep the ruins are scanty indeed. There is enough of the enclosing walls to give some idea of the extent of the original castle, which covered five acres, its magnificent position commanding the whole of the surrounding country. The keep is now used as a military storehouse. The soldier-guard in charge was very courteous and relieved us the necessity of securing a pass from the commandant, as was required by a notice at the castle entrance. He conducted us to the top of the great tower, from which we were favored with one of the finest views in Central England and one that is almost unobstructed in every direction. Unfortunately, a blue mist obscured much of the landscape, but the guard told us that on clear days York Minster, more than forty miles away, could be easily seen. Near at hand, nestling in the valley of the Swale, are the ivy-covered ruins of Easby Abbey; while still nearer, on the hillside, the great tower of Grey Friars Church is all that remains of another once extensive monastery. In no way can one get a more adequate idea of the parklike beauty of the English landscape than to view it from such point of vantage as the keep of Richmond Castle. Richmond Church is an imposing structure standing near the castle and has recently been restored as nearly as possible to its ancient state. An odd feature of the church is the little shop built in the base of the tower, where a tobacconist now plies his trade. From the castle tower, looking down the luxuriant valley, we noticed at no great distance, half hidden by the trees, the outlines of a ruined church--the Easby Abbey which I have just mentioned as one of the numerous Yorkshire ruins. It is but a few furlongs off the road by which we left Richmond and the byway we entered dropped down a sharp hill to the pleasant spot on the riverside, where the abbey stands. The location is a rather secluded one and the painstaking care noticeable about so many ruins is lacking. It is surrounded by trees, and a large elm growing in the very midst of the walls and arches flung a network of sun and shade over the crumbling stones. The murmur of the nearby Swale and the notes of the English thrushes filled the air with soft melody. Amid such surroundings, we hardly heard the old custodian as he pointed out the different apartments and told us the story of the palmy days of the abbey and of its final doom at the relentless hands of Henry VIII. Near by is a tiny church, which no doubt had served the people of the neighborhood as a place of worship since the abbey fell into ruin. The day, which had so far been fine, soon began to turn cold--one of those sudden and disagreeable changes that come in England and Scotland in the very midst of summertime, an experience that happens so often that one can not wonder at Byron's complaint of the English winter, "closing in July to re-commence in August." At no time in the summer were we able to dispense for any length of time with heavy wraps and robes while on the road. From Richmond we hastened away over a fine and nearly straight road to Ripon, whose chief attraction is its cathedral. Speaking of cathedrals again, I might remark that our tour took us to every one of these, with one exception--in England and Scotland, about thirty in all--and the exception, Beverly Minster, is but newly created and relatively of lesser importance. Ripon is one of the smaller cathedrals and of less importance in historical associations. It occupies a magnificent site, crowning a hill rising in the very center of the town, and from a distance gives the impression of being larger than it really is. It presents a somewhat unfinished aspect with its three low, square-topped towers, once surmounted by great wooden spires, which became unsafe and were taken down, never to be replaced. These must have added wonderfully to the dignity and proper proportion of the church. Just outside Ripon lies Fountains Abbey, undoubtedly the most striking and best preserved ecclesiastical ruin in England. It is on the estate of the Marquis of Ripon, adjoining the town, and this nobleman takes great pride in the preservation of the abbey. The great park, which also surrounds his residence, is thrown open every day and one has full liberty to go about it at pleasure. It is a popular resort, and on the day of our visit the number of people passing through the gate exceeded five hundred. The gatekeeper assured us that a thousand visitors on a single day was not an uncommon occurrence. The abbey stands in a wooded valley on the margin of a charming little river, and underneath and around the ruin is a lawn whose green loveliness is such as can be found in England alone. There is no room in this record for the description of such a well known place or for its story. The one feature which impressed us most, and which is one of the finest specimens of Norman architecture in England, is the great cellarium, where the monks stored their wine in the good old days. The vaulted roof of this vast apartment, several hundred feet in length, is in perfect condition and shows how substantially the structure must have been built Fountains Abbey shared the fate of its contemporaries at the hand of Henry VIII, who drove the monks from its shelter, confiscating their property and revenues. It was growing late when we left Ripon for York, but the road was perfect and we had no trouble in covering the twenty miles or more in about an hour. We were soon made comfortable at the Station Hotel in York, one of the oldest and most interesting of the larger cities. The following day being Sunday, we availed ourselves of the opportunity of attending services at the Minster. The splendid music of the great organ was enough to atone for the long dreary chant of the litany, and the glory of the ancient windows, breaking the gloom of the church with a thousand shafts of softened light, was in itself an inspiration more than any sermon--at least to us, to whom these things had the charm of the unusual. York Minster, with the exception of St. Paul's in London, is the largest cathedral in England and contests with Canterbury for first place in ecclesiastical importance. Its greatest glory is its windows, which are by far the finest of any in England. Many of them date back to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, and when one contemplates their subdued beauty it is easy to understand why stained-glass making is now reckoned one of the lost arts. These windows escaped numerous vicissitudes which imperiled the cathedral, among them the disastrous fires which nearly destroyed it on two occasions within the last century. The most remarkable of them all is the "Five Sisters" at the end of the nave, a group of five slender, softly-toned windows of imposing height. The numerous monuments scattered throughout the church are of little interest to the American visitor. We were surprised at the small audiences which we found at the cathedrals where we attended services. A mere corner is large enough to care for the congregations, the vast body of the church being seldom used except on state occasions. Though York is a city of seventy-five thousand population, I think there were not more than four or five hundred people in attendance, though the day was exceptionally fine. There are numerous places within easy reach of York which one should not miss. A sixty-mile trip during three or four hours of the afternoon gave us the opportunity of seeing two abbey ruins, Helmsley Castle and Laurence Sterne's cottage at Coxwold. Our route led over a series of steep hills almost due north to Helmsley, a town with unbroken traditions from the time of the Conqueror. Its ancient castle surrendered to Fairfax with the agreement that "it be absolutely demolished and that no garrison hereafter be kept by either party." So well was this provision carried out that only a ragged fragment remains of the once impregnable fortress, which has an added interest from its connection with Scott's story, "The Fortunes of Nigel" Two miles from Helmsley is Rievaulx Abbey, situated in a deep, secluded valley, and the narrow byway leading to the ruin was so steep and rough that we left the car and walked down the hill. A small village nestles in the valley, a quiet, out-of-the-way little place whose thatched cottages were surrounded by a riot of old-fashioned flowers and their walls dashed with the rich color of the bloom-laden rose vines. Back of the village, in lonely grandeur, stands the abbey, still imposing despite decay and neglect. Just in front of it is the cottage of the old custodian, who seemed considerably troubled by our application to visit the ruins. He said that the place was not open on Sunday and gave us to understand that he had conscientious scruples against admitting anyone on that day. The hint of a fee overcame his scruples to such an extent that he intimated that the gates were not locked anyway and if we desired to go through them he did not know of anything that would prevent us. We wandered about in the shadows of the high but crumbling walls, whose extent gave a strong impression of the original glory of the place, and one may well believe the statement that, at the time of the Dissolution, Rievaulx was one of the largest as well as richest of the English abbeys. The old keeper was awaiting us at the gateway and his conscientious scruples were again awakened when we asked him for a few post-card pictures. He amiably intimated his own willingness to accommodate us, but said he was afraid that the "old woman" (his wife) wouldn't allow it, but he would find out. He returned after a short interview in the cottage and said that there were some pictures on a table in the front room and if we would go in and select what we wanted and leave the money for them it would be all right. [Illustration: OLD COTTAGES AT COCKINGTON.] On our return from Helmsley, we noticed a byway leading across the moorland with a sign-board pointing the way "to Coxwold." We were reminded that in this out-of-the-way village Laurence Sterne, "the father of the English novel," had lived many years and that his cottage and church might still be seen. A narrow road led sharply from the beautiful Yorkshire farm lands, through which we had been traveling, its fields almost ready for the harvest, into a lonely moor almost as brown and bare as our own western sagebrush country. It was on this unfrequented road that we encountered the most dangerous hill we passed over during our trip, and the road descending it was a reminder of some of the worst in our native country. They called it "the bank," and the story of its terrors to motorists, told us by a Helmsley villager, was in no wise an exaggeration. It illustrates the risk often attending a digression into byroads not listed in the road-book, for England is a country of many hilly sections. I had read only a few days before of the wreck of a large car in Derbyshire where the driver lost control of his machine on a gradient of one in three. The car dashed over the embankment, demolishing many yards of stone wall and coming to rest in a valley hundreds of feet beneath. And this was only one of several similar cases. Fortunately, we had only the descent to make. The bank dropped off the edge of the moorland into a lovely and fertile valley, where, quite unexpectedly, we came upon Bylands Abbey, the rival of Rievaulx, but far more fallen into decay. It stood alone in the midst of the wide valley; no caretaker hindered our steps to its precincts and no effort had been made to prop its crumbling walls or to stay the green ruin creeping over it. The fragment of its great eastern window, still standing, was its most imposing feature and showed that it had been a church of no mean architectural pretension. The locality, it would seem, was well supplied with abbeys, for Rievaulx is less than ten miles away, but we learned that Bylands was founded by monks from the former brotherhood and also from Furness Abbey in Lancashire. In the good old days it seems to have been a common thing when the monks became dissatisfied with the establishment to which they were attached for the dissenters to start a rival abbey just over the way. Coxwold is a sleepy village undisturbed by modern progress, its thatched cottages straggling up the crooked street that leads to the hilltop, crowned by the hoary church whose tall, massive octagonal tower dominates the surrounding country. It seems out of all proportion to the poverty-stricken, ragged-looking little village on the hillside, but this is not at all an uncommon impression one will have of the churches in small English towns. Across the road from the church is the old-time vicarage, reposing in the shade of towering elms, and we found no difficulty whatever in gaining admission to "Shandy Hall," as it is now called. We were shown the little room not more than nine feet square where Sterne, when vicar, wrote his greatest book, "Tristram Shandy." The kitchen is still in its original condition, with its rough-beamed ceiling and huge fireplace. Like most English cottages, the walls were covered with climbing roses and creepers and there was the usual flower-garden in the rear. The tenants were evidently used to visitors, and though they refused any gratuity, our attention was called to a box near the door which was labeled, "For the benefit of Wesleyan Missions." Two or three miles through the byways after leaving Coxwold brought us into the main road leading into York. This seemed such an ideal place for a police trap that we traveled at a very moderate speed, meeting numerous motorists on the way. The day had been a magnificent one, enabling us to see the Yorkshire country at its best. It had been delightfully cool and clear, and lovelier views than we had seen from many of the upland roads would be hard to imagine. The fields of yellow grain, nearly ready for harvesting, richly contrasted with the prevailing bright green of the hills and valleys. Altogether, it was a day among a thousand, and in no possible way could one have enjoyed it so greatly as from the motor car, which dashed along, slowed up, or stopped altogether, as the varied scenery happened to especially please us. York abounds in historic relics, odd corners and interesting places. The city was surrounded by a strong wall built originally by Edward I, and one may follow it throughout its entire course of more than two miles. It is not nearly so complete as the famous Chester wall, but it encloses a larger area. It shows to even a greater extent the careful work of the restorer, as do the numerous gate-towers, or "bars," which one meets in following the wall. The best exterior views of the minster may be had from vantage points on this wall, and a leisurely tour of its entire length is well worth while. The best preserved of the gate-towers is Micklegate Bar, from which, in the War of the Roses, the head of the Duke of York was exhibited to dismay his adherents. There were originally forty of these towers, of which several still exist. Aside from its world-famous minster, York teems with objects and places of curious and archaeological interest. There are many fine old churches and much mediaeval architecture. In a public park fragments still remain of St. Mary's Abbey, a once magnificent establishment, destroyed during the Parliamentary wars; but it must be said to the everlasting credit of the Parliamentarians that their commanders spared no effort to protect the minster, which accounts largely for its excellent preservation. The Commander-in-Chief, General Fairfax, was a native of Yorkshire and no doubt had a kindly feeling for the great cathedral, which led him to exert his influence against its spoliation. Such buildings can stand several fires without much damage, since there is little to burn except the roof, and the cathedrals suffered most severely at the hands of the various contending factions into which they fell during the civil wars. The quaintest of old-time York streets is The Shambles, a narrow lane paved with cobblestones and only wide enough to permit the passing of one vehicle at a time. It is lined on either side with queer, half-timbered houses, and in one or two places these have sagged to such an extent that their tops are not more than two or three feet apart. In fact it is said that neighbors in two adjoining buildings may shake hands across the street. The Shambles no doubt took its name from the unattractive row of butcher shops which still occupy most of the small store-rooms on either side. Hardly less picturesque than The Shambles is the Petergate, and no more typical bits of old-time England may be found anywhere than these two ancient lanes. Glimpses of the cathedral towers through the rows of odd buildings is a favorite theme with the artists. Aside from its antiquity, its old-world streets and historic buildings are quite up to the best of the English cities. It is an important trading and manufacturing point, though the prophecy of the old saw, "Lincoln was, London is, York shall be. The greatest city of the three," seems hardly likely to be realized. XIII A ZIG-ZAG TRIP FROM YORK TO NORWICH Late in the afternoon we left York over the Great North Road for Retford, from whence we expected to make the "Dukeries" circuit. The road runs through a beautiful section and passes many of the finest of the English country estates. It leads through Doncaster, noted for its magnificent church, and Bawtry, from whence came many of the Pilgrim Fathers who sailed in the Mayflower. This road is almost level throughout, and although it rained continuously, the run of fifty miles was made in record time--that is, as we reckoned record time. At Retford we were comfortably housed at the White Hart Hotel, a well conducted hostelry for a town of ten thousand. The "White Hart" must be a favorite among English innkeepers, for I recollect that we stopped at no fewer than seven hotels bearing this name during our tour and saw the familiar sign on many others. On our arrival we learned that the Dukeries trip must be made by carriage and that the fifty miles would consume two days. We felt averse to subtracting so much from our already short remaining time, and when we found still further that admission was denied for the time at two of the most important estates, we decided to proceed without delay. The motor would be of no advantage to us in visiting the Dukeries, for the circuit must be made in a staid and leisurely English victoria. Since this chronicle was written, however, I have learned that the embargo on motoring through the Dukeries is at least partially raised--another step showing the trend in England in favor of the motor car. By prearrangement with the stewards of the various estates, permission may be obtained to take a car through the main private roads. Thus the tourist will be enabled in half a day to accomplish what has previously required at least two days driving with horse and carriage. In this vicinity is Newstead Abbey, the ancestral home of Byron, and one of our greatest disappointments was our inability to gain access to it. Perhaps we might have done so if we had made arrangements sufficiently in advance, since visitors are admitted, they told us, on certain days by special permission. There has, however, been an increasing tendency on the part of the owner to greatly limit the number of visitors. The coal mines discovered on the lands have become a great source of wealth and the abbey has been transformed into a modern palace in one of the finest private parks in England. The rooms occupied by Byron, it is said, are kept exactly as they were when he finally left Newstead and there are many interesting relics of the poet carefully preserved by the present proprietor. It would be a bad thing for England if the tendency on the part of private owners of historic places, to exclude visitors from their premises, should become general. The disposition seems somewhat on the increase, and not without cause. Indeed, I was told that in a number of instances the privileges given had been greatly abused; that gardens had been stripped of their flowers and relics of various kinds carried away. This vandalism was not often charged against Americans, but rather against local English "trippers," as they are called--people who go to these places merely for a picnic or holiday. No doubt this could be overcome--it has been overcome in a number of instances, notably Warwick Castle and Knole House--by the charge of a moderate admission fee. People who are willing to pay are not generally of the class who commit acts of vandalism. That this practice is not adopted to a greater extent is doubtless due to the fact that numbers of aristocratic owners think there is something degrading in the appearance of making a commercial enterprise out of the historic places which they possess. It is only twenty miles from Retford to Lincoln, and long before we reached the latter town we saw the towers of its great cathedral, which crowns a steep hill rising sharply from the almost level surrounding country. It is not strange that the cathedral-builders, always with an eye to the spectacular and imposing, should have fixed on this remarkable hill as a site for one of their churches. For miles from every direction the three massive towers form a landmark as they rise above the tile roofs of the town in sharp outline against the sky. To reach Lincoln we followed a broad, beautiful highway, almost level until it comes to the town, when it abruptly ascends the hill, which is so steep as to tax the average motor. The cathedral in some respects is the most remarkable and imposing in England. The distinctive feature is the great towers of equal size and height, something similar to those of Durham, though higher and more beautifully proportioned. The interior shows some of the finest Norman architecture in the Kingdom and the great Norman doorway is said to be the most perfect of its kind. Near the chapel in the cathedral close is a bronze statue of Tennyson accompanied by his favorite dog. This reminded us that we were in the vicinity of the poet's birthplace, and we determined that the next point in our pilgrimage should be Somersby, where the church and rectory of Tennyson's father still stand. We planned to reach Boston that evening, and as there were a good many miles before us we were not able to give the time that really should be spent in Lincoln. It has many ancient landmarks, the most remarkable being a section of the Roman wall that surrounded the town about 15 A.D. and in which the arch of one of the gateways is still entire. It now appears to have been a very low gateway, but we were informed that excavations had shown that in the many centuries since it was built the earth had risen no less than eight feet in the archway and along the wall. Lincoln Castle, much decayed and ruinous, is an appropriate feature of one of the public parks. Along the streets leading up Cathedral Hill are rows of quaint houses, no doubt full of interest; but a motor tour often does not permit one to go much into detail. So we bade farewell to Lincoln, only stopping to ask the hostler for directions to the next town on our way. Generally such directions are something like this: "Turn to the right around the next corner, pass two streets, then turn to the left, then turn to the right again and keep right along until you come to the town hall"--clock tower, or something of the kind--"and then straight away." After you inquire two or three more times and finally come to the landmark, you find three or four streets, any one of which seems quite as "straight away" as the others, and a consultation with a nearby policeman is necessary, after all, to make sure you are right. When once well into the country, the milestones, together with the finger-boards at nearly every parting of the ways, can be depended on to keep you right. These conveniences, however, are by no means evenly distributed and in some sections a careful study of the map and road-book is necessary to keep from going astray. [Illustration: SOMERSBY RECTORY, BIRTHPLACE OF TENNYSON.] The twenty miles to Somersby went by without special incident. This quaint little hamlet--it can hardly be called a village--is almost hidden among the hills, well off the main-traveled roads and railway. We dashed through the narrow lanes, shaded in many places by great over-arching trees and the road finally led across the clear little brook made famous by Tennyson's verse. After crossing the bridge we were in Somersby--if such an expression is allowable. Nothing is there except the rectory, the church just across the way, the grange, and half a dozen thatched cottages. A discouraging notice in front of the Tennyson house stated positively that the place would not be shown under any conditions except on a certain hour of a certain day of the week--which was by no means the day nor the hour of our arrival. A party of English teachers came toward us, having just met with a refusal, but one of them said that Americans might have an exception made in their favor. Anyway, it was worth trying. Our efforts proved successful and a neat, courteous young woman showed us over the rambling house. It is quite large--and had to be, in fact, to accommodate the rector's family of no fewer than twelve children, of whom the poet was the fourth. The oddest feature is the large dining room, which has an arched roof and narrow, stained-glass windows, and the ceiling is broken by several black-oak arches. At the base of each of these is a queer little face carved in stone and the mantel is curiously carved in black oak--all of this being the work of the elder Tennyson himself. There is some dispute as to the poet's birthroom. Our fair guide showed us all the rooms and said we might take our choice. We liked the one which opened on the old-fashioned garden at the rear of the house, for as is often the case in England, the garden side was more attractive than the front. Just across the road stands the tiny church of which the Rev. Tennyson was rector for many years. This was one of the very smallest that we visited and would hardly seat more than fifty people altogether. It is several hundred years old, and in the churchyard is a tall, Norman cross, as old as the church itself. [Illustration: SOMERSBY CHURCH.] A rare thing it is to find the burying-ground around a church in England quite neglected, but the one at Somersby is the exception to the rule. The graves of the poet's father and brother were overgrown with grass and showed evidences of long neglect. We expressed surprise at this, and the old woman who kept the key to the church replied with some bitterness that the Tennysons "were ashamed to own Somersby since they had become great folks." Anyway, it seems that the poet never visited the place after the family left in 1837. Near the church door was a box with a notice stating that the congregation was small and the people poor, and asking for contributions to be used in keeping the church in repair. The grange, near the rectory, is occupied by the squire who owns the birthplace, it is a weatherbeaten building of brick and gray stone and perhaps the "gray old grange" referred to in "In Memoriam." Altogether, Somersby is one of the quietest and most charming of places. Aside from its connection with the great poet, it would be well worthy of a visit as a bit of rural England. Scattered about are several great English elms, which were no doubt large trees during the poet's boyhood, a hundred years ago. For a long distance our road from Somersby to Boston ran on the crest of a hill, from which we had a far-reaching view over the lovely Lincolnshire country. Shortly after, we left the hills and found ourselves again in the fen country. Many miles before we reached Boston we saw the great tower of St. Botolph's Church, in some respects the most remarkable in England. They give it the inartistic and inappropriate appellation of "The Stump," due to the fact that it rises throughout its height of more than three hundred feet without much diminution in size. So greatly does this tower dominate the old-fashioned city that one is in danger of forgetting that there is anything else in Boston, and though it is a place little frequented by Americans, there are few quainter towns in England. Several hundred years ago it was one of the important seaports, but it lost its position because the river on which it is situated is navigable only by small vessels at high tide. Boston is of especial interest to Americans on account of its great namesake in this country and because it was the point from which the Pilgrim Fathers made their first attempt to reach America. Owing to pestilence and shipwreck, they were compelled to return, and later they sailed in the Mayflower on a more successful voyage from Plymouth. We can get a pretty good idea of the reasons which led the Pilgrim Fathers to brave everything to get away from their home land. One may still see in the old town hall of Boston the small, windowless stone cells where the Fathers were confined during the period of persecution against the Puritans. Evidently they did not lay their sufferings against the town itself, or they would hardly have given the name to the one they founded in the New World. Boston is full of ancient structures, among them Shodfriars Hall, one of the most elaborate half-timbered buildings in the Kingdom. The hotels are quite in keeping with the dilapidation and unprogressiveness of the town and there is no temptation to linger longer than necessary to get an idea of the old Boston and its traditions. The country through which we traveled next day is level and apparently productive fanning land. The season had been unusually dry and favorable to the fen land, as this section is called. The whole country between Boston and Norwich has scarcely a hill and the numerous drains showed that it is really a reclaimed marsh. In this section English farming appeared at its best. The crops raised in England and Scotland consist principally of wheat, oats and various kinds of grasses. Our Indian corn will not ripen and all I saw of it was a few little garden patches. The fen country faintly reminds one of Holland, lying low and dotted here and there with huge windmills. As a matter of curiosity, we visited one of the latter. The miller was a woman, and with characteristic English courtesy she made us acquainted with the mysteries of the ancient mill, which was used for grinding Indian corn for cattle-feed. Our route for the day was a circuitous one, as there were numerous points that we wished to visit before coming to Norwich for the night. A broad, level road leads from Boston to King's Lynn, a place of considerable size. Its beginning is lost in antiquity, and a recent French writer has undertaken to prove that the first settlement of civilized man in Britain was made at this point. We entered the town through one of the gateways, which has no doubt been obstructing the main highway for several hundred years. It is a common thing in the English towns to find on the main street one of the old gates, the opening through which will admit but one vehicle at a time, often making it necessary to station a policeman on each side to see that there are no collisions. But the gateways have been standing for ages and it would be sacrilege to think of tearing them down to facilitate traffic. Just outside King's Lynn we passed Sandringham Palace, a spacious modern country house and one of the favorite homes of the Royal Family. [Illustration: ST. BOTOLPH'S CHURCH FROM THE RIVER, BOSTON.] A few hours through winding byways brought us to the village of Burnham Thorpe, the birthplace of Admiral Nelson. It is a tiny hamlet, whose mean-looking, straggling cottages with red tiles lack the artistic beauty of the average English village--the picturesque, thatched roofs and brilliant flower gardens were entirely wanting. The admiral was the son of the village rector, but the parsonage in which he was born was pulled down many years ago. Still standing, and kept in good repair, is the church where his father preached. The lectern, as the pulpit-stand in English churches is called, was fashioned of oak taken from Nelson's flagship, the Victory. The father is buried in the churchyard and a memorial to Nelson has been erected in the church. The tomb of the admiral is in St. Paul's Cathedral in London. From Burnham Thorpe on the way to Norwich are the scant ruins of the priory of Walsingham. In its palmy days this was one of the richest in the world, and it is said that it was visited by more pilgrims than was the shrine of Becket at Canterbury. In every instance a gift was expected from the visitor, and as a consequence the monks fared sumptuously. Among these pilgrims were many of the nobility and even kings, including Henry VIII, who, after visiting the priory as a votary in the early part of his reign, ordered its complete destruction in 1539. This order was evidently carried out, for only shattered fragments of the ruins remain to show how splendid the buildings must once have been. Walsingham is an unusually quaint little village, with a wonderful, ancient town pump of prodigious height and a curious church with a tall spire bent several degrees from the perpendicular. Near the priory are two springs, styled Wishing Wells, which were believed to have miraculous power, the legend being that they sprang into existence at the command of the Virgin. This illustrates one of the queer and not unpleasing features of motoring in England. In almost every out-of-the-way village, no matter how remote or small and how seldom visited by tourists, one runs across no end of quaint landmarks and historic spots with accompanying incidents and legends. Twenty miles more through a beautiful country brought us in sight of the cathedral spire of Norwich. This city has a population of about one hundred and twenty thousand and there is a unique charm in its blending of the mediaeval and modern. It is a progressive city with large business and manufacturing interests, but these have not swept away the charm of the old-time town. The cathedral is one of the most imposing in England, being mainly of Norman architecture and surmounted by a graceful spire more than three hundred feet in height. Norwich also presents the spectacle of a modern cathedral in course of building, a thing that we did not see elsewhere in England. The Roman Catholic Church is especially strong in this section, and under the leadership of the Duke of Norfolk has undertaken to build a structure that will rival in size and splendor those of the olden time. No doubt the modern Catholics bear in mind that their ancestors built all the great English churches and cathedrals and that these were lost to them at the time of the so-called Reformation of Henry VIII. Religious toleration does not prevail to any such extent in England as in the United States and there is considerable bitterness between the various sects. Speaking of new cathedrals, while several are being built by the Roman Catholics, only one is under construction by the Church of England--the first since the days of the Stuarts. This is at Liverpool and the foundations have barely been begun. The design for the cathedral was a competitive one selected from many submitted by the greatest architects in the world. The award was made to Gilbert Scott, a young man of only twenty-one and a grandson of the famous architect of the same name who had so much to do with the restoration of several of the cathedrals. The Liverpool church is to be the greatest in the Kingdom, even exceeding York Minster and St. Paul's in size. No attempt is made to fix the time when the building will be completed, but the work will undoubtedly occupy several generations. In Norwich we stopped at the Maid's Head Hotel, one of the noted old-time English hostelries. It has been in business as a hotel nearly five hundred years and Queen Elizabeth was its guest while on one of her visits to the city of Norwich. Despite its antiquity, it is thoroughly up-to-date and was one of the most comfortable inns that we found anywhere. No doubt this is considerably due to a large modern addition, which has been built along the same lines as the older portion. Near the cathedral are other ancient structures among which are the two gateways, whose ruins still faintly indicate their pristine splendor of carving and intricate design. The castle, at one time a formidable fortress, has almost disappeared. "Tombland" and "Strangers' Hall" are the appellations of two of the finest half-timbered buildings that we saw. The newer portions of Norwich indicate a prosperous business town and it is supplied with an unusually good street-car system. Most of the larger English cities are badly off in this particular. York, for instance, a place of seventy-five thousand, has but one street-car line, three or four miles in length, on which antiquated horse-cars are run at irregular intervals. XIV PETERBOROUGH, FOTHERINGHAY, ETC The hundred miles of road that we followed from Norwich to Peterborough has hardly the suggestion of a hill, though some of it is not up to the usual English standard. We paused midway at Dereham, whose remarkable old church is the only one we saw in England that had the bell-tower built separate from the main structure, though this same plan is followed in Chichester Cathedral. In Dereham Church is the grave of Cowper, who spent his last years in the town. The entire end of the nave is occupied by an elaborate memorial window of stained glass, depicting scenes and incidents of the poet's life and works. To the rear of the church is the open tomb of one of the Saxon princesses, and near it is a tablet reciting how this grave had been desecrated by the monks of Ely, who stole the relics and conveyed them to Ely Cathedral. Numerous miracles were claimed to have been wrought by the relics of the princess, who was famed for her piety. The supposed value of these relics was the cause of the night raid on the tomb--a practice not uncommon in the days of monkish supremacy. The bones of saint or martyr had to be guarded with pious care or they were likely to be stolen by the enterprising churchmen of some rival establishment. Shortly afterwards, it would transpire that miracles were being successfully performed by the relics in the hands of the new possessors. Leaving the main road a detour of a few miles enabled us to visit Crowland Abbey shortly before reaching Peterborough. It is a remarkable ruin, rising out of the flat fen country, as someone has said, "like a light-house out of the sea." Its oddly shaped tower is visible for miles, and one wide arch of the nave still stands, so light and airy in its gracefulness that it seems hardly possible it is built of heavy blocks of stone. A portion of the church has been restored and is used for services, but a vast deal of work was necessary to arrest the settling of the heavy walls on their insecure foundations. The cost of the restoration must have been very great, and the people of Crowland must have something of the spirit of the old abbey builders themselves, to have financed and carried out such a work. Visitors to the church are given an opportunity to contribute to the fund--a common thing in such cases. Crowland is a gray, lonely little town in the midst of the wide fen country. The streets were literally thronged with children of all ages; no sign of race suicide in this bit of Lincolnshire. Everywhere is evidence of antiquity--there is much far older than the old abbey in Crowland. The most notable of all is the queer three-way arched stone bridge in the center of the village--a remarkable relic of Saxon times. It seems sturdy and solid despite the thousand or more years that have passed over it, and is justly counted one of the most curious antiques in the Kingdom. It was late when we left Crowland, and before we had replaced a tire casing that, as usual, collapsed at an inopportune moment, the long English twilight had come to an end. The road to Peterborough, however, is level and straight as an arrow. The right of way was clear and all conditions gave our car opportunity to do its utmost. It was about ten o'clock when we reached the excellent station hotel in Peterborough. Before the advent of the railroad, Peterborough, like Wells, was merely an ecclesiastical town, with little excuse for existence save its cathedral. In the last fifty years, however, the population has increased five-fold and it has become quite on important trading and manufacturing center. It is situated in the midst of the richest farm country in England and its annual wool and cattle markets are known throughout the Kingdom. The town dates from the year 870, when the first cathedral minster was built by the order of one of the British chieftains. The present magnificent structure was completed in 1237, and so far as appearance is concerned, now stands almost as it left the builder's hands. It is without tower or spire of considerable height and somewhat disappointing when viewed from the exterior. The interior is most imposing and the great church is rich in historical associations. Here is buried Catherine of Aragon, the first queen of Henry VIII, and the body of the unfortunate Queen of Scots was brought here after her execution at Fotheringhay. King James I, when he came to the throne, removed his mother's remains to Westminster Abbey, where they now rest. Strangely enough, the builders of the cathedral did not take into consideration the yielding nature of the soil on which they reared the vast structure, and as a consequence, a few years ago the central tower of the building began to give way and cracks appeared in the vaulting and walls. Something had to be done at once, and at the cost of more than half a million dollars the tower was taken down from top to foundation, every stone being carefully marked to indicate its exact place in the walls. The foundations were carried eleven feet deeper, until they rested upon solid rock, and then each stone was replaced in its original position. Restoration is so perfect that the ordinary beholder would never know the tower had been touched. This incident gives an idea of how the cathedrals are now cared for and at what cost they are restored after ages of neglect and destruction. [Illustration: A TYPICAL BYWAY.] Peterborough was stripped of most of its images and carvings by Cromwell's soldiers and its windows are modern and inferior. Our attention was attracted to three or four windows that looked much like the crazy-quilt work that used to be in fashion. We were informed that these were made of fragments of glass that had been discovered and patched together without any effort at design, merely to preserve them and to show the rich tones and colorings of the original windows. The most individual feature of Peterborough is the three great arches on the west, or entrance, front. These rise nearly two-thirds the height of the frontage and it is almost a hundred feet from the ground to the top of the pointed arches. The market square of Peterborough was one of the largest we had seen--another evidence of the agricultural importance of the town. Aside from the cathedral there is not much of interest, but if one could linger there is much worth seeing in the surrounding country. The village of Fotheringhay is only nine miles to the west. The melancholy connection of this little hamlet with the Queen of Scots brings many visitors to it every year, although there are few relics of Mary and her lengthy imprisonment now remaining. Here we came the next morning after a short time on winding and rather hilly byways. It is an unimportant looking place, this sleepy little village where three hundred years ago Mary fell a victim to the machinations of her rival, Elizabeth. The most notable building now standing is the quaint inn where the judges of the unfortunate queen made their headquarters during her farcial trial. Of the gloomy castle, where the fair prisoner languished for nineteen long years, nothing remains except a shapeless mass of grass covered stone and traces of the old-time moat. Much of the stone was built into cottages of the surrounding country and in some of the mansions of the neighborhood may be found portions of the windows and a few of the ancient mantel pieces. The great oak staircase which Mary descended on the day of her execution, is built into an old inn at Oundle, not far away. Thus the great fortress was scattered to the four winds, but there is something more enduring than stone and mortar,--its memories linger and will remain so long as the story of English history is told. King James, by the destruction of the castle, endeavored to show fitting respect to the memory of his mother and no doubt hoped to wipe out the recollection of his friendly relations with Queen Elizabeth after she had caused the death of Mary. The school children of Fotheringhay seemed quite familiar with its history and on the lookout for strangers who came to the place. Two or three of them quickly volunteered to conduct us to the site of the castle. There was nothing to see after we got there, but our small guides were thankful for the fee, which they no doubt had in mind from the first. Mournful and desolate indeed seemed the straggling little village where three centuries ago "a thousand witcheries lay felled at one stroke," one of the cruelest and most pitiful of the numberless tragedies which disfigure the history of England. From Fotheringhay we returned to the York road and followed it northward for about twenty miles. We passed through Woolsthorpe, an unattractive little town whose distinction is that it was the birthplace of Sir Isaac Newton. The thatched roof farmhouse where he was born is still standing on the outskirts of the village. At Grantham, a little farther on, we stopped for lunch at the "Royal and Angel" Hotel, one of the most charming of the old-time inns. Like nearly all of these old hostelries, it has its tradition of a royal guest, having offered shelter to King Charles I when on his endless wanderings during the Parliamentary wars. It is a delightful old building, overgrown with ivy, and its diamond-paned lattice windows, set in walls of time-worn stone, give evidence to its claims to antiquity. We had paused in Grantham on our way to Belvoir Castle, about six miles away, the seat of the Duke of Rutland. This is one of the finest as well as most strikingly situated of the great baronial residences in England. Standing on a gently rising hill, its many towers and battlements looking over the forests surrounding it, this vast pile more nearly fulfilled our ideas of feudal magnificence than any other we saw. It is famous for its picture gallery, which contains many priceless originals by Gainsborough, Reynolds and others. It has always been open to visitors every week-day, but it chanced at the time that the old duke was dangerously ill--so ill, in fact, that his death occurred a little later on--and visitors were not admitted. We were able to take the car through the great park, which affords a splendid view of the exterior of the castle. Near by is the village of Bottisford, whose remarkable church has been the burial place of the Manners family for five hundred years and contains some of the most complete monumental effigies in England. These escaped the wrath of the Cromwellians, for the Earl of Manners was an adherent of the Protector. In the market square at Bottisford stand the old whipping-post and stocks, curious relics of the days when these instruments were a common means of satisfying justice--or what was then considered justice. They were made of solid oak timbers and had withstood the sun and rain of two or three hundred years without showing much sign of decay. Although the whipping-post and stocks used to be common things in English towns, we saw them preserved only at Bottisford. On leaving Bottisford, our car dashed through the clear waters of a little river which runs through the town and which no doubt gave it the name. We found several instances where no attempt had been made to bridge the streams, which were still forded as in primitive times. In a short time we reached Newark, where we planned to stop for the night--but it turned out otherwise. We paused at the hotel which the guide-book honored with the distinction of being the best in the town and a courteous policeman of whom we inquired confirmed the statement. We were offered our choice of several dingy rooms, but a glance at the time-worn furnishings and unattractive beds convinced us that if this were Newark's best hotel we did not care to spend the night in Newark. To the profound disgust of the landlady--nearly all hotels in England are managed by women--we took our car from the garage and sought more congenial quarters, leaving, I fear, anything but a pleasant impression behind us. We paused a few minutes at the castle, which is the principal object of antiquity in Newark. It often figured in early history; King John died here--the best thing he ever did--and it sustained many sieges until it was finally destroyed by the Parliamentarians--pretty effectively destroyed, for there is little remaining except the walls fronting immediately on the river. Though it was quite late, we decided to go on to Nottingham, about twenty miles farther, where we could be sure of good accommodation. It seemed easy to reach the city before dark, but one can hardly travel on schedule with a motor car--at least so long as pneumatic tires are used. An obstinate case of tire trouble just as we got outside of Newark meant a delay of an hour or more, and it was after sunset before we were again started on our journey. There is a cathedral at Southwell, and as we permitted no cathedral to escape us, we paused there for a short time. It is a great country church of very unusual architecture, elevated to the head of a diocese in 1888. The town of Southwell is a retired place of evident antiquity and will be remembered as having been the home of Lord Byron and his mother for some time during his youth. The route which we followed to Nottingham was well off the main highway--a succession of sharp turns and steep little hills that made us take rather long chances in our flight around some of the corners. But, luckily, the way was clear and we came into Nottingham without mishap, though it became so dark that we were forced to light our lamps--a thing that was necessary only two or three times during our summer's tour. Our route south from Nottingham was over a splendid and nearly level road that passes through Leicester, one of the most up-to-date business towns in the Kingdom. I do not remember any place outside of London where streets were more congested with all kinds of traffic. The town is of great antiquity, but its landmarks have been largely wiped out by the modern progress it has made. We did not pause here, but directed our way to Lutterworth, a few miles farther, where the great reformer, John Wyclif, made his home, the famous theologian who translated the bible into English and printed it two hundred years before the time of Martin Luther. This act, together with his fearless preaching, brought him into great disfavor with the church, but owing to the protection of Edward III, who was especially friendly to him, he was able to complete his work in spite of fierce opposition. Strangely enough, considering the spirit of his time, Wyclif withstood the efforts of his enemies, lived to a good old age, and died a natural death. Twenty years afterward the Roman Church again came into power and the remains of the reformer were exhumed and burned in the public square of Lutterworth. To still further cover his memory with obloquy, the ashes were thrown into the clear, still, little river that we crossed on leaving the town. But his enemies found it too late to overthrow the work he had begun. His church, a large, massive building with a great, square-topped tower, stands today much as it did when he used to occupy the pulpit, which is the identical one from which he preached. A bas-relief in white marble by the American sculptor, Story, commemorating the work of Wyclif, has been placed in the church at a cost of more than ten thousand dollars, and just outside a tall granite obelisk has been erected in his honor. In cleaning the walls recently, it was discovered that under several coats of paint there were some remarkable frescoes which, being slowly uncovered, were found to represent scenes in the life of the great preacher himself. Leaving Lutterworth, we planned to reach Cambridge for the night. On the way we passed through Northampton, a city of one hundred thousand and a manufacturing place of importance. It is known in history as having been the seat of Parliament in the earlier days. A detour of a few miles from the main road leaving Northampton brought us to Olney, which for twenty years was the home of William Cowper. His house is still standing and has been turned into a museum of relics of the poet, such as rare editions of his books and original manuscripts. The town is a quiet, sleepy-looking place, situated among the Buckinghamshire hills. It is still known as a literary center and a number of more or less noted English authors live there at the present time. [Illustration: JOHN WYCLIF'S CHURCH, LUTTERWORTH.] Bedford, only a few miles farther on the Cambridge road, was one of the best-appearing English towns of the size we had seen anywhere--with handsome residences and fine business buildings. It is more on the plan of American towns, for its buildings are not ranged along a single street as is the rule in England. It is best known from its connection with the immortal dreamer, John Bunyan, whose memory it now delights to honor. Far different was it in his lifetime, for he was confined for many years in Bedford Jail and it was during this imprisonment that he wrote his "Pilgrim's Progress." At Elstow, a mile from Bedford, we saw his cottage, a mean-looking little hut with only two rooms. The tenants were glad to admit visitors as probable customers for postcards and photographs. The bare monotony of the place was relieved not a little by the flowers which crowded closely around it. Cambridge is about twenty miles from Bedford, and we did not reach it until after dark. It was Week-End holiday, and we found the main street packed with pedestrians, through whom we had to carefully thread our way for a considerable distance before we came to the University Arms. We found this hotel one of the most comfortable and best kept of those whose hospitality we enjoyed during our tour. Cambridge is distinctly a university town. One who has visited Oxford and gone the rounds will hardly care to make a like tour of Cambridge unless he is especially interested in English college affairs. It does not equal Oxford, either in importance of colleges or number of students. It is a beautiful place, lying on a river with long stretches of still water where the students practice rowing and where the famous boat races are held. Cambridge is rich in traditions, as any university might be that numbered Oliver Cromwell among its students. Its present atmosphere and influences, as well as those of Oxford, are vastly different from those of the average American school of similar rank; nor do I think that the practical results attained are comparable to those of our own colleges. The Rhodes scholarship, so eagerly sought after in America, is not, in my estimation, of the value that many are inclined to put upon it. Aside from the fact that caste relegates the winners almost to the level of charity students--and they told us in Oxford that this is literally true--it seems to me that the most serious result may be that the student is likely to get out of touch with American institutions and American ways of doing things. XV THE CROMWELL COUNTRY. COLCHESTER. A distinguished observer, Prof. Goldwin Smith, expressed it forcibly when he said that the epitaph of nearly every ruined castle in Britain might be written, "Destroyed by Cromwell." It takes a tour such as ours to gain something of a correct conception of the gigantic figure of Oliver Cromwell in English history. The magnitude and the far-reaching results of his work are coming to be more and more appreciated by the English people. For a time he was considered a traitor and regicide, but with increasing enlightenment and toleration, his real work for human liberty is being recognized by the great majority of his countrymen. It was only as far back as 1890 that Parliament voted down a proposition to place a statue of Cromwell on the grounds of the House of Commons; but two years later sentiment had advanced so much that justice was done to the memory of the great Protector and a colossal bronze figure was authorized and erected. I know of no more impressive sight in all England than this great statue, standing in solitary grandeur near the Houses of Parliament, representing Cromwell with sword and bible, and with an enormous lion crouching at his feet. It divides honor with no other monument in its vicinity and it seems to stand as a warning to kingcraft that it must observe well defined limitations if it continues in Britain. I saw several other statues of Cromwell, notably at Manchester, Warrington and at St. Ives. An incident illustrating the sentiment with which the Protector is now regarded by the common people came under my own observation. With a number of other sightseers, we were visiting Warwick Castle and were being shown some of the portraits and relics relating to Cromwell, when the question was raised by someone in the party as to his position in English history. A young fellow, apparently an aspirant for church honors, expressed the opinion that Cromwell was a traitor and the murderer of his king. He was promptly taken to task by the old soldier who was acting as our guide through the castle. He said, "Sir, I can not agree with you. I think we are all better off today that there was such a man as Cromwell." That appears to be the general sentiment of the people of Great Britain, and the feeling is rapidly growing that he was distinctly the defender of the people's rights. True, he destroyed many of the historic castles, but such destruction was a military necessity. These fortresses, almost without exception, were held by supporters of King Charles, who used them as bases of operation against the Parliamentary Army. If not destroyed when captured, they were re-occupied by the Royalists and the work had to be done over again. Therefore Cromwell wisely dismantled the strongholds when they came into his possession, and generally he did his work so well that restoration was not possible, even after the Royalists regained power. The few splendid examples which escaped his wrath--notably Warwick Castle--fortunately happened at the time to be in possession of adherents of Parliament. The damage Cromwell inflicted upon the churches was usually limited to destruction of stone images, tombs and altars, as savoring of idolatry. This spirit even extended to the destruction of priceless stained-glass windows, the loss of which we can not too greatly deplore, especially since the very art of making this beautiful glass seems to be a lost one. At Cambridge we were within easy reach of the scenes of the Protector's early life. He was born in 1599 at Huntingdon, sixteen miles distant, and was twenty years a citizen of St. Ives, only a few miles away. He was a student at Cambridge and for several years was a farmer near Ely, being a tenant on the cathedral lands. As Ely is only fifteen miles north of Cambridge, it occurred to us to attend services at the cathedral there on Sunday morning. We followed a splendid road leading through a beautiful country, rich with fields of grain almost ready for harvest. The cathedral is one of the largest and most remarkable in England, being altogether different in architecture from any other in the Kingdom. Instead of a spire, it has a huge, castellated, octagonal tower, and while it was several hundred years in building, a harmonious design was maintained throughout, although it exhibits in some degree almost every style of church architecture known in England. Ely is an inconsequential town of about seven thousand inhabitants and dominated from every point of view by the huge bulk of the cathedral. Only a portion of the space inside the vast building was occupied by seats, and though the great church would hold many thousands of people if filled to its capacity, the congregation was below the average that might be found in the leading churches of an American town the size of Ely. One of the cathedral officials with whom I had a short talk said that the congregations averaged small indeed and were growing smaller right along. The outlook for Ely he did not consider good, a movement being on foot to cut another diocese from the territory and to make a cathedral, probably of the great church, at Bury St. Edmunds. In recent years this policy of creating new dioceses has been in considerable vogue in England, and of course is distasteful to the sections immediately affected. The services in Ely Cathedral were simpler than usual and were through well before noon. Before returning to Cambridge we visited St. Ives and Huntingdon, both of which were closely associated with the life of Cromwell. The former is a place of considerable antiquity, although the present town may be said to date from 1689, at which time it was rebuilt after being totally destroyed by fire. One building escaped, a quaint stone structure erected in the center of the stone bridge crossing the River Ouse and supposed to have been used as a chapel by the early monks. Cromwell's connection with St. Ives began in 1628, after he had been elected to Parliament. He moved here after the dissolution of that body and spent several years as a farmer. The house which he occupied has disappeared and few relics remain of his residence in the town. In the market square is a bronze statue of the Protector, with an inscription to the effect that he was a citizen of St. Ives for several years. A few miles farther on is Huntingdon, his birthplace. It is a considerably larger town, but none of the buildings now standing has any connection with the life of the Protector. Doubtless the citizens of Huntingdon now recognize that the manor house where Cromwell was born, which was pulled down a hundred years ago, would be a valuable asset to the town were it still standing. From Huntingdon we returned to Cambridge, having completed a circular tour of about sixty miles. We still had plenty of time to drive about Cambridge and to view from the outside the colleges and other places of interest. The streets are laid out in an irregular manner, and although it is not a large city--only forty thousand--we had considerable difficulty in finding our way back to the hotel. The University Arms is situated on the edge of a large common called "The Field." Here in the evening were several open-air religious services. One of these was conducted by the Wesleyans, or Methodists, with a large crowd at the beginning, but a Salvation Army, with several band instruments, soon attracted the greater portion of the crowd. We found these open-air services held in many towns through England and Scotland. They were always conducted by "dissenting churches"--the Church of England would consider such a proceeding as too undignified. We wished to get an early start from Cambridge next morning, hoping to reach London that night, and accordingly made arrangements with the head waiter for an early breakfast. We told him we should probably want it at 7:30, and he looked at us in an incredulous manner. I repeated the hour, thinking he did not understand, but he said he thought at first we were surely joking. However, he would endeavor to accommodate us. If we would leave our order that evening he thought he could arrange it at the time desired, but we could easily see that it was going to upset the traditions of the staid hotel, for the breakfast hour is never earlier than nine o'clock. However, we had breakfast at 7:30 and found one other guest in the room--undoubtedly an American. He requested a newspaper and was informed that the morning papers were not received at the hotel until half past ten o'clock, although Cambridge is just fifty miles from London, or about an hour by train. The curiosity which the average American manifests to know what happened on the day previous is almost wanting in the staid and less excitable Britisher. We were away from Cambridge by nine o'clock and soon found ourselves in a country quite different in appearance from any we had yet passed through. Our route led through Essex to Colchester on the coast. We passed through several ancient towns, the first of them being Haverhill, which contributed a goodly number of the Pilgrim Fathers and gave its name to the town of Haverhill in Massachusetts. It is an old, straggling place that seems to be little in harmony with the progress of the Twentieth Century. Our route on leaving Haverhill led through narrow byways, which wind among the hills with turns so sharp that a close lookout had to be maintained. We paused at Heddingham, where there is a great church and a partly ruined Norman castle. The town is made up largely of cottages with thatched roofs, surrounded by the bright English flower gardens. It was typical of several other places which we passed on our way. I think that in no section of England did we find a greater number of picturesque churches than in Essex, and a collection of photographs of these, which was secured at Earl's Colne, we prize very highly. Colchester is an interesting town, deserving of much longer time than we were able to stay. It derived its name from King Cole, the "merry old soul" of the familiar nursery rhyme. It is one of the oldest towns in England and was of great importance in Roman times. One of the largest collections of Roman relics in Britain is to be found in the museum of the castle. There are hundreds of specimens of coin, pottery, jewelry, statuary, etc., all of which were found in excavations within the city. The castle is one of the gloomiest and rudest in the Kingdom, and was largely built of Roman bricks. It is quadrangular in shape, with high walls from twenty to thirty feet thick surrounding a small court. About a hundred years ago it was sold to a contractor who planned to tear it down for the material, but after half completing his task he gave it up, leaving enough of the old fortress to give a good idea of what it was like. The grim old ruin has many dark traditions of the times when "man's inhumanity to man" was the rule rather than the exception. Even the mild, nonresistant Quaker could not escape the bitterest persecution and in one of the dungeons of Colchester Castle young George Fox was immured and suffered death from neglect and starvation. This especially attracted our attention, since the story had been pathetically told by the speaker at the Sunday afternoon meeting which we attended at Jordans and which I refer to in the following chapter. While there is a certain feeling of melancholy that possesses one when he wanders through these mouldering ruins, yet he often can not help thinking that they deserved their fate. Colchester suffered terribly in Parliamentary wars and only surrendered to Cromwell after sustaining a seventy-six day siege, many traces of which may still be seen. There are two or three ancient churches dating from Saxon times which exhibit some remarkable specimens of Saxon architecture. Parts of Colchester appeared quite modern and up-to-date, the streets being beautifully kept, and there were many handsome residences. Altogether, there is a strange combination of the very old and the modern in Colchester. We left this highway at Chelmsford to visit the Greenstead Church near Chipping-Ongar, about twenty-two miles from London. This is one of the most curious churches in all England. It is a diminutive building, half hidden amidst the profusion of foliage, and would hardly attract attention unless one had learned of its unique construction and remarkable history. It is said to be the only church in England which is built with wooden walls, these being made from the trunks of large oak trees split down the center and roughly sharpened at each end. They are raised from the ground by a low brick foundation, and inside the spaces between the trunks are covered with pieces of wood. The rough timber frame of the roof is fastened with wooden pins. The interior of the building is quite dark, there being no windows in the wooden walls, and the light comes in from a dormer window in the roof. This church was built in the year 1010 to mark the resting place of St. Edmund the Martyr, whose remains were being carried from Bury to London. The town of Ongar, near by, once had an extensive castle, of which little remains, and in the chancel of the church is the grave of Oliver Cromwell's favorite daughter. A house in High Street was for some time the residence of David Livingstone, the great African explorer. From Chipping-Ongar we followed for the third time the delightful road leading to London, passing through the village of Chigwell, of which I have spoken at length elsewhere. On coming into London, we found the streets in a condition of chaos, owing to repairs in the pavement. The direct road was quite impassable and we were compelled to get into the city through by-streets--not an easy task. In London the streets do not run parallel as in many of our American cities. No end of inquiry was necessary to get over the ten miles after we were in the city before we reached our hotel. It was not very convenient to make inquiries, either, when driving in streets crowded to the limit where our car could not halt for an instant without stopping the entire procession. We would often get into a pocket behind a slow-moving truck or street car and be compelled to crawl along for several blocks at the slowest speed. It was just sunset when we stopped in front of the Hotel Russell. We had been absent on our tour six weeks to a day and our odometer registered exactly 3070 miles. As there were five or six days of the time that we did not travel, we had averaged about six hundred miles a week during the tour. The weather had been unusually fine for England; we had perhaps half a dozen rainy days, but only once did it rain heavily. We had now traveled a total of 4100 miles and had visited the main points of interest in the Kingdom excepting those in the country south of the city, where we planned a short tour before sailing. We remained in London a week before starting on this trip, but during that time I did not take the car out of the garage. I had come to the conclusion that outside of Sundays and holidays the nervous strain of attempting to drive an automobile in the streets of London was such as to make the effort not worth while. [Illustration: BYRON'S ELM IN CHURCH YARD, HARROW.] XVI THE HAUNTS OF MILTON AND PENN Leaving London by the Harrow road, in course of an hour we came to the famous college town, which lies about fifteen miles north of the city. It is known chiefly for its boys' school, which was founded early in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and at which many great Englishmen received their early education. The school is situated on the top of a hill, one of the most commanding positions in the vicinity of London, and on the very summit is the Norman church. The view from this churchyard is one of the finest in England. For many miles the fertile valley of the Thames spreads out like a great park, exhibiting the most pleasing characteristics of an English landscape. On one side the descent is almost precipitous, and at the edge, in the churchyard, stands a gigantic elm--now in the late stages of decay--which still bears the sobriquet of "Byron's Elm." It is said that Byron, during his days at Harrow, would sit here for hours at a time and contemplate the beautiful scene which spread out before him. A descendant of one of the poet's friends has placed near the spot a brass tablet, inscribed with the somewhat stilted lines, On a Distant view From Harrow Churchyard, "Spot of my youth, whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans the cloudless sky; O! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still. Thou drooping elm! Beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mused the twilight hours away; How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite this bosom to recall the past, And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 'Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell'" We reached Harrow too late to attend church as we had hoped, the morning services just closing as we entered the churchyard. We saw everywhere numbers of students in Sunday garb, and an odd appearance these boys of from fifteen to eighteen presented in a costume very nearly the counterpart of an ordinary dress suit, usually set off by a high silk hat. Harrow is associated with the names of many men who attained high rank in English history and literature, some of whom strove in their boyhood days to anticipate immortality by carving their names on the wooden desks. Among these may still be seen the rudely cut letters of the names of Byron, Sheridan and Peele. The town, which slopes away from the top of the hill, has an up-to-date appearance and is a favorite place for suburban residences of wealthy Londoners. The road leading down the hill from the church turned sharply out of view, and just as we were beginning the descent a gentleman hastened to us and cautioned us not to undertake it. He said that numerous motors had been wrecked in the attempt. We went down by a roundabout way, but when we came to pass the hill at its foot, we found it was not nearly so steep as some we had already passed over. Two or three hours over narrow and generally bad roads for England brought us to the village of Chalfont St. Giles, where John Milton made his residence while writing "Paradise Lost." It is a retired little place, mere lanes leading into it. The shriek of the railroad train does not disturb its quietude, the nearest station being several miles away. The village doubtless appears much as it did in Milton's time, three hundred years ago, and the cottage which he occupied stands practically unaltered. A notice posted outside stated that the cottage would not be shown on Sunday. But such announcements had little terror for us by this time, and we found no difficulty in gaining admittance to the quaint little building. It is in the Elizabethan style, with half-timber frame and sagging tile roof. The windows have small, diamond-shaped panes of leaded glass set in rude iron frames and open on a typical English flower garden. The villagers purchased the cottage by public subscription and its preservation is thus fortunately insured. The tenant acts as caretaker and apparently takes pride in keeping the place in order. The poet's room, directly on the right when entering, is rather dark, and has a low-beamed ceiling. There is a wide fireplace with the old time appliances accompanying it, and one can imagine the blind poet sitting by his fireside on winter days or enjoying the sweetness that in summertime came through the antique windows from the flower garden. Here he dictated "Paradise Lost" to his daughter, who acted as his secretary. One can not help contrasting the unsurpassed majesty and dignity of the great poem with the humble and even rude surroundings of the cottage. Milton came here in 1665 to escape the plague which was then devastating London. His eldest daughter was at that time about seventeen years of age, and there is reason to believe that she was with him during his stay in St. Giles. We were delighted with the place, for we had seen little else more typical of old-time England than this cottage, which would have been worth seeing aside from its connection with the great epic poet. In front was the garden, a blaze of bright colors, and the walls were half hidden by climbing rose-vines in full boom--for the roses in England stay much later in the summer than they do with us. The entrance to the cottage fronts on the garden. There is no door next the street, the great chimney built on the outside leaving no room for one. [Illustration: MILTON'S ROOM IN COTTAGE AT CHALFONT ST. GILES.] We were now in the vicinity where William Penn was born and where he lies buried. We had some trouble in finding Jordans, the little meeting-house near which is the grave of the Quaker philanthropist. Many of the people of whom we inquired did not know of its existence, and after considerable wandering through the byways we learned that we were within a mile of the place. For this distance we followed a shady lane, over-arched by trees and so ill kept that it was about as rough motoring as one will find in England. Directly at the foot of a steep hill we came upon the meeting-house, nestling in a wooded valley. It had in its plain simplicity the appearance of an ordinary cottage; with the Quakers there in no such thing as a church, for they prefer to call their places of worship simply "meeting-houses." We were surprised to find a number of people about the chapel and soon learned that we had the good fortune to arrive on one of the meeting days. These meetings had for years been held annually, but during the present summer they were being held once a month. As the Friends are not numerous in this vicinity, many of the congregation had come from long distances--some from London. We learned this in conversation with a sweet-faced, quiet-mannered lady who had all the Quaker characteristics. She said that she and her husband had come from London that day, most of the way on their cycles; that they had been in Philadelphia and knew something of America. She presented us to a benevolent-looking, white-bearded man who afterwards proved to be the leader of the meeting, simply saying, "Our friends are from Iowa." The old gentleman pressed us to remain, as the meeting would begin immediately, and we were delighted to acquiesce. There were about forty people gathered in the little room, which was not more than fifteen by twenty feet in size and supplied with the plainest straight-backed benches imaginable. It was a genuine Quaker meeting. For perhaps half an hour the congregation sat in perfect silence, and finally the old gentleman who acted as leader arose and explained--largely for our benefit, I think, as we were the only strangers present--that this was the Quaker method of worship. Unless a member of the congregation felt he had something really worth saying, he waited to speak only "as the Spirit moved him." I could not help thinking that I had been in many meetings where, if this rule had been followed, everybody would have been better off. However, in the course of a few minutes he arose again and began his talk. We had attended many services in England at noted churches and cathedrals, but for genuine Christianity, true brotherly love and real inspiration, I think the half hour talk of the old Quaker was worth them all. We agreed that it was one of our most fortunate experiences. In the churchyard we stood before the grave of William Penn, marked by the plainest kind of a small headstone and identical with the few others beside it. We expressed wonder at this, but the lady with whom we had previously talked explained that it would be inharmonious with the Quaker idea to erect a splendid monument to any man. For many years the graves had not been marked at all, but finally it was decided that it would not be inappropriate to put up plain headstones, all of the same style, to let visitors know where the great Quaker and his family rest. And very simple were the inscriptions chiseled upon the stones. All around the meeting-house is a forest of great trees, and no other building is in the immediate vicinity. One might almost have imagined himself at a Quaker service in pioneer times in America, when the meeting-houses were really as remote and secluded as this one seemed, rather than within twenty miles of the world's metropolis, in a country teeming with towns and villages. It was about three o'clock when we left Jordans with a view of reaching Oxford, still a good many miles away, by nightfall. In this vicinity are the Burnham beeches, made known almost everywhere by the camera and the brush of the artist. A byway runs directly among the magnificent trees, which we found as imposing as the pictures had represented--sprawling old trees, many feet in circumference, but none of very great height. Near by is Stoke-Poges church, whose memory is kept alive by the "Elegy" of the poet Gray. It is one of the best known of the English country churches and is visited annually by thousands of people. The poet and his relatives are buried in the churchyard and the yew tree under which he is said to have meditated upon the theme of the immortal poem is still standing, green and thriving. The church, half covered by ivy and standing against a background of fine trees, presents a beautiful picture. In the immediate neighborhood a monument has been raised in memory of Gray--a huge bulk of stone of inartistic and unpleasing design. The most appropriate monument of the poet is the church itself, with its yew tree, which is now known wherever the English language is spoken. Two or three miles farther on is Windsor, with its castle, the principal residence of royalty, and Eton College, its well known school for boys. This school is more exclusive and better patronized than Harrow, and I was told that it is quite a difficult problem for the average youth to enter at all. The sons of the nobility and members of the royal family are given the preference and expenses are so high as to shut out all but the wealthy. Windsor Castle is the most imposing of its kind in the world. It is situated on the Thames River, about twenty miles from London. Crowning a gently rising hill, its massive towers and battlements afford a picturesque view from almost anywhere in the surrounding country and especially from points of vantage in the park, where one can catch glimpses of the fortress through some of the avenues of magnificent trees. On a clear day, when the towers of the castle are sharply outlined against the sky and surmounted by the brightly colored royal standards, one might easily imagine himself back in the good old days of knight-errantry. Windsor is shown to visitors at any time when the royal family is not in residence. Queen Victoria and Albert, the Prince Consort, are buried in Frogmore Park, near by, but the tombs are sacredly guarded from the public. The grounds surrounding the castle are laid out in flower gardens and parks, and the forest of more than seven thousand acres is the finest in England. It is one of the royal preserves where the king occasionally goes hunting, but it really serves more the purpose of a great public park. There are many splendid drives through the forest open to everybody, the main one leading straight away from the castle gates for about four miles and terminating at an equestrian statue of George the Third, of more or less happy memory. A broad road leads from Windsor to Oxford; it is almost straight and without hills of consequence. It is a favorite route for motorists, and at several points were stationed bicycle couriers of the Motor Union to give warning for police traps. These guards patrolled the road and carried circular badges, red on one side and white on the other. If the white side were shown to the passing motorist, the road ahead was clear; but the red was a caution for moderate speed for several miles. This system, which we found in operation in many places, is the means of saving motor drivers from numerous fines. The bicycle courier receives a fee very thankfully and no doubt this constitutes his chief source of revenue for service rendered. About ten miles from Oxford we passed through Henley-on-Thames, famed for the University rowing-matches. Here the river lies in broad still stretches that afford an ideal place for the contests. The Thames is navigable for small steamboats and houseboats from London to Oxford, a distance of sixty miles, and the shores of the stream throughout afford scenes of surpassing beauty. Just at sunset the towers of Oxford loomed in the distance, and it was easy to recognize that of Magdalen College, which rises to a height of two hundred feet. Though Oxford is one of the older of the English towns, parts of it seemed as up-to-date as any we had seen, and the Randolph Hotel compared favorably with the best we found anywhere. [Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF MAGDALEN TOWER, OXFORD.] The time which a tourist will devote to Oxford will depend upon his point of view. To visit the forty-four colleges in detail and to give any time to each would manifestly require several days--if not weeks--and especially would this be true if one were interested to any extent in student life in the University. Manifestly, people touring England in a motor car do not belong to the class described. In order to get the most out of the trip, there is a constant necessity for moving on. By an economical use of time, one may gain a fair idea of Oxford in a few hours. This was what we had done on a previous trip and consequently we spent little time in the city on our second visit, merely remaining over night. I think the method we pursued would be the most practical for anyone who desires to reach the most interesting points of the town in the shortest time. We engaged an experienced hack-driver, who combined with his vocation the qualities of a well informed guide as well. We told him of our limited time and asked him to make the most of it by taking us about the universities, stopping at such as would give us the best idea of the schools and of university life. He did this to our satisfaction, and as we passed the various institutions his comments gave us a general idea of each. He stopped at some of the more noted colleges, where we often found guides who conducted us about the buildings and grounds. Perhaps Magdalen College is as interesting as any. Its fine quadrangular tower is one of the landmarks of the city, and they will tell you of the quaint custom that has prevailed for many centuries of celebrating May Day morning with music from the top of the tower by a choir of boys. Magdalen has its park and gardens, and Addison's Walk--a pathway extending for considerable distance between an avenue of fine trees beside a clear little river--is reputed to have been a haunt of the great essayist when a student at the University. Next to Magdalen, the most celebrated colleges are New College, Christ Church and Merton. At the first of these Cecil Rhodes was a student, and the great promoter must have had a warm feeling for the University, since his bequest has thrown open the various colleges to more than a hundred students from all parts of the world, but principally from the United States. Practically all of the students have their quarters in connection with the colleges and meals are served in public dining rooms. Aside from its colleges, there is much else of interest in and about Oxford. The castle, of which there are scant remains, is one of the very oldest in England and has a varied and often stirring history. During the Parliamentary War, Oxford was one of the strongholds of the king and underwent many sieges from Cromwell's army--which was responsible for the final destruction of the castle. As a seat of learning, the town dates from the time of Alfred, who was born at Wantage, only twenty miles away. Naturally, Oxford was always prominent in ecclesiastical affairs and during the reign of Mary the three bishops of the English church suffered martyrdom there. In one of the public places of the city stands a tall Gothic monument commemorating the services of these men and incidentally putting severe strictures on the "errors" of the Roman church. The language in which this latter clause is stated caused a storm of protest when the monument was erected, but it had no more effect than did the protest against the iron-clad, anti-Catholic coronation oath of the king. The Bodleian Library, located in Oxford, is the greatest in England, with the exception of the library of the British Museum. XVII A CHAPTER OF DIVERS PLACES AND EXPERIENCES Ten miles north of Oxford is Woodstock, near which is Blenheim Palace, the seat of the Dukes of Marlborough. This great estate and imposing mansion was presented by Act of Parliament to the first Duke of Marlborough in recognition of the victory which he won over the French at Blenheim. The architect who prepared the plans for the great structure was the famous Sir John Vanbrugh, who was so noted for the generally low heavy effect of his creations. While he was still alive a wit proposed a satirical epitaph in the couplet, "Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he Laid many a heavy load on thee." So enormous was the cost of the palace and estate that the half million pounds sterling voted by parliament was not sufficient and more than sixty thousand pounds of the great Duke's private fortune went into it as well. In his fondness for state and display, he was quite the opposite of the other great national hero, the Duke of Wellington, who was satisfied with the greatest simplicity and preferred cash to expensive palaces and great estates. As a consequence, the Dukes of Marlborough have been land-poor for several generations and until recently Blenheim Palace seemed in a fair way to be added to the already long list of ruins in Britain. Something has lately been done in the way of repair and restoration, but there are many evidences of decay still apparent. [Illustration: RINGWOOD CHURCH.] Blenheim Palace has been shorn of many of its treasures, among them the great Sunderland Library of 80,000 volumes, sold at auction some years ago. Many valuable objects of art still remain, especially family portraits by nearly every great artist from Gainsborough to Sargent, and there is much fine statuary. The tapestries, in the state rooms, illustrating the achievements of the first Duke, are especially remarkable and were made in Belgium under his directions. But from the English view-point, no doubt the original documents pertaining to the Duke are most notable; among these is the modest note which he addressed to Queen Anne from Blenheim, announcing his "famous victory." The park is one of the largest in England, but it showed many evidences of neglect and slovenly care. Some of the worst looking cattle I saw in England obstructed the ornamental stone bridge that crosses the stream flowing into a large artificial lake within the park. The driveways were not kept in the perfect manner that is characteristic of the English private park. Despite these evidences of neglect, the beauty of the place was little impaired. There are some of the finest oak trees in England and down by the lake are groups of magnificent cedars through whose branches the bright water shimmered in the sunshine. As we circled about the park, the distant views of the palace well bore out its reputation of being one of the stateliest private homes in the Kingdom. Our guide pointed out the spot where once stood the manor-house of Woodstock, torn down about a hundred years ago. In this house Princess Elizabeth was held a prisoner for a time by her sister, Queen Mary, but it is best known from the story of Walter Scott, who located here the principal scenes of "Woodstock." The town of Woodstock has a long line of traditions, but shows little evidence of modern progress. It is a quiet, old-world little place with clean streets and many fine trees. Tradition asserts that the father of English poetry, Geoffrey Chaucer, was born here and the old house, alleged to be his birthplace, still stands in Park Street. However, the poet himself declares that London was his native city and the confiding tourist is left with the necessity of balancing the poet's own assertion on this important point against that of the Woodstock guide books. In any event, Chaucer certainly lived in Woodstock--very likely in the house assigned to him today. The town was also a residence of the Saxon kings, and here are many legends of Henry II and Fair Rosamond. Perhaps its most distinguished resident, however, was Oliver Cromwell, who put up at an inn, now a private house, while his army battered down the old palace as described by Scott. We returned from Woodstock to Oxford and from there directed our course to Wantage, the birthplace of King Alfred the Great and, I might incidentally remark, at that time the residence of a well known expatriated New York City politician. This latter distinction did not occur to us until after we had left the town, and therefore we failed to make inquiries as to how this gentleman was regarded by his fellow-citizens of Oxfordshire. In this connection, soon afterwards I saw an amusing report in the newspapers stating that a libel suit had been brought against a British magazine for having published an article in which the ex-boss was spoken of in an uncomplimentary manner. The report stated that the case had been settled, the magazine editor paying the legal costs and retracting what he had said, as well as publishing an apology for the attack. Here we have an example of the British idea of the sacredness of private character. This politician while in America was almost daily accused by the newspapers of every crime in the calendar and never thought it worth while to enter a denial. No sooner is he fairly established in England than he brings suit against a magazine whose charges appear to have been of the mildest character. One seldom sees in English newspapers the violent attacks on individuals and the severe denunciations of public men so common in American journals. If the editor forgets himself, as in the case cited, suit for libel is sure to be brought and often proves a serious thing. While this to some extent may obstruct the freedom of the press, it is nevertheless a relief to miss the disgraceful and unwarranted attacks on public men that continually fill the columns of many American newspapers. The road from Oxford to Wantage is a splendid one, running through a beautiful country and bordered much of the way with ancient trees. Wantage is a quiet town, lying at the foot of the hills, and is chiefly noted as the birthplace of the great Saxon king. A granite statute of Alfred stands in the market square, representing the king with the charter of English liberties in one hand and a battle-ax in the other. As he was born more than a thousand years ago, there are no buildings now standing that were connected with his history. The church is probably the oldest building--a fine example of early English architecture. Near it is buried the wife of Whittington, "Lord Mayor of Londontown." Dr. Butler, the theologian and author of "The Analogy," was born in the town and this house is still to be seen. Leaving Wantage, the road to Reading runs along the crest of the hills, and on either side from the breezy uplands, the green fields, dashed with the gold of the ripening harvest, stretched away for many miles. This was one of the few spots in England where the view was unobstructed by fences of any kind, and while the average English hedge-row is not unpleasing, the beauty of the landscape in this instance certainly did not suffer by its absence. From Kingston-on-Thames, the perfectly kept road closely follows the river. Reading has a population of about one hundred and twenty thousand and is a place of considerable business activity. Though the city has a history stretching back to ancient times, most of the evidences of antiquity have disappeared in modern progress. It was chosen as the seat of Elizabeth's parliament when the plague was devastating London. Fragments of the old abbey hall in which this parliament met still remain and the gateway was restored a few years ago. Reading offered a stout resistance to the Commonwealth and suffered severely at Cromwell's hands. Its chief industries today are biscuit making and seed farming, which give employment to ten thousand people. From Reading, a few miles through byways brought us to Eversley, a retired village five miles from a railway station, where the church and rectory of Charles Kingsley may be seen. The church is picturesquely situated on the hillside, with an avenue of fine yew trees leading from the gate to the door. The building has been altered a good deal since Kingsley was rector, but the pulpit from which he preached is practically the same. The rectory, which is directly by the church, is a very old building, though it has been modernized on the side fronting the road. It stands in the midst of a group of Scotch firs which were great favorites with Kingsley. Their branches almost touch the earth, while their huge trunks form a strong contrast with the dense green of the foliage. Kingsley and his wife are buried in the churchyard on the side nearest the firs. The graves are marked by a simple Runic cross in white marble bearing the names, the date, and the legend, "God is Love." Eversley and its surroundings are thoroughly typical of rural England. A quieter and more retired little place could hardly be imagined. One wonders why the great novelist and preacher spent so many years of his life here. It may have been that the seclusion was not a little conducive to his successful literary labors. Thirty miles farther over main-traveled highways brought us for a second time to Winchester. Here we stopped for the night after an unusually long run. An early start soon brought us to Southampton, which is known everywhere as a port of arrival and departure of great merchant steamers and which, aside from its commercial importance, is one of the most ancient and interesting cities in the Kingdom. The most notable relic is a portion of the Saxon wall, the part known as the "Arcade," built in a series of arches, being the most remarkable. Close by, in a little street called Blue Anchor Lane, is a house reputed to have been the palace of King John and said to be the oldest in England, although several others contest that distinction. At the head of Blue Anchor Lane is a picturesque Tudor house, once the residence of Henry VIII and his queen, Anne Boleyn. This is open to visitors and we were shown every part of the house by the tenant, who is also custodian. With all its magnificence of carved oak and wide fireplaces, it must have been a comfortless dwelling measured by more modern ideas. Leaving the city, we crossed Southampton Water on a steam ferry which was guided by a chain stretched from bank to bank. Two or three miles to the southward lies Netley, a small village with the remains of an abbey dating from the reign of Henry I. The road to Netley followed the shore closely, but on nearing the village suddenly entered an avenue of fine trees which so effectually concealed the ruin that we stopped directly opposite the abbey to inquire its whereabouts. Leaving the car standing in the road, we spent a quarter of an hour wandering about the ruin and trying to locate the various apartments from a hand-book. The custodian here did not act as a guide, and we were left to figure out for ourselves the intricacies of nave, refectory, cloister, etc. Only the ivy-covered walls of the building are now standing, but these are in an unusual state of completeness. The chapel or church was cruciform in shape and built in the early English style. The walls of the west end have practically disappeared, but the great east window is fairly well preserved and its most remarkable feature is its two beautifully proportioned lights, the stone tracery of which remains almost intact. A legend in connection with this abbey no doubt grew out of the desire of some of the people to prevent the destruction of the beautiful building. After the abbey had been dismantled, the church was sold to a contractor, who proceeded to tear it down for the material. He was warned in a dream by the appearance of a monk not to proceed with the work, but disregarded the warning and was killed by the falling of a portion of the wall. If incidents of this kind had happened more frequently England would no doubt be richer in historic buildings. We were preparing to leave Netley when a man in plain clothes approached us, and civilly touching his hat, inquired if I were the owner of the motor car. I confessed that I was and he stated he was an officer and regretted that he would have to report me to the police captain for leaving the car standing on a public walk. I had inadvertantly left the machine so that it partially obstructed the narrow gravel walk alongside the road, and some of the citizens had no doubt complained to the officer. We were naturally enough much chagrined, not knowing how much inconvenience and delay this incident might cause. The constable took my name and the number of the car and said I could report the circumstance myself to the captain of the police. I desired him to accompany me to call on this dignitary, but he did not seem at all anxious for the job. This is the general procedure in England. An arrest is very seldom made in a case of this kind. The officer simply takes the name and number and the motorist can call on the proper official himself. The police system is so perfect that it would be quite useless to attempt to run away, as would happen if such a system were pursued in this country. If, in the judgment of the police official, the case should come to trial, a summons is served on the offender and the date is set. This is what I feared might happen in this case, and as it was within a week of our sailing time, I could imagine that it might cause a great deal of inconvenience. I found the police captain's office in a neatly kept public building with a flower garden in front of it. I put the case to the captain, and after he had learned all the particulars he hastened to assure me that he would waive prosecution of the offense. He said some of the people in Netley were prejudiced against motors and no doubt were annoyed by the numerous tourists who came there to visit the abbey. Thus all the difficulties I had conjured up faded away and I had a pleasant conversation with the captain, who was a thorough gentleman. He said that the motor car was detested by many people, and no doubt with reason in some cases; but it had come to stay and forbearance and common sense were needed on part of motorist and the public generally. Much of the trouble, he stated, is due to reckless motorists who disregard the rights of other people. The week previous they had considerable difficulty in his district with an American who drove his car recklessly and defied regulations, and it was such performances that were responsible for the prejudice against the motor. This incident was my only personal experience with the British police in official capacity, barring a friendly admonition or two in London when I managed to get on the right side of the road--which is literally the wrong side in Britain. The English police, taken as a whole, is unquestionably the most efficient and best disciplined in the world. A policeman's authority is never questioned in England and his raised hand is a signal that never goes unheeded. He has neither club nor revolver and seldom has need for these weapons. He is an encyclopedia of information, and the cases where he lent us assistance both in directing us on our road and informing us as to places of interest, literally numbered hundreds. He is a believer in fair play and seldom starts out of his own accord to make anyone trouble. It is not the policeman, but the civil officials who are responsible for the police traps which in many places are conducted in a positively disreputable manner, the idea being simply to raise revenue regardless of justice and without discrimination among the offenders. Graft among British policemen is unknown and bribery altogether unheard of. Of course their task is easier than that of the average American policeman, on account of the greater prevalence of the law-abiding spirit among the people. One finds policemen everywhere. Even the country districts are carefully patrolled. The escape of a law-breaker is a difficult if not impossible thing. One seldom hears in England of a motorist running away and leaving the scene of an accident that he has caused. Another thing that greatly helps the English policeman in his work is that a captured criminal is not turned loose again as is often the case in this country. Justice is surer and swifter in England, and as a consequence crime averages less than in most parts of the States. The murders committed yearly in Chicago outnumber many times those of London, which is three times as large. The British system of administering justice is one that in many particulars we could imitate to advantage in this country. After bidding farewell to my friend the police captain and assuring him I was glad that our acquaintance terminated so quickly and happily, we proceeded on our way towards Chichester. The road for a distance of twenty-five miles led through an almost constant succession of towns and was frightfully dusty. The weather was what the natives call "beastly hot," and really was as near an approach to summer as we had experienced so far. The predominating feature of Chichester is its cathedral, which dates from about 1100. It suffered repeatedly from fires and finally underwent complete restoration, beginning in 1848. The detached bell-tower is peculiar to the cathedral. This, although the most recent part of the building, appeared to be crumbling away and was undergoing extensive repairs. The cathedral is one of lesser importance among the great English churches, though on the whole it is an imposing edifice. [Illustration: A SURREY LANDSCAPE. From Painting by D. Sherrin.] At Chichester we stopped for lunch at the hotel, just opposite the cathedral, where we had an example of the increasing tendency of hotel managers to recoup their fortunes by special prices for the benefit of tourists. On entering the dining room we were confronted with large placards conveying the cheerful information that luncheon would cost five shillings, or about $1.25 each. Evidently the manageress desired the victims to be prepared for the worst. There was another party in the dining room, a woman with five or six small children, and a small riot began when she was presented with a bill of five shillings for each of them. The landlady, clad in a low-necked black dress with long sweeping train, was typical of many we saw in the old-country hotels. She received her guest's protest with the utmost hauteur, and when we left the altercation was still in progress. It was not an uncommon thing in many of the dingiest and most unpretentious hotels to find some of the women guests elaborately dressed for dinner in the regulation low neck and long train. In many cases the example was set by the manageress and her assistants, though their attire not infrequently was the worse for long and continuous use. Directly north of Chichester lie the picturesque hills of Surrey, which have not inaptly been described as the play-ground of London. The country around Chichester is level bordering on the coast. A few miles to the north it becomes rough and broken. About twenty miles in this direction is Haselmere, with many associations of George Eliot and Tennyson. This, together with the picturesque character of the country, induced us to turn our course in that direction, although we found a number of steep hills that were as trying as any we had met with. On the way we passed through Midhurst, one of the quaintest of Surrey towns, situated on a hill so steep and broken as to be quite dangerous. Not far from this place is the home of Richard Cobden, the father of English free trade, and he is buried in the churchyard near the town. He was evidently held in high regard in his time, for his house, which is still standing, was presented him by the nation. Among the hills near the town are several stately English country houses, and about half a mile distant are the ruins of Cowdray mansion, which about a hundred years ago was one of the most pretentious of all. There was an old tradition which said that the house and family should perish by fire and water, and it was curiously enough fulfilled when the palace burned and the last lord of the family was drowned on the same day. [Illustration: WINDMILL NEAR ARUNDEL, SUSSEX.] XVIII IN SURREY AND SUSSEX Twenty miles over a narrow road winding among the hills brought us to Shottermill, where George Eliot spent much of her time after 1871--a pleasant little hamlet clinging to a steep hillside. The main street of the village runs up the hill from a clear little unbridged stream, over whose pebbly bottom our car dashed unimpeded, throwing a spray of water to either side. At the hilltop, close to the church, is the old-fashioned, many-gabled cottage which George Eliot occupied as a tenant and where she composed her best known story, "Middlemarch." The cottage is still let from time to time, but the present tenant was away and the maid who answered us declined to show the cottage in her mistress' absence--a rather unusual exhibition of fidelity. The village, the surrounding country, and the charming exterior of the cottage, with its ivy and climbing roses, were quite enough to repay us for coming though we were denied a glimpse of the interior. Haselmere is only a mile distant--a larger and unusually fine-looking town with a number of good hotels. It is a center for tourists who come from London to the Hindhead District--altogether one of the most frequented sections of England. The country is wild and broken, but in late summer and autumn it is ablaze with yellow gorse and purple heather and the hills are covered with the graceful Scotch firs. All about are places of more or less interest and a week could be spent in making excursions from Haselmere as a center. This country attracted Tennyson, and here he built his country seat, which he called Aldworth. George Eliot often visited him at this place. The house is surrounded by a park and the poet here enjoyed a seclusion that he could not obtain in his Isle of Wight home. Aldworth belongs to the present Lord Tennyson, son of the poet, who divides his time between it and Farringford in the Isle of Wight, and neither of the places are shown to visitors. However, a really interested party might see the house or even live in it, for we saw in the window of a real estate man in Haselmere a large photograph of Aldworth, with a placard announcing that it was to be "let furnished"--doubtless during the period of the year the owner passes at Farringford House. [Illustration: ARUNDEL CASTLE.] Much as we wished to tarry in this vicinity, our time was so limited that we were compelled to hasten on. It was nearly dark when we reached Arundel, whose castle, the residence of the Duke of Norfolk, was the stateliest private mansion we saw in England. The old castle was almost dismantled by Cromwell's troops, but nearly a hundred years ago restoration was begun by the then Duke of Norfolk. It was carried out as nearly as possible along the lines of the old fortress, but much of the structure was rebuilt, so that it presents, as a whole, an air of newness. The great park, one of the finest in England, is open to visitors, who may walk or drive about at will. The road into the town leads through this park for many miles. Bordered on both sides by ancient trees and winding between them in graceful curves, it was one of the most beautiful that we had seen anywhere. We had planned to stop at Arundel, but the promise in our guide-books of a "level and first-class" road to Brighton, and the fact that a full moon would light us, determined us to proceed. It proved a pleasant trip; the greater part of the way we ran along the ocean, which sparkled and shimmered as it presented a continual vista of golden-hued water stretching away toward the moon. It was now early in August; the English twilights were becoming shorter, and for the third time it was necessary to light the gas-lamps. We did not reach the hotel in Brighton until after ten o'clock. Brighton is probably the most noted seaside resort in England--a counterpart of our American Atlantic City. It is fifty miles south of London, within easy reach of the metropolis, and many London business men live here, making the trip every day. The town has a modern appearance, having been built within the past hundred years, and is more regularly laid out than the average English city. For two or three miles fronting the beach there is a row of hotels, some of them most palatial. The Grand, where we stopped, was one of the handsomest we saw in England. It has an excellent garage in connection and the large number of cars showed how important this branch of hotel-keeping had become. There is no motor trip more generally favored by Londoners than the run to Brighton, as a level and nearly straight road connects the two cities. There is nothing here to detain a tourist who is chiefly interested in historic England. About a hundred years ago the fine sunny beach was "discovered" and the fishing village of Brightholme was rapidly transformed into one of the best built and most modern of the resort towns in England. Its present population of over one hundred thousand places it at the head of the exclusive watering places, so far as size is concerned. A little to the north of Brighton is Lewes, the county town of Sussex, rich in relics of antiquity. Its early history is rather vague, but it is known to have been an important place under the Saxon kings. William the Conqueror generously presented it to one of his followers, who fortified it and built the castle the ruins of which crown the hill overlooking the town. The keep affords a vantage point for a magnificent view, extending in every direction. I had seen a good many English landscapes from similar points of vantage, notably the castles of Ludlow, Richmond, Raglan, Chepstow and others, and it seemed strange that in such a small country there should be so many varying and distinctly dissimilar prospects, yet all of them pleasing and picturesque. The country around Lewes is hilly and rather devoid of trees. It is broken in many places by chalk bluffs, and the chalky nature of the soil was noticeable in the whiteness of the network of country roads. Many old houses are still standing in the town and one of these is pointed out as the residence of Anne of Cleves, one of the numerous wives of Henry VIII. Near the town and plainly visible from the tower is the battlefield where in 1624 the Battle of Lewes was fought between Henry VII and the barons, led by Simon de Montfort. Lewes appears to be an old, staid and unprogressive town. No doubt all the spirit of progress in the vicinity has been absorbed by the city of Brighton, less than a dozen miles away. If there has been any material improvement in Lewes for the past hundred years, it is hardly apparent to the casual observer. We were now in a section of England rich in historic associations. We were nearing the spot where William the Conqueror landed and where the battle was fought which overthrew the Saxon dynasty--which an eminent authority declares to have done more to change the history of the Anglo-Saxon race than any other single event. From Lewes, over crooked, narrow and rather rough roads, we proceeded to Pevensey, where the Normans landed nearly a thousand years ago. It is one of the sleepy, unpretentious villages that dot the southern coast of England, but it has a history stretching far back of many of the more important cities of the Kingdom. It was a port of entry in early times and is known to have been in existence long before the Romans came to Britain. The Romans called it Anderida, and their city was situated on the site of the castle. Like other Sussex towns, Pevensey lost its position as a seaport owing to a remarkable natural movement of the coast line, which has been receding for centuries. When the Conqueror landed the sea came up to the castle walls, but now there is a stretch of four miles of meadowland between the coast and the town. The castle, rude and ruinous, shows the work of many centuries, and was really a great fortress rather than a feudal residence. It has been in a state of decay for many hundreds of years, but its massive walls, though ivy-grown and crumbling, still show how strongly it was built. It is now the property of the Duke of Devonshire, who seeks to check further decay and opens it to the public without charge. [Illustration: PEVENSEY CASTLE, WHERE THE NORMANS LANDED.] Battle, with its abbey, is a few miles from Pevensey. This abbey marks the site of the conflict between the Normans and the Saxons and was built by the Conqueror on the spot where Harold, the Saxon king, fell, slain by a Norman arrow. William had piously vowed that if he gained the victory he would commemorate it by building an abbey, and this was the origin of Battle Abbey. William took care, however, to see that it was filled with Norman monks, who were granted extraordinary privileges and treasure, mostly at the expense of the conquered Saxons. The abbey is one of the best preserved of the early monastic buildings in England, and is used as a private residence by the proprietor. The church is in ruins, but the great gateway, with its crenelated towers, and the main part of the monastic building are practically as they were when completed, shortly after the death of the Conqueror. Battle Abbey, since the time of our visit, has passed into the possession of an American, who has taken up his residence there. This case is typical of not a few that came to our attention during our stay in England. Many of the historic places that have for generations been in the possession of members of the nobility have been sold to wealthy Americans or Englishmen who have made fortunes in business. These transactions are made possible by a law that permits entailed estates to be sold when the owner becomes embarrassed to such an extent that he can no longer maintain them. And some of these places are sold at astonishingly low figures--a fraction of their cost. It is another of the signs of the changing social conditions in the British Empire. A quaint old village is Winchelsea, on the coast about fifteen miles from Battle. It is a small, straggling place, with nothing but its imposing though ruinous church and the massive gateways of its ancient walls remaining to indicate that at one time it was a seaport of some consequence. But here, as at Pevensey, the sea receded several miles, destroying Winchelsea's harbor. Its mosts interesting relic is the parish church, built about 1288. The greater portion of this is now in ruins, nothing remaining but the nave, which is still used for services. In the churchyard, under a great tree, still standing, John Wesley preached his last open-air sermon. [Illustration: WINCHELSEA CHURCH AND ELM TREE.] Two miles from Winchelsea is Rye, another of the decayed seaports of the southeast coast. A few small fishing vessels still frequent its harbor, but the merchant ships, which used to contribute to its prosperity, are no longer seen. It is larger than Winchelsea and is built on a hill, its steep, narrow streets being lined with quaint houses. These two queer towns seem indeed like an echo from the past. It does not appear that there have been any changes of consequence in them for the past several hundred years. People continue to live in such villages because the average Englishman has a great aversion to leaving his native land. One would think that there would be emigration from such places to the splendid lands of Western Canada, but these lands are not being taken by Englishmen, although the opportunity is being widely advertised by the Canadian Government and the various transportation companies. And yet one can hardly wonder at the reluctance of the native Englishman to leave the "tight little island," with its trim beauty and proud tradition, for the wild, unsubdued countries of the West. If loyal Americans, as we can rightly claim to be, are so greatly charmed with England, dear indeed it must be to those who can call it their native land. Winchelsea and Rye are typical of hundreds of decayed towns throughout the Kingdom, though perhaps they are more interesting from an historic standpoint than the others. Being so near the French coast, they suffered terribly in the continual French and English wars and were burned several times by the French in their descents upon the English coast. It was nearly dark when we reached Rye; we had planned to stop there, but the uninviting appearance of the hotel was a strong factor in determining us to reach Tunbridge Wells, about thirty miles away. We saw few more beautiful landscapes than those which stretched away under the soft glow of the English twilight from the upland road leading out of Rye. We did not have much leisure to contemplate the beauty of the scene, but such a constant succession of delightful vistas as we dashed along, together with the exhilaration of the fresh sea breeze, forms a pleasing recollection that will not be easily effaced. The twilight was beginning to fade away beneath the brilliancy of the full moon when we ran into the village of Bodiam, where stands one of the most perfect of the ancient castellated mansions to be found in the Kingdom. We paused a few minutes to view it from a distance and found ourselves directly in front of a neat-looking hotel--the Castle Inn. Its inviting appearance, our desire to see the castle more closely, and the fact that Tunbridge Wells was still a good many miles away over winding roads liberally sprinkled with steep hills, led us to make Bodiam our stopping place. There are few things that we have more reason for rejoicing over, for we saw the gray walls and towers of Bodiam Castle under the enchanting influence of a full, summer moon. The castle was built in 1385 and appears to have been intended more as a palatial residence than a feudal fortress. Its position is not a strong one for defense, being situated on a level plain rather than upon a commanding eminence, as is usually the case with fortified castles. It was built after artillery had come into use, and the futility of erecting a structure that would stand against this new engine of destruction must have been obvious. The most remarkable feature is the wide moat which surrounds the castle. In fact, this gives it the appearance of standing on an island in the middle of a small lake. The water of the moat was nearly covered by water-lilies. The walls of the castle are wonderfully complete, every tower and turret retaining its old-time battlements. It is supposed never to have sustained an attack by armed forces and its present condition is due to neglect and decay. From our point of view, it must have been an insanitary place, standing in the low-lying fens in the midst of a pool of stagnant water, but such reflection does not detract from its beauty. I have never seen a more romantic sight than this huge, quadrangular pile, with its array of battlements and towers rising abruptly out of the dark waters of the moat. And its whole aspect, as we beheld it--softened in outline by the mellow moonlight--made a picture that savored more of enchantment than reality. Although the hour was late, the custodian admitted us to the ruins and we passed over a narrow bridge which crossed the moat. The pathway led through a door in the great gateway, over which still hangs suspended the iron port-cullis. Inside there was a grassy court, surrounded by the walls and ruined apartments of the castle. I ascended one of the main towers by a dilapidated stone stairway and was well repaid for the effort by the glorious moonlit prospect that stretched out before me. When we returned to the Castle Inn, we found the landlady all attention and she spared no effort to contribute to our comfort. The little inn was cleanlier and better kept than many of the more pretentious ones. Bodiam is several miles from the railroad and but few tourists visit the castle. The principal business of the hotel is to cater to parties of English trippers who make the neighborhood a resort for fishing and hunting. An early start from Bodiam brought us to Tunbridge Wells before ten o'clock in the morning. This city, although of considerable size, is comparatively modern and has little to detain tourists. Like Harrogate and Bath, its popularity is largely due to its mineral springs. In its immediate neighborhood, however, there are many places of interest, and we determined to make a circular tour among some of these, returning to Tunbridge Wells for the night. [Illustration: ENTRANCE FRONT BODIAM CASTLE, SUSSEX.] A few miles from Tunbridge Wells is Offham, a little, out-of-the-way village which boasts of a queer mediaeval relic, the only one of the kind remaining in the Kingdom. This is called a quintain post and stands in the center of the village green. It consists of a revolving crossbar on the top of a tall, white post. One end of the bar is flattened and pierced with small holes, while at the other a billet of wood is suspended from a chain. The pastime consisted of riding on horseback and aiming a lance at one of the holes in the broad end of the crossbar. If the aim were true, the impact would swing the club around with violence, and unless the rider were agile he was liable to be unhorsed--rough and dangerous sport, but no doubt calculated to secure dexterity with the lance on horseback. This odd relic is religiously preserved by the village and looks suspiciously new, considering the long period since such a pastime must have been practiced. However, this may be due to the fact that the tenant of an adjoining cottage is required by the terms of his lease to keep the post in good repair, a stipulation, no doubt, to which we owe its existence. In Westerham, a few miles farther on, we saw the vicarage where Gen. Wolfe, the hero of Quebec, was born. His parents were tenants of this house for a short time only, and soon after his birth they moved to the imposing residence now known as Quebec House, and here Wolfe spent the first twelve years of his life. It is a fine Tudor mansion and has been little altered since the boyhood of the great warrior. Visitors are not now admitted. There are many relics of Wolfe in Westerham, and the spot where he received his first military commission is marked by a stone with an appropriate inscription. Wolfe's memory is greatly revered in England and he is looked upon as the man who saved not only Canada, but the United States as well, to the Anglo-Saxon race. Quite as closely connected with American history as Quebec House is the home of William Pitt, near at hand. Holwood House, as it is called, is a stately, classic building, situated in a great forest-clad park. It passed out of the hands of Pitt more than a hundred years ago, and being in possession of a private owner, is no longer open to visitors. Passing again into the hedge-bordered byways, we came to Downe, a retired village four miles from the railway station and known to fame as having been the home of Charles Darwin. Downe House, where he lived, is still standing, a beautiful old Eighteenth Century place which was considerably altered by Darwin himself. The house at present is evidently in the hands of a prosperous owner, for it was apparent that watchful care is expended upon it. But it is in no sense a show-place and the few pilgrims who come to the town must content themselves with a glimpse from the outside. To get a view of the place, I surreptitiously stepped through the open gateway, the house itself being some distance from the road and partially concealed by the hedges and trees in front of it. It is a rather irregular, three-story building, with lattice windows surrounded by ivy and climbing roses. It stands against a background of fir trees, with a stretch of green lawn and flowers in front, and the whole place had an air of quiet beauty and repose. On the front of the house was an ancient sun-dial, and across it, in antique letters, the legend "Time will show." I do not know whether this was placed there by Darwin or not, but it is the most appropriate answer which the great scientist might have made to his hosts of critics. Time has indeed shown, and the quiet philosopher who lived in this retired village has revolutionized the thought of the civilized world. XIX KNOLE HOUSE AND PENSHURST One of the greatest show-places of England is Knole House, the seat of the Sackville-Wests, near Seven-Oaks. The owner at the time of our visit was the Lord Sackville-West who was British ambassador at Washington, where he achieved notoriety by answering a decoy letter advising a supposed British-American to vote for Grover Cleveland as being especially friendly to England. The letter created a tremendous furor in the United States, and the result was the abrupt recall of the distinguished writer from his post. No difficulty is experienced in obtaining admission to Knole House, providing one pays the price. The thousands of tourists who come annually are handled in a most businesslike manner. An admission fee of two shillings, or about fifty cents, is charged, and at numerous stands near the gateway photographs, post cards, souvenirs and guide-books galore are sold. Motor cars are allowed to drive right up to the great gateway, where they are assigned a position and supervised by an attendant, all for the sum of one shilling. However, the show is well worth the price, and the owner of the palace is entitled to no small credit for making it so readily accessible. The house is a fine example of the baronial residences erected just after the period of fortified castles, when artillery had rendered these fortress-mansions useless as a means of defense. It surrounds three square courts and covers about five acres; it contains three hundred and sixty-five rooms and has seven great staircases, some of them very elaborate. The collection of paintings and mediaeval furniture is one of the best in England. The pictures are of untold value, one room being filled with originals by Gainsborough and Reynolds alone. Some idea of the value of these pictures may be gained from the fact that an offer of twenty thousand pounds for one of the Gainsboroughs was refused; and there are other pictures quite as valuable, not only by English masters, but by great continental artists as well. King James I visited Knole House and preparations were made to receive him as befitted his rank. The immense stateroom was especially furnished for the occasion at a cost, it is said, of about one hundred thousand pounds. This room has never been used since and it stands today just as it did when it served its royal occupant, though the gorgeous hangings and tapestries are somewhat dingy and worn from the dust and decay of three hundred years. It took nearly two hours to go through the parts of the house that are shown, although the parties were accompanied by guides who kept them moving along. On the afternoon of our arrival there were quite a number of visitors, five motor cars and several carriages bringing them. Knole House stands in a large park, which has the finest beeches in England, and it is really more of a show-place than a family residence. The Sackville-Wests are among the richest of the nobility and have other homes which are probably more comfortable than this impressive but unhomelike palace. [Illustration: PENSHURST PLACE, HOME OF THE SIDNEYS.] Something similar to Knole House is Penshurst Place, about ten miles away, but with an atmosphere and traditions quite different from the Sackville-West mansion. This great palace, just adjacent to the village of Penshurst, was built in the Thirteenth Century, passing shortly after into the hands of the Sidney family, with whom it has remained ever since. Of the Sidneys, one only is known wherever the English language is spoken--the gallant young knight, Sir Philip, who, when still below the age of thirty, lost his life while fighting for a forlorn cause in the Netherlands. Of all the brilliant array of statesmen, soldiers and writers who graced the reign of Queen Elizabeth, none gave greater promise than did young Sidney. Nothing is more characteristic of him than the oft-told story of how, when suffering from his death-wound on the field of Zutphen, he gave to a wounded soldier by his side the cup of water brought to him with the greatest difficulty. There are few who have received a higher or a more deserved tribute than that of the poet Watson, when he mused upon "the perfect knight, The soldier, courtier, bard in one, Sidney, that pensive Hesper-light O'er Chivalry's departed Sun." Naturally, we were interested in the ancestral home of such a man and the many historical associations which have gathered round it. It was at the close of a busy day for us when we reached Penshurst and learned that half an hour remained before the house would be closed for the day. Admission was easily gained and ample time given to inspect such parts of the house as were shown. We entered the great park through a gateway near the church where several members of the Sidney family are buried. The palace stands in a large open space with a level lawn in front, and the five hundred years which have passed over it have dealt kindly with it. Few of the ancient places which we had seen in England were in better state of preservation. Nor was this due so much to restoration as in many cases. It had never been intended as a fortified castle and had escaped the ravages of war which destroyed so many of the strongholds. Its most striking feature is the baronial hall with its high, open-raftered roof, maintained in general appearance and furnishing much as it was five hundred years ago. It is of great size, and in early days the tables probably furnished cheer to hundreds of revelers at a time. At one end of the room is a gallery which the musicians occupied, and at the other, our attention was called to a small opening through which the lord of the establishment could secretly witness the doings in the hall. A remarkable feature is the fireplace, situated in the center of the room and without chimney of any kind, the smoke being left to find its way out through the windows or apertures in the roof, as the case might be--a striking example of the discomforts of the good old days when knighthood was in flower. Queen Elizabeth, who was one of the greatest royal travelers of her time, made a visit to the home of her favorite, Sidney, and the drawing room which she honored as a guest is still shown, with much of the handsome furniture which was especially made for the occasion of Her Majesty's visit. On the walls are some examples of beautifully wrought needlework and satin tapestry which tradition says is the work of the queen herself and her maidens. In the picture gallery the majority of the paintings are portraits of the Sidney family. From Penshurst we returned to Tunbridge Wells, having covered in all about one hundred miles since leaving that town--not a very long distance for a day's motoring, but we had seen more things of interest, perhaps, than on any other day of our tour. It was a fitting close to our tour, since we had determined that we would at once return to London and bid farewell to the English highways and byways. The next morning we spent a short time looking about Tunbridge Wells. This town has been known as a watering place since 1606 and has maintained great popularity ever since. Its unique feature is the promenade, known as "The Pantiles," with its row of stately lime trees in the center and its colonade in front of the shops. It is referred to in Thackeray's "Virginians," and readers of that story will recall his description of the scenes on the Pantiles in the time of the powdered wigs, silver buckles and the fearful and wonderful "hoop." Tunbridge Wells makes a splendid center for several excursions and one might well spend considerable time there. Our trip of the previous day had taken us at no time more than thirty miles from the town and had covered only a few of the most interesting places within that distance. We were ready to leave Tunbridge Wells before noon, and it was with feelings of mingled satisfaction and regret that we turned toward London, about thirty miles away. Our long summer's pilgrimage through Britain was over. Despite our anxiety to return home, there was, after all, a sense of regret that we had left undone much that would have been well worth while. Our last day on the English country roads was a lovely one. A light rain had fallen the night before, just enough to beat down the dust and freshen the landscape. We passed through a country thickly interspersed with suburban towns. The fields had much the appearance of a well kept park, and everything conspired to make the day a pleasant recollection. When we came into the immediate suburbs of London, I found that the knowledge I had gained on our frequent trips gave me a great advantage in getting into the city. I was able to avoid the crowded streets and to select those where traffic was lighter, thus reducing the time of reaching our hotel fully an hour. There is much difference in the traffic on the eight bridges which cross the Thames. London Bridge, which crosses near the Bank of England, is the most congested of all. There is hardly an hour when it is not a compact mass of slowly moving vehicles. The bridge by Parliament House is less crowded, but I should say that Waterloo Bridge furnishes the best route for motorists in getting across the river. It leads directly into the new boulevard known as Kingsway, which has just been completed at an expense of many millions of pounds. This is the broadest street in London and was opened by wholesale condemnation of private property. It is little used for heavy traffic and has a fine asphalted surface. It extends from the Strand to Holborn, the two principal business arteries of London. The street now presents a rather ragged appearance on account of the buildings that were torn down to make way for it. However, new structures of fine architecture are rapidly being built and Kingsway is destined to become one of the handsomest boulevards in the world. A little after noon we reached our London hotel, having spent ten weeks in touring England, Wales and Scotland. We had not confined ourselves to the highways, but had journeyed a great part of the distance through less frequented country roads. In fact, many of the most charming places we had visited could be reached only from the byways and were not immediately accessible from railway stations. With the exception of the first two weeks, when we had rain more or less every day, we had been favored with exceptionally fine weather. During the last seven or eight weeks of our trip, only light showers had fallen and we were assured that the season had been an unusual one for England. The matter of weather is not of great moment to the motorist in Great Britain. The roads are not affected in the least, so far as traveling is concerned, and dashing through the open air in a rain is not an unpleasant experience. A closed top for the car is rarely necessary. Plenty of waterproof coats and coverings answer the purpose very well and the open air is much pleasanter than being cooped up in a closed vehicle. Rubber tires do not slip on good macadam roads and during our tour it was necessary to use chains on the wheels only a few times. Altogether, the experience was worth while; nor was it so expensive as many have imagined it to be. A party of three or four people with their own car, if one of them drives, can tour Britain for less than it would cost to cover the same ground, traveling first-class, by railway train. As to the comparative satisfaction derived from the two methods of touring, no comment whatever is needed. Making the trip by motor affords so many advantages and so many opportunities of seeing the country and of coming in touch with the people that there is really no other method that can in any way compare with it. XX SOME MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS In closing this desultory record of a summer's motoring in Britain, I can easily see that a great deal was missed, much of which might have been included with little or no loss of time had we been well enough informed in advance. There were cases where we actually passed through places of real interest only to learn later that we had overlooked something that might well have engaged our attention. There were other points, readily accessible from our route, which we omitted because previously visited by rail; and though many of these places we should have been glad to see again, our limited time forbade. In order to get all that should be gotten out of a five-thousand-mile tour by motor car, one would have to be familiar indeed with England's history and traditions, as well as conversant with her literature. There is little opportunity for studying hand-books as one goes along. A few weeks of preparation, of well selected reading and the study of road-books and maps would make such a tour doubly valuable in saving time and in an intelligent understanding of the country and the places worth seeing. What one should have done he will know far better after the trip is over, and the main excuse for this modest record is that it may supply in popular form some data from the experience of one who has been over part of the ground, while the superb illustrations of the volume will give a far better idea of what awaits the tourist than the mere written words. Among the places in which our time was too short is Canterbury. Another day would have given us a chance to see more of that ancient town, and a side trip of thirty miles would have taken us to Sandwich, Margate and Reculvers. We had expected to come a second time to Canterbury and to visit these three points then, but were unable to carry out our plan. Sandwich was at one time an important seaport, but lost its position from the same cause that affected so many of the south coast towns--the receding of the sea. It contains many of the richest bits of mediaeval architecture in England, and a few hours in its quaint streets would have been well repaid. Reculvers, or ancient Regulbium, was a Roman city that was destroyed by the encroachments of the sea. Here is one of the oldest and strangest of the ruined churches in England, now standing on the verge of the ocean, which still continues to advance with a prospect of ultimately wiping out the little village. [Illustration: A BIT OF OLD ENGLAND. From Water Color by Anderson.] On our trip to Manchester we passed within two or three miles of Knutsford, the delightful old town selected by Mrs. Gaskell as the scene of her story, "Granford." Had we known of this at the time, a short detour would have taken us through its quaint streets. The Isle of Wight is immediately across the strait from Southampton, and while a motor car could be transported by steamer to traverse its fifty or sixty miles of main road, this is not very often done. It would require one or two days to visit the interesting points in the island, among which are Carisbrooke Castle, where King Charles I was confined as a prisoner; Osborne House, formerly a royal residence but presented to the nation by King Edward; and Freshwater, the home where the poet Tennyson lived for many years. Sherborne and Tewkesbury were both only a few miles off our route, and had we planned rightly we could have visited with very little loss of time these two interesting towns with their great abbey churches, which rank in size and importance with many of the cathedrals. Ten miles from Penzance would have brought us to Lands End--the extreme southwestern point of England, abounding in wild and beautiful ocean-shore scenery, but the story of dangerous hills deterred us, though we afterwards regretted our decision. Nor could we pass again as we did at Camelford in Cornwall within five miles of King Arthur's Tintagel without seeing this solitary and wonderfully romantic ruin, with the majestic--even awe-inspiring--scenery around it. Perhaps the most interesting trip which we missed, but which would have required more time than we could give, was a two or three days' run through the extreme south of Wales. It is only thirty miles from Monmouth to Cardiff, a coal-mining metropolis, itself of little interest, but with many places worth visiting in its immediate vicinity. Cardiff Castle, too, is one of the best known of the Welsh ruins, and here Henry I confined his elder brother Robert for twenty years while he himself, in reality a usurper, held the English throne. Ten miles north of Cardiff is the rude and inaccessible castle of Caerphilly, which is reckoned the most extensive ruin in the Kingdom. Following the coast road for one hundred miles, one comes to the ancient town of St. Davids, at the extreme southwestern point of Wales. Here in the Middle Ages was a city of considerable size, a great resort of pilgrims to St. David's shrine, William the Conqueror being one of these. The modern St. Davids is a mere village, and its chief attraction is its grand cathedral and the ruins of the once gorgeous episcopal palace. The cathedral, built in the Tenth Century, is curiously situated in a deep dell, and only the great tower is visible from the village. The return trip from St. Davids would best be made over the same road to Carmarthen, then taking the road northward to Llandovery, where is located one of the ruins of what was once the greatest abbey in Southern Wales. From this point the road direct to Abergavenny is a good one and passes through much of the picturesque hill country of Wales. From Bangor in North Wales it is about twenty miles to Holyhead, from which point the car could easily be transferred to Ireland in two or three hours. This would mean an additional two weeks to the tour, and no doubt more time could pleasantly be spent in the Emerald Isle. The roads in Ireland are far from equal to those of England or Scotland, but the scenery, especially on the coast, is even lovelier, and the points of interest quite as numerous. The Isle of Man, in the Irish Channel, is a famous resort of motorists, and many of the speed and reliability contests have been held there. It is about the only spot in the world where no speed limit is imposed, the inhabitants of the island recognizing the financial advantage which they reap from the numerous motorists. There are about fifty or sixty miles of road in the island said to be as fine as any in the world. The island is charming and interesting, with ruins and relics dating from the time it was an independent kingdom. The two days which would have to be given it would be well spent. No one who had not visited it before would miss the Lake District in the north of England. A former trip through this section by coach caused us to omit it from our tour, though we would gladly have seen this delightful country a second time. One could depart from the main highway from Lancaster to Carlisle at Kendall and in a single day visit most of the haunts of Ruskin, Coleridge, Wordsworth and Southey, whose names are always associated with the English lakes. Many steep hills would be encountered, but none that would present great difficulty to a moderate-powered motor. It would be much better, however, if two or three days could be given to the Lakes, and this time might also include Furness Abbey and Lanercost Priory. Volumes have been written of the English lakes, but with all the vivid pen-pictures that have been drawn one will hardly be prepared for the beauty of the reality. The Peak District in Derbyshire we omitted for the same reason--a previous visit. At Nottingham we were within ten or fifteen miles of this section, and by following a splendid road could have reached Rowsley Station, with its quaint inn, near Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall. No one who makes any pretense of seeing England will miss either of these places. Haddon Hall is said to be the most perfect of the baronial mansion houses now to be found in England. It is situated in a wonderfully picturesque position, on a rocky bluff overlooking the River Wye. The manor was originally given by the Conqueror to Peveril of the Peak, the hero of Scott's novel. The mansion is chiefly famous for its connection with Dorothy Vernon, who married the son of the Earl of Rutland in the time of Queen Elizabeth, the property thus passing to the Rutland family, who are still the owners. The mansion is approached by a small bridge crossing the river, whence one enters under a lofty archway the main courtyard. In this beautiful quadrangle, one of the most interesting features is the chapel at the southwest corner. This is one of the oldest portions of the structure. Almost opposite is the magnificent porch and bay-window leading into the great hall. This is exactly as it was in the days of the Vernons, and its table, at which the lord of the feast sat, its huge fireplace, timber roof and minstrel gallery are quite unaltered. It has recently been announced that the Duke of Rutland will make repairs to this old place and occupy it as one of his residences, closing Belvoir Castle, his present home, on account of the great expense of maintaining it. Four or five miles from Haddon Hall is Chatsworth House, the splendid country seat of the Duke of Devonshire. This was built over a hundred years ago and is as fine an example of the modern English mansion as Haddon Hall is of the more ancient. It is a great building in the Georgian style, rather plain from the outside, but the interior is furnished in great splendor. It is filled with objects of art presented to the family at various times, some of them representing gifts from nearly every crowned head in Europe during the last hundred years. Its galleries contain representative works of the greatest ancient and modern artists. Even more charming than the mansion itself are its gardens and grounds. Nowhere in England are these surpassed. The mansion, with its grounds, is open daily to the public without charge, and we were told that in some instances the number of visitors reaches one thousand in a single day. As I noted elsewhere, the Duke of Devonshire owns numerous other palaces and ruins, all of which are open to the public without charge--a fine example of the spirit of many of the English nobility who decline to make commercial enterprises of their historic possessions. In this immediate vicinity is Buxton, another of the English watering places famous for mineral springs. The neighborhood is most romantic, with towering cliffs, strange caverns, leaping cataracts and wooded valleys. However, the section abounds in very steep hills, dangerous to the most powerful motor. In Yorkshire we missed much, chiefly on account of lack of time. A single day's journey would have taken us over a fine road to Scarborough, an ancient town which has become a modern seacoast resort, and to Whitby, with one of the finest abbey ruins in the shire, as well as to numerous other interesting places between. Barnard Castle, lying just across the western boundary of Yorkshire, was only a few miles off the road from Darlington, and would have been well worth a visit. These are only a few of the many places which might be seen to advantage if one could give at least a week to Yorkshire. From Norwich an hour or two would have taken us to Yarmouth through the series of beautiful lakes known as the Norfolk Broads. Yarmouth is an ancient town with many points of interest and at present noted principally for its fisheries. On the road to Colchester we might easily have visited Bury St. Edmunds, and coming out of Colchester, only seven miles away is the imposing ruin of the unfinished mansion of the Marneys, which its builder hoped to make the most magnificent private residence in the Kingdom. The death of Lord Marney and his son brought the project to an end and for several hundred years this vast ruin has stood as a monument to their unfulfilled hopes. It may seem that as Americans we were rather unpatriotic to pass within a few miles of the ancestral country of the Washingtons without visiting it, but such was the case. It is not given much space in the guide-books and it came to us only as an afterthought. It was but five or six miles from Northampton, through which we passed. In the old church at Brington is the tomb of George Washington's great-great-great-grandfather and also one of the houses which was occupied by his relatives. In the same section is Sulgrave Manor, the home of the Washingtons for several generations, which still has over its front doorway the Washington coat-of-arms. In the same vicinity and near the farmhouse where George Eliot was born is Nuneaton, a place where she spent much of her life and to which numerous references are made in her novels. In Scotland we also missed much, but very little that we could have reached without consuming considerably more time. A day's trip north of Edinburgh, across the Firth of Forth into Fife, would have enabled us to visit Loch Leven and its castle, where Queen Mary was held prisoner and was rescued by young Douglas, whom she afterward unfortunately married. Had we started two or three hours earlier on our trip to Abbottsford and Melrose, we could easily have reached Jedburgh and Kelso, at each of which there are interesting abbey ruins. Of course it would have been a fine thing to go to the extreme northern point of Scotland, known as John O' Groats, but this, at the rate we traveled, would have consumed two or three days. The country is not specially interesting and has few historical associations. Tourists make this trip chiefly to be able to say they have covered the Kingdom from Lands End to John O' Groats. [Illustration: THE CALEDONIAN COAST. From Painting by D. Sherrin.] I have said little of the larger cities--we did not stop long in any of these. The chief delight of motoring in Britain is seeing the country and the out-of-the-way places. In the cities, where one may spend days and where the train service and other methods of transportation in the place and its suburbs are practically unlimited, one can ill afford to linger with his car in the garage much of the time. Of London I have already spoken. Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Bristol, Birmingham, Edinburgh and Glasgow are examples to my point. We had visited nearly all of these by rail, but in again planning a tour by car I should not stop at such places for any length of time and should avoid passing through them whenever practicable. Of course I do not pretend in the few suggestions I have made in this chapter to have named a fraction of the points of interest that we did not visit--only the ones which appealed to me most when I had become more familiar with Britain. I only offer these few comments to show how much more might have been compassed in the space of a week or two, leaving out Ireland, John O' Groats, and the Isles of Wight and Man. One week would have given ample time for us to include the places I have enumerated. In planning a tour, individual taste must be a large element. What will please one may not appeal so strongly to another. Still, I am sure that the greater part of the route which we covered and which I have tried to outline will interest anyone who cares enough to give the time and money necessary to tour Britain. [Illustration: MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES.] INDEX A Abbottsford, 174-175, 177. Aberdeen, 161-164. Abergavenny, 303. Aberyswith, 125-126. Addison, Jos., 88. Aldworth, 276. Alfred the Great, 21, 84-85, 259, 263. Alloway, 148-140. Alnwick, 186-187. Altrincham, 56. Amesbury, 88. Anderida, 280. Andre, Major, 48. Anne of Cleves, 279. Anne, Queen, 261. Arbroath, 168. Arthur, King, 109, 302. Arthur, Prince, 76. Arundel, 276-277. Ashow Church, 78. Austen, Jane, 84. Awe, Loch, 151, 157. Ayr, 148-149. B Bamborough, 183-185. Banbury, 78. Bangor, 134. Bannockburn, 171. Barden Tower, 51. "Barnaby Rudge," 18-20. Barnard Castle, 307. Barnsley, 55. Bath, 110-111. Battle, 281. Bawtry, 206. Bedford, 233. Belvoir Castle, 227-228. Berwick-on-Tweed, 182-183. Bettws-y-Coed, 132. Blandford, 89. Blenheim, 260-262. Bodiam Castle, 284-286. Bodleian Library, 259. Boleyn, Anne, 267. Bolton Abbey, 51. Boston, 214-216. Bottisford, 228-229. Bradley, A.G., 68-69. Braemar, 163. Brightholme, 278. Brighton, 277-278. "Brig O' Doon," 148. Brington, 308. Brixham, 93-94. Bruce, 165, 170. Buildwas Abbey, 64. Bull Hotel, Dartford, 27-28. Bunyan, John, 233. Burnham Thorpe, 217. Burns, Robt., 143-149. Burslem, 49. Bury St. Edmunds, 238, 307. Butler, Dr., 265. Buxton, 306. Bylands Abbey, 201. Byron, Lord, 230, 247-248. C Caerlaverock Castle, 144-145. Caerphilly, 302. Caledonian Canal, 157. Cambridge, 233-234, 237, 240-241. Cambuskenneth Abbey, 171. Camelford, 104. Canterbury, 26-27, 33-39, 300. Canute, 84. Cardiff, 302. Carisbrooke Castle, 301. Carlisle, 141-143. Carlyle, Thos., 145. Carmarthen, 303. Carnarvon, 132-134. Castle Hotel, New Castle-Under-Lyme, 49. Catherine of Aragon, 224. Cawdor Castle, 161. Cerne Abbas, 89-90. Cerrig-y-Druidion, 130-132. Chalfont St. Giles, 249-251. Charlecote, 77. Charles I, 61, 63, 82, 117, 120-121, 227, 301. Charles II, 165. Charles the Pretender, 161, 171-172. Chatham, 33. Chatsworth House, 305-306. Chaucer, 27, 262. Chawton, 82. Chelmsford, 243. Cheltenham, 112. Chepstow, 119-120. Chester, 8, 58-61, 137. Chichester, 272-273. Chigwell, 18-20. Chippenham, 111. Chipping-Ongar, 17-18, 243-244. Christchurch, 89. Cirencester, 112. Claverhouse, 165. Clifford Castle, 124. Clyde Shipyards, 149-150. Cobbett, Wm., 81. Cobden, Richard, 274. Colchester, 241-244. Coleridge, 304. Conway Castle, 134-136. Conway River, 132. Coventry, 45-46. Cowdray Mansion, 274. Cowper, Wm., 221, 232. Coxwold, 198, 200, 202. Crayon, Geoffrey, 1. Crianlarich, 151. Cromwell, Oliver, 139, 235-240, 244, 263, 265. Crowland, 222-223. Culloden Moor, 161. D Dalmally, 157. Darling, Grace, 185. Darnley, 180. Dartford, 27-29. Dartmoor, 106. Dartmouth, 94. Dart, River, 94. Darwin, Charles, 63, 288-289. Dereham, 221. Devonport, 96. Dickens, 18-20, 29-32, 140. Dinas Mowddwy, 126. Dochart, River, 158. Doncaster, 206. Dorchester, 89. Downe, 288-289. Drumlanrigh Castle, 147. Dryburgh Abbey, 174-176. Dukeries, 206-207. Dumbarton, 150. Dumfries, 144-146. Dunbar, 180. Dunblane, 170. Duncan, 161. Dundee, 168-169. Dunnottar Castle, 164-167. Dunollie Castle, 152. Dunstafnage Castle, 154-155. Durham, 187-189. E Earl's Colne, 242. Easby Abbey, 193-194. Eaton Hall, 60. Eboracum, 191. Ecclefechan, 145. Edgeware, 23. Edgeworth, Maria, 48. Edinburgh, 174, 178-179. Edward the Confessor, 113. Edward I, 21, 133, 134. Edward II, 133. Edward III, 231. Elgin, 161-162. Eliot, George, 78, 274-276, 308. Elizabeth, Queen, 219, 226, 262, 292, 294, 305. Ellisland Farm, 146. Elstow, 233. Ely, 221, 237-239. Epping Forest, 16-17. Ethelwulf, King, 84. Eton College, 254-255. Eversley, 266. Exeter, 91-92, 107. F Fairfax, Gen., 121, 198. Falkirk, 172. Falstaff, Sir John, 30. Farnham, 81. Farringford, 276. Fast Castle, 181-182. Feathers Hotel, Ludlow, 69-70. Fife, 308. Forres, 161. Fotheringhay, 225-227. Fountains Abbey, 54, 196. Fox, George, 243. Franklin, Benjamin, 85-86. Freshwater, 301. Frogmore Park, 255. Furness Abbey, 304. G Gad's Hill, 29-32. Galashiels, 178. Gaskell, Mrs., 301. Gaveston, Piers, 53. George III, 256. Glasgow, 149. Glastonbury, 108-109. Gloucester, 112-113. Grandtully Castle, 158. Grantham, 227. Gray, Thos., 254. Great North Road, 191, 206. Greenstead Church, 243. Greenwich, 27. Grey Friars Church, 193. Guildford, 81. Guinevere, Queen, 109. H Haddon Hall, 304-305. Hadley Church, Monken Hadley, 21-22. Hampton Court Palace, 12-13. Handel, 23-24. Hanley, 49. Haredale Hall, 54. Harold, King, 20, 281. Harrogate, 52, 54. Harrow-on-the-Hill, 247, 248. Haselmere, 274-276. Hastings, Battle of, 20. Hatfield House, 15. Hathaway, Anne, 76. Haverhill, 241. Hay, 124. Heddingham, 242. Helmsley, 198-199. Henley-on-Thames, 256. Henry I, 267, 302. Henry II, 53, 263. Henry V, 117-118. Henry VII, 107, 279. Henry VIII, 43, 76, 109, 194, 197, 217-218, 224, 267, 279. Hereford, 122-124. Hindhead District, 276. Holwood House, 288. Holyhead, 303. Holyhead Road, 43-44. Huntingdon, 237, 239-240. Huntly, 161. I Ilkley Station, 51. Inverness, 159-161. Inverurie, 162. Iona, 153-154. Ireland, 303. Irish Sea, 141. Isle of Man, 141, 303. Isle of Wight, 276, 301. J James I, 171, 182, 224, 291. James II, 63. James IV, 165. Jedburgh, 177, 308. Jeffreys, Judge, 63. John, King, 76, 229, 267. John O' Groats, 161, 308. Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 48. Jordans, 243, 250-253. K Keith, 161. Kelso, 177, 308. Kenilworth, 77. Kilchurn Castle, 151, 157. Killiekrankie, Pass of, 160. Kilmarnock, 149. Kingsley, Chas. 266. King's Lynn, 216. Kingston-on-Thames, 80. Kingsway, London, 296-297. Kinneff, 166. Kinniard House, 158. Knaresborough, 52-54. Knole House, 290-292. Knutsford, 301. L Lake District, 304. Lammermoor, 180-181. Lancaster, 140-141. Land's End, 301. Lanercost Priory, 304. Launceston, 104-106. Lea, River, 21. Leamington, 77-78. Leeds, 50-52. Leeds Castle, 39. Leicester, 231. Leven, Loch, 308. Lewes, 278-279. Lichfield, 48. Lincluden Abbey, 146. Lincoln, 209-210. Linlithgow, 171, 172. Livingstone, David, 245. Llanberis, Pass of, 132. Llandovery, 303. Llangollen, 127-129. Lockyer, Sir Norman, 88. Lomond, Loch, 150. London, 11-25, 39-40, 80, 245-246, 296-297. London Tower, 72. Ludlow, 66-74. Lutterworth, 231-232. Lyndhurst, 88-89. M McCaig's Tower, 152-153. Macbeth, 160, 161. Magdalen College, Oxford, 257-258. Maidstone, 32, 39. Malmesbury, 111-112. Manchester, 50, 54, 236. Marazion, 103. Margate, 300. Martin, Henry, 120. Mary, Queen, 262. Mary Queen of Scots, 170-173, 180, 224, 225-227, 308. Mauchline, 148. Maxstoke Castle, 78. Mayflower, The, 96, 206. Melrose Abbey, 174-175, 177. Micklegate Bar, York, 203. Midhurst, 274. Millston, 88. Milton, John, 72, 249-250. Monken Hadley, 21-23. Monmouth, 114-118. Monnow River, 117. Montfort, Simon de, 279. Montrose, 167. Much Wenlock, 64-65. Mull, Sound of, 154. N Nairn, 161. Nelson, Admiral, 216-217. Netley, 267-269. Newark, 229. Newcastle-on-Tyne, 187. New Castle-Under-Lyme, 49. New College, Oxford, 258. New Forest, 88-89. Newlyn, 100-101. Newstead Abbey, 207-208. Newton, Sir Isaac, 227. Nidd, River, 53. Nith, Valley, 146. Norfolk Broads, 307. Northampton, 232. Norwich, 215-220. Nottingham, 230-231. Nuneaton, 46-47, 78, 308. O Oban, 151-155. Offham, 286-287. Old Kent Road, 26-27. Olney, 232-233. Osborne House, 301. Oswestry, 127. Ouse, River, 239. Oxford, 234, 256-259. P Parliamentary Army, 61, 82, 121-122, 143, 204, 228, 230, 243, 259. Peak District, 304. Peele, 248. Penistone, 55. Penn, Wm., 20, 251, 253. Penrith, 141. Penshurst Place, 67, 292-294. Penzance, 98-100. Perth, 169-170. Peterborough, 223-225. Petergate, The, York, 205. Pevensey, 280-281. Pilgrim Fathers, 96, 206, 214-215, 241. Pitlochry, 159. Pitt, Wm., 288. Plymouth, 96-97. Preston, 137, 139. Q Quebec House, 287-288. R Raglan, 120-121. Raikes, Robt., 113. Reading, 265. Reculvers, 300. Regulbium, 300. Retford, 206. Rhodes, Cecil, 258. Richard III, 72, 107. Richmond, 192-194. Rievaulx Abbey, 199-200. Ripon, 54, 195-197. Rochester, 29, 32-33. Ross, 113-114. Roundheads, 48, 84, 92. Rowsley, 304. Rowton Moor, 61. Royal Porcelain Works, Worcester, 74-75. Rugby, 78. Runnymede, 15. Ruskin, 304. Rye, 282-283. Rye House, Broxborne, 15. S St. Albans, 42-43. St. Augustine's Abbey, Canterbury, 38. St. Botolph's Church, 213-214. St. Columba, 153-154. St. Cuthbert, 188. St. Davids, 302. St. Edmund the Martyr, 244. St. Ives, 101-103, 236-239. St. John's Hospital, 39. St. Joseph of Arimathea, 108. St. Martin's, Canterbury, 38. St. Mary's Abbey, York, 204. St. Mary's Church, Lancaster, 140-141. St. Mary's Church, Shrewsbury, 63. St. Michael's Church, Dumfries, 144. St. Michael's Mount, 103. St. Steven's Church, Launceston, 105-106. St. William of Perth, 33. Salisbury, 86-87. Sandquhar, 148. Sandringham Palace, 216. Sandwich, 300. Saracen's Head, Cerrig-y-Druidion, 130-132. Scarborough, 307. Scott, Gilbert, 219. Scott, Sir Walter, 47, 142, 144, 151, 155, 158, 167, 173-177, 181, 199, 262, 305. Selborne, 82. Severn, River, 61, 64-65, 119-120. Shakespeare, 76-77, 107. Shambles, The, York, 205. Sherborne, 301. Sheridan, 248. Shipley, Dr., 86. Shipton, Mother, 53-54. Shottermill, 275. Shrewsbury, 61-63, 65. Sidney, Henry, 72. Sidney, Sir Philip, 63, 72, 292-294. Smith, Prof. Goldwin, 3, 235. Snowdon, Mt., 132. Solway Tide, 143. Somersby, 211-213. Southampton, 267. Southey, 168, 304. Southwell, 230. Staffa, 153. Stalybridge, 56. Stanley, Dean, 38. Sterne, Laurence, 198-200. Stevenson, Robert Louis, 158. Stirling, 170-171. Strid, The, 51. Stockport, 56. Stoke-on-Trent, 49. Stoke Poges, 254. Stokesay, 66-67. Stonehaven, 167. Stonehenge, 87-88. Stonehouse, 96. Stoneleigh Abbey, 78. Story, 232. Stratford-on-Avon, 1-3, 76-77. Sulgrave Manor, 308. Swale River, 193, 194. T Tamworth, 47. Tay, Loch, 158. Tay, River, 158, 169. Taymouth Castle, 158. Temple Bar, 21. Tennyson, 46, 124, 209, 211-213, 274, 276, 301. Tewkesbury, 301. Thackeray, 21-23, 295. Thames River, 256. Tintagel Castle, 104, 302. Tintern, 118-119. Toplady, Rev. Augustus, 81. Torquay, 92-93. Trinity Church, Stratford, 2. Trollope, Anthony, 23. Trosachs, 151. Truro, 97-98, 104. Tunbridge Wells, 284, 286, 295. Tweed River, 175-176. Twyford, 85. U Uriconium, 63. V Vale Crucis Abbey, 128. Vernon House, Farnham, 82. Verulamium, 42. Victoria, Queen, 255. W Waddesdon, 78. Wakefield, 55. Wallace, 170, 171. Walsingham, 217. Waltham Abbey, 20-21. Walton, Ike, 84. Wantage, 259, 263-264. Warrington, 138-139, 236. Warwick, 77. Washington, George, 308. Wedgewood, Josiah, 49. Wells, 109. Welshpool, 127. Wesley, John, 282. Westerham, 287-288. Westminster Abbey, 21, 24, 154, 224. Wharfdale, 51. Wharfe River, 51. Whitby, 307. Whitchurch, 23. White, Gilbert, 82. Whittington, 265. Wigan, 139. William the Conqueror, 20, 63, 278-281, 302, 305. William the Lion, 168. William of Orange, 93. William Rufus, 32, 84. Winchelsea, 282-283. Winchester, 83-85, 266. Windsor, 254-255. Wishing Wells, 217-218. Wolfe, Gen., 287-288. Wolvesley Palace, 85. Woodstock, 262-263. Woolsthorpe, 227. Woolwich, 27. Worcester, 74-76. Wordsworth, 304. Wroxeter, 64. Wyatt, James, 86-87, 122-123. Wyclif, John, 231-232. Wye, River, 122, 125. Wyndcliffe, 119. Y Yarmouth, 307. Yeovil, 90. York, 8, 191, 197-198, 203-205. [Illustration: MAP OF SCOTLAND.] 
42990	----	Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including inconsistent hyphenation. Some changes have been made. They are listed at the end of the text. Illustrations and maps have been moved. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND _By the Same Author_ British Highways and Byways From a Motor Car WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-Two Duogravures _Second Edition_ 320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth, Gilt Top Price (Boxed), $3.00 L. C. PAGE & COMPANY BOSTON, MASS. [Illustration: SULGRAVE MANOR, THE CRADLE OF THE WASHINGTONS. Painted especially for the author by Daniel Sherrin.] [Illustration] IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND A Record of a Seven Thousand Mile Tour by Motor of the Unfrequented Nooks and Corners, and the Shrines of Especial Interest, in England; With Incursions into Scotland and Ireland. By THOS. D. MURPHY AUTHOR OF "BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR." WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR, REPRODUCED FROM ORIGINAL PAINTINGS BY EMINENT BRITISH ARTISTS, AND FORTY-EIGHT DUOGRAVURES FROM ENGLISH PHOTOGRAPHS; ALSO INDEXED MAPS COVERING ROUTES. BOSTON L. C. PAGE & COMPANY MDCCCCX _Copyright, 1910_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ First Impression, January, 1910 TO MY WIFE THE CONSTANT COMPANION OF MY WANDERINGS PREFACE It may seem that there is little excuse for a new book on English travel, since works covering the beaten path in the British Isles fairly teem from the press. But as a record of pilgrimages to the unfamiliar shrines and to the odd corners all over the United Kingdom this book may have its value. My reference to the tourist-frequented spots has been only incidental, and I think I can claim to have found much of interest not elsewhere described. And this I put forth as my chief excuse for adding one more to the already long list of British travel books. But in my illustrations I have another, and perhaps to many a better, excuse for my venture on such well-trodden ground. I believe that few books of travel have come from the press that can justly claim a higher rank in this particular. The sixteen color plates reproduce the work of some of the most noted contemporary artists, and the duogravures are the most perfect English photographs--no country on earth surpasses England in photography--perfectly reproduced. I trust that these features may give a real value to the book and make it acceptable to the large and increasing number of those readers and travelers abroad who are interested in the Motherland. T. D. M. CONTENTS Page I SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON 1 II WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA 14 III SOME MIDLAND NOOKS AND THE WASHINGTON COUNTRY 32 IV MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER 48 V RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY 68 VI ODD CORNERS OF THE WELSH BORDER 85 VII A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES 102 VIII SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS 127 IX THE BYRON COUNTRY 143 X FROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CASTLE 160 XI LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES 176 XII SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES 199 XIII ACROSS THE TWEED 212 XIV MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS 238 XV ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE 257 XVI DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT 277 XVII SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS 298 XVIII FROM DUBLIN TO CORK 325 XIX THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND 338 XX SOME ODDS AND ENDS 362 XXI LUDLOW TOWN 379 INDEX 391 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS COLOR PLATES Page SULGRAVE MANOR, THE CRADLE OF THE WASHINGTONS Frontispiece WARWICK CASTLE FROM THE AVON 1 SULGRAVE CHURCH AND VILLAGE 40 IN SUNNY DEVON 70 KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE, OFF TINTAGEL HEAD, CORNWALL 74 OFF THE COAST OF DEVON 76 EVENING ON THE CORNISH COAST 82 A WORCESTERSHIRE COMMON 136 HADDON HALL FROM THE RIVER 146 IN OLD WHITBY 168 A SUSSEX HARVEST FIELD 306 THE HOSPITAL, RYE 312 ON THE DOWNS 322 A GLIMPSE OF THE LOUGH, IRELAND 346 ON THE RIVER LLEDR, WALES 368 LUDLOW CASTLE FROM THE RIVER TEME 386 DUOGRAVURES OLD MANOR HOUSE, BRENT ELEIGH 20 A STREET CORNER, EARLS COLNE, ESSEX 28 MARNEY TOWERS, ESSEX 30 CROSS ROADS NEAR OUNDLE 34 KIRBY HALL 38 WASHINGTON BRASS, SULGRAVE CHURCH 42 THE WASHINGTON CHURCH, GREAT BRINGTON 46 LYGON ARMS, BROADWAY 54 TAWSTOCK CHURCH, DEVONSHIRE 78 BERKELEY CASTLE 86 BISHOP'S PALACE, HEREFORD 92 TONG VILLAGE, SHROPSHIRE 94 BOSCOBEL HOUSE, SHROPSHIRE 96 CAERPHILLY CASTLE, SOUTH WALES 108 CARDIFF CASTLE 110 NEATH ABBEY, SOUTH WALES 114 ST. DAVID'S CATHEDRAL 120 TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPPLE 132 RUINS OF CHARTLEY CASTLE, DERBYSHIRE 140 CHESTERFIELD CHURCH 144 NEWSTEAD ABBEY 154 WHITBY ABBEY AND CROSS 166 RABY CASTLE 172 HAWORTH CHURCH 196 CASTLE HOWARD 200 REMAINS OF GREAT ROMAN WALL NEAR HEXHAM 208 NAWORTH CASTLE 210 TANTALLON CASTLE AND BASS ROCK 228 CASTLE BOLTON, WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE 240 MIDDLEHAM CASTLE, WENSLEYDALE 244 RUINS OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE 250 LACOCK ABBEY 262 BROMHAM CHURCH, BURIAL PLACE OF THOMAS MOORE 266 CASTLE COMBE VILLAGE, WILTSHIRE 268 CORFE VILLAGE AND CASTLE 280 AN ISLE OF WIGHT ROAD 288 THE TENNYSON HOME, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT 294 COTTAGE, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT 296 ABBEY CHURCH, ROMSEY 300 COWDRAY CASTLE, NEAR MIDHURST 304 THE "BLUE IDOL," PENN'S MEETING HOUSE, SUSSEX 308 KILKENNY CASTLE 328 CASHEL CATHEDRAL, TIPPERARY 332 HOLY CROSS ABBEY, TIPPERARY 334 ANCIENT ORATORY, KILLALOE 356 WHITTINGTON CASTLE, SHROPSHIRE 370 LUDLOW CASTLE; THE WALK BENEATH THE WALL 380 DOOR TO ROUND CHAPEL, LUDLOW CASTLE 384 MAPS MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES 390 MAP OF SCOTLAND AND IRELAND 402 [Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE FROM THE AVON. Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.] In Unfamiliar England I SOME NOOKS ABOUT LONDON When Washington Irving made his first journey to England, he declared the three or four weeks on the ocean to be the best possible preparation for a visit to the mother country. The voyage, said he, was as a blank page in one's existence, and the mind, by its utter severance from the busy world, was best fitted to receive impressions of a new and strange environment. And it was no doubt so in the slow ocean voyages of olden time; but today it is more as if one stayed within his palatial hotel for a few days, at no time losing touch with the civilized world. Every day of our passage the engines of our ocean greyhound reeled off distances--five or six hundred nautical miles--that Irving's vessel would have required nearly a week to cover, and daily the condensed news of the world was flashed to us through the "viewless air." Of all our modern miracles, certainly none would have been more difficult to predict than this--how like a sheer impossibility it would have seemed! Indeed, to such an extent has modern science thrown its safeguards around the voyager that "those in peril on the sea" are rather less so than those on land, and the ocean liners make trips month after month and year after year without the loss of a single life. And with the disappearance of its mystery and terror, the sea has lost much of its romance. No longer does the bold buccaneer lie in wait for the treasure-laden galleons of Spain and the Netherlands; no longer may the picturesque pirate sail the seas unhindered in his quest for ill-gotten gold. Indeed, when one thinks of the capital and equipment a modern pirate on the high seas would require, there is no wonder that the good old trade is obsolete. But the sea is still as beautiful in its thousand moods of clouds and sunshine, of storm and calm, as it ever was ere its distances were annihilated and its romance dispelled. Our voyage was nearly perfect; the water was smooth and the days mild and clear. From sunrise to sunset the great ship plowed her way through a sea of pale emerald flecked with frosted silver, and at night she swept along beneath a starlit sky. So favorable was her progress that early on the sixth day she paused in Plymouth harbor. If in Washington Irving's day the long sea voyage was the best preparation for enjoying the beauties of England, it is hardly so now. Be that as it may, there is possibly nothing that could make one more keenly appreciate the joys of motoring than the run from Plymouth to London by the Great Western's "train de luxe." The grime and smoke that envelop everything about the train, the crash and shriek of the wheels, the trembling and groaning of the frail carriages hurled onward at a terrific speed, to say nothing of the never-to-be-forgotten service--does it deserve such a term--of the dining-car, will all seem like a nightmare when one glides along beneath the silvery English skies, through the untainted country air, and pauses for an excellent, cleanly served luncheon at some well-ordered wayside inn. London itself is so vast, and so crowded are its environs with places that may well engage the attention of the tourist, that it would be hard to guess how much time one might devote with pleasure and profit to the teeming circle within twenty-five miles of Charing Cross. Many of the most charming spots about the metropolis have had scant mention in the literature of travel, and even now many of the ancient and picturesque villages are in process of metamorphosis. The steady encroachments of the great city have already transformed more than one retired hamlet into a suburban residence town, and historic landmarks have suffered not a little. The advent of the railroad, always hailed with joy from a mere material standpoint, is often death to the atmosphere that attracts the painter and the poet. A run to Chorley Wood to visit the studio of a well-known English artist, one of whose pictures graces this book, brought to our minds with peculiar force the condition of things just outlined. Chorley Wood but recently was one of the quaintest and most unspoiled of the Hertfordshire villages. Here stands the old King farmhouse where in 1672 William Penn married Gulilema Springett, whose graces and perfections have been so dwelt upon by the chroniclers. And there are other old and interesting structures, but crowding them closely and elbowing them out of existence are the more modern villas of Londoners whom the railroad has brought within easy reach of this pleasant spot. Not all of the newer houses were constructed with the consummate taste of that of our artist friend, whose studio-residence seemed entirely at home among the quaint old houses of the town. As usual with English houses, the garden side was most attractive, and a wide veranda--not a common thing in England--fronted on the well-kept lawn. From this there was a splendid view of the distant Hertfordshire landscape, which on this particular June day was glorious with such variations of green as can be seen only in England, broken here and there by the intense yellow of the gorse and fading away into a blue haze that half hid the forest-covered hills in the distance. I could not help suggesting that this view itself would make a delightful picture, but the artist, who is noted for his fondness for low tones, demurred--the gorse was too harsh and jarring. So, after all, Dame Nature isn't much of a colorist! She mingles the intensest greens and blues and dashes them with the fiercest of yellows! It is not strange that Hertfordshire is favored by the artists, especially those whose success has been such as to enable them to maintain country homes. I had the pleasure of calling on another successful young painter in the adjacent village of Harpenden and on inquiring for his studio we were given the unique direction to "follow the road along the common until you come to a new house that looks like an old one." And the description was apt, indeed, for we did not see elsewhere the half-timber frame-work with herring-bone masonry, the studded oak doors with monstrous, straggling wrought-iron hinges, the open beams, wide carved mantels, the mullioned windows with diamond panes set in iron casements--all reproduced with the perfect spirit of the Elizabethan builder. Near by is Rickmansworth, an ancient and yet unspoiled town where Penn lived for five years after his marriage with "Guli," as she was called. These years were largely occupied in writing theological works and in public religious disputations. In fact, no name is more identified with Hertfordshire than Penn's, its only rival being that of Francis Bacon. In later years Penn removed to Sussex, where he had inherited an estate, but his final resting-place is at Jordans, Hertfordshire. We left Chorley Wood through meandering byways, and threading our way among the Burnham beeches, soon came into the main Oxford road. It would be difficult, indeed, to describe the sylvan loveliness of the country through which we passed. The great trees overarched the narrow winding lanes, which were bordered with tall ferns in places, and often a clear rivulet ran alongside. The somber yew, the stately oak and the graceful birches were interspersed here with a bit of lawn and there with a tangle of flowering shrubs. Out of this we came into the main road, broad and white, and teeming with vehicles--the first hint that London with its ceaseless turmoil is only twenty miles away. Farther on the road toward the city we came to Uxbridge, another town where the new is crowding the old. Fortunately, the famous Treaty Inn has escaped. Here the emissaries of Charles I. met the representatives of Parliament in a vain effort to compromise the dispute that had plunged the nation into civil war. The room where the commissioners met, with its paneling reaching to the ceiling and its wealth of antique carving, is little changed, though it has been divided by a partition into a writing- and a dining-room. The excellent luncheon served was one of the surprises often met in these dilapidated and often unprepossessing old hostelries. In the time of the Parliamentary unpleasantness, this hotel was known as the "Crown," and among its relics is an immense crown of solid oak weighing two or three hundred pounds, which was engaging the attention of an English party, one of whom ironically asked if this were the identical crown worn by Charles at the council. "Indeed it was," replied another humorist in the party, "and thus originated the expression, 'Uneasy lies the head which wears a crown.'" Near Uxbridge, but lying a quarter of a mile off the main road, is the village of Denham. Here we came one fine Sunday afternoon, following the recommendation of an English friend. The village has no historic attraction and no famous man's name has ever been associated with it. Neither has it mention in the books. Yet Denham is a delight--a sequestered little place nestling under a group of towering trees just far enough from the highroad to miss the dust and noise. The ancient half-timbered houses which border the street are redolent with the spirit of old-time England. The fine unrestored old church stands at the head of the street and the churchyard about it shows evidence of painstaking care. What a delight, it seemed to us, it would be to live in Denham--at least in English June time. One would have rural quiet, even somnolence, and might lie for hours on the turf under the great trees, meditating and looking at the sky; and if he should weary of so secluded and eventless a life, London, with all its mystery and charm, is less than an hour away--London, the most fascinating city in the world, despite its preponderance of bad weather and its world-famed fogs. Charles Lamb delighted in Hertfordshire and spent much of his time at the Four Swans Inn at Waltham, a quaint old building just opposite Waltham Cross. We made several pilgrimages here; nor did the abbey grow less interesting upon repeated visits. From here it is only a little distance to St. Albans, a city proud of its great cathedral, whose hoary tower dominates the town. Quite different from the ordinary caretaker was the young clergyman, whose refined, classic face bespoke his intelligence and who showed us every detail of the great church, dwelling upon its many ancient and often unique features. Nor did he omit to call our attention to an epitaph of a very frank citizen of St. Albans, who, after sleeping three hundred years under the marble slab in the nave, still complains of his unhappy fate: "Great was my grief--I could not rest; God called me hence--He thought it best. Unhappy marriage was my fate-- I did repent when 'twas too late." St. Albans is rich in antiquities. Indeed, you can still trace fragments of the Roman wall which surrounded the place when Albanus met his fate, and down near the river at the foot of cathedral hill is another "oldest house" in England. It is a quaint round structure, built, they say, more than a thousand years ago as a fishing-lodge for the monks, for it stands hard by a lakelike dam in the river. But today it has degenerated into a public house, and the broad-shouldered, black-bearded Irishman who kept the bar was well posted on St. Albans' antiquities. He showed us the little house and garden and pointed out the Roman earthworks. Nor did he seem in the least disappointed that our patronage was limited to a few post card pictures, and, strange to say, he declined a gratuity. We returned to the George Inn, which enjoyed great prosperity in the coaching days, being on the main road to Holyhead. For four hundred years it had cheered the passing guest and its excellent dinner belied its generally dilapidated appearance. Its proprietors were just removing to the new and pretentious Red Lion over the way, but we did not learn whether this meant the final abandonment of the George. It was with some difficulty that we located Rye House, which we supposed to be within Broxborne, but which really lies on a byroad two or three miles away. Though in a more or less secluded location, it is apparently the goal of innumerable pilgrims on gala days in the summer, especially Sundays. On the day of our arrival, the grounds were quite deserted and an appropriate quietude hovered over the old manor. Alas, though, we found it shorn of much of its picturesqueness, for it had fallen into the clutches of a large brewer, who was using it as an adjunct to dispose of his product--in fact, the mansion and its beautiful grounds have become little else than a summer beer garden. Rye House figures in history as the seat of a plot, which contemporaries describe as "horrid," to kill King Charles II. as he returned from a race meeting in Newmarket in 1683. Unfortunately, perhaps, the plot failed, owing to the king's return a week earlier than expected, and there was no telephone to advise the Rye House assassins of the change of plan. A penny guide-book gives what purports to be the history of the crime, though I fear most of the romantic features are mythical. It relates how Ruth, the daughter of Rumsey, who devised the plot, listened at the door and learned the plan of the conspirators. Between her father and the king this devoted maiden never hesitated a minute, but hustled her lover away to Newmarket to warn Charles of his impending danger. After great difficulty the youth gained an audience with the king, and it is recorded that Charles only laughed at his story. Here, at least, is a touch of probability--Charles laughed at everything. Finding himself discredited, the lover became desperate; in his loyal zeal "he secretly set fire to the house in which the king resided in two or three places." Our chronicler, having thus unceremoniously ousted his royal majesty from his comfortable quarters, has him proceed "in disguise" to London, stopping at Rye House, where he confronted and confounded his enemies and bestowed "substantial marks of his favor" upon Ruth Rumsey and her lover. What these substantial marks were our chronicler declareth not--better left to the imagination, anyway, for it would be far more in keeping with the character of Charles to say that he promised substantial marks of his favor and forgot all about it. So much for Rye House legend. The facts are that the conspirators were apprehended and executed, and quite in accordance with his usual practices, the king made the circumstance an excuse for the removal of numerous of his enemies among the nobility who had nothing whatever to do with the plot. However, Rye House is quiet enough today and its only plots are the innocuous ones hatched over pots of beer in the minds of the trippers who throng it on Sundays and holidays. The conspirators did not meet at the inn itself, but in the castellated manor house just across the byroad. Of this only a fragment remains, but fortunately this fragment contains the "conspirators' room," as might be expected. The enterprising brewer has put this in good repair and has placed on view a number of relics of greater or less degree of merit. Among these is a pair of stupendous jack-boots, which our voluble guide assured us were the "hidentical boots what Holiver Cromwell wore" during a battle in which, as usual, he worsted the Royalists; but the placard above the relics was more modest in its claims, for it only stated that the boots were found on the battlefield. However, if the redoubtable "Holiver" wore these boots or anything like unto them when he met the enemy, one phase of his career may be accounted for--why he never ran away. Among the other curiosities with a real interest is the "Great Bed of Ware," so famous in its day that Shakespeare immortalized it in his "Twelfth Night." It is certainly a marvelous creation, some sixteen feet square, with enormous carved posts supporting an imposing canopy. Our guide asserted that in its early days no fewer than twenty-four men had slept in it at one time, and recited, in painful detail, the history of the bed. We inconsiderately interrupted him in the midst of his declamation and he had to start all over again, to his manifest annoyance. Even then he failed to finish, for the shadows were lengthening, and terminating his flow of eloquence with a shilling or two, we were soon speeding swiftly over the beautiful Chigwell road to London. II WANDERINGS IN EAST ANGLIA Despite the fascination that London always has and the fact that one could scarcely exhaust her attractions in years, it was with impatience that we endured the delay imposed by business matters and preparations for a period of two months or more on the road. We were impatient, surely, or we should hardly have left our hotel at six o'clock in the evening, in the face of a driving rain. Ordinarily, two or three hours would have brought us to Cambridge, only fifty miles away; but we could not depend on this with the caution necessary on the slippery streets in getting out of London. Once clear of the city there was little to hamper us on the fine Cambridge road and we counted on easily reaching the university town before lamplighting. The rain had nearly ceased, but the downpour had been tremendous, and in three successive valleys we forded floods, each one deeper than the preceding. Almost before we knew it--for in the gas lamps' glare the rain-soaked road looked little different from the yellow water--we were axle-deep in a fourth torrent and were deluged with a dirty spray from the engine fly-wheel. Manifestly we were not to reach Cambridge that night and we reluctantly turned about to seek shelter somewhere else. It was only a little way to the village of Buntingford, where we found clean though very unpretentious and not altogether comfortable accommodations at the George, a rambling old relic of coaching days. Our late dinner was fair and our rooms good-sized and neat, though dimly lit with tallow candles; but the ancient feather beds, our greatest terror in the smaller and a few of the larger towns, caused a well-nigh sleepless night. Morning revealed a little straggling gray-stone and slate village, unchanged to all appearances from the days of the coach-and-four. Our inn was a weather-beaten structure, and its facilities for dispensing liquor appeared by odds greater than its accommodation for non-bibulous travelers. Still, it was clean and homelike, in spots at least, and our hostess, who personally looked after our needs, was all kindness and sympathetic attention. Altogether, we had little complaint to lodge against the George, though greatly different from the really admirable University Arms at Cambridge, where we had planned to stop. We were early on the road, from which nearly all trace of the floods of the previous evening had vanished, and before long we were threading the familiar streets of Cambridge, where everything appeared to be in a bustle of preparation--at least so far as such a state of affairs could be in a staid English town--for the closing of the University year on the following week. There is no finer road in England than that leading from Cambridge to Newmarket. It is nearly level, and having been newly surfaced with yellow gravel, it stretches before us like a long golden ribbon in the sunshine. It leads through wide meadow-lands and at times runs straight away as an arrow's flight--truly a tempting highway for the light-footed motor car. Beyond Newmarket the road to Bury St. Edmunds is quite as fine, and no doubt this splendid highway is largely responsible for the intense antipathy to the motor car in the former town. However, one would hardly expect Newmarket to be wildly enthusiastic over the horseless carriage, for this ancient burg contests with Epsom for the position of chief horse-racing town in England--a proud distinction it had held for some centuries before the motor snorted through its streets. Another cause for the grief of the townsmen was the complaint of owners of high-bred horses that the motors jarred upon the nerves of the spirited animals to their great detriment, and naturally enough the citizens sympathized with their patron saint, the horse, against his petrol-driven rival. And thus it was that when we entered Newmarket we were met by the Motor Union scout, who cautioned us to observe rigidly the ten-mile limit or we would more than likely share the fate of a half dozen of our brethren the day before--a journey to police headquarters. Two months afterwards, when we again passed through the town, the war was still on, and it was some months later that I read in the daily papers that after great bitterness on both sides a truce had finally been reached. Despite its unfriendliness toward our ilk, we must admit that Newmarket is quite a modern-looking town, clean and attractive, with many fine buildings and excellent hotels. It lies in the midst of wide meadow-lands, much used for horseback sports such as polo and racing. Royal visits, so dear to the average Britisher, are a frequent event, and here it is that the King, usually in some new style of hat or cut of trousers, appears, to set the world of fashion agog. Well clear of Newmarket and its birds of prey, the most glorious of roads brought us quickly into the fine old town of Bury St. Edmunds--and none other in East Anglia has been celebrated by greater pens; for Charles Dickens and Thomas Carlyle sojourned at Bury and left us vigorous records of their impressions. The former set them down in the story of the trials and wanderings of Mr. Pickwick, and that honest old gentleman's comment on the town and its famous Angel Inn was altogether commendatory. It was later--in 1878--when Carlyle visited Bury, and the description he gave it then is quite applicable today. He saw "a prosperous, brisk town looking out right pleasantly from the hill-slope toward the rising sun, and on the eastern edge still runs, long, black and massive, a maze of monastic ruins." The "Angel" we found still deserving of the encomiums bestowed by Mr. Pickwick, a delightfully clean and quiet old inn fronting directly on the abbey gardens and presided over by a suave and very accommodating landlord. We were given spacious and well-lighted quarters--we may dwell on "well-lighted," since we could hardly apply this description, so far as artificial light is concerned, to more than two or three of the hundreds of hotels we visited. The most impressive feature of the abbey ruin is the massive square tower of the gateway, which stands intact, its ancient state almost undiminished. The abbey has a long history, for Edmund, King of East Anglia, was slain near at hand by the Danes in 870--legend says because he refused to abjure Christianity, and it was this that won his canonization as St. Edmund. To the time of the Dissolution the abbey was by far the greatest in East Anglia, and its ruins, though fragmentary, are quite sufficient to indicate its once vast extent. Near by stand the churches of St. James and St. Mary's, both rather ill-proportioned for lack of towers--a deficiency due, it is said, to the old-time abbots' fear that if these churches should be thus ornamented they would overshadow the abbey church, now entirely vanished. Good authorities state that St. Mary's has the finest open roof in England. It is supported on slender columns and covers a well-proportioned nave. In the church is the tomb of Mary Tudor, sister of Henry VIII. and wife first of Louis XII. of France and afterwards of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. There is not much of historic interest in Bury aside from its abbey and churches. One may occupy a pleasant hour or two in walking about the town, which, despite its antiquity, has a prosperous and up-to-date appearance. Twice in the course of our rambles we visited it and on both occasions our route led to Ipswich, though over different roads--first due south through Lavenham and Hadleigh and later by the way of Stowmarket. The former route is mainly through the retired Suffolk byways, not in the best condition, but bordered by charming country. Nowhere did we see a more delightful brick-and-timber house than the old manor at Brent Eleigh, though it has degenerated into a mere farm tenement rather better cared for than usual. What a world of quaint and ancient beauty there is in its many red-tiled gables surmounted by great clustered chimneys, its double mullioned windows and its black-oak and red-brick walls, splashed here and there with clinging masses of ivy. Our illustration only half tells the story, for it does not give the color or the most picturesque view of the house. We also came across Bildeston, a little out-of-the-way hamlet lost in the hills, which has many old houses not as yet fallen into the clutches of the restorer. This is also true of Hadleigh, a little farther on the road, which is rich in seventeenth century houses with fronts of ornamental plaster and carved oaken beams. Among the very oddest of these is the guildhall, standing quite apart in a graveyard thickly set with weather-worn headstones. [Illustration: OLD MANOR HOUSE, BRENT ELEIGH.] We reached Ipswich after a half day of slow progress, for signboards were often missing and the winding lanes bordered by high hedges made cautious driving imperative. Later we followed the road by Stowmarket, a much easier though less interesting route. Stowmarket, aside from its old-world streets and its huge church with an odd wooden spire, had nothing to detain us, for one would hardly care to linger at the gun-cotton factory, which is the most distinctive feature of the village. Little provision was made by the burghers who centuries ago platted the streets of Ipswich, for the coming of the motor or electric tram, and it was with difficulty that our car was able to thread its way through the narrow, crowded main street. It goes without saying that the objective of the pilgrim on entering the city will be the Great White Horse, the scene of some of Mr. Pickwick's most noted adventures, nor are we deterred by any recollection of his decidedly unpleasant experiences with the inn people. Like many of the incidents in his writings, it was the personal experience of Dickens that called forth the rather uncomplimentary remarks set down against the ancient hostelry; but the very fact that Charles Dickens had stopped there and written--no matter what--of the Great White Horse--is that not enough? And we could not forget if we wished that an exact replica of the Great White Horse was exhibited at the Chicago Fair as typical of the old-time English inn, for the fact is blazoned forth by a large placard in the hall. We were offered the spacious room, with its imposing, tall-posted beds, traditionally occupied by Mr. Pickwick. The Great White Horse, like many other institutions that felt the scourge of the caustic pen of Dickens, has changed; no better ordered, more comfortable and attentive hostelry did we find elsewhere, and we felt that it had outlived the bad reputation the great author gave it, even as America lived down the bitter scourging of the "American Notes," beneath which our fellow-countrymen writhed at the time. And perhaps we still think of the "Notes" and "Martin Chuzzlewit" with a twinge of bitterness, forgetting that the ridicule which Dickens indulged in concerning America was hardly comparable to the sharp castigations he administered to his own countrymen. His work was productive of good in both countries, and most of the evils he so scathingly rebuked no longer exist. Ipswich, though a city of some seventy thousand people and of considerable activity, is by no means shorn of its old-time interest and picturesqueness. There are many crooked old-world streets where the soft, time-mellowed tones of the gray walls and antique gables are diversified by carved beams, plaster fronts and diamond-paned windows, each of which has its box of brightly colored flowers. The most notable of the old houses and one of the noblest specimens of Tudor architecture in the Kingdom is "Ye Ancient House," with its odd dormer windows and richly decorated plaster front, situated near the Butter Market. The interior, now occupied by a bookshop and public library, is as unique and pleasing as the outside. There are paneled rooms, odd passages and corners, and a very quaint though rude chapel directly beneath the heavy arched timber roof. Of course such a striking old house must have its legend of royalty, and tradition has it that Charles II. was hidden in the chapel when seeking passage to France after the battle of Worcester. But the charm of Ipswich may serve no longer as an excuse to linger. We bid regretful farewell to the Great White Horse and are soon following the King's highway to the northward. It was a lowering day, with frequent dashes of rain and glints of sun breaking from a sky as blue as one may see in our own prairie states in June time. The road is winding and hilly for East Anglia, which is so generally level, but it passes through a fine country with many retired, old-world villages. Lowestoft we find another of the numerous seaside resorts that dot the southeastern coast. It has figured little in history and doubtless the most notable event in its career was its prompt surrender to Colonel Cromwell in 1642. It was gray and chilly when we entered Great Yarmouth, where we found a leaden-colored ocean thundering on the finest beach in the Kingdom. Yarmouth is popular as a resort town, though more widely known for its fisheries. Its characteristic feature is its "rows," a series of very narrow alleys, mostly bordered with shops and opening into the main street, forming, as Dickens puts it, "one vast gridiron of which the bars are represented by the rows." And one will notice that Dickens is much in evidence in East Anglia. Who can ever forget the freshness of the description of Yarmouth in "David Copperfield"? The hotels, as might be expected, are many, and some of them excellent; nowhere did we have better service than at the Victoria, though cheapness is not one of its attractions. Historic ruins, as a rule, are now carefully maintained in England and often made a feature of parks and pleasure grounds. But there are exceptions, where the onslaughts of decay are not withstood and where, unhindered, green ruin creeps steadily on. Such we found Caister Castle, four miles to the north of Yarmouth. We were attracted by its imposing appearance at some distance from the main road, and the byway into which we turned led into an ill-kept farmyard. Here stands the impressive ruin, with the stagnant waters of its old-time moat still surrounding the towering keep and shattered walls. It was quite deserted, apparently serving the neighboring farmer as a hen-roost. We learned little of its history, but the mystery, due to our very ignorance, together with the sad abandon of Caister Castle, makes it appeal to our imagination more strongly than many a well-cared-for ruin whose story has become commonplace. A broad, level road leads to Norwich and we ran through the flat fen country, dotted here and there with the Norfolk Broads. These pretty inland lakes lay dull and motionless under a leaden sky, but we could imagine them very picturesque on bright days, rippling in the sun and gleaming with white sails. The hour was late, but our flight was a rapid one, soon bringing us to the East Anglian metropolis, where we forthwith sought the Maid's Head Hotel. On the following morning we set out to explore the northern coast of Norfolk and our route led us through many byways and over much bad road. The day was clear and cool and the fine level country was in the full glory of June verdure. Everything seemed to indicate that the East Anglian farmer is contented and prosperous in the small way that prosperity comes to the common people of England. The countryside had a well-groomed appearance and the houses were better than the average. We proceeded almost due north to Mundesley, a mean, bleak little coast town with a single crooked street, its straggling cottages contrasting sharply with the palatial hotel in the midst of lawns and gardens on the hill overlooking the sea. Eastward from Mundesley we ran directly along the ocean, which is visible most of the time; the road is stony and steep in places--altogether the worst we had yet traversed. The coast country is decidedly different from the fertile and pleasant fields of the interior. It is bleak and drab-colored; there are vast stretches of sand dunes bordered with stony hills whose dull colorings are relieved by patches of yellow gorse and groups of stunted trees. The villages are in keeping with the country. The houses are of gray stone and broken flints and roofed with slate or dull-red tiles; the lines are square and harsh and there are no touches of ornament. Even the numerous churches partake of these characteristics; they are huge in bulk, with little or no attempt at artistic effect, often crowning some hilltop and looking as if they had defied the wild sea winds for ages. One we especially noted, standing quite apart on a hill overlooking the ocean--a vast weather-worn church with a square-topped tower in front and a queer little minaret to the rear--altogether an imposing and unusual structure. It completely dominates the poverty-stricken country and the mean little villages, the nearest of which is a half-mile away. The principal resource of the towns of the north Norfolk coast is resort hotels and boarding-houses. We saw them without number at Mundesley, Hunstanton, Cromer, Well-Next-the-Sea, and at solitary points along the road. The fine beach in many places, the rough but picturesque country and the unusual quiet of the surroundings no doubt prove attractive to many seeking rest. At Wells-Next-the-Sea we were glad indeed to forsake the wretched coast road for the broad white highway that leads by the way of Fakenham to Norwich. A few miles out of Norwich on the Newmarket road is Wymondham, noted for its odd timber cross and its ancient priory church with octagonal towers, which give it, from a distance, a rather unchurchlike appearance. The extent of the ruins still remaining is sufficient evidence that at one time Wymondham Priory was of no little importance. Most remarkable is the open roof, the oaken timbers of which were removed at the Dissolution, and after being stored away for ages, were again put in place at the recent restoration. The caretaker showed us about with the pride so common to his calling; but he heaved a sigh as he pointed out many costly features of restoration, such as the great screen, the massive bronze chandeliers and many elaborate carvings and furnishings. "Ah, sir," he said, "these were all donated by the late vicar; he carried out and paid for a large part of the restoration--but he's gone now!" "Dead?" we sympathetically asked. "No, indeed! It was all the fault of his landlady, who became displeased with him somehow and gave him notice." "Trouble about the rent?" we suggested. "Not a bit of it," was the indignant reply. "The rent was nothing to him. He is the youngest brother of the Duke of W----, and is very wealthy, with a large following. There is only one house to let in the parish that could accommodate him at all; and so he had to leave; yes, he had to leave, for one day he says to me, 'Did you ever hear of a minister getting the sack?' And he told me how badly his landlady had treated him and that he had to go. It was a sad day for Wymondham, sir. He had spent ten times his salary on the church and there were many other things he was about to do." "How much is the salary?" we asked. "Six hundred pounds. It is a large parish, covering thirty-five square miles." We gave the old man his expected fee and thought it strange to learn of a minister who had restored a great church from his private fortune and then had to give up his charge because there was only one available house to accommodate him and he couldn't have that. Surely the captious landlady must be execrated by the good members of the Priory Church of Wymondham. [Illustration: A STREET CORNER, EARLS COLNE, ESSEX.] It may seem a far cry from Wymondham, with its ecclesiastical traditions, to Thetford, the birthplace of that arch-heretic, Thomas Paine; yet it is only a few miles over the finest of roads. The village still preserves its old-world atmosphere and the house where Paine was born still stands, and is frequented, we learned, by many pilgrims. The old Bell Inn, the oddest of hostelries, looked cozy and restful, though we did not seek its hospitality. We hastened onward, leaving the Newmarket highway for Mildenhall, a quiet, unprogressive little village with an interesting manor house. This we did not see after all, for it chanced that it was closed during preparations for an open-air Shakespearean play in the park that afternoon. We paused in the market square and were accosted by a friendly disposed native who thought us at a loss for the road. We thanked him and asked him what there might be of interest in Mildenhall. He scratched his head reflectively and finally said: "Nothin, sir! Hi 'ave lived in Mildenhall for forty years and never saw anything of hinterest." Discouraging, indeed! but we dissented, for there is much in the little town to please one in whom familiarity has not bred contempt. The huge, rambling Bell Inn seemed wonderfully attractive, though quite out of proportion to the village at present. Facing the inn is the church, remarkable for its Early English windows and fine open hammer-beam, carved-oak roof, supported from corbels of angel figures with extended wings. Quite as unusual is the hexagonal market cross, built of heavy oak timbers, gracefully carved, which support the leaden roof. Besides these ancient landmarks, there is much else pleasing in Mildenhall. The thatched cottages, brilliant flower gardens and narrow streets, all combine to make it a snug, charming place where one might quite forget the workaday world without. Later in our wanderings we made another incursion into East Anglia, and retraced our route over many of its fine highways. We paused at Colchester and sought out some of the odd corners we missed before. On leaving the old city we wandered from the London road into quiet byways in search of Layer Marney, of whose stupendous ruined towers we had read years ago. After no end of inquiry, we came in sight of these, only to learn that the ruin had been incorporated into a modern mansion by a London gentleman and was no longer accessible to visitors. Still, we were able to come quite close and found work still in progress--a number of men laying out formal gardens about the house. The interest centers in the gate towers built four hundred years ago by Lord Marney, who planned to erect a mansion to correspond with his exalted station. But his unfinished work stands as a monument to his blighted hopes, for he died before his task was well begun and his only son followed him a year later. The structure is strikingly original in style; the entrance flanked by great octagonal towers eight stories high, with two immense windows--a network of stone mullions--just above the gateway. It was one of the earliest buildings since Roman times to be constructed of brick, and most unusual are the terra cotta moldings, which have a classic touch, due to Italian workmen brought to England by Lord Marney. [Illustration: MARNEY TOWERS, ESSEX.] The little church near by, of earlier date than the towers, is also built of brick and has so far escaped the ravages of the restorer. It has three black marble tombs of old-time Marneys and one of these must be older than the church, for it bears the mail-clad effigy of a crusader who died in 1414. The interior has scarcely been altered in the four hundred years of its existence; and we hardly saw another to match it in genuine spirit of the olden time. The roof of the nave had been repaired out of sheer necessity, but the dark, sagging beams of the chapel had never been molested. Over the door a black letter inscription, with initial and decorations in still brilliant red, is devoted to a scathing denunciation of "ye riche," so fierce as to seem almost modern. Perhaps the Marneys viewed it with the more complacency from the fact that their worldly possessions hardly accorded with their high station. One of the oddest features of the interior is the carved oaken effigies of four little monkeys perched on tall posts at either end of the family pews, and an ape is shown on the Marney arms. All because, tradition declares, a pet monkey snatched a prehistoric Marney while an infant from a burning mansion and lost its life to save the child. III SOME MIDLAND NOOKS AND THE WASHINGTON COUNTRY It was not easy to get rooms at the University Arms, even though we had applied the week before. It was the close of the university year, for which event, the manageress assured us, many people had engaged rooms a full year in advance. We were late applicants, to be sure. However, we had the advantage of a previous acquaintance--a thing that counts for much in the English hotel--and, since nowhere else would do, we were soon comfortably established at the University Arms. A stop of a day or two gives us the opportunity of seeing much of the gala life of the town, including the hotly contested boat races on the Cam. There are many events not directly connected with the university, among them the cart-horse parade, which includes hundreds of gaily decked work-horses, splendid fellows, and it is doubtful if any American town of twice the size of Cambridge could make anything like such a showing, all points of equine excellence considered. One sees very few poor-looking horses in England, anyway--outside of London. But what have we to do with horses? We are again on the road at the earliest opportunity, following the splendid highway to Huntingdon. The countryside through which we pass is crowded with memories of the Great Protector, but we shall give it no place in this chronicle of unfamiliar England. The old Bell Inn at Stilton, on the Great North Road fourteen miles above Huntingdon, will arrest the attention of any one who has learned to discriminate. It is a relic of the time when this road was one of the busiest in all England--the coaching traffic between London, York and Edinburgh plying over it. The inn fronts directly on the street--a long, rambling building, with many gables, stone-mullioned windows and huge, square, clustered chimneys. It is built of sandstone, weatherworn to a soft, yellowish brown, and once rich in mouldings and carvings which are now barely discernible. Now only about half of the house is occupied and the stables have fallen in ruin. The village of Stilton is one of the sleepiest and most rural type. What a contrast the good old days must have presented when six and thirty coaches-and-four pulled up daily at the Bell and its hostlers led nearly one hundred horses to its capacious stables! We saw much of rural England in threading our way from Stilton through a maze of narrow byroads to Oundle, which caught our eye as one of the quaintest of the old-world inland villages. Many are the pleasant vistas down its streets, each with its array of buildings in soft-gray and red tones, the sagging roofs surmounted by odd gables and huge chimneys. But most interesting are the old inns, the Turk's Head and the Talbot. The first is an imposing Jacobean structure with many gables and deep-set stone-mullioned windows. The Talbot is quite as fine in exterior, and though we could not remain as guests, the landlord apparently took pleasure in showing us about, manifesting a genuine pride in his establishment, which was further evidenced by its well-kept appearance. Even the court was flower-bordered and there was a flourishing greenhouse. Inside there are rooms with much antique paneling and solid oaken beams which support the ceilings. But most notable are the relics of Fotheringhay Castle incorporated into the Talbot. The winding black-oak staircase is the one which Mary descended on the mournful morning of her execution, and among the mullioned casement windows are doubtless some through which the fair captive often gazed during the long, weary days of her imprisonment. [Illustration: CROSS ROADS NEAR OUNDLE.] There are few places in the average village where the tourist can gain local information so easily as at a picture postcard shop. The keeper is sure to call your attention to everything of interest and is equally sure to be well posted on the history and traditions of the locality. Such a shop we found at Oundle, and the pictures of Deane House and Church and Kirby Hall soon engaged our attention. "Do not miss them," said the genial shopkeeper, and he gave us accurate directions as to the roads--not easy to follow from the confusing streets of Oundle into another tangle of byways. Deane House, the fine Tudor residence of the Earls of Cardigan, is a few miles to the northwest. It is not shown to visitors, but its battlemented towers, odd turrets and heavily buttressed walls are plainly visible from the road. Near it stands Deane Church, whose fine open-timbered roof is supported by slender oaken columns--quite unusual, indeed. There is a beautiful sixteenth century tomb, its details almost perfect, with the effigies of the first earl and his two wives placed impartially on either side. But nowhere else did we see an altar-tomb so chaste and artistic as that erected to the late earl, who died in 1868. It is wrought in purest alabaster, and beside the figure of the earl, represented as a tall, handsome man in full military dress, is the effigy of his widow, not interred with her husband as yet, but living at the age of eighty-four. Evidently the lady desires that future ages shall remember her at her best, for the effigy represents a transcendently beautiful young woman of about twenty, lying calmly in sleep, her head resting on a gracefully rounded arm and her face turned toward her mate. Every detail is delicately and correctly done and the whole work is redolent of beauty and sentiment. Will it ever see such cataclysms as swept over its companion tomb? May no iconoclastic vandal ever shatter those slenderly wrought hands or carve his churlish name on the stately figure of the earl--and yet how often such desecrations have occurred in England in the not very distant past! "There are absolutely no restrictions on visitors at Kirby Hall," we were informed at Oundle, and it might have been added that no effort is made to direct one thither. We passed unwittingly and were compelled to turn about to find the common-looking farm gate that opened through the hedgerow into the rough, stone-strewn bit of road leading to the dismantled palace. So uninviting was the neglected lane that two or three English motorists who arrived about the same time left their cars and walked the mile or so to the Hall. It was not our wont to be so cautious, and we drove directly to the stately though crumbling gateway. As we rounded a group of trees and caught a full view of the splendid facade of Kirby Hall, we could not repress an exclamation of surprise. Beautiful and imposing, indeed, despite long years of neglect and decay, is this magnificent Tudor mansion! It is built of white stone, its long walls pierced by a multitude of graceful windows and surmounted by great grouped chimneys and richly carved and pinnacled gables. Passing the imposing entrance, we found ourselves in a wide, grass-grown court, which the mansion surrounds in quadrangular form. The architecture of the court is graceful in the extreme--fluted and carved marble pilasters running the full height between the windows, which have a distinctly classic touch on the entrance side. On the three remaining sides there are great clustered windows, no less than twenty in one of the groups, separated by slender stone mullions. Most of the glass has disappeared or clings to the casements in shattered fragments, though in a small, still-inhabited corner the windows are entire. We wander at will through the once splendid apartments, now in pitiable decay and ruin. In the banqueting hall--a vast apartment with high open-beamed roof and minstrel gallery--a washerwoman is heating her water-pots, and piles of wool are stored in the Hall of State. But from the far greater number of the rooms the roof has wholly or partially disappeared and the rooks scold each other in the chimneys or caw hungrily among the sagging rafters. The room once used for the library is less ruinous and its two immense circular bay windows overlook a beautiful stretch of country. But, altogether, the house is more of a ruin than we anticipated at first glance. Restoration would be expensive and difficult. The walls in many places lean far from the vertical and are intersected by cracks and rents. Columns and pilasters are broken and sprung and in many windows the mullions are gone or twisted awry. The staircases are gone and the halls and passageways piled deep with debris. Yet such is the charm of the place that only recently an American negotiated with its owner, the Earl of Winchelsea, with a view to purchase and restoration, but through inability to clear the title, the deal was never consummated. Kirby Hall has been in the possession of the Winchelsea family ever since it was built by Elizabeth's favorite, Sir Christopher Hatton, after plans by the master architects, John Thorpe and Inigo Jones. Reverses compelled its gradual abandonment, though it was inhabited by the owner as late as 1830. But we did not inquire closely into the history of Kirby Hall, nor do we care to do so. We prefer to think of it as more or less a mystery--an enchanted palace whose weird beauty is not destroyed but only rendered pathetic by the decay and desolation that has fallen upon it as it stands alone in the wide stretches of forest-dotted meadowland. It was near the end of a strenuous day when we cast a regretful glance at the great chimneys and graceful pinnacles silhouetted against the evening sky--but there are no accommodations for travelers at Kirby Hall. No place near at hand appealed to us. Coventry and its comfortable King's Head Hotel was not out of reach and attracted us as it did more than once in our journeyings. The fifty miles we covered easily before lamplighting time. [Illustration: KIRBY HALL.] Although we had visited Coventry before--and, as it chanced, re-visited it many times later--we did not find our interest in the charming old city lessen, and it occurs to us more than ever as the best center for Warwickshire. Kenilworth is only five miles, Warwick twice as far, and Stratford eight miles farther. At Coventry one may be thoroughly comfortable, which can hardly be said of the inns at Warwick or Stratford. Americans always seek the Red Horse at the latter place because of its associations with Irving; but there is little more than the room our gentle traveler occupied, the chair he sat in and the "scepter" wherewith he was wont to stir up a cheerful fire in his grate, to induce one to return. But in Coventry, at the ancient though much re-modeled King's Head, one strikes the happy medium of English hotels. It has the homelikeness and freedom of the smaller country inns without their discomforts, and it does not force upon one the painful formalities of the resort hotels, with their terrible English table d'hote dinners. So when we were established at the King's Head, in spacious rooms, with plenty of tables and chairs--articles uncommon enough to merit special mention--there was always a temptation to linger. Of the many thousands of Americans who throng to Stratford every year, perhaps only a small number are aware that the ancestral homes of the Washingtons are only a few miles away. Still smaller is the number who make a pilgrimage to Sulgrave or to Brington, ten miles farther, though the memories and traditions of these places are so closely connected with the ancestors of the Father of His Country. True, his stately home by the Potomac is not neglected by his countrymen, but every American should be deeply interested in the English forefathers of the man who more than any other freed them from the "rule of kings." [Illustration: SULGRAVE CHURCH AND VILLAGE. Laurence, the ancestor of George Washington, is buried in this church. From Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.] We thought it a favorable omen to see the gray sky which had drenched Coventry since dawn break into fleecy clouds as we started over the Banbury road for Sulgrave. The hedges and trees skirting the road were washed clean of their coating of dust and the whole countryside gleamed like an emerald in the yellow flood of the afternoon sunshine. Our car seemed to catch the spirit of delight that pervaded everything and sprang away airily and noiselessly over the fine highway. Fifteen miles to the south we turned into a narrow byway leading to Wormleighton, in whose ancient church there are records chronicling the marriage of Robert Washington in 1565 and the birth of his son George in 1608, antedating his famous namesake in America by more than a century. It would even now be hard to follow on the map this maze of byroads which we threaded, winding between the hawthorne hedges or gliding beneath the over-arching branches of ancient elms; passing snug farmhouses and cottages brilliant with rose vines and creepers and fairly embowered in old-fashioned flowers; and leading through villages the very embodiment of quiet and repose. And Sulgrave, the cradle of the Washingtons, seemed the sleepiest and loneliest of them all--a gray, straggling hamlet with only here and there a dash of color from flower-beds or ivied walls, looking much as it must have looked when the last Washington was Lord of the Manor, more than three hundred years ago. It rather lacks the neat, trim appearance of the average Midland village. Its streets are grass-grown and strewn with stones. Many of the cottages are surrounded by tumble-down stone walls, and the small church with huge embattled tower, the product of a recent restoration, crowns the hill in a wide, uncared-for graveyard. A little to one side of the village they pointed out the "Washington House," and we followed a stony path leading into the farmyard, where the good man was just stabling his horses. A typical country woman--of the tenant class--warmly welcomed us at Sulgrave Manor. Clearly they are glad to see Americans here; visitors are not the tolerated intruders that they are in so many historic places. We learned that we should even be welcome to a clean, neatly furnished room had we desired to pass the night beneath the roof. We were shown every nook and corner of the curious old house--not an extensive or imposing one, but three hundred years ago domestic accommodations were not elaborate even in the homes of the nobility, and while the Washingtons ranked high among the gentry, they did not possess a title. The house has not been greatly altered, in outward appearance, at least, and is kept in scant repair by the owner, a Devonshire gentleman; fortunately, the thick stone wall and heavy oaken beams yield but slowly to time's ravages. The most imposing feature is the solid black-oak staircase with its curiously twisted banisters. The interior has been altered from the original plan--just how much it is difficult to ascertain. Nothing, however, impresses the American visitor so much as the Washington coat-of-arms, executed in plaster on one of the gables by the ancient owner. This had suffered much from the weather, but has lately been protected by a glass covering. The outer walls were originally covered with plaster, but this has fallen away in many places, showing the rough stone underneath; and elsewhere masses of ivy half hide the small, square-paned windows. Very faithful in detail and sentiment is Mr. Sherrin's picture, painted at my request--the artist gaining his inspiration by a week under the old roof while employed in his task. The picture shows the old house much as we saw it, standing against a rich sunset sky, its harsh outlines softened by a little distance. The picture of the village and church was done by the artist at the same time, though for effect the church is shown rather as it appeared before it was restored. We followed the rough cobblestone walk to the church door, but could not gain admittance until the caretaker was found, for Sulgrave Church has been kept strictly under lock and key ever since one of the Washington brasses was stolen--by an American, of course--a few years ago. It is a small, rough, lichen-covered building, much restored, even to the stolen brass tablet to the memory of the first Laurence Washington. The engraving of this, on another page, shows how certainly the Washington coat-of-arms must have suggested the motif for the American flag and the great seal of the United States. The church is very ancient and there is in the choir a small "Lepers' Door," unique as one of three or four in England. Here in olden time the lepers might approach for alms or to hear the sermon, but dared not enter the church. [Illustration: WASHINGTON BRASS, SULGRAVE CHURCH.] It is not the purpose of this book of random wanderings to deal much with sober history, but the story of Sulgrave's connection with the Washingtons is not common and a short sketch may not be amiss. In the reign of Henry VIII., Laurence Washington was Mayor of Northampton and a gentleman of consequence. Sulgrave was among the confiscated church lands that the King was offering at bargain prices, and Washington purchased it for three hundred pounds. A tradition that these alienated church lands would bring evil fortune to the owner does not seem to have deterred him, though when his grandson, another Laurence Washington, was forced by adverse circumstances to sell the estate, the old superstition might seem to have been verified. This grandson, with a large family, removed about 1606--the exact date is doubtful--to Little Brington, some ten miles to the northeast of Sulgrave, where he was given a house, it is thought, by the Earl of Spencer, to which noble family the Washingtons were related by marriage. The Laurence Washington who is buried in Great Brington Church was the great-great-grandfather of the "first American." Later in our wanderings we visited the Bringtons, which lie only a short distance from Northampton and may be reached by excellent roads running through some of the most beautiful Midland country. We paused in the midst of a heavy shower near the village cross under the gigantic elm that stands in front of Great Brington Church, to which we gained admission with but little delay. The Brington villages are on the estate of the Spencers, one of the wealthiest and most ancient families of the English nobility, and the church is an imposing one, kept in perfect repair. The chief Washington memorials are the brasses--the inscription and coat-of-arms--over the grave of Laurence Washington of Sulgrave and Brington, and these have been sunk deep in the stone slab and are guarded by lock and key. In the chapel are some of the most elaborate memorials we saw--altar tombs bearing the sculptured effigies and ancient arms and armor of the Spencers; and yet how all this splendid state, all the wealth of carving, arms and effigies, shrink into insignificance beside the august name on the plain slab in the aisle, and how all the trappings of heraldry and the chronicles of all the line of Spencers fade into nothingness over against that tiny sunken tablet with its stars and bars! Half a mile from Great Brington is Little Brington, where we saw the Washington house referred to previously, with only a few touches, mullioned windows and carvings, to distinguish it from the cottages of the village tenantry. There is a world of pathos in the inscription cut in the stone tablet above the doorway, "The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord," which may refer to the loss of Sulgrave and the death of a young son shortly after the Washingtons reached Brington. Inside, the house, transformed into a laborer's cottage, has been altered out of all semblance to its former self. But the rain was still coming down in torrents from the leaden skies and hiding the beauties of the Bringtons. It took another visit on a perfect August day to fix the impression which we still retain of the romantic beauty of the little towns, and it is only by such a comparison that one can judge how much we lost on account of the many days of dark, foggy weather that prevail during the summer in Britain. Under the more pleasant conditions we could but feel that, aside from the memories of the Washingtons which hover over the Bringtons, these delightful Midland villages might well engage the admiration of the wayfarer. One may well pause in his flight through the hawthorne-bordered byways to view the prospect that greets the eye from Great Brington churchyard. The church occupies slightly rising ground, from which in almost every direction one may behold stretches of some of the most charming rural country in England; and the church itself, with the old village cross beneath the monster elm tree, is not the least picturesque feature of the landscape. The village which fronts it, clean, cozy and comfortable-looking, its gray walls dashed with ivy and relieved by the rich color of rose vines and old-time flowers, is as lovely and peaceful a hamlet as one will find, even in England. Not less pleasing is the surrounding country--"pastoral" describes it--with its long reaches of meadowland, broken by hedgerows and lordly trees. To the right is Althorpe House, the stately home of the Spencers, with its vast, well-kept park, where the huge old oaks shimmer in the hazy midsummer afternoon. Amidst all this quiet and beauty one forgets the dark problems that threaten England and thinks only of her ineffable charm. Little Brington is not less attractive than its neighbor--the thatched structure above the well in the village green and the two hoary firs overshadowing it forming a picture as quaint as pleasing. We leave the lovely villages regretfully, and winding out of the maze of byroads, take the highway that leads toward the ancient city of Northampton, whose chief distinction should be that a Washington was once its Lord Mayor. [Illustration: THE WASHINGTON CHURCH, TOWN CROSS AND ELM, GREAT BRINGTON.] IV MEANDERINGS FROM COVENTRY TO EXETER Despite our numerous visits to Coventry, each one had some new delight in store; some bit of curious antiquity that had previously escaped us was sure to turn up, and once in the heart of the old-world town, one easily forgets the modern manufacturing city that has grown up around it. In the immediate vicinity of the famous three spires there clusters much to detain one and which may well make Coventry the shrine of a far greater number of pilgrims than it now is. If we enter the grand old church of St. Michael's, whose slender spire rises three hundred feet into the blue heavens--for the heavens are blue and cloudless after the rain of yesterday--we shall be confronted by the noblest interior of any parish church in England. Its unhampered expanse and lightness of design intensify its splendid proportions. The fine lancet windows gleam like clustered jewels, for modern glass of unusually good taste is intermingled with much dating from Tudor times, which, fortunately, escaped the wrath of the fanatics. The old caretaker tells us that the church is "soon to be a cathedral," and if so, it will wear its distinction fitly indeed. Near by the church is the guildhall, deservedly known as one of the finest bits of medieval England now extant. One may not undertake to catalog its glories, but its contents, as well as its architecture, will interest even the layman. In its muniment room is a collection of eleven thousand books and manuscripts of great value, and many rare old paintings grace the walls of the banqueting hall, which has an unrivaled open-timber roof. In the oriel window at the head of the stairs, in the softened light of the antique glass, stands Coventry's patron saint, Lady Godiva, her shrinking figure beautifully wrought in white marble. Old arms and armor are scattered about the halls and the whole atmosphere of the place is that of three hundred years ago. To be sure, Elizabeth visited the guildhall. That rare royal traveler did not neglect the opportunity for entertainment and display offered her by her loyal subjects of Coventry. Nor is the tradition of a certain exchange of compliment between the men of the old town and their royal mistress without a touch of realism in its portrayal of the sharp sting of Elizabeth's wit, not infrequently felt by those who, knowing her vanity, undertook to flatter her too grossly. For it is recorded that the citizens of Coventry greeted her majesty in an address done into doggerel in this wise: "Wee men of Coventree Are very glad to see Yr gracious majestie! Good Lord, how fair ye bee!" To which she instantly responded: "Our gracious majesty Is very glad to see Ye men of Coventree. Good Lord, what fools ye bee!" But we may not linger in Coventry, and after a hasty glance at the almshouses--whose brick-and-timber front, with richly carved black-oak beams, rivals Leicester's Hospital at Warwick--we are again on the King's highway. And it is a highway fit for a king, this broad sweeping road that leads from Coventry through Kenilworth and Warwick to Stratford-upon-Avon. There are few more picturesque runs in Britain and few that take one past so many spots of literary and historic interest. Only the fact that we have been over this route several times before offers excuse for covering the twenty miles in less than an hour. As we flit along we catch glimpses of the fragments of Kenilworth, of Guy's Cliff, of the old mill; and cautiously thread our way through the cramped streets of Warwick, which we leave, not without admiring glances at the Castle, the splendid tower of St. Mary's Church, and the fine facade of Leicester's Hospital. Passing the confines of the ancient gate, we soon come into the open road, smooth and gently undulating, and a few minutes lands us in Shakespeare's Stratford. It would be hard to follow in sequence our wanderings from Stratford to Cheltenham, mainly through country lanes often hidden between tall hedges and leading over steep, rough hills, as we sought quaint and historic bits of Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. Just beyond Shipston-on-Stour we paused before a Jacobean manor house, a slight opening in the high hedge permitting a glimpse of the gray gables and mullioned windows from the road. A farmer's wife, who saw us stop, called to us and offered to conduct us through the quaint sixteenth century building, Little Woolford Manor, as it is known. The hall, with open-timber roof, paneled walls and minstrel gallery, lighted by tall windows still rich with ancient glass, is an apartment to delight any lover of the old-time domicile. This has been adapted to a schoolroom and the remainder of the house divided into farm tenements. It is full of odd corners and weird passageways and very appropriately has its ghost, a certain "White Ladye," who walks the scene of her earthly misfortunes at midnight. None of the occupants had ever seen her or knew anything of the tradition, but no one could dispute the good taste of a ghost who should choose Little Woolford Manor as a residence. Nor could such a fine old house properly be without its legend of Charles the Wanderer, and our guide showed us a small secret chamber behind an oven where with a few retainers it is said the king hid and was nearly roasted by a rousing fire built in the grate by the pursuing Cromwellians. There are other traditions and relics of the royal fugitive in the vicinity, for we passed Little Compton Manor, plainly visible from the road, which was once the home of Bishop Juxon, the bosom friend of King Charles. Here for many years was preserved the block upon which the King's head was severed, and also his favorite chair; but these disappeared shortly after the Bishop's death. A few miles farther, just off the upland road from Little Compton to Moreton-in-the-Marsh, one may see the Rollright Stones, a druidical circle; and tradition declares that these stones were once Danish invaders who were thus metamorphosed for some presumptuous act. Descending a long and dangerously steep hill sloping from the upland, we came into Chipping Campden, and, possibly excepting Broadway, it has hardly an equal in a section famous for picturesque towns and villages. A wide street between a long array of gray gables with many time-worn carvings, odd signs and frequent sun-dials, leads from one end of the town, marked by a huge oak, to the other, where a giant chestnut stands sentinel. Here again the almshouses attract attention. They are built of soft-toned brown stone and the walls are surmounted by pointed gables and clustered chimneys. Near by rises the graceful church tower, overshadowing a building whose vast proportions seem to ill accord with the decayed little town about it. But we learn that it was built when Chipping Campden was the greatest wool market in the country, and a brass tablet of 1401 commemorates one of the ancient benefactors of the church as the "flower of all wool merchants in England." We found inside some of the most perfect brasses that we had seen, but a general restoration had quite robbed the church of its greatest charm. The large pillared cross in the wool market and the massive proportions of the courthouse, with its heavily buttressed walls, testify mutely of the time when Chipping Campden was a place of much greater importance than it is today. Broadway is already famous. Its "discovery" is attributed to Americans, and several American artists of note--among them Mr. F. D. Millet, who occupies the ancient manor house of the Abbot of Pershore--have been included in the foreign contingent. Its name is derived from the broad London and Worcester road which passes in a long sweeping curve between rows of fine Tudor and Jacobean houses with many fanciful gables and massive stone chimneys. In the coaching days Broadway was of great importance and then were built the fine inns and business houses. A period of decadence followed, during which it gradually sank into a neglected country village, from which oblivion the old-world charm of its very decay finally rescued it. It shows quite markedly the influx of outsiders and the trail of the tourist; in this regard it is inferior to the as yet undiscovered and unspoiled town of Chipping Campden. But while there is a touch of newness in the outskirts and while the antique buildings show traces of returning prosperity, there is still much in Broadway to please the eye and delight the artistic sense. Few indeed of the old-time inns have the charm of the Lygon Arms, where we paused for our afternoon tea. (Afternoon tea--so far have the customs of the land of our sojourn corrupted us!) It is a many-gabled building of soft sandstone, rich with browns verging into reds and dashed here and there with masses of ivy which half hide the deep-set stone-mullioned windows. To the rear its glass-roofed garage with cement floor and modern accessories tells plainly of one source of returning prosperity. Everywhere about the inn is cleanliness, and the charm of the antique is combined with modern comfort. The interior is quite as unspoiled as the outside, and nothing could be more redolent of old-time England than the immense fireplace in the ingle nook of the hall. Here, too, linger legends of King Charles, and there is one great paneled room with huge fireplace and Tudor furniture that claims the honor of association with the sterner name of Cromwell. Perhaps the least pleasing feature of our pilgrimage was the necessity that often forced us to hasten by places like the Lygon Arms--but one could scarce exhaust Britain's attractions in a lifetime should he pause as long and as often as he might wish. [Illustration: LYGON ARMS, BROADWAY.] Evesham we passed in the rain and gathering twilight. We reached Tewkesbury at nightfall, but its inns did not strike our fancy, and we hastened to Cheltenham, leaving the fine old towns for a later visit. At the Victoria in Cheltenham we found things much more to our liking. We followed a main road almost due south from Cheltenham through Painswick, Stroud and Nailsworth, gray old towns lying deep in the hills. At Painswick is a fine Perpendicular church, so much restored as to present a rather new appearance. The churchyard has a wonderful array of carefully clipped yew trees, perhaps a hundred in all, though no one, says local tradition, can count them twice the same--a peculiarity also ascribed to the monoliths at Stonehenge. Close to the church walls are the ancient stocks, in this case forged from heavy iron bars and presenting an air of staunch security that must have struck terror to the hearts of old-time culprits; and the rough stone slab upon which the offenders were seated still remains in place. Stroud is a larger and better-appearing town, whose ten thousand inhabitants depend mainly upon the manufacture of English broadcloths. The whole section, in fact, was once the center of cloth manufacture, but the advent of the steam engine and more modern methods superseded the watermills. All about are half-ruined factory buildings, some of them once of vast extent, with shattered windows and sagging roofs. Here and there one has survived in a small way or has been adapted to some other industry. In the neighborhood are many country houses, once the residences of wealthy cloth-makers, but now either deserted or turned into farm tenements. The country is hilly and wooded, and we had few points of vantage that afforded views more picturesque and far-reaching than from some of the upland roads overlooking these Gloucestershire landscapes. The road sweeps around the hills, rising at times far above the valleys, affording a panorama of the Avon gleaming through the dense green foliage that half conceals it. The vale presents the most charming characteristics of rural England. One sees the irregular patchwork of the little fields, the great parks with their sunny meadowlands and groups of ancient trees, the villages lying in the valleys or clinging to the hillsides, and the gray church towers that lend a touch of majesty and solemn sentiment to almost every glimpse of Britain. We missed the main road from Bath to Wells, wandering through a maze of unmarked byroads, and were able to proceed only by frequent inquiry. We did not regain the highway until just entering the town and had been a comparatively long time in going a short distance. After a few minutes' pause to admire the marvelous west front of the cathedral, with its endless array of crumbling prophets, saints and kings, weatherworn to a soft-gray blur, we were away on the highroad leading across the wold to Cheddar, famed for its stupendous cliffs, its caverns--and its cheese. The caverns and cliffs are there, but little cheese now comes from Cheddar, even though it bears the name. As we ascended the exceedingly steep and winding road we were astonished--overwhelmed. We had not expected to find natural scenery upon such an amazing scale in the heart of England--gray pinnacled cliffs rising, almost sheer, five hundred feet into the sky. Not often may British scenery be styled imposing, but the towering cliffs of Cheddar surely merit such description. In the midst of the gorge between the great cliffs there are two prehistoric caverns extending far into the earth. We entered one of them, now a mere passageway, now a spacious cavern whose domelike roof glistens with translucent stalactites. Here we pass a still, mirrorlike pool, and there a deep fissure from which comes the gurgle of a subterranean river. Altogether, there is much that is interesting and impressive. Perhaps it all seems a little gaudy and unnatural because of the advertising methods and specious claims of the owner and alleged discoverer, but none the less a visit is worth while. The museum of relics found in the cavern contains a remarkable prehistoric skull, with low, thick frontal bone and heavy square jaw, but its queerest feature is little spurlike projections of the temporal bone just above the ear. It is estimated by archaeologists that the possessor of this curious skull had lived at least forty thousand years ago and mayhap had made his dwelling-place in the Cheddar Caves. We were assured that an offer from the British Museum of five thousand pounds for the relic had been refused. The sun was low when we left Cheddar, and Taunton seemed the nearest place where we might be sure of good accommodations. We soon reached Axbridge, a gray little market town, so ancient that a hunting-lodge built by King John still stands on the market square. Near Bridgewater, a few miles farther, is the Isle of Athelney--once an island in a marsh, perhaps--where King Alfred made his last desperate stand against the Danish invaders, defeating them and finally expelling them from Britain. Not less in interest, though perhaps less important in its issues, was the Battle of Sedgemoor, fought here in 1685, when the Duke of Monmouth was disastrously defeated by the Royal Army--the last battle worthy of the name to be waged on English soil. But we were to learn more of Monmouth at Taunton and to have again impressed upon us how easy it is in Britain for one to hasten through places of the deepest historic interest quite unaware of their tragic story. We had passed through Taunton before, seeing little but a staid old country town with a church tower of unmatched gracefulness and dignified proportions; but Taunton's tragic part in the parliamentary wars and her fatal connection with "King Monmouth" never occurred to us, if, indeed, we knew of it at all. Taunton was strongly for the Parliament, but it was a storm center and was taken and retaken until the iron hand of Fairfax crushed the Royalists before its walls. Its record stood against it when the King "came into his own again." Its walls were leveled to the ground, its charter taken away and many of its citizens thrown into prison. Discontent and hatred of the Stuarts were so rampant that any movement against their rule was welcomed by the Taunton Whigs, though it is hard to see any consistency in the unreasoning support they gave to the Duke of Monmouth--the son of Charles II. and one of his many mistresses--in his pretensions to the throne occupied by James II. Monmouth entered Taunton amidst the wildest acclamations, and it was from the market square of the rebellious town that he issued his proclamation assuming the title of King. He was followed by an ill-organized and poorly equipped army of seven thousand men, who were defeated by four thousand Royal Troops. Then followed a reign of terror in Taunton. The commander of the King's forces hanged, without pretense of trial, many of his prisoners, using the sign of the old White Hart Inn as a gallows. Then came the Bloody Assizes, held by Jeffreys of infamous memory, in the great hall of the castle. After trials no more than travesties of brutal jests and savage cruelty, more than three hundred Somersetshire men were sentenced, according to the terrible customs of the time, to be "hanged, drawn and quartered," and a thousand were doomed to transportation. Here the active history of Taunton may be said to have ended. But Taunton has little to remind us of these dark and bloody times as we glide through her fine old streets and draw up in front of the London Hotel, where the host himself in evening dress welcomes us at the door. Every attention is given us and The London certainly deserves its official appointment by the Royal Automobile Club as well as the double distinction accorded it by the infallible Baedeker. It is one of the charming old-fashioned inns, such as perhaps inspired the poet Shenstone with the sentiment expressed in his well-known quatrain: "Whoe'er has traveled life's dull round, Whate'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think that he has found His warmest welcome at an inn." Modern Taunton is a city of some twenty thousand people, and being the county town, with some manufactories, it enjoys a quiet prosperity. Of its ancient landmarks, the castle, dating from the eleventh century, is the most notable and has appropriately been turned into a museum. Here one may enter the hall where Jeffreys held his court. Though two centuries or more have elapsed, the "horror of blood" seems still to linger in the gloomy apartment. The market-place retains its old-time characteristics, and though the house occupied by Jeffreys has disappeared, the White Hart Inn still stands. But the glory of Taunton is St. Mary's Church, one of the most graceful examples of the Perpendicular period in England. The splendid tower seems almost frail in its airy lightness--and perhaps it is, for it is a recent restoration, or rather replacement, of the older one, which had become insecure. Sherborne Abbey we had missed in our former wanderings, though once very near it, and we felt that we must make amends though it cost us a detour of sixty miles. And yet, what hardship is it to go out of one's way in Britain? Indeed, can one ever go out of his way in rural England? Scarcely, from the point of view of such nomads as ourselves. The great tower of Curry Rivell Church dominates in such a lordly manner the village straggling up the hill toward it that we were tempted to look inside, and a mild curiosity was aroused, from which we have never yet been able to rid ourselves. For, chained to one of the iron railings of a sixteenth century tomb, is a queer little iron-bound oaken cabinet. It is scarcely more than a foot in length, the wood is worm-eaten and the massive lock and heavy hinges are red with rust. What mystery does it contain and why did it escape the church-looters of Puritan times? The church is rich in antique carvings, among them a delicately wrought screen and fine fifteenth century bench ends. The tomb to which the coffer is chained is a very unusual one. It bears on its altar the effigies of two mail-clad warriors, while at either side kneel figures of their wives over two tiny cribs with several gnomelike children tucked in each. Overhead, borne by four pillars, is a domed canopy upon which are painted four sprawling cherubs. All very quaint and strange and illustrative of the queer mortuary ideas of the medieval period. We followed the winding, hilly and often indifferent road that leads through Somerton, Ilchester and Yeovil to Sherborne, and while our lunch was preparing at the slow-moving Antelope--there is little in a name, in this instance--we wandered down old-world streets to the abbey, the goal of all pilgrims to Sherborne. It seemed odd to find the old town crowded with rural visitors all agape at a fantastic circus parade that was winding along the crooked streets, but Sherborne is fond of parades and pageants, for we were assured that the historical pageant now the rage in the older towns of England was originated in Sherborne. The town itself is a charming place--I borrow the words of an enthusiastic admirer whose picture may be better than I can paint: "It is a bright town, prim and old-fashioned, and unsullied by the aggressive villas and red brick terraces of the modern suburb. Although a small place, it is yet of much dignity. Here are timber-faced dwellings, where the upper story overhangs the lower, and where the roof breaks out into irrelevant gables; houses with the stone-mullioned casements of Tudor days or the round bow window of the Georgian period; houses with gateways under them leading into courtyards; humble buildings fashioned out of stone filched from a church; cottages with the arched doorways of a convent or with buttresses worthy of a chapel; pieces of old wall and other miscellaneous fragments which the town with its love for the past has never had the heart to cast aside. Over the grey roofs can be seen the trees upon the hilltop, while over many a crumbling wall comes the fragrance of garden or orchard." But as we rounded a corner and came upon a full view of the abbey church, we felt that it had rightly been styled the "glory of Sherborne." Perhaps its low tower gives an impression of incompleteness and lack of proportion--but it seemed to accentuate the mighty proportions of the church itself and it was with a feeling almost verging upon awe that we entered the majestic portals. And we learned it as we know only few historic churches in England, for the gem of all vergers is at Sherborne. To him his work is a labor of love, not the usual perfunctory performance in hope of a fee. He had made discoveries of importance himself in whiling away his time in the abbey and had located and uncovered an ancient effigy that had been inconsiderately built into the walls in earlier days. He told us of the checkered history of the abbey, of the wars of the monks and citizens, as a result of which the church suffered from a great fire, the marks of which still remain in the red stains on the soft yellow stone, of the Dissolution and the cavalier manner in which Henry the Wrecker bestowed the abbey on one of his friends, who in turn sold it to the parish for two hundred and fifty pounds--all of which would be too long to record in detail in this crowded chronicle. But the interior of Sherborne Abbey--where is there another like it? Not in all England; probably not in the world. It lacks the "dim religious light" that pervades, like a soft-toned mist, most of the great church buildings; the windows flood the yellow stone with many-colored beams and lighten the splendors of the golden fan vault with its rich bosses and heraldic devices until every detail comes out clearly to the beholder below. But we are lingering too long at the abbey; we were to return to the Antelope in half an hour, and thrice that period has elapsed. We hie back to our inn and do not complain of our cold repast. "It is ten minutes' walk to the castle," said our host. Then why take the car? A ten minutes' walk will give us a little of the exercise we need. We start under the sweltering sun--it is a hot day, even as we reckon it--and follow the crooked streets. Here is a high wall--it must be the castle. No, the castle is farther on; and we repeat the wearisome experience until half an hour has elapsed and we are only at the entrance gate of the park. We are almost exhausted, for our long tramp on the "abbey stones" did not especially invigorate us, but we will go on after having come so far. It was hardly worth while--Cromwell had left very little of Sherborne Castle. It seemed melancholy, indeed, that the riddled gateway and the straggling pieces of wall should be all that remains of such a lordly building. We were interested to know that it had been granted to Sir Walter Raleigh "forever" in 1597--but only six years later the knightly founder of Virginia was indicted for treason and fell a victim to the cowardly malice of King James, and Sherborne Castle reverted to the crown. It was less than half a century later that Fairfax received its surrender in the name of the Parliament, and when the gunpowder mines were fired the active days of the fortress were at an end. We retrace our steps to the Antelope, thinking mournfully of the car, which would have made such short and easy work of our weary trip, and we heave a sigh of relief when once more, having donned our "seven-league boots," we hear the soft purr of the motor and enjoy the rush of the cool, sweet air--after our "ten minutes' walk." It grows late and Exeter is far away, but we are sure of comfort at the Rougemont and we give the car rein. How she sweeps over the sunset hills and glides along the cool valleys, pausing cautiously to pass some rose-embowered village, now gathering speed again for another rush over the fine road! She is ahead of schedule at Honiton, and one of our party remembers that the Honiton lace is famous. It is an expensive bit of recollection, but all things go in a motor tour. After a half-hour's pause, we are away again, and before long catch sight of the huge bulk of Exeter Cathedral looming above the old city against the twilight sky. V RAMBLES IN THE WEST COUNTRY "Through the heart of Dartmoor forest" may bring up many fascinating, even weird associations, but on our map we regarded the thin red line of our road rather dubiously. It runs almost straight from Exeter to Prince Town--the prison town of the moor--and on either side for many miles lies a waste country, apparently quite devoid of villages and even of roads. The road as shown on the map is thickly studded with arrow heads, denoting dangerous hills, and the description in the road-book is far from alluring. But we were not to be deterred from exploring Dartmoor, as we had been on a previous occasion, though indeed we found the first few miles between Exeter and Moreton Hampstead trying and almost terrifying in places. The hills offered little impediment to our motor, but for all that one has a rather eery feeling when clinging to a precipitous incline. If something should let loose! But nothing did. Moreton Hampstead is a bleak, lonely little town set well into the western edge of the moor and surrounded by rugged tors on every hand. It is not without a bit of antiquity, for it has a sixteenth century building, called the Arcade, whose Moorish touches are decidedly picturesque. It is like a bit of Spain in the hills of Dartmoor and seems strangely out of place. Only three miles from Moreton Hampstead, lying in a secluded valley, is Chagford, famous for its quaint old inn and wild surroundings. Once out of Moreton Hampstead and away on the yellow highway that bisects the moor, we found ourselves in a country as barren as any we had seen in England. The road, though winding and steep, is generally visible for some distance ahead, and we found little hindrance to a swift, steady flight that carried us over the long hills far more quickly than we anticipated. The day, which had begun in mist and rain, became lighter and a rapidly clearing sky gave us the opportunity of seeing the wild beauty of the moor at its best. Despite its loneliness and cheerlessness, there was a wonderful play of color: the reds and browns of the broken granite, the purple blaze of the heather, the vivid yellow of the gorse and the metallic green of the whortle, all intensified by golden sunshine, have marvelously transformed the somber tone of the moorland of scarce an hour before. But where is the "forest"? Only stunted trees appear here and there, or a fringe of woods along the clear streams; we learn that "forest" once meant a waste, uncultivated tract of land, and in later days has been applied to woodlands alone. We run for miles with no human habitation in sight save an occasional cottage in a small, barren field surrounded by stone walls. We come upon a large, attractive-looking inn unexpectedly--though it ought not to be unexpected to find an inn anywhere in England--the Two Bridges, situated near the head waters of the Dart, here no more than a brawling streamlet. We leave the car by the roadside and enter the homelike hall, where an array of fishing-tackle makes clear the excuse for this pleasant hotel in the moor. The day has been chilly and, strange to say, a fire flickers in the grate. We are just in time for luncheon and a goodly number of guests respond to the vigorous beating of the gong--that almost universal abomination of the provincial English hotel. It appears that the quiet and seclusion of Dartmoor is not without its attractions to many people. We ourselves leave the pleasant inn with regret; we should have liked a day's rest in the cozy ingle-nook. [Illustration: IN SUNNY DEVON. A view of the old town of Totnes from the upland road. Original Painting by George Bowman, 1908 Royal Academy.] The walls and battlements of Prince Town Prison soon loom in sight. This was established in 1800 as a military prison for French soldiers, and a few Americans were confined here in 1812. It then fell into disuse until 1850, but for the half-century since it has served its present purpose as a penal institution and has been greatly added to from time to time. An English writer says: "Dartmoor is so huge that one must be born and spend a lifetime near it to really know it, and the visitor can merely endeavour to see typical examples of its granite tors, its peaty streams, its great stretches of boulder-strewn heather, and its isolated villages." Evidently he must mean that it is huge in its mysteries and its moods, for it is really only fourteen by twenty-two miles--perhaps half as large as the average county in the United States. At Tavistock we are well beyond the confines of the moor and follow a fine road to Launceston, where we glance at the huge circular keep of the castle and look longingly at the White Hart, which recalls only pleasant memories. But we are bound for an enchanted land and, like many a gallant knight of yore, we would hasten past "many-towered Camelot" to the castle of the blameless king. The declining sun, toward which we rapidly course, seems to flash across the Cornish hills the roselight of the old Arthurian romance, and the stately measures of the "Idyls of the King" come unbidden to our minds. But we soon have something less romantic to think of, for in attempting a short cut to Tintagel without going to Camelford, we run into a series of the crookedest, roughest lanes we found in all England. These appear to have been quite abandoned; in places mere ravines with myriads of sharp loose stones and many long steep hills. But we push on and almost ere we are aware, find ourselves in Tintagel village, which with its long rows of boarding-houses hardly accords with one's preconceived romantic notions. Then we catch a glimpse of the ocean out beyond the headland, upon which is perched a huge, square-towered building--King Arthur's Castle Hotel, they tell us--and thither we hasten. This hotel, only recently completed, is built on a most liberal scale, though it can hardly accommodate many guests at a time. The public rooms are most elaborately furnished and of enormous size. The great round table in the reading room is a replica of the original at Shrewsbury, at which, declares tradition, King Arthur sat with his fifty knights. The guest rooms are on an equally generous scale and so arranged that every one fronts on the sea. The rates are not low by any means, yet it is hard to conceive how such a hotel can be a paying investment. After we reached the hotel, the long twilight still gave time to contemplate the weird beauty of the surroundings and to explore the ruins of the castle so famed in song and story. We scrambled down the high headland, upon which the hotel stands, to the level of the blue inlet of the sea, depicted in such a masterly manner in the painting by Mr. Moran, the towering cliffs crowned by the fragmentary ruins looming far above us. A path cut in the edge of the cliff leads to a precarious-looking foot-bridge across the chasm and a still narrower and steeper path hugs the face of the precipice on the opposite side until a heavy oaken door is reached. This door, to which the old caretaker in the cottage below had given me the key, opens into the supposed site of King Arthur's castle. Only a few scattered bits of masonry remain and these are probably of a later time than that of the early Briton. [Illustration: KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE, OFF TINTAGEL HEAD, CORNWALL. From Original Painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.] The spot is lonely and quite barren save a few patches of greensward upon which were peacefully grazing a flock of sheep--one finds them everywhere in Britain. I was quite alone--there were no other visitors at that late hour and my companions had given up the dizzy ascent before it was fairly begun--and I strove to reconstruct in imagination the castle as it stood in the days of the blameless king. How the wild old stories crowded upon me in that lonely twilight hour! Here, legend declares--and I care not if it be dim indeed and questioned by the wiseacres--was once the court of the wise and faultless Arthur, who gathered to himself the flower of knighthood of Christendom and was invincible to all attacks from without, but whose dominion crumbled away before the faithlessness and dishonor of his own followers. Here, perchance, the faithless Guinevere pined and sighed for her forsworn lover and gazed on the sea, calm and radiant as it is even now, or saw it lash itself into unspeakable fury upon the frowning bastions of the coast. But, alas! how dim and uncertain is all that is left, and how the tales vary save that they all center in the king! Little remains in local tradition of all the vanished splendors of those ancient days save that the king did not die; that in the form of a chough he haunts the scenes of his glory and his downfall, and that he will come again-- But I am quite forgetting the flight of time, and with a lingering look at the storied spot, I slowly descend. Then I climb to the more extensive ruin on the landward side, much shattered but grim and massive in decay. There must have been a connection between the castles on either side of the great ravine, though it is hardly apparent how this could have been. Perhaps the gap has widened much in the long course of time. It is dusk when we return to the hotel and sit long on the open terrace fronting the sea, contemplating the beauty of the scene. Never have I beheld a more glorious sunset than that which lightened the wild Cornish coast and ocean on that particular evening. A dark band of cloud lay low along the western horizon, with a clear, opalescent sky above, and below a thin strip of lucent gold with silvery clouds floating in it like fairy ships. Suddenly the sun dropped from behind the cloud, which had obscured his full splendor, into the resplendent zone beneath, flooding the sea, into which he slowly sank, with a marvelous though evanescent glory. Then followed all the indescribable color changes and combinations, which varied momentarily until they faded into the dusky hues of a moonlit night. It marked the close of a perfect day--clear and cool, with sky of untainted blue and ocean as still and glassy as a quiet inland lake. Not less inspiring was the scene that greeted us through our open lattices in the morning--a sea steely blue in the distance, rippling into bars of frosted silver near the shore, while the stern outlines of the headlands were softened by a clinging blue haze. We lingered on the legend-haunted ground until nearly noon and it was with keen regret that we glided away from the pleasant hostelry back to the village and past the old church on the headland, whose bells tolled without mortal hands on the far-off day when the body of King Arthur was borne away to sepulture in Glastonbury Abbey. A fine upland road led us nearly due north from Camelford through long stretches of moorland--or country almost as sterile as the moors--diversified with great patches of gorse and scattered groups of stunted trees. We encountered scarcely a village for a distance of twenty-five miles, for we did not turn aside for Bude or for Stratton, just opposite on each side of the road. The latter is said to be one of the most unspoiled and genuinely ancient of the smaller Cornish villages. At times we were within a mile or two of the ocean and caught fugitive glimpses of blue expanses of quiet sea. Then the road sweeps farther inland and the country improves in appearance, though it is still Cornwall and Devon and far different from the sleek, prosperous beauty of the Midlands. [Illustration: OFF THE COAST OF DEVON. From Original Painting by A. J. Warne-Browne.] "The most exquisite town in England," writes an enthusiast of Clovelly, but Clovelly's very quaintness has made it so widely known that it hardly has a place in a chronicle that seeks rather the untrodden ways. It is not possible for a motor or any other vehicle to descend the steep, stone-paved streets, and about a quarter of a mile above the town we left the car in an exceedingly prosperous-looking stable-yard filled to overflowing with motors, carriages and chars-a-bancs. Clovelly well deserves its reputation for the picturesque qualities that have transformed it from an unpretentious fishing village, lost among the clifflike hills, into a thronged tourist resort. Fortunately, as yet there has been no attempt to modernize; no stucco-and-timber hotel detracts from the antique flavor; the people who come to Clovelly do not as a rule stay long. Large excursion steamers, usually crowded, ply from Ilfracombe, and coaches and chars-a-bancs from Hartland and Barnstaple bring troops of visitors. Coaching parties come from Tintagel (round trip eighty miles) and one is sure to find Clovelly crowded in season, especially if the day is fine. And so we found it, literally thronged, a huge excursion steamer lying at anchor in the harbor. There was a little disarray and confusion at the pleasant New Inn--new in name only--evidently due to more patronage than could easily be taken care of. As we waited for luncheon we looked about at the collection of antique brass, copper, china and pottery that almost covered the walls and crowded the mantelpieces and odd corners about the inn. We were told that the landlady is a famous collector and that many of the pieces are rare and valuable. A more amusing if not less interesting feature of the house is the sentiment expressed in halting doggerel, emblazoned in large red letters on the walls and ceiling of the dining-room. It is good only from the standpoint of exceeding badness, and its general tenor is to flatter Americans, who no doubt constitute a large proportion of the guests. The old, time-worn churches of England are past numbering and they came to have an almost weird fascination for us. The tombs, ranging from the artistic to the ghastly or grotesque, the old stones with their often queer or even ridiculous epitaphs, the sculptures, the bosses, the frescoes, the stained windows, the gargoyles and the oftentimes strange history or still stranger legends connected with nearly every one--but why prolong the list of curious attractions of these ancient fanes, often quite peculiar in each case? Just before we entered Barnstaple we turned into a byroad, and dropping down a hill of appalling steepness and length, came to Tawstock Church, famed as the finest country church in Devon--the "Westminster of the West Country," some enthusiast has styled it. Though hardly deserving such a dignified characterization as this, Tawstock Church is well worth a visit. Besides some remarkable tombs and fine Elizabethan pews, it has a peculiar gallery curiously wrought in vine and leaf pattern from black oak, and now used by the bell-ringers to reach the tower. Tawstock Mansion, near by, appears rather modern--a large building shining in a fresh coat of yellow paint that gave it much the appearance of a summer hotel. The house and church are located in a deep wooded valley and the towers of the ancient gateway lend a touch of much-needed antiquity to the scene. [Illustration: TAWSTOCK CHURCH, DEVONSHIRE.] Barnstaple, like Bideford, while a very old town, has few old-time relics now left. It has become a manufacturing town, its chief product being Barum ware, an inexpensive grade of pottery. The Golden Lion Inn, once a residence of the Earl of Bath, is famed as a place of solid comfort, and still retains much of the gorgeous decorations done by its former occupant. The poet Shelley had an odd association with Barnstaple. When living at Lynton, after his marriage with Harriet Westbrook, he came to Barnstaple and spent some time in bringing out a pamphlet scurrilously attacking the chief justice who had sentenced to prison the publisher of the works of Thomas Paine. One of the poet's associates, who distributed the pamphlets, was sentenced to six months in jail, and Shelley narrowly escaped by hastily leaving the town. The road from Bideford through Barnstaple and Ilfracombe is rather uninteresting, save the last few miles, which pass through wooded hills and along deep verdant valleys. Ilfracombe is a resort town, pure and simple, and we found few hotels on a grander scale than the Ilfracombe, standing in beautiful grounds facing the sea, which murmured almost directly beneath our open windows. It was a beautiful evening; the tide was just receding from the jutting rocks scattered along the coast, whereon the sea, even in its mildest moods, chafes into foam; and one can easily imagine a most awe-inspiring scene when the angry ocean, driven by a westerly wind, assails these bold, angular rocks. After having visited every resort town of note in England, our recollection is that of all, Ilfracombe is the most strikingly situated; nor do any of them command views of a coast line more rugged and picturesque. The rain was falling heavily when we came to Dunster on the following day and the abbey church was gloomy indeed. And what can be gloomier than an old church on a gray day, when the rain pours from the low-hung clouds and sweeps in fitful gusts against the mossy gravestones and crumbling, ivy-clad walls? A scene that renders one solemn and thoughtful on almost any occasion becomes positively depressing under such conditions. And though we recall Dunster Church with associations not unpleasing in perspective, the surroundings were not altogether pleasing at the time. We found the caretaker, a bent old woman, in the church, but she informed us that there were really two churches and that she had jurisdiction over only one of them. However, she conducted us about the dimly lighted building, gloomy indeed from the lowering skies without, and our recollection of her story of the quarrel that resulted in the partition of the church has faded quite away. But we do remember the rood screen which has fourteen separate openings, no two wrought in the same pattern and altogether as marvelous a piece of black-oak carving as we saw in England. Aside from the abbey church, there are other things of interest in Dunster, especially the market cross and the castle. The latter overlooks the town from a neighboring hill and is one of the lordliest fortresses in the West Country. The town lies in one of the loveliest vales in Somersetshire and is famed for its beautiful surroundings. This section of Somerset and Devon is rich in literary associations; at Nether Stowey we pass the square, uncomfortable-looking house, close to the roadside, where Coleridge lived for three years, beginning in 1797. Indeed, it was in the autumn of that year that he made the excursion with Wordsworth and Dorothy, during which the plan of the "Ancient Mariner" was conceived. A few months before, while in a lonely farmhouse between Porlock and Lynton, he had the dream which he started to record in "Kubla Khan." This poem he had composed in his dream, but while writing it down on awakening, a "person from Porlock" interrupted, and when the poet essayed to write, not only the words but the images of the vision had faded away, and the fragment of "Kubla Khan" remains like a shattered gem. Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy came a little later to Alfoxden House, standing in a pleasant park in the parish of Halford, and here the literary association between Coleridge and Wordsworth became intimate and the little volume of "Lyrical Ballads" was published jointly by them in 1798. Southey, while storm-stayed by "an unwelcome summer rain" at the Ship Inn in Porlock, wrote a sonnet in praise of the hills and glens. Hazlitt and Charles Lamb at times joined their friends here for pedestrian excursions among the hills. Nor can we forget Blackmore, whose "Lorna Doone" turned the eyes of the English-speaking world toward the Exmoor wastes. Shelley's escapade at Barnstaple we have already mentioned and the cottage he occupied at Lynton still stands. No doubt much of the weird beauty that pervades his work entered his soul amidst the glorious surroundings--the sea, the hills and the vales--of the West Country. [Illustration: EVENING ON THE CORNISH COAST. From Original Painting by A. J. Warne-Browne.] A pause at Cleeve Abbey near at hand gave us perhaps a better idea of the life of monastic days than any other we visited--and we saw all the greater abbeys of Britain. In the majority of cases the abbey proper had been destroyed, but the church escaped, often through purchase by the citizens. At Cleeve the reverse has happened; the church has totally disappeared, but the abbey buildings are nearly intact. As a well-informed writer puts it: "The whole life of the society can be lived over again with but little demands on the imagination. We can see the dormitories in which they slept, the refectory where they fed, the abbot's particular parlour and the room for accounts, the kitchen, and even the archway through which their bodies went out to the grave. The church suffered from despoilers more than any other part of the abbey, and great is the loss to architecture. Otherwise we get a community of the Middle Ages preserved in all its essential surroundings, the refectory being in particular a grand fifteenth-century hall." The ceiling of this great apartment is of the hammer-beam pattern, the beams richly carved, and, springing from oaken corbels, figures of angels with expanded wings. It brings one near indeed to the spirit of monastic days--this gray old ruin, through which sweep the wind and rain and where under foot the grass grows lush and green as it grows only in England--the spirit which the Latin legend over the gatehouse so vividly expresses, quaintly rendered thus: "Gate Open be To honest folk as free." And the gray-whiskered custodian, so rheumatic and feeble that his daughter, a husky peasant woman, guides visitors about the abbey, warmed up to us as we were about to leave and opened his heart about the ruin in which he dwelt and which he seemed to love. He told us its story in the broad West Country dialect and pointed out to us many things of curious interest that we otherwise should have overlooked. The sky is clearing; the low sun flashes along the hill-crests and floods the Somerset landscape with ethereal beauty, which we drink in as we skim swiftly along the smooth, wet road. We catch a final gleam of the ocean at Weston-super-Mare and pass a long row of imposing hotels. Then we are away for Bristol, the Queen City of the West Country. VI ODD CORNERS OF THE WELSH BORDER There are few English castles where the spirit of medievalism lingers as at Berkeley and few that have darker deeds recorded in their long annals of crime. It has had a strange fascination for me ever since I read its story in my boyhood days, and the verse of the poet Gray had given the castle a weird association in my mind: "Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall echo with affright; When shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs shall ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king." It was therefore a keen disappointment to learn on arriving in the quiet Gloucestershire town that it was not a day when the castle was open to visitors. However, we do not regret this so much in retrospect. The castle, grim, many-towered, ivy-clad, the very embodiment of the days of chivalry, still lingers in memory, with nothing to disenchant its mystery and romance. The old keeper at the imposing entrance was evidently sincere in his regret that the rule might not be suspended for our benefit--for indeed we had found such regulations not as the laws of the Medes and Persians, but there was no such good fortune here. "But do not fail," said he, "to view the castle from the meadows, for no finer sight will you find in England." If there be finer views of other English castles--a mere matter of opinion, after all--there can hardly be a better viewpoint than the Berkeley Meadows. It is a wide expanse of lawnlike meadowland lying alongside the castle, which stretches out its battlemented and turreted length against a background of majestic trees; from these rises the square church-tower in stern outline against the bluest of English June skies. The scene indeed savors more of enchantment than reality, and the environment seems fitting to the historic pile where a king was done to death and which Shakespeare mentions more than once. The present owner is the twenty-seventh in direct descent from Robert Fitzhardinge, to whom the manor was originally granted and who built a large part of the present castle in the tenth century. The view from the castle keep is described by one who has written much of its legends and history: "Northwards and southwards the broad Vale of Berkeley, rich with verdure of pasture and woodland, runs on into the far distance. To the east and southeast are the Cotswolds, rising abruptly here and there into bold, bare masses whose sides are clothed with beech woods, and anon retiring into lovely valleys which seem to invite the eye to range their recesses. On the west flows the broad estuary of the Severn, studded with many a white sail; beyond it are the dark wooded hills of the Forest of Dean, veiled by the smoke of its iron-works and collieries. Under the walls of the castle, on the north and west sides, the little town seems to nestle, as though seeking shelter and protection from the grim old fortress, which was probably its origin and has been its stay and support through so many generations." [Illustration: BERKELEY CASTLE.] Berkeley has another claim to distinction aside from its castle, for here is the cottage where lived Jenner, whose discovery of vaccination placed under control the scourge that devastated Europe until quite recent times. The famous physician is buried in the churchyard. The church is of imposing dimensions, with stained glass better than the average and elaborate tombs of the Lords of Berkeley Castle. The bell tower is detached, standing some distance from the main structure. The highway from Bristol to Gloucester is one of the finest in the Kingdom, and we soon resumed our flight over it after the short detour to Berkeley. At the Bell Hotel in Gloucester we found mild excitement prevailing among the guests and servants, some of the latter standing about in brilliant liveries and powdered wigs. The manageress explained that the high sheriff and county judge were about to leave the hotel and that the gaudy attire we beheld disguised only the porter and head waiter, who had been fitted out in this manner to give due state to the occasion. During the delay in the departure of the distinguished guests we had the services of one of the gorgeous gentlemen at our luncheon. Finally the dignitaries descended the stair, the bedecked servants bowed them solemnly into a carriage, and the porter in all his glory rode away beside the driver. I dwell on this incident, trifling in itself, to illustrate the different status of such officials in England as compared with our own country. In America a dozen county judges and sheriffs might be at a hotel in a city the size of Gloucester without attracting much attention. In some respects the English way is preferable, since it invests the representatives of the law with a dignity quite lacking in the States. And in this connection we might notice that county judges in England receive salaries from three to five times as great as are paid to corresponding officials on our side, thus commanding a high average of legal talent for the bench. The half-dozen miles between Gloucester and Tewkesbury are quickly done and we halt in front of a wide green, studded with gigantic trees, amidst which rises the huge bulk of a church almost as imposing as the cathedral that has barely faded from our view. But it lacks the gracefulness and perfect proportion of the Gloucester church and perhaps its most striking exterior feature is the arch over the western windows, so high and majestic as to remind one of Peterborough. The interior is mainly ponderous Norman--rows of heavy pillars flanking the long nave and supporting massive rounded arches. The windows, however, are the lighter and more graceful creations of the Decorated Period, though the glass is mostly modern. Among the tombs is that of Prince Edward, son of Henry VI., who was cruelly slain in the battle of Tewkesbury, so fatal to the Lancastrian cause. Here, too, lies the "false, fleeting, perjured Clarence," of Shakespeare; and Somerset, executed by his captors after the battle. The abbey was marked for destruction by Henry VIII., who was deterred from his purpose by a public subscription. Tewkesbury is rather decadent, and has many houses in brick and timber as yet quite unspoiled by modern improvement. It is pleasantly situated on the banks of the classic Avon near its junction with the Severn, and the many-arched stone bridge over the former river is unusually picturesque. Half a mile farther a second bridge crosses the Severn, which lies in broad, still reaches dotted with small craft of every description. Over these bridges we hastened away toward Hereford, following a level though sinuous road. The old-world quaintness of Ledbury attracted our attention. Its rectangular timber market cross, supported on a colonnade of wooden pillars, is unusual indeed. And nowhere else did we find finer specimens of Elizabethan half-timbered houses, though some of them were rather tawdry in recent applications of black and white paint. Such houses have become quite the rage and some owners have gone so far as to paint black stripes on common brick to represent the timbers. However, no such travesty as this is necessary in Ledbury--the town is overflowing with the genuine article--genuine though disfigured in some cases by the bad taste of the man with the paint pot. Church Lane, leading from the main street up a gentle slope to the church, is bordered with splendid examples of Elizabethan houses, quite unaltered since they left the builders' hands. At the end of the lane one sees a graceful spire standing apart from the church, which is quite unique in design. It has four sharply pitched roofs running parallel, with odd little minarets between them. The interior has the newness of recent restoration and shows traces of different styles, from Norman to Perpendicular. Ledbury has an institute which commemorates its association with Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who passed her girlhood near the town. At Hereford we sought the cathedral, having missed the interior during a former visit. A small, bare-headed boy in a red sweater saw us pause before the close and marked us as his legitimate prey. "I'll take you into the Bishop's Palace," he said in such a matter-of-fact way that it disarmed our suspicions and we followed the youngster meekly enough, for with all our doing of cathedrals we had caught only glimpses of bishops' palaces, usually embowered in gardens and apparently quite inaccessible. We had no opportunity to question our small guide as he rapidly led us through the palace grounds, but when he unhesitatingly rang at the door, we insisted on an explanation and learned that the bishop and his family were in London. During their absence the palace was thrown open to the public and our small friend was doubtless improving the opportunity to put cathedral visitors under obligations to himself. We were admitted and wandered about at will. It is a rambling old house and indicates that a bishop occupies about the same plane in his domestic appointments as a prosperous member of the nobility, among whom, in fact, he takes a high rank. The house was sumptuously furnished and had several great rooms with high decorated ceilings and windows that looked out on the pleasant grounds, bright with flowers and shrubbery. The study pleased us most, with its high bookshelves about the walls and tall mullioned bow windows which open almost directly on the Wye. It was easy to see why the English bishops nearly all complain that their salaries, though apparently large, are hardly adequate to the state they are expected to maintain; and why, as in the case of an American ambassador, a private fortune is often necessary to enable the recipient of such an honor to pay the legitimate expenses. Our picture will show, perhaps better than any description, the beauty of the river front of the palace, with the fine trees and cathedral tower in the background. We had only a moment to look about the cathedral, since the closing hour was nearly at hand. However, we missed little, for Hereford Cathedral has few historic associations and recent restoration gives it an almost new appearance. It is built of red sandstone, which gives the interior a rather warm tone, accentuated by highly-colored modern windows. [Illustration: BISHOP'S PALACE, HEREFORD.] A pause for the night at Ludlow, where we arrived after a run of an hour or two through the rich pasture lands along the Welsh Border, gave us an opportunity of renewing our pleasant associations with that fine old town. But as we were to visit Ludlow thrice before the close of our pilgrimage, I shall leave our impressions and discoveries for later consideration. The road from Ludlow to Bridgnorth is--or rather was--not a first-class one. Road conditions in Britain change so rapidly since the advent of the motor that one can scarcely speak of them in the present tense. As we found it, poorly surfaced, narrow and winding, it was not to be compared with the highway along the border. Bridgnorth is an ancient market town, famous for its cattle fair, which has been held yearly since 1226. The service at the Crown Inn, where we stopped for luncheon, was excellent, and the moderate charge proved Bridgnorth off the beaten tourist track, a special rate not yet being established for the infrequent motorists. It was market day and the town was crowded with country people. The ample market square was filled with booths, and goods of every description were offered for sale. A socialist orator--a common nuisance in England--was haranguing the people, who crowded the streets so closely that we could get through only with difficulty. That motors are not so common in Bridgnorth was apparent, and a crowd collected about the car in the hotel stableyard. The general expression was hostile, and many instances were related where "one of the things" had worked disaster with skittish horses. We made our escape without entering into the discussion and dropped down the almost precipitous hill to the Severn bridge. The road is a charming one, with wooded hills rising sharply on one hand and the broad Severn lying far beneath on the other. At Shifnal a policeman, in response to our inquiry, directed us to the byway leading to the village of Tong, some three miles distant. Here, according to one well qualified to judge, is the "most interesting example of early Perpendicular architecture in Shropshire--a section famous for interesting churches." But it is better known through its association with Little Nell in "Old Curiosity Shop," and Dickens' description shows that the appearance of the church before its restoration was quite different from today: "The church was old and grey, with ivy clinging to the walls and round the porch. It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the cawing of the rooks, who had built their nests among the branches of some tall trees. It was a very aged, ghostly place. The church had been built many hundreds of years ago and once had a convent or monastery attached; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows, and fragments of blackened walls were yet standing." It is still old and gray, but no longer ghostly and ruinous. It was far from lonely, for a crowd of trippers was being shown about by the caretaker when we arrived. The tombs of Tong Church, with their effigies and brasses, are remarkably perfect, and one of them must be very ancient, for it bears the figure of a crusader in chain mail. The images escaped destruction, it is said, because of the friendship of Cromwell for the Stanleys, who were adherents of the Parliament. In the church are buried several of the Vernons, whom the madcap Dorothy gave to eternal fame, for they had little else to rescue them from the oblivion that overwhelmed such a host of unremembered squires and knights. Dorothy's sister, Margaret, is buried with her husband, Sir Edward Stanley, who came into possession of Tong Castle through his wife. The church also has a remarkable library of black-letter books, some of them almost as old as the church itself, and a stupendous bell, weighing two tons, hangs in its tower. [Illustration: TONG VILLAGE, SHROPSHIRE.] The village well accords with the church--a quiet place half hidden by trees and shrubbery, while the ivy and blooming vines give a touch of color to the gray walls. The tiny gardens are brilliant with old-fashioned flowers and the air is laden with their sweetness. Amidst such surroundings are scattered the pleasant old timbered cottages, with thatched roofs and diamond-paned lattice windows. The original castle has disappeared and has been replaced by a large Georgian house--a Moorish-looking mansion with domed roofs and pinnacles, yet rather picturesque, despite the fact that it outrages good architectural taste. It is in ill accord with the unspoiled little village; for altogether, Tong, with its church and associations, is one of the most delightful nooks and thoroughly typical of rural England at its best. There are other associations in the neighborhood of Tong that may attract anyone especially interested in curious bits of English history, for near at hand is Boscobel House and its Royal Oak. In my youthful days, I read in one of the old-fashioned Sunday school books--many of which were then imported from England and were written by orthodox royalists--the story of the miraculous escape of His Gracious Majesty Charles II. from the wicked rebels who sought to lay violent hands on the "Lord's Anointed." I looked on the honest country people of Boscobel as direct instruments of Providence in preserving the sacred life of the king, and fairly held my breath with fear and excitement when I read that the Puritan troopers rode beneath the very tree in which the monarch was concealed. Even when sadly disenchanted by the knowledge that if ever rascal escaped his due it was when Charles Stuart dodged his pursuers, the romance of the old story lingered and I always had a desire to see Boscobel House and the Royal Oak. [Illustration: BOSCOBEL HOUSE, SHROPSHIRE.] After leaving Tong we were only a few minutes in the shady lanes until we drew up in front of the ancient manor and found it a shrine for the English tripper, though the name of no American had been registered in its visitors' book. The house is quite unaltered and of itself would be worth a visit as an unusually good specimen of early English domestic architecture, for it dates from 1540. The walls are stuccoed between heavy oaken posts at the corners and beams at the line of the floors. The huge chimney, mullioned windows and other touches indicate that it was a gentleman's residence. Inside there are several fine rooms, with much oak carving and paneling, though in the dining-room, rather the best of all, the oak has been painted. There are a good many portraits and relics of the king, more or less authentic, which are shown with a proper degree of reverence. In the attic floor is the entrance to a small secret chamber reputed as one of the hiding-places of the king, though no doubt originally planned for a "priest hole," as the Puritans called such places of concealment. The farm-wife who cared for the house, and who was glad to see visitors, had come to reverence the king as the saint that the old chronicles picture him and had a full stock of the traditions of the place. She pointed out the identical tree which sheltered his Sacred Majesty, though the prosaic and unimpressionable Baedeker declares that it vanished long ago--which we ventured to hint, only to be met with proper scorn. To impress us with the goodness and generosity of the king, she related that the pension he settled on his preservers and their heirs forever is still paid to the descendants of the Penderels by an assessment on the parish--characteristic indeed of Charles, who always rewarded services if he could do so at the expense of some one else. We purchased a quaint book at the house--a facsimile reprint of an account of the events at Boscobel, published after the Restoration and dedicated to the king. As a curious example of the depraved lickspittle attitude of his flatterers toward the person of the monarch--a spirit not altogether extinct today, for that matter--I give a few sentences from the author's dedication: "I humbly beg your Majesties pardon, being conscious to myself of my utter incapacity to express, either your unparallel'd valour in the day of contending, or (which is a vertue far less usual for Kings) your strong and even mind in the time of your sufferings. From which sublime endowments of Your Most Heroick Majesty I derive these comforts to my self, That whoever undertakes to reach at your perfections, must fall short as well as I, though not so much. And now, on my bended knees, let me joyfully congratulate his restored Majesty, and humbly offer him this short and hearty wish, O KING, LIVE FOR EVER." Bidding Boscobel Manor farewell, we pause for a hasty glance at the scant ruin of White Ladies, an old-time nunnery standing quite apart in a field near by; then we retrace our way to the main road leading through Tong to Newmarket and Market Drayton. The latter town should be of considerable interest to an Englishman, since here was the home of Robert Clive, who, according to a well-known historian, "will ever be remembered as the man who laid deeply the foundations of our Indian Empire and who at a time of national despondency restored the tarnished honor of British arms." Aside from this, there is little to interest the wayfarer save several fine Elizabethan houses and a mighty church that quite overshadows the town and country. We are soon away for Shrewsbury, the ever charming county town of Shropshire, fleeting over as fine a road as ever tempted the winged wheels of a motor car. It is nearly deserted, straight, broad and level, and it is quite too late to fear the minions of the law--but this is not a record of miles per hour. Suffice it to say that very shortly we stop at the sign of the Raven in Old Salop. One could never grow weary of the old town, and we saw another phase in its life and activity on a Saturday evening. The whole population seemed to have turned loose, and the brilliantly lighted main street was quite metropolitan. The quaint old fronts had a rather odd and out-of-place look in the glare of the electric light; the narrow, dimly lit side streets were more in accord with the spirit of the place. The shops were crowded and on the whole seemed surprisingly up to date and well stocked for a town of thirty thousand. The Sunday following was as quiet as the evening before had been animated, and was as perfect as an English June day can be. In the afternoon we were off for a run, with scarcely any definite point in view, though a jaunt of an hour or two brought us in front of Lichfield Cathedral just as the afternoon service was beginning. We joined the rather diminutive body of worshippers who occupied but a small part of the great church. We were perhaps quite as intent on the interior--a very epic in warm red sandstone--as upon the dreary chant of the litany. A thorough restoration has been made recently and an air of newness prevails, but no one interested in cathedral architecture will miss Lichfield--in some respects the most harmonious and best proportioned of them all. We have seen the town before, but not the large square house before which we pause, for a moment, and which bears a bronze tablet to the memory of its one-time occupant, Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of Charles Darwin. Our route to Shrewsbury was over one of the Roman Watling streets, straight as an arrow's flight much of the way and often bordered by giant trees. Never did the English countryside appear more charming in all our wanderings through it. There was a continual succession of green fields, vast parks, clear streams and wooded hills, with an occasional retired village--for on our return we avoided Wolverhampton with its rough streets and trams--to lend variety to the rural beauty through which we passed until we again skirted the Severn and re-entered the town. VII A WEEK IN SOUTH WALES We leave Shrewsbury by the Welsh bridge for a week among the rugged hills and valleys of Southern Wales, a country rich in relics of antiquity and romantic associations. We sweep along the fine highway to Welshpool and from thence, a little farther, to Montgomery, a decayed, out-of-the-way town in the hills. A fragment of its castle is perched high on the precipitous hill commanding the town and looking far over the vale of the serpentine Severn. The Severn, like the Wye, is the most sinuous of rivers, and there are few more inspiring prospects than its long shining folds winding through the verdant valley as seen from the castle walls. Montgomery, quiet and unheroic as it is today, has a stirring past. It took its name from Roger de Montgomerie, "Second in command in the army of his kinsman, William of Normandy," though the grim, almost inaccessible castle antedated his possession of the town. Fierce indeed was the strife between the Normans and the wild Welsh tribes, and the fair vale of the Severn was the scene of many a bloody conflict. The castle, though with varying owners and fortunes, continued a stronghold to the day of its surrender to the soldiers of the Commonwealth; after which nothing remained but blackened walls--another added to the long list of feudal fortresses "destroyed by Cromwell." The road southward from Newtown leads through as wild a tract of country as we saw in Britain. Not the Scotch Highlands or the hills at the headwaters of the Welsh Wye equal it in loneliness and seeming remoteness. But it is more picturesque than the localities just named, for the hills are mostly wooded, and the shallow, sparkling river which we followed--though usually far above it--runs through a narrow valley diversified in spots with trees and bits of meadow land. For eight miles out of Newtown we encountered a continually rising grade, which brought us to a narrow upland road running along the hillsides, which drop in almost precipitous slopes to the river far below. The road twists along the edge of the hills, at times in almost circular curves, and too close to the sharp declivity at its side for one's ease of mind. At Llandrindod Wells we had passed the wildest part of the road and we noted with surprise the handsome houses and palatial hotels of a town we had scarcely heard of before, but which has recently become the queen of Welsh inland resorts. The declining sun shot his rays along the purple hilltops that encircle the place and the shadows were already long in the pine-clad valleys. It was growing late, but after a hurried consultation we decided against the pretentious hotels of Llandrindod Wells. We dashed across the arched stone bridge over the Wye at Builth Wells and brought sharply up in front of the Lion Hotel, which, standing squarely across the way, seemed to bar farther progress, and we had little choice but to stop for the night. The Lion's accommodations are not elaborate by any means, but it was quite too late to go farther. Though Builth has mineral wells and a "pump house," a mile from the town, there is nothing of the resort hotel about the Lion; on the contrary, it is the plainest of old-country inns, apparently a haven for fishermen rather than health seekers. Its walls were covered with the antique hand-colored prints so characteristic of English inns; its mantels were loaded with queer pieces of bric-a-brac; tallow candles lighted the bedrooms. The electric push-button had not superseded the tasseled rope by the bedside, with which one jangles a bell hung on a coiled spring in the hallway. But it is spacious and has an air of old-world comfort about it--little modern except its motor garage. After all, we were fortunate in our pause at Builth, for we beheld the most glorious of sunsets on the long reaches of the Wye as it enters the town from the west. The river dances down the valley in a series of broad, shallow rapids, resting itself here and there in a quiet lakelike pool. The sunset hues were subdued rather than brilliant; pink and salmon tints were reflected in the stream as we stood on the bridge and looked up the quiet valley, and these faded into hazy amethyst as the twilight advanced. It was a scene of quiet, pastoral beauty amidst surroundings that do not lack for legend and antiquity, and altogether left a pleasing recollection of an unattractive Welsh town which in itself has little of the picturesque. We were away early in the morning following the Wye Valley road, with its vistas of hill and river, as far as Llyswen, where we crossed the hills to Brecon. Our stop here was short, as our route was to bring us again to this interesting old town in a few days. We did not often find a more delightful road than that down the Usk Valley to Crickhowell, Abergavenny and Caerleon. Its excellent surface and long sweeping grades might be a temptation to speed, but it is quite neutralized by the constant beauty of the scenery and interest of the country. On either hand are the low Welsh mountains, wooded to the very crest, and at times far below we caught the gleam of the river--though so shrunken as to scarcely deserve the name--leaping and flashing over its stone-strewn bed. Here and there a quiet village nestled unobtrusively by the roadside; at Crickhowell we found a larger but somnolent town whose huge church is crowded with memorials of the old Welsh warriors. Even larger and more impressive is the great Priory Church at Abergavenny, whose square battlemented tower one might think had been built to withstand the sieges of the devil, even as the Welsh castles were made almost impregnable against the attack of man. No quainter town did we pass than Usk; it must have been much the same when the Conqueror sent his legions to overawe the Welsh tribes, save that its castle, then no doubt a lordly fortress, is now a decayed ivy-mantled ruin. Its greater importance in years gone by is attested by its mighty priory church, ill in keeping with the hamlet that clusters about it today. According to tradition, two kings of England were born in Usk--Richard III. and Edward IV.--and Roman remains indicate an important station on the spot almost at the dawn of the Christian Era. But what shall one say of Caerleon, farther down the valley, now practically a suburb of Newport, where dim legends still linger to the effect that it was once King Arthur's capital and that here was the castle "From whose high towers they say Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying o'er a yellow sea." A prosaic historian, however, declares that in all likelihood the King Arthur legend sprang from Roman ruins which some hundreds of years ago existed in Caerleon in great magnificence. At any rate, modern Caerleon has no trace of the regal capital of the early king--a bald, unattractive town close upon the Usk, now broadened into a considerable stream, dull with the taint from the manufactories on its banks. At Newport we are entering a different order of things, brought about by the great industrial development in South Wales due to the coal and iron mines and large shipping interests. In the last century the population of the town has grown from one to seventy thousand. The old order is indeed dead here. There is no effort to attract the tourist, and the castle, almost the sole relic of antiquity, is crumbling into unhindered ruin as it sits far above the drear expanse of mud left by the receding tide. We hasten through the town--we may see a hundred such at home--and seek from a friendly policeman the road to Caerphilly, a village off in the hills which we know has no new-world counterpart. For ten miles from Newport we wend our way over a dusty, ill-kept byroad with sharp turns and steep grades, and before we come to the village we see from some distance the broken towers and battlements of Caerphilly Castle. We pass through the gateway in the straggling walls and the scene of desolation and massive ruin that lies before us is hardly paralleled in impressiveness among British castles, unless it be by Corfe in Dorset. A great round tower, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, with walls ten feet thick, split as by a thunder stroke, greets our eyes. Half of it is still standing, though leaning many feet from the vertical, and the other half lies in mighty fragments of masonry at its base. There had been four such towers, but only one is comparatively entire. The walls, though much shattered in places, still serve to give an idea of the vast extent of the ancient castle. The huge banqueting hall has been roofed and recalls in a rather pathetic way the rude magnificence of its feudal state. [Illustration: CAERPHILLY CASTLE, SOUTH WALES.] But words quite fail to describe Caerphilly--such a maze of grim walls and towers, such a network of ruinous apartments, piled deep with debris, overawe and confuse one. Only the antiquarian may painfully decipher the plan of the castle and in imagination reconstruct it as it was when it stood a bulwark between warring nations. But to the ordinary beholder it will remain a mystery set in the midst of the barren hills, and he will hardly care to resolve the impressive pile into its original parts. It will seem an entity to him--it is hard to think it otherwise than it appears today. Its romance is deepened by the obscurity of its history--for the story of Caerphilly has many blanks and breaks. There is no record of when it was first begun and there is doubt as to when it was finally destroyed. Some say the ruin is the work of Cromwell, and it surely seems worthy of that master of the art of wrecking castles; others declare that it was abandoned at the time of the Commonwealth, having been destroyed by Shakespeare's "Wild irregular Glendower," in his endless conflicts with the English. But after all, does it not savor even more of romance that mystery enshrouds the past of the stupendous structure whose scanty remnants encircle us? Why call upon prosaic history to dispel the charm that emanates from the gray ruin, half hidden by its mantle of ivy and dashed here and there with the purple valerian and yellow wall-flower? Such would be folly indeed as we sit on the soft green turf of the court and contemplate the fantastic outlines in the glow of the sunset; when all is silence save for the angry brawls of the rooks, which have entered into full possession--reincarnations, perhaps, of the erstwhile contentious owners. But the spell of Caerphilly dissolves and a different world surrounds us as we enter the broad modern streets of Cardiff and pause before the American-looking Park Hotel. Cardiff as a village antedates the Conquest, but as a metropolis of two hundred thousand, it is quite recent. One hundred years ago it had a population of a thousand; in 1837, of ten thousand; and it is easy to see that the traces of antiquity in such a city must be few. Its future was assured when the first Marquis of Bute hazarded his entire fortune in the construction of the extensive docks from which shipments of coal and iron are now made. It was a lucky throw of the die for the nobleman, for today his grandson owns the greater part of Cardiff and is one of the wealthiest men in the Kingdom. Cardiff Castle--forever associated with the dark fate of Prince Robert--has been replaced by a Moorish palace--or rather, an incongruous mixture in which the Moorish predominates. It is easy to gain admittance to this imposing palace, where art has been entirely unhampered by cost, and if garishness and incongruity sometimes prevail, interest is nevertheless continual. There is a fragment of the keep of the old castle in the grounds and Duke Robert's dungeon is incorporated into the new structure--a dark, vaultlike cavity in the walls where for thirty years the unfortunate prince, the direct heir to the throne of the Conqueror, was kept a close prisoner by his brother Henry. Legend has it that his eyes were put out because of an attempt to escape and that he died in the dungeon at the age of eighty years. [Illustration: CARDIFF CASTLE.] Cardiff's municipal buildings are a delight; white stone palaces standing in ample grounds with wide pleasant approaches--altogether models of what civic structures ought to be. Immense and busy as it is, there is little in Cardiff to detain one on such a pilgrimage as ours, and we were away before noon on the Swansea road. Llandaff is but three miles from Cardiff, and we reached it by a short detour. Its cathedral, recently restored, is probably the most interesting of Welsh churches excepting St. David's. The site has been occupied by a church ever since the year 600, though the present structure dates from early Norman times. It fell into complete ruin after the time of the Commonwealth. One chronicler declares that "Cromwell's men turned the nave into an ale house, penned calves in the choir and fed pigs at the font," though they must have been rather unorthodox Puritans to countenance the ale house. No attempt was made to preserve the fine church from decay until about two hundred years later, and so deplorable was its condition that the task of restoration seemed a well-nigh impossible one. Still, after much difficulty, the work was happily carried out, and the twin towers--one a slender spire and its companion square-topped with Gothic finials--present a very unusual though not unpleasant effect. Inside there is a mixture of Norman and early English styles, and some beautiful Decorated work. There are three paintings by Dante Gabriel Rossetti that arrest attention at once--done in that artist's best style long ere he was known to fame. The windows, though modern, are of unusual excellence, having been designed by Burne-Jones and other notable artists. Near by are the ruins of the bishop's palace, whose fortresslike walls tell of a time when the churchman and the warrior went hand in hand. Its destruction some six hundred years ago is attributed to Owen Glendwr, whose record for castle-smashing in Wales is second only to that of Cromwell. The village of Llandaff is still rural and pretty; it is quite clear of the skirts of Cardiff, being separated from the city by the River Taff. The old stone cross still stands in front of the palace and there is now little to remind one of the big modern city near at hand, which may one day absorb its ancient but diminutive neighbor. The Swansea road looks well enough on the map, but our recollections of it are far from pleasing. Dusty and rough, and crowded with traffic and tram lines in many places, it wends through a cheerless and often uninteresting country. It passes frequent mining towns straggling along for considerable distances and there were many drunken men reeling on the streets. It was market day at Cowbridge and the village was filled with countrymen, many of whom treated our right to the road with supreme indifference. One fellow in a broad-brimmed slouch hat that made him look like an American cowboy, and who was carrying a black bottle that might hold a gallon, saluted us with owl-like gravity and brought the car to a sharp stop by standing directly in our way. While getting rid of our would-be acquaintance, we cast about to find a place for luncheon and soon lighted on the sign of the Bear, the sole inn, according to Baedeker. It was some distance to the next town and we decided to patronize the Bear, though its outer appearance filled us with misgivings. But if its outward aspect inspired doubt, words fail in speaking of the inside. The handbook of the Royal Automobile Club in setting forth the delights of a tour in America pays its compliments to our rural Bonifaces in this wise: "The hotel accommodation in country districts is often very poor and dirty," all of which may be painfully true. But in competition for distinction in these particulars, the Bear would certainly not be distanced by any American rival. Perhaps the confusion and disarray was partly due to the market-day rush, but the grime and dirt that prevailed everywhere seemed as ancient as the ramshackle old house itself. The dining-room was a large apartment with many long tables of boards laid on trestles--an arrangement, no doubt, to accommodate the patronage of market day--and the remnants of the dinner were still heaped upon them in dire confusion. A glance at the meal placed before us and at the dirty hands of the waiting-girl was enough--we left the provender untouched and summarily departed from the table. With difficulty we got the attention of the barmaid, who also acted as cashier, settled our score, and sallied forth dinnerless upon the King's highway. Threading our way carefully through the streets of Neath, several miles farther on, with little thought save to get away from the bad road and unpleasant surroundings, we caught a glimpse, down a side street, of an ivy-clad ruin of great extent. We followed the rough rubbish-covered lane that leads directly to the entrance gate of Neath Abbey, as it proved to be. There was no caretaker in charge, but two or three workmen were engaged in cleaning away the debris, which was several feet deep in many of the roofless apartments. Everything indicated that once the abbey had stood in the pleasantest of valleys on the bank of a clear, placid little river; but the coaling industry, which flings its pall over everything in Southern Wales, had played sad havoc with the sylvan retreat of the old Cistercian monks. Heaps of rubbish dotted the uncared-for green about the place. Coal trains rattled on the railroad near at hand. The spot where the abbey now stands so forlornly is the heart of the suburban slums of Neath, and so isolated and forgotten is it that few pilgrims come to view its melancholy beauty. For it is beautiful--does not our picture tell the story?--the mouldering walls hung with masses of ivy, the fine doorways, the great groups of mullioned windows and the high chimneys, green to the very tops, all combine to charm the beholder despite the unlovely surroundings. The workmen told us that the abbey belonged to Lord Somebody--we have quite forgotten--and that he was going to clean up the premises and make necessary repairs. The craze now so prevalent in Britain for preserving every ancient ruin had extended even to Neath Abbey and perchance its titled owner will beautify the surroundings and the fine ruin may yet become a shrine for pilgrims--that the motor-car will bring. [Illustration: NEATH ABBEY, SOUTH WALES.] Swansea--Swansy, they call it--had always brought to my mind, I hardly know why, the idea of a seaside resort town; but never was preconceived notion more erroneous. If there is a blacker, uglier, more odoriferous town of the size in the Kingdom, I do not recollect where it is. Here are the greatest copper smelting works in the world and from these come the pungent, stifling odors that so unpleasantly pervade the city. Here, too, is the great steel plant of the Siemens Company and many allied industries. And yet there was a time when Swansea had at least the promise of a resort town before it, when the poet Landor declared that "Italy has a fine climate but that of Swansea is better; that it is the only spot in Britain where one may have warmth without wet." Then it had six hundred people, but now its population exceeds one hundred thousand. We had no desire to linger and rapidly climbed the long steep hill that leads to the highland road to Carmarthen. We soon left behind us the smoke and grime of the collieries and smelting-works, and the road over which we rapidly coursed took us through a rather pretty rural section, though the hills are numerous and steep. It was late when we came into Carmarthen, a bare, drab-colored town, but withal rather more prosperous-looking than the average small town of South Wales. The thirty-two miles to Haverfordwest swept by too rapidly to permit us to see the country other than as a fleeting panorama. Just as the twilight faded into dark we came sharply into Haverfordwest and with grave misgivings halted at the Castle Hotel. Here we must stop, willy nilly, for there was nothing that promised better in many miles. But to apply the cautious Yorkshireman's expression to the Castle Hotel, "It might be worse," and we were willing to let the uncomfortable feather-beds and the dingy candle-lit rooms overlooking the stable yard, be atoned for by the excellent dinner that our landlady prepared at so late an hour. We did not linger at Haverfordwest on the following morning, though perhaps the castle and the priory church might well have detained us. The castle, which crowns the terribly steep hill to which the town seems to cling somewhat precariously, has been reduced to a county jail--or gaol, as the English have it--and thus robbed of much of its romance. Still, it is an impressive old fortress, dominating the town with its huge bulk, and it has figured much in the annals of Pembrokeshire. Haverfordwest has a history antedating the Conquest. It was undoubtedly a stopping-place for the troops of pilgrims who in early days journeyed to the sacred shrine of St. David's, the Ultima Thule of Southern Wales, sixteen miles to the west, following a tortuous road over many steep and barren hills. The railroad ends at Haverfordwest and no doubt the facilities for reaching St. David's a thousand years ago were quite as good as today, the daily mail cart and coach twice a week in season being the only regular means of transportation. No wonder in days when strenuous journeys to distant shrines were believed to be especially meritorious, two trips to St. David's were allowed to confer the spiritual benefit of a single pilgrimage to Rome itself. And we ourselves are pilgrims to St. David's shrine--not by the slow horseback cavalcade of old days, or the more modern coach, but by motor car. Our forty-horse engine makes quick work of the precipitous hill out of Haverfordwest and carries us without lagging over the dozen long steep hills on the road to the ancient town. Shortly before reaching St. David's the road drops down to the ocean side, but the sea is hidden by a long ridge of stones and pebbles piled high by the inrushing waters. The tide was far out and we saw no finer beach on the Welsh coast than the one that lay before us as we stood on the stony drift. A great expanse of yellow--almost literally golden--sand ran down to a pale green sea, which lapped it in silvery sunlit ripples, so quiet and peaceful was the day. But one could not but think of the scope afforded for the wild play of the ocean on stormy days--how the scene must be beyond all description "When the great winds shoreward blow, And the salt tides seaward flow; Where the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray." We left the car near the ancient stone cross in the deserted market place of St. David's and sought the cathedral, which is strangely situated in a deep dell, the top of the Norman tower being only a little above the level of the market place. The cathedral has been recently restored, more perhaps on account of its historic past than any present need for it, but the bishop's palace, once one of the most elaborate and extensive in the Kingdom, stands in picturesque decay, beyond any hope of rehabilitation. As to the old-time importance of St. David's as contrasted with its present isolation, the words of an enthusiastic English writer may perhaps serve better than my own: "Centuries ago St. David's bishop had seven palaces for his pleasure; now he does not dwell in his own city. Of old the offerings at St. David's shrine were divided every Saturday among the priests by the dishful, to save time in counting the coins; now a few pounds weekly is accounted a good collection total. Ancient kings came hither in state to confess their sins; in this travelling age only the enterprising tourist comes to the city at all. Eight or nine roads converged upon the little place on its headland of about three miles square, but the majority are now no better than humble weather-worn lanes. The Atlantic winds sweep across the depression by the Alan brook in which St. David's Cathedral, the extensive ruins of the bishop's palace, and the many other fragments of St. David's glorious prime nestle among trees, with the humble cottages of the city itself surrounding them as if they loved them. Even the dilapidation here is so graceful that one would hardly wish it altered into the trim and rather smug completeness of many an English cathedral with its close." The cathedral is extremely interesting and made doubly so by an intelligent verger whom we located with considerable difficulty. Pilgrims to St. David's were apparently too infrequent to justify the good man's remaining constantly on duty as in larger places, and a placard forbidding fees, may have dampened his zeal in looking for visitors. But we found him at last in his garden, and he did his part well; nothing curious or important in the history of the cathedral was forgotten by him. The leaning Norman pillars, the open roof of Irish oak, the gorgeous ceiling with its blood-red and gold decorations, and many relics discovered during the restoration, were pointed out and properly descanted upon. But one might write volumes of a shrine which kings once underwent many hardships to visit, among them Harold the Saxon and his conqueror, William of Normandy. Nothing but a visit can do it justice, and with the advent of the motor car, old St. David's will again be the shrine of an increasing number of pilgrims, though their mission and personel be widely different from the wayfarers of early days. [Illustration: ST. DAVID'S CATHEDRAL.] There is only one road out of the lonely little town besides that which brought us thither and we were soon upon the stony and uncomfortable highway to Cardigan. Here we found roadmaking in primitive stages; the broken stone had been loosely scattered along the way waiting for the heavy-wheeled carts of the farmers to serve the purpose of the steam roller. The country is pitifully barren and the little hovels--always gleaming with whitewash--were later called to mind by those in Ireland. There are no great parks with fine mansions to relieve the monotony of the scene. Only fugitive glimpses of the ocean from the upland road occasionally lend a touch of variety. At Fishguard, a mean little town with a future before it--for it is now the Welsh terminus of the Great Western Railway's route to Ireland--we paused in the crowded market square and a courteous policeman approached us, divining that we needed directions. "The road to Cardigan? Straight ahead down the hill." "It looks pretty steep," we suggested. "Yes, but nothing to the one you must go up out of the town. Just like the roofs of those houses there, and the road rough and crooked. Yes, this is all there is of Fishguard; pretty quiet place except on market days." We thanked the officer and cautiously descended the hill before us. We then climbed much the steepest and most dangerous hill we found in all the twelve thousand or more miles covered by our wanderings. To our dismay, a grocer's cart across the narrow road compelled us to stop midway on the precipitous ascent, but the motor proved equal to the task and we soon looked back down the frightful declivity with a sigh of relief. We were told later of a traveling showman who had been over all the main roads of the Island with a traction engine and who declared this the worst hill he knew of. Newport--quite different from the Eastern Welsh Newport--and Cardigan are quaint, old-world villages, though now decayed and shrunken. I will not write of them, though the history of each is lost in the mists of antiquity and the former possesses an imposing though ruinous castle. The road between them is hilly, but the hills are well wooded and the prospects often magnificent and far-reaching. We found it much the same after leaving Cardigan, though the country is distinctly better and more pleasing than the extreme south. The farm houses appear more prosperous, and well-cared-for gardens surround them. Nowhere did we find the people kinder or more courteous. An instance occurred at Carmarthen, where we stopped to consult our maps. The owner of a near-by jewelry shop came out and accosted us. Did we want information about the roads? He had lived in Carmarthen many years and was familiar with all the roads about the town. To Llandovery? We had come too far; the road north of the river is the best and one of the prettiest in Wales. It would be worth our while to go back a mile and take this road. Thanking him, we retraced our way through the long main street of the town and were soon away over one of the most perfect and beautiful of Welsh highways. It runs in straight broad stretches between rows of fine trees, past comfortable-looking farm houses, and through cozy little hamlets nestling amid trees and shrubbery, and seems constantly to increase in charm until it takes one into Llandovery, twenty-five miles from Carmarthen and the center of one of the most picturesque sections of Wales. Lying among wooded hills in a valley where two clear little rivers join their waters, Llandovery--the church among the waters--is a village of surpassing loveliness. The touch of antiquity so necessary to complete the charm is in the merest fragment of its castle, a mouldering bit of wall on a mound overlooking the rivers--dismantled "by Cromwell's orders." Delightful as the town is, its surroundings are even more romantic. The highest peaks of South Wales, the Beacon and the Black Mountains, overlook it and in the recesses of these rugged hills are many resorts for the fisherman and summer excursionist. From the summits are vast panoramas of wooded hills and verdant valleys. The view is so far-reaching that on a clear day one may see the ocean to the south; or, far distant in the opposite direction, the snow-crowned mountains of Northern Wales. The road from Llandovery to Brecon is as fine as that to Carmarthen, though it is more sinuous and hilly. But it is perfectly surfaced and climbs the hills in such long sweeping curves and easy uniform grades that the steepest scarcely checks the flight of our car as it hastens at a thirty-five mile gait to Brecon. It is growing late--we might well wish for more time to admire the views from the hillside road. The valleys are shrouded in the purple haze of twilight and the sky is rich with sunset coloring. It has been a strenuous day for us--one of our longest runs over much bad road. We note with satisfaction the promise of a first-class hotel at Brecon, though we find it crowded almost to our exclusion. But we are so weary that we vigorously protest and a little shifting--with some complaint from the shifted parties--makes room for us. We are told in awe-stricken whispers that the congestion is partly due to the fact that Her Grace the Duchess of B---- (wife of one of the richest peers in England) has arrived at the hotel with her retinue, traveling in two motor cars. She was pointed out to us in the morning as she walked along the promenade in very short skirts, accompanied by her poodle. We heard of this duke often in our journeyings, one old caretaker in a place owned by the nobleman assuring us that his income was no less than a guinea a minute! The duke owns many blocks of buildings in some of the busiest sections of London. The land occupied by them came into possession of the family through the marriage of the great-grandfather of the present holder of the title with the daughter of a dairy farmer who owned much of the quarter where London real estate is now of fabulous value--thus showing that some of the English aristocracy rose to wealth by means quite as plebeian as some of those across the water. Nowadays the penniless duke would have crossed the Atlantic to recoup his fortune, instead of turning to a rich dairyman's daughter in his own country. But in indulging in this more or less interesting gossip, I am forgetting Brecon and the Castle Hotel, rightly named in this instance, for the hotel owns the old castle; it stands in the private grounds which lie between the hotel and the river and are beautified with flowers and shrubbery. Brecon boasts of great antiquity and it was here that Sir John Price made overtures to Henry VIII. which resulted in the union of England and Wales. The priory church is one of the largest and most important in Wales and is interesting in architecture as well as historical association. We saw the plain old house where the ever-charming Mrs. Siddons was born--a distinction of which Brecon is justly proud. And Brecon is not without its legend of Charles the Wanderer, who passed a day or two at the priory during one of his hurried marches in Wales, and the letter he wrote here is the first record we have of his despair of the success of the royal cause. My chapter is already too long--but what else might be expected of an effort to crowd into a few pages the record of sights and impressions that might well fill a volume? VIII SOME NOOKS AND CORNERS Early next day we were in Hereford, for it is but forty miles from Brecon by the Wye Valley road. It had been just one week since we had passed through the town preparatory to our tour of South Wales--a rather wearisome journey of well upon a thousand miles over some of the worst of Welsh roads. It was not strange, then, that we gladly seized the opportunity for a short rest in Hereford. There is something fascinating about the fine old cathedral town. It appeals to one as a place of repose and quiet, though this may be apparent rather than real, for we found the Green Dragon filled to the point of turning away would-be guests. The town stands sedately in the midst of the broad, level meadows which surround it on every side, and through its very center meanders the Wye, the queenliest of British rivers, as though loath to leave the confines of such a pleasant place. It is a modern city, despite its ancient history, for its old-time landmarks have largely disappeared and its crowded lanes have been superseded by broad streets. Even the cathedral has a distressingly new appearance, due to the recent restoration, and a public park occupies the site of the vanished castle. But for all that, one likes Hereford. Its newness is not the cheap veneer so frequently evident in the resort towns; it is solid and genuine throughout and there are enough antique corners to redeem it from monotony. To sum up our impressions, Hereford is a place one would gladly visit again--and again. Jotted down on our map adjacent to the Tewkesbury road were blue crosses, indicating several seldom-visited nooks and corners we had learned of in our reading and which we determined to explore. No recollection of our wanderings comes back to us rosier with romance or more freighted with the spirit of rural England than that of our meanderings through the leafy byways of Worcestershire in search of Birtsmorton, Ripple, Stanton and Strensham. One will look long at the map before he finds them and a deal of inquiry was necessary before we reached Birtsmorton and its strange moated manor, Moreton Court. No better idea could be given of the somnolence and utter retirement of the little hamlet than the words of a local writer: "Birtsmorton is remarkable for the almost total absence of the usual signs of trade and industry; even agriculture is prosecuted within such limits as consist with leaving an ample portion of its surface in the good feudal condition of extended sheep walks and open downs. Such Birtsmorton has ever been, such it still is--but, thanks to projected railroads, such we trust it will not always be." The projected railroad has not yet arrived and the lover of quietude and of the truly rural will hope that it will still be long delayed. No quainter old place did we find in our long quest for the quaint than Moreton Court. Fancy a huge, rambling house, a mixture of brick and half-timber, with a great gateway over which the ancient port-cullis still shows its teeth, surrounded closely on all sides by the waters of a very broad moat and connected with the outer world by a drawbridge. Once inside the court, for you gain admission easily, you pause to look at the strange assortment of gables, huge chimneys and mullioned windows, all indicative of ancient state. Not less interesting is the interior; one finds a staircase of solid black oak with a queer, twisted newelpost, dark corridors leading to massive oaken doors, chambers with ceilings intersected by heavy beams, and a state apartment of surpassing beauty. This is a spacious room, paneled to the ceiling with finely wrought dark oak, its mullioned oriel windows overhanging the moat, which on this side widens to a lake. A marvelous chimney-piece with the arms of the ancient owners attracts attention and the scutcheons of a dozen forgotten noblemen are ranged as a frieze around the walls. We will not seek to learn the history of the old house, but some of its legends have a strange fascination. It is surely appropriate that Moreton Court should have its ghost--the "lily maid" who on winter nights kneels over the grave of her murdered lover in the adjoining churchyard. Her stern father had driven her from his home because of her constancy to her yeoman lover, whom he caused to be hung on the false charge of stealing a cow. The next morning the cruel sire found his daughter dead at his door, covered with the winter snow. But there is another grim old legend far better authenticated, which had its origin in a sad incident occurring at Moreton Court two or three centuries ago, and a sermon is still annually preached in the church against dueling. A pair of lovers were plighting their troth in the manor gardens when an unsuccessful rival of the happy youth chanced upon them and a quarrel ensued which led to a duel fatal to both of the combatants. The heart-broken maiden ended her days in sorrow at Moreton Court and left by will a fund to provide for this annual sermon. Another weird story they tell of the great Wolsey, in his youth chaplain to the lords of Moreton Court. A recalcitrant priest from Little Malvern Priory was condemned to crawl on all fours from his cell to the summit of Ragged-Stone Hill and in his rage cursed all upon whom the shadow of the hill should afterwards fall. Wolsey was one day reading in the manor grounds when to his horror he found that the fatal shadow of the hill-crest enveloped him. But today, for all its history and legend, Moreton Court has degenerated into an ill-kept tenement farmhouse and the banquet hall with its richly moulded plaster roof is used as a storehouse for cheese. The stagnant waters of the moat and the uncleanly dairy yard directly in front of the house accord ill with its old-time state and with our modern notions of sanitation. The church near at hand is older and quite as unique as the manor; little restoration has interfered with its antique charm. Its bench ends still show the Tudor Rose and are undoubtedly those originally placed in the church. A "sanctuary ring" in the door and an odd circular alms-chest are very unusual and the altar tombs and screens are worthy of notice. In the church are buried the ancient lords of Moreton Court, who sleep their long sleep while church and manor degenerate into plebeian hands and gradually fall into ruin. We found it practically impossible at the close of the day to trace on the map the maze of byways we threaded before reaching Worcester, and now our wanderings come back only as a general impression. We crossed the Severn at Tewkesbury but did not enter the town. A departure from the Worcester road into a narrow lane led us in a mile or two into Ripple, one of the quaintest and coziest of hamlets. Only a few thatched cottages clustered about the stone market cross of immemorial days--cottages overshadowed by no less immemorial elms, mantled with ivy and dashed with the color of rose vines. Near the cross, relics of days when there were rogues in Ripple--surely there are none now--are the oaken stocks and weather-beaten whipping-post. What a quiet, dreamy, secluded place it seems. It is hard indeed to imagine that within a circle of fifty miles is a country teeming with cities. If the village has any history we did not learn it--no great man is connected with Ripple as Tennyson with Somersby, though Ripple is not unlike Somersby. Ripple is worth a day's journey just for itself. Only one lane leads to the village, but we left it over a wide common, passing many gates to regain the main road. [Illustration: TOWN CROSS, STOCKS AND WHIPPING POST, RIPPLE.] We left this again in a few miles for Strensham, a village not unlike Ripple, though larger. Its church, our "object of interest," is situated in the fields a mile from the town. No open road leads to it, only a rough stone-strewn path through the fields. They told us, though, that we might take the car to the church, and we passed through several gates before we paused in the green meadow in front of the old structure. There was no one in charge; the doors were locked and it looked as if our pains in coming were all for nothing. A man who was trimming the hedge pointed out the rectory and a little effort brought forth the rector himself, who seemed much pleased that pilgrims should be interested enough to come to his church. Surely Strensham Church is one of the quaintest of the smaller English churches. The restorer's hand has not as yet marred its oddity--though sorely needed, the rector said, to arrest too evident decay. The floor is of uneven flagstones, interspersed here and there with remnants of the original tiling. The high-backed oaken pews have been in place for centuries, but, alas, have been covered by a coat of yellow "grained" paint. "I had a man come from London to give me the cost of removing the paint," said the rector, "but he said it would be sixty pounds--quite out of the question when money is so much needed to prevent actual decay." The rood loft, bearing a dozen painted panels of saints--as old, perhaps, as the church, yet with colors rich and strong, is very remarkable. Each face has a characteristic expression, in most cases rather quaintly distorted, and each saint has some distinguishing mark, as St. Anthony with his pig. There are several unusually fine brasses, but the best of these had been torn from its original grave before the altar a hundred years ago by an ambitious squire who desired to occupy this place of honor himself. "But like the man in the scriptures who sought the head of the table only to be humiliated, the usurper is likely to be removed," said the rector, "and the fourteenth century brass replaced over the grave." The little church seems lonely and poverty-stricken, but the rectory near at hand is a large, comfortable house surrounded by well-kept gardens. Strensham village has a decided advantage over its lowly neighbor, Ripple, for it is known to fame as the birthplace of Samuel Butler, the author of "Hudibras." A charming road leads through Upton-on-Severn to Malvern Wells and Great Malvern, but we had no leisure to contemplate its beauties; a car was bent on passing us--to which we were much averse, for the road was very dusty. We had only a glimpse of the Malverns, with their endless array of hotels, lodging-houses and other resort-town characteristics. The two towns are practically continuous and lie beneath the Malvern Hills, whose slopes, diversified with stone-walled fields, groves and farm villages, stretch away to the blue haze that nearly always envelops the summits. Yet Malvern is not without a touch of antiquity--no doubt the Romans had a station here and the splendid priory church rivals some of the cathedrals in size and dignity. Only scanty ruins remain of the domestic portions of the abbey, which, with the great beautifully carved Gothic gateway, constitute all that is left of the old order besides the church. A delightful feature of the towns is the Common--when we saw it, fine stretches of greensward with many noble trees. The Common was at one time a royal domain, and Charles I. in his stresses for money undertook to sell the land to raise funds, but such rioting ensued in Malvern that a compromise was effected by surrendering two-thirds of the Chase, as the Common was then called, to the people. Though the forests have been greatly thinned by the ax, there still remains enough of sylvan beauty to give to Malvern Common an indescribable charm, and so intersected is it with sinuous roads that it was with difficulty we started aright for Worcester. On our way to the cathedral city we passed the battlefield where the momentous encounter took place between the forces of Cromwell and the Royalists under Prince Charles--or, as his followers claimed, King Charles II. through his Scotch coronation--which resulted in such disaster to the royal arms. Cromwell called it his "crowning mercy," and indeed it ended all organized efforts against the Commonwealth while the Protector lived. Charles fled to Boscobel, as already related, and after many adventures reached France to remain until peacefully recalled after Oliver's death. Worcester is one of the fine old towns that tempt one to linger, no matter how often he may come. Modern improvements have swept away many of the relics of extreme antiquity; yet the Romans were certainly here, and before them the early Britons had a fortified town on the site. The streets are now lined with attractive shops and here is extensive manufacturing--few indeed are the wayfarers who escape paying tribute to "Royal Worcester" before they leave. Not a little of the charm of the town is due to the Severn, lying broad, bright and still in its very heart. We pause for tea--again the mild dissipation of the Englishman attracts us--at the Star Hotel, and as we depart from the city look lingeringly at the majestic yet graceful outlines of the cathedral towers against the evening sky. [Illustration: A WORCESTERSHIRE COMMON From the Original Painting by B. W. Leader, R. A.] Coventry is but forty miles away. The King's Head comes to our minds, though ever so faintly, as something like home, and we may reach it by the grace of the long twilight. And what a flight it is--through the most delightful section of rural England, tinged with the golden glows and purple shades of a perfect summer evening. We sweep over the broad road to Droitwich, and as soon as we can solve the mystery of its tortuous streets, we enter the excellent though rather narrow and winding highway that leads through Alcester to Shakespeare's Stratford. It had evidently been a gala day in the old town, for the streets were thronged with people, mostly from the surrounding country, though no doubt there was a goodly number of our fellow-countrymen in the crowd, since it was now the height of the Stratford season. Under the circumstances, the "eight-mile" limit notice posted on the roads entering the town was quite superfluous; we could scarcely have violated it--so it seemed, at least--had it been only a mile an hour. Once away on the surpassing road to Coventry, the fifteen miles occupied scarce half an hour, despite the checks at Warwick and Kenilworth. Coventry was thronged with the happy "Week-End" holiday crowd, through which we slowly made our way to the King's Head, where we were now well known and received as warm a welcome as one may find at an inn. Sunday, by odds the best day for getting about London or the larger cities, is not so satisfactory for touring in the rural sections. The roads are thronged with pedestrians, including many women and children. Not a few of the women pushed perambulators and often showed a strange perversity in crossing to the farther side of the road in front of the car. Besides, a number of the places one may desire to visit are closed on Sundays, though the tendency is constantly towards more liberality in this particular. Yet there was nothing agreeable in lounging about a hotel, and Sunday--afternoons, at least--usually found us on the road. It was very quiet in Nuneaton, the rather ugly town which George Eliot made famous as "Milby." The farmhouse where the authoress was born and the old manor, her home for many years, were not accessible. The throngs of Sunday wayfarers made progress slow, but we reached Tamworth for late luncheon at the excellent Castle Hotel and learned that the castle--the tower of Scott's "Marmion," would be open during the afternoon. Tamworth Castle is now the property of the town corporation and the grounds have been converted into a public park, which, judging from the crowds that filled it on the fine afternoon, must be well appreciated. The castle is situated on a high, apparently artificial mound. It has been put in tolerable repair and is used as a museum. So well preserved is it that one may gain a good idea of the domestic life of a feudal nobleman of the fourteenth century--a life comfortless and rude, judged by our present standards. There is much paneling and elaborate wood-carving on the walls and mantels of many of the rooms, and one may be quite lost in the devious passageways that lead to odd nooks and quaint, irregular apartments. The view from the keep tower, with its massive over-hanging battlements, was indeed a lovely one. The day was perfectly clear, permitting a far-reaching outlook over the valley of the Tame, a fertile country of meadow lands and yellowing harvest fields, while westward in the distance the spires of Lichfield pierced the silvery sky. There is, perchance, something a little incongruous in a restored and well-cared-for old-time castle such as Tamworth. It can never appeal to the imagination as does the shattered, neglected ruin crumbling away beneath its mantle of ivy and flaunting its banners of purple and yellow wall-flowers. But after all, the Tamworth idea is the right one and insures the preservation of many historic buildings which otherwise might gradually fall into complete decay. And yet one almost shudders to think of Ludlow or Raglan under such conditions. We hastened over the broad road to Lichfield, and passing through its irregular streets, with which we are now fairly familiar, followed the river to Colwich, where we paused to admire the splendid Decorated church which overshadows the quiet village. But few prettier and more truly rural byroads did we find anywhere than the one running northward from Colwich to Uttoxeter. On either side were flower-spangled hedge-rows, or in places long ranks of over-arching trees. Though the road was excellent, the trim neatness so characteristic of England was quite wanting. The tangle of wild flowers, vines and shrubbery was faintly suggestive of country roadsides in some of our Western states. Midway we came into full view of a lonely ruined castle standing on the crest of a gently rising hill, and surrounded by a lawnlike meadow running down to the road. The ragged towers and crumbling walls stood gray and forbidding against a background of giant trees, and these were sharply outlined against the bluest of English skies. We learn later that it is Chartley Castle, which stands in a tract of ancient forest and heath land, upon which roams a herd of wild white cattle similar to those of Chillingham. Over Chartley broods the somber memory of its one-time owner, the Earl of Ferrars, who in a fit of anger murdered a steward and was hanged two centuries ago for the crime at Tyburn. It was his whim to be dressed in his wedding garments and hanged with a silken cord. He was stoic to the last and would say no more than he expressed in the misanthropic lines: "In doubt I lived, in doubt I die, Yet stand prepared the vast abyss to try, And undismayed expect eternity." A grim old tale that fits well with the lonely fortress, standing in unguarded ruin in the mysterious forest about it. [Illustration: RUINS OF CHARTLEY CASTLE, DERBYSHIRE.] But the day was waning and we hastened on to Uttoxeter, a town to which Nathaniel Hawthorne made a pilgrimage nearly half a century ago, attracted by the fact that it is the birthplace of Dr. Samuel Johnson. He regretted that there was no memorial of the great author in his native town, but this has since been supplied. An ugly fountain has been erected on the traditional spot where Johnson did penance, as he described in a letter to Miss Seward on his return from Uttoxeter: "Fifty years ago, madam, on the day, I committed a breach of filial piety which has ever since lain heavy on my mind, and has not till this day been expiated. My father ... had long been in the habit of attending Uttoxeter market and opening a stall of his books during that day. Confined to his bed by indisposition, he requested me, this time fifty years, to visit the market in his place. But, madam, my pride prevented me from doing my duty and I gave my father a refusal. To do away the sin of disobedience, this day I went in a post-chaise to Uttoxeter, and going into the market at the time of high business, uncovered my head and stood with it bare an hour before the stall which my father formerly used, exposed to the sneers of the standers-by and the inclemency of the weather." The open road to Derby is broad, straight, smooth and level--what a combination of excellences for the motorist!--and the car skims joyously along. There are many fine estates on either hand with wide forest-dotted parks and imposing gateways. Derby is a large, rather unattractive town and we do not care to linger. Mansfield appeals more strongly to us, for Mansfield is the center of the Byron country. The road is not a pleasing one, passing through towns crowded with workingmen's cottages and climbing steep, stony hills. At dusk we come into Mansfield and find it a larger town than we had fancied--a rather modern city built around an ancient center, in the very heart of which stands the old many-gabled Swan Inn. IX THE BYRON COUNTRY The exterior of the Swan Inn, its weather-beaten gables crowded between rather shabby-looking buildings on either side, is not wholly prepossessing. We hesitate to enter the courtyard, though it is quite late, until a policeman assures us there is nothing better in the town--or in the country about, for that matter. Had we needed further assurance, we might have glanced at our trusty Baedeker to find the Swan honored with special mention as "an excellent, long-established house with winding oak stairs three hundred years old." Once inside our misgivings vanish instantly amidst the air of cleanliness, solid comfort and pleasant antiquity that prevails. We have a large room, almost oppressive in its wealth of mahogany, and, dimly lighted by candles in ancient candlesticks, it seems pervaded with an air of ghostly mystery. There are tall-posted, canopied beds of marvelous state, mysterious oaken chests heavily carved, antique chairs, quaint old settees, and many curious things wrought in brass and copper. Altogether, few other of the country inns had quite the charm of the Swan, and very agreeable did we find the ladies who managed it. We told them of our previous futile attempts to see Newstead Abbey and they were certain that the coveted privilege would be secured for us on the following day--it had never been refused to guests of the Swan at the request of the manageress. She would write at once and would doubtless have an answer in the morning. It need hardly be said that we were glad to stay another day at the Swan and in the meanwhile visit some of the curious and delightful spots in which Derbyshire abounds. No section of England is more famed than the "Peak District," with Haddon Hall, Chatsworth, Bakewell Church, Buxton and Dovedale; and though almost unknown to tourists, the great moorlands which stretch away to the north we found none the less interesting. Chesterfield Church is famous for its distorted spire, strangely twisted and leaning several degrees from the vertical. Some say it was due to a whim of the designer, but local legend prefers to ascribe it to the malice of His Satanic Majesty, who chose such queer ways of venting his spite on the churches of olden time. If he indeed twisted Chesterfield's spire, it was at least a far more obvious evidence of his ill will toward churches than the scratch of his claw still shown on the bell of St. Mary's at Shrewsbury. But the troublesome antiquarians, who have such a way of discrediting the painstaking and very satisfactory work of the legend-makers, would have us believe that the oaken timbers of the spire warped while seasoning under their coverings of lead. Be that as it may, Chesterfield Church is worthy a few minutes' pause on account of its remarkable tombs and unusual screen mysteriously carved with emblems of the crucifixion. Less imposing is Trinity Church, though the white marble tablet on its walls with the simple inscription, "George Stephenson, died August 12, 1848, aged 68 years," will have a fascination for the wayfarer from the remotest part of the earth, wherever the steam railroad has penetrated. The great inventor spent his declining years in retirement on a farm about a mile from Chesterfield, and his house still stands, partly hidden from the road by ancient trees. [Illustration: CHESTERFIELD CHURCH.] We had no desire to visit Chatsworth House a second time, though we followed the much frequented road through the park. No section of rural England, possibly excepting the Stratford-upon-Avon country is more favored by tourists; motors, carriages and chars-a-bancs were everywhere in evidence and stirred up clouds of limestone dust, which whitened the trees and hedges and filled the sky with a silvery haze. The number of English visitors is greater than at Stratford, and the more intelligent Englishman who has not visited Chatsworth is rather the exception. A thousand visitors a day is not uncommon; yet Chatsworth House is thrown open free to all every week day--surely an example of princely generosity on the part of the Duke of Devonshire. Few who visit Chatsworth will omit Haddon Hall, and while a single visit to the modern palace may suffice, a hundred to Haddon, it seemed to us, would leave one still unsatisfied. Who could ever weary of the indescribable beauty of the ancient house or cease to delight in its atmosphere of romantic story? Nowhere in England is there another place that speaks so eloquently of the past or which brings so near to our prosaic present day the life, manners and environment of the English nobleman of three or four centuries ago. No sight in England is more enchanting than the straggling walls and widely scattered towers of Haddon, standing in gray outline against the green of its sheltering hill--the point of view chosen by the painter of our picture. Yet, with all its battlements and watch-towers, Haddon was never a fortified castle--a circumstance to which we owe its perfect preservation. The wars of the Roses and the Commonwealth left it scathless; it was an actual residence until 1730, since which time every care has been exercised to maintain it in repair. We will not rehearse the well-known legends of the place, nor will we give ear for an instant to the insinuation that the romance of the fair Dorothy was fabricated less than a hundred years ago. What tinge of romance will be left to this prosaic world if these busybody iconoclasts are given heed? They cannot deny that Dorothy married John Manners, Duke of Rutland, anyway, for it was through this union that Haddon Hall passed to its present owners. [Illustration: HADDON HALL FROM THE RIVER. From the Original Water Color by C. F. Allbon.] After a long, loving look at her ancestral home, we turn away and follow the dusty road to Bakewell, where we stand before her tomb in the fine old church. Here in effigy she kneels facing her husband and below are the indescribably quaint figures of her four children. The caretaker, who is loudly lecturing a group of trippers, catches a glimpse of us as we enter and his practical eye differentiates instantly the American tourist. He hastens to us and begs us to wait a little--the party is large--he will soon give us his personal attention. The trippers are hurried along and dismissed with scant ceremony and we are shown about in detail that encroaches upon our time. Still, there are many things of genuine interest and antiquity in Bakewell Church and the dissertations of our guide concerning them is worth the half crown we bestow upon him. Outside, we pause to contemplate the grand old structure. Its massive walls terminate in castellated battlements and its splendid spire, a miniature of Salisbury, in slender yet graceful proportions, rises to a height of two hundred feet. All around is the spacious churchyard, thickly set with monumental stones, and upon one of these we noted the quaintest of the many quaint old English epitaphs we read. Happy indeed the parish clerk immortalized in the following couplets: "The vocal Powers let us mark Of Philip our late Parish Clerk In Church none ever heard a Layman With clearer Voice say Amen! Who now with Hallelujas Sound Like Him can make the Roofs rebound. The Choir lament his Choral tones The Town--so soon Here lie his bones Sleep undisturbed within thy peaceful shrine, Till Angels wake thee with such notes as thine." From Bakewell we followed one of the many Wyes to Buxton--a road scarcely equalled for beauty in the Peak District. What a contrast its wayside trees and flowers and pleasant farm cottages presented to the stony moorland road we pursued northward from Buxton! We lingered at the latter place only enough to note the salient features of the popular watering-place of the Peak. It is situated in a verdant valley, but the moorland hills, bleak and barren, nearly surround it. Only three miles distant is Dovedale, famed as the loveliest and most picturesque of the many English "Dales." I have no words cheerless enough to tell our impressions of the great Midland Moor, through whose very heart our way led to the northward. A stony road through a gray, stony country with a stone hovel here and there, tells something of the story. We pass bleak little towns, climb many steep, winding hills, speed swiftly along the uplands, leaving a long trail of white dust-clouds in our wake--until we are surprised by Glossop, a good-sized city in the midst of the moor. It has large papermills, substantially built of stone, an industry made possible by the pure waters of the moor. The streets are paved with rough cobble-stones and the town has altogether a cheerless, unattractive look, but interesting as quite a new phase of England. In all our journeyings throughout the Kingdom we found no section more utterly bleak and dreary than that through which we passed from Buxton to Glossop. We could but imagine what aspect a country that so impressed us on a fine day in June time must present in the dull, gray English winter. How the unimpeded winds must sweep the brown moorlands! How their icy blasts must search out every crevice in the lone cottages and penetrate the cheerless-looking hovels in the villages! A small native of whom we asked his recollection of winter shook his head sadly and said, "Awfully cold"; and a local proverb referring to the section has it that "Kinderscout is the cowdest place aout." The Sheffield road follows the hills, which towered high above us at times or again dropped almost sheer away below to a black, tumbling stream. In one place, beneath an almost mountainous hill, we had an adventure which startled us more than any other occurrence of our tour. From the summit of a hill hundreds of feet above us, some miscreant loosened a huge boulder, which plunged down the declivity seemingly straight at us, but by good fortune missed our car by a few yards. The perpetrator of the atrocity immediately disappeared and there was no chance of tracing him. Happily, we had no similar outrage to record of all our twelve thousand miles in Britain, and we pass the act as that of a criminal or lunatic. This road was built about the beginning of the nineteenth century and a competent authority expresses doubt if there is a finer, better-engineered road in England than that between Glossop and Ashopton, a village about half way to Sheffield, and adds, "or one where houses are so rare--or the sight of an inn rouses such pleasureable anticipation," though one of these, "The Snake," must have other attractions than its name. It is indeed a fine road, though by no means unmatched by many others--the Manchester road to the northwest fully equals it, and following as it does the series of fine reservoirs lying in the valleys, is superior in scenery. We took a short cut through Sheffield, the city of knives, razors and silver plate, caught a second glimpse of Chesterfield's reeling spire, and swept over the hills into Mansfield just as the long twilight was fading into night. The next morning our hostess of The Swan placed in our hands the much-sought-for pass to Newstead Abbey, and to while the time until the hour set for admittance, we went by the way of Hucknall, to visit Byron's grave in the church whose square-topped tower dominates the town. Recent restoration gives an air of newness, for Hucknall Church, when Byron's remains were laid before its altar, was little better than a ruin. The old man working over the graves in the churchyard knew full well our mission and leaving his task accosted us in unmistakable Irish brogue. He led us directly to the poet's tomb, and it was with deep feeling not unmixed with awe that we advanced toward the high altar of Hucknall Church and stood silent and uncovered before the grave of Byron. On the wall over the tomb were graven two of those passages whose lofty sentiments glitter like gems--though betimes in inharmonious setting--throughout the poet's writings, which breathe the high hopes he felt in his better moments. Well may the tablet over his last resting-place bear the inspired lines: "If that high world, which lies beyond Our own, surviving Love endears; If there the cherish'd heart be fond, The eye the same, except in tears-- How welcome those untrodden spheres! How sweet this very hour to die! To soar from earth and find all fears Lost in thy light--Eternity!" "It must be so; 'tis not for self That we so tremble on the brink; And, striving to o'erleap the gulf, Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think To hold each heart the heart that shares; With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!" The second quotation is from "Childe Harold," more positive in its tone, though less scintillating in its verbiage. In the wall near by, the gift of a Scotch admirer, is a marble profile medallion of the poet's face, with Shelley's characterization, "The Pilgrim of Eternity." In the adjoining vestry the walls are covered with the graven words of many of the greatest men of the century--tributes to the genius of Byron. Verily the church at Hucknall has become as a mausoleum to one denied burial in the nation's Valhalla, and who was, in truth, almost grudged sepulture in his native soil by a large number of the Englishmen of his day. And there came to us a faint conception of the intense bitterness of the times--when the body of England's greatest genius, dead in a forlorn but glorious cause, was brought to his native land to be greeted with a storm of hatred and a fierce protest against interment in Westminster Abbey. With little ceremony he was laid away in the church of Hucknall and pilgrims now come daily to that otherwise uninteresting and rather ugly town to do honor to the memory of Byron--certainly one of the brightest and most fascinating, if not the greatest, of English poets. For me there was none other of the historic places which we visited more deeply tinged by its romantic associations or possessing a greater fascination than Newstead Abbey. Perhaps this feeling was intensified by our previous unsuccessful attempts to gain admission and by the recollection of the passion of my boyhood days for the verse of Byron--though indeed I have hardly read him latterly. But we were to visit Newstead at last. If we found a little difficulty--possibly the result of our ignorance--in getting permission, we could not complain of the opportunities afforded us as visitors. From the Mansfield road we entered the gateway and drove through the stretches of forest and meadow in the great park, halting the car at the very doorway of the ancient place. We paused to view the fine facade, with its square battlemented tower at one end and the ruins of the abbey church at the other. There is little left of this latter save the east wall, once pierced by three great windows, two of which have at some time been filled in. We were conducted by the rather aristocratic housekeeper to every part of the house save the private apartments of the family, and there was no effort to hurry us along--so often the fate of the tourist in such cases. One who is accustomed to think of Newstead Abbey as it lives, lonely and half ruinous, in the verse of Byron, who had such an intense affection for the home of his ancestors; or even one who reads Washington Irving's interesting account of his visit to the place when owned by Col. Wildman a few years later, is hardly prepared for the modern palace into which the abbey has been transformed. The paneled halls, with their rich furnishings and rare curios from all parts of the world, and the trim, beautifully kept gardens that greet one everywhere from the windows, have little in common with the Newstead of which Byron wrote in "Hours of Idleness:" "Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle, Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which once bloomed in the way." Still, much is unaltered and there are many relics to bring memories of the one-time noble, though unfortunate, owner, whose recklessness quite as much as his necessities compelled the sale of his ancestral estate. [Illustration: NEWSTEAD ABBEY.] Of greatest interest are the apartments which Byron himself occupied, a suite of three medium-sized rooms, which have been religiously kept through all the years just as the poet left them. The simple blue and white toilet set was his own, the bed the one he slept in, and many other articles and furnishings vividly recall the noble occupant who never returned after the sale of the abbey. Probably no one has occupied the rooms since Washington Irving slept there during the visit we have referred to and was roused in the middle of the night by a ghostly footfall in the hall--but found only Boatswain II. outside the door. In the hall the marks of the pistol shots of the young lord and his wild companions have not been effaced from the walls and in the gallery there is a collection of many mementos of the poet. Perhaps the most interesting is a section of the tree upon which he carved his name and that of his sister, Augusta--cut down because it was decaying. The gallery is largely filled with portraits of the present family, but our interest centers in the famous portrait by Phillips, in which the refined features and dignified though slightly melancholy air has invested the poet's face with a spirituality which it probably did not possess in so great a degree. From the house we were ushered into the gardens and were shown every nook and corner of these by the gardener in charge. They were elaborate indeed; rich with the color and perfume of the flowers which bloom so profusely in England; and there were many rare plants and shrubs. We were interested in Boatswain's grave, with its elaborate monument and inscription in which pathos verges on the ridiculous, yet highly consistent with the misanthropic moods so often affected by Byron. In contrast with the trim neatness of the flower beds and shrubbery is the fragment of the abbey church, through which the wind whistles as it did in the poet's day, and which has weathered the sun and rain of more than three hundred years since the heavy hand of the eighth Henry smote it into ruins. And it carries us back four hundred years farther to another Henry, who built the abbey to expiate his crime of instigating the murder of Thomas a'Becket. The history of Newstead told in brief by Irving need not occupy space in this hasty chronicle. It was with reluctance that we departed after our two hours' sojourn. It often comes back in memory with all the color and glory of a perfect June day--the majestic hall, the abbey ruin, the gardens with their riot of coloring, the shining lake, the woodland and the meadows--an enchanted world which we left behind us as we hastened away over the road to Mansfield, where we had late luncheon at the Swan. One will not leave the vicinity of Mansfield without a visit to Hardwick Hall and Bolsover Castle, famous for their connection with Elizabeth Spencer, "Bess of Hardwick." Architecturally, both are disappointing; Hardwick, bald, harsh and square, like a modern concrete factory, and Bolsover, an incongruous pile cut up into small, ill-arranged apartments, by far the finest part of it in complete ruin. Hardwick is still a residence of the Duke of Devonshire and had just passed on the death of Spencer Cavendish to his nephew, who was refurnishing the house preparatory to making it his home. A bare, unhomelike place it seemed, with its great staring windows, its uneven concrete floors, and its high ceilings of decorated plaster, broken and discolored in many places. Its chief historical interest centers in the fact that it was one of the many prison-houses of Mary Stuart; but her imprisonment here was far from rigorous--in fact, so considerate was the Earl of Shrewsbury of his royal ward that it roused the jealousy of his amiable spouse, the energetic Bess. Concerning this incident Miss Strickland--a rather biased historian, we must fear--takes the countess to task in vigorous style, declaring that-- "His proud and cruel wife, whose temper could not be restrained by any power on earth or in heaven, soon became jealous of the lovely and fascinating prisoner, and led her husband, a noble of exemplary gravity and a grandsire, a terrible life!" However, as in nearly every case of the kind, there appears to have been another side to it, and in any event, there were many who took the part of the jealous wife, including, as might be expected, Queen Elizabeth herself. The countess, besides Hardwick Hall, built the former house at Chatsworth, which has since been torn down. Bolsover was completed by her son; it is now unoccupied but maintained in good repair. It is worth a visit rather for the fine view from its towers--for it occupies a most magnificent site on a high promontory overlooking the wide vale of the river--than for any interest the castle itself possesses. The sun had sunk low when we came down from the castle walls and started for York, sixty miles away. At Worksop we were clear of the byways and the open road, invitingly smooth and level and almost free from traffic, stretched out before us. This chronicle is no record of miles per hour, and the motor enters into it only as a means to an end; yet there is no harm in saying that we had few swifter, evener flights through a more charming country than that which fleeted past us between Worksop and York. We soon caught sight of Doncaster's dominating church tower, a fit mate for many of the cathedrals, but in our haste out of the town we missed the North Road and were soon noting the milestones to Tadcaster, famous for little else than its ales. The North Road is a trifle better in surface and a little more direct, but we had traversed it before and did not regret the opportunity of seeing a different country. The minster towers soon loomed dim in the purple light and we felt a sense of almost homelike restfulness when we were established at the Station Hotel--to our notion one of the two or three most comfortable in England. X FROM YORKSHIRE COAST TO BARNARD CASTLE The Minster of St. John of Beverley is easily the finest single example of Perpendicular architecture in England; in beauty and majesty of design, in proportion and in general effect--from almost any viewpoint--there is no more pleasing church in the Kingdom. We come in sight of its graceful twin towers while yet afar from the town, after a thirty-mile run from York through some of the most prosperous farming country in the shire. As we come nearer, the mass of red tiles, from which rises the noble bulk of the minster, resolves itself into the houses of the old town, whose ancient heart has lost none of its charm in the little city which has more recently grown up around it. As we emerge from a narrow street bordered with mean little houses, the great church suddenly bursts on our view and we pause to admire its vast yet perfect proportions, its rich carvings, and the multitude of graceful pinnacles. We enter, but the caretaker receives us with little enthusiasm, though at our request he shows us about in a rather reserved manner. A card on the wall explains matters: "Positively no fees to attendants." Our experience has been that such a notice means cash in advance if you are to have the attention you want and which you really need if you are to see and appreciate such a church. We proceed, therefore, to get on a proper footing with our guide, and begin forthwith to learn the history, the architecture, the curiosities and the gossip of Beverley Minster. And the last is not the least interesting, for here, as at Wymondham, was a rector who with the modest salary of four hundred pounds a year had spent many thousands of his own money in restoration and repair of the minster. He had restored the intricate screen and replaced some of the images which had been broken up, yet so cleverly was the toning and coloring done that the newer work could not be distinguished from the old. The St. John from whom the minster took its name was Archbishop of York and founded a church on the present site in the sixth century. He died in 731 and, tradition says, is buried in the minster. But Beverley's most distinguishing historic fact is that it was one of the three "sanctuaries of refuge" in England. Here, by the strange edict of the early church, any criminal who could evade his pursuers might take refuge in the precincts of Beverley Minster and for thirty days be entitled to the protection and hospitality of the monks, after which he was given a passport to sail from the nearest port to some foreign land. We saw the rude stone chair of "refuge" to which no doubt many a gasping scoundrel clung, safe, for the time, from justice by virtue of his ability to outrun his pursuers. One incident is recorded of a "Tailour of York" who had cruelly murdered his wife but who escaped punishment by taking refuge in Beverley. The only penalty inflicted was to brand the criminal on the thumb with a hot iron and to watch him closely until he sailed for France. However, all this was better than being hanged, the penalty freely administered by the civil authorities in those days, and as a consequence Beverley always had a large number of "undesirable citizens" within her borders. There is much else of interest in the minster, though we may not linger over its attractions save to mention the Percy tomb, reputed the finest in Europe--and indeed, its rare marbles and delicate sculptures must represent a princely fortune. Nor could we have more than a passing glimpse of St. Mary's Church, second only to the minster in importance, for Beverley is the only town in England of anywhere near its size that has the distinction of possessing two churches of really the first magnitude. Following the road from Beverley to the coast by Great Driffield and Bridlington, we had a glimpse near the latter place of the high cliff of Flamborough Head, from which the startled Yorkshiremen of a century or more ago saw the "pirate," John Paul Jones, win his ever memorable victory over the Serapis. It is not a subject even to this day which the natives can discuss with entire equanimity. The road closely follows the coast to Scarborough, the queen of Yorkshire watering-places. We caught frequent glimpses of the ocean, which, once out of the shadows of the towering cliffs, stretched away until its deep--almost metallic--blue faded against the silvery horizon. We soon found ourselves on the handsome main street of the new town, which brought us to the waterfront at the foot of castle hill. An old man approached us, seeing our hesitation, and informed us that the new road around the promontory, one of the finest drives in England, was open--not officially open, to be sure, and it would not be until some of the "Nobs" came and the ceremonies of a formal dedication were performed. The road had been cut in the almost sheer side of the cliff, a broad driveway overlooking the varied scenery of coast and ocean--the latter now as mild and softly shimmering as a quiet inland lake. One could only imagine, on such a day, how the sea must rage and thunder against the promontory in wild weather, and we learned that storms interfered much with the building of the road, one of them causing damage estimated at fifty thousand pounds. But Scarborough persevered and the splendid driveway had just been completed. Later we had the satisfaction of learning from the newspapers that the Princess of Wales had visited Scarborough for the express purpose of formally dedicating the road with all the ceremony so dear to the English. Scarborough is unique in its combination of the old and the modern; but few of its rivals can boast of a castle with a history reaching back to the wars with the Danish invaders. Brighton and Eastbourne, sometimes ranked with Scarborough, are quite recent and lack the distinction that comes of centuries. Scarborough Castle, perched on its mighty rock, still presents a formidable appearance and impresses one with the tremendous strength its situation and heavy walls gave it before gunpowder brought such things to naught. From the keep tower a far-reaching prospect lies beneath us; a panorama of the sea chafing on the broken coast, and to the landward are the barren moors that encircle the town. There is not much of the fortress left, but the fragments are carefully guarded from decay and in places have been somewhat restored. There is a museum near the entrance to the keep, with a miscellaneous collection of relics, more or less gruesome, unearthed about the town and castle. Few indeed are the places which bring back more delightful memories or a greater longing to return than Whitby--old, straggling, storm-beaten Whitby--climbing up its steep hill crowned by one of the most unique churches and stateliest abbey ruins in all Britain. The road which takes us from Scarborough to its ancient rival is a wild one, wandering around the black, heather-splotched hills with trying grades which make careful driving necessary. To the right the ocean still shimmers in the setting sun and in nooks on the coast we catch glimpses of fishing villages--among them Robin Hood's Bay, called by some the most picturesque of the smaller fishing-towns in England. Long before we come into Whitby we catch sight of the skeleton of the abbey on the headland, standing almost weirdly against the evening sky. We descend a long, winding hill and find ourselves threading our way through crooked, narrow streets thronged with people who get out of the way only when they have to. Passing between rows of old houses crowding closely on either hand, we cross the bridge over the inlet and ascend the sharp hill where the hotels face the town and abbey on the opposite cliff. Thither we wend our way after dinner, just as the daylight begins to fade, and passing through the devious streets thronged with fisher folk and dirty youngsters, we ascend the ninety-nine broad stone steps by which one reaches the headland. The ruin is deserted and we find ourselves sole possessors of Whitby Abbey at an hour when the twilight softens the outlines and touches with gray and purple hues the old town at our feet and the rough moorland hills in the background, while the wide expanse of ocean glows mysteriously from the reflection of the dim-lit skies. The ruin rises abruptly from the soft greensward upon which the cows are contentedly grazing, and near at hand, gleaming darkly in the fading light, lies the fish pool, which lends much to the picturesqueness of the surroundings. The great church has fallen into complete ruin; decay is riot everywhere. Only half a century ago the central tower crashed to the earth, carrying many arches and pillars with it, and huge fragments of masonry still lie scattered about as if fallen from some thunder-riven cliff. Whitby Abbey is rich in legend, and at such an hour we will trouble ourselves little about sober fact--let mystery wrap the ruin even as the mantle of gathering darkness; for us it shall be only the "High Whitby's cloistered pile" of romance. We pass outside the abbey confines and pause before St. Mary's Church, a long squat building with low tower, as bald and plain as the abbey is pretentious and ornate. It was built as a rival to the abbey church in a very early day when there were bickerings between the townspeople and the monks of Whitby. In the churchyard, thick with mouldering memorials, has lately been raised a Saxon cross, inscribed to the memory of Caedmon, Father of English Letters, who "fell asleep hard by A. D. 680." [Illustration: WHITBY ABBEY AND CROSS.] As we return to our hotel, we are attracted into one of the old-town shops by a display of old brass and silver, and the genial proprietor at once establishes a basis of community, for has he not been in the States and has he not a brother there now? We pick up an antique lantern with dingy horn doors and green with verdigris and try the stale joke, "Made in Birmingham," which once or twice has brought a storm of indignant protest on our heads. But it does not so excite our Yorkshire friend. "Yes," he said, "I had a dozen copies made of a very rare piece that came into my hands. And that accounts for the price--genuine antiques are so rare and so sought for that the original would cost you many times the copy--and after all, you would be no better off when you had it." We cannot resist such confidence and add further to our burden of oddities such as one gathers, willy nilly, in a tour of the nooks and corns. Whitby shops are full of jet ornaments--brooches, beads, bracelets, and a thousand and one fanciful things--for jet is mined near the town,--a smooth lustrous substance whose name has come to signify the final degree of blackness. On the following day we again wander about the old-world streets of the town, which we find ourselves loath to leave. The morning's catch is just in at the fish-market and the finny tribes of all degrees are sorted on the pavement and sold to the townspeople. The fishing industry of Whitby is now on a small scale only; in former days it constituted a source of some wealth. The ballad writer celebrating Robin Hood's visit to Whitby gives this very good reason: "The fishermen more money have Than any merchants two or three." And thus the sturdy highwayman found it easy to replenish his exchequer from the fat purses of Whitby folk. It may be, though, that the isolated situation of the town between the wild moors and the sea, and its good harbor for small vessels, made the occupation of smuggling especially profitable, and the wealth of the old-time citizens of Whitby may have been augmented by this practice. [Illustration: IN OLD WHITBY. From Original Painting by R. E. Morrison, Royal Cambrian Academy, 1908.] Our route out of the town led through the Cleveland Hills, the roughest and loneliest of the Yorkshire moors. We climbed many steep, rugged hills and dropped down sharp, dangerous slopes; one will hardly find elsewhere in England a country scored more deeply by narrow valleys. There is little of life on the twenty-five miles of road to Guisborough, where one comes out of the moor into the wide valley of the Tees. Guisborough is a bleak little town whose beautiful surroundings have been marred by the mines. Of its ancient priory, there remains only the magnificent eastern wall, pierced nearly to the top by tall lancet windows from which the stone tracery has long since vanished. It stands in a wide meadow, half hidden by giant trees. As we glided along the highroad we caught glimpses of the wall, rising from a stretch of velvety lawn, but there was not enough of the ruin to make a nearer inspection worth while. From Guisborough our road ran through a level, fertile farming country. We missed Middlesbrough, a manufacturing city of one hundred thousand, whose array of factory chimneys loomed up thickly across the fields, and soon came into Stockton-on-Tees, about half the size of its neighbor. It lies directly on the river, here a black, turbid stream, sullied by the factories that crowd its banks. We hesitated entering the Black Lion--it had an uncanny look that made us distrust even the infallible Baedeker. No one except the busy barmaids was to be seen. A few glances about the place confirmed our suspicions and we "silently stole away." What a contrast to the Black Lion we found in its next-door neighbor, the Vane Arms, a fine type of the hospitable old-time English inn. Its massive, richly carved furniture would delight the heart of the connoisseur and is the pride of the stately landlady, who sat at the head of the table and treated us as though we were guests in more than the perfunctory hotel parlance. In the desert of daily hotel life one does not easily forget such an oasis as the Vane Arms. It is the only thing I can think of that might make one wish to linger in Stockton-on-Tees. The road to Darlington is excellent, though sinuous, and we found in that bustling city little evidence of the antiquity vouched for by its twelfth century church. It is now a railway center and has been since the first passenger train in England ran over the Darlington & Stockton Railway in 1825. In going to Barnard Castle we proceeded by the way of Staindrop, though the direct road by the Tees is the best. But the route we chose passes Raby Castle, which burst on our view shortly before we reached Staindrop,--a huge gray pile, half fortress, half palace, with many square battlemented towers and crenelated turrets, all combining to fulfill the very ideal of the magnificence of feudal days. Permission to visit the castle was easily gained from the estate agent at Staindrop. It would be hard to imagine anything more imposing than Raby Castle as we saw it on that perfect July day, its vast bulk massed against the green background of the wooded hills, and in front of it a fine lawn, with many giant elms, stretching down to the road; but does not our picture tell more than any words? We noted that few of the great private parks which we had visited were so beautifully kept or had so much to please and attract; the great trees, the lawnlike sward, the little blue lakes, the herds of tawny deer--all combined to form a setting fit for one of the proudest and best preserved of the ancient homes of England. The castle dates from the thirteenth century. By fortunate chance it escaped the ravages of war, and having been continuously occupied--indeed, there is a legend that its hearth-fire has never died out in five hundred years--it is one of the most perfect examples of its type in England. The exterior has not been greatly altered, but inside it has been much modernized and transformed into a palatial and richly furnished residence. In the library is a collection of costly books; the gallery has many rare portraits and pictures; and scattered about the different apartments are many valuable objects of art, among these the famous marble, "The Greek Slave," by Powers, the American sculptor. Least altered of all is the medieval kitchen, which occupies the base of a large tower and is one of the most interesting features of the castle. Its immense size serves to impress upon one the proportions of feudal hospitality--that the lord of the castle must look above everything else to the good cheer of his guests. But there is a touch of modernism here, too, in the iron ranges which have superseded the great fireplace--perhaps thirty feet in width--of former times. [Illustration: RABY CASTLE.] Raby cannot greatly boast of historic events, yet it is interesting to know that it was once the home of the younger Sir Henry Vane, who was governor of the colony of Massachusetts Bay in 1636. It was built by the Nevilles in 1370, but passed to other hands two hundred years later, when that family took part in the Catholic uprising in the north. But after all, Raby is far more interesting as a survival of the "days of roselight and romance" than would be the story of the tenure of this or that forgotten lord or earl. Barnard Castle takes its name from the ancient fortress whose scanty ruin still looms over the town. It stands on a cliff which drops from the castle wall almost sheer to the shallow Tees beneath. One thinks first of Dickens' association with the town and naturally enough hastens to the King's Head, where the novelist's room is still shown. Master Humphrey's clock, which adorned a building just opposite the hotel, has disappeared--purchased by an American, a native told us with a shade of indignation in his voice--but the town itself is little different from the one Dickens knew. He gained here much material for "Nicholas Nickleby," though at Bowes, high on the moor to the westward, is supposed to have been the original of Dotheboys Hall. The King's Head we found a comfortable, well-managed, old-time inn, an excellent headquarters for excursions to the many interesting points of the vicinity. We reached here early in the afternoon, affording us time for a fifteen-mile jaunt up the Tees Valley to the High Force--they call a waterfall the "force" in Yorkshire--the largest cataract in England, we were told. It is situated in a lovely dell, and while the flood of white water pouring over the jagged cliff into the brown boiling lake below is pretty and striking, it has nothing awe inspiring or majestic about it. True, at the time, the Tees was at lowest ebb; a long drouth had reduced it to a fourth its normal volume and of course we did not see the High Force at its best. Every spot of interest in the Kingdom has its inn and it was in the farmyard of the High Force Hotel that we left the car. On returning from the falls, a deflated tire prolonged our stay, encouraging acquaintance with the hotel people. The landlord, who out of the hotel season was apparently a farmer, became friendly and communicative, especially desiring us to deliver a message to his son, whom he seemed to think we might easily locate in America. Then he led us into the hotel, where a framed page from his visitors' book showed that the Princess Ena--now Queen Victoria of Spain--and members of her suite had been guests at the High Force Hotel. The two great events in the old man's life seemed to be the success that he considered his son was making in the States and the royal visit to his inn. I do not know which gave him the greater satisfaction. We returned to Barnard Castle following the road north of the Tees--we had come to Middleton on the south side of the river--and we had an almost continual view of the winding stream and its pleasantly diversified valley. It was a peaceful rural landscape, glimmering in the twilight--the silver thread of the river running through it--that greeted our view during our swift flight along the upland road. It was the end of a rather trying day and it seemed hardly possible that we had sojourned in Old Whitby only the night before--so different was the scene and so varied our experiences; still, the distance in miles is not great. The restful quiet of the King's Head and its well-served dinner were indeed a welcome close to the wanderings of the day. XI LAKELAND AND THE YORKSHIRE DALES During a tour such as ours one becomes impressed that a large proportion of Britain is in barren moorlands or broken hills suitable only for sheep grazing--an impression made all the stronger by the diminutive size of the country. We in America can better afford our vast tracts of waste land; we have fertile river valleys from which dozens of Englands might be carved; but it seems almost melancholy that at least a third of the Kingdom, no greater in size than an average American state, should be almost as irreclaimable as the Sahara. One does not so much note this waste in railway travel, for the steam roads usually follow the valleys and lowlands, always green and prosperous, and naturally seek out the more populous centers. But the wagon road climbed steep hills and wended its way into many retired sections where the steam engine cannot profitably go, and the motor car has opened to tourists a hitherto almost unexplored country. We were early away for Lakeland, and for miles and miles we traversed a rather inferior road through the moors and fells. Four or five miles out of Barnard Castle we passed through Bowes, a typical Yorkshire moorland town stretching some distance along the highroad. Though otherwise uninteresting enough, Bowes has one distinction of which it is far from proud, for here Charles Dickens found the school which served as the prototype of Dotheboys Hall in "Nicholas Nickleby." The building, altered into a tenement house and its evil reputation disguised under the more pleasing name of "The Villa," still stands at the western end of the town. In Dickens' day it was known as Shaw's School, and it seems that it deserved far less than many others of its class the overwhelming odium cast upon it in "Nicholas Nickleby"; and it is said that there still are people in Bowes who chafe at the injustice done their old-time townsman. But even if the Bowes school suffered some injustice, the purpose of Dickens was accomplished none the less in the reformation of the terrible juvenile workhouses which masqueraded as "schools." The moorland road carries us onward to Brough, a shabby, desolate town deep in the hills, with scarcely a touch of color to lighten its gray monotone. But this decayed village has its traditions; it was once famous through all England for its annual horse fair. They tell us that the fair is still held in Brough, though its fame has long since declined and it is now of only local interest. At Appleby we enter the vale of the Eden, and bounding the western horizon we catch the first glimpse of the blue hills in whose deep depressions lie the English lakes. Appleby has a comfortable hotel, where we pause for lunch, and the appearance of the town is better and more prosperous than those we have recently passed. The square tower of the castle rises from an adjacent height and the church presents the remarkable spectacle of a hair dresser's rooms occupying a portion of the ancient cloisters which open on the market place. There is no finer highway in the north of England than the Carlisle road through Penrith. It pursues nearly if not quite the course of the old Roman road following the lowlands along the river--a broad white way which leads through a pleasant succession of fields and villages. We pass many ancient landmarks--on the left Brougham Castle, a red sandstone ruin splashed with ivy and creepers, and farther on to the right, Eden Hall, made famous by the ballad of Uhland. Penrith is a busy town of ten thousand or more, seemingly improved since our visit of four years before, when it had no electric light plant. It is the starting-point for most Lake District excursions, whether by rail or coach. The railway follows the wagon road quite closely to Keswick and from thence one must have some other conveyance than rail to explore the region. And is it not well enough, for what impression worth while could one gain of Lakeland from a railway car? From Keswick we turn southward over the hills, from whose summits the landscape--every hill and vale redolent with music and memories of the "Lakers"--stretches away beneath us, the lakes set in the valleys like great flashing gems. How familiar the odd names have been made by the poets of Lakeland! Skiddaw, Helvellyn, Borrowdale, Langdale Pikes and Fells, Rydal, Grasmere, and a hundred others--all call to mind the stanzas of Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth. Our road sweeps up and down the hills along the sinuous shores of Thirlmere, certainly one of the most picturesque of the bright sisterhood of English lakes, but which now serves the very practical purpose of a source of water-supply for the city of Manchester, which acquired it by purchase. This transaction has aroused the indignation of a modern lake poet who falls little short of the best traditions of his illustrious predecessors and he makes vigorous protest against the cities whose "million-throated thirst" menaces the "sacred meres" of Lakeland. But the Manchester ownership--prosaic as it may be--has not detracted from the beauty of Thirlmere and many nuisances that once encumbered its shores have been abated. But the human interest of the lakes centers around Grasmere and Rydal Water. Perchance Rydal and Grasmere and Dove Cottage are out of place in a chronicle of unfamiliar England, and yet who could write of the Lake District with no reference to the very attractions that have made it most famous? It is late as we pass the quaint old church "with bald bare tower" and pause at the cottage just off the highroad, where Wordsworth passed so many years in humble state that verged closely on poverty, as one would count it now. There is little of the picturesque in the gray-stone slate-roofed cottage, though the diamond-paned windows and the rose vines climbing to the eaves somewhat relieve the monotony of the square walls and the rude stone fence just in front. Like Shakespeare's house, it is now the property of an association which insures its preservation in memory of the poet. It has been restored as nearly as possible to the same condition as during the occupancy of the Wordsworths, and the collection of books and other relics pertaining to them is being constantly increased. It is easy for us to enter into the daily life of the poet as we pass through the small and rather rudely furnished rooms; and one must indeed be totally lacking in poetic instinct if he cannot feel at least a touch of sympathy with the pleasant surroundings so often the theme of the great laureate of the simple life. We sit in the rustic seat which Wordsworth was wont to occupy and can look over the gray roof of the cottage to the long succession of hills stretching away until their blue outlines are silhouetted against the sunset sky--verily an inspiration even to the most matter-of-fact intellect. We know that much of Wordsworth's best work was composed in the little garden to the rear of the cottage--a bit of earth that he loved with an intensity that has found more than one expression in his written words. And it was of the very seat upon which we sit that he wrote: "Beneath these fruit tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet My last year's friends together." But to know more of the simple, happy life at Dove Cottage, one may read from the letter written by Dorothy in 1800: "We are daily more delighted with Grasmere and its neighborhood. Our walks are perpetually varied, and we are more fond of the mountains as our acquaintance with them increases. We have a boat upon the lake, and a small orchard and smaller garden, which, as it is the work of our own hands, we regard with pride and partiality. Our cottage is quite large enough for us, though very small; and we have made it neat and comfortable within doors; and it looks very nice on the outside; for though the roses and honeysuckles which we have planted against it are only of this year's growth, yet it is covered all over with green leaves and scarlet flowers; for we have trained scarlet beans upon threads, which are not only exceedingly beautiful but very useful, as their produce is immense. We have made a lodging-room of the parlor below stairs, which has a stone floor, therefore we have covered it all over with matting. We sit in a room above stairs, and we have one lodging-room with two single beds, a sort of lumber-room, and a small low unceiled room, which I have papered with newspapers, and in which we have put a small bed." But come! We may not stop at Dove Cottage for the night; it would now offer but sorry cheer, and Windermere seems the most available place to tarry. We pass close to the water's edge along Grasmere, and Rydal brings up new associations of the poet--here on the "Mount" overlooking the tiny lake is the house where Wordsworth lived in his later and more prosperous years, still the home of his granddaughter, we are told. But the tripper is not welcome and the envious tangle of trees and shrubbery denies to the wayfarer even a glimpse of the house. The beautiful situation of the Lowwood Hotel attracts our attention as we follow the margin of the lake, but we pass on in our swift race for Windermere. Coming thither we inquire of a policeman in the market place for the best hotel. He is diplomatic enough to disclaim fitness to judge, but adds confidentially, "You'll make no mistake if you go to the Hold Hengland; that's where the quality goes." We thank him--praise Heaven that is all one is expected to do, or in fact, may do for a policeman in Britain!--but when we view the Old England we are seized with regret that we passed Lowwood with its magnificent frontage on the lake. It is nothing to retrace the half dozen miles to the most pretentious hotel in the Lake District, though probably far from the most comfortable, and certainly anything but the place for travelers of an economical turn. What motorist could forget or forgive the charge of half a crown for simple garage--two and one-half times the standard price in England! Still, the view of the lake from Lowwood as the evening falls compensates for many shortcomings. The twilight has transformed the limpid waters into a sheet of dull silver, touched with faint rose hues from the last glow of the sun. The hills beyond stand in dark blue outline against a pale opalescent sky and the dim gray towers of Wray Castle rear their massive bulk in the foreground. There is no more enchanting view from the shores of Windermere Lake and we saw it under the most favorable conditions. A sharp change has come over the scene when we resume our journey in the morning. A light rain is falling and the mist hovering over the lake half hides the distant hills. Gray tones predominate everywhere, contrasting cheerlessly with the brilliance of the preceding day. But such a day may be looked for as the rule rather than the exception, for the rainfall of the Lake District is much the heaviest in England. We pass Ambleside at the head of the lake, and follow the steep, ill-kept road, slippery from the rain, to Coniston, a very quiet village, nestling at the foot of the great hills at the head of Coniston Water. In the churchyard here John Ruskin was laid to rest--a Celtic cross marks the spot--and a museum in the town contains many of his sketches and manuscripts. The road southward closely follows Coniston Water, though with many slight but sharp undulations, winding through a dense growth of young trees. We pass directly under Brantwood, the plain old house where Ruskin lived, and catch glimpses of the oriel window of leaded glass in which he was wont to sit at his work. The house is situated on a wooded hillside and commands a fine view of the lake. The road from Brantwood to the end of the lake is so narrow, so tortuous and so obscured by the trees that extreme caution is necessary. It is still early and the way is quite clear; we experience no trouble, yet we are glad indeed to get into the main road to Dalton and Ulverston. Furness Abbey, once neglected and rather inaccessible, has more recently become one of the best known and most easily reached of the historic spots of northern England. Among the multifarious activities of the late Duke of Devonshire, was the building of the railroad that leads to Barrow-in-Furness and the development of that town into an important port of sixty thousand inhabitants. A few miles north of the town are the extensive ruins of Furness Abbey, a Cistercian foundation of the twelfth century, situated in a narrow valley underneath overshadowing hills from which the red sandstone used in the building was taken. The keen business sense of the duke recognized in this splendid ruin a decided factor to assist in his plan of development. The grounds surrounding the abbey were converted into a handsome park, a station was opened on the railroad just opposite, and a large hotel was built near by. Furness Abbey, however, carefully groomed and in charge of voluble guides posted in the minutest detail of architecture and history, can hardly impress one as it did when, a lonely and crumbling ruin, it was the goal of only the infrequent visitor. Its story is a long one but of interest only to the specialist or antiquarian. To the layman the tales of the different abbeys seem wonderfully alike: founded in religious zeal, a period of penury, then of prosperity, and finally one of great power and affluence. Then came the quarrel of Henry VIII. with Rome and through the activity of the king's agents the abbeys were plundered and partially destroyed. The direct damage inflicted by the looters was usually limited to tearing the lead from the roofs, smashing the windows, and defacing the tombs. Then followed the long ages of neglect and the decay consequent upon the rains of summer and the storms of winter. But more than all other causes that contributed to the ruin and sometimes complete effacement of the magnificent abbey buildings, was the vandalism that converted them into stone walls and hovels--every one became the neighborhood quarry and in many instances we owe the fragments that remain to the solidity that made tearing down a difficult task. Furness Abbey is well worth a visit. While only fragments of its walls remain, excavations have been made with such care and intelligence that one has the whole groundwork of the great establishment before him and may gain from it an excellent idea of monastic life. With the sole exception of Fountains, it is probably the most extensive monastic ruin in Britain, and while it lacks much of the beauty and impressiveness of its Yorkshire rival, it serves to give one a better insight into the daily life of the ancient occupants. Judged by our standard, it must have been a rigorous, cheerless life, though it probably contrasted more favorably with conditions of its own time. There is today a growing belief that, on the average, the life of the monks was not so easy nor so corrupt as apologists for the ruthless despoilation of the abbeys would have us think. I have consumed in these vagaries the space that I should have devoted to the description of the abbey; but descriptions are easy to be had and the best of them will fall short of the interest and beauty that awaits the visitor to the charming Lancashire ruin. One may well stay a day at the hotel, than which there are few in England more comfortable, more beautifully located, or better in appointment. We have covered three thousand miles in our wanderings and a certain weariness possesses us. We feel that a rest of a day or two will not come amiss, and no place within reach appeals to us as old York. To our notion the resort towns with their ostentatious hotels--Harrogate and Ilkley are nearer--cannot compare with the cathedral city and its Station Hotel as a place where one may be at ease. The Station, with its unpretentious and prosaic name, is the property of the railway company, a great rambling building of yellow brick, unhampered by limitations of space and so arranged that every guest-room has light and air from the outside. There are spacious and finely kept grounds in front and at some distance to the rear is the station, but not close enough to disturb the quiet of the hotel. But York is full two days' journey at our rate of traveling; there is much to see on the way and our route will be anything but a direct one. We leave Furness Abbey in the early afternoon and the skies, which had cleared as we reached Coniston, are lowering again. The road by which we came carries us to Ulverston, and from thence we soon come to Lake Side, at the lower end of Windermere. The fine road to the north closely skirts the lake, but the trees stand so thickly that we catch only occasional glimpses of the water. A light summer shower is falling, and the fleeting sun and shadow over the mirrorlike surface, mottled with patches of gleaming blue and almost inky blackness, gives us another of the endless phases of the beauty of Lakeland. For seven or eight miles we keep close to the shore, through Bowness to Windermere, two quiet little towns largely given over to hotels and lodging-houses. The great vogue of the Lake District as a resort is comparatively recent, and as a consequence one finds in these towns a mingling of the ancient and modern. Windermere, which grew out of the little village of Birthswaite, is especially accessible, being reached in about an hour by train from Manchester. Kendal, the county town of Westmoreland, is only seven or eight miles from Windermere. Once a manufacturing center of importance, famous for its woolens and "Kendal Green," it has been gradually transformed into a quiet, unprogressive market town. The King's Arms Hotel is one of the most typical and interesting of the old-time buildings. It abounds in narrow hallways, odd corners, beamed ceilings and paneled rooms, all behind a very common and unpretentious exterior. We have noted many narrow alleys leading into the main street and some of these still have heavy gates at the entrance. We are told that Kendal suffered from frequent incursions of the Scots during the almost endless years of border strife, and these alleys afforded quick refuge for the citizens of the town. The gates were closed and the marauders thus confined to the main street, where they became easy targets for the men behind the barriers. But no such exciting incident breaks the sleepy quiet of Kendal today, though the scene before us is not without animation. It is market day and the streets are thronged with farmers from the prosperous valley in which the town is situated. Cattle, sheep and produce seem to be the chief topics of conversation so far as we can gather from snatches of the broad North Country dialect of the men about the town. Our stay at Kendal is a short one--we are soon away for the "Yorkshire Dales, Among the rocks and winding scars, Where deep and low the hamlets lie Beneath their little patch of sky And little lot of stars." So Wordsworth describes the narrow green valleys running between the long ridges of moorland hills and opening into the wide fertile plain in the center of which stands the city of York. We drop southward for some little distance and then turn to the east, through the very heart of the hills. Just before we come to Settle, our attention is attracted by a group of people looking curiously into a stone trough by the wayside. There are expressions of disappointment--"It's not working today." We are told that this is Settle's ebbing and flowing well, famous over all Yorkshire and concerning which a learned antiquary has written a book. But the well is out of commission today--the long drouth has affected the spring until for the second time in the last twenty-five years the phenomenon has ceased. Ordinarily there is a regular ebb and flow of the waters at intervals of from five to fifteen minutes. It is known that this strange spring has been in existence for hundreds of years, but the phenomenon has never been satisfactorily explained. A little farther we find a striking instance of how a bad name will linger long after its original significance has vanished; for Hellifield was once Hell-in-the-Field, because of its reputation for wickedness. But surely this straggling little village hardly looks its formidable cognomen today. A few miles on the Skipton road brings us in view of a strangely incongruous spectacle; on one of the rough hills an oriental temple stands with huge dome and slender minarets sharply outlined against the evening sky--a sight that almost savors of enchantment in such surroundings. But it is real enough, for an eccentric Londoner who embraced Buddhism some years ago, spent a fortune in erecting this temple on the bare northern hills. Skipton is near the head of Airedale, but we see here no sign of the multitudinous factories that taint the skies and sully the waters farther down the Aire, which, if one were to follow it for twenty-five miles, would take him through the heart of Leeds. But Skipton is only a market town--fairly prosperous, for the narrow vale which surrounds it is famed as one of the richest pastoral bits of Yorkshire. The fading light accentuates the gray monotone of the old houses, and gives a further touch of cheerlessness to the somewhat bleak aspect of the place. The large market square is paved with cobblestones and around it in promiscuous array stand public and business buildings, among them two hotels, large but rather unprepossessing structures. A hurried glance at the interior of each confirms our first impressions and we bid Skipton a hasty farewell. We pass under the high walls of the old castle to reach the Ilkley road. The grim gateway is flanked by two huge embattled round towers and the walls are pierced by small mullioned windows. Skipton Castle was once the stronghold of the Cliffords, and some say the birthplace of Fair Rosamond, rather than the almost vanished castle on the Welsh Wye, which also claims the distinction--if indeed it be such. It is wonderfully well preserved--few other Yorkshire castles can vie with it in this particular--and stands today as sullen and proud as it must have seemed when the wars of the Roses swept over the land. A narrow upland road bordered by stone fences and leading through bleak hills carries us over the moorland ridge that lies between Airedale and Wharfdale, and on entering the latter, the comfortable-looking Devonshire Arms stands squarely across our way. We find it a quiet, pleasant place, seemingly half inn and half home for the family of the genial landlord. It is situated near the entrance to the grounds of Bolton Abbey and its pretty gardens to the rear slope down to the rippling Wharfe. The inn is the property of the Duke of Devonshire, to whom the abbey grounds belong, and as he was averse to Sunday visitors at the abbey, the hotel is licensed as a "six-day house." No one may be taken in and no meal served to anyone not already a guest, on Sunday. When we left the hotel we did not expect to return, and by paying our bill practically gave up our status as guests of the Devonshire Arms. But it chanced that we were back in time for lunch and a serious discussion took place between our landlord and his assistants as to whether we might be accommodated or not. It was finally decided to stretch a point in our favor and to assume that we had not severed our relations when we left in the morning. A desire possesses us to see something of the most retired portions of the Yorkshire moors and from Skipton we start due north over the hills. We pass Rylstone, the tiny village given to fame by Wordsworth in his ballad, "The White Doe of Rylstone," and re-enter Wharfdale at Grassington. The unbroken moors stretch northward on either side of the river--a country quite devoid of roads excepting the indifferent ones on each side of the Wharfe--to the village of Kettlewell. We follow the right-hand road, narrow, steep and winding, and altogether a severe test for a motor. Fortunately it is quite clear, for in many places vehicles could scarcely pass each other. Nothing could be harsher and bleaker than the country, even as we saw it in the prime of summer time, and the little towns seem almost a part of the country itself. It would be hard to imagine that there was ever a time when Grassington, Coniston or Kettlewell did not nestle, angular and weather-beaten, at the foot of the eternal hills, and they are as bare and as devoid of the picturesque touches of the village of southern England as the hills they lie beneath. They seem to have little excuse for existence and it is not clear to a casual visitor how the lonely moors that encircle them can afford sustenance to their inhabitants. Lead-mining once employed many people, though at present most of the mines are exhausted. Kettlewell is in the very center of the moor; no railroad comes within many miles of the town. It lies along a narrow valley--a mere cleft in the hills--that opens into Wharfdale, which itself becomes very narrow here. It is a center for those who would explore the mysteries of the surrounding moors or who desire to hunt or fish in almost primal solitude. That there are many such visitors is attested by the rather good-looking inns at Kettlewell, and altogether, the village seems less forlorn than the others we have just passed. The place is not as quiet as one would expect from its retired location; coaches are discharging their loads of trippers and evidently do a thriving business. One might find it very interesting to continue northward to Askrigg, another old and quaint moorland town, and from this to visit Wensleydale--which we do later--but our present plans do not contemplate this. The road is a very indifferent one, though probably not much worse than that over which we came. Returning from Kettlewell we take the opposite side of the Wharfe, passing at first close to the river and then beneath gray and red cliffs that ominously overhang the road. From the hill-crests at times we have wide panoramas of the dale, with the silver ribbon of the Wharfe stealing through it. The road takes us back to the village of Grassington; from thence we follow a road whose steep hills and sharp turns engage the closest attention of the driver until we reach the Devonshire Arms, as before related. A short cut across Rumbles Moor brings us to the road to Keighley, the last link in the chain of manufacturing towns stretching up the Aire from Leeds and which we must pass to reach Haworth, a name that suggests to anyone conversant with English letters the gifted but unfortunate Bronte family. Haworth has no doubt been influenced in population and activity by its busy neighbor, Keighley, but the "four tough scrambling miles" that Charles Dickens found on his visit a third of a century ago still lie between. The whole distance is a continual climb, terminating at the top of the hill, to which the old town seems to cling rather precariously. Indeed, there were few more forbidding ascents that confronted us than this terribly steep, rough street--so steep that the paving stones have been set on edge to enable the horses to climb it. It is bordered with old-world buildings, gray and weather-beaten, and forms a fit avenue to the church that dominates the town from the hill and whose massive square tower looks far over the desolate moorlands beyond it. We visited hundreds of ancient churches in England and the surroundings of many were somber and even depressing, but surely none approached Haworth churchyard in the deep, all-pervading gloom that hovered over the blackened and thickly clustered gravestones and dimmed the very sunlight that struggled through the trees which encircle the place. The hilltop is given up to the churchyard and there seems to be scarcely room for another grave, so thickly stand the mouldering memorials, which mostly antedate the time of the Brontes. Out beyond, to the westward, lie the wild black and purple moors, sweeping away even higher than the church itself and ending in a long wave of hills rippling darkly against the horizon. When "Jane Eyre," published in 1847, astonished the literary world, few indeed would have guessed that the humble authoress lived in this lonely village, then by far lonelier and more remote than it is today; and it is still a wonder how one with such surroundings and of such limited experience was able to fathom life so deeply. But one need not be at a loss to account for the strain of melancholy that runs through the writings of the gifted sisters. The isolated, dreary village, the church and rectory, then almost ruinous, the desolate moor lands and the family tragedy--the only son dying an irreclaimable drunkard--might furnish a background of gloom even for Wuthering Heights. The sisters rest in early graves, Charlotte, the eldest, dying last, in 1855, at the age of thirty-nine. All, together with the father and unhappy brother, are buried in Haworth churchyard save Anne, who lies in St. Mary's at Scarborough. [Illustration: HAWORTH CHURCH.] Haworth has shared the growth in population that has filled Airedale with manufacturing towns and is now a place of some eight thousand people. It delights to honor the memory of its distinguished daughters, and the local Bronte Club has established a museum containing many interesting relics, manuscripts, and rare editions. Retracing our route to Wharfdale, we follow the fine road through Ilkley and Otley into the broad green lowlands which surround Old York. There is no more beautiful country in England than that through which we course swiftly along. We catch continual vistas of the Wharfe, no longer a brawling moorland stream, but sleeping in broad, silvery reaches in the midst of the luxuriant meadows. We leave the river road for Harrogate, pause a few moments to renew our acquaintance with quaint old Knaresborough, and from thence we glide over twenty miles of perfect road into York. XII SOME NORTH COUNTRY SHRINES We have spacious quarters at the Station Hotel, our lattice windows opening upon a stone balcony beyond which we can see the fountain, flowers and shrubbery of the gardens, and farther away, against the purple sky, the massive yet graceful towers of the minster. How different the Station Hotel is from the average railway hotel in America can be appreciated only by one who has enjoyed the hospitality of the one and endured the necessity of staying at the other. We feel as nearly at home as one possibly may at a hotel, and the spirit of Shakespeare's worthy who proposes to take his ease at his inn comes upon us. We look forward with satisfaction to a short pause in the pleasant old northern capital, whose splendid church and importance in ecclesiastical antiquity are rivalled only by Canterbury. The two chief cathedral cities of England have many points of similarity, though in population and importance York easily leads. And yet, neither has ever been thoroughly modernized; the spirit and relics of ancient days confront one everywhere and the great churches, while dissimilar, contest for supremacy among English cathedrals. While Canterbury has the greater historic interest and the tombs of many famous warriors and churchmen, York Minster can boast of perhaps the finest windows in the world. But why should I compare or contrast these delightful towns? When one is in Canterbury there is no place like Canterbury, and when in York, why York is without a rival. And after all, neither has much claim to place in this chronicle, which is not to tell of the familiar shrines. As might be expected, the vicinity of York abounds in magnificent country seats and historic mansions, many of which are open to the public on specified days. Of these, few are statelier than Castle Howard, the seat of the Earls of Carlisle, about fifteen miles to the northwest. It can boast of little historic interest, for it was built less than two hundred years ago, after the turmoil of internal warfare had ceased in England. It is therefore not a castle in the accepted sense, but a stately private residence designed by Vanbrugh, the architect of Blenheim. Though its architectural faults have been enlarged upon by critics, none can gainsay the impressiveness of the building, and Ferguson, in his "History of Modern Architecture," declares that it "would be difficult to point out a more imposing country home possessed by any nobleman in England than this palace of the Howards." With its central dome and purely classic facade, pierced by monotonous rows of tall windows, it presents the aspect of a public building--reminding us of some of the state capitols in America--rather than a private home. Though it serves as the home of the owner a considerable part of the time, it is really a great museum, rich in paintings and other works of art which have been accumulated by the family, which has always been a wealthy one. [Illustration: CASTLE HOWARD.] The surroundings of the palace are in keeping with its vast size and architectural importance. It is situated in a large park and stands on slightly rising grounds overlooking a panorama of lawnlike meadows, diversified with fine trees and shimmering lakes. Near at hand are the somewhat formal gardens, ornamented with monuments and statuary. As a show place it is in much favor with the people of England and few of the great houses are more accessible to everyone. Though we did not arrive at the regular hour for visitors, we had little difficulty in gaining admission and were shown about as though we had been welcome guests rather than the nuisances which I fear ordinary tourists are often regarded in such places. The formality of securing tickets is not required and no admission fee is charged. While the interior of the palace is disappointing--huge, cold, unhomelike rooms--its contents are of greatest interest. Among the pictures there are examples of English and foreign masters--Gainsborough, Lely, Van Dyke, Reynolds, and many more--and there are treasures among the rare books, bronzes and sculptures which have been collected through many generations. The present earl is himself a man of literary and artistic tastes, and numerous paintings, done by himself, hang in the galleries. From the large low windows an enchanting view presented itself. Stretches of beautiful park, dotted with ancient trees, through which gleamed the placid waters of the lake--now like dull silver, for the sky had become overcast--sloped away from the front, while to the rear lay the gardens with all the bloom of English summer time. Out just beyond these is a many-pillared circular structure, like a classic temple, the burial-place of the Howards for many generations. Verily the surroundings almost savor of enchantment, and form, with the great mansion itself, a background of splendor and romance for the ancient family. And the very freedom with which such places are thrown open to people of all degrees does much to entrench the feudal system in England. But we have lingered long enough at Castle Howard; the sky is lowering and gray sheets of rain are sweeping through the trees. We hasten to the trusty car and are soon ensconced beneath its rainproof coverings. It is gloomy and cheerless enough, but it would have seemed far more so could we have foreseen that for the next ten days the weather would be little better. One loses much under such conditions. The roads as a rule are not affected and with a reliable motor one may keep going quite as well as on sunshiny days; but the beauty of the landscapes will often be shut out, and a succession of dull, chilly days has a decidedly depressing effect on one's spirits. The direct route across the moor to Thirsk is impassable--the heavy rain has made it a trail of deep mud, and we dare not attempt its precipitous "bank" under such conditions. A detour of many miles by way of Easingwold is necessary, but once on the North Road there is ample opportunity to make up for delay. Country constables will hardly be abroad in the driving rain and the motor purrs quite as contentedly and drives the car quite as swiftly as in the sunniest weather. We splash through the streets of Thirsk with a glance at its church tower, the one redeeming feature of the town. The rain soon ceases, but a gray mist half hides the outlines of the Cleveland Hills on our right and hangs heavily over the fertile valley to our left. It is of little consequence, for there are few stretches of main road in England that have less to detain the wayfarer than the forty-eight miles from York to Stockton-on-Tees. Yarm is a sleepy town overshadowed by its majestic church tower, which again impresses us how the church alone often relieves the squalidness and gives a touch of sentiment to many an uninteresting English village. At Yarm we enter the broad vale of the Tees and again traverse the wide, unattractive street of Stockton. Twenty miles farther Durham's stately towers loom in dim outline against the gray sky; we cautiously wend our way through the crooked streets of the cathedral town and plunge into the fog that hangs heavily over the Newcastle road. We come into Newcastle about lamplighting time, weary and somewhat bedraggled from our long flight over the rain-soaked roads. And Newcastle-on-Tyne, at the close of a rainy day, is about the last place to cheer one's drooping spirits. The lamps glimmer dimly through the fog as we splash along the bumpy streets to the Station Hotel--and few hostelries were more genuinely welcome during all our long wanderings. Nor is Newcastle less dingy and unattractive on the following morning--the rain is still falling and black clouds of sooty smoke hang over the place. London is bad enough under such conditions, but the Tyne city is worse and our first anxiety is to get on the open road again, although it chanced we were doomed to disappointment for much of the day. Amidst all the evidences of modern industry--the coal-mining and ship-building that have made Newcastle famous--there still linger many relics of the ancient order, memorials of the day when all was rural and quiet along the Tyne. In the very midst of the factories and shipyards at Jarrow, a suburb a few miles down the river, still stands the abbey church where some thirteen hundred years ago the Venerable Bede wrote those chronicles which form the basis of ancient English history. Thither we resolved to go and found the way with no small difficulty to the bald, half-ruined structure on the bank of a small stream whose waters reeked with chemicals from a neighboring factory. Though much restored, the walls and tower of the church are the same that sheltered the monastic brotherhood in the time of Bede, about the seventh century. The present monastic ruins, however, are of Norman origin, the older Saxon foundation having quite disappeared. Several relics of Bede are preserved in the church, among them the rude, uncomfortable chair he is said to have used. Altogether, this shrine of the Father of English History is full of interest and when musing within its precincts one will not fail to recall the story of Bede's death. For tradition has it that "He was translating St. John's Gospel into English when he was attacked by a sudden illness and felt he was dying. He kept on with his task, however, and continued dictating to his scribe, bidding him write quickly. When he was told that the book was finished, he said, 'You speak truth, all is finished now,' and after singing 'Glory to God,' he quietly passed away." The Tyne valley road to Carlisle on the south side of the river by the way of Hexham looks very well on the map, but the run would be a wearisome one under favorable conditions; in the face of a continual rain it is even more of a task, and no one motoring for pleasure should take this route. It is rough and hilly and runs through a succession of mining and manufacturing towns. The road follows the edge of the moorland hills to the southward, and in many places the hillsides afford wide views over the Tyne valley, but the gray rain obscured the prospect for us and only an occasional lull gave some hint of the broad vale and the purple Northumbrian Hills beyond. Hexham is beautifully situated a mile or two below the juncture of the northern and southern branches of the Tyne, lying in a nook of the wooded hills, while the broad river sweeps past beneath. The low square tower of its abbey church looms up over the town from the commanding hill. It is one of the most important in the North Country, rivaling the cathedrals in proportions, and has only recently been restored. Here we crossed to the northern side of the river to reach the most stupendous relic of the Roman occupation of Britain--the wall which Hadrian built as a protection against the incursions of the wild northern tribes. This wall was seventy miles in length--from Tynemouth to the Solway--of an average thickness of eight feet and probably not less than eighteen feet in height. It surmounted the chain of hills overlooking the valley between Newcastle and Carlisle and was well supplied with military defenses in the shape of forts and battlemented towers. We closely followed the line of the wall from Chollerford to Greenhead, a distance of about fifteen miles. In places it is still wonderfully perfect, being built of hewn stone, well fitted and carefully laid, as it must have been to stand the storms of eighteen hundred years; but most of the distance the course of the wall is now marked only by an earthen ridge. We had seen many relics of the Roman rule in England at Bath, at York, and also the remarkable remains of Uriconium near Shrewsbury, but nothing so impressed us with the completeness of the Roman occupation as this great wall of Hadrian. And it also testifies mutely to the great difficulty the Roman legions must have experienced in controlling the light-armed bandits from across the border, in a day when the means of communication were so few and so slow. This situation continued until several hundred years later, the country along the Tyne, the narrow neck of land connecting England and Scotland, being the scene of constant turmoil and bloody strife. The wild tribes of the northern hills would sweep down into the valley, leaving a strip of burned and plundered country, and before soldiers could be gotten into the field the marauders would retreat to their native fastnesses. One might not telephone to Carlisle that the Campbells or McGregors were raiding the country, and troops could not be hurried by railroad to the scene of trouble. Before the horseback messenger could reach the authorities, the marauders would have disappeared. This condition of things the Romans sought to overcome by building the great wall and one can hardly doubt that they chose the best means at their command; but the history of those times is hazy at best and we can learn little of what was really accomplished by this stupendous undertaking. [Illustration: REMAINS OF GREAT ROMAN WALL NEAR HEXHAM.] The road through the rough Northumbrian hills is as lonely and desolate as any one will find in England. So much has it fallen into disuse that the grass and heather have almost obliterated it in places, and it appeared that little had been done to maintain it for years. The cheerless day accentuated the dreariness of the rough countryside; the rain had increased to a downpour and had blown in upon us in spite of our coverings. The road was clear, fairly level and straight away; despite its rough surface we splashed onward at a swift pace through the pools and rivulets that submerged it in places. Naworth Castle, also an estate of the Earl of Carlisle, the owner of Castle Howard, is just off the road before entering Brampton, eight or nine miles out of Carlisle. It is thrown open with the same freedom that prevails at the great Yorkshire house, but though the greater part of Naworth is far older, it has less to interest the casual visitor. Situated as it is in the very center of the scenes of border turmoil, it has a stirring history dating back to 1300, when it was built by Lord Dacre, ancestor of the Howards. The story of his elopement with the heiress who owned the estate and who was betrothed to a boy of seven, and of the subsequent pardon of the lovers by the King Edward, forms a romantic background for the stern-looking old place; but we will not recount the many legends that gathered about the castle during the long period of border warfare. Escaping almost unscathed during the castle-smashing time of Cromwell, Naworth suffered severely from fire in 1844, but the interior has since been remodeled into a fairly comfortable modern dwelling. Here again the artistic and literary tastes of the owner are evident in the valuable library and the fine gallery of paintings. [Illustration: NAWORTH CASTLE.] Continuing our way through Naworth Park, we drop down the narrow and fearfully steep lane to the vale of the Irthing and cross over the old high-arched bridge to Lanercost Priory. The rain is still falling and no doubt the custodian has given up hope of visitors on such a day, for he cannot be found; but we discover the gardener, who secures the keys from the neighboring rectory and proves himself a capable guide. The abbey church has been restored by the Carlisles and is used by the parish as a place of worship. All about are the red sandstone ruins of a once great monastery. We wander among the mossy grave-stones and crumbling tombs, "The 'Miserere' in the moss, The 'Mercy Jesu' in the rain," calling up thoughts of a forgotten order of things. In the roofless chapel we pause before an altar-tomb, its sandstone bosses water-soaked and crumbling in the rain--it is the oldest in the abbey and covers the grave of Lord Roland de Vaux of Triermaine, an ancestor of the Dacres. The name seems familiar and the lines, "Murmuring over the name again, Lord Roland de Vaux of Triermaine," come unbidden to my mind. Ah, yes! it is in the weird music of "Christabel" that the name of the long-dead baron is interwoven, and perhaps his "castle good" was the predecessor of Naworth. There are other elaborate tombs of the Dacres and Howards, and there is a world of pathos in Sir Edward Boehm's terra cotta effigy of little Elizabeth, daughter of the present earl, who died in 1883. It is the figure of an infant child asleep, with one little rounded arm thrown above the head and the other folded gracefully on the breast, while a quiet smile plays over the dimpled face-- But come--it is late, and Lanercost Priory would be gloomy enough on such a day without the infant figure. We retrace our way through the ivy-mantled portal and hasten through the park to the Carlisle road, which shortly brings us to the border city, and grateful indeed is the old-fashioned hospitality of the County Hotel, one of the most pleasant among the famous inns of the North Country. XIII ACROSS THE TWEED Gretna Green is a disappointingly modern-looking hamlet, and has little to accord with the romantic associations that its name always brings up. In olden days it gained fame as a place where marriages were accomplished with an ease and celerity that is rivalled in our time only by the dissolution of the tie in some of our own courts. Hither the eloping couples hastened from England, to be united with scarcely other ceremony than mutual promises--witnesses were not required--and a worthy blacksmith did a thriving business merely by acting as clerk to record the marriages. The ceremony was legally valid in Scotland and therefore had to be recognized in England, according to mutual agreement of the nations to recognize each other's institutions. But today Gretna Green's ancient source of fame and revenue has vanished; no Young Lochinvars flee wildly across the Solway to its refuge; it is just a prosaic Scotch village, whose greatest excitement is occasioned by the motor cars that sweep through on the fine Edinburgh road. Quite different is the fame of Ecclefechan, a few miles farther--a mean-looking village closely skirting the road for a half-mile. Typically Scotch in its bleakness and angularity, it seems fittingly indeed the birthplace of the strange genius who was, in some respects, the most remarkable man of letters of the last century. Thomas Carlyle was born here in 1795 and sleeps his last sleep, alone, in the village kirkyard, for Jane Welsh is not buried by his side. As we came into the town, we paused directly opposite the whitewashed cottage where the sage was born and which is still kept sacred to his memory. The old woman caretaker welcomed us in broadest Scotch and showed us about with unalloyed pride and satisfaction. Here are gathered mementoes and relics of Carlyle--books, manuscripts and pictures; the memorial presented him in 1875, bearing the signature of almost every noted literary contemporary; the wreath sent by Emperor William in 1895 to be laid on the grave; and other things of more or less curious significance. The cottage itself is a typical home of the Scotch villager, the tiny rooms supplied with huge fireplaces and the quaint old-time kitchen still in daily use by the caretaker. The house was built by Carlyle's father, a stonemason by trade, to whose "solid honest work" the distinguished son was wont proudly to refer on divers occasions. The motor car is awakening Ecclefechan to the fact that it is the birthplace of a man famous the world over, for they told us that many visitors now came like ourselves. There are no finer stretches of road in Scotland than the broad, beautifully engineered highway from Carlisle to Lanark, winding among the hills with grades so gentle as to be almost imperceptible. The rain, which followed us since we left Carlisle, has ceased and many panoramas of hill and valley lie before us. Oftentimes the low-hung clouds partially obscure the view, but aside from this the scene stretches away clear and sharp to the gray belt of the horizon. We are passing through the hills of Tintock Moor, which Burns has sung as "Yon wild mossy mountains so lofty and wide That nurse in their bosom the youth of the Clyde." They may have seemed "lofty and wide" to the poet who never left his native soil, but they are only low green hills. The river here is little more than a brawling brook, leaping through the stony vale. Before we came into Edinburgh we paused at Rosslyn Chapel, perhaps, after Melrose, Abottsford and Ayr, the most frequented shrine in all Scotland. Conveyances of all kinds ply continuously from Edinburgh during the season, and though the day was not especially favorable, we found a throng at the chapel. The chapel is admittedly the most elaborate Gothic building in Britain. The intricacy and minuteness of detail are simply marvelous and compel the admiration of even those who condemn the ornamentation as overdone and wearisome when studied closely; still, Sir Gilbert Scott designated Rosslyn as "a poem in stone," and Wordsworth was so impressed that he wrote one of his finest sonnets in praise of it. One must of course hear the oft-told story of the master workman who, puzzled over the intricate drawings of one of the carved pillars, went to Rome to consult the architect of the Vatican; but while he was away his apprentice solved the problem and when the builder returned the finished column greeted his eyes. He was so enraged at the success of the apprentice in overcoming the difficulty that he struck the poor youth dead at the foot of the pillar and was hanged for the crime. Anyway, the pillar is there and it is not at all unlikely that the master workman was hanged--a very common incident in those days. Nor will the guide forget to remind you that in the vault beneath your feet the barons of Rosslyn for the past six hundred years have been buried, each one sheathed in full armor. And there is a tradition that on the night before the death of a lord of Rosslyn the chapel seems to be enveloped in flames, a superstition upon which Scott founded his ballad of "Rosabelle." "Seemed all on fire that chapel proud Where Rosslyn's chiefs uncoffined lie, Each baron for a sable shroud Sheathed in his iron panoply." The castle near at hand is as severely plain and rude as the chapel is ornate--a bare, gloomy place that tells in itself volumes of the hard, comfortless life of the "good old days." The apartments of the lord of the castle would be counted a sorry prison-house now--one that would bring forth a protest from the Howard Society--and what shall one say of the quarters for the serving-men and soldiers, or of the dungeon itself, where the unfortunate captives were confined? Nothing, for our powers of expression are inadequate; language itself is inadequate. Thank God, the order of things is changed! Edinburgh, with its wealth of historic and literary associations, its famous castle and storied palaces, its classic architecture and its fine shops, will always appeal to the wayfarer, I care not how often he may come; but it is too widely known to engage this chronicle of more unfamiliar Britain. The excellent North British Hotel, where, wonder of wonders in Britain, you may, if fortunate enough, secure a heated bathroom en suite, might well tempt us to a longer stay; but we must be on, and the next afternoon finds us on the road to Queensferry. Here our motor, with two or three others, is loaded on a ferryboat which carries us across the Firth of Forth. We pass directly under the bridge, and in no other way can one get a really adequate idea of this marvelous structure, which, despite all the recent achievements of bridge-building, still holds its place as the most remarkable feat of engineering in its class. About Loch Leven and the ruin that rears its low, square tower from the clustered foliage of its tiny islet, there will always hover an atmosphere of romance. And why should it not be thus, since the authentic feats that history records have in them more of romance than many of the wild tales of the imagination? But more than this: the halo which the genius of Scott has thrown over the spot and the song and story that have been builded on the captivity and escape of the fair prisoner of Loch Leven, continue to make the placid lake a shrine for many pilgrims. We entered Kinross, the quiet village on the western shore of the lake, and followed the road to the boathouse, where an English motor party had just paused. Word had to be sent to the village for boatmen and I fell into conversation with the Englishman who was waiting like ourselves. He had come to Loch Leven on quite a different mission from ours--old castles and legends were so commonplace to him that he hardly seemed to understand why anyone should trouble himself about them. He had come to fish and assured us that Loch Leven trout were surpassed in excellence only by those in an Irish lake where he had fished the week before. He was sending his car away and expected to pass the night in pursuing the gentle art of Ike Walton. We were told that more people came to the lake to fish than to visit the castle. The fishing rights are owned by a local club and are jealously guarded. The minimum license fee for trout, of seven shillings sixpence, with an additional charge per hour, makes the sport a somewhat expensive luxury. But our boatmen had come and we put off for the castle. The lake averages very shallow, and it was necessary to go considerably out of the direct route, even in the light row-boat, to avoid the shoals. The bottom in many places was covered with a rank sedge, which our boatman declared fatal to fishing. It had gotten in the lake a few years ago--had come from America in some mysterious manner--and nothing could be done to check its rapid spread. While he bewailed the ravages of this interloper--from the land of the interlopers--our boat grated on the pebbly shore of the island. The castle, rude and ruinous indeed, is quite small and the only part intact is the low, square tower of the keep. In this is Queen Mary's chamber, and one may look down from the window from which she made her escape; the water then came up to the wall, though it is now several yards away. One need not rehearse the story of the queen's imprisonment at Loch Leven by the ambitious Douglas and her romantic escape through connivance with her captor's son, George Douglas, who succumbed to her charms as did nearly every one who came into her company. And who can wonder that the actual presence of the fair queen--whose name still enchants us after three hundred years--should prove so irresistible to those who met her face to face? Is it strange that one whose memory can cast such a glamour over the cheerless old pile that has brought us hither, should have so strongly influenced her associates? But after all, the view from the castle tower would be worth the journey thither. All about the placid water lies gleaming like a mirror beneath the threatening sky; here we see a flock of water-fowl, so tame that they scarcely heed the fishing-boats; there a pair of stately swans, many of which are on the lake; off yonder is the old town with its spire sharp against the horizon; and near at hand, the encircling hills and the low green meadows, a delightful setting for the flashing gem of the lake--all combine to make a scene that would be inspiring even if the name of Mary Stuart had never been associated with Loch Leven. As we drift away from the island, the words of a minor poet come to us, strangely sweet and appropriate: "No warden's fire shall e'er again Illume Loch Leven's bosom fair; No clarion shrill of armed men The breeze across the lake shall bear; But while remains a stone of thine It shall be linked to royal fame-- For here the Rose of Stuart's line Hath left the fragrance of her name!" The Loch Leven anglers have made two or three well-appointed hotels possible in Kinross, and Green's, where we stopped for tea, seemed ideal for its quiet retirement and old-fashioned comfort. St. Andrews, by the sea, has a combination of attractions, of which the famous golf links will occur to many people on first thought. There is no town in Scotland more popular as a seaside resort and the numerous hotels are crowded in season. But the real merits of St. Andrews are the ones least known to the world at large--its antiquity, the ruins of its once stately cathedral, its grim though much shattered castle, and its university, the oldest in Scotland--one and all, if better known, would bring many tourists who do not care for golf links and resort hotels. Hither we came from Kinross by the way of Cupar, of which we know nothing save the old Scotch saw of a headstrong man, "He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar," but why anyone should be so determined to go to Cupar is not clear. It is a mean-looking town with cobblestone pavement so rough that it tried every rivet in our car, and nothing could be drearier than the rows of gray slate-roofed houses standing dejectedly in the rain. We were early risers, according to their reckoning at the Marine Hotel, and went for a walk over the golf links after breakfast. I was once a devotee of the royal game and was able to appreciate why the links by the sea are counted the finest in the world. Stretching along a sandy beach over which the tide advances and recedes incessantly, the links have unlimited sweep over the lawnlike lowlands, with just enough obstacles, mostly natural, to make a game of highest skill possible. The lowering sky of the preceding day had cleared and the keen wind swept in over the northern sea. We would have been glad to linger, if possible, but there was much to see in the old town which, in the words of Thomas Carlyle, "has the essence of all the antiquity in Scotland in good clean condition." Directly on the ocean stands the scanty but still imposing ruin of the cathedral, which in its prime was one of the most magnificent churches in the Kingdom. Its burnished roof once shone far out at sea and a wilderness of turrets and pinnacles rose round the central tower, long since vanished. The church was for some centuries the center of ecclesiastical life in Scotland. Its dedication took place in 1318, "as a trophy and memorial of Bannockburn," in the august presence of King Robert the Bruce. And yet it was only two hundred and forty years later that fanaticism sounded the doom of the splendid church; when the Presbyterian Council gave orders that the "monuments of idolatry" be pulled down. John Knox writes in his journal that the work went forward "with expedition," and for many years the marvelous Gothic pile served the people of St. Andrews as a quarry. The original outlines of the cathedral are clearly indicated on the smoothly mown greensward and give an adequate idea of its vast extent. The square tower of St. Regulus' Chapel is the only portion intact, and this we ascend by the dark, time-worn stairs inside. From the top there is a fine view of the town, a broad sweep of glittering sea and a far-reaching prospect to the landward. The town lies immediately beneath, spread out like a map, and from every direction the white country roads wander in to join the maze of crooked streets. Only a hundred yards away, on the very verge of the sea, is the castle, and we go thither when we descend. And we are rather glad to descend, for the wind blows so strongly that the tower trembles despite all its solidity--and one cannot help thinking of the Campanile at Venice. It seems rather incongruous that the massive, martial-looking castle should originally have been the palace of the Bishop of St. Andrews, but it was in an age when the church and the military went hand in hand. It was not strange, perhaps, in Scotland, where the greater part of the murderous wars among the people sprang out of religious disputes, that the home of a church dignitary should be a stronghold, and the traditions of St. Andrews Castle tell more of violence and bloodshed than the annals of many a secular fortress. It is a strange comment on the ferocity of the old-time churchmen that one of the most fiendish relics of "man's inhumanity to man" is to be found in this martial bishop's palace. Like all gruesome things, it is the center of interest, and the rheumatic old custodian had learned the attraction of the horrible for average human nature, for he greeted us with "Ye'll be wantin' to see the bottle dungeon first." He led us into the dark shadows of the "sea tower," as John Knox designated it, and placing a lighted candle on a staff, dropped it into a circular opening four or five feet in diameter. Looking down, we could see a bottle-shaped cavity hewn out of the solid rock, and extending below the level of the sea. Into this the captives were lowered, and with no light and little air were left to a dreadful death, their moans drowned by the thunder of the waves overhead. Or perhaps a more merciful fate might be meted to some of them--even though it were death at the stake--for we know that George Wishart, whom Cardinal Beaton burned before the castle, had first been imprisoned in the dungeon. One almost breathes a sigh of relief to know that shortly afterwards the Presbyterians stormed the fortress and slew the inhuman cardinal, whose body was thrown into the dungeon after having been exposed from the castle walls. John Knox was one of the party that slew Beaton, and he wrote a gloating account of the incident. But enough of these horrors, which the old custodian drones over in broad Scotch dialect. Let us go out upon the pleasant greensward of the courtyard, where there is little to remind us of the terrible deeds that have transpired within the gloomy walls. The seaward walls have nearly disappeared, for the stone was used in work on the harbor by a generation that little dreamed of the value posterity would set on such historic monuments. Following the coast road from St. Andrews to Kirkcaldy, we were seldom out of sight of the sea, and passed through several little fishertowns centuries old and quite looking their years. Largo is the birthplace of Alexander Selkirk, whose experiences on a desert island gave DeFoe the idea of "Robinson Crusoe." The house where he was born still stands and a stone figure of Crusoe is set just in front in a niche in the wall. In all of these coast towns an old-world quiet seemed to reign save in the "long town" of Kirkcaldy, through whose dirty streets, thronged with filthy children, we carefully picked our way. Here we turned inland, passing a succession of towns whose rubbish-covered streets were full of drunken miners--it was Saturday afternoon--who stumbled unconcernedly in front of the car; and not a few drunken women joined in the yells which often greeted us. The road was very bumpy and it is a far from pleasant or interesting route until the neighborhood of Dunfermline is reached. Dunfermline should be a household word in America, for here is the modest slate-roofed cottage where our great dispenser of free libraries was born and which he purchased some years ago. He is a sort of fairy godfather to Dunfermline and has showered on the town more wealth than the canny burghers know what to do with. We had a letter of introduction to one of the linen manufacturers--linen-making is the great industry of Dunfermline--and he insisted upon showing us about the town. He pointed out some of the benefactions of Mr. Carnegie, who, besides the regulation free library, gave a large sum toward the restoration of the abbey church and to establish a public park. Still more, he has set aside a sum of no less than half a million sterling, the income from which is to be spent under the direction of a board of trustees in promoting "the higher welfare, physical, intellectual and moral, of the inhabitants." So great are his benefactions that Dunfermline has been afforded the opportunity of becoming a model town in every respect, though the experiment is still in its infancy. The abbey church is one of the most interesting in Scotland and is the shrine of all patriotic Scots, for here is buried King Robert the Bruce, whose name is cut in huge letters in the balustrade surrounding the tower. The nave of the church has been restored and is now used as a place of worship, and there remains enough of the ruined monastery to give the needed touch of the picturesque. On leaving the town we were somewhat at a loss for the road, and asked a respectable-looking gray-whiskered gentleman if he could direct us to Alloa. "Oh," said he, "there are twa roads to Alloa--do you wish the upper or the lower road?" We expressed our indifference; we only wanted the best. "I'm no saying which is the best," he said cautiously. "But which would you take yourself?" we insisted. "Since you must be sae particular, I'd say that I should tak the lower road." "Let it be the lower road, then,"--but he held up his hand at the first click of the starting lever. "Since you have decided to tak the lower road, I might say that I live a few miles out on this, and seeing there's an empty seat, perhaps ye'll be willing to give me a ride." It was now clear why he had been so non-communicative. He did not wish to unduly influence us for his own advantage; but after it was all decided on our own motion, he felt free to avail himself of the opportunity to be relieved of a tiresome walk. A few miles out he pointed to a neat residence--his home--and our canny Scotsman left us. The next day we were in Edinburgh, after passing the night at Stirling. It had rained fitfully during our tour in Fife and a gray mantle still hung over "Auld Reekie,"--though perhaps the name is less appropriate than when Scott first used it. The Fifeshire roads averaged bad--rough and stony and often quite slippery from the rain. We were glad to pass the day in our comfortable rooms at the North British watching the rain-soaked city from our windows. But it was no better on the following day and we were soon on the North Berwick road in the same discouraging drizzle. Nothing could be more depressing under such conditions than the succession of wretched suburban towns through which we passed for some distance out of Edinburgh. The streets, despite the rain, were full of dirty children and bedraggled women, and we were glad to come into the open road along the sea. It is a road that must afford magnificent views in fine weather, but for us it wended along a wind-swept, chocolate-colored ocean that was quickly lost in the driving rain. There are numerous seaside resorts between Portobello and North Berwick, though the latter is the more popular and is supplied with palatial hotels. It was just beyond here that we caught sight of the object of our pilgrimage along the Firth--the old Douglas castle of Tantallon, which, mirrored in Scott's heroic lines, excited and dazzled our youthful imagination. It stands drearily on a bleak headland and was half hidden in the gray gusts of rain when "Close before us showed His towers, Tantallon vast." But its vastness has diminished since the day of which Scott wrote, for much of the castle has disappeared and the sea wall which ran along the edge of the rock has crumbled away. Still, the first impression one gets of the shapeless ruin as he crosses the waterless moat and rings the bell for admission is one of majesty, despite the decay riot everywhere. We waited long, almost despairing of gaining entrance, when the keeper appeared at the gate. He was not expecting visitors on such a stormy day and had been drowsing over old papers in his little booth inside. [Illustration: TANTALLON CASTLE AND BASS ROCK.] There is not much to remind one of the fiery parting between Douglas and Marmion so vividly described by Scott. But a mere shell of the castle remains; the draw-bridge of the ringing lines is gone, and the inner walls from which the retainers might have watched the fierce encounter have long since crumbled away. The courtyard where the doughty warriors engaged in their altercation is covered with grasses and starred with wild flowers. About all that remains as it was in the day of Douglas is the dungeon hewn from the solid rock beneath the walls. We wandered about the roofless, dripping ruins as the old keeper told us the story of the castle and pointed out the spots that have been identified with the song of Scott. Here stood the battlements from which the disconsolate Clare contemplated the desolate ocean--here was the chapel where Wilton was armed by old Archibald-- But the rain has ceased and blue rifts are coming in the sky. As we look oceanward, a mountainlike bulk rises dimly out of the dull waters. "Bass Rock," says our guide, "and a peety it is that the sea is too rough for the boots today." A weird island it is, less than a mile in circumference, rising to the stupendous height of four hundred feet, though it little looks it from Tantallon--our guess was less than a quarter as great. In old days the rock was quite inaccessible; it was early fortified and in later times was made a prison. Here was confined a group of the persecuted Covenanters, who lay in the damp, dark dungeons, "envying the freedom of the birds"--the gulls and wild geese that wheel almost in clouds about the rock. Dreadful times these--but to appreciate the real horror of such a fate one would have to stand on Bass Rock when the storm walks abroad and the wild German Ocean wraps the rock in the white mist of the angry waves. The rock serves little purpose now save as a site for a lighthouse, built a few years ago, and as a resort for curious tourists, who can visit it when the weather allows landing to be made. Turning southward through the Lammermuir Hills, we find at the little village of East Linton a surprise in the Black Lion, another of those homelike and wonderfully comfortable Scotch inns which offer genuine cheer to the wayfarer. Here a fire dances in the grate and our luncheon is one that the more pretentious hotels do not equal. We resume our flight under leaden skies through the low gray mists that sweep the hilltops. Haddington is famed for its abbey church, very old and vast in bulk. Jane Welsh Carlyle is buried in its choir--for she chose to lie beside her father in her long sleep. The moorland road to Melrose is finely engineered, following the hills in long sweeping lines with few steep grades or sharp curves. In places it is marked by rows of posts so that it may be followed when covered by the snows. Melrose Abbey, familiar from former visits, claims only a passing glance, as we hasten on to its old-time rival at Jedburgh, which is now somewhat off the beaten path and few know of the real interest of the town or the extent and magnificence of its abbey ruin, whose massive tower and high walls, pierced by three tiers of graceful windows, dominate any distant view of the place. We brought the car up sharply on the steep hillside in front of the abbey and an old woman in a nearby cottage called to us to "gang right in--ye'll find the keeper in the gardens." And we did--surprised him at work with his flowers--a hale old man of seventy with bushy hair and beard, silver white, and a hearty Scotch accent that wins you at once. He dropped his garden tools and came forward with a quick, elastic step, greeting us as if we had been expected friends. When he espied the lady member of our party, he began to cut roses until he had made up quite a bouquet, which he gallantly presented her. Then he began a panegyric on Jedburgh and the abbey, assuring us that a stay of several days would be necessary to get even an idea of the ruins and the historic spots of the vicinity. His face visibly fell when we told him we must be off in an hour. "Ah," said he, "sic haste, sic haste to get back to England! Ye should bide longer in old Scotia and learn her history and her people. I grant ye England is a great nation, but the Scotch is the greater of the two." Then his enthusiasm got the better of him, and forgetting the abbey he began to point out the beauties of the valley of the Jed, over which we had a far-reaching view, and to recite snatches of the poetry of Burns appropriate to the scene. I had thought that I knew a little of the beauty and spirit of Burns, but it all seemed to take on new meaning from the lips of the quaint old Scotsman. It was worth a journey to Jedburgh, and a long one, to hear him recite it. Then he began to point out the things of interest about the abbey, and so many they seemed to him that he had difficulty in choosing which he should enlarge upon during our short stay. He showed us the Norman doorway, the most elaborate in the Kingdom, so remarkable that the Marquis of Lothian, the owner of the abbey, has caused an exact duplicate to be made in the wall near by to preserve the wonderful detail nearly obliterated in the original. He led us among the great pillars, still intact, springing up into the mighty arches of the nave, and pointed out the gracefulness of the numerous windows with slender stone mullions. There are many notable tombs, among them one with a marble effigy of the late Marquis of Lothian, a really superb work of art, by George Frederick Watts. Nor did he forget the odd gravestones in the churchyard with epitaphs in quaint and halting verse, telling of the virtues of the long-forgotten dead, of one of whom it was declared: "Here Lyes a Christian Bold and True, An antipode to Babel's Creu, A Friend to Truth, to Vice a Terrour; A Lamp of Zeal opposing Errour. Who fought the Battels of the Lamb, Of Victory now Bears the Palm." And there is another stone with a threat as grim as that of the Bard of Avon, for the epitaph expresses the wish that "Whoever Removes this Stone Or causes it to be Removed May he die the last of All his Friends." The stone lies flat, above the grave, and our guide declared, "I had an unco hard time to get a photo of it for my book, for I did na fancy moving it, to be sure." "Your book? And have you written a book?" He was off in a moment and with almost boyish enthusiasm brought forth a neat volume, "Poetry and Prose of Walter Laidlaw, F. S. A.," and we found on later perusal that it has not a little of true poetic fire, of which an example or two may not be amiss. It is not strange that one so full of patriotism and admiration for his native Scotland should deprecate the tendency of her people to emigrate to foreign lands, and he expostulates as follows: "What ails the folk? they've a' gane gyte! They rush across the sea, In hope to gather gear galore, 'Way in some far countree. "But let them gang where'er they may, There's no' a spot on earth Like ancient Caledonia yet, The land that ga'e them birth. "They ha'e nae grand auld Abbeys there, Or battered castles hoary, Or heather hills, or gow'ny glens, That teem wi' sang and story. "Nae doot they've bigger rivers there, An' broad an' shinin' lakes; I wadna leave oor classic streams Or burnies, for their sake. "The lonely cot, the bracken brae, The bonnie milk-white thorn; The bent frae where the lav'rock springs To hail the dawn o' morn. "The thrashy syke, the broomy knowe, The gnarled auld aik tree, Gi'e joys that riches canna buy In lands ayont the sea." But not all of his fellow-countrymen feel so about it, and numbers of them all over the world are "gathering gear" year after year with proverbial thriftiness, though they seldom lose their love for old Caledonia, or forget--to quote Mr. Laidlaw again: "the thatched cot with ivy clad, The hame o' boyhood's happy days. "Content were we with but-and-ben A divot shiel, a broom-thatched byre; We got our eldin frae the glen, In winter kept a roosin' fire. "There my kind mother sang sae cheery While she was spinnin' on the wheel; The winter nights we ne'er did weary, We liked her sangs and cracks sae weel. "When faither us'd oor shoon to mend, Auld Border tales he wad relate; Or read ben in the other end The grave 'Night Thoughts' or 'Fourfold State.'" Besides the poems, the book contains several addresses and essays which show the bent of Mr. Laidlaw's mind, among them, "Robert Burns," "Dr. John Leyden," and "The Songs of Scotland." Besides his literary achievements, we learned that Mr. Laidlaw is a Fellow of the Scotch Antiquarian Society and a recognized authority on the antiquities of Jedburgh and vicinity. We left him with regret, and hope that some day our wanderings may enable us to renew his acquaintance. We followed the Teviot road to Kelso, a few miles away, where the substantial and comfortable appearance of the Cross Keys induced us to stop for the night--after an investigation by which we assured ourselves that conditions within accorded with outward appearances, a practice to which we had become more and more partial. Kelso is situated at the junction of the Teviot and the Tweed, and is surrounded by an exceedingly picturesque country. A fine view is afforded from the stone-arched bridge over the Tweed--westward the Eildon Hills, beloved of Scott, are visible in the blue distance, and, nearer at hand, the moorish facade of Floors Castle, against a mass of somber woods. The river is greatly broadened here and the meeting of its waters with the Teviot is celebrated in song and story. Of Kelso Abbey little remains save the shattered central tower and a few straggling walls. It was one of the smaller ecclesiastical establishments of Scotland founded by David I. in 1130 and was burned by the English during the invasion of 1545. Closely following the beautiful Tweed road, which for the greater part of the distance to Coldstream keeps in full view of the river, we re-cross the border quite early on the following morning. XIV MORE YORKSHIRE WANDERINGS Flodden Field lies adjacent to the road which we pursued southward from the Tweed, but there is little now to indicate the location of the historic battlefield. Song and story have done much to immortalize a conflict whose results were not especially important or far-reaching--the world knows of it chiefly through the vivid lines of "Marmion." It is not worth while to follow our hasty flight to the south; we are again bound for the Yorkshire moors and the distance we must cover ere night will not admit of loitering. At Chillingham Castle we see the herd of native wild cattle made famous by Landseer's picture. The keeper led us into the park within a hundred yards of a group of animals, which have become so tame that they took no notice of our presence. The cattle are white, with long curving horns and black muzzles, and the purity of the stock is carefully maintained. The herd is believed to be a direct descendant of the wild ox of Europe, the progenitor of our domestic cattle, and its preservation is quite analogous to the few remaining buffaloes in America. The animals retain many peculiarities of their wild state; one of the most remarkable of these is the habit which the young calves have of dropping suddenly to the ground when surprised. The bulls are often dangerous and it is related that King Edward, when Prince of Wales, killed one of the animals, arresting with a well-aimed shot its savage charge toward him. Evidently the present prince did not care to repeat his father's experience, for he had been at Chillingham a few days before and declined the opportunity offered him by the Earl of Tankerville of slaying the king of the herd. "'E said 'e 'adn't time," explained the keeper with an air of disgust that showed he looked on the prince's excuse as a mere subterfuge. On a former occasion we had failed to gain admittance to Alnwick Castle, owing to a visit of the king the previous day. We were more successful this time and were conducted through the portions usually shown to visitors, chiefly the remaining parts of the old fortress--the "castle good" that in early days "threatened Scotland's wastes." The home of the warlike Percys for many generations, few castles in England have figured more in ballad and story and few have been the center of more stirring scenes. But the old castle is almost lost in the palace of today, upon which the late Duke of Northumberland is said to have expended the enormous sum of three hundred and sixty thousand pounds sterling. The walls at present enclose an area of five acres and it would be hard to imagine more pleasing vistas of forest and meadowland than those which greet one from the battlements. The great park is worthy of the castle, and taken altogether there is perhaps no finer feudal estate in England. From Alnwick to Newcastle and from Newcastle to Darlington the road is familiar; only an occasional town or village interferes with our flight to the southward. Newcastle, with its bad approaches and crowded, slippery streets, causes the greatest loss of time, but we make it up on the broad, level stretch of the Great North Road to Darlington. At Richmond we leave the lowlands and strike directly across the rough moorland road to Leyburn in Wensleydale. Here in the remote Yorkshire hills is one of the most romantic bits of England and within a comparatively small space is much of historic interest. Shall we go to Bolton Castle, which we see off yonder, grim and almost forbidding in the falling twilight? Its jagged towers and broken battlements are outlined darkly against the distant hills; indeed, in the dim light it seems almost a part of the hills themselves. We follow the rough narrow road that dwindles almost to a footpath as it approaches the village. Our car splashes through a rapid, unbridged little river, climbs the steep bank, creeps through tangled thickets, until it emerges into the main street of Castle Bolton, if a wide grass-grown road with a few lichen-covered cottages on either side may be dignified with the name. At the end of the street, towering over the slate-roofed hovels about it, is the castle, its walls in fairly good repair and three of its four original towers still standing. The fourth crumbled and collapsed from the battering Cromwell gave it--for even this remote fortress in the moors did not escape the vengeance of the Protector. [Illustration: CASTLE BOLTON, WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE.] Bolton Castle, nevertheless, is better preserved than the majority of those which have been abandoned to ruin; the great entrance hall, some of the stairways, the room of state and many chambers are still intact. One may climb the winding stairs and from the towers look down upon the mass of ruined grandeur--sagging and broken roofs, vacant doorways and windows and towers whose floors have fallen away--the melancholy work of time and weather, for these have chiefly affected the castle since it was dismantled by its captors. One is relieved to turn from such a scene to the narrow green valley through which the river runs and out beyond it to the wide prospect of brown hills with gray villages and solitary cottages. The history of Bolton Castle is long and varied--too long to tell in detail. It was built in the twelfth century by Richard, the first Lord Scrope, founder of the family, which figured so largely in the fierce struggles of the northern border. From that time to the death of the last representative of the family in 1630, Bolton Castle was almost continually the center of stirring scenes. The Archbishop of York in 1405 was a Scrope, and he preached a fiery sermon denouncing the reigning King Henry as an usurper. The bold churchman lost his head for his temerity, but his execution sowed the seed of the long and terrible wars of the Roses. Nor will the reader of "Marmion" forget Scott's reference to "Lord Scrope of Bolton, stern and stout," who with "all Wensleydale did wend" to join the English at Flodden Field. The closing scene came like the closing scene of many an English castle, when Col. Scrope, the last owner, was compelled to surrender to the forces of Parliament and the castle was dismantled. Since then it has stood stern and lonely in the Yorkshire hills, and nearly three centuries of decay have added to the ruin wrought by the captors. But there is a roselight of romance that enwraps the shattered towers of Bolton, for does not the moorland ruin call up a thousand memories of Mary Stuart, yet in the flower of her youth, ere long years of imprisonment had stolen the color from her face and touched it with the shade of melancholy that seldom left it? Here was her first prison; she came as an unwilling guest after her ill-advised visit to Carlisle in 1568, and remained a charge of Lord Scrope for nearly two years. The room she occupied is large and gloomy, with but one small window looking westward over the hills--the same window, legend declares, by which she escaped from the castle, only to be shortly recaptured by Lord Scrope's retainers. Her captivity at Bolton, while less rigorous than in later years, was none the less a captivity, and while she was allowed to go hawking, she was always under close surveillance. Very likely she did try to escape, for in such an escapade the unhappy queen never lacked for accomplices, even among her gaolers. But fate was ever unkind to Mary Stuart, and though many times her fortune seemed evenly balanced, some lack of judgment on part of herself or her followers thwarted the plans for regaining her liberty. They tell that in leaving Bolton in this attempt, her friends followed the river road to Leyburn when a dash over the moors to the north might have insured success. It all seems very real to one who stands in the gloomy apartment at twilight and looks from the window down the steep narrow road leading to the valley--no doubt the one Mary followed in her effort to get out of her arch-enemy's clutches, which ended in such heart-breaking failure. But it is waxing late and we will descend the same hill and follow the same road to Leyburn. Leyburn is gray and bleak in the falling night, with a wide bare market place paved with rough cobblestones, shorn, alas, a few decades ago, of its fine old market cross and town hall--in a spirit of "improvement!" The prospect for good cheer is far from flattering, but we must stop in Leyburn perforce. The Bolton Arms seems to promise the best, but it is full and the Golden Lion offers the only alternative. It is a typical second-class village inn, not overly clean. It appears more of an alehouse than hotel, for a crowd of villagers and farmers is tippling at the bar. Directly across the river from Leyburn is Middleham, the old-time capital of Wensleydale and one of the quaintest and least modernized towns it was our good fortune to see. The drab-colored buildings straggle up the hill upon whose crest sits Middleham Castle, grim, vast and wholly ruinous. And after wandering through the maze of shattered walls and tottering towers, it seemed to us that here was the very ideal of ruined castles. We had seen many of them, but none more awe-inspiring, none more suggestive of the power of the cataclysm which left such fortresses, seemingly impregnable as the hills themselves, in shapeless wreck and ruin. Here and there the ivy and wall flower mantled the nakedness of the mouldering stone, and a stout sapling of several years' growth had fastened its roots in the deep mould high on one of the towers. Truly, Cromwell did his work well at Middleham. Such a stronghold could be dealt with only by gunpowder mines, which were responsible for the cracked and sundered walls and the shapeless masses of stone and mortar which have never been cleared away. [Illustration: MIDDLEHAM CASTLE, WENSLEYDALE.] There are memories connected with Middleham Castle as grim as the ruin itself; for with them is intertwined the name of Richard of Gloucester, the hunchback whose crimes, wrought into the imperishable lines of Shakespeare, have horrified the world. When he came here the castle was owned by the Nevilles, and here he married Anne, the daughter of the house, and thus became possessed of the estate. Here his only son, for whom he committed his unspeakable crimes, was born and here his ambitions were blasted by the boy's early death. But it is no task of mine to tell the story of Richard III.--only to recall his associations with Middleham. And we noted on one of the two ancient town crosses the rudely carved figure of a boar, the emblem of this ruthless king. Altogether, Middleham is very unique--old-world describes it better than any other term, perhaps. There is scarcely a jarring note of any kind; the only thing approaching mediocrity and seemingly much out of place, is the Victoria Jubilee Fountain. And the customs of the town still have a savor of medievalism--bulls were baited within the memory of living men. The thought that first occurs, when one learns that Jervaulx Priory is not far from Middleham, is of Prior Aylmer and "Ivanhoe"--showing how the creations of the Wizard of the North often take precedence in one's mind over actual history--nay, rather have supplanted historical knowledge altogether, for we know nothing of the history of Jervaulx and will not take the pains to learn. It is enough to wander through its grounds, now kept with all possible care and neatness--every moss-grown stone replaced as nearly as possible in its original position and every detail of the abbey marked with exactness on the sward--and to know that the old story of monastic poverty, pomp and downfall has been repeated here. It is near the roadside and though private property, one may easily gain access by application at the keeper's cottage. The ruins are scanty indeed--little more than mere outlines of the abbey church and monastery and a few isolated columns and fragments of wall is to be seen--but the landscape gardener has come to the rescue and out of the scattered fragments has wrought an harmonious and pleasing effect. The situation is one of surpassing loveliness, just at the foot of the hills on the river Ure, which rushes between almost precipitous banks, over which its tributaries fall in glittering cascades. The soft summer air is murmurous with their music and the song of birds. There is no one but ourselves on the ground; no guide is with us to drone over prosaic history and to point out nave and transept--and this and that. As we wander almost dreamily about, we come very near to the spirit of monastic days. It is easy to imagine the old-time state of the abbey under Prior Aylmer, "when the good fathers of Jervaulx drank sweet wines and lived on the fat of the land." Even in that halcyon time it is doubtful if the surroundings were half so lovely as today. But we have mused long enough at Jervaulx--"Jervo," as the railway company officially declares it; "Jarvey," as the natives perversely term it. The day is still young and an uninterrupted run over the winding moorland road brings us to Ripon before noon. The low square-topped towers of the cathedral break on our view as we descend the hill to the Ure, upon whose banks Ripon sits. Ripon Cathedral is well-nigh forgotten by pilgrims who would see the great Yorkshire churches--so far is it surpassed by York Minster and Beverley. But after all, it is an imposing church and of great antiquity, for a monastery was established on the present site in the seventh century and St. Wilfred, the famous Archbishop of York, built the minster. Of this ancient building the crypt still remains, and to see it we followed the verger down a steep, narrow flight of stairs into a series of dungeonlike apartments beneath the forward end of the nave. Perhaps the most curious relic is St. Wilfred's Needle, a small window in the thick wall of the crypt, and various merits have been attributed to anyone who could pass through it. In old days this was proof of innocence against any charge of crime; but just now the young woman who can perform the somewhat acrobatic feat will be married within a year--rather a discrimination against the more buxom maidens. About four hundred years after the founding of the Saxon monastery, the present church was built; but it was not until 1836 that it was elevated to the rank of a cathedral. Like York Minster, Ripon is singularly devoid of tombs of famous men, though there are many fine monuments and brasses to the noble families of the vicinity. The architecture is strangely mixed, owing to the many alterations that have been made from time to time. The exterior must have been far more imposing before the removal of the wooden spires which rose above the towers. Ripon is a quiet, old-world market town, progressive in its way, but having little resource other than the rich agricultural country around it. There are many quaint streets and odd corners that attract the lover of such things. A queer relic of the olden days that arouses the curiosity of the visitor is the blowing of a horn at nine in the evening before the town cross by the constable. The sojourner will not be at a loss for comfortable entertainment, since the Unicorn Hotel fulfills the best traditions of English inns. To come within hailing distance of York means that we cannot remain away from that charming old city; and the early afternoon finds us passing Bootham Bar. The rest of the day we give to a detailed study of the minster--our fourth visit, nor are we weary of York Minster yet. Pontefract--the Pomfret of olden time--lies about twenty miles southwest of York. Its very name takes us back to Roman times--Pontem Fractem, the place of the broken bridge. It is a town that figured much in early English history and its grim old castle may hold the mystery of the death of King Richard II. We came here under lowering skies, and passing the partly ruined church, climbed the steep hill where the castle--or rather the scanty remnant of it--still stands. Verily, "ruin greenly dwells" about the old fortress of Pontefract; the walls were laden heavily with ivy, the greensward covered the floor of the keep, and the courtyard has been converted into a public garden. There is so little left that it would require a vivid imagination to reconstruct the strong and lordly fortress, which endured no fewer than three sieges during the civil war. The first resulted disastrously to the Parliamentary forces and the second was successful only after a long period and very heavy losses, and even then the garrison was given the honors of the war; yet after all this strenuous work, the castle was again lost to the Royalists through a trifling bit of strategy. The commander became so negligent through a false sense of security that a handful of adventurers gained admission to the castle, and driving out the few soldiers who happened to be inside--most of the garrison was quartered in the town--possessed themselves of the fortress. A third siege was thus made necessary and such was the strength of the castle that nearly a year elapsed before it finally fell--holding out for some time after Charles was beheaded. Even then, favorable terms were again granted to the defenders, though Col. Morris, who devised the successful capture, and five others, were specifically excepted from the amnesty. Much to the disgust of the captors, Morris escaped for the time, though a little later he was taken and hanged at York. Thus ended the active history of Pontefract Castle, but it was considered dangerous to the Commonwealth and was almost completely razed, the walls being mined with gunpowder. [Illustration: RUINS OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE.] Pontefract was undoubtedly the prison to which the Duke of Lancaster consigned King Richard II., "That disastrous king on whom Fate, like a tempest, early fell, And the dark secret of whose doom The keep of Pomfret kept full well." And yet it is not certain that Richard perished while a prisoner in the castle. A tradition exists that he escaped and lived many years an humble peasant. Pontefract was a very storm center in the wars of the Roses, for almost within sight of its towers was fought the battle of Towton Moor, the bloodiest conflict that ever took place on English soil. But it would take a volume to record the vicissitudes that have befallen the mouldering ruin at our feet. The rain is falling more heavily; let us on to Wakefield, whose spire we might easily see were it not for the gray veil which hides the landscape. For Wakefield spire is the loftiest in Yorkshire--a slender, pointed shaft rising to a height of two hundred and forty-seven feet over a much altered church that was elevated to the rank of cathedral in 1888. As it now stands, the interior is chiefly Perpendicular, though there are many touches of the Decorated and Early English styles. It is characterized by grace and lightness, giving an altogether pleasing effect. The windows exhibit as fine modern glass as we saw in the Kingdom, and go far to prove that the disrepute into which modern glass has fallen is largely due to lack of artistic taste and a desire for cheapness. Such windows as those at Wakefield are far from a reproach on the art of the stained-glass maker. So much has the church been restored and added to that it gives as a whole an impression of newness that seems strange in an English cathedral--for there has been no cathedral built in England since St. Paul's, more than two hundred years ago. When we come to Barnsley, a few miles to the south, the rain, which has gradually increased, is falling in torrents, and we resolve to take respite from the cold and damp for our belated luncheon. We seek out the King's Head, for an English friend has told us that twenty-five years ago this hotel was famous for the best mutton chop in England. Traditions never die in Britain, and we doubt not the King's Head still retains its proud distinction. It does not, however, present an especially attractive appearance; it is rather dingy and time-worn, but any place might seem a little dreary on such a day. Yes, the King's Head still serves the Barnsley chop, and we will have it, though we must wait a half hour for it. And the recollection of the luncheon comes like a gleam of sunshine into a dark, rainy day, and effaces all memory of the first unfavorable impression of the King's Head. A Barnsley chop defies all description; its mighty dimensions might be given, its juicy tenderness might be descanted upon; all the language at the epicure's command might be called into action, and yet, after all, only he who has actually eaten a Barnsley chop would have an adequate idea of its savory excellence. O, yes! They imitate it at other hotels, both in and out of Barnsley, so said the manageress, but after all, the King's Head alone can prepare the original and only Barnsley chop; it alone has devised the peculiar process whereby the truly wonderful result is obtained. Verily, after eating it we sallied forth into the driving rain feeling something of the spirit of the ancient Roman who declared, "Fate cannot harm me--I have dined today." Three or four miles out of Barnsley on a byway off the Doncaster road is the village of Darfield, whose church illustrates the interest one may so often find in out-of-the-way spots in England. Thither we drove through the heavy rain, and as we stopped in front of the church at the end of the village street, a few of the natives who happened to be abroad paused under dripping umbrellas to stare at us. I do not wonder at their astonishment, for from their point of view persons motoring in search of old churches on such a day might well have their sanity questioned. The ceiling is painted blue, with stars and feathery clouds--clearly a representation of the heavens--and it seemed an age since we had seen them, too. There are many elaborate carvings; the massive Jacobean cover over the baptismal font, the fine black-oak bench-ends of the seventeenth century, and a splendid coffer in the vestry, are all treasures worthy of notice. A Bible with heavy wooden covers is chained to a solid oaken stand--suggestive of the days when a man's piety might lead him to steal the rare copies of the Scripture. A beautifully wrought though scarred and dilapidated alabaster tomb has recumbent figures of a knight and his lady in costumes of the time of Richard II., and another tomb bears some very quaint devices, among them an owl with a crown upon its head. It is our third visit to Doncaster, and the giant church tower has become a familiar object. Its very stateliness is exaggerated by the dead level of the town and today it rises dim and vast against the leaden, rain-swept sky, but though it is easily the most conspicuous object in the town, the fine old church does not constitute Doncaster's chief claim to fame. Here is the horse-racing center of Yorkshire, and on its "Leger Day" it is probably the liveliest town in England. The car shops of the Great Northern Railway keep it quietly busy for the rest of the year. But as the racing center of a horse-loving shire, it would be strange if it had not acquired during the ages a reputation for conviviality. That it had such a reputation a century or more ago is evidenced by the example of its mayor, set forth by a ballad-maker of the period: "The Doncaster mayor he sits in his chair, His mills they merrily go; His nose doth shine with drinking wine, And the gout is in his great toe." We pass on to the southward and pause in the main street of the quiet village of Scrooby, just on the Yorkshire border, where good authorities insist the idea of American colonization was first conceived. Here Elder Brewster, one of the chief founders of the Plymouth Colony, was born in 1567, and here he passed his boyhood days. The manor-house where he lived and where he met Rev. John Robinson and William Bradford is no longer standing; but it is not unreasonable to suppose that the plan of leaving England for the new world may have been consummated here by these earnest men, who held themselves persecuted for righteousness' sake. After varied fortunes they sailed on the Mayflower in 1620. We are now leaving old Yorkshire with its waste moorlands, its wide, fertile valleys, its narrow, picturesque dales, its quaint old towns and modern cities, its castles and abbeys, and, more than all, its associations of the past which reach out even to the shores of our native land, and we leave it with the keenest regret. It has fallen to us as it has to few to traverse the highways and byways of every section of the great county, and I can but be sensible as to how feebly my pages reflect the things that charmed us. If an American and a stranger is so impressed, how must the native Englishman feel when wandering among these memorials of the past? I cannot close my chapter more fitly than to quote the words of one who in poetic phrase has written much of Yorkshire and its history: "But any man will spend a month in wandering round Yorkshire, with ears awake to all the great voices of the past, and eyes open to the beauty which is so peculiarly English, he will find the patriotic passion roused again, real and living; and thenceforth the rivers and the glaciers of other lands will be to him no more than the parks and palaces of other men compared with the white gateway and the low veranda which speaks to him of home." XV ROUND ABOUT WILTSHIRE Our run from Nottingham to Oxford was uneventful, for we roved rather at random for the day through the delightful Midland country. At Nottingham one will find the Victoria is quite up to the standard of station-hotel excellence in England and the rates refreshingly low. The city itself will not detain one long, for the great wave of modern progress that has inundated it has swept away most of its ancient landmarks. The old castle, once the key to the Northlands, has been superseded by a palatial structure which now serves as museum and art gallery. Unless one would see factories, machine shops and lace-making works, there will be little to keep him in Nottingham. We follow the well-surfaced road to the southeast, and though steep in places, its hills afford splendid views of the landscape. The rain interferes much with the prospect, but in the lulls we catch glimpses of long reaches of meadowland dotted with solitary trees, rich with the emerald greenness that follows summer rain in England. Melton Mowbray has a proud distinction, for does not the infallible Baedeker accord it the honor of being the "hunting capital of the Midlands?" And the assertion that it is famous for its pork pies very appropriately follows, a matter of cause and effect, perhaps, for the horde of hungry huntsmen who congregate in the town would hardly be satisfied with anything less substantial than an English pork pie. Melton Mowbray has a competitor in Market Harborough, some twenty miles farther, where we stopped for luncheon at a pleasant wayside inn. Each of these towns has a population of about seven thousand, chiefly dependent upon the hunting industry--if I may use such a term--and certain it is that fox hunting is about the only vocation toward which many of the Midland squires are at all industriously inclined. One is simply astounded at the hold the sport has in England and the amount of time and money devoted to it; a leading authority estimates that not less than nine million pounds is spent yearly by the hunters. In a summer tour one sees comparatively little of it, but in the autumn and winter these towns doubtless exhibit great activity, and their streets, crowded with red-coated huntsmen and packs of yelping dogs, must be decidedly picturesque. From Market Harborough a straight, narrow road carried us swiftly southward toward Northampton and we passed through the Bringtons, of whose memories of the Washingtons I have written in an earlier chapter. The rain, which had been falling fitfully during the day, ceased and the sun came out with a brilliancy that completely transformed the landscape. All about us was the dense green of the trees and meadowlands, bejeweled with sparkling raindrops and dashed with the gold of the ripening grain, stretching away until lost in the purple mist of the distance. Even the roadside pools glowed crimson and gold, and altogether the scene was one of transcendent beauty and freshness. It was exhilarating indeed as our open car swept over the fine Oxford road, passing through the ancient towns of Towcester, Buckingham and Bicester. There is no more beautiful or fertile country in the Island than that around Oxford, and it was a welcome change to see it basking in the sunshine after our dull days on the Yorkshire moors. One never wearies of Oxford, and the Randolph Hotel is worth a run of many miles to reach at nightfall. Aristocratic, spacious and quiet, with an indefinable atmosphere of the great universities about it, it appeals to both the bodily and aesthetic senses of the wayfarer--but Oxford, with all its interest and charm, has no place in this chronicle, and we leave it, however loath, in the early morning. We hasten over the Berkshire Hills through Abingdon into Wiltshire, where there is much to engage our attention. Swindon, the first town we encounter after passing the border, is an up-to-date city of fifty thousand people and the newness everywhere apparent, the asphalt pavement and the numerous tram lines impress one with its similarity to live American towns. We learn that it is practically a creation of the Great Western Railway, whose shops give employment to a large proportion of the population. Clearly, there is nothing for us in Swindon and we hasten on to Chippenham, which has the traditions which Swindon so wofully lacks. It is a staid old town of six thousand and was important in Saxon times, having frequent mention in the chronicles of Alfred's wars with the Danes. Strange indeed the mutations of time--strange it seems that the now decadent and negligible Denmark once sent her "fair-haired despots of the sea" into this remote section of the present mistress of the seas. The town is full of odd old houses and it is the center of one of the most interesting spots in England, as I hope to be able to show. But its hotel would hardly invite a long sojourn; we stop for luncheon at the Angel, and are placed at a large table with several rather red-faced gentlemen who discuss horses and hunting dogs as vigorously as a lively onslaught on the host's vintage and good cheer permits. Lacock is only four miles away and they tell us that we should see the abbey; but they do not tell us that the village itself is worth a day's journey and that the abbey is only secondary. They do not tell us this, because no one about Lacock knows it. The utter unconsciousness and genuineness of the village is not its least charm. Lacock never dreams of being a show place or tourist resort; but despite its unconsciousness, anyone who has seen England as we have seen it will know that Lacock is not easily matched for its wealth of old stone and timber houses and its quaint, genuine antiquity. It is perhaps a trifle severe and its picturesqueness is of a melancholy and somber kind--thatched roofs are few, ivy-clad walls and flower gardens are wanting; there is little color save an occasional red roof to relieve the all-pervading gray monotone. Its timbered houses are not the imitations one sees so often, even in England, or the modernized old buildings shining in black and white paint, but the genuine article, with weathered oak timbers and lichen-covered brick. There are many projecting upper stories and sharp gables with casement windows of diamond panes set in rusty iron frames. The Lacock of today is truly a voice from the past. It must have been practically the same two or three hundred years ago. Its houses, its streets, its church and its very atmosphere carry one back to the England of Shakespeare. Such a village seems a fitting introduction to the abbey at whose gates it sits; and the abbey itself, gray and ancient like the village, is one of the most perfect monastic buildings in England. Nowhere else did we see what seemed to us a more appropriate home for romance than this great rambling pile of towered and gabled buildings, with a hundred odd nooks and corners, each of which might well have a story of its own. It is opened freely to visitors by its owner, Mr. Talbot, himself an antiquarian of note, who is glad to share his unbounded delight in the old place with anyone who may care to come. We were shown in detail the parts of the abbey that have a special historic and architectural interest. It is guarded carefully and the atmosphere of antiquity jealously preserved. Even the stone steps of the main entrance are grass-grown and moss-covered--"and he wont let us clean them up," said our guide. Inside there are many fine apartments and notable relics. The arched cloisters, the chapter house, the refectory and other haunts of the nuns, are in quite the original state. The immense stone fishtank from a solid block sixteen feet long and the great bronze cauldron show that good cheer was quite as acceptable to the nuns as to their brethren. But the exterior of the abbey and the beautiful grounds surrounding it impressed us most. All about were splendid trees and plots of shrubbery, and the Bristol Avon flows through the park. We heard what we thought the rush of its waters, but our guide told us that it was the quaking aspens which fringe the river banks, keeping up their age-long sigh that their species had supplied the wood for the cross. No day is so still that you do not hear them in summer time. We passed around the building to note from different viewpoints its quaint outlines and its great rambling facades with crowded, queerly assorted gables, battlemented towers and turrets, and mysterious corners, all combining to make it the very ideal of the abbey of romance. How easy, when contemplating it in the dim twilight or by the light of a full moon, for the imagination to re-people it with its old-time habitants; and surely, if the ghosts of the gray nuns ever return to their earthly haunts, Lacock Abbey must have such visitants. [Illustration: LACOCK ABBEY.] But enough of these vagaries--one might yield himself up to them for days in such surroundings. I will not mar them with sober history, in any event, though Lacock has quite enough of that. The guide-book which you may get at the abbey lodge for two-pence tells its story and I have tried to tell only what we saw and felt. At the postcard shop, where we buy a few pictures and souvenirs of Lacock, the young woman tells us of other Wiltshire nooks that we should see. Do we know of Sloperton Cottage, of Bromham Church, of Corsham, of Yatton Keynell and Castle Combe? These are only a few, in fact, but they are the ones that strike our fancy most and we thank our informant, who follows us to point out the roads. And never had we more need of such assistance, for our search for Sloperton Cottage involves us in a maze of unmarked byways that wind between tall hedges and overarching trees. And what of Sloperton Cottage? Are you, dear reader, so ignorant as we were, not to know that Tom Moore, the darling poet of Erin, lived in Sloperton Cottage with his beloved Bessie for a third of a century and that both are buried at Bromham Church near at hand? One had surely thought to find his grave in the "ould sod" rather than in the very heart of rural England; but so it is; and after much inquiry we enter the lonely lane that leads to Sloperton Cottage and pause before the long low building, heavily mantled with ivy and roses, though almost hidden from the road by the tall hedge in front. We had been told that it is the private home of two ladies, sisters of the owner, and we have no thought of intruding in such a case--but a neat maid appears at the gateway as we look, no doubt rather longingly, at the house. "Miss ----," said she, "would be pleased to have you come in and see the cottage." Here is unexpected good fortune, and coming voluntarily to us, we feel free to accept the invitation. We see the cottage and gardens, which are much the same as when occupied by the poet, though some of the furniture has been replaced. The garden to the rear, sweet with old-fashioned flowers, we are told was a favorite resort of the author of "Lalla Rookh" and that he composed much of his verse here, lying on his back and gazing at the sky through over-arching branches. The cottage is quite unpretentious and the whole place is so cozy and secluded as to be an ideal retreat for the muses, and as an English writer has observed: "It would be an unfeeling person who could stand today before this leafy cottage, so snugly tucked away by a shady Wiltshire lane, without some stirring of the pulse, if only for the sake of the melodies. If they are not great, they are the most felicitous and feeling English verse, taken as a whole, ever set to music, and are certainly world-famous and probably immortal. No one would wish to submit "Dear Harp of My Country" or "Oft in the Stilly Night" to the cold light of poetic criticism. But when the conscientious expert has finished with "Lalla Rookh" and the "Loves of the Angels" and consigned them to oblivion, he goes into another chamber, so to speak, and relaxes into unrestrained praise of the melodies." Moore must have written much of the "melodies" at Sloperton Cottage, but before he came here his fame had been made by his oriental poems, whose music and glitter caused them to be greatly over-estimated at the time. As we take our leave and thank the ladies for the courtesy, we are told that the cottage is to let and that we may so inform any of our friends. We do so herewith and can add our unqualified personal indorsement of Sloperton Cottage. Bromham Church, one of the most graceful of the country churches we have seen, is near at hand. It stands against a background of fine trees with a hedge-surmounted stone wall in front. It is mainly in the Perpendicular style and a slender spire rises from its square battlemented tower. The stained windows are very large, each with many tall upright stone mullions; one is a memorial to the poet and another to his wife, whose memory still lingers as one of the best-loved women of the countryside. She survived the poet, who died in 1852, by fourteen years. They lie buried just outside the north wall of the church. The grave is marked by a tall Celtic cross, only recently erected, and the occasion was observed by a gathering of distinguished Irishmen in honor of the memory of their poet. On the pedestal of the cross is graven a verse which truly gives Moore's best claim to remembrance: "Dear Harp of my Country, in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long; When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song." And indeed it is the harp of his country that is now heard, and not his labored oriental poems. [Illustration: BROMHAM CHURCH, BURIAL PLACE OF THOMAS MOORE.] It is a very quiet, retired country lane that we followed to Corsham, famous for the stately seat of Lord Metheun. Corsham Court is an Elizabethan mansion of vast extent which has many noted pictures in its galleries, among them "Charles I. on Horseback," which is counted the masterpiece of Van Dyck. Near the park entrance is the almshouse, with its timeworn gables of yellow stone against the dull red of the tile roofing. Just inside is the chapel, always present in early English buildings, a fine Jacobean room with a double-deck pulpit and a gallery behind an intricately carved oaken screen. One finds these almshouses in many of the older English towns. They were founded some centuries ago by charitably inclined persons who left legacies for the purpose, and are maintained for a limited number of old people--women at Corsham--who are admitted under certain carefully specified conditions. Each inmate has a small, fairly comfortable room and usually a little garden plot. We saw such houses at Coventry, Campden and Corsham--all substantially built and unique in their architecture. St. Cross at Winchester and Leicester's Hospital at Warwick are similar institutions. There is always a long waiting-list of applicants for the charity. At the queer little village of Yatton Keynell, as odd and uncouth as its name, we found another of the melancholy instances so common in England of the degeneration of a fine manor into a slovenly farm tenement. We drove into the ill-kept farmyard and picked our way carefully through the debris to the front entrance, a solid oaken door under a curious little porch. The house is a good example of the substantial mansion of the old-time English squire, and though still quite extensive, is of only half its original size. It has a solid oak staircase and many touches of its old-time beauty remain. While it has no history or tradition, it is worthy a visit from anyone interested in English domestic architecture and in a rather melancholy phase of social conditions. A combe, in west of England parlance, is a deep, ravinelike valley. Such a description certainly fits the site of Castle Combe, surely one of the loveliest villages in Wiltshire, or all of England, for that matter. We carefully descended a steep, narrow road winding through the trees that cover the sharply rising hillsides, and paused before the queer old market cross of the little town. Nowhere did we find a more perfect and secluded gem of rural England. The market cross, whose quadrangular roof of tile, with a tall slender shaft rising from the center, is supported on four heavy stone pillars, looks as if it had scarce been touched in the four hundred years during which it has weathered sun and rain. Near by is the solid little church with pinnacled and embattled tower, still more ancient. Along shady lanes leading from the market place are cozy thatched cottages, bright with climbing roses and ivy, and others of gray stone seem quite as bleak as the cross itself. Nothing could be more picturesque than the gateway to the adjoining park--the thatched roof of the lodgekeeper's house sagging from the weight of several centuries. On either side of the village rise the steep, heavily wooded hills and from the foot of the glen comes up the murmur of the stream. Verily, there is an unknown England--the guide-books have nothing of Castle Combe, and unless the wayfarer comes upon it like ourselves, he will miss one of the most charming bits of old-world life in the Kingdom. And it is all unconscious of its charm; excepting an occasional incursion of English trippers, visitors are few. [Illustration: CASTLE COMBE VILLAGE, WILTSHIRE.] The road out of the valley runs along the wooded glen, by the swift stream just below, until a sharp rise brings us to the up-lands, where we enter the main Bath road. And we are glad that the close of our day's wanderings finds us so close to Bath, for we may be sure of comfort at the Empire--though we may expect to pay for it--and we have stopped here often enough to form the acquaintance so helpful to one in the average English hotel. Bath is in Somerset, but the next morning we recross the border and resume our pilgrimage in Wiltshire. How lightly the rarest antiquities were valued in England until yesterday is shown by the remarkable history of the Saxon chapel at Bradford-on-Avon. This tiny church, believed to be the oldest in England, was completely lost among the surrounding buildings; as the discoverer, Rev. Laurence Jones, says: "Hemmed in on every side by buildings of one kind or another, on the north by a large shed employed for the purposes of the neighbouring woolen manufactory; on the south by a coach-house and stables which hid the south side of the chancel, and by a modern house built against the same side of the nave; on the east by what was formerly, as Leland tells us, 'a very fair house of the building of one Horton, a rich clothier,' the western gable of which was within a very few feet of it, and hid it completely from the general view--the design and nature of the building entirely escaped the notice of the archaeologist." About 1865 Rev. Jones, then Vicar of Bradford, was led to his investigations by the accidental discovery of stone figures, evidently rude Saxon carvings, during some repairs to the school-room. From this beginning the building was gradually disentangled from the surrounding structures; excavations were made and many old carvings unearthed, and in short the chapel began to assume its present shape. The history of the church is of course very obscure, though Rev. Jones with great ingenuity and research shows that there is good reason to believe that it was founded by St. Aldhelm, who died in 709. If this be true, the chapel is twelve hundred years old and contests in antiquity with St. Augustine's of Canterbury. Architecturally, the little church is the plainest possible--it comprises a tiny entrance porch, nave and chancel. The most remarkable feature of the nave is its great height as compared with its other dimensions, being the same as its length, or about twenty-five feet. The doors are very narrow, barely wide enough for one person at a time, and windows mere slits through which the sunlight struggled rather weakly with the gloom of the interior. The chapel is a regularly constituted Church of England and services are held in it once a year. With all its crudeness, it serves as one of the milestones of the progress of a new order of things in Britain, and a space of only three centuries separates this poor little structure from the cathedrals! The youth who acted as guide led us into his cottage near at hand when we asked for picture cards of the chapel. His eyes brightened noticeably when he learned we were from America. "Ah," said he, "I am going there next spring; my brother is already there and doing well. Do you know that more than a hundred people have gone from Bradford to America in the past year? And more are going. There is no chance for a common man in England." No chance for a common man in England!--How often we heard words to that effect during our pilgrimage. Bradford has another unique relic in the "tithe barn" built in 1300, a long low structure with enormously thick, heavily buttressed walls and ponderous roof--solid oaken timbers overlaid with stone slabs. Its capacious dimensions speak eloquently of the tribute the monks were able to levy in the good old days, for here the people who could not contribute money brought their offerings in kind and the holy fathers were apparently well prepared to receive and care for anything of value. Today it serves as a cow-barn for a nearby farmer. We leave Bradford-on-Avon for Marlborough over a fine though rather undulating road. We pause at Devizes to read the astonishing inscription on the town cross: "The mayor and corporation of Devizes avail themselves of the stability of this building to transmit to future times the record of an awful event which occurred in this market place in the year 1753, hoping that such record may serve as a salutary warning against the danger of impiously invoking Divine vengeance or calling on the holy name of God to conceal the devices of falsehood and fraud. On Thursday, the 17th of January 1753, Ruth Pierce of Pottern in this county agreed with three other women to buy a sack of wheat in the market, each paying her due proportion towards the same. One of these women collecting the several quotas of money, discovered a deficiency and demanded of Ruth Pierce what was wanting to make good the amount. Ruth Pierce protested that she had paid her share and said she wished she might drop down dead if she had not. She rashly repeated this awful wish, when, to the consternation and terror of the surrounding multitude, she instantly fell down and expired, having the money concealed in her hand." Surely the citizens of Devizes, with such a warning staring them in the face every day, must be exemplary disciples of George Washington--and what a discouraging place the town would be for the headquarters of an American trust! The town gets its name from having been a division camp back in Roman days. It figured much in the civil war, its castle, of which no traces now remain, holding out for the king until taken by Cromwell in person. There are in the town two of the finest churches in Wiltshire, second only to Salisbury Cathedral. Nor is it to be forgotten that the parents of Sir Thomas Lawrence were at one time keepers of the Bear Inn at Devizes, and the son acquired his first fame by sketching the guests and reciting poetry to them. He lived here until eighteen years of age, when he entered the Royal Academy at London. It was a surprise to find at Avebury, a lonely village a few miles farther on, relics of a pre-historic stone circle that completely dwarf the giants of Stonehenge. This great circle was about three-quarters of a mile in circumference and three hundred years ago was nearly perfect. The mighty relics were destroyed by the unsentimental vandals of the neighborhood, and it is said that most of the cottages in the village were built from these stones. Some of them were buried to clear the land of them! Barely a dozen remain of more than six hundred monoliths that stood in the circle as late as the reign of Elizabeth; and the destruction ceased only fifty years ago. The stones are ruder and less symmetrical than those of Stonehenge, but their individual bulk averages greater--mighty fragments of rock weighing from fifty to sixty tons each. The Avebury circle is supposed to have been a temple of prehistoric sun worshipers, but its crudity indicates that it is far older than Stonehenge. A short run across the downs soon brought us to Marlborough, a name more familiar as that of a dukedom than of a town. But the Duke of Marlborough lives at Blenheim, forty miles away, and has no connection with the Wiltshire town. Its vicissitudes were those of almost any of the older English towns, though it had the rare distinction of having its castle destroyed before the time of Cromwell. It has little of great antiquity, since a fire two hundred and fifty years ago totally wiped out the town that then existed. In the coaching days, it was an important point on the London and Bath road; and perhaps the motor car may bring back something of its old-time prosperity. The Ailesbury Arms, where we stopped for our belated lunch, appeared to be a most excellent hotel and is the only one I recollect which had a colored man in uniform at the door. Immediately adjoining Marlborough is Savernake Forest, on the estate of the Marquis of Ailesbury, which is said to be the only forest of any extent possessed by a subject. This park is sixteen miles in circumference, and its chief glory is a straight four-mile drive between rows of enormous beeches. This splendid avenue is not "closed to motors" (the inscription that greeted us at the entrance of so many private parks), and our car carried us soberly enough through the sylvan scene, which is diversified with many grassy glades. There are several famous trees, one of which, the King's Oak, is twenty-four feet in circumference. Savernake is pleasant and impressive in summer time, but its real beauty must be most apparent in autumn, when, as an English writer describes it, "it is a blaze of crimson and yellow--the long shadows and golden sunlight giving the scene a painted, almost too brilliant effect." It is growing late and we must not loiter longer by the way if we are to reach Bournemouth for the night. We sweep across the great open Salisbury Plain past Stonehenge and down the sweet vale of the Avon until the majestic spire of Salisbury pierces the sky. Then southward through Ringwood to Christchurch, where we catch a glimpse of the scant fragments of the castle and the abbey church, with its melancholy memorial to Shelley. A few minutes more on the fine ocean road brings us into Bournemouth. XVI DORSET AND THE ISLE OF WIGHT Of the hundreds of hotels whose hospitality we enjoyed--or endured--in Britain, no other was so barbarously gorgeous as the Royal Bath at Bournemouth. The furnishings were rich, though verging to some extent on the gaudy, and the whole place had an air of oriental splendor about it made the more realistic by "fairy grottoes" and gilded pagodas on the grounds. It is a rather low building of great extent, with wide, thickly carpeted halls in which bronze and plaster statuettes and suits of old plate armor are displayed. At the head of the stairs a tablet enumerates a few of the patrons of quality--an imposing list indeed--which we may partly transcribe here. The large gilt letters solemnly assure us that "This Hotel has been patronised by H. R. H. the PRINCE OF WALES, H. R. H. the DUCHESS OF ALBANY, and other Members of the ROYAL FAMILY: H. I. H. the EMPRESS EUGENIE, H. M. the KING OF THE BELGIANS, H. R. H. CROWN PRINCE OF SWEDEN and NORWAY, H. R. H. the CROWN PRINCESS OF DENMARK, H. R. H. PRINCE ALBRECHT OF PRUSSIA, Regent of Brunswick; the Leading Statesmen, and the most Eminent and Distinguished Personages visiting Bournemouth." Verily a list of notables that might well overawe a common American citizen. But after all, the pretensions of the Royal Bath are not altogether unwarranted, for its foundation, in 1838, marked the beginning of Bournemouth itself. It is since then that this handsome watering-place--it has no superior in the Kingdom--has come into existence. In few other modern resort towns has the original idea been so well carried out. The pine trees planted by the early promoters now form a grove through which runs the magnificent promenade along the sea. The citizens are mainly of the wealthier class and there are many fine private residences. There are, of course, the usual adjuncts of the watering-place, such as the amusement pier, promenades, public gardens and palatial hotels. The climate, which is as salubrious as that of Torquay, brings to the town many people seeking health. Bournemouth, of course, has little of history or tradition. In the churchyard surrounding its imposing modern church is buried Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and her parents, William and Mary Godwin. I have not intended to intimate that the Royal Bath, with all its splendor, is anything but comfortable and first-class. Our tall casement windows opened directly on the sea, and the high ceilings of our room were decorated with plaster bosses and stencilled festoons of roses. The view at sunset over the terrace, down the sandy beach and sweeping over the sail-flecked waters, was at once restful and inspiring. The crowd thronging the promenades was in a gay, careless mood; children played in the sand in unrestrained joy, while the many colored lights on the pier and the lanterns of the boats gave a touch of brilliancy to the scene. It all seemed to strangely contrast with the spirit of the England we were most familiar with, for Bournemouth belongs to another day and generation than the England of our pilgrimage. The Isle of Purbeck is no island at all--even as the "Isles," Athelney and Avilion, in no wise fulfill the geographical requirements of islands. It is a small peninsula of Southern Dorset, and at its very center stands one of the most remarkable of the English castles. Thither we go, following the coast from Bournemouth through the somber little town of Wareham; from thence southward over heather-mottled hills, and ere long we catch sight of the gigantic mound upon which are the straggling fragments of Corfe Castle. Before the castle gate stands Corfe village, a group of plain cottages, seemingly as ancient as the ruin overlooking them. All are mellowed by the touch of time; there is naught to mar the harmony of the dull silver grays and moss greens of the cottages, the solid old church or of the ruins which tower in sharp outline against a pale, blue sky. The entrance to the castle court is well above the roofs of the cottages and is severed from the village by a deep fosse crossed by a high-arched stone bridge. The gate is flanked by two huge round towers, but from the inside one sees the castle proper, perched on the summit of the mound, its very foundation stones high above the gate towers. Standing among the stupendous ruins we realize the amazing strength the castle possessed, both in construction and position. Huge fragments of walls and towers rise above us like thunder-riven cliffs, their bald outlines softened in places by the clinging ivy. Here and there masses of fallen masonry are lying about like boulders, so solidly does the mass cling together. So ruinous are the walls that it is difficult to identify the different apartments, and even the antiquarians have trouble in restoring the original plan of the castle. The keep itself, generally intact, is shattered, one fragment, almost the entire height of the structure, standing curiously like a huge chimney. Clearly enough, an explosive was the agent of destruction here--Corfe Castle was razed with gunpowder by express order of Cromwell's Parliament. [Illustration: CORFE VILLAGE AND CASTLE.] From the wall on the highest point of the mound, one has a wide prospect. It was a clear lucent day and when we climbed a broken tower the whole peninsula of Purbeck spread beneath us like a map. It is now bleak and sterile, spotted with gorse and heather and broken in places with chalk cliffs. Yet when the castle was built the region was covered with a stately forest, of which no trace now remains. Far to the north we see the Wareham road winding away like a serpent, while a stony trail cuts squarely across the moor to the west. When we prepare to take our leave, we ask the custodian concerning the road to Lulworth, and he points out the uninviting byway through the fields. We had planned to return to Wareham, but this route, he assures us, is shorter and "very good,"--strange ideas of good roads had the old man if he could so describe the ten miles through the moors to Lulworth, quite as bad as any of equal distance we found in ten thousand miles. But before we go shall we ask the story of Corfe? The tales of the abbeys and castles are much alike and their end nearly always the same--dismantled by Henry, destroyed by Cromwell. Still, Corfe is very old; its records go back to Saxon times. How weird it is to think that in front of the towers that grimly guard the entrance King Edward the Martyr was stabbed by order of his stepmother, Elfrida, as he paused to quaff a goblet of wine. It happened more than a thousand years ago, and from that time until Cromwell's gunpowder sent walls and towers tottering to destruction, the sequestered castle was the scene of intermittent turmoil and bloodshed. Sir Christopher Hatton built the more modern portions during the reign of Elizabeth, but Corfe brought him only trouble. In 1633 it passed from the possession of his descendant to Sir John Bankes, a loyal supporter of King Charles, and while he was active in court and field, his energetic wife held the castle against all comers. One siege she repulsed and the surrender in 1646 was brought about only by treachery. Brave Lady Bankes! The story of her gallant defense will not be forgotten while a single fragment of the old fortress remains on its bleak, wind-swept hill. But they have told us that Lulworth and its cove are worth seeing and we are soon away over the moorland road. A strenuous ten miles it is, rough, stony, steep, with numerous gates to open and close between the fields, and in places the road is so overgrown with grass and heather as to be hardly discernible. But from the uplands which it traverses one may see the ocean on the left and to the right a long array of rolling hills and winding valleys, all in the purple glow of full-blown heather, with here and there a lonely cottage or group of trees. We begin a long descent, following the edge of the hill toward the sea, and a sharp turn leads down a short steep grade into Lulworth. The village some years ago had merely a few thatched cottages nestling beneath the high hills to the landward, but of late Lulworth has assumed airs as a trippers' resort in the summertime, and the red-tiled villas rather spoil its old-world effect. Lulworth would be of no more note than other villages scattered along the south coast were it not for its peculiar cove, an almost circular, basinlike depression a few hundred yards in diameter; the sea enters it through a narrow opening in the cliffs. We were able to take the car down to the very margin of the water. An angular, red-whiskered fisherman approached us and in broad South Country speech offered to row us across the cove. We acquiesced in deference to his story of slack times and hard luck. The water of the cove has a depth of sixty feet near the center and in old days offered shelter to smugglers' smacks. From the high cliffs on the opposite side we had a magnificent view of the rough coast line, a medley of gray, green and white, stretching along the foam-flecked sea. We soon regain the main road and pass Lulworth Castle but a little way from the village--a massive, rectangular structure with circular, crenelated towers at each corner. It is not of great antiquity, having been built during the reign of Elizabeth, who is reputed to have visited it, and King James came here to escape the plague in London. Our route carries us back to Wareham, a sleepy, shrunken town with little to suggest its strenuous history. Indeed, one writer declares that no town in England has undergone more calamities in the shape of sieges and conflagrations from the early wars with the Danes down to the capture of the place by Cromwell's forces. It is pleasantly situated on a strip of meadowland between two small rivers, and today has about two thousand people. Its wall, built more than a thousand years ago, may still be traced throughout its entire course and proves Wareham once of much greater extent than at present. Wimborne Minster takes its name from the church whose square towers with odd minaretlike pinnacles loom over the town as we approach it from the south. And rightly should the name of the minster predominate, for it is the redeeming feature of the commonplace Dorset town. But it is quite enough--few English churches have a greater store of curious relics. The chained library of about two hundred and fifty huge volumes, each held to its shelf by a heavy, rusty chain, is unique; but as one reads the ponderous titles of the books he wonders that such precaution should have been deemed necessary. Still, there were no "six best sellers" in the day when this library was established, and even heavy theological treatises in Latin and Greek may have been in demand. Not less curious is the orrery clock, five hundred years old, which illustrates the astronomical ideas of its time in compelling the sun to make a circuit of the dial every day, while the moon occupies a month. The sense of humor that mixes itself with the solemnity of so many English churches finds expression here in an odd, gnomelike automaton on the western tower that goes through strange contortions every quarter hour. One cannot but wonder just what is in the huge chest--unopened for centuries--hewn from a single log and fastened with great bunglesome locks; but most likely it contains records and documents pertaining to the church. But all these marvels are nothing to those which Wimborne Minster once possessed but which have disappeared; a piece of the true cross and one of the manger in which the Lord was born; some of the earth from the Bethlehem stable and a few hairs from Christ's head; a thigh bone of St. Agatha; a few of St. Philip's teeth; a joint of St. Cecelia; the hair shirt of St. Thomas a' Becket and a small phial of his blood. Verily Wimborne Minster was well supplied with the stock in trade of the early church. But the minster has associations of a less mythical nature. In the chancel is the grave of Aethelred, King of the West Saxons, brother of Alfred the Great, who was slain in 871. A fine brass is set in the slab over the grave, but this is doubtless of more recent date. There are tombs of several crusaders, though the effigies have been sadly mutilated. But the most curious tomb is a gilded coffin set in a niche in the wall, a little below the level of the floor. On the coffin is the date 1693, which the occupant at one time fixed as the date for his demise, but this did not occur until ten years later. He expressed a wish to be buried "neither under the ground nor above it; neither in the church nor out of it" and left an annuity of five pounds to keep his coffin touched up yearly--all of which was faithfully carried out, for thus did the church once lend itself to clownish eccentricity. Wimborne Minster delights in its relics, its traditions, and its medieval customs. The verger told us of one of the latter that is perhaps founded on more of common sense than many of the old-time practices, and which, with that continuity of custom that confronts one everywhere in England, still prevails. The vestrymen pass through the church at times during the services and prod the sleeping brethren with long black rods--not a bad idea, after all, though one that could hardly be inaugurated without precedent. So much of our glimpse of Wimborne Minster; it is late and we are bound for Southampton, forty or more miles away as we propose to go. The road to Ringwood and from thence to Lymington leads through an open, heathlike country--stretches of rank-growing ferns interspersed with the vivid purple of the heather. A little beyond Ringwood we enter New Forest, though in this section little of the forest--as one thinks of the word now--is to be seen. There are occasional groups of trees, but the prevailing feature of the landscape is the fern-clad heath. A cheerless road it is, but open, finely surfaced and nearly level, with nothing to hinder the mad rush of our motor. At Lymington we hail a citizen and inquire in our best French accent for the road to Beaulieu. He studies awhile and shakes his head. Then we seek a never-failing source of information--a garage man--but to our astonishment he is puzzled. "Boloo, Boloo; never heard of it." "What, the old abbey? It can't be far from here." "O, you mean Bewley, to be sure--eight miles straight away; you can't miss it." We hasten on over the moors and through a stretch of woodland into a wooded valley, where we come to a village more pleasing than any we have yet seen in Dorset--a village of thatched cottages and flower gardens fitting well into the charming surroundings. The river, held in leash by a weir, lies in broad, silvery reaches, fringed with willows, and groups of pond lilies dot its surface. Beaulieu, aside from its abbey, might be a shrine for the motorist, for here is the estate of Lord Montague, an enthusiast for the wind-shod steed, who has exchanged his ancestral stables for motors, and, to cap it all, is owner and editor of "The Car." There is not much left of the abbey. Henry VIII., with characteristic thrift, floated the stone down the river to build Hurst Castle. The refectory, now restored and used as a parish church, is the most perfect remnant of the once magnificent establishment, whose church almost equalled the huge dimensions of Winchester Cathedral. The late lord did much to restore the ruins, which are now surrounded by lawns and shrubbery. The monks of Beaulieu had wide fame for good cheer--they kept great vineyards and their wines were counted the best in England. The vineyards throve long after the Dissolution, but the last vine, several hundred years old, disappeared about two centuries ago. Just across the river there is a substantial, comfortable hotel belonging to Lord Montague, which is much frequented by fishermen. [Illustration: AN ISLE OF WIGHT ROAD.] An hour's run over level but winding roads brought us to the Great Western Hotel in Southampton. It was a needless trip, after all, for the Isle of Wight is best reached from Lymington, whither we returned in the morning. At Lymington the motor was loaded into a tiny boat, nearly filling it from stem to stern, and towed by the little channel steamer across the Solent to Yarmouth. The captain, who commands a crew of four men, invited us into the pilot house and gave us his field glasses, entertaining us with a tale of hard luck, long hours, small pay and still smaller appreciation of his service on part of the railway company, which owns the steamers. He was a typical English salt, bluff and bronzed, with a dialect that was refreshing to hear. We did not forget him, either, and found him anxiously looking for us next day when we were ready to return to the mainland. Here we are on the sunniest, calmest of summer days in the isle whose greatest charm for us is, perhaps, in the fact that Tennyson spent most of his active life here and did much of his best work in his island home. But this is far from the only attraction of the romantic island, so small that a circuit of sixty-five miles takes one over the coast roads. The eastern and half the northern coast is dotted with increasingly popular resort towns, of which Cowes, of yachting fame, is the best known, and thither we direct our course. It is open day at Osborne House and the short excursion by steamer from Southampton appeals to English people as few other holiday trips. And it is not strange when one reflects that no other place was in such a strict sense the home of Queen Victoria as Osborne House, or has so many memories of her life. The rather ineffective Italian villa was designed and built by herself and the Prince Consort and here were passed the happy years of the early married life of the royal couple. It was the queen's private property and descended to King Edward, who presented it to the nation. As it stands now, it may be said to be a memorial to the queen. Here are the family portraits and the marvelous presents given to Victoria on the occasions of her golden and diamond jubilees; some were from other rulers, but the most wonderful came from Indian potentates and the colonies. These defy all description. The queen died here in 1901, and altogether Osborne House is full of the deepest significance to the average British subject. The crowds that thronged the palace grounds on the day of our visit, we were told, were quite representative of the open days of the summer season. Newport, the capital and metropolis of the island, is a modern-looking town, whose greatest interest is Carisbrooke Castle, the stronghold of the ancient governors. It stands on an eminence overlooking the town and charming indeed was the prospect that greeted us from the walls on that shimmering summer afternoon. The town, with its red-brick, slate-roofed buildings, lay just below us; about it were the tiny fields, with the green meadowlands, the ripening grain, great trees and snug cottages. One may walk on the battlements--in part modern replacements--entirely around the castle walls, and thus view the ruin from every angle. Carisbrooke's chief memory is of Charles I., who came here as a guest only to be detained as a prisoner. The room he occupied has disappeared, but the window in its outer wall, through which he twice essayed to escape, may yet be seen. It was during his captivity here that he first lost hope; his hair turned gray and his trim, jaunty cavalier air forsook him. Finally, on the last night of November, 1648, he was seized by two companies of Roundhead horse and carried to Yarmouth and from thence to Windsor Castle. This was the beginning of the end. After the King's execution, the Princess Elizabeth and the young duke of Gloucester were sent here by order of Parliament. The princess soon died and is buried in Newport Church, where a marble effigy marks the tomb. Aside from the melancholy history of King Charles, the annals of Carisbrooke have few events of importance. Its decay and resulting ruin were due to ages of neglect. Beginning at Ryde, four miles north of Newport, we followed the coast, passing a succession of resort towns. Ryde is situated on a hillside sloping toward the sea, and its water front with drives and gardens, is one of the most charming we know of. The road from Ryde to Ventnor is crooked, narrow, and highly dangerous in places. At times it runs through closely bordering forests; again along the edge of an almost precipitous incline; then it climbs a long, terribly steep hill, but is never more than a few hundred yards from the coast. The Royal Hotel at Ventnor comes up to its pretensions but poorly. We were surprised to find the last three parties registered in the visitors' book coming from France, Germany and Sweden respectively, while our own added a fourth foreign registry in succession. The number of foreign guests at this hotel seemed to indicate that Ventnor is more popular with continental people than the average English resort town, for as a rule we found very few European guests. Ventnor is situated on a precipitous hill-slope, quite sheltered from the north and east. The houses run up the hill in terraces and the ledge of rock along the beach is barely wide enough for the promenade. The climate is mild and few spots in England are more favored by invalids. It was this that brought poor John Keats in 1817, and he composed "Lamia" during his stay. Here was a favorite resort of Tennyson before he settled in Freshwater, and Longfellow's visit in 1868 is commemorated by an inscription which he composed for the fountain near the hotel in Shanklin, the old town nearly contiguous to Ventnor. Shanklin contains many bits of the picturesque old-time island--touches of antiquity quite wanting in Ventnor. The following day was one to be remembered; a day as near perfection as one may have in England--the sky pale blue, cloudless and serene, toning to lucent gray near the horizon, and the air fresh and invigorating. Our road closely followed the coast with an almost continual view of the sea. The ocean lay darkly under the rocks, rippled over stretches of silvery beach, or glittered under the long headlands, whose white chalk cliffs were almost dazzling in the sunlight. There were flower-embowered cottages along the road, but no villages for many miles. We gave two hours to the twenty miles to Freshwater and enjoyed the beauty to our hearts' content--but no! to do that one must linger until darkness shuts out the view. Freshwater became famous through its association with Tennyson, and the poet by coming here destroyed to a certain extent the very retirement and quiet that he sought, for the tourists followed him, much to his disgust. Yet he used to go about in a great slouching hat and military cloak that advertised his presence to everyone--an inconsistency that even his little grandchild is said to have noticed, and that she queried in her childish innocence, "If you don't like people to look at you, Grandpa, why do you wear that queer hat and cloak?" But in any event, the trippers, though often snubbed for their pains, flocked to Freshwater. They still come to the old home of the poet, and the present Lord Tennyson is said to welcome them even less than did his father. We stopped at a post card shop just opposite the rear entrance to Farringford--a rustic gate opening into a narrow roadway between tall trees--and they told us that the ban on visitors was absolute. But one might see the house from the road. The unprecedented snow of the preceding winter had almost destroyed the tree so beloved of the poet--the "giant Ilex, keeping leaf When frosts are keen and days are brief," which hid the front of the house. Besides, the owner was now at Aldworth and the gardener might not be so averse to visitors--but we ignore the hint and content ourselves with a visit to Freshwater Church. Lady Tennyson is buried in the churchyard, her grave marked by a white marble cross. Inside there are tablets inscribed to the poet and his wife, who were regular attendants at the church, and a marble statue to the memory of Lionel, the son who died on shipboard in the Red Sea when returning from India. The village of Freshwater is full of picturesque cottages, and there are many more pretentious modern villas which indicate that the blight of a popular watering place threatens it. High on the hill, over the town and sea, towers the Tennyson memorial, a great Celtic cross, forty feet in height, reared by the poet's admirers in England and America. [Illustration: THE TENNYSON HOME, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT.] There is little to see at Yarmouth, where we wait an hour or more for the boat. In the church is buried Admiral Holmes, the man who took the village of New Amsterdam from the Dutch and called it New York, and a marble statue, representing the great seaman standing by a cannon, commemorates this and other achievements. An English writer tells this curious story of the monument: "Even a poor judge of such things can see at a glance that this is no ordinary piece of work. It is said that the unfinished statue was intended to represent Louis XIV. and was being conveyed by the sculptor in a French ship to Paris in order that the artist might model the head from the living subject. Holmes captured the vessel and conceived the brilliant idea of compelling the artist to complete the work with his (the admiral's) likeness instead of that of le Grand Monarque. The old fellow seems to wear a grim smile as he thinks of the joke, but as the head is undoubtedly of inferior workmanship to the body, the artist may have felt that he had his revenge." The admiral was a native of Yarmouth and a part of his mansion is incorporated into the Pier Hotel. It still retains the old staircase and much antique paneling; and a tablet on the wall recites that Charles II. was a guest here in 1671 on a visit to Holmes. We were soon aboard the little steamer, and despite marine rules and regulations, on the bridge with our friend the captain. We noticed that he was going far out of the usual course, directly toward the wreck of the Gladiator. For the warship Gladiator lay on her side a few furlongs off the coast west of Yarmouth, whither she had staggered and fallen when mortally wounded in a collision with the American liner, St. Paul, a few months before. Salvage crews were working to raise her and we naturally expressed interest in the sight. Our ancient mariner heard it and as he steered toward the wreck muttered something about getting "out of the way of the current," but added, "They may think I did it to give you a good view of the Gladiator!"--and we are still wondering if that was the reason for his detour. Far down the Solent he pointed out the Needles, Swinburne's "loose-linked rivets of rock," and he told us of the wild storms and shifting bars that confound the navigators in this locality. Ere long he had to attend closely to business, for the channel to Lymington is narrow and tortuous, being navigable only at high tide. A large coaling steamer partly obstructed our way and called forth a series of marine objurgations from our friend, but he quickly swung to the pier and the motor soon scrambled out of her little craft up the steep bank to terra firma. We find that our jaunt in the Isle of Wight has covered only seventy miles and occupied just a day; still, thanks to our trusty car, we have seen about all the points of interest that the average tourist would care to see and which it would have required several days to visit in the ordinary manner of travel. [Illustration: COTTAGE, FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT.] XVII SOUTH ENGLAND NOOKS One will find Lyndhurst in New Forest a pleasant place for a day's rest after returning from the Isle of Wight to the mainland. Especially is this so if it be early in the summer before the more crowded season comes on. The town will be fairly quiet then and the Crown Inn has an air of solid comfort that almost takes it out of the class of resort hotels. Its spacious gardens to the rear afford a sylvan retreat that is an agreeable variation from an almost continual life on the open road. Lyndhurst, it is true, is no longer the retired village of half a century ago, when Leighton and Millais came here to get away from busy London and to pursue their sketching without interruption. The rather ugly red brick church just over the way from the Crown evidences Lyndhurst's modernity, though its distressing newness may be momentarily forgotten in contemplation of Leighton's great altar piece, illustrating the story of the ten virgins. One may care little about William Rufus, who was so fond of hunting in New Forest and who, while engaged in his favorite pastime, was killed by a forester's arrow; yet a pilgrimage to the spot where he is said to have fallen is worth while--not merely to see the iron casting which encases the old stone, but to view one of the prettiest glades in the forest. We came early in the day, which is the time to come to avoid the crowds of trippers who flock here in season, and we had undivided possession of the scene of sylvan beauty. A shaded byway leads to the main road, which soon brings us to Romsey. There is little to detain the wayfarer in Romsey aside from the abbey church, whose high roof reaches almost to the top of its central tower--in fact, the noble bulk of the church rises over the town, completely dwarfing the low buildings that crowd closely around it. One can but admire its great size and perfect proportions, and though there may be incongruous details, these will hardly be noticed by the layman. The interior is almost pure Norman--massive pillars supporting the great rounded arches. The height and size of the columns give the church an impressiveness that is hardly surpassed by any other in the Kingdom, and after Durham, it easily ranks as the finest example of Norman architecture extant. It dates mainly from the twelfth century, and a Saxon church previously occupied the site, slight remains of this being incorporated into the present building. The most remarkable Saxon relic is a life-size image of Christ upon the cross, of a type not found later than the eleventh century. There is often a gruesome side to the old English church--a bit of human skin flayed from a living church robber is shown at Gloucester, frightful effigies representing decayed corpses at Canterbury and Sherborne, and at Romsey a broad plait of human hair, found in recent restoration work. It was in a leaden casket and even the bones had mouldered to dust, but the soft brown hair was almost unaltered, and it is thought to have adorned the head of some Roman maiden, for the casket showed traces of Roman work. The old caretaker has reserved this weird little relic for the last of his wonders--we leave the abbey and pass out into the sunshine of the perfect summer day. We shall not soon forget Romsey Abbey Church and we cast more than one backward glance as its giant bulk recedes in the distance. [Illustration: ABBEY CHURCH, ROMSEY.] Surely Twyford, a few miles south of Winchester, has quite outlived any claim to its one-time title of "Queen of Hampshire villages." It has paid the price of its popularity; modern brick buildings crowd upon its creeper-clad cottages or have superseded them altogether. Its church has been restored to the point of newness, and its yew tree, locally reputed to be the largest in England, is easily surpassed by the one at Selborne. Still, Twyford is not without an especial interest to American visitors. Here stands the Elizabethan mansion where Benjamin Franklin penned his autobiography while a guest of the vicar of St. Asaphs. The rambling old house with a fine stretch of lawn in front of it may be plainly seen from the road. No matter how frequently the wanderer may pause in Winchester, the attraction of the ancient capital can never be outworn. One might spend a day among the college buildings, whose rough flint walls and slate roofs, sagging but little beneath the weight of years, stand much the same as when the builder finished them six hundred years ago. Nor should St. Cross and its quaint brotherhood, one of those strange medieval charities, be forgotten. A great quadrangle of buildings and an elaborate church, all for "thirteen poor men decayed and past their strength," seems a great means for a small achievement. Much has fallen into disuse, but the church is still in good condition and in many respects a remarkable piece of architecture. But after all, Winchester's greatest charm is not in her college or her cathedral, but in her old-world streets and odd corners. Nor should one forget the shops in which antiques of merit in furniture, books and other articles may be found. A broad easy road leads from Winchester through Alton to Jane Austen's Chawton, from whence a secluded byway brings us to Selborne, a nook that every tourist knows. But Selborne, nestling beneath its hills, its thatched cottages and weather-worn buildings stretching along a wide grass-grown street, has no hint of the resort town. There are other villages in the Hampshire and Surrey hills that may match it, but none of them had a Gilbert White to give it immortality. The street was quite deserted on the drowsy summer afternoon when we checked our car under the great tree beneath which the village worthys congregate in Selborne. A shopkeeper pointed out the Wakes, once White's vicarage, which a modern owner has extended into a large rambling house, probably bearing little resemblance to the modest home of the curate of Selborne. Still, it incorporates his cottage, though red brick and tile have displaced the half-timber gables and thatched roof. But his church is not much altered and the giant yew, the largest we saw in England, is still standing, hale and green. Its circumference measured twenty-three feet in White's time, and he declared that its years must be at least coeval with Christianity. Its girth at present exceeds twenty-five feet. One cannot stand beneath it without being impressed with its hoary antiquity, and the great events that crowd the procession of years which have passed over the old tree quite overwhelm one. Indeed, it must have stood here when the Romans ruled in Britain; it was sturdy and green when the Conqueror came a thousand summers past, and it looks today as if it well might weather the storms of a third millennium. Such historic trees have almost a human personality; and, fortunately, they are carefully guarded by an enlightened public sentiment in England. The day is a quiet one in Selborne; we have the yew tree and church all to ourselves. We wander about the churchyard and with difficulty locate the unpretentious headstone with the almost illegible initials, "G. W."--a simple memorial, indeed--though inside the church there is an appropriate tablet to the memory of the well beloved naturalist. One can easily see how he could lead in Selborne the simple studious life reflected in his works. Verily, we need a revival of his plain common sense today when the fiction of the nature-faker bids fair to supersede the facts of natural history. From Selborne it is but a step across the border into the downs of Sussex--"Green Sussex, fading into blue," as the poet so aptly puts it. The low sun strikes along the rough hills as we enter Midhurst, nestling in a nook in the downs and reached by rather difficult roads. It is a quiet town with an air of thorough self-contentment; a town of weather-beaten houses with over-hanging timbered gables, sagging tile roofs and diamond-paned casements; one long wide street sweeps through it with narrow crooked lanes branching to either side--an unspoiled old-country town, as yet quite undiscovered by the globe-trotters. And yet Midhurst is not without historic importance, having been a place of considerable size at the time of the Conquest. The site of its strong castle which once stood on the banks of the pretty little river, Rother, is now marked only by a grass-covered mound; but it was once the home of a powerful Norman family, the Bohuns, who in 1547 entertained King Edward VI. in great splendor. Nor is Midhurst wanting in associations with famous men, for Sir Charles Lyell, the great geologist, and Richard Cobden, the "Father of English Free Trade," received their early education in the ancient grammar school which may yet be seen. But the romance of Midhurst is in Cowdray Park, the estate which adjoins the town. What a pity it is that the mansion and the story did not seize the fancy of Walter Scott--who alone could have done it justice. We entered the park and drove through an avenue of giant chestnuts directly to the shattered palace. And what a glorious ruin it is, with its immense stone-mullioned windows, its great grouped chimneys, and sculptured mantels and bosses that cling to the wall here and there. Though roofless, the walls are almost entire, and over them the ivy flings its dark mantle and falls in heavy masses from the broken battlements. One does not care to analyze the ruin into its component parts--what did we care for hall and chapel and chamber? It is the impression that came to us as we wandered through it in the fading light that lingers with us now. What a memory it is of darkened halls, of great empty windows, through which the light falls mellow and ghostly, and of weird traditions which the old crone who keeps the key constantly droned in our ears. [Illustration: COWDRAY CASTLE, NEAR MIDHURST.] The curse of Cowdray has made more than one listener shudder and turn pale and even those who listen as we do in benevolent scepticism can only say, "Strange--strange!" For the lands of Cowdray were rent from the monkish owners by the ruthless Henry and were given into the possession of the first viscount of Montague, who built the splendid palace, one of the costliest and most imposing in the Kingdom. It was in no sense a fortified castle, but a great baronial residence, standing on low-lying grounds with no attempt at strength of position. In some respects the palace recalls Kirby Hall, though here ruin is more complete. When the last monkish habitant departed from the lands of Cowdray, he left his curse upon them: that the line of the Montagues should perish by fire and water. It was long in being fulfilled, but in 1793 the palace was destroyed by fire and the last Montague was drowned in a foolhardy attempt to swim across the Rhine above the Falls of Schoffhausen. He must have perished without knowing the fate of his ancestral home. With the palace were burned many works of art and antiquities of inestimable value, among the latter the roll of Battle Abbey and the coronation robes and sword of William the Conqueror. The estate descended to the sister of Lord Montague, who, dreading the curse, is said to have guarded her two sons with the greatest care, even filling the fish ponds near her home and keeping the youths jealously away from sea and river. Yet one day they escaped from the care of their attendants and were both drowned in the sea at Bognor. The broken-hearted mother sold Cowdray to the Earl of Egremont, who had no issue to inherit it. But the curse seems to cling to it still--after our visit a wealthy London contractor purchased the estate and began a thorough repair of the modern house (not the ruined palace), but while the work was in progress the mansion caught fire and was burned to the ground. Darkness overtakes us as we sweep along the hills toward Worthing, where we arrive by lamplight. Morning reveals a quiet and somewhat secluded watering-town, patronized by people who seek to get away from the ceremony and expense of such places as Brighton and Bournemouth. Its hotels are unpretentious, comfortable and accommodating--qualities not so common to resort inns as to go without notice. But Worthing is modern; there is little to detain one on such a pilgrimage as our own. We follow the broad white road which climbs steadily northward from the sea to the distant hills and winds among them to the dreary hamlet of Washington. The name, so familiar to us, bears no reference to the distinguished family. It is of old Saxon derivation--Wasa-inga-tun (town of the sons of Wasa). [Illustration: A SUSSEX HARVEST FIELD. From the Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.] Near at hand is Warminghurst, once the Sussex home of William Penn, who bought the great house in 1676. One of his children died here and is buried in Coolham churchyard close by. Penn was wont to attend services at the meeting house not far away, which was built of timbers taken from one of his ships. It goes locally by the strange designation of "The Blue Idol"--just why, no one seemed to know--and we wandered long in unmarked byroads ere we found it. It is a mile and a half from Coolham, and one follows for a mile a narrow lane branching from the Billingshurst road. The simple old caretaker lives in a modern addition to the chapel and tills the plot of ground in connection with it. The chapel is a low brick-and-timber building whose interior is the plainest imaginable; a half dozen high-backed benches, a platform pulpit without a stand, and a few books made up its furnishings. As at Jordans, the women sat during worship in a gallery which could be cut off by a sliding partition in case of interruption by persecutors. The old law forbade the assembling of women in the Quaker meetings, but from the gallery they could participate in the services, yet could instantly be shut out of the room if the king's officers should arrive. Outside, the chapel is surrounded by greensward and tall trees, and the old man was mowing the grass in the tiny burying-ground. Services are still held at intervals, as they have been for the past two centuries or more. Probably the spot was chosen on account of its very retirement, since when the chapel was built it was a criminal offense for the Quakers to assemble in any place of worship. The chapel is unaltered and seems quite as remote and lonely as it must have been in Penn's time; and the spirit of that old day comes very near as one stands in the tiny room where the founder of the great American Commonwealth was wont to worship according to his conscience, coming hither from Warminghurst in his heavy ox-wagon. [Illustration: THE "BLUE IDOL," PENN'S MEETING HOUSE, SUSSEX.] We now begin an uninterrupted run to the east through Mid-Sussex over an unsurpassed road to Cuckfield, Hayward's Heath, and Uckfield. We continue on the London and Eastbourne road to Hailsham, from whence a digression of three or four miles brings us to the ruins of Herstmonceux Castle. Though styled a castle, it was really a great castellated country mansion, never intended as a defensive fortress. It reminds one in a certain way of Cowdray, though it lacks much of the beauty and grace of the Midhurst palace, and its conversion by its owner into a picnic ground also does much to detract. The story of its destruction is peculiar. It was deliberately dismantled and partially torn down in 1777 by its owner, who used the materials in erecting a smaller house, now called Herstmonceux Place, which would be less expensive to maintain. It is interesting to know that Wyatt, the architect who dealt so barbarously with Salisbury and Hereford Cathedrals, was the advisor of this wanton destruction. The last descendant of the original owner died in 1662, and since then the estate has changed hands many times. It is now one of the most popular tripper resorts in Sussex and during the summer months the daily visitors number hundreds. It is not our wont to trouble ourselves much with the sober history of such places, but there is one melancholy incident of the early days of the palace which has weird interest for the wanderer who stands amidst the shattered grandeur, and which we may best relate in the words of an English historian: "Lord Dacre, of Herstmonceux, a young nobleman of high spirit and promise, not more than twenty-four years old, was tempted by his own folly, or that of his friends, to join a party to kill deer in the park of an unpopular neighbor. The excitement of lawless adventure was probably the chief or only inducement for the expedition; but the party were seen by the foresters; a fray ensued, in which one of the latter was mortally wounded and died two days after. "Had Lord Dacre been an ordinary offender he would have been disposed of summarily. Both he and his friends happened to be general favorites. The Privy Council hesitated long before they resolved on a prosecution and at last it is likely they were assisted by a resolution from the King. "'I found all the Lords at the Star Chamber,' Sir William Paget wrote to Wriothesley, 'assembled for a conference touching Lord Dacre's case. They had with them present the Chief Justice with others of the King's learned council, and albeit I was excluded, yet they spoke so loud, some of them, that I might hear them notwithstanding two doors shut between us. Among the rest that could not agree to wilful murder, the Lord Cobham, as I took him by his voice, was very vehement and stiff.' They adjourned at last to the King's Bench. The Lord Chancellor was appointed High Steward and the prisoner was brought up to the bar. He pleaded 'not guilty,' he said that he intended no harm, he was very sorry for the death of the forester, but it had been caused in an accidental struggle; and 'surely,' said Paget, who was president, 'it was a pitiful sight to see a young man brought by his own folly into so miserable a state.' The lords, therefore, as it seems they had determined among themselves, persuaded him to withdraw his plea and submit to the King's clemency. He consented; and they repaired immediately to the Court to intercede for his pardon. Eight persons in all were implicated--Lord Dacre and seven companions. The young nobleman was the chief object of commiseration; but the King remained true to his principles of equal justice; the frequency of crimes of violence had required extraordinary measures of repression; and if a poor man was to be sent to the gallows for an act into which he might be tempted by poverty, thoughtlessness could not be admitted as an adequate excuse because the offender was a peer. Four out of the eight were pardoned. For Lord Dacre there was to the last an uncertainty. He was brought to the scaffold, when an order arrived to stay the execution, probably to give time for a last appeal to Henry. But if it was so the King was inexorable. Five hours later the sheriff was again directed to do his duty; and the full penalty was paid." Leaving the ruined mansion we drop down to the seashore, passing Bexhill on the way to Hastings, which is now a modern city of sixty-five thousand people, its red-brick, tile-roofed houses rising in terraces overlooking the sea. Once it was an important seaport, but here the sea has advanced and wiped out the harbor, and it is now chiefly known as a watering-place. A few miles from the town was fought the Battle of Hastings, which stamped the name so deeply on English history and marked the overthrow of the Saxon dynasty. On a precipitous hill looking far over town and sea stands the scanty ruin of its castle, whose story is much clouded, though legend declares it was built by the Conqueror. Far greater is the attraction of the unspoiled old towns of Winchelsea and Rye, a few miles farther on the coast road. A former visit gives them a familiar look, but we stop an hour in Rye. The receding sea robbed these towns of their importance hundreds of years ago, and their daily life is now quite undisturbed by modern progress. Each occupies a commanding hill separated by a few miles of low-lying land. A local writer makes the truest appeal for Rye when he declares that it gives us today a presentment of a town of centuries earlier. "Rye," he says, "is southern and opulent in coloring. There is here mellowness, a gracious beauty; one has the feeling that every house and garden is the pride and love of its owner, and indeed this impression is a true one, for it is the characteristic of Rye to inspire the loving admiration of its inhabitants, whether native-born or drawn thither in later life." Rye has a magnificent church, the largest in Sussex, which overshadows the town from the very crest of the hill. A very unusual church it is, with a low cone-pointed tower and triple roofs lying alongside each other. At the end of the nave are three immense stone-mullioned windows, very effective and imposing, though the glass is modern. Queen Elizabeth presented to the church the remarkable old tower clock which has marked time steadily for more than three hundred years. The pendulum swings low inside, describing a wide arc only a little above the preacher's head. [Illustration: THE HOSPITAL, RYE. From Original Water Color by Theresa Thorp, A. R. M. S.] Rye itself is quite as interesting as its church, a place of crooked lanes and odd buildings, among which the hospital pictured in such a realistic manner by our artist is one of the most notable. It is a splendid combination of stucco and timber, with red tiled gables and diamond-paned lattice windows. Much else there is in Rye to tempt one to linger, but the sun is setting and we are off on the fine level road to Folkestone. For the latter half of the distance we run along the very edge of the ocean--as we saw it, fifteen miles of shimmering twilight water. Those who are attracted by the gruesome will pause at the old church in Hythe to see the strange collection of human remains, thousands of skulls and bones, that are ranged on shelves or piled in heaps on the floor in the crypt. Whence these ghastly relics came, antiquarians dispute; but local tradition has it that a great battle was fought near Hythe, between the Britons and Danes, and these bones are the remains of the slain. Be that as it may, one does not care to linger--a mere glance at such a charnel house is quite sufficient. Folkestone may well contest with Brighton, Bournemouth and Portsmouth for first honors among English watering-places. We have seen nearly all of them and we should be inclined, in some particulars, to give the honors to Folkestone; but let those who enjoy such places be the judges. Anyway, there are few statelier hotels in England than those on the east cliff and few that occupy a more magnificent site. At the Grand they are more willing to permit you to take ease than at most English hotels of its class. You are not required under penalty to be on hand for dinner at a certain hour, announced usually by a strident gong, and to make the pretense of swallowing an almost uneatable table d'hote concoction pushed along by a vigilant waiter bent on making all possible speed. This hotel and many others stand on the east cliff several hundred feet above the sea, but one may reach the shore by a lift, or if inclined to exercise, by a steep winding pathway. On moderately clear days, the white line of the French coast may be seen from the hotel. Very like to Folkstone is Dover, but seven miles farther up the coast, and thither we proceed over a steep road closely following the sea. Dover was chief of the cinque ports of olden days and its small bay still affords shelter for shipping, including ocean-going steamers. But the first thing that catches the pilgrim's eye when he comes into Dover is the splendidly preserved, or rather restored, castle, which stands in sullen inaccessibility on the clifflike hill overlooking the city. We make the stiff climb up to the castle gateway, only to be halted by the guard with the information that we are an hour early. We have had such experiences before and we suggest that no possible harm can be done by admitting us at once. "I really cawn't do it, sir," said the guard. "Some of the guards got careless in letting people in before hours and the Colonel says he will court-martial the next one who does it." Of course this silences our importunity and we engage our soldier friend in conversation. Why did he enter the army?--Because a common man has no chance in England; he was going to the dogs and the army seemed the best opportunity open to him. He had enlisted three years ago and it had made a man of him, to use his own words. He rather looked it, too--a husky young fellow with a fairly good face. The castle is strongly fortified and garrisoned by a regiment of soldiers. The interior of the court is largely occupied by barrack buildings, and of the ancient castle the keep is the most important portion left. It was built to withstand the ages, for its walls are twenty-three feet in thickness and it rises to a height of nearly one hundred feet. Within it is a well three hundred feet deep, supposed to have been sunk by the Saxon king, Harold. The primitive chapel dates from Norman times. There are also remains of the foundation of the lighthouse that occupied the commanding height, long "ere the tanner's daughter's son From Harold's hand his realm had won." Dover has other antiquities, among them a church so old that its origin has been quite forgotten. Roman brick was used in its construction, probably by Saxon builders. Over against the town gleams the white chalk of Shakespeare's Cliff, so called because of the reference in King Lear. Queen Elizabeth visited Dover and vented her wit for rhyming on its mayor, who, standing on a stool, began, "Welcome, gracious Queen," only to get for his pains, "O gracious fool, Get off that stool." The eastern Kentish coast, lying nearest to the continent, once had many towns of importance that have since dwindled and decayed. Among these is Sandwich, once second of the cinque ports; but the coast line receded until it is now two miles away. The town contains some of the richest bits of medieval architecture in England. The wall which once surrounded it may still be traced and one of the original gateways is intact. We drove through the narrow crooked lanes that serve as streets in Sandwich, and could scarce believe the population no more than three thousand. The low lichen-covered buildings, with leaning walls and sagging, dull-red tiles, straggle over enough space for a city of three or four times the size. There is no touch of newness anywhere; no note of inharmonious color jars with the silver grays, grayish greens and brownish reds that prevail on every hand; no black and white paint destroys the beauty of the brick and timber fronts and gables. Most of the houses have but one story and the streets run with delightful disregard of straight lines and bid defiance to points of the compass. The two churches with splendid open-beamed oak roofs are well in keeping with the spirit of the surrounding twelfth and thirteenth century structures. They stand a mute evidence of the one-time greatness and prosperity of Sandwich. One of the old houses is pointed out as the stopping-place of Queen Elizabeth when she was touring the Kentish coast. From Sandwich we skim along smooth, level roads to Ramsgate, Broadstairs and Margate, the last of the long chain of resort towns of the southeastern coast stretching from Land's End to the Thames River. What an array of them there is: Penzance, Torquay, Portsmouth, Bournemouth, Brighton, Eastbourne, Bexhill, Hastings, Folkestone, Dover, Ramsgate, Broadstairs, Margate, and a host of lesser lights. We have seen them nearly all and many more such places on the northern and western coasts, as well as a number of inland resorts. It is therefore a phase of England with which we have become fairly familiar, and the old towns and isolated ruins seem only the more charming and time-mellowed by contrast with the crowded and sometimes gaudy modern resorts. Margate, situated just at the mouth of the Thames on low-lying grounds, is one of the most pretentious of all. A few miles out of Margate we turn from the main Canterbury road into a byway from which we enter the lanes through the fields and farmyards. The country is level and intersected everywhere by sluggish drains; but the wheatfields, nearly ready for the harvest, are as fine as we have seen in England. From afar we catch sight of the twin towers of the ruined church at Reculver, the object of our meanderings in the fen-land lanes. We halt in the tiny hamlet beneath the shadow of the grim sentinels on the sea-washed headland. The old caretaker hastens to meet us and is eager to relate the story of the ruin. Aside from the towers there is nothing but fragments of the walls; he points out clearly where portions of a Roman temple were incorporated into the Saxon church, and also the Saxon work that the Normans used. One hundred years ago, this remarkable church was nearly intact; but the rapid encroachment of the sea upon the brittle rock on which the structure stands convinced a short-sighted vicar that it would soon be undermined by the waves. It was therefore torn down, with the exception of the towers, and the stone used for a small church farther inland. The sea is now held in check by stone and timber riprap and though it gnaws at the very foot of the ruin, there seems little chance that it will farther advance. Besides the church there are the remains of a great Roman castrum, or fort, at Reculver: a strong wall, several feet high in places, once enclosed a space of considerable extent, though a large part has been inundated by the sea. One will never weary of Canterbury; come as often as he may he will always feel a thrill of pleasure as the great cathedral towers break on his vision. And indeed there is nothing of the kind in all Britain finer than these same towers. We reach the town later than we planned and hasten to the cathedral, but the guide, wearied with troops of holiday visitors during the day, tells us we are too late. We find means, however, to extend our time and to enlist his willing services; and thus we come to see every detail of the magnificent church as we could hardly have done earlier in the day. It has no place in this chronicle, this "mother minster vast That guards Augustine's rugged throne," about which volumes have been written and with whose history and traditions the guide-books fairly teem. We have visited it before during a Sunday-morning service, but its vast dim aisles, its great crypts, its storied shrines and tombs, and the ivy-clad ruin of its old monastery, all make a strangely different impression when viewed in the deepening shadows of the departing day. After sunset we wander about the old streets, where even the more modern buildings conform to the all-pervading air of antiquity. It is the close of the Saturday holiday and the main street is packed with a cheerful crowd of people of all degrees. Shop-keepers improve the opportunity to sell their wares and a lively trade is carried on at the open booths along the walks. One butcher is especially active in booming business, having a fellow in front of his place, a "barker," we would style him in the States, who bellows in a voice like a foghorn, "Lovely meat! the same that the king and nobility heats--lovely meat." Surely a recommendation that would shake the resolution of a confirmed vegetarian. But we soon weary of the glare and noise of the crowded street. We wander into the crooked lanes that lead to the nooks and corners about the cathedral. We catch the towers from different viewpoints; as they stand, boldly outlined against an opalescent sky flecked with red-toned clouds, they form a fit study for the artist--and one of which the artist has often availed himself. The college court is full of shadows; how easy it would be to imagine a cowled figure stealing along in the dusk and passing from sight in the Norman entrance yonder--than which there is no choicer bit of medieval architecture in the Kingdom. We have the whole of the following day to reach London; and what a superb day it is, the very essence of the beauty of English midsummer! We have been over the Rochester and Maidstone road before, so we take the narrow and hilly but marvelously picturesque highway that drops some fourteen miles straight southward. The country through which it passes is distinctly rural, with here and there a grove or a farmhouse. A little to one side is Petham, a quiet hamlet under gigantic trees, with a half-timbered inn seemingly out of all proportion to the possible needs of the place. The main road running from Hythe, near the coast, through Ashford to Tunbridge Wells, a distance of about fifty miles, is one of the finest in the Kingdom. It runs in broad, sweeping curves through a gently undulating country, and the grades are seldom enough to check the motor's flight. It had lately been re-surfaced and much of the way oiled or asphalted, quite eliminating dust. We pass much charming country, wooded hills, stretches of meadowland, fields of yellowing grains, and many sleepy villages, all shimmering in the lucent air of a perfect summer day. The sky is as blue as one ever sees it in England, and a few silvery-white clouds drift lazily across it. It is what the natives call a very warm day, but it seems only balmy to us. [Illustration: ON THE DOWNS. From Original Painting by Alfred Elias.] Bethesden, Biddenden and Lamberhurst all attract our attention. The second has a very quaint old inn on the market square, with a queer little ivy-covered tower; but Lamberhurst hardly merits the extravagant praise given it by William Cobbett in his "Rural Rides"--"one of the most beautiful villages that man ever set eyes upon." Still, it may have altered somewhat since his time; there are few red-brick villas among the older cottages. It is, none the less, a pleasant place, rich with verdure and bright with flowers, and picturesquely situated on a gently rising hill. Coming on this road, one gets the best conception of the really magnificent situation of Tunbridge Wells, and cannot wonder that it has gained such popularity. The main part of the town lies in a depression in the undulating downs, its villas, houses and streets all set down on a liberal scale with plenty of room for trees, in whose luxuriant foliage the place is half hidden. All around stretches the wavelike succession of the hills, diversified with forest and bright with heather and gorse. Thackeray was very fond of Tunbridge Wells and his enthusiastic words in "Round About Papers" breathe much of the spirit of the place: "I stroll over the common and survey the beautiful purple hills around, twinkling with a thousand bright villas which have sprung up over this charming ground since first I saw it. What an admirable scene of peace and plenty! What a delicious air breathes over the heath, blows the cloud-shadows across it, and murmurs through the full-clad trees! Can the world show a land fairer, richer, more cheerful?" We pause at the excellent though rather unpretentious Grand Hotel for our late luncheon; and as a final adieu to the pleasant town, drive through its commons with their strange wind-worn stones, before setting out Londonward. We pass on into Sussex as far as Grinstead and there strike the direct London road through Epsom, where we have a glimpse of the famous racing downs. The quiet, staid-looking old town gives no hint of the furor that possesses it on Derby days. A few miles farther we enter the outskirts of London. XVIII FROM DUBLIN TO CORK We are off for the Emerald Isle. There was much of interest in the three days between London and Dublin, but I will not follow our journey here; in a later chapter I will endeavor to gather some of the scattered threads. We reach Ludlow the first night, one hundred and forty-eight miles in six hours--very speedy going for us--but a day from Ludlow to Barmouth and another to Holyhead is more in keeping with our usual leisurely progress. One can never truly feel the plaintive sweetness of Lady Dufferin's song until with his own eyes he beholds the melancholy beauty of the "Sweet Bay of Dublin." We enter its gates in the opalescent light of a perfect morning. The purple mists hanging over the headlands are glowing with the first rays of the sun and the pale emerald waters flash into burnished gold as the low beams strike along their surface. The voyage has been an easy one; our tickets were purchased, our cabin reserved, and provision made for the transport of the motor, all in a few minutes at the office of the Royal Automobile Club in London, and the genial touring-secretary, Mr. Maroney, has supplied us with necessary maps and information. We have not long to wait at the pier; a swinging crane picks up the car from the boat and carefully deposits it on the pavement. A railway employee is at hand with a supply of petrol and we are soon ready for the road. The night voyage has been a comfortable one; we were able to go aboard at nine o'clock and take possession of our cabin, quite as large and well-appointed as those of the best ocean-going steamers, and breakfast was served on the ship. Altogether, nothing is easier than a trip to Ireland with a motor car if one only goes about it rightly. An unknown land lies before us. Much has been written of Ireland--books of travel, history, and fiction--and poets have sung her beauties and sorrows; we have read much of the Island, but nothing that has given us more than a hint of what we are about to see. To know Ireland, one must take a pilgrim's staff, as it were; he must study her ruins and ancient monuments, see her cities and her towns, her half-deserted villages, her wretched hovels and her lonely places, and above all, must meet and know her people; then, after all, he can only say to others, "If you wish to know the reality, go and do likewise." Dublin is a handsomely built modern city of three hundred thousand inhabitants and has an air of general prosperity. It has much of interest, but it does not rightly belong in this chronicle. The low hum of our motor calls us to the open road, the green fields, and the unfrequented villages. We are soon away on the Carlow road with Cork as our objective. The road out of Dublin is distressingly rough as compared with English highways, though it improves before we reach Naas. Our first impressions are distinctly melancholy; a "deserted village"--a row of stone cottages, roofless, windowless, and with crumbling or fallen walls--speaks of Ireland's sorrows more plainly than any words. And such sad reminders are not uncommon; wholly or partly ruined villages greet us every little while on the way. Naas, the first town of any size, is dirty and unattractive, but its historic importance ill accords with its present meanness. Its traditions are not antedated by any town in the Island; it was once the capital of the Leinster kings--half-clad savages, no doubt, but kings none the less. Cromwell thought it important enough to visit, and incidentally wiped its strong castle out of existence. Rory O'More a century later burned it to the ground, destroying some eight hundred houses--it has not so many now. Adjoining the town is the ruin of Jigginstown House, an unfinished palace begun on a vast scale by the Earl of Strafford, who expected to entertain Charles I. here; but Charles failed to arrive and the Earl had other matters--among them the loss of his head--to engage his attention. The road to the south of Naas lies in broad, straight stretches and the surface is better, but we found it almost deserted. This impressed us not a little. We ran many miles, meeting no one; there were few houses--only wide reaches of meadowland with but few trees--and altogether the country seemed quite uninhabited. Carlow, scarce thirty miles from Naas, is rather above the average, though it has the bare appearance characteristic of the Irish town. We had been rather dreading the country-town hotels and here we had our first experience. The Club House--why so called we did not learn--is a building not unsightly inside, but on entering it is with difficulty we could find anyone to minister to our wants. Finally an untidy old man with bushy whiskers appeared and officiated as porter, chambermaid, and waiter. He was slow in performing his duties, but the luncheon was better than we had hoped for. He took our money when we left, but whether he was boots or proprietor, we never learned. Cromwell and Rory O'More paid their compliments to Carlow in the same emphatic manner as at Naas. There remains but little of the castle excepting the huge round towers that flanked the entrance. Just out of the town is the largest of Ireland's cromlechs, a mighty rock weighing one hundred tons, supported on massive upright granite blocks. Kilkenny is twenty miles farther south. Its castle, the home of the Duke of Ormonde, is perhaps the most notable private residence in Ireland. It is of ancient origin, but its present state is due to modern restoration; no longer is it a fortress, but a castellated mansion of great extent. It is situated on rising ground lying directly on the river. The front facade, flanked by two great circular towers, heavily mantled with ivy, presents a highly-imposing appearance. The most notable feature of the interior is the art gallery, which is declared to be one of the most important in the Kingdom. [Illustration: KILKENNY CASTLE.] Kilkenny Cathedral is of great antiquity, having been begun early in the eleventh century. Close to it stands one of the round towers so characteristic of early Irish architecture. The town has a population of about ten thousand, and though apparently prosperous, there was everywhere evident the untidiness that was more or less typical of the southern Irish towns. Clonmel, however, easily ranked first in neatness and general up-to-date appearance among the towns we passed on our run to Cork. Here we came late in the evening, for we had missed our road and gone some miles out of the way. After leaving the vicinity of Dublin, signboards were not to be seen and it was easy to go astray. Houses were not frequent and often the natives could hardly give directions to the nearest town. Before we knew it we were entering Carrick-on-Suir, which we took for Clonmel. Something aroused our suspicions and we hailed a red-faced priest driving in a cart. The good father was much befuddled and his honest efforts afforded us little enlightenment, but we finally learned to our chagrin that Clonmel was about twenty miles to the west. Night was falling rapidly and the car leaped onward over a narrow, grass-grown byroad, passing here and there a farm cottage from which the inmates rushed in open-mouthed surprise. We soon came into the main road and reached the town just at dark. The hotel proved quite comfortable, though distinctly Irish in many particulars; but perhaps our judgment as to what constitutes comfort in an inn was somewhat modified by the day's experiences; we were hardly so critical as we should have been across the channel. We had come to Clonmel solely to pass the night, since it was the only place where we might count on fair accommodations. We had gone somewhat out of our way, for we must turn northward for Cashel, whose cathedral is perhaps the most remarkable ruin in the Kingdom. It is nearly twenty miles from Clonmel, and the road is surprisingly good. We soon came in sight of the mighty rock which legend--ever busy in Ireland--declares was torn from the distant hills by the enraged devil and flung far out into the plain of Tipperary. When the fiend performed this wonderful feat, it perhaps did not occur to him that he was supplying a site for a church; but had he exercised moderate foresight he would have known that no such opportunity would be neglected by the cathedral builders. And so it chanced that more than a thousand years ago the fortified church that rears its vast granite bulk upon the rock was begun. It grew by various accretions until it stood complete in the twelfth century. It has passed through fire and siege, but the massy walls are still as solid as the granite on which they stand. The roadway winds up the side of the rock and we are able to drive to the very entrance. A group of youngsters is awaiting us, and one unspeakably dirty and ragged little fellow volunteers to "watch the car." The custodian greets us at the gate, a keen old fellow, well posted in the history and tradition of his native land and speaking with little trace of brogue. He learns that we are from America; his brother is over there and doing well, as he reckons it, in that Eldorado of every Irishman forced to remain at home. "O, yes! it is a great country, and how closely the old sod is bound to it; there is no house that you will pass in all your journeys that has not someone there. It has been the one hope of my life to go to America, but it has slipped away from me. I am too old now and must die and be buried in Cashel." He said this with a look of sadness, which suddenly forsook his face as he noted our interest in the ruin. It was the joy of his life to tell the story of its every nook and corner. We found a strange mixture of art and crudity; the square, unadorned lines of the walls and towers would not lead one to expect the exquisite artistic touches that are seen here and there. The great structure once served the purpose of a royal residence as well as a cathedral. The date of the stone-roofed chapel is placed at 1127; that of the perfect round tower is unknown, though doubtless much earlier. The active history of the cathedral-fortress closed with its surrender to the forces of Cromwell, which was followed by the massacre of the garrison and dismantling of the buildings. [Illustration: CASHEL CATHEDRAL, TIPPERARY.] Our guide urges us to ascend the tower--it is the day of all days to see the golden vale of Tipperary from such a viewpoint--and indeed the prospect proves an enchanting one. It is a perfect day and the emerald-green valley lies shimmering under the expanse of pale-blue sky. In the far distance on every hand are the purple outlines of the hills--they call them mountains in Ireland--and stretching away toward them the pleasant fields intersected by sinuous threads of country roads. The landscape is cut up into little patches by the stone fences and gleams with tiny whitewashed cottages. Flashing streams course through the valley and herds of cattle graze upon the luxuriant grasses. It is a scene of perfect peace, and though the lot of the people may be one of poverty, it is doubtless one of contentment. Right at the foot of the ruin-crowned rock lies the wretched little town, and on leaving the cathedral we stop in the market place. A busy scene greets our eyes; it is market day and the people of the surrounding country are thronging the streets. The market place is full of donkey carts and our car seems in strange company. Old crones with shawls thrown over their heads, barefooted and brown as Indians, are selling gooseberries and cabbages. There appears to be little else in the market and business is far from brisk. There are many husky farmers from the country and bright-looking young maidens that seem of a different race from the old market women. We see and hear much to interest us during our hour's stop in Cashel. To one other Tipperary shrine we must make a pilgrimage--Holy Cross Abbey, which is only a few miles away. We see its low square tower just above the trees as we approach the town which bears the same name as the abbey, and we find the caretaker living in wretchedly dirty quarters in a part of the ruin. A genuine surprise awaits the visitor to Holy Cross Abbey. Like Cashel, its outlines give no hint of the superb and even delicate touches of art one will find about the ruin. Nothing of the kind could be more perfect than the east window, in which the stone tracery and slender mullions are quite intact, and there are other windows, doors and arches of artistic design and execution. The abbey stands on the banks of the Suir, and it is just across the shallow river that one gets the finest viewpoint. It took its name from the tradition that it once possessed a portion of the true cross which had been given it by Queen Eleanor of England, one of whose six sons was buried here. And thus it chances that a brother of Richard the Lion-Hearted sleeps amid the mouldering fragments of Holy Cross. The footprints of history cross and recross one another in these ancient shrines, and how often they bring remote sections of the Kingdom to common ground! [Illustration: HOLY CROSS ABBEY, TIPPERARY.] Leaving Cashel on the main highway to Cork, we begin to verify the stories we have heard of the dreadful condition of much of the Irish roads. We have so far found them stony, rough and ill-kept in places, but on the whole fair to one who has had much experience with very bad roads. But we now come into a broad stone road that has been neglected for years, and words are quite inadequate to characterize it. It is a series of bumps and depressions over which the car bounces and jumps along, seemingly testing every bolt and rivet to the utmost. Any speed except one so slow as to be out of the question results in the most distressful jolting, to which there is not a moment's respite. A fine gray dust covers the road to a depth of two or three inches and rolls away from the wheels in dense clouds. There is considerable traffic and for several miles along one section are military barracks; the soldiers are maneuvering on the road with cavalry and artillery. Some of the horses go wild at the car and it is only by great effort that the soldiers bring them under control. But the dust they kick up! It hangs over the road like a fog and makes the sky seem a dull gray. It settles thickly over the car, almost stifling its occupants, for it is really warm. On we go--bounce, bump, half blinded and nearly choked. Why did we ever come to Erin, anyway?--we could have gotten this experience at less cost nearer home. There are few towns on the road; Caher, Mitchelstown and Fermoy, all bald and untidy, are the only places of any size. We pass through the "mountains" for a considerable distance, but the wretched road and blinding dust distracts attention from the country, which in places is rather pretty. Our route is well away from the railroad and we see much of retired rural sections which would not be easily accessible by other means of travel. The infrequent cottages are mean and dirty, but those we saw later were so much worse that the recollection of the first is nearly effaced. Never did a hotel seem more inviting to us than did the Imperial at Cork. The car and everything about it is a dirty gray; one tire is flat, and has been--we don't know how long. But we are fortunate in our hotel and our troubles are soon forgotten. Our room is an immense high-ceilinged apartment with massive furniture and a vast deal of bric-a-brac, including a plaster bust of Washington. There are plenty of settees and easy chairs--things uncommon enough in hotels to merit special mention. We have an excellent dinner served just to suit, and the experiences of the day soon begin to appear in a different light than they did when we were undergoing them. We are soon in the ample tall-posted beds, clean and unspeakably comfortable, and our sleep is too deep to even dream of Irish roads and motor cars. XIX THROUGH SOUTHERN IRELAND Cork is the gateway by which a large number of visitors enter Ireland, and is pretty sure to be on the route of anyone making a tour of the Island. It manifestly has no place in this record, nor has Blarney Castle, the most famous ruin in the world--among Americans, at least. And yet, who could write of an Irish tour and make no reference to Blarney. We may be pardoned for a hasty glance at our visit to the castle on the day after our arrival at Cork. The head porter at the Imperial, clad in his faultless moss-green uniform, the stateliest and clearly the most important man in the hotel, marshals his assistants and they strap our luggage to the car--he does no work himself, nor would anyone be so presumptuous as to expect it of a man of such mighty presence. We recognize the fact that his fee must be in proportion to his dignity, and he receives it much as his forefathers, the ancient Irish kings, exacted tribute from their vassals. He is not content to have us take the direct route to Blarney, only five or six miles, but tells us of a longer but more picturesque route and gives us a rather confusing lot of directions, which we have some little difficulty in following. Suffice it to say that after a deal of inquiry and much wandering through steep stony lanes--an aggregate of more than fifteen miles out of our way--we catch sight of the square-topped tower of Blarney and hear the shouts and laughter of a train-load of excursionists who are just arriving. Though annoying at the time, we now have no regret for the many miles we went astray; we saw much of rural life along these lonely little lanes. We passed tiny huts as wretched as any we saw in Ireland, which is to say they were wretched beyond description; but in them were cheery, good-natured people whose efforts to tell us the way to Blarney only got us farther from it. Blarney Castle to some extent deserves the encomiums that have been so lavishly heaped upon it. It is the one place in Ireland that every tourist is expected to see; and its fame is probably due more to its mythical Blarney stone than to its historical importance. As we saw it on a perfect summer day, the great square tower with overhanging battlements rising out of the dense emerald foliage and darkly outlined against the bluest of Irish skies, it seemed to breathe the very spirit of chivalry, but a rude, barbarous chivalry, for all that. From the tower, which we ascended by ruinous and difficult stairs, the view was magnificent, though the groves, famous in song and story, have been largely felled. And after all, Blarney seems rather "blase" on close acquaintance, with its throngs of trippers and souvenir hawkers at every turn. Even the Blarney stone is a sham, a new one having been placed in a rebuilt portion of the wall knocked down by Cromwell's cannon; the original is said to be quite inaccessible. During the afternoon we follow the valley of the Lee over a road that averages fairly good and that seldom takes us out of sight of the river. In many places it ascends the rugged hills and affords a far-reaching prospect over the valley. At Macroom, the only town of any size, the road branches; one may cross the hills and reach Killarney in only twenty miles or may follow the coast along Kenmare River and Dingle Bay, a total of about one hundred and twenty miles. While we pause in the village street, a respectable-looking citizen, divining the cause of our hesitation, approaches us. He urges us to take the coast route, for there is nothing finer in Ireland. We can heartily second his enthusiastic claims, but would go farther--there is nothing finer in the world. The Eccles Hotel is a rambling old house, situated at the head of Bantry Bay on Glengariff Harbor. It stands beneath the sharply rising hill and only the highway lies between it and the water's edge; the outlook from its veranda is not surpassed by any we saw in the Kingdom, not even by the enchanting harbor of Oban or the glorious surroundings of Tintagel. True, we saw it at its best, just as the sun was setting and transforming the blue waters into a sheet of burnished gold. As far as the eye can reach the long inlet lies between bare granite headlands, interspersed here and there with verdant banks, while the bright waters were dotted with wooded islets. The sun sank beneath the horizon, purple shadows gathered in the distance, and the harbor gleamed mirrorlike in the twilight. An old coast-defense castle, standing on a headland near the entrance, lent the needed touch of human interest to the scene. Well might Thackeray exclaim, "Were such a bay lying upon English shores it would be a world's wonder. Perhaps if it were on the Mediterranean or Baltic, English travellers would flock to it by the hundreds. Why not come and see it in Ireland?" Indeed, more are coming to see it today; the hotel was crowded almost to our exclusion and we had to take what was left. The motor is bringing many, for it is more than ten miles from Bantry, the nearest railway station, and is not easily accessible to travelers whose time is somewhat limited. Our route from Glengariff leads directly over the hills to Kenmare. The ascent is steep in places and a long tunnel pierces the crest of the hill. We see much weather-beaten country, stretches of purple granite boulders devoid of vegetation and bleak beyond description. From the summit of the hills we glide down a winding and stony road into Kenmare, passing with considerable difficulty many coaches loaded with trippers, for this is a favorite coaching route. Someone has said that Ireland is like an ugly picture set in a beautiful frame. We may dissent from the view that the interior is ugly; we have seen much charming country, though on the whole not the equal of England or Scotland. The vast peat bogs are dreary, the meadowlands monotonous, the villages, if interesting, far from beautiful, and the detached cottages often positively painful in their filth and squalor. But the frame of the picture--the glorious coast line--surely, mile for mile, its equal may hardly be found on the globe. One will behold every mood of sea and shore and sky; beauty and grandeur combined and every range of coloring, from the lucent gold of the sunset and the deep blue stillness of the summer noonday to the gray monotone of the storm-swept granite waste. Out of Kenmare, we follow the wide estuary of the river, leaving it only when the road sweeps a few miles inland to the village of Sneem. And we behold this Sneem in astonishment; we have seen nothing so primitive and poverty-stricken since we landed in Ireland, nor do we see anything later that may match it in apparent wretchedness. Two or three long rows of low thatched-covered cottages--the thatch green with weeds--of one or two rooms each, with sagging doors and tiny windows, make up the village. The interior of the huts is the plainest imaginable; earthen floors, rough stone walls and open roof under the rotting thatch. The cottages surround a weed-grown common where the domestic animals roam at will. A native approaches us, a man of fair intelligence, who talks freely of the wretched condition of the people. All who were able to get away have gone to America; only the old, the desperately poor, and the incompetent remain, and what can one expect under such conditions? Many eke out their existence on the money that comes from over the sea. There is no use trying to improve the situation; if anyone has any ambition, there is no chance for him in Ireland, and the speaker illustrates with concrete instances. No doubt Sneem is typical of many retired villages. It is twenty-five miles to the nearest railroad, and to see this phase of Ireland the motor is indispensible. The road soon takes us again to the estuary of the Kenmare, following it to the extreme western point of Kerry, with views of river and ocean on one hand and the stern granite hills on the other. Cahersiveen is the terminus of the railway and famous in Ireland as the birthplace of Daniel O'Connell. A memorial chapel of gray granite overshadows everything else in the village, which, mean and dirty as it is, looks live and prosperous to one coming from Sneem. Just out of the town is the ivy-covered ruin of Carhan House, where O'Connell was born. I would that the language were mine to even faintly portray the transcendent beauty of Dingle Bay, along which we course most of the afternoon. The day is serenely perfect and the sky is clear save for a few fleecy clouds that drift lazily along the horizon. Our road climbs the hills fronting on the bay--in places the water lies almost sheer beneath us--and the panorama that lies before us is like a fairyland. Of the deepest liquid blue imaginable, the still water stretches out to the hills beyond the bay, which fade away, range after range, into the dun and purple haze of the distance; in places their tops are swept by low-hung clouds of dazzling whiteness--an effect of light and color indescribably glorious. We have seen the Scotch, Swiss and Italian lakes, and, second to none of them, our own Lake George, but among them all there is no match for this splendid ocean inlet on such a day as this. And truly, the day is the secret of the beauty; the color and the distant hills vanish in the gray mists that so often envelop the Irish coast. It is a jar to one's sensibilities to pass from such lofty and inspiring scenes into Killorglin, the shabbiest, filthiest, most utterly devil-may-care village we see in the Island. It does not show the almost picturesque poverty of Sneem, but for sheer neglect and utter lack of anything in the nature of civic pride, we must give Killorglin the supremacy among numerous competitors for the honor--or rather, dishonor. The market square is covered with masses of loose stone intermingled with filth; the odors are what might be expected from the general condition of the town. There is little temptation to linger here, and we make hasty inquiries for the Killarney road. It proves dreadfully rough and stony, a broad and apparently once excellent highway, but now quite neglected. There is nothing to detain us on the way and we soon turn into the grounds of the Victoria Hotel just before we reach Killarney. The Victoria, fronting on the lake, is most pretentious, but there are many little signs of the laxity and untidiness that is seen everywhere in Ireland. We wait long for a porter to remove the luggage from the car, and finally begin the task ourselves, when the porter appears and takes our chaffing good-naturedly. An old lame crow--he has been a hanger-on at the Victoria for fifteen years, the porter says, and comes regularly to the kitchen yard for food--clings to a chimney pot and pours out his harsh guttural jargon. "Swearing at us, isn't he?" we remark. "Not at all," answers the ready-witted son of Erin. "That's just his way of expressin' his pleasure at your arrival." The Royal Victoria boasts of even a more astonishing array of distinguished and royal guests than the Royal Bath at Bournemouth--both have surely earned the prefix to their names. In the drawing-rooms were posted letters and autographs of royalty from King Edward (as Prince of Wales) down to ordinary lords and ladies; and there were also letters from other guests of distinction, including well-known Americans. All of which only partially atoned for the rather slack service which we found in many particulars. Still, the Royal Victoria suffered from no lack of patronage; we had telegraphed the day before and yet with difficulty were able to secure satisfactory accommodations. [Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE LOUGH, IRELAND. From Original Water Color by Alexander Williams, R. I.] I will not write of Killarney's "Lakes and Fells," pre-eminently the tourist center of Ireland. The drive to Muckross Abbey and along the shores of the lake is one of surpassing beauty, though the road is narrow and crooked. Much of the drive is through the private grounds of Lord Ardilaun, the poetical title which has been accorded to Mr. Guinness, whose "stout" has given him a wider and more substantial fame than he can ever hope for from a mere title of nobility. However, the famous product is responsible for the title, since the wealthy brewer was elevated to the peerage ostensibly on account of his immense benefactions to the city of Dublin. His Killarney house--one of several he owns in Ireland--a modern mansion in the Elizabethan style, may be plainly seen from the road. And one can hardly wonder that Lord Ardilaun has thriven greatly and built up what is freely advertised as the largest brewery in the world, when he has such an unlimited market for his product right at home--for Ireland is cursed with drink perhaps beyond any country on earth. Fortunately there is now a marked tendency toward improvement and the Catholic church is exerting a strong influence against the drink evil. But these reflections are not altogether germane to the transcendent lake whose bright waters shimmer through the trees or ripple gently on some open beach as we course along them. Out beyond lie the mountains against the pale sapphire sky of a perfect summer morning, and the lake makes a glorious mirror for its wooded islands and encircling hills. We pass the "meeting of the waters," crossing a rustic bridge over the narrow strait. Altogether, there is a succession of delightful scenery, which the motor car affords the ideal means of seeing. But I am poorly carrying out my resolution not to write of Killarney, though surely the theme tempts one to linger; there is much I have not even hinted at; Ross Castle and Muckross Abbey alone might occupy many pages were I competent to fill them. But we will leave them all, though we must pause a moment in the town itself, surely a paradise for lovers of Irish laces and for seekers after trinkets and souvenirs galore. It is rather cleaner and more substantial than the average small Irish town, yet Killarney and its environs have all the earmarks of a tourist-thronged resort and in this particular, at least, are disappointing. While there is much of beauty and interest, we cannot help a feeling as we leave the town behind us that some of the encomiums may have been a little over-enthusiastic. But Killarney rapidly recedes as we hasten toward Tralee through a country whose bleak hill-ranges alternate with still drearier peat bogs, often of great extent. Everywhere one sees piles of cut and dried peat, the almost universal fuel in Ireland. Its use is evidenced by the thin blue smoke curling from the rude chimneys and by the pungent odor as it falls to the earth under the lowering sky. For the sky has become overcast and gray. We have had--very unusual, too, they tell us--several days of perfect weather; the rule is almost daily showers in Ireland during the summer. We find Tralee a large, lively town; it is market day and the narrow main street is fairly blocked with donkey-carts, driven by screaming old women, and the heavier, more unwieldy carts of the farmers. The old women often go into a panic at the sight of the motor, and grasp the donkeys by the bridle as though these sleepy little brutes might be expected to exhibit all the fire of a skittish horse; but never one of them even lifts his lazy ears as the motor hums under his nose. It is different with some of the horses, which become unmanageable and swing the heavy carts around in spite of all the drivers can do. And woe to the motorist who should try conclusions with one of these carts that may be suddenly thrown across his way. The wreck of the car would be almost certain and I doubt if the cart would suffer at all. These vehicles are primitive in the extreme; two massive wheels, an oaken beam axle and two shafts made of heavy timbers, is about all there is to one of them. It is with such vehicles that Tralee swarms and our progress to the market square is slow indeed. In the midst of the market place stands a monument surmounted by the figure of a peasant soldier, the inscriptions commemorating the Irish patriots of '98, '03, '48 and '67, and declaring the "undying allegiance of the Irish people to republican principles." The hotel where we stop for luncheon is a large limestone building, just opposite the monument. It is fairly clean and the service cannot be complained of; Irish hotels have averaged better than we had been led to expect. From Tralee we take a rough, neglected road to Tarbert-on-Shannon, running through a desolate hill country--the Stacks Mountains, as they appear to Irish eyes--almost devoid of trees, with mean and often unspeakably filthy huts at long intervals. Most of these huts have but two small rooms; in one the domestic animals--the horse, donkey or cow, with a pig or two squealing under foot--and in the other the family. One is quite as clean and comfortable as the other. The muck-heap is squarely in front of the door; it would be too much trouble to put it to the rear, and it is probably cleared away once or twice a year. But withal, the people are probably happier than the nobles in their castles; a merry, laughing, quick-witted folk who greet us with good-natured shouts of welcome--there is no prejudice against the motor here. The cheeriness of the people contrasts with the bleak and depressing country itself, today wrapped in a gray mist that half obscures the view. As we passed through one of the bogs, an incident occurred that added to the gloom of the day, and the poverty of the country still leaves a somber impression on our minds. It was a peasant funeral procession, forty or fifty of the rude carts such as we have described wending their way along the wretched road. The plain pine coffin, fastened with knotted hempen ropes, was borne on a cart similar to the others, and yet the deceased was evidently a person of importance, indicated by the large following and several priests in the center of the procession. As we came up they motioned us to pass, and our car crept by as stealthily as possible, though not without disturbing some of the horses. All treated it with good-natured solemnity and many saluted us as we passed. Farther along the road we saw many people at the cottages in readiness to join the procession when it reached them. The incident could not but impress us with the poverty and really primitive character of the Irish peasants of the inland hills--people and a country quite unknown to those who follow the ordinary routes of travel. Listowel is twenty miles from Tralee, a dilapidated hamlet surrounding a great gloomy-looking church, and above it the shattered towers of the ever-present castle peeping out of a mass of ivy. Ten miles farther over a rough road and we enter Tarbert on a fine wooded headland overlooking the lordly Shannon--truly worthy of such title here--a sweeping river two or three miles in width. For twenty miles or more our road closely follows the southern shore of the broad estuary, and we realize keenly how much of color and distance one loses when the gray rain obscures the landscape. The estuary of the Shannon might well vie with Dingle Bay under conditions similar to those of the preceding day, but we see only a leaden sheet of water fading away in the fitful showers or lying sullenly under the dim outlines of the coast of County Clare. At Glin we pass beneath the ancient stronghold of the "Knight of Glin," which recalls the splendor of a feudal potentate who in Queen Elizabeth's time was lord of an estate of six hundred thousand acres, and whose personal train included five hundred gentlemen. So much glory and an Irish tendency to take a hand in the frequent broils in the west, brought the English Lord President of Ireland with a strong besieging force. The defense was desperate in the extreme. The young son of the lord of the castle was captured by the besiegers and placed in a post of great danger in hope of checking the fire of the garrison; but the ruse had no effect on the furious Irishmen in the fortress. When at last a breach had been made by a heavy cannonade and the fall of the castle became inevitable, the few remaining defenders, uttering the ancient warcry of their house, flung themselves from the shattered battlements into the river. After a lapse of more than three hundred years, one may still see the marks of the cannon-shot upon the heavy walls. And this weird story of the defense of Glin Castle is typical of tales that may be told of hundreds of the mouldering ruins of Ireland. At Foynes the river broadens still more; "the spacious Shenan, spreading like a sea," was how it impressed Edmund Spenser, who has left in his poems many traces of his Irish wanderings. But we see little of it in the increasing drizzle that envelops it. Our road turns farther inland to Askeaton, a bedraggled collection of little huts, beneath the lordly ruin of Desmond Castle. There is little else to engage us on our way to Limerick, though we pass through the Vale of Adare, of which the bard has so musically sung: "O sweet Adare, O lovely vale, O safe retreat of sylvan splendor; Nor summer sun nor morning gale E'er hailed a scene so sweetly tender." But it is not so sweetly tender on a dark drizzly evening, and we rush on through the rain to the shelter of an old-time hostelry in Limerick. Cruise's Royal is a large plain building perhaps a century or two old and quite unpretentious and comfortable. Limerick is not frequented by tourists and little special provision has been made to entertain them. It is a city of nearly fifty thousand people and has large business interests in different lines. But Limerick has a past, despite its modern activity. Its castle, standing directly on the Shannon, was built by King John in 1205, and the seven original circular towers are still intact. The cathedral of St. Mary's is even older than the castle, and though restored, many touches of antiquity still remain. The Roman Catholic cathedral of St. John's is one of the finest modern churches in Ireland, its splendid spire rising to a height of three hundred feet. Its magnificence ill accords with the wretched hovels that crowd around it; for the Irish Catholic seems to take far more pride in his church than in his own home. There is a large percentage of English among the inhabitants of Limerick, which is no doubt a factor in its business progressiveness. The shops which we visited would compare favorably with those of a city of the same size almost anywhere. One of the staple products is Limerick lace and it is sold here at prices so low, compared with the tourist towns, as to quite astonish one. But the chief glory of Limerick is its broad river, so vast and so cleansed by the sea tide as to show little trace of pollution, even in the city limits. It is spanned by two fine bridges, that nearest the castle replacing one built by King John. At the west end of this bridge is the famous "Stone of the Violated Treaty," mounted on a properly inscribed pedestal. The treaty with William and Mary was signed on this stone, but the English Parliament repudiated the agreement, and hence the name. In leaving Limerick, we closely followed the Shannon, and a magnificent stream it is, lying in wide, lakelike stretches and rippling gently in the fresh sea breeze. The valley here is quite level and covered with emerald verdure to the very banks, between which the river flashes in gemlike brilliancy. It would be a joy to follow the Shannon and the loughs, in which it rests itself at frequent intervals, to its very source, every mile rich in historic interest and storied ruins; but we may go no farther than Killaloe, at the southern end of Lough Derg, about fifteen miles from Limerick. Here is a venerable cathedral church, built about 1150, upon the site of a still older church founded in the sixth century. And it is to this latter time that most authorities refer the stone-roofed chapel or oratory standing near the cathedral. Legend has it that this was built by St. Flannan, who founded the original cathedral; and certain it is that its antiquity is very great. One experiences strange sensations as he stands in this rude, unfurnished little structure. It forcefully brings to him the fact that Christianity and learning are older in Ireland than in England and Scotland; that this chapel was probably built before St. Augustine landed in Kent; that it was from Ireland that Christian missionaries sailed to teach the savage Britons and marauding Picts. We cross the river over a high-arched bridge, near which is an attractive new hotel, for tourists and fishermen are learning of the beauties of the Shannon and Lough Derg. We soon reach Nenagh on the Dublin road, and the graceful church spire at once attracts our attention. We can scarce forbear an exclamation of surprise as we come into full view of the splendid structure, just from the builder's hand. It is truly a poem in gray stone, as fine an example of gothic architecture as we have seen in the Kingdom--proof that the spirit of the old cathedral builders lingers still, at least in Ireland. A young man approaches us as we stand in the churchyard and informs us that the church has just been completed at a cost of fifty thousand pounds. We should have guessed much more, but labor and stone are cheap in Ireland; such a structure could hardly have been erected in America for less than half a million dollars. "And where did all the money come from?" for Nenagh shows little evidence of wealth. "O, they have been long in raising it and much of it came from America." [Illustration: ANCIENT ORATORY, KILLALOE.] The church inside is hardly in keeping with the exterior, but this will no doubt be remedied in time. At the door is a table covered with pamphlets, with a notice requesting the visitor to place a penny in the box for each copy taken. We noted the titles of several: "Health and Cleanliness in Irish Homes," "Temperance Catechism, Showing the Evils of Drink," "Ireland, the Teacher of England and Scotland," "The Evils of Emigration," (in which no very glowing picture of the prospects of the emigrant in America is shown), and many others on Irish history and Catholic heroes. Nearly all of the dozen booklets which we select are really excellent and show that the Catholic Church in Ireland is awakening to the necessities of modern conditions. From the church our guide led us to the castle near at hand and secured the key. There is little left save the stupendous keep, a circular tower about one hundred feet high and perhaps sixty feet in diameter. The walls at the bottom have the amazing thickness of eighteen feet and one would reckon this mighty tower as well-nigh impregnable. "Destroyed by Cromwell," said our guide, "who burned the castle and razed it to the ground." Just as we are about to leave a very recently acquired distinction of Nenagh occurs to our guide--the town is the home of the grandfather of Hayes, the American runner who won the Marathon race at London. The old man keeps a baker shop down the street and the hero is here even now--a twofold hero, indeed, as an Irishman by descent and as a winner over the English contestants. We pause at the little shop, but the hero is out and we have to be content with a few purchases. We find some difficulty in getting out of the town, but after much inquiry a policeman starts us on the Dublin road. And here I might speak a word of the Irish policeman. As in England, he is everywhere and always ready with information; no matter how dirty and squalid the surroundings, he is neat, in a faultless moss-green uniform emblazoned with the gold harp of Erin. He is always conscious of his dignity as the representative of law and order, and one can easily imagine that his presence must have a calming effect on the proverbial Irish tendency for a row. He is indeed a worthy part of the unequaled police system of the United Kingdom. The road which we now followed runs through the very heart of the Island, a distance of one hundred miles from Nenagh to Dublin. It is in the main a broad, well-surfaced highway with even grades and slight curves. It passes through a much better and more prosperous-looking country than the extreme southern portion of the Island. The farm cottages are better and apparently cleanlier, but the towns show little improvement. Nearly all of them are poor and mean-looking, with aged, weather-beaten buildings and many tumble-down houses. They are a good distance apart; Roscrea, Mountrath, Maryborough, Kildare and Naas are the larger places on the road. Only two call for especial mention--one for its dilapidation and filthiness and the other for rather the opposite qualities. The first distinction we may freely accord to Maryborough, the county town of Queens County, with a population of about three thousand. Perhaps we saw it at its worst, for it was the weekly market day. The market place was blocked with live stock, and it was with difficulty that we forced the car through the seething mass. The streets were covered with loose stones, straw and filth, and on the sidewalks, little pens were fenced off and filled with calves and hogs. The farmers circulated among the animals and regarded us rather sullenly for Irishmen. Our luncheon hour was past and we looked dubiously toward the Maryborough hotel. A native, divining our situation, cast a disgusted glance at the wretched surroundings and said, "You had better go on to Kildare; you will find it much better." We thank him and the car spurns the dirt of Maryborough under her wheels as she springs forward on the twenty miles of fine road to Kildare. We find this town small and rather poor, but far cleanlier than its neighbor. It has an ancient cathedral church and one of the most notable of the round towers, one hundred and five feet high, though somewhat spoiled by a modern battlemented effect in place of the usual conical top. But the joy of Kildare is its hotel, a new, bright-looking brick structure, delightfully pleasant and homelike inside. There is a piano in the parlor and fresh flowers on the mantelpiece. Our tea is soon ready in the dining-room, as cleanly and well ordered as the best across the Channel, and the neat waiter girls serve us promptly. Of course there is a secret somewhere to all this wonder, and we fathom it when we learn that the railroad owns the hotel. May the railroads build more hotels in Ireland! At Newbridge, a few miles farther, are extensive barracks, a city of red brick, where a large body of Irish troops is quartered. Military life appeals to a great number of Irishmen and some of the crack British regiments are recruited in the Island. The Irishman may justly be proud of his reputation as a fighting man and he never wearies of telling you of the nativity of the Duke of Wellington and of Lord Roberts, the present chief of the British army. A fine racing course also lies between Newbridge and Kildare, and races famous throughout the country are held here annually. Our Irish pilgrimage is at an end; we leave Dublin on the following day, not without reluctance and regret. This Ireland is very old and very interesting, and it is with a feeling of distinct sadness that we watch her lessening shores. We find ourselves secretly hoping to come again some day with out trusty companion of the winged wheels, to spend a whole summer among the hills and dales, the rivers and loughs of the "Ould Countree." XX SOME ODDS AND ENDS Holyhead is an inconsequential town whose chief end is to serve as a port of departure for Ireland. Were it not for this useful purpose, few tourists would ever see it--or the Isle of Anglesea, for that matter. Aside from some fine coast scenery and the castle, now very ruinous, built by Edward I. at Beaumaris, Anglesea offers little in the way of attractions. The island is rather barren, with here and there a mean-looking village with a long, unpronounceable Welsh name. The main road from the great suspension bridge over the Menai Strait to Holyhead is excellent, but nearly all others in the island are so bad as to discourage motorists. The Station Hotel at Holyhead is owned by the Northwestern Railway, and would be creditable to a city of one hundred thousand. It affords every comfort to its guests, and the railway people have made special provisions for the motor car, among these one of the best-equipped garages that I saw anywhere. The motor is becoming a serious rival to the railway in Britain, the heavy reduction in first-class passenger travel being attributed to the popularity of the horseless carriage; but the situation has been accepted by the companies which own hotels and they have generally provided first-class accommodation for cars belonging to their guests. In a previous chapter I referred to our run from London to Holyhead, reaching Ludlow the first night. I am going to have my say about Ludlow in another chapter; for five visits on different occasions to the delightful old border town should perhaps entitle me, though a stranger to its people, to record my impressions of it somewhat in detail. Bishop's Castle marked our entrance into the hill country of Northern Wales. It is a lonely town following a steep, roughly-paved main street, at the top of which we stop for luncheon at an old-fashioned but very pleasant country inn. From Bishop's Castle to Barmouth by the way of Welshpool, Llanfair, Dinas Mawddwy and Dolgelley, we pass through the very heart of North Wales and see many phases of its beauty, though generally in the wilder and sterner moods. The hills are often steep, but from their crests we have far-reaching views over the wooded vales and green hill ranges. In places we wind through tangled forests or run along the banks of swift little rivers. At Dinas Mawddwy we enter the Welsh mountains, the most imposing hills in Britain. The tiny village nestling beside its rippling river seems lost in the mighty hills that overhang it on every side, rugged and almost precipitous, yet velvety green to their very summits. We begin our climb out of the valley over the Bwlch Ooeddrws Pass--the name is even more alarming than the heavy grade shown in the road book--and for three miles we climb steadily up the mighty hill alongside an incline that drops sharply to the roaring stream far below. From the summit a grand prospect greets our eyes: the wild, broken, intensely green Welsh hills stretching away range after range until they fade in the purple shadows of the distance, and yet higher above us looms the crest of Cader Idris, on which still linger flecks of snow. After a short pause to contemplate the beauty of the scene, we plunge down the descent, steep, sinuous and rough, to Dolgelley, lying at the foot of the hill, a retired little town with a long history; for here the Welsh hero, Owen Glendwr, held his parliaments and made a rallying point for his adherents in North Wales. Today its old-time, gray-stone, slate-roofed houses are hemmed in by more modern villas such as one now finds in most of the beauty spots of northern Wales. The ten miles of road to Barmouth follows the estuary of the river with only moderate grades until it reaches the town, when it plunges down the long hill to the seashore. Barmouth, or, as the Welsh style it, Abermaw, is a quiet watering-place lying along a narrow beach at the foot of the hills that rise almost sheer behind the town. The coast line of the wide rock-bound harbor is wild and broken, and the view over the estuary at sunset is an enchanting one. The hotels are rather small and the beginning of the crowded season is just at hand. Should one wish to remain for a time in Barmouth to explore some of the grandest scenery in Wales, he would be more at ease in May or June. As we leave the town an obliging garage man hails us and warns us to beware of Llanaber, two or three miles to the north; a trap for motorists has been set there, and as if to convince us that wealth and station will not protect us, he adds in a rather awe-stricken manner that Her Grace the Duchess of W----, wife of the richest nobleman in the Kingdom, was stopped last week and fined ten pounds. We feel that a contribution to the exchequer of Llanaber would hardly come so easy from us as from the wealthy duchess, and we pass through the wretched little hamlet at a most respectful pace. The rain has begun to fall heavily and has apparently dampened the ardor of the Welsh constables, for we see nothing of them. The road continues many miles between the mountain slope and the low green marshes stretching seaward, but the driving rain obscures the view. At only one point does the ocean lash the rocks directly beneath us; elsewhere along the coast the road is separated from the sea by marshes and stretches of sandy beach, varying from a few hundred feet to two miles in width. Suddenly the gray bulk of Harlech Castle, standing on its commanding eminence, four square to all the winds of heaven, looms up grim and vast in the gusty rain. It is the last of the great feudal castles of Britain that we are to see on our pilgrimage--save some of those we have seen before--and it marks a fitting close to the long list that we have visited--nearly every one of importance in the Island. Harlech is one of the seven great castles built by Edward I. in his effort to subdue Wales. It contests with Carnarvon and Conway for first place among the Welsh ruins and is easily one of the half dozen most remarkable castellated fortresses in the Kingdom. It is perched on a mighty rock which drops almost sheer to the wide, sandy marsh along the sea, and just below it on the landward side is the village that gives the castle its name. Inside the great quadrangle, we find the trim neatness that characterizes the ruins belonging to the crown. We ascend the stairway leading to the battlements and follow the path around the walls and towers. A thousand pities that the rain shuts out the view, for surely there are few such panoramas of sea and mountain in Britain as one may get from the walls of Harlech. Shall we let one more fortunate than we, having seen the prospect on a cloudless day, tell its beauty in poetic phrase? "It is a scene of unparalleled beauty, whichever way one turns; whether to the sea, out beyond the sandy beach at the foot of Castle Rock, running far away, a sheet of intensest blue, until it meets the pale sapphire of the sky; or whether toward the mountains of the north, Snowdon, the snow-crowned king of them all, rising in matchless majesty above his satellites; or to the landward where the tiny village nestles at the foot of craglike hills; or to the westward where the great promontory of Lleyn stretches away, throwing here and there into the sky its isolated peaks, so full of savage sternness tempered with weird beauty." Verily, these misty days in Britain often hide visions of beauty from one's eager eyes. We will ask little of the story of Harlech, but it is a stirring one. It saw strenuous times as a stronghold of Owen Glendwr, who captured it in 1404 and held it against the forces of Henry IV., who re-took the castle four years later, driving the Welsh prince into the mountains. Here came Margaret, the queen of the Sixth Henry, during the war of the Roses, and the castle yielded, only after a long siege, to the onslaught of the adherents of the House of York. Indeed, Harlech was the last fortress in England to hold out for the Lancastrian cause. But far more memorable than the siege are the wild swinging cadences of the "March of the Men of Harlech," to which the conflict gave birth. During the civil war, the castle was the last in Wales to hold out for King Charles, and its story closes with its surrender to the army of the Commonwealth in 1647. The rain ceases shortly after we leave Harlech, and the air becomes clear, though the sky is still overcast. It is fortunate, for we see some of the wildest and most impressive of Welsh scenery. Great clifflike hills, splashed with red shale and purple heather or clad in the somber green of the pines, rise abruptly from the roadside. At Beddgelert the beauty culminates in one of the finest scenes in Wales. The valley, a plot of woods and meadows, is surrounded on every hand by the giant hills, whose sides glow with red and purple rock which crops out among the scattered pines that climb to the very crests. Two clear, dashing mountain streams join their waters to form the river Glaslyn, which winds through a mighty gorge to the sea; and alongside the river runs the perfect road over which we have just been coursing. The Royal Goat, right by the roadside, invites us to pause for our late luncheon; a charming old-fashioned inn, odd as its name, but homelike and hospitable. At Beddgelert the beauty begins to fade and one sees only commonplace country and barren hills until he reaches Carnarvon. [Illustration: ON THE RIVER LLEDR, WALES. From Original Painting by Daniel Sherrin.] Returning from Holyhead, we followed the fine coast road from Bangor to Conway, where we paused to renew our acquaintance with one of the most charming towns in the Kingdom. In many respects it is unique, for nowhere will one find more perfect relics of feudal time, or feel more thoroughly its spirit than at Conway. The little city still lies snugly behind its ancient wall, whose one and twenty watch towers stand grimly as of old, though shorn of their defenders in these piping times of peace. And the castle, from many viewpoints the most picturesque of them all, looks marvelously perfect from a little distance--so perfect that one could hardly wonder to see a flash of armor from the stately battlements. Yet with all its antiquity, Conway, inside its walls, is clean and neat and has an air of quiet prosperity. So widely known are its charms that perhaps it should have no place in this record; and yet it is probable that the great majority of American visitors in England never see Conway--which assumption is my excuse for a few words of appreciation. If there were no castle or wall, there would be ample warrant for coming to see one of the most charming Elizabethan mansions in the Island. Plas Mawr--the Great House--indeed deserves its name; a huge building of many gables, odd corners and stone-mullioned, diamond-paned windows. Inside there are great paneled rooms with richly bossed plaster ceilings, wide fireplaces with mantelpieces emblazoned with the arms of the ancient owners, and many narrow winding passageways leading--you never quite learn whither. Very appropriate is the ghostly legend of the house, and even more fitting the better substantiated story of the visit of Queen Elizabeth--that splendid royal traveler who might well be our patron saint. Stately is the great chamber, the sitting-room of the Queen's suite, with its paneled walls, its highly ornate ceiling, its great group of no less than a dozen windows; and the fireplace, six feet or more across, where a great log might be thrown to glow, a solid core of heat--fit indeed for the evening musings of the royal guest. A thorough round of Plas Mawr will serve to give one an appetite for luncheon at the Castle Hotel--at least this was the result in our particular case. But one would not really need much of an appetite to be tempted by the luncheon set forth at the Castle Hotel, one of the cleanest, brightest and best-ordered of the many inns at which we stopped in our wanderings. In a jaunt up the Conway River, one will see much pleasing scenery of hill, valley and river, and will come at Bettws-y-Coed into the Holyhead road, which splendid highway we follow through Llangollen and Oswestry to Shrewsbury. This route abounds in interest; Chirk is famous for its castle and there is an ivy-covered ruin at Whittington, but we do not pause in our swift flight for any of them. The sky has cleared and delightful vistas greet our eyes as we hasten through "the sweet vale of Llangollen." We come into Shrewsbury almost ere we know it, and a half hour later catch sight of the great church tower of Ludlow town. [Illustration: WHITTINGTON CASTLE, SHROPSHIRE.] A longing for a farewell glimpse of Warwickshire comes upon us as we leave Ludlow on the afternoon of the following day; and what pleasanter memory could we choose for the closing days of our long pilgrimage in England than a flight through the charming country that lies at her very heart? True, we will pass over roads that we have traversed before, but could one ever weary of Stratford and Warwick and Coventry, and of the quiet Midlands that lie about them? We pause for one last look at the cathedral at Worcester, its great tower of warm red stone standing sharp against the cloudless sky; it is altogether one of the most perfect in proportion and design of all the churches in the Island. Then we hasten through the summer landscape--its prevailing green dashed with the pale gold of the yellowing harvests--to Droitwich and through Alcester, with its dull-red brick and black-oak beams, into the now familiar streets of Stratford-on-Avon. We pause at the busy souvenir store of which two years before the white-haired mayor was proprietor; but he has since retired, his successor tells us. As one of the notables of the town, he points out Miss Corelli, the novelist, who has made her home in Stratford and waxed rich through much advertising, which sometimes assumed forms highly distasteful to her fellow-townsmen. For it chanced that one Andrew Carnegie would present a handsome library building to Stratford should the town provide a suitable site, but for some reason Miss Corelli objected, and by engaging the plan in some of the endless legal quibbles possible in England, she defeated it. The mayor was vexed beyond measure and when the attorney for Miss Corelli interrogated him, "Did you not say that you would give a thousand pounds to get Miss Corelli out of Stratford?" "I have never said so," replied his honor, "but though a thousand pounds does not grow on a gooseberry bush for me, I really believe I would." This retort so irritated the authoress that she brought an action for libel and was awarded a farthing damages. But this bit of gossip hardly accords with the spirit of Stratford at the coming of twilight, when the low sun flashes on the still bosom of the immemorial Avon and pierces the gloom beneath the great trees that cluster around the church. We come here again from Coventry on the following day to join the worshipers in the fane where sleeps the Master of English Letters. It is a perfect day and the large light-toned windows lend an air almost of cheerfulness to the graceful interior of Stratford Church, and the great organ fills it with noble melody. With such surroundings, perhaps we miss much of the sermon--at least we can recall nothing of it in the lapse of time--but the memories that come back to us now are of the mingled feelings of reverence and inspiration that dominated us during the hour we lingered. As we leave the church--our car has stood by the roadside the while--an intelligent little fellow approaches us, urging his services as guide, and he looks so longingly at the car that we take him in. In all our wanderings about Stratford, and hardly a highroad or byway has escaped us, we have missed the old cottage where Mary Arden is said to have lived. Is said to have lived--alas, that hypothetical "said" that flings its blight over so many of our sacred shrines. But what matters it, after all? What mattered it to the pious votary of olden time that the relics of his revered saint, so fraught with comfort and healing to him, turned out to be the bones of a goat? There shall be no question for us on this perfect day of English summer that the low gray walls and sagging dull-red tile roof of the cottage before us once sheltered the mother of Shakespeare. It stands behind a low stone wall, in the village of Wilmcote, two or three miles from Stratford, a blaze of old-fashioned flowers in front of it and creepers and rose vines clamber over its gray walls. It is only a farmhouse tenement now, but with the old buildings grouped about it and its dovecot, it makes a picture well suited to the glamour that legend throws about the place. Our small guide eagerly points it out and proposes to seek admittance for us; but we desire no such disenchantment as this would likely bring. We ask him to point the way to Shottery, for we wish a final glimpse of Anne Hathaway's cottage, whose authenticity is only a shade better attested than that of the home of Mary Arden. The road from Stratford to Banbury is winding and steep in places, and Sun-Rising Hill is known over the Kingdom as the most formidable in the Midland Country; the road climbs it in sweeping curves and the increasing grade brings the motor to "low" ere we reach the top. But the prospect which greets one from its summit makes the climb worth while, a panorama of green and gold fading into the purple haze of distance. The Red Lion at Banbury appeals to us and we rest awhile in the courtyard after luncheon. Along the walls directly in front of us, a blaze of purple bloom, stretches the "largest wisteria in England," one hundred and eighty feet in length, its stem like a good-sized tree. It has been thus with so many of the old-time inns; each has had some peculiar charm. But surely no architect ever planned the Red Lion Inn; it is a rambling building that seems to have grown up with the years. No straight line curbs its walls; none of its floors maintain the same level; it is a maze of strangely assorted apartments, narrow, winding hallways and odd nooks and corners. The road we follow to Daventry is a retired one, very narrow and almost lost in places between high hedges and over-arching trees. It leads through quaint villages, snug and cozy among the hills, seemingly little disturbed by the workaday world beyond. What a change it is to come into the Holyhead road at Daventry, the splendid highway that charms one more and more every time he passes over it; and did ever anyone see it more golden and glorious than we as we hasten toward Coventry in the face of the setting sun? The giant elms and yews and pines that border the road stand sharply against the wide bar of lucent gold that sweeps around the horizon, flecked here and there with purple and silver clouds. Soon the three slender spires of the old city loom out of the purple mists that hover over it and stand in clear outline against the sunset sky, a scene of calm and inspiring beauty. As we come nearer the shadows resolve themselves into the houses of the charming old town, in the heart of which we come to our pleasant inn. There is little more to be told; our second long pilgrimage through the sunlit fields and rain-swept wolds of Britain and Ireland draws near its close. We take our final leave of Coventry with keen regret and soon come into the Northamptonshire Hills. We see the Bringtons again, far more delightful under cloudless skies than in the gray summer shower that wrapped the little hamlets during our former visit. Beyond Northampton, a memory of Ben Franklin brings us to Ecton, apparently the sleepiest of Midland villages. We follow the straggling line of thatched cottages to the church, where gray stones with almost illegible inscriptions mark the graves of Eleanor and Thomas Franklin, uncle and aunt of one who, in some respects, was our greatest American. The Franklin manor house is gone and Benjamin himself had little to do with Ecton save as a visitor to his ancestral home. He relates that in searching the parish records he learned that he was the youngest son of the youngest son for no less than five generations--verily, genius has little respect for the law of primo-geniture so sacred in England. His grandfather, also a Benjamin, left Ecton for London, where he engaged in the dyer's trade and varied the drudgery of his calling by writing much poetry of doubtful merit. His youngest son, Josias, emigrated to America in 1682, and the rest is American history, too well known to need recording here. Ecton, somnolent and remote, seems little conscious today of the achievements of the mighty son of her Franklin squires of a few centuries ago. At Bedford, the brightest and most progressive-looking of English towns, we enter the old home of Howard, who civilized the prisons of the world and whose memory is kept green by the excellent work of the Howard societies of our own and other countries. Near at hand is the Bunyan memorial chapel, with many relics of the author of "Pilgrim's Progress." And one is mildly astonished to see the collection of the works of this famous preacher and to note how "Pilgrim's Progress" outshone and survived a flood of mediocre, if not stupid, theological writings which he poured forth. We hasten onward through Cambridge, and night finds us at the Angel in Bury St. Edmunds. Of our last day's wanderings I have already told in my chapter on East Anglia. Travel-stained but unwearied, the tried and trusty companion of our pilgrimage stands before our London hotel. It is hard to think of her--is the pronoun right?--as a thing of iron and steel; she has won a personality to us; but, metaphor aside, what a splendid means to a splendid end the motor has become! In two summers we have seen more of Britain than one might find it practicable to see in years under old conditions, and we have seen the most delightful, though unfamiliar, side. I trust that some small measure of our appreciation has been reflected in these pages, though I well recognize that neither the words nor the power to use them are mine by which there might be conveyed a truly adequate idea of such a pilgrimage. XXI LUDLOW TOWN I am going to write a chapter, though it be a short one, on Ludlow Town, which, among the hundreds of places rich in historic association and redolent of romance that we visited in our wanderings, still continues pre-eminent in our memories. We took occasion to pause here four or five times for the night, and each succeeding sojourn only served to heighten our appreciation of the delightful old town and its traditions. One will not tire of the Feathers Inn--surely one of the most charming of the very old hostelries and noted as one of the best preserved brick-and-timber houses in the Kingdom. True, copious applications of black and white paint gives it a somewhat glaring appearance, but the beauty of the sixteenth century facade with its jutting gables, carved beams and antique windows, will appeal to the most casual beholder. The interior is old-fashioned, but comfortable withal, and an air of quiet pervades the place. It is not without a touch of modernity, for between our first and last visit gas lights superseded candles. On one occasion, when the Feathers was full, we went to the Angel and will not soon forget the portly Boniface who welcomed us: a mighty man indeed, who might well be the prince of inn-keepers and who would tip the scale at not less than twenty-five stone--for thus they reckon ones weight in England. Nothing could be more delightful on the evening of a fine summer day than to wander about the town and to view the church tower and castle walls from different angles. Our favorite walk was over the castle bridge and along the river, whose waters beyond the weir lay broad and still, reflecting the gray towers far above. One will find few more romantic sights than the rugged bulk of Ludlow Castle, standing on its clifflike eminence in sharp outline against the evening sky. Just beneath rise the ranks of stately lime trees bordering the pleasant walk cut in the hill slope, which falls sharply to a narrow bank along the river. One may complete the circuit by following the path between the trees and making a rather steep descent to the road along the bank. The river above the weir is radiant with the reflected glories of the skies; and the rush of the falling water alone breaks on the evening stillness. We linger long; the crimson fades from the heavens and river, but a new, almost ethereal beauty possesses the scene under the dominance of a full summer moon. The walls and towers lose their traces of decay in the softened light, and one might easily imagine Ludlow Castle, proud and threatening, as it stood in the good old times. Did we catch a glint of armor on yonder grim old tower, or a gleam of rushlight through its ruinous windows? But our reverie vanishes as the notes of "Home Sweet Home" come to us, clear and sweet from the church tower chime. [Illustration: LUDLOW CASTLE, THE WALK BENEATH THE WALL.] I wish I might write the fuller story of the castle, but its eight hundred years were too eventful for the limits of my book. A few scattered incidents of its romance are all that I may essay--and one can but keenly regret that Walter Scott did not throw the enchantment of his story over Ludlow rather than the less deserving Kenilworth. The castle was built soon after the Conquest, and its warlike history begins with a siege by King Stephen, who wrested it from its founders, the Mortimers, and presented it to his favorite, the doughty warrior, Joce de Dinan. He greatly enlarged and improved it, but was sorely troubled by Hugh Mortimer, the erstwhile lord of the castle, who soon made open war upon its new possessor. Joce was no match for his adversary in men and wealth, but managed to capture Mortimer by strategy and imprisoned him in the tower which still bears his name. His captivity was not of long duration, since Joce allowed him to purchase his freedom at the cost of a large part of his wealth. After this, according to the old chronicles, began the bloody strife between de Dinan and the DeLacys over a portion of an estate in the valley of the Teme. Finally, after many fierce conflicts, the two feudal lords met face to face under the walls of Ludlow and engaged in deadly combat. The redoubtable Joce had just worsted his opponent when three of the latter's followers appeared on the scene, and finding the lord of Ludlow already wounded and quite exhausted, his defeat and even death at the hands of his enemies seemed imminent. From the castle towers his lady and fair daughters, Sybil and Hawyse, who had watched the fray with sinking hearts, now rent the air with their cries of despair, but the castle was deserted by the men-at-arms, and only Fulke Fitzwarrene, a youth of seventeen, who was considered too young and inexperienced for bearing arms, remained. He was of noble birth, lord of the manor of Whittington in Salop--and did we not see the ivy-clad ruin of his castle?--and he had been placed in the family of de Dinan to be trained in the noble art of warfare, the only one considered fit for a gentleman of those days. When he responded to the cries of the distressed ladies, the fair Hawyse, whose beauty had already wrought havoc with the heart of the bashful Fulke, turned upon him with all the fury she could summon: "Coward, what doest thou loitering here when my father, who gives thee shelter and protection, is being done to death in yonder valley?" Stung by the maiden's words, Fulke paused not for reply. He snatched a rusty helmet and battleaxe from the great hall and, no war steeds being in the castle, flung himself on a lumbering draught horse and galloped away to his patron's rescue. Shall we tell of his doughty deeds in the quaint language and style of the old chronicler? "Fulke had a foul helmet which covered his shoulders and at the first onset he smote Godard de Braose, who had seized his lord, with his axe and cut his backbone in two parts, and remounted his lord. Fulke then turned towards Sir Andrew de Reese and smote him on his helmet of white steel that he split it down to the teeth. Sir Arnold de Lys saw well that he could in no manner escape, for he was sorely wounded and surrendered to Sir Joce. The Lacy defended himself, but he was soon taken. Now is Sir Walter de Lacy taken and Sir Arnold de Lys and they are led over the river towards the castle of Dinan. Then spoke Sir Joce, 'Friend burgher, you are very strong and valiant; and if it had not been for you I should have been dead before this, I am much bound to you and shall be always. You shall live with me and I will never fail you.' Then the lad answered and said, 'Sir, I am no burgher, do you not know me, I am Fulke, your foster child.' 'Fair son,' said he, 'blessed be the time that I ever nourished you, for a man will never lose his labor that he does for a brave man.'" Surely such a gallant feat could have but one proper outcome and the bold Sir Fulke was soon married to the fair Hawyse in the beautiful circular chapel just built by her father and which stands almost intact to charm the beholder today. And the Right Reverend Bishop of Hereford came with his splendid retinue to perform the ceremony. It is a pity indeed that one may not close the pretty tale here in the happy fashion of the modern novel, but the wild way of the Welsh Border interferes. Walter de Lacy and Arnold de Lys have escaped from Ludlow Castle. So great is the courtesy of their captor that he will not taste food until his guests have dined. But one day when their meal is ready, they cannot be found. A fair traitress in the castle, Maid Marion of the Heath, who has become infatuated with Arnold, has connived at their escape, though no one knows of this at the time. After the marriage, Joce and Fulke leave for a visit in Berkshire, entrusting the castle to thirty knights and seventy soldiers. But Maid Marion is ill; she remains behind, only to notify Arnold de Lys that he will find a silken cord from one of the castle windows and that she will draw up a ladder for him to enter her chamber. He hastens to comply and brings at his back an hundred men-at-arms, who slay the sleeping knights and soldiers of the garrison in their beds. And Marion, when she learns of the tragedy the next morning, snatches her recreant lover's sword, thrusts him through the body and in her disappointment and despair hurls herself from the window upon the cruel rocks far beneath. When Joce and Fulke heard the astounding news, they hastened back to Ludlow and with a force of seven thousand men besieged DeLacy, who was strongly entrenched in the castle. Joce pressed the siege with great vigor, burning the great gate and making a breach in the outer walls; and DeLacy, as a last resort, called upon the Welsh chieftains for assistance. These outlawed gentry were never known to let the opportunity for a fight go begging, and responded with twenty thousand men, forcing Joce to appeal to King Henry. The king, who was especially friendly to Joce, sent peremptory orders to DeLacy to evacuate the castle forthwith, which he did. [Illustration: DOOR OF ROUND CHAPEL, LUDLOW CASTLE.] But we will follow the traditions of the castle no farther. The incident related shows its wealth of romantic associations. Its sober history is no less full of interesting vicissitudes. It figured largely in the wars of the Roses; it was for many years the home of Prince Arthur, eldest son of Henry VII., and his early death placed the irrepressible Henry VIII. on the throne. For nearly two hundred years the castle was the seat of the Lord President of the Marches, and Ludlow was in a certain sense the capital of the border counties. In Elizabeth's time Sir Henry Sidney of Penshurst, father of the more famous Sir Philip, was Lord President, serving for twenty-seven years; yet he suffered from the neglect that the queen so often showed to her most faithful subjects, and near the close of his life he pathetically writes: "The Queen will not be moved to reward me. I have not now so much ground as will feed one mutton. My lady is gone with smallpox which she got by continually nursing her Majesty in that sickness. I am now fifty-four years of age, toothless and trembling, five thousand pounds in debt and thirty thousand pounds worse than at the death of my dear King and master, Edward VI." Sixty years later the Parliamentary cannon planted on Whitcliff, just opposite, brought the active history of Ludlow Castle to an end. In 1651 it was finally dismantled; the lead and timbers were stripped from the roof, the mantels and furnishings were sold and the fine old structure given over to unhindered decay for nearly two hundred years. [Illustration: LUDLOW CASTLE FROM THE RIVER TEME. From Original Water Color by W. Egginton. Royal Cambrian Academy, 1908.] The fortunes of Ludlow have been closely intertwined with those of the castle. Since the fall of the fortress, little has happened to disturb the serenity and quietude of the town. It is prosperous today in a quiet way as a country market, and though it has many visitors, it has in no sense, as yet, become a tourist resort. One will find many fine buildings, odd nooks and corners, and very quaint streets, all quite devoid of any taint of modernity. The town is deservedly proud of its parish church--as fine, perhaps, as any in England. It occupies the opposite end of the high rock on which the castle sits and, after the castle, is easily the glory of Ludlow. It is built of red sandstone, time-stained to a dull brown, touched in places with silver gray; the shape is cruciform and the splendid square tower with its pinnacled corners forms a landmark for many miles from the surrounding country. It was originally built about 1200, on the site of an earlier church, though of course the present almost perfect structure is the result of thorough restoration. The windows are unusually good, though modern, and the tower was rebuilt and fitted with the fine mechanical peal of bells that ring six times daily with a different refrain for each day of the week. The tombs and monuments are numerous, but mostly those of old-time border dignitaries. We found much pleasure in wandering about the town on the morning of our last visit. The commodious market-house was filled with farmers and their wives from the country, who offered their products for sale, and as we mingled with them we heard nothing spoken but English. Down toward the castle a curiosity shop attracted our attention; a brick and timber house which was crammed to the very garret with antique arms, armor, jewelry, china, glass, ivory, furniture, brass--but we might not enumerate its contents in pages. Nor was this all, for at a short distance an old Norman chapel had been leased by the proprietor and it, too, was filled to overflowing with ancient things of all degrees, from a spoon or cup to a massive carved-oak bed worth two hundred pounds. The shop keeper, a benevolent-looking, gray-bearded old gentleman, is an authority on antiques and shows us many curios of astonishing value. But his daughter is more shrewd at business. No effort is made to sell us anything--only to interest us--and the apparent honesty of the shop people spoils many a deal. I am desirous of some souvenir of Ludlow, something distinctly suggestive of the place; an old sword, or pistol or what not, that might possibly--I ask no more than possibly--have been used in the frays that once raged round the castle. There are ancient swords and pistols galore; but they are French rapiers or Scotch claymores, and though I eagerly seek for a mere suggestion that one of them might possibly have come from Ludlow, I am told that it could hardly be; such treasures have been picked up long ago and should one be found it would command a large price. It is a disappointment, but it gives us confidence in the purchases we finally make--so many, in fact, that our ready cash is quite exhausted; but such a trifling matter is of no consequence--we are perfectly welcome to take the goods and send the money when we reach London. "We have done considerable business with Americans," says the young woman. "Were you ever at Mount Vernon?--of course you have been. We supplied the antiques used in furnishing Washington's kitchen there. One of the ladies of the committee happened to visit Ludlow and gave us the order." Before we finally leave the old town which has charmed us so much, we cannot forbear a last look at the castle, whose gray walls are flaunted by the noonday sun. We enter the wide grass-grown court; it is quite deserted and we make a farewell round of the lordly though ruinous apartments. It is the day of all days for a view from the battlements of the keep, over which flies the red and white banner of St. George. We climb the shattered and somewhat precarious stairs and behold the pleasant vale of the Teme, lying far beneath, every feature clear and distinct in the lucent, untainted summer day. The verdant valley, with its silvery river, its fine parks, its mansions, farmhouses, towns and villages, and the far blue outlines of the Welsh hills, make a scene quite too enchanting for any words of mine to describe. The town just outside the castle walls lies slumberously below the church tower, upon which the great clock points to the hour of twelve; the bells peal forth the melody that finds a response always and in every heart,--doubly so in that of the exiled wanderer--"Home Sweet Home," and which never seemed to us so strong in its appeal, for we are to sail within the week. INDEX A Abbottsford, 214. Abergavenny, 105-106. Abermaw, 365. Abingdon, 259. Aethelred, 286. Ailesbury Arms, Marlborough, 275. Alcester, 137, 371. Aldworth, 294. Alfoxden House, 81. Alfred the Great, 58-59, 260. Alloa, 227. Alnwick, 239-240. Althorpe House, 47. Ambleside, 184. "Ancient Mariner," 81. Angel Inn, Bury St. Edmunds, 18, 377. Angel Hotel, Chippenham, 260. Angel, The, Ludlow, 380. Anglesea, Isle of, 362. Antelope, The, Sherborne, 63, 65. Appleby, 178. Arden, Mary, 373-374. Ardilaun, Lord, 346-347. Arthur, King, 71-75, 106-107. Arthur, Prince, 386. Ashford, 322. Ashopton, 150. Askeaton, 353. Askrigg, 195. Athelney, Isle of, 58, 279. Austen, Jane, 302. Avebury, 274. Avilion, 279. Axbridge, 58. Ayr, 214. B Bakewell, 144, 147-148. Banbury, 374-375. Bankes, Sir John, 282. Bangor, 369. Bannockburn, Battle of, 222. Barmouth, 325, 363, 364-365. Barnard Castle, 170, 172-175. Barnsley, 252-253. Barnstaple, 77-79, 82. Barrow-in-Furness, 185. Bass Rock, 230-231. Bath, 57, 207, 270. Bear Inn, Cowbridge, 113. Bear Inn, Devizes, 274. Beaton, Cardinal, 224. Beaulieu, 287-288. a'Becket, Thomas, 157, 285. Beddgelert, 368-369. Bede, 205-206. Bedford, 377. Bell Hotel, Gloucester, 87-88. Bell Inn, Mildenhall, 29. Bell Inn, Stilton, 33. Bell Inn, Thetford, 28. Berkeley, 85-87. "Bess of Hardwick," 157-158. Bethesden, 322. Bettws-y-Coed, 370. Beverley, 160-162, 247. Bexhill, 312, 318. Bicester, 259. Biddenden, 322-323. Bideford, 78, 79. Bildeston, 20. Birthswaite, 189. Birtsmorton, 128-129. Bishop's Castle, 363. Black Lion, East Linton, 231. Black Lion, Stockton-on-Tees, 169. Blackmore, R. D., 82. Blarney Castle, 338-340. Blenheim, 200, 275. Blue Idol, The, 307. Bognor, 306. Bolsover Castle, 157, 158-159. Bolton Abbey, 193. Bolton Arms, Leyburn, 244. Bolton Castle, 240-244. Borrowdale, 179. Boscobel, 96-99, 136. Bournemouth, 276-279, 307, 314, 318. Bowes, 173, 177. Bowness, 188. Bradford-on-Avon, 270-273. Bradford, William, 255. Brampton, 209. Brandon, Charles, 19. Brantwood, 184-185. Brecon, 105, 124-126. Brent Eleigh, 19. Brewster, William, 255. Bridgewater, 58. Bridgnorth, 93. Bridlington, 163. Brighton, 164, 307, 314, 318. Bringtons, The, 40, 44-47, 258-259, 376. Bristol, 84. Broadstairs, 318. Broadway, 52-55. Bromham Church, 264-267. Bronte Family, 197. Brough, 177. Brougham Castle, 178. Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 90. Broxborne, 10. Bruce, Robert, 222, 226. Buckingham, 259. Builth, 104. Buntingford, 15. Bunyan, John, 377. Burne-Jones, 112. Burns, Robert, 214, 232-233. Bury St. Edmunds, 16-19, 377. Butler, Samuel, 134. Buxton, 144, 148-149. Bwlch Ooeddrws Pass, 364. Byron, Lord, 151-157. C Cader Idris, 364. Caedmon, 167. Caerleon, 105-107. Caerphilly, 107-109. Caher, 336. Cahersiveen, 344. Caister Castle, 24. Cambridge, 14-16, 32, 377. Camelford, 71, 75. Campden, 268. Canterbury, 199-200, 271, 300, 320-321. Cardiff, 110-111. Cardigan, 121-122. Carhan House, 344. Carisbrook Castle, 291-292. Carlisle, 206-207, 214, 243. Carlisle Family, 200, 209-210. Carlow, 327-329. Carlyle, Thomas, 17-18, 213-214, 222. Carlyle, Jane Welsh, 213, 231. Carmarthen, 116-117, 123. Carnarvon, 366. Carnegie, Andrew, 225-226, 372. Carrick-on-Suir, 330. Cashel, 331-335. Castle Combe, 269-270. Castle Hotel, Brecon, 125-126. Castle Hotel, Conway, 370. Castle Hotel, Haverford-west, 116-117. Castle Hotel, Tamworth, 138. Castle Howard, 200-202. Charles I., 6-7, 52, 55, 126, 135, 291, 328, 368. Charles II., 10-11, 23, 96-98, 135-136, 296. Chartley Castle, 140-141. Chatsworth, 144-146. Chawton, 302. Cheddar, 57-58. Cheltenham, 51, 55. Chesterfield, 144-145, 151. "Childe Harold," 152. Chillingham, 140, 238-239. Chippenham, 260. Chipping Campden, 52-54. Chirk, 371. Chollerford, 207. Chorley Wood, 4-6. Christchurch, 276. Cleeve Abbey, 82-83. Cleveland Hills, 168, 203. Clifford Family, 192. Clive, Robert, 99. Clonmel, 329-331. Clovelly, 76-77. Cobbett, William, 323. Colchester, 30. Coldstream, 237. Coleridge, 81, 179. Colwich, 139-140. Coniston, 188, 194. Conway, 366, 369-370. Coolham, 307-308. Corelli, Marie, 372. Corfe, 108, 279-282. Cork, 327, 329, 338-339. Corsham, 267-268. County Hotel, Carlisle, 211. Coventry, 39-40, 48-50, 136-137, 268, 371, 375-376. Cowbridge, 113-114. Cowdray, 304-306. Crickhowell, 105-106. Cromer, 26. Cromwell, Oliver, 12, 23, 55, 66, 109, 111, 135-136, 241, 245, 274, 284, 327, 328, 332, 340, 357. Cross Keys, Kelso, 237. Crown Inn, Bridgnorth, 93. Crown Inn, Lyndhurst, 298. Cruise's Royal, Limerick, 353. Cuckfield, 309. Cupar, 221. Curry Rivell Church, 62-63. D Dacre Family, 209-211, 310-312. Dalton, 185. Darfield, 253-254. Darlington, 170, 240. Dartmoor, 68-71. Darwin, Erasmus, 100. Daventry, 375. David I., 237. "David Copperfield," 24. Deane Church, 35-36. Deane House, 35. DeFoe, Daniel, 225. Denham, 7-8. Derby, 142. Desmond Castle, 353. Devizes, 273-274. Devonshire Arms, Wharfdale, 193. Dickens, Charles, 17-18, 21-22, 23-24, 94, 172-173, 177, 196. Dinas Mawddwy, 363-364. Dolgelley, 363-364. Doncaster, 159, 253-255. Dove Cottage, 180-182. Dovedale, 144. Dover, 315-317, 318. Droitwich, 137, 371. Dublin, 325, 326-327, 347, 360. Dufferin, Lady, 325. Dunfermline, 225-226. Dunster, 80-81. Durham, 204, 299. E Easingwold, 203. Eastbourne, 164, 318. East Linton, 231. Ecclefechan, 212-213. Eccles Hotel, Glengariff, 340-341. Ecton, 376-377. Eden Hall, 178. Edinburgh, 214, 216-217, 227-228. Edmund, King of East Anglia, 18. Edward, I., 362, 366. Edward IV., 106. Edward VII., 239, 290, 346. Edward, Prince, 89. Edward the Martyr, 282. Eliot, George, 138. Elizabeth, Queen, 49-50, 158, 284, 313, 316-317, 318, 370, 386. Epsom, 16, 324. Evesham, 55. Exeter, 66-68. F Fakenham, 26. Fairfax, General, 66. Farringford, 294. Ferrars, Earl of, 140-141. Feathers Inn, Ludlow, 379. Fermoy, 336. Firth of Forth, 217. Fishguard, 121-122. Fitzhardinge, Robert, 86. Flamborough Head, 163. Flodden Field, 238, 242. Floors Castle, 237. Folkestone, 314-315, 318. Fotheringhay, 34. Fountains Abbey, 187. Four Swans Inn, Waltham, 8. Foynes, 353. Franklin, Benjamin, 301, 376-377. Freshwater, 293-295. Furness Abbey, 185-188. G Gainsborough, 202. George Inn, St. Albans, 9. George Hotel, Buntingford, 15. Glaslyn, 368. Glastonbury Abbey, 75. Glendwr, Owen, 109, 112, 364, 367. Glengariff, 340-341. Glin, 352-353. Glossop, 149-150. Gloucester, 300. Godiva, Lady, 49. Golden Lion Inn, Barnstaple, 79. Golden Lion Inn, Leyburn, 244. Grand Hotel, Folkestone, 314. Grand Hotel, Tunbridge Wells, 324. Grasmere, 179-182. Grassington, 194. Gray, Thomas, 85. Great Driffield, 163. Great Western Hotel, Southampton, 289. Great White Horse, Ipswich, 21. Great Yarmouth, 23-24. Green Dragon, Hereford, 127. Greenhead, 207. Green's Hotel, Kinross, 220. Gretna Green, 212. Grinstead, 324. Guisborough, 169. Guy's Cliff, 50. H Haddington, 231. Haddon Hall, 144, 146-147. Hadleigh, 19-20. Hadrian, 207. Hailsham, 309. Hardwick Hall, 157-158. Harlech, 366-368. Harold, King, 120, 316. Harrogate, 188, 198. Hartland, 77. Hastings, 312, 318. Hathaway, Anne, 374. Hatton, Sir Christopher, 38, 282. Haverfordwest, 116-118. Haworth, 196-198. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 141. Hayward's Heath, 309. Hazlitt, 82. Hellifield, 191. Helvellyn, 179. Henry II., 157. Henry IV., 242, 367. Henry VIII., 65, 89, 110, 126, 156, 186, 288, 305, 386. Hereford, 90-92, 127-128, 309. Herstmonceux, 309-312. Hexham, 206-207. High Force, The, 173. High Force Hotel, 173-174. Holmes, Admiral, 295-296. Holy Cross Abbey, 334. Holyhead, 325, 362-363, 369. Honiton, 67. "Hours of Idleness," 154-155. Howard Family, 200-202. Hucknall, 151-153. Hunstanton, 26. Huntingdon, 33. Hurst Castle, 288. Hythe, 322. I Ilchester, 63. Ilfracombe, 77, 79-80. Ilkley, 188, 198. Imperial Hotel, Cork, 336-339. Ipswich, 19-23. Irving, Washington, 1, 154-155. Isle of Wight, 289-297. "Ivanhoe," 246. J James I., 66. "Jane Eyre," 197. Jarrow, 205. Jedburgh, 231-236. Jeffreys, Judge, 60-61. Jenner, Edward, 87. Jervaulx Priory, 246-247. Jigginstown House, 327. John, King, 58, 354. Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 141-142. Jones, Inigo, 38. Jones, John Paul, 163. Jones, Rev. Laurence, 270-271. Jordans, 6, 308. Juxon, Bishop, 52. K Keats, John, 293. Keighley, 196. Kelso, 237. Kendal, 189-190. Kenilworth, 39, 50, 137,381. Kenmare, 342. Keswick, 179-180. Kettlewell, 194-195. Kildare, 359-360. Killorglin, 345. Kilkenny, 329. King Arthur's Castle Hotel, Tintagel, 72, 74-75. King's Arms Hotel, Kendal,189. King's Head Hotel, Barnard Castle, 172-175. King's Head Hotel, Barnsley, 252-253. King's Head Hotel, Coventry, 39-40, 136-137. Kinross, 217, 220-221. Kirby Hall, 35-39, 305. Kirkcaldy, 225. Knaresborough, 198. Knox, John, 222, 224. "Kubla Khan," 81. L Lacock, 261, 263. Laidlaw, Walter, 232-236. "Lalla Rookh," 265. Lake Side, 188. Lamb, Charles, 8, 82. Lamberhurst, 322-323. Lanark, 214. Lanercost Priory, 210-211. Langdale Pikes and Fells, 179. Largo, 225. Launceston, 71. Lavenham, 19. Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 274. Ledbury, 90. Leeds, 196. Leicester's Hospital, Warwick, 50, 267. Leighton, 298. Lely, 202. Leyburn, 240, 243-244. Lichfield, 100, 139. Limerick, 353-355. Lion Hotel, Builth, 104. Listowel, 351. Little Compton Manor, 52. Little Woolford Manor, 51-52. Llanaber, 365. Llandaff, 111-112. Llandrindod Wells, 103. Llandovery, 123-124. Llanfair, 363. Llangollen, 371. Llyswen, 105. Loch Leven, 217-220. London, 3, 14. London Hotel, Taunton, 60-61. Longfellow, Henry W., 293. "Lorna Doone," 82. Lough Derg, 355. Louis XII. of France, 19. Lowestoft, 23. Lowwood Hotel, 183. Ludlow, 92, 139, 325, 363, 371, 379-390. Lulworth, 281-284. Lygon Arms, Broadway, 54-55. Lymington, 287, 289, 297. Lyndhurst, 298. Lynton, 79, 81, 82. "Lyrical Ballads," 81-82. M Macroom, 340. Maid's Head Hotel, Norwich, 25. Malvern, 134-135. Manchester, 179. Mansfield, 142-144, 151. Margate, 318. Marine Hotel, St. Andrews, 221. Market Drayton, 99. Market Harborough, 258. Marlborough, 275. "Marmion," 138, 238, 242. Marney, 30-31. Maryborough, 359. Mary Stuart, 158, 219-220, 242-244. Mary Tudor, 19. Melrose, 214, 231. Melton Mowbray, 257-258. Middleham, 244-246. Middlesbrough, 169. Middleton, 174. Midhurst, 304. Mildenhall, 29. Millais, 298. Millet, F. D., 53. Mitchelstown, 336. Monmouth, Duke of, 59-60. Montague Family, 288-289, 305. Montgomery, 102. Moore, Thomas, 264-266. Moran, Thomas, 73. Moreton Court, 128-131. Moreton Hampstead, 68-69. Moreton-in-the-Marsh, 52. Morris, Col., 250. Mountrath, 359. Muckross Abbey, 346, 348. Mundesley, 25, 26. N Naas, 327, 359. Nailsworth, 55. Naworth, 209-210. Neath, 114-115. Nenagh, 356-358. Nether Stowey, 81. Neville Family, 172. Newbridge, 360. Newcastle-on-Tyne, 204-205, 240. New Forest, 287, 298-299. New Inn, Clovelly, 77. Newmarket, 11, 16-17, 99. Newport (Isle of Wight), 290-291. Newport (S. E. Wales), 107. Newport (Western Wales), 122. Newstead Abbey, 144, 151, 153-157. Newtown, 103. "Nicholas Nickleby," 173, 177. Norfolk Broads, 24-25. Northampton, 258, 376. North Berwick, 228. North British Hotel, Edinburgh, 216-217. Norwich, 24-26. Nottingham, 257. Nuneaton, 138. O Oban, 341. O'Connell, Daniel, 344. "Old Curiosity Shop," 94. Old England Hotel, Windermere, 183. O'More, Rory, 327, 328. Osborne House, 290. Oswestry, 371. Otley, 198. Oundle, 34-36. Oxford, 259. P Painswick, 55-56. Paine, Thomas, 28, 79. Park Hotel, Cardiff, 110. Peak District, 144. Penderel Family, 98. Penn, William, 4-6, 307-308. Penrith, 178. Penzance, 318. Percy Family, 162, 239. Petham, 322. Pier Hotel, Yarmouth, 296. "Pilgrim's Progress," 377. Plas Mawr, 369-370. Plymouth, 2. Pontefract, 249-251. Porlock, 81-82. Portobello, 228. Portsmouth, 314, 318. Price, Sir John, 126. Prince Town, 68, 70. Purbeck, Isle of, 279-281. Q Queensferry, 217. R Raby Castle, 170-172. Raglan, 139. Raleigh, Sir Walter, 66. Ramsgate, 318. Randolph Hotel, Oxford, 259. Raven Hotel, Shrewsbury, 99. Reculver, 319-320. Red Horse, Stratford, 39. Red Lion, Banbury, 374-375. Red Lion, St. Albans, 9. Reynolds, 202. Richard II., 249, 251. Richard III., 106, 245. Richmond, 240. Rickmansworth, 5. Ringwood, 276, 287. Ripon, 247-249. Ripple, 128, 132. Robert, Prince, 110-111. Robin Hood's Bay, 165. Robinson Crusoe, 225. Robinson, Rev. John, 255. Rollright Stones, 52. Romsey, 299-300. Roscrea, 359. Ross Castle, 348. Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 112. Rosslyn Chapel, 214-216. Rougemont Hotel, Exeter, 66. "Round About Papers," 323-324. Royal Bath, Bournemouth, 277-279, 346. Royal Goat, Beddgelert, 368. Royal Hotel, Ventnor, 292. Rumbles Moor, 195. Rumsey, Ruth, 10-11. Ruskin, John, 184. Ryde, 292. Rydal, 179, 180. Rye, 292, 312-313. Rye House, 10-13. Rylstone, 193-194. S St. Albans, 8-9. St. Aldhelm, 271. St. Andrews, 220-225. St. Augustine, 356. St. Augustine's, Canterbury, 271. St. Cross, Winchester, 268, 301. St. Flannan, 355. St. James' Church, Bury St. Edmunds, 19. St. John's Cathedral, Limerick, 354. St. David's, 111, 117-121. St. Mary's Cathedral, Limerick, 354. St. Mary's Church, Beverley, 162. St. Mary's Church, Bury St. Edmunds, 19. St. Mary's Church, Scarborough, 197. St. Mary's Church, Shrewsbury, 144. St. Mary's Church, Taunton, 61. St. Mary's Church, Warwick, 50. St. Mary's Church, Whitby, 166-167. St. Michael's Church, Coventry, 48. St. Wilfred, 248. Salisbury, 276, 309. Sandwich, 317-318. Savernake Forest, 275-276. Scarborough, 163-165. Scott, Sir Gilbert, 215. Scott, Sir Walter, 138, 228-230, 246, 304, 381. Scrooby, 255-256. Scrope, Lord, 242-243. Sedgemoor, Battle of, 59. Selborne, 301, 302-304. Selkirk, Alexander, 225. Settle, 190-191. Shakespeare, 12, 109, 180, 199, 245. Shakespeare's Cliff, 316. Shanklin, 293. Sheffield, 150-151. Shelley, Percy B., 79, 82, 152. Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 278. Shenstone, William, 61. Sherborne, 62-66, 300. Sherrin, Daniel, 43. Shifnal, 94. Ship Inn, Porlock, 82. Shipston-on-Stour, 51. Shrewsbury, 72, 99-100, 207, 371. Siddons, Mrs., 126. Sidney Family, 386. Skiddaw, 179. Skipton, 191-192. Sloperton Cottage, 264-266. Snake Hotel, 150. Sneem, 342-343. Solent, 289, 297. Solway, 207, 212. Somerton, 63. Southampton, 287, 289. Southey, 82, 179. Spencer Family, 44-45, 47, 157. Spenser, Edmund, 353. Staindrop, 170. Stanley Family, 95. Stanton, 128. Star Hotel, Worcester, 136. Station Hotel, Holyhead, 362-363. Station Hotel, Newcastle-on-Tyne, 204. Station Hotel, York, 159, 187-188, 199. Stephen, King, 381. Stephenson, George, 145. Stilton, 33. Stirling, 227. Stockton-on-Tees, 169-170, 204. Stonehenge, 55, 274-275, 276. Stowmarket, 19-20. Stratford-on-Avon, 39, 50-51, 137, 145, 371-374. Strensham, 128, 132-134. Stroud, 55-56. Sulgrave, 40-46. Swan Inn, Mansfield, 142-144, 151. Swansea, 115-116. Swinburne, Algernon C., 297. Swindon, 260. T Tadcaster, 159. Talbot Hotel, Oundle, 34. Tamworth, 138-139. Tantallon, 228-230. Tarbert-on-Shannon, 350-351. Taunton, 58-61. Tavistock, 71. Tawstock Church, 78. Tennyson, Alfred, 289, 293-295. Tewkesbury, 55, 88, 132. Tewkesbury, Battle of, 89. Thackeray, William M., 323, 341. Thetford, 28. Thirlmere, 179. Thirsk, 203. Thorpe, John, 38. Tintagel, 71-75, 77, 341. Tintock Moor, 214. Tong, 94-96, 99. Torquay, 318. Towcester, 259. Towton Moor, 251. Tralee, 348-350. Treaty Inn, Uxbridge, 6-7. Trinity Church, Chesterfield, 145. Tunbridge Wells, 322-324. Turk's Head, Oundle, 34. Two Bridges Hotel, 70. Twyford, 300-301. Tynemouth, 207. U Uckfield, 309. Ulverston, 185, 188. Unicorn Hotel, Ripon, 249. University Arms, Cambridge, 15, 32. Upton-on-Severn, 134. Uriconium, 207. Usk, 106. Uttoxeter, 140-142. Uxbridge, 6. V Vanbrugh, 200. VanDyke, 202, 267. Vane Arms, Stockton-on-Tees, 170. Vane, Sir Henry, 172. Ventnor, 292-293. Vernon Family, 95, 147. Victoria Hotel, Cheltenham, 55. Victoria Hotel, Great Yarmouth, 24. Victoria Hotel, Killarney, 345-346. Victoria, Queen, 290. Victoria Hotel, Nottingham, 257. W Wakefield, 251-252. Wakes, The, Selborne, 302. Waltham, 8. Wareham, 284. Warminghurst, 307, 308. Warwick, 39, 50, 137, 268, 371. Washington Family, 40-47. Watson, William, 302, 303. Watts, George Frederick, 233. Wells, 57. Wells-Next-the-Sea, 26. Welshpool, 102, 363. Weston-Super-Mare, 84. Wharfdale, 193. Whitby, 165-168, 174. White, Gilbert, 302-304. White Hart Inn, Launceston, 71. White Hart Inn, Taunton, 60-61. White Ladies, 99. William Rufus, 298-299. William the Conqueror, 120, 189, 306. Wimborne Minster, 284-287. Winchelsea, 312. Winchelsea Family, 38. Winchester, 268, 288, 301. Windermere, 182-183, 188, 189. Wishart, George, 224. Wolsey, Cardinal, 130-131. Wolverhampton, 101. Worcester, 131, 135-136. Wordsworth, William and Dorothy, 81, 179-182, 190, 194, 215. Worksop, 159. Wormleighton, 41. Worthing, 306-307. Wyatt, 309. Wymondham, 27-28. Y Yarm, 204. Yarmouth, 289, 295-296. Yatton Keynell, 268. Ye Ancient House, Ipswich, 22-23. Yeovil, 63. York, 159, 187-188, 198-200, 207, 247, 248. [Illustration: Map of England and Wales] [Illustration: Maps of Scotland and Ireland] Transcriber's notes: The following is a list of changes made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. from the fact that their wordly possessions from the fact that their worldly possessions some ten miles to the northeast of Sulgrave. some ten miles to the northeast of Sulgrave, etherial beauty, which we drink in as we skim ethereal beauty, which we drink in as we skim their absence the palace was thown open to the their absence the palace was thrown open to the the Crown Inn, where we stopped for luncheon the Crown Inn, where we stopped for luncheon, colleries and smelting-works, and the road over collieries and smelting-works, and the road over We thanked the officer and cautiously decended We thanked the officer and cautiously descended neccessary to complete the charm is in the merest necessary to complete the charm is in the merest many point of similarity, though in population and many points of similarity, though in population and Gainsborough, Lely, VanDyke, Reynolds, and many Gainsborough, Lely, Van Dyke, Reynolds, and many enough, secure a heated bathroom en suit, might enough, secure a heated bathroom en suite, might rough that it tried every rivit in our car, and nothing rough that it tried every rivet in our car, and nothing Pontefact was a very storm center in the wars of Pontefract was a very storm center in the wars of No chance for a comman man in England!--How No chance for a common man in England!--How 'not guilty,: he said that he intended no harm, he 'not guilty,' he said that he intended no harm, he bcause the offender was a peer. Four out of because the offender was a peer. Four out of 
45567	----	Transcriber's Notes: When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has been surrounded by _underscores_. Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected. In particular, punctuation has been normalized and entries in the List of Illustrations and in the Index were altered to match the main text. Further, a single entry in the original List of Illustrations which referred to two distinct maps was split into two entries (SCOTLAND and ENGLAND AND WALES). Other corrections are listed below with the original text (top) and the replacement text (bottom): p. 40 many quaint timbered house many quaint timbered houses p. 95 employe employee p. 249 Wordsworh Wordsworth p. 212 Fort Williams Fort William p. 311 appoach approach p. 350 July 5, 1585 July 5, 1685 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ON OLD-WORLD HIGHWAYS ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _By the Same Author_ British Highways and Byways from a Motor Car THIRD IMPRESSION WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS Sixteen Reproductions in Color, and Thirty-two Duogravures 320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth Price (Boxed), $3.00 ------- In Unfamiliar England With a Motor Car SECOND IMPRESSION WITH SIXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Forty-eight Duogravures 400 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth Price (Boxed), $3.00 ------- Three Wonderlands of the American West SECOND IMPRESSION WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-two Duogravures 180 Pages, Tall 8vo, Decorated Cloth Price (Boxed) $3.00 Net ------- L. C. PAGE & COMPANY BOSTON ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ON OLD-WORLD HIGHWAYS A Book of Motor Rambles in France and Germany and the Record of a Pilgrimage from Land's End to John O'Groats in Britain. BY THOS. D. MURPHY AUTHOR OF "THREE WONDERLANDS OF THE AMERICAN WEST," "BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR" AND "IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND WITH A MOTOR CAR." WITH SIXTEEN REPRODUCTIONS IN COLORS FROM ORIGINAL PAINTINGS BY EMINENT ARTISTS AND FORTY DUOGRAVURES FROM PHOTOGRAPHS. ALSO MAPS SHOWING ROUTES OF AUTHOR. [Illustration] BOSTON L. C. PAGE & COMPANY PUBLISHERS MDCCCCXIV ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _Copyright, 1914_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) ------- _All rights reserved_ ------- First Impression, January, 1914 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Preface I know that of making books of travel there is no limit--they come from the press in a never-ending stream; but no one can say that any one of these is superfluous if it finds appreciative readers, even though they be but few. My chief excuse for the present volume is the success of my previous books of motor travel, which have run through several fair-sized editions. I have had many warmly appreciative letters concerning these from native Englishmen and the books were commended by the Royal Automobile Club Journal as accurate and readable. So I take it that my point of view from the wheel of a motor car interests some people, and I shall feel justified in writing such books so long as this is the case. I know that in some instances I have had to deal with hackneyed subjects; but I have striven for a different viewpoint and I hope I have contributed something worth while in describing even well-known places. On the other hand, I know that I have discovered many delightful nooks and corners in Britain that even the guide-books have overlooked. Besides, I am sure that books of travel have ample justification in the fact that travel itself is one of the greatest of educators and civilizers. It teaches us that we are not the only people--that wisdom shall not die with us alone. It shows us that in some things other people may do better than we are doing and it may enable us to avoid mistakes that others make. In short, it widens our horizon and tones down our self-conceit--or it should do all of this if we keep ears and eyes open when abroad. I make no apology for the fact that the greater bulk of the present volume deals with the Motherland, even if its title does not so indicate. Her romantic charm is as limitless as the sea that encircles her. Even now, after our long journeyings in every corner of the Island, I would not undertake to say to what extent we might still carry our exploration in historic and picturesque Britain. Should one delight in ivy-covered castles, rambling old manors, ruined abbeys, romantic country-seats, haunted houses, great cathedrals and storied churches past numbering, I know not where the limit may be. But I do know that the little party upon whose experiences this book is founded is still far from being satisfied after nearly twenty thousand miles of motoring in the Kingdom, and if I fail to make plain why we still think of the highways and byways of Britain with an undiminished longing, the fault is mine rather than that of my subject. In this book, as in my previous ones, the illustrations play a principal part. The color plates are from originals by distinguished artists and the photographs have been carefully selected and perfectly reproduced. The maps will also be of assistance in following the text. I hope that these valuable adjuncts may make amends for the many literary shortcomings of my text. THOMAS D. MURPHY Red Oak, Iowa, January 1, 1914. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS Page I BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 1 II THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 29 III ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 45 IV COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 59 V BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 77 VI THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 104 VII A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 125 VIII THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 145 IX OLD WHITBY 157 X SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 173 XI IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 191 XII DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 210 XIII ALONG THE WEST COAST 224 XIV ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 246 XV WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 262 XVI CONWAY 279 XVII THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 298 XVIII POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 320 XIX LAND'S END TO LONDON 336 XX THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 355 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS COLOR PLATES Page THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL Frontispiece SUNSET IN TOURAINE 1 WOODS IN BRITTANY 26 PIER LANE, WHITBY 164 HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY 180 A HIGHLAND LOCH 188 ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS 204 GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS 208 THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET 210 "THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT" 236 THE FALLEN GIANT--A HIGHLAND STUDY 240 CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES 280 "THE NEW ARRIVAL" 282 KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL 334 SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL 336 "A DISTANT VIEW OF THE TOWERS OF WINDSOR" 355 DUOGRAVURES ST. LO FROM THE RIVER 18 A STREET IN ST. MALO 24 CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT 32 AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE 34 GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS 36 PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS 46 CASTLE AT FUSSEN 66 OBERAMMERGAU 70 ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL 82 GOETHE'S HOUSE--FRANKFORT 86 BINGEN ON THE RHINE 88 CASTLE RHEINSTEIN 90 EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE 92 RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS 94 LUXEMBURG--GENERAL VIEW 102 ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH--GRANTHAM 150 OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK, NEAR ABBOTSFORD 178 HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS 200 URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS 214 THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE 220 "McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN 224 GLENLUCE ABBEY 242 SWEETHEART ABBEY 244 WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE--COCKERMOUTH 250 CALDER ABBEY, CUMBERLAND 252 KENDAL CASTLE 258 KENDAL PARISH CHURCH 260 DENBIGH CASTLE--THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP 266 ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH 272 GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES 276 PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN ACADEMY 284 INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY 286 CONWAY CASTLE--THE OUTER WALL 292 BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS 312 BERRY POMEROY CASTLE--WALL OF INNER COURT 316 A STREET IN EAST LOOE--CORNWALL 322 POLPERRO, CORNWALL--LOOKING TOWARD THE SEA 324 LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO 326 A STREET IN FOWEY--CORNWALL 330 PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL 332 MAPS FRANCE AND GERMANY 380 SCOTLAND 388 ENGLAND AND WALES 388 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Through Summer France and The Fatherland ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: SUNSET IN TOURAINE From original painting by Leon Richet] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On Old-World Highways I BOULOGNE TO ROUEN Our three summer pilgrimages in Britain have left few unexplored corners in the tight little island--we are thinking of new worlds to conquer. Beyond the narrow channel the green hills of France offer the nearest and most attractive field. Certainly it is the most accessible of foreign countries for the motorist in England and every year increasing numbers of English-speaking tourists are seen in the neighboring republic. The service of the Royal Automobile Club, with its usual enterprise and thoroughness, leaves little to be desired in arranging the details of a trip and supplies complete information as to route. An associate membership was accorded me on behalf of the Automobile Club of America, whose card I presented and which serves an American many useful ends in European motordom. Mr. Maroney, the genial touring secretary, at once interested himself in our proposed tour. He undertook to outline a route, to arrange for transportation of our car across the Channel, to provide for duties and licenses and, lastly, to secure a courier-guide familiar with the countries we proposed to invade and proficient in the French and German languages. The necessary guide-books and road-maps are carried in stock by the club and the only charge made is for these. Our proposed route was traced on the map, a typewritten list of towns and distances was made and a day or two later I was advised that a guide had been engaged. Mr Maroney expressed regret that the young men who serve the club regularly in this capacity were already employed, but he had investigated the man secured for us and found him competent and reliable. "Still," said Mr. Maroney with characteristic British caution, "we would feel better satisfied with one of our own men on the job; but it is the best we can do for you under the circumstances." We learned that our guide was a young Englishman of good family, at present in somewhat straitened circumstances, which made him willing to accept any position for which his talents might fit him. He had previously piloted motor parties through France and Italy and spoke four languages with perfect fluency. He had done a lot of knocking about, having recently been in a shipwreck off the coast of South America and having held a captain's commission in the South African War. We therefore called him "the Captain," and I may as well adopt that designation in referring to him in these pages, since his real name would interest no one. He was able to drive the car and declared willingness to do a chauffeur's part in caring for it. The only doubt expressed by Mr. Maroney was that the Captain might "forget his place"--that of a servant--and before long consider himself a member of our party, and with characteristic frankness the touring secretary cautioned our guide in my presence against any such presumption. It is a fine May afternoon when we drive from London to Folkestone to be on hand in time to attend to the formalities for crossing the Channel on the following day. Police traps, we are warned, abound along the road and we proceed quite soberly, taking some four hours for the seventy-five miles including the slow work of getting out of London. The Royal Pavilion Hotel on low ground near the docks is strictly first-class and its rates prove more moderate than we found at its competitors on the cliff. Our car is left at the dock, arrangements for its transport having been made beforehand by the Royal Automobile Club; but we saunter down in the morning to see it loaded. We need not worry about this, for it goes "at the company's risk," a provision which costs us ten shillings extra. It is pushed upon a large platform and a steam crane soon swings it high in the air preparatory to depositing it on the steamer deck. "She's an airship now," said an old salt as the car reached its highest point. "We did fetch over a sure-enough airship last week--belonged to that fellow Paulhan and he's a decentish chap, too; you'd never think he was a Frenchman!"--which would seem to indicate that the entente cordiale had not entirely cleared away prejudice from the mind of our sailor-friend. Our crossing was as comfortable as any Channel crossing could be--which in our case is not saying much, for that green, rushing streak of salt water, the English Channel, always gives us a squeamish feeling, no matter how "smooth" it may be. We are only too glad to get on terra firma in Boulogne and to see our car almost immediately swung to the dock. I had read in a recently published book by a motor tourist of the dreadful ordeal he underwent in securing his license to drive; a stern official sat beside him and put him through all his paces to ascertain if he was competent to pilot a car in France. I was expecting to be compelled to give a similar exhibit, when the Captain came out of the station with driving licenses for both himself and me and announced that we would be ready to proceed as soon as he attached a pair of very indistinct number plates. "But the examination 'pour competence,'" I said. "O," he replied, "I just explained to his nobs that we were in a great hurry and couldn't wait for an examination--and a five-franc piece did the rest." A piece of diplomacy which no doubt left the honest official feeling happier than if I had given him a joy-ride over the cobbles of Boulogne. Filling our tank with "essence," which we learn, after translating some jargon concerning "litres" and "francs," will cost about thirty-five cents per gallon--we strike out on the road to Montreuil. It proves a typical French highway and our first impressions are confirmed later on. The road is broad, with perfect contour and easy grades, running straight away for miles--or should I say kilometers?--and showing every evidence of engineering skill and careful construction. But it is old-fashioned macadam without any binding material. The motor car has torn up the surface and scattered it in loose dust which rises in clouds from our wheels or has been swept away by the wind, leaving the roadbed bare but rough and jagged--a perfect grindstone on rubber tires. The same description applies to nearly all the roads we traversed in France, and no doubt the vast preponderance of them are still in the same state or worse. A movement for re-surfacing the main highways is now in progress and in a few years France will again be at the front, though at this time she is far behind England in the matter of modern automobile roads. The long straight stretches and the absence of police traps in the country make fast time possible--if one is willing to pay the tire bill. Thirty miles an hour is an easy jog and though we left Boulogne after three, we find we have covered one hundred and ten miles at nightfall, including a stop for luncheon. At Montreuil we strike the first and only serious grade, a long, steep hill up which winds the cobble-paved main street of the town--our first experience with the cobble pavement of the provincial towns, of which more anon. A few miles beyond Montreuil the Captain steers us into a narrow byroad which leads into the quaint little fisher town of Berck-sur-Mer and, indeed, the much-abused "quaint" is not misapplied here. The old buildings straggle along the single street, quite devoid of any touch of the picturesque and thronged by people of all degrees. We see many queer four-wheeled vehicles--not much larger than toy wagons--drawn by ponies and donkeys, the drivers lying at full length on their backs, staring at the sky or asleep, their motive power wandering along at its own sweet will. It is indeed ridiculous to see full-grown men riding in such a primitive fashion, but the sight is not unusual. We meet a troop of prawn fishers coming in from the sea--as miserable specimens of humanity as we ever beheld--ragged, bedraggled, bare-headed and bare-footed creatures; many old women among them, prancing along like animated rag-bags. Swinging back into the main highway, we soon reach Abbeville, whose roughly paved streets wind between bare, unattractive buildings. In places malodorous streams run along the streets--practically open sewers, if the smell is any indication. Abbeville affords an example of the terrible cobblestone pavement that we found in nearly all French cities of the second class. The round, uneven stones--in the States we call them "niggerheads"--have probably lain undisturbed for centuries. Besides the natural roughness of such a pavement, there are numerous chuck-holes. No matter how slowly we drive, we bounce and jump over these stones, which strike the tires with sledge-hammer force, sending a series of shivers throughout the car. It is no wonder that such pavements and the grindstone roads often limit the life of tires to a few hundred miles. Out of Abbeville we "hit up" pretty strongly, for it is nearly dark and we plan to reach Rouen for the night. The straight fine road offers temptation to speed, under the circumstances, and our odometer does not vary much from forty miles--when we are suddenly treated to a surprise that makes us more cautious about speeding on French roads at dusk. In a little hollow we strike a ditch six inches deep by two or three feet in width--a "canivau," as they designate it in France--with a terrific jolt which almost threatens the car with destruction. The frame strikes the axles with fearful force; it seems impossible that nothing should be broken. A careful search fails to reveal any apparent damage, though a fractured axle-rod a short time later is undoubtedly a result of the violent blow. It seems strange that an important main road should have such a dangerous defect, though we find many similar cases later; but as we travel no more after dusk, and generally at much more moderate speed, we have no further mishap of the kind. We light our lamps and proceed at a more sober pace to Neufchatel, where we decide to stop for the night at the rather unattractive-looking Lion d'Or. We have reason to congratulate ourselves, for the wayside inn is really preferable to the Angleterre at Rouen and the rates are scarcely half so much. It is a rambling old house, partly surrounding a stable-yard court where the motor is stored for the night. The regular meal time is past, but a plain supper is prepared for us. We are tired enough not to be too critical of our accommodations and the rooms and beds are clean and fairly comfortable. We have breakfast at a long table where the guests all sit together and the fare, while plain, is good. There is nothing of interest in Neufchatel, though its cheese has given it a world-wide fame. It is a market town of four or five thousand people, depending largely on the prosperous country surrounding it. We are early away for Rouen and in course of an hour we come in sight of the cathedral spire, the highest in all France, rising nearly five hundred feet and overtopping Salisbury, the loftiest in England, by almost one hundred feet. At the Captain's recommendation we seek the Hotel Angleterre--which means the Hotel England--a bid, no doubt, for the patronage of the numerous English-speaking tourists who visit the city. There is a deal of dickering before we get settled, for the rates are unreasonably high; but after considerable parley a bargain is made. We enter the diminutive "lift," which holds two persons by a little crowding, but after the first trip we use the stairway to save time. One could not "do" Rouen in the guide-book sense in less than a week--but such is not the object of our present tour. If one brings a motor to France he can hardly afford to let it stand idle to spend several days in any city. We shall see what we can of Rouen in a day and take the road again in the morning. Our first thought is of Jeanne d'Arc and her martyrdom in the old city and our second of the cathedral, in some respects one of the most remarkable in Europe. It is but a stone's throw from our hotel and is consequently our first attraction. The facade is imposing despite its incongruous architectural details and has a world of intricate carving and sculpture, partly concealed by scaffolding, for the church is being restored. The towers flanking the facade are unfinished, both lacking the tall Gothic spire originally planned and, indeed, necessary to give a harmonious effect to the whole. A spire of open iron-work nearly five hundred feet in height replaces the original wooden structure burned by lightning in 1822 and is severely criticised as being out of keeping with the elaborate stone building which it surmounts. Once inside we are overwhelmed by a sense of vastness--the great church is nearly five hundred feet in length, while the transept is a third as wide. The arches of the nave seem almost lost in the dim, softly toned light that streams in from the richly colored windows, some of which date from the twelfth century. If the exterior is incongruous, the interior is indeed a symphony in stone, despite a few jarring notes in the decorations of some of the private chapels. There are many beautiful monuments, mainly to French church dignitaries whom we never heard of and care little about, but the battered gigantic limestone effigy discovered in 1838 is full of fascinating interest, for it represents Richard the Lion-Hearted--the Richard of "Ivanhoe"--whose heart, enclosed in a triple casket of lead, wood and silver, is buried beneath. The figure is nearly seven feet in length and we wonder if this is a true representation of the stature of our childhood's hero, who, "starred with idle glory, came Bearing from leaguered Ascalon The barren splendour of his fame, And, vanquished by an unknown bow, Lies vainly great at Fontevraud." For Richard's body was interred at Fontevraud, near Orleans, with other members of English royalty. Henry II. is also buried in Rouen Cathedral--all indicative that there was a day when English kings regarded Normandy as their home! Another memorial which interests us is dedicated to LaSalle, the great explorer, who was born in Rouen. He was buried, as every schoolboy knows, in the great river which he discovered, but his memory is cherished by his native city as the man who gave the empire of Louisiana to France. Rouen has at least two other churches of first magnitude--St. Ouen and St. Maclou--but we shall have to content ourselves with a cursory glance at their magnificence. The former is declared to be "one of the most beautiful Gothic churches in existence, surpassing the cathedral both in extent and excellence of style." Such is the pronouncement of that final authority on such matters, Herr Baedeker! But, after all, is not Rouen best known to the world because of its connection with the strange figure of Jeanne d'Arc? Indeed, her career savors of myth and legend--not the sober fact of history--and it is hard to conceive of the scene that took place around the fatal spot in the Vieux-Marche, now marked with a large stone bearing the inscription, "Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mar. 1431." Here a tender young woman whose only crime was an implicit belief that she was divinely inspired, was burned at the stake by order of a reverend bishop who, surrounded by his satellites, approvingly looked on the dreadful scene. And these men were not painted savages, but high dignitaries of Christendom. Much of old Rouen stands to-day as it stood then, but what a vast change has been wrought in humankind! Only a single ruinous tower remains of the castle where the Maid was confined. While imprisoned here she was intimidated by being shown the instruments of torture; but she withstood the callous brutality of her persecutors with fortitude and heroism that baffled them, though it only enraged them the more. We acknowledge the hopelessness of getting any adequate idea of a city of such antiquity and importance in a day and the Captain says we may as well quit trying. He suggests that we take the tram for Bonsecours, situated on the steep hill towering high over the town from the right bank of the river. Here is a modern Catholic cemetery with many handsome tombs and monuments and, in the center, a recently erected memorial to Joan of Arc. This consists of three little temples in the Renaissance style, the central chapel enclosing a marble statue of the Maid. There is a modern church near by whose interior--a solid mass of bright green, red and gold--is the most gorgeous we have seen. The specialty of this church is "votive tablets"--the walls are covered with little marble placards telling what some particular saint has done for the donor in response to a vow. A round charge, the Captain says, is made for each tablet, so that the income of Bonsecours Church must be a good one. But one will not visit Bonsecours to see the church or the memorial, though both are interesting in their way, but for the unmatched view of the city and the Seine Valley, which good authorities pronounce one of the finest panoramas in Europe. From the memorial the whole city lies spread out like a map--so far beneath that the five-hundred-foot spire of Notre Dame is below the level of our vision. The city, with its splendid spires rising amidst the wilderness of streets and house-roofs, fills the valley near at hand and the broad, shining folds of the Seine, with its old bridges and wooded shores, lends a glorious variety to the scene. The view up and down the river is quite unobstructed, covering a beautiful and prosperous valley bounded on either side by the verdant hills of Normandy. This view alone well repays a visit to Bonsecours, whether one's stay in Rouen be short or long. In leaving Rouen we cross the Seine and follow the fine straight road which runs through Pont Audemer to Honfleur on the coast. This was not our prearranged route, but the Captain apparently gravitates toward the sea whenever possible, and he is responsible for the diversion. From Honfleur we follow the narrow road along the coast--its sharp turns, devious windings, short steep hills and the hedgerows which border it in places recalling the byways of Devon and Cornwall. We again come out on the shore at Trouville-sur-Mer, a watering place with an array of imposing hotels. It is not yet the "season" and many of the hotels are closed, but the Belvue, one of the largest, is doing business and we have an elaborate luncheon here which costs more than we like to pay. Out of Trouville our road still pursues the coast, running through a series of resorts and fishing villages until it swings inland for Caen--a quaint, irregular old place which, next to Rouen, declares Baedeker, is the most interesting city in Normandy. We are sorry that many of its show-places are closed to us, for it is Sunday and the churches are not open to tourist inspection. In St. Stephen's we might have seen the tomb of William the Conqueror, though his remains no longer rest beneath it, having been disinterred and scattered by the Huguenots in 1562. Caen has two other great churches--St. Peter's and Trinity, which we can view only from the outside. It is Pentecost Sunday and the streets are thronged with young girls in white who have taken part in confirmation services; we have seen others at many places during the day. It is about the only thing to remind us that it is Sunday, for the shops are open, work is going on in the fields, and road-making is in progress; we note little suspension of week-day activities. The peasants whom we see by the roadside and in the little villages are generally very dirty but seem happy and content. The farm houses are usually unattractive, often with filthy surroundings--muck-heaps in front of the doors--not unlike what we saw in some parts of Ireland. The road from Caen to Bayeux runs as straight as an arrow's flight, broad, level and bordered--as most main roads are in France--by rows of stately trees. We give the motor full rein and the green sunny fields flit joyously past us. What a relief to "open her up" without thought of a policeman behind every bush! Is it any wonder that the oft-trapped Englishman considers France a motorist's paradise? The spires of Bayeux Cathedral soon rise before us and we must content ourselves with the exterior of this magnificent church. Not so with the museum which contains the Bayeux Tapestry, for the lady member of our party is determined to see this famous piece of needlework, willy nilly. The custodian is finally located and we are admitted to view the relic. It is a strip of linen cloth eighteen inches wide and two hundred thirty feet long, embroidered in colored thread with scenes representing the Conquest of England by William of Normandy. It is claimed that the work was done by Queen Matilda and her maidens, though this is disputed by some authorities; but its importance as a contemporary representation of historic events of the time of William I. far outweighs its artistic significance. The main road from Bayeux to St. Lo is one of the most glorious highways in France. It runs through an almost unbroken forest of giant trees for a good part of the distance--a little more than twenty miles--and the sunset sky gleaming through the stately trunks relieves the otherwise somber effect. By happy accident we reach St. Lo at nightfall and turn into the courtyard of the Hotel de Univers, a comfortable-looking old house invitingly close to the roadside. I say by happy accident, for we never planned to stop at St. Lo and but for chance might have remained in ignorance of one of the most charming little cathedral towns in France. Indeed, we feel that St. Lo is ours by right of discovery, for we find but scant mention of it in the guide-books. After an excellent though unpretentious dinner, we sally forth from our inn to view our surroundings in the deepening twilight. The town is situated on the margin of a still little river which wonderfully reflects the ancient vine-covered houses that climb the sharply sloping hillside. The huge bulk of the cathedral looms mysteriously over the town and its soaring twin spires are sharply outlined against the dim moonlit sky. The towers are not exact duplicates, as they appear from a distance, but both exhibit the same general characteristics of Gothic style. The whole scene is one of enchanting beauty; the dull glow of the river, the houses massed on the hillside, with lighted windows gleaming here and there and and crowning all the vast sentinellike form of the cathedral--a scene that would lose half its charm if viewed by the flaunting light of day. And we secretly resolve that we shall have no such disenchantment; we shall steal quietly out of St. Lo in the early morning with never a backward glance. We do not, therefore, see the interior of the church, which has several features of peculiar interest, and we may be pardoned for adopting the description of an English writer: "Notre Dame de Saint-Lo has a very unusual and original plan, widening towards the east and adding another aisle to the north and south ambulatories. On the north side is its chief curiosity, an out-door pulpit, built at the end of the fifteenth century and probably used by Huguenot preachers, to whom a sermon was a sermon, whether preached under a vaulted roof or the open sky. What strikes one most about the interior of the church is its want of light. The nave is absolutely unlighted, having neither tri-forium nor clerestory, and the aisles have only one tier of large windows, whose glass is old and very fine, though in most cases pieced together; the nave piers are massive, with a cluster of three shafts; those of the choir are quite simple, and have one noticeable feature, the absence of capitals, the vault mouldings dying away into the pier." [Illustration: ST. LO FROM THE RIVER] We shall remember our hotel as the best type of the small-town French inn--a simple, old-fashioned house where we had attentive service and a studied effort to please was made by all connected with the place. And not the least of its merits are its moderate charges--less than half we paid at many of the larger places, often for less satisfactory accommodations. Twenty miles westward from St. Lo we come to Coutances, which boasts of a cathedral church of the first magnitude and one of the oldest in Normandy, dating almost in entirety from the thirteenth century. Leaving the main highway a little beyond Coutances, we follow the narrow byroad running about a mile from the coast through Granville, a well-known seaside resort, to Avranches. This road is scarcely more than a winding lane with many sharp little hills, hedge-bordered in places and often overarched by trees--a little like the roads of Southern England, a type not very common in France. South of Granville it closely follows the shore for a few miles, then swings inland for a mile or two, affording only occasional glimpses of the sea. Avranches, from its commanding site on a lofty hill, soon breaks into view, and the Captain suggests luncheon at the Grand Hotel de France et de Londres, which he says is famous in this section. Besides, it is well worth while to ascend the hill for the panorama of St. Michel's Bay, with its cathedral-crowned islet, which may be seen to the best advantage from the town. It is a stiff, winding climb to the summit, but we reach the cobble-paved, vine-embowered court of the hotel just in time for dinner. I suppose the "Londres" was added to the name of the inn with a view of catching the English-speaking trade, which is considerable in Avranches, since the town is the stopping-place of many tourists who visit Mont St. Michel. From the courtyard we are ushered into the dining-room where, after the fashion of country inns in France, a single long table serves all the guests. At the head sits the proprietor, a suave, gray-bearded gentleman who graciously does the courtesies of the table. The meal is quite an elaborate one and there is plenty of old port wine for the bibulously inclined. I might say here that this inclusion of wines without extra charge is a common but not universal practice with the French country inns; generally these liquors are of the cheapest quality, little better than vinegar, and one trial will make the average tourist a teetotaler unless he wishes to order a better grade as an "extra." After the meal our host comes out to wish us "bon voyage" as we depart and we are at a loss to understand his intention when he picks up a small ladder and begins climbing up the wall. We see, however, that a rose-vine bearing a few beautiful blossoms clings to the stones above a window. The old gentleman cuts some of the choicest flowers and presents them, with a gracious bow, to the lady of our party. The new causeway makes Mont St. Michel easily accessible to motorists and affords a splendid view as one approaches the towered and pinnacled rock and the little town that climbs its steep sides. Formerly the tide covered the rough road that led to the mount, much the same as it still covers the approach to the Cornish St. Michael; but the new grade is above high-tide level and the abbey may be reached at any time of the day. It is a wearisome climb to the summit--for the car cannot enter the narrow streets of the town--and for some time we wait the pleasure of the guide, who, being a government official, does not permit himself to be unduly hurried. He speaks only French and but for the Captain's services we should know little of his story. To our half-serious remark that a lift would save visitors some hard work he replies with a shrug, "A lift in Mont St. Michel? It wouldn't be Mont St. Michel any longer!"--a hint of how carefully the atmosphere of mediaevalism is preserved here. The abbey as it stands to-day is largely the result of an extensive restoration begun by the government in 1863. This accounts for the surprisingly perfect condition of much of the building, and it also confirms the wisdom of the undertaking by which a great service has been rendered to architecture. Previous to the restoration the abbey was used as a prison, but it is now chiefly a show-place, though services are regularly conducted in the chapel. Especially noteworthy are the cloisters, a thirteenth-century reproduction, with two hundred and twenty columns of polished granite embedded in the wall and ranged in double arcades, the graceful vaults decorated with exquisite carving and a beautiful frieze. The most notable apartment is the Hall of the Chevaliers, likewise a thirteenth-century replica. The vaulting of solid stone is supported by a triple row of massive columns running the full length of nearly one hundred feet--like ranks of giant tree trunks. There is a beautiful chapel and dungeons and crypts galore, the names of which we made no attempt to remember. Likewise we gave little attention to the historic episodes of the mount, which are not of great importance. The interest of the tourist centers in the remarkably striking effect of the great group of Gothic buildings crowning the rock and in the artistic beauty of the architectural details. Many wonderful views of the sea and of the hills and towns around the bay may be seen to splendid advantage from the terraces and battlements. There are a number of pleasant little tea gardens where one may order light refreshments and in the meanwhile enjoy a most inspiring view of the sea and distant landscape. The little town at the foot of the rock is a quaint old-world place with a single street but a few feet wide. The small population subsists on tourist trade--restaurants and souvenir shops making up the village. Little is doing to-day, as we are in advance of the liveliest season. The greatest number of visitors come on Sunday--a gala day at Mont St. Michel in summer. A rough, stony road takes us to St. Malo and adds considerable wearisome tire trouble to an already strenuous day. We are glad to stop at the Hotel de Univers, even though it is not prepossessing from without. [Illustration: A STREET IN ST. MALO] St. Malo's antiquity and quaintness are its stock in trade, and these, together with its position on a peninsula, with the sea on every hand, make it one of the most popular resorts in France. Steamers from Southampton bring numbers of English visitors--we find no interpreter needed at the hotel. The town is encircled by walls, the greater part recently restored. They are none the less picturesque and the mighty towers at the entrance gateways savor strongly indeed of mediaevalism. In the older part of the town the streets are so narrow and crooked as to exclude motors, the widest not exceeding twenty feet, and there are seldom walks on either side. The houses bordering them show every evidence of age--St. Malo is best described by the often overworked term, "old-world." The huge church--formerly a cathedral--is so hedged in by buildings that it is impossible to get a good view of the exterior or to take a satisfactory photograph. As a result of such crowding it is poorly lighted inside, though it really has an impressive interior. A walk round the walls or ramparts of St. Malo affords a wonderful view of the sea and surrounding country and also many interesting glimpses of queer nooks and corners in the town itself. The bay is finest at full tide, which rises here to the astonishing height of forty-nine feet above low water. There are numerous fortified islands and it is possible to reach some of these on foot when the tide is out. St. Malo was besieged many times during the endless wars between England and France, but owing to its remarkable fortifications was never taken. There is more rough, badly worn road between St. Malo and Rennes, though in the main it is broad and level. Its effect on tires is indeed disheartening--we have run less than a thousand miles since landing and new envelopes are showing signs of dissolution. Part of the game, no doubt, but it is hard to be cheerful losers in such a game, to say the least. Rennes, we find, has other claims to fame than the Dreyfus trial, which is the first distinction that comes to mind. Its public museum and galleries contain one of the best provincial collections in France, and there is an imposing modern cathedral. We have an excellent lunch at the Grand Hotel, though it is a dingy-looking place that would hardly invite a lengthy stop if appearances should be considered. It is not Baedeker's number one and there is doubtless a better hotel in Rennes. The road which we follow in leaving the town is the best we have yet traversed in France; it is broad, straight and newly surfaced, and the thirty or more miles to Chateaubriant are rapidly covered. Here we find an ancient town of a few thousand people, and an enormous old castle partly in ruins, a fit match for Conway or Harlech in Britain. Its square-topped, crenelated towers and long embrasured battlements are quite different from the pointed Gothic style of the usual French chateau. Beyond Chateaubriant the road runs broad and straight for miles through a beautiful and prosperous country. Evidently the land is immensely fertile and tilled with the thoroughness that characterizes French agriculture. The small village is the only discordant note. We pass through several all alike, bare, dirty and uninteresting, quite different from the trim, flower-decked beauty of the English village. And they grow steadily more repulsive as we progress farther inland until, as we near the German border--but the subject is not pleasant enough to anticipate! [Illustration: WOODS IN BRITTANY From original painting by Leon Richet] Angers is a cathedral town of eighty thousand people on the River Maine, two or three miles above its confluence with the Loire. It is of ancient origin, but the French passion for making everything new (according to an English critic) has swept away most of its old-time landmarks save the castle and cathedral. The former was one of the most extensive mediaeval fortresses in all France and is still imposing, despite the fact that several of its original seventeen towers have been razed and its great moat filled up. It is now more massive than picturesque. "It has no beauty, no grace, no detail, nothing to charm or detain you; it is simply very old and very big and it takes its place in your recollections as a perfect specimen of a superannuated feudal stronghold." The huge bastions, girded with iron bands, and the high perpendicular walls springing out of the dark waters of the moat must have made the castle impregnable against any method of assault before the days of artillery. The castle is easily the most distinctive feature of Angers and the one every visitor should see, though I must confess we failed to visit it. We should also have seen the cathedral and museum, but museums consume time and time is the first consideration on a motor tour. Our Hotel, the Grand, though old, is cleanly and pleasant, with high ceilings and broad corridors which have immense full-length mirrors at every turn. The prices for all this magnificence are quite moderate--largely due, no doubt, to the Captain's prearrangement with the manager. The service, however, is a little slack, especially at the table. At Angers we are in the edge of the Chateau District, and as my chapter has already run to considerable length, I shall avail myself of this logical stopping place. The story of the French chateaus has filled many a good-sized volume and may well occupy a separate chapter in this rather hurried record. II THE CHATEAU DISTRICT For more than two hundred miles after leaving Angers we follow a road that may justly be described as one of the most unique and picturesque in France. It seldom takes us out of sight of the shining Loire and most of the way it runs on an embankment directly overlooking the river, affording a panoramic view of the fertile valley which stretches to green hills on either side. The embankment is primarily to confine the waters during freshets, but its broad level top makes an excellent roadbed, which is generally in good condition. A few miles out of Angers we get our first view of the Loire, a majestic river three or four hundred yards in width and in full flow at the present time. Occasional islets add to the beauty of the scene and the landscape on either hand is studded with splendid trees. It is an opulent-looking country and we pass miles of green fields interspersed at times with unbroken stretches of forest. There are several towns and villages on both sides of the river and they are cleaner and better in appearance than those we passed yesterday. Near Tours the country becomes more broken and the hillsides are covered with endless vineyards. In places the clifflike hills rise close to the roadside and these are honeycombed with caves; some are occupied as dwellings by the peasants, but the greater number serve as storage cellars for wine, which is produced in large quantities in this vicinity. These modern "cliff-dwellers" are not so poor as their homes would indicate; there are many well-to-do peasants among them. In fact, the very poor are scarce in rural France; the universal habits of industry and economy have spread prosperity among all classes of people; rough attire and squalid surroundings are seldom indicative of real poverty, as in England. Everybody is engaged in some useful occupation--old women may be seen herding a cow, donkey or geese by the roadside and knitting industriously the while. Tours is one of the most beautiful of the older French provincial cities. We have a fine view of the town from across the Loire as we approach, for it lies on the south side of the river. It is a famous tourist center--perhaps the first objective, after Paris, of the majority of Americans and English, and it has several pretentious hotels. We choose the newest, the Metropole, which proves very satisfactory. Here the Captain's wiles fail to reduce the first-named tariff, for the hotel is full, and we can only guess what the charge might have been if not agreed upon in advance. In defense of his bargaining the Captain tells a story of a previous trip he made with an American party in Italy. English was spoken at a hotel where one of the party asked the rates and the proprietor, assuming that his prospective guests did not understand the language of the country, had a little by-talk with a henchman as to charges and remarked that the tourists, being Americans, would probably stand three or four times the regular rates, which the inn-keeper proceeded to ask. He was greatly chagrinned when the Captain repeated the substance of the conversation he had heard and told the would-be robber that the party would seek accommodations elsewhere. I will let this little digression take the place of descriptive remarks concerning Tours, which has probably been written about more than any other city in France excepting Paris. The cathedral everyone will see; it is especially noteworthy for the facade, which is the best and most ornate example of the so-called Flamboyant style in existence. The great Renaissance towers are comparatively modern and to our mind lack the grace and fitness of the pointed Gothic style. The country about Tours has more to attract the tourist than the city itself, for within a few miles are the famous chateaus which have been exploited by literary travelers of all degrees. But it has lost none of its charm on that account and perhaps every writer has presented to some extent a different viewpoint of its beauty and romance. Touraine is quite unlike any other part of France; its vistas of grayish-green levels, diversified with slim shimmering poplars and flashes of its broad lazy rivers, are quite unique and characteristic. And when such a landscape is dotted with an array of splendid historic palaces such as Blois, Amboise, Chinon, Chaumont and Chenonceaux, it assuredly reaches the height of romantic interest. All of these, it is true, are not within the exact political limits of Touraine, but all are within easy reach of Tours. We make Chenonceaux our objective for the afternoon. It lies a little more than twenty miles east of Tours and the road follows the course of the Cher almost the whole distance. The palace stands directly above the river, supported on massive arches which rest on piles in the bed of the stream. A narrow drawbridge at either end cuts the entrances from the shore, though these bridges were never intended as a means of defense. Chenonceaux was in no sense a military fortress--its memories are of love and jealousy and not of war or assassination. It was built early in the sixteenth century by a receiver of taxes to King Francis, but so much of the public funds went into the work that its projector died in disgrace and his son atoned as best he could by turning the chateau over to the king. [Illustration: CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT] And here, in the heart of old France, we come upon another memory of Mary Stuart, for here, with Francis II., she spent her honeymoon--if, indeed, we may style her short loveless marriage a honeymoon--coming direct from Amboise, where she had unwillingly witnessed the awful scenes of the massacre of the Huguenots. What must have been the reveries of the girl-queen at Chenonceaux! In a foreign land, surrounded by a wicked, intriguing court, with scenes of bloodshed and death on every hand and wedded to a hopeless imbecile, foredoomed to early death--surely even the strange beauty of the river palace could not have driven these terrible ghosts from her mind. Chenonceaux has many memories of love and intrigue, for here in 1546 Francis I. and his mistress, the famous Diane of Poitiers, gave a great hunting party; but the heir-apparent, Prince Henry, soon gained the affections of the fair Diane and on his accession to the throne presented her with the chateau, to which she had taken a great fancy. She it was who built the bridgelike hall connecting the castle with the south bank of the river and she otherwise improved the palace and grounds; but on the death of the king, twelve years later, the queen--the terrible Catherine de Medici--compelled Diane to give up Chenonceaux and to betake herself to the older and less attractive Chaumont. The chateau escaped serious injury during the fiery period of the Revolution, but the insurrectionists compelled the then owner, Madame Dupin, to surrender her securities, furniture, priceless paintings and objects of art--the collection of nearly three centuries--and all were destroyed in a bonfire. Chenonceaux is now the property of a wealthy Cuban who has spent a fortune in its restoration and improving the grounds, which accounts for the trim, new appearance of the place. The great avenue leading from the public entrance passes through formal gardens brilliant with flowers and beautified with rare shrubbery and majestic trees. It is a pleasant and romantic place and the considerateness of the owner in opening it to visitors for a trifling fee deserves commendation. [Illustration: AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE] Quite different are the memories of Amboise, the vast, acropolislike pile which towers over the Loire some dozen miles beyond Tours and which we reach early the next day after a delightful run along the broad river. We have kept to the north bank and cross the river into the little village, from which a steep ascent leads to the chateau. The present structure is largely the result of modern restoration, the huge round tower being about all that remains of the ancient castle. This contains a circular inclined plane, up which Emperor Charles V. of the Holy Roman Empire rode on horseback when he visited Francis I. in 1539, and it is possible for a medium-sized automobile to make the ascent to-day. Amboise is chiefly remembered for the awful deeds of Catherine de Medici, who from the balcony overlooking the town watched the massacre, which she personally directed, of twelve hundred Huguenots. With her were the young king, Francis II., and his bride, Mary Stuart, who were compelled to witness the series of horrible executions which were carried out in the presence of the court. The leaders were hung from the iron balconies and others were murdered in the courtyard. They met their fate with stern religious enthusiasm, singing, it is recorded, until death silenced their voices. The direct cause of the massacre was the discovery of a plot on the part of the Huguenot leaders to abduct the young king in order to get him from under the evil influence of his mother. The chateau contains a tomb that alone should make it the shrine of innumerable pilgrims, for here is buried that many-sided genius, Leonardo da Vinci, who died in Amboise in 1519 and whom many authorities regard as the most remarkable man the human race has yet produced. But enough of horrors and tombs; we go out on the balcony, where the old tigress stood in that far-off day, and contemplate the enchanting scene that lies beneath us. Out beyond the blue river a wide peaceful plain stretches to the purple hills in the far distance; just below are the gray roofs of the town and there are glorious vistas up and down the broad stream. This is the memory we should prefer to carry away with us, rather than that of the murderous deeds of Catherine de Medici! On arriving at Blois, twenty miles farther down the river road, thoughts of belated luncheon first engage our minds and the Hotel de Angleterre sounds good, looks good, and proves good, indeed. Its dining-room is a glass-enclosed balcony overhanging the river, which adds a picturesque view to a very excellent meal. The chateau, a vast quadrangular pile surrounding a great court, is but a short distance from the hotel. Only the historic apartments are shown--quite enough, since several hours would be required to make a complete round of the enormous edifice. The castle has passed into the hands of the government and is being carefully restored. It is planned to make it a great museum of art and history and several rooms already contain an important collection. The palace was built at different periods, from the thirteenth to the seventeenth centuries, and was originally a nobleman's home, but later a residence of the kings of France. [Illustration: GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS] Inside the court our attention is attracted by the elaborate decorations and carvings of the walls. On one side is a long open gallery supported by richly wrought columns; but most marvelous is the great winding stairway projecting from the wall and open on the inner side. Every inch of this structure--its balconies, its pillars and its huge central column--is wrought over with beautiful images and strange devices, among which the salamander of Francis I. is most noticeable. When we have admired the details of the court to our satisfaction, the guide conducts us through a labyrinth of gorgeously decorated rooms with many magnificent fireplaces and mantels but otherwise quite unfurnished. The apartments of the crafty and cruel Catherine de Medici are especially noteworthy, one of them--her study--having no fewer than one hundred and fifty carved panels which conceal secret crypts and hiding-places. These range from small boxes--evidently for jewels or papers--to a closet large enough for one to hide in. The overshadowing tragic event of Blois--there were a host of minor ones--was the assassination of the Duke of Guise in 1588. Henry III., a weak and vacillating king, was completely dominated by this powerful nobleman, whose fanatical religious zeal led him to establish a league to restore the supremacy of the Catholic religion. The king was forced to proclaim the duke lieutenant-general of the kingdom and to pledge himself to extirpate the heretics; but despite his outward compliance Henry was resolved on vengeance. According to the ideas of the times an objectionable courtier could best be removed by assassination and this the king determined upon. He piously ordered two court priests to pray for the success of his plan and summoned the duke to his presence. Guise was standing before the fire in the great dining-room and though he doubtless suspected his royal master's kind intentions toward him, walked into the next room, where nine of the king's henchmen awaited him. They offered no immediate violence, but followed him into the corridor, where they at once drew swords and fell upon him. Even against such odds the duke, who was a powerful man, made a strong resistance and though repeatedly stabbed, fought his way to the king's room, where he fell at the foot of the royal bed. Henry, when assured that his enemy was really dead, came trembling out of the adjoining room and kicking the corpse, exclaimed, "How big he is; bigger dead than alive!" The next morning the duke's brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was also murdered in the castle as he was hastening to obey a summons from the king. There is little suggestion of such horrors in the polished floors and gilded walls that surround us today as we hear the Captain translate the gruesome details from the guide's voluble sentences. We listen only perfunctorily; it all seems unreasonable and unreal as the sun, breaking from the clouds that have prevailed much of the day, floods the great apartments with light. We have not followed this tale of blood and treachery closely; it is only another reminder that cruelty and inhumanity were very common a few centuries ago. There is a minor cathedral in Blois, but the most interesting church is St. Nicholas, formerly a part of the abbey and dating from 1138. Its handsome facade with twin towers is the product of recent restoration. There are also many quaint timbered houses in Blois, dating from the fifteenth century and later, but we pay little attention to them. I hardly know why our enthusiasm for old French houses is so limited, considering how eagerly we sought such bits of antiquity in England. We pursue the river road the rest of the day, though in places it swings several miles from the Loire--or does the Loire swing from the road, which seems arrow-straight everywhere?--and cuts across some lovely rural country. Fields of grain, just beginning to ripen, predominate and there are also green meadows and patches of carmine clover. Crimson poppies and blue cornflowers gleam among the wheat, lending a touch of brilliant color to the billowy fields. The village of Beaugency, which we passed about midway between Tours and Orleans, is one that will arrest the attention of the casual passerby. It is more reminiscent of the castellated small town of England than one often finds in France. It is overshadowed by a huge Norman keep with sheltered, ivy-grown parapets, the sole remaining portion of an eleventh-century castle. The remainder of the present castle was built as a stronghold against the English, only to be taken by them shortly after its completion. The invaders, however, were driven out by the French army under Joan of Arc in 1429. The bridge at Beaugency is the oldest on the Loire, having spanned the river since the thirteenth century. The town has stood several sieges and was the scene of terrible excesses in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, the abbey having been burned by the Protestants in 1567. Towards evening we again come to the river bank and ere long the towers of Orleans break on our view. Despite its great antiquity the city appears quite modern, for it has been so rebuilt that but few of its ancient landmarks remain. Even the cathedral is a modern restoration--almost in toto--and there is scarcely a complete building in the town antedating 1500. The main streets are broad and well-paved and electric trams run on many of them. Our hotel, the Grand Aignan, is rather old-fashioned and somewhat dingy, but it is clean and comfortable and its rates are not exorbitant. There is a modern and more fashionable hotel in the city, but we have learned that second-class inns in cities of medium size are often good and much easier on one's purse. Our first thought, when we begin our after-dinner ramble, is that Orleans should change its name to Jeanne d'Arcville. I know of no other instance where a city of seventy thousand people is so completely dominated by a single name. The statues, the streets, the galleries, museums, churches and shops--all remind one of the immortal Maid who made her first triumphal entry into Orleans in 1429, when the city was hard pressed by the English besiegers. Every postcard and souvenir urged upon the visitor has something to do with the patron saint of the town and, after a little, one falls in with the spirit of the place, rejoicing that the memories of Orleans are only of success and triumph and forgetting Rouen's dark chapter of defeat and death. In the morning we first go to the cathedral--an ornate and imposing church, though one that the critics have dealt with rather roughly. It faces the wide Rue Jeanne d'Arc--again Orleans' charmed name--and it seems to us that the whole vast structure might well be styled a memorial to the immortal Maid of France. The facade is remarkable for its Late-Gothic towers, nearly three hundred feet high, while between them to the rear rises the central spire, some fifty feet higher. There are three great portals beneath massive arches, rising perhaps one-fourth the height of the towers, and above each of these is an immense rose window. Perhaps the design as a whole is not according to the best architectural tenets, but the cathedral seems grand to such unsophisticated critics as ourselves. Being a rather late restoration, it does not show the wear and tear of the ages, like so many of its ancient rivals, and perhaps loses a little charm on this account. The vast vaultlike interior is quite free from obstructions to one's vision and is lighted by windows of beautifully toned modern glass. These depict scenes in the life of Joan of Arc, beginning with the appearance of her heavenly monitors and ending with her martyrdom at the stake. The designing is of remarkably high order and the color toning is much more effective than one often finds in modern glass. There are a number of paintings and images, many of them referring to the career of the now venerated Maid. The usual gaudy chapels and altars of French cathedrals are in evidence, though none are especially interesting. Orleans has several other churches and all pay some tribute to the heroine of the town. A small part of St. Peter's dates from the ninth century, one of the few relics of antiquity to be found in Orleans. The Hotel de Ville, built about 1530, has a beautiful marble figure of Joan in the court, and an equestrian statue of the Maid is in the Grand Salon of the building, representing her horse in the act of trampling a mortally wounded Englishman. Both of these statues are the work of Princess Marie of Orleans--a scion of the old royal family of France. The Hotel de Ville also recalls a memory of Mary Stuart; here in 1560 her boy-husband, Francis II., expired in the arms of his wife, and her career was soon transferred from the French court to its no less troubled and cruel contemporary in Scotland. The town possesses an unusually good museum, which includes a large historical collection, and the gallery contains a number of paintings and sculptures of real merit. Of course one will wish to see the house where the patron saint of the town lodged, and this may be found at No. 37 Rue de Tabour. There is also on the same street the Musee Jeanne d'Arc, which contains a number of relics and paintings relating to the heroine and her times. But for all the worship of Joan of Arc in Orleans, she was not a native of the place and actually spent only a short time within the walls of the old city. The Maid was born in the little village of Domremy in Lorraine, some two hundred miles eastward, where her humble birthplace may still be seen and which we hope to visit when we make our next incursion into France. III ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER We have no more delightful run in France than our easy jaunt from Orleans to Nevers. We still follow the Loire Valley, though the road only occasionally brings us in sight of the somewhat diminished river. The distance is but ninety-six miles over the most perfect of roads and we proceed leisurely, often pausing to admire the landscapes--beautiful beyond any ability of mine to adequately describe. The roadside resembles a well-kept lawn; it is bordered by endless rows of majestic trees and on either hand are fertile fields which show every evidence of the careful work of the farmer. The silken sheen of bearded wheat and rye is dotted with crimson poppies and starred with pale-blue cornflowers. At times the poppies have gained the mastery and burn like a spot of flame amidst the emerald-green of the fields. Patches of dark-red clover lend another color variation, and here and there are dashes of bright yellow or gleaming white of buttercups and daisies. With such surroundings and on such a clear, exhilarating day our preconceived ideals of the beauty of Summer France suffer no disenchantment. Cosne is an old river town now rather dominated by manufactories and here Pope Pius VII. sojourned when he came to France upon the neighborly invitation of Napoleon I. He stopped at the Hotel du Cerf, but we try the Moderne for luncheon, which proves unusually good. About three o'clock we reach Nevers and a sudden thunder shower determines us to stop for the night at the Hotel de France. Outside it is quite unpretending, though queer ornamental panels between the windows and a roof of moss-green tiles redeem it somewhat from the commonplace. We have no reason to repent our decision, for the rambling old inn is scrupulously clean and the service has the personal touch that indicates the watchful eye of a managing proprietor. We are somewhat surprised to see a white-clad chef very much in evidence about the hotel and even taking a lively interest in guests who have suffered a break-down and are wrestling with their car in the stable-yard garage. We learn that this chef is the proprietor, and his wife, an English woman, is the manageress. The combination is an effective one; English-speaking guests are made very much at home and the excellence of the meals is sufficient proof of the competence of the proprietor-chef. [Illustration: PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS] Nevers has a cathedral dating in part from the twelfth century, though the elaborate tower with its host of sculptured prophets, apostles and saints was built some three hundred years later. The most notable relic of mediaevalism in the town is the queer old Port du Croux, a fourteenth-century watch-tower which one time formed part of the fortifications. It is a noble example of mediaeval defense--a tall gateway tower with long lancet openings and two pointed turrets flanking the steep, tile-covered roof. The ducal palace and the Hotel de Ville are also interesting old-time structures, though neither is of great historic importance. The history of Nevers is in sharp contrast with the checkered career of its neighbor, Orleans, being quite uneventful and prosaic. It is a quiet place to-day, its chief industry being the potteries, which have been in existence some centuries. The next day, thirty miles on the road to Autun, we experience our first break-down in eighteen thousand miles of motoring in Europe--that is, a break-down that means we must abandon the car for the time. Near the little village of Tamnay-Chatillon an axle-rod breaks and a new one must be made before we can proceed. Our objective point, Dijon, is the nearest place where we will be likely to find facilities for repair and we resolve to go thither by train. We have been so delayed that train-time is past and we shall have to pass the night at the village inn. It is extremely annoying at the time, though in retrospect we are glad of our experience with at least one very small country road-house in France. The inn people spare no effort to make us as comfortable as possible and we have had many worse meals in good-sized cities than is served to us this evening. Our beds, though apparently clean, are not very restful, but we are too weary to be excessively critical. The next morning, leaving the crippled car in the stable-yard, we take the train for Dijon. The Captain carries the broken axle-rod as a pattern and soon after our arrival a workman is shaping a new one from a steel bar. And in this connection I might remark that we found the average French mechanic quick and intelligent, with almost an intuitive understanding of a piece of machinery. Our job proves slower than we anticipated; the work can be done by only one man at a time and it is not completed before midnight of the following day. In the meanwhile we have established ourselves at the Grand Hotel de la Cloche, a pretentious--and, as it proves, a very expensive stopping-place. We have large, well-furnished rooms which afford an outlook upon a small park fronting the hotel. Our enforced leisure allows us considerably more time to look about Dijon than we have been giving to such towns and we endeavor to make the most of it. The town is one of the military centers of France, being defended by no fewer than eight detached forts, and we see numerous companies of soldiers on the streets. The museum, we are assured, is the greatest "object of interest" in the city and, indeed, it comes up to the claims made for it. The municipal art gallery contains possibly the best provincial collection of paintings in France--an endless array of pictures of priceless value, representing the greatest names of French art. There is also a splendid showing of sculpture, occupying five separate rooms. The marble tombs of Philip the Brave and John the Fearless, old-time dukes of Burgundy, are wonderful creations. They were originally in the Church of Chartreuse, destroyed in 1793, when the tombs were removed to the cathedral in a somewhat damaged condition. They were later placed in the museum and restored as nearly as possible to their original state. Both have a multitude of marble statuettes, every one a distinct artistic study--some representing mourners for the deceased--and each little face has some peculiar and characteristic expression of grief. The strong contrast of white and black marbles is relieved by judicious gilding and, altogether, we count these the most elaborate and artistic mediaeval tombs we have seen, if we except the Percy monument at Beverly in England. The museum also has an important archaeological collection, including a number of historical relics found in the vicinity, for the city dates back to Roman times. The showing of coins, gems, vases, ivory, cabinets and jewelry would do credit to any metropolitan museum. And all this in a town of but seventy-five thousand people--which shows how far the French municipalities have advanced in such matters. Dijon is no exception in this regard, though other cities of the class may not quite equal this collection, which I have described in merest outline. Dijon has several churches of the first order, though none of them has any notable distinguishing feature. The Cathedral of St. Benigne is the oldest, dating in its present form from about 1280, though there are portions which go back still farther. It was originally built as an abbey church, but the remainder of the abbatial buildings have disappeared. St. Michael's Church is some four hundred years later than the cathedral, and has, according to the guide-books, a Renaissance facade, though it seems to us to be better described as a Moorish adaptation of the Gothic style. At any rate, it is an inartistic and unattractive structure and illustrates the poor results often attained in too great an effort after the unusual. Notre Dame is about the same date as the cathedral, though it has been so extensively restored as to have quite a new appearance. Its most remarkable feature is its queer statuettes--nearly a hundred little figures contorted into endless expressions and attitudes--which serve as gargoyles. The churches of Dijon are not particularly noteworthy for their interiors and none has especially good windows. Our extended sojourn in the city enables us to visit a number of shops, for which we have heretofore found little time. These are well-stocked and attractive and quite in keeping with a city of the size of Dijon. According to Herr Baedeker, the town is famous "for wine and corn, and its mustard and gingerbread enjoy a wide reputation." The Captain and myself take an early train for Tamnay-Chatillon and have the satisfaction of finding the new axle-rod a perfect fit. We enjoy the open car and the fine road more than ever after our enforced experience with the railway train. The country between Tamnay and Dijon is rolling and the road often winds up or down a great hill for two or three miles at a stretch, always with even and well-engineered gradients that insure an easy climb or a long exhilarating coast. There are many glorious panoramas from the hill-crests--wide reaches of hill and valley, with groves and vineyards and red-tiled villages nestling in wooded vales or lying on the sunny slopes. Most of the towns remain unknown to us by name, but the Captain points out Chateau Chinon clinging to a rather steep hillside and overshadowed by the vast ruined castle which once defended it. A portion of the old wall with three watch-towers still stands--the whole effect being very grim and ancient. Near the town of Pommard the hills are literally "vine-clad,"--vineyards everywhere running up to the very edge of the town. The Hotel St. Louis et de la Poste at Autun does not present a very attractive exterior, but it proves a pleasant surprise and we are hungry enough to do justice to an excellent luncheon, having breakfasted in Dijon at five o'clock. Autun has an unusual cathedral--"a curious building of the transition period"--some parts of which go back as far as the tenth century. The beautiful Gothic spire--the first object to greet our eyes when approaching the town--was built about 1470. Portions of the old fortifications still remain. St. Andrew's Gate, partly a restoration, is an imposing portal pierced by four archways and forms one of the main entrances. There is also the usual museum and Hotel de Ville to be found in all enterprising provincial towns of France. Beyond Autun the character of the country changes again; we come into a less prosperous section, intersected by stone fences which cut the rocky hillsides into small irregular fields. We pass an occasional bare-looking village and one or two ruined chateaus and we remark on the scarcity of ruins in France, so far as we have seen it, as compared with England. A more fertile and thriving country surrounds Dijon, which we reach in the late afternoon. We have had quite enough of Dijon, but we shall remain until morning; an early start should carry us well toward the German frontier before night. We find some terribly rough roads to Gray and Vesoul--macadam which has begun to disintegrate. The country grows quite hilly and while, in the words of the old hymn, "every prospect pleases," we are indeed tempted to add that "only man is vile." For the filthiness of some of the villages and people can only be designated as unspeakable; if I should describe in plain language the conditions we behold, my book might be excluded from the mails! The houses of these miserable little hamlets stretch in single file along both sides of the broad highway. In one end of the house lives the family and in the other the domestic animals--pigs, cows and donkeys. Along the road on each side the muck-piles are almost continuous and reach to the windows of the cottages. Recent rains have flooded the streets with seepage, which covers the road to a depth of two or three inches, and the odors may be imagined--if one feels adequate to such a task. The muck is drained into pools and cisterns from which huge wooden or iron pumps tower above the street. By means of these the malodorous liquid is elevated into wagon-tanks to be hauled away to the fields. And this work is usually done by the women! In fact, women are accorded equal privileges with a vengeance in this part of rural France--they outnumber the men in the fields and no occupation appears too heavy or degraded for them to engage in. We see many of the older ones herding domestic animals--or even geese and ducks--by the roadside. Sometimes it is only a single animal--a cow, donkey, goat or pig--that engages the old crone, who is usually knitting as well. The pigs, no doubt because of their headstrong proclivities, are usually confined by a cord held by their keepers, and with one of these we have an amusing adventure. The pig becomes unruly, heading straight for our car, and only a vigorous application of the brakes prevents disaster to the obstreperous brute. But the guardian of his hogship--who has been hauled around pretty roughly while hanging to the cord--is in a towering rage and screams no end of scathing language at us. "You, too, are pigs," is one of her compliments which the Captain translates, and he says it is just as well to let some of her remarks stand in the original! As we approach Remiremont, where we propose to stop for the night, we enter the great range of hills which form the boundary between France and Germany and which afford many fine vistas. Endless pine forests clothe the hillsides and deep narrow valleys slope away from the road which winds upward along the edges of the hills. Remiremont is a pleasant old frontier town lying along the Moselle River at the base of a fortified hill two thousand feet in height. It is cleaner than the average French town of ten thousand and clear streams of mountain water run alongside many of its streets. The Hotel du Cheval de Bronze seems a solid, comfortable old inn and we turn into the courtyard for our nightly stop. The courtyard immediately adjoins the hotel apartments on the rear and is not entirely free from objectionable odors--our only complaint against the Cheval de Bronze. Our rooms front on the street, the noise being decidedly preferable to the assortment of smells in the rear. The town has nothing to detain one, and is rather unattractive, despite its pleasing appearance from a distance. On the main street near our hotel are the arcades, which have a considerable resemblance to the famous rows of Chester. We are awakened early in the morning by the tramp of a large company of soldiers along the street, for Remiremont, being so near the frontier, is heavily garrisoned. These French soldiers we have seen everywhere, in the towns and on the roads, enough of them to remind us that the country is really a vast military camp. They are rather undersized, as a rule, and their attire is often slouchy and worse for wear. Their bearing seems to us anything but soldierly as they shuffle along the streets. Perhaps we remember this the more because of the contrast we see in Germany a little later. A good authority, however, tells us that the French army is in a fine state of preparedness and would give a good account of itself if called into action. We are early away from Remiremont on a fine road winding among the pine-clad hills. Some sixteen miles out of the town we find a splendid hotel at Gerardmer on a beautiful little lake of the same name in the Vosges Forest, where we should no doubt have had quite different service from the Cheval de Bronze. We have no regrets, however, since Remiremont is worth seeing as a typical small frontier town. At Gerardmer we begin the long climb over the mountain pass which crosses the German border; there are several miles of the ascent and in some places the grades are steep enough to seriously heat the motor. We stop many times on the way and there is a clear little stream by the roadside from which we replenish the water in the heated engine. The air grows cooler and more bracing as we ascend and though it is a fine June day, we see banks of snow along the road. On either side are great pine trees, through which we catch occasional glimpses of wooded hills and verdant valleys lying far beneath us. Despite the cool air, flowers bloom along the road and the ascent, though rather strenuous, is a delightful one. At the summit we come to the customs offices of the two countries, a few yards apart. Here we bid farewell to France and slip across the border into the Fatherland, as its natives so love to call it. A wonderful old official, who seems to embody all the dignity and power of the empire he serves, comes out of the customs house. His flowing gray beard is a full yard long and the stem of his mighty porcelain pipe is still longer. He is clad in a faultless uniform and wears a military cap bespangled with appropriate emblems--altogether, a marvel of that official glory in which the Germans so delight. His functions, however, do not correspond with his personal splendor, for he only officially countersigns our Royal Automobile Club passport, delivers us a pair of number plates and, lastly, collects a fee of some fifteen marks. He gives us a certificate showing that we are now entitled to travel the highways of the empire for two weeks, and should we remain longer we shall have to pay an additional fee on leaving the country. The Captain waves an approved military adieu, to which the official solemnly responds and we set out in search of adventure in the land of the Kaiser. IV COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU Had we crossed a sea instead of an imaginary dividing line we could hardly have found a more abrupt change in the characteristics of people and country than we discover when we descend into the broad green valley of the Rhine. We have a series of fine views as we glide down the easy grades and around the sweeping curves of the splendid road that leads from the crest to the wide plain along the river--glimpses of towns and villages lying far beneath, beyond long stretches of wooded hills. On our way we meet peasants driving teams of huge horses hitched to heavy logging wagons. The horses go into a panic at the sight of the car and the drivers seem even more panicky than the brutes; it is quite apparent that the motor is not so common in Germany as in England and France. The province of Alsace, by which we enter Germany, was held by France from the time of Napoleon until 1871, but it never entirely lost its German peculiarities during the French occupation. Its villages and farmhouses are distinctly Teutonic, though the larger towns show more traces of French influence. Colmar, some twenty miles from the border, is the first city--a place of about forty thousand people and interesting to Americans as the birthplace of the sculptor, Bartholdi, who designed the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. It is a substantially built town with an enormous Gothic church and its museum has a famous collection of pictures by early German masters. A few miles from Colmar we come to the Rhine, so famed in German song and story, a green, rushing flood that seems momentarily to threaten the destruction of the pontoon bridge which bears us across. Beyond the river the level but poorly surfaced road leads to Freiburg, a handsome city of about seventy-five thousand people. It is a noted manufacturing town and has an ancient university with about two thousand students. Its cathedral is one of the finest Gothic structures in Germany, the great tower, three hundred and eighty feet in height, being the earliest and most perfect of its kind. The windows of fourteenth-century glass are particularly fine and there are many remarkable paintings of a little later date. The city has other important churches and many beautiful public buildings and monuments. Indeed, Freiburg is a good example of the neatness, cleanliness and civic pride that prevails in most of the larger German cities. It has many excellent hotels and we have a well-served luncheon at the Victoria. We should stop for the day at Freiburg were it not for our unexpected delay at Dijon; we must hasten if we are to reach Oberammergau in time for our reservations. In the three remaining daylight hours we make a swift run to Tuttlingen, some sixty miles eastward, passing several small villages and two good-sized towns, Neustadt and Donaueschingen, on the way. The latter is near the head waters of the Danube, and from here we follow the river to Tuttlingen. We pass through a beautifully wooded country and several inns along the way indicate that this section is a frequented pleasure resort. There are many charming panoramas from the road, which in places swings around the hillsides some distance above the river. Had we known the fate in store for us at Tuttlingen, we should surely have stopped at one of the hotels which we hastily passed in our dash for that town. But we reach it just at dusk--a place of about fifteen thousand people--and turn in rather dubiously at the unattractive Post Hotel. If the Post is a fair sample of the country inns of Germany, the tourist should keep clear of country inns when possible. On entering we meet an assortment of odors not especially conducive to good appetite for the evening meal, and this proves of the kind that requires a good appetite. We are hungry, but not hungry enough to eat the Post's fare with anything like relish and we are haunted by considerable misgivings about the little we do consume. The Post, however, does not lack patronage, though it seems to come mainly from German commercial men who are seeking trade in the thriving town. We are away early in the morning, following a rough, neglected road some dozen miles to Ludwigshaven at the head of Lake Constance, or the Boden See, as the Germans style it. A new highway leading down to the lake shore is not yet open, though nearly ready, and we descend over a temporary road which winds among tree stumps and drops down twenty per cent grades for a couple of miles. We are thankful that we have only the descent to make; I doubt whether our forty-horse engine would ever have pulled us up the "bank," as a Yorkshire man would describe it. But having reached the level of the lake, we find a splendid road closely following the shore for forty miles and affording views of some of the finest and most famous scenery in Europe. In all our journeyings we have had few more glorious runs. The clear balmy June day floods everything with light and color. The lake lies still and blue as the heavens above, and beyond its shining expanse rise the snow-capped forms of the Swiss Alps, their rugged ranks standing sharply against the silvery horizon. At their feet stretches the green line of the shore and above it the dense shadows of the pines that cover the slopes to the snow line. It is a scene of inspiring beauty that one sees to best advantage from the open road. Near at hand green fields stretch to the hills, no great distance away, and the belated fruit-tree blossoms load the air with perfume. Hay-making is in progress in the little fields--women swing the scythes or handle the rakes and pitchforks while staid old cows draw the heavy, awkward carts. There are several pleasant little towns along the shore, rather neater and cleaner than the average German village, though even these are not free from occasional touches of filthiness. Near the center of the lake is Friedrichshafen, a popular resort with numerous hotels. There is a beautiful drive along the lake, bordered with shrubs and trees, and fronting on this is the comfortable-looking Deutsches Haus, surrounded by gardens which extend to the shore. We remember the Deutsches Haus particularly, since on its glass-enclosed veranda we are served with an excellent luncheon. As we resume our journey, feeling at peace with the world, and open up a little on the smooth lakeside road, the Captain exclaims: "If I had all the money I could possibly want, do you know what I'd do? I'd just buy a motor, don't you know, and do nothing on earth but tour about Europe!" And we all agree that under such conditions and on such a day his proposed vocation seems an ideal one. Friedrichshafen, I should have said, was the home of Count Zeppelin of airship fame, and as we passed through the town his immense craft was being made ready for an experimental trip. It was then attracting much attention in Germany and was the precourser of the only line of commercial airships now in existence. Lindau, a small resort built on an island about three hundred yards from the shore, marks the point of our departure from Lake Constance. We enter the town over a narrow causeway which connects it with the main road, but find little to detain us. We climb the steep winding road leading out of the valley and for the remainder of the day our course wends among the foothills of the Bavarian Alps. It proves a delightful run; we witness constantly changing displays of color and glorious effects of light and shadow. Thunder storms are raging in the mountains and at intervals they sweep down and envelop our road in a dash of summer rain. Above us tower the majestic Alps; in places the dazzling whiteness of the snow still lies against the barren rocks or amidst the dense green of the pines, while above the summits roll blue-gray cumulus clouds glowing with vivid lightning or brilliant with occasional bursts of sunshine. Near at hand stretch green meadows of the foothills, variegated with great splashes of blue or yellow flowers as though some giant painter had swept his brush across the landscape. The effect is shown with striking fidelity in the picture by the late John MacWhirter R. A. which I have reproduced, though it is quite impossible on so small a scale to give an adequate idea of the original canvas--much less of the enchanting scene itself. Among the foothills and often well up the mountainsides are the characteristic chalets of Tyrol and an occasional ruined castle crowns some seemingly inaccessible rock. We pass several quaint little towns and many isolated houses, all very different from any we have seen elsewhere. The houses are mostly of plaster and often ornamented with queer designs and pictures in brilliant colors. The people are picturesque, too; the women and girls dress in the peculiar costume of the country; the men wear knitted jackets and knee pants with silver buckles and their peaked hats are often decorated with a feather or two. Our road averages fair, though a few short stretches are desperately bad--this unevenness we have noted in German roads generally. In one place where the rain has been especially heavy we plunge through a veritable quagmire, and we find spots so rough and stony as to make very uncomfortable going. We finally strike the fine highway which follows the River Lech and brings us into the mountain town of Fussen. It is a snug little place of some five thousand people, nestling in a narrow valley through which rushes a swift, emerald-green river. The Bayerischer-Hof proves a pleasant surprise; one of the cleanest, brightest and best-conducted inns we have found anywhere. Our large, well-lighted rooms afford a magnificent view of the snow-capped mountains, which seem only a little distance away. The landlord, a fine-looking, full-bearded native who speaks English fluently, gives the touch of personal attention that one so much appreciates in the often monotonous round of hotel life. To the rear of the hotel is a beer-garden where brilliant lights and good music in the evening attract the guests and townspeople in considerable numbers. Several other American motor parties stop at the hotel and we especially notice one French car because it carries nine people--and it is not a large car, either! The Bayerischer-Hof is first-class in every particular, and we find when we come to depart that the charges are first-class, too. The Captain is exasperated when we are asked sixty cents per gallon for "benzin" and says we will chance doing better on the way--a decision which, as it happens, causes us no little grief and some expense. Fussen has an impressive Gothic castle--a vast, turreted, towered, battlemented affair with gray walls and red-tiled roof which looms over the town from the slope above the river. I fear, though, that the castle is a good deal of a sham, for there are spots where the stucco has fallen from the walls, revealing wooden lath beneath, and while in Fussen they call it a "thirteenth-century" building, Baedeker gives its date as two or three hundred years later. It was never intended as a defensive structure, being originally built as the residence of the Bishop of Augsburg. It is now occupied by the district court and the interior is hardly worth a visit. [Illustration: CASTLE AT FUSSEN] Oberammergau lies over the mountain to the east of Fussen, scarcely ten miles away in a direct line, but to reach it we are compelled to go by the way of Schongau, about four times as far. We pursue a narrow, sinuous mountain road, very muddy in places. We have been warned of one exceptionally bad hill--a twenty-five per cent grade, according to the Royal Automobile Club itinerary--but we give the matter little thought. It proves a straight incline of half a mile and about midway the sharp ascent our motor gasps and comes to a sudden stop. We soon ascertain that the angle is too great for the gasoline to flow from the nearly empty tank, and we regret the Captain's economy at Fussen. A number of peasants gather about us to stare at our predicament, but they show nothing of the amusement that an American crowd would find in such a situation. A woman engages the Captain in conversation and informs us that she is the owner of a good team of horses, which will be the best solution of our difficulties. "Wie viel?" Seventy-five marks, or about eighteen dollars, looks right to her and she sticks to her price, too. Her only response to the Captain's indignant protests is that she keeps a road-house at the top of the hill, where he can find her if he decides we need her services. And she departs in the lordly manner of one who has delivered an ultimatum from which there is no appeal. A peasant tells us that the woman makes a good income fleecing stranded motorists and that the German automobile clubs have published warnings against her. He says that a farmer near by will help us out for the modest sum of ten marks and offers to bring him to the scene; he also consoles us by telling us that five cars besides our own have stalled on the hill during the day. The farmer arrives before long with a spanking big team, which gives us the needed lift, and the grade soon permits the motor to get in its work. We reach Oberammergau about two o'clock, only to find another instance where the Captain's economical tendency has worked to our disadvantage. He had declined to pay the price asked by Cook's agency in London for reservation of rooms and seats for the Passion Play and had arranged for these with a German firm, Shenker & Co. at Freiburg. On inquiring at the office of the concern in the village we find no record of our reservations and no tickets to be had. "Shenker is surely a 'rotter,'" says the Captain, immensely disgusted, and it requires no small effort to find quarters, but we at last secure tiny rooms in a peasant's cottage in the outskirts of the village. Tickets we finally obtain by an earnest appeal at Cook's offices, though at considerable premium. Our quarters are almost primitive in their plainness, but they are tolerably clean; the meals, served in a large dining-hall not far away, are only fair. The people of Oberammergau, our landlord says, face a difficult problem in caring for the Passion Play crowds. These come but once in ten years and during the intervening time visitors to the town are comparatively few. Yet the villagers must care for the great throngs of play years, though many apartments and lodging-houses must stand empty during the interval and the only wonder is that charges are so moderate. The regular population of Oberammergau is less than two thousand, though during the play it presents the appearance of a much larger place. The houses are nearly all of the prevailing Bavarian style, with wide, overhanging eaves and white walls often decorated with brightly colored frescoes. Through the center of the village rushes the Ammer, a clear, swift mountain stream which sometimes works havoc when flooded. The church is modern, but its Moorish tower and rococo decorations do not impress us as especially harmonious and there is little artistic or pleasing in the angular lines of the new theatre. The shops keep open on every day of the week, including Sunday, until nearly midnight. These are filled with carvings, pottery, postcards and endless trinkets for the souvenir-seeking tourist and perhaps yield more profit to the town than the play itself. There are several good-sized inns, but one has no chance of lodging in one of them unless quarters have been engaged months in advance--not very practicable when coming by motor. [Illustration: OBERAMMERGAU] One will best appreciate the magnificent situation of the village from a vantage-point on one of the mountains which encompass the wide green valley on every side. On the loftiest crag of all gleams a tall white cross--surely a fit emblem to first greet the stranger who comes to Oberammergau. In the center of the vale is the village, the clean white-walled houses grouped irregularly about the huge church, which forms the social center of the place. The dense green of the trees, the brighter green of the window-shutters, the red and gray-tile roofs and the swift river cleaving its way through the town, afford a pleasing variety of color to complete the picture. The surrounding green pastures with the herds of cattle are the property of the villagers--nearly every family of this thrifty community is a landholder. The scene is a quiet, peaceful one, such as suits the character of the people who inhabit this lovely vale. And these same villagers, simple and unpretentious as they are, will hardly fail to favorably impress the stranger. The Tyrolese costume is everywhere in evidence and there is a large predominance of full-bearded men, for the play-actors are not allowed to resort to wigs and false whiskers. They exhibit the peculiarities of the Swiss rather than the Germans and their manners and customs are simple and democratic in the extreme. While the head of the community is nominally the burgomaster, the real government is vested in the householders. The freedom from envy and strife is indeed remarkable; quarrels are unknown and very few of the inhabitants are so selfish as to seek for honor or wealth. The greatest distinction that can come to any of them is an important part in the play; yet there is never any contention or bitterness over the allotments. It would be hard to find elsewhere a community more seriously happy, more healthful or morally better than Oberammergau. I shall not write at length of the world-famous play. It has been so well and widely described that I could add but little new. It is interesting as the sole survival of a vast number of mediaeval miracle plays, though it has cast off the coarser features and progressed into a really artistic production. I must first of all plead my own ignorance of the true spirit and marvelous beauty of the play ere I saw it. I thought it the crude production of a community of ignorant peasants who were shrewd enough to turn their religion into a money-making scheme and I freely declared that I would scarcely cross the street to witness it. But when the great chorus of three hundred singers appeared in the prelude that glorious Sunday morning, I began to realize how mistaken I had been. And as the play progressed I was more and more impressed with its solemn sincerity, its artistic staging and its studied harmony of coloring. Indeed, in the last named particular it brought vividly to mind the rich yet subdued tones of Raphael and Michael Angelo, and the effect of the rare old tapestries one occasionally finds in the museums. The tableaux in many cases closely followed some famous picture--as Leonardo DaVinci's "Last Supper" or Rubens' "Descent from the Cross,"--all perfectly carried out in coloring and spirit. The costumes were rich and carefully studied, giving doubtless a true picture of the times of Christ. The acting was the perfection of naturalness and the crude and ridiculous features of the early miracle plays--and, not so very long ago, of the Passion Play itself--have been gradually dropped until scarce a trace of them remains. The devil no longer serves the purpose of the clown, having altogether disappeared; and even the tableau of Jonah and the whale, though given in the printed programs, was omitted, evidently from a sense of its ridiculousness. I found myself strangely affected by the simple story of the play. One indeed might imagine that he saw a real bit of the ancient world were it not for the great steel arches bending above him and the telephone wires stretching across the blue sky over the stage. But I think the best proof of the real human interest of the play is that it held the undivided attention of five thousand spectators for eight long hours on a spring day whose perfect beauty was a strong lure to the open sky. And it did this not only for one day but for weeks, later in the summer requiring an almost continuous daily performance. And, having seen it once, I have no doubt the greater number of spectators would gladly witness it again, for so great a work of art cannot be grasped from a single performance. Of course Oberammergau has not escaped the critics, but I fancy the majority of them are, like myself before our visit to the town, quite ignorant of the facts as well as the true spirit of the people. The commonest charge is that the play is a money-making scheme on the part of the promoters, but the fact is that the people are poor and remain poor. The actual profits from the play are not large and these are devoted to some public work, as the new theatre, the hospital and the good cause of public roads. The salaries paid the players are merely nominal, in no case exceeding a few hundred marks. The only source of private profit comes from the sale of souvenirs and the entertaining of visitors, but this can not be great, considering that the harvest comes only once in a decade. The play is "commercialized" only to the extent of placing it on a paying basis and if this were not the case there could be no performance. The very fear of this charge kept the villagers up to 1910 from placing their tickets and reservations in the hands of Cook and other tourist agencies, though they were finally persuaded to yield in this as an accommodation to the public. The most effective answer to the assertion that the chief end of the play is money-making may be found in the constant refusal of the villagers to produce it elsewhere than in Oberammergau. Offers of fabulous sums from promoters in England and the United States for the production of the play in the large centers of these countries have been steadily refused, and the actors have pursued their humble avocations in their quiet little town quite content with their meager earnings. Nor have they yielded to the temptation to give the play oftener, though it would be immensely profitable if presented every year or even every alternate year. We leave the little mountain-girdled valley with a new conception of its Passion Play and its unique, happy people. The majestic spectacle we have witnessed during our stay will linger with us so long as life shall last and it can never be otherwise than a pleasant and inspiring memory. V BAVARIA AND THE RHINE Munich is sixty miles north of Oberammergau and the road is better than the average of German highways. For some distance out of the village we pursue a winding course among the mountains, which affords some glorious vistas of wooded vales and snow-capped Alps while we descend to the wide plain surrounding Munich. We pass through several sleepy-looking villages, though they prove sufficiently wide-awake to collect a toll of two or three marks for the privilege of traversing their streets. A well-surfaced highway bordered by trees leads us into the broad streets of Munich, where we repair to the Continental Hotel. We remain here several days and have the opportunity of closely observing the Bavarian capital. We unhesitatingly pronounce it the cleanest, most artistic and most substantial city we have ever seen. A number of drives through the main streets and environs reveal little in the nature of slums; even the poorest quarters of the city are solidly built and clean, and next to its beautiful buildings and artistic monuments the cleanliness of Munich seems to us most noteworthy. Perhaps the ladies should be given credit for this--not the members of the women's clubs, who are often supposed to influence civic affairs for the better, but the old women who do the sweeping and scrubbing of the streets, for we see them in every part of the city. This spick-and-span cleanliness of the larger German cities forms a sharp contrast to the filth and squalor of the villages, some of which are even worse than anything we saw in France--but of this more anon. Munich has a population of more than a half million, and having been built within the last century, is essentially modern. It has many notable public buildings, mainly in the German Gothic style--the Rathhaus, with its queer clock which sets a number of life-size automatons in motion every time it strikes the hour, being the most familiar to tourists. The Royal Palace and the National Theatre are splendid structures and the latter is famous for grand opera, in which the Germans take great delight. Munich ranks as an important art capital, having several galleries and museums, among which the Bavarian National and German Museum are the most notable. There are numerous public gardens and parks, all kept with the trim neatness that characterizes the entire city. And one must not forget the beer-gardens, which play so large a part in German life; the whole population frequents these open-air drinking-places, where beer and other refreshments are served at small tables underneath the trees. The best feature of these is the excellent music which is an invariable accompaniment and Munich is famous for its musicians. The most proficient of these think it no detraction to perform in the beer-gardens, which are attended by the best people of all classes; students, artists, professors, business and military men make up a large proportion of the patrons of these resorts. The gardens are conducted by the big brewers and Munich beer is famous the world over. There is comparatively little manufacturing in the city, though we noted one exceptionally large iron foundry and a great engine works. During our stay we took occasion to have our car overhauled at a public garage and were impressed with the intelligence and efficiency of the German mechanics. They were usually large, fine-looking fellows, always good-natured and accommodating. The wages paid them are quite small as compared with those of American mechanics, being about one-third as much. At four o'clock in the afternoon everything stops for a quarter of an hour while the workmen indulge in a pot of beer and a slice or two of black bread. We saw this in a large foundry, where several hundred men were employed and were told that the custom is universal. The Captain, while admitting that most of the German workmen were very good fellows, often treated them in a supercilious manner that I fear sometimes worked against our interests. In fact, the Captain's dislike of everything German was decidedly pronounced and the sight of a company of soldiers usually put him in an ill humor. "I'll have to take a crack at those fellows some time, myself," he would say, in the firm conviction that war between England and Germany was inevitable. He was not put in a better state of feeling towards our Teutonic hosts when he came to pay the bill at the Continental. Through carelessness unusual on his part, he neglected to have an iron-clad understanding when he engaged accommodations and we had to suffer in consequence. He made a vigorous protest without appreciable effect on the suave clerk, who assured us that the rates of the Continental were quite like the laws of the Medes and the Persians. They were high--yes; but only persons of quality were received. Indeed, a princess and a baroness were among the guests at that moment and he hinted that many applicants were turned away because their appearance did not meet the requirements of the Continental. "We just look them over," said the clerk, "and if we don't like them we tell them we are full." All of which the Captain translated to us, though I should judge from his vehemence in replying to the clerk that he used some language which he did not repeat--perhaps it had no equivalent in English. But it was all to no purpose; we paid the bill and were free to get whatever comfort we could from the reflection that we had been fellow-guests with a princess. "I saw her one day," said the Captain. "She was smoking a cigarette in the parlor and I offered her one of mine, which she declined, though she talked with me very civilly for a few minutes." We start rather late in the day with Ulm and Stuttgart as objective points. The weather is fickle and the numerous villages through which we pass would be disgusting enough in the sunshine, but they fairly reek in the drizzling rain. The streets are inches deep in filth and we drive slowly to avoid plastering the car--though the odors would induce us to hasten if it were possible. Along the highroad stretch the low thatched cottages; each one is half stable and the refuse is often piled above the small windows. We dare not think of our plight if a tire should burst as we drive gingerly along, but we fortunately escape such disaster. Everywhere in these villages we see groups of sturdy children--"race suicide" does not trouble Germany, nor does the frightfully insanitary conditions of their homes seem to have affected them adversely. On the contrary, they are fat, healthy-looking rascals who--the Captain declares--scream insulting epithets at us. On all sides, despite the rather inclement weather, we see women in the fields, pulling weeds or using heavy, mattock-shaped hoes. We even see old crones breaking rock for road-work and others engaged in hauling muck from the villages to the fields. Men are more seldom seen at work--what their occupation is we can only surmise. They cannot be caring for the children, all of whom seem to be running the streets. Possibly they are washing the dishes. But, facetiousness aside, it is probable that the millions of young men who are compelled to do army service for three years leave more work for the women at home. The railway traveler in Germany sees little of the conditions I have described in these smaller villages; few of them are on the railroad and the larger towns and tourist centers are usually cleanly. The dominating feature of Ulm is the cathedral, whose vast bulk looms over the gray roofs of the houses crowding closely around it. It is the second largest church in Germany and has one of the finest organs in existence. The great central spire is the loftiest Gothic structure in the world, rising to a height of five hundred and twenty-eight feet, which overtops even Cologne. It has rather a new appearance, as a complete restoration was finished only a few years ago. The cathedral has made Ulm a tourist center and this no doubt accounts for the numerous hotels of the town. We have a very satisfactory luncheon at the Munster, though the charge startles us a little. We cannot help thinking that some of these inns have a special schedule for the man with an automobile--rating him as an American millionaire, who, according to the popular notion in Germany, is endowed with more money than brains. [Illustration: ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL] From Ulm we pursue a poor road along the River Fils to Stuttgart, making slow progress through the numerous villages. The streets are thronged with children who delight in worrying our driver by standing in the road until we are nearly upon them. The Captain often addresses vigorous language to the provoking urchins, only to be answered by an epithet or a grimace. Stuttgart is a clean, well-built city with large commercial enterprises. We see several American flags floating from buildings, for many Stuttgart concerns have branches in the States. It is a famous publishing center and its interest in books is evidenced by its splendid library, which contains more than a half million volumes. Among these is a remarkable collection of bibles, representing eight thousand editions in over one hundred languages. There are the usual museums and galleries to be found in a German city of a quarter of a million people and many fine monuments and memorials grace the streets and parks. The population is largely Protestant, which probably accounts for the absence of a church of the first magnitude. We stop at the old-fashioned Marquardt Hotel, which proves very good and moderate in rates. The next day we cover one hundred and sixty miles of indifferent road to Frankfort, going by the way of Karlsruhe, Heidelberg and Darmstadt. We come across a few stretches of modern macadam, but these aggregate an insignificant proportion of the distance. The villages exhibit the same unattractive characteristics of those we passed yesterday. Many have ancient cobblestone pavements full of chuck-holes; in others the streets are muddy and filthy beyond description. It is Sunday and the people are in their best attire; work is suspended everywhere--quite the opposite of what we saw in France. The country along our route is level and devoid of interest. From Karlsruhe we follow the course of the Rhine, though at some distance from the river itself. We pass through several forests which the government carefully conserves--in favorable contrast with our reckless and wasteful destruction of trees in America. There is much productive land along our way and the fields of wheat and rye are as fine as we have ever seen. But for all this the country lacks the trim, parklike beauty of England and the sleek prosperity and bright color of France. Heidelberg, thirty miles north of Karlsruhe, is a town of nearly fifty thousand people. The university, the oldest and most famous school in the empire, is not so large as many in America, having but sixteen hundred students in all departments. It has, however, an imposing array of buildings, some of these dating from the fourteenth century, when the school was founded. The town is picturesquely situated on the Neckar, which is crossed by a high bridge borne on massive arches. There is a fine view down the river from this bridge and one which we pause to contemplate. From the bridge we also get a good view of the town and the ancient castle which dominates the place from a lofty hill. Ruined castles, we have found, are as rare in Germany, outside the Rhine region, as they are common in England. We reach Frankfort at dusk, more weary than we have been in many a day. The roads have been as trying as any we have traversed in Europe for a like distance, and these, with the cobblestone pavements, have been responsible for an unusual amount of tire trouble, which has not tended to alleviate our weariness or improve our tempers. The Carlton Hotel looks good and proves quite as good as it looks. It is the newest hotel in the city, having been opened within a year by the well-known Ritz-Carlton Corporation. In construction, equipment and service it is up to the highest Continental standard--with prices to correspond. One would require several days to visit the points of interest in Frankfort, but our plans do not admit of much leisurely sightseeing. It is one of the oldest of German cities, its records running back to the time of Charlemagne in 793. We shall have to content ourselves with a drive about the principal streets and an outside view of the most important buildings. Chief among these is the magnificent opera house, the railway station--said to be the finest on the Continent--the library, the Stadel Museum, the "Schauspielhaus," or new theatre, and the municipal buildings. The Cathedral of St. Bartholemew is the oldest church, dating from 1235, but architecturally it does not rank with Cologne or Ulm. The interior has a number of important paintings and frescoes. St. Peter's, the principal Protestant church, is of the modern Renaissance style with an ornate tower two hundred and fifty feet in height. There is one shrine in Frankfort that probably appeals to a greater number of tourists than any of the monumental buildings we have named--the plain old house where the poet Goethe was born in 1749 and where he lived during his earlier years. Goethe occupies a place in German literature analogous only to that of Shakespeare in our own and we may well believe that this house is as much venerated in the Fatherland as the humble structure in Stratford-on-Avon is revered in England. It has been purchased by a patriotic society and restored as nearly as possible to its original condition and now contains a collection of relics connected with the poet--books, original manuscripts, portraits and personal belongings. The custodian shows us about with the officiousness and pride of his race and relates many anecdotes of the great writer, which are duly translated by the Captain. While it is hard for us to become enthusiastic over a German writer about whom we know but little, it is easy to see that the patriotic native might find as much sentiment in the Goethe house as we did in Abbotsford or Alloway. [Illustration: GOETHE'S HOUSE--FRANKFORT] It is only a short run from Frankfort to Mayence, where we begin the famous Rhine Valley trip. We pause for luncheon at the excellent Hotel d'Angleterre, which overlooks the broad river. The city, declares Herr Baedeker, is one of the most interesting of Rheinish towns and certainly one of the oldest, for it has a continuous history from 368, at which time Christianity was already flourishing. It figured extensively in the endless church and civil wars that raged during the middle ages, and was captured by the French in 1689 and 1792. After the latter fall it was ceded to France, which, however, retained it but a few years. Formerly it was one of the most strongly fortified towns in the kingdom, but its walls and forts have been destroyed, though it still is the seat of a garrison of seventy-five hundred soldiers. It has a cathedral of first importance, founded as early as 400, though few traces of the original building can be found. A notable feature is a pair of bronze doors executed in 988, illustrating historic events of that time. But the greatest distinction of Mayence is that Johann Gutenberg, the father of modern printing, was born here near the end of the fourteenth century. At least this is the general opinion of the savants, though there be those who dispute it. However, there is no doubt that he died in the city about 1468; neither is it disputed that he established his first printing shop in Mayence, and did much important work in the town. The famous Gutenberg Bible, a copy of which sold recently for $50,000, was executed here about 1450. A bronze statue of the famous printer by Thorwaldsen stands in front of the cathedral. [Illustration: BINGEN ON THE RHINE] The fifty or sixty miles between Mayence and Coblenz comprise the most picturesque section of the Rhine, so famous in song and legend, and our road closely follows the river for the whole distance. The really impressive scenery begins at Bingen, ten miles west of Mayence, where we enter the Rhine Gorge. On either side of the river rise the clifflike hills--literally vine-covered, for the steep slopes have been terraced and planted with vineyards to the very tops. Our road keeps to the north of the river and is often overhung by rocky walls, while far above we catch glimpses of ivy-clad ruins surmounting the beetling crags. The highway is an excellent one, much above the German average. In places it is bordered by fruit-trees--a common practice in Germany--and we pass men who are picking the luscious cherries. So strong is law and order in the Fatherland, we are told, that these public fruit-trees are never molested and the proceeds are used for road improvement. The day is showery, which to some extent obscures the scenery, though the changeful moods of light and color are not without charm. The great hills with their castles and vineyards are alternately cloud-swept and flooded with sunlight--or, more rarely, hidden by a dashing summer shower. Bingen has gained a wide fame from the old ballad whose melancholy lilt comes quickly to one's mind--though we do not find the simple country village we had imagined. It has about ten thousand people and lies in a little valley on both sides of the Nahe, a small river which joins the Rhine at this point. It is an ancient place, its history running back to Roman times. Slight remains of a Roman fortress still exist, though the site is now occupied by Klopp Castle, which was restored from complete ruin a half century ago. This castle is open to visitors and from its tower one may look down on the town with its gray roofs and huge churches. From Bingen to Coblenz, a distance of about forty miles, the gorge of the Rhine is continuous and we are never out of sight of the vine-covered hills and frequent ruins. Nearly all the ruined castles of Germany center here and we see fit matches for Caerphilly, Richmond or Kenilworth in Britain. In this hurried chronicle I cannot even mention all of these picturesque and often imposing ruins, though a few may be chosen as typical. [Illustration: CASTLE RHEINSTEIN] A short distance from Bingen is Rheinstein, originally built about 1270 and recently restored by Prince Henry as one of his summer residences, though he has visited it, the custodian tells us, but once in two years. A wearisome climb is necessary to reach the castle, which is some two hundred and fifty feet above the road where we leave our car. The mediaeval architecture and furnishings are carried out as closely as possible in the restoration, giving a good idea of the life and state of the old-time barons. There is also an important collection of armor and antiquities relating to German history. In this same vicinity is Ehrenfels, which has stood in ruin nearly three hundred years. Its towers still stand, proud and threatening, though the residential portions are much shattered. Opposite this ruin, on a small island in the river, is the curious "Mouse Tower," where, legend asserts, a cruel archbishop was once besieged and finally devoured by an army of mice and rats, a judgment for causing a number of poor people to be burned in order to get rid of them during a famine. But as the bishop lived about 915 and the tower was built some three hundred years later, his connection with it is certainly mythical and let us hope the rest of the story has no better foundation. The old name, Mausturm (arsenal), no doubt suggested the fiction to some early chronicler. The castles of Sonneck and Falkenburg, dating from the eleventh century, surmount the heights a little farther on our way. These were strongholds of robber-barons who in the middle ages preyed upon the river-borne traffic--their exploits forming the burden of many a ballad and tale. These gentry came to their just deserts about 1300 at the hands of Prince Rudolph, who consigned them to the gallows and destroyed their castles. Sonneck is still in ruins, but Falkenburg has been restored and is now private property. Almost every foot of the Rhine Gorge boasts of some supernatural or heroic tale--as myth-makers the Germans were not behind their contemporaries. We pass the Devil's Ladder, where the fiend once aided an ancient knight--no doubt on the score of personal friendship--to scale the perpendicular cliff to gain the hand of a "ladye fair." A little farther are the Lorelei Rocks, where the sirens enticed the sailors to destruction in the rapids just below. Quite as unfortunate were the seven virgins of Schonburg, who for their prudery were transformed into seven rocky pinnacles not far from the Lorelei--and so on ad infinitum. [Illustration: EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE] A volume would not catalog the legends and superstitions of the Rhine Gorge. At least the Captain so declares and adds that he knows a strange story of the Rhine that an old German once told him in Bingen. At our solicitation he repeats it as we glide slowly along the river road and I have thought it worth recasting for my book. There will be no harm done if it is skipped by the reader who has no taste for such things. It is a little after the style of several German legends of ancient gentry, who sold themselves to the Evil One to gain some greatly desired point--though I always thought these stories reflected on the business sagacity of the Devil in making him pay for something he was bound to get in the end without cost. The story, I find, is long enough to require a chapter of itself and it may appropriately follow this. There are endless small towns along the road, but they are quite free from the untoward conditions I have described in the more retired villages off the track of tourist travel. Boppard, St. Goar Oberwesel and Bornhofen are among the number and each has its storied ruin. Near the last-named are the twin castles of The Brothers, with their legend of love and war which the painstaking Baedeker duly chronicles. Above St. Goar towers the vast straggling ruin of Rheinfels, said to be the most extensive in Germany, which has stood in decay since its capture by the French in 1797. It crowns a barren and almost inaccessible rock which rises nearly four hundred feet above the river. Near Boppard is Marxburg, the only old-time castle which has never been in ruin. It has passed through many vicissitudes and at present serves as a museum of ancient weapons and warlike costumes. As we approach Coblenz we come in sight of the battlemented towers of Stolzenfels rising above the dense forests that cover the great hill on which it stands. The castle is three hundred and ten feet above the river, but the plain square tower rises one hundred and ten feet higher, affording a magnificent outlook. The present structure is modern, having been built in 1842 by the crown prince on the site of an old castle destroyed by the French. It now belongs to the emperor, who opens it to visitors when he is not in residence. It is a splendid edifice and gives some idea of the former magnificence of the ruins we have seen to-day. [Illustration: RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS] Coblenz, at the junction of the Moselle and Rhine, appeals to us as a stopping-place and we turn in at the Monopol--just why I do not know. There are certainly much better hotels in Coblenz than this old-fashioned and rather slack place, though it has the redeeming feature of very moderate charges. The Captain is in very ill humor; he has quarreled with an employee at the garage and as nearly as I can learn, tried to drive the car over him. I feared the outraged Teuton might drop a wrench in our gear-box as a revenge for the rating the Captain gave him--though, fortunately, we experience no such misfortune. Coblenz has about fifty thousand people and while it is a very old city--its name indicating Roman origin--it has little to detain the tourist. An hour's drive about the place will suffice and we especially remember the colossal bronze statue of Emperor William I., which stands on the point of land where the two rivers join--a memorial which Baedeker declares "one of the most impressive personal monuments in the world." The equestrian figure is forty-six feet high and dominates the landscape in all directions, being especially imposing when seen from the river. Just opposite Coblenz is the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, about four hundred feet above the river. A finely engineered road leads to the fort, where a large garrison of soldiers is stationed. Visitors are admitted provided they can satisfy the officials that they are not foreign military men who might spy out the defenses. Our route as planned by the Royal Automobile Club was to take us from Coblenz to Treves by way of the Moselle Valley, but our desire to see the cathedral leads us to follow the Rhine road to Cologne. Mr. Maroney of the Club afterwards told me that we made a mistake, since the scenery and storied ruins of Moselle Valley are quite equal to the Rhine Gorge itself. Cologne one can see any time, but the chance to follow the Moselle by motor does not come every day. We are disappointed in the trip to Cologne, since there is little of the picturesqueness and romantic charm that delighted us on the previous day. The castle of Drachenfels, on a mighty hill rising a thousand feet above the river, is the most famous ruin, but we do not undertake the rather difficult ascent. The far-reaching view from the summit was celebrated by Byron in "Childe Harold." Just opposite is the ruin of Rolandseck, with its pathetic legend of unrequited love and constancy. This castle, tradition says, was built by Roland, a crusader, who returned to find that his affianced bride had given him up as dead and entered a convent. He thereupon built this retreat whence he could look down upon the convent that imprisoned the fair Hildegund. When after some years he heard of her death he never spoke again, but pined away until death overtook him also a short time afterwards. Midway we pass through Bonn, the university town, a clean, modern city of sixty thousand people. The university was founded a century ago and has some three thousand students. Beethoven was born in Bonn in 1770, in a house which now contains a museum relating to the great composer. Our road keeps to the right of the river, which is swollen and dirty yellow from recent rains. We pass many villages with miserable streets--the road in no wise compares with the one we followed yesterday through the Gorge. Altogether, the fifty miles between Coblenz and Cologne has little to make the run worth while. We find ourselves in the narrow, crooked streets of Cologne well before noon and are stopped by--it seems to us--a very officious policeman who tells us we may proceed if we will be careful. This seems ridiculous and the Captain cites it as an example of the itching of every German functionary to show his authority, but later we learn that motors are not allowed on certain streets of Cologne between eleven and two o'clock. Our friend the officer was really showing us a favor on account of our ignorance in permitting us to proceed. We direct our course towards the cathedral, which overshadows everything else in Cologne, and the Savoy Hotel, just opposite, seems the logical place to stop. It proves very satisfactory, though it ranks well down in Baedeker's list. Cologne Cathedral is conceded to be the most magnificent church in the world and a lengthy description would be little but useless repetition of well-known data. We find, however, that to really appreciate the vastness and grandeur of the great edifice one must ascend the towers and view the various details at close range. It is not easy to climb five hundred feet of winding stairs, especially if one is inclined to be a little short-winded, but the effort will be rewarded by a better conception of the building and a magnificent view covering a wide scope of country. We are unfortunate today since a gray mist obscures much of the city beneath us and quite shuts out the more distant landscape. The great twin towers, which rise more than five hundred feet into the sky, were completed only a few years ago. In the period between 1842 and 1880 about five million dollars was expended in carrying out the original plans--almost precisely as they were drawn by the architects nearly seven hundred years ago. The corner-stone was laid in 1248 and construction was carried forward at intervals during the period of seven centuries. Inside, the cathedral is no less impressive than from the exterior. The vaulting, which rises over two hundred feet from the floor, is carried by fifty-six great pillars and the plan is such that one's vision may cover almost the whole interior from a single viewpoint. It is lighted by softly toned windows--mostly modern, though a few date from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and, altogether, the effect is hardly matched by any other church in Christendom. We make no attempt to see the show-places of Cologne during our stay--it would require a week to do this and we shall have to come again. An afternoon about the city gives us some idea of its monuments and notable buildings as well as glimpses of the narrow and often quaint streets of the old town. The next day we are away for Treves and Luxemburg before the "verboten" hour for motor cars. If we missed much fine scenery in the Moselle Valley by coming to Cologne, the loss is partly atoned for by the country we see to-day and the unusually excellent roads. Our route as far as Treves runs a little west of south and diverges some seventy-five miles from the Rhine. It is through a high, rolling country, often somewhat sterile, but we have many glorious views from the upland roads. There are long stretches of hills interspersed with wooded valleys and fields bright with yellow gorse or crimson poppies. There are many grain-fields, though not so opulent-looking as those we saw in the Rhine Valley, and we pass through tracts of fragrant pine forest, which often crowd up to the very roadside. There are many long though usually easy climbs, and again we may glide downward a mile or more with closed throttle and disengaged gears. Much of the way the roadside is bordered with trees and the landscapes remind us more of France than any we have so far seen in Germany. We pass but two or three villages in the one hundred and ten miles between Cologne and Treves; there are numerous isolated farmhouses, rather cleaner and better than we have seen previously. We stop at a country inn in the village of Prun for luncheon, which proves excellent--a pleasant surprise, for the inn is anything but prepossessing in appearance. The guests sit at one long table with the host at the head and evidently the majority are people of the village. Beer and wine are served free with the meal and some of the patrons imbibe an astonishing quantity. This seems to be the universal custom in the smaller inns; in the city hotels wine comes as an extra--no doubt somewhat of a deterrent on its free use. Treves--German Trier--is said to be the oldest town in Germany. The records show that Christianity was introduced here as early as 314 and the place was important in ecclesiastical circles throughout the middle ages. We have a splendid view of the town from the hills as we approach; it lies in the wide plain of the Moselle and its red sandstone walls and numerous towers present a very striking appearance. The cathedral, though not especially imposing, is one of the oldest of German churches--portions of it dating from 528 and the basilica now used as a Protestant church is a restored Roman structure dating from 306. But for all its antiquity Treves seems a pleasant, up-to-date town with well-paved streets--a point which never escapes the notice of the motorist. The surrounding hills are covered with vineyards and the wine trade forms one of the principal enterprises of the place. A few miles from Treves we enter the Grand Duchy of Luxemburg, an independent country, though part of the German Zollverein, which no doubt makes our touring license and number-plates pass current here. It is a tiny state of no more than a thousand square miles, though it has a quarter million people. Luxemburg, where we decide to stop for the night, is the capital. The Grand Hotel Brasseur looks good, though the service proves rather slack and the "cuisine" anything but first-class. Luxemburg is a delight--partly due to its peculiar and picturesque situation, but still more to the quaint buildings and crooked, narrow streets of the older parts and the shattered walls and watchtowers that still encircle it. The more modern portion of the town--which has but twenty thousand inhabitants--is perched on a rocky tableland, three sides of which drop almost precipitously for about two hundred feet to small rivers beneath. The hotels and principal business houses are on the plateau, but the older parts of the town are wedged in the narrow valleys. These are spanned by several high bridges, from one of which we have a delightful viewpoint. It is twilight and the gray houses are merging into the shadows, but the stern towers and broken walls on the heights fling their rugged forms more clearly than ever against the wide band of the sunset horizon. These are the remnants of the fortifications which were condemned to destruction by the Treaty of London in 1876, which guaranteed the neutrality of the Grand Duchy. Only the obsolete portions of the defenses were permitted to stand and these add wonderfully to the romantic beauty of the town. Indeed, the wide panoramas of valley and mountain, of bare, beetling rock and trim park and garden, groups of old trees, huge arched viaducts and the ancient fortifications, form one of the most striking scenes we have witnessed on the Continent. It evidently so impressed the poet Goethe, about one hundred years ago, for a graphic description of Luxemburg may be found in his writings. So charming is the scene that we linger until darkness quite obliterates it and return to our inn feeling that Luxemburg has more of real attractiveness than many of the tourist-thronged cities. [Illustration: LUXEMBURG--GENERAL VIEW] VI THE CAPTAIN'S STORY Friedrich Reinmuth had always been an unsettled and discontented youth; if his days were sad he complained because they were so and if they were prosperous he still found fault. It was not strange that, being of such a nature, he should already have tried many vocations, although yet a young man. At the time of my story he had become a soldier, and while he often fretted and chafed under the rigor of military discipline, he did not find it easy to shift from its shackles as had been his wont in other occupations. By chance he formed a friendship with an old and grizzled comrade, who, although he had served almost two score years in the army, was still hale and strong. The old man had been in the midst of numberless desperate engagements but had always come out of the fray unscathed. Queer stories were whispered about him among his soldier companions, but only whispered, for it was believed, and with reason, that he would take summary vengeance on anyone who crossed his path. He had murdered his own brother in a fit of fury, and to him was also imputed the assassination of the Baron of Reynold, who rebuked the fiery-tempered man on some trifling point; but he had never been brought to justice for any of his crimes. There was a vague rumor that Gottfried Winstedt had sold himself to the devil in return for the power to resist all mortal weapons and to escape all human justice--this it was that made him invulnerable in battle and shielded him from the wrath of the law. But Friedrich in his association with this man for the space of two months had noted little extraordinary about him. He never guessed why the veteran broke an habitual reserve to become his companion until one night when they were conversing on the eve of battle. As they sat moodily together by a waning camp-fire the older man, who had been even more morose than usual during the day, broke the silence. In a melancholy voice he said: "I have somewhat to tell you now, for before the set of tomorrow's sun I will be--God in Heaven, where will I be?--but let it pass; I dare not think of it. My life has been one of unparalleled wickedness; I have committed crimes the very recital of which would appall the most hardened criminal in the Kingdom, but I would not recite them to you if I could, for what would avail the monotonous story of vice and bloodshed for which there is no repentance? You have heard the rumors that these accursed fools have whispered of me--I will not say whether they be true or no. But long foreseeing--yes, foreknowing my fate--I have sought for someone in whom I might confide. I was drawn toward you--I hardly know why--yet I dare not wholly trust in you. Upon one condition, nevertheless, I will commit to you something of vast and curious importance." Friedrich in his amazement was silent and the veteran brought forth from the folds of his faded cloak a small sandalwood box, which he held toward the young man. "I would have you swear," he said, "by all you hold sacred that you will never open this casket except on one condition; it is that you should so desire some earthly thing--wealth, fame, love--that you are willing to barter your eternal welfare to secure it." Something in the old man's manner as well as his words aroused in Friedrich a feeling akin to fear. He took the required oath, mentally resolving that he would throw the mysterious casket in the river on the first opportunity. "Now leave me instantly; I shall never see you again in this world and even I am not so fiendish as to wish to see you in my next--but hark ye, if you ever break the seal out of idle curiosity I will return from the grave to avenge myself on you." Startled by the old man's vehemence, Friedrich hastened to his quarters and strove to sleep. But the strange event of the evening and thoughts of the morrow's conflict, with its danger and perhaps death, drove slumber from his eyes. He tossed about his barrack until the long roll summoned his regiment to the field of battle. The fight raged fiercely and long, and toward evening Friedrich fell, seriously wounded. It was many weeks before he was able to be on his feet again and finding himself totally unfitted by his wound for the profession of arms--and, in fact, for any active occupation--he sadly returned to his native town on the Rhine. Here it chanced there was an old portrait painter of some little renown who took a liking to the unfortunate young soldier and proposed that he study the art; and Friedrich applied himself with such diligence in his new vocation that before long he far excelled his master. Things went prosperously with him. His fame spread beyond the borders of his native town and came to the ears of many of the noble families of the vicinity. He had the good fortune to be patronized by some of these and he transferred the beauty of many a haughty dame and fair damsel to his canvas with unvarying success. Indeed, it is said that more than one of his fair clients looked languishingly at the young artist, whose skill and fame made much amends for humble birth. But Friedrich boasted that he gazed upon the fairest of them unmoved. Ambitious and free-hearted, he thought himself impervious to the wiles of love--a frame of mind he declared indispensible to his art. His success brought him gold as well as fame and but one achievement was needed to complete his triumphs--the patronage of the Herwehes, the noblest and wealthiest of all the great families within leagues of the town. True, the baron and his son were away at present, engaged in the war that still distracted the land, but the lady and her daughter were at home in the magnificent castle which surmounted an eminence far above the Rhine, in full view against the sky from the window of the artist's studio. The fact that the Herwehes withheld their countenance from him was a sore obstacle in the way of Friedrich's ambitions; their influence extended to every class, and many lesser lights, professedly imitators of the noble family, followed their example even in trivial matters. Great was the young artist's satisfaction when one afternoon two ladies descended from a coach (bearing the Herwehe coat-of-arms) which paused in the street before his studio. Both were veiled, but Friedrich had no doubt that his visitors were the baroness and her daughter, whose patronage he so earnestly desired. When both were seated the elder woman, throwing aside her veil, revealed a face that had lost little of its youthful charm, and with a tone of haughty condescension said: "I have seen some of your portraits, Master Reinmuth, and was pleased with them. I wish you, regardless of time and cost, to paint my daughter." By this time Friedrich had to some extent overcome his trepidation and with a profound courtesy replied, "I shall be happy to serve you, My Lady, if you will be good enough to indicate the time and place for the sittings." "Elsa, dearest, what are your wishes?" asked the mother, and in a voice whose tremulous sweetness thrilled the painter, the young woman replied: "Let it be at the castle, my dear mother, tomorrow at this time. I would rather not come to the studio, for I dread the ride over the rough mountain road." "I will be at your service, My Lady," answered Friedrich, and his visitors departed without delay. Friedrich marveled that his thoughts for the remainder of the day--and much of the night--should revert to the demure little figure whose voice had so moved him. Fame bespoke her the fairest of the fair, but it never entered his imaginings that he, a humble portrait painter, could think of the daughter of such an illustrious line but as one of a different order of beings from himself. He had never thought seriously of love; his mistress, he averred, had been fame. True, he had in idle moments dreamed of a being that he might madly adore--and, alas for him, his fancy had become embodied in human form. But why had this maiden so affected him? She had not lifted her veil and had spoken but once, and if her bearing were dignified and her form graceful, he had seen many others no less charming in these respects nor thought of them a second time. If he had analyzed his feelings he would probably have said that the unusual impression was due to the recognition of his talent by the Herwehes. The appointed hour on the morrow found him following the footpath which led to the castle gate--a much shorter though steeper way than the coach road. Intent as he was on his mission, he could not but pause occasionally to view the wonderful scene that spread out beneath him. The cliff on which the many-towered old castle stood almost overhung the blue waters of the Rhine, which here run between rocks of stupendous height. A little farther down the valley, but in full view from his splendid vantage-point, were vineyard-terraced hills interspersed with wooded ravines and luxuriant meadows. The magic touch of early autumn was over it all--a scene of enchanting beauty. On the opposite cliff was an ancient ruin (now entirely vanished) and Friedrich recalled more than one horrible tale about this abandoned place that had blanched his youthful cheeks. At his feet lay the gray roofs and church spires of his native town and perhaps a shadow of a thought of the renown he would one day bring to it flitted through his mind--for on such an errand and such a day what could limit his ambitious musings? He soon found himself at the castle gate and was admitted by the keeper, who knew of his coming. He was ushered into a magnificent apartment and told to await the Lady Elsa's arrival--and the servant added that the baroness was absent, having gone that morning to Coblenz to join her husband. Friedrich, in the few moments he waited, endeavored to compose himself, though feelings of anxiety and curiosity strove with his efforts at indifference; but when the oaken door swung softly open and his fair client stood before him, he started as though he had seen an apparition. Indeed, it flashed on him at once that all the perfection he had imagined, all the beauty of which he had dreamed, stood before him in the warm tints of life, though to his heated fancy she seemed more than a being of flesh and blood. In truth, the kindly eyes, the expressive and delicately moulded face, the flood of dark hair that fell over shapely shoulders, the slender yet gracefully rounded form, and, more than all, that certain nameless and indescribable something that makes a woman beautiful--did not all these proclaim her almost more than mortal to the over-wrought imagination of the young visionary? "Are you ill?" were her first words when her quick eye caught the ghastly pallor of the artist's face and the bewildered look that possessed it. At the sound of her voice he strove desperately to regain his composure. "No, not ill," he said. "I still suffer from a wound I received in the army and the climb up the mountainside somewhat overtaxed my strength." "I am sorry," she replied. "Had I known, I would gladly have come to the studio." The look of sympathetic interest with which she accompanied her words was a poor sedative to the already overmastering passions of the artist, but by a supreme effort he recovered himself to say: "No, no; it is better that I do not pass so much of my time there. I have applied myself too closely of late. Are you ready, lady, for the sitting?" "Yes," said she. "I have been preparing for you. Follow me." She led the way through several magnificent apartments to one even more splendid than the rest. "In this room," she continued, "I would have the portrait painted, and as a setting can you not paint a portion of the room itself?" Friedrich assented in an absent manner and taking up his palette was about to give his fair subject directions to seat herself to the best advantage when he saw she had already done so, with a pose and expression that might have delighted even a dispassionate artist's eye--if, indeed, any eye could gaze dispassionately on the Lady Elsa Herwehe. She had arranged the drapery of her dull-red silken robe so as to display to the best advantage--and yet not ostentatiously--the outlines of her graceful figure, and her dark hair fell in a shadowy mass over her shoulders. Her face bore a listless and far-away expression--was it natural, or only assumed for artistic effect? Friedrich knew not, but it made her seem superhuman. The artist took up his brush but his brain reeled and his hand trembled. "You are surely ill," exclaimed Lady Elsa and would have called a servant, but a gesture from Friedrich detained her. "No, lady, I am not ill"--and losing all control of himself he went madly on--"but I cannot paint the features of an angel. O, Lady Elsa, if it were the last words I should utter I must declare that I love you. The moment I saw you a tenfold fury seized my soul. I never loved before and I cannot stem the torrent now. O, lady, the difference between our stations in life is wide--but, after all, it may soon be otherwise; I have talent and the world will give me fame. This love in a day has become my life and what is mere breath without life? If you scorn me my life is gone"-- The Lady Elsa, who was at first overcome by astonishment, recovered herself to interrupt him. "Peace, you foolish babbler," cried she. "You came to paint my likeness, not to make love to me. If you cannot do your task, cease your useless vaporings and depart. Think you the daughter of an historic line that stretches back to Hengist could throw herself away on a poor portrait painter, the son of an ignorant peasant? Take you to your business or leave me." To Friedrich every word was a dagger-thrust. He seemed about to reply when--as awakening from a dreadful dream--he rushed from the apartment and fled in wild haste down the stony path to the town. Locking himself in his studio he threw himself on the couch in an ecstacy of despair and passed the greater part of the night in sleepless agony. From sheer exhaustion he fell into a troubled slumber towards morning--if such a hideous semi-conscious state may be called slumber. In his dream he saw a host of demons and in their midst a veiled figure at the sight of which his heart leaped, for it seemed the Lady Elsa. She approached and offered him her hand, veiled beneath the folds of her robe; when he had clasped it he stood face to face, not with the lady of his love, but with the sin-hardened and sardonic features of Gottfried Winstedt, the old soldier-comrade whose dreadful fate he had forgotten! With a wild start he awoke and his thoughts immediately flashed to the strange casket the old man had given him. The words of that anomaly of a man came to him with an awful significance: "When thou shalt so desire some earthly thing that thou wouldst barter thine eternal welfare to secure it, thou mayest open this casket." Fearing that his curiosity might some time overcome him and dreading the threat of old Gottfried, he had buried the casket in a lonely spot and quite forgotten it. His dream recalled it to his memory at a time when no price would be too great to pay for the love of Elsa Herwehe. He sprang from his couch and hastened to the secluded corner of his father's garden, where he had buried the mysterious casket in a wrapping of coarse sack-cloth. Returning to his room and carefully barring the doors he opened the box with little difficulty. It contained a roll of manuscript and a single sheet of yellow parchment. Friedrich unrolled this and a small scrap of paper fell at his feet. It bore these words in faded red letters: "Thou who art willing to bear the consequence, read; the incantation on the parchment, if repeated in a solitary spot at midnight, will bring the presence of the Prince of Evil, though thou canst not know the meaning of the words. He will give thee thy desire at the price of thy soul. But beware--thou hast yet the power to recede." Friedrich read these words with a strange fascination, nor did the solemn warning in the slightest degree alter his purpose to seek a conference with the enemy. The parchment bore but a single verse in a strange language, and the artist thrust it in his bosom with a feeling of triumph. A glance at the manuscript showed it the story of Gottfried Winstedt's life, which he contemptuously flung into the grate, saying: "What care I for the doings of the brutal old fool? To-night I will seek the old ruin across the Rhine which stands opposite the Herwehe estate--my future estate, perchance; no one will interrupt my business there!" And he laughed a mirthless laugh that startled even himself, for a hoarse echo seemed to follow it; was it the Fiend or the ghost of Gottfried Winstedt who mocked him? Meanwhile, the Lady Elsa sat in her chamber overcome with surprise at the actions of the artist; annoyed and angry, yet half pitying him, for he was a gallant young fellow, sure to gain the world's applause--and what woman ever found it in her heart to wholly condemn the man who truly loves her? She ordered a servant to restore to Friedrich his painting utensils which he had left in his precipitate flight, but the man returned saying he could not gain admittance to the studio and had left his charge at the door. The following day--the same on which Friedrich had recovered the fatal casket--the baroness returned from Coblenz, accompanied by her eldest son. She inquired as to the progress of the portrait and Elsa in a half careless, yet melancholy tone told her all and even expressed pity for the poor artist. But the haughty noblewoman was highly incensed at the presumption of the young painter and Heinrich, the son, who was present, flew into an uncontrollable fury and swore by all he considered holy that the knave's impudence should be punished. Snatching his sword he left the castle in a great rage. Elsa called to him to desist, but her words were unheeded. She then appealed to her mother: "Will you permit the rash boy to leave in such a passion? You know his fiery temper and he may do that which will cause him grave trouble." "I will not hinder him," replied the baroness. "Let him chastise the churl for his presumption; if we do not make an example of someone, the village tanner will next seek your hand." "And if he did, would I need hear his suit? Why give farther pain to the poor artist, who is already in deepest distress?" "I shall half believe you heard his suit with favor if you urge more in his defense," said the mother petulantly, and Elsa, who knew her moods, sighed and was silent. Meanwhile the wrathful young nobleman pressed on towards the town. The sun had already far declined and flung his low rays on the broad river till it seemed a stream of molten gold. The red and yellow hues of early autumn took on a brighter glow and the town, the distant vineyards and the wooded vales lay in hazy quietude. But little of this beauty engaged the mind of Heinrich Herwehe as he bounded down the mountain path. As he brooded over the insult to his sister his anger, instead of cooling, increased until the fury of his passion was beyond his control. In this mood he came to the outskirts of the town where, to his intense satisfaction, he saw the artist approaching. Friedrich was hastening toward the river and would have taken no notice of the young baron, whom he quite failed to recognize. But he was startled by a fierce oath from Heinrich, who exclaimed: "Ha, you paltry paint-dauber, draw and defend yourself or I will stab you where you stand." "Fool," replied the astonished artist, "who are you that thus accosts me on the highroad?" "That matters not; defend yourself or die." And with these words the impetuous young nobleman rushed upon the object of his wrath. But Friedrich was no insignificant antagonist; he had served in the army and had acquired the tricks of sword-play, and for a contest that required a cool indifference to life or death, his mood was far the better of the two. Little caring what his fate might be and without further words he coolly met the onslaught of his unknown enemy. Such was Heinrich's fury that he quite disregarded caution in his desire to overcome an opponent whom he despised. Such a contest could not be of long duration. In a violent lunge which the artist avoided, the nobleman's foot slipped on the sward and he was transfixed by his adversary's rapier. With scarce a groan he expired and Friedrich, hardly looking at his prostrate foe, exclaimed: "You fool, you have brought your fate upon yourself!" and, as he sheathed his sword, added, "Who you were and why you did so set upon me I cannot conceive, but it matters not; I doubt not that the confessor to whom I go will readily absolve me from this deed." He pursued his lonely way to the river's edge, where he stepped into a small boat and as he moved from the shore he muttered, "O, Elsa, Elsa, he who would give an earthly life for love might be counted a madman; what then of one who seeks to barter eternity for thee?" He soon reached the opposite bank of the river and began the steep ascent to the ruined castle. He beheld, in the gathering twilight, the same romantic scenes that had so thrilled him but two days ago and could scarce believe himself the same man. Darkness was rapidly gathering and by the time he reached the ruin the last glow of sunset had faded from the sky. He crossed the tottering bridge over the empty moat and entered the desolate courtyard. Here, in the uncertain gloom of the lonely ruin, he must wait the coming of midnight and wear away as best he could the ghostly monotony of the passing hours. But his purpose was fixed; his desperation had been only increased by the events of the day, and seating himself on a fragment of the wall he determined to endure whatever came. He heard the great cathedral bell of the distant town toll hour after hour and when midnight drew near he unfalteringly entered the vast deserted hall of state. Here he lighted his small lamp, whose feeble beams struggled fitfully with the shadows of the huge apartment. He drew forth the parchment--he had not mustered courage to look at it since morning--and as the last stroke of the great bell died in the gloom, he muttered the strange language of the incantation. Suddenly there came a rushing sound as of a gust of wind, which extinguished his lamp, and, forgetting that he must repeat the fatal words, he let the parchment fall. The wind whiffed it he knew not whither. No visible shape came before him, but in a moment he felt the awful presence and a voice sepulchral and stony came out of the darkness: "Mortal, who art thou that dost thus summon me? What wilt thou?" Sick with terror and yet determined even to death, Friedrich answered: "And knowest thou not? Men speak thee omniscient. But I can tell thee of my hopeless love--" "Nay, I know all," continued the voice. "Relight thy lamp and I will tell thee how thou mayst gain thy desire." Trembling, Friedrich obeyed and looked wildly about, expecting the visible form of the Fiend, but he saw nothing. Yet he felt the horrid presence and knew that his awful visitant was near at hand. From out of the darkness a heavy iron-clasped book fell at his feet and the voice continued: "Open a vein and sign thy name in the book with blood." Friedrich with changeless determination obeyed and the book disappeared. "Take this gold," said his dreadful monitor, and a heavy bag fell at the artist's feet with a crash, "and I will give thee graces to win the fair one's heart. Repeat the incantation that I may depart." For the first time since it had disappeared Friedrich thought of the fatal parchment and in an agony of horror remembered that it was gone. He would have rushed from the castle but the power of the presence held him immovable. "Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? Thou knowest; tell me, in God's name!" "Fool, tenfold fool, dost thou call on my archenemy to adjure me? The parchment is naught to me; it was thy business to guard it. I can wait till day-break when I must depart, and with me thou must go." "Fiend," he shrieked, "where is the parchment? I adjure thee"--but the voice was silent and the mighty power still chained its victim to the spot. It were useless to follow the blasphemous ravings of the unfortunate youth, who cursed God and humankind as well as the enemy until the first ray of the rising sun darted through the crumbling arches, when the inexorable power smote him dead and doubtless carried his spirit to the region of the damned. Herwehe Castle--and, indeed, the whole town and countryside--was in a wild uproar on the following morning. The young nobleman had been found murdered, sword in hand, and all knew from the wailing mother the mission on which he had set out the evening before. Friedrich was missing and was instantly accused as the murderer. Companies of furious retainers and villagers scoured the countryside until at last a party searching the old ruin found the object of their wrath. He lay dead upon the floor of the ancient hall of state with only an extinguished lamp near him and, to their amazement, a bag of gold. Various theories were advanced concerning him and his death. The commonly accepted one was that he had stolen the gold and murdered the young nobleman and, being struck with remorse, had ended his life with some subtle poison. But none ever knew the real fate of the poor artist save his old father, who guessed it from reading the manuscript of Gottfried Winstedt, which he found unconsumed in the grate of his son's studio. VII A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH Twenty miles from Luxemburg we come to the French border, where we must pay another fee to the German official who occupies a little house by the roadside and who takes over the number-plates which we received on entering Germany. The French officer, a little farther on, questions us perfunctorily as to whether we have anything dutiable; we have purchased only a few souvenirs and trinkets in Germany and feel free to declare that we have nothing. We suppose our troubles with the customs ended and the Captain, who purchased several bottles of perfume in Cologne--the French are strongly prejudiced against German perfumes--rests easier. But in Longwy, a small town four or five miles from the border, another official professing to represent the customs stops us and is much more insistent than the former, though after opening a hand-bag or two and prying about the car awhile, he reluctantly permits us to proceed. And this is not all, for at the next town a blue-uniformed dignitary holds us up and declares he must go through our baggage in search of contraband articles. A lengthy war of words ensues between this new interloper and the Captain, who finally turns to us and says: "This fellow insists that if we do not give him a list of our purchases in Germany and pay duty, our baggage will be examined in the next town and if we are smuggling anything we'll have to go to jail." This is cheerful news, but our temper is roused by this time and we flatly refuse to give any information to our questioner or to permit him to examine our baggage. He leaves us--with no very complimentary remarks, the Captain says--and we make as quick a "get-away" as possible. We keep a sharp look-out in the next two or three villages, but are not again troubled by the minions of the law. We begin to suspect that the officers were simply local policemen who were trying to frighten us into paying a fee, and we are still of this opinion. After crossing the border we follow a splendid road leading through a rather uninteresting country and a succession of miserable villages, a description of which would be no very pleasant reading. Suffice it to say that their characteristics are the same as those of similar villages we have already written about--if anything, they are dirtier and uglier. They are all small and unimportant, Montmedy, the largest, having only two thousand inhabitants and a considerable garrison. This section was the scene of some of the great events of the war of 1870-71. About noon we come to Sedan, which gave its name to the memorable battle if, indeed, such a one-sided conflict can be called a battle. The Germans simply corralled the French army here with about as much ease as if it were a flock of sheep--but the Captain insists they would have no such "walk-away" to-day. The ancient inn--bearing the pretentious name of Hotel de la Croix d'Or--where we have lunch, endeavors to charge one franc "exchange" on an English sovereign, thereby arousing the Captain's ire, not so much on account of the extortion as for the presumption in questioning an English gold-piece, which ought to pass current wherever the sun shines. He indignantly seeks a bank and tells down French coin to the landlord, along with his compliments delivered in no very conciliatory tone. Sedan is an old and untidy town of about twenty thousand people and aside from its connection with the famous battle has little to interest the tourist. Our route along the river Meuse between Sedan and Mezieres takes us over much of the battlefield, but there is little to-day to remind one of the struggle. Out of Sedan the road is better--a wide, straight, level highway which enables us to make the longest day's run of our entire tour. The country improves in appearance and becomes more like the France of Orleans and Touraine. The day, which began dull and hazy, has cleared away beautifully and the flood of June sunshine shows Summer France at its best. From the upland roads there are far-reaching views, through ranks of stately trees, of green landscapes, flaming here and there with poppy-fields or glowing with patches of yellow gorse. The country is trim and apparently well-tilled; the villages are better and cleaner and the road a very dream for the motorist. At Guise there is a ruined castle of vast extent, its ancient walls still encircling much of the town. Guise was burned by the English under John of Hanehault in 1339, but the redoubtable John could not force the surrender of the castle, which was defended by his own daughter, the wife of a French nobleman then absent. So swift is our progress over the fine straight road that we find ourselves in the streets of St. Quentin while the sun is yet high, but a glance at our odometer tells us we have gone far enough and we turn in at the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre. It is evidently an old house and every nook and corner is cumbered with tawdry bric-a-brac--china, statuettes, candlesticks and a thousand and one articles of the sort. Our apartments are spacious, with much antique furniture, and the high-posted beds prove more comfortable than they look. Mirrors with massive gilt frames stare at us from the walls and heavy chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The price for all this magnificence is quite low, for St. Quentin is in no sense a tourist town and hotel rates have not yet been adjusted for the infrequent motorist. The hotel is well-patronized, apparently by commercial men, who make it a rather lively place. The meals are good and the servants prompt and attentive--superior in this respect to many of the pretentious tourist-thronged hotels. There is nothing to keep us in St. Quentin; in the morning we start out to drive about the town, but the narrow, crooked streets and miserable cobble pavements soon change our determination and we inquire the route to Amiens. It chances that the direct road, running straight as an arrow between the towns, is undergoing repairs and we are advised to take another route. I cannot now trace it on the map, but I am sure the Captain for once became badly mixed and we have a good many miles of the roughest going we found in Europe. We strike a stretch of the cobblestone "pave" which is still encountered in France and ten miles per hour is about the limit. These roads are probably more than a hundred years old. They are practically abandoned except by occasional peasants' carts and their roughness is simply indescribable. As it chances, we have a dozen miles of this "pave" before we reach the main road and we are too occupied with our troubles to look at the country or note the name of the one wretched village we pass. Once in the broad main highway, however, we are delighted with the beauty and color of the country. We pass through wide, unfenced fields of grain, interspersed with the ever-present poppies and blue cornflowers and from the hills we catch glimpses of the distant river. Long before we come to Amiens--shall I say before we come in sight of the city?--we descry the vast bulk of the cathedral rising from the plain below. The surrounding city seems but a soft gray blur, but the noble structure towers above and dominates everything else until we quite forget that there is anything in Amiens but the cathedral. We soon enter an ancient-looking city of some ninety thousand people and make the mistake of choosing the Great Hotel d'la Univers, for, despite its pretentious name, it is dingy and ill-arranged and the service is decidedly slack. Amiens Cathedral is one of the greatest churches of Europe, though the low and inharmonious towers of the facade detract much from the dignity of the exterior. Nor does the high and extremely slender central spire accord well with the general style of the building. The body of the cathedral, divested of spire and towers, would make a fit match for Cologne, which it resembles in plan and dimensions, but it has a more ancient appearance, having undergone little change in six centuries. The delicate sculptures and carvings are stained and weather-worn, but they present that delightful color toning that age alone can give. Inside, a recent writer declares, it is "one vast blaze of light and color coming not only from the clerestory but from the glazed triforium also, the magnificent blue glass typifying the splendor of the heavens"--a pleasing effect, on the whole, though the flood of softly toned light brings out to disadvantage the gaudy ornaments and trinkets of the private chapels so common in French cathedrals. Ruskin advises the visitor, no matter how short his time may be, to devote it, not to the contemplation of arches and piers and colored glass, but to the woodwork of the chancel, which he considers the most beautiful carpenter work of the so-called Flamboyant period. There is also a multitude of sculptured images, some meritorious wall frescoes, and several stained-glass windows dating from the thirteenth century. At the rear is a statue of Peter the Hermit, for the monk who started the great crusading movement of the middle ages was a native of Amiens. All of these things we note in a cursory manner; we recognize that the student might spend hours, if not days, in studying the details of such a mighty structure. But such is not our mood; the truth is, we are a little tired of cathedrals and are not sorry that Amiens is the last for the present. What an array we have seen in our month's tour: Rouen, Orleans, Tours, Dijon, Nevers, Ulm, Mayence, Cologne, Amiens--not to mention a host of lesser lights. We have had a surfeit and we shall doubtless be able to better appreciate what we have seen after a period of reflection, which will also bring a better understanding to our aid should we resume our pilgrimage to these ecclesiastical monuments. There is little besides the cathedral to detain the tourist in Amiens, unless, indeed, he should be fortunate enough to be able to go as leisurely as he likes. Then he would see the Musee, which has a really good collection of pictures and relics, or the library, which is one of the best in French provincial towns. There are some quaint old houses along the river and many odd corners to delight the artistic eye. John Ruskin found enough to keep him in Amiens many days and to fill several pages in his writings. But it would take more than all this to delay us now when we are so near the English shores. If we leave Amiens early enough we may catch the noon Channel boat--we ought to cover the ninety miles to Boulogne in three or four hours. But we find the main road to Abbeville closed and lose our way twice, which, with two deflated tires, puts our plan out of question. Much of the road is distressingly rough and there are many "canivaux" to slacken our speed. We soon decide to take matters easily and cross the Channel on the late afternoon boat. The picturesque old town of Abbeville was one of John Ruskin's favorite sketching grounds. We pass the market-place, which is surrounded by ancient houses with high-pitched gables colored in varied tints of gray, dull-blue and pale-green. The church is cited by Ruskin as one of the best examples of Flamboyant style in France, though the different parts are rather inharmonious and of unequal merit. Abbeville was held by the English for two hundred years and the last possession, except Calais, to be surrendered to France. Here in 1514 Louis of Brittany married Mary Tudor--the beautiful sister of Henry VIII.--only to leave her a widow a few months later. She returned to England and afterwards became the wife of the Duke of Suffolk. It is market-day in Montreuil and the streets are crowded with country people. We stop in the thronged market-place, where a lively scene is being enacted. All kinds of garden produce and fruits are offered for sale and we are importuned to purchase by the enterprising market-women. We find the fruit excellent and inexpensive, and this, with a number of other object lessons in the course of our travels, impressed us with the advantages of the European market plan, which brings fresh produce direct to the consumer at a moderate price. We have most of the afternoon about Boulogne. In starting on our tour a month before we hardly glanced at our landing port, so anxious were we for the country roads; but as we drive about the city now, we are delighted with its antiquity and quaintness. It is still enclosed by walls--much restored, it is true, and so, perhaps, are the unique gateways. The streets are mostly paved with cobbles, which make unpleasant driving and after a short round we deliver the car at the quay. At the Hotel Angleterre we order some strawberries as an "extra" with our luncheon--these being just in season--and we are cheerfully presented with a bill for six francs for a quantity that can be bought in the market-place for ten cents--this in addition to an unusually high charge for the meal. Evidently Boulogne Bonifaces are not in business solely for their health. The town is a frequented summer resort, with a good beach and numerous hotels and lodging-places. It is said to be the most Anglicized town in France--almost everyone we meet seems familiar with English. The Captain suggests that we may be interested in seeing the Casino, one of the licensed gambling-houses allowed in a few French towns. The government gets a good share of the profits, which are very large. We do not care to try our luck on the big wheel, but the Captain has no scruples--winning freely at first, but quitting the loser by a goodly number of francs--a common experience, I suppose. The small boy is not allowed to enter the gambling room, from which minors are rigidly excluded. We have a glorious evening for crossing to Folkestone--the dreaded Channel is on its best behavior. A magnificent sunset gilds the vast expanse of rippling water to the westward and flashes on the white chalk cliffs of the English shore. As we come nearer and nearer we have an increasing sense of getting back home--and England has for us an attractiveness that we did not find in France and Germany. And yet our impressions of these countries were, on the whole, very favorable. France, so far as we saw it, was a beautiful, prosperous country, though there was not for us the romance that so delighted us in England. We missed the ivied ruins and graceful church-towers that lend such a charm to the British landscapes. The highways generally were magnificent, though already showing deterioration in many places. The roads of France require dustless surfacing--oil or asphaltum, similar to the methods extensively used in England. Since the time of our tour steps have been taken in this direction and in time France will have by far the best road-system in the world. Her highways are already broad and perfectly engineered and need only surfacing. About Paris much of the wretched old pave is still in existence, but this will surely be replaced before long. The roads are remarkably direct, radiating from the main towns like the spokes of a wheel, usually taking the shortest cut between two important points. The squalor and filth of the country villages in many sections is an unpleasant revelation to the tourist who has seen only the cities, which are clean and well-improved. But for all this thrift is evident everywhere; nothing is allowed to go to waste; there are no ragged, untilled corners in the fields. Every possible force is utilized. Horses, dogs, oxen, cows, goats and donkeys are all harnessed to loads; indeed, the Captain says there is a proverb in France to the effect that "the pig is the only gentleman," for he alone does not work. The women seem to have more than their share of heavy disagreeable tasks, and this is no doubt another factor in French prosperity. Despite the notion to the contrary, France is evidently a very religious country--in her way. Crucifixes, crosses, shrines, etc. are common along the country roadsides, and churches are the best and most important buildings in the towns and cities. Priests are seen everywhere and apparently have a strong hold on their parishioners. In view of such strong entrenchment, it seems a wonder that the government was able to completely disestablish the church and to require taxation of much of its property. The country policeman, so omnipresent in England, is rarely seen in France, and police traps in rural districts are unknown. Even in towns arrests are seldom made--the rule being to interfere only with motorists who drive "to the danger of the public." One misses the handy fund of information which an English policeman can so readily supply; the few French officials we questioned were apparently neither so intelligent nor accommodating. We were astonished to see so few motor cars in France, and many which we did see were those of touring foreigners. France, for all her lead in the automobile industry, does not have many cars herself. She prefers to sell them to the other fellow and keep the money. The number of cars in France is below the average for each of the states of the Union, and the majority are in Paris and vicinity. French cars almost dominate the English market and many of the taxicabs in London are of French make. We saw a large shipment of these on the wharves at Boulogne. If it were not for our tariff, we may be sure that France would be a serious competitor in the motor-car trade of the United States. There is absolutely no prejudice against the motorist in France and foreigners are warmly welcomed to spend their money. The Frenchman does not travel much--France is good enough for him and he looks on the Americans and Englishmen who throng his country as a financial asset and makes it as easy for them to come as he possibly can. In fact, under present conditions it is easier to tour from one European country to another than it is among our own states--one can arrange with the Royal Automobile Club for all customs formalities and nothing is required except signing a few papers at each frontier. In some respects we noted a strong similarity between France and Germany. The cities of both countries are clean and up-to-date, with museums, galleries, splendid churches and fine public buildings. In both--so far as we saw--the small villages are primitive and filthy in the extreme and in rural districts the heaviest burdens appear to fall on the women. In both countries farming is thoroughly done and every available bit of land is utilized. Each gives intelligent attention to forestry--there are many forests now in their prime, young trees are being grown, and the roadsides are planted with trees. The roads of Germany are far behind those of France; nor does any great interest seem to be taken in highway improvement. Of course the roads are fairly well maintained, but there is apparently no effort to create a system of boulevards such as France possesses. Germany has even fewer motor cars than her neighbor, a much smaller number of automobile tourists enter her borders, and there is more hostility towards them on part of the country people. There are no speed traps, but one is liable to be arrested for fast driving in many towns and cities. The German business-man strikes one more favorably than the Frenchman; he is sturdy, good-looking and alert, and even in a small establishment shows the characteristics that are so rapidly pushing his country to the front in a commercial way. But the greatest difference in favor of Germany--at least so far as outward appearance goes--is to be seen in her soldiery. Soldiers are everywhere--always neat and clean, with faultless uniform and shining accoutrements, marching with a firm, steady, irresistible swing. To the casual observer it would seem that if an army of these soldiers should enter France they could march directly on Paris without serious resistance. But some authorities say that German militarism is a hollow show and that there is more real manhood in the Frenchman. Let us hope the question will not have to be settled again on the field of battle. Perhaps these random impressions which I have been recording are somewhat superficial, but I shall let them stand for what they are worth. On our long summer jaunt through these two great countries we have had many experiences--not all of them pleasant. But we have seen many things and learned much that would have been quite inaccessible to us in the old grooves of travel--thanks to our trusty companion of the wind-shod wheels. And perhaps the best possible proof that we really enjoyed our pilgrimage is a constantly increasing desire to repeat it--with variations--should our circumstances again permit. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Odd Corners of Britain ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VIII THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE Back to England--back to England! Next to setting foot in the homeland itself, nothing could have been more welcome to us after our month's exile on the Continent. And I am not saying that we did not enjoy our Continental rambles; that we did the pages of this book amply testify. It seemed to us, however, that for motor touring, England surpasses any other country in many respects. First of all, the roads average vastly better--we remembered with surprise the stories we had heard of the greatly superior roads of France--a delusion entertained by many Englishmen, for that matter. We had also found by personal experience that the better English inns outclass those on the Continent in service and cleanliness and never attempt the overcharges and exactions not uncommon in France and Germany. The second-rate French inn, we are informed on good authority, is more tolerable than the second-rate inn of England. An experienced English motorist told us that since expense was a consideration to him, he generally spent his vacations in France. He declared that there he could put up comfortably and cheaply at the less pretentious inns while he would never think of stopping at English hotels of the same class. I fancy, however, that if one follows Baedeker--our usual guide in such matters--and selects number one among the list, he will find every advantage with the English hotels. And we are sure that the English landscapes are the most beautiful in the world. Everywhere one sees trim, parklike neatness--vistas of well-tilled fields interspersed with great country seats, storied ruins and the ubiquitous church-tower so characteristic of Britain. It is a distinctive church-tower, rising from green masses of foliage such as one seldom sees elsewhere. And where else in a civilized country will one find such trees--splendid, beautifully proportioned trees, standing in solitary majesty in the fields, stretching in impressive ranks along the roadside or clustering in towering groups about some country mansion or village church? And who could be impervious to the charm of the English village? Cleanly, pleasantly situated and often embowered in flowers, it appeals to the artistic sense and affords the sharpest possible contrast to the filthy and malodorous little hamlets of France and Germany. The cities and larger towns of these countries do not suffer any such disadvantage in comparison with places of the same size in England--but we care less for the cities, often avoiding them. In England, we found ourselves among people speaking a common language and far more kindly and considerate towards the stranger within their gates than is common on the Continent. We can dispense with our courier, too, for though he was an agreeable fellow, we enjoy it best alone. So, then, we are glad to be back in Britain and are eager to explore her highways and byways once more. We plan a pilgrimage to John O'Groat's house and of course the Royal Automobile Club is consulted. "We have just worked out a new route to Edinburgh," said Mr. Maroney, "which avoids the cities and a large proportion of police traps as well. You leave the Great North Road at Doncaster and proceed northward by Boroughbridge, Wilton-le-Wear, Corbridge, Jedburgh and Melrose. You will also see some new country, as you are already familiar with the York-Newcastle route." And so we find ourselves at the Red Lion at Hatfield, about twenty miles out of London on the beginning of our northern journey. It is a cleanly, comfortable-looking old house, and though it is well after noon, an excellent luncheon is promptly served--the roadside inns are adapting themselves to the irregular hours of the motorist. Hatfield House--the Salisbury estate--is near the inn, but though we have passed it several times, we have never hit on one of the "open" days, and besides, we have lost a good deal of our ambition for doing palaces; half-forgotten and out-of-the-way places appeal more strongly now. We are soon away on the splendid highway which glistens from a heavy summer shower that fell while we were at luncheon. We proceed soberly, for we have had repeated warnings of police traps along the road. The country is glorious after the dashing rainfall; fields of German clover are in bloom, dashes of dark red amidst the prevailing green; long rows of sweet-scented carmine-flowered beans load the air with a heavy perfume. A little later, when we pass out of the zone of the shower we find hay-making in progress and everything is redolent of the new-mown grasses. Every little while we pass a village and at Stilton--I have written elsewhere of its famous old inn--a dirty urchin runs alongside the car howling, "Police traps! Look out for police traps!" until he receives a copper to reward his solicitude for our welfare. Toward evening we come in sight of Grantham's magnificent spire and we have the pleasantest recollections of the Angel Inn, where we stopped some years previously--we will close the day's journey here. One would never get from the Angel's modest, ivy-clad front any idea of the rambling structure behind it; indeed, I have often wondered how all the labyrinth of floors, apartments and hallways could be crowded behind such a modest facade as that of the Red Lion of Banbury, the Swan of Mansfield or the Angel of Grantham, for example. Such inns are no doubt a heritage of the days when it was necessary to utilize every available inch of space within the city walls. In most cases they are conducted with characteristic English thoroughness and are cleanly and restful, despite their antiquity and the fact that they are closely hedged in by other buildings. As a rule part or all of the old inner court which formerly served as a stable-yard has been adapted as a motor garage. The Angel is said to have been in existence as a hostelry as early as 1208, but the arched gateway opening on the street may be of still earlier date, having probably formed a part of some monastic building. Tradition connects Charles I. with the inn--an English inn of such antiquity would be poor indeed without a legend of the Wanderer--but the claims of the Angel to royal associations go back much farther, for King John is declared to have held his court here in 1213. Richard III. is also alleged to have stopped here and to have signed the death warrant of the Duke of Buckingham at the time. There is record of princely visitors of later dates and it is easy to see that the Angel has had rare distinction--from the English point of view. We remember it, however, not so much for its traditions as for the fact that we are given a private sitting-room in connection with our bed-rooms with no apparent increase in the bill. Our good luck in this particular may have been due to the slack business at the time of our arrival and we could hardly expect to have our accommodations duplicated should we visit the Angel and Royal again. Grantham is a town of nearly twenty thousand people, though it does not so impress the stranger who rambles about its streets. Two or three large factories are responsible for its size, but these have little altered its old-time heart. The center of this is marked by St. Wulfram's Church, one of the noblest parish churches in the Kingdom. Its spire, a shapely Gothic needle of solid stone, rises nearly three hundred feet into the heavens, springing from a massive square tower perhaps half the total height. The building shows nearly all Gothic styles, though the Decorated and Early English predominate. It dates from the thirteenth century and has many interesting monuments and tombstones. Its gargoyles, we agreed, were as curious as any we saw in England; uncanny monsters and queer demons leer upon one from almost any viewpoint. Inside there is a marvelously carved baptismal font and a chained library of the sixteenth century similar to the one in Wimborne Minster. Altogether, St. Wulfram's is one of the notable English country churches, though perhaps among the lesser known. Grantham also possesses an ancient almshouse of striking architecture and a grammar school which once included among its pupils Sir Isaac Newton, who was born at Woolsthorpe Manor, near the town. [Illustration: ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH--GRANTHAM] Old Whitby appeals to our recollection as worth a second visit and we depart from our prearranged route at Doncaster, reaching York in the late afternoon. It has been a cold, rainy day and we cannot bring ourselves to pass the Station Hotel, though Whitby is but fifty miles farther and might be reached before nightfall. We have previously visited York many times, but have given our time mainly to the show-places and we devote the following forenoon to the shops. There are many interesting book-stalls and no end of antique-stores with many costly curios, such as a Scotch claymore, accompanied by documents to prove that it once belonged to Prince Charlie. The shops, it seemed to us, were hardly up to standard for a city of nearly one hundred thousand. But York, while of first rank as an ecclesiastical seat and famous for its quaint corners and antiquity, is not of great commercial or manufacturing importance. It is a busy railroad center, with hundreds of trains daily, and next to Chester probably attracts a greater number of tourists than any other English provincial town. Leeds, Bradford, Sheffield, Hull, Middlesbrough, Halifax and Huddersfield are all Yorkshire cities with larger population and greater commercial activities. Of English churches we should be inclined to give York Cathedral first place, though viewpoints on such matters are so widely different that this may be disputed by good authorities. In size, striking architecture and beautiful windows, it is certainly not surpassed, though it has not the historical associations of many of its rivals. Whitby is but fifty miles from York. An excellent road runs through a green, prosperous country as far as Pickering--about a score of miles--but beyond this we plunge into the forbidding hills of the bleakest, blackest of English moors. It is too early for the heather-bloom, which will brighten the dreary landscape a few weeks later, and a drizzling rain is falling from lowering clouds. The stony road, with steep grades and sharp turns, requires closest attention and, altogether, it is a run that is pleasant only in retrospect when reviewed from a cozy arm-chair by the evening fire. I am going to write a chapter giving our impressions of Old Whitby which, I hope, will reflect a little of its charm and romance, so we may pass it here. We resume our journey after a pleasant pause in the old town and proceed by Guisborough, Stockton and Darlington to Bishop Auckland, where we again take up our northern route. Bishop Auckland gets its ecclesiastical prefix from the fact that since the time of Edward I. it has been the site of one the palaces of the Bishops of Durham. The present building covers a space of no less than five acres and is surrounded by a park more than a square mile in extent. The palace is splendid and spacious, though very irregular, the result of additions made from time to time in varying architectural styles. It is easy to see how the maintenance of such an establishment--and others besides--keeps the good bishop poor, though his salary is about the same as that of the President of the United States. The town is pleasantly situated on an eminence near the confluence of the river Wear and a smaller stream. About a mile distant, at Escomb, is a church believed to date from the seventh century. It is quite small but very solidly built, the walls tapering upward from the ground, and some of the bricks incorporated in it are clearly of Roman origin, one of them bearing an old Latin inscription. Bishop Auckland marks the western termination of Durham's green fields and fine parks; we descend a steep, rough hill and soon find ourselves on a very bad road leading through a bleak mining country. Tow-Law is the first of several bald, angular villages with scarce a tree or shrub to relieve their nakedness; the streets are thronged with dirty, ragged urchins and slatternly women sit on the doorsteps along the road. The country is disfigured with unsightly buildings and piles of waste from the coal-mines; and the air is loaded with sooty vapors. It is a relief to pass into the picturesque hills of Northumberland, where, even though the road does not improve, there are many charming panoramas of wooded vales with here and there a church-tower, a ruin or a village. Towns on the road are few; we cross the Tyne at Corbridge, where a fine old bridge flings its high stone arches across the wide river. It is the oldest on the Tyne, having braved the floods for nearly two centuries and a half. In 1771 a great flood swept away every other bridge on the river, but this sturdy structure survived to see the era of the motor car. A bridge has existed at this point almost continuously since Roman times, and the Roman piers might have been seen until very recently. The vicinity is noted for Roman remains--sections of the Great Wall and the site of a fortified camp being near at hand. Many relics have been discovered near by and researches are still going on. The village by the bridge is small and unimportant, though it has an ancient church which shows traces of Roman building materials. Most remarkable is the Peel tower in the churchyard, where the parson is supposed to have taken refuge during the frequent Scotch incursions of the border wars. Leaving the bridge we follow the Roman Watling Street, which proceeds in almost a straight line through the hills. It leads through a country famous in song and story; every hill and valley is reminiscent of traditions of the endless border wars in which Northumberland figured so largely and for so many years. Its people, too, were generally adherents of the Stuarts and it was near the village of Woodburn, through which we pass, that the Jacobites attacked the forces of George I., only to meet with crushing defeat, resulting in the ruin of many of the noblest families of the county. A little farther, in the vale of Otterburn, was the scene of the encounter of the retainers of Douglas and Percy, celebrated in many a quaint ballad. In the next few miles are Byrness and Catcleugh, two fine country-seats quite near the roadside, and there is a diminutive but very old church close to the former house. Byrness is the seat of a famous foxhunting squire who keeps a large pack of hounds and pursues the sport with great zeal. The wild, broken country and sparse population are especially favorable to hunting in the saddle. There is no lack of genuine sport, since the wild fox is a menace to lambs and must be relentlessly pursued to the death. Just opposite Catcleugh House a fine lake winds up the valley for nearly two miles. It seems prosaic when we learn that it is an artificial reservoir, affording a water supply for Newcastle-on-Tyne, but it is none the less a charming accessory to the scenery. Beyond this the road runs through almost unbroken solitude until it crosses the crest of the Cheviots and enters the hills of Scotland. IX OLD WHITBY It is a gray, lowering evening when we climb the sharply rising slope to the Royal Hotel to take up our domicile for a short sojourn in Old Whitby. The aspect of the town on a dull wet evening when viewed from behind a broad window-pane is not without its charm, though I may not be competent to reflect that charm in my printed page. It is a study in somber hues, relieved only by the mass of glistening red tiles clustered on the opposite hillside and by an occasional lighted window. The skeleton of the abbey and dark solid bulk of St. Mary's Church are outlined against the light gray of the skies, which, on the ocean side, bend down to a restless sea, itself so gray that you could scarce mark the dividing line were it not for the leaden-colored waves breaking into tumbling masses of white foam. Looking up the narrow estuary into which the Esk discharges its waters, one gets a dim view of the mist-shrouded hills on either side and of numerous small boats and sailing vessels riding at anchor on the choppy waves. It is a wild evening, but we are tempted to undertake a ramble about the town, braving the gusty blasts that sweep through the narrow lanes and the showers of spray that envelop the bridge by which one crosses to the opposite side of the inlet. There is little stirring on the streets and the alleylike lanes are quite deserted. Most of the shops are closed and only the lights streaming from windows of the houses on the hillside give relief to the deepening shadows. The gathering darkness and the increasing violence of the wind deter us from our purpose of climbing the long flight of steps to the summit of the cliff on which the abbey stands and we slowly wend our way back to the hotel. The following morning a marked change has taken place. The mists of the previous evening have been swept away and the intensely blue sky is mottled with white vapory clouds which scurry along before a stiff sea-breeze. The deep indigo blue of the ocean is flecked with masses of white foam rolling landward on the crests of the waves, which break into spray on the rocks and piers. The sea-swell enters the estuary, tossing the numerous fishing smacks which ride at anchor and lending a touch of animation to the scene. The abbey ruin and church, always the dominating feature of East Cliff, stand out clearly against the silvery horizon and present a totally different aspect from that which impressed us last evening. In the searching light of day, the broken arches and tottering walls tell plainly the story of the ages of neglect and plunder that they have undergone and speak unmistakably of a vanished order of things. Last night, shrouded as they were in mysterious shadows, the traces of wreck and ruin were half concealed and it did not require an extraordinarily vivid imagination to picture the great structures as they were in their prime and to re-people them with their ancient habitants, the gray monks and nuns. To-day the red and white flag of St. George is flying from the low square tower of St. Mary's and crowds of Sunday worshipers are ascending the broad flight of stairs. Services have been held continuously in the plain old edifice for seven centuries--its remote situation and lack of anything to attract the looter or enrage the iconoclast kept it safe during the period which desecrated or destroyed so many churches. The history of a town like Whitby is not of much moment to the casual sojourner, who is apt to find himself more attracted by its romance than by sober facts. Still, we are glad to know that the place is very ancient, dating back to Saxon times. It figured in the wars with the Danes and in the ninth century was so devastated as to be almost obliterated for two hundred years. It was not until the reign of Elizabeth that it took rank as a seaport. The chief industry up to the last century was whale-fishing, and a hardy race of sea-faring men was bred in the town, among them Captain Cook, the famous explorer. While fishing was ostensibly the chief means of livelihood of the inhabitants of Whitby, it could hardly have been wholly responsible for the wealth that was enough to attract Robin Hood and his retainers to the town and they did not go away empty-handed by any means. The Abbot of Whitby protected his own coffers by showing the outlaw every courtesy, but Robin was not so considerate of the purses of the townspeople. Probably he felt little compunction at easing the reputed fishermen of their wealth, for he doubtless knew that it was gained by smuggling and it was, after all, only a case of one outlaw fleecing another. The position of the town behind some leagues of sterile moor, traversed by indifferent and even dangerous roads, was especially favorable for such an irregular occupation; and it moreover precluded Whitby from figuring in the great events of the Kingdom, being so far removed from the theatre of action. With the decline of the whale-fisheries, the mining and manufacture of jet began to assume considerable proportion and is to-day one of the industries of the place. This is a bituminous substance--in the finished product, smooth, lustrous and intensely black. It is fashioned into personal ornaments of many kinds and was given a great vogue by Queen Victoria. It is found only in the vicinity of Whitby and is sold the world over, though it has to compete with cheap imitations, usually made of glass. St. Hilda's Abbey is the chief monument of antiquity in Whitby and aside from actual history it has the added interest of being interwoven with the romantic lines of Scott's "Marmion." Situated on the summit of East Cliff, it has been for several centuries the last object to bid farewell to the departing mariner and the first to gladden his eyes on his return. Seldom indeed did the old monks select such a site; they were wont to seek some more sheltered spot on the shore of lake or river--as at Rievaulx, Fountains or Easby. But this abbey was founded under peculiar conditions, for the original was built as far back as 658 in fulfillment of a vow made by King Oswy of Northumbria. In accordance with the spirit of his time, the king made an oath on the verge of a battle with one of his petty neighbors that if God granted him the victory he would found an abbey and that his own daughter, the Lady Hilda, should be first abbess. All traces of this early structure have disappeared, but it was doubtless quite insignificant compared with its successor, for the Saxons never progressed very far in the art of architecture. The fame of Hilda's piety and intelligence attracted many scholars to the abbey, among them Caedmon, "the father of English poetry," who, as the inscription on the stately memorial in St. Mary's churchyard reads, "fell asleep hard by A. D. 680." The death of the good abbess also occurred in the same year. Her successor, Elfleda, governed for a third of a century, after which little record remains. The original abbey was probably destroyed in the Danish wars. It was revived after the Conquest in 1078 by monks of the Benedictine order and gradually a vast pile of buildings was erected on the headland, but of these only the ruined church remains. The great size and splendid design of the church would seem to indicate that in its zenith of power and prosperity Whitby Abbey must have been of first rank. Its active history ended with its dissolution by Henry VIII. Scott in "Marmion" represents the abbey as being under the sway of an abbess in 1513, the date of Flodden, but this is an anachronism, since an abbot ruled it in its last days and the nuns had long before vanished from its cloisters. He was a pretty poor saint in the "days of faith" who did not have several miracles or marvels to his credit and St. Hilda was no exception to the rule. One legend runs that the early inhabitants were pestered by snakes and that the saint prayed that the reptiles be transmuted into stone; and for ages the ammonite shells which abound on the coast and faintly resemble a coiled snake were pointed out as evidence of the efficacy of Hilda's petition. It was also said of the sea-birds that flew over Whitby's towers that "Sinking down on pinions faint, They do their homage to the saint." And an English writer humorously suggests that perhaps "the birds had a certain curiosity to see what was going on in this mixed brotherhood of monks and nuns." The most persistent marvel, however, which was credited by the more superstitious less than a century ago, was that from West Cliff under certain conditions the saint herself, shrouded in white, might be seen standing in one of the windows of the ruin; though it is now clear that the apparition was the result of a peculiar reflection of the sun's rays. The salt sea winds, the driving rain of summer and the wild winter storms have wrought much havoc in the eight hundred years that "High Whitby's cloistered pile" has braved the elements. A little more than fifty years ago the central tower crashed to earth, carrying many of the surrounding arches with it, and the mighty fragments still lie as they fell. The remaining walls and arches are now guarded with the loving care which is being lavished to-day upon the historic ruins of England and one can only regret that the spirit which inspires it was not aroused at least a hundred years ago. St. Mary's, a stone's throw from the abbey, is one of the crudest and least ornate of any of the larger churches which we saw in England. Its lack of architectural graces may be due to the fact that it was originally built--about 1110, by de Percy, Abbot of Whitby--for "the use of the common people of the town," the elaborate abbey church being reserved for the monks. Perhaps the worthy abbot little dreamed that the plain, massive structure which he thought good enough for the laity would be standing, sturdy and strong and still in daily use centuries after his beautiful abbey fane, with its graceful arches, its gorgeous windows and splendid towers had fallen into hopeless ruin. All around the church are blackened old gravestones in the midst of which rises the tall Caedmon Cross, erected but a few years ago. To reach St. Mary's one must ascend the hundred and ninety-nine broad stone steps that lead up the cliff--a task which would test the zeal of many church-goers in these degenerate days. [Illustration: PIER LANE, WHITBY From original painting by J. V. Jelley, exhibited in 1910 Royal Academy] We enjoyed our excursions about the town, for among the network of narrow lanes we came upon many odd nooks and corners and delightful old shops. The fish-market, where the modest catch of local fishermen is sold each day, is on the west side. The scene here is liveliest during the months of August and September, when the great harvest of the sea is brought in at Whitby. It was on the west side, too, that we found Pier Lane after a dint of inquiry--for the little Royal Academy picture which graces these pages had made us anxious to see the original. Many of the natives shook their heads dubiously when we asked for directions, but a friendly policeman finally piloted us to the entrance of the lane. It proved a mere brick-paved passageway near the fish-market, about five or six feet in width, and from the top we caught the faint glimpse of the abbey which the artist has introduced into the picture. It is one of the many byways that intersect the main streets of the town--though these streets themselves are often so narrow and devious as to scarce deserve the adjective I have applied to them. Whitby has no surprises in overhanging gables, carved oak beams, curiously paneled doorways or other bits of artistic architecture such as delight one in Ludlow, Canterbury or Shrewsbury. Everything savors of utility; the oldtime Yorkshire fisherman had no time and little inclination to carve oak and stone for his dwelling. I am speaking of the old Whitby, crowded along the waterside--the new town, with its ostentatious hotels and lodging-houses, extends along the summit of West Cliff and while very necessary, no doubt, it adds nothing to the charm of the place. As an English artist justly observes, "While Whitby is one of the most strikingly picturesque towns in England, it has scarcely any architectural attractions. Its charm does not lie so much in detail as in broad effects"--the effects of the ruin, the red roofs, the fisher-boats, the sea and the old houses, which vary widely under the moods of sun and shade that flit over the place. The words of a writer who notes this variation throughout a typical day are so true to life that I am going to repeat them here: "In the early morning the East Cliff generally appears merely as a pale gray silhouette with a square projection representing the church, and a fretted one the abbey. But as the sun climbs upwards, colour and definition grow out of the haze of smoke and shadows, and the roofs assume their ruddy tones. At midday, when the sunlight pours down upon the medley of houses clustered along the face of the cliff, the scene is brilliantly colored. The predominant note is the red of the chimneys and roofs and stray patches of brickwork, but the walls that go down to the water's edge are green below and full of rich browns above, and in many places the sides of the cottages are coloured with an ochre wash, while above them all the top of the cliff appears covered with grass. On a clear day, when detached clouds are passing across the sun, the houses are sometimes lit up in the strangest fashion, their quaint outlines being suddenly thrown out from the cliff by a broad patch of shadow upon the grass and rocks behind. But there is scarcely a chimney in this old part of Whitby that does not contribute to the mist of blue-gray smoke that slowly drifts up the face of the cliff, and thus, when there is no bright sunshine, colour and detail are subdued in the haze." In St. Mary's churchyard there is another cross besides the stately memorial dedicated to Caedmon that will be pointed out to you--a small, graceful Celtic cross with the inscription: "Here lies the body of Mary Linskill. Born December 13, 1840. Died April 9, 1891. After life's fitful fever she sleeps well Between the Heather and the Northern Sea." If Caedmon was Whitby's first literary idol, Mary Linskill is the last and best loved, for hundreds of Whitby people living to-day knew the gentle authoress personally. She was a native of the town and being early dependent on her own resources, she served an apprenticeship in a milliner's shop and later acted as an amanuensis to a literary gentleman. It was in this position, probably, that she discovered her own capacity for writing and her ability to tell a homely story in a simple, pleasing way. Her first efforts in the way of short stories appeared in "Good Words." Her first novel, "Cleveden," was published in 1876 and many others followed at various intervals. Perhaps the best known are distinctly Whitby stories--"The Haven Under the Hill," and "Between the Heather and the Northern Sea." Her novels in simplicity of plot and quiet sentiment may be compared with those of Jane Austen, though her rank as a writer is far below that of the Hampshire authoress. Her stories show a wealth of imagination and a true artistic temperament, but they are often too greatly dominated by melancholy to be widely popular. Most of them dwell on the infinite capacity of women for self-sacrifice and sometimes the pathetic scenes may be rather overdrawn. There are many beautiful descriptive passages and I quote one from "The Haven Under the Hill," because it sets forth in such a delightful manner the charm of Old Whitby itself: "Everywhere there was the presence of the sea. On the calmest day you heard the low, ceaseless roll of its music as it plashed and swept about the foot of the stern, darkly towering cliffs on either side of the harbour-bar. Everywhere the place was blown through and through with the salt breeze that was 'half an air and half a water,' scented with sea-wrack and laden not rarely with drifting flakes of heavy yeastlike foam. "The rapid growth of the town had been owing entirely to its nearness to the sea. When the making of alum was begun at various points and bays along the coast, vessels were needed for carrying it to London, 'whither,' as an old chronicler tells us, 'nobody belonging to Hild's Haven had ever gone without making their wills.' This was the beginning of the shipbuilding trade, which grew and flourished so vigorously, lending such an interest to the sights and sounds of the place, and finally becoming its very life. What would the old haven have been without the clatter of its carpenters' hammers, the whir of its ropery wheels, the smell of its boiling tar-kettles, the busy stir and hum of its docks and wharves and mast-yards? And where, in the midst of so much labour, could there have been found any time to laugh or to dance, but for the frequent day of pride and rejoicing when the finished ship with her flying flags came slipping slowly from the stocks to the waiting waters, bending and gliding with a grace that gave you as much emotion as if you had watched some conscious thing?... It is a little sad to know that one has watched the launching of the last wooden ship that shall go out with stately masts and rounding sails from the Haven Under the Hill. "Those of the men of the place who were not actually sailors were yet, for the most part, in some way dependent upon the great, changeful, bounteous sea. "It was a beautiful place to have been born in, beautiful with history and poetry and legend--with all manner of memorable and soul-stirring things." The house where Mary Linskill was born, a plain stone structure in the old town, still stands and is the goal of occasional pilgrims who delight in the humbler shrines of letters. It seems indeed appropriate that the old sea town, famous two centuries ago for its shipbuilding trade and hardy mariners, should have given to the world one of its great sea-captains and explorers. A mere lad, James Cook came to Whitby as the apprentice of a shipbuilder. His master's house, where he lived during his apprenticeship, still stands in Grape Lane and bears an antique tablet with the date 1688. Cook's career as an explorer began when he entered the Royal Navy in 1768. He was then forty years of age and had already established a reputation as a daring and efficient captain in the merchant service. He made three famous voyages to the south seas, and as a result of these, Australia and New Zealand are now a part of the British Empire, an achievement which will forever keep his name foremost among the world's great explorers. He lost his life in a fight with the natives of the Sandwich Islands in 1777, a year after the American Declaration of Independence. His mangled remains were buried in the sea whose mysteries he had done so much to subdue. I am sensible that in these random notes I have signally failed to set forth the varied charms of the ancient fisher-town on the Northern Sea, but I have the consolation that all the descriptions and encomiums I have read have the same failing to a greater or less degree. I know that we feel, as we speed across the moorland on the wild windy morning of our departure, that two sojourns in Whitby are not enough; and are already solacing ourselves with the hope that we shall some time make a third visit to the "Haven Under the Hill." X SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS So rough and broken is the Northumberland country that we are scarcely aware when we enter the Cheviot Hills, which mark the dividing line between England and Scotland. The road is now much improved; having been recently resurfaced with reddish stone, it presents a peculiar aspect as it winds through the green hills ahead of us, often visible for a considerable distance. It is comparatively unfrequented; there are no villages for many miles and even solitary cottages are rare; one need not worry about speed limits here. Jedburgh is the first town after crossing the border and there are few more majestic ruins in all Scotland than the ancient abbey which looms high over the town. It recalls the pleasantest recollections of our former visit and the wonder is that it does not attract a greater number of pilgrims. We are again in an enchanted land, where every name reminds us of the domain of the Wizard of the North! Here all roads lead to Melrose and Abbotsford, and we remember the George as a comfortable, well-ordered inn, a fit haven for the end of a strenuous day. There are several good hotels in Melrose, made possible by the ceaseless stream of tourists bound to Abbotsford in summertime. We reach the George after the dinner hour, but an excellent supper is prepared for us, served by a canny Scotch waiter clad in a cleaner dress-suit than many of his brethren in British country inns are wont to wear. We have no fault to find with the George except that its beds were not so restful as one might wish after a day on rough roads and its stable-yard garage lacked conveniences. These shortcomings may now be remedied, for the spirit of improvement is strong among the inns of tourist centers in Scotland. The abbey is but a stone's throw from the hotel and one will never weary of it though he come to Melrose for the hundredth time. In delicate artistic touches, in beauty of design and state of preservation as a whole, it is quite unrivalled in Scotland. But for all that Melrose would be as unfrequented as Dundrennan or Arbroath were it not for the mystic spell which the Wizard cast over it in his immortal "Lay," and were it not under the shadow of Abbotsford. Abbotsford! What a lure there is in the very name! In the early morning we are coursing down the shady lane that leads to the stately mansion and reach it just after the opening hour. We are indeed fortunate in avoiding a crowd like that which thronged it on our former visit; we are quite alone and the purchase of a few souvenirs puts us on a friendly footing with the gray-haired custodian. His daily task has become to him a labor of love and he speaks the words, "Sir Walter," with a fervor and reverence such as a religious devotee might utter the name of his patron saint. He shows us many odd corners and relics which we missed before and tells us the story of the house, with every detail of which he is familiar. And, indeed, it is interesting to learn how Scott as a youth admired the situation and as he gained wealth bought the land and began the house. Its construction extended over several years and he had scarcely pronounced it complete and prepared to spend his old age in the home which he almost adored, when the blow fell. Everything was swept away and Scott, the well-to-do country laird, was a pauper. He did not see much of Abbotsford in the few years he had yet to live, though through the consideration of his creditors he remained nominally in possession. His days were devoted to the task of paying a gigantic debt which he conceived himself honor-bound to assume, though he might easily have evaded it by taking advantage of the law. Reflecting--after the lapse of nearly a century--who shall say that the world is not vastly the richer for its heritage of the sublime self-sacrifice, the heroism and flawless integrity of Walter Scott? The Abbotsford we see to-day has been considerably altered and added to since Scott's time, though the rooms shown to visitors remain precisely as he left them. The estate, considerably diminished, is still in possession of the family, the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell-Scott, the great-granddaughter of the author, being the present owner. She is herself of a literary turn and has written "The Making of Abbotsford," an interesting history of the place. The family is not wealthy and it was announced a few years ago that the sale of the estate had become necessary, though, happily, this was avoided. Our guide tells us that the home is usually leased during the "season" each year for three hundred pounds and Americans are oftenest the takers. Both the house and grounds are well-cared-for and we have many glimpses of smooth green lawns and flower gardens from the windows and open doors. The river, too, is near at hand and lends much to the air of enchantment that envelops Abbotsford, for we know how Scott himself loved the "silver stream" so often referred to in his writings. Indeed, as we leave we cannot but feel that our second visit has been even more delightful than our first--despite the novelty of first impressions. On our return, the picturesque old Peel tower at Darnick village catches our eye. It stands in well-kept grounds, the smooth lawn studded with trees and shrubs, and the gray stone walls and towers are shrouded by masses of ivy. It is the most perfect of the few remaining Peel towers in Scotland--little fortress-homes of the less important gentry four or five hundred years ago. These towers were usually built in groups of three, arranged in triangular form, to afford better opportunity for mutual defense against an enemy. Scott in his "Border Antiquities" tells something of these miniature castles: "The smaller gentlemen, whether heads of branches or clans, or of distinct families, inhabited dwellings upon a smaller scale, called Peels or Bastile-houses. They were surrounded by an enclosure, or barmkin, the walls whereof, according to statute, were a yard thick, surrounding a space of at least sixty feet square. Within this outer work the laird built his tower, with its projecting battlements, and usually secured the entrance by two doors, the outer of grated iron, the innermost of oak clenched with nails. The apartments were placed directly over each other, accessible only by a narrow turn-pike stair, easily blocked up or defended." Darnick, as I have intimated, is the best preserved of the towers now in existence, being almost in its original state, and it has very appropriately been adapted as a museum of relics, chiefly of Scottish history, though there is some antique furniture and many curious weapons from abroad. As we follow our guide about the cramped little rooms and up the narrow, twisting stairways, we cannot but think that the place is much more like a jail or prison than a gentleman's home--showing how the disturbed conditions of the country affected domestic life. The caretaker is an unusually communicative Scotchman, well-posted on everything connected with Darnick Tower and its contents, and proves to be not without a touch of sentiment. Taking from the glass case a rare old silver-mounted pistol, he places it in the hands of the small boy of our party. "Now, my lad, ye can always say that ye have held in your ain hands a pistol that was ance carried by bonnie Prince Charlie himsel'." And we all agree that it is no small thing for a boy to be able to say that; it will furnish him with material for many flights of fancy--even if Prince Charlie never saw the pistol. There are also some of Mary Stuart's endless embroideries--we have seen enough of them to stock a good-sized shop, but they may have all been genuine, since the poor queen had nothing else to do for years and years. These are typical of Darnick's treasures, which, with the rare old tower itself, may well claim an hour of the Abbotsford tourist's time. And he may recall that Sir Walter himself was greatly enamored of the old Peel and sought many times to annex it to his estate, but the owner would never sell. [Illustration: OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK, NEAR ABBOTSFORD] "Auld Reekie" has seldom been hospitable to us in the way of weather. Of our many visits--I forget how many--only one or two were favored with sunny skies. The first I well recall, since we came to the old city on our national holiday, only to find the temperature a little above freezing and to encounter a bitter wind that seemed to pierce to the very bone. And again we are watching the rain-drenched city from our hotel window and wondering how we shall best pass such a dull day. We are familiar with the show-places of the town--we have seen the castle, Holyrood, John Knox's house, St. Giles, the galleries, the University, Scott's monument and his town house on Castle Street where "Waverley" was written--all these and many other places of renown have no longer the charm of novelty. We don our rain-proofs and call at the studio of an artist friend, who conducts us to the Academy exhibit, where we discover the beautiful "Harvest Time, Strathtay," which adorns this book. We confess a weakness for antique-shops, especially those where a slender purse stands some show, and our friend leads us to the oddest curio-shop we have seen in our wanderings. It is entered from an out-of-the-way inner court by a dark, narrow flight of stairs and once inside you must pause a moment to get your bearings. For piled everywhere in promiscuous heaps, some of them reaching to the ceiling, is every conceivable article that one might expect to find in such a place, as well as a thousand and one that he would never expect to see. From a dark corner issues the proprietor, an alert, gray-bearded old gentleman who we soon find is an authority in his line and, strange to say, all this endless confusion is order to him, for he has no difficulty in laying his hands on anything he seeks. He shows us about the dimly lighted place, descanting upon his wares, but making little effort to sell them. We are free to select the few articles that strike our fancy--there is no urging and few suggestions on his part; he names the modest price and the deal is completed. When we come to leave we are surprised to find that we have lingered in the queer old shop a couple of hours. [Illustration: HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY From original painting by Henderson Tarbet. R. S. A. Exhibit, Edinburgh, 1910.] Edinburgh shops, especially on Princes Street, are handsome, large and well-stocked and are only second to the historic shrines with the average tourist. The town is a great publishing center and there are bookstores where the bibliophile might wish to linger indefinitely. Scotch plaids and tartans are much in evidence wherever textiles are sold and jewelers will show you the cairngorm first of all--a yellow quartz-crystal found in the Highland hills. Such things are peculiarly Scotch and of course are in great favor with the souvenir-seeking tourist. The rain ceases towards evening and from our hotel window we have a fine prospect of the city. It is clean and fresh after the heavy drenching and glistens in the declining sun, which shines fitfully through the breaking clouds. There have been many poetical eulogies and descriptions since Burns addressed his lines to "Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat," but W. E. Henley's "From a Window in Princes Street" seems to us most faithfully to give the impression of the city as we see it now: "Above the crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur's seat: Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled; straight ahead Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley's darkling green; While heaped against the western grey, The Castle, menacing and severe, Juts gaunt into the dying day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war." We watch the changing view until the twilight gathers and the lamps begin to appear here and there. We are bound for the heart of the Highlands. Our route is to lead through the "Kingdom of Fife" to Perth and from thence to Braemar, the most famous Scotch inland resort. Having already crossed the Forth at Queensferry, we decide to take the Granton-Burntisland boat, which crosses the estuary some six miles farther east. We find excellent provision for the transport of motor cars and our boat carries three besides our own. Landing at Burntisland, we follow the coast through Kirkcaldy to Largo. The attraction at the latter place is a little antique-shop close by the roadside in the village where two years before we found what we thought astonishing bargains in old silver, and our judgment was confirmed by an Edinburgh silversmith to whom we afterwards showed our purchases. The shopman had little of his wares in sight when we entered, but he kept bringing out article after article from some hidden recess until he had an amazing array before us. There was old silver galore, much of it engraved with armorial devices which the dealer said he had purchased at public auctions where the effects of old families were being turned into cash--not an uncommon occurrence in Britain these days. His prices were much less than those of city shops, and we were so well pleased with our few selections on our first visit that we think it worth while to visit Largo again. The shopman has not forgotten us and our finds are quite as satisfactory as before. And I must say that of all the odds and ends which we have acquired in our twenty-thousand miles of motoring in Europe, our old silver gives us the greatest satisfaction. It is about the safest purchase one can make, since the hall-mark guarantees its genuineness and it has a standard value anywhere. It cannot be bought to advantage in cities or tourist centers, where high prices are always demanded. The same conditions will doubtless prevail in the more remote country villages as the motor car brings an increased number of buyers. From Largo we traverse narrow byroads to Cupar, the county town of Fife. It is substantially built of gray stone and slate, but is not of much historic importance. The surrounding country is well-tilled and prosperous and there are many fine country houses which may occasionally be seen from the highroad. We hasten on to Newburgh and from thence to Perth, where we stop for luncheon at the splendid Station Hotel. The day has so far been clear and cool, but during our stop there comes a sudden dash of summer rain and a sharp drop in temperature--not a very favorable augury of fine weather in the Highlands, whither we are bound. Perth does not detain us, for despite its old-time importance and antiquity, scarce a vestige remains of its once numerous monastery chapels, castles and noblemen's houses. Perhaps the iconoclastic spirit inspired by old John Knox, who preached in Perth, may be partly responsible for this, or it may be as a Scotch writer puts it: "The theory which seems to prevail in the Fair City is that the Acropolis of Athens would be better out of the way if grazing for a few goats could be got on the spot; and the room of the historic buildings was always preferred to their company when any pretext could be found for demolishing them." The home ascribed to Scott's "Fair Maid," restored out of all knowledge, serves the plebian purpose of a bric-a-brac shop and there is nothing but common consent to connect it with the heroine of the novel. The fair maid indeed may have been but a figment of the great writer's imagination, but the sturdy armorer certainly lived in Perth and became famous for the marvelous shirts of mail which he wrought. Our route lies due north from Perth, a broad and smooth highway as far as Blairgowrie, near which is another original of the "Tullyveolan" of "Waverley"--the second or third we have seen. Here we plunge into the Highland hills, following a narrow stone-strewn road which takes us through barren moors and over steep rough hills, on many of which patches of snow still linger, seemingly not very far away. Its presence is felt, too, for the air is uncomfortably chilly. The low-hung clouds seem to threaten more snow and we learn later that snow actually fell during the previous week. For thirty miles there is scarcely a human habitation save one or two little inns which have rather a forlorn look. The road grows steadily worse and the long "hairpin curves" of the road on the famous "Devil's Elbow" will test the climbing abilities of any motor. While we are struggling with the steep, stony slopes and sharp turns of the Devil's Elbow, a driving rain begins and pursues us relentlessly for the rest of the day. The country would be dreary enough in the broad sunshine, but under present conditions it is positively depressing. The huge Invercauld Arms at Braemar is a welcome sight, though it proves none too comfortable; so cold and cheerless is the evening that every part of the hotel except the big assembly room, where a cheerful fire blazes in the ample grate, seems like a refrigerator. The guests complain bitterly of the unseasonable weather and one lady inquires of another, evidently a native: "What in the world do you do here in winter if it is like this in July?" "Do in winter? We sit and hug the fireplace and by springtime we are all just like kippered herring!" Braemar has lost much of the popularity it enjoyed in Victoria's day, when as many as ten thousand people came to the town and vicinity during the Queen's residence at Balmoral, some ten miles away. She was fond of the Highlands and remained several weeks, but King Edward did not share her liking for Balmoral and was an infrequent visitor. The British have the summer-resort habit to a greater extent than any other people and Braemar still has considerable patronage during the season--from June to September. The surroundings are quite picturesque; wooded hills, towering cliffs and dashing streams abound, but one who has seen America would hardly count the scenery remarkable. There is nothing to detain us in Braemar and the next morning finds us early on the road. The day promises fine, though of almost frosty coolness, and the roads in places are muddy enough to remind us of home. Braemar Castle, a quaint, towerlike structure near the town, attracts our attention and we find no difficulty in gaining entrance, for the family is away and the housekeeper is only too anxious to show visitors around in hopes of adding to her income. It proves of little interest, having recently been rebuilt into a summer lodge, the interior being that of an ordinary modern residence. The exterior, however, is very striking and the castle was of some consequence in the endless wars of the Highland clans. A few miles over a road overhung by trees and closely following the brawling Dee brings us in sight of Balmoral. Our first impression is of disappointment, since the castle seems but small compared with our preconceived ideas, formed, of course, from the many pictures we have seen. It has no traditions to attract us and as considerable formality is necessary to gain admission on stated days only, we do not make the attempt. The situation, directly on the river bank, is charming, and the park surrounding the castle is well-groomed. We hie us on to Ballater, a pretty, well-built village occupying a small plateau surrounded by towering hills. But a mile or two from the town is the house where Byron as a boy spent his vacations with his mother, and there are many references in his poems to the mountains and lakes of the vicinity. Lochnagar, which inspired his well-known verses, is said to be the wildest and most imposing, though not the loftiest, of Scotch mountains. It is the predominating peak between Braemar and Ballater. For some miles on each side of Ballater the road runs through pine forests, which evidently yield much of the lumber supply in Britain, for sawmills are quite frequent. The trees are not large and they are not slaughtered after the wholesale manner of American lumbering. [Illustration: A HIGHLAND LOCH From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] The Palace Hotel in Aberdeen is well-vouched-for officially--by the Royal Automobile Club, the Automobile Association and an "American Touring Club" which is new to us--and we reckon, from the first mention in Baedeker, that it takes precedence of all others. It is conducted by the Great North of Scotland Railway and is quite excellent in its way, though not cheap or even moderate in rates. At dinner our inquisitive waiter soon learns that we are not new to Aberdeen; we have seen most of the sights, but we have to admit that we have missed the fish-market. "Then ye haven't seen the biggest sight in the old town," said he. "Seven hunder tons of fish are landed every day at the wharves and sold at auction. Get down early in the morning and ye'll aye have a fish story to tell, I'll warrant." And it proves an astonishing sight, to be sure. A great cement wharf a mile or more in length is rapidly being covered with finny tribes of all degrees, sorted and laid in rows according to size. They range from small fish such as sole and bloater to huge monsters such as cod, haddock and turbot, some of which might weigh two or three hundred pounds. It would take a naturalist, or an experienced deep-sea fisherman, to name the endless varieties; it is a hopeless task for us to try to remember the names of even a few of them. The harbor is filled with fishing craft waiting to unload their catch, and when one boat leaves the wharf its place is quickly occupied by another. And this is not all the fish-show of Aberdeen, for herring and mackerel are brought in at another dock. We return to our hotel quite willing to concede our waiter-friend's claim that the tourist who does not see the fish-market misses, if not the "biggest," as he styled it, certainly the most interesting sight in Aberdeen. We linger a few hours about the town, which is one of the cleanest and most substantially built it has been our good fortune to see. It shows to best advantage on a sunny day after a rain, when its mica-sprinkled granite walls glitter in the sun, and its clean, granite-paved streets have an unequalled attractiveness about them. Granite has much to do with Aberdeen's wealth and stateliness, for it is found in unlimited quantities near at hand and quarrying, cutting and polishing forms one of the greatest industries of the place. Civic pride is strong in Aberdeen and there are few cities that have greater justification for such a sentiment, either on account of material improvement or thrifty and intelligent citizens. XI IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS It is a wild, thinly inhabited section--this strangely named Sutherland--lying a thousand miles nearer the midnight sun than does New York City; but its silver lochs, its clear, dashing streams and its unrivalled vistas of blue ocean and bold, rugged islands and highlands will reward the motorist who elects to brave its stony trails and forbiddingly steep hills. Despite its loneliness and remoteness, it is not without historic and romantic attractions and its sternly simple people widely scattered throughout its dreary wastes in bleak little villages or solitary shepherd cottages, are none the less interesting and pleasant to meet and know. The transient wayfarer can hardly conceive how it is possible for the natives to wrest a living from the barren hills and perhaps it does not come so much from the land as from the cold gray ocean that is everywhere only a little distance away. Fishing is the chief industry of the coast villages, while the isolated huts in the hills are usually the homes of shepherds. The population of Sutherland proper is sparse indeed and one will run miles and miles over the rough trails which serve as roads with rarely a glimpse of human habitation. No railway reaches the interior or the western coast and the venturesome motorist will often find himself amid surroundings where a break-down would surely mean disaster--a hundred miles or more from effective assistance. The precipitous hills and stony roads afford conditions quite favorable to mishap, and for this reason the highways of Sutherland are not frequented by motor cars and probably never will be until a different state of affairs prevails. The Royal Automobile Club, however, has mapped a fairly practicable route, following roughly the coast line of the shire, and with this valuable assistance, we are told, a considerable number of motorists undertake the trip during the course of the summer. The name Sutherland--for the most northerly shire of a country which approaches the midnight sun--strikes one queerly; a Teutonic name for the most distinctly Celtic county in Scotland--both anomalies to puzzle the uninformed. But it was indeed the "land of the south" to the Norsemen who approached Scotland from the north, and landing on the shores of Caithness, they styled the bleak hills to the south as "Sudrland." There was not much to tempt them to the interior, the good harbors of Caithness and the produce of its fertile plains being the objective of these hardy "despots of the sea." The county of Caithness contains the greater part of the tillable land north of Inverness and this, with the extensive fisheries, supports a considerable population. The traveler coming from the south finds a pleasant relief in this wide fertile plain with its farmhouses and villages and its green fields dotted with sleek domestic animals. It was this prosperity that attracted the Norseman in olden days and he it was who gave the name to this county as well as to Sutherland--Caithness, from the "Kati," as the inhabitants styled themselves. We leave the pleasant city of Inverness on a gray misty morning upon--I was going to say--our "Highland tour." But Inverness itself is well beyond the northern limit of the Highland region of Scott and the wayfaring stranger in Scotland to-day can hardly realize that the activities of Rob Roy were mostly within fifty miles of Glasgow. A hundred years ago the country north of the Great Glen was as remote from the center of life in Scotland as though a sea swept between. To-day we think of everything beyond Stirling or Dundee as the "Wild Scottish Highlands," and I may as well adopt this prevailing notion in the tale I have to tell. For the first half hour the splendid road is obscured by a lowering fog which, to our delight, begins to break away just as we come to Cromarty Firth, which we follow for some dozen miles. The victorious sunlight reveals an entrancing scene; on the one hand the opalescent waters of the firth, with the low green hills beyond, and on the other the countryside is ablaze with the yellow broom. Dingwall, at the head of the firth, is a clean, thriving town, quite at variance with our preconceived ideas of the wild Highlands; and a like revelation awaits us at Tain, with its splendid inn where we pause for luncheon on our return a few days later. It is built of rough gray stone and its internal appointments as well as its service are well in keeping with its imposing exterior. But an excellent inn, seemingly out of all proportion to the needs of a town or the surrounding country, need surprise no one in Scotland--such, indeed, is the rule rather than the exception. At Bonar Bridge--the little town no doubt takes its name from the sturdy structure spanning Dornoch Firth--we cross into Sutherland and for the next hundred miles we are seldom out of sight of the sea. An ideal day we have for such a journey; the air is crystal clear, cool and bracing. The unsullied skies meet a still, shimmering sea on one hand and bend in a wide arch over gray-green hills on the other. Before our journey ends cloud effects add to the weird beauty of the scenes that greet our eyes--a play of light and color sweeping across the mottled sky and the quiet ocean. We are enchanted by one particularly glorious view as we speed along the edge of a cliff far above the ocean that frets and chafes beneath; a bank of heavy white clouds is shot through by the crimson rays of the declining sun; it seemingly rests on the surface of the still water and is reflected with startling brilliance in the lucent depths. Every mood of the skies finds a response in the ocean--gray, steely-blue, silver-white, crimson and gold, all prevail in turn--until, as we near our destination, the sky again is clear and the sea glows beneath a cloudless sunset. In a sheltered nook by the ocean, which here ripples at the foot of a bleak hill, sits Golspie, the first village of any note after crossing Dornoch Firth. It has little to entitle it to distinction besides its connection with Dunrobin Castle--the great Gothic pile that looms above it. Dunrobin is the seat of the Duke of Sutherland and Golspie is only the hamlet of retainers and tradesmen that usually attaches itself to a great country seat. It is clean and attractive and its pleasant inn by the roadside at once catches our eye--for our luncheon time is already well past. And there are few country inns that can vie with the Sutherland Arms of Golspie, even in a land famous for excellent country inns. A low, rambling stone building mantled with ivy and climbing roses and surrounded by flowers and green sward, with an air of comfort and coziness all about it, mutely invites the wayfarer to enjoy its hospitality. The interior is equally attractive and there are evidences that the inn is a resort for the fisherman and hunter as well as for the tourist. It is of little consequence that luncheon time is two hours past; the Scottish inn keeps open house all day and the well-stocked kitchen and sideboard stand ready to serve the wayfarer whenever he arrives. The sideboard, with its roast beef, mutton and fowls, would of itself furnish a substantial repast; and when this is supplemented by a salad, two or three vegetables, including the inevitable boiled potatoes, with a tart or pudding for dessert, one would have to be more particular than a hungry motorist to find fault. The landlady personally looks after our needs--which adds still more to the homelikeness of the inn--and as we take our leave we express our appreciation of the entertainment she has afforded us. She plucks a full-blown rose from the vine which clings to the gray walls and gives it to the lady member of our party, saying: "Would you believe that the roses bloom on this wall in December? Indeed, they do, for Golspie is so sheltered by the hills and the climate is so tempered by the ocean currents that we never have really severe weather." And this is nearly a thousand miles north of the latitude of New York City! The day is too far advanced to admit of a visit to Dunrobin Castle, despite the lure of its thousand years of eventful history. It stands on a commanding eminence overlooking the sea, its pinnacled turrets and battlements sharply fretted against the sky. Its style savors of the French chateau, though there are enough old Scottish details to redeem it from the domination of the foreign type, and, altogether, it is one of the stateliest of the homes of the Highland nobility. It has been in the unbroken possession of the present family for nearly a thousand years, having been originally built by Robert, Thane of Sutherland, in 1098. Its isolation no doubt saved it from the endless sieges and consequent ruin that so many ancient strongholds underwent. From Golspie to Wick we are seldom out of sight of the ocean and there are many pleasing vistas from the clifflike hills which the finely engineered road ascends in long sweeping curves. The entire road from Inverness to Wick ranks with the best in Scotland, but beyond--that is another story. The villages along the way are inhabited by fishermen, many of whom speak only Gaelic, and they are always civil towards the stranger. Especially do we notice this when we pass groups of children; they are always smiling and waving welcome in a manner that recalls in sharp contrast the sullen little hoodlums in the French and German towns. The country houses, though small and plain, are clean and solidly built of stone. Many well-bred domestic animals are to be seen, especially sheep. In this connection I recall a conversation I had with a young Montana ranchman whom I met on a train near Chicago. He had just sold his season's wool clip in that city and realized the highest price of the year--and he had imported his stock from Caithness, where he formerly lived. Wick is celebrated for its herring fisheries, upon which nearly the whole population of about twelve thousand is directly or indirectly dependent. It is the largest town north of Inverness and of some commercial importance. The artificial harbor was built at an immense cost and when the fisher fleet is in presents a forest of masts. On Mondays the boats depart for the fishing grounds, most of them remaining out for the week. Some of the boats are of considerable size and a single catch may comprise many tons of herrings. The unsavory work of cleaning and curing is done by women, who come from all parts of the country during the fishing season. Logically, Wick should mark the conclusion of our day's journey, which is of unusual length, and the huge Station Hotel is not uninviting, but we hasten farther, to fare--so far as accommodations are concerned--very considerably worse. John O'Groats is our destination. We have long been fascinated by the odd name at the far northern extremity of the map of Scotland--a fascination increased by the recurrence of the name in Scotch song and story--and it pleases our fancy to pass the night at John O'Groats. A friendly officer assures us that we will find an excellent hotel at our goal and with visions of a well-ordered resort awaiting our arrival we soon cover the dozen or more miles of level though bumpy road between Wick and the Scotch Ultima Thule. The country is green and prosperous--no hint of the rocky hills and barren moors that have greeted us most of the day. A half mile from the tiny village of John O'Groats--a dozen or more low stone huts--we come to the hotel and our spirits sink as we look about us. A small two-story building with an octagonal tower faces the lonely sea and it is soon evident that we are the sole guests for the night. Two unattractive young women apparently constitute the entire force of the inn; they are manageresses, cooks, waitresses, chambermaids and even "porteresses," if I may use such a word, for they proceed to remove our baggage and to carry it to our room. This is in the octagonal tower, fronting on the ocean, and is clean and orderly; but the dinner which our fair hostesses set forth precludes any danger of gormandizing, ravenously hungry though we happen to be. The dining-room occupies the first floor of the octagonal tower, which stands on the supposed site of the original house of John O'Groat, or John de Groote, the Dutchman whose fame is commemorated by a tradition which one must hear as a matter of course if he visits the spot. [Illustration: HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS] John de Groote, a wealthy Hollander, is supposed to have established himself in Caithness in the time of James IV. to engage in commerce with the natives. As he was a person of importance, he brought with him a number of retainers, who held an annual feast in celebration of their arrival in Scotland. At this there were bickerings and heart-burnings as to who should occupy "the head of the table"--an honor that was made much of in those days. Wise old John de Groote pacified his jealous guests as best he could, assuring them that at their next gathering all should be equally honored and satisfied. He must have been a man of influence, for his enigmatical assurance seems to have been accepted by all. When the eight petty chieftains assembled again they beheld an octagonal house with eight doors and in it was a huge octagonal table with seats at each side for the jealous clansmen and their retainers. As they must enter simultaneously and as no one could possibly be exalted above his fellows, the question of precedence could not arise. And so John O'Groat gave his name to eternal fame--but if this strange domicile ever existed, all trace of it has disappeared, and the question of precedence does not trouble our little party nearly so much as the indifferent dinner, which we make but a poor pretense at eating. One will hardly find a lonelier or more melancholy scene--at least so it seems to us this evening--than the wide sweep of water confronting us when we look seaward from the sandy beach that slopes downward from the inn. Near at hand is a bold headland--the small rocky island of Stroma--while the dim outlines of the southernmost Orkneys rise a few miles away. No ship or sign of life is to be seen except two crab-fishers, who are rowing to the little landing-place. The beach is littered with thousands of dead crabs and masses of seaweed cling to the wreckage scattered along the water line. All is quiet and serene as the nightlong twilight settles down, save for the occasional weird scream of some belated sea-bird. The sun does not set until after nine o'clock and on clear nights one may read print at midnight under the open skies. And it is with an odd feeling, when awakened by the rising sun streaming into our windows, that I find on looking at my watch that the hour of three is just past. At the risk of being set down as heathen by the natives, who observe Sunday even more strictly than their southern brethren, we are early on the road. Our breakfast, hastily prepared by our hostesses, gives us added incentive for severing relations with John O'Groats. We settle our modest score--our inn has the merit of cheapness, at least--act as our own porter--saving a shilling thereby--and soon sally forth on the fine road to Thurso. The glorious morning soon effaces all unpleasant recollections. The road runs for miles in sight of the sea, which shows a gorgeous color effect in the changing light--deep indigo-blue, violet, amethyst, sapphire, all seem to predominate in turn, and the crisp breeze shakes the shimmering surface into millions of jewellike ripples. In sheltered nooks under the beetling crags of the shore the water lies a sheet of dense lapis-lazuli blue such as one sees in pictures but seldom in nature. On the other hand are the green fields, which evidence an unexpected fertility in this far northern land. But the scene changes--almost suddenly. Leaving the low, green meadows of western Caithness, we plunge into the dark, barren hills of Sutherland--a country as lonely and forbidding as any to be found within the four seas that encircle Britain. The road--splendid for a dozen miles out of Thurso--degenerates into a rough, rock-strewn trail that winds among the hills, often with steep grades and sharp turns. At some points where the road branches a weather-worn stone gives an almost illegible direction and at others there is nothing to assist the puzzled traveler. At one of these it seems clear to us that the right-hand road must lead to Tongue, and with some misgiving we take it. There is absolutely no human being in sight--an inquiry is impossible. The road grows so bad that we can scarce distinguish it and at last we catch sight of a shepherd-cottage over the hill. Two elfish children on the hilltop view us with open-mouthed wonder, but in response to our inquiries flee away to the house. The shepherd comes out, Bible in hand; he has no doubt been passing the morning in devotion at his home, since the kirk is too far away for him to attend. "The road to Tongue? Ah, an' it's a peety. Ye have ta'en the wrang turn and the road ye are on leads to--just nowhere." We thank him and carefully pilot our car backward for half a mile to find a practicable place to turn about. [Illustration: ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS From original painting by Henderson Tarbet] We have passed a few little hamlets since we left Thurso--Melvich, Strathy and Bettyhill--each made up of a few stone huts thatched with boughs or underbrush of some kind and though cleanly and decent, their appearance is poverty-stricken in the extreme. At Bettyhill we pass many people laboriously climbing the long hill to the kirk which stands bleakly on the summit--the entire population, old and young, appears to be going to the service. They are a civil, kindly folk, always courteous and obliging in their response to our inquiries, though we think we can detect a latent disapproval of Sunday motoring--only our own guilty consciences, perhaps. They seem sober and staid, even the youngsters--no doubt only the Scotchman's traditional reverence for the Sabbath; though one of the best informed Scotch writers thinks this mood is often temperamental--a logical result of the stern surroundings that these people see every day of their lives. For Mr. T. F. Henderson in his "Scotland of Today" writes of the very country through which we are passing: "With all their dreariness there is something impressive in these long stretches of lonely moorland, something of the same feeling that comes over one, you fancy, in the Sahara. As a stranger you will probably see them in the summertime. There is then the endless weird light of the northern sunrise and sunset, there is the charm of the sunlight; and nature using such magic effects is potent to infuse strange attractions into the wilderness itself. But the infinite gloom of the days of winter, the long periods of darkness, the rain-cloud and the storm-cloud sweeping at their will over the wild moorland without any mountain screen to break the storm! Can you wonder that men who spend their lives amid such scenes become gloomy and taciturn, and that sadness seems inseparable from such surroundings, and poverty inevitably appears twice as cruel and harsh here as elsewhere?" It is well past noon when the blue waters of the Kyle of Tongue flash through the rugged notches of the hills and a few furlongs along the shore bring us to the village of Tongue, with its hospitable inn. Though Tongue is fifty miles from the nearest railway station, enough lovers of the wild come here to make this pleasant, well-ordered inn a possibility. We find it very attractive inside; the July day is fresh and clear but chilly enough to make the fire burning in the diminutive grate in the drawing-room very acceptable to us who have never become really acclimated in Britain. But the same fire is evidently intended to be more ornamental than useful, for the supply of coals is exceedingly limited and they are fed into the grate in homeopathic doses. An Australian lady--who with her husband, we learn later, is on a honeymoon tour of Scotland--is even more sensitive to the chill than ourselves and ends the matter by dumping the contents of the scuttle on the fire and, like Oliver Twist, calling for more. Oliver's request possibly did not create greater consternation among his superiors than this demand dismayed our hostess, for coals might well be sold by troy instead of avoirdupois in Tongue. The supply must come by coast steamer from the English mines and the frequent handling and limited demand send the price skyward. The Australian lady's energetic act insures that the room will be habitable for the rest of the day--though it is easy to see that some of the natives think it heated to suffocation. At dinner our host, a hale, full-bearded Scotchman, sits at the head of the table and carves for his guests in truly patriarchal style. The meal is a satisfying one, well-cooked and served; the linen is snowy white and the silver carefully polished. We find the hotel just as satisfactory throughout; the rooms are clean and well-ordered and the whole place has a homelike air. It is evidently a haven for fishermen during the summer season and these probably constitute the greater number of guests. The entrance hall is garnished with many trophies of rod and gun and, altogether, we may count Tongue Inn a unique and pleasant lodge in a lonely land. The following day--it is our own national holiday--we strike southward through the Sutherland moors. The country is bleak and unattractive, though the road proves better than we expected. For several miles it closely follows the sedgy shores of Loch Loyal, a clear, shimmering sheet of water a mile in width, set in a depression of the moorland hills. The Sutherland lochs have little in their surroundings to please the eye; their greatest charm is in the relief their bright, pellucid waters afford from the monotony of the brown moors. There are many of these lakes, ranging in size from little tarns to Loch Shin--some seventy miles in length. We pass several in course of our morning's run, and cross many clear, dashing streams, but there is little else to attract attention in the forty miles to Bonar Bridge. Lairg is the only village on the way, a group of cottages clustered about an immense hotel which is one of the noted Scotch resorts for fishermen. It is situated at the southern extremity of Loch Shin, where, strange to say, fishing is free--not a common state of affairs with the Scotch lochs. It is famous for its trout and salmon, though it is decidedly lacking in picturesqueness, one writer describing it as "little better than a huge ditch." [Illustration: GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] From Bonar Bridge southward we retrace the broad, level road that we followed out of Inverness, and from the opposite direction the green and thriving countryside presents quite a new aspect. We have often remarked that it is seldom a hardship to retrace our way over a road through an interesting country. The different viewpoint is sure to reveal beauties that we have missed before. One cannot complain that the country here lacks attractions--there are many famous excursions to the lochs and glens and one of the most delightful is the ten-mile drive to Glen Affrick, which may be taken from Beauly. Mr. MacWhirter's picture shows a view of the dashing river--and I recall that the great artist, when showing me the original, remarked that if one were asked to guess, he would hardly locate Glen Affrick in the Scotch Highlands, so strongly suggestive of the Dark Continent is the name. XII DOWN THE GREAT GLEN That we had once--under the guidance of that patron saint of tourists, Thos. Cook--made the regulation boat trip down the Caledonian Lakes and Canal, in no wise lessens our eagerness to explore the Great Glen by motor car. On a previous occasion we reluctantly gave up the run from Inverness to Oban because of stories of inconvenient and even dangerous ferries; but recent information from the Royal Automobile Club shows that while only a few attempt the journey, it is entirely practicable. The English motorist, accustomed to perfect roads and adequate ferry service, is likely to magnify deviations from the best conditions, which would be scarcely remarked upon by his American brother, to whom good highways are the exception rather than the rule. And so it chanced that the Great Glen acquired a rather unsavory reputation and only a few Americans or an occasional venturesome native undertook the journey. At the present time, I understand, the road and service have been so improved that no one need hesitate in essaying this delightful trip. [Illustration: THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET From original painting by Breanski] Mr. George Eyre-Todd, a Scottish author, in a recently published book gives some descriptive and historical information concerning the country we are about to explore: "Glen More na h' Albyn, the Great Glen of Scotland, stretching from the Moray Firth southwestward to the Sound of Mull, cuts the Scottish Highlands in two. For grandeur and variety of scenery--mountain and glen, torrent and waterfall, inland lake and arm of the sea--it far surpasses the Rhine; and though the German river, with its castled crags and clustering mountain-towns, has been enriched by the thronged story of many centuries, its interest even in that respect is fully matched by the legends, superstitions and wild clan memories of this great lake valley of the north. For him who has the key to the interests of the region the long day's sail from Inverness to Oban unrolls a panorama of unbroken charm. "The Caledonian Canal, which links the lakes of this great glen, was a mighty engineering feat in its day. First surveyed by James Watt in 1773, at the instance of the trustees of the forfeited estates, and finally planned by Telford in 1804, it was begun by Government for strategic purposes during the Napoleonic wars, and when finally opened in 1847 had cost no more than a million and a quarter sterling. It has a uniform depth of eighteen feet, and ships of thirty-eight feet beam and a thousand tons burden can sail through it from one side of Scotland to the other. In these peaceful times, however, the canal is very little used. In autumn and spring the brown sails of fishing-boats pass through in flights, and twice a day in summer the palace-steamers of David Macbrayne sweep by between the hills. But for the rest of the time the waters lap the lonely shores, the grey heron feeds at the burn mouths, and sunshine and rain come and go along the great mountainsides, exactly as they did in the days of Culloden or Inverlochy. "The canal at first has the country of Clan Mackintosh, of which Inverness may be considered the capital, on its left. At the same time, down to Fort Augustus, it has the Lovat country on the right. Glengarry, farther down, was the headquarters of the Macdonnells. South of that lies the Cameron country, Lochaber and Lochiel. And below Fort William stretches the Macdonald country. All these clans, in the '45, were disaffected to Government, and followed the rising of Prince Charles Edward." Inverness, with her bracing air and clear river, her beautiful island park, well-stocked shops and wealth of romantic associations, will always tempt one to linger, come as often as he may. It is our fourth stop in the pleasant northern capital; we have tried the principal hotels and we remember the Alexandra most favorably--though one traveler's experiences may not be of great value in such a matter. Individual tastes differ and a year or two may work a great change in an inn for better or worse. Within a dozen miles of Inverness one may find many historic spots. Few will overlook Culloden Moor, with its melancholy cairn and its memories of the final extinguishment of the aspirations of the Stuart line. Not less interesting in a different way is Cawdor Castle, the grim thirteenth-century pile linked to deathless fame in Shakespeare's "Macbeth." There are drives galore to glens and resorts and you will not be permitted to forget the cemetery, in which every citizen of the town seems to take a lugubrious pride. Indeed, it is one of the most beautiful burial grounds in the Kingdom. Crowning a great hill which commands far-reaching views of valley and sea, it lacks nothing that art and loving care can lavish upon it. But Inverness, with all her charm, must not detain us longer. Our journey, following the course of the lakes to Oban, begins in the early morning; the distance is only one hundred and twenty miles, but they tell us we are sure to experience considerable delay at the ferries. It is a dull, misty morning and the drifting fog half hides the rippling river which we follow some miles out of Inverness. By the time we reach the shores of Loch Ness, the sunlight begins to struggle through the mist which has enveloped everything and, to our delight, there is every promise of a glorious day. The lake averages a mile in width and for its entire length of nearly twenty-five miles is never more than a few score yards from the road. It is an undulating and sinuous road and one of the most dangerous in the Kingdom for reckless drivers. Here it turns a sharp, hidden corner; there it drops suddenly down a short, steep declivity into a dark little glade; at times it winds through trees that press too closely to allow vehicles to pass, and again it follows the edge of an abrupt cliff. Such a road cannot be traversed too carefully, but, fortunately, to anyone with an eye for the beauties of nature, there is no incentive to speed. Every mile of the lake presents new aspects--a dark, dull mirror or a glistening sheet of silver, and again a smiling expanse of blue, mottled with reflections of fleecy white clouds. In one place it shows a strange effect of alternating bars of light and shade sweeping from shore to shore, a phenomenon which we are quite unable to understand. About midway an old castle rises above the dark waters which reflect it with all the fidelity of a mirror, for at this point the plummet shows a depth of seven hundred feet. For six hundred years Castle Urquhart has frowned above the lake and about it has gathered a long history of romantic sieges and defenses, fading away into myth and legend. Its sullen picturesqueness furnished a theme for the brush of Sir John Millais, who was a frequent visitor to the Great Glen and an ardent admirer of its scenery. [Illustration: URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS] As we pursue the lakeside road, we find ourselves contrasting our former trip by steamer, and we agree that the motor gives the best realization of the beauties of landscape and loch. There are points of vantage along the shore which afford views far surpassing any to be had from the dead level of the steamer deck; the endless variations of light and color playing over the still surface we did not see from the boat. There may be much of fancy in this; everything to the motor enthusiast seems finer and more enchanting when viewed from that queen of the road--the open car. The old chroniclers have it that St. Columba traversed the Great Glen in 565 A. D. and they declare that he beached his boat near Kilchimien on Loch Ness after having by his preaching and miracles converted the Pictish kings. This is the first record of the introduction of Christianity into the northern Highlands. Fort Augustus marks the southern extremity of Loch Ness and here are the great buildings of St. Benedict's Abbey and School, a famous Catholic college patronized by the sons of the gentry and nobility of that faith. The fort was built by the English a couple of centuries ago as a base of offense against the adherents of the Stuarts in the vicinity, and we may be sure that the fierce Highlanders did not permit the garrison to suffer from inactivity. At this point the road swings across the canal and follows the western shores of Loch Oich and Loch Lochy. We miss the trees which border Loch Ness; here we pass at the foot of high, barren hills over which, to the southward, rises Ben Nevis, the loftiest of Scotch mountains. There is not much of interest until we reach the vicinity of Fort William at the northern end of Loch Linnhe. As we approach the town we catch glimpses of the ivy-clad ruin of Inverlochy, one of the most ancient and romantic of northern Scottish castles. A portion of the structure is supposed to antedate the eighth century and it was long the residence of a line of Pictish kings--kings, indeed, even though their subjects were but a handful of ill-clad marauders. In any event, one of them, King Achaius, was of enough importance to negotiate a treaty with ambassadors sent by Charlemagne. It would be a long story to tell of the sieges and sallies, of the fierce combats and dark tragedies that took place within and about the walls of Inverlochy Castle; for in all its thousand years it saw little of peace or quiet until after the fight at Culloden; and such a story would accord well with the air of grim mystery that seems to hover over the sullen old ruin to-day. Standing on the verge of the still water, its massive round towers outlined against the rocky sides of Ben Nevis, whose snow-flecked summit looms high over it, it seems the very ideal of the home of chivalry, rude and barbarous though it may have been. Fort William, with its enormous hotels, shows the usual characteristics of a Scottish resort town--but the attractions which bring guests to fill such hotels are not apparent to us. More likely these are in the neighborhood rather than in the town itself. We pause here in an endeavor to get some authentic information concerning the ferry at Ballachulish, for our doubts have been considerably aroused about it. The office of the steamship company of David Macbrayne, who controls nearly all the coastwise shipping in North Scotland, seems a likely place and thither we hie ourselves. The canny Scot in charge assures us that the ferry is exceedingly dangerous--that motors are transferred on a row-boat and some day there will be a dreadful accident; he even darkly hints that something of the sort has already occurred. The safe and sane thing to do is to place our car aboard the next canal steamer, which will land us in Oban in the course of five or six hours--and it will cost us only three pounds plus transportation for ourselves. Shall he book us and our car for the boat? His eagerness to close the deal arouses our suspicion--besides, we have done the Caledonian trip by boat before and are not at all partial to the proposed plan. It occurs to us that the proprietor of a nearby garage ought to be as well informed on this matter and more disinterested than Mr. Macbrayne's obsequious representative. "Cars go that way every little while," he says. "Not especially dangerous--never had an accident that I know of." Thus encouraged, we soon cover the dozen miles to the ferry. Our fine weather has vanished and a drizzling rain is falling at intervals. At the ferry we learn that the crossing can be made only at high tide, which means four hours' wait amidst anything but pleasant surroundings. There are two vehicles ahead of us--a motor and a small covered wagon about which two miserably dirty and ragged little youngsters play, regardless of the steady rain. A dejected man and a spiritless woman accompany the wagon and soon respond to our friendly advances. They are selling linoleum made in Aberfeldy--traveling about the country in the wagon, stopping at cottages wherever a bit of their commodity is likely to be in demand. It is a pitiful story of poverty and privation, of days without sales enough to provide food, and of cold, wet nights by the roadside. If the end of the trip finds them even they are well content, but more often they are in debt to the makers of the linoleum. There are thousands of others, they tell us, gaining a precarious living, like themselves, though of course not all selling the same commodity. When they see our annoyance at the delay, they offer to yield us their turn in crossing, which we gladly accept, for it affords an excuse for a gratuity, which we feel our chance acquaintances sorely need. In the meantime the tide is flowing swiftly through the narrow strait which connects Loch Leven with the wide estuary of Loch Linnhe and our boat approaches from the opposite side. Four men are rowing vigorously and as the small craft grates alongside the slippery granite pier, one would never choose it as a fit transport for a heavy motor. It is about twenty feet in length by ten or a dozen wide; two stout planks are placed crosswise and two more form a runway from the sloping landing, and, altogether, the outlook is rather discouraging to anyone so prejudiced in favor of the terra firma as ourselves. We are half tempted to retrace our journey to Fort William, but fortunately, the two young men who have preceded us in a large runabout furnish an object lesson that proves the trick not nearly so difficult as it looks. We follow suit in our turn and our car, by a little careful jockeying, is soon nicely balanced on the planks in the center of the boat. We express surprise that the added weight seems scarcely to affect the displacement of the craft. "O, ay,--she'll carry twelve ton," says one of the men who overhears us. So the two tons of the car is far from the limit, after all. It is a strong pull, well out of the direct line in crossing, for the tide is running like a mill-race and would sweep us many furlongs down the shore were not due allowance made by the rowers. The landing is easier than the embarking, and we are soon away at something more than the lawful pace for Benderloch Station, where another crossing must be made. [Illustration: THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE] We might have wished to take the right-hand road to Glencoe, only a few miles from Ballachulish--mournful Glencoe, with its memories of one of the darkest deeds that stain the none too spotless page of Scottish history. For here the bloody Cumberland, acting upon explicit orders from the English throne, sent a detachment of soldiers under the guise of friends seeking the hospitality of Clan Macdonald, which received them with open arms. The captain of the troop was an uncle of the young chieftain's wife, which served still farther to win the utmost confidence of the unsuspecting clansmen. For two weeks the guests awaited fit opportunity for their dastardly crime, when they murdered their host in the very act of providing for their entertainment and dealt death to all his clan and kin, regardless of age or sex. A few escaped to the hills, only to perish miserably from the rigors of the Scottish midwinter. Such is the sad tale of Glencoe, where to-day a tall granite shaft commemorates the victims of the treacherous deed. A hundred tales might be told of the Great Glen--true tales--did our space permit. Here Bonnie Prince Charlie marshalled his forces and made his last stand in his struggle for the throne of his fathers. In 1745, at Gairlochy, near Fort William, the royal adventurer organized the nucleus of the army which was to capture Edinburgh and throw all the Kingdom into consternation by its incursion into England. Here he planned a battle with General Cope, who avoided the encounter, a move which gave great impetus to the insurrection. Charles was in high feather and passed a night in revelry at Invergarry Castle with the Highland chieftains, who already imagined their leader on the highway to the British throne. Less than a year later the prince again sought Invergarry in his flight from Culloden's fatal field, but he found the once hospitable home of the chief of Glengarry empty and dismantled and so surrounded by enemies that, weary and despairing as he was, he still must hasten on. Two weeks later, after a score of hairbreadth escapes, the royal fugitive left Scotland--as it proved, forever. We did not at the time reflect very deeply on these bits of historic lore; the rain was falling and the winding, slippery road required close attention. Much of the scenery was lost to us, but the gloomy evening was not without its charm. The lake gleamed fitfully through the drifting mists and the brown hills were draped with wavering cloud curtains. Right behind us rose the mighty form of Ben Nevis, on whose summit flecks of snow still lingered. The wildness of the country was accentuated by the forbidding aspect of the weather, but we regretted it the less since our former trip had been under perfect conditions. At Benderloch Station we found a railway motor van and flat car awaiting us, in response to our telephone message from Ballachulish. Our motor was speedily loaded on the car, while we occupied seats in the van, an arrangement provided for motorists by the obliging railway officials. All this special service costs only fifteen or twenty shillings; but no doubt the railroad people established the rate to compete with the ferry across Loch Creran Inlet. They set us down safe and sound on the other side of the estuary, and we soon covered the few remaining miles to Oban, where we needed no one to direct us to the Station Hotel, for we learned on a former visit that it is one of the best-ordered inns in the North Country. XIII ALONG THE WEST COAST The day following our arrival in Oban dawns clear and bright with that indescribable freshness that follows summer rain in the Highlands. We find ourselves loath to leave the pleasant little town, despite the fact that two former visits have somewhat detracted from the novelty of the surroundings. We could never weary of the quiet, land-locked harbor, with its shimmering white sails and ranges of green and purple hills beyond, or of the ivy-clad ruin of Dunolly that overhangs the waters when looking up the bay. The town ascends the steep hill in terraces and a climb to the summit is well rewarded by the splendid view. One also sees at close range the monstrous circular tower which dwarfs everything else in Oban and which one at first imagines must have some great historic significance. But the surmise that it was the work of ancient Romans in an effort to duplicate the Coliseum is dashed when we learn that Oban is scarcely a hundred years old and that "McCaig's Folly" was built after the foundation of the town. An eccentric native conceived the idea of erecting this strange structure "to give employment to his fellow-townsmen" and dissipated a good-sized fortune in the colossal gray-stone pile. Its enormous proportions can only be realized when one stands within the walls, which form an exact circle possibly two hundred feet in diameter and range from fifty to seventy-five feet in height. [Illustration: "McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN] While the town itself is modern, the immediate vicinity of Oban does not lack for ancient landmarks. Dunstaffnage, with its traditions of Pictish kings, is antedated by few Scottish castles and Dunolly is one of the most picturesque. Kilchurn and Duarte, though farther away, are easily accessible, and the former, on the tiny islet in Loch Awe, is one of the most beautiful of Scottish ruins. There are few drives that afford greater scenic charm than the circular trip past Loch Feochan and Loch Melfort, returning by Loch Awe, and there is no steamer trip in the Kingdom that excels in glorious scenery and historic interest the eighty-mile excursion to Staffa and Iona. With such attractions it is not strange that Oban is thronged with tourists during the short summer season. But we have "done" nearly everything in our two previous visits and have little excuse to linger. The only road out of the town, except the one by which we came, drops southward through a country we have not yet explored. Brown and barren hills greet us at first, relieved here and there by the glitter of tiny lakes and by green dales with flocks of grazing sheep. A touch of brilliant color is given to the landscape by the great beds of blue and yellow flags, or fleur-de-lis, which cover the marshy spots along the road. For several miles we skirt the shores of Loch Feochan, a tidal lake whose blue-green waters are at their height, making a beautiful picture with the purple hills as a background. The tiny village of Kilninver stands at the inlet of the loch and here the road re-enters the hills; there is a long steady climb up a steep grade ere the summit is reached and in places the narrow road skirts a sharp declivity, sloping away hundreds of feet to the valley beneath. We fortunately escape an unpleasant adventure here; just at the summit we find four men pushing an old-fashioned, high-wheeled car to the top of the grade. It lost its driving-chain, they tell us, and as the brake failed to work, narrowly missed dashing down the hill. Had it gone a rod farther such a catastrophe would surely have occurred; not very pleasant for us to contemplate, since at few places is there more than enough room to pass a vehicle driven with care, let alone one running amuck! The descent is not so abrupt and a long steady coast brings us to the Pass of Melfort, where a swift mountain stream dashes between towering cliffs. We run alongside until we again emerge on the sea-shore, following the rugged coast of Loch Melfort for some miles. The road is rough in places and passes a sparsely populated country with here and there an isolated village, usually harsh and treeless. Kilmartin is the exception--a rather cozy-looking hamlet with a huge old church surrounded by fine trees. In Kilmartin Glen, near by, are numerous prehistoric sculptured stones often visited by antiquarians. Thence to Loch Gilphead the road is first-class; it crosses over the Crinan Canal, through which steamers bound for Oban and Glasgow pass daily. Loch Gilphead is a straggling fishing-town, its docks littered with nets and the harbor crowded with small craft; its inn does not tempt us to pause, though luncheon hour is well past. For twenty miles or more we course along the wooded shores of Loch Fyne, another of the long narrow inlets piercing the west Scottish coast. It is a beautiful run; trees overarch the road and partly conceal the gleaming lake, though at intervals we come upon the shore with an unobstructed view of the rugged hills of the opposite side. Near the head of the lake is Inverary, the pleasant little capital of Argyleshire and as cleanly and well-ordered a village as one will find in Scotland. The Argyle Arms, seemingly much out of proportion to the village, proves a delightful place for our belated luncheon. No doubt the inn is necessary to accommodate the retinues of the distinguished visitors at Inverary Castle, which frequently include members of the royal family, with which the present duke is connected by marriage. The modern castle stands on an eminence overlooking town and loch and a smooth lawn studded with splendid trees slopes to the road. The design is Gothic in style, four-square, with pointed round towers at each corner, and the interior is well in keeping with the magnificence of the outside. The road we follow in leaving Inverary closely hugs the shores of Loch Fyne for some miles and but a short way out of the town passes beneath the ruin of Dunderawe Castle. Rounding the head of the loch, always keeping near the shore, we strike eastward through the range of giant hills that lie between Loch Fyne and Loch Lomond. It is a barren stretch of country; the road is rough and stone-strewn, with many trying grades--dangerous in places; long strenuous climbs heat the motor and interminable winding descents burn the brakes. There is little to relieve the monotony of the wild moorlands save a mountain stream dashing far below the road or a tiny lake set in a hollow of the hills, but never a village or seldom an isolated cottage for miles. Near the summit is a rude seat with the inscription, "Rest and be thankful," erected long ago for the benefit of travelers who crossed the hills on foot. The poet Wordsworth made this journey and described it in one of his sonnets as "Doubling and doubling with laborious walk," ending in a grateful allusion to the resting place. We are glad to see the waters of Loch Lomond, glinting with the gold of the sunset, flash through the trees, for we know that the lake-shore road is good and one of the most beautiful in Scotland. Miles and miles it follows the edge of the island-dotted loch, which broadens rapidly as we course southward. The waters darken to a steel-blue mirror, but the hills beyond are still touched with the last rays of the sun--a glorious scene, not without the element of romance which adds to the pleasure one so often experiences when contemplating Old Scotia's landscapes. It is only by grace of the long twilight that we are able to reach Glasgow by lamp-lighting time. Measured in miles, the day's run was not extraordinary, but much of the road was pretty strenuous and tire trouble has been above normal, so that the comfortable hotel of the metropolis does not come amiss. After a perfunctory round in Glasgow, our thoughts turn toward Ayr; even though we have already made two pilgrimages to Burnsland, the spell is unbroken and still would be though our two visits were two score. We will not follow the Kilmarnock route again, but for the sake of variety will go by Barrhead and Irvine on the sea. It proves a singularly uninteresting road; Barrhead is mean and squalid, the small villages are unattractive, and Irvine is a bleak, coal-shipping town. Irvine would be wholly commonplace had not the poet James Montgomery honored it by making it his birthplace and had not Bobby Burns struggled nearly a year within its confines to earn a livelihood as a flax-dresser. The ill luck that befell nearly all the poet's business ventures pursued him here, for his shop burned to the ground and Irvine lost her now distinguished citizen--though she little knew it then, for Burns was only twenty-two. Perhaps it was a fortunate fire, after all, for had he prospered he might have become more of a business man than poet, and the world be infinitely poorer by the exchange. A colossal statue recently erected commemorates his connection with Irvine and again reminds one how Burns overshadows everything else in the Ayr country. The Station Hotel affords such a convenient and satisfactory stopping-place that we cut short our day's run after completing the forty miles from Glasgow. There is really not much in the town itself to detain the tourist; we wander down the main street and cross the "Twa Brigs;" from the beach we admire the broad bay and the bold rocky "Heads of Ayr" to the south. In the distance are the dim outlines of the Emerald Isle, seen only on the clearest days, and nearer at hand the Isles of Bute and Arran. The town is quite modern; there is considerable manufacturing and ship-building and many of the landmarks of the time of Burns have been obliterated. Fortunate indeed is it that the shrines at Alloway have not shared the same fate--a third visit to these simple memorials may seem superfluous, but we must confess to a longing to see them all again. The birthplace, Kirk Alloway, the monument, the Brig o' Doon and the museum, with its priceless relics of the poet--all have a perennial interest for the admirer of Burns and Scotland. The bare simple room where the poet was born has a wealth of sentiment that attaches to few such places, and I cannot forbear quoting Mr. George Eyre-Todd's little flight of fancy inspired by this same primitive apartment: "One can try," he writes, "to imagine the scene here on the afternoon of that wild winter day when 'a blast o' Januar' win'' was to blow 'Hansel in on Robin.' There would be the goodwife's spinning-wheel set back for the nonce in a dark corner; the leglins, or milking-stools--on which the bright-eyed boy was to sit a few years later--pushed under the deal table; the wooden platters and bowls from which the household ate, arranged in the wall rack, and the few delf dishes appearing in the half-open aumrie or cupboard; while from the rafters overhead hung hanks of yarn of the goodwife's spinning, a braxie ham, perhaps, and the leathern parts of the horses' harness. Then, for the actors in the humble scene, there was a shadowy figure and a faint voice in the deep-set corner bed; the inevitable 'neighbour-woman' setting matters to rights about the wide fireplace in the open chimney; and William Burness himself, whip in hand, hurriedly getting into his heavy riding-coat to face the blast outside. "A glance at the face of the great eight-day clock, a whispered word and a moment's pause as he bends within the shadow of the bed, while the neighbour turns industriously to the fire, and then, with a pale face and some wildness in the eyes, the husband makes off, over the uneven floor of flags, and the door closes after him. In a minute or two the tramp of the hoofs of his galloping mare dies away in the distance, and the women are left, waiting. "Behind him as he turned from his door on that wild day, the farmer would hear the Doon thundering down its glen, and the storm roaring through the woods about the ruin of Alloway Kirk, which his son's wild fancy was afterwards to make the scene of such unearthly revels. The old road to Ayr was narrower and more irregular, between its high hedges, than the present one; and every step of the way had some countryside memory belonging to it. Behind, by its well, where the road rose from the steep river-bank among the trees, stood the thorn 'where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'.' In the park of Cambusdoon an ash tree still marks the cairn 'where hunters fand the murdered bairn.' Farther on, in a cottage garden close by the road, is still to be seen that 'meikle stane, where drucken Chairlie brak's neck bane.' And on the far side of the Rozelle wood, a hundred yards to the left of the present road, was 'the ford where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd.' "As William Burness reached the stream here a singular incident befell him. On the farther side, when he had crossed, he found an old woman sitting. The crone asked him to turn back and carry her over the river, which was much swollen by the rains. This, though he was in anxious haste, he paused and did, and then, dashing a third time through the torrent, sped off on his errand to Ayr. An hour later, on returning to his cottage with the desired attendant, he found to his surprise the gipsy crone seated by his own fireside. She remained in the house till the child was born, and then, it is said, taking the infant in her arms, uttered the prophecy which Burns has turned in his well-known lines: 'He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma', But aye a heart abune them a', He'll be a credit till us a'; We'll a' be proud o' Robin.' "Shortly afterwards, as if to begin the fulfillment of the carline's prophecy, the storm, rising higher and higher, at length blew down a gable of the dwelling. No one was hurt, however, and the broken gable of a clay 'bigging' was not a thing beyond repair. "Such were the circumstances and such was the scene of the birth of the great peasant-poet. Much change, no doubt, has taken place in the appearance both of the cottage and of the countryside since the twenty-fifth of January in the year 1759; but after all it is the same countryside, and the cottage is on the identical spot. Within these walls one pictures the poet in his childish years: "There, lonely by the ingle-cheek He sat, and eyed the spueing reek That filled wi' hoast-provoking smeek The auld clay biggin', And heard the restless rattons squeak Aboot the riggin'." And in this rude apartment the immortal scene of "The Cotter's Saturday Night" was enacted--and here it occurred to us to ask Mr. Dobson to give us his conception of the family group at worship--how well he has succeeded the accompanying picture shows. We will be pardoned, I am sure, the repetition of the oft-quoted lines in connection with the artist's graphic representation of a scene already familiar the world over. "The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care, And, 'Let us worship God!' he says, with solemn air." In this same ingle nook it may be that Burns spent an occasional evening with Highland Mary--for Mary Campbell was for a short time employed as governess in the vicinity, and it is not unlikely that she was a frequent guest at the Burns cottage--a probability that has supplied Mr. Dobson with another of his happiest themes. Associations such as these are more than the scant array of facts given in the guide-books concerning the old cottage, and they give to the bare walls and rude furnishings an atmosphere of romance that no familiarity can dispel. From Alloway our road quickly takes us to the seashore, which we are to follow for many miles. It is a glorious day, fresh and invigorating, the sky tranquil and clear, and the sea mottled with dun and purple mists which are rapidly breaking away and revealing a wide expanse of gently undulating water, beyond which, in the far distance, the stern outlines of Arran and Kintyre gradually emerge. [Illustration: "THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT" From original painting by H. J. Dobson, R. S. W.] It is a delightful run along the coast, which is rich in associations and storied ruins. Athwart our first glimpse of the ocean stands the dilapidated bulk of Dunure Castle, an ancient stronghold of the Kennedys, who have stood at the head of the Ayrshire aristocracy since 1466. Indeed, an old-time rhymester declared: "'Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr, Port-Patrick and the Cruives of Cree, No man may think for to bide there, Unless he court Saint Kennedie." But to-day the traditions of the blue-blooded aristocrats of Ayrshire are superseded by the fame of the peasant-poet and the simple cottage at Alloway outranks all the castles of the Kennedys. We are again reminded of Burns at Kirkoswald, a tiny village a few miles farther on the road; here he spent his seventeenth summer and in the churchyard are the graves of the originals of Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johnnie. We pass in sight of Culzean Castle, a turreted and battlemented pile, standing on the verge of a mighty basaltic cliff beneath which the sea chafes incessantly. It is the seat of the Marquis of Ailsa--one of the Kennedys--built about a century ago, and the curious may visit it on Wednesdays. What Culzean lacks in antiquity is fully supplied by ruinous Turnberry, a scant five miles southward, associated as it is with the name of King Robert Bruce, who may possibly have been born within its walls. Here it was that Bruce, in response to what he thought a prearranged signal fire, made his crossing with a few followers from Arran to attempt the deliverance of his country. The tradition is that the fire was of supernatural origin and that it may still be seen from the shores of Arran on the anniversary of the eventful night. This incident is introduced by Scott into "The Lord of the Isles:" "Now ask you whence that wondrous light, Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight?-- It ne'er was known--yet gray-hair'd eld A superstitious credence held, That never did a mortal hand Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand; Nay, and that on the self-same night When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleamed the light. Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor, And glittering wave and crimson'd shore-- But whether beam celestial, lent By Heaven to aid the King's descent, Or fire hell-kindled from beneath, To lure him to defeat and death, Or were but some meteor strange, Of such as oft through midnight range, Startling the traveller late and lone, I know not--and it ne'er was known." Turnberry is very ruinous now and must have been rude and comfortless at its best--another reminder that the peasants of to-day are better housed and have more comforts and conveniences than kings and nobles enjoyed in the romantic times we are wont to dream about. Girvan is the first town of any size which we encounter on leaving Ayr, a quiet trading-place close on the shore. Just opposite is Ailsa Craig, a peculiar rocky island twelve miles away, though it looks much nearer. It seems very like Bass Rock, near Tantallon Castle on the east coast, though really it is higher and vaster, for it rises more than a thousand feet above the sea. It is the home of innumerable sea-birds which wheel in whimpering, screaming myriads about it. A solitary ruin indicates that it was once a human abode, though no authentic record remains concerning it. Southward from Girvan we traverse one of the most picturesque roads in all Scotland. It winds along the sea, which chafes upon huge boulders that at some remote period have tumbled from the stupendous overhanging cliffs. Among the scattered rocks are patches of shell-strewn sand on which the surf falls in silvery cascades as the tide comes rolling landward. Even on this almost windless day the scene is an impressive one and we can only imagine the stern grandeur of a storm hurling the waves against the mighty rocks which dot the coast-line everywhere. Soon the road begins to ascend and rises in sweeping curves to Bennane Head, a bold promontory commanding a wide prospect of the wild shore and sea, with the coast of Ireland some forty miles away--half hidden in the purple haze of distance. It is an inspiring view and one which we contemplate at our leisure--thanks to the motor car, which takes us to such points of vantage and patiently awaits our pleasure--different indeed from the transitory flash from the window of a railway car! A long downward glide takes us into the village of Ballantrae, whose rock-bound harbor is full of fishing-boats. Here the road turns inland some miles and passes through a rich agricultural section. In places apparently the whole population--men, women and children--are employed in digging potatoes, of which there is an enormous yield. Hay harvest is also in progress, often by primitive methods, though in the larger fields modern machinery is used. [Illustration: THE FALLEN GIANT--A HIGHLAND STUDY From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.] The road brings us again to the coast and a half dozen miles along the shore of Loch Ryan lands us in the streets of Stranraer. It is a modern-looking town and we stop at the King's Arms for luncheon, which proves very satisfactory. There is a daily service of well-appointed steamers from Stranraer to Larne, a distance of some thirty miles, and much the shortest route to Ireland. The peninsula on which Stranraer and Port Patrick are situated is reputed to have the mildest and most salubrious climate in Scotland and the latter place is gaining fame as a resort. There are many great country estates in the vicinity, notably Lochinch, the estate of the Earl of Stair. Near this is Castle Kennedy, which was burned in 1715, but the ruin is still of vast extent, with famous pleasure grounds surrounding it. The motorist may well employ a day in this locality and will be comfortable enough at Stranraer. There is no nobler highway in Scotland than the broad, level and finely engineered road from Stranraer through Castle Douglas to Dumfries. It passes through as beautiful and prosperous a country as we have seen anywhere--and we have seen much of Scotland, too. At Glenluce we make a short detour--though it proves hardly worth while--to see the mere fragment of the old abbey which the neighboring vicar is using as a chicken-roost. It is utterly neglected and we are free to climb over the mouldering walls, but there is no one to pilot us about and tell us the story of the abbey in its prosperous days. And it did have prosperous days, for it was once of great extent and its gardens and orchards were reputed one of the sights of Scotland. Here James IV. and his queen came on one of their journeys some four centuries ago and the record of his donation of four shillings to the gardener still stands--a pretty slim royal tip, it seems to us now. Newton-Stewart is beautifully situated on the River Cree, whose banks we follow to Wigtown Bay, along which the broad white road sweeps in graceful curves. Many country houses crown the green, undulating hills and we catch occasional glimpses of them through the trees--for the parks are all well wooded. The excellent road through Gatehouse and Castle Douglas we cover so rapidly that the sun is still high when we reach Maxwelton. Dumfries, just across the River Nith, is our objective and it occurs to us that there is still time to correct a mistake we made on a previous tour--our failure to see Sweetheart Abbey. It is near the village of New Abbey some ten miles down the river, but on arriving we learn that the abbey is not shown after six o'clock. A visit to the custodian's home, however, secures the key and we have sole possession of the ruin during the quiet twilight hour. [Illustration: GLENLUCE ABBEY] There are many abbey ruins in Scotland--and we have seen the most famous--but it may be the hour of our visit, quite as much as the strange story of Sweetheart, that leaves it with the rosiest memory of them all. In its one-time importance as well as in the beauty of its scattered remnants, it is quite the peer of any of its rivals, but none of these have such an atmosphere of romantic history. For Sweetheart stands forever as a monument of love and constancy, as intimated in its very name. John Baliol of Barnard Castle, Yorkshire, died in 1269, leaving his widow, Countess Devorgilla, to mourn his loss. And truly she did mourn it. There are many monuments to her sorrow--Baliol College, Oxford, Dundrennan Abbey and New Abbey--or Sweetheart, as it is now known. Both of the latter are in Galloway, for Devorgilla was the daughter of the Lord of Galloway and a native of the province. Upon the death of her only sister she became sole heiress to the vast estates of her father and when she became Baliol's widow she was easily the richest subject in all Britain. She survived her husband for twenty-one years, during which time she was engaged principally in benevolent work, visiting many parts of the country. Her husband's heart, embalmed and encased in a silver casket, she constantly carried with her and at her death in 1289 it was entombed upon her breast. She was buried in New Abbey, which she built as a memorial to Baliol and a resting place for her own body. When the abbey was dismantled her tomb was despoiled--but her epitaph still exists in one of the old chronicles: "In Devorgil a sybil sage doth dye as Mary contemplative, as Martha pious. To her, O deign, high King, rest to impart Whom this stone covers, with her husband's heart." Such is the story of the beautiful old abbey, whose roofless and windowless walls rise before us, the harsh outlines hidden by the drooping ivy and softened by the fading light. It is more ruinous and fragmentary than Melrose or Jedburgh, but enough remains to show its pristine artistic beauty and vast extent. The sculptures and other delicate architectural touches were doubtless due to workmen sent by the Vatican, since the Scotch had hardly attained such a degree of skill in 1270. It is wrought in red sandstone, which lent itself peculiarly well to the art of the carver and which, considering its fragile nature, has wonderfully withstood the ravages of time and weather. An extensive restoration is in progress which will arrest further decay and insure that the fine old ruin will continue to delight the visitor for years to come. [Illustration: SWEETHEART ABBEY] There is no one to point out refectory and chapel and other haunts of the ancient monks--but it is just as well. We know Sweetheart's story and that is enough, in the silence and solemnity of the gathering twilight, to make the hour we linger an enchanting one. And yet the feeling of sadness predominates, as we move softly about over the thick carpet of green sward--sadness that this splendid memorial to a life of sacrifice and good works should have fallen into such decay that the very grave of the benevolent foundress should be effaced! The spell is broken when one of our party reminds us that it is growing late; that we may miss the dinner hour at our hotel, and we regretfully bid farewell to Sweetheart Abbey. We are glad that the royal burgh of Dumfries is at the end of the day's journey--an unusually long one for us--for we know that its Station Inn is one of the most comfortable in Scotland. XIV ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND Who could ever weary of English Lakeland? Who, though he had made a score of pilgrimages thither, could not find new beauties in this enchanted region? And so in our southward run we make a detour from Carlisle to Keswick by the way of Wigton, a new road to us, through a green and pleasant country. We soon find ourselves among the hills and vales of the ill-defined region which common consent designates as the Lake District. Rounding the slopes of Skiddaw--for we have a rather indirect route--we come upon a vantage point which affords a glorious view of Bassenthwaite Water, glittering like a great gem in its setting of forest trees. We have seen the District many times, but never under better conditions than on this clear, shimmering July day. The green wooded vales lying between the bold, barren hills, with here a church-tower or country mansion and there a glint of tarn or river, all combine to make an entrancing scene which stretches clear and distinct to the silvery horizon. We pause a short space to admire it, then glide gently down the slope and along the meandering Derwent into Keswick town. It is the height of the summer season here and the place shows unmistakable marks of the tourist-thronged resort; the Hotel Keswick, where we stop for luncheon, is filled to overflowing. It is the most beautifully located of the many hotels in the town, standing in its own well-cared-for grounds, which are bedecked with flower-beds and shrubbery. The Keswick is evidently a favorite with motorists, for we found many cars besides our own drawn up in front. It is a pleasant, well-conducted inn--everything strictly first-class from the English point of view--with all of which the wayfarer is required to pay prices to correspond. Keswick is anything but the retired village of the time of the poet Southey, whose home, Greta Hall, may be seen on an eminence overlooking the town. As the gateway by which a large proportion of tourists enter the Lake District, and as a resort where a considerable number of visitors--mostly English--come to spend their vacations, it is a lively place for some weeks in midsummer. There is not much of consequence in the town itself or in the immediate vicinity. It is the starting-point, however, for an endless number of excursions, mostly by coach, for the railroad does not enter many parts of the District frequented by tourists. Even wagon-roads are not numerous and the enthusiast who wishes to thoroughly explore the nooks and corners must do much journeying on foot. We have little reason for choosing the coast road in our southern journey through Cumberland, except the very good one that we have never traversed it, while we are familiar with the splendid highway which follows the lakes to Lakeside and over which runs the great course of tourist travel. The roads are not comparable in interest, so greatly does the lake route excel, both in scenic beauty and in literary and historic associations. Still, the dozen miles from Keswick to Cockermouth is a beautiful run, passing around the head of Derwentwater and following for its entire length--some four miles--the western shore of Bassenthwaite Water. The road winds through almost unbroken woodland and we catch only fugitive glimpses of the shimmering water between the thickly crowded trunks that flit between us and the lake. At intervals, however, we swing toward the shore and come into full view of the gleaming surface, beyond which stretches an array of wooded parks, surrounding an occasional country seat. Still beyond rise the stern outlines of Skiddaw, one of the ruggedest and loftiest of the lake country hills--though as a matter of fact, its crest is but three thousand feet above the sea. It is a delightfully quiet road; we meet no other wayfarers and aside from the subdued purr of the motor, there is no sound save the wash of the wavelets over the rocks or the rustle of the summer breeze through the trees. The north end of Bassenthwaite marks the limit of Lakeland for all except the casual tourist, and here a snug little wayside inn, the Pheasant, affords a retreat for solitude-loving disciples of Ike Walton. Cockermouth has little claim to distinction other than the fact that the poet Wordsworth was born here a little more than a century and a half ago. A native of whom we inquire points out the large square gray-stone house, now the residence of a local physician. The swift Derwent flows a few rods to the rear and the flower-garden runs down to the river's edge. The house stands near the highway and is no exception to the harsh, angular lines that characterize the village. It is in no sense a public show-place and we have no intention of disturbing the Sunday-afternoon quiet of the present occupants in an endeavor to see the interior. Wordsworth's connection with the house ceased at the death of his father, when the poet was but a child of fourteen. His young mother--a victim of consumption--had laid down life's burdens some six years earlier, and the orphan children were taken to the home of a relative at Kendal. Perhaps we are the more satisfied to pass the old house with a cursory glance because, if I must confess it, I was never able to arouse in myself any great enthusiasm over the poet Wordsworth or to read his writings except in a desultory way. He never had for me the human interest of Byron, Burns, Tennyson or many other great lights of English literature I might name. We were quite willing to assume the role of intruder at Somersby; we made more than one unsuccessful effort before we saw Newstead, and three pilgrimages to Alloway have not quenched our desire to see it again--but we are conscious of little anxiety to enter the doors of the big square house at Cockermouth. Perhaps we are not alone in such feeling, for pilgrims to the town are few and a well-known English author who has written a delightful volume on the Lake District admits that he paid his first visit to Cockermouth "without once remembering that it was Wordsworth's birthplace!" His objective was the castle, a fine mediaeval pile which overlooks the vale of the Derwent. It is in fair preservation, having been inhabited until quite recently. Like so many Northland fortresses, it has its legend of Mary Stuart, who came here after landing at Workington, a seaport a few miles distant. She had been led by the emissaries of Elizabeth to believe that an appeal to her "sister's" mercy would assure her a safe refuge in England, but she never drew a free breath in all the years she was to live after this act of sadly misplaced confidence. [Illustration: WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE--COCKERMOUTH, LAKE DISTRICT] "No one," says the writer just referred to, "would wish to go beyond Cockermouth," and though we prove one exception to this rule, it is a fairly safe one for the average tourist, since rougher, steeper and less interesting roads are scarce in England. A fairly good highway runs to Whitehaven, a manufacturing port on the Irish Sea where, according to an English historian, "John Paul Jones, the notorious buccaneer, served his apprenticeship, and he successfully raided the place in 1778, burning three vessels." Not many Americans have visited Whitehaven since, for it is in no sense a tourist town. We pursue its main street southward until it degenerates into a tortuous, hilly lane leading through the bleak Cumberland hills. It roughly follows the coast, though there are only occasional glimpses of the sea which to-day, half shrouded in a silvery haze, shimmers in the subdued sunlight. The road, with its sharp turns and steep grades, is as trying as any we have traversed in England; at times it runs between tall hedges on earthen ridges--an almost tunnellike effect, reminding us of Devon and Cornwall, to which the rough country is not dissimilar. Fortunately, we meet no vehicles--we see only one motor after leaving Whitehaven--but in the vicinity of the villages we keep a close look-out for the Sunday pedestrians who throng the road. Our siren keeps up a pretty steady scream and the natives stare in a manner indicating that a motor is an infrequent spectacle. We pass through several lone, cheerless-looking towns, devoid of any touch of color and wholly lacking the artistic coziness of the Midland villages. Egremont, Bootle, Ravenglass and Broughton are of this type and seemingly as ancient as the hills they nestle among. The ruin of a Norman castle towers above Egremont; shattered, bare and grim, it stands boldly against the evening sky. Yet it is not without its romance, a theme which inspired Wordsworth's "Horn of Egremont Castle." For tradition has it that in days of old there hung above the gate a bugle which would respond to the lips of none but the rightful lord. While the owner and his younger brother were on a crusade in the Holy Land, the latter plotted the death of the Lord of the Castle, bribing a band of villains to drown him in the Jordan. The rascals claim to have done their work and Eustace, with some misgivings, hastens home and assumes the vacant title, though he discreetly avoids any attempt to wind the famous horn. Some time afterwards, while engaged in riotously celebrating his accession, a blast of the dreaded horn tells him that his brother Hubert is not dead, and has come to claim his own. The usurper flees by the "postern gate," but years afterward he returns to be forgiven by Sir Hubert and to expiate his crime by entering a monastery. Wordsworth tells the story in a halting, mediocre way that shows how little his genius was adapted to such a theme. What a pity that the story of Egremont was not told by the Wizard with the dash of "Lochinvar" or the "Wild Huntsman." [Illustration: CALDER ABBEY, CUMBERLAND] There is a fine abbey ruin in the vale of the Calder about a mile from the main road. Calder Abbey was founded in the twelfth century and was second only to Furness in importance in Northwestern England. The beautiful pointed arches supporting the central tower are almost intact and the cloisters and walls of the south transept still stand. Over them all the ivy runs riot, and above them sway the branches of the giant beeches that crowd about the ruin. It is a delightfully secluded nook and in the quiet of a summer evening one could hardly imagine a spot more in harmony with the spirit of monastic peace and retirement. Such is the atmosphere of romance that one does not care to ask the cold facts of the career of Calder Abbey, and, indeed, there is none to answer even if we should ask its story. You would never imagine that Ravenglass, with its single street bordered by unpretentious slate-roofed, whitewashed houses and its harbor, little more than a shifting sand-bar, has a history running back to the Roman occupation, and that it once ranked in importance with Chester and Carlisle. Archaeologists tell us that in Roman times acres of buildings clustered on the then ample harbor, where a good-sized fleet of galleys constantly rode at anchor. Here came the ships of the civilized world to the greatest port of the North Country, bringing olives, anchovies, wines and other luxuries that the Romans had introduced into Britain, and in returning they carried away numbers of the hapless natives to be sold as slaves or impressed into the armies. The harbor has evidently filled with silt to a great extent since that day, scarcely any spot being covered by water at low tide except the channel of the Esk. Many relics have been discovered at Ravenglass, and the older houses of the town are built largely from the ruins of the Roman city. Most remarkable of all are the remains of a villa in an excellent state of preservation, which a good authority pronounces practically the only Roman building in the Kingdom standing above ground save the fragments that have been revealed by excavation. Ravenglass has another unique distinction in the great breeding ground of gulls and terns which almost adjoins the place. Here in early summer myriads of these birds repair to hatch their young, and the spectacle is said to be well worth seeing--and, in fact, does attract many visitors. The breeding season, however, was past at the time of our visit. An English writer, Canon Rawnsley of Carlisle, gives a graphic account of a trip to the queer colony of sea-birds during their nesting time: "Suddenly the silence of the waste was broken by a marvellous sound, and a huge cloud of palpitating wings, that changed from black to white and hovered and trembled against the gray sea or the blue inland hills, swept by overhead. The black-headed gulls had heard of our approach and mightily disapproved of our tresspass upon their sand-blown solitude. "We sat down and the clamour died; the gulls had settled. Creeping warily to the crest of a great billow of sand, we peeped beyond. Below us lay a natural amphitheatre of grey-green grass that looked as if it were starred with white flowers innumerable. We showed our heads and the flowers all took wing, and the air was filled again with sound and intricate maze of innumerable wings. "We approached, and walking with care found the ground cup-marked with little baskets or basket-bottoms roughly woven of tussock grass or sea-bent. Each casket contained from two to three magnificent jewels. These were the eggs we had come so far to see. There they lay--deep brown blotched with purple, light bronze marked with brown, pale green dashed with umber, white shading into blue. All colours and all sizes; some as small as a pigeon's, others as large as a bantam's. Three seemed to be the general complement. In one nest I found four. The nests were so close to one another that I counted twenty-six within a radius of ten yards; and what struck one most was the way in which, instead of seeking shelter, the birds had evidently planned to nest on every bit of rising ground from which swift outlook over the gull-nursery could be obtained. "Who shall describe the uproar and anger with which one was greeted as one stood in the midst of the nests? The black-headed gull swept at one with open beak, and one found oneself involuntarily shading one's face and protecting one's eyes as the savage little sooty-brown heads swooped round one's head. But we were not the only foes they had had to battle with. The carrion crow had evidently been an intruder and a thief; and many an egg which was beginning to be hard set on, had been prey to the black robber's beak. One was being robbed as I stood there in the midst of the hubbub. "Back to the boat we went with a feeling that we owed large apologies to the whole sea-gull race for giving this colony such alarm, and causing such apparent disquietude of heart, and large thanks to the Lord of Muncaster for his ceaseless care of the wild sea-people whom each year he entertains upon his golden dunes." It is growing late as we leave Ravenglass and we wonder where we shall pass the night. There is no road across the rough country to our right and clearly we must follow the coast for many miles until we round the southern point of the hills. Then the wide sand marshes of the Duddon will force us to turn northward several miles until we come to a crossing which will enable us to continue our southward course. Here again a memory of Wordsworth is awakened, for did he not celebrate this valley in his series of "Sonnets to the Duddon?" There is no stopping-place at Bootle or Millom or Broughton, unless it be road-houses of doubtful character and we hasten over the rough narrow roads as swiftly as steep grades and numerous pedestrians will permit. The road for some miles on either side of Broughton is little more than a stony lane which pitches up and down some frightful hills. It is truly strenuous motoring and our run has already been longer than is our wont. The thought of a comfortable inn appeals strongly indeed--we study the map a moment to find to our certain knowledge that nothing of such description is nearer than Furness Abbey, still a good many miles to the south. But the recollection of the splendid ruin is, for the time being, quite overshadowed by our memory of the excellent hotel, which I must confess exerts much the greater attraction. The country beyond Broughton has little of interest, but the road gradually improves until it becomes a broad, well-surfaced highway which enables us to make up for lost time. Shortly after sunset we enter the well-kept park surrounding the abbey and hotel. We have come many miles "out of our way," to be sure, for we are already decided on a northward turn for a last glimpse of Lakeland tomorrow--but, after all, we are not seeking shortest routes. Indeed, from our point of view, we can scarcely go "out of the way" in rural Britain; some of our rarest discoveries have been made unexpectedly when deviating from main-traveled routes. [Illustration: KENDAL CASTLE, "A STERN CASTLE, MOULDERING ON THE BROW OF A GREEN HILL"] On the following day we pursue familiar roads. Passing through Dalton and Ulverston, we ascend the vale of the Leven to Newby Bridge at the southern extremity of Windermere. We cannot resist the temptation to take the Lakeside road to Windermere town, though it carries us several miles farther north. It is surely one of the loveliest of English roads, and we now traverse it the third time--once in the sunlight of a perfect afternoon, once it was gray and showery, and to-day the shadows of the great hills darken the mirrorlike surface, for it is yet early morning. The water is of almost inky blackness, but on the far side it sparkles in the sunlight and the snowy sails of several small craft lend a pleasing relief to its somber hues. The road winds among the trees that skirt the shore and in places we glide beneath the overarching boughs. At times the lake glimmers through the closely standing trunks, and again we come into the open where our vision has full sweep over the gleaming expanse of dark water. We follow the Lakeside road for six miles until we reach the outskirts of the village of Bowness; here a turn to the right leads up a sharp hill and we are soon on the moorland road to Kendal. It shows on our map as a "second-class" road and, indeed, this description was deserved two years before. It is a pleasant surprise to find it smoothly re-surfaced--an excellent highway now, though in its windings across the fells it carries us over some steep grades. On either hand lies a barren and hilly country, which does not improve until we enter the green valley in which the town is situated. It is a charming place, depending now for its prosperity on the stretch of fertile country which surrounds it. Once it had numerous factories, but changing conditions have eradicated most of them excepting the woolen mills, which still operate on a considerable scale. The ancient castle--now a scanty ruin--looms high over the town: "a stern castle, mouldering on the brow of a green hill," as Wordsworth, who lived many years in the vicinity, describes it. It might furnish material for many a romance; here was born Catherine Parr, the queen who was fortunate enough to survive that royal Bluebeard, Henry VIII. It escaped the usual epitaph, "Destroyed by Cromwell," since it had long been in ruin at the time of the Commonwealth. But Cromwell, or his followers, must have been in evidence in Kendal, for in the church is the helmet of Major Robert Philipson--Robin the Devil--who gained fame by riding his horse into this selfsame church during services in search of a Cromwellian officer upon whom he sought to do summary vengeance. The exploits of this bellicose major furnish a groundwork for Scott's "Rokeby." The church is justly the pride of Kendal, being one of the largest in England and of quite unique architecture. It has no fewer than five aisles running parallel with each other and the great breadth of the building, together with its low square tower, gives it a squat appearance, though this is redeemed to some extent by its unique design. A good part of the building is more than seven hundred years old, though considerable additions were made in the fifteenth century. In the tower is a chime of bells celebrated throughout the North Country for their melody, which is greatly enhanced by the echoes from the surrounding hills. [Illustration: KENDAL PARISH CHURCH] Kendal serves as the southernmost gateway of the Lake District, the railway passing through the town to Windermere, and there is also a regular coaching service to the same place. When we resume our journey over the highway to the south we are well out of the confines of English Lakeland and I may as well close this chapter on the lesser known corners of this famous region. XV WE DISCOVER DENBIGH Night finds us in Chester, now so familiar as to become almost commonplace, and we stop at the Grosvenor, for we know it too well to take chances elsewhere. There has been little of consequence on the highway we followed from Kendal, which we left in the early forenoon, if we except the fine old city of Lancaster, where we stopped for lunch. And even Lancaster is so dominated by modern manufactories that it is hard to realize that its history runs back to Roman times. It has but few landmarks left; the castle, with the exception of the keep tower, is modern and used as a county jail--or gaol, as the English have it. St. Mary's Church, a magnificent fifteenth-century structure, crowns the summit of the hill overlooking the city and from which a wide scope of country on one hand and the Irish Sea and Isle of Man on the other may be seen on clear days. Preston, Wigan and Warrington are manufacturing towns stretching along the road at intervals of fifteen or twenty miles and ranging in population around one hundred thousand each. Their outskirts merge into villages and for many miles it was almost as if we traveled through a continuous city. The houses crowd closely on the street, which was often thronged with children, making slow and careful driving imperative. The pavements in the larger towns are excellent and the streets of the villages free from filth--a marked contrast to what we saw on the Continent. Shortly after leaving Warrington we crossed the Manchester Ship Canal, by which ocean-going vessels are able to reach that city. From thence to Chester our run was through a pretty rural section, over an excellent road. Chester is crowded even more than usual. An historical pageant is to take place during the week and many sightseers are already on the ground. Only our previous acquaintance enables us to secure rooms at the Grosvenor, since would-be guests are hourly being turned away. Under such conditions we do not care to linger and after a saunter along the "rows" in the morning we are ready for the road. We have not decided on our route--perhaps we may as well return to London and prepare for the trip to Land's End which we have in mind. A glance at the map shows Conway within easy distance. Few places have exerted so great a fascination for us as the little Welsh town--yes, we will sojourn a day or two in Conway and we may as well go by a route new to us. We will take the road through Mold and Denbigh, though it never occurs to us that either of them deserves more than a passing glance. The first glimpse of Denbigh arouses our curiosity. A vast ivy-mantled ruin surmounts a steep hill rising abruptly from the vale of the Clwyd, while the gray monotone of the slate roofs and stone walls of the old town covers the slopes. The noble bulk and tall spire of the church occupies the foreground and, indeed, as Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote in 1774, "Denbigh is not a mean town," if one may judge by its aspect from a little distance. The first view awakens a lively desire for closer acquaintance and soon we are ascending the long steep street that leads to the castle--for the castle is naturally the first objective of the newcomer in Denbigh. The hill rises five hundred feet above the level of the plain and the ascent, despite its many windings, is steep enough to change the merry hum of our motor to a low determined growl ere we pause before the grim old gateway in the fragment of the keep tower. We are fortunate in finding an intelligent custodian in charge, who hastens to inform us that he himself is an American citizen, having been naturalized during a sojourn in the States. We have reason to be proud of our fellow-countryman, for we have found few of his brethren who could rival him in thorough knowledge of their charges or who were able to tell their stories more entertainingly. There is little left of Denbigh Castle save the remnant of the keep and the outlines of the foundation walls, but these are quite enough to indicate its old-time defensive strength. Of all the scores of British castles we have seen, scarcely another, it seems to us, could have equalled the grim strength of Denbigh in its palmy days. The keep consisted of seven great towers, six of them surrounding a central one, known as the Hall of Judgment. And, indeed, dreadful judgments must have emanated from this gloomy apartment--gloomy in its best days, being almost windowless--for beneath the keep the dungeon is still intact to tell plainer than words the fate of the captives of Denbigh Castle. "Man's inhumanity to man" was near its climax in the mind of the designer who planned this tomblike vault, hewn in the solid rock, shut in by a single iron-bound trap-door and without communication with the outer air save a small passageway some two inches square and several feet in length which opened in the outside wall. Only by standing closely at the tiny aperture was it possible for the inmates to breathe freely, and when there were more than one in the dungeon the unfortunate prisoners took turns at the breathing-hole, as it was styled. The castle was originally of vast extent, its outer wall, which once enclosed the village as well, exceeding one and one-half miles in length; and there was a network of underground passageways and apartments. The complete ruin of the structure is due to havoc wrought with gunpowder after the Restoration. Huge fragments of masonry still lie as they fell; others, crumbled to dust, afford footing for shrubs and even small trees, while yellow and purple wall-flowers and tangled masses of ivy run riot everywhere. The great entrance gateway is intact and, strange to say, a statue of Henry de Lacy, the founder, stands in a niche above the doors, having survived the vicissitudes which laid low the mighty walls and stately towers. This gate was flanked by two immense watchtowers, but only a small part of the western one remains. The remnants, as an English writer has said, "are vast and awful; seldom are such walls seen; the huge fragments that remain of the exterior shell impress the mind vividly with their stupendous strength." Several underground passages have been discovered and one of these led beneath the walls into the town, evidently intended as an avenue of escape for the garrison in last extremity. A number of human skeletons were also unearthed, but as the castle underwent many sieges, these were possibly the remains of defenders who died within the walls. [Illustration: DENBIGH CASTLE--THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP] As we wander about the ruins, our guide has something to tell us of every nook. We hear the sad story of the deep well, now dry, beneath the Goblin Tower, into which the only son of the founder fell to his death, a tragedy that transferred the succession of the lordship to another line; and from the broken battlements there is much to be seen in the green valley below. Yonder was a British camp of prehistoric days, indicated by the earthen mounds still remaining; near by a Roman camp of more recent time, though it was little less than two thousand years ago that the legions of the seven-hilled city marched on yonder plain. Through the notch in the distant hills came the Cromwellians to lay siege to Denbigh Castle, the last fortress in the Kingdom to hold out for King Charles. There was no end of fierce fighting, sallies and assaults for several months in the summer of 1646--and a great exchange of courtesies between General Mytton of the Parliamentary Army and Sir William Salisbury, commanding the castle, who were oldtime friends. There were truces for burial of the dead of both armies, often with military honors on part of the opposing side, but all of this did not mitigate the bitterness with which the contest was waged. The straits of the garrison became terrible indeed, and at last the implacable old governor agreed to deliver the castle to his enemies provided he be given the honors of war and that the consent of the king be secured. His messenger was given safe conduct to visit Charles and the monarch readily absolved his faithful retainer from farther efforts in his behalf. Tradition has it that when the Parliamentarian troops were drawn up within the castle to receive the surrender, the commander gently reminded Colonel Salisbury that the key had not yet been delivered. The bellicose old Cavalier, standing on the Goblin Tower, flung the key to his conqueror with the bitter remark, "The world is yours. Make it your dunghill." But perhaps I have anticipated a little in relating the last great incident in the history of Denbigh Castle first of all, but its interest entitles it to precedence, though the earlier story of the castle is worth telling briefly. There are indications that this commanding site was fortified long before the Normans reared the walls now standing, but if so, there are few authentic details now to be learned. The present castle was built by Henry de Lacy during the latter half of the thirteenth century and was one of the many fortresses erected in Wales during the reign of Edward I. in his systematic attempt to subdue the native chieftains. Of its vicissitudes during the endless wars between the English and Welsh for nearly a century after its foundation, it would not be worth while to write, nor would a list of the various nobles who succeeded to its command be of consequence. Its most notable proprietor and the one who left the greatest impress of his ownership was the famous Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, whom we know best from his connection with Kenilworth. Dudley bought the castle from his patroness, Queen Elizabeth--it had long before her reign reverted to the crown--though there is no record that he ever paid even the first installment of purchase money, and after his death the Queen re-annexed the property on the ground that it had never been paid for. But even if he did not pay for his acquisition, Dudley found many ways to give evidence of his ownership to the people of Denbigh and the surrounding country. His lordship was one of oppression and rapine and he did not halt at any crime to advance his ends and to extort money for his projects. His influence was such that two of the young Salisburys, sons of one of the noblest families in the country, were hanged at Shrewsbury for pulling down one of his lordship's illegal fences! This was only typical of his high-handed proceedings, which were cut short by his sudden death, said to have been caused by drinking poison which he had prepared for another! During his ownership he repaired and added to the castle and began a church on a vast scale--still standing incomplete in ruin. This he hoped would supersede the cathedral at St. Asaph and the only recourse of the good people of that town against Leicester's ambitious schemes was prayer, which doubtless from their point of view seemed wonderfully efficacious when death snatched their oppressor away. There was little of importance in the castle's history during the half century between Leicester's death and the Civil War. Charles I. came here after Rowton Moor and then it was that the bold governor gave his oath not to surrender without the King's command. General Mytton, the victor of Rowton, closely pursued the defeated Royalists and followed Charles to Denbigh, but the monarch, on learning of his enemy's approach, escaped to Scotland, only to be captured a little later. Of the long siege we have already told. The fate of Denbigh Castle was peculiar in that it was not "destroyed by Cromwell," as were most of the ruined fortresses which it was our fortune to see in England. It was held by the Cromwellian army until the Restoration, when a special edict was framed by the Royal Parliament ordering that it be blown up with gunpowder. That the work was well done is mutely testified by the ruins that surround us to-day. For years the fallen walls served the natives as a stone quarry, but of late Denbigh has been seized with the zeal for preservation of things historic now so prevalent in Britain, and the castle is well looked after; decay has been arrested and the grounds are now a public park. A velvety lawn carpets the enclosure and a bowling green occupies the court which once echoed to the tread of armed men and war horses. But we note little evidence of all the stirring scenes enacted on this historic spot. It is an ideal summer day; there is scarce a breath of air to rustle the masses of ivy that cling to the walls; save for the birds that sing in the trees and shrubs, quiet reigns; there are no sightseers but ourselves. From the old keep tower a glorious view greets our eyes. All around lies the green vale of the Clwyd stretching away to blue hills; it is dotted here and there with red-roofed cottages whose walls gleam white as alabaster in the noonday sun. The monotony is further relieved by groups of stately trees which mark the surrounding country seats and by an occasional glint of the lazy river. Our guide points out the near-by village of Tremeirchion, whose name goes back to Roman times--signifying that there was a cavalry station near the spot. A gray house surrounded by trees is Brynbella, so named by Dr. Samuel Johnson, who frequently visited the owner, Mrs. Piozzi, during his residence near Denbigh. Felicia Hemans lived for some time in a cottage to be seen a little farther down the vale and there are traces of the beauties of the Clwyd in her poems. On the outskirts of the town are the ruins of an abbey founded in the reign of Henry III. and within a mile is Whitchurch, which has many curious features, among them a stained-glass window which was buried during the Civil War to save it from the image-smashers. Nor should we forget the little white cottage where Dr. Samuel Johnson lived while compiling his famous dictionary. He was attracted here by the rural quiet of the spot and for several years pursued his colossal task. The house stands in the edge of a fine grove and is shut in by a thickly set hawthorn hedge. A monumental shaft in the neighborhood commemorates the association of the great lexicographer with the spot. [Illustration: ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH. HENRY M. STANLEY WAS BAPTIZED IN THIS CHURCH] But Denbigh has a more recent distinction that will appeal to every schoolboy of the English-speaking world, for here, within a stone's throw of the castle gate, was born Henry M. Stanley, the great explorer. It was not by this name, however, that he was known when as a boy of five he was placed in the workhouse at St. Asaph by his mother's brothers, for it was little John Henry Rowlands who was so cruelly treated by the master. Stanley himself tells in his autobiography the story of this Welsh Dotheboys Hall and also of his escape from the institution after having given a severe thrashing to his oppressor, who was no match for the sturdy youth of sixteen. After many vicissitudes he reached New Orleans as a cabin boy on a merchant ship and was employed by a Henry Morton Stanley, who later adopted him. Of Stanley's career, one of the most varied and remarkable of which there is authentic record, we will not write here; only twice in his life did he visit Denbigh and the last time his mother refused even to see him, alleging that he had been nothing but a roving ne'er-do-well. She had married again--Stanley was but three years old when his father died--and had apparently lost all maternal love for her son, destined to become so famous. It seems to have been the bitterest experience of the explorer's life and he never attempted to see his mother again. Denbigh now deeply regrets that his humble birthplace was pulled down some years ago, but the little church where he was baptized--which ranks next in importance to the birthplace, according to accepted English ideas--still stands, though it is not now used and is very much dilapidated. Our guide, when he has quite exhausted his historic lore and when the "objects of interest" have been pointed out and duly expatiated upon, tells us a story of a certain noble dame of ancient Denbigh which every newcomer needs must hear at least once. Lady Catherine of Beraine was of royal descent, her mother being a cousin of Queen Elizabeth; she was enormously rich and was reputed of great intellectual attainments and force of character. But her fame to-day in her native town rests on none of these things; she is remembered as having had four noble husbands, all local celebrities, two of whom she acquired under, to say the least, very unusual circumstances. The first, a Salisbury, died not long after their marriage and was gathered to his fathers after the most approved fashion of the times. This required that a friend of the deceased escort the widow at the funeral and this--shall I say pleasant?--task fell to Sir Richard Clough, a widower of wealth and renown. Sir Richard's consolation went to very extraordinary length, for before the body of his friend was interred, he had proposed to the widow and been accepted! On the return journey from the tomb, Sir Maurice Wynne approached the lady with a similar proposal, only to find to his chagrin and consternation that he was too late. But he did the next best thing and before he was through had the widow's solemn promise that in case she should be called upon to mourn Sir Richard he should be his friend's successor! Sir Richard considerately died at forty and his gracious widow proved true to her promise. She wedded Maurice Wynne and went to preside over one of the fairest estates in Wales. But this did not end her matrimonial experiences, for Wynne ere long followed his two predecessors to the churchyard and the third-time widow made a fourth venture with Edward Thelwall, a wealthy gentleman of the town. Now while there may be some mythical details in this queer story, its main incidents were actually true, and so numerous are the descendants of the fair Catherine that she is sometimes given the sobriquet of Mam Cymru, the Mother of Wales. An English writer says of her, "Never, surely, was there such a record made by a woman of quality. Herself of royal descent and great possessions and by all accounts of singular mental attraction if not surpassing beauty, she married successively into four of the most powerful houses of North Wales." We thank the custodian for the pains he has taken to inform and entertain us and bid him farewell with the expected gratuity. We slip down the winding road to the market-place, where we pause for a short time to look about the town. We are told that it is one of the best in Northern Wales, both in a business and social way, and it is distinctly Welsh as contrasted with the English domination of Welshpool, Ludlow and Shrewsbury. We see a prosperous-looking class of country folk in the market-place and while English generally prevails, Welsh is spoken by some of the older people. They are well-clad and give evidence of the intelligence and sobriety for which the northern Welshman is noted. The excellent horses on the streets show that the Welsh are as particular about their nags as are their English brethren. We wish that our plans had not been already made--we should like to take up quarters at the Crown or Bull and remain a day or two in Denbigh. But the best we can do now is to pick up a few souvenirs at an old curiosity shop near the market and secretly resolve to come back again. [Illustration: GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES] The road out of the town follows the green vale of the Clwyd to St. Asaph and Rhuddlan, both of which have enough interest to warrant a few hours' pause. At St. Asaph we content ourselves with a drive around the cathedral--the smallest in the Kingdom--against which the haughty Leicester directed his designs three centuries ago. Its most conspicuous feature is its huge square tower one hundred feet in height. The St. Asaph who gave his name to the village and cathedral is supposed to have founded a church here as early as the middle of the sixth century, one of the earliest in the Kingdom. Five miles farther down the valley over a fine level road is Rhuddlan Castle. There are few more picturesque ruins in Britain than this huge redstone fortress with its massive round gate-towers, almost completely covered with ivy. Only the outer shell and towers remain; inside is a level plat of green sward that gives no hint of the martial activity within these walls six or seven centuries ago. Rhuddlan was one of the several castles built by Edward I. in his efforts to subdue the Welsh, and here he held his court for three years while engaged in his difficult task. The whole town was a military camp and numbers of the subdued Welsh chieftains and their retainers must have come hither to make the best terms they could with their conqueror. But the ruin is quiet enough under the blue heavens that bend over it to-day--the daws flap lazily above its ancient towers and the smaller songsters chatter and quarrel in the thick ivy. The castle has stood thus ever since it was dismantled by the same General Mytton who forced the surrender of Denbigh. There is much that might engage our time and attention along the twenty miles of roads that skirt the marshes and the sea between Rhuddlan and Conway, but we cannot linger to-day. An hour's run brings us into the little Welsh citadel shortly after noon and we forthwith repair to the Castle Hotel. XVI CONWAY Mr. Moran has given us in his striking picture a somewhat unusual view of the towers of Conway Castle. A better-known aspect of the fine old ruin is shown by the photograph which I have reproduced. Both, however, will serve to emphasize the point which I desire to make--that Conway, when seen from a proper distance, is one of the most picturesque of British castles. The first thing the wayfarer sees when he approaches is this splendid group of crenelated round towers and it is the last object to fade on his vision when he reluctantly turns his feet away from the pleasant old village. And I care not how matter-of-fact and prosaic may be his temperament, he cannot fail to bear away an ineffaceable recollection of the grim beauty of the stately pile. The sea road takes us into the town by the way of the great suspension bridge, whose well-finished modern towers contrast rather unpleasantly with the rugged antiquity of the castle across the river; but the suspension bridge is none the less a work of art and beauty compared with the angular ugliness of the tubular railway structure that parallels it. We pay our modest toll and crossing over the green tide that is now setting strongly up the river, we glide beneath the castle walls into the town. The Castle Hotel we know by previous experience to be one of those most delightful of old-fashioned country inns where one may be comfortable and quite unhampered by excessive formality. Baedeker, it is true, gives the place of honor to the Oakwood Park, a pretentious resort hotel about a mile from the town, but this will hardly appeal to pilgrims like ourselves, who come to Conway to revel in its old-world atmosphere. The Castle, with its rambling corridors, its odd corners and plain though substantial furnishings, is far more to our liking. It stands on the site of Conway's Cistercian Abbey, built by Prince Llewellyn in 1185, all traces of which have now disappeared. As the principal inn of the North Wales art center, its walls are appropriately covered with pictures and sketches--many of them original--and numerous pieces of artistic bric-a-brac are scattered about its hallways and mantels. We notice among the pictures two or three characteristic sketches by Mr. Moran and learn that he was a guest of the inn for several weeks last summer, during which time he painted the picture of the castle which adorns the pages of this book. The impression which he left with the manageress was altogether favorable; she cannot say enough in praise of the courtesy and kindness of her distinguished guest who gave her the much-prized sketches with his compliments. And she is quite familiar with the names and knows something about the work of several well-known British artists--for have they not been guests at the castle from time to time during the summer exhibits? Conway, as we shall see, occupies no small niche in the art world, having an annual exhibition of considerable importance, besides affording endless themes to delight the artistic eye. [Illustration: CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES From original painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.] The immediate objective of the first-time visitor to Conway will be the castle, but this is our third sojourn in the ancient citadel and we shall give the afternoon to Plas Mawr. For, though we are quite as familiar with Plas Mawr as with the castle, the fine old mansion has a new attraction each year in the annual exhibit of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the walls are covered with several hundred pictures, many of them by distinguished British painters. The exhibit is generally acknowledged to be of first rank and usually includes canvases by Royal Academicians as well as the work of members of other distinguished British art societies. That it is not better known and patronized is not due to any lack of genuine merit; rather to the fact that so many tourists are ignorant of its very existence as well as the attractions of the town itself. Such, indeed, was our own case; on our first visit to Conway we contented ourselves with a glimpse of the castle and hastened on our way quite unaware of Plas Mawr and its exhibit. Stupid, of course; we might have learned better from Baedeker; but we thought there was nothing but the castle in Conway and did not trouble to read the fine print of our "vade mecum." A second visit taught us better; the castle one should certainly see--but Plas Mawr and its pictures are worth a journey from the remotest corner of the Kingdom. Indeed, it was in this exhibit that I first became acquainted with the work of Mr. H. J. Dobson of Edinburgh, whose pictures I have had the pleasure of introducing in America. His famous "New Arrival" was perhaps the most-talked-of picture the year of our visit and is surely worth showing herewith as typical of the high quality of the Royal Cambrian exhibit. And, indeed, this severely plain, almost pathetic, little home scene of the olden time might just as appropriately have been located in the environs of Conway. [Illustration: "THE NEW ARRIVAL" From original painting by H. J. Dobson, R. S. W., exhibited in the Royal Cambrian Academy, Plas Mawr, Conway] I have rambled on about Plas Mawr and its pictures to a considerable extent, but I have so far failed to give much idea as to Plas Mawr itself aside from its exhibit. Its name, signifying "the great house," is appropriate indeed, for in the whole Kingdom there are few better examples--at least such as are accessible to the ordinary tourist--of the spacious home of a wealthy country gentleman in the romantic days of Queen Bess. It was planned for the rather ostentatious hospitality of the times and must have enjoyed such a reputation, for it is pretty well established that Queen Elizabeth herself was a guest in the stately house. The Earl of Leicester, as we have seen, had large holdings in North Wales, and was wont to come to Snowdonia on hunting expeditions; Elizabeth and her court accompanied him on one occasion and were quartered in Plas Mawr. Tradition, which has forgotten the exact date of the royal visit, has carefully recorded the rooms occupied by the queen--two of the noblest apartments in the house. The sitting-room has a huge fireplace with the royal arms of England in plaster above the mantel. Adjoining this apartment is the bedroom, beautifully decorated with heraldic devices and lighted with windows of ancient stained glass. But I must hasten to declare that I have no intention of describing in detail the various apartments of the great house. Each one has its own story and nearly all are decorated with richly bossed plaster friezes and ceilings. The circular stairways, the corridors, the narrow passageways and the courtyard are all unique and bring to the mind a host of romantic musings. You are not at all surprised to learn of Plas Mawr's ghostly habitant--it is, on the contrary, just what you expected. I shall not repeat this authentic ghost story; you may find it in the little guide-book of the house if such things appeal to you; and, besides, it is hardly suitable for my pages. It is enough to record that Plas Mawr has its ghost and heavy footfalls may be heard in its vacant rooms by those hardy enough to remain on nights when storms howl about the old gables. And it is these same old "stepped" gables with the queer little towers and tall chimneys that lend such a distinguished air to the exterior of the old house. It would be a dull observer whose eye would not be caught by it, even in passing casually along the street on which it stands. Above the door the date 1576 proves beyond question the year of its completion and shows that it has stood, little changed, for more than three centuries. It was built by one of the Wynne family, which was so distinguished and powerful in North Wales during the reign of Elizabeth. At present it is the private property of Lord Mostyn, but one cannot help feeling that by rights it should belong to the tight little town of Conway, which forms such a perfect setting for this gem of ancient architecture. [Illustration: PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN ACADEMY] But enough of Plas Mawr--though I confess as I write to an intense longing to see it again. We must hie us back to our inn, for the dinner hour is not far off and we are quite ready for the Castle's substantial fare. There is still plenty of time after dinner to saunter about the town and the twilight hours are the best for such a ramble. When the subdued light begins to envelop castle and ancient walls, one may best realize the unique distinction of Conway as a bit of twelfth-century medievalism set bodily down in our workaday modern world. The telegraph poles and wires, the railways and great bridges fade from the scene and we see the ancient town, compassed with its mighty betowered walls and guarded by the frowning majesty of the castle. It is peculiarly the time to ascend the wall and to leisurely walk its entire length. We find it wonderfully solid and well-preserved, though ragged and hung with ivy; grasses carpet its crest in places, yellow and purple wall-flowers cling to its rugged sides, and in one place a sapling has found footing, apparently thriving in its airy habitat. Yet the wall is quite in its original state; the hand of the restorer has hardly touched it, nor does it apparently require anything in the way of repair. How very different is it from the walls of York and Chester, which show clearly enough the recent origin of at least large portions throughout their entire courses. It reaches in places a height of perhaps twenty feet and I should think its thickness at the base nearly as great. In old days it was surmounted by twenty-one watchtowers, all of which still remain in a state of greater or less perfection. Its ancient Moorish-looking gateways still survive, though the massive doors and drawbridges that once shut out the hostile world disappeared long since. We saunter leisurely down the wall toward the river and find much of interest whichever way we turn. The town spreads out beneath us like a map and we can detect, after some effort, its fanciful likeness to the shape of a harp--so dutifully mentioned by the guide-books. Just beneath this we gaze into the back yards of the poorer quarter and see a bevy of dirty little urchins going through endless antics in hope of extracting a copper or two from us--they know us well for tourists at once--who else, indeed, would be on the wall at such a time? A little farther are the rambling gables of Plas Mawr and on the extreme opposite side of the town, the stern yet beautiful towers of the castle are sharply silhouetted against the evening sky. How it all savors of the days of chivalrous eld; the flash of armor from yonder watchtowers, the deep voice of the sentry calling the hour, the gleam of rushlight from the silent windows or the reveille of a Norman bugle, would seem to be all that is required to transport us back to the days of the royal builder of the castle. Or if we choose to turn our gaze outside the walls, we may enjoy one of the finest vistas to be found in the British Isles. Looking down the broad estuary, through which the emerald-green tide is now pouring in full flow toward the sea, one has a panorama of wooded hills on the one hand and the village of Deganwy with the huge bulk of Great Orme's Head as a background on the other; while between these a vast stretch of sunset water loses itself in the distance. [Illustration: INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY] But we are at the north limit of the old wall--for it ends abruptly as it approaches the beach--and we descend to the promenade along the river. There is a boathouse here and a fairly good beach. If it had not so many rivals near at hand, Conway might boast itself as a resort town, but the average summer vacationist cares less for medieval walls and historic castles than for sunny beaches and all the diversions that the seaside resort town usually offers. He limits his stay in Conway to an hour or two and spends his weeks at Llandudno or Colwyn Bay. There are many odd corners that are worth the visitor's attention and one is sure to have them brought to his notice as he rambles about the town. "The smallest house in the Island" is one of them and the little old woman who occupies this curiosity will not let you pass without an opportunity to look in and leave a copper or two in recognition of her trouble. It is a boxlike structure of two floors about four by six feet each, comfortably furnished--to an extent one would hardly think possible in such very contracted quarters. There are many very ancient homes in the town dating from the sixteenth century and perhaps the best known of them--aside from Plas Mawr--is the little "Black Lion" in Castle Street. It is now fitted up as a museum, though its exhibit, I fear, is more an excuse to exact a shilling from the pocket of the tourist than to serve any great archeological end. The interior, however, is worth seeing, as it affords some idea of the domestic life of a well-to-do middle-class merchant of three or four hundred years ago. Another building in the same street is of even earlier date, for the legend, "A. D. 1400," appears in quaint characters above its door. Still another fine Elizabethan home shows the Stanley arms in stained glass--an eagle with outstretched wings swooping down upon a child--but this building, as well as many others in Conway, has been "restored" pretty much out of its original self. I name these particular things merely to show what a wealth of interest the town possesses for the observer who has learned that there is something else besides the castle and who is willing to make a sojourn of two or three days within the hoary walls. The church of St. Mary's has little claim to architectural distinction, but like nearly all the ancient churches of Britain, it has many odd bits of tradition and incident quite peculiar to itself. There is an elaborate baptismal font and a beautiful rood screen dating from the thirteenth century. John Gibson, R. A., the distinguished sculptor, who was born near Conway, is buried in the church and a marble bust has been erected to his memory. Another native buried within the sacred walls is entitled to distinction in quite a different direction, for a tablet over his grave declares: "Here lyeth the body of Nich's Hookes of Conway, Gent. who was ye 41 child of his father William Hookes Esq. and the father of 27 children, who died on the 20 day of Mch. 1637." Surely, if these ancient Welshmen were alive to-day they would be lionized by our anti-race-suicide propagandists! In the chancel there are several elaborate monuments of the Wynne family which exhibit the usual characteristics of old-time British mortuary sculpture. One of these tombs is of circular shape, and interesting from its peculiarity, though none of them shows a high degree of the sculptor's art. Outside, near the south porch, is a curious sun dial erected in 1761, which is carefully graduated to single minutes. Near this is a grave made famous by Wordsworth in his well-known poem, "We are Seven,"--for the poet, as we have learned in our wanderings, was himself something of a traveler and these simple verses remind us of his sojourn in Conway. Their peculiar appeal to almost every tourist is not strange when we recall that scarcely a school-reader of half a century ago omitted them. Conway, as might be expected, has many quaint customs and traditions. One of these, as described by a pleasing writer, may be worth retelling: "At Conway an old ceremony called the 'Stocsio' obtained till the present reign, being observed at Eastertide, when on the Sunday crowds carrying wands of gorse were accustomed to proceed to a small hill outside the town known as Pen twt. There the most recently married man was deputed to read out to a bare-headed audience the singular and immemorial rules that were to prevail in the town on the following day: All men under sixty were to be in the street by six o'clock in the morning; those under forty by four, while youths of twenty or less were forbidden to go to bed at all. Houses were searched, and much rough horse-play was going about. Defaulters were carried to the stocks, and there subjected to a time-honoured and grotesque catechism, calculated to promote much ridicule. Ball-play in the castle, too, was a distinguishing feature of all these ancient fete days." Another carefully preserved tradition relates to the tenure of the castle by the town corporation, which must pay annually a fee of eight shillings sixpence to the crown, and the presentation by way of tribute of a "dish of fish" to the Marquis of Hertford--the titular Earl of Conway--whenever he visits the town. This gave rise to a ludicrous misunderstanding not very long ago. An old guide-book substituted "Mayor of Hereford" for "Marquis of Hertford," and a perusal of this led the former dignitary to formally claim the honor when he was in Conway. The mayor of the ancient burg explained the error to his guest, but went on to say that had sparlings, the peculiar fish for which the Conway River is noted, been in season and obtainable, he would have had great pleasure in presenting a dish of them to the Mayor of Hereford; as it was, it was understood that in default of the sparlings the worthy civic clerk of Conway would treat his illustrious visitor to a bottle of champagne of an especially old and choice vintage. There is no record that the dignitary from Hereford made any objection to the substitution of something "just as good." In leaving the castle until the last, I am conscious that I am violating the precedent set by nearly all who have written of Conway and its attractions, but I have striven--I hope successfully--to show that there is enough in the old town to make a pilgrimage worth while, even if it did not have what is perhaps the most picturesque ruin in the Island. For the superior claims of Conway Castle are best described by the much-abused word, "picturesque." While it has seen stirring times, it did not cut the figure of Denbigh, Harlech or Carnarvon in Welsh history, nor did it equal many others in size and impregnability. But to my mind it is doubtful if any other so completely fulfills the ideal of the towered and battlemented castle of the middle ages. From almost any viewpoint this is apparent, though the view from across the river is well-nigh spoiled by the obtrusively ugly tubular railroad bridge; nor does the more graceful suspension bridge add to it, for that matter. In earlier times the only approach from this direction was by ferry--an "awkward kind of a boat called yr ysgraff," says a local guide-book. The boat seems to have been quite as unmanageable as its name, for on Christmas day, 1806, it capsized, drowning twelve persons. Twenty years later the suspension bridge was ready for use and the tubular bridge followed in 1848. [Illustration: CONWAY CASTLE--THE OUTER WALL] Conway Castle was one of the several fortresses built by the first Edward to complete the conquest of Wales. It was designed by Henry de Elreton, a builder of great repute in his time and also the architect of Carnarvon and Beumaris. The work was conducted under personal command of the king and its completion in 1291 was celebrated by a great fete at Christmastime. As one wanders through the roofless, ivy-clad ruin, carpeted with the green sward that has crept over the debris-covered floors, and contemplates the empty windows open to all the winds of heaven, the fallen walls and crumbling towers, the broken arches--only one of the eight which spanned the great hall remaining--amid all the pathetic evidence of dissolution and decay, it is hard indeed to reconstruct the scene of gay life that must have filled the noble pile in that far-off day. Here the high-spirited and often tyrannical king, accompanied by the queen, almost as ambitious and domineering as himself, had gathered the flower of English knighthood and nobility with their proud dames and brightly liveried retainers to make merry while the monarch was forging the chains to bind the prostrate principality. Here, we may imagine, the revelry of an almost barbarous time and people must have reached its height; and we may thank heaven that the old order of things is as shattered and obsolete as the ruined walls that surround us. As previously intimated, the history of Conway Castle is hardly in accord with its grandeur and importance. Its royal founder soon after its completion found himself closely besieged within its walls by the Welsh and was nearly reduced to an unconditional surrender, when the subsidence of the river made it possible for reinforcements to relieve the situation. A century later Richard II. commanded the troops raised to war in his behalf on the haughty Bolingbroke to assemble at Conway, but the monarch's feebleness and vacillation brought all plans of aggressive action to naught; for he basely abandoned his followers and rushed blindly into his enemy's power. And thus what might have been a historic milestone in the career of the castle degenerated into an unimportant incident. Conway escaped easily during the civil war which sounded the knell of so many feudal castles. The militant Archbishop Williams, whose memorial we may see in the parish church, espoused the side of the king and after his efforts had put everything in shape for defence, he was ordered to turn over the command to Prince Rupert. This procedure on the part of Charles led the warlike churchman to suddenly change his opinion of the justice of the royal cause and he at once joined forces with the Cromwellians. He carried with him a considerable following and personally assisted General Mytton in his operations against both Denbigh and Conway Castles. The latter was first to fall and the good bishop received the thanks of Parliament for his services and also a full pardon for the part he had taken in support of King Charles. He was also able to restore to his followers the valuables which had been hidden in the castle for safe keeping. Conway was another exception to Cromwell's rule of destruction of such feudal fortresses. Perhaps the fact that at the time of its surrender the Royalists were almost everywhere subdued and not likely to be able to reoccupy it, had something to do with this unusual leniency. In any event, the discredit for the destruction of the splendid structure rests with King Charles, who permitted one of his retainers to plunder it of its leaden roof and timbers. These materials were to be sent to Ireland--just for what purpose is not clear--but it does not matter, for the ships carrying the wreckage were all lost in a violent storm. Since that memorable period the old ruin has witnessed two and a half centuries of unbroken peace. Its enemies were no longer battering ram and hostile cannon. The wild storms of winter, the summer rains and the sea winds have expended their forces upon it, only to give it a weird, indescribable beauty such as it never could have possessed in its proudest days. Careful restoration has arrested further decay and insures its preservation indefinitely. It has never figured in song or story to the extent its beauty and romance would lead us to expect, though Owen Rhoscomyl, a native Welshman, has written a stirring novel, "Battlements and Towers," which deals with the castle in civil war days. The story has a historic basis and the graves of the lovers, Dafyd and Morfa, may still be seen in Conway Church. But no Welshman has yet arisen to do for his native land what Scott did for Scotland. The field is fully as rich--surely the struggles of this brave little people were as heroic and full of splendid incident as anything that transpired in Scotch history. But as a venture for letters the field still lies fallow and perhaps the unromantic atmosphere of our present-day progress will always keep it so. In leaving Conway for our fifth sojourn at Ludlow we find ourselves wondering which of these may outrank the other as the gem of all the smaller medieval towns we have visited in Britain. Indeed, we have not answered the query yet, but we are sure the distinction belongs to one or the other. XVII THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY It has been said that the traveler who has visited either John O'Groats or Land's End never feels at ease until he has both of these places to his "credit." I should be loath to confess that such a feeling had anything to do with our setting out from London with Land's End as an ill-defined objective, though appearances may indeed favor such an inference. Once before we were within ten miles of the spot and did not feel interested enough to take the few hours for the trip. But now we have spent a night at John O'Groats--and have no very pleasant recollection of it, either--and should we ever tell of our exploit the first question would be, "And did you go to Land's End?" Be that as it may, we find ourselves carefully picking our way through the crowded Oxford street which changes its name a half dozen times before we come out into the Staines Road. We are not in the best of humor, for it was two o'clock when we left our hotel--we had planned to start at nine in the morning! But a refractory magneto in the hands of an English repair man--who had promised it on the day before--was an article we could not very well leave behind. Our itinerary--we never really made one, except in imagination--called for the night at Dorchester. We had previously passed through the pleasant old capital of the "Hardy Country" and felt a longing for a closer acquaintance. But Dorchester is one hundred and thirty miles from London and our usual leisurely jog will never get us there before nightfall--a fact still more apparent when we find nearly an hour has been consumed in covering the dozen miles to Staines. We shall have to open up a little--a resolution that receives a decided chill when a gentlemanly Automobile Association scout, seeing the emblem on our engine hood, salutes us with, "Caution, Sir! Police traps all the way to Basingstoke." We take some chances nevertheless, but slow down when we come to a hedgerow or other suspicious object which we fancy may afford concealment for the despised motor "cop." At Basingstoke a second scout pronounces the way clear to Andover and Salisbury and the fine undulating road offers every opportunity to make up for lost time--and police traps. If the speed limit had been twice twenty miles per hour, I fear we might--but we are not bound to incriminate ourselves! Salisbury's splendid spire--the loftiest and most graceful in all Britain--soon arises athwart the sunset sky and we glide through the tortuous streets of the town as swiftly as seems prudent. The road to Blandford is equally good and just at dusk we enter the village of Puddletown, stretching for half a mile along the roadside. Its name is not prepossessing, but Puddletown has a church that stands to-day as it stood nearly three hundred years ago, for it has not as yet fallen into the hands of the restorer. Its paneled and beamed ceiling of Spanish chestnut, innocent of paint or varnish, its oaken pews which seated the Roundheads and Royalists of Cromwell's day, its old-fashioned pulpit and its queer baptismal font, are those of the country church of nearly three centuries ago. The village is a cozy, beflowered place on a clear little river, whose name, the Puddle, is the only thing to prejudice one against it. Just adjoining Puddletown is Aethelhampton Court, the finest country house in Dorset, which has been inhabited by one family, the Martins, for four hundred years. Darkness is setting in when we drive into the courtyard of the King's Arms in Dorchester. It is a wild, windy evening; rain is threatening and under such conditions the comfortable old house seems an opportune haven indeed. It is a characteristic English inn such as Dickens eulogizes in "Pickwick Papers"--one where "everything looks--as everything always does in all decent English inns--as if the travelers had been expected and their comforts prepared for days beforehand." There is a large, well-furnished sitting-room awaiting us, with bedrooms to match, and the evening meal is ready on a table resplendent with fresh linen and glittering silver. In a cabinet in the corner of the dining-room is an elaborate silver tea-service with the legend, "Used by His August Majesty King Edward VII. when as Prince of Wales he was a guest of the King's Arms, Dorchester, on--" but we have quite forgotten the date. A rather recent and innocent tradition, but perhaps the traveler of two centuries hence may be duly impressed, for the silver service will be there if the King's Arms is still standing. It is an irregular old house, built nobody knows just when, and added to from time to time as occasion required. The lack of design is delightfully apparent; it is a medley of scattered apartments and winding hallways. It would fit perfectly into a Dickens novel--indeed, with the wind howling furiously outside and the rain fitfully lashing the panes we think of the stormy night at the Maypole in "Barnaby Rudge." But it has been a rather trying day and our musings soon fade into pleasant dreams when we are once ensconced in the capacious beds of the King's Arms. One can spend a profitable half day in Dorchester and a much longer time might be consumed in exploring the immediate vicinity. There are two fine churches, All Saints', with a tall slender spire, and St. Peter's, with a square, battlemented tower from which peal the chimes of the town clock. In the latter church is a tomb which may interest the few Americans who come to Dorchester, since beneath it is buried Rev. John White, who took an active part in founding Massachusetts Colony. In 1624 he despatched a company of Dorset men to the new colony, raising money for them, procuring their charter and later sending out as the first governor, John Endicott of Dorchester, who sailed for New England in 1629 in the "George Bona Ventura." In both churches there is an unusual number of effigies and monuments which probably escaped because of Dorchester's friendliness for the Parliamentary cause--but none of them commemorates famous people. Outside St. Peter's there is a statue to William Barnes, the Dorset poet, with an inscription from one of his own poems which illustrates the quaint dialect he employed: "Zoo now I hope his kindly feace Is gone to find a better pleace: But still wi' vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind." The county museum, adjoining the church, contains one of the best provincial collections in England. The vicinity is noted for Roman remains and a number of the most remarkable have found a resting-place here. There are curiosities galore in the shape of medieval implements of torture, among them a pair of heavy leaden weights labeled "Mercy," which a tender-hearted jailer ordered tied to the feet of a man hanged for arson as late as 1836, so he would strangle more quickly. There are relics of Jeffreys' dread court, the chair he used when sentencing the Dorset peasants to transportation and death and the iron spikes on which the heads of the rebels were exposed to blacken in the sun. There is much besides horrors in Dorchester Museum, though I suppose the gruesome and horrible will always get the greater share of attention. And such things are not without their educational and moral value, for they speak eloquently of the progress the human race has made to render such implements of torture only objects of shuddering curiosity. To the admirer of Thomas Hardy, the novelist, Dorchester will always have a peculiar interest, for here the master still lives, much alone, in a little house near the town, his simple life and habits scarcely differentiating him from the humblest Wessex peasant. I say "the novelist," for another Thomas Hardy was also a Dorchester man--the admiral who supported the dying Nelson at Trafalgar. The great writer, however, is known to all the townsmen and is universally admired and revered. Shortly after our visit the people of the town essayed a fete in his honor, the chief feature being two plays adapted from Wessex tales. Mr. Hardy, though in his seventy-second year, followed the rehearsals closely, sitting night after night in a dark corner of the auditorium. A correspondent described him as "a grave, gray little figure with waxed moustache ends and bright vigilant eyes, who rose occasionally to make a suggestion, speaking almost apologetically as if asking a favor." His suggestions usually had to do with the character and effect of word cadences. Nothing could exceed his sensitiveness to the harmonies of speech. "Will you let me see the book, please?" he would say. "I think that sentence does not sound right; I will alter it a little." He also personally arranged the hornpipe dance by shepherds in the cottage where three wayfarers take shelter from a storm. The music was played by a fiddler nearly eighty years old who used to make a living by such rustic merrymakings and who is perhaps the last survivor of the race of fiddlers in Dorset. All the actors belonged to the town. One is a cooper, another a saddler, and there were clerks and solicitors and auctioneers. The producer who designed all the scenery is a monument mason and ex-mayor of Dorchester. It is perhaps too early to predict the place of Thomas Hardy in literature, though there be those who rank him with George Eliot. His home town, which he has given to fame as the Casterbridge of his tales, has no misgivings about the matter and freely ranks him with the immortals. The chilling philosophy of many of his books has not hidden his warm heart from his townsmen, who resent the word "stony" applied to him by an American writer. They say that his unpretentious life, his affability, his consideration for others and his modesty, all teach the lessons of love and hope, and that nothing is farther from his personal character than misanthropy or coldness. The history of Dorchester differs not greatly from that of many other English towns of its class. A Roman station undoubtedly existed here. The town was mentioned in the Doomsday Book and was a village of good size in the reign of Henry VIII. In 1613 it was totally destroyed by fire--a calamity which the citizens declared a "visitacion of God's wrath," to appease which they founded an almshouse and hospital. With business foresight they also established a brewery, the profits from which were expected to maintain the hospital, and the grave records show no intimation of any question whether such a plan might be acceptable to the Deity they sought to placate. Dorchester was strongly for the Parliament in the unpleasantness between Oliver and the king, but its loyalty was not very aggressive, for it surrendered to the royal army with scarcely a show of resistance--the more to its discredit, since it had been elaborately fortified and was well supplied with munitions of war. It suffered severely for its cowardice, for it was taken and retaken many times during the war and its citizens subjected to numberless exactions and indignities. The ascendency of the commonwealth brought Dorchester comparative peace for three or four decades. The next notable event in its career was the coming of Jeffreys the infamous to judge the unfortunate Dorset men who inclined, or were alleged to have inclined, towards the Duke of Monmouth in his ill-starred attempt on the throne of England. To expedite matters, Jeffreys let it be understood that a plea of guilty would predispose him to mercy, but the poor wretches who fell into this trap were sentenced to death or transportation on their own confessions. The charge lodged against most of the unfortunates was that they were "away from their habitacions att the tyme of the rebellion." For more than two centuries after this carnival of death, sanctioned by a corrupt and vengeful government, Dorchester has pursued the paths of unbroken peace and has grown and prospered in a quiet way. The fame of Thomas Hardy attracts many and the roving motor car also brings an increasing number of pilgrims, none of whom go away disappointed. It is a trim old town, still picturesque, though modern improvements are making inroads on its antique quaintness. Its environs are singularly beautiful; the country roads enter the town between ranks of splendid trees and the avenues around the town are bordered with giant limes, sycamores and chestnuts. The River Frome glides quietly past the place through reedy meadows and the smooth green sward covers the ancient Roman amphitheatre which adjoins the town on the south. This is by far the most perfect work of its kind in Britain; it is about two hundred feet in diameter and must have accommodated some twelve thousand spectators. It lies just along the road by which we leave the town and which runs almost due west to Bridport, Lyme Regis and Exeter. For some miles we pursue a sinuous course across the barren country and occasionally encounter forbiddingly steep grades. At Bridport we catch our first glimpse of a placidly blue sea, which frequently flashes through gaps in the hills for the next twenty miles. At Lyme Regis the road pitches down a sharp hill into the town, which covers the slopes of a ravinelike valley. It is a retired little seaside resort, though red roofs of modern villas now contrast somewhat with its rural appearance. No railroad comes within several miles of the place, which has a permanent population of only two thousand. It is not without historic tradition, for here the Duke of Monmouth landed on his ill-fated invasion to which we have already referred. The town was a favorite haunt of Jane Austen and here she located one of the memorable scenes in "Persuasion." It is still a very quiet place--a retreat for those seeking real seclusion and freedom from the formality and turmoil of the larger and more fashionable resorts. Its tiny harbor, encircled by a crescent-shape sweep of cliffs, is almost innocent of craft to-day, though there was a time when it ranked high among the western ports. It is one of those delightful old villages one occasionally finds in England, standing now nearly as they did three centuries ago, while the great world has swept away from them. We wish we might tarry a day in Lyme Regis, but our plans will not permit it now. We climb the precipitously steep, irregular road that takes us out of the place, though we cast many backward glances at the little town and quiet blue-green harbor edged by a scimiterlike strip of silver sand. The Exeter road is much the same as that between Lyme Regis and Dorchester--winding, steep, narrow and rough in places--and the deadly Devonshire hedgerow on a high earthen ridge now shuts out our view of the landscape much of the time. Devon and Cornwall, with the most charming scenery in England, would easily become a great motoring ground if the people would mend the roads and eradicate the hedgerows. At Exeter we stop at the Rougemont for lunch, despite the recollection of pretty high charges on a former occasion. It is one of the best provincial hotels, if it is far from the cheapest. A drizzling rain is falling when we leave the cathedral city for Newton Abbot and Totnes, directly to the south; in the market-place of the first-named town is the stone upon which William III. was proclaimed king after his landing at Brixham. Totnes, seven miles farther, has many quaint old houses with odd piazzas and projecting timbered gables, which give the streets a decidedly antique appearance. Here, too, is another famous stone, the identical one upon which Brutus of Troy first set foot when landing in Britain at a date so remote that it can only be guessed at. Indeed, there be wiseacres who freely declare that the Roman prince never set foot on it at all; but we are in no mood for such scepticism to-day, when cruising about in a steady rain seeking "objects of interest," as the road-book styles them. Of Totnes Castle only the foundations remain, though it must have been a concentric, circular structure like that of Launceston. From its walls on fair days there is a lovely, far-reaching view quite shut out from us by the gray mist that hovers over the valley--a scene described by a writer more fortunate than we as "a rich soft country which stretches far and wide, a land of swelling hills and richly wooded valleys and green corn springing over the red earth. Northwards on the skyline, the Dartmoor hills lie blue and seeming infinitely distant in the light morning haze; while in the opposite direction, one sees a long straight reach of river, set most sweetly among the hills, up which the salt tide is pouring from Dartmouth so rapidly that it grows wider every moment, and the bitter sea air which travels with it from the Channel reaches as far as the battlements on which we stand. Up that reach the Totnes merchants, standing on these old walls, used to watch their argosies sailing with the tide, homeward bound from Italy or Spain, laden with precious wines and spices." But no one who visits Totnes--even though the day be rainy and disagreeable--should fail to see Berry Pomeroy Castle, which common consent declares the noblest ruin in all Devon and Cornwall. We miss the main road to the village of Berry and approach the ruin from the rear by a narrow, muddy lane winding over steep grades through a dense forest. We are not sure whether we are fortunate or otherwise in coming to the shattered haunt of the fierce old de Pomeroys on such a day. Perhaps its grim traditions and its legends of ghostly habitants seem the more realistic under such a lowering sky--and it may be that the gloomy day comports best with the scene of desolation and ruined grandeur which breaks on our vision. The castle was an unusual combination of medieval fortress and palatial dwelling house, the great towers still flanking the entrance suggesting immense defensive strength, as does the situation on the edge of a rocky precipice. The walls are pierced by multitudes of mullioned windows--so many, indeed, an old chronicle records, that it was "a day's work for a servant to open and close the casements." In some details the more modern remnants of the structure remind one of Cowdray Palace--especially the great window groups. Verily, "ruin greenly dwells" at Berry Pomeroy Castle. Ivy mantles every inch of the walls and some fragments, rising tall and slender like chimneys, are green to the very tops. The green sward runs riot over the inner courts and covers fallen masses of debris; great trees, some of them doubtless as old as the castle itself, sway their branches above it; our pictures tell the story, perhaps better than any words, of the rank greenness that seems even more intense in the falling rain. One quite forgets the stirring history of the castle--and it is stirring, for does not tradition record that its one-time owners urged their maddened steeds to spring to death with their riders from the beetling precipice on which the castle stands, rather than to surrender to victorious besiegers?--I say one forgets even this in the rather creepy sensations that come over him when he recalls the ghostly legends of the place. For Berry Pomeroy Castle has one of the most blood-curdling and best authenticated ghost stories that it has been my lot to read. It has a weird interest that warrants retelling here and the reader who has no liking for such things may skip it if he chooses. [Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS] "Somewhat more than a century ago, Dr. Walter Farquhar, who was created a baronet in 1796, made a temporary sojourn in Torquay. This physician was quite a young man at that time and had not acquired the reputation which, after his settlement in London, procured him the confidence and even friendship of royalty. One day, during his stay in Devon, he was summoned professionally to Berry Pomeroy Castle, a portion of which building was still occupied by a steward and his wife. The latter was seriously ill, and it was to see her that the physician had been called in. Previous to seeing his patient Dr. Farquhar was shown an outer apartment and requested to remain there until she was prepared to see him. This apartment was large and ill-proportioned; around it ran richly carved panels of oak that age had changed to the hue of ebony. The only light in the room was admitted through the chequered panes of a gorgeously stained window, in which were emblazoned the arms of the former lords of Berry Pomeroy. In one corner, to the right of the wide fireplace, was a flight of dark oaken steps, forming part of a staircase leading apparently to some chamber above; and on these stairs the fading gleams of summer's twilight shone through. "While Dr. Farquhar wondered, and, if the truth be told, chafed at the delay which had been interposed between him and his patient, the door opened, and a richly dressed female entered the apartment. He, supposing her to be one of the family, advanced to meet her. Unheeding him, she crossed the room with a hurried step, wringing her hands and exhibiting by her motions the deepest distress. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she paused for an instant and then began to ascend them with the same hasty step and agitated demeanour. As she reached the highest stair the light fell strongly on her features and displayed a countenance youthful, indeed, and beautiful, but in which vice and despair strove for mastery. 'If ever human face,' to use the doctor's own words, 'exhibited agony and remorse; if ever eye, that index of the soul, portrayed anguish uncheered by hope and suffering without interval; if ever features betrayed that within the wearer's bosom there dwelt a hell, those features and that being were then present to me.' "Before he could make up his mind on the nature of this strange occurrence, he was summoned to the bedside of his patient. He found the lady so ill as to require his undivided attention, and had no opportunity, and in fact no wish, to ask any questions which bore on a different subject to her illness. "But on the following morning, when he repeated his visit and found the sufferer materially better, he communicated what he had witnessed to the husband and expressed a wish for some explanation. The steward's countenance fell during the physician's narrative and at its close he mournfully ejaculated: "'My poor wife! my poor wife!' "'Why, how does this relation affect her?' "'Much, much!' replied the steward, vehemently. 'That it should have come to this! I cannot--cannot lose her! You know not,' he continued in a milder tone, 'the strange, sad history; and--and his lordship is extremely averse to any allusion being ever made to the circumstance or any importance attached to it; but I must and will out with it! The figure which you saw is supposed to represent the daughter of a former baron of Berry Pomeroy, who was guilty of an unspeakable crime in that chamber above us; and whenever death is about to visit the inmates of the castle she is seen wending her way to the scene of her crimes with the frenzied gestures you describe. The day my son was drowned she was observed; and now my wife!' "'I assure you she is better. The most alarming symptoms have given way and all immediate danger is at an end.' "'I have lived in and near the castle thirty years,' was the steward's desponding reply, 'and never knew the omen fail.' "'Arguments on omens are absurd,' said the doctor, rising to take his leave. 'A few days, however, will, I trust, verify my prognostics and see Mrs. S---- recovered.' "They parted, mutually dissatisfied. The lady died at noon. "Years intervened and brought with them many changes. The doctor rose rapidly and deservedly into repute; became the favourite physician and even personal friend of the Prince Regent, was created a baronet, and ranked among the highest authorities in the medical world. "When he was at the zenith of his professional career, a lady called on him to consult him about her sister, whom she described as sinking, overcome and heartbroken by a supernatural appearance. [Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CASTLE--WALL OF INNER COURT] "'I am aware of the apparent absurdity of the details which I am about to give,' she began, 'but the case will be unintelligible to you, Sir Walter, without them. While residing at Torquay last summer, we drove over one morning to visit the splendid remains of Berry Pomeroy Castle. The steward was very ill at the time (he died, in fact, while we were going over the ruins,) and there was some difficulty in getting the keys. While my brother and I went in search of them, my sister was left alone for a few moments in a large room on the ground-floor; and while there--most absurd fancy!--she has persuaded herself she saw a female enter and pass her in a state of indescribable distress. This spectre, I suppose I must call her, horribly alarmed her. Its features and gestures have made an impression, she says, which no time can efface. I am well aware of what you will say, that nothing can possibly be more preposterous. We have tried to rally her out of it, but the more heartily we laugh at her folly, the more agitated and excited does she become. In fact, I fear we have aggravated her disorder by the scorn with which we have treated it. For my own part, I am satisfied her impressions are erroneous, and rise entirely from a depraved state of the bodily organs. We wish for your opinion and are most anxious you should visit her without delay.' "'Madam, I will make a point of seeing your sister immediately; but it is no delusion. This I think it proper to state most positively, and previous to any interview. I, myself, saw the same figure, under somewhat similar circumstances and about the same hour of the day; and I should decidedly oppose any raillery or incredulity being expressed on the subject in your sister's presence.' "Sir Walter saw the young lady next day and after being for a short time under his care she recovered. "Our authority for the above account of how Berry Pomeroy Castle is haunted derived it from Sir Walter Farquhar, who was a man even more noted for his probity and veracity than for his professional attainments, high as they were rated. The story has been told as nearly as possible in Sir Walter's own words." Yonder is the "ghost's walk," along that tottering wall; yonder is the door the apparition is said to enter. If you can stand amidst these deserted ruins on a dark, lowering evening and feel no qualms of nervousness after reading the tale, I think you are quite able to laugh all ghosts to scorn. We have lingered long enough at Berry Pomeroy--we can scarce cover the twenty miles to Plymouth ere darkness sets in. But fortune favors us; at Totnes the rain ceases and a red tinge breaks through the clouds which obscure the western sky. We have a glorious dash over the wet road which winds through some of the loveliest of Devonshire landscapes. Midway, from the hilltop that dominates the vale of the Erme, we get a view of Ivy Bridge, a pleasant village lying along the clear river, half hidden in the purple haze of evening; and just at dusk we glide into the city of the Pilgrim Fathers. XVIII POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST We did not search our road-maps for Polperro because of anything the guide-books say about it, for these dismiss it as a "picturesque fishing village on the South Devonshire coast." There are dozens of such villages in Devon and Cornwall, and only those travelers whose feet are directed by some happy chance to Polperro will know how much it outshines all its rivals, if, indeed, there are any worthy to be styled as such. Our interest in the quaint little hamlet was aroused at a London art exhibit, where a well-known English artist showed some three score clever sketches which arrested our attention at once. "I made them last summer during a stay at Polperro," he said in answer to our inquiry. "And where is Polperro, pray?" we asked with visions of Italy or Spain and were taken aback not a little to learn that a Devonshire village afforded subject matter for the sketches. And forthwith Polperro was added to the list of places we must see on our projected Land's End tour. A diligent search of our maps finally revealed the name and showed the distance about twenty miles from Plymouth. The road is steep and winding and there is only a network of narrow lanes for some miles out of the village. We leave Plymouth after a night's sojourn at the Grand Hotel and cross the estuary at the Tor Point ferry, which makes trips at frequent intervals. A flat-bottomed ferry boat, held in place against the strong tides by heavy chains anchored at either end, takes us across for a moderate fare and we set out beneath a lowering sky to explore the rough and difficult but beautiful bit of country stretching along the coast from Plymouth to Fowey Harbor. Indeed, we had in mind to cross the estuary by ferry at the latter place and asked a garage employee about the facilities for so doing. "Hi wouldn't recommend it, sir. Last week a gent with a motor tried it and the boat tipped and let the car into the water. Hi went down to 'elp them get it out and you could just see the top sticking out at low tide." And so we altered our route to go around the estuary--some fifteen miles--rather than chance repeating the exciting experience of our fellow-motorist of the week before. But this is a digression--I had meant to say that there is little to engage our attention for several miles after crossing at Tor Point. The country is studded with rough hills and our route cuts across some of these, a wide outlook often rewarding the steep climb to the summits. We cautiously follow the sinuous road until it pitches sharply down into the ravinelike coomb occupied by the Looes, East and West, according to their position on the river. These villages cling to the steep hills, rising from either side of the river, which we cross by a lichen-covered bridge hung with a multitude of fishing nets. We see a confused medley of houses elbowing one another out into the roadway until their sagging gables nearly meet in places, built apparently with sublime disregard of the points of the compass and without any preconceived plan. Once it was a famous fishing port, but now the industry is conducted on a small scale only and the Looes have to depend largely on vacationists from Plymouth in summertime. We do not linger here, but after crossing the bridge we enter the narrow road that cuts straight across the hills to Polperro. It is a rough, hilly road and the heavy grades shift the gears more than once; but it carries us to splendid vantage-points where we pause to glance at the landscape. There are wide expanses of wooded hills with lovely intersecting valleys, the predominating green dashed with broad splotches of purple heather--the rankest and most brilliant of any we saw in a land famous for its heather! Over all stretches the mottled sky, reflecting its moods on the varied scenes beneath--here a broad belt of sunlight, yonder a drifting shower, for it is one of those fitful days that alternately smiles and weeps. We descend another long hill and enter the lane which runs down the ravine into the main street of Polperro. [Illustration: A STREET IN EAST LOOE--CORNWALL] The main street of Polperro! Was there ever another avenue like it?--a cobble-paved, crooked alley scarce a half dozen feet from curb to curb, too narrow for vehicles of any kind to pass. The natives come out and stare in wonderment at our presumption in driving a motor into Polperro--and we become a little doubtful ourselves when a sharp turn bars our progress near the post office. A man, seeing us hesitate, tells us we cannot very well go farther--a suggestion with which we quite agree--and leaving the car surrounded by a group of wondering children we set out on foot to explore the mysteries of Polperro. I think we can truthfully declare that of all the queer villages we saw in Britain--and it would be a long story to tell of them--no other matched the simple, unpretentious fisher-town of Polperro. No huge hotel with glaring paint, no amusement pier or promenade, none of the earmarks of the conventional resort into which so many fine old towns have--shall I say degenerated?--are to be seen; nothing but the strangest jumble of old stone houses, wedged in the narrow ravinelike valley. So irregularly are they placed, with such a total disregard of straight lines and directions, that it seems, as one writer has remarked, that they might originally have been built on the hillsides at decent distances from each other and by some cataclysm slid down in a solid mass along the river. The streets are little more than footpaths and wind among a hundred odd corners, of which the one shown in our sketch is only typical. We cross the river--at low tide only a shallow stream--by the narrow high-arched bridge, whose odd design and lichen-covered stones are in perfect keeping with the surroundings, and come out on the sea wall that overlooks the tiny harbor. A dozen old salts--dreaming, no doubt, of their active younger days on the blue sea stretching out before them--are roused from their reveries and regard us curiously. Evidently tourists are not an everyday incident in Polperro, and they treat us with the utmost civility, answering our queries in broad Cornish accent that we have to follow closely to understand. A few fishing boats still go out of the town, but its brave old days are past; modern progress, while it has left Polperro quite untouched, has swept away its ancient source of prosperity. Once its harbor was a famous retreat for smugglers, who did a thriving business along the Cornish coast, and it is possible some of these old fellows may have heard their fathers tell thrilling tales of the little craft which slipped into the narrow inlet with contraband cargos; of wrecks and prizes, with spoils of merchandise and gold, so welcome to the needy fisherfolk, and of fierce and often deadly conflicts with the king's officers. [Illustration: POLPERRO, CORNWALL--LOOKING TOWARD THE SEA] The tide is out and a few boats lie helplessly on their sides in the harbor; no doubt the scene is more animated and pleasing when the green water comes swelling up the inlet and fills the river channel, now strewn with considerable unsightly debris. A violent storm driving the ocean into the narrow cleft where the town lies must be a fearsome spectacle to the inhabitants, and fortunately it has been well described by Polperro's historian, who has told a delightful story of the town. "In the time of storm," he writes, "Polperro is a striking scene of bustle and excitement. The noise of the wind as it roars up the coomb, the hoarse rumbling of the angry sea, the shouts of the fishermen engaged in securing their boats, and the screams of the women and children carrying the tidings of the latest disaster, are a peculiarly melancholy assemblage of sounds, especially when heard at midnight. All who can render assistance are out of their beds, helping the sailors and fishermen; lifting the boats out of reach of the sea, or taking the furniture of the ground floors to a place of safety. When the first streak of morning light comes, bringing no cessation of the storm, but only serving to show the devastation it has made, the effect is still more dismal. The wild fury of the waves is a sight of no mean grandeur as it dashes over the peak and falls on its jagged summit, from whence it streams down the sides in a thousand waterfalls and foams at its base. The infuriated sea sweeps over the piers and striking against the rocks and houses on the warren side rebounds towards the strand, and washes fragments of houses and boats into the streets, where the receding tide leaves them strewn in sad confusion." A brisk rain begins as we saunter along the river, and we recall that the car has been left with top down and contents exposed to the weather. We hasten back only to find that some of the fisherfolk have anticipated us--they have drawn the top forward and covered everything from the rain as carefully as we could have done--a thoughtfulness for the stranger in the village that we appreciate all the more for its rarity. And though we left the car surrounded by a group of merry, curious children, not a thing is disturbed. [Illustration: LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO] The postmaster is principal shopkeeper and from him we learn something of the town and secure a number of pictures which we prize, though pictures are hopelessly inadequate to give any real idea of Polperro. As yet tourist visitors to the village are not numerous, though artists frequently come and are no longer a source of wonderment to the natives. Two plain but comfortable old inns afford fair accommodations for those who wish to prolong their stay. With the increasing vogue of the motor car, Polperro's guests are bound to be on the increase, though few of them will remain longer than an hour or two, since there is little to detain one save the village itself. Lansallos Church is a splendid edifice surrounded by tall trees beneath which are mouldering gravestones upon which one may read queer inscriptions and epitaphs. There is also an ancient water-mill just where the road enters the village, which still does daily duty, its huge overshot wheel turning slowly and clumsily as the clear little moorland stream dashes upon it. No famous man has come forth from the village, but it produced a host of hardy seamen, who, under such leaders as Drake and Nelson, did their full share in maintaining the unbroken naval supremacy of England. And not a few of those who fought so valiantly for their country gained their sea training and developed their hardihood and resourcefulness in the ancient and--in Devon and Cornwall--honorable occupation of smuggling. We follow narrow, hedge-bordered lanes northward for several miles to regain the main road from Liskeard to Lostwithiel; for while we should have preferred the coast route, we have no desire to try conclusions with the ferry at Fowey. The fitful weather has taken another tack and for half an hour we are deluged, the driving rain turning the narrow roads into rivers and making progress exceedingly slow. When we reach the main highway the rain abruptly ceases and the sky again breaks into mottled patches of blue and white, which scatter sunshine and shadow over the fields. The country is intensely green and we are now in a spot which a good authority declares the loveliest inland scenery in Cornwall. It is the pleasant vale of the River Fowey, in the center of which stands the charming old town of Lostwithiel, surrounded by luxuriant pastures which stretch away to the green encircling hills. There is a fourteenth-century bridge in the town which seems sturdy for all its six hundred years of flood and storm; and the church spire, with its richly carved open-work lantern, has been styled "the glory of Cornwall," and we will agree that it is one of the glories of Cornwall, in any event. It shows marks of cannon shot, for considerable fighting raged round the town during the civil war. So narrow and steep is the street that pitches down the hill into Fowey that we leave the car at the top and make the descent on foot. Indeed, the majority of the streets of the town are so narrow and crooked that it is difficult for a vehicle of any size to get about easily. From the hill we have a fine view of the little land-locked harbor, dotted with fishing vessels. It shows to-day a peculiar color effect--dark blue, almost violet, out seaward, while it fades through many variations of greens and blues into pale emerald near the shore. The town is clean and substantial-looking and it must have presented much the same appearance two hundred years ago--no doubt most of the buildings we now see were standing then. It is now a mere fisher village, somewhat larger and not quite so primitive as Polperro, though in the day of smaller ships it contended with Plymouth and Dartmouth for distinction as chief port of Cornwall. It was during its period of prosperity and maritime importance that the two towers, yet standing, were erected to guard the entrance of the harbor. A chain stretched between these made the town almost impregnable from attack by sea. Here the old-time seamen dwelt in security and plotted smuggling expeditions and raids upon the French--gentle occupations which greatly contributed to the prosperity of the town. These profitable trades about the middle of the fifteenth century proved Fowey's undoing. Peace had been declared with France, but the bold sailors went on with their raids and captured French vessels quite regardless of the treaties with that nation. This so incensed King Edward IV. that he caused numerous "leading citizens" of Fowey to be summarily hanged, levied a heavy fine on the town, and handed its ships over to the port of Dartmouth. The last proceeding seems like a grim bit of humor, for Dartmouth sailors were no less offenders against France than their unfortunate neighbors. After this sad experience it was long ere Fowey again held up its head and in the meanwhile it was far distanced by its former rivals. Its sailors, who had wrought many valorous deeds in the English navy, were little heard of afterwards and the rash, foolish action of the king practically wiped out an important port that would still have bred thousands of bold seamen to serve their country. [Illustration: A STREET IN FOWEY--CORNWALL] At the harbor wall a grizzled old fisherman approaches us and politely touching his cap offers to row us to a number of places which he declares we should see. We demur, not being fond of row-boats; he persists in his broad South-Country speech--to give it is past my linguistic powers, though I wish I could--"Pardon me for pushing my trade; it's the only way I have of earning a living now, since I gave up the sea." We think it worth the modest sum he proposes to charge us for a trip to hear him talk and we ask him about himself. "I was a sailor, sir, for more than fifty years and I saw a lot of hardship in my day with nothing to show for it now. It was all right when I was young and fond of roving, but as I grew old it began to pall and I wished I might have been able to lead a different life. But I had to stick to it until I was too old to stand the work, and I got the little boat here which makes me a poor living--there's nothing doing except in summertime and I have to get along as best I can in winter." "Do you own a house?" "Own a house?" he echoed in surprise at our ignorance. "Nobody owns a house here; the squire who lives in the big place on the hill yonder owns the town--and everybody in it. A common man hasn't any chance to own anything in England. It doesn't seem fair and I don't understand it--but we live by it in England--we live by it in England." We divert his bitter reflections by asking him about the town. "Don't forget the old Ship Inn," he said, "and the church--it has the tallest tower in Cornwall. You can see through the big castle on the hill if you get permission. Any famous people?--why, yes--Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch lives here. He's our only titled man and some of his books, they say, tell about Fowey." We thank our sailor friend and repair to the Ship Inn, as he counseled us. They show us the "great Tudor room," the pride of the house--a large beamed and paneled apartment with many black-oak carvings. But the chief end of the Ship to-day appears to be liquor selling, and not being bibulously inclined, we depart for the church. It was built in the reign of Edward IV., just before that monarch dealt the town its death-blow as a port and marked the end of Fowey's prosperity. The timber roof, the carved-oak pulpit and stone baptismal font are all unusually fine and there are some elaborate monuments to old-time dignitaries of the town. Place House, the great castellated palace on the hill, with immense, elaborately carved bow-windows, is the dominating feature of the town. Inside there is some remarkable open timberwork roofing the great hall and much antique paneling and carving. There is also a valuable collection of furniture and objects of art which has accumulated in the four hundred years that the place has belonged to the Treffry family. It is more of a palatial residence than a fortress and it appears never to have suffered seriously from siege or warfare. [Illustration: PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL] We are soon away on the highroad to Truro, which proves good though steep in places. There is a fine medieval church at St. Austell and another at Probus has one of the most striking towers we saw in England. It is of later origin than the main body of the church; some two hundred feet high, and is surmounted by Gothic pinnacles, with carved stone balustrades extending between them. Near the top it is pierced by eight large perpendicular windows, two to each side, and it is altogether a graceful and imposing edifice. Such churches in the poor little towns that cluster about them--no doubt poorer when the churches were built--go to show the store the Cornishmen of early days set by their religion, which led them out of their poverty to rear such stately structures; but it is quite likely that a goodly part of the profits of their old occupations--wrecking, smuggling and piracy--went into these churches as a salve to conscience. Nor is the church-building spirit entirely extinct, as proven by the magnificent towers of Truro Cathedral, of which I shall have more to say anon and which soon breaks into our view. [Illustration: KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL From original painting by Warne-Browne] As a matter of variation we take the southern route by the way of Helston from Truro to Penzance. This is rougher and has more steep hills than the direct road through Rudruth. Helston is some ten miles north of the Lizard Peninsula, where there is much beautiful coast scenery--especially Kynance Cove. Coming up the road along the coast toward Marazion, one gets a perfect view of the castle-crowned bulk of the Cornish St. Michael's Mount, the seat of the St. Aubyns. In the distance it stands like an immense pyramid against a wide reach of sunset sky, but as we come nearer the towers and battlements of the castle come out weird and strange; in the purple shadows the whole vast pile savors of enchantment. Beyond it shimmers the wide calm of Penzance Harbor--as it chances, dotted with the dark forms of some fifty leviathans of the British navy. For there is to be a great naval review in Penzance the coming week; the king and queen and a host of celebrities are expected. The town is gay with decorations and delirious with expectancy of the big events to come. Graham-White, the famous aviator, is to appear and there are to be many thrilling evolutions and much powder-burning by the royal fleet. Hotels and lodging-houses are crowded to the limit and if we have ever been somewhat dubious whether to try the hospitality of Land's End for the night, it is settled now--we could hardly stay in Penzance unless we camp on the street. It was indeed a bitter disappointment to Penzance that the capricious Cornish weather completely ruined the expected fete. Furious winds and continual rain drove the fleet to the more sheltered Tor Bay and the programme, on a greatly reduced scale, took place there. Aside from the disappointment, the people of the town suffered a heavy loss in the large sums they had spent in anticipation of the event. But Penzance is all unconscious of the fate in store for it; its streets are thronged and it is fairly ablaze with the national colors and elaborate electrical decorations. We thread our way slowly through its streets into the lonely indifferent lane that winds over steep and barren hills to Land's End. XIX LAND'S END TO LONDON The first sight of Land's End Hotel, a low, drab-colored building standing on the bleak headland, is apt to beget in the wayfarer who approaches it at sunset a feeling of regret that he passed through Penzance without stopping for the night. Nor does his regret grow less when he is assigned to ill-furnished rooms with uncomfortable-looking beds--which, I may say, do not belie their looks--or when he sits down to a dinner that is only a slight improvement upon our memorable banquet at John O'Groats. But we did not come to Land's End to find London hotel comforts and conveniences, but for purely sentimental reasons, which should preclude any fault-finding if accommodations are not just to our liking. It was our fancy to spend a night at both Land's End and John O'Groats--and it must be largely imagination that attracts so many tourists to these widely separated localities, since there are surely hundreds of bits of English and Scottish coast more picturesque or imposing than either. [Illustration: SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL From original painting by Thos. Moran, N. A.] But here we are, in any event, and we go forth in the gray twilight to take note of our surroundings. An old fellow who has been watching us closely since our arrival follows us and in a language that puzzles us a little urges the necessity of his services as guide if we are to see the wonders of Land's End. We are glad enough to have his assistance and he leads us toward the broken cliffs, thrusting their rugged bulk far into the white-capped waves which come rolling landward. The sky and sea are still tinged with the hues of sunset and a faint glow touches the reddish rocks along the shores. It is too late for the inspiring effect shown in Mr. Moran's wonderful picture--had we been an hour earlier we might have beheld such a scene. Subdued purplish hues now prevail and a dark violet-colored sea thunders upon the coast. The wind is blowing--to our notion, a gale, though our old guide calls it a stiff breeze. "A 'igh wind, sir? Wot would you call a wind that piles up the waves so you can't see yonder lighthouse, that's two hundred and fifty feet tall? That's wot I'd call a 'igh wind, sir. And you'd be drenched to the skin in a minute standing where you are." We revise our ideas of high winds accordingly, but a stiff breeze is quite enough for us, especially when the old man urges us to come out upon what seems to us an exceedingly precarious perch--because it is the "last rock in England." It stands almost sheer as a chimney with the sea foaming in indescribable fury some fifty or sixty feet below, and we have to decline, despite our guide's insistence that we are missing the chief sensation of Land's End. It was no doubt this identical spot which so impressed John Wesley, who visited Land's End in 1743, when he made his famous preaching tour in Cornwall. "It was an awful sight," he wrote. "But how will this melt away when God ariseth in judgment. The sea beneath doth indeed boil like a pot. One would indeed think the sea to be hoary! But though they swell, they cannot prevail. He shall set the bounds which they cannot pass!" But the great preacher did not say whether he stood on the "last rock" or not. We follow our guide in a strenuous scramble over the huge rocks to reach particular viewpoints, and, indeed, there are many awe-inspiring vistas of roaring ocean and rock-bound coast. Everywhere the sea attacks the shore in seeming fury, the great foam-crested waves sweeping against the jagged edges and breaking into a deluge of salt spray. "I've seen more than one ship go to pieces on these rocks in winter storms," says our guide. "At the last wreck twenty-seven lives were lost. I recovered one body myself--a fine Spanish-looking gentleman six feet three inches tall," he goes on, with an evident relish for gruesome details. "The winter storms must be terrible, indeed," we venture. "You can't imagine how dreadful," he answers. "I've seen the sea so rough that for three months no boat could reach yonder lighthouse a mile away; but the keeper was lucky to have food and he kept his light shining all the time. It's a dreary, lonely country in winter time, but more people would come if they only knew what an awful sight it is to see the sea washing over these headlands." The same story is told--in more polished language--by a writer who spent the winter in Cornwall and often visited Land's End on stormy nights: "The raving of the wind among the rocks; the dark ocean--exceedingly dark except when the flying clouds were broken and the stars shining in the clear spaces touched the big black incoming waves with a steely gray light; the jagged isolated rocks, on which so many ships have been shattered, rising in awful blackness from the spectral foam that appeared and vanished and appeared again; the multitudinous hoarse sounds of the sea, with throbbing and hollow booming noises in the caverns beneath--all together served to bring back something of the old vanished picture or vision of Bolerium as we first imagine it. The glare from the various lighthouses visible at this point only served to heighten the inexpressibly sombre effect, since shining from a distance they make the gloomy world appear vaster. Down in the south, twenty-five miles away, the low clouds were lit up at short intervals by wide white flashes, as of sheet lightning, from the Lizard light, the most powerful of all lights, the reflection of which may be seen at a distance of sixty or seventy miles at sea. In front of the Land's End promontory, within five miles of it, was the angry red glare from the Longships tower, and further away to the left the white revolving light of the Wolf lighthouse." Darkness has fallen and almost blotted out the wild surroundings save for the gleams which flash from the lighthouses across the somber waters. We wend our way back to our inn to rest as best we may in anything but comfortable beds after an unusually strenuous day; we have traveled but one hundred and twenty miles since leaving Plymouth in the morning, but we have seen so much and had such varied experiences that we have a dim feeling of having come many times as far. A glorious morning gives us the opportunity of seeing the wild coast at its best. A dark blue sea is breaking on the reddish brown rocks and chafing into white foam at their feet. We wander out on the headland to get a farewell glimpse of the scene--for there is little to tempt one to linger at Land's End; you may see it all at a sunset and sunrise. There is no historic ruin on the spot, and surely any thought of the hotel will hasten your departure if you ever had any intention of lingering. Sennan, a forlorn collection of stone huts about a mile from Land's End, is worth noting only as a type of the few tiny villages in the bit of barren country beyond Penzance and St. Ives. There is nothing to catch the artistic eye in these bleak little places; they lack the quaintness of Polperro or St. Ives and the coziness and color of the flower-embowered cottages of Somerset and Hampshire. The isolated farmhouses show the same characteristics and a description by a writer who lived in one of these during the winter months is full of interest: "Life on these small farms is incredibly rough. One may guess what it is like from the outward aspect of such places. Each, it is true, has its own individual character, but they are all pretty much alike in their dreary, naked and almost squalid appearance. Each, too, has its own ancient Cornish name, some of these very fine or very pretty, but you are tempted to rename them in your own mind Desolation Farm, Dreary Farm, Stony Farm, Bleak Farm and Hungry Farm. The farmhouse is a small, low place and invariably built of granite, with no garden or bush or flower about it. The one I stayed at was a couple of centuries old, but no one had ever thought of growing anything, even a marigold, to soften its bare, harsh aspect. The house itself could hardly be distinguished from the outhouses clustered round it. Several times on coming back to the house in a hurry and not exercising proper care I found I had made for the wrong door and got into the cow-house, or pig-house, or a shed of some sort, instead of into the human habitation. The cows and other animals were all about and you came through deep mud into the living-room. The pigs and fowls did not come in but were otherwise free to go where they liked. The rooms were very low; my hair, when I stood erect, just brushed the beams; but the living-room or kitchen was spacious for so small a house, and had the wide old open fireplace still common in this part of the country. Any other form of fireplace would not be suitable when the fuel consists of furze and turf." Such are the towns and farmhouses of this farthest Cornwall to-day--a country once prosperous on account of tin and copper mines which are all now abandoned. I doubt if there is a more poverty-stricken rural section in the Kingdom than Cornwall. I noted in a paper edited by a socialist candidate for the House of Commons a curious outburst over a donation made by the king to the poor of Cornwall, which was accompanied by a little homily from His Majesty on the necessity of the beneficiaries helping themselves. The article is so significant in the light it throws on certain social conditions and as illustrating a greater degree of freedom of speech than is generally supposed to exist in England that I feel it worth quoting: "Although we do not doubt the King's longing to help all his people, we must be forgiven if we refuse to be impressed by his apparent intensity of feeling. Not that we blame the King. In order to feel decently about the poor, one must have 'had some,' so to speak. And we can hardly imagine that King George knows much concerning the objects of his sympathy, when we consider the annual financial circumstances of his own compact little family. In the year that is ending they will have drawn between them the helpful pittance of six hundred thirty-four thousand pounds. This is exclusive of the income of the Prince of Wales, derived from the revenues of the Duchy of Cornwall. And even if this sum has been badly drained by Yuletide beneficence (as faintly threatened in the Church Army donation) the New Year will bring sure replenishment of the royal purse. "We should not have felt called upon to mention these little details were it not for the offensive phrase--'may they show their gratitude by industry and vigorous efforts to help themselves.' How can the poor devils who live in the foetid hovels which dot the Duchy of Cornwall 'help themselves?' Out of their shameful earnings--when they have any earnings--they must first pay toll to the bloated rent-roll of the King's infant son. Out of their constant penury they must help to provide an extravagant Civil List, to enable their Monarch to lecture on self-help at the end of a donation of twenty-five pounds. Help themselves? Show their gratitude? How can they help themselves when the earth was stolen from them before their birth, when their tools of production are owned and controlled by a group of moneyed parasites, when their laws are made and administered by the class which lives on their labours and fattens on their helplessness? Show their gratitude? Heaven have mercy upon us! What have they to be grateful for--these squalid, dependent, but always necessary outcasts of our civilization?" I fear this is pretty much of a digression, though I think an interesting one. Not all of Cornwall shows evidence of such poverty--the country steadily improves as we hasten to the fine old town of Truro and there is much good country beyond. Though we have come but thirty-six miles from Land's End, the indisposition of one of our party makes it advisable to pause in the old Cornish capital, where we may be sure of comfortable quarters at the Red Lion. We find this a commodious, substantial structure, built about two and a half centuries ago, with a fine entrance hall from which a black-oak stairway leads to the upper floors. Its accommodations and service seem to average with the best provincial hotels in towns the size of Truro, and, altogether, the Red Lion is perhaps as good a place to spend a day of enforced idleness as one is likely to come across. The town itself has little enough to interest the stranger, as I found in wandering about for some hours. Even the splendid cathedral lacks antiquity and historic association, for it still wants a few finishing touches. It has been about thirty years in building and more than a million dollars has been expended in the work. The exterior conforms to the best early English traditions, the most striking feature being the three splendid towers--the central one rising to a height of two hundred and fifty feet. The interior is somewhat glaring and bare, owing largely to the absence of stained-glass windows, of which there are only a few. A portion of the old parish church is included in the building and contains a few ancient monuments of little importance. On the whole, Truro Cathedral is a fine example of modern church architecture and proves that the art is not a lost one by any means. I was fortunate in happening to be inside during an organ rehearsal and more majestic and inspiring music I never heard than the solemn melodies which filled the vast vacant building. We are ready for the road after a day's sojourn in Truro, and depart in a steady rain which continues until nightfall. Our road--which we have traversed before--by way of St. Columb Major and Camelford to Launceston, is hilly and heavy and in the pouring rain we make only slow progress. The gray mist envelops the landscape; but it matters little, for the greater part of our road runs between the dirt fences I have described heretofore, which shut out much of the country, even on fine days. St. Columb and Camelford are dreary, angular little towns stretching closely along the highroad, quite unattractive in fine weather and under present conditions positively ugly. Camelford, some say, is the Camelot of the Arthurian romances, but surely no vestige of romance lingers about it to-day. From here we make a wild dash across the moor to Launceston--the rain is falling more heavily and the wind blowing a gale. Our meter seldom registers under forty miles, a pace that lands us quickly at the door of the White Hart; we are damp and cold and the old inn seems a timely haven, indeed. A change of raiment and warm luncheon makes us feel more at peace with the world, but we do not muster courage to venture out in the storm again. Perhaps if we could have foreseen that the following day would be no better, we should have resumed our journey. Indeed, the next morning the storm that drove the fleet away from Penzance was in full sway over Cornwall and a dreary, rain-swept country it was. The road northward to Holsworthy and Great Torrington is little else but a narrow and hilly lane, though as dreary a section as one will find in Cornwall or Devon, and here, also, the hedges intercept our view much of the way. The towns, too, are quite devoid of interest save the fine Perpendicular church which towers over Holsworthy. Bideford, famous in Kingsley's "Westward Ho!" and Barnstaple, with its potteries which produce the cheap but not inartistic "Barum ware," we have visited before and both have much worth seeing. We are now out of the zone of the storm and the weather is more tolerable; we have really been suffering from the cold in midsummer--not an uncommon thing in Britain. There are two first-class old inns at Taunton--on different occasions people of the town had assured us that each was the best--and though Baedeker gives the London the preference and honors it with the much coveted star, we thought the Castle equally good. It is a gray-stone, ivy-covered building near the castle and if our luncheon may be taken as an index, its service is all that can be desired. A little way out of Taunton we notice a monument a short distance from the roadside and easily identify it from pictures which we have seen as the memorial erected to commemorate the victory of King Alfred over the Danes at Sedgemoor. In olden times this whole section was a vast marsh in which was the Isle of Athelney, surrounded by an almost impenetrable morass. The king and a band of faithful followers built a causeway to the island, which served as a retreat while marshalling sufficient force to cope with the invaders. The rally of the Saxons around the intrepid king finally resulted in a signal victory, which broke the Danish power in England. Alfred built an abbey near the spot as a mark of pious gratitude for his success, but scarcely a trace remains of the structure to-day. In the same vicinity is supposed to have occurred the famous incident of King Alfred and the cakes, which he allowed to burn while watching them. Alfred was then in hiding, disguised as a farm laborer, and received a severe berating from the angry housewife for his carelessness. But Sedgemoor is historic in a double sense, for here the conflict occurred between the forces of James II. and the ill-fated Duke of Monmouth, to which we have previously referred. The rebels planned a night attack on the royal army, and, knowing that carelessness and debauchery would prevail in the king's camp on Sunday, they chose that day for the assault. The accidental discharge of a pistol gave warning of the approach of the assailants and they had the farther misfortune to be hopelessly entangled in the deep drainage ditches which then (as now) intersected the valley. The result was a disastrous defeat for the Duke's followers, of whom a thousand were slain. Monmouth himself was discovered by his enemies after two days' search, hiding in a ditch, and was duly executed in London Tower. Some five hundred of his followers--mostly ignorant peasants--were hanged at Taunton and Dorchester by orders of the infamous Jeffreys. This battle, which took place on Sunday, July 5, 1685, was the last of any consequence to be fought on English soil. The historic field to-day is green and prosperous-looking and the only indication that it was once a marshy fen is the ditches which drain its surplus waters. We pass Glastonbury and Wells, which might well detain us had we not visited them previously, for in all England there are few towns richer in tradition and history than the former; and the latter's cathedral no well-informed traveler would wish to miss. Bath, we know from several previous sojourns, affords an unequalled stopping-place for the night and we soon renew acquaintance at the Empire Hotel, where we are now fairly well known. Our odometer shows an unusually long day's run, much of which was under trying conditions of road and weather. This hotel belongs to a syndicate which owns several others, in London and at various resorts throughout the country. A guest who enters into a contract may stay the year round at these hotels for a surprisingly low figure, going from one to the other according to his pleasure--to Folkestone, for instance, if he wishes the seaside, or to London if he inclines towards the metropolis. Many English people of leisure avail themselves of this plan, which, it would seem, has its advantages in somewhat relieving the monotony of life in a single hotel. Though we have been in Bath several times, something has always interfered with our plan to visit the abbey church and we resolve to make amends before we set out Londonward. There are few statelier church edifices in the island--the "Lantern of England," as the guide-books style it, on account of its magnificent windows. These are mainly modern and prove that the art of making stained glass is far from lost, as has sometimes been insisted. So predominating are the windows, in fact, that one writer declares, "It is the beauty of a flower a little overblown, though it has its charms just the same." The most remarkable of all is the great western group of seven splendid windows illustrating biblical subjects in wonderfully harmonious colors. As may be imagined, the interior is unusually well lighted, though the soft color tones prevent any garish effect. The intricate tracery of the fine fan vaulted ceiling is clearly brought out and also the delicate carving on the screen--a modern restoration, by the way. The monuments are tasteless and, in the main, of little importance, though our attention is naturally arrested by a memorial to "William Bingham, Senator of the United States of America," who died at Bath in 1804. The exterior of the abbey--they tell us--has many architectural defects, though these are not apparent to the layman. The walls are supported by flying buttresses and the west front shows curious sculptures representing the angels upon Jacob's ladder. The tower, one hundred and sixty-five feet in height, is a pure example of English Perpendicular and is rather peculiar in that it is oblong rather than square. As we leave the town we cannot but admire its cleanliness and beautiful location. It skirts both banks of the River Avon and is surrounded by an amphitheater of wooded hills. To our notion it is the finest of inland English resort towns and certainly none has a more varied past, nor has any other figured so extensively in literature. It is about one hundred miles from London by road, and is a favorite goal for the motorist from that city. The road to London is a fine broad highway leading through Marlborough and Reading. It proves a splendid farewell run to our third long motor tour through Britain; we have covered in all nearly twenty thousand miles of highways and byways during varying weather. If there has been much sunshine, there have also been weeks of rain and many lowering gloomy days. There is scarce an historic shrine of importance in the Kingdom that has escaped us and we have visited hundreds of odd corners not even mentioned in the guide-books. And, best of all, we have come to know the people and have gained considerable familiarity with their institutions, which has not lessened our respect and admiration for the Motherland. Indeed, I feel that our experience sufficiently warrants a chapter on the English at home--as we saw them--and I make no apology for concluding this book with such. It is not free from criticism, I know, but could an honest observer write more favorably of our own country--if conditions were such that he might tour our populous states as thoroughly as we have done Britain? Our last day on the road fulfills the ideal of English midsummer; the storm has passed, leaving the country fresh and bright; green fields alternate with the waving gold of the ripening harvest, and here and there we pass an old village or a solitary cottage by the roadside--all typical of the rural England we have come to love so much. We drive leisurely over the fine road and linger an hour or two in Marlborough after luncheon at the Ailesbury Arms, whose excellence we have proven on previous occasions. We find an antique-shop here with a store of old silver that rivals our discovery in Largo, and the prices asked are no higher. From Reading we follow the Thames River road, which for some miles skirts the very shore of the historic stream and passes within a distant view of the towers of Windsor, rising in all their romantic majesty against the sunset sky. From Windsor we follow the familiar road to the heart of the teeming metropolis and our third long motor pilgrimage in Summer Britain is at its close. [Illustration: "A DISTANT VIEW OF THE TOWERS OF WINDSOR" From original painting by the late Edward Moran] XX THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS One who has spent many months in the United Kingdom, traveling about twenty thousand miles by motor and considerably by train, and who has met and conversed with the common people of every section of the country in the most retired nooks and in metropolitan cities, may, I hope without undue assumption, venture a few remarks on the English people and their institutions. One would be a dull observer indeed if he did not, with the opportunities which we had, see and learn many things concerning present-day Britain. It is the custom of some American writers, even of recent date, to allege that a general dislike of Americans exists in the Kingdom; and it would not be very strange if this should be true, considering the manner in which many Americans conduct themselves while abroad. Our own experience was that such an idea is not well founded. In all our wanderings we saw no evidence whatever of such dislike. In England everyone knows an American at sight and had there been the slightest unfriendliness towards Americans as a class, it would certainly have been apparent to us during such a tour as our own. I think many incidents cited in this as well as in my former books go to prove that the reverse is true, but these incidents are only a fraction of what I might have given. That a certain uncongeniality, due to a difference in temperament and lack of mutual understanding, exists between the average American and the average Englishman, we may freely admit, but it would be wrong to view this as personal dislike of each other. I have no doubt that even this barrier will disappear in time, just as the dislike and jealousy which really did exist a quarter of a century ago have disappeared. Who could now conceive of the situation that moved Nathaniel Hawthorne to write in "Our Old Home" fifty years ago: "An American is not apt to love the English people, on whatever length of acquaintance. I fancy they would value our regard and even reciprocate it in their ungracious way if we could give it to them, in spite of all rebuffs; but they are beset by a curious and inevitable infelicity which compels them, as it were, to keep up what they consider a wholesome feeling of bitterness between themselves and all other nations, especially Americans." Of our own experience, at least, we may speak with authority. As a result of our several sojourns in Britain and extensive journeyings in every part of the Kingdom, we came to have only the kindest regard for the people and greater appreciation of their apparent good will. As we became better informed we were only the more interested in the history and traditions of the Motherland, and we almost came to feel something of the pride and satisfaction that must fill the breast of the patriotic Englishman himself. Nothing will serve more to impress on one the close connection between the two countries than the common literature which one finds everywhere in both; and you will pass scarce a town or village on all the highways and byways of the Old Country that has not its namesake in America. Our impressions as to the fairness and honesty of the English people generally were most favorable. First of all, our dealings with hotels were perhaps the most numerous of our business transactions. Never to my recollection did we inquire in advance the price of accommodations, and I recall scarcely a single instance where we had reason to believe this had been taken advantage of. This was indeed in striking contrast to our experience with innkeepers on the Continent. For an American in possession of a motor to take up quarters in the average French or German hotel without close bargaining and an exact understanding as to charges would soon mean financial ruin to the tourist of moderate means. We could give almost as good report of the many English shopkeepers with whom we dealt--there was no evidence of any attempt to overcharge us on account of being tourists. Nor did I ever have a cab or carriage-driver try to exact more than was coming to him--though of course a small extra fee is always expected--certainly a contrast with New York City, for instance, where it is always hazardous to get into a cab without an iron-clad agreement with the driver. Perhaps the credit for this state of affairs may be due not so much to the honesty of the English Jehus as to a public sentiment which will not tolerate robbery. Nor should I fail to mention that in twenty thousand miles of touring our car was left unguarded hundreds of times with much movable property in it, and during our whole journey we never lost the value of a farthing from theft. It is no new thing to say that the average Englishman is insular--but this became much more to us than mere hearsay before we left the country. The vision of few of the people extends beyond the Island, and we might almost say, beyond an immediate neighborhood. There is a great disinclination to get out of an established groove; outside of certain classes there appears to be little ambition to travel. I know of one intelligent young man of thirty who had never seen salt water--nowhere in England more than a hundred miles distant. I was told that a journey from a country town in Scotland or North England to London is an event in a lifetime with almost any one of the natives. The world beyond the confines of England is vague indeed; Germany, the universal bugbear, is best known and cordially hated, but of America only the haziest notions prevail. Not one in a thousand has any conception of our distances and excepting possibly a dozen cities, one town in America is quite as unknown as another. Akin to this insularity is the lack of enterprise and adaptability everywhere noticeable--a clinging to outworn customs and methods. Since the English vision does not extend to the outer world, but little seems to be expected or even desired of it. There is not the constant desire for improvement, and the eager seeking after some way to do things quicker and better--so characteristic of America--is usually wanting. An American manufacturer will discard even new machinery if something more efficient comes out, but an Englishman only thinks of making his present machine last to the very limit of endurance. A friend told me of a relative of his who boasted that in his mill a steam engine had been running fifty years; it never occurred to the mill-owner that the old engine almost yearly ate up the cost of a new one on account of inefficiency and wasted fuel. Often in garages where I took my car to have it cleaned and oiled, I could not help noting the inefficiency of the workmen. At times I had the engine crank case removed and cleaned and this one little thing gave a painful insight into the methods of the English workman. Nothing could be simpler than removing and replacing the dust shield under the engine--simply snapping six spring catches out of and into position. Yet I have seen one or even two men crawl around under the car for a half hour or more in performing this simple operation. In replacing the oil reservoir and pump I found that nothing would take the place of personal supervision--a cotter pin, gasket or what not would surely be left out to give further trouble. Repairing an American car in a provincial town would be a serious job unless the owner or his driver were able to oversee and direct the work. As I have stated, we left England with decidedly favorable impressions of the country and people; so much so that I doubt not many of our fellow-countrymen would think us unduly prejudiced. But all this did not blind us to the fact that England in many regards is in a distinctly bad way and that a thorough awakening must come if she is to avoid sure decadence. Indeed, there are many, chief among them distinguished Englishmen and colonials, who aver that such decadence has already begun, but there is much difference of opinion as to its cause and as to what may best check its progress. If I were to give my own humble opinion as to the chief disadvantage from which the country suffers and the most depressing influence on national character, I should place feudalism first of all and by this I mean the system of inherited titles, offices and entailed estates. I know that the government of the Kingdom is regarded as one of great efficiency and stability, and I think justly so; and this is often urged by apologists for the feudal system. But the Englishman is slow to learn that just as stable and quite as efficient government may be had without the handicap of outworn medievalism. That the present system seems to work well in England is not due to any inherent merit it may possess, but to the homogeneity of the nation, and to a universal spirit of law-abiding that would insure success for almost any respectable type of government. It does not work well in Ireland and never has; and it has substantially been abandoned in the self-governing colonies. It seems to me, however, that the question as to how the feudal system works in government is of little consequence as compared with its ultimate effect on national character under modern conditions; for it is all out of accord with the spirit of modern progress, and if it ever served a useful purpose, it has well outlived it. One may justly claim that the king and the nobility have really little to do with governing, especially since the abolition of the veto of the House of Lords; that the will of the people finds expression in England quite as strongly as anywhere; but even if we admit this, I cannot see that it offers any argument in favor of feudalism. No one can make a tour of England such as ours and not observe the spirit of servility among the common people due to the inbred reverence for a title. Indeed, there is no feeling in England that all men are born free and equal, or that one man is quite as good as another so long as he behaves himself. A mere title, Sir, Duke, Earl, Lord or what-not, creates at once a different order of being and the toadyism to such titular distinctions is plainly noticeable everywhere. An earl or a duke is at our hotel; he may be a bankrupt, inconsequential fellow, it is true; he may not have a single personal trait to command respect and he may not be engaged in any useful industry. But there is much salaaming and everyone about the place assumes an awe-stricken, menial attitude, merely because the gentleman has the prefix Earl or Duke--there can be no other reason. Is it strange that such a spirit causes the common people to lose self-reliance and yield up their ambition to be anything more than their fathers before them? A proportion of the nobility may be composed of men of character and ability, fitted to occupy positions of authority and public responsibility and the present king may be all that a king should be; but the system is wrong and its effect on English character can hardly fail to have an untoward influence on the nation. I find this view borne out in a guarded way in a book recently published by a prominent colonial official who spent some time in England. He insists that the lack of patriotism, which one can hardly fail to observe, is due to the present social system. He declares that the common people take little interest in national affairs and make no study of problems confronting the government. They expect the so-called "upper classes" to do the governing for them; there is no need to concern themselves over matters that must be settled by a House of Lords in whose choosing they can have no voice. The recruits to the nobility now come almost exclusively from the wealthy class; we often have flung in our faces in England the taunt that there is an aristocracy of wealth in America, and that the pursuit of the Almighty Dollar is the all-prevailing passion. It may be just, in the same general way that I intend these remarks to apply to England, but we can at least retort that our oil, beef, mining and railway magnates cannot purchase a title and found a "family," thus becoming in the public eye a superior class of beings and established as our hereditary rulers. A wealthy brewer may not become "my lord" for a consideration, in any event. A recent American writer makes the curious apology for the House of Lords as a legislative body that it affords the English people the services of the most successful moneyed men in framing laws and that the sons of such men are pretty sure to be practical, well-trained fellows themselves. He also argues that the families usually die out in a few generations, thus introducing new blood continually and forming, in his estimation, a most capable legislative body. The preposterous nature of such statements can best be shown by trying to apply such a system to the United States Senate. If our senators, for instance, were hereditary lords, recruited from the oil, beef, brewing, mining or railway magnates aforementioned, what might the American people expect from them? We complain vigorously if any senator is shown to be influenced by such interests and more than one legislator has found out to his grief that such a connection will not be tolerated. Suppose we had a system that put the principals themselves in a permanent legislative body and invested them with all the glamour of "his grace" or "my lord?" Quite unthinkable--and yet such is the system in Britain. And these self-sacrificing hereditary legislators are no fonder of bearing the real burdens of the country than our own plutocrats are. There is much complaint in England that in the ranks of the nobility are to be found the most flagrant tax dodgers in the Kingdom. Nor does this complaint lack for vigorous utterance--a most hopeful sign of the times, to my notion. But recently a London paper exploited the case of the Marquis of Bute, owner of Cardiff Castle--and most of Cardiff, for that matter--who returned his personal tax at less than a thousand pounds, and that included Cardiff Castle and grounds, which represent literally millions! Yet no man in the Kingdom is better able to afford payment of his just tax than this nobleman. To show the gross injustice of his tax, a comparison was made of the castle with a humble tailor shop in Cardiff, ninety by one hundred and twenty feet, which was taxed at a higher figure! The newspaper in question also declared that this case was typical of tax-dodging lords all over the country. That there is a strong under-current against the feudal system cannot be doubted; we found it everywhere, though at times but half expressed and again only to be inferred, but it exists none the less. Indeed, more recent developments have shown the extent of such sentiment in the overthrow of the veto power of the Lords. This is a great step in advance, though England would be infinitely the gainer if the feudal system were abolished and not merely modified. This antagonism does not extend to royalty--that institution escapes through the popularity of the present king and queen. But the time may come when a weak and unpopular king will turn public sentiment against the very keystone of feudalism and the whole structure is likely to fall. When one recollects the furore that prevailed in England when the former king as Prince of Wales was mixed up with the Baccarat scandals, it is easy to see how much royalty owes its existence to good behavior. At that time doubt was freely expressed as to whether the prince would ever be king of England, but he lived it all down by his subsequent good record. I had many intelligent men admit that "your system of government is right; we shall come to it some time," or words to that effect, and we heard many ill-concealed flings at the nobility. "We are all the property of the nobility," said one intelligent young shopman of whom in the course of conversation we inquired if he owned his home. "No one has any chance to own anything or be anything in England." And in a prayer-book at Stratford Church we found the petition "for the nobility" erased with heavy pencil lines. I give these as typical of many similar instances, but I have no space in this book for discussion of the impressions I record. A volume would be required should I attempt this. I can only set down these random notes without elaborate argument. And yet, what could be more convincing that the social system of England is wrong than the hopelessness we found everywhere and the refrain that we heard oftener than any other, "A common man has no chance in England?" If he is not fortunate or a genius, there is nothing for him. He must either succumb to inevitable mediocrity and poverty or get away to some new country to gain the opportunity of competence and social promotion in any degree. It is to the feudal system that can be charged the astonishing state of affairs in England that makes a gentleman of a person with no occupation--a loafer, we would style him in America--and socially degrades the useful citizen engaged in trade. On this particular phase I will not pass my own comment, but quote from a book, "Wake Up, England," by P. A. Vaile, Premier of New Zealand, lately issued by a London publisher: "There is perhaps nothing in English life so disgusting to a man who has not the scales upon his eyes as the loathsome snobbery of those who profess to despise a man because his income is derived from a trade or business. It is wholly inexcusable and contemptible. Trade, instead of being considered honourable and dignified, is, in the eyes of every snob, a degradation. Unfortunately, snobs in England are not scarce. "The tradesman is himself in a great measure to blame for this, for he accepts humbly as his due the contempt that is meted out to him. Most of those who so freely despise the poor necessary man of trade, have a portion of their savings, when they are lucky enough to have any, invested in some large millinery or pork-butcher's business that has been floated into a limited liability company--yet to them the man who earns their dividends is absolutely outside the pale. "If there is any nation that I know that is hopelessly bourgeois, it is England. Why can we not be manly enough to recognize the fact, to acknowledge and freely admit to ourselves that we are a nation of very commonplace individuals, mostly shopkeepers, that it is the shopkeepers who have made the nation what she is, and that commerce is an occupation worthy of any gentleman instead of being a calling which merits the contempt of the idle, the rich and the foolish?" If such a condition prevails in England, it can surely be chargeable to nothing else than a system which places the stamp of superiority on the idler and puts him in a position where he can assume a patronizing air towards those who are the backbone and mainstay of the nation. Hand in hand with outworn feudalism goes the established church, of which it is really a part and parcel. A state religion of which a none too religious king may be the head, and whose control may fall into the hands of politicians who are frequently without the first qualification of churchmen, is an incongruity at best. If America has proven anything, she has demonstrated that absolute separation is best for both church and state; that true religious freedom and amity can best be conserved by it. But in England the established church is a constant bone of contention; its supercilious, holier-than-thou attitude toward the other churches is the cause of much heart-burning and friction. It has the sanction of the state, the social rank, the great church buildings and the traditions, and forces other Christian denominations into the attitude of the poor and rather shabby relation of a wealthy aristocrat--the wealth in this case not measured merely in money. Class distinction, the curse of England everywhere, is only fomented by the attitude of the established church. In religious matters it is not human nature to concede to anyone else superiority, and not until the Church of England places itself on common ground with its contemporaries, will true fraternity among the different denominations be possible in England as it is rapidly becoming in America. I remember a kindly old gentleman who showed us much courtesy in the English Boston in pointing out to us the places of interest, but who did not fall in with our enthusiasm over the great church. "Ah, yes," he said. "It once belonged to Rome, who grew arrogant and oppressive--and fell; it now belongs to a church that is just as arrogant and would be as much of an oppressor if she dared--and her downfall is just as sure." And the enthusiasm with which he pointed out the plain Wesleyan chapel betrayed his own predilections. That the educational system of England is faulty and inefficient we have the testimony of many leading English educators themselves. The constant interference of the Church of England and the Catholics with the public schools is greatly responsible for the chaos of the educational situation of the country. Conditions in England are such that a most excellent public school system might easily be maintained. The density of population and the perfect roads would make every rural school easily accessible, and there would be distinct advantages not enjoyed by many American communities which have far better schools. But church jealousy, hidebound tradition, and the almost universal inefficiency of English school-teachers, are obstacles hard to overcome. I cannot discuss so great a question in the limits of a short chapter, but the testimony of the most representative English educators may be found in the report of the commission which visited American schools under the guidance of Mr. Alfred Mosely. That England, generally speaking, is better and more efficiently governed than the United States is no proof that its system is as good as our own, or that its possibilities equal ours. It is rather due to the homogeneity of the masses and to a more prevalent respect for law and authority among the people. Justice is surer and swifter when the criminal's offense is once proven in the courts; but the many technicalities and the positive nature of proof required enables a large number of swindlers and rascals to keep at large. Dead-beats will evade debts, irresponsible tenants refuse payment of rents for indefinite periods, and petty swindlers go quite free--all of whom would be given short shrift in America--simply because it is a dangerous matter to risk infringing the "rights of the subject" and thus lay oneself liable to heavy damages should charges fail of proof. The excellence of the British police system is proverbial; in efficiency and honesty of administration it has no parallel in America. Bribery and corruption among policemen are unknown, as Americans sometimes learn to their grief--illustrated by the instance of a rich New Yorker who offered a gold coin to an officer who had held up his motor for speeding. The offender was fined, not only for speeding, but much more heavily for attempted bribery--as it was justly regarded by the court. From the hundreds of policemen of whom we made inquiries--often very stupid, no doubt, to the officer--we never had an answer with the slightest trace of ill nature or impatience. Frequently the officer gave us much assistance in a friendly way and information as to places of interest. The British policeman has no swagger or ostentation about him; he carries no weapon--not even the club so indispensible in the States--yet he will control the riotous crowds more effectively than his American brother; but we should remember that even a riotous English mob has more respect for law than one on our side. He appears to appreciate thoroughly the value of his position to him personally and his dignity as a conserver of law and order, which he represents rather than some ward politician or saloon-keeper. And, speaking of saloons--public houses, they call them in Britain--the drink evil averages worse than in the United States. Three quarters of a billion dollars go directly every year for spirituous liquors and no statistics could show the indirect cost in pauperism, suffering and crime, to say nothing of the deleterious effect on the health of a large portion of the people. In America liquor in the country hotel is an exception, constantly becoming rarer; in England it is the universal rule. Every hotel is quite as much a saloon, in our vernacular, as a house of entertainment for travelers. Women with children in their arms frequent the low-grade drink houses and women as bar-maids serve the liquors. More than once I had to exercise great caution on account of reeling drunken men on the streets of the smaller towns; but we had only hearsay for it that in the slums of Liverpool and London one may find hundreds of women dead drunk. There was much indignation over an insinuation made in parliament against the character of the bar-maids, but it is hard to see how many of these women, surrounded by the influences forced upon them by their vocation, can lead a decent life for any length of time. Surely the drink evil in Great Britain and Ireland is a serious one and deserves far more active measures than are being taken against it. That sentiment is slowly awakening is shown by the fight made for the "licensing bill" which proposed a step, though a distant one, towards repression of the traffic. That the almost world-wide movement against the liquor business will make headway in England is reasonably certain and those who have her welfare at heart will earnestly hope that its progress may be rapid. But in this connection I wish to emphasize that my observations on the liquor question in Britain are broadly general; there are millions of people in the Kingdom to whom they do not apply, and there are whole sections which should be excepted had I space to particularize. North Wales, for instance, has a population that for sobriety and general freedom from the evils of drink will rival any section of similar population anywhere. The mining towns of Southern Wales, however, are quite the reverse in this particular. While Wales is a loyal and patriotic part of the British Empire, there are many ways in which the people are quite distinct and peculiar as compared with native Englishmen. Perhaps the most notable point of difference is consistent opposition to the established church, which has little support in Wales and has been practically forced upon the Welsh people by the British government. Only recently a measure for disestablishment has been entertained in parliament and it is sure to come sooner or later. For the people of Northern Wales we came to have the highest respect and even regard. They were universally kind and courteous and their solicitude for the stranger within their gates seemed to be more than a mere desire to get his money. There is no place in the Kingdom where one may find good accommodations cheaper, barring a half dozen notable resorts in the height of the season. Added to this, the beauty of the country and its romantic and historic interest make a combination of attractions that would long detain one whose time permitted. The foregoing observations about the Welsh are applicable in a greater or less degree to many sections of England and to most of rural Scotland, save that in the latter country hotel expenses will average higher. A word on hotels generally may not come amiss from one whose experience has dealt with several hundreds of them of all classes and degrees, from the country inn to the pretentious resort hotel. It was our practice to seek out the best in every case, since we hardly enjoyed hotel life even under the most favorable conditions; but it was largely saved from monotony by the traditions which have gathered about almost every ancient inn in the Kingdom. One would miss much if he did not visit the old inns such as the Feathers in Ludlow, the Lygon Arms in Broadway, the Great White Horse in Ipswich, the King's Head in Coventry--but I could fill pages with names alone; I would as soon think of missing a historic castle or a cathedral as some of the inns. It is this sentiment that has led me to give the rather extended individual mention accorded in some cases. As a whole, the British hotels are comfortable and well conducted. Outside of London one will find the menus rather restricted and usually quite heavy and substantial from an American point of view. Special dishes are not easily obtained in the country inns and request for them is not at all enthusiastically received. Eggs and bacon--with the latter very nearly answering the specification of ham in America--with fish, usually sole or plaice, and tea or rather bad coffee, is the standard breakfast. Fruit cannot usually be had even in season without prearrangement the evening before, and then only at exorbitant prices. Strawberries, for instance--there are none finer than the English in season--may be selling for sixpence a quart, but you will pay half a crown extra for a lesser quantity served with your breakfast. An assortment of cold meats, usually displayed on the sideboard, forms the basis for luncheon and the very wise native will go to the sideboard and select his own portions. There will sometimes be a hot dish of meat; cabbage and potatoes are the standard vegetables, the latter cooked without seasoning and generally poor. A lettuce salad and cheese, with stewed fruit or a tart, as they style a pastry something similar to an American pie, will complete the meal--at least for one who does not care for liquid refreshments, which may be had in great variety. Dinner in the smaller inns is usually served on the table d'hote plan. A very poor soup, a bit of stale fish--inexcusable in a country surrounded by the sea; an entree, usually a highly seasoned hotch-potch, or chicken and bacon--often a vile combination--followed by some heavy, indigestible "sweet," made the standard evening meal. We finally rebelled against this and had many a lively tilt with the manageress in our efforts to get a plain meal of eggs, tea, bread and butter and perhaps a chop. In some of the resort hotels our demands caused positive consternation and in more than one case had to be taken up with the proprietor himself. The difficulty was chiefly due to the disarrangement of the regime; the table d'hote meal was ready, though often stale and cold, and one waiter by following the fixed routine could serve a dozen people, while our simple wants usually disarranged the whole program, both in kitchen and dining room. It was rare indeed that a mutton chop could be had in the hotel; some one must be sent to the meat shop for it, and any such departure from the fixed order of things jarred the nerves of the whole establishment. It is only fair to state, however, that at some of the fine inns I have especially mentioned there were notable exceptions to these generalizations. The rooms in the country hotel do not average very comfortable; the furniture is scant; they are poorly lighted--if not with candles, a single dim electric bulb or gas light serves the purpose; feather beds, with the odors that these give out in a damp climate, were not uncommon, though flat rebellion against them would often bring out the fact that there were others in the house. Bathing facilities were usually poor, a dirty bathroom or two serving the entire house. Not in a single case did we find running water in the rooms. But with all its drawbacks, the British provincial hotel will probably average as good as may be found in any country, and in motoring one has the option of going on to the next town if conditions seem too bad to be endured. Rates--to tourists--in the better class hotels are not low; yet I would not call them exorbitant as a rule. Two shillings for breakfast, three for luncheon and four to six for dinner may be given as the average, while the charge for rooms can hardly be generalized. Five or six dollars per day per person should cover the hotel expense, including tips. And, speaking of tips, these aggregate no inconsiderable item; a smaller individual amount will give satisfaction than in America, but the number of beneficiaries is so much greater that the total cost is more. Every servant who does anything for you or who ought to do anything, must have a fee--porter, boots, chambermaid, waiter, head waiter, stable man, garage attendant, the man who cleans your car or brings you oil or petrol; in fact, everyone in the hotel except the proprietor or manageress expects from sixpence to half a crown for the day, as the case may be, and it does not pay to withhold it. One subjected to such exactions cannot but view with great concern the increase of the practice of tipping in America; should it ever become so prevalent here at the much higher rate that the American servant requires, traveling would be prohibitive except for millionaires. [Illustration: FRANCE AND GERMANY Outline map showing Author's route on Continent.] INDEX A Abbeville, 7-8, 133. Abbotsford, 173-177. Aberdeen, 188-190. Achaius, King, 217. Ailsa Craig, 239. Alfred, King, 348-349. Alloway, 231-236, 250. Alsace, 59-60. Amboise, 32, 33, 35-36. Amiens, 129-133. Andover, 299. Angel Inn, Grantham, 149-150. Angers, 27-28. Austen, Jane, 308. Autun, 52-53. Avranches, 20-21. Awe, Loch, 225. Ayr, 230-231. B Baliol, John, 243-245. Ballachulish, 217-221, 223. Ballantrae, 240. Ballater, 188. Balmoral Castle, 187-188. Barnes, William, 302-303. Barnstaple, 348. Barrhead, 230. Bartholdi, Frederic, 60. Basingstoke, 299. Bassenthwaite Water, 246, 248-249. Bath, 350-351. Bayerischer-Hof, Fussen, 66-67. Bayeux, 16-17. Beaugency, 40-41. Beethoven, Ludwig, 97. Benderloch Station, 221, 223. Bennane Head, 240. Ben Nevis, 216, 217, 223. Berck-sur-Mer, 6-7. Berry Pomeroy Castle, 311-319. Bettyhill, 204-205. Beauly, 209. Bideford, 347-348. Bingen, 89-91. Bishop Auckland, 153-154. Blairgowrie, 185. Blandford, 300. Blois, 32, 36-40. Bonar Bridge, 194, 208. Bonn, 97. Bonsecours, 13-14. Bootle, 252, 257. Boppard, 93. Bornhofen, 93. Boroughbridge, 147. Boulogne, 4-6, 133, 134-135. Bowness, 259. Braemar, 182, 186-187. Bridport, 308. Broughton, 252, 257-258. Burns, Robert 181, 230-237. Burntisland, 182. Byrness, 156. Byron, Lord, 96, 188. C Caedmon, 162, 164, 168. Caen, 15-16. Caithness, 192-193. Calder Abbey, 253-254. Caledonian Canal, 210-212. Camelford, 346-347. Carlisle, 246. Carlton Hotel, Frankfort, 86. Casino, The, Boulogne, 135. Castle Douglas, 241, 242. Castle Hotel, Conway, 278, 280-281. Catcleugh, 156. Catherine de Medici, 34, 35-36, 38. Catherine of Beraine, Lady, 274. Cawdor Castle, 213. Charles I., 149, 267-268, 270, 295-296. Charles Edward, Prince, 152, 178-179, 212, 221-222. Chateaubriant, 26. Chaumont, 32. Chenonceaux, 32-34. Chester, 262-263. Chinon, 32, 52. Coblenz, 89, 94-96. Cockermouth, 248-251. Colmar, 60. Cologne, 96-99, 125. Constance, Lake, 62-64. Continental Hotel, Munich, 77, 80-81. Conway, 263-264, 278-297. Cook, Capt., 160, 170-171. Cook & Sons, Thos., 69-70, 210. Corbridge, 147, 155. Cosne, 46. Coutances, 20. Crinan Canal, 227. Cromarty Firth, 194. Cromwell, Oliver, 306. Culloden Moor, 212, 213, 217, 222. Culzean Castle, 237. Cupar, 184. D Dalton, 259. Darlington, 153. Darmstadt, 84. Darnick, 177-178. Deganwy, 287. Denbigh, 264-278. Derwentwater, 247, 248. Deutsches Haus, Friedrichshafen, 63-64. Devorgilla, Countess, 243-245. Diane of Poitiers, 33-34. Dickens, Charles, 301. Dijon, 48-53. Dingwall, 194. Dobson, H. J., 235-236, 282. Donaueschingen, 61. Doncaster, 147, 151. Dorchester, 299, 300-307, 350. Dornoch Firth, 194-195. Drachenfels, 96. Duarte, 225. Dudley, Robert, 269-270, 277. Dumfries, 241, 242, 245. Dunderawe Castle, 228. Dunolly, 224, 225. Dunrobin Castle, 195, 197. Dunure Castle, 237. Dunstaffnage, 225. E Edinburgh, 178-182. Edward I., 269, 277, 293. Edward IV., 330, 332. Edward VII., 186, 301. Egremont Castle, 252-253. Ehrenbreitstein, 95-96. Ehrenfels, 91. Elizabeth, Queen, 251, 269, 283. Elreton, Henry de, 293. Endicott, John, 302. English Channel, 2, 4, 133, 135. Escomb, 154. Eyre-Todd, George, 211, 232. Exeter, 308, 309. F Falkenburg Castle, 92. Feochan, Loch, 225-226. Folkestone, 3, 135. Fort Augustus, 212, 216. Fort William, 212, 216-218, 222. Fowey, 321, 328-333. Francis I., 35, 37. Francis II., 33, 35, 44. Frankfort, 84, 86-88. Freiburg, 60-61, 69. Friedrichshafen, 63-64. Furness Abbey, 258. Fussen, 66-68. Fyne, Loch, 227-228. G Gairlochy, 222. Gatehouse, 242. George, I., 156. George V., 343. Gerardmer, 57. Gibson, R. A., John, 289. Gilphead, Loch, 227. Girvan, 239. Glasgow, 229-230. Glastonbury, 350. Glen Affrick, 209. Glencoe, 221. Glengarry, 212. Glenluce, 241-242. Goethe, 87, 103. Golspie, 195-198. Grantham, 149-151. Granton, 182. Grand Hotel de France et de Londres, Avranches, 20-21. Granville, 20. Gray, 53. Great Glen, The, 193, 210-223. Great Orme's Head, 287. Great Torrington, 347. Guisborough, 153. Guise, 128. Guise, Duke of, 38-39. Gutenberg, Johann, 88-89. H Hardy, Thos., 303-305, 307. Hatfield, 147-148. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 356. Heidelberg, 84-85. Helston, 334. Hemans, Felicia, 272. Henderson, T. F., 205. Henley, W. E., 181. Henry II., England, 12. Henry III., France, 38-39. Henry, VIII., England, 162, 260. Holsworthy, 347. Honfleur, 15. Hotel de France, Nevers, 46-47. Hotel de France et d'Angleterre, St. Quentin, 128-129. Hotel de la Croix d'Or, Sedan, 127. Hotel de Univers, St. Lo, 17, 19. Hotel de Ville, Orleans, 43-44. I Inverary, 228. Invercauld Arms, Braemar, 186. Invergarry, 222. Inverlochy, 212, 216-217. Inverness, 193, 212-213. Iona, 225. Irvine, 230-231. Isle of Athelney, 348. Ivy Bridge, 319. J James II., England, 349. James IV., Scotland, 242. Jeanne d'Arc, 10, 12-13, 41-44. Jedburgh, 147. Jeffreys, Judge, 303, 306-307, 350. John, King, 150. John O'Groats, 147, 199-202, 298, 336. Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 264, 272. Jones, John Paul, 251. K Karlsruhe, 84-85. Kendal, 259-261. Kennedy Castle, 241. Keswick, 246-248. Kilchimien, 216. Kilchurn, 225. Kilmartin, 227. Kilninver, 226. King's Arms, Dorchester, 300-301. Kingsley, Chas., 348. Kintyre, 236. Kirkcaldy, 182. Kirkoswald, 237. Klopp Castle, 90. Knox, John, 179, 184. L Lacy, Henry de, 266, 268. Lairg, 208. Lake District, 246-261. Lancaster, 262. Land's End, 263, 298, 336-341. Lansallos Church, 327. Largo, 182-184. Larne, 241. LaSalle, 12. Launceston, 346-347. Leven, Loch, 219. Lindau, 64. Linnhe, Loch, 216, 219. Linskill, Mary, 167-170. Lion d'Or, Neufchatel, 9. Liskeard, 328. Lochinch, 241. Lochnagar, 188. Lochy, Loch, 216. Loire River, 29, 40. Lomond, Loch, 228-229. London, 3, 352, 354. Longwy, 125. Looes, 322. Lorelei, The, 92. Lostwithiel, 328-329. Loyal, Loch, 207-208. Ludwigshaven, 62. Luxemburg, 99, 101-103, 125. Lyme Regis, 308-309. M Macbrayne Steamship Co., David, 212, 218. MacWhirter, R. A., John, 65, 209. McCaig's Folly, Oban, 224-225. Manchester Ship Canal, 263. Marlborough, 352-353. Marxburg, 94. Mary Stuart, 33, 35, 44, 179, 250-251. Maxwell-Scott, Hon. Mrs., 176. Maxwelton, 242. Mayence, 88-89. Melfort, Loch, 225, 227. Melfort, Pass of, 227. Melrose, 147, 173-174. Melvich, 204. Mezieres, 127. Millais, Sir John, 215. Millom, 257. Monmouth, Duke of, 306, 307, 349. Montgomery, James, 230. Montmedy, 127. Montreuil, 5-6, 134. Mont St. Michel, 20-24. Moran, Thos., 279-281, 337. Moselle River, 94, 96, 99, 101. Mosely, Alfred, 371. Mouse Tower, The, 91-92. Munich, 77-81. Mytton, Gen., 267-268, 270, 278. N Ness, Loch, 214-216. Neufchatel, 8-9. Neustadt, 61. Nevers, 45-47. New Abbey, 242-245. Newburgh, 184. Newby Bridge, 259. Newton Abbot, 309. Newton, Sir Isaac, 151. Newton-Stewart, 242. O Oban, 210, 214, 223-225. Oberammergau, 61, 68-77. Oberwesel, 93. Oich, Loch, 216. Orleans, 40-45. Oswy, King, 161. Oxford, 298. P Palace Hotel, Aberdeen, 188-190. Peel Tower, Darnick, 177-179. Penzance, 334-335, 341, 347. Perth, 182, 184-185. Peter the Hermit, 132. Philipson, Major Robert, 260-261. Pickering, 153. Pius VII., Pope, 46. Plas Mawr, 281-285. Plymouth, 318-319, 321, 329. Polperro, 320-327. Pommard, 52. Pont Audemer, 15. Port Patrick, 237, 241. Preston, 262. Probus, 333. Prun, 100. Puddletown, 300. Q Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, 332. R Ravenglass, 254-257. Rawnsley, Canon, 255. Reading, 352, 354. Remiremont, 55-57. Rennes, 25-26. Rheinfels, 94. Rhine River, 59-60, 85, 89-96, 99-100. Rheinstein Castle, 91. Rhoscomyl, Owen, 296. Rhuddlan, 276-278. Richard I., 11-12. Richard II., 294. Richard III., 150. Robin Hood, 160. Rolandseck, 96-97. Rouen, 8-15, 42. Royal Automobile Club, 1, 3, 58, 68, 96, 147, 192, 210. Royal Cambrian Academy, 281. Rudruth, 334. Ruskin, John, 131, 133. Ryan, Loch, 240. S St. Asaph, 270, 273, 276-277. St. Austell, 333. St. Benedict's Abbey, 216. St. Columba, 215-216. St. Columb Major, 346. St. Goar, 93-94. St. Hilda's Abbey, Whitby, 161-164. St. Ives, 341. St. Lo, 17-20. St. Malo, 20-24. St. Mary's Church, Conway, 289. St. Mary's Church, Whitby, 157, 159, 162, 164-165, 167. St. Michael's Mount, 22, 334. St. Michel, Mont, 20-24. St. Peter's Church, Dorchester, 302-303. St. Quentin, 128-129. St. Wulfram's Church, Grantham, 149-150. Salisbury, 299-300. Salisbury, Sir Wm., 267-268. Schonburg, 93. Schongau, 68. Scott, Sir Walter, 161, 162, 173-179, 185, 238, 253, 261, 296-297. Sedan, 127-128. Sedgemoor, 348-349. Sennan, 341. Shin, Loch, 208. Ship Inn, Fowey, 332-333. Skiddaw, 246. Sonneck Castle, 92. Southey, Robt., 247. Staffa, 225. Staines, 298, 299. Stanley, Henry M., 273-274. Stilton, 148. Stockton, 153. Stolzenfels Castle, 94. Stranraer, 240-241. Strathy, 204. Stuttgart, 81, 83-84. Sutherland, 191, 193. Sutherland Arms, Golspie, 196-197. Sweetheart Abbey, 242-245. T Tain, 194. Tamnay-Chatillon, 47-48, 51. Taunton, 348, 350. Thorwaldsen, Albert Bertel, 89. Thurso, 203. Tongue, 203-207. Tongue Inn, 206-207. Totnes, 309-311, 318. Tours, 30-32, 35. Tow-Law, 154. Tremeirchion, 272. Treves, 96, 99, 101. Trouville-sur-Mer, 15. Truro, 334, 345-346. Turnberry Castle, 237-239. Tuttlingen, 61-62. Tyne River, 155. U Ulm, 81-83. Ulverston, 259. Urquhart Castle, 215. V Vaile, P. A., 368. Vesoul, 53. Victoria, Queen, 186. Vinci, da, Leonardo, 36. W Warrington, 262-263. Wells, 350. Wesley, John, 338. Whitby, 151, 152-153, 157-172. Whitchurch, 272. Whitehaven, 251. White, Rev. John, 302. Wick, 198-199. Wigan, 262. Wilton-le-Wear, 147. Windermere, 259, 261. William I., England, 15, 17. William I., Germany, 95. William III., England, 310. Windsor Castle, 354. Woolsthorpe Manor, 151. Wordsworth, Wm., 229, 249-250, 252-253, 257, 260, 290. Y York, 151-152. Z Zeppelin, Count, 64. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: SCOTLAND Outline map showing Author's route--in red--as covered in present volume. Route in black refers to previous book--"In Unfamiliar England."] [Illustration: ENGLAND AND WALES] INDEX TO MAP OF ENGLAND AND WALES Green Lines Show Approximate Routes Covered in This Book; Light-Faced Red and Black Lines, Routes Covered by Author's Previous Books, "British Highways and Byways from a Motor Car" and "In Unfamiliar England" A Aberystwith 17 E Alcester 18 M Alnwick 3 M Ambleside 7 J Arundel 25 Q Askrigg 8 L Avebury 21 M B Bakewell 13 M Bamborough 2 M Banbury 19 O Bangor 13 G Barmouth 16 H Barnard Castle 7 M Barnsley 12 N Barnstaple 23 G Bath 22 K Battle Abbey 24 T Bawtry 12 P Beaulieu 24 O Beddgelert 14 G Bedford 18 R Belvoir Castle 15 P Berkeley 20 L Berwick 1 M Bettws-y-Coed 14 H Beverly 10 Q Bexhill 25 T Bideford 24 F Billingshurst 24 R Birtsmorton 18 L Bishop's Castle 17 J Bodiam 23 T Bolton Abbey 10 L Bolton Castle 8 L Boston 14 R Bottisford 14 Q Bournemouth 24 M Bowes 7 L Bowness 8 J Bradford-on-Avon 23 L Brampton 5 K Brecon 19 I Bridgnorth 16 K Bridlington 9 R Brighton 24 S Brington 17 P Bristol 21 K Brixham 27 H Broadway 19 M Brough 7 L Broxborne 19 S Buckingham 19 O Buildwas 16 L Builth 18 H Burnham Thorpe 14 U Bury St. Edmunds 18 U Buxton 13 M Bylands Abbey 8 N C Caerleon 20 K Caerphilly 21 H Caister Castle 15 X Calder Abbey 7 I Cambridge 18 S Camelford 25 E Canterbury 22 V Cardiff 22 I Cardigan 18 E Carlisle 5 J Carmarthen 19 F Carnarvon 13 G Cerne Abbas 24 K Cerrig-y-Druidion 14 I Chagford 25 G Chalfont St. Giles 21 P Chawton 23 P Cheddar 23 K Chelmsford 20 T Cheltenham 19 M Chepstow 21 I Chester 13 I Chesterfield 13 N Chichester 24 Q Chigwell 20 T Chippenham 21 M Chipping Ongar 20 T Chirk 15 J Chorley Wood 20 Q Clovelly 24 F Cockermouth 6 I Colchester 19 T Coniston 8 I Conway 13 H Corfe 26 M Coventry 17 M Cowbridge 22 H Cowes 25 O Coxwold 8 O Cromer 14 W Crowland 16 R D Darfield 11 O Darlington 7 N Dartmouth 27 H Denbigh 13 I Derby 14 M Dereham 16 U Devizes 22 M Dinas Mawddwy 16 H Dolgelly 15 G Doncaster 11 P Dorchester 25 L Dover 23 W Downe 22 S Drayton 14 L Dukeries 13 N Dunster 23 H Durham 6 M E Eastbourne 25 T East Looe 26 F Edgeware 20 P Egremont 7 I Ely 17 S Epsom 22 R Eversley 22 P Evesham 18 M Exeter 25 G F Farnham 23 Q Fishguard 19 D Folkestone 24 V Fotheringhay 16 R Fountains Abbey 9 M Fowey 27 E Freshwater 26 M Furness Abbey 9 I G Gad's Hill 22 S Glastonbury 23 K Glossop 12 M Gloucester 20 L Grantham 15 Q Grasmere 7 I Greenstead Church 20 S Guildford 22 R Guisborough 7 O H Hampton Court 22 R Harborough 16 Q Harlech 15 G Harrogate 10 M Harrow 21 Q Haselmere 23 Q Hastings 24 U Haverfordwest 20 D Haverhill 19 T Haworth 10 L Hay 19 I Helmsley 8 P Hereford 19 K Hexham 4 M Holyhead 12 D Honiton 24 H Howard Castle 9 P Hucknall 14 M Huntingdon 14 Q Hythe 24 V I Ilfracombe 22 G Ilkley 10 M Ipswich 18 V J Jarrow 5 N Jordans 21 P K Kendal 8 K Kenilworth 17 M Keston 22 R Keswick 6 J Kettlewell 9 L King's Lynn 15 T Kirby Hall 17 Q Knaresborough 10 O Knutsford 13 L L Lacock 22 L Land's End 28 A Lamberhurst 23 S Lancaster 9 K Lanercost Priory 5 L Launceston 26 E Leamington 18 O Ledbury 19 K Leeds 10 N Leicester 16 P Lewes 24 R Leyburn 8 M Llangollen 15 J Llandaff 22 H Llandovery 19 G Lincoln 13 Q Lichfield 16 L Liverpool 12 J London 21 R Lostwithiel 26 E Ludlow 17 J Lulworth 26 L Lutterworth 17 P Lymington 25 O Lyme Regis 25 J Lyndhurst 24 M M Maidstone 22 U Malmsbury 21 K Malvern 18 K Manchester 12 L Mansfield 13 O Marazion 28 B Margate 21 W Marlborough 21 N Marney 19 V Midhurst 24 O Middleham 9 L Mildenhall 17 T Monmouth 20 J Monken Hadley 20 R Montgomery 16 J Moreton Hampstead 25 G Much Wenlock 17 L Mundesley 14 X N Neath 21 H Nether Stowey 23 I Netley 24 O Newark 14 P Newcastle 5 M Newcastle-under-Lyme 14 K Newlyn 28 A Newmarket 17 U Newport 21 V Newport 20 O Newstead Abbey 14 O Newtown 17 I Northampton 18 P Nottingham 14 N Norwich 16 W O Olney 19 Q Oswestry 15 I Oundle 17 R Oxford 20 N P Penn's Chapel 4 R Penrith 6 K Penshurst 23 T Penzance 28 B Peterborough 16 R Pevensey 24 S Plymouth 27 F Polperro 27 E Pontefract 11 O Prince Town 26 G R Raby Castle 7 M Raglan 20 I Ravenglass 7 I Reading 22 O Reculver 22 V Retford 13 P Rhuddlan 13 H Richmond 8 M Rievaulx Abbey 9 M Ripon 9 M Ripple 19 L Rochester 22 T Romsey 23 M Ross 19 K Rowton Moor 13 K Ryde 25 P Rye 24 U S Saint Asaph 13 H St. Albans 20 R St. David's 19 B St. Ives 27 B St. Ives 17 S Salisbury 23 L Sandringham Palace 15 U Scarborough 8 R Scrooby 12 O Sedgemoor 23 J Selborne 23 O Settle 9 L Seven Oaks 22 T Sheffield 12 N Sherborne 24 L Shottermill 24 P Shrewsbury 16 J Skipton 10 L Somersby 13 R Southampton 24 M Southwell 14 O Stilton 17 R Stockton 6 O Stoke Poges 21 Q Stokesay Manor 17 K Stratford-on-Avon 18 N Sulgrave 16 P Swansea 20 G T Tadcaster 10 O Tamworth 16 N Taunton 23 J Tavistock 26 F Tewkesbury 19 M Thetford 17 U Tintagel 25 D Tintern 20 J Tong 16 L Torquay 26 H Totnes 26 H Truro 27 C Tunbridge Wells 23 T U Usk 20 I Uttoxeter 15 M Uxbridge 21 Q V Ventnor 26 P W Wakefield 11 N Walsingham 15 V Waltham 20 S Wantage 21 N Wareham 25 L Warrington 11 K Warwick 18 M Wellington 24 I Wells 23 J Wells-next-the-Sea 14 V Westerham 24 R West Looe 27 E Weston-Super-Mare 22 J Whitby 7 P Whittington 14 J Wimborne 24 L Winchelsea 24 T Winchester 23 O Windermere 8 J Windsor 21 P Wokingham 22 P Woodstock 20 N Worcester 18 L Worthing 25 R Wroxeter 16 K Wymondham 17 V Y Yarmouth 16 X Yarmouth 25 N Yeovil 24 K York 10 O ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Books by Thos. D. Murphy ------- Three Wonderlands of the American West (Second Revised Edition) Splendidly illustrated with sixteen reproductions in colors from original paintings by Thos. Moran, N. A. and thirty-two duogravures from photographs, also three maps. 180 pages, tall 8vo. decorated cloth. Price (boxed) $3.00 net. Carriage 30 cents extra. In this volume Mr. Murphy turns to our own country and both text and pictures tell a story that may well engage the attention of any one interested in the beauty and grandeur of natural scenery. The book will come as a revelation to many who have had a vague notion that there may possibly be something worth seeing in America--after one has "done" Europe. The author himself admits of such skepticism before he made the tour described in the book. He says, "I found myself wondering if there could be such an enchanted land as Mr. Moran portrays--such a land of weird mountains, crystal cataracts and emerald rivers all glowing with a riot of coloring that seem more like an iridescent dream than a sober reality." A tour through the three wonderlands gives the answer--neither pen nor picture has ever told half the story. The sixteen illustrations from original paintings by Thomas Moran come nearer, perhaps, than anything excepting a personal visit in presenting to the eyes the true grandeur of the wonderlands described; and these are supplemented by thirty-two splendid photographs, reproduced in duogravure and printed in a rich shade of brown. These features make the book one of the most notable ever coming from the American press, and it will serve the purpose of a guide to intending visitors, as well as a beautiful and appropriate souvenir for those who have visited one or all of the wonderlands so graphically portrayed. British Highways and Byways From a Motor Car (Third Edition) With sixteen illustrations in color from original paintings by noted artists, and thirty-two duogravures from English photographs, also descriptive maps of England and Scotland. 320 pages 8vo, decorated cloth, gilt top. Price (boxed) $3.00. An interesting record of a summer motor tour in Great Britain by an American who took his car with him and drove over some thousands of miles of British roads. The tour includes the cities, towns and villages, the solitary ruins, the literary shrines, every cathedral in the Island and many of the quaintest and most fascinating out-of-the-way places not on the usual route of travel. A book of value to anyone contemplating a tour of Britain or interested in the country and its people. In Unfamiliar England With a Motor Car (Second Edition) A new book on England, with incursions into Ireland and Scotland. Splendidly illustrated with sixteen reproductions in color from original paintings by noted artists, including Moran, Leader, Bowman, Elias, Sherrin and others, and forty-eight duogravures from English photographs, illustrating many of the quaint places visited by the author. Also indexed map of England and Wales and map showing routes in Ireland and Scotland. A chronicle of the extensive wanderings by motor car of an American in rural England and a record of his discoveries in the out-of-the-way corners of the Island; also of delightful incursions into Scotland and Ireland. It is a story redolent with the summer beauty of the loveliest countryside in the world, and is replete with the tales of lonely ruins, quaint old churches, historic manor houses and palaces; it takes one through the leafy byways, into the retired country villages, and to many unfrequented nooks on the seashore. Particularly has the writer sought out the historic shrines in England of especial interest to Americans themselves, and his book is quite a revelation in this respect. The book has much of interest seldom noted in the literature of travel and will please alike the actual traveler or the reader who does his traveling in an easy chair by his own fireside. Of Mr. Murphy's motor travel books dealing with Great Britain, the Royal Automobile Club Journal speaks the following commendatory words: England Through American Eyes A member of the Automobile Club of America, who is also an Individual Associate of the Royal Automobile Club, Mr. Thomas D. Murphy, has for several years past spent two or three months in touring in his car throughout the United Kingdom, and the result has been the publication in America of two books, one entitled, 'British Highways and Byways from a Motor Car,' and the other, 'In Unfamiliar England.' "In the former Mr. Murphy deals, in a most readable and attractive style, with many of the better known places of interest in our country; but in his book entitled 'In Unfamiliar England,' the author describes many out-of-the-way places which are totally unknown to the average English motorist, and even to people who pride themselves upon a knowledge of their own country. A short time ago the Touring Department received an inquiry from a member of the Club concerning an old building in the Eastern Counties; wished to know the exact position of the place, also whether it was open to the public. A diligent search was made through all the usual books of reference, and no trace of it could be discovered. As a last resource Mr. Murphy's book was consulted, and not only was the exact information required obtained, but in addition an excellent illustration of the building was found. It seems curious that the Touring Department should have to consult a book written by an American in order to obtain information about an interesting spot in this country. "The writing of a motoring guide book is a very difficult matter, and the majority are either crammed with information and very unreadable, or else they are written in a very personal manner which becomes rather irritating to the person who wishes to obtain information from them. It is an exceedingly difficult matter to combine road information, historical facts, and interesting legends, in such a manner that the dry sections are not so numerous as to make the book wearisome and the lighter sections not so drawn out as to make the reading matter trivial. We should imagine that it is much easier to write an ordinary novel than a good guide-book of the readable description. Mr. Murphy is one of the few people who can manage this difficult undertaking successfully." SENT POSTPAID ON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY BOSTON PUBLISHERS 
39790	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. Page 51: "_Aa_leck not El-eck" might have a diacritical mark over the a. Page 63: "I've 'earn tell" possibly should be "I've 'eard tell". Page 261: The frontispiece cited was not included in this printing. Page 318: "caller" possibly should be "calmer". Page 326: "Frith" possibly should be "Firth". AN AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND IN BRITAIN BY ANDREW CARNEGIE NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1899. COPYRIGHT, 1883, 1886, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS. Press of J. J. Little & Co. Astor Place, New York I DEDICATE THESE PAGES TO MY FAVORITE HEROINE, My Mother. _PREFACE._ _The publication of this book renders necessary a few words of explanation. It was originally printed for private circulation among a few dear friends--those who were not as well as those who were of the coaching party--to be treasured as a souvenir of happy days. The house which has undertaken the responsibility of giving it a wider circulation believed that its publication might give pleasure to some who would not otherwise see it. It is not difficult to persuade one that his work which has met with the approval of his immediate circle may be worthy of a larger audience; and the author was the more easily induced to consent to its reprint because, the first edition being exhausted, he was no longer able to fill many requests for copies._ _The original intent of the book must be the excuse for the highly personal nature of the narrative, which could scarcely be changed without an entire remodelling, a task for which the writer had neither time nor inclination; so, with the exception of a few suppressions and some additions which seemed necessary under its new conditions, its character has not been materially altered. Trusting that his readers may derive from a perusal of its pages a tithe of the pleasure which the Gay Charioteers experienced in performing the journey, and wishing that all may live to see their "ships come home" and then enjoy a similar excursion for themselves, he subscribes himself,_ _Very Sincerely,_ _THE AUTHOR_ _New York, May 1, 1883._ AN AMERICAN FOUR-IN-HAND IN BRITAIN. Long enough ago to permit us to sing, "For we are boys, merry, merry boys, Merry, merry boys together," and the world lay all before us where to choose, Dod, Vandy, Harry, and I walked through Southern England with knapsacks on our backs. What pranks we played! Those were the happy days when we heard the chimes at midnight and laughed Sir Prudence out of countenance. "Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" Nay, verily, Sir Gray Beard, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too! Then indeed "The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye." It was during this pedestrian excursion that I announced that some day, when my "ships came home," I should drive a party of my dearest friends from Brighton to Inverness. Black's "Adventures of a Phaeton" came not long after this to prove that another Scot had divined how idyllic the journey could be made. It was something of an air-castle--of a dream--those far-off days, but see how it has come to pass! [Sidenote: _Air-Castles._] The world, in my opinion, is all wrong on the subject of air-castles. People are forever complaining that their châteaux en Espagne are never realized. But the trouble is with them--they fail to recognize them when they come. "To-day," says Carlyle, "is a king in disguise," and most people are in possession of their air-castles, but lack the trick to see 't. Look around you! see Vandy, for instance. When we were thus doing Merrie England on foot, he with a very modest letter of credit stowed away in a belt round his sacred person--for Vandy it was who always carried the bag (and a faithful treasurer and a careful one too--good boy, Vandy!); he was a poor student then, and you should have heard him philosophize and lord it over us two, who had been somewhat fortunate in rolling mills, and were devoted to business. "Great Cæsar! boys, if I ever get fifteen hundred dollars a year income!" (This was the fortune I was vaguely figured up to be worth under ordinary conditions.) "Great Cæsar! boys"--and here the fist would come down on the hard deal table, spilling a few drops of beer--"fifteen hundred dollars a year! Catch me working any more like a slave, as you and Harry do!" Well, well, Vandy's air-castle was fifteen hundred dollars a year; yet see him now when thousands roll in upon him every month. Hard at it still--and see the goddess laughing in her sleeve at the good joke on Vandy. He has his air-castle, but doesn't recognize the structure. There is Miss Fashion. How fascinating she was when she descanted on her air-castle--then a pretty cottage with white and red roses clustering beside the door and twining over it in a true-lover's knot, symbolizing the lover's ideal of mutual help and dependence--the white upon the red. No large establishment for her, nor many servants! One horse (I admit it was always to be a big one), and an elegant little vehicle; plenty of garden and enough of pin money. On this point there was never to be the slightest doubt, so that she could really get the best magazines and one new book every month--any one she chose. A young hard-working husband, without too much income, so that she might experience the pleasure of planning to make their little go far. Behold her now! her husband a millionaire, a brown-stone front, half a dozen horses, a country place, and a box at the opera! But, bless your heart! she is as unconscious of the arrival of her castle as she is that years creep upon her apace. The Goddess Fortune, my friends, rarely fails to give to mortals all they pray for and more; but how she must stand amazed at the blindness of her idolators, who continue to offer up their prayers at her shrine, wholly unconscious that their first requests have been granted! It takes Fortune a little time to prepare the gifts for so many supplicants--the toys each one specially wants; and lo and behold! before they can be delivered (though she works with speed betimes) the unreasonable mortals have lost conceit of their prizes, and their coming is a mockery; they are crying for something else. If the Fates be malignant, as old religions teach, how they must enjoy the folly of man! Imagine a good spirit taking Fortune to task for the misery and discontent of mortals, as she gazes with piteous eyes upon our disappointments, our troubles, and, saddest of all, our regrets, charging her with producing such unhappiness. "Why have you done this?" would be the inquiry. Listen to the sardonic chuckle of the Fate: "Hush! I've only given them what they asked (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle)! Not my fault! See that unhappy wretch, sleeplessly and feverishly tossing on his pillow, and in his waking hours absorbing all his lofty faculties in gambling at the Stock Exchange--wife, children, home, music, art, culture, all forgotten. He was once a bright, promising, ingenuous youth. He was born among trees and green fields, spent the morn of life in the country, sensitive and responsive to all nature's whisperings; lay in cool, leafy shades, wandered in forest glades, and paddled in the 'complaining brooks which make the meadow green.' Nay, not many years ago he returned at intervals to these scenes, and found their charm had still power over him--felt the truth of the poet's words, that "'To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.' "He asked for enough to live honorably upon among his fellows," continues the Fate, "and to keep his parents comfortable in their old age--a matter of a few hundreds a year--and I gave him this and thousands more. Ha, ha, ha! Silence! Look at him; he doesn't see the joke. Oh yes, you may try to tell it to him, if you like. He has no time to listen, nor ears to hear, nor eyes to see; no, nor soul to understand your language. He's 'short' on New Jersey Central or 'long' on Reading, and, bless you! he must strain every fibre if he would save himself from ruin. "He could commune with you in your youth, you say; he had your language then. No doubt! no doubt! so did he then know his Latin and whisper his prayers at his mother's knee. The Latin has gone; his praying continues--nay has increased, for his fears and selfish wants have multiplied since he was an innocent, ignorant child, and he has much more to ask from God for his own ends, now that he is a wise man and is supposed to know much (chuckle--chuckle--chuckle). "There is another mortal," we hear the Fate saying to the Good Fairy. "Look at her, decked out in all the vagaries of changeable Fashion; note her fixed-up look, her conventional air, her nervous, unmeaning, simpering smile--the same to-day, yesterday, and forever--something to all men, much to none. See her at home in her chamber! Why mopes she, looking so haggard, with features expressionless and inane? What worm gnaws at her heart and makes her life so petty? She, too, came into the world a bright and happy thing, and grew up fond of music and of birds, and with a passion for flowers and all of Nature's sweets; so careful, too, of mother and of father, the very embodiment of love to all around her. You should have seen her in her teens, a glorious ray from heaven--'making a sunshine in a shady place'--so natural, so hearty, with a carolling laugh like the falling of waters. In her most secret prayers she asked only for a kind lover with a fair competence, that they might live modestly, without ostentation. She was a good girl and I granted her wish and more," says Fate. "Her air-castle was small, but I sent her a magnificent one. She is courted, flattered, has every gift in my power to bestow; yet she pines in the midst of them. The fruits of her rare gardens have no flavor for her--Dead Sea fruits indeed, which fall to ashes on her lips. She has entered for the race of Fashion, and her soul is absorbed in its jealousies and disappointments. You may speak to her as of old; tell her there is something noble in that domain of human life where duties grow--something not only beyond but different from Fashion, higher than dress or show. She understands you not. "Hand her a bunch of violets. Does she learn their lesson with their odor (which her dog scents as well as she)? Comes there to her the inner meaning, the scent of the new-mown hay that speaks of past hours of purity, of the fresh breeze that fanned her cheek in childhood's halcyon days, the love of all things of the green earth and the sense of the goodness of God which his flowers ever hold within their petals for those who know their language? 'They will decorate me to-night for the ball!' That is the be-all and the end-all of her ladyship's love for flowers. "Show her a picture with more of heaven than earth in it, and glimpses of the light that never shone on sea or shore. If the artist be in fashion she will call it 'pretty,' when it is grand. Give her music. Is it the opera? Oh yes, she will attend. It is the fashion. But place within her reach the soul-moving oratorio (with more religion in it than in twenty sermons) or the suggestive symphony. No, a previous engagement prevents. Why, just think of it--_one can't talk there!_ Yet this woman could once play with feeling and sing with expression, delighting her young companions. Of her one could truly say, "'Oh! to see or hear her singing! scarce I know which is divinest-- For her looks sing too--she modulates her gestures on the tune; And her mouth stirs with the song, like song; and when the notes are finest, 'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light, and seem to swell them on.' And now she has fallen to this!" "Has she children?" inquires the Good Spirit. "No," says Fate, "we are not altogether relentless. How could we give such a woman children and look you in the face? It is sometimes thought necessary even to go as far as this, but in such cases we commend the poor infants to the special care of the great Father, for mother they have none. But look! there is a man now who did so pray for a son and heir that we gave him one, and yonder goes the result. God in heaven! why are men so rash in their blindness as to pray for anything! Surely 'Thy will be done' were best." I am as bad as Sterne in his "Sentimental Journey," and will never get on at this rate. I started to argue that the Fates were too kind instead of not kind enough; at least, my air-castles have ever been mere toys compared with the realities, for never did I dream, in my wildest days, that the intended drive through Britain would assume the princely proportions of a four-in-hand, crowded with a dozen of my dearest friends. A modest phaeton or wagonette with a pair of horses was the extent of my dream, but the Fairy sent me four, you see, and two friends for every one I had pleased myself with imagining as sure to take the journey with me. [Sidenote: _Embarkation._] But now to a sober beginning of the story of the coach. It was in the leafy month of June--the very first day thereof, however--in the year of our Lord 1881, that the good ship Bothnia (Cunard Line, of course), Captain McMicken (a true Scot and bold British sailor), steamed from the future Metropolis of the World for the shores of Merrie England. She had many passengers, but among them were eleven who outranked all others, if their respective opinions of each other were to be accepted as the true standard of judgment. I had received for many months before the sweetest pleasure imaginable in startling first one and then another with requests to report at headquarters, Windsor Hotel, New York, May 31st, prepared to embark. It was on St. Valentine's Day that the Prima Donna received a missive which caused her young heart to flutter. What a pretty reply came! Here is a short extract: "Three months to dream of it; three months to live in it; and my whole lifetime afterward to think it over. I am the happiest girl alive, only sometimes I can't believe it's all going to happen." To Davenport, Iowa, went another invitation. In due time came a return missive from the proud City of the River: "Will I go to Paradise for three months on a coach? Agent of Providence, I will!" Isn't it glorious to make one's friends so happy? * * * * * HARBOR OF NEW YORK, June 1, 1881.} On board Steamer Bothnia. } Call the roll. Queen Dowager, Head of the Clan (no Salic Law in our family); Miss J. J. (Prima Donna); Miss A. F. (Stewardess); Mr. and Mrs. McC. (Dainty Davie); Mr. and Mrs. K. (Paisley Troubadours); Mr. B. F. V. (Vandy); Mr. H. P., Jr. (Our Pard); Mr. G. F. McC. (General Manager); ten in all, making, together with the scribe, the All-coaching Eleven. Ting-a-ling-a-ling! The tears are shed, the kisses ta'en. The helpless hulk breathes the breath of life. The pulsations of its mighty heart are felt, the last rope that binds us to land cast off; and now see the hundreds of handkerchiefs waving from the pier fading and fading away. But note among the wavers one slight graceful figure; Miss C. of our party, present in spirit if bodily absent on duty, much to the regret of us all. The wavings from deck to shore tell our friends "how slow our souls sailed on, How fast our ship." [Sidenote: _On the Bothnia._] The Bothnia turned her face to the east, and out upon old ocean's gray and melancholy waste sailed the Gay Charioteers. As we steamed down the bay three steamers crowded with the most enterprising of Europe's people passed us, emigrants coming to find in the bounteous bosom of the Great Republic the blessings of equality, the just reward of honest labor. Ah, favored land! the best of the Old World seek your shores to swell to still grander proportions your assured greatness. That all come only for the material benefits you confer, I do not believe. Crowning these material considerations, I insist that the more intelligent of these people feel the spirit of true manhood stirring within them, and glory in the thought that they are to become part of a powerful people, of a government founded upon the born equality of man, free from military despotism and class distinctions. There is a trace of the serf in the man who lives contentedly in a land with ranks above him. One hundred and seventeen thousand came last month, and the cry is still they come! O ye self-constituted rulers of men in Europe, know you not that the knell of dynasties and of rank is sounding? Are you so deaf that you do not hear the thunders, so blind that you do not see the lightnings which now and then give warning of the storm that is to precede the reign of the people? There is everything in the way one takes things. "Whatever is, is right," is a good maxim for travellers to adopt, but the Charioteers improved on that. The first resolution they passed was, "Whatever is, is lovely; all that does happen and all that doesn't shall be altogether lovely." We shall quarrel with nothing, admire everything and everybody. A surly beggar shall afford us sport, if any one can be surly under our smiles; and stale bread and poor fare shall only serve to remind us that we have banqueted at the Windsor. Even no dinner at all shall pass for a good joke. Rain shall be hailed as good for the growing corn; a cold day pass as invigorating, a warm one welcomed as suggestive of summer at home, and even a Scotch mist serve to remind us of the mysterious ways of Providence. In this mood the start was made. Could any one suggest a better for our purpose? Now comes a splendid place to skip--the ocean voyage. Everybody writes that up upon the first trip, and every family knows all about it from the long descriptive letters of the absent one doing Europe. When one has crossed the Atlantic twenty odd times there seems just about as much sense in boring one's readers with an account of the trip as if the journey were by rail from New York to Chicago. We had a fine, smooth run, and though some of us were a trifle distrait, most of us were supremely happy. A sea voyage compared with land travel is a good deal like matrimony compared with single blessedness, I take it: either decidedly better or decidedly worse. To him who finds himself comfortable at sea, the ocean is the grandest of treats. He never fails to feel himself a boy again while on the waves. There is an exultation about it. "He walks the monarch of the peopled deck," glories in the storm, rises with and revels in it. Heroic song comes to him. The ship becomes a live thing, and if the monster rears and plunges it is akin to bounding on his thoroughbred who knows its rider. Many men feel thus, and I am happily of them, but the ladies who are at their best at sea are few. The travellers, however, bore the journey well, though one or two proved indifferent sailors. One morning I had to make several calls upon members below and administer my favorite remedy; but pale and dejected as the patients were, not one failed to smile a ghastly smile, and repeat after a fashion the cabalistic words--"Altogether lovely." [Sidenote: _The Atlantic._] He who has never ridden out a hurricane on the Atlantic is to be pitied. It seems almost ridiculous to talk of storms when on such a monster as the Servia. Neptune now may "his dread trident shake" and only give us pleasure, for in these days we laugh at his pretensions. Even he is fast going the way of all kings, his wildest roar being about on a par with the last Bull of the Pope, to which we listen with wonder but without fear. In no branch of human progress has greater advance been made within the past twenty years than in ocean navigation by steam; not so much in the matter of speed as in cost of transport. The Persia, once the best ship of the Cunard Line, required an expenditure of thirty-five dollars as against her successors' one dollar. The Servia will carry thirty-five tons across the ocean for what one ton cost in the Persia. A revolution indeed! and one which brings the products of American soil close to the British shores. Quite recently flour has been carried from Chicago to Liverpool for forty-eight cents (2_s._) per barrel. The farmer of Illinois is as near the principal markets of Britain as the farmer in England who grows his crops one hundred miles from his market and transports by rail; and, in return for this, the pig-iron manufacturer of Britain is as near the New York market as is his competitor on the Hudson. Some of the good people of Britain who are interested in land believe that the competition of America has reached its height. Deluded souls, it has only begun! One cannot be a day at sea without meeting the American who regrets that the Stars and Stripes have been commercially driven from the ocean. This always reminds me of a fable of the lion and the turtle. The lion was proudly walking along the shore, the real king of his domain, the land. The turtle mocked him, saying, Oh, that's nothing, any one can walk on land. Let's see you try it in the water. The lion tried. Result: the turtle fed upon him for many days. America can only render herself ridiculous by entering the water. That is England's domain. "Her home is on the mountain wave, Her march is o'er the deep." [Sidenote: _The American Navy._] We are talking just now about building some ships for a proposed American Navy, which is equivalent to saying that we are going to furnish ships to the enemy, if we are ever foolish enough to have one--for it takes two fools to wage war. Unless America resolves to change her whole policy as a republic, teaching mankind the victories of peace, far more renowned than those of war, and goes back to the ideas of monarchical governments, she should build no ships of war; but if she will leave her unique position among the nations, and step down to the level of quarrellers, let her beat the navies of Britain and France, for the ships of a weak naval power are the certain prey of the stronger in time of war. In peace they are useless. In thinking of the real glories of America, my mind goes first to this--that she has no army worthy of the name, and scarcely a war ship of whose complete inefficiency in case of active service we are not permitted to indulge the most sanguine anticipations. What has America to do following in the wake of brutal, pugilistic nations still under the influence of feudal institutions, who exhaust their revenues training men how best to butcher their fellows, and in building up huge ships for purposes of destruction! No, no, let monarchies play this game as long as the people tolerate it, but for the Republic "all her paths are peace," or the bright hopes which the masses of Europe repose in her are destined to a sad eclipse. Travellers know the character and abilities of the men in charge of a Cunard ship, but have they ever considered for what pittances such men are obtained? Captain, $3,250 per annum; first officer, $1,000; second, third, and fourth officers, $600. For what sum, think you, can be had a man capable of controlling the ponderous machinery of the Servia? Chief engineer, $1,250. You have seen the firemen at work down below, perhaps. Do you know any work so hard as this? Price $30 per month. The first cost of a steel ship--and it is scarcely worth while in these days to think of any other kind--is about one-half on the Clyde what it is on the Delaware. Steel can be made, and is made, in Britain for about one half its cost here. Not in our day will it be wise for America to leave the land. It is a very fair division, as matters stand--the land for America, the sea for England. * * * * * FRIDAY, June 10, 1881. [Sidenote: _Ireland._] Land ahoy! There it was, the long dark low-lying cloud, which was no cloud, but the outline of one of the most unfortunate of lands--unhappy Ireland, cursed by the well-meaning attempt of England to grow Englishmen there. England's experience north of the Tweed should have taught her better. Conquerors cannot rule as conquerors a people who have parliamentary institutions and publish newspapers; and neither of these can ever be taken away from Ireland. They always come to stay. You may succeed in keeping down slaves for a while, but then you must govern them as slaves, and the Irish people have advanced beyond this. Just in proportion as they do grow less like serfs and more like men, the impossibility of England's governing Ireland must grow likewise. I hear some Americans reproaching the Irish people for rioting and fighting so much; the real trouble is they don't fight half enough. Take my own heroic Scotland; let even Mr. Gladstone, one of ourselves and our best beloved, send an Englishman as Lord Advocate to Scotland, and let him dare pass a measure for Scotland in Parliament against the wishes of the Scotch members, and all the uprisings in Ireland would seem like farces to the thorough work Scotland would make of English interference. She would not stand it a minute. Neither should Ireland. If she has the elements of a great people within her borders, she will never submit. In less than a generation Ireland can be made as loyal a member of the British confederacy as Scotland is; and all that is necessary to produce this is that she should be dealt with as England has to deal with Scotland. Let the Emerald Isle, then, fight against the attempted dominion of England, as Scotland fought against it, and may the result be the same--that Ireland shall govern herself, as Scotland does, through her own representatives duly elected by the people. "To this complexion must it come at last," and the sooner the better for all parties concerned. We reached Liverpool Saturday morning. How pleasant it is to step on shore in a strange land and be greeted by kind friends on the quay! Their welcome to England counted for so much. Mr. and Mrs. P. had been fellow passengers. A special car was waiting to take them to London, but they decided not to go, and Mr. P. very kindly placed it at the disposal of Mr. J. and family (who were, fortunately for us, also fellow-passengers) and our party, so that we began our travelling upon the other side under unexpectedly favorable conditions. To such of the party as were getting their first glimpse of the beautiful isle, the journey to London seemed an awakening from happy dreams. They had dreamed that England looked thus and thus, and now their dreams had come true. The scenery of the Midland route is very fine, much more attractive than that of the other line. The party spent from Saturday until Thursday at the Westminster Hotel, in monster London, every one being free to do what most interested him or her. Groups of three or four were formed for this purpose by the law of natural selection, but the roll was called for breakfasts and dinners, so that we all met daily and were fully advised of each other's movements. [Sidenote: _House of Commons._] The House of Commons claimed the first place with our party, all being anxious to see the Mother of Parliaments. It is not so easy a matter to do this as to see our Congress in session; but thanks to our friend Mr. R. C. and to others, we were fortunate in being able to do so frequently. Our ladies had the pleasure of being taken into the Ladies' Gallery by one of the rising statesmen of England, Sir Charles Dilke, a Cabinet Minister, and one who has had the boldness, and as I think the rare sagacity, to say that he prefers the republican to the monarchical system of government. The world is to hear of Sir Charles Dilke, if he live and health be granted him, and above all, if he remain steadfast to his honest opinions. So many public men in England "stoop to conquer," forgetting that whatever else they may conquer thereafter they never can conquer that _stoop_; that "drags down their life"! We really heard John Bright speak--the one of all men living whom our party wished most to see and to hear. I had not forgotten hearing him speak in Dunfermline, when I was seven years of age, and well do I remember that when I got home I told mother he made one mistake; for when speaking of Mr. Smith (the Liberal candidate) he called him a _men_, instead of a _maan_. When introduced to Mr. Bright I was delighted to find that he had not forgotten Dunfermline, nor the acquaintances he had made there. [Sidenote: _Temperance._] A grand character, that of the sturdy Quaker; once the best hated man in Britain, but one to whom both continents are now glad to confess their gratitude. He has been wiser than his generation, but has lived to see it grow up to him. Certainly no American can look down from the gallery upon that white head without beseeching heaven to shower its choicest blessings upon it. He spoke calmly upon the Permissive Liquor Bill, and gave the ministerial statement in regard to it. All he said was good common sense; we could do something by regulating the traffic and confining it to reasonable hours, but after all the great cure must come from the better education of the masses, who must be brought to feel that it is unworthy of their manhood to brutalize themselves with liquor. England has set herself at last to the most important of all work--the thorough education of her people; and we may confidently expect to see a great improvement in their habits in the next generation. My plan for mastering the monster evil of intemperance is that our temperance societies, instead of pledging men never to taste alcoholic beverages, should be really temperance agencies and require their members to use them only at meals--never to drink wines or spirits without eating. The man who takes _one_ glass of wine, or beer, or spirits at dinner is clearly none the worse for it. I judge that if the medical fraternity were polled, a large majority would say he was the better for it, at least after a certain age. Why can't we recognize the fact that all races indulge in stimulants and will continue to do so? It is the regulation, not the eradication, of this appetite that is practical. The coming man is to consider it low to walk up to a bar and gulp down liquor. The race will come to this platform generations before they will accept that of Sir Wilfrid Lawson and his total abstinence ideas. This was written before the Church of England movement in this direction was known to me. Much good must come of its efforts; but I confess I should like to see that church show that it is in earnest by removing the deep reproach cast upon it by recent statements, which pass uncontradicted. Listen to this startling announcement: This holy Church of England, mark you, is the largest owner of gin palaces in the world. The head of the church, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in passing from his palace at Lambeth to his abbey at Westminster, sees more than one hundred (I believe I understate the case) gin palaces which his church owns and has rented for such purposes; nay, it is shown that the church has always raised the rents of these houses, with which licenses go, as the sales of liquor have increased; so that her interest lies in extending the use of liquors as a beverage secretly upon one hand, while she poses before the world as laboring to restrict the curse with the other. Her right hand knows only too well what her left hand doeth. It does seem that the mere announcement of such a fact would work its own remedy--perhaps it will when its holy fathers are done with the vastly more important business of determining the size and shape of vestures, or the number of candles, or the posture of the priest most pleasing to God--but before the church can figure as much of an agency in the cause of temperance reform, it will have to wash its hands of its hundred gin palaces. The article in _Harper's Magazine_ upon Bedford Square, giving glowing accounts of this Arcadian colony, with its æsthetic homes, its Tabard Inn, and its club, made us all desire to visit it. We did so one afternoon, and received a very cordial welcome from Mrs. C. in the absence of her husband. She kindly showed us the grounds and explained all to us. Truth compels me to say we were sadly disappointed, but for this we had probably only ourselves to blame. It is so natural to imagine that exquisite wood-cuts and pretty illustrations set forth grander things than exist. The houses were much inferior to our preconceived ideas, and many had soft woods painted, and most of the cheap shams of ordinary structures. The absence of grand trees, shady dells, and ornamental grounds, and the exceedingly cheap and cheap-looking houses made all seem like a new settlement in the Far West rather than the latest development of culture. From this criticism Mr. C.'s own pretty little home is wholly exempt, and no doubt there are many other homes there equally admirable. I speak only of the general impression made upon our party by a very hasty visit. Bedford Park is no doubt an excellent idea, and destined to do much good, only it is different from what we had expected. [Sidenote: _Stafford House._] Extremes meet. It was from houses such as I have spoken of that we went direct to Stafford House, to meet the Marquis of Stafford by appointment, and to be shown over that palace by him. What a change! If the former were not up to our expectations, this exceeded them. I don't suppose any one ever has expected to see such a staircase as enchants him upon entering Stafford House. This is the most magnificent residence any of us has ever seen. I will not trust myself to speak of its beauties, nor of the treasures it contains. One begins to understand to what the Marquis of Stafford is born. The Sutherland family have a million two hundred thousand acres of land in Britain; no other family in the world compares with them as landowners. It is positively startling to think of it. Almost the entire County of Sutherland is theirs. Stafford House is their London residence. They have Trentham Hall and Lillieshall in Mid-England, and glorious Dunrobin Castle in Scotland. The Marquis sits in the House of Commons as member for Sutherland County; and what do you think! he is a painstaking director of the London and North-Western Railway, and I am informed pays strict attention to its affairs. The Duke of Devonshire is Chairman of the Barrow Steel Company. Lord Granville has iron works, and Earl Dudley is one of the principal iron manufacturers of England. It is all right, you see, my friends, to be a steel-rail manufacturer or an iron-master. How fortunate! But the line must be drawn somewhere, and we draw it at trade. The A. T. Stewarts and the Morrisons have no standing in society in England. They are in vulgar trade. Now if they brewed beer, for instance, they would be somebodies, and might confidently look forward to a baronetcy at least; for a great deal of beer a peerage is not beyond reach. We heard a performance of the "Messiah" in Albert Hall, which the Prima Donna agreed with me was better in two important particulars than any similar performance we had heard in America. First in vigor of attack by the chorus; this was superb; from the first instant the full volume and quality of sound were perfect. The other point was that all-important one of enunciation. We have no chorus in New York which rivals what we heard, though we have an orchestra which is equal to any. The words were, of course, familiar, and we could scarcely judge whether we were correct in our impression, but we believed that even had they been strange to us we could nevertheless have understood every word. Since my return to New York I have heard this oratorio given by the Oratorio Society, and am delighted to note that Dr. Damrosch has greatly improved his chorus in this respect; but the English do pronounce perfectly in singing. This opinion was confirmed by the music subsequently heard in various places throughout our travels. In public as well as in private singing the purity of enunciation struck us as remarkable. If I ever set up for a music teacher I shall bequeath to my favorite pupil as the secret of success but one word, "_enunciation_." [Sidenote: _Parliament._] Some of us went almost every day to Westminster, but dancing attendance upon Parliament is much like doing so upon Congress. The interesting debates are few and far between. The daily routine is uninteresting, and one sees how rapidly all houses of legislation are losing their hold upon public attention. A debate upon the propriety of allowing Manchester to dispose of her sewage to please herself, or of permitting Dunfermline to bring in a supply of water, seems such a waste of time. The Imperial Parliament of Great Britain is much in want of something to do when it condescends to occupy its time with trifling questions which the community interested can best settle; but even in matters of national importance debates are no longer what they were. The questions have already been threshed out in the Reviews--those coming forums of discussion--and all that can be said already said by writers upon both sides of the question who know its bearings much better than the leaders of party. When the _Fortnightly_ or the _Nineteenth Century_ gets through with a subject the Prime Minister only rises to sum up the result at which the Morleys and Rogerses, the Spencers and Huxleys, the Giffens and Howards have previously arrived. The English are prone to contrast the men of America and England who are in political life, and the balance is no doubt greatly in their favor. But the reason lies upon the surface: America has solved the fundamental questions of government, and no changes are desired of sufficient moment to engage the minds of her ablest men. During the civil war, when new issues arose and had to be met, the men who stepped forward to guide the nation were of an entirely different class from those prominent in politics either before or since. Contrast the men of Buchanan's administration with those the war called to the front--Lincoln, Seward, Stanton, Sumner, Edmunds, Morton, or the generals of that time, with Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Hancock. All of these men I have known well, except one or two of the least prominent. I have met some of the best known politicians in England. Compared morally or intellectually, I do not think there is much, if any, difference between them; while for original creative power I believe the Americans superior. That a band of men so remarkable as to cause surprise to other nations will promptly arise whenever there is real work to do, no one who knows the American people can doubt; but no man of real ability is going to spend his energies endeavoring to control appointments to the New York Custom House, any more than he will continue very long to waste his time discussing Manchester sewage. Much as my English friends dislike to believe it, I tell them that when there is really no great work to be done, when the conflict between feudal and democratic ideas ends, as it is fast coming to an end, and there is no vestige of privilege left from throne to knighthood, only vain, weak men will seek election to Parliament, and such will stand ready to do the bidding of the constituencies as our agents in Congress do. But this need not alarm our English friends; there will then be much less bribery before election and much less succumbing to social court influences after it. The brains of a country will be found where the real work is to do. The House of Lords registers the decrees of the House of Commons. The House of Commons is soon to register the decrees of the monthlies. Both these things may be pronounced good. In the next generation the debates of Parliament will affect the political currents of the age as little as the fulminations of the pulpit affect religious thought at present; and then a man who feels he has real power within him will think of entering Parliament about as soon as he would think of entering the House of Lords or the American Congress. "The parliament of man, the federation of the world," comes on apace; but its form is to be largely impersonal. The press is the universal parliament. The leaders in that forum make your "statesman" dance as they pipe. The same law is robbing the pulpit of real power. Who cares what the Reverend Mr. Froth preaches nowadays, when he ventures beyond the homilies? Three pages by Professor Robertson Smith in the "Encyclopædia Britannica" destroy more theology in an hour than all the preachers in the land can build up in a lifetime. If any man wants _bona fide_ substantial power and influence in this world, he must handle the pen--that's flat. Truly, it is a nobler weapon than the sword, and a much nobler one than the tongue, both of which have nearly had their day. We had a happy luncheon with our good friends the C.'s, one of our London days; and some of our party who had heard that there was not a great variety of edibles in England saw reason to revise their ideas. Another day we had a notable procession for miles through London streets and suburbs to the residence of our friend, Mr. B. Five hansoms in line driven pell-mell reminded me of our Tokio experiences with gin-rikshaws, two Bettos tandem in each. [Sidenote: _The Stars and Stripes._] It was a pretty, graceful courtesy, my friend, to display from the upper window the "Stars and Stripes," in honor of the arrival of your American guests, and prettier still to have across your hall as a portière, under which all must bow as they entered, that flag which tells of a government founded upon the born equality of man. Thanks! Such things touch the heart as well as the patriotic chord which vibrates in the breast of every one so fortunate as to claim that glorious standard as the emblem of the land he fondly calls his own. Colonel Robert Ingersoll, that wonderful orator, says that when abroad, after a long interval, he saw in one of the seaports the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the breeze, "he felt the air had blossomed into joy." It was he too who told the South long ago that "there wasn't air enough upon the American continent to float two flags." Right there, Colonel! Do you know why the American worships the starry banner with a more intense passion than even the Briton does his flag? I will tell you. It is because it is not the flag of a government which discriminates between her children, decreeing privilege to one and denying it to another, but the flag of the people which gives the same rights to all. The British flag was born too soon to be close to the masses. It came before their time, when they had little or no power. They were not consulted about it. Some conclave made it, as a pope is made, and handed it down to the nation. But the American flag bears in every fibre the warrant, "_We the People_ in Congress assembled." It is their own child, and how supremely it is beloved! It is a significant fact that in no riot or local outbreak have soldiers of the United States, bearing the national flag, ever been assaulted. Militia troops have sometimes been stoned, but United States troops never. During the worst riot ever known in America, that in our own good city of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, twenty-eight United States soldiers, all there were in the barracks, marched through the thousands of excited men unmolested. I really believe that had any man in the crowd dared to touch that flag, General Dix's famous order would have been promptly enforced by his companions. Major-General Hancock recently told me that he had never known United States soldiers to be attacked by citizens. He was in command of the troops during the riots in the coal regions in Pennsylvania some years ago, and whenever a body of his regulars appeared they were respected and peace reigned. General Dix's order was, "If any man attempts to pull down the flag shoot him on the spot." So say we all of us. And it will be the same in Britain some day, ay and in Ireland too, when an end has been made of privilege and there is not a government and a people, but only a government of the people, for the people, and by the people. The day is not so far off either as some of you think, mark me. But good-bye, London, and all the thoughts which crowd upon one when in your mighty whirl. You monster London, we are all glad to escape you! But ere we "gang awa'" shall we not note our visit to one we are proud to call our friend, and of whom Scotland is proud, Dr. Samuel Smiles, a writer of books indeed--books which influence his own generation much, and the younger generation more. Burns's wish was that he, "For poor auld Scotland's sake, Some useful plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least." Well, the Doctor has made several books that are books, and I have heard him sing a song, too, for the days of Auld Lang Syne. May he live long, and long may his devoted wife be spared to watch over him! * * * * * THURSDAY MORNING, June 16, 1881. [Sidenote: _Brighton._] We are off for Brighton. Mr. and Miss B. accompany us. Mr. and Mrs. K. have run up to Paisley with the children, and Mr. and Mrs. G. have joined us in their place. The coach, horses, and servants went down during the night. We had time to visit the unequalled aquarium and to do the parade before dinner. Miss F. and I stole off to make a much more interesting visit; we called upon William Black, whose acquaintance I had been fortunate enough to make in Rome, and whom I had told that I should some day imitate his "Adventures of a Phaeton." A week before we sailed from New York, I had dined with President Garfield at Secretary Blaine's in Washington. After dinner, conversation turned upon my proposed journey, and the President became much interested. "It is the 'Adventures of a Phaeton' on a grand scale," he remarked. "By the way, has Black ever written any other story quite so good as that? I do not think he has." In this there was a general concurrence. He then said: "But I am provoked with Black just now. A man who writes to entertain has no right to end a story as miserably as he has done that of 'MacLeod of Dare.' Fiction should give us the bright side of existence. _Real life has tragedies enough of its own._" A few weeks more and we were to have in his own case the most terrible proof of the words he had spoken so solemnly. I can never forget the sad, careworn expression of his face as he uttered them. "But come it soon or come it fast, It is but death that comes at last." One might almost be willing to die if, as in Garfield's case, there should flash from his grave, at the touch of a mutual sorrow, to both divisions of the great English-speaking race, the knowledge that they are brothers. This discovery will bear good fruit in time. "Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it." Garfield's life was not in vain. It tells its own story--this poor boy toiling upward to the proudest position on earth, the elected of fifty millions of freemen; a position compared with which that of king or kaiser is as nothing. Let other nations ask themselves where are _our_ Lincolns and Garfields? Ah, they grow not except where all men are born equal! The cold shade of aristocracy nips them in the bud. [Sidenote: _William Black._] Mr. Black came to see us off, but arrived at our starting-place a few minutes too late. A thousand pities! Had we only known that he intended to do us this honor, until high noon, ay, and till dewy eve, would we have waited. Just think of our start being graced by the author of "The Adventures of a Phaeton," and we privileged to give him three rousing cheers as our horn sounded! Though grieved to miss him, it was a consolation to know that he had come, and we felt that his spirit was with us and dwelt with us during the entire journey. Many a time the incidents of his charming story came back to us, but I am sorry to record, as a faithful chronicler, that we young people missed one of its most absorbing features--we had no lovers. At least, I am not apprized that any engagements were made upon the journey, although, for my part, I couldn't help falling in love just a tiny bit with the charming young ladies who delighted us with their company. * * * * * BRIGHTON, Friday Morning, June 17. [Sidenote: _The Supreme Moment._] Let us call the roll once more at the door of the Grand Hotel, Brighton, that our history may be complete: Mr. and Mrs. B., London; Mr. and Mrs. T. G., Wolverhampton; Miss M. L., Dunfermline; Miss E. F., Liverpool; Mr. and Mrs. McC., Miss J. J., Miss A. F., Mr. B. F. V., Mr. H. P., Jr., Mr. G. F. McC., the Queen Dowager and the Scribe. These be the names of the new and delectable order of the Gay Charioteers, who mounted their coach at Brighton and began the long journey to the North Countrie on the day and date aforesaid. And here, O my good friends, let me say that until a man has stood at the door and seen his own four-in-hand drive up before him, the horses--four noble bays--champing the bits, their harness buckles glistening in the sun; the coach spick and span new and as glossy as a mirror, with the coachman on the box and the footman behind; and then, enchanted, has called to his friends, "Come, look, there it is, just as I had pictured it!" and has then seen them mount to their places with beaming faces--until, as I say, he has had that experience, don't tell me that he has known the most exquisite sensation in life, for I know he hasn't. It was Izaak Walton, I believe, who when asked what he considered the most thrilling sensation in life, answered that he supposed it was the tug of a thirty-pound salmon. Well, that was not a bad guess. I have taken the largest trout of the season on bonnie Loch Leven, have been drawn over Spirit Lake in Iowa in my skiff for half an hour by a monster pickerel, and have played with the speckled beauties in Dead River. It is glorious; making a hundred thousand is nothing to it; but there's a thrill beyond that, my dear old quaint Izaak. I remember in one of my sweet strolls "ayont the wood mill braes" with a great man, my Uncle Bailie M.--and I treasure the memory of these strolls as among the chief of my inheritance--this very question came up. I asked him what he thought the most thrilling thing in life. He mused awhile, as was the Bailie's wont, and I said, "I think I can tell you, Uncle." "What is it then, Andrea?" (Not And_rew_ for the world.) "Well, Uncle, I think that when, in making a speech, one feels himself lifted, as it were, by some divine power into regions beyond himself, in which he seems to soar without effort, and swept by enthusiasm into the expression of some burning truth, which has lain brooding in his soul, throwing policy and prudence to the winds, he feels words whose eloquence surprises himself, burning hot, hissing through him like molten lava coursing the veins, he throws it forth, and panting for breath hears the quick, sharp, explosive roar of his fellow-men in thunder of assent, the precious moment which tells him that the audience is his own, but one soul in it and that his; I think this the supreme moment of life." "Go! Andrea, ye've hit it!" cried the Bailie, and didn't the dark eye sparkle! He had felt this often, had the Bailie; his nephew had only now and then been near enough to imagine the rest. The happiness of giving happiness is far sweeter than the pleasure direct, and I recall no moments of my life in which the rarer pleasure seemed to suffuse my whole heart as when I stood at Brighton and saw my friends take their places that memorable morning. In this variable, fantastic climate of Britain the weather is ever a source of solicitude. What must it have been to me, when a good start was all important! I remember I awoke early in the morning and wondered whether it was sunny or rainy. If a clear day could have been purchased, it would have been obtained at almost any outlay. I could easily tell our fate by raising the window-blind, but I philosophically decided that it was best to lie still and take what heaven might choose to send us. I should know soon enough. If rain it was, I could not help it; if fair, it was glorious. But let me give one suggestion to those who in England are impious enough to ask heaven to change its plans: don't ask for dry weather; always resort to that last extremity when it is "a drizzle-drozzle" you wish. Your supplications are so much more likely to be answered, you know. There never was a lovelier morning in England than that which greeted me when I pulled up the heavy Venetian blind and gazed on the rippling sea before me, with its hundreds of pretty little sails. I repeated to myself these favorite lines as I stood entranced: "The Bridegroom Sea is toying with the shore, His wedded bride; and in the fulness of his marriage joy He decorates her tawny brow with shells, Retires a space to see how fair she looks, Then proud runs up to kiss her." That is what old ocean was doing that happy morning. I saw him at it, and I felt that if all created beings had one mouth I should like to kiss them too. [Sidenote: _The Start._] All seated! The Queen Dowager next the coachman, and I at her side. The horn sounds, the crowd cheers, and we are off. A mile or two are traversed and there is a unanimous verdict upon one point--this suits us! Finer than we had dreamt! As we pass the pretty villas embossed in flowers and vines and all that makes England the home of happy homes, there comes the sound of increasing exclamations. How pretty! Oh, how beautiful! See, see, the roses! Oh the roses! Look at that lawn! How lovely! Enchanting! entrancing! superb! exquisite! Oh, I never saw anything like this in all my life! And then the hum of song--La-_la_-LA-LA, Ra-da-_da_-DUM! Yes, it is all true, all we dreamt or imagined, and beyond it. And so on we go through Brighton and up the hills to the famous Weald of Sussex. While we make our first stop to water the horses at the wayside inn, and some of the men as well, for a glass of beer asserts its attractions, let me introduce you to two worthies whose names will occupy important places in our narrative, and dwell in our memories forever; men to whom we are indebted in a large measure for the success of the coaching experiment. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Perry, Perry our coachman; and what he doesn't know about horses and how to handle them you needn't overtask yourselves trying to learn. And this is Joe--Joey, my lad--footman and coach manager. A good head and an eloquent tongue has Joe. Yes, and a kind heart. There is nothing he can do or think of doing for any of us--and he can do much--that he is not off and doing ere we ask him. "Skid, Joe!" "Right, Perry!" these talismanic words of our order we heard to-day for the first time. It will be many a long day before they cease to recall to the Charioteers some of the happiest recollections of life. Even as I write I am in English meadows far away and hear them tingling in my ears. It was soon discovered that no mode of travel could be compared with coaching. By all other modes the views are obstructed by the hedges and walls; upon the top of the coach the eye wanders far and wide, "O'er deep waving fields and pastures green, With gentle slopes and groves between." Everything of rural England is seen, and how exquisitely beautiful it all is, this quiet, peaceful, orderly land! "The ground's most gentle dimplement (As if God's finger touched, but did not press, In making England)--such an up and down Of verdure; nothing too much up and down, A ripple of land, such little hills the sky Can stoop to tenderly and the wheat-fields climb; Such nooks of valleys lined with orchises, Fed full of noises by invisible streams, I thought my father's land was worthy too of being Shakespeare's." [Sidenote: _Rural England._] I think this extract from Mr. Winter's charming volume expresses the feelings one has amid such scenes better than anything I know of: "If the beauty of England were merely superficial, it would produce a merely superficial effect. It would cause a passing pleasure, and would be forgotten. It certainly would not--as now in fact it does--inspire a deep, joyous, serene and grateful contentment, and linger in the mind, a gracious and beneficent remembrance. The conquering and lasting potency of it resides not alone in loveliness of expression, but in loveliness of character. Having first greatly blessed the British Islands with the natural advantages of position, climate, soil, and products, nature has wrought out their development and adornment as a necessary consequence of the spirit of their inhabitants. The picturesque variety and pastoral repose of the English landscape spring, in a considerable measure, from the imaginative taste and the affectionate gentleness of the English people. The state of the country, like its social constitution, flows from principles within (which are constantly suggested), and it steadily comforts and nourishes the mind with a sense of kindly feeling, moral rectitude, solidity, and permanence. Thus, in the peculiar beauty of England the ideal is made the actual, is expressed in things more than in words, and in things by which words are transcended. Milton's 'L'Allegro,' fine as it is, is not so fine as the scenery--the crystallized, embodied poetry--out of which it arose. All the delicious rural verse that has been written in England is only the excess and superflux of her own poetic opulence; it has rippled from the hearts of her poets just as the fragrance floats away from her hawthorn hedges. At every step of his progress the pilgrim through English scenes is impressed with this sovereign excellence of the accomplished fact, as contrasted with any words that can be said in its celebration." [Sidenote: _The Scribe as a Singer._] The roads are a theme of continual wonder to those who have not before seen England. To say that from end to end of our journey they equalled those of New York Central Park would be to understate the fact. They are equal to the park roads on days when these are at their best, and are neither wet nor dusty. We bowl over them as balls do over billiard-tables. It is a glide rather than a roll, with no sensation of jolting. You could write or read on the coach almost as well as at home. I mean you could if there was any time to waste doing either, and you were not afraid of missing some beautiful picture which would dwell in your memory for years, or Aleck's last joke, or the Prima Donna's sweet song, Andrew's never-to-be-forgotten lilt, or the Queen Dowager's Scotch ballad pertaining to the district; or what might be even still more likely, if you didn't want to tell a story yourself, or even join in the roaring chorus as we roll along, for truly the exhilarating effect of the triumphant progress is such as to embolden one to do anything. I always liked Artemus Ward, perhaps because I found a point of similarity between him and myself. It was not he but his friend who "was saddest when he sang," as the old song has it. I noticed that my friends were strangely touched when I burst into song. I do not recall an instance when I was encored; but the apparent slight arose probably from a suspicion that if recalled I would have essayed the same song. This is unjust! I have another in reserve for such an occasion, if it ever happen. The words are different, although the tune may be somewhat similar. When I like a tune I stick to it, more or less, and when there are fine touches in several tunes I have been credited with an eclectic disposition. However this may be, there was never time upon our coach for anything which called our eyes and our attention from the rapid succession of pretty cottages, fine flowers, the birds and lowing herds, the grand lights and grander shadows of that uncertain fleecy sky, the luxuriance of the verdure, flowery dells and dewy meads, and the hundred surprising beauties that make England England. These bind us captive and drive from the mind every thought of anything but the full and intense enjoyment of the present hour; and this comes without thought. Forgetful of the past, regardless of the future, from morn till night, it is one uninterrupted season of pure and unalloyed joyousness. Never were the words of the old Scotch song as timely as now: "The present moment is our ain, The neist we never see." Having got the party fairly started, let me tell you something of our general arrangements for the campaign. The coach, horses, and servants are engaged at a stipulated sum per week, which includes their travelling expenses. We have nothing to do with their bills or arrangements, neither are we in any wise responsible for accidents to the property. Every one of the party is allowed a small hand-bag and a strap package; the former contains necessary articles for daily use, the latter waterproofs, shawls, shoes, etc. The Gay Charioteers march with supplies for one week. The trunks are forwarded every week to the point where we are to spend the succeeding Sunday, so that every Saturday evening we replenish our wardrobe, and at the Sunday dinner appear in full dress, making a difference between that and other days. This we found well worth observing, for our Sunday evenings were thereby made somewhat unusual affairs. In no case did any failure of this plan occur, nor were we ever put to the slightest inconvenience about clothing. Our hotel accommodations were secured by telegraph. The General Manager had engaged these for our first week's stage, previous to our start. [Sidenote: _Luncheon._] The question of luncheon soon came to the front, for should we be favored with fine weather, much of the poetry and romance of the journey was sure to cluster round the midday halt. It was by a process of natural selection that she who had proved her genius for making salads on many occasions during the voyage should be unanimously appointed to fill the important position of stewardess, and given full and unlimited control of the hampers. Our stewardess only lived up to a well-deserved reputation by surprising us day after day with luncheons far excelling any dinner. Two coaching hampers, very complete affairs, were obtained in London. These the stewardess saw filled at the inn every morning with the best the country could afford, under her personal supervision, a labor of love. Our Pard's sweet tooth led him to many early excursions before breakfast in quest of sweets and flowers for us. Aleck was butler, and upon him we placed implicit reliance, and with excellent reason too, for the essential corkscrew and the use thereof--which may be rated as of prime necessity upon such a tour--and Aleck never failed us as superintendent of the bottles. It was in obedience to the strictest tenets of our civil service reform association that the most important appointment of all was made with a unanimity which must ever be flattering to the distinguished gentleman who received the highly responsible appointment of General Manager. Just here let me say, for the peace of mind of any gentleman who may be tempted to try the coaching experiment upon a large scale, and for an extended tour: _Don't_, unless you have a dear friend with a clear head, an angelic disposition, a great big heart, and the tact essential for governing, who for your sake is willing to relieve you from the cares incident to such a tour--that is, if you expect to enjoy it as a recreation, and have something that will linger forever after in the memory as an adventure in wonderland. Should you however be one of those rare men who have a real liking for details, and so conceited as to think that you never get things done so well as when your own genius superintends them, being in this respect the antipode of a modest man like myself--who never does by any chance find any one who can so completely bungle matters as himself--it may of course be different. As for me, the very first inquiry I shall make of myself when I am about to take the road again--as pray heaven I may some day, and that ere long--will be this: Now who can I get for Prime Minister, one who will like to govern and allow me to laugh and frolic with the party without a care? The position of a king in a constitutional monarchy is the very ideal for a chief to emulate. It is delightful to feel so very certain that one "can do no wrong," even if infallibility be obtained, as Queen Victoria's is, because she is no longer allowed to do anything. Such was the case with the Scribe during the Coaching Tour. Happy man! [Sidenote: _Grouping._] There must always be a tendency toward grouping in a large party: groups of four or five, and in extreme cases a group of two; and especially is this so when married people, cousins or dear friends, are of the company. To prevent anything like this, and insure our being one united party, I asked the gentlemen not to occupy the same seat twice in succession--a rule which gave the ladies a different companion at each meal, and a change upon the coach several times each day. This was understood to apply in a general way to our strolls, although in this case the General Manager, with rare discretion, winked at many infringements, which insured him grateful constituents of both sexes. Young people should never be held too strictly to such rules, and a chaperon's duties, as we all know, are often most successfully performed by a wise and salutary neglect. Our General Manager and even the Queen Dowager were considerate. We generally started about half-past nine in the morning, half an hour earlier or later as the day's journey was to be long or short; and here let me record, to the credit of all, that not in any instance had we ever to wait for any of the party beyond the five minutes allowed upon all well managed lines for "variation of watches." The horn sounded, and we were off through the crowds which were usually around the hotel door awaiting the start. Nor even at meals were we less punctual or less mindful of the comfort of others. I had indeed a model party in every way, and in none more praiseworthy than in this, that the Charioteers were always "on time." The Prima Donna's explanation may have reason in it: "Who wouldn't be ready and waiting to mount the coach! I'd as soon be late, and a good deal sooner, maybe, for my wedding: and as for meals, there was even a better reason why we were always ready then: we couldn't wait." We did indeed eat like hawks, especially at luncheon--a real boy's hunger--the ravenous gnawing after a day at the sea gathering whilks. I thought this had left me, but that with many another characteristic of glorious youth came once more to make daft callants of us. O those days! those happy, happy days! Can they be brought back once more? Will a second coaching trip do it? I would be off next summer. But one hesitates to put his luck to the test a second time, lest the perfect image of the first be marred. We shall see. During the evening we had learned the next day's stage--where we were to stay over night, and, what is almost as important, in what pretty nook we were to rest at midday; on the banks of what classic stream or wimpling burn, or in what shady, moss-covered dell. Several people of note in the neighborhood dropped into the inn, as a rule, to see the American coaching party, whose arrival in the village had made as great a stir as if it were the advance show-wagon of Barnum's menagerie. From these the best route and objects of interest to be seen could readily be obtained. The ordnance maps which we carried kept us from trouble about the right roads; not only this, they gave us the name of every estate we passed, and of its owner. [Sidenote: _Aristocratic Gypsies._] The horses have to be considered in selecting a luncheon-place, which should be near an inn, where they can be baited. This was rarely inconvenient; but upon a few occasions, when the choice spot was in some glen or secluded place, we took oats along, and our horses were none the worse off for nibbling the road-side grass and drinking from the brook. Nor did the party look less like the aristocratic Gypsies they felt themselves to be from having their coach standing on the moor or in the glen, and the horses picketed near by, as if we were just the true-born Gypsies. And was there ever a band of Gypsies happier than we, or freer from care? Didn't we often dash off in a roar: "See! the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing. A fig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest." Halt! Ho for luncheon! Steps, Joe. Yes, sir! The committee of two dismount and select the choicest little bit of sward for the table. It is not too warm, still we will not refuse the shade of a noble chestnut or fragrant birk, or the side of a tall hedge, on which lie, in one magnificent bed, masses of honeysuckle, over which nod, upon graceful sprays, hundreds of the prettiest wild roses, and at whose foot grow the foxglove and wandering willie. It is no easy matter to decide which piece of the velvety lawn is finest; but here come Joe and Perry with armfuls of rugs to the chosen spot. The rugs are spread two lengthwise a few feet apart, and one across at the top and bottom, leaving for the table in the centre the fine clovered turf with buttercups and daisies pied. The ladies have gathered such handfuls of wild flowers! How fresh, how unaffected, and how far beyond the more pretentious bouquets which grace our city dinners! These are Nature's own dear children, fresh from her lap, besprinkled with the dews of heaven, unconscious of their charms. How touchingly beautiful are the wild flowers! real friends are they, close to our hearts, while those of the conservatory stand outside, fashionable acquaintances only. [Sidenote: _Wild Flowers._] Give us the wild flowers, and take your prize varieties; for does not even Tennyson (a good deal of a cultivated flower himself) sing thus of the harshest of them all, though to a Scotsman sacred beyond all other vegetation: ... "the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden roses." And in that wonder of our generation, the "Light of Asia," it is no garden beauties who are addressed: "Oh, flowers of the field! Siddârtha said, Who turn your tender faces to the sun-- Glad of the light, and grateful with sweet breath Of fragrance and these robes of reverence donned, Silver and gold and purple--none of ye Miss perfect living, none of ye despoil Your happy beauty.... What secret know ye that ye grow content, From time of tender shoot to time of fruit, Murmuring such sun-songs from your feathered crowns?" You may be sure that while in Scotland old Scotia's dear emblem, and that most graceful of all flowers, the Scottish bluebell, towered over our bouquets, and that round them clustered the others less known to fame. It was an easy matter to tie the flowers round sticks and press these into the soft lawn, and then there was a table for you--equal it who can! Round this the travellers range themselves upon the rugs, sometimes finding in back to back an excellent support, for they sat long at table; and see at the head--for it's the head wherever she sits--the Queen Dowager is comfortably seated upon the smaller of the two hampers. The larger placed on end before her gives her a private table: she has an excellent seat, befitting her dignity. Joe and Perry have put the horses up at the inn, and are back with mugs of foaming ale, bottles of Devonshire cider, lemonade, and pitchers of fresh creamy milk, that all tastes may be suited. The stewardess and her assistants have set table, and now luncheon is ready. No formal grace is necessary, for our hearts have been overflowing with gratitude all the day long for the blessed happiness showered upon us. We owe no man a grudge, harbor no evil, have forgiven all our enemies, if we have any--for we doubt the existence of enemies, being ourselves the enemy of none. Our hearts open to embrace all things, both great and small; we are only sorry that so much is given to us, so little to many of our more deserving fellow-creatures. Truly, the best grace this, before meat or after! "He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all." In these days we feel for the Deevil himself, and wish with Burns that he would take a thought and mend; and, as Howells says, "if we had the naming of creation we wouldn't call snakes snakes" if the christening took place while we were coaching. [Sidenote: _Good Appetites._] No one would believe what fearful appetites driving in this climate gives one. Shall we ever feel such tigerish hunger again! but, what is just as important, shall we ever again have such luncheons! "Give me a sixpence," said the beggar to the duke, "for I have nothing." "You lie, you beggar; I'd give a thousand pounds for such an appetite as you've got." Well, ours would have been cheap to you, my lord duke, at double the money. What a roar it caused one day when one of the young ladies was discovered quietly taking the third slice of cold ham. "Well, girls, you must remember I was on the front seat, and had to stand the _brunt_ of the weather this morning." Capital! I had been there at her side, and got my extra allowance on the same ground; and those who bore the _brunt_ of the weather claimed a great many second and even third allowances during the journey. Aleck (_Aa_leck, not El-eck, remember), set the table in a roar so often with his funny sayings and doings that it would fill the record were I to recount them, but one comes to mind as I write which was a great hit. A temperance--no, a total abstinence lady rebuked him once for taking a second or third glass of something, telling him that he should try to conquer his liking for it, and assuring him that if he would only resist the Devil he would flee from him. "I know," said the wag (and with such a comical, good-natured expression), "that is what the good book says, Mrs. ----, but I have generally found that I was the fellow who had _to get_." You couldn't corner Aaleck. Although we were coaching, it must not be thought that we neglected the pleasures of walking. No, indeed, we had our daily strolls. Sometimes the pedestrians started in advance of the coach from the inn or the luncheon ground, and walked until overtaken, and at other times we would dismount some miles before we reached the end of the day's journey, and walk into the village. This was a favorite plan, as we found by arriving later than the main body our rooms were ready and all the friends in our general sitting-room standing to welcome us. Hills upon the route were always hailed as giving us an opportunity for a walk or a stroll, and all the sport derivable from a happy party in country lanes. It was early June, quite near enough to "The flowery May who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose," and the hundreds of England's wild beauties with "quaint enamell'd eyes, That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers." [Sidenote: _Pleasures of Walking._] Many a time was Perry instructed to wait for us at the foot of the hill, or a mile or two in advance, while we spent the happy intervals in examining still closer than it was possible to do while driving the beauties which captivated us at every turn. The pleasures of walking set against those of coaching might well furnish matter for an evening's debate. Combined, as they were with us, the result was perfection, for they are indeed upon such a tour the complement of each other. If ever weary of the coach--which we never were--nothing like a walk along the hedge-rows as a substitute, with many a run into out-of-the-way paths, which tempted us by their loveliness, and many a minute stolen to explore the windings of the brooks we passed. I often felt that one of the prettiest pictures I had ever seen was that of our own party scattered about some bosky dell in the way I have described, while the towering coach-and-four stood out clear against the sky upon the hilltop, waiting for us to tear ourselves away from scenes among which we would linger till the daylight had passed. Let no one fail while coaching to work this mine of pure happiness to the full. We carried perpetual flowering summer with us as we travelled from south to north, plucking the wild roses and the honeysuckles from the hedges near Brighton, never missing their sweet influences, and finding them ready to welcome us at Inverness, seven weeks later, as if they had waited till our approach to burst forth in their beauty in kindly greeting of their kinsmen from over the sea. A dancing, laughing welcome did the wild flowers of my native land give to us, God bless them! On our arrival at the inn for the night, the General Manager examined the rooms and assigned them; Joe and Perry handed over the bags to the servants; the party went direct to their general sitting-room, and in a few minutes were taken to their rooms, where all was ready for them. The two American flags were placed upon the mantel of the sitting-room, in which there was always a piano, and we sat down to dinner a happy band. The long twilight and the gloaming in Scotland gave us two hours after dinner to see the place; and after our return an hour of musical entertainment was generally enjoyed, and we were off to bed to sleep the sound, refreshing sleep of childhood's innocent days. The duties of the General Manager, however, required his attendance down stairs; he had to-morrow's route to learn and the landlord or landlady, as the case might be, to see. Some of the male members of the party were not loath to assist in this business, and I have heard many a story of the pranks played by them--for several of my friends are not unlike the piper, "Rory Murphy," "Who had of good auld sangs the wale To please the wives that brewed good ale; He charmed the swats frae cog and pail As he cam through Dumbarton." [Sidenote: _Coaching Weather._] No doubt the landlord's laugh was ready chorus, and the Gay Charioteers of this department, I make bold to say, tasted most of the "far ben" barrels of every landlord or landlady in their way northward. The question of the weather occurs to every one. "If you have a dry season, it may be done; if a wet one, I doubt it," was the opinion of one of my wisest friends in Britain. We were surprisingly fortunate in this respect. Only one day did we suffer seriously from rain. A gentle shower fell now and then to cool the air and lay the dust, or rather to prevent the dust, and seemingly to recreate vegetation. Who wouldn't bear a shower, if properly supplied with waterproofs and umbrellas, for the fresh glory revealed thereafter. Only a continual downpour for days could have dampened the ardor of the Gay Charioteers. Good coaching weather may be expected in June and July, if one may indulge any weather anticipations in England. After we left the deluge came; nothing but rain during August and September, at least such was the report--but the conveniences of living are so great and the discomforts so few in England that I incline to the opinion, especially when I take into consideration the well-known tendency of the islanders to grumble, that far too much is made out of the so-called bad weather. We had a curious illustration of this. One day we heard some rumbling sounds which would scarcely pass with us for thunder, and we were amused next morning to read in the newspapers of the terrific thunder-storm which had passed over the district. All things are gentle and well behaved in this sober, steady-going, conservative land. Even Jove himself "roars you as mildly as a sucking dove." Pluvius, too, is less terrible than he is painted, though the green, green grass, the smiling hedgerows, the luxuriant vegetation everywhere tells of a moist nature and a disposition to weep at short intervals; but the rain comes gently down as if all the while begging your pardon and explaining that it couldn't possibly help it, the sky being unable to keep it any longer in its overburdened bosom. Strong, thick shoes, one pair in reserve, and overshoes for the ladies, heavy woollen clothing--under and over--a waterproof, an umbrella, and a felt hat that won't spoil--these rendered us almost independent of the weather and prepared us to encounter the worst ever predicted of the British climate; and this is saying a great deal, for the natives do grumble inordinately about it. As I have said, however, our travelling was never put to a severe test. England and Scotland smiled upon the coaching party, and compelled us all to fall deeply in love with their unrivalled charms. We thought that even in tears this blessed isle must still be enchanting. The same horses (with one exception) took us through from Brighton to Inverness. This has surprised some horsemen here, but little do they know of the roads and climate, or of Perry's care. Our average distance, omitting days when we rested, was thirty-two miles, and horses will actually improve on such a journey, as ours did, if not pushed too fast and not forced to pull beyond their strength up steep hills. The continual desire of most of our party to dismount and enjoy a walk gave our horses a light coach where the road was such as to bring them to a walk, and they were actually in better condition after the journey than when we started. [Sidenote: _Wayside Inns._] For luncheon, "good my liege, all place a temple and all seasons summer," but for lodgings and entertainment for man and beast, how did we manage these? Shall we not take our ease in our inn? and shall not mine host of The Garter, ay and mine hostess too, prove the most obliging of people? I do not suppose that it would be possible to find in any other country such delightful inns at every stage of such a journey. Among many pretty objects upon which memory lovingly rests, these little wayside inns stand prominently forward. The very names carry one back to quaint days of old: "The Lamb and Lark," "The Wheat Sheaf," "The Barley Mow." Oh, you fat wight! your inn was in Eastcheap, but in your march through Coventry, when you wouldn't go with your scarecrows, it was to some wayside inn you went, you rogue, with its trailing vines, thatched roof, and pretty garden flower-pots in the windows; and upon such excursions it was, too, that you acquired that love of nature which enabled the master with six words to cover most that was un-unsavory in your character, and hand you down to generations unborn, shrived and absolved. Dear old boy--whom one would like to have known--for after all you were right, Jack: "If Adam fell in an age of innocency, what was poor Jack Falstaff to do in an age of villainy!" There was something pure and good at bottom of one who left us after life's vanities were o'er playing with flowers and "babbling o' green fields." These country hostelries are redolent of the green fields. It is in such we would take our ease in our inn. The host, hostess, and servants assembled at the door upon our arrival, and welcomed us to their home, as they also do when we leave to bid us God-speed. We mount and drive off with smiles, bows, and wavings of the hands from them; and surely the smiles and good wishes of those who have done so much to promote our comfort over night are no bad salute for us as we blow our horn and start on the fresh dewy mornings upon our day's journey. [Sidenote: _British Honesty._] The scrupulous care bestowed upon us and our belongings by the innkeepers excited remark. Not one article was lost of the fifty packages, great and small, required by fifteen persons. It was not even practicable to get rid of any trifling article which had served its purpose; old gloves, or discarded brushes quietly stowed away in some drawer or other would be handed to us at the next stage, having been sent by express by these careful, honest people. It was a great and interesting occasion, as the reporters say, when the stowed-away pair of old slippers which she had purposely left, were delivered to one of our ladies with a set speech after dinner one evening. Little did she suspect what was contained in the nice package which had been forwarded. Our cast-off things were veritable devil's ducats which would return to plague us. To the grandest feature of the Briton's character, the love of truth, let one more cardinal virtue be added--his downright honesty. More Englishmen of all ranks, high and low, in proportion to population, will escape conviction upon two counts of the general indictment, "Thou shalt not bear false witness," and "Thou shalt not steal," than those of any other nationality; but upon a collateral count a larger proportion of Englishmen of position will have difficulty in clearing themselves than of any other race of which I have knowledge; for while the true Briton will tell the truth, if he has to speak at all, he will conceal his honest convictions upon social and political subjects to such an extent in public as to seem to you almost hypocritical when compared with what he will say freely in private. The M.P. of the smoking room of the House of Commons and the same man on the floor of the House, for instance, are two distinct personages, for it is understood that whatever is said below is to be above as if unsaid. I have often wondered how they merge the one character into the other when the day's words and acts come under review ere the eyes close in sleep--there is such a miserable fear in the breast of the free-born Briton that he will in an unguarded moment say something which he feels to be true, but which society will not think "good form." The great difference between a Radical and a Liberal in England is, it seems to me, that the one holds the same opinions in public and in private, while the other has two sets of opinions, the one for public, the other for private use. The maintenance of old forms, from which the life has passed out, is no doubt the real cause of this phase of English political life, apparently so inconsistent with the Saxon love of truth; one sham requires many shams for its support. We all have our special weaknesses as to the articles we leave behind at hotels. Mine is well known; but I smile as I write at the cleverness shown in preventing my lapses during the excursion from coming before the congregation. It was a wary eye which was kept upon forwarded parcels, mark you, and not once was I presented with a left article. The eleventh commandment is, not to be found out. [Sidenote: _Wild Flowers._] With these general observations we shall not "leave the subject with you," but, retracing our steps to the hills overlooking Brighton, we shall mount the coach waiting there for us at the King's Cross Inn; for you remember we dismounted there while the horses were watered for the first time. Ten miles of bewildering pleasure had brought us here; some of us pushed forward and had our first stroll, but we scattered in a minute, for who could resist the flowers which tempted us at every step! The roses were just in season; the honeysuckle, ragged robin, meadow sweet, wandering willie, and who can tell how many others whose familiar names are household words. What bouquets we gathered, what exclamations of delight were heard as one mass of beauty after another burst upon our sight! We began to realize that Paradise lay before us, began to know that we had discovered the rarest plan upon earth for pleasure; as for duty that was not within our horizon. We scarcely knew there was work to do. An echo of a moan from the weary world we had cast behind was not heard. Divinest melancholy was out of favor; Il Penseroso was discarded for the time, and L'Allegro, the happier goddess, crowned, bringing in her train-- "Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides; Come and trip it as you go, On the light, fantastic toe." That does not quite express it, for there was time for momentary pauses now and then, when the heart swelled with gratitude. We were so grateful for being so blessed. It was during this stroll that Emma came quietly to my side, slipped her arm in mine, and said in that rich, velvety English voice which we all envy her: "Oh, Andrew, when I am to go home you will have to tell me plainly, for indeed I shall never be able to leave this of my own accord. I haven't been as happy since I was a young girl." "Do you really think you could go all the way to Inverness?" "Oh, I could go on this way forever." "All right, my lady, 'check your baggage through,' as we say in Yankeedom;" and never did that woman lose sight of the coach till it was torn away from her at Inverness. Some of us dismounted before reaching Horsham, and went in pursuit of adventure. In an old tan-yard by the wayside, where men were making leather in the crude, old-fashioned way, with horses instead of a steam engine for the motive power, we had our first conversation with the British rural workman, whose weekly earnings do not exceed $3.50. Now, this was not more than thirty miles from London, and only twenty-one from the sea at Brighton, and yet the oldest man of the party, who was the most talkative, had never seen the sea. He had been in London once, during the great Exhibition in 1851, having been treated to the journey by his employer; but his brother, who lived only a few miles beyond, had never been in a railway carriage. Their old master had died recently and had left a pound ($5) to every workman who had been with him for a certain number of years--I think ten. Good old master! The owners had new-fangled notions, he said, and were spending "heaps o' money" in building a steam engine which was not yet ready, but which he invited us to go and see. This was to do the work much faster; but (with a shake of the head) "I've 'earn tell by some as knows it's na sae gid for the leather." [Sidenote: _Rip Van Winkles._] Could we really be within an hour's ride of the capital of the world, and yet in the midst of a Sleepy Hollow like this, peopled by Rip van Winkles! This incident gives a just idea of the tenacity with which the English hold to what their fathers did before them. This man's father could not have seen the sea at Brighton, nor have visited London short of spending a week's earnings. His successor goes along as his father did--what was good enough for his father is good enough for him, "Chained to one spot, They draw nutrition, propagate and rot." But the next generation is to see all this changed, for even southern England is under the compulsory education act, and the rural population is to have the political franchise and a voice in the election of county boards. At Horsham we lunched at the King's Arms, walked about its principal square, and were off again for Guildford. As we leave the sea the soil becomes richer, and ere we reach Horsham we say, yes, this is England indeed; but I forgot we passed through the Weald of Sussex before reaching Horsham. The cloudy sky cast deep shadows with the sunbeams over the rich, wooded landscape, as no clear blue sky has power to do, and brought to my mind Mrs. Browning's lines: ... "my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming, Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth. * * * * * Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them still around me, With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind!" And many a stately home did we see, fit for her "who spake such good thoughts natural." Mrs. Browning is said to have written Lady Geraldine in a few hours, lying upon a sofa. This is one of the proofs cited that genius does its work as if by inspiration, without great effort. What nonsense! The Agave Americana bursts into flower in a day; but, look you, a hundred years of quiet, unceasing growth, which stopped not night nor day, was the period of labor preceding the miracle--a hundred years, during all of which it drank of the sunshine and the dews. Scott wrote some of his best works in a few weeks, but for a lifetime he never flagged in his work of gathering the fruits of song and story. Burns dashed off "A man's a man for a' that" in a jiffy. Yes, but for how many years were his very heartstrings tingling and his blood boiling at the injustice of hereditary rank! His life is in that song, not a few hours of it. * * * * * GUILDFORD, June 17. [Sidenote: _A Generous Squire._] The approach to Guildford gives us our first real perfect English lane--so narrow and so bound in by towering hedgerows worthy the name. Had we met a vehicle at some of the prettiest turns there would have been trouble, for, although the lane is not quite as narrow as the pathway of the auld brig, where two wheelbarrows trembled as they met, yet a four-in-hand upon an English lane requires a clear track. Vegetation near Guildford is luxuriant enough to meet our expectations of England. It was at the White Lion we halted, and here came our first experience of quarters for the night. The first dinner en route was a decided success in our fine sitting-room, the American flags, brought into requisition for the first time to decorate the mantel, bringing to all sweet memories of home. During our stroll to-day we stopped at a small village inn before which pretty roses grew, hanging in clusters upon its sides. It was a very small and humble inn indeed, the tile floors sanded, and the furniture of the tap-room only plain wood--there were no chairs, only benches around the table where the hinds sit at night, drinking home-brewed beer, smoking their clay pipes, and discussing not the political affairs of the nation, but the affairs of their little world, bounded by the hall at one end of the estate, and the parsonage at the other. The merits of the gray mare, or the qualities of the last breed of sheep at the home farm, or the new-fangled plough which the squire has been rash enough to order. The landlady told us that she had recently moved from one of the midland towns to this village to secure purer air for the children, who had not been thriving well. Her husband was a gardener and worked for the squire. Two pretty little girls were brought in for us to see, true Saxons, with blue eyes and light colored hair, but with less color in their sweet innocent faces than usual--the result of dirty, crowded Leeds, no doubt--but soon to be changed by the country air. The eldest girl could not have been more than six or seven years old, but when she was given a few pence she went to the next room and brought a sheet of paper upon which were pasted some penny postage stamps. She was going at once to the post office to buy more stamps with her pennies. On inquiring we learned that the Post Office Department receives deposits of a shilling in stamps and allows two and a half per cent. interest I think, upon them, and "the squire" God bless him! had promised all the children upon his estates, which I trust vast, that whenever they saved eleven stamps he would give the last one to complete the shilling. In this way he hopes to instil into the young the importance of beginning early to save something for a rainy day. The still younger girl had also her stamp paper. The English are an improvident race, not given to denying themselves to-day that they may feast later on. "Do not put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day" is generally construed to mean, that the cake may as well be eaten at once, so that upon the whole we were not displeased to see these children trained to accumulate; but nevertheless it did seem pitiful that the dear little lambs, instead of sporting without a care, should have so early to learn that life is to the mass mainly a struggle for subsistence. Civilization is a failure till all this be changed. What a pity the name and address of that squire are mislaid. He evidently feels that property has its duties as well as its rights. The village and the inn and all the surroundings showed that the Hall was, in this instance, as it is in so many others, the centre and source of good influences. "He has a good wife and earnest thinking and working daughters," said one of the party. Surely he has and they do their part or he could not succeed. It was quite safe to infer this, was the verdict. Man is a poor agency for such work, left to himself. It needs woman's patience and glowing sympathy to work improvement in the manners and customs of the rural population. Man may supply the money, which corresponds only to barren faith among the virtues; it is to woman we must look for the harvest--good works. When we remounted the coach, one regret found loud expression, and as the Scribe writes to-day, he wishes the omission could be remedied. Why did not we give these children a shilling each, with strict injunctions to gorge themselves with taffy and gingerbread, not a penny of it to be saved. A regular spree regardless of consequences! "Oh! it would have made them ill," said one. Well, suppose it did, just think of the legacy left them, a dream for years that they had been brought to death's door by too much taffy! Why, the sweet taste would have lingered in the pretty little mouths till womanhood, and they would have thought about their illness as Conn in the Shaughraun did about his month in jail for taking the squire's horse for a run with the hounds: "Begorra! it was worth it!" [Sidenote: _Franklin's Proverb._] It might have given them a taste for dissipation, and they would have ceased to gather stamps, and turned out badly, was the next suggestion. This was seemingly agreed to by the majority, but there was one who wished he had secretly conveyed to the cherubs, at least a six-pence each to be entirely devoted to gormandizing. "Take care of your pence and the pounds will take care of themselves," the Queen Dowager remarked, is one of Ben Franklin's wisest proverbs. There was one at least of her children who had good reason to remember that favorite axiom. During his temporary absence from school, good Mr. Martin had instituted a rule that each one in the class should repeat a proverb before the lessons began. Her offspring was at the foot of the class, from absence it is to be hoped, and as each boy and girl spoke his proverb (they were taught together in those days, much to the advantage of both sexes, for who wanted to be a dunce before pretty and clever A. R.) they had an unfamiliar sound, but when his turn came he innocently gave them his mother's favorite from Franklin. It was like introducing a strange dog into a crowded church. After the uproar had subsided, the teacher said that while it was no doubt a very good proverb, it was not just in place among the sacred proverbs of Solomon. Another story was related of one of the Charioteers who, when told that he ought to sing when the others did in church, struck up, at the top of his shrill piping voice, "Come under my plaidie, the night's going to fa';" when the congregation began the Psalm. His uncle was so convulsed that, notwithstanding the angry glances of many near him, he could not stop the performance in time to prevent an unseemly interruption. We had done our first day's coaching, and a long day at that, and looking back it is amusing to remember how anxiously we awaited the reports of the ladies of our party; for it was not without grave apprehension that some must fall by the wayside, as it were, as we journeyed on. One who had tried coaching upon this side had informed us that few ladies could stand it; but it was very evident that the spirits and appetites of ours were entirely satisfactory, and they all laughed at the idea that they could not go on forever. The Queen Dowager was quite as fresh as any. It was a shame that general orders consigned to bed at an early hour two of the ladies thought least robust, while the others walked about the suburbs of Guildford until late. We stood in the thickening twilight in front of an ivy-clad residence for some time, and asked each other if anything so exquisite had ever been seen, so full of rest, of home. The next morning all were fresh and happy, without a trace of fatigue--full of yesterday, and quite sure that no other day could equal it. But this was often said: many and many a day was voted the finest yet, only to be eclipsed in its turn by a later, till at last an effort to name our best day led to twenty selections, and ended in the general conclusion that it was impossible to say which had crowded within its hours the rarest treat, for none had all the finest, neither did any lack something of the best. But there is one point upon which a unanimous verdict can always be had from the Gay Charioteers, that to such days in the mass none but themselves can be their parallel. We ran into a book-shop in the morning and obtained a local guide-book, that we might cull for you the proper quotations therefrom. It consists of 148 pages, mostly given up to notices of the titled people who visited the old town long ago; but who cares about them? Here, however, is something of more interest than all those nobodies. Cobbett says of Guildford, in his "Rural Rides:" [Sidenote: _Cobbett's Opinion._] "I, who have seen so many towns, think this the prettiest and most happy looking I ever saw in my life." There's praise for you! But, then, he had never seen Dunfermline. Here is a characteristic touch of that rare, horse-sense kind of a man. He is enraptured over the vale of Chilworth. "Here, in this tranquil spot, where the nightingales are to be heard earlier and later in the year than in any other part of England, where the first budding of the trees is seen in the spring, where no rigor of seasons can ever be felt, where everything seems framed for precluding the very thought of wickedness--this has the devil fixed on as one of his seats of his grand manufactory, and perverse and even ungrateful man not only lends his aid, but lends it cheerfully." Since those days, friend Cobbett, the devil has much enlarged his business in gunpowder and bank notes, of which you complain. He was only making a start when you wrote. The development of manufactures in America (under a judicious tariff, be it reverently spoken), amazing as it has been, and carried on as a rule by the saints, is slow work compared with what his satanic majesty has been doing in these two departments. We must bestir ourselves betimes. You remember Artemus Ward's encounter with the colporteur. After a long, dusty day's journey, arriving at the hotel, he applied to the barkeeper for a mint-julep, and just as Artemus was raising the tempting draught to his lips, a hand was laid upon his arm and the operation arrested. The missionary in embryo said in a kind of sepulchral tone, for he was only a beginner and had not yet reached that true professional voice which comes only after years of exhortation: "My friend, look not upon the wine when it is red. It stingeth like a serpent and it biteth as an adder." "Guess not, stranger," replied Artemus, "not if you put sugar in it." It is just so with bank-notes, friend Cobbett. They don't bite worth a cent, neither do they sting, if you have government bonds behind them. But this was not understood in your day. The Republic had not then shown to the world the model system of banking. The objection made to it by others, viz., that founded as it is upon the obligations of the nation, its discredit involves the fall of private credit, counts for little to a republican. We would not give much for the man who is not willing to stake "his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor" upon the solvency of the Republic. Pitiable is the man who could think of his petty private means when his country was in peril. When the Republic falls, let us also fall. There is a funny thing in this guide-book. "There also resides Mr. Martin Farquhar Tupper, the author of 'Proverbial Philosophy,' etc. He has eulogized the scene around as follows." Then come two pages of Tupper. I naturally looked to see the name of the author of the book, but none was given. Such modesty! But the case is a clear one, for who but Tupper would quote Tupper! "Sir," said Johnson to Bossy, "Sir, I never did the man an injury in my life, and yet he would persist in reading his tragedy to me." Here's the concluding quotation from the guide-book of Guildford, and the Scribe promises not to quote much more from any similar source. Cobbett says that in Albury Park he saw some plants of the "American cranberry, which not only grow here, but bear fruit, and therefore it is clear that they may be cultivated with great ease in this country." [Sidenote: _American Blessings._] Potatoes, tomatoes, and cranberries--look at the great blessings America has bestowed upon the "author of her being;" and what won't grow in the rain and fog of the old home, doesn't she grow for her and send over by every steamer, from canvas-back ducks to Newtown pippins! Thackeray was right in saying one night, when some friends were disposed to criticise America, "Ah! well, gentlemen, much can be pardoned to a country which produces the canvas-back duck." At dinner-tables in England, nowadays, to the usual grace, "O Lord! for what we are about to receive make us truly thankful," should be added, "and render us truly grateful to our big son Jonathan, God bless him!" One could settle down at the White Lion in Guildford, and spend a month, at least, visiting every day fresh objects of interest, and I have no doubt becoming day by day more charmed with the life he was leading. In every direction historical scenes, crowded full of instructive stories of the past, invite us: and yet to-morrow morning the horn will sound, and we shall be off, reluctantly saying to ourselves, we must return some day when we have leisure, and wander in and around, absorb and moralize. This rapid survey is only to show us what we can do hereafter. A summer to each county would not be too much, and here are eight hundred miles from sea to firth to be rushed over in seven weeks. Guildford, farewell!--on "to fresh woods and pastures new." * * * * * SATURDAY, June 18. After a delightful breakfast we mount the coach and are off through the crowd of lookers-on for our second day's journey. During this stage we learned the valuable lesson that we should not attempt to coach through England without having the ordnance survey maps, and paying close attention to them. In this part of the country, so near to monster London, the roads and lanes are innumerable, and run here, there, and everywhere. You can reach any point by many different roads. Guide-posts have a dozen names upon them. We did some sailing out of our course to-day, and found many charming spots not down in the chart, which the straight line would have caused us to miss; it was late ere Windsor's towers made their appearance. The day was not long enough for us, long as it was, but the fifty miles we are said to have traversed were quite enough for the horses. But next day would be Sunday, we said, and they had a long rest to look forward to at Windsor. * * * * * WINDSOR, June 18-20. [Sidenote: _The Scribe as a Whip._] Upon reaching the forest, the General Manager insisted that the Scribe should take the reins and drive his party through the royal domain. This was his first trial as the whip of a four-in-hand, and not a very successful one either. It's easy enough to handle the ribbons, but how to do this and spare a hand for the whip troubles one. As Josh Billings remarks in the case of religion, "It's easy enough to get religion, but to hold on to it is what bothers a fellow. A good grip is here worth more than rubies." The Scribe had not the grip for the whip, but it did give him a rare pleasure when he got a moment or two now and then (when Perry held the whip), to think that he was privileged to drive his friends in style up to Her Majesty's very door at Windsor. Only to the door, for that good woman was not at home, but in bonnie Scotland, sensible lady! As we were en route ourselves, we were quite in the fashion; some of her republican subjects, however, were quite disappointed at not getting a glimpse of her during the tour. The drive through the grounds gave to some of our party the first sight of an English park, and it is certain that the impression it made upon them will never be effaced. Windsor at last, a late dinner and a stroll through the quaint town, the castle towering over all in the cloudy night, and we were off to bed, but not before we had enjoyed an hour of the wildest frolic, though tired and sleepy after the long drive. We laughed until our sides ached, but how vain to attempt to describe the fun! To detail the trifles light as air which kept us in a roar during our excursion is like offering you stale champagne. No, no, gone forever are those rare nothings which were so delicious when fresh; but, for the benefit of the members of the Circle, I'll just say "Poole." It was a happy thought to put the General Manager's suit of new clothes in Davie's package and await results. We had ordered travelling suits in London, and when they arrived we all began to try them on at once. Davie's disappointment at getting an odd-looking suit fancied by the General Manager was so genuine! But such a perfect fit, though a mistake, maybe, as to material; and then, when he tried his own suit, what a misfit it was! The climax: "David, if you are going to"--but this is too much! The tears are rolling down my cheeks once more as I picture that wild scene. [Sidenote: _Gladstone._] We heard the chimes at midnight, and then to bed. Windsor is nothing unless royal. It is all over royal, although Her Majesty was absent. But the Prince of Wales was there, and a greater than he--Mr. Gladstone--had run down from muggy London to refresh his faded energies by communing with nature. It is said that his friends are alarmed at his haggard appearance toward the close of each week; but he spends Saturday and Sunday in the country, and returns on Monday to surprise them at the change. Ah! he has found the kindest, truest nurse, for he knows-- ... "that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings." Mr. Gladstone's fresh appearance Monday mornings gratifies his friends, and pleases even his opponents, for such a man can have no ill-wishers, surely. When Confucius had determined to behead the emperor's corrupt brother, his counsellors endeavored to dissuade him, from a just fear that the criminal's friends would rise and avenge his death. "Friends!" said the sage, "such a character may have adherents, but friends never." The result proved his wisdom. No revolt came, though Confucius stood by to see justice done, refusing to listen to the petition of the emperor for his own brother's life. In like manner, Mr. Gladstone may have opponents--enemies never. All Englishmen must in their hearts honor the man who is a credit to the race. By the way, he's Scotch, let me note, and never fails to bear in mind and to mention this special cause for thankfulness. I suspect that this fact has not a little to do with the intense enthusiasm of Scotland for him. We are a queer lot, up in the North Countrie, and he is our ain bairn. Blood is thicker than water everywhere, but in no part of this world is it so _very much thicker_ as beyond the Tweed. We attended church at Windsor and saw the great man and the Prince come to the door together. There the former stopped and the other walked up the aisle, causing a flutter in the congregation. Mr. Gladstone followed at a respectful distance, and took his seat several pews behind. How absurd you are, my young lady republican! Can you not understand? One is only the leading man in the empire--a man who, in a fifty years' tussle with the foremost statesmen of the age, has won the crown both for attainments and character; but the other, bless your ignorant little head!--he is a prince. [Sidenote: _Kings and Princes._] Well, if he is, he has never done anything, you say. True, but what are kings and princes for? The people of England, my dear, not so very long ago, used to have it beaten into them that "the king can do no wrong." As this is historically the true doctrine and has antiquity on its side, it would have been very un-English to reject it; so they quietly accepted the dogma and made it true by arranging that the king should never be allowed to do anything--it's a way these islanders have--the form may be what it likes, the substance must be as they wish. They never revolutionize in England--they transform. What you complain of then, my red republican miss, is really the best proof that the prince will make that modern article called a Constitutional Monarch, and spend his days as the English man-milliner Worth--setting the fashions, laying foundation stones, and opening fancy bazars. Oh! you would not be such a prince or such a king. The Bruce at Bannockburn, at the head of his countrymen striking for the independence of Scotland, and King Edward leading his hosts, these were _real_ kings, you say? The kings of to-day are shadows. I am not going to dispute that with you, Miss; times have changed and kings with them; but were I Prince of Wales, I would be in Ireland to-day investigating the causes of discontent and devising a remedy; and above all showing my deep and abiding sympathy with that portion of my people. This would be better than leading men to murder their fellows--as your heroes did. Oh yes, indeed, says my young lady politician, I should like to be the Prince of Wales just to do that. What a hero it would make him! Why, he would rank with Alfred the Good, or George Washington. Why doesn't Mr. Gladstone suggest this to him? I believe the Prince would just jump at the chance. Well, my dear girl, drop a postal card to the grand old man, and you will get his views upon the subject by return mail. The conversation ended by a toss of the head, and "Well, I would if I were a man. I should like a chance 'to talk it up' to the Prince." As the Prince is an admirer of pretty American young ladies, our friend might get a hearing and astonish him. In the afternoon we attended St. George's Chapel. In one of the stalls we saw again that sadly noble lion-face--no one ever mistakes Gladstone. He sat wrapped in the deepest meditation. He is very pale, haggard, and careworn--the weight of empire upon him! "I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs, When this snow melteth there shall come a flood." I could not help applying to him Milton's lines: ... "with grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd A pillar of state: deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat and public care; And princely counsel in his face yet shone, Majestic though in ruin." He has work to do yet. If he were only fifty instead of seventy odd! Well, God bless him for what he has done; may he rule England long! [Sidenote: _The Queen Dowager._] A memorable event occurred at Windsor, Sunday, June 19th--the Queen Dowager reached her seventy-first year. At breakfast Mr. B. rose, and addressing himself to her, made one of the sweetest, prettiest speeches ever heard. He presented to her an exquisite silver cup, ornamented with birds and flowers, and inscribed: "Presented to Mrs. M. C. at Windsor, by the members of the coaching-party, upon her seventy-first birthday." Mr. B.'s reference to her intense love of nature in all its glorious forms, from the tiny gowan to the extended landscape, was most appropriate. We were completely surprised; and when the speaker concluded, the Scribe was about to rise and respond, but a slight motion from Her Majesty apprized him that she preferred to reply in person. She acquitted herself grandly. Her speech was a gem (Mem.--it was so short). After thanking her dear friends, she said: "I can only wish that you may all have as good health, as complete command of all your faculties, and enjoy flowers and birds and all things of nature as much as I do at seventy-one." Here the voice trembled. There were not many dry eyes. The quiver ran through the party, and without another word the Queen sat slowly down. I was very, very proud of that seventy-year old (I am often that), and deeply moved, as she was, by this touching evidence of the regard of the coaching-party for her. This incident led to some funny stories about presentation speeches. Upon a recent occasion, not far from Paisley, Aggie told us, a worthy deacon had been selected to present a robe to the minister. The church was crowded, and the recipient stood expectantly at the foot of the pulpit, surrounded by the members of his family. Amid breathless silence the committee entered and marched up the aisle, headed by the deacon bearing the gift in his extended arms. On reaching the pulpit a stand was made, but never a word came from the deacon, down whose brow the perspiration rolled in great drops. He was in a daze, but a touch from one of the committee brought him back to something like a realizing sense of his position, and he stammered out, as he handed the robe to the minister: "Mr. Broon, Here's the goon." You need not laugh. It is not likely that you could make as good a speech, which, I'll wager, is far better than the one over which he had spent sleepless nights, but which providentially left him at the critical moment. Windsor, seen from any direction at a distance, is _par excellence_ the castle--a truly royal residence; but, seen closely, it loses the grand and sinks into something of prettiness. It is no longer commanding, and is insignificant in comparison with the true castles of the North, the surroundings of which are in keeping with the idea of a stronghold, and take you at once to the times of the chieftain and his armed men. There is nothing of this at Windsor, and the glamour disappears when you begin to analyze. Royalty's famous abode should be looked at, as royalty itself should be--at a safe distance. [Sidenote: _St. George's Chapel._] Service at St. George's Chapel will not soon be forgotten by our party. The stalls of the Knights of the Garter, over the canopies of which hang their swords and mantles surmounted by their crests and armorial bearings, carry one far back into the days of chivalry. One stall arrested and held my attention--that of the Earl of Beaconsfield. When I was not gazing at Gladstone's face, I was moralizing upon the last Knight of the Garter, whose flag still floats above the stall. Disraeli won the blue ribbon about as worthily as most men, and by much the same means--he flattered the monarch. But there is this to be said of him: he had brains and made himself. What a commentary upon pride of birth, the flag of the poor literary adventurer floating beside that of my lord duke's! It pleased me much to see it. How that man must have chuckled as he bowed his way among his dupes, from Her Majesty to Salisbury, and passed the radical extension of the suffrage that doomed hereditary privilege to speedy extinction. But where will imperialism get such another leader, after all? It has not found him yet. "What is that up there?" asked one of our party. "The royal box, miss." Were we really at the opera, then? A royal box in a church for the worship of God! Did you ever hear anything like that! There is a royal staircase, too. Why not? You would not have royalty on an equality with us, would you, even if we are all alike miserable sinners and engaged in the worship of that God who is no respecter of persons. "Well, I think this is awful," said one of the party. "I don't believe the good Queen would go to church in this way, if she only thought of it. Our President and family have their pew just like the rest of us." Our English members were equally surprised that the American should see anything shocking in the practice, and the ladies fought out the matter between themselves; the Americans insisting that the Queen should attend worship as other poor sinners do, since all are equal in God's eyes; and the English saying little, but evidently harboring the idea that even in heaven special accommodations would probably be found reserved for royalty, with maybe a special staircase to ascend by. Early education and inherited tendencies account for much. [Sidenote: _Royal Etiquette._] The staircase question led to the story that the Marquis of Lorne was not allowed to enter some performance by the same stair with his wife. The American was up at this. "If I had a husband, and he couldn't come with me, I wouldn't go." This made an end of the discussion, for the English young lady's eyes told plainly of her secret vow that wherever she went ---- must go too. All were agreed on this point; but on the general question it was a drawn battle, the one side declaring that if they were men they would not have a princess for a wife under any circumstances, and the other insisting that, if they were princesses, they would not have anybody but a prince for a husband. We were honored while here by the presence of Mr. Sidney G. Thomas and his sister, who came down from London and spent the day with us. Mr. Thomas is the young chemist, who, in conjunction with his cousin Mr. Gilchrist, would not accept the dictum of the authorities that phosphorus, that fiend of steel manufacturers, cannot be expelled from iron ores at a high temperature. They set to work over a small toy pot, which deserves to rank with Watt's tea-kettle, to see whether the scientific world had not blundered. Let me premise that the presence of phosphorus in pig iron to the extent of more than about one tenth of one per cent. is fatal to the production of good steel by the Bessemer or open hearth processes. Do what you will, this troublesome substance persists in remaining with the iron. If there be phosphorus in the iron-stone you smelt, every atom of it will be found in the resulting iron; and if there be any in the limestone, or the coke or coal used, every atom of it also will find its way into the iron. It is essential, therefore, that iron-stone should be found practically free from phosphorus; but unfortunately such ore is scarce, and therefore expensive. The great iron-stone deposits of England are full of the enemy; so are those of America; hence, both countries depend largely upon ores which have to be transported from Spain and other countries. One authority estimates that if all the high phosphorus ores in Britain could be made as valuable as those free from the objectionable ingredient, the saving per annum would go far to pay the interest upon the national debt. Many have been the attempts to devise some tempting bait to coax this fiend to forego his strange affinity for iron, and unite with some other element; but no, his satanic majesty would cling to the metal. Messrs. Thomas and Gilchrist, in studying some highly creditable experiments made by my friend Lothian Bell, Esq. (for he was upon the right track), discovered an oversight which seemed to qualify the results which he reached, and to render his experiments inconclusive. It was possible, they thought, that his failure might have resulted from the fiend not being _kept_ out when he _was_ out. So they went quietly to work with their toy pot, and Eureka! Their charm had not only exorcised the fiend, but they had discovered how to lead him away from the molten metal into the refuse and shut the door on him there. Here was a triumph indeed! I fancy they neither ate nor slept till repeated experiments proved that the true charm had been found at last. [Sidenote: _Iron and Phosphorus._] Mr. E. Windsor Richards, the broad manager of the largest manufactory of iron and steel in the world, was soon acquainted by them with the discovery. He tried it upon a large scale, and announced the end of the reign of King Phosphorus; but he dies hard. This was some years ago, for I read the good news a few minutes after I had landed at Naples from the East, on my way round the world in the year 1879. Many obstacles had yet to be surmounted, but now every ton of steel manufactured at Mr. Richards's great works is made from iron stone which a few years ago was counted worthless for steel. Enough iron stone can be had for three dollars to make a ton of pig iron suitable for steel rails. The same amount of low phosphorus stone at Pittsburgh cost last year sixteen dollars, and yet there are intelligent people who do not understand why we cannot make rails as cheap as the English. I wonder if I could explain to the general reader how Messrs. Thomas and Gilchrist succeeded. It always seems to me like a fairy tale--I will try. In making steel, ten tons of molten pig iron is run into a big pot called a converter, and hundreds of jets of air are blown up through the mass to burn out the silica and carbon, and finally to make it steel. Now, phosphorus has a greater affinity for lime than for iron when it reaches a certain temperature, and when the air blast brings the mass to the required heat, the million particles of phosphorus, like so many tiny ants disturbed, run hither and thither, quite ready to leave the iron for the lime. These clever young men first put a lot of lime in the bottom of the pot as a bait, and into this fly the ants, perfectly delighted with their new home. The lime and slag float to the top and are drawn off--but mark you, let the temperature fall and the new home gets too cold to suit these salamanders, although the temperature may be over 2,000 degrees, hot enough to melt a bar of steel in a moment if thrown into the pot. No, they must have 2,500 degrees in the lime or they will rush back to the metal. But here lay a difficulty: 2,500 degrees is so very hot that no ordinary pot lining will stand it, and of course the iron pot itself will not last a moment. If ganister or fire brick is used it just crumbles away, and besides this, the plaguey particles of phosphorus will rush into it and tear it all to pieces. The great point is to get a basic lining, that is, one free from silica. This has at last been accomplished, and now the basic process is destined to revolutionize the manufacture of steel, for out of the poorest ores, and even out of puddle cinder, steel or iron much purer than any now made for rails or bridges can be obtained, and the two young chemists, patentees of the Thomas-Gilchrist process, take their rank in the domain of metallurgy with Cort, Nelson, Bessemer and Siemens. These young men have done more for England's greatness than all her kings and queens and aristocracy put together. [Sidenote: _A Modern Moses._] It was this pale Gladstonian-looking youth we had with us for the day and for our Sunday evening dinner at Windsor. He wears no title--he is too sound a Radical, and too sensible a man to change the name his honored father gave him--but nevertheless we felt we had one of the great men of our generation as our guest. If it be true, as it is, that he who causes two blades of grass to grow where but one grew before is a benefactor to the race, what is the magician who takes from the bowels of the earth a ton of dross, and transforms it into steel before our eyes--strikes with his enchanted wand a hundred mines of worthless stone and turns it into gold, as the prophet struck the dry rock and called water forth? The age of real miracles is not over, you see, it has only begun, and Thomas is our modern Moses; his miracle seems as much greater than that of his prototype as the nineteenth century is advanced beyond that of the Jewish dispensation. Monday was another thoroughly English day. The silver Thames, that glistened in the sun, was enlivened by many stately swans. The castle towered in all its majesty, vivified by the meteor flag which fluttered in the breeze. The grounds of Eton were crowded with nice-looking English boys as we passed. Many of us walked down the steep hill and far into the country in advance of the coach, and felt once more that a fine day in the south of England was perfection indeed. The sun here reminds one of the cup that cheers, but does not inebriate: its rays cheer, but never scorch. You could not tell whether, if there were to be any change, you would prefer it to be a shade cooler or a shade warmer. The swans of Windsor are an institution almost as old as the castle itself, for they are mentioned in records more than five hundred years ago. The swan is indeed a royal bird, and it is said that no subject can own them when at large in a public river except by special grant from the crown. Such a grant is accompanied by a swan-mark for each _game_ of swans--the proper term, mark you, for a collection of the noble birds. You may say a flock of geese but not of swans; a game of swans, please, if you would "speak by the card." The corporation of Windsor has possessed the right of keeping swans in the Thames almost from time immemorial. Formerly the king's swanherd made an annual expedition up the river to mark them. He and his assistants chased the poor frightened birds in boats, caught them roughly with long hooks, with little deference to their beautiful plumage, and marked them by cutting one or more nicks in the upper mandible of their beaks. This expedition, called swan-upping (corrupted into swan-hopping), is still made by the deputies of the Dyers' and Vintners' companies, now the principal swan owners on the Thames, the mark of the former being one nick and of the latter two nicks on the bill. [Sidenote: _Stoke Pogis._] Stoke Pogis is a few miles out of our direct road, but who would miss that, even were the detour double what the ordnance survey makes it? Besides, had not a dear friend, a stay-at-home, told us that one of the happiest days of her life was that spent in making a pilgrimage to the shrine of the poet from this very Windsor? Gray's was the first shrine at which we stopped to worship, and the beauty, the stillness, the peace of that low, quaint, ivy-covered church, and its old-fashioned graveyard, sank into our hearts. Surely no one could revive memories more sweetly English than he who gave us the Elegy. Some lines, and even verses of that gem, will endure, it may safely be predicted, as long as anything English does, and that is saying much. We found just such a churchyard as seemed suited to the ode. Gray is fortunate in his resting-place. Earth has no prettier, calmer spot to give her child than this. It is the very ideal God's acre. The little church, too, is perfect. How fine is Gray's inscription upon his mother's tomb! I avoid cemeteries whenever possible, but this seemed more like a place where one revisits those he has once known than that where, alas! we must mourn those lost forever. Gray's voice--the voice of one that is still, even the touch of the vanished hand, these seemed to be found there, for after our visit the poet was closer to me than he had ever been before. It is not thus with such as we have known and loved in the flesh--their graves let us silently avoid. He whom you seek is not here; but the great dead, whom we have known only through their souls, do come closer to us as we stand over their graves. The flesh we have known has become spiritualized; the spirits we have known become in a measure materialized, and I felt I had a firmer hold upon Gray from having stood over his dust. Here is the inscription he put upon his mother's grave: "Dorothy Gray. The careful, tender mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her." The touch in the last words, "the misfortune to survive her!"--Carlyle's words upon his wife's tomb recur to me: "And he feels that the light of his life has gone out." These were men wailing for women. I cannot believe but that there are many women who would prefer to share the fate of men who die. There is such love on earth. Sujâtas are not confined to India. As she says: "But if Death called Senáni, I should mount The pile and lay that dear head in my lap, My daily way, rejoicing when the torch Lit the quick flame and rolled the choking smoke. For it is written, if an Indian wife Die so, her love shall give her husband's soul For every hair upon her head, a crore Of years in Swerza." I think I know women who would esteem it a mercy to be allowed to pass away with _him_, if the Eternal had not set his "canon 'gainst self-slaughter." This prohibition the Indian wots not of, but mounts the pile believing as thoroughly as Abraham did when he placed Isaac on the altar, that God wills it so. They were equally mistaken; and this suggests that we may all be very much surprised when we come to understand rightly, how very seldom the unknown requires any sacrifice of what is pleasing to us in this present world of his. It seems to me it is not God but men who are disposed to make the path so very thorny. [Sidenote: _Gray's Tomb._] Upon Gray's own tomb there is inscribed: "One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he." One perfect gem outweighs a thousand mediocre performances and makes its creator immortal. The world has not a second Gray's Elegy among all its treasures. Nor is it likely to have. We found you still in your accustomed place. The manor house of Stoke Pogis, which took its name from a marriage, away back in the 13th century, between a member of the Pogis family and an heiress, Amicia de Stoke, furnished the subject of Gray's "Long Story," a poem known now only to the curious student of English literature. How fortunate for the world that the poet did not let his reputation rest upon it! [Sidenote: _Chief Justice Coke._] The old house, built in the time of good Queen Bess on an older foundation, is still more noted as the home of Sir Edward Coke, the famous Lord Chief Justice and the rival of Bacon. In 1601 Coke, who had married three years before a wealthy young widow, Lady Hatton of Hatton House, the daughter of Lord Burleigh, entertained the Virgin Queen at Stoke Pogis in a manner befitting the royal dignity and the length of his own purse. Among other presents which her Majesty graciously deigned to accept at the hands of her subject on the occasion was jewelry valued at £1,000, a large sum in those days. Coke's marriage did not turn out very happily. He was old enough to be his wife's father, and she always affected for him the utmost contempt, even forbidding him to enter her house in London except by the back door. The poor man bore his hen-pecking in silence for many years, but at last she went one step too far. During his absence in London she packed up and removed from Stoke to one of her own houses his plate and other valuables. The outraged husband forcibly entered her house and reclaimed his property, taking, as she said, some of hers also. This led to legal proceedings, in which she, through the aid of Bacon, got the better of him, and a reconciliation took place. The next year the broil took another phase. Lady Hatton--she always refused to take Coke's name--had borne him a daughter, who was the heiress of her mother's estates as well as of Coke's wealth. Her hand had been sought by Sir John Villiers, but as he was poor his suit had been rejected. A turn came in the tide. Coke, shorn of most of his honors, was in disgrace, and the Duke of Buckingham, Sir John's brother, was King James's favorite and the dispenser of immense patronage. Coke, with the object of winning back the royal favor and of humbling Bacon, his great enemy, now determined to ally himself with the rising house, and offered his daughter to Villiers. Lady Hatton, who had not been consulted in the matter, refused her consent, ran away with her daughter, and concealed her in the house of a kinsman. But Coke found out her hiding place, and with a dozen stout fellows broke into the house and seized his daughter. Lady Hatton, aided by Bacon, carried her case to the privy council and Coke was proceeded against in the Star Chamber. But with Buckingham behind him the old lawyer proved too strong for Bacon this time, and succeeded in throwing his wife into prison and in forcing her to consent to the match. The marriage took place at Hampton Court in the presence of the king, the queen, and the most distinguished of the nobility, and Frances became Lady Villiers. Stoke Pogis was settled on the bridegroom, who was shortly raised to the peerage as Viscount Purbeck and Baron Villiers, of Stoke Pogis, and Coke flattered himself that his troubles had at last ended. But the marriage resulted like many another ill-assorted union. Lady Villiers, after driving her husband nearly to the verge of distraction, eloped with Sir Robert Howard, and lived for many years an eventful and scandalous life, which finally brought its reward in her degradation, imprisonment, and death. If the course of true love never runs smooth, it may be taken for granted that the stream is even more tempestuous when marriage is made a matter of family alliance with no love at all in the matter. Our young ladies were unanimous upon this point, and one and all declared their firm resolve and readiness to trust to "true love" with all its risks. The Queen Dowager, being appealed to by them for support, settled the matter by reciting the lines of an old Scotch song: "Lassie tak the man ye loe Whate'er ye're minnie say, Though ye sud mak ye're bridal bed Amang pea strae." So ta-ta all worldly considerations and family alliances, and the rest of it, say the wild romps of the Gay Charioteers. [Sidenote: _Royal Visits._] Several years after the death of Coke, Stoke Pogis was for a short time the place of confinement of Charles I., who could see from its windows the towers of Windsor Castle, which he was never again to enter except as a headless corpse. On the death of Viscount Purbeck, who resided in the manor house after Coke's decease, Stoke Pogis passed by purchase into the hands of the Gayer family. When Charles II. came to his own again the then possessor of the mansion was knighted, and became so devoted in his affection for the Stuarts that when in after time King William desired to visit Stoke Pogis to see a place so rich in historical associations, the old knight would not listen to it. In vain did his wife intercede: he declared that the usurper should not cross his threshold, and he kept his word. So it came to be said that Stoke Pogis had sumptuously entertained one sovereign, been the prison of another, and refused admission to a third. We were told that quite recently Queen Victoria had visited it in person, with a view to its purchase for her daughter, and while walking through its magnificent suite of rooms she expressed the wish that her own Windsor had their equal. She finally decided to purchase Claremont, the price demanded for Stoke, it is said, having been too great to square with her majesty's estimate of value. It is in the market to-day. If any of our bonanza kings want one of the stately homes of England, rich in historical associations and "looking antiquity," here is his chance. In still later times the old place came into possession of the Penn family, the heirs of our William Penn of Pennsylvania, and it was by one of them, John Penn, that the cenotaph to Gray was erected--for the poet, it will be remembered, was laid in his mother's tomb. This same Penn pulled down much of the old house and rebuilt is as it is to-day. Our luncheon was to be upon the banks of the Thames to-day, the Old Swan Inn, where the stone bridge crosses the stream, being our base of supplies; but ere this was reached what a lovely picture was ours between Stoke Pogis and the Swan! All that has been sung or written about the valley of the Thames is found to be more than deserved. The silver stream flows gently through the valley, the fertile land rises gradually on both sides, enabling us to get extensive views from the top of the coach. Our road lies over tolerably high ground some distance from the river. Such perfect, quiet, homelike, luxuriant beauty is to be seen nowhere but in England. It is not possible for the elements to be combined to produce a more pleasing picture; and now, after seeing all else between Brighton and Inverness that lay upon our line, we return to the region of Streatley and Maple Durham, and award them the palm as the finest thoroughly English landscape. We say to the valley of the Thames what the Eastern poet said to the Vale of Cashmere, which is not half so pretty: "If there be a paradise upon earth, It is here, it is here." The Old Swan proved to be, both in structure and location, a fit component part of the sylvan scene around. There ran the Thames in limpid purity, a picturesque stone bridge overhanging it, and the road-side inn within a few yards of the grassy bank. [Sidenote: _Skylarks._] The rugs were laid under a chestnut tree, and our first picnic luncheon spread on the buttercups and daisies. Swallows skimmed the water, bees hummed above us--but stop! what's that, and where? Our first skylark singing at heaven's gate! All who heard this never-to-be-forgotten song for the first time were up and on their feet in an instant; but the tiny songster which was then filling the azure vault with music was nowhere to be seen. It's worth an Atlantic voyage to hear a skylark for the first time. Even luncheon was neglected a while, hungry as we were, that we might if possible catch a glimpse of the warbler. The flood of song poured forth as we stood wrapt awaiting the descent of the messenger from heaven. At last a small black speck came into sight. He is so little to see--so great to hear! I know several fine things about the famous songster: "In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun." An "unbodied joy!" That's a hit, surely! Here is Browning on the thrush, which I think should be to the lark: "He sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture." The third is just thrown in by the prodigal hand of genius in a poem not to a lark but to a daisy: "Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckl'd breast, When upward springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east." How fine is Wordsworth's well known tribute: "Type of the wise, who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!" And now I remember Shakespeare has his say too about the lark--what is it in England he has not his say about? or in all the world for that matter; and how much and how many things has he rendered it the highest wisdom for men to keep silent about after he has said his say, holding their peace forever. [Sidenote: _Reading Abbey._] A row upon the silver Thames after luncheon, and we are off again for Reading, where we are to rest over night at the Queen's. Reading has a pretty, new park and interesting ruins within its boundaries which we visited before dinner. There are but few traces left of the once famous Abbey, founded early in the twelfth century by Henry I. In the height of its prosperity more than two hundred monks fattened at its hospitable board, and its mitred abbot sat as a peer in Parliament. It was noted, too, as a centre of learning, but the jolly brethren must have sadly degenerated in this respect, if we can believe the report of the royal commissioners in temp. Henry VIII., for Hugh Cook, the last abbot, who was hanged and quartered near his own door in 1539, is described as a "stubborn monk, absolutely without learning." But, of course, all who believe that the much-married Henry was a monster of iniquity will put no faith in the reports of his minions, and will continue to believe that Abbot Hugh was a holy man of God, whose shortcomings in the small matters of orthography and syntax were more than made up by his proficiency in vigils, fastings, and prayers. That he was the "right man in the right place" is proven by the inventory of the relics found in his keeping by the aforesaid minions at the time of the suppression of the monastery. Among these sacred objects were "twoo peces of the holye crosse," "Saynt James hande," "a bone of Marye Magdelene," "a pece of Saynt Pancrat' arme," and "a bone of Saynt Edwarde the martyr is arme." Can it be possible that this saintly man, who so zealously guarded such treasures to the last moment of his life, should still be allowed to suffer under the imputation of stubbornness and ignorance! He mightn't just have been "one of those literary fellers," but it is very clear he had a firm grasp of the "fundamentals" of the faith. What is learning compared to a "bone of Saynt Edwarde" as a means of keeping the sheep in the true fold! The old abbot knew his business better than Henry's commissioners. The tooth of Buddha, which I went to see when in Ceylon, draws crowds from all parts of the island, and excites more piety than the tom-tom, or the incantations of the most learned priest. Truly there's nothing like a relic as a means of grace. A pretty lawn in the rear of our hotel gave us an opportunity for a game of lawn tennis in the twilight after dinner, and in the morning we were off for Oxford. The editorial in the Reading paper that morning upon emigration struck me as going to the root of the matter. Here is the concluding paragraph: "Already the expanding and prospering industries of the New World are throwing an ominous shadow across the Old World and are affecting some of its habits and practices. But over and above and beyond all these, the free thought, the liberty of action, the calm independence and the sense of the dignity of man as man, and the perfect equality of all before the law and in the eye of the constitution now existing in America, are developing a race of men who, through correspondence with home relations, the intercourse of free travel, the transaction of business, and the free, outspoken language of the press, are gradually disintegrating the yet strong conservative forces of European society, and thus preparing the downfall of the monarchical, aristocratic, military, and ecclesiastic systems which shackle and strangle the people of the Old World. These thoughts seem to me to convey the meaning of the great exodus now going on, and he is a wise statesman who reads the lesson aright." There's a man after my own heart. He grasps the subject. [Sidenote: _Causes of Emigration._] The editor tells one of the several causes of the exodus which is embracing many of the most valuable citizens of the old lands where class distinctions still linger. Man longs not only to be free but to be equal, if he has much manhood in him; and that America is the home for such men, numbers of the best are fast finding out. But England will soon march forward; she is not going to rest behind very long. There will soon be no superior political advantages here for the masses, nor educational ones either. England is at work in earnest, and what she does, she does well. I prophecy that young England will give young America a hard race for supremacy. Some of us walked ahead of the coach for several miles, and I had a chat with a man whom we met. He was a rough carpenter and his wages were sixteen shillings per week ($4). A laborer gets eleven shillings (not $2.75), but some "good masters" pay thirteen to fourteen shillings ($3.25 to $3.50), and give their men four or five pounds of beef at Christmas. Food is bacon and tea, which are cheap, but no beef. Men's wages have not advanced much for many years (I should think not!), but women's have. An ordinary woman for field work can get one shilling per day (24 cents); a short time ago ninepence (18 cents) was the highest amount paid. Is it not cheering to find poor women getting an advance? But think what their condition still is, when one shilling per day is considered good pay! I asked whether employers did not board the workers in addition to paying these wages, but he assured me they did not. This is southern England and these are agricultural laborers, but the wages seem distressingly low even as compared with British wages in general. The new system of education and the coming extension of the suffrage to the counties will soon work a change among these poor people. They will not rest content crowding each other down thus to a pittance when they can read and write and vote. Thank fortune for this. Our ladies were unusually gay in their decorations to-day, with bunches of wild flowers on their breasts and hats crowned with poppies and roses. They decked the Queen Dowager out until she looked as if ready to play Ophelia. Their smiles too were as pretty as their flowers. What an embodied joy bright, happy ladies are under all conditions, and how absolutely essential for a coaching party! Was it not Johnson's idea of happiness to drive in a gig with a pretty woman? He wasn't much of a muff! If anything could have kept him in good humor, this would have done it. If he could have been on top of a coach with a bevy of them, not even he could have said a rude thing. [Sidenote: _Oxford._] Oxford was reached before the sun went down. Its towers were seen for miles--Magdalen, Baliol, Christ Church, and other familiar names. We crossed the pretty little Isis, marvelling at every step, and drove up the High Street to the Clarendon. The next day was to be Commencement, and only a few rooms were to be had in the hotel, but we were distributed very comfortably among houses in the neighborhood. Several hours before dinner were delightfully spent in a grand round of the colleges. We peeped into the great quads, walked the cloisters, and got into all kinds of queer old-fashioned places. But the stroll along the Isis, and past Magdalen Tower, and up the long walk--that was the grand finish! We pardon Wolsey his greed of getting, he was so princely in giving. To the man who did so much for Oxford much may be forgiven. * * * * * OXFORD, June 21. This morning was devoted to visiting the principal colleges more in detail, and also to the ascent of the tower of the Sheldonian Theatre, which no one should ever miss doing. Below us lay the city of palaces, for such it seems, palaces of the right kind too--not for idle kings or princes to riot in, and corrupt society by their bad example, but for those who "scorn delights and live laborious days." Our Cambridge member, Mr. B., tells us it does not cost more than £200 ($1,000) per annum for a student here. This seems very cheap. The tariff which we saw in one of the halls gave us a laugh: "Commons. Mutton, long, 11_d._ do. short, 9_d._ do. half, 7_d._" The long and the half we could understand, but how could they manage the short? This must be a kind of medium portion for fellows whose appetites are only so-so. You see how fine things are cut even in Oxford. Our party thought if the students were coaching there would be little occasion for them to know anything of either short or half. At least we were all in for long commons at eleven pence. [Sidenote: _Martyrs._] We drove past the martyrs' memorial, Latimer and Ridley's. Cranmer does not deserve to be named with them. A visit to such a monument always does me good, for it enables me to say to those who doubt the real advancement of mankind: Now look at this, and think for what these grand men were burnt! Is it conceivable that good, sterling men shall ever again be called upon in England to die for opinion's sake! That Cranmer wrote and advocated the right and necessity of putting to death those who differed from him, and therefore that he met the fate he considered it right to mete to others, shows what all parties held in those dark days. I claim that the world has made a distinct and permanent advance in this department which in no revolving circle of human affairs is ever to be lost. The persecution of the Rev. Mr. Green, of Professor Robertson Smith, and of Bishop Colenso in the present day proves, no doubt, that there is much yet to be done ere we can be very proud of our progress; but these are the worst of to-day's persecutions, and could occur only in England and Scotland. There is a long gap between them and burning at the stake! Grand old Latimer was prophetic when he called out from amid the faggots to his colleague: "Be of good comfort and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle by God's grace as I trust shall never be put out!" I think it certain that the candle will never again be put out. The bigots of to-day can annoy only in Britain. In other English-speaking communities even that power has passed away, and persecution for opinion's sake is unknown. "A man may say the thing he will"--there is a further and a higher stage yet to be reached when a man will consider it a man's part to have an opinion upon all matters and say what he thinks boldly, concealing nothing. We left Oxford with just a sprinkle of rain falling, but we had scarcely got fairly out of the city when it ceased and left the charming landscape lovelier than ever. Banbury Cross was our destination, and on our route lay magnificent Blenheim, the estate given by the nation to the Duke of Marlborough. See what the nations do for the most successful murderers of their fellows! and how insignificant have ever been the rewards of those who preserve, improve, or discover--for a Marlborough or a Wellington a fortune, for a Howard or a Wilberforce a pittance. It is only in heathen China that the statesman, the man of letters, heads the list. No military officer, however successful as a destroyer, can ever reach the highest rank there, for with them the victories of peace are more renowned than those of war; that is reserved for the men who know--the Gladstones and the Disraelis, the Darwins and the Spencers, the Arnolds and the Ruskins. It is only in civilized countries that the first honors are given to butchers. [Sidenote: _Blenheim._] Blenheim is superb, grand, and broad enough to satisfy princely tastes. And that noble library! As we walked through it we felt subdued, as if in the presence of the gods of ages past, for a worthy collection of great books ever breathes forth the influence of kings dead yet present, of "Those dead but sceptred sovereigns Whose spirits still rule us from their urns." And to think that this library, in whose treasures we revelled, reverently taking one old tome after another in our hands, has since then been sold by auction! Degenerate wretch! but one descended from Marlborough can scarcely be called degenerate. You may not even be responsible for what seems like family dishonor; some previous heir may have rendered the sale necessary; but the dispersion of such treasures as these must surely open the eyes of good men in England to the folly of maintaining hereditary rank and privilege. Perhaps, however, the noble owner had no more use for his books than the lord whose library Burns was privileged to see, which showed no evidences of usage. The bard wrote in a volume of Shakespeare he took up: "Through and through the inspired leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But oh! respect his lordship's taste And spare his golden bindings." With many notable exceptions, the aristocracy of Britain took its rise from bad men who did the dirty work of miserable kings, and from women who were even worse than their lords. It seems hastening to an end in a manner strictly in accordance with its birth. Even Englishmen will soon become satisfied that no man should be born to honors, but that these should be reserved for those who merit them. But what kind of fruit could be expected from the tree of privilege? Its roots lie in injustice, and not the least of its evils are those inflicted upon such as are born under its shadow. The young peer who succeeds in making somebody of himself does so in spite of a vicious system, and is entitled to infinite praise; but though our race is slow to learn, the people hear a wee bird singing these stirring days, and they begin to like the song. The days of rank are numbered. * * * * * BANBURY, June 22. [Sidenote: _Banbury Cross._] Banbury Cross was reached about five o'clock, and few of us were so far away in years or feeling from the days of childhood as not to remember the nursery rhyme which was repeated as we came in sight of the famous Cross. We expected to see a time-worn relic of days long past, and I verily believe that some of us hoped for a glimpse of the old lady on the white horse, with "rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes." Imagine our disappointment, then, when we saw an elaborate Gothic structure, looking as new and modern as if it had received its finishing touches but yesterday. And so indeed it had, for it was recently erected by public subscription. The charm was gone. I like new political institutions for my native land, but prefer the old historical structures; and as we drove past this spick-and-span imitation of antiquity I felt like criticising the good people of Banbury for the sacrilege I supposed they had committed in thus supplanting the ancient landmark which had made their town known the wide world over. I could not help entertaining a hope, too, that the original "goodly Crosse with many degrees about it," had been put away in some museum or other safe place where it could receive the homage of all devoted lovers of Mother Goose. Alas! inquiry developed the fact that the Puritanic besom of destruction, which demolished so many images and other ornaments in the churches in good Queen Bess's time, swept away Banbury Cross as early as 1602, and that not a piece of it remains to tell of its ancient glory. Banbury was early noted as a stronghold of Puritanism, and was famous, as Fuller says, for "zeale, cheese and cakes." The zeal and the cheese are not now as strong as they were, but Banbury cakes are still in as high repute as ever, and are largely made and exported. They are probably the same now as in the days of Ben Jonson, who tells of them in "Bartholomew Fair,"--a kind of miniature mince pie, generally lozenge-shaped, consisting of a rich paste with a filling of Zante currants and other fruits. Banbury has the celebrated works of my friend, Mr. Samuelson, M.P.; and before dinner I walked out to see them, and if possible to learn something of Mr. Samuelson's whereabouts. Upon returning to the hotel I found that he was at that moment occupying the sitting-room adjoining ours. We had an evening's talk and compared notes as brother manufacturers. If England and America are drawing more closely together politically, it is also true that the manufacturers of the two countries have nearly the same problems to settle. Mr. Samuelson was deep in railway discriminations and laboring with a parliamentary commission to effect changes, or rather, as he would put it, to obtain justice. I gave an account of our plans, our failures, and our successes, of which he took note. This much I am bound to say for my former colleagues upon this side (for before I reformed I was a railway manager), that the manufacturers of Britain have wrongs of which we know nothing here, though ours are bad enough. I add the last sentence lest Messrs. Vanderbilt, Roberts, Cassatt, and the Garretts (father and son), might receive a wrong impression from the previous admission; for these are the gentlemen upon whom our fortunes hang. [Sidenote: _Political Economy Club._] The evidence given before the Parliament Commission in Britain, proves that the people there are subjected to far worse treatment at the hands of railway companies than we are here. American grain is transported from Liverpool to London, for one-half the rate charged upon English grain from points near Liverpool--I give this as one instance out of hundreds. The defence of the railway company is that unless they carry the foreign article at half rates the ships will carry it to London direct, or that it will go by sea from Liverpool. I attended a meeting of the Political Economy Club, in London, where the question of legislative interference with railway charges was ably discussed. The prevalent opinion seemed to be that it was doubtful whether the evils could be cured by legislation. Being called upon to state our experience here, I gave them an account of the unwise policy pursued by the Pennsylvania Railroad Company (now happily reversed) at Pittsburgh and its consequences; for the great riot in Pittsburgh had for its real source the practice of the Railway Company of carrying the manufactures of the East, from New York and Philadelphia, through the city of Pittsburgh to the West for less than it would carry the same articles for from Pittsburgh, although the distance was twice as great. Many such anomalies as this still exist in England. The members seemed interested in hearing that the result was that the railway company finally agreed that in no case should the rates to and from the shorter exceed those charged for the greater distance, and Pittsburgh manufactures are now taken East and West at ten per cent. less than the through rates between Chicago and the seaboard, no matter how these may be forced by competition. While this rule does not ensure exact justice nor cover all cases, it is nevertheless a great step in advance and removes most of the more serious causes for just complaint. The club spoken of is a notable one. It consists of twenty-five members, only vacancies caused by death being filled by election. Admission is considered a great honor. It is said that every question within the range of practical politics upon which the club has declared its opinion, has been legislated upon within a short time in accordance with its decision. Every member is well known and must have a national reputation. Among those present were Sir John Lubbock, who learnt early in youth a rare secret, the way to learn--"_consider the ways of the ant, and be wise_"--and Mr. Fawcett, the blind Postmaster-General, a man whose career proves, as clearly perhaps as ever was proved, the truth that there is no difficulty to him who wills. Mr. Leonard Courtney, one of the coming men, took a leading part in the discussion on railways; Mr. Giffen, however, read the paper of the evening, which of course was able, although on the wrong side, as I think. He is the noted man of figures, whose recent article, read before the Statistical Society, showing the hundreds of millions America is soon to contain, produced so startling an effect here, as well as in Europe. Mr. Shaw Le Fevre, Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe), and the father of the Corn Law Repeal movement, Mr. Villiers, and several others of note were present. [Sidenote: _Satires and Epigrams._] I was indebted to one of the members, my friend Prof. Thorold E. Rogers, M.P., for the coveted opportunity to visit this club. By the way, I wonder the Professor's book of Satires and Epigrams has not been republished in America. It is wonderfully clever, and the Charioteers have had many a laugh and many a pleasant half hour enjoying it. Here is a specimen, which I may be pardoned quoting, as I found upon inquiry that the hero Brown was no less than one of my own friends, a Dunfermline man too, at that, Mr. Reid, M.P.: "Sent to a distant land in early youth, Brown made his way by honor, thrift, and truth; Ten years he worked and saved, then, satisfied, Back to his native land our merchant hied. A man of worth as well as wealth, he sought How he might wisely use the cash he'd brought: He clearly saw his fortune could be graced Only by prudence, candor, judgment, taste; Assumed no airs, indulged in no pretence, Guided his words, his acts, by common sense; Maintained his self-respect, though glad to please, Seemed not to aim, but won his aims with ease, And proved that he had learnt the highest tact, When no one feared and no one dared detract. (I don't say hate, for some men are so nice They cannot bear a man without a vice); Well, such a hater, with a well-bred sneer, (He took good care that all the room could hear): Said, 'Dawdle asked me, Brown, if I could tell What are your shield, your arms, your motto?' Well, Brown winced, grew red, looked puzzled for a while, Then answered gayly with a pleasant smile, 'My shield is _or_, sir, and the arms I bear, Three mushrooms rampant.'--Motto, '_Here we are_.'" There are many similar good things in the book, so I venture to point it out to the enterprising publishers of America as something worthy of--"conveying." There is much discussion this morning as to the best route to take, there is so much to tempt us on either of several ways. Shall we go by Compton Verney (there is a pretty English name for you), Wellesbourn, and Hastings? or shall we take our way through Broughton Castle, Tadmarton, Scoalcliffe, Compton Wynyate, and Oxhill? In one way Wroxton Abbey, one of the real genuine baronial abbeys, if one may say so, and Edgehill. Surely no good Republican would miss that! But on the other route we shall see the stronghold of Lord Saye and Sele, older yet than Wroxton, and Compton Wynyate, older and finer than all--"a noble wreck in ruinous perfection," and a third route still finer than either as far as scenery is concerned. Such is this treasure house, this crowded grand old England, whose every mile boasts such attractions to win our love. "Look where we may, we cannot err in this delicious region--change of place Producing change of beauty--ever new." Every day's journey only proves to us how little of all there is to see we can see; how much we miss on the right and on the left. One might coach upon this Island every summer during his whole life and yet die leaving more of beauty and of interest to visit than all that he had been able to see. When one does not know how to spend a summer's holiday let him try this coaching life and thank heaven for a new world opened to him. [Sidenote: _Wroxton Abbey._] We chose the first route, and whatever the others might have proved we are satisfied, for it is unanimously decided that in Wroxton Abbey we have seen our most interesting structure. Though it dates only from the beginning of the seventeenth century, it is a grand building and a fine example of the domestic architecture of the period. Its west front is a hundred and eighteen feet long, and its porch is an elegant specimen of the Italian decorated entrances of the time. Blenheim and Windsor are larger, but had we our choice we would take Wroxton in preference to either. With what interest did we wander through its quaint irregular chambers and inspect its treasures! James I. slept in this bed, Charles I. in that, and George IV. in another; this quilt is the work of Mary Queen of Scots--there is her name; Queen Elizabeth occupied this chamber during a visit, and King William this. Then the genuine old pictures, although in this department Blenheim stands unrivalled. Marlborough knew the adage that "to the victor belongs the spoils," and acted upon it too, for he had rare opportunities abroad to gather treasures. But for a realization of your most picturesque ideal of a great old English house, betake yourselves to Wroxton Abbey. Its little chapel, rich in very old oak carving, is in itself worth a journey to see. A pretty story is told of the visit of James I. to the Abbey. The wife of Sir William Pope, the owner, had lately presented him with a daughter, and on the King's arrival the babe was brought to him bearing in her little hand a scroll containing the following verses: "See this little mistres here, Did never sit in Peter's chaire, Or a triple crowne did weare; And yet she is a Pope. "No benefice she ever sold, Nor did dispence with sins for gold; She hardly is a sev'nnight old, And yet she is a Pope. "No King her feet did ever kisse, Or had from her worse look than this: Nor did she ever hope To saint one with a rope; And yet she is a Pope. A female Pope, you'll say, a second Joan; No sure--she is Pope Innocent or none." [Sidenote: _Edgehill._] We lunched off deal tables and drank home-brewed ale in the tap-room of the Holcroft Inn, a queer old place, but we had a jolly time amid every kind of thing that carried us back to the England of past centuries. Beyond Holcroft we came suddenly upon the grandest and most extensive view by far that had yet rejoiced us. We were rolling along absorbed in deep admiration of the fertile land that spread out before us on both sides of the road, and extolling the never-ceasing peacefulness and quiet charm of England, when, on passing through a cut, a wide and varied panorama lay stretched at our feet. A dozen picturesque villages and hamlets were in sight, and by the aid of our field-glass a dozen more were brought within range. The spires of the churches, the poplars, the hedgerows, the woods, the gently undulating land apparently giving forth its luxuriant harvest with such ease and pleasure, all these made up such a picture as we could not leave. We ordered the coach to go on and wait at the foot of the hill until we had feasted ourselves with the view. We lay upon the face of the hill and gazed on Arcadia smiling below. Very soon some of the neighboring residents came, for one is never long without human company in crowded England; and we found that we were indeed upon sacred ground. This was Edgehill! As sturdy republicans we lingered long upon the spot, gazing on the scene of that bloody fight between king and people which, however, was almost without immediate result--for it was a drawn battle--but which eventually led to so much. Charles's army lay at Banbury, whence we had just come, that of the Parliament at Kineton yonder, and spread out before us was the plain where they met. The ground is now occupied by two farms called the Battle Farms, distinguished as Battleton and Thistleton. Between the farm-houses, on the latter place, are the places where the slain were buried, appropriately called the Grave Fields. A copse of fir trees in one place is said to mark the site of a pit into which five hundred were thrown. Some of the royalist writers have tried to prove that Cromwell was not present at Edgehill, and one has even countenanced an idle tale that he witnessed the battle from a steeple on one of the neighboring hills, and that he incontinently took to his heels, or rather to his horses' legs, when he thought the meeting had resulted disastrously to the forces of the Parliament. But Carlyle characterizes this story as it deserves, for Lord Nugent expressly mentions Cromwell's troop of dragoons as among those that charged at the close of the battle. No, no, stern old Oliver was not the man to stand aloof when he once had scent of a battle; and we may be sure, although he was then but a captain of horse, that he did good service at Edgehill. There were good men on both sides that day, and not the least among them was brave Sir Jacob Astley, who commanded Charles's foot. He was withal a man of piety, for the Parliamentarians did not have a monopoly in that line, however much their chroniclers may claim it; and I have always regarded his prayer on that momentous Sunday morning as a model which many clergymen might study with profit to themselves and to their congregations. "O Lord!" said he, as he settled himself firmly in the saddle, "Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me. March on, boys!" Is not that to the purpose? Let such as are at their appointed work have no fear that they will ever be forgotten--the performance of a duty ranks before the offering of a prayer, any day--nay, is of itself the best prayer. There's plenty of time for lip service when we have served the Lord by hard work in a good cause. When people have nothing better to do let them pray, but don't let them be too greedy and ask much for themselves. [Sidenote: _Warwick Castle._] Our route lay through Warwick and Leamington. The view of the castle from the bridge is, I believe, the best of its kind in England. "From turret to foundation stone" it is all perfect. The very entrance tells of the good old days. As we pass beneath the archway, over the drawbridge, and under the portcullis, it all comes back to us. "Up drawbridge, grooms. What, Warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall! To pass there was such scanty room The bars descending razed his plume." Warwick, the king-maker! This was his castle. His quarrel with the king was one of our most taking recitations. The Scribe was considered heavy in this: "Know this, the man who injured Warwick Never passed uninjured yet." He found that out, did he not, my lord of the ragged staff! The view from the great hall looking on the river below is fixed in my mind. Don't miss it; and surely he who will climb to the top of Guy's Tower will have cause for thankfulness for many a year thereafter. You get a look at more of England there than is generally possible. I sympathize with Ruskin in his rage at the attempt to raise funds by subscription to mend the ravages of a recent fire in the castle. A Warwick in the rôle of a Belisarius begging for an obolus! If the king-maker could look upon this! But historical names are now often trailed in the dust in England; and it must be some consolation to him, wherever he may be, to know that the bearer of the title, if responsible for this, is no scion of the old stock. [Sidenote: _Guy of Warwick._] The legend of Guy of Warwick, accepted as an historical fact by the early writers, has been relegated to the garret of monkish superstition, with the ribs of the dun cow and other once undoubted relics; but its romance will always lend an interest to the old castle and attract the traveller to the site of the hermitage on Guy's Cliff where the fabled hero died and was buried. You must not suppose that Guy's Tower had any connection with the original Guy, for the building dates only from the close of the fourteenth century, while the latter boasts an antiquity of nearly a thousand years. Indeed, we can place him to a dot, for the antiquary Rous is very precise in his statement. He says: "On the twelfth of June, 926, being the third year of the reign of Athelstan, a most terrible single combat took place between the champions of the kings of England and Denmark--Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Colebrand the Pagan, an African giant; through the mercy of God the Christian undertook the combat, being advised thereto by an angel; and the faithful servant of God and the Church fortunately vanquished the enemy of the whole realm of England." Is it not dreadful to contemplate what might have been the consequences if Colebrand the African had got the upper hand of that faithful servant of God and the Church! But it was not to be. The Pagan had a lost fight from the start, for, though the chronicle does not expressly say so, it is very evident to the reflecting mind that Guy was backed throughout by the angel--a mean advantage which, but for the immensity of the stake, would have led any ordinary lover of fair play to side with the weaker party. But not so with the wily monks of those days. In their easy consciences the end justified the means, and so they glorified Guy as the champion of all that was good, and so sedulously trumpeted his fame that the Norman barons who succeeded to the ownership of the old Saxon stronghold saw their interest in adopting the victor as an ancestor. In time these Normans came to believe implicitly in the family tree with Guy at the root, just as some silly people pin their faith to the parchment evidences of the professional genealogists proving their descent from some fabulous hero who followed William and his crew from Normandy. They named their sons after Guy, called the tower his tower, and hung up his arms and armor in the great hall, while their wives and daughters worked his exploits in tapestry. These proud descendants of a fabulous ancestor remind one of the general in the "Pirates of Penzance" who is found weeping at the tomb in the abbey belonging to the property he has purchased. When it is suggested to him that his tears are misplaced, he replies: "Sir, when I bought this property I bought this abbey and this tomb with its _contents_. I do not know whose ancestors these _were_, but I do know whose ancestors they _are_." And he falls to sobbing again, bound to have an ancestry of some kind, the more important the more to belittle himself by comparison. But the general is very English for all that. Tennyson's lines, "Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent," are well known and repeated by the school children all over the land, but the grown men and women, entirely free from the weakness of trying to figure out a family tree of respectable antiquity, will be found unexpectedly small in this old land. Josh Billings settled the matter as far as Americans are concerned, for the malady is even more ridiculous in the New World. "We can't boast old family here," says he, "the country ain't _long_ enough, unless a feller has Injun in him." That is what the lawyers call an estoppel, I take it. [Sidenote: _Kenilworth Castle._] Driving through Leamington we reached Kenilworth Castle for luncheon, to which we had looked forward for several days. Alas! the keeper informed us that no picnic parties are admitted since the grounds have been put into such excellent order by the kind Earl Clarendon (for which thanks, good earl). But he was a man of some discrimination, this custodian of the ruins, and when he saw our four-in-hand and learned who we were--Americans! Brighton to Inverness!--he made us an exception to the rule, of which I trust his lordship will approve, if he ever hears. We had one of our happiest luncheons beneath the walls under a large hawthorn tree, which we decided was the very place where the enraged Queen Bess discovered dear Amy Robsart on that memorable night. A thousand memories cluster round this ruin; but what should we have known of it had not the great magician touched with his wand this dead mass of stone and lime and conferred immortality upon the actors and their revels? In his pages we live over again the days of old, and take part with the Virgin Queen and her train of lords and ladies in the grand reception so lavishly prepared for her amusement by the then reigning favorite; ruined walls and towers and courts assume their ancient proportions and resound with music and revelry, and the noble park, now so quiet, is alive once more with huntsmen and gayly clad courtiers. But vivid as is Scott's picture, it is exceeded in quaint interest by the original account of the festivities from which the great romancer drew his facts, but which is as little known to the ordinary reader of "Kenilworth" as is the prototype of Hamlet to the common play-goer. Master Robert Laneham, the writer, was a sort of hanger-on of the court, and appears to have accompanied Leicester to Kenilworth. His account is in the form of a letter addressed to "my good friend, Master Humfrey Martin, Mercer," in London, and is written, says Scott, "in a style of the most intolerable affectation, both in point of composition and orthography." After a brief account of the preliminary journey of the queen, this veracious chronicler informs us that she was "met in the Park, about a flight shoot from the Brayz and first gate of the castl" by a person representing "one of the ten Sibills, comely clad in a Pall of white Sylk, who pronounced a proper Poezi in English Rime and meeter."... "This her majestie benignly accepting, passed foorth untoo the next gate of the Brayz, which, for the length, largenes, and use they call now the Tylt-yard; whear a Porter, tall of Person, big of lim and stearn of countinance, wrapt also all in Sylke, with a club and keiz of quantitee according, had a rough speech full of Passions, in meeter aptly made to the purpose." [Sidenote: _A Giant's Portrait._] Be it here recorded that the Charioteers had the pleasure while in London of looking upon the portrait of this giant porter, which hangs in the King's Guard Chamber at Hampton Court Palace. It is supposed to have been painted by the Italian artist Ferdinando Zucchero, who, it will be remembered, visited England. The fellow is truly called "big of lim," for the canvas is more than nine feet high and the figure, which is said to be of life size, measures eight and a half feet. His hand is seventeen inches long. He stands with his left hand on his hip and his right on a long rapier; is dressed in large balloon breeches, with black stockings, and a white quilted vest with a black waistcoat over it; and wears a cap with a feather in it and a small ruff. The picture was painted after the queen's visit to Kenilworth, for the date 1580 is plainly to be seen in one of the upper corners. When the great porter had concluded, "six Trumpetoours, every one an eight foot hye in due proportion of Parson beside, all in long garments of Sylk suitabl," who stood upon the wall over the gate, sounded a "tune of welcum." These "armonious blasterz mainteined their music very delectably," while the queen rode into the inner gate, "where the Ladye of the Lake (famous in King Arthurz Book) with two Nymphes waiting uppon her, arrayed all in Sylks, attended her highness' coming. From the midst of the Pool, whear uppon a moovable Iland bright blazing with Torches, she floating to land, met her majestie with a well-penned meeter," expressive of the "Anncientie of the castl" and the hereditary dignity of its owners. "This Pageant was cloz'd up with a delectabl harmony of Hautboiz, Shalmz, Cornets, and such oother loord Muzik," that held on while her majesty crossed a bridge over a dry valley in front of the castle gate, the different posts of which were decorated with fruits, flowers, birds, and other decorations emblematic of the gifts of Sylvanus, Pomona, Ceres, Neptune, and other divinities. Having passed this, the main gate of the castle was reached. Over it, on a "Tabl beautifully garnisht aboove with her Highness' Arms" was inscribed a Latin poem descriptive of the various tributes paid to her arrival by the gods and goddesses. The verses were read to her by a poet "in a long ceruleoous garment, with a side and wide sleevz Venecian wize drawen up to his elboz, his dooblet sleevz under that Crimson, nothing but Sylk: a Bay garland on his head, and a skro in his hand."... "So passing into the inner Coourt, her majesty (that never rides but alone), thear sat down from her palfrey, was conveied up to Chamber: When after did follo so great peal of gunz, and such lightning by fyrwork a long space toagither, as Jupiter woold sheaw himself too be no furthur behind with his welcoom than the rest of his gods." The chronicler then gives an account of the festivities, which lasted seventeen days and comprised nearly every amusement known to the period. On Sunday, after "divine servis and preaching," the afternoon was spent in "excellent muzik of sundry swet Instruments and in dauncing of Lordes and Ladiez, and other woorshipfull degreez, uttered with such lively agilitee and commendable grace az whither it moought be more straunge too the eye, or pleazunt too the minde, for my part indeed I coold not discern." [Sidenote: _Bearbaiting._] One morning was devoted to a bearbaiting, in which thirteen bears and bandogs took part, "with such fending and prooving, with plucking and tugging, skratting and byting, by plain tooth and nayll a to side and toother, such expens of blood and leather waz thear between them, as a moonths licking I ween will not recoover." Refined amusement, you say, for the Queen of England and her court only three hundred years ago. But not so fast, my dear lady; think what three hundred years hence will say of you and your amusements. Did you not give us a lively description the other evening of your riding after the hounds? Lady Gay Spanker herself, I thought, could not have done it better, and I am sure she was not more fascinating than you. But long before one hundred years shall pass, my friend, ladies in your station will be equally amazed that you could so torture a poor hare or fox and feel it to be not only not _unworthy of a lady_ but a source of enjoyment to you. I say your grandchild will blush for her grandma as she shows to her children the picture of your lovely face. What Queen Elizabeth is now in your eyes, what Roman emperors in the bloody Coliseum were in hers, you will be in the eyes of the third generation after you. Think of this. Remember what Cowper says: "I would not rank among my list of friends, Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, That man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm." Men will give up such sports after a time; but surely we may expect women to find even in this day not only no pleasure but even positive pain in such sports and leave them to coarser natures. [Sidenote: _Sunday Amusements._] Another day was marked by the exhibition of an Italian tumbler, who displayed "such feats of agilitee, in goinges, turninges, tumblinges, castings, hops, jumps, leaps, skips, springs, gambaud, soomersauts, caprettiez, and flights; forward, backward, sydewize, a doownward, upward, and with sundry windings, gyrings and circumflexions; allso lightly and with such eaziness, as by me in feaw words it is not expressibl by pen or speech I tell yoo plain." On the second Sunday, after a "frutefull Sermon," a "solemn Brydeale of a proper Coopl was appointed in the tylt-yard," attended by all the country folk in holiday costume. This was followed by Morris dances, a Coventry play, and other games. "By my troth, Master Martyn, 'twaz a lively pastime; I beleeve it woold have mooved sum man to a right meerry mood, though had it be toold him hiz wife lay a dying." And all this on the Holy Sawbath--for shame, Queen Bess! Nearly every hour had its appointed sport, one amusement following another in endless variety, and the park was peopled with mimic gods and goddesses who surprised the queen with complimentary dialogues and addresses at every turn. Dancing and feasting were kept up all day long and far into the night, for no note was taken of time. "The clok bell sang not a note all the while her highness waz thear; the clok also stood still withall; the handz of both the tablz stood firm and fast, allwayz poynting at two a clok," the hour of banquet. The day of our visit to Kenilworth was very warm, even for Americans, and after luncheon we became a lazy, sleepy party. I have a distinct recollection of an upward and then a downward movement which awoke me suddenly. One after another of the party, caught asleep on a rug, was treated to a tossing amid screams of laughter. We were all very drowsy, but a fresh breeze arose as the sun declined, and remounting the coach late in the afternoon we had a charming drive to Stratford-on-Avon. * * * * * STRATFORD-ON-AVON, June 23. Our resting-place was the Red Horse Inn, of which Washington Irving has written so delightfully. One can hardly say that he comes into Shakespeare's country, for one is always there, so deeply and widely has his influence reached. We live in his land always; but, as we approached the quiet little village where he appeared on earth, we could not help speculating upon the causes which produced the prodigy. One almost expects nature herself to present a different aspect to enable us to account in some measure for the apparition of a being so far beyond all others; but it is not so--we see only the quiet beauty which characterizes almost every part of England. His sweet sonnets seem the natural outbirth of the land. Where met he the genius of tragedy, think you? Surely not on the cultivated banks of the gentle Avon, where all is so tame. But as Shakespeare resembled other burghers of Stratford so much, not showing upon the surface that he was that "largest son of time Who wandering sang to a listening world," [Sidenote: _Shakespeare's Tomb._] our search for external conditions as to his environment need not be continued. Ordinary laws are inapplicable--he was a law unto himself. How or why Shakespeare was Shakespeare will be settled when there shall be few problems of the race left to settle. It is well that he lies on the banks of the Avon, for that requires us to make a special visit to his shrine to worship him. His mighty shade alone fills the mind. True monotheists are we all who make the pilgrimage to Stratford. I have been there often, but I am always awed into silence as I approach the church; and when I stand beside the ashes of Shakespeare I cannot repress stern, gloomy thoughts, and ask why so potent a force is now but a little dust. The inexplicable waste of nature, a million born that one may live, seems nothing compared to this--the brain of a god doing its work one day and food for worms the next! No wonder, George Eliot, that this was ever the weight that lay upon your heart and troubled you so! A cheery voice behind me. "What is the matter? Are you ill? You look as if you hadn't a friend in the world!" Thanks, gentle remembrancer. This is no time for the Scribe to forget himself. We are not out for lessons or for moralizing. Things are and shall be "altogether lovely." One must often laugh if one would not cry. Here is a funny conceit. A worthy draper in the town has recently put an upright stone at the head of his wife's grave, with an inscription setting forth the dates of her birth and death, and beneath it the following verse: "For the Lord has done great things for us, whereof we are exceeding glad." The wretch! One of the wives of our party declared that she could not like a man who could think at such a crisis of such a verse, no matter how he meant it. She was confident that he was one of those terribly resigned kind of men who will find that the Lord has done great things for him in the shape of a second helpmeet within two years. This led to a search for other inscriptions. Here is one which struck our fancy: "Under these ashes lies one close confined, Who was to all both affable and kind; A neighbor good, extensive to ye poor, Her soul we hope's at rest forevermore." This was discussed and considered to go rather too far. Good Swedenborgians still dispute about the body's rising again, and make a great point of that, as showing their superior wisdom, as if it mattered whether we rise with this body or another, any more than whether we wear one suit of clothes or another; the great matter being that we rise at all. But this good friend seems to bespeak rest forever for the soul. One of us spoke of having lately seen a very remarkable collection of passages from Scripture which seemed to permit the hope that all for whom a kind father has nothing better in store than perpetual torture will kindly be permitted to rest. One of the passages in question was: "For the wicked shall _perish_ everlastingly." The question was remitted to the theologians of our party, with instructions to give it prayerful consideration and report. [Sidenote: _Everlasting Punishment._] If there be Scriptural warrant for the belief, I wish to embrace it at once. Meanwhile I am not going to be sure that any poor miserable sinner is to be disturbed when after "life's fitful fever he sleeps well" on the tender, forgiving bosom of mother earth, unless he can be _finally_ fitted for as good or a better life than this. Therefore, good Emma and Ella and the rest who are staunch dogmatists, be very careful how you report, for it is a fearful thing to charge our Creator unjustly with decreeing everlasting torture even to the worst offender into whom He has breathed the breath of life. Refrain, if possible, "Under this conjuration speak; For we will hear, note, and believe in heart That what you speak is in your conscience washed As pure as sin with baptism." I have not yet been favored with the report asked for, and therefore the question rests. The Charioteers got upon delicate ground occasionally, as was to be expected, and although in all well regulated families two subjects--politics and religion--are proscribed, we came near running foul of the latter to-day. There were wide differences of opinion among us, of course, from the true blue Presbyterian, strong for all the tenets of Calvin, down to the milder Episcopalian who took more hopeful views and asked: "Shall there not be as good a 'Then' as 'Now'? Haply much better! since one grain of rice Shoots a green feather gemmed with fifty pearls, And all the starry champak's white and gold Lurks in those little, naked, gray spring-buds." I related an incident which happened in Rome. As I entered the general drawing room one evening, an exciting discussion was going forward on the very subject which we were then considering. A lady of rank was giving expression to very advanced ideas which others were combatting. An old gentleman at last said: "Ladies and gentlemen, all this reminds me of a discussion we young men were having once in my good old father's hall, when my father happened to enter. After listening to us a few minutes he said: 'Young men, you may as well cease your arguing. I'll tell you all about it. In this life "Our ingress is naked and bare, Our progress is trouble and care, Our egress is--no one knows where. If you do well here, you'll do well there,-- I could tell you no more if I preached for a year."'" The effect was instantaneous. Unanimous adhesion was given to the old gentleman's conclusion, and the party bid each other a cordial good night and went reconciled to bed. I am happy to record that such was also the effect upon the Charioteers. [Sidenote: _Shakespeare Stories._] It will be taken for granted that while the Charioteers were in this hallowed region many stories were told about Shakespeare. Two of the gentlemen of our party, at least, dated our love of letters to the circumstance that we were messenger boys in the Pittsburgh telegraph office; and when we carried telegrams to the managers of the theatre, good kind Mr. Porter (followed by one equally kind to us, Mr. Foster) permitted us after delivering them to pass up to the gallery among the gods, where we heard now and then one of the immortal plays. Having heard the melodious flow of words, which of themselves seem to have some spiritual meaning apart from the letter--differing in this from all other combinations of words--how could we rest till we got the plays and learnt most of the notable passages by heart, crooning over them till they became parts of our intellectual being? One story, I remember, shows how completely the master pervades literature. It is authentic, too, for the teller was one of the actors in it. Visiting friends in a country town, he went with the family to church Sunday morning. The clergyman called in the evening and seeing upon the parlor table an open copy of Shakespeare, perhaps suspecting (which was true) that our friend had been entertaining the ladies with selections from it, Sunday evening as it was, he felt moved to say that it was the worldling's bible, which for himself he thought but little of and never recommended for general reading. It was the mainstay of the theatre. That is very strange, said our friend, for we have all been saying that the finest part of your sermon was a short quotation from Shakespeare, and I have been reading the whole passage to the ladies. Here it is: "The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed; It blesses him that gives, and him that takes." Imagine the feelings of the narrow, ignorant man, who really thought he had a call from God to teach mankind. But he could not help it. A man can no more escape the influence of Shakespeare than he can that of surroundings. Shakespeare is the environment of all English-speaking men. Davie's Shakespearean story was of a fellow in Venango County who, having just "struck ile," bought from a pedler a copy of "As You Like It." He was so pleased with Touchstone that he wrote to the pedler: "If that fellow Shakespeare ever writes anything more, be sure to get me one of the first copies--and d-- the expense!" [Sidenote: _Sir Thomas Lucy._] We had one of the loveliest mornings imaginable for leaving Stratford. Many had assembled to see the start, and our horn sounded several parting blasts as we crossed the bridge and rode out of the town. Our destination was Coventry, twenty-two miles away, and the route lay through Charlecote Park and Hampton Lucy. This was one of the most perfect of all our days. The deer in hundreds gazed on us as we passed. There were some noble stags in the herd, the finest we had seen in England, and Charlecote House was the best specimen of an Elizabethan mansion. It was built about 1558 by the very Sir Thomas Lucy whom Shakespeare satirized as Justice Shallow. The original family name was Charlecote or Cherlcote, but about the end of the twelfth century William, son of Walter de Cherlcote, assumed the name of Lucy and took for his arms three luces (pike fish); so Justice Shallow was warranted in affirming that his was an "old coat." The poet's verses will stick to him as long as the world lasts; but judging from other circumstances, Sir Thomas was a very good sort of a man and no doubt a fair specimen of the English Squire of the time. His effigy may still be seen on his tomb in Charlecote Church, beside that of his wife--a not unintelligent face, with moustache and peaked beard cut square at the end, surrounded by the ruff then in fashion. There is no epitaph of himself, but the marble bears a warm memorial of his wife, who died five years before him, concluding thus: "Set down by him that best did know What hath been written to be true." THOMAS LUCY. It is commonly said that Shakespeare was arrested for poaching in this very park, but the antiquaries have decided that it was the old park of Fulbrook on the Warwick road, where Fulbrook Castle once stood. But it makes little difference where the precise place was. That is of interest only to the Dryasdusts. All we care to know is that Shakespeare wanted a taste of venison which was denied him, and took it without leave or license. The descendant of that squire, my gentle Shakespeare, would give you the entire herd for another speech to "the poor sequestered stag," which you could dash off--no, you never dashed off anything; create? no; evolved? that's nearer it; _distilled_--there we have it--distilled as the pearls of dew are distilled by nature's sweet influences unknown to man. He would exchange Charlecote estate, man, for another Hamlet or Macbeth, or Lear or Othello, and the world would buy it from him for double the cost of all his broad acres, and esteem itself indebted to him forever. The really precious things of this world are its books. To _do_ things is not one-half the battle. Carlyle is all wrong about this. To be able to tell the world what you have done, that is the greater accomplishment! Cæsar is the greatest man of the sword because he was in his day the greatest man of the pen. Had he known how to fight only, tradition would have handed down his name for a few generations with a tolerably correct account of his achievements; but now every school-boy fights over again his battles and surmounts the difficulties he surmounted, and so his fame goes on increasing forever. What a man says too often outlives what he does, even when he does great things. General Grant's fame is not to rest upon the fact that he was successful in killing his fellow-citizens in a civil war, all traces of which America wishes to obliterate, but upon the words he said now and then. His "Push things!" will influence Americans when Vicksburg shall be forgotten. "I propose to fight it out on this line" will be part of the language when few will remember when it was spoken; and "Let us have peace" is Grant's most lasting monument. Truly, both the pen and the tongue are mightier than the sword! [Sidenote: _Beautiful Trees._] The drive from Warwick to Leamington is famous, but not comparable to that between Leamington and Coventry. Nowhere else can be found such an avenue of stately trees; for many miles a strip about two hundred feet wide on both sides of the road is wooded. In passing through this plantation many a time did we bless the good, kind, thoughtful soul who generations ago laid posterity under so great an obligation. Dead and gone, his name known to the local antiquary and appreciated by a few of the district, but never heard of beyond it. "So shines a good deed in a naughty world." Receive the warm thanks and God bless you of pilgrims from a land now containing the majority of the English-speaking races, which was not even born when you planted these stately trees. Americans come to bless your memory; for what says Sujata: "For holy books teach when a man shall plant Trees for the travellers' shade, and dig a well For the folks' comfort, and beget a son, It shall be good for such after their death." Who shall doubt that it is well with the dear, kind soul who planted the thousand trees which delighted us this day, nodding their graceful boughs in genial welcome to the strangers and forming a triumphal arch in their honor. * * * * * COVENTRY, June 24. [Sidenote: _George Eliot._] Coventry in these days has a greater than Godiva. George Eliot stands alone among women; no second near that throne. We visited the little school-room where she learnt her first lessons; but more than that, the Mayor, who kindly conducted us through the city, introduced us to a man who had been her teacher. "I knew the strange little thing well," he said. A proud privilege indeed! I would have given much to know George Eliot, for many reasons. I heard with something akin to fellowship that she longed to be at every symphony, oratorio, or concert of classical music, and rarely was that strong, brooding face missed at such feasts. Indeed, it was through attending one of these that she caught the cold which terminated fatally. Music was a passion with her, as she found in it calm and peace for the troubled soul tossed and tried by the sad, sad things of life. I understand this. A friend told me that a lady friend of hers, who was staying at the hotel in Florence where George Eliot was, made her acquaintance casually without knowing her name. Something, she knew not what, attracted her to her, and after a few days she began sending flowers to the strange woman. Completely fascinated, she went almost daily for hours to sit with her. This continued for many days, the lady using the utmost freedom, and not without feeling that the attention was pleasing to the queer, plain, and unpretending Englishwoman. One day she discovered by chance who her companion really was. Never before, as she said, had she felt such mortification. She went timidly to George Eliot's room and took her hand in hers, but shrank back unable to speak, while the tears rolled down her cheeks. "What is wrong?" was asked, and then the explanation came. "I didn't know who you were. I never suspected it was _you_!" Then came George Eliot's turn to be embarrassed. "You did not know I was George Eliot, but you were drawn to plain me all for my own self, a woman? I am so happy!" She kissed the American lady tenderly, and the true friendship thus formed knew no end, but ripened to the close. The finest thing not in her works that I know this genius to have said is this: Standing one day leaning upon the mantel she remarked: "I can imagine the coming of a day when the effort to relieve human beings in distress will be as involuntary upon the part of the beholder as to clasp this mantel would be this moment on my part were I about to fall." There's an ideal for you! Christ might have said that. The state here imagined is akin to her friend Herbert Spencer's grand paragraph. "Conscientiousness has in many outgrown that stage in which the sense of a compelling power is joined with rectitude of action. The truly honest man, here and there to be found, is not only without thought of legal, religious, or social compulsion, when he discharges an equitable claim on him; but he is without thought of self-compulsion. He does the right thing with a simple feeling of satisfaction in doing it, and is indeed impatient if anything prevents him from having the satisfaction of doing it." Who is going to cloud the horizon of the future of our race with traitor-doubts when already, in our own day, amid much which saddens us, the beams of a brighter sun, herald of a better day, already touch the mountain tops, for such are this woman and this man towering above their fellows. By and by these beams will reach the lesser heights--and anon, the very plains will be transformed by them, and "Man to man the world o'er shall brothers be, And a' that." I think that because we are so happy in this glorious life we are now leading, we are disposed to be so very kind to each other. The Charioteers, one and all, seem to me to have reached Mr. Spencer's ideal. If there's a thing that can be done to promote the happiness of others, they are only impatient till they have the satisfaction of doing it. Happiness is known to be a great beautifier--but is it not also a great doer of good to others? It was resolved to debate the question whether the happy person is not also the one who really thinks most and does most for others--not for hope of reward or fear of punishment, but simply because he has reached the stage where he has a simple satisfaction in doing it. [Sidenote: _George Eliot's Poetry._] Here is George Eliot's greatest thing in poetry, for her poems are much less known than they should be. "O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's search To vaster issues. * * * * * "May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty-- Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world." One thing more about our heroine, and a grand thing, said by Colonel Ingersoll. "In the court of her own conscience she sat pure as light, stainless as a star." I believe that, my dear Colonel. Why can you not give the world such gems as you are capable of, and let us alone about future things, concerning which you know no more than a new-born babe or a D.D.? There is a good guide-book for Coventry, and there's much to tell about that city. It was once the ecclesiastical centre of England. Parliaments have sat there and great things have been done in Coventry. Many curious and valuable papers are seen in the hall. There is the order of Queen Elizabeth to her truly and well-beloved Mayor of Coventry, directing him to assist Earls Huntingdon and Shrewsbury in good charge of Mary Queen of Scots. There is a mace given by Cromwell to the corporation. You see that ruler of men could bestow maces as well as order his troopers to "take away that bauble" when the commonwealth required nursing. These and many more rare treasures are kept in an old building which is not fire-proof--a clear tempting of Providence. If I ever become so great a man as a councillor of Coventry, my maiden speech shall be upon the enormity of this offence. A councillor who carried a vote for a fire-proof building should some day reach the mayorship. This is a hint to our friends there. The land question still troubles England, but even in Elizabeth's time it was thought not unconstitutional to fix rents arbitrarily. Here lies an edict of Her Majesty good Queen Bess, fixing the rates for pasturage on the commons near Coventry: "For one cow per week, one penny; for one horse, two-pence." Our agriculturists should take this for a basis, a Queen Elizabeth valuation! I suppose some expert or other could figure the "fair rent" for anything, if given this basis to start upon. [Sidenote: _Coventry Cathedral._] The churches are very fine, the stained-glass windows excelling in some respects any we have seen, the amount of glass is so much greater. The entire end of one of the cathedral churches is filled by three immense windows reaching from floor to roof, the effect of which is very grand. The choir of this church is not in line with the other portion of the building. In reply to my inquiry why this was so, the guide boldly assured us, with a look of surprise at our ignorance, that all cathedrals are so constructed, and that the crooked choir symbolizes the head of Christ, which is always represented leaning to one side of the cross. This idea made me shiver; I felt as if I should never be able to walk up the aisle of a cathedral again without an unpleasant sensation. Thanks to a clear-headed, thorough-going young lady, who, "just didn't believe it," we soon got at the truth about cathedrals, for she proved that they are everywhere built on straight lines. This guide fitly illustrates the danger of good men staying at home in their little island. His cathedral is crooked, and therefore all others are or should be so. Very English this. Very. There are many things still crooked in the dear old tight little isle which other lands have straightened out long ago, or rather never built crooked. Hurry up, you leader of nations in generations past! It's not your rôle in the world to lag behind; at least it has not been till lately, when others have "bettered your instruction." Come along, England, you are not done for; only stir yourself, and the lead is still yours. The guide was a theological student, and therefore could not be expected to have much general knowledge, but he surely should have known something about cathedrals. It rained at Coventry during breakfast, and friend G. ventured to suggest that perhaps some of the ladies might prefer going by rail to Birmingham and join the coach there, at luncheon; but "He did not know the stuff Of our gallant crew, so tough, On board the Charioteer O." He was "morally sat upon," as Lucy says. Not a lady but indignantly repelled the suggestion. Even Mrs. G., a bride, and naturally somewhat in awe of her husband yet, went so far as to say "Tom is a little queer this morning." Waterproofs and umbrellas to the front, we sallied forth from the courtyard of the Queen's in a drenching down-pour. "But what care we how wet we be, By the coach we'll live or die." That was the sentiment which animated our breasts. For my part I was very favorably situated, and I held my umbrella very low to shield my fair charge the better. Of course I greatly enjoyed the first few miles under such conditions. My young lady broke into song, and I thought I caught the sense of the words, which I fondly imagined was something like this: "For if you are under an umbrella With a very handsome fellow, It cannot matter much what the weather may be." I asked if I had caught the words correctly, but she archly insinuated there was something in the second line that wasn't quite correct. I think, though, she was only in fun; the words were quite right, only her eyes seemed to wander in the direction of young B. [Sidenote: _The Oxford Don._] None of the ladies would go inside, so Joe had the compartment all to himself, and no doubt smiled at the good joke as we bowled along. Joe was dry inside, and Perry, though outside, was just the same ere we found an inn. This recalled the story of the coachman and the Oxford Don, when the latter expressed his sympathy at the condition of the former; so sorry he was so wet. "Wouldn't mind being so wet, your honor, if I weren't so _dry_." But I think R. P.'s story almost as good as that. A Don tried to explain to the coachman the operation of the telegraph as they drove along. "They take a glass about the size of an ordinary tumbler, and this they fill with a liquid resembling--ah--like--ah--" "Anything like beer, your honor, for instance?" If Jehu didn't get his complimentary glass at the next halt, that Don was a muff. The rain ceased, as usual, before we had gone far, and we had a clear dry run until luncheon. We see the Black Country now, rows of little dingy houses beyond, with tall smoky chimneys vomiting smoke, mills and factories at every turn, coal pits and rolling mills and blast furnaces, the very bottomless pit itself; and such dirty, careworn children, hard-driven men, and squalid women. To think of the green lanes, the larks, the Arcadia we have just left. How can people be got to live such terrible lives as they seem condemned to here? Why do they not all run away to the green fields just beyond? Pretty rural Coventry suburbs in the morning and Birmingham at noon; the lights and shadows of human existence can rarely be brought into sharper contrast. If "Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay" surely better a year in Leamington than life's span in the Black Country! But do not let us forget that it is just Pittsburgh over again; nay, not even quite so bad, for that city bears the palm for dirt against the world. The fact is, however, that life in such places seems attractive to those born to rural life, and large smoky cities drain the country; but surely this may be safely attributed to necessity. With freedom to choose, one would think the rush would be the other way. The working classes in England do not work so hard or so unceasingly as do their fellows in America. They have ten holidays to the American's one. Neither does their climate entail such a strain upon men as ours does. [Sidenote: _Overworked Americans._] I remember after Vandy and I had gone round the world and were walking Pittsburgh streets, we decided that the Americans were the saddest-looking race we had seen. Life is so terribly earnest here. Ambition spurs us all on, from him who handles the spade to him who employs thousands. We know no rest. It is different in the older lands--men rest oftener and enjoy more of what life has to give. The young Republic has some things to teach the parent land, but the elder has an important lesson to teach the younger in this respect. In this world we must learn not to lay up our treasures, but to enjoy them day by day as we travel the path we never return to. If we fail in this we shall find when we do come to the days of leisure that we have lost the taste for and the capacity to enjoy them. There are so many unfortunates cursed with plenty to retire upon, but with nothing to retire to! Sound wisdom that school-boy displayed who did not "believe in putting away for to-morrow the cake he could eat to-day." It might not be fresh on the morrow, or the cat might steal it. The cat steals many a choice bit from Americans intended for the morrow. Among the saddest of all spectacles to me is that of an elderly man occupying his last years grasping for more dollars. "The richest man in America sailing suddenly for Europe to escape business cares," said a wise Scotch gentleman to me, one morning, as he glanced over the _Times_ at breakfast. Make a note of that, my enterprising friends, and let it be recorded here that this was written before my friend Herbert Spencer preached to us the gospel of relaxation. It has always been assumed that dirt and smoke are necessary evils in manufacturing towns, but the next generation will probably wonder how men could be induced to live under such disagreeable conditions. Many of us will live to see all the fuel which is now used in so thriftless a way converted into clean gas before it is fed to the furnaces, and thus consumed without poisoning the atmosphere with smoke, which involves at the same time so great a loss of carbon. Birmingham and Pittsburgh will some day rejoice in unsullied skies, and even London will be a clean city. We spent the afternoon in Birmingham, and enjoyed a great treat in the Public Hall, in which there is one of the best organs of the world. It is played every Saturday by an eminent musician, admission free. This is one of the little--no, one of the great--things done for the masses in many cities in England, the afternoon of Saturday being kept as a holiday everywhere. Here is the programme for Saturday, June 25: [Illustration] Town Hall Organ Recital. BY MR. STIMPSON FROM 3 TILL 4 O'CLOCK. * * * * * Programme for June 25, 1881: 1. _Overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream, Mendelssohn._ (It will only be necessary to state this descriptive Overture was written in Berlin, August 6, 1826. Shakespeare and Mendelssohn must have been kindred spirits, for surely no more poetic inspiration ever came from the pen of any musical composer than the Overture of the great German master.) 2. _Romanza, Haydn._ (This charming Movement is taken from the Symphony which Haydn wrote in 1786, for Paris, entitled "La Reine de France," and has been arranged for the organ by Mr. Best, of Liverpool.) 3. _Offertoire, in F major, Batiste._ (All the works of the French masters, Wely, Batiste, Guilmant, and Saint-Saens, if not severely classical, have a certain grace and charm which make them acceptable to even the most prejudiced admirers of the ancient masters; and this Offertoire of Batiste is one of the most popular of his compositions.) 4. _Fugue in G minor, J. S. Bach._ (It may interest connoisseurs to know this grand Fugue was selected by the Umpires for the trial of skill when the present Organist of the Town Hall was elected.) 5. _Jaglied (Hunting Song), Schumann._ 6. _Selection from the Opera "Martha" Flotow._ (The Opera from which this selection is taken was written in Vienna, in 1847, and, in conjunction with "Stradella," at once stamped the name of the author as one of the most popular of the dramatic composers of the present day.) 7. _Dead March in Saul, Handel._ In Memoriam, Sir Josiah Mason. * * * * * Price One Halfpenny. * * * * * _The next Free Organ Recital will be given on July 2d_, =AT THREE O'CLOCK.= A HISTORY OF THE TOWN HALL ORGAN (A NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED,) BY MR. STIMPSON, Is now ready, and may be had in the Town Hall, and the Midland Educational Co.'s Warehouse, New Street. =NOTICE.--A box will be placed at each door to receive contributions, to defray the expenses of these recitals.= The Prima Donna said she had never before heard an organ so grandly played, and she knows. The management of the left hand in the fugue she declared wonderful. It is best to give the best for the masses, even in music, the highest of our gifts. John Bright has made most of his speeches in this hall, but it is no longer large enough for the Liberal demonstrations, and a much larger structure has been erected. We are behind in providing music for the people, but it says much for the progress of the Republic in these higher domains, from whence come sweetness and light, that the greatest tragic singer, Frau Materna, said to a friend that she would tell Herr Wagner upon her return that if he wished to hear his greatest music performed better than ever it had been before he must come to New York. Alas! even as I re-write these pages comes the sad news that we can reap no more from that genius. He has made his contribution to the world, and a noble one it is, rejoicing many hearts and lifting many above their surroundings to exquisite enjoyments beyond; and now he closes his eyes and vanishes; the long day's task is ended and he must sleep. To-night the Symphony Society substitutes for another number of their programme his Funeral March. It will seem like a voice from the grave; not a dry eye, nor a cold heart will be in the house. A soul has taken flight to whom we are under obligation, which must increase and increase the longer we live, for it has given expression to much that is of our highest and best, and suggested a thousandfold more than ever could be expressed. Our benefactor is indeed gone, in a sense material, but his soul lives with us and his voice will still be heard calling us up higher. The man who reveals new beauties in music enriches human life in one of its highest phases, and is to be ranked with the true poet. He who composes great music is the equal of him who writes great words; Beethoven, Handel, and Wagner are worthy compeers of Shakespeare, Milton, and Burns. [Sidenote: _Furnaces and Coalpits._] The eleven miles between Birmingham and Wolverhampton are nothing but one vast iron-working, coal-mining establishment. There is scarcely a blade of grass of any kind to be seen, and not one real clean pure blade did we observe during the journey. It was Saturday afternoon and the mills were all idle, and the operatives thronged the villages through which we drove. O mills and furnaces and coal-pits and all the rest of you, you may be necessary, but you are no bonnie! Pittsburghers though many of us were, inured to smoke and dirt, we felt the change very deeply from the hedgerows, the green pastures, the wild flowers and pretty clean cottages, and voted the district "horrid." Wolverhampton's steeples soon came into sight, and we who had been there and could conjure up dear, honest, kindly faces waiting to welcome us with warm hearts, were quite restored to our usual spirits, notwithstanding dirt and squalor. The sun of a warm welcome from friends gives many clouds a silver lining, and it did make the black country brighter. The coach and horses, and Joe and Perry, not to mention our generalissimo, belong to Wolverhampton, as you know, and our arrival had been looked for by many. The crowd was quite dense in the principal street as we drove through. One delegation after another was left at friends' houses, the Charioteers having been billeted upon the connection; and here for the first time we were to enjoy a respite. * * * * * WOLVERHAMPTON, June 25-30. We were honored by an entertainment at his Honor the Mayor's. As usual on fine days in England, the attractions of the mansion (and they are not small in this case) gave place to open-air enjoyments on the lawn--the game, the race, the stroll, and all the rest of the sports which charm one in this climate. The race across the lawn was far better fun than the Derby, but our gentlemen must go into strict training before they challenge those English girls again. It is some consolation that Iroquois has since vindicated the glory of the Republic. We coached one day about fourteen miles to Apley House, and had a joyous picnic day with our friends Mr. and Mrs. S----, of Newton. The party numbered seventy odd, great and small. That day the Charioteers agreed should be marked as a red-letter day in their annals, for surely never was a day's excursion productive of more enjoyment to all of us. There are few, if any, prettier views in England than that from the terrace at Apley House. The Vale of Severn deserves its reputation. We had a trip on the river for several miles from Bridgenorth to the grounds as part of the day's pleasure. [Sidenote: _Small Rivers._] How very small England's great rivers are! I remember how deeply hurt Mr. F---- was when his Yankee nephew (H. P. Jr., Our Pard) visited him for the first time, and was shown the river by his uncle, who loved it. "Call this a river?" exclaimed he, "why, it's only a creek! I could almost jump across it there." But H. P. was young then, and would not have hesitated to "speak disrespectfully of the equator" upon occasion. I won the good man's heart at once by saying that small though it was in size (and what has either he or I to boast of in that line, I wonder?) little Severn filled a larger space in the world's destiny and the world's thoughts than twenty mighty streams. Listen: "Three times they breathed and three times did they drink Upon agreement of swift Severn's flood, Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, Blood-stained with these violent combatants." Why, you have not a river like that in all America. H. P. was judiciously silent. But I do not think he was ever quite forgiven. These Americans have always such big ideas. The free library at Wolverhampton interested me. I do not know where better proof of the advantages of such an institution is to be found. It was started upon a small scale, about fifteen thousand dollars being expended; now some forty thousand dollars have been spent upon the building. Last year eighty-six thousand books were issued. I counted at noon, June 30th, sixty-three persons in the reading-room, and at another time nearly two hundred readers. On Saturdays, between two and ten P.M., the number averages fully a thousand. In addition to the circulating library, there are a reference library, a museum, and large reading-rooms. Several courses of lectures are connected with the institution, with teachers for the various branches. One teacher, a Mr. Williams, has "passed" scholars in the science and art department every year, and one year every one of his scholars passed the Kensington examination. A working plumber who attended these classes gained prizes for chemistry and electricity, and is now secretary of the water-works at Chepstow. We may hear more of that climber yet. Plenty of room at the top! No sectarian papers are subscribed for, but all reputable publications are received if sent. In this way all sects are represented by their best, if the members see fit to contribute them. This is the true plan. "Error may be tolerated if truth be free to combat it. Let truth and error grapple." This city levies one penny per pound upon the rates, as authorized by the Libraries act. This nets about four thousand dollars per annum. Just see what powerful agencies for the improvement of the people can be set on foot for a trifling sum. [Sidenote: _A People's Library._] And do not fail to note that this library, like all others in Britain organized under the Libraries act, does not pauperize a people. It is no man's library, but the library of the people--their own, maintained and paid for by public taxation to which all contribute. An endowed library is just like an endowed church, at best half and generally wholly asleep. It is a great mistake to withdraw from such an institution the healthy breeze of public criticism; besides this, people never appreciate what is wholly given to them so highly as that to which they themselves contribute. Wolverhampton is a go-ahead city (I note a strong Scotch element there). A fine park, recently acquired and laid out with taste, shows that the physical well-being of the people is not lost sight of. The administration of our friend ex-Mayor D. is to be credited with this invaluable acquisition. Mr. D. took the most prominent part in the matter, and having succeeded he can consider the park his own estate. It is not in any sense taken away from him, nor one of its charms lessened, because his fellow-citizens share its blessings. Indeed as I strolled through it with him I thought the real sense of ownership must be sweeter from the thousands of his fellows whom we saw rejoicing within it than if he were indeed the lordly owner in fee and rented it for revenue. This whole subject of meum and tuum needs reconsideration. If Burns, when he held his plough in joy upon the mountain-side and saw what he saw, felt what he felt, was not more truly the real possessor of the land than the reputed nominal landlord, then I do not grasp the subject. There are woeful blunders made as to the ownership of things. Who owns the treasures of the Sunderland or Hamilton libraries? and who will shed the tears over their dispersion, think you, chief mourner by virtue of deepest loss, the titled dis-graces, in whose names they stand, or the learned librarian whose days have been spent in holy companionship with them? It is he who has made them his own, drawn them from their miserable owners into his heart. I tell you a man cannot be the real owner of a library or a picture gallery without a title from a much higher tribunal than the law. Nor a horse either, for that matter. Who owns your favorite horse? Test it! I say the groom does. Call Habeeb or Roderick. So slow their response! I won't admit they don't know and like me too. John knows my weakness and stands out of sight and lets me succeed slowly with them; but after that, see at one word from him how they prick up their ears and neigh, dance in their boxes, push their grand heads under his arm, and say as plainly as can be, "This is our man." I'm only a sleeping partner with John in them after all. It's the same all through; go to your dogs, or out to your flocks, and see every sheep, and even the little lambs, the cows with their kind, glowering eyes, the chickens, and every living thing run from you to throng round the hand that feeds them. There is no real purchase in money, you must win friendship and ownership in the lower range of life with kindness, companionship, love; the coin of the realm is not legal tender with Trust, or Habeeb, or Brownie, nor with any of the tribe. [Sidenote: _Sister Dora._] Let us not forget to chronicle a visit paid to Walsall, the scene of Sister Dora's labors. It is only seven miles from Wolverhampton in the very heart of the black country. Dr. T. drove us out to the crowded smoky town, and we followed him through the hospital and heard from the officials many interesting stories of that wonderful woman. Our friend the Doctor also knew her well. She has been known to rush through a crowd and separate brutal men who were fighting. The most debased of that ignorant mining and iron manufacturing population seemed under her influence to an incredible degree; but then her sympathy and her tender devotion to every human being in distress were no doubt the secret of her power. A desperate case was brought into the hospital late one night. The physicians pronounced his recovery hopeless, but Sister Dora was not satisfied; indeed, she seemed to feel instinctively that the man had still a chance. She told the physicians to leave him, as she felt that they could do little good after they had given up hope, and took charge of the case herself. She told the poor wretch that she was going to stand by him all night and bring him through; and having faith herself she inspired it in the patient, and the result was that she actually saved the man's life. Here is the very material for a saint. Had this occurred a few generations ago, or were it to occur in some parts of Italy to-day, Saint Dora would surely be added to the calendar, and why not! Let us dispute over the miraculous and supernatural as we may, who will deny that the faith of this noble woman and the faith transmitted from her sympathetic heart to the poor sufferer were the foundation upon which his recovery was built up? This incident gave rise to a discussion upon the coach one day as to the influence of faith in one's ability to do certain things affecting the result. The man who goes in to win may win: the one who goes in to lose can't win. So far all were agreed. Some of our party were disposed to lament the lack of faith which characterizes this age. "There are no Abrahams now-a-days," said one. "What would you do, Tom, if you should receive a message commanding you to offer up your son upon the altar?" "Well," said Tom, who was a telegraph operator in his early days, "I think I should first ask to have that message repeated." All right. So would we all of us. Still there is a wide province for faith. If it does not exactly remove mountains now a days, it at least enables us to tunnel them, which is much the same thing as far as practical results are concerned. [Sidenote: _English Hospitality._] We can tell you nothing of the hotels of Wolverhampton, but the fourteen of us can highly recommend certain quarters where it was our rare privilege to be honored guests. Whether the English eat and drink more than the Americans may be a debatable question, but they certainly do so oftener. The young ladies quartered at Newbridge reported this the only bar to perfect happiness; they never wanted to leave the garden for meals nor to remain so long at table. As the Prima Donna reported, they "just sound a gong and _spring_ luncheons and teas and suppers on you." The supper is an English institution, even more sacred than the throne, and destined to outlive it. You cannot escape it, and to tell the truth, after a little you have no wish to do so. There is much enjoyment at supper, and in Scotland this is the toddy-time, and who would miss that hour of social glee! Mention must be made of the private theatricals at Merridale and of the amateur concert at Clifton House, both highly creditable to the talented performers and productive of great pleasure to the guests. I find a programme of the latter and incorporate it as part of the record: [Illustration: Clifton House, Wolverhampton,] JUNE 29TH, 1881. Programme of Music] PIANOFORTE DUET "Oberon" _René Favayer_ Misses A. J. B. and A. C. B. SONG "Twenty-one" _Molloy_ Miss S. D. SONG "The Raft" _Pinsuti_ Mr. B. P. LADIES' TRIO "O Skylark, for thy wing" _Smart_ The Misses B. and Miss D. SONG "A Summer Shower" _Marziales_ Miss D. SONG "The Better Land" _Cowen_ Miss M. B. SONG "The Lost Chord" _Sullivan_ Miss P. PIANOFORTE SOLO "La Cascade" _Pauer_ Miss A. D. SONG "Let me dream again" _Sullivan_ Miss R. SONG "The Diver" _Loder_ Mr. A. B. SONG "My Nannie's awa'" ---- Miss J. J. DUET "When the Wind blows in from the Sea" _Smart_ Miss M. B. and Mr. B. P. SONG "For ever and for ever" _Paolo Tosti_ Miss A. J. B. SONG "The Boatswain's Story" _Molloy_ Mr. B. P. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. [Sidenote: _Private Theatricals._] A great many fine compliments have been paid to performers in this world, but do you remember one much better than this? Our Prima Donna sang "My Nannie's awa'," my favorite among twenty favorites; and she did sing it that night to perfection. We were all proud of her. When she returned to her seat next to M., there was whispered in her ear: "Oh, Jeannie, the lump's in my throat yet!" All the hundred warm expressions bestowed upon her did not weigh as much as that little gem of a tribute. When you raise the lump in the throat by a song you are upon the right key and have the proper style, even if your teacher has been no other than your own heart, the most important teacher of all. After the theatricals at Merridale came the feast. The supper-table comes before me, and the speeches. The orator of the Wolverhampton connection is ex-Mayor B. He speaks well, and never did he appear to greater advantage than on that evening. It's a sight "gude for sair een" to see a good-natured, kindly English gentleman presiding at the festive board, surrounded by his children and his children's children, and the family connections to the number of seventy odd. They are indeed a kindly people, but oh dear! those who have never been out of their little island, even the most liberal of them, have such queer, restricted notions about the rest of mankind! This, however, is only natural; travel is in one sense the only possible educator. England has been so far ahead of the world until the present generation, that it is difficult for her sons to believe she is sleeping too long. The best speech of the evening upon our side was made by Our Pard, who said he felt that after he had forgotten all else about this visit, the smiling faces of the pretty, rosy-cheeked English young ladies he had been admiring ever since he came to Wolverhampton, and never more ardently than this evening, would still haunt his thoughts; and then, with more emphasis, he closed with these memorable words: "And I tell you, if ever young men ask me where they can find the nicest, sweetest, prettiest, and best young ladies for wives, they won't have to ask twice." (Correct! shake, Pard!) We were fortunate in seeing the statue of Mr. Villiers unveiled. Earl Granville spoke with rare grace and ease, his style being so far beyond that of the other speakers that they suffered by comparison. The sledge-hammer style of oratory is done. Let ambitious youngsters make a note of that, and no longer strut and bellow, and tear a passion all to tatters, to very rags. Shakespeare understood it: "In the very tempest and I may say whirlwind of your passion, You must beget a temperance to give it utterance." [Sidenote: _Coffee Houses._] The effort now making throughout Great Britain to provide coffee-houses as substitutes for the numerous gin palaces has not been neglected in Wolverhampton. The Coffee House Company which operates in the city and neighborhood has now fourteen houses in successful operation, and, much to my astonishment and gratification, I learned that seven and a half per cent. dividends were declared and about an equal amount of profit reserved for contingencies. In Birmingham there are twenty houses, and cash dividends of ten per cent. per annum have been made. If they can be generally made to pay even half as well, a grand advance has been made in the war against intemperance. I visited one of the houses with ex-Mayor D., who, I rejoice to say, is Chairman of the Company, and in this great office does more for the cause than a thousand loud-mouthed orators who only denounce the evil about which we are all agreed, but have no plan to suggest for overcoming it. It is so easy to denounce and tear down; but try to build up once and see what slow, discouraging labor is involved. The prices in these coffee-houses are very low: one large cup of good tea, coffee, or cocoa, at the counter, 1_d._ (2 cents); one sandwich, 1_d._ (2 cents). If taken upstairs in a room at a table, one-half more. There is a reading-room with newspapers free, bagatelle-table, and comfortable sitting-rooms; also a ladies' room and a lavatory, and cigars, tobacco, and all non-alcoholic drinks are provided. Men go there at night to read and to play games. The company has been operating for three years, and the business increases steadily. We saw similar houses in most of the towns we passed, and wished them God-speed. A chairman of a company like this has it in his power to do more good for the masses, who are the people of England, than if he occupied his time as member of Parliament; but the English exalt politics unduly and waste the lives of their best men disputing over problems which the more advanced Republicans have settled long ago and cleared out of their way. They will learn better by and by. We must not be impatient. They are a slow race and prone to makeshifts politically. [Sidenote: _Lincoln and the Deserter._] A delegation of the Charioteers passed a happy day visiting one of the celebrated homes of England, Bilton Grange, near Rugby, the residence of Mr. John Lancaster, whom Americans will remember as the owner of the yacht "Deerhound," who rescued Commander Semmes, when the "Kearsarge" swept the infamous "Alabama" from the seas. Mr. Lancaster showed us the pistols presented to him by the Confederate Officer as token of gratitude. This seems like ancient history already, so rapidly has the Rebellion and all thoughts thereof faded away. Jefferson Davis goes to and fro exciting no remark, arousing some pity. Had he been invested with the crown of martyrdom, how different would be the feeling of his people to-day! It is with Davis as with the deserter of whom Hon. Daniel J. Morrell tells: He took the mother of the runaway to see President Lincoln, in Washington, to plead for the life of her darling boy, who had been court-martialed and was to be shot in a few days. Lincoln first upbraided my friend for subjecting him to such an ordeal, but the poor woman was already in the room, sobbing as if her heart would break, and there was no help for it. Lincoln conducted her to a seat, asked a great many questions, learned that the boy had returned to work at Johnstown, and provided for his mother and sister from his earnings, giving as an excuse for leaving the army, that it was lying idle on the banks of the Potomac and he knew it could not move until spring. The President mused a few moments, apparently undecided what action to take. Even the woman held her breath for the time and awaited in silence the word which was to rejoice her or doom her to misery forever. "Well, I don't believe it would do him any good to shoot him, do you, madam?" asked Father Abraham of the mother, in a tone of inquiry so natural that one would have thought he was actually in doubt upon the subject himself and wanted the opinion of the person who knew the boy best. The mother was speechless. During the inquiry the President had been rolling a small strip of paper into a ball. He handed this to Mr. Morrell, saying: "Read that when you get out, Daniel, but mind you don't tell Stanton." Mr. Morrell beckoned the woman to the door, placed her in the carriage, read the slip, and ordered the coachman to drive at once to the office of the Provost Marshal. Here is what he found in that tiny strip: "P.M. Washington--Send Private Johnston, Company B, 9th Penn. Infantry, to his regiment. A. L." That is the kind of thing that took our trusting hearts and gave this wood-chopper of Illinois such power as all the hereditary monarchs of the world can never hope to acquire. Just so with Jefferson Davis:--it wouldn't do anybody any good to shoot him. Happy America! strong enough to laugh at all powers which talk of assailing you. [Sidenote: _Moral for Englishmen._] In driving to and from Bilton Grange, we passed famous Rugby and talked of our favorite Tom Brown. What a sad pity that Mr. Hughes was carried away by the fascinations of a scheme for transplanting gentle manly Englishmen to the Rugby colony in Tennessee! It was foredoomed to failure, and to much heart-burning and recrimination. Of all men in the world, your well-educated young Englishman is least adapted for such a life as Tennessee has to offer. Had the West or North-west been selected, the result should have been different so far as pecuniary considerations are concerned, for even poor management there could not have kept the land from rising in value. The stream of emigration from the older States to the new might have told these men where to go; but it seems that whenever foreigners attempt to do anything in America through an organization, their first thought is how to do it in a manner as far as possible from that of the Americans. The consequence is, they generally lose their money. Moral for our English cousins: "When in America do as the Americans do." If they settle in Iowa do you go and sit down beside them there. And to my iron and steel friends in this little island, just one word: If Americans are not overpoweringly anxious to develop the wonderful resources, say of Alabama, for instance, just you take Rip Van Winkle's plan "go home and t'ink about it jest a leetle" before you undertake the task. These Americans do not know everything, of course, but it is just possible they may know something about their own country. "Nae man can tether time nor tide, The hour approaches, Tam maun ride." Our six days at Wolverhampton had passed rapidly away in one continual round of social pleasures, and now we were off again to fresh woods and pastures new. The horn sounds. We call the roll once more. Mr. B., Senior, had left us at Windsor, but the Junior B. he sent us fitly represented the family. If he couldn't tell as many funny stories nor quote as much poetry as his sire, the young Cambridge wrangler could sing college songs and give our young ladies many glimpses of young England. He was a great favorite was Theodore (young Obadiah). Miss B. and he left us at Banbury, much to our regret, but London engagements were imperative. Mr. and Mrs. K. arrived. If ever a couple received a warmer welcome I never saw nor heard of it. It seemed as if we had been separated for years, and how often during our journey had one or another of the party regretted that Aggie and Aaleck were missing all this. It was upon the ocean that Ben and Davie conceived the idea that a run to Paris would be advisable. Leave of absence for two week was accordingly granted to four--Mr. and Mrs. McC., Miss J. and Mr. V. We bade them good-bye at Wolverhampton, Thursday, June 30th, and saw them fairly off, not without tears upon both sides from the weaker sex. These partings are miserable things always. Their places were taken by Miss J. R. (a Dunfermline bairn), Miss A. B., and Mr. D. Next morning we gathered the clans at Mr. G.'s, calling at the houses of several other friends for the contingent they had so kindly entertained; thence to Merridale for the remainder and the final start. It was a sight to see the party on the lawn there as we drove off, giving three hearty cheers for Wolverhampton. In special honor of the head of the clan there, the master of Merridale, we had just sung "For he is an Englishman." Yes, he is the Englishman all over. Our route for many miles was still in the black country, but near Lichfield we reached again the rural beauties of England. How thankful to get away once more from the dirt and smoke and bustle of manufactories! The new members had not gone far before they exhibited in an aggravated form all the usual signs of the mania which had so seriously affected all who have ever mounted our coach. The older members derived great pleasure from seeing how completely the recent acquisitions were carried away. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds, and we drove in to the Swan at Lichfield brimful of happiness. We had left Wolverhampton about noon, the stage for the day being a short one, only twenty miles. * * * * * LICHFIELD, July 1. [Sidenote: _Lichfield Cathedral._] The cathedral deserves a visit, out of the way of travel as it is. Its three spires and its chapter house are the finest we have yet seen; and then Chantrey's sleeping children is worth travelling hundreds of miles to see. Never before has marble been made to express the childish sleep of innocence as this does. It was strange that I should stumble upon a monument in the cathedral to Major Hodson, whose grave I had seen in India. He lies with Havelock and Lawrence in the pretty little English cemetery at Lucknow, poor fellow, and here his friends and neighbors away in quiet Lichfield have commemorated his valor. How well do I remember my visit to that historic burial place in far off India and the impression made upon me as I stood beside the tombs of the heroes who fell in the days of the great mutiny! The inscription on Lawrence's is: "Here lies Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty." What could you add that would not weaken that? We talked, standing by Hodson's monument, of the long struggle and the relief at Lucknow, and of what I had written of it in my "Notes of a Trip round the World." As it pleased the Charioteers, perhaps I may be pardoned for quoting a part of it. "Our first visit was to the ruins of the Residency, where for six long months Sir Henry Lawrence and his devoted band were shut up and surrounded by fifty thousand armed rebels. The grounds, which I should say are about thirty acres in extent, were fortunately encompassed by an earthern rampart six feet in height. You need not be told of the heroic resistance of the two regiments of British soldiers and one of natives, nor of the famous rescue. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, and month after month, the three hundred women and children, shut in a cellar under ground, watched and prayed for the sound of Havelock's bugles, but it came not. Hope, wearied out at last, had almost given place to despair. Through the day the attacks of the infuriated mob could be seen and repelled, but who was to answer that as darkness fell the wall was not to be pierced at some weak point of the extended line? One officer in command of a critical point failing--not to do his duty, there was never a fear of that--but failing to judge correctly of what the occasion demanded, and the struggle was over. Death was the last of the fears of those poor women night after night as the days rolled slowly away. One night there was graver silence than usual in the room; all were despondent and lay resigned to their seemingly impending fate. No rescue came, nor any tidings of relief. In the darkness one piercing scream was heard from the narrow window. A Highland nurse had clambered up to gaze through the bars and strain her ears once more. The cooling breeze of night blew in her face and wafted such music as she could not stay to hear. One spring to the ground, a clapping of hands above her head, and such a shriek as appalled her sisters who clustered around; but all she could say between the sobs--'The slogan! the slogan!' Few knew what the slogan was. 'Didna ye hear? Didna ye hear?' cried the almost demented girl, and then listening one moment that she might not be deceived, she muttered, 'It's the Macgregors Gathering, the grandest o' them a',' and fell senseless to the ground. [Sidenote: _Jessie of Lucknow._] "Truly, my lassie, the 'grandest o' them a',' for never came such strains before to mortal ears. And so Jessie of Lucknow takes her place in history as one of the finest themes for painter, dramatist, poet, or historian, henceforth and forever. I have some hesitation whether the next paragraph in my note-book should go down here or be omitted. Probably it would be in better taste if quietly ignored, but then it would be so finely natural if put in. Well, I shall be natural or nothing, and recount that I could not help rejoicing that Jessie was Scotch, and that Scotchmen first broke the rebel lines and reached the fort, and that the bagpipes led the way. That's all. I feel better now that this also is set down." In Lichfield cathedral are seven very fine stained-glass windows which were found stowed away in a farm-house in Belgium, and purchased by an English gentleman for £200, and now they rank among the most valuable windows in the world. What a pity that the treasures wantonly destroyed during the Reformation had not found similar shelter, to be brought from their hiding-places once more to delight us! [Sidenote: _Church Music._] We heard service Saturday morning, and mourned over the waste of exquisite music--twenty-six singers in the choir and only ten persons to listen in the vast cathedral, besides our party. It is much the same throughout England. In no case during week days did we ever see as many persons in the congregation as in the choir. Surely the impressive cathedrals of England are capable of being put to better uses than this. It seems a sin to have such choirs and not conduct them in some way to reach and elevate greater numbers. In no building would an oratorio sound so well. Why should not these choirs be made the nucleus for a chorus in every district, and let us have music which would draw the masses within the sacred walls? But maybe this would be sacrilegious. Theological minds may see in the music suggested an unworthy intruder in domains sacred to dogma; but they should remember that the Bible tells us that in heaven music is the principal source of happiness--the sermon seems nowhere--and it may go hard with such as fail to give it the first place on earth. In this view of the case it was decided to-day upon the coach that what some had hitherto thought a scandal, viz., that the choirs of most of our fashionable churches cost more than all the other expenses of the church, and that organists and sopranos receive a much larger salary considering the time given than the ministers; or, as one of the young ladies put it, "More is paid for music than for religion"--all this, instead of being reprehensible, as some have unthinkingly believed, may really be, and probably is, quite in accordance with the proper order of worship. Well, I am not going to grudge Miss B. her three thousand dollars a year any longer, said a vestryman; so he was converted to the theory that music stands upon strong ground. Some day, however, my lord bishop and lazy crew, the cathedrals of England will not be yours alone to drone in, but become mighty centres of grand music, from which shall radiate elevating influences over entire districts; and the best minds of the nation, remembering how narrow and bigoted the church was when these structures were built, will change the poet's line and say: "To what great uses have they come at last!" The world moves and the church establishment must move with it, or--this is a splendid place to stop--there is as great virtue in your "or" as in your "if," sometimes. Here is the best description of service in an English cathedral: "And love the high embower'd roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voic'd choir below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through my ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes." The music at Lichfield does indeed draw you into regions beyond and intimates immortality, and we exclaim with friend Izaak Walton, "Lord, what music hast thou provided for the saints in heaven, when thou affordest bad men such music on earth!" I remember that when in China I read that Confucius was noted for his intense passion for music. He said one day to his disciples that music not only elevates man while he is listening, but that to those who love it music is able to create distinct images which remain after the strains cease and keep the mind from base thoughts. Think of the sage knowing this when he had probably only the sing-song Chinese fiddle to console him! I forget, he had the gongs, and a set of fine gongs of different tones make most suggestive music, as I have discovered. The position of Lichfield Cathedral is peculiarly fine. Three sides of the square surrounding it are occupied by splendid ecclesiastical buildings connected with the diocese, including the bishop's palace. A beautiful sheet of water lies upon the lower side, so that nothing incongruous meets the eye. We obtained there a better idea of the magnitude of the church establishment and its to us seemingly criminal waste of riches than ever before. To think of all this power for good wasting itself upon a beggarly account of empty benches, the choir outnumbering the congregation! [Sidenote: _The Coach._] We had ordered the coach to come and await us at the cathedral, but had not expected Perry to drive up to the very door. There the glittering equipage was, however, surrounded by groups of pretty, rosy children and many older people gazing respectfully. There is something about a well-appointed coach and four which is calculated to puff a man up with vanity. I remember I had been absorbed in the service, and afterward in wandering about the cathedral had had my thoughts carried back to India. I was again in the crowded streets of Benares mounted upon the richly caparisoned elephants of the Rajah, and anon strolling upon the Apollo Bunder in Bombay, one of a crowd the gorgeous coloring of which equals any scene ever given in grand opera. I reached the cathedral door in a kind of trance; the gay coach, the horses and their sparkling harness, and Joe and Perry in their livery burst upon me, and looking up and around I did feel that we were a "swell" party, and had ever so much to be thankful for. It is a source of never failing pleasure to stand and see the Charioteers mount the coach--they are all so happy, and I am "so glad they are glad." And so we mounted and drove off, taking a last fond look of grand old Lichfield. * * * * * DOVEDALE, July 2-3. Our objective point was Dovedale, thirty miles distant. When three miles out we stopped at Elmhurst Hall for Miss F., who had preceded us to pay a visit to Mr. and Mrs. F--x, who very kindly invited the party to dismount and lunch with them; but the thirty miles to be done would not permit us the pleasure. The next time we pass, however, good master and mistress of Elmhurst Hall, you shall certainly have the Charioteers within your hospitable walls, if you desire it, for such an inviting place we have rarely seen. [Sidenote: _Sudbury Park._] We were to lunch in Sudbury Park, the residence of Lord Vernon. This was the first grassy luncheon of the five new-comers, and we were all delighted to see their enjoyment of this most Arcadian feature of our coaching life. It proved to be one of our pleasantest luncheons, for there is no finer spot in England than Sudbury Park. Of course it is not the glen nor the wimpling burn of the Highlands, but for quiet England it is superb. The site chosen was near a pretty brook. Before us was the old-fashioned brick Queen Anne mansion, and behind us in the park was a cricket ground, where a match between two neighboring clubs was being worthily contested. The scene was indeed idyllic. There was never more fun and laughter at any of our luncheons. Aaleck had to be repressed at last, for several of the members united in a complaint against him. Their sides ached, but that they did not mind so much; their anxiety was about their cheeks, which were seriously threatened with an explosion if they attempted to eat. To avoid such results it was voted that no one should make a joke nor even a remark. Silence was enjoined; but what did that amount to! The signs and grimaces were worse than speech. Force was no remedy. It took time to get the party toned down, but eventually the lunch was finished. We strolled over and watched the cricketers. It all depends upon how you look at a thing. So many able-bodied perspiring men knocking about a little ball on a warm summer's day, that is one way; so many men relieved from anxious care and laying the foundation for long years of robust health by invigorating exercise in the open air, that is the other view of the question. The ancients did not count against our little span of life the days spent in the chase; neither need we charge those spent in cricket; and as for our sport, coaching, for every day so spent we decided that it and another might safely be credited. He was a very wise prime minister who said he had often found important duties for which he had not time; one duty, however, he had always _made_ time for, his daily afternoon ride on horseback. Your always busy man accomplishes little; the great doer is he who has plenty of leisure. The man at the helm turns the wheel now and then, and so easily too, touching an electric bell; it's the stoker down below who is pitching into it with his coat off. And look at Captain McMicken promenading the deck in his uniform and a face like a full moon; quite at his ease and ready for a story. And there is Johnnie Watson, chief engineer, who rules over the throbbing heart of the ship; he is standing there prepared for a crack. Moral: Don't worry yourself over work, hold yourself in reserve, and sure as fate, "it will all come right in the wash." Leaving the contestants, we walked down to the lake in front of the mansion, and with our usual good fortune we were just in time to see the twenty acres of ornamental water dragged for pike, which play such havoc with other fish. The water had been drained into a small pond, which seemed alive with bewildered fish. We sat and watched with quiet interest the men drawing the net. Hundreds were caught at every haul, from which the pike were taken. A tremendous eel gave the men a lively chase; three or four times it escaped, wriggled through their legs and hands one after the other, and made for the water. Had the gamekeeper not succeeded in pinning it to the ground with a pitchfork, the eel would have beaten the whole party. [Sidenote: _Adam and Eve._] Lord Vernon's park is rich in attractions. An old narrow picturesque arched bridge, which spans the pretty lake, has a statue of Adam at one end and Eve at the other. Over the former the ivy clusters so thickly as to make our great prototype a mass of living green; poor Eve has been less favored, for she is in a pitiable plight for a woman, with "nothing to wear." But Eve was not used to kind treatment. Adam was by no means a modern model husband, and never gave Eve anything in excess except blame. Here she is still, the Flora McFlimsy of my friend William Allen Butler (minus the flora as I have said); but let her be patient, her dress is sure to come, for kind nature in England abhors nakedness. She is ever at work clothing everything with her mantle of green. "Ever and ever bringing secrets forth, It sitteth in the green of forest glades Nursing strange seedlings at the cedar's root, Devising leaves, blooms, blades. This is its touch upon the blossomed rose, The fashion of its hand-shaped lotus leaves; In dark soil and the silence of the seeds The robe of Spring it weaves." We had rare enjoyment at the lake, and envied Lord Vernon his princely heritage. The old forester who once showed me over a noble estate in Scotland was quite right. I was enchanted with one of the views, and repeated. "Where is the coward who would not dare To fight for such a land!" "Aye," said the old man, "aye, it's a grand country, _for the lairds_." It will be a grander country some day when it is less "for the lairds" and more for the toiling masses; but may the destroying angel of progress look kindly upon such scenes of beauty as Sudbury Park. The extensive estate may be disentailed and cultivated by a thousand small owners in smiling homes, with educated children within them, and the land bring forth greater harvests touched by the magic wand of the sense of ownership--for it makes an infinite difference to call a thing your own--and yet the mansion and park remain intact and give to its possessor rarer pleasures than at present. I think one of the greatest drawbacks to life in Britain in grand style must be the contrast existing between the squire and the people about him. It is bad enough even in Chester Valley, where the average condition and the education of the inhabitants are probably equal to any locality in the world, but in England it is far too marked for comfort, I should think. While we were still lingering on the banks of the lake Perry's horn sounded from the main road to call us from the enchanting scene, and we were off for Dovedale through pretty Ashbourne. [Sidenote: _Horseback Riding._] As we bowled along the conversation turned upon horseback riding, and some one quoted the famous maxim, "the outside of a horse for the inside of a man." "But what about a woman?" asked F. "Oh," answered Puss, "the outside of a horse for the inside of a woman and the outside as well, for in no other position can a woman ever possibly look so captivating as on a horse. Girls who ride in the park have double chances." A voice from the front--"You are right." Our Pard there admits that he had no idea of falling in love with Annie until he saw her on horseback; and when he had ridden with her a few times he was conquered. A woman looks her loveliest on horseback. "That is not Mrs. Parr's opinion," rejoined a young lady on the front seat. "I think it is in her splendid 'Dorothy Fox' she says that a woman never shows so clearly the angel of beauty which dwells in a good woman's heart as when she murmurs her yes to her lover." "Oh, that's not fair," came from the back row. "That's too short, only a moment; and besides only one man sees it. That doesn't count. We mean that a woman shows off better on horseback than anywhere else." "Oh!" said the cynic, "is that it, Miss? Nothing counts without the showing off, _eh_!" And so we rattled on interrupted at intervals by exclamations called forth by England's unique beauty. Can any one picture a resting-place so full of peace and beauty as the old Izaak Walton Inn? We arrived there in the twilight, and some of us walked down the long hill and got our first sight of the Dove from the bridge at the foot across the stream. I got the memorable verses near enough from memory to repeat them on the bridge. Let me put them down here, for in truth, simple as they are, who is going to predict the coming of the day when they will cease to be prized as one of the gems of literature? "She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. "A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye; Fair as a star when only one Is shining in the sky. "She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!" But think of dear old Izaak and of his fishing excursions to this very spot. He actually stayed at our inn! He too is secure of his position as the author of a classic for as long a time as we care to look forward to. Is it not strange that no one has ever imitated this man's unique style? "God leads us not to heaven by many nor by hard questions," says the fisherman, and he knew a thing or two. There is a flavor about him peculiarly his own, but especially rich when read in this old inn, sacred to his memory. I enjoyed him with a fresh relish during the few hours of Sunday which I could devote to him, for there is a good sermon in many a sentence of the "Complete Angler." Dear old boy, your place in my library and in my heart too is secure. [Sidenote: _Ilam Hall._] Ilam Hall, near the inn, is the great place, and there is a pretty little church within a stone's throw of it. We walked over on Sunday morning and saw the squire come into church with his family and take his seat among his people, for I take it most of the congregation were connected with the hall. The parson, no doubt, was the appointee of the squire, and we tried to estimate the importance of these two men in the district, their duties and influence--both great--for to a large extent the moral as well as the material well-being of a community in rural England depends upon the character of the hall and parsonage. The squire was Mr. Hanbury, M.P., who courteously invited our party to visit the hall after service, and to stroll as we pleased through his grounds. He had been in America, and knew our erratic genius and brother iron-master Abram S. Hewitt. In the evening we received from him some fine photographs of the hall (a truly noble one), which we prize highly. The accompanying note was even more gratifying, for it said that he had been so warmly received in America that it was always a pleasure when opportunity offered to show Americans such attentions as might be in his power. It is ever thus, cold indifference between the two English-speaking branches is found only among the stay-at-homes. The man who knows from personal experience the leading characteristics of the people upon both sides of the ferry is invariably a warm and sincere friend. The two peoples have only to become acquainted to become enthusiastic over each other's rare qualities. This is a sheep-grazing district, quite hilly, and the rainfall is much beyond the average; but the weather question troubles us little; the Charioteers carry sunshine within and without. Our afternoon walk was along the Dove, which we followed up the glen between the hills for several miles, finding new beauties at every turn. Mr. H. has the stream on his estate reserved for five miles for his own fishing, but our landlord said he was very generous and always gave a gentleman a day's sport when properly applied for. We were offered free range by Mr. H., a privilege which Davie and I hold in reserve for a future day, that we may most successfully conjure the shade of our congenial brother of the angle; "for you are to note," saith he, "that we anglers all love one another." We at least all love Izaak Walton, "an excellent angler and now with God." Reading the ingenious defence of fishing by our author, "an honest man and a most excellent fly-fisher," is not waste time in these days of violent anti-vivisectionists, who have seen poor hares chased down for sport all their lives, and their Prince shoot pigeons from a trap without a protest, but who affect to feel pity for a cat sacrificed upon the holy altar of science. Miserable hypocrites, who swallow so large a camel and strain at so very small a gnat! It shows what demoralization is brought about in good people by rank and fashion; one rule for the Prince who disgraces himself by cruel sports, another for the medical student who exalts himself working for the good of his race. [Sidenote: _Izaak Walton._] But to quaint Izaak's defence; and first as to the fish themselves. "Nay, the increase of these creatures that are bred and fed in water is not only more and more miraculous, but more advantageous to man, not only for the lengthening of his life, but for the preventing of sickness; for 'tis observed by the most learned physicians that the casting off of Lent and other fish days hath doubtless been the chief cause of those many putrid, shaking, intermitting agues into which this nation of ours is now more subject than those wiser countries which feed on herbs, salads, and plenty of fish. And it is fit to remember that Moses (Levit. 11: 9; Deut. 14: 9) appointed fish to be the chief diet for the best commonwealth that ever yet was; and it is observable not only that there are fish, as namely the whale, three times as big as the mighty elephant that is so fierce in battle, but that the mightiest feasts have been of fish." Is not that capital? It calls to mind Josh Billings' answer to his correspondent who wrote saying that he had heard many times that a fish diet was most favorable for increase of brain power, but he had never been able to find out the best kind of fish for the purpose. Could he inform him? "In your case," replied Josh, "try a whale or two." [Sidenote: _Fishing._] Here is Izaak's argument for the lawfulness of fishing: "And for the lawfulness of fishing it may very well be maintained by our Saviour's bidding St. Peter cast his hook into the water and catch a fish for money to pay tribute to Cæsar. And it is observable that it was our Saviour's will that four fishermen should have a priority of nomination in the catalogue of his twelve disciples (Matt. 10: 2, 4, 13), as namely: St. Peter, St. Andrew, St. James, and St. John, and then the rest in their order. And it is yet more observable that when our blessed Saviour went up into the mount when he left the rest of his disciples and chose only three to bear him company at his transfiguration, that those three were all fishermen; and it is to be believed that all the other apostles after they betook themselves to follow Christ, betook themselves to be fishermen too: for it is certain that the greater number of them were found together fishing by Jesus after his resurrection, as it is recorded in the 21st chapter of St. John's Gospel, v. 3, 4. This was the employment of these happy fishermen, concerning which choice some have made these observations: first that he never reproved these for their employment or calling as he did the scribes and the money-changers; and secondly, he found that the hearts of such men were fitted for contemplation and quietness, men of mild, and sweet, and peaceable spirits, as indeed most anglers are; these men our blessed Saviour, who is observed to love to plant grace in good natures, though indeed nothing be too hard for him, yet these men he chose to call from their irreprovable employment of fishing and gave them grace to be his disciples and to follow him and do wonders. I say four of twelve." There I think we may safely rest the defence of our favorite sport, especially upon secondly; for it is all very well to say animals must be slain that we may live, and yet it does not give one a high idea of the fineness of the man who chooses the occupation of a butcher, and is happiest when he is killing something. Blood! Iago, blood! For my part, while recognizing the necessity that the sheep should bleat for the lamb slain that I may feast, I don't profess to see that the arrangement is anything to rave over as an illustration of the wisdom or the goodness of God. Let us eat, asking no questions, but trusting that some day we shall see clearly that all is well. Meanwhile I give up coursing, fox hunting, and pigeon shooting as unworthy sports, and never again will I kill a deer in sport. I once saw the mild, reproachful eyes of one turned upon me as it lay, wounded, as much as to say: "I am so sorry it was _you_ who did this." So was I, poor innocent thing. It is years since I saw that look, but it haunts me yet at intervals. It is one of the many things I have done for which I am ever sorry. Too much fishing! It is no use to try to give you the good things of Izaak Walton, for it is with him as with Shakespeare. Two volumes of his "beauties" handed to gentle Elia. "This is all very well, my friend, but where are the other five volumes?" We must get out of Dovedale--that is clear. _Allons donc!_ Our stage to-day was to Chatsworth, twenty-four miles, where our Fourth of July dinner was to be celebrated. As we passed Ilam Hall we stopped, sounded our horn, and gave three cheers for the squire who had been so kind to his "American cousins." Our luncheon was beside the pretty brook at Youlgreaves, on the estate of the Duke of Rutland, and a beautiful trout-stream it is. We could see the speckled beauties darting about, and were quite prepared to believe the wonderful stories told us of the basketfuls taken there sometimes. There is something infectious in a running stream. It is the prettiest thing in nature. Nothing adds so much to our midday enjoyment as one of these babbling brooks, "Making music o'er the enamelled stones, And giving a gentle kiss to every sedge It overtaketh in its pilgrimage." If there be "sermons in stones," I think it must be when the pure water sings as it rushes over them. [Sidenote: _The Burnie._] The Charioteers demanded that I should repeat "The Burnie," a gem by a true poet, Ballantyne. Would you, my gentle reader, like also to know it? I think you would, for such as have followed me so far must have something akin to me and surely will sometimes like what I like, and I like this much: "It drappit frae a gray rock upon a mossy stane, An doon amang the green grass it wandered lang alane. It passed the broomie knowe beyond the hunter's hill; It pleased the miller's bairns an it ca'd their faether's mill. "But soon anither bed it had, where the rocks met aboon, And for a time the burnie saw neither sun nor moon. But the licht o' heaven cam' again, its banks grew green and fair, And many a bonnie flower in its season blossomed there; "And ither burnies joined till its rippling song was o'er, For the burn became a river ere it reached the ocean's shore. And the wild waves rose to greet it wi' their ain eerie croon. Working their appointed wark and never, never done. "Nae sad repinings at the hardness o' their lot, Nae heart-burnings at what anither got; The good or ill, the licht or shade, they took as it might be, Sae onward ran the burnie frae the gray rock to the sea." There's a moral for us! There is always peace at the end if we do our appointed work and leave the result with the Unknown. Let us, then, follow Mrs. Browning, "And like a cheerful traveller, take the road, Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints?--At least it may be said, 'Because the way is short, I thank thee, God!'" And so at the sea the burnie's race was run and it found peace. Immensity gives peace always. It is so vain to strive in the presence of the ocean, for it tells of forces irresistible. It obeys its own laws, caring for nought: "Libel the ocean on its tawny sands, write verses In its praise; the unmoved sea erases both alike. Alas for man! unless his fellows can behold his deeds, He cares not to be great." Not so. O poet, when man stands on the shore and _thinks_, for then he feels his nothingness, and the applause of his fellows is valued as so much noise merely, except as it serves as proof that he has stirred them for the right. This state lasts unless he lifts his eyes to the skies above the waste, and renews his vows to the Goddess of Duty. He learns, not in the depths nor on the level of ocean's surface, but from higher and beyond--that life is worth living, then he takes up his task and goes on, saying "And whether crowned or crownless when I fall It matters not, so as God's work is done. I've learned to prize the quiet lightning deed-- Not the applauding thunder at its heels Which men call fame." [Sidenote: _Daft Callants._] The Queen Dowager and Aggie were off to paidle in the burn after luncheon, and as a fitting close they kilted their petticoats and danced a highland reel on the greensward, in sight of the company, but at some distance from us. They were just wee lassies again, and to be a wee lassie at seventy-one is a triumph indeed; but, as the Queen Dowager says, that is nothing. She intends to be as daft for many years to come, for my grandfather was far older when he alarmed the auld wives of the village on Halloween night, sticking his false face through the windows. "Oh!" said one, recovering from her fright, "it is just that daft callant, Andrew Carnegie!" I remember one day, in Dunfermline, an old man in the nineties--a picture of withered eld, a few straight, glistening white hairs on each side of his head, and his nose and chin threatening each other--tottered across the room to where I was sitting, and laying his long, skinny hand upon my head, murmured: "An' ye're a gran'son o' Andrew Carnegie's! Aye, maan, I've seen the day when your grandfaether an' me could have hallooed ony reasonable maan oot o' his judgment." I hope to be a daft callant at seventy-one--as daft as we all were that day. Indeed, we were all daft enough while coaching, but the Queen Dowager really ought to have been restrained a little. She went beyond all bounds, but life is an undoubted success if you can laugh till the end of it. Let me try to give an idea how this blessed England is crowded. Here is a signboard we stopped at to-day, to make sure we were taking the right way; for, even with the Ordnance map upon one's knee, strict attention is required or you will be liable to take the wrong turn. A voice from the General Manager: "Perry, stop at the post and let us be sure." "Right, sir." The post points four ways, east, west, north, and south. First arm reads as follows: Tissington, 3; Matlock Bath, 10; Chesterfield, 21. Second arm: Ashbourne, 3; Derby, 16; Kissington, 19. Third arm: Dovedale, Okedon, Ilam. Fourth arm: New Haven, 6; Buxton, 17; Bakewell, 13; Chatsworth, 16. All this the guide-post said at one turn, and fortunate it was that Chatsworth, our destination, happened to be upon the fourth arm, for had the worthy road-surveyors not deemed it necessary to extend their information beyond Bakewell, you see we might as well have consulted the Book of Days. [Sidenote: _Tissington Hall._] The entrance to Tissington estate was near the post, and we were very kindly permitted to drive through, which it was said would save several miles and give us a view of another English hall. We managed, however, to take a wrong turn somewhere, and added some eight miles to our journey; so much the better--the longer the route the happier we were. Every English hall seems to have some special features in which it surpasses all others. This is as it should be, for it permits every fortunate owner to love his home for acknowledged merits of its own. If one has the nobler terrace, another boasts a finer lawn; and if one has woods and a rookery, has not the other the winding Nith through its borders? One cannot have the best of everything, even upon an English estate; neither can one life have the best possible of everything, "For every blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew." Let us, then, be thankful for our special mercies, and may all our ducks be swans, as friend Edward says mine are. Have you never had your friend praise his wife to you in moments of confidence, when you have been fishing for a week together? You wonder for a few moments, as you recall the Betsey or Susan he extols; for, if the truth is to be spoken, you have, as it were, shed tears for him when you thought of his yoke. Well, that is the true way: let him make her a swan, even if she is not much of a duck. We stopped at Rowsley for Miss F., who was to come there by rail from Elmhurst Hall. She brought the London _Times_, which gave us the first news of the terrible catastrophe in Washington. We would not believe that the shot was to prove fatal. It did not seem possible that President Garfield's career was to end in such a way; but, do what we could, the great fear would not down, and we reached Chatsworth much depressed. Our Fourth of July was a sad one, and the intended celebration was given up. Fortunately, the news became more encouraging day after day, so much so that the coaching party ventured to telegraph its congratulations through Secretary Blaine, and it was not until we reached New York that we knew that a relapse had occurred. The cloud which came over us, therefore, had its silver lining in the promise of recovery and a return to greater usefulness than ever. We stopped to visit Haddon Hall upon our way to Chatsworth, but here we come upon tourists' ground. Every one does the sights of the neighborhood, and readers are therefore respectfully referred to the guide-books. We had our first dusty ride to-day, for we are upon limestone roads, but the discomfort was only trifling; the weather, however, was really warm, and our umbrellas were brought into use as sunshades. Haddon Hall is a fine specimen of the old hall, and Chatsworth of the new, except that the latter partakes far too much of the show feature. It is no doubt amazing to the crowds of Manchester and Birmingham workers who flock here for a holiday and who have seen nothing finer, but to us who have seen the older gems of England, Chatsworth seems much too modern, for our fastidious tastes. I speak only of the interior, of course, for the house itself and its surroundings are grand; so is the statuary in the noble hall set apart for it--really the best feature in the house. * * * * * EDENSOR, July 4. [Sidenote: _Edensor._] Edensor is the model village which the Duke of Devonshire has built adjoining the park--a very appropriate and pretty name, for it is perhaps the finest made-to-order village in England. Every cottage is surrounded by pretty grounds and is built with an eye to picturesqueness. It is entered by a handsome lodge from the park, and the road at its upper end is also closed by gates. The church, erected in 1870 from designs of Gilbert Scott, occupies the site of an older one. Opening from the south side of the chancel is a mortuary chapel containing monuments of the Cavendish family. In the churchyard is the monument of Sir Joseph Paxton, builder of the Crystal Palace, who was formerly head gardener at Chatsworth. One or two epitaphs in the churchyard are worth noting. The following is dated 1787: "I was like grass, cut down in haste, For fear too long should grow; I hope made fit in heaven to sit, So why should I not go!" To be sure, why not? But is there not a little ambiguity in the "too long should grow?" The next one, dated 1818, seems to commemorate the decease of a plough-boy who was rash enough to leave his proper vocation for another--a sad illustration of _ne sutor ultra crepidam_. "When he that day with th' waggon went, He little thought his glass was spent; But had he kept his Plough in Hand, He might have longer till'd the Land." [Sidenote: _A Modern Phaethon._] One could not expect that the moral inculcated here would find favor with our Americans. How could the Mighty Republic ever have been brought to its present height and embraced the majority of all English-speaking people in the world, if her sons had not been ambitious and changed from one occupation to another? "Stick to your last" is only fit for monarchical countries, where people believe in classes. This young man was of the right sort and should have a verse of praise on his tombstone instead of this one which reflects upon him. One of the party declared that the man must have been the best workman on the place, and that in America he would soon have owned the acres he ploughed instead of ploughing here for some landlord who spent the resources of the land in London or on the continent. The poetess of the party was commissioned to provide a substitute for the obnoxious verse which should applaud the act of this modern Phaethon who _would_ try to drive the wagon, after he had learned all he could about ploughing. We were driving homeward, and as the discussion ended in the manner aforesaid, a sweet voice broke forth: "I winna hae the laddie that drives the cart and ploo, Although he may be tender, although he may be true; But I'll hae the laddie that has my heart betrayed, The bonnie shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid." The Charioteers gave it the swelling chorus: "For he's aye true to his lassie, Aye true to his lassie. Aye true to me." Who knows but the refusal of some rural beauty like her of the song to have the laddie that "ca'd the ploo" may have stirred our unfortunate youth to a change of occupation? The "sex" is at the bottom of most of man's misfortunes (and blessings too, let it be noted) and why not of this lamentable end of the would-be wagoner! The day was so warm, and our next stage to Buxton being not very long (twenty-six miles), we decided to spend the day at Edensor and take an evening drive. We met here, enjoying their honeymoon, a bride and groom who were well known to our Wolverhampton delegation, and how do you suppose they were travelling? Not in the ordinary mode, I assure you. I mention this incident that some of my charming young lady friends, who give me so much pleasure riding with me, may make a note of it. They were doing beautiful Derbyshire on horseback! It was delightful to see them start off in this way. I became interested in the bride, who must be no ordinary woman to think of this plan; she told me it was proving a wonderful success; and the happy young fellow intimated to me, in a kind of confidential way, that her novel idea was the finest one he had ever been a party to. I asked him if he could honestly recommend it, and he boldly said he could. We must think over this. The evening ride was one of our pleasantest experiences. How entrancing England is after a warm day, when everything seems to rejoice in the hours of peace, succeeding the sunshine which forces growth! "When the heart-sick earth Turns her broad back upon the gaudy sun, And stoops her weary forehead to the night To struggle with her sorrow all alone, The moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain, Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow Till she is calm." [Sidenote: _Buxton._] It is thus the earth appeared to me as we drove along; it was resting after its labors of the sunny day. The night was spent at Buxton, that famous spa, which has been the resort of health-seekers for more than a thousand years, for it was well known to the Romans and probably to their predecessors. We saw many invalids there drinking the waters, which are chiefly chalybeate; but I take it, as is usual with such places, the change of air and scene, of thought and effort, and, with most, change of diet and freedom from excess, count for ninety-nine points, and the waters, may be, for one. But it is of no consequence what does it, so it is done, therefore Buxton continues to flourish. How wise a physician was he who cured the Great Mogul when all other remedies had failed! The miraculous Tree of Life was upon a mountain five miles from the palace, and had to be visited daily, in the early morning, by the sufferer, who was required to repeat an incantation under its boughs. The words literally translated were no doubt something like this: "Pray away, you old fool! but it's the walk that does it." You need not laugh. This put into such Latin as the schools delight in might be made to sound frightful to the Mogul "and scare him good," as the negro exhorters deem to be essential for spiritual recovery. Our hotel was a magnificent "limited company" affair. The start next morning was a sight, in the first real downpour in dead earnest we had experienced. The sky was dark--not one tiny ray of light to give us the slightest hope of change; the barometer low and still falling. Just such a morning as might have begun the flood. Clearly we were in for it; nevertheless, at the appointed hour the Gay Charioteers, arrayed in their waterproofs, with the good hats and bonnets all inside the coach, passed through the crowds of guests who lined the hall, wondering at these mad Americans, and took their accustomed seats with an alacrity that showed they considered the weather "perfectly lovely." There are two miles of steep ascent as we leave the town, and a few of us decided to walk, two of the ladies among the number. Those who started upon the coach were all right; the pedestrians, however, found themselves far from dry when the top was reached--feet and knees were wet. By noon the rain had ceased, and we stopped at a little inn, where fires were made, our "reserve" clothing brought into use, and our wet clothes dried, and we were as happy as larks when we sat down to luncheon. Is not that a wise test which Thackeray puts into the mouth of one of his waiters: "Oh, I knew he was a gentleman, he was so easily pleased!" Well, our host and hostess at that little inn, who were taken so by surprise when a four-in-hand stopped at the door, said something like this about the American ladies and gentlemen as they left. Why not? Nothing comes amiss to the Gay Charioteers, and so on we go to Manchester, getting once more into the grim, smoky regions of manufacturing enterprise. * * * * * MANCHESTER, July 6. [Sidenote: _Manchester._] Mine host of The Queen's takes the prize for the one best "swell" dinner enjoyed by the party; but then the rain and the moderate luncheon at the little inn, so different from the picnics on flowery banks, may have given it a relish. The Queen's was evidently determined that its American guests should leave with a favorable impression, and so they did. There was time to visit the Town Hall and walk the principal streets, but all felt an invincible repugnance to large towns. It was not these we had come to see. Let us get away as soon as possible, and out once more to the green fields; we have cotton-mills and warehouses and dirty, smoky manufactories enough and to spare at home. The morning was cloudy, but the rain held off, and we left the hotel amid a great crowd. The police had at last to step in front of the coach and clear the way. The newspapers had announced our arrival and intended departure, and this brought the crowd upon us. Getting into and out of large cities is the most difficult part of our driving, for the Ordnance map is useless there--frequent stoppages and inquiries must be made; but so far we have been fortunate, and our horn keeps opposing vehicles out of our way in narrow streets and in turning corners. We were bound for Anderton Hall, to spend the night with our friend Mr. B----. Luncheon was taken in a queer, old-fashioned inn, where we ate from bare deal tables, and drank home-brewed ale while we sang: "Let gentlemen fine sit down to their wine, But we will stick to our beer, we will, For we will stick to our beer." The number and variety of temperance drinks advertised in England is incredible. Non-alcoholic beverages meet us in flaming advertisements at every step--from nervous tonics, phosphated, down to the most startling of all, which, according to the London _Echo_ of June 2d, the Bishop of Exeter advertised when he opened a coffee-house, saying: "It looks like beer, It smells like beer, It tastes like beer, Yet it is not beer." Better if it had been, your reverence, for your new beverage was probably a villanous compound, certain to work more injury than genuine beer. In this country we also try to cheat the devil. I mean our unco good people try it; but we call it "bitters," and the worse the whiskey the better the bitters. * * * * * CHORLEY, July 7. [Sidenote: _Anderton Hall._] As we approached Anderton Hall the English and American flags were seen floating from the archway, earnest of cordial welcome. We were quite at home immediately. Mr. and Mrs. B---- had their family and friends ready to greet us. The dining-hall was decorated with the flags of the old and the new lands, gracefully intertwined, symbolizing the close and warm friendship which exists between them--never, we hope, to be again disturbed. We had a long walk about the place and on the banks of the famous Rivington Reservoir, which supplies Manchester with water. In the evening, after dinner, came speeches. The evening passed delightfully. Next day we were sorely tempted. Mr. M---- was to have the school-children at his house to be entertained, and an opportunity to see a novel celebration was afforded us. Our host and hostess were pressing in their invitation for us to stay, but one night of fourteen guests, two servants, and four horses, was surely enough; so we blew our horn, and, with three ringing cheers for Anderton Hall and all within it, drove out of its hospitable gates. We stopped and paid our respects to Mr. and Mrs. M---- as we passed their place, and left them all with very sincere regret. How pleasant it would be to linger! but Inverness lies far in the north. We are scarcely one-third of our way thither and the time-table stares us in the face. We do not quite "fold our tents like the Arabs and silently steal away," but at the thrilling call of the horn we mount, and with cheers and God-speeds take our departure for other scenes, but many a long day shall it be ere the faces of the kind people we leave behind fade from our memory. Chorley has been one of the seats of the cotton manufacture in England for more than two hundred years, the business having been begun there about the time of the Restoration. During the American Revolution it was visited, like other places in Lancashire, by mobs who broke up the spinning machines because they feared that they would deprive the poor of labor. Similar mobs once destroyed sewing-machines in France. What a commentary upon such short-sightedness has been the success of the spinning-jenny and the sewing-machine, and the revolution they have made in the manufacturing industry of the world! * * * * * PRESTON, July 8. [Sidenote: _Strolling Players._] Preston, sixteen miles away, is our destination, permitting a late start to be made. Our route is still through a manufacturing district; for Manchester reaches her arms far out in every direction. We pass now and then a company of show-people with their vans. Sometimes we find the caravan at rest, the old, weary-looking horses nibbling the road-side grass, for the irregularity of the hedges in England gives fine little plots of grass along the hedge-rows, and nice offsets, as it were, in the road, where these strolling players, and gypsies, pedlers, and itinerant venders of all sorts of queer things, can call a halt and enjoy themselves. Every van appears to be invested with an air of mystery, for was not our Shakespeare, "Th' applause, delight, the wonder of our stage," a strolling player, playing his part in barns and outhouses to wondering rustics? There are such possibilities in every van that I greet the sweet little child as if she were a princess in disguise, and the dark-eyed, foreign-looking boy as if he might have within him the soul of Buddha. I do not believe that any other form of life has the attractions of this nomadic existence. To make it perfect one should put away enough in the funds as a reserve to be drawn upon when he could not make the pittance necessary to feed and clothe him and buy a few old copies of good books as he passed through a village. The rule might be, only when hungry shall this pocket-book be opened. I should have one other contingency in order to be perfectly happy--when I wanted to help a companion in distress. Elia was truly not very far from it when he said that if he were not the independent gentleman he was he would be a beggar. So, if I were not the independent gentleman I am, I would be a member of a strolling band, such as we often pass in this crowded land, and boast that Shakespeare was of our profession. What are the Charioteers, after all, in their happiest dream, but aristocratic gypsies? That is the reason we are so enraptured with the life. But in Preston there is no scope for idealism. It is a city where cotton is king. No town can be much less attractive; but, mark you, a few steps toward the river and you overlook one of the prettiest parks in the world. The Ribble runs at the foot of the sloping hill upon which the city stands, and its banks have been converted into the pleasure-ground I speak of, in which the toilers sport in thousands and gaze upon the sweet fields of living green beyond far into the country. It is not so bad when the entire district is not given over to manufactures, as in Birmingham and Manchester. There is the cloud, but there is the silver lining also. If ever the people of England and America are estranged in some future day, which God forbid, I could wish that every American were duly informed of the conduct of the people of Lancashire during the rebellion, and, indeed, of England, Ireland, and Scotland as well, but more particularly of such as were directly dependent upon the supply of cotton for work, as was the case here. The troops of Pennsylvania did not more truly fight the battle of the Union at Gettysburg, than did the thousands of men and women here under the lead of Bright and Cobden, Potter, Forster, Storey, and others, who held the enemies of Republicanism in check. The sacrifices they bore could never have been borne except for a cause which they felt to be their own and held as sacred. The ruling classes of the land were naturally against the Republic. This we must always expect till the day comes in Britain (and it is coming) when all forms of hereditary privilege are swept away and the people are equal politically one with another. Nothing could possibly please the aristocracy of Britain, or any aristocracy, more than the failure of a nation which ignores aristocracy altogether. That is obvious. Human nature would not be what it is were this not so, and they are not blamable for it, but, resisting every temptation, the working men of Britain--those to whom a Republic promises so much, for it gives all men political equality--these stood firm from first to last, the staunch and unflinching friends of the Republic. Some day, perhaps, it may be in the power of America to show that where the interests of the masses of Britain are concerned, she has not forgotten the deep debt she owes to them; no matter what the provocation, the people of America must remember it is their turn to forbear for the sake, not of the ruling classes, but for the sake of the masses of Britain who were and are her devoted friends. [Sidenote: _Preston._] Preston, that is, Priest's Town, for it received its name from the many ecclesiastics resident there as early as the eighth century, was once the principal port of Lancashire; and when Charles I. collected ship-money it was assessed for nearly twice the amount of Liverpool. This was the Charles of whom Lincoln knew so little. Mr. Blaine tells this good story among a hundred, for he is wonderful in this line: When Lincoln and Seward went to Fortress Monroe to meet Mr. Hunter, who represented the Confederate Government, the latter was exceedingly anxious to get the President to promise that if the rebels would lay down their arms no confiscation of property (slaves, of course, included) should follow, and that no man should be punished for taking part in the rebellion. Mr. Hunter concluded by saying that this would only be following the course pursued in England after the contest with King Charles. "Well, Mr. Hunter," said that sagacious and born leader of men, Father Abraham, "my friend Seward here is the historian of my Cabinet, but the only thing I remember about King Charles is _that Cromwell cut his head off_!" Lincoln did not know very much, you see, but then he knew the only part much worth knowing upon the subject, which is one of the differences between a great man and a learned one. It was at this celebrated interview that Lincoln took up a blank sheet of writing-paper and said to the Confederates, let me write _Emancipation_ here at the top and you can fill the rest of the page with your conditions. Lincoln seized the key of a political position as Napoleon did of a military one, and never relaxed his grasp. He would tell stories all night and make his auditors shout with laughter, but whenever the real business was touched upon, he made his opponents feel that the natural division was that the buzzard should fall to them while his long bony fingers were already fast upon the turkey. He could afford to joke and be patient, for he saw the end from the beginning, and had faith in the Republic. [Sidenote: _Richelieu and Cromwell._] See what the whirligig of time brings round. Near Preston, in the valley of the Ribble, was fought in 1648 the battle of Preston or Ribblesdale, in which Cromwell defeated the Scotch army under the Duke of Hamilton, and the English army under Sir Marmaduke Langdale. The Royalists were driven at the point of the bayonet through the streets of Preston, and, though they made a stand at Uttoxeter, were finally overthrown and both generals and many thousand men made prisoners. It was a notable struggle, for the Royalists had more than twice as many men as the Parliamentarians; but then the latter had the great Oliver, who knew how and when to strike a blow. Booth may not be great in anything, as some think, but I do not know his equal in "Richelieu;" and in one scene in particular he has always seemed to me at his very best. The king sits with his new minister, Baradas, in attendance at his side. Richelieu reclines upon a sofa exhausted while his secretaries "deliver up the papers of a realm." A secretary is on his knee presenting papers. He says: "The affairs of England, Sire, most urgent. Charles The First has lost a battle that decides One half his realm--craves moneys, Sire, and succor. KING. He shall have both. Eh, Baradas? BARADAS. Yes, Sire. RICHELIEU. (_Feebly, but with great distinctness._) My liege-- Forgive me--Charles's cause is lost. A man, Named Cromwell, risen--_a great man_--" That is enough, a great man _settles_ things; a small one nibbles away at petty reforms, although he knows nothing is settled thereby, and that the question is only pushed ahead for the time to break out again directly. English politicians are mostly nibblers, though Gladstone can take a good bite when put to it. Will you lay "violent hands upon the Lord's anointed?" "I'll anoint ye!" says Cromwell, and then, I take it, was settled for the future the "divine right of kings" theory; for since that time these curious appendages of a free state have been kept for show, and we hear nothing more of the "divinity which doth hedge a king." Some one of the party remarked that we had not seen a statue or even a picture of England's great Protector. I told them a wise man once said that the reason Cromwell's statue was not put among those of the other rulers of England at Westminster was because he would dwarf them. But his day is coming. We shall have him there in his proper place by and by, and how small hereditary rulers will seem beside him! [Sidenote: _Cromwell at Drury Lane._] We noticed in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ a curious proof of Cromwell's place in the hearts of the people of England. The pantomime at Drury Lane had a scene in which all the Kings and Queens of England marched across the stage in gorgeous procession. Each was greeted with cheers or hisses or with more or less cordial greeting as the audience thought deserved. When Cromwell appeared in the line a few hisses were answered by round after round of cheering, and the Lord Protector nightly received a popular ovation far beyond that accorded to any other ruler. That the manager of the leading theatre in London should have thought it admissible to introduce the Republican among the Kings is a straw which shows a healthy breeze blowing in the political currents of English life. He was truly a host in himself; besides, his men were fighting for something better than had been, the others only for maintaining what had before existed. It is this which drives Conservatives to the wall when radicalism moves in earnest upon them. The aspirations of the race for further and higher development nerve the arm which strikes down the barriers of an ignorant past. Who could battle enthusiastically only for such incomplete and unsatisfactory development as we have already reached and pronounce it good! The prize is not worth it. What the race is capable of achieving in the broad future is the mainspring of our assault upon every abuse or privilege, the heritage of the past which disgraces the present. At Preston many of us received letters from home. Harry's funny one from his little daughter Emma (a namesake of our Emma of the Charioteers) gave us a good laugh. I remember there was one announcement particularly noteworthy: "Ninety dollars gone to smash, papa. The pony's dead." There is your future special correspondent for you. At eleven o'clock this evening the party received a notable addition--Andrew M., my old schoolfellow and "the Maester's son," arrived from Dunfermline. He was received at the station by a committee especially appointed for the purpose, and shortly thereafter duly initiated into all the rites and mysteries of the Gay Charioteers. He was required, late as it was, to sing two Scotch songs to determine his eligibility. There may be some man who can sing "Oh! why left I my hame?"--my favorite at present, and written by Gilfillan in Dunfermline, note that--or "When the kye come hame," better than our new member, but none of us has been so fortunate as to meet him, nor have I ever heard one who could sing them as well for me; but there may be a touch of Auld Lang Syne in his voice which strikes chords in my heart and sets them vibrating. There are subtle sympathies lurking in the core of man's nature, responsive to no law but their own, but I notice all press Andrew to sing, and keep very quiet when he does. We had the pleasure of seeing the new member get just as daft as the rest of us next day, gathering wild flowers along the hedgerows, the glittering, towering coach coming up to us. He had time to say: "Man, this canna be _vera_ bad for us!" No, not very; only we did not know then how bad it would be for us when, after the dream-like existence had passed and we were back once more to our labors of this work-a-day world, thrown out as it were from a paradise and falling as Milton's Satan fell; but it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Fortunately we did not know then that for months after our fall there were to be only sad memories of days of happiness so unalloyed that they can never again be equalled. It is not at all desirable to be honestly persuaded that you never again can have seven weeks of such days as made us happy, innocent children; but we shall see. There are as good fish in the sea as were ever caught, and though it is true they do not seem to bite as they used to, may be we can venture to try coaching again. The height of our musical season was during this part of the journey. Miss R., Miss J., and Mrs. K. are all musical and blessed with the power of song. Messrs. M., McC. and K. differ only as one star differs from another in glory; and there was another gentleman, who shall be nameless, who sang without being asked, and who, as usual, was not encored by his unappreciative audience, his being evidently the music of the future. [Sidenote: _Scotch Songs._] Davie deserves notice. He sang a beautiful Scotch song to-day, "Cowden Knowes," and when he was done Andrew immediately asked: "Whaur did ye get that? Ye didna get that out of a book!" Right, my boy. It was at his father's knee. Who ever learnt a Scotch song out of books? They are possessed of souls, these songs, to be caught only from living lips. The bodies alone are to be found within the bars. Passing Bolton we saw the first bowling green, sure proof that we are getting northward, where every village has its green and its bowling club, the ancient game of bowls still offering to rural England attractions paramount to more modern sports. We lunched at Grisdalebrook, ten miles from Lancaster, which was to be our stopping-place. To-day's drive was made fragrant by the scent of new-mown hay, and we passed many bands of merry haymakers. When Dickens pronounced no smell the best smell, he must have momentarily forgotten that which so delighted us. I do give up most of the so-called fine smells, but there are a few better than Dickens's best, and surely that of to-day is of them. We went into a Catholic church in one of our strolls--for let it be remembered many a glorious tramp we had--and the coach was rarely honored with all the party when a chance to walk presented itself. The requests posted upon the door of this church seemed to carry one back a long way: "Of your charity pray for the soul of Rebecca Robinson, who died June 7th, 1880, fortified with rites of Holy Church, on whose soul sweet Jesus have mercy. R. I. P." There were several such requests. What a power that church has been and is, only one who has travelled the world round can know. In England here it is but a sickly, foreign plant, so fearfully foreign. We can all repeat Buddha's words and apply them to it, but they should not stop here: "And third came she who gives dark creeds their power, Sîlabbat-paramâsa, sorceress, Draped fair in many lands as lowly Faith, But ever juggling souls with rites and prayers; The keeper of those keys which lock up Hells And open Heavens. 'Wilt thou dare?' she said, 'Put by our sacred books, dethrone our gods, Unpeople all the temples, shaking down That law which feeds the priests and props the realm?' But Buddha answered, 'What thou bidd'st me keep Is form which passes, but the free truth stands; Get thee unto thy darkness.'" [Sidenote: _The Roman Church._] Say what we will about the Roman Church, there is something sublime in her attitude. Neither sense nor reason make the slightest impression upon her; for she stands confident in her power and her right to save, denying the power to others, regardless of the conclusions of science and the fuller knowledge of to-day. This gives her the hold she obtains among the ignorant masses, whether at home or abroad. The world-wide influence of this faith can never be rightly estimated until one has visited the missions throughout India, China, and Japan. The converts are generally to the Catholic church. To-day on the coach in speaking of this, I told an inquirer that in my opinion one, if not the chief, obstacle to the success of missions to the heathen, lies in the differences between the Christian sects, and I illustrated it by a story: One day in China I asked our guide Ah Cum, a gentleman and a scholar, and a man of excellent mind, why he did not embrace Christianity. His eyes twinkled as he replied: "Where goee, eh? Goee Bishopee? (pointing to the Cathedral). He say, allee rightee. Go there? (pointing to the English church). Bishop say damme! Goee Hopper? (the American Presbyterian Missionary). He sayee Bishop churchee no goodee--hellee firee. What I do'ee? eh!" "Stay where you are, you rogue." Confound the fellow! I did not expect to be picked up in that manner. Ah Cum was severely let alone after that upon the subject of his conversion. I have no hope of him until we agree among ourselves exactly what we wish the heathen to accept. It is in vain we preach one God and five different religions; there must be only one true religion as well. Ah Cum's defence of the worship of ancestors was clever. It ran thus: All religions acknowledge the Creator of life as the true object of worship. Taking hold of his watch chain he began at the first link and said: "I worshipee my parents (passing one link), my parents worshipee their parents" (passing another link, and so on till he had passed quite a number); "by by come to firstee, lifee Goddee. You jump up sky all oncee, miss him, may be." He thought he had a sure thing passing up link by link to the end. We need clever missionaries to hold their own with these Celestials. * * * * * LANCASTER, July 9, 10. [Sidenote: _Lancaster._] We had done our twenty-nine miles from Preston and reached Lancaster in good season. There we had a treat. The High Sheriff for the county had just been elected and made his entry into town according to immemorial custom. He represents royalty in the county during his term of office, which I believe is only two years. It costs the recipient of the honor a large sum to maintain the dignities of the office, for its emoluments are nil. The sheriff was staying at our hotel, a very fine one, The County. He is wakened every morning by two heralds richly dressed in the olden style and bearing halberds. They stand in front of the hotel and sound their bugles to call His Highness forth. It is the Lord Mayor's procession on a small scale. Nobody laughs outright at the curious mixture of feudal customs with this age's requirements, however much everybody may laugh in his sleeve; but England will have lost some picturesque features when all the shams are gone. If mankind were not greatly influenced by forms, I could wish that just enough of the "good old times"--which were very bad times indeed--could be preserved, if only to prove how far we have outgrown them; but every form and every sham, from royalty downward, carries its good or evil with it. That not only the substance should be right, but that the form should correspond truly to it, is important if we are to be honest; so I reconcile myself to the passing away of all forms which no longer honestly represent what they imply. Lancaster is a beautiful place and noted for its admirable charitable institutions. The lunatic asylum and an orphanage attracted our special attention. These and kindred institutions abound in England, and are ably conducted. Rich Englishmen do not leave their fortunes for uses of this kind as often as Americans do. The ambition to found a family, and the maintenance of an aristocratic class by means of primogeniture and entail, tend to divert fortunes from this nobler path into the meaner end of elevating a name in the social scale; but the general public in Britain is most generous, and immense sums in the aggregate are annually collected for charitable institutions. It is common for a class to support its own unfortunates. The commercial travellers, for instance, have an extensive home near London for children of their fellows and for members in their old age, and there is scarcely a branch of industry which does not follow this example. [Sidenote: _A Noble Charity._] One cannot travel far without seeing that the British are a people most mindful of the unfortunate. These pretty homes of refuge and of rest we see scattered everywhere over the land, nor are they the least glorious of the many monuments of England's true worth. A Mr. Ripley, of Lancaster, left his fortune for an orphanage, open to all orphan children born within fifteen miles of Lancaster. Three hundred are now provided for, but so rapidly has the fund grown that it has been found practicable to extend the boundaries of its beneficence, and children from distant Liverpool are now admitted. Bravo! Mr. Ripley. What is an earldom for your eldest son to this! His father's name will carry him farther with the best, and he should be prouder of it. Show me the earl who has done as much for his neighborhood! Lancaster Castle is a noble one. Here John o' Gaunt hundreds of years ago put his finger upon the dire root of England's woes, as far as the land goes: "This dear, dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now _leas'd_ out." There you have it--this England is leased out. The soil is not worked by its owners, and never, till England changes its practice and can boast a peasant proprietary working its own acres in small farms, untrammelled by vicious laws, will she know what miracles can be wrought by those who call each little spot their own--their home. Englishmen are slow to change, but the day is not far distant when ownership of land will depend upon residence on it and its proper cultivation. Denmark's example will be followed. Cumulative taxes will be levied upon each number of acres beyond a minimum number, and large proprietors taxed out of existence as they have been in Denmark, to the country's good and nobody's injury. We tax a man who keeps racing-horses or who sports armorial bearings. It is the same principle: we can tax a man who keeps a larger amount of land than he can work to the State's advantage. The rights of property are all very well in their place, but the rights of man and the good of the commonwealth are far beyond them. I wish England would just let me arrange that little land matter for her. It would save her a generation of agitation. Lancaster was an ancient Roman station, as is shown by its name--Lune or Lone Castrum, the castle or camp on the Lune or Lone, the little river which washes its plain. For what saith Spencer in the Faery Queen: "----After came the strong shallow Lone That to old Lancaster its name doth lend." The memory of man goeth not back to the time when the first castle was built. Indeed it is of little consequence now, for it was almost entirely razed by the Scots in the fourteenth century. [Sidenote: _Lancaster Castle._] The present noble structure, or rather the older part of it, is the work of John O'Gaunt, that son of a king who was almost a king himself, and who became the father of kings. To him is due the magnificent Gateway Tower, flanked by two octagonal turrets sixty-six feet high, surrounded by watch-towers. Around the towers and across the curtain, perforated by the gate, which connects them, are overhanging battlements with vertical openings for pouring down molten metal or hot water on the heads of assailants. In a niche in front is a full-length statue of John O'Gaunt in the costume of his day, placed there in 1822. The sole remaining turret of the Lungess Tower, eighty-eight feet high, is called John O'Gaunt's Chair. It commands a view of great extent, comprising the hills of Cumberland and Westmoreland and nearly the whole extent of the valley of the Lune, with the Irish Sea in the distance. Some moralists, who believe that men and times are degenerate, may lament that this grand old castle--the ancient residence of nobles--should now be the abode of criminals; but, while equally desirous that its architectural wonders may be preserved, I am not inclined to admit that the thieves and cutthroats who now have their homes within its walls through the puissance of the law are any worse morally than were many of the noble barons who robbed and ravished in the good old times when the question of might versus right was always settled in favor of the plaintiff. Some of them indeed more richly merited a halter than the comfortable seclusion from the outer world accorded to their modern representatives. Even good old John O'Gaunt himself was not so virtuous that he could shy moral stones at his neighbors. [Sidenote: _Bicycles._] Sunday was spent in Lancaster, and much enjoyed. The service in church was fine and the afternoon's excursion to the country delightful. Here Miss A. B. and Mr. D. left us after receiving the blessing of the party. Miss G. and Miss D., who were to join us here, failed us, but we fortunately found them waiting at Kendall. We started for that town, twenty-two miles distant, on Monday morning. It is the entrance to the celebrated Lake District. Messrs. T. and M., whom we had met at Anderton Hall, passed us on Saturday, before we reached Lancaster, on bicycles. They were out for a run of a hundred and five miles that day, to visit friends beyond that city. We meet such travellers often. Their club now numbers seven thousand members. For an annual payment of half a crown (62 cents), a member has lists of routes and hotels sent him for any desired district, with the advantage of reduced charges. It is nothing to do a hundred miles per day; many have ridden from London to Bath, two hundred miles, within the twenty-four hours. The country swarms with these fellows. I saw fifteen hundred in Bushy Park one day at a meet. I think seventy-five clubs were there, each in a different uniform. Bicycles are also growing in use for practical purposes, and many post-routes in the country are served by men who use these machines. But it takes roads like the English, and a level country, to do much with them. Our evening was spent in visiting the ruined castle and admiring a pretty Japanese kind of garden, so much in so little space, which attracted our attention as we passed. The owner, Mr. T., a solicitor, kindly invited us in, and afterward showed us his house. We are always receiving kindnesses from all sorts and conditions of men. Next day, July 12th, our objective point was Grassmere, eighteen miles away. Such a lovely morning! but, indeed, we are favored beyond measure with superb weather all the time. This stage in our progress introduced us to the scenery of the lakes, and we all felt that it deserved its Wordsworth; but were we ever to let loose and enter the descriptive, where would it lead? This is the rock upon which many a fair venture in story-telling has suffered shipwreck. Great mountains always carry one upward, but those of the Lake District are not great, nor is there anything great in the region. All is very sweet and pleasing and has its own peculiar charm, like the school of Lake Poets. At Bowness, about midway of the lake, we left the coach for the first time for any other kind of conveyance. After enjoying a rare treat in a sail up and down the lake in the pretty steamer, we rejoined the coach at Ambleside, where we had ordered it to await us. Passing Storr's Hall, the mind wandered back to the meeting there of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Christopher North, and greater than all, our own Walter Scott; and surely not in all the earth could a fitter spot than this have been found for their gathering. How much the world of to-day owes to the few names who spent days together here! Not often can you say of one little house, "Here had we our country's honor roofed" to so great an extent as it would be quite allowable to say in this instance. But behold the vanity of human aspirations! If there was one wish dearer than another to the greatest of these men, it was that Abbotsford should remain from generation to generation the home of his race. This very hour, while sailing on the lake, a newspaper was handed to me, and my eye caught the advertisement, "Abbotsford to let," followed by the stereotyped description, so many reception-rooms, nursery, outbuildings, and offices, suitable for a gentleman's establishment. Shade of the mighty Wizard of the North, has it come to this! Oh, the pity of it! the pity of it! Well for your fame that you built for mankind other than this stately home of your pride. It will crumble and pass utterly away long before the humble cot of Jeannie Deans shall fade from the memory of man. The time will come when the largest son of time, who wandering sang to a listening world, shall be as much forgot "As the canoe that crossed a lonely lake A thousand years ago." [Sidenote: _Abbotsford to Let!_] But even the New Zealander who stands on the ruins of London Bridge will know something of Walter Scott if he knows much worth knowing. "Abbotsford to let!" This to come to us just as we were passing one of the haunts of Scott, than whom no greater Scot ever lived save one. Fortunately no such blow is possible for the memory of Burns. "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, ... nothing, Can touch him further!" For this let us be thankful. We visited Wordsworth's grave reverently in the twilight. Fresh, very fresh flowers lay upon it. God bless the hand that strewed them there this day! I think the following the one very great thing he gave the world; it contains "the golden guess which ever is the morning star to the full round of truth." The thought of the age--whether right or wrong we need not discuss--is hitherward: "For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things." There's a platform upon which this sceptical age may eventually stand. It is not materialistic and it is not dogmatic; perhaps it is the golden mean between extremes. I commend its teachings to both sides of all the cock-sure disputants, one of whom knows it is just so, and the other as presumptuously knows there is nothing to know. Let them shake hands and await patiently the coming of clearer light, and get together in solid work here. Surely there is enough to keep them busy. We still "see through a glass darkly." We spent our night at Grassmere, and had a fine row upon the lake; and can anything be finer than music upon the waters, the dip of the oar, the cadence of the song which seems to float upon the glassy lake? It came to us again lulling us to sleep--the sweetest lullaby, sure precursor of happy dreams. * * * * * GRASSMERE, July 13. [Sidenote: _Carnegie Weather._] "Right, Perry!" Off for Keswick, only twelve miles distant; but who wants to hurry away from scenes like these? It rained heavily through the night, but this morning is grand for us. The mist was on the mountains though, and the clouds passed slowly over them, wrapping the tops in their mantle. The numerous rills dashing down the bare mountains were the themes of much praise. They reminded me of two fine verses from the "Light of Asia" upon "Being's ceaseless tide," "Which, ever-changing, runs, linked like a river By ripples following ripples, fast or slow-- The same, yet not the same--from far-off fountains To where its waters flow Into the seas. These steaming to the sun, Give the lost wavelets back in cloudy fleece To trickle down the hills, and glide again; Knowing no pause or peace." We seem to be miraculously protected from rain. Many times it has poured during the night, and yet the days have been perfect. "Carnegie weather" begins to be talked about, and we are all disposed to accept the inference that the fair goddess Fortune has fallen deep in love with us, since Prosperity seems to be our page during this journey. The influence of America and of American ideas upon England is seen in various ways. We meet frequently one who has visited the Republic, whose advanced ideas, in consequence of the knowledge derived from actual contact with American affairs, are very decidedly proclaimed. While on the train to-day we met a rattler of this kind, who gave many instances of the non-receptivity of his countrymen. I remember one of his complaints was in regard to a pea-sheller which he had seen at work in one of our monster hotels. He was so pleased that he bought one and took it in triumph to his innkeeper at home: "Blessed if the servants would work it, sir; no, sir, wouldn't shell a pea with it, sir. Look where we are in the race of new inventions, sir. _We're not in it._ Lord bless you, sir, _England isn't in it_." This man, like converts in general to new ideas, went much too far. Any one who thinks that England is not in the race, and pretty well placed too, has not looked very deep. We did what we could to give him a juster conception of his country's position than he apparently entertained. "What on earth," I said to him, "has a small English hotel to do with a pea-sheller? I have never heard of this Yankee notion, but I doubt not that one pea-sheller would shell all the peas required by all the guests of all the hotels in town, if they fed the inmates on nothing but pea soup!" But he would not be convinced. It was just the same with any other improvement, he said, and he got out at a station, muttering as he went: "No, sir, she isn't in it, I tell you; she _isn't in it_." All right, you constitutional grumbler, have it your own way. If this man were upon our side, he would not live twenty-four hours without finding fault with something. He is one of those who carry their pea-sheller with them, or find it at every turn. He belongs to the class of grumblers--those who cannot enjoy the bright genial rays of the sun for thinking of the spots upon it--just such another as he who found that even in Paradise "the halo did not fit his head exactly." [Sidenote: _American Presidents and Royalty._] The coaches in the Lake District have now the English and the American flags upon their sides, and we often see the Stars and Stripes displayed at hotels. Our present hostelry has a flaming advertisement ending with: "Patrons--Royalty and American Presidents." There must be slender grounds for both claims, I fancy General Grant, however, may have been there. As the elected of the largest division of the English-speaking race, he no doubt outranked all other patrons, and the proper way to put it would be "American Presidents and Royalty." At luncheon to-day it was found that our drinkables had better be cooled in the brook--an unusual performance this for England; but how vividly this little incident brings to mind the happy scene--the row of bottles (contents mostly harmless) in the stream, sticking up their tiny heads as if resentful at the extraordinary bath! Do not imagine that our party were worse to water than to corn; sixteen hungry people need a good many bottles of various kinds, for we had many tastes to gratify. We were all temperance people, however; a few of us even total abstinence, who required special attention, for their milk and lemonade were often more difficult to procure than all the other fluids. The guest who gives least trouble in England, in the drinkable department, is he who takes beer. At Keswick we wandered round the principal square and laughed at the curious names of the inns there. In this region inns abound. Almost every house in that square offered entertainment for man and beast. Here is a true copy of names of inns noted in a few squares in the village: "Fighting Cocks," "Packhorse," "Red Lion," "Dog and Duck," "Black Lion," "Deerhound," "White Hart," "Green Lion," "Pig and Whistle," "White Lion," "Black Bull," "Elephant and Castle," "Lamb and Lark," "The Fish." If the whole village were scanned there would be beasts enough commemorated in its inns to make a respectable menagerie. Indeed, for that one "Green Lion" Barnum might safely pay more than for Jumbo. [Sidenote: _Freedom and Equality._] The names of English inns we have seen elsewhere are equally odd; let me note a few: "Hen and Chickens," "Dog and Doublet," "King and Crown," "Hole in the Wall," "Struggling Man," "Jonah and the Ark," "Angel and Woolsack," "Adam and Eve," "Rose and Crown," "Crown and Cushion." We laughed at one with an old-fashioned swinging sign, upon which a groom was scrubbing away at a naked black man (you could almost hear his pruss, pruss, pruss). The name of the house was "Labor in Vain Inn"--a perfect illustration, no doubt, in one sense; in the higher sense, not so. Under the purifying influences of equality, found only in republican institutions, America has taught the world she can soon make white men out of black. Her effort to change the slave into a freeman has been anything but labor in vain; what is under the skin can be made white enough always, if we go at it with the right brush. None genuine unless stamped with the well-known brand "Republic." "All men are born free and _equal_" is warranted to cure the most desperate cases when all other panaceas fail, from a mild monarchy up to a German despotism; and is especially adapted for Irishmen. To be well shaken, however, before taken, and applied internally, externally, and eternally, like Colonel Sellers' eye-wash. Harry and I were absent part of this day, having run down to Workington to see our friend Mr. G., at the Steel Rail Mills. Pardon us!--this was our only taste of business during the trip; never had the affairs of this world been so completely banished from our thoughts. To get back to blast-furnaces and rolling mills was distressing; but we could not well pass our friend's door, so to speak. We have nothing to say about manufacturing, for it is just with that as with their political institutions: England keeps about a generation behind, and yet deludes herself with the idea that she is the leader among nations. The truth is, she is often not even a good follower where others lead, but exceptions must be noted here: a few of her ablest men are not behind America in manufacturing, for there are one or perhaps two establishments in England which lead America. A great race is the British when they do go to work and get rid of their antiquated prejudices. Visitors to America like Messrs. Howard, Lothian Bell, Windsor Richards, Martin, and others, have no prejudices which stick. But let Uncle Sam look out. If he thinks John Bull will remain behind in the industrial or the political race either, I do not; and I believe when he sets to work in earnest he cannot be beaten. The Republic of England, when it comes, will excel all other republics as much as the English monarchy has excelled all other monarchies, or as much as Windsor Richards' steel practice and plant excel any we can boast of here at present. It is our turn now to take a step forward, unless we are content to be beaten. This is all right. Long may the two branches of the family stimulate each other to further triumphs, the elder encouraging us to hold fast that which is good, the younger pointing the way upward and onward--a race in which neither can lose, but in which both must win! Clear the course! Fair play and victory to both! [Sidenote: _Democracy in England._] The report of the annual public debate of University College, London, attracted our notice to-day before leaving Kendal. The subject debated was: "That the advance of Democracy in England will tend to strengthen the Foundations of Society." Lord Rosebery presided, and it is his speech at the close which possesses political significance as coming from one who wears his rank "For the sake of liberal uses And of great things to be done," and of whom almost any destiny may be predicted if he hold the true course. He said: "As regards government, there seemed to be great advantage in democracy. With an oligarchy the responsibility was too great and the penalty for failure too high. He did not share the asperity manifested by one of the speakers against American institutions, and, having visited the country on several occasions, he felt the greatest warmth for America and the American people. Persons who elected by free choice a moderate intellect to represent them were better off than those who had a leviathan intellect placed over them against their will, and this free choice the people of the United States possessed. It had been said by the opponents of democracy that the best men in America devoted themselves to money-getting; but this was a strong argument in its favor, as showing that democracy was not correctly represented as a kind of grabbing at the property of others." Never were truer words spoken than these, my lord. What a pity you were not allowed the privilege of starting "at scratch" in life's race, like Gladstone or Disraeli! From any success achieved there must be made the just deduction for so many yards allowed _Lord_ Rosebery. Receive the sincere condolences of him who welcomed you to honorary membership of the Burns Club of New York, not because of these unfortunate, unfair disadvantages, for he would not have welcomed a prince for his rank, but for your merits as a man. * * * * * PENRITH, July 14. We reached Penrith, July 14th, after a delightful day's drive. Never were the Gay Charioteers happier, for the hilly ground gave us many opportunities for grand walks. When these come it is a red-letter day. The pleasure of walking should rank as one of the seven distinct pleasures of existence, and yet I have some friends who know nothing of it; they are not coaching through England, however. I have omitted to chronicle the change that came over the Queen Dowager shortly after we started from Wolverhampton; till then she had kept the seat of honor next to Perry, inviting one after another as a special honor to sit in front with her. She soon discovered that a good deal of the fun going on was missed; besides, she had not all of us under her eye. Her seat was exchanged for the middle of the back form, where she was supported by one on each side, while four others had their faces turned to hers, giving an audience of no less than six for her stories and old ballads. Her tongue went from morning till night, if I do say it, and her end of the coach was always in for its share of any frolic stirring. She was "in a gale" all day to-day, and kept us all roaring. [Sidenote: _On the Borders._] Our next stage would take us to Carlisle, the border-town behind which lay the sacred soil, "Scotia dear." Mr. B. and his son joined us here and went on with us the last day upon English soil, waving adieu, as it were, as we plunged into Scotland. Mr. and Mrs. K. left us for Paisley to see the children, and what a loss I here record no one but the members can possibly understand. Aaleck and Aggie gone! If anything could long dampen the joyous spirits of the party, this separation surely would have done it; but we were to meet again in Edinburgh, where the reconstruction of the Charioteers was to take place. At Carlisle, too, the Parisians were to be welcomed back again--plenty to look forward to, you see. We started for Carlisle July 15th, the day superb as usual. We had left the Lake District, with its hills and flowing streams, to pass through a tamer land; but our luncheon to-day, in a field near "Hesketh in the Forest," was not unromantic. The members from Anderton Hall caught the fever, as was usual with neophytes, and regretted that their return was imperatively required. One day gave them a taste of the true gypsy life. Hesketh was "in the Forest," no doubt, but this was many long years ago. To-day there is nothing to justify its name. Smiling green fields, roads as perfect as they can be made, pretty houses, trim hedge-rows and gardens, and all so intensely civilized as to bring vividly before you the never ceasing change which the surface of the earth undergoes to fit it for the sustenance of dense masses of men. * * * * * CARLISLE, July 15. Here is reconstruction for you with a vengeance! First, let us mourn the unhappy departures: Mr. and Mrs. K. went yesterday and Miss R., Miss G., the Misses B., Miss D. and Mr. B. and son go to-day. Cousin Maggie, who had become absorbed in this kind of life, so dazed with happiness, her turn has come too, even she must go; Andrew M., with his fine Scotch aroma and his songs, must report to his superior officer at the encampment, for is he not a gallant volunteer and an officer under Her Majesty, "sworn never to desert his home except in case of invasion!" Well, we cannot help these miserable changes in this world, nor the "sawt, sawt tears" of the young ladies as they kiss each other, swearing eternal friendship, and sob good-byes. But if farewell ever sighs, welcome comes in smiling. Look! Cousin E. in my arms and a warm kiss of welcome! That is the very best of consolation. Clever, artistic Miss R., too, from Edinburgh; and then are we not to have our four originals back again, after two long weeks' absence! It was fortunate that our sad farewells were so promptly followed by smiling welcomes. Do any people love their country as passionately as the Scotch? I mean the earth of it, the very atoms of which its hills and glens are composed. I doubt it. Now here is Maggie, a douse, quiet, sensible girl. I tried to say something cheery to her to-day as we were approaching Carlisle, where we were to part, reminding her jokingly that she had received five weeks' coaching while her poor sister Eliza would have only two. "Ah! but she has Scotland, Naig!" "Do you really mean to tell me that you would rather have two weeks in your own country than five weeks seeing a new land, and that land England, with London and Brighton, and the lakes and all?" I just wish you could have seen and heard how the "Of course" came in reply. The Scotch always have Scotland first in their hearts, and some of them, I really believe, will get into trouble criticising Paradise if it be found to differ materially from Scotland. [Sidenote: _Farewell to England._] To-morrow we are to enter that land of lands. Fair England, farewell! How graciously kind has been the reception accorded by you to the wanderers! How beautiful you are! how tenderly dear you have become to all of us! Not one of us but can close his eyes and revel in such quiet beauty as never before was his. "Not a grand nature ... On English ground You understand the letter ... ere the fall How Adam lived in a garden. All the fields Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay like; The hills are crumpled plains--the plains pastures, And if you seek for any wilderness You find at best a park. A nature Tamed and grown domestic ... A sweet familiar nature, stealing in As a dog might, or child, to touch your hand, Or pluck your gown, and humbly mind you so Of presence and affection." "There is no farewell to scenes like thine." From the depths of every heart in our company comes the trembling "God bless you, England!" SCOTLAND. "Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr." It was on Saturday, July 16th, that we went over the border. The bridge across the boundary line was soon reached. When midway over a halt was called, and vent given to our enthusiasm. With three cheers for the land of the heather, shouts of "Scotland forever," and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, we dashed across the border. O Scotland, my own, my native land, your exiled son returns with love for you as ardent as ever warmed the heart of man for his country. It's a God's mercy I was born a Scotchman, for I do not see how I could ever have been contented to be anything else. The little plucky dour deevil, set in her own ways and getting them too, level-headed and shrewd, with an eye to the main chance always and yet so lovingly weak, so fond, so led away by song or story, so easily touched to fine issues, so leal, so true! And you suit me, Scotia, and proud am I that I am your son. We stopped at Gretna Green, of course, and walked to the site of the famous blacksmith-shop where so many romantic pairs have been duly joined in the holy bonds of wedlock. A wee laddie acted as guide, and from him we had our first real broad Scotch. His dialect was perfect. He brought "wee Davie" to mind at once. I offered him a shilling if he could "screed me aff effectual calling." He knew his catechism, but he could not understand it. Never mind that, Davie, that is another matter. Older heads than yours have bothered over that doctrine and never got to the bottom of it. Besides there will be a "revised edition" of that before you are a man. Just you let it alone; it is the understanding of that and some other dogmas of poor ignorant man's invention that thin the churches of men who think and "make of sweet religion a rhapsody of words." "But do you ken Burns?" "Aye," said Davie, "I ken 'A man's a man for a' that,' and 'Auld Lang Syne.'" "Good for you, Davie, there's another shilling. Good-bye! But I say, Davie, if you can't possibly remember all three of these pieces, don't let it be 'A man's a man for a' that' that you forget, for Scotchmen will need to remember that one of these days when we begin to set things to rights in earnest and demand the same privileges for prince, peer, and peasant. Don't let it be 'Auld Lang Syne,' either, for there is more of 'Peace and Good-will upon Earth,' the essence of true religion, in that grand song than in your effectual calling, Davie, my wee mannie. At least there is one who thinks so." Davie got my address, and said may be he would come to America when he grew to be a man. I promised to give him a chance if he had not forgotten Burns, which is all we can do in the Republic, where merit is the only road to success. We may make a Republican out of him yet, and have him return to his fellows to preach the equality of man, the sermon Scotland needs. [Sidenote: _Lunch at Annan._] We lunched at Annan. It was at first decided that we had better be satisfied with hotel accommodations, as the day though fine was cool, with that little nip in the air which gives it the bracing quality; but after we had entered the hotel the sun burst forth, and the longing for the green fields could not be overcome. We walked through the village across the river, and found a pretty spot in a grove upon high ground commanding extensive views up and down the stream, and there we gave our new members their first luncheon. It would have been a great pity had we missed this picnic, for it was in every respect up to the standard. I laugh as I recall the difficulties encountered in selecting the fine site. The committee had fixed upon a tolerably good location in a field near the river, but this knoll was in sight, and we were tempted to go to it. We had gone so far from the hotel where the coach was, that Perry and Joe had to get a truck to bring the hampers. I remember seeing them pushing it across the bridge and up against the wall over which most of us had clambered. When the Queen Dowager's turn came the wall was found to be rather too much for her, but our managers were versatile. The truck was brought into requisition, and she was safely drawn from its platform over the wall. I stood back and could do nothing for laughter, but the Dowager, who was not to be daunted, went over amid the cheers of the party. It was resolved, however, to be a little more circumspect in future; wall-climbing at seventy-one has its limits. Here is the bridge built by that worthy man and excellent representative of what is best in Scottish character in lowly life, James Carlyle--an honest brig destined to stand and never shame the builder. I remember how proudly Carlyle speaks of his father's work. No sham about either the man or his work, as little as there was in his more famous son. I wish I could quote something from "Adam Bede" I think it is--where Garth the stone-mason thinks good work in his masonry the best prayer he had to stand upon. [Sidenote: _Carlyle and Black._] Many have expressed surprise at "Carlyle's Reminiscences," at the gnarled, twisted oak they show, prejudiced here, ill-tempered there. What did such people expect, I wonder? A poor, reserved, proud Scotch lad, who had to fight his way against the grim devils of poverty and neglect, of course he is twisted and "thrawn"; but a grand, tough oak for all that, as sound, stanch timber as ever grew, and Scotch to the core. Did any one take you, Thomas Carlyle, for a fine, symmetrical sycamore, or a graceful clinging vine? I think the "Reminiscences," upon the whole, a valuable contribution to literature. Nor has Carlyle suffered in my estimation from knowing so much of what one might have expected. But will these critics of a grand individuality be kind enough to tell us when we shall look upon his like again, or where another Jenny Carlyle is to come from? She is splendid! The little tot who "bluided a laddie's nose" with her closed fist and conquered "the bubbley jock." This was in her early childhood's days, and look at her woman's work for Carlyle if you want a pattern for wives, my young lady friends, at least as a bachelor pictures wifehood at its best. The story told of Mr. Black's meeting with Carlyle should be true, if it be not. "Oh, Mr. Black," exclaimed Carlyle, "I'm glad to see ye, man. I've read some of yer books; they're vera amusin'; ye ken Scotch scenery well; but when are yer goin' to do some _wark_, man?" Great work did the old man do in his day, no doubt; but they also work who plant the roses, Thomas, else were we little better than the beasts of the field. Carlyle did not see this. Black is doing his appointed work and doing it well too, and Scotland is proud of her gifted son. * * * * * DUMFRIES, July 16-17. [Sidenote: _Dumfries._] We were at Dumfries for Sunday. We had just got housed at the hotel and sat down to dinner when we heard a vehicle stop, and running to the window saw our anxiously expected Parisians at the door. Hurrah! welcome! welcome! Once more united, never to part again till New York be reached! It was a happy meeting, and there was much to tell upon both sides, but the coachers evidently had the better of it. The extreme heat encountered in France had proved very trying. The Prima Donna was tired out. She vividly expressed her feelings thus, when asked how she had enjoyed life since she left the Ark: "_Left_ the Ark! I felt as if I had been poked out of it like the dove to find out about the weather, and had found it rough. When I lose sight of the coach again, just let me know it!" We, on our part, were very glad to get our pretty little dove back, and promised that she should never be sent forth from among us again. One becomes confused at Dumfries, there is so much to learn. We are upon historic ground in the fullest sense, and so crowded too with notable men and events. Bruce slew the Red Comyn here in the church of the Minorite Friars, now no longer existing. The monastery, of which it formed a part, the foundation of the mother of John Baliol, King of Scotland, stood on an eminence, the base of which is washed on the north and west by the waters of the Nith. It is said to have been deserted after the pollution of its high altar with the blood of the Comyns, and about two centuries afterward the Maxwells built a splendid castle out of its ruins and almost on its site; but the fortune of war and old Father Time levelled its massive walls in turn, and now no vestige remains of either monastery or castle. The castle of the Comyns, too, which occupied a romantic site a little way south of the town, at a place still called Castledykes, has left but slight memorials of its olden grandeur. Among the noted men of the world whom Dumfries numbers among her children are the Admirable Crichton, Paul Jones, Allan Cunningham, Carlyle, Neilson of the hot blast, Patterson, the founder of the Bank of England, and Miller of the steamship. Still another, a Scotch minister, was the founder of savings-banks. While not forgetting to urge his flock to lay up treasures in the next world, he did not fail to impress upon them a like necessity of putting by a competence for this one, sensible man! How many ministers leave behind them as powerful an agency for the improvement of the masses as this Dumfries man, the Rev. Mr. Duncan, has in savings-banks? All the speculative opinions about the other world which man can indulge in are as nothing to the acquisition of those good, sober, steady habits which render possible upon the part of the wage-receiving class a good deposit in that minister's savings-bank. The Rev. Mr. Duncan is my kind of minister, one who works much and preaches little. There is room for more of his kind. It is to Dumfries we are also indebted for the steamship, as far as Britain's share in that crowning triumph is concerned, for, upon Dalwinston Lake, Miller used the first paddles turned by steam. The great magician also has waved his wand over this district. Ellangowan Castle, Dirk Hatteraick's Cave, and even Old Mortality himself are all of Dumfries; and as for Burns, there is more of his best work there than anywhere else, and there he lies at rest with the thistle waving over him, fit mourner for Scotland's greatest son, and of all others the one he would have chosen. How he loved it! Think of his lines about the emblem dear, written while still a boy. [Sidenote: _Home of Burns._] I wanted to stay a week in Dumfries, and I deemed myself fortunate to be able to spend Sunday there. Two Dunfermline gentlemen now resident there, Messrs. R. and A., were kind enough to call upon us and offer their services. This was thoughtful and pleased me much. Accordingly on Sunday morning we started with Mr. R. and did the town, Maxwelton Braes, Burns's house, and last his grave. None of us had ever been there before, and we were glad to make the pilgrimage. Horace Greeley (how he did worship Burns!) has truly said that of the thousands who yearly visit Shakespeare's birthplace, most are content to engrave their names with a diamond upon the glass, but few indeed leave the resting-place of the ploughman without dropping a tear upon the grave; for of all men he it was who nestled closest to the bosom of humanity. It is true that of all the children of men Burns is the best beloved. Carlyle knew him well, for he said Burns was the Æolian harp of nature against which the rude winds of adversity blew, only to be transmitted in their passage into heavenly music. I think these are the two finest things that have been said about our idol, or about any idol, and I believe them to be deserved. So did Carlyle and Greeley, for they were not flatterers. Of what other human being could these two things be truly said? I know of none. Our friends, Mr. and Mrs. N., are the fortunate owners of Friars Carse estate. They called upon us Sunday noon, and invited us to dine with them that evening. A delegation from the party accepted, and were much pleased with their visit. Friars Carse is a lovely spot. The winding Nith is seen at its best from the lawn. As we drove past on Monday we stopped and enjoyed a morning visit to our friends, who were exceedingly kind. Mr. N. has earned the grateful remembrance of every true lover of Burns by restoring the heritage and guarding with jealous care every vestige of one of the half dozen geniuses which the world will reverence more and more as the years roll by. He has wisely taken out the window upon the panes of which Burns wrote with a diamond, "Thou whom chance may hither lead," one of my favorites. This is now preserved, to be handed down as an heirloom in the family, finally, we hope, to find its place in some public collection. While we were in the mansion a granddaughter of Annie Laurie actually came in. I know of no young lady whose grandmother is so widely and favorably known. We were all startled to be brought so near to the ideal Annie Laurie of our dreams. It only shows that the course of true love never runs smooth when we hear that she did not marry the poetic lover. Well, may be she was happier with a dull country squire. Poets are not proverbially model husbands; the better poet, the worse husband, and the writer of Annie Laurie had the poetic temperament pretty well developed. [Sidenote: _Drumlanrig Castle._] "Right, Perry!" We are off for Sanquhar, twenty-eight miles away; the day superb, with a freshness unknown in the more genial South we are rapidly leaving behind. What a pretty sight it was to see Miss N---- bounding along upon her horse in the distance, an avant courier leading us to a warm welcome at her beautiful home! Would I had been beside her on Habeebah! We spent an hour or two there, and then with three enthusiastic cheers for "Friars Carse and a' within it," the Charioteers drove off; but long must fond recollections of that estate and of the faces seen there linger in our memories as among the most pleasing of our ever-memorable journey. A home upon the Nith near Dumfries has many attractions indeed. Our drive to-day lay along the Nith and through the Duke of Buccleugh's grounds to his noble seat, Drumlanrig Castle. Here we have a real castle at last; none of your imported English affairs, as tame as caged tigers. How poor and insignificant they all seem to such as this! You want the moors, the hills and glens, and all the flavor of feudal institutions to give a castle its dignity and impress you with the thoughts of by-gone days. Modern castles in England built to order are only playthings, toys; but in Scotland they are real and stir the chords. You cannot have in England a glen worthy of the name, with its dark amber-brown, foaming, rushing torrent dashing through it. We begin to feel the exhilarating influences of the North as we drive on, and to understand its charm. Byron says truly: "England! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roamed on the mountains afar. Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic! The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr." This was the feeling upon the coach to-day. My eyes watered now and then and my heart beat faster as the grandeur of the scenery and the influences around came into play. This was my land, England only a far-off connection, not one of the family. "And what do you think of Scotland noo?" was often repeated. "The grandest day yet!" was said more than once as we drove through the glen; but this has been said so often during this wonderful expedition, and has so often been succeeded by a day which appeared to excel its famous predecessor, that we are careful now to emphasize the yet; for indeed we feel that there is no predicting what glories Scotland may have in store for us beyond. Our luncheon to-day was taken upon the banks of the Nith; an exquisitely beautiful spot. There was no repressing our jubilant spirits, and sitting there on the green sward the party burst into song, and one Scotch song followed another. There was a strange stirring of the blood, an exaltation of soul unknown before. The pretty had been left behind, the sublime was upon us. There was a nip in the air unfelt in the more genial climate of the South. The land over which brooded peace and quiet content had been left behind, that of the "mountain and the flood" was here, whispering of its power, swaying us to and fro and bending us to its mysterious will. In the sough of the wind comes the call of the genii to mount to higher heights, that we may exult in the mysteries of the mountain and the glen, "The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr." Even our songs had the wail of the minor key suggesting the shadows of human life, eras of storm and strife, of heroic endurance and of noble sacrifice; the struggle of an overmatched people contending for generations against fearful odds and maintaining through all vicissitudes a distinctively national life. That is what makes a Scotchman proud of this peculiar little piece of earth, and stirs his blood and fills his eyes as he returns to her bosom. [Sidenote: _The Cameronians._] We rested over Monday night, July 18th, at Sanquhar, a long one-main-street village, whose little inn could not accommodate us all, but the people were kind, and the gentlemen of the party had no cause to complain of their quarters. It was here that the minister absolved the Cameronians from allegiance to "the ungodly king"--a great step. Those sturdy Cameronians probably knew little of Shakespeare, but I fancy the speech of that rebel minister could not have been better ended, or begun either, than with the outburst of Laertes to another wicked king: "I'll not be juggled with: To hell, allegiance!" Bravo! They would not be juggled with King Charles, neither will their descendants be, if any king hereafter is ever rash enough to try his "imperial" notions upon them. That day is past, thanks to that good minister and his Cameronians. I gazed upon the monument erected to these worthies, and gratefully remembered what the world owes to them. We stepped into a stationer's shop there and met a character. One side of the shop was filled with the publications of the Bible Society, the other with drugs. "A strange combination this," I remarked. "Weel, man, no sae bad. Pheseek for the body an pheseek for the soul. Castor oil and Bibles no sae bad." Harry and I laughed. "Have you the revised edition here yet?" I inquired. "Na, na, the auld thing here. Nane of yer new-fangled editions of the Scripture for us. But I hear they've shortened the Lord's Prayer. Noo, that's na a bad thing for them as hae to get up early in the mornin's." He was an original, and we left his shop smiling at his way of putting things. Scotland is the land of odd characters. * * * * * SANQUHAR, July 18. We are off for old Cumnock, the entire village apparently out to see the start. Sanquhar on the moors does not seem to have many attractions, but last evening we had one of our pleasantest walks. There is a fine deep glen hid away between the hills, with a torrent rushing through it, over which bridges have been thrown. We were tempted to go far up the glen. The long gloaming faded away into darkness and we had a weird stroll home. It was after ten o'clock when we reached the hotel. This may be taken as a specimen of our evenings; there is always the long walk in the gloaming after dinner, which may be noted as one of the rare pleasures of the day. [Sidenote: _School Children._] Our luncheon to-day could not be excelled, and in some features it was unique. The banks of Douglas Water was the site chosen. The stream divides, and a green island looked so enchanting that the committee set about planning means to cross to it. The steps of the coach formed a temporary bridge over which the ladies were safely conducted, but not without some danger of a spill. As many as thirty school children, then enjoying their summer vacation, followed, and after a while ventured to fraternize with us. Such a group of rosy, happy little ones it would be difficult to meet with out of Scotland. Children seem to flourish without care in this climate. The difference between the children of America and Britain is infinitely greater than that between the adults of the two countries. Scotch children learn to pronounce as the English do in the schools, but in their play the ancient Doric comes out in full force. It is all broad Scotch yet in conversation. This will no doubt change in time, but it seemed to us that so far they have lost very few of the Scotch words and none of the accent. We asked the group to appoint one of their number to receive some money to buy "sweeties" for the party. Jeannie Morrison was the lassie proposed and unanimously chosen. Jeannie was in the sixth standard. In answer to an inquiry, it was at first said that no one else of the party was so far advanced, but a moment's consultation resulted in a prompt correction, and then came: "Aye, Aggie McDonald is too." But not one of the laddies was beyond the fifth. Well, the women of Scotland always were superior to the men. If a workingman in Scotland does not get a clever managing wife (they are helpmeets there), he never amounts to much, and many a stupid man pulls up well through the efforts of his wife. It is much the same in France, or, indeed, in any country where the struggle for existence is hard and expenditure has to be kept down to the lowest point--so much depends upon the woman in this department. The shyness of these children surprised our Americans much. They could scarcely be induced to partake of cakes and jelly, which must be rare delicacies with them. I created a laugh by insisting that even after I had been in America several years I was as shy as any of these children. My friends were apparently indisposed to accept such an assertion entirely, but an appeal to Davie satisfied them of my modesty in early youth. "Ah, _then_!" said Miss M. But this was cruel. We left some rare morsels for these children. When they had done cheering us at our departure, I warrant they "were nae blate." The dear little innocent, happy things! I wish I could get among them again. What would not one give to get a fresh start, to be put back a child again, that he might make such a record as seems possible when looking backward! How many things he would do that he did not do, how many things he would not do that he did do! I sympathize with Faust, the offer was too tempting to be successfully withstood. One point worth noting occurs to me. In looking back you never feel that upon any occasion you have acted too generously, but you often regret that you did not give enough, and sometimes that you did not give at all. The moral seems to be--always give the higher sum or do the most when in doubt. It seems to me that parents and others having charge of children might do more than is done to teach them the only means of making life worth living, and to point out to them the rocks and eddies from which they themselves have suffered damage in life's passage. [Sidenote: _A Pleasant Meeting._] With the cheers of the children ringing in our ears we started on our way. While stopping at the inn to return what had been lent us in the way of baskets, pitchers, etc., a lady drove up in a stylish phaeton, and, excusing herself for intruding, said that a coach was so rarely seen in those parts she could not resist asking who we were and whither bound. I gave her all desired information, and asked her to please gratify our ladies by telling in return who she was. "Lady Stuart M." was the reply. She was of the M.'s of Closeburn Castle, as we learned from Mr. Murray, our landlord at Cumnock. The estate will go at her death to a nephew who is farming in America. We thought there must be some good reason why he did not return and manage for his aunt, who indeed seems well qualified to manage for herself. The young exiled heir had our sympathy, but long may it be ere he enters upon Closeburn, for we were all heartily in favor of a long and happy reign to the present ruler of that beautiful estate. Lady M. assured us that we would be well taken care of at the Dumfries Arms, and she was right. Mr. Murray and his handsome sisters will long be remembered as model hotel-keepers. They made our stay most agreeable. Mr. Murray took us to the Bowling Green in the evening, and many of our party saw the game for the first time. Great excitement prevails when the sides are evenly matched. It is, like the curling pond, a perfect republic. There is no rank upon the ice or upon the green in Scotland. The postman will berate the provost for bad play at bowls, but touch his hat respectfully to him on the pavement. A man may be even a provost and yet not up to giving them a "Yankee" when called for. We were curious to know what a "Yankee" shot was, for we heard it called for by the captains every now and then. We were told that this was a shot which "knocked all before it, and played the very deevil." That is not bad. While a few of us who had recently seen the land of Burns remained at Cumnock, the remainder of the party drove to Ayr and saw all the sights there and returned in the evening. Our walks about Cumnock were delightful, and we left Mr. Murray's care with sincere regret. * * * * * OLD CUMNOCK, July 19. [Sidenote: _Our Photograph._] Passing out of the town this morning, we stopped at the prettiest little photographic establishment we had ever seen, and the artist succeeded in taking excellent views of the coach and party, as the reader may see by a glance at the frontispiece, where the original negative is reproduced by the artotype process. It was done in an instant; we were taken ere we were aware. A great thing, that instantaneous photography; one has not time to look his very worst, as sitters usually contrive to do, ladies especially. It is so hard to be artificial and yet look pretty. "Right, Perry!" and off we drove through the crowd for Douglas. The General Manager soon confided to me that for the first time he was dubious about our resting-place for the night. A telegram had been received by him from the landlord at Douglas just before starting, stating that the inn was full to overflowing with officers of the volunteer regiment encamped there, and that it was impossible for him to provide for our party. What was to be done? It was decided to inform that important personage, mine host, that we were moving upon him, and that if he gave no quarters we should give none either. He must billet us somewhere; if not, then "A night in greenwood spent Were but to-morrow's merriment." But we felt quite sure that the town of Douglas would in council assembled extend a warm welcome to the Americans and see us safely housed, even if there were not a hotel in the place. So on we went. While passing through Lugar, a pretty young miss ran out of the telegraph office, and holding up both hands, called: "Stop! It's no aff yet! it's no aff yet!" A message was coming for the coaching party. It proved to be from our Douglas landlord, saying, All right! he would do the best he could for us. When the party was informed how much we had been trusting in Providence for the past few hours, such was their enthusiasm that some disappointment was expressed at the reassuring character of the telegram. Not to know where we were going to be all night--may be to have to lie in and on the coach--would have been such fun! But "Behind yon hill where Lugar flows," sung by Eliza, sounded none the less sweet when we knew we were not likely to have to camp out upon its pretty banks. It is essential for successful happy coaching with ladies that every comfort should be provided. I am satisfied it would never do to risk the weaker sex coaching in any other land. The extreme comfort of everything here alone keeps them well and able to stand the gypsy life. We travelled most of the day among the ore lands and blast furnaces of the Scotch pig-iron kings, the Bairds. To reach Edinburgh we had to drive diagonally eastward across the country, for we had gone to the westward that Dumfries and the Land of Burns might not be missed. This route took us through less frequented localities, off the main lines of travel, but our experience justified us in feeling that this had proved a great advantage, for we saw more of Scotland than we should have done otherwise. Our luncheon to-day was a novel one in some respects. No inn was to be reached upon the moors, and feed for the horses had to be taken with us from Cumnock; but we found the prettiest little wimpling burn, across which a passage was made by throwing in big stones, for the shady dell was upon the far side. The horses were unhitched and allowed to nibble the wayside grass beside our big coach, which loomed up on the moor as if it were double its true size. [Sidenote: _Scotch Weather._] The thistle and the harebell begin to deck our grassy tables at noon, and fine fields of peas and beans scent the air. All is Scotch; and oh, that bracing breeze, which cools deliciously the sun's bright rays, confirms us in the opinion that no weather is like Scotch weather, when it is good; when it is not I have no doubt the same opinion is equally correct, but we have no means of judging. Scotland smiles upon her guests, and we love her with true devotion in return. "What do you think of Scotland noo?" came often to-day; but words cannot express what we do think of her. In the language of one of our young ladies, "She is just lovely!" The question came up to-day at luncheon, would one ever tire of this gypsy life? and it was unanimously voted never! At least no one could venture to name a time when he would be ready to return to the prosy routine of ordinary existence while blessed with such weather and such company. Indeed, this nomadic life must be the hardest of all to exchange for city life. It is so diametrically opposed to it in every phase. "If I were not the independent gentleman I am," says Lamb, "I should choose to be a beggar." "Chapsey me a gypsy," gentle Elia, you could not have known of that life, or perhaps you considered it and the beggar's life identical. But, mark you, there is a difference which is much more than a distinction. A gypsy cannot beg, but he or she tells fortunes, tinkers a little and deals in horses. Even if he steals a little now and then, I take it he is still within the lines of the profession; while your beggar who does anything in the way of work, or who steals, is no true man. His license is for begging only. The gypsy obviously has the wider range, and I say again, therefore, "Chapsey me a gypsy," gentle Elia. Davie and I walked over to the railway line after luncheon to have a talk with the surfacemen we saw at work. They were strong, stalwart men, and possessed of that shrewd, solid sense which is invariably found in Scotch workmen. Their pay seemed very small to us; the foreman got only twenty shillings per week ($5), while the ordinary surfaceman got fourteen shillings ($3.50). Although this was only a single-track branch line, it was almost as well laid as the Pennsylvania Railroad. None of the men had ever been in America, but several had relatives there who were doing well, and they looked forward to trying the new land some day. We reached pretty Douglas in the evening, and sounded our horn longer than usual to apprize mine host that the host was upon him. We were greatly pleased to see him and his good wife standing in the door of the inn with pleasant, smiling faces to greet us. They had arranged everything for our comfort. Many thanks to those gentlemanly officers who had so kindly given up their rooms to accommodate their American cousins. Quarters for the gentlemen had been found in the village, and Joe and Perry and the horses were all well taken care of. Thus we successfully passed through the only occasion where there seemed to be the slightest difficulty about our resting-place for the night. [Sidenote: _Home Castle._] Douglas, the ancient seat of that family so noted in Scotland's history, is really worth a visit. Home Castle, their residence, is a commanding pile seen for many miles up the valley as we approach the town. Our visit to it was greatly enjoyed, we had such a pretty walk in the evening, and a rest on the slope of the hill overlooking the castle. We lay there in the grass and enjoyed the quiet Scotch gloaming which was gathering round us, and so silently, so slowly shutting in the scene. The castle upon the left below us, the Douglas water so placidly gliding through the valley at our feet, the old church where lay mouldering generations of the Douglases, and the dark woods beyond, formed a picture which kept us long upon the hill. In their day, what bustling men were these doughty Douglases--full of sturt and strife--the very ideal representatives of the warrior bold, who made their way and held their own by the strength of their good right arms. "A steede, a steede of matchless speede, A sword of metal keene, All else to noble minds is dross, All else on earth is meane; And O the thundering press of knights, When loud their war cries swell, Might serve to call a saint from heaven Or rouse a fiend from helle." This was their ideal--the very reverse, thank God, of the ideal of to-day--but note how peacefully they lie now in the little antiquated church in this obscure valley. What shadows we are! What shadows we pursue! This vein once started in the Scotch gloaming upon the hills, where the coloring of the scene is so sombre as to be not only seen but felt, must be indulged in sparingly, or some of the Charioteers might soon have to record a new experience--a fit of the blues. But this was prevented by comparing the advance made by the race upon this question of war within the past century. The "profession of arms" is very soon to be rated as it deserves. The apology for it will be the same as for any other of the butchering trades--it is necessary. Granted for the present, but what of the nature which selects such a profession! [Sidenote: _Epitaphs._] The inscriptions upon the tombs of the Douglases recalled other epitaphs; some one said of all the inscriptions yet seen, he thought that upon the tomb of the Duke of Devonshire gave us the best lesson. It runs thus: "Who lyeth heare? Ye gude Yearle of Devenshere-- What he had is gone, What he kept is lost, What he gave--_that_ he hath." We were on the verge of moralizing. Some one scenting the danger, said he thought an equally suggestive epitaph headed one of the chapters of "David Elginbrod": "Here lies David Elginbrod, Hae mercy on his soul, oh God! As he'd a-had, had he been God, An ye'd been David Elginbrod." Yes, there is food for thought here too. David must have been a queer one. The sky grew darker, and the far-off woods faded into a cloud upon the horizon; the party rose, and in so doing regained their usual hilarity--forgot all about tombs and were off for a run hand-in-hand down the gentle slope to the valley, shouting and laughing in great glee--and so on over the pretty bridge to their delightful inn. * * * * * DOUGLAS, July 20. Edinburgh, Scotia's darling seat, only forty-four miles distant. All aboard, this pretty morning, for Edinburgh! "Right, Perry!" and off we went quite early through Douglas, for the capital. Our path was through woods for several miles, and we listened to the birds and saw and heard many of the incidents of morn so prettily described by Beattie: "The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side, The lowing herd; the sheep-fold's simple bell; The hum of bees, and linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove." It was to be a long day's drive, but an easy one; only one hill, and then a gradual descent all the way to Edinburgh. So it might have been by the other road, but the mile-stones which told us so many miles to Edinburgh should also have said: "Take the new road; this is the old one, over the hills and far away." But they did not, and we could not be wrong, for this was a way, if not _the_ way, to "Auld Reekie." After all, it was one of the richest of our experiences as we look back upon it now. So many hills to walk up and so many to walk down; so many moors with not a house to be seen, nothing but sheep around us and the lights and shadows of a Scotch sky overhead. But it was grand, and recalled some of Black's wonderful pen pictures. And then we enjoyed the heather which we found in its beauty, though scarcely yet tinted with its richest glow of color. This was our introduction to it. The heathery moor was new to most of the party and many were the exclamations produced by its beauty. There's "meat and drink" to a Scotchman in the scent of the heather. About luncheon time we began to look longingly for the expected inn, but there was no habitation to be seen, and we became suspicious that, notwithstanding the mile-stones, which stood up and told us the lie which was half the truth (ever the blacker lie), we were not upon the right road to Edinburgh. At this juncture we met a shepherd with his collies, and learnt from him that we were still twelve miles from an inn. It was a cool, breezy day; the air had the "nip" in it which Maggie missed so in England, and we were famishing. There was nothing else to do but to stop where we were, at the pretty burn, and tarry there for entertainment for man and beast. As proof of our temperance, please note that the flasks filled with sherry, whiskey, and brandy, at Brighton, I believe, as reserve forces for emergencies, still had plenty in them when called for to-day; and rarely has a glass of spirits done greater good, the ladies as well as we of the stronger sex feeling that a glass was necessary to keep off a chill. We were "o'er the moors among the heather" in good earnest to-day, but how soon we were all set to rights and laughing over our frolic! The shepherd and his dogs lunched with us, and many a glint of Scottish shepherd life did we get from his conversation. He was a happy, contented man, and ever so grateful that he was not condemned to live in a city. He thought such a cramped-up life would soon kill him. [Sidenote: _Sheep and Collies._] Good-bye, my gentle shepherd and "Tweed" and "Rab," your faithful, sagacious companions. Your life leads to contentment, and where will you find that jewel when you leave mother earth and her products, her heather and her burns, your doggies and your sheep? Davie, in Andrew M----'s absence, sang us that song whose prettiest verse, though all are fine, is this: "See yonder paukie shepherd Wha lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld And his sheep are lying still." Softly, softly, pianissimo, my boy! These lines must be sung so, not loudly like the other verses. Andrew knows the touch. "But he downa gang to rest, For his heart is in a flame To meet his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame." And so we parted from our shepherd, the chorus of our song reaching him over the moors till he faded out of sight. I am sure we wish him weel. Happiness is not all in the higher walks of life; and surely in virtue's paths the cottage leaves the palace far behind. Another song followed, which I thought equally appropriate, for it tells us that "Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew." Ah, the shepherd's drops of the dew of life are often what princes vainly sigh for. [Sidenote: _Arthur's Seat._] After many miles up and down, we finally reached the top of the hill from which we saw lying before us, fourteen miles away, the modern Athens. There was no mistaking Arthur's Seat, the lion crouching there. "Stop, Perry!" Three times three for the "Queen of the Unconquered North!" "What do you think of Scotland noo?" Match that city who can! Not on this planet will you do it, search where you may. It was only a few miles from where we now stood that Fitz Eustace, enraptured with the scene, "And making demi-volte in air, Cried, Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land!" Fight for it? I guess so, to the death! Scotland forever! We were about completing one stage of our journey, for Edinburgh had been looked forward to as one of the principal points we had to reach, and we were to rest there a few days before marching upon the more ancient metropolis, Dunfermline. Most of us had been steadily at work since we left Brighton, and the prospect of a few days' respite was an agreeable one; but after all it was surprising how fresh even the ladies were. Still, steady coaching is pretty hard work; none of us gained weight during the journey, but we all felt as if in condition just fit to do our very best in the way of athletic exercise. Miss R----, a native of Edinburgh, was here called to the front, alongside of Perry, to act as guide into and through the city to our hotel in Prince's Street. The enthusiasm grew more and more intense as we came nearer and fresh views were obtained. There remained one more toll-gate, one of the few which have not yet been abolished. Joe had as usual gone forward to pay the toll, but the keeper declared she did not know the charge, as never since she kept toll had anything like that--pointing to the coach--passed there. Was it any wonder that we attracted attention during our progress northward? From one hill-top I caught sight of the sparkling Forth, beyond which lay "the dearest spot on earth to me." The town could not be seen, but when I was able to cry, "Dunfermline lies there," three rousing cheers were given for the "Auld gray Toon," my native city. * * * * * EDINBURGH, July 21-26. [Sidenote: _Edinburgh._] Our route lay through Newington, that we might leave the young artist at home. We tried to do it quietly, but our friend Mrs. H. was out and shaking hands with us ere we could drive off. Mr. MacGregor, of the Royal, had been mindful of us; a grand sitting room fronting on Prince's Street and overlooking the gardens gave us the best possible view, the very choice spot of all this choice city. The night was beautiful, and the lights from the towering houses of the old town made an illumination, as it were, in honor of our arrival. That the travellers were delighted with Edinburgh, that it more than fulfilled all expectations, is to say but little; and those who saw it for the first time felt it to be beyond all that they had imagined. Those of us who knew its picturesque charms were more than ever impressed with its superiority over all other cities. Take my word for it, my readers, there is no habitation of human beings in this world as fine in its way, and its way itself is fine, as this, the capital of Scotland. The surprise and delight of my friends gave me much pleasure. Scotland had already won all hearts. They had admired England, but Scotland they loved. Ah, how could they help it! I loved her too, more deeply than ever. It is best to disband a large party when in a city possessed of many and varied attractions, allowing each little group to see the sights in its own way; assembling, however, at breakfast and dinner, and spending the evenings together, recounting the day's adventures. This was the general order issued for Edinburgh. The new docks at Leith were opened with much ceremony during our stay, and I took a party of our Edinburgh friends upon the coach to witness the opening. It was not a clear day, meteorologically considered, but nevertheless it was a happy one for the coaching party. Upon our return, a stop at Mr. N.'s magnificent residence was specially agreeable. He and his daughters were most kind to us while in Edinburgh. Mr. N. gave us a rare treat by showing us through their immense printing establishment, where such exquisite things are done, such Easter and Christmas cards, such friendship tokens, and a thousand other lovely forms we had never seen before, in their various stages of manufacture. [Sidenote: _Valuable Importations._] I asked Mr. N. what he had to say in reply to the admissions of the leading art authorities of the superiority of American work in black and white, such as our magazines excel in. He said this could not be questioned; there was nothing done in British publications that equalled the American. The reason he gave furnishes food for thought. I pray you, fellow countrymen, take note of it. Two principal American illustrated magazines, _Harper's_ and the _Century_, print each more than one hundred thousand copies, while no British magazine prints half that number. The American publisher can consequently afford to pay twice as much as the British publisher for his illustrations. If this be the true reason of America's superiority in this respect, and I am sure Mr. N. knows what he is stating, then as its population increases more rapidly than the British the difference between their respective publications must increase, and finally drive the home article into a very restricted position. Pursuing this fact to its logical conclusion, Britain may soon receive from her giant child all that is best in any department of art which depends upon general support for success. This seems to me to betoken a revolution, not as implying the inherent superiority of the American, but simply flowing from the fact that fifty-five millions of English-speaking and reading people can afford to spend more for any certain article than thirty-five millions can. That Colonel Mapleson now brings over Her Majesty's Opera Company for the New York season as regularly as he opens his London season, and especially that he makes far more profit out of the former than out of the latter, is another significant fact. That leading actors find a wider field here than at home is still another, and even ministers are finding that the call of the Lord to higher labors and higher salaries often comes from the far side of the Atlantic. Drs. McCosh, Hall, Ormiston, and Taylor, our leading divines, get treble salaries in the Republic, and are said to be valuable importations. As Mr. Evarts said one night in a post-prandial effort: "They are about the only specimens of 'the cloth' admitted duty free." As long as America sent Britain only pork and cheese and provisions, and such products of the soil, it was all well enough, but if she is beginning to send the highest things of life, the art treasures, which give sweetness and light to human existence, it is somewhat alarming. For my part, I do not like to think that these Americans are to send Britain every good thing, and that the once proud country that led the world is to stand receiving as it were the crumbs from this rich land's table. In one department America can be kept second for as long a term as we need worry about--she has nothing to compare with the leading English reviews. Our generation will see no close rival to the _Fortnightly_ or the _Nineteenth Century_, to _Blackwood_ or _Chambers' Journal_, or to the _Edinburgh_ or _Westminster Review_; although the _North American_ and the _International_ show that even in this race America enters two not indifferent steeds. I must not forget to mention that the birds in the _Century_ magazine which the _Athenæum_ pronounced so far superior to any British work were designed by a young lady and engraved by her sister. The work of two American young ladies excelled the best of England; and then did not Miss Rosina Emmet send a Christmas greeting of her own composition to friends in England which took the second prize at the London Exhibition, although not intended for anything more than a private token of friendship. Let a note be made of all this, with three loving cheers for the young lady artists of the Republic. Instead of losing the charms of women by giving public expression to their love of the beautiful in all its forms, they but add one more indescribable charm which their less fortunate sisters can never hope to attain. How a man does reverence a woman who does fine things in art, literature, or music, or in any line whatever! [Sidenote: _On a Yacht._] The Charioteers gave leave of absence to the Scribe and General Manager to spend Sunday with my friends Mr. and Mrs. G., at Strathairly House, on the banks of the Forth. It was a most delightful visit. The Commodore of the Forth Yachting Squadron (for such Mr. G. is) had the Ranee ready to take us back to Edinburgh Monday morning. We enjoyed the sail down the Forth very much. That we could not accept the Commodore's invitation to change the Gay Charioteers into Bold Mariners for a day and visit St. Andrews in the Ranee gave rise to deep regret, when the other members of the party were informed of the treat proposed; but we cannot glean every field upon our march. Some other time, Commodore, the recently elected member of the squadron will report for duty on the flagship and splice the main brace with you and your jolly crew. There is a craze for yachting in Britain, which is also showing its symptoms on this side. I am not at home in vessels much smaller than an Atlantic steamer. The Charioteers resolved unanimously that their yacht should have four wheels and four horses, and should run on land. Upon our return to Edinburgh Monday morning, the first rumbling of the distant thunder from Dunfermline was heard, and it dawned upon us that serious work was at hand. Our friend Mr. D., of the Council, had called upon us and intimated that something of a demonstration might be made upon our arrival in my native town; but when I found a telegram from Mr. Simpson, the clerk, asking us to postpone our coming for a day, I knew there was an end to play. Things looked serious, but I was not going to be the sole sufferer. At dinner I laid it down as the law from which there could be no appeal, that if any public speaking were to be done, Messrs. P., McC., K., the General Manager, and V., were in for it. It is surprising how much it mitigates one's own troubles to see his dearest friends more frightened than himself. I grew bolder as I encouraged these victims. Their speeches were bound to be hits--no speeches have so often created sensations as maiden efforts. The last two offered great inducements to the ladies if they would vote that they should be excused. As for the others, I made it a question of ministerial confidence, and the administration was sustained. If you read their speeches I am sure you will see the wisdom of my selections. I was glad to see Sir Noel Paton, Dunfermline's most distinguished son, able to be at his sister's that evening. The recent narrow and heroic escape from drowning of himself, Lady Paton, and his son Victor, gave us all renewed interest in grasping his hand again. Thrown from a small sail-boat into the sea, at least two hundred yards from shore, with ropes and sail tangled about them, the three rallied to each other's support (for all could swim), and bore each other up until finally Lady Paton got between her husband and son, with one hand on the shoulder of each, and thus they struggled grandly to shore. Where is another trio that could do that, think you? I tell you, who don't know Dunfermline, that these Patons were always a marked family, and have had genius hovering about their pretty home for generations, and now and then touching the heads and hearts of father, sons, and daughters with its creative wand. There is a great deal in blood, no doubt, but the blood from an honest weaver or shoemaker is, as a rule, a much better article, something to be much prouder of, than you find from nobles whose rise came from such conduct as should make their descendants ashamed to talk of descent. It's a God's mercy we are all from honest weavers; let us pity those who haven't ancestors of whom they can be proud, dukes or duchesses though they be. * * * * * DUNFERMLINE, July 27-28. [Sidenote: _Dunfermline._] Put all the fifty days of our journey together, and we would have exchanged them all for rainy ones if we could have been assured a bright day for this occasion. It came, a magnificent day. The sun shone forth as if glad to shine upon this the most memorable day of my mother's life or of mine, as far as days can be rendered memorable by the actions of our fellow-men. We left Edinburgh and reached Queensferry in time for the noon boat. Here was the scene so finely given in "Marmion," which I tried, however, in vain to recall as I gazed upon it. If Dunfermline and its thunders had not been in the distance, I think I could have given it after a fashion, but I failed altogether that morning. "But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kissed, It gleamed a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw, Here Preston Bay, and Berwick Law; And broad between them rolled, The gallant Firth the eye might note. Whose islands on its bosom float, Like emeralds chased in gold." And truly it was a morning in which nature's jewels sparkled at their best. Upon reaching the north shore we were warmly greeted by Uncle and Aunt, and Maggie and Annie. It was decided better not to risk luncheon in the ruins of Rosythe Castle, as we had intended, the grass being reported damp from recent rains. We accordingly drove to the inn, but we were met at the door by the good landlady, who, with uplifted hands, exclaimed: "I'm a' alane! There's naebody in the house! They're a' awa' to Dunfermline! There'll be great goings on there the day." A hotel without one servant. The good woman, however, assured us we might come in and help ourselves to anything in the house; so we managed to enjoy our luncheon, though some of us only after a fashion. There were three gentlemen, a wife, and a cousin, who for the first time did not care much for anything in the form of luncheon. Speeches, speeches, these are what troubled Harry, Davie and me; and I had cause for grave alarm, of which they could form little idea, for I felt that if Dunfermline had been touched and her people had determined to give us a public reception, there was no saying to what lengths they might go. [Sidenote: _A Trying Ordeal._] If I could decently have stolen away and gone round by some circuitous route, sending my fellow townsmen an apology, and telling them that I really felt myself unable to undergo the ordeal, I should have been tempted to do so. I was also afraid that the Queen Dowager would break down, for if ever her big black eyes get wet it's all over with her. How fortunate it was that Mrs. H. was with her to keep her right! It was wisely resolved that she should take her inside of the coach and watch over her. I bit my lip, told the Charioteers they were in for it and must go through without flinching, that now the crisis had come I was just bound to stand anything. I was past stage-fright, and I assured myself that they could do their worst--I was callous and would not be moved--but to play the part of a popular hero even for a day, wondering all the time what you have done to deserve the outburst, is fearful work. When I did get time to think of it, my tower of strength lay in the knowledge that the spark which had set fire to their hearts was the Queen Dowager's return and her share in the day's proceedings. Grand woman, she has deserved all that was done in her honor even on that day. A man stopped us at the junction of the roads to inform us that we were expected to pass through the ancient borough of Innerkeithing; but I forgot myself there. It seemed a fair chance to escape part of the excitement (we had not yet begun the campaign as it were); at all events I dodged to escape the first fire, as raw troops are always said to do, and so we took the direct road. When the top of the Ferry Hills was reached we saw the town, all as dead as if the holy Sabbath lay upon it, without one evidence of life. How beautiful is Dunfermline seen from the Ferry Hills, its grand old abbey towering over all, seeming to hallow the city and to lend a charm and dignity to the lowliest tenement. Nor is there in all broad Scotland, nor in many places elsewhere, that I know of, a more varied and delightful view than that obtained from the park upon a fine day. What Benares is to the Hindoo, Mecca to the Mohammedan, Jerusalem to the Christian, all that Dunfermline is to me. But here I must stop. If you want to learn how impulsive and enthusiastic the Scotch are when once aroused, how dark and stern and true is the North, and yet how fervid and overwhelming in its love when the blood is up, I do not know where you will find a better evidence of it than in what followed. See how a small spark kindled so great a flame. The Queen Dowager and I are still somewhat shamefaced about it, but somehow or other we managed to go through with our parts without breaking down. [Sidenote: _The Free Library._] The Queen Dowager had been chosen to lay the Memorial Stone of the Free Library, and the enthusiasm of the people was aroused by her approach. There was something of the fairy tale in the fact that she had left her native town, poor, thirty odd years before, with her loved ones, to found a new home in the great Republic, and was to-day returning in her coach, to be allowed the privilege of linking her name with the annals of her beloved native town in one of the most enduring forms possible; for whatever agencies for good may rise or fall in the future, it seems certain that the Free Library is destined to stand and become a never-ceasing foundation of good to all the inhabitants. Well, the future historian of that ancient town will record that on this day, under bright sunshine, and amidst the plaudits of assembled thousands, the Queen Dowager laid the Memorial Stone of the building, an honor, compared with which, I was charged to tell the citizens, in the Queen Dowager's estimation, Queen Victoria has nothing in her power to bestow. So say also the sons of the Queen Dowager. The ceremonies passed off triumphantly. The procession, workingmen and address, banquet, and all the rest of it may be summed up in the remark of the Dunfermline press: "The demonstration may be said to be unparalleled in the history of Dunfermline." I will not be tempted to say anything further about this unexpected upheaval except this: after we had stopped and saluted the Stars and Stripes, displayed upon the Abbey Tower in graceful compliment to my American friends (no foreign flag ever floated there before, said our friend, Mr. R----, keeper of the ruins), we passed through the archway to the Bartizan, and at this moment came the shock of all that day to me. I was standing on the front seat of the coach with Provost Walls when I heard the first toll of the abbey bell. My knees sank from under me, the tears came rushing before I knew it, and I turned round to tell the Provost that I must give in. For a moment I felt as if I were about to faint. Fortunately I saw that there was no crowd before us for a little distance. I had time to regain control, and biting my lips till they actually bled, I murmured to myself, "No matter, keep cool, you must go on;" but never can there come to my ears on earth, nor enter so deep into my soul, a sound that shall haunt and subdue me with its sweet, gracious, melting power like that. [Sidenote: _The Abbey Bell._] By that curfew bell I had been laid in my little couch to sleep the sleep of childish innocence. Father and mother, sometimes the one, sometimes the other, had told me, as they bent lovingly over me night after night, what that bell said as it tolled. Many good words has that bell spoken to me through their translations. No wrong thing did I do through the day which that voice from all I knew of heaven and the great Father there did not tell me kindly about ere I sank to sleep, speaking the very words so plainly that I knew that the power that moved it had seen all and was not angry, never angry, never, but so very, _very_ sorry. Nor is that bell dumb to me to-day when I hear its voice. It still has its message, and now it sounded to welcome back the exiled mother and son under its precious care again. The world has not within its power to devise, much less to bestow upon us, such a reward as that which the abbey bell gave when it tolled in our honor. But my brother Tom should have been there also; this was the thought that came. He, too, was beginning to know the wonders of that bell ere we were away to the newer land. Rousseau wished to die to the strains of sweet music. Could I choose my accompaniment, I could wish to pass into the dim beyond with the tolling of the abbey bell sounding in my ears, telling me of the race that had been run, and calling me, as it had called the little white-haired child, for the last time--_to sleep_. We spent two days in Dunfermline. The tourist who runs over from Edinburgh will find the Abbey and the Palace ruins well worthy a visit. Take a day and see them, is my advice. Queen Margaret, King Robert the Bruce, and many other Kings and Queens are interred in the Abbey, for this was the capital of Scotland long ere Edinburgh rose to importance. Who does not remember the famous ballad of Sir Patrick Spens: "The King sits in Dunfermline toon, Drinking the bluid red wine; Oh where will I get a skelly skipper To sail this ship of mine." Dunfermline is now the principal seat of the damask manufacture. Americans will be interested in knowing that at least two-thirds of all the table linen made in the eleven factories here are for republican use. While we were there the rage was for designs showing the American race-horse Iroquois leading all the fleet steeds of England; now it is said to be for "Jumbo" patterns. [Sidenote: _The New Kings._] A visit to one of the leading factories cannot fail to be interesting to the sight-seer, and to such as may go I suggest that a good look be taken at the stalwart lassies and good-looking young women who work there. Several thousand of them marched in the procession formed to greet us at the city line, and their comely appearance and the good taste shown in their dress surprised the coaching party very agreeably. Indeed, our Poetaster improvised a verse which illustrates the change which has come over the ancient capital since the days of Sir Patrick Spens, and gave it to us as we rolled along: "The old Kings sat in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blood red wine; The new Kings are at better work, Weaving the damask fine." Quite correct, Davie. Does not Holy Writ declare that the diligent man shall stand _before_ Kings? And is it not time that the bibulous King should give place to the useful citizen--the world over! Friday was a cloudy day, but some of our friends, who spent the early morning with us and saw us off, unanimously predicted that it would clear. They proved true weather prophets, for it did turn out to be a bright day. Passing the residence of Colonel Myers, the American Consul, we drove in and gave that representative of the great Republic and his wife three farewell cheers. * * * * * KINROSS, Friday, July 28. Kinross was the lunching-place. Mother was for the first and last time compelled to seek the inside for a few hours after leaving Dunfermline. These farewells from those near and dear to you are among the cruelest ordeals one has to undergo in life. One of the most desirable arrangements held out to us in all that is said of heaven is to my mind that there shall be no parting there. Hell might be invested with a new horror by having them daily. We had time while at Kinross to walk along Loch Leven and see the ruined castle upon the island, from which Douglas rescued Queen Mary. What a question this of Mary Queen of Scots is in Scotland! To intimate a doubt that she was not purity itself suffices to stir up a warm discussion. Long after a "point of divinity" ceases to be the best bone to snarl over, this Queen Mary question will probably still serve the purpose. What matters it what she was? It is now a case of beauty in distress, and we cannot help sympathizing with a gentle, refined woman (even if her refinement was French veneering), surrounded by rude, coarse men. What is the use of "argie bargieing" about it? Still, I suppose, we must have a bone of some kind, and this is certainly a more sensible one than the "point of divinity," which happily is going somewhat out of fashion. To-day's talk on the coach was all of the demonstration at Dunfermline, and one after another incident was recalled. Bailie W---- was determined we should learn what real Scotch gooseberries are, and had put on the coach an immense basketful of them. "We never can dispose of so many," was the verdict at Kinross; at Perth it was modified, and ere Pitlochrie was reached the verdict was reversed and more wished for. Our American friends had never known gooseberries before, friend Bailie, so they said. [Sidenote: _The Carse of Gowrie._] Fair Perth was to be our resting-place, but before arriving there the pedestrians of the party had one of their grandest excursions, walking through beautiful Glen Farg. They were overpowered at every turn by its loveliness, and declared that there is nothing like it out of Scotland. The ferns and the wild flowers, in all their dewy freshness after the rains, made us all young again, and the glen echoed our laughter and our songs. The outlet from the glen into the rich Carse of Gowrie gave us another surprise worthy of record. There is nothing, I think, either in Britain or America, that is equal in cultivation to the famous Carse of Gowrie. They will be clever agriculturists who teach the farmers of the Carse how to increase very greatly the harvest of that portion of our good mother earth. Davie began to see how it is that Scotland grows crops that England cannot rival. Perthshire is a very beautiful county, neither Highland nor Lowland, but occupying, as it were, the golden mean between, and possessed of many of the advantages of both. * * * * * PERTH, Saturday, July 29. [Sidenote: _Fair Perth._] The view from the hill-top overlooking Perth is superb. "Fair Perth indeed!" we all exclaim. The winding Tay, with one large sail-boat gliding on its waters, the fertile plains beyond, and the bold crag at the base of which the river sweeps down, arrested the attention of our happy pedestrians and kept them long upon the hill. I had never seen Perth before, and it was a surprise to me to find its situation so very fine; but then we are all more and more surprised at what Scotland has to show when thoroughly examined. The finer view from the hill of Kinnoul should be seen, if one would know of what Scotland has to boast. Antiquaries refer the foundation of Perth to the Roman Agricola, who saw in its hills another Rome, and in its river another Tiber. "'Behold the Tiber!' the vain Roman cried, Viewing the ample Tay from Baiglie's side; But where's the Scot that would the vaunt repay, And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay?" But Agricola, poor fellow, was probably homesick, and felt much like the expatriated Scot who tries to imagine himself on his native heath when eating his annual haggis at St. Andrew's dinner in New York. From the days of Kenneth McAlpine down to the times of James I., Perth was the capital of Scotland, and witnessed the coronation of all her kings. Every Scot knows the story of James I.--how he hid from the assassins in the Dominican Convent, how fair Catherine Douglas thrust her arm through the socket of the bolt and held the door against them until her bones were brutally crushed, and how the fugitive was finally dragged from his place of concealment by "Robert Grahame That slew our king, God give him shame!" The old Abbey of Scone, the place of coronation, is about two and a half miles from the town, but little remains of it now besides its name and its associations. The ancient mound is there, but the sacred stone on which the monarchs stood when crowned was carried away by Edward I., and is now in Westminster Abbey, an object of interest to all true Scotsmen. In those royal days--rude and rough days they were too, viewed through modern spectacles--Perth was the centre toward which most of the clansmen looked, and almost every available hill in its vicinity was crowned by a castle, the stronghold of some powerful chieftain. Of course these autocrats were often at feud with each other, and frequently even with the magistrates of the town. In the latter case, if not strong enough to beard the lion in his den, they would waylay provision trains or vessels carrying necessaries to the city, and then the citizens would rise in their wrath and sally forth with sword and buckler and burn a castle or two. But quarrels with the towns-people did not pay in the long run, and their brands were oftener turned against each other. It is a sad commentary on the morals of the day that these neighborly feuds were rather fostered than checked by the authorities, who thought to win safety for themselves out of this brotherly throat-cutting. Sometimes the king set a score or two of them by the ears in the outskirts of the town for the court's amusement, just as bears and bandogs were pitted against each other in those godless days. Everybody has read in the "Fair Maid of Perth" the graphic account of one of these savage battles between thirty picked men of the Clan Quhele and as many of the Clan Chattan, on the North Inch of the city--that beautiful meadow in which Agricola saw a striking resemblance to the Campus Martius. The story is historically true, the battle having actually taken place in the reign of Robert III., who had in vain tried to reduce the rivals to order. As a last resort it was suggested that each should select his champions and fight it out in the presence of the king, it being shrewdly hoped that the peace of the community would be secured through the slaughter of the best men of both sides. The place chosen was prepared by surrounding it with a trench and by erecting galleries for spectators, for the brutal combat was witnessed by the king and his court and by many English and French knights, attracted thither by the novelty of the spectacle. The contestants, armed with their native weapons--bows and arrows, swords and targets, short knives and battle axes--entered the lists, and at the royal signal butchered each other until victory declared in favor of Clan Chattan, the only survivor of its opponents having swam the river and escaped to the woods. The few left of the conquering party were so chopped and carved and lopped of limbs that they could be no longer regarded as either useful or ornamental members of society--and thus good king Robert's sagacity in pitting these turbulent fellows against each other was apparently justified. Before starting to-day we had time to stroll along the Tay for an hour or two. We were especially attracted by a volunteer regiment under drill upon the green, and were gratified to see that the men looked remarkably well under close inspection, as indeed did all the militia and volunteers we saw. The nation cannot be wrong in accounting these forces most valuable auxiliaries in case of need. I have no doubt but in the course of one short campaign they would equal regular troops; at least such was the experience in the American war. The men we saw were certainly superior to regulars as men. It is in a war of defence, when one's own country is to be fought for, that bayonets which can think are wanted. With such a question at issue, these Scotchmen would rout any regular troops in the world who opposed them for pay. As for miserable skirmishes against poor half-armed savages, I hope these men would think enough to despise the bad use they were put to. [Sidenote: _Villas on the Tay._] The villas we saw upon the opposite bank of the Tay looked very pretty--nice home-like places, with their gardens and boat-houses. We voted fair Perth very fair indeed. After luncheon, which was taken in the hotel at Dunkeld, we left our horses to rest and made an excursion of a few miles to the falls, to the place in the Vale of Athol where Millais made the sketch for his celebrated picture called "O'er the hills and far awa'." It is a grand view, and lighted as it then was by glimpses of sunshine through dark masses of cloud, giving many of the rainbow tints upon the heather, it is sure to remain long with us. For thirty miles stretch the vast possessions of the Duke of Athol; over mountain, strath, and glen he is monarch of all the eye can see--a noble heritage. A recent storm is said to have uprooted seventy thousand of his trees in a single night. The scenery in the neighborhood of Dunkeld is very beautiful. The description of the poet Gray, who visited it in 1766, will do as well to-day. "The road came to the brow of a deep descent; and between two woods of oak we saw, far below us, the Tay come sweeping along at the bottom of a precipice at least a hundred and fifty feet deep, clear as glass, full to the brim, and very rapid in its course. It seemed to issue out of woods thick and tall that rose on either hand, and were overhung by broken rocky crags of vast height. Above them, to the west, the tops of higher mountains appeared, on which the evening clouds reposed. Down by the side of the river, under the thickest shades, is seated the town of Dunkeld. In the midst of it stands a ruined cathedral; the tower and shell of the building still entire. A little beyond it a large house of the Duke of Athole, with its offices and gardens, extends a mile beyond the town: and, as his grounds are intersected by the streets and roads, he has flung arches of communication across them, that add much to the scenery of the place." [Sidenote: _Dunkeld Cathedral._] The cathedral, still a noble ruin, stands a little apart from the town, in a grove of fine old trees. It owes its destruction to the Puritans, who sacked it in the sixteenth century, though the order "to purge the kyrk of all kinds of monuments of idolatrye" was directed only against images and altars. But the zeal of men in those days of bigotry was hard to control, and the mob did not desist from its work while a door remained on its hinges or a window was unbroken. Since then tower, nave, and aisles have remained open to sun and storm; the choir alone has been refitted and is now used as the parish church. In the choir is still to be seen the tomb and recumbent statue of the famous Earl of Buchan, better known as the Wolf of Badenoch. The coachman who drove us to-day interested us by his knowledge of men and things--such a character as could hardly grow except on the heather. He "did not think muckle o' one man owning thirty miles o' land who had done nothing for it." His reply to a question was given with such a pawkie expression that it remains fixed in the memory. "Why do not the people just meet and resolve that they will no longer have kings, princes, dukes or lords, and declare that all men are born equal, as we have done in America?" "Aye, maan, it would hae to be a _strong_ meeting that!" That strong was so _very_ strong; but there will be one strong enough some day, for all that. We cannot stand nonsense forever, patient as we are and slow. Dunkeld is the gateway of the Highlands, and we enter it, singing as we pass upward: "There are hills beyond Pentland And streams beyond Forth; If there are lords in the south There are chiefs in the north." We are among the real hills at last. Yonder towers Birnam, and here Dunsinane Hill. Mighty master, even here is your shade, and we dwell again in your shadow. The very air breathes of Macbeth, and the murdered Banquo still haunts the glen. How perfectly Shakespeare flings into two words the slow gathering darkness of night in this northern latitude, among the deep green pines: "Ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight; ere, to black Hecate's summons, The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hum, Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note.... ... _Light thickens_; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; Whiles night's black agents to their prey do rouse." That man shut his eyes and imagined more than other men could see with their eyes wide open even when among the scenes depicted. The light does "thicken," and the darkness creeps upon us and wraps us in its mantle unawares. [Sidenote: _Birnam Wood._] Birnam, a wooded hill on the bank of the Tay, is about twelve miles from Dunsinane or Dunsinnane Hill, the traditional stronghold of Macbeth the Giant, as the usurper was known to the country people. According to the common story, when Macbeth heard from his spies of the coming of Malcolm Canmore's troops from Birnam with branches in their hands, he recalled the prophecy of the witches, and, despairing of holding the castle against them, deserted it and fled, pursued by Malcolm, up the opposite hill, where finding it impossible to escape, he threw himself from a precipice and was killed on the rocks below. His place of burial is still shown at a spot called Lang Man's Grave, not far from the road where Banquo is said to have been murdered. Some Shakesperean scholars have thought that the great bard must have collected the materials for his tragedy upon the site. It is well known that Her Majesty's Players exhibited at Perth in 1589, and it is not impossible that Shakespeare may have been among them; but it is scarcely probable. The play follows very closely the history of Macbeth as narrated by Hollinshed, in which the usurper falls in single combat with Macduff, and there can be little doubt that Shakespeare derived his facts from the chronicle rather than from personal investigation. It is very evident, however, that Dunsinane was anciently a strong military post. The hill, which rises about eight hundred feet above its base, is steep and difficult of access on all sides but one, where are traces of a winding road cut into the rock. Its flat summit was once defended by a strong rampart, which, judging from its remains, must have been of considerable height and thickness. The area enclosed by it is more than two hundred feet long. * * * * * PITLOCHRIE, July 30-31. This is a great resort in the Highlands; and deservedly so, for excursions can be made in every direction to famous spots, embracing some of the finest scenery in Scotland. About three miles north of it rises Ben Vracky, and within easy distances are Glen Tilt, Bruar Water, the Pass of Killicrankie, Loch Tummel, the Falls of Tummel, and other places well worthy of a visit; but as the Gay Charioteers' time was limited they could pay their respects to only a few of them. We visited the hydropathic establishment in the evening, and found something resembling an American hotel. Such establishments are numerous in England and Scotland. Few of the guests take the cold-water treatment, as I had supposed, but visit the hotels more for sake of a change, to make acquaintances, and to "have a good time," as we say. I have no doubt that a month of Pitlochrie air is highly beneficial for almost any one. [Sidenote: _Falls of Tummel._] We walked to the falls of Tummel, and spent some happy hours there. Cousin Eliza is up in Scotch songs, and I start her every now and then. It has a charm of its own to sit on the banks of the very stream, with Athol near, and listen to the inquiry finely sung: "Cam ye by Athol, Lad wi' the philibeg, Down by the Tummel And banks of the Garry?" Through these very glens the mountaineers came rushing, "And with the ocean's mighty swing When heaving to the tempest's wing They hurled them on the foe." There is a new meaning to the song when Davie pours it forth in the glen itself: "Sweet the lavrock's note and lang, Lilting wildly up the glen, But aye to me it sings ae sang, Will ye no come back again?" What a chorus we gave him! There are some days in which we live more than twenty-four hours; and these days in Scottish glens count for more than a week of ordinary life. We are in the region of gamekeepers and dogs. It is the last day of July, and the whole country is preparing for the annual massacre of the 12th of August. Is civilization so very far advanced when the titled and wealthiest portions of cultured society have still for their chief amusements--which are in many cases with them the principal business of life--the racing of horses one half of the year, and the murdering of poor half-domesticated birds or the chasing to death of poor foxes and hares the other half? Can civilized man find nothing better to furnish needful recreation after useful toil? The prices paid for a deer forest in Scotland are incredible. Twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars per annum for the right to shoot over a few thousand acres of poorly timbered land, and a force of gamekeepers and other attendants to pay for besides. For the present the British are what is called a sporting people, and the Highlands are their favorite hunting-grounds. Their ideas of sport are curious. General Sheridan told me that, when abroad, he was invited to try some of their sport, but when he saw the poor animals driven to him, and that all he had to do was to bang away, he returned the gun to the attendant. He really could not do this thing, and the General is not very squeamish either. As for hunting down a poor hare--that needs the deadening influence of custom--women ought to be ashamed of it now; men will be anon. [Sidenote: _Pass of Killiecrankie._] The first of all our glens is the Pass of Killiecrankie, that famous defile which gave its name to the battle that proved so fatal to the Stuarts, for the victory won there by the adherents of the so-called James VII., was more than counterbalanced by the loss of Claverhouse. The pass is a narrow, ragged break through the mountains, giving a passage to the River Garry, and forming the only practicable entrance from the low country to the Highlands above. It is now accessible by a broad, smooth highway as well as by the railway, but at the time of the battle the only road through it was a rough path between the swirling river and the rocks, and so steep and narrow that but two men could march abreast. Along this path the royal forces under McKay slowly made their way; and though the pass is only about a mile and a half long it was afternoon before the little army of three thousand debouched into the plain at its extremity, and took position on the high ground beyond. Do you see that eminence a mile away yonder, on the north, whose sides slope down into the plain? It was from that height that the Highlanders--McLeans, McDonalds, Camerons, Lochiel, Dundee and all--came down like a torrent upon King William's men below. The red sun was just above the western hills. With fearful yells the tide of ragged, barefooted mountaineers (Macaulay says that Lochiel took off before the battle what was probably the only pair of shoes in the clans) swept on, undismayed by the volleys of musketry that decimated them as they ran. Plaids and haversacks were thrown away, and dropping their fusils as they fired them, they were upon the astonished Southrons before they had time to screw on their bayonets. The fight was over in a few minutes. More than a thousand men went down under the strokes of the dreaded claymores and Lochaber axes, and away went King William's men in a panic down the valley with the clans at their heels. The victory was a decisive one, but Claverhouse, who had insisted, against the remonstrances of Lochiel and others, upon leading in the charge, was fatally wounded by a bullet early in the action. Up yonder on the right is Urrard House, where he was carried to die. With this brave, unscrupulous leader, passed away the last hope of the Stuarts of winning their "own again." When King William heard of the defeat and of Dundee's death, he said, "Well, were it not so, Dundee would have been at my gates to tell it himself." We walked through the pass on our way northward, and concluded that we had thus far seen nothing quite so wild. The cliffs rise precipitously on each side, clothed here and there with patches of oak and birch. The dark, amber-brown rushing torrent is superb, swirling among the rocks, down which it has poured through eons of time, wearing them into strange forms. The very streams are Scotch, with a character all their own, portraying the stern features of the race, torn and twisted by endless ages of struggle with the rocks which impeded their passage, triumphantly clearing their pathway to the sea at last by unceasing, persistent endeavor. The sides of Scotia's glens are a never-failing source of delight, the wild flowers and the ferns seem so much more delicately fine than they are anywhere else. One understands how they affected Burns. Some of our ladies, the Queen Dowager always for one, will delay the coach any time to range the sides of the glen; and it is with great difficulty that we can get them together to mount once more. The horn sounds again and again, and still they linger and when they at last emerge from the copse, it is with handfuls or rather armfuls of Nature's smiles--lapfuls of wild flowers--each one rejoicing in her trophies, happy as the day is long, only it is not half long enough. Go the sun down never so late it sinks to its rest too soon. * * * * * DALWHINNIE, August 1. [Sidenote: _Pitlochrie to Dalwhinnie._] Our drive from Pitlochrie to Dalwhinnie, thirty-two miles, was from beginning to end unsurpassed--mountain and moor, forest and glen. The celebrated falls of Bruar lay in our route, and we spent two hours walking up the glen to see them. Well were we repaid. This is decided to be the finest, most varied fall of all we have seen. The amber torrent works and squirms itself through caldrons there, and gorges here, and dashes over precipices yonder, revealing new beauties and giving us fresh delights at every step. No gentle kiss gives this Scotch fiend to every sedge it overtaketh in its pilgrimage, for in truth, dashing and splashing against the rocks, the surging, boiling water, with its crest of sparkling foam, seems a live spirit escaping from the glen and bounding to the sea, pursued by angry demons behind. Standing on the bridge across the Bruar, one need not be entirely off his balance to sympathize to some extent with the wild wish of my young lady friend, who thought if she had to be anything dead she would be a plunging, mad stream like this, dancing among the rocks, snatching to its breast, as it passed, the bluebell and the forget-me-not, the broom and the fox-glove, leaping over precipices and tossing its gay head in sparkling rainbow sprays forever and ever. [Sidenote: _Bruar Water._] It was while gazing at this fall that Burns wrote the petition of Bruar Water. The shade asked for has been restored--"Clanalpine's pines, in battle brave," now fill the glen, and the falls of the Bruar sing their grateful thanks to the bard who loved them. I have often reminded you, good readers, that the coaching party, with a few exceptions, hailed with delight every opportunity for a walk. Contrary to expectation, these came much less frequently in Scotland than in England. Far away up among the towering hills, where the roads necessarily follow the streams which have pushed themselves through the narrow defiles, we get miles and miles in the glens along the ever-changing streams; but it is too level for pedestrianism unless we reduce the pace of the coach and walk the horses. It is after a two hours' climb up the glen to see such a waterfall as the Bruar that we return to the coach, feeling, as we mount to our seats, that we have done our duty. We were many miles from our lunching site, and long ere it was reached we were overtaken by the mountain hunger. When we arrived at the house on the moors where entertainment had been promised us, it was to find that it had been rented for the season for a shooting-box by a party of English gentlemen, who were to arrive in a few days for their annual sport--the slaughter of the carefully preserved birds. The people, however, were very kind, and gave us the use of the house. Few midday halts gave rise to more gayety than this, but there is one item to be here recorded which is peculiar to this luncheon. For the first and only time the stewardess had to confess that her supplies were exhausted. Due allowance, she thought, had been made for the effects of Highland air, but the climb to Bruar, "or the brunt of the weather," had produced an unusual demand. The very last morsel was eaten, and there seemed a flavor of hesitancy in the assurance some of us gave her that we wished for nothing more. There was not even one bite left for the beautiful collies we saw there. Has the amount and depth of affection which a woman can waste on a collie dog ever been justly fathomed? was a question raised to-day; but our ladies declined to entertain it at all unless "waste" was changed to "bestow." The amendment was accepted. Many stories were told of these wonderful pets, and what their mistresses had done for them. My story was a true one. Miss Nettie having to go abroad had to leave her collie in some one's care. Many eligible parties had been thoughtfully canvassed, when I suggested that, as I had given her the dog, it might be perfectly safe to leave him with me, or rather with John and the horses. A grave shake of the head, and then, "I have thought of that, but have given it up. It would never do. Trust requires _a woman's care_." Not a smile, all as grave as if her pet had been a delicate child. "You are quite right," I replied; "no doubt he would have a dog's life of it at the stable." She said yes, mournfully, and never suspected a joke. In a stable in New York I once saw a doctor's card nailed up. Inquiry revealed that this gave the coachman the address of the physician who was to be called in case the lady's dog should be taken ill during her absence. If the ladies must go wild over some kind of a dog, let it be a collie. I like them myself a little. [Sidenote: _In the Highlands._] It was gloaming ere we reached Loch Ericht, twelve hundred and fifty feet above the sea. What a wild, solitary country it is around us! The lake lies as it were in the lap of the mountains. It is easy to believe that this was a famous Highland stronghold in the olden time. Even Cromwell's Ironsides met with a rude check in its savage glens from the men of Athol. Do you see rugged Ben Alder yonder, the highest of the group that looks down into the still waters of the lake? In its recesses is the cave where Prince Charlie was hidden by Cluny Macpherson. The gathering of the night shadows warn us that we must seek shelter, and in a few minutes we are housed in the queer little inn at Dalwhinnie. A bright fire was made, and we were as gay as larks at dinner. I am sure nothing could surprise Americans more than the dinners and meals generally which were given us even in such out-of-the-way stations as this. Everything is good, well-cooked, and nicely served. It is astonishing what a good dinner and a glass of genuine old claret does for a party after such a long day's drive and a climb. Reassembling after dinner in our neat little parlor, the Stars and Stripes displayed as usual over the mantel, we were all as fresh and bright as if we had newly risen, and were in for a frolic. The incidents of the day gave us plenty to talk about--the falls, the glen, that mountain blue, the lake, and oh! that first dazzling glint of purple heather upon the high rock in the glen which drew forth such exclamations! A little patch it was which, having caught more of the sunshine there than that upon the moors, had burst before it into the purple, and given to the most of us for the first time ample proof of the rich, glorious beauty of that famous plant. What says Annie's song? "I can calmly gaze o'er the flowery lea, I can tentless muse o'er the summer sea; But a nameless rapture my bosom fills As I gaze on the face of the heather hill." Aye, Annie, the "nameless rapture" swells in the bosom of every Scotchman worthy of the name, when he treads the heather. Andrew M.'s prize song, "The Emigrant's Lament," has the power of a flower to symbolize the things that tug hardest at the heart-strings very strongly drawn. By the way, let it here be recorded, this is a Dunfermline song, written by Mr. Gilfillan--three cheers for Dunfermline! (that always brings the thunder, aye, and something of the lightning too). The Scotchman who left the land where his forefathers sleep sings: "The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly sings; _But I dinna see the broom_ wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the linties sang o' my ain countrie." There it is, neither palm-tree nor myrtle, poinsetta nor Victoria Regia, nor all that luscious nature has to boast in the dazzling lands of the south, all put together, will ever make good to that woe-begone, desolate, charred heart the lack of that wee yellow bush o' broom--never! Nor will all "the drowsy syrups of the East," quiet the ache of that sad breast which carries within it the doom of exile from the scenes and friends of youth. They cannot agree, in these days, where a man's soul is, much less where it is going; let search be made for it close, very close, to the roots of that ache. It is not far away from the centre which colors the stream of man's life. Many times to-day, in the exhilaration of the moment, one or another enthusiastic member called out, "What do ye think o' Scotland noo?" and even Emma had to confess in a half-whisper that England was nothing to this. Perry and Joe had never been beyond the border before, and gave in their adhesion to the verdict--there is no place like Scotland. "Right, Perry!" [Sidenote: _Scotland's Flowers._] We have never seen that paragon of grace, the Scottish bluebell, in its glory till now. It is not to be judged in gardens, for it is not in its element there; but steal upon it in the glen and see how it goes to your heart. Truly I think the Scotch are the best lovers of flowers, make the most of them, and draw more from them than any other people do. This is a good sign, and may be adduced as another proof that the race has a tender, weak spot in the heart to relieve the hard level head with which the world credits them. Whew! Thermometer 53° during the night, the coldest weather experienced during our journey. But how invigorating! Ten years knocked off from the age of every one of us since we got among the hills, excepting from that of several of the ladies, who could hardly spare so much and still be as charming. We were stirring early this morning, in for a walk across the moors, with the glorious hills surrounding us. A grand walk it was too, and the echoes of the horn from the coach overtaking us came all too soon upon us. Looking back down the valley of Loch Ericht, we had the ideal Highland view--mountains everywhere fading into blue in the distance, green to their tops except when capped with snow, and bare, not a tree nor a shrub to break their baldness, and the lake lying peacefully among them at the foot of the vale. These towering masses "Seem to stand to sentinel Enchanted Land." I am at a loss for any scenery elsewhere with which to compare that of the Highlands. The bluish tinge above, the rich purple tint below, the thick and thin marled, cloudy sky with its small rifts of clear blue, through which alone the sun glints to relieve the dark shadows by narrow dazzling lights--these give this scenery a weird and solemn grandeur unknown elsewhere; at least I have seen nothing like it. During my strolls at night amid such scenes, I have always felt nearer to the awful mysteries than ever before. The glowering bare masses of mountain, the deep still lake sleeping among them, the sough of the wind through the glen, not one trace of man to be seen, no wonder it makes one eerie, and you feel as if "Nature had made a pause, An awful pause, prophetic of its end." Memory must have much to do with this eerie feeling upon such occasions, I take it, for every scrap of Scottish poetry and song bearing upon the Highlands comes rushing back to me. There are whispering sounds in the glen: "Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale." I hear the lament of Ossian in the sough of the passing wind. [Sidenote: _Ruthven Castle._] We stopped at the inn at Kingussie, one of the centres of sporting interest, but drove on beyond to spread our luncheon upon the banks of the Spey, close to the remains of Ruthven Castle, a fine ruin in this beautiful valley. We walked to it after luncheon. It was here that the Highland clans assembled after the defeat at Culloden Field and resolved to disband, and the country was rid of the Stuarts forever. How far the world has travelled since those days! The best king or family of kings in the world is not worth one drop of an honest man's blood. If the House of Commons should decide to-day that the Prince of Wales is not a fit and proper figure-head and should vote that my Lord Tom Noddy is, there is not a sane man in the realm who would move a finger for the rightful heir; yet our forefathers thought it a religious duty to plunge their country into civil war to restore the Stuarts, "A coward race to honor lost; Who knew them best despised them most." But I suppose they were about a fair average of royal races. "Life can be lived well even in a palace," sings Matthew Arnold, and the more credit to such as do live it well there, like Queen Victoria, but it is difficult work and needs a saint to begin with. It does one good to mark such progress. I will not believe that man goes round in a circle as the earth does; upon the king absurdity he has travelled a straight line. When we made kings by act of Parliament (as the Guelphs were made), another lesson was learned, that Parliament can unmake them too. That is one bloody circle we need never travel again. Not one drop of blood for all the royal families in Christendom. Carried, _nem. con._ There was a discussion to-day upon the best mode of enjoying life. Sydney Smith's famous secret was mentioned. When asked why he was always so bright and cheerful, he replied: The secret is "I take short views of things." Somehow this is the Scriptural idea, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." A good story was told of an old man who had endured many of the ills of life in his long journey. His friends upon one occasion, more trying than usual, condoled with him, saying that he really had more troubles than other men. "Yes, my friends, that is too true. I have been surrounded by troubles all my life long, but there is a curious thing about them--_nine-tenths of them never happened_." That is a story with a moral for you. How many of our troubles ever happened! We dream of ten for every one that comes. One of the Charioteers was ready with a verse to enforce the moral: "When fortune with a smiling face Strews roses on our way, When shall we stop to pick them up? To-day, my love, to-day. But should she frown with face of care, And speak of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve, if grieve we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow." [Sidenote: _Honeysuckle and Roses._] This was received with evident approval, and just as it ended the huge beds of honeysuckle lying on the hedge-rows we were passing, and the wild roses rising above them on long graceful sprays, nodding their heads as if desirous of doing us obeisance, caused one of the ladies to cry out, "Oh, here are the roses on our way just now! Do let us stop and pluck them to-day, as the poet advises." "Stop, Perry!" "Right, sir!" "Steps, Joey!" "Right, sir!"--and down we are in a moment gathering the spoils. "Do let the coach drive on and wait for us at the top of the next hill." "But wait, ladies, let us all put our flowers inside and arrange them when we stop for luncheon." It is a superb morning, the hedge-rows prettier than ever; the larks are rising; now and then a hare darts across the road in advance. The whirr of the partridge or pheasant stirs the sportsman's blood, and upon every tree some feathered songster pours forth his song. Faust need not have sold himself to the devil for youth, after all. We find it here in this glorious gypsy life. Upon remounting the coach after an hour's frolic in the lane, some one wanted the reciter to repeat the verse which had caused the stop, but he said there was a second verse which also had its moral, and, if permitted, he would give this instead. Agreed to, provided he would give the ladies a copy of both verses for their books--one copy for the lot, and this each would copy for herself. His terms, however, were that he should repeat it alone to Miss ---- and teach it to her (sly dog), and she could make the copies. He then gave us the second verse: "If those who've wronged us own their faults And kindly pity pray, When shall we listen and forgive? To-day, my love, to-day. But if stern justice urge rebuke And warmth from memory borrow, When shall we chide, if chide we must? To-morrow, love, to-morrow." This was voted a fit companion for the first verse, so the Charioteers to-day had two moral lessons. [Sidenote: _Good Philosophy._] The student said it was also good philosophy, and taught by no less an authority than Herbert Spencer himself, who had exposed the folly of postponing present enjoyments in the hope that they will be better if enjoyed at a later date. Here are the words of the sage: "Hence has resulted the belief that, irrespective of their kinds, the pleasures of the present must be sacrificed to the pleasures of the future. So ignorant is this belief, that it is wrong to seek immediate enjoyments and right to seek remote ones only, that you may hear from a busy man who has been on a pleasure excursion a kind of apology for his conduct. He deprecates the unfavorable judgments of his friends by explaining that the state of his health had compelled him to take a holiday, nevertheless if you sound him with respect to his future, you will find out his ambition is by and by to retire and devote himself wholly to the relaxation which he is now somewhat ashamed of taking. The current conception further errs by implying that a gratification which forms a proper aim if it is remote, forms an improper aim if it is proximate." And this from the "Data of Ethics." So that the poet and the philosopher are as one. "Does Herbert Spencer write so clearly and simply as that upon such subjects?" asked one of the young ladies. "I thought he was so fearfully deep. His books sound so very learned and abstruse, I have only read his work on 'Education'; that was splendid, and I understood it all, every word. If that book you just quoted from had an easy name I'd go to work at it--but 'Data of Ethics' frightens me. I don't know exactly what Data means, and I'm mixed on Ethics." The voice of the Coach was clear upon "Education," however, and I recall just now the remark of my little nephew to his mother, when Mr. Spencer did us the honor of visiting us: "Mamma, I want to see the man who wrote in a book that there is no use studying grammar." Amid the thousands of very grateful ones who feel what they owe to Herbert Spencer, may be safely classed that young scion of our family. His gratitude is profound, and with good reason. Boat o' Garten was to be our refuge, a small, lovely inn on the moors, the landlady of which had telegraphed us in a rather equivocal way in response to our request for shelter. There was no other house for many miles, so we pushed on, trusting to our star. We were all right. The house was to be filled on the morrow with sportsmen, and we could be entertained "for this night only." Such is luck. Even as it was, the family rooms had to be given up to us; but then, dear souls, there is nothing they would not do for the Americans. As for the coach, there was no building on the moors high enough to take in the huge vehicle; but as showing the extreme care taken of property in this country, I note that heavy tarpaulins were obtained, and it was nicely covered for the night. What a monster it seemed standing out in the darkness! After dinner we received packages of the Dunfermline papers containing the full account of the demonstration there and of the speeches. It goes without saying that there was great anxiety to read the account of that extraordinary ovation. Those who had made speeches and said they were not very sure what, were seen to retire to quiet corners and bury themselves in their copies. Ah, gentlemen, it is of no use! Read your orations twenty times over, you are just as far as ever from being able to gauge your wonderful performances; besides the speech made is nothing compared to any of half a dozen you have since made to yourself on the same subject. Ah! the Dunfermline people should have heard these. So sorry! One can tell all about the speeches of his colleagues, however, and we made each other happy by very liberal laudations, while we each felt once more the generous rounds of applause with which we had been greeted. [Sidenote: _Last Night on the Moors._] After mailing copies of the newspapers to numerous friends, there came a serious cloud over all. This was to be our last night on the moors; the end of our wayward life had come. One more merry start at the horn's call, and to-morrow's setting sun would see the end of our happy dream. Arcadia would be no more; the Charioteers' occupation would be gone. It was resolved that something should be done to celebrate the night to distinguish it from others. We would conform to the manners and customs of the country and drink to our noble selves in whiskey toddy with Highland honors. This proved a success. Songs were sung; Aaleek was in his most admirable fooling; "your health and song" went round, and we parted in tolerably good spirits. There was an unusual tenderness in the grasp of the hand, and mayhap something of a tremor in the kind "Good-night, happy dreams," with which it was the custom of the members to separate for the night, and we went to bed wondering what we had done to deserve so much happiness. * * * * * BOAT O' GARTEN, August 2. Inverness at last! But most of us were up and away in advance of the coach, for who would miss the caller air and the joy of the moors these blessed mornings when it seems joy enough simply to breathe? But did not we catch it this morning! No use trying to march against this blow; the wind fairly beat us, and we were all glad to take refuge in the school-house till the coach came; and glad were we that we had done so. Was it not a sight to see the throng of sturdy boys and girls gathered together from who knows where! For miles and miles there are seen but a few low huts upon the moors; but as some one has said, "Education is a passion" in Scotland, and much of the admitted success of the race has its root in this truth. The poorest crofter in Scotland will see that his child gets to school. Note this in the fine old song: "When Aaleck, Jock, and Jeanettie _Are up and got their lair_, They'll serve to gar the boatie row And lichten a' our care." [Sidenote: _Advantages of Poverty._] Heavy is the load of care that the Scotch father and mother take upon themselves and struggle with all the years of their prime that the bairns "may get their lair." To the credit of the bairns let it be said that the hope expressed in the verse just quoted is not often disappointed. They do grow up to be a comfort to their parents in old age when worn out with sacrifices made for them. Our great men come from the cradles of poverty. I think he was a very wise man who found out that the advantage of poverty was a great prize which a rich man could never give his son. But we should not condemn the Marquises of Huntley, the Dukes of Hamilton, and the rest of them; they never had a fair chance to become useful men. It is the system that is at fault, and for that we the people are responsible. The privileged classes might turn out quite respectably if they had justice done them and were permitted to start in life as other men are. For my part, I wonder that they generally turn out as well as they do. The kite mounts only against the wind. Coaching brings us close to Nature's sweetest charms, and the good universal mother is always so gracious to her children; the cawing of the rook or the crowing of the cock awakens us; the green things and the pretty flowers about the inn, which greet the eyes as we pull up the blinds, and the sniff of fresh morning air which a short stroll before breakfast gives us, make a splendid start for the day, so different from the usual beginning of city life. The whole day is spent in the open air, walking or driving, or lolling upon sunny braes at luncheon, amid brooks and wild flowers, and the hum of bees, the songs of birds, and the grateful scent of new-mown hay. And when night comes we fall asleep, with the sense of dropping softly upon banks of flowers without a thorn. Tell me if such a life for a few weeks now and then is not the best cure for most of the serious ills of this high-pressure age! Every man who can afford it should give it a trial. If overworked, he should go to find the cure--if well, he should certainly go in order to keep so. We all need to learn what the poet says: "Better that man and nature were familiar friends; That part of man is worst which touches this base life; For though the ocean in its inmost depths be pure, Yet the salt fringe which daily licks the shore Is foul with sand." I think the last line worthy of Shakespeare, even if it be the product of a poor young Glasgow poet. In this coaching life we touch the base every-day life of care and struggle at very few points indeed and hence our joy. We are deep in love with Nature, and true worshippers at her shrine have few sorrows. [Sidenote: _Scotland's School Houses._] While revelling in the exquisite beauty of England--such quiet and peaceful beauty as we had never seen before--the thought often came to me that I should be compelled to assume the apologetic strain for my beloved Scotland. It could not possibly have such attractions to show as the more genial South, but so far from this being so, as I have already said, there was scarcely a morning or afternoon during which the triumphant inquiry was not made, "What do you think of Scotland noo?" Of all that earned for Scotland the first place in our hearts I mention the pretty stone school-houses, with teacher's residence and garden attached, which were seen in almost every village; and if I had no other foundation than this upon which to predict the continued intellectual ascendency of Scotland and an uninterrupted growth of its people in every department of human achievement, I should unhesitatingly rest it upon these school-houses. A people which passes through the parish school in its youth cannot lose its grasp, or fall far behind in the race. Indeed, compared with the thorough education of the masses, the lives and quarrels of politicians seem petty in the extreme. It is with education as with righteousness, seek it first and all political blessings must be added unto you. It is the only sure foundation upon which to rear the superstructure of a great State, and how happy I am to boast that Scotland is not going to yield the palm in this most important of all work! No, not even to the Republic. From what I saw of the new schools, I'll back their scholars against any lot of American children to-day; but I admit one great lack: the former would strike you as somewhat too deferential, disposed to bow too much to their superiors in station, while American boys are said to be born repeating the Declaration of Independence. No more valuable lesson can be taught a lad than this: that he is born the equal of the prince, and what privileges the prince has are unjustly denied him. It would do Scotch boys good to hear my young American nephews upon the doctrine that one man "is as good as another and a good deal better." Of the sights which cause me to lose temper, one is to see a splendid young Briton, a real manly fellow, standing mum like a duffer when he is asked why the son of a Guelph or of any other family should have a privilege denied to him. Are you less a man? Have not you had as honest parents and a better grandfather? Why do you stand this injustice? And then he has nothing to say. Well, I have sometimes thought I have noticed the cheek a little redder. That is always a consolation. Thank God! we have nothing like this in America. Our young men carry in their knapsacks a President's seal, and no one is born to any rank or position above them. Under the starry flag there are equal rights for all. It will be so in Scotland perhaps ere I die (D. V.). If I had the schooling of young Scotland I would make every class repeat in the morning before lessons: "If thou hast said I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Highland or lowland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied." I would teach them the new meaning of that stirring verse, and tell them that the lad who did not believe himself the peer of any man born and entitled to every privilege "might do for an Austrian, a Russian, a Prussian, or an Italian," but never would be much of a Scotchman--never. [Sidenote: _Popular Amusements._] I do not think I have spoken of the announcements of amusements seen everywhere during the trip throughout the rural districts: band competitions, cricket matches, flower shows, wrestling matches, concerts, theatricals, holiday excursions, races, games, rowing matches, football contests, and sports of all kinds. We are surprised at their number, which gives incontestable evidence of the fact that the British people work far less and play far more than their American cousins do. No toilers, rich or poor, like the Americans! The band competitions are unknown here, but no doubt we shall soon follow so good an example and try them. The bands of a district meet and compete for prizes, which stirs up wholesome rivalry and leads to excellence. We saw eight gathered for competition in one little town which we passed, and the interest excited by the meet was so great as to put the town _en fête_. I do not know any feature of British life which would strike an American more forcibly than these contests. We should try one here, and, by and by, why not an international contest--the Dunfermline band playing the "Star-Spangled Banner," and the Pittsburgh performers "Rule Britannia." Yes, that's right; I insist upon "Rule Britannia"--that is the nation's song; I am growing tired of "God Save the Queen"--even such a model as the present one--for the strain is only personal, after all. I wish Her Majesty well, but I love my country more. "Rule Britannia" is the national song. I hope Americans will find some day more time for play, like their wiser brethren upon the other side. We came to the crossing of the Spey to-day to find that the long high bridge was undergoing extensive repairs and closed to travel. In America it would never have occurred to us that a bridge could be closed while being rebuilt, but in the science of bridge-building British engineers are a generation behind us, because they have not had to build so many. However, there was nothing for it but to follow down the stream until another bridge was found. When we did find it, we saw a notice prohibiting loads beyond two tons from crossing. It was a light iron structure (perhaps a Tay blunder upon a small scale). The wind was whistling like a fiend about our ears as it came roaring down the glen; all pleasant while we were in the woods skirting the river with our backs to it, but when we turned to cross it seemed as if we should be blown bodily from the top of the coach. Everything was taken off the top, and we all dismounted. Perry and Joe drove over, while we all walked, some of us on the lee side of the coach for shelter, and in a few minutes we were so sheltered in the glen again as scarcely to know there was a breath of air stirring; but these "Highland homes where tempests blow" know what gales are. We have had great blows now and then at some high points crossing the moors, for the hills you rarely cross; these you have to avoid, but to-day was the only time we were compelled to dismount. [Sidenote: _The Last Luncheon._] We had not far to drive before we reached the pretty little burn which falls into the Findhorn, the spot selected for the last luncheon. This spot seemed made to order; the burn, the fire, the mossy grass, the wild river, the moor and glen, all here. Down sat the Charioteers for the last happy luncheon together. We were all so dangerously near the brink of sad regret that a bold effort was necessary to steer clear of thoughts which pressed upon us. We had to laugh for fear we might cry, the smile ever lies so near the tear. It _had_ to be a lively luncheon, that was all there was about it; and when duty calls it doesn't take much to start our boys to frolic. A few empty bags which we had used for horse-feed in emergencies suggested a sack-race. Such roars of laughter when one or the other of the too ambitious contestants went to grass! This was a capital diversion. Any one looking down upon us (but in these lonely glens no eye is there to see) would never have imagined that this sport was started only as a means to prevent the travellers becoming mournful enough for a funeral. A little management is a great thing; it pulled us through the last luncheon with only tears of laughter. "In, Joe! Right, Perry! Sound the horn! All aboard for Inverness!" There was something in the thought, "We have done it," which kept us from regret, although the rebuke came sharply from the ladies, as one pointed out another milestone, "Oh, don't, please!" With every white stone passed there was a mile less of Arcadia to enjoy. Over moor and dale lies the way, a beautiful drive, gradually descending for many miles, from about twelve hundred and fifty feet above the sea level at Dalwhinnie to a few hundred only near Inverness. At last the call is made, "Stop, Perry! Capital of the Highlands, all hail! Three rousing cheers for bonnie Inverness!" There she lies so prettily upon the Moray Frith, surrounded by fields of emerald green, an unusually grand situation and a remarkably beautiful town. We stopped long upon the hill-top to enjoy the picture spread out below. The Charioteers will forget much ere their entrance into Inverness fades from the memory. A telegram from friend G., conveyed to us the congratulations of our Wolverhampton connection upon the triumphant success of our expedition, to which something like this was sent: "Thanks! We arrived at the end of this earthly paradise at six o'clock this evening. When shall we look upon its like again?" * * * * * INVERNESS, August 3. [Sidenote: _Inverness._] It was Saturday, 6 P.M., August 3d, exactly seven weeks and a day after leaving Brighton, when we entered Inverness and sat down in our parlor at the Caledonian Hotel. Up went the flags as usual; dinner was ordered; then came mutual congratulations upon the success of the journey just finished. Not one of the thirty-two persons who had at various times travelled with us ever missed a meal, or had been indisposed from fatigue or exposure. Even Ben had been improved by the journey. Nor had the coach ever to wait five minutes for any one; we had breakfasted, lunched, and dined together, and not one had ever inconvenienced the company by failing to be in time. How shall I render the unanimous verdict of the company upon the life we had led? "I never was so happy in my life. No, Aaleck, not even upon my wedding journey." That is the verdict of one devoted young wife, given in presence of her husband. "I haven't been so happy since my father took me fishing, and I wasn't as happy then," was Aaleck's statement. "Oh, Andrew, I have been a young girl again!" We all know who said that, Miss Velvety. "I can't help it, but I don't want to speak of it just now. It's too sad." Prima Donna, this was a slightly perilous line to follow, for the heart was evidently near the mouth there. "To think of it, Naig, I have to go home to-morrow." That was Eliza. "Jerusalem the golden! it would make a wooden Indian jump, this life would." No need of putting a name to that, Bennie, my lad. "Andrew, I've just been in a dream of happiness all the time." That was oor Davie. "I never expect to be as happy for seven weeks again," met with a chorus of supporters. The Queen Dowager, however, put us all in a more gleeful mood by her verdict: "Well, I expect to have another coaching trip yet. You'll see! He can't help doing more of this, and I'll be there. He can't keep _me_ at home!" And her hearty laugh and a clap of her hands above her head brought us all merrily to dinner. She is very often a true prophet. We shall see, we shall see! After dinner we strolled about the city and admired its many beauties, especially the pretty Ness, which flows through the town to the sea. Its banks and islands constitute one of the finest of pleasure-grounds for the people, and many a lover's tale, I trow, has been told in the shady walks beside it. I felt quite sentimental myself, sauntering along between the gloaming and the mirk with one of the young ladies. The long, long gloaming of the north adds immensely to the charms of such a journey as this we have just taken. These are the sweetly precious hours of the day. [Sidenote: _Macbeth's Castle._] At Inverness we are again on classic ground; for Macbeth had a castle there, which good King Duncan visited, and of which he said: "This castle hath a pleasant seat: the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses." It was razed by Malcolm III. or Canmore, Duncan's son, who built a new castle not far from its site. This latter fortress existed until about the middle of the last century, when it was blown up by the troops of Charles Edward Stuart. Portions of its walls may still be seen. Culloden field, too, is hard by, and all the country round is rich in ruined keeps and towers. On reassembling in our parlor an ominous lack of hilarity prevailed. We did manage, however, to get the choir up to the point of giving this appropriate song with a slight variation: "Happy we've been a' thegither, Happy we've been in ane and a', Blyther folk ne'er coached thegither, Sad are we to gang awa'." (Chorus). It wasn't much of a success. We were not in tune, nor in time either. Joe and Perry were to come at ten to say good-by. Here the serious business of life pressed upon us, escape being impossible. We had to meet it at last. They came and received the thanks and adieux of all. I handed them notes certifying to all coming coaching parties that fortunate indeed would be their lot were Perry and Joe to take them in charge. Joey responded in a speech which so riveted our attention during delivery that not one of us could recall a sentence when he ceased. This is one of the sincere regrets of the travellers, for assuredly a copy of that great effort would have given the record inestimable value. It was a gem. I have tried to catch it, but only one sentence comes to me: "And has for the 'osses, sir, they are better than when we started, sir; then they 'ad flabby flesh, sir; now they're neat an' 'ardy." So are we all of us, Joey, just like the 'osses; "neat an' 'ardy," fit for walk, run, or climb, and bang-up to everything. We had all next day to enjoy Inverness. What a fine climate it has as compared with the Highlands south of it! Vegetation is luxuriant here and the land fertile. One would naturally expect all to be bleak and bare so far north, but that Gulf Stream which America sends over to save the precious tight little isle from being a region of ice makes it delightful in summer and not extremely cold even in winter. We are assured that the climate of Inverness is more genial than that of Edinburgh, which is not saying very much for the capital of the North surely, but still it is something. * * * * * CALEDONIAN HOTEL, INVERNESS, August 5, evening. [Sidenote: _Farewell to the Coach._] General Manager, at dinner. _To waiter_: "What time do we start in the morning?" _Waiter_: "The _omnibus_ starts at seven, sir." _Shakespearean Student_--"Ah! There was the weight which pulled us down. The omnibus! Farewell the neighing steeds, the spirit-stirring horn, whose sweet throat awakened the echoes o'er mountain and glen. Farewell, the Republican banner, and all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious coaching, farewell! The Charioteers' occupation's gone." _First Miltonic Reciter_-- "From morn till noon, From noon till dewy eve, A summer's day we fell." Our fall from our own four-in-hand to a public omnibus--oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!--involved the loss of many a long summer's day to us, for long as they had been the sun ever set too soon. It was all up after this. Perry and Joe, the coach and the horses, were speeding away by rail to their homes; we were no longer _the_ coaching party, but only ordinary tourists buying our tickets like other people instead of travelling as it were in style upon annual passes. But fate was merciful to us even in this extremity; we were kept from the very lowest stage of human misery by finding ourselves alone and all together in the omnibus; our party just filled it. If it was only a hotel omnibus, as one of the young ladies said, it was all our own yet, as was the MacLean boat at the flood, and the ladies, dear souls, managed to draw some consolation from that. We returned from Inverness by the usual tourist route: canal and boat to Oban, where we rested over night, thence next day to Glasgow. Under any other circumstances I think this part of the journey would have been delightful. The scene indelibly impressed upon our minds is that we saw at night near Ballachulish. I remember a party of us agreed that what we then saw could never be forgotten. But Black alone could paint it. It is saying much for any combination of the elements when not one nor two, but more of a party like ours stand and whisper at rare intervals of the sublime and awful grandeur which fascinates them into silence; never am I lifted up apparently so close to the Infinite as when amid such weird, uncanny scenes as these. We had an hour of this that night, fitting close to our life in the Highlands of Scotland. [Sidenote: _The First Separation._] The first separation came at Greenock. The Queen Dowager, and Mr. and Mrs. K. disembarked there for Paisley. The others continued by boat to Glasgow and enjoyed the sail up the Clyde very much. It was Saturday, a holiday for the workers. The miles of shipyards were still, "no sound of hammers clanking rivets up," that fine sunny day, but as we passed close to them we saw the iron frames of the future monsters of the deep, the Servia, Alaska, and others destined to bear the palm for a short time, and then to give place to others still greater, till the voyage between England and America will be only a five-day pleasure excursion, and there will be "two nations, but one people." God speed the day! But the old land must come after a time up to Republicanism! I make a personal matter of that, Lafayette, my boy, as Mulberry Sellers says. No monarchy need apply. We draw the line at this. All men were created free and _equal_. Brother Jonathan takes very little "stock" in a people who do not believe that fundamental principle. We landed at the Broomielaw, whither father and mother and Tom and I sailed thirty odd years ago, on the 800-ton ship Wiscasset, and began our seven weeks' voyage to the land of promise, poor emigrants in quest of fortune; but, mark you, not without thoughts in the radical breasts of our parents that it was advisable to leave a land which tolerated class distinctions for the government of the people, by the people and for the people, which welcomed them to its fold and insured for their sons, as far as laws can give it, equality with the highest and a fair and free field for the exercise of their powers. My father saw through not only the sham but the injustice of rank, from king to knight, and loved America because she knows no difference in her sons. He was a Republican, aye, every inch, and his sons glory in that and follow where he led. I remember well that our friends stood on the quay and waved farewell. Had their adieu been translated it would have read: "Now may the fair goddess Fortune Fall deep in love with thee, Prosperity be thy page." Thanks to the generous Republic which stood with open arms to receive us, as she stands to-day to welcome the poor of the world to share with her own sons upon equal terms the glorious heritage with which she is endowed--thanks to it, prosperity has indeed been our page. At St. Enoch's Station Hotel, Glasgow, another separation of the party took place. A delegation of five of our members were sent to investigate the Irish question and report at Queenstown. Miss E. L. returned to Dunfermline. Miss F. and Mr. and Mrs. K. were visiting the Queen Dowager at Paisley. Harry and I ran down to see friend Richards at his basic process at Eston, stopping over night at York and Durham, however, to enjoy once more the famous cathedrals and hear the exquisite music. * * * * * LIVERPOOL, August 13. [Sidenote: _Embarkation for Home._] We sailed to-day in the Algeria, the great Servia having been delayed. Many were there to see us off, including four or five Charioteers. The English are, as Davie said, "a kindly people," a warm-hearted, affectionate race, and as true as steel. When you once have them you have them forever. There was far more than the usual amount of tears and kisses among the ladies. One would have thought our American and English women were not cousins, but sisters. The men were, as befitting their colder natures, much less demonstrative. There seems never to be a final good-by on shipboard; at every ringing of the bell another tender embrace and another solemn promise to write soon are given. But at last all our friends are upon the tug, the huge vessel moves, one rope after another is cast off, handkerchiefs wave, kisses are thrown, write soons exchanged, and the tug is off in one direction and we in another. Some one broke the momentary silence and brought the last round of cheers with the talismanic call "Skid, Joe! Right, Perry!" That touched all hearts with remembrance of the happy, happy days, the happiest of our lives. So parted the two branches of the Gay Charioteers. At Queenstown we received the Irish contingent, who had enjoyed their week in the Emerald Isle. Very nice indeed was the report, but with this quite unnecessary addenda, "But, of course, nothing to coaching." That goes without saying in our ranks. The Algeria was a great ship in her day; now she is sold to a freight line. But when she does not give a good account of herself in a hurricane do not pin your faith in any iron ship. You may still, however, believe that one of steel like the Servia will stand anything. She has at least double the strength of any iron steamer afloat. When she does not outride the tempest, you may give up in earnest and decide, like Mrs. Partington at sea, "never to trust yourself so far out of the reach of Providence again." On Wednesday morning, August 24th, the party reached New York again, and were finally disbanded. Two or three of the most miserable hours I ever spent were those at the St. Nicholas Hotel, where the Queen Dowager, Ben, and I lunched alone before starting for Cresson. Even Ben had to take an earlier train for Pittsburgh, and I exclaimed: "All our family gone! I feel so lonely, so deserted; not one remains." But the Queen was equal to the emergency. "Oh, you don't count me, then! You have still one that sticks to you." Oh, yes, indeed, sure of that, old lady. "The good book tells of one Who sticks closer than a brother; But who will dare to say there's one Sticks closer than a mother!" (Original poetry for the occasion.) [Sidenote: _Final Farewells._] These horrid partings again; but whatever the future has in store for those who made the excursion recorded here, I think I can safely say that they could not wish their dearest friend a happier life than that led from June 1st to August 24th by the Gay Charioteers. Those who have mounted the coach become, as it were, by virtue of that act members of an inner circle; a band of union knits them closely together. To a hundred dear, kind friends in the Beautiful Land we send thanks and greeting. Their kindness to us can never be forgotten, for they soon taught us to feel that it was not a foreign land which we had visited after all, but the dear old home of our fathers. Forever and ever may the parent land and the child land grow fonder and fonder of each other, and their people mingle more and more till they become as one and the same. All good educated Americans love England, for they know that she alone among the nations of the world "On with toil of heart and knees and hand Through the long gorge to the far light hath won Her path upward and prevailed." She it was who pointed out to America what to plant, and how, and where. The people of England should love America, for she has taught them in return that all the equal rights and privileges of man they are laboring for at home are bearing goodly fruit in the freer atmosphere of the West. May the two peoples, therefore, grow in love for each other, and with this fond wish, and many a sad farewell, the Gay Charioteers disband, forever afterward in life to rally round each other in case of need at the mystic call of "Skid, Joe," "Right, Perry;" and certain of this, that whatever else fades from the memory, the recollection of our coaching trip from Brighton to Inverness remains a sacred possession forever. THE RECORD. _BRIGHTON TO INVERNESS, JUNE 17 TO AUGUST 3, 1881._ MILES. June 17 BRIGHTON (The Grand Hotel) " " GUILDFORD (The White Lion) 42 " 18 and 19 WINDSOR (The Castle) 32 " 20 READING (The Queen's) 27 " 21 OXFORD (The Clarendon) 34 " 22 BANBURY (The White Lion) 23 " 23 STRATFORD-ON-AVON (The Red Horse) 18 " 24 COVENTRY (The Queen's) 22 " 25 to 30 WOLVERHAMPTON (English Homes, best of all) 33 July 1 LICHFIELD (The Swan) 20 " 2 and 3 DOVEDALE (The Izaak Walton) 26 " 4 CHATSWORTH (The Edensor) 24 " 5 BUXTON (The Palace) 26 " 6 MANCHESTER (The Queen's) 23 " 7 CHORLEY (Anderton Hall) 14 " 8 PRESTON (The Victoria) 16 " 9 and 10 LANCASTER (The County) 29 " 11 KENDAL (King's Arms) 22 " 12 GRASSMERE (Prince of Wales) 18 " 13 KESWICK (The Keswick) 12 " 14 PENRITH (The Crown) 16 " 15 CARLISLE (The County and Station) 16 " 16 and 17 DUMFRIES (The Commercial) 32 " 18 SANQUHAR (The Queensberry) 28 " 19 OLD CUMNOCK (Dumfries Arms) 29 " 20 DOUGLAS (Douglas Arms) 28 " 21 to 26 EDINBURGH (The Royal) 44 " 27 and 28 DUNFERMLINE (The City Arms) 16 " 29 PERTH (The Royal George) 32 " 30 and 31 PITLOCHRIE (Fisher's Hotel) 33 August 1 DALWHINNIE (The Loch Ericht) 32 " 2 BOAT O' GARTEN (The Boat o' Garten) 35 " 3 INVERNESS (The Caledonian) 29 ___ TOTAL MILES, 831 
12930	----	gallica (Bibliothèque nationale de France) at http://gallica.bnf.fr PUBLICATIONS OF THE SCOTTISH HISTORY SOCIETY, VOLUME XXXVI LAUDER OF FOUNTAINHALL'S JOURNALS MAY 1900 [Illustration: LORD FOUNTAINHALL.] JOURNALS OF SIR JOHN LAUDER LORD FOUNTAINHALL WITH HIS OBSERVATIONS ON PUBLIC AFFAIRS AND OTHER MEMORANDA 1665-1676 Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by DONALD CRAWFORD Sheriff of Aberdeen, Kincardine, and Banff [Illustration: SIR JOHN LAUDER, FIRST BARONET. (Lord Fountainhall's Father.)] CONTENTS INTRODUCTION JOURNALS:-- I Journal in France, 1665-1667, II 1. Notes of Journeys in London. Oxford, and Scotland, 1667-1670, 2. Notes of Journeys in Scotland, 1671-1672, 3. Chronicle of events connected with the Court of Session, 1668-1676, 4. Observations on Public Affairs, 1669-1670, III APPENDIX i. Accounts, 1670-1675, ii. Catalogue of Books, 1667-1679, iii. Letter of Lauder to his Son, PORTRAITS I. LORD FOUNTAINHALL II. SIR JOHN LAUDER, first Baronet, Lord Fountainhall's father III. JANET RAMSAY, first wife of Lord Fountainhall IV. SIR ANDREW RAMSAY, Lord Abbotshall All reproduced from pictures in the possession of Lady Anne Dick Lauder. INTRODUCTION THE MANUSCRIPTS There are here printed two manuscripts by Sir John Lauder, Lord Fountainhall, and portions of another. The first[1] is a kind of journal, though it was not written up day by day, containing a narrative of his journey to France and his residence at Orleans and Poictiers, when he was sent abroad by his father at the age of nineteen to study law in foreign schools in preparation for the bar. It also includes an account of his expenses during the whole period of his absence from Scotland. The second,[2] though a small volume, contains several distinct portions. There are narratives of visits to London and Oxford on his way home from abroad, his journey returning to Scotland, and some short expeditions in Scotland in the immediately following years, observations on public affairs in 1669- 70, and a chronicle of events connected with the Court of Session from 1668 to 1676; also at the other end of the volume some accounts of expenses. The third[3] may be described as a commonplace book, for the most part written during the first years of his practice at the bar and his early married life, but it also contains some notes of travel in Fife, the Lothians, and the Merse in continuation of those in MS. H., and a list of the books which he bought and their prices, brought down to a late period of his life. These manuscripts have been kindly made available to the Scottish History Society by the owners. The first is in the Library of the University of Edinburgh. The second is the property of the late Sir William Fraser's trustees. The third has been lent by Sir Thomas North Dick Lauder, Fountainhall's descendant and representative. [1] Referred to as MS. X. [2] Marked by Fountainhall H. [3] Marked by Fountainhall K. It was Lord Fountainhalls practice, during his whole life, to record in notebooks public events, and his observations upon them, legal decisions, and private memoranda. He kept several series of notebooks concurrently with great diligence and method. In all of those which have been preserved there is more or less matter of value to the student of history. But at his death his library was sold by public auction. The MSS. were dispersed, though their existence and value was known to some of his contemporaries.[4] Some are lost, in particular the series of _Historical Observes_, 1660-1680, which, judging from the sequel, which has been preserved and printed by the Bannatyne Club, would have been of great value. According to tradition the greater part of what has been recovered was found in a snuff-shop by Mr. Crosby the lawyer, the supposed original of Scott's Pleydell, and purchased at the sale of his books after his death by the Faculty of Advocates.[5] [4] Preface to Forbes's _Journal of the Session_, Edinburgh, 1714. [5] MS. Genealogical Roll of the Family of Lauder by the late Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, in possession of Sir T.N. Dick Lauder. Eight volumes came into the possession of the Faculty of Advocates, and under their auspices two folio volumes of legal decisions from 1678 to 1712 were published in 1759 and 1761.[6] In 1837 the Bannatyne Club printed _The Historical Observes_, 1680-1686, a complete MS. in the Advocates' Library, and in 1848 they printed two volumes of _Historical Notices_, 1661-1688. These are after 1678 selections from the same MSS. from which the folio of 1759 was compiled, and the additions to the text of the folio are not numerous, though the historical matter, which was buried among the legal decisions, is presented in a more convenient form. But from 1661 to 1678 (about half of vol. i.) and especially from 1670 (for the previous entries occupy only a few pages) the notices are all new and many of them of considerable interest. In printing these volumes, which I believe are acknowledged to contain some of the best material for the history of Scotland at the time, the Bannatyne Club carried out a design which had been long cherished by the late Sir Thomas Dick Lauder,[7] though he did not live to see its complete fulfilment, and he was helped in his efforts by Sir Walter Scott. The story[8] is worth telling more fully than has yet been done. In the winter of 1813-14 Sir Thomas, then a young man, met Sir Walter at a dinner-party. Sir Walter expressed his regret 'that something had not been done towards publishing the curious matter in Lord Fountainhall's MSS.,'[9] and urged Sir Thomas to undertake the task. In 1815 Sir Thomas wrote to Scott asking about a box in the Advocates' Library believed to contain MSS. of Fountainhalls. Sir Walter replied as follows:-- [6] See Mr. David Laing's Preface to the _Historical Notices_, p. xx, Bannatyne Club. [7] Author of _The Moray Floods, The Wolf of Badenoch_, and other well-known books. [8] The original correspondence was bound up by Sir Thomas in a volume along with Mylne's book (see _infra_), and is in the possession of Sir T.N. Dick Lauder. [9] Letter, Sir T.D. Lauder to Sir W. Scott, 22nd May 1822, _infra_. 'Dear Sir,--I am honoured with your letter, and should have been particularly happy in an opportunity of being useful in assisting a compleat edition of Lord Fountainhall's interesting manuscripts. But I do not know of any in the Advocates' Library but those which you mention. I think it likely I may have mentioned that a large chest belonging to the family of another great Scottish lawyer, Sir James Skene of Curriehill, was in our Library and had never been examined. But I could only have been led to speak of this from the similarity of the subject, not from supposing that any of Lord Fountainhall's papers could possibly be deposited there. I am very glad to hear you are busying yourself with a task which will throw most important light upon the history of Scotland, and am, with regard, dear sir, your most obedt. servant, 'WALTER SCOTT. '_Edinr., 19 February 1815._' After a further interchange of letters in 1816 the matter slumbered till 1822 when there appeared a volume entitled _Chronological Notes of Scottish Affairs from 1680 till 1701, being chiefly taken from the Diary of Lord Fountainhall_ (Constable, 1822), with a preface by Sir Walter Scott, who had evidently forgotten his correspondence with Sir Thomas.[10] The volume in reality contained a selection, comparatively small, from Fountainhall's notebooks in the Advocates' Library, with copious interpolations by the author, Robert Mylne (who died in 1747), not distinguished from the authentic text of the notes, and greatly misrepresenting Fountainhall's opinions. The next stage in the correspondence may be given in Sir Thomas's own words:-- [10] The preface and Mylne's interpolations are appended to Mr. Laing's preface to the _Historical Notices_. 'Having been much astonished to learn, from a perusal of the foregoing review,[11] that Sir Walter Scott had stolen a march on me, and published a Manuscript of Lord Fountainhall's, at the very time when he had reason to believe me engaged in the work, and that by his own suggestion, and being above all things surprised that he had not thought it proper to acquaint me with his intention before carrying it into effect, I sat down and wrote to him the following letter, in which, being aware how much he who I was addressing was to be considered as a sort of privileged person in literary matters, I took special care to give no offence, to write calmly, and to confine myself to such a simple statement of the facts as might bring a blush into his face without exciting the smallest angry feeling. I hoped, too, that I might prevail on him, as some atonement for his sins, to lend a helping hand to bring forth the real work of Lord Fountainhall in a proper style.' [11] In Constable's Magazine. See _infra_. To SIR WALTER SCOTT OF ABBOTSFORD, BARONET. '_Relugas, near Forres_, _22nd May 1822_. 'DEAR SIR,--From _Constable's Magazine_ for last month, which has this moment fallen into my hands, I learn, for the first time, with some surprise, but with much greater delight than mortification, that you have condescended to become the Editor of a portion of my Ancestor Lord Fountainhall's MSS. From this I am led to believe, that the circumstance of my having been engaged in the work since 1814 must have escaped your recollection, otherwise I think you would have informed me of _your_ intention or inquired into _mine_. In the winter 1813-14, I had the happiness of meeting you at the table of our mutual friend, Mr. Pringle of Yair, where you expressed regret to me that something had not been done towards publishing the curious matter contained in Lord Fountainhall's MSS., urging me at the same time to undertake the task. Having also soon afterwards been pressed to perform this duty by Mr. Thomas Thomson, Mr. Napier, and several other literary friends, I was led to begin it, and Lord Meadowbank having presented my petition to the Dean and Faculty of Advocates, they were so liberal as to permit me to have the use of the MSS. in succession at Fountainhall, where I then was on a visit to my Father, and where I transcribed everything fit for my purpose. Emboldened by the remembrance of what passed in conversation with you at Mr. Pringle's, I took the liberty of trespassing on you in a letter dated 18th February 1815, to beg you would inform me whether you knew of the existence of any of Lord Fountainhall's MSS. besides the eight Folio volumes I had then examined. You did me the honor to write me an immediate reply, in which you stated that you knew of no other MSS. but those I had mentioned, and you conclude by saying, that you were glad to hear that I was busying myself in a task which would throw much light on the history of Scotland. In May 1816, whilst engaged here in arranging and retranscribing the materials I had collected for the work in the order of a Journal, I met with a little difficulty about the word FORRES, which the sense of the passage led me to read FORREST, meaning ETTRICK FORREST. Knowing that you were the best source from which true information on such subjects was to be drawn, and presuming upon your former kindness, I again addressed you, 23rd May 1816, begging to know whether I was right in my conjecture. To this I received a very polite answer in course of post, in which you express great pleasure in complying with my request, and are so obliging as to conclude with the assurance that at any time you will be happy to elucidate my researches into my ancestors' curious and most valuable Manuscripts with such hints as your local knowledge may supply. 'Since the period to which I have just alluded, I have continued to prosecute the work, but only at intervals, having met with frequent interruptions, among which I may mention an excursion to Italy; and after having finished about two-thirds of it in my own handwriting, it is only now that I have been able to complete it, by the aid of an amanuensis. I do not much wonder that, employed as you are in administering fresh draughts of enjoyment from the exhaustless spring of your genius to the ever-increasing thirst of a delighted public, you should have forgotten my humble labours. But whilst I regret that they should have been so forgotten, inasmuch as they might have contributed to aid or lessen yours, I beg to assure you, that every other feeling is absorbed in that of the satisfaction I am now impressed with in learning that you have taken Lord Fountainhall under your fostering care, as I am well aware that, independent of the honor done him and his family by his name being coupled with that of Sir Walter Scott, there does not now, and perhaps there never will, exist any individual who could elucidate him so happily as your high talents and your deep research in the historical anecdote of your country must enable you to do. I am naturally very desirous to see your publication, of which I cannot procure a copy from the booksellers here. I should not otherwise have intruded on you until I had seen the book, as I am at present ignorant how far it clashes or agrees with the plan of the work I have prepared. As business calls me to Edinburgh, I can now have no opportunity of perusing it before my departure, as I leave this on Tuesday the 28th instant I observe, however, with great gratification, from a quotation in the _Magazine_ from your preface, that you hold out hopes of a farther publication, and I am consequently anxious to avail myself of being in Edinburgh to have the honor of an interview with you, that I may avoid any injudicious interference with your undertaking, and rather go hand in hand with you in promoting it. As I shall be detained on the road, I shall not be in Edinburgh until the evening of Friday the 31st, and my present intention is to remain in town only Saturday and Sunday, unless unavoidable circumstances occur to prevent my leaving it on the Monday. If you could make it convenient to grant me an audience on either of the days I have mentioned, viz., on Saturday, or Sunday, the 1st or 2nd of June, you would very much oblige me, and it will be a further favor if you will have a note lying for me at Mrs. President Blair's, or at my Agent, Mr. Macbean's, 11 Charlotte Square, stating the precise time when you can most conveniently receive me, that I may not be so unfortunate as to call on you unseasonably. With the highest respect, and with very great regard, I have the honor to be, dear sir, very truly yours, THOS. DICK LAUDER.' To this Sir Walter replied:-- 'MY DEAR SIR,--I am sorry you could for a moment think that in printing rather than publishing Lord Fountainhall's Notes or rather Mr. Milne's, for that honest gentleman had taken the superfluous trouble to write the whole book anew, I meant to interfere with your valuable and extensive projected work. I mentioned in the advertisement that you were engaged in writing the life of Lord Fountainhall, and therefore declined saying anything on the subject, and I must add that I always conceived it was his life you meant to publish and not his works. I am very happy you entertain the latter intention, for a great deal of historical matter exists in the manuscript copy of the collection of decisions which has been omitted by the publishers, whose object was only to collect the law reports and who appear in the latter volume entirely to have disregarded all other information. There is also somewhere in the Advocates' Library, but now mislaid, a very curious letter of Lord Fountainhall on the Revolution, and so very many other remains of his that I would fain hope your work will suffer nothing by my anticipation, which I assure you would never have taken place had I conceived those Notes fell within your plan. The fact was that the letter on the Revolution was mislaid and the little Ma[nuscript] having disappeared also, though it was afterwards recovered, it seemed to me worth while to have it put in a printed shape for the sake of preservation, and as only one hundred copies were printed, I hope it will rather excite than gratify curiosity on the subject of Lord Fountainhall. I expected to see you before I should have thought of publishing the Letter on the Revolution, and hoped to whet your almost blunted purpose about doing that and some other things yourself. I think a selection from the Decisions just on the contrary principle which was naturally enough adopted by the former publishers, rejected[12] the law that is and retaining the history, would be highly interesting. I am sure you are entitled to expect[13] on all accounts and not interruption from me in a task so honorable, and I hope you will spare me a day in town to talk the old Judge's affairs over. The history of the Bass should be a curious one. You are of course aware of the anecdote of one of your ancestors insisting on having the "auld craig back again." 'Constable undertook to forward to you a copy of the Notes with my respects, and it adds to my piggish behaviour that I see he had omitted it. I will cause him send it by the Ferry Carrier. 'I beg to assure you that I am particularly sensible of the kind and accomodating view you have taken of this matter, in which I am sensible I acted very thoughtlessly because it would have been easy to have written to enquire into your intentions. Indeed I intended to do so, but the thing had gone out of my head. I leave Edin'r in July, should you come after the 12 of that month may I hope to see you at Abbotsford, which would be very agreeable, but if you keep your purpose of being here in the beginning of June I hope you will calculate on dining here on Sunday 2d at five o'clock. I will get Sharpe to meet you who knows more about L'd Fountainhall than any one.--I am with great penitence, dear Sir Thomas, your very faithful humble servant, 'WALTER SCOTT.' [12] _sic_ for rejecting. [13] A word is omitted, perhaps 'assistance.' 'N.B.--The foregoing letter from Sir Walter, written in answer to mine of the 25th May,[14] sufficiently shows the extent of the dilemma he found himself thrown into. It is full of strange contradictions. He talks of "_printing_ rather than _publishing_" a book which was _publickly_ advertised _and publickly_ sold. He assures me that he believed that it was _Fountainhall's Life_, and not his _works_ I meant to publish, though the former part of the correspondence between us must have made him fully aware that it was _the works_ I had in view; and he unwittingly proves to me immediately afterwards that he had not altogether forgotten that it was _the works_ I had taken in hand to publish, for he says, "I expected to see you before I should have thought of publishing the letter on the Revolution, and hoped to _whet your almost blunted purpose about doing that and some_ other things yourself." And again afterwards--"it would have been easy to have written to enquire into your intentions, indeed _I intended to do so_, but the thing had gone out of my head." Why did you intend to write to me, Sir Walter, about intentions which you have said you were unconscious had any existence? But who can dare to be angry with Sir Walter Scott? Who could be savage enough to be angry with the meanest individual who could write with so much good nature and bonhommie as he displays in his letter? Had one particle of angry feeling lurked in my bosom against him, I should have merited scourging. My answer was as follows....' [14] _sic_ for 22nd May. Sir Thomas was unable to accept Sir Walter's invitation, but proposed to call on him, and received the following reply:-- 'My dear Sir Thomas,--I am much mortified at finding that by a peremptory message from my builder at Abbotsford, who is erecting an addition to my house, I must set out there to-morrow at twelve. But we must meet for all that, and I hope you will do me the honour to breakfast here, though at the unchristian hour of _Nine o'clock_, and if you come as soon after eight as you will, you will find me ready to receive you. I mention this because I must be in the court at _Ten_. I hope this will suit you till time permits a longer interview. I shall therefore expect you accordingly.--Yours very sincerely, WALTER SCOTT. '_Castle Street, Friday_' 'It gives me sincere regret that this unexpected news[15] prevents my having the pleasure of receiving you on Monday.' [15] This word doubtful. It is indistinctly written. Sir Thomas proceeds in his narrative:-- 'N.B.--I kept my appointment accurately to the hour and minute, and found the Great Unknown dashing off long foolscap sheets of what was soon to interest the eyes, and the minds, and the hearts of the whole reading world; preparing a literary food for the voracious maw of the many-headed monster, every mouth of which was gaping wide in expectation of it. He received me most kindly, though I could not help secretly grudging, more than I have no doubt he did, every moment of the time he so good-naturedly sacrificed to me. He repeated in words, and, if possible, in stronger terms, the apologies contained in his letter. I offered him my Manuscript and my humble services. He insisted that he would not rob me of the fruits of my pious labours. "As I know something of publishing," said he, with an intelligent smile on his countenance, "I shall be able to give you some assistance and advice as to how to bring the work properly and respectably out." I thanked him, and ventured to entreat that he would add to the obligation he was laying me under by giving me a few notes to the proposed publication. In short, the result of an hour's conversation was that he undertook to arrange everything about the publication with a bookseller, and to give me the notes I asked, and, in fact, to do everything in his power to assist me, and I left him with very great regret that a matter of business prevented me from accepting of his pressing invitation to breakfast. Before parting, he wrote for me the ensuing letter to Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, which I was deprived of an opportunity of delivering by the shortness of my visit to Edinburgh.' Sir Thomas soon afterwards completed his transcript, and on 7th June 1823 he wrote:-- '_Relugas, near Forres, 7th June_ 1823. 'MY DEAR SIR WALTER,--Can you pardon me for thus troubling you, in order to have my curiosity satisfied about our old friend Fountainhall, whose work I gave you in July last. I hope you received the remainder of the Manuscript in October from my agent, Mr. Macbean. If you can spare time to say, in a single line, what is doing about him, you will confer a great obligation, on yours very faithfully, T.D. LAUDER.' Sir Walter replied:-- 'MY DEAR SIR,--We have not taken any steps about our venerable friend and your predecessor, whose manuscript is lying safe in my hands. Constable has been in London this long time, and is still there, and Cadell does not seem willingly to embark in any enterprize of consequence just now. We have set on foot a sort [of] Scottish Roxburgh Club[16] here for publishing curiosities of Scottish Literature, but Fountainhall would be a work rather too heavy for our limited funds, although few can be concerned which would come more legitimately under the purpose of our association, which is made in order to rescue from the chance of destruction the documents most essential to the history and literature of Scotland. 'We are having a meeting on the 4th July, when I will table the subject, and if we possibly can assist in bringing out the worthy Judge in good stile, we will be most ready to co-operate with your pious endeavours to that effect. I should wish to hear from you before that time what you would wish to be done in the matter respecting the size, number of the impression, and so forth. Whatever lies in my limited power will be gladly contributed by, dear sir, your very faithful servant, 'WALTER SCOTT. _'Castle Street, 18 June 1823.'_ [16] The Bannatyne Club was instituted on 15th February 1823. Its object was to print works of the history, topography, poetry, and miscellaneous literature of Scotland in former times. Sir Walter Scott was president till his death. The Club's last meeting was in 1861, but there were some publications till 1867. And in answer to further inquiry he again wrote on 10th July 1823:-- 'MY DEAR SIR THOMAS,--You are too easily alarmed about the fate of your ancestors. I did not mean it would not be published--far less that I would not do all in my power to advance the publication--but only that the size and probable expense of the work, with the limited sale for articles of literature only interesting to the Scottish Antiquaries, rendered the Booksellers less willing to adopt the proposal than they seemed at first. However I thought it as well to wait until Constable himself came down from London, as I had only spoken with his partner, and I have since seen him, and find him well disposed to the undertaking. I told him I would give with the greatest pleasure any assistance in my power in the way of historical illustration, and that I concluded that you, to whom the work unquestionably belongs, would contribute a life of the venerable Lawyer and some account of his family. Mr. Thomson has promised to look through the Manuscript and collate it with that of Mr. Maule, and is of opinion (as I am) that it would be very desirable to retrench all the mere law questions which are to be found in the printed folios. Indeed the Editors of those two volumes had a purpose in view directly opposed to ours, for they wished to omit historical and domestic anecdotes and give the law cases as unmixed as possible, while it would be our object doubtless to exclude the mere law questions in favour of the other. No doubt many of the law cases are in themselves such singular examples of the state of manners that it would be a pity not to retain them even although they may be found in the printed copy because they are there mixed with so much professional matter that general readers will not easily discover them. 'The retrenching of the mere law will entirely advantage the general sale of the work besides greatly reducing the expense, and in either point of view it will make it a speculation more like to be advantageous. I think Constable will be disposed to incur the expense of publishing at his own risque, allowing you one half of the free profits which the established mode of accounting amongst authors and booksellers circumcises so closely that the sum netted by the author seldom exceeds a 3'd or thereabout. But then you have no risque, and that is a great matter. My experience does not encourage me to bid you expect much profit upon an undertaking of this nature, in fact on any that I have myself tried I have been always rather a loser; but still there may be some, and I am sure the descendant of Lord Fountainhall is best entitled to such should it arise on his ancestor's work. I think you had better correspond with Constable, assuring him of my willingness to help in any thing that can get the book out, and I am sure Mr. Thomson will feel the same interest I have to leave here to-morrow for four months, but as I am only at Abbotsford I can do any thing that may be referred to me. 'As for Milne's notes, there are many of them that I think worth preservation as describing and identifying the individuals of whom Fountainhall wrote, although his silly party zeal makes him, like all such partizans of faction, unjust and scurrilous. 'I have only to add that the Manuscript is with Mr. Thomson for the purpose of collation, and that I am sure Constable will be glad to treat with you on the subject of publication, and that I will, as I have always been, be most ready to give any notes or illustrations in my power, the only way I suppose in which I can be useful to the publication. The idea of retrenching the law cases, which originates with Thomson, promises, if you entertain it, to remove the only possible objection to the publication, namely the great expense. My address for the next four months is, Abbotsford, by Melrose, and I am always, dear Sir Thomas, very much your faithful, humble servant, WALTER SCOTT. _'Edin'r, 10 July 1823.'_ Again on 27th November 1823:-- 'Dear Sir Thomas,--I have sent the Manuscript to Mr. Macbean, Charlotte Square, as you desire. It is a very curious one and contains many strange pictures of the times. Our ancestors were sad dogs, and we to be worse than them, as Horace tells us the Romans were, have a great stride to make in the paths of iniquity. Men like your ancestor were certainly rare amongst them. I had a scrap some where about the murder of the Lauders at Lauder where Fountainhall's ancestor was Baillie at the time. After this misfortune they are said to have retired to Edinburgh. Fountainhall's grandfather lived at the Westport. All this is I hope familiar to you, I say I hope so, for after a good deal of search I have abandoned hope of finding my memorandum. 'I have seen Constable who promises to send me the sheets as they are thrown off, and any consideration that I can bestow on them will be a pleasure to, dear Sir Thomas, your most obedient servant, WALTER SCOTT. _'Edin'r, 2d December.'_ The last letter on the subject, written apparently by Mr. Cadell, is as follows:-- _'Edinburgh, 28 July 1824._ 'Dear Sir,--We duly received your much esteemed letter of 16 instant, and beg to assure you that we are as willing as ever to do what we stated last year in bringing out your MS. in a creditable way. The reason, and the only reason of delay, has been the indisposition of Mr. Constable, who has from last November till about a month ago been unable to give his time to business. 'Having communicated your letter to him we beg now to state that we shall take immediate steps for getting the work expedited. The MS. is still in Mr. Thomson's hands, but we shall see him on the subject forthwith. It is proposed to print the work in 2 vols. octavo handsomely, the number 500 copies.--We remain, sir, with much respect, your most, ARCH. CONSTABLE & Co. 'Sir Thos. Dick Lauder, Bart.' 'The publication,' as Mr. Laing says in his Preface, 'intended to form two volumes in octavo, under the title of _Historical Notices of Scottish Affairs_, had actually proceeded to press to page 304 in 1825, when the misfortunes of the publisher put a stop to the enterprise. After an interval of several years the greater portion of Sir Thomas's transcripts was placed at the disposal of the Bannatyne Club.' The result was the publication of the _Observes_ and the _Historical Notices_. Mr. Laing adds, 'If at any subsequent time some of his missing MSS. should be discovered, another volume of Selections, to include his early Journal and extracts from his smaller notebooks, might not be undeserving the attention of the Bannatyne Club.' The Journal in France, though never printed, was reviewed by Mr. Cosmo Innes in 1864 in the _North British Review_, vol. xli. p. 170. OUTLINE OF FOUNTAINHALL'S LIFE A short relation of Lord Fountainhall's life is given in Mr. David Laing's preface to the _Historical Notices_. He was born in 1646. His father was John Lauder, merchant and bailie of Edinburgh, of the family of Lauder of that Ilk.[17] He graduated as Master of Arts in the University of Edinburgh in 1664. He went to France to study in 1665, and returned from abroad in 1667. He was 'admitted' as an advocate in 1668. He was married in 1669 to Janet, daughter of Sir Andrew Ramsay of Abbotshall,[18] Provost of Edinburgh, afterwards a Lord of Session. In 1674, along with the leaders of the bar and the majority of the profession, he was 'debarred' or suspended from practising by the king's proclamation for asserting the right of appeal from the decisions of the Court of Session, and was restored in 1676. He was knighted in 1681. In the same year his father, who was then eighty-six years old, purchased the lands of Woodhead and others in East Lothian. The conveyance is to John Lauder of Newington in liferent, and Sir John Lauder, his son, in fee. The lands were erected into a barony, called Fountainhall. In 1685, he was returned as member of Parliament for the county of Haddington, which he represented till the Union in 1707. In 1686 his wife, by whom he had a large family, died. In 1687 he married Marion Anderson, daughter of Anderson of Balram. He was appointed a Lord of Session in 1689, and a Lord of Justiciary in 1690. He resigned the latter office in 1709, and died in 1722. His father had been made a baronet in 1681 by James VII. The succession under the patent was to his son by his third marriage; but in 1690, after the Revolution, a new patent was granted by William and Mary to Sir John Lauder, senior, and his eldest son and his heirs. The first patent was reduced in 1692, and in the same year Fountainhall succeeded on his father's death. [17] 'Sir John Lauder of Fountainhall is deschended of the Lauders of that ilk, and his paternall coat is immatriculate and registrate in the Lyons Book of Herauldrie.'--Unprinted MS. by Lauder, in possession of Sir T.N. Dick Lauder. A Genealogical Roll in MS., of the Lauder Family, compiled by Sir T. Dick Lauder, also in the present baronet's possession, has afforded much useful information; and for Lauder's family connections, I have also consulted Mrs. Atholl Forbes's _Curiosities of a Scottish Charter Chest_, and Mrs. Stewart Smith's _Grange of St. Giles_. [18] See Appendix III. The following estimate of his character in Forbes's Preface to the _Journal of the Session_ (1714), a rare book, is quoted by Mr. Laing, but is too much in point to be omitted here. 'The publick and private character of this excellent judge are now so well known that I need say no more of him than that he signalized himself as a good patriot and true Protestant in the Parliament of 1686 in defence of the Penal Laws against Popery. This self-denyed man hath taken no less pains to shun places that were in his offer than some others have been at to get into preferment. Witness his refusing to accept a patent in the year 1692 to be the King's Advocate, and the resigning his place as a Lord of Justiciary after the Union, which Her Majesty with reluctancy took off his hand. In short, his lordship is (what I know by experience) as communicative as he is universally learned and knowing. He hath observed the decisions of the Session from November 1689 till November 1712, which I have seen in Manuscript; but his excessive modesty can't be prevailed on to make them publick.' There are no materials for expanding Mr. Laing's sketch of Fountainhall's life, except in so far as the notes of his travels and his expeditions into the country, and the accounts, here printed, give some glimpses of his habits and his domestic economy in his early professional years. He lived in troubled times, but his own career was prosperous and comparatively uneventful. The modesty which Professor Forbes truly ascribes to him disinclined him to take a part, as a good many lawyers did, in public affairs, except for a short period before the Revolution, as a member of Parliament; and, together with his prudence and strong conscientiousness, preserved him from mixing in the political and personal intrigues which were then so rife in the country. The same modesty is apparent in his writings in mature life to a tantalising degree. It may not be so conspicuous in his boyish journal, when he was ready enough to throw down the gauntlet in a theological discussion; but in the later voluminous MSS., when even dry legal disputes are enlivened by graphic and personal touches, the author himself rarely appears on the scene. We miss the pleasant details of Clerk of Penicuik's _Memoirs._[19] We learn little of the author's daily walk and conversation. It does not even appear (so far as I know) where his house in Edinburgh was. We do not know how often he went to Fountainhall, or whether he there realised his wish to spend half his time in the country.[20] We do not know how he occupied himself there, though it may be gathered that he took much interest in the management of his property and in country business, and he records with much gratification his appointment as a justice of the peace. He tells us nothing of his wife, except how much money she got for housekeeping, and nothing of his children, except when he records their births or deaths. Nothing of his personal relations with his distinguished contemporaries at the bar, or with the men who, as officers of State and Privy Councillors, still governed Scotland in Edinburgh. [19] Scottish History Society. [20] Journal, p. 21. On the other hand, his opinions on all subjects, on public affairs and public men, on such questions of speculation or ethical interest as astrology and witchcraft, often strikingly expressed in language always racy and sincere, are scattered through the published volumes of his writings, all printed without note or comment. It may at least be a tribute to Fountainhall's memory to present a short view of his opinions, and for that purpose I have not scrupled to quote freely, especially from the _Historical Observes,_ a delightful book, which deserves a larger public than the limited circle of its fortunate possessors. Fountainhall's political opinions were moderate, in an age when moderation was rare. We are tempted to think, if I am not mistaken, that in that dark period of Scottish history, every man was a furious partisan, as a Royalist or a Whig, or as an adherent of one or other of the chiefs who intrigued for power. But it may be that Lauder's attitude reflects more truly the average opinions of educated men of the time. HIS POLITICAL OPINIONS His political position has perhaps been imperfectly understood by the few writers who have had occasion to refer to it. Mr. Laing's statement, that prior to the Revolution 'he appears generally to have acted only with those who opposed the measure of the Court,' is not, I venture to think, wholly accurate. It is true that on one occasion, no doubt memorable in his own life, he incurred the displeasure of the government. When James VII. on his accession proposed to relax the penal laws against Roman Catholics, while enforcing them against Presbyterians, Lauder, who had just entered Parliament, opposed that policy and spoke against it in terms studiously moderate and respectful to the Crown. The result, however, was that he became a suspected person. As he records in April 1686, 'My 2 servants being imprisoned, and I threatened therewith, as also that they would seize upon my papers, and search if they contained anything offensive to the party then prevailing, I was necessitat to hide this manuscript, and many others, and intermit my Historick Remarks till the Revolution in the end of 1688.' Hence the Revolution was perhaps welcome to him. As an adherent of character and some position he met with marked favour from the new sovereigns, who promoted him to the bench, and corrected the injustice which had been done to him in the matter of the patent of his father's baronetcy, and also granted him a pension of £100 a year, an addition of fifty per cent. to his official salary. Shortly afterwards he was offered the post of Lord Advocate, but declined it, because the condition was attached that he should not prosecute the persons implicated in the Massacre of Glencoe.[21] From these facts it has been sometimes inferred that Lauder was disaffected to the Stewart dynasty, and that his professional advancement was thereby retarded. In reality his career was one of steady prosperity. Having already received the honour of knighthood while still a young man, and being a member of parliament for his county, he became a judge at the age of forty-three. So far from holding opinions antagonistic to the reigning house, Lauder was an enthusiastic royalist. He was indeed a staunch Protestant at a time when religion played a great part in politics. In his early youth the journal here published shows him as perhaps a bigoted Protestant. But he was not conscious of any conflict between his faith and his loyalty till the conflict was forced upon him, and that was late in the day. In this position he was by no means singular. Sir George Mackenzie, who as Lord Advocate was so vigorous an instrument of Charles II.'s policy, refused, like Lauder, to concur in the partial application of the penal laws, and his refusal led to his temporary disgrace. Lauder was not even a reformer. He was a man of conservative temperament, and while his love of justice and good government led him to criticise in his private journals the glaring defects of administration, and especially the administration of justice, there is no evidence that he had even considered how a remedy was to be found. There was indeed no constitutional means of redress, and all revolutionary methods, from the stubborn resistance of the Covenanters, to the plots in London, real or imaginary, but always implicitly believed in by Lauder, and the expeditions of Monmouth and Argyll, met with Lauder's unqualified disapproval and condemnation. [21] It has been said that there is no sufficient evidence of this honourable incident in Fountainhall's career. But Sir Thomas Dick Lauder (MS. Genealogical Roll, _supra_) reproduces it in a poem to the Memory of Sir John Lauder, published in 1743, and attributed to Blair, the author of 'The Grave,' in which the following lines occur. He 'Saw guiltless blood poured out with lavish hand, And vast depopulated tracts of land; And saw the wicked authors of that ill Unpunished, nay, caressed and favoured still. The power to prosecute he would not have, Obliged such miscreants overlooked to save.' [Sidenote: H.O. 148] [Sidenote: H.O. 6] [Sidenote: Decisions, p. 232.] I shall cite some passages in illustration. When Charles II. died and James was proclaimed, Lauder writes that 'peoples greiff was more than their joy, having lost their dearly loved king'; then after a gentle reference to 'his only weak syde,' he says, 'he was certainly a prince indued with many Royall qualities, and of whom the Divine providence had taken a speciall care by preserving him after Worcester fight in the oak.' ... 'A star appeared at noon day at his birth; he was a great mathematician, chemist, and mechanick, and wrought oft in the laboratories himselfe; he had a natural mildnesse and command over his anger, which never transported him beyond an innocent puff and spitting, and was soon over, and yet commanded more deference from his people than if he had expressed it more severely, so great respect had all to him. His clemencie was admirable, witnesse his sparing 2 of Oliver Cromwell's sones, tho on of them had usurped his throne. His firmnesse in religion was evident; for in his banishment he had great invitations and offers of help to restore him to his croun if he would turne Papist, but he always refused it. As for his brother James, now our present King, he is of that martiall courage and conduct, that the great General Turenne was heard say, if he ware to conquer the world, he would choise the Duke of York to command his army,' Such were Lander's loyal sentiments, as set down in a private journal a year before his servants and clerks were arrested, and the seizure of his papers threatened. But his Protestantism and his jealousy of Popery were equally strong. In 1680 he notes that the minister of Wells in Nithsdale had 'turned Roman Catholic: so this is one of the remarkable trophees and spoils the Papists are beginning to gain upon our religion.' A little further on he is indignant at ridicule being thrown on the Popish Plot 'Not only too many among ourselves, but the French, turned the Plot into matter of sport and laughter: for at Paris they acted in ther comedy, called Scaramucchio, the English tryall, and busked up a dog in a goune lik Chief Justice Scrogs.' Again, 'A Papist qua Papist cannot be a faithful subject,' He had, however, no sympathy with the Covenanters, a name which he does not use, but he describes them as 'praecise phanaticks.' He did not consider it unjust to bring them to capital punishment, because they denied the right of the king to govern, though on grounds of humanity and policy he was inclined to mercy. In 1682 he observes on the execution of Alexander Home, a small gentleman of the Merse, who had commanded a party at the insurrection of Bothwell Bridge, 'tho he came not that lenth,' 'It was thought ther was blood eneuch shed on that quarrell already ... for they are like Sampson, they kill and persuade mo at ther death than they did in ther life.' He couples the Roman Catholics and Presbyterians together as troublesome citizens. 'These foolish people that assume the name of Presbyterians have unwarily drunk in these restles principles from the Jesuites and seminary priests, who have had a hand in all our troubles and blown the coall.' Apart, however, from the political attitude of the Covenanters, whom he regarded as disaffected subjects, there is no evidence that he concerned himself with the controversy as to the Episcopal or Presbyterian form of Church government, or that he regretted the re- establishment of Presbytery after the Revolution. He was not interested in Church matters. In 1683 he writes, 'The Synod of Edinburgh' [which was then Episcopalian] 'sat down, and not having much else to do, enacted 1'o that ministers should not sit in the pulpit, but stand all the time they are in it.'[22] [22] A devotional diary, for 1700, apparently one of a series, preserved in the Edinburgh University Library, No. 274, and an undated letter in the Dick Lauder MSS. about the election of a 'godly, primitive, and evangelicall pastor,' lead me to think that his views were Calvinistic, and not out of sympathy with the Presbyterian Establishment of the Revolution. In the present volume, p. 229, there is a striking example of his sympathy with the royal prerogative. He says it was believed that the project of Union was 'mainly set on foot by his Majestie and so much coveted after by him that he may rid himselfe of the House of Commons, who have been very heavy on his loines, and the loins of his predecessors.... I confesse the king has reason to wrest this excessive power out of the Commons their hand, it being an unspeakable impairment of the soveraintie, but I fear it prosper not.' His repugnance to anything savouring of revolutionary methods, combined with his always candid recognition of merit, appears in his observation when Sidney was executed. [Sidenote: H.O. p. 110.] He was a gallant man, yet had he been so misfortunat as ever to be on the disloyal side, and seemed to have drunk in with his milk republican principles.' In December 1684 Baillie of Jerviswood was prosecuted for being art and part in a treasonable conspiracy in England, along with Shaftesbury, Russell, and others. Lauder and Sir George Lockhart were commanded on their allegiance to assist the King's Advocate in the prosecution. The Court, after deliberating from midnight till three in the morning, brought in a verdict finding 'his being art and part of the conspiracy and design to rise in arms, and his concealing the same proven,' He was hanged and quartered the same day. Fountainhall did not disapprove of his condemnation. He says, 'he carried all this with much calmness and composure of mind; only he complained the time they had given him to prepare for death was too short, and huffed a little that he should be esteemed guilty of any design against the life of the King or his brother, of which he purged himself, as he hoped to find mercy, so also he denied any purpose of subverting the monarchial government, only he had wished that some grievances in the administration of our affairs might be rectified and reformed; but seeing he purged not himself of the rest of his libel, his silence as to these looked like a tacit confession and acknowledgment thereof.' [Sidenote: Decisions, i. 366.] [Sidenote: H.O. 74] [Sidenote: H.N. 11] [Sidenote: H.O. 184] [Sidenote: Decisions, i. 160.] [Sidenote: H.O. 55.] A still more striking illustration of Lauder's political views is afforded by his numerous observations on Argyll, who played so great a part in public affairs during the period covered by the manuscripts until his execution in 1685. Argyll was not a sympathetic figure to Lauder, but, as usual, he does justice to his qualities, and recognises the tragedy of his fate. On the day of his execution he notes, 'And so ended that great man, with his family, at that time.' He had a more cordial personal admiration for a very different statesman, Lauderdale, though he often disapproved of his policy. At his death he writes, '24 of August, 1682, dyed John Maitland, Duke of Lauderdale, the learnedest and powerfullest Minister of State of his age, at Tunbridge Wells. Discontent and age were the ingredients of his death, if his Dutchesse and Physitians be freed of it; for she had abused him most grosely, and got all from him she could expect.... The Duke of York was certainly most ungrate to Lauderdale; for Lauderdale was the first who adventured in August 1679 to advise the King to bring home the Duke of York from Flanders.'[23] Argyll he deemed to be wanting in magnanimity. In 1671 he writes on the subject of a point in a lawsuit being decided in Argyll's favour, 'This was my Lord President's doing [Stair], he being my Lord Argyle's great confidant. It was admired by all that he blushed not to make a reply upon his Father's forfaultor, and whow he had committed many treasonable crimes before the discharge, and to see him rather than tyne his cause, suffer his father rather to be reproached and demeaned as a traitor of new again, by his own advocats,' So fourteen years later he writes, 'Whatever was in Argile's first transgression in glossing the Test (which appeared slender), yet God's wonderfull judgements are visible, pleading a controversie against him and his family, for the cruall oppression he used, not only to his father's, but even to his oune creditors. It was remembered that he beat Mistris Brisbane done his stairs for craving hir annuelrents, tho he would have bestowed as much money on a staff or some like curiosity.' He was, however, one of Argyll's counsel when he was prosecuted for taking the Test, with the explanation 'that he conceived that this Test did not hinder nor bind him up from endeavouring alterations to the better either in Church or State.' Argyll, who had escaped, was sentenced to death in his absence, attainted, and his estates forfeited. Lauder strongly disapproved of the proceedings. He writes, 'There was a great outcry against the Criminal Judges, their timorous dishonesty....' These words, 'consistent with my loyalty, were judged taxative and restrictive, seeing his loyalty might be below the standard of true loyalty, not five-penny fine, much less eleven- penny,' ... 'The design was to low him, that he might never be the head of a Protestant party, and to annex his jurisdiction to the Crown, and to parcel out his lands; and tho' he was unworthily and unjustly dealt with here, yet ought he to observe God's secret hand, punishing him for his cruelty to his own and his father's creditors and vassals, sundry of whom were starving.' Lauder speaks of 'that fatal Act of the Test.' He had no favour for it, and he narrates with glee how 'the children of Heriot's Hospitall, finding that the dog which keiped the yairds of that Hospitall had a publick charge and office, they ordained him to take the Test, and offered him the paper, but he, loving a bone rather than it, absolutely refused it; then they rubbed it over with butter (which they called an Explication of the Test in imitation of Argile), and he licked of the butter, but did spite out the paper, for which they hold a jurie on him, and in derision of the sentence against Argile, they found the dog guilty of treason, and actually hanged him.' [23] Sir George Mackenzie also, who criticises Lauderdale's proceedings very freely, pays a fine tribute to one trait in his character, 'Lauderdale who knew not what it was to dissemble.'--_Memoirs_, p. 182. [Sidenote: H.O. 166] [Sidenote: H.0. 196.] [Sidenote: H.O. 189.] Although Lauder considered that Argyll had been unjustly condemned in the matter of the Test, his opinion about the expedition of 1685 was very different. He did justice to his capacity. He writes, 'Argile had always the reputation of sense and reason, and if the Whigs at Bothwell Bridge in 1679 had got such a commander as he, it's like the rebellion had been more durable and sanguinarie' But as soon as the news of Argyll's landing on the west coast came, this is his note, 'Argile, minding the former animosities and discontents in the country, thought to have found us all alike combustible tinder, that he had no more adoe then to hold the match to us, and we would all blow up in a rebellion; but the tymes are altered, and the peeple are scalded so severely with the former insurrections, that they are frighted to adventure on a new on. The Privy Council, though they despised this invasion, yet by proclamations they called furth the whole heritors of Scotland,' and so on. 'Some look on this invasion as a small matter, but beside the expence and trouble it hes put the country to, if we ponder the fatall consequences of such commotions, we'll change our opinions: for when the ramparts of government are once broke down, and the deluge follows, men have no assurances that the water will take a flowing towards their meadows to fructify them; no, no, just in the contrare.' Argyll was discovered and apprehended in his flight by a weaver near Paisley, of whom Lauder says, 'I think the Webster who took him should be rewarded with a litle heritage (in such a place wher Argile's death will not be resented), and his chartre should bear the cause, and he should get a coat of arms as a gentleman, to incouradge others heirafter.' It does not appear that this suggestion was acted upon. But while Lauder was a supporter of the existing order of government and opposed to all revolutionary plans, his journals disclose that in the state of public affairs he found much matter for criticism and ground for anxiety. In 1674 he tells of what will happen 'whenever we get a fair and unpraelimited Parliament, which may be long ere we see it.' In 1683 he writes sadly: 'Though we change the Governors, yet we find no change in the arbitrary government. For we are brought to that pass we must depend and court the Chancelor, Treasurer, and a few other great men and their servants, else we shall have difficulty to get either justice or despatch in our actions, or to save ourselves from scaith, or being quarrelled on patched up, remote and innocent grounds. This arbitrary way Lauderdale attempted, but did not attain so great a length in it as our statesmen do now; and they value themselves much in putting the military and ecclesiastic Laws to strict and vigorous execution, so that, let soldiers commit as great malversations and oppressions as they please, right is not to be got against them. Witness John Cheisly of Dalry's usage with Daver and Clerk, in the Kings troupe, and Sir John Dalrymple's with Claverhouse.' In the same year he says of James, then Duke of York, and Monmouth, 'We know not which of their factions struggling in the womb of the State shall prevail.' He regarded these political evils and dangers as beyond his power to remedy. It was not till after he had entered Parliament in 1685 that he made any public utterance on politics. In the last two years of James's reign the Test Act was enforced against Nonconformist Protestants but not against Roman Catholics. Lauder, being then in Parliament, considered it his duty to take a part, and he made one or two very moderate speeches, which, although expressed with studious respect to the sovereign, were doubtless highly displeasing to the government. OPINIONS ON ADMINISTRATION OF JUSTICE AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES. INFLUENCE OF STUDIES ABROAD [Sidenote: H.N. 40.] In the matter of the administration of justice he writes with much less reserve in his journals. The system was bad. The jurisdiction of the Privy Council, who tried a considerable number of causes, was ill-defined. The judges since the time of Charles I. were removable magistrates, entirely in the dependence of the Crown. Even the ordinary Lords of Session were not always trained lawyers--Lauder's father-in-law, for example, Sir Andrew Ramsay, long Provost of Edinburgh, became a judge with the title of Lord Abbotshall. There were besides four extraordinary lords who were never lawyers, and were not bound to attend and hear causes pleaded, but they had the right to vote. At the Revolution one of the reasons assigned for declaring the Crown vacant was 'the changing of the nature of the judges' gifts _ad vitam aut culpam_, and giving them commissions _ad bene placitum_ to dispose them to compliance with arbitary sourses, and turning them out of their offices when they did not comply.' Thus in 1681, when the Test Act was passed, five judges were dismissed, four ordinary, including the President, Stair, and one extraordinary, Argyll, and a new commission issued. When the Court was so constituted, it could hardly inspire implicit confidence, and the instances are numerous in which Lauder complains that injustice has been done, and the principles of the law perverted through the influence of political and private motives. Even the most eminent of the judges were not in his opinion clear from this blot. I have quoted one passage in which Lauder hints at Stair's partiality for Argyll. In another case in which Argyll was concerned he observes, 'Every on saw that would be the fate of that action, considering the pershewar's probable intres in the President.'[24] In 1672 when, as he considered, a well-established rule of law had been unsettled, he writes, 'This is a miserable and pittiful way of wenting our wit, by shaking the very foundations of law, and leaving nothing certain. The true sourse of it all is from the wofull divisions in the House, especially between the President and the Advocat [Mackenzie], each of them raking, tho from hell, all that may any way conduce to carry the causes that they head, _Flectere si neque superos_,' etc. One decision which excited his warm indignation was given in a suit by Lord Abbotshall against Francis Kinloch, who held a wadset over the estate of Gilmerton, which Abbotshall maintained was redeemable. He lost the case. After an extraordinary account of the way in which the decision was arrived at Lauder proceeds, 'the Chancelor's [Rothes] faint trinqueting and tergiversation for fear of displeasing Halton (who agented passionately for Francis) has abated much of his reputation. The 2d rub in Abbotshall's way was a largesse and donation of £5000 sterling to be given to Halton and other persons forth of the town's revenue for their many good services done to the toune. By this they outshot Sir Androw in his oune bow, turned the canon upon him, and _justo Dei judicio_ defait him by the toune's public interest, with which weapone he was want to do miracles and had taught them the way[25].... This decision for its strangeness surprised all that heard of it; for scarce even any who once heard the case doubted but it would be found a clear wodsett, and it opened the mouths of all to cry out upon it as a direct and dounright subversion of all our rights and properties.' [24] Lauder was a very young man at the bar when he wrote these strictures on Stair. They may be compared with and in part corrected by a passage in Sir G. Mackenzie's _Memoirs_, p. 240, which also bears on the appointment of incompetent judges. 'Lauderdale by promoting four ignorant persons, who had not been bred as lawyers, without interruption, and in two years' time, to be judges in it [the Session], viz., Hatton, Sir Andrew Ramsay, Mr. Robert Preston, and Pittrichie, he rendered thereby the Session the object of all men's contempt. And the Advocates being disobliged by the regulations did endeavour, as far as in them lay, to discover to the people the errors of those who had opprest them: and they being now become numerous, and most of them being idle, though men of excellent parts, wanting rather clients than wit and learning, that society became the only distributor of fame, and in effect the fittest instrument for all alterations: for such as were eminent, did by their authority, and such as were idle, by well contrived and witty raillery, make what impressions they pleased upon the people. Nor did any suffer so much as the Lord Stairs, President of the Session; who, because of his great affection to Lauderdale, and his compliance with Hatton, suffered severely, though formerly he had been admired for his sweet temper and strong parts. And by him our countrymen may learn, that such as would be esteemed excellent judges must live abstracted from the court; and I have heard the President himself assert that no judge should be either member of Council or Exchequer, for these courts did learn men to be less exact justiciars than was requisite.' [25] See Appendix III. It is not to be inferred from such strictures on the administration of justice, a matter on which, as an upright lawyer, Lauder was keenly sensitive, that he was an ill-natured critic of his professional brethren or of public men. On the contrary, the tone of his observations, though shrewd and humorous, is kindly and large-minded. He admired Lockhart, who was his senior at the bar, and whom he perhaps regarded more than any other man as his professional leader and chief, though he does not escape a certain amount of genial criticism. His enthusiastic eulogy of Lockhart's eloquence has been often quoted. In his estimation of Mackenzie it is easy to see, that while he doubted the wisdom and humanity of his relentless prosecutions, and while his arrogance comes in for criticism in a lighter vein, respect for his capacity, learning, and industry was the predominating element. It is pleasant to see the constant interest that he took in Bishop Burnet's books and movements, though they do not appear ever to have met. 'Our Dr. Burnet,' as he calls him. But that only means that he was a Scotsman, for he describes Ferguson the Plotter in the same way. There is nowhere a touch of jealousy or envy in those private journals. The influence of Lander's period of youthful travels, his _Wanderjahre_, on his future development is seen in various ways. He always kept up his interest in foreign countries and foreign literature. He bought a great many books, a list of which year by year is preserved, and he read them. The law manuscripts, though they embrace a pretty wide field, are confined to domestic affairs. But in the _Observes_ there are every year notes and reflections on the events passing in every part of Europe, and especially France. There is some interest in the following passage, almost the last sentence in the _Historical Observes_, 'In regard the Duke of Brandenburgh and States of Holland have not roume in ther countries for all the fugitive Protestants, they are treating with Pen and other ouners of thesse countries of Pensylvania, Carolina, etc., to send over colonies ther; so that the purity of the Gospell decaying heir will in all probability passe over to America.' The foreign schools of law where he had studied naturally affected his treatment of legal questions. Until the publication of the great work of Stair, the common civil law of Scotland was in a comparatively fluid state, though there were some legal treatises of authority, such as Craig's _Feudal Law_. Mackenzie's _Criminalls_ was published in 1676, and is often referred to by Lauder. Many of his contemporaries at the bar had studied like himself in the foreign schools of the Roman Civil Law, and in his reports of cases the original sources are quoted with enviable familiarity and appositeness. TORTURE, ASTROLOGY, AND WITCHCRAFT In questions of social ethics, such as torture, and of popular belief, such as astrology and witchcraft, Lauder was not much in advance of his age. He frequently mentions the infliction of torture without any comment. When Spence and Carstairs were tortured with the thummikins, he describes them as 'ane ingine but lately used with us,' and possibly he had some misgiving. The subjects of astrology and witchcraft had an attraction for his inquiring and speculative mind.[26] He believed in the influence of the heavenly bodies, and more firmly in witchcraft, for which many unhappy women were every year cruelly put to death. These trials at times evidently gave him some uneasiness. But usually, with regard to both topics, his doubts do not go beyond a cautious hint of scepticism tinged with humour. He was fundamentally a religious man, and where he touches on the great issues of life, and the relation of man to his Maker, it is in a tone of deep solemnity. But he loves to discourse in a learned fashion on the influence of the stars. 'Charles the 2d,' he says, 'fell with few or no prognosticks or omens praeceeding his death, unlesse we recur to the comet of 1680, which is remote, or to the strange fisches mentioned, supra page 72, or the vision of blew bonnets, page 74,[27] but these are all conjecturall: vide, supra Holwell's prophecies in his Catastrophe Mundi,' and so on. In 1683 'we were allarumed with ane strange conjunction was to befall in it of 2 planets, Saturn and Jupiter in Leo.... Our winter was rather like a spring for mildnes. If it be to be ascrybed to this conjunction I know not.' In the case of comets there was less room for scepticism. In December 1680, 'a formidable comet appeared at Edinburgh.' In discoursing on this comet he remarks that Dr. Bainbridge observed the comet of 1618 'to be verticall to London, and to passe over it in the morning, so it gave England and Scotland in their civill wars a sad wype with its taill. They seldom shine in wain, though they proceed from exhalations and other natural causes.' [26] Mr. Andrew Lang has pointed out to me that Lauder's remarks on the identity of the popular legends in France and Scotland (_Journal_, p. 83) are a very early instance of this observation, now recognised to be generally applicable. [27] P. 74, i.e. of his MS. For the vision of blue bonnets, compare H.O., p. 142, and Wodrow's _History_, iv. 180. [Sidenote: H.N. 198.] [Sidenote: H.N. 146.] Lauder relates several trials for witchcraft in much detail, and they evidently gave him some uneasiness. Some of the women commonly confessed and implicated other persons. In one such case the women, who among other persons, accused the parish minister, said that the devil sometimes transformed them 'in bees, in crows, and they flew to such and such remote places; which was impossible for the devil to doe, to rarefy the substance of their body into so small a matter ... thir confessions made many intelligent sober persons stumble much what faith was to be adhibite to them.' In another case from Haddington a woman confessed and accused five others and a man. Lauder saw the man examined and tested by pricking. He says, 'I remained very unclear and dissatisfied with this way of triall, as most fallacious: and the man could give me no accompt of the principles of his art, but seemed to be a drunken foolish rogue.' Then, according to his custom, he cites a learned authority, Martino del Rio, who lays bare the craft and subtlety of the devil, and mentions that 'he gives not the nip to witches of quality; and sometimes when they are apprehended he delets it....' 'The most part of the creatures that are thus deluded by this grand impostor and ennemy of mankind are of the meanest rank, and are ather seduced by malice, poverty, ignorance, or covetousness.' But he finds comfort in the pecuniary circumstances of the Tempter. 'It's the unspeakable mercy and goodness of our good God that that poor devill has not the command of money (tho we say he is master of all the mines and hid treasures of the earth) else he would debauch the greatest part of the world.' CONTENTS OF HIS EARLY JOURNALS AND ACCOUNTS It has already been mentioned that Lauder's later journals, when he came to chronicle public affairs and legal decisions, though they are full of graphic detail, contain little that is personal to himself. The manuscripts here printed, besides giving a picture of a Scottish student's life in France during the seventeenth century, include a narrative of his visits to London and Oxford on his return from abroad, his journey by coach and post from London to Edinburgh, and various expeditions in Fife, the Lothians, and the Merse, Glasgow, and the Clyde district, places where he had connections. He travelled on horseback. He kept one horse at this time, which appears in the Accounts. Considering his evident relish for travelling, it is remarkable that in his long life he never seems to have left Scotland after his return in 1667, though many of his more political brethren at the bar were constantly on the road between Edinburgh and Whitehall. He kept his accounts with great care. There were no banks, and his method was to account for each sum which he received, detailing how it was spent in dollars, merks, shillings sterling and Scots, pennies, etc. We have both his accounts during his period of travel, which are included in the first manuscript, and those during the years 1670 to 1675. From the latter copious extracts are given, and they are informatory as to the prices of commodities, and the mode of life of a young lawyer recently married. There was settled on him by his father in his marriage contract an annuity of 1800 merks (£100), secured on land. His wife's marriage portion was 10,000 merks (about £555), half of it paid up and invested, the remainder bearing interest at 6 per cent. His 'pension' as one of the assessors of the burgh was £12 (sterling). His house-rent was £20 (sterling): in one place it is stated a little higher; and he sublet the attics and basement. The wages of a woman servant was nearly £2 (sterling). We find the prices of cows, meal, ale, wine, clothing, places at theatres, etc., the cost of travelling by coach, posting, fare in sailing packet to London and so on. [Sidenote: H.O. 137.] [Sidenote: Genealogical Roll.] There are many illustrations throughout Lauder's manuscripts of the poverty of Scotland, relatively not only to the present time but to England. The official salary of a judge before the Union was £200, and it only reached that figure during his lifetime. Some time after the Union it was raised to £500. On the appointment of the Earl of Middleton as joint Secretary of State for England with Sunderland, in place of Godolphin, Lauder notes, 'This was the Dutchesse of Portsmouth's doing, and some thought Midleton not wise in changing (tho it be worth £5000 sterling a year, and 3 or 4 years will enrich on), for envy follows greatnesse as naturally as the shadow does the body, and the English would sooner bear a Mahometan for ther Secretar than a Scot, only he has now a good English ally, by marrieng Brudnell Earle of Cardigan's sister.' Thus the salary of a Secretary of State in England was the same in 1684 as it is now, whereas the salary of a Scottish judge was only one eighteenth part of its present amount: Lauder in his will gives a detailed account of his own investments. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder computes that he left about £11,000 besides the estate of Fountainhall, which he inherited. He was, however, the son of a wealthy man. At his marriage before he had any means of his own, 90,000 merks were settled by his father, who had several other children, on the children of the marriage (£5000 sterling, representing a sum many times as large in the present day). MONEY Lauder mentions a great variety of coins both in his Journal in France and in his Accounts after his return home. Some explanation of the principal coins may be useful. It is necessary to keep in mind that the value of coins was in a perpetual flux. There were during the century frequent changes in the value of coins relatively even to those of the same country. 1. _In France._ (1) _Livre_. The livre used by Lauder, and called by him indifferently 'frank,' was the livre tournois,[28] of 20 sous. It was, subject to exchange, of the same value as the pound Scots,[29] 1s. 8d. sterling, which greatly simplifies calculations. The £ s. d. French was equal to the £ s. d. Scots, and one twelfth of the value of the £ s. d. English or sterling. [28] The livre parisis contained 25 sous.--Major's _Greater Britain_ (S.H.S.), p. 32, note. [29] See pp. 3 and 4 and _passim_. (2) _Ecu, écu blanc_, or _d'argent_, a silver coin worth 3 livres,[30] or 5s. sterling, thus of the same value as the English crown, and sometimes called crown by Lauder. [30] The value varied a little, but it was three livres in 1653.-- _Mémoires de l'Académie des Inscriptions et de Belles Lettres_ (1857), Tome 21, 2'me partie, p. 350. (3) _Ecu d'or_, or _couronne_, golden crown. It was worth about 5 livres 12 sous,[31] equal to 9s. 4d. sterling. (P. 155, 'I receaved some 56 ll. in 10 golden crowns.') [31] The exact value in 1666 in livres tournois was 5 ll. 11s. 6d.-- _Mémoires, ut supra_, p. 256. (4) _Pistole_. A Spanish gold coin current in France. Its standard value was 10 livres tournois, equal to 16s. 8d. That fairly corresponds with a proclamation in Ireland in 1661 fixing it at 16s. Littré (_Dict._ s.v.), states the value of the coin a good deal higher, though he gives the standard as above. But its value gradually increased, like that of other gold coins, and in later Irish proclamations is much higher. The British gold coins _Jacobus_ and _Carolus_ were also used by Lauder in France, and are explained below. 2. _In Scotland and England._[32] [32] See Cochran Patrick's _Records of the Coinage of Scotland_ (1876); Ruding's _Annals of the Coinage_ (1817); and _Handbook of the Coins of Great Britain and Ireland_ in the British Museum, by H.A. Grueber (1899); Burns, _Coinage of Scotland_. (1) _Jacobus_ (2) _Carolus_. James VI. on his accession to the throne of England, with a view to the union of the kingdoms, issued a coinage for both countries, which was in this sense uniform that each Scottish coin was commensurable and interchangeable with an English coin. The ratio of the Scots to the English £ s. d., which during centuries was always becoming lower, was finally fixed at 1 to 12. The English 20s. and Scots 12 l. pieces of equal value now issued were called the unite. The double crown or 10s. piece was the Scots 6 l. piece, the crown the Scots 3 l. piece, and so on. The unite was so called from the leading idea of union, just as the double crown had the legend, _Henricus Rosas Regna Jacobus_. As Henry VII. united the Red and White Roses, James was to unite the two kingdoms. It seems probable that James intended the unite as a 20s. or pound piece to be the standard and pivot of the coinage of both countries, as the pound or sovereign has now become. This enlightened policy, though it had lasting effects, soon broke down in detail. In England the shilling proved too strong for the unite, and in Scotland the merk maintained its hold. To prevent the exportation of gold, the value of the unite of 154 grains[33] was raised to 22s. in 1612, though the king had himself proposed rather to lower the weight of silver. That caused confusion, 'on account of the unaptness for tale' of the gold pieces at their enhanced value, and a lighter 20s. piece of 140 grains was issued in 1619 for England only, known as the laurel piece, from the wreath round the king's head. In Scotland the original unite remained, and was sometimes called the 20 merk piece, to which value it roughly corresponded. It was repeated in the coinage of Charles I., the last sovereign who coined gold in Scotland prior to the Revolution. Thus it was the only Scottish 20s. sterling piece. Charles I.'s unite or double angel (20s. piece) for England was of the same lighter weight as the laurel. In 1661 the value of the gold coin was again heightened, the old unite to 23s. 6d., and the lighter English unite to 21s. 4d. [33] The weights are given in round numbers. The above information is necessary in order to identify the two gold coins which Lauder used. He generally calls the larger the Jacobus and the smaller the Carolus. At p. 80 the one is mentioned as 'the Scotes and English Jacobuses, which we call 14 pound peices,' and the other as 'the new Jacobus, which we cal the 20 shiling sterling peice.' At p. 154 he speaks of '10 Caroluses, or 20 shiling peices,' so that the new Jacobus and the Carolus are the same. While there was only one weight of Scots gold piece of the issue value of 20s. sterling, in England during the reigns of James I., Charles I., and Charles II. there were four: 1, the sovereign of James I. (172 grains); 2, the unite or double angel of James (154 grains), the same as in Scotland; 3, the laurel of James, the unite of Charles I., and the broad of Charles II. (140 grains); 4, the guinea[34] of Charles II., first struck in 1663 (131 grains). Now Lauder's larger coin was a Scots or English Jacobus, therefore it is the unite of James VI.; and his smaller coin is called both a Carolus and a new Jacobus, therefore it is the coin of 140 grains. The two pieces are mentioned in a proclamation by the Privy Council in 1661 heightening certain coins.[35] [34] Once mentioned by Lauder, p. 220. [35] This table may be compared with Louis XIII.'s valuation of some of these coins (p. 80). The Scots piece there mentioned with two swords, and the legend _Salus_, etc., is no doubt the sword and sceptre piece of James VI. (1601-4). But the issue value of the whole piece, not the half piece, was 611. Scots. £ s. D. Scots. £ s. D. Scots. formerlie current at now to be current at The Double Angel [36] 13.06.08 14.04.08 The Single Angel 6.13.04 7.02.04 The Dager Peice 6.13.04 7.02.04 The Scots Ryder 6.13.04 7.02.04 The New Peice[37] 12.00.00 12.16.00 The Halfe 6.00.00 6.08.00 The Quarter 3.00.00 3.04.00 The Rose Noble, Scots and English. 10.13.04 11.07.04 The Hary Noble 9.06.08 9.19.00 [36] Lauder's Jacobus. [37] Lauder's Carolus. (3) _Dollar_. In Lauder's accounts the reader is struck by the prominent position of the dollar. While debts and obligations were calculated in pounds Scots or merks, dollars supplied the currency for household and other payments, just as pounds do at the present day. They were foreign coins of various denominations and various intrinsic value, but of inferior fineness to the Scots standard of silver money, which was eleven penny fine--eleven parts silver to one part alloy. They passed current for more than their intrinsic value, and the native silver money was withdrawn from the country. All through the reigns of Charles I. and Charles II. the subject gave great concern to the Mint, the Parliament, the Privy Council, and bodies with commercial interests like the Convention of 'Burrowis.' In 1631 the Privy Council issued a proclamation 'considering the greit skarsitie of His Majestie's proper coynes ... occasioned by the frequent transport theirof and importing of dollours in place of the same,' prohibiting the receipt of any dollars for coal or salt after 1st November next to come. 'That in the mean tyme the maisters and owners of the coalhewes and saltpans may give tymous advertisement to the strangers trading with them for coal and salt that they bring no dollours with them for the pryce of the salt and coal,' and that merchants exporting bestial or other commodities to England are to 'make return of the pryces' not in dollars, but either in H.M. proper coin or in the following foreign coins, the value and weight of which is fixed by the proclamation: Spanish pistolet, French crown, rose noble, half rose noble, quartisdiskue, single ryall. The proper method of dealing with the difficulty was matter of great controversy. In 1633 George Foulis, master coiner, says in a memorial, 'In the first it is to be considerit that _the most pairt of the moneys presently in Scotland is only dollouris_. 'Secondlie, these dollouris are not all alike in wecht, some wheirof are 15 drops wecht, some 14-1/2 and many others lesser in wecht. 'Thirdlie, they are different in fineness, some 10, some 10-1/2, others baser. The best 15 drop and 10 1/2 fineness will not answer to the King's money in wecht or fynness to 54s. Scots.' The best of these dollars was the Rex or Rix Dollar (Reichsthaler, dalle imporiale). In the reign of Charles I. the baser dollars which gave most trouble to the authorities were the dog dollars and the cross dollars. In the reign of Charles II. we hear more of the leg dollar, which approached the rex dollar in value, and had got a pretty strong footing. On 14th January 1670, the Privy Council issued a proclamation on the narrative, 'Forasmuch as there hath been of late imported into this kingdom great numbers of those dollars commonly called leg dollars Haveing the impression of a man in armes _with one leg _and a shield ... covering the other leg ... which does usually pass at the rate of 58s. Scots money, and seeing that upon tryall of the intrinsick worth and value thereof they are found to fall short of the foresaid rate, and that in the United Provinces where the forsaid dollars are coyned, the passe only at the rate of crosse dollars, Therupon the King's Mtie with advice of his P.Cs. doth declare that (the rex or bank dollars now passing at 58s. Scotts) the true and just value at which the forsaids legs dollars ought to passe and be current in this kingdome is 56s. Scotts money....' Thus we get the authorised value of these dollars at the period of Lauder's accounts. The accounts themselves show that the current value varied indefinitely, and is sometimes different in two consecutive items.[38] [38] With regard to the etymology of 'leg,' Mr. Hallen in his introduction to the _Account Book of Sir John Foulis of Ravelston_ (S.H.S.), p. xxxiii, gives some strong and perhaps convincing reasons in favour of Liége. But the descriptions in the Proclamation above quoted, and the fact that Lauder sometimes calls them 'legged,' seem to show that the popular etymology in Scotland was the man's leg on the coin. Charles II. struck four merk-pieces at the issue value of 53s. 4d. Scots in two issues, the first in 1664, the second in 1675-1682. The second, and only the second issue, came at some later but unknown period to be known to numismatists as dollars. But I do not think there is any reason to suppose that Lauder called those pieces dollars. The accounts are in the period of the first issue, and Lander's dollar was of higher value. Probably his dollars were all foreign coins, generally rex dollars, as he often calls them. When they are leg dollars, he appears always so to distinguish them. (4) _The Merk_, 13s. 4d. Scots, was raised in value by James VI. to 13- 1/2d. sterling, to make it interchangeable with English money. He coined none after his accession to the throne of England, and probably intended that no more should be coined. But the merk had too strong a hold in Scotland, and half merks were struck by Charles I., and various multiples and parts of merks by Charles II. at the old issue value of 13s. 4d. the merk. On the other hand, in 1651 Parliament 'cryed up' the 12s. Scots piece--equal to the English shilling--to one merk; and in 1625 the Britain crown or 31. Scots piece is officially described as 'known as the five merk piece,' though its issue value was only five shillings. This illustrates the confusion and uncertainty of the relative value of coins, of which parenthetically two other examples may be given. On 20th June 1673 Lauder notes the receipt of his year's salary as one of the assessors for the burgh, 'being 150 lb. Scots, which is about 229 merks,' whereas with the merk at 13s. 4d. (the standard value), 150 lb. is exactly 225 merks. In the same way he constantly states the same salary indifferently at 1501. Scots or £12 sterling, whereas 1501. Scots ought to have been equal to £12, 10s. sterling. (5) _Shilling_. Lauder applies the name without distinction to the English shilling, 12s. Scots piece, which at page 80 he calls our shilling, and to the shilling Scots. The context generally shows which he means. (6) _Groat_. Lauder's groat is the English groat of four pence, sterling. The groat Scots of less value had not been coined for a century. (7) _Penny_. As in the case of the shilling, Lauder uses the name indifferently for English pence and pennies Scots, but more often English. Such coins as testoons, placks, bodles, bawbees and turners, do not appear in his accounts, but some of them are casually mentioned in the text of the MSS., and are explained in footnotes. LANGUAGE AND SPELLING No alteration has been made on the text of the MSS. except the substitution of capital letters for small ones, where capitals would now be used. In this matter Lauder's practice is capricious, and it may safely be said that it was governed by no rule, conscious or unconscious. He spells the pronoun I with a capital, and usually begins a sentence with one. But names of persons and places are very often spelt with small letters. The use of capitals was not yet fixed, as it is now, and the usage of different languages, such as English, French and German, as it came to be fixed, is not identical. Some changes in the punctuation have also been made in transcription for the sake of clearness, but the punctuation, which is scanty, has not been systematically altered. In the MSS. some single words have been erased, or rubbed off, at the top and the foot of the page. The blanks are indicated, and as a rule, but not quite invariably, explained in footnotes. MSS. X and H are printed entire, with two unimportant omissions, one in each, which are noted and explained, and as regards MS. H, with the exception of some detached pages of accounts, and a catalogue of some books. Of these it was thought that the Appendix contains enough. From MS. K only extracts are given. The remainder contains more accounts, and a further catalogue of books, without the prices, and other memoranda and reflections, now of no interest. The spelling is to a large extent arbitrary.[39] It is less regular than, for example, the contemporary Acts of Parliament, but more regular than the letters of some of Lauder's contemporaries, in high positions.[40] A word is often spelt in different ways on the same page. There are, however, many constant peculiarities, some of which may have a linguistic interest, thus 'laugh' 'rough' 'enough' 'through' are spelt with a final _t_. The use of a final but silent _t_ Mr. Mackay in his introduction to Pitscottie,[41] p. cxl, says is a distinct mark of Scots of the middle period. 'Voyage,' 'sponge,' and 'large' are sometimes spelt without the final _e_. 'Knew,' 'slew,' 'blew' are spelt 'know,' 'slow,' 'blow.' 'Inn' is spelt 'innes.' 'See' is always spelt 'sy' or 'sie,' and 'weigh,' 'wy.' But these are only examples, taken at random. 'One,' 'off,' 'too,' 'thee' are spelt 'on,' 'of,' 'to,' 'the,' a snare to the unwary reader. 'V' and 'W' are frequently interchanged. [39] Lauder's French in the Journal in France is full of mistakes, both of grammar and spelling. He was only learning the language. [40] Cf. Bishop Dowden's introduction to Lauderdale Correspondence (S.H.S.), _Miscellany_, vol. i. p. 230. [41] _Historic and Chronicles of Scotland_, by Robert Lindesay of Pitscottie (Scottish Text Society, 1899). Lauder's language is idiomatic, and he uses many Scottish words which were not common in the written literary language of his time. A few of these words are now rare and even difficult to trace.[42] Most of them are quite intelligible to persons who have been accustomed to hear Lowland Scots spoken, but for the sake of other readers I have been convinced that occasionally interpretation is not superfluous. [42] One of them is 'dron,' p. 146. With reference to the words '_7 arbres_,' in the description of the Mail at Tours, p. 20, Mr. A. Lang has suggested to me that _arbres_ might be a term in the _Jeu de Mail_. Mr. H.S.C. Everard has kindly sent me the following quotations from Joseph Lauthier's book on the game (1st ed., 1717): 'C'est quand deux ou plusieurs jouent à qui poussera plus loin, et quand l'un est plus fort que l'autre, le plus foible demande avantage, soit par distance d'arbres, soit par distance de pas.' 'On finit la Partie en touchant un arbre ou une pierre marquée qui sert de but.' If certain trees were marked as goals, that would be a better explanation than the one given in the note. The thanks of the Society and my own are due to the owners of the MSS. I am grateful to Sir T.N. Dick Lauder and Sir William Fraser's Trustees (Sir James Balfour Paul, Lyon King of Arms, and the late Mr. James Craik, W.S.), for intrusting me with their MSS. for a long time, which made my work much easier; and more satisfactory. The Society is also indebted to Mr. David Douglas for the use of his transcript of MS., and for the first suggestion that the MS. should be printed. By the kindness of Lady Anne Dick Lauder four portraits in her possession are reproduced. 1. Lord Fountainhall, in ordinary dress, a different picture from the one in robes published by the Bannatyne Club. 2. His first wife, Janet Ramsay, an attractive picture, which suffers in the photographic reproduction. 3. Sir John Lauder, Fountainhall's father. 4. Sir Andrew Ramsay, Lord Abbotshall, his father-in-law. I have received constant assistance and advice from Mr. T. Graves Law, Librarian of the Signet Library. I have also to thank Sir Arthur Mitchell, who read some of the proofs, and gave me valuable suggestions, Mr. J.T. Clark, Keeper of the Advocates' Library, for ready help on many points, Mr. H.A. Webster, Librarian of Edinburgh University, Mr. W.B. Blaikie, of Messrs. T. and A. Constable, and Mr. Alex. Mill of the Signet Library, who in transcription and otherwise has given me efficient and obliging assistance. I am particularly grateful to Miss Cornelia Dick Lauder, for the interest which she has taken in the book, and the help which she has given me in obtaining the necessary materials for it. D.C. EDINBURGH, _March_ 1900. I JOURNAL IN FRANCE 1665-1667 I JOURNAL 1665-1667. [The first leaves of the Manuscript are wanting. Lauder left Edinburgh on 20th March 1665, travelling by Berwick and Durham, and arrived in London on 1st April. See page 154.] * * * * * We saw also the fatall chair of Scotland wheirin our kings for many ages used to be croune. I fand it remarkable for nothing but its antiquity, it being thought to have come from Egypt some 3,000 years ago. I went in the nixt place to the Tower, wheir on our entrin according to custome I left my sword. Heir first we saw a very strong armory for weapons of all sorts, as many as could furnish 20,000 men; we saw great field pieces of ordinance as also granadoes; we saw also many coats of maill, and among the rest on[43] very conceity all joined like fines of fisches on to another, which they informed me came as a present from the great Mogull who comands over 36 kings. The[re] ware hinging their as Trophees several peices of armour that they had taken from the french in their wars wt them. Their we saw the huge armour of John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster. We came nixt and saw the honors, wheir we saw the sword and seipter of honor; the croun was not their, by reason the parliament had use for it at Whitehal. We saw also a most rich Globe of christal beset wt most precious diamonds. We came in the 3d place to sie the Lyons, the Leopards, the aigle, and a long skine of a snake. [43] One. Lauder's usual spelling. We arrived London on Saturday 1 of April, we left it on Thursday 6 of April; about 4 a cloack we took boat, and landed at Gravesend about 10 a cloack at night, in which space we ware so merry in singing never but some of us singing and sometymes all, that the rowers protested that they never carried so merry a company doune the Thames. On the way we was tuise stoopt by men of war to know whither their ware any seamen in it, that they might be sent to the fleet: at which we alleadged Captain Blawprine[44] G. Moor was much troubled, for he was exceeding skipper like. To morrow tymously we tooke post about 6 a cloack, and reach Dover about one; yet we got not passage til ij at night. What a distressed brother I was upon the sea neids not hear be told, since its not to be feared that I'l forget it, yet I cannot but tell whow[45] Mr. John Kincead and I had a bucket betwixt us strove ... who should have the bucket first, both being equally ready; and whow at every vomit and gasp he gave he cried Gods mercy as give he had bein to expire immediately. [44] Compare Blawflum (Jamieson), a deception. 'Prine' may be prein, pin, a thing of little value. Moor is playfully described as captain or skipper. [45] How. About 5 in the morning we landed on France the land of graven images. Heir we divided into 8 companies: Joseph Marior wt one Mr. Colison went into Flanders; Mr. Dick Moor and Kinkead went to Deip and so to Roan. Mr. Strachan, Hamilton, and I stayed in Calais til Monday, 10 of April, and joined wt the messenger for Paris one Pierre, a sottish fellow, yet one that entertained us nobly; their went also wt him besides us on Mr. Lance Normand, Newwarks gouernor and a son of my Lord Arreray or Broll,[46] a very sharp boy wt his governour Doctor Hall. In our journey we passed severall brave tounes as Bulloigne, Monstrul, Abewill, Poix, Beauveaus, wheir is the most magnificent church I had ever then sien. We chanced to lay a night at a pitty vilage called Birny, wheir my chamber was contigue to a spatious pleasant wood that abounded wt nightingales, small birds to look upon; who wt the melodiousnesse of their singing did put sleip quit from me. The great number we meit of souldiers all the way begat in us great fears of wooling [robbing],[47] yet it pleased God to bring us most safely to Paris 14 of April at night. Mr. Strachan led Mr. Ham[ilton] and me to one Turners, a Scotsman, wheir I lay that night, and wheir I recountred wt several of our countrimen, as Patrick Mein, Mr. Castellaw, Mr. Murray, Mr. Sandilands, a man wonderfully civil, Mr. Wilky, Mr. Gibson, and Mr. Colt. The day following I made my addresse to F. Kinloch, and brought wt me a letter containing my safe anivall to go in his packet for Scotland, I not having written any thing since I wrot at my parting from London. I delivered him also my fathers letter, B.[48] Kinlochs letter, and Thomas Crafurds, wt the bill of exchange; my fathers is as followeth: [46] Roger Boyle, 1621-1679, first Baron of Broghill and Earl of Orrery, M.P. for Edinburgh, 1656-58, member of Cromwell's House of Lords. He was succeeded by his son Roger, 1646-1710. [47] 'Robbing' interlined. 'Wooling' may mean 'shearing,' so robbing. [48] Bailie. _Edinborough, March_ 15, 1665. SIR,--The bearer heirof, my sone, inclining to study the french tongue and the Laws, I have theirfor thought it expedient to direct him to you, being confident of your favour and caire, intreating[49] ... recommendation by a few lynes to one Monsieur Alex.[49] ... [pr]ofessor of the Laws at Poictiers to which place I intend he sould go: as also to place him their for his diet in the most convenient house but especially wt on of our profession and Religion. He hes a bill drawen on you wt a letter of advice and credit; which I hope ye will obey. I have bein desired by severalls to have direct him to our Mr. Mowat and have bein profered to cause answer him what money he sould neid for 20 shiling the Frank: but I inclined rather to send him to you (whilk I hope ye will not take as trouble) tho I have payed Thomas Crafurd 21 shiling.[50] What he stands in neid of during his abode I hope ye wil answer him, and upon your advertisment and eis receipt I sal either advance or pay the money upon sight. I most without vanity or flattery say hitherto he hes not bein inclined to any vice or evill way and I hope sall so continue. I know not positively what may defray his charges in his studies, diet, and otherwise, but I conceive about 7 or 8 hundred franks a year may do it; whowever I entreat you let me hear from you what ye think wil do it and what ye will take for the frank. So being confident of your cair heirof, and in doing wheirof ye sall very much oblidge him who is, Sir,--your reall friend, JOHN LAUDER. [49] Page torn. [50] See Introduction, p. xlviii. The bill of exchange is as followeth: _Edinburgh, 17 March 1665_, for 400 livres T.L.[51] Sir,--4 dayes after sight of this my first bill of exchange (my 2 not being payed) please pay to Mr. John Lauder or his order 400 livres TL value receaved heir from his father B. John Lauder. Make punctuall payment and please it to account, as by the advice of your humble servant, THOMAS CRAFURD. For Mr. Francis Kinloch, Merchant in Paris. [51] See Introduction, p. xlii. Francis having read thir, out of his kindnese would suffer me to stay no wheir but in his oune house, wheir I stayed all the space I was at Paris, attended and entertained as give I had bein a Prince. While I was heir I communicated my intentions and directions for going straight to Poictiers to these countrymen fornamed, who ware all unanimously against it, not sieing what good I could do their since the Colledge was just upon the point of rising; they conceived theirfor that I might imploy my tyme much better either in Orleans at Mr. Ogilvyes house, or Saumur at Mr. Dualls; for in either of these I could have a richer advantage in reference to the language, both because its beter spoken their [then at] Poictiers, as also fewer Scotsmen their then in Poictiers. I sould also have for a pistoll[52] a month a master to give me a lesson on the Instituts once a day, which I could not so have at that rate at Poictiers. Thus they reasoned, and I fand Mr. Kinloch to be of the same mind. I considering that it was not expedient for me to step one step wtout direction from my father, I wrot the Vednesday following, 19 of Aprill, acquainting him wt it; and that I sould attend his answer and will at Orleans. [52] See Introduction, p. xliii. While I was at Paris I went and saw the new Bridge, and Henry 4 his stately statue in brasse sent as a present by the King of Denmark. I was also at the Place Royalle wheir stands Lewis the 13, this king of France his father, caused to be done by that great statesman in his tym, Cardinall Mazarin, whom he left tutor to the young king during his minority. I was also at the Palais Cardinal and that Palais wheir the Lawyers pleads. The choops[53] their have great resemblance wt those in the hie exchange at London. I saw also that vast stupendious building, the Louwre, which hath layd many kings in their graves and yet stands unfinished; give[54] all be brought to a close that is in their intentions I think the Grand Seigniours seraglio sall bear no proportion to it. All we saw of it was the extrinsecks, excepting only the king's comoedy house which the force of mony unlocked and cost open; which truly was a very pleasant sight, nothing to be sein their but that which by reason of gilding glittered like gold. But the thing that most commended it was its rare, curious, and most conceity machines: their they had the skies, boats, dragons, vildernesses, the sune itselfe so artificially represented that under night wt candle light nothing could appear liker them. [53] Shops. [54] Give for gif, if. The day before I left Paris, being according to the French account the 5 of May, according to the Scots the 25 of Aprill, Mr. Kinloch wt his wife and daughter Magdalen took Mr. Mein, Mr. Dick,[55] Mr. Moor and me in coach 4 leagues of Paris to Ruell to sie the waterworks their, which wtout controll be the best of any about Paris, by the way we passed thorow one of the pleasantest woods or Parks that ever my eyes did sie, called the Park of Boloigne. We saw Madrid also, but not that in Spaine; the occasion of the building wheirof was this: Francis, one of the kings of France, became Spaines prisoner, who demanded ...[56] ransome 8 milions. The french king payes him 4, and ...[56] promises him upon the word of a king that having once lifted it in France he sould come in person to Madrid and pay it. Thus vinning home he caused build a stately house a litle from Paris, which he named Madrid, and so wrot to the Spaniard that he had bein at Madrid and payed what he owed, according to that, '_qui nescit dissimulare nescit regnare_' We saw also Mount Calvary, which the Deluded Papists will have to be the true representative of that Calvary wheir our Saviour suffered: its situate at that same distance from Paris that the true's from Jerusalem, of that same hieght, and so in all the circumstances. [55] This may be James Dick, who was born in the same year as Lauder, 1646, afterwards Sir J. Dick of Priestfield, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, and created a baronet. [56] Page torn. Thus we come to Ruell, wheir so many gallant sights offered themselfes that I know not wheir to begin; first the pleasant ponds abounding wt fishes of divers sorts, as carps, picks, etc., comes to be considred. But the rich waterworks are the main commendation of the place. It is not to be forgotten whow finely the fellow that showed us them, and set them on work by his engines did wet Mr. Dick, and followed him in the litle house (the Grotto) whethersoever he could stir. The thing that mainly moved my admiration was the hie ascendance of the water: what secret hidden power could carry the water clean contrary to its natural inclination which is to deschend, as every other heavy body, so hy that in some of them a man wt a speir could not reach its top. The most wonderfull thing ever I saw is the infinit art that some curious painter hath showen on a large timber broad, standing in a corner of the yard: a small distance from it their is a revell put up which makes it appear the more lively, so that we win no nearer then the revell would let us. At this distance ye would think ye saw the heavens thorow the wal on the other syde of it, so wonderously is the blew skie drawen; so that bring me a man without acquainting him wt the devce he sal constantly affirme he sies the lift on the other syde of the wall. On the same broad beneath the skie on the earth, as ye would think, is drawen a woman, walking thorow a montain in a trodden path, the woman, the mountain, the way, so cunningly drawen that I almost thought I saw a woman walking on the other syde of the wall over a hil throw the beaten rod. I constantly asserted also that the broad was wery inaequall and that it had many utraisings[57] because I seimed to sie as lively as ever I saw any thing pillars coming furth and standing out wt a great deal of prominency from that which seimed to be the skie, that at least I judged it halfe a ell farder out; yet it was but a mistake; for its certainly knowen that the broad is as smooth and aequall as can be. We also went out wtout the yeard to the back of the wall, wheir by the back and sydes of the broad we discerned it to be of such thinnesse that it could not admit any utcomings, as these pillars seimed to us. [57] Outraisings, reliefs. In our coming home from Ruell we went in and saw the king's brother the Duke of Orleances house, Sainct Low: it hath also a wery pretty yard, wheir we saw many water-works also, and in the pond several swanes. We saw also many orange trees, some of which had their ripe fruit, some very green, some betwixt the 2, according to the natur of the orange tree. The house we fand wery rich; many brave portraicturs; our kings portraitur is their better done then ever I saw it in my life. The partition that divides one roome from another is of strange glasse that showes a man his body in some of them 5 tymes, so that I saw in one of them 5 John Lauders. After this we came back to Paris, on the morrow after, being the 6 of May according to the French account, the 26 of April according to the Scots. I joined wt the messenger for Orleans severall accompanieng me to my horse, their went 4 Englishes alongs also, one of which was the doctor whom his cometicall face told to have the clap. We came to Orleans May 7 at night. I straight directed my course to Mr. Ogilvyes, which I did that I might get the better accomodation knowing that the Doctor also intended their. I delivered him the letter I brought him from F. Kinloch, which was as followeth: Mr. John Ogilvy. _Paris, May 6, 1665._ SIR,--Thesse are to accompany the bearer heirof, Mr. John Lauder, whose father is my wery much honored friend, his mother my neir kinswomen, and himselfe a very hopful youth inclined to vertue every way. He intends to stay som tyme wt you, theirfor I do earnestly recommend him to your best advice and counsell in what may concerne his welfare to assist him theirin, in all which I recommend him to you againe and againe as give he were my oune sone, assuring you that what favor or friendship you sall be pleased to show him, I sall ever acknowledge it as done to my selfe. He intends to improve his tyme in the study of the Laws, and having got some knowledge of the french tongue, he intends for Poictiers some moneths hence. Help him to a master that may come to him once a day and give him a lesson on the Instituts; and for the language I beseich you assist him in it. If their be no accommodation for him at your house, I pray you place him wheir he may be weil used and in good company. Let him not want what he stands in neid of for monyes or other necessaries, all which I sall make good to you thankfully upon advice from you. Thus recommending him to your care as my oune. Kissing your hand wt madam Ogilvyes, your daughters, and al your families, I rest your real friend and servant, FRANCIS KINLOCH.' At my arrival heir I fand in pension wt him the Mr. of Ogilvy[58] wt his servant, a very civil lad[59] James Hunter, young Thirlestan[60] wt his man Patrick Portues: besides them also their ware English, French, and Germans. The city (called Aurelia ather _a bonitate auroe_, or from Aurelian the emperor who keipt a station heir) I fand to be as big as Edinborough laying wt it also the next greatest citty of Scotland. I discovered likewise the city to abound wt such a wast number of lame folk, both men and women, but especially women, even many of them of good quality, that I verily beleive their are more lame women their at Orleans then is in all Scotland or much of France. Enquiring what the reason of this might be, the general woice was that it proceeded from the nature of the Aurelian wine, which they alledge to have such influence on the sperm of man as to produce a creature imperfect in their legs. Others sayd it was the purity of the air about Orleans whence the city has the name of Aurelia. But what influence the air can have in this point is hardly explicable. Monsieur Ogilvy more rationally informed me that he took it to be a race and generation of peaple who transmitted it hæreditarly to their posterity, for which I meit after[6l] a wery strong presumption: I saw a mother lame, not only the daughters lame, but in the very same faschion that the mother; and this I saw confirmed seweral tymes. [58] Apparently David, afterwards third Earl of Airlie. His grandfather was already dead, and he is afterwards called Lord Ogilvy in the Journal. [59] Probably the servant, though the punctuation is as in the text. [60] Thirlestan, probably Thurston in East Lothian, belonging to the family of Hunter. [61] Meit after, i.e. met afterwards. Just the morrow after my arrival was keipt very solemly by the whole toune in remembrance and commemoration of the valiant maid of Orleans, who, when the English had reduced al France excepting only Orleans to their obedience, and ware so fair for Orleans that they gained to the mids of the bridge over Loyer, most couragiously animated the citizens and beat them shamelesslie back: for which when the English got hir in their power they brunt hir at Roan quick. The ceremony we saw consisted of a procession partly spiritual or Ecclesiastick, partly civil or Temporal. To make the spirituall their was their all that swarm of grassopers which we are fortold sould aschend out of the bottemlese pit; all these filthy frogs that we are fortold that beast that false prophet sould cast out of his mouth, I mean that rable of Religious orders within the body of that Apostolical and Pseud-apostolicall Church of Rome. Only the Jesuits was wanting; the pride of whose hearts will not suffer them to go in procession with the meaner orders. In order went the Capuchines, then the Minimes, which 2 orders tho they both go under the name of Cordeliers by reason of that cord they wear about their midle, on whilk cord they have hinging their string of beads, to the end of their string is hinging a litle brazen crosse, tho also they be both in on habit, to wit long broun gowns or coats coming doune to their feet, a cap of that same coming furth long behind just like a Unicornes horne, tho the go both bar leged only instead of shoes having cloogs of wood (hence when I saw them in the winter I pitied them for going bar leged; on the other hand, when I saw them in the summer I pitied them that they ware necessitat by the first institution of their orders never to quate their gounes which cannot be but to hot for them; yea, never to suffer any linnen only wooll to come neirest their skine), notwithstanding of this its easy to distinguish them by the Clerical Tonsure, you sall never find a capuchin but wt a very liberall bard: for the Minime he most not have any. Again in their diet and other such things they differ much: the Minime most renounce for ever the eating of fleche, their only food is fishes and roots; hence Erasmus calles them fischy men (homines piscosos). Not so wt the Capuchines. Their be also many other differences that tyme most discover to me. Thir 2 orders our Bucanan means when he names _nodosa canabe cinctos_.[62] To returne to our purpose their came also the Dominicans or Jacobins, which are but one order having 2 names; then came the Chartereus or Carthusians: both which go in a long white playding robe. Only the Jacobins hood is black; the Carthusians is white: then followed the Franciscans, who now are called Recollects because being al banished France by reason of their turbulency and intromitting wt the state (of which wery stamp they seim to have bein in the tyme of our James the 5, when he caused Buchanan writ his Franciscani against them) by the prævalent faction the Pope had in France then, they were all recalled, so that France held them not so weil out as Venice do'es the Jesuits. Then came the Peres de l'Oratere, who goes allmost in the same very habit wt the Jesuits. Then cames the Augustines wt their white coat and a black gown above, after them came the moncks of the order of St. Bennet or the Benedictin friers, who goes in a white coat indeed, but above it he wears a black cloak to his heels, wt the Jesuits he wears also a hat as they do. Then came the chanoins of the Church of Sainct Croix in their white surplices above their black gounes and their 4 nooked caps. Tyme sould feel me ere I could nombair over all orders, but thir ware the most principall, each of which had their oune crosse wt the crucifix carried by one of their order. This much for the Ecclesiastick procession. After them came the tounes men in armes; in a knot of whom went a young fellow who represented the Maid of Orleans, clad in the same very habit, girt wt that sam very sword wt which the Maid beat the Englishes. This went thorow all the toun. [62] At line 19 of Buchanan's _Franciscanus_ is this passage: 'O sanctum festumque diem! cum cannabe cinctus Obrasumque caput duro velante cucullo,' etc. During my abode heir, about the end of May, I had occasion to sie another custome of the city. At that tyme of the year the tounes men put upon the other syde of the bridge a pole as hie as the hiest house in Edenborough: on the top of it they fasten a bird made of brasse at which they, standing at the feet of the pole, shoot in order, beginning at the better, wt gunes, having head peices on their heads, to sie who can ding it doun. I went and saw them shoot, but no man chanced to shoot it doun that year I was their. During the tyme I was heir their was so many fests or holy dayes that I werily think the thrid part of their year is made up of them. The principal was fest de Dieu, on which, such is the fury of the blinded papists, the Hugonots are in very great hazard if they come out, for if they kneel not at the coming by of the Hosty or Sacrament they cannot escape to be torn in peices; whence I can compare this day to no other but that wheir the Pagans performed their Baccanalian feasts wheir the mother used to tear hir childrens. The occasion of the institution of this day they fainge to be this. The Virgin appeared say they to a certain godly woman (who wt out doubt hes been phrenetick and brain sick), and made a griveous complaint that she had 4 dayes in the year for hir, and God had only the Sabath: this being devulged it was taken as a admonition from God, whence they instituted this day and ordainned it to be the greatest holy day in the year. The most part of all the city was hung with tapistry, espescialy the principall street which goes straight from the one end of the toune to the other, which also was covered all above in some parts with hingings, in other wt sheits according to the ability of the persones; for every man was obliged to hing over against his oune house, yet the protestants ware not, tho John Ogilvy was also called before the Judges for not doing it; yet producing a pladoyes[63] in the Hugonets faveurs they had nothing to say against it; yet they caused the wals of his house to be hung wt publick hingings that belonged to the toune. For to sy the procession I went wt the other pensioners to a place wheir when all others went to the knees, to wit, when the Hosty came by, we might retire out of sight. I retired not so far as they did, but boldly stood at a little distance that I aen might sy it the better. This procession was on the 4 of June, a little after followed Sainct Barnabas day. Then came mid-Summer even, on whiclk the papists put on bonfires for John Baptists nativity. The day after, called S. Jeans day, was keiped holy by processions. [63] Plaidoyer, pleading, legal argument. On the 1 of July was S. Pierres day, on which I heard a chanoin preach in S. Croy upon Piters confession, thou art the sone of the living God, very weill, only he endevored to have Pierre for the cheife of the Apostles because forsooth in the 10 of Mathew, wheir al the Apostles are named, he finds Piter formost. That I might have a full survey of the toune I went up to the steeple of St. Croy, which truly is on of the hiest steeples I saw abroad; from it I had a full visy of the toune, which I fand to be of that bigness specified; then the sight of the country lying about Orleans, nothing can be pleasanter to the eye. We saw also the forest of Orleans which environs the northren syde of the city as a halfe moon: in it ar many wild beasts and particularly boors; one of which, in the tyme of wintage, give it chance to come out to the wineyards wheir they comit great outrages, the boors or peasants uses to gather to the number of 2000 or 3000 from all the adiacent contry wt dogs, axes and poles to kil the boor. During my abode heir I went also to the Jesuits Colledge and discoursed wt the praefectus Jesuitarum, who earnestly enquiring of what Religion I was, for a long tyme I would give him no other answer but that I was religione christianus. He pressing that he smeled I was a Calvinist, I replied that we regarded not these names of Calvin, Luther, Zuinglius, yea not their very persons, but in whow far they hold the truth. After much discourse on indifferent matters, at our parting he desired me to search the spirits, etc. I went and saw the Gardens of the Minims, the Jacbins, the Carthusians, and the Peres de l'Orat.[64] [64] _Oratoire_. Many contrasts ha'es bein betwixt J.O. and I. laboring to defend presbytery and the procedures of the late tymes. During my abode heir 2 moneths I attended the Sale de dance wt Mr. Schovaut as also Mr. le Berche, explaining some of the institutions to me. John was my Mr. of language. A part of the tyme that I was heir was also the Admiral of Holland, Obdams Sone, who wt the companions carried himselfe marvelously proud. He and they feed themselfes so up wt the hoop of the victory that they præpared against the news sould come of the Engleshes being beat a great heap of punchions of wine wheir wt they intended to make merry, yea as I was informed to make Loyer run wt win. But when the news came the Hollanders was beat, that his father was slain,[65] he and his sunk away we know not whither. That ranconter that happened betuixt him and Sandwichs Viceadmiral of England sone coming from Italy (which the Mr. of Ogilvy getting wit of from the Germans came runing to my chamber and told me) is very remarkable. The first bruit that came to our ears of that battle was that the Englishes had lost, the Duc of York was slain. When the true news came the Hollanders sneered at it, boasting that they would equippe a better fleet ere a 4 night. The French added also the pace, vilifieng and extenuating the victory as much as they could, knowing that it was not their interest nor concernment that the King of England sould grow to great. It was fought in the channel eagerly for 3 dayes; and tho at a good distance from Calice, yet the noice of their canon mad it al to shake. [65] Admiral Opdam was blown up with his ship in the battle near Lowestoft, when the Dutch fleet was defeated by the English, commanded by the Duke of York, 4th June 1665. Some weeks that I was heir the heat was so great that afternoon (for then it was greatest) I would not have knowen what to have done. It occasioned also several tymes great thunders and such lightenings that sometymes ye would have thought this syde of the heavens sometymes that, sometymes al on a fire. During my staying heir I have learned a lesson which may be of use to me in the rest of our travels, to wit, to beware of keiping familiar company wt gentlemens servants, for such a man sal never get respect from the Mrs.[66]; to beware also of discoursing homly with anie servants. We sould keip both their for at a prudent distance. The Mr. of Ogilvy and I ware wery great. I know not what for a man he'el prove, but I have heard him speak wery fat nonsense whiles. [66] i.e. Masters. About 20 dayes ere I left Johns house the Mr. of Lour (Earle of Ethie's sone)[67] wt his governour David Scot, Scotstorvets nephew, came to Orleans; the Mr. the very day after took the tertian ague or axes....[68] [67] Apparently David, afterwards third earl. The title was changed from Ethie to Northesk after the Restoration. The Master was grandson to the first earl, who died in 1667. [68] Seven lines erased in MS. That Globe that stands on the top of S. Croix is spoken to be of so large a periphæria and circumference that 20 men may sit wt in about a round table. One day as I was going to my Mr. of Institutes as I was entring in a lane (about the martroy) I meit in the teeth the priests carrieng the Sacrament (as they call it) with a crosse to some sick person: my conscience not suffering me to lift of my hat to it, I turned back as fast as I could and betook me selfe to another street wheir I thought I might be safe: it followed me to that same very street, only fortunately I got a trumpket[69] wheir I sheltred myselfe til it passed by. [69] Spiral stair. Theirs a pretty maille their; we saw a better one at Tours one many accounts; the longitude wheirof we meeted and fand it to be neir 1000 paces, as also that of Orleans is only 2 ranks of tries; in some places of it 3; all the way ye have 4 ranks of tries all of a equall hight and most equally sett in that of Tours. About 10 days before my parting from Orleans at Mademoiselles invitation the Mr. of Ogilvy and I went wt hir, hir mother and Mr. Gandy ther Tutor, in their coach (for which I payed satly,[70] that being their policy) to their country village 9 leagues of, situat in the midest of the forest of Orleans, much of which is now converted into manured land. This tyme was the first adventure I made of speaking the language, wheir they ware pleased all to give me applause testifieng that I spake much for my tyme. I took coach tymously in the morning before halfe 6 and returned the day after about 8 at night. By the way we saw 2 places wery weill worth the sieng, Shynaille and Chasteau neuf: Shynaille[71] for its garden and the other both for its house and garden. At Synaille a great number of waterworks; creatures of all shapes most artificially casting furth water: heir ye may sy a frog sputing to a great hieght, their a Serpent and a man of marble treading on his neck, the water gliding pleasantly partly out at his meickle too, partly out at the Serpents mouth: in a 3 part a dog, in a 4, Lions; and all done most livelylie. We regrated that the prettiest machine of all was broken; wheir was to be sein wtin a little bounds above 300 spouts sending furth water and that in sundry formes. In one place it would arise uprightly as a spear; in another as a feather; in a trid[72] it sould rise sydelings and so furth, and when it had left of ye sould not be able to discern whence the water ishued. The main thing in the house of Chasteau neuf was the rich furniture and hingings; yet the richest Tapistry that used to be in that house was at that tyme in Paris; the master of the house being one of the Kings Counsellers; yet these we saw ware wery rich; some of them ware of leather stamped marvelously weill wt gold; others in silver; others wrought but wondrous livelylie. From the house we saw the extent of the yard, which was a monster to sy, being like a little country for bigness, and yet in marvelous good order in all things, but especially in the regularity of its walks, each corresponding so weill to the other; having also a pretty forrest of tries on every syd of it: the circuit of this yard will be nothing under 3 miles. I never saw a woman worse glid[73] then she was (tho otherwise a weelfawored women) that took us thorow the house. At night we lay at their country village. [70] i.e. Sautly, saltly. [71] I cannot find this name in the maps. [72] Third. [73] Gleyed, squint-eyed. On the morning we went and hard the curé say Mass, wheir saw a thing we had not sien before, to wit in a corner of the Church having 4 or 5 rocks of tow, some tied wt red snoods, some wt blew. On the sieng of this I was very sollicitous to know what it might mean. Having made my selfe understood about it I was told that when any honest women died she might leive a rock full of tow to be hung up in the church as a symboll that they ware vertuous thrifty women. This put me in mind of Dorcas whose coats and thrift the women showed to Paull after she was died. Mass being ended I went and fell in discours with the Curé. We was not long together when we fell hot be the ears: first we was on the Jansenists opinion about Prædestination, which by a bull from the present Pope, Alex'r the 7, had bein a litle before condemned at Paris; then we fell in one frie wil, then one other things, as Purgatory, etc.; but I fand him a stubborn fellow, one woluntary blind. We was in dispute above a hower and all in Latin: in the tyme gathered about us neir the half of the parish, gazing on me as a fool and mad man that durst undertake to controlle their curé, every word of whose mouth, tho they understood it no more nor the stone in the wall did, they took for ane oracle, which minds me of the miserablenese and ignorantnese of the peasants of France above all other commonalty of the world; our beggars leading a better life then the most part of them do. In our returning amongs the best merriments we had was my French, which moved us sewerall tymes to laughter; for I stood not on steeping stones to have assurance that it was right what I was to say, for if a man seek that, he sall never speak right, since he cannot get assurance at the wery first but most acquire it by use. 4 leagues from Orleans, we lighted at Gargeau[74] wt Maddle.[75] Ever after this Mademoiselle and I was wery great, which I know not whow the Mr. of Ogilvy took, I being of much shorter standing their in Orleans then he was. [74] Now Jargeau. [75] Mademoiselle. Just the Sabath before my parting from Orleans began the Jesuits Logick and Ethick theses to be disputed: the Mr. of Ogilvy and I went to hear, who bleetly[76] stayed at behind all almost; I, as give I had bein a person interested thrust into the wery first rank wheir at the distributor I demanded a pair of Theses, who civilly gave me a pair, against which tho I had not sein them till then, I durst have ventred a extemporary argument, give I had knowen their ceremonies they used in their disputing and proponing, which I fand litle differing from our oune mode. The most part of the impugners ware of the religious orders; some of them very sharply, some tolerably and some pittifully. The first that began was a Minim against a Logicall Thes[is] that was thus, _Relatio et Terminus non distinguuntur_. The fellows argument was that usual one, _quæ separantur distinguuntur et hæc_, etc.; the Lad answered by a distinction, _quæ separantur per se verum: per accidens, falsum_; and so they went on. The lad chanced to transmit a proposition one tyme: the fellow in a drollery replied, _si tu transmittas ego--revocabo_. Thus have we dwelt enough on Orleans, its hy tyme for us to leeve it. [76] Blately, modestly. On the 2'd day after this dispute, being the 14 of July wt the French and consequently the 4 wt the Scots, I took boat at Orleans, the Mr. of Ogilvy wt James his man, as also Danglebern accompanieng me to the boat. I left Salt[77] Orleans and sett up for Blois. In the boat among others were 3 of the order of Charité (as they call it) who beginning to sing their redicoulous matins, perceiving that I concurred not wt them, they immediatly suspected me for a Hæretick. One of them put me in mind of honest James Douy not only for his wisage but also for his zeall and ardeur he showed to have me converted and brought back to the mother church. That he seimed to me to personate Mr. Douy not only in his wisage but also in his strickness and bigotry--being oftner in telling of his beads then both his other 2 companions fat-looged stirrows[78] ware--made me fall into the abstract notion that thess who resemble in wisage usually agry in nature and manners, which at that tyme I thought was to be imputed to that influence which the temperament or crasis 4 _primarum qualitatum_ hath on the soull to make it partaker of its nature. [77] Dear, expensive. [78] Fat-eared fellows. I presume that loog is lug, ear. Betuixt Orleans and Blois of tounes on the river we saw first Merug,[79] then Baniency.[80] At night we came to Blois, wheir I was the day after to wiew the Toune. I fand it situat on a wery steep eminence, in some places as wearisom to go up as our Kirkheugh. I went and saw the Kings Garden as they call it; but nowise in any posture; only theirs besydes it a large gallery on every syde, wheirof I counted 60 windows, and that at a considerable distance one from another; it hath pillars also for every window on whelk it stands. I went nixt and saw the Castle whilk stands on a considerable eminence, only its the fatality theirof not to be parfaited, which hath happened by the death of the Duke of Orleans, who had undertaken the perfecting of it and brought it a considerable length. On the upmost top of that which he hath done stands his portraict in marble. She that showed in the rooms was a gay oldmouthed wife who in one chamber showed me wheir one of the Kings was slain, the very place wheir he fell (the Duke of Guise, author of the Parísien massacre) and the back door at which the Assasinates entered: in another wheir one of their Kings as also seweral of the nobility ware keipt prisoners, and the windows at whilk one of ther queen mothers attempted to escape, but the tow proving to short she fell and hurt hirself. [79] Meung, now Meun. [80] Beaugency. When I was in the upmost bartizan we had one of the boniest prospects that could be. About 2 leagues from us in the corner of a forest we saw the Castle of Chamburgh,[81] a place wery worthy the sieng (as they say) for the regularity of its bastimens. We saw wtin a league also tuo pretty houses belonging to Mr. Cuthbert, whom we would have to be a Scot. I went and saw sewerall Churches heir. I lay not at the Galere, but at the Chass Royall: part of the company went to the Croix Blanche. [81] Chambord. I cannot forget one passage that behappened me heir: bechance to supper I demanded give he could give me a pullet, he promises me it. My pullet comes up, and wt it instead of its hinder legs the hinder legs of a good fat poddock. I know them weill enough because I had sien and eaten of them at Orleans. I consedering the cheat called up my host and wt the French I had, demanded him, taking up the leg, what part of the pullet that might be, he wt a deal of oaths and execrations would have made me believe it was the legs of a pullet, but his face bewrayed his cause; then I eated civilly the rest of my pullet and left the legs to him: such damned cheats be all the French. Having bein a day at Blois I took boat for Tours in new company againe, of some Frenchmen, a Almand and a Dutchman; wt whom I had again to do vindicating my prince as the most just prince in the world in all his procedures wt the Hollandez. The fellow behaved himselfe wery proudly. Betuixt Blois and Tours we saw Amboise, which is in estime especially by reason of its casle. As we was wtin halfe a league of Tours by the carelesnese of the matelots and a litle pir of wind that rose we fell upon a fixt mill in the river, so that the boat ran a hazard of being broken to peices, but we wan of, only 3 or 4 dales in hir covert was torn of. Arriving at Tours about 3 a cloack we all tooke another boat to carry us about a league from the city to sie a convent of the Benedictines (Marmoustier) a very stupendious peice give ended. It hath also a very beautifull church, many of the pillars of it being of marble, others of alabastre, and that of sundry coleurs, some red, some white, etc.: whence on the entry theirs a prohibition hung up interdicting all from engraving their name or any other thing on the pillars, least of deforming them. One of the fathers of the order came and did let us sy the relicts of the church which ware the first relicts I saw neir at hand: I having sien some at a distance carried in processions at Orleans. Their we saw the heart of Benedictus, the founder of their order, enclosed in a crystall and besett wt diamonds most curiously. We of our company, being 6, ware all of the Religion, whence we had no great respects for the relict; but their ware som others their that ware papists; who forsooth bit[82] to sit doune on their knees and kist. At which I could not contein my selfe from laughing. [82] Were obliged. Their saw we also a great number of old relicts of one St. Martin. They had his scull enclosed (give his scull and not of some theife it may be) in a bowll of beaten silver. In a selver[83] besyde was shank bones, finger bones and such like wery religiously keipt. He showed us among others also a very massy silver crosse watered over wt gold very ancient, which he said was gifted them by a Englishman. I on that enquired whow they might call him. He could not tell til he cost up his book of memorials of that church; and then he found that they called him Bruce, on which I assured him that that was a Scots name indeed of a wery honorable family. [83] Salver. Then we returned back to Tours, wheir we went first to sie their mail[84] (which I counted by ordinar paces of whilk it was 1000.7 arbres).[85] About the distance of less than halfe a league we saw the Bridge that lays over the river of Chere, which payes its tribut to the Loier at Langes,[86] a little beneath Tours. Next we went and saw some of their churches. In their principal was hinging a iron chaine by way of a trophee. I demanding what it might mean, I was told it was brought their by the Chevaliers or Knights of Malta. [84] English, mall. Originally an alley where a game was played with a _mail_, a strong, iron-bound club, with long, flexible handle, and a ball of boxwood. [85] Arbre (arbour) probably means 'a shaded or covered alley or walk.'--Murray's _New English Dict_., s.v. 'Arbour.' The history of the word, with its double derivation from the Anglo-Saxon root of 'harbour' and the Latin _arbor_, is very curious. See Introduction, p. 1, note 2. [86] Langest in Blaeuw's map, now Langeais. We lodged at the Innes.[87] To-morrow tymously we took boat for Saumur (St. Louis). Al the way we fand nothing but brave houses and castles standing on the river, and amongst other that of Monsoreau tuo leagues large from Saumur, wheir the river of Chattellerault or Vienne, which riseth in the province of Limosin, tumbleth it selfe into the Loier; this Monsereau is the limits of 2 provinces; of Torrain, to the east of whilk Tours is the capital, and of Anjou to the west, in whilk is Saumur, but Angiers is the capitall. When we was wtin a league of Saumurs they ware telling us of the monstrous outbreakings the river had made wtin these 12 years upon all the country adiacent, which made us curious to go sie it. Whence we landed; and being on the top of the bank we discovered that the river had bein seiking a new channell in the lands adiacent, and had left a litle young Loier behind it; the inundations of this river seims so much the stranger to many, that finding it so shallow generally that we could not go a league but we had our selfes to row and work of some bed of sand or other, makes men to wonder whence it sould overflow so. Thir beds randers it wery dangerous in the winters; yea in our coming doun we saw in 3 or 4 places wheir boats had bein broken or sunk thir last winter; some part or other of them appearing above as beacons. In sewerall places it wines so on the land that it makes considerable islands, yea such as may give some rent by year. At last we landed at Saumur, but before I leive the,[88] fair Loier, what sall I say to thy commedation? Surely if anything might afford pleasure to mans unsatiable appetit it most be the, give they be any vestiges of that terrestrial paradise extant, then surely they may lively be read in the. Whow manie leagues together ware their nothing to be sein but beautiful arbres,[89] pleasant arrangements of tries, the contemplation of which brought me into a very great love and conceit of a solitary country life, which brought me also to pass a definitive sentence that give I ware once at home, God willing, I would allot the one halfe of the year to the country and the other halfe for the toune. Is it not deservedly, O Loier, that thou art surnamed the garden of France, but I can stay no longer on the, for I am posting to Mr. Doul my countrymans house, who accepts us kindly. His wife was in the country, seing give the pleasures of the samen might discuss and dissipat the melancholy she was in for the parting of her sone, whom his father had some dayes before send for England, to wit, for Oxford, meirly that he might be frie from his mothers corruptions, who answering him to franckly in mony, the lad began to grow debaucht. Behold the French women as great foolls as others. On the morrow after she returned, amongs other expressions, she said, that it gave heer encouragdement to let hir sone go wt the better will that she saw that I, as a young man, had left my native country to come travell. [87] Innes for inn, cf. p. 38 at top. [88] i.e. thee. [89] See p. 20, note 3. I went and saw my Lord Marquis of Douglasse[90] at Mr. Grayes, whom I was informed to live both wery quietly and discontentedly, mony not being answered him as it sould be to one of his quality; and this by reason of discord amongs his curators, multitude wheirof hath oft bein sein to redound to the damage of Minors. He was wearing his winter cloath suit for lack of another. He had a very civill man as could be to his governour, Mr. Crightoune, for whom I had a letter from William Mitchell. [90] James, second marquis, born 1646, died 1700. Sabath fornoon we went togither and hard sermon in their church, which is wtin the Toune; afternoon we took a walk out to a convent which they call St. Florans. By the way he communicated to me his intentions for leaving the Marquis, whom he thought wtin some few moneths would return for Scotland, his affairs demanding his oune presence, as also his resolutions of going into Italy give it took foot. I demanding him whow a man that came abroad might improve his tyme to the best advantage, and what was the best use that might be made of travelling. He freely told me that the first thing above all was to remember our Creator in the dayes of our youth, to be serious wt our God: not to suffer ourselfes to grow negligent and slack in our duty we ow to God, and then to seik after good and learned company whence we may learn the customes of the country, the nature and temper of the peaple, and what wast diversity of humours is to be sein in the world. He told me also a expression that the Protestant Minister at Saumur used to him, whereby he taxed the most part of strangers as being ignorant of the end they came abroad for, to wit, that these that came to sie Saumur all they had to writ doune in their book was that they went and saw such a church, that they drank good wines, and got good wictuals at the Hornes, a signe wheir strangers resorts. The convent we fand to be liker a castle than a Religious house. We saw a large window, the covert wheirof was stenchells like those that are on the windows of the Abby at Holyrood House; but very artificially all beat out of one peice of iron, but not ioined and soudred togither as they used to be. Saumurs is a pretty little toune wt fields upon all hands most pleasant. I, amongs other things, enquired at Mr. Doull what was their manner in graduating their students their. He told me it was wholly the same wt that in other places. They give out Theses which the students defended, only they had a pretty ceremony about the close: each of these to be graduat got a laurell branch, on the leaves wheirof was every mans name engraven in golden letters. Item, he said that when he reflected on the attendance that the Regents in Scotland gave to ther classes, he thought he saw another Egyptiacall bondage, for wt them they attended only 4 dayes of the weeks, and in thess no longer than they took account of ther former lesson, and gave them out a new one, which they send them home to gett. On a afternoon I was their I made a tour doune throu the suburbs of the toune to the Convent of Nostre Dame des Ardilliers.[91] On my return Mr. Doull and Mr. Crightoun demanding of me wheir I had bein, I freely told: wheirupon they fell to to scorne me, asking what I went to seek their. I told meerly to walk. They alleadged that John Ogilvy at Orleans bit to have told me of the place; that it was the most notorious part of France for uncleanness, and that women that could not gett children at home, coming their ware sure to have children. To speak the truth the place seimed to me wery toun like, for their came a woman to me and spered whey I all alone. [91] The Church of Notre Dame d'Ardiliers, of the sixteenth century, was enlarged by Richelieu and Madame de Montespan. The night before my parting from Saumur a young gallant of the toune, to show his skill, showed the wholle toune some fireworks in a boat on the river, but they ware wery pittifull, the principall thing we saw being only some fireballs which they cost up in the air to a considerable hight som tymes. Theirs one thing we most not forget in the river. In our coming doune in sewerall places on the syde of the rivers bank we saw pleasant little excrescencyes of litle rocks and craigs, which makes exceidingly to the commendation of the places. In thes craigs are built in houses, which be the vertue of Antiperistasis is cold in summer and hot in winter, tho their be some of them they dare not dwell in in winter by reason of the looseness of the earth then. Having stayed 2 dayes in Saumur I hired horse for Poictiers, only the fellow who aught the horse running at my foot. We rode by Nostre Dame and along the side of Loier as far as Monsereau. Heir I'm sure I was thrie miles togither under the shade of wast valnut tries on each syde ladened wt fruit, great abondance of which I meit all the way thorow. At Monsereau I left Loier, and struck south east be the banks of the river of Chasteleraut in Turrain, of whilk Tours is the capitall, the most renouned toune of France for manufacturies of silks of all sorts. We dined at Chinon, standing on that river 5 great leagues from Saumur. As we ware about a league from Chinon, I leiving my guid a considerable distance behind me, thinking that I bit always to keep close be the river syde, I went about a mile wrong. The fellow thinking I was in the right way he strikes in the right; I begines to look behind me. I cannot get my eye upon him; stands a long tym under a shade very pensive. First I saw some sheirers (for in France it was harvest then, being only the beginning of July wt the Scots) at their dinner. I imagined that the fellow might have sit doune wt them to take scare.[92] After waiting a long tyme I began to steep back, and drawing neir the sheirers I could not discover him, whence a new suspition entred in my head, because I had given him at Chinon, on his demand, 14 livres of 17 which I was to give him to defray all my charges to Poictiers, that he had sliped away wt that that he might bear no more of my charges, being sure enough that he would get his horse when I brought it to Poictiers. All this tyme I never dreamed I could be out of the way, yet I spered at the sheirers what might be the way to Richelieu, who told me I was not in the way. Then I know the fellow bit to be gone that way, whence I posted after him, and about a league from that place I overtook him laying halfe sleiping in a great deall of care, the poor fellow wery blaith to sy me. I demanded what was his thoughts, whether he thought I was a voler that had run away wt his horse. He said he quaestioned not in the least my honesty but he began to suspect I might have fallen amongs robbers. [92] Share, pot-luck. Thus we came to Chopigni,[93] a pretty village a league from Richelieu, and about 5 a cloack we entred Richelieu, a toune that give yeell consider its bigness it hath not its match in France. For being about a mile in circuit, besides a wery strong wall, it hath a considerable ditch environing it having something of the nature of a pond; for it abounds wt all sorts of fisches. The French calls it une canale. Being entred the toune ye have one of the prettiest prospects thats imaginable. It hath only one street, but that consisting of such magnifick stately houses that each house might be a palace. Ye no sooner enter unto the toune but ye have the clear survey of the whole wt its 4 ports; which comes to pass by the aequality of the houses on both sydes of the street, which are ranked in such a straight line that a Lyncaean or sharpest eye sould not be able to discover the least inaequality of one houses coming out before another. They are all reased also to the same hieght, that ye sall not sy one chimly hier then another: for they are al 3 story hy and built after that same mode window answering to window; so that ye sall sy a rank of about a hundred windows in a straight line. [93] Champigny. But I hast to the Castle, which is bueatiously environed wt that same canale on the banks of which are such pleasant arrangements (palissades)[94] and umbrages of tries making allies to the length of halfe a mile; in which I fand that same I had observed in the toune: the tries ranked so aequally that its wonderfull to hear; tho monstrously hy yet all of them observing such a aequality that ye sould find none arrogating superiority over his neighbour. We entred the castle by a stately draw bridge over the canale. Over the first gate stands a marble Lowis the 13, this present kings father, on horseback: on his right hand stands Mars the God of Armes; on his left Hercules wt his great truncheon or club. [94] Interlined, palissades. Rows of trees planted close. Term derived from fortification. See Littré's _Dict_. Having past this gat, we entred into the court or close round about whilk the palace is built. The court is 3 tymes as large as the inner court of the Abbey.[95] Al around the close stand a wast number of Statues infinitely weill done: only I fand they had not provided weill for the curiosity of spectateurs in withholding their names and not causing it to be engraven at their feet. They informed me they ware the statues of the bravest old Greeks and Romans: as of Alex'r, Epiminondas, Cæsar, Marcellus, and the rest. By the wertue of powerful money all the gates of the Castle unlockt themselves. The first chamber we entred into he called the chamber de Moyse, getting this denomination from the emblem hinging above the chimly, wheirin was wondrously weill done the story whow Pharoes daughter caused hir maid draw the cabinet of bulrushes wheirin Moses was exposed upon the Nile to hir sitting on the land. This room (the same may be repeated of the rest) was hung wt rich tapistry and furnished wt wery brave plenishings, as chairs, looking glasses, tables and beds. For the præserving of the curtains each bed had _tours de lit_ of linnen sheets, which, causing to be drawen by, we fand some hung wt rich crimson velvet hingings; others wt red satin; others wt blew; all layd over so richly wt lace that we could hardly decerne the stuffe. We fand one bed in a chamber (which they called one of the kings chambers) hung wt dool, which when occasion offered they made use of. This minded me of Suintones wife, who when she was in possession of Brunstone[96] had hir allyes and walks so appropriated to particular uses that she had hir ally wheirin she walked when she was in mourning, another when she had one such a goune, and so furth. But to return, in another chamber we was put to the strait of exercing our _Liberum Arbitrium_. Many pleasant objects offering themselfes to our wiew at the same tyme, we was at a pusle wt which of them to begin: for casting up our eyes to the cieling we fand it cut out most artificially unto sewerall sorts of creatures. Theirs a lion standing ramping ready as ye would think to devore you; yonder a horse; yonder a dog at the chass; and all this so glittering by reason that its covered wt gold that it would dazell any mans eyes. But calling away your eyes from this we deschended to the walls of the chamber, wheir ye have standing in one broad Justice, a martiall like woman wt a sword in hir one hand, and the balance in the other. On her right stands Verity, a woman painted naked to show that the truth most be naked since it demands no coverture. On the other stands Magnanimity, a woman of a bravadoing countenance. In another broad stands Prudence. In a 3d (la chambre de Lucresse) as a emblem of Chastity we have the story of Lucretias rapture by Tarquinius Superbus sone: first ye have him standing at hir chamber door wt his men at his back looking thorow the lock whither she was their or not; in the same broad[97] ye have represented the violence he used to hir; then as the epiloge of the tragædy ye have hir killing herselfe. In another broad ye have to the life don the story of Judith bringing away the head of Holofernes. [95] Holyrood. [96] When the Duke of Lauderdale was under forfeiture the estate of Brunston, belonging to him, was granted to Swinton of Swinton.-- Sir G. Mackenzie's _Memoirs_, p. 48. [97] Panel. In another chamber ye have Lewis the 13 portraicts wt those of all the rest of the royall family and the most part of the courtiers, counsellers and statesmen of that tyme, togither wt a embleme of the joy of the city of Paris at the nativity of this King. Of this chamber goes a pitty but pretty litle cabinet for Devotion. Their stands a large crucifix of marble wonderously weill done, round about hings the 12 Apostles wt the sufferings they ware put to. Their may ye sie the barbarous Indians knocking Bartholemew, who was spreading the gospell among them, wt clubs to death; and so of the rest. In another chamber on the cielery we have panted Thetis dipping hir sone Achilles in the Ocean to render him immortall. She hath him by the foot, whence in all his parts he becames immortal and impatible, save only in the sole of his feet, which ware not dippt. Next ye have him slain by Paris whiles he is busy on his knees at his devotion in the temple; Paris letting a dart at him thorow a hole of the door, which wounding him in the sole of his foot slow him. Nixt ye have Achilles dragging Hectors dead body round about the walls of Troy. Then ye have Priamus coming begging his sones body. Ye have also Diomedes and Glaucus frendly renconter wt the exambion they made of their armes. In another chamber we found wery delicat weill wrought Tapistry wheirin ware to be sien, besydes sewerall other stories taken out of Homer, the funestous and lamentable taking of Troy. In this same chamber saw we hinging the cardinals oune portraiture to the full, in his ride robes and his cardinals hat wt a letter in his hand to tel that he was the Kings secretary: his name is beneath. _Armandus Richeleus anagrammatized Hercules alter_. Surely the portrait represents a man of wery grave, wise and reverend aspect. Besydes him hinges the portraict of his father and mother. His father had bein a souldier; the cardinal was born in Richeliew. In another chamber was hinging 3 carts[98] (al done by Sampson), the one exceeding large of France done by one Sanson, the Kinges Geographer; the 2nd of Italy wt the Iles adiacent of Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, etc.; the 3d of the countryes that lyes on the famous river of Rhein, which runes thorow Germany, and in the low countries embrasses the sea. [98] Maps. At length we came unto a very large gallery, wheir hinges the emblems of al the things of greatest consequence that happened in France during the tyme of the Cardinall, as the beseigding of tounes that revolted, and the stratagemes by whilk some of them were taken. At each end of the gallery stands a table, but I sal confine my selfe to speak only of the one. Removing a cover of leather their appeares a considerable large table as long as etc., the richest beyond controversy of France: it consistes of precious stones and diamonds, but joined wt such wonderfull artifice that a man would easily take it for one inteer stone of sewerall colours, the proportion also of their joinctures, each colour answering to another, makes much to the commendation of it. Give their be a rid Sardix heir, it hath direictly of that same very bigness another Sardix answering to it their; or ye may suppose it to be a blew saphir. In the wery center and midle of the table is planted about the meikledoom[99] of a truncher[100] a beautifull green smaradyes; round about it stands a row of blew saphire, then another of rid diamonds; then followes a joincture of golden chrysolites, the bigness wheirof renders them wery wonderfull, being exceeding rare to be found of the halfe of that bigness. Their is not any coleur which is not to be found amoungs the Stones of that table. They are joined so marvelously that nothing can be smoother or æequaler. Thus breifly for the house. [99] Size. [100] Trencher. Of one of the balconies we descryed the garden, which was wery pleasant, having great resemblance wt that of Chateau Neuf, up and doune it ware growing Holyhaucks of all colours; but I cannot stay no longer upon the, for I am hasting to your church, which I find wery rich, as generally all the churches in France are. After I had supped I could not but come and wiew the situation and walls wtout; but fareweil, for the morrow night setts me in Poictiers. On the hy way as I travelled I mett bothe aples and plumes, which I looked not one as forbidden fruit, but franckly pulled. As soon as I came wtin sight of Poictiers I welcomed it heartily as being to be a place of rest to me for a tyme. Entering into the suburbes of the toune, I easily discovered the reason of our Buchannans expression, _Pictonum ad scopulos_: for then and afterwards I discovered it to be environed wt raged rocks and craigs, the toune it selfe also to be situat on a considerable eminence; and give ye take in all its circuit it neids not yeeld much to Paris in bigness; only much of it is filled up wt spatious gardens for the most part belonging to religious orders, sometymes of men sometymes of women. It hath also wines that growes within its circumference, as these that grow in the place of the Scots walk may testify. Having entred the toune we sought out Mr. Garnier the Apothecaries, for whom I had a letter from Mr. Doull at Saumurs, who on that accepted us kindly enough, only they had not such accomodation as I demanded, whence I took occasion to deliver a letter I brought wt me out of Scotland from young John Elies to Mr. Daillé, wt whom I entred pensionar about 8 dayes after I had bein in Poictiers, to wit 28 July 1665. I cannot bury in silence the moderation of Mr. Garniers wife, so wertous and sparing a house wife she was that Wine never entred in hir mouth. Always hir drink was pure water, tho no restraint was laying upon hir to do it. As the nature of thir peeple is to be wery frugall, so I fand that they ware right Athenians loving to tell and to hear news, which may be marked also in the most part of them that live on the Loier; for I had not bein a night in Poictiers when all that Street, and in sewerall other places of the toune, sundry knew that a Scotsman was come to the toune; that he came from Saumur, that he brought a letter for Mr. Garnier wt whom he quartred. The first night on my arrivall after I had supped came in my Hosts brother, a marchand, who amongs others enquired if I might know Mr. Douglas. I replied, yes; he added that he had left a child behind him, which tho Mr. Daillé owned for his, yet it had wholly a Scots cry not a French. The morning after my arrivall they chanced to have sermon in the Protestants church at Quatre Picket, wheir I fand Colinton,[101] who a little before had returned from the Rochell, wheir he had bein also on the Isle of Rhee and that of Oleron. He after dinner took me to Mr. Alex'rs, wheir I found all our Countrymen convened, only Alex'r Hume was at that tyme out in the Campaigne some leagues. Their I fand my right reverend good Sir Mr. Patrick Hume,[102] for whom I had two letters, one from Pighog,[103] another from John Suty at London, David Hume, for whom I had a letter from Saumur, Mr. Scot, Ardrosses sone, and Mr. Grahame, Morphees sone. Shortly after I saw both the 2 Alex'rs, Alexander the professour, to whom I delivred a letter from young J. Elies and Alex'r Hume: them all one night I took in to a Hostellery called le Chappeau d'Or and gav them their supper, which cost me about 17 livres 10 souse. [101] Probably James Foulis, son of Sir James Foulis, Lord Colinton, advocate 1669, a lord of Session 1674, with the title of Lord Reidford. [102] The friend thus playfully described may be Sir Patrick Hume, advocate, who often appears as a litigant in Fountainhall's _Decisions_. [103] See page 145, note 2. About 8 dayes after I had bein in Poictiers was keipt be the Jesuits Ignatius Loyola their founders day, whence in the Jesuits Church their was preaching a fellow that usualy preaches, extolling their patron above the wery skies; evicting whow that he utstripped infinitly the founders of all other orders, let it be St. François, St. Dominick, or be who he will, by reason that he founded a order to the universal good of Christendome; the order not being tyed to one place, as other religious are, but much given to travelling up and doune the world for the conversion of souls, which truly may be given as a reason whey all that order are usually so experimented and learned; for their are of them in Americk itselfe. From all this he concluded that Ignatius was and might deservedly be named the universall Apostle of the Christian World. He showed also the manner of his conversion to that manner of life; whow he had bein a soger (he was a Spaniard by nation) til his 36 or 40 year of age. One tyme in a battell he had receaved a wound right dangerous, during the cure of this wound one tyme being some what veary and pained he called for a Story or Romance. They having none their, some brought a devot book termed the Saints Rest, not that of Baxters; in which he began to read wt a sort of pleasure, but wtout any touch. At lenth continuing he began to feel himselfe sensibly touched, which wrought so that he wholly became a new man; and wt the permission and confirmation of the Pope then instituted the order. A litle after followed St. Dominicks day observed by the Jacobins, wheir I went to hear his panegyrick preached. Their preached a fat-looged[104] fellow of the order. His text was out of the 36 of Ecclesiasticus, _Vas auroeum[105] repletum omni lapide proetioso_: all his sermon ran to make Dominick this vessell. He deduced all that a man might be praised for from the 3 fold sort of dueties: 1, these we ow to God; 2, these towards our neighbours; and 3, these towards himselfe. For the vertues that are relative to God, he numbered them up to 13, and that out of Thomas, whom they follow in all things; amongs which were piety, sanctité, zeal for Religion, which broke out to that hieght that he caused sundry of the poor Albingenses, over the inquisition of whom he was sett, to be brunt; but this he mentioned _no_. For duties of the 2nd sort he numbered up out of the same Thomas amongs others thir, Chastité. Of Dominicks chastity he sayd he was as sure as of one thats new borne. Charité, which was so great one tyme that having nothing to give to the poor, he would have given himselfe to a poor widow woman; at which we could not but laugh, tho' his meaning was that he would have bein content to sell himselfe that the woman might get the money. He forgot not also his strictness of life and discipline, so that after his death their was found a cord in wtin his wery flech he girded him selfe so strait wt it. Heir he recknoned upe his prudence and magnanimity. Amongs theduties a man owes to himselfe amongs others he reckned up Temperance; in which he would gladly have us beleiving that St. Dominick never eated any in his dayes, so great was his abstinence. Then he came to compare him wt the cælestial powers, which he divided out of Dionysius pseudareopagita into the Hierarchies receaved in the Romish Church, of Angels, Archangels, Powere, Dominations, Cherubins, Seraphines, etc., and then showed his Dominick to excell them all. Many stories he told us which are to be seen in his legends, but never a word of the zeal he had when he sat doune and preached to the birds (and seing a frier kissing a nun he thanked God that their was so much charité left in the world). His epiloge was that St. Dominick was worth all the Saincts of them. And to speak the truth, beleiving him he made him on of the perfectest men of the world, subject to no imperfection. I could discover no difference he made betuixt him and Christ. [104] See p. 17, note 2. [105] _For aureum._ The forme of their preaching is thus. After they are come unto their pulpit they signe their foorfront and breast with the signe of the cross wt that in nomine patris, filij, and S.S., as a means to chass away Satan; then they go to their knees for a wery short space as our bischops do; then raising they read their text; after which they have a short prayer direct to Christ and his mother, or even the Sainct, if they be to speak of any, for their aid and assistance. Then they preach; after which thess that please to walk may do it. The rest stay out the Vespres. The forme of the protestant churches differs not much from ours. On the Sabath morning during the gathering of the congregation they sing a psalme; the minister coming up by a short sett forme of exhortation, stirring them up to ioin wt him in prayers, he reads a sett forme of confession of sines out of their priers ecclesiastiques or Liturgie; which being ended they singes a psalme, which the minister nominats, reading the first 2 or 3 lines of that to be sung, after which they read no more the line, as we do, but the peaple follows it out as we do in Glory to the Father, The psalme being ended, the minister has a conceaved prayer of himselfe adapted for the most part to what he'es to discourse on. This being ended he reads his text. Having preached, then reads a prayer out of their Liturgy, then sings a psalme, and then the blissing. About a 4 night after I had bein their some 2 chanced to be taken in the order of the Capuchins, of which order this is strange that the poorest yet they are numerousest, their being dailly some or other incorporating themselfes, Their poverty is such that they have nothing to sustein them but others charité when they come begging, and that every 24 hours. They having nothing layd up against tomorrow, if their be any day amongs others wheirin they have gotten litle or nothing, notwtstanding of this they come al to the Table, tho' nothing to eat. Each man sayes his grace to himselfe, their they sit looking on one another, poor creatures, as long as give they had had something to eat. They fast all that day, but if their be any that cannot fast it out, then he may go doune to the yard and houck out 2, 3 carrots to himselfe, or 'stow some likes some sibows, beets or such like things, and this is their delicates. If their be any day wheirin they have gotten more then suffices them all, the superplus they give to the poor. The convent hath no more rent than will defray their charges in keiping up their house about their ears. Al this do thir misers under the hopes of meriting by the samen: yet I would be a Capuchin before any other order I have sein yet. To sie the ceremony of their matriculation unto the order I went wt my good sire, wheir the principal ceremony was that they cast of their cloathes wheirwt they ware formerly cloathed and receaves the Capuchines broun weid, as also they get the clerical tonsure, the cord about their west, and the clogs of wood on their bare feet. A great number of speaches being used in the intervalls containing as is probable their dueties, but we could not understand them for the bruit. At the point of each of them all the peaple cried Amen. Finaly we saw them take all the rest of ther brethren by the hand, all of them having burning torches in their hands. After this, on August 14, came about Ste. Radegondes daye, wheiron I saw sewerall things: first wt Mr. Bouquiet we went doune to the church of Ste. Radegonde, which stands almost on the bord of the river Sein, which runes by Poictiers; and their visited hir tomb; but we had a difficulty of accez, such multitude was their dronning over their prayers, _Sainte Radegonde, Radegonde, priez pour nous et nos ames_, and this a 100 tymes over, at each tyme kissing the sepulchre stone which standes reasonable hy. From this we went to hir Chappell that stands besydes the Church of St. Croix, to sy the impression that Christ left wt his foot (so sottish is their delusion) on a hard great stone when he appeared to Ste. Radegonde as she was praying at that stone. The impression is as deip in the stone as a mans foot will make in the snow; and its wonderfull to sy whow thir zealots hath worn the print much deiper in severall parts wt their continuall and frequent touching of it thorow the iron grate wt which it is covered, and kissing it on Ste. Radegondes day when the iron grate is removed; according to that, _gutta cavat lapidem_, etc. All this they do thinking it the least reverence they can do to the place wheir our Saviours foot was. For immediatly upon the notification of that by Ste. Radegonde they caused erect a chappel above the stone, and hath set up Christ upon the right of the impression wt Capuchin shoes on his feet: and on the left Ste. Radegonde on hir knees wt hir hands folded praying to him. On the wall besydes they have this engraven, _Apparuit Dominus Jesus sanctae beatae Radegundae et dixit ei, tu es speciosa gemma, noverim te praetiosam in capite meo_ (and wt that they have Christ putting his fingers to his head) _gemmam_. Out of this we came to the Church of St. Croix, wheir just as we were entring ware coming out 2 women leading a young lass about the Age of 18 who appeared evidently to be distracted or possessed by some Dewill, by hir horrid looks, hir antick gestures, and hir strange gapes: hir they had had in the Church and had caused hir kneell, they praying before the Altar for hir to Ste. Radegonde, whom they beleived had the power to cure hir. The priests knaveries are wery palpable to the world in this point, who usually by conjurations, magicall exorcismes as their holy water, consecrated oill, take upon them to dispossess or cure sick persones, but so far from having any effect, that the Devill rather gets great advantage by it. Having entred the Church, standing and looking earnestly about to al the corners of the church, and particularly to the Altar, which was wery fine, wt as great gravity as at any tyme, a woman of faschion on hir knees (for indeed all that ware in the Church ware on their knees but my selfe) fixing hir eyes upon me and observing that I nether had gone to the font for water, nether kneelled, in a great heat of zeal she told me, _ne venez icy pour prophaner ce sainct lieu_. I suddenly replied, _Vous estez bien devotieuse, Madame; mais peut estre Vostre ignorance prophane ce sainct lieu d'avantage que ma presence_. This being spoken in the audience of severals, and amongs others of a preist, I conceived it would not be my worst to retire, which I did. That same afternoon I went to Mr. Alex'rs to seik Patrick Hume, wheir I faud them hearing him explaine some paragraphe of the Institutes: wheir Mr. Alex'r and I falling on some controverted points betuixt us and them, I using a great deall of liberty citing frome his oune authors as Bellarmine, etc., I angred him exceedingly. Then Patrick Hume, David, Mr. Grahame and I went to walk: and particularly to the pierre levé or stone erected a litle way from the city. The story or fable wheirof is this: once as Ste. Radegonde was praying the Devil thought to have smoored[106] or crushed her wt a great meikle stone greater than 2 milstones, which God knows whence he brought, but she miraculously supported it wt hir head, as the woman heir carries the courds and whey on their head. Surly she had a gay burden; and never rested till she came to that place wheir its standing even now. They talk also that she brought the 5 pillars on which its erected till above a mans hight in hir lap wt hir. I mocking at this fable, I fell in inquiry whence it might have come their, but could get no information; only it seimed probable to me that it might have bein found in the river and brought their. On the top of this stone I monted, and metted[107] it thorow the Diametrum and found it 24 foot; then metted it round about and found it about 60 foot. Coming doune and going beneath it we discovered the place wheir hir head had bein (_nugae_). [106] Smothered. [107] Measured. We went and saw a stately convent the Benedictines ware building, the oldest and richest order of France. To them it is that Nostre Dame at Saumur belongs; to them belongs the brave bastiments we saw at Tours, in which city as I was on the Loier I told 16 considerable steeples. We saw the relicts of a old Convent, wheirupon enquiring whow it came to be demolished, he replied it was in Calvines tyme, who studied his Law in Poictiers; and then turning preacher he preached in the same very hall wheir we hear our lessons of Law. His chamber also is to be sein wheir he studied on the river syde. I cannot forgett a story of Calvin which Mr. Alex'r told us saying it was in their Histories, that Calvin once gladly desiring to work a miracle suborned a fellow to feigne himselfe dead that so he might raise him to life. Gods hand was so visible upon the fellow that when he went to do it he verily died and Calvin could not raise him: this was in Poictiers. And it minded me first that I had read almost the like cited out of Gregorious Turonensis History by Bellarmine in his treatise _de Christo_ refuting Arianisine of a Arian bischop who just so suborned one to feinge himselfe blind that he might cure him, but God really strake him blind. Also it minded me of a certain Comoedian (who was to play before the Duc of Florence) who in his part had to act himselfe as dead for a while. He that he might act himselfe as dead wt the more life and vigeur agitated and stirred or rather oppressed his spirits so that when he sould have risen he was found dead in very truth. As also 3ly of a certain Italian painter who being to draw our Saviour as he was upon the Cross in his greatest torment and agony (he caused a comoedian whose main talent was to represent sorrow to the life), he caused one come and sit doune before him and feigne one of the dolfullest countenances that he could that he might draw Christ of him; but he tuise sticked it, wt which being angred he drew out a knife and stobbed the person to the heart; and out of his countenance as he was wrestling wt the pangs of death he drow Christ on the cross more lively then ever any had done, boasting that he cared not to dy for his murder since he had Christ beholden to him for drawing him so livelylie. I remember also of a passage that Howell in a letter he writes from Geneva hes, that Calvin having bein banished once by a prævalent faction from the city again being restored, he sould proudly and blasphemously have applied to himselfe that saying of David, proper to Christ, the stone which the builders refused the same is become the head of the corner. But granting that all thir to be true, as they are not, they ware but personall escapes, neither make they me to think a white worse of his doctrine. But as to the point of miracles its notoriously knowen that the Church of Rome abuses the world wt false miracles more then any: for besydes these fopperies we have discovered of Ste. Radegonde they have also another. Thus once St. Hilary (who was bischop of Poictiers about the 6 century, and who hes a church that bears his name, erected on the wast syde of the toune a little from the Scotes walk), about a league from the toune (thus reportes _les annales de Aquitaine_), as he was riding on his mule Christ meit him. His beast, as soon as it saw our Saviour, fell doune on the knees of it. As a testimony wheirof that it fell doune they show at this day the _impressa_ both its knee and its foot hes made miracoulously in the rock, but this is _fort mal a propos_; since they seem to mak their St. Hilary Balaam; and his mulet Balaam his ass which payed reverence to God before its mastre. This fable minded me of the story we have heir at home, that we can show in Leith Wind craigs the impressa that Wallace made wt his foot when he stood their and shoot over the steeple of Edenburgh. Yet their all these things are beleived as they do the bible. When we was wtout the city we discovered that it would signify litle if it wanted the convents and religious houses, which ware the only ornaments of the city. This much for the 14 of August, I had not bein so much out a fortnight before put it all together. Heir I most impart a drollery which happened a little before in Poictiers. Some Flamans had come to the toune and taken up the quarters in a certain Innes.[108] While they ware supping, the servant that attended them chanced to let a griveous and horrid fart. The landlady being in the roome and enquiring give she thought not shame to do so, she franckly replied, _sont Flamans, madame, sont Flamans, ils n'entendent pas_; thinking that because they ware strangers that understood not the language, they understood not also when they hard a fart. [108] Inn. O brave consequence, I went one night to the Marché Vieux and saw some puppy playes, as also rats whom they had learned to play tricks on a tow.[109] [109] Rope. Just besyde that port that leads to Quatre Picket (de St. Lazare) or Paris is erectcd a monument of stone, something in the fashion of a pyramide. I enquiring what it meant, they informed me the occasion of it was a man that lived about 3 or 4 years ago in the house just forganst it, who keiping a Innes, and receaving strangers or others, used to cut their throats and butcher them for their money; which trade he drave a considerable tyme undiscovered. At lenth it coming to light as they carried him to Paris to receave condigne punishment, they not watching him weill enough he killed himselfe whence they did execution on his body, and erected that before the door, _ad æternam rei memoriam._ I think they sould have razed his house also, yet their is folk dwelling in it prcsently. I went also and saw the palais wheir the Advocats used to plead but it had fallen down by meer antiquity about 3 moneths before I came to Poictiers whence the session had translated themselfes to the Jacobines, whom I went and saw their. In the falling of the palais it was observable that no harm redounded to any, and that a certain woman wt a child in hir armes chancing to be their on day raising out of a desk wheir she was sitting she was hardly weill gon when a great jest[110] fell (for it fell by degries) and brok the desk to peices. [110] Joist. Their hinges bound upon the wall wt iron chaines the relicts of a dead hideous crocodile, which, tho' it be infinitly diminished from what it was (it being some hundred years since it was slain), yet its monstrously great wt a wast throat. This, they say, was found in one of their prisones, which I saw also. On a tyme a number of prisoners being put in for some offences, on the morrow as some came to sie the prisoners not one of them could be found, it having eaten and devored them every one. Not knowing whow to be red of this trubulsom beast no man daring attempt to kill it, they profered one who was condemned to dy for some crime his life give he killed it. Wheir upon he went to the prison wt a weill charged pistoll as it seimingly being very hungry was advancing furiously to worry him he shoot in at a white spot of its breast wheir its not so weill armed wt scalles as elsewheir and slow it and wan his life. I enquiring whow that beast might come their it seimed most probable that it was engendred their _ex putri materia_, as the philosophers speaks, tho I could hardly weill believe that the sun could giv life to such a monstrous big creature as it. We have had occasion to sie severall tymes Madame Biton the tailleurs daughter, that lives forgainst Mr. Daillés, with whom Madame Daillé telles me Mr. Hope was great. Truly a gallant, personable woman to be of such mean extract and of parents wheirof the father is a wery unshappen man; the mother neids yeeld nothing to Jenny Geddes. I observing that ye sould never sy any of the religious orders be they Jesuits or others on the streets but 2 of them togither, I enquired the reason. First it was that the on might watch the other that so none may fly from their convents, which they might easily do if they had the liberty of going out alone. 2dly they do it to evite all scandall and suspicion. They know the thoughts of the common peeple, that they be litle faworable to them, the orders being talkt of as the lecherousest peeple that lives. To exime their thoughts they go tuo and 2; for then if the one be so given he his a restraint laying on him, to wit, another to sie his actions; but usually they are both lounes.[111] [111] Knaves. They have a way of conserving great lumps of ice all the summer over heir in low caves: and these to keip their wines cold and fresh from heating when they bring it to their chamber. To recknon over all the crys of Poictiers (since they are divers according to the diverse seasons of the year) would be difficult. Yet theirs one I cannot forgeet, a poor fellow that goes thorow the toune wt a barrell of wine on his back; in his on hand a glass full halfe wt win; in his other a pint stoop; over his arm hinges a servit; and thus marched he crieng his delicate wine for 5 souse the pot thats our pint; or 4 souse or cheaper it may be. He lets any man taste it that desires, giving them their loof full. I did sy one fellow right angry on a tyme: their came about 7 or 8 about one, every one to taste; giving every one of them some, to neir a chopin[112] not one of them bought from him; wheiron he sayd he sould sie better marchands before he gave to so many the nixt tyme. [112] Half a pint old French, and also old Scots, measure, was equal to about three times the present imperial measure. Wood also is a passable commodity heir as in all France, wheir they burn no thing but wood, which seimes indeed to be wholsomer for dressing of meat then coall. Every fryday and saturday the peasants brings in multitude of chariots charged wt wood, some of them drawen wt oxen, mo. wt mules, without whilk I think France could not subsist they are so steadable to them. For a chariot weill ladened theyle get 6 or 7 livres, which I remember Mr. Daillé payed. They have another use for wood in that country also which we know not: they make sabots of them, which the peasants serve themselfes wt instead of shoes; in some account they are better then shoes. They wil not draw nor take in water as shoes whiles do, they being made of one intier lump of wood and that whiles meikle enough. Their disadvantage is this none can run wt them, they being loose and not fastened to our feet, yet some weill used wt them can also run in them. They buy them for wery litle money. These also that cannot aspire to ordinar hats (for since we left Berwick we saw no bonnets as also no plaids) they have straw hats, one of which theyle buy for 6 souse, and get 3 or 4 moneths wearing out of it. The weather in France heir is large as inconstant as in Scotland, scarcely a week goes over wtout considerable raines. I cannot forgett the conditions that Madame Daillé in sport offered me if I would wait till hir daughter ware ready, and then take hir to wife, that I sould pay no pension all the tyme I stayed in their house waiting on hir. On the 15 of August (being wt the Scots the 5 and observed by them in remembrance of Gourie conspiracie) came about to be observed _feste de Nostre Dame_, who hath 4 or 5 fests in the year, as the annuntiation, the conception, hir purification; and this was hir death and assumption day. I went and heard the Jesuits preach, a very learned fellow, but turbulent, spurred and hotbrained; affecting strange gestures in his delivery mor beseiming a Comoedian then a pulpit man. Truly ever since in seing the Comoedians act I think I sy him. He having signed himselfe, using the words _In nomine patris, filij_, etc., and parfaited all the other ceremonies we mentioned already, he began to preach. The text was out of some part of Esay, thus, _Et sepulcrum ipsius erat gloriosum_. He branched out his following discourse unto 2:--1. the Virgines Death; 2. hir assumption. As to hir death he sayd she neided not have undergoon it but give she liked, since death is the wages of sin, _mais Nostre Dame estoit affranchie de toutes sorte de peché, soit originell, soit actuell_. In hir death he fand 3 priviledges she had above all others: first she died most voluntarly, villingly, and gladly; when to the most of men Death's a king of terrors. 2ndly, she died of no sickness, frie of all pain, languor or angoisse. 3dly, hir body after death was not capable of corruption, since its absurd to think that that holy body, which carried the Lord of Glory 9 moneths, layes under the laws of corruption. For thir privelegdes he cited Jean Damascen and their pope Victor. But it was no wonder she putrified no, for she was not 3 dayes in the grave (as he related to us) when she was assumed in great pomp, soul and body, unto heaven, Christ meiting hir at heavens port and welcoming hir. He spoke much to establish monstrous merite; laying doune for a principle that she had not only merited heaven, and indeed the first place their, being the princess of heaven; but also had supererogated by hir work for others to make them merit, which works the church had in its treasury to sell at mister.[113] He made heaven also _a vendre_ (as it is indeed amongs them), but taking himselfe and finding the expression beastly and mercenarie he began to speir, but whow is it to sell, is it not for your _bonnes oeuures_, your penances, repentance, etc. This was part of his sermon. [113] Mister, need. That Strachan that was regent at Aberdeen and turned papist, I was informed that he was in a society of Jesuits at Naples. This order ever since it was a order hath bein one of the most pestilent orders that ever was erected, being ever a republick in a republick wheir ever they be; which caused Wenice throw them out of hir, and maugre the pope who armed Spaine against hir for it holds them out unto this day. They contemne and disdain all the rest of the orders in comparation of themselfes; they being indeed that great nerve and sinew that holds all the popes asustataes[114] togither; whence they get nothing but hatred again from the other religious, who could wt ease generally sy them all hanged, especially the Peres de l'Oratoire, who are usually all Jansenists, so that ye sall seldome find these 2 orders setled in one city, tho they be at Orleans. The Jesuits be the subtilist folk that breathes, which especially appears when under the praetext of visitting they fly to a sick carkcass, especially if it be fat, as ravens does to their prey. Their insteed of confirming and strenthening the poor folk to dy wt the greater alacrity, they besett them wt all the subtile mines imaginable to wring and suck money from them, telling them that they most leive a dozen or 2 of serviets to the poor Cordeliers; as many spoones to the godly Capuchines who are busie praying for your soul, and so something to all the rest; but to us to whom ye are so much beholden a goodly portion, which they repeit wery oft over; but all this tends as one the one hand to demonstrate their inexplebible greediness, so one the other to distraict the poor miser wt thoughts of this world and praejudice or defraudation of his air. [114] Apparently from [Greek: asustatos], meaning 'ill-compacted forces or elements.' Some things are very cheap their. We have bought a quarter a 100 of delicat peirs for a souse, which makes just a groat the hunder. Madame Daillé also bought very fat geese whiles for 18 souse, whiles 12, whiles 15, whiles for 20; which generally they blood their, reserving it very carefully and makes a kind of pottages wt it and bread which seimes to them very delicious but not so to me, tho' not out of the principle that the Apostles, Actes 15, discharged the gentils to eat blood or things strangled. That which they call their pottage differ exceidingly from ours, wt which they serve themselfes instead of our pottage, as also our broth, neither of which they know. It seems to diffir little from our soups when we make them wt loaves. Surely I fand it sensibly to be nourishing meat; and it could not be otherwise, since it consisted of the substance first of the bread, which wtout doute is wholsomer then ours, since they know not what barme is their, or at least they know not what use we make of it, to make our bread firme, yet their bread is as firme wtout it: next the substance of the flech, which usually they put in of 3 sorts, of lard of mouton, of beef, of each a little morsell; 3dly of herbes for seasoning, whiles keel, whiles cocombaes, whiles leeks, whiles minte or others. In my experience I fand it very loosing, for before I was weill accoustened wt it, if I chanced to sup any tyme any quantity of the pottage, I was sure of 2 or 3 stools afternoon wt it. The French air after the sun setting I learned in my oune experience to be much more dangerous then ours in Scotland, for being much more thinner and purer, its consequently more peircing; for even in August their, which is the hotest and warmest moneth, if at night efter 8 a cloak I had sitten doune in my linnens and 2 shirtes to read but halfe a hower or a hower (which I have done in Scotland the mides of vinter and not have gotten cold) after the day I was sure to feell I had gotten cold; and that by its ordinary symptomes a peine and throwing in my belly, & 4 or 5 stools; I played this to my selfe tuize or I observed; ever after if I had liked to give my selfe physick I had no more ado but to let my selfe get cold. They let their children suck long heir, usually 2 years; if weak 2 years and a halfe. Madame Daillé daughter suckt but 6 quatres, they think much to give 40 or 50 livres to nourses for fostering. Madame Daillé gave 15 crounes in cash and some old cloaths and sick things as they to hir that nursed her daughter, a peasants wife whom I saw. The gossips and commers[115] heir give nothing as they do in Scotland, save it may be a gift to the child. [115] Godmothers, _commères_. I have called my selfe to mind of a most curious portrait that we saw in Richeliew castle, the description wheirof by reason its so marvelously weill done sall not be amiss tho it comes in heir _postliminio_ to insert. On the walls theirfor of one of the chambers we saw is drawen at large the emblem of the deluge or universall floud, in one corner of it I discovered men wt a great deall of art swiming (for the world is drawen all over covered wt waters, the catarracts of the heavens are represented open, the water deschending _guttatim_ so lively that til a man recall himselfe and wiew it narrowly hel make a scrupule to approach the broad[116] for fear of being wett), and that wt a bensill[117] their course being directed to a mountain which they sy at a distance; which is also drawen. Painters skill heir hes bein such, that a man would almost fancy he hears the dine the water makes wt their strugling and striking both hands and feet to gaine that mountaine. Just besydes thies are laying dead folke wt their armes negligently stretched out, the furious wawes tossing them terribly, as a man would think, some of them laying on their back, some of them on their belly, some wheirof nothing is to be sein but their head and their arme raxed up above their head. Amongs those that are laying wt their face up may be observed great diversity of countenances, some wt their mouth wide open and their tongue hinging out, some glooring,[118] some girning,[119] some who had bein fierce and cruell during their life, leiving legible characters in their horrible and barbarous countenances. In another part of the broad is to be sein all sorts of creatures confusedly thorow other, notwtstanding of that naturell antipathy that is betuixt some of them, as the sheip and the wolf, the crocodile and Lizard, etc.; ther may we sy the wawes peele mel swallowing up wolfes and sheip, Lions and buls, and other sorts of beasts. Remove your eyes to another corner, and their yeel sy great tries torn up by the roots, and tost heir and their by the waves; also hie strong wales falling; also rich moveables, as brave cloaths and others, whiles above and whiles beneath; and go a litle wy farder yeel sie brave tower which at every puft of wind give a rock, the water busily undermining its foundation. A little way from that ye have to admiration, yea, to the moving of pity, draweu women wt their hair all hinging disorderly about their face, wt their barnes in their armes, many a mint[120] to get a clift of a craig to save themselfes and the child to, some of them looking wt frighted countenances to sy give the waves be drawing neir them. In a nother ye have a man making a great deall of work to win out, hees drawen hinging by the great tronc of a try. At his back is drawen another that claps him desperatly hard and fast by the foot, that if he win out he may be drawen out wt him. Its wonderfull to sy whow weill the sundry passions of thir 2, the anger of him who hes a grip of the trunck, and the trembling fear of him who hes his neighbour by the foot are expressed; and what strugling they make both, the one to shake the other loose of his gripes, the other to hold sicker, and this all done so weill that it occasions in the spectateurs as much greife in beholding it as they seim to have who are painted. Finaly, the painter hath not forgot to draw the ark it selfe floting on the waters. [116] Panel. [117] Strenuous effort. [118] Staring. [119] Grinning (like a child crying). [120] Mint, attempt. On a night falling in discours wt some 2 or 3 Frenchmen of Magick and things of that nature, I perceaved it was a thing wery frequent in France, tho' yet more frequent in Italy. They told me seweral stories of some that practized sorcery, for the most part preists who are strangely given to this curiosity. They told of one who lived at Chateleraut, who, when he pleased to recreat himselfe, would sit doune and sett his charmes a work, he made severalls, both men and women, go mother naked thorow the toune, some chanting and singing, others at every gutter they came to taking up the goupings[121] of filth and besmeiring themselfes wt it. He hath made some also leip on horseback wt their face to the horse taill, and take it in their teeth, and in this posture ride thorow all the toune. [121] Handfuls. Ware their not a Comoedian at Orleans who used to bring us billets when their ware any Comoedies to be acted, who offered for a croune to let us sy what my father and mother was doing at that instant, and that in a glasse, I made my selfe as wery angry at him, telling him that I desired not to know it by such means. On that he gott up the laughter, demanding if I thought he had it be ill means; for his oune part he sayd he never saw the Dewill. Not only is it usuall heir to show what folkes are doing tho ther be 1000 miles distant; but their[122] also that will bring any man or woman to ye if ye like, let them be in the popes Conclave at Rome; but incontrovertably its the Devill himselfe that appeires in this case. The tricks also of robbing the bride groomes of their faculty that they can do nothing to the wives is very ordinar heir; as also that of bewitching gentlewomen in causing them follow them lasciviously and wt sundry indecent gestures; and this they effectuat sometymes by a kind of pouder they have and mix in amongs hir wine; some tymes by getting a litle of hir hair, which they boill wt pestiferous herbs; whilk act when its parfaited the women who aught the hair will come strangely, let hir be the modestest woman in Europe, wheir the thing is doing, and do any thing the persones likes. [122] their = there are. Plumes are in wery great abondance heir, and that of many sorts. We have bein offered the quatrain, thats 26 of plumes, wery like that we call the whitecorne, tho' not so big, for 2 deniers or a double, thats for 8 penies the 100; and they sel them cheaper. Great is the diversity amongs peirs their. Mr. Daillé hath told me that at least theirs 700 several sorts of peirs that grows in France, al distinguasble be the tast. We ourselfes have sien great diversity. Theirs a wery delicious sort of poir they call the _poir de Rosette_, because in eating it ye seime as give ye ware smelling a rose. They have also among the best of the peirs _poir de Monsieur_, and _de Madame_. They have the _poir de piss_, the _poir blanchette_ (which comes wery neir our safron peer we have at home), and _trompe valet_, a excelent peir, so called because to look to ye would not think it worth anything, whence the valets or servants, who comes to seik good peirs to their masters, unless they be all the better versed, will not readily buy it, whence it cheats them. They distinguise their peires into _poirs de l'esté de l'automne_, and _de l'yver_, amongs whilk theirs some thats not eatable til pais or pasque. In the gazetts or news books (which every friday we get from the Fullions[123] or Bernardines at their Convent, such correspondence does the orders of the country keip wt thess at Paris), we heard newes passing at home. The place they bring it from they terme it Barwick, on the borders of Scotland. We heard that the 29 of May, our Soverains birth day, was solemly keipt by the Magistrates of Edinburgh and the wholle toune. At another tyme we heard of a act of our privy counsill, inhibiting all trafic whatsoever wt any of the places infected wt the plague. In another we heard of a breach some pirates made in on our Northren Iles, setting some houses on fire; on whilk our privy counsell by a act layd on a taxation on the kingdome, to be employed in the war against the Hollanders, ordaining it to be lifted wtin the 5 years coming. [123] Fullions, Feuillants, 'Nom de religieux réformés de l'ordre de Citeaux, appelés en France feuillants, et en Italie réformés de St. Bernard... Etym., Notre-Dame de Feuillans, devenue en 1573 le chef de la congrégation de la plus étroite observation de Citeaux ... en Latin, Beata Maria fuliensis, fulium dicta a nemore cognomine, aujourd'hui Bastide des Feuillants, Haute Garonne.'-- Littré, _Dict_. s.v. Tho the French are knowen and celebrated throwghout the world for the civility, especially to strangers, yet I thought wonderfull to perceive the inbreed antipathy they carry against the Spaniard. That I have heard it many a tyme, not only from Mr. Daillé, but from persons of more refined judgements then his, yea even from religious persones, that they had not no civility for a Spaniard, that not one of a 1000 of them is welcoome. I pressing whence this might come to passe that they so courteously receaving all sortes of strangers, be they Scots, English, Germans, Hollanders, or Italians, and that they had none of this courtoisie to spare for a Spaniard, they replied that it came to pass from the contrariety of their humeurs; that the French ware franck (whence they would derive the name of their nation), galliard, pleasant, and pliable to all company; the Spaniard quite contrary retired, austere, rigid, proud. And indeed their are something of truth in it; for who knows not the pride of the Castilian: if a Castilian then a Demigod. He thinks himselfe _ex meliore luto natus_ then the rest of the world is. Its a fine drollery to sie a Frenchman conterfit the Castilian as he marches on his streets of Castile wt his castilian bever cockt, his hand in his syde, his march and paw[124] speaking pride it selfe. Who knows not also that mortell feud that the Castilian carries to the Portugueze and the Portuegueze reciprocally to them, and whence this I beseich you if not from the conceit they have of themselfe. This minds me of a pretty story I have heard them tell of a Castilian who at Lisbon came into a widows chop to buy something. She was sitting wt her daughter; the lass observing his habit crys to her mother, do not sell him nothing, mother, hees a Castilian, the mother chiding her daughter replied, whow dare you call the honest man a Castilian; on that tenet they hold that a Castilian cannot be a honest man. I leive you to ghesse whether the daughters wipe or the mothers was tartest. [124] paw = _pas_. Howell (as I remember) in a letter (its in the first volume, letter 43) he writes from Lyons, he findes the 2 rivers on which that brave city (for its situation yeelding to none in Europe, not to London tho' on lovely Thames) standes on, to wit the Rhosne and the Sosne, to be a pretty embleme of the diversity thats betuixt the humeurs of thess 2 mighty nations (France and Spain), who deservedly may be termed the 2 axletrees or poles on which the Microcosme of Europe turnes. Its theirfor wery much in the concernement of the rest of Europe to hold their 2 poles at a even balance, lest the one chancing at lenth to wieght doune the other there be no resisting of him, and we find ourselfes wise behind the hand. Looking again on the Rhosne, which runes impetuously and wiolently, it mindes him of the French galliardness and lightness, or even inconstancy. Looking again on the Sosne, and finding it glid smoothly and calmly in its channel, its mindes him (he sayes) of the rigid gravity the Spaniard affected. And to speak the truth, this pride and selfe conceetedness is more legible in the Spaniard than in the French, yet if our experience abuse us not, we have discovered a great tincture of it in the French. That its not so palpable amongs them as in the Spaniard we impute to that naturall courtoisie and civility they are given to, that tempers it or hides it a little, being of the mind that if the Spaniard had a litle grain of the French pleasantness, the pride for which we tax them sould not be so apparent. Yet we discovered a beastly proud principle that we have observed the French from the hiest to the lowest (let him be never so base or so ignorant) to carry about wt them, to wit, that they are born to teach all the rest of the world knowledge and manners. What may be the mater and nutrix of this proud thought is not difficult to ghess; since wtout doubt its occasioned by the great confluence of strangers of all sorts (excepting only the Italian and Spaniard, who think they have to good breeding at home to come and seik it of the French) who are drawen wt the sweitness of the country, and the common civility of the inhabitants. Let this we have sayd of the French pass for a definition of him till we be able to give a better. About the beginning of September at Poictiers, we had the newes of a horrid murder that had bein perpetrat at Paris, on a Judge criminell by tuo desperat rascalls, who did it to revenge themselfes of him for a sentence of death he had passed against their brother for some crime he had committed. His wife also, as she came in to rescue hir husband, they pistoled. The assassinats ware taken and broken on the wheell. He left 5 million in money behind him, a terrible summe for a single privat man, speaking much the richness of Paris. The palais at Poictiers (which with us we call the session) raises the 1 Saturday of September, and sittes doune again at Martimess. We remember that in our observations at Orleans we marked that the violent beats heir procures terrible thunders and lightnening, and because they are several tymes of bad consequence, the thunder lighting sometymes on the houses, sometymes on the steeples and bells, levelling all to the ground, that they may evite the danger as much as they can they sett all the bells of the city on work gin goon.[125] [125] Ding dong. A man may speir at me what does the ringing of the bells to the thunder. Yes wery much; for its known that the thunder is partly occasioned by the thickness, grossness, impuritude, crassitude of the circumambient air wt which the thunder feides itselfe as its matter. Now Im sure if we can dissipate and discusse this thickness of the air which occasiones the thunder, we are wery fair for extinguishing the thunder itselfe according to the Axioma, _sublata causa tollitur effectus_, whilk maxime tho it holds not in thess effect which dependes not on the cause _in esse_ and _conservari_ but only in _fieri_: as _filius, pater quidem est eius causa; attamen eo sublato non tollitur filius quia nullo modo dependet filius a patre sive in esse sive in conservari: solum modo ab eo dependet ut est in fieri_. Yet my axiome is good in this present demonstration, since the thunder dependes on this grossenese of the air, not only in its _fieri_, but even in its _esse_ and _conservari_. But weill yeell say, let it be so, but what influence has the ringing of the bells to dissipat this grosseness: even wery much: for the sound and noice certainly is not a thing immateriall; ergo it most be corporeall: since theirfor wt the consent of the papists themselfes _duo corpora non possunt se penetrare aut esse in codem loco nuturaliter_, its consequentiall that the sound of the bells as it passes thorow the circumambient air to come to our ears and to pass thorow all the places wheir it extends its noice makes place for it selfe by making the air yeeld that stands in its way; whence it rarifies and purifies the air and by consequence disipates the crassities of the air, which occasions the thunder. That the noice thats conveyed to our ears is corporeall and material be it of bels or of canons is beyond controversy, since _sonus_ is _obiectum sensûs corpori, ut auditus: at objectum rei corporcae oportet esse corporeum: cum incorporea sub sensibus naturaliter non cadunt_. I adde _naturaliter_, because I know _super naturaliter in beatificá visione Deus quodammodo cadet sub sensibus ut glorificatus_, according to that of Jobs with thir same wery eyes sall I see my Redeimer: yea not only is _sonus quid materiale_, but further something much more grossely material then the objects of the rest of the senses, as for instance in the discharging of a canon being a distance looking on we would think it gives fire long before it gives the crack, tho in wery truth they be both in the same instant. The reason then whey we sie the fire before we hear the crack is because the _species Wisibiles_ that carries the fire to our eyes, tho material are exceeding spirituall and subtill and are for that soon conveyed to our sight: when the _Species Audibiles_ being more gross takes a pitty tyme to peragrate and passe over that distance that is betuixt us and the canon, or they can rendre them selfes to the organ of our hearing. But let us returne, we are informed that in Italy, wheir thunders are bothe more frequent and more dangerous then heir, they are wery carefull not only to cause ring all their bells, but also to shoot of their greatest cannons and peices of ordonnances and that to the effect mentioned. I am not ignorant but the Papists feignes and attributes a kind of wertue to the ringing of bells for the chassing away of all evill spirits if any place be hanted or frequented wt them. Yet this reason cannot have roome in our case, since ther are few so ignorant of the natural causes of thunder as to impute it to the raging of ill spirits in the air, tho the Mr. of Ogilvy at Orleans, who very wilfully whiles would maintain things he could not maintain, would not hear that a natural cause could be given of the thunder, but would impute it to evill spirits. I do not deny but the Devils wt Gods permission may occasion thunders and other tempests in the air, but what I aime at is this, they never occasion it so, but they make use of natural means; for who is ignorant but the Meteorologists gives and assignes all the 4 causes of it its efficient, its materiall, its formall and its finall. I cannot forget the effect I have sein the thunder produce in the papists. When they hear a clap coming they all wery religiously signe theyr forfronts and their breast wt the signe of the cross, in the wertue of which they are confident that clap can do them no scaith. Some we have sein run to their beads and their knees and mumble over their prayers, others away to the church and doune before the Altar and blaither anything that comes in their cheek. They have no thunders in the winter. Discoursing of the commodityes of sundry nations transported to France, their ordinar cxpression is, that they are beholden to Scotland for nothing but its herrings, which they count a wery grosse fish no wayes royall, as they speak, thats, not for a kings table. As for linnen, cloath and other commodities the kingdome affords, we have litle more of them then serves our oune necessity. I was 5 moneth in France before I saw a boyled or roasted egge. Their mouton is neither so great nor so good heir as its at home. The reason of which may be the litle roome they leive for pasturage in the most parts of France. They buy a leg heir for 8 souse, whiles 10 souse. On the 20 of August came about St. Bernard, Abbot of Clarevill,[126] his day, who founded the order of the Foullions[127] or Bernardines, whence we went that afternoon to their Convent and heard one of the order preach his panygyrick, but so constupatly that the auditory seweral tymes had much ado to keip themselfes from laughting. [126] Clairvaux. [127] See p. 47, note. On the 24 of the samen ditto was keipt the Aposle St. Bartholemewes day: the morrow, 25, St. Lowis, king of France, his day, a great feste, and in that city the festivall day of the marchands (for each calling hes its particular festivall day: as the taylors theirs, the sutors theirs, the websters thers, and so furth). Every trade as their day comes about makes a sort of civil procession thorow all the streets of the toune. Instead of carrieng crosses and crucifixes, according to the custome of the place, they carry, and that on the shoulders of 4 of the principal of the trade, a great farle of bread, seiming to differ nothing from the great bunes we use to bake wt currants all busked wt the fleurs that the seasone of the year affordes, and give in winter then wt any herbe to be found at the tyme; and this wt a sort of pomp, 4 or 5 drummers going before and as many pipers playing; the body of the trade coming behind. To returne, tho this day was the feste of the marchands, yet I observed they used not the ceremomy before specified, looking on it as dishonorable and below them. This day we went to the Jesuits Church and heard one of the learnedest of the Augustinians preach, but tediously. The nixt feste was the 8 of Septembre, _Nativité de nostre Dame_. On which I went and heard our Comoedian the Jesuit preach hir panegyrick and his oune Valedictory Sermon (for they preach 12 moneth about, and he had ended his tower[128]). He would have had us beleiving that she was cleansed from the very womb from that wery sin which all others are born wt, that at the moment of hir conception she receaved a immense degrie of grace infused in her. If he ware to draw the Horoscope of all others that are born he would decipher it thus, thou sal be born to misery, angoiss, trouble and vexation of spirit, which, on they wery first entering into this walley of tears, because thou cannot tell it wt they tongue thou sal signify by thy weiping. But if I ware, sayes he, to cast our charming Ladies Horoscope I would have ascertained then, that she was born for the exaltation of many, that she [was] born to bear the only sone of God, etc. [128] Tour, turn The sone he brought in as the embleme of Justice ever minding his father of his bloody death and sufferings, to the effect that he take vengeance for it even on thess that crucifies him afresh. The mother he brought on the stage as the embleme of mercy, crying imperiously, _jure matris_, I inhibite your justice, I explode your rigor, I discharge your severity. Let mercy alone triumph. Surely if this be not blasphemy I know not whats blasphemie. To make Christ only Justice fights diamettrally[129] wt the Aposle John, If any man hath sinned he has a Advocat with the father. Christ the righteous, he sayes, is not Christ minding his father continualy of this passion; its true, but whey; to incite God to wrath, sayes he. O wicked inference, horrid to come out of the mouth of any Christian save only a Jesuites. Does not the Scripture language cut thy throat, O prophane, which teaches us that Christ offereth up to his father his sufferings as a propitiatory sacrifice; and consequently to appaise, not to irritate. [129] Diametrically. The word is indistinctly written. His inference at lenth was thus: since the business is thus then, Messieurs, Mesdames, mon cher Auditoire, yeel do weill in all occassion to make your address to the Virgin, to invock hir, yea definitivly I assert that if any of you have any lawfull request if yeel but pray 30 dayes togither once every day to the Virgin ye sal wtout faill obtain what you desire. On whilk decision I suppose a man love infinitly a woman who is most averse from him, if he follow this rule he sall obtaine hir. But who sies not except thess that are voluntary blind whow rash, inconsiderat, and illgrounded thir decisions are, and principally that of invocking the Virgin, since wtout doubt its a injury to Christ, whom we beleive following the Scripture to be the only one Mediator betwixt God and Man. Also, I find Christ calling us to come to him, but never to his mother or to Peter or Paull. It will not be a unreasonable drollery whiles to counterfit our Regent, Mr. James,[130] if it be weill tymed, whow when he would have sein any of his scollers playing the Rogue he would take them asyde and fall to to admonish them thus. I think you have forgot ye are _sub ferula_, under the rod, ye most know that Im your Master not only to instruct you but to chastize you, and wt a ton[131] do ye ever think for to make a man, Sir; no, I promise you no. [He killed Kincairnes father by boyling the antimonian cup, which ought only to seep in.][132] _Inter bonos bene agier_.[133] When any plead a prate[134] and all denied it, I know the man, yet _neminem nominabo_, Honest Cicero hes learned me that lesson. [130] I have not discovered who Mr. James was. [131] 'Wt a ton' is possibly 'with a tone,' i.e. raising his voice. [132] Interlined. [133] _Agier_ for _agere_. [134] Played a trick. We cannot forgett also a note of a ministers (called Mr. Rob. Vedderburne) preaching related me by Robert Scot which happened besyde them. God will even come over the hil at the back of the kirk their, and cry wt a hy woice, Angel of the church of Maln[moon]sy, compeir; than Ile answer, Lord, behold thy servant what hes thou to say to him. Then God wil say, Wheir are the souls thou hest won by your ministery heir thir 17 years? He no wal what to answer to this, for, Sirs, I cannot promise God one of your souls: yet Ile say, behold my own Soul and my crooked Bessies (this was his daughter), and wil not this be a sad matter. Yet this was not so ill as Mr. John Elies note of a Minister was, who prayed for the success of the Kings navy both by sea and be land. The very beggers in France may teach folk thrift. Ye sall find verie few women beggers (except some that are ether not working stockings, or very old and weak) who wants[135] their rock in their bosome, spining very busily as they walk in the streets. [135] wants = have not. The French, notwtstanding all their civility, are horridly and furiously addicted to the cheating of strangers. If they know a man to be a stranger or they cause him not pay the double of what they sell it to others for, theyl rather not sell it at all, which whither it comes from a malitious humour or a greedy I cannot determine, yet I'm sure they play the fooll in it, for tho they think a stranger wil readily give them all they demand, or if he mint to go away that he'el come again; yet they are whiles mistaken. Many instances we could give of it in our oune experience, al whilk we sall bury at this tyme, mentioning only one of Patrick Humes, who the vinter he was at Poictiers, chancing to get the cold, went to buy some sugar candy. Demanding what they sold the unce of it for, they demanded 18 souse, at last came to 15, vould not bat a bottle;[136] wheirupon thinking it over dear he would have none of it, but coming back to Mr. Alex'rs he sent furth his man, directing him to that same wery chop, who brought him in that for 3 souse which they would not give him under 15. That story may pass in the company of one that understandes French, of the daughter who was sitting wt her mother at the fire, wt a great sigh cried, '_O que je foutcrois._ The mother spearing what sayes thou, she replied readily, _O que je souperois_. [136] Bate a bodle. On September 12 arrived heir 2 Englishmen from Orleans, who brought us large commendations from Mr. Ogilvie their, who desiring to sy the toune, I took them first up to the steeple of the place, which being both situat on a eminence and also hy of it selfe gave us a clear survey of the whole toune. We discovered a great heap of wacuities filled up wt gardens and wines, and the city seimed to us like a round hill, the top of it and all the sydes being filled wt houses. And to our wiew it seimed not to have many mo houses then what we had discovered at Orleans, for their we thought we saw heir one and their one dispersed. At Orleans we would think they lay all in a heap (lump).[137] From thence, not desiring but that they sould find the Scots as civil and obligding as any, we was at the paines to take them first to the church of Nostre Dame la grande, on the wall of which that regardes the place standes the statue of the Empereur Constantine, _a cheval_, wt a sword in his hand. From thence to Ste. Radegondes, wheir we showed them hir _tombeau_; from that to St. Croix, wheir we showed them the _empressa_ of Christs foot, of which we spake already; and from that to St. Peters, which we looked all on as a very large church, being 50 paces broad. [137] Interlined. In the afternoon we went to the Church of St. Hilaire, wheir at a distance we discovered the Scots walk; so called because when the Englishes ware beseiging the toune a Regiment of Scotsmen who ware aiding the French got that syde of the toune to garde and defend, who on some onset behaving themselfes gallantly the Captain got that great plot of ground which goes now under that name gifted him by the toune, who after mortified to a nunnery neir hand, who at present are in possession of it. The church we fand to smell every way of antiquity. Heir we saw first that miraculous stone (of which we also brought away some relicts) which if not touched has no smell, if rubed hard or stricken wt a key or any other thing, casteth a most pestilentious, intollerable smell, which we could not indure. We tried the thing and fand it so. The occasion and cause of this they relate wariously. Some sayes that the stone was a sepulchre stone, and under it was buried a wicked man that had led a ill life, whos body the Dewill came on a tyme and carried away; whence the stone ever stinks in that maner since. Others say that when the Church was a bigging, the Dewill appeared to one of the maisons, in the signe [shape][138] of a mulet and troubled him; wheirupon the maison complained to St. Hilaire the Bischop, who watched the nixt day wt the maison, and the Dewill appearing in that shape he caused take him and yoke him in a cart to draw stones to the bigging of the church. They gott him to draw patiently that great stone which we saw and which stinks so, but he got away and would draw no more. [138] Interlined. Nixt we saw St. Hilaires _berceau_, wheirin they report he lay, a great long peice of wood hollowed (for it wil hold a man and I had the curiosité to lay in it a while) halfe filled wt straw that they may lay the softer. To this the blinded papists attributes the vertue of recovering madmen or those that are besydes themselfes to their right wites, if they lay in it 9 dayes and 9 nights wt their handes bound, a priest saying a masse for them once every day. And indeed according to the beleife of this place it hath bein oft verified. The fellow that hes a care of thess that are brought hither told us of a Mademoisselle who was extraordinarly distracted and who was fully recovered by this means. Another of a gentleman who had gone mad for love to a gentlewoman whom he could not obtaine, and who being brought their in that tyme recovered his right wits as weill as ever he had them in his dayes. Its commonly called the _berceau de fols_; so that heir in their flitting they cannot anger or affront one another worse then to cast up that they most be rockt in St. Hilaires cradle, since its none but fools or madmen that are used so. The greatest man in the province of Poictou is the governour, who in all things representes the king their, save only that he hath not the power to pardon offenders or guilty persones. Tho a man of wast estat, to wit of 300,000 livres a year, yet he keips sick a low saile[139] that he wil not spend the thrid of his rent a year, only a pitty garde or 7 or 8 persons on foot going before his coach; and 4 or 5 lacquais behind; yea he sells vin, which heir is thought no disparadgement to no peir of France, since theirs a certain tym of the year that the King himselfe professes to sell win, and for that effect he causes at the Louwre hing out a bunch of ivy, the symbol of vin to be sold. [139] Lives so quietly. The King also playes notably weill on the drum, especially the keetle drumes, thinking it no disparagdement when he was a boy to go thorow Paris whils playing on the drum, whiles sounding the trumpet, that his subjects may sie whow weill hes wersed in all these warlike, brave, martiall excercises. The invention of the keetle drume we have from the Germans who makes great use of it. The father of this present King also, Lowis the 13, could exactly frame and make a gun, and much more a pistol, with all the appartenances of it, as also canons wt all other sort of Artillerie; for he was a great engineer. There are amongs the French nobility some great deall richer then any subject of our Kings; for the greatest subject of the King of Englands is the Duc of Ormond, or the Earle of Northumberland, nether of which tho hath above 30,000 pounds sterling, which make some 300,000 livres in french money, which is ordinar for a peir in France. The last of which, to wit, my Lord Northumberland, by reason of that great power and influence he hath in the north of England, his oune country, the parliament of England of old hath found it not a miss to discharge him the ever going their, and that for the avoiding and eviting of insurrectiones which, if he ware amongs them, he could at his pleasure raise. Surely this restraint neids not be tedious to him since he is confined in a beautiful prison, to wit, London; yea he may go thorow all the world save only Northumberland, he may come to Scotland whilkes benorth Northumberland be sea.[140] It may be it might be telling Scotland that by sick another act they layd a constrainct on that house of Huntly, the Cock of the north. If so, the French Jesuits sould not have such raison to boast (as we have heard them), and the papists sould not have so great footing in the north as they have. [140] I have not traced the authority for this statement. We most not forgett the drolleries we have had wt our host Mr. Daillé when I would have heard him at the _gardé robe_, to sport my selfe whiles, I would have come up upon him or he had bein weill begun and prayed him to make hast by reason I was exceedingly straitned when they would have bein no such thing, wheiron he would have raisen of the stooll or he had bein halfe done and up wt his breecks, it may be whiles wt something in them. In our soups, which we got once every day, and which we have descryved already, such was Madames frugality that the one halfe of it she usually made of whiter bread, and that was turned to my syde of the board, the other halfe or a better part she made of the braner, like our rye loaves, and that was for hir and hir husband. The bread ordinarly used heir they bake it in the forme of our great cheeses, some of them 12 pence, others 10 souse, others for 8. Thess for 10 souse are as big again as our 6 penie loaves, and some of them as fine. There comes no vine out of France to forreine country, save that which they brimstone a litle, other wise it could not keip on the sea, but it would spoil. Its true the wine works much of it out againe, yet this makes that wine much more unwholsome and heady then that we drink in the country wheir it growes at hand. We have very strick laws against the adulterating of wines, and I have heard the English confess that they wished they had the like, yet the most do this for keiping of it; yea their hardly wine in any cabaret of Paris that is otherwise. Hearing a bel of some convent ringing and ronging on a tyme in that same very faschion that we beginne our great or last bel to the preaching, I demanding what it meint, they told me it was for some person that was expiring, and that they cailed it _l'agonie_. That the custome was that any who ware at the point of death and neir departing they cause send to any religious house they please, not forgetting money, to ring a Agonie that all that hears, knowing what it means, to wit, that a brother or sister is departing, may help them wt their prayers, since then they may be steadable, which surely seimes to be wery laudable, and it nay be not amiss that it ware in custome wt us. The Church of England hath it, and on the ringing any peaple that are weill disposed they assemble themselfes in the Church to pray. In France also they ring upon the death of any person to show the hearers, called _le trespas_, that some persone is dead. The same they have in England, wt which we was beguiled that night we lay at Anick, for about 2 howers of the morning the toune bel ronging on the death of one Richard Charleton, I taking it to be the 5 howers bel we rose in hast, on wt our cloaths, and so got no more sleip that night. Their was nothing we could render Mr. Daillé pensive and melancholick so soon wt as to fall in discourse of Mr. Douglas. He hes told me his mind of him severall tymes, that he ever had a evill opinion of him; that he never heard him pray in his tyme; all 16 month he was wt him, he was not 3 or 4 tymes at Quatre Piquet [the church],[141] and when he went it was to mock; that he was a violent, passionate man; that he spak disdainefully of all persones; that he took the place of all the other Scotsmen, that he had no religion, wt a 100 sick like. [141] Interlined. Its in wery great use heir for the bridegroomes to give rich gifts to the brides, especially amongs thess of condition; as a purse wt a 100 pistols in it, and this she may dispose on as she pleaseth to put hir selfe bravely in the faschion against hir marriage. We have heard of a conseillers sone in Poictiers who gave in a burse 10000 livres in gold. Yet I am of the mind that he would not have bein content if she had wared all this on hir marriage cloaths and other things concerning it, as on bracelets and rings. The parents also of the parties usually gives the new married folk gifts as rich plenishing, silver work, and sicklike. In parties appealls heir from a inferior to a superior, if it appear that they ware justly condemned, and that they have wrongously and rashly appealed, they condeime them unto a fine called heir Amende, which the Judge temperes according to the ability of the persones and nature of the businesse: the fine its converted ether to the use of the poor or the repairing of the palais. The Jurisdiction of thess they call Consuls in France is to decide controversies arising betuixt marchand and marchand. Their power is such that their sentence is wtout appeall, and they may ordaine him whom they find in the wrong to execute the samen wtin the space of 24 howers, which give they feill to do they may incarcerate them. Thus J. Ogilvie at Orleans. Even the wery papists heir punisheth greivously the sine of blasphemy and horrid swearing. Mr. Daillé saw him selfe at Bordeaux a procureurs clerk for his incorrigibleness in his horrid swearing after many reproofes get his tongue boored thorow wt a hot iron. The present bischop of Poictiers is a reasonable, learned man, they say. On a tyme a preist came to gett collation from him, the bischop, according to the custome, demanding of him if he know Latin, if he had learned his Rhetorick, read his philosophy, studied the scooll Divinity and the Canon Law, etc., the preist replied _quau copois_,[142], which in the Dialect of bas Poictou (which differes from that they speak in Gascoigne, from that in Limosin, from that in Bretagne, tho all 4 be but bastard French) signifies _une peu_. The bischop thought it a very doulld[143] answer, and that he bit to be but a ignorant fellow. He begines to try him on some of them, but try him wheir he will he findes him better wersed then himselfe. Thus he dismissed him wt a ample commendation; and severall preists, efter hearing of this, when he demanded if they had studied sick and sick things, they ware sure to reply _cacopois_. He never examined them further, crying, go your wayes, go your wayes, they that answers _cacopois_ are weill qualified. [142] Perhaps _quelque peu_. [143] Stupid, from doule, a fool. We have sein sewerall English Books translated in French, as the Practise of Piety, the late kings [Greek: eikon basilikae], Sidneyes Arcadia, wt others. We have sein the plume whilk they dry and make the plumdamy[144] of. [144] Dried plum, prune. The habit of the Carmelites is just opposite to that of the Jacobines,[145] who goe wt a long white robe beneath and a black above. The Carmes wt a black beneath and a white above. The Augustines are all in black, the Fullions all in white. [145] Jacobins, Dominicans, so called from the church of St. Jacques in Paris, granted to the order, near which they built their convent. The convent gave its name to the club of the Jacobins at the French Revolution, which had its quarters there. Its very rare to sy any of the women religious, they are so keipt up, yet on a tyme as I was standing wt some others heir in the mouth of a litle lane their came furth 2 nunnes, in the name of the rest, wt a litle box demanding our charity. Each of us gave them something: the one of them was not a lass of 20 years. Mr. Daillé loves fisch dearly, and generally, I observe, that amongs 10 Frenchmen their sall be 9 that wil præfer fisch to flech, and thinks the one much more delicat to the pallate then the other. The fisch they make greatest cont of are that they call the sardine, which seimes to be our sandell, and which we saw first at Saumur, and that they call _le solle_, which differs not from our fluck[146] but seimes to be the same. The French termes it _le perdrix de la mer_, the patridge of the sea, because as the pertridge is the most delicious of birds, so it of fisches. Mr. Daillé and his wife perceaving that we cared not for any sort of fisches, after they would not have fisches once in the moneth. [146] Flounder. We cannot forget a story or 2 we have heard of Capuchines. On a tyme as a Capuchin, as he was travelling to a certain village a little about a dayes journy from Poictiers, he rencontred a gentlemen who was going to the same place, whence they went on thegither. On their way they came to a little brook, over which their was no dry passage, and which would take a man mid leg. The Capuchin could easily overcome this difficulty for, being bare legged, he had no more ado but to truce up his gowen and pass over; the gentleman could not wt such ease, whence the Capucyn offers to carry him over on his back. When he was in the mides of the burn the Capucyn demanded him if he had any mony on him. The man, thinking to gratify the Capucyn, replied that he had as much as would bear both their charges. Wheiron the Capucyn replied, If so, then, Sir, I can carry you no further, for by the institution of our order I can carry no mony, and wt that he did let him fall wt a plasch in the mides of the burn. _Quoeritur_, whither he would have spleeted[147] on the regular obedience of their order if he carried the man having mony on him wholly throw the water. [147] Split, spleeted on, departed from. At another tyme a Capucyn travelling all alone fand a pistoll laying on the way. On which arose a conflict betuixt the flesch and the spirit, that same man as a Capuchin and as another man. On the one hand he reasoned that for him to take it up it would be a mortell sine; on the other hand, that to leive it was a folly, since their was nobody their to testify against him. Yet he left it, and as he was a litle way from it the flesch prevailed, he returned and took it up, but be a miracle it turned to a serpent in his hand and bit him. Enquiring on a tyme at Madame Daillé and others whow the murders perpetrate by that fellow that lived at the port St. Lazare came to be discovered, I was informed that after he had committed these villanies on marchands and others for the space of 10 years and above, the house began to be hanted wt apparitions and spirits, whence be thought it was tyme for him to quatte it, so that he sould it for litle thing, and retired to the country himselfe. He that had bought the house amongs others reformations he was making on it, he was causing lay a underseller wt stone, whilk while they are digging to do, they find dead bodies, which breeds suspicion of the truthe, wheirupon they apprehend him who, after a fainte deniall, confesses it; and as they are carrieing him to Paris to receave condigne punishment, they not garding him weell, some sayes he put handes in himselfe, others that his complices in the crime, fearing that he might discover them, to prevent it they layd wait for him and made him away by the way, for dead folk speaks none. On the 22 of Septembre 1665 parted from this for Paris 4 of our society, Mr. Patrick, David and Alex'r Humes, wt Colinton. We 3 that ware left behind hired horses and put them the lenth of Bonnévette, 3 leagues from Poictiers (it was built by admiral Chabot[148] in Francis the firsts time, and he is designed in the story Admirall de Bonnivette). By this we bothe gratified our commorades and stanched our oune curiosity we had to sie that house. It's its fatality to stand unfinished; by reason of whilk together wt its lack of furniture it infinitly comes short of Richelieu. It may be it may yeeld nothing to it in its bastiments, for its all built of a brave stone, veill cut, which gives a lustre to the exterior. Yet we discovered the building many wayes irregular, as in its chimlies, 4 on the one side and but 3 on the other. That same irregularity was to found in the vindows. In that which theirs up of it theirs roome to lodge a king and his palace. Al the chambres are dismantled, wtout plenishing save only one in which we fand som wery weill done pictures, as the present Kings wt the Queens, Cardinal Mazarin's (who was a Sicilian, a hatmakers sone) and others. The thing we most noticed heir was a magnifick stair or trumpket most curiously done, and wt a great deall of artifice, wt great steps of cut stone, the lenth of which I measured and fand 20 foot. I saw also a very pretty spatious hall, which made us notice it, and particularly Colinton, who told me that Colinton hous had not a hall that was worth, whence he would take the pattern of that. We fand it thre score 12 foot long, and iust the halfe of it broad, thats to say 36. Above the chimly of the roome are written in a large broad the 10 commandements. [148] Philippe de Chabot, amiral de Brion. Guillaume Gouffier, amiral da Bonnivet, was another of Francis I's admirals. Heir we bade adieu to our commorads, they forward to Micbo that night, 2 leagues beyond Bonnevette, to morrow being to dine at Richelieu and lay at Loudun; we back to Poictiers. Its like that we on their intreaties had gone forward to Richelieu if we had bein weill monted; but seing us all 3 so ill monted it minded us of that profane, debaucht beschop Lesly, who the last tyme the bischops ware in Scotland (when Spootswood was Archbischop) was bischop of the Isles. He on a tyme riding with the King from Stirveling to Edinburgh he was wery ill monted, so that he did nothing but curse wtin him selfe all the way. A gentleman of the company coming up to him, and seing him wt a wery discontented, ill looking countenance demanded, Whow is it, whow goes it wt you, my Lord? He answered, Was not the Dewill a fooll man, was he not a fooll? The other demanding wheirin, he replied, If he had but sett Job on the horse I am on, he had cursed God to his face. Let any man read his thoughts from that. The richness of France is not much to be wondred at, since to lay asyde the great cities wt their trafficks, as Tours in silkes. Bordeaux wt Holland wares of all sorts, Marseilles wt all that the Levant affordes, etc., their is not such a pitty city in France which hath not its propre traffick as Partenay[149] in its stuffes, Chatteleraut in its oil of olives, its plumdamies and other commodities which, by its river of Vienne, it impartes to all places that standes on the Loier. [149] A town in Poitou. In France heir they know not that distinction our Civil Law makes betuixt Tutors and Curators, for they call all curators, of which tho they have a distinction, which agries weill wt the Civil Law, for these that are given to on wtin the age of 14 they call _curateurs au persones et biens_, which are really the Justinianean tutors who are given _principaliter ad tuendam personam pupilli_ and _consequenter tantum res_; thes that [are] given to them that are past their 14, but wtin their 25, they call _curateurs du causes_, consequentialy to that, _quod curatores certoe rei vel causoe dari possunt_, and wtout the auctority of thir the minors can do nothing, which tends any wayes to. the deteriorating their estat, as selling, woodsetting or any wayes alienating. What concernes the consent of parents in the marriage of their children, the French law ordaines that a man wtin the age of 28, a woman wtin 25 sall not have the power of disposing themselfes in marriage wtout the consent of their parents. If they be past this age, and their parents wil not yet dispose of them, then and in that case at the instance of the Judge, and his auctority interveening they may marry tho their parents oppose. When the friends of a pupil or minor meits to choose him a curator, by the law of France they are responsible to the pupill if ether the party nominat be unfitting, or behave himself fraudulently and do damnage, and be found to be not _solvendo_. At Bourges in Berry theirs no church of the religion, since, notwtstanding its a considerable toune, their are none of the religion their, but one family, consisting of a old woman and hir 2 daughters, both whores; the one of them on hir deathbed turned Catholick when Mr. Grahame was their. Its a very pleasant place they say, situate on a river just like the Clin heir; they call it the Endre. Heir taught the renouned Cuiacius,[150] whom they call their yet[151] but a drunken fellow. His daughter was the arrantest whore in Bourges. Its not above 4 or 5 years since she died, whence I coniecture she might be comed to good years or she died. [150] Jacques Cujas, eminent jurist, 1522-1590. [151] i.e. 'still speak of there as.' This university is famous for many others learned men, as Douell,[152] Hotoman,[153] Duarene,[154] Vulteius, etc. [152] Possibly Douat, author of _Une centaines d'anagrammes_. Paris, 1647. [153] Francois Hotman, celebrated jurist, 1524-1590. [154] Francois Duaren, jurist, 1509-1559. The posterity of the poor Waldenses are to be sein stil in Piedmont, Merindol, and the rest of Savoy, as also of the Albigenses in Carcasson, Beziers and other places of Narbon. They are never 10 years in quietness and eas wtout some persecution stirred against, whence they are so stript of all their goods and being that they are necessitate to implore almes of the protestant churches of France. About 12 years ago a contribution was gathered for them, which amounted to neir 400,000 livres, which was not ill. The principall trafick of Geneva is in all goldsmiths work. The best _montres_ of France are made their, so that in all places of France they demand Geneva _montres_, and strangers if they come to Geneva they buy usually 3 or 4 to distribute amongs their friends when their are at home. In the mor southren provences of France to my admiration I fand they had and eated upright[155] cheries 2 tymes of the year, end of May and beginning of June, a little after which they are ordinar wt ourselfes, and also again in Octobre. On a day at the beginning of that moneth at dinner Mr. Daillé profered to make me eat of novelties, wheiron he demanded me what fruits I eated in the beginning of the year. I replied I had eaten asparagus, cherries and strawberries. You sall eat of cherries yet, said he, and wt that we got a plate full of parfait cherries, tho they had not so natural a tast as the others, by reason of the cold season, and the want of warmness which the others enioy. They had bein but gathered that same day; they are a sort of bigaro;[156] when the others are ripe they are not yet flourished. [155] Perhaps standard. Compare 'upright bur,' Jamieson's _Dict_. [156] Bigarade is a bitter orange. This may mean a bitter cherry. The most usuall names that women are baptized wt heir be Elizabeth, Radegonde, Susanne, Marguerite and Madleine. The familiar denomination they give the Elizabeths is babie, thus they call J. Ogilvies daughter at Orleans; that for Marguerite is Gotton, thus they call Madame Daillé and hir litle daughter. Thess of the religion, usually gives ther daughters names out of the bible, as Sarah, Rachel, Leah, etc. They have also a way of deducing women names out of the mens, as from Charles, Charlotte, from Lowis, Lowisse, from Paul, Pauline, from Jean, Jeane. Thir be much more frequent amongs the baser sort then the gentility, just as it is wt the names of Bessie, Barbary, Alison and others wt us. A camel or Dromedary would be as much gazed on in France for strangers as they would be in Scotland. In Italy they have some, but few, for they are properly Asiatick wares, doing as much service to the Persian, Arabian and others Oriental nations acknowledging the great Tartar chain as the silly, dul asse and the strong, robust mule does to the French. The camel, according to report indeniable, because a tall, hy beast it most couch and lay doune on its forward feet to receave its burden, which if it find to heavy it wil not stir til they ease it of some of it; if it find it portable it recoveres its feet immediatly. There comes severall Jewes to France, especially as professing physick, in which usually they are profondly skilled. Mr. Daillé know on that turned protestant at Loudun. Another, a very learned man, who turned Catholik at Montpeliers, who a year after observing a great nombre of peaple that lived very devotly and honestly, that ioined not wt the Church of Rome, having informed himself of the protestants beleife, he became of the Religion, publishing a manifesto or Apology wheirin he professes the main thing whey he quites the Catholick religion for is because he can never liberate their tennet wheirby they teach that we most really and carnally eat our God in the Sacrament, from uniustice, absurdity and implication.[157] [157] Implication perhaps means confusion of ideas. The Laws of Spaine, as also of Portugal, strikes wery sore against Jewes that will not turne Christians, to wit, to burning them quick, which hath bein practicate sewerall tymes. On the other hand a Jew thats Christian if at Constantinople he is wery fair to be brunt also. Whence may be read Gods heavy judgement following that cursed nation. Yet Holland, that sink of all religions, permits them their synagogues and the publick excercise of their religion. They rigorously observe their sabath, our Saturdy, so that they make ready no meat on that day. If the wind sould blow of their hat they almost judge it a sin and a breach of the sabath to follow it and take it up. Their was a Jew wt us in the 1662 year of God that professed at least to turne Christian, and communicated in the Abby Church. We may deservedly say, _omnia sunt venalia Gallis_, for what art their not but its to be sold publickly. Not so much as rosted aples ready drest, _chastans_,[158] _poirs_, rosted geese cut unto its percels, but they are crieng publicklie, and really I looked upon it as a wery good custome, for he that ether cannot or wil not buy a whole goose he'el buy it may be a leg. [158] Chestnuts. The prices of their meats waries according to the tymes of the year. The ordinars of some we have already mentioned; for a capon they wil get whiles 20 sous, whiles but 14 or 12. Theirs a fellow also that goes wt a barrel of vinegar on his back, crieng it thorow the toune; another in that same posture fresch oil, others moustard, others wt a maille[159] to cleave wood, also poor women wt their asses loadened wt 2 barrels of water crying, _Il y a l'eau fresche_. At Paris its fellows that carryes 2 buckets tied to a ordinar punchion gir,[160] wtin which they march crieng _de l'eau_, which seimed a litle strange to us at first, we not crying it so at home. Also theirs to be heard women wt a great web of linnen on their shoulder, a el[161] wand in their hand, crieng their fine _toile_. Theirs also poor fellows that goes up and doune wt their hurle barrows in which they carrie their sharping stone to sharp axes or gullies to any bodie that employes him. [159] Mell, mallet, beetle. [160] Hoop. [161] An el. Their came a Charlatan or Mountebanck to Poictiers the Septembre we was their, whose foolies we went whiles to sie. The most part of the French Charletanes and Drogists when they come to a toune to gain that he get them themselfes[162] a better name, and that they may let the peaple sie that they are not cheaters as the world termes them, they go to all the Phisitians, Apothecaries and Chiurgions of the toune and proferes to drink any poison that they like to mix him, since he hath a antidote against any poison whatsoever. [162] The meaning is, with the object of getting for themselves. A mountebank at Montpeliers having made this overture, the potingers[163] most unnaturally and wickedly made him a poisonable potion stuffed wt sulfre, quick silver, a vicked thing they cal _l'eau forte_, and diverse others burning corrasive ingredients to drink. He being confident in his antidote, he would drink it and apply his antidote in the view of all the peaple upon the stage. He had not weill drunk it when by the strenth of the ingredients he sunk all most dead upon the scalfold or stage; he suddenly made his recourse to his antidote which he had in his hand; but all would not do, or halfe a hower it bereaved him of his life. [163] Apothecaries. Their are also some of them that by litle and litle assuesses themselfes to the drinking of poison, so that at lenth by a habit they are able to take a considerable draught wt out doing themselfes harme. Historians reportes this also to have bein practicate by Mithridates, King of Persia [Parthia].[164] [164] Interlined. Upon the founding of the Jesuits Colledge at la Fleche on made thir 2 very quick lines: Arcum dola dedit patribus Gallique sagittam, Quis funem autem quem meruere dabit.[165] [165] _Dola_ is a mistake for _dona_. The pentameter does not scan. It might be emended, _Dic mihi quis funem_. In many places of Germany their growes very good wines, in some none at all. The Rhenish wine which growes on the renouned Rhein, on which standes so many brave tounes, is weill enough knowen. They sometymes sell their wine by the weight as the livre or pound, etc., which may seime as strange as the cherries 2 tymes a year in France. Thus they ar necessitate to do in the winter, when it freizes so that they most break it wt great mattocks and axes, and sell it in the faschion we have named. Adultery, especially in the women, is wery vigorously punished in many places of France. In Poictou, as Mr. Daillé informed, they ignominously drag them after the taile of a mule thorow the streits, the hangman convoying them, then they sett them in the most publick part of the toune bound be a stake, wt their hands behind their backs, to be a obiect of mockery ther to all that pleases. They that commits any pitty roobery or theifte are whipt thorow the toune and stigmatized wt a hote iron marked wt the _flower de lis_ on the cheik or the shoulder. If any be taken after in that fault having the mark, theirs no mercy for them under hanging. Every province almost hath its sundry manner of torturing persones suspected for murder or even great crimes to extort from them a confession of the truth. At Paris the hangman takes a serviet, or whiles a wool cloath (which I remember Cleark in his Martyrologie discovering the Spanish Inquisition also mentioned), which he thrustes doune the throat of him as far as his wery heart, keiping to himselfe a grip of one end of the cloath, then zest wt violence pules furth the cloath al ful of blood, which cannot be but accompanied wt paine. Thus does the _burreau_ ay til he confesses. In Poictou the manner is wt bords of timber whilk they fasten as close as possibly can be both to the outsyde and insyde of his leg, then in betuixt the leg and the timber they caw in great wedges[166] from the knee doune to the wery foot, and that both in the outsyde and insyde, which so crusheth the leg that it makes it as thin and as broad as the loafe[167] of a mans hand. The blood ishues furth in great abondance. At Bourdeaux, the capital of Guienne, they have a boat full of oil, sulfre, pitch, resets, and other like combustible things, which they cause him draw on and hold it above a fire til his leg is almost all brunt to the bone, the sinews shrunk, his thigh also al stretched wt the flame. [166] The torture of the boot was apparently new to Lauder, but from his later MSS., it appears to have been in use in Scotland. [167] Loof, palm. On a tyme we went to sie the charlatan at the Marcher Vieux, who took occasion to show the spectators some vipers he had in a box wt scalves[168] in it, as also to refute that tradition delivered by so many, of the young vipers killing their mother in raving[l69] her belly to win furth, and that wt the horrid peine she suffers in the bringing furth her young she dies, which also I have heard Mr. Douglas--preaching out of the last of the Acts about that Viper that in the Ile of Malta (wheir they are a great more dangerous then any wheir else) cleave to Pauls hand--affirme at least as a thing reported by naturalists, the etymon of the Greek word [Greek: hechidnae] seiming to make for this opinion, since it comes [Greek: apo ton echein taen odunaen][170] _a habendo dolorem_. Yet he hath demonstrated the falshood of that opinion: for he showed a black viper also spooted wt yellow about the lenth of a mans armes, about the grossenesse of a great inkhorne wholly shappen like a ell[171] save only its head wt its tongue, which was iust like a fork wt 2 teeth, wheir its poison mainly resydes, that had brought furth 2 young ones that same very day, which he showed us wt some life in them just like 2 blew, long wormes that are wrinkled; and notwtstanding the mother was on life and no apparence of any rupture in hir belly. To let us sie whow litle he cared for it he took hir and wrapt it that she might not reach him wt hir head, and put it in his mouth and held it a litle space wt his lipes; which tho the common peaple looked on as a great attempt, yet surely it was nothing, since their is no part of the Viper poisonnable save only its head and its guts. As for the flech of it, any man may eat it wtout hazard, for the same very charlatan promised that ere we left the toune, having decapitated and disbowelled it, he sould eat the body of it before all that pleased to look on, which he might easily do. For as litle as he showed himself to care for it, yet he having irritate and angred it, either by his brizing[172] it in his mouth or by his unattentive handling of it (for such is the nature of the Viper that tho its poison be a great deall more subtil, percing and penetrating, and consequently in some account more dangerous then that of the hideous coleuure or serpent, yet it wil not readily sting or bit except they be exasperate, when the others neids no incitations, but wil pershew a man if they sy him), when he was not taking heid, it snatcht him by the finger, he hastily shakt it of on the stage and his finger fell a blooding. He was not ordinarly moved at this accident, telling us that it might endanger the losse of his finger. He first scarified the flech that was about the wound, then he caused spread some theriac (one of the rarest contrepoisons, made mainly of the flech of the Viper) on a cloath which he applied to it. About a halfe hower after he looked to it in our presenc, and his finger was also raisen in blay[173] blisters. He said he would blood himselfe above a hower, to the end to reid himselfe of any blood already poisoned and infected, lest by that circulation that the blood makes thorow al the body of a man once of the 24 howers the blood infected sould communicate itselfe to much. Also he sayd that he had rather bein stung in the leg, the thigh, or many other parts of the body then the finger, by reason of the great abondance of nerves their, and the sympathy the rest of the body keips wt them, which renders the cure more difficile. [168] Shelves. [169] Riving, tearing. [170] Mistake for [Greek: hodunaen]. The etymology is fanciful and incorrect. [171] Eel. [172] Squeezing. [173] Livid. This charlatan seimed to be very weill experimented. He had bein at Rome, which voyage is nothing in France, and thorow the best of France. The stone thats to be found in the head of the hie[174] toad is very medicinal and of great use their. They call a toad grappeau; a frog grenouille. [174] i.e. he. The papists looks very much on the 7 sone for the curing of the cruels;[175] severall of the protestants look on it as superstition. They come out of the fardest nooks of Germany, as also out of Spain itselfe, to the King of France to be cured of this: who touches wt thir wordes, which our King æquivalently uses, tho he gives no peice of Gold as our King does, _c'est le roy qui vous touche, c'est Dieu qui vous guerisse_. He hath a set tyme of the year for the doing of it. The day before he prepares himself by fasting and praying that his touche may be the more effectuall. The French could give me no reason of it but lookt on it as a gift of God. [175] Cruels, scrofula, king's evil. For the healing powers of the seventh son, compare Chambers's _Book of Days_, vol. i. p. 167; _Notes and Queries_, June 12, 1852. We can not forget a witty answer of a young English nobleman who was going to travel thorow France and Italie, whom his friends feared exceedingly that he would change his Religion, because he mocked at Religion. They thought that King James admonition to him might do much to keip him constant, wheiron they prayed the King to speak to him. Yes I shall do that, quoth he. When he came to take his leave of the King, King James began to admonish him that he would not change his Religion, for amongs many other inconveniences he would so render himselfe incapable of serving his King and his country, and of bearing any office theirin. He quickly replied, I wonder of your Majesty who is so wise a man that ye sould speak so; for ther is no a man in all France or Italy that wil change wt me tho I would give him a 100,000 livres aboot.[176] The King was wery weill satisfied wt this, telling his freinds that he was not feared he would change, but that he saw he would bring back all the Religion he carried afield wt him. [176] To boot. At the Marcher Vieux beyond our expectation we saw one of the fellows eat the Viper head and all. The master striped it as a man would do an elle, and clasped it sicker wtin a inch of its neck. The fellow took the head of it in his mouth and zest[177] in a instant bit it of its neck and over his throat wt it, rubing his throat griveously for fear that it stake their. He had great difficulty of getting it over, and wt the time it had bein in his mouth his head swalled as big as 2 heads. The master immediatly took a glasse halfe full of wine, in which he wrang the blood and bowells of the headlesse body of the Viper and caused him drink it also, breaking the glasse in which he drank it to peices on the stage, causing sweip all wery diligently away that it might do no harme. Immediatly on the fellows drinking of it he had ready a cup of contrepoison, which he caused him drink, then giving him a great weighty cloak about his shoulders he sent him to keip him selfe warme before a great fire. The reason of which was to contrepoise the cold nature of this poison as of all that poison thats to be found in living creatures, which killeth us by extinguishing our natural radical heat, which being chockt and consumed the soul can no more execute its offices in the body but most depart. [177] Just. In the more Meridional provinces of France, as Provence, Languedoc, etc., they have besydes the other ordinar Serpents also Scorpions, which, according as we may sie them painted, are just like a litle lobster, or rather the French _rivier Escrivises_. They carry their sting in their taile as the Viper does in its mouth. Tho it be more dangerous then any, yet it carries about wt it contrepoison, for one stung wt it hath no more ado, but to take that same that stung him, or any other if he can light on it, and bruise out its substance on the place wheir he is stung, and theirs no hazard. The potingers also extracts a oile which hath the same virtue. Its not amisse to point as it ware wt the finger at that drollery of the priest who preaching upon the gifts that the 3 wise men gave to Christ, alleadged the first gave _d'or, myrrthe_, the 2d _argent_. He could never find, tho he repeated it 20 tymes over, what the 3d gave wt the rest of its circumstances. As also of the soger that made good cheir to his Landlord; and of Grillet the Deviner who notwtstanding of his ignorance yet fortune favorized. The Frenchwomen thought strange to hear that our women theyle keip the house a moneth after they are lighter, when they come abroad on 8 dayes, and they are very weak that keips it a fortnight. Be the Lawes of France a slave, let him be a Turk, slave to a Venitien or Spaniard, etc. (such enemies they pretend themselfes to be to servitude, tho their be legible enough marks of it amongs them as in their _gens de main mort_,[178] etc.), no sooner sets he his foot on French ground but _ipso facto_ he is frie. Yet al strangers are not in the same condition their, nether brook they the same priveledges, for some they call Regnicolls,[179] others Aubiens[180] (_suivans les loix du Royaume_, bastards). The principal difference they make betuixt them is this, that if a Regnicoll such as the Scots are, chance to dy in France they have the power of making a testament and disposing of their goods as they please which they have their, whither they be moveable or immoveable. If they die not leiving a testament yet its no less secure, since their friends to the 10 degrie may take possession of them. Its not so wt the Aubiens who have no such right, but dieng, the King is their heir, unless it may be they be Aubiens naturalized, who then begin to have the priveledges of the others and the very natives. [178] Serfs under the feudal law, whose power of disposing of their property by will was restricted. [179] A legal term meaning native or naturalised citizens. [180] _Aubains_. Foreigners, whose succession fell to the Crown (_droit d'aubaine_). The Laws of France [this is the rigor][181] denies children begotten in Adultery or incest aliments, which tho harsh, condemning the innocent for the guilty, yet they think it may serve to deterre the parents from sick illicit commixtions. [181] Interlined. The Laws of France, as of the most of Europe (tho not practicate wt us), in thess case wheirin a man gets a woman wt child, ordains that ether he marry hir or that he pay hir tocher good, which is very rigorously execute in France. We can not forget a Anagram that one hes found in Cornelius Jansenius, to wit, _Calvini sensus in ore_. At Rome the Jews have a street assigned to them to live in a part. In France, especially in Montpeliers, wheir theirs seweralls, they dare not wear hats of that coleur that others wear, as black or gray, but ether rid or green or others, that all may know them from Christians. The King of France amongs other titles he assumes, he calls himselfe Abbot of St. Hilaire, to wit of that church that bears the name in Poictiers, whence its amongs the ænigma'es of France that the Abbot of St. Hilaire hath the right of laying with the Queen of France the 1 night of the marriage. Wheirupon when this king married the Infanta of Spaine, some of the French nobility told hir that the Abbot of St. Hilaire had the right of lying wt the Queen of France the first night, she replied that no Abbot sould lay wt hir but her prince. They pressing that the laws of France ware such, she answered she would have that law repealed. They telling hir the matter she said the Abbot sould be welcome. The most part of Them that sweips the chimelies in France we discovered to be litle boyes that come out of Savoy wt a long trie over the shoulders, crying shrilly thorow the cityes, _je vengeray vos cheminées haut en bas_. Its strange of thir litle stirrows,[182] let us or the Frenchmen menace them as we like we can never get them to say, _Vive le Roy de France_, but instead of it, ay _Vive la Reine de Sauoye_. [182] Lads, fellows. We was not a little amazed to sy them on dy making ready amongs other things to our diet upright poddock stools, which they call _potirons_ or _champignons_. They'le raise in a night. They grow in humid, moisty places as also wt us. They frie them in a pan wt butter, vinegar, salt, and spice. They eated of it greedily vondering that I eated not so heartily of them as they did; a man seimes iust to be eating of tender collops in eating them. But my praeiudice hindred me. To know the way of making their sups is not uunecessar since our curiosity may cause us make of them at home. Of this we spoke something already. Further he that hes made ready boiled flech, he hath no more ado but to take the broth or sodden water wt his flech and pour it above his cut doune loaves, which we proved to be very nourishing. If a man would make a good soup wtout flech, he would cut me doune some onions wt a lump of butter ether fresh or salt, which he sall frie in a pan, then pour in some vinaigre, then vater, then salt and spice, and let al boil together, then pour it on your sup, and I promise you a good sup. We cannot forget what good company we have had some winter nights at the fire syde, my host in the one noock, Madame in the other, and I in the mides, in the navel of the fire. He was of Chattelerault, she of Partenay: they would fallen to and miscalled one anothers country, reckning over al that might be said against the place wheir the other was born and what might be sayd for their oune. Whiles we had very great bickering wt good sport. They made me iudge to decide according to the relevancy of what I fand ether alledge. I usually held for Madame as the weaker syde. The most part of the French sauces they make wt vergus.[183] For geese they use no more but salt and water. [183] Verjuice. This consequence may be whiles used: Sy ye this, yes. Then ye are not blind: hear you that; R, yes. Then ye are not deaf. We saw a horse ruber wt a blew bonnet in Poictiers almost in the faschion of our Scotes ones; another we saw not, from our leiving of Berwick, til our returne to it againe. To be fully informed of the history of the brave General [Mareschal][184] Birron,[185] whom they had such difficulty to get headed; as of the possessed Convent of Religious vomen called _les diablesses de Loudun_; as of the burning of the preist as sorcerer and his arraigning his iudges before the tribunal of the Almighty to answer him wtin a few dayes, and all that sat upon his Azize their dying mad wtin som litle tyme; it wil not be amisse to informe ourselfe of them from the History of France. [184] Interlined. [185] Ch. de Gontant, Duc de Biron, Marshal of France, born 1562, died 1602. A favourite of Henry IV, but executed for treason against him. The French, tho the civilest of peaple, yet be seweral experiences we may find them the most barbarous. Vitnes besyde him who dwellt at Porte St. Lazare, another who brunt his mother because she would not let him ly wt hir, and was brunt quick himselfe at the place in Poictiers some 5 years ago. The French Law is that if a women be 7 years wtout hearing news of hir husband that she may marrie againe. We have marked the German language to have many words common wt our oune, as bread, drink, land, _Goet_ for our God; _rauber_; feeds,[186] _inimiticiæ_; march, _limites_; fich; flech; _heer_, sir; our man, _homo_; _weib_ for wife. [186] Feeds, _fehde_, feuds. We have eated puddings heir also that we call sauses, which they make most usualy of suine. We cannot passe over in silence the observation the naturalists hath of the Sow, that it hath its noble parts disposed in the same very sort they are found in a man, which may furnish us very great matter of humility, as also lead us to the consideration and sight of our bassesse, that in the disposall of our noble parts we differ nothing from that beast which we recknon amongs the filthiest. They make great use of it in France heir. In travelling we rencontred wery great heards. Tuo boyes studieing the grammar in the Jesuits Colledge at Poictiers, disputing before the regent on their Lesson, the on demanded, _Mater cuius generis est_: the other, knowing that the mother of the proponer had a wery ill name of a whore, replied wittily, _distinguo; da distinctionem_ then; replied, _si intelligas de meâ est faeminini; si de tua, est communis_ (in the same sort does Rosse tel it). The occasion of the founding that order of the Charterous in France is wery observable. About the tyme of the wars in the Low Contries their was a man at Paris that led one of the strictest, godliest and most blameless lifes that could be, so that he was in great reputation for his holinesse. He dies, his corps are carried to some church neir hand wheir a preist was to preach his funeral sermon the nixt day. A great concourse of peaple who know him al weill are gathered to heir, amongs other, lead by meer curiosity, comes a Soger (Bruno) who had served in the Low Country wars against the Spaniard and had led a very dissolute, prophane, godless life. The preist in his sermon begins to extol the person deceased and amongs other expressions he had that, that undoubtedly he was in paradis at the present. Upon this the dead man lifted himselfe up in his coffin and cried wt a loud voice, _justo dei iudicio citatus sum_: the peaple, the preist and al ware so terrified that they ran al out of the kirk, yet considering that he was a godly man and that it would be a sin to leive his corps unburied they meit the nixt day. They ware not weill meet, when he cried again, _iusto dei indicio indicatus sum_; when they came again the 3d tyme, at which he cried, _justo dei iudicio condemnatus sum_. This seimed wery strange to all, yet it produced no such effects in any as in our Soger, who was present al the tymes: it occasioned enexpressible disquietment of spirit, and he fell a raisoning, If such a man who was knowen to be of so blamlesse a conversation, who was so observant of al his dueties to God be dammed, hath not obtained mercy, oh what wil word of[187] the who hath lead so vicious a life, thinks thou that thou will be able to reach the height that that man wan to, no. At last considering that company and the tongue ware great occasions to sin he resolves to institute a order who sould have converse wt none and whom all discourse should be prohibited save onlie when they meet one another, thir 2 words _Memento Mori_. For this effect he fel in scrutiny of a place wheir they might be friest from company, and pitched upon a rocky, desolate, unhabited place not far from Grenoble (about 3 leagues), wheir they founded their first Convent, which bears the name of Chartrouse, and is to be sein at this day. Notwtstanding that their first institution bears that they stay far from the converse of men, yet (which also may be observed in the primitive Monachisme) they are creeping into the most frequented cities. Vitness their spatious Convent, neir halfe a mile about, at Paris. [187] What will become of thee. Compare German, _werden, geworden_. These of the Religion at Poictiers from St. Michel to Paise[188] they have no preaching the Sabath afternoone. [188] Pasch, Easter. Its not leasum for a man or woman of the Religion to marry wt a Papist; which if they do, they most come and make a publick confession of the fault and of the scandal they have given by such a marriage before the whole church. Experience hes learned them to use it wery sparingly and meekly, for when they would have put it in execution on som they have lost them, they choosing rather to turne papists then do it. We are not so strick in this point as they are; for wt us _licet sed non expedit cum non omne quod liceat honestum sit_. Out of the same fear of loosing them they use wery sparingly the dart of excommunication except against such as lives al the more scandoulously. The protestants in speaking of their Religion before papists they dare not terme it otherwise then _pretendue Reformée_. We have eaten panches[189] heir, which we finding drest in a different sort from ours but better, we informed ourselfe of it thus: they keip them not intier as we do, but cuts them into peices as big as a man wil take in his mouth at once, then puts them in a frying pan wt a considerable lump of butter, having fryed them a good space, they put in vineger, a litle salt and some spice; this is all. [189] Tripe. Their goosing irons they heat them not in the fire as we do; but hath a pretty device. They make the body of the iron a great deall thicker then ours, which is boss,[190] and which opens at the hand, which boss they fil wt charcoall, which heats the bottom of the iron, which besydes that its very cleanly, they can not burn themselfes so readily, since the hands not hot. [190] Hollow. They dry not out their linnens before the fire as we do: they have a broad thing iust like a babret[191] on which we bak the cakes, only its of brass very clear, its stands on 4 right hight feet. They take a choffer whiles of brass oftner lame,[192] filled wt charcoall, which they sett beneath the thing, on which they dry out their cloaths wery neitly. [191] Babret or bawbret or baikbred, kneading trough. [192] Earthenware. We think fit to subioine heir a ridle or 2. Your father got a child; your mother bore the same child and it was nether brother nor sister to you: yourselfe. A man married a woman which was so his wife, his daughter and his sister. A man got his mother wt child of a lasse, which by that means was both his sister and his daughter, whom he afterwards not knowing married. France thinkes it a good policy to height[193] the gold and silver of stranger nations, by that thinking to draw the money of al other nations to themselfes. This gives occasion to that book we have sein called _Declaration du Roy et nouveau reglement sur le faict des Monnoyes tant de France que estrangeres, donné par Lowis 13, an_ 1636. This book at least hath 500 several peices gold and silver currant in France. It specifies what each of them vieghs and what the King ordaines them to passe for. First he showes us a great nombre of French peices of gold wt their shapes what they carry on both sydes: then the gold of Navarre that passes: then the Spanish and of Flanders, as the ducat and pistoles: then of Portugal, as St. Estienne: then the English Rosenoble passing for 10 livres 10 souse: the noble Henry of England for 9 liv. 10 souse: English Angelot for 7 livres: the Scotes and English Jacobuses, which we call 14 pound peices, as also the Holland Ridres for 13 liv: that Scots peice thats wt 2 swords thorow other, crouned the whol is 13, the halfe one 6 liv. 10 souse (it hath, _salus populi est suprema lex)_: the new Jacobus, which we cal the 20 shiling sterling peice, 12 fra: then Flandres gold. The Scotes croune of gold, which hath on the one syde_ Maria D.G. Regina Scotorum_, passes for 4 livres 5 souse.[194] Then he hath the Popes money, which hath Peter and Paul on the one syde and the Keyes, the mitre and 3 flies on the other, some of it coined at Avignon, some at Rome. Then the gold of Bologne, Milan, Venise, Florence, Parma, Avoye, Dombes, Orange, Besançon, Ferrare, Lucque, Sienne, Genes, Savoye, Geneve, wt that about the syde, _lux oritur post tenebras_: Lorraine, Liege, Spinola, Mets, Frise, Gueldres, Hongry, L'empyre, Salbourg, Prusse, Provinces Unies wt this, _concordiâ res parvae crescunt_, Ferrare and then of Turquie, which is the best gold of them al, its so fine it wil ply like wax: the armes wtin consistes of a number of caracters iust like the Hebrew. Thus for the Gold. As to mony it hath al the several realles of the Spaniard, as of al the Dolles or Dollers of the Empire wt the silver of al their neighbouring nations. Our shiling[195] is ordained to passe for 11 souse. [193] Enhance the price of. [194] For a comparison of these values, see Introduction, p. xliii. [195] Here the shilling sterling. Goropius Becanus in hes _Origines Antwerpianae_ would wery gladly have the world beleive that the Cimbrick or Low Dutch is the first language of the world, that which was spoken in Paradise; finally that the Hebrew is but a compond ishue of it because the Hebrew seimes to borrow some phrases and words of it when in the interim[196] it borrows of none. This he layes doune for a fondement and as in confesso, which we stiffly and on good ground denieng, al his arguments wil be found to split on the sophisme _petitionis principii_. [196] When in fact. So again p. 85. The ground upon which the Phrygians vendicats their langage for the anciennest is not worth refuting, to wit that these 2 Children that Psammeticus King of Egypt caused expose so that they never hard the woice of man: the first thing ever they cried was _bec_, which in the Phrygian language, as also in old Low Dutch (so that we have to do wt Goropius heir also, who thinks this to make mutch to his cause) signifies bread, is not worth refuting, since they might ether light on that word by chance, or they had learned it from the baying of the sheip wt whom they had conversed. To abstract from the Antiquitie of tongues, the most eloquent language at present is the French, which gets such acceptance every wheir and relishes so weill in eaches pallat that its almost universal. This it ounes to its _beauxs esprits_, who hath reformed it in such a faschion that it miskeens the garbe it had 50 or 60 years ago, witnesse _l'Historie du Serre_ (_francion_),[197] Montaign'es Essayes and du Barta'es Weeks,[198] who wt others have written marvelously weill in the language of their tyme, but at present is found no ways smooth nor agriable. We have sein the works of Du Bartas, which, tho in langage at present ancient, is marvelously weill exprest, large better than his translator Joseph Sylvester hath done. Amongs his works their was one which I fancied exceidingly, _La Lepanthe de Jacques 6, Roy d'Ecosse_, which he tornes in French, containing a narration of that bloody wictory the Christians gained over the Turk, Octobre 1571, the year before the massacre at Paris, on the Lepanto, which Howel in his History of Venise describes at large. He speaks wt infinite respect of our King, calling him among other stiles _Phoenix Ecossois_. [197] _Francion_ interlined. _Histoire Comique de Francion_, 1623-67. Sorel mentioned again p. 104. For de Serre, see same page. I thought at first that here Serre might be Sieur, but it is distinctly written, therefore perhaps _Francion_ is interlined by mistake. The reference is to an early writer, De Serres died in 1598. Sorel's _Francion_ was published in 1623. [198] G. de Saluste, sieur du Bartas, 1544-1590, religious poet. His _Divine Weeks_ were translated by Joshua Sylvester. To returne to our French language, not wtout ground do we estime it the Elegantest tongue. We have bein whiles amazed to sy [hear][199] whow copiously and richly the poor peasants in their meiting on another would expresse themselfes and compliment, their wery language bearing them to it; so that a man might have sein more civility in their expressions (as to their gesture its usually not wery seimly) then may be fund inthe first compliments on a rencontre betuixt 2 Scotes Gentlemen tolerably weil breed. Further in these that be ordinar gentlewomen only, theirs more breeding to be sein then in some of our Contesses in Scotland. For their frinesse[200] ennemy to a retired sullen nature they are commended be all; none wt whom a person may move easily and sooner make his acquaintance then wt them, and yet as they say wery difficult to board; the Englishwomen being plat contrary. They wil dance wt him, theyle laugh and sport wt him, and use al innocent freedome imaginable, and this rather wt strangers then their oune....[201] [199] Interlined. [200] Freeness. [201] Four lines erased in MS. This much precisely for the French mony (only its not to be forgotten that no goldsmith dare melt any propre French mony under the pain of hanging), their langage, and their women: of the men we touched something already in a comparison of them wt the Spaniard. I have caused Madame Daillé some vinter nights sit doune and tell me tales, which I fand of the same very stuffe wt our oune, beginning wt that usually _Il y avoit un Roy et une Reine_, etc., only instead of our red dracons and giants they have lougarous or war-woophs.[202] She told me on a tyme the tale or conte of daupht Jock wt his _sotteries_, iust as we have it in Scotland. We have laughten no litle at some. [202] Loups-garou or were-wolves, We saw the greatest aple we ever saw, which we had the curiosity to measure, to measure about and fand it 18 large inches. The gourds are monstrous great heir: we have sein them greater then any cannon bullet ever we saw. We have eaten cormes[203] heir, which is a very poor fruit, tho the peasants makes a drink of it they call cormet. In Octobre is the tyme of their roots, as Riphets, tho they eat of them al summer throw, neips and passeneips.[204] [203] Sorb apples. [204] Parsnips. Let us mark the reason whey the Pope permits bordel houses at Rome, and then let us sie who can liberat it from clashing immediatly wt the Aposles rule, Romans 3, v. 8. O. sayes the Pope, the toleration of stues in this place is the occasion of wery much good, and cuts short the occasion of wery mutch evil, for if men, especially the Italian, who, besydes his natural genius to Venery, is poussed by the heat of the country had not vomen at their command to stanch them, its to be feared that they would betake themselfes to Sodomy (for which stands the Apology of the Archbischop of Casa at this day), Adultery, and sick like illicit commixtions, since even notwtstanding of this licence we grant to hinder them from the other, (for _ex duabus malis minus est eligendum_), we sie some stil perpetrating the other. O brave, but since we sould not do evil that good sould come theirof, either let us say this praetext to be false and vicket, or the Aposles rule to be erroneous. Nixt if ye do it on so good a account, whence comes it that the whores most buy their licence by a 100,000 livres a year they pay to your exchequer, whey have they not simply their liberty since its a act, as ye say, of so good consequence? The ancient inhabitants of Rome at that tyme when it became of Pagan Christian seimes to me much viser then our reformers under Knox when we past from Papisme to Protestantisme. They did not demolish the Heathen Idol temples, as we furiously did Christian, but converted them to Christian temples, amongs others witness the stately temple dedicat to the goddess Fortune, much respected by the Romans, at present a church. Yea the Italians boasts that they have cheated, robbed the Devil in converting that hous which was consecrat for his service unto the service of the true God. But all that heirs of our act laughts at it as madness. Theirs a Scots Colledge at Rome. I find that conclusion the Duke of Burgundy tried on a peasant, whom he fand in a deip sleip in the fields as he returned from the hunting on a tyme, wery good. On a tyme we fel a discoursing of those that are given to riseng in their sleip and do things, whiles more exactly then give they ware waking. I cannot forget on drollery. 2 gentlemen fell to lodge to gither at one innes, the one began to plead for a bed by himselfe, since the other would find him a wery ill bedfellow, for he was so much given to hunting, that in the night he used to rise and cry up and doune the chambre hobois, hobois, as on his dog; the other thought Il'e sy if I can put you from that, wheiron he feigned he was iust of that temper in rising thorow his sleip, and that he was so much given to his horses that he thought he was dressing and speaking to them. Since it was so[205] they lay both together; about midnight the one rises in his sleip begines to cry on his doges; the other had brought a good whip to the bed wt him, makes himselfe to rise as throw his sleip, fals to and whipes the other throw the house like a companion,[206] whiles crying, Up, brouny; whiles, Sie the iade it wil no stir. The other wakened son enough, crying for mercy, for he was not a horse; the other, after he had whipt him soundly, made himselfe to waken, wheiron the other fel a railing on him; the other excused himselfe wery fairly, since he thought he was whiping his horses. In the interim the other never rose to cry on his doges again. [205] Interlined. [206] Low fellow. France in such abondance produces win, that seweral years if ye'el bring 2 punchions to the field as great as ye like, live them the on and they'le let you carry as many graps wt you as the other wil hold. They have in France the _chat sauuage_; the otter, which is excellent furring; the Regnard, the Wolfe. In the mountaines of Dauphiné theirs both _ours_ and _sangliers_, bear and boor. Their doges are generally not so good as ours. Yet their a toune in Bretagne which is garded by its dogs, which all the day ower they have chaned, under night they loose, who compasses the toune al the night ower, so that if either horse or man approach the city, they are in hazard to be torn in peices. The wolfes are so destructive to the sheip heir that if a man kill a wolfe and take its head and its taille and carry it thorow the country willages and little borrowes, the peasants as a reward will give him som egges, some cheese, some milk, some wooll, according as they have it. They have also many stratagemes to take the wolfe. Amongs others this: they dig a wery dip pit, wheir they know a wolfe hantes; they cover it with faill,[207] fastens a goose some wery quick, which by its crying attracks the wolfe who coming to prey on the goose, zest[208] plumpes he in their, and they fell him their on the morning. [207] Turf. [208] Just. We have sein that witty satyre that Howel has about the end of his Venitian History in French. The French Ministers of the Religion are exceedingly given to publish their sermons, in that like to the English. Vitnesse Daille'es sermons; Jean Sauvage, Ministre at Bergerac, betuixt Limosin (wheir they eat so much bread when they can get it) and Perigord, dedicated to Mr. de la Force, living at present their, Mareschal de France, father of Mareschal Turaines lady: wt diverses others we have sein. We have sein a catechisme of Mr. Drelincourt which we fancied exceedingly. The halfe of France wt its revenues belongs to the Ecclesiasticks, yea, the bueatifullest and the goodliest places. To confine our selfes wtin Poictiers, the rents of whosse convents, men and women togither, wil make above six 100 thousand livers a years, besydes what the bischop hath, to wit, 80,000 livres a year. The Benedictines, a wery rich order as we have marked, have 30,000 livres in rent; the Feuillans[209] 20,000; besydes what the Jacobins, Cordeliers, Minims, thess de la Charité, Capucyns, Augustins, the Chanoines of Ste. Croix, St. Radegonde, St. Peter, the cathedral of Poictiers, Notre Dame la grande, St. Hilaires, wt other men and al the women religious, have, being put togither wil make good my proposition. [209 1] See p. 47, *note. We had almost forgot the Jesuits, who, above 50 years ago, entred Poictiers wt their staffes in their hand, not a 100 livres amongs them all, since have wt their crafty dealings so augmented their Convent that they have 40,000 livres standing rent. Whow they come be this is not uneasy to dewine, we toucht it a litle already. If any fat carcasse be on his deathbed, they are sure to be their, undermine him wt all the slights imaginable, wring donations in their faveurs from them, of which we know and have heard seweral exemples: vitness the Abby at Bourdeaux, whom they undermined, and he subtilly getting a grip of his testaments tore it and so revocked his will. Also that testament so agitate by the Jesuits and the sone of the deceased who was debauched before the Duke of Parme, the Jesuits relaying on thesse words that the fathers Jesuits sould be his heirs, providing that they gave his sone _ce qu'ils voudront_, what they would: the Duk turning them against the Jesuits exponed them, that what they would have themselfes that that sould be given to his sone. Diverse others we have heard. The lawes of France wil hardly permit the father to disinherit his sone, unless he can prove him guilty of some hy ingratitude and disobedience against him, or that he hath attempted something against the life of his father; that he is debaucht he cannot. The custome among the great ones of the most part of the world is that they cause any other of quality that comes to sy them be conveyed thorow their stables to sy their horses, as also causeth them sy their doges, their haucks, ther gardens. Particularly in Spaine the custome is such, that they take special heed what horse or what dog ye praise most, and if ye change[210] to say, O their is a brave horse, the horse wil be as soon at your lodging in a gift as your selfe wil be. [210] Chance. We happened to discourse on night of fools and madmen, of their several sortes, of the occasions, as love, study, vin, hypocondriack, melancholly, etc. They told me of one at Marseilles who beleifed himselfe to be the greatest King of the world, that all the shipes of the harbour, together wt their waires, ware his; of another who really beleifeth himselfe to be made of glasse, cryed horridly if any but approach him for fear they sould break him. His friends, at the advice of some Doctor, took a great sand glasse and brook it on tyme on his head as he was raging in that fit: seeing the peices of glasse falling doune at his feet he cryed more hideously then ever, that he was broken to peices, that his head was broken. After he had calmed a litle they desyred his to consider that the glasse was broken, but that he was not broken; and consequently that he was not glasse. On this remonstrance he came to himselfe, and confessed he was not glasse. The same was practicat on a nother who beleived himselfe to be lame. We cannot forgett a story that happened at the bedlam at Paris. 2 gentlemen out of curiosity coming to sie the madmen, the Keeper of the Hospital be reason of some businesse he had could not go alongs wt them, whence he ordains one of the fools that was besyde to go alongs wt them, and show them al the madmen wt the occasions and nature of their madnese. The fool carried them thorow them all, showing that their was on mad for love, their another wt to much study, a third besottedly fool wt drunkness, a 4th Hypocondriack, and so wt all the rest marvelous pertinently. At last as they ware going out he sayd: Gentlemen, I beleife ye wondred at the folly of many ye have sein; but theirs a fool (pointing at him) whom ye'el admire more then them all, that poor fellow beleifes him selfe to be the beloved Aposle St. John, but to let you sie that he is not St. John, and whow false his beleife is, I that am St. Piter (for he chiefly held himselfe to be St. Peter) who keips the gates of heaven never opend the door to let him in yet. The gentlemen thought wery strange to find him so deiply fooll when they reflected whow pertinently he had discoursed to them before and not discovered the least foly. They ware informed that he was once a doctor in the colledge of Sorbonne, and that to much study had reduced him to that. It would appear he hes studied to profundly Peters primacy above the rest of the Aposles. The Protestant Churches throw Poictou keip a solemne fast 28 of Octobre, wt the Papists St. Simons day. The occasion was to deprecate Gods wrath which he showed he had conceived by reason he threathned them in sewerall places wt Scarcity of his word and removing of his candlestick, since sewerall temples ware throwen doune, as that at Partenay, etc. For that effect they sent 4 of the Religion, the eminentest amongs them in the Province to the King wt a supplication. We had 3 preachings. We eated no flech that day for fear of giving occasion to the Papists to mock: we suped on a soup, fried egges, roosted chaistains, and apples wt peirs. Sewerall schollers have made paction wt the Dewil, under the Proviso he would render them wery learned, which hath bein discovered. One at Tholouse gave his promise to the Dewil, which having confessed, they resolve to procede iudicially against him. Since the Dewil loves not iustic, they send a messenger to the place wheir they made the pact to cite him to compeir and answer. He not compairing they declaire him contumacious; and as they procede to condemn him as guilty, behold a horrid bruit about the hous and the obligation the lad had given him droops of the rigging[211] amongs the mids of the auditors. We fand the story called _funeste resemblance_ not il of the scholler in Lipswick University, who having killed on of his companions was put to flie, wheiron after a long peregrinatione he came to Coloigne, wheir to his misfortune was a young man whom he resembled so neir that theirs no man but he would take on for the other. This young man had ravished just at that same tyme a gentlewoman of great condition: now the Lawes of Germany, as also of France, permits to pershue a _Ravisseiur_, tho the women consent, if her parents contradict, criminelly for his life. On this our scholler Proclus is slain in the streets for him; together with what followes. [211] Rooftree. Thorow all Languedoc and Provence the olive tries is as common as the walnuts in Poictou: oranges thorow much of France and in seweral places China oranges. Lentils, the seeds rise and mile[212] growes abondantly towards Saumer: the Papists finds them wery delicate in caresme or Lent. Its wonderful to sie what some few degries laying neerer the sun fertilizes a country. [212] Mil, millet. France is a country that produceth abondantly all that the heart of man can desire, only they are obligded to fetch their spices (tho they furnish other countries wt saffran which growes in seweral places of Poictou, costes 15 livres the pound at the cheapest) from Arabia, their sugar from America and the Barbado Islands: yet wtout ether of the tuo they could live wery weill. A man may live 10 years in France or he sy a French man drink their oune Kings health. Amongs on another they make not a boast to call him[213] _bougre, coquin, frippon_, etc. I have sein them in mockery drink to the King of Frances coachhorses health. [213] _i. e_. think nothing of calling him. The plumdamy, heir prunecuite,[214] they dry so in a furnace. [214] Prune, dried plum. About the end of Octobre the peasants brings in their fruits to Poictiers to sel, especially their Apples, and that in loadened chariots. The beggar wifes and stirrows[215] ware sure to be their, piking them furth in neiwfulles[216] on all sydes. I hav sein the peasents and them fall be ears thegither, the lads wt great apples would have given him sick a slap on the face that the cowll[217] would have bein almost like to greet; yet wt his rung[218] he would have given them a sicker neck herring[219] over the shoulders. I am sure that the halfe of them was stollen from many of them or they got them sold. [215] Lads, boys. [216] Handfuls. [217] Fellow. See Jamieson's _Dict_, s.v. 'Coulie.' [218] Staff. [219] 'A smart wipe.' I have not traced the expression 'neck herring.' When we have had occasion to tel the Frenchman what our Adwocats would get at a consultation, 10,20 crounes, whiles they could not but look on it as a abuse, and think that our Justice was wery badly regulate and constitute. Thorow France a Adwocat dare take no more than a _quartescus_[220] for a consultation, but for that he multiplies them; for a psisitians advice as much. Surely if it be enquired whose ablest to do it, France by 20 degries might be more prodigal this way then we are; but their are wiser. Theris above 200 Adwocats at Poictiers. Of these that gets not employment they say, he never lost a cause, whey, because he never plaid one. Also, that theirs not good intelligence betuixt the Jugde and him, whey, because they do not speak togither. [220] Quart d'ecu, a silver coin, quarter of an écu. See Introduction, p. xlii. The cardecue was a common coin in Scotland. As to the privilege of primogeniture in France its thus, that the eldest carries away 2 parts of thrie: as, for instance, the father is a man of 15,000 livres a year, the eldest hath 10,000, the other 5000 goes amongs the cadets. Al the Capital tounes of provinces of France are frie from Taille.[221] [221] A tax on persons not noble or ecclesiastic or exempted. The wood cannot be but wholesomer to dresse meat wt then our coall: also they impute the oftner contagions that happens in Brittain to the smook of our coall, which grossens and thickens et,[222] by consequence infectes the air, their wood smooking wery little. [222] For 'it.' The French cryes out against the wanity of our King who most be served by his subjects on their knees, since that the knees sould be keipt to God alone; as also their King more absolute then [he] tho not served so. Yea some have bein so impudent as to impute (count)[223] the murder of our late King (which 1000 tymes hath bein casten up to me) as a iust iudgement of God on them for their pride. I cannot forget whow satyrically they have told this, saying that the peaple of great Britain keip their Kings at their beck, at their pleasure not only to bereave them of their croune but also of their life. I endewored to show them that they understood not things aright, that the same had bein practicat in France on Henry the 4t: the cases are not indeed alike, since our King was brought to a Schaffold, the other slain be a Assasin, Ravelliak, and regretted. To make the case iump the better, I remitted them to ther History to sie wt what publick consent Henry 3d was slain be Clement the Jacobine, yet heir their was no iudiciall procedure as against our King. Whence I had recourse to Chilperick, whom the peaple, tho legittime heir, first deposed then cowed him, and thrust him in a Monastry surrogating Pepin his brother in his roome. This wexed them, they could never answer this sufficiently. [223] Interlined. Sewerall tymes in France persones have suffered because they had discovered some plot or conspiracy against the King or estat and could not prove it. The Law is the same wt us, tho it seimes to carry injustice. On all hands I am in danger: if I do not reveale it I am aequally guilty of the treason as the actors are; if I rewealle it, I am immediatly made prisoner, tortured to show all I know of it, put to prove what I say, in which if I failly I lose my life. What can a man do when he have no proofes? He most tho' reveall it and consequently lose his life; since after the truth sal appear and he sal be held be all to have died gloriously as a weill wisher to his country. Its was strange of Cardinal Richelieu who know[224] all things that past thorow France as if he had bein present, and 2 of the most intimate sould not have spoken ill of him at Poictiers but he sould have knowen it or 4 dayes at Paris. Some imputed it to a familiar spirit he had, others to his spies he had every wheir. He was _toute en toute_ in France in his tyme. [224] Lauder's way of spelling knew. Compare p. 98, slow for slew. The French mock at our sweit sauses and sugared sallades. Their salt is a great deall better and more sawory then ours is. That which we parfait be the fire, which cannot but in some measure consume the strenth of its savorinesse, the sun denieng us it, they parfait be the sun. In Bearn or Navarre they make it be the fire as we do; but they make more cont of that which comes from the Rochel, which the Hollanders, Dans, and others carries in abondance then of their. On the place wheir they make it its sold for a sous marky[225] la livre, which costs at Poictiers 20 sous. In 2 heurs tyme the sun will converte a great ditch full of sea water unto upright salt: that they showle out, fills it again, and so in 3 moneth, May, Juin, July, they make more salt then the fire maks in 2 years in Scotland: and wt lesse cost and lesse pain. That our salt is whitter, its the effect of the fire, since they could render theirs as white but it sould lose so werie much of its savory. Their is a ile neir to that of St Christople which hath montaines of Salt. The sea casts in the water on the dry land and the sun convertes it immediatly, which beats their so violently that no corn can grow; it rises but its brunt or it come to the head. The sugar growes marvelously weill in it. [225] _Sou marqué_. Copper coin worth fifteen deniers. That was the value of the _sou parisis_. The _sou tournois_ was worth twelve deniers. The day before great fests, as _les Roys_[226] _Toussaints_, etc., their fellows that wt white surplices and a pigful[227] of holy water wt a spung in it goes thorow al the Catholick houses be-sprinkling the persons as also the house, and so sanctifieng them that the Dewil dare not enter their; passing by the Protestants houses as infected; or rather, as the Angel who smote the first born of the Egyptians past the Israelits. At _Toussaints_ al are in ther best cloaths. [226] Epiphany. [227] Jarful. Of the fal of our first parents its enquired what might have happened in the case of the women alone sould have fallen, the man keiping his integrity: wheither the children would have bein culpable wt the mother, or innocent wt the father. 2'do if any children had bein born before the fal they sould have bein exempt from the curse or not. 3'o if our parents fell the same day they ware created. 4to who would be Cains wife, ether his mother or a sister. Upon what the Scripture teaches us, that for the 40 years the Israelites ware in the wilderness their shoes nor their garments waxed not old, it may be enquired what they did for cloaths to their childeren that ware born in the wilderness, also theirs one that was 10 years old, another 20, at their coming furth out of Egypt, they had cloathes and shoes meit for them at that age, it may be demanded whow the same cloaths gained[228] them when they came to be 30 or 40 year old. It seimes to be said that the cloaths waxt wide as they grew. [228] Fitted. It may be demanded also, whither it was really a miracle in passing the rid sea or give it was only at a low ebbe, since Moses know weill enough both the sea and the desart, having feid his father-in-laws flocks their about long tyme. I demand, if our first parents had keipt their state of innocence whither they would have procreat their children in that same faschion that man and woman does now. It seims that they sould have copulated carnally, since theirs no other raison assignable whey God sould have made distinction of sex, since these sould have bein in wain: _at Deus et Natura nihil faciunt frustra_. On the other hand I dare not say they sould have copulate carnally when I consider the brutality and filthinesse of the act which does no wayes agree wt the perfection wheirin they ware created. On the supposition that they had keipt their innocence and begotten children, I demand whither the children at their coming furth of the bellie sould have had the vigueur that Adam had when he was created; or whither they bit to be born litle that could nether speak nor go for the first 6 quarters of a year as at present. This it seimes absurd to think, since that would have argued wery much imperfection in the man, which I wil be wery loath to think him capable of as he was in that state: the other syde seimes as absurd, since its inconceivable to think whow Ewe could have born a strong, robuste man of Adams strenth at the age of 30 years in hir womb. I demand also whither Adam after he had lived many hundred years on earth sould have died, gone to heaven and left the earth to his posterity, and so after a long tyme his posterity to theirs. Necessity seimes to say that it sould have bein so, since that if the fathers had not so made way to their sons, or some ages the world sould not hold them all, for I suppose all that hes lived in the world since Adam ware on the world at present, wt them that are living on it even now, I am inclinable to think that we would be put to seik some other new world besyde Americk to hold them. To think on the other hand that he sould have died is as absurd, since its confessed that the trie of Life was given him as a sacrament and signe he sould not lay under the strock of death, for as death comes from that contrariety and discord of the elements of whilk our bodies are composed, so the fruit of this trie, at least typicaly, had the wertue of maintaining the contrary elements in a parfait concord and by consequence of vindicating a man from Death. I demand in what season of the year the world was created. I find a great rable of the Scolasticks, as testifies Lerees[229] in his physical _disputa. de mundo_, teaching that it was in the spring tyme; and that the sun began his course in the first degree of Aries; that it is from this that the Astrologians begines their calculations, at Aries as the first signe of the Zodiack; that it was at this tyme that Christ suffered, restauring the world at that same season wheirin it fell. But who sies not the emptinesse of their reasons. Theirs another rank who think it was created in the Automne, since that Moses mentioned rip apples, which in the spring tyme are only virtually in their cause. Others wt greater reason condamne al thir autheurs as temerare and rash, since that Spring in our Hemispbere is Automne in the other. [229] Lery or Leri, Jean de, was a traveller and Protestant divine, but I do not find trace of such a work as this. About the Bi-location of bodies, I would demand the Popelings, in the case wheirin a army is made up of one man replicate in 1000 places, whither he shall have the strenth of one man or 1000: if one be wounded or slain, if all the rest shal be wounded or slain: also whither he can be hot at Paris and cold at Edin'r, headed at Paris, hanged at Edin'r, dy at Paris, live in good health at Edin'r, wt infinite other alleaged by Lerees and others. When he was at Poictiers a Gentleman accused of seweral murders and imprisoned escaped in womens cloaths about the gloaming, whom we saw passe thorow the street, giveng al ground of suspicion by the terror and amazement he was in; letting a scarf fal in on part, his napkin in another, his goun taille fell doune in a thrid. Yet none seazed on him. At the port of the toune he had a horse waiting for him on which he escaped. A litle after that a Mareschal, or ferrier, or Smith felled on of his boyes at the Scotes Walk because he demanded money of him, escaped to Lusignan, wheir he was taken. Just about the same tyme on a stormy, vindy night a rich Candlemakers (which office is not so dishonorable heir as wt us, their daughters wil be going in their satins) booth was broken up, 40 pistols, which he had receaved in payment just the day before, and which he had left in a box of the table, stollen. Persones wil do weill then to keip quiet any mony they have as weill as they can: according the tenor of my fathers letter. On the day after _Toussaint_ is a feste til noon called _les Trespassez_[230]. The papists prayes for their dead ancestres, over their graves mumbling so many paters and so many ave'es. [230] _Trépassés_, All Souls. They have a apple in France called _pomme de Calvile_, its all rid thorow to the wery heart, _pomme blanche_. In case of fire in a toune the neirest bel, or the bel of that paroiche wheir it is, ringes. In Octobre heir, tho reasonably sharp, they have upright[231] Summer weather, its so fair. [231] Equivalent to 'downright.' Our peirs that growes at home are all out as delicious, vitness the carnock, as any we have eaten in France, tho they grow their in greater abondance. As to the Apples we most not conteste wt them, since beseids many brave sorts they have the pipin, which I conceive most be that they call Reynett, brought unto France from Italy by Queen Blanche, mother of St. Louis: it was first fund in Africk. The _pomme Minion_ is better then any of ours: our Marican seimes to be a degenerat sort of it. The silver hat-strings are much in use at present: they sell them by the weight. The tabby doublets wt the silk [called wats][232] furring wtin are also in faschion: wery warm in winter, cost 20 franks. Men and women from the least to the greatest, yea not the wery keel wifes and fruit wifes, but they have manchon muffes. A man cannot get a good one under a pistol: some of a meiner size are sold for 6 or 4 francks. Our best furrings comes out of Musco'e. Chamois gloves and linnens mad of goats skines, which are found better in Poictou then in any other province of France, are not in so great cont[233] wt them as wt us; yet they find them wondrously warm; some thinkes them strenthning and corroborative of a feeble hand. We have sein som buy them to lay swallings of their handes. Perruvicks, besydes they are most faschious, they are destructive both to the body, since they are wery unwholsome, engendring humeurs; as also to the purse, they being extravagantly dear thorow all France, especially at Paris, wheir its a wery mean one a man will get for 4 pistols; and a man can have no fewer then 2 at a tyme, on to change another. [232] Interlined. Wats, _ouates_. [233] Estimation. We have spoken wt some Catolicks that have bein at Geneve. The disciplin is very strick their yet. A Catholick if a craftsman they suffer him to excerce his trade 3 moneth: they'le let him stay no longer. If a man swear their, he'el be layd in prison, lay their 24 howers wtout meat or drink. A man cannot speak wt a woman on the Street wtout giving scandal. The Sabath is keipt as we do, nothing to be sold their on it, as thorow France its the greatest market day of the week, the peasants bringing in al they have to sell in abondance. Its the resort of al the banished Germans, Italians and other strangers that would enjoy the excercise of their Religion freely and purely. In shaving a man, its impossible for a Frenchman to cut a man; they have such a net way of baging the flech: also it would do a man good to be washen wt their water, whiles rose water, whiles smelling of musck: tho their fingers stinkes whiles, the French dighting their staille[234] wt their fingers, thinking it prodigality to do it wt paper: yett ther Kings of old did so, to teach their peaple frugality: hence it is that the Frenchman wil not eat til he wash: wil not eat wt ye til ye wash: for my oune part I would not eat wt a Frenchman til he wash. [234] Foundation, breech. Fresch egges are wery dear wairs in France. At Paris they are 5 pence a peice, at Poictiers a shiling a dozen. They fry their egges differently from us: they break them first in a plate: in the meantym they fry a considerable lump of butter, then pours in the egges salting and spicing them. Their hens are not so fertile as ours. Our speaking of egges mindes me of Christophorus Colomba Lusitanian, a experienced skiper, first discowrer of the new world, tho he had gotten some encouradgements and conclusions about it from on Vespucius Americus Florentin, from whom it gets its denomination of America. Colomba on a tyme walking on the harbory of Lisbon, a toune knowen for the emporium of the east, such a boystrous wind blow to him iust of the sea that he could not get his feet holden; on this he began to reason that the wind could not come of the Sea, but that of necessity their bit to[235] be land beyond that sea, tho unknoun, of whilk[236] that wind bit to[235] blow, for the vapors or exhalations drawen of the sea are not so grosse as thess that montes of the land: and be consequence cannot produce such boystrous vindes. This his opinion he imparted to sewerall: at lenth it came to Ferdinando'es ears, who at the persuasions of Isabella his queen, a woman of greater spirit and more action then hir husband, equippes Columba a fleet, wt which after he had born out many stormes he gained his point, returning wt some few of his shipes that ware left him loadened wt the gold of the country. [235] Must. [236] i.e. though unknown, off which. The King accepted him wery kindly, as he had reason, but his courtiers out of that enwious nature of detracting from the merites of others, thinking that theirs no way of gaining themselfes credit unless they backhit at others, each most passe their seweral werdict on his attempt, al concluding that it was nothing, that any man might have done it. The honest, silly man hears them at this tyme patiently, when they have al done he calles for a egge: desires them al to try if the could make it stand on the end of it: they, not knowing his designe, try it all: it goes round about al the table, not one of them can make it stand so. Then he takes the egge, brakes the bottome of it, and so it standes upright, they being al most ashamed, else further he addes, As now after I have let you sie whow to do it, ye think nothing to make a egge stand upright: tho none of you could do it before: sikelike after I have found you the gate to the new world ye think nothing of it tho ye could not have done it yourselfes. They thought themselfes wery far out. Horrid and unchristian was the outrages the Spaniards committed on the poor natives. They slow them like beasts. Further they carried over whole shipeful of mastives which they hunted the naked Indians with; and I know not how many millions ware torn this way. The sogers ware so beastly that they could not refrain from laying and abusing the Indian women, which gave them the _verole picot_ or French pox, surely the just iudgement of god, wt a iudgement not knowen to former ages, punishing men wt shame in this world. The Spaniards brought it from America to Naples, infected some Napolitan women wt it, whence called _Morbus Napolitanus_; thir women gave it to some French sogers who brought it unto France, whence called wt us French pox, now its become universall. Philip of Spaine who died August 1665 was owergoon wt it, they say. The Indians calles the Spaniards Veracochié, which in their language signifies scume of the sea. Out of contempt and because they assaulted them first from the sea, they curse the sea always that vomited out sick monstres. Some chances to tel them of heaven and hell: wheiron they have demanded wheir the Spaniards would go to: they hearing that they would go to heaven, they sayed they would not go their then, for the Spaniards ware to bloody and cruell to stay wt. To informe our selfes fully of the singularites of America and other things it will be fitting for us to buy _Pancerollas[237] Vetera deperdita_ and his _Nova reperta_, as also Howels[238] Letters, Osburnes[239] advices to his sone, etc. [237] Panceroli, Guido, 1523-1599, Italian jurist. The work referred to is _Kerum memorabilium jam olim deperditarum at contra recens atque ingeniose inventarum_. Hamburg, 1599. [238] Howell, James, 1594-1666, Historiographer Royal to Charles II., published several series of _Familiar Letters_. [239] Osborne, Francis, 1589-1659, author. _The Advice to a Son_ was written for his son when at Oxford. Its a custome in Pictou that if a gentlewomen would have hir galland passe his gates[240] or any other to a other they have no more ado but to set the wood on one of the ends of it in the chemly and they wil not readily stay. [240] Go away. In France the father of the bride, if on life, accompany'es his daughter to the church; the worthiest of the company leading hir home, as wt us: yet at Saumur the bridegrome leds home his oune spouse. In France they observe that they have usually great rains about Martimess, which we saw werified. When a great rain hath fallen we have sein al sortes of peaple, prentises wt others, wt racks and shovles cume furth to cleange the gutters and make the passage clear that it may not damme before their doores; for the streets are but narrow at Poictiers and none of the neitest. Orleans hath wery neit streets, amongs others on that goes from the end of toune to the other. A woman laying in child birth they call _commair_. Our curds and whey (which they make not so oft as we) they call _caill botte_.[241] Milk is a great delicat in France. I never hard it cried up and doune the streits, as its wt us, tho they have many cries we have not. [241] _Caillebotte_, curds, They report of their sorciers and sorciares victches that they have their assembles and dances wt the Dewill, especially the evening of _Marde gras_. They look on the _corbique_ or raven as a bad prognostick of death; the pie tells that some strangers's to come. The Jesuites whipes their scollers wery cruelly, yea they whipt on to death at Poictiers: yet the father could obtaine nothing against them. The greatest affront that can be done to a woman is to cut the tayle of hir goune from hir, or even to cast ink in her face, since that a lovely face is the principal thing that commends a woman, hence as the greatest reproach a man can be upraided wt is _bougre_ or _j'en foute_; so the greatest of their railings against a woman is to say, _vous avez eu la robe coupé au queue_. It hath bein practicat on some. A man would take good heed that he never desire a woman a drink in company, for the Frenchwomen take it in very il part, and some hath gotten on the cheak for it. They think a man does them honour in making them go before him; so that a Frenchman wil never readily steep in before any woman of faschion, tho it be just contraire in our country. The 11 of November is St. Martins day, a very merry day in France. They passe it in eating, drinking and singing excesivelie. Every one tasts his new wine that day, and in tasting it takes to much; their be wery few but they are full. The Suisses and Alemmands (who drink like fisches, as we know in Mr. le Baron and his creatures at Orleans, each man each night could not sleip wt out his broll[242] or pot, which the Frenches their _L'abbé Flacour_ and _Brittoil_ mockt at) findes only 3 good festes in France, Mr. St. Martin,[243] Mr. les trois Rois, and Mr. marde gras, because al drinkes bitch full thess dayes. [242] I have not found this word elsewhere. [243] It was customary to speak of saints as Monsieur St. Martin, Mme. Ste. Catherine, etc. Lauder extends the usage (whether correctly or not) to Mardi Gras. On the morrow after opened the Palais, which sits neir 10 moneth togither, whither we went to sie the faschion. First their massers have not silver masses as ours have, only litle battons, yea the massers to the parliament at Paris have no more. Next none most bring nether swords nor spurs wtin any of the bars: the reason whey swords have bein discharged is because that judges and conseillers have bein several tymes assasinate on the bench be desperate persons poussed forward be revenge; whence a man bringing on wtin the bar wil be made prisoner: yet we had ours the first day. The judges being sit doune on the bench, the Kings Advocat began a harangue, reading it of his papers, wery elegantly extolling the lily or _fleur de lis_ above al other flowers, and then France and its Kings above all other nations, alleging that the whitnese and brightnese of the lily denotated the purity and integrity of justice thats don in France. He ending, the president in his scarlat robes (for they war al so that day wt their 4 nooked black bonnets lined wt scarlet) began a very weill conceaved harangue in the commendation of justice and vertu. That being done they gave their oath wt the Advocats and procureurs or Agents (for they swear anew every sitting doune of the Palais, when we give but one oath for all wt us and that at the entry vnto to the office); the judges that they sal passe no sentence contrare to ther conscience, but that they sal judge _2dum allegata et probata_; the Advocats that they shal never patronize a false cause; and if any cause they have taken in hand appeir after to them false, that they sall immediatly forsake it: that they shal plead the causes of the widow and orpheling, etc. The Praesidial of Poitou at Poictiers is the greatest of France: yea it consistes of mo conseillers or judges (to wit, about 30 wt 2 Kings Advocats, 2 Kings procureurs), is of greater extent then several parliaments: their be not so many membres in the parliament of Grenoble, which is for Dauphiné, etc. The parliament of Dijon for Burguiogne hath not so great extent. The song they sing at St. Martins is thus: 'Pour celebrer la St. Martins, Il nous fault tous chantre et boire Celuy quy a converty L'eau au Vin Pour luy que ne doibt on point faire A[244] le bon vein, bon vein, bon vein, Chasse de la melancolie Je te boire[245] Jusque a la lie.' [244] Probably for Ah! [245] For _boirai_. My host after his drinking of his glasse of wine, usually lifting up his eyes to heaven in admiration, shakt his head (as we remember Charles his nurse did at the seck),[246] crying, oh but win is a good thing (tho poor man I never saw him drunk), protesting that he would not live in our country because he could not drink ordinarly win so cheap. [246] Sack. Its a little strange to sie what alteration a sad accident may procure in a man: befor that scandal he fel under by his wife wt Mr. Douglas, to wit, in the tyme of Mr. Hope and my cousin Mr. Elies (as he and his wife confesses), he was one of gailliardest, merriest fellows that one could find amongs 100, ever since that, tho' he reteans something of his former gailliardness, taking it by fits, yet he is not like the man he was, as Madame hath told me. I seeing him mo jalous then a dog of his wife because she loved so weill to play at the carts and wandring from hir house to hir commorads, likt better their houses then hir oune. Oh, but she was blith when he went to the country upon any affair, she minding him of his affairs at Partenay or elsewheir to have him away; and in the interim from the morning to 12 howers at even, even whiles at midnight, she would not have bein wtin a hower. There ware only 5 or 6 of the women of the Religion that ware players at carts (as Mr. Dailly reproached sewerall tymes his wife, that she bit be on of them) all thir, when he was goon, come branking[247] ay to hir house, collationing togither. The first 3 moneth I was their she used all the persuasions she could to draw me to be on of their society, or at least to bear hir halfe in the gaine and the losse (whiles she would loss 2 crounes, tho she made hir husband beleife she wan), but I would do none of them (remembering my fathers expresse to beware of play, especially at carts and wt sick creatures), alleadging always that I knew nothing of the play. They offered to learn me, for they came seweral tymes a purpose to draw me on, but I sayd I had other thing ado. I am exceedingly weill satisfied at this present I did not engage. She hath told me ay, O Mr. Hope have played wt us: I replied Mr. Hope might do what he pleased. Return Mr Dailly when he please he could never find his wife wtin: some tymes he would have come home at 12 howers wheir she expected not: when she would come home and find him their, oh whow coldly would she welcome him and the least thing would that day put her out of hir patience, for she had ether in the afternoon tristed to come again to them, or tristed them to come to hir. [247] Prancing, tripping. Thus shortly out of many things, Henry the 4't was a most galliard, pleasant, and merry prince: his queens Marguerit (as we show else wheir) was thought to play by him. On a tyme as he was making himselfe merry dancing a ballat wt some of his nobility, each being obliged to make a extemporary sonnet as it cam about to him to dance, the our-word[248] being, _un cucou mene un autre_, it fel the Marquis of Aubigni (who was of Scots progeny, his goodsire was Robert Stuart Mareschal of France under François the first; it was this Aubigni who told Henry when he was wounded by the Jesuists scoller in the mouth, God, sire, hath suffered you to be stoobed in the mouth, etc.) to dance wt the King in his hand and make his couplets, which I fand right quick: [248] Ourword, overword, refrain, like ourcome and ourturn. 'Si toutes les femmes vouloyent les hommes cuco seroyent; les Roys comme les autres, un cuco mene un autre,' Henry confessed he had win at him in his sonnet. Follows some enigmes found in a Romance penned by Beroaldus,[249] named _le voyage des princes fortunez_, wtout the explication, whence Mr Daillé set me on work to resolve them: resolved sewerall betuixt us. [249] Beroalde de Verville, François, 1558-1612, philosopher, mathematician, and author of lighter works. _The Voyage_ was published in 1610. Paris. Un pere a douze fils qui lui naissent sans femme, Ces douze aussi sans femme engendrent des enfants; Quand un meurt l'autre naist et tous vivent sans ame. Noires les filles sont, et les males sont blancs. (The Year.) Un corp qui n'a point d'ame a une ame mouuante, N'ayant point de raison il rend raison des temps; Bien quil n'ait pas de vie une vie agissante Sans vie se fait vivre marchant sur ses dents. (A cloack.) Their follows that of a coffin that none care for, then, Voulant aller au ciel, si je suis empeschée, Les ieuz des assistans en larmes couleront; Si pleurent sans regret ie ne suis pas faschée Car quaud j'iray au ciel leur larmes cesseront. (Its rick.)[250] [250] Reek, smoke. Le vivant de moy vive sa nurriture amasse Je recoy les vivans haut et bas se suivans Lorsque ie suis tué sur les vivans je passe, Et ie porte les vifs par dessus les vivans. (A oak wt its fruit feiding swine, then cut and made in a ship cairyes men over fisches.) Bienque ie sois petit i'ay une soeur geante Qui me rends de grands coups qu'encore je lui rends; Nous faisons ceste guerre entre nous bien seante. Car c'est pour la beauté de nos propre parens. (The hammer and smiths studie.) Je n'ay sang, os, ny chair, nerfe, muscles ni artere, Bien que i'en sois produit et n'en tien rien du toute Propre a bien et a mal je fais effect contraire. Sans voix parlant apres qu'on ne a trunche la bout. (A pen.) Non male, non femelle, ains tout oeill en substance Sans cesser il produit des enfans differens. De la mort des ses fils ses fills[251] ont naissance Et d'icelles mourant d'autres fills sont naisant. [251] For _filles_. (The Sun wt the day and night.) Selon mon naturel ie m'escoule legere. Mais par fois mon voisin m'estraint de ses liens. Adonque on me void la mere de ma mere Et puis fille de ma fille en apres ie deviens. (Ice reduced to water.) Ma soeur est comme moy de grande bouche fournis. Elle l'a contre bas et moy deuer les cieux I'ayde aux conservateurs d'appetit et de vie-- Et ma soeur (as I friend to the sick, so she) aux coeur devotieux. (A bel and the Apothecaries morter.) D'une estoffe solide a point on me fait faire Pour servir au endroits ou loge la soucy. Mon maistre me cognoit lui estre necessaire, Car ie lui garde tout, il me tien chere ausi. (A key.) Elle a le poill dedans et dehors est sa graisse Et si peut elle ainsi au jour failly praevoir Mesme en plein nuict les autres elle adresse Faisant voir a plusieurs ce quelle ne peut voir. (A candle.) On cognoist au oiseau qui n'a point de plumage Qui donne a ses petits de son teton le laict. When it sies we sie not; when we sy it sies not. (A batt.) Ouvert de l'un des bouts une queue on me donne Afin qu'avec le bec je la traine par tout, Puis conduite au labeur que ma Dame ordonne Je laisse a chasque pas de ma queue le bout. (A neidle.) Trois ames en un corps distinguées d'essence Ensemble subsistoyent not knowing they ware so many, Deux enfin ont pris l'air, puis de mesme apparence En trois corps distinguez chacum les a peu voir. (A woman wt tuines.) We saw a book, originally written in Latin by a Spaniard,[252] translated in French, entituled, Histoire du grand royaume de la Chine situe aux Indes Orientales, contenant la situation, Antiquité, fertilité, Religion, ceremonies, sacrifices, Rois, Magistrats Moeurs, us,[253] Loix, et autres choses memorables du dit Royaume, etc., containing many things wery remarkable and weill worth the reading. showing how its bounded on al hands, having the Tartars for its neirest neibhours, whom it descrives whow it was discovered first by the Portugais, and the Spaniards at Mexico in Americk. [252] Gonzalez de Mendoza. [253] Usages. To the wondrous fertility of the country, much of it laying to the same climat wt Italy, the Inhabitants addes great industry: no vagabonds nor idle persons being suffered amongs them but punished vigorously. They have no cloath. The meanest of the natives are cloathed in silk: its so rife their that its to be had almost for nothing. France also hath some silk wormes wtin it selfe; but besydes the peins they most be at to feid them wt fresch mulberry leaves, they have no great abondance of them, whence they draw the most of their silk from Italy wheir its in great abondance; as Florence, litle republic of Lucques, Messin, as also from Grenade. Oranges of Chine are knowen for the best of the world. Cannel[254] (which growes not in France) is in its excellency their. [254] Cinamon. In selling and buying all things solid they weight them, even their mony, which hath no stamp, as in selling selks and other sick things, wheirin ther cannot be so meikle knavery as in metting them by elles. Great abondance of silk caddez[255] cotton produced by a trie (not growing in france, but just as the tries distilles the pick)[256] as of musk, wt the manner whow they make it. [255] A kind of cloth. [256] Pitch. The realme is found some 1800 leagues in longitude; 3000 in circumference. Its divided unto 15 great Provinces, each plenished wt wast cities, som of them taking 2 dayes to compasse them. Their follows a description of the natural disposition, traits of face, sorts of cloaths wt the excercises the men and women are addicted to. They are al Pagans, worshiping plurality of gods, seweral things in their religion symbolizing wt the Christian, which may be imputed to some seeds of the Gospel the Aposle Thomas sowed their in going to the Indians, wheir he was martyred. Divers good laws they have; one discharging expressely and prohibiting al natives of going out wtout the Royaume, for fear of bringing in strange customes, descharging any strangers to enter wtout express licence. The rights of succession of children to parents are almost the same as wt us. By infallible records to their admiration they fand that both the art of artillery, invented as was thought in Germany, and printing, invented, as is beleived, by Jean de Guttenberg, Allemand, not 200 years ago, ware amongs them, and of al older standing. Infinite other things we remit to be sought in the _Histoir_. We are informed that a lardship of 5000 livres rent wil sell in France for a 100,000 livres; and by consequence a place of 15,000 livres a year at a 100,000 crounes;[257] the prix being ay 20 years rents. It may wary in many places of France. Location-conduction[258] of lands, called their ferming, are wery usuall in France; yea, the most part of Gentlemens houses rises wt that, having bein first fermier or goodmen[259] (as we calle them) of the place. The ordinar tyme of the take is 5 or 7 year, not on of a 100, and yea being wiser then we wt our 19 and doubled 19 year takes.[260] In the contract they have many fin clauses by whilk the fermier is bound to meliorat the ground in all points as by planting of hedges and fruit tries, substituting by ingraftments young ones in the room of old ones decayed; finaly he is tyed to do all things comme un bon pere de famille feroit. [257] The crown is hero taken at 3 livres, or 5s. sterling (taking the livre at 1s. 8d. sterling). [258] _Locatio conductio_, the Roman contract of letting and hiring. [259] According to Jamieson's _Dict_. goodman meant (1) a proprietor or laird, (2)then a _small_ proprietor, (3)latterly, a farmer. [260] Tacks, leases. We have already exemplified the hatred thats betuixt the Castillan und Portugaize, we'el only tel another. A Spaniard Bischop was once preaching on that, Let brotherly love continue, he say'd the French are our brother, the Italian our brother, Allemand, Scotes, English, etc., our brether; yea, I durst almost say that the Portugaiz is our brother almost also. Many other stories I could report heir, as that of the poor man who fand himselfe marvelously filled wt the smell of meat in a cooks choop happened at Paris, and how the cook was payed by the gingling the mony, related by Cleark in his Exemples: that of the gentleman runing a race and giving the last to the Dewil, and the Dewils depriving the last of his shaddow; tho I can not conceive how the Dewil can hinder a body to cast a shaddow unless he perpetually interpose himself betuixt that man and the sun: that of the English to be married to a Scotsman, whom William Broun was admonishing of hir duty, that the man was the head of the woman, she quickly replieing that he bit to be her head, she bit to be the hat on his head above him, William sayd, that he would take his hat then and fling it amongs his feet: that of the tooth drawer and the lavement out of the History of Francion:[261] that of him who playing at the bowls in John Tomsons greine wt a English Captaine, casting out togither, wrong his nose so sore til it bled againe; being pershued by the Englishman for the wrong done, and put to his answers, being demanded of the fact, he replied he had only wipt his nose a litle straiter than he used to do his oune: that of King James and the collier, ye sould obey a man in his oune house: that apparition Henry the 4t saw as he was hunting in his pare at Fontainbleau, crying, _Amendez vous_: also that daughter of Brossier that feigned the Demoniack so weill wt its circumstancies, to be found in Du Serres[262] History of Henry the 4t.: that of the Scotsman at Paris who wan so much be a slight promising the peaple to let them sy a horse wt its taille wheir its head sould be: that of on Martin Merry, who on a tyme pressing to win in to sie the King, the great Tresorier of England was at the door, who seing him so pert demanded him whither he would go; he replied, he would sie the King; the Thersorer told him he could not sie the King; then, he replied, I know what I'le do then; the thresorer thinking he was bravado'ing him, demanded him what can ye do, Sir; he answered, I'le go back the way I came then, My Lord; he finding the answer wery good, he immediatly went and told the King what had passed, who commanded Martin to be brought in and fel to and talked wt him. Also the story of the Baron de la Crasse, place, place, etc. Also the comoedy intituled Les Visionnaires. Also the reply of a excellent painter who had children wery deformed, on demanding whow it came that he drow sick exquisite portraits and had such il made children, ye neid not wonder at that, sayd he, since I make my portraits in the day and my children in the night. [261] See p. 82, note. [262] Jean de Serres, 1540-1598, author of works on the history of France and theology. A man may get his portrait drawen in France, especially at Orleans, for a Pistoll. J. Ogilvy'es hal is all hung about wt portrait's of Gentlemen, al Scots, save only one Englishman (whom Lostis[263] alleadged to have the manliest face of all the company; we on the contrare, that he had the sheipest), one womans called Richeson, whom my L. Rutherfurd[264] was in great conceit of; Johns oune portrait is tuise their, his eldest sones as a litle boy, his daughters, My Lord [Bards],[265] Newbyths,[266] My Lord Cinhoules[267] brother, wt whom J. Ogilvie came to France as page; Sir Robert Flecher of Salton, who died the winter before I came to France; David Ramsay, a brother of the Provests,[268] so like him that I took it for the Provests at first. Mr. Hayes was the last that was drawen, who parted from J.'s house to make the tour of France the March before I arrived, wt divers other pictures. At Mr. Douls house we remarked the same in his sale;[269] only they ware all Englishmen, save on Sword whose father was Provest of Aberdeen, and who when King Charles the 1t was at Newcastle chapt him on his shoulder and impudently told him, he had spent our meikle. [263] Query, l'hostesse, l'hôtesse, Mme Ogilvy. [264] Probably Andrew Rutherfurd, first lord, a lieutenant-general in the French service, created Lord Rutherfurd, 1661. Governor of Dunkirk, Earl of Teviot, 1663, governor of Tangier, where he was killed, 1664. His patent as Lord Rutherfurd entitled him to bequeath the peerage to whom he pleased, and he left it to his kinsman Sir Thomas Rutherfurd of Hunthill, served heir 1665, died 1668. [265] Interlined. [266] Sir John Baird, advocate, 1647, lord of Session (title Newbyth) 1667, superseded 1681, restored 1689, died 1698, aged seventy- seven. [267] Kinnoul's. [268] Sir Andrew Ramsay, afterwards a lord of Session (title Abbotshall). Lauder married his daughter. [269] _Salle_, hall. We most not forget the Capucin, who, gazing on a stage play, had his prick stowed[270] from him instead of his purse. Also the good sport we have made wt Spiny when we presented him the rose filled wt snuffe, dewil! willain! ye most be hooled,[271] ye most, etc. I'm sorry for your case, etc. Also that we made wt Dowy when on night in our Basseler[272] year at night after the examination we put out the candles, I skein[273] brist him til he farted; then he brought Mr. Hew on us, he crieng, Douglas, Doug.; Lauder L., my hat amang you. Russel lay like a mart[274] in the midst of the stair; wt many other sports. [270] Stown, stolen. [271] Husked, probably gelded. [272] Bachelor. [273] Possibly J. Skein (Skene); brist = squeezed. [274] Carcass of an ox or cow killed about Martinmas for winter provision. The Laws of France permits, or at least forgives, a man to slay his wife if he take hir in the wery act of adultery; but if he slay hir after a litle interwall, as if he give hir lieve to pray a space, he is punished as a murderer, since its to be praesumed that that iust fury which the willanous act of his wife pouses him to, and which excuses his fact (since according to Solomon even wery Jalousie is the fury of a man) is layd in that interwal, so that he cannot be excused from murder. Both hath bein practicat seweral tymes in France. The punishment of women that beats their good men in Poictiers is that they are monted on a asse wt their face to the taile, in this posture conveyed ignominiously thorow all the toune: the hangman accompanieng them. We most not forget the sport K. James made wt his fool who to chasse away the axes[275] had flied[276] him, and whow the poor fellow was found dead. [275] Ague. [276] Frightened. The K. of France drawes more then a 100 million a year as revenues out of France besydes extraordinary taxations. Theirs a wery observable difference betuixt on thats drunk wt win and on drunk wt beir, the win perpetually causes to stagger and fall forward; the beir and alle[277] backward. [277] Ale. A women drowen[278] is carried wt the water on her belly, a man on his back. [278] Drowned. Their ware 4 peasants in a French village on a tyme discoursing about the King. They sayd it was a brave thing to be a King. If I ware King (said the first) I would rest wt ease all the day on that hy stack wt my vomb up to the sun: the 2nd, if I ware King I would eat my sup every day swimming wt bacon: the 3d, I would feid my swine _a cheval_: the 4t, Alas, ye have left me nothing to choose; ye have chosen all the best things. Francois the 1t was a King that loved exceedingly to discourse and hear the minds of al ranks of peaple, as even our James. For that effect he seweral tymes disguised himselfe and all alone gon to discours wt common peaple. On a tyme he fand a poor man digging a ditch: he demanded what he wan every day by his peins. 5 pence at most, quothe he. What family have ye? I have my wife, 4 bairns and my old mother whom I nourish; but, further, I most divide my 5 pence into 3 parts every day: by on part I pay my debt, another I lean, the thrid, nourishes us. Whow can that be, can 10 turners[279] maintain you a whole day? Sir, 10 I give to my old mother every day as payment of what she bestowed on me when I was young; 10 I lean[280] to my children, that when I am old and cannot work they may pay me again; the other 10 is betuixt my wife and me. The King proponed this to the courtiers to resolve him, etc. [279] Turner, a copper coin equal to two pennies Scots or one bodle. Thus the 5 English pence, which the man got, are equal to 5 sous or 5 shillings Scots, and so to 60 deniers or 60 pennies Scots, or 30 turners. [280] Lend. In France a man wil do weill to take heid what women he medles wt; for if he get a woman of degre below himself wt child he most ether mary hir or tocher hir: if his aequal, ether marry hir or be hanged (which few chooses): if she be far above his condition (especially if a valet engrosse his masters daughter or sister not married) he is hanged wtout al process _brevi manu_; the maid is thrust unto a convent to lead repentance their for hir lifetyme, since she hath prostrat hir honor so basely. While I was at Poictiers a young fellow got a wanton cocquette, a cream keiper, wt child. For fear he sould be put to marry hir he quietly went and enrolled himselfe amongs the sogers whom the King was levieng at Poictiers. She gets notice of it, causes clap him fast and lay him prisoner. The Captain came to seik back his soger, since he was under the protection of the King, but he could not praevaile: they replied, if he war their for debt they would villingly release him, but since he was criminal they could not. A soger may make his testament _quolibet modo_ in France: he may write it on the sand, the dust as his paper, his sword he may make his pen and his blood his ink, according to Justin. T. Institut.[281] _de Testam. Militis_. [281] Justinian, _Inst_., 2. II. Seweral tymes they have bein 3 moneth wtout a drop of rain in France, in which cases they make a great deall of Processions to obtain rain, tho they never do anything. Some winters it freezes so hard wt us (as Mr. James [P. Ramsay][282] is Author, to wit, that winter after the visitation in 1646 when the Colledge was translated to Lighgow),[283] that in a basin of water after ye have lift your hand out of the water ere ye dip it again it was al covered wt a thin striphen[284] ice, and the 3d, 4t, etc. tymes. [282] Interlined. It appears to be a correction. Patrick Ramsay was 'laureated' in 1646. [283] The plague in Edinburgh, 1645-6, obliged the University to remove to Linlithgow for a few months.--Waldie's _History of Linlithgow_. [284] Striffan, film. On the 17 of November opened the Law University at Poictiers, at present the most famous and renouned in France, usually consisting of above tuo 100 scholers, some coming to it from Navarre in the very skirts of Spain, sewerals from Tholouse, Bordeaux, Angiers, Orleans, Paris, Rouan, yea from Berry it selfe, tho formerly Bourges was more renouned--their's almost nothing to be had their now--and tho in all these places their be Universities. On its opening Mr. Umeau, our Alex'rs Antagonist, and who that year explained of the D.,[285] belonging _ad nuptias_, made a harangue of wery neit Latin, which is the property of this University. His text was out of the 4't book of the C.T.[286] 5 _de condictio Indeb. l., penultima_, whence he took occasion to discourse of the Discord amongs the Jurise.[287] raising 2 _quoest. 1'o, utrum recentiores sunt proeferendi antiquioribus: 2'do, utrum juniores natu maioribus_, wheir he ran out on the advantage of youth: _Quot video Juvenes candidatos tot mihi videor videre aequissimos Servios, sublimissimos Papinianos gravissimos Ulpianos, et disertissimos Cicerones: quod plura[288] stellae indubio[289] sunt jae magnitudines in Sphaerâ nostra Literariâ._ [285] Digest. [286] Code, title. [287] Jurisconsults. [288] Query, _plures_. [289] Query, _sindubio_. The Rector of the University was their, the Mair, the Eschewines, the President of the Palais, the University of the Physicians, wt a great heap of al orders, especially Jesuits. We might easily discover that basenese we are so subiect to in detracting from what al others do'es but ourselves in that groundless censur of many things in this harangue which our Alex'r had wt another of his partizans. Mr. Filleau (very like Edward Edgar) gives a paratitle on the title _pro socio_: he is on of the merriest carles that can be, but assuredly the learnest man in that part of France, for the Law. _Pro socio, pro socio_, quoth he, whats that to say _pro socio_, Trib.[290] speaks false Latin or non-sense, always wt sick familiar expressions. [290] Tribonian. Mr. Roy, whoss father was Doctor before him, explained that year T.C.[291] _de rescindenda vendit_. Mr. Gaultier, who left Angiers and came to be a Doctor their, explained the title of the canon L.,[292] _de simoniâ et ne quid pro spiritualibus exigatur_. [291] Title of the Code. [292] Lex. For Mr. Alex'r its some 17 years since he came to France; he had nothing imaginable. Seing he could make no fortune unless he turned his coat, he turned Papist; and tho he had passed his course of Philosophy at Aberden, yet he began his grammar wt the Jesuits; then studied his philosophy, then married his wife (who was a bookbinders wife in the toune and had bein a women of very il report), 50 year old and mor, only for hir gear, and she took him because he was bony.[293] Studied hard the Law (Pacius,[294] as he told me, giving him the 1 insight) and about some 5 year ago having given his trials was choosen _institutaire,_. He is nothing wtout his books, and if ye chap him on that he hath not latley meditate on, he is very confused. He is not wery much thought of by the French, he affectats to rigirous a gravity like a Spaniards, for which seweral (as my host) cannot indure him. Also his pensioners are not the best treated. We have sein P. and D. Humes seweral tymes breakfast: they had nothing but a litle crust of bread betuixt them both, and not a mutching botle of win for my.[295] I never almost breakfasted but I had the whole loave at my discretion, as much win as I please, a litle basquet ful of the season fruites, as cherries, pears, grapes: in winter wt apples. Also by Ps confession he drinks of another win, better than that his pensionars drinks of. Also if their be on dish better then another its set doune before him: he chooses and then his pensionars when its iust contrare wt me. [293] Bonnie. [294] Pacius, Julius, 1550-1635, jurist. [295] Me. He began his lessons 23 of November. A Frenchman casting up the Rubrics of the D.,[296] he fand _de edendo_. He showed himselfe wery offended whey Tribo. had forgot, T.[297] _de Bibendo_ also. [296] Digest. [297] Titulus. We most not forget to buy Gellius and Quintilians Declamations at Paris. A Coachman was felled dead dressing his horses; 5 masons ware slain at the Carmelits by the falling of a wal on them. Mr. Alex'r in salaire hath only 600 livres, the other 4 each a 1000, also seweral obventions and casualities divided amongs them, of which he gets no scare, as when any buyes the Doctorat. He is a hasty capped body. Once one of his servants brook a lossen,[298] he went mad, and amongs other expressions he had this: these maraudes[299] their break more to me in a moment then I can win in tuo moneth. They have no discourse at table. He cars not for his wife. That night the _oubliour_[300] was their and she would not send another plat[301] he threatned to cast hir and hir family over the window. [298] Pane of glass. [299] Rascals. [300] _Oublieur_, pronounced _oublieu_, pastrycook's man, who came round in the evening selling small round cakes, _oublies_. [301] Plate. We on night fel to telling of notes of preachings, as of the Englisman preaching on that, In came Tobit, and much controverted whither they called it baty, light feit or watch;[302] and of the minister that sayd, Christ, honest man, liked not war, sayd to Peter; and of on preaching on that, And Abram gave up the ghost, sayd that it was wery debated if it was for want of breath or not, that he durst not determin it. Of a Preist preaching on the miracle wt whilk Christ feed a multitude wt 5 loaves, it was not so great a miracle, quoth he, as ye trow, for every on of the loaves was as meikle as this Kirk: a baxter being at the pulpit fit[303] started up and demanded wheir they got a oven to bake them in, and a pole to put them in and take them out. Ye are to curious, quoth the preist, go and bake your oune bread and medle not wt Christs, they had other ovens in the days then they have now and other poles to, and do ye not think but Christ could have lent them a pole. Also on who praying for the King our dread soveraine Charles by the grace [of God] King of S[cots], etc., supream governour, instead of under the[304] and they sone Christ, sayd over the. Also of another who praying for the Illustrious Duke of York, sayd the Lusty Duk. Also whow a hostesse at Camphire served Mr. R. Macquaire, being their to dine, wt a great deall of other company, he was desired to seik a blissing, he began so long winded grace that the meat was all spilt and cold ere he had done. The wife was wood[305] angry. The nixt day comes, the meat was no sooner put to the fire but she comes to Mr. R. and bids him say the grace. Whats your haste Margerit, is the meat ready yet? No, Sir, but its layd to the fire, and ere ye have ended your grace, it wil be ready. We most not forget the Swisse, who coming in a cabaret at Poictiers demanding for win, drank for his oune hand 15 pints, calling for a reckning they gave him up 16 pints. He told they ware cheating him of a pint, for he know weill the measure of his womb, that it held no more but 15 pints, wheirupon he would pay no more but for 15. Also of the Preist who bringing our Saviour in the Sacrament to a young galliard very sick, sayd, behold, Sir, Christ is come to visit you. The sick party replied, I sie very weil that Christ is their by the carrier of him, for as he was knowen at his entry unto Jerusalem by his asse that carried him, so do I know him at present. [302] The meaning is whether Tobit's dog was to be called a comman cur (baty), or a greyhound, or a watch-dog. The dog does not appear in the English version of the Apocrypha, but in the Vulgate.--Tob. vi. I. Profectus est autem Tobias et canis sequutus est eum, et mansit ... juxta fluvium Tiberis.--xi. 9. Tunc praecucurrit canis ... et quasi nuncius adveniens, blandimento suae caudae gaudebat. [303] Foot. [304] Thee. [305] Mad. Wonderful was the temperance and moderation of the ancient Romans, yea greater then whats to be found amongs Christians even now. They know[306] no more but on diet a day, and that sober enough. At the first tyme that some Greeks came to Rome, and the Romans saw them, according to the custome of their country, eat thrise a day, they condamned them for the greatest gluttons that could be. [306 1] Knew, as on p. 91. That story of the General (Fabritius) Roman is weill knowen: who at his ennemies brought a wast sum of mony to bribe his fidelity to the commonwealth, they fand him busy stooving a pot of herbes to his supper, wheiron he answered them, that a man as he, that could be content wt sick a disch, could not readily be temted wt all their gold. Also of him who being choosen Dictator they fetched him from the plough to his dignity, sick was their industry. For a long tyme amongs the Romans old age was held such a ignominious thing that they could not get the scurviest coalsteeler in Rome that would act the person of a old man, not so much as in Comoedy. For 500 years, and above, after the building of Rome, it [divorce][307] was not knowen for a man to put away his wife. The first was one Spcius[308] Carvilius, who under the praetext of sterility divorced from his wife. [307] Interlined. [308] Spurius. We most buy that infamous book of Miltones against the late King,[309] wt Claudius Salmasius answer.[310] Surely it shal stand as long as the world stands for a everstanding memorandum of his impudence and ignorance: its nothing but a faggot of iniury (calomnies), theirs not on right principle either moral or politick to be found in it al; its penned by a pedant, a scoolmaster, on who deserved at the cheapest to be torn in peices by 4 horses. Neither in our judgement, tho he deserves not to be refuted, hath Salmasius done so weill to the cause. [309] _Iconoclastes_, 1649. [310] _Defensio Regia_, by Claude de Saumaise, 1588-1653. A Parisian Advocat cited some civil Laws of whilk he was not sure: his Antagonist retorting that their ware not sick a Law nether in the C nor D,[311] he replied, if it be not their yet it sould be their tho. [311] Code nor Digest. About the 12' of December 1665 at Poictiers ware programmes affixed thorow the toune intimating that the Physitians Colledge would sit doune shortly, and that their Doyen Deacon, on Renatus Cothereau, a wery learned man in his lessons, _Podagram hominum terrorem artuum que flagellum medicinali bettio acriter prosequeretur_; hence it hath[312] this exclamation, _accurite[313] itaque cives festinate arthici_. [312] Meaning, probably, 'then follows.' [313] For _accurrite_. The same Renatus had a harangue at the beginning wherin he descryved very pedantically the lamentable effects it produces on the body of man: amongs his salutations, I observed this, _Themidis nostra Argonauta sacratissime, fidelissime, æquissime_. They get no auditors to their lessons, whence its only but for faschions sake that they begin their colledge, of which they have nothing but the name. We have observed heir in France that on their shortest day, the 22 of December, the sun sets not but a hower, almost, after its set to us, to wit at 4 acloack, and that they have light a quarter almost after 5. Also looking to their Almanacks I fand that it rose on the shortest day at 7 acloack and some minuts, when it rises not to us but after 8, so that they have in winter at Juile[314] a hower at morn, as much at even, of sun more then we have. Their 2 howers we gain of them in the summer, for at our longest day we have a hower sooner the morning the sun then they have; we have it at 3 howers, they have it not til 4 wt some minuts. At even also we have a hower of sun after that he get to them on our longest day, for by their Almanacks he sets on that day in France, or at least at Poictiers, at 7 acloack wt some minuts, wt us not til after 8. [314] Yule. Their is a very considerable difference betuixt the French summers and the Scots: to wit, in their heat; but surely we could remark none in their winters. Its true we had no considerable cold before Juile, Nöel (tho their fel a drift of snow about the end of Octobre, French account), yet we fand it sickerly when it came, so that I do not remember that I felt it colder in Scotland then it was for a space togither. Its true it leasts not so long heir as it does wt us. Juile is a great feste in France. The Papists are very devote on it, yea so religious that they go all to Church at midnight to hear Masse, for a preist hath that day power to say thry masses consecutife, when at another tyme he can say no more but on at a tyine. I went after dinner and hard the cordelier at St. Pierre. The rest of our Scotsmen ware so curious as to go hear Midnight Masses. As for me I had no skil of it it was so cold; and surely I did not repent it considering the affront that they got, that they ware forced to render their swords at the command of the Intendant who the night before was come to toune from the Grand Jour[315] that was then in Auuergne. This he caused do following the mode of Paris, wheir no man is suffered to carry a sword that night, both by reason of many quarrels begun that night, as also of sewerals that take occasion to decide former quarrels on that night. Surely they had no satisfaction in that Mass. [315] High Commission sent down by the king to the provinces as a final Court of Appeal. During the tyme I was heir I fel in discourse wt the Jesuites, going once to sy our countryman Pere Broune, who was wery kind to us al, and came and saw me after. About the tyme was that poor smith, of whom we made mention before, execute, who was the first we ever did sie in France. Tho he had receaved his sentence at Poictiers, yet that could serve til he was taken to Paris (for the Capital tounes of France are not royal boroughs as our are, having the power of heading and hanging wtin themselfes), wheir he was condemned to be broken on the wheel, to be _rouée_, tho according to the custome of France he know not that he was sentenced til about 2 howers before he was broken, for by concealing it up til then they keip them from taking wiolent courses to prevent their death which they would take if they know of it, as killing themselfes, or means to ecscape, tho otherwise it be very il for their souls, they having so short tyme to prepare themselfes for death. They made this poor fellow beleive that he was only condemned to the galleys, at which he laught, telling that it appeared they knew not he was a smith, so that he could easily file his chaines and run away. About 12 acloak on that day he was to be execeut he was conveyed to the Palais to hear his sentence, wheir it was read to him on his knees, the hangman _bourreau_ at his back wt a tow in his hand. The sentence being read he puts the tow about his neck wt thir words, _le Roy wous salou, mon amy_, to show him that its the King that causes him dy. His sentence is read to him again at the foot of the Palais, as give ye sould say at the coming of the Parlement close, or Ladies Steeps;[316] and then a third tyme on the schaffold. [316] Steps close to St. Giles's Church. See Wilson, _Memorials of Edinburgh_, 1891, vol. i. p. 260. Their ware mo then 10,000 spectators at the Marcher Vieux. In the midle of it their was a little _eschaustaut_[317] erected, on which ware nailed 2 iests after the forme of a St. Androws crosse, upon whilk the poor fellow was bond on his back, wt his 2 armes and his 2 thigs and legs on the 4 nooks of the crosse, having bein strip naked to his shirt. After he had prayed a little and the 2 carmes[318] that assisted him, the _bourreau_ made himselfe ready to execute the sentence, which was that he sould get 2 strooks quick and the rest after he was stranguled. [317] _Echafaud,_ scaffold. [318] Carmelites. At Paris in breaking great robbers, for the better exemple they do not strangle them at all; but after they have broken all their bones to peices almost, they leave them to dy on the rack. To return to our poor miserable, the _bourreau_ wt a great baton of iron began at the armes and brook them wt tuo strooks, then his knees, then a strook on every thigh, then 2 on the belly, and as many on the stomack; and after all thir, yea after the 20 strook, he was not fully dead. The tow[319] brak twice that was ordained to strangle him. In sying what this cattif suffered made us conclud that it was a cruel death to be broken in that sort. [319] Rope. We cannot forget how coldrif the French women seimed to be in the winter. The marchands wifes and thorow all the shops every one have their lame choffer[320] ful of rid charcoal wt their hands in among the mids of it almost. The beggar wifes going up and doune the streits had them also. * * * * * [321] [320] Earthenware chafing dish. [321] Twenty-two lines erased in MS. We cannot forget the shift that the poor folk which have no bowets[322] (which generally are not so good as ours) take when they go out under night, as I have sein them when I have bein going or coming from Mr. Alex'rs, and it would have bein so dark that I could not sy my finger before me. It is they take a peice wood thats brunt only at one end, and goes thorow the toune waging[323] it from one syde to the other, it casting a litle light before him. It would almost fly[324] a man in a dark night to sie it at a distance, and always approaching him, til he keen what it is. [322] Lanterns. [323] Wagging. [324] Frighten. We cannot but insert a not of a Northren Ministers preaching. His text was about Piters threefold denial of Christ, and that wt oaths. Beloved, its wery much controverted amongs the learned what ware the oaths that Piter swoore, yet the most part condeschends that they ware thir: the 1, God confound me, if I keen such a man; the 2, Devil ding me in testons;[325] the third, by Gods wounds, I do not keen him. Mungo Murray of the life gard was in the kirk, and resolving to make sport came to the Minister after the kirk was scailed, telling him that he agreed wt him about the 1 [first] 2 oaths that they ware so, but he could not be of his mind about the thrid, by Gods wounds, for Christ had not yet received any wounds, so that he could not swear by Gods wounds. The Minister began, Sir, I am very glad that ye take the freedom to propon your doubts, for its a signe of attention. As to your difficulty, ye would know that a man when he is sorest prest he wil swear sorest, so that Peter keipt the greatest oath last; also ye would know that it was a Profetical oath, as give he sould have sayd, by the wounds that Christ is to receave. [325] Teston or testoon, a small silver coin. The last in Scotland were coined by Mary in 1561, value 5s. Scots. In the Hylands their was a minister that was to give the Communion to his Parish wheir it had not bein given 6 or 7 years before. For that effect they sent to Monross[326] to buy the win, which being come, he and his elders bit to tast it for fear of poisoning their honest parishioners. Er ever they wist of themselfes they fand it so good that they licked it out every drap, and was forced to give the communion in good rid aile. [326] Montrose. We most not forget the story of the English Capitaine, who thinking to flie his Hostesse, he was so frighted himselfe, his man wtout his direction having bought a great oxes hyde and covered himselfe wt it, that looping over the stair for hast he brake on of his legs. Wheir 2 layes in a chamber togither, their are many wayes to flie on another. We might take a litle cord or a strong threed when the other is sleiping, bind it to his covering or bed cloaths, then going to our oun bed wt a end of the string in our hand, making ourselfes to be sleiping, draw the string to us, and the cloaths wil follow, and he wil be wery ready to think that its a spirit. Also ty a string to 2, 3 chair feet, and so draw them up and doune the house. He that knows nothing of it wil impute it to a ghest. Any tymes I was angry at the Frenchmen, if so be I was familiar wt them, I fell to and abuse them in Scots, as logerhead, ye are a sheip, etc. Their was no way I could anger them worse then to speak in Scots to them. The consuetuds and rights of nations about hunting and halking throughout the most part of the Christian world are wondrously degenerated from the right of nature and nations and the Civil Law following the footsteps of both. According to thir, all men have æqualy the liberty of chassing of wild beasts, no sort of folk being excepted, and that not only in their oune land but also in any others, since vild beasts, wheir ever they be they are always wild beasts, apparteening to none; for if that the wild beast is on my ground sould make that it be estimd myne, then leiving my ground it leives of to be myn, and by entring unto my neibhours it begins to be his, and so it might change a 100 masters in one day, which is absurd. We might as weill say that the piot that bigs[327] on my try is myne. [327] Magpie that builds. This liberty is exceedingly impared by the consuetudes at present, so that nether can we hunt all beasts, the King having excepted dears, harts, etc., so that its not lawful for any to chasse or kil under the pein of a fine 500 francks, except only the King and some few others, great peirs, who have their permission from the King. Nether is it permitted for all indifferently to hunt, clergymen are decharged it, Peasants also. Its confessed also by al that Kings may discharge their subjects the pastime and pleasure of hunting, especially thess who holds their lands in fief immediatly of the King, which he called fiefs royalles, whom he may hinder to hunt in their oune ground, ower which they have ful power otherwise to sel it, woodset it, gift it, or do wt it what I please: the same power have the inferior seigneurs. Lords in giving lands to vassals, men who have bein serviceable to them in many occasions whom they cannot recompence in mony, they give them a tennement of land, they usualy retain the right of hunting in these lands only to themselfes. Halking in France is a excercise not permitted to any under a gentleman. We have sein its not permitted to al to hunt; also its not permitted to hunt al beasts; also its not permited now to hunt indifferentley in al places. The Kings keips their parks filled wt wild beasts, wheir its not leasum for any to hunt but themselfes, as Fontainbleau and St. James Park. The nobility have also the same right of keiping sick parks; as witnese upon the rode bothe of England and France we meit wt noblemens incloseurs wheir would [be] 2 or 300 dears. Yea, in France its not lawful to shoot wt the gun in another mans ground; so that if a man take another guning in his ground, he usualy takes the gun from him and breaks over his shoulders. If he can hinder a man to shoot in his ground, much more may be hinder him to hunt, since the on is more praeiudicial to him then the others; for its done wt greater noice, also does more damnage to the cornes or wines. What might be the reasons that have moved the Princes to hem in so narrow bounds the rights of Hunting by the right of nature and civil Law so patant to all are to be found in Vesembec,[328] paratitlo _de acquir[endo rerum dominio._ ], For fear that the whole race of beasts sould soon or sin[329] be totally exstirpated wt the multitude of hunters, if al ware permitted to hunt. 2do, Least to many (as we sie at present) being to much taken wt the plaisir of the sport sould forget their businesses of consequence. As to that obiection, that hunting being from the right of natur, which is unchangable, it cannot be prohibited by any civil Law, I say hunting is not from the rights of nature commanding but permitting. [328] Matthew Wesenbec, Dutch jurist, 1531-1586. [329] Sooner or later. Its a custome in France that when a young woman unmarried is condemned to dy for some offence (unlesse the fault be al the grivevuser) that if the hangman be unmarried he may sick hir in marriage and get hir hir life that way: that their hes bein seweral that have refused it and choosen rather to die. This hes great resemblance wt that custome in England that a man being sentenced to dy, if a common whore demand him in marriage she wil get him; it being a charitable work to recal a whore from hir loose and prophan life by making hir marry. Yet surely both the on custome and the other is but a corruptel and a mocking at Justice. The accent the French gives the Latin is so different from ours that sometymes we would not have understood some of them (for the most part I understood them weil enought), nor some of them us. Ether we or they most be right, but I dout not to affirm but that the accent they give it, straining it to the pronuntiation of their oune language, is not natural, but a vicious accent, and that we have the natural. My reason is, because if their be any wayes to know what was the Accent the ancient Romans prononced the Latin wt it is the Accent that the Italians gives it and their oune language, which is a degenerated Latin, who be the Romans posterity; but so be they give it the same very accent that we do: the French ware never able to answer me this. As to ther pronuntiation of the Greek I could never keip myselfe from laughting when they had occasion to read Greek or any Greek sentence, even their Doctors of Law: vitnesse le Berche at Orleans whom I attended 2 moneths, that Greek that occurres in the 2 T. 1 book of the instituts,[330] [Greek: ton nomon hoi], he pronunced it [Greek: hi; men agraphoi], prononced it [Greek: hagraphi; hoi, i; men engraphoi, phi]: as we observed also in Mr. Filleau at Poictiers, [Greek: dunamenon] esti, he pronunced the 2 last syllabes damned long. [Car [Greek: son kaphson] urens.][331] We could give infinite mo instances wheir they prononce it undoubtedly wrong. [330] Justinian, _Inst_. i. 2: [Greek: ton nhomon ohi men heggraphoi, ohi oe hagraphoi]. [331] Interlined. The meaning apparently is that the French pronounced [Greek: kahnson], a New Testament and Septuagint word for burning heat, as if it were written [Greek: kaphson]. They do not name their points in writing as we do, that which we cal comma (following the Greek) they cal it alwayes _Virgula_; our colon, _duo puncta_; semicolon, _punctum cum virgula_. When we say _nova Linea_ they say _a capite_, wt sundry others like that. A woman witness is receaved in France in any causes whither civil or criminal: only wt this difference that for one man their most be 2 women, id est, wheir 2 men being ocular witnesses of a murder wil condemne a man, their most be 4 women, under which their witnes is not admitted. They have their penny bridiles[332] in France as weil as we in Scotland. When a servant women marries, her master brings wt him folk to their wedding as he can get, who casts in into the plat according to their pleasure. They wil be ready enough to promise on back the halfe of his again wt the dessein so to engage the rest to give more. [332] See _Scotland and the Protectorate_, C.H. Firth (S.H.S.), vol. xxxi. p. 410, note. About the begining of February 1666 came Comoedians to Poictiers. I went and saw them severall tymes. The first was called Odip, who resolved the Sphinx his enigma: was so unfortunat to slay his father by ignorance, marry his mother, and to conclud al to put out his oune eyes: the fellow acted his griefe exceeding lifelylie. The farce was _le Marriage du rien_. A fool fellow in a scoolmasters habit wt a ugly nose, which I was angry at, a scoop hat, comes on the stage wt his daughter, who proposes to him that she apprehended furiusly that she might dy a maid and never tast of the pleasure in marriage. In comes a poet to suit hir, fals out in the commendation of Poesy; hir father shoots him away, saying that al the Poets ware fools. In comes a painter who praising his art, whom also he puts away, saying that the painter ware poor drunken fellows. After came a Musician, who fell to sing: he called him a cheater. Then came in a Astronomer, whom he put away because he could not tel whither he would give him his daughter or not. Then came in a Captain, a floop[333] like fellow wt his sword about him, making a wery fool reverence, who rodomontades a space, telling that he had made the Devils tremble; that he was that Achilles in Homer, that Eneas in Virgil, that Aiax in Ovid, and that al that historians wrot of brave men was only of him. At last came in one that called himself nothing, that would assume no title to himselfe. Not finding anything to obiect against him he accepted of him. [333] Floop or flup, awkward. In the comoedy when the King stood very scrupulously on his word, his sister fel to to convince him that it was a shame to a King to be slave of his word, which was the great maxim of Cardinal Mazarini, as I was informed. Having sent to consult the oracle of Delphos, and it not deigning to answer him, in a rage he cried furth, _flectere si superos nequeo_, etc. When a person dies in France they are very careful to mark in what posture after their death their feet are in; for if they be unæqually laying, on of them drawen up, they strongly beleive that by that the dead calls his or hir neirest friend let it be wife, father, or brother, on of which wil dy shortly after. Its the faschion of the grandees when they die that they are exposed for 3 days after in a chamber hung all in doole[334] in their bed, also of dool, in the bests cloaths which they wor when they ware in life, so that al may come to sy them in that space. Their is holy water in the roome. The Dutchesse of Montamor, whiles I was at Poictiers, was thus exposed. [334] Mourning. The bairnes of France have the excercise of the tap, the pery,[335] the cleking,[336] and (instead of our gouf, which they know not) they have shinyes. [335] Peg top. [336] Clekin or Clackan, a small wooden bat in shape like a racquet. In France they have apples without any seeds in them; also great Pavies[337] (which is the best sort of Peach) wtout any stone, which they informed me the curious does thus: they graft a peach in a old stock, the bow the end of the imp[338] and causes it to enter in a other rift made in the stock, leaves it like a halfe moon or bow til they think it hes taken, and then cut it in 2. That halfe imp that was grafted first wt the head upmost bears peaches according course of nature wt stones in them, the other, which growes as give ye would say backwardlies bears wtout any stones. This has bein practicat. They'le impe[339] any tyme of the year in France. [337] Sorte de pêche, dont la chair est ferme, et qui ne quitte pas le noyau.--Littré, _Dict_. [338] Shoot. [339] Graft. About the mids of February was receaved a new fencing master, whom we saw give his trials: the Mair made a assaut against him first, then the fencing masters, then some schollers. A litle after was the Queen mothers panegyrick or _funebre oraison_ made at St. Pierre in a prodigious confluence of peeple of al ranks; the Intendant, the President and the Conseillers, the Mair, the Eschiwines,[340] and the Maison de Ville assisting; also many of the religious orders. The Cordelier who preached the Advent before and the caresme after made the harangue. He deduced hir glory and commendation, lo, from that she was Anne of Austria, which is the province in which standes Vienne, the Metropolis of Germany; that she was Philip the 3d of Spaines daughter; next that she was Queen or wife to Lowis the Just, 13 of that name in France; 3dly, that she was mother to Lewis the 14't, so hopeful a Prince, after she had bein 23 years barren. Whence he took occasion to show that tho virginity and coelebat was wery commendable, yet that it was no wayes so in the succession to crounes. He had also heir a senselese gasconad which nobody approved of, that St. Gregoire sould say that as far as Kings are exalted above other men, that in so far the Kings of France ware above al other Kings. In the 4th place he fand a large elogium to hir in that she falling widdow she becam Regent of hir sone and the Realme during his minority. Hir last and principal commendation was that she was a Princesse most devot and religious. [340] _Echevins_, municipal magistrates. We was at comoedy, the farce of which was called _Le cocus imaginaire_. Their ware some honest women craking[341] togither on a tyme, they came among other things to speak of Eve and hir transgression: on of them cries furth very gravely, oh, that I was not their, I wish I had given hir a 12 penie loaf on the condition she had not eaten the apples. [341] Chatting. Wery rich stuff has bein heard at the examens in Scotland, some ignorant folks wt their answers being wery pleasant and merry. Mr. J. Smith, Minister of the Colledge Kirk, examining a bonnet maker, of whilk theirs a great number in his parish, he speared at him what was effectual calling; the fellow, clawing his head, replied, the feeklesest[342] calling I keen, Sir, is my oune. Kid, minister of the Abby Kirk, spearing at one of my Lord Catheneses servant women what was the Lords Supper. She, thinking that he had speared what was for my Lords Supper, answered, Sir, or I came out I set on the pot and My Ledy hes sent pies to the owen. Mr. Robert Blair, examining a wery ignorant body, speared at hir, wheirof was ye made, Magie; the folk neir hand rounded and harked in to hir, of the rib of man. Of the rib of man, Sir. Weil said, Magy, quoth Mr. Rob, I'm very blaith to sie that ye answer better then ye did the last examen. Who made man then? The peaple round about whispered to hir, God. God, Sir. Whirof made he him then, Magy? The peaple cried to hir then, of dust and clay: which she mistaking or not hearing weil, insteed of saying of dust and clay, she said, of curds and whey, Sir. I leive to ghesse whither them that ware their laught or not. Mr. Robert himselfe, tho a very grave man, could not refrain from smiling. [342] Feckless, feeble. In baptizing about the bairnes names ther hes bein mistakes both on the Ministers hand and the holder ups. Mr. James Vood was baptizing a man at St. Androws, and instead that he sould have baptized James, he called it John. The father, a litle bumbaized at this, after the barne is baptized and that he hes given it back to the midwife, he stands up and looks the Minister as griveously in the face and sayes, Sir, what sal I do wt 2 Johns, we have a John at home else, Sir? Whow would ye called then, Robin? quo' the Minister. James, Sir. James be the name of it then. Mr. Forbes told me that in the hylands once a mans wife was lighter of a lasse, the goodman was wery sick so that he could not go to church to present his oune barne, wheiron he desires one of his freinds or gossips to go and hold it up for him. He bit to have a Scriptural name for his daughter, at last he agreed upon Rebecca. The man thought he sould remember weil enough of it. Just as he is holding up the child he forgets the name. The Minister speares, whow call ye it. Sir, they call it, they cal it, they call it, shame fall it, ay hir oune selfe hes forgotten it. Yet I remember that its a name very lik tobacco. Many did laught wery heartylie at this, only some present remembered of the name, that it was Rebecca. Having stayed at Poictiers til the 14 of April French accompte: some 20 dayes before that I was beginning to make many acquantances at Poictiers, to go in and drink wt them, as wt De Gruché, Ingrande La Figonne, both Advocats sones, and of the Religion, Mr. de Gay, Borseau, Cotibby, etc. * * * * * [343] [343] Twenty-seven lines erased in MS. I was beginning to fall wery idle, so that if I had stayed longer in Poictiers, I had alwayes engaged myselfe in more company, and so done the lesse good, whence I have a sort of satisfaction that I came away. On the day of my departing I took my leive of Mr. Boutiet, Mlle. Alex'r, and Mlle. Strachan, Mlle. Chabate and hir mother wt some others, then went to the Chappeau d'or, wheir we dined, Mr. Alex'r, the Doctor, Sandy, Mr. De la Porte, Mr. Montozon (for Gorein was not in toune), and I. After having taken my leive of Madame Daillé (himselfe being at Partenay), I took horse before the buith door and came to the Daufin in the fauxbourgs, wheir I leapt of. The most part of the Hugonots going to their Temple, their I took my leive of Sandy'es wife, Madame Peager, and divers others. I took up to drink wt me Mr. de la Porte, De Gruché, De Gey, De Gaule, Barantons brother, etc. * * * * * [344] [344] Twenty-two lines erased in MS. On my vakening on the morning, I fand my head sore with the win I had drunk. For as sick as I was, on I got the morning wt the rest, and came and dined at Portpile,[345] a litle toune standing 5 leagues (for the leagues are long their in comparison of them about Paris) from Chattellerauld, on the Creuse, which runes also by Blanc in Berry. [345] Le Port de Pilles, Blaeuw's Atlas. Having ioined their wt the Messenger of Bordeau, who had about 7 Gascons wt him, and the Messenger of Angoulesme, who had above 12, we was a body above 24. We took al horseback, and having rode the river, tho wery deip, because the bridge was broken, I fell in wt the Gascons, and was the rarest stuffe wt them that could be.[346].... Also a gentleman of Sainctonge ioined wt us, who was coming to Paris. [346] Eight lines erased in MS. We came this night to Faux, a litle village standing upon the Lindre, about 7 leagues from Portpile, wher I played one of the Gascons a pret[347] in the boat; wheir also I saw a reservoire of fisches. Heir I was wery sick, so that I suped none, as I had not dined, my Poictiers rant incapacitating me. Yea, I was distempered al the way after, so that I cost not wery dear to my Messenger for my diet. [347] Trick. Nixt morning be 4 howers, having taken horse and riden the water, I came to Amboise. My heart began to lift in me for Joy when I came to places I had sein before, for I being wery sick, I fancied now I was almost at the end of my journy. Amboise is 5 leagues from Faux. We dined at the Cheval rouge, in the fauxbourgs, this syde of the Loire. I went and saw the Chasteau, having taken a French Gentleman of Quercy (of which Cahors is the Capital toune, and Dordogne the cheife river), and another of Thosose[348] wt me, whose brother, a boy not above 20 years, had already been at the wars against the Mores of Barbary, and had bein taken prisoner, and was ransoned by his father for 300 crounes, and was coming in to Paris to get some employment in the army: such stirring spirits are the French. The Castle I fand werie strong. I saw their arsenal, wheirs layes the canon of the fort, the greatest of them carrieng only 10 pound ball. Their best peices ware transported during the seige of the Rochel; they have never bein brought back yet. Theirs in the entry King Dagobert and his Queens statues, wt 2 great sheep done _à l'antique_. [348] Probably for Tholose, Toulouse. The most considerable thing we saw was the Harts hornes, hung up in the corner of a chapelle, of a monstrous bignesse, if they be natural. It was taken some many 100 years ago in a forest of Lorraine towards Allemagne, wt a collet,[349] about whilk the flesch was so growen that it covered it, bearing that it belonged to Cæsar. It bit to be wery old when it was taken. Also we saw some rib bons of it monstrouslie great. Also, I saw the chamber wheir Mr. Fouquet[350] was detained prisoner when the King brought him from Nantes. [349] Collar. [350] Nicolas Fouquet, 1615-1680, finance minister of Louis XIV., fell out of favour, and was arrested at Nantes, 1661. From Amboise we came to Blois 10 short leagues, wheir I went straight to the Castle (my remarks of which are elsewheir) to sie these verses of Faustus above the 1 gate of the castle, which are as followeth: Hic ubi natus erat dextro Ludovicus Olympo Sumpsit honorata regiâ[351] sceptra manu, Foelix quæ tanti fulsit lux nuntia regis, Gallia non alio principe digna fuit. 1498. [351] Regiâ for regia. At best the line does not scan. Next morning we came to St. Laurens, a pretty litle toune, wheir we dined. In the afternoone we passed by Clery, a litle village 4 leagues from Orleans, wheir I subscrived my name in the great book of all passengers (wheir I did read several Scots names, as Liddell, Douglas, etc.). I payed a collation, which cost me a croune. At Orleans we quartered at the Charrue, in the fauxbourgs towards Paris. As soon as I was arrived I went to J. Ogilvies, wheir I fand Madame, Mademoiselle hir daughter, hir 2 sones, Mr. le Baron, and another Allemand. They ware wery kind to me, caused me stay and sup wt them. They began and told me the depart of my Lord Ogilwie from their house very discontent, denieng J. Ogilvie, who was then in Germany for Mr. le Barons busines, to have bein given him as his Governor by my L[ord] his father. They would wery fain had me subscribing a paper (for they brought a notaire wtout my knowledg), wherin I sould have attested that I had heard from him that he was his gouwerneur, which they could not all obtain of me,... They pressed me so sore, making remonstrances, that I would obligd them infinitly by subscryving it, also that I could incurre no dommage by it, that I was put to feigne that I had made a solemme oath not to subscryve anything while I was in France, which stoopt their mouths. I went wt Mr le Baron D'Angleberne and Christophle, le Barons valet, after supper to the lodging, whither my Lord was retired, which was at the back of the Church Ste. Croix, wheir I plead[352] the dissembler. Just at the port of the toune I meet James Hunter, who had bein at my quarters to sie me. [352] Played. Being on horseback, tomorrow being a Sundy, ere 3 howers of the morning we dined at Thoury, a little toune 10 leagues from Orleans; came at night wt foul weather to Estampes, a ruinous toune, their no being so meikle as a whole house standing in al the fauxbourgs, and that since the late troubles raised by Mr le Prince,[353] who defended the toune against the King. Their is one long street in the toune. We lay at the trois Rois. We went to the Cordeliers Convent to sie that Barbet[354] rought[355] water dog that taks the Escrevisses,[356] but we could not sie it. [353] In 1652 the Prince of Condé's troops held Etampes against Turenne, Louis XIV.'s general. [354] A kind of dog with long curly hair. [355] Rought, rough: as he spells laugh, laught. [356] _Ecrévisses_, crayfish. Nixt day, having past by a Hermitage, wheir 2 hermites dwells, and seiks almes of al that passes, we came and dined at Linas, besydes Montlery, 9 leagues from Estampes,... At 5 oclock the afternoon we entred Paris by the fauxbourgs St. Jacques, wheir we passed by the Val de Grace, builded by Queen mother of France, lately dead, wheir hir heart is keeped; by the colledge of Clermont and the Sorbonne. We quit our horses in the rue St Jacques, neir the Grande Cerf. We was not weill of our horses when we was oppressed wt a generation of Hostlers, taverners, and others that lodges folk, some intreating us to come wt him, some wt him, all promising us good entertainement and accommodation. I went wt on Mr. Houlle, a barber, who had bein in England, because he was neir hand, and would stay but that night. Theyr was a French Gentleman of Lions and a Spaniard, one of the Queens Attendants: this was my company. That night they told me of the death of Madame de Touraine, and of the execution of Mr. del Camp, 2 dayes before my coming, a Maister of a Academy, and that for false mony, for whilk he had bein pardoned once before. Nixt day, whilk was the 20 Aprill 1666, French accompt, I came to Mr Kinlochs, wheir I am informed that the most part of our countrymen are already goon for England, and that Thirlestan, Gorenberry, and Sandilands (whom I saw and gave on his desire my new testament) was to go the day after. Their I was first acquaint wt Mr. Forbes[357] (Cullodin) and Archibald Hay (Bara's brother). I changed my quarters that same day and came to Kinlochs. [357] Probably Duncan Forbes, 1644-1704, M.P. for Nairn, succeeded his father about 1688, father of President Forbes. Within a day or 2 I was acquaint wt our Scots Captains, Captain Caddel, C. Rutherfurd wt a tree leg--his oune was dong from him at the Seige of Graveling--and Captain Scot, also on C. White. I saw the fruit they call grenades[358] at Paris. To look to before its cut most like a citron: being cut at the top its all ful of litle grains as like rezer[359] berries in the coulor and bigness, yea almost in the tast, as can be. It was a pretty sight to sy how prettily the grains ware ranked wtin the skin. [358] Pomegranates. [359] Rezer, rizzer, red currant. Mr. Kinloch on night coming from a burial of a Hugonet Medecin at Charenton saw a blind man of the Kings vingt (as they call them, tho they be 15 score) play at the Maille[360] to admiration, wheir upon Mr. Grahme took occasion to tel severall very wonderful things he know of blind men: amongs others, of one that could play weill to the gooffe, of another that, take doune 2 watches, mix their works as much as ye like in a hat or any other thing, and gave them him, he saw put them up as iust every one wt their oune vorks as any cknock maker shal do. Its common that they know any sort of silver by a more parfait touche then ordinar, which God is pleased to impart unto them in recompence of the want of sight. [360] See p. 20, note 2. In the renouned toune of Forfar, one who had many kyn having caused milk them at his door, left the tub wheirin he had milked them by neglect at his door. By comes a neigbhours cow, whow being damned thirsty, comes the by way to the tub and takes a wery hearty draught. In the mean tyme comes he that ought the milk, and seing the damage that was done him, to the Toune counsel he goes and makes a very greevous complaint, demandes that he that owes the cow that had drunk his milk pay him it. The counsel was exceedingly troubled wt this demand, never in their remembrance having had the like case throrough their fingers. After much debat on both sydes, a sutor[361] stands up and showes that he had light upon a medium to take up the difference. He askes whither it was a standing drink or not that the cow took when she drank out the milk. They replying whow could she take it but standing, he replyed that it was a most sure thing in that country, knowen to them all, that none ever payed for a standing drink. They following this decision assolzied and cleared cow wt its owner from paying ought, as having taken only a standing drink. [361] Cobbler. Its marked of the Aurelians[362] that they cannot drink standing, but that tho they have never so litle to drink, they most sit doune. Henry the 4't, as he was a very mery man, being at Orleans at a tyme, and my Lord maire and his Eschevins being come to sie him, he would try the truth of this. He first causes remove all the chaires and stools out of the roome, so that nothing was left that a man could sit doune on: then caused bring in win, and drinks to my L. mairs good health, then ordains him to pledge him, who begins to look about him for a seat; no, nay seat for him, wheir on he began to suspect the King had done it a purpose, he resolves to give his Majesty sport. He causes on of his Aldermen to sit doune on his knees and his hand, so that he may drink of his drink to the King on his back sitting, which he did, and at which the King did laught no litle. [362] People of Orleans. In the tyme of our late stirs one of the name of Gordon, called black Adam,[363] had broken in on a willage in some part of the north, and had made such a pillage that he had left nothing that was in the least worth the carrieng away. One of the women of the willage bewailling her lose wt her neighbours, demanded whow they called that wicked man that that had them the scaith. They call him Adam, quoth another, I know no more. Adam, quoth she. Adam began the world and I think he sal end it to. [363] Edom o' Gordon. The Irishes hes a damned respect for St. Phatrick, of whom they say, that if Christ had no bein Christ, St. Phatrick would have bein Christ, as he ware the most worthy person after Christ. In the first part of the Romance termed _Almahide_ or _l'esclave Reyne_, penned by the renouned Scudery,[364] dedicated to Mademoiselle, the Kings sister, are brought in the toun of Grenade in a uproar by reason of 2 mighty factions, the Abencerrages, of whilk Abindarrays is the head; and the Zegris, whose head is Mohavide, betuixt whilk 2 the whole toune is divided. It comes to a cruel fight in the spatious place of Viwaramble, notwtstanding what the Mufti wt the Alcoran in his hand could say to dissuade them, who is descryved wt all the rest of the religious orders. [364] George de Scudéri, 1601-1667. Amongs the Abencerrages was eminently conspicous the _bell esclave_ on the head of Moray Zel, the father of Sultane Queenes party, for fear of whom the queen suffers no small greife. At last by the mediation of the King they are brought to peace; only Mohavide subornes a Alfaguy to accuse criminelly the sclave for being found wt armes in his handes against the law of the Alcoran: whos harangue is answered and refuted by Moray Zell. The King, after deip deliberation and a magnanimous harangue of the sclave, himselfe assolyies him. This reased a curiosity in Roderick de Navarre, a great Spaniard, prisoner of the Mores at that tyme, having sein the valeur of the sclave, to know what he might be: whence one Ferdnand, a old slave of the Sultane queen, begines him his story thus: In the beginning of the reigne of Muleyhassel, whose sone reigneth at present, the greatest courtier at the court of Grenade was Morayzell; and tho their ware many brave Dames, yet none could captivate his heart, so that long tyme he was called le bel insensible. On a tyme on of his friends called Almadam came and invited him to a feigned fight of canes he was to make in the sight of his M'ris Semahis, to which at lenth yeelding, he beates him, and wines the heart of Semahis, and begines to find his oune touched. Finaly, after a combat for hir betuixt him and Almadan, in which he overthrowes Almadan, they are solennly married. About the course of a year after the beautiful Semahis gave a matchlesse daughter, which they called Almahide, and who at present is _Sultane reyne_, to the valliant Morayzel, who caused a learned Arabian cast hir Horoscope, who dressing hir figure, gave the strange answer, that the stars told him that she sould be fort sage et fort amoureuse, quelle sera en mesme temps femme et fille, Vierge et mariée, esclave et Reyne, femme d'un esclave et d'un Roy, heureuse et malheureuse, Mahometane et Chrestienne, innocente et coupable, et enfin plus estrange exposée an danger d'estre brulée toute vive. De plus quelle mourra plus contente qu'elle n'aura vescu, et que parmy les debris d'un Throne et le bouleversement d'un Royaume, son amour et son innocence la consoleront elle mesme de la perte d'une courrone que la fortune lui osterea. This gave no smal astonishment to Moray Zel, who to evite them the better resolves to send his daughter far from Grenade, to Algiers in Africk, that if it comes to pass it may light far from Grenade. This he puts in execution, shipping in the infant at Tarriffe under the tuition of seweral slaves, but especialy of Fernand de Solis. Them we leive on the sea a while to tell another rancontre. About 3 years before the birth of Almahide, Inez d'Arragon bore a son to hir Lord dom Pedro de Leon, due de Medine Sidonia, in Andalousy, in Spaine. The childs Horoscope the father caused to be casten by one of Toledo, who desired him to have a watchful eye of his sone til he pass 20, otherwise he may be made slave. To obey this the better Dom Pedro thought it not amisse to remove his sone from the court and city and send him to a plaisant country house called the Fountaines, wheir we leive the young Ponce de Leon, and returnes to our Almahide on the sea. The Ship is sett upon by pirats corsaires, and they are taken al sclaves and carried to the ile of Dorigni. Heir they stayed a long tyme, and Almahide growes to some years, and hir beauty growes wondrously wt her, which the pirats seing they resolve to carry hir to Constantinople to sell hir to them that plenishes the Turks seraglio. Whiles they are on their way they are casten away, none saved but Fernand and the litle Almahide, tho Fernand know not of it; for some shephards finding hir in a sound[365] on the shore, they carried hir to the Fountaines iust at hand (for their lot was such to be casten away their), and sold hir to the Duc and Dutchesse. Dom Fernand, finding that he was in his oune country, and knowing that the Ducks house, who was his old freind, was neir he went to visit him, wheir to his amazement he fand the litle Almahide, who came runing to him and velcomed him. Heir the Duc choses Fernand to be his sones gouueneur, and appointes the beautiful Almahide to stay their to bear his sone company. [365] Swoon. All this while Morayzel could gett no newes of his daughter, which was no small greife to him. In the interim the fierce and fair Semahis, his Lady, wt hir charmes conqueres so many souls to hir beck that being ambitious she brought Grenade in hazard. After this is intervoven a lang but pretty description of the house called Fontaines. Love begines incessantly to grow betuixt them. The only obstacle was she was still mahometane, which the sclaves had infused in hir. Yet on a tyme young Ponce mocking merrily at the fopperies of the Alcoran she tournes Christian. On this their love takes new strenthe: on a tyme he impartes it to hir; from whom at lenth he getts a promise of hir fidelity to him. After she turned Christian she got the name of Aminte. Theirs sowen in a pretty dispute that happened, what might be the prettiest of flowers, and its generally by Aminte also concluded on the Tulip. Their fame cannot be long confined at the Fontaines, but its at the Court of Sewill already; which drawes many galland persons to come sy them, and amongs others Dom Alvare, who proved to Ponce de Leon a Rivall, who expressing his affection to the fair Grenadine both in verses and lettres it occasioned bad intelligence betuixt him and Ponce, so that it comes to a combat, wheirin Ponce carries away the victory. And it was like to have occasioned more mischeif had not Fernand, Ponce his governor, writen to the Duc to fetche away Aminte, who was the occasion of their striv, which the Duc obeyes, sending a coach for hir to carry hir to Sewil, who having renewed hir promise of fidelity to Ponce leives him their a very sorry man. Thus ends the first Book. * * * * * [366] [366] Half a page blank. There follows here an essay in French or notes of a lecture on the study of law, a juvenile performance. Though inserted in the MS. book it is not part of the Journal. It has been printed here as it stands. Il y a deuz methodes pour estudier le droit, ou par la voye du text ou par celle des quæstions: certes le chemin du text est le plus asserre, plus solide et moins trompeur. Pour le text comme guides wous vous attacherez a Vinnèus, ou vous trouwerez cela qu'il est de la scholastick: a Sucidiwen non paralellé quant est de la practique. A la glosse ou Accurse si vous souhaitez les cas et les especes des loix: si vous ne tirez pas toute la satisfaction possible quant est de la text de ceux-cy, feuilletez Bartol, Cuiace et Azon dans son Summa, de qui autrefois l'on disoit, Qui non habet Azonem vendat pallium. Si vous voudrez chicaner ou jusque an moindres points epluscher une loix dans la text vous trouverez vostre conte dans Antonius Faber. Ayant leu les Institutes avec ses aydes, vous vous tournerez aux Paratitlairs. Sur la quelle matiere personne n'entrera en parrallelle avec Peresius in C. Vesenbecius ne laisse pas faire assez bicn la dessus: vous pourrez aussi regardez Corvinus. Calvin dans ses Paratitles n'a fait qu'une honteuse recueill de cela que les autres avoient dit la dessus devant lui, comme de Cuiace, Vesenbec, etc. Entre les Docteur Francois les parratitles de Maranus, Antecesseur de Tholose, sont en haute estime, mais puisque nos sentiments nous sont libres, nous ne voyons pas trop de raison. Vous n'oublierez pas les Paratitles de Tulden wrayment grand homme: comme ceux de Zoesig et sur les Digests, et sur le droit canon. Cette Methode apprendre le droit par le text a receu ses meilleurs et plus brillantes lumiers des Francois. Seulement vous prendrez icy garde d'une faute de qui je les accus presque tous, pourtant fort insupportable et bien digne de la fowette: c'est que ils advancent des choses en controverse comme s'ils estoient hors du controverses et autant de Principes, et par ainsi pitieusement abusent la ieunesse. Afin de vous detromper vous passerez dans l'autre chemin, qui est celui des Quæstions, lequel si vous pourrez marier heureusement a l'autre, de cette union vous peut redonder dans son temps une entiere connoissance du droit. Dans ce chemin-cy wous ne manquez pas des hommes sçavants pour vos præcepteurs. Ici s'offrent Fachinæi controversiæ, Vasquii controversiæ Illustres: item son traité De successionibus tam ex testamento quam ab intestato. Item Pacij centuriæ: qui outre son commentaire ad Institutiones a aussi escrit ad librum 4tum c. lequel oeuure de Pacius emporte sur tous ses autres. Vous y trowwerez Merenda. Vous chercherez pour Bronchorstii Quæstiones, qui a aussi escrit ad T.D. De Regulis Juris. Vous ne manquerez pas d'acheter les disputationes selecta Treutheri ou ses Theses, avec Hunnius (qui a aussi ecrit 4 libres variarum resolutionum) in 3 tomes le dessus, et Bachovius cet grand esprit, de qui Vineus derobe le meilleur de cela qu'il a. Mais sur toute n'oubliez pas le 4 Tomes de Harpreclitus sur les 4 livres des Institutes, qui vous donnera une lumiere merveilleuse dans toutes les quæstions; et ou il defail le lui-mesme, il vous n'envoye aux meilleurs autheurs qui a escrit sur cette matiere. A la mesme fin vous demanderez pour Mastertius, ou particulierement pour son sedes illustrium materiarum Juvis civilis, ou il vous monstre tous les meilleurs Autheurs de la connoissance qui explique une telle ou une telle loix Voyez Nicolaus de Passeribus De Reconciliationibus Legum. While I was at Campheire, towards the end of July 1667, I had occasion to sie the book writ by our banished ministers at Rotterdam and other places, and particularly by Mr. Macquaire[367] put ut in the years 1665, intituled 'An Apologetical Relation of the particular sufferings of the faithful ministers and professors of the Church of Scotland since August 1660, wherein severall questions useful for the tyme are discussed. The Kings praerogative over parliament and peaple soberly inquired into; the lawfulnesse of defensive war cleared; the supreme Magistrats powers in Church matters examined, Mr. Stellingfleets notion of the divine right of the formes of government considered; the author of the Seasonable Case answered: other particulars, such as the hearing of the curates, the appearing before the hy commission court., etc., canvassed, togither with the rise, raigne, and ruine of the former Praelats in Scotland, being a breiff accompt from History of the Goverment of the Church of Scotland from the beginning, and of the many troubles which Praelats have created to hir first and last, for satisfaction of Strangers and encouradgement of present sufferers by a weill wisher to the goud old cause. Then follows some places of Scripture, as Jeremias 50, ver. 34, Micah 7, ver. 9-10, Isay 51, ver. 22-23. [367] Robert Macquare wrote a postscript to the _Apologetical Relation_, etc., which was the work of J. Brown. A reprint in the _Presbyterian's Armoury_, vol. iii. (1843), is in the British Museum. In this book they traduce Spotswood, Archbishop of St. Androws, endeavoring to make him ridiculous, and empanelling him of falsehood in many places of his History, using to refute him the auctority of Buchanan, a auctor more suspected then himselfe. In their 4 section they prove the Marquis of Argyle most uniustly to have bein put to death the 27 of May 1661. The ground of his sentence they say in the 78 page to have bein that he was and had bein an ennemy to the King and his interests thesse 23 years or more bypast, which in effect (say they) is as much as give ye would say he had bein an active freind for the interest of Christ, making Gods interest and the Kings interest point blanc contrary, so that a freind to the one could not be but a ennemy to the other. The thing that more particularly the Parliament adhered to was his compliance wt the English and sitting in their Parliaments. But that this was not treason, and consequently not capable to take his life, they labor to prove by sundry particulars, first that the Lawyers themselfes (who best of any should know what treason is) complied, yea swore fidelity, to that government. They instance to his odium Sir John Fletcher, then Kings Advocate. 2dly, He was not guilty of compliance alon. Many members of Parliament sitting their to judge him war _conscii criminis_. 3dly, If compliance was treasonable and capable enough to put him to death, whey ware they so anxious to find out other grounds against him wheiron they might walk? 4ly, Whey was never on save this nobleman not so much as empanelled for this fault, much lesse put to death? Whow came it to passe that William Purves, who by complying had almost occasioned ruine to many noblemen, boroughs, and gentlemen, was absolved by a act of Parliament? Then their was never act of Parliament, nether any municipal Law, condemning necessesary compliance for life and liberty wt a conqueror, and for the good of the country conquered, as treasonable. Their was never a practick or _praejudicium_ in Scotland for it since it was a Kingdome. Bruce did never so much as quaestion his nobility that in Balliols tyme had complied wt Edward of England. Nixt the Royalists say conquaest is a just title to a croune. So Baleus[368] in his _Sacro-sancta Regum Maiestas_, cap. 17; but so be Cromwell conquered our country, ergo, he was our lawful governour and had just title to our croune. If so, whow could compliance and passive obedience to such a on be treason? In this he triumphs so, that he addes, let al the Royalists answer to this wtout contradicting themselfes if they can. No definition out of the civil Law can be brought of treason which wil comprehend necessary compliance; ergo, its no treasonable. Finally, we sie compliance to be the practise of all conquered nations, yet upon the alteration of government no body condemned for it. [368] John Bale, Bishop of Ossory, died 1563. In the end they appeal to al governours of states, Lawyers, casuists, politicians, canonists, and Quod-libetists, yea to Royalists themselfes, whither or no when a nation is broken in 3 or 4 battells, so that they can do no more, but are oblidged to take laws from the conqueror, wil it be treason to comply wt the ennemy for life and liberty, and when he is chosen by the country to go and sit in the conquerors judicatories (which priveledge _ex gratiâ_ he grants them), to sie the affairs of the Kingdom regulate, and sie to what wil be best for the good of the country. They persuade themselfes that all wil say this is no treason. Then subsume they, but such was Argiles compliance; ergo, for treasonable compliance he could not be put to death because not guilty of it. Then ye have a vindication of Mr. James Guthry,[369] execute 1 of June 1661, from the crimes layd to his charge wheirupon his sentence was founded. They say the crime was that some 10 years before, being challenged by the King for somthing spok over the pulpit, he declined his cognizance as a incompetent judge in ecclesiastical spiritual matters, which declinaturs be a act of Parliament, anno 1584, are discharged under the pain of hy treason; but this they contend was afterwards abrogated, so that they conclud him to have died a martyr for the truth against Erastian abomination. [369] Covenanting minister (? 1612-1661). In the 6 section ye have the zeal of that minister, who upon the Parliaments casting of the Covenant, pulling out a six pence, took instruments in the hands of the peaple and protested against all courses or acts in preiudice of the Covenant, for which he was banished. None of the banisht ministers could ever obtain a extrait of their sentence, which is a thing no judicatory ever refused. Nixt, because they could not banish them furder then from Scotland, they forged a bond to which they compelled the ministers to subscryve, wheirin they promised not to be found wtin any of his maiesties dominions under the pain of death; which they call cruel and unreasonable. Voetius they commend and cite often. Sharpe they call a betrayer of his bretheren, and a most unnatural sone of his mother church. Then the reasons whence they refuse to go to the prælats courts are rendred; whey they refuse collation and presentation of them, which they exclaime against as popish, foisting in its steed the peaples frie election. In France they know not moor foul. They have 2 sorts of excellent partridges. That we call the Lampre elle, wt us esteemed almost poison, wt them called la Lamprey, is a great delicacy. They are wery big. Follows some riddles. * * * * * [370] [370] Eight lines are omitted, containing four riddles with _double entendres_ which are grossly indecent without being witty. Sequitur Ænigmaticum quoddam epitaphium Bononia studiorum ante multa sæcula marmoreo lapidi insculptum: Ælia Lælia crispis, nec vir nec mulier, nec androgyna nec puella, nec juvenis nec anus, nec meretrix nec pudica, sed omnia; sublata neque fame nec ferro nec veneno sed omnibus; nec cælo nec aquis nec terra sed ubiqe iacet. Lucius Agatho Priscus nec maritus nec amator nec necessarius neque moerens, neque gaudens neque flens hanc neque molem nec pyramidem nec sepulchrum sed omnia, scit et nescit quid qui posuerit, hoc est, sepulchrum intus cadaver non habens, hoc est, cadaver sepulchrum extra non habens sed cadaver idem est et sepulchrum sibi. Bacon has write Apothegmes new and old, a litle book. A English curate said their was 3 things that annoyed man, and they began all wt a double w, win, women, and tobacco, but whow does tobacco begin wt a w, wil ye say: tobacco is nothing but a weed, which word begins wt a w. Another having read his text, sayd he had 3 things to tell them, the first thing he know and they know it not, and this was that under his gown he had a pair of ragged breitches; the 2d thing they know and he know it not, and this was, whither they would give him new ones or no; the thrid thing nether of us knows, and that is the true meaning of thir words: and thus out of the pulpit he went. Repasse Dom Alvare, repasse bien cxactement en ta memoire tous ces que tes yeux t'out fait voir de beau depuis que la suit de l'age les a rendus capables de faire une juste discernement des belles et de laides choses, et apres cette soigneuse recherche ne seras tu pas obliger de prononcer en faveur D'Aminte, et d'auoüer ingenument quelle est sans contredit la plus aimable et la plus accomplie personne que Nature ait jamais fait. Quelle grace n'a tu pas remarquée au ton de sa voix comme en ses paroles et ses beaux yeux; n'out ils pas beaucoup plus parlé que sa belle bouche? O qu'ils sont eloquens ces beaux yeux! qu'ils sont doux! qu'il sont pourtant imperieux, qu'ils ont de charmes et de Maiesté! qu'ils ont de charmes et de Maieste? qu'ils ont de feu! qu'ils ont de lumiere! et que leur eclat est brillant et dangereux! Vous dites tants de choses agreables que vous me fait venir l'eau a la bouche. Dissimulez aussi bien que vous voulez la mesche est deia eventée. Il n'y a gueres de fumée sans feu, iamais escritoire ne fut bonne espee, il vaut mieux tard que iamais. Il ne faut pas lire beaucoup, c'est a dire, il faut faire choiz des Auteurs et se les rendre familier. L'Histoire a bon droit est appelle le tesmoin des temps, le flambeau de la verité, la vie de la memoire, et la maistresse de la vie. L'occasion fait le Larron; for finding a thing in the way it temptes him to steall, it seing so faire a occasion. Pain coupé n'a point de maistre, whence a man seing bread cut, wheirof no man is as yet in possession, he may freely take hold of it as belonging to none or having no master. Chacune est fol de sa marotte: the crow thinks hir oune bird fairest. Chaque pais chaque coustume. Toutes choses ont leur season, qui premier nait premier paiste. The eldest feids first, insinuating the priveledges of primogeniture, which are great in France as also with us. Il faut prendre gard (saye the frenchman) d'une qui pro quo d'une Apotiquaire (as when in mistake he takes one pig[371] for another, or out of ignorance gives a binding thing for a laxative) d'une et caetera d'un Notaire (by which is taxed the knaveries of that calling), d'une dewant une femme, d'une derriere une mule, et d'un Moin de tout costes: thats to say, diligently. Of the man that undertakes the voyag to Rome, because of the great corruptions their, of which few can keip themselfes frie, the Frenchman sayes: Jamais bon cheval ni meschant homme ne s'amendist pour aller a Rome. When they would taxe on for being much given to lying, they say, Il est un menteur comme un arracheur de dents; for the tooth-drawers wil promise that they sall not so much as touch them almost, that they sal find no peine, when in the interim the peine wil be very sensible. Of one much given to study, they say, Il estudie tant que les rats scauroient manger ses oreilles. Who can approach such a glorious sun wtout being dazeled. [371] Earthenware vessel. The French are generally wery timorous on Sea, whereon he sayes, Je n'aime pas passer la ou le cheure[372] ne scauroit fermer ses pieds, hold its feet. The frenchman sayes that he hath heard qu'une grande riviere et un grand seigneur sont mauvais voisins. Vous serez bien venu comme une singe, mais point comme une renard. Chou pour chou, craft for craft. Patience abusé se tourne en fureur. Laughter compelled and bitter, as the Latins calles it, Risus sardonius, so the French sayes; Le ris d'hosteliers qui ne passe point le noeud de la gorge, because that hoasts and others of sick like stuffe laught ordainarly to please their ghests wt out any true affection to laught. The occasion of the Latin, Risus sardonius, as Erasmus explaines, is because of a Herbe called in Latin, Apium Risus, in French, Herbe de Sardagne, because it growes in great abondance in Sardinia, which no sooner eaten but it looseth and disiointeth al the nerves, so that the mouth falls wide open iust as give they ware laughting; yea in this posture they die. Thus the commentator on Du Bartas weeks, que dit un peuple dit un fol, who sayes a multitude sayes a fool. C'est tousiours plus mal-aisé de faire mal que bien, its easier to do a thing the right way then the wrong, as in opening a door. Il n'y a marchand qui gaigne tousjours. _Nemo ubique potest foelici_,[373] etc., its a good roost that drapes aye.[374] Of him that out of scarcity tauntes his neihbour wt the same scorne wt which he scorned him, the Frenchman sayes, il ne vaut rien pour prendre la bal a la seconde enleuement, at the 2d stot. He is a man of a 1000 crounes a year, l'un important l'autre, on way or other; its used also in drinking healths. Of a modest, learned young man, _cui contigit ante diem virtus_, they say, qu'il demente son menton, he belyes his chin. If one would know another weill he most try him and sus et sous la peau trinque [land][375] hachis hach, old French words used by Du Bartas. If ye demand him for a thing he hath eaten, he'el tel you, il est passé par la ville d'Angoulesme. Of a man that hath not spirit, they say, il est ni chair ni poisson; l'on moque de cela a la cour. Entre nous autres Gentils-hommes il n'y a point de bourgois, as give ye would say, among 10 whites their is not a black. [372] Chèvre, goat. [373] For _felici_. [374] Ferguson's _Scottish Proverbs_, p. 21: It's a good goose that draps ay. [375] Interlined. They put a gentleman and burgoise as opposites; he cannot be a gentleman if a burgoise; but he may become on and then he ceaseth to be a burgoise. I urged whither or no a gentlemans sone by becoming a burgoise was not stil gentleman; they sayd not, for by becoming bourgoise (he is called Roturier) he seimes to renounce his right of gentleman. Throw Germany they are thought so incompatible, that if a man can deduce himselfe, tho never so far fetcht, from gentlemen, he, tho he have no means and be like to starve, he wil not turne marchand or any other trade. Une harangue de Gascoigne is on courte et mauvaise, tho they have not the tongue and cannot manage it weil, yet they have ever manadged the sword weill, being brave sogers, and consequently horrid Rodomontades and boasters. Du Bartas tho was a Gascoin. They call a brothers sone in France neveu; our sones sone petit fils. A barren women in France they call very disdainfully une mulet: thus they termed Marguerit, King of Spaines daughter, Emperor Charles the 5 neice, Henry the 4ts queen, for a tyme, who cucolded him. We most never forget the 2 catalogues which served Pighoog[376] of so great use, on of all the fathers, the other of all the Haeresies; also the dron[377] and false Latin we fand in the Corpus Glossatum, Domine tanta, etc.; as also our rowing at the boat, Pighogs ...[378] and Piters falling on his back, his perruvick coming of; also our sports that night we studied the stars wt Mr. James, his griveous hat, and James of a low stature and William Ker had almost lost his hat, wt many others to be recalled to memory. [376] A nickname for somebody, perhaps a tutor or schoolmaster. [377] Have not found this word. [378] Three or four words erased. If we be demanded at any tyme to sing a song we may begin...[379] we would look to the company. If they be speaking of any song, we may say we have heard it song sweitly wt 3, 2 of them harkening and the 3d not opening his mouth. If we fall to be demanded to tell a story we may begin ...[380] that of him that called himselfe ...[381] If they be talking of wonders, we may say that their was a stone at Poictiers, which at every twelve howers it hard whirled about thrice. Also when togither wt any commorads and fall to in merrinesse to dance, at any pas in mockery we may say it was worth a 100 crouns. [379] Nearly a line erased. [380] Three or four words erased. [381] Two words erased. They have 3 proverbs in France: 1, save a thief from the gallowes and he'el be the readiest man to help you to it; 2, never commit your secrets to a woman, as to your wife; and 3d, a man sould not bourd[382] wt his masters. [382] Jest familiarly. One example sal verify all 3. In the tyme of Charles the great their was on that had a great wogue of learning and wisdome, to which man the King concredited his sone the Prince. One of the Princes attendants was taken in a roobery and condemned to the gibbet: the Prince and his master begged his life, and so saved him. To try the 2d byword, the master took his pupill the Prince to the Soan to bath, having bathed, he put him wtin a mil wt strait orders not to stir from that til he called for him. He comes home to his wife wt a feigned heady countenance, telling her wt a great deal of protestations for secrecy, that as he was causing the young Prince for his healths sake bath, he was perished. Tomorrow he pickt a litle quarrel wt his wife, before some company: she being angry wt him cost up the secret to him, so that it was immediatly conveyed to the Kings ears, who in a fury ordained that he sould be broken on the wheel. The usual executioners could not be found; yea, no other body that would supply his place, so generally was the man reverenced be all. The King enraged, offers 50 pistols to him that wil do the turne. None yet presents themselfes save only the theif he had saved from the gallowes. The childs gowernour having tried all that he desired, demanded licence to go bring the Prince safe, which he did to the admiration, wonder and gladness of all. He fand it was not good to play wt his superiors, as also he did who once taking of Charles the 9 beard in France took the boldnesse to sie that the Kings throat was in his reverence, was hanged immediatly, the King saying that his throat sould never be in his reverence againe. Also that nobleman who getting the King wtin that great cage that's to be sein at Chinon yet, in sporting said that he had the King at his reverence; its true, quoth the King, but let me out. He was no sooner out but he caused him be shut up in the cage, and suffered him to dy their for hunger wtout mercy. The story of K. James his fool may werify this same truth. The French sayes, _il n'est pas tant la qualité que la quantité de quelque chose qui fait mal_. Is it possible that the sun hath halfed his privilegde wt you; that as he communicated heatte to the inferior bodies wtout enioying any in his oune sphaere, so also can you ...[383] not heats but dazeles and mortally wounds all that approach you wtout being in the least touched yourselfe; no, pardon me, if I cannot beleive it. [383] Word erased. If I be spaired what sort of folks the French are, we may reply they are folk wt noses on their faces, and that like St. Paul never speaks but they open their mouth. Rapier and Miton[384] are French words. [384] _Mitten_. The French word has also other meanings. They have many othes in France. Jesus, Maria, and Nostre Dame are lawful oaths used by the Churchmen themselfes. Jarne[385] Diable is also lawful, as the Cordelier sayd in his preaching, Jarne Mahomet most also be lawful. They have a numbre of horrid ones, as ventre Dieu, teste Dieu, mort Dieu, ou mort blew Jarnec Dieu; cap de bious, a Gascoin oath, and verté chou, a great oath assuredly. [385] Corruption of _je renie_. Qui a bon voisin a bon mastin, he is as steadable to him as a good mastive. Charité bien reiglée commence a soy mesme. To the same purpose, le peau est nous plus cher que la chemise. Le chat aime le poisson bien, mais elle n'aime pas de mouiller ses pates. Ce qui vien de la fluste s'en retourne au son du tambour, Il woon soon spent; goods lightly gotten lightly slipes away. When ye would say that he knows not weil sick a man, vous n'avez iamais mangé un minot[386] de sel avec lui. Dite moy quelle companie vous avez frequenté, et ie vous diray vos moeurs. [386] A measure containing half a mine, equal to thirty-nine litres. A northern minister preaching on that, Esau sold to his brother Jacob his birthright for a morsel of pottage: base man that he was, quoth he, the belligod loune, sel his birth-right for a cog of pottage, what would he have done if it had bein a better dish. They alleadge that a Frenchman sould have sayd, that if our Saviour had a brother, the greatest honor he could put upon him would be to make him King of France. Anthoine le Bourbon, 1 protestant of the Kings of Navarre, having got a Capycin and a Minister together, he would have them dispute before him. The Minister began on the point of the crosse. Theirs a tree, sayd he, of the one halfe of it ye make a crosse which ye vorship, of the other halfe ye make a gallows to hang up a theif on. Whey carry ye respect for that peice ye make a crosse of, and no for that ye make the gibet of, since they are both of on matter? The Capycin seimed to be wery much pusled wt this. After a little pause he demands the Minister if he was married. Yes, that I am, what of it? quoth the M. Whow comes it to passe then, quoth the Capycin, that ye kisse your wifs mouth and not hir arse, whey have ye more respect for hir mouth then hir arse, since they are both of on mater? The Minister thought himselfe out; yea, King Anthony thought shame of him. Their was a minister of Fyfe of the name of Bruce that had a great gade[387] of ending promiscuosly his sermons, as, for example, he was telling on a tyme how the Beaver, being purshued hotly by the hunters, used to bit of his stones, the silly fellow, forgetting what he had to sy more, added, to which end, good God, bring us, as if he had sayd to bit of our stoons. He closed in that same sort once whow Judas hanged himselfe. Once as he was exhorting the peaple to beware of the Devil, who was a roaring and ramping lyon, etc., he added, to whom wt the father and the holy ghost be all honnor and glory for now and ever, amen. [387] Probably for 'gait,' way. One being asked whence came the antipathy that we find betuixt some beasts, as the dog and the hare, the Lizard (Ichneumon) and the crocodile, the sheip and the wolfe, and he replyed that it began wt the flood of Noah when they ware all in Ark together, that then the hare stol the dogs shoe from him, and that theirfor the dog ever when he sies him since runs efter him to get his shoe again. The Mythologists gives 2 reasons whey they[388] bloody bat flies under night, and compairs not on the day: the first is because of his defections from the birds when they ware in war wt the beasts; the 2d because beginning to marchandise he played banque route, whence he dare never be sein in the day for fear that his creditors take him wt caption. [388] Perhaps 'the.' The 'y' is indistinct, as if it was intended to be erased. This minds me of on at Edenborough, who being drouned in debt durst never pipe[389] out in the day light, but always under night. On a tyme coming by the fleschstocks of the Landmarket, a cleak[390] claughts a grip of his cloak, and holds him. He immediatly apprehending that it was some sergent or messenger that was arresting him, he cryes back as pittyfully, at whose instance, Sir; at whose, etc. [389] Peep. [390] Hook. A Minister of Bamf (as Mr. Mowat when I was at dinner once their reported it), being to give the communion, he had caused buy as much win as would serve for his parishioners. Whil the cup is going about, it falls to be ful on a strong, sturdy cloun that used not to drink win oft, and who was wery thristy; he gets the cup to his head; he never rested tel he had whistled it over. On of the Elders, seing what he had done, in a great anger cryes out, even the devil go doune wt it, for that might have geined[391] a dozen. [391] Gein or gane, sufficed for. Its reported of Gustavus Adolphus that he was used to say, that for ennemies he had to do wt a fool (which was Valstein, Duc of Fritland, one of the Imperialists generals, a cruell man and a foolish man, he thought to make himself Emperor; wheirupon at the Emperors instigation he was slain by our countrymen Leslie and Gordon: Butler would not do it), wt a soger (which was Pappenheim, a brave souldier, slain in that same battell of Lutzen that Gustavus was slain in), and a preist; which was Tilly who never wanted his chappelets of his arme, never missed a Messe, and boasted he never know a women. Many a brave Scotsman served in thesse wars of Germany (we most remember what he did to that tyran the Duc of Cleves), amongst others on Colonel Edmond,[392] a baxters sone of Stirleving. [392] Colonel Sir William Edmond. See _Scots Brigade in Holland_ (S.H.S.), vol. i. p. 577, where it appears that his father was a baker in Edinburgh. Colonel Edmond died in 1606. The Bischop of Munster, a merry man, wil cry whiles, _donnez moy trois grande verres de vin_, then, _c'est a la santé des mes trois Charles et Charles Seconds: Charles 2d D'Angleterre, Charles 2d D'Espaigne, et Charles 2d_ [sic] _de Suede_: this is wery remarkable. Philip, the 2d, Charles the Emperors son, had also a Charles, Prince of Spain, whom most barbarously he caused strangle, as Peter Mathieu reports it, tho Strada would dissemble it. We had several marks of the Spanish gravity in this Prince. When the news was told him of the great victory of Lepanto, woon over the Turks by his natural brother, Dom John of Austria (the way whow they made D. Jean know his quality is worth the knowing), generalissimo of the Christian forces, he would not appear to be moved wt the least joy, al he sayd was, _Dom Juan a beaucoup hazardé_. When the news was told him of the dissipation of his invincible Armado, commanded by the Duc of Medine Sidonia, he would not seim to be troubled wt it, all he sayd was, _j'ay envoyé une flote pour combattre des hommes non pas les vagues et les vents_. They reporte of the Queen of Suede when she was in France that she was wery curious to sie all the [brave][393] great men of the court, and amongs others to sy Mr. le Prince[394] who hes no great mine[395] to look to. On a tyme entering unto the roome wheir she was, some told her it was Mons'r le Prince. She, having contemplated him disdainfully, cryes out, _Esque la le prince de qui l'on parle tant_: he gied[396] his hat a litle, and payed hir wery weil back in her oune coin, _es que la la Reyne qui faict tant parler d'elle_. [393] Interlined. [394] Condé. [395] Mein. [396] Turned, cocked. The young Daufin of France, tho not yet 5 years old, gives great hopes of proving a brave man. As the King was removing from St. Germains to go to Fontainebleau, and they had taken doune the plenishing to carry and put up their, as the Daufin is coming thorough the roomes he begines to misse their hingers,[397] he spears what was come to them; they told him they ware carried to F'bleau. Hes not F'bleau, quoth he, furniture for it selfe of its oune; they replying no, _cela est vilain, cela est honteux, dit-il_. His answer was told to the King: he did laught and say, _il a raison, il a raison_. [397] Hangings, tapestry. They prove that a woman hes not a soul out of that of the 22 of Genesis, And all the souls of Abrahams house ware circumcised, but so be its certain the women ware not circumcised; ergo, they have not souls. Mr. Thomas Courty, preaching on that, be ye followers of Christ, sayd their was 4 sort of followers of Christ, the first was them that did not follow him at all, the 2 them that ran before him, the 3d sort of followers was them that went cheeky for chow wt him, the 4 was them that ware indeed behind him, but so far that they never could gett their eye on him. King James gave one of his daughters to the Count Palatin of the Rhin, Frederic, who was afterward chosen King of Bohemia in 1619, the States having declaired the nomination of the Archiduc Ferdinand afterwards Emperor nulle. This election was the occasion of thesse bloudy wars that troubled poor Germany from 19 to 48 wherin the peace of Munster was concluded. The Elector sent to King James desyring his assistance, who refused it (against his interest), wt this answer, I gave my daughter to the Palatin on the Rhin, not to the King of Bohemia. The Elector hearing this replyed, a man that marries the King of Englands daughter whey may not he be King of Bohemia. A Frenchman told me that he beleived when the devil tempted our Saviour to worship him by showing him al the Kingdomes of the earth and the glory of the samen, that the devil did put his meikle thomb upon Scotland to hide it from our Saviour for fear that having seen it sick a montanous, barren, scurvey country, he sould have conceaved a disgoust at all the rest.[398] [398] Montereul tells the same story. See his _Correspondence_ (S.H.S.), vol. ii. p. 513. [What follows is written at the end of book, and written the reverse way to the rest of the MS., the two writings meeting on the same page.] From Monsieur Kinloch, I have receaved first 100 livres at Paris; a bil for 150 at Orleans, another for 42; as also a third for 100 payed me by one Mr. Boyetet, marchand their. At Poietiers I have drawen on Francis for a 100 livres, of which I have receaved payment heir from Mr. Augier, marchand. I drow again for 200, out of which I have payed Mr. Alex'r 155 francks, whence their rests me about 46. In February 1666 I drow for 300f., out of which I payed 180 francks to my hoast; I lent 3 pistols to Mr. Alexandre, a escu to Mr. Grahme. * * * * * Claudes answer to the perpetuité of the faith 45_f_.,[399] Du Meulins Bouelier 30_f_., Hallicarnasseus 10 _f_., Hypocrates 5_f_. les Remarques du Droict Francois une escus, Fornery Selectionum llibri duo 6_f_., les bouffoneries des Guicciardin les lois usitees dans les cours des France de Buguion[400] acheptées dans le cemetiere des SSts Innocents. L'istoire universelle de Turcelin en 3 tomes 3_ll_., Le Parfaict Capitaine 20_f_., les oeuvres de Rabelais en deux tomes 1_l_. [399] f stands for sou; _l_ for livre. [400] Buguion, for Bourguignon. * * * * * In my voyage of Flanders I changed 2 Jacobuses and a carolus, amonting to some 30_ll_. To my hoste of Anvers, when I was going to Gand for 2 dayes and a night 6_11_. 5_f_., to the cocher for Gand 48_f_., for my diner by the way 9_f_. At Gand for going up on the belfroy 9_f_., to my hoste at the Cerf 4_ll_. 8_f_., for my place in the waggon coming back 42_f_., for diner wt that Suisse of Zurick 24_f_., to my hoste of Antwerp for a night 26_f_., for my place in the coach for Mardick 3_ll_., for my diner on the way 12_f_., for my supper 14_f_., to the master of the bark for Rotterdam 30_f_., for entry 6_f_., at the ...[401] house 7_ll_., for washing 12_f_. [401] A word here is illegible. The last part of it seems to be kerers. In Gold I have at present, 21 December 1665, 8 14 pound peices, 14 Caroluses, 10 of whilk I got from my father before my parting from Scotland, the other 4 remaines of 8 I exchanged wt Mony at London, besydes thir I have 3 other peices, which seime to be 10 schiling peices, wt 2 other lesser ones. I have a ring wt a 4 mark peice and a ii schilling peice. On of the 14 Caroluses is in 2 10 shiling sterling peices. I have but 13 Caroluses now. I changed on of them coming wt the messenger from Poictiers. In my voyage thorow Flanders for Holland, I spent 2 Jacobuses, so that I have no mo but 6 and a Carolus, so that I have no mo but 12; the Carolus at 10_ll_. 10_f_., the one Jacobus at Gand at 11_ll_. 10_f_., the other at Antwerp at 13_ll_.[402] [402] Half a page blank in MS. A breife account of my expenses from my taking horse at Edenborough, 20 of March til this present 11 of May 1665, according to the Scots account, and also after. First before my parture I got from my Father in Gold 10 Caroluses, or 20 shiling peices, 8 Jacobuses,[403] or 14 pound peices, wt 2 5 shil. peices, and as many 10. In money[404] I got first 50 shilings, then 60 halfe crounes, thats 30 crounes; and last I had my horse price, for which I got 5 pound and a croune to lift at London. Of my gold I spended none til I was in France, whence their remained only the silver mentioned to spend. Of this our journey to London spent 50 shilings, including also the 5 shilings I payed ut for the baggadge horse at Durham. At London of the silver resting, to wit, the 31 crounes and 5 pound sterl. I payed 9 pound of silver for 8 caroluses, whence they had 7 groats[405] of gain for every peice. This consumed the 30 crounes, a pound sterling and 2 crounes out of the horses price; so that for defraying my charges from my first arrival at London, on Saturday, April 1, til monday com 8 dayes, April 10, compleit 10 dayes, I had only the remaining mony wt in 4 pounds. Of which 20 shilings by that halfe day of posting to Dover was exhausted, comprehending also our expense for our meat, and in paying the postilion, for betuixt Gravesend and Rochester burn we payed halfe a croune; from it to Seaton, 14 miles (the former stage being but 7), 4 shillings; from it to Canterbury, 16 miles, 5 shilings; from Canterbury to Dover, 16 miles, 5 shillings: their was 17 of the 20 shil. At Dover, as dues we payed 4 shillings to that knave Tours; our supper at one Buchans was halfe a croune; our fraught throw the channell was a croune, and to the boat that landed us a shiling. [403] See Introduction, p. xliii. [404] i.e. smaller coin than gold; Fr. monnaie. The half-crown, 30s. Scots, 2s. 6d. sterling, was coined by James VI. [405] Groat (English), value 4d. No groat Scots had been struck since 1527, value l8d. Scots, or ijd. We landed at Calice on the Saturday morning, and stayed their til the Monday afternoone, spending much mony; so that from my arrival to London and my joining wit the messenger for Paris I spent 3 pound 10 shillings. Thus is all my silver, so that now I have my recourse to my gold, out of which I pay the messenger 40 livres to carry me to Paris, giving him 3 Caroluses, which according to the French rate roade 41 livres, 10 souse, whence 1 got 30 souse againe.[406] At Paris I changed [on]e carolus to pay Mr. Strachan and Mr. Hamilton, who on the rode in France had payed for me, as in the drink money, and in paying the messenger halfe a croune. [406] There seems to be a mistake here. Three Caroluses (20-shilling pieces) would be worth at their nominal value only 36 livres. But in France they did not fetch so much in exchange. If they were worth each 10_ll_. 10s., as the one he exchanged in Flanders (see p. 148), 30 livres to the messenger instead of 40 would make the calculation right. Thir ware all my expenses till I was answered of mony be Francis Kinloch, so that I find all my expenses betuixt Edinborough and Paris, wheir I arrived the 14 of April, to amount to 10 pound sterling give I count the peice I changed at Paris, to 9 only give I exclud it. All this being spent, on my demand F. advanced me 30 livres, 14 of which was spent on these books I bought at Paris, wheirof I have set doune the cataloge; 50 souse for a pair of halfe stockings; for a stamp, a comb, for helping[407] my whip and my pantons[408] I payed 10 souse; for a pair of gloves 18 souse; for vashing my cloaths 15 souse; a croune and a halfe among Mr. Kinloch's servants: theirs ane account of 23 livres out the 30. For the 7 other I can give no particular account, only it might be spent when I went in wt commorads, as when we went to drinke Limonade and Tissin, etc. At my parting from Francis I got 70 livres, which wt the former 30 makes a 100 livres. Of thir 70, 16 I payed to the messenger for Orleans, 4 livres baiting a groat for the carriadge of my valize and box, which weighted 39 pound weight, and for each pound I payed 2 souse. About a livre I spent in drinkmony by the way; another I gave to the messenger. Heir of my 70 livres are 22 gone. [407] Mending. [408] Slippers. Thus I won to Orleans. The fellow that carries my valize to Mr. Ogilvies gets 10 souse; at a breakfast wt Patrick Portues I was 30 souse. For books from my coming to Orleans til this present day, 11 of May, according to the Scots account, I have payed 8 livres; for seing a comedy 10 souse; for to helpe my hand in writting a croune; for dancing a croune in hand, the other at the moneths end; for to learn me the language I gave 2 crounes. To the maister of the law Im to give 11 livres 8 souse; for a supper wheir Mr. Ogilvy payed out for us 3 livres. This being all ramasht[409] togither it comes to 62 livres, so that of the 70 only 8 are left. Out of thes 8 I payed 4 livres 10 souse for a pair of clesps, whence rests only 3 livres 10 souse. I pay 24 souse for one vashing of my linnens, and 20 souse at a four hours wt James Hunter. Thus ye have ane account of all 100 livres I got from F. Kinloch til 26 souse. Ut of the mony mentioned I payed also 3 livres 5 souse for a pair of shoes. [409] Ramashed, ramassé. About a moneth after I had bein in Orleans Francis sent me a bill for a hundred and 50 livres on on Boyetet, marchand their. Out of whilk I immediatly payed Mr. Ogilvy for the moneths pension bypast 55 livres; for to teach me the language for the moneth to come 6 livres; for 2 washings of my linnens 40 souse, so that out of my 150 livres are 63 gone, whence remains 87 only. Francis, at Mr. Ogilvyes order, payed at Paris 42 livres. which Mr. Ogilvy was to refound to me: this sal pass as part of payment in the 2d moneths pension. Out of the 87 remaining I have to pay Mr. Le Berche a pistoll; Mr. Schovo 6 livres, whence their are only 70. For a pair of stockings 5 livres; for a wast belt 2 livres; for mending my silk stockings 25 souse, for washing my linnings 17 souse; so that now their remains only 60. Thir 60 livres put wt that 46 livres Francis payed at Paris, and was to be refounded to me, makes 96 livres, which Madam Ogilvyes extravagant compt for my 2d moneth, and my 6 dayes above (being) pension wholly exhausted, for first I payed 85 livres, and then for the drink that I had that night I took my leave of the gentlemen their a pistoll most shamelessly. This put me to write for a bil of another 100 livres, of whilk I receaved payment, paying out of it againe 30 souse to him that carried me from Orleans to Blois; to my host at Blois I payed 5 livres 10 souse, paying, to wit, for the victualls I took in wt me for the following day; to the fellow that carried from Blois to Saumur, 2 dayes journey, a croune; at Tours I was 36 souse; at Saumur, wheir I was 2 dayes, I was 7 livres 10 souse; to the fellow whose horse I had, and who bore my charges from Saumurs to Poictiers, 17 livres; to him who took us throw Richelieu Castle 20 souse; to the messenger that brought my box a croune; to Madam Garnier for the 8 dayes I was wt hir a pistoll, to hir maid 15 souse; for a pair of linnen socks 18 souse. Thir be all my considerable expenses til this present day, July last: all which ramassed wil amount to 53 livres, but in some places I most have heighted, for give so then I sould have only 47 of my 100 resting, when I have about 50 at present. Out of thir 50 I have payed 12 francks for a Corpus Juris; 4 francks for a Vesenbecius; 20 souse for a litle institutes, which ramassed makes 17 livres, whence their only remaines me 33: out of thir for a supper wt Mr. Alexander and all the rest of our compatriots above 18 livres; whence at this present August 5 rests with me about 14 livers 10 souse. Out of thir I have payed 18 souse for the lean[410] of Romances from Mr. Courtois, as Celie and the sundry parts of Almahide, penned by Scuderie; 50 souse for a pair of showes; 25 souse for our dinner one Sabath communion wt Colinton and Peter Hoome in the fauxbourgs; 8 souse for cutting my head; 5 souse on a pair of carts; about 10 souse on paper and ink; for washing 30 souse; so at this present first of September I have not full 7 livres. I have payed 40 souse or 2 livres for a pair of gallozes;[411] 5 souse for a quartron of peches; 5 souse to Charlotte, whence I have little more then 4 livres; 30 souse at a collation. [410] Loan. [411] Braces. When I was reduced to thir 3 livres, then I was answered of my bill I drow on Francis Kinloch for a 100 livres. Out of which I payed 15 livres for 2 halfe shirtes, but because we had 3 livres of old mony we shall call it only 12; 2 livres for 2 gravates; 60 livres to Mr. Daillié, whence I have about 25 livres. Out of thir 25 I have payed 3 livres to Mr. Rue, wt whom I began to dance, September 10, 1665; 20 souse at the tennis; 5 or 6 for lettres ports; 20 souse for a horse hire; 6 or 7 souse I was put to dispurse that day; 3 livres for washing my linnings; 8 souse sundry wayes; 5 souse on a quartron[412] of dragées[413] or sweityes, which are 20 sos. the livre; 3 souse on a peice stuffe, 2 sousemarkies[414] to Lowise;[415] 5 souse for ports; 8 souse to the Barber; 10 souse for a bottle of win to my C.;[416] 4 francks lost at carts; 34 souse at a collation after supper, when we wan all the fellows oubliés,[417] and made him sing the song; a escus to Mr. Rue; a escus for dressing my cloaths; une escus for wasching; [8 frank 5 souse for my supper the night of St. André; 10 souse wt Mad'm and others at the Croix de Fer].[418] Thus is al that rested me of thesse 200 francks, the first mony I drow at Poictiers gone. [412] Quarteron, quarter of a livre (pound). [413] Sugar almonds. [414] _Sous marqué_. See p. 92, note 1. [415] _Probably_ a maidservant at M. Daillé's. [416] 'My C.' has baffled me. [417] See p. 114, note 6. The meaning here is obscure. I can only conjecture that the party made a wager of some kind with the pastrycook's man for his cakes. See p. 114, Note 6. [418] Erased in MS., but legible. Then beginning of Novembre I drow 200 livers. Out of which I payed Mr. Alex're 155_ll_, whence there rests wt me 46 francks, of which I have payed 8 francks 5 souse for my part of that supper we had the night of St. André; 12 souse wt Mr. D. and others at the Croix de Fer; 8 souse to the Barbier; 12 souse for a pair of gloves; 21 francks to Mr. Daillie; 15 souse on Romances; 15 souse to Garniers man; une escus on the 1 day of the new year as hansel, les estraines to Rue, Biron, and Violet for their musick; 27 souse in collation to my countrymen that same day; 4 sousmarkies the Sabath I communicated at Quarter Picquet, being the 3 of January 1666; 52 sous markies on Nöels. When I had about 40 souse, I borrowed a Pistol from R. Scot, After I payed a croune[419] for the port of my cloack from Paris; 12 souse for win that night that Grame payed us his Royaute wt Frontignan and Enschovo'es. My oune Royauté cost me 30 souse on a good fat bresil cook and 8 on wine; 15 souse on a iockleg,[420] my Scots on being stolen from me; 5 souse on a inkhorn, my Scots on breaking wt a fall; 8 souse to the Barbcr. About the mids of January 1666, for a pair of shoes, which ware the 4 pair I had made since my leiving of Scotland, March before, a croune; to Mr. Rue a croune; to Madame Marie for my last washing 30 souse; at a collation 30 souse. [419] See Introduction, p. xliii. [420] Folding-knife. Etym., Jacques de Liege, cutler. About this tyme I receaved 3 crounes in lain[421] from Alex'r Home that same night that Mr. Mompommery was headed; 6 souse on a bottle of wine; 7 souse at another tyme; 15 souse at the comoedy; 3 souse for my chair; 18 souse at another comoedy; une escus to Mr. Rue the 20 of February; 20 souse at a comoedy, called Les Intrigues des Carosses a Cinq Sols, the farce was La Femme Ruse ou Industrieuse; 15 souse for mending my sword. [421] Loan. About the end of February I was payed of a bil of 300_ll_. I had drawen. Out of which I payed first a 130f. to my host; then lent 3 pistols, halfe a Pistol and 2 crounes to Mr. Alexander; out of it a croune to Grahme; 30 souse for a peice concerning Monting a Cheval, presented me by the Author of the samen; 10s. for mending stockings; a croune at a desjeuner wt Georges Sinclar and other 2 countrymen, coming from Bordeaux going for Paris; 30 souse to Mr. Rue; 20s. at a collation; a croune for La Perpetuité de la Foy; 30 souse on a collation in the fauxbourgs wt Mr. Bourseau; 30 souse lost at the fair on China oranges and cordecidron; 20 souse for le Capychin Escossois;[422] 30s. to Rue; 34 souse at a collation wt him; 40s. at another wt De Gruches and Ingrande; 40s. for une Voyage de France. That which remained of these 300_ll_. went away partly on my hoast, partly on my adieus, which stood me wery dear, and partly in paying the messenger for Paris (I payed 50_ll_.). [422] Father Archangel Leslie. It suffices to know that on my arriving to Paris I was wery light of mony, whence I borrowed from Mr. Kinloch some 20 crounes, of which I bestowed some 13_ll_. on books, thus, on some comoedies about 20 souse, on Scarrons Virgil travestis 20s., on Pacij Centuria[423] 30s., on Robertus rerum Judicatarum[424] 30s., on the Voyage de la Terre Saincte[425] 30s., on Laertius[426] 8s., on a new testament 50s., on Du Moulins Bouckler[427] 30s., on Mr. Claudes Answer[428] 45s., whence their remaines me about 47_ll_. Out of which I first payed neir 4_ll_. for a pair of shoes; 20s. that day I communicated at Charenton to the boatmen, the poor, and my seat; on day wt Mr. Forbes it cost me in a cabaret a croune, and Scot keipt up a escu dor, which was 5_ll_. 11 souse.[429] The day after at the bowlls I lost 4_ll_.; then I payed for Limonade 3_ll_. 20s.; then after 4_ll_. 10s. which I lost at bowlls; for a point de Flandres 15_ll_. Whence of the 60_ll_. their remains me only 6, to which add 5 I receaved from the Messenger of Poictiers, and I have just a pistoll this 5 of May 1666, of which I lent a croune to Mr. Grahme; then payed 50s. for a collation wt Kinloch, Mowat, and D. Hewes; also 50s. for a part of a collation; I payed 6 francks wt my L. Ogilvy at a collation; 30s. at another tyme wt J. Ogilvy; 20 souse on a Hallicarnasseus[430] and a Hippocrates; and that out of 38 livres I receaved from F. Kinloch the 10 of May, so that this day 16th I have now 30 francks. On Les Remarques du droit Francois a croune. That day I went to Ruell a pistol; on my journey to Fountainbleau 2 crounes of gold. On the Parfaict Capitaine and the universal history, in 3 tomes, 4_ll_. [423] Pacius, Julius, [Greek: ENANTIOPhANON], _seu legum conciliatarum Centuriae_ VII. (1605). Ed. alt. 1610. [424] Robertus, Annaeus, _R.J._, Lib. iv. 1599; new ed., 1645. [425] Doubdan, Jean, _Voyage_, etc., 1666. [426] Diogenes Laertius. [427] Molinaeus, Petrus, _Bouclier de la Foi_, 1619. Engl. tr. 1624. [428] Claude, Jean, _Réponse à la Perpétuité de la Foi_, 1665. [429] _Ecu d'or_. See Introduction, p. xliii. [430] Dionysius of Halicarnassus. On the 10 of June I receaved 20 crounes. Out of which I payed first 4_ll_. for Rablais in 2 tomes; 40s. at collation wt that Frenchman of the Kings Gard; 30s. the day after wt the Captains; 30s. wt J. Ogilvie; 6_ll_. for Mornacius observations;[431] 3_ll_. for Guiccardins[432] History, in 2 volumes; 40s. for Gomesii Commentarius in Regulas Cancellariæ and Le Martyre de la Reyne d'Escosse;[433] 20s. for Bellon[434] Resolutiones Antinomiarum and Molinoei Sommaire des rentes, usures, etc.; Molineus in Consuetudines Parisienses 50s.; Connani Commentarius in Jus Civile 40s.; Mantica de coniectur: ult. voluntatum[435] 60s.; Hottomanus[436] in Instit 30s.; Molinoei consilia 40s.; Menochius de Interdictis 40s.; Valerius Maximus 10s.; L'histoire du Concile de Trente 5_ll_.; Gellius[437] 10s.; Cepolla[438] de Servitutibus 50s.; les Memoires et le voyage du Duc du Rohan 40s.; Profession de foy catholique 12s.; Le Monde D'Avity,[439] in 5 Tomes, 8 crounes; Aubignées History[440] 4_ll_.; Pierre Mathieu his history, in 2 tomes, 3_ll_.; Du Plessis Memoires, in 2 volumes, 3_ll_. At a breakfast wt Mr. Fullerton 3_ll_.; at a collation wt Mr. Ogilvy 3_ll_.; 2 crounes given to the box of the Scots Talzors at Paris; 30s. given to sy the gallery of the Luxembourg; 40s. at a collation wt Mr. Hume and Grame; a croune on our diner that day that Mr. Geismar went to Charenton wt us; 4_ll_. for Munsteri Cosmographia; Thucydides 40s.; Desseins de Mr. de Laval 30s.; in collation wt that Gascon of the Kings garde (called St. Martin); Machiavellus 10s.; Justini Historia 5s.; Histoire du Seicle de fer 20s.; Les oeuvres de du Vair 40s.; Le Sage resolu, in 2 tomes, 40s.; Cardanus de Subtilitate 60s.; Histoire de Portugal 20s.; Tacitus 20s.; Remarques politiques from Henry Hamilton for a compend of Philosophy of Marandé[441]. [431] 1 Mornacius, Ant., _Obs. on Codex_. (1654), _on Digest_ (1654). [432] Guicciardini, Francesco, _Historia di Italia._ [433] Blackwood, Adam, _Le Martyre_, etc. [434] Bellonus, Joannes, _Antinomiarum Juris Dissolutiones_. Lugduni, 1551. [435] Mantica, Fr., _De Conjecturis_, etc., 1580. [436] Hottomannus, Fr., _Commentarius_, in iv. lib.; _Inst_., 1567. [437] Aulus Gellius, _Noctes Atticae._ [438] Cepola or Caepolla, Barth, _Tract, de Serv._ [439] Avity, Pierre d', _Les estats, empires, etc., du monde_. [440] Aubigné, Th. A., _L'histoire universelle._ [441] Marandé, Léonard de. _Abrégé curieux el familier de toute la philosophie_, 1648 and 1686. On the 14 of July 1666 I packt up al my books in a box to send them for Dieppe, and to the end they might not be visited any wheir else, I caused them be carried to the Douanne of Paris, which is the controoller of all others, and by which if things be once visited none in France dare efter offer to visite them. Their it stood me a croune or 3_ll_ to cause remballe it; 10 souse to cause plomb it wt the King of Frances armes; 30s. for a passeport. They lightly looked over the uppermost books. Then I caused it be carried to the Chassemary of Dieeppe. I gave the porte faix 20s.; 15s. for a Italian grammer; 5s. for Mureti orationes; 12s. to the Secretary of Sts. Innocents; 40s. for Sleidan; 30s. for Fabri rationalium Tomus jus;[442] for 4 volumes of de Thoues History 40s.; for Aschames lettres 10s.; for Le cose meravigliose della cita de Roma 8s.; for Pierii Hieroglyphica 50s.; for Harangues out of al the Classicks authors 50s.; to Schovo for a moneths dancing ii. _ll_.; 3_ll_. 10s. for a pair of shoes; 3_ll_. for sundry washings. [442] Primus. About the 28 of July I receaved some 56_ll_. in 10 golden crounes.[443] Out of which I have payed for Lucians Dialogues, le Tresor de St. Denis, Bodinus de specibus Rerum publicarum, Essex's instructions for a Traveller; 24s. for Oudins Italian Grammer; 5_ll_. for Index expurgatorius; 10s. for exames des esprits in 2 volumes; 30s. for Brerevood of sundry religions; 20s. for a Enchiridion Physicae restitutae for Mr. Fullerton; 20s. for a book of fortifications, not the Jesuit Fornevers; 3_ll_. for 6 carts, 70 for 3_ll_. 10s. I had payed for 4 volumes of Thou 40s.; heir again for other 4 I pay 60s.; for Scuderies discours de Rois 15s.; Itinerarium Hollandicum 15s.; 4_ll_. on a collation to Captaine Rutherford, etc.; 16s. for my breakfast wt Mr. Samuel Fullerton coming from the bastile; a white croune and a croune of gold...[444] 30s. for washing; 14s. at collation wt that Englishman Mr. Waren, his addresse in London was Towards Street, at Mr. Carbonells; 20s. lost playing under the hats; for Mr. Morus his poeme a croune; for a new testament a croune; for the State of France and of Germany, in 4 volumes 5_ll_.; to Mr. Fullerton for his Botero[445] a golden croune; for a purse at the faire of St. Laurens 20s., and that out of 10 crounes borrowed from Mr. Kinloch, 12 of August; 2 crounes given in drink monie; 8s. on fancies for the children; 21s. on a collation wt William Paterson; 7_ll_. for a trunck valise. [443] This gives the value of the _écu d'or_ at 5_ll_. 10s. See Introduction, p. xliii. [444] A few words erased. [445] Bolero, Giovanni, author of several treatises of political philosophy and history towards the close of the sixteenth century, some translated into English. Then to do my voyage a 100_ll_.; 38 given for my place in the coach to bruxells; for my diner at Louure 25s.; supper at Senlis 16s.; diner at Pons 16s.; supper at Conwilly 24s.; diner at Marchele peau 10s.; supper at Peronne 18s.; supper at Cambray 28s.; diner at Valenciennes 24s.; super at Kivray 20s.; diner at Mons 24s.; super at Bremen 24s.; diner at Hall 24s.; to the cocher 24s.; to our escort 7_ll_. At Bruxelles, for taking of my beard 9s.; for seing the Palais 40s.; for 6 dayes to my hostesse 10_ll_.; for my horse to Enguien 3_ll_.; for my diet their 3_ll_.; for washing, also for mending my shoes, 30s.; for my place in the bark of Anvers 20s.; for carrieng my things ther 12s.; for the removing them from bark to bark 18s.; for my diner their 33s.; for seing the citadelle of Anvers, wt some other smaller things, 18s. Thus goes the 100_ll_. II NOTES OF JOURNEYS IN LONDON, OXFORD, AND SCOTLAND, 1667-1672 AND OTHER PAPERS (1) NOTES OF JOURNEYS IN ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND, 1667-1670. A CONTINUATION OF SOME TRAVELLS. Sie 2 volumes in 4'to relating to the same subject _alibi_. The peace[446] was proclaimed at Camphire[447] the 3 of September, stylo novo, 1667, as also at Flusing: at Middleburg not til the 5, because their market day: their feu's de joy ware on the 7. [446] The Peace of Breda between Charles II. and the United Provinces was signed on 31st July, but the ratifications were not exchanged for some weeks. [447] Campvere, now Vere, a town in the island of Walcheren. Tervere (Der Vere) is the same place. I left Tervere the 5't, came to Flessinque; wheir we lay by reason of contrary winds til the 12, on which morning it was at south south east. Our skiper, a honest fellow, was called Tunis Van Eck. Coming out without the head,[448] whither by the wind or negligence of the marinels I know not, we dasht upon it which strake a lake in our ship wery neir my arme long. All ware wery afraided of drouning; only being neir the toune, a carpenter, a most lusty fellow, came and stoopt it wery weill; wheirupon we followed the rest and overtook them ere night, at which tyme the wind turned contrary upon us to south west, so that the 15 day at night being Thursday we was come but a litle abone Gravesend; wheirupon I advised Mr. Chiesly that we should hive of[449] the first boat should come aboard of us to carry us that night to London, which we did, and arrived ther tho late. Lay at the Black Bull in Bischopgate Street. Nixt day took a chamber in New Street neir Covent Garden at halfe a croune the week. Went to the Court, wher afterwards I fand Mr. Sandilands, Mr. Wallace, Mr. Lauder, C. Rutherfurd and a brother of his, Mr. John Chrichton, who was then with my Lord Drummond, Mr. Claude, etc., Henry Hamilton, who was win in to the Kings garde, P. Wans, Mr. Metellan, Mr. Don, Mr. Kirkwood, Mr. Ker my Lord Yesters man, D. Burnet, Mr. Johnston, etc.; kissed my Lord Lauderdales, Yesters, and the Provests hands; saw Sir William Thomsone, Collonel Bortwick, etc. Mr. Smith who was Mr. Simpsones man came over from Holland. [448] Headland, or point. [449] Off, so spelt usually by Lauder. Having stayed a fourtnight in New Street I came to my aunts,[450] M'ris Inglishes, house, wheir having stayed some 8 dayes, I took place in the coach for Oxford the last of September, being a Monday, at Snowhil neir Hoburne. Payed 10 shillings. Oxford is 47 miles from London. Saw Tyburne, under which layes the body of Cromwel, Ireton, and some others; saw that post to which they rode that would have any who ware hanged. I saw also the Chancellors house,[451] Dunkirke or Portugall, directly against S't James, a very magnificent building with a great park adjacent. [450] I have found no particulars about this lady. [451] Clarendon House, built by Lord Chancellor Hyde, was on the north side of Piccadilly, facing St. James's Palace. It was called by the populace Dunkirk, suggesting that Clarendon had got money from the Dutch for the sale of Dunkirk, and Tangier, the dowry of the Portuguese princess, Catherine of Braganza, for his share in her marriage to the king, which was barren. See _Pepys's Diary_, 14 June 1667. A gibbet was set up before the gate 'and these three words written, three sights to be seen: Dunkirke, Tangier, and a barren Queen.' Nixt we came to Oxbridge,[452] a toune 15 miles from London, wheir was their fair of rattles and other toyes for children. Their was also a market of horse and of cattell, for the most part come out of Wales. 7 miles further is Beconsfields, a village wheir we lay all night at King Charles his head. The host is a Scotsman called Hume; was made prisoner at Worcester. We was their but[453] that merchands wife that was going to sie hir child at Abinton (wheir is a braue market cross), M'r Lo, professor of Musick in Oxford, and I; the other 3 women ware at the Swan. Supper and breakfast stood me 4 shillings. [452] Now Uxbridge. [453] 'We was there but,' _i.e._ There were at our inn only. Nixt morning being the 1 of October we came to East Wickam,[454] a very pretty toune; then to West Wickam, being 5 miles; then to Stockam Church, 3 long miles; heir we walked doune a steep hil; then came to Whately;[455] nixt to Oxford, the whole journey 25 miles. I lodged at the Miter, a wery civill house. Calling at Exeter Colledge for Mr. Ackland, to whom I had a letter from Mr. Sprage at Leide,[456] I found he was gone unto his oune country of Devonshire. [454] Now High Wycombe. [455] Now Wheatley. [456] Leyden. Nixt morning I went and visited the booksellers shops. At last lighted upon on[457] almost forgainst Oriel Colledge at the back of Christs Church ['called him Mr. Daves'[458]], who had a most rich and weill furnished shop worth all the rest. Their I found the Heroe of Lorenzo and Arrianus, also Tyraeus _de apparitioni_.[459] _et demoniacis_. He had lately sold a Lesly. [457] One, as usual. [458] Interlined. [459] Contracted for _appartionibus_. After diner came Mr. Lo to me with a young gentleman who stayed at his house. He took me first thorough Lincolne, Exeter, and Jesus Colledges, then to their publick schooles, a magnificent building, wheir for all the arts and sciences their is a scool. [Illustration] Heir also is that library so famous, and undoubtedly the greatest of the World, the Vatican excepted, and that but of late since the augmentation it got by that of Heidleberg. The forme of it is the rarest thing heir be the incredible multitude of manuscripts never printed which they have gathered togither with a world of paines and expence, and gifted to the University. As their is their the gift of Archbischop Laud consisting of a multitude (vid. 2400) of manuscripts in all languages, as weill Eastern as Western. Their be all Sir Kenelme Digbies books, togither with Seldens, about which their ware a controversy in law. In his last will he gifted his books to the University, wheiron it was demanded whither Cambridge or Oxford was meant. Oxford carried it first because he was an alumnus of this University; nixt, because sundry tymes in his life tyme he had told some friends that he would leive them to Oxford. All the lower are chained; none can have the permission to read till he hath given an oath to the Bibliothecarius that first he shall be faithful to the Universitie; nixt, that he shall restore what books he receaves and that intier not torn. The papists gave occasion to this who under the prætext of reading maliciously tore out any thing that they judged nervously to conclude against themselfes: otherwise its disadvantageous to strangers who come but for a short tyme and have the curiosity to sie a book. They have a Catalogue, not, as others, _ordine alphabetico_, but according to the order they ware gifted in: if it was money left then their be the names of the books bought theirwith. Their are the maniest Theologicall books of all other, a great many in both law, _Corpus Glossatum,--Tractatus Tractatuum_ Venetiis 1584, _Vasquius_ 2 tomes, etc. Of[460] one of the ends of the Library goes up a pair of stairs unto a very fair and spatious gallery whither the students retire to refreshe themselfes with walking after reading. [460] Off, as usual. The walls are all hung with pictures of the most famous men both of their oune country and abroad, as weell moderne as ancient. Mr. Digby is drawen lik a old philosopher. The roof is al painted alongs with the armes of the University, wheir most artificially and couched up[461] in sundry faschions the name of him who built the gallery, Thomas Bodley. I saw a great many pretty medals wheirof they had 2 presses full. Their be also J. Cæsars portrait brought from Rome by a gentleman. [461] Couched up, disposed, laid on (like embroidery). See Murray's _New English Dict._, s.v. A litle below the Library is the Anatomy house, not altogither so weill furnished as that of Leiden: sundry anatomies of men, women, children, and embryoes. On man hes a great musket shot just in his breast, yet he did not dy of it but afterwards was hanged; a mans skin tanned sewed on straw, seimes like a naked man; the taille of an Indian cow, its white, wery long, at least in a dozen of sundry peices; the skines of some hideous serpents and crocodils brought from America and Nilus; a mans scull with 4 litle hornes in its front, they ware within the skin while he was alive; another cranium all covered over with fog which they told me was of great use in medicine; sea horses or sharpes[462] skins; a Indian kings croune made of a great sort of straw, deckt all with curious feathers to us (some being naturally red, some grein, etc.) tho not to them--they despise gold because they have it in abundance; a ring intier put in thorow a 4 nooked peice of wood, and we cannot tell whow; a stone as big as my hand, folded, taken out of a mans bladder, another lesse taken out of ones kidneyes. We saw that the crocodile moved only his upper jaw. [462] Sharpe, so written, query sharks. From this we went to a house wheir we drank aromatik, then to New Colledge, a great building. In the tyme of the plague the king lodged in the on syde and forrein embassadors on the other. They wer the French for gifting them a poringer worth 5 pound; but it was just at the tyme his Master declared war against England so that he went away in a fougue[463]. Went up to their hall, a pretty roome. Above the chimly is the Bischop that founded it; under him stands other 2 that ware each of this foundation, afterwards Bischops; and each of them built a Colledge, n, Marlan[464] and Lincolne. Saw the Chappel, the richest of Oxford; brave orgues,[465] excellent pictures, one of the resurrection, done by Angelo the Italian, just above the altar. [463] Rage. The sentence is obscure. Apparently the French ambassador intended to present the college where he was entertained with a piece of plate, when a rupture between the sovereigns occurred. [464] Merton, distinctly Marlan in MS. He had written it by the ear. Apparently it was pronounced Marton. Merton was founded before New College. [465] Organs. Just back from France, Lauder uses the French words _fougue_ and _orgue_. From this we went to Christs Church, the greatest and richest Colledge of them all, founded by Henry the 8't, or rather Cardinal Wolsie, who had wast designes had they not bein chookt. Their belonged to this Colledge by his gift lands thorough all England so that the students ['fellows'][466] ware as good as Lairds. The King took this from them and gave them pensions for it. Heir I went in to the Chappel with Mr. Lo, who is their organist, and hard their evening prayers, not unlike the Popish: saw the Bischop of Oxford and Vice Chancelor (for Hyde is Chancelor) of the University. [466] Interlined. By the means of that young student Mr. Lo recommended to me saw their Library, considerable for a private one. They have all the Counsels in 6 brave gilded tomes. They have a flint stone wery big in the one syde wheirof ye sie your face but it magnifies; a great stone congealed of water, another of wood. From that he led me to their kitchin; wheir ware 3 spits full of meat rosting (sometymes they have 7 when the Colledge is full). Then he took me up to the dining hall, a large roome with a great many tables all covered with clean napry. Heir we stayed a while; then the butler did come, from whom he got a flaggon of beir, some bread, apple tarts and fleck pies,[467] with which he entertained me wery courteously. Then came in a great many students, some calling for on thing and some for another. Their are a 102 students in this Colledge besydes Canons and others. [467] Suet puddings.--Murray's _New English Dict._ At the back of Christs Colledge is Oriel Colledge. Its a great building built by King Edward the 2'd, even when Ballioll was built. Above the inner gate stands King Charles the I. on horseback; then towards the broad street is the University Colledge, the oldest of all thesse in Oxford, founded by Alfred, a Saxon King, and long efterwards repaired, or rather erected (for the first buildings be like to fall about ones ears), by Percy of Northumberland. Over forgainst it is All Souls, wheir is a pretty chappell with a rare picture of the resurrection. From that to Queans Colledge, built long ago by on of their queans. Whiles they ware a laying the foundation they found a great horne (they know not weill of what beast), which since they have enchassed in silver and propine to strangers to drink out of. Their chappell is remarkable for its windows; in them ye have represented all the actions of our Saviour from his birth to his aschension. I saw Brazennose Colledge and Marlan[468] Colledge, also Balliols Colledge, which is not so pittiful and contemptible as many would have it. Before the utter gate is a pretty pallisade of tries. Within the building is tolerable; in their dining roome be battered[469] up Theses Moral, political, and out of all the others sciences. Nixt to it be Trinity Colledge. It hath 2 courtes: the inner is a new building. Not far from this are they building the stately Theater of cut stone for their Comoedyes. [468] See p. 171, note 3. [469] Pasted. Nixt day I went to the Physick Garden not far from Marlan Colledge. The gardener (a German by nation) gave me their printed Catalogue of all the hearbs, which may be about some 7000 in all. I have also some verses he gave me made on thesse 2 fellows thats keips centry, as it were, just as ye come in at the garden door; their menacing face is of timber; all the rest with their speir is artificially cut out of bush. They have also swans and such lik curiously cut out of the phileria. I saw the sensitive plant; it shrinked at my touching it, tho it was then excessively cold. Saw the tobacco: of the leives dryed they make it as good as that they bring from Spain, Virginia, Martinigo or elsewheir, if they had enough of it, and the entertaining of it ware not to costly; hence the Parliament discharges the planting of it. Saw African Marigolds, the true Aloes trie; all the wals cloathed with wery big clusters; tall cypruses, Indian figs, etc. The students can enter when they please. On the Thursday 3 of October at night went and took my leive of Mr. Lo. Nixt morning having payed my host 5 shillings in all (which made me admir the cheapnesse of the place, fire only being dear since the Kings army was their, who cutted all its woods about) about 10 a cloak bad adieu to Oxford watered with the lovely Thames tho wery litle their; it receives at that place the Isis whence Thamesis. In the coach was D. Willis his cheif man, a pretty physitician himselfe, going in to his Master, whom the Quean had caused come to London; a apothecary who also sold all kinds of garden seeds, and for that effect had bein at Oxford, P. Nicoll had oftnen traffiqued with him; a goldsmith's son in the Strand and his sister, and an old crabbed gentlewoman, tho she seimed to be of quality. When we walked up the hill at Stockam Church he showed me a number of pretty hearbs growing by the hedges syde. He confessed to me that tho they had a verie glorious utsyde, yet if we would consider the forme of their teaching and studieing it was werie defective comparatively to the oversea Universities. Their publick lessons are not much worth: if a student who is immatriculat in some on Colledge or other be desirous to be informed in any science, let it be Philosophie, Medicine or another, then he most apply himselfe to some fellow of that Colledge, who teaches him for a salarie; otherwise a student neids never make use of a master but if he please. Theologie is the only thing that flourishes their. Came back the same way to London the 5 of October, being Saturday. Nixt day came Haddow[470] and Bonnymoon to toune. Many a tyme hes he and I wisited Litle Brittain. We went throw Bedlam (I was in it and saw thosse poor peaple), then to Moore fields, wheir is a new street wheirin dwells thosse that ware burnt out in the fire. They pay wery dear for their ground and it is but to stand til they rebuild their houses again in the city. Then throw Long lane wheir is their fripperie; besydes it their is a hospitall for sick persons; then Smithfield East and West. I had almost forgot Aldergate Street, on of the nicest now in London, ye shall ever find mercats their; then we go thorow the Moon taverne. To the west of Smithfield is Snowhill, wheir the coach for Oxford is; then ye come to Hoburn bridge, a very filthy place, the street is large and long. In it is St. Andrews church wheir I went and heard Mr. Stellingfleet; the coach for York is at the Black swan their; above it ye come in to Lincolnes Innes Fields, a brave place weill built round about, much like the Place Royall at Paris. Heir lodged my Lord Middleton, heir is the Dukes playhouse, wheir we saw Tom Sydserfes Spanish Comedie Tarugo'es Wiles, or the Coffee House,[471] acted. In the pit they payed 30 p., in our place 18s. He could not forget himselfe: was very satyricall sneering at the Greshamers for their late invention of the transfusion of blood, as also at our covenant, making the witch of Geneva to wy[472] it and La Sainte Ligue de France togither. [470] Sir George Gordon of Haddo, 1637-1720 (see _infra_, p. 177), afterward Chancellor and Earl of Aberdeen, now returning from studying law abroad. Advocate, 1668, Lord of Session, 1680, President, 1681, Chancellor, 1682. [471] Printed in 1668. T.S. was the son of the Bishop of Galloway. He became conductor or proprietor of a theatre in the Canongate, Edinburgh, and published the _Caledonian Mercury_, the first Scottish newspaper. [472] Weigh. After some way ye come to Covent Garden, all which will quickly fall in to my Lord of Bedford by wertue of an assedation which quicklie is to expire, having let of old the ground on the condition they should build upon it and they brooking the ususfruit for such a space of tyme it should finally returne to him; and this they tell me to be a ordinary contract at London;[473] then New Street, Suffolk Street, Charron Crosse, St. Martins Lane. In its Church preaches D. Hardins, a pretty man. Heir is York house, the New Exchange, etc., then the Strand and Savoye, Temple bar within and without the Gate, wheir are all their Innes of Court, their lawyers and many booksellers. Then ye come to Ludgate hil; then to St. Pauls; then to Cheapsyde Crosse; then in to Broad Street at the back of the Exchange now: their is also Litle St. Helens and Great St. Helens, Leadinghal; also Aldgate, wtin the gate or wtout it; which is either wtin the bars or wtout them called White Chappell; out which way we went to Hackney, a village some 2 miles of London wheir M'ris Inglish hir son Edward lives; saw Bedlan Green by the way and the beggars house. Neir Algate goes of the Minorites leading to Tower-hil and the Tower, then doun to the Hermitage. The Custome house is in Mark Lane. [473] An early notice of building leases. London is in Midlesex; Southwark thats above the Bridge is in Surrey, thats under it is in Kent. Having stayed til the 28 of October (about which very tyme my mother was safely delivered of Walter), Hadow and I took our places in the coach for York. Their was a squire in Westmorland with his lady and hir sister returning home to his oune country, also a Atturneys wife who dwelt in the Bischoprick of Durham in the Coach with us. Had large discourses of the idlenes and vitiousnese of the citizens wifes at London being wery cocknies. We will not forget what contest we had with some of them at the taking of our places. Having left London, came first to Hygate, 4 miles, my Lord Lauderdales house, a village adjoining on the croup of a hill; then to Barnet, 10 miles from London; then to Hatfield wheir we dined, 17 miles, wheir we saw Hatfield house with brave parcks, all belonging to my Lord of Salisburie. A litle of this is the greatest hy way in England leading to S't Albanes. Came at night to Stesinwich,[474] 20 miles of London. [474] Stevenage. Nixt day, being Tuesday, and 29 came to Baldoc 5 miles; Begleswith[475] 10 miles; dined their at the Croun, wery bad entertainment; afternoon to Bugden,[476] 10 miles further, sad way. That night arrived their my Lord Rothes, my Lord Arley,[477] Sir J. Strachan, and others going to London. Its some 3 or 4 miles from Huntington; the country is all couered with willows like to Holland. [475] Biggleswade. [476] Now Buckden. [477] Arley, probably Airlie. Nixt day Vednesday, 30, baited at a willage called Walsford,[478] 17 miles of wery bad way. Came at night to Stamford 5 miles furder; within a mile of the toune we saw on each hand a brave stately house belonging to my Lord of Exeter, in one of them lived the Duc of Buckinghame. It stands on a river: whats besouth the bridge is in Northamptonshire, benorth in Lincolne. Its held amongs the greatest tounes of England after London. Norwich is the 2'd, it hath 50 churches in it: Bristol is a great toune to. [478] Watlingsford (Blaeuw), now Wansford. Nixt day, Thursday, 31, leiving Postwitham[479] and Grantham on our right hand, we entred unto the most pleasant valley of Bever, the best ground for corn and pasturage thats in all England: saw its castle at a distance, seimed to be most artificially fortified; it stands in Leister, Nottinghame, and Lincolneshires. Dined at Lougbirlington,[480] 18 miles: a long rabble of a toune indeed. Afternoon came to Newwark upon Trent; had fowll weather with haille. Its in Nottinghame: its commonly called the line of England, dividing it into 2 halfes south and north (all that live benorth it are called North country men) by its river of Trent, which embraces the sea at Hull; yet the halfes are not æqual. We saw the Kings Castle their, tho demolisht in the last Civill wars. [479] Postwitham, so written. North Witham and South Witham are near the route. [480] Longbennington. Nixt day, Fryday, 1 of November, left Toxford[481] on the Clay on our left hand, entred unto Sheerwood Forest, wheir Robin Hood of old hanted. Was of a incredible extent; now theirs no wood in it; but most excellent hunting: it was good way. Baited at Barnby in the Moore, 17 miles of Newwark. As we was heir J. Graham my Lord Middletons man overtook us going post. After diner past Scrouby and Batry and[482] came late at night to Doncaster, 10 miles further. [481] Tuxford. [482] Scrooby and Bawtry. The 6't day, being Saturday and the 2'd of November, it was a brave clinking frost in the morning; we clawed it away past Robin Hoods well; baited at Ferry bridges, arrived at York safely: lay wheir our coach stayed. Devoted the nixt being Sabath for viewing of the toune; saw that so much talked of minstrell, and truely not undeservedly, for it is a most stupendious, magnificent Church as I had sein. Duc Hamilton was come their then. Nixt day, being Monday and 4 of November, having bid adieu to our coach companie and Mr. Thomas Paterson who had come doune all the way with us, Sir George and I took post for Barrowbridges,[483] 10 miles. Arrived about 11 howers, dined on apple tarts and sider: on immediatly for Northallerton, 12 miles; arrived ere halfe 3; my horse almost jaded: was very unresolved whither to go any further or not; yet on for Darneton[484] (wheir the good spurs are made). We are all weill monted with a good guide: we are not 3 miles of[485] the toune when it falls pit dark; a most boystrous night both for wind and rain, and for the comble of our misery 10 of the worst way on all the rode; yet out we most it. He led us not the ordinar way but throw the enclosures, breaking doune the hedges for a passage wheir their was none. Many a 100 ditch and hedge did we leap, which was strange to sie had we not bein on horses that ware accustomed with it, yea some ware so horrible broad that we forced to leap of and lead over our horses. We was forced to ride close on on another, otherwise we should have losed on another. When we was within 2 miles of Darnton we came to a great river called Tees, in Latin by Cambden Tesis, which divides Yorkshire from the Bischoprick of Durham (for from the time we came to Barnby in the Moore til this place we ware ever in Yorkshire, which is the greatest in England); heir we lighted and hollowed on the boatman on the other syde to come and boat us and our horses over. If he had not bein their we had bein obliged to ride 2 miles ere we had come to a bridge: over we win, and at last reaches Darnton, both wet, weary, and hungrie. [483] Boroughbridge. [484] Darlington. [485] Off, as usual. Nixt day, Tuesday and 5 of November, on by tymes for Durham, 14 miles. My saddle proved so unmeit for the horse back that it turned perpetually with me. At last changed horses with the postillon. Came to Ferryhill, 4 miles to the south of Durham, askes for Isabell Haswal their, is most kindlie received; comes to Durham be ten a cloak, on of the most strong tounes, and that naturally, we saw in all England; then for Newcastle, 10 miles. Our postillon Need of Durham the greatest pimp of England. Neer Newcastle saw thesse pits of coall that carries its name. Then to Morpeth, 10 miles; which wearied us so sore that we resolved to post no more, but to hire horses home the Kelso way; wheirupon the postmaster furnished us horses to carry us to Ulars,[486] 22 miles; but ere we had reached Whittinghame throw that most sad and wearisome moore and those griveous rocks and craigs called Rumsyde Moore we ware so spent that we was able to go no further; sent back our horses and stayed their all night. [486] Wooler. Nixt day, being Thursday 7 November, got horses from that miserable village to carry us the other 8 miles to Ulars [Wooler[487]]. After we was once up the braes we meet with wery good way.[488] At Ulars had much difficulty to find horses for Kelso, 12 miles further. At lenth we found, which brought us thither about the evening; crossed the Tuede in boate just forgainst the toune, which beyond compare hes the pleasantest situation of ever any toune I yet saw in Scotland. Their stands the relicks of a magnifick Abbasie that hes bein their. Lodged at Charles Pots; fand a sensible decay of service by that a man hes in England. Having provided horses to carry us to Edinburgh, 28 miles, we parted nixt morning Fryday 8 November. [487] Interlined. [488] i.e. the road was good. Saw hard by Kelso thesse 2 most pleasant houses that belong to my Lord Roxborough, the Flowers[489] and the Friers. Throw muiresh, barren ground we came in sight of Lauder, 10 miles of Kelso, on the west bray, face of the Lider Water. Over forgainst it stands a pretty house belonging to my Lord Lauderdale: 4 mile further of excellent way all amongs the mids of hills stands Ginglekirk[490] wheir we dined; then forward our Sautry[491] hils of whilk we discovered Edinborough. Passing throw Fallean[492] came to the Furd within 6 mile of Edinborrough, yet we called first at New Cranston, Sir J. Fletchers house; but himselfe was in the north marrieing the Lady Elsick; his sone James and his daughter ware at Ormaston. James as soon as he heard we was their came to the foord to us, stayed with us all night; took us up to Cranston with him; wheir was receaved most magnifickly by him and his sister. [489] Now Floors. [490] Now Channelkirk, still locally pronounced Shinglekirk. [491] Soutra. [492] Now Fala. Parted that day, being Saturday and 9 of November 1667, for Edinborough, whither by Dalkeith I arrived safelie about 4 a Cloak in the afternoon amongs my friends, from whom I had bein absent some 2 years and 8 moneths. DEO GRATIAS. Accompte of my expence at London from September 6 to the 9 of November 1667. In money from Freiston received 36 lb. 14 s. from Lindsay by a bill, 19 lb., in all 55 lb. 15 s. sterling. For a 4 nights diet and chamber maille in New Street 0 17 0, for a suite of cloaths, 4 yards and 1/2 at 16 s. 3 yards sargeat, 4 s. and 6. so much taby. the garniture about the sleives, in garters, shoe strings, etc., 1 lb. 16 s. the making, 14 s. with the other appartenances, in all it stood me some 9 pound 10 s. For 2 laced bands, 3 0 0 For a laced gravate, 0 12 0 For 4 pair of holland sleives at 8 s the peice, 1 12 0 For 4 pair of laced cuffes to them, 1 1 0 For silk stockings, 0 12 6 For worsted ones, 0 6 0 For Jesmine gloves, 0 2 6 For a fusting wascoat, 0 5 0 For 2 whole shirtes, 0 12 0 For 2 pair drawers, 0 9 0 For 3 pair shoes, 0 3 0 For a cloathbag, 0 8 0 My Oxford woyage and back, 1 0 0 My expence that week, 0 10 0 For books bought their, my catalogue amounts to, 8 9 0 Given to Mris Inglish and hir maid, 5 0 0 For my place to York, 2 5 0 For my expence thither, 0 11 0 For 6 stages post, 1 10 0 For hired horses from Morpeth to this, 1 0 0 For my expense from York home, whither I came Saturday 9 November, 0 8 0 Lent to Mr Thomas Paterson, 1 15 0 Summa of all is, 42 9 0 Brought home 7 lb. 10 s. Repayed by Mr. T. Paterson 1 lb. 15 s. which in all makes 9 lb. 5. PETITION OF MR. JOHN LAUDER. Unto the Right Honourable the Lord President and remanent Lords of Counsel and Session the humble petition of Mr. John Lauder sheweth, That wheir your petitioner having applied himselfe to the study of the Civil law both at home and abroad, and being resolved to emprove the samen and to exerce it as Advocat, May it theirfor please your Lordships to remit your petitioner to the Dean of Faculty and Advocats for his tryall in the ordinar way in order to the office of ane advocat. And your Lordships favourable returne heirto. 21 January 1668. The Lords having considered this bill and desyre theirof remits the petitioner to the Dean of Faculty and Advocats to the effect they may take triall of his knowledge of the Civill law and make report to the haill Lords their anent. JOHN GILMOUR, I.P.D. Remits the supplicant to the private examinators to take tryall of his qualifications and to report. ROBERT SINCLAIR. 27 January 1668. The private examinators having taken tryall of the supplicants qualifications of the Civill law finds him sufficiently qualified theirin and remits him to his further tryall. ROBERT DICKSON, GEOR. NICOLSONE. PAT. HOOME, RODER. MACKEINZIE. JAMES DAES. Edemborough, 28 January 1668. Assignes to the supplicant for the subiect of his publick examination. Tit. D. _de collatione bonorum._ ROBERT SINCLAIR. Edemborough, 15 February 1668. The body of Advocats being met and having heard the supplicant sustain his tryal before them upon the befor-assigned title, did unanimously approve him theirin and recommend him for his lesson to the Lords favour. GEORGE MACKENZIE, in absence of D. of F. 22 February 1668. The Lords having considered the Report above written assignes to the petitioner the day of June nixt (which indeed was the 5h) to finish his tryall in order to the office of a ordinire advocate, and recommends the petitioner to the Dean of faculty for to have ane Law assigned to him to that effect. JOHN GILMOUR, I.P.D. Edemborough, 1668. Assignes to the supplicant for the subject of his publick lesson. _l. diffamari C. de Ingenuis Manumissis_. ROBERT SINCLAIRE. I was admitted advocat on the 5 of June 1668. * * * * * [493] [493] A page scored out. In August 1668 I went home with my sister for Glasco. Went by the White house, the Coudbridge, Corstorphin, held up to the right hand, saw Gogar on the left, Ingleston, Boghall, Norvells house. Came to Kirkliston, 6 miles from Edemburgh. Neir it on this syde of the Water is Carlaury; a mile furder is the Castle of Nidry; both it and Kirkliston toune belongs to my Lord Vinton, and Newliston on the left hand[494] then came to Lithcow, Limnuchum[495] 12 miles from Edenburgh. Baited at on Chrightones forgainst the Palace, which hes bein werie magnificent, is now for the most part ruinous. Under it stands the Loch, in the midle wheirof is a litle island with tries. In the midst of the court is a most artificiall font of most excellent water. Their is ane in the toune: their ... [496] wes neir the palace. They are a building a tolbuith all of aislaer work. [494] On margin [Vinsbrugh, Duntarvy, Wrae, Monteith], [495] Limnuchum, the Latin name. Arthur Johnston, in his _Carmen de Limnucho_, quoted at length by Sir Robert Sibbald, 'Nobile Limnuchum est Patio de marmore templum,' etc.-Treatises, Linlithgow, p. 16. [496] About two words obliterated. A mile from this on our left hand we saw Kettelston Stewart, then wheir the famous city of Camelon stood built by Cruthne Camelon first King of the Picts--330 years before Christ--alongs the river of Carron whither the sea also came up, so that yet to this day digging deip they find tackles and anchores and other appartenances of ships. Its thought that when the sea gained in Holland and the Netherlands it retired heir; so that now its not within 3 miles of this place now. Vespasian in the reigne of our Caratacus, 35 years after Christ, took it and sackt it. At last finally ransackt and ruined by Kenneth the 2d in the year of Christ 834. Neir to this place stands Dunipace with the 2 artificiall monts before the gate called Dunnipacis. Heir also is that old building called by some Arthurs Oven, and relicts of the great Wall of Adrian. But of all this consult Buchanan, lib 10, pag. 16, 17, 18. Within a mile of Falkirk stands Calendar, the residence of the Earles of Callendar, a place full of pleasure. We lay at Falkirk 6 miles beyond Linligligow. Nixt day on for Kilsith, 9 miles furder. Saw Cumbernauld and that great mosse wheir that fatall battell of Kilsith[497] was fought, 6000 slayn on the place. Past by the Water of Bony wheir John Scots mother lives. Bayted at Kilsith, saw the old place which was burned by the Englishs, and the new place, then other 9 miles to Glascow. Passed by Calder and a Water of the samen name. Saw Mucdock[498] at a distance, my Lord Montrosse his residence. [497] Montrose defeated the Covenanters under Baillie at Kilsyth in 1645. [498] Now Mugdock. Being arrived at Glasco we lighted at my sisters[499] in the Trone gate: then saw Old Colin at his house in the Bridge gate; then saw their Merchants Hall with its garden in the same street; then the 2 Hutchesones brether ther hospitall in the Tronegate. The eldest brother was a Wrytter. Then saw their bridge over Clyde, of which a man hes a most fair prospect both up the river and doune the river of all the trough of Clyde. [499] Mr. Laing mentions that one of Lauder's stepsisters was married to Campbell of Blythswood. Nixt day heard sermon in the Trone church: fornoon, Mr. Robert Stirling; afternoon, Mr. Milne. After sermon went to their Bromeylaw, wheir is their key for their boat, and a spring of most rare water. Nixt day saw their tolbuith, Gallowgate, Saltmarket, Colledge with the priveledges of the University of Bononia; their great church, on under another,[500] with the castle, the bischops residence with the Bischops hospitall and the tradesmen their hospitall, both at the head of the toune, which comes running doun from a eminence towards the river, supposing the river to be the edge of this book, in this fashion. [500] The crypt. [Illustration] We went after for the Ranfield, 5 short miles from Glasco, on the south side of the river. Saw on the way Govan, Renfrew, burgh royal. On the other syde ware Parket,[501] Scotts-toune Stewart lately married to Roysaithes daughter, and the Barnes. Ranfield stands most pleasantly with abondance of planting betuixt the Clyde and the Greiff[502] or Carst,[503] that comes from Pasley. [501] Now Partick. [502] Now Gryfe. [503] Now Cart. Went up to Pasley by the Knock: its 2 mile from the Ranfield, a most pleasant place with a pretty litle toune. In former tymes it belonged to my Lord Abercorn. Now my Lord Cochrane hath it, who sold to the toune for 4000 merks the right he had of the election of their Magistrates, which he sore repents now, for since the toune cares not for him. It hes bein a most magnificent Abbaye, much of it ruined now. Ye enter into the court by a great pend[504] most curiously built. The wals of the yard may almost passe for a miracle because of their curious workmanship and extent. The yards are no wayes keipt in order. My Lord hes enclosed a wast peice of ground for a park. [504] Arched passage. Nixt morning we went for Dumbarton, having crossed the river 5 long miles from the Ranfield and 10 from Glasco. Saw on the way Rowlan on our right hand, Bischopton, Brisbane, Erskin belonging to Hamilton of Orbiston, both on the other syde of the river. Came throught Kirkpatrick, which is the great mercat toune of the Hyland kyne; saw Castle Pottage; then by Dunglasse a ruined castle standing on a litle rock in the Clyde belonging to Sir John Colquhon of Luz[505]; then by the craig called Dunbuc came to Dumbarton toune, wheir meet with Walter Watsone, provest of Dumbritton. Stayed at his brothers: went over to the rock, a most impregnable place as any part of the world can show. Was so fortunat that Major George Grant was not their. The gunner went alongs with us and shewed us the cannons, some Scotes peices, some English, some French, some Flemish, one braze[506] of 34 pound bal taken up out of that ship of the invincible armado which was cast away on the north of Scotland in the 88. Their was 2 also iron peices carrieing 32 pound ball, a peice casten in King James the 4't his tyme, carried with him to Floudoun, and taken then and keipt ay to Charles the I., his tyme. They call them demy canons, some of one lb, some of 8, some of 14 lb ball, etc. They have excellent springs of water in many places of the rock: their ammunition house is almost on the top of it. Of it we saw my Lord Glencairnes house of residence, also Newwark, and under it the bay wheir Glasco is building their Port Glasco. Neir to Dumbarton stands Fulwood belonging to the Sempills. The Levin comes in to the Clyde heir. The provest heir related to me that merrie passage betuixt Thomas Calderwood and him. Its a most debaucht hole. Came back that night to the Ranfield. [505] Now Luss. [506] Brass. Nixt day came to Glasco. That night our horses were arrested and pressed because of the rumor that ther was a randevouz to be at Loudon hill. Saw old Robert Cambell and young Robert with their wifes, James Cambel, John Bell with his wyfe, Barbara Cambel, Colin Maclucas, Daniel Broun, Collonel Meiren, Sergeant Lauder. Went out and saw Blayswoode,[507] Woodsyde and Montbodo its house wheir stayes my fathers old landlady. Saw his quarry, his corne milnes, and his wack[508] milnes. If that of Monbodo wer once irredimeably his he will have above 50 chalders of wictuall lying their all togither. On the south of the bridge stands the Gorbbells wheir is the castle of the Gorbels: in it dwels at present Sir James Turner. [507] Now Blythswood. [508] For wauk. We took horse at the Gallogate to go for Hamiltoun 8 miles from Glascow; saw Wackingshaw, Kelving Water, the Castle of Bothwell, ruinous, belonging to the Marquis of Douglas on the Clyde. Over on the other syde stands the Craig of Blantyre, my Lord Blantyres residence: he has another house called Cardonald near Renfrew. Then ye come to Bothuel toune, on halfe belonging to the Marquis and the other to the Duc of Hamilton; then ye come to Bothuel bridge--six pennies of custome a horseman payes; then a mile from it stands Hamilton, first the nether toune, then the upper. Many of the gentlemen of Cliddesdail was their that day at the Duc, as Silvertounhil, Hages, Master of Carmichaell, Hamilton, Torrance, Stewart Hills, Castlemilk, Rouchsoles, my Lord Lee which[509] standes within 2 mile of Lanerk. Lanark is 8 from Hamilton. Went and saw the yards:[510] great abondance of as good wines,[511] peaches, apricoats, figs, walnuts, chaistins,[512] philberts, etc., in it as in any part of France; excellent bon Crestien pears, brave palissades of firs, sundry fisch ponds. The wals are built of brick, which conduces much to the ripening of the fruits: their be 20 ackers of land within the yeardes. Their's a fair bouling graine before the Palace gate. Then went to the wood, which is of a wast bounds; much wood of it is felled: their be many great oakes in it yet: rode thorough the lenth of it, it is thought to be 5 miles about. Saw great droves of heart and hinde with the young roes and faunes in companies of 100 and 60 togither. [509] Which, _i.e._ Lee. Sir James Lockhart Lord Lee's house. [510] Yards, enclosed gardens, orchards. [511] Vines. [512] Chestnuts. Fr., _Châtains_. Nixt day on for Edenburgh, 24 miles from Hamilton. Rode crost the Clyde at a furd about 5 miles from Hamilton, came in to the muire way for Glasco: wery ill way. Came to the Kirk of the Shots; then to Neidle eye wheir ye go of to Bathcat; then to Swynish Abbey[513]; then to Blaickburne belonging to the Laird of Binny, 12 miles from Edenburgh. Baited their, then came to Long Levinstone a mile furder; then to the pile of Levinstone Murray: the house [Toures][514] was destroyed by the English. Saw on our right hand Calder, my Lord Torphichens residence; then entered unto that moor, Drumshorling Moore; then came to Amont Water: rode within a bow shot of Clifton hall and within halfe a mile of Eleiston; then to Gogar stone and Gogar toune; then to Corstorphin, and so home, being the 15 of August 1668....[515] [513] Now Swineabbey. [514] Interlined. [515] Nearly half a page blank. One day in a promenade with Mr. James Pilans past by Wright houses, Greenhill, Mr. (Doctor) Levinstons, then a litle house belonging to Doctor Stevinsone; then Merchiston; then to the Barrowmoore wheir Begs famous house is; then to the Brig-house which belonged to Braid,[516] was given of by the Farlys in an assithment, liferented even now by the Ladie Braid, payes her 200 merks a year; then up towards Greenbank to the Buckstone, wheir is the merches of Braid with Mortinhall and Comistone; saw its merches with the new Maynes of Colinton belonging to Mr. Harie Hay with Craiglockart, the Pleughlands, and the Craighouse (now Sir Andro Dicks, of old a part of the Barronie of Braid); then saw wheir the English armie lay, also Swanston and Pentland. Then came alongs all the face or brow of the bray of the Wester hill, which is the meith between Braid and Mortonhall, till we came to Over libberton, Mr. William Little. Conquised by this mans goodsire, William Little, provest of Edenburgh, befor K. Ja. went in to England: a fyn man and stout: as appeared, 1°, that his taking a man out of the Laird of Innerleith his house at Innerleith, having set sentries at all the doors, and because they refused to open, tir[517] a hole in the hous top and fetch him out and laid him in the tolbuith for ryving a bond of borrowed money fra a burges of the toun; which proceidur the Secreit Counsell then, tho summar, allowed of. 2°, thair having bein long debats betuen the toun and the Logans of Restalrig for the passage throw Restalrig's lands to Leith (the way wheirto then was just by the tower), and Restalrig having aither refused to let them pas throw his lands or else would have them to acknowledge him, Prov: Little being with K. Ja. at Stirling made a griveous complaint of their insolency; wheirupon he said he cared not tho the highest stone of Restalrig ware as lach as the lachest. Wheirupon the prov: Will ye bid me doe it, Sir? Wheirupon the K. Doe it if ye like. Immediatly wtout telling the K. or anie else comes he post to Edenburgh and causes cast doune the tour that same night. The K. tyme of supping coming the K. calls for his prov: of Edenburght: no body could tell. At last some tells that he suddenly was goon to Edenb: this moved the K. I'll wad, sayd he againe, its to cast doun Restalrig Castle. Go with all the speid ye can and forbid it. Are anie could come their it was done. K. Ja: used to call the Huntly the 1 noble man of his kingdome and the provest of Edenb the 2d. [516] Dick of Braid. [517] Strip off part of the roof, and so make a hole. To returne. From Over liberton saw the byway to St. Catharines Well, a quarter of a mile from Liberton, Leswaid, and Drodden;[518] then came to Libberton Kirk; then came neir to Libberton burne, and turned up to Blackfurd, wheir we saw Braids merches with Libberton moore, now arable ground, bought lately by the President.[519] Also wt Grange[520] saw _Sacellum Sancti Marlorati_ Semirogues Chappell.[521] That burne that runes throw the Brighouse goes by Blackfurd to the Calsay[522] and Powburne, then to Dudiston Loch, out of which it runes again by West Dudiston milnes and is the Thiget burne.[523] Braides burne againe runes by Libbertone toune to Peppermilne, fra that straight to Nidrie by Brunstone and its milnes to the sea, a mile west of Musleburgh: the Magdalen[524] bridge layes over it their. [518] Anciently Dredden, now Dryden. [519] Sir John Gilmour. [520] Dick of Grange. See Appendix I., p. 239, note. [521] The two names seem to denote the same chapel. St. Roque's Chapel was on the Boroughmuir, half-a-mile west of Grange House. See Bishop Forbes's _Kalendar of Scottish Saints_ s.v., Semirookie: 'Aug. 16, 1327. Under this corruption we find the popular designation of a chapel dedicated to St. Roque, just outside the east gate of Dundee.' The other name, distinctly written, looks like a corruption of St. Mary of Loretto. Besides the more celebrated shrine at Musselburgh, there is a tradition of a Loretto chapel near the Lady's Wynd. Possibly Lauder confused it with St. Roque's Chapel. [522] Causeway, highroad. [523] So sometimes spelt, more often Figgate or Fegot. The course of the two streams is incorrectly described. [524] So called from a chapel to St. Mary Magdalen. That nunnerie the walls wheirof are standing at the Cheyns[525] was destined most by[526] burgesses daughters, as also that whilk was in the Colledge Yaird called _Monasterium Sanctae Mariae in Campis_. [525] Cheyns, now Sciennes, convent of St. Catherine of Sienna. [526] Destined by, meaning 'destined for,' hence, 'occupied by.' Cheynes holds of the toun: they ware Robisons that possest it of old; Grange by the Cants; Craigmillar, Prestons, Edmistons, of that Ilk, now Reth,[527] first of that name being Chancellar Seaton his servand and carried the purse before him; Shirefhal, Giffards, then bought by the Earl of Morton, Lord Dalkeith, now it belongs to the Balcleuch; Preistfield (never kirk lands, tho the name would seime to say so), Hamilton, Tam of the Cougates[528] father; before them in the Chopmans; as also in the Cants. [527] In 1671 the second son of Wauchope of Niddrie married the daughter and heiress of Raith of Edmonston. [528] Thomas Hamilton, first Earl of Haddington, favourite of James VI., who so styled him. Went on the 20 of September 1668 to Musselburgh to sie the Mid Lothian Militia, being a regiment 10 companies (_id est_, Lauderdales Collonel, Sir Jo. Nicolsons of Polton Lieutenant Collonel, Gogars Major, Mortanhalls, Deans, Halzeards, Calderhalls, Sir Mark Kars[529] of Cockpens, etc.), muster in a rendezvous in the Links. Saw in going Stainehill, a sweit place, the Dobies, ware burgesses, now Mr. William Sharps, keiper of the Kings Signet, about a mile on the west of Mussleburgh Water and bridge and Mussleburgh on the eist. [529] Apparently a son of the Earl of Lothian, afterwards a general of the army. On the way to the south stands Innerask[530] with its kirk. Hard at the toune stands Pinkie, built about the year 1612 by Alexander Seton, Erle of Dumferling, Lord High Chancellar of Scotland. His lady was Maitland, a daughter of the then Lord Thirlistanes (who had bein King James his Secretarie and Chancellar), now Erles of Lauderdale: his name and hirs are in manie places of the house. This Erle of Dunferline that stayes at London is his sone, hes so morcaged his Estate that my Lord Tueddalle for security of cautionry for him hes tane possession of Pinkie, Fyvie, Dunferline, with whatsomever other thing rests of his estate and is like to bruik it. Its a most magnificent, statelie building [it hes but 20 chalder victual belonging to it]:[531] much cost hes bein wared theirupon. Their is a brave building of a well in the court, fine shade of tries that fetches you into it, excellent lar[ge] gallries and dining roumes. He hes bein mighty conceity in pretty mottoes and sayings, wheirof the walls and roofs of all the roumes are filled, stuffed with good moralitie, tho somethat pedantick. See Spotiswood of him in _Anno_ 1622, page 543. A most sweit garden, the knot much larger than that at Hamilton and in better order. The rest of the yeard nether so great nor in so good order nor so well planted with such varietie as is in Hamilton yeards. The knot heir will be 200 foot square, a mighty long grein walk. Saw figs at a verie great perfection. Above the utter gait as ye enter in to the place their is an inscription in golden letters telling the founder theirof, and assuring them that shall ever attempt to destroy that fabrick by sword, fyre, demolishment, or other wayes that the wery stones and beams ut of the wall shall exclaime against them as destitute of all humanity and common courtesie. 18 plots in the garden, with a summer houses and sundry pondes. [530] Now Inveresk. [531] Interlined. Saw of[532] the linkes wheir Pinky field was fought on the hill neir Fawsyde. Heard whow the Laird of Carberrie then not desiring the battell should be to neir his house had so much influence on the Scots armie as to cause them leive the advantadge they had of the high ground and draw doune to the champagne countrey, which was a partiall cause of their rout, as also that the Englishes had their ships just at the links, who with their shots of the sea did our forces a great deall of hurt. [532] _i.e._ off, meaning 'from.' Saw Walafield belonging to the Paipes. East it on the sea syde the Salt pans. Above them within the land Tranent; then Prestonpans, wher was B. Jossies house; then Dauphintoun, once Archibald Wilkies; then Fawsyde, Ramsayes, on a hill head; then a mile beyond it Elphinston, the Clerk Registers;[533] then Carberrie, Blaires, they ware Rigs. [533] Sir Archibald Primrose. In the coming home saw Whithill, Easter Dudinstone, belonging to Sir Thomas Thomsone. He that first acquired it was an Advocat in Queen Maries tyme, who having bein much on hir party and afraid to be forfault, disponed his whole estate over to a 2d brother of his, out of whosse hands he nor his posterity (who are living this day in Rowen) could never pick it, so that this Laird of it is the grandchild of that 2d brother.[534] Its 60 chalder of wictuallat beir and wheat ever accompted the finest thing about Edenburgh. Its of great circumference. [534] I am informed by Mr. William Baird, author of _Annals of Duddingston and Portobello_, that this story is not authentic. Saw Brunstone and Nidrie. Came throw Restalrig toune, wheir stands an old chappel, the buriall place of the Lo: of Balmerinoch: also of old the parish church of South Leith, so that the minister of South Leith even now is parsone at this kirk, at least denominat so. Inchekeith might weill now be called Inche Scott, since Scottistarvet bought it, who had great designes to have made a good fischer toune theirupon. A litle after we went to Halton[535] (the young La:[536] being at London). Went out by Gorgie Milnes, belonging to one Broune; then by Sauchton hall; then by Belsmilne to Stanipmilne, Elies, up above which stands Reidhall, Brands, and Colinton, with Craiglockhart, wheirin the President, S.J. Gilmor, hes intres tho it belong to Colinton; then to Sauchton belonging to Mr. David Watsone. On our left hand was Langhermistoune, the portioners of it Mr. Robert Deans the Advocat and Alexander Beaton the Wryter. On our left hand Reidheues who are Tailfours, the last of them married a daughter of Corstorphin, Foster, for this Lo:[537] is Lieutenant General Bailzies sone, and got it by marrieng the heritrixe. Then came forward to Upper Gogar belonging to on Douglas, who was a chamberlan for the Earle of Morton. Kincaid of Wariston hes some intrest in it. Past Gogar Water, that comes from Halton by Dalmahoy and Adestoun, and comes down to Gogar place. On our left hand saw Riccarton Craig, Curriehill, Skene of old now Winrahames; Wariston, Johnstons; Killeith,[538] Scot of Limphoys, and nearest of all thesse Adeston,[539] bought by a Laird of Halton, who married on Bellenden of Broughton, to be a provision to hir children (for she was the Lairds 2d wife), wheiron he sold Cringelty neir Hayston in Tueddal (which belonged of old to the Laird of Halton), and theirwith purchessed Adelstoun and gave it to Sir Lues Lauder, who was the sone procreat betuixt him and that ladie of the house of Bruchton. Sir Lues married a daughter of Sir Archibald Achesons, who was Secretarie of Scotland, whom I have sein, and who bore him 2 sones, one evan now a preacher, married in England, the other in the Kings troup, with some daughters: on of them knowen to have bein to familiar with Sir William Fleming. Adelston now is sold to Sir John Gibson. Then saw Dalmahoy house with its toune at some distance on the croup of the hill. [535] Now Hatton. [536] Charles Maitland, afterward Lord Halton, and third Earl of Lauderdale, on whom and his children the estate was settled on his marriage to Elizabeth, daughter of Richard Laudcr of Hatton. [537] _i.e._ the present laird of Corstorphine. [538] Now Kinleith. [539] Now Alderston. On our right hand stands Ratho (that belonged to Duncan, who being the Kings talzeor conqueshed Bonytoun), now Mr. Alexander Foules; then Ratho toune, the halfe of it belonging to Halton, the other halfe to Ratho place; then Ratho kirk, the parish of many of the gentlemen of this country; then Rathobyres, the on halfe wheirof pertaines to James Fleming; then Northtoun,[540] a willage or meling[541] belonging to the Laird of Halton; then came to Halton. Their beside the old Laird,[542] the lady[543] Richard,[544] Jo.,[545] Charles and their sister Isabell[546] was Jean Areskin, Balgonies daughter, Elphiston, a daughter of Calderhals, and Mr. William Sims eldest daughter. [540] Now Norton. [541] Maling, Mailing (from 'mail,' rent) either has the ordinary meaning 'farm,' or perhaps a group of cottars' houses, 'maillers' or 'meallers,' who were allowed to build on waste land, and hired themselves out as labourers.--Jamieson, _Dict_., s.v. [542] Richard Lauder, last of Hatton. [543] Richard Lauder's daughter, wife of Charles Maitland. [544] Fourth earl. [545] Fifth earl. [546] Afterwards married to Lord Elphinston. Halton, as I saw their, carries the griffin bearing a sword, on the point wheirof is a Moors head. The occasion they tell me is that one of the Lairds went with a brother of Robert the Bruce to the Holyland and slew many of the Sarazens their, wheiron he added that to his coat. The motto is, Strike alike. Metellans[547] hes a lion with a star. [547] Maitlands. Learned of the old Laird that the Lairds of Calder ware knights of the order of St John of Jerusalem, after knights of the Rhodes, now of Malta, and that by vertue theirof they ware superiors of all the Temple lands (which in Edenburgh may be discerned yet by having Croces on them), as weill in burgh as in landward throwghout Scotland. Heard him speak of that Bond of Assurance betuixt the toune of Edenburgh and the Laird of Halton, the like wheirof few in Scotland hes of the toune of Edenburgh. This Laird hes bought in a place called the Spittle (_proprie_ the Hospitall), just over on the other syde of the water, which never appertained to the Laird of Halton of before. All the ground about it the Laird is taking just now in to be a park. In one of the chambers hings King Charles the 2d, King Henry le Grand of France, fetcht home by the old Laird; the old Earle of Lauderdale with his ladie, the Lady Reidhouse, now Lady Smeton Richison, the old Laird Mr. Richard, with some others. This Laird hes made a verie regular addition to the old dungeon tower. The garden that lies to the west of the dungeon would have bein better placed to the southe of the house wheir the bouling greine is, tho I confesse that by reason of the precipice of the bray hard at hand it would have bein to narrow. Hes its ponds. Came back the same way we went. Nixt day went for Eleiston, 7 miles from Edenburgh (Halton is 6). Went by Corstorphin, Gogar toune and Stone; saw Gogar place, then Ingleston, Eistfeild, belonging to James Gray, merchand, then Halzeards, Skein, then Newliston, Auldliston, toune of Kirkliston, Castle of Nidrie, Baruclan, my Lord Balmerinochs, Barnebougall, the Clerk Registers,[548] of old the Moubrayes, Dundas of that Ilk, Leine,[549] Youngs, Craigiehall, bought from my Lord Kingstone by Mr. Jo. Ferolme, 50 chalder of wictuall for a 100,000 merk, who seiking up some monies from some noblemen to pay it with occasioned the making the Act of debitor and creditor; then Kilpont, the Earle of Airths, Mr. Archibald Campbell hes 40,000 merks on it; then Kirkhill, Stewarts, conquised by Sir Lues Stewart the advocat; his daughter (a very good woman) is Ladie Glencairne; then Uphall Kirk, which is Kirkhils parish kirk; then Binnie and Binnie Craigs with Wester Binnie, which belongeth to Mr. Alexander Dicksone, professor in Hebrew. Crosed the Water of Amont at Cliftonhall. Beyond Binnie Craigs stands Dechmond, Hamiltons. [548] Sir Archibald Primrose, 1616-1679; Clerk Register, 1660; Justice-General, 1676. (See _infra_, p. 225.) His son Archibald was the first Earl of Rosebery, cr. 1703. [549] Leny. Came to Eleiston,[550] over against it stands Bonytoun, Scots, the Laird of Halton Mr. Richards ladie was of that family; also Clifton toune, consisting of many mechanicks, especially wobsters, etc. Stands in Linthgowshire 5 mile from it:[551] stands most hy and windie in the edge of Drumshorling Moor. [550] Now Illieston. [551] _i. e_. apparently Linlithgow. Inquiring, if because of its name Eleiston it ever belonged to the Eleis's of before. Answered, that no: also that the true name of it is not Eleiston but Hyliston. Belonged to the Earles of Monteith, and was a part of their barronie of Kilpont. Its some 300 acker of land paying about 6 firlots the acker; hes held at on rentall thesse 100 years. The gentlemen that last had it ware Hamiltons, ever Catholicks. K. James, because he had no house to bait at when he came to hunt in the moor, gave on of them 20,000 merks to build that house, wheirto he added 4 himselfe.[552] Its stronglic built as it had neid, being built in so windy a part. We first enter in to a hall. On our right hand as we enter is a kitchin and a sellar, both wouted.[553] On the left a fair chamber. Then ye go upstairs and ye have a fine high hall, and of everie end a chamber hung both with arras hangings. Then in the 3'd storie ye have a chamber and a larg loft. On the top of a turret again above ther is a litle chamber wheir their preist stayed when the Hamiltons had it, who had divers secret passages to convey himselfe away if pershued. Their was Marion Sandilands, Hilderstons daughter, with Margaret Scot his 2'd wyfe; item Sir John Scot of Scotstarvets picture. In the timber of the most part of the windows is cut out the name of the gentleman that had it, with the year of God when it was built, 1613, 1614. Mr. Jo. Eleis hes put up his name and his ladies on the gate. [552] _i. e_. the proprietor added 4000 merks. [553] Vaulted, _voutés_. Jo. Bonar hes bought a place just on the other syde of the loch of Lithgow forgainst the palace, called Bonytoun, which he hes changed and called Bonarton. Reidop, which belonged to on Drummond a Lord of the Sessionis, neir Lithgow, my Lord Lithgow hes bought it: its but a small thing. Yea manie of the Lords of Sessions purchess's at that tyme ware but small, divars of them no 12 chalder of wictuall. Neir to Binnie I saw Riccarton, Drummond. Came home the same way that we went afield.[554] [554] The passage which follows, enclosed within brackets, is scored out. [Illustration: JANET RAMSAY. (_First Wife of Lord Fountainhall._)] [I was married 21 January 1669 in the Trone Church at 6 a cloack at night, being Thursday, by Mr. John Patersone. On the 3d of December 1669 was my sone John born about on afternoone, and was baptized on the Sonday theirafter, being the 5th of December, in the Grayfriers, by Mr. David Stirling. On the 8 day of Aprill 1671, being about halfe are hower past tuo in the morning, being on Friday night and Saturdsdayes moring,[555] was my wife delivered of a daughter, who was baptized on the 23 of April, being Sunday, in the by kirk by Mr. James Lundie, and called Jannet. [555] Sic. On the 15 of September 1672, about halfe are hower past 5 in the morning, being Sundayes night or Mondayes morning, was my wife delivered of a daughter, who was baptized on the 30 or last day of September, being Monday, at 5 acloak in the afternoon, in the Tolbooth Church, by Mr. William Gairnes, and was called Isobell. See thir marked alibi.] About the 25 of Aprile 1669 I went over to Fyfe with my father in law. Landed at Kinghorne, wheir is an old castle ruinous, once belonging to the Lord of Glammes, who had also a considerable intres within that toune, but hes non now save the presentation of the minister (who is called Mr. Gilbert Lyon) onlie. Walked from that to the Links on our foot by the sea syde: saw Seafield Castle midway who ware Moutray to their names. The French in Queen Maries dayes made use of it for a strenth. Then came to Innerteill links, wheir be conies. Then to the Linktoune, divided by the West burne fra Innerteill lands, wheir dwell neir 300 families, most of them mechanicks, above 20 sutors masters, 37 wobsters, as many tailzeours: its set out to them by ruides, each ruid payes a shilling of few duetie. Saw the Westmilne house, the goodmen wheirof ware Boswels. The milne bes the toune of Kirkcaldie thirled to it: payes some 16 chalders of wictuall. Halfe a mile from this is Abbotshall church lands, tuise confirmed by the Popes: they ware Scots, cadets of the Laird of Balveirie. Payed a considerable few duety to the Abbots of Dumferling, which is now payed to the King. He[556] bes lately got in the Scarres and Montholie, 16 chalders of wictuall. Theirs a garden, bouling grein, tarraswalk, fruite yard, wild orchard and a most spatious park, with a meadow and a loch, wheir are a great number of picks, manie wild ducks big theirin. Neir it lyes the Raith, my Lord Melvills. Balveirie is his also, and Bogie, Bogs Eye, on the eye of a boog, Veimes.[557] Touch, Thomsone, his father was a Writer to the Signet, some 10 chalders of wictuall; Bannochie belongs to Boogie: on Ayton hes a wodset on it. [556] His father-in-law, Abbotshall. [557] _i.e._ Bogie belonged to a family of Wemyss. Saw Grange, a wery sweit place: was Tresaurer of Scottland in Quein Maries dayes, and Cunyghameheid was his depute, and his sone again was governour of Edenburgh Castle and was hanged. Slew a 100 Frenchmen once at Masse. Much planting about it. Is but 28 chalders of wictuall. Saw Innerteill. It layes low, belonged to on Erskein, was a Lord of the Session, had a daughter onlie, who married the Laird of Tarbet, then Colinton. Malcolm of Babedie hes bought it (its 36 chalders of good wictuall): gave for it 40,000 lb., and bids[558] hir liferent. [558] _i.e._ bides. Saw Pittedy, stands on the croup of a hill pleasantly but by; ware Boswuells. David Dewars father was tennent heir above 30 years. Its 25 chalders of wictuall. Kirkaldie is the best merchant toune in Fyfe: it had before the Englishes came in 80 sail of ships belonging to it, now it will not have 30. Then is Revensbeuch, its my Lord Sinclairs; then the Pathhead or Pittintillun, belonging to on Watsone in Bruntilland; then the Dysert, wheir are manie saltpans; the Weimes; Easter Weimes, Easter Buckhaven, Anstruther, Craill, Fyfenes, St. Androis, the Elie, belonging to Ardrosse. Went to Balgonie to sie the Chancelar,[559] which is not his, but the Earle of Levine his children, belonged to the Sibbalds who ware great men and of much power. Within halfe a mile to it stands Balfour, Beatons to their name, a cadet of Lundy, married the heretrix of Balgonie in _anno_ 1606, and tho he changed not his name yet he took the place of his elder brother Lundie. [559] Earl of Rothes. Saw by the way Kinglassie, Ayton, Leslie, wheir a most magnificent house is a building: it is neir the Lowmonds, and Falkland, and Lochlevin, in the castle wheirof was Queen Marie keipt. About halfe a mile from it is Markins,[560] wheir Mr. John Ramsay is minister, who is my goodfathers cousin german. Neir it stands Brunton, most pleasantly: it belongs to one Law. Their is much moorish ground in our way. [560] Now Markinch. Their was thrie thries[561] (as they called them) in Fyfe, Balveiry Scot, Ardrosse Scot, Dischingtoune of late, but Scot, and Balgonie Sibbald: Balmuto, Bosuel, Weimes of that Ilk, and Rossyth Stuart: then Lundie of that Ilk, Durie of that Ilk, and Colerine, Barclay or else Craighall, Kinninmont. [561] This seems only to mean that the three trios of lairds hunted, not in couples, but in threes. On the 5 of May we came over from Bruntiland. Skein in his de V. Signi:[562] _in verbo_ Clan Macduff, tells whow on William Ramsay was Earle of Fife in King David the 2'ds dayes. [562] _Verborum significatione_. Saw in the way to Bruntilland the sands King Alexander the 3'd brak his neck on. * * * * * Mr. Joseph Mede,[563] in one of his letters to Doctor Tuisse,[564] speaking anent the manner whow the great continent of America and its circumjacent ilands may probably be supposed to have bein peopled, thinks that the greatest part of that country (especially Mexico and Peru, who ware found the only civilized people amongs them, having both a State and a Church government established among them) was planted by great colonies sent out of the barborous northern nations laying upon the north frozen sea, videlicet, the Tartars and others,[565] who entred America by the Straits of Auvan, and that the most of them hes gone thether since our Saviours coming in the flesh. After which the devil, finding his kingdom ever more and more to decay through the spreading of Christianity upon the face of the wholle earth, which before he keipt inchained in black heathinsme, and being much afflicted with the great din and noyse of the gospell which was come to the utmost ends of the then knowen world, so that he was affraid to lose all his footing hear, he by his oracles and responses encouraged thesse Barbarians (in this Gods ape[566] who called Abram to the land of promise) to desert their native countrie and promised them better habitations in another part (which he might soon do) wheir he might be out of the dread of the gospell and might securly triumph over them as his bond slaves. [563] Mede, Joseph, B.D., 1586-1638. [564] Twisse, Wm., D.D., 1575-1646. [565] On the margin: 'Purchas in his Pilgrimage in Mexico reports this storie also.' [566]_ i.e._ imitator. The ground of this conjecture is from some records found in the city of Mexico of their kingdome and its foundation, bearing that their ancestors about 400 years ago onlie (who then dwelt far north) ware called out of that countrie by their God which they called Witzill Putzill, in effect, the Devil, to go to a far country (this was to Mexico), far more fruitfull and pleasant than their oune, which he should show them, and wheirof he did give them marks and that he should go before them. And that accordingly they sett on for the journey, and that their god went before them in ane ark, and that they had many stations and marches, and that they ware 40 years by the way, and that at last they came to the promised land, and that they know it by the marks their god had given them of it. All this in manifest imitation of God his bringing the children of Israel out of Egypt. Its reported that the State of Scotland looking ut for a suitable match for James the 2d, then King, sent over to the Duc of Gelderland (who had 3 daughters) some of the nobility and some bischops for the clergy to demand any of the 3 they should judge most sutable for the King. The Duc was content on of the Bischops [it was the Bischop of Rosse][567]--should sie them and feill them all 3 naked to discern theirby which of them was strongest and wholesomest like. His report was in favors of the youngest: his reason was, _Est enim bene crurata culata cunnata aptaque ad procreandos nobis generosos principes._[568] [567] Interlined. [568] The Bishop of Dunkeld (not Ross) was one of three commissioners sent to choose a bride for the king, first to the Court of France. Mary of Gueldres was an only daughter-Tytler, _Hist._ iii. 209. The story is probably apocryphal. But in Russia, when the Tsars were married, the inspection of the candidates was an established custom and ceremony for two centuries after the marriage of James II. A French gentleman being inamoured with a damoiselle of Lyons, going in to Italie to travell she gets notice that he had tane huge conceit of a Venetian, and that he was about to marrie hir. She writs a letter in a large sheit wheirin was nothing written but Lamasabachthani, withall a false diamond. He receaving it know not what to make of it, went to a jeweller to try the stone, who discovered it to be false tho it had ane excellent luster. After many tossing thoughts he fell upon the knack of it, videlicet, that it was a heiroglyphick diamant faux, and that it behoved to be read thus, Tell, false lover, why hast thou forsaken me. * * * * * [569] [569] There is here omitted an unpleasant story of a Duc de Montpensier of a former age, who in ignorance married a lady to whom he was doubly related by the closest ties of consanguinity. The same story will be found in Nouvelle 30 of Queen Margaret of Navarre (the scene being laid in Avignon), and in Horace Walpole's play _The Mysterious Mother_. Also an anecdote about the terms of the _tenendas_ clause of a charter said to be in the Tower of London, which is given in English, and is too gross to print. For farder demonstrations of the truth of that conspiracy of Gouries (which some cals in doubt), besydes what is in Spotswood, Mr. William Walker told that he heard oft from Mr. Andrew Ramsay that the said Earle being travelling in Italie had a response thus, _Dominus de Gourie erit Rex_. After which he took a strong fancie he would be King, wheiras it was to be reid, _Rex erit_, etc. In pershuit wheirof being in on of the Universities of Germanie and to leive his armes their, in his coat he caused put the Kings armes, videlicet, the Lyon, with a hand and a dager pointing at the Lyons breist, and so gifted them. And when he was returning he wrot to all his freinds and dependents to meit him at Muslebrugh, which they did to the number of 300 horse or their abouts, with which he came to Edenburgh; and that he might be the more tane notice of, he caused take his lodging in the Landmarket,[570] and came up al the streit with this train, and tho the King was in the Abbey yet he passed by without taking notice of him. He was likewayes a great receipter and protector of all the discontented factious persones of that tyme. [570] Now Lawnmarket. They say their are blood yet to be sein on the wall of the house in St. Johnston, wher he and his brothers ware slain, which cannot be washen away. Sir John Ramsay being then the Kings page killed him (he was a sone of the Laird of Wyliecleuchs in the Merse), and for his valeur and good service was made Earle of Huldernesse and got a great part of the lordship of Dumbar, which was then of the Kings annexed patrimonie, but on this accompt in anno 1600 ware dissolved by the Parliament. Thesse lands Mr. W. Kellie afterwards acquired. In September 1670 I waited upon my father to the Merse to sie the Laird of Idingtoun.[571] Lighted at St. Germains, so called from are old chappell dedicat to that saint of old standing their. From that went to Hadingtoun, saw in the way Elvingston, weill planted, but standing in Gladsmoore: item, Nunland, Adderstone, and Laurenceland, belonging to Doctor Hendersone. Above Hadingtone lyes Clerkingtone, Cockburne, Colstoune, Broun, who talk much of their antiquity and pear[572] they preserve, Yester, and Leidingtoune: 3 miles of stands the Registers house, Chesters, wheirin Mr. Patrick Gillespie now dwells. To the eist of Hadington stands the Abbay, Newmilnes, Stevinsone, and Hermistone, all most pleasant places and weill planted; as also Morhame and Hailles, past the Almous[573] house within a mile of Dumbar. Saw on our right hand Spot and the Bourhouscs, ware Happers now Muires; saw also Fuirstoun belonging to Andrew Whyte, once keiper of the Tolbuith; then saw Innerwick toune and church standing at a good distance from the house. Saw Neutonlies, Eistbarnes, Thornetounloch, Scatteraw, Douglas, and Colbrandspath: past thesse steip braes called the Pies. Saw Butterdean toune and house acquired by Mr. William Hay, the Clerk, who also bought Aberlady, now belonging to Sir Androw Fletcher: then saw Rentoun lying in a wild moir: item, Blacarstoun of on our right hand also in a wild seat, yet seimed to be reasonably weill busked with planting: item, Blaickburne in the moir: then Fosterland: then Bouncle, Preston, and Lintlands, belonging to the Marquise of Douglas and presently the Lady Stranavers jointer, worth 10,000 merks by year: then Billie, Renton to his name, and then Billie, Myre; then Edencraw, then came to Idington, 36 miles from Edenbrugh, ware Idingtons to their name, hes no evidents of it but since the year 1490. In this same condition are the most of the gentlemen of the Merse who ly most obnoxious to Englands invasions. [571] Sir John Lauder senior's third wife was a daughter of Ramsay of Idington. [572] The Coalston pear was presented by the Warlock of Gifford to his daughter, who married Broun of Coalston, telling her that as long as it was preserved fortune would not desert the family. [573] Alms. Saw the Maines, a roome lying betuixt Chirnesyde tour and Idington: ware Homes. On Patrick Mow, sone to the last Laird of Mow, maried the heritrix of it, and so hes the land. They tell whow the Earle of Roxbrugh was the cause of the ruine of the said Laird of Mow. Mow being on a tyme with some Englishmen took on a match for running upon a dog of my Lord Roxbrughs head[574] against their dogs, wheiron addressing himselfe to my Lord, he would not quite his dog unless Mow would give him a bond to pay him 8000 merks incaise he restored him not back the dog haill and sound: which Mow, thinking their ware no hazard in it, did. The day being come my Lords dog wins the race; but as soon as it was done my Lord had a man ther readie to shoot it: who accordingly did so, and fled. Then my Lord seiking the soume in the bond, and he unwilling to pay it, was at wast charges in defending, and at last succumbed, and so morgaged his estate to Adam Bell, who after got it. His ladie was a daughter of West Nisbets, with whom the young man Patrick was brought up. [574] Upon the head of a dog of Lord Roxburgh's, _i.e._ backing the dog. Saw Chirnesyde toune standing a mile of Idingtoun, belonging to sundry petty heritors, some of them of halfe mark lands. My Lord Mordington is superior as also patron of the Kirk: on Lanty is minister their. It will be more then halfe a mile long. At the end of it neir to Whitater stands the Nynewells (corruptly called the Nyneholes), from 9 springs of water besyde it, wheirof on in the fountain is verie great: are Homes to their name. Saw Blanerne, belonging now to Douglas of Lumbsdean. Saw Eist Nisbet, ware Chirnesydes, now belongs to the Earle of Levins daughter: item, Blacader, ware Blacaders (of which name Tullialen is yet), are now Homes who ware a cadet of Manderstones. At a greater distance saw Manderston, Aytoun, Wedderburne, Polwart, Reidbraes, a house of Polwerts, Crumstaine, Sandy Spottiswoods; West Nisbet, a most sweit place, ware Nisbets to their name. Saw Huttonhall, ware Homes to their name, now belongs to Hilton, which was a part of Suintons lands. Saw the toune of Hutton belonging to sundry portioners. Saw Paxtoun and Edringtone, a part of Basses[575] lands, and given away to a brother, now belongs to my Lord Mordington. Saw Foulden, the Bastile, Nunlands, Ramsay--his grandsire was parson of Foulden. Saw Mordington and Nather Mordington. Saw the bound road[576] within my Lords park. Saw on the English syde of Tuede Ourde the Birkes wheir King Charles army ly, Norame Castle and Furde; the ladie wheirof inviegled King James the 4t when he went in to Flouden: they have bein leud women ever since. Ker of Itall got it by marieng the heritrix. Went to Bervick, wheir they are building ane Exchange. In the way is Halidoun Hill, wheir on of the Douglasses was slain; Lammerton, in the Chappell wherof was King James the 3d maried on King Hendrie the 7th of Englands daughter. Their is a great salmond fisching on Tueid: for the freedome but of one boat on it they pay 100 lb. ster: per annum. We was at a kettle[577] on the water syde. My Lord Mordington had all the Magdalene field, but he could not get it peaceably possessed for thesse of Berwick, so that he sold it to Watsone. Holy Iland is 7 miles from Berwick. My Lords father Sir James Douglas was a sone of the Marquis of Douglas: he maried the only daughter of the Lord Oliphant. Idington is 5 miles furder in the Merse then Renton. [575] Lauder of the Bass. [576] Probably a road forming the boundary between the liberties of Berwick and the county. [577] 'A social party on Tweedside, common during the salmon fishing season.'--Ogilvie's _Imp. Dict_. Returned that same way almost and came to Auldhamstocks, 9 miles from Idington. Saw Auldcambus, then came to Eistbarnes; then for Linton bridges; within 2 mile of it saw the land of Nyne ware. Saw Gourlaybank; came and lay at Wauchton, who ware Moubrayes, and a 2d sone of my Lord Hailles marieing them they became Hepburnes. Quinkerstaines is a peice of old land of theirs. They got also Lufnes by marieng the heritrix theirof Riccartoun. But my Lord Hailes rose by 3 forfaulters: of the Earle of March, Dumbar, of the Creichton, and of Bothuell, Ramsay, the Laird of Balmayne.[578] Gorgie milne besyde Edenburgh did belong to Balmayne, but by a gift of nonentrie Otterbune of Reidhall, who was at that tyme Clerk Register, he got it. [578] As to Ramsay of Balmain being created Earl of Bothwell by James III., see p. 205. Saw nixt day Furd, Whitkirk, Craig, Hepburn, Balgone, Semple, Leuchie, Merjoribanks, Sydserfe, Achesone, Cassilton, Tomtallon, both the Marquis of Douglasses, and the Basse, 2 mile within the sea, about a short mile in circumference. Saw the May, belongs to Barnes Cunyghame. Saw Fentontour, ware Haliburtons and Wisconts, then purchased by the Earle of Gourie, now my Lord Advocats:[579] saw the Heuch-Home. [579] Sir John Nisbet. Nixt day went for Hadington: saw Ethelstanefield.[580] In Hadington saw my Lord Lawderdales buriall place, werie magnifiek. The Lord Yesters got Zester by mariage of the only child of my Lord Giffart. He had Beltan by marieng with a Cunyghame. [580] Probably Athelstaneford. In the coming to Edenbrugh saw Eister and Wester Adenstens, that is also their name; then Tranent, and neir it Windiegoule; then Elphinstone; then on the cost syde Cockenie, Seaton, Preston, Prestongrange, the Pans, Landnidrie:[581] up on the brae are Wallyfield, Dauphinton, Carberrie and Fausyde. [581] Now Longniddry. Master Thomas Scot of Abbotshall in King James the 5th tyme was Justice Clerk. Vide Hopes Collections, page 12, in principio. The Lairds of Glenbervie are not the oldest Douglasses as some say, but a cadet of Angus maried the heritrix theirof, they being then Melvils verie old in that name, and the powerfullest in all the Mearnes. They ware heritable shireffs their, and on of them being a great oppressor of the wholle country, manie complaints were made of him to the King. The King once answering that he cared not tho' they supped him in broth, they presently went and took him to a hill syde which they yet show, put on a ketle and boiled him their, and each of them took a soop out of it. It was in 1417.[582] [582] This story is told more fully by Sir W. Scott in a note to Leyden's ballad 'Lord Soulis,' _Border Minstrelsy_, vol. ii. p. 350, ed. 1802. Albany was Regent in 1417. They tell that amongs the manie Universities that are at Lovain their is one which of old was institute for poor scollars who had nought wheiron to maintaine themselfs, but that their diet was verie sober, nothing but bread and very small bread. At a tyme on of the students in it having a great stomack, in a rage sayd to his other fellows, If I ware Pope of Rome I would make the students of this Colledge to fare better then they do. He came to be Pope, and endowed that Colledge with great revenues, so that its the richest now in all Lovain. Of all the histories we have on record of magicians and sorcerers that seimes to me most strange which is reported of Ascletarion by Suetonius,[583] in Vita Domitiani, in pagina 82. [583] _Duodecim Caesares_, Domitian c. 15. The soothsayer's power of divination was tested by asking what his own fate would be. He said he would very soon be devoured by dogs. Domitian desiring to confute such uncanny powers of prediction ordered him to be killed and securely buried. The funeral pyre was knocked down by a storm, and dogs devoured the half-burnt remains. That Touch which George Tomsone hes wes acquired by his father from the Melvines, who are designed Lairds of Dyserts, who again acquired it in 1472 from on Touch, so then they have bein of that Ilk. Fingask, now McGill, ware Dundasses of before. (2) NOTES OF JOURNEYS IN SCOTLAND, 1671-72. [584] Having past over to Fyffe about the latter end of August 1671, I went to Leslie. Saw by the way Finglassie and Kinglassy and Caskieberry, bought by a Gennan who came heir about 60 or 70 years ago, and professed medicine: was called Shoneir. His grandchild sold it to the chancellor, who hes also bought the barrony of Cluny, sometyme belonging to Crighton of St. Leonards. Saw Touch, neir Markinch. Saw Balbirny, sometyme Sir Alex'r Clerks, now it pertaines to a tailzeour called Balfour. Saw Balquharge belonging to Bogie's unkle: then going for Couper, saw[585] Ramsayes forther,[586] now Pitcairnes by a marriage with the heritrix. Saw the hy way to Falkland, neir which stands Corston, whosse name is Ramsay: a sone wheirof was sir John Ramsay in K. James the 3ds dayes, and created by him Earle of Bothwell. He sent to the grammer scool of Edr. for a gentleman's sone to wait upon him, and who could writ weill. 2 ware brought him to choise one, wheirof Jo. Ramsay was the one; the other wrot better, yet the king made choise of John as having more the mean of a gentleman then the other, and made him his cubicular. He gave him the lands of Taringzean in Air, and Karkanders in Galloway, Gorgie and Gorgymilne in Louthian, and Balmayne in the Mernis. Without licence from him none could wear a sword within 2 miles of the K.'s palace. He made him also captain of his guards, vide Buchanan, pag. 444 and 450. Anent his being Earle of Bothwel Buchanan causes some doubt, because in K. Ja. the 3ds dayes, at pag. 452, he mentions Adam Hepburne, Earle of Bothwell; but I think he is in a mistake, for Drummond is formally contrare. The time of his death is controverted: some say he was killed at Stirling field with K. Ja. the 3'd, others (amongs whom is Mr. Androw Ramsay in his poems) at Flouden with Ja. the 4't. Whoever on Ja. the 3'ds death the title of honor conferred upon him was retracted; but he was not legally forfault nather in Parliament nor in a Justice court, so that the familie of Balmayne might the more easily be restored againe to that honor. He was the first in Scotland that ever got a patent of nobility. Buchanan throw the wholle tract of his history makes it his work to speak ill of all thosse who ware the king's favorites for the tyme. He sets doune all their vices in folio, but conceals the vertue by which it most be presumed they rose, and by which they did keip themselfes on foot. The tyme was their ware 22 landed gentlemen of the name of Ramsay in Fyffe. Some say Corston was a cadet of Dalhousie and some of Auchterhouse, of which family I have heard it contended the famous Alex'r Ramsay in King David's tyme (Buchanan, page 309) was, and not of Dalhousie; as also the Ramsay that was with Wallace. Of Dalhousie Ramsay, sy page 314. Skein, in the word Clan-McDuff, tells of W'm Ramsay E. of Fyffe, in K. Davids time. Its thought Auchterhouse is elder then Dalhousie; but that the most floorishing family is most ready to arrogat to it selfe as being the oldest house. Sir Jo. Ramsay that killed Gowry was a sone of Wiliecleuches in the Mers, and got Estbarnes, and was made E. of Huldernes. He was first made vicount of Hadingtoun. [584] MS. K. [585] It may be that the name of the property is omitted by mistake. [586] 'Formerly.' We saw also Rossie ...[587] and its loch, which seemes to be very large; saw Ramorney, Heriot; saw Scotstarvet, formerly Inglistarvet, on the croup of a hill; besyde it is the Struther. Then came to Couper by that way wheir the race is run; then came to Scotscraig-a part of it holds of the See of St. Androis and some of the E. of Mar--my Lord St. Androis big house, 6 miles from Couper and 4 from St. Androis, and a mile from the north ferry. It belonged, as also the Kirkton within a mile theirof, to George Lord Ramsay, father to this E. of Dalhousie, and was sold by him to S.[588] J. Buchanan, and Abbotshall conquestit[589] in lieu theirof. On the windows of the house of Scotscraig are the initiall letters of Sir Jo. Buchanan and Dame Margaret Hartsyde. Arthur Erskin got it from them, whosse creditors sold it to the Bischop, and got but 8 pence for their pounds of what was owing them. [587] Two words torn off. [588] Sir. [589] 'Acquired.' In the returning home to the Linkton, we saw 2 miles from the Craig Brackmont and Brackmont milne; then Forret, then Moonzie, as also Kinneuchar:[590] item, Dairsie, of old Leirmonts, now Morisones, with Bischop Spotswoods chappell he can see build their.[591] On the same water stand Kemnock[592] (theirs another in Fyffe called Cummock, who is Morton to his name), ware Sheveses, the successors of Wm. Sheves, archbischop of St. Androis, who outed Grahame, Kennedie's successor, and ingratiated himselfe with the nobility because of his skill in Astrology; they are now Mcgills; Rumgaye, also Migill; and Blebo, now Beaton. Saw Craigball, of old Kinninmonts, now Hopes, as also Cires. Came at last to Kennoway, belonging to the Laird of Balfour, and holden by him waird of the chancelor Rothes: its 12 miles fra Scotscraig. Then came to Dysert moor, wheir we saw the coal pits burning, which will ever burne so long as it hes any waste, but will die when it comes to the maine coall for want of air. In Dysert toun, hard by the church, which is a very old one, is a great cave which they call the Hermitage, and I imagine the toune hes bein called Desertum from it, yea, the most of the houses of the toun holds of it, and the parson of Dysert is designed rector rectoriae de Dysert. Then came to Revenscraig (alias Ruthvenscraig, of which name they seem to have bein of old), the lord Sinclars dwelling, and so to the Links, which is 6 miles from Kennoway, and so 18 from the Bischops house. Scotscraig was no old heritage to the lord Ramsay, but was acquired lately from Dury of that ilk by him. Balmayne had once Gorgie and Gorgiemilne, but Otterburne of Reidhall, by a gift of non-entry, evicted it from them. See of the E. of Bothwell and house of Balmaine largely alibi. [590] So pronounced, now Kilconquhar. [591] This seems obscure, though distinctly written. It may mean, 'ye can see built there.' [592] Now Kemback. The Bells wrongs themselfes in wearing bells in their armes, for certainly ther name is from France, in which language it signifies fair and bueatifull, hence it was the surname of one of their Kings, vid. Philip le Bell, yea, in the old Latine Bellum was that same with _pulchrum_; and war was called _bellum, ironice, quasi minime bellum, id est, minime pulcrum_. My Lord Twedale's predecessors have acquired all their fortune by marriages, so that all the original writs he hes in hes charter kist are only contracts of marriage. He was a cadet of Erroll, and the 1 heritrix he married with was one Macfud, and by her he got his land in Twedall; then he married one of the aires portioners of the Lord Frazer, and got some lands in the north with hir; then got Yester and many other lands with the only daughter of the Lord Giffart (tho my Lord Lauderdale sayes he can find by no record wheir ever he was a Lord). He got also Beltane by marieng the heritrix theirof, called Cunyghame. And now in this age he hes as much expectation to raise that way as ever. By his Lady he hes a claime to the estate of Baccleuch, failzeing of aires of this present Dutches hir body, tho the King hes somewhat inverted the straight succession heir. By his eldest sone he hes ane eye to my Lord Lauderdale's estate, providing he play his game weill, and is in hopes of getting the estate of Erroll entailled upon his 2'd sone. In the beginning of August, having gone to eist Louthian, saw Langnidrie; then a mile from it Reidhouse, the one was a Lord of the session and Tom of the Cowgate's brother; then Ballincreiff, belonging to my Lord Elibank; then Congilton, and on the brae above Ethalstanefoord, Byres, from which my Lord Hadingtone's eldest sone takes his title. My Lord Madertie's stile is truly Mater Dei, from some cloyster so named in the tyme of poperie: he should be induced to take some other denomination, this seeming to[593] blasphemous like. [593] too. * * * * * On the 17 of October 1672 having had occasion to go to Auldcambus with the provest, we went the first night to Waughton. Saw by the way Preston, Prestongrange, Seaton, St. Germains, Langnidrie, then Ballincreiff, then Reidhouse, then Dreme, and above it Byres, then Congilton, and above it Athelstanefoord and Westfortoun, and on the other hand Sydeserfe. The next day we parted for the Merse: saw Furd, Tunyghame, Westbarnes, Lochend, Broxmouth, Broxburne, Newtonlies, Eistbarnes, Spot, Fuirston, Bourhouses, Innerweik toun, kirk and place, Scarteraw, Thorntoun loch, Dunglas, Cockburnes path, then past the said path and came to Aulcambus path, corruptly called the pies. The provost hes a barrony their 4 miles long, and in the narrowest place at the leist a mile broad, which if it lay neir Edenborrough, we was counting would afford neir 100,000 mks. of rent per annum. He hes a great peice of Coldinghame moir in property, and he hes it all in commonty. His neibhours be Colbrandspeth, Renton, Butterdean, and the Laird of Lumsdean, now Douglas. The Lo. Renton dealt to have had the gift of the wholle moir from the king, and said it was only 2 rig lenth of land. I imagine the first possessors of that place ware Rentons to ther name, then they ware Forrestor, then Craw, whom the Home cheated out of it by marieng the Ladie. In the right of the Fosters he laid claime to the foster-corne to be payed to him by all the vassals and fewars of the abbacy, now the Lordship of Coldinghame, as being come in place of thesse who had a gift frae the prior and convent of Coldinghame to be forrester to all the woods and shaws growing within the lands holden of the said abbacy, to preserve and hayne the same; and for his paynes was to have a threiv of straw of each husband-land yeirly with some other dueties, and the Justice Clerk thought to have gotten the fewars decerned for more then 100 years that it was owing, but the Los. restricted him to 39 years preceiding his summons, finding all the years above prescryved. And for the dueties due to him on that accompt furth of the barrony of Auldcammas he got the property of a roume lying in the barrony called Fosterland, and when Waughton cutted his wood of Penmansheills, which is also a part of the barrony, Renton alledged that the boughs and bark of the tries within the Lo.ship was his by forsaid gift, and the heritor had nothing but the stock of the tries. They agried the matter betwen them. Tho he be most exact in lifting his fies, yet he does nothing that's incumbent to the office of forrester. On Sunday we went to Coldinghame Kirk, 4 miles from the smith's house at Haychester. The kirk hes bein a great fabrick. Its said to have bein built by K. Edgar, _anno_ 1098. Their was their a great abbacy. We saw the promontory so much taken notice of by the seamen called St. Abbes head (Sta. Ebba); over forgt[594] it layes Coldinghame Law, Home to his name. Saw the milne about which my Lord Home (who is the Lo. of erection now) and Renton are contending. Saw at 2 miles distance Haymouth,[595] and above it Gunsgrein, then Ayton, all standing on the water of Ei. Saw West Reston, Home, Eist Reston, Craw, and Henchcheid, Craw; of which name their was a nest in this place, but the Earle of Dumbar almost extinguished them, and now his owne memory is extinct and gone: let men then beware of oppression. Coldinghame stands pleasant, and verifies the byword that the kirkmen choised ever the warmest nests. Mr. Andro Ballantyne, brother to the sometyme Lo. Newhall, is heir minister. Auldcambus is in Cockburnspath parish. It hes a ruinous chappell standing in it dedicat to Ste. Helene, who was mother to Constantine the great, and found out the holy croce at Golgotha. Thrie mile from Auldcambus stands Monynet, and 3 miles from it againe stands Gammelisheills in Lammermuire. Blaikerston stands likewayes their about, as also Thorniedykes, now Broun, of old French. After some dayes stay at Auldcambus we came to Dumbar. Nixt day out of Dumbar we came to Northbervick by Belhaven, Tinynghame, Auldham, Scougall, Tomtallon, Cassilton. From Northberwick we went to Archerfield (so called because of the excellent links their fit for shooting at Rovers), my Lo. Advocat's[596] dwelling. Saw by the way Dirleton, with its castle, ruined by the English becaus it held out. Then from that came to Saltcoats, Leidingtone, to their name; then to Lufnes, of old Biccarton; then Waughtons, now Durhame; then to Abirlady toune and place, once Mr. Wm. Scot's, now Sir Androw Fletcher's. Theirs a great bay heir. Then saw Gosford, then Cockeny, the Pans, Wester Pans, wheir Jo. Jousie hes his house. [594] For 'forgainst,' 'opposite. [595] Now Eyemouth. [596] Sir John Nisbet of Dirleton. Naper is a french name and runs in it n'a pair, he hath not a peer. The Giffards of Shirefhall, they say, ware of old Shirefs of Louthian, and from that their house got its denomination. Tho some alledge their was in old tymes a Lord Giffard, and that it ended with ane heritrix married in the house of Yester: yet my Lord Duke of Lauderdale sayes he hes bein at very much pains to find if it was so, and he could never find any thing to instruct it. * * * * * The Wrichtshouses near Edenburgh, they say, was denominat from this, that in King James the 2ds dayes the ground about all being a forrest (lochia sylva is derived from lochs, _insidioe_, in the Greek, _quia insidiantibus capta est sylva_. Wossius[597] partit. orator, p. 328), and wheirin their was many robbries and murders committed. K. Ja. gave order to cut it doune. The Wrichts that ware appointed for this work had their huts and lodges whither they resorted for their dyet and on other accompts put up in the very individuall place wheir the house and place of the Wrightshouses is now situat, and so gave that denomination to the ground theirafter. [597] Vossius, Gerard. Johannes, Dutch philologist, 1577-1649, author of _De Quatuor Artibus Popularibus_, etc. (3) CHANGES AND ALTERATIONS AND REMARKABLE EMERGENTS OF AND IN THE SESSION 1668-1676.[598] [598] MS. H. On the 5 of June 1668 was I admitted Advocat. At this tyme died my Lord Carden, and Gosfurd succeided. In the November theirafter died Mr. Robert Burnet, Advocat. In May 1669 died Mr. Laurence Oliphant, Advocat. In July 1669 died William Lylle, Advocat. In August died William Douglas of Kirknes, who the session before had given in his trialls in order to his admission to be a Advocat. In September 1669 died Mr. Alexander Osuald, Advocat. On the 15 day of September 1669 was I chosen conjunct assessor with Sir George Lockart to the good toune. Its at large booked on the 13 of May 1670. On the 9nd of October also 1669 ware we chosen for assessors to the wholle borrows in their Convention. On the last of October 1669 died Mr. Laurence Scot of Bevely, one of the Clerks of Session, and that same night Alexander Monroe, Comisar of Stirling, was provided theirto. On the 25 of March 1670 died the Lord Kinglassie, to whosse place was provyded the Laird of Haltoun. In April 1670 died John Scot, Keiper of the Minut book, and his place was continued with his sone Francis. In May 1670 died John Kello, on of the under clerks, to whom succeided (after Robert Hamilton had officiat as under clerk the Summer session that followed, and Mr. Thomas Hay the following sessions till January 1673) James Hamilton, wryter. On the 5 of July 1670 Mr. Thomas Nicolsone, Advocat, died frenetick. In _anno_ 1668 Sir James Keith, Laird of Caddome, having threatned Mr. David Falconer, Advocat, ane ill turne, and being complained upon, and in his vindication reflecting upon my Lord Halkerton, he was committed to the tolbuith and fined. That same year, Mr. David Thoires having miscaried in a supplication given in by him to the Lords in behalfe of a client against Doctor Hay, bearing they were minded to satisfy the Doctors unsatiable covetousnesse to the oppression of the widow and the fatherles, he was sent to prison, fyned, and craved them humbly pardon. In _anno_ 1670, Mr. Alexander Spotswood, plaiding in the Oriminall Court for Wedderburne, and Mr. Patrick Home, being his antagonist and growing hot, called Alexander a knave, who replied, I can sooner prove you and your father knaves, who theirupon was imprisoned; but at last, upon intercession of freinds, was set at libertie. The Justice Clerk[599] was verie inexorable in the particular. [599] Lord Renton. In June 1670, Douglas of Kelheid, younger, affronted Hew Wallace, Writer to the Signet, in his oune house; which the Faculty, apprehending themselfes concerned in, at last caused Kelheid, in presence of them all, crave Hew and all the Faculty pardon for his offence, and confesse they did him a great courtesie in accepting that for satisfaction. On the end of January 1671, Sir John Gilmour, by reason of his infirmity, having dimitted his place of being President, but strongly having recommended Gosfoord to be his successor, it was offered to Sir John Nisbet, King's Advocat (whosse place if he had embraced it was thought Sir Robert Sinclair would have got), who faintly refusing, thinking theirby to have bein more woed, he was taken at his word, and our Jock of bread Scotland[600] would take none of their advices, but would take a way of his oune, and so did make choise of my Lord Stair, who was looking litle for it, and who truely came in betuixt tuo, and was so unacceptable to the former President that its thought he would not have dimitted had he dreamed the guise should have gone so; and the pitching on him was truely _in odium tertii_ to keip of Sir Robert Sinclar, whosse journey to Scotland under the pretence of coming to sie his new maried ladie suffered strange constructions at Court, and Lauderdale conjectured it was only to give my Lord Tueddale notice of some things that was then doing to his prejudice; and its beleived he would not have bein the coy duck to the rest of the Advocats for their obtempering to the Act of Regulations[60l] had he forsein that they would have hudibrased[602] him in the manner they did; hence we said give us all assurance to be Kings Advocat and we shall take it with the first; and the Lords, when he was plaiding before them in a particular, entreated him to come within the bar and put on his hat, since it was but to make him Advocat with 2 or 3 days antidate. He took also with it,[603] and did not deny it when he was posed on it. [600] Jock of bread (broad) Scotland, Lauderdale. [601] The Advocates objected to an article fixing their fees in the Regulations for the Court of Session, drawn up by a Commission and ratified by the king. Sinclair, Dean of Faculty, expecting preferment, instead of championing the bar, was the first to swear to the Regulations. The Advocates withdrew from practice for two months, and never forgave the Dean. See p. 222. [602] A participle coined on the same principle as the modern 'boycotted.' The point of the comparison with the hero of Butler's satire is not obvious. It seems to mean simply 'made a fool of.' [603] Took with it, _i. e_. acknowledged it. The expression is still common in the north-east of Scotland. In the beginning of May this year died Mr. James Wemes, Advocat, brother to the Laird of Lathoker. On the 28 of June 1671 was Sir Thomas Wallace receaved ane Ordinar Lord in the place vacand throw the promotion of my Lord Stair to be President. On the 13 of July 1671 died Sir John Home of Renton, Justice Clerk. He was indeid advanced by Lauderdale, and for his sake componed the more easily with Sir Robert Murray;[604] yet Lauderdale his kindnes relented much on this occasion. In _anno_ 1664, being minded to bring in my Lord Tueddale to be Chancelor, St. Androis entrefaired. Glasgow, thinking he should have a hand in it as weill as his brother the Primate, he enters in termes with my Lord Renton. Its commoned[605] that Sir Alex'r may marry the Archbischop's daughter, who was afterward Ladie Elphinstone, and that he at London may propose Renton to be Chancelor. My Lord Lauderdale was hudgely dissatisfied with that, yet having calmed, he told him Renton had not the fortune able to bear out the rank of a Chancelor. Burnet replied, Renton had a better fortune then ever Chancelor Hay[606] had. Lauderdale could never be pleased with him therafter for offering to aspire so hy. He was also at another disadvantage, my Lord Hume offered to compromit the difference betuen them to my Lord Lauderdale. Renton shifted it. He was a most peremptor man to his inferiors or æqualls, but a slavish fearer of any whom he supposed to be great at Court, on whom he most obsequiously fauned. [604] Murray was his predecessor. Apparently there was a bargain for his retirement. [605] Agreed. [606] Sir George Hay of Nethercliff, Lord of Session, Chancellor, 1622-1635, Lord Kinnoul. In the end of July, vid. the 27 day theirof, Mr. Alexander Suinton, one of the under clerks of Session, dimitted his place, and was admitted ane advocat _per saltum_ upon a bill. Adam Chrystie, reader of the Minut Book, succeided instantly in his place of clerk. That same day died Mr. Archibald Campbell, Advocat, sone to the Shireff of Argile. About the last of July 1671 came Collonell Lockhart from London, and brought doune a patent with him in favors of his father Lee to be Justice Clerk in place of Renton: he being an old man, and not supposed he can enjoy it long, its talked it is for the behoof of some on or other of his children, but especially the Collonells selfe. This was our Donna Olimpias[607] doing. [607] Duchess of Lauderdale. On the 14 day of August 1671 died Sir John Gilmor, late President, in his house of Craigmiller, and was buried the 24 day theirof in Liberton Kirk. In the beginning of September died my Lord Bellenden, sometime Thesaurer depute at London. On the 1 of October 1671 died Alexander,[608] Lord Halkerton, at his oune house, of the age of 77. He entered to his place in Session by simony, or rather _committendo crimen ambitus_, for he payed to my Lord Balmanno 7000 merks (a great soume at that tyme when their salaries ware small), to dimit in his favors, and by my Lord Traquaires moyen, then Threasurer whosse creature he was, he got the dimission to be accepted by his Majesty. This was about the 1643. I shall not say of him, as was said of Pope Hildebrand _alias_ Gregory the 7th, _Intravit ut vulpes, regnavit ut Leo, mortuus est ut canis_. Only this I shall say, wheir places of justice are bought, whow can it be otherwayes but justice will be sold. The family is said to be pretty old, and both their name and stile to be taken from the charge they had at the tyme our Kings of Scotland resided in the Mernes, whosse falconers they ware, and their village was hence called the Haukerstoune. They say my Lord Arbuthnet was at that tyme King's porter, and that he hes a peice of land yet designed Porterstoune; and that some other their was landresse, and so had a village called Waschingtoune. [608] Falconer. On the 15 of October 1671 died Mr. William Douglas, Advocat, or rather the poet, since in that he most excelled. In the end of the preceiding summer Session Adam Cunyghame, sone in law to James Wallace, Maisser, was received conjunctly to the office of maisserie with the said James, conforme to ane gift of the said place to them both conjunctly and to the longest liver of them tua. Arthur Forbes, having some clame upon the estate of Salton, and pershuing the Laird of Philorth, now Lord Salton, he was very rigorously and partially handled by my Lord Newbayth,[609] who heard the cause. It being againe enrolled in the beginning of November, and my Lord Newbayth falling to be ordinar in the Utter house, Arthur, out of a just resentiment of the past wrong and fear of his future carriage, come to my Lords chamber and boasted (as my Lord Newbayth sayes) in thir words, If you call that action of Philorth against me I vow to God I'le sie the best blood in your body. Newbayth having complained, and Arthur being theiron incarcerat and examined, denied he spoke any such words, and declared he only said, My Lord, if you continue to do me wrong (as you have done already, as appears because the Lords redrest me) I'le have the sentiment of the haill 14 Lords on it; and if that be denied, I'le complain to the King. After he had lyen some 4 or 5 dayes in prison he was set at freedome, having first acknowledged a wrong and craved my Lord Newbayth pardon in presence of the haill Lords and Advocats on the 10 of November. Before he did it the President had a short discourse whow the gentlemans carriage had bein modest thitherto, and my Lord Newbayth was earnest intercessor for him, and theirfor they resolved not to make him the first exemple; but they assured all, of whatsoever rank or quality they be, that they will not tolerat any to expostulat with them or to give them hard or sharp words in their oune chambers or any wheir, and that they will not suffer their authority, which they hold of his Majesty, and to whom they are answerable if they malverse, to be convelled,[610] but what sanctions their are already to that purpose they will endevor to sie them peremptorly keipt and execute. Vide Act 68, Parliament 1537; Act 104, Parliament 1540; Act 173, Parliament 1593; Act 4, Parliament 1600; and this is consonant to the Common law by which the killing of one of the Kings great consistory is declared treason, and if so then the menacing of them must be a haynous crime. Vide L. 5, C. Ad 1. Juliam Majestatis: item Clarum[611] par. læsæ Maj. num. 5, item Perezium[612] ad T. c. de L. 3, Majest. num. 3. [609] Sir John Baird of Newbyth, still pronounced Newbayth. [610] Torn to pieces. [611] Clarus, Ant. Sylv., _Commentarius ad Leges_, etc. Paris, 1603. [612] Perez, Antonio, Spanish Jurist, 1583-1678. On the 17 of November 1671, Mr. William Bailzie, Advocat, gave in a complaint on J. Watson of Lammyletham for having abused him, and called him a base rascall and threatning to draw on him. My Lord Newbayth being appointed to examine the witnesses, and having reported the Lords, called him and Mr. William in alone, rebuked him, and commanded him to cary him selfe more soberly in tyme coming. On the 23 of November 1671, Sir Androw Ramsay of Abbotshall, Lord Provest of Edinburgh for the 10't year altogither, was received ane ordinar Lord of the Session upon his Majestys letter to that effect, in the place vaicand throw the deceas of Alexander Lord Halkerton, who possest that place of before. I find in the records of Sederunt about the year 1553 and afterward on Sir William Hamilton[613] of Sanquhar Hamilton a Lord and provest of Edinburgh both at once. I find also that Chancelor Seyton[614] for some years that he was President Fyvie and some years that he was Chancelor (for he was 10 years altogither provest) was also Provest of Edinburgh; but that was at a tyme when the Senators of the Colledge of Justice grasped at the haill power of the toune upon their delinquency and uproar of the 17 of December 1596, for he entred at that tyme when the toune was at their feet, and when they had the approbation and reprobation of the toune their yearly election, but whow soon the toune begane to recover strenth and the memory of that foull slip waxed old they hoised him out; and for fear of the like inconveniency, and to bolt the door theirafter, they procured ane Act of Parliament _in Anno_ 1609 (Vid. the 8't Act), declaring that no man shall in tyme coming be capable of provestrie or magistracy but merchants and actuall traffiquers duelling within burgh. Its true Sir John Hay (who was at first toun Clerk of Edinburgh) when he was Clerk Register and a Lord of the Session, he was made Provest of Edinburgh, but it was not put upon him out of any favor, but was done by Traquaire, then Tresaurer, of designe to break him: so that none of thesse instances quadrat with our case; heir a merchant, one who entred _cum bona gratia_, and who hes maintained himselfe by his oune parts and moyen in that office by the space of 10 years altogether, on who toped with the Colledge of Justice for the precedency and carried it from them, and who feared not to make open war with the greatest of them; he as the only single instance is made a Lord of the Session.[615] [613] Lord of Session (Sanquhar), 1546-61; Provost, 1554. [614] Alexander Seton, Extraordinary Lord of Session, 1586, Ordinary, 1588, President, 1593, Chancellor, 1605-22, under the successive titles of Prior of Pluscardine, Lord Urquhart, Lord Fyvie, and Earl of Dunfermline. [615] See Appendix III. On the 14 of December 1671, Richard Maitland of Pitreichy was received ane ordinar Lord in the place vaicand throw the advancement of my Lord Lee to be Justice Clerk upon his Majesties letters to that purpose. On the 5 of January 1672 died Sir John Scougall of Whytkirk, and was buried in the Grayfriers on the 7 day of January theirafter in great pomp, his goune being carried before the herse. On the 4 of March 1672 was Mr. Robert Preston of that Ilk installed in his place in obedience to his Majesties letter direct to the Lords to that effect. On the 16 of February 1672 died John Ramsay, keiper of the Register of Hornings and Inhibitions, and on George Robertsone was admitted in his place by my Lord Register. About the end of March, this same year, died Mr. Alexander Hamilton, Justice Clerk Depute, to whosse place on Mr. Robert Martin was received by my Lord Lee. (_Vide infra._) About the 14 of May 1672 died Charles, Earle of Dumfermeling, Lord Privy Seall, and ane extraordinar Lord. Its reported that Mr. Martin hes payed saltly for his place, vid. 500 pound English money to the Justice Clerk, 500 merks Scots to Mr. William Cheisley as agenter, and 1000 merks to the widow. About the 20 of May this yeir died Mr. John Morray, advocat. Upon the 27 of June 1672, Sir Robert Sinclair fell unto a lamentable pramunire in this manner. Some merchants in Glasgow being quarrelled by the manadgers of the Royall Fisching for exporting herrings, that being their priviledge, their is a bill drawen up for them by Sir Robert, and given in to the Lords of Secret Counsell, wheirin, among other things, he had this expression, that the petitioners ware frie natives, members of a royall borrow, whosse priviledges ought not lightly to be reversed, else malcontents would thairon take occasion of grudge, and of sowing fears and jealousies betuixt his Majestie and his people. At the hearing of which my Lord Commissioner,[616] guessing the author, began to baule and foame, and scrued up the cryme to such a height as that it deserved emprisonment, deprivation, and a most severe reprimande. At last the Counsell agried in a more moderat censure, that he should with close doors (tho my Lord Commissioner would have had it publick) acknowledge his offence upon his knees before the wholle Lords, and recant and disclame the forsaid expression as seditious and not becoming a subject: And theiron, as its said, ane act was made, that no petition should be presented heirafter but subscryved ather by the party or the Advocat. [616] Lauderdale. Theirs no expression so innocent wheirupon malice will not fasten its teeth; and truly their hes bein many expressions by far harsher then this escaped the pens of advocats, and which hes never bein noticed. And yet I think its _justo Dei judicio_ casten in Sir Roberts lap for his so dishonourable complying, yea, betraying the priviledges of the Advocats, and breaking the bond of unity amongs them, and embracing first that brat of the Regulations. The excuse that he made for so over shoting him selfe was most dull and pittifull, vid. that they had come to him just after he had dined, and he had drawen it then, and so was hasted. On the 24 July 1672, in the Parliament, Sir Colin Campbell was reproved for disorderly tabling of the Summer Session:[617] the circumstances see _alibi_. So the Commissioner seimed in a manner set to afront the Advocats. [617] The proposal to abolish the Summer Session of the Court and add a month to the winter was made by the Commissioner in his speech, and argued before him in the Exchequer Chamber, where he decided against it. The account of the matter given by Mackenzie (_Memoirs_, 222 _sqq._) is curious and interesting. In favour of the change it was argued that 'before men could settle at home after the Winter Session, they were called again to the Summer Session, so that their projects and designs were interrupted and ruined, and the months of June and July, which were the only pleasant months, and the only months wherein gardens and land could be improved, were spent in the most unwholsome and unpleasant town of Scotland [Edinburgh].' Sir C. Campbell tried to revive the question in plain Parliament, but the Commissioner vetoed it. In November 1672 died Mr. Andrew Beaton, Advocat, and brother to the Laird of Balfour. On the 2d of November 1672, my Lord Newbayth being challenged for passing a Suspension of a Decreite Absolvitor given by the Admirall, he denied it was his subscription, and at last his servant, Jeremiah Spence, acknowledged he had forged the same, for which he got a guiny[618] for procuring, as the parties thought, his Masters subscription therto; wheirupon, being imprisoned, the Lords, on the 6 of November, having called for him to their presence, they did declare him infamous and uncapable of any charge or imployment about the Session, and seing he had judicially confest it, they remitted him to the Kings officers for his furder triall. Its thought this was not the first of many forgeries he hes committed, so that his master lay under very much obloquy and reproach, which hes bein greatly occasioned throw his default, only it cannot be denied that my Lord gave to much ear to the mans recommendations, yea gave very grosse insinuations of his contentment and favor when his man got money, so that it was confidently affirmed that his man and he shared the profit that accrued from the Saterdayes roll, the syde bar, etc., amongs them; and it is now judged the liklier because my Lord concernes himselfe exceidingly to bring his man of only with a sweip of a tods taill, wheiras in generosity he should be his main prosecuter. [618] Guinea. See Introduction, Money. In the beginning of November 1672 died William, Earle of Dalhousie, being a very old man, wheiron my Lord Halton, Thresurer Depute, was made Shireff principall of Edenboroughshire during his lifetyme in place of the said Earle; And Mr. Alexander Suinton, advocat, was made his depute and Mr. Laurence Charteris. About the same tyme, Mr. John Stewart of Ketleston, on of the Admirall deputes, died, and Walter Pringle, Advocat, by the mediation of Sir Charles Bickerstaffe, the other depute, succeided in his place, [and in November 1674, Mr. Patrick Lyon was nominat in place of W. Pringle, deprived].[619] [619] Interlined. In the same moneth of November the Earle of Atholl was made Lord Privy Seall in place of the Earle of Dumfermeling, who died in the May before. [As also the Earle of Kincardin was made Justice Generall upon the dimission of the Earle of Atholl. This held not.][620] [620] The two lines in brackets are scored through. See p. 225. In England, the great seall at the same tyme was taken from Sir Orlando Bridgeman, and the Earle of Shaftesbury, formerly Lord Ashley Couper, is made Hy Chancelor of England. Sir John Duncombe is made under threasurer, in place of Ashley Couper. The Lord Clifford, lately but Sir Thomas Clifford, is exalted to be great Treasaurer of England. [He is the 1[621] Thesaurer since the death of the Earle of Southhampton],[622] and the Commissioners for the Threasurie are suppressed, and its expected that they, as the _primum mobile_, will draw us as ane inferior orbe rolling within theirs after them. The Lord Mainart, brother in law to the Duck of Lauderdale, is made thesaurer of the Kings house. Sir Robert Howard, commonly called Sir Positive, is made Secretary to the Treasurer. The Duck of Monmouth is made Lord Cheiff Justice of all the forrests in England benorth the Trent. My Lord Lauderdale hes undoubtedly had a great hand in this extraordinary revolution; for they are on the caballe with him, and are all his confident privado'es. The old nobility cannot but repute them selfes slighted when they sie thesse great offices of State conferred upon [muschroomes][623] upstarts. But this is a part of the absolute power of kings to raise men from the dunghill and make them their oune companions. [621] i.e. first. [622] Interlined. [623] Interlined. In the beginning of December 1672 died Mr. George Norvell, advocate, on of the greatest formalists that was in all the tolbuith. His place as agent for the Colledge and toune of Edinburgh was by Act of the Toune Counsell conferred upon Mr. Robert Lauder, portioner of Belhaven, some few days after. At the same tyme died Mr. Thomas Buck, advocat. On the 14 of December 1672 the Faculty made choice of Sir G. Lockhart for their Dean, Sir Robert Sinclar having of some tyme before showen a willingnes to demit in regard he discovered many of the faculty displeased at him for his faint surrender and breaking the unity of the Faculty in the matter of the Regulations and for sundry other particulars. On the 2'd of January 1673 died Mr. John Andersone, advocat. About the beginning of January 1673 James Hamilton was received ane under clerk in place of Jo. Kello, who died (_ut supra notatum_) in May 1670. On the 14 of January 1673 the Earle of Atholl was received ane extraordinar Lord on the Session in place of the Earle of Dumfermeling, who died (_ut supra dixi_) in May 1672. In May 1673 died Mr. John Muirhead, advocat. In June 1673 I was named by the Lords to be on of the advocats for the poor the yeir enshueing, but upon the mediation of my Lord Abbotshall I was excused. On the 19 of July 1673 Forbes of Tolquhon was fined by the Lords in 40 lib. Scots for opprobrious speaches to Mr. David Thoires, advocat, and calling him a knave. On the 5 of Januar 1674 I was appointed on of the privat examinators of such as offered to enter advocats for that year. On the 10 of Januar 1674 died Mr. Robert Dicksone, advocat. In the beginning of this year 1674 died Mr. William Wallace, advocat, and on of the Shiref Deputes of Edenbrugh shire. In the beginning of March 1674 died Sir James Lockhart of Lee, Justice Clerk. On the 4 of June 1674 Mr. Thomas Murray of Glendoick, advocat, was admitted and receaved, in obedience to the Kings letters, a Lord of the Session, in place of Lee deceissed, as he was ane ordinary Lord, for they say Sir William Lockart the Collonell had his place by way of survivance and reversion of Justice Clerk. On the same 4 of June Mr. David Balfour of Forret or Glentarkie was, upon the Kings letter, receaved ane ordinar Lord in the place vaikand by the dimission of Sir Androw Ramsay of Abbotshall. On the 5'th of June 1674 died Sir James Ramsay of Whythill, advocat, and Mr. James Hamilton, advocat, sone to the Bischop of Galloway. On the 2'd of June 1674 I was nominat on of the advocats for the poor for the year enshueing. About the 10 of June 1674 the Earle of Argile was admitted and receaved ane extraordinar Lord of the Session upon the Kings letter, in place of the Earle of Tuedale, turned out, as also the said Earle of Argyle got Tuedales place as one of the Commissioners of the Tresaury. And my Lord of Atholl at this same tyme got that place of the Thesaury which was lying vaikand thesse severall years by the deceas of Sir Robert Moray. On the 4 of June 1674, in obedience to a new comission for the Secret Councell, sent doune by the King, the Councell was of new modelled, 6 of the former members put out, viz. the Earle of Queinsberry, Earle of Roxbrugh, Earle of ----[632], Earle of Tuedale, the Lord Yester, and Generall Major Drummond, and 6 new Councelors assumed in their place, viz. the Earle of Mar, Earle of Kinghorne, ----[624], Lord Rosse, my Lord Colinton, and my Lord Craigie. [624] Blank in MS. On the 3 of July 1674 the Lords of Session deprived about 49 advocats who partly adhæred to Sir G. Lockhart and Sir J. Cunyghame, who ware declared uncapable, conforme to the Kings letter on the 24 of June preceeding, and partly refused to officiat under the tyes and obligations contained in his Majesties letter anent appealls, and the Lords of Session their sentences, that none charge them of injustice. On the 7 of July 1674 died Mr. James Rosse, advocat. In October 1674 died Sir Robert Preston of that Ilk, on of the Lords of Session. And in the midle of November 1674 James Foulls, Advocat, younger of Colinton, by the name of Lord Reidfuird, was admitted and receaved a Lord in his place, in obedience to his Majesties letter, and was the first who was tryed in the new manner prescribed by his Majesty in July last. In June 1675 died Collonell Sir William Lockhart of Lee at Paris, wheir he lay embassador for his Majesty of Great Brittain, and so the Justice Clerkship waiked, which was immediatly bestowed and conferred on my Lord Craigie, but his gift bears _ad bene placitum_ only. In his place as on of the criminall lords succeided my Lord Glendoick. And at the same tyme my Lord Newbayth, by a letter from his Majesty, being eased and dispossest of his place in the Criminall Court, the same was given to my Lord Forret, so that his entrie both heir and on the Session is not so cleanly. The Earle of Atholl having at his being chosen Privy Seall oblidged himselfe to dimit the office of Justice Generall when his Majesty saw cause to dispose of it, now in June 1675 the Earle of Murray is created Justice Generall. In July 1675 died Mr. Robert Winrahame, advocat. On the 5 of August 1675 Sir Androw Ramsay, Lord Abbotshall, was, upon his Majesties letter, readmitted and sworne upon the Privy Councell, which and his other offices he had dimitted to my Lord Commissioner under trust on the 1 of December 1673. In the end of September 1675 died Mr. Alexander Spotswood of Crumstaine, advocat, of 2 dayes sicknes. Item, Mr. Patrick Oliphant, of a few dayes sicknes, about that same tyme. In the end of November 1675 died James Chalmers, advocat. In the beginning of Januarie 1676 died James Hamilton, on of the under clerks of Session, and his place was bestowed on John Hay, wryter, and criminall clerk depute under Mr. Robert Martin. On the 8 and 11 of January 1676 all the outed advocats to the number of 35 ware admitted again to their employments, conforme to his Majesties letter theranent. In the end of March 1676 died Mr. William Strachan, advocat, and brother to the Laird of Glenkindy. On the 16 of June 1676 was Sir Archbald Primerose, Clerk Register, by a letter from his Majesty, removed from his place of Register and from the Session, and a patent sent him to be Justice Generall, and the Earle of Murray gets a pension of 400 lb. Sterling for it, and his place in Session was instantly supplyed by a letter from his Majestie in behalfe of Sir David Falconer of Neuton, Advocat; and the office of Register was conferred theirafter in February 1678 (neir 2 years vacancy) on Sir Thomas Morray, Lord Glendoick. See it in my remarks then. On the 24 of June was a letter red from his Majestie, appointing their should be only 3 principall Clerks of Session, and that the Lords remove the rest, appointing them some satisfaction from thesse who stayed in. Heirupon the Lords voted Messrs. Alexander Gibsone, Thomas Hay, and John Hay to be the 3 who should only officiat (See the manuscript[625] at November 1682, page 73), and removed Sir John Gibsone, but prejudice of the contract betuixt him and his sone of 100 lb. sterling yeirly, Alexander Monro and Robert Hamilton, and modified them 7000 merks from the other 2, which Comissar Monro refused unles they gave him a reason of their depriving him, which was refused till he raised his declarator if he had a mind to doe it. He within a 4'tnight after accepted it. The letter also commanded the Advocats consulting togither. [625] Interlined. On the 28 of June 1676 was a letter from his Majesty red in the Thresaury commanding Sir John Nisbet his Advocat to call for Sir George M'cKeinzie in the concernes of his office, and act by his advice, and establist 100 lb. Sterling of pension upon him for the same. See the other Manuscript of Session Occurrents, page 13 and 42. On the last of June 1676 Mr. John Eleis and Mr. Walter Pringle ware suspended from being Advocats by the Lords, because they shifted to depone _super inquirendis_ if their was any combination amongs the late restored advocats not to consult with thosse who stayed in. See the Sentence _apud me_. On the 8 of July 1676 was Mr. John Eleis readmitted because he complyed with the Lords and deponed. W. Pringle readmitted in June 1677. On the 20 of July 1676 a new Commission of Secret Councell from his Majesty was red, wheirin six of the former Councelors ware left out and discarded, viz. the Duc of Hamilton, Earles of Dumfreis, Morton, and Kincairden, the Lord Cochrane and Sir Archibald Primrose, late Lord Register. In the beginning of June 1676 died Mr. James Aikenhead, on of the comisars of Edinburgh; and in the end of Jully Mr. James Dalrymple was presented by the Archbischop of St. Andrewes in his place who had got the right of presenting all the comisars of Edinburgh during the vacancy of that diocesse in _anno_ 1671, only his gift was caution'd that he sould confer them gratis, and on qualified persones. On the 19 of August 1676 died Mr. Laurence Charteris, Advocat, and on of the Shireff deputes of Edenborough shire, in which office succeided to him by the gift of deputation from my Lord Halton immediatly Mr. Thomas Skein, brother to Halzeards, in West Lothian, and afterwards admitted ane Advocat. On the last of October 1676 died Mr. John Bailzie, advocat. On the 13 of November 1676 Sir Archibald Primrois, late Register, took his place in the Criminall Court as Lord Justice Generall, and gave his oath _de fideli_. See more of it, _alibi_, page 144. See the continuations of the changes and alterations and remarkable emergents of and in the Session in another paper book besyde me that opens by the lenth. (4) OBSERVATIONS ON PUBLIC AFFAIRS, 1669-1670[626] [626] From MS. II. [In anno 1669 died the Q. mother of England. In anno 1670 died madame our K's sister mons'r the Duc of Orleans his Ladie she having bein in England but a litle while before. On the 24 of October 1670 was the church of the Blackfriars in Glasgow touched with lightning of thunder about seven a cloak of the morning, and having brok throu the roof it catcht hold upon its jests and had undoubtedly brunt the church to ashes had it not bein extiuguished in tyme. They say it brook also on their great church at the head of the toun. What follows in thir 9 leives is copied and enlarged alibi. In anno 1667 the French make ane invasion upon the Spanish Netherlands, and after he had ransact the country and made himselfe master of divers tounes][627] as Doway, Lisle, Tournay, etc., a peace was at last concluded in May 1668, wheirof the articles ware, 1'o to be perpetuall. 2'do so soon as the peace is published all hostility most cease. 3'do the French to keip the couquiest of the late campaigne. 4'to that he hold them with their dependances in soverainetie and the Spaniard to yeald them to him for ever. 5'to that the French King restore la France conté. 6'to the Spaniard most restore all places tane by him in the war. 7'o that all princes authorize the treatie and that nothing be retracted of the traitty of the Pyrenees save what is disposed on by this: To be mutually interchanged, ratified, and sworne by oath. [627] The first page, as above, within brackets, is scored out in MS. Upon the 27 of September 1669 was Candie toune (being the losse of the wholle Ile to the Venetians) surrendred to the Turks after a long seige wheir the French got a great overthrow, and their Admirall the Duc de Beaufort was killed with many other persons of note: and wheir Monsieur Annand our Master Annands brother behaved himselfe most gallantly, and since hes bein so hylie complemented for that his service by the Venetian senat that I beleive never was any stranger more. He is admitted unto all their counsels and sits upon their Ducks right hand: the Englishs ware so affrontedly impudent as in their new books first to cal him ane Englishman, and being challenged for that they designed him after a subject of his Maj. of Great Brittain, so loath are they to give us our due praise. In anno 1670 was ane insurrection of the paisants of the country of Vivarets in Daulphinée in France, upon the occasion of some extraordinarie tax cruelly exacted. They ware soon dissipat. Their is presently, in October 1670, a fellow called Ratzin[628] who hes taken up armes in Mosco agt the Emperor, and hes got of followers neir 100,000 men: he was a gunner, had a brother, who, being put to death for some crime, he in revenge of his brothers death hes made this commotion craving nothing lesse but that thesse who ware the cause of his brother's death (now they are the greatest men about the Ducks persone) may be delivered up to him. [628] Rebellion of Stenka Razin against the Tsar Alexis. It is apprehended by the wiser sort that this Union[629] is mainly set on foot by his Majestie, and so much coveted after by him, that he may rid himselfe of the house of Commons who have lyen verie heavy upon his loines and the loins of his predecessors Kings of England and especially of his brave father, and who have ever most crossed ther great designes. Now it being proposed that their should be but on parliament for all Britain, it will follow that the house of commons constitut no more a house apart, but that its members sit togither with the Lords in the house of peers: and for the better effectuating this great point, I hear his Majesty caresses and complements thesse of the house of commons a great deall more then ever he was in use to do, and that he converses most familiarly with them, seikes their company, and that they get accesse when many great persons cannot. But this is not all, such of them as seimed most active and concerned in pressing the priviledges and liberties of that house and of the commonalty of England, his majesty within this short tyme hes nobilitat them, and by this hes both engadged them to his oune party, and by setting them in a hyer sphoere weakned the house of commons. [629] Charles II. having renewed the proposal for the union of the kingdoms, Commissioners were appointed for England and Scotland, and sat in London for some months in the autumn of 1670. I confesse the King hes reason to wrest this excessive power out of the commons their hand it being a unspeakable impairment of his soverainetie, but I fear it prosper not. I hear the Earle of Strafford, who was Deputie of Ireland, was at first but a mean gentleman yet a member of the house of commons, and on of the most stirring amongst them, which K. Charles perceiving he created him a nobleman and by that so endeared him to his intrest that we know he suffered for it. In the middle of 1669 came his majesties letter to the secret counsell for indulging some of the outed ministers libertie to return to their oune kirks if vacant, or to preach at any other vacant churches the S. counsell should think fit to place them, and that they should not be answerable to the Bischop of the diocese where they ware, but to the counsell. Then in the Parl. 1669 was the King's supremacie in a very hy straine established. This procedure startled all our Bischops extreimly, yet all of them ware so cunning and such tyme servers as they seimed to applaud it, only Mr. Alex'r Burnet, Arch B. of Glascow, and the Dean theirof, with some others more ingenuous then the rest, pens a remonstrance (which also they put their hands to) to be presented to the King, showing his majesty whow that course he had tane for uniting distractcd parties and healing our breaches would prove unsuccesfull, yea was to be feared would produce the just contrare effect, vid., more dissentions, etc. Upon this occasion he[630] gets a passe, and if he refused to dimit voluntarlie then their is a warrand from his Majesty for processing him criminally: upon that and other heads, he ather judging it not safe to contend with his m'r, or else not daring bid[631] the touch, dimits in his Majesties hands and _ex gratia_ his Maj. grants him a pension out of the fruits of that benefice of 5000 mks. per annum for all the dayes of his lifetyme. [630] _i.e._ the Archbishop. [631] _i.e._ to abide. Then Lighton, Bischop of Dunblaine, was presented to it, who, after much nicety, and a journey to London, at last condeschended to take a tryall of it for a tyme under the name of Commendator Superintendent over the spirituality of that Bischoprick or some such like name, who took much paines to take up the differences betuixt the conformists and non- conformists, and to that purpose, in my Lord commissioners Audience in August 1670, ware then sundrie freindly conferences betuixt himselfe and some others adjoined to himself and some of the non-conformist ministers, upon which nothing then followed. He also in September 1670 took some moderat men, as Mr. Nairne, Mr. Cook, and others along wt him to his diocesse, by them to allure the people to frequent their oune parish churches, but he found them so exasperat wt the loud and scandalous cariage of the ministry that was planted amongs them on the removall of their former, that his great paines had not answerable successe. In anno 1668 was Honieman B. of Orkney shot in the arme, being sitting in the coach wt Arch. B. Sharp, for whom, it was thought, the pistoll was levelled. Some sayd it behoved to be some great hater of the Bischops, others said it might be out of privat splen and not for the privat quarrell of Religion; others said he was but suborned to do it by the Bychops themselves, that they might lay the blame on the Presbyterians, and draw the greater odium on them, and stoop the favor that was intended them of opening some of their ministers mouths; and the truth is, it did retard that better almost a year. In anno 1670, about July theirof, Mr. John Meinzeis, brother to the Laird of Culteraws, and minister at[632] in Annandale, left his church and emitted a declaration bearing what stings he suffared in his conscience for conforming with the present church governement, which he fand to be a fertile soyle for profanity and errors of all kinds, and theirfor he gives all to whom thir presents may come to know that he disapproves of the said governement and of his bypast complyance, and that in tyme coming he will forsake the ministrie, since he cannot exercise it unlesse he wound his soull farder by that sinfull compliance. The Bisc. ware verie pressing to have had him punisht, but his friends got him borne by. [632] Blank in MS. In that same year 1670 was that monster of men and reproach of mankind (for otherwayes I cannot stile him), Major Weir, for most horrible witchcraft, Incest, Bestiality, and other enorme crymes, at first confest by himselfe (his conscience being awakned by the terrors of the Almightie), but afterwards faintly denied by him, brunt. So sad a spectacle he was of humane frailty that I think no history can parallell the like. We saw him the fornoon before he died, but he could be drawen to no sense of a mercifull God, yea sometimes would he scarse confesse their was a God, so horribly was he lost to himselfe. The thing that aggravated his guilt most was the pretext and show of godlinesse wt which he had even to that tyme deceived the world. His sister also was but a very lamentable object, for she ran on the other extreem and præsumed exceidingly on the mercy of God, wheiras their ware no great evidences in hir of soull contrition. She was hanged. They say their is some difference fallen in betuen my Lo. Lauderdale and my Lo. Argyle about some desire my Lo. Lauderdale had in relation to the Lady Balcarras, now Lady Argile, which Argile relished not, and said, I think your grace would take the ward of my marriage. He answered, I may weill have that, for I once had the waird of your head, which was true in anno 1663, when the sentence of death and forfaultor was past on him as a traitor. In anno 1669 did his majesty in his Royall wisdome compose the differences betuixt the tua houses of parlia. in Engl., which ware likely to have occasioned great strife, it being anent their priviledges and liberties alledged brook[633] in the case of on Master Skinner, a member of the house of commons. His majesties course was that all memorie of discord betuen his 2 houses that might be found on record should be totallie abolished and expunged both out of the Registers of Parl., Exchequer, Counsell, and out of all other monuments, that the ages to come may not so much as know their was any variance betuixt them. On the 28 of September 1670 was Colonell Lockhart admitted a secret Counseller, and they say that Lambert is also made a Counsellor in England. [633] _i.e._ broken. The King in 1670 craving of his parliament a subsidie for defraying his debt, they proposed that ere any new tax could be granted account should be made of the former subsidies, whow the same ware employed by Mr. Cotteridge and others, whom the King made use of to that purposc. Sure this was very grieveous to the King to sie himselfe so controlled in his expence, and that he could give no gratuity to my Ladie Castlemain (now Dutchesse of Cleveland, etc.) but that which they behoved to get notice of, behold the stratagem he makes use of. The Presbyterians at that tyme, hearing of the Indulgence given to some ministers in Scotland, they offer to the King to pay all his debt, and advance him a considerable soume besyde, provydeing the same liberty be granted them. At the nixt sitting doune of parl. his mai. in a speach showed them whow harshly and uncivilly they had dealt with him, and, after much plain language, he told them if they would not grant his reasonable demands he know them that would do it. After they had come to know his majesties meaning by this,[634] who ware more forward then they, they passe fra craving any account of the former, they grant him a new subsidy of a million, they consent their should be a treaty wt Scotland anent ane union; yet onlie the dint of their fury falls on the Presbyterians, and they enact very strict statutes against them and against conventicles, because they had been the pin by which his mai. had scrued them up to that willingnesse. So we sie its usefull sometymes (as Matchiavell teaches) for a prince to entertaine and foment tua factions in his state, and whiles to boast the one with the other. [634] His majesties meaning by this, _i.e._ 'what H.M. meant by this imtimation.' As soon as they understood that, 'Who were more forward than they?' In October 1667 did at last break out that inveterat hatred of the wholle people of England against Chancellor Hide, and he is arraigned as guilty of hy treason by the house of commons, who pressed strongly that his persone might be secured till such tyme they had verified the crimes they attached him of. This motion the house of peers wt indignation rejected as derogatorie of their priviledges, he being a member of their house. While the 2 houses are thus contending he judges it safest for him to retire till this storme blow over, and this was also thought to have bein the King's advice to him, who was very sorrie at their procedor, thinking it a bad precedent for the house of commons to medle with persones so eminently neir to himselfe; yet in the breach he durst not stand but was forced to give them way, so much was Hyde hated in England, so that his Maj., rather then he will in the least endanger the disturbance of his oune peace and quiet, resolves now to quite his dearest minions and expose them to the malice of their ilwillers and haters then stand stoutly to their defence, and so make himselfe party against his people. So Hide makes his escape to France, leiving behind him a declaration wherin he refutes all the crimes they lay to his charge, as his being the author of the marriage of the King wt the Portugues, knowing she would be barren, and that his daughter's posterity might so reigne: item his being the occasion of the selling of Dunkerk to the French king, wheiras if it had bein in the English their possession in the year 1665, in their war betuixt them and Holland, they could have annoyed the States considerably theirby. But the truth is the Queen mother of England was wery instrumentall in that bargaine: item his being the active cause of the war betuixt England and Holland, of which he purges himselfe so largely that I think no man can scarse judge him any way accessor theirto. That war (wt pardon) was hardly weill manadged on the English syde, and they committed errors most unpardonable in good policie: as first in that battell that was given on the 17 June 1665, wheir Admirall Obdan and his ship ware blowen up, being fired (as was supposed) by the English bullets levelled at it, they contented themselves with the simple wictorie and honor of commanding the seas, wheiras if they had followed forth their victorie and had got betuixt the Holland their shattered fleet and the coast of Holland and Zealand, it was thought by the most judicious men that that on battell might have put ane end to the war and have produced most advantagious conditions for the English: but they verified the knowen saying, _vincere scit Hannibal sed õ victoriâ uti_. Their pretence indeid was that they would not pousse their victory farder by hazarding what they had already won, because the appearand air of the croun, the Duc of York, was present in person. But whow weak this is let any man judge, unles they mean that by intercepting the Dutch their way home they might have made them desperat and so fight like Devils, and that it hes ever bein a good maxime to make a fleing ennemy a bridge of gold. Whowever the Dutch concluded that they would have no mo Admirals that ware gentlemen (for Obdam was so) because they never fought fortunatly with their ennemies when they had such. But certainly this is nought but a fiction made by a commonwealth to cast a blur upon nobility, seing thir same very states have fought most couragiously and advantagiously under the conduct of the Princes of Orange. Upon his death De Ruyter was chosen admirall, and van Tromp the younger, upon a suspicion of being to affectionat to the intrest of the King of Britain, was disgraced. The nixt (but rather should have bein made the first) was his Mai:s bad choyse of a false chirking willain, Mr. Douning,[635] to be his agent to negotiat affaires at the States Generall in the beginning of that war, who steid of composing things rancored them worse and made them almost uncurable, judging it good fisching in troubled waters, wheiras if a moderat and ane honest man had bein made use of in that business, things would never have come to the height they were at, since the offers of reparation then made by the Dutch to his Majesty ware by all indifferent spectators judged most fair and reasonable. The 3^d is that in the engadgement the following summer, 1666, the King's intelligence should have bein so bad as to have apprehended at that tyme the joining of the French fleet wt the Hollander (wheiras their was no such thing, but it was of purpose done to divide his majesties fleet), and theiron ordering Prince Rupert with his squade away to attend their uniting; and in his absence the Dutch taking the advantage, provocked the Duck of Albemarle (who was a better land sojer then a sea, and who died in 1669) with sixtein ships to fight their wholle fleit, who more hardily then wisely encountering them, had undoubtedly bein totally routed and defeat had not Prince Rupert upon notice come up and releived them. By which conflict it at last appeared that it was possible for the English to be beat by the Hollander, which was never beleived before that. [635] Sir George Downing, 1623(?), 1684, long Resident at the Hague under the Commonwealth and Charles II. See _Nat. Dict. Biog._ The nixt error they committed was that the following summer, 1667, the King (for sparing of charges forsooth) was advysed not to set to sea that year, but to let his fleit lay up in the harbors, which gave cause to that mighty affront (then which since England was England it never received the like) given them at Chattan, and wheir the Scots regiment, brought over from France by the King's order, making braver resistance then all England beside, ware many of them slain, dying in the bed of honour. As for the Scots proclaiming war against France, and as for the more naturall way tane by our King in proclaiming the war then tane by France, I shall elsewheir speak more at large. APPENDIX APPENDIX I EXTRACTS FROM ACCOUNTS 1670 to 1675 § 1 On the 8 of July 1670, I receaved 168 lb. in 55 dollars,[636] which compleited one halfe a year's annuel rent,[637] vid., 900 m., wheirof first given out to my wife 8 dollars to defray sundrie debts, vid., 5 lb. to mistris Guthrie for 2 elle and a quarter of borders, 4 lb. 10s. to George Reidpeth, 7 lb. 4s. for 2 chandellers, 2s. for a pint of win, 3 lb. given to the wright with some other lesser things; then I gave une dalle Imperiale a mon serviteur pour acheter les saintes ecritures, 8 pence for a quaire of paper. Then on the ij of July 1670, I gave my wife 10 dollars for keiping the familie: 4 dollars given to my wife to buy wooll with. This makes a 100 merk. Then I gave a dollar to buy covers for the chaires, 8s. and 8 p. for a pair of shoes, 2 lb. at a collation with Mr. Hamilton, 24s. at a collation with Mr. Thomas Bell, 5s. for a mutchin of wine.[638] Halfe a dollar to Walter Cunyghame, 12s. for paper and ink, 10 lb. for 20 leads of coalls at 10s. the load, 3 dollars given to my wife, a dollar given for a french croune to my wife, 5 p. for a mutching of win,[638] 24 p. in Caddells with Mr. Hendersone. Item, 2s. sterling given to my wife. Item, 4 dollars given to hir, a groat to the barber, 5s. sterling for a new board, a mark in the contribution for the burgh of Dundie, a shiling to the keiper of my goun, 3 dollars given to my wife, halfe a dollar at a collation in Cuthbertsones, 18 pence at a collation with Balmayne. Out of the last 3 dollars given to my wife, she bought a chamberpot for 3 shillings, a board cloath for 3 shillings and 10 p., then I gave hir 2 dollars: this is another 100 merks, then 20 lb. payed for 40 load of coalls, 10 pence given in drink money to the cawer,[639] 12 pence at a collation with Colinton, 7 pence at on with Sir George Lauder, 3 lb. at a collation with Mr. Falconer, 12 p. for wine, a dollar to my wife, then 2 dollars given hir for the familie, so this is the account of the other 9 dollars remaining of the 55 dollars, togither with 5 other dollars pris de l'argent donné a la nourrice. [636] The dollar is here equal to 5s. 1d. sterling. [637] From his father secured on the lands of Carington, settled in his marriage-contract. [638] The shilling Scots and penny sterling are here used for the same value. [639] 'Cawer,' driver, carter. Then on the 16 of August 1670, I received from my father 20 dollars, the accompt wheirof follows:-- Item, payed for my press making and colouring, etc., 9 lb. 10s. For the glasses footgang, 2s. For seing the Duke's Berge at Leith, 2 lb. 10s. Given to my wife, 2 dollars. Given to the nurse to buy a bible with, one dollar. With Kilmundie, 10 pence. For the articles of Regulations, 10 pence. Then given to my wife, 2 doll. and a shilling. Then given hir to buy shoes, linnen, and other things with, 5 dollars. For 2 quaires of paper, 18 pence. At Hadoe's man's wedding, a dollar. For seck with Thomas Robertsone, 10 pence. For wine with my landlord, 5 pence. Given for the houses use, 2 dollars. For a coatch, 2 shillings. Summa is 19 dollars and a halfe. Then on the thrid of September 1670, I received my years annuel rent from Thomas Robertsone, vid., 300 merks, the count wheirof follows:-- Imprimis, given to my wife when she went to Wauchton, 2 dollars. Given to the barber, halfe a mark. Given to a poor boy, halfe a mark. Given in drinkmoney to my goodfather's nurse, a dollar. Given to Huntar, my goodfather's man, a 6 pence. A dollar to Jo. Scots nourrice, a dollar. Given to the woman Margaret, 2 dollars. Spent on Rhenish wine at Hadingtoun, 30 shilling. For my breakfast at Lintoun bridges, 22 shiling. To Idingtoun's men bigging the hay rick, 20 shiling. To his gairdner, halfe a dollar. To the kirkbroad, 10 shiling. To Idington's serving woman, a dollar. To his hielandman, 15 shilling. To my goodbrother's man Lambe, a mark. For the horse meat at Hadingtoun, 10 pence. To the tailzeor for mending my cloaths, a shilling. To my father's man Arthur, 45 shilling. To Wodstone's man Florie, a shilling. To the kirk broad at Abbotshall, a 6 pence. For Rhenish in Kirkealdy, 55 shiling. Then given to my wife for the house, 10 dollars. For binding Durie's 2'd volume, 2 lb. 2 shil. This makes one 100 merks of the 300 merks. Then gave for the acts of the 2'd session of parliament, 10 pence. Then for a pair of shoes, 1 lb. 19s. Then for Androw Young's nurse for my selfe, a dollar. Given then by my wife, halfe a dollar. Given then for a pint of wine, 20 shiling. Given to my wife to buy some slips with, a dollar. Given to Grissell Ramsayes mother for drink furnisht by hir to us by the space of 10 weeks, 3 dollars. Payed for wine, 7 pence. Payed for 2 horse hires to Preston, 3 shilings and 6 pence. Payed for wine in Daniel Rosses, 3 shilings st. For a quaire of paper, 9 pence. For ink, 2 pence. Given to my wife, 4 shilings s. Payed for causing intimat the assignation to H. Sinclar at Binny, 6 shil. st. Given to my wife, 6 pence. To the barber, 6 pence. 10 of October given to my wife for the house, 8 dollars. Given to Pitmedden's nurse, a dollar. Sent to a poor persone, a mark. Payed for Heylin's Cosmographie, 22 sh. and 6 pence. Given to the provest's woman, 6 pence. Given for paper, 9 pence. This makes another 100 mks. and 2 dollars more. Then payed at a collation with Mrs. Wood and Bell, a dollar. Payed to John Nicoll for a great bible, 17 shillings. Payed again to Grissel's mother for drink, 2 dollars. Given to my wife, halfe a dollar. Given also to my wife, a dollar. Given for a paper book by my brother for me, 12 p. Given to my brother William at that tyme, 6 pence. Given to my wife, 2 shil. 9 pence. Given to the woman in part of hir fie, a dollar. Given for 2 quaire of paper etc., 18 pence. Expended farder on the intimating Hew Sinclar's assignation, a shilling. For binding the reschinded acts of parl., halfe a crowne. At a collation with the Laird of Grange, 33 shiling. On win with Ja. Lauds, 5 pence. Given to my wife, a dollar. Item given to hir, halfe a mark. Given to the barber, a 6 pence. Given in Pentherer's, 8 pence. Given to my wife for my ...[640] a dollar. Item given to my wife for the house, a dollar. Given for new wine, a shilling. Given to my wife, 29 shilling. Given againe to my wife, a dollar. Given for the house, a dollar. Given to my wife, 3 dollars. [640] Word interlined illegible, like 'manninie.' This is the account of the wholle 300 mks. all till about a dollar which I remember not of. Then towards the end of November I received from my father about 200 mks. and 3 dollars which with all the former made 1200 mks. wheirof imprimis.[641] [641] In the first of these entries the value of the dollar comes out about 4s. 11d., in the second at 5s. A dollar and a halfe given to a man for teaching my wife writing and arithmetick, 4 lb. 8s. Then a dollar for the serving woman's halfe fie, 3lb. Item in drinkmoney to the bedell and others, halfe a croun. Item to my wife, a dollar. Item at Geo. Lauder's penny wedding, a dollar. Item to the fidlers, a 6 pence. Given to my wife, a dollar. Item, given hir for the use of the house on the 2'd of December, 10 dollars. To the barber, 10 pence. Upon win and at cards, 13 pence. To my wife, a mark. For a pair of shoes and gallasches[642] to them, 5s. and 10 p. To my wife, 6 pence. Given to my wife to buy to hir nurse a wastcoat with and shoes, etc., 2 dollars. At a collation with Rot. Bell in Pentherer's, 34 shiling. To Mr. Thomas Hay that he might give up the papers, 2 dolars. For Broun's Vulgar errors, 6 shilings 6 p. For the Present State of England, halfe a croun. For the moral state of it, 2 shilings. Then given at the kirk door, halfe a dollar. [642] Overshoes. This is neir ane account of ane 100 mks. and the 3 dollars. Then on the 21 of December 1670 was payed to the nurse as hir fee, 14 dolars. Item given hir as a pairt of the drinkmony she had receaved, 9 dollars. which two soumes make up the other 100 mks.[643] [643] 23 dollars equal to 100 marks. Taking the mark at 13-1/2d. dollar equal to 4s. 10-1/4d. Then I receaved from my father other 200 mks., which made 1400 mks. of all that I had received from him. Wheirof first payed to the nurse to compleat hir drinkmoney, which amounted in all to 18 dollars, 9 dollars. At a collation with Idington and others, a dollar. Given to my wife to buy a plaid with, 3 dollars. Given to my wife to buy lace with to hir apron, a dollar. Then on the end of December 1670 given to my wife 4 dollars and a halfe to pay 8 barrell of ale furnished us at 32s. the barrel, 4 dolars and a halfe.[644] Item given to my wife, 18 pence. Item payed for another pair of shoes, 3 shilings 3 pence. Item for wine with Mr. G. Dickson in Caddell's, 16 pence. Given to my wife, a dollar. Payed for wine, 10 pence. Given to my wife, halfe a dollar. Then given hir, a dollar. which makes up on hundred mks. [644] Dollar equal to about 4s. 9d. Then on the 2'd of January 1671 being hansell Monday I gave my wife to give out to people who expected handsel, 4 dollars. Then that same day I gave hir for the house, 8 dollars. Given for the Acts of G. Assembly 1638, 2 shillings. Given to my brother William, a dollar. Given to my wife, 2 mark. Also given to hir, a dollar. Then given to my wife to pay the waterman with, 30 shils. Then payed for Goodwin's Antiquities, etc., 7 shilings. Then given to my wife to buy linnen to make me shirts with, 2 dollars. Given at Mr. David Falconer's woman's brithell,[645] a dollar. Payed for a chopping of win, 10 pence. For a quaire of paper, 6 pence. For wine, 6 pence. At a collation with Idington, 23 shilings. Given to my wife to buy sugar with, 6 shilings st. Then given to Dr. Stevinson's nurse, a dollar. [645] Bridal. This is the other 100 mks. which makes in all the wholle 200 mks. Then I receaved my pension, vid., 200 mks. from the toune of Edenburgh: out of which imprimis: Given by my wife to Doctor Stevincon's nurse, a dollar. Given also to my wife, a dollar. Given to my wife, a dollar. Payed to John Jack for a pair of broatches to William Ramsay, 5 lb. Payed for wine, 15 pence. Payed for a quaire of paper, 8 pence. Payed to my man of depursements for me, 14 pence. Payed for Papon's arrests of Parliament, a dollar. Given to my wife, a dollar. Given to my wife, a shilling. Payed in a contribution for the poor out of money given me in consultation, 4 lb. Scots. Payed for a pair of gloves, 30 shil. Given on the 2d of Febr. to keep the house with, 7 dollars. Payed for horse hires when I went out and meit the provest, 6 shilings and 6 pence. Given to Rot. Lauder's man in Belhaven, a shiling. Given to my wife, a dollar. Given to Mr. Andro Wood's man in Dumbar, halfe a dolar. Given at Waughton to Darling and Pat. Quarrier, a dollar. Given at Gilmerton to the workmen their, a dollar. Given for 20 load of coalls furnisht to us, 10 Ib. This is on 100 mks. Then given 5 lb. to the nurse for hir child's halfe quarter, 5 lb. Then payed on the 15 of Febr. 1671 to my onckle 35 lb. in 12 dollars[646] for 6 bolls of meall, the first 3 bolls being at 5 lb. 12 s. the boll, the other 3 being at 6 lb. the boll, 12 dollars. Given to my wife, halfe a dolar. Given to Walt. Cunyghame, halfe a dolar. Given to my wife, a dollar. Given to my wife also, a dollar. Given for the use of the house, 3 dollars. Spent upon wine, 18 pence. Given to the macer's man, a mark. Given to my wife, 2 dollars. Given to the under keiper of our gounes, a mark. Given to the barber, a mark. [646] 1 Dollar equal to 4 s. 10-1/2d. This is the count of the other 100 mks. of the 200 given me in pension. Then I received from Wm Binning thesaurer 10 dollars, 4 of them consultation money, and 6 of them to make the 12 lb. st. or 150 lb. Scots,[647] of pension to me, out of which: [647] 150 l. Scots ought to have been equal to £12, 10s. This shows that the Scots money was not at the time at par with the English. Imprimis, given at a collation with Mr. Wm Lauder, 30 shils. Given to the bedell at Leith, 6 pence. Given to my wife, 2 shilings. For sweit pouder, 2 shilings. For wine, 5 pence. Given to my wife, 6 pence. Given for wine, 16 pence. Given to my wife to buy shoes with and lint, a dollar. Given for the use of the house, a dollar. Payed for wine in Lieth, 20 shil. Given at Hew Boyde's contribution, a shiling. Given to my wife, a dollar. Given to buy lint with, a dollar. Given for a drinking glasse, 6 pence. Given to my wife, a dollar. Given for the State of England, 2d volume, 3 shilings. Spent on wine, 18 pence. Given for the use of the house, a dollar. This is all the 10 dollars. Then I receaved on the 17 of March 1671 from my father 300 mks. which made in all of what I had receaved from him 1700 mks., out of which: Imprimis, given for the use of the house, a dollar. Given to my wife to buy lace for a pinner, to buy holland for napkins and aprons, etc., 5 dollars and a halfe. Item, for a chopin of win, 10 pence. Item, given to my wife, 10 pence. Item, for the use of the house, a dollar. To my wife to buy lace for apron and napkins, a dolar and a halfe. Payed at a collation with collonell Ramsay, 42 shiling. Lent to James Lauder, 2 dollars. Given for the house, halfe a dolar. Given to the barber, a shiling. Payed to the baker conforme to his accompt, 13 lb. 5 s. Payed for halfe a quarter's fie with the nurse's child, 5 Ib. Given to my wife, 2 shilings. Payed at a collation with Mr. Charles Wardlaw, etc., 29 shil. Item, to buy figs with, 9 pence. Item, for Knox his History and Navarri Manuale, 2 dollars. This is the accompt of one 100 mks. Then of the rest. Imprimis, given for the use of the house on the 1 of Aprile 1671, 7 dollars. On the 8 of Aprill given to the midwife, 5 dollars. Given to my wife to buy a litle silver dish with, which cost hir 33 shiling, a dollar. Given to my wife for sundry uses, 2 dollars. Spent upon wine, 24 shiling. Then given to my wife to buy turkies, etc., 2 dollars. Then given for ribbans to be garters, etc., 35 shil. Then on beir in Peter Wats at a morning drink, 5 shil. Then to Sir John Dalrymple's child's nurse, a dollar. To Mr. Archbald Camron for taking up[648] the child's name, a dollar. To the scavinger, 2 shilings. At the kirk door, a 6 pence. To the bedells, a dollar. Given to my wife for sundry uses, 3 lb. 15 shil. [648] Registering. This makes 200 mks. Then given out of the other: Imprimis, to my wife, a dollar. At a collation with Patrick Don, 43 shil. To my wife to pay a quarter for the nurse hir bairnes fie,[649] 2 dollars. Item for the houses use, 2 dollars. For a quaire of paper, 8 pence. Item given to my wife, 5 pound. Item given hir for buying meat to the gossips when they visit, 2 dollars. Given to pay the win and seck gotten out of Painston's, 4 dolars. Given to buy a coat to the bairne John, a dolar. Given to buy wool with, 2 dollars. Given to the poor, a shiling. Given for wine, 20 shiling. Given to the house, a dollar. Given by my wife and me to Sir Androw's nurse, 2 dollars. Waired on wine, 30 shiling. Given to my wife, 2 mark. On win with Mr. Alex'r Hamilton, 10 pence. Given for paper and ink, 12 pence. Given for wine, 10 pence. Given to the woman Margaret, 18 pence. [649] Wages of nursemaid eight dollars, about £2. Sie the rest of their accounts alibi. This is the accompt of the said 300 m. very neir. So that their is nothing resting to me to make up a compleit years rent: vid., from Lambes 1669 to Lambes 1670, but only one hundred merks, which I allowed to my father in respect he payed a compt of that value for me to John Scot: as also of his oune moneyes he was pleased to pay 90 lb. for me which I was addebted to the same John for 23 elle of cloath tane of for my bed and appertenances, at 4 lb. the elle and did not at all place it to my accompt. §2 O Lord, teach me so to be counting my dayes, that I may apply my heart to thy wisdome.[650] [650] These words stand as a motto at the head of MS. K. * * * * * Sie my counts praeceiding this in a litle black skinned book alibi. [_Supra_, p. 239.] On the 25 of May 1671, my father was debitor to me in the soume of 1800 mks., payable out of the lands of Carington, and that as my year's annuity from Lammas, in the yeir 1670, till Lambes coming in this instant year 1671; all preceidings are payed to me and discharged by me. Of this 1800 mks., I receaved the formentioned day from him 200 mks., out of which I payed: Imprimis, to the Janitor for 4 books, vid., the English laws, Polidorus Virgilius, Zosimus and aliorum Historiae, and Vimesius Theses, etc., 16 shil. st. Given to my wife for sundry uses, 3 dollars. For wine and seck in the Janitor's, 50 shil. To my father's skild nurse by myselfe and my wife given, 2 dollars. For 2 elle and a quarter scarlet ribban fra James Dick, 24 shil. For this paper book wheiron I write thir compts., 6 pence. Given to my wife, 6 pence. For wine in Pentherers, 16 pence. Given to the poor, a 6 pence. Given to my wife for the use of the house and other things, 4 dollars. Given to Joseph for shaving me, a shiling. Given to my wife for sundry uses, 4 shilings. On win, 6 pence. Item, to my wife, 9 pence. For a quaire of paper, a leather bag, and sundry small things, 14 pence. Item, given to my wife for the use of the house, 7 dollars. This is 100 mks. laking on by halfe a dollar. Then given to my wife for divers uses, 2 dollars. For a pair of shoes, 3 shil. and 6 pence. Upon win at Leith with Mr. Wood, etc., 16 pence. Since on win and otherwayes, 8 pence. Item, given since on beir, in Leith, for a velvet cod,[651] etc., 10 pence. On the 20 of June, given to my wife for the use of the house, 7 dolars. Item, for another pair of shoes, 42 shiling. Item, for wine, 12 pence. Item, for tent to my wife, a mark. Item, for wine to the landlord when I payed him 100 lb., 10 pence. Item, for sundry other adoes, 45 shiling. On win. with Doctor Steinson, 13 pence. Given to my wife to give hir wobster,[652] 3 shilings. For more tent, a shiling. Item, a dollar as a part of 6 lb. payed by me of annuity, a dolar. Item, on the 1 of July, given to my wife for the use of the house, 6 dolars. Item, at a collation with Kilmundy, 40 shil. Given to my wife, halfe a dollar. At a collation with Mr. Pat. Lyon, 50 shiling. Item, on sundrie other uses, a dollar. This is the accompt of the saids 200 mks. [651] Pillow. [652] Weaver. Then on the 10 of June 1671, I received from the Provest, Sir A. Ramsay, 100 lb. Scots as a termes annuel rent of the principal soume of 5000 mks.,[653] addebted by him to me, vid., from Candlemas 1670 to Lammas 1670. Which 100 lb. I payed to James Wilsone, my landlord, in part of my house maill, which was 160 lb.,[654] so that I remaine yet debitor to him on that accompt in 60 lb., afterwards payed and all discharged. [653] Unpaid half of his wife's marriage portion. See page xli; 3 per cent., equal to 6 per cent. per annum. [654] House rent, £13, 6s. 8d. half-yearly. Then on the 15 of July, I receaved from my father 400 mks., which made up 600 mks., of the year 1671, received by me, out of which Imprimis, payed to my landlord to compleit his maill, 60 lb. Item, to his woman Nans, a dollar. Item, to William Borthwick, the apothecar, conforme to his accompt, 36 lb. Item, to William Mitchell, the Baker, conforme to his accompt, 26 lb. Item, to Rot. Mein, for sweteis, glasses, etc., conforme to his compt., 14 lb. Item, given to my man when he brought me my 12 lb. sterl. from Wm. Broun, the burrows agent, a dollar. Item, given to my wife, 2 dollars. Item, upon win with Guus Grein, 15 pence. Item, to my wife for the use of the house, on the 22 of July 1671, 9 dollars. Given to my wife when she went to Innerkeithing fair, 2 dollars. Item, given hir to pay the deing[655] of hir hangings, 4 dollars. Item, on the 4 of August, given to my wife to buy a goune and petticoat, and furniture, conforme, 100 lb. [655] Dyeing, I presume. And because the 400 mks. receaved last from my father did not reach so far as to compleit it, theirfor I took 10 dollars out of 200 mks. payed me in July by Wm. Broun, in name and be halfe of the borrows for my pension, 1670, and made up the 100 lb. I gave to my wife theirby. Item, farder payed out of the said 200 mks. of pension for 25 barrells of aile furnisht to the house from the midst of January till August, at 32 shil. the barrell, 12 dollars and a halfe.[656] [656] Here the dollar is equal to 5s. 4d. This is near ane accompt of one 100 mks. of the 200 m. payed to me in pension. Item, given to my wife, 3 dollars. Payed in R. Gilbert's when I was at Leith with the Lady Wauchton, a dollar. Item, payed for the coach hyre, a dollar. Item, given to my wife to help to buy black lace for hir goun, 2 dollars. Item, given hir to buy coalls with from Leith and elsewhere, 5 dolars. Item, in Painston's with Sir Andro, 27 shill. Item, given to my wife when she went to Waughton to sie hir sone, 2 dollars and a halfe. Item, in Painston's with Mr. Rot. Lauder and Rot. Bell for our supper, 38 shill. For 2 quaire of paper and ink, 18 pence. For ane 100 plumes, 8 pence. To Idington's Man when he come from Dundy with the cloath, 29 shil. To my man for sundrie depursements for me, 29 shil. To the woman Marion for buying meall to the house, a shilling. Item, in Peirson's with Rot. Bell, 27 shill. Item, for my dinner in Pentherer's with Rot. Bell, etc., 48 shill. Item, for a coach hyre out of Leith, 30 shiling. Item, to Grange's man, a shilling. Item, to my wife, halfe a dollar. Item, for a mutching of tent, a shilling. Item, given to the nurse to be compted in her fie, 2 dollars. Item, given to my wife, a dollar. This is the full accompt of the said 200 mks. Then about the 14 of August I receaved from my father 300 mks. which made with all the former 900 mks. of this year 1671. Out of which imprimis: Given to my wife to pay the making of her goune and other things, 4 dollars. In Painston's with Mr. Jo. Eleis, 29 shiling. To my wife, 50 shiling. For a choping of brandy, 14 pence. Item for a hat in Broun's, 7 shilings. Item, to my wife, a dollar. Item, to Grange's nurse, a dollar. Item, to the barber Henry Porrock, 6 pence. Item, to George Gairner, a mark. Item, to W'm Binning the thesaurer his nurse, a dollar. Item, to David Colyear, 36 shilling. Item, on the 5 of September given to my wife for the use of the house, ij dollars and a halfe. This is one 100 merks. Then on the same day given her farder for the same use, 11 dollars. Item, given hir, halfe a dollar. Item, for wax and soap, 7 pence. Payed to Henry Hope for ports of letters when I was in Holland, 5 lb. 10s. For the acts of parlia. in June 1649, 34s. For 6 dozen of gold strips to the hangings at 7s.[657] and 6 p. the dozen, 9 dollars. Upon seck, 5 pence. [657] Sterling. This is another 100 mks. Then given to my wife, a shilling. For a quaire of paper, 9 pence. At a collation with Hary Grahame, 36 pence. To John Scots nurse, a dollar. On win their, 26 shill. In the Lady Home's yeards,[658] 6 pence. Payed for my man's horsehire to Wauchton, 46 shill. Payed of sundry depursements to my man, 20 shilling. Given to George Gairner, a shilling. Given to my wife, 10 dollars. Item, on win with Walter Pringle, 35 shill. Item, for a pair of botts, 17 shilings and sixpence. To Alex'r Todrig's nurse, a dollar. For a quaire of paper, 9 pence. For rasing[659] me at 2 severall tymes, 18 pence. Given at Coldinghame kirk, a 6 pence. Given to the foot boy their, a 6 pence. Upon sundrie other uses neir, a dollar. Item, given to my wife, twa dolars. [658] Probably means gardens. [659] Shaving. This makes neir the other 100 mks. And in wholle it makes up the 300 mks. receaved from my father on the 14 of August last. Then on the 3 of Nov'r. I receaved other 300 mks. from him, which makes 1200 mks. of what I received of my annuity 1671, out of which, etc., etc.[660] [660] This account is omitted as of no interest. * * * * * On the 20 of february 1672 I receaved 300 mks. more from my father, which with the former made 1500 mks. of the 1800 mks. due to me of annuity from Lammes 1670 till Lambes last in 1671, out of which, etc., etc. * * * * * Then on the 17 of Aprill 1672 I farder receaved from my father other 300 mks., which being joined with all the former makes up 1800 mks., which is a full years annuity owing to me by my father, vid., from Lambes 1670 till Lambes last in anno 1671: wheiron I retired all my partiall discharges and gave him a full discharge of that year's annuity and of all preceiding Lambes 1671. Out of this last 300 mks. Imprimis, payed to Margaret Neilsone in part of 2 years fie owing hir (it being 23 lb. Scots by year)[661] at Whitsonday approching, 34 lb. So that their yet rests to hir of thesse 2 years fie 12 lb. Scots. Item, payed to Bailyie Drummond for the cloath of my wife's black goune, 46 lb. Item, for Auctores Linguæ Latinæ, vid., Warre, Isidorus, etc., 40 shiling. Item, given to my wife, a dollar. Item, given hir to buy worsted stockings for me, 3 shillings. Given at a collation with Eleiston, 30 shilling. Item, for a quaire of paper, 9 pence. Given to my wife for the use of the house on the 27 of Aprill, 15 dollars. All which depursements make 200 mks. of the last 300 received from my father. [661] Women servants wages, nearly £2 sterling. Item, for the Covenanters Plea, a shilling. Given for a new quarter with the nurse hir bairne, 3 dollars and a halfe. For the Informations about the Firing of London, 6 pence. At a collation, 30 pence. For a quaire of paper, 8 pence. Given to my wife, a dollar. At a collation with Wm. Aickman, 26 shil. Item, given to the nurse in part of hir fie, 4 dollars. Item, for G. Burnet's letter to Jus populi and for the Tragi comedy of Marciano, 9 pence. For a book against the commonly received tennents of witchcraft, 8 pence. Given to my wife, tua dollars. Given to my unckle Andrew in compleit payment of his meall, 9 dollars. Given for the Seasonable Case and the Survey of Naphthali, 50 pence. Given for Milton's Traity anent Marriages, 2 shillings. Item, upon win, 2 shillings. Item, for a pair of shoes, 40 pence. This is the accompt of the haill 300 mks. last received by me from my father on the 17 of Aprill 1672. Then on the 1 of June 1672 I receaved from Thomas Robertsone 350 lb. Scots: 200 lb. of it was a years interest of my 5000 mks. he hes in his bond, vid., from Lambes 1670 till Lambes 1671: the other 150 lb. was my pension fra the toune of Edr for the year 1672. Given out of the 300 mks. Imprimis, to my wife, 20 rix dollars. Item, for Petryes History of the Church, 15 shills. sterl. This is one 100 merks.[662] Item, for Taylor's Cases of Conscience or Ductor, etc., 22 shillings. Item, for Baker's Chronicle of England and Blunt's Animadversions on it, 20 shillings. Item, for Plinius 2dus his Epistles cum notis variorum, 6 shillings. Item, for Cromwell's Proclamations and other Acts of his Counsell from Septr. 1653 till Decr. 1654, 4 shillings. For a pair of silk stockings, ij shills: 6 p. Given to the nurse's husband, a dollar. Given for Tyrannick love and the Impertinents, tuo comoedies, 40 pence. Given for Reflections upon the Eloquence of this tyme, 18 pence. Given for the Mystery of Iniquity unvailled by G.B., 9 pence. Given for the accompt of the sea fight betuixt E. and D. in 1665,[663] and are answer of our Commissioners to England in 1647, 4 pence. Given for ane answer to Salmasius Def. Regia,. 7 pence. Item, for my dinner and other charges at Leith, the race day, 3 shillings stg. Given for Holland to be a halfe shirt, 5 shillings. Given to my wife for the house, a dollar. Given for the life of the Duck D'Espernon, 15 shillings. This is another 100 mks. [662] This makes the dollar about 4s. 9-1/2d. [663] English and Dutch. Item, given to my wife for the use of the house, 18 dollars. Item, at Halbert Gledstans woman's marriage, a dollar. Item, at the comoedy, halfe a dollar. Item, that night in Rot. Meins for wine, halfe a dollar. Item, in James Dean's the consecration day, 23 shillings. Item, payed to Jonet's nurse and hir husband,[664] For hir fie drink money, bounty and all, 24 dollars. which absorbed all the 300 mks. received by me from Thomas Robertsone as my annuel rent and put me to take 21 dollars out of the money given me in pension. Hence of the 150 lb. given me in pension I payed to the said nurse as already is got doune, 21 dolars. Item, given to my wife, 2 dollars. Item, given hir for the use of the house on the 1 of August 21 dollars. [664] Amount torn off. This is 128 lb. of the 150 receaved by me in pension, so that their remains with me 23 lb. of that money, out of which 23 lb. Imprimis on the first of September 1672 given the said haill 23 lb. to my wife for the use of the house. Then on the 24 of August I had received from Thomas Robertsone the other year's interest of my 5000 mks. in his hands (being 300 mks.) vid., from Lambes 1671 till Lambes immediately bypast in 1672. Out of which imprimis: Given to my wife the forsaid 1 of September for the use of the house, 5 dollars. [Item lent to Eleiston, 3 dollars.[665]] repayed. Item, at a collation with Pat. Waus, a dollar. Item, on the 16 of September 1672, given to the midwife, 6 dollars. Payed in annuity from Whitsonday 1671 till Whytsonday 1672 in 3 dollars and a halfe, 10 lb. and a groat.[666] Item, at a collation, a mark. For a letter from France, 14 pence. To my father's man, a mark. For paper, vid., a quaire, 8 pence. Item, given to Grissell Ramsay for the use of my house, a dollar. Item, given at Gosfoord, 20 shiling. Item, to St Germain's nurse, a dollar. Item, to Mr. James Fausyde's man, 30 shill. Item, for win at Cokeny, [665] Erased in MS. [666] Apparently the last groat coined in Scotland was the copper twelvepenny groat of Francis and Mary in 1558. James V. coined a silver groat in 1525 worth 18d Scots. The groat here is an English groat, which was worth 4d. This is more then one 100 mks. of the 300. Item, given to my wife on the 28 of Septr. 1672, for providing things to the christning, 22 dollars. Item, to Doctor Stevinson's nurse, a dollar. This is 200 mks. of the 300 received from T. Robertsone. Item, for registration of my daughter's name to Mr. Archbald Camron, a dollar. Item, to Thomas Crawfurd, kirk treasurer because not christned at sermon tyme, a dollar. To the kirk bedell, 42 shilling. For a letter from France, 14 pence. On win in Rot. Meins, a mark. For a coatch hyre to Ja. Dean's house, a shilling. For a pair of shoes, 3 shillings. Given in with a letter to Paris, a shilling. For a quaire of paper and for ink, 10 pence. For a mutching of seck with Mr. William Beaton, 9 pence. Item, on the 13 of October, given to my wife, 9 dollars and a mark. Item, for win., 10 pence. Item, given to Pitmedden's man, a mark. Item, to William Broun's man when he payed me my pension, a dollar. Item, on the 22 of October, given to my wife, 7 dollars. Item, on incident charges, a dollar. This is the 300 mks. of annuel rent received by me from Thomas Robertsone on the 24 of August last. Item, on the 22 of October 1672, I receaved from William Broun, agent for the borrows, 12 pounds sterling, being my pension as their assessor for the year 1671, of which: Imprimis, for a pair of shoes, 40 shiling. Item, in charity to Ja. Hog, 29 pence. Item, for 4 quare of paper, 30 pence. Item, for a letter from France, 14 pence. Item, at a collation in James Halyburton's, 50 shiling. To Robert Boumaker, a dollar. On coffee and other things, 16 pence. Item, given to my wife, two dollars. Item, given to my wife, dollars 21. So then their remains of the said 12 lb. st. given me by William Broun only 22 dollars. With the which 21 dollars given to my wife, she payed first to Rot. Mein, for confections, wine, etc., to the christening, 28 lb. Item, to William Mitchell for baken meit at the same tyme, 18 lb. Item, for sundrie other accompts, 15 lb. Which is the haill 21 dollars.[667] [667] This brings out the dollar at about 4s. 10d. Item, of the 22 dollars remaining to me of the foresaid money given me in pension, Imprimis, given to my wife for the use of the house on the 5 of November 1672, 14 dollars. Item, at a collation or on win in Grissel Ramsay's house, 2 shillings. Item, for seing the comedy called the Silent Woman, halfe a dollar. Item, at a collation after it, 14 pence. Item, on some other charges, 2 shillings. Item, at a collation, 35 shillings. Item, given on the 13 of Nov. to my wife for the use of the house, 6 dollars. This is all the 12 lb. of pension. Then at a consultation of the Toune of Edrs, I receaved 23 dollars, of which: Imprimis, given to my wife the tyme aforsaid, 2 dollars. Item, for sundry books, vid.: Barronius Annals compendized, 2 tomes,. \ Summa conciliorum, Tyrius Maximus, Danaei Antiquitates, | Benzonis Historia Americae, Demosthenis | 15 shillings Olynthiaca, | and 6 pence. Apulei opera omnia, Bucholzeri Chronologia, | S.G. M'Keinzies Plaidings, / Item, for myselfe and my wife at the comedy called Love and Honor, a dollar. Item, on win after I came home, 18 pence. Item, given to my wife for the use of the house on the 20 of November, 16 dollars. Item, upon win at sundry times, 40 shiling. This is the haill 23 dollars. Item,[668] at sundrie consultations, vid., on of George Homes, 4 dollars; on of Henry Lindsay's for the Laird of Guthry, 4 dollars. Item, from James Gibsone, 2 dollars; on of Mr. P. Hamilton of Dalserfes, 4 dollars; from Mr. Alex. Seaton in name of my Lord Winton, 10 dollars. Item, at a consultation with the toune of Edr., 10 dollars, making in all 34 dolars, wheirof upon sundry occasions which do not now occurre, I spent 8 dollars long ago. So then their remains 26 dollars, out of which Imprimis: [668] Example of counsel's fees. Given or lent to Margaret Ramsay at the hilhead, 3 dollars. Given in charity to on Anna Gordon upon hir testificats, a shilling. Item, at Jo. Meggets relicts brithle, a dollar. Item, at collations since, a dollar. Item, upon other affairs, tuo dollars. For seing the comedy called the Siege of Granada, 2d part, for my selfe, my wife, and Grissell Ramsay, a dollar and a halfe. Item, to the bassin at the church door, halfe a dollar. Item, given to my wife, a dollar. Given to G. Patersone, the wright, his woman or nurse, a dollar. Item, at a collation with Charl. Oliphant about Touch, 24 pence. Item, at the comoedy, being the first part of Granada's seige, for my selfe, my wife, Rachel, and Grissell Ramsayes, 2 dollars. Item, given to my wife for the use of the house, 8 dollars. Item, for the acts of parlia., session 1672, etc., 30 shiling. Item, for binding Hadington's Praitiques, 42 shilling. For a quaire of paper, 6 pence. Item, upon other uses, 40 shilling. Item, to my wife, 2 dollars. This is the accompt of the haill 26 dollars. Item, receaved at 2 sundry consultations 6 dollars, out of which: Imprimis, given to my wife, 2 dollars. Item, on win at Aberdour, a mark. Item, for sieng the house and yairds of Dunybirsell, a mark. To G. Kirkcaldie's servante, a dollar. To my wife, halfe a croun. For the New art of wying vanity against Mr. G. Sinclar, 15 pence. Item, to my wife for the use of the house on the last of Decr. 1672, 8 dollars. Which was out of other money I had besyde me, which 8 dollars with what I gave formerly makes up 14 dollars and 3 shillings sterl. of the money due to hir for the moneth of January 1673. Item, again to my wife, a dollar and 4 merks. Item, given hir, 2 merks. As also given to hir, two dollars. Item, given to hir again, a dollar. Item, given hir, thrie dollars and 2 shillings. Item, given hir, 2 dollars. Then on the 19 of february 1673, I receaved from Rot. Govan, gairdner, 20 lb. in payment of his tack duety for all termes preceiding Martinmas 1672, out of which Imprimis: Payed for my selfe and Mr. John Wood for seing the comoedy called Sir Martin Mar-all, a dollar. Item, to my wife, 3 dollars. Given in with the trades bill, a dollar. Item, at a collation, l6 pence. Item, given to my wife, a dollar. Item, waired upon sundrie things, 40 shil. This is the accompt of the 20 lb. Then upon the 5't day of March 1673 I receaved from my father 400 merks, the first monie I lifted furth of the annuity payable to me from Lambes 1671 till Lambes 1672 last bypast: all preceiding Lambes 1671 being payed to me by my father as I have already marked, out of which: Imprimis, given to my wife, 23 dollars. to pay hir ale compt which was 9 dollars: hir baxter compt, 5 dollars, hir wobster, 2 dollars; hir coalman, 3 dollars. Hir nurse for the bairne Jonets quarter, 4 dollars.[669] Item, given my wife for the use of the house during this moneth of March, 10 dollars. Item, for a pair of gloves, halfe a dollar. Item, at a collation and on other uses, 3 shilings. Item, spent upon the race day, 3 shillings. Item, at a collation, 26 shiling. Item, sent to Calderwood's man's wedding, a dollar. Item, at a collation in Heriot's yards, 18 pence. Item, for seck with A. Todrigde, ij pence. To the Lady Pitmedden's nurse, a dollar. Item, in Ja. Haliburton's, tua merks. Item, to a poor woman, a mark. Item, for a quair of paper, 6 pence. Item, to the barber, 6 pence. Item, to the kirk basin, 6 pence. Item, given to my wife, a dollar and a halfe. Item, given hir, tua dollars and 2 mark. Item, spent in Ja. Haliburton's, 2 marks. Given to my wife, tua dollars. Given to the barber, a 6 pence. Given for a timber comb, 8 pence. Given on other uses, 8 pence. Item, in the taverne, 20 pence. Item, to my wife,. 20 pence. Item, on the 1 of April given to my wife for the use of the house that moneth, 12 dollars. Upon win at sundry tymes, 40 shilling. Item, to the barber, 6 pence. Upon other uses, 9 pence. Item to the kirk deacon for a year's contribution 2 dollars. [669] Wages of a nurse sixteen dollars, or about £4 yearly, double the wages of an ordinary woman servant. [Sidenote: [This money is repayed me.][670]] [Item, payed out for my Lord Provest's use and by his vreits[670] a hundred merks and 8 dollars to Marie Hamilton in pairt of payment of the right she had upon Popill][671] which being joyned with the former makes up exactly the haill 400 mks. receaved by me from my father on the 5't of March last. [Sidenote: [Which money is yet owing me.][671]] [670] Writs. [671] Erased in MS. Then out of 4 dollars receaved in a consultation, I gave first To the maid at Dudingstone, a mark. To the kirk broad their, a mark. Item, to Rot. Craw, a shilling. Item, for confections at Bervick, 2 shillings. Item, to Idington's man, a mark. Item, at Pople for shoing the horse, item at Auldcambus for brandy to the Dutchmen, a shilling. Item, to a barber at Hadinton, 6 pence. Item, given to my wife, 31 shiling. Item, to the kirk broads, a shilling. Item, given to my wife, 2 shillings. Item, spent at Leith and else wheir, 50 shilling. In the beginning of May 1673, my father and I having made our accompts he was debitor to me in the soume of 1400 merks as resting of 1800 mks. of my annuity from Lambes 1671 till Lambes 1672 (for on the 5 of March last I got from him 400 mks. of the 1800, hence rested only 1400 mks. of that years annuity) and I was found resting to him the soume of 40 pounds sterling or 720 merks[672] as tuo years maill of my dwelling-house[673] videlizet-from Witsonday 1671 (at which I entered to it) till Whitsonday nixt approaching 1673, which being deducted and retained by my father in his oun hand, of the 1400 mks. their remained 680 merks; wheirof I receaved at the said tyme from my father 380 merks in money, wheirupon their rested to me behind of my annuity preceiding Lambes 1672 just 300 mks: and I gave my father a discharge of the said 720 mks. of house maill, and of the said 380 mks. receaved by me in money, making togithir ij00 mks, which with the preceiding 400 mks. gotten by me on the 5 of March last makes up 1500 merks in all. [672] This is normal. £1 equal to eighteen marks. [673] His house rent was £20 a year. Out of this 380 mks. receaved from my father on the 8 of May 1673, Imprimis, given to my wife for paying hir meal and hir children's quarters, etc., 6 dollars. Item, for 2 quaire of paper, 18 pence. Item, for my decreit and charging Rot. Johnston, 18 pence. Item, on other uses, tua shillings. Item, on win with Mr. Pat. Hamilton, a shilling. Given to my wife on the 10 of May for the use of the house, ij dollars. Which making up 18 dollars and more compleit the 80 merks, so their remains 300 mks. behind, out of which imprimis: In Haliburton's with Sam. Cheisley, 40 shiling. Item, to the kirk broad at Dudiston, 6 pence. Item, to the barber, halfe a mark. Item, in Masterton's with G. Gibson, 31 shilling. Item, to Will. Sutherland, a mark. For G. Burnet's reply and conferences, 3 shillings. To Mr. Mathew Ramsay's nurse, a dollar. For a pint of win their, 24 shilings. For copieng a paper, 40 shiling. Item, for mum and walnuts, 9 pence. Item, at the kirk door, 6 pence. Item, for win and sugar, 7 pence. Given to my wife for furniture to my cloaths and hir oune goune, 5 dollars. Item, in Haliburton's for mum, 22 shiling. Item, upon seck, 9 shiling. Item, in James Haliburton's, 18 pence. Item, given to my wife, a dollar. Item, at the kirk door and on other uses, 13 pence. Item, to Jo. Steinsone, gairdner, 14 pence. Item, to my wife to be given to hir washer and other uses, 2 dollars. Item, to Lancelot Ker for copieng a book to me first, a dollar. Item, given to my wife, 6 dollars. Upon other use I remember not, 2 dolars. This is on 100 mks. Item, on coffee, the poor and other uses, 3 shillings. Item, given to my wife to pay hir servants fies on the 31 of May 1673, ij dollars. [Lent to Mr. Jo. W.][674] repayed me [3 dollars.][674] Item, upon mum, 12 pence. Item, for the provests last act, to Jo. Trotter in his Improbation, 30 shilling. For a quaire of paper, 9 pence. Given to my wife on the 4 of June, 1673, 5 dollars. In James Haliburton's, 14 pence. Payed for 2 pair of shoes, 6 shillings and a groat. On a quaire of paper and other uses, a mark. [674] Erased in MS. This is near another 100 merks. Item, given to my wife on the 9 day of June 1673, 6 dollars. To Joseph the barber, a shilling. Item, in Ja. Haliburton's, 18 pence. Item, for a timber chair, 18 pence. Item, on Leith on the race day, 3 shillings. Item, at the kirk door, 6 pence. For the post of a letter from my goodbrother, 14 pence. Item, in Maistertons with young Idington when he went away, 32 shiling. At dinner in Haliburton's, 20 pence. Item, to the barber, 6 pence. Item, upon other uses, 6 pence. Item, to my father's woman who keips the child George, given by myself and my wife, 2 dollars. Item, given to my wife, a dollar. Payed to the coallman, 10 lb.[675] Item, upon paper and ink, 10 pence. Item, in Ja. Haliburtons, 10 pence. Item, given to my wife for buying a scarfe, hood, 10 pence. fan, gloves, shoes, linnen for bands, etc., 7 dollars. [675] This is one of the few instances in which an item of expenditure is stated in pounds. This is another 100 merks. And which compleits the haill 380 merks receaved from my father on the 8 of may 1673. Upon the 20 of June 1673 I receaved from William Binning a years salarie as tounes assessor which he was owing me for the year 1671 wheirin he was tresurer, being 150 lb. Scots, which is about 229 merks, out of which: Imprimis, for a pair of net leather shoes, 3 shillings. Item, in Painston's with Mr. Todridge, 48 shill. Item, given to my wife partly to pay Margaret Neilsons fie and partly for other uses, 3 dollars. For a triple letter its post for Rome, 15 pence. Item, for seing the play called the Spanish Curate, halfe a dollar. Item, for cherries to Kate Chancellor their, halfe a dollar. Item, theirafter in Aikman's, 14 pence. Item, at the kirk door, halfe a mark. Item, spent when I was at Liberton kirk, 2 shillings. Item, for Thomas the Rymer's Prophecies, 4 pence. For the Lords answer in Fairlies case, a dollar. Item, given to my wife to compleit Margaret Neilsons fie during the haill tyme of hir service besides what was payed hir formerly, 6 dollars and a mark. Given to my wife for sundry uses, 10 dollars. To my sone John's nurse, 10 merks. Item, to buy paper etc. to him who copied me Mckeinzies Criminals, 29 shiling. Item, payed at sundrie tymes in the taverne, 30 pence. Item, for a dozen of silver spoons wying tuo onces the peice in all 24 onces at 5 shillings and 6 pence per once, making each spoon to be ellevin shillings sterling,[676] 47 lb. for I gave them in exchange 6 old silver spoons, which fell short of 6 new ons in 10 shillings sterl. upon the want of weight, and the accompt of the workmanship, so they stood me in all as I said before 47 pounds Scots. Item, payed to the ailman for are accompt of aill furnished, 24 lb. [676] Price of silver. This makes near the 150 lb. receaved from Bailzie Binnie. Item, in the end of June 1673 1 receaved from William Broun, agent for the borrows, in their name and behalfe, my pension of 12 lb. sterl., being for the year praeceiding Whitsonday 1673; out of which: Imprimis, given to my man when he brought it to me, a dollar. Item, to the barber, a 6 pence. To the kirk broad, halfe a mark. Item, on coffee, 3 pence. Item, for Reusneri Symbola Imperatoria to the Janitor, 18 pence. Item, to him for the particular carts[677] of Lothian, Fyffe, Orknay and Shetland, Murray, Cathanes, and Sutherland, at 10 p. the peice, 3 pound. Item, at Pitmeddens woman's marriage, given by my selfe and my wife, 2 dollars and a shil. Item, on halfe a dozen of acornie[678] spoons, 2 shillings. Item, payed to Adam Scot for a mulct in being absent from a meiting of the advocats, 28 shiling. Item, payed to Edward Gilespie for my seat maill[679] from Whitsonday 1672 to Whitsonday 1673, 12 lb. Item, to the copier of Mckeinzies Criminalls, a mark. Item, to the barber, halfe a mark. To the kirk basin, halfe a mark. Given to my wife, a mark. Item, on brandee, 3 shilling. Given to M'ris Mawer in charity, 29 shiling. Item, payed in Pat Steills, a mark. Item, on the 15 of July 1673 given to my wife, 10 rix dollars. Upon win in Rot. Bell's house, 2 shillings. Item, at the Presidents man's penny brithell, a dollar and a 6 pence. In H. Gourlay's with D. Stevinson, 38 shiling. [Given to my wife to buy me a pair of worsted stockings, 4 shillings.][680] Item to the barber, a 6 pence. Item, Tom Gairdner for bringing cheerries from Abbotshall, a shiling. To the kirk broad, 6 pence. Item, for mounting my suit of cloaths with callico, buttons, pockets, etc., 3 dollars. Item, to the taylor for making them, a dollar. Item, to Walter Cunyghame for keiping our gounes, a dollar. Item, upon cherries, 6 pence. Item, in Painstons, a shilling. Item, to the copier of Mckeinzies Criminalls, 2 mark. Item, for seing the Maidens tragaedy for my selfe and Mr. William Ramsay,[681] a dollar. At the kirk door, 6 pence. To the barber, halfe a mark. In Aickmans after the comedy, a mark. In Ja. Haliburtons, a mark. Item, at a collation also their, 28 shiling. Item, at collations theirafter, 7 shillings st. Upon the 1 of August 1673 given to my wife for the use of the house that moneth, 18 dollars and a halfe. [677] Price of maps. [678] This word, distinctly written, looks at first like acomie, but is no doubt the word acornie (French, _acorné_, horned), which Jamieson defines as a substantive, meaning 'apparently a drinking vessel with ears or handles.' He quotes from _Depredations on the Clan Campbell_, p. 80: '_Item_, a silver cup with silver acornie, and horn spoons and trenchers.' It seems more probable that the word in both passages is an adjective, applicable to spoons, and descriptive of the pattern. [679] Seat rent in church. [680] Erased in MS. [681] Price of theatre. Which makes up the full 12 lb. sterling received by me from the borrows. The nixt money I brok was some given me in consultation this summer session, or in payment ather by the gairdner or Rot. Johnston, who had the loft,[682] Mr. Jo. Wood or other, making in all as I have every particular set doune in writing beside me about 280 merks and upwards, out of which Imprimis the said 1 of August given farder to my wife for the use of the house, 4 dolars. Item, to Samuel Colvill for his Grand Impostor discovered, 3 dollars. Item, to him who brought home my session goune, a mark. To Rot. Meins man when he brought me the confections the nixt day after the tounes cherry feast to the exchequer, 15 pence. For the new help to discourse, 20 pence. To the barber, halfe a mark. To the kirk basin, halfe a mark. For 2 quaire of paper, 14 pence. For 4 quaire of great paper for copieng the statutes of the toune of Edr. theiron, 32 shilling. To Grange[683] his man, a mark. To the barber, 6 pence. To the kirk bason, 6 pence. To Will Sutherland, a mark. Given to my wife, a shilling. Upon win with Rot. Hamilton the clerk, a mark. For Evelins Publick employment against Mckeinzies Solitude, 9 pence. Spent in Arthur Somervells, a mark. Spent in Ja. Haliburtons on night, 2 mark. For carieng a book to Hamilton, 6 pence. To the barber, 6 pence. For a quaire of paper, 9 pence. To the kirk basin, 6 pence. For a double letter from my good-brother Sir Androw R., 28 shilings. To my nurse when she came to sie me on the 20 of August 1673, a dollar. Item, given to my man, a mark. Item, upon sundry other uses not weill remembred by me because small, 29 shil. To the barber, 6 pence. Upon seck with Mr. Innes my Lo. Lyons clerk for Granges armes, 13 pence. Upon pears and plumes, 5 pence. To the kirk bason, 6 pence. Item, upon seck, 8 pence. Item, in Mary Peirs's with Stow and John Joussie, 27 shiling. [682] Parts of his house sublet. [683] William Dick of Grange, son of William Dick, a younger son of Sir William Dick of Braid. His grand-daughter and heiress, Isobel Dick, was married to Sir Andrew Lauder, Fountainhall's grandson and successor. [After this portion of the MS. only selections have been made.] For the Gentleman's calling, a shilling. For the Guide to Gentlewomen, 2 mark. For the colledge of fools, 4 pence. Item, for a letter from Sir Androw R. from Paris, 14 pence. For Donning's Vindication of England against the Hollanders, 16 pence. For le tombeau des controverses, 7 pence. For 4 comoedies, viz. Love in a Nunnery, Marriage a la mode, Epsom Wells, and Mcbeth's tragedie at 16 p. the peice, 5 shils. and a groat. Upon morning drinks for sundry dayes, 6 pence. To Joseph Chamberlayne for trimming my hair, 6 pence. To Thomas Broun for Howell's Familiar letters, 5 shilings stg. For every man his oun doctor, 2 shillings. For the journall of the war with Holland in 1672, 2 shillings. For the Mercury Gallant, 2 shillings. For the Rehearsall transprosd, 18 pence. For the Transproser rehears't, 18 pence. On morning drinks and other uses, a mark. For Stubs Non justification of the present war with Holland, 4 marks. For the Present State of Holland, 34 shiling. For halfe a mutskin of malaga with Pat. Wause, 6 pence. To Samuell Borthwick for letting blood of my wife, 3 mark. To Ja. Borthwick's other prentise that was with him, a mark. For a mutskin of sack in Ja. Deans at the Cannogate foot, 14 pence. I had receaved from Thomas Robertsone thesaurer to the good toune on the 21 of August 1673 first 12 Ib. sterling for a years pension due to me by the toune from Lambes 1672 till Lambes 1673: as also I got at the same tyme ane years annuel rent of the principall soume of 5000 merks he is owing me by bond being from Lambes 1672 till Lambes last 1673, which was only 263 merks, because he retained 37 mks. and a halfe or 25 Ib. Scots of the ordinar annuelrent of 6 per cent. for 3 quarters of a year, vid., from Mertinmas 1672 till Lambes last 1673, conforme to the act of parlia. made in 1672,[684] and first out of the said 12 lb. sterling (being 220/219 merks) of pension given: [684] See note, p. 273. Imprimis to Granges man when he brought over the apples and pears, a mark. Item, on the 10 of October 1673 to my wife to buy hir great chimley with over and above hir old one, which she gave them in, 8 dollars. In Guynes with Mr. Wood, Mr. C. Lumsdean, and others, 20 pence. For taking out the extract of Granges blazoning, first to the Lyon himselfe, [10 merks.][685] this is repayed me. Then to Mr. Rot. Innes his clerk, [6 merks.][685] this also. To Wil. Sutherland when he went to Grange with his patent of his bearing, a mark. At dinner in Ja. Haliburtons with Mr. Gray the converted papist, 22 shiling. At Jo. Mitchells with Mr. Pollock the merchand and Mr. Gilbert, 52 shiling. To J. Mitchell's man who lighted me home, 3 pence. Given to Wm Sim for copieng to me the compend of the Statutes of Edenbrugh being. 6 rix dollars. just 5 quaire of paper, which 6 rix dollars makes just 3 pence the sheit; its only a shilling lesse. [685] Erased in MS. Item for a mutsking of sack with Mr. Garshoires, a shilling. In Mr. Rot. Lauder's when we saw his wife, a dollar. To my man Androw Bell to buy a bible and a knife with to himselfe, a rix dolar. On the 10 of Nov'r, the day the comissioner came in, spent with Mr. Thomas Patersone, 52 shiling. On the ij of Nov'r given to my wife more then hir monethes silver to perfit the price of hir black fringes to hir goune, which stood hir 36 lb., tua dollars. For Temple's Observations, 35 shiling. To the parsone of Dyserts woman when she brought over the ham, a mark. At Mr. David Dinmuires woman's brithell, a dollar and a groat. For Quean Margaret of France hir Memorialls, 16 pence. For a black muff to my wife, ij shillings. For buttons to my shag coat, 29 shiling. For the kings letter to the parl. of Scotland, 2 pence. Casten in at my servant John Nasmith's wedding on the 5 of Dec'r, 5 rix dolars. Item, to the music, a mark. Given to my wife to cast in, 3 rix dolars. Given in charity to on Christian Cranston, a dollar. Item, given to my wife, a dollar. Item, on the 8 of Dec'r given hir, 5 dollars. Item, in this money their was a dollar of ill money. The nixt money I brok upon was 52 dollars (wheirof 31 of them ware legs[686]), which I had receaved at sundrie tymes from severall parties in consultation money, conforme to a particular accompt of their receipt besyde me. [686] See Introduction, Money. Out of which payed Imprimis to Mr. Ja. Hendersone for Ja. Sinclar of Roslin in the begining of Dec'r 1673 to compleit the payment of the bill drawen by Sir Androw Ramsay upon me of 789 lb. 4 shillings Scots money conforme to Roslin's receipt of the haill bill. 185 mks. in 42 legged dollars,[687] so that their remains behind of that consultation money receaved by me before December 1673 about 9 rix dollars and some more, out of which For Loydes Warning to a careles world from T. Broun, 15 pence. For seing Marriage a la mode acted, for my selfe and Mr. J. Wood, a leg dollar. For M.A. Antoninus his Meditations on himselfe, 30 pence. The nixt money I made use of was 32 lb. Scots in ij rix dollars[688] receaved by me from George Patersone the wright for his house maill before Whitsonday last 1673, the other aught lb. of the 40 lb. being allowed to him in ane accompt of work. [687] This works out at about 4s. 10 3/4 d. for each leg dollar. [688] Dollar 58 2/11d. To on Lilias Darling in charity, 12 pence. Given to my wife on the 3 of Januar 1674, 6 merks. Payed in Ja. Haliburtons with Mr. Gabriell Semple, 21 shiling. Item, on the 5 of January 1674 to give in hansell being hansell Monday, 21 marks. Item, with Mr. Robert Lauder, clerk at Dumfries, 25 shiling. To Mr. Peirsone for writing the Observes out of the old books of parl. secret councell and sederunt, 4 merks. To criple Robin, a 6 pence. To him who copied Mckeinzies Criminalls 1 tome in compleat payment to him, 2 merks. Item, for a book anent the education of young gentlemen, 33 shiling. In Sandy Bryson's, 9 pence. To the contribution for the prisoners amongs the Turks, a mark. To Will Sutherland, 7 pence. Given to Walter Cunyghame for keiping our gounes, a dollar. Given to my wife on the 23 of february 1674, the 50 mk. in ij dollars and a halfe. For Lucas speech, the votes and adresses of the house of commons and the relation of the engagements of the fleets in 1673, 14 pence. To Thomas Broun for Parkers Reprooff to the Rehearsall transp., 6 shillings stg. To him for the Rehearsall transprosed. 2d part, 28 shilling. On mum with Mr. R. Forrest, 21 pence. Upon sweities, 4 pence. On win at Rot. Gilbert's bairnes christning, 24 pence. For Fergusone against Parker about Grace and morall vertue, 32 shilings. For the Art of complaisance, 16 shil. For the Articles of Peace, 2 shil. Item, with Mr. Rot. Wemyss, 12 shiling. To the Kirk Deacon for a yeirs contribution in March 1674, 2 rix dollars. Spent with Mr. William Ramsay, 5 pence. For the Proclamations against duells, and that about the E. of Loudon's annuity, and upon sundrie other uses, a mark. With Muire of Park, 9 pence. Given to hir, my wife, to give to Arthur Temple ane English croun which belonged to Mr. John Wood. To my wife to buy a petticoat of cesunt[689] taffety, 4 dollars. For Gudelinus and Zoesius deffendis, 29 pence. Upon win with Mr. Mathew Ramsay, a mark. Given to my wife on the 13 of April 1674, 13 Ib. 10 sh. [689] Query, 'seasoned.' To my wife to help to buy hir cow, for which she gave 20 Ib. Scots,[690] and which 13 Ib. 10s. Scots just compleited and exhausted the 450, 13 Ib. 10 shil. merks receaved by me from my father on the 20 of februar last 1674. As for the other 6 Ib. 10 shillings that rested to perfit the price of the cow, I gave that out of the other money I had besyde me. [690] Price of a cow. A dollar and a halfe that was owing me by Rot. Craw, and was repayed by him to me, was given to my wife to buy lyning for my new black cloath breatches. Payed for 4 limons, 16 pence. For the pamphlet called the Spirit of the Hat, 6 pence. In drinkmoney for making my new cloaths, a mark. Given to my wife, tua dollars. Given to hir to pay for linnen bed sheits bought by hir, a dollar. Given in the contribution anent the burnt houses, a dollar. For the book of rates of the custome house of Rome, 8 pence. The nixt money I made use of was 6 dollars given me in consultation by the toune Threasurer of Edr., on the 23 of Aprill 1674, when we consulted with my Lord Advocat about the rebuilding of brunt and ruinous houses with stone. Out of which For a discourse by L'Estrange upon the Fischery, 6 pence. Of boull maill, 6 pence. For my dinner on sunday with Mr. Wm. Patersone in Guines, 2 shillings. Au commencement du mois de May j'avois cent marks d'argent en vingt et trois thalers Imperiaux deposez chez moi par Monsieur Le Bois quand il alloit hors cette ville-cy, a fin les lui rendre a son retour [je les rendu.][691] De cette monnoye je pris premierement. [691] Interlined. For a sword belt, 22 pence. To Jo. Nasmith for morning drinks, etc., 15 pence. Of boull maill, 6 pence. In W. Cunyghames at the Linktoun of Abbotshall, a groat. To my Lord Abbotshall, and given by him to Tom Gairdner, 6 pence. For a quart of win in Mr. George Ogilbies of Kirkcaldy, 40 pence. To David Colyear, a groat.[692] With Mr. Lundy, Minister at Dysert, and others, 33 shill. To the beggers, 3 pence. To Tom Gairdner, a groat. To George Gairdner, 6 pence. For 2 oranges, a groat. For Lentuli Dubia Decisa, a dollar. To the beggers at sundry tymes, 6 pence. With Androw Young, halfe a mark. With Rot. Campbell, apothecar., 6 pence. To Hary Wood, Mr. W.R.'s man, 20 pence. With Mr. Wm. Ramsay in James Haliburtons, 12 pence. For my part of the dinner on Sunday at the West Kirk, 16 pence. For a horne comb, 6 pence. For Andrews morning drinks 19 dayes and some other things, 25 pence. To Comisar Aikenhead's masons, a shilling. [692] See note, p. 255. Woila comment je depencay ces cent marks pour quelles je demeure debtour an Monsieur Le Bois.[693] [693] In margin: Cette monnoye lui est payé comment il apparoistra cy dessous. Then on the 13 of June 1674 my father and I compted, and we found I had receaved all my annuities due præceeding Martinmas 1672, and that the last money I got was 450 merks on the 20 of february last 1674, and which compleited that quarter of my annuity which ran from Lambes 1672 till the Martinmas theirafter; then we considered that I was owing him ane years rent and maill of my house, viz. 20 pounds sterling from Whitsonday 1673 till Whitsonday last past in 1674 (all the former years maill being payed to him, as is marked supra). Then we proposed the deduction of on of 6 of the annuel rents imposed by the act of parliament made in 1672[694] for the space of a year, viz., from Mertinmas 1672 till Mertinmas 1673, which tuo particulars of the maill and the retention being deducted, viz., 20 lb. sterling for a years maill being 240 lb. Scots or 360 merks being allowed my father and 150 merks being retained by him as the deduction due off 900 merks, which is the halfe years annuity from Mertinmas 1672 till Whitsonday 1673, which tuo particulars makes 510 merks of my 900 merks; wheirupon their rested to be given me of the said 900 merks 390 merks, which soume I only receaved the forsaid 13 day of June in money and gave my father a discharge of the haill 900 merks due to me by him as half a years annuity from Mertinmas 1672 till Whitsonday 1673, bearing alwayes that deduction was given him conforme to the act 1672, and in regard he seimed unwilling to give me any discharge in writing of my house maill to be in my custody, he shewed me in his minute book of receipt that he had marked he had such a day got payed him by me 240 lb. Scots as a year maill of my house fra Whitsonday 1673 till Whitsonday 1674, as also in another place wheir he hes written doun the receipt from me of 480 lb. Scots as being 2 years maill of my house, viz. from Whitsonday 1671, which was my entry, till Whitsonday 1673; and which memorandum is all I have for a discharge to show my payment: only he affirmed their was no hazard in regard he was to name me on of his executors with the rest of my brothers. But in regard thesse 3 years I had possest I had never given him in any accompt of my debursements on the said house, in glasse windows, broads or others, he ordered me to give him in the compt theirof that he might pay it me. [694] In granting a supply of 864,000 lbs. Scots to Charles II., assessed on the land rent according to the valuations, the Parliament, 'considering it just that personall estates of money should beir some proportion of the burden,' enacted 'that every debtor owing money in the kingdom' should for one year, in payment of their annual-rents (interest) for that year 'have reduction in their own hands of one sixt pairt thereof,' and pay only the other five parts. The legal rate of interest was six per cent. To my wife, a dollar. Given also to hir on the 18 of June 1674 to buy a suite of french stripped hangings with, which stood 10 pounds sterling in pairt of payment of the same, 6 lb. sterling, 6 lb. sterl. or 110 mks. At the well besyde Comiston, 24 pence. For my horse hyre to Bervick, ij shill. ster. To Mr. Duncan Forbes for doubling[695] my Lord Hadington's reduction of Athelstanford, halfe a dollar. Given to Comisar Monro for reading the bill about the minister of Athelstanford's pershuit, a dollar. For the post of a letter from S.A.R. of Waughton, 10 pence. To Ja. Broun's lad for brushing my hat, 40 pennies. Given in with Knocks bill to the Lo.s of Thesaury for seing Skelmurlyes signator, a dollar. To the woman who keiped my niece Mary Campbell, a dollar. For raising and signeting the summonds of reduction in my Lord Abotshall's name, against the minister of Athelstanford, a dollar and a halfe. Spent with James Carnegie, 21 pence. With Mr. Wm. Morray and others, 20 pence. For black mourning gloves, 28 pence. Given to my wife, a dollar. Given hir to pay the harne[696] with which she lined hir hangings and for threid and cords to them, 6 rix dollars. With Walter Pringle, a mark. For a triple letter from S.A.R., 15 pence. With Ja. Inglis and others, 4 pence. With Mr. John Eleis, 16 pence. [695] Copying. [696] Coarse cloth. Item, on the 10 of Julie 1674, payé a Monsieur Le Bois treize thalers Imperiales in compleit payment de ces cent marks, this being joyned to the dix thalers payé à lui in the beginning of June last, 13 dollars. Given to David Coilzear when he went out to the Rendevous of the Eist Lothian militia regiment to defray his charge their, halfe a croun. At a collation with Sir David Falconer when I informed him anent the reduction against the minister of Athelstaneford, 4 lb. 4 shilling. Given to my wife to pay for 40 load of coalls at 10 p. the load, and for other uses, 8 dollars. For Ziegleri dissertationes de læsione ultra dimid. de jure clavium, etc., 32 pence. To Comisar Monro for calling and marking the reduction against the minister of Athelstainfurd on the 22 of July 1674, a dollar. Item, the same day given to him for reading a bill desiring our reduction might be considered and tane in presently and to stop the said minister's report in the menu tyme, a dollar. Item, on the 23 of July 1674, given by my wife and my selfe, at Mary Scot, my fathers serving woman, hir pennie wedding, 2 dollars. Item, to the fidlers, 6 pence. The nixt money I spent was some 7 dollars given me in 3 sundrie consultations as is marked besyde me in a paper apart. With Merchinston at Dairymilnes, 2 shilings. For the Empresse of Morocco, 18 pence. For Shutles[697] Observations upon the said farce revised against Dryden, 18 pence. At Arthur Somervells, 10 pence. Le 29 de Juillet 1674, je empruntée de Monsieur le Bois cent marques en vingt et trois thalers Imperiaux de quoy premierement. [697] Settle's. See p. 288. Donneé to William Stevinson, merchand, for compleiting to him the price of my French hangings which my wife bought from him at 10 lb. sterling, and wheirof he receaved 6 lb. st. before on the 18 of June, as is marked. I say payed to him, 4 lb. sterling. For my dinner on a sunday, 15 pence. Spent at the fountaine, 20 pence. Item, spent at Tom Hayes and elsewheir by my selfe, 16 pence. On the 15 of August given to my wife to pay of hir women Jonet Nicolsones fee when she went away from hir, 6 dolars. For Sir David Lindsayes poems, 7 pence. For the Baron D'Isola his Buckler of state and justice, 28 pence. For the Interest of the United Provinces being a defence of the Zeelander choice rather to be under England then France, 20 pence. Item, given in of the change of that 300 lb. sent me in from Patrick Lesly of my Lord Abbotshalls rents, 2 pence. To the penny wedding at Gogar, 29 pence. On 3 botles of botle ale, 9 pence. On the 31 of August 1674 given to Joan Chalmers the midwife when my wife was brought to bed of hir 4 child and 2'd sone, 6 rix dollars. To David Coilzear for to put tuo shoes on the horse, a mark. 5 Septembre 1674 donnée et payé à Henry le Bois an nom et sur le epistre de Monsieur Jean Du Bois, son frere dix thalers Imperiaux et dequoy ledit Hendry on'a donné une quitance, 10 rix dollars. On the 17 of September 1674 payed to Mr. Archbald Camron for registrating my sone Androws name with some of the witnesses, a dollar. On the 18 of Septr. payed for a new razor, 2 shillings. Payed to Thomas Wilsone kirk thresurer because my sone was not baptised the tyme of sermon, a rix dollar. Payed for a collation I gave to S.G. Lockhart, W. Murray, W. Pringle, etc., 8 lb. ij shill. Scots. Item, payed to Edward Gilespie for a years maill of my seat in the church, viz., from Whitsonday 1673 till Whitsonday last, and got his discharge of it, 12 lb. Scots. The nixt money I made use of was 287 merks I receaved on the 28 of September 1674 from Thomas Robertsone, being a years annuel rent of the principall summe of 5000 mks. owing by the said Thomas to me by bond, viz., from Lambes 1673 till Lambes last 1674 (which interest is indeed at 6 per cent. 300 merks), but in regard by the act of parliament 1672 their was deduction of on of 6 to be allowed for the quarter from Lambes to Martinmas 1673, theirfor 13 merks was abated of the full annuel rent upon the said accompt, and I receaved only the forsaid 287 mks. and discharged him of a years annuel rent including the deduction _per expressum_. Item, on the 29 of September 1674, payed to John Cheisley of Dalry, younger, in presence of his brother James 29 lb. Scots in 10 rix dollars for the maill of the 2 chambers I possest from him in Brunsfield,[698] by the space of 4 moneths in the last summer, 29 lb. Scots in 10 rix dollars. Item, spent that 6 of October 1674, that I quite Edenbrugh on the kings proclamation of banishment against the debarred advocats, 29 pence. [698] Summer quarters. In October 1674 my wife counted with George Patersone, wright, who had possest the low roume[699] of our house from Whitsonday 1673 till Whitsonday last 1674, and thairupon was owing me 40 lb. Scots of maill, and receaved in from him onlie 24 lb. Scots, the other 16 lb. being allowed him for a compt of work furnished by him to us, and wheiron shee gave him up my discharge to him of the wholle 40 lb. as a years maill of the said house. This 24 lb. Scots was waired out and employed upon my house. [699] Part of house sublet at 40 l. Scots. On the 20 of January 1675 I receaved from my father 400 merks Scots, which compleited all my annuityes due by him to me by vertue of my contract of marriage preceeding Candlemas 1674, and I gave him a discharge accordingly: for on the 13 of June last 1674 I discharged all preceiding Whitsonday 1673 (having only received from Mertinmas 1672 till Whitsonday 1673 for that halfe years annuitie instead of 900 merks only 750 merks because of the retention of on per cent.[700] by the act of parliament) and receaved then 100 mks. in part of payment of the halfe years annuity betuen Whitsonday and Martinmas 1673. [700] One per cent., i.e. on the capital sum of 30,000 merks for which his father had given him a bond, bearing interest at the legal rate of 6 per cent., equal to 1800 merks per annum. See Note, p. 273. On a butridge[701] to my hat, etc., 4 pence. [701] A form of spelling buttress. See Murray's _New English Dictionary_, s.v. Compare Jamieson, s. vv. Rig and Butt. It may mean the lace or band tying up the fold of a cocked hat. Item, on the 25 of Januar 1675 when I returned back to Hadinton[702] I took with me 13 dollars, which keip't me till the 8 of Februar theirafter. The particulars whow I spent and gave out the same is in a compt apart beside me. On the forsaid 25 day of Januar I left behind with my wife the remanent of the 400 merks I had receaved from my father, taking of the foresaid 20 dollars, viz., 300 merks and 3 rix dollars. Of which money on the 8 of february I find she hath debursed first a hundred merks, item, fyve dollars more, so their is now only resting of the money I left with hir about 190 merks. [702] He had retired to Haddington when 'debarred.' Out of the forsaid 100 merks and 5 dollars, I find shee had payed 38 lb. Scots to Patrick Ramsay for 5 moneth and a halfes ale, furnished by him. Item, on accounts in the creams[703] to John Nasmith, to the Baxters for win, etc., above 20 lb. Scots. And the rest is given out upon other necessar uses. [703] Krames, the shops round St. Giles Church. For S.G. Mck's[704] Observations on the act of p. 1621, anent Bankrupts, 16 pence. For binding the book of Cragie's collections and some other papers, 4 shills. stg. For fourbishing my sword and giving it a new Scabbord, 4 shils. st. For a candebec hat, 8 shils. st. For 6 quarters of ribban to it, 9 pence. On oranges, 6 pence. For the share of my dinner in Leith, the race day, a dollar. Item, for my part of the supper in Caddells when the advocats all met togither, 4 lb. Scots. [704] Sir George Mackenzie. On the 16 of March 1675 I receaved from James Sutherland, thresaurer of the good toune of Ed'r. 12 lb. sterling as a years pension or salary owing to me by the good toune as their assessor, from Lambes 1673 till Lambes last 1674, wheirof and all years preceiding I gave him a discharge. For the articles of war, 3 pence. For halfe a pound of sweit pouder, 2 shils, sterl. On the 20 of March 1675 I receaved from Andrew Young in name of my Lord Abbotshall, 600 mks. Scots (their was 4 rix dollars of it ill money which my Lord took in and promised to give me other 4 instead of them) wheirupon I discharged the said A.Y. and Lord Abbotshall of the said summe of 600 merks in payment and satisfaction to me in the first place of 89 lb. 17s. and 2 p. owing to me by the said L. Abotshall, as being payed out by me at his direction and order in Aprill 1673 (sie it marked their) to Mary Hamilton for 1200 merks, and hir papers being in Mr. John Sinclar minister at Ormiston his hands, he alledged their was 89 lb. 17s. and 2 p. owing him and would not give them up till he ware payed, wheirupon I at my Lord A's and hir order gave his sone Mr. James 100 merks and 8 rix dollars and retired them: item, for the remanent of the 600 mks. I accepted it in satisfaction and partiall payment and contentation to me of the bygane annuelrents (in so far as it would extend) of the principall summe of 5000 mks, yet resting by the said Lord Abbots: of 10,000 mks. of tocher contained in my contract of marriage and which annuelrents ware all resting owing to me from the terme of Lambes 1670, so that it will in compting pay me a yeir and a halfes annuelrent, viz., from the said Lambes 1670 till Candlemas 1672, and about 10 lb. Scots more in part of payment of the termes annuelrent from Candlemas to Lambes 1672: so that I may reckon that their is more then 3 years annuelrent of that principall summe of 5000 merks owing me, compting to the midle of this present moneth of March. With Mr. W'm. Murray and Blackbarrony, 16 pence. For my fraught to Bruntiland, 8 pence. For my supper and breakfast at James Angus's their, 37 shill. For 2 horses from thence to the Linkton, 16 pence. To Jo. Nasmith to carry him over from Fyffe to Ed'r with, a mark. To William Cunyghame's wife the tyme I staid at his house, 5 shills. st. Item, for 8 elles of drogat at 16 pence per elle, 2 dollars. In Jo. Blacks with Mr. A. M'cGill and Alexander Gay, 20 pence. Item, on the 24 or 25 of March last spent by my wife over and above the 48 lb. Scots, 8 rix dollars. I left with hir to pay out all hir compts she or I ware owing, and to bring over the plenishing, so that we ware owing nothing to any person preceeding that tyme. All which expenses being cast up they just make up and amount to 300 merks and 19 rix dollars, to which adde the 4 rix dollars of the wholle 600 mks. that ware not payed, their is spent 400 mks., and their rests behind 200 mks. Out of which Imprimis: On the 4 of May 1674 when I went to Ed'r., and stayed their till the 14 of May, during all that tyme spent according to the accompt of it particularly set doune in another paper besyde me, 10 dollars. Item, payed for a cow,[705] 34 lb. Scots. Donné a ma femme et emprunté d'elle de Rot. Craw, a dollar. Item, spent with Mr. Alex'r. McGil and Captain Crawfurd in Kirkcaldy, 3 lb. ij shil. Scots. Item, payed to the woman Mary[2] for hir years fie when she went away on the 24 of May 1675, 8 rix dollars. For seing the lionness and other beasts at Kirkcaldy, 12 pence. Donné a ma femme, 29 pence. Item, given hir more to pay the other woman's fee,[706] 3 dollars and a halfe. [705] Price of a cow. [706] Apparently his maidservants. Receaved from John Broun, elder, wool seller, 40 lb. Scots on the 12 of June 1675, and that for a years maill of the low chamber and sellar possest by him from me, viz., from Witsonday 1674 till Whitsonday last 1675, and wheirof I gave him a discharge. For 2 proclamations, 3 pence. To Henry Mensen for cutting my hair, 30 shil. For a quarter's payment with my man[707] begun on the 22 of June 1675 to the Master and doctor of Kirkcaldy scooll for learning him to wryte better, to read Latin, etc., 32 shilings Scots. On the 19 of July 1675 given a la servante Joannette Smith qui alloit avecque mon fils 100 merks ainez a Londres par mer pour leur d'espences and 9 shill. du voiage, six livres sterling, ings sterling. Donné a la dite servante pour ellememe, a dollar. To Mr. Tennent, skipper of the ship pour leur fraughts,[708] 35 shillings sterling. Spent at Kirkcaldy on Rhenish with Rot. Fothringhame that day, 44 shilings. Payed for fraught from Kingborne, 8 pence. Spent with Sir Ja. Stainfeild and Sam. Moncreiff, 39 pence. For the 3'd tome of Alciats Commentar on the Digests, 48 pence. For the Governement of the tongue, 12 pence. For botle aill, 4 pence. For a solen goose, 29 pence. Upon a mutskin of seck with Raploch and Camnetham, 10 pence. For 4 fraughts from Leith to Kingb., 16 pence. [707] His clerk. [708] Cost of passage to London. In the beginning of July 1675, their being a convention of the burrows to meet at Glasgow, and I finding their was tuo years pension then owing by them to me as their assessor, I gave W'm. Broun their agent alongs with him a discharge of the said 2 years pension under trust and upon this consideration that if neid ware he might make use of it for facilitating the passing of his accompts as to that article. In the said meiting and convention they ordered and warranded him to pay all the arrears of my said pension. At his returne back I still suffered the said discharge to remaine in his custody, and in regard I was owing to Thomas Broun, stationer, 84 lb. Scots or 7 lb. sterling for the price and binding of Prosperi Farinacij Jurisconsulti opera omnia, 9 volumes in folio which I had bought from him, ... I assigned the said Thomas Broun over with his oune consent to William Broun for the said summe of 7 lb. sterling, wheiron Thomas B. gave me on the 23 of July a discharge of the price of the said books, and William B. became oblidged to pay him the said summe, and he was to be allowed it in the foirend of the accompt betuixt him and me. Upon sweities to be tane to my brother George at Idington, a mark. For a horse hyre from Hadington to Idington, a dollar. To obtaine the copie of the king's letter reponing S.A.R.[709] to the Secret Councell, 6 pence. [709] Sir A. Ramsay. Then on the ij of August 1675 I was repayed the 2 rix dollars I had given out in the end of July last pour Monsieur Le Bois presse[710] which I gave a ma femme. [710] Query for pressé. Item, on the 13 of August 1675 Monsieur de la Cloche m'a repayé les douze thalers Imperiaux qu'il a empruntée de moy (as vous verrez ci devant on the 28 of fevrier 1674) and I gave them to my wife. The rest of my accompts of depursements given out by me since the 14 of August 1675 are to be found in another book like unto this. APPENDIX II A CATALOGUE OF MY BOOKS I BOUGHT SINCE 1667 Since my returne to Scotland from travelling, which was on the 9 of November 1667, I have got or bought the following books. As for the books I had ather before my parture or which I acquired and bought in forraine parts, I have a full and perfit Catalogue of them in my litle black-skinned book, and now I have two large Catalogues of them all. Imprimis, Brossoei Remissiones ad Corpus Glossatum, from Rot Broun, 10 shilings sterl. Vinnius ad Peckium de re nautica, 4 shil's st. Loccenius de Jure maritimo, 2 shi's st. Corpus Juris Civ. van Leuven, in 2 folios gifted me by Bailzie Calderwood. Mathematicall Magick, given me by my unckle Andrew Lauder. S.G. M'ckeinzies Solitude præferred, etc., given me by my father. 4 volumina Mascardi de probationibus, bound in 2 folios, from Thomas Broune, ij dollars. Montholon's plaidoiz, 18 pence. Received from Mr. James Ainsley, De in Consilia and Jason in Codicem, for which I gave him in exchange, Melchioris Cani Loci Theologici, Gaspar Pencerus de Divinationibus, Elliot's method of the French tongue, Manasseh ben Israel de termino vitæ, Bayri enchiridion, Densingius de Peste, Bodechevi poemata, and Jacobi Hantini angelus custos, in all 8 old books in 8'ro and 12. Guillim's Herauldry illuminat, got from Sir A. Ramsay, my brother in law. Receaved also from him, Bacon upon the union of Scotland and England. Receaved in Alex'r Hamilton's in the Linkton of Abotshall, Henricii Institutiones Medicæ. Heylin's Cosmographie, best edition, 22 shil's st. and 6 pence. For a great Bible of Andrew Hart's edition, 16 shil. stg. & 4 pence. For Broun's Vulgar errors, 6 shils. 6 pence. Present state of England, 1 vol., 30 pence. Morall state of England, 24 pence. Acts of the Generall Assembly, 1643, received from Bailzie Calderwood. The reschinded acts of parliament, 1646, 1647, 1648, with other papers theirto relating receaved from Collonell Ramsay, which with the rest of thesse acts which I had beside me, made up a compleit volume of the haill reschinded parliaments from 1640 till 1650 (except only the acts of the parl. held in June 1640, which I have since that tyme purchast a part and the acts of the parliament held in 1650 which I can no wheir come by), all which reschinded acts togither with thesse of the parliament 1633, which are not reschinded, I caused bind togither in on book and payed for the binding 30 pence. The Acts of the Generall Assembly, 1638, 24 pence. Papon's arrests of parliament, a dollar. Corpus Glossatum Canonicum, 2 tomes in folio, of the [I have now got the 3d as is marked infra, so that I have it now entire[711]] 3, wheirof it consists, for which I gave 3 dollars. and Henricij Institutiones Medicinæ, to on Mr. Chrystie. [711] Interlined. Receaved from Mr. Alex'r Seaton of Pitmedden, Criminalia Angeli de Aretino, Albertus de Gandino and Hippolytus de Marsiliis super eadem materia, all in on volume in the gothick letter; for which I gave him in exchange Alstedii encyclopaedia. Present state of England, 2d vol., 3 sh's st. Midleton and Rothesses acts of parliament in 1661, 1662 and 1663 received from Mr. C. Wardlaw. Knox's Cronicle of Scotland, 8 shils. st. Navarri manuale confessariorum, 26 pence. A collection of the English laws, a dollar. Polyd. Virgilij Historia Angliæ, a dollar. Zosimus, Procopius, Agathias, etc., their Histories in on volume, a dollar. Wimesii theses and other miscellanies in with it, a shilling. Thir 5 or six last books I bought from J. Nicoll, Janitor of the Colledge, in May 1671. Receaved from the provest S.A. Ramsay, S. Colvill's mock poem of the whigs, 1 volume, a Reflection on Monsieur Arnauld's book against Claud. The English act of parliament laying are imposition upon all law suits. Patavius his accompt of tymes. See infra I got Ramsey's astrologie. 3 Tomes in 8'ro of Bellarmines. Controversies in religion, from the Janitor, a dollar. The cause of the contempt of the Clergie and ane answer to it, 18 pence. S.G. Mckeinzie's morall gallantry, 2 shils. Acts of parliament in June 1649, 34 pence. Doolitle on the Lord's supper, a mark. St. Augustines confessions, 3 shils. st. His de Civitate Dei, 4 shils. st. Plinii panegyricus in Trajanum, a mark. The act about the taxation imposed in the convention 1665, 4 pence. The Clergie's vindication from Ignorance to Poverty. Item, some Observations on the Answer made to the Contempt of the Clergie, bought on the 1 of febr. 1672, both stood me, 30 pence. A Collection of English proverbs, 2 mark. Indian Emperor, a comedy, 20 pence. Cromwell's acts of parliament in 1656, 3 shils. st. Dryden's Annus Mirabilis, 8 pence. Auctores linguæ Latinæ, 40 pence. Warro, Festus, Marcellus, Isidorus, etc. Covenanters plea against absolvers, a shilling. The Informations anent the firing of London in 1666, 6 pence. Gilbert Burnet's letter to the author of Jus Populi, 3 pence. Marciano, a comoedy, 6 pence. A Treatise against the common received tenents anent Witchcraft, 8 pence. For the Seasonable case and a survey of Naphtali, 4 shils. st. For Milton's traittee anent Marriages and their nullities, 20 pence. For Baker's Cronicle of England, last edition, and Blunt's animadversions theiron, both stood me, 21 shillings sterling. Taylor's cases of Conscience, or Ductor Dubitintium, 22 shilings sterling. Petrie's Church Historie, 15 shili's sterl. Plinius 2'di Epistolæ cum notis variorum, 6 shill's ster. Cromwell's proclamations and acts of councell from 1653 til 1654, 4 shil's st. Tryrannick love and the Impertinents, 2 Comoedies, 40 pence. Reflections on the eloquence of this tyme, 18 pence. The mysterie of Iniquitie unvailled by G. Burnet, 9 pence. Ane Answer to Salmasius his defensio Regia by Peter English, 7 pence. A Relation of the fight in 1665 betwixt the Dutch and English and ane answer of our comissioners to England in 1647; both of them, 4 pence. Argentræi Commentarii ad consuetudines Brittaniæ, 9 shil's st. Peleus his Quæstiones illustres and arrests of parliament, 6 shill's sterling. The History and Life of the Duke D'Espernon, 15 shi's ster. 4 volumes of English pamphlets, most of them upon the late troubles in Britain, 15 shils. sterling. For the English Liturgie or book of common prayer, 5 shillings. Mr. G. Sinclares Hydrostaticks, given me by Mr. James Fawsyde in Cokenie, Baronius annalls compendized in two tomes, 3 shills. st. Summa Conciliorum et Pontificum per Carranzam 2 shil. st. Maximi Tyrii sermones, a shilling. Benzonis Historia novi orbis seu Americæ, a shilling. Dansæi Antiquitates mundi Antediluviani, a shilling. Demosthenes orationes olynthicæ Græce et Latine, 6 pence. Bucholzeri Index cronologicus, 3 shil's st. Apulei Madaurensis opera omnia, 6 pence. S.G. Mckeinzie's plaidings, 3 shil's st. Acts of the session of parlia' held in 1652, 27 pence. The New art of wying vanity against Mr. George Sinclars 15 pence. Hydrostaticks bought in Dec'r 1657. The Tempest, a Comoedie, 16 pence. The Dutch Usurpation, 6 pence. The Interest of England in the present war with Holland, 5 pence. The Dutch Remonstrance against the 2 De Wittes, 4 pence. The Lives of Arminius and Episcopius, 18 pence. The Way of exercising the French Infantrie, 3 pence. Moonshine or ane Answer to Doctor Wild's Poetica Licentia, 6 pence. Windiciae libertatis evangelii, 4 pence. The persecutions of the reformed churches of France, 4 pence. Rushworth's Collections, 23 shil's ster. The Civill wars of Great Britian till 1600, 4 mark. Charron upon Wisdome, 5 shill's 10 pence. Manchester al mondo, a mark. G. Burnet's Reply and 4 Conferences against the answerer, 3 shil. st. Walwood's maritime laws, given me by the provest Sir A. Ramsay. My Lord Foord's practiques, given me by the aird of Idingtoun. Thomas the Rymer's Prophecies, 4 pence. Reusneri Symbola Imperatoria, 18 pence. 6 particular carts of shires in Scotland, 5 shil. st. For the Grand Impostor discovered, payed to Samuel Colvill, 3 dollars. Roma Restituta gifted me by Mr. Thomas Bell. Thir which follow ware all bought from Thomas Broun in August 1673. A new help to discourse, 20 pence. Evelin for publick employment against S.G. Mckeinzie, 9 pence. The Gentleman's calling, a shilling. [The Guide to all Gentlewomen, 2 marks.[712]] The Colledge of foolls, 3 pence. Douning's Vindication against the Hollanders, 16 pence. Le Tombeau des controverses, 7 pence. 4 Comoedies, viz.: Love in a Nunnery, Marriage a la mode, Epsom-Wells and Mcbeth's tragedy, at 16 pence the peice, 5 shilings and a groat. [712] Erased in MS. Upon the 9 of September 1673 I bought from Thomas Broun thir 8 following, Imprimis, Howell's Letters, 5 shillings st. Every man his oune Doctor, 2 shillings. The Mercury Gallant, 2 shillings. The Journall of the French their war with Holland in 1672, 2 shilings. The Rehearsall transprosed, 18 pence. The Transproser rehears't, 18 pence. Stub's Justification of the Dutch war, 4 mark. The Present State of Holland, 34 shillings. Temple's Observations on the Dutch, 35 shilings. Memoires of Q. Margret of France, 16 pence. Loydes warning to a carles world, 15 pence. M.A. Antoninus Meditations upon himselfe, 30 pence. For Gregory Grey beard, 30 pence. For the Education of Gentry, 33 shiling. For Lucas Speach, the Comons their addresses, and the relation of the ingadgements of the fleets 1673, 14 pence. For Parker's reprooff to the Rehearsall transprosed, 6 shillings sterling. For the Rehearsall transprosed, 2d part, 28 shiling. For Ferguson against Parker about Grace and Morall vertue, 32 shilings. For the Art of Complaisance, 16 pence. For Gudelinus & Zoesius de Feudis, 29 pence. For the pamphlet against the Quakers called the Spirit of the Hat, 6 pence. A Discourse on the fischerie, 6 pence. The Book of rates used in the sin custome house of Rome, 9 pence. Les Exceptions et defences de Droit. Formulaire des Advocats, both thir receaved from G.T.[713] of Touch. [713] Thomson. See p. 196. Cyriaci Lentuli Dubia decisa, a dollar. Ziegleri dissertationes de læsione ultra dimidium, de juribus clavium. Commerciorum monopoliorum, etc. Epicteti Enchiridion et tabula cebetis, 32 pence. For the Notes and Observations on the Empresse of Morocco revised, 18 pence. in behalfe of Sir Elcanah Setle. For Sir David Lindsaye's poems, 7 pence. For the Baron D'Isola's buckler of state and justice, 28 pence. For the Interest of the United Provinces and a defence of the Zelanders choyce to submit rather to England, 20 pence. For the Empresse of Mororco, a farce, 18 pence. The Honest Lawyer, a comedy, and the office of general remembrance, got them from Idington in Nov'r. 1674. The Acts of the Assembly, 1648. Ægidius Bard in his Methodus Juris Civilis, from Edington. Les Effects pernicieux des meschans favoris par Balthazar Gerbier. Glanvil's way to Happines, 10 pence. The Bischop of Sarisburies animadversions on an Arminian book intitled God's love to mankind. Joannis a Sande decisiones Frisicæ, given me by Pitmedden. The Statute Law of England from Magna Carta to the year 1640. Collected by Ferdinando Pulton. The first part of Litleton's Instituts of the Law of England, with S. Edw. Coke's commentarie, both receaved from Mr. James Lauder, shireff clerk of Hadington. S.G. Mckeinzie's Observations on the Statute of Parliament 1621 against Banckrupts, etc., 16 pence. For binding the book of Craigie's collections and sundry other papers, 4 shil. s. et. The English Physitians freindly pill. Metamorphosis Anglorum, being ane accompt of the state affairs in England from Cromvell's death till 1660. Memoires de Philippe de Comines in French, j'ay les aussi en Latin chez moy. The Ladies calling, given me by my father. Wossii Elementa Rhetorica, 2 pence. Reginæ palatium eloquentiæ a patribus Jesuitis compositum constructum, ij shillings sterligs. For the 3d tome of Alciat's commentar upon the Digests, 4 shillings sterling. Payed to Thomas Broun conforme to his discharge for Prosperi Favinacii Jurisconsulti opera omnia, in 9 volumes in folio, 84 lb. Scots, or 7 lb. sterling. and which books I have gifted to the Libraire of Edenbrugh in June 1675, and upon every on of the volumes, as also in their publisht Register of gifts, bestowed on the bibliotheque il a pleu a Messieurs les Regens de cette université de me donner le tesmoignage qui s'en suit dequoy je ne suis pas aucunement digne. Vir summa laude præditus Magister Joannes Lauderus. (Joannis prætoris urbani filius de Academia cum primis meriti cuius Quæsturam agens temporibus difficillimis ejusdem res reditus que Anglorum injuria periclitantes fide sua ac diligentia vendicavit conservavit ordinavit amplificavit posteris que florentes tradidit.) Juris civilis haud vulgariter peritus ejusdemque in causis publice agendis consultus, civitatis hujus amplæ assessor, postquam Academiam suis studiis ornaverat hune librum cum octo fratribus Bibliothecæ donavit. Anno Domini 1675. Upon the forsaid bargain with Thomas Broun anent Favinacius (because he had great benefit) he gave me in Protegredivibus or the art of wheedling and insinuation, worth 2 and 6 pence or 3 shillings sterling. Item, Despauter's grammer worth, 12 pence. For the Governement of the tongue, by the author of the Gentleman's calling, 12 pence. The Causes of the decay of Christian Piety, by the same author. Item, his Wholle duety of man. Item, his Art of contentment 12 pence. New jests or witty Reparties. Joannes Voet de Jure Militari, 18 pence. The thrid tome of the Corpus Canonicum Glossatum, containing the 6'tus Decretalium Clementines et extravagantes communes, 8 shillings sterling. and which 3'd volume I still before wanted, having only the 2 first tomes of it. For Joannis Tesmari exercitationes Rhetoricae, 4 marks. De Prades Histoire de France from Pharamond till 1669 in 3 small 8'vos with pictures, 2 dollars. Hermannus Vulteius de Feudis, 4 shill. 8. ster. [Sidenote: I have now got the rest of his works, which see infra folio 7't after this.] Nicolai Abbatis Siculi Panor mi tani, his great glosse upon the Decretales Gregorii from the 25't title of the 2'd book, viz., de exceptionibus to the end of the haill 5 books of the Decretales, so that I want the volume before containing his glosse on the 1 book of the Decretals and the 2'd till the said 25 title, and the volume after myne upon the 6'tus Decretalium Clementines et extravagants; his wholle glosse consisting of 3 great folios; for he hes written nothing on the Decretum Gratiani: this broken tome m'a été donné par Pitmedden. Upon a review I made of my wholle library in Octobre 1675 I found sundrie books ware nather in this catalogue which containes all them I bought or acquired since my returne to Scotland from my travells, nor yet in that other Catalogue and list in the litle black-skinned book containing all them I had bought or got formerly ather at home or abroad: and theirfor I gathered their names togither so many of them as I could remember on and wrot them upon 4 or 5 sydes of paper and shewed[714] it in at the end of my Inventar and Catalogue in the forsaid black-skinned writ book; ubi illud vide. [714] Sewed. Sew is still pronounced like 'shoe' in Lowland Scots. Receaved from Pitmedden, Dynus ad Regulas Juris Canonici et Decius ad Regulas Juris Civilis, in exchange for my Ludovicus Gomez Commentarij ad Regulas Cancellariae Apostolicae et utriusque signaturae [of which I have bought another in October 1679.][715] [715] Interlined. Ratio reconcinnandi juris civil, 8 pence. On the 1 of Novembre 1675 bought from on William Broun, a dragist, the following books, being in number 23, Imprimis, Stoboei Sententiae Groecolat: 5 shillings and 6 pence. Ammirati politica ad Tacitum, 40 pence. Cypriani Censura Belgica, 56 pence. Autumni Censura Gallica, 29 pence. Bouritij Judex Advocatus et Captivus, 42 pence. Mynsingeri Observationes, 29 pence. Gudelinus de jure novissimo, 20 pence. Cujacij Observationum libri 28, 24 pence. Oldendorpij Classes Actionum, 24 pence. Rolandini Ars Notariatus, etc., 22 pence. Tuldeni Jurisprudent. extemporat. 22 pence. Aegidij Bossij Criminalia, 22 pence. Mindanus[716] de Continentia Causarum, 12 pence. Costatij adversaria ad digesta, 29 pence. Keckermauni Rhetorica, 20 pence. Dieterici Institutiones Rhetorica, 9 pence. Carpentarij Introductio Rhetorica, 6 pence. Faber de Variis nummariorium debitorum solutionibus, 9 pence. Herculanus de probanda negativa, 9 pence. Epistolae Synesij Episcopi Gr. Lat., 6 pence. Bouritij Satyricon in Saeculi mores, 6 pence. Virtus vindicata seu satyra, 6 pence. [23][717] Rhodolphinus de absoluta principis potestate, 6 pence. [716] Mindanus, Petrus Friderus. [717] Interlined. From His[718] shop bought, [718] i.e. Broun's. Blunts Academy of Eloquence or his Rhetorick, 15 pence. Clarks formulae Oratoriae, 15 pence. Item from the said William Broun on the 6 of November 1675, Imprimis, Matthias Stephani de officio judicis, 42 pence. Benevenutus stracca de mercatura, etc., 29 pence. Langij loci communes seu Anthologia, 42 pence. Spankemij dubia Evangelica, 2 tomes,. 7 lib. 10s. Mindanus de Mandatis, 18 pence. Macrobij Saturnalia et alia opera, 10 pence. Bertrandus de jurisperitorum vitis, 24 pence. Farnabij judex Rhetoricus, 13 pence. Cypriani Regneri Censura Belgica juris canonici, 3 shills. sterl. For Platonis opera omnia 3 tomes, 6 shills. sterl. For a book containing some sermons of Mr. William Struthers anent true happines; item a defensative against the poyson of supposed prophecies, Peters complaint, etc., 2 merks. The first three parts of the famed romance Cleopatra. 11 or 12 litle paper books all wrytten with my oune hand on miscellany subjects anno 1675 besydes many things then wryt be me in other books and papers. Reiffenbergij Orationes politicae, etc., 15 pence. Memoires of the reigne of Lowis the 14 of France. Doctorum aliquot virorum vivae effigies ad numerum 38, 3 shillings sterl. Luciani opera quae extant omnia gifted me by my client Mr. Patrick Hamilton of Dalserf. I had some of his Dialogues by themselfes in a book apart of before. For a treatise of maritime affairs, 5 shillings and 6 pence. The case of the bankers and their creditors stated and examined, 2 shills. sterl. Shaftesbury and Buckinghames Speeches in October and November 1675 with the letter to a friend about the test against dissenters from the Church, 3 shill. and 6 pence. For Robertj Baillij opus historicum, 4 shillings and 6 pence. For Le Grands Man without passion or wise stoick, 28 pence. For William Pens lnglands interest discovered with honor to the prince, 12 pence. For a treatise of human reason, 8 pence. For observations upon it, 8 pence. Vide Hobs infra in 1680. Gassendi Exercitationes adversus Aristoteleos, item de vita et moribus Epicuri, item L'Aunoy de varia Aristotelis fortuna in Academia Parisiensi, all bound togither, stood me, 3 shills. sterl. Kirkwoods Grammatica Latina, 8 pence. Mitchells Answer to Barclay the Quakers angrie pamphlet, 11 pence. Chevreau's Mirror of fortune, 28 pence. John Bona's Guide to Aeternity, 20 pence. A Rebuke to informers and a plea for nonconformists and their meitings, a shilling. A. Couleys poemes and works, 13 shil. ster. Boyls Seraphick love, 18 pence. Item, his Excellency of theology above Naturall Philosophy, 30 pence. His Considerationes concerning the stile of the Scriptures, 24 pence. Thir four last bought at London by my brother Colin in May 1676. The Naked Truth, 2 shillings ster. The Answer to it, 2 shillings ster. Vide in the other leiff another answer to it. Additiones Joannis Baptistae hodierna ad Petri Surdi Decisiones Mantuanas, gifted me in June 1676 by Mr. William Hendersone bibliothecar in the Colledge of Edenbrugh. Lesly Bischop of Rosse de rebus gestis Scotorum, 10 shillings sterling. The Conference betuixt Archbischop Laud and Fischer the Jesuite gifted me by the Lord Abotshall. Ane book of stiles in Octavo. Fullers History of the Holy War, 7 shillings sterling. Caves primitive Christianity, 5 shills. and 6 pence. Dutchesse of Mazarina Memoires, 12 pence. Durhame on the 10 commands, 2 shillings. Skinners Lexicon Ætymologicum Auglicanæ linguæ, etc., 17 shillings sterling. Le Notaire parfait, 12 pence. Pierre Matthieu's 1st tome de L'Histoire de France, I having the 2nd tome long before, 8 pence. Plethonis et aliorum tractatus de vita et morte, 8 pence. Judge Standfords plees del couronne and King's prærogative, 8 pence. For all the Acts of the Generall Assemblies from 1639 till 1648, 3 shillings st. For Regiam Majestatem in Latin with Skeens learned annotationes, 5 shills. ster. For Mangilius de Evictionibus, 5 shills. st. For Gildas Britannicus Epistola, 12 pence. For Mr. Hugh Binnings wholle works in 4 volumes, being a practicall catechisme and sermons, a dollar. For Drydens Notes on the Empresse of Morocco. I have Setles answers and revieu of them _supra,_ 15 pence. For the Siege of Granada in 2 parts, a comedy of Drydens, 3 shills. sterl. For the Libertin, a comædie, 15 pence. Menagij Amoenitates juris, 16 pence. Scipionis Gentilis parerga origines de jure publico, cum Coleri parergis, 16 pence. For the rules of Civility, 15 pence. For Hugo Grotius his Annotata Critica ad Vetus et novum testamentum in 6 volumes, 20 dollars. in folio from Thomas Broun in December 1676 (Vide infra. I gift them in Januar 1683). For Herberts Life of Henry the 8th of England, 40 pence. For Senecæ Tragoediæ cum notis Faruabij, 12 pence. Lord Bacons History of Henry the 7 of England gifted me by the Lord Abotshall. As also gifted to me by him on the 2d of March 1677 Euclids Geometry with Mr. Jo. Dees learned præface; and item gifted Ramseys Astrologia restaurata et munda with a vindication of it and rules for electing the tymes for all manner of works; item gifted me Lex Talionis being another answer made by Mr. Gunning or Mr. Fell to The Naked Truth, which see in the praeceeding leiff. For Daillees Right use of the Fathers, 4 shillings sterling. Baxters Grotian Religion discovered, 6 pence. Les Diverses leçons de Pierre Mexie et D'Antoine du Verdier. The pacquet of advices to the meu of Shaftsbury in answer to his letter to a friend, supra, 9 pence. Lukins cheiff interest of man, 6 pence. Mr. Smirk or Divine a la mode, being a reply to the animadversions on the Naked Truth mention'd in this and in the former leiff, 2 mark. Adam and Eve or the State of innocence, ane opera of Drydens, 18 pence. For The Plain Dealer, a comedy, 18 pence. The Toune Fop or Sir Timothy, etc., 18 pence. Received in June 1677 from Mr. James Lauder in name of Mistris Ker in Hadington. Francisci Connani Commentarius Juris Civilis in two volumes in folio. I had the first tome already, having bought it at Parise. Farder received from hir. Hottomanni partitiones juris et juris consultus and some other of his small tracts. Item, Lanfranci Balbi Decisionum et Observationum centuriae 5. The life of Pomponius Atticus, etc., 30 pence. A Guide to heaven from the world, 6 pence. For The 2'd pacquet of Advices to the men of Shaftsburie, 2 shills. sterl. For Madame Fickle a comoedy, 18 pence. For Johnstons History of King James the 6'th minority, 12 pence. Midletons Appendix to the Scots Church Historie, etc., 2 shills: sterl. Burnets Memoires of the 2 Dukes of Hamilton from 1625 18 shillings sterling. Doctor Hamonds Annotations on the New Testament, 18 lib. Scot. Steelingfleets Origines Sacrae, 7 shills. sterl. Glanvills Philosophicall Essayes, 4 shills. 6 pence. The Art of Speaking, 30 pence. Thir last 5 I bought from Thomas Broun on the 15 of September 1677. Sir George McKeinzies Criminalls, 4 Lb. Scots. The following books to the number of 13. 15 I receaved from my Lord Abotshall in October 1677, because he had doubles of them as we inventar'd his books, some of them I had myselfe already. Imprimis, a Latin and French bible in folio. 2. The Review of the councell of Trent. 3. Bacon's resuscitatio 2'd part. [4. Swinnock's Christian Man's calling.][719] given back to the Librarie. 5. Rosinus Romanae Antiquitates. 6. Goodwyns Moyses and Aaron. [7. Ja. Colvill's Grand Impostor discovered.][719] having another I gave this to Mr. Alexr. Drummond 8. Sympson's compend of the ten persecutions. 9. Brinsley's Ludus literarius. 10. Hooll's grammatica Latino Anglica. 11. Acts of parliament in 1669. 12. Milton's Paradise Lost 13. Hudibras mock poem. 14. Caesars commentaries in English. 15. Arcandam upon the constellations. 16. Adam out of Eden on planting. [719] Erased in MS. A mesme temps je empruntée l'usage de ces sept livres suivans de lui pour les rendre quand il les demandoit. Imprimis Rutherfuird's Lex Rex. 2. Wiseman's law of laws, etc. 3. The accomplish't Atturney. 4. Natalis comitis mythologiae. 5. Stephanus praeparative to his apologie for Herodote. 6. Imagines mortis et medicina animae. 7. Dom Huarto's triall of wits. The 3 following French books ware about that same tyme gifted me by Rot. Keith of Craig. Imprimis, Mr. Wicquefort's Memoires touchant ambassadeurs et les ministres publiques. 2. Histoire de la Reyne Christine de Suede. 3. Lettre sur la campaigne en Flandre, 1677. For the art to make love, 12 pence. For the countermine against the presb., 3 shils. stg. From John Nicol bought on the 18 Dec'ris 1677 the 6 following books. Bodinus de daemonomania majorum, 2 marks. Hall's Cases of Conscience, 14 pence. Walker against Socinianisme, 12 pence. Juvenalis et Persius cum notis Farnab., 10 pence. Sylvestri summa summarum, 2 dollars. Scapulæ Lexicon Græco-Latinum, 2 dollars. Drusius de tribus-sectis Judeorum, 20 pence. Item, the book of fortune, 20 pence. Vincent on Christ's Appearance at the Day of Judgement, ij pence. Antonii Mornacii observationes ad pandectas et ad Codicem, in 3 tomes in folio, at 22 shillings sterl. the tome, 40 lb. Scots. Gerardus Joan: Wossius de Historicis Latinis, 4 lb. Scots. Christophori Sandii animadversiones in istum Vosii librum, 12 pence. For Divi Thomæ Aquinatis summa Theologica, 16 shillings stering. For Wallis Due correction of Hobs geometrie, 8 pence. Lipsius Notes on Tacitus, 4 pence. Dominici Baudii epistolæ et orationes, 34 pence. Elberti Leonini consilia, a dollar. About the 19 of Aprill 1678, receaved from Abotshall a manuscript containing a most elegant summary and collection of sundry remarkable things from the 7 tomes of St. Augustins works. A meme temps je emprunté de lui les livres suivans: 2 manuscripts in Latin de Decimis, contra Erastianos, Independentes, de politia civili et ecclesiastica, de controversiis theologicis, etc., of Mr. Andrew Ramsayes: but now I have given him thir back: Rosse's Pansebeia or view of all Religions. Grotii de imperio summarum potestatum circa sacra. Florus Historie cum Lucii Ampelii memoriali. Catonis Disticha et Mimi Publiani by Hoole. Bought the 15 of Aprill 1678 from Mr. Charles Lumsdean thir six books, Imprimis, Andrew Willet's Hexapla upon Exodus and Leviticus. 2 volumes in folio, 12 shillings sterling. vide infra in 1679 and Aprill 1684. 6 shillings sterling each volume. Jermynes commentarie and meditations on the book of Proverbs, 6 shils. stg. Rosse's arcana microcosmi with a refutation of Bacon, Harvey, Broun, etc., 12 pence. The right of dominion, property, liberty, 10 pence. Mr. R. Baillie's antidote agt Arminianisme, 4 pence. Heraclitus Christianus, or the man of sorrow 12 pence. Lo. Hatton on Status and acts of parlia', 12 pence. Kirkwodi compendium Rhetorircæ, 2 pence. Godolphin upon legacies, last wills and devises, 6 shills. ster. Salernitana schola de conservanda bona valetudine, 2 shillings and 6 pence. Juvenalls Satyrca Englished by Stapylton, 2 mark and a halfe. The Fulfilling of the Scriptures. From Abotshall: ...[720] [Greek: kaina kai palaia]: Things new and old, or a storehouse of similes, sentences, allegories, etc., by John Spencer. [720] Word undeciphered. Item, receaved Drummond's History of the lives of the 5 James's, Kings of Scotland, with memorialls of state. Item, Wilson's art of Rhetorique and art of Logick. Item, l'Estat de l'Eglise by Jean de Hainault and Jean Crespin, they being 4 books in number which at this tyme j'ay recu de Abotshall. Fur a manuscript containing some law dictats of the professors at Poictiers and Bourge en Berry annis 1611 and 1612, 12 pence. For Masuerii practica forensis with Montis Albani exceptiones, 12 pence. Quintini Hedui Analecta juris ad Titul. Decretal de verborum significatione, 12 pence. For Jacobi de Voragine legenda aurea seu Vitæ sanctorum, ij pence. Ecloga Oxonio-Cantabrigiensis; being a Catalogue of all the manuscripts in thesse 2 universities, ij pence. Mr. D. Dickson's Therapeutica sacra. The Christian education of children, 36 pence. Gifted me by Mr. Wm. Henderson: Bibliothecar of Ed'r, H. Cardani arcana politica seu de prudentia civili. Gotten from Mr. Wm. Dundas Wisseinbachii Manuale de verborum signifcatione, item, Nota nomico-philologica in passionem Christi. Annibal Trabrotus his enarrationes ad Cuiacij paratitla in libros tres prinres Codicis, a mark. For A.S. Boetius de Consolatione philosophiæ et disciplina scholastica, 6 pence. Gifted to me by Mr. John Craig of Ramorney, advocat, on the 16 of November 1678, Davila's Historie of the civill wars of France. Leidington's practiques and some other papers bound togither by me at this time. Tbe Christians Patterne or A Kempis Imitation of Christ, 12 pence. For tuo volumes of Panormitans commentary upon the decretales, which compleits what I had of him before. Item, for Giuidonis Papae decisiones parlamenti Grationapolitanæ and Lipsius de constantia, in all 4 books, 6 shillings sterling. For Lucas de Penna ad tres posteriores libros codicis, 40 pence. For Joannis Amos Comenii janua linguarum in Greek; Latin and English, 18 pence. I have another in Latin, French, and Dutch. Poemata Niniani Patersoni gifted me by the said Mr. Ninian the author. Code Lowis ou ordannances pour les matieres criminelles. Georgii Macropedii methodus de conscribendis epistolis, etc., 6 pence. Jer. Taylor's liberty of prophecieng. Lubbertus contra Socinum de Christo mediatore. Aurengzebe and the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus Vespasian, 2 comedies. The Life of K. Charles the I. the pseudomartyr. Ane Accompt of the Scots greevances anno 1674. Mother Gregs Jests. Raphaell Holinsched's Chronicle of England from William the Conqueror till 1587, 9 shillings sterl. An Abridgement and written collection drawen furth of the Register of the commission for plantation of kirks and valuation of teynds, from 1661 till November 1673. Catalogus Librorum D. Jacobi Narnij, gifted by him to the Colledge of Edenbrugh. For Mr. Dods and Cleavers commentary on the wholle proverbs of Solomon, 4 shills. stg. For Mr. Cleaver's Commentar on some of the chapters of the Proverbs, more amply then in the præceeding commentary, their being only 5 chapters explained in this volume, viz., the 1, 2, 15, 16, and 17 chapters theirof, enriched with many discourses and doctrines from thesse chapters, not in the former commentarie. Gullielmi Cocci revelatio revelata, or expositio Apocalypse[Greek: o]s, 12 pence. Ludovici Cælii Rhodigini Antiqutæ lectiones, Parisiis 1517. The Apology for and vindication of the persecuted ministers in Scotland, gifted me by Abotshall. For the Differences of the tymes, written by Mr. David Foster, minister at Lauder, a mark. Erasmi Chiliades Adagiorum in folio, gifted me by Mr. John Wood's brother, Mr. Wood having lost some books lent by me to him, as Harprecht, etc. Cartwright's commentar upon the Proverbs in Latin, 3 shillings and 6 pence. Rudimenta Rhetorica Ro'ti Brunii, 8 pence. Academie Francoise pour l'institution des Moeurs, in 8vo, 6 pence. On the 10 of June 1679 bought 7 old books, some of them but pamphlets, viz., une recueill des gazettes nouvelles et relations de l'annee 1640, Cujacii ad tres postremos libros Codicis, des ordonnances de Lowis 13 en assemblée de notables, directions for health, naturall and artificiall, Resolution de Question prouvant qu'il est permis a sujets a resister la cruauté de leur Prince, a discourse touching the distractions of the tymes and the Causes theirof, the canons and constitutions made by the Quakers: for which I payed, 30 pence. The fyre upon the altar, or divine meditations and essayes, 28 pence. The Lively Oracles, or use of the holy scriptures, 30 pence. Atcheson's militarie garden. A Picktooth for the pope, Item, the apple of his left eye, item the greevances of the Scots ministers in 1633, etc. Regii Sanguinis clamor per Morum contra Miltonum Anglicum, 6 pence. Botero des gouvernements des estats in Italian and French, 8 pence. Mr. Traps commentar ou the Proverbs, Ecclesiastes and Song of Solomon, 3 lb. 7 shill. Bought on the ij of September 1679 from Mistris Forrest in Fyffe the ten following books. 1. Erasmi concio de misericordia Domini and other tracts, 10 pence. 2. Erasmi encomion Moriæ et de Lingua and other tracts, a mark. 3. Bezæ Responsio ad Castellionem de versione Novi testamenti, 10 pence. 4. Flores Doctorum pene Omnium per Thomam Hibernicum, 18 pence. 5. Sylva locorum communiuni per Ludovicum Granatensem, 30 pence. 6. Poetarum omnium flores, a mark. 7. Refutatio Cujusdam libelli de Jure magistratuum per Beccariam, 8 pence. 8. Chrysostomes Homilies and morals on the Ephesians, 24 pence. 9. Virgil in English verse by John Ogilbie, 24 pence. 10. Simon Patrick's Reflections on the devotions of the Roman Church, 24 pence. Having in September 1679 casten up the accompt of the wholle manuscript books I have besyde me, I find they are 94 in number of which see more in my other more full Catalogues of my books. APPENDIX III SIR ANDREW RAMSAY, LORD ABBOTSHALL _Letter by John Lauder, Lord Fountainhall, to his Son_[721] [721] MS. in possession of Sir T.N. Dick Lauder. The following letter from Fountainhall to his son, probably his eldest son and successor, John, is a characteristic specimen of his later style. It holds up to the young man as an example the character and career of his maternal grandfather, Sir Andrew Ramsay, Lord Abbotshall. [Illustration: SIR ANDREW RAMSAY, LORD ABBOTSHALL] _'Appryll 3d, 1691._ Sone,--The letters I formerly sent you, tho replenished with the best advyces that ather my reading or my experience and observatione or my paternall affection affoorded, and in thesse important affaires they handled, yet I conceive they might be the less effectuall that they had no other authority to back them but my own. Theirfor I am resolved a litle to trye another method, and so put thesse useful precepts in the mouths of some of your ancestors as if they wer allowed for some tyme to arryse from the dead and speak to those descended of them; and I shall set befor you some of their vertues and illustrious actions for ane pattern worthy your imitation, seeing there cannot be ane better direction in the stearing the compass of our lyves then by reading the lyves of good men, espccially wheir wee are nearly related to them, and in the using of this prosopopoea I have no less examples to follow then the prince of orators Cicero and the great Seneca who to give the greater weight and authority to the moral precepts they delyvered to the people of Rome they conjure up the ghosts of Scipio, Laelius, Cato, Appius and thesse other worthies, and bringe them upon the Stage, teaching their own posterity the principles of vertue which is observed to have left a far greater impression, and have proselyted and convinced the mynds of the hearers more than what the greatest philosophers delyvered only as their own sentiments and opinions. And because it is not usuall to wryte the lyves of men whyle[722] they be dead, Theirfor I will begin with your maternall lyne and sett befor you some of the most eminent transactions wheirin that excellent Gentleman, Sir Andrew Ramsay, your grandfather, was most concerned in, with the severall vertues and good qualities that made him so famous and considerable, which ought to be ane spurr and incitement to all good and vertuous actions, and to non so much as to his oun grand-chyld. And because it layes ane great tye and obligation wheir on is descended of ane race that never did anything that was base and unwurthy of a Gentleman, Theirfor I will also shortly as I can give you ane account of his pedegrie and descent befor I come to descrybe his oun personall merit and actions. For tho the poet sayes true, _Et genus et proavos et quae non fecimus ipsi, vix ea nostra voco_, yet to be of ane honourable descent of good people as it raises the expectation of the wurld that they will not beley their kynd as Horace sayes, _Fortes creantur fortibus_, so they turn contemptibly hatefull when they degenerat and by their vices blacken and sully the glory and honour their ancestors had gained, and they turn a disgrace to the family and relations they are come of. Bot to begin: Sr Andrew was the 3d sone of Mr. Andrew Ramsay, minister of Edr., and Mary Frazer. He being a sone of the Laird of Balmaynes, and shee a daughter of the Laird of Dores, and it being fitt that a man should know his oun genealogie that wheir ane of them has been signalized for vertue it may be ane motive to provock our imitation, and if they have att any tymes been led out of the way of vertue that it may serve for ane beacon and scar-crow to the descendants to hold of thesse rocks and shelves wheir they may see the bones of their friends as the memento of Lots wyfe to beware of thesse fatall errors. And tho a man should know the history of his oun nation and not be _domi talpa_, yet there is no part of that history so usefull as that of his genealogie, and therfor I would give you some account of that family of Balmayn and of some remarkable things have happened therin. The first of them was John Ramsay, sone to the Laird of Corstoun in Fyfe, who being ane handsome young boy was made choyse of to attend Ki: Ja: 3d att the Grammar School. Their was pains taken for another Gentleman's sone, who had been bred in the high-school of Edr. and both read and wrote better, yet the young King thinking John had more the mean of ane Gentleman preferred him, tho choyses of such princes being lyke Rhehoboams, not so much founded upon merits as fancy and ane similitude of humor, and I have observed friendship and acquaintance contracted betwixt boyes att schooll to be very durable, and so it proved here, for K.J. 3d made him on of his Cubiculars and then Captain of his guards, with this extravagant priveledge that non should wear a sword within two myles of the Kings palace without his speciall warrand and licence, which created him much envy and hatred, that for supporting him against the same, he first knighted him and then gave him the lands of Kirkcanders in Galloway, Terinean in Carrick, Gorgie in Lothian, and Balmayn in the Mernes. All which lands his posterity hath sold or wer evicted from them by recognitions, except Balmayn. And tho wee doe not find him taxed as on of the bad counsellors that made ane discord betuixt the said K. James and his nobles, att least not so much as Cochran, who from being his Master Mason he had made E. of Marr, and other mean people about him whom he had advanced, yet it was impossible for him to be in so much favour with his prince without drawing the emulation and envy of great and auntient families, who thought non should come between them and their Soveraigne. For you will find from our Chronicles that this King was on of the worst of all the James's and came to ane fatall end by his variance with the Nobility, whom he studyed to humble as factious and tumultuary, bot they thought themselves slighted and disobleidged by his making use of mean men in all offices about him. Bot to return to Sr. John Ramsay. It shewes the Kings great affection to him att Lundie bridge when Archbald E. of Angus, called bell the cat (the reason wheirof you know), and the other barons seazed upon Cochran and the bad Counsellors and hanged them over the bridge, and some of them apprehending Ramsay for that same end, the King grasped him in his armes and plead with them to spare him as more innocent than the rest, which was yealded to by the Kings intercession. Bot after this he created him E. of Bothwell, ane title that hes been funest and unluckie to all the three possessors of it, viz., the Ramsay, Hepburn, and Stewart, and which the Ramsay bruiked shorter then any of the other two. For after the killing of the King in Bannock-burn myln when he had fled out of the battell, the parliament did annull that title of honour, and from that tyme they have only been designed Lairds of Balmayn. Some say he was killed with his master in that feild, bot I have two unansreable arguments agst it. The on is that in severall of K.J. the 4ths parliats. I find him on of the Commissioners as now but joyned two or three in ane deputation. Neither had thesse offices att that tyme such splendour and greatness annexed to them as now, and by this it appears the K.J. the 4th durst not resent his fathers death, yet he took speciall nottice of those freinds who had faithfully adhered to him. Instance the iron belt and bitter repartee he gave the Lord Gray. The second is, That Mr. Andrew Ramsay his great grand-chyld, in his Latine epitaph made on him, printed amongst his Epigrams, affirmes that he was killed att the battell of Floudan with K.J. 4th, which, if true, he has out-lived J. the 3d 25 years. I find the said Sr. John Ramsay's sone hath lived till about the year 1567. For in the Sederunt books that year there is ane gift of tutory dative mentioned, making Sr Robert Carnagie of Kinnaird tutor to Wm. Ramsay of Balinayne, left ane minor by the death of his fayr., and this Sr Robt. did afterwards bestow Katharine Carnagie his daughter upon the said Wm. Ramsay. The present Earles of Southesk are lineally descended of the said Sr Robt. bot wer not nobilitat for 30 years after that. Of this Wm. Ramsay and the said Katharine Mr. Andrew Ramsay was their second sone, and being educat in literature, wes sent abroad by his parents to the famous protestant University of Saumur in France, where he gave such eminent specimens of his great knowledge that in 1600 he was created professor of theologie yr. And I have seen that printed Latine oration he had att his inauguration, and tho the Scots wer soouner preserved in France than any other strangers, yet it behooved to be extraordinary merits that adjudged the divinity chair to him befor so many candidats and rivals of their own nation. Bot being desirous to improve the talents heaven had bestowed on him in his oun countrey, he returned home, and about the year 1608 married that vertuous Gentlewoman, Mary Frazer, daughter to the Laird of Dores, and wes by Sr. Alexr. Arbuthnot of that ilk her uncle by the mother called to his Church of Arbuthnot in the Mernes, bot he being ane star of ane greater magnitude than to be consigned to so obscure ane place he wes, in 1613,[723] invited to the toun of Edr. to be on of their ministers, which he accepted, and continued their till 1649 that he was laid asyde by that prevailling remonstrator faction in the church, because he wold not dissown the engadgement undertaken by James Duke of Hamilton the year befor for procuring K. Ch. the first's liberty, and so continued solaceing himself with that _murus ahæneus_ of a good conscience till he resigned up his blessed soule into the hands of his merciful creator in the end of that year 1659, having, lyke Moses of[724] Mount-pisga, seen the designes and inclinations of this Island to bring back their banished King which he had much promoted by his prayers; and so this good man, lyke ane sheaff of rype corn, was gathered into his masters barn in the 86 year of his age, a man who for his singular piety and vast reading was the phenix of his tyme as his manuscripts yet extant can prove, so that his memory is yet sweet and fragrant, but especially to those who are descended of him who are more particularly oblidged to imitat his goodness, vertue and learning. Bot befor I leave Balmaynes family I shall only tell on passage because its remarkable of David Ramsay of Balmayn, the said Mr. Andrews nephew. Their is ane sheett of paper in form of ane testament wheron their is no word written bot only this, Lord, remember the promise thou hes made to thy servant David Ramsay such ane day of such ane moneth and such ane year, and then he adds, Let my posterity keep this among their principall evidents and subscrybes underneath it his name, and which paper is yet extant and keeped by Sr. Charles the present Laird, bot what the revelation was I could never learn. Now to give you but on word of the maternall descent, they wer aunciently Thanes of Collie, and were come of the great Frazer, who was named by the parliat. on of the governors of Scotland be-north Tay with the Cummings till the controversie should be decyded betuixt the Bruce and the Ballioll in 1270. Of thir parents was my Lord Abbotshall born in May 1619, being their 3d sone, and from his very infancy promised good fruit by the airlie blossomes of ane sharp and peircing witt, and his two elder brothers having been bred schollars, providence ordered him to be educat ane merchand, bot by his oun industry in reading and his good converse he supplied that defect in his education, and haveing been elected youngest Bailzie of Edr. in thesse troublesome tymes of the English invading and subdueing our nation in 1652, he behaved so well that Provost Archbald Tod comeing to dye in 1654, he was not only recommended by him bot was lykewayes by the toun counsell judged fittest to succeed him; a step which few or non hes made to ryse from the lowest to the cheiff place of Magistracy in the burgh without passing throw the intermediat offices, and which station he keeped till Michaelmass 1658. Dureing which tyme the toun haveing many aflaires to negotiat att London with Oliver the protector, and those whose estates wer sequestrat haveing addresses to give in ather to have the sequestration taken of or are part allocat for their aliment, they all unanimously agreed to employ provost Ramsay as the fittest, which he discharged with great dexterity to all their satisfactions; which made some reflect upon him as complying too much with the usurper, bot when a nation is broke and under the foott of ane enemy, it has alwayes been esteemed prudence and policy to get the best termes they can for the good of their countrey, and to make the yoke of the slavery lye alse easy upon our necks as may be: and the toun was so sensible of his wise and equall administration that they after tryall of severall others brought him in again to be provost in 1662, which he keeped for eleven years together more then what any had ever done befor hira, Chancellour Seton haveing continued for 10 years. When he entered upon this second part of his government he found the toun at the brink of ruine by the cruell dissentions then sprung up betuixt the merchands and trades about their priviledges, bot he lyke ane skilfull Chirurgeon bound up and healled their wounds; and being lykewayes sunck under the burthen of debt he procured such gifts and impositions from his Mat'ie upon all sorts of Liquors that he in a short tyme brought doun their debt from eleven hundredth thousand merks to seven hundredth thousand: and being thrcatened by the Lord Lauderdale to erect the citadels of Leith in a burgh Royall, which wold have broke the trade of Edr., for preventing therof he purchased the same and annexed it to the toun, and finding that Sr. Wm. Thomson their Clerk by his influence upon the deacons of trades nominated and elected the Magistrats att his pleasure, he in 1665 caused the toun Counsell of Edr. depryve him, and notwithstanding all the pains he took by brybery of the then Statsmen and other wayes to reenter to his place, yet he was never able to effectuat it, and then he procured Mr. Wm. Ramsay his second sone to be made conjunct Clerk of Edr. Bot his death att Newcastell some few years after made the designe of this profitable place abortive. Our Statsmen being att that tyme under great animosities and prejudices against on another, Lauderdale, Hamilton, and Rothes drawing three severall factions, Abbotshall, who could make a very judicious choyce, did strike in with Lauderdale, and upon his bottome reared up the fabrick of his enshueing greatnes. For by his favour he was both maintained in the provestrie of Edr., and advanced to the Session privy- Counsell and Excheqr. This could not but draw upon him the Vatinian hatred of the opposite parties. For they saw so long as Sr Andrew governed the toun of Edr. they could not expect non of those large donatives and gratifications which Lauderdale was yearly getting, besydes the citizens longed to have ane share in the government of the toun which they saw inhaunced and monopolized by Sr Andrew and his creatures, so that it was no wonder after so longe ane sun-shyne of prosperity their should come ane storm, that being alse usuall as after a longe tract of fair weather to expect foull, and envy and malice are alse naturall concomitants of greatnes and merite as the shaddow is of the body, and it was never found that good offices done to are society was ever otherwayes rewarded than by ingratitude. Themistocles, Coriolanus and the old worthies of Rome and Greece are sufficient proofs of this. And for compassing their end Sr James Rocheid Clerk, Sr Ffrancis Kinloch, who aspyred att the provistrie, and sevll. other burgers wer hounded out to accuse him in the parliat. held in 1673, and money was largely contributed and given to the Dutches of Lauderdale, and shee considering that his power was now so farr diminished in Edr. that he wold not be able for to drop those golden shoures that formerly he did, shee prevailled with the Duke her husband to wheedle Myn Lord Abbotshall into ane dimission of all his offices. For Plautus observes[725] in _Trinummus_ holds alwayes true that great men expect that favours most be laid so many ply thick on upon another that rain may not win through, which goes very wittily in his oun language, _beneficia aliis benefactis legito ne perpluant_. It is true the Duke designed no more by this dimission bot to ward of the present blow, and promised to keep all those offices for his oun behoof till the speat and humour of the people agst him wer spent and runne out, bot the Dutchess and others about him did so violent him that he was not so good as his word. They insinuating to him that it was not safe to trust a man of sense and parts whom he had so highly enraged and disobleidged, and that the bringing him back to power was but the putting him in a capacity to revenge himself, and the truth is that has ever been the practice of the inconsiderat mad world to runne doun any man when he is falling, as Juvenal observes in the case of Sejanus, who brings in the mobile who had adored him the day befor with Hosannas crying with displayed gorge, _dum jacet in ripa, calcemus Cæsaris hostem_, and it is very fitt that divyne providence tryst us with such dispensations. For if wee had alwayes prosperous gales that is so inebriating are potion that lyke the herb mentioned by Homer, it's ready both to cause us forgett our selves and our dewty to God, and I speak it from my oun knowledge that Abbotshall was rauch bettered by thir traverses of fortune, for it both gave him ane ryse and opportunity with more leasure and tyme to examine what he had done in the hurry of publick busines, and to repent and amend our errors is in Seneca's _Moralls_ the next best to the being innocent and not haveing committed thesse faults att all: the French proverb being of eternall truth that the shorter ane folly be it is the better; and tho' that physicall rule a _privatione ad habitium non datur regressus_ be also true in politicks as in physicks that a man divested of his offices seldome ever recovers his former greatnes, yet Lauderdale being ashamed of the injustice with which he had treated Abbotshall, he made him many large promises of reparation, but ther was never any more performed bot the reponeing him again to his office as ane privy- Counsellor to teach us how litle the favour and assureances of great men are to be regarded, being lyke thesse deceiving brooks wherin you shall not find ane drope of watter in the drougth of summer, and to teach us to look up to God and to despyse the lubricity of this world and all its allurements, which is _modo mater statim noverca_, and being blind, foollish, and arrogant, renders all who greedily embrace her alse foollish as herself, and instead of ane substance deludes us with ane empty shaddow of are Junonian cloud, and playes with men as so many tinnise-balls. I have oft blamed Abbotshall for his high manner of doeing bussines relyeing too much upon the strength of his oun judgement which, tho' very pregnant, yet in his oun concernes might be more impartially judged by other by-standers. I have wisht him, with the Marquesse Paulet, that he might have more of the complying willow and lesse of the sturdy oak, bot he oft acknowledged God's care of him in not suffering him to lose himself in ane false flattering world; and if it had been lawfull for him to have taken satisfaction in the calamities of others he had the pleasure in his lyfe to see Kincardyne, Dirltoun, Carringtoun, Lauderdale, and his other enemies turned out of their places more ignominiously than he. Thus wearied with troubles and the death of many of his children come to age, he devotly payed the last debt to nature in January 1688, being the 69 year of his age. This is all I can get at present proposed to you for one pattern and example, the sheat being able to hold no more.' [722] _i.e._ until. [723] Mr. Andrew Ramsay, Minister of the old Kirk in Edinr., was Professor of Divinity and Rector of the University of Edinr. for six years successively preceeding the 8th March 1626, att which time he gave up both offices.--Note in MS. [724] _i.e._ off, from. [725] _i.e._ Plautus's observation. Abbotshall was a man of great force of character. He was much respected by Lauder, who, on his marriage with his daughter, was probably a good deal indebted to him for his first start in professional life. For example, it was no doubt by his influence that he was very early appointed one of the Assessors to the town of Edinburgh along with Sir George Lockhart and soon afterwards to the whole of the Burghs. To the facts of his life as narrated in the letter it may be added that in the course of his career he acquired extensive estates. Besides Abbotshall in Fife, he became the owner, among other lands, of Waughton in East Lothian, a place often mentioned by Lauder, where his brother-in-law, Sir Andrew Ramsay, junior, resided. The eulogy in the letter is somewhat deficient in light and shade, more so than some other passages in which Lauder mentions his father-in-law (see Introduction, p. xxxvi). A good deal about Abbotshall may be read in Sir George Mackenzie's Memoirs, the following extract from which (p. 246) will help to supply the _chiaroscuro_. 'Sir Andrew Ramsay had, by obtaining 5000ll sterling to the Duke of Lauderdale for the Citadel of Leith, and other 5000ll to him for the new impositions granted to the town by the King upon ale and wine, insinuated himself very far into the favour of his Grace; and by his favour had, for ten successive years, continu'd himself Provost of Edinburgh, and consequently Preses of the Burghs; by which, and by having the first vote of Parliament, he was very serviceable to Lauderdale; who in requital of that favour obtained 200 ll sterling per annum settled upon the Provost of Edinburgh, and caused the king give him 4000ll sterling for his comprising of the Bass, a rock barren and useless. Thus they were kind to one another upon his Majesty's expenses. In this office of Provost he had governed most tyrannically for ten years, applying the Coramon Good to himself and friends, and inventing new though unnecessary employments within the town, to oblige those who depended upon him. But at last the citizens, weary of his yoke, resolved to turn him out at Michaelmas 1672.' The attempt failed at that time. INDEX Abbotshall, 207; church lands of, 195. ---- lord. _See_ Ramsay, sir Andrew. Abercorn, lord, 184. Aberlady, 200, 210. Accounts, extracts of, 239. Acheson, 203. ---- sir Archibald, 191. Ackland, Mr., 169. Addestone, 191, 192, 200. Adenstans easter and wester, 203. Administration of justice, xxxiv. Adrian's wall, 182. Adultery, punishment of, in France, 69-70, 110. Advocates, fees of, in France, 90, 214 and _n_. ---- suspension of, xxii-xxiii, 224-226, 277; meeting of, in Cadell's, 278. Aickman, William, 253. Aikenhead, James, death of, 226. Ainsley, James, 283. Airth, earl of, 193. Albemarle, the duke of, his engagement with the Dutch fleet, 236. Albigenses, persecutions of, 66. Alexander III. killed near Bruntilland, 197. Alexander ..., professor of law at Poictiers, 3, 128, 153, 157, 188; turns papist, 113. Alfred, king, founder of university college, Oxford, 172. Amboise, 19; arsenal of, 129. America, theory of the peopling of, 197. Amont water, 193. Anagram of Cornelius Jansenius, 75. Anderson, John, advocate, death of, 222. ---- Marion, wife of Fountainhall, xxiii. Anecdotes of the blind, 132; of a thirsty cow, 133; of preachers, etc., 52, 114-115, 120, 126-128, 142, 148, 149, 151; of the king of Spain, 150; the queen of Sweden, etc., 151; of a faithless Frenchman, 199; of the earl of Cowrie, 199. Angleberne, le baron d', 17, 130-131. Angus, Archibald, earl of, 302. ---- James, 279. Annand, M., distinguishes himself at the siege of Candy, 229. Anne of Austria, funeral oration on, 126; her heart preserved in the Val de Grace, 131. _Apologetical Relation_, 139 and _n_. Appeals, law of, in France, 60. Arbuthnot, lord, 216. ---- sir Alexander, of that ilk, 303. Archerfield, 210. Ardrosse of Elie, 196. Argyll, Archibald, ninth earl of, xxx-xxxiii, xxxv, 139, 223, 232. Arley, lord, 176 and _n_. Arthur's Oven, 182. Ascletarion, a magician, 204 and _n_. Astrology, xxxix. Athelstanford, 274. Atholl, earle of, lord privy seal, 221, 223-225. Aubigné, the marquis d', 103. Augier, M., 153. Augustines, order of, 10, 61, 86; Augustinian sermon on the virgin Mary, 52-53. Auldcambus, 202, 208-210. Auldham, 210. Auldhamstocks, 202. Auldliston, 193. Ayton of Bannochie, 196. Baccleuch, estate of, 208. Baillie of Jerviswood, trial of, xxx. ---- lt-general, 191. ---- John, advocate, death of, 227. ---- William, advocate, rebuked by lord Newbyth, 217. Baird, sir John, of Newbyth, 109, 216 and _n_, 220, 224. Balbirny, 205. Balcarres, lady, 232. Bale's _Sarro-Sancto Regum Maiestas,_ 140. Balfour, laird of, 207. ---- of Balbirny, 205. ---- sir David, of Forret, 223, 224. Balgonie, 196, 203. Ballantyne, Andro, minister at Coldinghame, 210. Ballincreiff, 208. Balliol college, Oxford, 173. Balmanno, lord, 215. Balmayne, 205, 302. ---- laird of. _See_ Ramsay. Balmerinoch, lord, 190, 193. Balquharge, 205. Balveirie, Fife, 196. Banished ministers' manifesto, 139 and _n._, 142. Bannatyne club, institution of the, xviii. Bannochie, 196. Barclay ----, 197. Barnbougall, 193. Barnes. _See_ Cunningham. Bartholomew, St., 52. Baruclan, 193. Bass, the, xvi, 203, 309. Beaton, Alexander, 191. ---- Andrew, advocate, death of, 220. ---- William, 256. ---- of Blebo, 207. Beatons of Balfour, 196. Beaufort, the duc de, kilted at the siege of Candy, 229. Beaugency, 18. Beconsfields, 168. Bedlam, 174. Bedlan Green, 175. Bell, Adam, 201. ---- Androw, 269. ---- John, 185. ---- Robert, 243, 251, 265. ---- Thomas, 239, 287. ---- family, origin of the name, 208. Bellenden, lord, 215. ---- of Broughton, 191. Bell-ringing during thunder, 49-51; for the last agonies, 59. Bels milne, 191. Beltan, 203, 205. Benedictine friars, 10, convent of, at Marmoustier, 19; convent at Poictiers, 36; wealth of the order, 86. Bernard, St., abbot of Clareville, 52. Bernardines. _See_ Fullions. Beroalde de Verville, Francois, 103 and _n._ Bever castle, 176. Biccarton of Lufnes, 210. Bickerstaffe, sir Charles, 221. Binnie, 193. ---- laird of, 186. ---- bailzie, 264. Binning, William, 245, 251, 263. Biron, duc de, 77 and n. Biton, madame, 39. Blacader of that ilk, 201. Blacarstoun, 200. Black. Jo., 279. Blackbarrony, laird of, 279. Blackford burn, Edinburgh, 188. Blackfriars church in Glasgow struck by lightning, 228. Blaickburne, 200. Blaikerston, 210. Blair of Carberrie, 190. Blair, rev. Robert, anecdote of, 127. Blanerne, 201. Blantyre, lord, 185. Blasphemy, punishment of, 60. Blind men, anecdotes of, 132. Blois, 17, description of, 18, castle of, 130. Blythswood, 185. Bodley, Thomas, 170. Bogie, 196, 205. ---- of Bannochie, 196. Bonar, Jo., of Bonytoun, 194. Bonnévette, 63. Bonnymoon ----, 174. Bonytoun, 192-194. Books, catalogues of, 153, 157, 160-162, 283-299. Bordeaux, 64; torture practised in, 70. Borseau, M., 128, 160. Borthwick, James, 268. ---- Samuell, 268. ---- William, apothccar, 250. ---- col., 168. Boswel of Balmuto, 197. ---- of Pittedy, 196. ---- of Westmilne, 195. Bothwell ----, 203. ---- Adam Hepburne, earle of, 205. ---- earls of. _See_ Ramsay. ---- castle of, 185. Boumaker, Robert, 256. Bouquiet, Mr., 34. Bourges, 65; university of, 66. Bourhouses, 200. Boyde, Hew, 246. Boyelet, Mr., merchant at Orleans, 153. Brackmont, 207. Braid burn, Edinburgh, 188. Brandenburgh, duke of, xxxvii. Brazennose college, Oxford, 173. Bread, price of, 59. Breda, peace of, 167 and _n_. Bridal gifts, 60. Bridgeman, sir Orlando, 221. Brisbane, Mrs., xxxi. Brothels in Rome, defence of, 83. Broun of Colston, 200 and _n_. ---- of Gorgie, 191. ---- of Thorniedykes, 210. ---- père, 118. ---- Daniel, 185. ---- John, 280. ---- Thomas, 267, 269, 270, 281, 283, 287, 289, 291, 293. ---- William, 108, 250, 256, 257, 264, 281, 290, 291. Brace, rev. Mr., of Fife, anecdote of, 148. Brimstone, 26 and _n_, 188, 190. Bruntilland. _See_ Burntisland. Brunton, 197. Bryson, Sandy, 270. Buchanan, George, 139; his _Frantiscanus_, 10 and _n_; criticism of his _History_, 205, 206. ---- sir John, 206, 207. Buck, Thomas, advocate, death of, 222. Burgundy, duke of, 84. Burnet, Alexander, archbishop of Glasgow, xxxvii; his remonstrance with Charles II., 230. ---- D., 168. ---- Robert, advocate, death of, 212. Burntisland, 197, 279. Butterdean, 200. ---- laird of. _See_ Hay, William. Byres, 208, 209. CADDEL, captain, 132. Calder, 186. ---- lairds of, 192. Calderhall, laird of, 189, 192. Calderwood, Thomas, 185. ---- bailzie, 283, 284. Callender, earl of, 183. Calvin, John, tradition of, 36. Camelon, king of the Picts, 182. Camnetham, laird of, 281. Campbell of Blythswood, 183 _n_. ---- Archibald, 193. ---- ---- advocate, death of, 215. ---- Barbara, 185. ---- sir Colin, 220 and _n_. ---- James, 185. ---- Mary, 274. ---- Robert, 185. ---- ---- apothecar, 272. Camron, Archbald, 247, 256, 276. Candie, tounc of, taken by the Turks, 228. Cants of Grange, 188. ---- of Priestfield, 188. Capuchins, order of, 9, 10, 33, 86; anecdotes of, 62, 148. Carberrie, 203. ---- laird of, his influence on the battle of Pinkie, 190. Carden, lord, death of, 212. Carington, laird of, 308. ---- lands of, 239 _n_, 248. Carmelites, order of, 61. Carmichael, master of, 185. Carnegie, Katharine, 303. ---- James, 274. ---- sir Robert, of Kinnaird, 303. Carthusians, 10. Caskieberry, 205. ---- laird of. _See_ Shoneir. Cassilton, 203, 210. Castellaw, Mr., 3. Castlemilk, 185. Catechism of M. Drelincourt, 86. Catherine, St., of Sienna, convent of, 188 _n_. Ceres (Cires), 207. Chabate, Mile., 128. Chabot, Philippe de, 63 and _n_. Chained books at Oxford, 170. Chalmers, James, advocate, death of, 225. ---- Joan, 276. Chamberlayne, Joseph, barber, 267. Chambord castle, 18. Champigny, 25. Chancellor, Kate, 263. Chapman of Priestfield, 188. Charles IX., anecdote of, 147. Charles I., murder of, 91. Charles II., his object in desiring the union of England and Scotland, 229-230; letter from, for indulging outed ministers; establishment of his supremacy, 230; settles the disputes between the houses of parliament, 232; his debts paid by parliament, 233; grant of money to, by parliament, 273 _n_; eulogy on, xxvii. Charleton, Richard, 59. Charteris, Laurence, advocate, 221; death of, 226. Chartreuse, founding of the order of, 78-79. Chatelerault, 64. Cheisly, John, of Dairy, xxxiv, 277. ---- Sam., 261. ---- William, 219. Cherries, 66, 69: cherry feast to the exchequer, 266. Chilperick, treatment of, 91. Chimney-sweeps from Savoy, 75. China, fertility of, 105-106. Chinon, 24. Chirnesyde, 201. Christ church, Oxford, 171. Christina, queen of Sweden, anecdote of, 151. Chrystie, Mr., 284. ---- Adam, clerk of session, 215. Civil law of France, 64-65. Clan Macduff, 197, 206. Clarendon house, 168 and _n_. Clarke's _Examples_ 108. Classics, pronunciation of the, 123. Clerical anecdotes, 52, 114, 115, 120, 126-128, 142, 148. Clerk, sir Alex., of Balbirny, 205. Clery, 130. Cleveland, dutchesse of, 233. Clifford, lord, treasurer of England, 222. Clifton hall, 186, 193. ---- toune, 193. Climate of France, 117. Cluny, barony of, 205. Coal pits of Dysert, 207. Coalston pear, the, 200 and _n_. Cochrane, lord, 184, 226. Cockburne of Clerkingtone, 200. Cockenie, 203, 211. Coinage, heightening of gold and silver coinage of foreign nations, 80. _See also_ Money. Colbrandspath, 200. ---- laird of, 209. Coldinghame abbey, 209. ---- kirk, 210. ---- moor, 209. Colerine, 197. Colison, Mr., 2. Colquhoun, sir John, of Luz, 184. Colt, Mr., 3. Columbus, anecdote of, 97. Colvill, Samuel, 266, 287. Colyear, David, 251, 272, 275, 276. Comedies played at Poictiers, 124, 127 Comets, appearance of, xxxix. Comiston well, 274. Congilton, 208. Conspiracy laws, hardships of, 91. Constantine the emperor, statue of, 56. Consultation fees, 257, 258, 260. Convent of Marmoustier, 18-20; of the Bernardines, 47; at St. Florans, 22; of Notre Dame d'Ardiliers, 23 and _n_. Conventicles, laws against, 233. Convention of burrows at Glasgow, 281. Cook, Mr., 231. Cooking in France, 76, 79. Cordeliers, order of, 9, 86. Coronation stone, 1. Cothereau, Renatus, 117. Cotibby, M., 128. Cotteridge, Mr., 233. Court of session, constitution of, xxxiv-xxxv; court of session documents, 212-227. Courty, rev. Thomas, anecdote of, 151. Covenanters, xxviii, xxix. Covent Garden, 175. Craig, 203. ---- of Riccarton, 191. ---- John, of Ramorney, advocate, 297. Craighall, 197, 207. Craighouse, 187. Craigie, lord, 224. Craigiehall, 193. Craiglockhart, 191. Cranston, Christian, 269. Craw, 209. ---- Rot., 260, 271, 280. ---- of Eist Reston, 210. ---- of Henchcheid, 210. Crawfurd, captain, 280. ---- Thomas, 3, 4, 256. Creichton, ----, 22, 23, 203. ---- John, 168. ---- of St. Leonards, 205. Crime in Poictiers, 95. Cringelty, in Tweeddale, 191. Crocodile story, 38. Crosby, Mr., x. Crumstaine, 202. Cujas, Jacques, 65 and _n_. Cunyghame, ----, 208. ---- Adam, 216. ---- sir J., 224. ---- W., 272. ---- Walter, 239, 265, 270. ---- William, 279. ---- of Barnes, 203. Curators in French civil law, 64-65. Curriehill, 191. Customs and Laws of France, 74-75. Cuthbert, Mr., 18. Daillé, Mr., 29, 30, 40, 58-60, 66, 101-102, 128, 158, 159. ---- madame, 41, 43. 63, 67, 83, 102, 128. Dairsie, 207. Dalhousie, William, earle of, death of, 221. Dalkeith, lord, 188. Dalmahoy, 192. Dalrymple, sir David, lord Hailes, 202, 203. Dalrymple, James, 226. ---- sir John, xxxiv, 247. Darling, Lilias, 270. Daulphinée, insurrection in, 229. Dauphintoun, 190, 203. Daves, Mr., bookseller in Oxford, 169. Dean, James, 255, 256, 268. Deans, Robert, advocate, 191. Death, customs connected with, in France, 125. Dechmond, 193. Del Camp, M., execution of, 132. Devil, the, being annoyed by the din of the gospel, favours the peopling of America from Christian lands, 197; his opinion of Scotland, 152 and _n_. Devils of Loudun, 77. Dewar, David, 196. Dick of Braid, 186. ---- of Grange, 188, 242. ---- sir Andro, 187. ---- James, 5 and _n_, 6, 248. ---- William, of Grange, 266 and _n_, 267, 268. Dickson, Alexander, of Binnie, 193. ---- G., 243. ---- Robert, advocate, death of, 223. Digbie, sir Kenelm, 169, 170. Dinmuire, David, 269. Dirleton castle, 210. Divorce in Rome, 116. Dobies of Stainehill, 189. Dog of Heriot's hospital hanged for refusing the test, xxxii. Dogs as guardians of a town, 85. Domenick, St., sermon on, 31. Dominicans, 10. Don, Mr., 168. ---- Patrick, 247. Donibristle house, 258. Douell, ----, 4, 21, 23, 66 and _n_. Douglas, marquis of, 22, 185, 200. ---- of Gogar, 191. ---- of Kelheid, 213. ---- of Lumbsdean, 201, 209. ---- sir James, 202. ---- William, of Kirknes, death of, 212. ---- ---- advocate and poet, death of, 216. ---- Mr., 59, 102. Douy, James, 17. Downing, sir George, 235 and _n_. Drelincourt's _Catechism_, 86. Drodden. _See_ Dryden. Drummond of Reidop, 194. ---- of Riccarton, 194. ---- Alex., 295. Drummond, generall-major, 224. ---- bailyie, 253. Drumshorling moore, 186, 194. Dryden (Drodden), 187. Duaren, François, 66 and _n_. Du Bartas's _Divine Weeks_, 82 and _n_. Dudinstone, Edinburgh, 190. Dumbarton castle, 184. Dumfries, earle of, 226. Dunbar, earle of, oppressor of the Craws, 210. ---- lordship of, 200. Duncan of Ratho, 192. Duncombe, sir John, 222. Dundas, Wm., 297. ---- of that ilk, 193. Dundasses of Fingask, 204. Dunfermline, 189. ---- Alex., earle of. _See_ Seton. ---- Charles, earle of, death of, 219, 223. Dunkirk, sale of, 234. Dunybirsell. _See_ Donibristle. Durhame of Lufnes, 210. Durie of that ilk, 197, 207. Du Serre's _Histoire_, 82 and _n_, 108 and _n_. Dutch fleet, defeat of, 234-236. ---- language, antiquity of, 81. Dysert salt pans, 196; coal pits, 207. East Lothian militia, 275. Ecclesiastical revenues of France, 86. Edencraw, 201. Edgar, Edward, 113. Edinburgh's bond of assurance with the laird of Halton, 192; dissensions among the trades of, 305. ---- university, removal of, to Linlithgow, 112 and _n_; gift of books to the library from Lauder, 289. Edmiston of that ilk, 188. Edmond, colonel sir William, 150 and _n_. Edringtone, 202. Eggs, price of, 97. Eistbarnes, 200. Eistfeild, 193. ---- laird of. _See_ Gray, James. Eleis, John, 29, 1O2, 194, 251, 274. ---- ---- advocate, suspension of, 226. Eleiston. _See_ Illieston. Elibank, lord, 208. Elphinston, 190, 200, 203 ---- lady, 215. ---- lord, 192 _n_. Elsick, lady, 179. Errol, estate of, 208. Erskin, Arthur, 207. ---- Jean, 192. ---- of Innerteill, 196. Estampes, 131 and _n_. Ethelstanefield, 203 and _n_. Ethie, earl of, 14 and _n_. Excommunication, moderate use of, 79. Execution of a criminal in France, 119. Expenses, notes of, 153-163; expenditure in London, 180. Eyemouth (Haymouth), 210. Fabritius, general, anecdote of, 116. Falconer, Alexander, lord Halkerton, death of, 215-217. ---- sir David, of Newton, advocate, 213, 225, 275. ---- Mr., 240. Farlies of Braid, 186. Fast kept by protestant churches of Poictiers, 88. Faustus, verses of, at Blois, 130. Fawsyde, near Tranent, 190, 203. ---- James, 286. Fentontour, 203. Ferolme, Jo., of Craigiehall, 193. Fête de Dieu, 11. Fife, earl of. _See_ Ramsay. Figgate burn, near Edinburgh, 188. Filleau, M., 113, 124. Finglassie, 205. Fireworks at Saumur, 23. Fish as French food, 61. Fleming, James, 192. ---- sir William, 191. Fletcher, sir Androw, of Abirlady, 200, 210. ---- James, 179. ---- sir John, king's advocate, 140, 179. ---- sir Robert, of Salton, 109. Floors castle, 179. Forbes of Tolquhon fined for opprobrious speech, 223. ---- Arthur, threatens a judge, 216-217. ---- Duncan, 274. ---- ---- of Culloden, 132 and _n_, 160. Forfar anecdote, 133. Forrest, Mrs., 299. ---- R., 270. Forrestor, 209. Forret, 207. ---- lord. _See_ Balfour, David. Foster of Corstorphine, 191. Fosterland, 200, 209. Fothringhame, Robt., 281. Foulden, 202. Foulis, Alexander, of Ratho, 192. Foulis, George, master-coiner, xlvi. ---- James, of Colinton, lord Reidfurd, 30 and _n_, 63, 64, 158, 196, 224, 240. Fouquet, Nicolas, 130 and _n_. Francion's _Histoire_, 82 and _n_, 108. Francis I., anecdote of, 111. Franciscans, 10. Frazer, Mary, 301. Frederic, king of Bohemia, 151. French of Thorniedykes, 210. ---- language, elegance of the, 82. ---- people, barbarity of, 77; addicted to cheating strangers, 55. Fruits of France, 46, 66, 67, 83, 89, 95, 126, 132; of Scotland, 186. Fuirstoun, 200, 209. Fullerton, Samuel, 161, 162, 163. Fullions or Bernardines, 47 and _n_, 52, 61, 86. Funeral oration on the queen mother, at St. Pierre, 126. Furd, 209. Fyvie, 189. Gairdner, George, 251, 252, 272. ---- Tom, 265, 272. Gairnes, rev. William, 195. Game laws, 121-122. Games of children in France, 125. Gammelisheills, 210. Gandy, Mr., 14. Garnier, Mr., apothecary at Poictiers, 29. ---- madame, 157. Garshoire, Mr., 269. Gaule, M. de, 128. Gaultier, Mr., 113. Gay, M. de, 128. ---- Alexander, 279. Geismar, Mr., 161. Gelderland, duke of, 198. Geneva, rules for catholics in, 96; watches of, 66. German language, 77. Gibsone, Alexander, principal clerk of session, 225. ---- G., 262. ---- James, 258. ---- sir John, of Adelston, 192, 226. ---- Mr., 3. Giffard, lord, 203, 208, 211. Giffards of Shirefhal, 188, 211. Gilbert, Robert, 250, 270. Gilespie, Edward, 265, 276. ---- Patrick, 200. Gilmerton estate, xxxvi. Gilmour, sir John, of Liberton, 181, 188, 191; resigns the presidentship of the court of session, 213; death of, 215. Glammes, lord of, 195. Glasgow, 183; Glasgow merchants and the exportation of herrings, 219; Blackfriars church struck by lightning, 228. Gledstan, Halbert, 255. Glenbervie, lairds of, 203. Glencairne, ladie, 193. Glencoe, massacre of, xxvi and _n_. Glendoick, lord. _See_ Murray. Gogar, 191. ---- laird of, 189. Gordon, Adam, of Edom, 134. ---- Anna, 258. ---- sir George, of Haddo, 174 _n_, 175, 177. Gorenberry, 132. Gorgie in Lothian, 191, 203, 205, 207, 302. Goropius Becanus, his _Origines Antwerpianz_, 81. Gosford, 211. ---- lord, 212, 213. Gouffier, Guillaume, admiral, 63 _n_. Gourlay, H., 265. Gourlaybank, 202. Govan, Robt., 259. Gowrie, earl of, 203. ---- conspiracy anecdote, 199. Grahame, Mr., 30, 35, 132, 153, 160, 161. ---- Hary, 252. Grange, Fife, 196. ---- laird of. _See_ Dick, William. Grant, major George, 184. Gray, lord, 303. ---- James, of Eistfeild, 193. ---- Mr., a converted papist, 268. Gruché, de, 128, 160. Guise, duke of, 18. Gunsgrein, 210, 250. Gustavus Adolphus, anecdote of, 150. Guthry, rev. James, 141. ---- laird of, 258. ---- Mrs., 239. Haddington, Thomas Hamilton, earl of, 188 and _n_, 208, 274. ---- abbey of, 200. Hailes, lord. _See_ Dalrymple, sir David. Haliburton, James, 256, 260, 262, 263, 265. Haliburtons of Fentontour, 203. Halidoun hill, 202. Halkerton, lord. _See_ Falconer, Alexander. Hall, Dr., 2. Halzeards, 193. Hamilton, Alexander, 247, 283. ---- ---- justice clerk depute, death of, 219. ---- Henry, 162, 168. ---- James, duke of, 177, 185, 226, 304, 306. ---- ---- 212. ---- ---- advocate, death of, 223. ---- ---- clerk of session, death of, 222, 225. ---- Marie, 260. ---- Mary, 279. ---- Patrick, of Dalserf, 258, 261, 292. ---- Robert, 212, 226, 266. ---- Thomas. _See_ Haddington, earl of. ---- sir William, a lord of session and lord provost of Edinburgh, 218. ---- of Dechmond, 193. ---- of Eleiston, 194. ---- of Orbiston, 184. ---- Mr., 2, 3, 239. Happers of Bourhouses, 200. Hardins, D., 175. Hartsyde, dame Margaret, 207. Haswal, Isabell, 178. Hatfield house, 176. Hatton, 191. ---- house, 192-193. Haukerstone, 216. Hay, Archibald, 132. ---- sir George, of Nethercliff, 215 and _n_. ---- Harie, 187. ---- sir John, provost of Edinburgh, 218. ---- John, principal clerk of session, 225. ---- Thomas, 212, 225, 243, 275. ---- William, of Butterdean, 200, 209. ---- Dr., 213. Haychester, 210. Haymouth. _See_ Eyemouth. Helene, Ste., chapel dedicated to, at Auldcambus, 210. Hendersone, James, 269. ---- William, bibliothecar in the colledge of Edenbrugh, 292, 297. ---- of Laurenceland, 200. ---- Mr., 239. Henry III. of France, 91. Henry IV. of France, 4, 91, 103, 108; anecdote of, 133. Hepburn, 203. ---- Adam. _See_ Bothwell, earl of. Hepburnes of Wauchton, 202. Heriot of Ramorney, 206. Heriot's hospital, dog of, hanged for refusing the test, xxxii. Hermistone, 200. Herrings, exportation of, 219. Heuch-Home, 203. Hewes, D., 160. Hilary, St., legend of, 37; tradition relating to St. Hilaire and the devil, 56; miracles wrought by the cradle of, 56. Hilton of Huttonhall, 202. Hog, Ja., 256. Holland a 'sink of all religions,' 68; treatment of Jews in, 68. Home. _See_ Hume. Honieman, Andrew, bishop of Orkney, 231. Hope, Henry, 252. ---- Mr., 39, 102. Hopes of Craighall, 207. Hotman, François, 66 and _n_. Houlle, a barber, 132. Household expenditure, 239-282. Howard, sir Robert, 223. Howel's _History of Venice_, 82, 85; his _Familiar Letters_, 99 and _n_. Hume or Home, Alexander, xxix, 30, 63, 159. ---- David, 30, 35, 63, 113. ---- George, 258. ---- sir John, of Renton, justice clerk, 210, 213; death of, 214, 215. ---- lady, 252. ---- sir Patrick, 30 and _n_, 35, 55, 113, 213. ---- Peter, 158. ---- of Coldinghame Law, 210. ---- of the Maines, 201. ---- of Nynewells, 201. ---- of West Reston, 210. ---- tavern keeper, 168. Humes of Blacader, 201. ---- of Huttonhall, 202. Hunter, James, 8, 17, 131, 156. Huntley, the cock of the north, 58. Husband-beaters, punishment of, 110. Huttonhall, 202. ---- laird of. _See_ Hilton: Humes. Hyde, sir Edward, lord chancellor, 168 _n_, 172; hatred of, in England, 233; he escapes to France, 234. Idington, 201. ---- laird of. _See_ Ramsay. Illieston (Eleiston), near Edinburgh, 186, 193, 194. Inchekeith, 190-191. Ingleston, 193. Inglish, Edwards, 175. Inglish, James, 274. ---- Mrs., 168, 175, 180. Innerask, 189. Innerleith, laird of, 187. Innerteill, 195, 196. Innerwick, 200. Innes, Robert, 267, 268. Jacobins, order of, 10, 61 and _n_, 86. James II., ceremonies connected with the marriage of, 198 and _n_. James III., marriage of, 202; bestows favours on John Ramsay, 302; death of, 206, 303. James IV., 303; at Norham castle, 202; killed at Flouden, 206. James V. and the Franciscans, 10. James VII., xxviii, xxxi, xxxiv, 13 and _n_, 115, 235. Jesuits, order of, 9, 42; college of, at Poictiers, 77; lines on their college at La Flèche, 69; wealth of the order, and how obtained, 86; their cruelty, 99. Jews, treatment of, in Spain, Portugal, and Holland, 67-68; laws against, in Rome and France, 75. 'Jock of bread Scotland,' 213 and _n_. John of Austria, his victory over the Turks at Lepanto, 150. ---- of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, armour of, 1. Johnston of Warriston, 191. ---- Robt., 261. ---- Mr., 168. Jossie, B., 190. Jousie, Jo., 211, 267. Kar. _See_ Ker. Karkanders, 205. Keith, sir James, of Caddome, committed to the Tolbuith and fined, 213. ---- Robert, of Craig, 295. Kellie, W., 200. Kello, John, 212, 222. Kelso abbey, 179. Kemnock, 207 and _n_. Kennoway, 207. Ker, Lancelot, 262. ---- sir Mark, of Cockpen, 189. ---- William, 146. ---- of Itall, 202. ---- Mr., 168. Kid, rev. Mr., of the abbey kirk, anecdote of, 127. Kilmundie, laird of, 240, 249. Kilpont, 193, 194. Kilsyth, battle of, 183 and _n_. Kincaid of Wariston, 191. ---- John, 2. Kincardin, earle of, 221, 226, 308. King's evil, curing of, 72 and _n_. Kinghorne, 195, 281. ---- earle of, 224. Kinglassy, 205. ---- lord, death of, 212. Kingstone, lord, 193. Kinleith (Killeith), 191. Kinloch, sir Francis, 306. ---- Francis, merchant in Paris, xxxvi, 5, 132, 153, 156, 158-161; Lauder's letter of introduction to, 3; letter from, to John Ogilvy, 7. ---- Magdalen, 5. Kinneuchar, 207 and _n_. Kinninmont, 197. Kinninmonts of Craighall, 207. Kinnoul, lord, 109. Kirkcaldie, 196. ---- G., 258. Kirkcanders, lands of, 302. Kirkhill, 193. Kirkwood, Mr., 168. La Figonne, Ingrande, 128, 160. La Fleche, jesuit college at, 69. Lambert ----, 233. Lame people, large numbers of, in Orleans, 8. Lammerton, 202. Lanark, 186. Land, price of, in France, 107. Langeais, 20. Langhermistoune, 191. Langnidrie, 203 and _n_, 208. Language, antiquity of, 81. Lanty, Mr., minister of Chirnesyde, 201. Latin and Greek, pronunciation of, 123. Laud, archbishop, his gift of MSS. to the Oxford university library, 169. Lauder, Andrew, 283. ---- Colin, 292. ---- Elizabeth, 191 _n_. ---- George, 242. ---- sir George, 240. ---- James, 246, 289. ---- John, of Newington, father of Fountainhall, xxii, xxiii; letter of introduction from, to Francis Kinloch, 3. ---- sir John, lord Fountainhall, outline of his life, xxii-xxv; his political opinions, xxv-xxxiv; on the administration of justice, xxxiv-xxxviii; account of his MSS., ix-x; correspondence between sir Walter Scott and sir T.D. Lauder on the proposed publication of his MSS., xi-xxii; his early journals and accounts, xl-xlii; language and spelling of his MSS., xlix; sets out on his travels, I; lands in France, 2; in Paris, 3; at Orleans, 7; enters into theological and logical discussions, 16; at Blois, 17; visits the convent at Marmoustier, 18; at Saumur, 20-23; at Richelieu, 25-29; arrives at Poictiers, 29; angers the French by abusing them in Scots, 121; leaves Poictiers, 128; at Amboise, 129; arrives in Paris, 131; his essay on the study of law, 137 and _n_; visits the colleges and physick garden, 169-173; returns to London, 174; his journey north, 175-I76; at York, 177; reaches Edinburgh, 179; note of his expenses in London, 180; at Glasgow, 183, 185; at Hamilton, 185; returns home, 186; excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, 187-194; his marriage; birth of his son John, and his daughters Jannet and Isobell, 195; his tour through Fife, 195-197; in Haddingtonshire and Berwickshire, 200-204, 208-211; notes of journeys in Scotland in 1671-72, 205-207; notes of his expenditure, 153-163; arrives at London, 167; at Oxford, 169; admitted advocate, xxii, 181-182, 212; his marriage, xxii-xxiii, 195; appointed advocate for the poor, 223; his fees for consultations, 257-258; appointed assessor of Edinburgh, 212, 308; assessor for the convention of royal burrows, 281; his gift of books to the library of the university of Edinburgh, 289; letter from, to his son, on sir Andrew Ramsay, lord Abbots-hall, 300-308; catalogue of his books, 153, 157, 160-162, 283-299. ---- sir Lues, 191. ---- Richard, of Hatton, 191 and _n_, 192 and _n_, 193, 212. ---- Robert, 222, 245, 251, 269, 270. ---- sir Thomas Dick, his correspondence with sir Walter Scott on the publishing of Fountainhall's MSS., xi-xxii. ---- William, 242, 245. ---- of the Bass, 202 _n_. ---- sergeant, 185. ---- Mr., 168. Lauders, murder of, xxi. Lauderdale, 179. Lauderdale, John, earl of, 192. ---- ---- duke of, xxxi and _n_, xxxv, _n_, 26 _n_, 168, 189, 203, 213-215, 219-222, 232, 303, 306-308. ---- duchess of, 215, 306, 307. ---- Richard, earl of, 192. ---- colonel, 189. Lauds, Ja., 242. Laurenceland, 200. ---- laird of. _See_ Henderson. Law of Brunton, 197. Law, essay on the study of, 137 and _n_. Laws and customs of France, 64-65, 74, 77, 87. Lawyers' fees in France, 90. Le Berche, Mr., 13, 123-124, 157. Leidingtoune, 200. Leighton, Robert, archbishop of Dunblane, afterwards of Glasgow, 214, 231. Leirmonts of Dairsie, 207. Leith citadel, purchase of, 305, 308. Leny (Leine), near Edinburgh, 193. _Lepanthe (le) de Jacques VI_., 82. Lery, Jean de, 94 and _n_. Leslie, Fife, 197, 205. Lesly, bishop of the Isles, anecdote of, 64. ---- Patrick, 276. Leuchie, 203. Levine, earl of, 196, 201. Levinston, Dr., 186. Liberton, 187, 188. Lindsay, Henry, 258. Linktoune, Kirkcaldy, 195. Linlithgow palace, 182 and _n_. Lintlands, 200. Linton bridges, 202. Lithgow, lord, 194. Little, William, provost of Edinburgh, 187. ---- ---- of Over Libberton, 187. Lo ----, professor of music in Oxford 168, 172, 173. Lochlevin castle, 197. Lockhart, sir George, xxx, xxxvii, 212, 222, 224, 276, 308. ---- sir James, of Lee, lord justice clerk, 185 and _n_, 218, 219; death of, 223. ---- colonel sir William, of Lee, 215, 223, 233. death of, 224. Logans of Restalrig, 187. Loire, inundations of the, 20-21. London tower, 1. Loudun, the devils of, 77. Louis XIII., statue of, in Paris, 5; statue and portraits of, at Richelieu castle, 25-27; a gunmaker, 57; heightens the gold and silver of foreign nations, 80. Louis XIV., as a drummer, 57. Lovain, universities of, 204. Loyola, Ignatius, sermon on, 30-31. Lufnes, 203, 210. Lumsdean, Charles, 268, 296. Lundie, rev. James, 195. ---- of that ilk, 196-197. Lundy, Mr., minister at Dysert, 272. Lylle, William, advocate, death of, 212. Lyon, rev. Gilbert, 195. ---- Patrick, 221, 249. Macbean, Mr., xv, xviii, xxi. Macduff clan, 197, 206. Macfud ----, 208. M'Gill, Alex., 279, 280. ---- of Fingask, 204. ---- of Rumgaye, 207. M'Gills of Kemnock, 207. Mackenzie, sir George, lord advocate, xxvii, xxxvi, xxxviii, 181, 226. ---- Roderick, 181. Maclucas, Colin, 185. Macquare, Robert, 115, 139 and _n_. Madertie, lord, 208. Madmen, anecdotes of, 87. Madrid, near Paris, 5. Magdalen bridge, near Musselburgh, 188 and _n_. Maid of Orleans, festival of, 9-11. Mainart, lord, 222. Maitland, Charles, lord Halton, 191 _n_, 192 _n_, 208, 221, 227. ---- Richard, of Pitreichy, 218. ---- family, 192. Malcolm of Babedie, 196. Maps, price of, 264, 287. Mar, earle of, 224, 302. March, earle of, 203. Marior, Joseph, 2. Marjoribanks, 203. Markinch (Markins), 197. Marmoustier, convent at, 18. Marriage ceremonies, 99 marriages of protestants in France, 79 marriage laws of France, 65, 77. Marseilles, 64. Martin, St., celebration of, 100, 101; relics of, 19. ---- Robert, justice clerk-depute, 219, 225. Mary, St., of Loretto, 188 _n_. ---- Magdalen, St., nunnery of, at the Sciennes, 188. Masterton ----, 262, 263. Maule, Mr., xix. Mawer, Mrs., 265. May island, 203. Mazarin, cardinal, 5, 63. Meadowbank, lord, xiii. Mede, Joseph, theory of, on the peopling of America, 197. Megget, Jo., 258. Mein, Mr., 5. ---- Patrick, 3. ---- Robert, 250, 256, 257. Meinzeis, rev. John, 231. Meiren, col., 185. Melvill, lord, 196. ---- family, 203. Melvines of Touch, 204. Mendoza's _Histoire ... de la Chine_, 105. Mensen, Henry, 280 Merton college, Oxford, 171 and _n_, 173. Metellan, Mr., 168. Meung, 18. Mexico, founding of the kingdom of, 198. Middleton, earl of, xli, 174. Midlothian militia, 189. Migill. See M'Gill. Milne, rev. Mr., 183. Milton's _Iconoclastes_, 116. Minimes, order of, 9, 10, 86. Miracles performed at the cradle of St. Hilaire, 56. Mitchell, Jo., 268. ---- William, 22, 250, 257. Mompommery, Mr., 159. _Monasterium Sancte Mariæ in Campis_, 188. Moncreiff, Sam, 281. Money, comparative values of, xlii-xlviii, 81, 92 and _n_, 154, 239, 242, 243 and _n_, 245 and _n_, 257 and _n_, 269. Monmouth, the duck of, 222. Monro, Alexander, 212, 226. Monsoreau, 20, 24. Montaigne's _Essayes_, 82. Monteith, earles of, 194. Montozon, M., 128. Montrosse, lord, 183. Monynet, 210. Moonzie, 207. Moor, Mr., 5. ---- G., 2. ---- Dick, 2. Moorefields, 174. Moray. _See_ Murray. Mordington, 202. ---- lord, 201, 202. Morisons of Dairsie, 207. Morton, earl of, 188, 226. Morton of Cummock, 207. Mortonhall, laird of, 189. Moubrayes of Barnbougall, 193. ---- of Wauchton, 202. Mount Calvary, near Paris, 6. Mountebanks, 68-74. Moutray of Seafield castle, 195. Mow, laird of, 201. ---- Patrick, of the Maines, 201. Mowat, Mr., 3, 160. Muire of Park, 271. Muires of Bourhouses, 200. Muirhead, John, advocate, death of, 223. Munster, bishop of, anecdote of the, 150. Murder of a judge in Paris, 49. discovery of murders at St. Lazare, 63. Murray, earle of, created justice-generall, 225. pensioned, 225. ---- John, advocate, death of, 219. ---- Mungo, 120. ---- sir Robert, 214 and _n_. ---- death of, 224. ---- sir Thomas, of Glendoick, lord of session, 223-224. ---- Wm., 274, 276, 279. ---- of Levinstone, 186. ---- Mr., 3. Musselburgh, 188, 189. Mylne, Robert, annotator of Lauder's MSS., xi, xii, xv, xx. Myre of Billie, 201. Nairne, Mr., 231. Napier, origin of the name of, 211. Nasmith, John, 269, 272, 278, 279. Neilsone, Margaret, 253, 263. Newbyth, lord. _See_ Baird, sir John. New college, Oxford, 171. New Cranston, 179. Newliston, 193. Newmilnes, 200. Newtonlies, 200, 209. Neidle Eye, near Bathgate, 186. Nicol, John, 242, 284, 295. ---- P., 174. Nicolson, sir John, of Polton, 189. ---- Jonet, 276. ---- Thomas, advocate, death of, 212. Nidrie, 190. ---- castle, 193. Nisbet, sir John, of Dirleton, 203 _n_, 210, 213, 226, 308. ---- of West Nisbet, 202. Norame castle, 202. Normand, Lance, 2. Northtoun (Norton), 192. Northumberland, earl of, 58. Norvell, George, advocate, death of, 222. Nunlands, 200, 202. Nynewells, 201. Oaths of France, 147. Ogilvy, lord, 8 and _n_, 14, 16, 17, 130, 160. ---- John, 4, 7, 11, 13, 23, 60, 109, 130, 157, 158, 161; letter to, from Francis Kinloch, introducing Lauder, 7. Oliphant, lord, 202. ---- Laurence, advocate, death of, 212. ---- Patrick, death of, 225. Olive trees, abundance of, in France, 89. Opdam, admiral, 13 and _n_; defeat of, 234-235. Orange trees, 89. Oriel college, Oxford, 172. Orleans, 8; festival of the maid of, 9-11; the fête de Dieu at, 11; drinking customs of, 133. ---- duke of, statue of, at Blois, 18. Ormond, duke of, 58. Orrery, lord, 2 and _n_. Osborne's _Advice to a Son_, 99 and _n_. Oswald, Alex., advocate, death of, 212. Otterburne of Reidhall, 203, 207. Oxbridge. _See_ Uxbridge. Oxford and its library, 169-170; its colleges, 171-173. Painston ----, 251, 263, 265. Paipes of Walafield, 190. Paisley (Pasley) town and abbey, 184. Pancerolli's _Vetera Deperdita_, 99 and _n_. Papists, effects of thunder on, 51. Parma, the duke of, and the Jesuits, 86. Partenay, 64. Passive obedience, 140. Paterson, George, 258, 270, 277. ---- rev. John, 195. ---- Thomas, 177, 180, 269. ---- William, 163, 272. Pathhead or Pittintillun, 196. Patrick, St., Irish respect for, 134. Paxtoun, 202. Peager, madame, 128. Peirs, Mary, 267. Penmansheills, 209. Penny weddings, 124, 242, 265, 275, 276. Pentherer ----, 251. Peppermilne, near Edinburgh, 188. Péres de l'oratoire, 10, 13, 42. Petition to the court of session, 181. Philip II. of Spain, anecdotes of, 150. Phrygian language, antiquity of, 81. Physick garden, Oxford, 173. Pies, the, near Cockburnspath, 200. Pilans, James, 186. Pinkie, battle of, 190. ---- house, near Musselburgh, 189. Pitcairne ----, 205. Pitmedden. See Seton. Pittedy, Fife, 196. Pleughlands, Edinburgh, 187. Poictiers, 29; street cries of, 40, 68; anecdote of the bishop of, 60-61; Jesuit college at, 77; lawyers in, 90; crime in, 95. Poictou, governor of the province of, 57; the practice of torture in, 70. Pollock, Mr., 269. Popish plot, xxviii. Porrock, Henry, 251. Port de Pilles, 129. Porterstoune, 216. Portraiture in France, 109. Portsmouth, dutchesse of, xli. Portues, Patrick, 8, 156. Preistfield, 188. Preston of Bouncle, 200. ---- sir Robert, of that ilk, xxxv _n_, 219, 224. Prestons of Craigmillar, 188. Primogeniture, law of, in France, 90, 143. Primrose, sir Archibald, of Elphinston, 190, 193 and _n_, 225-227. Pringle, Mr., of Yair, xiii. ---- Walter, advocate, 221, 252, 275, 276; suspension of, 226. Productiveness of France, 89. Protestants, marriages of, in France, 79. Proverbs, 143-144, 146, 148. Psammeticus, king of Egypt, and the origin of language, 81. Puddock stools, cooking of, 76. Purves, William, 140. Quarrier, Pat, 245. Queen's college, Oxford, 172. Queinsberry, earle of, 224. Quinkerstaines, 202. Radegonde, Ste., 34; legend of, 35; tomb of, 56. Raith, the, Kirkcalcly, 196. ---- of Edmonston, 188 and _n_. Ramsay, sir Andrew, lord Abbotshall, lord provost of Edinburgh, xxii, xxxiv-xxxvi, 109 _n_, 195, 249, 251, 267, 269, 272, 274, 279, 281, 284, 287, 293-298; made a lord of session, 217; a member of the privy council, 225; letter from Lauder on the character and career of, 300; extract on, from sir George Mackenzie's Memoirs, 308-309. Ramsay, sir Andrew, of Wauchton, 283, 308. ---- lady Wauchton, 250. ---- Andrew, professor of theology at Saumur and afterwards rector of Edinburgh university, 199, 206, 301, 303-304 and _n_. ---- sir Charles, of Balmayn, 304. ---- David, 109. ---- ---- of Balmayn, 304. ---- George, lord, 206. ---- Grissell, 241, 255, 257, 258. ---- sir James, of Whythill, advocate, death of, 223. ---- Janet, wife of lord Fountainhall, xxii. ---- sir John, of Balmayn, afterwards earl of Bothwell, 200, 203-207. ---- John, keiper of the register of homings, death of, 219. ---- ---- minister of Markinch, 197. ---- Margaret, 258. ---- Mathew, 262, 271. ---- Patrick, 112 and _n_, 278. ---- William, earle of Fife, 197, 206. ---- ---- of Balmayne, 303. ---- ---- 244, 265, 271, 272, 306. ---- of Balmayne, 239. ---- of Corston, 205, 206. ---- of Fawsyde, 100. ---- of Idington, 200 and _n_, 241, 243, 287. ---- of Nunlands, 202. ---- colonel, 246. ---- 205. Ramsays in Fife, 206. Raploch, laird of, 281. Ratho, 192. Razin, Stenka, rebellion of, 229. Reidbraes, 202. Reidfuird, lord. _See_ Foulis, James, of Colinton. Reidhall, 191. Reidhouse, 208. Reidop, 194. Reidpeth, George, 239. Relics at the convent of Marmoustier, 19-20. Renton, 200, 209. ---- lord. _See_ Hume, sir John. ---- of Billie, 201. Rentons' claim on Coldingham, 209-210. Restalrig castle, 187; chapel, 190. Revenscraig, 207. Revensheuch, 196. Revenues of the king of France, 110. Riccarton, 191, 194. Richelieu town and castle, description of, 25-27, 44, 157. ---- cardinal, 28, 91. Richison, lady Smeton, 193. Riddles, 80, 103-105. Rigs of Carberrie, 190. Robertson, George, keiper of the register of hornings, 219. ---- Thomas, treasurer of Edinburgh, 240, 255, 256, 268, 276. Robison of the Cheynes (Sciennes), 188. Rocheid, sir James, 306. Roman catholics, penal laws against, xxvi, xxvii; troublesome citizens, xxix. Rome, brothels of, 83; Scots college at, 84; customs of, 116. Ross, bishop of, his mission on behalf of James II., 198 and _n_. ---- lord, 224. ---- Daniel, 241. ---- James, advocate, death of, 224. Rothes, earl of, xxxvi, 176, 196 _n_, 207, 306. Rouchsoles, 185. Roxbrugh, earle of, 179, 201, 224. Roy, Mr., 113. Rue, Mr., 159. Ruell waterworks, 5, 6. Rumgaye, 207. Rupert, prince, 236. Rutherfurd, lord, 109 and _n_. ---- C., 132, 168. ---- capt., 162. _Sacellum Sancti Marlorati_, 188 and _n_. St. Abbes Head, 210. St. Catharine's well, 187. St. Florans, convent at, 22. St. Germains, 200. St. Hilaire, abbot of, 75; church of, 56. St. Roque, chapel of, 188 _n_. Saints' days, 12. Salmasius' _Defensio Regio_, 116. Salmon fishing on the Tweed, 202. Salt, 92. Salton, estate of, 216. Sandilands, Mr., 3, 132, 168. ---- Marion, 194. Sandwich, vice-admiral, 13. Sanquhar, lord. _See_ Hamilton, sir William. Sanson's maps of France, etc., 28. Sauces and salads, 92. Sauchton, 191. Saumur, 20-22; system of graduation at, 23. Scatteraw, 200. Scholars' compact with the devil, 88. Scholastic speculations, 92-94. Schovo, Mr., 13, 157, 162. Sciennes, nunnery at, 188 and _n_. Scorpions, 74. Scots' walk at the church of St. Hilaire, 56. Scotscraig, 206, 207. Scotstarvet, 206. Scott, Adam, 265. ---- David, 14. ---- Francis, 212. ---- sir John, of Scotstarvet, 190, 191, 194. ---- John, 183, 212, 248, 252. ---- Laurence, of Bevely, clerk of session, death of, 212. ---- Margaret, 194. ---- Mary, 275. ---- Robert, 54, 159. ---- Thomas, of Abbotshall, 195, 203. ---- sir Walter, his correspondence with sir Thomas Dick Lauder on the proposed publication of Fountain-hall's MSS., xi-xxii. ---- Wm., of Abirlady, 210. ---- of Ardrosse, 197. ---- of Balveiry, 197. ---- of Bonytoun, 193. ---- of Dischingtoune, 197. ---- of Limphoys, 191. ---- captain, 132. ---- Mr., 30. Scougall, 210. ---- sir John, of Whytkirk, death of, 219. Scudéri's _Almahide_, account of, 134-137. Seafield castle, 195. Seat rent, 265, 276. Sempills of Fulwood, 185. Semple, 203. ---- Gabriell, 270. Senators of the college of justice, their usurpation of power over the town of Edinburgh, 218. Sermons on Ignatius Loyola, 30; on St. Domenick, 31; on the virgin Mary, 41, 52-53; anecdotes of sermons, 115. Seton, Alexander, chancellor, and provost of Edinburgh, 189, 218 and _n_, 305. ---- ---- of Pitmedden, 258, 284, 290. Shaftesbury, earle of, high chancelor of England, 221. Sharp, James, archbishop of St. Andrews, 141, 214, 231. ---- William, of Stainehill, 189. Sherwood forest, 177. Sheves, William, of Kemnock, archbishop of St. Andrews, 207. Shirefhal, 188. Shoneir of Caskieberry, 205. Shynaille, 15 and _n_. Sibbalds of Balgonie, 196, 197. Silver, price of, 264. Silvertonhil, 185. Sim, William, 192, 268. Sinclair, lord, 196. ---- George, 159. ---- Hew, 241, 242. ---- Ja., of Roslin, 269. ---- John, minister at Ormiston, 279. ---- sir Robert, 213, 214 and _n_, 219-220, 222. ---- Robert, 181, 182. Skene (Skein), J., 110 and _n_. ---- sir James, of Curriehill, xi, 191. ---- Thomas, advocate, 227. ---- of Halzeards, 193. Smith, rev. J., anecdote of, 127. ---- Joannette, 280. Somervell, Arthur, 266, 275. Somnambulism, a cure for, 84. Sorcery, xxxviii, 45-46, 99, 204 and _n_. Southampton, earle of, 222. Southesk, carles of, 303. Spaniards, antipathy of the French to, 47-48; Spanish cruelty in the New-World, 98. Spanish Netherlands invaded by the French, 228. Spence, Jeremiah, forges a decreet, 220-221. Spittle, 192. Spot, 200, 209. Spotswood, Alexander, 213. ---- ---- of Crumstaine, advocate, 202; death of, 225. ---- John, archbishop of St. Andrews, 139, 207. Sprage, Mr., 169. Spurius Carvilius, 116. Stainehill, near Edinburgh, 189. Stainfeild, sir Ja., 281. Stair, lord, president of the court of session, xxxi, xxxv and _n_, xxxvi _n_, 213, 214. Stanipmilne, 191. Steill, Pat, 265. Stevinson, Haddington, 200. ---- D., 265. ---- Jo., 262. ---- William, 275. ---- Dr., 186, 249. Stewart, John, of Ketleston, death of, 221. ---- sir Lues, advocate, of Kirkhill, 193. ---- Robert, marshal of France, 103. ---- of Rossyth, 197. Stillingfleet, Mr., 174. Stirling, rev. David, 195. ---- rev. Robert, 183. Strachan ---- regent at Aberdeen, 42. ---- sir J., 176. ---- William, advocate, death of, 225. ---- Mr., 2, 3. ---- Mlle, 128. Strafford, earle of, 230. Stranaver, lady, 201. Street cries, 40, 68, 99. Sutherland, James, treasurer of Edinburgh, 278. ---- Will., 262, 266, 268, 270. Suty, John, 30. Swearing, punishment of, 60. Swine, 77. Swinton, Alexander, advocate, 215, 221. ---- of Brunston, 26 and _n_. Sword ----, provost of Aberdeen, 109. Swynish abbey, 186. Sydserfe, 203. ---- Tom, his _Tarugoes Wiles_, 174-175 and _n_. Tailfours of Reidheues, 191. Tantallon (Tomtallon), 203, 210. Tarbet, laird of, 196. Taringzean, 205. Temple, Arthur, 271. ---- lands in Edinburgh, 192. Tennent, skipper, 281. Terinean, in Carrick, 302. Test act, xxxii-xxxv. Thanes of Collie, 304. Theft, punishment of, 70. Thiget burn. See Figgate burn. Thirlestan, 8 and _n_, 132. Thoires, David, advocate, 223; sent to prison and fined, 213. Thomson, George, of Touch, 196, 204, 288. ---- Thomas, xiii, xix-xx. ---- sir Thomas, 190. Thomsone, sir William, 168, 305. Thornetounloch, 200. Thorniedykes, 210. Thunder, bell-ringing during, 49-51. Toad, medicinal stone in head of, 72. Tobit's dog, 114 and _n_. Tod, Archibald, provost of Edinburgh, 305. Todrig, Alex., 252, 260, 263. 'Tom of the Cowgate.' _See_ Haddington, earl of. Torrance ----, 185. Torture, infliction of, xxxviii, 70, 83. Touch, 204, 205. ---- laird of. _See_ Thomson, George. Touraine, madame de, death of, 132. Tours, 19, 20, 24, 64. Trade processions in France, 52. Traditions and fables, 36-37. Traquair, lord, 216, 218. Trinity college, Oxford, 173. Trotter, Jo., 262. Turner ----, 3. ---- sir James, 185. Tweddale, earle of, 189, 214, 223, 224; his predecessors, 208. Tyninghame, 209, 210. Umeau, M., his speech at the opening of the law university of Poictiers, 112. Union of England and Scotland, 229 and _n_. University college, Oxford, 172. Uphall kirk, 193. Uxbridge, 168. Van Eck, Tunis, 167. Van Tromp, 235. Vipers exhibited by mountebanks, 71, 73. Voetius ----, 141. Vulteius ----, 66. Waldenses, persecutions of, 66. Walker, William, 199. Wallace, Hew, W.S., 213. ---- James, macer, 216. ---- sir Thomas, 214. ---- William, tradition of, 37. ---- ---- advocate, death of, 223. ---- Mr., 168. Wallyfield, near Musselburgh, 190, 203. Wardlaw, Charles, 246, 284. Waren, Mr., 163. Waschingtoune, 216. Wat, Peter, 247. Water, vendors of, 68. Waterworks at Ruell, 5,6; at Shynaille, 15. Watson, David, of Sauchton, 191. ---- J., of Lammyletham, 217. ---- Walter, provost of Dumbarton, 184. ---- of Pathhead or Pittintillun, 196. ---- ---- 202. Wauchope of Niddrie, 188 _n_. Wauchton, 202, 209. _See also_ Hepburn: Ramsay. ---- of Lufness, 210. Wause, Pat., 168, 255, 267. Wedderburne, Rob., sermon by, 54. Weir, major, execution of, 232. Wemes, James, advocate, death of, 214. Wemyss, Rot., 271. ---- (Veimes) of Bogie, 196. ---- of that ilk, 197. Wesenbec, Matthew, 122. Westmilne house, Kirkcaldy, 195. White, C, 132. Whithill, Easter Dudinstone, 190. Whitkirk, 203. Whyte, Andrew, of Fuirstoun, 200. Wild animals of France, 85. Wilkie, Archibald, of Dauphintoun, 190. Wilky, Mr., 3. Willis, D., physitian, 173. Wilson, James, 249. ---- Thomas, 276. Windiegoule, near Tranent, 203. Wine, adulteration of, 59. Wines of Germany, 69; of France, 85. Winrahame, Robert, advocate, death of, 225. ---- of Currichill, 191. Winton, lord, 182, 258. Witchcraft, xxxviii-xl. Wolsie, cardinal, 171. Wolves in France, 85. Wood, Andro, 245. ---- Hary, 272. ---- rev. James, anecdote of, 127. ---- John, 259, 266, 271, 298. Woodhead, lands of, xxiii. Wrightshouses, Edinburgh, 186; origin of, 211. Yester, 208. ---- lord, 168, 203, 224. York, duke of. _See_ James VII. ---- town and minster, 177. Young, Androw, 241, 272, 279. ---- of Leny, 193. Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press. REPORT OF THE THIRTEENTH ANNUAL MEETING OF THE SCOTTISH HISTORY SOCIETY THE THIRTEENTH ANNUAL MEETING OF THE SOCIETY was held on TUESDAY, November 21, 1899, in Dowell's Rooms, George Street, Edinburgh,--Emeritus Professor MASSON in the chair. The HON. SECRETARY read the Report of the Council, as follows:-- During the past year the Society has lost twenty members, ten by death and ten by resignation. When the vacancies are filled up there will remain seventy names on the list of candidates for admission. In addition to the 400 individual members of the Society there are now 64 Public Libraries subscribing for the Society's publications. The Council particularly desire to express their regret at the death of the Rev. Dr. Alexander Mitchell, formerly Professor of Ecclesiastical History at St. Andrews University, and of the Rev. A.W. Cornelius Hallen. From the foundation of the Society, Dr. Mitchell had been a corresponding member of the Council. He took a great interest in the Society's work, and, in conjunction with the Rev. Dr. Christie, edited for us two volumes of _The Records of the Commissions of the General Assembly of the Years_ 1646- 49. Mr. Hallen was also an active member of the Council for many years, and edited _The Account Book of Sir John Foulis of Ravelston_. The Society's publications belonging to the issue of the past year, viz., Mr. Ferguson's first volume of _Papers Illustrating the History of the Scots Brigade_, and Mr. Firth's volume on _Scotland and the Protectorate_, have been for some months in the hands of members. But members for this year, 1898-99, are to be congratulated on their good fortune in receiving, in addition to the ordinary issue of the Society, two other volumes as a gift. It will be remembered that at our last Annual Meeting Mr. Balfour Paul announced on behalf of the trustees of the late Sir William Fraser, K.C.B., that, acting on the terms of the trust, they were prepared to print and present to members on the roll for the year 1898-99, at least one, and perhaps two volumes of documents having the special object of illustrating the family history of Scotland. The work then suggested, and subsequently determined upon, was the Macfarlane Genealogical Collections relating to families in Scotland, MSS. in the Advocates' Library, now passing through the press in two volumes, under the editorial care of Mr. J.T. Clark, the Keeper of the Library. The whole of the first volume and the greater part of the second are already in type. The Council, who very highly appreciate this welcome donation, desire to convey to the trustees the cordial thanks of the Society for their share in the presentation. The following are the publications assigned to the coming year, 1899-1900: (1.) The second volume of the _Scots Brigade_ which is already printed, bound, and ready for issue. (2.) _The Journal of a Foreign Tour in 1665 and 1666_, and portions of other Journals, by Sir John Lauder, Lord Fountainhall, edited by Mr. Donald Crawford, Sheriff of Aberdeen, Kincardine and Banff. The greater part of this book also is in type. (3.) _Dispatches of the Papal Envoys to Queen Mary during her reign in Scotland_, edited by the Rev. J. Hungerford Pollen, S.J. The editor expects to send his manuscripts to the printer in January next. Several new works have been proposed and provisionally accepted by the Council. Dr. J.H. Wallace-James offers a collection of Charters and Documents of the Grey Friars of Haddington and of the Cistercian Nunnery of Haddington. They will be the more welcome, as the desire has been frequently expressed that the Society should deal more fully with the period preceding the Reformation. Mr. Firth has suggested the publication of certain unedited or imperfectly edited papers concerning the _Negotiations for the Union of England and Scotland in_ 1651-1653, and Mr. C. Sandford Terry of Aberdeen has kindly consented to edit them. The three retiring members of Council are Dr. Hume Brown, Mr. G.W. Prothero, and Mr. Balfour Paul. The Council propose that Mr. Prothero should be removed to the list of corresponding members, that Dr. Hume Brown and Mr. Balfour Paul be re-elected, and that Mr. John Scott, C.B., be appointed to the Council in the place of Mr. Prothero. The Accounts of the Hon. Treasurer show that there was a balance in November 1898 of £172, 12s. 9d., and that the income for the year 1898-99 was £521, 15s. 5d. The expenditure for this same year was £438, 14s. 1d., leaving a balance in favour of the Society of £255, 14s. 1d. The CHAIRMAN, in moving the adoption of the Report, which, he said, was very satisfactory, said that in the first place they had kept their promises and arrangements in the past year, and, in the second place, they had a very good bill of fare for the current year, even if there were nothing additional to their programme as already published. The books that had been announced as forthcoming were just the kind of books that it was proper the Society should produce. But, in addition, they would see there was forthcoming a very important publication which had come to them out of the ordinary run. The late Sir William Fraser, in addition to his other important bequests, which would for the future affect the literature of Scottish history, gave power to his trustees that they might, if they saw occasion, employ a certain portion of his funds on some specific publications of the nature of those materials in which he had been spending his life. The result had been that the trustees, chiefly he believed by the advice of their Lyon King of Arms, Mr. Balfour Paul, had offered as a gift to this Society those very important genealogical documents, the Macfarlane documents, which had been lying in the Advocates' Library, and to which a great many people at various times had been referring, to such an extent that he believed Mr. Clark, the librarian of the Advocates' Library, had been almost incommoded by the number of such applications. Henceforth this would not be the case, as the Macfarlane genealogical documents were to be published under the editorship of Mr. Clark. That was a windfall for which he had no doubt all the members of the Society would be thankful, and when he moved the adoption of the report he meant specially to propose their adoption of a hearty vote of thanks to the trustees of Sir William Fraser. Professor MASSON then alluded to the proposal of Mr. C. Stanford Terry to produce the silent records relating to the union of Scotland with England in the years 1651 to 1653. That was a portion of Scottish history that had been almost forgotten, but a very important and interesting portion of Scottish history it was. In 1651, after the battle of Dunbar, and after Cromwell's occupation of Scotland, and after he had gone back to England and had left Monk in charge in Scotland, with about eight thousand Englishmen in Scotland, distributed in garrisons here and there, it occurred to the Long Parliament of England, then masters of affairs in Great Britain, that there ought to be an incorporating union of Scotland with the English Commonwealth. That proposal came before the Long Parliament in October 1651. It was agreed upon, by way of declaration, that it might be very desirable, and a committee of eight members of the Long Parliament was appointed to negotiate in the matter. They came to Scotland, and there was a kind of convention, a _quasi_ Scottish Parliament, held at Dalkeith, where the matter was discussed. Of course, it was a very serious matter, giving rise to various feelings. To part with the old Scottish nationality was a prospect that had to be faced with regret. To this Parliament the Commissioners proposed what was called the Tender, or an offer of incorporating union. The variety of elements in Scotland-- Royalists, Presbyterians, Independents--in the main said that they must yield, although they were reluctant. Even those who were most in sympathy with the English Commonwealth politically shrank for a while, and they tried whether the Long Parliament might not accept a kind of compromise, whether Scotland might not be erected into a little independent Republic allied to the English Commonwealth or Republic. But at last all these feelings gave way, and the English Commissioners were able to report before the end of the year, or in January--what we should now call 1652, but then called 1651--that twenty of the Scottish shires out of thirty-five had accepted the Tender, and that almost all the burghs had accepted it, Edinburgh and Aberdeen and all the chief burghs --Glasgow being the sole outstanding one. At last, however, Glasgow, on thinking over the thing, agreed, and the consequence was that in April 1652 the Act incorporating Scotland with the English Commonwealth passed the first and second readings in the Long Parliament. From April 1652 Scotland was, they might say, united with England, and in the Protectorate Parliaments, in Cromwell's first and second Parliaments, there were thirty members from Scotland sitting at Westminster with the English members, and so through the protectorate of his son Richard, and it was not till the Restoration that there came the rebound. Then the order universally was: 'As you were,' and a period of Scottish history was sponged out, so much so that they had forgotten it, and many of them rather regretted it. At all events, it was a very important period of Scottish history, and the proposed publication will give us flashes of light into the feelings and the state of the country between 1652 and 1660. Proceeding, Professor MASSON said the Society had kept strictly to their announcements, and they had already contributed a great many publications, which, at all events, had proved, and were proving, new materials for the history of Scotland, giving new conceptions of that history. They would observe in the first place how the publications had been dotted in respect of dates, some of them comparatively recent, others going far back. They would observe, in the second place, that the documents had been of almost all kinds--all those kinds that were of historical value; all those that really pertained to the history of Scotland--that was to say, the history of that little community which, with a small population, they named Scotland. There were various theories and conceptions of history. The main and common and the capital conception of the day was to give the story of the succession of events of all kinds. In that respect Scottish history, though the history of a small nation, would compete in interest with the history of any nation that had ever been. Small, but the variety, the intensity of the life, the changes, the vicissitudes, the picturesque incidents, no history could compete for that kind of interest with the history of that little torrent that had flowed through such a rocky, narrow bed. Crimes or illegalities got easily into books, and this was a little unfortunate, because people dwelt on such crimes and illegalities as constituting history. But they did not. No more would the digest of the trials of their Police Courts and of their chief Courts. They figured, of course, in history, but there ought to be a caution against allowing too great a proportion of those records of crimes and illegalities to affect their views. Then there was a notion of history very much in favour with their scholars at present, that it should consist merely of a narrative of the actions of the Government and the formation of institutions--what they should call constitutional history. There had been a school of historical writers of late who would almost confine history to that record--nothing else was proper history, and the consequence was that the constitution of history was in the publication of documents and in the changes in the manner of government. That was an essential and a very important part of history, but by itself it would be a very dreich kind of history. History was the authentic record of whatever happened in the world, and Scottish history of whatever had happened in the Scottish world. If he had been told that on a certain date King James V., the Red Fox, rode over Cramond Bridge with five horsemen, one of them on a white horse, they might say what use was it to him to know that, but he did want to know it and have that picture in his mind. It was a piece of history, and any one who was bereft of interest in that sort of thing--however little use it might be turned to--was bereft of the historical faculty. Then there was a conception of history that it should consist in pictures of the generation, of the people, how they were housed, how they were fed, and so on. That was a capital notion. But he was not sure that there were not certain overdoings of that notion. In the first place, they would observe that they must take a succession of generations in order to accomplish that descriptive history of the state of Scotland at one time, then at another, then at a third, and so on. A description at one time would not apply to the society of Scotland at another. 'Quhan Alysander, oure Kyng, was deid, Quhan Scotland led in luve and le, Awa' wes sons of ail and brede, Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and glee.' That was to say, it was a tradition before that time that there was abundance and even luxury in Scotland. There had been a tendency in history of late to dwell on the poverty and squalor of Scotland in comparison with other countries--all that should be produced, and made perfectly conceivable--and then also to dwell on the records of kirk- sessions and presbyteries, showing the state of morality in Scotland. All that it was desirable should be produced in abundance if they were not wrongly construed--but they were apt to be. A notion had arisen what a comical country Scotland must have been with its Shorter Catechism, and its presbytery records, and its miserable food, and so on. That was a wrong notion, and ought to be dismissed, because if they thought of it the life of a community consisted in how it felt, how it acted. In those days of poverty and squalor of external surroundings there were as good men, as brave men, and as good women as there were in Scotland now. And at all events, if there was anything in Scotland now, any power in the world, it had sprung from these progenitors. They must have some corrective for an exaggeration of that notion, which was very natural. One was biography. They would be surprised if they were to know how many biographies there might be along the course of Scottish history, say from the Reformation. If they fastened on a single individual, and told the story of his life, they not only told the story of his community in a very interesting manner, but they got straight to some of those faults which they were apt to be impressed by if they gazed vaguely at the community. Dr. Hume Brown had written an admirable summary of the history of Scotland, but he had contributed to the history of Scotland in another way by his two biographies of Buchanan and Knox, and especially by his biography of Buchanan. Another corrective was literature. There had been no sufficient perception of how literature might illustrate history; and why should it not if their aim was to recover the past mind of Scotland? Every song, every fiction--was not that a transmitted piece of the very mind that they wanted to investigate? Here was matter already at their hand. Then, in a similar way, if a noble thought, if a fine feeling, was in any way expressed in verse or in prose, that came out of some moment or moments in the mind of some individual, and it must have corresponded and been in sympathy with the community in which it was expressed. Nothing noble had come out of any man at any one time, but that man, in the way of expression of literature, must have had a constituency of people who felt as he felt. Unfortunately there was a long gap in what we called the finer history of Scotland from the time of the Reformation to Allan Ramsay--in literature of certain kinds. There were muses in those days, but they were muses of ecclesiastical and political controversy--very grim muses, but still they were muses. But from Allan Ramsay's time to this, to study the history of the literature was to know more of the history of the country than we would otherwise. David Hume, Adam Smith, Burns, Scott--all these men were born and bred in Scotland so poor and so squalid that we should say we would not belong to it now. Nobody was asking us to belong to it. But these men, their roots were in a soil capable of sustaining their genius and of pouring into their works those things in the way of thought and feeling that delighted us now, and that were our pride throughout the world. Mr. D.W. KEMP seconded the adoption of the Report, which was agreed to. The vacancies in the Council were filled by the re-election of Dr. Hume Brown and Mr. Balfour Paul, and the election of Mr. John Scott, C.B., in room of Mr. G.W. Prothero. In reply to Mr. James Bruce, W.S., Dr. LAW said that the death of Dr. Mitchell had caused some delay in the preparation of the third volume of the Records of the General Assembly, but it had already been transcribed for the printer. A vote of thanks to Professor Masson concluded the proceedings. ABSTRACT OF THE HONORARY TREASURER'S ACCOUNTS _For Year to 31st October 1899._ I. CHARGE. I. Balance in Bank from last year, £172 12 9 II. Subscriptions, viz.-- (1) 400 subscriptions for 1898-99, at £1, 1s., £420 0 0 2 in arrear for 1897-98, and 6 in advance for 1899-1900, 8 8 0 1 in advance for 1900-1, and 1 for 1901-2, 2 2 0 ---------- £430 10 0 Less 4 in arrear for 1898-99, 4 4 0 ---------- 426 6 0 (2) 64 Libraries at £1, 1s., £67 4 0 2 in advance for 1899-1900, 2 2 0 ---------- £69 6 0 Less 1 in advance for 1898-99, 1 1 0 ---------- 68 5 0 (3) Copies of previous issues sold to New Members, 23 12 6 III. Interest on Deposit Receipt, 3 11 11 ---------- Sum of Charge, £694 8 2 ========== II. DISCHARGE. I. _Incidental Expenses_-- Printing Cards, Circulars, and Reports, £7 18 6 --------- Carry forward, £7 18 6 * * * * * Brought forward, £7 18 6 Stationery, Receipt and Cheque Books,..... 3 13 0 Making-up and delivering copies, 28 12 6 Postages of Secretary and Treasurer, .... 3 9 7 Clerical Work and Charges on Cheques, ... 5 13 6 Hire of room for meeting, 1 1 0 ---------- £50 8 1 II. _Montereul Correspondence, Vol. II._,-- Composition, Printing, and Paper,..... £139 9 0 Proofs, Corrections, and Delete Matter, ... 20 8 0 Binding,..... 17 0 0 Indexing, ... 4 5 0 ---------- £181 2 0 Less paid to account, Oct. 1898, 145 3 0 ---------- 35 19 0 III. _The Scots Brigade, Vol. I._-- Composition, etc., ... £133 8 0 Proofs and Corrections,.. 29 14 0 Binding,..... 17 11 0 Indexing Vol. i., ... 5 5 0 ---------- 185 18 0 IV. _The Scots Brigade, Vol. II._-- Indexing,...... £5 5 0 V. _Scotland and the Protectorate_-- Composition, etc., ... 105 6 6 Proofs, Corrections, and Delete Matter, ... 18 3 0 Illustrations, ... 16 7 6 Binding,..... 17 11 0 Indexing,.... 3 16 0 ---------- 161 4 0 -------- Carry forward, ... £438 14 1 * * * * * Brought forward, £438 14 1 VI. _Balance to next account_-- Sum due by the Bank of Scotland on 31st October 1899-- (1) On Deposit Receipt, £200 0 0 (2) On Current Account, 55 14 1 -------- 255 14 1 --------- Sum of Discharge, £694 8 2 ========= EDINBURGH, _23rd November_ 1899.--Having examined the Accounts of the Hon. Treasurer of the Scottish History Society for the year to 31st October 1899, of which the foregoing is an abstract, and compared the same with the vouchers, we beg to report that we find the said Account to be correct, the sum due by the Bank at the close thereof being £255, 14s. 1d. WM. TRAQUAIR DICKSON, _Auditor._ RALPH RICHARDSON, _Auditor._ Scottish History Society. SCOTTISH HISTORY SOCIETY * * * * * THE EXECUTIVE. _President._ THE EARL OF ROSEBERY, K.G., K.T., LL.D. _Chairman of Council._ DAVID MASSON, LL.D., Historiographer Royal for Scotland. _Council._ JOHN SCOTT, C.B. Sir J. BALFOUR PAUL, Knt., Lyon King of Arms. P. HUME BROWN, M.A., LL.D. Rev. JOHN HUTCHISON, D.D. D. HAY FLEMING, LL.D. Right Rev. JOHN DOWDEN, D.D., Bishop of Edinburgh. J. MAITLAND THOMSON, Advocate, Keeper of the Historical Department, H.M. Register House. W.K. DICKSON, Advocate. DAVID PATRICK, LL.D. Sir ARTHUR MITCHELL, K.C.B., M.D., LL.D. ÆNEAS J.G. MACKAY, Q.C., LL.D., Sheriff of Fife and Kinross. Sir JOHN COWAN, Bart. _Corresponding Members of the Council._ C.H. FIRTH, Oxford; SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER, D.C.L., LL.D.; Rev. W.D. MACRAY, Oxford; G.W. PROTHERO, Litt. D. _Hon. Treasurer._ J.T. CLARK, Keeper of the Advocates' Library. _Hon. Secretary._ T.G. LAW, LL.D., Librarian, Signet Library. RULES 1. The object of the Society is the discovery and printing, under selected editorship, of unpublished documents illustrative of the civil, religious, and social history of Scotland. The Society will also undertake, in exceptional cases, to issue translations of printed works of a similar nature, which have not hitherto been accessible in English. 2. The number of Members of the Society shall be limited to 400. 3. The affairs of the Society shall be managed by a Council, consisting of a Chairman, Treasurer, Secretary, and twelve elected Members, five to make a quorum. Three of the twelve elected Members shall retire annually by ballot, but they shall be eligible for re-election. 4. The Annual Subscription to the Society shall be One Guinea. The publications of the Society shall not be delivered to any Member whose Subscription is in arrear, and no Member shall be permitted to receive more than one copy of the Society's publications. 5. The Society will undertake the issue of its own publications, _i.e._ without the intervention of a publisher or any other paid agent. 6. The Society will issue yearly two octavo volumes of about 320 pages each. 7. An Annual General Meeting of the Society shall be held at the end of October, or at an approximate date to be determined by the Council. 8. Two stated Meetings of the Council shall be held each year, one on the last Tuesday of May, the other on the Tuesday preceding the day upon which the Annual General Meeting shall be held. The Secretary, on the request of three Members of the Council, shall call a special meeting of the Council. 9. Editors shall receive 20 copies of each volume they edit for the Society. 10. The owners of Manuscripts published by the Society will also be presented with a certain number of copies. 11. The Annual Balance-Sheet, Rules, and List of Members shall be printed. 12. No alteration shall be made in these Rules except at a General Meeting of the Society. A fortnight's notice of any alteration to be proposed shall he given to the Members of the Council. PUBLICATIONS OF THE SCOTTISH HISTORY SOCIETY _For the year 1886-1887._ 1. BISHOP POCOCKE'S TOURS IN SCOTLAND, 1747-1760. Edited by D.W. KEMP. (Oct. 1887.) 2. DIARY OF AND GENERAL EXPENDITURE BOOK OF WILLIAM CUNNINGHAM OF CRAIGENDS, 1673-1680. Edited by the Rev. JAMES DODDS, D.D. (Oct. 1887.) _For the year 1887-1888._ 3. PANURGI PHILO-CABALLI SCOTI GRAMEIDOS LIBRI SEX.--THE GRAMEID: an heroic poem descriptive of the Campaign of Viscount Dundee in 1689, by JAMES PHILIP of Almerieclose. Translated and Edited by the Rev. A.D. MURDOCH. (Oct. 1888.) 4. THE REGISTER OF THE KIRK-SESSION OF ST. ANDREWS. Part i. 1559-1582. Edited by D. HAY FLEMING. (Feb. 1889.) _For the year 1888-1889._ 5. DIARY OF THE REV. JOHN MILL, Minister of Dunrossness, Sandwick, and Cunningsburgh, in Shetland, 1740-1803. Edited by GILBERT GOUDIE, F.S.A. Scot. (June 1889.) 6. NARRATIVE OF MR. JAMES NIMMO, A COVENANTER, 1654-1709. Edited by W.G. SCOTT-MONCRIEFF, Advocate. (June 1889.) 7. THE REGISTER OF THE KIRK-SESSION OF ST. ANDREWS. Part ii. 1583-1600. Edited by D. HAY FLEMING. (Aug. 1890.) _For the year 1889-1890._ 8. A LIST OF PERSONS CONCERNED IN THE REBELLION (1745). With a Preface by the EARL OF ROSEBERY, and Annotations by the Rev. WALTER MACLEOD. (Sept. 1890.) _Presented to the Society by the Earl of Rosebery_. 9. GLAMIS PAPERS: The 'BOOK OF RECORD,' a Diary written by PATRICK, FIRST EARL OF STRATHMORE, and other documents relating to Glamis Castle (1684- 89). Edited by A.H. MILLAR, F.S.A. Scot. (Sept. 1890.) 10. JOHN MAJOR'S HISTORY OF GREATER BRITAIN (1521). Translated and edited by ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE, with a Life of the author by ÆNEAS J.G. MACKAY, Advocate. (Feb. 1892.) _For the year 1890-1891._ 11. THE RECORDS OF THE COMMISSIONS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLIES. 1646-47. Edited by the Rev. Professor MITCHELL, D.D., and the Rev. JAMES CHRISTIE, D.D., with an Introduction by the former. (May 1892.) 12. COURT-BOOK OF THE BARONY OF URIE, 1604-1747. Edited by the Rev. D.G. BARRON, from a MS. in possession of Mr. R. BARCLAY of Dorking. (Oct. 1892.) _For the year 1891-1892._ 13. MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF SIR JOHN CLERK OF PENICUIK, Baronet, Baron of the Exchequer, Commissioner of the Union, etc. Extracted by himself from his own Journals, 1676-1755. Edited from the original MS. in Penicuik House by JOHN M. GRAY, F.S.A. Scot. (Dec. 1892.) 14. DIARY OF COL. THE HON. JOHN ERSKINE OF CARNOCK, 1683-1687. From a MS. in possession of HENRY DAVID ERSKINE, Esq., of Cardross. Edited by the Rev. WALTER MACLEOD. (Dec. 1893.) _For the year 1892-1893._ 15. MISCELLANY OF THE SCOTTISH HISTORY SOCIETY, First Volume-- THE LIBRARY OF JAMES VI., 1573-83. Edited by G.F. WARNER. DOCUMENTS ILLUSTRATING CATHOLIC POLICY, 1596-98. T.G. LAW. LETTERS OF SIR THOMAS HOPE, 1627-46. Rev. R. PAUL. CIVIL WAR PAPERS, 1643-50. H.F. MORLAND SIMPSON. LAUDERDALE CORRESPONDENCE, 1660-77. Right Rev. JOHN DOWDEN, D.D. TURNBULL'S DIARY, 1657-1704. Rev. R. PAUL. MASTERTON PAPERS, 1660-1719. V.A. NOËL PATON. ACCOMPT OF EXPENSES IN EDINBURGH, 1715. A.H. MILLAR. REBELLION PAPERS, 1715 and 1745. H. PATON. (Dec. 1893.) 16. ACCOUNT BOOK OF SIR JOHN FOULIS OF RAVELSTON (1671-1707). Edited by the Rev. A.W. CORNELIUS HALLEN. (June 1894.) _For the year 1893-1894._ 17. LETTERS AND PAPERS ILLUSTRATING THE RELATIONS BETWEEN CHARLES II. AND SCOTLAND IN 1650. Edited, with Notes and Introduction, by SAMUEL RAWSON GARDINER, LL.D., etc. (July 1894.) 18. SCOTLAND AND THE COMMONWEALTH. LETTERS AND PAPERS RELATING TO THE MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF SCOTLAND, Aug. 1651--Dec. 1653. Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by C.H. FIRTH, M.A. (Oct. 1895.) _For the year 1894-1895._ 19. THE JACOBITE ATTEMPT OF 1719. LETTERS OF JAMES, SECOND DUKE OF ORMONDE, RELATING TO CARDINAL ALBERONI'S PROJECT FOR THE INVASION OF GREAT BRITAIN. Edited by W.K. DICKSON, Advocate. (Dec. 1895.) 20, 21. THE LYON IN MOURNING, OR A COLLECTION OF SPEECHES, LETTERS, JOURNALS, ETC., RELATIVE TO THE AFFAIRS OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART, by the Rev. ROBERT FORBES, A.M., Bishop of Ross and Caithness. 1746-1775. Edited from his Manuscript by HENRY PATON, M.A. Vols. i. and ii. (Oct. 1895.) _For the year_ 1895-1896. 22. THE LYON IN MOURNING. Vol. III. (Oct. 1896.) 23. SUPPLEMENT TO THE LYON IN MOURNING.--ITINERARY OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD. With a Map. Compiled by W.B. BLAIKIE. (April 1897.) 24. EXTRACTS FROM THE PRESBYTERY RECORDS OF INVERNESS AND DINGWALL FROM 1638 TO 1688. Edited by WILLIAM MACKAY. (Oct. 1896.) 25. RECORDS OF THE COMMISSIONS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLIES (continued) for the years 1648 and 1649. Edited by the Rev. Professor MITCHELL, D.D., and Rev. JAMES CHRISTIE, D.D. (Dec. 1896.) _For the year_ 1896-1897. 26. WARISTON'S DIARY AND OTHER PAPERS--JOHNSTON OF WARISTON'S DIARY, 1639. Edited by G.M. PAUL. THE HONOURS OF SCOTLAND, 1651-52. C.R.A. HOWDEN. THE EARL OF MAR'S LEGACIES, 1722, 1726. Hon. S. ERSKINE. LETTERS BY MRS. GRANT OF LAGGAN. J.R.N. MACPHAIL. (Dec. 1896.) _Presented to the Society by Messrs. T. and A. Constable._ 27. MEMORIALS OF JOHN MURRAY OF BROUGHTON, SOMETIME SECRETARY TO PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD, 1740-1747. Edited by R. FITZROY BELL, Advocate. (May 1898.) 28. THE COMPT BUIK OF DAVID WEDDERBURNE, MERCHANT OF DUNDEE, 1587-1630. With the Shipping Lists of the Port of Dundee, 1580-1618. Edited by A.H. MILLAR. (May 1898.) _For the year_ 1897-1898. 29. THE DIPLOMATIC CORRESPONDENCE OF JEAN DE MONTEREUL AND THE BROTHERS DE BELLIÈVRE, FRENCH AMBASSADORS IN ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND, 1645-1648. Edited, with Translation and Notes, by J.G. FOTHERINGHAM. Vol. I. (June 1898.) 30. THE SAME. Vol. II. (Jan. 1899.) _For the year_ 1898-1899. 31. SCOTLAND AND THE PROTECTORATE. LETTERS AND PAPERS RELATING TO THE MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF SCOTLAND, FROM JANUARY 1654 TO JUNE 1659. Edited by C.H. FIRTH, M.A. (March 1899.) 32. PAPERS ILLUSTRATING THE HISTORY OF THE SCOTS BRIGADE IN THE SERVICE OF THE UNITED NETHERLANDS, 1572-1782. Edited by JAMES FERGUSON. Vol. I. 1572- 1697. (Jan. 1899.) 33, 34. MACFARLANE'S GENEALOGICAL COLLECTIONS CONCERNING FAMILIES IN SCOTLAND; MSS. in the Advocates' Library. 2 vols. Edited by J.T. CLARK, Keeper of the Library. (To be ready shortly.) _Presented to the Society by the Trustees of the late Sir William Fraser, K.C.B._ _For the year_ 1899-1900. 35. PAPERS ON THE SCOTS BRIGADE. Vol. II. 1698-1782. Edited by JAMES FERGUSON. (Nov. 1899.) 36. JOURNAL OF A FOREIGN TOUR IN 1665 AND 1666, AND PORTIONS OF OTHER JOURNALS, BY SIR JOHN LAUDER, LORD FOUNTAINHALL. Edited by DONALD CRAWFORD, Sheriff of Aberdeen, Kincardine, and Banff. (May 1900.) 37. DISPATCHES OF PAPAL ENVOYS TO QUEEN MARY DURING HER REIGN IN SCOTLAND. Edited by the Rev. J. HUNGERFORD POLLEN, S.J. _In preparation._ PAPERS ON THE SCOTS BRIGADE. Vol. III. THE DIARY OF ANDREW HAY OF STONE, NEAR BIGGAR, AFTERWARDS OF CRAIGNETHAN CASTLE, 1659-60. Edited by A.G. REID from a manuscript in his possession. MACFARLANE'S TOPOGRAPHICAL COLLECTIONS. Edited by J.T. CLARK. A TRANSLATION OF THE STATUTA ECCLESIÆ SCOTICANÆ, 1225-1556, by DAVID PATRICK, LL.D. SIR THOMAS CRAIG'S DE UNIONE REGNORUM BRITANNIÆ. Edited, with an English Translation, by DAVID MASSON, LL.D., Historiographer Royal. RECORDS OF THE COMMISSIONS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLIES (_continued_), for the years 1650-53. REGISTER OF THE CONSULTATIONS OF THE MINISTERS OF EDINBURGH, AND SOME OTHER BRETHREN OF THE MINISTRY FROM DIVERS PARTS OF THE LAND, MEETING FROM TIME TO TIME, SINCE THE INTERRUPTION OF THE ASSEMBLY 1653, WITH OTHER PAPERS OF PUBLIC CONCERNMENT, 1653-1660. PAPERS RELATING TO THE REBELLIONS OF 1715 AND 1745, with other documents from the Municipal Archives of the City of Perth. A SELECTION OF THE FORFEITED ESTATES PAPERS PRESERVED IN H.M. GENERAL REGISTER HOUSE AND ELSEWHERE. Edited by A.H. MILLAR. A TRANSLATION OF THE HISTORIA ABBATUM DE KYNLOS OF FERRERIUS. By ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE, LL.D. DOCUMENTS RELATING TO THE AFFAIRS OF THE ROMAN CATHOLIC PARTY IN SCOTLAND, from the year of the Armada to the Union of the Crowns. Edited by THOMAS GRAVES LAW, LLD. THE LOYALL DISSUASIVE. Memorial to the Laird of Cluny in Badenoch. Written in 1703, by Sir ÆNEAS MACPHERSON. Edited by the Rev. A.D. MURDOCH. CHARTERS AND DOCUMENTS RELATING TO THE GREY FRIARS AND THE CISTERCIAN NUNNERY OF HADDINGTON. Edited by J.G. WALLACE-JAMES, M.B. NEGOTIATIONS FOR THE UNION OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND IN 1651-53. Edited by C. SANDFORD TERRY, M.A. 
9503	----	and PG Distributed Proofreaders SEEING EUROPE WITH FAMOUS AUTHORS Selected And Edited With Introduction, Etc. By Francis W. Halsey _Editor of "Great Epochs in American History" Associate Editor of "The World's Famous Orations" and of "The Best of the World's Classics," etc._ In Ten Volumes Illustrated Vol. II Great Britain And Ireland Part Two [_Printed in the United States of America_] II CONTENTS OF VOLUME II GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND--PART TWO IV-ENGLISH LITERARY SHRINES-- (_Continued_) STOKE POGIS--By Charles T. Congdon HAWORTH--By Theodore F. Wolfe GAD'S HILL--By Theodore F. Wolfe RYDAL MOUNT--By William Howitt TWICKENHAM--By William Howitt V-OTHER ENGLISH SCENES STONEHENGE--By Ralph Waldo Emerson MAGNA CHARTA ISLAND--By Mrs. S. C. Hall THE HOME OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS--By James M. Hoppin OXFORD--By Goldwin Smith CAMBRIDGE--By James M. Hoppin CHESTER--By Nathaniel Hawthorne EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE--By Frederick A. Talbot THE CAPITAL OF THE BRITISH, SAXON AND NORMAN KINGS--By William Howitt VI--SCOTLAND EDINBURGH--By Robert Louis Stevenson HOLYROOD--By David Masson LINLITHGOW--By Sir Walter Scott STIRLING--By Nathaniel Hawthorne ABBOTSFORD--By William Howitt DRYBURGH ABBEY--By William Howitt MELROSE ABBEY--By William Howitt CARLYLE'S BIBTHPLACE AND EARLY HOMES--By John Burroughs BURNS'S LAND--By Nathaniel Hawthorne HIGHLAND MARY'S HOME AND GRAVE--By Theodore F. Wolfe THROUGH THE CALEDONIA CANAL TO INVERNESS--By H. A. Taine THE SCOTCH HIGHLANDS--By H. A. Taine BEN LOMOND AND THE HIGHLAND LAKES--By Bayard Taylor TO THE HEBRIDES--By James Boswell STAFFA AND IONA--By William Howitt VII--IRELAND A SUMMER DAY IN DUBLIN--By William Makepeace Thackeray DUBLIN CASTLE--By Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall ST. PATRICK'S CATHEDHAL--By Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall LIMERICK--By Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall FROM BELFAST TO DUBLIN--By William Cullen Bryant THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY--By Bayard Taylor CORK--by William Makepeace Thackeray BLARNEY CASTLE--By Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall MUCROSS ABBEY--By Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall FROM GLENGARIFF TO KILLARNEY--By William Makepeace Thackeray LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME II FRONTISPIECE PRINCESS STREET AND SCOTT'S MONUMENT, EDINBURGH STRATFORD-ON-AVON INTERIOR OF TRINITY CHURCH, STRATFORD ANNE HATHAWAY'S COTTAGE, NEAR STRATFORD ROOM IN STRATFORD IN WHICH SHAKESPEARE WAS BORN NEWSTEAD ABBEY, BYRON'S ANCESTRAL HOME STOKE POGIS, THE SCENE OF GRAY'S "ELEGY" OXFORD EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE ST. MARTIN'S CHURCH, CANTERBURY EDINBURGH CASTLE AND NATIONAL GALLERY OLD GREYFRIAR'S CHURCH, EDINBURGH HOLYROOD PALACE, EDINBURGH STIRLING CASTLE RUINS OF HOLYROOD ABBEY, EDINBURGH MELROSE ABBEY GLASTONBURY ABBEY CRAIGMILLAR CASTLE, SCOTLAND DUMBARTON ROCK AND CASTLE LIMERICK CASTLE ST. PATRICK'S CATHEDRAL, DUBLIN THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY BLARNEY CASTLE MUCROSS ABBEY THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY SACKVILLE STREET, DUBLIN THE GAP OF DUNLOE IV ENGLISH LITERARY SHRINES (_Continued_) STOKE POGIS [Footnote: From "Reminiscences of a Journalist." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1884. Mr. Congdon was, for many years, under Horace Greeley, a leading editorial writer for the New York "Tribune."] BY CHARLES T. CONGDON It was a comfort as I came out of the Albert Memorial Chapel, and rejoined nature upon the Terrace, to mutter to myself those fine lines which not a hundred years ago everybody knew by heart: "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave,"--a verse which I found it not bad to remember as in the Chapel Royal I gazed upon the helmets, and banners, and insignia of many a defunct Knight of the Garter. I wondered if posterity would care much for George the Fourth, or Third, or Second, or First, whose portraits I had just been gazing at; I was sure that a good many would remember the recluse scholar of Pembroke Hall, the Cambridge Professor of Modern History, who cared for nothing but ancient history; who projected twenty great poems, and finished only one or two; who spent his life in commenting upon Plato and studying botany, and in writing letters to his friend Mason; and who with a real touch of Pindar in his nature, was content to fiddle-faddle away his life. He died at last of a most unpoetical gout in the stomach, leaving behind him a cartload of memoranda, and fifty fragments of fine things; and yet I, a stranger from a far distant shore, was about to make a little pilgrimage to his tomb, and all for the sake of that "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard," which has so held its own while a hundred bulkier things have been forgotten. The church itself is an interesting but not remarkable edifice, old, small, and solidly built in a style common enough in England. Nothing, however, could be more in keeping with the associations of the scene. The very humility of the edifice has a property of its own, for anything more magnificent would jar upon the feelings, as the monument in the Park does most decidedly. It was Gray's wish that he might be buried here, near the mother whom he loved so well; otherwise he could hardly have escaped the posthumous misfortune of a tomb in Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's. In such case the world would have missed one of the most charming of associations, and the great poem the most poetical of its features. For surely it was fit that he who sang so touchingly of the dead here sleeping, should find near them his last resting-place; that when the pleasant toil in libraries was over, the last folio closed by those industrious hands, the last manuscript collated, and the last flower picked for the herbarium, he who here so tenderly sang of the emptiness of earthly honors and the nothingness of worldly success should be buried humbly near those whom he best loved, and where all the moral of his teaching might be perpetually illustrated. I wondered, as I stood there, whether Horace Walpole ever thought it worth his while, for the sake of that early friendship which was so rudely broken, to come there, away from the haunts of fashion, or from his plaything villa at Strawberry Hill, to muse for a moment over the grave of one who rated pedigrees and peerages at their just value. Probably my Lord Orford was never guilty of such a piece of sentimentality. He was thinking too much of his pictures and coins and eternal bric-a-brac for that. A stone set in the outside of the church indicates the spot near which the poet is buried. I was very anxious to see the interior of the edifice, and, fortunately I found the sexton busy in the neighborhood. There was nothing, however, remarkable to be seen, after sixpence had opened the door, except perhaps the very largest pew which these eyes ever beheld. It belonged to the Penn family, descendants of drab-coated and sweet-voiced William Penn, whose seat is in the neighborhood. I do not know what that primitive Quaker would have said to such an enormous reservation of space in the house of God for the sole use and behoof of two or three aristocratic worshipers. Probably few of my readers have ever seen such a pew as that. It was not so much a pew as a room. It was literally walled off, and quite set apart from the plebeian portion of the sanctuary, was carpeted, and finished with comfortable arm-chairs, and in the middle of it was a stove. The occupants could look out and over at the altar, but the rustics could not look in and at them. The Squire might have smoked or read novels, or my lady might have worked worsted or petted her poodle through the service, without much scandal. The pew monopolized so much room that there was little left for the remainder of the "miserable offenders," but I suspect that there was quite enough for all who came to pray. For it was, as I have said, literally a country church; and those who sleep near it were peasants. It is difficult to comprehend the whole physiognomy of the poem, if I may use the expression, without seeing the spot which it commemorates. I take it for granted that the reader is familiar with it. There are "those rugged elms," and there is "that yew tree's shade." There are "the frail memorials," "with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked;" there "the name, the years, spelt by the unlettered muse;" and the holy texts strewn round "that teach the rustic moralist to die." There is still "the ivy-mantled tower," tho the "moping owl" that evening did not "to the moon complain," partly because there was no moon to complain to, and possibly because there was no moping owl in the tower. But there was one little circumstance which I may be pardoned for mentioning. Gray, somehow, has the reputation of being an artificial poet, yet for one who wrote so little poetry he makes a good many allusions to childhood and children. As I passed through the Park on my way to the churchyard, I encountered a group of merry boys and girls playing about the base of the monument; and I recalled that verse which Gray wrote for the Elegy, and afterward discarded, under the impression that it made the parenthesis too long. There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground. I have often wondered how Gray could bear to give up these sweet, tender and most natural lines. I have sometimes surmised that he thought them a little too much like Ambrose Philips's verses about children--Namby Pamby Philips, as the Pope set nicknamed that unfortunate writer. I lingered about the churchyard until that long twilight, of which we know nothing in America, began to grow dimmer and dimmer. If it was still before, it seemed all the stiller now. I was glad that I had waited so long, because by doing so I understood all the better how true the Elegy is to nature. The neighborhood, with its agreeable variety of meadow and wood, has all the hundred charms of the gentle and winning English scenery. The hush, hardly broken even by the songs of the birds, brought forcibly to my mind that beautiful line of the Elegy: "And all the air a solemn stillness holds;" while that other line: "Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight," is exactly true. The landscape did glimmer, and as I watched the sun go down, I pleased myself with the fancy that I was sitting just where the poet sat, as he revolved those lines which the world has got by heart. Just then came the cry of the cattle, and I knew why Gray wrote: "The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea," nor did I fail to encounter a plowman homeward plodding his weary way. As I strolled listlessly back to the station, there was such a serenity on the earth about me, and in the sky above me, that I could easily give myself to gentle memories and poetic dreams. I recalled the springtime of life, when I learned this famous Elegy by heart as a pleasant task, and, as yet unsophisticated by critical notions, accepted it as perfect. I thought of innumerable things which I had read about it; of the long and patient revision which its author gave it, year after year, keeping it in his desk, and then sending it, a mere pamphlet, with no flourish of trumpets, into the world. Many an ancient figure came to lend animation to the scene. Horace Walpole in his lace coat and spruce wig went mincing by; the mother of Gray, with her sister, measured lace for the customers who came to her little shop in London; the wags of Pembroke College, graceless varlets, raise an alarm of fire that they may see the frightened poet drop from the window, half dead with alarm; old Foulis, the Glasgow printer, volunteers to send from his press such, a luxurious edition of Gray's poems as the London printers can not match; Dr. Johnson, holding the page to his eyes, growls over this stanza, and half-grudgingly praises that. I had spent perhaps the pleasantest day which the fates vouchsafed me during my sojourn in England; and here I was back again in Slough Station, ready to return to the noisy haunts of men. The train came rattling up, and the day with Gray was over. HAWORTH [Footnote: From "A Literary Pilgrimage." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, J. B. Lippincott Co. Copyright, 1895.] BY THEODORE F. WOLFE Other Brontë shrines have engaged us,--Guiseley, where Patrick Brontë was married and Neilson worked as a mill-girl; the lowly Thornton home, where Charlotte was born; the cottage where she visited Harriet Martineau; the school where she found Caroline Helstone and Rose and Jessy Yorke; the Fieldhead, Lowood, and Thornfield of her tales; the Villette where she knew her hero; but it is the bleak Haworth hilltop where the Brontës wrote the wonderful books and lived the pathetic lives that most attracts and longest holds our steps. Our way is along Airedale, now a highway of toil and trade, desolated by the need of hungry poverty and greed of hungrier wealth; meads are replaced by blocks of grimy huts, groves are supplanted by factory chimneys that assoil earth and heaven, the one "shining" stream is filthy with the refuse of many mills. At Keighley our walk begins, and altho we have no peas in our "Pilgrim shoon," the way is heavy with memories of the sad sisters Brontë who so often trod the dreary miles which bring us to Haworth. The village street, steep as a roof, has a pavement of rude stones, upon which the wooden shoes of the villagers clank with an unfamiliar sound. The dingy houses of gray stone, barren and ugly in architecture, are huddled along the incline and encroach upon the narrow street. The place and its situation are a proverb of ugliness in all the countryside; one dweller in Airedale told us that late in the evening of the last day of creation it was found that a little rubbish was left, and out of that Haworth was made. But, grim and rough as it is, the genius of a little woman has made the place illustrious and draws to it visitors from every quarter of the world. We are come in the "glory season" of the moors, and as we climb through the village we behold above and beyond it vast undulating sweeps of amethyst-tinted hills rising circle beyond circle,--all now one great expanse of purple bloom stirred by zephyrs which waft to us the perfume of the heather. At the hilltop we come to the Black Bull Inn, where one Brontë drowned his genius in drink, and from our apartment here we look upon all the shrines we seek. The inn stands at the churchyard gates, and is one of the landmarks of the place. Long ago preacher Grimshaw flogged the loungers from its taproom into chapel; here Wesley and Whitefield lodged when holding meetings on the hilltop; here Brontë's predecessor took refuge from his riotous parishioners, finally escaping through the low easement at the back,--out of which poor Branwell Brontë used to vault when his sisters asked for him at the door. This inn is a quaint structure, low-eaved and cosy; its furniture is dark with age. We sleep in a bed once occupied by Henry J. Raymond, [Footnote: In the editorial sense, the founder of the New York "Times." Mr. Raymond died in 1869, eighteen years after the paper was started.] and so lofty that steps are provided to ascend its heights. Our meals are served in the old-fashioned parlor to which Branwell came. In a nook between the fireplace and the before-mentioned easement stood the tall arm-chair, with square seat and quaintly carved back, which was reserved for him. The landlady denied that he was summoned to entertain travelers here; "he never needed to be sent for, he came fast enough of himself." His wit and conviviality were usually the life of the circle, but at times he was mute and abstracted and for hours together "would just sit and sit in his corner there." She described him as a "little, red-haired, light-complexioned chap, cleverer than all his sisters put together. What they put in their books they got from him," quoth she, reminding us of the statement in Grundy's Reminiscences that Branwell declared he invented the plot and wrote the major part of "Wuthering Heights." Certain it is he possest transcending genius and that in this room that genius was slain. Here he received the message of renunciation from his depraved mistress which finally wrecked his life; the landlady, entering after the messenger had gone, found him in a fit on the floor. Emily Brontë's rescue of her dog, an incident recorded in "Shirley," occurred at the inn door. The graveyard is so thickly sown with blackened tombstones that there is scant space for blade or foliage to relieve its dreariness, and the villagers, for whom the yard is a thoroughfare, step from tomb to tomb; in the time of the Brontës the village women dried their linen on these graves. Close to the wall which divides the churchyard from the vicarage is a plain stone set by Charlotte Brontë to mark the grave of Tabby, the faithful servant who served the Brontës from their childhood till all but Charlotte were dead. The very ancient church-tower still "rises dark from the stony enclosure of its yard;" the church itself has been remodeled and much of its romantic interest destroyed. No interments have been made in the vaults beneath the aisles since Mr. Brontë was laid there. The site of the Brontë pew is by the chancel; here Emily sat in the farther corner, Anne next and Charlotte by the door, within a foot of the spot where her ashes now lie. A former sacristan remembered to have seen Thackeray and Miss Martineau sitting with Charlotte in the pew. And here, almost directly above her sepulcher, she stood one summer morning and gave herself in marriage to the man who served for her as "faithfully and long as did Jacob for Rachel." The Brontë tablet in the wall bears a uniquely pathetic record, its twelve lines registering eight deaths, of which Mr. Brontë's at the age of eighty-five, is the last. On a side aisle is a beautiful stained window inscribed "To the Glory of God, in Memory of Charlotte Brontë, by an American citizen." The list shows that most of the visitors come from America, and it was left for a dweller in that far land to set up here almost the only voluntary memento of England's great novelist. A worn page of the register displays the tremulous autograph of Charlotte as she signs her maiden name for the last time, and the signatures of the witnesses to her marriage,--Miss Wooler, of "Roe Head," Ellen Nussy, who is the E of Charlotte's letters and the Caroline of "Shirley." The vicarage and its garden are out of a corner of the churchyard and separated from it by a low wall. A lane lies along one side of the churchyard and leads from the street to the vicarage gates. The garden, which was Emily's care, where she tended stunted shrubs and borders of unresponsive flowers and where Charlotte planted the currant-bushes, is beautiful with foliage and flowers, and its boundary wall is overtopped by a screen of trees which shuts out the depressing prospect of the graves from the vicarage windows and makes the place seem less "a churchyard home" than when the Brontës inhabited it. The dwelling is of gray stone, two stories high, of plain and somber aspect. A wing is added, the little window-panes are replaced by larger squares, the stone floors are removed or concealed, curtains--forbidden by Mr. Brontë's dread of fire--shade the window, and the once bare interior is furbished and furnished in modern style; but the arrangement of the apartments is unchanged. Most interesting of these is the Brontë parlor, at the left of the entrance; here the three curates of "Shirley" used to take tea with Mr. Brontë and were upbraided by Charlotte for their intolerance; here the sisters discuss their plots and read each other's MSS.; here they transmuted the sorrows of their lives into the stories which make the name of Brontë immortal; here Emily, "her imagination occupied with Wuthering Heights," watched in the darkness to admit Branwell coming late and drunken from the Black Bull; here Charlotte, the survivor of all, paced the night-watches in solitary anguish, haunted by the vanished faces, the voices forever stilled, the echoing footsteps that came no more. Here, too, she lay in her coffin. The room behind the parlor was fitted by Charlotte for Nichols's study. On the right was Brontë's study, and behind it the kitchen, where the sisters read with their books propt on the table before them while they worked, and where Emily (prototype of "Shirley"), bitten by a dog at the gate of the lane, took one of Tabby's glowing irons from the fire and cauterized the wound, telling no one till danger was past. Above the parlor is the chamber in which Charlotte and Emily died, the scene of Nichols's loving ministrations to his suffering wife. Above Brontë's study was his chamber; the adjoining children's study was later Branwell's apartment and the theater of the most terrible tragedies of the stricken family; here that ill-fated youth writhed in the horrors of mania-a-potu; here Emily rescued him--stricken with drunken stupor--from his burning couch, as "Jane Eyre" saved Rochester; here he breathed out his blighted life erect upon his feet, his pockets filled with love-letters from the perfidious woman who brought his ruin. Even now the isolated site of the parsonage, its environment of graves and wild-moors, its exposure to the fierce winds of the long winters, make it unspeakably dreary; in the Brontës' time it must have been cheerless indeed. Its influence darkened the lives of the inmates and left its fateful impression upon the books here produced. Visitors are rarely admitted to the vicarage; among those against whom its doors have been closed is the gifted daughter of Charlotte's literary idol, to whom "Jane Eyre" was dedicated, Thackeray. By the vicarage lane were the cottage of Tabby's sister, the school the Brontës daily visited, and the sexton's dwelling where the curates lodged. Behind the vicarage a savage expanse of gorse and heather rises to the horizon and stretches many miles away; a path oft-trodden by the Brontës leads between low walls from their home to this open moor, their habitual resort in childhood and womanhood. The higher plateaus afford a wide prospect, but, despite the August bloom and fragrance and the delightful play of light and shadow along the sinuous sweeps, the aspect of the bleak, treeless, houseless waste of uplands is even now dispiriting; when frosts have destroyed its verdure, and wintry skies frown above, its gloom and desolation must be terrible beyond description. Remembering that the sisters found even these usually dismal moors a welcome relief from their tomb of a dwelling, we may appreciate the utter dreariness of their situation and the pathos of Charlotte's declaration, "I always dislike to leave Haworth, it takes so long to be content again after I return." GAD'S HILL [Footnote: From "A Literary Pilgrimage." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, J. B. Lippincott Co. Copyright, 1895.] BY THEODORE F. WOLFE "To go to Gad's Hill," said Dickens, in a note of invitation, "you leave Charing Cross at nine o'clock by North Kent Railway for Higham." Guided by these directions and equipped with a letter from Dickens's son, we find ourselves gliding eastward among the chimneys of London and, a little later, emerging into the fields of Kent,--Jingle's region of "apples, cherries, hops, and women." The Thames is on our left; we pass many river-towns,--Dartford where Wat Tyler lived, Gravesend where Pocahontas died,--but most of our way is through the open country, where we have glimpses of "fields," "parks," and leafy lanes, with here and there picturesque camps of gypsies or of peripatetic rascals "goin' a-hoppin.'" From wretched Higham a walk of half an hour among orchards and between hedges of wild-rose and honeysuckle brings us to the hill which Shakespeare and Dickens have made classic ground, and soon we see, above the tree tops, the glittering vane which surmounted the home of the world's greatest novelist. The name Gad's (Vagabond's) Hill is a survival of the time when the depredations of highwaymen upon "pilgrims going to Canterbury with rich offerings and traders riding to London with fat purses" gave to this spot the ill repute it had in Shakespeare's day; it was here he located Falstaff's great exploit. The tuft of evergreens which crowns the hill about Dickens' retreat is the remnant of thick woods once closely bordering the highway, in which the "men in buckram" lay concealed, and the robbery of the Franklin was committed in front of the spot where the Dickens house stands. By this road passed Chaucer, who had property near by, gathering from the pilgrims his "Canterbury Tales." In all time to come the great master of romance who came here to live and die will be worthily associated with Shakespeare and Chaucer in the renown of Gad's Hill. In becoming possessor of this place Dickens realized a dream of his boyhood and ambition of his life. In one of his travelers' sketches he introduces a "queer small boy" (himself) gazing at Gad's Hill House and predicting his future ownership, which the author finds annoying "because it happens to be my house and I believe what he said was true." When at last the place was for sale, Dickens did not wait to examine it; he never was inside the house until he went to direct its repair. Eighteen hundred pounds was the price; a thousand more were expended for enlargement of the grounds and alterations of the house, which, despite his declaration that he had "stuck bits upon it in all manner of ways," did not greatly change it from what it was when it became the goal of his childish aspirations. At first it was his summer residence merely,--his wife came with him the first summer,--but three years later he sold Tavistock House, and Gad's Hill was thenceforth his home. From the bustle and din of the city he returned to the haunts of his boyhood to find restful quiet and time for leisurely work among these "blessed woods and fields" which had ever held his heart. For nine years after the death of Dickens Gad's Hill was occupied by his oldest son; its ownership has since twice or thrice changed. Its elevated site and commanding view render it one of the most conspicuous, as it is one of the most lovely, spots in Kent. The mansion is an unpretentious, old-fashioned, two-storied structure of fourteen rooms. Its brick walls are surmounted by Mansard roofs above which rises a bell-turret; a pillared portico, where Dickens sat with his family on summer evenings, shades the front entrance; wide bay-windows project upon either side; flowers and vines clamber upon the walls, and a delightfully home-like air pervades the place. It seems withal a modest seat for one who left half a million dollars at his death. At the right of the entrance-hall we see Dickens's library and study, a cosy room shown in the picture of "The Empty Chair;" here are shelves which held his books; the panels he decorated with counterfeit bookbacks; the nook where perched, the mounted remains of his raven, the "Grip" of "Barnaby Rudge." By this bay-window, whence he could look across the lawn to the cedars beyond the highway, stood his chair and the desk where he wrote many of the works by which the world will know him always. Behind the study was his billiard-room, and upon the opposite side of the hall the parlor, with the dining-room adjoining it at the back, both bedecked with the many mirrors which delighted the master. Opening out of these rooms is a conservatory, paid for out of "the golden shower from America" and completed but a few days before Dickens' death, holding yet the ferns he tended. The dining-room was the scene of much of that emphatic hospitality which it pleased the novelist to dispense, his exuberant spirits making him the leader in all the jollity and conviviality of the board. Here he compounded for bibulous guests his famous "cider-cup of Gad's Hill," and at the same table he was stricken with death; on a couch beneath yonder window, the one nearest the hall, he died on the anniversary of the railway accident which so frightfully imperiled his life. From this window we look out upon a lawn decked with shrubbery and see across undulating cornfields his beloved Cobham. From the parqueted hall, stairs lead to the modest chambers--that of Dickens being above the drawing-room. He lined the stairway with prints of Hogarth's works, and declared he never came down the stairs without pausing to wonder at the sagacity and skill which had produced these masterful pictures of human life. The house is invested with roses, and parterres of the red geraniums which the master loved are ranged upon every side. It was some fresh manifestation of his passion for these flowers that elicited from his daughter the averment, "Papa, I think when you are an angel your wings will be made of looking-glasses and your crown of scarlet geraniums." Beneath a rose-tree not far from the window where Dickens died, a bed blooming with blue lobelia holds the tiny grave of "Dick" and the tender memorial of the novelist to that "Best of Birds." The row of gleaming limes which shadow the porch was planted by Dickens's own hands. The pedestal of the sundial upon the lawn is a massive balustrade of the old stone bridge at nearby Rochester, which little David Copperfield crossed "footsore and weary" on his way to his aunt, and from which Pickwick contemplated the castle-ruin, the cathedral, the peaceful Medway. At the left of the mansion are the carriage-house and the school-room of Dickens' sons. In another portion of the grounds are his tennis-court and the bowling-green which he prepared, where he became a skilful and tireless player. The broad meadow beyond the lawn was a later purchase, and the many limes which beautify it were rooted by Dickens. Here numerous cricket-matches were played, and he would watch the players or keep the score "The whole day long." It was in this meadow that he rehearsed his readings, and his talking, laughing, weeping, and gesticulating here "all to himself" excited among his neighbors suspicion of his insanity. From the front lawn a tunnel constructed by Dickens passes beneath the highway to "The Wilderness," a thickly-wooded shrubbery, where magnificent cedars up-rear their venerable forms and many somber firs, survivors of the forest which erst covered the countryside, cluster upon the hill top. Here Dickens's favorite dog, the "Linda" of his letters, lies buried. Amid the leafy seclusion of this retreat, and upon the very spot where Falstaff was routed by Hal and Poins ("the eleven men in buckram"), Dickens erected the chalet sent to him in pieces by Fechter, the upper room of which--up among the quivering boughs, where "birds and butterflies fly in and out, and green branches shoot in at the windows"--Dickens lined with mirrors and used as his study in summer. Of the work produced at Gad's Hill--"A Tale of Two Cities," "The Uncommercial Traveler," "Our Mutual Friend," "The Mystery of Edwin Drood," and many tales and sketches of "All the Year Round"--much was written in this leaf-environed nook; here the master wrought through the golden hours of his last day of conscious life, here he wrote his last paragraph and at the close of that June day let fall his pen, never to take it up again. From the place of the chalet we behold the view which delighted the heart of Dickens--his desk was so placed that his eyes would rest upon this view whenever he raised them from his work--the fields of waving corn, the green expanse of meadows, the sail-dotted river. RYDAL MOUNT [Footnote: From "Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT As you advance a mile or more on the road from Ambleside toward Grasmere, a lane overhung with trees turns up to the right, and there, at some few hundred yards from the highway, stands the modest cottage of the poet, elevated on Rydal Mount, so as to look out over the surrounding sea of foliage, and to take in a glorious view. Before it, at some distance across the valley, stretches a high screen of bold and picturesque mountains; behind, it is overtowered by a precipitous hill, called Nab-scar; but to the left, you look down over the broad waters of Windermere, and to the right over the still and more embosomed flood of Grasmere. Whichever way the poet pleases to advance from his house, it must be into scenery of that beauty of mountain, stream, wood, and lake, which has made Cumberland so famous over all England. He may steal away up backward from his gate and ascend into the solitary hills, or diverging into the grounds of Lady Mary Fleming, his near neighbor, may traverse the deep shades of the woodland, wander along the banks of the rocky rivulet, and finally stand before the well known waterfall there. If he descend into the highway, objects of beauty still present themselves. Cottages and quiet houses here and there glance from their little spots of Paradise, through the richest boughs of trees; Windermere, with its wide expanse of waters, its fairy islands, its noble hills, allures his steps in one direction; while the sweet little lake of Rydal, with its heronry and its fine background of rocks, invites him in another. In this direction the vale of Grasmere, the scene of his early married life, opens before him, and Dunmail-raise and Langdale-pikes lift their naked corky summits, as hailing him to the pleasures of old companionship. Into no quarter of this region of lakes, and mountains, and vales of primitive life, can he penetrate without coming upon ground celebrated by his muse. He is truly "sole king of rocky Cumberland." The immediate grounds in which his house stands are worthy of the country and the man. It is, as its name implies, a mount. Before the house opens a considerable platform, and around and beneath lie various terraces and descend various walks, winding on amid a profusion of trees and luxuriant evergreens. Beyond the house, you ascend various terraces, planted with trees now completely overshadowing them; and these terraces conduct you to a level above the house-top, and extend your view of the enchanting scenery on all sides. Above you tower the rocks and precipitous slopes of Nab-scar; and below you, embosomed in its trees, lies the richly ornate villa of Mr. William Ball, a friend, whose family and the poet's are on such social terms, that a little gate between their premises opens both to each family alike. This cottage and grounds were formerly the property of Charles Lloyd, also a friend, and one of the Bristol and Stowey coterie. Both he and Lovell have been long dead; Lovell, indeed, was drowned, on a voyage to Ireland, in the very heyday of the dreams of Pantisocracy, in which he was an eager participant. The poet's house, itself, is a proper poet's abode. It is at once modest, plain, yet tasteful and elegant. An ordinary dining-room, a breakfast-room in the center, and a library beyond, form the chief apartments. There are a few pictures and busts, especially those of Scott and himself, a good engraving of Burns, and the like, with a good collection of books, few of them very modern. TWICKENHAM [Footnote: From "Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT It seems that Pope did not purchase the freehold of the house and grounds at Twickenham, but only a long lease. He took his father and mother along with him. His father died there the year after, but his mother continued to live till 1733, when she died at the great age of ninety-three. For twenty years she had the singular satisfaction of seeing her son the first poet of his age; carest by the greatest men of the time, courted by princes, and feared by all the base. No parents ever found a more tender and dutiful son. With him they shared in honor the ease and distinction he had acquired. They were the cherished objects of his home. Swift paid him no false compliment when he said, in condoling with him on his mother's death, "You are the most dutiful son I have ever known or heard of, which is a felicity not happening to one in a million." The property at Twickenham is properly described by Roscoe as lying on both sides of the highway, rendering it necessary for him to cross the road to arrive at the higher and more ornamental part of his gardens. In order to obviate this inconvenience, he had recourse to the expedient of excavating a passage under the road from one part of his grounds to the other, a fact to which he alludes in these lines: "Know all the toil the heavy world can heap, Rolls o'er my grotto, nor disturbs my sleep." The lower part of these grounds, in which his house stood, constituted, in fact, only the sloping bank of the river, by much the smaller portion of his territory. The passage, therefore, was very necessary to that far greater part, which was his wilderness, shrubbery, forest, and every thing, where he chiefly planted and worked. This passage he formed into a grotto, having a front of rude stonework opposite to the river and decorated within with spars, ores, and shells. Of this place he has himself left this description: "I have put the last hand to my works of this kind, in happily finishing the subterranean way and grotto. I found there a spring of the clearest water, which falls in a perpetual rill, that echoes through the cavern night and day. From the River Thames you see through my arch, up a walk of the wilderness, to a kind of open temple wholly composed of shells in the rustic manner; and from that distance under the temple you look down through a sleeping arcade of trees, and see the sails on the river passing suddenly and vanishing, as through a perspective glass. When you shut the door of this grotto, it becomes, on the instant, from a luminous room, a camera obscura, on the walls of which all the objects of the river, hills, woods, and boats are forming a moving picture, in their visible radiations; and when you have a mind to light it less, it affords you a very different scene. It is finished with shells, interspersed with looking-glass in regular forms, and in the ceiling is a star of the same material, at which, when a lamp of an orbicular figure of thin alabaster is hung in the middle, a thousand pointed rays glitter, and are reflected over the place. There are connected to this grotto, by a narrow passage, two porches, one toward the river, of smooth stones full of light and open; the other toward the garden, shadowed with trees, rough with shells, flints, and iron ore. The bottom is paved with simple pebbles, as is also the adjoining walk up the wilderness to the temple, in the natural state, agreeing not ill with the little dripping murmur, and the aquatic idea of the whole place. It wants nothing to complete it but a good statue with an inscription, like that beautiful antique one which you know I am so fond of. You will think I have been very poetical in this description; but it is pretty near the truth." But it was not merely in forming this grotto that Pope employed himself; it was in building and extending his house, which was in a Roman style, with columns, arcades, and porticos. The designs and elevations of these buildings may be seen by his own hand in the British Museum, drawn in his usual way on backs of letters. The following passage, in a letter to Mr. Digby, will be sufficient to give us his idea of both his Thamesward garden and his house in a summer view: "No ideas you could form in the winter could make you imagine what Twickenham is in this warm summer. Our river glitters beneath the unclouded sun, at the same time that its banks retain the verdure of showers; our gardens are offering their first nosegays; our trees, like new acquaintance brought happily together, are stretching their arms to meet each other, and growing nearer and nearer every hour. The birds are paying their thanksgiving songs for the new habitations I have made them. My building rises high enough to attract the eye and curiosity of the passenger from the river, where, upon beholding a mixture of beauty and ruin, he inquires, 'What house is falling, or what church is arising?' So little taste have our common Tritons for Vitruvius; whatever delight the poetical gods of the river may take in reflecting on their streams, my Tuscan porticos, or Ionic pilasters." Pope's architecture, like his poetry, has been the subject of much and vehement dispute. On the one hand, his grottos and his buildings have been vituperated as most tasteless and childish; on the other, applauded as beautiful and romantic. Into neither of these disputes need we enter. In both poetry and architecture a bolder spirit and a better taste have prevailed since Pope's time. With all his foibles and defects, Pope was a great poet of the critical and didactic kind, and his house and place had their peculiar beauties. He was himself half inclined to suspect the correctness of his fancy in such matters, and often rallies himself on his gimcracks and crotchets in both verse and prose.... Pope's building madness, however, had method in it. Unlike the great romancer and builder of our time, [Footnote: Sir Walter Scott] he never allowed such things to bring him into debt. He kept his mind at ease by such prudence, and soothed and animated it under circumstances of continued evil by working among his trees, and grottos, and vines, and at his labors of poetry and translations. At the period succeeding the rebellion of 1715, when that event had implicated and scattered so many of his highest and most powerful friends, here he was laboring away at his "Homer" with a progress which astonished every one. Removed at once from the dissipations and distractions of London, and from the agreeable interruptions of such society, he found leisure and health enough here to give him vigor for exertions astonishing for so weak a frame. The tastes he indulged here, if they were not faultless according to our notions, were healthy, and they endured. To the end of his life he preserved his strong attachment to his house and grounds. V OTHER ENGLISH SCENES STONEHENGE [Footnote: From "English Traits." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co. Emerson's second visit to England, during which he saw Stonehenge, was made in 1847. Of all the Druidical remains in Europe, Stonehenge is perhaps the most remarkable, altho at Carnac in Brittany on the northern shore of the Bay of Biscay, are Druidical remains more numerous, but in general they are smaller and less suggestive of constructive design.] BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON We left the train at Salisbury, and took a carriage to Amesbury, passing by Old Sarum, a bare, treeless hill, once containing the town which sent two members to Parliament--now, not a hut--and, arriving at Amesbury, we stopt at the George Inn. After dinner we walked to Salisbury Plain. On the broad downs, under the gray sky, not a house was visible, nothing but Stonehenge, which looked like a group of brown dwarfs in the wide expanse--Stonehenge and the barrows, which rose like green bosses about the plain, and a few hay ricks. On the top of a mountain the old temple would not be more impressive. Far and wide a few shepherds with their flocks sprinkled the plain, and a bagman drove along the road. It looked as if the wide margin given in this crowded isle to this primeval temple were accorded by the veneration of the British race to the old egg out of which all their ecclesiastical structures and history had proceeded. Stonehenge is a circular colonnade with a diameter of a hundred feet, and enclosing a second and third colonnade within. We walked round the stones, and clambered over them, to wont ourselves with their strange aspect and groupings, and found a nook sheltered from the wind among them, where C. [Footnote: Thomas Carlyle, the author of "Sartor Resartus," etc., etc.] lighted his cigar. It was pleasant to see that just this simplest of all simple structures--two upright stones and a lintel laid across--had long outstood all later churches, and all history, and were like what is most permanent on the face of the planet: these, and the barrows--(mere mounds of which there are a hundred and sixty within a circle of three miles about Stonehenge)--like the same mound on the plain of Troy, which still makes good to the passing mariner on Hellespont, the vaunt of Homer and the fame of Achilles. Within the enclosure grow buttercups, nettles, and, all around, wild thyme, daisy, meadowsweet, goldenrod, thistle, and the carpeting grass. Over us, larks were soaring and singing--as my friend said: "the larks which were hatched last year, and the wind which was hatched many thousand years ago." We counted and measured by paces the biggest stones, and soon knew as much as any man can suddenly know of the inscrutable temple. There are ninety-four stones, and there were once probably one hundred and sixty. The temple is circular and uncovered, and the situation fixt astronomically--the grand entrances here, and at Abury, being placed exactly northeast, "as all the gates of the old cavern temples are." How came the stones here, for these sarsens or Druidical sandstones are not found in this neighborhood? The sacrificial stone, as it is called, is the only one in all these blocks that can resist the action of fire, and, as I read in the books, must have been brought one hundred and fifty miles. On almost every stone we found the marks of the mineralogist's hammer and chisel. The nineteen smaller stones of the inner circle are of granite. I, who had just come from Professor Sedgwick's Cambridge Museum of megatheria and mastodons, was ready to maintain that some cleverer elephants or mylodonta had borne off and laid these rocks one on another. Only the good beasts must have known how to cut a well-wrought tenon and mortise, and to smooth the surface of some of the stones. The chief mystery is, that any mystery should have been allowed to settle on so remarkable a monument, in a country on which all the muses have kept their eyes now for eighteen hundred years. We are not yet too late to learn much more than is known of this structure. Some diligent Fellowes or Layard will arrive, stone by stone, at the whole history, by that exhaustive British sense and perseverance, so whimsical in its choice of objects, which leaves its own Stonehenge or Choir Gaur to the rabbits, while it opens pyramids, and uncovers Nineveh. Stonehenge, in virtue of the simplicity of its plan, and its good preservation, is as if new and recent; and, a thousand years hence, men will thank this age for the accurate history it will yet eliminate. MAGNA CHARTA ISLAND [Footnote: From "Pilgrimages to English Shrines." Magna Charta Island lies in the Thames, a few miles below Windsor.] BY MRS. S. C. HALL. The Company of Basket-makers (if there be such a company) have claimed a large portion of the field--where the barons, "clad in complete steel," assembled to confer with King John upon the great charter of English freedom, by which, Hume truly but coldly says, "very important liabilities and privileges were either granted or secured to every order of men in the kingdom; to the clergy, to the barons, and to the people"--the Basket-makers, we say, have availed themselves of the low land of Runnymead to cultivate osiers; piles and stacks of "withies" in various stages of utility, for several hundred yards shut out the river from the wayfarer, but as he proceeds they disappear, and Cooper's Hill on the left, the rich flat of Runnymead, the Thames, and the groves of time-honored Anckerwycke, on its opposite bank, form together a rich and most interesting picture. It is now nearly a hundred years since it was first proposed to erect a triumphal column upon Runnymead; but we have sometimes a strange antipathy to do what would seem avoidable; the monument to the memory of Hampden is a sore proof of the niggardliness of liberals to the liberal; but all monuments to such a man or to such a cause must appear poor; the names "Hampden" and "Runnymead" suffice; the green and verdant mead, encircled by the coronet of Cooper's Hill, reposing beneath the sun, and shadowed by the passing cloud, is an object of reverence and beauty, immortalized by the glorious liberty which the bold barons of England forced from a spiritless tyrant. Tho Cooper's Hill has no claim to the sublimity of mountain scenery, its peculiar situation commands a broad expanse of country. It rises abruptly from the Runnymead meadows, and extends its long ridge in a northwesterly direction; the summit is approached by a winding road, which from different points of the ascent progressively unfolds a gorgeous number of fertile views, such as no other country in the world can give. "Of hills and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, And glittering towns, and silver streams." We have heard that the views from Kingswood Lodge--the dwelling of the hill--are delicious, and that its conservatory contains an exquisite marble statue of "Hope." On the west of Cooper's Hill is the interesting estate of Anckerwycke Purnish. Anckerwycke has been for a series of years in the possession of the family of Harcourt. There is a "meet" of the three shires in this vicinity--Surrey, Buckinghamshire, and Berkshire. The views from the grounds of Anekerwycke are said to be of exceeding beauty, and the kindness of its master makes eloquent the poor about his domain. All these things, and the sound of the rippling waters of the Thames, and the songs of the myriad birds which congregate in its groves, and the legends sprung of its antiquity, all contribute to the adornment of the gigantic fact that here, King John, sorely against his will, signed Magna Charta! How that single fact fills the soul, and nerves the spirit; how proudly the British birthright throbs within our bosoms. We long to lead the new Napoleon, the absolute Nicholas, the frank, hospitable, and brave, but sometimes overconfident American, to this green sward of Runnymead and tell them that here was secured to the Englishman a liberty which other nations have never enjoyed! Here in the thickset beauty of yon little island, was our Charter granted. There has been much dispute as to whether the Charter was signed upon the Mead or on the island called "Magna Charta Island," which forms a charming feature in the landscape, and upon which is built a little sort of altar-house, so to call it. We leave the settlement of such matters to wiser and more learned heads; but we incline to the idea that John would have felt even the mimic ferry a protection. The island looks even now exclusive, and as we were impelled to its shore, we indulged the belief that the charter was really there signed by the king. There was a poetic feeling in whoever planted the bank of "Forget-me-not" just at the entrance to the low apartment which was fitted up to contain the charter stone, by the late Simon Harcourt, Esq., in the year 1835. The inscription on the stone is as follows:--"Be it remembered, that on this island, in June, 1215, John, King of England, Signed the Magna Charta, and in the year 1834, this building was erected in commemoration of that great and important event by George Simon Harcourt, Esq., Lord of the Manor and then High Sheriff of the county." A gentleman rents the island from Mr. Harcourt, and has built there a Gothic cottage in excellent keeping with the place. It adjoins the altar-room, but does not interfere with it, nor with the privileges so graciously bestowed on the public by Mr. Harcourt--permitting patriots or fishermen to visit the island, and picnic in a tent prepared for the purpose, under the shelter of some superb walnut trees. THE HOME OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS [Footnote: From "Old England: Its Scenery, Art and People." Published Toy Houghton, Mifflin Co.] BY JAMES M. HOPPIN. Twelve miles to the south of Doncaster, on the great Northern line of railway, and just at the junction of Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire, and Lincolnshire, in the county of Nottingham, but bordering upon the fenny districts of Lincolnshire, whose monotonous scenery reminds one of Holland, lies the village of Scrooby. Surely it is of more interest to us than all the Pictish forts and Roman walls that the "Laird of Monkbarns" ever dreamed of. I was dropt out of the railway-carriage, which hardly stopt upon a wide plain at a miniature station-house, with some suspicions of a church and small village across the flat rushy fields in the distance. This was indeed the humble village (tho now beginning to be better known) which I had been searching for; and which nobody of whom I inquired in Doncaster, or on the line of the railway, seemed to know anything about, or even that such a place existed. I made its discovery by the help of a good map. The station-master said he came to Scrooby in 1851, and then it numbered three hundred inhabitants; and since that time there had been but twelve deaths. My search for the manor-house where Brewster and Bradford established the first church of the Pilgrims, was, for a time, entirely fruitless. I inquired of a genuine "Hodge" working in the fields; but his round red face showed no glimmer of light on the matter so far removed from beans and barley. I next encountered a good Wesleyan minister, trudging his morning circuit of pastoral visitation, but could gain nothing from him, tho a chatty, communicative man. At the venerable stone church of Scrooby, very rude and plain in architecture, but by no means devoid of picturesqueness, I was equally unsuccessful. The verger of the church, who is generally the learned man of the village, was absent; and his daughter knew nothing outside the church and churchyard. I strolled along the grassy country road that ran through the place till I met a white-haired old countryman, who proved to be the most intelligent soul in the neighborhood. He put his cane to his chin, shut and opened his eyes, and at last told me in broad Yorkshire, that he thought the place I was looking for must be what they called "the bishop's house," where Squire Dickinson lived. Set at last upon the right track, I walked across two swampy meadows that bordered the Idle River--pertinently named--till I came to a solitary farmhouse with a red-tiled roof. Some five or six slender poplar-trees stood at the back of it, and a ditch of water at one end, where there had been evidently an ancient moat--"a moated grange." It was a desolate spot, and was rendered more so just then by the coming up of a thunder-storm, whose "avant courier," the wind, made the slender poplars and osiers bend and twist. Squire John Dickinson, the present inhabitant of the house, which is owned by Richard Monckton Milnes, the poet, gave me a hearty farmer's welcome. I think he said there had been one other American there before; at any rate he had an inkling that he was squatted on soil of some peculiar interest to Americans. He introduced me to his wife and daughters, healthy and rosy-cheeked English women, and made me sit down to a hospitable luncheon. He entertained me with a discourse upon the great amount of hard work to be done in farming among these bogs, and wished he had never undertaken it, but had gone to America or Australia. The house, he said, was rickety enough, but he contrived to make it do. It was, he thought, principally made of what was once a part of the stable of the Manor House. The palace itself has now entirely disappeared; "but," said my host, "dig anywhere around here and you will find the ruins of the old palace." Dickinson said that he himself was reared in Austerfield, a few miles off in Yorkshire; and that a branch of the Bradford family still lived there. After luncheon I was shown Cardinal Wolsey's mulberry-tree, or what remained of it; and in one of the barns, some elaborately carved woodwork and ornamental beams, covered with dirt and cobwebs, were pointed out, which undoubtedly belonged to the archiepiscopal palace. This was all that remained of the house where Elder Brewster once lived, and gathered his humble friends about him, in a simple form of worship.... This manor was assigned to the Archbishop of York in the "Doomsday Book." Cardinal Wolsey, when he held that office, passed some time at this palace. While he lived there, Henry VIII. slept a night in the house. It came into Archbishop Sandys's hands in 1576. He gave it by lease to his son, Samuel Sandys, under whom Brewster held the manor. Brewster, as is now well known, was the Post-Superintendent of Scrooby, an important position in those days, lying as the village did, and does now, upon the great northern line of travel from London to Yorkshire, Northumberland, and Scotland.... But to look at this lonely and decayed manor-house, standing in the midst of these flat and desolate marshes, and at this most obscure village of the land, this Nazareth of England, slumbering in rustic ignorance and stupid apathy, and to think of what has come out of this place, of what vast influences and activities have issued from this quiet and almost listless scene, one has strange feelings. The storied "Alba Longa," from which Rome sprang, is an interesting spot, but the newly discovered spiritual birthplace of America may excite deeper emotions. OXFORD [Footnote: From "Oxford and Her Colleges." By arrangement with the publishers, Macmillan Co. Copyright, 1893.] BY GOLDWIN SMITH There is in Oxford much that is not as old as it looks. The buildings of the Bodleian Library, University College, Oriel, Exeter, and some others, medieval or half medieval in their style, are Stuart in date. In Oxford the Middle Ages lingered long. Yon cupola of Christ Church is the work of Wren, yon towers of All Souls' are the work of a still later hand. The Headington stone, quickly growing black and crumbling, gives the buildings a false hue of antiquity. An American visitor, misled by the blackness of University College, remarked to his host that the buildings must be immensely old. "No," replied his host, "their color deceives you; their age is not more than two hundred years." It need not be said that Palladian edifices like Queen's, or the new buildings of Magdalen, are not the work of a Chaplain of Edward III., or a Chancellor of Henry VI. But of the University buildings, St. Mary's Church and the Divinity School, of the College buildings, the old quadrangles of Merton, New College, Magdalen, Brasenose, and detached pieces not a few are genuine Gothic of the Founders' age. Here are six centuries, if you choose to include the Norman castle, here are eight centuries, and, if you choose to include certain Saxon remnants in Christ Church Cathedral, here are ten centuries, chronicled in stone. Of the corporate lives of these Colleges, the threads have run unbroken through all the changes and revolutions, political, religious, and social, between the Barons' War and the present hour. The economist goes to their muniment rooms for the record of domestic management and expenditure during those ages. Till yesterday, the codes of statutes embodying their domestic law, tho largely obsolete, remained unchanged. Nowhere else in England, at all events, unless it be at the sister University, can the eye and mind feed upon so much antiquity, certainly not upon so much antique beauty, as on the spot where we stand. That all does not belong to the same remote antiquity, adds to the interest and to the charm. This great home of learning, with its many architectures, has been handed from generation to generation, each generation making its own improvements, impressing its own tastes, embodying its own tendencies, down to the present hour. It is like a great family mansion, which owner after owner has enlarged or improved to meet his own needs or tastes, and which, thus chronicling successive phases of social and domestic life, is wanting in uniformity but not in living interest or beauty. Oxford is a federation of Colleges. It had been strictly so for two centuries, and every student had been required to be a member of a college when, in 1856, non-collegiate students, of whom there are now a good many, were admitted. The University is the federal government. The Chancellor, its nominal head, is a non-resident grandee, usually a political leader whom the University delights to honor and whose protection it desires. Only on great state occasions does he appear in his gown richly embroidered with gold. The acting chief is the Vice-Chancellor, one of the heads of Colleges, who marches with the Bedel carrying the mace before him, and has been sometimes taken by strangers for the attendant of the Bedel. With him are the two Proctors, denoted by their velvet sleeves, named by the Colleges in turn, the guardians of University discipline. The University Legislature consists of three houses--an elective Council, made up equally of heads of Colleges, professors, and Masters of Arts; the Congregation of residents, mostly teachers of the University or Colleges; and the Convocation, which consists of all Masters of Arts, resident or non-resident, if they are present to vote. Congregation numbers 400, Convocation nearly 6,000. Legislation is initiated by the Council, and has to make its way through Convocation and Congregation, with some chance of being wrecked between the academical Congregation, which is progressive, and the rural Convocation, which is conservative. The University regulates the general studies, holds all the examinations, except that at entrance, which is held by the Colleges, confers all the degrees and honors, and furnishes the police of the academical city. Its professors form the general and superior staff of teachers. Each College, at the same time, is a little polity in itself. It has its own governing body, consisting of a Head (President, Master, Principal, Provost, or Warden) and a body of Fellows. It holds its own estates; noble estates, some of them are. It has its private staff of teachers or tutors, usually taken from the Fellows, tho the subjects of teaching are those recognized by the University examinations.... The buildings of the University lie mainly in the center of the city around us. There is the Convocation House, the hall of the University Legislature, where, in times of collision between theological parties, or between the party of the ancient system of education and that of the modern system, lively debates have been heard. In it, also, are conferred the ordinary degrees. They are still conferred in the religious form of words, handed down from the Middle Ages, the candidate kneeling down before the Vice-Chancellor in the posture of medieval homage. Oxford is the classic ground of old forms and ceremonies. Before each degree is conferred, the Proctors march up and down the House to give any objector to the degree--an unsatisfied creditor, for example--the opportunity of entering a caveat by "plucking" the Proctor's sleeve. Adjoining the Convocation House is the Divinity School, the only building of the University, saving St. Mary's Church, which dates from the Middle Ages. A very beautiful relic of the Middle Ages it is when seen from the gardens of Exeter College. Here are held the examinations for degrees in theology, styled, in Oxford of old, queen of the sciences, and long their tyrant. Here, again, is the Sheldonian Theater, the gift of Archbishop Sheldon, a Primate of the Restoration period, and as readers of Pepys's "Diary" know, of Restoration character, but a patron of learning.... The Clarendon was built with the proceeds of the history written by the Minister of the early Restoration, who was Chancellor of the University, and whose touching letter of farewell to her, on his fall and flight from England, may be seen in the Bodleian Library. There, also, are preserved documents which may help to explain his fall. They are the written dialogs which passed between him and his master at the board of the Privy Council, and they show that Clarendon, having been the political tutor of Charles the exile, too much bore himself as the political tutor of Charles the king. In the Clarendon are the University Council Chamber and the Registry. Once it was the University press, but the press has now a far larger mansion yonder to the northwest, whence, besides works of learning and science, go forth Bibles and prayer-books in all languages to all quarters of the globe. Legally, as a printer of Bibles the University has a privilege, but its real privilege is that which it secures for itself by the most scrupulous accuracy and by infinitesimal profits. Close by is the University Library, the Bodleian, one of those great libraries of the world in which you can ring up at a few minutes' notice almost any author of any age or country. This Library is one of those entitled by law to a copy of every book printed in the United Kingdom, and it is bound to preserve all that it receives, a duty which might in the end burst any building, were it not that the paper of many modern books is happily perishable.... We stand in the Radcliffe, formerly the medical and physical library, now a supplement and an additional reading-room of the Bodleian, the gift of Dr. Radcliffe, Court Physician and despot of the profession in the times of William and Anne, of whose rough sayings, and sayings more than rough, some are preserved in his "Life." He it was who told William III. that he would not have His Majesty's two legs for his three kingdoms, and who is said to have punished the giver of a niggardly fee by a prediction of death, which was fulfilled by the terrors of the patient. Close at hand is the Ashmolean, the old University Museum, now only a museum of antiquities, the most precious of which is King Alfred's gem. Museum and Medical Library have together migrated to the new edifice on the north side of the city. But of all the University buildings the most beautiful is St. Mary's Church, where the University sermons are preached, and from the pulpit of which, in the course of successive generations and successive controversies, a changeful and often heady current of theology has flowered. There preached Newman, Pusey, and Manning; there preached Hampden, Stanley, and the authors of "Essays and Reviews." ... On the north of the city, where fifty years ago stretched green fields, is now seen a suburb of villas, all of them bespeaking comfort and elegance, few of them overweening wealth. These are largely the monuments of another great change, the removal of the rule of celibacy from the Fellowships, and the introduction of a large body of married teachers devoted to their profession, as well as of the revival of the Professorships, which were always tenable by married men. Fifty years ago the wives of Heads of Houses, who generally married late in life if they married at all, constituted, with one or two officers of the University, the whole female society of Oxford. The change was inevitable, if education was to be made a profession, instead of being, as it had been in the hands of celibate Fellows of Colleges, merely the transitory occupation of a man whose final destination was the parish. Those who remember the old Common Room life, which is now departing, can not help looking back with a wistful eye to its bachelor ease, its pleasant companionship, its interesting talk and free interchange of thought, its potations neither "deep" nor "dull." Nor were its symposia without important fruits when such men as Newman and Ward, on one side, encountered such men as Whateley, Arnold, and Tait, on the other side in Common Room talk over great questions of the day. But the life became dreary when a man had passed forty, and it is well exchanged for the community that fills those villas, and which, with its culture, its moderate and tolerably equal incomes, permitting hospitality but forbidding luxury, and its unity of interests with its diversity of acquirements and accomplishments, seems to present the ideal conditions of a pleasant social life. The only question is, how the College system will be maintained when the Fellows are no longer resident within the walls of the College to temper and control the younger members, for a barrack of undergraduates is not a good thing. The personal bond and intercourse between Tutor and pupil under the College system was valuable as well as pleasant; it can not be resigned without regret. But its loss will be compensated by far superior teaching. CAMBRIDGE [Footnote: From "Old England: Its Scenery, Art and People." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] BY JAMES M. HOPPIN. I was struck with the positive resemblances between Oxford and Cambridge. Both are situated on slightly rising ground, with broad green meadows and a flat, fenny country stretching around them. The winding and muddy Cam, holding the city in its arm, might be easily taken for the fond but still more capricious Isis, tho both of them are insignificant streams; and Jesus' College Green and Midsummer Common at Cambridge, correspond to Christ Church Meadows and those bordering the Cherwell at Oxford. At a little distance, the profile of Cambridge is almost precisely like that of Oxford, while glorious King's College Chapel makes up all deficiencies in the architectural features and outline of Cambridge. Starting from Bull Inn, we will not linger long in the streets, tho we might be tempted to do so by the luxurious book-shops, but will make straight for the gateway of Trinity College. This gateway is itself a venerable and imposing structure, altho a mass of houses clustered about it destroys its unity with the rest of the college buildings. Between its two heavy battlemented towers are a statue of Edward III. and his coat-of-arms; and over the gate Sir Isaac Newton had his observatory. This gateway introduces into a noble court, called the Great Court, with a carved stone fountain or canopied well in the center, and buildings of irregular sizes and different ages inclosing it. The chapel which forms the northern side of this court dates back to 1564. In the ante-chapel, or vestibule, stands the statue of Sir Isaac Newton, by Roubiliac. It is spirited, but, like all the works of this artist, unnaturally attenuated. The head is compact rather than large, and the forehead square rather than high. The face has an expression of abstract contemplation, and is looking up, as if the mind were just fastening upon the beautiful law of light which is suggested by the hand holding a prism. By the door of the screen entering into the chapel proper, are the sitting statues of Sir Francis Bacon and Dr. Isaac Barrow, two more giants of this college. The former represents the philosopher in a sitting posture, wearing his high-crowned hat, and leaning thoughtfully upon his hand. The hall of Trinity College, which separates the Great Court from the Inner or Neville Court, (courts in Cambridge, quads in Oxford), is the glory of the college. Its interior is upward of one hundred feet in length, oak-wainscoted, with deep beam-work ceiling, now black with age, and an enormous fireplace, which in winter still blazes with its old hospitable glow. At the upper end where the professors and fellows sit, hang the portraits of Bacon and Newton. I had the honor of dining in this most glorious of banqueting-halls, at the invitation of a fellow of the college. Before meals, the ancient Latin, grace, somewhat abbreviated, is pronounced. We pass through the hall into Neville Court, three sides of which are cloistered, and in the eastern end of which stands the fine library building, built through the exertions of Dr. Barrow, who was determined that nothing in Oxford should surpass his own darling college. The library room is nearly two hundred feet long, with tesselated marble floor, and with the busts of the great men of Trinity ranged around the walls. The wood-carvings of Grinling Gibbons that adorn this room, of flowers, fruit, wheat, grasshoppers, birds, are of singular beauty, and make the hard oak fairly blossom and live. This library contains the most complete collection of the various editions of Shakespeare's Works which exists. Thorwaldsen's statue of Byron, who was a student of this college, stands at the south end of the room. It represents him in the bloom of youth, attired as a pilgrim, with pencil in hand and a broken Grecian column at his feet.... The next neighbor to Trinity on the north, and the next in point of size and importance in the University, is St. John's College. It has four courts, one opening into the other. It also is jealously surrounded by high walls, and its entrance is by a ponderous old tower, having a statue of St. John the Evangelist over the gateway. Through a covered bridge, not unlike "the Bridge of Sighs," one passes over the stream to a group of modern majestic castellated buildings of yellow stone belonging to this college. The grounds, walks, and thick groves connected with this building form an elegant academic shade, and tempt to a life of exclusive study and scholarly accumulation, of growing fat in learning, without perhaps growing muscular in the effort to use it.... King's College, founded by Henry VII., from whom it takes its name, comes next in order. Its wealthy founder, who, like his son, loved architectural pomp, had great designs in regard to this institution, which were cut off by his death, but the massive unfinished gateway of the old building stands as a regal specimen of what the whole plan would have been had it been carried out. Henry VIII., however, perfected some of his father's designs on a scale of true magnificence. King's College Chapel, the glory of Cambridge and England, is in the perpendicular style of English Gothic. It is three hundred and sixteen feet long, eighty-four feet broad, its sides ninety feet, and its tower one hundred and forty-six feet high. Its lofty interior stone roof in the fan-tracery form of groined ceiling has the appearance of being composed of immense white scallop-shells, with heavy corbels of rich flowers and bunches of grapes suspended at their points of junction. The ornamental emblem of the Tudor rose and portcullis is carved in every conceivable spot and nook. Twenty-four stately and richly painted windows, divided into the strong vertical lines of the Perpendicular style, and crossed at right angles by lighter transoms and more delicate circular moldings, with the great east and west windows flashing in the most vivid and superb colors, make it a gorgeous vision of light and glory.... On the same street, and nearly opposite St. Peter's, is Pembroke College, a most interesting and venerable pile, with a quaint gable front. Its buildings are small, and it is said, for some greatly needed city improvement, will probably be soon torn down; on hearing which, I thought, would that some genius like Aladdin's, or some angel who bore through the air the chapel of the "Lady of Loretto," might bear these old buildings bodily to our land and set them down on the Yale grounds, so that we might exchange their picturesque antiquity for the present college buildings, which, tho endeared to us by many associations, are like a row of respectable brick factories. Edmund Spenser and William Pitt belonged to Pembroke; and Gray, the poet, driven from St. Peter's by the pranks and persecutions of his fellow students, spent the remainder of his university life here. Some of the cruel, practical jokes inflicted upon the timid and delicate nature sound like the modern days of "hazing freshmen." Among his other fancies and fears, Gray was known to be especially afraid of fire, and kept always coiled up in his room a rope-ladder, in case of emergency. By a preconcerted signal, on a dark winter night, a tremendous cry of fire was raised in the court below, which caused the young poet to leap out of bed and to hastily descend his rope-ladder into a mighty tub of ice-cold water, set for that purpose.... Sidney Sussex and Imanuel Colleges were called by Archbishop Laud "the nurseries of Puritanism." The college-book of Sidney Sussex contains this record: "Oliver Cromwell of Huntingdon was admitted as an associate on the 26th day of April, 1616. Tutor Richard Howlet." He had just completed his seventeenth year. Cromwell's father dying the next year, and leaving but a small estate, the young "Protector" was obliged to leave college for more practical pursuits. "But some Latin," Bishop Burnett said, "stuck to him." An oriel window looking upon Bridge Street, is pointed out as marking his room; and in the master's lodge is a likeness of Cromwell in his later years, said to be the best extant. The gray hair is parted in the middle of the forehead, and hangs down long upon the shoulders, like that of Milton. The forehead is high and swelling, with a deep line sunk between the eyes. The eyes are gray. The complexion is florid and mottled, and all the features rugged and large. Heavy, corrugated furrows of decision and resolute will are plowed about the mouth, and the lips are shut like a vice. Otherwise, the face has a calm and benevolent look, not unlike that of Benjamin Franklin. In Sidney Sussex, Cromwell's College, and in two or three other colleges of Cambridge University, we find the head-sources of English Puritanism, which, in its best form, was no wild and unenlightened enthusiasm, but the product of thoughtful and educated minds. We shall come soon upon the name of Milton. John Robinson, our national father, and the Moses of our national exodus, as well as Elder Brewster, John Cotton and many others of the principal Puritan leaders and divines, were educated at Cambridge. Sir Henry Vane, the younger, whom Macintosh regarded as not inferior to Bacon in depth of intellect, and to whom Milton addrest the sonnet, who was chosen Governor of Massachusetts, and who infused much of his own thoughtful and profound spirit into Puritan institutions at home and in America, was a student of Magdalen College, Oxford. A little further on to the south of Sidney Sussex, upon St. Andrew's Street, is Christ's College. The front and gate are old; the other buildings are after a design by Inigo Jones. In the garden stands the famous mulberry-tree said to have been planted by Milton. It is still vigorous, tho carefully propt up and mounded around, and its aged trunk is sheathed with lead. The martyr Latimer, John Howe, the prince of theological writers, and Archdeacon Paley, belonged to this college; but its most brilliant name is that of John Milton. He entered in 1624; took the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1628, and that of Master of Arts in 1632. This is the entry in the college record: "John Milton of London, son of John Milton, was entered as a student in the elements of letters under Master Hill of the Pauline School, February 12, 1624...." Milton has indignantly defended himself against the slander of his political enemies, that he left college in disgrace, and calls it "a commodious lie." ... It is noticeable that Cambridge has produced all the great poets; Oxford, with her yearnings and strivings, none. Milton were glory enough; but Spenser, Gray, Byron, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Tennyson (a Lincolnshire man), may be thrown in. It might be said of Cambridge, as Dr. Johnson said of Pembroke College, "We are a nest of singing birds here." Milton, from the extreme elegance of his person and his mind, rather than from any effeminateness of character, was called while in the University, "the lady of Christ's College." The young poet could not have been inspired by outward Nature in his own room; for the miniature dormer-windows are too high to look out of at all. It is a small attic chamber, with very steep narrow stairs leading up to it. The name of "Milton" (so it is said to be, tho hard to make out) is cut in the old oaken door. CHESTER [Footnote: From "English Note-Books." By special arrangement with, and by permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870-1898.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. I went with Mr. Ticknor to Chester by railway. It is quite an indescribable old town, and I feel as if I had had a glimpse of old England. The wall encloses a large space within the town, but there are numerous houses and streets not included within its precincts. Some of the principal streets pass under the ancient gateways; and at the side there are flights of steps, giving access to the summit. Around the top of the whole wall, a circuit of about two miles, there runs a walk, well paved with flagstones, and broad enough for three persons to walk abreast.... The most utterly indescribable feature of Chester is the Rows, which every traveler has attempted to describe. At the height of several feet above some of the oldest streets, a walk runs through the front of the houses, which project over it. Back of the walk there are shops; on the outer side is a space of two or three yards, where the shopmen place their tables, and stands, and show-cases; overhead, just high enough for persons to stand erect, a ceiling. At frequent intervals little narrow passages go winding in among the houses, which all along are closely conjoined, and seem to have no access or exit, except through the shops, or into these narrow passages, where you can touch each side with your elbows, and the top with your hand. We penetrated into one or two of them, and they smelt anciently and disagreeably. At one of the doors stood a pale-looking, but cheerful and good-natured woman, who told us that she had come to that house when first married, 21 years before, and had lived there ever since; and that she felt as if she had been buried through the best years of her life. She allowed us to peep into her kitchen and parlor--small, dingy, dismal, but yet not wholly destitute of a home look. She said she had seen two or three coffins in a day, during cholera times, carried out of that narrow passage into which her door opened. These avenues put me in mind of those which run through ant-hills, or those which a mole makes underground. This fashion of Rows does not appear to be going out; and, for aught I can see, it may last hundreds of years longer. When a house becomes so old as to be untenantable, it is rebuilt, and the new one is fashioned like the old, so far as regards the walk running through its front. Many of the shops are very good, and even elegant, and these Rows are the favorite places of business in Chester. Indeed, they have many advantages, the passengers being sheltered from the rain, and there being within the shops that dimmer light by which tradesmen like to exhibit their wares. A large proportion of the edifices in the Rows must be comparatively modern; but there are some very ancient ones, with oaken frames visible on the exterior. The Row, passing through these houses, is railed with oak, so old that it has turned black, and grown to be as hard as stone, which it might be mistaken for, if one did not see where names and initials have been cut into it with knives at some bygone period. Overhead, cross-beams project through the ceiling so low as almost to hit the head. On the front of one of these buildings was the inscription, "God's Providence is mine Inheritance," said to have been put there by the occupant of the house two hundred years ago, when the plague spared this one house only in the whole city. Not improbably the inscription has operated as a safeguard to prevent the demolition of the house hitherto; but a shopman of an adjacent dwelling told us that it was soon to be taken down. Here and there, about some of the streets through which the Rows do not run, we saw houses of very aged aspect, with steep, peaked gables. The front gable-end was supported on stone pillars, and the sidewalk passed beneath. Most of these old houses seemed to be taverns,--the Black Bear, the Green Dragon, and such names. We thought of dining at one of them, but, on inspection, they looked rather too dingy and close, and of questionable neatness. So we went to the Royal Hotel, where we probably fared just as badly at much more expense, and where there was a particularly gruff and crabbed old waiter, who, I suppose, thought himself free to display his surliness because we arrived at the hotel on foot. For my part, I love to see John Bull show himself. I must go again and again and again to Chester, for I suppose there is not a more curious place in the world. EDDYSTONE LIGHTHOUSE [Footnote: From "Lightships and Lighthouses." Courtesy of J. B. Lippincott Co., the publishers.] BY FREDERICK A. TALBOT. It is doubtful whether the name of any lighthouse is so familiar throughout the English-speaking world as the "Eddystone." Certainly no other "pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day," can offer so romantic a story of dogged engineering perseverance, of heartrending disappointments, disaster, blasted hopes, and brilliant success. Standing out in the English Channel, about sixty miles east of the Lizard, is a straggling ridge of rocks which stretches for hundreds of yards across the marine thoroughfare, and also obstructs the western approach to Plymouth Harbor. But at a point some nine and a half miles south of Rame Head on the mainland the reef rises somewhat abruptly to the surface, so that at low-water two or three ugly granite knots are bared, which tell only too poignantly the complete destruction they could wreak upon a vessel which had the temerity or the ill luck to scrape over them at high-tide. Even in the calmest weather the sea curls and eddies viciously around these stones; hence the name "Eddystone," is derived.... As British overseas traffic expanded, the idea of indicating the spot for the benefit of vessels was discust. The first practical suggestion was put forward about the year 1664, but thirty-two years elapsed before any attempt was made to reduce theory to practise. Then an eccentric English country gentleman, Henry Winstanley, who dabbled in mechanical engineering upon unorthodox lines, came forward and offered to build a lighthouse upon the terrible rocks. Those who knew this ambitious amateur were dubious of his success, and wondered what manifestation his eccentricity would assume on this occasion. Nor was their scepticism entirely misplaced. Winstanley raised the most fantastic lighthouse which has ever been known, and which would have been more at home in a Chinese cemetery than in the English Channel. It was wrought in wood and most lavishly embellished with carvings and gilding. Four years were occupied in its construction, and the tower was anchored to the rock by means of long, heavy irons. The light, merely a flicker, flashed out from this tower in 1699, and for the first time the proximity of the Eddystones was indicated all around the horizon by night. Winstanley's critics were rather free in expressing their opinion that the tower would come down with the first sou'wester, but the eccentric builder was so intensely proud of his invention as to venture the statement that it would resist the fiercest gale that ever blew, and, when such did occur, he hoped that he might be in the tower at the time. Fate gratified his wish, for while he was on the rock in the year 1703 one of the most terrible tempests that ever have assailed the coasts of Britain gript the structure, tore it up by the roots, and hurled it into the Channel, where it was battered to pieces, its designer and five keepers going down with the wreck. When the inhabitants of Plymouth, having vainly scanned the horizon for a sign of the tower on the following morning, put off to the rock to investigate, they found only the bent and twisted iron rods by which the tower had been held in position projecting mournfully into the air from the rock-face. Shortly after the demolition of the tower, the reef, as if enraged at having been denied a number of victims owing to the existence of the warning light, trapt the "Winchelsea" as she was swinging up Channel, and smashed her to atoms, with enormous loss of life. Altho the first attempt to conquer the Eddystone had terminated so disastrously, it was not long before another effort was made to mark the reef. The builder this time was a Cornish laborer's son, John Rudyerd, who had established himself in business on Ludgate Hill as a silk mercer. In his youth he had studied civil engineering, but his friends had small opinion of his abilities in this craft. However, he attacked the problem boldly, and, altho his tower was a plain, business-looking structure, it would have been impossible to conceive a design capable of meeting the peculiar requirements of the situation more efficiently. It "was a cone, wrought in timber, built upon a stone and wood foundation anchored to the rock, and of great weight and strength. The top of the cone was cut off to permit the lantern to be set in position. The result was that externally the tower resembled the trunk of an oak tree, and appeared to be just about as strong. It offered the minimum of resistance to the waves, which, tumbling upon the ledge, rose and curled around the tapering form without starting a timber. For forty years Rudyerd's structure defied the elements, and probably would have been standing to this day had it not possest one weak point. It was built of wood instead of stone. Consequently, when a fire broke out in the lantern on December 4, 1755, the flames, fanned by the breeze, rapidly made their way downward. No time was lost in erecting another tower on the rock, for now it was more imperative than ever that the reef should be lighted adequately. The third engineer was John Smeaton, who first landed on the rock to make the surveys on April 5, 1756. He was able to stay there for only two and a quarter hours before the rising tide drove him off, but in that brief period he had completed the work necessary to the preparation of his design. Wood had succumbed to the attacks of tempest and of fire in turn. Smeaton would use material which would defy both--Portland stone. He also introduced a slight change in the design for such structures, and one which has been universally copied, producing the graceful form of lighthouse with which everyone is so familiar. Instead of causing the sides to slope upward in the straight lines of a cone, such as Rudyerd adopted, Smeaton preferred a slightly concave curve, so that the tower was given a waist about half its height. He also selected the oak tree as his guide, but one having an extensive spread of branches, wherein will be found a shape in the trunk, so far as the broad lines are concerned, which coincides with the form of Smeaton's lighthouse. He chose a foundation where the rock shelved gradually to its highest point, and dropt vertically into the water upon the opposite side. The face of the rock was roughly trimmed to permit the foundation stones of the tower to be laid. The base of the building was perfectly solid to the entrance level, and each stone was dovetailed securely into its neighbor. From the entrance, which was about 15 feet above high water, a central well, some five feet in diameter, containing a staircase, led to the storeroom, nearly 30 feet above high water. Above this was a second storeroom, a living-room as the third floor, and the bedroom beneath the lantern. The light was placed about 72 feet above high water, and comprised a candelabra having two rings, one smaller than and placed within the other, but raised about a foot above its level, the two being held firmly in position by means of chains suspended from the roof and secured to the floor. The rings were adapted to receive twenty-four lights, each candle weighing about two and three-quarter ounces. Even candle manufacture was in its infancy in those days, and periodically the keepers had to enter the lantern to snuff the wicks. In order to keep the watchers of the lights on the alert, Smeaton installed a clock of the grandfather pattern in the tower, and fitted it with a gong, which struck every half hour to apprise the men of these duties. This clock is now one of the most interesting relics in the museum at Trinity House.... [Footnote: Trinity House, an association founded in London in 1512-1514, is "empowered by charter to examine, license and regulate pilots, to erect beacons and lighthouses, and to place buoys in channels and rivers."] The lighthouse had been standing for 120 years when ominous reports were received by the Trinity Brethren concerning the stability of the tower. The keepers stated that during severe storms the building shook alarmingly. A minute inspection of the structure was made, and it was found that, altho the work of Smeaton's masons was above reproach, time and weather had left their mark. The tower itself was becoming decrepit. The binding cement had decayed, and the air imprisoned and comprest within the interstices by the waves was disintegrating the structure slowly but surely. Under these circumstances it was decided to build a new tower on another convenient ledge, forming part of the main reef, about 120 feet distant. Sir James Douglass, the engineer-in-chief to Trinity House, completed the designs and personally superintended their execution. The Smeaton lines were taken as a basis, with one important exception. Instead of a curve commencing at the foundation, the latter comprized a perfect cylindrical monolith of masonry 22 feet in height by 44 feet in diameter. From this basis the tower springs to a height which brings the local plane 130 feet above the highest spring tides. The top of the base is 30 inches above high water, and, the tower's diameter being less than that of its plinth, the set-off forms an excellent landing-stage when the weather permits. The site selected for the Douglass tower being lower than that chosen by Smeaton, the initial work was more exacting, as the duration of the working period was reduced. The rock, being gneiss, was extremely tough, and the preliminary quarrying operations for the foundation stones which had to be sunk into the rock were tedious and difficult, especially as the working area was limited. Each stone was dovetailed, not only to its neighbor on either side, but below and above as well. The foundation stones were dovetailed into the reef and were secured still further by the aid of tow bolts, each one and a half inches in diameter, which were passed through the stone and sunk deeply into the rock below.... The tower has eight floors, exclusive of the entrance; there are two oil rooms, one above the other, holding 4,300 gallons of oil, above which is a coal and store room, followed by a second storeroom. Outside the tower at this level is a crane, by which supplies are hoisted, and which also facilitates the landing and embarkation of the keepers, who are swung through the air in a stirrup attached to the crane rope. Then, in turn, come the living-room, the "low light" room, bedroom, service room, and finally the lantern. For the erection of the tower, 2,171 blocks of granite, which were previously fitted temporarily in their respective positions on shore and none of which weighed less than two tons, were used. When the work was commenced, the engineer estimated that the task would occupy five years, but on May 18, 1882, the lamp was lighted by the Duke of Edinburgh, the Master of Trinity House at the time, the enterprise having occupied only four years. Some idea may thus be obtained of the energy with which the labor was prest forward, once the most trying sections were overcome.... When the new tower was completed and brought into service, the Smeaton building was demolished. This task was carried out with extreme care, inasmuch as the citizens of Plymouth had requested that the historic Eddystone structure might be erected on Plymouth Hoe, on the spot occupied by the existing Trinity House landmark. The authorities agreed to this proposal, and the ownership of the Smeaton tower was forthwith transferred to the people of Plymouth. But demolition was carried out only to the level of Smeaton's lower storeroom. The staircase, well, and entrance were filled up with masonry, the top was beveled off, and in the center of the stump an iron pole was planted. While the Plymouth Hoe relic is but one-half of the tower, its reerection was completed faithfully, and, moreover, carries the original candelabra which the famous engineer devised. Not only is the Douglass tower a beautiful example of lighthouse engineering, but it was relatively cheap. The engineer, when he prepared the designs, estimated that an outlay of £78,000, or $390,000, would be incurred. As a matter of fact, the building cost only £59,255, or $296,275, and a saving of £18,000, or $90,000, in a work of this magnitude is no mean achievement. All things considered, the Eddystone is one of the cheapest sea-rock lights which has ever been consummated. THE CAPITAL OF THE BRITISH, SAXON AND NORMAN KINGS [Footnote: From "Visits to Remarkable Places."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT What an interesting old city is Winchester! and how few people are aware of it! The ancient capital of the kingdom--the capital of the British, and the Saxon, and the Norman kings--the favorite resort of our kings and queens, even till the revolution of 1688; the capital which, for ages, maintained a proud, and long a triumphant, rivalry with London itself; the capital which once boasted upward of ninety churches and chapels, whose meanest houses now stand upon the foundations of noble palaces and magnificent monasteries; and in whose ruins or in whose yet superb minster lie enshrined the bones of mighty kings, and fair and pious queens; of lordly abbots and prelates, who in their day swayed not merely the destinies of this one city, but of the kingdom. There she sits--a sad, discrowned queen, and how few are acquainted with her in the solitude of her desertion! Yet where is the place, saving London itself, which can compete with her in solemn and deep interest? Where is the city, except that, in Great Britain, which can show so many objects of antique beauty, or call up so many national recollections? Here lie the bones of Alfred--here he was probably born, for this was at that time the court and the residence of his parents. Here, at all events, he spent his infancy and the greater portion of his youth. Here he imbibed the wisdom and the magnanimity of mind with which he afterward laid the foundations of our monarchy, our laws, liberties and literature, and in a word, of our national greatness. Hence Alfred went forth to fight those battles which freed his country from the savage Dane; and, having done more for his realm and race than ever monarch did before or since, here he lay down, in the strength of his years, and consigned his tomb as a place of grateful veneration to a people whose future greatness even his sagacious spirit could not be prophetic enough to foresee. Were it only for the memory and tomb of this great king, Winchester ought to be visited by every Englishman with the most profound veneration and affection; but here also lie the ashes of nearly all Alfred's family and kin: his father Ethelwolf, who saw the virtues and talents, and prognosticated the greatness of his son; his noble-minded mother, who breathed into his infant heart the most sublime sentiments; his royal brothers, and his sons and daughters. Here also repose Canute, who gave that immortal reproof on the Southampton shore to his sycophantic courtiers, and his celebrated queen Emma, so famous at once for her beauty and her trials. Here is still seen the tomb of Rufus, who was brought hither in a charcoal-burner's cart from the New Forest, where the chance arrow of Tyrrel, avenged, in his last hunt, the cruelties of himself and his father on that ground.... Historians claim a high antiquity for Winchester as the Caer Gwent of the Celtic and Belgic Britons, the Venta Belgarum of the Romans, and the Wintanceaster of the Saxons. The history of Winchester is nearly coeval with the Christian era. Julius Caesar does not seem to have been here, in his invasion of Britain, but some of his troops must have passed through it; a plate from one of his standards, bearing his name and profile, having been found deep buried in a sand bed in this neighborhood; and here, within the first half century of Christendom, figured the brave descendants of Cassivelaunus, those noble sons of Cunobelin or Cymbeline, Guiderius and Arviragus, whom Shakespeare has so beautifully presented to us in his "Cymbeline." ... Here it was that, while Caractacus himself reigned, the fate of the brave Queen Boadicea was sealed. Stung to the quick with the insults she had received from the Romans, this noble queen of the Iceni, the Bonduca of some writers, and the Boo Tika of her own coins, had sworn to root out the Roman power from this country. Had she succeeded, Caractacus himself had probably fallen, nor had there ever been a king Lucius here. She came, breathing utter extermination to every thing Roman or of Roman alliance, at the head of 230,000 barbarians, the most numerous army then ever collected by any British prince. Already had she visited and laid in ashes Camulodunum, London, and Verulam, killing every Roman and every Roman ally to the amount of 70,000 souls. But in this neighborhood she was met by the Roman general Paulinus, and her army routed, with the slaughter of 80,000 of her followers. In her despair at this catastrophe, she destroyed herself, and instead of entering the city in triumph was brought in, a breathless corpse, for burial. Henry III. was born here, and always bore the name of Henry of Winchester; Henry IV. here married Joan of Brittany; Henry VI. came often hither, his first visit being to study the discipline of Wykeham's College as a model for his new one at Eton, to supply students to King's College, Cambridge, as Wykeham's does to his foundation of New College, Oxford; and happy had it been for this unfortunate monarch had he been a simple monk in one of the monasteries of a city which he so loved, enjoying peace, learning and piety, having bitterly to learn: "That all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession any jot of pleasure." Henry VIII. made a visit with the Emperor Charles V., and stayed a week examining its various antiquities and religious institutions; but he afterward visited them in a more sweeping manner by the suppression of its monasteries, chantries, etc., so that, says Milner, "these being dissolved, and the edifices themselves soon after pulled down, or falling to decay, it must have worn the appearance of a city sacked by a hostile army." Through his reign and that of Edward VI., the destruction of the religious houses, and the stripping of the churches, went on to a degree which must have rendered Winchester an object of ghastly change and desolation. "Then," says Milner, "were the precious and curious monuments of piety and antiquity, the presents of Egbert and Ethelwolph, Canute, and Emma, unrelentingly rifled and east into the melting-pot for the mere value of the metal which composed them. Then were the golden tabernacles and images of the Apostles snatched from the cathedral and other altars," and not a few of the less valuable sort of these sacred implements were to be seen when he wrote (1798), and probably are now, in many private houses of this city and neighborhood. The later history of this fine old city is chiefly that of melancholy and havoc. A royal marriage should be a gay thing; but the marriage of Bloody Mary here to Philip of Spain awakes no great delight in an English heart. Here, through her reign and that of Elizabeth, the chief events were persecutions for religion. James I. made Winchester the scene of the disgraceful trials of Sir Walter Raleigh, Lords Cobham and Grey, and their assumed accomplices--trials in which that most vain and pedantic of tyrants attempted, on the ground of pretended conspiracies, to wreak his personal spite on some of the best spirits of England. VI SCOTLAND EDINBURGH [Footnote: From "Picturesque Notes on Edinburgh."] BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Venice, it has been said, differs from all other cities in the sentiment which she inspires. The rest may have admirers; she only, a famous fair one, counts lovers in her train. And, indeed, even by her kindest friends, Edinburgh is not considered in a similar sense. These like her for many reasons, not any one of which is satisfactory in itself. They like her whimsically, if you will, and somewhat as a virtuoso dotes upon his cabinet. Her attraction is romantic in the narrowest meaning of the term. Beautiful as she is, she is not so much beautiful as interesting. She is preeminently Gothic, and all the more so since she has set herself off with some Greek airs, and erected classic temples on her crags. In a word, and above all, she is a curiosity. The palace of Holyrood has been left aside--in the growth of Edinburgh, and stands gray and silent in a workman's quarter and among breweries and gas-works. It is a house of many memories. Great people of yore, kings and queens, buffoons and grave ambassadors, played their stately farce for centuries in Holyrood. Wars have been plotted, dancing has lasted deep into the night, murder has been done in its chambers. There Prince Charlie held his fantom levées, and in a very gallant manner represented a fallen dynasty for some hours. Now, all these things of clay are mingled with the dust, the king's crown itself is shown for sixpence to the vulgar; but the stone palace has outlived these changes. For fifty weeks together, it is no more than a show for tourists and a museum of old furniture; but on the fifty-first, behold the palace reawakened and mimicking its past. The Lord Commissioner, a kind of stage sovereign, sits among stage courtiers; a coach and six and clattering escort come and go before the gate; at night, the windows are lighted up, and its near neighbors, the workmen, may dance in their own houses to the palace music. And in this the palace is typical. There is a spark among the embers; from time to time the old volcano smokes. Edinburgh has but partly abdicated, and still wears, in parody, her metropolitan trappings. Half a capital and half a country town, the whole city leads a double existence; it has long trances of the one and flashes of the other; like the king of the Black Isles, it is half alive and half a monumental marble. There are armed men and cannon in the citadel overhead; you may see the troops marshaled on the high parade; and at night after the early winter even-fall, and in the morning before the laggard winter dawn, the wind carries abroad over Edinburgh the sound of drums and bugles. Grave judges sit bewigged in what was once the scene of imperial deliberations. Close by, in the High Street perhaps, the trumpets may sound about the stroke of noon; and you see a troop of citizens in tawdry masquerade; tabard above, heather-mixture trouser below, and the men themselves trudging in the mud among unsympathetic bystanders. The grooms of a well-appointed circus tread the streets with a better presence. And yet these are the Heralds and Pursuivants of Scotland, who are about to proclaim a new law of the United Kingdom before two score boys, and thieves, and hackney coachmen. Meanwhile, every hour the bell of the University rings out over the hum of the streets, and every hour a double tide of students, coming and going, fills the deep archways. And, lastly, one night in the springtime--or, say, one morning rather, at the peep of day--late folk may hear the voices of many men singing a psalm in unison from a church on one side of the Old High Street; and a little after, or perhaps a little before, the sound of many men singing a psalm in unison from another church on the opposite side of the way. There will be something in the words about the dew of Hermon, and how goodly it is to see brethren dwelling together in unity. And the late folk will tell themselves that all this singing denotes the conclusion of two yearly ecclesiastical parliaments--the parliaments of churches, which are brothers in many admirable virtues, but not specially like brothers in this particular of a tolerant and peaceful life. Again, meditative people will find a charm in a certain consonancy between the aspect of the city and its odd and stirring history. Few places, if any, offer a more barbaric display of contrasts to the eye. In the very midst stands one of the most satisfactory crags in nature--a Bass Rock upon dry land, rooted in a garden shaken by passing trains, carrying a crown of battlements and turrets, and describing its warlike shadow over the liveliest and brightest thoroughfare of the New Town. From their smoky beehives, ten stories high, the unwashed look down upon the open squares and gardens of the wealthy; and gay people sunning themselves along Prince's Street, with its mile of commercial palaces all beflagged upon some great occasion, see, across a gardened valley set with statues, where the washings of the Old Town flutter in the breeze at its high windows. And then, upon all sides, what a clashing of architecture! In this one valley, where the life of the town goes most busily forward, there may be seen, shown one above and behind another by the accidents of the ground, buildings in almost every style upon the globe. Egyptian and Greek temples, Venetian palaces and Gothic spires, are huddled one over another in a most admired disorder; while, above all, the brute mass of the Castle and the summit of Arthur's Seat look down upon these imitations with a becoming dignity, as the works of Nature may look down upon the monuments of Art. But Nature is a more indiscriminate patroness than we imagine, and in no way frightened of a strong effect. The birds roost as willingly among the Corinthian capitals as in the crannies of the crag; the same atmosphere and daylight clothe the eternal rock and yesterday's imitation portico; and as the soft northern sunshine throws out everything into a glorified distinctness--or easterly mists, coming up with the blue evening, fuse all these incongruous features into one, and the lamps begin to glitter along the street, and faint lights to burn in the high windows across the valley--the feeling grows upon you that this is a piece of nature in the most intimate sense; that this profusion of eccentricities, this dream in masonry and living rock, is not a drop-scene in a theater, but a city in the world of everyday reality, connected by railway and telegraph wire with all the capitals of Europe, and inhabited by citizens of the familiar type, who keep ledgers, and attend church, and have sold their immortal portion to a daily paper.... The east of new Edinburgh is guarded by a craggy hill, of no great elevation, which the town embraces. The old London road runs on one side of it; while the New Approach, leaving it on the other hand, completes the circuit.... Of all places for a view, this Calton Hill is perhaps the best; since you can see the Castle, which you lose from the Castle, and Arthur's Seat, which you can not see from Arthur's Seat. It is the place to stroll on one of those days of sunshine and east wind which are so common in our more than temperate summer. The breeze comes off the sea, with a little of the freshness, and that touch of chill, peculiar to the quarter, which is delightful to certain very ruddy organizations, and greatly the reverse to the majority of mankind. It brings with it a faint, floating haze, a cunning decolorizer, altho not thick enough to obscure outlines near at hand. But the haze lies more thickly to windward at the far end of Musselburgh Bay; and over the Links of Aberlady and Berwick Law and the hump of the Bass Bock it assumes the aspect of a bank of thin sea fog. Immediately underneath, upon the south, you command the yards of the High School, and the towers and courts of the new Jail--a large place, castellated to the extent of folly, standing by itself on the edge of a steep cliff, and often joyfully hailed by tourists as the Castle. In the one, you may perhaps see female prisoners taking exercise like a string of nuns; in the other, schoolboys running at play, and their shadows keeping step with them. From the bottom of the valley, a gigantic chimney rises almost to the level of the eye, a taller and a shapelier edifice than Nelson's Monument. Look a little farther, and there is Holyrood Palace, with its Gothic frontal and ruined abbey, and the red sentry pacing smartly to and fro before the door like a mechanical figure in a panorama. By way of an outpost, you can single out the little peak-roofed lodge, over which Rizzio's murderers made their escape, and where Queen Mary herself, according to gossip, bathed in white wine to retain her loveliness. Behind and overhead lie the Queen's Park, from Musehat's Cairn to Dumbiedykes, St. Margaret's Loch, and the long wall of Salisbury's Crags; and thence, by knoll and rocky bulwark and precipitous slope, the eye rises to the top of Arthur's Seat, a hill for magnitude, a mountain in virtue of its bold design. This upon your left. Upon the right, the roofs and spires of the Old Town climb one above another to where the citadel prints its broad bulk and jagged crown of bastions on the western sky.... Perhaps it is now one in the afternoon; and at the same instant of time, a ball rises to the summit of Nelson's flagstaff close at hand, and, far away, a puff of smoke, followed by a report, bursts from the half-moon battery at the Castle. This is the time-gun by which people set their watches, as far as the sea coast or in hill farms upon the Pent-lands. To complete the view, the eye enfilades Prince's Street, black with traffic, and has a broad look over the valley between the Old Town and the New; here, full of railway trains and stept over by the high North Bridge upon its many columns, and there, green with trees and gardens. On the north, the Calton Hill is neither so abrupt in itself, nor has it so exceptional an outlook; and yet even here it commands a striking prospect. A gully separates it from the New Town. This is Greenside, where witches were burned and tournaments held in former days. Down that almost precipitous bank Bothwell launched his horse, and so first, as they say, attracted the bright eyes of Mary. It is now tesselated with sheets and blankets out to dry, and the sound of people beating carpets is rarely absent. Beyond all this, the suburbs run out to Leith; Leith camps on the seaside with her forests of masts; Leith roads are full of ships at anchor; the sun picks out the white pharos upon Inchkeith Island; the Firth extends on either hand from the Ferry to the May; the towns of Fifeshire sit, each in its bank of blowing smoke, along the opposite coast; and the hills enclose the view, except to the farthest east, where the haze of the horizon rests upon the open sea. There lies the road to Norway; a dear road for Sir Patrick Spens and his Scots Lords; and yonder smoke on the hither side of Largo Law is Aberdour, from whence they sailed to seek a queen for Scotland. These are the main features of the scene roughly sketched. How they are all tilted by the inclination of the ground, how each stands out in delicate relief against the rest, what manifold detail, and play of sun and shadow, animate and accentuate the picture, is a matter for a person on the spot, and, turning swiftly on his heels, to grasp and bind together in one comprehensive look. It is the character of such a prospect, to be full of change and of things moving. The multiplicity embarrasses the eye; and the mind, among so much, suffers itself to grow absorbed with single points. You remark a tree in a hedgerow, or follow a cart along a country road. You turn to the city, and see children, dwarfed by distance into pigmies, at play about suburban doorsteps; you have a glimpse upon a thoroughfare where people are densely moving; you note ridge after ridge of chimney-stacks running downhill one behind another, and church spires rising bravely from the sea of roofs. At one of the innumerable windows you watch a figure moving; on one of the multitude of roofs you watch clambering chimney-sweeps. The wind takes a run and scatters the smoke; bells are heard, far and near, faint and loud, to tell the hour; or perhaps a sea bird goes dipping evenly over the housetops, like a gull across the waves. And here you are in the meantime, on this pastoral hillside, among nibbling sheep and looked upon by monumental buildings. HOLYROOD [Footnote: From "Edinburgh Sketches and Memories."] BY DAVID MASSON Mary, Queen of Scots, on her return to Scotland after her thirteen years of residence and education in France, had to form her first real acquaintance with her native shores and the capital of her realm. She had left Calais for the homeward voyage on Thursday, the 14th of August, with a retinue of about one hundred and twenty persons, French and Scottish, embarked in two French state galleys, attended by several transports. They were a goodly company, with rich and splendid baggage. The Queen's two most important uncles, indeed--the great Francis de Lorraine, Duke of Guise, and his brother, Charles de Lorraine, the Cardinal--were not on board. They, with the Duchess of Guise, and other senior lords and ladies of the French court, had bidden Mary farewell at Calais, after having accompanied her thither from Paris, and after the Cardinal had in vain tried to persuade her not to take her costly collection of pearls and other jewels with her, but to leave them in his keeping till it should be seen how she might fare among her Scottish subjects. But on board the Queen's own galley were three others of Guise or Lorraine uncles--the Duc d'Aumale, the Grand Prior, and the Marquis d'Elbeuf--with M. Danville, son of the Constable of France, and a number of French gentlemen of lower rank, among whom one notes especially young Pierre de Bourdeilles, better known afterward in literary history as Sieur de Brantôme, and a sprightly and poetic youth from Dauphiné, named Chastelard, one of the attendants of M. Danville. With these were mixed the Scottish contingent of the Queen's train, her four famous "Marys" included--Mary Fleming, Mary Livingstone, Mary Seton, and Mary Beaton. They had been her playfellows and little maids of honor long ago, in her Scottish childhood; they had accompanied her when she went abroad, and had lived with her ever since in France; and they were now returning with her, Scoto-French women like herself, and all of about her own age, to share her new fortunes.... Then, as now, the buildings that went by the general name of Holyrood were distinguishable into two portions. There was the Abbey, now represented only by the beautiful and spacious fragment of ruin called the Royal Chapel, but then, despite the spoliations to which it had been subjected by recent English invasions, still tolerably preserved in its integrity as the famous edifice, in early Norman style, which had been founded in the twelfth century by David I., and had been enlarged in the fifteenth by additions in the later and more florid Gothic. Close by this was Holyrood House, or the Palace proper, built in the earlier part of the sixteenth century, and chiefly by James IV., to form a distinct royal dwelling, and so supersede that occasional accommodation in the Abbey itself which had sufficed for Scottish sovereigns before Edinburgh was their habitual or capital residence. One block of this original Holyrood House still remains in the two-turreted projection of the present Holyrood which adjoins the ruined relic of the Abbey, and which contains the rooms now specially shown as "Queen Mary's Apartments." But the present Holyrood, as a whole, is a construction of the reign of Charles II., and gives little idea of the Palace in which Mary took up her abode in 1561. The two-turreted projection on the left was not balanced then, as now, by a similar two-turreted projection on the right, with a façade of less height between, but was flanked on the right by a continued chateau-like frontage, of about the same height as the turreted projections, and at a uniform depth of recess from it, but independently garnished with towers and pinnacles. The main entrance into the Palace from the great outer courtyard was through this chateau-like flank, just about the spot where there is the entrance through the present middle façade; and this entrance led, like the present, into an inner court or quadrangle, built round on all the four sides. That quadrangle of chateau, touching the Abbey to the back from its northeastern corner, and with the two-turreted projection to its front from its northwestern corner, constituted, indeed, the main bulk of the Palace. There were, however, extensive appurtenances of other buildings at the back or at the side farthest from the Abbey, forming minor inner courts, while part of that side of the great outer courtyard which faced the entrance was occupied by offices belonging to the Palace, and separating the courtyard from the adjacent purlieus of the town. For the grounds of both Palace and Abbey were encompassed by a wall, having gates at various points of its circuit, the principal and most strongly guarded of which was the Gothic porch admitting from the foot of the Canongate into the front courtyard. The grounds so enclosed were ample enough to contain gardens and spaces of plantation, besides the buildings and their courts. Altogether, what with the buildings themselves, what with the courts and gardens, and what with the natural grandeur of the site--a level of deep and wooded park, between the Calton heights and crags, on the one hand, and the towering shoulders of Arthur's Seat and precipitous escarpment of Salisbury Crags on the other--Holyrood in 1561 must have seemed, even to an eye the most satiated with palatial splendors abroad, a sufficiently impressive dwelling-place to be the metropolitan home of Scottish royalty. LINLITHGOW [Footnote: From "Provincial Antiquities of Scotland."] BY SIR WALTER SCOTT The convenience afforded for the sport of falconry, which was so great a favorite during the feudal ages, was probably one cause of an attachment of the ancient Scottish monarchs to Linlithgow and its fine lake. The sport of hunting was also followed with success in the neighborhood, from which circumstance it probably arises that the ancient arms of the city represent a black greyhound bitch tied to a tree.... A Celt, according to Chalmers, might plausibly derive the name of Linlithgow from Lin-liah-cu, the Lake of the Greyhound. Chalmers himself seems to prefer the Gothic derivation of Lin-lyth-gow, or the Lake of the Great Vale. The Castle of Linlithgow is only mentioned as being a peel (a pile, that is, an embattled tower surrounded by an outwork). In 1300 it was rebuilt or repaired by Edward I., and used as one of the citadels by which he hoped to maintain his usurped dominion in Scotland. It is described by Barbour as "meihle and stark and stuffed weel." Piers Luband, a Gascoigne knight, was appointed the keeper, and appears to have remained there until the autumn of 1313, when the Scots recovered the Castle.... Bruce, faithful to his usual policy, caused the peel of Linlithgow to be dismantled, and worthily rewarded William Binnock, who had behaved with such gallantry on the occasion. From this bold yeoman the Binnies of West Lothian are proud to trace their descent; and most, if not all of them, bear in their arms something connected with the wagon, which was the instrument of his stratagem. When times of comparative peace returned, Linlithgow again became the occasional residence of the sovereign. In 1411 the town was burned by accident, and in 1414 was again subjected to the same calamity, together with the Church and Palace of the king, as is expressly mentioned by Bower. The present Church, which is a fine specimen of Gothic architecture, having a steeple surmounted by an imperial crown, was probably erected soon after the calamity. The Palace arose from its ashes with greater splendor than before; for the family of Stuart, unhappy in some respects, were all of them fortunate in their taste for the fine arts, and particularly for that of architecture. The Lordship of Linlithgow was settled as a dowry upon Mary of Gueldres in 1449, and again upon Margaret of Denmark in 1468. James IV., a splendid gallant, seems to have founded the most magnificent part of Linlithgow Palace; together with the noble entrance betwixt two flanking towers bearing, on rich entablatures, the royal arms of Scotland, with the collars of the Orders of the Thistle, Garter, and Saint Michael. James IV. also erected in the Church a throne for himself, and twelve stalls for Knights Companions of the Thistle.... His death and the rout of his army clouded for many a day the glory of Scotland, and marred the mirth of her palaces. James V. was much attached to Linlithgow, and added to the Palace both the Chapel and Parliament Hall, the last of which is peculiarly striking. So that when he brought his bride, Mary of Guise, there, amid the festivities which accompanied their wedding, she might have had more reason than mere complaisance for highly commending the edifice, and saying that she never saw a more princely palace. It was long her residence, and that of her royal husband, at Linlithgow. Mary was born there in an apartment still shown; and the ill-fated father, dying within a few days of that event, left the ominous diadem which he wore to the still more unfortunate infant.... In the subsequent reign of Queen Mary, Linlithgow was the scene of several remarkable events; the most interesting of which was the assassination of the Regent Murray by Hamilton of Bothwell-haugh. James VI. loved the royal residence of Linlithgow, and completed the original plan of the Palace, closing the great square by a stately range of apartments of great architectural beauty. He also made a magnificent fountain in the Palace yard, now ruinous, as are all the buildings around. Another grotesque Gothic fountain adorns the street of the town.... When the scepter passed from Scotland, oblivion sat down in the halls of Linlithgow; but her absolute desolation was reserved for the memorable era of 1745-6. About the middle of January in that year, General Hawley marched at the head of a strong army to raise the siege of Stirling, then prest by the Highland insurgents under the adventurous Charles Edward. The English general had exprest considerable contempt of his enemy, who, he affirmed, would not stand a charge of cavalry. On the night of the 17th he returned to Linlithgow, with all the marks of defeat, having burned his tents, and left his artillery and baggage. His disordered troops were quartered in the Palace, and began to make such great fires on the hearth, as to endanger the safety of the edifice. A lady of the Livingstone family who had apartments there remonstrated with General Hawley, who treated her fears with contempt. "I can run away from fire as fast as you can, General," answered the high-spirited dame, and with this sarcasm took horse for Edinburgh. Very soon after her departure her apprehensions were realized; the Palace of Linlithgow caught fire and was burned to the ground. The ruins alone remain to show its former splendor. The situation of Linlithgow Palace is eminently beautiful. It stands on a promontory of some elevation, which advances almost into the midst of the lake. The form is that of a square court, composed of buildings of four stories high, with towers at the angles. The fronts within the square, and the windows, are highly ornamented, and the size of the rooms, as well as the width and character of the staircase, are upon a magnificent scale. One banquet room is 94 feet long, 30 feet wide, and 33 feet high, with a gallery for music. The king's wardrobe, or dressing-room, looking to the west, projects over the walls so as to have a delicious prospect on three sides, and is one of the most enviable boudoirs we have ever seen. There were two main entrances to Linlithgow Palace. That from the south ascends rather steeply from the town, and passes through a striking Gothic archway, flanked by two round towers. The portal has been richly adorned by sculpture, in which can be traced the arms of Scotland with the collars of the Thistle, the Garter, and Saint Michael. This was the work of James V., and is of a most beautiful character. The other entrance is from the eastward. The gateway is at some height from the foundation of the wall, and there are opposite to it the remains of a perron, or ramp of mason work, which those who desired to enter must have ascended by steps. A drawbridge, which could be raised at pleasure, united, when it was lowered, the ramp with the threshold of the gateway, and when raised left a gap between them, which answered the purpose of a moat. On the inside of the eastern gateway is a figure, much mutilated, said to have been that of Pope Julius II., the same Pontiff who sent to James IV. the beautiful sword which makes part of the Regalia. "To what base offices we may return!" In the course of the last war, those beautiful remains, so full of ancient remembrances, very narrowly escaped being defaced and dishonored, by an attempt to convert them into barracks for French prisoners of war. The late President Blair, as zealous a patriot as he was an excellent lawyer, had the merit of averting this insult upon one of the most striking objects of antiquity which Scotland yet affords. I am happy to add that of late years the Court of Exchequer have, in this and similar cases, shown much zeal to preserve our national antiquities, and stop the dilapidations which were fast consuming them. In coming to Linlithgow by the Edinburgh road, the first view of the town, with its beautiful steeple, surmounted with a royal crown, and the ruinous towers of the Palace arising out of a canopy of trees, forms a most impressive object. STIRLING [Footnote: From "English Note-Books." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1870 and 1898.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE In the morning we were stirring betimes, and found Stirling to be a pretty large town, of rather ancient aspect, with many gray stone houses, the gables of which are notched on either side, like a flight of stairs. The town stands on the slope of a hill, at the summit of which, crowning a long ascent, up which the paved street reaches all the way to its gate, is Stirling Castle. Of course we went thither, and found free entrance, altho the castle is garrisoned by five or six hundred men, among whom are bare-legged Highlanders (I must say that this costume is very fine and becoming, tho their thighs did look blue and frost-bitten) and also some soldiers of other Scotch regiments, with tartan trousers. Almost immediately on passing the gate, we found an old artillery-man, who undertook to show us round the castle. Only a small portion of it seems to be of great antiquity. The principal edifice within the castle wall is a palace, that was either built or renewed by James VI.; and it is ornamented with strange old statues, one of which is his own. The old Scottish Parliament House is also here. The most ancient part of the castle is the tower, where one of the Earls of Douglas was stabbed by a king, and afterward thrown out of the window. In reading this story, one imagines a lofty turret, and the dead man tumbling headlong from a great height; but, in reality, the window is not more than fifteen or twenty feet from the garden into which he fell. This part of the castle was burned last autumn; but is now under repair, and the wall of the tower is still stanch and strong. We went up into the chamber where the murder took place, and looked through the historic window. Then we mounted the castle wall, where it broods over a precipice of many hundred feet perpendicular, looking down upon a level plain below, and forth upon a landscape, every foot of which is richly studded with historic events. There is a small peep-hole in the wall, which Queen Mary is said to have been in the habit of looking through. It is a most splendid view; in the distance, the blue Highlands, with a variety of mountain outlines that I could have studied unweariably; and in another direction, beginning almost at the foot of the Castle Hill, were the Links of Forth, where, over a plain of miles in extent the river meandered, and circled about, and returned upon itself again and again and again, as if knotted into a silver chain, which it was difficult to imagine to be all one stream. The history of Scotland might be read from this castle wall, as on a book of mighty page; for here, within the compass of a few miles, we see the field where Wallace won the battle of Stirling, and likewise the battle-field of Bannockburn, and that of Falkirk, and Sheriffmuir, and I know not how many besides. Around the Castle Hill there is a walk, with seats for old and infirm persons, at points sheltered from the wind. We followed it downward, and I think we passed over the site where the games used to be held, and where, this morning, some of the soldiers of the garrison were going through their exercises. I ought to have mentioned, that, passing through the inner gateway of the castle, we saw the round tower, and glanced into the dungeon, where the Roderic Dhu of Scott's poem was left to die. It is one of the two round towers, between which the portcullis rose and fell. ABBOTSFORD [Footnote: From "Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT Abbotsford, after twenty years' interval, and having then been seen under the doubly exaggerated influence of youth and the recent influence of Scott's poetry, in some degree disappointed me. I had imagined the house itself larger, its towers more lofty, its whole exterior more imposing. The plantations are a good deal grown, and almost bury the house from the distant view, but they still preserve all their formality of outline, as seen from the Galashiels road. Every field has a thick, black belt of fir-trees, which run about, forming on the long hillside the most fantastic figures. The house is, however, a very interesting house. At first, you come to the front next to the road, which you do by a steep descent down the plantation. You are struck, having a great castle in your imagination, with the smallness of the place. It is neither large nor lofty. Your ideal Gothic castle shrinks into a miniature. The house is quite hidden till you are at it, and then you find yourself at a small, castellated gateway, with its crosses cut into the stone pillars on each side, and the little window over it, as for the warden to look out at you. Then comes the view of this side of the house with its portico, its bay windows with painted glass, its tall, battlemented gables, and turrets with their lantern terminations; the armorial escutcheon over the door, and the corbels, and then another escutcheon aloft on the wall of stars and crescents. All these have a good effect; and not less so the light screen of freestone finely worked and carved with its elliptic arches and iron lattice-work, through which the garden is seen with its espalier trees, high brick walls, and greenhouse, with a doorway at the end leading into a second garden of the same sort. The house has a dark look, being built of the native whinstone, or grau-wacke, as the Germans call it, relieved by the quoins and projections of the windows and turrets in freestone. All look classic, and not too large for the poet and antiquarian builder. The dog Maida lies in stone on the right hand of the door in the court, with the well known inscription. The house can neither be said to be Gothic nor castellated. It is a combination of the poet's, drawn from many sources, but all united by good taste, and forming an unique style, more approaching the Elizabethan than any other. Round the court, of which the open-work screen just mentioned is the farther boundary, runs a covered walk, that is, along the two sides not occupied by the house and the screen; and in the wall beneath the arcade thus formed, are numerous niches, containing a medley of old figures brought from various places. There are Indian gods, old figures out of churches, and heads of Roman emperors. In the corner of the court, on the opposite side of the portico to the dog Maida, is a fountain, with some similar relics reared on the stonework around it. The other front gives you a much greater idea of the size. It has a more continuous range of façade. Here, at one end, is Scott's square tower, ascended by outside steps, and a round or octagon tower at the other; you can not tell, certainly, which shape it is, as it is covered with ivy. On this the flagstaff stands. At the end next to the square tower, i. e., at the right-hand end as you face it, you pass into the outer court, which allows you to go around the end of the house from one front to the other, by the old gateway, which once belonged to the Tolbooth of Edinburgh. Along the whole of this front runs a gallery, in which the piper used to stalk to and fro while they were at dinner. This man still comes about the place, tho he has been long discharged. He is a great vagabond. Such is the exterior of Abbotsford. The interior is far more interesting. The porch, copied from that of the old palace of Linlithgow, is finely groined, and there are stags' horns nailed up in it. When the door opens, you find yourself in the entrance-hall, which is, in fact, a complete museum of antiquities and other matters. It is, as described in Lockhart's Life of Scott, wainscoted with old wainscot from the kirk of Dumfermline, and the pulpit of John Knox is cut in two, and placed as chiffoniers between the windows. The whole walls are covered with suits of armor and arms, horns of moose deer, the head of a musk bull, etc. At your left hand, and close to the door, are two cuirasses, some standards, eagles, etc., collected at Waterloo. At the opposite end of the room are two full suits of armor, one Italian, and one English of the time of Henry V., the latter holding in its hands a stupendous two-handed sword, I suppose six feet long, and said to have been found on Bosworth field. Opposite to the door is the fireplace of freestone, imitated from an arch in the cloister at Melrose, with a peculiarly graceful spandrel. In it stands the iron grate of Archbishop Sharpe, who was murdered by the Covenanters; and before it stands a most massive Roman camp-kettle. On the roof, at the center of the pointed arches, runs a row of escutcheons of Scott's family, two or three at one end being empty, the poet not being able to trace the maternal lineage so high as the paternal. These were painted accordingly in clouds, with the motto, "Night veils the deep." Around the door at one end are emblazoned the shields of his most intimate friends, as Erskine, Moritt, Rose, etc., and all around the cornice ran the emblazoned shields of the old chieftains of the border.... Then there is the library, a noble room, with a fine cedar ceiling, with beautiful compartments, and most lovely carved pendants, where you see bunches of grapes, human figures, leaves, etc. It is copied from Rosslyn or Melrose. There are three busts in this room; the first, one of Sir Walter, by Chantrey; one of Wordsworth; and in the great bay window, on a table, a cast of that of Shakespeare, from Stratford. There is a full-length painting of the poet's son, the present Sir Walter, in his hussar uniform, with, his horse. The work-table in the space of the bay window, and the fine carved ceiling in this part of the room, as well as the brass hanging lamp brought from Hereulaneum, are particularly worthy of notice. There is a pair of most splendidly carved box-wood chairs, brought from Italy, and once belonging to some cardinal. The other chairs are of ebony, presented by George IV. There is a tall silver urn, standing on a prophyry table, filled with bones from the Piraeus, and inscribed as the gift of Lord Byron. The books in this room, many of which are secured from hurt by wire-work doors are said to amount to twenty thousand. Many, of course, are very valuable, having been collected with great care by Scott, for the purpose of enabling him to write his different works.... The armory is a most remarkable room; it is the collection of the author of Waverly; and to enumerate all the articles which are here assembled, would require a volume. Take a few particulars. The old wooden lock of the Tolbooth of Selkirk; Queen Mary's offering-box, a small iron ark or coffer, with a circular lid, found in Holyrood-house. Then Hofer's rifle--a short, stout gun, given him by Sir Humphry Davy, or rather by Hofer's widow to Sir Humphry for Sir Walter. The housekeeper said, that Sir Humphry had done some service for the widow of Hofer, and in her gratitude she offered him this precious relic, which he accepted for Sir Walter, and delighted the poor woman with the certainty that it would be preserved to posterity in such a place as Abbotsford. There is an old white hat, worn by the burgesses of Stowe when installed. Rob Roy's purse and his gun; a very long one, with the initials R. M. C., Robert Macgregor Campbell, around the touch-hole. A rich sword in a silver sheath, presented to Sir Walter by the people of Edinburgh, for the pains he took when George IV. was there.... Lastly, and on our way back to the entrance-hall, we enter the writing-room of Sir Walter, which is surrounded by book-shelves, and a gallery, by which Scott not only could get at his books, but by which he could get to and from his bedroom; and so be at work when his visitors thought him in bed. He had only to lock his door, and he was safe. Here are his easy leathern chair and desk, at which he used to work, and, in a little closet, is the last suit that he ever wore--a bottle-green coat, plaid waistcoat, of small pattern, gray plaid trousers, and white hat. Near these hang his walking-stick, and his boots and walking-shoes. Here are, also, his tools, with which he used to prune his trees in the plantations, and his yeoman-cavalry accouterments. On the chimney-piece stands a German light-machine, where he used to get a light, and light his own fire. There is a chair made of the wood of the house at Robroyston, in which William Wallace was betrayed; having a brass plate in the back, stating that it is from this house, where "Wallace was done to death by Traitors." The writing-room is connected with the library, and this little closet had a door issuing into the garden; so that Scott had all his books at immediate command, and could not only work early and late, without anybody's knowledge, but, at will, slip away to wood and field, if he pleased, unobserved. DRYBURGH ABBEY [Footnote: From "The Ruined Abbeys of the Border."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT Dryburgh lies amid the scenes in which Scott not only took such peculiar delight, but which furnished him themes both for his poems and romances, and which were rich in those old songs and narratives of border feats and raids which he has preserved in his Border Minstrelsy. Melrose, the Eildon Hills, the haunt of Thomas of Ercildoune, Jedburgh, Yetholm, the Cowdenknowes, the Yarrow, and Ettrick, all lie on different sides within a circle of twenty miles, and most of them much nearer. Smailholme Tower, the scene of some of Scott's youthful days, and of his ballad of "The Eve of St. John," is also one of these. Grose tells us that "The ruins of Dryburgh Monastery are beautifully situated on a peninsula formed by the Tweed, ten-miles above Kelso, and three below Melrose, on the southwestern confine of the county of Berwick." ... The new Abbey of Dryburgh had the credit of being founded in 1150 by David I., who was fond of the reputation, of being a founder of abbeys, Holyrood Abbey, Melrose Abbey, Kelso Abbey, Jedburgh Abbey, and others, having David I. stated as their founder. However it might be in other cases, and in some of them he was merely the restorer, the real founders of Dryburgh were Hugh de Morville, Lord of Lauderdale, and Constable of Scotland, and his wife, Beatrice de Beauchamp.... Edward II., in his invasion of Scotland in 1323, burned down Dryburgh Abbey, as he had done that of Melrose in the preceding year; and both these magnificent houses were restored principally at the cost of Robert Bruce. It was again destroyed by the English in 1544, by Sir George Bowes and Sir Brian Latoum, as Melrose was also. Among the most distinguished of its abbots we may mention Andrew Fordum, Bishop of Moray, and afterward Archbishop of St. Andrews, and Ambassador to France, and who held some of the most important offices under James IV. and James V. The favors conferred upon him were in proportion to his consequence in the state. Along with this abbey of Dryburgh, he held in commendam those of Pittenweem, Coldingham, and Dunfermline. He resigned Dryburgh to James Ogilvie, of the family of Deskford. Ogilvie was also considerably employed in offices of diplomacy, both at London and Paris. The Erskines seemed to keep firm hold of the Abbey of Dryburgh; and Adam Erskine, one of Abbot James's successors, was, under George Buchanan, a sub-preceptor to James VI. This James I. of England dissolved the abbey in 1604, and conferred it and its lands, together with the abbeys and estates of Cambuskenneth and Inehmahorne, on John Erskine, Earl of Mar, who was made, on this occasion, also Baron of Cardross, which barony was composed of the property of these three monasteries. In this line, Dryburgh descended to the Lords of Buchan. The Earls of Buchan, at one time, sold it to the Halliburtons of Mortoun, from whom it was purchased by Colonel Tod, whose heirs again sold it to the Earl of Buchan in 1786. This eccentric nobleman bequeathed it to his son, Sir David Erskine, at whose death in 1837 it reverted to the Buchan family. Two monasteries in Ireland, the abbey of Druin-la-Croix in the County of Armagh, and the abbey of Woodburn in the county of Antrim, acknowledged Dryburgh as their mother. A copy of the Liber S. Mariae de Dryburgh is in the Advocates' Library in Edinburgh, containing all its ancient charters. Such are the main points of history connected with Dryburgh; but, when we open the ballad lore of the South of Scotland, we find this fine old place figuring repeatedly and prominently.... Grose says: "The freestone of which the monastery of Dryburgh and the most elegant parts of the Abbey of Melrose were built, is one of a most beautiful color and texture, and has defied the influence of the weather for more than six centuries; nor is the sharpness of the sculpture in the least affected by the ravages of time. The quarry from which it was taken is still successfully worked at Dryburgh; and no stone in the island seems more perfectly adapted for the purpose of architecture, as it hardens by age, and is not subject to be corroded or decomposed by the weather, so that it might even be used for the cutting of bas-reliefs and of statues." ... As the remains of the abbey have since been carefully preserved, they present still much the same aspect as at Grose's visit in 1797. When I visited this lovely ruin and lovely neighborhood in 1845, I walked from Melrose, a distance of between three and four miles. Leaving the Eildon Hills on my right, and following the course of the Tweed, I saw, as I progressed, Cowdenknowes, Bemerside, and other spots famous in border song. Issuing from a steep and woody lane, I came out on a broad bend of the river, with a wide strand of gravel and stones on this side, showing with what force the wintry torrents rushed along here. Opposite rose lofty and finely-wooded banks. Amid the trees on that side shone out a little temple of the Muses, where they are represented as consecrating James Thomson the poet. Farther off, on a hill, stands a gigantic statue of William Wallace, which was originally intended for Burns; but, the stone being too large, it was thought by the eccentric Lord Buchan, who erected it, a pity to cut it down.... I was ferried over by two women, who were by no means sorry that the winds and floods had carried my Lord Buchan's bridge away, as it restored their business of putting people over. I then ascended a lane from the ferry, and found myself in front of an apparently old castle gateway; but, from the Latin inscription over it, discovered that it was also erected by the same singular Lord Buchan, as the entrance to a pomarium, or, in plain English, an orchard, dedicated to his honored parents, who, I suppose, like our first parents, were particularly fond of apples. That his parents or himself might enjoy all the apples, he had under the Latin dedication, placed a simple English menace of steel traps and spring guns. I still advanced through a pleasant scene of trees and cottages, of rich grassy crofts, with cattle lying luxuriously in them, and amid a hush of repose, indicative of a monastic scene. Having found a guide to the ruins, at a cottage near the river, I was led across a young orchard toward them, the two old gables and the fine circular window showing themselves above the foliage. I found the interior of the ruins carpeted by soft turf, and two rows of cedars growing in the church, marking where the aisle formerly ran. The cloisters and south transept were still entire, and displayed much fine workmanship. The great circular window is especially lovely, formed of five stars cut in stone, so that the open center between them forms a rose. The light seen through this charming window produced a fine effect. The chapter-house was also entire, the floor being now only of earth; and a circle was drawn in the center, where the remains of the founder and his lady lie. Here, again, however, the fantastic old Lord Buchan had interfered, and a statue of Locke, reading an open book, and pointing to his own forehead; one of Inigo Jones, and one of Newton, made you wonder what they were doing there. So totally without regard to fitness did this half-crazy nobleman put down his ornaments. The wonder is that his successor had not removed these, and some statues or busts which had as little business on the spot. But the charm of the place in every sense was the grave of Scott. It was in the Lady aisle, and occupies two arches of it; and the adjoining space under the next arch is the burial place of the Erskines, as Scott's burial-place was that of his ancestors, the Halliburtons. The whole, with the tier of small sectional Norman arches above, forms a glorious tomb much resembling one of the chapel tombs in Winchester Cathedral. Taken in connection with the fine ruins, and the finer natural scenery around, no spot can be supposed more suitable for the resting-place of the remains of the great minstrel and romancer, who so delighted in the natural, historic, and legendary charms of the neighborhood, and who added still greater ones to them himself. Since my visit, a massive tomb, of Aberdeen granite, has been placed over the remains of Sir Walter and Lady Scott, and those of their eldest son. A railway also now makes the place much more accessible, the station for Dryburgh being at the village of Newtown, on the other side of the river. Near St. Boswell's, opposite to Dryburgh, has also been lately erected a bridge over the Tweed, opening up the communication betwixt the north and south side of the river, and thus enabling the tourist to explore at great convenience the scenes of ancient loves and feuds, and the haunts of Scott. Here his dust lies amid the objects redolent of his fame; and within a few miles, near Makerstoun, a view may he obtained, from a hill, of Smailholme Tower, where the poet passed some of the years of his boyhood, and the memory of which he has perpetuated in one of the epistles which introduce each Canto of Marmion. MELROSE ABBEY [Footnote: From "The Ruined Abbeys of the Border."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT. The foundation of Melrose Abbey generally dates from 1136, when David I. of Scotland, among his many similar erections, built a church here. But Melrose, as a seat of religion, boasts a much earlier origin. It was one of those churches, or more properly missionary stations, which the fathers of Ireland and of Iona spread over Britain and the continent. It was in fact a portion of that pure and beautiful British church which existed prior to the Roman hierarchy in these islands, and of which the professors presented in their primitive habits and primitive doctrines so apostolic a character.... In 1136 the pious David raised a new and much superior abbey, about two miles westward of the original site, but on the same south bank of the Tweed, and established in it the Cistercians. He conferred on them extensive lands and privileges; the lands of Melrose, Eldun, and Dernwie; the lands and wood of Gattonside, with the fishings of the Tweed along the whole extent of those lands; with the right of pasturage and pannage in his forests of Selkirk and Traguair, and in the forest between the Gala and the Leeder, with wood from those forests for building and burning. In 1192 Jocelin, Bishop of Glasgow, granted to the monks of Melrose the church of Hassindean, with its lands, tithes, and other emoluments, "for the maintenance of the poor and of pilgrims coming to the house of Melrose." From this cause the old tower of Hassindean was called "Monks' Tower," and the farm adjoining the church is still called "Monks' Croft." In fact, the Abbey of Melrose was a sort of inn, not only to the poor, but to some of the greatest men of the time. The Scottish kings from time to time, and wealthy subjects too, added fresh grants; so that in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the Abbey had accumulated vast possessions and immunities; had many tenants, great husbandmen, with many granges and numerous herds. It had much other property in Ayrshire, Dumfriesshire, Selkirkshire, and Berwickshire. But the abbey church which David built was not that of which we have now the remains. The whole place was repeatedly burned down by the English invaders. In 1215 the rebellious barons of King John of England swore fealty to Alexander II. of Scotland, at the altar of Melrose. Edward I., in 1295-6, when at Berwick, granted the monks of Melrose restitution of the lands of which they had been deprived; but in 1332 Edward II. burned down the abbey and killed the abbot William de Peeblis and several of his monks. Robert I., of Scotland, in 1326 or four years afterward, gave £2,000 sterling to rebuild it; and Edward II., of England, came from New Castle at Christmas, 1341, and held his yule in the abbey, and made restitution of the lands and other property which his father had seized during the late war. In 1378 Richard II. granted a protection to the abbot and his lands; but in 1385 he burned down Melrose and other religious houses on his expedition into Scotland. Robert Bruce, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, granted a revenue to restore the abbey; and betwixt this period and the Reformation arose the splendid structure, the ruins of which yet charm every eye. It is in the highest style of the decorated order, every portion is full of work of the most exquisite character, occasionally mingled with the perpendicular. They are the only ruins of the church which remain, and they present the finest specimen of Gothic architecture and sculpture that Scotland possesses. One of Scotland's most discriminating writers says, "To say that Melrose is beautiful, is to say nothing. It is exquisitely--splendidly lovely. It is an object possest of infinite grace and unmeasurable charm; it is fine in its general aspect, and in its minutest details. It is a study--a glory." The church is two hundred and eighty-seven feet in length, and at the greatest breadth one hundred and fifty-seven feet. The west is wholly ruined; but the great eastern window remains, and one above the southern door, which are extremely fine. The pillars that remain to support the roof are of singular grace, and wherever you turn you behold objects that rivet the attention by their richness of sculpture, tho often only in fragments. The only wonder is that so much has escaped the numberless assaults of enemies. During the reigns of Henry VIII., Edward VI., and Elizabeth, the abbey was continually suffering from their inroads, in which the spirit of vengeance against the Scots who resisted their schemes of aggression was mixed strongly with that of enmity to Popery. In the year 1545, it was twice burned and ransacked by the English, first under Sir Ralph Eyre and Sir Bryan Layton, and again by the Earl of Hertford. At the Reformation, when all its lands and immunities were invested in the Crown, they were valued at £1,758 Scots, besides large contributions in kind. Among them, in addition to much corn were one hundred and five stones of butter, ten dozens of capons, twenty-six dozens of poultry, three hundred and seventy-six more fowl, three hundred and forty loads of peats, etc. Queen Mary granted Melrose and its lands and tithes to Bothwell, but they were forfeited on his attainder. They then passed to a Douglas, and afterward to Sir James Ramsay, who rescured James VI. in the conspiracy of Gowrie; then to Sir Thomas Hamilton in 1619, who was made Earl of Melrose, and afterward Earl of Haddington. About a century ago they became the property of the family of Buccleuch, in which they remain. The Douglas built himself a house out of the ruins, which may still be seen about fifty yards to the north of the church. The ruins are preserved with great care, and are shown by a family which is at once intelligent and courteous. The person going round, most generally, points out the shattered remains of thirteen figures at the great eastern window, in their niches, said to have been those of our Savior and his Apostles. They were broken to pieces by a fanatic weaver of Gattonside. A head is also pointed out, said to be that of Michael Scott, the magician, who exerted his power so wonderfully, according to tradition, in this neighborhood, as to split, the Eildon hill into three parts.... The name of Melrose is clearly derived from the Ancient British, Melross, the projection of the meadow. Moel in Welsh and Maol in Irish signify something bald, naked, bare. Thus Moal-Ross, in the language of the Irish monks who first built the church here, would signify the naked promontory. Moel in Welsh is now usually applied to a smooth mountain, as Moel-Siabod; and we find Ross continually showing its Celtic origin where there is a promontory, as Ross on the Moray-frith, and Ross in Herefordshire from a winding of the Wye. But some old sculptor, on a stone still preserved in the village, has made a punning derivation for it, by carving a mell, or mallet, and a rose over it. This stone was part of a wall of the old prison, long since pulled down. The site of Melrose, like all monastic ones, is fine. The abbey stands on a broad level near the Tweed, but is surrounded by hills and fields full of beauty, and peopled with a thousand beings of romance, tradition, and poetry. South of the village rise the three peaks of the Eildon hill, bearing aloft the fame of Michael Scott and Thomas the Rhymer. On the banks of the Tweed, opposite to Melrose, lies Gattonside, buried in its gardens and orchards, and still retaining its faith in many a story of the supernatural; and about three miles westward, on the same bank of the river, stands Abbotsford, raised by a magician more mighty than Michael Scott. How is it possible to approach that haunted abode without meeting on the way the most wonderful troop of wild, and lofty, and beautiful beings that ever peopled earth or the realm of imagination? Scotch, English, Gallic, Indian, Syrian come forth to meet you. The Bruce, the Scottish Jameses, Coeur de Lion, Elizabeth, Leicester, Mary of Scots, James I. of England, Montrose, Claverhouse, Cumberland the Butcher. The Covenanters are ready to preach, and fight anew, the Highland clans rise in aid of the Stuart. What women of dazzling beauty--Flora M'Ivor, Rose Bradwardine, Rebecca the noble Jewess, Lucy Ashton, and Amy Robsart, the lovely Effie Deans, and her homely yet glorious sister Jenny, the bewitching Di Vernon, and Minna and Brenda Troil, of the northern isles, stand radiant amid a host of lesser beauties. Then comes Rob Roy, the Robin Hood of the hills; then Balfour of Burley issues, a stalwart apparition, from his hiding-place, and of infinite humor and strangeness of aspect. Where is there a band like this--the Baron of Bradwardine, Dominie Sampson, Meg Merrilies, Monkbarns, Edie Ochiltree, Old Mortality, Bailie Nicol Jarvie, Andrew Fairservice, Caleb Balderston, Flibbertigibbet, Mona of the Fitful head, and that fine fellow the farmer of Liddesdale, with all his Peppers and Mustards raffling at his heels? But not even out of Melrose need you move a step to find the name of a faithful servant of Sir Walter. Tom Purdie lies in Melrose Abbey-Yard; and Scott himself had engraven on his tomb that he was "the Wood-forester of Abbotsford," probably the title which Tom gave himself. Those who visit Melrose will take a peep at the gravestone of Tom Purdie, who sleeps amid a long line of the dead, reaching from the days of Aidan to our own, as alive he filled a little niche in the regard! of a master who has given to both high and low so many niches in the temple of immortality. CARLYLE'S BIRTHPLACE AND EARLY HOMES [Footnote: From "Fresh Fields." By special arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Co. Copyright, 1884.] BY JOHN BURROUGHS. There was no road in Scotland or England which I should have been so glad to have walked over as that from Edinburgh to Ecclefechan, a distance covered many times by the feet of him whose birth and burial place I was about to visit. Carlyle as a young man had walked it with Edward Irving (the Scotch say "travel" when they mean going afoot), and he had walked it alone, and as a lad with an elder boy, on his way to Edinburgh College. He says in his "Reminiscences" he nowhere else had such affectionate, sad, thoughtful, and in fact interesting and salutary journeys.... Not to be entirely cheated out of my walk, I left the train at Lockerby, a small Scotch market-town, and accomplished the remainder of the journey to Ecclefechan on foot, a brief six-mile pull. It was the first day of June; the afternoon sun was shining brightly. It was still the honeymoon of travel with me, not yet two weeks in the bonnie land; the road was smooth and clean as the floor of a sea beach, and firmer, and my feet devoured the distance with right good will.... Four miles from Lockerby I came to Mainhill, the name of a farm where the Carlyle family lived many years, and where Carlyle first read Goethe, "in a dry ditch," Froude says, and translated "Wilhelm Meister." The land drops gently away to the south and east, opening up broad views in these directions, but it does not seem to be the bleak and windy place Froude describes it. The crops looked good, and the fields smooth and fertile. The soil is rather a stubborn clay, nearly the same as one sees everywhere.... The Carlyles were living on this farm while their son was teaching school at Annan, and later at Kircaldy with Irving, and they supplied him with cheese, butter, ham, oatmeal, etc., from their scanty stores. A new farmhouse has been built since then, tho the old one is still standing; doubtless the same Carlyle's father refers to in a letter to his son, in 1817, as being under way. The parish minister was expected at Mainhill. "Your mother was very anxious to have the house done before he came, or else she said she would run over the hill and hide herself." From Mainhill the highway descends slowly to the village of Ecclefechan, the site of which is marked to the eye, a mile or more away, by the spire of the church rising up against a background of Scotch firs, which clothe a hill beyond. I soon enter the main street of the village, which in Carlyle's youth had an open burn or creek flowing through the center of it. This has been covered over by some enterprising citizen, and instead of a loitering little burn, crossed by numerous bridges, the eye is now greeted by a broad expanse of small cobble-stones. The cottages are for the most part very humble, and rise from the outer edges of the pavement, as if the latter had been turned up and shaped to make their walls. The church is a handsome brown-stone structure, of recent date, and is more in keeping with the fine fertile country about than with the little village in its front. In the cemetery back of it, Carlyle lies buried. As I approached, a girl sat by the roadside, near the gate, combing her black locks and arranging her toilet; waiting, as it proved, for her mother and brother, who lingered in the village. A couple of boys were cutting nettles against the hedge; for the pigs, they said, after the sting had been taken out of them by boiling. Across the street from the cemetery the cows of the villagers were grazing. I must have thought it would be as easy to distinguish Carlyle's grave from the others as it was to distinguish the man while living, or his fame when dead; for it never occurred to me to ask in what part of the inclosure it was placed. Hence, when I found myself inside the gate, which opens from the Annan road through a high stone wall, I followed the most worn path toward a new and imposing-looking monument on the far side of the cemetery; and the edge of my fine emotion was a good deal dulled against the marble when I found it bore a strange name. I tried others, and still others, but was disappointed. I found a long row of Carlyles, but he whom I sought was not among them. My pilgrim enthusiasm felt itself needlessly hindered and chilled. How many rebuffs could one stand? Carlyle dead, then, was the same as Carlyle living; sure to take you down a peg or two when you came to lay your homage at his feet. Presently I saw "Thomas Carlyle" on a big marble slab that stood in a family inclosure. But this turned out to be the name of a nephew of the great Thomas. However, I had struck the right plat at last; here were the Carlyles I was looking for, within a space probably of eight by sixteen feet, surrounded by a high iron fence. The latest made grave was higher and fuller than the rest, but it had no stone or mark of any kind to distinguish it. Since my visit, I believe, a stone or monument of some kind has been put up. A few daisies and the pretty blue-eyed speedwell were growing amid the grass upon it. The great man lies with his head toward the south or southwest, with his mother, sister, and father to the right of him, and his brother John to the left. I was glad to learn that the high iron fence was not his own suggestion. His father had put it around the family plot in his lifetime. Carlyle would have liked to have it cut down about half-way. The whole look of the cemetery, except in the size of the head-stones, was quite American.... A young man and his wife were working in a nursery of young trees, a few paces from the graves and I conversed with them through a thin place in the hedge. They said they had seen Carlyle many times, and seemed to hold him in proper esteem and reverence. The young man had seen him come in summer and stand, with uncovered head, beside the graves of his father and mother. "And long and reverently did he remain there, too," said the young gardener. I learned this was Carlyle's invariable custom: every summer did he make a pilgrimage to this spot, and with bared head linger beside these graves. The last time be came, which was a couple of years before he died, he was so feeble that two persons sustained him while he walked into the cemetery. BURNS'S LAND [Footnote: From "Our Old Home." Published by Houghton, Mifflin Co.] BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. We left Carlisle at a little past eleven, and within the half-hour were at Gretna Green. Thence we rushed onward into Scotland through a flat and dreary tract of country, consisting mainly of desert and bog, where probably the moss-troopers were accustomed to take refuge after their raids into England. Anon, however, the hills hove themselves up to view, occasionally attaining a height which might almost be called mountainous. In about two hours we reached Dumfries, and alighted at the station there.... We asked for Burns's dwelling; and a woman pointed across a street to a two-story house, built of stone, and whitewashed, like its neighbors, but perhaps of a little more respectable aspect than most of them, tho I hesitate in saying so. It was not a separate structure, but under the same continuous roof with the next. There was an inscription on the door, bearing no reference to Burns, but indicating that the house was now occupied by a ragged or industrial school. On knocking, we were instantly admitted by a servant-girl, who smiled intelligently when we told our errand, and showed us into a low and very plain parlor, not more than twelve or fifteen feet square. A young woman, who seemed to be a teacher in the school, soon appeared, and told us that this had been Burns's usual sitting-room, and that he had written many of his songs here. She then led us up a narrow staircase into a little bedchamber over the parlor. Connecting with it, there is a very small room, or windowed closet, which Burns used as a study; and the bedchamber itself was the one where he slept in his later lifetime, and in which he died at last. Altogether, it is an exceedingly unsuitable place for a pastoral and rural poet to live or die in,--even more unsatisfactory than Shakespeare's house, which has a certain homely picturesqueness that contrasts favorably with the suburban sordidness of the abode before us.... Coming to St. Michael's Church, we saw a man digging a grave, and, scrambling out of the hole, he let us into the churchyard, which was crowded full of monuments. There was a footpath through this crowded churchyard, sufficiently well worn to guide us to the grave of Burns, but a woman followed behind us, who, it appeared, kept the key to the mausoleum, and was privileged to show it to strangers. The monument is a sort of Grecian temple, with pilasters and a dome, covering a space of about twenty feet square. It was formerly open to all the inclemencies of the Scotch atmosphere, but is now protected and shut in by large squares of rough glass, each pane being of the size of one whole side of the structure. The woman unlocked the door, and admitted us into the interior. Inlaid into the floor of the mausoleum is the gravestone of Burns--the very same that was laid over his grave by Jean Armour, before this monument was built. Displayed against the surrounding wall is a marble statue of Burns at the plow, with the Genius of Caledonia summoning the plowman to turn poet. Methought it was not a very successful piece of work; for the plow was better sculptured than the man, and the man, tho heavy and cloddish, was more effective than the goddess. Our guide informed us that an old man of ninety, who knew Burns, certifies this statue to be very like the original. The bones of the poet, and of Jean Armour, and of some of their children, lie in the vault over which we stood. Our guide (who was intelligent, in her own plain way, and very agreeable to talk withal) said that the vault was opened about three weeks ago, on occasion of the burial of the eldest son of Burns. [Footnote: This was written in 1860.] The poet's bones were disturbed, and the dry skull, once so brimming over with powerful thought and bright and tender fantasies, was taken away and kept for several days by a Dumfries doctor. It has since been deposited in a new leaden coffin, and restored to the vault. We went into the church, and found it very plain and naked, without altar-decorations, and having its floor quite covered with unsightly wooden pews. The woman led us to a pew cornering on one of the side-aisles, and, telling us that it used to be Burns's family pew, showed us his seat, which is in the corner by the aisle. It is so situated, that a sturdy pillar hid him from the pulpit, and from the minister's eye; "for Robin was no great friends with the ministers," said she. This touch--his seat behind the pillar, and Burns himself nodding in sermon time, or keenly observant of profane things--brought him before us to the life. In the corner-seat of the next pew, right before Burns, and not more than two feet off, sat the young lady on whom the poet saw that unmentionable parasite which he has immortalized in song. We were ungenerous enough to ask the lady's name, but the good woman could not tell it. This was the last thing which we saw in Dumfries worthy of record; and it ought to be noted that our guide refused some money which my companion offered her, because I had already paid her what she deemed sufficient. At the railway station we spent more than a weary hour, waiting for the train, which at last came up, and took us to Mauchline. We got into an omnibus, the only conveyance to be had, and drove about a mile to the village, where we established ourselves at the Loudoun Hotel, one of the veriest country inns which we have found in Great Britain. The town of Mauchline, a place more redolent of Burns than almost any other, consists of a street or two of contiguous cottages, mostly whitewashed, and with thatched roofs. It has nothing sylvan or rural in the immediate village, and is as ugly a place as mortal man could contrive to make, or to render uglier through a succession of untidy generations. The fashion of paving the village street, and patching one shabby house on the gable-end of another, quite shuts out all verdure and pleasantness; but, I presume, we are not likely to see a more genuine old Scotch village, such as they used to be in Burns's time, and long before, than this of Mauchline. The church stands about midway up the street, and is built of red freestone, very simple in its architecture, with a square tower and pinnacles. In this sacred edifice, and its churchyard, was the scene of one of Burns's most characteristic productions, "The Holy Fair." Almost directly opposite its gate, across the village street, stands Posie Nansie's inn, where the "Jolly Beggars" congregated. The latter is a two-story, red-stone, thatched house, looking old, but by no means venerable, like a drunken patriarch. It has small, old-fashioned windows, and may well have stood for centuries--tho seventy or eighty years ago, when Burns was conversant with it, I should fancy it might have been something better than a beggar's alehouse.... [Burns's farm of] Moss Giel is not more than a mile from Mauchline, and the road extends over a high ridge of land, with a view of far hills and green slopes on either side. Just before we reached the farm, the driver stopt to point out a hawthorn, growing by the wayside, which he said was Burns's "Lousie Thorn"; and I devoutly plucked a branch, altho I have really forgotten where or how this illustrious shrub has been celebrated. We then turned into a rude gateway, and almost immediately came to the farmhouse of Moss Giel, standing some fifty yards removed from the high-road, behind a tall hedge of hawthorn, and considerably overshadowed by trees. The biographers talk of the farm of Moss Giel as being damp and unwholesome; but I do not see why, outside of the cottage walls, it should possess so evil a reputation. It occupies a high, broad ridge, enjoying, surely, whatever benefit can come of a breezy site, and sloping far downward before any marshy soil is reached. The high hedge, and the trees that stand beside the cottage, give it a pleasant aspect enough to one who does, not know the grimy secrets of the interior; and the summer afternoon was now so bright that I shall remember the scene with a great deal of sunshine over it. Leaving the cottage, we drove through a field, which the driver told us was that in which Burns, turned up the mouse's nest. It is the enclosure, nearest to the cottage, and seems now to be a pasture, and a rather remarkably unfertile one. A little farther on, the ground was whitened with an immense number of daisies--daisies, daisies everywhere; and in answer to my inquiry, the driver said that this was the field where Burns ran his plowshare over the daisy. If so, the soil seems to have been consecrated to daisies by the song which he bestowed on that first immortal one. I alighted, and plucked a whole handful of these "wee, modest, crimson-tipped flowers," which will be precious to many friends in our own country as coming from Burns's farm, and being of the same race and lineage as that daisy which he turned into an amaranthine flower while seeming to destroy it. Prom Moss Giel we drove through a variety of pleasant scenes, some of which were familiar to us by their connection with Burns. By and by we came to the spot where Burns saw Miss Alexander, the Lass of Ballochmyle. It was on a bridge, which (or, more probably, a bridge that has succeeded to the old one, and is made of iron) crosses from bank to bank, high in air, over a deep gorge of the road; so that the young lady may have appeared to Burns like a creature between earth and sky, and compounded chiefly of celestial elements. But, in honest truth, the great charm of a woman, in Burns's eyes, was always her womanhood, and not the angelic mixture which other poets find in her. Our driver pointed out the course taken by the Lass of Ballochmyle, through the shrubbery, to a rock on the banks of the Lugar, where it seems to be the tradition that Burns accosted her. The song implies no such interview. Lovers, of whatever condition, high or low, could desire no lovelier scene in which to breathe their vows: the river flowing over its pebbly bed, sometimes gleaming into the sunshine, sometimes hidden deep in verdure, and here and there eddying at the foot of high and precipitous cliffs. Our ride to Ayr presented nothing very remarkable; and, indeed, a cloudy and rainy day takes the varnish off the scenery and causes a woeful diminution in the beauty and impressiveness of everything we see. Much of our way lay along a flat, sandy level, in a southerly direction. We reached Ayr in the midst of hopeless rain, and drove to the King's Arms Hotel. In the intervals of showers I took peeps at the town, which appeared to have many modern or modern-fronted edifices; altho there are likewise tall, gray, gabled, and quaint-looking houses in the by-streets, here and there, betokening an ancient place. The town lies on both sides of the Ayr, which is here broad and stately, and bordered with dwellings that look from their windows directly down into the passing tide. I crossed the river by a modern and handsome stone bridge, and recrossed it, at no great distance, by a venerable structure of four gray arches, which must have bestridden the stream ever since the early days of Scottish history. These are the "Two Briggs of Ayr," whose midnight conversation was overheard by Burns, while other auditors were aware only of the rush and rumble of the wintry stream among the arches. The ancient bridge is steep and narrow, and paved like a street, and defended by a parapet of red freestone, except at the two ends, where some mean old shops allow scanty room for the pathway to creep between.... The next morning wore a lowering aspect, as if it felt itself destined to be one of many consecutive days of storm. After a good Scotch breakfast, however, of fresh herrings and eggs, we took a fly, and started at a little past ten for the banks of the Doon. On our way, at about two miles from Ayr, we drew up at a roadside cottage, on which was an inscription to the effect that Robert Burns was born within its walls. It is now a public-house; and, of course, we alighted and entered its little sitting-room, which, as we at present see it, is a neat apartment, with the modern improvement of a ceiling. The walls are much overscribbled with names of visitors, and the wooden door of a cupboard in the wainscot, as well as all the other woodwork of the room, is cut and carved with initial letters. So, likewise, are two tables, which, having received a coat of varnish over the inscriptions, form really curious and interesting articles of furniture. I have seldom (tho I do not personally adopt this mode of illustrating my humble name) felt inclined to ridicule the natural impulse of most people thus to record themselves at the shrines of poets and heroes. On a panel, let into the wall in a corner of the room, is a portrait of Burns, copied from the original picture by Nasmyth. The floor of this apartment is of boards, which are probably a recent substitute for the ordinary flagstones of a peasant's cottage. There is but one other room pertaining to the genuine birthplace of Robert Burns: it is the kitchen, into which we now went. It has a floor of flagstones, even ruder than those of Shakespeare's house--tho, perhaps, not so strangely cracked and broken as the latter, over which the hoof of Satan himself might seem to have been trampling. A new window has been opened through the wall, toward the road; but on the opposite side is the little original window, of only four small panes, through which came the first daylight that shone upon the Scottish poet. At the side of the room, opposite the fireplace, is a recess, containing a bed, which can be hidden by curtains. In that humble nook, of all places in the world, Providence was pleased to deposit the germ of the richest human life which mankind then had within its circumference. These two rooms, as I have said, make up the whole sum and substance of Burns's birthplace: for there were no chambers, nor even attics; and the thatched roof formed the only ceiling of kitchen and sitting-room, the height of which was that of the whole house. The cottage, however, is attached to another edifice of the same size and description, as these little habitations often are; and, moreover, a splendid addition has been made to it, since the poet's renown began to draw visitors to the wayside alehouse. The old woman of the house led us, through an entry, and showed a vaulted hall, of no vast dimensions, to be sure but marvelously large and splendid as compared with what might be anticipated from the outward aspect of the cottage. It contained a bust of Burns, and was hung round with pictures and engravings, principally illustrative of his life and poems. In this part of the house, too, there is a parlor, fragrant with tobacco-smoke; and, no doubt, many a noggin of whisky is here quaffed to the memory of the bard, who profest to draw so much inspiration from that potent liquor. We bought some engravings of Kirk Alloway, the Bridge of Doon, and the monument, and gave the old woman a fee besides, and took our leave. A very short drive farther brought us within sight of the monument, and to the hotel, situated close by the entrance of the ornamental grounds within which the former is enclosed. We rang the bell at the gate of the enclosure, but were forced to wait a considerable time; because the old man, the regular superintendent of the spot, had gone to assist at the laying of the corner-stone of a new kirk. He appeared anon, and admitted us, but immediately hurried away to be present at the ceremonies, leaving us locked up with Burns. The enclosure around the monument is beautifully laid out as an ornamental garden, and abundantly provided with rare flowers and shrubbery, all tended with loving care. The monument stands on an elevated site, and consists of a massive basement-story, three-sided, above which rises a light and elegant Grecian temple--a mere dome, supported on Corinthian pillars, and open to all the winds. The edifice is beautiful in itself; tho I know not what peculiar appropriateness it may have, as the memorial of a Scottish rural poet. The door of the basement-story stood open; and, entering, we saw a bust of Burns in a niche, looking keener, more refined, but not so warm and whole-souled as his pictures usually do. I think the likeness can not be good. In the center of the room stood a glass case, in which were deposited the two volumes of the little Pocket Bible that Burns gave to Highland Mary, when they pledged their troth to one another. It is poorly printed, on coarse paper. A verse of Scripture, referring to the solemnity and awfulness of vows, is written within the cover of each volume, in the poet's own hand; and fastened to one of the covers is a lock of Highland Mary's golden hair. This Bible had been carried to America by one of her relatives, but was sent back to be fitly treasured here. There is a staircase within the monument, by which we ascended to the top, and had a view of both Briggs of Doon; the scene of Tam O'Shanter's misadventure being close at hand. Descending, we wandered through the enclosed garden, and came to a little building in a corner, on entering which, we found the two statues of Tam and Sutor Wat--ponderous stonework enough, yet permeated in a remarkable degree with living warmth and jovial hilarity. Prom this part of the garden, too, we again beheld the old Briggs of Doon, over which Tam galloped in such imminent and awful peril. It is a beautiful object in the landscape, with one high, graceful arch, ivy-grown, and shadowed all over and around with foliage. When we had waited a good while, the old gardener came, telling us that he had heard an excellent prayer at laying the corner-stone of the new kirk. He now gave us some roses and sweetbrier, and let us out from his pleasant garden. We immediately hastened to Kirk Alloway, which is within two or three minutes' walk of the monument. A few steps ascend from the roadside, through a gate, into the old graveyard, in the midst of which stands the kirk. The edifice is wholly roofless, but the side-walls and gable-ends are quite entire, tho portions of them are evidently modern restorations. Never was there a plainer little church, or one with smaller architectural pretension; no New England meetinghouse has more simplicity in its very self, tho poetry and fun have clambered and clustered so wildly over Kirk Alloway that it is difficult to see it as it actually exists. By the by, I do not understand why Satan and an assembly of witches should hold their revels within a consecrated precinct; but the weird scene has so established itself in the world's imaginative faith that it must be accepted as an authentic incident, in spite of rule and reason to the contrary. Possibly, some carnal minister, some priest of pious aspect and hidden infidelity, had dispelled the consecration of the holy edifice, by his pretense of prayer, and thus made it the resort of unhappy ghosts and sorcerers and devils. The interior of the kirk, even now, is applied to quite as impertinent a purpose as when Satan and the witches used it as a dancing-hall; for it is divided in the midst by a wall of stone masonry, and each compartment has been converted into a family burial-place. The name on one of the monuments is Crawfurd; the other bore no inscription. It is impossible not to feel that these good people, whoever they may be, had no business to thrust their prosaic bones into a spot that belongs to the world, and where their presence jars with the emotions, be they sad or gay, which the pilgrim brings thither. They shut us out from our own precincts, too--from that inalienable possession which Burns bestowed in free gift upon mankind, by taking it from the actual earth and annexing it to the domain of imagination. Kirk Alloway is inconceivably small, considering how large a space it fills in our imagination before we see it. I paced its length, outside of the wall, and found it only seventeen of my paces, and not more than ten of them in breadth. There seem to have been but very few windows, all of which, if I rightly remember, are now blocked up with mason-work of stone. One mullioned window, tall and narrow, in the eastern gable, might have been seen by Tam O'Shanter, blazing with devilish light, as he approached along the road from Ayr; and there is a small and square one, on the side nearest the road, into which he might have peered, as he sat on horseback. Indeed, I could easily have looked through it, standing on the ground, had not the opening been walled up. There is an odd kind of belfry at the peak of one of the gables, with the small bell still hanging in it. And this is all that I remember of Kirk Alloway, except that the stones of its material are gray and irregular. The road from Ayr passes Alloway Kirk, and crosses the Doon by a modern bridge, without swerving much from a straight line. To reach the old bridge, it appears to have made a bend, shortly after passing the kirk, and then to have turned sharply toward the river. The new bridge is within a minute's walk of the monument; and we went thither, and leaned over its parapet to admire the beautiful Doon, flowing wildly and sweetly between its deep and wooded banks. I never saw a lovelier scene; altho this might have been even lovelier, if a kindly sun had shone upon it. The ivy-grown, ancient bridge, with its high arch, through which we had a picture of the river and the green banks beyond, was absolutely the most picturesque object, in a quiet and gentle way, that ever blest my eyes. Bonny Doon, with its wooded banks, and the boughs dipping into the water! The memory of them, at this moment, affects me like the song of birds, and Burns crooning some verses, simple and wild, in accordance with their native melody.... We shall appreciate him better as a poet, hereafter; for there is no writer whose life, as a man, has so much to do with his fame, and throws such a necessary light upon whatever he has produced. Henceforth, there will be a personal warmth for us in everything that he wrote; and, like his countrymen, we shall know him in a kind of personal way, as if we had shaken hands with him, and felt the thrill of his actual voice. HIGHLAND MARY'S HOME AND GRAVE [Footnote: From "A Literary Pilgrimage." By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, J. B. Lippincott Co. Copyright, 1895.] BY THEODORE F. WOLFE. There is no stronger proof of the transcending power of the genius of Burns than is found in the fact that, by a bare half-dozen of his stanzas, an humble dairy servant--else unheard of outside her parish and forgotten at her death--is immortalized as a peeress of Petrarch's Laura and Dante's Beatrice, and has been for a century loved and mourned of all the world. We owe much of our tenderest poesy to the heroines whose charms have attuned the fancy and aroused the impassioned muse of enamoured bards; readers have always exhibited a natural avidity to realize the personality of the beings who inspired the tender lays--prompted often by mere curiosity, but more often by a desire to appreciate the tastes and motives of the poets themselves. How little is known of Highland Mary, the most famous heroine of modern song, is shown by the brief, coherent, and often contradictory allusions to her which the biographies of the plowman-poet contain. This paper--prepared during a sojourn in "The Land of Burns"--while it adds a little to our meager knowledge of Mary Campbell, aims to present consecutively and congruously so much as may be known of her brief life, her relation to the bard, and her sad, heroic death. She first saw the light in 1764, at Ardrossan, on the coast, fifteen miles northward from the "auld town of Ayr." Her parentage was of the humblest, her father being a sailor before the mast, and the poor dwelling which sheltered her was in no way superior to the meanest of those we find to-day on the narrow streets of her village. From her birthplace we see, across the Firth of Clyde, the beetling mountains of the Highlands, where she afterward dwells and southward the great mass of Ailsa Craig looming, a gigantic pyramid, out of the sea. Mary was named for her aunt, wife of Peter McPherson, a ship-carpenter of Greenock, in whose house Mary died. In her infancy her family removed to the vicinage of Dunoon, on the western shore of the Firth, eight miles below Greenock, leaving the oldest daughter at Ardrossan. Mary grew to young womanhood near Dunoon then returned to Ayrshire, and found occupation at Coilsfield, near Tarbolton, where her acquaintance with Burns soon began. He told a lady that he first saw Mary while walking in the woods of Coilsfield: and first spoke with her at a rustic merrymaking, and "having the luck to win her regards from other suitors," they speedily became intimate. At this period of life Burn's "eternal propensity to fall into love" was unusually active, even for him, and his passion for Mary (at this time) was one of several which engaged his heart in the interval between the reign of Ellison Begbie--"the lass of the twa sparkling, roguish een"--and that of "Bonnie Jean." Mary subsequently became a servant in the house of Burn's landlord, Gavin Hamilton, a lawyer of Mauchline, who had early recognized the genius of the bard and admitted him to an intimate friendship, despite his inferior condition.... Within a stone's-throw of Mary dwelt Jean Armour, and when the former returned to Coilsfield, he promptly fell in love with Jean, and solaced himself with her more buxom and compliant charms. It was a year or so later, when his intercourse with Jean had burdened him with grief and shame, that the tender and romantic affection for Mary came into his life. She was yet at Coilsfield, and while he was in hiding--his heart tortured by the apparent perfidy of Jean and all the countryside condemning his misconduct--his intimacy with Mary was renewed; his quickened vision now discerned her endearing attributes, her trust and sympathy were precious in his distress, and awoke in him an affection such as he never felt for any other woman. During a few brief weeks the lovers spent their evenings and Sabbaths together, loitering amid the "Banks and braes and streams around The Castle of Montgomery," talking of the golden days that were to be theirs when present troubles were past; then came the parting which the world will never forget, and Mary relinquished her service and went to her parents at Campbelltown--a port of Cantyre behind "Arran's mountain isle." Of this parting Burns says, in a letter to Thomson, "We met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot on the Ayr, where we spent the day in taking farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands to prepare for our projected change of life." Lovers of Burns linger over this final parting, and detail the impressive ceremonials with which the pair solemnized their betrothal: they stood on either side of a brook, they laved their hands in the water and scattered it in the air to symbolize the purity of their intentions; clasping hands above an open Bible, they swore to be true to each other forever, then exchanged Bibles, and parted never to meet more. It is not strange that when death had left him nothing of her but her poor little Bible, a tress of her golden hair, and a tender memory of her love, the recollection of this farewell remained in his soul forever. He has pictured it in the exquisite lines of "Highland Mary" and "To Mary in Heaven." In the monument at Alloway--between the "auld haunted kirk" and the bridge where Maggie lost her tail--we are shown a memento of the parting; it is the Bible which Burns gave to Mary and above which their vows were said. At Mary's death it passed to her sister, at Ardrossan, who bequeathed it to her son William Anderson; subsequently it was carried to America by one of the family, whence it has been recovered to be treasured here. It is a pocket edition in two volumes, to one of which is attached a lock of poor Mary's shining hair.... A visit to the scenes of the brief passion of the pair is a pleasing incident of our Burns pilgrimage. Coilsfield House is somewhat changed since Mary dwelt beneath its roof--a great rambling edifice of gray weather-worn stone with a row of white pillars aligned along its façade, its massive walls embowered in foliage and environed by the grand woods which Burns and Mary knew so well. It was then a seat of Colonel Hugh Montgomerie, a patron of Burns. The name Coilsfield is derived from Coila, the traditional appellation of the district. The grounds comprise a billowy expanse of wood and sward; great reaches of turf, dotted with trees already venerable when the lovers here had their tryst a hundred years ago, slope away from the mansion to the Faile and border its murmuring course to the Ayr. Here we trace with romantic interest the wanderings of the pair during the swift hours of that last day of parting love, their lingering way 'neath the "wild wood's thickening green," by the pebbled shore of Ayr to the brooklet where their vows were made, and thence along the Faile to the woodland shades of Coilsfield, where, at the close of that winged day, "pledging oft to meet again, they tore themselves asunder." Howitt found at Coilsfield a thorn-tree, called by all the country "Highland Mary's thorn," and believed to be the place of final parting; years ago the tree was notched and broken by souvenir seekers; if it be still in existence the present occupant of Coilsfield is unaware..... Mary remained at Campbelltown during the summer of 1786. Coming to Greenock in the autumn, she found her brother sick of a malignant fever at the house of her aunt; bravely disregarding danger of contagion, she devoted herself to nursing him, and brought him to a safe convalescense only to be herself stricken by his malady and to rapidly sink and die, a sacrifice to her sisterly affection. By this time the success of his poems had determined Burns to remain in Scotland, and he returned to Moss Giel, where tidings of Mary's death reached him. His brother relates that when the letter was handed to him he went to the window and read it, then his face was observed to change suddenly, and he quickly went out without speaking. In June of the next year he made a solitary journey to the Highlands, apparently drawn by memory of Mary. If, indeed, he dropt a tear upon her neglected grave and visited her humble Highland home, we may almost forgive him the excesses of that tour, if not the renewed liaison with Jean which immediately preceded, and the amorous correspondence with "Clarinda" (Mrs. M'Lehose) which followed it..... Poor Mary is laid in the burial-plot of her uncle in the west kirk-yard of Greenock, near Crawford Street; our pilgrimage in Burns-land may fitly end at her grave. A pathway, beaten by the feet of many reverent visitors, leads us to the spot. It is so pathetically different from the scenes she loved in life--the heather-clad slopes of her Highland home, the seclusion of the wooded braes where she loitered with her poet-lover. Scant foliage is about her; few birds sing above her here. She lies by the wall; narrow streets hem in the enclosure; the air is sullied by smoke from factories and from steamers passing within a stone's throw on the busy Clyde; the clanging of many hammers and the discordant din of machinery and traffic invade the place and sound in our ears as we muse above the ashes of the gentle lassie. For half a century her grave was unmarked and neglected; then, by subscription, a monument of marble, twelve feet in height, and of graceful proportions, was raised. It bears a sculptured medallion representing Burns and Mary, with clasped hands, plighting their troth. Beneath is the simple inscription, read oft by eyes dim with tears: Erected over the grave of Highland Mary 1842 "My Mary, dear departed shade, Where is thy place of blissful rest?" THROUGH THE CALEDONIA CANAL TO INVERNESS [Footnote: From "Notes on England." Published by Henry Holt & Co.] BY HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE TAINE In the luminous morning mist, amid a line of masts and rigging, the steamboat sailed down the Clyde to the sea. We proceeded along the indented and rugged coast from one bay to another. These bays, being almost entirely closed in, resemble lakes, and the large sheets of water mirror an amphitheater of green hills. All the corners and windings of the shore are strewn with white villas; the water is crowded with ships; a height was pointed out to me whence three hundred sail may often be counted at a time; a three-decker floats in the distance like a swan among sea-mews. This vast space spread forth and full of life, dilates the mind, one's chest expands more freely, one joyfully inhales the fresh and keen breeze. But the effect upon the nerves and the heart does not resemble that of the Mediterranean; this air and country, instead of pre-disposing to pleasure, dispose to action. We enter a small vessel drawn by three horses, which transports us along the Crinan canal, between two banks of green turf. On the one side are rocks covered with brushwood; on the other, steep declivities of a gray or reddish tinge; this, indeed, is color at least, a pleasure for the eye, well mingled, matched, and blended tints. On the bank and amid the bushes are wild roses, and fragile plants with white tufts smile with a delicate and charming grace. At the outlet from the canal we go on board a large steamer, and the sea opens out wider than ever. The sky is exceedingly clear and brilliant, and the waves break in the sunlight, quivering with reflections of molten tin. The vessel continues her course, leaving in her track a bubbling and boiling path; sea gulls follow unweariedly behind her. On both sides, islands, rocks, boldly-cut promontories stand in sharp relief in the pale azure; the scene changes every quarter of an hour. But on rounding every point the infinite ocean reappears, mingling its almost flat line with the curve of the white sky. The sun sets, we pass by Glencoe, and Ben Nevis appears sprinkled with snow; the bay becomes narrower, and the mass of water, confined amid barren mountains, assumes a tragic appearance. Human beings have come hither to little purpose. Nature remains indomitable and wild; one feels oneself upon a planet. We disembark near Fort William; the dying twilight, the fading red rays on the horizon enable us to get a glimpse of a desolate country; acres of peat-bog, eminences rising from the valley between two ranges of huge mountains. A bird of prey screams amid the stillness. Here and there we see some wretched hovels; I am told that those on the heights are dens without windows, and from which the smoke escapes through a hole in the roof. Many of the old men are blind. What an unpropitious abode for man! On the morrow we voyaged during four hours on the Caledonian canal amidst solitudes, a monotonous row of treeless mountains, enormous green eminences, dotted here and there with fallen stones. A few sheep of a dwarf breed crop the scanty herbage on the slopes; sometimes the winter is so severe that they die; in the distance we perceive a shaggy ox, with savage eyes, the size of a small ass. Both plants and animals perish, or are stunted. In order to make such a land yield anything it must first be replanted with trees, as has been done in Sutherlandshire; a tree renews the soil; it also shelters crops, flocks and herds, and human beings. The canal terminates in a series of lakes. Nothing is more noble than their aspect, nothing more touching. The water, embrowned by the peat, forms a vast shining plain, surrounded by a circle of mountains. In proportion as we advance each mountain slowly grows upon us, becomes more conspicuous, stands forth with its form and physiognomy; the farther blue peaks melt the one behind the other, diminishing toward the horizon, which they enclose. Thus they stand in position like an assemblage of huge, mournful beings around the black water wherein they are mirrored, while above them and the lake, from time to time, the sun flashes through the shroud of clouds. At last the solitude becomes less marked. The mountains are half-wooded at first, and then wholly so; they dwindle down; the widening valleys are covered with harvest; the fresh and green verdure of the herbage which supplies forage begins to clothe the hollows and the slopes. We enter Inverness, and we are surprised to find at almost the extreme north of Scotland, on the border of the Highlands, a pretty and lively modern town. It stretches along the two banks of a clear and rapid river. Many houses are newly-built; we note a church, a castle, an iron bridge. In every part are marks of cleanliness, forethought, and special care. The window-panes shine, the frames have been painted; the bell-handles are of copper; there are flowers in the windows; the poorest nouses are freshly whitewashed. Well-drest ladies and carefully drest gentlemen walk along the streets. Even a desire to possess works of art is shown by Ionian pillars, specimens of pure Gothic, and other architectural gimcrackery, and these prove at least the search after improvement. The land itself is clearly of inferior quality; industry, order, economy and labor have done everything. How great the contrast between all this and the aspect of a small town on the shores of the Mediterranean, so neglected and filthy, where the lower middle class exist like worms in a worm-eaten beam! THE SCOTCH HIGHLANDS [Footnote: From "Notes on England." Published by Henry Holt & Co.] BY HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE TAINE On the slopes the violet heaths are spread like a silken carpet under the scanty firs. Higher still are large patches of evergreen wood, and, as soon as the mountain is approached, a brown circle of barren eminences may be discerned toward the horizon. At the end of an hour the desert begins; the climate is inimical to life, even to that of plants. A tarn, the tint of burned topaz, lies coldly and sadly between stony slopes whereon a few tufts of fern and heather grow here and there. Half a league higher is a second tarn, which appears still more dismal in the rising mist. Around, patches of snow are sprinkled on the peaks, and these descending in rivulets produce morasses. The small country ponies, with a sure instinct, surmount the bog, and we arrive at an elevation whence the eye, as far as it can reach, embraces nothing but an amphitheater of desolate, yet green summits; owing to the destruction of timber, everything else has perished; a scene of ruined nature is far more melancholy a spectacle than any human ruins. On our return across the lake, a bag-piper played his instrument. The music is strange and wild, its effects harmonizing with the aspect of the bubbling streams, veined with striking or somber reflections. The same simple note, a kind of dance music, runs through the whole piece in an incorrect and odd manner, and continually recurs, but it is always harsh and rough; it might be likened to an orange shriveled with the cold and rendered bitter. These are the Highlands. From Braemar to Perth we journey through them for many long miles. It is always a solitude; sometimes five or six valleys in succession are wholly bare, and one may travel for an hour without seeing a tree; then for another hour it is rare merely to see in the distance a wretched twisted birchen-tree, which is dying or dead. It would be some compensation if the rock were naked, and exhibited its mineral structure in all its fulness and ruggedness. But these mountains, of no great elevation, are but bosses with flabby outlines, they have fallen to pieces, and are stone heaps, resembling the remains of a quarry. In winter, torrents of water uproot the heather, leaving on the slopes a leprous, whitened scar, badly tinted by the too feeble sun. The summits are truncated, and want boldness. Patches of miserable verdure seam their sides and mark the oozing of springs; the remainder is covered with brownish heather. Below, at the very bottom, a torrent obstructed by stones, struggles along its channel, or lingers in stagnant pools. One sometimes discerns a hovel, with a stunted cow. The gray, low-lying sky, completes the impression of lugubrious monotony. Our conveyance ascends the last mountain. At length we see a steep declivity, a great rocky wall; but it is unique. We descend again, and enter a habitable tract. Cultivation occurs first on the lower parts, then on the slopes; the declivities are wooded, and then entire mountains; forests of firs spread their somber mantle over the crests; fields of oats and barley extend on all sides; we perceive pretty clumps of trees, houses surrounded by gardens and flowers, and then culture of all descriptions upon the lessening hills, here and there a park and a modern mansion. The sun bursts forth and shines merrily, but without heat; the fertile plain expands, abounding in promises of convenience and pleasure, and we enter Perth thinking about the historical narrations of Sir Walter Scott, and the contrast between the mountain and the plain, the revilings and scornings interchanged between the inhabitants of the Highlands and the Lowlands. BEN LOMOND AND THE HIGHLAND LAKES [Footnote: From "Views Afoot." Published by G. P. Putnam's Sons.] BY BAYARD TAYLOR It was indeed a glorious walk from Dumbarton to Loch Lomond through this enchanting valley. The air was mild and clear; a few light clouds occasionally crossing the sun chequered the hills with sun and shade. I have as yet seen nothing that in pastoral beauty can compare with its glassy winding stream, its mossy old woods and guarding hills and the ivy-grown, castellated towers embosomed in its forests or standing on the banks of the Leven--the purest of rivers. At the little village called Renton is a monument to Smollett, but the inhabitants seem to neglect his memory, as one of the tablets on the pedestal is broken and half fallen away. Farther up the vale a farmer showed us an old mansion in the midst of a group of trees on the banks of the Leven which he said belonged to Smollett--or Roderick Random, as he called him. Two or three old pear trees were still standing where the garden had formerly been, under which he was accustomed to play in his childhood. At the head of Leven Vale we set off in the steamer "Watch-Witch" over the crystal waters of Loch Lomond, passing Inch Murrin, the deer-park of the Duke of Montrose, and Inch Caillaeh, "where gray pines wave Their shadows o'er Clan Alpine's grave." Under the clear sky and golden light of the declining sun we entered the Highlands, and heard on every side names we had learned long ago in the lays of Scott. Here was Glen Fruin and Bannochar, Ross Dhu and the pass of Beal-ma-na. Farther still we passed Rob Roy's rock, where the lake is locked in by lofty mountains. The cone-like peak of Ben Lomond rises far above on the right, Ben Voirlich stands in front, and the jagged crest of Ben Arthur looks over the shoulder of the western hills.... When we arose in the morning, at four o'clock, to return with the boat, the sun was already shining upon the westward hills; scarcely a cloud was in the sky and the air was pure and cool. To our great delight, Ben Lomond was unshrouded, and we were told that a more favorable day for the ascent had not occurred for two months. We left the boat at Rowardennan, an inn, at the southern base of Ben Lomond. After breakfasting on Loch Lomond trout I stole out to the shore while my companions were preparing for the ascent, and made a hasty sketch of the lake. We proposed descending on the northern side and crossing the Highlands to Loch Katrine; tho it was represented as difficult and dangerous by the guide who wished to accompany us, we determined to run the risk of being enveloped in a cloud on the summit, and so set out alone, the path appearing plain before us. We had no difficulty in following it up the lesser heights, around the base. It wound on over rock and bog, among the heather and broom with which the mountain is covered, sometimes running up a steep acclivity and then winding zigzag round a rocky ascent. The rains two days before had made the bogs damp and muddy; but, with this exception, we had little trouble for some time. Ben Lomond is a doubly-formed mountain. For about three-fourths of the way there is a continued ascent, when it is suddenly terminated by a large barren plain, from one end of which the summit shoots up abruptly, forming at the north side a precipice five hundred feet high. As we approached the summit of the first part of the mountain the way became very steep and toilsome, but the prospect, which had before been only on the south side, began to open on the east, and we saw suddenly spread out below us the vale of Monteith, with "far Loch Ard and Aberfoil" in the center and the huge front of Ben Venue filling up the picture. Taking courage from this, we hurried on. The heather had become stunted and dwarfish, and the ground was covered with short brown grass. The mountain-sheep which we saw looking at us from the rock above had worn so many paths along the side that we could not tell which to take, but pushed on in the direction of the summit, till, thinking it must be near at hand, we found a mile and a half of plain before us, with the top of Ben Lomond at the farther end. The plain was full of wet moss crossed in all directions by deep ravines or gullies worn in it by the mountain-rains, and the wind swept across with a tempest-like force. I met near the base a young gentleman from Edinburgh who had left Rowardennan before us, and we commenced ascending together. It was hard work, but neither liked to stop; so we climbed up to the first resting-place, and found the path leading along the brink of a precipice. We soon attained the summit, and, climbing up a little mound of earth and stones, I saw the half of Scotland at a glance. The clouds hung just above the mountain-tops, which rose all around like the waves of a mightly sea. On every side, near and far, stood their misty summits, but Ben Lomond was the monarch of them all. Loch Lomond lay unrolled under my feet like a beautiful map; just opposite, Loch Long thrust its head from between the feet of crowded hills to catch a glimpse of the giant. We could see from Ben Nevis to Ayr--from Edinburgh to Staffa. Stirling and Edinburgh castles would have been visible but that the clouds hung low in the valley of the Forth and hid them from our sight. ... At a cottage on the farm of Coman, we procured some oatcakes and milk for dinner from an old Scotch woman who pointed out the direction of Loch Katrine, six miles distant; there was no road, nor, indeed, a solitary dwelling between. The hills were bare of trees, covered with scraggy bushes and rough heath, which in some places was so thick we could scarcely drag our feet through. Added to this, the ground was covered with a kind of moss that retained the moisture like a sponge; so that our boots ere long became thoroughly soaked. Several considerable streams were rushing down the side, and many of the wild breed of black Highland cattle were grazing around. After climbing up and down one or two heights, occasionally startling the moorcock and ptarmigan from their heathery coverts, we saw the valley of Loch Con, while in the middle of the plain on the top of the mountain we had ascended was a sheet of water which we took to be Loch Ackill. Two or three wild-fowl swimming on its surface were the only living things in sight. The peaks around shut it out from all view of the world; a single decayed tree leaned over it from a mossy rock which gave the whole scene an air of the most desolate wildness. From the next mountain we saw Loch Ackill and Loch Katrine below, but a wet and weary descent had yet to be made. I was about throwing off my knapsack on a rock to take a sketch of Loch Katrine, which appeared to be very beautiful from this point, when we discerned a cavalcade of ponies winding along the path from Inversnaid to the head of the lake, and hastened down to take the boat when they should arrive.... As we drew near the eastern end of the lake the scenery became far more beautiful. The Trosachs opened before us. Ben Ledi looked down over the "forehead bare" of Ben An, and as we turned a rocky point Ellen's Isle rose up in front. It is a beautiful little turquoise in the silver setting of Loch Katrine. The northern side alone is accessible, all the others being rocky and perpendicular and thickly grown with trees. We rounded the island to the little bay, bordered by the silver strand, above which is the rock from which Fitz-James wound his horn, and shot under an ancient oak which flung its long gray arms over the water. We here found a flight of rocky steps leading to the top, where stood the bower erected by Lady Willoughby D'Eresby to correspond with Scott's description. Two or three blackened beams are all that remain of it, having been burned down some years ago by the carelessness of a traveler. The mountains stand all around, like giants, to "sentinel this enchanted land." On leaving the island we saw the Goblin's Cave in the side of Ben Venue, called by the Gaels "Coiran-Uriskin." Near it is Beal-nam-bo--the "Pass of Cattle"--overhung with gray weeping birch-trees. Here the boatmen stopt to let us hear the fine echo, and the names of Rob Roy and Roderick Dhu were sent back to us apparently as loud as they were given. The description of Scott is wonderfully exact, tho the forest that feathered o'er the sides of Ben Venue has since been cut down and sold by the Duke of Montrose. When we reached the end of the lake, it commenced raining, and we hastened on through the pass of Beal-an-Duine, scarcely taking time to glance at the scenery, till Loch Achray appeared through the trees, and on its banks the ivy-grown front of the inn of Ardcheancrochan--with its unpronounceable name. TO THE HEBRIDES [Footnote: From "A Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson, LL.D."] BY JAMES BOSWELL. My acquaintance, the Reverend Mr. John Macauley, one of the ministers of Inverary, and brother to our good friend at Calder, came to us this morning, and accompanied us to the castle, where I presented Dr. Johnson to the Duke of Argyle. We were shown through the house; and I never shall forget the impression made upon my fancy by some of the ladies' maids tripping about in neat morning dresses. After seeing for a long time little but rusticity, their lively manner, and gay, inviting appearance, pleased me so much, that I thought for the moment, I could have been a knight-errant for them. We then got into a low one-horse chair, ordered for us by the duke, in which we drove about the place. Dr. Johnson was much struck by the grandeur and elegance of this princely seat. He thought, however, the castle too low, and wished it had been a story higher. He said, "What I admire here, is the total defiance of expense." I had a particular pride in showing him a great number of fine old trees, to compensate for the nakedness which had made such an impression on him on the eastern coast of Scotland. When we came in, before dinner, we found the duke and some gentlemen in the hall. Dr. Johnson took much notice of the large collection of arms, which are excellently disposed there. I told what he had said to Sir Alexander Macdonald, of his ancestors not suffering their arms to rust. "Well," said the doctor, "but let us be glad we live in times when arms may rust. We can sit to-day at his grace's table without any risk of being attacked, and perhaps sitting down again wounded or maimed." The duke placed Dr. Johnson next himself at the table. I was in fine spirits, and tho sensible that I had the misfortune of not being in favor with the duchess I was not in the least disconcerted, and offered her grace some of the dish that was before me. It must be owned that I was in the right to be quite unconcerned, if I could. I was the Duke of Argyle's guest, and I had no reason to suppose that he adopted the prejudices and resentments of the Duchess of Hamilton.... The duchess was very attentive to Dr. Johnson. I know not how a middle state came to be mentioned. Her Grace wished to hear him on that point. "Madam," said he, "your own relation, Mr. Archibald Campbell, can tell you better about it than I can. He was a bishop of the Nonjuring communion, and wrote a book upon the subject." He engaged to get it for her grace. He afterward gave a full history of Mr. Archibald Campbell, which I am sorry I do not recollect particularly. He said Mr. Campbell had been bred a violent Whig, but afterward "kept better company, and became a Tory." He said this with a smile, in pleasant allusion, as I thought, to the opposition between his own political principles and those of the duke's clan. He added that Mr. Campbell, after the revolution, was thrown into jail on account of his tenets; but, on application by letter to the old Lord Townshend, was released; that he always spoke of his lordship with great gratitude, saying, "tho a Whig, he had humanity." A gentleman in company, after dinner, was desired by the duke to go into another room, for a specimen of curious marble, which his grace wished to show us. He brought a wrong piece, upon which the duke sent him back again. He could not refuse, but, to avoid any appearance of servility, he whistled as he walked out of the room, to show his independence. On my mentioning this afterward to Dr. Johnson, he said, it was a nice trait of character. Dr. Johnson talked a great deal, and was so entertaining, that Lady Betty Hamilton, after dinner, went and placed her chair close to his, leaned upon the back of it, and listened eagerly. It would have made a fine picture to have drawn the sage and her at this time in their several attitudes. He did not know, all the while, how much he was honored. I told him afterward. I never saw him so gentle and complaisant as this day. We went to tea. The duke and I walked up and down the drawing room, conversing. The duchess still continued to show the same marked coldness for me; for which, tho I suffered from it, I made every allowance, considering the very warm part I had taken for Douglas, in the cause in which she thought her son deeply interested. Had not her grace discovered some displeasure toward me, I should have suspected her of insensibility or dissimulation.... He was much pleased with our visit at the castle of Inverary. The Duke of Argyle was exceedingly polite to him, and, upon his complaining of the shelties which he had hitherto ridden being too small for him, his grace told him he should be provided with a good horse to carry him next day. STAFFA AND IONA [Footnote: From "Visits to Remarkable Places."] BY WILLIAM HOWITT. We are bound for the regions of ghosts and fays, mermaids and kelpies, of great sea-snakes, and a hundred other marvels and miracles. To accomplish all this, we have nothing more to do than step on board the steam-packet that lies at the Broomielaw, or great quay at Glasgow. The volume of heavy black smoke, issuing from its nickled chimney, announces that it means to be moving on its way speedily.... Emerging from the Crinan canal, you issue forth into the Sound of Jura, and feel at once that you are in the stern and yet beautiful region of your youthful admiration. There is the heavy swell and the solemn roar of the great Atlantic. You feel the wild winds that sweep over it. You see around you only high and craggy coasts, that are bleak and naked with the lashings of a thousand tempests. All before you, are scattered rocks that emerge from the restless sea, and rocky isles, with patches of the most beautiful greensward, but with scarcely a single tree. The waves are leaping in whiteness against the cliffs, and thousands of sea-birds are floating in long lines on the billows, or skimming past you singly, and diving into the clear hissing waters as they near your vessel. One of the very first objects which arrests your senses is the Coryvreckan, or great whirlpool of the Hebrides, an awful feature in all the poetry and ballads belonging to these regions. I never visited any part of Great Britain which more completely met my anticipated ideas than this. The day was fine, but with a strong breeze. The sea was rough; the wild-fowl were flying, scudding, and diving on all hands; and, wherever the eye turned, were craggy islands-mountains of dark heath or bare splintered stone, and green, solitary slopes, where scarcely a tree or a hut was to be discovered; but now and then black cattle might be descried grazing, or flocks of sheep dotted the hill sides. Far as we could look, were naked rocks rising from the sea, that were worn almost into roundness, or scooped into hollows by the eternal action of the stormy waters. Some of them stood in huge arches, like temples of some shaggy seagod, or haunts of sea-fowl--daylight and the waves passing freely through them. Everywhere were waves, leaping in snowy foam against these rocks and against the craggy shores. It was a stern wilderness of chafing billows and of resisting stone. The rocks were principally of dark red granite, and were cracked across and across, as if by the action of fire or frost. Every thing spake to us of the wild tempests that so frequently rage through these seas.... Staffa rose momently in its majesty before us! After all the descriptions which we had read, and the views we had seen of this singular little island, we were struck with delighted astonishment at its aspect. It is, in fact, one great mass of basaltic columns, bearing on their heads another huge mass of black stone, here and there covered with green turf. We sailed past the different caves--the Boat Cave and the Cormorant Cave, which are themselves very wonderful; but it was Fingal's Cave that struck us with admiration and awe. To see this magnificent cavern, with its clustered columns on each side, and pointed arch, with the bleak precipices above it, and the sea raging at its base, and dashing and roaring into its gloomy interior, was worth all the voyage. There are no words that can express the sensation it creates. We were taken in the boats on shore at the northeast point, and landed amid a wilderness of basaltic columns thrown into almost all forms and directions. Some were broken, and lay in heaps in the clear green water. Others were piled up erect and abrupt; some were twisted up into tortuous pyramids at a little distance from the shore itself, and through the passage which they left, the sea came rushing--all foam, and with the most tremendous roar. Others were bent like so many leaden pipes, and turned their broken extremities toward us. We advanced along a sort of giant's causeway, the pavement of which was the heads of basaltic columns, all fitting together in the most beautiful symmetry; and, turning round the precipice to our right hand, found ourselves at the entrance of the great cave. The sea was too stormy to allow us to enter it, as is often done in boats, we had therefore to clamber along one of its sides, where a row of columns is broken off, at some distance above the waves, and presents an accessible, but certainly very formidable causeway, by which you may reach the far end. I do not believe that any stranger, if he were there alone, would dare to pass along that irregular and slippery causeway, and penetrate to the obscure end of the cave; but numbers animate one another to anything. We clambered along this causeway or corridor, now ascending and now descending, as the broken columns required, and soon stood--upward of seventy of us--ranged along its side from one end to the other. Let it be remembered that this splendid sea cave is forty-two feet wide at the entrance; sixty-six feet high from low water; and runs into the rock two hundred and twenty-seven feet. Let it be imagined that at eight or ten feet below us it was paved with the sea, which came rushing and foaming along it, and dashing up against the solid rock at its termination; while the light thrown from the flickering billows quivered in its arched roof above us, and the whole place was filled with the solemn sound of the ocean; and if any one can imagine to himself any situation more sublime, I should like to know what that is. The roof is composed of the lower ends of basaltic columns, which have yet been so cut away by nature as to give it the aspect of the roof of some gigantic cathedral aisle; and lichens of gold and crimson have gilded and colored it in the richest manner. It was difficult to forget, as we stood there, that, if any one slipt, he would disappear forever, for the billows in their ebb would sweep him out to the open sea, as it were in a moment. Yet the excitement of the whole group was too evident to rest with any seriousness on such a thought. Some one suddenly fired a gun in the place, and the concussion and reverberated thunders were astounding. When the first effect was gone off, one general peal of laughter rung through the cave, and then nearly the whole company began to sing "The Sea! the sea!" The captain found it a difficult matter to get his company out of this strange chantry--where they and the wind and waves seemed all going mad together--to embark them again for Iona. Venerable Iona--how different! and with what different feelings approached! As we drew near, we saw a low bleak shore, backed by naked hills, and at their feet a row of miserable Highland huts, and at separate intervals the ruins of the monastery and church of Ronad, the church of St. Oran and its burying-ground, and lastly, the cathedral.... Nothing is more striking, in this wild and neglected spot, than to walk among these ruins, and behold amid the rank grass those tombs of ancient kings, chiefs, and churchmen, with their sculpture of so singular and yet superior a style. It is said that there were formerly three hundred and sixty stone crosses in the Island of Iona, which since the Reformation have been reduced to two, and the fragments of two others. The Synod of Argyle is reported to have caused no less than sixty of them to be thrown into the sea at one time, and fragments of others, which were knocked in pieces, are to be seen here and there, some of them now converted into gravestones. They lie on the margin of the stormy Atlantic; they lie among walls which, tho they may be loosened for years, seem as tho they never could decay, for they are of the red granite of which the rocks and islets around are composed, and defended only by low enclosures piled up of the same granite, rounded into great pebbles by the washing of the sea. But perhaps the most striking scene of all was our own company of voyagers landing amid the huge masses of rock that scatter the strand; forming into long procession, two and two, and advancing in that order from one ruin to another. We chanced to linger behind for a moment; and our eye caught this procession of upward of seventy persons thus wandering on amid those time-worn edifices--and here and there a solitary cross lifting its head above them. It was a picture worthy of a great painter. It looked as tho the day of pilgrimages was come back again, and that this was a troop of devotees thronging to this holy shrine. The day of pilgrimages is, indeed come back again; but they are the pilgrimages of knowledge and an enlightened curiosity. The day of that science which the saints of Iona were said to diffuse first in Britain has now risen to a splendid noon; and not the least of its evidences is that, every few days through every summer, a company like this descends on this barren strand to behold what Johnson calls "that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefit of knowledge and the blessings of religion." A more interesting or laudable excursion the power of steam and English money can not well enable our countrymen to make. VII IRELAND A SUMMER DAY IN DUBLIN [Footnote: From "The Irish Sketch Book."] BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY Our passage across from the Head [Holyhead] was made in a rain so pouring and steady, that sea and coast were entirely hidden from us, and one could see very little beyond the glowing tip of the cigar which remained alight nobly in spite of the weather. When the gallant exertions of that fiery spirit were over for ever, and, burning bravely to the end, it had breathed its last in doing its master service, all became black and cheerless around; the passengers had dropt off one by one, preferring to be dry and ill below rather than wet and squeamish above; even the mate, with his gold-laced cap (who is so astonishingly like Mr. Charles Dickens, that he might pass for that gentleman)--even the mate said he would go to his cabin and turn in. So there remained nothing for it but to do as all the world had done.... A long pier, with a steamer or two at hand, and a few small vessels lying on either side of the jetty; a town irregularly built, with showy-looking hotels; a few people straggling on the beach; two or three ears at the railroad station, which runs along the shore as far as Dublin; the sea stretching interminably eastward; to the north the Hill of Howth, lying gray behind the mist; and, directly under his feet, upon the wet, black, shining, slippery deck, an agreeable reflection of his own legs, disappearing seemingly in the direction of the cabin from which he issues; are the sights which a traveler may remark on coming on deck at Kingstown pier on a wet morning--let us say on an average morning; for according to the statement of well-informed natives, the Irish day is more often rainy than otherwise. A hideous obelisk, stuck upon four fat balls, and surmounted with a crown on a cushion (the latter were no bad emblems perhaps of the monarch in whose honor they were raised), commemorates the sacred spot at which George IV. quitted Ireland: you are landed here from the steamer; and a carman, who is dawdling in the neighborhood, with a straw in his mouth, comes leisurely up to ask whether you'll go to Dublin? Is it natural indolence, or the effect of despair because of the neighboring railroad, which renders him so indifferent? He does not even take the straw out of his mouth as he proposes the question, and seems quite careless as to the answer. He said he would take me to Dublin "in three quarthers," as soon as we began a parley; as to the fare, he would not hear of it--he said he would leave it to my honor; he would take me for nothing. Was it possible to refuse such a genteel offer? Before that day, so memorable for joy and sorrow, for rapture at receiving its monarch and tearful grief at losing him, when George IV. came and left the maritime resort of the citizens of Dublin, it bore a less genteel name than that which it owns at present, and was called Dunleary. After that glorious event Dunleary disdained to be Dunleary any longer, and became Kingstown, henceforward and forever. Numerous terraces and pleasure-houses have been built in the place--they stretch row after row along the banks of the sea, and rise one above another on the hill. The rents of these houses are said to be very high; the Dublin citizens crowd into them in summer; and a great source of pleasure and comfort must it be to them to have the fresh sea-breezes and prospects so near to the metropolis. The better sort of houses are handsome and spacious; but the fashionable quarter is yet in an unfinished state, for enterprising architects are always beginning new roads, rows and terraces; nor are those already built by any means complete. [Footnote: This was written in 1842.] Besides the aristocratic part of the town is a commercial one, and nearer to Dublin stretch lines of low cottages which have not a Kingstown look at all, but are evidently of the Dunleary period.... The capabilities of the country, however, are very, very great, and in many instances have been taken advantage of; for you see, besides the misery, numerous handsome houses and parks along the road, having fine lawns and woods, and the sea in our view, at a quarter of an hour's ride from Dublin. It is the continual appearance of this sort of wealth which makes the poverty more striking; and thus between the two (for there is no vacant space of fields between Kingstown and Dublin) the car reaches the city. The entrance to the capital is very handsome. There is no bustle and throng of carriages, as in London; but you pass by numerous rows of neat houses, fronted with gardens, and adorned with all sorts of gay-looking creepers. Pretty market-gardens, with trim beds of plants and shining glass-houses, give the suburbs a riante and cheerful look; and, passing under the arch of the railway, we are in the city itself. Hence you come upon several old-fashioned, well-built, airy, stately streets, and through Fitzwilliam Square, a noble place, the garden of which is full of flowers and foliage. The leaves are green, and not black as in similar places in London; the red-brick houses tall and handsome. Presently the ear stops before an extremely big red house, in that extremely large square, Stephen's Green, where Mr. O'Connell says there is one day or other to be a Parliament. There is room enough for that, or for any other edifice which fancy or patriotism may have a mind to erect, for part of one of the sides of the square is not yet built, and you see the fields and the country beyond.... The hotel to which I had been directed is a respectable old edifice, much frequented by families from the country, and where the solitary traveler may likewise find society. For he may either use the Shelburne as a hotel or a boarding-house, in which latter case he is comfortably accommodated at the very moderate daily charge. For this charge a copious breakfast is provided for him in the coffee-room, a perpetual luncheon is likewise there spread, a plentiful dinner is ready at six o'clock; after which, there is a drawing-room and a rubber of whist, with tay and coffee and cakes in plenty to satisfy the largest appetite. The hotel is majestically conducted by clerks and other officers; the landlord himself does not appear, after the honest comfortable English fashion, but lives in a private mansion hard by, where his name may be read inscribed on a brass-plate, like that of any other private gentleman. A woman melodiously crying "Dublin Bay herrings" passed just as we came up to the door, and as that fish is famous throughout Europe, I seized the earliest opportunity and ordered a broiled one for breakfast. It merits all its reputation: and in this respect I should think the Bay of Dublin is far superior to its rival of Naples. Are there any herrings in Naples Bay? Dolphins there may be; and Mount Vesuvius, to be sure, is bigger than even the Hill of Howth: but a dolphin is better in a sonnet than at a breakfast, and what poet is there that, at certain periods of the day, would hesitate in his choice between the two? With this famous broiled herring the morning papers are served up; and a great part of these, too, gives opportunity of reflection to the newcomer, and shows him how different this country is from his own. Some hundred years hence, when students want to inform themselves of the history of the present day, and refer to files of "Times" and "Chronicle" for the purpose, I think it is possible that they will consult, not so much those luminous and philosophical leading articles which call our attention at present both by the majesty of their eloquence and the largeness of their type, but that they will turn to those parts of the journals into which information is squeezed into the smallest possible print, to the advertisements, namely, the law and police reports, and to the instructive narratives supplied by that ill-used body of men who transcribe knowledge at the rate of a penny a line.... The papers being read, it became my duty to discover the town; and a handsomer town, with fewer people in it, it is impossible to see on a summer's day. In the whole wide square of Stephen's Green, I think there were not more than two nursery-maids, to keep company with the statue of George I., who rides on horseback in the middle of the garden, the horse having his foot up to trot, as if he wanted to go out of town too. Small troops of dirty children (too poor and dirty to have lodgings at Kingstown) were squatting here and there upon the sunshiny steps, the only clients at the thresholds of the professional gentlemen whose names figure on brass-plates on the doors. A stand of lazy carmen, a policeman or two with clinking boot-heels, a couple of moaning beggars leaning against the rails and calling upon the Lord, and a fellow with a toy and book stall, where the lives of St. Patrick, Robert Emmet, and Lord Edward Fitzgerald may be bought for double their value, were all the population of the Green.... In the courts of the College, scarce the ghost of a gyp or the shadow of a bed-maker. In spite of the solitude, the square of the College is a fine sight--a large ground, surrounded by buildings of various ages and styles, but comfortable, handsome, and in good repair; a modern row of rooms; a row that has been Elizabethan once; a hall and senate-house, facing each other, of the style of George I.; and a noble library, with a range of many windows, and a fine manly simple façade of cut stone. The bank and other public buildings of Dublin are justly famous. In the former may still be seen the room which was the House of Lords formerly, and where the bank directors now sit, under a clean marble image of George III. The House of Commons has disappeared, for the accommodation of clerks and cashiers. The interior is light, splendid, airy, well furnished, and the outside of the building not less so. The Exchange, hard by, is an equally magnificent structure; but the genius of commerce has deserted it, for all its architectural beauty. There was nobody inside when I entered, but a pert statue of George III. in a Roman toga, simpering and turning out his toes; and two dirty children playing, whose hoop-sticks caused great clattering echoes under the vacant sounding dome. Walking toward the river, you have on either side of you, at Carlisle Bridge, a very brilliant and beautiful prospect. The four courts and their dome to the left, the custom-house and its dome to the right; and in this direction seaward, a considerable number of vessels are moored, and the quays are black and busy with the cargoes discharged from ships. Seamen cheering, herring-women bawling, coal-carts loading--the scene is animated and lively. Yonder is the famous Corn Exchange; but the Lord Mayor is attending to his duties in Parliament, and little of note is going on. I had just passed his lordship's mansion in Dawson Street--a queer old dirty brick house, with dumpy urns at each extremity, and looking as if a story of it had been cut off--a rasée house. Close at hand, and peering over a paling, is a statue of our blest sovereign George II. How absurd these pompous images look, of defunct majesties, for whom no breathing soul cares a halfpenny! It is not so with the effigy of William III., who has done something to merit a statue. At this minute the Lord Mayor has William's effigy under a canvas, and is painting him of a bright green picked out with yellow--his lordship's own livery. The view along the quays to the four courts has no small resemblance to a view along the quays at Paris, tho not so lively as are even those quiet walks. The vessels do not come above-bridge, and the marine population remains constant about them, and about numerous dirty liquor-shops, eating-houses, and marine-store establishments, which are kept for their accommodation along the quay. As far as you can see, the shining Liffey flows away eastward, hastening (like the rest of the inhabitants of Dublin) to the sea. In front of Carlisle Bridge, and not in the least crowded, tho in the midst of Sackville Street, stands Nelson upon a stone pillar. The post office is on his right hand (only it is cut off); and on his left, Gresham's and the Imperial Hotel. Of the latter let me say (from subsequent experience) that it is ornamented by a cook who could dress a dinner by the side of M. Borel or M. Soyéld there were more such artists in this ill-fated country! The street is exceedingly broad and handsome; the shops at the commencement, rich and spacious; but in Upper Sackville Street, which closes with the pretty building and gardens of the Rotunda, the appearance of wealth begins to fade somewhat, and the houses look as if they had seen better days. Even in this, the great street of the town, there is scarcely any one, and it is as vacant and listless as Pall Mall in October. DUBLIN CASTLE [Footnote: From "Ireland: Its Scenery, Character, Etc."] BY MR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL The building of Dublin "Castle"--for the residence of the Viceroys retains the term--was commenced by Meiler FitzHenry, Lord Justice of Ireland, in 1205; and finished, fifteen years afterward, by Henry de Loundres, Archbishop of Dublin. The purpose of the structure is declared by the patent by which King John commanded its erection: "You have given us to understand that you have not a convenient place wherein our treasure may be safely deposited; and forasmuch, as well for that use as for many others, a fortress would be necessary for us at Dublin, we command you to erect a castle there, in such competent place as you shall judge most expedient, as well to curb the city as to defend it if occasion shall so require, and that you make it as strong as you can with good and durable walls." Accordingly it was occupied as a strong fortress only, until the reign of Elizabeth, when it became the seat of the Irish government--the court being held previously at various palaces in the city or its suburbs; and in the seventeenth century, Terms and Parliaments were both held within its walls. The Castle, however, has undergone so many and such various changes from time to time, as circumstances justified the withdrawal of its defenses, that the only portion of it which nows bears a character of antiquity is the Birmingham Tower; and even that has been almost entirely rebuilt, altho it retains its ancient form. The records of this tower--in modern times the "State Paper Office"--would afford materials for one of the most singular and romantic histories ever published. It received its name, according to Dr. Walsh, not from the De Birminghams, who were lords justices in 1321 and 1348; but from Sir William Birmingham, who was imprisioned there in 1331, with his son Walter; "the former was taken out from thence and executed, the latter was pardoned as to life because he was in holy orders." It was the ancient keep, or ballium, of the fortress; and was for a very long period the great state prison, in which were confined the resolute or obstinate Milesian chiefs, and the rebellious Anglo-Norman lords. Strong and well guarded as it was, however, its inmates contrived occasionally to escape from its durance. Some of the escapes which the historians have recorded are remarkable and interesting. The Castle is situated on very high ground, nearly in the center of the city; the principal entrance is by a handsome gateway. The several buildings, surrounding two squares, consist of the lord-lieutenant's state apartments, guardrooms, the offices of the chief secretary, the apartments of aides-du-camp and officers of the household, the offices of the treasury, hanaper, register, auditor-general, constabulary, etc., etc. The buildings have a dull and heavy character--no effort has been made at elegance or display--and however well calculated they may seem for business, the whole have more the aspect of a prison than a court. There is, indeed, one structure that contributes somewhat to redeem the somber appearance of "the Castle"--the chapel is a fine Gothic edifice, richly decorated both within and without. The following description of the ancient character of "the Castle" is gathered from Dr. Walsh: "The entrance from the city on the north side was by a drawbridge, placed between two strong round towers from Castle Street, the westward of which subsisted till the year 1766. A portcullis, armed with iron, between these towers, served as a second defense, in case the bridge should be surprised by an enemy. A high curtain extended from the western tower to Cork Tower, so called after the great Earl of Cork, who, in 1624, expended a considerable sum in rebuilding it. The wall was then continued of equal height until it joined Birmingham Tower, which was afterward used as a prison for state criminals; it was taken down in 1775, and the present building erected on the site, for preserving part of the ancient records of the kingdom. From this another high curtain extended to the Wardrobe Tower, which served as repository for the royal robe, the cap of maintenance, and the other furniture of state. From, this tower the wall was carried to the North or Storehouse Tower (now demolished) near Dame's Gate, and from thence it was continued to the eastern gateway tower, at the entrance of the castle. This fortress was originally encompassed with a broad and deep moat, which has long since been filled up. There were two sally ports in the wall, one toward Sheep (now Ship) Street, which was closed up in 1663 by the Duke of Ormond, after the discovery of Jephson and Blood's conspiracy." The walls by which it was formerly surrounded, and the fortifications for its defense, have nearly all vanished. Neither is Dublin rich in remains of antiquity; one of the few that appertain to its ancient history is a picturesque gateway, but not of a very remote date, called Marsh's Gate. It stands in Kevin Street, near the cathedral of St. Patrick, and is the entrance to a large court, now occupied by the horse police; at one end of which is the Barrack, formerly, we believe, the Deanery, and Marsh's library. ST. PATRICK'S CATHEDRAL [Footnote: From "Ireland: Its Scenery, Character, Etc."] BY MR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL If few of the public structures of Dublin possess "the beauty of age," many of its churches may be classed with the "ancient of days." Chief among them all is the Cathedral of St. Patrick; interesting, not alone from its antiquity, but from its association with the several leading events, and remarkable people, by which and by whom Ireland has been made "famous." It is situated in a very old part of Dublin, in the midst of low streets and alleys, the houses being close to the small open yard by which the venerable structure is encompassed. Its condition, too, is very wretched; and altho various suggestions have been made, from time to time, for its repair and renovation, it continues in a state by no means creditable either to the church or the city. It was built A.D. 1190, by John Comyn, Archbishop of Dublin, by whom it was dedicated to the patron saint of Ireland; but it is said, the site on which it stands was formerly occupied by a church erected by the saint himself--A.D. 448. St. Patrick's was collegiate in its first institution, and erected into a cathedral about the year 1225, by Henry de Loundres, successor to Archbishop Comyn, "united with the cathedral of the Holy Trinity, Christ's Church, Dublin, into one spouse, saving unto the latter the prerogative of honor." The question of precedence between the sees of Dublin and Armagh was agitated for centuries with the greatest violence, and both pleaded authority in support of their pretensions; it was at length determined, in 1552, that each should be entitled to primatial dignity, and erect his crozier in the diocese of the other: that the archbishop of Dublin should be titled the "Primate of Ireland;" while the archbishop of Armagh should be styled, with more precision, "Primate of all Ireland"--a distinction which continues to the present day. Above two centuries before this arrangement, however, as the diocese of Dublin contained two cathedrals--St. Patrick's and Christ Church--an agreement was made between the chapters of both, that each church should be called Cathedral and Metropolitan, but that Christ Church should have precedence, as being the elder church, and that the archbishops should be buried alternately in the two cathedrals. The sweeping censure of Sir Richard Colt Hoare, that "in point of good architecture it has little to notice or commend," is not to be questioned; ruins--and, in its present state, St. Patrick's approaches very near to be classed among them--of far greater beauty abound in Ireland. It is to its associations with the past that the cathedral is mainly indebted for its interest. The choral music of St. Patrick's is said to be "almost unrivalled for its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill." LIMERICK [Footnote: From "Ireland: Its Scenery, Character, Etc."] BY MR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL Limerick is distinguished in history as "the city of the violated treaty;" and the Shannon, on which it stands, has been aptly termed "the King of Island Rivers." Few of the Irish counties possess so many attractions for the antiquarian and the lover of the picturesque: and with one exception, no city of Ireland has contributed so largely to maintain the honor and glory of the country. The brave defenders of Limerick and Londonderry have received--the former from the Protestant, and the latter from the Catholic, historian--the praise that party spirit failed to weaken; the heroic gallantry, the indomitable perseverance, and the patient and resolute endurance under suffering, of both, having deprived political partizans of their asperity--compelling them, for once at least, to render justice to their opponents; all having readily subscribed to the opinion that "Derry and Limerick will ever grace the historic page, as rival companions and monuments of Irish bravery, generosity, and integrity." From a very early period Limerick has held rank among the cities of Ireland, second only to that of the capital; and before its walls were defeated, first, the Anglo-Norman chivalry; next, the sturdy Ironsides of Cromwell; and last, the victorious array of William the Third. Like most of the Irish sea-ports, it was, in the ninth and tenth centuries, a settlement of the Danes, between whom and the native Irish many encounters took place, until finally the race of the sea-kings was expelled from the country. It is certain that at this early period Limerick was a place of considerable importance; for some time after, indeed until the conquest by the English, it was the capital of the province, and the seat of the kings of Thomond, or North Munster, who were hence called Kings of Limerick. Upon the arrival of Strongbow, Donnell O'Brien swore fealty to Henry the Second, but subsequently revolted; and Raymond Le Gros, the bravest and noblest of all the followers of Strongbow, laid siege to his city. Limerick was at that time "environed with a foule and deepe ditch with running water, not to be passed over without boats, but by one foord only;" the English soldiers were therefore discouraged, and would have abandoned the attempt to take it, but that "a valiaunt knight, Meyler Fitz-Henry, having found the foord, wyth a loud voyce cried 'St. David, companions, let us corageouslie pass this foord.'" For some years after the city was alternately in the possession of the English and the Irish; on the death of Strongbow, it was surrendered to the keeping of its native prince, who swore to govern it for the King of England; but the British knights had scarcely passed the bridge, when he destroyed it and set fire to the town. After again repeatedly changing hands, it was finally settled by the renowned William de Burgo, ancestor of the present Marquis of Clanricarde, and remained an appanage to the English crown. At this period, and for some time after, Limerick, was "next in consequence" to Dublin. Richard the First, in the ninth year of his reign, granted it a charter to elect a mayor--an honor which London did not then enjoy, and which Dublin did not receive until a century later; and King John, according to Stanihurst, was "so pleased with the agreeableness of the city, that he caused a very fine castle and bridge to be built there." The castle has endured for above six centuries; in all the "battles, sieges, fortunes," that have since occurred, it has been the object most coveted, perhaps in Ireland, by the contending parties; and it still frowns, a dark mass, upon the waters of the mighty Shannon. The great attraction of Limerick--altho by no means the only one--is, however, its majestic, and beautiful river: "the king of island rivers,"--the "principallest of all in Ireland," writes the quaint old naturalist, Dr. Gerrard Boate. It takes its rise among the mountains of Leitrim--strange to say, the precise spot has not been ascertained--and running for a few miles as an inconsiderable stream, diffuses itself into a spacious lake, called Lough Allyn. Issuing thence it pursues its course for several miles, and forms another small lake, Lough Eike; again spreads itself out into Lough Ree,--a lake fifteen miles in length and four in breadth; and thence proceeds as a broad and rapid river, passing by Athlone; then narrowing again until it reaches Shannon harbor; then widening into far-famed Lough Derg, eighteen miles long and four broad; then progressing until it arrives at Killaloe, where it ceases to be navigable until it waters. Limerick city; from whence it flows in a broad and majestic volume to the ocean for about sixty miles; running a distance of upward of 200 miles from its source to its mouth--between Loop Head and Kerry Head (the space between them being about eight miles), watering ten counties in its progress, and affording facilities for commerce and internal intercourse such as are unparalleled in any other portion of the United Kingdom. "The spacious Shenan spreading like a sea," thus answers to the description of Spenser; for a long space its course is so gentle that ancient writers supposed its name to have been derived from "Seen-awn," the slow river; and for many miles, between O'Brien's Bridge and Limerick, it rolls so rapidly along as almost to be characterized as a series of cataracts. At the falls of Killaloe, it descends twenty-one feet in a mile; and above one hundred feet from Killaloe to Limerick.... Its banks too are, nearly all along its course, of surpassing beauty; as it nears Limerick, the adjacent hills are crowned with villas; and upon its sides are the ruins of many ancient castles. Castle Connell, a village about six miles from the city, is perhaps unrivaled in the kingdom for natural graces; and immediately below it are the Falls of Doonas where the river rushes over huge mountain-rocks, affording a passage which the more daring only will make; for the current--narrowed to a boat's breadth--rushes along with such frightful rapidity, that the deviation of a few inches would be inevitable destruction. The immediate environs of Limerick are not picturesque; the city lies in a spacious plain, the greater portion of which is scarcely above the level of the water: at short distances, however, there are some of the most interesting ruins in the kingdom, in the midst of scenery of surpassing loveliness. Of these, the tourist should first visit Carrig-o-gunnel, next Adare, and then Castle Connell, the most beautiful of many beautiful places upon the banks of the noble Shannon. FROM BELFAST TO DUBLIN [Footnote: From "Letters of a Traveler."] BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT We left Glasgow on the morning of the 22d, and taking the railway to Ardrossan were soon at the beach. One of those iron steamers which navigate the British waters, far inferior to our own in commodious and comfortable arrangements, but strong and safe, received us on board, and at ten o'clock we were on our way to Belfast. The coast of Ayr, with the cliff near the birthplace of Burns, continued long in sight; we passed near the mountains of Arran, high and bare steeps swelling out of the sea, which had a look of almost complete solitude; and at length Ailsa Craig began faintly to show itself, high above the horizon, through the thick atmosphere. We passed this lonely rock, about which flocks of sea-birds, the solan goose, and the gannet, on long white wings with jetty tips, were continually wheeling, and with a glass we could discern them sitting by thousands on the shelves of the rock, where they breed. The upper part of Ailsa, above the cliffs which reach more than half-way to the summit, appears not to be destitute of soil, for it was tinged with a faint verdure. In about nine hours we had crossed the channel, over smooth water, and were making our way, between green shores almost without a tree, up the bay, at the bottom of which stands, or rather lies, for its site is low, the town of Belfast. We had yet enough of daylight left to explore a part at least of the city. "It looks like Albany," said my companion, and really the place bears some resemblance to the streets of Albany which are situated near the river, nor is it without an appearance of commercial activity. The people of Belfast, you know, are of Scotch origin, with some infusion of the original race of Ireland. I heard English spoken with a Scotch accent, but I was obliged to own that the severity of the Scotch physiognomy had been softened by the migration and the mingling of breed.... At an early hour the next day we were in our seats on the outside of the mail-coach. We passed through a well-cultivated country, interspersed with towns which had an appearance of activity and thrift. The dwellings of the cottagers looked more comfortable than those of the same class in Scotland, and we were struck with the good looks of the people, men and women, whom we passed in great numbers going to their work. At length, having traversed the county of Down, we entered Louth.... Close on the confines of Armagh, perhaps partly within it, we traversed, near the village of Jonesborough, a valley full of the habitations of peat-diggers. Its aspect was most remarkable, the barren hills that inclose it were dark with heath and gorse and with ledges of brown rock, and their lower declivities, as well as the level of the valley, black with peat, which had been cut from the ground and laid in rows. The men were at work with spades cutting it from the soil, and the women were pressing the water from the portions thus separated, and exposing it to the air to dry.... It is the property of peat earth to absorb a large quantity of water, and to part with it slowly. The springs, therefore, in a region abounding with peat make no brooks; the water passes into spongy soil and remains there, forming morasses even on the slopes of the hills. As we passed out of this black valley we entered a kind of glen, and the guard, a man in a laced hat and scarlet coat, pointed to the left, and said, "There is a pretty place." It was a beautiful park along a hillside, groves and lawns, a broad domain, jealously inclosed by a thick and high wall, beyond which we had, through the trees, a glimpse of a stately mansion. Our guard was a genuine Irishman, strongly resembling the late actor Power in physiognomy, with the very brogue which Power sometimes gave to his personages. He was a man of pithy speech, communicative, and acquainted apparently with everybody of every class, whom we passed on the road. Besides him we had for fellow-passengers three very intelligent Irishmen, on their way to Dublin. One of them was a tall, handsome gentleman, with dark hair and hazel eyes, and a rich South-Irish brogue. He was fond of his joke, but next to him sat a graver personage, in spectacles, equally tall, with fair hair and light-blue eyes, speaking with a decided Scotch accent. By my side was a square-built, fresh-colored personage, who had traveled in America, and whose accent was almost English. I thought I could not be mistaken in supposing them to be samples of the three different races by which Ireland is peopled. We now entered a fertile district, meadows heavy with grass, in which the haymakers were at work, and fields of wheat and barley as fine as I had ever seen.... One or two green mounds stood close to the road, and we saw others at a distance. "They are Danish forts," said the guard. "Every thing we do not know the history of, we put upon the Danes," added the South of Ireland man. These grassy mounds, which are from ten to twenty feet in height, are now supposed to have been the burial places of the ancient Celts. The peasantry can with difficulty be persuaded to open any of them, on account of a prevalent superstition that it will bring bad luck. A little before we arrived at Drogheda, I saw a tower to the right, apparently a hundred feet in height, with a doorway at a great distance from the ground, and a summit somewhat dilapidated. "That is one of the round towers of Ireland, concerning which there is so much discussion," said my English-looking fellow-traveler. These round towers, as the Dublin antiquarians tell me, were probably built by the early Christian missionaries from Italy, about the seventh century, and were used as places of retreat and defense against the pagans. Not far from Drogheda, I saw at a distance a quiet-looking valley. "That," said the English-looking passenger, "is the valley of the Boyne, and in that spot was fought the famous battle of the Boyne." "Which the Irish are fighting about yet, in America," added the South of Ireland man. They pointed out near the spot, a cluster of trees on an eminence, where James beheld the defeat of his followers. We crossed the Boyne, entered Drogheda, dismounted among a crowd of beggars, took our places in the most elegant railway wagon we had ever seen, and in an hour were set down in Dublin.... I have seen no loftier nor more spacious dwellings than those which overlook St. Stephen's Green, a noble park, planted with trees, under which this showery sky and mild temperature maintain a verdure all the year, even in mid-winter. About Merrion square, another park, the houses have scarcely a less stately appearance, and one of these with a strong broad balcony, from which to address the people in the street, is inhabited by O'Connell. The park of the University, in the midst of the city, is of great extent, and the beautiful public grounds called Phenix Park, have a circumference of eight miles. THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY [Footnote: From "Views Afoot." Published by G. P. Putnam's Sons.] BY BAYARD TAYLOR We passed the Giant's Causeway after dark, and about eleven o'clock reached the harbor of Port Rush, where, after stumbling up a strange old street in the dark, we found a little inn, and soon forgot the Irish coast and everything else. In the morning, when we arose, it was raining, with little prospect of fair weather, but having expected nothing better, we set out on foot for the Causeway. The rain, however, soon came down in torrents, and we were obliged to take shelter in a cabin by the roadside. The whole house consisted of one room with bare walls and roof and earthen floor, while a window of three or four panes supplied the light. A fire of peat was burning on the hearth, and their breakfast, of potatoes alone, stood on the table. The occupants received us with rude but genuine hospitality, giving us the only seats in the room to sit upon; except a rickety bedstead that stood in one corner and a small table, there was no other furniture in the house. The man appeared rather intelligent, and, altho he complained of the hardness of their lot, had no sympathy with O'Connell or the Repeal movement. We left this miserable hut as soon as it ceased raining, and, tho there were many cabins along the road, few were better than this. At length, after passing the walls of an old church in the midst of older tombs, we saw the roofless towers of Dunluce Castle on the seashore. It stands on an isolated rock, rising perpendicularly two hundred feet above the sea, and connected with the cliffs of the mainland by a narrow arch. We left the road near Dunluce and walked along the smooth beach to the cliffs that surround the Causeway. Here we obtained a guide, and descended to one of the caves which can be entered from the shore. Opposite the entrance a bare rock called Sea Gull Isle rises out of the sea like a church-steeple. The roof at first was low, but we shortly came to a branch that opened on the sea, where the arch was forty-six feet in height. The breakers dashed far into the cave, and flocks of sea-birds circled round its mouth. The sound of a gun was like a deafening peal of thunder, crashing from arch to arch till it rolled out of the cavern. On the top of the hill a splendid hotel is erected for visitors to the Causeway; after passing this we descended to the base of the cliffs, which are here upward of four hundred feet high, and soon began to find in the columnar formation of the rocks indications of our approach. The guide pointed out some columns which appeared to have been melted and run together, from which Sir Humphrey Davy attributed the formation of the Causeway to the action of fire. Near this is the Giant's Well, a spring of the purest water, the bottom formed by three perfect hexagons and the sides of regular columns. One of us observing that no giant had ever drunk from it, the old man answered. "Perhaps not, but it was made by a giant--God Almighty!" From the well the Causeway commences--a mass of columns from triangular to octagonal, lying in compact forms and extending into the sea. I was somewhat disappointed at first, having supposed the Causeway to be of great height, but I found the Giant's Loom, which is the highest part of it, to be but about fifty feet from the water. The singular appearance of the columns and the many strange forms which they assume render it, nevertheless, an object of the greatest interest. Walking out on the rocks, we came to the Ladies' Chair, the seat, back sides and foot-stool being all regularly formed by the broken columns. The guide said that any lady who would take three drinks from the Giant's Well, then sit in this chair and think of any gentleman for whom she had a preference, would be married before a twelvemonth. I asked him if it would answer as well for gentlemen, for by a wonderful coincidence we had each drank three times at the well. He said it would, and thought he was confirming his statement. A cluster of columns about half-way up the cliff is called the Giant's Organ from its very striking resemblance to that instrument, and a single rock worn by the waves into the shape of a rude seat is his chair. A mile or two farther along the coast two cliffs project from the range, leaving a vast semicircular space between, which from its resemblance to the old Roman theaters was appropriated for that purpose by the giant. Halfway down the crags are two or three pinnacles of rock called the Chimneys, and the stumps of several others can be seen, which, it is said, were shot off by a vessel belonging to the Spanish Armada in mistake for the towers of Dunluce Castle. The vessel was afterward wrecked in the bay below, which has ever since been called Spanish Bay, and in calm weather the wreck may be still seen. Many of the columns of the Causeway have been carried off and sold as pillars for mantels, and tho a notice is put up threatening any one with the rigor of the law, depredations are occasionally made. Returning, we left the road at Dunluce and took a path which led along the summit of the cliffs. The twilight was gathering and the wind blew with perfect fury, which, combined with the black and stormy sky, gave the coast an air of extreme wildness. All at once, as we followed the winding path, the crags, appeared to open before us, disclosing a yawning chasm down which a large stream falling in an unbroken sheet was lost in the gloom below. Witnessed in a calm day, there may perhaps be nothing striking about it, but coming upon us at once through the gloom of twilight, with the sea thundering below and a scowling sky above, it was absolutely startling. The path at last wound with many a steep and slippery bend down the almost perpendicular crags to the shore at the foot of a giant isolated rock having a natural arch through it, eighty feet in height. We followed the narrow strip of beach, having the bare crags on one side and a line of foaming breakers on the other. It soon grew dark; a furious storm came up and swept like a hurricane along the shore. I then understood what Horne means by "the lengthening javelins of the blast," for every drop seemed to strike with the force of an arrow, and our clothes were soon pierced in every part. Then we went up among the sand-hills and lost each other in the darkness, when, after stumbling about among the gullies for half an hour shouting for my companions, I found the road and heard my call answered; but it happened to be two Irishmen, who came up and said, "And is it another gintleman ye're callin' for? We heard some one cryin' and didn't know but somebody might be kilt." Finally, about eleven o'clock, we all arrived at the inn dripping with rain, and before a warm fire concluded the adventures of our day in Ireland. CORK [Footnote: From "The Irish Sketch Book."] BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. One sees in this country many a grand and tall iron gate leading into a very shabby field covered with thistles; and the simile of the gate will in some degree apply to this famous city of Cork--which is certainly not a city of palaces, but of which the outlets are magnificent. That toward Killarney leads by the Lee, the old Avenue of Mardyke, and the rich green pastures stretching down to the river; and as you pass by the portico of the country jail, as fine and as glancing as a palace, you see the wooded heights on the other side of the fair stream, crowded with a thousand pretty villas and terraces, presenting every image of comfort and prosperity. Along the quays up to St. Patrick's Bridge there is a certain bustle. Some forty ships may be lying at anchor along the walls of the quay; and its pavements are covered with goods of various merchandise; here a cargo of hides; yonder a company of soldiers, their kits, and their dollies, who are taking leave of the redcoats at the steamer's side. Then you shall see a fine, squeaking, shrieking drove of pigs embarking by the same conveyance, and insinuated into the steamer by all sorts of coaxing, threatening, and wheedling. Seamen are singing and yeehoing on board; grimy colliers smoking at the liquor-shops along the quay; and as for the bridge-there is a crowd of idlers on that, you may be sure, sprawling over the balustrade for ever and ever, with long ragged coats, steeple-hats, and stumpy doodeens. At the other extremity of the town, if it be assize time, you will see some five hundred persons squatting in the Court-house, or buzzing and talking within; the rest of the respectable quarter of the city is pretty free from anything like bustle. There is no more life in Patrick Street than in Russell Square of a sunshiny day; and as for the Mall, it is as lonely as the chief street of a German Residenz.... That the city contains much wealth is evidenced by the number of handsome, villas round about it, where the rich merchants dwell; but the warehouses of the wealthy provision-merchants make no show to the stranger walking the streets; and of the retail shops, if some are spacious and handsome, most look as if too big for the business carried on within. The want of ready money was quite curious. In three of the principal shops I purchased articles, and tendered a pound in exchange--not one of them had silver enough; and as for a five-pound note, which I presented at one of the topping booksellers, his boy went round to various places in vain, and finally set forth to the bank, where change was got. In another small shop I offered half-a-crown to pay for a sixpenny article--it was all the same. Half a dozen of the public buildings I saw were spacious and shabby beyond all cockney belief. Adjoining the Imperial Hotel is a great, large, handsome, desolate reading-room, which was founded by a body of Cork merchants and tradesmen, and is the very picture of decay. Not Palmyra--not the Russell Institution in Great Coram Street--present more melancholy appearances of faded greatness. Opposite this is another institution, called the Cork Library, where there are plenty of books and plenty of kindness to the stranger; but the shabbiness and faded splendor of the place are quite painful.... I have said something in praise of the manners of the Cork ladies; in regard of the gentlemen, a stranger must remark the extraordinary degree of literary taste and talent among them, and the wit and vivacity of their conversation. The love for literature seems to an Englishman doubly curious. What, generally speaking, do a company of grave gentlemen and ladies in Baker Street know about it? Who ever reads books in the City, or how often does one hear them talked about at a Club? The Cork citizens are the most book-loving men I ever met. The town has sent to England a number of literary men, of reputation too, and is not a little proud of their fame. Everybody seemed to know what Maginn was doing, and that Father Prout had a third volume ready, and what was Mr. Croker's last article in the Quarterly. The clerks and shopmen seemed as much "au fait" as their employers, and many is the conversation I heard about the merits of this writer or that--Dickens, Ainsworth, Lover, Lever. I think, in walking the streets, and looking at the ragged urchins crowding there, every Englishman must remark that the superiority of intelligence is here, and not with us. I never saw such a collection of bright-eyed, wild, clever, eager faces. Mr. Maclise has carried away a number of them in his memory; and the lovers of his admirable pictures will find more than one Munster countenance under a helmet in company of Macbeth, or in a slashed doublet alongside of Prince Hamlet, or in the very midst of Spain in company with Signor Gil Blas. Gil Blas himself came from Cork, and not from Oviedo. I listened to two boys almost in rags: they were lolling over the quay balustrade, and talking about one of the Ptolemys! and talking very well too. One of them had been reading in Rollin, and was detailing his information with a great deal of eloquence and fire. Another day, walking in the Mardyke, I followed three boys, not half so well drest as London errand-boys: one was telling the other about Captain Ross's voyages, and spoke with as much brightness and intelligence as the best-read gentleman's son in England could do. He was as much of a gentleman, too, the ragged young student; his manner as good, tho perhaps more eager and emphatic; his language was extremely rich, too, and eloquent. Does the reader remember his school-days, when half a dozen lads in the bedrooms took it by turns to tell stories? How poor the language generally was, and how exceedingly poor the imagination! Both of those ragged Irish lads had the making of gentlemen, scholars, orators, in them. I have just been strolling up a pretty little height called Grattan's Hill, that overlooks the town and the river, and where the artist that comes Corkward may find many subjects for his pencil. There is a kind of pleasure-ground at the top of this eminence--a broad walk that draggles up to a ruined wall, with a ruined niche in it, and a battered stone bench. On the side that shelves down to the water are some beeches, and opposite them a row of houses from which you see one of the prettiest prospects possible--the shining river with the craft along the quays, and the busy city in the distance, the active little steamers puffing away toward Cove, the farther bank crowned with rich woods, and pleasant-looking country-houses--perhaps they are tumbling, rickety, and ruinous, as those houses close by us, but you can't see the ruin from here. What a strange air of forlorn gaiety there is about the place!--the sky itself seems as if it did not know whether to laugh or cry, so full is it of clouds and sunshine. Little fat, ragged, smiling children are clambering about the rocks, and sitting on mossy doorsteps, tending other children yet smaller, fatter, and more dirty. "Stop till I get you a posy" (pronounced pawawawsee), cries one urchin to another. "Tell me who is it ye love, Jooly," exclaims another, cuddling a red-faced infant with a very dirty nose. More of the same race are perched about the summerhouse, and two wenches with large purple feet are flapping some carpets in the air. It is a wonder the carpets will bear this kind of treatment at all, and do not be off at once to mingle with the elements; I never saw things that hung to life by such a frail thread. This dismal pleasant place is a suburb of the second city in Ireland, and one of the most beautiful spots about the town. What a prim, bustling, active, green-railinged, tea-gardened, gravel-walked place would it have been in the five-hundredth town in England!--but you see the people can be quite as happy in the rags and without the paint, and I hear a great deal more heartiness and affection from these children than from their fat little brethren across the Channel. BLARNEY CASTLE [Footnote: From "Ireland: Its Scenery, Character, Etc."] BY ME. AND MRS. S. C. HALL Few places in Ireland are more familiar to English ears than Blarney; the notoriety is attributable, first, to the marvelous qualities of its famous "stone," and next, to the extensive popularity of the song,-- "The groves of Blarney, they are so charming." When or how the stone obtained its singular reputation, it is difficult to determine; the exact position among the ruins of the castle is also a matter of doubt; the peasant-guides humor the visitor according to his capacity for climbing, and direct, either to the summit or the base, the attention of him who desires to "greet it with a holy kiss." He who has been dipt in the Shannon is presumed to have obtained, in abundance, the gift of that "civil courage" which makes an Irishman at ease and unconstrained in all places and under all circumstances; and he who has kissed the Blarney stone is assumed to be endowed with a fluent and persuasive tongue, altho it may be associated with insincerity; the term "Blarney" being generally used to characterize words that are meant neither to be "honest nor true." It is conjectured that the comparatively modern application of the term "Blarney" first had existence when the possessor, Lord Clancarty, was a prisoner to Sir George Carew, by whom he was subjected to several examinations touching his loyalty, which he was required to prove by surrendering his strong castle to the soldiers of the Queen; this act he always endeavored to evade by some plausible excuse, but as invariably professing his willingness to do so. The particulars are fully detailed in the "Pacata Hibernia." It is certain that to no particular stone of the ancient structure is the marvelous quality exclusively attributed; but in order to make it as difficult as possible to attain the enviable gift, it had long been the custom to point out a stone, a few feet below the battlements, which the very daring only would run the hazard of touching with their lips. The attempt to do so was, indeed, so dangerous, that a few years ago Mr. Jeffreys had it removed from the wall and placed on the highest point of the building; where the visitor may now greet it with little risk. It is about two feet square, and contains the date 1703, with a portion of the arms of the Jeffreys family, but the date, at once, negatives its claim to be considered the true marvel of Blarney. A few days before our visit a madman made his way to the top of the castle, and after dancing round it for some hours, his escape from death being almost miraculous, he flung this stone from the tower; it was broken in the fall, and now, as the guide stated to us, the "three halves" must receive three distinct kisses to be in any degree effective. The stronghold of Blarney was erected about the middle of the fifteenth century by Cormac Mac Carthy, surnamed "Laider," or the Strong; whose ancestors had been chieftains in Munster from a period long antecedent to the English invasion, and whose descendants, as Lords of Muskerry and Clancarty, retained no inconsiderable portion of their power and estates until the year 1689, when their immense possessions were confiscated, and the last earl became an exile, like the monarch whose cause he had supported. The castle, village, mills, fairs, and customs of Blarney, with the land and park thereunto belonging, containing 1400 acres, were "set up by cant" in the year 1702, purchased by Sir Richard Pyne, Lord Chief Justice, for £3000, and by him disposed of, the following year, to General Sir James Jeffreys, in whose family the property continues. Altho the walls of this castle are still strong, many of the outworks have long since been leveled; the plow has passed over their foundations, and "the stones of which they were built have been used in repairing the turnpike-roads." MUCROSS ABBEY [Footnote: From "Ireland: Its Scenery, Character, Etc."] BY MR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL The abbey of Mucross adjoins the pretty village of Cloghreen, [in Kerry] and is in the demesne of Henry Arthur Herbert, Esq., which includes the whole of the peninsula. The site was chosen with the usual judgment and taste of "the monks of old," who invariably selected the pleasantest of all pleasant places. The original name was Irelough--and it appears that long prior to the erection of this, now ruined structure, a church existed in the same spot, which was consumed by fire in 1191. The abbey was built for Franciscan monks, according to Arehdall, in 1440; but the annals of the Four Masters give its date a century earlier: both, however, ascribe its foundation to one of the Mac Carthys, princes of Desmond. It was several times repaired, and once subsequently to the Reformation, as we learn from the inscription on a stone let into the north wall of the choir. The building consists of two principal parts--the convent and the church. The church is about one hundred feet in length and twenty-four in breadth; the steeple, which stands between the nave and the chancel, rests on four high and slender pointed arches. The principal entrance is by a handsome pointed doorway, luxuriantly overgrown with ivy, through which is seen the great eastern window. The intermediate space, as indeed every part of the ruined edifice, is filled with tombs, the greater number distinguished only by a slight elevation from the mold around them; but some containing inscriptions to direct the stranger where especial honor should be paid. A large modern tomb, in the center of the choir, covers the vault, in which in ancient times were interred the Mac Carthys Mor, and more recently the O'Donoghue Mor of the Glens, whose descendants were buried here so late as the year 1833. Close to this tomb, but on a level with the earth, is the slab which formerly covered the vault. It is without inscription, but bears the arms of the Earl of Clancarty. The convent as well as the church is in very tolerable preservation; and Mr. Herbert has taken especial care, as far as he can, to balk the consumer, time, of the remnants of his glorious feast. He has repaired the foundations in some parts and the parapets in others, and so judiciously that the eye is never annoyed by the intrusion of the new among the old; the ivy furnishing him with a ready means for hiding the unhallowed brick and mortar from the sight. In his "caretaker," too, he has a valuable auxiliary; and a watch is set, first to discover tokens of decay, then to prevent their spread, and then to twist and twine the young shoots of the aged trees over and around them. The dormitories, the kitchen, the refectory, the cellars, the infirmary, and other chambers, are still in a state of comparative preservation; the upper rooms are unroofed; and the coarse grass grows abundantly among them. The great fireplace of the refectory is curious and interesting--affording evidence that the good monks were not forgetful of the duty they owed themselves, or of the bond they had entered into, to act upon the advice of St. Paul, and be "given to hospitality." This recess is pointed out as the bed of John Drake--a pilgrim who, about a century ago, took up his abode in the Abbey, and continued its inmate during a period of several years. As will be supposed, his singular choice of residence has given rise to abundant stories, and the mention of his name to any of the guides or boatmen will at once produce a volume of the marvelous. The cloister, which consists of twenty-two arches, ten of them semicircular and twelve pointed, is the best preserved portion of the abbey. In the center grows a magnificent yew-tree, which covers, as a roof, the whole area; its circumference is thirteen feet, and its height in proportion. It is more than probable that the tree is coeval with the abbey; that it was planted by the hands of the monks who built the sacred edifice centuries ago. The yew, it is known, lives to a prodigious age; and in England, there are many of a date considerably earlier than that which may be safely assigned to this. FROM GLENGARIFF TO KILLARNEY [Footnote: From "The Irish Sketch Book."] BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY The journey from Glengariff to Kenmare is one of astonishing beauty; and I have seen Killarney since, and am sure that Glengariff loses nothing by comparison with this most famous of lakes. Rock, wood, and sea stretch around the traveler--a thousand delightful pictures; the landscape is at first wild without being fierce, immense woods and plantations enriching the valleys--beautiful streams to be seen everywhere. Here again I was surprized at the great population along the road; for one saw but few cabins, and there is no village between Glengariff and Kenmare. But men and women were on banks and in fields; children, as usual, came trooping up to the car; and the jovial men of the yacht had great conversations with most of the persons whom we met on the road. A merrier set of fellows it were hard to meet. After much mountain-work of ascending and descending (in which latter operation, and by the side of precipices that make passing cockneys rather squeamish, the carman drove like mad to the hooping and screeching of the red rovers), we at length came to Kenmare, of which all that I know is that it lies prettily in a bay or arm of the sea; that it is approached by a little hanging-bridge, which seems to be a wonder in these parts; that it is a miserable little place when you enter it; and that, finally, a splendid luncheon of all sorts of meat and excellent cold salmon may sometimes be had for a shilling at the hotel of the place.... For almost half the way from Kenmare, this wild, beautiful road commands views of the famous lake and vast blue mountains about Killarney. Turk, Tomies, and Mangerton were clothed in purple like kings in mourning; great heavy clouds were gathered round their noble features bare. The lake lay for some time underneath us, dark and blue, with dark misty islands in the midst. On the right-hand side of the road would be a precipice covered with a thousand trees, or a green rocky flat, with a reedy mere in the midst, and other mountains rising as far as we could see.... And so it was that we rode by dark old Mangerton, then presently past Mucross, and then through two miles of avenues of lime-trees, by numerous lodges and gentlemen's seats, across an old bridge, where you see the mountains again and the lake, until, by Lord Kenmare's house, a hideous row of houses informed us that we were in Killarney. We rattled up to the Kenmare Arms; and so ended, not without a sigh on my part, one of the merriest six-hour rides that five yachtsmen, one cockney, five women and a child, the carman, and a countryman with an alpeen, ever took in their lives. The town of Killarney was in a violent state of excitement with a series of horse-races, hurdle-races, boat-races, and stag-hunts by land and water, which were taking place, and attracted a vast crowd from all parts of the kingdom. All the inns were full, and lodgings cost five shillings a day, nay, more in some places; for tho my landlady, Mrs. Macgillicuddy, charges but that sum, a leisurely old gentleman whom I never saw in my life before made my acquaintance by stopping me in the street yesterday, and said he paid a pound a day for his two bedrooms.... Mrs. Macgillicuddy's house is at the corner of the two principal streets in Killarney town, and the drawing-room windows command each a street. A sort of market is held there, and the place is swarming with blue cloaks and groups of men talking; here and there is a stall with coarse linens, crockery, a cheese; and crowds of egg-and milk-women are squatted on the pavement, with their ragged customers or gossips. Carts, cars, jingles, barouches, horses, and vehicles of all descriptions rattle presently through the streets; for the town is crowded with company for the races and other sports, and all the world is bent to see the stag-hunt on the lake. The morning had been bright enough, but for fear of accidents we took our macintoshes, and at about a mile from the town found it necessary to assume those garments and wear them for the greater part of the day. Passing by the Victoria, with its beautiful walks, park, and lodge, we came to a little creek where the boats were moored; and there was the wonderful lake before us, with its mountains, and islands, and trees. Unluckily, however, the mountains happened to be invisible; the islands looked like gray masses in the fog, and all that we could see for some time was the gray silhouette of the boat ahead of us, in which a passenger was engaged in a witty conversation with some boat still farther in the mist. Drumming and trumpeting was heard at a little distance, and presently we found ourselves in the midst of a fleet of boats upon the rocky shores of the beautiful little Innisfallen. Here we landed for a while, and the weather clearing up, allowed us to see this charming spot. Rocks, shrubs, and little abrupt rises and falls of ground, covered with the brightest emerald grass; a beautiful little ruin of a Saxon chapel, lying gentle, delicate, and plaintive on the shore; some noble trees round about it, and beyond, presently, the tower of Ross Castle, island after island appearing in the clearing sunshine, and the huge hills throwing their misty veils off, and wearing their noble robes of purple. The boats' crews were grouped about the place, and one large barge especially had landed some sixty people, being the Temperance band, with its drums, trumpets, and wives. They were marshaled by a grave old gentleman with a white waistcoat and queue, a silver medal decorating one side of his coat, and a brass heart reposing on the other flap. The horns performed some Irish airs prettily; and, at length, at the instigation of a fellow who went swaggering about with a pair of whirling drumsticks, all formed together, and played "Garryowen"--the active drum of course most dreadfully out of time. Having strolled about the island for a quarter of an hour, it became time to take to the boats again, and we were rowed over to the wood opposite Sullivan's cascade, where the hounds had been laid in in the morning, and the stag was expected to take water. Fifty or sixty men are employed on the mountain to drive the stag lakeward, should he be inclined to break away; and the sport generally ends by the stag, a wild one, making for the water with the pack swimming afterward; and here he is taken and disposed of, how I know not. It is rather a parade than a stag-hunt; but, with all the boats around and the noble view, must be a fine thing to see. Some scores more boats were there, darting up and down in the pretty, busy waters. Here came a Cambridge boat; and where, indeed, will not the gentlemen of that renowned University be found? Yonder were the dandy dragoons, stiff, silent, slim, faultlessly appointed, solemnly puffing cigars. Every now and then a hound would he heard in the wood, whereon numbers of voices, right and left, would begin to yell in chorus--Hurroo! Hoop! Yow--yow--yow! in accents the most shrill or the most melancholious. Meanwhile the sun had had enough of the sport, the mountains put on their veils again, the islands retreated into the mist, the word went through the fleet to spread all umbrellas, and ladies took shares of mackintoshes and disappeared under the flaps of silk cloaks. The wood comes down to the very edge of the water, and many of the crews thought fit to land and seek this green shelter. To behold these moist dandies the natives of the country came eagerly. Strange, savage faces might be seen peering from out of the trees; long-haired, bare-legged girls came down the hill, some with green apples and very sickly-looking plums; some with whisky and goat's milk; a ragged boy had a pair of stag's-horns to sell: the place swarmed with people. We went up the hill to see the noble cascade, and when you say that it comes rushing down over rocks and through tangled woods, alas! one has said all the dictionary can help you to, and not enough to distinguish this particular cataract from any other. This seen and admired, we came back to the harbor where the boats lay, and from which spot the reader might have seen the following view of the lake--that is, you would see the lake, if the mist would only clear away. But this for hours it did not seem inclined to do. We rowed up and down industriously for a period of time which seemed to me atrociously long. The bugles of the Erin had long since sounded "Home, sweet home!" and the greater part of the fleet had dispersed. As for the stag-hunt, all I saw of it was four dogs that appeared on the shore at different intervals, and a huntsman in a scarlet coat, who similarly came and went: once or twice we were gratified by hearing the hounds; but at last it was agreed that there was no chance for the day, and we rowed off to Kenmare Cottage--where, on the lovely lawn, or in a cottage adjoining, the gentry picnic, and where, with a handkerchief full of potatoes, we made as pleasant a meal as ever I recollect. What is to be said about Turk Lake? When there, we agreed that it was more beautiful than the larger lake, of which it is not one-fourth the size; then, when we came back, we said, "No, the large lake is the most beautiful." And so, at every point we stopped at, we determined that that particular spot was the prettiest in the whole lake. The fact is, and I don't care to own it, they are too handsome. As for a man coming from his desk in London or Dublin and seeing "the whole lakes in a day," he is an ass for his pains; a child doing sums in addition might as well read the whole multiplication table, and fancy he had it by heart. We should look at these wonderful things leisurely and thoughtfully; and even then, blessed is he who understands them. 
56429	----	[Transcriber's Notes: All footnotes have been moved to the end of the text. Italics in the original are represented by _underscores_. The original is richly illustrated; the illustration captions have been preserved in this text version. To view the full illustrations, please see the HTML version.] GRAY DAYS AND GOLD [Illustration: The MM Co.] [Illustration: YORK CATHEDRAL] GRAY DAYS AND GOLD _IN ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND_ BY WILLIAM WINTER [Illustration] New Edition, Revised, with Illustrations New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 1896 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY MACMILLAN AND CO. _Illustrated Edition_, COPYRIGHT, 1896, THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. Set up and electrotyped June, 1892. Reprinted November, 1892; January, June, August, 1893; April, 1894. Illustrated edition, revised throughout, in crown 8vo, set up and electrotyped June, 1896. Norwood Press J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Norwood Mass. U.S.A. TO Augustin Daly REMEMBERING A FRIENDSHIP OF MANY YEARS I DEDICATE THIS BOOK "_Est animus tibi Rerumque prudens, et secundis Temporibus dubiisque rectus_"[1] [Illustration] PREFACE TO THE ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF GRAY DAYS AND GOLD _This book, containing description of my Gray Days in England and Scotland, has, in a miniature form, passed through several editions, and it has been received by the public with exceptional sympathy and abundant practical favour. Its publishers are, therefore, encouraged to present it in a more opulent style, and with the embellishment of pictorial illustrations. Its success,--and indeed the success which has attended all my books,--is deeply gratifying to me, the more so that I did not expect it. My sketches of travel were the unpremeditated creations of genial impulse, and I did not suppose that they would endure beyond the hour. If I had anticipated the remarkably cordial approbation which has been accorded to my humble studies of British scenery and life, I should have tried to make them better, and, especially, I should have taken scrupulous care to verify every date and every historic statement set forth in my text. That precaution, at first, I did not invariably take, but as my mood was that of contemplation and reverie, so my method was that of the dreamer, who drifts carelessly from one beautiful thing to another, uttering simply whatever comes into his thoughts. In preparing the text for this edition of _Gray Days_, however, and also in preparing the text of _Shakespeare's England_ for the pictorial edition, I have carefully revised my sketches, and have made a studious and conscientious endeavour to correct every mistake and to remove every defect. The chapters on Clopton and Devizes have been considerably augmented, and the record of Shakespearean affairs at Stratford-upon-Avon has been continued to the present time. A heedless error in my chapter on Worcester, respecting the Shakespeare marriage bond, has been rectified, and in various ways the narrative has been made more authentic, the historical embellishment more complete, and, perhaps, the style more flexible and more concise._ _Eight of the papers in this volume relate to Scotland. My first visit to that romantic country was made in 1888, and was limited to the lowlands, but since that time I have had the privilege of making several highland rambles, and, in particular, of passing thoughtful days in the lovely island of Iona,--one of the most interesting places in Europe,--and those readers who may care to keep me company beyond the limits of this work will find memorials of those wanderings and that experience in my later books, called _Old Shrines and Ivy_ and _Brown Heath and Blue Bells_._ _W. W._ JULY 15, 1896. PREFACE _This book, a companion to _Shakespeare's England_, relates to the gray days of an American wanderer in the British islands, and to the gold of thought and fancy that can be found there. In _Shakespeare's England_ an attempt was made to depict, in an unconventional manner, those lovely scenes that are intertwined with the name and the memory of Shakespeare, and also to reflect the spirit of that English scenery in general which, to an imaginative mind, must always be venerable with historic antiquity and tenderly hallowed with poetic and romantic association. The present book continues the same treatment of kindred themes, referring not only to the land of Shakespeare, but to the land of Burns and Scott._ _After so much had been done, and superbly done, by Washington Irving and by other authors, to celebrate the beauties of our ancestral home, it was perhaps an act of presumption on the part of the present writer to touch those subjects. He can only plead, in extenuation of his boldness, an irresistible impulse of reverence and affection for them. His presentment of them can give no offence, and perhaps it may be found sufficiently sympathetic and diversified to awaken and sustain at least a momentary interest in the minds of those readers who love to muse and dream over the relics of a storied past. If by happy fortune it should do more than that,--if it should help to impress his countrymen, so many of whom annually travel in Great Britain, with the superlative importance of adorning the physical aspect and of refining the material civilisation of America by a reproduction within its borders of whatever is valuable in the long experience and whatever is noble and beautiful in the domestic and religious spirit of the British islands,--his labour will not have been in vain. The supreme need of this age in America is a practical conviction that progress does not consist in material prosperity but in spiritual advancement. Utility has long been exclusively worshipped. The welfare of the future lies in the worship of beauty. To that worship these pages are devoted, with all that it implies of sympathy with the higher instincts and faith in the divine destiny of the human race._ _Many of the sketches here assembled were originally printed in the New York Tribune, with which journal their author has been continuously associated, as dramatic reviewer and as an editorial contributor, since August, 1865. They have been revised for publication in this form. Part of the paper on Sir Walter Scott first appeared in Harper's Weekly, for which periodical the author has occasionally written. The paper on the Wordsworth country was contributed to the New York Mirror. The alluring field of Scottish antiquity and romance, which the author has ventured but slightly to touch, may perhaps be explored hereafter, for treasures of contemplation that earlier seekers have left ungathered. [This implied promise has since been fulfilled, in _Brown Heath and Blue Bells_, 1895.]_ _The fact is recorded that an important recent book, 1890, called _Shakespeare's True Life_, written by James Walter, incorporates into its text, without credit, several passages of original description and reflection taken from the present writer's sketches of the Shakespeare country, published in _Shakespeare's England_, and also quotes, as his work, an elaborate narrative of a nocturnal visit to Anne Hathaway's cottage, which he never wrote and never claimed to have written. This statement is made as a safeguard against future injustice._ _W. W._ 1892. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE TO ILLUSTRATED EDITION 9 PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION 11 CHAPTER I CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND 25 CHAPTER II HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES 36 CHAPTER III OLD YORK 53 CHAPTER IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE 66 CHAPTER V THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH 84 CHAPTER VI THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH 94 CHAPTER VII SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER 112 CHAPTER VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH 122 CHAPTER IX HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE 141 CHAPTER X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN 150 CHAPTER XI UP AND DOWN THE AVON 172 CHAPTER XII RAMBLES IN ARDEN 181 CHAPTER XIII THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN 188 CHAPTER XIV BOSWORTH FIELD 198 CHAPTER XV THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON 209 CHAPTER XVI FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH 223 CHAPTER XVII INTO THE HIGHLANDS 230 CHAPTER XVIII HIGHLAND BEAUTIES 238 CHAPTER XIX THE HEART OF SCOTLAND 248 CHAPTER XX SIR WALTER SCOTT 265 CHAPTER XXI ELEGIAC MEMORIALS IN EDINBURGH 287 CHAPTER XXII SCOTTISH PICTURES 297 CHAPTER XXIII IMPERIAL RUINS 305 CHAPTER XXIV THE LAND OF MARMION 314 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE York Cathedral _Photogravure_ _Frontispiece_ Edinburgh Castle _Vignette_ _Title-page_ Stoke-Pogis Churchyard 26 Gray's Monument 28 Portrait of Thomas Gray 29 All Saints' Church, Laleham 31 Arnold's Grave _Photogravure_ face 33 Portrait of Matthew Arnold 34 Hampton Lucy 37 Old Porch of Clopton 39 Clopton House _Photogravure_ face 44 Warwick Castle, from the Mound 46 Warwick Castle, from the River 48 Leicester's Hospital 51 From the Warwick Shield _Tailpiece_ 52 Bootham Bar 54 York Cathedral--West Front 57 York Cathedral--South Side 60 York Cathedral--East Front 62 Portrait of Thomas Moore 67 The Bear--Devizes 70 St. John's Church--Devizes 73 Hungerford Chapel--Devizes 75 The Avon and Bridge--Bath 85 Portrait of Beau Nash 86 Bath Abbey 88 High Street--Bath 91 A Fragment from an Old Roman Bath 92 Remains of the Old Roman Bath _Tailpiece_ 93 Penrith Castle _Photogravure_ face 94 Ullswater 95 Lyulph's Tower--Ullswater 101 Portrait of William Wordsworth 103 Approach to Ambleside 104 Grasmere Church 106 Rydal Mount--Wordsworth's Seat 108 An Old Lich Gate _Tailpiece_ 111 Worcester Cathedral, from the Edgar Tower 113 The Edgar Tower 117 Portrait of Lord Byron 123 Hucknall-Torkard Church _Photogravure_ face 128 Hucknall-Torkard Church 131 Hucknall-Torkard Church--Interior 135 The Red Horse Hotel 142 The Grammar School, Stratford 146 Interior of the Grammar School 147 Trinity Church 152 The Shakespeare Memorial Theatre 154 An Old Stratford Character: George Robbins 158 Anne Hathaway's Cottage 165 The Gower Statue _Photogravure_ face 168 Tailpiece 171 Evesham 173 Clopton Bridge 174 Charlecote, from the Terrace 176 The Abbey Mills, Tewkesbury 179 Wootton-Wawen Church _Photogravure_ face 183 Beaudesert Cross 186 Tailpiece 187 Portrait of Henry Irving, 1888 191 The Stratford Fountain _Photogravure_ face 193 Mary Arden's Cottage 196 Tailpiece 197 Bosworth Field _Photogravure_ face 200 Higham-on-the-Hill 207 Tailpiece 208 Dr. Johnson 210 Lichfield Cathedral--West Front 211 Lichfield Cathedral--West Front, Central Doorway 213 House in which Johnson was born 217 The Spires of Lichfield 220 Peterborough Cathedral _Photogravure_ face 224 Berwick Castle 228 Stirling Castle 231 Loch Achray 234 Loch Katrine 235 Tailpiece 237 Oban 240 Loch Awe _Photogravure_ face 246 Corbel from St. Giles _Tailpiece_ 247 The Crown of St. Giles's 249 Scott's House in Edinburgh 252 The Maiden 255 Grayfriars Church 256 High Street--Allan Ramsay's Shop 257 The Canongate 260 Holyrood Castle, and Arthur's Seat _Photogravure_ face 262 St. Giles's, from the Lawn Market 263 Portrait of Sir Walter Scott 266 Edinburgh Castle 271 The Canongate Tolbooth 277 Grayfriars Churchyard 292 The Forth Bridge 298 Dunfermline Abbey 300 Northwest Corner of Dunfermline Abbey 303 The Nave--Looking West--Dunfermline Abbey 304 Loch Lomond 306 Loch Lomond 308 Dunstaffnage 312 Tantallon Castle 316 Norham Castle, in the Time of Marmion 321 "_Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings.... All travel has its advantages. If the passenger visits better countries he may learn to improve his own, and if fortune carries him to worse he may learn to enjoy it._" DR. JOHNSON. "_There is given, Unto the things of earth which time hath bent, A spirit's feeling; and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower._" BYRON. "_The charming, friendly English landscape! Is there any in the world like it? To a traveller returning home it looks so kind,--it seems to shake hands with you as you pass through it._" THACKERAY. GRAY DAYS AND GOLD CHAPTER I CLASSIC SHRINES OF ENGLAND London, June 29, 1888.--The poet Emerson's injunction, "Set not thy foot on graves," is wise and right; and being in merry England in the month of June it certainly is your own fault if you do not fulfil the rest of the philosophical commandment and "Hear what wine and roses say." Yet the history of England is largely written in her ancient churches and crumbling ruins, and the pilgrim to historic and literary shrines in this country will find it difficult to avoid setting his foot on graves. It is possible here, as elsewhere, to live entirely in the present; but to certain temperaments and in certain moods the temptation is irresistible to live mostly in the past. I write these words in a house which, according to local tradition, was once occupied by Nell Gwynn, and as I glance into the garden I see a venerable acacia that was planted by her fair hands, in the far-off time of the Merry Monarch. Within a few days I have stood in the dungeon of Guy Fawkes, in the Tower, and sat at luncheon in a manor-house of Warwickshire wherein were once convened the conspirators of the Gunpowder Plot. The newspapers of this morning announce that a monument will be dedicated on July 19 to commemorate the defeat of the Spanish Armada, three hundred years ago. It is not unnatural that the wanderer should live in the past, and often should find himself musing over its legacies. [Illustration: _Stoke-Pogis Churchyard._] One of the most sacred spots in England is the churchyard of Stoke-Pogis. I revisited that place on June 13 and once again rambled and meditated in that hallowed haunt. Not many months ago it seemed likely that Stoke Park would pass into the possession of a sporting club, and be turned into a race-course and kennel. A track had already been laid there. Fate was kind, however, and averted the final disaster. Only a few changes are to be noted in that part of the park which to the reverent pilgrim must always be dear. The churchyard has been extended in front, and a solid wall of flint, pierced with a lych-gate, richly carved, has replaced the plain fence, with its simple turnstile, that formerly enclosed that rural cemetery. The additional land was given by the new proprietor of Stoke Park, who wished that his tomb might be made in it; and this has been built, beneath a large tree not far from the entrance. The avenue from the gate to the church has been widened, and it is now fringed with thin lines of twisted stone; and where once stood only two or three rose-trees there are now sixty-two,--set in lines on either side of the path. But the older part of the graveyard remains unchanged. The yew-trees cast their dense shade, as of old. The quaint porch of the sacred building has not suffered under the hand of restoration. The ancient wooden memorials of the dead continue to moulder above their ashes. And still the abundant ivy gleams and trembles in the sunshine and in the summer wind that plays so sweetly over the spired tower and dusky walls of this lovely temple-- "All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath." [Illustration: _Gray's Monument._] [Illustration: _Thomas Gray._] It would still be a lovely church, even if it were not associated with the immortal Elegy. I stood for a long time beside the tomb of the noble and tender poet and looked with deep emotion on the surrounding scene of pensive, dream-like beauty,--the great elms, so dense of foliage, so stately and graceful; the fields of deep, waving grass, golden with buttercups and white with daisies; the many unmarked mounds; the many mouldering tombstones; the rooks sailing and cawing around the tree-tops; and over all the blue sky flecked with floating fleece. Within the church nothing has been changed. The memorial window to Gray, for which contributions have been taken during several years, has not yet been placed. As I cast a farewell look at Gray's tomb, on turning to leave the churchyard, it rejoiced my heart to see that two American girls, who had then just come in, were placing fresh flowers over the poet's dust. He has been buried more than a hundred years,--but his memory is as bright and green as the ivy on the tower within whose shadow he sleeps, and as fragrant as the roses that bloom at its base. Many Americans visit Stoke-Pogis churchyard, and no visitor to the old world, who knows how to value what is best in its treasures, will omit that act of reverence. The journey is easy. A brief run by railway from Paddington takes you to Slough, which is near to Windsor, and thence it is a charming drive, or a still more charming walk, mostly through green, embowered lanes, to the "ivy-mantled tower," the "yew-trees' shade," and the simple tomb of Gray. What a gap there would be in the poetry of our language if the _Elegy in a Country Churchyard_ were absent from it! By that sublime and tender reverie upon the most important of all subjects that can engage the attention of the human mind Thomas Gray became one of the chief benefactors of his race. Those lines have been murmured by the lips of sorrowing affection beside many a shrine of buried love and hope, in many a churchyard, all round the world. The sick have remembered them with comfort. The great soldier, going into battle, has said them for his solace and cheer. The dying statesman, closing his weary eyes upon this empty world, has spoken them with his last faltering accents, and fallen asleep with their heavenly music in his heart. Well may we pause and ponder at the grave of that divine poet! Every noble mind is made nobler, every good heart is made better, for the experience of such a pilgrimage. In such places as these pride is rebuked, vanity is dispelled, and the revolt of the passionate human heart is humbled into meekness and submission. [Illustration: _All Saints' Church, Laleham._] There is a place kindred with Stoke-Pogis churchyard, a place destined to become, after a few years, as famous and as dear to the heart of the reverent pilgrim in the footsteps of genius and pure renown. On Sunday afternoon, June 17, I sat for a long time beside the grave of Matthew Arnold. It is in a little churchyard at Laleham, in Surrey, where he was born. The day was chill, sombre, and, except for an occasional low twitter of birds and the melancholy cawing of distant rooks, soundless and sadly calm. So dark a sky might mean November rather than June; but it fitted well with the scene and with the pensive thoughts and feelings of the hour. Laleham is a village on the south bank of the Thames, about thirty miles from London and nearly midway between Staines and Chertsey. It consists of a few devious lanes and a cluster of houses, shaded with large trees and everywhere made beautiful with flowers, and it is one of those fortunate and happy places to which access cannot be obtained by railway. There is a manor-house in the centre of it, secluded in a walled garden, fronting the square immediately opposite to the village church. The rest of the houses are mostly cottages, made of red brick and roofed with red tiles. Ivy flourishes, and many of the cottages are overrun with climbing roses. Roman relics are found in the neighbourhood,--a camp near the ford, and other indications of the military activity of Cæsar. The church, All Saints', is of great antiquity. It has been in part restored, but its venerable aspect is not impaired. The large low tower is of brick, and this and the church walls are thickly covered with glistening ivy. A double-peaked roof of red tiles, sunken here and there, contributes to the picturesque beauty of this building, and its charm is further heightened by the contiguity of trees, in which the old church seems to nestle. Within there are low, massive pillars and plain, symmetrical arches,--the remains of Norman architecture. Great rafters of dark oak augment, in this quaint structure, the air of solidity and of an age at once venerable and romantic, while a bold, spirited, beautiful painting of Christ and Peter upon the sea imparts to it an additional sentiment of sanctity and solemn pomp. That remarkable work is by George Henry Harlow, and it is placed back of the altar, where once there would have been, in the Gothic days, a stained window. The explorer does not often come upon such a gem of a church, even in England,--so rich in remains of the old Catholic zeal and devotion; remains now mostly converted to the use of Protestant worship. [Illustration: ARNOLD'S GRAVE] The churchyard of All Saints' is worthy of the church,--a little enclosure, irregular in shape, surface, shrubbery, and tombstones, bordered on two sides by the village square and on one by a farmyard, and shaded by many trees, some of them yews, and some of great size and age. Almost every house that is visible near by is bowered with trees and adorned with flowers. No person was anywhere to be seen, and it was only after inquiry at various dwellings that the sexton's abode could be discovered and access to the church obtained. The poet's grave is not within the church, but in a secluded spot at the side of it, a little removed from the highway, and screened from immediate view by an ancient, dusky yew-tree. I readily found it, perceiving a large wreath of roses and a bunch of white flowers that were lying upon it,--recent offerings of tender remembrance and sorrowing love, but already beginning to wither. A small square of turf, bordered with white marble, covers the vaulted tomb of the poet and of three of his children.[2] At the head are three crosses of white marble, alike in shape and equal in size, except that the first is set upon a pedestal a little lower than those of the others. On the first cross is written: "Basil Francis Arnold, youngest child of Matthew and Frances Lucy Arnold. Born August 19, 1866. Died January 4, 1868. Suffer little children to come unto me." On the second: "Thomas Arnold, eldest child of Matthew and Frances Lucy Arnold. Born July 6, 1852. Died November 23, 1868. Awake, thou, Lute and Harp! I will awake right early." On the third: "Trevenen William Arnold, second child of Matthew and Frances Lucy Arnold. Born October 15, 1853. Died February 16, 1872. In the morning it is green and groweth up." Near by are other tombstones, bearing the name of Arnold,--the dates inscribed on them referring to about the beginning of this century. These mark the resting-place of some of the poet's kindred. His father, the famous Dr. Arnold of Rugby, rests in Rugby chapel,--that noble father, that true friend and servant of humanity, of whom the son wrote those words of imperishable nobility and meaning, "Thou, my father, wouldst not be saved alone." Matthew Arnold is buried in the same grave with his eldest son and side by side with his little children. He who was himself as a little child, in his innocence, goodness, and truth,--where else and how else could he so fitly rest? "Awake, thou, Lute and Harp! I will awake right early." [Illustration: _Matthew Arnold._] Every man will have his own thoughts in such a place as this; will reflect upon his own afflictions, and from knowledge of the manner and spirit in which kindred griefs have been borne by the great heart of intellect and genius will seek to gather strength and patience to endure them well. Matthew Arnold taught many lessons of great value to those who are able to think. He did not believe that happiness is the destiny of the human race on earth, or that there is a visible ground for assuming that happiness in this mortal condition is one of the inherent rights of humanity. He did not think that this world is made an abode of delight by the mere jocular affirmation that everything in it is well and lovely. He knew better than that. But his message, delivered in poetic strains that will endure as long as our language exists, is the message, not of gloom and despair, but of spiritual purity and sweet and gentle patience. The man who heeds Matthew Arnold's teaching will put no trust in creeds and superstitions, will place no reliance upon the transient structures of theology, will take no guidance from the animal and unthinking multitude; but he will "keep the whiteness of his soul"; he will be simple, unselfish, and sweet; he will live for the spirit; and in that spirit, pure, tender, fearless, strong to bear and patient to suffer, he will find composure to meet the inevitable disasters of life and the awful mystery of death. Such was the burden of my thought, sitting there, in the gloaming, beside the lifeless dust of him whose hand had once, with kindly greeting, been clasped in mine. And such will be the thought of many and many a pilgrim who will stand in that sacred place, on many a summer evening of the long future-- "While the stars come out and the night wind Brings, up the stream, Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea." CHAPTER II HAUNTED GLENS AND HOUSES Warwick, July 6, 1888.--One night, many years ago[3] a brutal murder was done, at a lonely place on the highroad between Charlecote Park and Stratford-upon-Avon. The next morning the murdered man was found lying by the roadside, his mangled head resting in a small hole. The assassins were shortly afterward discovered, and they were hanged at Warwick. From that day to this the hole wherein the dead man's head reposed remains unchanged. No matter how often it may be filled, whether by the wash of heavy rains or by stones and leaves that wayfarers may happen to cast into it as they pass, it is soon found to be again empty. No one takes care of it. No one knows whether or by whom it is guarded. Fill it at nightfall and you will find it empty in the morning. That is the local belief and affirmation. This spot is two miles and a half north of Stratford and three-quarters of a mile from the gates of Charlecote Park. I looked at this hole one bright day in June and saw that it was empty. Nature, it is thought by the poets, abhors complicity with the concealment of crime, and brands with her curse the places that are linked with the shedding of blood. Hence the strong lines in Hood's poem of _Eugene Aram_: "And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare." [Illustration: _Hampton Lucy._] There are many haunted spots in Warwickshire. The benighted peasant never lingers on Ganerslie Heath,--for there, at midnight, dismal bells have been heard to toll, from Blacklow Hill, the place where Sir Piers Gaveston, the corrupt, handsome, foreign favourite of King Edward the Second, was beheaded, by order of the grim barons whom he had insulted and opposed. The Earl of Warwick led them, whom Gaveston had called the Black Dog of Arden. This was long ago. Everybody knows the historic incident, but no one can so completely realise it as when standing on the place. The scene of the execution is marked by a cross, erected by Mr. Bertie Greathead, bearing this inscription: "In the hollow of this rock was beheaded, on the first day of July 1312, by Barons lawless as himself, Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall. In life and death a memorable instance of misrule." [Hollinshed says that the execution occurred on Tuesday, June 20.] No doubt the birds were singing and the green branches of the trees were waving in the summer wind, on that fatal day, just as they are at this moment. Gaveston was a man of much personal beauty and some talent, and only twenty-nine years old. It was a melancholy sacrifice and horrible in the circumstances that attended it. No wonder that doleful thoughts and blood-curdling sounds should come to such as walk on Ganerslie Heath in the lonely hours of the night. Another haunted place is Clopton--haunted certainly with memories if not with ghosts. In the reign of Henry the Seventh this was the manor of Sir Hugh Clopton, Lord Mayor of London, in 1492, he who built the bridge over the Avon,--across which, many a time, William Shakespeare must have ridden, on his way to Oxford and the capital. The dust of Sir Hugh rests in Stratford church and his mansion has passed through many hands. In our time, it is the residence of Sir Arthur Hodgson,[4] by whom it was purchased in July, 1873. It was my privilege to see Clopton under the guidance of its lord, and a charming and impressive old house it is,--full of quaint objects and fraught with singular associations. They show to you there, among many interesting paintings, the portrait of a lady, with thin figure, delicate features, long light hair, and sensitive countenance, said to be that of Lady Margaret Clopton, who, in the Stuart time, drowned herself, in a dismal well, behind the mansion,--being crazed with grief at the death of her lover, killed in the Civil War. And they show to you the portrait of still another Clopton girl, Lady Charlotte, who is thought to have been accidentally buried alive,--because when it chanced that the family tomb was opened, a few days after her interment, the corse was found to be turned over in its coffin and to present indications that the wretched victim of premature burial had, in her agonized frenzy, gnawed her flesh. Her death was attributed to the plague, and it occurred on the eve of her prospective marriage. [Illustration: _Old Porch of Clopton._] It is the blood-stained corridor of Clopton, however, that most impresses imagination. This is at the top of the house, and access to it is gained by a winding stair of oak boards, uncarpeted, solid, simple, and consonant with the times and manners that it represents. Many years ago a squire of Clopton murdered his butler, in a little bedroom near the top of that staircase, and dragged the body along the corridor, to secrete it. A thin dark stain, seemingly a streak of blood, runs from the door of that bedroom, in the direction of the stairhead, and this is so deeply imprinted in the wood that it cannot be removed. Opening from this corridor, opposite to the room of the murder, is an angular apartment, which in the remote days of Catholic occupancy was used as an oratory.[5] In the early part of the reign of Henry the Sixth, John Carpenter obtained from the Bishop of Worcester permission to establish a chapel at Clopton. In 1885 the walls of that attic chamber were committed to the tender mercies of a paper-hanger, who presently discovered on them several inscriptions, in black letter, but who fortunately mentioned his discoveries before they were obliterated. Richard Savage, the antiquary, was called to examine them, and by him they were restored. The effect of those little patches of letters,--isles of significance in a barren sea of wall-paper,--is that of extreme singularity. Most of them are sentences from the Bible. All of them are devout. One imparts the solemn injunction: "Whether you rise yearlye or goe to bed late, Remember Christ Jesus who died for your sake." [This may be found in John Weever's _Funeral Monuments: 1631_.] Clopton has a long and various history. One of the most significant facts in its record is that, for about three months, in the year 1605, it was occupied by Ambrose Rokewood, of Coldham Hall, Suffolk, a breeder of race-horses, whom Robert Catesby brought into the ghastly Gunpowder Plot, which so startled the reign of James the First. Hither came Sir Everard Digby, and Thomas and Robert Winter, and the specious Jesuit, Father Garnet, chief hatcher of the conspiracy, with his vile train of sentimental fanatics, on that pilgrimage of sanctification with which he formally prepared for an act of such hideous treachery and wholesale murder as only a religious zealot could ever have conceived. That may have been a time when the little oratory of Clopton was in active use. Things belonging to Rokewood, who was captured at Hewel Grange, and was executed on January 31, 1606, were found in that room, and were seized by the government. Mr. Fisher Tomes, resident proprietor of Clopton from 1825 to 1830, well remembered the inscriptions in the oratory, which in his time were still uncovered. Not many years since it was a bedroom; but one of Sir Arthur Hodgson's guests, who undertook to sleep in it, was, it is said, afterward heard to declare that he wished not ever again to experience the hospitality of that chamber, because the sounds that he had heard, all around the place, throughout that night, were of a most startling description. A house containing many rooms and staircases, a house full of long corridors and winding ways, a house so large that you may get lost in it,--such is Clopton; and it stands in its own large park, removed from other buildings and bowered in trees. To sit in the great hall of that mansion, on a winter midnight, when the snow-laden wind is howling around it, and then to think of the bleak, sinister oratory, and the stealthy, gliding shapes upstairs, invisible to mortal eye, but felt, with a shuddering sense of some unseen presence watching in the dark,--this would be to have quite a sufficient experience of a haunted house. Sir Arthur Hodgson talked of the legends of Clopton with that merry twinkle of the eye which suits well with kindly incredulity. All the same, I thought of Milton's lines-- "Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." The manor of Clopton was granted to John de Clopton by Peter de Montfort, in 1236, while Henry the Third was king, and the family of Clopton dwelt there for more than five hundred years. The Cloptons of Warwickshire and those of Suffolk are of the same family, and at Long Melford, in Suffolk, may be found many memorials of it. The famous Sir Hugh,--who built New Place in 1490, restored the Guild chapel, glazed the chancel of Stratford church, reared much of Clopton House, where he was visited by Henry the Seventh, and placed the bridge across the Avon at Stratford, where it still stands,--died in London, in 1496, and was buried at St. Margaret's, Lothbury. Joyce, or Jocasa, Clopton, born in 1558, became a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth, and afterwards to Queen Anne, wife of James the First, and ultimately married George Carew, created Earl of Totnes and Baron of Clopton. Carew, born in 1557, was the son of a Dean of Exeter, and he became the English commander-in-chief in Ireland, in the time of Elizabeth. King James ennobled him, with the title of Baron Clopton, in 1605, and Charles the First made him Earl of Totnes, in 1625. The Earl and his Countess are buried in Stratford church, where their marble effigies, recumbent in the Clopton pew, are among the finest monuments of that hallowed place. The Countess died in 1636, leaving no children, and the Earl thereupon caused all the estates that he had acquired by marriage with her to be restored to the Clopton family. Sir John Clopton, born in 1638, married the daughter and co-heiress of Sir Edward Walker, owner of Clopton in the time of Charles the Second, and it is interesting to remember that by him was built the well-known house at Stratford, formerly called the Shoulder of Mutton,[6] but more recently designated the Swan's Nest. Mention is made of a Sir John Clopton by whom the well in which Lady Margaret drowned herself was enclosed; it is still called Lady Margaret's Well; a stone, at the back of it, is inscribed "S. J. C. 1686." Sir John died in 1692, leaving a son, Sir Hugh, who died in 1751, aged eighty. The last Clopton in the direct line was Frances, born in 1718, who married Mr. Parthenwicke, and died in 1792. [Illustration: CLOPTON HOUSE] Clopton House is of much antiquity, but it has undergone many changes. The north and west sides of the present edifice were built in the time of Henry the Seventh. The building was originally surrounded with a moat.[7] A part of the original structure remains at the back,--a porchway entrance, once accessible across the moat, and an oriel window at the right of that entrance. Over the front window are displayed the arms of Clopton,--an eagle, perched upon a tun, bearing a shield; and in the gable appear the arms of Walker, with the motto, Loyauté mon honneur. Sir Edward Walker was Lord of Clopton soon after the Restoration, and by him the entrance to the house, which used to be where the dining-room now is, was transferred to its present position. It was Walker who carried to Charles the Second, in Holland, in 1649, the news of the execution of his father. A portrait of the knight, by Dobson, hangs on the staircase wall at Clopton, where he died in 1677, aged sixty-five. He was Garter-king-at-arms. His remains are buried in Stratford church, with an epitaph over them by Dugdale. Mr. Ward owned the estate about 1840, and under his direction many changes were made in the old building,--sixty workmen having been employed upon it for six months. The present drawing-room and conservatory were built by Mr. Ward, and by him the whole structure was "modernised." There are wild stories that autographs and other relics of Shakespeare once existed at Clopton, and were consumed there, in a bon-fire. A stone in the grounds marks the grave of a silver eagle, that was starved to death, through the negligence of a gamekeeper, November 25, 1795. There are twenty-six notable portraits in the main hall of Clopton, one of them being that of Oliver Cromwell's mother, and another probably that of the unfortunate and unhappy Arabella Stuart,--only child of the fifth Earl of Lennox,--who died, at the Tower of London, in 1615. Warwickshire swarmed with conspirators while the Gunpowder Plot was in progress. The Lion Inn at Dunchurch was the chief tryst of the captains who were to lead their forces and capture the Princess Elizabeth and seize the throne and the country, after the expected explosion,--which never came. And when the game was up and Fawkes in captivity, it was through Warwickshire that the "racing and chasing" were fleetest and wildest, till the desperate scramble for life and safety went down in blood at Hewel Grange. Various houses associated with that plot are still extant in this neighbourhood, and when the scene shifts to London and to Garnet's Tyburn gallows, it is easily possible for the patient antiquarian to tread in almost every footprint of that great conspiracy. [Illustration: _Warwick Castle, from the Mound._] Since Irish ruffians began to toss dynamite about in public buildings it has been deemed essential to take especial precaution against the danger of explosion in such places as the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and the Tower of London. Much more damage than the newspapers recorded was done by the explosions that occurred some time ago in the Tower and the Palace. At present you cannot enter even into Palace Yard unless connected with the public business or authorised by an order; and if you visit the Tower without a special permit you will be restricted to a few sights and places. I was fortunately the bearer of the card of the Lord Chamberlain, on a recent prowl through the Tower, and therefore was favoured by the beef-eaters who pervade that structure. Those damp and gloomy dungeons were displayed wherein so many Jews perished miserably in the reign of Edward the First; and Little Ease was shown,--the cell in which for several months Guy Fawkes was incarcerated, during Cecil's wily investigation of the Gunpowder Plot. A part of the rear wall has been removed, affording access to the adjacent dungeon; but originally the cell did not give room for a man to lie down in it, and scarce gave room for him to stand upright. The massive door, of ribbed and iron-bound oak, still solid, though worn, would make an impressive picture. A poor, stealthy cat was crawling about in those subterranean dens of darkness and horror, and was left locked in there when we emerged. In St. Peter's, on the green,--that little cemetery so eloquently described by Macaulay,--they came, some time ago, upon the coffins of Lovat, Kilmarnock, and Balmerino, the Scotch lords who perished upon the block for their complicity with the rising for the Pretender, in 1745-47. The coffins were much decayed. The plates were removed, and these may now be viewed, in a glass case on the church wall, over against the spot where those unfortunate gentlemen were buried.[8] One is of lead and is in the form of a large open scroll. The other two are oval in shape, large, and made of pewter. Much royal and noble dust is heaped together beneath the stones of the chancel,--Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, Lady Jane Grey, Margaret, Duchess of Salisbury, the Duke of Monmouth, the Earl of Northumberland, Essex, Overbury, Thomas Cromwell, and many more. The body of the infamous and execrable Jeffreys was once buried there, but it has been removed. [Illustration: _Warwick Castle, from the River._] St. Mary's church at Warwick has been restored since 1885, and now it is made a show place. The pilgrim may see the Beauchamp chapel, in which are entombed Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, the founder of the church; Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, in whose Latin epitaph it is stated that "his sorrowful wife, Lætitia, daughter of Francis Knolles, through a sense of conjugal love and fidelity, hath put up this monument to the best and dearest of husbands";[9] Ambrose Dudley, elder brother to Elizabeth's favourite, and known as the Good Earl [he relinquished his title and possessions to Robert]; and that Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke, who lives in fame as "the friend of Sir Philip Sidney." There are other notable sleepers in that chapel, but these perhaps are the most famous and considerable. One odd epitaph records of William Viner, steward to Lord Brooke, that "he was a man entirely of ancient manners, and to whom you will scarcely find an equal, particularly in point of liberality.... He was added to the number of the heavenly inhabitants maturely for himself, but prematurely for his friends, in his 70th year, on the 28th of April, A.D. 1639." Another, placed for himself by Thomas Hewett during his lifetime, modestly describes him as "a most miserable sinner." Sin is always miserable when it knows itself. Still another, and this in good verse, by Gervas Clifton, gives a tender tribute to Lætitia, "the excellent and pious Lady Lettice," Countess of Leicester, who died on Christmas morning, 1634: "She that in her younger years Matched with two great English peers; She that did supply the wars With thunder, and the Court with stars; She that in her youth had been Darling to the maiden Queene, Till she was content to quit Her favour for her favourite.... While she lived she livéd thus, Till that God, displeased with us, Suffered her at last to fall, Not from Him but from us all." [Illustration: _Leicester's Hospital._] A noble bust of that fine thinker and exquisite poet Walter Savage Landor has been placed on the west wall of St. Mary's church. He was a native of Warwick and he is fitly commemorated in that place. The bust is of alabaster and is set in an alabaster arch with carved environment, and with the family arms displayed above. The head of Landor shows great intellectual power, rugged yet gentle. Coming suddenly upon the bust, in this church, the pilgrim is forcibly and pleasantly reminded of the attribute of sweet and gentle reverence in the English character, which so invariably expresses itself, all over this land, in honourable memorials to the honourable dead. No rambler in Warwick omits to explore Leicester's hospital, or to see as much as he can of the Castle. That glorious old place has long been kept closed, for fear of the dynamite fiend; but now it is once more accessible. I walked again beneath the stately cedars[10] and along the bloom-bordered avenues where once Joseph Addison used to wander and meditate, and traversed again those opulent state apartments wherein so many royal, noble, and beautiful faces look forth from the radiant canvas of Holbein and Vandyke. There is a wonderful picture, in one of those rooms, of Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, when a young man,--a face prophetic of stormy life, baleful struggles, and a hard and miserable fate. You may see the helmet that was worn by Oliver Cromwell, and also a striking death-mask of his face; and some of the finest portraits of Charles the First that exist in this kingdom are shown at Warwick Castle. [Illustration: _From the Warwick Shield._] CHAPTER III OLD YORK York, August 12, 1888.--All summer long the sorrowful skies have been weeping over England, and my first prospect of this ancient city was a prospect through drizzle and mist. Yet even so it was impressive. York is one of the quaintest cities in the kingdom. Many of the streets are narrow and crooked. Most of the buildings are of low stature, built of brick, and roofed with red tiles. Here and there you find a house of Queen Elizabeth's time, picturesque with overhanging timber-crossed fronts and peaked gables. One such house, in Stonegate, is conspicuously marked with its date, 1574. Another, in College street, enclosing a quadrangular court and lovely with old timber and carved gateway, was built by the Neville family in 1460. There is a wide area in the centre of the town called Parliament street, where the market is opened, by torchlight, on certain evenings of every week. It was market-time last evening, and, wandering through the motley and merry crowd that filled the square, about nine o'clock, I bought, at a flower-stall, the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster,--twining them together as an emblem of the settled peace that here broods so sweetly over the venerable relics of a wild and stormy past. [Illustration: _Bootham Bar._] Four sections of the old wall of York are still extant and the observer is amused to perceive the ingenuity with which those gray and mouldering remnants of the feudal age are blended into the structures of the democratic present. From Bootham to Monk Gate,--so named in honour of General Monk, at the Restoration,--a distance of about half a mile, the wall is absorbed by the adjacent buildings. But you may walk upon it from Monk Gate to Jewbury, about a quarter of a mile, and afterward, crossing the Foss, you may find it again on the southeast of the city, and walk upon it from Red Tower to old Fishergate, descending near York Castle. There are houses both within the walls and without. The walk is about eight feet wide, protected on one hand by a fretted battlement and on the other by an occasional bit of iron fence. The base of the wall, for a considerable part of its extent, is fringed with market gardens or with grassy banks. In one of its towers there is a gate-house, still occupied as a dwelling; and a comfortable dwelling no doubt it is. In another, of which nothing now remains but the walls, four large trees are rooted; and, as they are already tall enough to wave their leafy tops above the battlement, they must have been growing there for at least twenty years. At one point the Great Northern Railway enters through an arch in the ancient wall, and as you look down from the battlements your gaze rests upon long lines of rail and a spacious station, together with its adjacent hotel,--objects which consort but strangely with what your fancy knows of York; a city of donjons and barbicans, the moat, the draw-bridge, the portcullis, the citadel, the man-at-arms, and the knight in armour, with the banners of William the Norman flowing over all. The river Ouse divides the city of York, which lies mostly upon its east bank, and in order to reach the longest and most attractive portion of the wall that is now available to the pedestrian you must cross the Ouse, either at Skeldergate or Lendal, paying a half-penny as toll, both when you go and when you return. The walk here is three-quarters of a mile long, and from an angle of this wall, just above the railway arch, may be obtained the best view of the mighty cathedral,--one of the most stupendous and sublime works that ever were erected by the inspired brain and loving labour of man. While I walked there last night, and mused upon the story of the Wars of the Roses, and strove to conjure up the pageants and the horrors that must have been presented, all about this region, in that remote and turbulent past, the glorious bells of the minster were chiming from its towers, while the fresh evening breeze, sweet with the fragrance of wet flowers and foliage, seemed to flood this ancient, venerable city with the golden music of a celestial benediction. [Illustration: _York Cathedral--West Front._] The pilgrim to York stands in the centre of the largest shire in England and is surrounded with castles and monasteries, now mostly in ruins but teeming with those associations of history and literature that are the glory of this delightful land. From the summit of the great central tower of the cathedral, which is reached by two hundred and thirty-seven steps, I gazed out over the vale of York and beheld one of the loveliest spectacles that ever blessed the eyes of man. The wind was fierce, the sun brilliant, and the vanquished storm-clouds were streaming away before the northern blast. Far beneath lay the red-roofed city, its devious lanes and its many gray churches,--crumbling relics of ancient ecclesiastical power,--distinctly visible. Through the plain, and far away toward the south and east, ran the silver thread of the Ouse, while all around, as far as the eye could reach, stretched forth a smiling landscape of emerald meadow and cultivated field; here a patch of woodland, and there a silver gleam of wave; here a manor-house nestled amid stately trees, and there an ivy-covered fragment of ruined masonry; and everywhere the green lines of the flowering hedge. The prospect is even finer here than it is from the splendid summit of Strasburg cathedral; and indeed, when all is said that can be said about natural scenery and architectural sublimities, it seems amazing that any lover of the beautiful should deem it necessary to quit the infinite variety of the British islands. Earth cannot show you anything more softly fair than the lakes and mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. No city can excel Edinburgh in stately solidity of character, or tranquil grandeur, or magnificence of position. The most exquisitely beautiful of churches is Roslin chapel. And though you search the wide world through you will never find such cathedrals,--so fraught with majesty, sublimity, the loveliness of human art, and the ecstatic sense of a divine element in human destiny,--as those of York, Canterbury, Gloucester, and Lincoln. While thus I lingered in wondering meditation upon the crag-like summit of York minster, the muffled thunder of its vast, sonorous organ rose, rolling and throbbing, from the mysterious depth below, and seemed to shake the great tower as with a mighty blast of jubilation and worship. At such moments, if ever, when the tones of human adoration are floating up to heaven, a man is lifted out of himself and made to forget his puny mortal existence and all the petty nothings that weary his spirit, darken his vision, and weigh him down to the level of the sordid, trivial world. Well did they know this,--those old monks who built the abbeys of Britain, laying their foundations not alone deeply in the earth but deeply in the human soul! All the ground that you survey from the top of York minster is classic ground,--at least to those persons whose imaginations are kindled by associations with the stately and storied past. In the city that lies at your feet once stood the potent Constantine, to be proclaimed emperor [A.D. 306] and to be vested with the imperial purple of Rome. In the original York minster,--for the present is the fourth church that has been erected upon this site,--was buried that valiant soldier "old Siward," whom "gracious England" lent to the Scottish cause, under Malcolm and Macduff, when time at length was ripe for the ruin of Glamis and Cawdor. Close by is the field of Stamford, where Harold defeated the Norwegians, with terrible slaughter, only nine days before he was himself defeated and slain at Hastings. Southward, following the line of the Ouse, you look down upon the ruins of Clifford's Tower, built by William the Conqueror, in 1068, and destroyed by the explosion of its powder magazine in 1684. Not far away is the battlefield of Towton, where the great Warwick slew his horse, that he might fight on foot and possess no advantage over the common soldiers of his force. Henry the Sixth and Margaret were waiting in York for news of the event of that fatal battle,--which, in its effect, made them exiles and bore to an assured supremacy the rightful standard of the White Rose. In this church Edward the Fourth was crowned [1464], and Richard the Third was proclaimed king and had his second coronation. Southward you may see the open space called the Pavement, connecting with Parliament street, and the red brick church of St. Crux. In the Pavement the Earl of Northumberland was beheaded, for treason against Queen Elizabeth, in 1572, and in St. Crux [one of Wren's churches] his remains lie buried, beneath a dark blue slab, still shown to visitors. A few miles away, but easily within reach of your vision, is the field of Marston Moor, where the impetuous Prince Rupert imperilled and well-nigh lost the cause of Charles the First, in 1644; and as you look toward that fatal spot you can almost hear, in the chamber of your fancy, the pæans of thanksgiving for the victory that were uttered in the church beneath. Cromwell, then a subordinate officer in the Parliamentary army, was one of the worshippers. Charles also has knelt at this altar. Indeed, of the fifteen kings, from William of Normandy to Henry of Windsor, whose sculptured effigies appear upon the chancel screen in York minster, there is scarcely one who has not worshipped in this cathedral. [Illustration: _York Cathedral--South Side._] York minster has often been described, but no description can convey an adequate impression of its grandeur. Canterbury is the lovelier cathedral of the two, though not the grander, and Canterbury possesses the inestimable advantage of a spacious close. It must be said also, for the city of Canterbury, that the presence and influence of a great church are more distinctly and delightfully felt in that place than they are in York. There is a more spiritual tone at Canterbury, a tone of superior delicacy and refinement, a certain aristocratic coldness and repose. In York you perceive the coarse spirit of a democratic era. The walls, that ought to be cherished with scrupulous care, are found in many places to be ill-used. At intervals along the walks upon the banks of the Ouse you behold placards requesting the co-operation of the public in protecting from harm the swans that navigate the river. Even in the cathedral itself there is displayed a printed notice that the Dean and Chapter are amazed at disturbances which occur in the nave while divine service is proceeding in the choir. These things imply a rough element in the population, and in such a place as York such an element is exceptionally offensive and deplorable. It was said by the wise Lord Beaconsfield that progress in the nineteenth century is found to consist chiefly in a return to ancient ideas. There may be places to which the characteristic spirit of the present day contributes an element of beauty; but if so I have not seen them. Wherever there is beauty there is the living force of tradition to account for it. The most that a conservative force in society can accomplish, for the preservation of an instinct in favour of whatever is beautiful and impressive, is to protect what remains from the past. Modern Edinburgh, for example, has contributed no building that is comparable with its glorious old castle, or with Roslin, or with what we know to have been Melrose or Dryburgh; but its castle and its chapels are protected and preserved. York, in the present day, erects a commodious railway-station and a sumptuous hotel, and spans its ample river with two splendid bridges; but its modern architecture is puerile beside that of its ancient minster; and so its best work, after all, is the preservation of its cathedral. The observer finds it difficult to understand how anybody, however lowly born or poorly endowed or meanly nurtured, can live within the presence of that heavenly building, and not be purified and exalted by the contemplation of so much majesty, and by its constantly irradiative force of religious sentiment and power. But the spirit which in the past created objects of beauty and adorned common life with visible manifestations of the celestial aspiration in human nature had constantly to struggle against insensibility or violence; and just so the few who have inherited that spirit in the present day are compelled steadily to combat the hard materialism and gross animal proclivities of the new age. [Illustration: _York Cathedral--East Front._] What a comfort their souls must find in such an edifice as York minster! What a solace and what an inspiration! There it stands, dark and lonely to-night, but symbolising, as no other object upon earth can ever do, except one of its own great kindred, God's promise of immortal life to man, and man's unquenchable faith in the promise of God. Dark and lonely now, but during many hours of its daily and nightly life sentient, eloquent, vital, participating in all the thought, conduct, and experience of those who dwell around it. The beautiful peal of its bells that I heard last night was for Canon Baillie, one of the oldest and most beloved and venerated of its clergy. This morning, sitting in its choir, I heard the tender, thoughtful eulogy so simply and sweetly spoken by the aged Dean, and once again learned the essential lesson that an old age of grace, patience, and benignity means a pure heart, an unselfish spirit, and a good life passed in the service of others. This afternoon I had a place among the worshippers that thronged the nave to hear the special anthem chanted for the deceased Canon; and, as the organ pealed forth its mellow thunder, and the rich tones of the choristers swelled and rose and broke in golden waves of melody upon the groined arches and vaulted roof, my soul seemed borne away to a peace and rest that are not of this world. To-night the rising moon as she gleams through drifting clouds, will pour her silver rays upon that great east window,--at once the largest and the most beautiful in existence,--and all the Bible stories told there in such exquisite hues and forms will glow with heavenly lustre on the dark vista of chancel and nave. And when the morning comes the first beams of the rising sun will stream through the great casement and illumine the figures of saints and archbishops, and gild the old tattered battle-flags in the chancel aisle, and touch with blessing the marble effigies of the dead; and we who walk there, refreshed and comforted, shall feel that the vast cathedral is indeed the gateway to heaven. York minster is the loftiest of all the English cathedrals, and the third in length,[11]--both St. Albans and Winchester being longer. The present structure is six hundred years old, and more than two hundred years were occupied in the building of it. They show you, in the crypt, some fine remains of the Norman church that preceded it upon the same site, together with traces of the still older Saxon church that preceded the Norman. The first one was of wood and was totally destroyed. The Saxon remains are a fragment of stone staircase and a piece of wall built in the ancient herring-bone fashion. The Norman remains are four clustered columns, embellished in the zigzag style. There is not much of commemorative statuary at York minster, and what there is of it was placed chiefly in the chancel. Archbishop Richard Scrope, who figures in Shakespeare's historical play of _Henry the Fourth_, and who was beheaded for treason in 1405, was buried in the lady chapel. Laurence Sterne's grandfather, who was chaplain to Laud, is represented there, in his ecclesiastical dress, reclining upon a couch and supporting his mitred head upon his hand,--a squat figure uncomfortably posed, but sculptured with delicate skill. Many historic names occur in the inscriptions,--Wentworth, Finch, Fenwick, Carlisle, and Heneage,--and in the north aisle of the chancel is the tomb of William of Hatfield, second son of Edward the Third, who died in 1343-44, in the eighth year of his age. An alabaster statue of the royal boy reclines upon his tomb. In the cathedral library, which contains eight thousand volumes and is kept at the Deanery, is the Princess Elizabeth's prayer-book, containing her autograph. In one of the chapels is the original throne-chair of Edward the Third. In St. Leonard's Place still stands the York theatre, erected by Tate Wilkinson in 1765. In York Castle Eugene Aram was imprisoned and suffered death. The poet and bishop Beilby Porteus, the sculptor Flaxman, the grammarian Lindley Murray, and the fanatic Guy Fawkes were natives of York, and have often walked its streets. Standing on Skeldergate bridge, few readers of English fiction could fail to recall that exquisite description of the place, in the novel of _No Name_. In his artistic use of weather, atmosphere, and colour Wilkie Collins is always remarkable equally for his fidelity to nature and fact, and for the felicity and beauty of his language. His portrayal of York seems more than ever a gem of literary art, when you have seen the veritable spot of poor Magdalen's meeting with Captain Wragge. The name of Wragge is on one of the signboards in the city. The river, on which I did not omit to take a boat, was picturesque, with its many quaint barges, bearing masts and sails and embellished with touches of green and crimson and blue. There is no end to the associations and suggestions of the storied city. But lest my readers weary of them, let me respect the admonition of the midnight bell, and seek repose beneath the hospitable wing of the old Black Swan in Coney street, whence I send this humble memorial of ancient York. CHAPTER IV THE HAUNTS OF MOORE Devizes, Wiltshire, August 20, 1888.--The scarlet discs of the poppies and the red and white blooms of the clover, together with wild-flowers of many hues, bespangle now the emerald sod of England, while the air is rich with fragrance of lime-trees and of new-mown hay. The busy and sagacious rooks, fat and bold, wing their way in great clusters, bent on forage and mischief. There is almost a frosty chill in the autumnal air, and the brimming rivers, dark and deep and smoothly flowing through the opulent, cultivated, and park-like region of Wiltshire, look cold and bright. In many fields the hay is cut and stacked. In others the men, and often the women, armed with rakes, are tossing it to dry in the reluctant, intermittent, bleak sunshine of this rigorous August. Overhead the sky is now as blue as the deep sea and now grim and ominous with great drifting masses of slate-coloured cloud. There are moments of beautiful sunshine by day, and in some hours of the night the moon shines forth in all her pensive and melancholy glory. It is a time of exquisite loveliness, and it has seemed a fitting time for a visit to the last English home and the last resting-place of the poet of loveliness and love, the great Irish poet Thomas Moore. [Illustration: _Thomas Moore._] When Moore first went up to London, a young author seeking to launch his earliest writings upon the stream of contemporary literature, he crossed from Dublin to Bristol and then travelled to the capital by way of Bath and Devizes; and as he crossed several times he must soon have gained familiarity with this part of the country. He did not, however, settle in Wiltshire until some years afterward. His first lodging in London was a front room, up two pair of stairs, at No. 44 George street, Portman square. He subsequently lived at No. 46 Wigmore street, Cavendish square, and at No. 27 Bury street, St. James's. This was in 1805. In 1810 he resided for a time at No. 22 Molesworth street, Dublin, but he soon returned to England. One of his homes, shortly after his marriage with Elizabeth Dyke ["Bessie," the sister of the great actress Mary Duff, 1794-1857] was in Brompton. In the spring of 1812 he settled at Kegworth, but a year later he is found at Mayfield Cottage, near Ashbourne, Derbyshire. "I am now as you wished," he wrote to Mr. Power, the music-publisher, July 1, 1813, "within twenty-four hours' drive of town." In 1817 he occupied a cottage near the foot of Muswell Hill, at Hornsey, Middlesex, but after he lost his daughter Barbara, who died there, the place became distressful to him and he left it. In the latter part of September that year, the time of their affliction, Moore and his Bessie were the guests of Lady Donegal, at No. 56 Davies street, Berkeley square, London. Then [November 19, 1817] they removed to Sloperton Cottage, at Bromham, near Devizes, and their permanent residence was established in that place. Lord Landsdowne, one of the poet's earliest and best friends, was the owner of that estate, and doubtless he was the impulse of Moore's resort to it. The present Lord Landsdowne still owns Bowood Park, about four miles away. [Illustration: _The Bear--Devizes._] Devizes impresses a stranger with a singular and pleasant sense of suspended animation,--as of beauty fallen asleep,--the sense of something about to happen, which never occurs. More peaceful it could not be, unless it were dead,--and that is its most alluring charm. Two of its many streets are remarkably wide and spacious, while the others are narrow and often crooked. Most of its habitations are low houses, built of brick, and only a few of them, such as the old Town Hall and the Corn Exchange, are pretentious as architecture. The principal street runs nearly northwest and southeast. There is a north gate at one end of it, and a south gate at the other, but no remnant of the ancient town gates is left. The Kennet and Avon Canal, built in 1794-1805, skirts the northern side of the town, and thereafter descends the western slope, passing through twenty-seven magnificent locks, within a distance of about two miles,--one of the longest consecutive ranges of locks in England. The stateliest building in Devizes is its noble Castle, which, reared upon a massive hill, at once dominates the surrounding landscape and dignifies it. That splendid edifice, built about 1830, stands upon the site of the ancient Castle of Devizes, which was built by Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, in the reign of Henry the First, and it resembles that famous original,--long esteemed one of the most complete and admirable works of its kind in Europe. The old Castle was included in the dowry settled upon successive queens of England. Queen Margaret possessed it in the reign of Henry the Sixth, and Queen Katharine in that of Henry the Eighth. It figured in the Civil Wars, and it was deemed the strongest citadel in England. The poet-soldier, Edmund Waller, when in the service of the Parliament, bombarded it, in 1643, and finally it was destroyed by order of the Roundheads. Toward the close of the eighteenth century its ruins were, it is said, surmounted with a couple of snuff-mills. No part of the ancient fortress now survives, except the moat; but in its pleasant grounds fragmentary remnants may still be seen of its foundations and of the dungeons of a remote age. During the rebuilding of the Castle many relics were unearthed,--such as human bones and implements of war,--the significant tokens of dark days and fatal doings long since past and gone. In the centre of the town is a commodious public square, known as the Market-place,--a wide domain of repose, as I saw it, uninvaded by either vehicle or human being, but on each Thursday the scene of the weekly market for cattle and corn, and of the loquacious industry of the cheap-jack and the quack. On one side of it is the old Bear Hotel, an exceptionally comfortable house, memorable as the birthplace of Sir Thomas Lawrence, the famous artist [1769-1830]. In the centre are two works of art,--one a fountain, the other a cross. The latter, a fine fabric of Gothic architecture, is embellished with thirteen pinnacles, which rise above an arched canopy, the covering of a statue. One face of the cross bears this legend: "This Market Cross was erected by Henry Viscount Sidmouth, as a memorial of his grateful attachment to the Borough of Devizes, of which he has been Recorder thirty years, and of which he was six times unanimously chosen a representative in Parliament. Anno Domini 1814." Upon the other face appears a record more significant,--being indicative equally of credulity and a frugal mind, and being freighted with tragic import unmatched since the Bible narrative of Ananias and Sapphira. It reads thus: "The Mayor and Corporation of Devizes avail themselves of the stability of this building to transmit to future times the record of an awful event which occurred in this market-place in the year 1753, hoping that such a record may serve as a salutary warning against the danger of impiously invoking the Divine vengeance, or of calling on the holy name of God to conceal the devices of falsehood and fraud. "On Thursday, the 25th January 1753, Ruth Pierce, of Potterne, in this county, agreed, with three other women, to buy a sack of wheat in the market, each paying her due proportion toward the same. "One of these women, in collecting the several quotas of money, discovered a deficiency, and demanded of Ruth Pierce the sum which was wanted to make good the amount. "Ruth Pierce protested that she had paid her share, and said, 'She wished she might drop down dead if she had not.' "She rashly repeated this awful wish, when, to the consternation of the surrounding multitude, she instantly fell down and expired, having the money concealed in her hand." That is not the only grim incident in the history of the Market-place of Devizes; for in 1533 a poor tailor, named John Bent, of the neighbouring village of Urchfont was burnt at the stake, in that square, for his avowed disbelief of the doctrine of transubstantiation. An important and deeply interesting institution of Devizes is the Wilts County Museum, in Long street, devoted to the natural history and the archæology of Wiltshire. The library contains a priceless collection of Wiltshire books, and the museum is rich in geological specimens,--richer even than the excellent museum of Salisbury; for, in addition to other treasures, it includes the famous Stourhead collection, made by Sir Richard Colt Hoare,--being relics from the ancient British and Saxon barrows on the Wiltshire downs. The Stourhead collection is described by Sir Richard, in his book on "Antient Wilts." Its cinerary and culinary urns are fine and numerous. The Wilts County Museum is fortunate in its curator, B. Howard Cunnington, Esq., of Rowde--an indefatigable student, devoted to Wiltshire, and a thorough antiquarian. [Illustration: _St. John's Church--Devizes._] An interesting church in Devizes is that of St. John, the Norman tower of which is a relic of the days of Henry the Second, a vast, grim structure with a circular turret on one corner of it. Eastward of this church is a long and lovely avenue of trees, and around it lies a large burial-place, remarkable for the excellence of the sod and for the number visible of those heavy, gray, oblong masses of tombstone which appear to have obtained great public favour about the time of Cromwell. In the centre of the churchyard stands a monolith, inscribed with these words: "Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy.--This monument, as a solemn monitor to Young People to remember their Creator in the days of their youth, was erected by subscription.--In memory of the sudden and awful end of Robert Merrit and his wife, Eliz. Tiley, her sister, Martha Carter, and Josiah Denham, who were drowned, in the flower of their youth, in a pond, near this town, called Drews, on Sunday evening, the 30th of June, 1751, and are together underneath entombed." In one corner of the churchyard I came upon a cross, bearing a simple legend far more solemn, touching, and admonitory: "In Memoriam--Robert Samuel Thornley. Died August 5, 1871. Aged 48 years. For fourteen years surgeon to the poor of Devizes. There shall be no more pain." And over still another sleeper was written, upon a flat stone, low in the ground-- "Loving, beloved, in all relations true, Exposed to follies, but subdued by few: Reader, reflect, and copy if you can The simple virtues of this honest man." [Illustration: _Hungerford Chapel--Devizes._] Nobody is in haste in Devizes, and the pilgrim who seeks for peace could not do better than to tarry here. The city bell which officially strikes the hours is subdued and pensive, and although reinforced with chimes, it seems ever to speak under its breath. The church-bell, however, rings long and vigorously and with much melodious clangour,--as though the local sinners were more than commonly hard of hearing. Near to the church of St. John, are some quaint almshouses, but not much seems to be known of their history. One of them was founded as a hospital for lepers, before A.D. 1207, and it is thought that one of them was built of stone which remained after the erection of the church. Those almshouses are now governed by the Mayor and Corporation of Devizes, but perhaps formerly they were under the direct control of the Crown. [See Tanner's _Nolitia_.] There are seven endowments, one dating back to 1641, and the houses are to this day occupied by widows, recommended by the churchwardens of St. Mary's and St. John's. An old inhabitant of Devizes, named Bancroft, left a sum of money to insure for himself a singular memorial service,--that the bells of St. John's church should be solemnly tolled on the day of his birth, and rung merrily on that of his death; and that service is duly performed every year. Devizes is a fit place for the survival of ancient customs, and these serve very pleasantly to mark its peculiar and interesting character. The Town Crier, who is a member of the Corporation, walks abroad arrayed in a helmet and a uniform of brilliant scarlet,--glories that are worn by no other Crier in the kingdom, excepting that of York. As I was gazing at the old church, surrounded with many ponderous tombstones and gray and cheerless in the gloaming, an old man approached me and civilly began a conversation about the antiquity of the building and the eloquence of its rector. When I told him that I had walked to Bromham to attend the service there, and to see the cottage and grave of Moore, he presently furnished to me that little touch of personal testimony which is always so interesting and significant in such circumstances. "I remember Tom Moore," he said; "I saw him when he was alive. I worked for him once in his house, and I did some work once on his tomb. He was a little man. He spoke to us very pleasantly. I don't think he was a preacher. He never preached that I heard tell of. He was a poet, I believe. He was very much liked here. I never heard a word against him. I am seventy-nine years old the thirteenth of December, and that'll soon be here. I've had three wives in my time, and my third is still living. It's a fine old church, and there's figures in it of bishops, and kings, and queens." Most observers have remarked the odd way, garrulous, and sometimes unconsciously humorous, in which senile persons prattle their incongruous and sporadic recollections. But--"How pregnant sometimes his replies are!" Another resident of Devizes, with whom I conversed, likewise remembered the poet, and spoke of him with affectionate respect. "My sister, when she was a child," he said, "was often at Moore's house, and he was fond of her. Yes, his name is widely remembered and honoured here. But I think that many of the people hereabout, the farmers, admired him chiefly because they thought that he wrote Moore's Almanac. They used to say to him: 'Mister Moore, please tell us what the weather's going to be.'" From Devizes to the village of Bromham, a distance of about four miles, the walk is delightful. Much of the path is between green hedges and is embowered by elms. The exit from the town is by Northgate and along the Chippenham road--which, like all the roads in this neighbourhood, is smooth, hard, and white. A little way out of Devizes, going northwest, this road makes a deep cut in the chalk-stone and so winds downhill into the level plain. At intervals you come upon sweetly pretty specimens of the English thatch-roof cottage. Hay-fields, pastures, and market-gardens extend on every hand. Eastward, far off, are visible the hills of Westbury, upon which, here and there, the copses are lovely, and upon one of which, cut in the turf, is the figure of a colossal white horse, said to have been put there by the Saxons, to commemorate a victory by King Alfred.[12] Soon the road winds over a hill and you pass through the little red village of Rowde, with its gray church tower. The walk may be shortened by a cut across the fields, and this indeed is found the prettiest part of the journey,--for now the path lies through gardens, and through the centre or along the margin of the wheat, which waves in the strong wind and sparkles in the bright sunshine and is everywhere tenderly touched with the scarlet of the poppy and with hues of other wild-flowers, making you think of Shakespeare's "Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With hemlock, harlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn." There is one field through which I passed, just as the spire of Bromham church came into view, in which a surface more than three hundred yards square was blazing with wild-flowers, white and gold and crimson and purple and blue, upon a plain of vivid green, so that to look upon it was almost to be dazzled, while the air that floated over it was scented as if with honeysuckle. You may see the delicate spire and the low gray tower of Moore's church some time before you come to it, and in some respects the prospect is not unlike that of Shakespeare's church at Stratford. A sweeter spot for a poet's sepulchre it would be hard to find. No spot could be more harmonious than this one is with the gentle, romantic spirit of Moore's poetry, and with the purity, refinement, and serenity of his life. Bromham village consists of a few red brick buildings, scattered along a few irregular little lanes, on a ridge overlooking a valley. Amid those humble homes stands the gray church, like a shepherd keeping his flock. A part of it is very old, and all of it, richly weather-stained and delicately browned with fading moss, is beautiful. Upon the tower and along the south side the fantastic gargoyles are much decayed. The building is a cross. The chancel window faces eastward, and the window at the end of the nave looks toward the west,--the latter being a memorial to Moore. At the southeast corner of the building is the lady chapel, belonging to the Bayntun family, in which are suspended various fragments of old armour, and in the centre of which, recumbent on a great dark tomb, is a grim-visaged knight, clad from top to toe in his mail, beautifully sculptured in marble that looks like yellow ivory. Vandal visitors have disgracefully marred this superb work, by cutting and scratching their names upon it. Other tombs are adjacent, with inscriptions that implicate the names of Sir Edward Bayntun, 1679, and Lady Anne Wilmot, elder daughter and co-heiress of John, Earl of Rochester, who successively was the wife of Henry Bayntun and Francis Greville, and who died in 1703. The window at the end of the nave is a simple but striking composition, in stained glass, richer and nobler than is commonly seen in a country church. It consists of twenty-one lights, of which five are lancet shafts, side by side, these being surmounted with smaller lancets, forming a cluster at the top of the arch. In the centre is the figure of Jesus and around Him are the Apostles. The colouring is soft, true, and beautiful. Across the base of the window appear the words, in the glass: "This window is placed in this church by the combined subscriptions of two hundred persons who honour the memory of the poet of all circles and the idol of his own, Thomas Moore." It was beneath this window, in a little pew in the corner of the church, that the present writer joined in the service, and meditated, throughout a long sermon, on the lovely life and character and the gentle, noble, and abiding influence of the poet whose hallowed grave and beloved memory make this place a perpetual shrine. Moore was buried in the churchyard. An iron fence encloses his tomb, which is at the base of the church tower, in an angle formed by the tower and the chancel, on the north side of the building. Not more than twenty tombs are visible on this side of the church, and these appear upon a level lawn, as green and sparkling as an emerald and as soft as velvet. On three sides the churchyard is enclosed by a low wall, and on the fourth by a dense hedge of glistening holly. Great trees are all around the church, but not too near. A massive yew stands darkly at one corner. Chestnuts and elms blend their branches in fraternal embrace. Close by the poet's grave a vast beech uprears its dome of fruited boughs and rustling foliage. The sky was blue, except for a few straggling masses of fleecy, slate-coloured cloud. Not a human creature was anywhere to be seen while I stood in this sacred spot, and no sound disturbed the Sabbath stillness, save the faint whisper of the wind in the lofty tree-tops and the low twitter of birds in their hidden nests. I thought of his long life, unblemished by personal fault or public error; of his sweet devotion to parents and wife and children; of his pure patriotism, which scorned equally the blatant fustian of the demagogue and the frenzy of the revolutionist; of his unsurpassed fidelity in friendship; of his simplicity and purity in a corrupt time and amid many temptations; of his meekness in affliction; of the devout spirit that prompted his earnest exhortation to his wife, "Lean upon God, Bessie"; of the many beautiful songs that he added to our literature,--every one of which is the melodious and final expression of one or another of the elemental feelings of human nature; and of the obligation of endless gratitude that the world owes to his fine, high, and beneficent genius. And thus it seemed good to be in this place and to lay with reverent hands the white roses of honour and affection upon his tomb. On the long, low, flat stone that covers the poet's dust are inscribed the following words: "Anastatia Mary Moore. Born March 16, 1813. Died March 8, 1829. Also her brother, John Russell Moore, who died November 23, 1842, aged 19 years. Also their father, Thomas Moore, tenderly beloved by all who knew the goodness of his heart. The Poet and Patriot of his Country, Ireland. Born May 28, 1779. Sank to rest February 26, 1852. Aged 72. God is Love. Also his wife, Bessie Moore, who died 4th September 1865. And to the memory of their dear son, Thomas Lansdowne Parr Moore. Born 24th October 1818. Died in Africa, January 1846." Moore's daughter, Barbara, is buried at Hornsey, near London, in the same churchyard where rests the poet Samuel Rogers. On the stone that marks that spot is written, "Anne Jane Barbara Moore. Born January the 4th, 1812. Died September the 18th, 1817." Northwest from Bromham church[13] and about one mile away stands Sloperton Cottage,[14] the last home of the poet and the house in which he died. A deep valley intervenes between the church and the cottage, but, as each is built upon a ridge, you may readily see the one from the other. There is a road across the valley, but the more pleasant walk is along a pathway through the meadows and over several stiles, ending almost in front of the storied house. It is an ideal home for a poet. The building is made of brick, but it is so completely enwrapped in ivy that scarcely a particle of its surface can be seen. It is a low building, with three gables on its main front and with a wing; it stands in the middle of a garden enclosed by walls and by hedges of ivy; and it is embowered by great trees, yet not so closely embowered as to be shorn of the prospect from its windows. Flowers and flowering vines were blooming around it. The hard, white road, flowing past its gateway, looked like a thread of silver between the green hedgerows which here for many miles are rooted in high, grassy banks, and at intervals are diversified with large trees. Sloperton Cottage is almost alone, but there are a few neighbours, and there is the little rustic village of Westbrook, about half a mile westward. Westward was the poet's favourite prospect. He loved the sunset, and from a terrace in his garden he habitually watched the pageant of the dying day. Here, for thirty-five years, was his peaceful and happy home. Here he meditated many of those gems of lyrical poetry that will live in the hearts of men as long as anything lives that ever was written by mortal hand. And here he "sank to rest," worn out at last by incessant labour and by many sorrows,--the bitter fruit of domestic bereavement and of disappointment. The sun was sinking as I turned away from this hallowed haunt of genius and virtue, and, through green pastures and flower-spangled fields of waving grain, set forth upon my homeward walk. Soon there was a lovely peal of chimes from Bromham church tower, answered far off by the bells of Rowde, and while I descended into the darkening valley, Moore's tender words came singing through my thought: "And so 'twill be when I am gone-- That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!" CHAPTER V THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF BATH [Illustration: _The Avon and Bridge--Bath._] August 21, 1888.--From Devizes the traveller naturally turns toward Bath, which is only a few miles distant. A beautiful city, marred somewhat by the feverish, disturbing spirit of the present day, this old place [so old that in it the Saxon King Edgar was crowned, A.D. 973] nevertheless retains many interesting characteristics of its former glory. More than a century has passed since the wigged, powdered, and jewelled days of Beau Nash. The Avon,--for there is another Avon here, distinct from that of Warwickshire and also from that of Yorkshire,--is spanned by bridges that Smollett never dreamt of and Sheridan never saw. The town has crept upward, along both the valley slopes, nearer and nearer to the hill-tops that used to look down upon it. Along the margins of the river many gray, stone structures are mouldering in neglect and decay; but a tramcar rattles through the principal street; the boot-black and the newsvender are active and vociferous; the causeways are crowded with a bustling throng, and carts and carriages dash and scramble over the pavement, while, where of old the horn used to sound a gay flourish and the coach to come spinning in from London, now is heard the shriek and clangour of the steam-engine dashing down the vale, with morning papers and with passengers, three hours from the town. This, indeed, is not "the season" and of late it has rained with zealous persistence, so that Bath is not in her splendour. Much however can be seen, and the essential fact that she is no longer the Gainsborough belle that she used to be is distinctly evident. You must yield your mind to fancy if you would conjure up, while walking in these modern streets, the gay and quaint things described in _Humphrey Clinker_ or indicated in _The Rivals_. The Bath chairs, sometimes pulled by donkeys, and sometimes trundled by men, are among the most representative relics now to be seen. Next to the theatre [where it was my privilege to enjoy and admire Mr. John L. Toole's quaint and richly humorous performance of _The Don_], stands a building, at the foot of Gascoigne place, before which the traveller pauses with interest, because upon its front he may read the legend, neatly engraved on a white marble slab, that "In this house lived the celebrated Beau Nash, and here he died, February 1761." It is an odd structure, consisting of two stories and an attic, the front being of the monotonous stucco that came in with the Regent. Earlier no doubt the building was timbered. There are eleven windows in the front, four of them being painted on the wall. The house is used now by an auctioneer. In the historic Pump Room, dating back to 1797, raised aloft in an alcove at the east end, still stands the effigy of the Beau, even as it stood in the days when he set the fashions, regulated the customs, and gave the laws, and was the King of Bath; but the busts of Newton and Pope that formerly stood on either side of this statue stand there no more, save in the fancy of those who recall the epigram which was suggested by that singular group: "This statue placed these busts between Gives satire all its strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen, But Folly at full length." [Illustration: _Beau Nash._] Folly, though, is a word that carries a different meaning to different ears. Douglas Jerrold made a play on the subject of Beau Nash, an ingenious, effective, brilliantly written play, in which he is depicted as anything but foolish. Much always depends on the point of view. [Illustration: _Bath Abbey._] Quin [1693-1766] was buried in Bath Abbey, and Bath is the scene of _The Rivals_. It would be pleasant to fancy the trim figure of the elegant Sir Lucius O'Trigger strolling along the parade; or bluff and choleric Sir Anthony Absolute gazing with imperious condescension upon the galaxy of the Pump Room; Acres in his absurd finery; Lydia with her sentimental novels; and Mrs. Malaprop, rigid with decorum, in her Bath chair. The Abbey, begun in 1405 and completed in 1606, has a noble west front and a magnificent door of carved oak, and certainly it is a superb church; but the eyes that have rested upon such cathedrals as those of Lincoln, Durham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow, such a heavenly jewel as Roslin, and such an astounding and overwhelming edifice as York minster, can dwell calmly on Bath Abbey. A surprising feature in it is its mural record of the dead that are entombed beneath or around it. Sir Lucius might well declare that "There is snug lying in the Abbey." Almost every foot of the walls is covered with monumental slabs, and like Captain Cuttle, after the wedding of Mr. Dombey and Edith Granger, I "pervaded the body of the church" and read the epitaphs,--solicitous to discover that of the renowned actor James Quin. His tablet was formerly to be found in the chancel, but now it is obscurely placed in a porch, on the north corner of the building, on what may be termed the outer wall of the sanctuary. It presents the face of the famous comedian, carved in white marble and set against a black slab. Beneath is the date of his death, "Ob. MDCCLXVI. �tat. LXXIII.," and his epitaph, written by David Garrick. At the base are dramatic emblems,--the mask and the dagger. As a portrait this medallion of Quin gives convincing evidence of scrupulous fidelity to nature, and certainly it is a fine work of art. The head is dressed as it was in life, with the full wig of the period. The features are delicately cut and are indicative of austere beauty of countenance, impressive if not attractive. The mouth is especially handsome, the upper lip being a perfect Cupid's bow. The face is serious, expressive, and fraught with intellect and power. This was the last great declaimer of the old school of acting, discomfited and almost obliterated by Garrick; and here are the words that Garrick wrote upon his tomb: "That tongue which set the table on a roar And charmed the public ear is heard no more; Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakespeare writ; Cold is that hand which, living, was stretched forth, At friendship's call, to succour modest worth. Here lies JAMES QUIN. Deign, reader, to be taught Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought, In nature's happiest mould however cast, To this complexion thou must come at last." [Illustration: _High Street--Bath._] A printed reminder of mortality is superfluous in Bath, for you almost continually behold afflicted and deformed persons who have come here to "take the waters." For rheumatic sufferers this place is a paradise,--as, indeed, it is for all wealthy persons who love luxury. Walter Savage Landor said that the only two cities of Europe in which he could live were Bath and Florence; but that was long ago. When you have walked in Milsom street and Lansdowne Crescent, sailed upon the Avon, observed the Abbey, without and within,--for its dusky, weather-stained walls are extremely picturesque,--attended the theatre, climbed the hills for the view of the city and the Avon valley, and taken the baths, you will have had a satisfying experience of Bath. The greatest luxury in the place is a swimming-tank of mineral water, about forty feet long, by twenty broad, and five feet deep,--a tepid pool of most refreshing potency. And the chief curiosity is the ruin of a Roman bath which was discovered and laid bare in 1885. This is built in the form of a rectangular basin of stone, with steps around it, and originally it was environed with stone chambers that were used as dressing-rooms. The basin is nearly perfect. The work of restoration of this ancient bath is in progress, but the relic will be preserved only as an emblem of the past. [Illustration: _A Fragment from an Old Roman Bath._] Thomas Haynes Bayly, the song-writer, 1797-1839, was born in Bath, and there he melodiously recorded that "She wore a wreath of roses," and there he dreamed of dwelling "in marble halls." But Bath is not nearly as rich in literary associations as its neighbour city of Bristol. Chatterton, Southey, Hannah More, and Mary Robinson,--the actress, the lovely and unfortunate "Perdita,"--were born in Bristol. Richard Savage, the poet, died there [1743], and so did John Hippesley, the comedian, manager, and farce-writer [1748]. St. Mary Redclyffe church, built in 1292, is still standing there, of which Chatterton's father was the sexton, and in the tower of which "the marvellous boy" discovered, according to his ingenious plan of literary imposture, the original Canynge and Rowley manuscripts. The ancient chests, which once were filled with black-letter parchments, remain in a loft in the church tower, but they are empty now. That famous preacher, the Rev. Robert Hall [1764-1831], had a church in Bristol. Southey and Coleridge married sisters, of the name of Fricker, who resided there, and a house called Myrtle Cottage, once occupied by Coleridge is still extant, in the contiguous village of Clevedon,--one of the loveliest places on the English coast. Jane Porter and Anna Maria Porter lived in Bristol, and Maria died at Montpelier, near by. These references indicate but a tithe of what may be seen, studied, and enjoyed in and about Bristol,--the city to which Chatterton left his curse; the region hallowed by the dust of Arthur Hallam,--inspiration of Tennyson's _In Memoriam_, the loftiest poem that has been created in the English language since the pen that wrote _Childe Harold_ fell from the magical hand of Byron. [Illustration: _Remains of The Old Roman Bath._] CHAPTER VI THE LAND OF WORDSWORTH A good way by which to enter the Lake District of England is to travel to Penrith and thence to drive along the shore of Ullswater, or sail upon its crystal bosom, to the blooming solitude of Patterdale. Penrith lies at the eastern slope of the mountains of Westmoreland, and you may see the ruins of Penrith Castle, once the property and the abode of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, before he became King of England. Penrith Castle was one of the estates that were forfeited by the great Earl of Warwick, and King Edward the Fourth gave it to his brother Richard, in 1471. It is recorded that Richard had lived there for five years, from 1452 to 1457, when he was Sheriff of Cumberland. Not much remains of that ancient structure, and the remnant is now occupied by a florist. I saw it, as I saw almost everything else in Great Britain during the summer of 1888, under a tempest of rain; for it rained there, with a continuity almost ruinous, from the time of the lilac and apple-blossom till when the clematis began to show the splendour of its purple shield and the acacia to drop its milky blossoms on the autumnal grass. But travellers must not heed the weather. If there are dark days there are also bright ones,--and one bright day in such a paradise as the English Lakes atones for the dreariness of a month of rain. Besides, even the darkest days may be brightened by gentle companionship. Henry Irving[15] and Ernest Bendall, two of the most intellectual and genial men in England, were my associates, in that expedition. We went from London into Westmoreland on a mild, sweet day in July, and we rambled for several days in that enchanted region. It was a delicious experience, and I often close my eyes and dream of it--as I am dreaming now. [Illustration: PENRITH CASTLE] [Illustration: _Ullswater._] In the drive between Penrith and Patterdale you see many things that are worthy of regard. Among these are the parish church of Penrith, a building made of red stone, remarkable for a massive square tower of great age and formidable aspect. In the adjacent churchyard are The Giant's Grave and The Giant's Thumb, relics of a distant past that strongly and strangely affect the imagination. The grave is said to be that of Ewain Cæsarius,[16] a gigantic individual who reigned over Cumberland in remote Saxon times. The Thumb is a rough stone, about seven feet high, presenting a clumsy cross, and doubtless commemorative of another mighty warrior. Sir Walter Scott, who traversed Penrith on his journeys between Edinburgh and London, seldom omitted to pause for a view of those singular memorials, and Scott, like Wordsworth, has left upon this region the abiding impress of his splendid genius. Ulfo's Lake is Scott's name for Ullswater, and thereabout is laid the scene of his poem of _The Bridal of Triermain_. In Scott's day the traveller went by coach or on horseback, but now, "By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood," at the foot of craggy Blencathara, you pause at a railway station having Threlkeld in large letters on its official signboard. Another strange thing that is passed on the road between Penrith and Patterdale is "Arthur's Round Table,"--a circular terrace of turf slightly raised above the surrounding level, and certainly remarkable, whatever may be its historic or antiquarian merit, for fine texture, symmetrical form, and lovely, luxuriant colour. Scholars think it was used for tournaments in the days of chivalry, but no one rightly knows anything about it, save that it is old. Not far from this bit of mysterious antiquity the road winds through a quaint village called Tirril, where, in the Quaker burial-ground, is the grave of an unfortunate young man, Charles Gough, who lost his life by falling from the Striding Edge of Helvellyn in 1805, and whose memory is hallowed by Wordsworth and Scott, in poems that almost every schoolboy has read, and could never forget,--associated as they are with the story of the faithful dog, for three months in that lonesome wilderness vigilant beside the dead body of his master, "A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below." Patterdale possesses this advantage over certain other towns and hamlets of the lake region, that it is not much frequented by tourists. The coach does indeed roll through it at intervals, laden with those miscellaneous, desultory visitors whose pleasure it is to rush wildly over the land. And those objects serve to remind you that now, even as in Wordsworth's time, and in a double sense, "the world is too much with us." But an old-fashioned inn, Kidd's Hotel, still exists, at the head of Ullswater, to which fashion has not resorted and where kindness presides over the traveller's comfort. Close by also is a cosy nook called Glenridding, where, if you are a lover of solitude and peace, you may find an ideal abode. One house wherein lodging may be obtained was literally embowered in roses on that summer evening when first I strolled by the fragrant hay-fields on the Patterdale shore of Ullswater. The rose flourishes in wonderful luxuriance and profusion throughout Westmoreland and Cumberland. As you drive along the lonely roads your way will sometimes be, for many miles, between hedges that are bespangled with wild roses and with the silver globes of the laurel blossom, while around you the lonely mountains, bare of foliage save for matted grass and a dense growth of low ferns, tower to meet the clouds. It is a wild place, and yet there is a pervading spirit of refinement over it all,--as if Nature had here wrought her wonders in the mood of the finest art. And at the same time it is a place of infinite variety. The whole territory occupied by the lakes and mountains of this famous district is scarcely more than thirty miles square; yet within this limit, comparatively narrow, are comprised all possible beauties of land and water that the most passionate worshipper of natural loveliness could desire. My first night in Patterdale was one of such tempest as sometimes rages in America about the time of the fall equinox. The wind shook the building. It was long after midnight when I went to rest, and the storm seemed to increase in fury as the night wore on. Torrents of rain were dashed against the windows. Great trees near by creaked and groaned beneath the strength of the gale. The cold was so severe that blankets were welcome. It was my first night in Wordsworth's country, and I thought of Wordsworth's lines: "There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods." The next morning was sweet with sunshine and gay with birds and flowers, and all semblance of storm and trouble seemed banished forever. "But now the sun is shining calm and bright, And birds are singing in the distant woods." Wordsworth's poetry expresses the inmost soul of those lovely lakes and mighty hills, and no writer can hope to tread, save remotely and with reverent humility, in the footsteps of that magician. You understand Wordsworth better, however, and you love him more dearly, for having rambled over his consecrated ground. There was not a day when I did not, in some shape or another, meet with his presence. Whenever I was alone his influence came upon me as something unspeakably majestic and solemn. Once, on a Sunday, I climbed to the top of Place Fell[17] [which is 2154 feet above the sea-level, while Scawfell Pike is 3210, and Helvellyn is 3118], and there, in the short space of two hours, I was thrice cut off by rainstorms from all view of the world beneath. Not a tree could I find on that mountain-top, nor any place of shelter from the blast and the rain, except when crouching beside the mound of rock at its summit, which in that country they call a "man." Not a living creature was visible, save now and then a lonely sheep, who stared at me for a moment and then scurried away. But when the skies cleared and the cloudy squadrons of the storm went careering over Helvellyn, I looked down into no less than fifteen valleys beautifully coloured by the foliage and the patches of cultivated land, each vale being sparsely fringed with little gray stone dwellings that seemed no more than card-houses, in those appalling depths. You think of Wordsworth, in such a place as that,--if you know his poetry. You cannot choose but think of him. "Who comes not hither ne'er shall know How beautiful the world below." Yet somehow it happened that whenever friends joined in those rambles the great poet was sure to dawn upon us in a comic way. When we were resting on the bridge at the foot of Brothers Water, which is a little lake, scarcely more than a mountain tarn, lying between Ullswater and the Kirkstone Pass, some one recalled that Wordsworth had once rested there and written a poem about it. We were not all as devout admirers of the bard as I am, and certainly it is not every one of the great author's compositions that a lover of his genius would wish to hear quoted, under such circumstances. The Brothers Water poem is the one that begins "The cock is crowing, the stream is flowing," and I do not think that its insipidity is much relieved by its famous picture of the grazing cattle, "forty feeding like one." Henry Irving, not much given to enthusiasm about Wordsworth, heard those lines with undisguised merriment, and made a capital travesty of them on the spot. It is significant to remember, with reference to the inequality of Wordsworth, that on the day before he wrote "The cock is crowing," and at a place but a short distance from the Brothers Water bridge, he had written that peerless lyric about the daffodils,--"I wandered lonely as a cloud." Gowbarrow Park is the scene of that poem,--a place of ferns and hawthorns, notable for containing Lyulph's Tower, a romantic, ivy-clad lodge owned by the Duke of Norfolk, and Aira Force, a waterfall much finer than Lodore. Upon the lake shore in Gowbarrow Park you may still see the daffodils as Wordsworth saw them, a golden host, "glittering and dancing in the breeze." No one but a true poet could have made that perfect lyric, with its delicious close: "For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude: And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils." [Illustration: _Lyulph's Tower--Ullswater._] The third and fourth lines were written by the poet's wife, and they show that she was not a poet's wife in vain. It must have been in his "vacant mood" that he rested and wrote, on the bridge at Brothers Water. "I saw Wordsworth often when I was a child," said Frank Marshall[18] [who had joined us at Penrith]; "he used to come to my father's house, Patterdale Hall, and once I was sent to the garden by Mrs. Wordsworth to call him to supper. He was musing there, I suppose. He had a long, horse-like face. I don't think I liked him. I said, 'Your wife wants you.' He looked down at me and he answered, 'My boy, you should say Mrs. Wordsworth, and not "your wife."' I looked up at him and I replied, 'She _is_ your wife, isn't she?' Whereupon he said no more. I don't think he liked me either." We were going up Kirkstone Pass when Marshall told this story,--which seemed to bring the pensive and homely poet plainly before us. An hour later, at the top of the pass, while waiting in the old inn called the Traveller's Rest, which incorrectly proclaims itself the highest inhabited house in England,[19] I spoke with an ancient, weather-beaten hostler, not wholly unfamiliar with the medicinal virtue of ardent spirits, and asked for his opinion of the great lake poet. "Well," he said, "people are always talking about Wordsworth, but I don't see much in it. I've read it, but I don't care for it. It's dry stuff--it don't chime." Truly there are all sorts of views, just as there are all sorts of people. [Illustration: _William Wordsworth._] Mementos of Wordsworth are frequently encountered by the traveller among these lakes and fells. One of them, situated at the foot of Place Fell, is a rustic cottage that the poet once selected for his residence: it was purchased for him by Lord Lonsdale, as a partial indemnity for losses caused by an ancestor of his to Wordsworth's father. The poet liked the place, but he never lived there. The house somewhat resembles the Shakespeare cottage at Stratford,--the living-room being floored with stone slabs, irregular in size and shape and mostly broken by hard use. In a corner of the kitchen stands a fine carved oak cupboard, dark with age, inscribed with the date of the Merry Monarch, 1660. [Illustration: _Approach to Ambleside._] What were the sights of those sweet days that linger still, and will always linger, in my remembrance? A ramble in the park of Patterdale Hall [the old name of the estate is Halsteads], which is full of American trees; a golden morning in Dovedale, with Irving, much like Jaques, reclined upon a shaded rock, half-way up the mountain, musing and moralising in his sweet, kind way, beside the brawling stream; the first prospect of Windermere, from above Ambleside,--a vision of heaven upon earth; the drive by Rydal Water, which has all the loveliness of celestial pictures seen in dreams; the glimpse of stately Rydal Hall and of the sequestered Rydal Mount, where Wordsworth so long lived and where he died; the Wishing Gate, where one of us, I know, wished in his heart that he could be young again and be wiser than to waste his youth in self-willed folly; the restful hours of observation and thought at delicious Grasmere, where we stood in silence at Wordsworth's grave and heard the murmur of Rotha singing at his feet; the lovely drive past Matterdale, across the moorlands, with only clouds and rooks for our chance companions, and mountains for sentinels along our way; the ramble through Keswick, all golden and glowing in the afternoon sun, till we stood by Crosthwaite church and read the words of commemoration that grace the tomb of Robert Southey; the divine circuit of Derwent,--surely the loveliest sheet of water in England; the descent into the vale of Keswick, with sunset on the rippling crystal of the lake and the perfume of countless wild roses on the evening wind. These things, and the midnight talk about these things,--Irving, so tranquil, so gentle, so full of keen and sweet appreciation of them,--Bendall, so bright and thoughtful,--Marshall, so quaint and jolly, and so full of knowledge equally of nature and of books!--can never be forgotten. In one heart they are cherished forever. [Illustration: _Grasmere Church._] Wordsworth is buried in Grasmere churchyard, close by the wall, on the bank of the little river Rotha. "Sing him thy best," said Matthew Arnold, in his lovely dirge for the great poet-- "Sing him thy best! for few or none Hears thy voice right, now he is gone." In the same grave with Wordsworth sleeps his devoted wife. Beside them rest the poet's no less devoted sister Dorothy, who died at Rydal Mount in 1855, aged 83, and his daughter, Dora, together with her husband Edward Quillinan, of whom Arnold wrote so tenderly: "Alive, we would have changed his lot, We would not change it now." On the low gravestone that marks the sepulchre of Wordsworth are written these words: "William Wordsworth, 1850. Mary Wordsworth, 1859." In the neighbouring church a mural tablet presents this inscription: "To the memory of William Wordsworth. A true poet and philosopher, who by the special gift and calling of Almighty God, whether he discoursed on man or nature, failed not to lift up the heart to holy things, tired not of maintaining the cause of the poor and simple, and so in perilous times was raised up to be a chief minister, not only of noblest poetry, but of high and sacred truth. The memorial is raised here by his friends and neighbours, in testimony of respect, affection, and gratitude. Anno MDCCCLI." [Illustration: _Rydal Mount--Wordsworth's Seat._] A few steps from that memorable group will bring you to the marble cross that marks the resting-place of Hartley Coleridge, son of the great author of _The Ancient Mariner_, himself a poet of exquisite genius; and close by is a touching memorial to the gifted man who inspired Matthew Arnold's poems of _The Scholar-Gipsy_ and _Thyrsis_. This is a slab laid upon his mother's grave, at the foot of her tombstone, inscribed with these words: "In memory of Arthur Hugh Clough, some time Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford, the beloved son of James Butler and Anne Clough. This remembrance in his own country is placed on his mother's grave by those to whom life was made happy by his presence and his love. He is buried in the Swiss cemetery at Florence, where he died, November 13, 1861, aged 42. "'So, dearest, now thy brows are cold I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, Thy kindred with the great of old.'" Southey rests in Crosthwaite churchyard, about half a mile north of Keswick, where he died. They show you Greta Hall, a fine mansion, on a little hill, enclosed in tall trees, which for forty years, ending in 1843, was the poet's home. In the church is a marble figure of Southey, recumbent on a large stone sarcophagus. His grave is in the ground, a little way from the church, marked by a low flat tomb, on the end of which appears an inscription commemorative of a servant who had lived fifty years in his family and is buried near him. There was a pretty scene at this grave. When I came to it Irving was already there, and was speaking to a little girl who had guided him to the spot. "If any one were to give you a shilling, my dear," he said, "what would you do with it?" The child was confused and she murmured softly, "I don't know, sir." "Well," he continued, "if any one were to give you two shillings, what would you do?" She said she would save it. "But what if it were three shillings?" he asked, and each time he spoke he dropped a silver coin into her hand, till he must have given her more than a dozen of them. "Four--five--six--seven--what would you do with the money?" "I would give it to my mother, sir," she answered at last, her little face all smiles, gazing up at the stately, sombre stranger, whose noble countenance never looked more radiant than it did then, with gentle kindness and pleasure. It is a trifle to mention, but it was touching in its simplicity; and that amused group, around the grave of Southey, in the blaze of the golden sun of a July afternoon, with Skiddaw looming vast and majestic over all, will linger with me as long as anything lovely and of good report is treasured in my memory. Long after we had left the place I chanced to speak of its peculiar interest. "The most interesting thing I saw there," said Irving, "was that sweet child." I do not think the great actor was ever much impressed with the beauties of the lake poets. Another picture glimmers across my dream,--a picture of peace and happiness which may close this rambling reminiscence of gentle days. We had driven up the pass between Glencoin and Gowbarrow, and had reached Matterdale, on our way toward Troutbeck station,--not the beautiful Windermere Troutbeck, but the less famous one. The road is lonely, but at Matterdale the traveller sees a few houses, and there our gaze was attracted by a gray church nestled in a hollow of the hillside. It stands sequestered in its place of graves, with bright greensward around it and a few trees. A faint sound of organ music floated from this sacred building and seemed to deepen the hush of the summer wind and shed a holier calm upon the lovely solitude. We dismounted and silently entered the church. A youth and a maiden, apparently lovers, were sitting at the organ,--the youth playing and the girl listening, and looking with tender trust and innocent affection into his face. He recognised our presence with a kindly nod, but went on with the music. I do not think she saw us at all. The place was full of soft, warm light streaming through the stained glass of Gothic windows and fragrant with perfume floating from the hay-fields and the dew-drenched roses of many a neighbouring hedge. Not a word was spoken, and after a few moments we departed, as silently as we had come. Those lovers will never know what eyes looked upon them that day, what hearts were comforted with the sight of their happiness, or how a careworn man, three thousand miles away, fanning upon his hearthstone the dying embers of hope, now thinks of them with tender sympathy, and murmurs a blessing on the gracious scene which their presence so much endeared. [Illustration: _An Old Lich Gate._] CHAPTER VII SHAKESPEARE RELICS AT WORCESTER Worcester, July 23, 1889.--The present wanderer came lately to The Faithful City, and these words are written in a midnight hour at the Unicorn Hotel. This place is redolent of the wars of the Stuarts, and the moment you enter it your mind is filled with the presence of Charles the Martyr, Charles the Merry, Prince Rupert, and Oliver Cromwell. From the top of Red Hill and the margin of Perry wood,--now sleeping in the starlight or momentarily vocal with the rustle of leaves and the note of half-awakened birds,--Cromwell looked down over the ancient walled city which he had beleaguered. Upon the summit of the great tower of Worcester Cathedral Charles and Rupert held their last council of war. Here was lost, September 3, 1651, the battle that made the Merry Monarch a hunted fugitive and an exile. With a stranger's interest I have rambled on those heights; traversed the battlefield; walked in every part of the cathedral; attended divine service there; revelled in the antiquities of the Edgar Tower; roamed through most of the city streets; traced all that can be traced of the old wall [there is little remaining of it now, and no part that can be walked upon]; explored the royal porcelain works, for which Worcester is rightly famous; viewed several of its old churches and its one theatre, in Angel street; entered its Guildhall, where they preserve a fine piece of artillery and nine suits of black armour that were left by Charles the Second when he fled from Worcester; paced the dusty and empty Trinity Hall, now abandoned and condemned to demolition, where once Queen Elizabeth was feasted; and visited the old Commandery,--a rare piece of antiquity, remaining from the tenth century,--wherein the Duke of Hamilton died, of his wounds, after Cromwell's "crowning mercy," and beneath the floor of which he was laid in a temporary grave. The Commandery is now owned and occupied by a printer of directories and guide-books, the genial and hospitable Mr. Littlebury, and there, as everywhere else in storied Worcester, the arts of peace prevail over all the scenes and all the traces of "Old, unhappy, far-off things And battles long ago." [Illustration: _Worcester Cathedral, from the Edgar Tower._] In the Edgar Tower at Worcester they keep the original of the marriage-bond that was given by Fulk Sandells and John Richardson, of Shottery, as a preliminary to the marriage of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway. It is a long, narrow strip of parchment, and it has been glazed and framed. Two seals of light-coloured wax were originally attached to it, dependent by strings, but these have been removed,--apparently for the convenience of the mechanic who put the relic into its present frame. The handwriting is crabbéd and obscure. There are but few persons who can read the handwriting in old documents of this kind, and thousands of such documents exist in the church-archives, and elsewhere, in England, that have never been examined. The bond is for £40, and is a guarantee that there was no impediment to the marriage of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway. It is dated November 28, 1582; its text authorises the wedding after only once calling the banns in church; and it is supposed that the marriage took place immediately, since the first child of it, Susanna Shakespeare, was baptized in the Church of the Holy Trinity at Stratford on May 26, 1583. No registration of the marriage has been found, but that is no proof that it does not exist. The law is said to have prescribed that three parishes, within the residential diocese, should be designated, in any one of which the marriage might be made; but custom permitted the contracting parties, when they had complied with this requirement, to be married in whatever parish, within the diocese, they might prefer. The three parishes supposed to have been named are Stratford, Bishopton, and Luddington. The registers of two of them have been searched, and searched in vain. The register of the third,--that of Luddington, which is near Shottery, and about three miles southwest of Stratford,--was destroyed, long ago, in a fire that burnt down Luddington church; and conjecture assumes that Shakespeare was married at Luddington. It may be so, but until every old church register in the ancient diocese of Worcester has been examined, the quest of the registration of his marriage ought not to be abandoned. Richard Savage, the learned and diligent librarian of the Shakespeare Birthplace, has long been occupied with this inquiry, and has transcribed several of the old church registers in the vicinity of Stratford. The Rev. Thomas Procter Wadley,[20] another local antiquary, of great learning and incessant industry, has also taken part in this labour. The long-desired entry of the marriage of William and Anne remains undiscovered, but one gratifying and valuable result of these investigations is the disclosure that many of the names used in Shakespeare's works are the names of persons who were residents of Warwickshire in his time. It has pleased various crazy sensation-mongers to ascribe the authorship of Shakespeare's writings to Francis Bacon. This could only be done by ignoring positive evidence,--the evidence, namely, of Ben Jonson, who knew Shakespeare personally, and who has left a written description of the manner in which Shakespeare composed his plays. Effrontery was to be expected from the advocates of the preposterous Bacon theory; but when they have ignored the positive evidence, and the internal evidence, and the circumstantial evidence, and every other sort of evidence, they have still a serious obstacle to surmount,--an obstacle that the researches of such patient scholars as Mr. Savage and Mr. Wadley are strengthening day by day. The man who wrote Shakespeare's plays knew Warwickshire as it could only be known to a native of it; and there is no proof that Francis Bacon knew it or ever was in it.[21] [Illustration: _The Edgar Tower._] With reference to the Shakespeare marriage-bond, and the other records that are kept in the Edgar Tower at Worcester, it may perhaps justly be said that they are not protected with the scrupulous care to which such treasures are entitled. The Tower,--a gray and venerable relic, an ancient gate of the monastery, dating back to the time of King John,--affords an appropriate receptacle for those documents; but it would not withstand fire, and it does not contain either a fire-proof chamber or a safe. The Shakespeare marriage-bond,--which would be appropriately housed in the Shakespeare Birthplace, at Stratford,--was taken from the floor of a closet, where it had been lying, together with a number of dusty books, and I was kindly permitted to hold it in my hands and to examine it. The frame provided for this priceless relic is such as may be seen on an ordinary school slate. From another dusty closet an attendant extricated a manuscript diary kept by William Lloyd, Bishop of Worcester [1627-1717], and by his man-servant, for several years, about the beginning of the reign of Queen Anne; and in this are many quaint and humorous entries, valuable to the student of history and manners. In still another closet, having the appearance of a rubbish-bin, I saw heaps of old parchment and paper writings,--a mass of antique registry that it would need the labour of five or six years to examine, decipher, and classify. Worcester is especially rich in old records, and it is not impossible that the missing clew to Shakespeare's marriage may yet be found in that old cathedral city. Worcester is rich also in a superb library, which, by the kindness of Mr. Hooper, the custodian, I was allowed to explore, high up beneath the roof of the lovely cathedral. That collection of books, numbering about five thousand, consists mostly of folios, many of which were printed in France. They keep it in a long, low, oak-timbered room, the triforium of the south aisle of the nave. The approach is by a circular stone staircase. In an anteroom to the library I saw a part of the ancient north door of this church,--a fragment dating back to the time of Bishop Wakefield, 1386,--to which is still affixed a piece of the skin of a human being. The tradition is that a Dane committed sacrilege, by stealing the sanctus bell from the high altar, and was thereupon flayed alive for his crime, and the skin of him was fastened to the cathedral door. In the library are magnificent editions of Aristotle and other classics; the works of the fathers of the church; a beautiful illuminated manuscript of Wickliffe's New Testament, written on vellum in 1381; and several books, in splendid preservation, from the press of Caxton and that of Wynken de Worde. The world moves, but printing is not better done now than it was then. This library, which is for the use of the clergy of the diocese of Worcester, was founded by Bishop Carpenter, in 1461, and originally it was stored in the chapel of the charnel-house. Reverting to the subject of old documents, a useful word may perhaps be said here about the registers in Trinity church at Stratford,--documents which, in a spirit of disparagement, have sometimes been designated as "copies." That sort of levity in the discussion of Shakespearean subjects is not unnatural in days when "cranks" are allowed freely to besmirch the memory of Shakespeare, in their wildly foolish advocacy of what they call "the Bacon theory" of the authorship of Shakespeare's works. The present writer has often held the Stratford Registers in his hands and explored their quaint pages. Those records are contained in twenty-two volumes. They begin with the first year of Queen Elizabeth, 1558, and they end, as to the old parchment form, in 1812. From 1558 to 1600 the entries were made in a paper book, of the quarto form, still occasionally to be found in ancient parish churches of England. In 1599 an order-in-council was made, commanding that those entries should be copied into parchment volumes, for their better preservation. This was done. The parchment volumes,--which were freely shown to me by William Butcher,[22] the parish clerk of Stratford,--date back to 1600. The handwriting of the copied portion, covering the period from 1558 to 1600, is careful and uniform. Each page is certified, as to its accuracy, by the vicar and the churchwardens. After 1600 the handwritings vary. In the register of marriage a new handwriting appears on September 17 that year, and in the registers of Baptism and Burial it appears on September 20. The sequence of marriages is complete until 1756; that of baptisms and burials until 1812; when, in each case, a book of printed forms comes into use, and the expeditious march of the new age begins. The entry of Shakespeare's baptism, April 26, 1564, from which it is inferred that he was born on April 23, is extant as a certified copy from the earlier paper book. The entry of Shakespeare's burial is the original entry, made in the original register. Some time ago an American writer suggested that Shakespeare's widow,--seven years his senior at the start, and therefore fifty-nine years old when he died,--subsequently contracted another marriage. Mrs. Shakespeare survived her husband seven years, dying on August 6, 1623, at the age of sixty-seven. The entry in the Stratford register of burial contains, against the date of August 8, 1623, the names of "Mrs. Shakespeare" and "Anna uxor Richard James." Those two names, written one above the other, are connected by a bracket on the left side; and this is supposed to be evidence that Shakespeare's widow married again. The use of the bracket could not possibly mislead anybody possessing the faculty of clear vision. When two or more persons were either baptized or buried on the same day, the parish clerk, in making the requisite entry in the register, connected their names with a bracket. Three instances of this practice occur upon a single page of the register, in the same handwriting, close to the page that records the burial, on the same day, of Mrs. Shakespeare, widow, and Anna the wife of Richard James. But folly needs only a slender hook on which to hang itself. John Baskerville, the famous printer [1706-1775], was born in Worcester, and his remains, the burial-place of which was long unknown, have lately been discovered there. Incledon, the famous singer, died there. Prince Arthur [1486-1502], eldest son of King Henry the Seventh, was buried in Worcester Cathedral, where a beautiful chantry was built over his remains in 1504. Bishop John Gauden [1605-1662], who wrote the _Eikon Basiliké_, long generally attributed to Charles the First, rests there. The Duke of Hamilton, who died of his wounds, after a Worcester fight, was transferred to that place, from his temporary grave in the Commandery. And in the centre of the sacrarium stands the tomb of that tyrant King John, who died on October 19, 1216, at Newark, and whose remains, when the tomb was opened,[23] July 17, 1797, presented a ghastly spectacle. CHAPTER VIII BYRON AND HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH January 22, 1888.--On a night in 1785, when Mrs. Siddons was acting at Edinburgh, the play being _The Fatal Marriage_ and the character Isabella, a young lady of Aberdeenshire, Miss Catherine Gordon, of Gight, was among the audience. There is a point in that tragedy at which Isabella recognises her first husband, whom she had supposed to be dead, and in whose absence she had been married to another, and her consternation, grief, and rapture are sudden and excessive. Mrs. Siddons, at that point, always made a great effect. The words are, "O my Biron, my Biron!" On this night, at the moment when the wonderful actress sent forth her wailing, heart-piercing cry, as she uttered those words, Miss Gordon gave a frantic scream, fell into violent hysterics, and was borne out of the theatre, repeating "O my Biron, my Biron!" At the time of that incident she had not met the man by whom she was afterward wedded,--the Hon. John Byron, whose wife she became, about a year later. Their first-born and only child was George Gordon, afterward Lord Byron, the poet; and among the many aspects of his life which impress the thoughtful reader of its strange and melancholy story none is more striking than the dramatic aspect of it,--so strangely prefigured in this event. [Illustration: _Lord Byron._] Censure of Byron, whether as a man or as a writer, may be considered to have spent its force. It is a hundred years since he was born, and almost as many since he died.[24] Everybody who wished to say a word against him has had ample opportunity for saying it, and there is evidence that this opportunity has not been neglected. The record was long ago made up. Everybody knows that Byron's conduct was sometimes deformed with frenzy and stained with vice. Everybody knows that Byron's writings are occasionally marred with profanity and licentiousness, and that they contain a quantity of crude verse. If he had never been married, or if, being married, his domestic life had not ended in disaster and scandal, his personal reputation would stand higher than it does at present, in the esteem of virtuous society. If about one-third of what he wrote had never been published, his reputation as a man of letters would stand higher than it now does in the esteem of stern judges of literary art. After an exhaustive discussion of the subject in every aspect of it, after every variety of hostile assault, and after praise sounded in every key of enthusiasm and in every language of the world, these truths remain. It is a pity that Byron was not a virtuous man and a good husband. It is a pity that he was not invariably a scrupulous literary artist, that he wrote so much, and that almost everything he wrote was published. But, when all this has been said, it remains a solid and immovable truth that Byron was a great poet and that he continues to be a great power in the literature and life of the world. Nobody who pretends to read anything omits to read _Childe Harold_. To touch this complex and delicate subject in only a superficial manner it may not be amiss to say that the world is under obligation to Byron, if for nothing else, for the spectacle of a romantic, impressive, and instructive life. His agency in that spectacle no doubt was involuntary, but all the same he presented it. He was a great poet; a man of genius; his faculty of expression was colossal, and his conduct was absolutely genuine. No man in literature ever lived who lived himself more fully. His assumptions of disguise only made him more obvious and transparent. He kept nothing back. His heart was laid absolutely bare. We know even more about him than we know about Dr. Johnson,--and still his personality endures the test of our knowledge and remains unique, romantic, fascinating, prolific of moral admonition, and infinitely pathetic. Byron in poetry, like Edmund Kean in acting, is a figure that completely fills the imagination, profoundly stirs the heart, and never ceases to impress and charm, even while it afflicts, the sensitive mind. This consideration alone, viewed apart from the obligation that the world owes to the better part of his writings, is vastly significant of the great personal force that is inherent in the name and memory of Byron. It has been considered necessary to account for the sadness and gloom of Byron's poetry by representing him to have been a criminal afflicted with remorse for his many and hideous crimes. His widow, apparently a monomaniac, after long brooding over the remembrance of a calamitous married life,--brief, unhappy, and terminated in separation,--whispered against him, and against his half-sister, a vile and hideous charge; and this, to the disgrace of American literature, was subsequently brought forward by a distinguished female writer of America, much noted for her works of fiction and especially memorable for that one. The explanation of the mental distress exhibited in the poet's writings was thought to be effectually provided in that disclosure. But, as this revolting and inhuman story,--desecrating graves, insulting a wonderful genius, and casting infamy upon the name of an affectionate, faithful, virtuous woman,--fell to pieces the moment it was examined, the student of Byron's grief-stricken nature remained no wiser than before this figment of a diseased imagination had been divulged. Surely, however, it ought not to be considered mysterious that Byron's poetry is often sad. The best poetry of the best poets is touched with sadness. _Hamlet_ has never been mistaken for a merry production. _Macbeth_ and _King Lear_ do not commonly produce laughter. Shelley and Keats sing as near to heaven's gate as anybody, and both of them are essentially sad. Scott was as brave, hopeful, and cheerful as any poet that ever lived, and Scott's poetry is at its best in his dirges and in his ballads of love and loss. The _Elegy_ and _The Ancient Mariner_ certainly are great poems, but neither of them is festive. Byron often wrote sadly because he was a man of melancholy temperament, and because he deeply felt the pathos of mortal life, the awful mystery with which it is surrounded, the pain with which it is usually attended, the tragedy with which it commonly is accompanied, the frail tenure with which its loves and hopes are held, and the inexorable death with which it is continually environed and at last extinguished. And Byron was an unhappy man for the reason that, possessing every elemental natural quality in excess, his goodness was constantly tortured by his evil. The tempest, the clangour, and the agony of his writings are denotements of the struggle between good and evil that was perpetually afflicting his soul. Had he been the wicked man depicted by his detractors, he would have lived a life of comfortable depravity and never would have written at all. Monsters do not suffer. The true appreciation of Byron is not that of youth but that of manhood. Youth is captured by his pictorial and sentimental attributes. Youth beholds him as a nautical Adonis, standing lonely upon a barren cliff and gazing at a stormy sunset over the �gean sea. Everybody knows that familiar picture,--with the wide and open collar, the great eyes, the wild hair, and the ample neckcloth flowing in the breeze. It is pretty but it is not like the real man. If ever at any time he was that sentimental image he speedily outgrew that condition, just as those observers of him who truly understand Byron have long outgrown their juvenile sympathy with that frail and puny ideal of a great poet. Manhood perceives a different individual and is captured by a different attraction. It is only when the first extravagant and effusive enthusiasm has run its course, and perhaps ended in revulsion, that we come to know Byron for what he actually is, and to feel the tremendous power of his genius. Sentimental folly has commemorated him, in the margin of Hyde Park, as in the fancy of many a callow youth and green girl, with the statue of a sailor-lad waiting for a spark from heaven, while a Newfoundland dog dozes at his feet. It is a caricature. Byron was a man, and terribly in earnest; and it is only by earnest persons that his mind and works are understood. At this distance of time the scandals of a corrupt age, equally with the frailties of its most brilliant and most illustrious poetical genius, may well be left to rest in the oblivion of the grave. The generation that is living at the close of the nineteenth century will remember of Byron only that he was the uncompromising friend of liberty; that he did much to emancipate the human mind from every form of bigotry and tyranny; that he augmented, as no man had done since Dryden, the power and flexibility of the noble English tongue; and that he enriched literature with passages of poetry which, for sublimity, beauty, tenderness, and eloquence, have seldom been equalled and have never been excelled. [Illustration: HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH] It was near the close of a fragrant, golden summer day [August 8, 1884], when, having driven out from Nottingham, I alighted in the market-place of the little town of Hucknall-Torkard, on a pilgrimage to the grave of Byron. The town is modern and commonplace in appearance,--a straggling collection of low brick dwellings, mostly occupied by colliers. On that day it appeared at its worst; for the widest part of its main street was filled with stalls, benches, wagons, and canvas-covered structures for the display of vegetables and other commodities, which were thus offered for sale; and it was thronged with rough, noisy, and dirty persons, intent on barter and traffic, and not indisposed to boisterous pranks and mirth, as they pushed and jostled each other, among the crowded booths. This main street ends at the wall of the graveyard in which stands the little gray church where Byron was buried. There is an iron gate in the centre of the wall, and in order to reach this it was necessary to thread the mazes of the market-place, and to push aside the canvas flaps of a peddler's stall which had been placed close against it. Next to the churchyard wall is a little cottage,[25] with its bit of garden, devoted in this instance to potatoes; and there, while waiting for the sexton, I talked with an aged man, who said that he remembered, as an eye-witness, the funeral of Byron. "The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs." He stated that he was eighty-two and that his name was William Callandyne. Pointing to the church, he indicated the place of the Byron vault. "I was the last man," he said, "that went down into it, before he was buried there. I was a young fellow then, and curious to see what was going on. The place was full of skulls and bones. I wish you could see my son; he's a clever lad, only he ought to have more of the _suaviter in modo_." Thus, with the garrulity of wandering age, he prattled on; but his mind was clear and his memory tenacious and positive. There is a good prospect from the region of Hucknall-Torkard church, and pointing into the distance, when his mind had been brought back to the subject of Byron, my venerable acquaintance now described, with minute specification of road and lane,--seeming to assume that the names and the turnings were familiar to his auditor,--the course of the funeral train from Nottingham to the church. "There were eleven carriages," he said. "They didn't go to the Abbey" (meaning Newstead), "but came directly here. There were many people to look at them. I remember all about it, and I'm an old man--eighty-two. You're an Italian, I should say," he added. By this time the sexton had come and unlocked the gate, and parting from Mr. Callandyne we presently made our way into the church of St. James, locking the churchyard gate behind us, to exclude rough and possibly mischievous followers. A strange and sad contrast, I thought, between this coarse and turbulent place, by a malign destiny ordained for the grave of Byron, and that peaceful, lovely, majestic church and precinct, at Stratford-upon-Avon, which enshrine the dust of Shakespeare! [Illustration: _Hucknall-Torkard Church._] The sexton of the church of St. James and the parish clerk of Hucknall-Torkard was Mr. John Brown, and a man of sympathetic intelligence, kind heart, and interesting character I found him to be,--large, dark, stalwart, but gentle alike in manner and feeling, and considerate of his visitor. The pilgrim to the literary shrines of England does not always find the neighbouring inhabitants either sympathetic with his reverence or conscious of especial sanctity or interest appertaining to the relics which they possess; but honest and manly John Brown of Hucknall-Torkard understood both the hallowing charm of the place and the sentiment, not to say the profound emotion, of the traveller who now beheld for the first time the tomb of Byron. This church has been restored and altered since Byron was buried in it, in 1824, yet it retains its fundamental structure and its ancient peculiarities. The tower, a fine specimen of Norman architecture, strongly built, dark and grim, gives indication of great age. It is of a kind often met with in ancient English towns: you may see its brothers at York, Shrewsbury, Canterbury, Worcester, Warwick, and in many places sprinkled over the northern heights of London: but amid its tame surroundings in this little colliery settlement it looms with a peculiar frowning majesty, a certain bleak loneliness, both unique and impressive. The church is of the customary crucial form,--a low stone structure, peak-roofed outside, but arched within, the roof being supported by four great pillars on either side of the centre aisle, and the ceiling being fashioned of heavy timbers forming almost a true arch above the nave. There are four large windows on each side of the church, and two on each side of the chancel, which is beneath a roof somewhat lower than that of the main building. Under the pavement of the chancel and back of the altar rail,--at which it was my privilege to kneel, while gazing upon this sacred spot,--is the grave of Byron.[26] Nothing is written on the stone that covers his sepulchre except the name of BYRON, with the dates of his birth and death, in brass letters, surrounded by a wreath of leaves, in brass, the gift of the King of Greece; and never did a name seem more stately or a place more hallowed. The dust of the poet reposes between that of his mother, on his right hand, and that of his Ada,--"sole daughter of my house and heart,"--on his left. The mother died on August 1, 1811; the daughter, who had by marriage become the Countess of Lovelace, in 1852. "I buried her with my own hands," said the sexton, John Brown, when, after a little time, he rejoined me at the altar rail. "I told them exactly where he was laid, when they wanted to put that brass on the stone; I remembered it well, for I lowered the coffin of the Countess of Lovelace into this vault, and laid her by her father's side." And when presently we went into a little vestry he produced the Register of Burials and displayed the record of that interment, in the following words: "1852. Died at 69 Cumberland Place, London. Buried December 3. Aged thirty-six.--Curtis Jackson." The Byrons were a short-lived race. The poet himself had just turned thirty-six; his mother was only forty-six when she passed away. This name of Curtis Jackson in the register was that of the rector or curate then incumbent but now departed. The register is a long narrow book made of parchment and full of various crabbéd handwritings,--a record similar to those which are so carefully treasured at the church of the Holy Trinity at Stratford; but it is more dilapidated. Another relic shown by John Brown was a bit of embroidery, presenting the arms of the Byron family. It had been used at Byron's funeral, and thereafter was long kept in the church, though latterly with but little care. When the Rev. Curtis Jackson came there he beheld this frail memorial with pious disapprobation. "He told me," said the sexton, "to take it home and burn it. I did take it home, but I didn't burn it; and when the new rector came he heard of it and asked me to bring it back, and a lady gave the frame to put it in." Framed it is, and likely now to be always preserved in this interesting church; and earnestly do I wish that I could remember, in order that I might speak it with honour, the name of the clergyman who could thus rebuke bigotry, and welcome and treasure in his church that shred of silk which once rested on the coffin of Byron. Still another relic preserved by John Brown is a large piece of cardboard bearing the inscription which is upon the coffin of the poet's mother, and which bore some part in the obsequies of that singular woman,--a creature full of faults, but the parent of a mighty genius, and capable of inspiring deep love. On the night after Byron arrived at Newstead, whither he repaired from London, on receiving news of her illness, only to find her dead, he was found sitting in the dark and sobbing beside the corse. "I had but one friend in the world," he said, "and she is gone." He was soon to publish _Childe Harold_, and to gain hosts of friends and have the world at his feet; but he spoke what he felt, and he spoke the truth, in that dark room on that desolate night. Thoughts of these things, and of many other strange passages and incidents in his brief, checkered, glorious, lamentable life, thronged into my mind as I stood there, in presence of those relics and so near his dust, while the church grew dark and the silence seemed to deepen in the dusk of the gathering night. [Illustration: _Hucknall-Torkard Church--Interior._] They have for many years kept a book at the church of Hucknall-Torkard [the first one, an album given by Sir John Bowring, containing the record of visitations from 1825 to 1834, disappeared[27] in the latter year, or soon after], in which the visitors write their names; but the catalogue of pilgrims during the last fifty years is not a long one. The votaries of Byron are far less numerous than those of Shakespeare. Custom has made the visit to Stratford "a property of easiness," and Shakespeare is a safe no less than a rightful object of worship. The visit to Hucknall-Torkard is neither so easy nor so agreeable, and it requires some courage to be a votary of Byron,--and to own it. No day passes without bringing its visitor to the Shakespeare cottage and the Shakespeare tomb; many days pass without bringing a stranger to the church of St. James. On the capital of a column near Byron's tomb I saw two mouldering wreaths of laurel, which had hung there for several years; one brought by the Bishop of Norwich, the other by the American poet Joaquin Miller. It was good to see them, and especially to see them close by the tablet of white marble which was placed on that church wall to commemorate the poet, and to be her witness in death, by his loving and beloved sister Augusta Mary Leigh,--a name that is the synonym of noble fidelity, a name that in our day cruel detraction and hideous calumny have done their worst to tarnish. That tablet names him "The Author of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"; and if the conviction of thoughtful men and women throughout the world can be accepted as an authority, no name in the long annals of English literature is more certain of immortality than the name of Byron. People mention the poetry of Spenser and Cowley and Dryden and Cowper, but the poetry of Byron they read. His reputation can afford the absence of all memorial to him in Westminster Abbey, and it can endure the neglect and censure of the precinct of Nottingham. That city rejoices in a stately castle throned upon a rock, and persons who admire the Stuarts may exult in the recollection that there the standard of Charles the First was unfurled, in his fatal war with the Parliament of England; but all that really hallows it for the stranger of to-day and for posterity is its association with the name of Byron. The stranger will look in vain, however, for any adequate sign of his former association with that place. It is difficult even to find prints or photographs of the Byron shrines, in the shops of Nottingham. One dealer, from whom I bought all the Byron pictures that he possessed, was kind enough to explain the situation, in one expressive sentence: "Much more ought to be done here as to Lord Byron's memory, that is the truth; but the fact is, the first families of the county don't approve of him." When we came again into the churchyard, with its many scattered graves and its quaint stones and crosses leaning every way, and huddled in a strange kind of orderly confusion, the great dark tower stood out bold and solitary in the gloaming, and a chill wind of evening had begun to moan around its pinnacles, and through its mysterious belfry windows, and in the few trees near by, which gave forth a mournful whisper. It was hard to leave the place, and for a long time I stood near the chapel, just above the outer wall of the Byron vault. And there the sexton told me the story of the White Lady,--pointing, as he spoke, to a cottage abutting on the churchyard, one window in which commands a clear view of the place of Byron's grave. [That house has since been removed.] "There she lived," he said, "and there she died, and there," pointing to an unmarked grave near the pathway, about thirty feet from the Byron vault, "I buried her." It is impossible to give his words or to indicate his earnest manner. In brief, this lady, whose past no one knew, had taken up her residence in this cottage long subsequent to the burial of Byron, and had remained there until she died. She was pale, thin, handsome, and she wore white garments. Her face was often to be seen at that window, whether by night or day, and she seemed to be watching the tomb. Once, when masons were repairing the church wall, she was enabled to descend into that vault, and therefrom she obtained a skull, which she declared to be Byron's, and which she scraped, polished, and made perfectly white, and kept always beneath her pillow. It was her request, often made to the sexton, that she might be buried in the churchyard, close to the wall of the poet's tomb. "When at last she died," said John Brown, "they brought that skull to me, and I buried it there in the ground. It was one of the loose skulls from the old vault. She thought it was Byron's, and it pleased her to think so. I might have laid her close to this wall. I don't know why I didn't." In those words the sexton's story ended. It was only one more of the myriad hints of that romance which the life and poetry of Byron have so widely created and diffused. I glanced around for some relic of the place that might properly be taken away: there was neither an ivy leaf shining upon the wall nor a flower growing in all that ground; but into a crevice of the rock, just above his tomb, the wind had at some time blown a little earth, and in this a few blades of grass were thinly rooted. These I gathered, and still possess, as a memento of an evening at Byron's grave. NOTE ON THE MISSING REGISTER OF HUCKNALL-TORKARD CHURCH The Album that was given to Hucknall-Torkard church, in 1825, by Sir John Bowring, to be used as a register of the names of visitors to Byron's tomb, disappeared from that church in the year 1834, or soon after, and it is supposed to have been stolen. In 1834 its contents were printed,--from a manuscript copy of it, which had been obtained from the sexton,--in a book of selections from Byron's prose, edited by "J. M. L." Those initials stand for the name of Joseph Munt Langford, who died in 1884. The dedication of the register is in the following words: "To the immortal and illustrious fame of LORD BYRON, the first poet of the age in which he lived, these tributes, weak and unworthy of him, but in themselves sincere, are inscribed with the deepest reverence.--July 1825." At that time no memorial of any kind had been placed in the church to mark the poet's sepulchre: a fact which prompted Sir John Bowring to begin his Album with twenty-eight lines of verse, of which these are the best: "A still, resistless influence, Unseen but felt, binds up the sense ... And though the master hand is cold, And though the lyre it once controlled Rests mute in death, yet from the gloom Which dwells about this holy tomb Silence breathes out more eloquent Than epitaph or monument." This register was used from 1825 till 1834. It contains eight hundred and fifteen names, with which are intertwined twenty-eight inscriptions in verse and thirty-six in prose. The first name is that of Count Pietro Gamba, who visited his friend's grave on January 31, 1825: but this must have been a reminiscent memorandum, as the book was not opened till the following July. The next entry was made by Byron's old servant, the date being September 23, 1825: "William Fletcher visited his ever-to-be-lamented lord and master's tomb." On September 21, 1828, the following singular record was written: "Joseph Carr, engraver, Hound's Gate, Nottingham, visited this place for the first time to witness the funeral of Lady Byron [mother of the much lamented late Lord Byron], August 9th, 1811, whose coffin-plate I engraved, and now I once more revisit the spot to drop a tear as a tribute of unfeigned respect to the mortal remains of that noble British bard. 'Tho' lost to sight, to memory dear.'" The next notable entry is that of September 3, 1829: "Lord Byron's sister, the Honourable Augusta Mary Leigh, visited this church." Under the date of January 8, 1832, are found the names of "M. Van Buren, Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States; Washington Irving; John Van Buren, New York, U.S.A., and J. Wildman." The latter was Colonel Wildman, the proprietor of Newstead Abbey, Byron's old home, now owned by Colonel Webb. On August 5, 1832, "Mr. Bunn, manager of Drury Lane theatre, honoured by the acquaintance of the illustrious poet, visited Lord Byron's tomb, with a party." Edward F. Flower and Selina Flower, of Stratford-upon-Avon, record their presence, on September 15, 1832,--the parents of Charles Edward Flower and Edgar Flower, of Stratford, the former being the founder of the Shakespeare Memorial. There are several eccentric tributes in the register, but the most of them are feeble. One of the better kind is this: "Not in that palace where the dead repose In splendid holiness, where Time has spread His sombre shadows, and a halo glows Around the ashes of the mighty dead, Life's weary pilgrim rests his aching head. This is his resting-place, and save his own No light, no glory round his grave is shed: But memory journeys to his shrine alone To mark how sound he sleeps, beneath yon simple stone. "Ah, say, art thou ambitious? thy young breast-- Oh, does it pant for honours? dost thou chase The phantom Fame, in fairy colours drest, Expecting all the while to win the race? Oh, does the flush of youth adorn thy face And dost thou deem it lasting? dost thou crave The hero's wreath, the poet's meed of praise? Learn that of this, these, all, not one can save From the chill hand of death. Behold Childe Harold's grave!" CHAPTER IX HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE Stratford-upon-Avon, August 20, 1889.--The traveller who hurries through Warwickshire,--and American travellers mostly do hurry through it,--appreciates but little the things that he sees, and does not understand how much he loses. The customary course is to lodge at the Red Horse, which is one of the most comfortable houses in England, and thus to enjoy the associations that are connected with the visits of Washington Irving. His parlour, his bedroom (number 15), his arm-chair, his poker, and the sexton's clock, mentioned by him in the _Sketch Book_, are all to be seen, if your lightning-express conductor will give you time enough to see them. From the Red Horse you are taken in a carriage, when you ought to be allowed to proceed on foot, and the usual round includes the Shakespeare Birthplace; the Grammar School and Guild chapel; the remains of New Place; Trinity church and the Shakespeare graves in its chancel; Anne Hathaway's cottage at Shottery; and, perhaps, the Shakespeare Memorial library and theatre. These are impressive sights to the lover of Shakespeare; but when you have seen all these you have only begun to see the riches of Stratford-upon-Avon. It is only by living in the town, by making yourself familiar with it in all its moods, by viewing it in storm as well as in sunshine, by roaming through its quaint, deserted streets in the lonely hours of the night, by sailing up and down the beautiful Avon, by driving and walking in the green lanes that twine about it for many miles in every direction, by becoming, in fact, a part of its actual being, that you obtain a genuine knowledge of that delightful place. Familiarity, in this case, does not breed contempt. The worst you will ever learn of Stratford is that gossip thrives in it; that its intellect is, with due exception, narrow and sleepy; and that it is heavily ridden by the ecclesiastical establishment. You will never find anything that can detract from the impression of beauty and repose made upon your mind by the sweet retirement of its situation, by the majesty of its venerable monuments, and by the opulent, diversified splendours of its natural and historical environment. On the contrary, the more you know of those charms the more you will love the town, and the greater will be the benefit of high thought and spiritual exaltation that you will derive from your knowledge of it; and hence it is important that the American traveller should be counselled for his own sake to live a little while in Stratford instead of treating it as an incident of his journey. [Illustration: _The Red Horse Hotel._] The occasion of a garden party at the rectory of a clerical friend at Butler's Marston gave opportunity to see one of the many picturesque and happy homes with which this region abounds. The lawns there are ample and sumptuous. The dwelling and the church, which are close to each other, are bowered in great trees. From the terraces a lovely view may be obtained of the richly coloured and finely cultivated fields, stretching away toward Edgehill, which lies southeast from Stratford-upon-Avon about sixteen miles away, and marks the beginning of the Vale of the Red Horse. In the churchyard are the gray, lichen-covered remains of one of those ancient crosses from the steps of which the monks preached, in the early days of the church. Relics of this class are deeply interesting for what they suggest of the people and the life of earlier times. A fine specimen of the ancient cross may be seen at Henley-in-Arden, a few miles northwest of Stratford, where it stands, in mouldering majesty in the centre of the village,--strangely inharmonious with the petty shops and numerous inns of which that long and straggling but characteristic and attractive settlement is composed. The tower of the church at Butler's Marston, a gray, grim structure, "four-square to opposition," was built in the eleventh century,--a period of much ecclesiastical activity in the British islands. Within it I found a noble pulpit, of carved oak, dark with age, of the time of James the First. There are many commemorative stones in the church, on one of which appears this lovely couplet, addressed to the shade of a young girl: "Sleep, gentle soul, and wait thy Maker's will! Then rise unchanged, and be an angel still." The present village of Butler's Marston,--a little group of cottages clustered upon the margin of a tiny stream and almost hidden in a wooded dell,--is comparatively new; for it has arisen since the time of the Puritan civil war. The old village was swept away by the Roundheads, when Essex and Hampden came down to fight King Charles at Edgehill, in 1642. That fierce strife raged all along the country-side, and you may still perceive there, in the inequalities of the land, the sites on which houses formerly stood. It is a sweet and peaceful place now, smiling with flowers and musical with the rustle of the leaves of giant elms. The clergyman farms his own glebe, and he has expended more than a thousand pounds in the renovation of his manse. The church "living" is not worth much more than a hundred pounds a year, and when he leaves the dwelling, if he should ever leave it, he loses the value of all the improvements that he has made. This he mentioned with a contented smile. The place, in fact, is a little paradise, and as I looked across the green and golden fields, and saw the herds at rest and the wheat waving in sun and shadow, and thought of the simple life of the handful of people congregated here, the words of Gray came murmuring into my mind: "Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way." [Illustration: _The Grammar School, Stratford._] "Unregarded age, in corners thrown." Was that fine line suggested to Shakespeare by the spectacle of the almshouses of the Guild, which stood in his time, just as they stand now, close to the spot where he lived and died? New Place, Shakespeare's home, stood on the northeast corner of Chapel street and Chapel lane. The Guild chapel stands on the southeast corner of those streets, immediately opposite to what was once the poet's home. Southward from the chapel, and adjoining to it, extends the long, low, sombre building that contains the Free Grammar School, founded by Thomas Jolyffe in 1482, and refounded in 1553 by King Edward the Sixth. In that grammar school, there is reason to believe, Shakespeare was educated; at first by Walter Roche, afterward by Simon Hunt,--who doubtless birched the little boys then, even as the head-master does now; it being a cardinal principle with the British educator that learning, like other goods, should be delivered in the rear. In those almshouses doubtless there were many forlorn inmates, even as there are at present,--and Shakespeare must often have seen them. On visiting one of the bedesmen I found him moving slowly, with that mild, aimless, inert manner and that bleak aspect peculiar to such remnants of vanishing life, among the vegetable vines and the profuse, rambling flowers in the sunny garden behind the house; and presently I went into his humble room and sat by his fireside. The scene was the perfect fulfilment of Shakespeare's line. A stone floor. A low ceiling crossed with dusky beams. Walls that had been whitewashed long ago. A small iron kettle, with water in it, simmering over a few smouldering coals. A rough bed, in a corner. A little table, on which were three conch-shells ranged in a row. An old arm-chair, on which were a few coarse wads of horsehair, as a cushion. A bench, whereon lay a torn, tattered, soiled copy of the prayer book of the church of England, beginning at the epiphany. This sumptuous place was lighted by a lattice of small leaded panes. And upon one of the walls hung a framed placard of worsted work, bearing the inscription, "Blessed be the Lord for His Unspeakable Gift." The aged, infirm pensioner doddered about the room, and when he was asked what had become of his wife his dull eyes filled with tears and he said simply that she was dead. "So runs the world away." The summons surely cannot be unwelcome that calls such an old and lonely pilgrim as that to his rest in yonder churchyard and to his lost wife who is waiting for him. [Illustration: _Interior of the Grammar School._] Warwickshire is hallowed by shining names of persons illustrious in the annals of art. Drayton, Greene, and Heminge, who belong to the Shakespeare period, were born there. Walter Savage Landor was a native of Warwick,--in which quaint and charming town you may see the house of his birth, duly marked. Croft, the composer, was born near Ettington, hard by Stratford: there is a tiny monument, commemorative of him, in the ruins of Ettington church, near the manor-house of Shirley. And in our own day Warwickshire has enriched the world with "George Eliot" and with that matchless actress,--the one Ophelia and the one Beatrice of our age--Ellen Terry. But it is a chief characteristic of England that whichever way you turn in it your footsteps fall on haunted ground. Everyday life here is continually impressed by incidents of historic association. In an old church at Greenwich I asked that I might be directed to the tomb of General Wolfe. "He is buried just beneath where you are now standing," the custodian said. It was an elderly woman who showed the place, and she presently stated that when a girl she once entered the vault beneath that church and stood beside the coffin of General Wolfe and took a piece of laurel from it, and also took a piece of the red velvet pall from the coffin of the old Duchess of Bolton, close by. That Duchess was Lavinia Fenton, the first representative of Polly Peachem, in _The Beggars' Opera_, who died in 1760, aged fifty-two.[28] "Lord Clive," the dame added, "is buried in the same vault with Wolfe." An impressive thought, that the ashes of the man who established Britain's power in America should at last mingle with the ashes of the man who gave India to England! CHAPTER X SHAKESPEARE'S TOWN To traverse Stratford-upon-Avon is to return upon old tracks, but no matter how often you visit that delightful place you will always see new sights in it and find new incidents. After repeated visits to Shakespeare's town the traveller begins to take more notice than perhaps at first he did of its everyday life. In former days the observer had no eyes except for the Shakespeare shrines. The addition of a new wing to the ancient, storied, home-like Red Horse, the new gardens around the Memorial theatre, the completed chime of Trinity bells,--these, and matters like to these, attract attention now. And now, too, I have rambled, in the gloaming, through scented fields to Clifford church; and strolled through many a green lane to beautiful Preston; and climbed Borden hill; and stood by the maypole on Welford common; and journeyed along the battle-haunted crest of Edgehill; and rested at venerable Compton-Wynyate;[29] and climbed the hills of Welcombe to peer into the darkening valleys of the Avon and hear the cuckoo-note echoed and re-echoed from rhododendron groves, and from the great, mysterious elms that embower this country-side for miles and miles around. This is the life of Stratford to-day,--the fertile farms, the garnished meadows, the avenues of white and coral hawthorn, masses of milky snow-ball, honeysuckle and syringa loading the soft air with fragrance, chestnuts dropping blooms of pink and white, and laburnums swinging their golden censers in the breeze. [Illustration: _Trinity Church--Stratford-upon-Avon._] The building that forms the southeast corner of High street and Bridge street in Stratford was once occupied by Thomas Quiney, a wine-dealer, who married the poet's youngest daughter, Judith, and an inscription appears upon it, stating that Judith lived in it for thirty-six years. Richard Savage, that competent, patient, diligent student of the church registers and other documentary treasures of Warwickshire, furnished the proof of this fact, from investigation of the town records--which is but one of many services that he has rendered to the old home of Shakespeare. The Quiney premises are now occupied by Edward Fox, a journalist, a printer, and a dealer in souvenirs of Shakespeare and of Stratford. That house, in old times, was officially styled The Cage, because it had been used as a prison. Standing in the cellar of it you perceive that its walls are four feet thick. There likewise are seen traces of the grooves down which the wine-casks were rolled, in the days of Shakespeare's son-in-law, Thomas Quiney. The business now carried on by Edward Fox has been established in Stratford more than a hundred years, and, as this tenant has a long lease of the building and is of an energetic spirit in his pursuits, it bids fair to last as much longer. An indication of Mr. Fox's sagacity was revealed to me in the cellar, where was heaped a quantity of old oak, taken, in 1887, from the belfry of Trinity church, in which Shakespeare is buried. This oak, which was there when Shakespeare lived, and which had to be removed because a stronger structure was required for sustaining an augmented chime of heavy bells, will be converted into various carved relics, such as must find favour with Shakespeare worshippers,--of whom more than sixteen thousand visited Stratford in 1887, at least one-fourth of that number [4482] being Americans. A cross made of the belfry wood is a pleasing souvenir of the hallowed Shakespeare church. When the poet saw that church the tower was surmounted, not as now with a graceful stone spire, but with a spire of timber, covered with lead. This was removed, and was replaced by the stone spire, in 1763. The oak frame to support the bells, however, had been in the tower more than three hundred years. [Illustration: _The Shakespeare Memorial Theatre._] The two sculptured groups, emblematic of Comedy and Tragedy, which have been placed upon the front of the Shakespeare Memorial theatre, are the gain of a benefit performance, given in that building on August 29, 1885, by Miss Mary Anderson,[30] who then, for the first time in her life, impersonated Shakespeare's Rosalind. That actress, after her first visit to Stratford,--a private visit made in 1883,--manifested a deep interest in the town, and because of her services to the Shakespeare Memorial she is now one of its life-governors. Those services completed the exterior decorations of the building. The emblem of History had already been put in its place,--the scene in _King John_ in which Prince Arthur melts the cruel purpose of Hubert to burn out his eyes. Tragedy is represented by Hamlet and the Gravedigger, in their colloquy over Yorick's skull. In the emblem of Comedy the figure of Rosalind is that of Miss Mary Anderson, in a boy's dress,--a figure that may be deemed inadequate to the original, but one that certainly is expressive of the ingenuous demeanour and artless grace of that gentle lady. The grounds south of the Memorial are diversified and adorned with lawns, trees, flowers, and commodious pathways, and that lovely, park-like enclosure,--thus beautified through the liberality of Charles Edward Flower [obiit, May 3, 1892], the original promoter of the Memorial,--is now free to the people, "to walk abroad and recreate themselves" beside the Avon. The picture gallery of the Memorial lacks many things that are needed. The library continues to grow, but the American department of it needs accessions. Every American edition of Shakespeare ought to be there, and every book of American origin, on a Shakespeare subject. It was at one time purposed to set up a special case, surmounted with the American ensign, for the reception of contributions from Americans. The library contained, in March, 1890, five thousand seven hundred and ninety volumes, in various languages. [Now, in 1896, it comprises about eight thousand volumes.] Of English editions of the complete works of Shakespeare it contains two hundred and nine. A Russian translation of Shakespeare, in nine volumes, appears in the collection, together with three complete editions in Dutch. An elaborate and beautiful catalogue of those treasures, made by Mr. Frederic Hawley, records them in an imperishable form. Mr. Hawley, long the librarian of the Memorial, died at Stratford on March 13, 1889, aged sixty-two, and was buried at Kensal Green, in London, his wish being that his ashes should rest in that place. Mr. Hawley had been an actor, under the name of Haywell, and he was the author of more than one tragedy, in blank verse. Mr. A. H. Wall, who succeeded him as librarian,[31] is a learned antiquary and an admired writer. To him the readers of the _Stratford-upon-Avon Herald_ are indebted for instructive articles,--notably for those giving an account of the original Shakespeare quartos acquired for the Memorial library at the sale of the literary property of J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps. Those quartos are the _Merchant of Venice_, the _Merry Wives of Windsor_, and a first edition of _Pericles_. A copy of _Roger of Faversham_ was also bought, together with two of the plays of Aphra Behn. Charles Edward Flower purchased, at that sale, a copy of the first folio of Shakespeare, and the four Shakespeare Folios, 1623, 1632, 1663, 1685, stand side by side in his private library at Avonbank. Mr. Flower intimated the intention of giving them to the Memorial library. [His death did not defeat that purpose. Those precious books are now in the Memorial collection.] A large collection of old writings was found in a room of the Grammar School, adjacent to the Guild chapel, in 1887. About five thousand separate papers were discovered, the old commingled with the new; many of them indentures of apprenticeship; many of them receipts for money; no one of them especially important, as bearing on the Shakespeare story. Several of them are in Latin. The earliest date is 1560,--four years before the poet was born. One document is a memorandum "presenting" a couple of the wives of Stratford for slander of certain other women, and quoting their bad language with startling fidelity. Another is a letter from a citizen of London, named Smart, establishing and endowing a free school in Stratford for teaching English,--the writer quaintly remarking that schools for the teaching of Latin are numerous, while no school for teaching English exists, that he can discover. Those papers have been classified and arranged by Richard Savage, but nothing directly pertinent to Shakespeare has been found in them. I saw a deed that bore the "mark" of Joan, sister of Mary Arden, Shakespeare's mother, but this may not be a recent discovery. All those papers are written in that "cramped penmanship" which baffled Tony Lumpkin, and which baffles wiser people than he was. Richard Savage, however, is skilful in reading this crooked and queer calligraphy; and the materials and the duty of exploring them are in the right hands. When the researches and conclusions of that scholar are published they will augment the mass of evidence already extant,--much of it well presented by J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps,--that the writer of Shakespeare's plays was a man familiar with the neighbourhood, the names, and the everyday life of Stratford-upon-Avon; a fact which is not without its admonitory suggestiveness to those credulous persons who incline to heed the ignorant and idle theories and conjectures of Mr. Ignatius Donnelly. That mistaken and somewhat mischievous writer visited Shakespeare's town in the summer of 1888, and surveyed the scenes that are usually viewed. "He did not address himself to me," said Miss Chattaway, who was then at the Birthplace, as its custodian; "had he done so I should have informed him that, in Stratford, Bacon is all gammon." She was right. So it is. And not alone in Stratford, but wherever men and women have eyes to see and brains to understand. [Illustration: _An Old Stratford Character: George Robbins. Died September 17, 1889, aged 78._] The spot on which Shakespeare died ought surely to be deemed as sacred as the spot on which he was born: yet New Place is not as much visited as the Birthplace,--perhaps because so little of it remains. Only five hundred and thirty-seven visitors went there during the year ending April 13, 1888.[32] In repairing the custodian's house at New Place the crossed timbers in the one remaining fragment of the north wall of the original structure were found, beneath plaster. Those have been left uncovered and their dark lines add to the picturesque effect of the place. The aspect of the old house prior to 1742 is known but vaguely, if at all. Shakespeare bought it in 1597, when he was thirty-three years old, and he kept it till his death, nineteen years later. The street, Chapel lane, that separates it from the Guild chapel was narrower than it is now, and the house stood in a grassy enclosure, encompassed by a wall, the entrance to the garden being at some distance eastward in the lane, toward the river. The chief rooms in New Place were lined with square, sunken panels of oak, which covered the walls from floor to roof and probably formed the ceilings. Some of those panels,--obtained when the Rev. Francis Gastrell tore down that house in 1759,--may be seen in a parlour of the Falcon hotel, at the corner of Scholar's lane and Chapel street. There is nothing left of New Place but the old well in the cellar, the fragments of the foundation, the lintel, the armorial stone, and the fragment of wall that forms part of the custodian's house. That custodian, Mr. Bower Bulmer, a pleasant, appreciative, and genial man, died on January 17, 1888, and his widow succeeded him in office.[33] Another conspicuous and interesting Stratford figure, well known and for a long time, was John Marshall, the antiquary, who died on June 26, 1887. Mr. Marshall occupied the building next but one to the original New Place, on the north side,--the house once tenanted by Julius Shaw, one of the five witnesses to Shakespeare's will. Mr. Marshall sold Shakespeare souvenirs and quaint furniture. He had remarkable skill in carving, and his mind was full of knowledge of Shakespeare antiquities and the traditional lore of Stratford. His kindness, his eccentric ways, his elaborate forms of speech, and his love and faculty for art commended him to the respect and sympathy of all who knew him. He was a character,--and in such a place as Stratford such quaint beings are appropriate and uncommonly delightful. He will long be kindly remembered, long missed from his accustomed round. He rests now, in an unmarked grave, in Trinity churchyard, close to the bank of the Avon,--just east of the stone that marks the sepulchre of Mary Pickering; by which token the future pilgrim may know the spot. Marshall was well known to me, and we had many a talk about the antiquities of the town. Among my relics there was for some time [until at last I gave it to Edwin Booth], a precious piece of wood, bearing this inscription, written by him: "Old Oak from Shakespeare's Birth-place, taken out of the building when it was Restored in 1858 by Mr. William Holtom, the contractor for the restoration, who supplied it to John Marshall, carver, Stratford-on-Avon, and presented by him to W. Winter, August 27th, 1885, J. M." Another valued souvenir of this quaint person, given by his widow to Richard Savage, of the Birthplace,--a fine carved goblet, made from the wood of the renowned mulberry-tree planted by the poet in the garden of New Place, and cut down by the Rev. Francis Gastrell in 1756,--came into my possession, as a birthday gift from Mr. Savage, on July 15, 1891. At the Shakespeare Birthplace you will no longer meet with those gentle ladies,--so quaint, so characteristic, so harmonious with the place,--Miss Maria Chattaway and Miss Caroline Chattaway. The former was the official custodian of the cottage, and the latter assisted her in the work of its exposition. They retired from office in June, 1889, after seventeen years of service, the former aged seventy-six, the latter seventy-eight; and now,--being infirm, and incapable of the active, incessant labour that was required of them by the multitude of visitors,--they dwell in a little house in the Warwick Road, where their friends are welcomed, and where venerable and honoured age may haunt the chimney-corner, and "keep the flame from wasting, by repose."[34] The new guardian of the Shakespeare cottage is Joseph Skipsey,[35] of Newcastle, the miner poet: for Mr. Skipsey was trained in the mines of Northumberland, was long a labourer in them, and his muse sings in the simple accents of nature. He is the author of an essay on Burns, and of various other essays and miscellaneous writings. An edition of his poems, under the title of _Carols, Songs, and Ballads_ has been published in London, by Walter Scott, and that book will be found interesting by those who enjoy the study of original character and of a rhythmical expression that does not savour of any poetical school. Mr. Skipsey is an elderly man, with grizzled hair, a benevolent countenance, and a simple, cordial manner. He spoke to me, with much animation, about American poets, and especially about Richard Henry Stoddard, in whose rare and fine genius he manifested a deep, thoughtful, and gratifying interest. The visitor no longer hears that earnest, formal, characteristic recital, descriptive of the house, that was given daily and repeatedly, for so many years, by Miss Caroline Chattaway,--that delightful allusion to "the mighty dome" that was the "fit place for the mighty brain." The Birthplace acquires new treasures from year to year,--mainly in its library, which is kept in perfect order by Richard Savage, that ideal antiquarian, who even collects and retains the bits of the stone floor of the Shakespeare room that become detached by age. In that library is preserved the original manuscript of Wheler's _History of Stratford_, together with his annotated and interleaved copy of the printed book, which is thus enriched with much new material relative to the antiquities of the storied town. In the Washington Irving parlour of the Red Horse the American traveller will find objects that are specially calculated to please his fancy and to deepen his interest in the place. Among them are the chair in which Irving sat; the sexton's clock to which he refers in the _Sketch Book_; an autograph letter by him; another by Longfellow; a view of Irving's house of Sunnyside; and pictures of Junius Booth, Edwin Booth, the elder and the present Jefferson, Miss Mary Anderson, Miss Ada Rehan, Elliston, Farren, Salvini, Henry Irving, and Miss Ellen Terry. To invest that valued room with an atmosphere at once literary and dramatic was the intention of its decorator, and this object has been attained. When Washington Irving visited Stratford and lodged at the Red Horse the "pretty chambermaid," to whom he alludes, in his gentle and genial account of that experience, was Sally Garner,--then, in fact, a middle-aged woman and plain rather than pretty. The head waiter was William Webb. Both those persons lived to an advanced age. Sally Garner was retired, on a pension, by Mr. Gardner, former proprietor of the Red Horse, and she died at Tanworth (not Tamworth, which is another place) and was buried there. Webb died at Stratford. He had been a waiter at the Red Horse for sixty years, and he was esteemed by all who knew him. His grave, in Stratford churchyard, remained unmarked, and it is one among the many that, unfortunately, were levelled and obliterated in 1888, under the rule of the present vicar. A few of the older residents of the town might perhaps be able to indicate its situation; but, practically, that relic of the past is gone,--and with it has vanished an element of valuable interest to the annual multitude of Shakespeare pilgrims upon whom the prosperity of Stratford is largely dependent, and for whom, if not for the inhabitants, every relic of its past should be perpetuated.[36] This sentiment is not without its practical influence. Among other good results of it is the restoration of the ancient timber front and the quaint gables of the Shakespeare hotel, which, already hallowed by its association with Garrick and the Jubilee of September 7, 1769, has now become one of the most picturesque, attractive, and representative buildings in Stratford. There is a resolute disposition among Stratford people to save and perpetuate everything that is associated, however remotely, with the name of Shakespeare. Mr. Charles Frederick Loggin,[37] a chemist in the High street, possesses a lock and key that were affixed to one of the doors in New Place, and also a sundial that reposed upon a pedestal in New Place garden, presumably in Shakespeare's time. The lock is made of brass; the key of iron, with an ornamented handle, of graceful design, but broken. On the lock appears an inscription stating that it was "taken from New Place in the year 1759, and preserved by John Lord, Esq." The sundial is made of copper, and upon its surface are Roman numerals distributed around the outer edge of the circle that encloses its rays. The corners of the plate are broken, and one side of it is bent. This injury was done to it by thieves, who wrenched it from its setting, on a night in 1759, and were just making away with it when they were captured and deprived of their plunder. The sundial also bears an inscription, certifying that it was preserved by Mr. Lord. New Place garden was at one time owned by one of Mr. Loggin's relatives, and from that former owner those Shakespeare relics were derived. Shakespeare's hand may have touched that lock, and Shakespeare's eyes may have looked upon that dial,--perhaps on the day when he made Jaques draw the immortal picture of Touchstone in the forest, moralising on the flight of time and the evanescence of earthly things. [_As You Like It_ was written in 1599-1600.] [Illustration: _Anne Hathaway's Cottage._] Another remote relic of Shakespeare is the shape of the foundation of Bishopton church, which remains traced, by ridges of the velvet sod, in a green field a little to the northwest of Stratford, in the direction of Wilmcote,--the birthplace of Shakespeare's mother, Mary Arden. The parish of Bishopton adjoins that of Shottery, and Bishopton is one of three places that have commonly been mentioned in association with Shakespeare's marriage with Anne Hathaway. Many scholars, indeed, incline to think that the wedding occurred there. The church was destroyed about eighty years ago. The house in Wilmcote, in which, as tradition declares, Mary Arden was born, is seen at the entrance to the village, and is conspicuous for its quaint dormer windows and for its mellow colours and impressive antiquity. Wilmcote is rougher in aspect than most of the villages of Warwickshire, and the country immediately around it is wild and bleak; but the hedges are full of wildflowers and are haunted by many birds; and the wide, green, lonesome fields, especially when you see them in the gloaming, possess that air of melancholy solitude,--vague, dream-like, and poetic rather than sad,--which always strongly sways the imaginative mind. Inside the Mary Arden cottage I saw nothing remarkable, except the massive old timbers. That house as well as the Anne Hathaway cottage at Shottery, will be purchased and added to the other several Trusts, of Shakespeare's Birthplace, the Museum, and New Place.[38] The Anne Hathaway cottage needs care, and as an authentic relic of Shakespeare and a charming bit of rustic antiquity its preservation is important, as well to lovers of the poet, all the world over, as to the town of Stratford, which thrives by his renown. The beautiful Guild chapel also needs care. The hand of restoration should, indeed, touch it lightly and reverently; but restored it must be, at no distant day, for every autumn storm shakes down fragments of its fretted masonry and despoils the venerable grandeur of that gray tower on which Shakespeare so often gazed from the windows of his hallowed home. Whatever is done there, fortunately for the Shakespearean world, will be done under the direction of a man of noble spirit, rare ability, sound scholarship, and fine taste,--the Rev. R. S. DeCourcy Laffan, head-master of the Grammar School and therefore pastor of the Guild.[39] Liberal in thought, manly in character, simple, sincere, and full of sensibility and goodness, that preacher strongly impresses all who approach him, and is one of the most imposing figures in the pulpit of his time. And he is a reverent Shakespearean. A modern feature of Stratford, interesting to the Shakespeare pilgrim, is Lord Ronald Gower's statue of the poet, erected in October, 1888, in the Memorial garden. That work is infelicitous in its site and not fortunate in all of its details, but in some particulars it is fine. Upon a huge pedestal appears the full-length bronze figure of Shakespeare, seated in a chair, while at the four corners of the base are bronze effigies of Hamlet, Lady Macbeth, Henry the Fifth, and Falstaff. Hamlet is the expression of a noble ideal. The face and figure are wasted with misery, yet full of thought and strength. The type of man thus embodied will at once be recognised,--an imperial, powerful, tender, gracious, but darkly introspective nature, broken and subjugated by hopeless grief and by vain brooding over the mystery of life and death. Lady Macbeth is depicted in her sleep-walking, and, although the figure is treated in a conventional manner, it conveys the idea of remorse and of physical emaciation from suffering, and likewise the sense of being haunted and accursed. Prince Henry is represented as he may have appeared when putting on his dying father's kingly crown. The figure is lithe, graceful, and spirited; the pose is true and the action is natural; but the personality is deficient of identity and of royal distinction. Falstaff appears as a fat man who is a type of gross, chuckling humour; so that this image might stand for Gambrinus. The intellect and the predominant character of Falstaff are not indicated. The figures are dwarfed, furthermore, by the size of the stone that they surround,--a huge pillar, upon which appropriate lines from Shakespeare have been inscribed. The statue of Shakespeare shows a man of solid self-concentration and adamantine will; an observer, of universal view, and incessant vigilance. The chief feature of it is the piercing look of the eyes. This is a man who sees, ponders, and records. Imagination and sensibility, on the other hand, are not suggested. The face lacks modelling: it is as smooth as the face of a child; there is not one characteristic curve or wrinkle in all its placid expanse. Perhaps it was designed to express an idea of eternal youth. The man who had gained Shakespeare's obvious experience must have risen to a composure not to be ruffled by anything that this world can do, to bless or to ban a human life. But the record of his struggle must have been written in his face. This may be a fine statue of a practical thinker, but it is not the image of a poet and it is not an adequate presentment of Shakespeare. The structure stands on the south side of the Memorial building and within a few feet of it, so that it is almost swallowed up by what was intended for its background. It would show to better advantage if it were placed further to the south, looking down the long reach of the Avon toward Shakespeare's church. The form of the poet could then be seen from the spot on which he died, while his face would still look, as it does now, toward his tomb. [Illustration: THE GOWER STATUE] A constant stream of American visitors pours annually through the Red Horse. Within three days of July, 1889, more than a hundred American names appeared in the register. The spirit of Washington Irving is mighty yet. Looking through a few of the old registers of this house, I read many familiar names of distinguished Americans. Bayard Taylor came here on July 23, 1856; James E. Murdoch, the famous Hamlet and Mirabel of other days, on August 31, 1856; Rev. Francis Vinton on June 10, 1857; Henry Ward Beecher on June 22, 1862; Elihu Burritt, "the learned blacksmith," on September 19, 1865; George Ripley on May 12, 1866. Poor Artemas Ward arrived on September 18, 1866,--only a little while before his death, which occurred in March, 1867, at Southampton. The Rev. Charles T. Brooks, translator of _Faust_, registered his name here on September 20, 1866. Charles Dudley Warner came on May 6, 1868; Mr. and Mrs. W. J. Florence on May 29, 1868; and S. R. Gifford and Jervis M'Entee on the same day. The poet Longfellow, accompanied by Thomas Appleton, arrived on June 23, 1868. Those Red Horse registers contain a unique and remarkable collection of autographs. Within a few pages, I observed the curiously contrasted signatures of Cardinal Wiseman, Sam Cowell, the Duc d'Aumale, Tom Thumb, Miss Burdett-Coutts (1861), Blanchard Jerrold, Edmund Yates, Charles Fechter, Andrew Carnegie, David Gray (of Buffalo), the Duchess of Coburg, Moses H. Grinnell, Lord Leigh, of Stoneleigh Abbey, J. M. Bellew, Samuel Longfellow, Charles and Henry Webb (the Dromios), Edna Dean Proctor, Gerald Massey, Clarence A. Seward, Frederick Maccabe, M. D. Conway, the Prince of Condé, and John L. Toole. That this repository of autographs is appreciated may be inferred from the fact that special vigilance has to be exercised to prevent the hotel registers from being carried off or mutilated. The volume containing the signature of Washington Irving was stolen years ago and it has been vaguely heard of as being in America. There is a collection of autographs of visitors to the Shakespeare Birthplace that was gathered many years since by Mary Hornby, custodian of that cottage [it was she who whitewashed the walls, in order to obliterate the writings upon them, when she was removed from her office, in 1820], and this is now in the possession of her granddaughter, Mrs. Smith,[40] a resident of Stratford; but many valuable names have been taken from it,--among others that of Lord Byron. The mania for obtaining relics of Stratford antiquity is remarkable. Mention is made of an unknown lady who came to the birth-room of Shakespeare, and after begging in vain for a piece of the woodwork or of the stone, presently knelt and wiped the floor with her glove, which then she carefully rolled up and secreted, declaring that she would, at least, possess some of the dust of that sacred chamber. It is a creditable sentiment, though not altogether a rational one, that impels devotional persons to such conduct as that; but the entire Shakespeare cottage would soon disappear if such a passion for relics were practically gratified. The elemental feeling is one of reverence, and this is perhaps indicated in the following lines with which the present writer began a new volume of the Red Horse register, on July 21, 1889:-- SHAKESPEARE. While evening waits and hearkens, While yet the song-bird calls,-- Before the last light darkens, Before the last leaf falls,-- Once more with reverent feeling This sacred shrine I seek, By silent awe revealing The love I cannot speak. [Illustration] CHAPTER XI UP AND DOWN THE AVON [Illustration: _Evesham._] Stratford-upon-Avon, August 22, 1889.--The river life of Stratford is one of the chief delights of this delightful town. The Avon, according to law, is navigable from its mouth, at Tewkesbury, where it empties into the Severn, as far upward as Warwick; but according to fact it is passable only to the resolute navigator who can surmount obstacles. From Tewkesbury up to Evesham there is plain sailing. Above Evesham there are occasional barriers. At Stratford there is an abrupt pause at Lucy's mill, and your boat must be taken ashore, dragged a little way over the meadow, and launched again. Lucy's mill is just south of the Shakespeare church, and from this point up to Clopton's bridge the river is broad. Here the boat-races are rowed, almost every year. Here the stream ripples against the pleasure-ground called the Bancroft, skirts the gardens of the Shakespeare Memorial, glides past the lovely lawns of Avonbank,--once the home of that noble public benefactor and fine Shakespearean scholar, Charles Edward Flower,--and breaks upon the retaining wall of the churchyard, crowned with the high and thick-leaved elms that nod and whisper over Shakespeare's dust. The town lies on the left or west bank of the Avon, as you ascend the river looking northward. On the right or east bank there is a wide stretch of meadow. To float along here in the gloaming, when the bats are winging their "cloistered flight," when great flocks of starlings are flying rapidly over, when "the crow makes wing to the rooky wood," when the water is as smooth as a mirror of burnished steel, and equally the grasses and flowers upon the banks and the stately trees and the gray, solemn, and beautiful church are reflected deep in the lucid stream, is an experience of thoughtful pleasure that sinks deep into the heart and will never be forgotten. You do not know Stratford till you know the Avon. [Illustration: _Clopton Bridge._] From Clopton's bridge upward the river winds capriciously between banks that are sometimes fringed with willows and sometimes bordered with grassy meadows or patches of woodland or cultivated lawns, enclosing villas that seem the chosen homes of all this world can give of loveliness and peace. The course is now entirely clear for several miles. Not till you pass the foot of Alveston village does any obstacle present itself; but there, as well as a little further on, by Hatton Rock, the stream runs shallow and the current becomes very swift, dashing over sandy banks and great masses of tangled grass and weeds. These are "the rapids," and through these the mariner must make his way by adroit steering and a vigorous and expert use of oars and boat-hooks. The Avon now is bowered by tall trees, and upon the height that it skirts you see the house of Ryon Hill,--celebrated in the novel of _Asphodel_, by Miss Braddon. This part of the river, closed in from the world and presenting in each direction twinkling vistas of sun and shadow, is especially lovely. Here, in a quiet hour, the creatures that live along these shores will freely show themselves and their busy ways. The water-rat comes out of his hole and nibbles at the reeds or swims sturdily across the stream. The moor-hen flutters out of her nest, among the long, green rushes, and skims from bank to bank. The nimble little wagtail flashes through the foliage. The squirrel leaps among the boughs, and the rabbit scampers into the thicket. Sometimes a kingfisher, with his shining azure shield, pauses for a moment among the gnarled roots upon the brink. Sometimes a heron, disturbed in her nest, rises suddenly upon her great wings and soars grandly away. Once, rowing down this river at nearly midnight, I surprised an otter and heard the splash of his precipitate retreat. The ghost of an old gypsy, who died by suicide upon this wooded shore, is said to haunt the neighbouring crag; but this, like all other ghosts that ever I came near, eluded equally my vision and my desire. But it is a weird spot at night. [Illustration: _Charlecote, from the Terrace._] Near Alveston mill you must drag your boat over a narrow strip of land and launch her again for Charlecote. Now once more this delicious water-way is broad and fine. As it sweeps past a stately, secluded home, once that of the ancient family of Peers, toward the Wellesbourne Road, a great bed of cultivated white water-lilies [hitherto they have all been yellow] adorns it, and soon there are glimpses of the deer that browse or prance or slumber beneath the magnificent oaks and elms and limes and chestnuts of Charlecote Park. No view of Charlecote can compare with the view of it that is obtained from the river; and if its proprietor values its reputation for beauty he ought to be glad that lovers of the beautiful sometimes have an opportunity to see it from this point. The older wing, with its oriel window and quaint belfry, is of a peculiar, mellow red, relieved against bright green ivy, to which only the brush of a painter could do justice. Nothing more delicious, in its way, is to be found; at least, the only piece of architecture in this region that excels it in beauty of colour is the ancient house of Compton-Wynyate; but that is a marvel of loveliness, the gem of Warwickshire, and, in romantic quaintness, it surpasses all its fellows. The towers of the main building of Charlecote are octagon, and a happy alternation of thin and slender with thick, truncated turrets much enhances the effect of quaintness in this grave and opulent edifice. A walled terrace, margined with urns and blazing with flowers of gold and crimson, extends from the river front to the waterside, and terminates in a broad flight of stone steps, at the foot of which are moored the barges of the house of Lucy. No spectacle could suggest more of aristocratic state and austere magnificence than this sequestered edifice does, standing there, silent, antique, venerable, gorgeous, surrounded by its vast, thick-wooded park, and musing, as it has done for hundreds of years, on the silver Avon that murmurs at its base. Close by there is a lovely waterfall, over which some little tributary of the river descends in a fivefold wave of shimmering crystal, wafting a music that is heard in every chamber of the house and in all the fields and woodlands round about. It needs the sun to bring out the rich colours of Charlecote, but once when I saw it from the river a storm was coming on, and vast masses of black and smoke-coloured cloud were driving over it, in shapeless blocks and jagged streamers, while countless frightened birds were whirling above it; and presently, when the fierce lightning flashed across the heavens and a deluge of rain descended and beat upon it, a more romantic sight was never seen. [Illustration: _The Abbey Mills, Tewkesbury._] Above Charlecote the Avon grows narrow for a space, and after you pass under Hampton Lucy bridge your boat is much entangled in river grass and much impeded by whirls and eddies of the shallowing stream. There is another mill at Hampton Lucy, and a little way beyond the village your further progress upward is stopped by a waterfall,--beyond which, however, and accessible by the usual expedient of dragging the boat over the land, a noble reach of the river is disclosed, stretching away toward Warwick, where the wonderful Castle, and sweet St. Mary's tower, and Leicester's hospital, and the cosy Warwick Arms await your coming,--with mouldering Kenilworth and majestic Stoneleigh Abbey reserved to lure you still further afield. But the scene around Hampton Lucy is not one to be quickly left. There the meadows are rich and green and fragrant. There the large trees give grateful shade and make sweet music in the summer wind. There, from the ruddy village, thin spires of blue smoke curl upward through the leaves and seem to tell of comfort and content beneath. At a little distance the gray tower of the noble church,--an edifice of peculiar and distinctive majesty, and one well worthy of the exceptional beauty enshrined within it,--rears itself among the elms. Close by the sleek and indolent cattle are couched upon the cool sod, looking at you with large, soft, lustrous, indifferent eyes. The waterfall sings on, with its low melancholy plaint, while sometimes the silver foam of it is caught up and whirled away by the breeze. The waves sparkle on the running stream, and the wildflowers, in gay myriads, glance and glimmer on the velvet shore. And so, as the sun is setting and the rooks begin to fly homeward, you breathe the fragrant air from Scarbank and look upon a veritable place that Shakespeare may have had in mind when he wrote his line of endless melody-- "I know a bank where the wild thyme blows."[41] CHAPTER XII RAMBLES IN ARDEN Stratford-upon-Avon, August 27, 1889.--Among the many charming rambles that may be enjoyed in the vicinity of Stratford, the ramble to Wootton-Wawen and Henley-in-Arden is not least delightful. Both those places are on the Birmingham road; the former six miles, the latter eight miles, from Stratford. When you stand upon the bridge at Wootton you are only one hundred miles from London, but you might be in a wilderness a thousand miles from any city, for in all the slumberous scene around you there is no hint of anything but solitude and peace. Close by a cataract tumbles over the rocks and fills the air with music. Not far distant rises the stately front of Wootton Hall, an old manor-house, surrounded with green lawns and bowered by majestic elms, which has always been a Roman Catholic abode, and which is never leased to any but Roman Catholic tenants. A cosy, gabled house, standing among trees and shrubs a little way from the roadside, is the residence of the priest of this hamlet,--an antiquarian and a scholar, of ample acquirements and fine talent. Across the meadows, in one direction, peers forth a fine specimen of the timbered cottage of ancient times,--the black beams conspicuous upon a white surface of plaster. Among the trees, in another direction, appears the great gray tower of Wootton-Wawen church, a venerable pile and one in which, by means of the varying orders of its architecture, you may, perhaps, trace the whole ecclesiastical history of England. The approach to that church is through a green lane and a wicket-gate, and when you come near to it you find that it is surrounded with many graves, some marked and some unmarked, on all of which the long grass waves in rank luxuriance and whispers softly in the summer breeze. The place seems deserted. Not a human creature is anywhere visible, and the only sound that breaks the stillness of this August afternoon is the cawing of a few rooks in the lofty tops of the neighbouring elms. The actual life of all places, when you come to know it well, proves to be, for the most part, conventional, commonplace, and petty. Human beings, with here and there an exception, are dull and tedious, each resembling the other, and each needlessly laborious to increase that resemblance. In this respect all parts of the world are alike,--and therefore the happiest traveller is he who keeps mostly alone, and uses his eyes, and communes with his own thoughts. The actual life of Wootton is, doubtless, much like that of other hamlets,--a "noiseless tenor" of church squabbles, village gossip, and discontented grumbling, diversified with feeding and drinking, lawn tennis, matrimony, birth, and death. But as I looked around upon this group of nestling cottages, these broad meadows, green and cool in the shadow of the densely mantled trees, and this ancient church, gray and faded with antiquity, slowly crumbling to pieces amid the fresh and everlasting vitality of nature, I felt that surely here might at last be discovered a permanent haven of refuge from the incessant platitude and triviality of ordinary experience and the strife and din of the world. [Illustration: WOOTTON-WAWEN CHURCH] Wootton-Wawen church is one of the numerous Roman Catholic buildings of about the eleventh century that still survive in this realm, devoted now to Protestant worship. It has been partly restored, but most of it is in a state of decay, and if this be not soon arrested the building will become a ruin. Its present vicar, the Rev. Francis T. Bramston, is making vigorous efforts to interest the public in the preservation of this ancient monument, and those efforts ought to succeed. A more valuable ecclesiastical relic it would be difficult to find, even in this rich region of antique treasures, the heart of England. Its sequestered situation and its sweetly rural surroundings invest it with peculiar beauty. It is associated, furthermore, with names that are stately in English history and honoured in English literature,--with Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, whose sister reposes in its ancient vaults, and with William Somerville [1692-1742], the poet who wrote _The Chase_. It was not until I actually stood upon his tombstone that my attention was directed to the name of that old author, and to the presence of his relics in this remote and lonely place. Somerville lived and died at Edston Hall, near Wootton-Wawen, and was famous in his day as a Warwickshire squire and huntsman. His grave is in the chancel of the church, the following excellent epitaph, written by himself, being inscribed upon the plain blue stone that covers it:-- H. S. E. OBIIT 17. JULY. 1742. GULIELMUS SOMERVILE. ARM. SI QUID IN ME BONI COMPERTUM HABEAS, IMITATE. SI QUID MALI, TOTIS VIRIBUS EVITA. CHRISTO CONFIDE, ET SCIAS TE QUOQUE FRAGILEM ESSE ET MORTALEM. Such words have a meaning that sinks deep into the heart when they are read upon the gravestone that covers the poet's dust. They came to me like a message from an old friend who had long been waiting for the opportunity of this solemn greeting and wise counsel. Another epitaph written by Somerville,--and one that shows equally the kindness of his heart and the quaintness of his character,--appears upon a little, low, lichen-covered stone in Wootton-Wawen churchyard, where it commemorates his huntsman and butler, Jacob Bocter, who was hurt in the hunting-field, and died of this accident:-- H. S. E. JACOBUS BOCTER. GULIELMO SOMERVILE ARMIGRO PROMUS ET CANIBUS VENATICIS PRAEPOSITOR DOMI. FORISQUE FIDELIS EQUO INTER VENANDUM CORUENTE ET INTESTINIS GRAVITER COLLISIS POST TRIDUUM DEPLORANDUS. OBIIT 28 DIE JAN., ANNO DNI 1719. AETAT 38. [Illustration: _Beaudesert Cross._] The pilgrim who rambles as far as Wootton-Wawen will surely stroll onward to Henley-in-Arden. The whole of that region was originally covered by the Forest of Arden[42]--the woods that Shakespeare had in mind when he was writing _As You Like It_, a comedy whereof the atmosphere, foliage, flowers, scenery, and spirit are purely those of his native Warwickshire. Henley, if the observer may judge by the numerous inns that fringe its long, straggling, picturesque street, must once have been a favourite halting-place for the coaches that plied between London and Birmingham. They are mostly disused now, and the little town sleeps in the sun and seems forgotten.[43] There is a beautiful specimen of the ancient market-cross in its centre,--gray and sombre and much frayed by the tooth of time. Close beside Henley, and accessible in a walk of a few minutes, is the church of Beaudesert, which is one of the most precious of the ecclesiastic gems of England. Here you will see architecture of mingled Saxon and Norman,--the solid Norman buttress, the castellated tower, the Saxon arch moulded in zigzag, which is more ancient than the dog-tooth, and the round, compact columns of the early English order. Above the church rises a noble mound, upon which, in the middle ages, stood a castle,--probably that of Peter de Montfort,--and from which a comprehensive and superb view may be obtained, over many miles of verdant meadow and bosky dell, interspersed with red-roofed villages from which the smoke of the cottage chimneys curls up in thin blue spirals under the gray and golden sunset sky. An old graveyard encircles the church, and by its orderly disorder,--the quaint, graceful work of capricious time,--enhances the charm of its venerable and storied age. There are only one hundred and forty-six persons in the parish of Beaudesert. I was privileged to speak with the aged rector, the Rev. John Anthony Pearson Linskill, and to view the church under his kindly guidance. In the ordinary course of nature it is unlikely that we shall ever meet again, but his goodness, his benevolent mind, and the charm of his artless talk will not be forgotten.[44] My walk that night took me miles away,--to Claverdon, and home by Bearley; and all the time it was my thought that the best moments of our lives are those in which we are touched, chastened, and ennobled by parting and by regret. Nothing is said so often as good-by. But, in the lovely words of Cowper, "The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown." [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN American interest in Stratford-upon-Avon springs out of a love for the works of Shakespeare as profound and passionate as that of the most sensitive and reverent of the poet's countrymen. It was the father of American literature, Washington Irving, who in modern times made the first pilgrimage to that holy land, and set the good example, which since has been followed by thousands, of worship at the shrine of Shakespeare. It was an American, the alert and expeditious P. T. Barnum, who by suddenly proposing to buy the Shakespeare cottage and transfer it to America startled the English into buying it for the nation. It is, in part, to Americans that Stratford owes the Shakespeare Memorial; for while the land on which it stands was given by that public-spirited citizen of Stratford, Charles Edward Flower,--a sound and reverent Shakespeare scholar, as his acting edition of the plays may testify,--and while money to pay for the building of it was freely contributed by wealthy residents of Warwickshire, and by men of all ranks throughout the kingdom, the gifts and labours of Americans were not lacking to that good cause. Edwin Booth was one of the earliest contributors to the Memorial fund, and the names of Mr. Herman Vezin, Mr. M. D. Conway, Mr. W. H. Reynolds, Mrs. Bateman, and Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton appear in the first list of its subscribers. Miss Kate Field worked for its advancement, with remarkable energy and practical success. Miss Mary Anderson acted for its benefit, on August 29, 1885. In the church of the Holy Trinity, where Shakespeare's dust is buried, a beautiful stained window, illustrative, scripturally, of that solemn epitome of human life which the poet makes in the speech of Jaques on the seven ages of man, evinces the practical devotion of the American pilgrim; and many a heart has been thrilled with reverent joy to see the soft light that streams through its pictured panes fall gently on the poet's grave. Wherever in Stratford you come upon anything associated, even remotely, with the name and fame of Shakespeare, there you will find the gracious tokens of American homage. The libraries of the Birthplace and of the Memorial alike contain gifts of American books. New Place and Anne Hathaway's cottage are never omitted from the American traveller's round of visitations and duty of practical tribute. The Falcon, with its store of relics; the romantic Shakespeare Hotel, with its rambling passages, its quaint rooms named after Shakespeare's characters, its antique bar parlour, and the rich collection of autographs and pictures that has been made by Mrs. Justins; the Grammar School, in which no doubt the poet, "with shining morning face" of boyhood, was once a pupil; John Marshall's antiquarian workshop, from which so many of the best souvenirs of Stratford have proceeded,--a warm remembrance of his own quaintness, kindness, and originality being perhaps the most precious of them; the Town Hall, adorned with Gainsborough's eloquent portrait of Garrick, to which no engraving does justice; the Guild chapel; the Clopton bridge; Lucy's mill; the footpath across fields and roads to Shottery, bosomed in great elms; and the ancient picturesque building, four miles away, at Wilmcote, which was the home of Mary Arden, Shakespeare's mother,--each and every one of those storied places receives, in turn, the tribute of the wandering American, and each repays him a hundredfold in charming suggestiveness of association, in high thought, and in the lasting impulse of sweet and soothing poetic reverie. At the Red Horse, where Mr. William Gardner Colbourne maintains the traditions of old-fashioned English hospitality, he finds his home; well pleased to muse and dream in Washington Irving's parlour, while the night deepens and the clock in the distant tower murmurs drowsily in its sleep. Those who will may mock at his enthusiasm. He would not feel it but for the spell that Shakespeare's genius has cast upon the world. He ought to be glad and grateful that he can feel that spell; and, since he does feel it, nothing could be more natural than his desire to signify that he too, though born far away from the old home of his race, and separated from it by three thousand miles of stormy ocean, has still his part in the divine legacy of Shakespeare, the treasure and the glory of the English tongue. [Illustration: _Henry Irving. 1888._] A noble token of this American sentiment, and a permanent object of interest to the pilgrim in Stratford, is supplied by the Jubilee gift of a drinking-fountain made to that city by George W. Childs of Philadelphia. It never is a surprise to hear of some new instance of that good man's constant activity and splendid generosity in good works; it is only an accustomed pleasure.[45] With fine-art testimonials in the old world as well as at home his name will always be honourably associated. A few years ago he presented a superb window of stained glass to Westminster Abbey, to commemorate, in Poets' Corner, George Herbert and William Cowper. He has since given to St. Margaret's church, Westminster, where John Skelton and Sir James Harrington [1611-1677] were entombed, and where was buried the headless body of Sir Walter Raleigh, a pictorial window commemorative of John Milton. His fountain at Stratford was dedicated on October 17, 1887, with appropriate ceremonies conducted by Sir Arthur Hodgson, of Clopton, then mayor, and amid general rejoicing. Henry Irving, the leader of the English stage and the most illustrious of English actors since the age of Garrick, delivered an address of singular felicity and eloquence, and also read a poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The countrymen of Mr. Childs are not less interested in this structure than the community that it was intended to honour and benefit. They observe with satisfaction and pride that he has made this beneficent, beautiful, and opulent offering to a town which, for all of them, is hallowed by exalted associations, and for many of them is endeared by delightful memories. They sympathise also with the motive and feeling that prompted him to offer his gift as one among many memorials of the fiftieth year of the reign of Queen Victoria. It is not every man who knows how to give with grace, and the good deed is "done double" that is done at the right time. Stratford had long been in need of such a fountain as Mr. Childs has given, and therefore it satisfies a public want, at the same time that it serves a purpose of ornamentation and bespeaks and strengthens a bond of international sympathy. Rother street, in which the structure stands, is the most considerable open place in Stratford, and is situated near the centre of the town, on the west side. There, as also at the intersection of High and Bridge streets, which are the principal thoroughfares of the city, the farmers, at stated intervals, range their beasts and wagons and hold a market. It is easy to foresee that Rother, embellished with this monument, which combines a convenient clock tower, a place of rest and refreshment for man, and commodious drinking-troughs for horses, cattle, dogs, and sheep, will soon become the agricultural centre of the region. [Illustration: THE STRATFORD FOUNTAIN] The base of the monument is made of Peterhead granite; the superstructure is of gray stone, from Bolton, Yorkshire. The height of the tower is fifty feet. On the north side a stream of water, flowing constantly from a bronze spout, falls into a polished granite basin. On the south side a door opens into the interior. The decorations include sculptures of the arms of Great Britain alternated with the eagle and stripes of the American republic. In the second story of the tower, lighted by glazed arches, is placed a clock, and on the outward faces of the third story appear four dials. There are four turrets surrounding a central spire, each surmounted with a gilded vane. The inscriptions on the base were devised by Sir Arthur Hodgson, and are these: I The gift of an American citizen, George W. Childs, of Philadelphia, to the town of Shakespeare, in the Jubilee year of Queen Victoria. II In her days every man shall eat, in safety Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. God shall be truly known: and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. _Henry VIII._, ACT V. SCENE 4. III Honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire. _Timon of Athens_, ACT I. SCENE 2. IV Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions.--_Washington Irving's Stratford-on-Avon._ Stratford-upon-Avon, fortunate in many things, is especially fortunate in being situated at a considerable distance from the main line of any railway. Two railroads skirt the town, but both are branches, and travel upon them has not yet become too frequent. Stratford, therefore, still retains a measure of its ancient isolation, and consequently a flavour of quaintness. Antique customs are still prevalent there, and odd characters may still be encountered. The current of village gossip flows with incessant vigour, and nothing happens in the place that is not thoroughly discussed by its inhabitants. An event so important as the establishment of the American Fountain would excite great interest throughout Warwickshire. It would be pleasant to hear the talk of those old cronies who drift into the bar parlour of the Red Horse on a Saturday evening, as they comment on the liberal American who has thus enriched and beautified their town. The Red Horse circle is but one of many in which the name of Childs is spoken with esteem and cherished with affection. The present writer has made many visits to Stratford and has passed much time there, and he has observed on many occasions the admiration and gratitude of the Warwickshire people for the American philanthropist. In the library of Charles Edward Flower, at Avonbank; in the opulent mansion of Edgar Flower, at the Hill; in the lovely home of Alderman Bird; at the hospitable table of Sir Arthur Hodgson, in Clopton; and in many other representative places he has heard that name spoken, and always with delight and honour. Time will only deepen and widen the loving respect with which it is hallowed. In England, more than anywhere else on earth, the record of good deeds is made permanent, not alone with imperishable symbols, but in the hearts of the people. The inhabitants of Warwickshire, guarding and maintaining their Stratford Fountain, will not forget by whom it was given. Wherever you go, in the British islands, you find memorials of the past and of individuals who have done good deeds in their time, and you also find that those memorials are respected and preserved. Warwickshire abounds with them. Many such emblems might be indicated. Each one of them takes its place in the regard and gradually becomes entwined with the experience of the whole community. So it will be with the Childs Fountain at Stratford. The children trooping home from school will drink of it and sport in its shadow, and, reading upon its base the name of its founder, will think with pleasure of a good man's gift. It stands in the track of travel between Banbury, Shipston, Stratford, and Birmingham, and many weary men and horses will pause beside it every day, for a moment of refreshment and rest. On festival days it will be hung with garlands, while around it the air is glad with music. And often in the long, sweet gloaming of the summertimes to come the rower on the limpid Avon, that murmurs by the ancient town of Shakespeare, will pause with suspended oar to hear its silver chimes. If the founder of that fountain had been capable of a selfish thought he could have taken no way better or more certain than this for the perpetuation of his name in the affectionate esteem of one of the loveliest places and one of the most sedate communities in the world. [Illustration: _Mary Arden's Cottage._] Autumn in England--and all the country ways of lovely Warwickshire are strewn with fallen leaves. But the cool winds are sweet and bracing, the dark waters of the Avon, shimmering in mellow sunlight and frequent shadow, flow softly past the hallowed church, and the reaped and gleaned and empty meadows invite to many a healthful ramble, far and wide over the country of Shakespeare. It is a good time to be there. Now will the robust pedestrian make his jaunt to Charlecote Park and Hampton Lucy, to Stoneleigh Abbey, to Warwick and Kenilworth, to Guy's Cliff, with its weird avenue of semi-blasted trees, to the Blacklow Hill,--where sometimes at still midnight the shuddering peasant hears the ghostly funeral bell of Sir Piers Gaveston sounding ruefully from out the black and gloomy woods,--and to many another historic haunt and high poetic shrine. All the country-side is full of storied resorts and cosey nooks and comfortable inns. But neither now nor hereafter will it be otherwise than grateful and touching to such an explorer of haunted Warwickshire to see, among the emblems of poetry and romance which are its chief glory, this new token of American sentiment and friendship, the Fountain of Stratford. CHAPTER XIV BOSWORTH FIELD Warwick, August 29, 1889.--It has long been the conviction of the present writer that the character of King Richard the Third has been distorted and maligned by the old historians from whose authority the accepted view of it is derived. He was, it is certain, a superb soldier, a wise statesman, a judicious legislator, a natural ruler of men, and a prince most accomplished in music and the fine arts and in the graces of social life. Some of the best laws that ever were enacted in England were enacted during his reign. His title to the throne of England was absolutely clear, as against the Earl of Richmond, and but for the treachery of some among his followers he would have prevailed in the contest upon Bosworth Field, and would have vindicated and maintained that title over all opposition. He lost the battle, and he was too great a man to survive the ruin of his fortunes. He threw away his life in the last mad charge upon Richmond that day, and when once the grave had closed over him, and his usurping cousin had seized the English crown, it naturally must have become the easy as well as the politic business of history to blacken his character. England was never ruled by a more severe monarch than the austere, crafty, avaricious Henry the Seventh, and it is certain that no word in praise of his predecessor could have been publicly said in England during Henry's reign: neither would it have been wholly safe for anybody to speak for Richard and the House of York, in the time of Henry the Eighth, the cruel Mary, or the illustrious Elizabeth. The drift, in fact, was all the other way. The _Life of Richard the Third_, by Sir Thomas More, is the fountain-head of the other narratives of his career, and there can be no doubt that More, who as a youth had lived at Canterbury, in the palace of Archbishop Morton, derived his views of Richard from that prelate,--to whose hand indeed, the essential part of the _Life_ has been attributed. "Morton is fled to Richmond." He was Bishop of Ely when he deserted the king, and Henry the Seventh rewarded him by making him Archbishop of Canterbury. No man of the time was so little likely as Morton to take an unprejudiced view of Richard the Third. It is the Morton view that has become history. The world still looks at Richard through the eyes of his victorious foe. Moreover, the Morton view has been stamped indelibly upon the imagination and the credulity of mankind by the overwhelming and irresistible genius of Shakespeare, who wrote _Richard the Third_ in the reign of the granddaughter of Henry the Seventh, and who, aside from the safeguard of discretion, saw dramatic possibilities in the man of dark passions and deeds that he could not have seen in a more human and a more virtuous monarch. Goodness is generally monotonous. "The low sun makes the colour." It is not to be supposed that Richard was a model man; but there are good reasons for thinking that he was not so black as his enemies painted him; and, good or bad, he is one of the most fascinating personalities that history and literature have made immortal. It was with no common emotion, therefore, that I stood upon the summit of Ambien Hill and looked downward over the plain where Richard fought his last fight and went gloriously to his death. [Illustration: BOSWORTH FIELD] The battle of Bosworth Field was fought on August 22, 1485. More than four hundred years have passed since then: yet except for the incursions of a canal and a railway the aspect of that plain is but little changed from what it was when Richard surveyed it, on that gray and sombre morning when he beheld the forces of Richmond advancing past the marsh and knew that the crisis of his life had come. The earl was pressing forward that day from Tamworth and Atherstone, which are in the northern part of Warwickshire,--the latter being close upon the Leicestershire border. His course was a little to the southeast, and Richard's forces, facing northwesterly, confronted their enemies from the summit of a long and gently sloping hill that extends for several miles, about east and west, from Market Bosworth on the right, to the vicinity of Dadlington on the left. The king's position had been chosen with an excellent judgment that has more than once, in modern times, elicited the admiration of accomplished soldiers. His right wing, commanded by Lord Stanley, rested on Bosworth. His left was protected by a marsh, impassable to the foe. Sir William Stanley commanded the left and had his headquarters in Dadlington. Richard rode in the centre. Far to the right he saw the clustered houses and the graceful spire of Bosworth, and far to the left his glance rested on the little church of Dadlington. Below and in front of him all was open field, and all across that field waved the banners and sounded the trumpets of rebellion and defiance. It is easy to imagine the glowing emotions,--the implacable resentment, the passionate fury, and the deadly purpose of slaughter and vengeance,--with which the imperious and terrible monarch gazed on his approaching foes. They show, in a meadow, a little way over the crest of the hill, where it is marked and partly covered now by a pyramidal structure of gray stones, suitably inscribed with a few commemorative lines in Latin, a spring of water at which Richard paused to quench his thirst, before he made that last desperate charge on Radmore heath, when at length he knew himself betrayed and abandoned, and felt that his only hope lay in killing the Earl of Richmond with his own hand. The fight at Bosworth was not a long one. Both the Stanleys deserted the king's standard early in the day. It was easy for them, posted as they were, to wheel their forces into the rear of the rebel army, at the right and at the left. Nothing then remained for Richard but to rush down upon the centre, where he saw the banner of Richmond,--borne, at that moment, by Sir John Cheyney,--and to crush the treason at its head. It must have been a charge of tremendous impetuosity. It bore the fiery king a long way forward on the level plain. He struck down Cheyney, a man of almost gigantic stature. He killed Sir William Brandon. He plainly saw the Earl of Richmond, and came almost near enough to encounter him, when a score of swords were buried in his body, and, hacked almost into pieces, he fell beneath heaps of the slain. The place of his death is now the junction of three country roads, one leading northwest to Shenton, one southwest to Dadlington, and one bearing away easterly toward Bosworth. A little brook, called Sandy Ford, flows underneath the road, and there is a considerable coppice in the field at the junction. Upon the peaceful sign-board appear the names of Dadlington and Hinckley. Not more than five hundred feet distant, to the eastward, rises the embankment of a branch of the Midland Railway, from Nuneaton to Leicester, while at about the same distance to the westward rises the similar embankment of a canal. No monument has been erected to mark the spot where Richard the Third was slain. They took up his mangled body, threw it across a horse, and carried it into the town of Leicester, and there it was buried, in the church of the Gray Friars,--also the sepulchre of Cardinal Wolsey,--now a ruin. The only commemorative mark upon the battlefield is the pyramid at the well, and that stands at a long distance from the place of the king's fall. I tried to picture the scene of his final charge and his frightful death, as I stood there upon the hillside. Many little slate-coloured clouds were drifting across a pale blue sky. A cool summer breeze was sighing in the branches of the neighbouring trees. The bright green sod was all alive with the sparkling yellow of the colt's-foot and the soft red of the clover. Birds were whistling from the coppice near by, and overhead the air was flecked with innumerable black pinions of fugitive rooks and starlings. It did not seem possible that a sound of war or a deed of violence could ever have intruded to break the Sabbath stillness of that scene of peace. The water of King Richard's Well is a shallow pool, choked now with moss and weeds. The inscription, which was written by Dr. Samuel Parr, of Hatton, reads as follows: AQVA. EX. HOC. PVTEO. HAVSTA SITIM. SEDAVIT. RICHARDVS. TERTIVS. REX. ANGLIAE CVM HENRICO. COMITE DE RICHMONDIA ACERRIME. ATQVE. INGENTISSIME. PRAELIANS ET. VITA. PARITER. AC. SCEPTRO ANTE NOCTEM. CARITVRUS II KAL. SEP. A.D. M.C.C.C.C.LXXXV. There are five churches in the immediate neighbourhood of Bosworth Field, all of which were in one way or another associated with that memorable battle. Ratcliffe Culey church has a low square tower and a short stone spire, and there is herbage growing upon its tower and its roof. It is a building of the fourteenth century, one mark of this period being its perpendicular stone font, an octagon in shape, and much frayed by time. In three arches of its chancel, on the south side, the sculpture shows tri-foliated forms, of exceptional beauty. In the east window there are fragments of old glass, rich in colour and quaint and singular. The churchyard is full of odd gravestones, various in shape and irregular in position. An ugly slate-stone is much used in Leicestershire for monuments to the dead. Most of those stones record modern burials, the older graves being unmarked. The grass grows thick and dense all over the churchyard. Upon the church walls are several fine specimens of those mysterious ray and circle marks which have long been a puzzle to the archæological explorer. Such marks are usually found in the last bay but one, on the south side of the nave, toward the west end of the church. On Ratcliffe Culey church they consist of central points with radial lines, like a star, but these are not enclosed, as often happens, with circle lines. Various theories have been advanced by antiquarians to account for these designs. Probably those marks were cut upon the churches, by the pious monks of old, as emblems of eternity and of the Sun of Righteousness. Shenton Hall (1629), long and still the seat of the Woollastons, stood directly in the path of the combatants at Bosworth Field, and the fury of the battle must have raged all around it. The Hall has been recased, and, except for its old gatehouse and semi-octagon bays, which are of the Tudor style, it presents a modern aspect. Its windows open toward Radmore heath and Ambien Hill, the scene of the conflict between the Red Rose and the White. The church has been entirely rebuilt,--a handsome edifice, of crucial form, containing costly pews of old oak, together with interesting brasses and busts, taken from the old church which it has replaced. The brasses commemorate Richard Coate and Joyce his wife, and Richard Everard and his wife, and are dated 1556, 1597, and 1616. The busts are of white marble, dated 1666, and are commemorative of William Woollaston and his wife, once lord and lady of the manor of Shenton. It was the rule, in building churches, that one end should face to the east and the other to the west, but you frequently find an old church that is set at a slightly different angle,--that, namely, at which the sun arose on the birthday of the saint to whom the church was dedicated. The style of large east and west windows, with trefoil or other ornamentation in the heads of the arches, came into vogue about the time of Edward the First. Dadlington was Richard's extreme left on the day of the battle, and Bosworth was his extreme right. These positions were intrusted to the Stanleys, both of whom betrayed their king. Sir William Stanley's headquarters were at Dadlington, and traces of the earthworks then thrown up there, by Richard's command, are still visible. Dadlington church has almost crumbled to pieces, and it is to be restored. It is a diminutive structure, with a wooden tower, stuccoed walls, and a tiled roof, and it stands in a graveyard full of scattered mounds and slate-stone monuments. It was built in Norman times, and although still used it has long been little better than a ruin. One of the bells in its tower is marked "Thomas Arnold fecit, 1763,"--but this is comparatively a modern touch. The church contains two pointed arches, and across its roof are five massive oak beams, almost black with age. The plaster ceiling has fallen, in several places, so that patches of laths are visible in the roof. The pews are square, box-like structures, made of oak and very old. The altar is a plain oak table, supported on carved legs, covered with a cloth. On the west wall appears a tablet, inscribed "Thomas Eames, church-warden, 1773." Many human skeletons, arranged in regular tiers, were found in Dadlington churchyard, when a much-beloved clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Bourne, was buried, in 1881; and it is believed that those are remains of men who fell at Bosworth Field. The only inn at this lonely place bears the quaint name of The Dog and Hedgehog. The following queer epitaph appears upon a gravestone in Dadlington churchyard. It is Thomas Bolland, 1765, who thus expresses his mind, in mortuary reminiscence: "I lov'd my Honour'd Parents dear, I lov'd my Wife's and Children dear, And hope in Heaven to meet them there. I lov'd my Brothers & Sisters too, And hope I shall them in Heaven view. I lov'd my Vncle's, Aunt's, & Cousin's too And I pray God to give my children grace the same to do." Stoke Golding church was built in the fourteenth century. It stands now, a gray and melancholy relic of other days, strange and forlorn yet august and stately, in a little brick village, the streets of which are paved, like those of a city, with blocks of stone. It is regarded as one of the best specimens extant of the decorative style of early English ecclesiastical architecture. It has a fine tower and spire, and it consists of nave, chantry, and south aisle. There is a perforated parapet on one side, but not on the other. The walls of the nave and the chancel are continuous. The pinnacles, though decayed, show that they must have been beautifully carved. One of the decorative pieces upon one of them is a rabbit with his ears laid back. Lichen and grass are growing on the tower and on the walls. The roof is of oak, the mouldings of the arches are exceptionally graceful, and the capitals of the five main columns present, in marked diversity, carvings of faces, flowers, and leaves. The tomb of the founder is on the north side, and the stone pavement is everywhere lettered with inscriptions of burial. There is a fine mural brass, bearing the name of Brokesley, 1633, and a superb "stocke chest," 1636; and there is a sculptured font, of exquisite symmetry. Some of the carving upon the oak roof is more grotesque than decorative,--but this is true of most other carving to be found in ancient churches; such, for example, as you may see under the miserere seats in the chancel of Trinity at Stratford-upon-Avon. There was formerly some beautiful old stained glass in the east window of Stoke Golding church, but this has disappeared. A picturesque stone slab, set upon the church wall outside, arrests attention by its pleasing shape, its venerable aspect, and its decayed lettering; the date is 1684. Many persons slain at Bosworth Field were buried in Stoke Golding churchyard, and over their nameless graves the long grass is waving, in indolent luxuriance and golden light. So Nature hides waste and forgets pain. Near to this village is Crown Hill, where the crown of England was taken from a hawthorn bush, whereon it had been cast, in the frenzied confusion of defeat, after the battle of Bosworth was over and the star of King Richard had been quenched in death. Crown Hill is a green meadow now, without distinguishing feature, except that two large trees, each having a double trunk, are growing in the middle of it. Not distant from this historic spot stands Higham-on-the-Hill, where there is a fine church, remarkable for its Norman tower. From this village the view is magnificent,--embracing all that section of Leicestershire which is thus haunted with memories of King Richard and of the carnage that marked the final conflict of the white and red roses. [Illustration: _Higham-on-the-Hill._] [Illustration] CHAPTER XV THE HOME OF DR. JOHNSON Lichfield, Staffordshire, July 31, 1890.--To a man of letters there is no name in the long annals of English literature more interesting and significant than the name of Samuel Johnson. It has been truly said that no other man was ever subjected to such a light as Boswell threw upon Johnson, and that few other men could have endured it so well. He was in many ways noble, but of all men of letters he is especially noble as the champion of literature. He vindicated the profession of letters. He lived by his pen, and he taught the great world, once for all, that it is honourable so to live. That lesson was needed in the England of his period; and from that period onward the literary vocation has steadily been held in higher esteem than it enjoyed up to that time. The reader will not be surprised that one of the humblest of his followers should linger for a while in the ancient town that is glorified by association with his illustrious name, or should write a word of fealty and homage in the birthplace of Dr. Johnson. [Illustration: _Dr. Johnson._] Lichfield is a cluster of rather dingy streets and of red-brick and stucco buildings, lying in a vale, a little northward from Birmingham, diversified by a couple of artificial lakes and glorified by one of the loveliest churches in Europe. Without its church the town would be nothing. Lichfield cathedral, although an ancient structure,--dating back, indeed, to the early part of the twelfth century,--has been so sorely battered, and so considerably "restored," that it presents the aspect of a building almost modern. The denotements of antiquity, however, are not entirely absent from it, and it is not less venerable than majestic. No one of the cathedrals of England presents a more beautiful front. The multitudinous statues of saints and kings that are upon it create an impression of royal opulence. The carving upon the recesses of the great doorways on the north and west is of astonishing variety and loveliness. The massive doors of dark oak, fretted with ironwork of rare delicacy, are impressive and are exceptionally suitable for such an edifice. Seven of the large gothic windows in the chancel are filled with genuine old glass,--not, indeed, the glass they originally contained, for that was smashed by the Puritan fanatics, but a great quantity [no less than at least three hundred and forty pieces, each about twenty-two inches square], made in Germany, in the early part of the sixteenth century, when the art of staining glass was at its summit of skill. This treasure was given to the cathedral by a liberal friend, Sir Brooke Boothby, who had obtained it by purchase, in 1802, from the dissolved Abbey of Herckenrode. No such colour as that old glass presents can be seen in the glass that is manufactured now. It is imitated indeed, but it does not last. The subjects portrayed in those sumptuous windows are mostly scriptural, but the centre window on the north side of the chancel is devoted to portraits of noblemen, one of them being Errard de la Marck, who was enthroned Bishop of Liège in 1505, and who, toward the end of his stormy life, adopted the old Roman motto, comprehensive and final, which, a little garbled, appears in the glass beneath his heraldic arms: "Decipimus votis; et tempore fallimur; Et Mors deridet curas; anxia vita nihil." [Illustration: _Lichfield Cathedral--West Front._] The father of the illustrious Joseph Addison was Dean of Lichfield from 1688 to 1703, and his remains are buried in the ground, near the west door of the church. The stately Latin epitaph was written by his son. This and several other epitaphs here attract the interested attention of literary students. A tablet on the north wall, in the porch, commemorates the courage and sagacity of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who introduced into England the practice of inoculation for the small-pox. Anna Seward, the poet, who died in 1809, aged sixty-six, and who was one of the friends of Dr. Johnson, was buried and is commemorated here, and the fact that she placed a tablet here, in memory of her father, is celebrated in sixteen eloquent and felicitous lines by Sir Walter Scott. The father was a canon of Lichfield, and died in 1790. The reader of Boswell will not fail to remark the epitaph on Gilbert Walmesley, once registrar of the ecclesiastical court of Lichfield, and one of Dr. Johnson's especial friends. Of Chappel Woodhouse it is significantly said, upon his memorial stone, that he was "lamented most by those who knew him best." Here the pilgrim sees two of the best works of Sir Francis Chantrey,--one called The Sleeping Children, erected in 1817, in memory of two young daughters of the Rev. William Robinson; the other a kneeling figure of Bishop Ryder, who died in 1836. The former was one of the earliest triumphs of Chantrey,--an exquisite semblance of innocence and heavenly purity,[46]--and the latter was his last. Near by is placed one of the most sumptuous monuments in England, a recumbent statue, done by the master-hand of Watts, the painter, representing Bishop Lonsdale, who died in 1867. This figure, in which the modelling is very beautiful and expressive, rests upon a bed of marble and alabaster. In Chantrey's statue of Bishop Ryder, which seems no effigy but indeed the living man, there is marvellous perfection of drapery,--the marble having the effect of flowing silk. Here also, in the south transept, is the urn of the Gastrells, formerly of Stratford-upon-Avon, to whom was due the destruction [1759] of the house of New Place in which Shakespeare died. No mention of the Rev. Gastrell occurs in the epitaph, but copious eulogium is lavished on his widow, both in verse and prose, and she must indeed have been a good woman, if the line is true which describes her as "A friend to want when each false friend withdrew." Her chief title to remembrance, however, like that of her husband, is an unhallowed association with one of the most sacred of literary shrines. In 1776 Johnson, accompanied by Boswell, visited Lichfield, and Boswell records that they dined with Mrs. Gastrell and her sister Mrs. Aston. The Rev. Gastrell was then dead. "I was not informed till afterward," says Boswell, "that Mrs. Gastrell's husband was the clergyman who, while he lived at Stratford-upon-Avon, with Gothic barbarity cut down Shakespeare's mulberry-tree, and as Dr. Johnson told me, did it to vex his neighbours. His lady, I have reason to believe, on the same authority, participated in the guilt of what the enthusiasts of our immortal bard deem almost a species of sacrilege." The destruction of the house followed close upon that of the tree, and to both their deaths the lady was doubtless accessory. [Illustration: _Lichfield Cathedral--West Front, Central Doorway._] Upon the ledge of a casement on the east side of the chancel, separated by the central lancet of a threefold window, stand the marble busts of Samuel Johnson and David Garrick. Side by side they went through life; side by side their ashes repose in the great abbey at Westminster; and side by side they are commemorated here. Both the busts were made by Westmacott, and obviously each is a portrait. The head of Johnson appears without his customary wig. The colossal individuality of the man plainly declares itself, in form and pose, in every line of the eloquent face, and in the superb dignity of the figure and the action. This work was based on a cast taken after death, and this undoubtedly is Johnson's self. The head is massive yet graceful, denoting a compact brain and great natural refinement of intellect. The brow is indicative of uncommon sweetness. The eyes are finely shaped. The nose is prominent, long, and slightly aquiline, with wide and sensitive nostrils. The mouth is large, and the lips are slightly parted, as if in speech. Prodigious perceptive faculties are shown in the sculpture of the forehead,--a feature that is characteristic, in even a greater degree, of the bust of Garrick. The total expression of the countenance is benignant, yet troubled and rueful. It is a thoughtful and venerable face, and yet it is the passionate face of a man who has passed through many storms of self-conflict and been much ravaged by spiritual pain. The face of Garrick, on the contrary, is eager, animated, triumphant, happy, showing a nature of absolute simplicity, a sanguine temperament, and a mind that tempests may have ruffled but never convulsed. Garrick kept his "storm and stress" for his tragic performances; there was no particle of it in his personal experience. It was good to see those old friends thus associated in the beautiful church that they knew and loved in the sweet days when their friendship had just begun and their labours and their honours were all before them. I placed myself where, during the service, I could look upon both the busts at once; and presently, in the deathlike silence, after the last response of evensong had died away, I could well believe that those familiar figures were kneeling beside me, as so often they must have knelt beneath this glorious and venerable roof: and for one worshipper the beams of the westering sun, that made a solemn splendour through the church, illumined visions no mortal eyes could see. Beneath the bust of Johnson, upon a stone slab affixed to the wall, appears this inscription: The friends of SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D., a native of Lichfield, erected this monument as a tribute of respect to the memory of a man of extensive learning, a distinguished moral writer and a sincere Christian. He died the 13th of December, 1784, aged 75 years. A similar stone beneath the bust of Garrick is inscribed as follows: Eva Maria, relict of DAVID GARRICK, Esq., caused this monument to be erected to the memory of her beloved husband, who died the 20th of January 1779, aged 63 years. He had not only the amiable qualities of private life, but such astonishing dramatick talents as too well verified the observation of his friend: "His death eclipsed the gayety of nations and impoverished the publick stock of harmless pleasure." This "observation" is the well-known eulogium of Johnson, who, however much he may have growled about Garrick, always loved him and deeply mourned for him. These memorials of an author and an actor are not rendered the more impressive by being surmounted, as at present they are, in Lichfield cathedral, with old battle-flags,--commemorative souvenirs of the 80th Regiment, Staffordshire volunteers,--honourable and interesting relics in their place, but inappropriate to the effigies of Johnson and Garrick. [Illustration: _House in which Johnson was born._] The house in which Johnson was born stands at the corner of Market street and Breadmarket street, facing the little market-place of Lichfield. It is an antiquated building, three stories in height, having a long, peaked roof. The lower story is recessed, so that the entrance is sheltered by a pent. Its two doors,--for the structure now consists of two tenements,--are approached by low stone steps, guarded by an iron rail. There are ten windows, five in each row, in the front of the upper stories. The pent-roof is supported by three sturdy pillars. The house has a front of stucco. A bill in one of the lower windows certifies that now [1890], this house is "To Let." Here old Michael Johnson kept his bookshop, in the days of good Queen Anne, and from this door young Samuel Johnson went forth to his school and his play. The whole various, pathetic, impressive story of his long, laborious, sturdy, beneficent life drifts through your mind as you stand at that threshold and conjure up the pictures of the past. Opposite to the house, and facing it, is the statue of Johnson, presented to Lichfield in 1838 by James Thomas Law, then Chancellor of the diocese. On the sides of its massive pedestal are sculptures, showing first the boy, borne on his father's shoulders, listening to the preaching of Dr. Sacheverell; then the youth, victorious in school, carried aloft in triumph by his admiring comrades; and, finally, the renowned scholar and author, in the meridian of his greatness, standing bareheaded in the market-place of Uttoxeter, doing penance for his undutiful refusal, when a lad, to relieve his weary, infirm father, in the work of tending the bookstall at that place. Every one knows that touching story, and no one who thinks of it when standing here will gaze with any feeling but that of reverence, commingled with the wish to lead a true and simple life, upon the noble, thoughtful face and figure of the great moralist, who now seems to look down with benediction upon the scenes of his innocent and happy youth. The statue, which is in striking contrast with the humble birthplace, points the expressive moral of a splendid career. No tablet has yet been placed on the house in which Johnson was born. Perhaps it is not needed. Yet surely this place, if any place on earth, ought to be preserved and protected as a literary shrine.[47] Johnson was not a great creative poet; neither a Shakespeare, a Dryden, a Byron, nor a Tennyson; but he was one of the most massive and majestic characters in English literature. A superb example of self-conquest and moral supremacy, a mine of extensive and diversified learning, an intellect remarkable for deep penetration and broad and generally sure grasp of the greatest subjects, he exerted, as few men have ever exerted, the original, elemental force of genius; and his immortal legacy to his fellow-men was an abiding influence for good. The world is better and happier because of him, and because of the many earnest characters and honest lives that his example has inspired; and this cradle of greatness ought to be saved and marked for every succeeding generation as long as time endures. [Illustration: _The Spires of Lichfield._] One of the interesting features of Lichfield is an inscription that vividly recalls the ancient strife of Roundhead and Cavalier, two centuries and a half ago. This is found upon a stone scutcheon, set in the wall over the door of the house that is No. 24 Dam street, and these are its words: "March 2d, 1643, Lord Brooke, a General of the Parliament Forces preparing to Besiege the Close of Lichfield, then garrisoned For King Charles the First, Received his deathwound on the spot Beneath this Inscription, By a shot in the forehead from Mr. Dyott, a gentleman who had placed himself on the Battlements of the great steeple, to annoy the Besiegers." One of them he must have "annoyed" seriously. It was "a long shot, Sir Lucius," for, standing on the place of that catastrophe and looking up to "the battlements of the great steeple," it seemed to have covered a distance of nearly four hundred feet. Other relics of those Roundhead wars were shown in the cathedral, in an ancient room now used for the bishop's consistory court,--these being two cannon-balls (fourteen-pounders), and the ragged and dusty fragments of a shell, that were dug out of the ground near the church a few years ago. Many of these practical tokens of Puritan zeal have been discovered. Lichfield cathedral close, in the time of Bishop Walter de Langton, who died in 1321, was surrounded with a wall and fosse, and thereafter, whenever the wars came, it was used as a fortification. In the Stuart times it was often besieged. Sir John Gell succeeded Lord Brooke, when the latter had been shot by Mr. Dyott,--who is said to have been "deaf and dumb," but who certainly was not blind. The close was surrendered on March 5, 1643, and thereupon the Parliamentary victors, according to their ruthless and brutal custom, straightway ravaged the church, tearing the brasses from the tombs, breaking the effigies, and utterly despoiling beauty which it had taken generations of pious zeal and loving devotion to create. The great spire was battered down by those vandals, and in falling it wrecked the chapter-house. The noble church, indeed, was made a ruin, and so it remained till 1661, when its munificent benefactor, Bishop Hackett, began its restoration, now happily almost complete. Prince Rupert captured Lichfield close, for the king, in April, 1643, and General Lothian recovered it for the Parliament, in the summer of 1646, after which time it was completely dismantled. Charles the First came to this place after the fatal battle of Naseby, and sad enough that picturesque, vacillating, shortsighted, beatific aristocrat must have been, gazing over the green fields of Lichfield, to know,--as surely even he must then have known,--that his cause was doomed, if not entirely lost. It will not take you long to traverse Lichfield, and you may ramble all around it through little green lanes between hedgerows. This you will do if you are wise, for the walk, especially at evening, is peaceful and lovely. The wanderer never gets far away from the cathedral. Those three superb spires steadily dominate the scene, and each new view of them seems fairer than the last. All around this little city the fields are richly green, and many trees diversify the prospect. Pausing to rest awhile in the mouldering graveyard of old St. Chad's, I saw the rooks flocking homeward to the great tree-tops not far away, and heard their many querulous, sagacious, humorous croakings, while over the distance, borne upon the mild and fragrant evening breeze, floated the solemn note of a warning bell from the minster tower, as the shadows deepened and the night came down. Scenes like this sink deep into the heart, and memory keeps them forever. CHAPTER XVI FROM LONDON TO EDINBURGH Edinburgh, September 9, 1889.--Scotland again, and never more beautiful than now! The harvest moon is shining upon the grim old castle, and the bagpipes are playing under my windows to-night. It has been a lovely day. The train rolled out of King's Cross, London, at ten this morning, and it rolled into Waverley, Edinburgh, about seven to-night. The trip by the Great Northern railway is one of the most interesting journeys that can be made in England. At first indeed the scenery is not striking; but even at first you are whirled past spots of exceptional historic and literary interest,--among them the battlefield of Barnet, the ancient and glorious abbey of St. Albans, and the old church and graveyard of Hornsey where Thomas Moore buried his little daughter Barbara, and where the venerable poet Samuel Rogers sleeps the last sleep. Soon these are gone, and presently, dashing through a flat country, you get a clear view of Peterborough cathedral, massive, dark, and splendid, with its graceful cone-shaped pinnacles, its vast square central tower, and the three great pointed and recessed arches that adorn its west front. That church contains the dust of Queen Catherine, the Spanish wife of Henry the Eighth, who died at Kimbolton Castle, Huntingdonshire, in 1535; and there, in 1587, the remains of Mary Stuart were first buried,--resting there a long time before her son, James the First, conveyed them to Westminster Abbey. Both those queens were buried by the same gravedigger,--that famous sexton, old Scarlett, whose portrait is in the cathedral, and who died July 2, 1591, aged ninety-eight. [Illustration: PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL] The country is so level that the receding tower of Peterborough remains for a long time in sight, but soon,--as the train speeds through pastures of clover and through fields of green and red and yellow herbage, divided by glimmering hedges and diversified with red-roofed villages and gray church towers,--the land grows hilly, and long white roads are visible, stretching away like bands of silver over the lonely hill-tops. Figures of gleaners are seen, now and then, scattered through fields whence the harvest has lately been gathered. Sheep are feeding in the pastures, and cattle are couched under fringes of wood. The bright emerald of the sod sparkles with the golden yellow of the colt's-foot, and sometimes the scarlet waves of the poppy come tumbling into the plain, like a cataract of fire. Windmills spread their whirling sails upon the summits round about, and over the nestling ivy-clad cottages and over the stately trees there are great flights of rooks. A gray sky broods above, faintly suffused with sunshine, but there is no glare and no heat, and often the wind is laden with a fragrance of wildflowers and of hay. It is noon at Grantham, where there is just time enough to see that this is a flourishing city of red-brick houses and fine spacious streets, with a lofty, spired church, and far away eastward a high line of hills. Historic Newark is presently reached and passed,--a busy, contented town, smiling through the sunshine and mist, and as it fades in the distance I remember that we are leaving Lincoln, with its glorious cathedral, to the southeast, and to the west Newstead Abbey, Annesley, Southwell, and Hucknall-Torkard,--places memorably associated with the poet Byron and dear to the heart of every lover of poetic literature. At Markham the country is exceedingly pretty, with woods and hills over which multitudes of rooks and starlings are in full career, dark, rapid, and garrulous. About Bawtry the land is flat, and flat it continues to be until we have sped a considerable way beyond York. But in the meantime we flash through opulent Doncaster, famed for manufactories and for horse-races, rosy and active amid the bright green fields. There are not many trees in this region, and as we draw near Selby,--a large red-brick city, upon the banks of a broad river,--its massive old church tower looms conspicuous under smoky skies. In the outskirts of this town there are cosy houses clad with ivy, in which the pilgrim might well be pleased to linger. But there is no pause, and in a little while magnificent York bursts upon the view, stately and glorious, under a black sky that is full of driving clouds. The minster stands out like a mountain, and the giant towers rear themselves in solemn majesty,--the grandest piece of church architecture in England! The brimming Ouse shines as if it were a stream of liquid ebony. The meadows around the city glow like living emeralds, while the harvest-fields are stored and teeming with stacks of golden grain. Great flights of startled doves people the air,--as white as snow under the sable fleeces of the driving storm. I had seen York under different guises, but never before under a sky at once so sombre and so romantic. We bear toward Thirsk now, leaving behind us, westward of our track, old Ripon, in the distance, memorable for many associations,--especially the contiguity of that loveliest of ecclesiastical ruins, Fountains Abbey,--and cherished in theatrical annals as the place of the death and burial of the distinguished founder of the Jefferson family of actors.[48] Bleak Haworth is not far distant, and remembrance of it prompts many sympathetic thoughts of the strange genius of Charlotte Brontë. Darlington is the next important place, a town of manufacture, conspicuous for its tall, smoking chimneys and evidently prosperous. This is the land of stone walls and stone cottages,--the grim precinct of Durham. The country is cultivated, but rougher than the Midlands, and the essentially diversified character of this small island is once again impressed upon your mind. All through this region there are little white-walled houses with red roofs. At Ferry Hill the scenery changes again and becomes American,--a mass of rocky gorges and densely wooded ravines. All trace of storm has vanished by this time, and when, after a brief interval of eager expectation, the noble towers of Durham cathedral sweep into the prospect, that superb monument of ancient devotion, together with all the dark gray shapes of that pictorial city,--so magnificently placed, in an abrupt precipitous gorge, on both sides of the brimming Weir,--are seen under a sky of the softest Italian blue, dappled with white clouds of drifting fleece. Durham is all too quickly passed,--fading away in a landscape sweetly mellowed by a faint blue mist. Then stately rural mansions appear, half hidden among great trees. Wreaths of smoke curl upward from scattered dwellings all around the circle of the hills. Each distant summit is seen to be crowned with a tower or a town. A fine castle springs into view just before Birtley glances by, and we see that this is a place of woodlands, piquant with a little of the roughness of unsophisticated nature. But the scene changes suddenly, as in a theatre, and almost in a moment the broad and teeming Tyne blazes beneath the scorching summer sun, and the gray houses of Gateshead and Newcastle fill the picture with life and motion. The waves glance and sparkle,--a wide plain of shimmering silver. The stream is alive with shipping. There is movement everywhere, and smoke and industry and traffic,--and doubtless noise, though we are on a height and cannot hear it. A busier scene could not be found in all this land, nor one more strikingly representative of the industrial character and interests of England. [Illustration: _Berwick Castle._] After leaving Newcastle we glide past a gentle, winding ravine, thickly wooded on both its sides, with a bright stream glancing in its depth. The meadows all around are green, fresh, and smiling, and soon our road skirts beautiful Morpeth, bestriding a dark and lovely river and crouched in a bosky dell. At Widdrington the land shelves downward, the trees become sparse, and you catch a faint glimpse of the sea,--the broad blue wilderness of the Northern Ocean. From this point onward the panorama is one of perfect and unbroken loveliness. Around you are spacious meadows of fern, diversified with clumps of fir-trees, and the sweet wind that blows upon your face seems glad and buoyant with its exultant vitality. At Warkworth Castle, once the home of the noble Hotspur, the ocean view is especially magnificent,--the brown and red sails of the ships and various craft descried at sea contributing to the prospect a lovely element of picturesque character. Alnwick, with its storied associations of "the Percy out of Northumberland," is left to the westward, while on the east the romantic village of Alnmouth woos the traveller with an irresistible charm. No one who has once seen that exquisite place can ever be content without seeing it again,--and yet there is no greater wisdom in the conduct of life than to avoid forever a second sight of any spot where you have once been happy. This village, with its little lighthouse and graceful steeple, is built upon a promontory in the sea, and is approached over the sands by a long, isolated road across a bridge of four fine arches. All the country-side in this region is rich. At Long Houghton a grand church uprears its vast square tower, lonely and solemn in its place of graves. Royal Berwick comes next, stately and serene upon its ocean crag, with the white-crested waves curling on its beach and the glad waters of the Tweed kissing the fringes of its sovereign mantle, as they rush into the sea. The sun is sinking now, and over the many-coloured meadows, red and brown and golden and green, the long, thin shadows of the trees slope eastward and softly hint the death of day. The sweet breeze of evening stirs the long grasses, and on many a gray stone house shakes the late pink and yellow roses and makes the ivy tremble. It is Scotland now, and as we pass through the storied Border we keep the ocean almost constantly in view,--losing it for a little while at Dunbar, but finding it again at Drem,--till, past the battlefield of Prestonpans, and past the quaint villages of Cockenzie and Musselburgh and the villas of Portobello, we come slowly to a pause in the shadow of Arthur's Seat, where the great lion crouches over the glorious city of Edinburgh. CHAPTER XVII INTO THE HIGHLANDS Loch Awe, September 14, 1889.--Under a soft gray sky and through fields that still are slumbering in the early morning mist, the train rolls out of Edinburgh, bound for the north. The wind blows gently; the air is cool; strips of thin, fleecy cloud are driving over the distant hill-tops, and the birds are flying low. The track is by Queensferry, and in that region many little low stone cottages are seen, surrounded with simple gardens of flowers. For a long time the train runs through a deep ravine, with rocky banks on either hand, but presently it emerges into pastures where the sheep are grazing, and into fields in which the late harvest stands garnered in many graceful sheaves. Tall chimneys, vigorously smoking, are visible here and there in the distant landscape. The fat, black rooks are taking their morning flight, clamouring as they go. Stone houses with red roofs glide into the picture, and a graceful church-spire rises on a remote hill-top. In all directions there are trees, but they seem of recent growth, for no one of them is large. Soon the old cattle-market town of Falkirk springs up in the prospect, girt with fine hills and crested with masses of white and black smoke that is poured upward from the many tall chimneys of its busy ironworks. The houses here are made of gray stone and of red brick, and many of them are large, square buildings, seemingly commodious and opulent. A huge cemetery, hemmed in with trees and shrubs, is seen to skirt the city. Carron River, with its tiny but sounding cataract, is presently passed, and at Larbert your glance rests lovingly upon "the little gray church on the windy hill." North of this place, beyond the Forth, the country in the distance is mountainous, while all the intermediate region is rich with harvest-fields. Kinnaird lies to the eastward, while northward a little way is the famous field of Bannockburn. Two miles more and the train pauses in "gray Stirling," glorious with associations of historic splendour and ancient romance. The Castle of Stirling is not as ruggedly grand as that of Edinburgh, but it is a noble architectural pile, and it is nobly placed on a great crag fronting the vast mountains and the gloomy heavens of the north. The best view of it is obtained looking at it southward, and as I gazed upon it, under a cold and frowning sky, the air was populous with many birds that circled around its cone-shaped turrets, and hovered over the plain below, while across the distant mountain-tops, east, west, and north, dark and ragged masses of mist were driven, in wild, tempestuous flight. Speeding onward now, along the southern bank of the Forth, the traveller takes a westerly course, past Gargunnock and Kippen, seeing little villages of gray stone cottages nestled in the hill-gaps, distant mountain-sides, clad with furze, dark patches of woodland, and moors of purple heather commingled with meadows of brilliant green. The sun breaks out, for a few moments, and the sombre hue of the gray sky is lightened with streaks of gold. At Bucklyvie there is a second pause, and then the course is northwest, through banks and braes of heather, to peaceful Aberfoyle and the mountains of Menteith. [Illustration: _Stirling Castle._] The characteristic glory of the Scottish hills is the infinite variety and beauty of their shapes and the loveliness of their colour. The English mountains and lakes in Westmoreland and Cumberland possess a sweeter and softer grace, and are more calmly and wooingly beautiful; but the Scottish mountains and lakes excel them in grandeur, majesty, and romance. It would be presumption to undertake to describe the solemn austerity, the lofty and lonely magnificence, the bleak, weird, haunted isolation, and the fairy-like fantasy of this poetic realm; but a lover of it may declare his passion and speak his sense of its enthralling and bewitching charm. Sir Walter Scott's spirited and trenchant lines on the emotion of the patriot sang themselves over and over in my thought, and were wholly and grandly ratified, as the coach rolled up the mountain road, ever climbing height after height, while new and ever new prospects continually unrolled themselves before delighted eyes, on the familiar but always novel journey from Aberfoyle to the Trosachs. That mountain road, on its upward course, and during most part of the way, winds through treeless pastureland, and in every direction, as your vision ranges, you behold other mountains equally bleak, save for the bracken and the heather, among which the sheep wander, and the grouse nestle in concealment or whir away on frightened wings. Ben Lomond, wrapt in straggling mists, was dimly visible far to the west; Ben A'an towered conspicuous in the foreground; and further north Ben Ledi heaved its broad mass and rugged sides to heaven. Loch Vennacher, seen for a few moments, shone like a diamond set in emeralds, and as we gazed we seemed to see the bannered barges of Roderick Dhu and to hear the martial echoes of "Hail to the Chief." Loch Achray glimmered forth for an instant under the gray sky, as when "the small birds would not sing aloud" and the wrath equally of tempest and of war hung silently above it, in one awful moment of suspense. There was a sudden and dazzling vision of Loch Katrine, and then all prospect was broken, and, rolling down among the thickly wooded dwarf hills that give the name of Trosachs to this place, we were lost in the masses of fragrant foliage that girdle and adorn, in perennial verdure the hallowed scene of _The Lady of the Lake_. [Illustration: _Loch Achray._] [Illustration: _Loch Katrine._] Loch Katrine is another Lake Horicon, with a grander environment, and this, like all the Scottish lakes, has the advantage of a more evenly sharp and vigorous air and of leaden and frowning skies [in which, nevertheless, there is a peculiar, penetrating light,] that darken their waters and impart to them a dangerous aspect that yet is strangely beautiful. As we swept past Ellen's island and Fitz-James's silver strand I was grateful to see them in the mystery of this gray light and not in the garish sunshine. All around this sweet lake are the sentinel mountains,--Ben Venue rising in the south, Ben A'an in the east, and all the castellated ramparts that girdle Glen Finglas in the north. The eye dwells enraptured upon the circle of the hills; but by this time the imagination is so acutely stimulated, and the mind is so filled with glorious sights and exciting and ennobling reflections, that the sense of awe is tempered with a pensive sadness, and you feel yourself rebuked and humbled by the final and effectual lesson of man's insignificance that is taught by the implacable vitality of these eternal mountains. It is a relief to be brought back for a little to common life, and this relief you find in the landing at Stronachlachar and the ensuing drive,--across the narrow strip of the shire of Stirling that intervenes between Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond,--to the port of Inversnaid. That drive is through a wild and picturesque country, but after the mountain road from Aberfoyle to the Trosachs it could not well seem otherwise than calm,--at least till the final descent into the vale of Inversnaid. From Inversnaid there is a short sail upon the northern waters of Loch Lomond,--forever haunted by the shaggy presence of Rob Roy and the fierce and terrible image of Helen Macgregor,--and then, landing at Ardlui, you drive past Inverarnan and hold a northern course to Crianlarich, traversing the vale of the Falloch and skirting along the western slope of the grim and gloomy Grampians, on which for miles and miles no human habitation is seen, nor any living creature save the vacant, abject sheep. The mountains are everywhere now, brown with bracken and purple with heather, stony, rugged, endless, desolate, and still with a stillness that is awful in its pitiless sense of inhumanity and utter isolation. At Crianlarich the railway is found again, and thence you whirl onward through lands of Breadalbane and Argyle to the proud mountains of Glen Orchy and the foot of that loveliest of all the lovely waters of Scotland,--the ebony crystal of Loch Awe. The night is deepening over it as I write these words. The dark and solemn mountains that guard it stretch away into the mysterious distance and are lost in the shuddering gloom. The gray clouds have drifted by, and the cold, clear stars of autumnal heaven are reflected in its crystal depth, unmarred by even the faintest ripple upon its surface. A few small boats, moored to anchored buoys, float motionless upon it, a little way from shore. There, on its lonely island, dimly visible in the fading light, stands the gray ruin of Kilchurn. A faint whisper comes from the black woods that fringe the mountain base, and floating from far across this lonely, haunted water there is a drowsy bird-note that calls to silence and to sleep. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII HIGHLAND BEAUTIES Oban, September 17, 1889.--Seen in the twilight, as I first saw it, Oban is a pretty and picturesque seaside village, gay with glancing lights and busy with the movements of rapid vehicles and expeditious travellers. It is called the capital of the Western Highlands, and no doubt it deserves the name, for it is the common centre of all the trade and enterprise of this region, and all the threads of travel radiate from it. Built in a semicircle, along the margin of a lovely sheltered bay, it looks forth upon the wild waters of the Firth of Lorn, visible, southwesterly, through the sable sound of Kerrera, while behind and around it rises a bold range of rocky and sparsely wooded hills. On these are placed a few villas, and on a point toward the north stand the venerable, ivy-clad ruins of Dunolly Castle, in the ancestral domain of the ancient Highland family of Macdougall. The houses of Oban are built of gray stone and are mostly modern. There are many hotels fronting upon the Parade, which extends for a long distance upon the verge of the sea. The opposite shore is Kerrera, an island about a mile distant, and beyond that island, and beyond Lorn water, extends the beautiful island of Mull, confronting iron-ribbed Morven. In many ways Oban is suggestive of an American seaport upon the New England coast. Various characteristics mark it that may be seen at Gloucester, Massachusetts [although that once romantic place has been spoiled by the Irish peasantry], and at Mount Desert in Maine. The surroundings, indeed, are different; for the Scottish hills have a delicious colour and a wildness all their own; while the skies, unlike those of blue and brilliant America, lower, gloom, threaten, and tinge the whole world beneath them,--the moors, the mountains, the clustered gray villages, the lonely ruins, and the tumbling plains of the desolate sea,--with a melancholy, romantic, shadowy darkness, the perfect twilight of poetic vision. No place could be more practical than Oban is, in its everyday life, nor any place more sweet and dreamlike to the pensive mood of contemplation and the roving gaze of fancy. Viewed, as I viewed it, under the starlight and the drifting cloud, between two and three o'clock this morning, it was a picture of beauty, never to be forgotten. A few lights were twinkling here and there among the dwellings, or momentarily flaring on the deserted Parade. No sound was heard but the moaning of the night-wind and the plash of waters softly surging on the beach. Now and then a belated passenger came wandering along the pavement and disappeared in a turn of the road. The air was sweet with the mingled fragrance of the heathery hills and the salt odours of the sea. Upon the glassy bosom of the bay, dark, clear, and gently undulating with the pressure of the ocean tide, more than seventy small boats, each moored at a buoy and all veered in one direction, swung careless on the water; and mingled with them were upward of twenty schooners and little steamboats, all idle and all at peace. Many an hour of toil and sorrow is yet to come, before the long, strange journey of life is ended; but the memory of that wonderful midnight moment, alone with the majesty of Nature, will be a solace in the darkest of them. [Illustration: _Oban._] The Highland journey, from first to last, is an experience altogether novel and precious, and it is remembered with gratitude and delight. Before coming to Oban I gave two nights and days to Loch Awe,--a place so beautiful and so fraught with the means of happiness that time stands still in it, and even "the ceaseless vulture" of care and regret ceases for a while to vex the spirit with remembrance of anything that is sad. Looking down from the summit of one of the great mountains that are the rich and rugged setting of this jewel, I saw the crumbling ruin of Kilchurn upon its little island, gray relic first of the Macgregors and then of the Campbells, who dispossessed them and occupied their realm. It must have been an imperial residence once. Its situation,--cut off from the mainland and commanding a clear view, up the lake and down the valleys, southward and northward,--is superb. No enemy could approach it unawares, and doubtless the followers of the Macgregor occupied every adjacent pass and were ambushed in every thicket on the heights. Seen from the neighbouring mountain-side the waters of Loch Awe are of such crystal clearness that near some parts of the shore the white sands are visible in perfect outline beneath them, while all the glorious engirdling hills are reflected in their still and shining depth. Sometimes the sun flashed out and changed the waters to liquid silver, lighting up the gray ruin and flooding the mountain slopes with gold; but more often the skies kept their sombre hue, darkening all beneath them with a lovely gloom. All around were the beautiful hills of Glen Orchy, and far to the eastward great waves of white and leaden mist, slowly drifting in the upper ether, now hid and now disclosed the Olympian head of Ben Lui and the tangled hills of Glen Shirra and Glen Fyne. Close by, in its sweet vale of Sabbath stillness, was couched the little town of Dalmally, sole reminder of the presence of man in these remote solitudes, where Nature keeps the temple of her worship, and where words are needless to utter her glory and her praise. All day long the peaceful lake slumbered in placid beauty under the solemn sky,--a few tiny boats and two little steamers swinging at anchor on its bosom. All day long the shadows of the clouds, commingled with flecks of sunshine, went drifting over the mountain. At nightfall two great flocks of sheep, each attended by the pensive shepherd in his plaid, and each guided and managed by those wonderfully intelligent collies that are a never-failing delight in these mountain lands, came slowly along the vale and presently vanished in Glen Strae. Nothing then broke the stillness but the sharp cry of the shepherd's dog and the sound of many cataracts, some hidden and some seen, that lapse in music and fall in many a mass of shattered silver and flying spray, through deep, rocky rifts down the mountain-side. After sunset a cold wind came on to blow, and soon the heavens were clear and "all the number of the stars" were mirrored in beautiful Loch Awe. They speak of the southwestern extremity of this lake as the head of it. Loch Awe station, accordingly, is at its foot, near Kilchurn. Nevertheless, "where Macgregor sits is the head of the table," for the foot of the loch is lovelier than its head. And yet its head also is lovely, although in a less positive way. From Loch Awe station to Ford, a distance of twenty-six miles, you sail in a toy steamboat, sitting either on the open deck or in a cabin of glass and gazing at the panorama of the hills on either hand, some wooded and some bare, and all magnificent. A little after passing the mouth of the river Awe, which flows through the black Pass of Brander and unites with Loch Etive, I saw the double crest of great Ben Cruachan towering into the clouds and visible at intervals above them,--the higher peak magnificently bold. It is a wild country all about this region, but here and there you see a little hamlet or a lone farm-house, and among the moorlands the occasional figure of a sportsman, with his dog and gun. As the boat sped onward into the moorland district the mountains became great shapes of snowy crystal, under the sullen sky, and presently resolved into vast cloud-shadows, dimly outlined against the northern heavens, and seemingly based upon a sea of rolling vapour. The sail is past Inisdrynich, the island of the Druids, past Inishail and Inisfraoch, and presently past the lovely ruin of Inischonnel Castle, called also Ardchonnel, facing southward, at the end of an island promontory, and covered thick with ivy. The landing is at Ford Pier, and about one mile from that point you may see a little inn, a few cottages crumbling in picturesque decay, and a diminutive kirk, that constitute the village of Ford. My purpose here was to view an estate close by this village, now owned by Henry Bruce, Esq., but many years ago the domain of Alexander Campbell, Esq., an ancestor of my children, being their mother's grandsire; and not in all Scotland could be found a more romantic spot than the glen by the lochside that shelters the melancholy, decaying, haunted fabric of the old house of Ederline. Such a poet as Edgar Poe would have revelled in that place,--and well he might! There is a new and grand mansion, on higher ground, in the park; but the ancient house, almost abandoned now, is a thousand times more characteristic and interesting than the new one. Both are approached through a long, winding avenue, overhung with great trees that interlace their branches above it and make a cathedral aisle; but soon the pathway to the older house turns aside into a grove of chestnuts, birches, and yews,--winding under vast dark boughs that bend like serpents completely to the earth and then ascend once more,--and so goes onward, through sombre glades and through groves of rhododendron, to the levels of Loch Ederline and the front of the mansion, now desolate and half in ruins. It was an old house a hundred years ago. It is covered with ivy and buried among the trees, and on its surface and on the tree-trunks around it the lichen and the yellow moss have gathered, in rank luxuriance. The waters of the lake ripple upon a rocky landing almost at its door. Here once lived as proud a Campbell as ever breathed in Scotland, and here his haughty spirit wrought out for itself the doom of a lonely age and a broken heart. His grave is on a little island in the lake,--a family burying-ground,[49] such as may often be found on ancient, sequestered estates in the Highlands,--where the tall trees wave above it and the weeds are growing thick upon its surface, while over it the rooks caw and clamour and the idle winds career, in heedless indifference that is sadder even than neglect. So destiny vindicates its inexorable edict and the great law of retribution is fulfilled. A stranger sits in his seat and rules in his hall, and of all the followers that once waited on his lightest word there remains but a single one,--aged, infirm, and nearing the end of the long journey,--to scrape the moss from his forgotten gravestone and to think sometimes of his ancient greatness and splendour, forever passed away. We rowed around Loch Ederline and looked down into its black waters, that in some parts have never been sounded, and are fabled to reach through to the other side of the world, and, as our oars dipped and plashed, the timid moor-fowl scurried into the bushes and the white swans sailed away in haughty wrath, while, warned by gathering storm-clouds, multitudes of old rooks, that long have haunted the place, came flying overhead, with many a querulous croak, toward their nests in Ederline grove. [Illustration: LOCH AWE] Back to Loch Awe station, and presently onward past the Falls of Cruachan and through the grim Pass of Brander,--down which the waters of the Awe rush in a sable flood between jagged and precipitous cliffs for miles and miles,--and soon we see the bright waves of Loch Etive smiling under a sunset sky, and the many bleak, brown hills that fringe Glen Lonan and range along to Oban and the verge of the sea. There will be an hour for rest and thought. It seems wild and idle to write about these things. Life in Scotland is deeper, richer, stronger, and sweeter than any words could possibly be that any man could possibly expend upon it. The place is the natural home of imagination, romance, and poetry. Thought is grander here, and passion is wilder and more exuberant than on the velvet plains and among the chaste and stately elms of the South. The blood flows in a stormier torrent and the mind takes on something of the gloomy and savage majesty of those gaunt, barren, lonely hills. Even Sir Walter Scott, speaking of his own great works,--which are precious beyond words, and must always be loved and cherished by readers who know what beauty is,--said that all he had ever done was to polish the brasses that already were made. This is the soul of excellence in British literature, and this, likewise, is the basis of stability in British civilisation,--that the country is lovelier than the loveliest poetry that ever was written about it, or ever could be written about it, and that the land and the life possess an inherent fascination for the inhabitants, that nothing else could supply, and that no influence can ever destroy or even seriously disturb. Democracy is rife all over the world, but it will as soon impede the eternal courses of the stars as it will change the constitution or shake the social fabric of this realm. "Once more upon the waters--yet once more!" Soon upon the stormy billows of Lorn I shall see these lovely shores fade in the distance. Soon, merged again in the strife and tumult of the commonplace world, I shall murmur, with as deep a sorrow as the sad strain itself expresses, the tender words of Scott: "Glenorchy's proud mountains, Kilchurn and her towers, Glenstrae and Glenlyon No longer are ours." [Illustration: _Corbel from "St. Giles."_] CHAPTER XIX THE HEART OF SCOTLAND "_The Heart of Scotland, Britain's other eye._"--BEN JONSON Edinburgh, August 24, 1890.--A bright blue sky, across which many masses of thin white cloud are borne swiftly on the cool western wind, bends over the stately city, and all her miles of gray mansions and spacious, cleanly streets sparkle beneath it in a flood of summer sunshine. It is the Lord's Day, and most of the highways are deserted and quiet. From the top of the Calton Hill you look down upon hundreds of blue smoke-wreaths curling upward from the chimneys of the resting and restful town, and in every direction the prospect is one of opulence and peace. A thousand years of history are here crystallised within the circuit of a single glance, and while you gaze upon one of the grandest emblems that the world contains of a storied and romantic past, you behold likewise a living and resplendent pageant of the beauty of to-day. Nowhere else are the Past and the Present so lovingly blended. There, in the centre, towers the great crown of St. Giles. Hard by are the quaint slopes of the Canongate,--teeming with illustrious, or picturesque, or terrible figures of Long Ago. Yonder the glorious Castle Crag looks steadfastly westward,--its manifold, wonderful colours continuously changing in the changeful daylight. Down in the valley Holyrood, haunted by a myriad of memories and by one resplendent face and entrancing presence, nestles at the foot of the giant Salisbury Crag; while the dark, rivened peak of Arthur's Seat rears itself supremely over the whole stupendous scene. Southward and westward, in the distance, extends the bleak range of the Pentland Hills; eastward the cone of Berwick Law and the desolate Bass Rock seem to cleave the sea; and northward, beyond the glistening crystal of the Forth,--with the white lines of embattled Inchkeith like a diamond on its bosom,--the lovely Lomonds, the virginal mountain breasts of Fife, are bared to the kiss of heaven. It is such a picture as words can but faintly suggest; but when you look upon it you readily comprehend the pride and the passion with which a Scotsman loves his native land. [Illustration: _The Crown of St. Giles's._] Dr. Johnson named Edinburgh as "a city too well known to admit description." That judgment was proclaimed more than a hundred years ago,--before yet Caledonia had bewitched the world's heart as the haunted land of Robert Burns and Walter Scott,--and if it were true then it is all the more true now. But while the reverent pilgrim along the ancient highways of history may not wisely attempt description, which would be superfluous, he perhaps may usefully indulge in brief chronicle and impression,--for these sometimes prove suggestive to minds that are kindred with his own. Hundreds of travellers visit Edinburgh, but it is one thing to visit and another thing to see; and every suggestion, surely, is of value that helps to clarify our vision. This capital is not learned by driving about in a cab; for Edinburgh to be truly seen and comprehended must be seen and comprehended as an exponent of the colossal individuality of the Scottish character; and therefore it must be observed with thought. Here is no echo and no imitation. Many another provincial city of Britain is a miniature copy of London; but the quality of Edinburgh is her own. Portions of her architecture do indeed denote a reverence for ancient Italian models, while certain other portions reveal the influence of the semi-classical taste that prevailed in the time of the Regent, afterwards George the Fourth. The democratic tendency of this period,--expressing itself here precisely as it does everywhere else, in button-making pettiness and vulgar commonplace,--is likewise sufficiently obvious. Nevertheless, in every important detail of Edinburgh and of its life, the reticent, resolute, formidable, impetuous, passionate character of the Scottish race is conspicuous and predominant. Much has been said against the Scottish spirit,--the tide of cavil purling on from Dr. Johnson to Sydney Smith. Dignity has been denied to it, and so has magnanimity, and so has humour; but there is no audience more quick than the Scottish audience to respond either to pathos or to mirth; there is no literature in the world so musically, tenderly, and weirdly poetical as the Scottish literature; there is no place on earth where the imaginative instinct of the national mind has resisted, as it has resisted in Scotland, the encroachment of utility upon the domain of romance; there is no people whose history has excelled that of Scotland in the display of heroic, intellectual, and moral purpose, combined with passionate sensibility; and no city could surpass the physical fact of Edinburgh as a manifestation of broad ideas, unstinted opulence, and grim and rugged grandeur. Whichever way you turn, and whatever object you behold, that consciousness is always present to your thought,--the consciousness of a race of beings intensely original, individual, passionate, authoritative, and magnificent. [Illustration: _Scott's House in Edinburgh._] The capital of Scotland is not only beautiful but eloquent. The present writer does not assume to describe it, or to instruct the reader concerning it, but only to declare that at every step the sensitive mind is impressed with the splendid intellect, the individual force, and the romantic charm of the Scottish character, as it is commemorated and displayed in this delightful place. What a wealth of significance it possesses may be indicated by even the most meagre record and the most superficial commentary upon the passing events of a traveller's ordinary day. The greatest name in the literature of Scotland is Walter Scott. He lived and laboured for twenty-four years in the modest three-story, gray stone house which is No. 39 Castle street. It has been my privilege to enter that house, and to stand in the room in which Scott began the novel of _Waverley_. Many years roll backward under the spell of such an experience, and the gray-haired man is a boy again, with all the delights of the Waverley Novels before him, health shining in his eyes, and joy beating in his heart, as he looks onward through vistas of golden light into a paradise of fadeless flowers and of happy dreams. The room that was Scott's study is a small one, on the first floor, at the back, and is lighted by one large window, opening eastward, through which you look upon the rear walls of sombre, gray buildings, and upon a small slope of green lawn, in which is the unmarked grave of one of Sir Walter's dogs. "The misery of keeping a dog," he once wrote, "is his dying so soon; but, to be sure, if he lived for fifty years and then died, what would become of me?" My attention was called to a peculiar fastening on the window of the study,--invented and placed there by Scott himself,--so arranged that the sash can be safely kept locked when raised a few inches from the sill. On the south side of the room is the fireplace, facing which he would sit as he wrote, and into which, of an evening, he has often gazed, hearing meanwhile the moan of the winter wind, and conjuring up, in the blazing brands, those figures of brave knights and gentle ladies that were to live forever in the amber of his magical art. Next to the study, on the same floor, is the larger apartment that was his dining-room, where his portrait of Claverhouse, now at Abbotsford, once hung above the mantel, and where so many of the famous people of the past enjoyed his hospitality and his talk. On the south wall of this room now hang two priceless autograph letters, one of them in the handwriting of Scott, the other in that of Burns. Both rooms are used for business offices now,--the house being tenanted by the agency of the New Zealand Mortgage Company,--and both are furnished with large presses, for the custody of deeds and family archives. Nevertheless these rooms remain much as they were when Scott lived in them, and his spirit seems to haunt the place. I was brought very near to him that day, for in the same hour was placed in my hands the original manuscript of his _Journal_, and I saw, in his handwriting, the last words that ever fell from his pen. That _Journal_ is in two quarto volumes. One of them is filled with writing; the other half filled; and the lines in both are of a fine, small character, crowded closely together. Toward the last the writing manifests only too well the growing infirmity of the broken Minstrel,--the forecast of the hallowed deathbed of Abbotsford and the venerable and glorious tomb of Dryburgh. These are his last words: "We slept reasonably, but on the next morning"--and so the _Journal_ abruptly ends. I can in no way express the emotion with which I looked upon those feebly scrawled syllables,--the last effort of the nerveless hand that once had been strong enough to thrill the heart of all the world. The _Journal_ has been lovingly and carefully edited by David Douglas, whose fine taste and great gentleness of nature, together with his ample knowledge of Scottish literature and society, eminently qualify him for the performance of this sacred duty; and the world will possess this treasure and feel the charm of its beauty and pathos,--which is the charm of a great nature expressed in its perfect simplicity; but the spell that is cast upon the heart and the imagination by a prospect of the actual handwriting of Sir Walter Scott, in the last words that he wrote, cannot be conveyed in print. [Illustration: _The Maiden._] From the house in Castle street I went to the rooms of the Royal Society, where there is a portrait of Scott, by John Graham Gilbert, more lifelike,--being representative of his soul as well as his face and person,--than any other that is known. It hangs there, in company with other paintings of former presidents of this institution,--notably one of Sir David Brewster and one of James Watt,--in the hall in which Sir Walter often sat, presiding over the deliberations and literary exercises of his comrades in scholarship and art. In another hall I saw a pulpit in which John Knox used to preach, in the old days of what Dr. Johnson expressively called "The ruffians of Reformation," and hard by was "The Maiden," the terrible Scottish guillotine, with its great square knife, set in a thick weight of lead, by which the grim Regent Morton was slain, in 1581, the Marquis of Argyle, in 1661, and the gallant, magnanimous, devoted Earl of Argyle, in 1685,--one more sacrifice to the insatiate House of Stuart. This monster has drunk the blood of many a noble gentleman, and there is a weird, sinister suggestion of gratified ferocity and furtive malignity in its rude, grisly, uncanny fabric of blackened timbers. You may see, in the quaint little panelled chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, in the Cowgate, not distant from the present abode of the sanguinary Maiden,--brooding over her hideous consummation of slaughter and misery,--the place where the mangled body of the heroic Argyle was laid, in secret sanctuary, for several nights after that scene of piteous sacrifice at the old Market Cross; and when you walk in the solemn enclosure of the Grayfriars church,--so fitly styled, by Sir Walter, The Westminster Abbey of Scotland,--your glance will fall upon a sunken pillar, low down upon the northern slope of that haunted, lamentable ground, which bears the letters "I. M.," and which marks the grave of the baleful Morton, whom the Maiden decapitated, for his share in the murder of Rizzio. In these old cities there is no keeping away from sepulchres. "The paths of glory," in every sense, "lead but to the grave." George Buchanan and Allan Ramsay, poets whom no literary pilgrim will neglect, rest in this churchyard, though the exact places of their interment are not positively denoted, and here, likewise, rest the elegant historian Robertson, and "the Addison of Scotland," Henry Mackenzie. The building in the High street in which Allan Ramsay once had his abode and his bookshop, and in which he wrote his pastoral of _The Gentle Shepherd_, is occupied now by a barber; but, since he is one that scorns not to proclaim over his door, in mighty letters, the poetic lineage of his dwelling, it seems not amiss that this haunt of the Muses should have fallen into such lowly hands. Of such a character, hallowed with associations that pique the fancy and touch the heart, are the places and the names that an itinerant continually encounters in his rambles in Edinburgh. [Illustration: _Grayfriars Church._] [Illustration: _High Street--Allan Ramsay's Shop._] The pilgrim could muse for many an hour over the little Venetian mirror[50] that hangs in the bedroom of Mary Stuart, in Holyrood Palace. What faces and what scenes it must have reflected! How often her own beautiful countenance and person,--the dazzling eyes, the snowy brow, the red gold hair, the alabaster bosom,--may have blazed in its crystal depths, now tarnished and dim, like the record of her own calamitous and wretched days! Did those lovely eyes look into this mirror, and was their glance scared and tremulous, or fixed and terrible, on that dismal February night, so many years ago, when the fatal explosion in the Kirk o' Field resounded with an echo that has never died away? Who can tell? This glass saw the gaunt and livid face of Ruthven, when he led his comrades of murder into that royal chamber, and it beheld Rizzio, screaming in mortal terror, as he was torn from the skirts of his mistress and savagely slain before her eyes. Perhaps, also, when that hideous episode was over and done with, it saw Queen Mary and her despicable husband the next time they met, and were alone together, in that ghastly room. "It shall be dear blood to some of you," the queen had said, while the murder of Rizzio was doing. Surely, having so injured a woman, any man with eyes to see might have divined his fate, in the perfect calm of her heavenly face and the smooth tones of her gentle voice, at such a moment as that. "At the fireside tragedies are acted,"--and tragic enough must have been the scene of that meeting, apart from human gaze, in the chamber of crime and death. No other relic of Mary Stuart stirs the imagination as that mirror does,--unless, perhaps, it be the little ebony crucifix, once owned and reverenced by Sir Walter Scott and now piously treasured at Abbotsford, which she held in her hands when she went to her death, in the hall of Fotheringay Castle. [Illustration: _The Canongate._] Holyrood Palace, in Mary Stuart's time, was not of its present shape. The tower containing her rooms was standing, and from that tower the building extended eastward to the abbey, and then it veered to the south. Much of the building was destroyed by fire in 1544, and again in Cromwell's time, but both church and palace were rebuilt. The entire south side, with its tower that looks directly towards the crag, was added in the later period of Charles the Second. The furniture in Mary Stuart's room is partly spurious, but the rooms are genuine. Musing thus, and much striving to reconstruct those strange scenes of the past, in which that beautiful, dangerous woman bore so great a part, the pilgrim strolls away into the Canongate,--once clean and elegant, now squalid and noisome,--and still the storied figures of history walk by his side or come to meet him at every close and wynd. John Knox, Robert Burns, Tobias Smollett, David Hume, Dugald Stuart, John Wilson, Hugh Miller, Gay, led onward by the blithe and gracious Duchess of Queensberry, and Dr. Johnson, escorted by the affectionate and faithful James Boswell, the best biographer that ever lived,--these and many more, the lettered worthies of long ago, throng into this haunted street and glorify it with the rekindled splendours of other days. You cannot be lonely here. This it is that makes the place so eloquent and so precious. For what did those men live and labour? To what were their shining talents and wonderful forces devoted? To the dissemination of learning; to the emancipation of the human mind from the bondage of error; to the ministry of the beautiful,--and thus to the advancement of the human race in material comfort, in gentleness of thought, in charity of conduct, in refinement of manners, and in that spiritual exaltation by which, and only by which, the true progress of mankind is at once accomplished and proclaimed. [Illustration: HOLYROOD CASTLE AND ARTHUR'S SEAT] But the dark has come, and this Edinburgh ramble shall end with the picture that closed its own magnificent day. You are standing on the rocky summit of Arthur's Seat. From that superb mountain peak your gaze takes in the whole capital, together with the country in every direction for many miles around. The evening is uncommonly clear. Only in the west dense masses of black cloud are thickly piled upon each other, through which the sun is sinking, red and sullen with menace of the storm. Elsewhere and overhead the sky is crystal, and of a pale, delicate blue. A cold wind blows briskly from the east and sweeps a million streamers of white smoke in turbulent panic over the darkening roofs of the city, far below. In the north the lovely Lomond Hills are distinctly visible across the dusky level of the Forth, which stretches away toward the ocean, one broad sheet of glimmering steel,--its margin indented with many a graceful bay, and the little islands that adorn it shining like stones of amethyst set in polished flint. A few brown sails are visible, dotting the waters, and far to the east appears the graceful outline of the Isle of May,--which was the shrine of the martyred St. Adrian,--and the lonely, wave-beaten Bass Rock, with its millions of seagulls and solan-geese. Busy Leith and picturesque Newhaven and every little village on the coast is sharply defined in the frosty light. At your feet is St. Leonards, with the tiny cottage of Jeanie Deans. Yonder, in the south, are the gray ruins of Craigmillar Castle, once the favourite summer home of the Queen of Scots, now open to sun and rain, moss-grown and desolate, and swept by every wind that blows. More eastward the eye lingers upon Carberry Hill, where Mary surrendered herself to her nobles, just before the romantic episode of Loch Leven Castle; and far beyond that height the sombre fields, intersected by green hawthorn hedges and many-coloured with the various hues of pasture and harvest, stretch away to the hills of Lammermoor and the valleys of Tweed and Esk. Darker and darker grow the gathering shadows of the gloaming. The lights begin to twinkle in the city streets. The echoes of the rifles die away in the Hunter's Bog. A piper far off is playing the plaintive music of _The Blue Bells of Scotland_. And as your steps descend the crag, the rising moon, now nearly at the full, shines through the gauzy mist and hangs above the mountain like a shield of gold upon the towered citadel of night. [Illustration: _St. Giles's, from the Lawn Market._] CHAPTER XX SIR WALTER SCOTT More than a century has passed since Walter Scott was born--a poet destined to exercise a profound, far-reaching, permanent influence upon the feelings of the human race, and thus to act a conspicuous part in its moral and spiritual development and guidance. To the greatness of his mind, the nobility of his spirit, and the beauty of his life there is abundant testimony in his voluminous and diversified writings, and in his ample and honest biography. Everybody who reads has read something from the pen of Scott, or something commemorative of him, and in every mind to which his name is known it is known as the synonym of great faculties and wonderful achievement. There must have been enormous vitality of spirit, prodigious power of intellect, irresistible charm of personality, and lovable purity of moral nature in the man whom thousands that never saw him living,--men and women of a later age and different countries,--know and remember and love as Sir Walter Scott. Others have written greatly. Milton, Dryden, Addison, Pope, Cowper, Johnson, Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Landor,--these are only a few of the imperial names that cannot die. But these names live in the world's respect. The name of Scott lives also in its affection. What other name of the past in English literature,--unless it be that of Shakespeare,--arouses such a deep and sweet feeling of affectionate interest, gentle pleasure, gratitude, and reverential love? [Illustration: _Sir Walter Scott._] The causes of Sir Walter Scott's ascendency are to be found in the goodness of his heart; the integrity of his conduct; the romantic and picturesque accessories and atmosphere of his life; the fertile brilliancy of his literary execution; the charm that he exercises, both as man and artist, over the imagination; the serene, tranquillising spirit of his works; and, above all, the buoyancy, the happy freedom, of his genius. He was not simply an intellectual power; he was also a human and gentle comforter. He wielded an immense mental force, but he always wielded it for good, and always with tenderness. It is impossible to conceive of his ever having done a wrong act, or of any contact with his influence that would not inspire the wish to be virtuous and noble. The scope of his sympathy was as broad as the weakness and the need are of the human race. He understood the hardship, the dilemma, in the moral condition of mankind: he wished people to be patient and cheerful, and he tried to make them so. His writings are full of sweetness and cheer, and they contain nothing that is morbid,--nothing that tends toward surrender and misery. He did not sequester himself in mental pride, but simply and sturdily, through years of conscientious toil, he employed the faculties of a strong, tender, gracious genius for the good of his fellow-creatures. The world loves him because he is worthy to be loved, and because he has lightened the burden of its care and augmented the sum of its happiness. Certain differences and confusions of opinion have arisen from the consideration of his well-known views as to the literary art, together with his equally well-known ambition to take and to maintain the rank and estate of a country squire. As an artist he had ideals that he was never able to fulfil. As a man, and one who was influenced by imagination, taste, patriotism, family pride, and a profound belief in established monarchical institutions, it was natural that he should wish to found a grand and beautiful home for himself and his posterity. A poet is not the less a poet because he thinks modestly of his writings and practically knows and admits that there is something else in the world beside literature; or because he happens to want his dinner and a roof to cover him. In trying to comprehend a great man, a good method is to look at his life as a whole, and not to deduce petty inferences from the distorted interpretation of petty details. Sir Walter Scott's conduct of life, like the character out of which it sprang, was simple and natural. In all that he did you may perceive the influence of imagination acting upon the finest reason; the involuntary consciousness of reserve power; habitual deference to the voice of duty; an aspiring and picturesque plan of artistic achievement and personal distinction; and deep knowledge of the world. If ever there was a man who lived to be and not to seem, that man was Sir Walter Scott. He made no pretensions. He claimed nothing, but he simply and earnestly earned all. His means were the oldest and the best; self-respect, hard work, and fidelity to duty. The development of his nature was slow, but it was thorough and it was salutary. He was not hampered by precocity and he was not spoiled by conceit. He acted according to himself, honouring his individuality and obeying the inward monitor of his genius. But, combined with the delicate instinct of a gentleman, he had the wise insight, foresight, and patience of a philosopher; and therefore he respected the individuality of others, the established facts of life, and the settled conventions of society. His mind was neither embittered by revolt nor sickened by delusion. Having had the good fortune to be born in a country in which a right plan of government prevails,--the idea of the family, the idea of the strong central power at the head, with all other powers subordinated to it,--he felt no impulse toward revolution, no desire to regulate all things anew; and he did not suffer perturbation from the feverish sense of being surrounded with uncertainty and endangered by exposure to popular caprice. During the period of immaturity, and notwithstanding physical weakness and pain, his spirit was kept equable and cheerful, not less by the calm environment of a permanent civilisation than by the clearness of his perceptions and the sweetness of his temperament. In childhood and youth he endeared himself to all who came near him, winning affection by inherent goodness and charm. In riper years that sweetness was reinforced by great sagacity, which took broad views of individual and social life; so that both by knowledge and by impulse he was a serene and happy man. The quality that first impresses the student of the character and the writings of Sir Walter Scott is truthfulness. He was genuine. Although a poet, he suffered no torment from vague aspirations. Although once, and miserably, a disappointed lover, he permitted no morbid repining. Although the most successful author of his time, he displayed no egotism. To the end of his days he was frank and simple,--not indeed sacrificing the reticence of a dignified, self-reliant nature, but suffering no blight from success, and wearing illustrious honours with spontaneous, unconscious grace. This truthfulness, the consequence and the sign of integrity and of great breadth of intellectual vision, moulded Sir Walter Scott's ambition and stamped the practical results of his career. A striking illustration of this is seen in his first adventure in literature. The poems originally sprang from the spontaneous action of the poetic impulse and faculty; but they were put forth modestly, in order that the author might guide himself according to the response of the public mind. He knew that he might fail as an author, but for failure of that sort, although he was intensely ambitious, he had no dread. There would always remain to him the career of private duty and the life of a gentleman. This view of him gives the key to his character and explains his conduct. Neither amid the experimental vicissitudes of his youth, nor amid the labours, achievements, and splendid honours of his manhood, did he ever place the imagination above the conscience, or brilliant writing above virtuous living, or art and fame above morality and religion. "I have been, perhaps, the most voluminous author of the day," he said, toward the close of his life; "and it is a comfort to me to think that I have tried to unsettle no man's faith, to corrupt no man's principles, and that I have written nothing which, on my deathbed, I should wish blotted." When at last he lay upon that deathbed the same thought animated and sustained him. "My dear," he said, to Lockhart, "be a good man, be virtuous, be religious--be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here." The mind which thus habitually dwelt upon goodness as the proper object of human ambition and the chief merit of human life was not likely to vaunt itself on its labours or to indulge any save a modest and chastened pride in its achievements. [Illustration: _Edinburgh Castle._] And this view of him explains the affectionate reverence with which the memory of Sir Walter Scott is cherished. He was pre-eminently a type of the greatness that is associated with virtue. But his virtue was not decorum and it was not goodyism. He does not, with Addison, represent elegant austerity; and he does not, with Montgomery, represent amiable tameness. His goodness was not insipid. It does not humiliate; it gladdens. It is ardent with heart and passion. It is brilliant with imagination. It is fragrant with taste and grace. It is alert, active, and triumphant with splendid mental achievements and practical good deeds. And it is the goodness of a great poet,--the poet of natural beauty, of romantic legend, of adventure, of chivalry, of life in its heyday of action and its golden glow of pageantry and pleasure. It found expression, and it wields invincible and immortal power, through an art whereof the charm is the magic of sunrise and sunset, the sombre, holy silence of mountains, the pensive solitude of dusky woods, the pathos of ancient, ivy-mantled ruins, and ocean's solemn, everlasting chant. Great powers have arisen in English literature; but no romance has hushed the voice of the author of _Waverley_, and no harp has drowned the music of the Minstrel of the North. The publication of a new book by Sir Walter Scott is a literary event of great importance. The time has been when the announcement of such a novelty would have roused the reading public as with the sound of a trumpet. That sensation, familiar in the early part of the present century, is possible no more. Yet there are thousands of persons all over the world through whose hearts the thought of it sends a thrill of joy. The illustrious author of _Marmion_ and of _Waverley_ passed away in 1832: and now (1890), at the distance of fifty-eight years, his private _Journal_ is made a public possession. It is the bestowal of a great privilege and benefit. It is like hearing the voice of a deeply-loved and long-lamented friend, suddenly speaking from beyond the grave. In literary history the position of Scott is unique. A few other authors, indeed, might be named toward whom the general feeling was once exceedingly cordial, but in no other case has the feeling entirely lasted. In the case of Scott it endures in undiminished fervour. There are, of course, persons to whom his works are not interesting and to whom his personality is not significant. Those persons are the votaries of the photograph, who wish to see upon the printed page the same sights that greet their vision in the streets and in the houses to which they are accustomed. But those prosy persons constitute only a single class of the public. People in general are impressible through the romantic instinct that is a part of human nature. To that instinct Scott's writings were addressed, and also to the heart that commonly goes with it. The spirit that responds to his genius is universal and perennial. Caprices of taste will reveal themselves and will vanish; fashions will rise and will fall; but these mutations touch nothing that is elemental and they will no more displace Scott than they will displace Shakespeare. The _Journal_ of Sir Walter Scott, valuable for its copious variety of thought, humour, anecdote, and chronicle, is precious, most of all, for the confirmatory light that it casts upon the character of its writer. It has long been known that Scott's nature was exceptionally noble, that his patience was beautiful, that his endurance was heroic. These pages disclose to his votaries that he surpassed even the highest ideal of him that their affectionate partiality has formed. The period that it covers was that of his adversity and decline. He began it on November 20, 1825, in his town house, No. 39 Castle street, Edinburgh, and he continued it, with almost daily entries,--except for various sadly significant breaks, after July 1830,--until April 16, 1832. Five months later, on September 21, he was dead. He opened it with the expression of a regret that he had not kept a regular journal during the whole of his life. He had just seen some chapters of Byron's vigorous, breezy, off-hand memoranda, and the perusal of those inspiriting pages had revived in his mind the long-cherished, often-deferred plan of keeping a diary. "I have myself lost recollection," he says, "of much that was interesting, and I have deprived my family and the public of some curious information by not carrying this resolution into effect." Having once begun the work he steadily persevered in it, and evidently he found a comfort in its companionship. He wrote directly, and therefore fluently, setting down exactly what was in his mind, from day to day; but, as he had a well-stored and well-ordered mind, he wrote with reason and taste, seldom about petty matters, and never in the strain of insipid babble that egotistical scribblers mistake for the spontaneous flow of nature. The facts that he recorded were mostly material facts, and the reflections that he added, whether serious or humorous, were important. Sometimes a bit of history would glide into the current of the chronicle; sometimes a fragment of a ballad; sometimes an analytic sketch of character, subtle, terse, clear, and obviously true; sometimes a memory of the past; sometimes a portraiture of incidents in the present; sometimes a glimpse of political life, a word about painting, a reference to music or the stage, an anecdote, a tale of travel, a trait of social manners, a precept upon conduct, or a thought upon religion and the destiny of mankind. There was no pretence of order and there was no consciousness of an audience; yet the _Journal_ unconsciously assumed a symmetrical form; and largely because of the spontaneous operation of its author's fine literary instinct it became a composition worthy of the best readers. It is one of the saddest and one of the strongest books ever written. The original manuscript of this remarkable work is contained in two volumes, bound in vellum, each volume being furnished with a steel clasp that can be fastened. The covers are slightly tarnished by time. The paper is yellow with age. The handwriting is fine, cramped, and often obscure. "This hand of mine," writes Scott (vol. i. page 386), "gets to be like a kitten's scratch, and will require much deciphering, or, what may be as well for the writer, cannot be deciphered at all. I am sure I cannot read it myself." The first volume is full of writing; the second about half full. Toward the end the record is almost illegible. Scott was then at Rome, on that melancholy, mistaken journey whereby it had been hoped, but hoped in vain, that he would recover his health. The last entry that he made is this unfinished sentence: "We slept reasonably, but on the next morning----." It is not known that he ever wrote a word after that time. Lockhart, who had access to his papers, made some use of the _Journal_, in his _Life of Scott_, which is one of the best biographies in our language; but the greater part of it was withheld from publication till a more auspicious time for its perfect candour of speech. To hold those volumes and to look upon their pages,--so eloquent of the great author's industry, so significant of his character, so expressive of his inmost soul,--was almost to touch the hand of the Minstrel himself, to see his smile, and to hear his voice. Now that they have fulfilled their purpose, and imparted their inestimable treasure to the world, they are restored to the ebony cabinet at Abbotsford, there to be treasured among the most precious relics of the past. "It is the saddest house in Scotland," their editor, David Douglas, said to me, when we were walking together upon the Braid Hills, "for to my fancy every stone in it is cemented with tears." Sad or glad, it is a shrine to which reverent pilgrims find their way from every quarter of the earth, and it will be honoured and cherished forever. [Illustration: _The Canongate Tolbooth._] The great fame of Scott had been acquired by the time he began to write his _Journal_, and it rested upon a broad foundation of solid achievement. He was fifty-four years old, having been born August 15, 1771, the same year in which Smollett died. He had been an author for about thirty years,--his first publication, a translation of Bürger's _Lenore_, having appeared in 1796, the same year that was darkened by the death of Robert Burns. His social eminence also had been established. He had been sheriff of Selkirk for twenty-five years. He had been for twenty years a clerk of the Court of Session. He had been for five years a baronet, having received that rank from King George the Fourth, who always loved and admired him, in 1820. He had been for fourteen years the owner of Abbotsford, which he bought in 1811, occupied in 1812, and completed in 1824. He was yet to write _Woodstock_, the six tales called _The Chronicles of the Canongate_, _The Fair Maid of Perth_, _Anne of Geierstein_, _Count Robert of Paris_, _Castle Dangerous_, the _Life of Napoleon_, and the lovely _Stories from the History of Scotland_. All those works, together with many essays and reviews, were produced by him between 1825 and 1832, while also he was maintaining a considerable correspondence, doing his official duties, writing his _Journal_, and carrying a suddenly imposed load of debt,--which finally his herculean labours paid,--amounting to £130,000. But between 1805 and 1817 he had written _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_, _Ballads and Lyrical Pieces_, _Marmion_, _The Lady of the Lake_, _The Vision of Don Roderick_, _Rokeby_, _The Lord of the Isles_, _The Field of Waterloo_, and _Harold the Dauntless_,--thus creating a great and diversified body of poetry, then in a new school and a new style, in which, although he has often been imitated, he never has been equalled. Between 1814 and 1825 he had likewise produced _Waverley_, _Guy Mannering_, _The Antiquary_, _Old Mortality_, _The Black Dwarf_, _Rob Roy_, _The Heart of Midlothian_, _A Legend of Montrose_, _The Bride of Lammermoor_, _Ivanhoe_, _The Monastery_, _The Abbot_, _Kenilworth_, _The Pirate_, _The Fortunes of Nigel_, _Peveril of the Peak_, _Quentin Durward_, _St. Ronan's Well_, _Redgauntlet_, _The Betrothed_, and _The Talisman_. This vast body of fiction was also a new creation in literature, for the English novel prior to Scott's time was the novel of manners, as chiefly represented by the works of Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett. That admirable author, Miss Jane Porter, had, indeed, written the _Scottish Chiefs_ (1809), in which the note of imagination, as applied to the treatment of historical fact and character, rings true and clear; and probably that excellent book should be remembered as the beginning of English historical romance. Scott himself said that it was the parent, in his mind, of the Waverley Novels. But he surpassed it. Another and perhaps a deeper impulse to the composition of those novels was the consciousness, when Lord Byron, by the publication of _Childe Harold_ (the first and second cantos, in 1812), suddenly checked or eclipsed his immediate popularity as a poet, that it would be necessary for him to strike out a new path. He had begun _Waverley_ in 1805 and thrown the fragment aside. He took it up again in 1814, wrought upon it for three weeks and finished it, and so began the career of "the Great Unknown." The history of literature presents scarce a comparable example of such splendid industry sustained upon such a high level of endeavour, animated by such glorious genius, and resultant in such a noble and beneficent fruition. The life of Balzac, whom his example inspired, and who may be accounted the greatest of French writers since Voltaire, is perhaps the only life that drifts suggestively into the scholar's memory, as he thinks of the prodigious labours of Sir Walter Scott. During the days of his prosperity Scott maintained his manor at Abbotsford and his town-house in Edinburgh, and he frequently migrated from one to the other, dispensing a liberal hospitality at both. He was not one of those authors who think that there is nothing in the world but pen and ink. He esteemed living to be more important than writing about it, and the development of the soul to be a grander result than the production of a book. "I hate an author that's all author," said Byron; and in this virtuous sentiment Scott participated. His character and conduct, his unaffected modesty as to his own works, his desire to found a great house and to maintain a stately rank among the land-owners of his country, and as a son of chivalry, have, for this reason, been greatly misunderstood by dull people. They never, indeed, would have found the least fault with him if he had not become a bankrupt; for the mouth of every dunce is stopped by practical success. When he got into debt, though, it was discovered that he ought to have had a higher ambition than the wish to maintain a place among the landed gentry of Scotland; and even though he ultimately paid his debts,--literally working himself to death to do it,--he was not forgiven by that class of censors; and to some extent their chatter of paltry disparagement still survives. While he was rich, however, his halls were thronged with fashion, rank, and renown. Edinburgh, still the stateliest city on which the sun looks down, must have been, in the last days of George the Third, a place of peculiar beauty, opulence, and social brilliancy. Scott, whose father was a Writer to the Signet, and who derived his descent from a good old Border family, the Scotts of Harden, had, from his youth, been accustomed to refined society and elegant surroundings. He was born and reared a gentleman, and a gentleman he never ceased to be. His father's house was No. 25 George Square, then an aristocratic quarter, now somewhat fallen into the sere and yellow. In that house, as a boy, he saw some of the most distinguished men of the age. In after years, when his fortunes were ripe and his fame as a poet had been established, he drew around himself a kindred class of associates. The record of his life blazes with splendid names. As a lad of fifteen, in 1786, he saw Burns, then twenty-seven, and in the heyday of fame; and he also saw Dugald Stewart, seventeen years his senior. Lord Jeffrey was his contemporary and friend, only two years younger than himself. With Henry Mackenzie, "the Addison of Scotland,"--born in the first year of the last Jacobite rebellion, and therefore twenty-six years his senior,--he lived on terms of cordial friendship. David Hume, who died when Scott was but five years old, was one of the great celebrities of his early days; and doubtless Scott saw the Calton Hill when it was, as Jane Porter remembered it, "a vast green slope, with no other buildings breaking the line of its smooth and magnificent brow but Hume's monument on one part and the astronomical observatory on the other." He knew John Home, the author of _Douglas_, who was his senior by forty-seven years; and among his miscellaneous prose writings there is an effective review of Home's works, which was written for the _Quarterly_, in March 1827. Among the actors his especial friends were John Philip Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, the elder Charles Mathews, John Bannister, and Daniel Terry. He knew Yates also, and he saw Miss Foote, Fanny Kemble, and the Mathews of our day as "a clever, rather forward lad." Goethe was his correspondent. Byron was his friend and fervent admirer. Wordsworth and Moore were among his visitors and especial favourites. The aged Dr. Adam Ferguson was one of his intimates. Hogg, when in trouble, always sought him, and always was helped and comforted. He was the literary sponsor for Thomas Campbell. He met Madame D'Arblay, who was nineteen years his senior, when she was seventy-eight years old; and the author of _Evelina_ talked with him, in the presence of old Samuel Rogers, then sixty-three, about her father, Dr. Burney, and the days of Dr. Johnson. He was honoured with the cordial regard of the great Duke of Wellington, a contemporary, being only two years his senior. He knew Croker, Haydon, Chantrey, Landseer, Sydney Smith, and Theodore Hook. He read _Vivian Grey_ as a new publication and saw Disraeli as a beginner. Coleridge he met and marvelled at. Mrs. Coutts, who had been Harriet Mellon, the singer, and who became the Duchess of St. Albans, was a favourite with him. He knew and liked that caustic critic William Gifford. His relations with Sir Humphry Davy, seven years his senior, were those of kindness. He had a great regard for Lord Castlereagh and Lord Melville. He liked Robert Southey, and he cherished a deep affection for the poet Crabbe, who was twenty-three years older than himself, and who died in the same year. Of Sir George Beaumont, the fond friend and wise patron of Wordsworth, who died in February 1827, Scott wrote that he was "by far the most sensible and pleasing man I ever knew." Amid a society such as is indicated by those names Scott passed his life. The brilliant days of the Canongate indeed were gone, when all those wynds and closes that fringe the historic avenue from the Castle to Holyrood were as clean as wax, and when the loveliest ladies of Scotland dwelt amongst them, and were borne in their chairs from one house of festivity to another. But New street, once the home of Lord Kames, still retained some touch of its ancient finery. St. John street, where once lived Lord Monboddo and his beautiful daughter, Miss Burnet (immortalised by Burns), and where (at No. 10) Ballantyne often convoked admirers of the unknown author of _Waverley_, was still a cleanly place. Alison Square, George Square, Buccleuch Place, and kindred quarters were still tenanted by the polished classes of the stately, old-time society of Edinburgh. The movement northward had begun, but as yet it was inconsiderable. In those old drawing-rooms Scott was an habitual visitor, as also he was in many of the contiguous county manors,--in Seton House, Pinkie House, Blackford, Ravelstone, Craigcrook, and Caroline Park, and wherever else the intellect, beauty, rank, and fashion of the Scottish capital assembled; and it is certain that after his marriage, in December 1797, with Miss Charlotte Margaret Carpenter, the scenes of hospitality and of elegant festival were numerous and gay, and were peopled with all that was brightest in the ancient city, at first beneath his roof-tree in Castle street and later beneath his turrets of Abbotsford. There came a time, however, when the fabric of Scott's fortunes was to be shattered and his imperial genius bowed into the dust. He had long been a business associate with Constable, his publisher, and also with Ballantyne, his printer. The publishing business failed and they were ruined together. It has long been customary to place the blame for that catastrophe on Constable alone. Mr. Douglas, who has edited the _Journal_ with characteristic discretion and taste, records his opinion that "the three parties, printer, publisher, and author, were equal sharers in the imprudences that led to the disaster;" and he directs attention to the fact that the charge that Constable ruined Scott was not made during the lifetime of either. It matters little now in what way the ruin was induced. Mismanagement caused it, and not misdeed. There was a blunder, but there was no fraud. The honour of all the men concerned stands vindicated before the world. Moreover, the loss was retrieved and the debt was paid,--Scott's share of it in full: the other shares in part. It is to the period of this ordeal that Scott's _Journal_ mainly relates. Great though he had been in prosperity, he was to show himself greater amid the storms of disaster and affliction. The earlier pages of the diary are cheerful, vigorous, and confident. The mind of the writer is in no alarm. Presently the sky changes and the tempest breaks; and from that time onward the reader beholds a spectacle, of indomitable will, calm resolution, inflexible purpose, patient endurance, steadfast industry, and productive genius, that is sublime. Many facts of living interest and many gems of subtle thought and happy phrase are found in his daily record. The observations on immortality are in a fine strain. The remarks on music, on dramatic poetry, on the operation of the mental faculties, on painting, and on national characteristics, are freighted with suggestive thought. But the noble presence of the man overshadows even his best words. He lost his fortune in December 1825. His wife died in May 1826. On the pages that immediately follow his note of this bereavement Scott has written occasional words that no one can read unmoved, and that no one who has suffered can read without a pang that is deeper than tears. But his spirit was slow to break. "Duty to God and to my children," he said, "must teach me patience." Once he speaks of "the loneliness of these watches of the night." Not until his debts were paid and his duties fulfilled would that great soul yield. "I may be bringing on some serious disease," he remarks, "by working thus hard; if I had once justice done to other folks, I do not much care, only I would not like to suffer long pain." A little later the old spirit shows itself: "I do not like to have it thought that there is any way in which I can be beaten.... Let us use the time and faculties which God has left us, and trust futurity to His guidance.... I want to finish my task, and then good-night. I will never relax my labour in these affairs either for fear of pain or love of life. I will die a free man, if hard working will do it.... My spirits are neither low nor high--grave, I think, and quiet--a complete twilight of the mind.... God help--but rather God bless--man must help himself.... The best is, the long halt will arrive at last and cure all.... It is my dogged humour to yield little to external circumstances.... I shall never see the three-score and ten, and shall be summed up at a discount. No help for it, and no matter either." In the mood of mingled submission and resolve denoted by these sentences (which occur at long intervals in the story), he wrought at his task until it was finished. By _Woodstock_ he earned £8000; by the _Life of Napoleon_ £18,000; by other writings still other sums. The details of his toil appear day by day in these simple pages, tragic through all their simplicity. He was a heart-broken man from the hour when his wife died, but he sustained himself by force of will and sense of honour, and he endured and worked till the last, without a murmur; and when he had done his task he laid down his pen and so ended. The lesson of Scott's _Journal_ is the most important lesson that experience can teach. It is taught in two words: honour and duty. Nothing is more obvious, from the nature and environment and the consequent condition of the human race, than the fact that this world is not, and was not intended to be, a place of settled happiness. All human beings have troubles, and as the years pass away those troubles become more numerous, more heavy, and more hard to bear. The ordeal through which humanity is passing is an ordeal of discipline for spiritual development. To live in honour, to labour with steadfast industry, and to endure with cheerful patience is to be victorious. Whatever in literature will illustrate this doctrine, and whatever in human example will commend and enforce it, is of transcendent value; and that value is inherent in the example of Sir Walter Scott. CHAPTER XXI ELEGIAC MEMORIALS IN EDINBURGH One denotement, among many, of a genial change, a relaxation of the old ecclesiastical austerity long prevalent in Scotland, is perceptible in the lighter character of her modern sepulchral monuments. In the old churchyard of St. Michael, at Dumfries, the burial-place of Burns, there is a hideous, dismal mass of misshapen, weather-beaten masonry, the mere aspect of which, before any of its gruesome inscriptions are read, is a rebuke to hope and an alarm to despair. Thus the religionists of old tried to make death terrible. Much of this same order of abhorrent architecture, the ponderous exponent of immitigable woe, may be found in the old Grayfriars churchyard in Edinburgh, and in that of the Canongate. But the pilgrim to the Dean cemetery and the Warriston, both comparatively modern, and beautifully situated at different points on the north side of the Water of Leith, finds them adorned with every grace that can hallow the repose of the dead, or soothe the grief, or mitigate the fear, or soften the bitter resentment of the living. Hope, and not despair, is the spirit of the new epoch in religion, and it is hope not merely for a sect but for all mankind. The mere physical loveliness of those cemeteries may well tempt you to explore them, but no one will neglect them who cares for the storied associations of the past. Walking in the Dean, on an afternoon half-cloudy and half-bright, when the large trees that guard its western limit and all the masses of foliage in the dark ravine of the Leith were softly rustling in the balmy summer wind, while overhead and far around the solemn cawing of the rooks mingled sleepily with the twitter of the sparrows, I thought, as I paced the sunlit aisles, that Nature could nowhere show a scene of sweeter peace. In this gentle solitude has been laid to its everlasting rest all that could die of some of the greatest leaders of thought in modern Scotland. It was no common experience to muse beside the tomb of Francis Jeffrey, the once formidable Lord Jeffrey of _The Edinburgh Review_. He lies buried near the great wall on the west side of the Dean cemetery, with his wife beside him. A flat, oblong stone tomb, imposed upon a large stone pedestal and overshadowed with tall trees, marks the place, on one side of which is written that once-famous and dreaded name, now spoken with indifference or not spoken at all: "Francis Jeffrey. Born Oct. 23, 1773. Died Jan. 25, 1850." On the end of the tomb is a medallion portrait of Jeffrey, in bronze. It is a profile, and it shows a symmetrical head, a handsome face, severe, refined, frigid, and altogether it is the denotement of a personality remarkable for the faculty of taste and the instinct of decorum, though not for creative power. Close by Lord Jeffrey, a little to the south, are buried Sir Archibald Alison, the historian of Europe, and Henry Cockburn, the great jurist. Combe, the philosopher, rests near the south front of the wall that bisects this cemetery from east to west. Not far from the memorials of these famous persons is a shaft of honour to Lieutenant John Irving, who was one of the companions of Sir John Franklin, and who perished amid the Polar ice in King William's Land, in 1848-49. In another part of the ground a tall cross commemorates David Scott, the painter [1806-1849], presenting a superb effigy of his head, in one of the most animated pieces of bronze that have copied human life. Against the eastern wall, on the terrace overlooking the ravine and the rapid Water of Leith, stands the tombstone of John Blackwood, "Editor of _Blackwood's Magazine_ for thirty-three years: Died at Strathtyrum, 29th Oct. 1879. Age 60." This inscription, cut upon a broad white marble, with scroll-work at the base, and set against the wall, is surmounted with a coat of arms, in gray stone, bearing the motto, "Per vias rectas." Many other eminent names may be read in this garden of death; but most interesting of all, and those that most of all I sought, are the names of Wilson and Aytoun. Those worthies were buried close together, almost in the centre of the cemetery. The grave of the great "Christopher North" is marked by a simple shaft of Aberdeen granite, beneath a tree, and it bears only this inscription: "John Wilson, Professor of Moral Philosophy. Born 18th of May, 1785. Died 3d April, 1854." Far more elaborate is the white marble monument,--a square tomb, with carvings of recessed Gothic windows on its sides, supporting a tall cross,--erected to the memory of Aytoun and of his wife, who was Wilson's daughter. The inscriptions tell their sufficient story: "Jane Emily Wilson, beloved wife of William Edmonstoune Aytoun. Obiit 15 April, 1859." "Here is laid to rest William Edmonstoune Aytoun, D.C.L., Oxon., Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature in the University of Edinburgh. Sheriff of Orkney and Zetland. Born at Edinburgh, 21st June, 1813. Died at Blackhills, Elgin, 4th August, 1865. 'Waiting for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.' 1 Cor. i. 7." So they sleep, the poets, wits, and scholars that were once so bright in genius, so gay in spirit, so splendid in achievement, so vigorous in affluent and brilliant life! It is the old story, and it teaches the old moral. Warriston, not more beautiful than Dean, is perhaps more beautiful in situation; certainly it commands a more beautiful prospect. The traveller will visit Warriston for the sake of Alexander Smith,--remembering the _Life Drama_, the _City Poems_, _Edwin of Deira_, _Alfred Hagart's Household_, and _A Summer in Skye_. The poet lies in the northeast corner of the ground, at the foot of a large Iona cross, which is bowered by a chestnut-tree. Above him the green sod is like a carpet of satin. The cross is thickly carved with laurel, thistle, and holly, and it bears upon its front the face of the poet, in bronze, and the harp that betokens his art. It is a bearded face, having small, refined features, a slightly pouted, sensitive mouth, and being indicative more of nervous sensibility than of rugged strength. The inscription gives simply his name and dates: "Alexander Smith, Poet and Essayist. Born at Kilmarnock, 31st December, 1829. Died at Wardie, 5th January, 1867. Erected by some of his personal Friends." Standing by his grave, at the foot of this cross, you can gaze straight away southward to Arthur's Seat, and behold the whole line of imperial Edinburgh at a glance, from the Calton Hill to the Castle. It is such a spot as he would have chosen for his sepulchre,--face to face with the city that he dearly loved. Near him on the east wall appears a large slab of Aberdeen granite, to mark the grave of still another Scottish worthy, "James Ballantine, Poet. Born 11th June, 1808. Died 18th Dec., 1877." And midway along the slope of the northern terrace, a little eastward of the chapel, under a freestone monument bearing the butterfly that is Nature's symbol of immortality, you will see the grave of "Sir James Young Simpson, Bart., M.D., D.C.L. Born 1811. Died 1870." And if you are weary of thinking about the evanescence of the poets, you can reflect that there was no exemption from the common lot even for one of the greatest physical benefactors of the human race. [Illustration: _Grayfriars Churchyard._] The oldest and the most venerable and mysterious of the cemeteries of Edinburgh is that of the Grayfriars. Irregular in shape and uneven in surface, it encircles its famous old church, in the haunted neighbourhood of the West Bow, and is itself hemmed in with many buildings. More than four centuries ago this was the garden of the Monastery of the Grayfriars, founded by James the First, of Scotland, and thus it gets its name. The monastery disappeared long ago: the garden was turned into a graveyard in the time of Queen Mary Stuart, and by her order. The building, called the Old Church, dates back to 1612, but it was burnt in 1845 and subsequently restored. Here the National Covenant was subscribed, 1638, by the lords and by the people, and in this doubly consecrated ground are laid the remains of many of those heroic Covenanters who subsequently suffered death for conscience and their creed. There is a large book of _The Epitaphs and Monumental Inscriptions in Grayfriars Churchyard_, made by James Brown, keeper of the grounds, and published in 1867. That record does not pretend to be complete, and yet it mentions no less than two thousand two hundred and seventy-one persons who are sepulchred in this place. Among those sleepers are Duncan Forbes, of Culloden; Robert Mylne, who built a part of Holyrood Palace; Sir George Mackenzie, the persecutor of the Covenanters; Carstairs, the adviser of King William the Third; Sir Adam Ferguson; Henry Mackenzie; Robertson and Tytler, the historians; Sir Walter Scott's father; and several of the relatives of Mrs. Siddons. Captain John Porteous, who was hanged in the Grass-market, by riotous citizens of Edinburgh, on the night of September 7, 1736, and whose story is so vividly told in _The Heart of Midlothian_, was buried in the Grayfriars churchyard, "three dble. pace from the S. corner Chalmers' tomb"--1736. James Brown's record of the churchyard contains various particulars, quoted from the old church register. Of William Robertson, minister of the parish, who died in 1745, we read that he "lies near the tree next Blackwood's ground." "Mr. Allan Ramsay," says the same quaint chronicle, "lies 5 dble. paces southwest the blew stone: A poet: old age: Buried 9th January 1758." Christian Ross, his wife, who preceded the aged bard by fifteen years, lies in the same grave. Sir Walter Scott's father was laid there on April 18, 1799, and his daughter Anne was placed beside him in 1801. In a letter addressed to his brother Thomas, in 1819, Sir Walter wrote: "When poor Jack was buried in the Grayfriars churchyard, where my father and Anne lie, I thought their graves more encroached upon than I liked to witness." The remains of the Regent Morton were, it is said, wrapped in a cloak and secretly buried there, at night,--June 2, 1581, immediately after his execution, on that day,--low down toward the northern wall. The supposed grave of the scholar, historian, teacher, and superb Latin poet George Buchanan ["the elegant Buchanan," Dr. Johnson calls him], is not distant from this spot; and in the old church may be seen a beautiful window, a triple lancet, in the south aisle, placed there to commemorate that illustrious author. Hugh Miller and Dr. Chalmers were laid in the Grange cemetery, which is in the southern part of the city, near Morningside. Adam Smith is commemorated by a heavy piece of masonry, over his dust, at the south end of the Canongate churchyard, and Dugald Stewart by a ponderous tomb at the north end of it, where he was buried, as also by the monument on the Calton Hill. It is to see Ferguson's gravestone, however, that the pilgrim explores the Canongate churchyard,--and a dreary place it is for the last rest of a poet. Robert Burns placed the stone, and on the back of it is inscribed: "By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place is to remain for ever sacred to Robert Ferguson." That poet was born September 5, 1751, and died October 16, 1774. These lines, written by Burns, with an intentional reminiscence of Gray, whose _Elegy_ he fervently admired, are his epitaph: "No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, No storied urn nor animated bust-- This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust." One of the greatest minds of Scotland, and indeed of the world, was David Hume, who could think more clearly and express his thoughts more precisely and cogently upon great subjects than almost any metaphysician of our English-speaking race. His tomb is in the old Calton cemetery, close by the prison, a grim Roman tower, predominant over the Waverley Vale and visible from every part of it. This structure is open to the sky, and within it and close around its interior edge, nine melancholy bushes are making a forlorn effort to grow, in the stony soil that covers the great historian's dust. There is an urn above the door of this mausoleum and surmounting the urn is this inscription: "David Hume. Born April 26th, 1711. Died August 25th, 1776. Erected in memory of him in 1778." In another part of this ground you may find the sepulchre of Sir Walter Scott's friend and publisher, Archibald Constable, "born 24th February 1774, died 21st July 1827." Several priests were roaming over the cemetery when I saw it, making its dismal aspect still more dismal by that rook-like, unctuous, furtive aspect which oftens marks the ecclesiastic of the Roman Catholic church. Another great writer, Thomas de Quincey, is buried in the old churchyard of the West church, that lies in the valley just beneath the west front of the crag of Edinburgh Castle. I went to that spot on a bright and lovely autumn evening. The place was deserted, except for the presence of a gardener, to whom I made my request that he would guide me to the grave of De Quincey. It is an inconspicuous place, marked by a simple slab of dark stone, set against the wall, in an angle of the enclosure, on a slight acclivity. As you look upward from this spot you see the grim, magnificent castle, frowning on its precipitous height. The grave was covered thick with grass, and in a narrow trench of earth, cut in the sod around it, many pansies and marigolds were in bloom. Upon the gravestone is written: "Sacred to the memory of Thomas de Quincey, who was born at Greenhay, near Manchester, August 15th, 1785, and died in Edinburgh, December 8th, 1859. And of Margaret, his wife, who died August 7, 1837." Just over the honoured head of the illustrious sleeper were two white daisies peeping through the green; one of which I thought it not a sin to take away, for it is the symbol at once of peace and hope, and therefore a sufficient embodiment of the best that death can teach. CHAPTER XXII SCOTTISH PICTURES Stronachlacher, Loch Katrine, September 1, 1890.--No one needs to be told that the Forth bridge is a wonder. All the world knows it, and knows that the art of the engineer has here achieved a masterpiece. The bridge is not beautiful, whether viewed from afar or close at hand. The gazer can see it, or some part of it, from every height in Edinburgh. It is visible from the Calton Hill, from the Nelson column, from the Scott monument, from the ramparts of the Castle, from Salisbury Crags, from the Braid Hills, and of course from the eminence of Arthur's Seat. Other objects of interest there are which seek the blissful shade, but the Forth bridge is an object of interest that insists upon being seen. The visitor to the shores of the Forth need not mount any height in order to perceive it, for all along those shores, from Dirleton to Leith and from Elie to Burntisland, it frequently comes into the picture. While, however, it is not beautiful, it impresses the observer with a sense of colossal magnificence. It is a more triumphant structure even than the Eiffel tower, and it predominates over the vision and the imagination by the same audacity of purpose and the same consummate fulfilment which mark that other marvel and establish it in universal admiration. Crossing the bridge early this morning, I deeply felt its superb potentiality, and was charmed likewise with its pictorial effect. That effect is no doubt due in part to its accessories. Both ways the broad expanse of the Forth was visible for many miles. It was a still morning, overcast and mournful. There was a light breeze from the southeast, the air at that elevation being as sweet as new milk. Beneath, far down, the surface of the steel-gray water was wrinkled like the scaly back of a fish. Midway a little island rears its spine of rock out of the stream. Westward at some distance rises a crag, on which is a tiny lighthouse-tower, painted red. The long, graceful stone piers that stretch into the Forth at this point,--breakwaters to form a harbour,--and all the little gray houses of Queensferry, Inverkeithing, and the adjacent villages looked like the toy buildings which are the playthings of children. A steamboat was making her way up the river, while near the shores were many small boats swinging at their moorings, for the business of the day was not yet begun. Over this scene the scarce risen sun, much obscured by dull clouds, cast a faint rosy light, and even while the picture was at its best we glided away from it into the pleasant land of Fife. [Illustration: _The Forth Bridge._] [Illustration: _Dunfermline Abbey._] In former days the traveller to Stirling commonly went by the way of Linlithgow, which is the place where Mary Stuart was born, and he was all the more prompted to think of that enchanting woman because he usually caught a glimpse of the ruins of Niddry Castle, one of the houses of her faithful Lord Seton, at which she rested, on the romantic and memorable occasion of her flight from Loch Leven. Now, since the Forth bridge has been opened, the most direct route to Stirling is by Dunfermline. And this is a gain, for Dunfermline is one of the most interesting places in Scotland. That Malcolm of whom we catch a glimpse when we see a representation of Shakespeare's tragedy of _Macbeth_ had a royal castle there nine hundred years ago, of which a fragment still remains; and on a slope of the coast, a few miles west from Dunfermline, the vigilant antiquarian has fixed the sight of Macduff's castle, where Lady Macduff and her children were slaughtered by the tyrant. Behind the ancient church at Dunfermline, the church of the Holy Trinity,--devastated at the Reformation, but since restored,--you may see the tomb of Malcolm and of Margaret, his queen,--an angel among women when she lived, and worthy to be remembered now as the saint that her church has made her. The body of Margaret, who died at Edinburgh Castle, November 16, 1093, was secretly and hastily conveyed to Dunfermline, and there buried,--Edinburgh Castle, The Maiden Castle it was then called, being assailed by her husband's brother, Donald Bane. The remains of that noble and devoted woman, however, do not rest in that tomb, for long afterward, at the Reformation, they were taken away, and after various wanderings were enshrined at the church of St. Lawrence in the Escurial. I had often stood in the little chapel that this good queen founded in Edinburgh Castle,--a place which they desecrate now, by using it as a shop for the sale of pictures and memorial trinkets,--and I was soon to stand in the ruins of St. Oran's chapel, in far Iona, which also was built by her; and so it was with many reverent thoughts of an exalted soul and a beneficent life that I saw the great dark tower of Dunfermline church vanish in the distance. At Stirling, the rain, which had long been lowering, came down in floods, and after that for many hours there was genuine Scotch weather and a copious abundance of it. This also is an experience, and, although that superb drive over the mountain from Aberfoyle to Loch Katrine was marred by the wet, I was well pleased to see the Trosach country in storm, which I had before seen in sunshine. It is a land of infinite variety, and lovely even in tempest. The majesty of the rocky heights; the bleak and barren loneliness of the treeless hills; the many thread-like waterfalls which, seen afar off, are like rivulets of silver frozen into stillness on the mountain-sides; the occasional apparition of precipitous peaks, over which presently are driven the white streamers of the mist,--all these are striking elements of a scene which blends into the perfection of grace the qualities of gentle beauty and wild romance. Ben Lomond in the west and Ben Venue and Ben Ledi in the north were indistinct, and so was Ben A'an in its nearer cloud; but a brisk wind had swept the mists from Loch Drunkie, and under a bleak sky the smooth surface of "lovely Loch Achray" shone like a liquid diamond. An occasional grouse rose from the ferns and swiftly winged its way to cover. A few cows, wet but indifferent, composed and contented, were now and then visible, grazing in that desert; while high upon the crags appeared many sure-footed sheep, the inevitable inhabitants of those solitudes. So onward, breathing the sweet air that here was perfumed by miles and miles of purple heather, I descended through the dense coppice of birch and pine that fringes Loch Katrine, and all in a moment came out upon the levels of the lake. It was a long sail down Loch Katrine, for a pilgrim drenched and chilled by the steady fall of a penetrating rain; but Ellen's isle and Fitz-James's silver strand brought pleasant memories of one of the sweetest of stories, and all the lonesome waters seemed haunted with a ghostly pageant of the radiant standards of Roderick Dhu. To-night the mists are on the mountains, and upon this little pine-clad promontory of Stronachlacher the darkness comes down early and seems to close it in from all the world. The waters of Loch Katrine are black and gloomy, and no sound is heard but the rush of the rain and the sigh of the pines. It is a night for memory and for thought, and to them let it be devoted. The night-wind that sobs in the trees-- Ah, would that my spirit could tell What an infinite meaning it breathes, What a sorrow and longing it wakes! [Illustration: _Northwest Corner of Dunfermline Abbey._] [Illustration: _The Nave--Looking West--Dunfermline Abbey._] CHAPTER XXIII IMPERIAL RUINS [Illustration: _Loch Lomond._] Oban, September 4, 1890.--Going westward from Stronachlacher, a drive of several delicious miles, through the country of Rob Roy, ends at Inversnaid and the shore of Loch Lomond. The rain had passed, but under a dusky, lowering sky the dense white mists, driven by a fresh morning wind, were drifting along the heath-clad hills, like a pageant of angels trailing robes of light. Loch Arklet and the little shieling where was born Helen, the wife of the Macgregor, were soon passed,--a peaceful region smiling in the vale; and presently, along the northern bank of the Arklet, whose copious, dark, and rapid waters, broken into foam upon their rocky bed, make music all the way, I descended that precipitous road to Loch Lomond which, through many a devious turning and sudden peril in the fragrant coppice, reaches safety at last, in one of the wildest of Highland glens. This drive is a chief delight of Highland travel, and it appears to be one that "the march of improvement,"--meaning the extension of railways,--can never abolish; for, besides being solitary and beautiful, the way is difficult. You easily divine what a sanctuary that region must have been to the bandit chieftain, when no road traversed it save perhaps a sheep-track or a path for horses, and when it was darkly covered with the thick pines of the Caledonian forest. Scarce a living creature was anywhere visible. A few hardy sheep, indeed, were grazing on the mountain slopes; a few cattle were here and there couched among the tall ferns; and sometimes a sable company of rooks flitted by, cawing drearily overhead. Once I saw the slow-stepping, black-faced, puissant Highland bull, with his menacing head and his dark air of suspended hostility and inevitable predominance. All the cataracts in those mountain glens were at the flood, because of the continuous heavy rains of an uncommonly wet season, and at Inversnaid the magnificent waterfall,--sister to Lodore and Aira Force,--came down in great floods of black and silver, and with a long resounding roar that seemed to shake the forest. Soon the welcome sun began to pierce the mists; patches of soft blue sky became visible through rifts in the gray; and a glorious rainbow, suddenly cast upon a mountain-side of opposite Inveruglas, spanned the whole glittering fairy realm with its great arch of incommunicable splendour. The place of Rob Roy's cavern was seen, as the boat glided down Loch Lomond,--a snug nest in the wooded crag,--and, after all too brief a sail upon those placid ebon waters, I mounted the coach that plies between Ardlui and Crianlarich. Not much time will now elapse before this coach is displaced,--for they are building a railroad through Glen Falloch, which, running southerly from Crianlarich, will skirt the western shore of Loch Lomond and reach to Balloch and Helensburgh, and thus will make the railway communication complete, continuous, and direct between Glasgow and Oban. At intervals all along the glen were visible the railway embankments, the piles of "sleepers," the heaps of steel rails, the sheds of the builders, and the red flag of the dynamite blast. The new road will be a popular line of travel. No land "that the eye of heaven visits" is lovelier than this one. But it may perhaps be questioned whether the exquisite loveliness of the Scottish Highlands will not become vulgarised by over-easiness of accessibility. Sequestration is one of the elements of the beautiful, and numbers of people invariably make common everything upon which they swarm. But nothing can debase the unconquerable majesty of those encircling mountains. I saw "the skyish head" of Ben More, at one angle, and of Ben Lui at another, and the lonely slopes of the Grampian hills; and over the surrounding pasture-land, for miles and miles of solitary waste, the thick, ripe heather burnished the earth with brown and purple bloom and filled the air with dewy fragrance. [Illustration: _Loch Lomond._] This day proved capricious, and by the time the railway train from Crianlarich had sped a little way into Glen Lochy the landscape was once more drenched with wild blasts of rain. Loch-an-Beach, always gloomy, seemed black with desolation. Vast mists hung over the mountain-tops and partly hid them; yet down their fern-clad and heather-mantled sides the many snowy rivulets, seeming motionless in the impetuosity of their motion, streamed in countless ribands of silver lace. The mountain ash, which is in perfect bloom in September, bearing great pendent clusters of scarlet berries, gave a frequent touch of brilliant colour to this wild scenery. A numerous herd of little Highland steers, mostly brown and black, swept suddenly into the picture, as the express flashed along Glen Lochy, and at beautiful Dalmally the sun again came out, with sudden transient gleams of intermittent splendour; so that gray Kilchurn and the jewelled waters of sweet Loch Awe, and even the cold and grim grandeur of the rugged Pass of Brander, were momentarily clothed with tender, golden haze. It was afternoon when I alighted in the seaside haven of Oban; yet soon, beneath the solemn light of the waning day, I once more stood amid the ruins of Dunstaffnage Castle and looked upon one of the most representative, even as it is one of the most picturesque, relics of the feudal times of Scottish history. You have to journey about three miles out of the town in order to reach that place, which is upon a promontory where Loch Etive joins Loch Linnhe. The carriage was driven to it through a shallow water and across some sands which soon a returning tide would deeply submerge. The castle is so placed that, when it was fortified, it must have been well-nigh impregnable. It stands upon a broad, high, massive, precipitous rock, looking seaward toward Lismore island. Nothing of that old fortress now remains except the battlemented walls, upon the top of which there is a walk, and portions of its towers, of which originally there were but three. The roof and the floors are gone. The courtyard is turfed, and over the surface within its enclosure the grass grows thick and green, while weeds and wild-flowers fringe its slowly mouldering walls, upon which indeed several small trees have rooted themselves, in crevices stuffed with earth. One superb ivy-tree, of great age and size, covers much of the venerable ruin, upon its inner surface, with a wild luxuriance of brilliant foliage. There are the usual indications in the masonry, showing how the area of this castle was once subdivided into rooms of various shapes and sizes, some of them large, in which were ample fireplaces and deeply recessed embrasures, and no doubt arched casements opening on the inner court. Here dwelt the early kings of Scotland. Here the national story of Scotland began. Here for a long time was treasured the Stone of Destiny, Lia Fail, before it was taken to Scone Abbey, thence to be borne to London by Edward the First, in 1296, and placed where it has ever since remained, and is visible now, in the old coronation chair in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, at Westminster. Here through the slow-moving centuries many a story of love, ambition, sorrow, and death has had its course and left its record. Here, in the stormy romantic period that followed 1745, was imprisoned for a while the beautiful, intrepid, constant, and noble Flora Macdonald, who had saved the person and the life of the fugitive Pretender, after the fatal defeat and hideous carnage of Culloden. What pageants, what festivals, what glories, and what horrors have those old walls beheld! Their stones seem agonised with ghastly memories and weary with the intolerable burden of hopeless age; and as I stood and pondered amid their gray decrepitude and arid desolation,--while the light grew dim and the evening wind sighed in the ivy and shook the tremulous wall-flowers and the rustling grass,--the ancient, worn-out pile seemed to have a voice, and to plead for the merciful death that should put an end to its long, consuming misery and dumb decay. Often before, when standing alone among ruins, have I felt this spirit of supplication, and seen this strange, beseechful look, in the silent, patient stones: never before had it appealed to my heart with such eloquence and such pathos. Truly nature passes through all the experience and all the moods of man, even as man passes through all the experience and all the moods of nature. [Illustration: _Dunstaffnage._] On the western side of the courtyard of Dunstaffnage stands a small stone building, accessible by a low flight of steps, which bears upon its front the sculptured date 1725, intertwined with the letters AE. C. and LC., and the words Laus Deo. This was the residence of the ancient family of Dunstaffnage, prior to 1810. From the battlements I had a wonderful view of adjacent lakes and engirdling mountains,--the jewels and their giant guardians of the lonely land of Lorn,--and saw the red sun go down over a great inland sea of purple heather and upon the wide waste of the desolate ocean. These and such as these are the scenes that make this country distinctive, and that have stamped their impress of stately thought and romantic sentiment upon its people. Amid such scenes the Scottish national character has been developed, and under their influence have naturally been created the exquisite poetry, the enchanting music, the noble art and architecture, and the austere civilisation of imperial Scotland. After dark the rain again came on, and all night long, through light and troubled slumber, I heard it beating on the window-panes. The morning dawned in gloom and drizzle, and there was no prophetic voice to speak a word of cheer. One of the expeditions that may be made from Oban comprises a visit to Fingal's Cave, on the island of Staffa, and to the ruined cathedral on Saint Columba's island of Iona, and, incidentally, a voyage around the great island of Mull. It is the most beautiful, romantic, diversified, and impressive sail that can be made in these waters. The expeditious itinerant in Scotland waits not upon the weather, and at an early hour this day I was speeding out of Oban, with the course set for Lismore Light and the Sound of Mull.[51] CHAPTER XXIV THE LAND OF MARMION Berwick-upon-Tweed, September 8, 1890.--It had long been my wish to see something of royal Berwick, and our acquaintance has at length begun. This is a town of sombre gray houses capped with red roofs; of elaborate, old-fashioned, disused fortifications; of dismantled military walls; of noble stone bridges and stalwart piers; of breezy battlement walks, fine sea-views, spacious beaches, castellated remains, steep streets, broad squares, narrow, winding ways, many churches, quaint customs, and ancient memories. The present, indeed, has marred the past in this old town, dissipating the element of romance and putting no adequate substitute in its place. Yet the element of romance is here, for such observers as can look on Berwick through the eyes of the imagination; and even those who can imagine nothing must at least perceive that its aspect is regal. Viewed, as I had often viewed it, from the great Border bridge between England and Scotland, it rises on its graceful promontory,--bathed in sunshine and darkly bright amid the sparkling silver of the sea,--a veritable ocean queen. To-day I have walked upon its walls, threaded its principal streets, crossed its ancient bridge, explored its suburbs, entered its municipal hall, visited its parish church, and taken long drives through the country that encircles it; and now at midnight, sitting in a lonely chamber of the King's Arms and musing upon the past, I hear not simply the roll of a carriage wheel or the footfall of a late traveller dying away in the distance, but the music with which warriors proclaimed their victories and kings and queens kept festival and state. This has been a pensive day, for in its course I have said farewell to many lovely and beloved scenes. Edinburgh was never more beautiful than when she faded in the yellow mist of this autumnal morning. On Preston battlefield the golden harvest stood in sheaves, and the meadows glimmered green in the soft sunshine, while over them the white clouds drifted and the peaceful rooks made wing in happy indolence and peace. Soon the ruined church of Seton came into view, with its singular stunted tower and its venerable gray walls couched deep in trees, and around it the cultivated, many-coloured fields and the breezy, emerald pastures stretching away to the verge of the sea. A glimpse, and it is gone. But one sweet picture no sooner vanishes than its place is filled with another. Yonder, on the hillside, is the manor-house, with stately battlement and tower, its antique aspect softened by great masses of clinging ivy. Here, nestled in the sunny valley, are the little stone cottages, roofed with red tiles and bright with the adornment of arbutus and hollyhock. All around are harvest-fields and market-gardens,--the abundant dark green of potato-patches being gorgeously lit with the intermingled lustre of millions of wild-flowers, white and gold, over which drift many flights of doves. Sometimes upon the yellow level of the hayfields a sudden wave of brilliant poppies seems to break,--dashing itself into scarlet foam. Timid, startled sheep scurry away into their pastures, as the swift train flashes by them. A woman standing at her cottage door looks at it with curious yet regardless gaze. Farms teeming with plenty are swiftly traversed, their many circular, cone-topped hayricks standing like towers of amber. Tall, smoking chimneys in the factory villages flit by and disappear. Everywhere are signs of industry and thrift, and everywhere also are denotements of the sentiment and taste that are spontaneous in the nature of this people. Tantallon lies in the near distance, and speeding toward ancient Dunbar I dream once more the dreams of boyhood, and can hear the trumpets, and see the pennons, and catch again the silver gleam of the spears of Marmion. Dunbar is left behind, and with it the sad memory of Mary Stuart, infatuated with barbaric Bothwell, and whirled away to shipwreck and ruin,--as so many great natures have been before and will be again,--upon the black reefs of human passion. The heedless train is skirting the hills of Lammermoor now, and speeding through plains of a fertile verdure that is brilliant and beautiful down to the margin of the ocean. Close by Cockburnspath is the long, lonely, melancholy beach that well may have been in Scott's remembrance when he fashioned that weird and tragic close of the most poetical and pathetic of his novels, while, near at hand, on its desolate headland, the grim ruin of Fast Castle,--which is deemed the original of his Wolf's Crag,--frowns darkly on the white breakers at its surge-beaten base. Edgar of Ravenswood is no longer an image of fiction, when you look upon that scene of gloomy grandeur and mystery. But do not look upon it too closely nor too long,--for of all scenes that are conceived as distinctly weird it may truly be said that they are more impressive in the imagination than in the actual prospect. This coast is full of dark ravines, stretching seaward and thickly shrouded with trees, but in them now and then a glimpse is caught of a snugly sheltered house, overgrown with flowers, securely protected from every blast of storm. The rest is open land, which many dark stone walls partition, and many hawthorn hedges, and many little white roads, winding away toward the shore: for this is Scottish sea-side pageantry, and the sunlit ocean makes a silver setting for the jewelled landscape, all the way to Berwick. [Illustration: _Tantallon Castle._] The profit of walking in the footsteps of the past is that you learn the value of the privilege of life in the present. The men and women of the past had their opportunity and each improved it after his kind. These are the same plains in which Wallace and Bruce fought for the honour, and established the supremacy, of the kingdom of Scotland. The same sun gilds these plains to-day, the same sweet wind blows over them, and the same sombre, majestic ocean breaks in solemn murmurs on their shore. "Hodie mihi, cras tibi,"--as it was written on the altar skulls in the ancient churches. Yesterday belonged to them; to-day belongs to us; and well will it be for us if we improve it. In such an historic town as Berwick the lesson is brought home to a thoughtful mind with convincing force and significance. So much has happened here,--and every actor in the great drama is long since dead and gone! Hither came King John, and slaughtered the people as if they were sheep, and burnt the city,--himself applying the torch to the house in which he had slept. Hither came Edward the First, and mercilessly butchered the inhabitants, men, women, and children, violating even the sanctuary of the churches. Here, in his victorious days, Sir William Wallace reigned and prospered; and here, when Menteith's treachery had wrought his ruin, a fragment of his mutilated body was long displayed upon the bridge. Here, in the castle, of which only a few fragments now remain (these being adjacent to the North British railway station), Edward the First caused to be confined in a wooden cage that intrepid Countess of Buchan who had crowned Robert Bruce, at Scone. Hither came Edward the Third, after the battle of Halidon Hill, which lies close by this place, had finally established the English power in Scotland. All the princes that fought in the wars of the Roses have been in Berwick and have wrangled over the possession of it. Richard the Third doomed it to isolation. Henry the Seventh declared it a neutral state. By Elizabeth it was fortified,--in that wise sovereign's resolute and vigorous resistance to the schemes of the Roman Catholic church for the dominance of her kingdom. John Knox preached here, in a church on Hide Hill, before he went to Edinburgh to shake the throne with his tremendous eloquence. The picturesque, unhappy James the Fourth went from this place to Ford Castle and Lady Heron, and thence to his death, at Flodden Field. Here it was that Sir John Cope first paused in his fugitive ride from the fatal field of Preston, and here he was greeted as affording the only instance in which the first news of a defeat had been brought by the vanquished General himself. And within sight of Berwick ramparts are those perilous Farne islands, where, at the wreck of the steamer Forfarshire, in 1838, the heroism of a woman wrote upon the historic page of her country, in letters of imperishable glory, the name of Grace Darling. (There is a monument to her memory, in Bamborough churchyard.) Imagination, however, has done for this region what history could never do. Each foot of this ground was known to Sir Walter Scott, and for every lover of that great author each foot of it is hallowed. It is the Border Land,--the land of chivalry and song, the land that he has endeared to all the world,--and you come to it mainly for his sake. "Day set on Norhams castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone." [Illustration: _Norham Castle--in the time of Marmion._] The village of Norham lies a few miles west of Berwick, upon the south bank of the Tweed,--a group of cottages clustered around a single long street. The buildings are low and are mostly roofed with dark slate or red tiles. Some of them are thatched, and grass and flowers grow wild upon the thatch. At one end of the main highway is a market-cross, near to which is a little inn. Beyond that and nearer to the Tweed, which flows close beside the place, is a church of great antiquity, set toward the western end of a long and ample churchyard, in which many graves are marked with tall, thick, perpendicular slabs, many with dark, oblong tombs, tumbling to ruin, and many with short, stunted monuments. The church tower is low, square, and of enormous strength. Upon the south side of the chancel are five windows, beautifully arched,--the dog-toothed casements being uncommonly complete specimens of that ancient architectural device. This church has been restored; the south aisle in 1846, by I. Bononi; the north aisle in 1852, by E. Gray. The western end of the churchyard is thickly masked in great trees, and looking directly east from this point your gaze falls upon all that is left of the stately Castle of Norham, formerly called Ublanford,--built by Flamberg, Bishop of Durham, in 1121, and restored by Hugh Pudsey, another Prince of that See, in 1164. It must once have been a place of tremendous fortitude and of great extent. Now it is wide open to the sky, and nothing of it remains but roofless walls and crumbling arches, on which the grass is growing and the pendent bluebells tremble in the breeze. Looking through the embrasures of the east wall you see the tops of large trees that are rooted in the vast trench below, where once were the dark waters of the moat. All the courtyards are covered now with sod, and quiet sheep nibble and lazy cattle couch where once the royal banners floated and plumed and belted knights stood round their king. It was a day of uncommon beauty,--golden with sunshine and fresh with a perfumed air; and nothing was wanting to the perfection of solitude. Near at hand a thin stream of pale blue smoke curled upward from a cottage chimney. At some distance the sweet voices of playing children mingled with the chirp of small birds and the occasional cawing of the rook. The long grasses that grow upon the ruin moved faintly, but made no sound. A few doves were seen, gliding in and out of crevices in the mouldering turret. And over all, and calmly and coldly speaking the survival of nature when the grandest works of man are dust, sounded the rustle of many branches in the heedless wind. The day was setting over Norham as I drove away,--the red sun slowly obscured in a great bank of slate-coloured cloud,--but to the last I bent my gaze upon it, and that picture of ruined magnificence can never fade out of my mind. The road eastward toward Berwick is a green lane, running between harvest-fields, which now were thickly piled with golden sheaves, while over them swept great flocks of sable rooks. There are but few trees in that landscape,--scattered groups of the ash and the plane,--to break the prospect. For a long time the stately ruin remained in view,--its huge bulk and serrated outline, relieved against the red and gold of sunset, taking on the perfect semblance of a colossal cathedral, like that of Iona, with vast square tower, and chancel, and nave: only, because of its jagged lines, it seems in this prospect as if shaken by a convulsion of nature and tottering to its momentary fall. Never was illusion more perfect. Yet as the vision faded I could remember only the illusion that will never fade,--the illusion that a magical poetic genius has cast over those crumbling battlements, rebuilding the shattered towers, and pouring through their ancient halls the glowing tide of life and love, of power and pageant, of beauty, light, and song. THE END FOOTNOTES [1] "_In thy mind thou conjoinest life's practical knowledge, And a temper unmoved by the changes of fortune, Whatsoever her smile or her frown, Neither bowed nor elate,--but erect_" LORD LYTTON'S TRANSLATION [2] Since these words were written a plain headstone of white marble has been placed on this spot, bearing the following inscription:-- "Matthew Arnold, eldest son of the late Thomas Arnold, D.D., Head Master of Rugby School. Born December 24, 1822. Died April 15, 1888. There is sprung up a light for the righteous, and joyful gladness for such as are true-hearted." The _Letters of Matthew Arnold_, published in 1895, contain touching allusions to Laleham Churchyard. At Harrow, February 27, 1869, the poet wrote: "It is a wonderfully clear, bright day, with a cold wind, so I went to a field on the top of the hill, whence I can see the clump of Botleys and the misty line of the Thames, where Tommy lies at the foot of them. I often go for this view on a clear day." At London, August 2, 1869, he wrote: "On Saturday Flu and I went together to Laleham. It was exactly a year since we had driven there with darling Tommy and the other two boys, to see Basil's grave; he enjoyed the drive, and Laleham, and the river, and Matt Buckland's garden, and often talked of them afterwards. And now we went to see _his_ grave, poor darling. The two graves are a perfect garden, and are evidently the sight of the churchyard, where there is nothing else like them; a path has been trodden over the grass to them by people coming and going. It was a soft, mild air, and we sat a long time by the graves." [3] The crime was committed on November 4, 1820. The victim was a farmer, named William Hirons. The assassins, four in number, named Quiney, Sidney, Hawtrey, and Adams, were hanged, at Warwick, in April, 1821. [4] Arthur Hodgson, born in 1818, was educated at Eton and at Cambridge. He went to Australia in 1839, and made a fortune as a sheep-farmer. He served the State in various public offices, and was knighted by Queen Victoria. He has been five times Mayor of Stratford-upon-Avon. [5] An entry in the Diocesan Register of Worcester states that in 1374 "John Clopton of Stretforde obtained letters dimissory to the order of priest."--In 1477 Pope Sixtus the Fourth authorized John Clopton to perform divine service in Clopton manor-house.--Mrs. Gaskell, then Miss Byerley, saw the attic chapel at Clopton, in 1820, and wrote a description of it at that time. [6] The original sign of the Shoulder of Mutton, which once hung before that house, was painted by Grubb, who also painted the remarkable portrait of the Corporation Cook, which now hangs in the town hall of Stratford,--given to the borough by the late Henry Graves, of London. [7] When the moat was disused three "jack bottles" were found in its bed, made of coarse glass, and bearing on the shoulder of each bottle the crest of John-a-Combe. These relics are in the collection of Sir Arthur Hodgson. [8] It is said that the remains of Lord Lovat were, soon after his execution, secretly removed, and buried at his home near Inverness, and that the head was sewed to the body. [9] Robert Dudley [1532-1588] seems not to have been an admirable man, but certain facts of his life appear to have been considerably misrepresented. He married Amy Robsart, daughter of Sir John Robsart, of Siderstern, Norfolk, on June 4, 1550, publicly, and in presence of King Edward the Sixth. Amy Robsart never became Countess of Leicester, but died, in 1560, four years before Dudley became Earl of Leicester, by a "mischance,"--namely, an accidental fall downstairs,--at Cumnor Hall, near Abingdon. She was not at Kenilworth, as represented in Scott's novel, at the time of the great festival in honour of Queen Elizabeth, in 1575, because at that time she had been dead fifteen years. Dudley secretly married Douglas Howard, Lady Sheffield, in 1572-73, but would never acknowledge her. His third wife was the Lætitia whose affection deplores him, in the Beauchamp chapel. [10] Those cedars are ranked with the most superb trees in the British Islands. Two of the group were torn up by the roots during a terrific gale, which swept across England, leaving ruin in its track, on Sunday, March 24, 1895. [11] Length. Height of Tower. Winchester 556 ft. 138 ft. St. Albans 548 ft. 4 in. 144 ft. York 524 ft. 6 in. 213 ft. [12] The White Horse upon the side of the hill at Westbury was made by removing the turf in such a way as to show the white chalk beneath, in the shape of a horse. The tradition is that this was done by command of Alfred, in Easter week, A.D. 878, to signalise his victory over the Danes, at Oetlandune, or Eddington, at the foot of the hill. Upon the top of that hill there is the outline of an ancient Roman camp. [13] The curfew bell is rung at Bromham church, at eight o'clock in the evening, on week days, from Michaelmas to Lady Day, and at the same hour on every Sunday throughout the year; and on Shrove Tuesday the bell is rung at one o'clock in the day. [14] Sloperton Cottage is now, 1896, the property of H. H. Ludlow Burgess, of Seend. [15] The famous actor was knighted, by Queen Victoria, in 1895, and became Sir Henry Irving. [16] "In our stage to Penrith I introduced Anne to the ancient Petreia, called Old Penrith, and also to the grave of Sir Ewain Cæsarius, that knight with the puzzling name, which has got more indistinct."--_Journal of Sir Walter Scott_, Vol. II., p. 151. [17] The poet Gray, who visited these mountains in 1769, wrote, in his Journal, October 1: "Place Fell, one of the bravest among them, pushes its bold broad breast into the midst of the lake, and forces it to alter its course, forming first a large bay to the left and then bending to the right." [18] F. A. Marshall, editor of _The Henry Irving Edition of Shakespeare_ and author of _A Study of Hamlet_, the comedy of _False Shame_, and many other works, died in London, December, 1889, much lamented. His widow,--the once distinguished actress, Miss Ada Cavendish,--died, at 34 Thurloe square, London, October 6, 1895. [19] The Traveller's Rest is 1481 feet above the sea-level, whereas the inn called The Cat and Fiddle,--a corruption of Caton le Fidèle, governor of Calais,--on Axe Edge, near Buxton, is 1700 feet above the level of the sea. [20] Mr. Wadley died at Pershore, April 4, 1895, and was buried in Bidford churchyard on April 10. [21] See in the _London Athenæum_, February 9, 1889, a valuable article, by Mr. John Taylor, on "Local Shakesperean Names" based upon, and incorporative of, some of the researches of Mr. Wadley. [22] William Butcher died on February 20, 1895, aged sixty-six, and was buried in the Stratford Cemetery. [23] See _An Account of the Discovery of the Body of King John, in the Cathedral Church of Worcester_. By Valentine Green, F.S.A., 1797. [24] Byron was born on January 22, 1788, and he died on April 19, 1824. [25] Since this paper was written the buildings that flanked the church wall have been removed, the street in front of it has been widened, and the church has been "restored" and considerably altered. [26] Revisiting this place on September 10, 1890, I found that the chancel has been lengthened, that the altar and the mural tablets have been moved back from the Byron vault, and that his gravestone is now outside of the rail. [27] It is now, 1896, said to be in the possession of a resident of one of our Southern cities, who says that he obtained it from one of his relatives, to whom it was given by the parish clerk, in 1834. [28] Dr. Joseph Wharton, in a letter to the poet Gay, described Lavinia Fenton as follows: "She was a very accomplished and most agreeable companion; had much wit, good strong sense, and a just taste in polite literature. Her person was agreeable and well made; though I think she could never be called a beauty. I have had the pleasure of being at table with her when her conversation was much admired by the first characters of the age, particularly old Lord Bathurst and Lord Granville." General James Wolfe, killed in battle, at the famous storming of Quebec, was born in 1726, and he died in 1759. Robert Clive, the famous soldier and the first Lord Clive, was born in 1725, and he died, a suicide,--haunted, it was superstitiously said, by ghosts of slaughtered East Indians,--in 1774. [29] The romantic house of Compton Wynyate was built of material taken from a ruined castle at Fulbrooke, by Sir William Compton, in the reign of Henry the Eighth. Wynyate signifies a vineyard. [30] Miss Mary Anderson, the distinguished American actress, was married, on June 17, 1890, at Hampstead, to Mr. Antonio De Navarro. Her Autobiography, called _A Few Memories of My Life_, was published, in London, in March, 1896. [31] Mr. Wall retired from the office of librarian of the Shakespeare Memorial in June, 1895, and was succeeded by Mr. William Salt Brassington. [32] In 1894 the number of visitors to New Place was 809; in 1895 it was 716, while 13,028 visited the Memorial. [33] Mrs. Bulmer served as custodian of New Place until her death, on March 14, 1896. The office was then assigned to Richard Savage, in addition to his other offices. [34] Miss Maria Chattaway died on January 31, 1891. Miss Caroline Chattaway removed from Stratford on October 7, 1895, to Haslor. [35] Mr. Skipsey resigned his office, in October, 1891, and returned to Newcastle. [36] The grave of Charles Frederick Green, author of an account of Shakespeare and the Crab Tree,--an idle tradition set afloat by Samuel Ireland,--was made in the angle near the west door of Trinity church, but it has been covered, tombstone and all, with gravel. [37] Mr. Loggin was Mayor of Stratford in 1866 and 1867, and under his administration, in the latter year, was built the Mill Bridge, across the Avon, near Lucy's Mill, to replace an old and dilapidated structure. Mr. Loggin died on February 3, 1885, aged sixty-nine, and was buried at Long Marston. [38] The Anne Hathaway cottage was purchased for the nation, in April, 1892. [39] Mr. Laffan resigned his office in June, 1895, and became President of Cheltenham College. Rev. E. J. W. Houghton is now head-master. [40] Mrs. Eliza Smith died at No. 56 Ely street, Stratford, on February 24, 1893, aged 68, and the relics that she possessed passed to a relative, at Northampton. They were sold, in London, in June, 1896. [41] Modern editions, following Pope's alteration, say "whereon" instead of "where"; but "where" is the reading in the Folio of 1623. Mr. Savage contends that the bank that Shakespeare had in mind is Borden Hill, near Shottery, where the wild thyme is still abundant. [42] That learned antiquarian W. G. Fretton, Esq., of Coventry, has shown that the Forest of Arden covered a large tract of land extending many miles west and north of the bank of the Avon, around Stratford. [43] It has been awakened. A railway to Henley was opened in 1894. [44] The venerable Mr. Linskill died in the rectory of Beaudesert in February, 1890, and was buried within the shadow of the church that he loved. That picturesque rectory of Beaudesert was the birthplace of Richard Jago [1715-1781], the poet who wrote _Edgehill_. [45] Like many other pleasures it has now become only a memory. Mr. Childs died, in Philadelphia, February 3, 1894. [46] Chantrey had seen the beautiful sculpture of little Penelope Boothby, in Ashbourne church, Derbyshire, made by Thomas Banks, and he may have been inspired by that spectacle. [47] 1896. The building is, if possible, to be made a museum of relics of Johnson. It is now a lodging-house. Its exterior has recently been repaired. Johnson is the name of its present owner. [48] Thomas Jefferson, 1728-1807, was a contemporary and friend of Garrick, and a member of his company, at various times, at Drury Lane. He was the great-grandfather of Joseph Jefferson, famous in Rip Van Winkle. [49] On the stone that marks this sepulchre are inscriptions, which may suitably be preserved in this chronicle: "Alexander Campbell Esquire, of Ederline. Died 2^d October, 1841. In his 76^{th} year. Matilda Campbell. Second daughter of William Campbell Esq., of Ederline. Died on the 21^{st} Nov^r 1842. In her 6^{th} year. William Campbell Esq., of Ederline. Died 15^{th} January 1855, in his 42^{nd} year. Lachlan Aderson Campbell. His son. Died January 27^{th}, 1859. In his 5^{th} year." [John Campbell, the eldest son of Alexander, died February 26, 1855, aged 45, and was buried in the Necropolis, at Toronto, Canada. His widow, Janet Tulloch Campbell, a native of Wick, Caithness, died at Toronto, August 24, 1878, aged 65, and was buried beside him.] [50] It is a small oval glass, of which the rim is fashioned with crescents, twenty-two of them on each side. [51] Chapters on Iona, Staffa, Glencoe, and other beauties of Scotland may be found in my books, which are companions to this one, called _Old Shrines and Ivy_ and _Brown Heath and Blue Bells_. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained. "Corse" is an archaic form of "corpse". "Oftens" is an archaic adverb. Page 121, added "a" (after a Worcester fight) Page 311, changed "along" to "alone" (standing alone among ruins) 
47292	----	Transcriber's Note: ################### This e-text is based on the 1897 edition of the book. Minor punctuation errors have been tacitly corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation and spelling have been retained. Italic text has been symbolised by underscores (_italic_); forward slashes represent small caps (/small caps/). Caret symbols (^) signify subsequent superscript characters; oe ligatures have been substituted by the symbol [oe]. The following passages have been corrected or need to be commented: # p. vii (List of Illustrations and Maps; RIVERS OF CORNWALL: 'New Bridge' has been removed; there is no such Illustration. # p. 38: 'as you please': 'e' had been printed upside down; this has been corrected # p. 64 (caption): 'p. 658' --> 'p. 65' # p. 147: 'seige' --> 'siege' # p. 268: 'muninipal' --> 'municipal' # p. 276: 'page 223' --> 'page 273' # p. 307: 'are still call' --> 'are still called' # p. 308: 'an the bullocks' --> 'and the bullocks'; 'owers' --> 'towers' # p. 376 (Index): 'Wynn, Sir Watkin Willliams' --> 'Wynn, Sir Watkin Williams' THE RIVERS OF GREAT BRITAIN _UNIFORM WITH THIS WORK._ THE ROYAL RIVER: /The Thames from Source to Sea/. With Several Hundred Original Illustrations. _Original Edition_, £2 2s. "Its illustrations surpass all that have previously adorned any book on the same subject"--_Daily Telegraph._ RIVERS OF THE EAST COAST. With numerous highly finished Engravings. _Original Edition_, £2 2s. "We have read with the greatest interest 'The Rivers of the East Coast of Great Britain.' All the articles are by pleasant writers, and the pages are lavishly illustrated by engravings after photographs."--_The Times._ _Popular Editions of the above can also be obtained._ CASSELL & COMPANY, /Limited/, _London; Paris and Melbourne._ [Illustration] THE /Rivers of Great Britain/ DESCRIPTIVE, HISTORICAL, PICTORIAL _RIVERS OF THE SOUTH AND WEST COASTS_ [Illustration] /CASSELL and COMPANY, Limited/ _LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE_ 1897 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED [Illustration] CONTENTS. THE SOUTHERN CHALK STREAMS.--_By WILLIAM SENIOR._ PAGE General Characteristics--The /Canterbury Stour/ and its Branches: Ashford and Jack Cade--Horton and Lyminge--Canterbury--Fordwich and Izaak Walton--Isle of Thanet--Minster. The /Lesser Stour/: "Bourne Ground"--Sandwich. The /Brede/. The /Rother/: Bodiam--Isle of Oxney--Winchelsea--Seaford. The /Cuckmere/: Alfriston and Lullington. /The Ouse/: St. Leonard's Forest--Fletching--Maresfield--Lewes. The /Adur/: Bramber--Shoreham. The /Arun/: Amberley--Arundel--Littlehampton. Hampshire Rivers--The /Arle/: The Meon District--Wickham and the Bishop-Builder--Titchfield. The /Itchen/: A Curious Example of Instinct--Alresford Pond--Cheriton--Tichborne--The Winnal Reaches--Winchester and Izaak Walton--St. Cross--St. Catherine's Hill--Southampton. The /Test/: Romsey and its Abbey. The /Beaulieu/: Beaulieu Abbey. The /Lymington/ and the /Medina/--The /Hampshire Avon/ and the /Stour/: Christchurch--Salisbury--Wimborne. The /Frome/: Dorchester--Mr. Hardy's Country--Poole Harbour 1 RIVERS OF DEVON.--_By W. W. HUTCHINGS._ General Characteristics--Sources of the Devon Streams: Exmoor and Dartmoor. The /Otter/: Ottery Saint Mary and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Exmoor Streams:--The /Exe/: Its Source in The Chains--The Barle--The Batherm--Tiverton and Peter Blundell--Bickleigh Bridge and the "King of the Gipsies"--The Culm--Exeter--Countess Weir--Exmouth. The /Lyn/: Oareford--The Doone Country--Malmsmead--Watersmeet--Lyndale--Lynton and Lynmouth. Dartmoor Streams:--The /Teign/: Wallabrook--Chagford--Fingle Bridge--Chudleigh--The Bovey--Newton Abbot--Teignmouth. The /Dart/: Holne Chase--Buckfast Abbey--Dartington Hall--Totnes--The Lower Reaches--Dartmouth. The Tavy. The /Taw/: Oxenham and its Legend--Barnstaple--Lundy. The /Torridge/: The Okement--Great Torrington--Bideford--Hubbastone. The Avon, Erme, and Yealm. The /Plym/: Dewerstone--The Meavy and Plymouth Leat--Plympton St. Mary and Plympton Earl--The Three Towns 25 RIVERS OF CORNWALL.--_By HUGH W. STRONG._ The Minor Streams of Cornwall--The /Tamar/: Woolley Barrows--Morwellham and Weir Head--Morwell Rocks--Harewood--Calstock--Cotehele--Pentillie--Confluence with the Tavy--Saltash--The Hamoaze. The /Fowey/: A Change of Name--St. Neot--Lostwithiel--Fowey. The /Fal/: Fenton Fal--Tregony--Truro--Tregothnan--Falmouth 54 THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON.--_By HUGH W. STRONG._ The /Parret/: Its Source--Muchelney Abbey--The Tone and Taunton--Athelney Island and Alfred the Great--Sedgemoor--Bridgwater--Burnham. The /Lower Avon/: Escourt Park--Malmesbury--Chippenham--Melksham--Bradford-on-Avon--Bath--The Frome--Beau Nash--Bridges at Bath--The Abbey Church--Bristol--St. Mary Redcliffe and Chatterton--The Cathedral--"The Chasm"--Clifton Suspension Bridge--The Lower Reaches--Avonmouth 67 THE SEVERN.--_By the REV. PROFESSOR BONNEY, D.Sc., F.R.S._ CHAPTER I.--/From the Source to Tewkesbury./--Birthplace of the Severn--Plinlimmon--Blaenhafren--Llanidloes--Caersws--Newtown-- Montgomery--Welshpool--Powys Castle--The Breidden Hills--The Vyrnwy. Distant Views--Shrewsbury--Haughmond Hill--The Caradoc Hills--Atcham--Wroxeter--Condover--The Wrekin--Benthall and Wenlock Edges--Buildwas Abbey--Coalbrook Dale--Ironbridge--Broseley and Benthall--Coalport--Bridgnorth--Quatford--Forest of Wyre--Bewdley--Stourport--Worcester--The Teme--Ludlow--Tewkesbury 82 CHAPTER II.--/The Upper or Warwickshire Avon./--The Watershed of Central England--Naseby--Rugby--The Swift--Lutterworth and Wiclif--Stoneleigh Abbey and Kenilworth Castle--Guy's Cliff--The Leam--Warwick and its Castle--Stratford-on-Avon and its Shakespeare Associations--Evesham--Pershore--Tewkesbury 107 CHAPTER III.--/From Tewkesbury to the Sea./--Deerhurst-- Gloucester--The "Bore"--May Hill--Minsterworth--Westbury-on-Severn --Newnham--Berkeley Castle--Lydney--Sharpness--The Severn Tunnel-- The Estuary--A Vanished River 119 THE WYE.--_By E. W. SABEL._ "The Notorious Hill of Plinlimmon"--The Stronghold of Owen Glendower--Llangurig--Rhayader Gwy--Llyn-Gwyn--The Elan, the Ithon, and the Yrfon--Llandrindod--Builth--Aberedw and the Last Prince of Wales--Hay--Clifford Castle and the Fair Rosamond--Hereford--The Lug--"The Wonder"--Ross and John Kyrle--Goodrich Castle--Coldwell Rocks--Symond's Yat--Monmouth--The Monnow, the Dore, and the Llonddu--Wordsworth's Great Ode--Tintern Abbey--The Wyndcliff--Chepstow--The Lower Reaches 124 THE USK.--_By E. W. SABEL._ The Black Mountains--Trecastle--The Gaer--Brecon--The Brecknock Beacons--Crickhowell--Abergavenny--Usk--Caerleon and the Arthurian Legend--Christchurch--Newport 149 RIVERS OF SOUTH WALES.--_By CHARLES EDWARDES._ Brecknock Beacons--The /Taff/: Taff Fawr and Taff Fechan--Cardiff Reservoirs--Merthyr--The Dowlais Steel and Iron Works--The Rhondda--Pontypridd--Castell Coch--Llandaff and its Cathedral--Cardiff and its Castle. The /Neath/: Ystradfellte--The Mellte and its Affluents--The Cwm Porth--Waterfalls and Cascades--The Sychnant--Pont Neath Vaughan--Neath and its Abbey--The Dulas and the Clydach. Swansea and its Docks--Morriston Castle--Swansea Castle--The Mumbles and Swansea Bay. The /Tawe/: Craig-y-Nos--Lly-Fan Fawr. The /Towy/: Ystradffin--Llandovery--Llandilo--Dynevor Castle--Carmarthen and Richard Steele--Carmarthen Bar. The /Taff/: Milford Haven--Carew Castle--Pembroke Castle--Monkton Priory--New Milford and Old Milford--Haverfordwest. The /Teifi/: Strata Florida Abbey--Newcastle Emlyn--Cenarth--Cardigan. The /Ystwith/: The Upper Waters--Aberystwith 159 RIVERS OF NORTH WALES.--_By AARON WATSON._ CHAPTER I.--/The Dovey, the Dysynni, the Mawddach./--Glories of a Wet Autumn in North Wales. The /Dovey/: Source of the Stream--Dinas Mowddwy--Mallwyd--Machynlleth. The /Dysynni/: Tal-y-Llyn--The "Bird Rock"--Towyn. The /Mawddach/: The Estuary--The Wnion--Torrent Walk--Dolgelley--Precipice Walk--The Estuary--Barmouth--Harlech Castle--Portmadoc--Glaslyn--Tremadoc and Shelley--The Traeth Bach 193 CHAPTER II.--/The Seiont, the Ogwen, the Conway./--The /Seiont/: Llanberis Pass--Lakes Peris and Padarn--Dolbadarn Castle and Cennant Mawr--Carnarvon and its Castle. The /Ogwen/: Llyn Ogwen and Llyn Idwal--Bethesda--Penrhyn Castle. The /Llugwy/: Capel Curig--Moel Siabod--Pont-y-Cyfing--Swallow Falls--The Miners' Bridge--Bettws-y-Coed. The /Lledr/: Dolwyddelen--Pont-y-Pant. The /Machno/ and its Fall. The /Conway/: Fairy Glen--Llanrwst--Gwydir Castle--Llanbedr--Trefriw--Conway Marsh--Conway Castle and Town--Deganwy--Llandudno 205 CHAPTER III.--/The Clwyd and the Dee./--The /Clwyd/: Rhyl--Rhuddlan Castle--The Elwy--A Welsh Gretna Green--St. Asaph--Denbigh--Ruthin. The /Dee/: Bala Lake--Corwen--Vale of Llangollen and Valle Crucis Abbey--Dinas Bran--The Ceiriog--Chirk Castle and Wynnstay--The Alyn--Eaton Hall--Chester--Flint 223 THE MERSEY.--_By W. S. CAMERON._ A Modern River--Derivations--The Tame, the Goyt, and the Etherow--Stockport--Northenden--The Irwell and its Feeders--Manchester and Salford--The Ship Canal--Bridges over the Irwell--Ordsall--Eccles--Barton--Warburton--Irlam--Warrington-- Latchford--Runcorn and Widnes--The Weaver--Eastham Locks--Liverpool and its Growth--Its Docks and Quays--Birkenhead and its Shipbuilding Yards--New Brighton--Perch Rock Lighthouse 242 RIVERS OF LANCASHIRE AND LAKELAND.--_By WILLIAM SENIOR._ A Birthplace of Rivers--The /Ribble/: Ribblehead-- Horton-in-Ribblesdale--Survival of Old Traditions--Hellifield--The Hodder--Stonyhurst and its College--The Calder--Burnley--Towneley Hall--Preston--Its Development as a Port. The /Wyre/: Poulton-le-Fylde. The /Lune/: Kirkby Lonsdale--The Greta and the Wenning--Hornby Castle--Lancaster--Morecambe Bay--The Journey from Lancaster to Ulverston in Coaching Days--Shifting Sands. The /Kent/: Kentmere--Kendal. The Gilpin and the Winster. The /Rothay/ and the /Brathay/. Grasmere and Wordsworth--Rydal Water--Ambleside--Windermere. Troutbeck. Esthwaite Water. The /Leven/: Newby Bridge--The Estuary. The /Crake/: Coniston Water--Coniston Hall--Brantwood and Mr. Ruskin. The /Duddon/: Wordsworth's Sonnets. The /Esk/ and the /Irt/: Wastwater. The /Liza/: Ennerdale Water. The /Ehen/: Egremont Castle. The /Derwent/: The Vale of St. John's--The Greta and Keswick--The View from Castlerigg top--Derwentwater 271 RIVERS OF THE SOLWAY FIRTH.--_By FRANCIS WATT._ The Firth--A Swift Tide. The /Eden/: The Eamont--Eden Hall--Armathwaite--John Skelton--Wetheral and Corby Castle--The Caldew and the Petteril--Greystoke Castle--Carlisle, its Romance and History--_Serva Pactum_--"Kinmont Willie" and the "bauld Buccleuch"--Executions of Jacobites--The Carlisle of To-day--The Sark--Gretna Green. The /Liddel/--Hermitage Water and Castle. The /Esk/: The Tarras--Gilnockie Tower--Carlenrig and Johnnie Armstrong--Young Lochinvar--Kirtle Water and its Tragic Story. The /Annan/: The Land of the Bruces--Thomas Carlyle. The /Nith/: Dumfries--Burns's Grave--Robert Bruce and the Red Cumyn--Drumlanrig and Caerlaverock Castles--The Cairn and its Associations--The New Abbey Pow and Sweetheart Abbey. The /Dee/: Douglas Tongueland--Threave Castle. The /Cree/: Newton Stewart--The "Cruives of Cree." The /Bladenoch/: The Wigtown Martyrs 301 RIVERS OF AYRSHIRE.--_By JOHN GEDDIE._ Poetic Associations--Headstreams of the Ayrshire Rivers--"The Land of Burns"--The Ayr and the Doon--Sorn--Catrine--Ballochmyle-- Mossgiel--Mauchline--Barskimming--Coilsfield House and the Fail Water--The Coyl--Auchencruive--Craigie--Ayr--The Doon 328 THE CLYDE.--_By JOHN GEDDIE._ Clydesdale and its Waters--"The Hill of Fire"--Douglasdale--"Castle Dangerous"--Bonnington Linn--Corra Linn and "Wallace's Tower"--Lanark--The Mouse Water--Stonebyres Linn--The Nethan and "Tillietudlem"--"The Orchard of Scotland"--Hamilton and its Palace--Cadzow Castle and its Associations--Bothwell Brig and Castle--Blantyre--Cambuslang--Rutherglen--Glasgow--The City and its History--The Quays, Docks, and Shipbuilding Yards--The Work of the Clyde Navigation Trust--Govan and Partick--The White Cart--Dumbarton Rock and Castle--The Leven Valley--Ben and Loch Lomond--Greenock--Gourock--The Firth at Eventide 342 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS. /Cader Idris, from the Dolgelley Road/ _Frontispiece._ _THE SOUTHERN CHALK STREAMS_:-- PAGES Distant View of Canterbury--Rivers of Kent and Sussex(_Map_) --Arundel Castle--Sandwich: The Old Bridge and Barbican--General View of Winchester--St. Catherine's Hill--Winchester Cathedral-- Southampton Docks--The Royal Pier, Southampton--Southampton from the Water--Romsey Abbey--Christchurch Abbey--Rivers of Hants and Dorset (_Map_)--A New Forest Stream--The Avon at Amesbury--Salisbury Cathedral--The Frome at Frampton Court--Dorchester from the Frome--Poole Harbour--Wimborne Minster 1-24 _RIVERS OF DEVON_:-- Bideford Bridge--Rivers of Devon (_Map_)--The Wear Water-- Exeter--Exmouth, from the Beacon--Watersmeet--Lynmouth and Lynton--"Clam" Bridge over the Wallabrook--Fingle Bridge-- Teignmouth--New Bridge--Buckfastleigh--Staverton--The Island, Totnes--Totnes--Dittisham--Mouth of the Dart--Barnstaple, from the South Walk--The Torridge near Torrington--The Plym from Cadaford Bridge--In Bickleigh Vale--Plympton Earl--The Hoe, Plymouth 25-53 _RIVERS OF CORNWALL_:-- Danescombe--Rivers of Cornwall (_Map_)--Tavistock New Bridge--Morwell Rocks--Cargreen--The Hamoaze, from Saltash--The Fal from Tolverne--Falmouth Harbour--Falmouth, from Flushing 54-66 _THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON_:-- The Isle of Athelney--The Parret and the Lower Avon (_Map_) --Taunton Church--Malmesbury Abbey--The Avon near Tetbury-- Bradford-on-Avon Church, from the North-East--The Avon at Bath-- View from North Parade Bridge, Bath--View from the old City Bridge, Bath--Bristol, from the Site of the old Drawbridge across the Harbour--Clifton Suspension Bridge 67-81 _THE SEVERN_:-- CHAPTER I.--/From the Source to Tewkesbury./--Source of the Severn, Plinlimmon--The Severn, from the Source to Tewkesbury (_Map_)--Valley of the Severn, from Plinlimmon--The First House on the Severn, Blaenhafren--Moel-y-Golfa and Breidden, from Welshpool--The Vyrnwy Embankment, before the flooding of the Valley--A Quiet Nook on the Vyrnwy--The Boat-house Ferry, between Welsh and English Bridges--Shrewsbury Castle--Quarry Walk, Shrewsbury--English Bridge, Shrewsbury--Buildwas Abbey--The Severn from Benthall Edge--Ironbridge--The Severn in Wyre Forest--Near Shrawley--Old Houses at Bewdley--Worcester Cathedral, from the Severn--Ludlow--The Severn at Tewkesbury 82-106 CHAPTER II.--/The Upper or Warwickshire Avon./--The Avon near Rugby--The Warwickshire Avon (_Map_)--Warwick Castle--The Avon from Warwick Castle--Stratford-on-Avon Church--Shakespeare's House--The Avon at Stratford--Evesham--The Avon at Tewkesbury 107-118 CHAPTER III.--/From Tewkesbury to the Sea./--Distant View of Tewkesbury--The Severn, from Tewkesbury to the Sea (_Map_)--Gloucester--The Severn Bridge, Sharpness 119-123 _THE WYE_:-- A Bend of the Wye--Views in the Lower Elan Valley--The Wye and the Usk (_Map_)--Pont-Hyll-Fan, in the Elan Valley--The Shaky Bridge, Llandrindod--The Wye Bridge and Hereford Cathedral--Goodrich Castle--Ross Church--Symond's Yat and the Ferry--Monmouth--The Monnow Bridge and Gate-house, Monmouth--Tintern Abbey, from the Wye--The Nave, Tintern Abbey--Gateway at Chepstow--Chepstow Castle--View from the Wyndcliff--Old Monastery on the Wye 124-148 _THE USK_:-- Near the Source of the Usk, Talsarn-side--The Usk at Brecknock--Bit of the Roman Wall at Caerleon--Usk--Caerleon--Newport: The Bridge and Castle 149-158 _RIVERS OF SOUTH WALES_:-- The Brecknock Beacons, from the Taff--Llandaff Cathedral: The West Front; The Nave and Choir; The West and North Doors--Rivers of South Wales (_Map_)--The Bishop's Gateway, Llandaff--Cardiff Castle--St. Mary Street, Cardiff--The Drawing Room, Cardiff Castle--In the Vale of Neath--Neath Abbey--Outskirts of Neath--North Dock, Swansea--Morriston--The Mumbles--Carew Castle--Carmarthen Quay--Pembroke Castle and Monkton Priory--The Royal Dockyard, Pembroke Dock--Haverfordwest--Milford Haven--The Teifi at Kilgerran--Aberystwith 159-192 _RIVERS OF NORTH WALES_:-- CHAPTER I.--/The Dovey, the Dysynni, the Mawddach./-- Dolgelley--Rivers of North Wales (_Map_)--Torrent Walk, Dolgelley--The Lower Bridge, Torrent Walk--Between Dolgelley and Barmouth--Barmouth Bridge and Cader Idris--Snowdon, from Crib-Goch--The Estuary, Barmouth 193-204 CHAPTER II.--/The Seiont, the Ogwen, the Conway./--Pass of Llanberis--Carnarvon Castle--The Swallow Falls--Miners' Bridge, Bettws-y-Coed--Moel Siabod, from the Llugwy--Pont-y-Pair--On the Lledr--Another View in the Lledr Valley--Fairy Glen, Bettws-y-Coed--On the Conway--The Conway, from Conway Castle--Conway Castle--The Bridge, from Conway Castle 205-222 CHAPTER III.--/The Clwyd and the Dee./--View from Rhuddlan Castle--Rhuddlan Castle--St. Asaph--Denbigh--Bala Lake--Valle Crucis Abbey--Llangollen--Eaton Hall--The Roodee, Chester--The Dee at Chester, from the Walls--Chester Cathedral, from the South-West--Swing Bridge over the Dee near Hawarden--The Sands of Dee 223-241 _THE MERSEY_:-- The Mersey at Stockport--The Mersey (_Map_)--Northenden--On the Irwell--Pendleton, from the Crescent--Manchester, from the Grammar School, showing the Cathedral, the Exchange, the Town Hall, etc. --Victoria and Blackfriars Bridges--Steamer passing through Trafford Road Swing Bridge--The Old and the Swing Aqueducts, Barton--The Irwell at Ordsall, with Worrall's Works--Runcorn Bridge--The Locks at Eastham--St. George's Landing-Stage, Liverpool--Swing Bridge over the Entrance to Stanley Dock, Liverpool--Liverpool, from Birkenhead--St. George's Hall and Lime Street, Liverpool--The Perch Rock Lighthouse 242-270 _RIVERS OF LANCASHIRE AND LAKELAND_:-- Stainforth Bridge--Towneley Hall, Burnley--Rivers of Lancashire and Lakeland (_Map_)--Preston, from the West--Lancaster-- Windermere--Rydal Water--Grasmere--Newby Bridge--Another Bit of the Leven--The Liza flowing into Ennerdale Water--The Liza at Gillerthwaite--Coniston Water--Ennerdale--The Greta between Threlkeld and Keswick--The Derwent, with Keswick in the Distance--The Derwent at Crosthwaite--Derwentwater and Skiddaw--Derwentwater from Scafell--The Cocker flowing from Crummock Lake--The Cocker at Kirkgate 271-300 _RIVERS OF THE SOLWAY FIRTH_:-- The Annan, near Annan Town--The Eden, the Petteril, and the Caldew (_Map_)--Eden Hall--The Weir at Armathwaite--Wetheral Bridge--View from Brackenbank looking towards Cotehill--Cotehill Island--View from the Long Walk, Corby Castle--Rock Stairway to the Boathouse, Corby Castle--Greystoke Castle--Carlisle, looking East--Carlisle, looking West--Rivers flowing South into Solway Firth (_Map_)--The Esk, near Gilnockie--High Street, Dumfries--Lincluden Abbey--Drumlanrig Castle--Caerlaverock Castle--The Dee at Douglas Tongueland--The Cree at Newton Stewart 301-327 _RIVERS OF AYRSHIRE_:-- The Ayr above Muirkirk--Sorn--Rivers of Ayrshire (_Map_)-- Ballochmyle--The Ayr at Barskimming--Auchencruive--The Twa Brigs of Ayr--The Dam at Ayr--The Doon: The New and the Auld Brig--Ayrmouth 328-341 _THE CLYDE_:-- One of the Sources of the Clyde--The Clyde (_Map_)--Douglas Castle--Bonnington Linn--Corra Linn--Roman Bridge near Lanark-- Stonebyres Linn--Bothwell Castle--Glasgow University--The Broomielaw Landing-Stage--The Clyde at Glasgow--Partick--Paisley-- Dumbarton Rock--Loch Lomond--Greenock--Gourock 342-369 /Rivers of Great Britain./ [Illustration: _Photo: G. W. Wilson & Co., Aberdeen._ DISTANT VIEW OF CANTERBURY (_p. 3_).] THE SOUTHERN CHALK STREAMS. General Characteristics--The /Canterbury Stour/ and its Branches: Ashford and Jack Cade--Horton and Lyminge--Canterbury--Fordwich and Izaak Walton--Isle of Thanet--Minster. The /Lesser Stour/: "Bourne Ground"--Sandwich. The /Brede/. The /Rother/: Bodiam--Isle of Oxney--Winchelsea--Seaford. The /Cuckmere/: Alfriston and Lullington. /The Ouse/: St. Leonard's Forest--Fletching--Maresfield--Lewes. The /Adur/: Bramber--Shoreham. The /Arun/: Amberley--Arundel--Littlehampton. Hampshire Rivers--The /Arle/: The Meon District--Wickham and the Bishop-Builder--Titchfield. The /Itchen/: A Curious Example of Instinct--Alresford Pond--Cheriton--Tichborne--The Winnal Reaches--Winchester and Izaak Walton--St. Cross--St. Catherine's Hill--Southampton. The /Test/: Romsey and its Abbey. The /Beaulieu/: Beaulieu Abbey. The _Lymington_ and the /Medina/--The /Hampshire Avon/ and the /Stour/: Christchurch--Salisbury--Wimborne. The /Frome/: Dorchester--Mr. Hardy's Country--Poole Harbour. The long and strong backbone of the North Downs extends, roughly speaking, from Kent, by way of Dorking and Guildford, to the source of the Avon, north of Salisbury Plain; and the South Downs run parallel, more or less, through Sussex and Hants to the Dorset heights. From these green hills spring the streams which will be briefly traced from source to sea in this chapter. They are not rivers of first account in their aid to commerce; even the pair which combine in the formation of Southampton Water have never been reckoned in the nomenclature of dock or port. To the angler, however, some of these chalk streams are exceedingly precious--as they indeed ought to be, when a rental varying from fifty to a hundred pounds per mile per annum is gladly paid (and taken) for the right of fishing with rod and line. Such choice preserves are stocked with trout of aristocratic quality, trout which can only be reared in streams issuing from the chalk; their water, when unpolluted by contact with towns, is crystal clear; and the beds of gravel and fine sand favour the growth of typical vegetation, which in its turn favours typical water insects and other food suitable for the highest class of non-migratory salmonidæ. Wholly different from such noisy, turbulent, masterful rivers as those which distinguish North Britain, these chalk streams enter into the very spirit of that sweet pastoral scenery which suggests repose, peace, and plenty. They maintain for the most part an even course, tranquilly flowing without fret or violence through level land, and pursuing their tireless journey seawards, unobstructed by the rugged rocks, obstinate boulders, and uneven beds which provoke your mountain-or moorland-born waters into thunderous roar, angry swirl, and headlong rapidity. For foam-flecked pools, and mighty leaps in romantic gorges, the South-country chalk stream offers forget-me-nots by the margin, and beds of flowers blossoming from its harmless depths. It is with rivers of this class we have now to deal, presenting such features as may be noticed within the limits which have been assigned to the present chapter. [Illustration: RIVERS OF KENT AND SUSSEX.] Beginning, as the sun in its progress would have us do, from the east, we introduce the reader to the fair county of Kent. There are at least half-a-dozen Stours, great and small, in England; and though the stream with which we start is entirely Kentish (and might, therefore, take the name of the county), it is commonly distinguished by the name of the /Canterbury Stour/. There are others of its namesakes--one of which we shall meet with towards the end of our journey--of greater watershed, but there is no more interesting member of the family. As a rule, a river, with its tributaries, as seen on the map, offers the appearance of the root of a tree, with its branches gracefully following in a common direction towards the parent stream, on the principle that, as the main river ever has marching orders towards the ocean, all its feeders, in the same spirit, loyally join in a forward movement. Our Stour, however, is a notable exception. It assumes a respectable magnitude at Ashford, but near that town, and almost at right angles to the subsequent direction of the main stream, two distinct branches join issue. The main stream from Ashford to the Isle of Thanet runs almost due north-east; branch number one, that comes from the hills in the direction of Maidstone, travels to Ashford almost due south-west, and the other branch that rises north of Hythe flows in a diametrically opposite course. These little rivers are of equal length, and flow, in their unpretending fashion, through purely rural country. The first-named of these branches rises near Lenham, which takes its name from a feeder of the great river of the northern watershed of the county. Visitors to the seat of the Dering family at Surrenden, where there have been Derings since the time of the Conqueror, and to Little Chart Church, will be, at the latter place, not far from what is regarded as the real source of the river Stour, but this brook must not be confounded with the Beult at Smarden, which belongs to the Medway. Our stream flows the other way, passing Cale Hill, Hothfield, and Godinton. Hereabouts--if there is anything in tradition--is the country of troublesome Jack Cade, who must have known a good deal about the river, for the story is that he was born at Ashford, and that the squire who had the honour of taking him into custody lived on the estate known in these days as Ripley Court Farm. The southern branch takes its rise near Postling, on the famous Stone Street, or Roman road, which from Westenhanger is a straight northerly highway to Canterbury. The farmhouse at Horton was a priory founded in the time of Henry II. Naturally, in this part of England, where Augustine landed, the countryside is rich in the earliest ecclesiastical reminiscences. At Lyminge, for example, hard by, was one of the Benedictine nunneries, and the church where the daughter of Ethelbert was buried is often visited by admirers of Roman and Anglo-Saxon masonry, for it is believed that the Saxon church was built on the site of a basilicon. There are many parish churches in Kent which are of exceptional interest, but that at Lyminge is generally accepted as the first of them. The entire course of the Stour is about forty-five miles, and its valley from Ashford to Canterbury is one of the loveliest features of a lovely county. Overlooking it is Eastwell Park, which for many years was the country-house of the Duke of Edinburgh. The valley of the Stour, seen from one of its higher knolls as on a chart, is not always so open as it is in this neighbourhood, though its narrowing means but the concentration of charming scenery, with wooded heights on the one side and open downs on the other. For a considerable distance the Stour follows the railway line, and at Wye, where there is one of the most lovely miniature racecourses in the kingdom, it is crossed by a bridge of five arches. Thenceforth, it is a notable trout stream, gradually widening until it forms the distinctive feature of the well-known meadows, with the square-towered cathedral always a prominent object of the landscape. Canterbury has been so often described, for it is frequently the scene of great ceremonials (as witness the impressive burial of Archbishop Benson in 1896, and the enthronisation of his distinguished successor in 1897), that a few sentences only are required as we muse by the riverside. But it is impossible to visit Canterbury without recalling its stirring and suggestive associations, and the distinction it had in times when other parts of the country were obscure. It was too near the water to escape the ravages of the sea-kings, who liked to land at Sheppey and Thanet, and it was more than once devastated by the Danes. In 1011 it was taken by storm amidst scenes of death and desolation during which the cathedral and monastery were burnt, the inhabitants slaughtered in masses, and women and children carried away into captivity. There is no need to re-tell the story of that different kind of landing, glorified by the arrival of St. Augustine and his missionaries. This also honoured the Isle of Thanet, which the Saxon chronicle mentions as the place of disembarkation of Hengist and Horsa on their heathen mission to Vortigern. The Stour in its terminal portion has probably become much cabined and confined since that period, when it must have been a broad estuary. [Illustration: _Photo: J. White, Littlehampton._ ARUNDEL CASTLE (_p. 11_).] About two miles below Canterbury is the village of Fordwich, on the opposite bank of the Stour. As the tide in old days reached thither, it ranked as a Cinque Port. According to Izaak Walton, the old name of Fordwich was "Fordidge," and as such he immortalised it in the "Compleat Angler" as the home of the Fordidge trout, about which there was some mystery, until in the present century it was proved to be one of the migratory salmonidæ. An occasional specimen is now found. This fish does now and then run into some of our south-east rivers, and no doubt at the time when the Thames was a salmon river and the waters were unpolluted, it was common in the Stour, which throughout is an excellent trout stream. [Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._ SANDWICH: THE OLD BRIDGE AND BARBICAN (_p. 7_).] Below Canterbury, where the water becomes brackish and the conditions prosaic, the trout gives place to the ordinary coarse fish of our streams. Grove Ferry is one of the favourite holiday resorts of the citizens. At Sarr, a few miles from Fordwich, the ferry which now plies at Grove Ferry was formerly the means of communication with the Isle of Thanet. This historic island is formed by the Stour separating right and left, the arm to the north finding the sea a little east of the Reculvers; while the branch flowing in the opposite direction marks the boundary of the promontory which includes the watering-places of Ramsgate, Broadstairs, Margate, and Birchington, and has for the extreme tip of its snout the lonely North Foreland. This divergence, which, on a smaller scale, corresponds with the curious right-angled course of the brooks at the source, used to have a name of its own: it was called the Wantsum, with a well-known ford at St. Nicholas-at-Wade; and no doubt this channel was once an arm of the sea. The lesser Stour, of which something will presently be said, falls into the navigable portion of the parent river below Sarr. The lower branch runs through marshes by Minster, which is a deservedly popular village to tourists exploring Kent who are specially on the lookout for interesting relics of the past. King Egbert, one of the Christian kings of Kent, founded a nunnery here by way of atonement for the murder of a couple of princely cousins, and he agreed to endow it with as much land as a hind would cover in one course. The Danes had their will of the place. The restored church in its present form has a Norman nave, with Early English transepts and choir. Minster is a favourite ramble for seaside visitors to Ramsgate; it is well situated, and its high ground affords views of distant Canterbury, the ruins of Richborough Castle, the coast country about Deal, and a proper expanse of marsh. The Stour, when nearly opposite the point of coast where it eventually falls into the Straits of Dover, takes a turn to the east, calling, as it were, at the ancient town of Sandwich, and then proceeds due north to Pegwell Bay. Rising somewhere near the source of the lower arm of Stour major, the /Lesser Stour/ is another charming Kentish trout stream. It flows through what may be designated bourne ground, as the names of many of its villages testify. The source is near Bishopsbourne Church, where the judicious Hooker, a native of the place, performed the duties of parish priest. There are also Patrixbourne, Bekesbourne, Nailbourne, and Littlebourne. The last named is well known to tourists, for the village has a traditional association with the monks of St. Augustine; here are an Early English church with monuments, and the park at Lee Priory where Sir Egerton Brydges worked his press; and within a quarter of an hour's walk is an old church formerly belonging to some of the Canterbury priors. On the banks of the stream at Bekesbourne are the remains of a palace of Archbishop Cranmer; and when the Parliamentarians, according to their custom, laid it under contribution, in their ransacking they discovered the Primate's will behind an old oak wainscoting. Wickham Breaux is another of the Lesser Stour villages, and all around are the fruit orchards and occasional hopfields which give a distinctive and agreeable character to the entire watershed. The Lesser Stour for a while runs parallel with its companion, which it joins at Stourmouth, to assist in outlining the Isle of Thanet, and mingling therefore with the current which goes the round of Sandwich to Pegwell Bay. It seems almost incredible that Sandwich was once a great port, but if a quiet hour be spent in what is left of it, the town will be found to repay careful inspection. The Barbican, as the old gateway tower is called, and the bridge indicate the haven in which refugees from France and the Low Countries found a safe home. * * * * * From Hythe to the ancient and always interesting town of Rye, stretches the Royal Military Canal; the first stream to claim attention is the /Brede/, though it is scarcely entitled to river rank. It takes its rise a few miles from Battle, and its course is held to have been the old channel of the Rother, near Winchelsea. The "Groaning Bridge" is on the Brede, and it was on this spot that the Oxenbridge ogre of ancient legend was said to have been disposed of once for all by being divided across the middle with a wooden saw. [Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._ GENERAL VIEW OF WINCHESTER (_p. 16_).] [Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._ ST. CATHERINE'S HILL (_p. 17_).] But the principal river in the Rye and Winchelsea district, so full of suggestion in its evidences of past prosperity and present decay, is the /Rother/, known as the Eastern, to distinguish it from another of the same name in the western part of the county. At Bodiam is a famous foss, fed by the river, encircling the excellently preserved castle, with its round tower, great gateway approached by a causeway, spacious central court, outer portcullis, and portions of hall, chapel, and kitchen. This is held by antiquaries to be one of the best of the feudal fortresses in Sussex. In monkish days the stream was no doubt one of great value. Near the source, at Gravel Hill, is Robertsbridge, or Rotherbridge, where a Cistercian abbey, secluded almost from the world by the river, was visited by Edward II. and Edward III. There are still fragments of the abbey on a farm which occupies at least a portion of the site. The Rother is a river of many tributaries, one of them acting partly as the boundary of Sussex and Kent. Its scenery is somewhat commonplace, but it is navigable for a considerable portion of its course, which has much altered since the old chronicles were inscribed. Two of its branches enclose the Isle of Oxney, a flat so easily flooded that the villagers within its bounds often find the use of a boat a necessity. [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL (_p. 16_).] The railway crosses the Rother by a stone bridge, then comes Rye Harbour, and at a distance of two miles, set upon a hill so that it cannot be hid, is the old-world borough of Winchelsea, which the sea has left high and dry, though it had been the abode of great kings, and the witness of battles by sea and land. At Hastings the Downs supply sufficient rivulet-power to maintain glen, waterfall, and dripping well, for sea-side visitors. Following the coast-line to Seaford, the quiet and unpretending watering place which was once a Cinque Port, and which returned members to Parliament until it was disfranchised by the Reform Act, a short walk over the Downs brings the tourist to the pretty broken country of East and West Dean. * * * * * [Illustration: _Photo: F. G. O. Stuart, Southampton._ SOUTHAMPTON DOCKS (_p. 19_).] The stream crossed by Exceat Bridge is the /Cuckmere/, of which it need only be said that it has ceased to be a feature of importance to shipping people. It is worth while, nevertheless, to follow it up from the reaches where barges still find resting-place. At Alfriston British, Roman, and Saxon coins have been found; there is a rare sixteenth-century inn, supposed to have been built as a house of call for Canterbury pilgrims, a market cross, a church on the plan of a Greek cross, sometimes designated "the cathedral of the South Downs," a parish register dating from 1512--possibly the oldest in England--and a half-timbered rectory of still earlier date. There is some doubt as to which is now the smallest church in Great Britain, but the claim has been made for Lullington, which is on the slope of Cuckmere vale. In rambling by this little river the tourist will make acquaintance with the South Downs free and unadulterated. The Cuckmere flows into the sea about two miles from Seaford, having escaped through the opening which takes the name of Birling Gap. * * * * * Within an area of four square miles, and almost in touch with St. Leonard's Forest, three important Sussex streams take their rise--the Ouse, Adur, and Arun. This was the centre of the ancient iron industry of Sussex, and the position would not have been possible without water supply for the hammer ponds. The /Ouse/ is crossed by the London and Brighton Railway a little north-west of Lindfield. The river afterwards winds round the well-wooded seat of the Earl of Sheffield; and at Fletching Common, hard by, the baronial army spent the night before fighting the battle of Lewes. Gibbon the historian was buried in the church, which is noted also for an ancient rood screen and the mausoleum of the Neville family. Maresfield, where the furnaces and forges of the old Sussex iron-masters clustered thick, retains vast expanses of the cinder and slag they created centuries ago. It is beautified by the trees of Ashdown Forest, and sends a tributary to the Ouse; another tributary presently arrives from Buxted, where the first cast cannon ever seen in Europe was made in 1543. The Ouse is the river of the pleasant county town of Lewes. This rare old town, on its chalk hill, with downs surrounding it, and with the Ouse, on whose right bank it is spread, adding to its attractions, ranks in interest with Chester and Durham. The great battle which was fought on May 14th, 1264, is the event of which the local historians are most proud. As we have seen, it was at Fletching Common that De Montfort encamped his soldiers, and thence he sent a couple of bishops the day before the battle on a fruitless errand to the king, who was quartered at the priory. The most sanguinary slaughter appears to have taken place south of the town, where the Ouse was crossed by a bridge; and the river with its marshy flats assisted in the destruction, for many knights were discovered after the battle stuck in the swamp, "sitting on their horses, in complete armour, and with drawn swords in their lifeless hands." The Ouse cannot be said to be picturesque; at Lewes it has long lost the sparkle which characterised it in the forest outskirts; but from any elevated point of Lewes Castle, notably the western keep, the easy stream may be seen as it is about to disappear between the hills. The disestablished locks between Cuckfield and Lewes indicate a brisk bygone barge traffic. Early in the present century the river was navigable for barges of forty tons burden for ten miles without interruption, and thence beyond Lindfield in the Hayward's Heath country. In early times it was probably a broad estuary extending to Lewes itself, and at some time found an outlet to the sea at Seaford, three miles to the east. This, however, is very ancient history, for the river was brought back to its present channel in the sixteenth century. Shoreham, the humble and dull attendant upon Brighton, has an advantage over the great watering-place--which is streamless--in being situated on a river. It is not a beautiful place, but it has something of a harbour, in which you may find port in a storm, and it has a bridge across the /Adur/. This river comes down from openings in the hills, having passed through pretty country, with such villages as Bramber (where there was once a broad estuary in which vessels anchored) and Steyning. The source of the Adur on the borders of St. Leonard's Forest has been previously mentioned; but there are at least two other rills that have an equal claim. From Henfield the river runs south, through pasture land, and, as we have seen, winds past Bramber, supposed to be the Portus Adurni of the Romans. There is very little of the castle left, and that is almost hidden by trees. At New Shoreham the Adur turns eastward, and runs for a while parallel with the seashore. These Sussex rivers which are projected from the neighbourhood of St. Leonard's Forest can scarcely be considered as akin to the pure, bright chalk stream which was described at the commencement of this chapter; and the most important of the trio, the /Arun/, does not in this respect differ from its fellows. Something more than passing glimpses of it are obtained from the carriage windows by the railway traveller as he speeds through the imposing scenery around Arundel. It is navigable for an unusual distance, and whatever beauty it possesses it owes to its surroundings. Of late years the river has become the Mecca of members of the London angling clubs, who charter special trains and invade the districts by hundreds on Sundays. The first stopping-place of any account from this point of view is Pulborough, the site of an old Roman settlement, with traces of camp and buildings, which will not, however, be found on Arun-side, but at Hardham and elsewhere. Amberley was rescued from oblivion, and from the desertion enforced upon it by neighbouring marshes, by the railway; and the scenery between it and Arundel has always been prized and worked at by artists. Swanbourne Mill as a picture is probably familiar to many who have never entered the county. The splendidly kept castle at Arundel has not been dwarfed by the cathedral-like Roman Catholic church built by the Duke of Norfolk, and dedicated to St. Philip Neri. Even now it looks like the splendid stronghold that it was, and the most venerable in the land that it is, on its commanding terminal of swelling down, with the stream from the Weald narrowing between the hills through its beautiful valley, to the characteristic marsh flats beyond. The river hence to the sea does not call for admiration or comment, save that there is a remnant of a priory at Tortington, a point of view from which Arundel with its castle-crowned heights looks its best. Littlehampton, four miles from Arundel, is better known as a port of departure for steamships than as a watering-place competing with the pleasure resorts in more favoured situations on the coast. * * * * * Hampshire is a well-watered county, and classic ground for that new school of anglers who are classified as "dry-fly" men. The masters thereof graduated on the Itchen and the Test, most famous of all South-country chalk streams, and honourably mentioned in angling literature. To know that a man is a successful fisher upon either is tantamount to a certificate of the highest skill. The Hampshire rivers, other than these celebrated feeders of the Southampton water, are few, and modest in character. There is, it is true, a small trout stream at Fareham, a busy little seaport which owes its standing to its proximity to Portsmouth Harbour, and its attractions as a district abounding in country seats to the rampart of Portsdown Hill, affording at once protection from the north and opportunity for overlooking the Solent and the Isle of Wight. Less than three miles west, across the peninsula that sustains Gosport, is a considerable stream, little known outside the county, but an ever-present delight to the villages through which it lightly flows to the eastern shore of Southampton water. This is the Arle, or Titchfield river. [Illustration: _Photo: Perkins, Son, & Venimore, Lewisham._ THE ROYAL PIER SOUTHAMPTON (_p. 19_).] [Illustration: SOUTHAMPTON FROM THE WATER.] In its course of some score of miles the /Arle/ takes its share in a diversity of scenery of a soothing rather than romantic character. Rising in the South Downs, it begins by mingling with village and hamlet life in a sequestered valley; then it proceeds through an open forest country, and becomes navigable at Titchfield. The source of the stream is but a few miles west of Petersfield, but it begins with a sweep to the north and a loop round a southerly point, passing so much in the Meon district that it is often marked on the maps by that name, which was probably its only one in the past. Meonware was a Pictish province when there was a king of the South Saxons, and Saint Wilfrid preached Christianity to the British heathen. Indeed a portion of Corhampton Church, across the stream, is ascribed to that prelate. Wickham, most beautifully situated on the Arle, is celebrated as the birthplace of William of Wykeham, the great bishop-builder. Warton the poet lived his last days at Wickham, and died there in the first year of the century. [Illustration: _Photo: A. Seeley, Richmond._ ROMSEY ABBEY (_p. 19_).] References to William of Wykeham continually occur in county Hants: thus in the district under consideration there are a Wykeham chancel at Meonstoke, a Wykeham foundation of five chantries near the coast at Southwick, and a reputed Wykeham aisle in the church at Titchfield. The remains of Funtley Abbey are naturally not far from the stream. They are close to Titchfield, and mark the site of a Priory founded by Bishop de Rupibus in the reign of Henry III. The house which Sir Thomas Wriothesley built upon the place acquired in the usual way at the Dissolution was "right statelie" when Leland described it; and this was the Titchfield House where poor Charles Stuart found temporary refuge between the flight from Hampton Court and the grim lodging of Carisbrooke. The /Itchen/, as next in order on our westward progress, must receive first consideration, though it is the smaller of the streams which pay tribute to the Solent at Calshot Castle. The Itchen and the Test have many things in common: they both rise out of the chalk downs which stretch from the Stour in Kent, through Hants, to the confines of Wilts; they both give Southampton importance; they are both salmon rivers, but to so unimportant a degree that they have never yet been considered worthy of governance by a Board of Conservators; and they have the distinction of being the only salmon rivers in England that may be fished without a rod licence. But these rivers are so distinct in one characteristic that they may be quoted as evidence of almost miraculous instinct. The salmon of the Test hold no communion with those of the Itchen; no fisherman acquainted with the rivers would be likely to mistake the one for the other; yet, while the Itchen fish, on return from the salt water, unerringly turn to the right, and pass the Docks on their way to Woodmill, the salmon of the Test swim straight ahead, and pause not till they reach their own river beyond the furthest of the western suburbs of Southampton. [Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, Lee._ CHRISTCHURCH ABBEY (_p. 22_).] When a river issues from a lake it is the custom to regard the latter as the headwaters. In this sense Alresford Pond may be set down as the source of the Itchen. Locally, a brook at Ropley Dean, about eleven miles from Winchester as the crow flies, has been nominated for the distinction, but there are other rivulets from the high land between Alresford and Alton which might be brought into competition. The Bishops of Winchester formerly had a summer palace at Bishop's Sutton, and it is somewhat of a coincidence that in our own times Archbishop Longley was one of its vicars. There are stores of pike and mammoth trout in Alresford Pond, and no doubt they had ancestors there when Richard I. was king. Even now, in its reduced size, this beautiful sheet of clear water covers sixty acres. [Illustration: RIVERS OF HANTS AND DORSET.] The tributaries are inconsiderable; but it is a land of innumerable watercourses, and of carriers, kept in action for the flooding of the pastures. Hence the meads are found in a perpetual freshness of "living green," and the verdant pastures in the late spring are magnificent with their marsh-marigolds and cuckoo flowers marking the lines of the meadow trenches, while the hedges and coppices are a dream of May blossom. Noble country houses are set back on the slopes, real old-fashioned farmhouses and thatched cottages are embowered in every variety of foliage, and the background is frequently filled in by gently ranging upland clothed with the softest herbage. Here a village with its mill, and there a hamlet with its homely old church, mark the stages of the crystal clear river, every foot of which is the treasured preserve of some wealthy angler. There are golden trout upon the gravel, and in the deeps, while the shallows, many of which have been fords from time immemorial, are open to the eye of the wayfarer who quietly pauses on the rustic bridges to watch the spotted denizens as they cruise and poise. At Cheriton the Royalists received a crushing blow on the March day when Lords Hopton and Forth led their army of 10,000 men against an equal force of Waller's Roundheads. The engagement was fatal to the Royal cause, and it gave Winchester and its fort to the Parliamentarians. Of Tichborne this generation heard somewhat in the seventies, and the notorious trials brought for many years an increase of visitors, who would interrupt the discourse upon Sir Roger de Tychborne, and the Tychborne Dole founded by the Lady Mabell (whose monument is in the church on the hill), with questions about the Claimant and the lost Sir Roger. Martyr's Worthy, King's Worthy, and Abbot's Worthy are within sound of the sonorous Cathedral bells; and after these villages are the loved Winnal reaches of the stream, one of them sadly marred by the Didcot and Newbury Railway, which, within the last few years, has been opened with a station south of the town. The Nun's Walk is to the right as you follow the Itchen downwards, often over planks half-hidden in sedges. Sleek cattle graze in the water-meads; beyond them is the clustering city and its Cathedral, which at a distance resembles nothing so much as a long low-lying building that has yet to be finished, the squat tower seeming a mere commencement. The bye-streams, of which there are several, meet at the bottom of the town, and the strong, rapid, concentrated current has much mill work to do before it recovers perfect freedom. [Illustration: A NEW FOREST STREAM (_p. 20_).] Izaak Walton lived a while at Winchester, in the declining years of his long and--who can doubt?--tranquil life. He had friends among the bishops and clergy, and wrote the lives of contemporary divines. So he came to Winchester, where a room was kept for him in the Bishop's Palace, and in this city he died on December 15th, 1683. His grave is in the Cathedral, marked by a black marble slab, and within the last few years a memorial statue has been placed in one of the niches of the newly-erected screen. [Illustration: THE AVON AT AMESBURY (_p. 22_).] The ancient hospital of St. Cross is one of the best-known features of the Itchen in the neighbourhood of Winchester, but there are charming country-seats along the whole remaining course--fair homes of English gentlemen, planted above the grass land whence the evening mists of summer rise to shroud the winding stream and far-stretching water-meads, and adorned with smooth-shaven lawns intersected by gravel-walks, winding amidst shrubberies and parterres to the sedgy banks of the silently gliding river. But St. Cross is unique with its gateway tower and porter's hutch, where the wayfarer may even now make the vagrant's claim for dole of beer and bread, the former no longer brewed on the spot, and for its own sake not worth the trouble often taken by sentimental visitors to obtain it. Fine old elms surround the venerable home of the brethren of this cloistered retreat; the river flows close to its foundations; and, facing you across the stream, rises the bold rounded steep surmounted by the clump of beech-trees on St. Catherine's Hill. The speculative builder, however, has long been pushing his outworks towards this breezy eminence where the Wykeham College boys of past generations trooped to their sports. [Illustration: SALISBURY CATHEDRAL (_p. 22_).] The Itchen as it narrows to serve the South Stoneham water-wheels loses much of its beauty, and is finally, after its course of twenty-five miles, abruptly stopped at the flour-mill. Through artificial outlets it tumbles into the tideway, and becomes at a bound subject to the ebb and flow of the Solent. Southampton, after a temporary depression due to the withdrawal of the Peninsular and Oriental Company to other headquarters, has launched out into renewed enterprise; great docks have been added, and the extension is likely to continue in the future. Queen Victoria opened the Empress Docks in 1890; the graving docks were the next scheme, and in 1893 the new American line of steamers began to run. In 1833 her Majesty, then the Princess Victoria, opened the Royal (or Victoria) Pier, which was rebuilt in 1892 and re-opened by the Duke of Connaught; and from it and other vantage points commanding views are to be had of the estuary, and of the New Forest on the further side. To meet this vigorous revival of commercial development, the suburbs have pushed out in all directions, and the estuary of the Itchen, from the Salmon Pool at South Stoneham to the Docks, is now bordered by modern dwellings, and presents an appearance of life in marked contrast to the dreariness of a quarter of a century ago. In its general characteristics the Test resembles the Itchen. It is ten miles longer, and has a tributary assistance which its sister stream lacks; but there are in its valley similar country mansions, ruddy farm-houses, picturesque cottages and gardens, water-meads and marshy corners, mills and mill-pools, rustic bridges, and superb stock of salmon in the lower, and of trout and grayling in the higher, reaches. It springs from the foot of the ridge on the Berkshire border, and is joined below Hurstbourne Park by a branch from the north-east. For the first few miles it is the ideal of a small winding stream, and is established as a chalk stream of the first class at Whitchurch. It skirts Harewood Forest, and takes in a tributary below Wherwell. The principal feeder is the Anton, which is of sufficient magnitude to be considered an independent river. For quite sixteen miles the Test runs a sinuous course, as if not certain which point of the compass to select, but eventually it goes straight south. Stockbridge is the only considerable town, and that owes its reputation to ample training downs, and to the periodical races which rank high in that description of sport. Between this and Romsey there are many bye-waters, and it requires one accustomed to the country to distinguish the main river. Occasionally a salmon, taking advantage of a flood, will ascend as high as Stockbridge, but this does not happen every year. At Romsey, however, gentlemen anglers find their reward, though anything more unlike a salmon river could not be found, unless, indeed, it should be the Stour and the Avon, to which we shall come presently. The Test in its upper and middle reaches is seldom so deep that the bottom, and the trout and grayling for which it is justly celebrated, cannot be clearly seen. It gets less shallow below Houghton Mill, and at Romsey there is water enough for salmon of major dimensions. But the current is even and stately, salmon pools as they are understood in Scotland and Ireland do not exist, and there are forests of weeds to assist the fish to get rid of the angler's fly. The most noted landmark on the banks of the stream is Romsey Abbey, long restored to soundness of fabric, yet preserving all the appearance of perfect Norman architecture. Near it the first Berthon boats were built and launched on the Test by the vicar, whose name is borne by this handy collapsible craft. The Test enters Southampton Water at Redbridge, which is in a measure the port of lading for the New Forest. [Illustration: _Photo: W. Pouncy, Dorchester._ THE FROME AT FRAMPTON COURT (_p. 24_).] There are tiny streams in the recesses of the New Forest little known to the outer world. The /Beaulieu/ river is worthy of mark on the maps, and when the tide is full it is a brimming water-way into the heart of the forest. The acreage of mud at low-water, however, detracts from its beauty, and the upper portion, from near Lyndhurst to the tidal limit, is small and overgrown. The ruins of Beaulieu Abbey, set in the surroundings of an exquisite New Forest village, far from the shriek of the locomotive whistle, or the smoke and bustle of a town, are truly a "fair place." Beaulieu is one of the most entrancing combinations of wood, water, ruins, and village in the county, and the Abbey is especially interesting from its establishment by King John, after remorse occasioned by a dream. The /Lymington/ river, the mainland channel opposite Yarmouth, in the Isle of Wight, is tidal to the town, a tortuous creek in low-water, the course, however, duly marked by stakes and beacons. The great Poet Laureate, Tennyson, used to cross to his Freshwater home by this route, and in the late 'fifties the writer of these words often took passage by the Isle of Wight boats for the privilege of gazing from a reverent distance at the poet, whose cloak, soft broad-brimmed hat, and short clay pipe filled from a packet of bird's-eye, filled the youthful adorer with unspeakable admiration. [Illustration: DORCHESTER FROM THE FROME (_p. 21_).] The Isle of Wight, garden of England though it has been called, is poverty-stricken in the matter of running water, and it is not rich in woods. Tho principal river is the Medina, which, flowing from the foot of St. Catherine's Down to the Solent at East Cowes, divides the island into two hundreds. The pretty village of Wootton is situated on Fishbourne creek, also called Wootton river. There are two Yars--the Yar which rises at Freshwater, and is tidal almost throughout to Yarmouth Harbour; and the eastern Yar, at the back of Niton. * * * * * The famous salmon of Christchurch, so much in request in the spring, when the end of the close time brings out the nets in the long open "run" between the town and the bay, come up from the English Channel on their annual quest of the spawning grounds of the Avon and the Stour. These rivers unite almost under the shadow of the splendidly situated church and the priory ruins. The church was restored by the architect who performed a similar office for Romsey; and it is under the tower at the west end of the nave that the singular Shelley memorial is erected. The Avon has the finest watershed in the South of England, and its feeders water much of Hampshire and a large portion of Wilts. Its tributaries are numerous; even one of the two branches of its headwaters is formed by the junction of minor streams at Pewsey. It has a winding way from Upavon, becomes a goodly stream at beautiful Amesbury, where it traverses the pleasure grounds of the Abbey, and crosses direct south by Salisbury Plain to Old Sarum. The Wiley and Nadder are the largest tributaries, the former entering the Avon near the seat of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton. The valleys of main stream and tributaries alike are a succession of fine landscapes, made distinctive by the downs of varying height, rising on either side, clothed at intervals with grand woods, and protecting sequestered villages and hamlets nestling at their feet. The environs of Salisbury are intersected in all directions by the abundant water of Avon or its feeders, and the clear murmuring runnels are heard in its streets. The lofty tapering spire of the glorious cathedral is the landmark of Avon-side for many a mile around, but the river equally forces itself upon the notice of the stranger. There is no cathedral in England better set for a landmark than this, and of none can it be more literally said that distance lends enchantment. It is on the watermead level, and probably owes its position to the river. Old Sarum, perched upon its conical hill, had its fortified castle and many an intrenchment for defence, had its Norman cathedral and the pomp and power of a proud ecclesiastical settlement; but it was exposed to the wind and weather, and the Sarumites looked with longing eye at the fat vale below and its conjunction of clear streams. Wherefore, under Richard Le Poer, its seventh bishop, there was migration thither; the present cathedral was commenced, the site, according to one legend, being determined by the fall of an arrow shot as a token from the Old Sarum ramparts; and the new town soon gathered around it. At first the cathedral had no spire; that crowning glory of the structure was added nearly a hundred years later, and about the time when the work of demolition at Old Sarum had been concluded. The stone used in the new cathedral was brought from the Hindon quarries a few miles distant, and Purbeck supplied the marble pillars. The best view of the cathedral, and of the straight-streeted and richly-befoliaged city, is from the north-eastern suburb; and so gracefully is the building proportioned that it is hard to realise that the point of the spire is 400 feet in air. [Illustration: POOLE HARBOUR (_p. 24_).] The /Stour/ rises at Six Wells, at Stourhead, in Wiltshire, and joins the Hampshire Avon, as previously stated, at Christchurch, but is essentially a Dorsetshire river. It touches Somersetshire, and receives the Cale from Wincanton, and other small tributaries, passing Gillingham, Sturminster, Blandford, and Wimborne, where it receives the Allen, which flows through More Critchell. Canford Hall, an Elizabethan mansion which received many of the Assyrian relics unearthed by Layard; Gaunt's House and Park; and St. Giles' Park, reminiscent of "Cabal" Cooper and the other Earls of Shaftesbury, are also features of the Stour country. The clean little town of Wimborne, where Matthew Prior was born, is made rich and notable by its ancient Minster, which as it stands retains but little of the original foundation, though the fine central tower dates from about 1100, and the western tower from the middle of the fifteenth century. The next river in Dorsetshire is the /Frome/, formed, as seems to be the fashion in Wessex, of two branches, both uniting at Maiden Newton. Frampton Court, the seat of the Sheridans, is in this neighbourhood. The county town of Dorchester rises from the bank of the river, and has magnificent avenues as high-road approaches. The Black Downs that interpose between the country that is fairly represented by the Blackmore vale of the hunting men further north, and the sea at Weymouth, are bare enough; Dorchester is surrounded by chalk uplands, and it is, no doubt, because there were few forests to clear that the entire neighbourhood is remarkable for its Roman and British remains. The trees around the town have fortunately been sedulously planted and preserved, and the avenues of sycamores and chestnuts on the site of the old rampart have somewhat of a Continental character. The well-defined remains of ancient camps are numerous on the slopes overlooking the Frome, Maiden Castle and the Roman amphitheatre being wonderfully perfect in their typical character. Yet, old-world as Dorchester is in its associations, it has few appearances of age, standing rather as a delightful example of the clean, healthy, quiet, well-to-do country town of the Victorian era, pleasantly environed, and boasting several highways that were Roman roads. Flowing through the sheep country so graphically described by Mr. Hardy in his novels, the Frome arrives, after an uneventful course, at Wareham, and is discharged into Poole Harbour, a place of creeks and islands, sand and mud banks, regularly swelling with the incoming tide into a noble expanse of water. /William Senior./ [Illustration: WIMBORNE MINSTER.] [Illustration: BIDEFORD BRIDGE (_p. 48_).] RIVERS OF DEVON. General Characteristics--Sources of the Devon Streams: Exmoor and Dartmoor. The /Otter/: Ottery Saint Mary and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Exmoor Streams:--The /Exe/: Its Source in The Chains--The Barle--The Batherm--Tiverton and Peter Blundell--Bickleigh Bridge and the "King of the Gipsies"--The Culm--Exeter--Countess Weir--Exmouth. The /Lyn/: Oareford--The Doone Country--Malmsmead--Watersmeet--Lyndale--Lynton and Lynmouth. Dartmoor Streams:--The /Teign/: Wallabrook--Chagford--Fingle Bridge--Chudleigh--The Bovey--Newton Abbot--Teignmouth. The /Dart/: Holne Chase--Buckfast Abbey--Dartington Hall--Totnes--The Lower Reaches--Dartmouth. The Tavy. The /Taw/: Oxenham and its Legend--Barnstaple--Lundy. The /Torridge/: The Okement--Great Torrington--Bideford--Hubbastone. The /Avon/, Erme, and Yealm. The /Plym/: Dewerstone--The Meavy and Plymouth Leat--Plympton St. Mary and Plympton Earl--The Three Towns. Among the charms which make Devonshire, in Mr. Blackmore's words, "the fairest of English counties," one need not hesitate to give the first place to its streams. They who know only its coasts, though they know them well, may walk delicately, for of much that is most characteristic of its loveliness they are altogether ignorant. But anyone who has tracked a typical Devon river from its fount high up on the wild and lonely moorland to the estuary where it mingles its waters with the inflowing tide, following it as it brawls down the peaty hillsides, and winds its way through glen and gorge until it gains the rich lowlands where it rolls placidly towards its latter end, may boast that his is the knowledge of intimacy. Commercially, the Devonshire streams are of little account, for Nature has chosen to touch them to finer issues. Yet, for all their manifold fascinations, they have had but scant attention from the poets, who, instead of singing their graces in dignified verse, have left them, as Mr. J. A. Blaikie has said, to be "noisily advertised in guide-books." At first sight the omission seems curious enough, for the long roll of Devonshire "worthies" is only less illustrious for its poets than for its heroes. Perchance the explanation of what almost looks like a conspiracy of silence is that the streams, full of allurement as they may be, are not rich in associations of the poetic sort. Of legend they have their share, but for the most part it is legend uncouth and grotesque, such as may not easily be shaped into verse. Their appeal, in truth, is more to the painter than to the poet. For him they have provided innumerable "bits" of the most seductive description; and neither against him nor against the angler--the artist among sportsmen--for whom also bountiful provision has been made, can neglect of opportunity be charged. [Illustration: THE RIVERS OF DEVON.] It is in the royal "forests" of Exmoor and Dartmoor that nearly all the chief rivers of Devon take their rise. Of these moorland tracts, the one extending into the extreme north of the county from Somersetshire, the other forming, so to speak, its backbone, Dartmoor is considerably the larger; and in High Willhayse and in the better known Yes Tor, its highest points, it touches an altitude of just over 2,000 feet, overtopping Dunkery Beacon, the monarch of Exmoor, by some 370 feet. Between the two moors there is a general resemblance, less, however, of contour than of tone, for while Exmoor swells into great billowy tops, the Dartmoor plateau breaks up into rugged "tors"--crags of granite that have shaken off their scanty raiment and now rise bare and gaunt above the general level. Both, as many a huntsman knows to his cost, are beset with treacherous bogs, out of which trickle streams innumerable, some, like the Wear Water, the chief headstream of the East Lyn, soon to lose their identity, others to bear to the end of their course names which the English emigrant has delighted to reproduce in the distant lands that he has colonised. Not strange is it that with loneliness such as theirs, Exmoor and Dartmoor alike should be the haunt of the mischief-loving pixies, who carry off children and lead benighted wayfarers into quagmires; of the spectral wish-hounds, whose cry is fearsome as the wailing voice which John Ridd heard "at grey of night"; and of the rest of the uncanny brood who once had all the West Country for their domain. Exmoor, too, is almost the last sanctuary, south of the Tweed, of the wild red-deer; and hither in due season come true sportsmen from far and near to have their pulses stirred by such glorious runs as Kingsley has described. [Illustration: THE WEAR WATER.] Of the streams that have their springs elsewhere than in the moors, the Axe, which belongs more to Dorset and Somerset than to Devon, may, like the Sid, be passed over with bare mention. But the /Otter/ must not be dismissed so brusquely, for though it cannot vie with its moorland sisters in beauty of aspect, it has other claims to consideration. Rising in the hills that divide Devon from South Somerset, it presently passes Honiton, still famous for its lace, and a few miles further on flows by the knoll which is crowned by the massive towers of the fine church of Ottery St. Mary, the Clavering St. Mary of "Pendennis." It was here, in 1772, that Samuel Taylor Coleridge, most gifted scion of a gifted stock, was born. His father, vicar of the parish and headmaster of the Free Grammar School, and withal one of the most amiable and ingenuous of pedants, whose favourite method of edifying his rustic congregation was to quote from the Old Testament in the original Hebrew, as "the immediate language of the Holy Ghost," died when Samuel Taylor was in his ninth year; and the pensive child, who yet was not a child, was soon afterwards entered at Christ's Hospital. A frequent resort of his was a cave beside the Otter, known as "The Pixies' Parlour," where his initials may still be seen. Nor is this his only association with the stream. "I forget," he writes, "whether it was in my fifth or sixth year ... in consequence of some quarrel between me and my brother, in the first week in October I ran away from fear of being whipped, and passed the whole night, a night of rain and storm, on the bleak side of a hill on the Otter, and was there found at day-break, without the power of using my limbs, about six yards from the naked bank of the river." The experience may well have left its mark upon his sensitive nature, but it is clear that he carried with him from his native place a store of agreeable recollections of the stream, of whose "marge with willows grey" and "bedded sand" he afterwards wrote in affectionate strains. [Illustration: _Photo: Denney & Co., Exeter._ EXETER (_p. 31_).] * * * * * Leaving the Otter to pursue its pleasant, but not exciting, course to the English Channel, we pass at a bound from the sunny south to one of the weirdest parts of Exmoor, where the most important of the streams that rise in the northern "forest" have their birth. The chief of them, and, indeed, the longest of all the Devonshire rivers, the /Exe/, which has a course five-and-fifty miles long, oozes out of a dismal swamp known as The Chains, in Somerset county, some two or three miles north-west of Simonsbath; and within a space of not more than two miles square are the sources of three other streams--the Barle, which merges with the Exe near Exbridge; the West Lyn, which flows northwards to the finest spot on the Devon coast; and the Bray, a tributary of the Taw. Looking around, one sees in every direction a waste of undulations rolling away to the horizon like a deeply-furrowed sea. Far away eastwards rises Dunkery, his mighty top now, as often, obscured by clouds which the western winds are slowly driving before them; on the other hand stretches the North Molton Ridge, culminating in Span Head, which comes within about fifty feet of the stature of Dunkery himself. [Illustration: _Photo: H. T. Cousins, Exmouth._ EXMOUTH, FROM THE BEACON (_p. 34_).] The infant Exe and the Barle are both brown, peaty streams, and their valleys, separated from each other by one of the Exmoor ridges, and following the same general south-easterly trend, have much in common, though that of the Barle is the less regular and more picturesque of the two. It is when they have each sped in the merriest-hearted fashion somewhere about a score of miles that they meet, forming a current which, as it rushes tumultuously beneath the arches that give to Exbridge its name, must be a full fifty yards wide. Now the Exe becomes a Devonshire stream, with a predominantly southerly course; but as it approaches Oakford Bridge it bends to the west, then curving round to the east to meet the Batherm, fresh from its contact with Bampton, an old market town celebrated all over the West Country for its fairs and markets, whereat are sold the shaggy little Exmoor ponies and the bold and nimble Porlock sheep. The main stream still shows no disposition to play the laggard, but by this time it has left the moorland well behind, and, as we follow it among luxuriantly timbered hills, it presently brings us to Tiverton, agreeably placed on its sloping left bank. Here it takes toll of the Loman, which has been in no haste to complete its course of ten miles, or thereabouts, from the Somerset border. Of Twy-ford-town--for so the place was called in former days, in allusion to its fords across the Exe and the Loman at the points where now the streams are spanned by bridges--the most salient feature from the banks of the larger water is the Perpendicular tower of the Church of St. Peter. The body of the church was virtually reconstructed in the 'sixties, with the fortunate exception of its most interesting feature, the Greenaway Chapel, founded nearly four hundred years ago by the merchant whose name it shares with the quaint almshouses in Gold Street. What remains of the ancient castle, which stood hard by the church, has been converted into a modern dwelling and a farmhouse. The old Grammar School, too, on Loman Green, is now divided up into private houses, a more commodious structure, in the Tudor style, having been reared a mile or so out of the town to take its place. Who will begrudge good old Peter Blundell the immortality which this famous school has conferred upon his honest-sounding name? A native of Tiverton, he began life as an errand-boy. With his carefully-hoarded earnings, as Prince tells the story in his "Worthies," he bought a piece of kersey, and got a friendly carrier to take it to London and there sell it to advantage. So he gradually extended his operations, until he was able to go to town himself, with as much stock-in-trade as a horse could carry. In London he continued to thrive, and in due course was able to fulfil the ambition of his life by establishing himself in the town of his birth as a manufacturer of kerseys; and here he remained until his death, at the ripe age of eighty. "Though I am not myself a scholar," the good old man would say with proud humility, "I will be the means of making more scholars than any scholar in England." And the school founded under his will in 1604 has not failed to justify his boast. The roll of "Blundell's boys" includes a brace of bishops and an archbishop, the present occupant of the throne of Canterbury, who, before his translation to London, ruled with abundant vigour the diocese to which Tiverton belongs. Yet, without disrespect to spiritual dignities, one may be pardoned for remembering with deeper interest that it was here that "girt Jan Ridd" had his meagre schooling, and fought his great fight with Robin Snell. John, by the way, who left Blundell's at the age of twelve, must have been considerably less stupid than he appeared to his contemporaries, for when long afterwards he came to describe the combat he was able to say that he replied to his antagonist "with all the weight and cadence of penthemimeral cæsura"; and although he modestly protests that he could "never make head or tail" of the expression, it is clear from his epithets that he knew perfectly well what he was writing about. But we have paused at the town of the fords too long, and must gird up our loins to follow the Exe southwards to the county town, through scenery which, if on the whole less picturesque than that above Tiverton, is pleasing as one of the most fertile of Devonshire vales cannot but be. Four miles lower down we find ourselves at Bickleigh Bridge, one of the prettiest spots in this part of the Exe valley. Close by is Bickleigh Court, long a seat of the Devonshire Carews, and still belonging to members of the family, though sunk to the uses of a farmhouse. Bickleigh is of some note as the birthplace, towards the end of the seventeenth century, of Bampfylde Moore Carew, "King of the Beggars." Son of the rector of the parish, he was sent to Blundell's School, whence he ran away to avoid punishment for some trifling escapade, and threw in his lot with a tribe of gipsies. Next he emigrated to Newfoundland, but after a time came back, and soon signalised himself by eloping from Newcastle-on-Tyne with an apothecary's daughter, whom, however, he was afterwards good enough to marry. Having rejoined the gipsies, he became their king, and ruled over them until he was transported to Maryland as an incorrigible vagrant. Before long he contrived to escape, and lived for a while with a band of Red Indians. When he returned to civilisation it was in the guise of a Quaker, a part which he successfully played until he grew weary of it, and once more came back to his native land and his nomadic life. Some say that he was afterwards prevailed upon to adopt more settled habits, but of his closing years little is known. The hill to the right, a little below Bickleigh Bridge, is known as Cadbury Castle, a Roman encampment, and from its summit may be seen, away to the south-east, athwart the river, Dolbury Hill, which, according to the legend, shares with Cadbury a treasure of gold, guarded by a fiery dragon, who spends his nights flying from one hoard to the other. Now the Exe, flowing with a dignity befitting its maturity, receives the tribute of the Culm, which comes from the Blackdown Hills, on the Somerset border, passing Culmstock and Cullompton, and Killerton Park, a finely placed and magnificently wooded demesne of one of the most honourable of Devonshire houses, the Aclands. Over against the point of junction is Pynes, the seat of another family of high repute, the Northcotes, now Earls of Iddesleigh, looking down on the one side upon the valley of the Exe, and on the other upon that of the Creedy, a western affluent after which the town of Crediton is named. As it approaches the ever-faithful city, lying like Tiverton on the left bank, the Exe is bordered by a green strath, with swelling hills on either hand. No sooner is the suburb of St. David passed than there comes into view the eminence which formed the limits of the ancient Exeter, its summit crowned with trees that half conceal the meagre remains of the Norman castle, while from its southern slope rise the mighty towers of the Cathedral. Pointing out that, although surrounded by hills higher than itself, Exeter is seated on a height far above river or railway, Freeman remarks that we have here "what we find so commonly in Gaul, so rarely in Britain, the Celtic hill-fort, which has grown into the Roman city, which has lived on through the Teutonic conquest, and which still, after all changes, keeps to its place as the undoubted head of its own district. In Wessex such a history is unique. In all Southern England London is the only parallel, and that but an imperfect one." And he goes on to say that the name teaches the same lesson of continuity that is taught by the site. It has been changed in form but not in meaning. Caerwise, "the fortress on the water," as it was in the beginning of things, "has been Latinised into Isca, it has been Teutonised into Exanceaster, and cut short into modern Exeter; but the city by the Exe has through all conquests, through all changes of language, proclaimed itself by its name as the city on the Exe." [Illustration: _Photo: E. D. Percival, Ilfracombe._ WATERSMEET (_p. 35_).] [Illustration: _Photo: E. D. Percival, Ilfracombe._ LYNMOUTH AND LYNTON (_p. 36_).] The Castle of Rougemont is represented by not much more than an ivy-clad gateway tower of Norman date, and portions of the walls, which on one side have been levelled, and the timbered slopes converted into a pretty little recreation ground, known as Northernhay, where, among the statues of men whom Devonshire delights to honour, is one of the first Earl of Iddesleigh, gentlest of protagonists. Of the cathedral little can be said in this place except that it admirably exemplifies the development of the Decorated style, which here reaches its culmination in the venerable west front, its lower stage enriched with figures of kings and apostles and saints. The massive transeptal towers that distinguish Exeter from all other English cathedrals, and, indeed, from all other English churches, with the single exception of that of Ottery St. Mary, built in imitation of this, are much earlier than the rest of the fabric, for they were reared early in the twelfth century by Bishop Warelwast, nephew of the Conqueror, and were left standing when, towards the end of the thirteenth century, the reconstruction of the rest of the fabric was begun. Disproportionately large they may be, in relation both to their own height and to the body of the church; but, if they cannot be said to contribute to the harmony of the design, it must be allowed that in themselves they are exceedingly impressive. The transformation of the cathedral, begun by Bishop Bronescombe, was continued by his successor, Peter Quivil, whose plans appear to have been pretty faithfully followed by those who came after him. Not until the year 1369 was the nave finished, under Grandisson, the bishop who re-built the church of Ottery St. Mary in its present form; and even then it was left to Bishop Brantyngham to add the rich west front. What most strikes one about the interior, which was restored with no lack of vigour by Sir Gilbert Scott, is the prolonged stretch of graceful vaulting, extending through all the fourteen bays of nave and choir, with, of course, no central tower to break the line. There is much beautiful carving, both ancient and modern, in the church, but the bishop's throne, attributed to Bishop Stapledon (1307-26), is perhaps of rather diffuse design, although the craftsmanship merits all the admiration that has been lavished upon it. Around the Close, and in a few of the older streets, some interesting specimens of domestic architecture are to be seen; but, the cathedral and its adjuncts apart, Exeter is less rich than might be expected in memorials of the distant past. Of its public buildings, the only one which may not be ignored is the Guildhall, a stone structure dating from the end of the sixteenth century, with a balustraded façade resting on substantial piers, and projecting over the pavement. The ancient bridge over the Exe, connecting the city with St. Thomas, its western suburb, was destroyed in 1770, and replaced by the present one. Hundreds of years have come and gone since the cliffs of Exeter were lapped by salt water. Towards the end of the thirteenth century Isabella de Redvers, Countess of Devon, was pleased to cut off the city from the sea by forming the weir which has given name to the village of Countess Weir, and it was not till the reign of Henry VIII. that, by means of a canal to Topsham, communication was re-established. Early in the present century this waterway was widened, and now Exeter is accessible to vessels of about 400 tons. It is at Topsham, four miles below the city, that the river, augmented by the waters of the Clyst, expands into an estuary. From this point to the embouchure its course lies through delightful scenery. On the right bank are the woods of Powderham Castle, the ancestral seat of the Earls of Devon, stretching from the water's brink to the summit of the high ground behind; away to the west, Haldon's long ridge rises as a sky-line, dividing the valley of the Exe from that of the Teign; and finally comes Starcross. On the left bank, about midway between Topsham and Exmouth, is Lympstone, a pretty, straggling fishing village. To Exmouth, lying over against Starcross, belongs the distinction of being the oldest of the numerous tribe of Devonshire watering-places. A port of some consequence in very early days, it presently fell into an obscurity from which it was only rescued in the last century through the agency of one of the judges of assize, who, sojourning here for the good of his health while on circuit, was so advantaged by its genial breezes that he spread abroad its praises, and so gave it another start in life. Its attractions may be less insistent than those of other places that were mere fishing villages long after it had become a popular resort, but it has a pleasant beach and a very respectable promenade, and with still more reason is it proud of the views to be had from The Beacon. * * * * * The /Lyn/, sometimes called the East Lyn, to distinguish it from the West Lyn, is one of the shortest as it is one of the most wilful of the Devonshire streams, its length not exceeding a dozen miles, while in a direct line its outlet is only half that distance from its source. Rising on Exmoor, a little to the north of Black Barrow Down, its upper valley is bleak and bare, and in this part of its career there is little to differentiate it from other moorland waters that hurriedly leave the dreary solitudes in which they have their birth. Above Oareford it dashes and splashes along over boulders and rocky ledges, the hills that rise from either bank being bare of aught but ling and brake and heather, save that the lower slopes bear here and there a group of wind-swept scrub-oaks; it is only lower down that the ravine assumes the combination of wildness and luxuriance in which Lyn is excelled by none of its sister streams. How can we pass Oareford without recalling that we are in the country of John Ridd and the Doones? It was in the parish of Oare that the giant yeoman was born and bred; it was in the little Perpendicular church of St. Mary that he married the lovely but elusive Lorna Doone; it was from its altar that he sallied forth to pursue the man whom he believed to have slain his bride, his only weapon the limb of a gnarled oak which he tore from its socket as he passed beneath it. Many there be who come into these parts to spy out the land, and to such it is a pleasant surprise to find that there are still Ridds of the Doones engaged upon the soil at Oare. Less palatable is the discovery that Mr. Blackmore has thought fit to mix a good deal of imagination with his word-pictures. The Badgworthy "slide," in particular, which the hero was wont to climb in order to get speech of the captive maiden, has been the occasion of grievous disappointment. It is at Malmsmead that the Badgworthy Water--the dividing line between Devon and Somerset--falls into the Lyn, and "makes a real river of it"; the "slide," a mile or so up the "Badgery" valley, as they call it hereabouts, is simply a succession of minute cascades formed by shelving rocks over which a little tributary stream glides down out of the Doone Valley. The novelist has not scrupled to take ample liberties with such of his characters as are not purely imaginary, as well as with his scenes; but, unless tradition is a very lying jade, the Doone Valley really sheltered a gang of robbers, said to have been disbanded soldiers who had fought in the Great Rebellion. One may still see traces of what are believed to have been their dwellings, though one writer profanely identifies them with pig-sties; and it is credibly stated that the destruction of the miscreants by the country-folk was provoked by the cruel murder of a child, as described in the romance. Nor may one doubt that the mighty John was an actual personage, though it were vain to seek for his history in biographical dictionaries. As to Lorna, what if Mr. Blackmore has invented her? Is that to be counted to him for unrighteousness? [Illustration: _Photo: Chapman & Son, Dawlish._ "CLAM" BRIDGE OVER THE WALLABROOK.] From Malmsmead, with its primitive bridge of two arches, to Watersmeet, where the Brendon Water plunges down a charming glen on the left to lose itself in the larger stream, the Lyn ravine is a very kaleidoscope of beauty and grandeur. Watersmeet, "an exquisite combination of wood and stream, the one almost hiding the water, the other leaping down over rocky ledges in a series of tiny cascades," must tax the painter's pencil, and is certainly no theme for a prosaic pen; and of Lyndale the same despairing confession must be made. Every turn in this lovely glen reveals some new beauty, until, with Lynton lying in the cup of a hill on the left, one reaches Lynmouth, where, just before the river plunges into the sea, it receives the waters of the West Lyn as they merrily tumble out of Glen Lyn. Southey, whose description of these and other features of the place has been quoted to the point of weariness, was one of the first to "discover" Lynmouth; and in these days it has no reason to complain that its unrivalled attractions are not appreciated. For some years it has had its little mountain railway, to spare those whose chief need is exercise the fatigue of walking up the hill to Lynton; and now the lines have been laid which bring it into touch with the South Western and Great Western systems at Barnstaple. Let us hope that it will not presently have to complain of defacement at the hands of the lodging-house builder, and of desperation inflicted upon it by hordes of day-trippers, with their beer-bottles and greasy sandwich-papers! * * * * * [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ FINGLE BRIDGE (_p. 38_).] Dartmoor is a much more prolific "mother of rivers" than Exmoor. In one of the loneliest and dreariest regions of the southern "forest," no great way from its northern extremity, is the quagmire known as Cranmere Pool, and from this and the sloughs that surround it ooze all the more important of the Devonshire streams except the Exe and the Torridge. Out of Cranmere Pool itself--a prison, according to local legend, of lost spirits, whose anguished cries are often borne on the wings of the wind--the West Okement drains, to flow northwards to the Torridge; and at distances varying from half a mile to a couple of miles, the Teign, the Dart, the Tavy, and the Taw have their birth. The Okement will be noticed presently, when we have to do with the Torridge; of the other rivers, the /Teign/ rises in two headstreams, the North and the South Teign, near Sittaford Tor. As is the way of these moorland waters, they are soon reinforced by tributary rills, among them the Wallabrook, which flows by Scorhill Down to join the North Teign. Scorhill Down has in its stone circle one of the most remarkable of those mysterious relics of an immemorial past in which Dartmoor abounds. At one time all such remains were regarded, like those at Stonehenge, as Druidical monuments, but this theory of their origin is no longer in fashion, and antiquaries now prefer to say nothing more specific than that they usually have a sepulchral significance, and betoken that regions now abandoned to the curlew and the buzzard once had a considerable population. Near Scorhill the Wallabrook is bestridden by a "clam" bridge, which, interpreted, means a bridge of a single slab of unhewn stone resting on the ground, as distinguished from a "clapper" bridge, consisting of one or more such slabs pillared on others, with no aid from mortar. The North and the South Teign merge at Leigh Bridge, close by Holy Street and its picturesque mill, which has furnished a theme for the pencil of many an artist besides Creswick. Then the Teign flows under the old bridge at Chagford, a village overhung on one side by two rocky hills. The fine air of the place and its convenient situation for the exploration of Dartmoor bring to it many visitors in the summer; but it is certainly no place for a winter sojourn. The story goes--and racy of the soil it is--that if a Chagford man is asked in summer where he lives, he replies, as saucily as you please, "Chaggyford, and what d'ye think, then?" But if the question is put to him in winter, he sadly answers, "Chaggyford, good Lord!" At Chagford the valley broadens out, but soon it again contracts, and, sensibly quickening its speed, Teign plunges headlong into what is perhaps the very finest of all the gorges in Devonshire. Near the entrance is a "logan" stone, a huge boulder of granite about a dozen feet long, so finely poised that it may with a very moderate exercise of force be made to rock, though it is less accommodating than when Polwhele, a century ago, succeeded in moving it with one hand. The finest view of the gorge is that to be got from Fingle Bridge, a couple of miles lower down, where, looking back, one sees how the stream has wound its way amid the interfolded hills, of which the steep slopes are clad with coppice of tender green. Here, on the left, is Prestonbury, and on the right the loftier Cranbrook, each crowned with its prehistoric "castle." Of the narrow, ivy-mantled bridge, simple and massive, an illustration is given (p. 57) showing the wedge-shaped piers which serve to break the fury of the torrent in time of spate. But we must hurry on past Clifford Mill and its bridge to Dunsford Bridge, another spot of singular beauty. On the right Heltor, on the left Blackstone, exalt their towering heads, both crowned with large "rock basins," in which the rude fancy of our forefathers saw missiles that King Arthur and the Great Adversary hurled at each other athwart the intervening valley. So, passing more and more within the margin of cultivation, we come to Chudleigh, with its Rock, yielding a blue limestone, known to the builder as Chudleigh marble, and its lovely, richly-wooded glen, down which a little tributary dances gaily into the Teign. Not a great way beyond, our river is swollen by the waters of a more important affluent, the Bovey, which, from its source on Dartmoor, has followed a course not dissimilar from that of the Teign, lilting along through a rich and often spacious valley, past North Bovey, Manaton, Lustleigh, with its "Cleave," and Bovey Tracy. At Newton Abbot, pleasantly placed a little to the south of the Teign, in a vale watered by the Lemon, we may have fine views of the valleys of the Teign and the Bovey by ascending the hills up which this neat little town has straggled. Its most memorable association is with the glorious Revolution, and there still stands in front of a Perpendicular tower, which is all that is left of the old Chapel of St. Leonard, the block of granite from which the Prince of Orange's proclamation was read. [Illustration: _Photo: G. Denney & Co., Teignmouth._ TEIGNMOUTH (_p. 40_).] Now swerving sharply to the east, the Teign develops into an estuary, and with a background of hills on either hand, those on the left rising into the broad downs of Haldon, hastens to discharge itself into the sea, flowing beneath what claims to be the longest wooden bridge in England, which connects Teignmouth on the north with Shaldon on the south. Teignmouth is an ancient fishing-village which has grown into a watering-place. If the story that it suffered at the hands of Danish pirates in the eighth century is an error due to confusion between Teignmouth and Tynemouth, it was indubitably ravaged by the French at the end of the seventeenth century. In these days its chief feature is the Den, a sandbank due to the shifting bar that obstructs the mouth of the river, but now converted into an esplanade, whence, looking inland, one sees the twin peaks of Heytor and other outlying hills of Dartmoor, while to the south, along the shore-line, appears the bold promontory known as The Ness, and on the north stand out the quaint pinnacles of red rock which the patient waves have carved into shapes that have won for them the designation of the "Parson and the Clerk." [Illustration: NEW BRIDGE.] * * * * * [Illustration: BUCKFASTLEIGH.] The /Dart/ may be said to attain to self-consciousness at Dartmeet, where in a deep and lovely valley the rapid East and West Dart mingle their foaming waters. The two streams rise at no great distance from each other, in the neighbourhood, as we have seen, of Cranmere Pool; and they are never far apart, but the western water follows a somewhat less consistently south-east course, past Wistman's Wood--a grim assemblage of stunted, storm-beaten oaks, springing up amidst blocks of granite--and Crockern Tor and Two Bridges; while the eastern stream, from its source at Dart Head, speeds by Post Bridge and Bellaford, crossed at both places by "clam" bridges. Hurrying impetuously along over a shallow rocky bed, with a monotonous clatter which is locally known as its "cry," Dart washes the base of Benjay Tor, and rushing beneath New Bridge--a not unpicturesque structure, despite its unpromising name--enters a richly timbered glade. Presently, as its valley deepens, it makes a wide circuit to wander past the glorious demesne of Holne Chase. Beyond the woods which stretch away for miles to the north-east, Buckland Beacon rears his giant form; on the other side of the stream is the little village of Holne, birthplace of Charles Kingsley, whose father was rector here. A mile or so above Buckfastleigh, on the right bank, are the ruins of Buckfast Abbey, consisting of little more than an ivy-clad tower and a spacious barn. Originating in the tenth century, this house was re-founded in the reign of Henry II., and grew to be the richest Cistercian abbey in all Devon. From the Dissolution till the beginning of the present century the site remained desolate. Then a mansion in the Gothic style was built upon it, and this is now occupied by a community of Benedictine monks from Burgundy, who have in part re-built the monastery on the old foundations. [Illustration: STAVERTON.] Beyond smoky Buckfastleigh and its spire, the Dart flows among lush meadows and around wooded hills, past Dean Prior, with its memories of Herrick, and Staverton, where it is crossed by a strongly buttressed bridge. Now it again makes a bend eastwards to enclose the fine grounds of Dartington Hall. The house, partly in ruins, is commandingly placed high above the densely wooded right bank; and the oldest part of the structure, the Great Hall, dates from the reign of Richard II., whose badge, a white hart chained, appears on one of the doorways. Soon Totnes comes into view, climbing the steep right bank and spreading itself over the summit, its most salient features the ruined ivy-draped shell of the Norman castle on the crest of the hill, and the ruddy pinnacled tower of the church. Totnes has not scrupled to claim to be the oldest town in England, and, quite half way up the acclivity, far above the highest water-mark of the Dart, they show the stone on which Brute set foot at the end of his voyage from ruined Troy. Few places can better afford to dispense with fabulous pretensions, for the evidences of its antiquity declare themselves on every hand. Its name is allowed to be Anglo-Saxon, and it is thought to be not improbable that its castle mound was first a British stronghold. A considerable part of the ancient wall is left standing, and the East Gate still divides High Street from Fore Street. Very quaint and charming are many of the old houses in the High Street, with their gables and piazzas; and the venerable Guildhall preserves its oaken stalls for the members of the Corporation, with a canopied centre for the Mayor. Below the town is the graceful three-arched bridge which connects it with Bridgetown Pomeroy, on the left bank; and from this one may descend by steps to the tiny island in mid-stream, some years ago laid out as a public garden. [Illustration: THE ISLAND, TOTNES.] [Illustration: TOTNES.] It is the ten miles or so of river between Totnes and Dartmouth that have earned for the Dart the title of "the English Rhine." The absurdity of likening the inconsiderable Dart, with its placid current and its backing of gently-sloping hills, to the broad and rushing Rhine, flanked by lofty, castle-crowned steeps, has before been exposed, but the nickname is still current, and while it remains so the protest must continue. Yet how manifold and bewitching are the graces of the stream in these lower reaches, where it curves and doubles until from some points of view it appears to be resolved into a series of lakes, embosomed among hills of softest contour, their braes either smooth and verdant as a lawn or rich with foliage! Not long after leaving Totnes one sees, on the right, Sharpham House, surrounded by lawns and parterres and by magnificent woods, which border the stream for at least a mile. Sandridge House, on the opposite bank, is notable as the birthplace of John Davis, the Elizabethan navigator, who discovered the Straits which are known among men by his name; and presently we shall pass the well wooded grounds of Greenway, where was born Sir Humphrey Gilbert, another of the heroes of great Eliza's "spacious days," who established the Newfoundland fisheries. Between these two points comes Dittisham, with its grey church tower, its famous plum orchards, and its bell, which is rung when one wants to be ferried over to Greenway Quay. Soon the Dart begins to widen out, and, threading our way among yachts and skiffs, we come within sight of the _Britannia_ training-ship, and find ourselves betwixt Dartmouth on the right, and Kingswear on the left. [Illustration: DITTISHAM.] Dartmouth, rising from the bank in terraces, wears an aspect hardly less ancient than that of Totnes. It was incorporated in the fourteenth century, but for hundreds of years before that was of note as a harbour. William the Conqueror is said to have sailed herefrom on his expedition for the relief of Mans; a century later the English fleet, or a part of it, gathered here for the third Crusade; and did not Chaucer think that probably his shipman "was of Dertemuthe"? The castle, close to the water's edge, at the mouth of the harbour, is something more than the picturesque remnant of an ancient fortress, for the wall and foss which surround it enclose also a casemated battery of heavy guns. On the crest of the hill behind are the ruins of Gallant's Bower Fort. Nearly opposite is Kingswear Castle, which claims an even more remote origin; and crowning the hill at whose base it lies are some remains of Fort Ridley, which, like Gallant's Bower, was wrested from the Parliamentarians by Prince Maurice, both strongholds, however, being afterwards stormed by Fairfax. The harbour, though a fine, broad sheet of water, is almost landlocked, and the entrance to it is through a strait channel known as "The Jawbones," which in more primitive days than these was protected by a strong chain stretching from one bank to the other. * * * * * [Illustration: MOUTH OF THE DART.] Of the two remaining streams that rise in the morasses around Cranmere Pool, the /Tavy/ runs a course which, though not long, is remarkable for the grandeur and the richness of its scenery. Did space permit, one would be glad to follow it from its peaty spring under Great Kneeset Tor, through the grand defile known as Tavy Cleave, on between Peter Tavy and Mary Tavy to Tavistock, with its statue of Drake, who was born hard by, and its associations with the author of the "Pastorals"; thence past Buckland Abbey, rich in memories of Sir Francis and of the Cistercian monks from whom the neighbouring village of Buckland Monachorum gets its distinctive appellation, and so to Tavy's confluence with the Tamar. Pleasant also would it be to trace its principal tributary, the Walkham, down its romantic valley, nor less so to track the Lid from its source, a few miles above Lidford, through its magnificent gorge, and onwards to its union with Tamar. But the sands are fast running out, and we must pass on to sketch very rapidly the career of the Taw as it flows first north-eastwards, then north-westwards, to meet the Torridge in Barnstaple Bay. In the first part of its course the /Taw/, which the Exe exceeds in length by only five miles, is as frisky and headstrong as the rest of the moorland streams, but as soon as it has got well within the line of civilisation it sobers down, and thereafter demeans itself sedately enough. The first place of interest which it passes is South Tawton, where is Oxenham, now a farmhouse, but formerly the seat of a family of this name who lived here from the time of Henry III. until early in the present century. Of these Oxenhams it is an ancient tradition that a white-breasted bird is seen when the time has come for one of them to be gathered to his fathers. The last appearance of the portent was in 1873, when Mr. G. N. Oxenham, then the head of the house, lay dying at 17, Earl's Terrace, Kensington. His daughter and a friend, the latter of whom knew nothing of the legend, were sitting in the room underneath the chamber of death when, to quote from Murray's "Handbook," their attention "was suddenly roused by a shouting outside the house, and on looking out they saw a large white bird perched on a thorn tree outside the window, where it remained for several minutes, although some workmen on the opposite side of the road were throwing their hats at it in the vain effort to drive it away." An interesting occurrence, certainly; but if we are to see in it more than a coincidence, what is to be said of the puffin, the only one of its tribe ever recorded to have visited London, which, having found its way so far inland, flew into the rooms of the President of the British Ornithologists' Union? Must we believe that the adventurous bird was moved to call there in order that its feat might be duly recorded in the Proceedings of the Institution? It is below Nymet Rowland that Taw changes its course. Thenceforward it placidly flows amid rich meadows agreeably diversified with woodland. At Eggesford it is overlooked by the Earl of Portsmouth's seat, peeping out from the trees which climb the left bank. At Chulmleigh it gathers up the Little Dart; and beyond South Molton Road Station the Mole, which gives name to North Molton and South Molton, brings in its tribute from the border of Exmoor. Having laved the foot of Coddon Hill, from whose rounded top one may have far views of the valley in both directions, the Taw flows by the cosy little village of Bishop's Tawton on the right; along the other bank stretches Tawstock Park, the demesne of the Bourchier-Wreys, set about with fine old oaks. Then with a sudden bend it comes within sight of Barnstaple Bridge, and beyond the South Walk, on the right bank, bordering a pretty little park, appear the graceful tower of Holy Trinity Church--an unusually effective piece of modern Perpendicular work--and the ugly warped spire of the mother church. The "metropolis of North Devon," as this comely and lusty little town proudly styles itself, is a very ancient place, which had a castle and a priory at least as far back as the time of the Conqueror; but these have long since vanished, and save for a row of cloistered almshouses dating from 1627, and its bridge of sixteen arches, built in the thirteenth century, it is indebted for its savour of antiquity mainly to the venerable usages that have survived the changes and chances of the centuries. Like Bideford, long its rival among North Devon towns, it fitted out ships for the fleet which gave so good an account of the Spanish Armada. During the Civil War it declared for the popular cause, but was captured by the king's forces in 1643; and although it soon succeeded in flinging off the royal yoke, it was re-captured, and remained in the king's hands until nearly the close of the war. Just below the hideous bridge which carries the South Western line across the Taw is the Quay, on the right bank, and beyond it, lined by an avenue of ancient elms, is the North Walk, now unhappily cut up for the purposes of the new railway from Lynton. The stream, by this time of considerable breadth, widens out yet more during the five or six remaining miles of its course; but its channel is tortuous and shifting, and only by small vessels is it navigable. A few more bends, and Instow and Appledore are reached, and Torridge is sighted as it comes up from the south to blend its waters with those of the sister stream. Then far away over the curling foam of Barnstaple Bar we get a full view of Lundy, its cliffs at this distance looking suave enough, though in truth they are not less jagged than when the Spanish galleon fleeing from Amyas Leigh's _Vengeance_ was impaled upon their granite spines; while on the left Hartland Point boldly plants its foot in the Atlantic, and on the right Baggy Point marks the northern limit of Barnstaple Bay. [Illustration: _Photo: Vickery Bros., Barnstaple._ BARNSTAPLE, FROM THE SOUTH WALK (_p. 47_).] It is at no great distance from Hartland Point that the /Torridge/, most circuitous of Devonshire rivers, rises. First flowing in a south-easterly direction past Newton St. Petrock and Shebbear and Sheepwash, it presently makes a bend and follows an almost precisely opposite course north-westwards. In about the middle of the loop which it forms in preparing to stultify itself, it is augmented by the Okement, which has come almost due north from Cranmere Pool, brawling down a valley which, near Okehampton and elsewhere, is finely wooded. Past Yew Bridge and Dolton and Beaford, Torridge continues its sinuous course; and as it approaches Great Torrington, set on a hill some 300 feet above its right bank, its valley presents the combination of smooth haugh and precipitous rock shown in our view (page 49). Torrington has a history, and little besides. Even the church, enclosed in a notably pretty God's acre, graced with avenues of beeches and chestnuts, has no special interest save that it contains the carved oak pulpit in which the great John Howe preached before his ejectment in 1662; for it had to be rebuilt after the Civil War, having been blown up by the accidental explosion of a large quantity of gunpowder while it was being used as a magazine and prison. Two hundred Royalists were confined in the building at the time, and these, with their guards, all perished. Winding round Torrington Common, gay in due season with gorse and bracken, our river glides on past Wear Gifford--an idyllically beautiful spot incongruously associated with a melancholy tragedy--to the "little white town" described by Charles Kingsley in the opening paragraph of his one great story. White it hardly is in these days, but this is the only qualification that strict accuracy requires. The famous bridge of four-and-twenty arches dates from about the same period as that at Barnstaple, which it considerably exceeds in length. The town itself lays claim to a much higher antiquity, for it traces its origin to a cousin of the Conqueror, founder of the illustrious line which came to full flower in the Richard Grenville who, as he lay a-dying, after having matched the _Revenge_ against the whole Spanish fleet of three-and-fifty sail, was able proudly to say, in a spirit not unlike that of a later naval hero, that he was leaving behind him "an everlasting fame of a valiant and true soldier, that hath _done his duty_ as he was bound to do." He it was who revived the fortunes of Bideford after a period of decline, and so increased its prosperity by attracting to it trade from the settlements in the New World that it was able to send seven ships to join the fleet that gathered in Plymouth Harbour to fight the Spaniard. With memories such as these, the town may surely abate its eagerness to have accepted as Armada trophies the old guns which have been unearthed from its dustheap. Pleasant the course of the stream continues to be, past "the charmed rock of Hubbastone," where sleeps an old Norse pirate, with his crown of gold, till, with Instow on the right and Appledore on the left, Torridge meets her sister Taw, and the two with one accord turn westward and roll towards "the everlasting thunder of the long Atlantic swell." * * * * * [Illustration: THE TORRIDGE NEAR TORRINGTON (_p. 47_).] [Illustration: THE PLYM FROM CADAFORD BRIDGE.] [Illustration: IN BICKLEIGH VALE.] Of the streams that have their fountains on Dartmoor, the longer ones rise, as we have seen, in the northern division of the "forest"; the shorter ones, the Avon, the Erme, the Yealm, and the Plym, come to being in the southern division, at no great distance from each other, and amid surroundings not unlike those of Cranmere Pool; and all of them flow into the Channel on the western side of Bolt Head. Neither of them is without charms of its own; but the /Plym/ is easily chief among them, and with a rapid sketch of its course from Plym Head, some three miles south of Princetown, to the Sound, the present chapter must end. Flowing by rugged, flat-topped Sheepstor on the right, and Trowlesworthy Tor on the left, Plym presently reaches Cadaford Bridge, where it plunges into a rocky ravine, the precipitous hillside on the left crowned by the church of Shaugh Prior, while from the hill on the right, smothered with oak coppice, projects a huge crag of ivy-clad granite, the Dewerstone, celebrated for its views. At Shaugh Bridge the stream is swollen by the Meavy, which, not far from its source on the moorland, is tapped to supply Plymouth Leat--a work for which the Plymouth folk are indebted to Sir Francis Drake. Afterwards the Meavy runs by the grey granite church of Sheepstor, where, under the shadow of a noble beech, is the massive tomb of Sir James Brooke, of Sarawak fame. Richly-wooded Bickleigh Vale is one of the beauty spots of the Plym; another lovely scene is that at Plym Bridge, where, close to the mossy bridge, is the ruined arch of a tiny chantry, built by the monks of Plympton Priory that travellers might here pray to Heaven for protection before adventuring into the wilds beyond. Of the Priory, founded in the twelfth century to replace a Saxon college of secular canons, nothing remains but the refectory and a kitchen and a moss-grown orchard, which may be seen close to the lichened church of Plympton St. Mary, if we care to wander a little eastwards from the river. Not far off is the other Plympton, with its scanty fragments of a castle of the de Redvers, Earls of Devon. More memorable is Plympton Earl from its association with Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was born here, and sat at his father's feet in the quaint cloistered Grammar School, where, too, three other painters of note were educated--Sir Joshua's pupil and biographer, Northcote, the luckless Haydon, and the fortune-favoured Eastlake. Reynolds was not without honour in his own country, at any rate during his life. The Corporation of Plympton once chose him mayor, and he declared to George III. that the election was an honour which gave him more pleasure than any other which had ever come to him--"except," he added as an afterthought, "that conferred on me by your Majesty." A portrait of himself, which he painted for his native town, was long treasured in the ancient Guildhall, but the virtue of the Corporation was not permanently proof against temptation, and at last the picture was sold, for £150. This happened a good many years ago. Below Plym Bridge the river begins to expand into the estuary, known in the upper part as the Laira and in the lower as the Catwater, the division between the two sections being marked by the Laira Bridge, five hundred feet long. Of "Laira" various derivations have been suggested, the most ingenious, and perhaps, therefore, the least likely, being that since "leary" in the vernacular means "empty," the name may be taken as pointing to the large expanses of mud and sedge left bare by the tide--larger in the days before the stream was embanked than they are now. Saltram, a seat of the Earls of Morley, the first of whom both built the bridge and constructed the embankment, is on the left shore, embosomed in woods. Below the bridge the estuary curves round northwards, and, sweeping by Sutton Pool, its waters lose themselves in one of the noblest havens in the world, studded with craft of all shapes and sizes, from the grim battleship and the swift liner to the ruddy-sailed trawler. To get a _coup d'[oe]il_ of Plymouth and its surroundings, let us take our stand on the limestone headland known as The Hoe, where, according to the tradition which Kingsley has followed, Drake was playing bowls with his brother sea-dogs when the Armada was descried, and refused to stop until the game was ended. In these days it is surmounted by a statue of the hero, by the Armada Memorial, and by Smeaton's lighthouse, removed from the Eddystone from no defect of its own, but because the rock on which it was based was becoming insecure. On the east The Hoe terminates in the Citadel, an ancient fortification which has been adapted to modern conditions; on the low ground behind crouches Plymouth, effectually screened from the sea-winds; on the west, beyond the Great Western Docks, lies Stonehouse, and west of this again is Devonport, its dockyards lining the Hamoaze, as the estuary of the Tamar is called. Seawards, restraining the rush of the broad waves of the Sound, is the Breakwater, a lighthouse at one end, a beacon of white granite at the other, and in the middle, as it seems at this distance, but really on an island just within it, a mighty oval fort of granite cased in iron. About half-way to the Breakwater is Drake's Island, another link in a chain of defences which has, one may hope, rendered the Three Towns invulnerable to assault either from sea or from land; and over against this, bordering the Sound on the west, are the woods and grassy slopes of Mount Edgcumbe, the noble domain which the Spanish Admiral, Medina Sidonia, is said to have designed for himself. Away in the dim distance the new Eddystone rears its lofty head. How the first of the four lighthouses which have warned mariners of this dangerous reef was washed away, and the second fell a prey to the flames, every schoolboy knows. Familiar, too, is the story of the third; yet as we turn to look at it, now that it is retired from active service, we may be pardoned for recalling how, from this very spot, Smeaton was wont to watch the progress of the work which was to be his title to enduring fame. "Again and again," says Dr. Smiles, "the engineer, in the dim grey of the morning, would come out and peer through his telescope at his deep-sea lamp-post. Sometimes he had to wait long until he could see a tall white pillar of spray shoot up into the air. Then, as the light grew, he could discern his building, temporary house and all, standing firm amidst the waters; and thus far satisfied, he could proceed to his workshops, his mind relieved for the day." [Illustration: PLYMPTON EARL. (_p. 51_).] [Illustration: _Photo: W. Heath, Plymouth._ THE HOE, PLYMOUTH.] Plymouth, beginning as Sutton Prior, an appanage of the Augustinian Monastery at Plympton, the original harbour being what is now known as Sutton Pool, has a history extending at least as far back as the Domesday Survey. Stonehouse is a comparatively modern extension; and Devonport, though its dockyards date from the days of William III., was long in growing into the consequence which now it possesses. Those who know their Boswell well will remember that Johnson, coming into Devonshire with Sir Joshua, visited Plymouth at a time when great jealousy was being felt of the pretensions of Devonport, then just beginning to assert itself. Half in jest and half in earnest he vigorously espoused the prejudices of the older town; and when, in time of drought, Devonport applied to Plymouth for water, he burst out, "No, no. I am against the dockers; I am a Plymouth man. Rogues! let them die of thirst! They shall not have a drop!" Since then Devonport has gone to Dartmoor for a water supply of its own; and Plymouth, while not oblivious of its glorious memories, is well content to take a maternal pride in the prosperity of the younger towns. / W. W. Hutchings./ [Illustration: DANESCOMBE (_p. 58_).] RIVERS OF CORNWALL. The Minor Streams of Cornwall--The /Tamar/: Woolley Barrows--Morwellham and Weir Head--Morwell Rocks--Harewood--Calstock--Cotehele--Pentillie--Confluence with the Tavy--Saltash--The Hamoaze. The /Fowey/: A Change of Name--St. Neot--Lostwithiel--Fowey. The /Fal/: Fenton Fal--Tregony--Truro--Tregothnan--Falmouth. Comparatively insignificant though they may be, the rivers of Cornwall have peculiar interest alike for the geographer and the geologist, and are rife with the charms of natural scenery which attract every lover of the beautiful. If we except the Camel, which is the only river worthy of mention that flows into the Bristol Channel, the county has a southern drainage, this arising from the fact that the watershed of Cornwall is almost confined to the country contiguous to the north coast. Perhaps it is by way of compensation to the Camel, or Alan, that it has two sources. By Lanteglos and Advent its course runs through a romantic country of wood and vale, and it meets the tide at Egloshayle, thence passing Wadebridge, eight miles below which it falls into Padstow Harbour. Of the streams possessing something of historic interest and scenic charm, the Looe must be mentioned because of the lovely vale through which it flows between Duloe and Morval and the association of the river with the ancient Parliamentary boroughs of East and West Looe at its mouth. The Seaton, the St. Austell river, the Hayle, the Gannel, and the Hel, each and all have their individuality, owing allegiance to no other river tyrannous of its tributaries; but the three principal streams of the county, the Tamar, the Fowey, and the Fal, which have been selected for special notice here, have a virtual monopoly of interest and attention. The /Tamar/ possesses, in a singular degree, the more striking characteristics of the Cornish rivers, and is fairly entitled to the distinction of first consideration at our hands. Having its rise at Woolley Barrows, in the extreme east of the westernmost county, a short distance from its source Tamar becomes the boundary between the counties of Devon and Cornwall, and so continues during nearly the whole of its course, some forty miles. Flowing distinctly southward, the river leads a quiet life for at least a league, till, gaining in size and importance, it gives its name to the pretty village and parish of North Tamerton. Thenceforth "Its tranquil stream Through rich and peopled meadows finds its way." At St. Stephen's-by-Launceston it receives the Werrington stream, and expands into a beautiful lake in Werrington Park. Below the lake the impetuous Attery stream joins the now brimming river, which, passing under Poulston and Greston, reaches Tavistock New Bridge, where we are on the "scientific frontier" of Devon and Cornwall. At this point, too, the Tamar enters upon a new stage of its existence, leaving its lowly moorland birth and quiet ordinary youth behind it, and beginning a career which is henceforth the cynosure of all eyes. Hurrying by Gunnislake, the busy little hamlet of workers in clay and stone, at Weir Head the river literally leaps into fame. From the coaching hamlet it has slided on through a woodland glade of bewitching beauty, which wins a spontaneous outburst of admiration from the visitor who, haply, has chosen to approach the favoured scene by the serpentining sylvan walk from Morwellham to Weir Head. Here its waters break in a pretty cascade over the artificial ridge of rocks that reaches from bank to bank. Then they prettily describe a circle about the islet in mid-stream, gaining new life and movement from the impetus. With the briskness of a waterslide the Tamar rushes on to Morwellham. A charming variety of river-glimpses may be gained through the luxuriant foliage at Weir Head, the views hereabouts having become the objective of the highly popular steamer-trips from Plymouth, Devonport, and Saltash, which have constituted "Up the Tamar" quite a colloquialism in the West. The winding river gains a new glory from its beautiful and impressive surroundings as it flows at the base of Morwell Rocks, those wonderful examples of Nature's carvings, set in the midst of luxuriant foliage that here hides their shaggy sides and there throws into bold relief an awe-inspiring pile. The Rocks are unique in their romantic beauty, even though they figure among the many objects of interest in a highly picturesque neighbourhood. The Chimney Rock and the Turret Rock are happier instances of descriptive nomenclature than usual. Bolder still is that most striking specimen of natural architecture, Morwell Rock, the massiveness of which doubtless gained for it the capital distinction. To the giddy height of the topmost rock, above the far-stretching woodland of Morwellham, scarce a sound of the rippling river comes; but the silver thread of its serpentine course may be traced afar through the romantic valley, winding about Okel Tor and the great bend that forms the peninsula between Morwellham and Calstock, and then taking its favoured way through cherry orchard-groves on to the haven under the hill. [Illustration: THE RIVERS OF CORNWALL.] The river is navigable to Weir Head, but Morwellham is the highest point reached by the steamers. Pursuing the line of least resistance, the Tamar now makes a tremendous sweep about the hill on which Calstock Church stands. But ere the first view of the "two-faced church" is caught, an interesting riparian residence is skirted--Harewood, the scene of Mason's play of _Elfrida_, now the office of the Duchy of Cornwall, but formerly one of the Trelawny properties. Calstock, if it please you, is the centre of the old "cherry picking" district, though to-day its strawberry gardens must rival the orchards in their remunerative return to the industrious population of the quaint little town that seems to have grown away from the water's edge to the pleasant Cornish country beyond Tamar bank. Still, if you would see Calstock in its daintiest garb and most delightful beauty, come you when the pretty cherry blossom decks the groves by the river, and the tender pink and white clothes the orchard lawns to the uplands. [Illustration: TAVISTOCK NEW BRIDGE (_p. 55_).] From Calstock on to Cotehele, and thence almost to the junction of the Tamar and the Tavy, the same delightful eccentricity of the river-scenery presents itself--every prominent feature re-appearing in an entirely different aspect, scarce five minutes of the river-trip passing without a variation of the point of view. A last glimpse of Calstock Church, and we are encompassed by woodland. Everywhere a luxuriant living green meets the eye. Apparently, the swelling woods and orchard lawns approach ahead and form a _cul-de-sac_; but the Tamar makes a sharp detour to the right or to the left, and another glory of the leafy way bursts upon the sight. Again and again the pleasing experience is repeated ere a human habitation relieves a monotony that for once is wholly charming. Beyond the limekilns of Cotehele appears the lodge gate of Cotehele House, one of the residences of the Edgcumbe family, and a place of some historic interest. By far the most prominent feature in the fine landscape which may be viewed from a tower at the highest point of the grounds is Kit Hill, the loftiest eminence on Hingston Down, which was the scene of a last desperate battle between the Britons of Cornwall and the invading Saxons in the year 835. A beautiful valley near Cotehele, known as Danescombe to this day, is said to have taken its name from the allies whom the Cornish called to their aid in this sanguinary struggle. Immediately below Cotehele the zig-zag course of the Tamar is most strongly marked, and nowhere are its revelations of new views and fresh charms more entrancing than where it winds about the extensive grounds of Pentillie. Shortly after we have doffed our caps in deference to the pious Sir Richard Edgcumbe, devout worshipper of the Holy Mother, who erected a church by the river-bank to commemorate his miraculous escape from the soldiers of the royal Richard, we catch a fleeting but impressive glimpse of another stately residence of a county family, on a hilly eminence clothed to its crown with thickly grown woods, the castellated mansion emerging from dense leafy environs well towards the crest. All suddenly the coquetting stream swerves to the Devonshire side, as speedily returns to caress the fair meads of Cornwall, and another glorious prospect is disclosed. A nearer view is now to be had of Pentillie Castle, lying embowered in the far-stretching woodland, the Gothic features of the lordly pleasure-house which the late owner, Mr. John Tillie Coryton, built for himself admirably harmonising with its beautiful surroundings. Below Pentillie, the Tamar, in its ampler waters and wider course, has to be satisfied with less interesting associations. A last big bend in the river, and, past the pretty hamlet of Cargreen, we shortly find ourselves abreast of the church of St. Dilpe, at Landulph, erected very near the river-bank, on the Cornish side. The tower of St. Budeaux Church, whose melodious bells chime cheerily across the water, rises high above the Devon bank. Here the Tavy makes common cause with the Tamar, and the twin rivers flow on by Saltash into the Hamoaze. Nearly opposite the mouth of the Tavy, on the Cornish side, is the ecclesiastical parish of St. Stephen-by-Saltash, with the ruins of Trematon Castle at the summit of a well-wooded hill. The castle is believed to have been built at the period of the Conquest, and was subsequently held by the Earls of Cornwall. [Illustration: MORWELL ROCKS (_p. 55_).] At Saltash--as the Western men will not forget to remind the boasting Cockney--the Tamar is wider than the Thames at Westminster. Saltash itself, by the way, was originally (according to Carew) Villa de Esse, after a family of that name, and to this was added "Salt," on account of its "marine situation." The busy little waterside town has this great dignity--that its Mayor and Corporation take precedence of those of Plymouth and Devonport. Saltash has gradually, through many generations, built itself up a steep, rocky acclivity until the habitations extend to the summit of the hill at Longstone, from which favoured eminence the prospect is very fine. Here may we see the broadened river where the ebbing tide swirls by the _Mount Edgcumbe_ training-ship, that is swinging round on its tidal pivot just above Brunel's great bridge; thence, flowing beneath the wondrous iron link of the two westernmost counties with which the engineer spanned the river, here half a mile across, the Tamar, now joined by the Lynher from the West, loses its identity in the all-embracing Hamoaze, with its wood-fringed shores; the river passing unremarked into Plymouth Harbour, from the Harbour to the Sound, and from the Sound to the Channel--forgotten now in the great affairs of navies, and the thrilling stories of the seas on which Drake and Hawkins, Raleigh and Grenville, sailed to fight the Spaniard. From haunts of peace, the Tamar, itself a pleasant stream, has flowed through scenes of rare beauty to these so warlike surroundings, where its current eddies about the decaying hulks on whose decks the old sea-dogs died, where its waters wash arsenal, dock, and victualling yard, and where it oft bears on its broad bosom a mighty fleet of men-of-war. * * * * * [Illustration: CARGREEN (_p. 58_).] At the foot of Brown Willy, Cornwall's highest hill, in the parish of St. Breward, there is an aqueous locality in which the water-finder might exercise his art of divination with the utmost confidence, if, indeed, he did not find his occupation gone by reason of the abundance of the surface water. This is Foy-Fenton, and here the /Fowey/ rises. As, to this day, Fowey becomes "Foy" in the naming of the boats that boast the prettiest harbour in the county for their port, one may easily discover a close association in the nomenclature of the sites and scenes at the beginning and the end of this very charming stream. In its course, curiously enough, the river changes its name. Where it flows southward through the moorlands between St. Neot and St. Cleer, it is called the Dranes (or Dreynes) river; and fishermen from the "model borough" of Liskeard, who love to flog its pleasant waters for the toothsome trout that they harbour, would be prepared to contend, in the face of the maps and in the presence of geographers, that it is the Dranes river, and no other. In flood-time a strong stream that gives the road-surveyor endless trouble, the Fowey, leaping along its bouldered way, here and there lightening its journey by falling in picturesque cascades, scattering its showers of iridescent spray over the thick foliage that everywhere clothes its banks, runs almost level with the main road to St. Neot--a village noted for its window-pictured legend of St. Neot and the miraculous supply of fish, in the parish church--where it receives a goodly stream of that name. Increasing the beauty and interest of its course with every mile it travels, the river by-and-by glides into the far-stretching woodland of Glynn, the seat of Lord Vivian, and then becomes one of the principal contributors to the scenic charms of the railway-side from Devonport to Par, which Miss Braddon describes as the most delightful of all journeys by rail. [Illustration: THE HAMOAZE FROM SALTASH (_p. 59_).] After leaving its moorland haunts, and in order to reach Glynn, the Fowey took a westerly turn, but, Bodmin once skirted, the river runs directly southward again, under Resprin bridge and past Lanhydrock House, the Cornish home of that Lord Robartes who was the leader of the Parliamentarian forces in these parts. The ancient mansion, of the Tudor period, passed through many crises, and, together with modern additions, was practically destroyed by fire in 1881, and rebuilt in 1883-4. The next object of interest seen from the river is the ruin of Restormel Castle, on the summit of a bold headland a mile from Lostwithiel. The building of the castle is ascribed to the Cardenhams, who flourished hereabouts in the reign of the first Edward; and it was once the residence of the Earls of Cornwall. At Lostwithiel--the Uzella of Ptolemy--the Fowey is crossed by an ancient and narrow bridge of eight pointed arches, erected in the fourteenth century. The bridge is very strongly buttressed, and over each buttress is an angular niche. A silver oar, which is among the insignia of the Corporation, bears the inscription: "_Custodia aquæ de Fowey_." The celebrated Colonel Silas Titus, author of "Killing noe Murder," Member of Parliament for the borough 1663-79, was the donor of the oar. Lostwithiel, where the river meets the tide, at once becoming navigable for small vessels, boasts great antiquity, and in 1664 was the headquarters of the Parliamentarian forces in Cornwall. Here, below Lostwithiel's ancient bridge, let us take boat and taste of the ineffable enjoyment which laureates of the Fowey have attributed to a sail or a row down the romantic stream to the mouth of the harbour, where the sailors sing their chanties as they work the merchantmen out between the old towers whence chains were stretched across the harbour in the stirring days when the Spaniard sailed the main. Sing hey, sing ho, for indeed life is worth living when the soft zephyrs blow, and we glide by the prettily placed church of St. Winnow, and catch the musical chiming of its melodious peal of bells. "Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm," our delight knows no surcease, but rather grows as, something less than three miles below the old Parliamentary borough, the banks open out, and we behold that daydream of scenic beauty, the sunlit reaches of the river winding away toward the sea. One branch of this estuary, by-the-by, flows to St. Veep, which has an interesting church. The Lerrin and St. Cadoc creeks yet further enrich a river which Nature has endowed with charms so abundant. Bodinnoc Ferry is a name to conjure with in yachting circles, since there is not one log among the many of the pleasure-boats that make for the "little Dartmouth" of the Far West in the height of summer but contains some fine compliment to the rare beauty of the view, landward and seaward, from this familiar tacking point. No wonder that Fowey Harbour shares with its Devonshire rival the generous tribute of sportsmen, who have lavished upon each of these picturesque ports effusive praise that has its point in the proud title of the "Yachtsman's Paradise." Long ere these pleasure-seeking days was the discovery of Fowey's possession of a safe and commodious harbour made: "The shippes of Fowey sayling by Rhie and Winchelsey, about Edward the III^{rd} tyme, would vayle no bonnet beying required, whereupon Rhie and Winchelsey men and they fought, when Fowie men had victorie, and thereupon bare their arms mixt with the arms of Rhie and Winchelsey, and then rose the name of the Gallants of Fowey." But Leland knew that they deserved the title long years before, as "the glorie of Fowey rose by the warres in King Edward I. and III. and Henry V.'s day, partly by feats of warre, partly by piracie, and so waxing rich fell all to merchandize." Fowey took so naturally and keenly to the practice of piracy that the "gallants" had a little affair at sea with the French on their own account and against the King's treaty and commandment, in the reign of the fourth Edward, who appears not to have been well pleased, since he took the head of one of their number, imprisoned the captains, and sent men of Dartmouth down to seize their ships and remove the chain then drawn across the mouth of the haven. But the "gallants" were nothing daunted, and in the time of Charles II. their successors beat off eighty Dutch ships of war that, greatly daring, had chased a fleet of merchantmen into Fowey Harbour. St. Finbarrus, first Bishop of Cork, is said to have been buried in the church, which is dedicated to him, and is a handsome structure. Place House, the seat of the Treffry family, besides being a noble mansion, gloriously dight with very fine specimens of Cornish granite and porphyry, is of great historic interest. It was Elizabeth, wife of Thomas Treffry--an ancient statue of whom stands in the grounds--who, in the absence of her husband, headed his men and beat off the French in an assault on Place House in July, 1457. * * * * * Along its course of but twenty miles, four of which are tidal, the /Fal/ divides the county into two nearly equal parts. Fenton Fal, in Tregoss Moor, is the birthplace of the stream; and from the moorland it receives the tributary waters of many peaty rivulets before gaining entrance to the romantic vale of Treviscoe, which gives us a foretaste of that feast of the beautiful which the Fal affords in its lower reaches. Compared with what goes before and follows after, the course of the stream by Grampound (the Voluba of Ptolemy), through Creed valley, where it leaves Tregony on its left bank, and on to Ruan, is somewhat lacking in interest, and the river itself is of no great strength. Ere tin-streaming and the sandbanks had done their mischief, you might have reached Tregony on the top of the tide; nowadays the ebb and flow affect the river no farther than Ruan. Yet this has sufficed to gain for the Fal a glorious name. Perhaps the finest compliment ever paid to the river fell from royal lips. When the Queen, accompanied by the Prince Consort, made the trip down the Fal from Truro in 1864, she was visibly impressed with the beauty and splendour of the scenery, and particularly charmed with the view about Tregothnan. Her Majesty was reminded by it of the Rhine, but thought it almost finer where winding between woods of stunted oaks, and full of numberless creeks. At Truro, the two little rivers, Kenwyn and Allen, flow through the city into a creek of the Fal, known as Truro river; the first-named separates St. Mary's from St. Paul's, while the second divides the parish of St. Mary from that of St. John. The little Kenwyn is "personally conducted" through the streets of the cathedral town by the Corporation, in open conduits, and forms a not unpleasant feature of the tiny city in Western Barbary whose inhabitants were once said to have a good conceit of themselves: "The people of this town dress and live so elegantly that the pride of Truro is become a by-word in the county." The most modern of our English cathedrals is a monument to the pious zeal, marvellous industry, and unquenchable enthusiasm of Dr. Benson, the first Bishop of Truro, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. The Prince of Wales laid the foundation stone in 1880, and its consecration took place seven years later. The style is Early English of the thirteenth century, and at present the cathedral but partially realises the ambitious design of the architect, who planned a very imposing edifice, which, in the event of its ultimate completion, must inevitably challenge comparison with the most notable of modern achievements in the Gothic. Already it possesses several splendid windows and many beautiful specimens of modern sculpture. [Illustration: _Photo: F. Argall, Truro._ THE FAL FROM TOLVERNE (_p. 65_).] The prettiest parts of our river lie between King Harry's Passage and Roseland. Below Tregothnan, where the Fal unites with the Truro river and St. Clement's creek, both shores are beautifully clothed with wood, and the fine expanse of water at high tide lends a nobility and magnificence to the scene which affords ample occasion for the high-flown descriptions and lavish praise bestowed upon the Fal. On the right are the grounds of Trelissick; and a picturesque glimpse of the stream may be caught near the estuary called Malpas Road, by the ferry at Tolverne. After dividing Mylor from St. Just, the river loses its identity in forming Carrick Road, and shortly expands into the splendid haven of Falmouth Harbour. The inner part, between Trefusis Point, Pendennis, and the town, is called King's Road. Carrick Road, where the river enters, forms the middle of the harbour, and midway between the entrance--which is from Pendennis Point to St. Anthony's Head--there lies the ominously-named Black Rock, around which the Mayor of Truro sailed in June, 1709, when he sought to exercise jurisdiction over the port and harbour of Falmouth. But the citizens of the port themselves had had a powerful friend at Court, in the person of King Charles II., who had given Falmouth a charter overriding the ancient claims of Truro, by which the Mayor of the latter town had levied dues on all goods laden or unladen in any part of the Fal, from Truro to the Black Rock; and a trial at law in the same year finally established home rule in Falmouth Harbour. [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ FALMOUTH HARBOUR.] Though to-day its prosperity is scarcely commensurate with its natural advantages, the harbour still remains almost unrivalled. First port of call for homeward-bound vessels, with a depth of water and safe anchorage that many another harbour might envy, and sheltered from all the winds that blow save those from the south-south-east, it is so capacious that the whole British fleet could ride at anchor in its waters. Falmouth as a town owes its existence to these striking features of its harbour. Beholding them, it struck the shrewd sons of the House of Killigrew, Lords of Arwenack (there is an Arwenack Street to this day), who flourished in the time of James I., that there was no earthly reason why vessels should go seven miles to Truro, or two miles to Penryn, for a port when an infinitely better one might be created at the very mouth of the harbour. Vested interests, as represented by the communities of Truro, Penryn, and Helston, offered stout opposition. But the silver-tongued Lords of Arwenack prevailed in the argument before King James, and it was not long ere Falmouth was the first port in Cornwall. Its great era of prosperity exemplifies the adage that it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, for, during our wars with the French, Falmouth became a mail packet station, and flourished exceedingly on "Government service." It was the boast of proud Falmouthians that a hundred vessels could ride in the creeks of Falmouth Harbour and yet that no two should be in sight of each other. How this might be may be understood in part when it is explained that, besides many smaller arms, there are five principal creeks. Of these branches not the least is that which was probably the earliest used, to Penryn; there is a second to Restronguet and Perranarworthal; a third, also of ancient use, to Truro and Tresillian Bridge; a fourth running up to St. Mawes and Gerrans; and the fifth and greatest, to King Harry's Reach, toward Tregony, which is the main stream of our Fal. /Hugh W. Strong./ [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ FALMOUTH, FROM FLUSHING.] [Illustration: THE ISLE OF ATHELNLY (_p. 68_).] THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON. The /Parret/: Its Source--Muchelney Abbey--The Tone and Taunton--Athelney Island and Alfred the Great--Sedgemoor--Bridgewater--Burnham. The /Lower Avon/: Escourt Park--Malmesbury--Chippenham--Melksham--Bradford-on-Avon--Bath--The Frome--Beau Nash--Bridges at Bath--The Abbey Church--Bristol--St. Mary Redcliffe and Chatterton--The Cathedral--"The Chasm"--Clifton Suspension Bridge--The Lower Reaches--Avonmonth. Of the even, placid course of the /Parret/ one sententious writer has said, "There is nothing remarkable in it, the country being flat." A spark of imagination and the merest glimmering of historic interest would have spared us this dull commonplace. Surely the stream which saw the dawn of intellect in England, which witnessed the very beginnings of our modern civilisation, which watered the self-same mead where walked the first royal patron of learning that the country boasted, is notable, even if it does not attain to higher rank among our English rivers. The Parret--Pedred of the Saxon Chronicle--is not of native Somerset birth, since it has its uprising a mile over the southern boundary, at Cheddington Copse, in the Dorsetshire parish of South Perrott. Flowing in a south-easterly direction, by Crewkerne and the Dorsetshire border, its basin occupies that portion of the Bridgwater Level lying between the Mendips and the Quantock Hills. At Crewkerne we have wide glimpses of its broad green valley, the busy little market town itself rising in the midst of the natural amphitheatre formed by the distant, unpretentious hills, lying low, like shadows on the horizon. The fine cruciform church of St. Bartholomew, whose only real rival among Somersetshire churches is that at Ilminster, in precisely the same style of architecture, occupies a pleasant situation westward of the river. The ruins of Muchelney Abbey rise above the marshy banks of the river in the hamlet bearing the same name, which the ancient chronicler would have us accept as a facile corruption of "Muckle Eye," or Great Island. Of Athelstan's Abbey there are but scant remains, though these are most suggestive of a structure of imposing size and great architectural interest and beauty. By the interesting little town of Langport the dividing hills are broken, and the Parret receives the waters of the Isle from the left, and of the Yeo (so common a river name, with its obvious derivation), or Ivel, from the right. Swollen by these tributaries, the Parret's lazy waters now creep on under a bridge which unites the banks that marked the limits of the dominions of the Belgic and Danmonian tribes. [Illustration: THE PARRET AND THE LOWER AVON.] Hereabouts we do indeed appear to be at the very beginnings of English history, for but a little below the confluence, at Aller, the Danish king, Guthrum, is said to have received the rite of baptism in the river, his conqueror, Alfred the Great, magnanimously standing sponsor to the fallen foe; whilst eight centuries later a fiercer warrior, filled with zeal for what he conceived to be his righteous cause--Fairfax, to wit--routed the Royalist forces, giving no quarter, as he had asked none. Before we take up the other thread of the historical tale, there is the Tone to be reckoned with. Born in a bog on the Brendon Hills, this most important of the affluents of the Parret is seen at its greatest in the picturesque vale of Taunton Dean. Imparting its name to the handsome town of Taunton, it passes at least one splendid specimen of ecclesiastical architecture in St. Mary's Church, which rears its lofty tower in the midst of a delightful neighbourhood, of which Taunton is the attractive capital. Below the hill-top village of Boroughbridge the Tone joins forces with the Parret, and in the slack water at their confluence rises that little plot of ground made for ever sacred in English eyes by reason of its being the remote retreat of Alfred the Great when he sought to escape the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune. Hurrying thither from his fierce enemies, the Danes--and, if the fable is in the least to be trusted, from the equally-to-be-feared anger of the neatherd's wife--he found a peaceful haven, where he might heal him of his wounds, recruit his resources, and lay his plans for the meditated rally. And so, by bold forays from this natural stronghold, he regained the confidence of his adherents, won over the waverers, and paved the way for his eventual triumph over the pagan foe and the complete recovery of his power. [Illustration: TAUNTON CHURCH (_p. 68_).] To the honour of St. Saviour and St. Peter, his patron saints, the pious hero of Athelney raised a monastery on the island, where, in their holy orisons, the monks chanted the praises of the God who had so confused the heathen by the shores of the river that stayed its course and stagnated where the reeds and rushes caught the water-sprite, heavy with sleep, in their toils. Barely two acres in William of Malmesbury's day, yet covered by "a forest of alders of vast extent"(!), the historic spot is now known as Athelney Farm, a stone pillar telling its great story in this concise inscription: "King Alfred the Great, in the year of our Lord 879, having been defeated by the Danes, fled for refuge to the Forest of Athelney, where he lay concealed from his enemies for the space of a whole year. He soon after regained possession of his throne; and, in grateful remembrance of the protection he had received under the favour of Heaven, he erected a monastery on the spot, and endowed it with all the lands contained in the Isle of Athelney. To perpetuate the memory of so remarkable an incident in the history of the illustrious prince, this edifice was founded by John Slade, Esq., of Maunsell, the proprietor of Athelney, and lord of the manor of North Petherton, /A.D./ 1801." [Illustration: _Photo: William Hanks, Malmesbury._ MALMESBURY ABBEY (_p. 72_).] History in its heroic elements still clings to Parret's banks, for, as the river flows on near Weston-Zoyland, washing the parish on the south and south-west, Sedgemoor, the Duke of Monmouth's fatal field, comes into view, and one looks upon the scene of what in Macaulay's words was "the last fight deserving the name of a battle that has been fought on English ground." Emerging from the marsh of Sedgemoor, the Parret now takes upon itself the new office of patron and benefactor of populous, busy Bridgwater, two miles to the south-west of "Sowyland." It is the river which at ebb and flood tide deposits that peculiar sediment of clay and sand that goes to make "the Bath brick," of which product Bridgwater has the monopoly. But why "Bath"? Well, presumably, because the best market for the brick was originally found in Beau Nash's town, with the result that it eventually became the principal centre of trading in the commodity. From half a mile above to half a mile below the three-arched bridge which Walter de Briwere--the first of that ilk--commenced, and Sir Thomas Trivet completed, in the reign of Edward I., the brickworks stretch, giving employment to a large number of hands, and forming a source of considerable revenue. The current which nearly overwhelmed General Fairfax in Bridgwater's stirring days of 1645 is said to advance with such rapidity and boldness on the Parret as to rise no less than two fathoms on one wave. But, judging from the statement of another authority, this must be but a moderate estimate of the dimensions to which the bore occasionally attains, since it is asserted that the upright wave-phenomenon of the Parret has repeatedly reached nine feet in height! This much, however, is positively ascertained--that spring-tides in the Bristol Channel rise a full 36 feet at the mouth of the Parret. King John gave Bridgwater its charter in 1200, but the Briwere family, one of whom began the building of the great bridge over the Parret, were the real founders of the town and the actual authors of its commercial prosperity. The most striking landmark in the birthplace of Admiral Blake, the great Republican commander, whose glorious achievement it was to defeat the "invincible" Van Tromp, is the tall tower and fine spire of the parish church of St. Mary, 174 feet in height, and, therefore, one of the loftiest in England. A splendid altar-piece, said to have been taken from a Spanish privateer, is one of the features of the church. Six miles from the sea at Bridgwater, the Parret, as if loth to lose its individuality, lingers in the rich valley, doubling the distance by its circuitous course to the Bristol Channel. At Burnham, just before the Severn Sea claims them, its waters are still further swollen by those of the Brue, a considerable stream, which, like the Parret, has a wealth of historical association, and is of some commercial significance. To the wharves at Highbridge, above Burnham, vessels of many tons burthen are borne by the tide; here also are the gates and sluice-locks of the Glastonbury canal navigation. Then the united streams fall into that part of the Bristol Channel which is known as Bridgwater Bay. A few miles to the north the Axe indolently pours into Uphill Bay the waters which it has brought from the flanks of the Mendips, where it runs a subterranean course some two miles long before issuing forth in a copious flood from Wookey Hole--a cavern famous for the prehistoric treasures which it has yielded to the explorer--to flow through a picturesque glen, and presently to drain the level plains of West Somerset. * * * * * Watering three counties, to the scenic interest and beauty of each of which it lends an infinitude of charms, the /Lower Avon/ is not to be measured for its importance by its length (seventy-five miles), since there are far longer streams that one would willingly exchange for half the romantic valleys and the rich country of this river, which has its source in a piece of ornamental water at Escourt Park, in the neighbourhood of Great Thurston, where the boundaries of Wiltshire and Gloucestershire almost meet. Distinction is immediately given to the stream. Just below the village it enters the grounds of Pinckney House, and after it has passed Eastongrey and a dozen little thorpes, the river claims proud association with historic Malmesbury--the British Caer Bladon, and the Anglo-Saxon Ingelburne--which it enters on the west. This ancient town stands on the ridge of a narrow hill, sloping down steeply on its southern and northern sides, and is nearly surrounded by two streams which, uniting at its southern extremity, form the Avon. On the highest point of the ridge are seen the ruins of the famous Malmesbury Abbey, which once covered forty-five acres of ground. Leland, writing in the time of Henry VIII., described it as a "right magnificent thing." The present remains are small; but the south porch is one of the finest specimens of Norman work in the country. A portion of the structure is still used as a church. Another notable feature of the town in which William of Malmesbury, the historian, was educated, is a quaint fifteenth-century market-cross, to which also Leland gave none but honest praise when he styled it "a righte faire piece of worke." Malmesbury--which, by the way, was the birthplace of "Leviathan" Hobbes--has been built on the peninsula between the Tetbury stream, flowing down from the Gloucestershire town, and the first beginnings of the Avon, which here accepts its earliest tributary. [Illustration: _Photo: J. Clark, Tetbury._ THE AVON NEAR TETBURY.] Bending southward at Somerford, another branch is caught up, this subsidiary stream hailing from the neighbourhood of Wootton Bassett. By this time the Avon has become no mean river, and in its course by Dauntsey and Seagry to woody Christian Malford it forms a very prominent feature in the fine landscape that may be viewed from the high hill to the eastward, on the summit of which stood Bradenstoke Priory, now converted to the use--we will not say ignoble--of a comfortable farmhouse. Fast gathering its supplementary forces, the Avon after passing Kellaways and before reaching Chippenham welcomes the waters of the Marlan. Chippenham, pleasant in itself, but made still more interesting by reason of its surroundings in the fertile valley, is well nigh compassed about by the Avon, which here is a clear stream and of sweet savour. Later in its history it may deserve the description of a dark and deep river, except where shallows interfere. In its lower reaches it will be largely affected in colour by storms, Wiltshire floods tinging it with the whitish hue of the chalk hills, and the Somersetshire rains with the red of the ochre beds. But here it is a placid, pleasant stream, which makes a bold sweep round the environs of the town, driving its mill-wheels and lending that dignity and interest which a river peculiarly affords. [Illustration: _Photo: R. Wilkinson, Trowbridge._ BRADFORD-ON-AVON CHURCH, FROM THE NORTH EAST (_p. 74_).] Hitherto the Avon's gliding way has lain by the low-lying dairy lands of North Wiltshire, through peaceful pastoral scenes, its banks clothed with the brightest flowers of the field, and here and there shaded with willows and elms, But now, beyond Chippenham, it embarks upon the chequered and romantic phase of its career. The country becomes more hilly directly we near the clothing district of Wiltshire. For a short space the Avon renders the useful service of a boundary, effectually dividing Wilts and Somerset. The scenery of Chippenham Vale, through which the river flows on to Melksham, Trowbridge, and Bradford--a trio of interesting towns, each watered by the same stream--is extremely beautiful. Melksham, a town of one long principal street, is flanked by rich meadows, through which meanders the Avon. The quaint, old-fashioned houses are built on the acclivity of an eminence which may fairly be ascribed to the river's wearing work through the ages; and the inhabitants are not without reason proud of their handsome four-arched bridge. Again there comes a season of increase, in which the river gains, from this source and that, a considerable addition to its volume. At Broughton Gifford a brook by that name surrenders to the brimming river from the west, whilst from the east enters the Whaddon streamlet. Then, again, near Staverton the little Biss joineth the great Avon. So our river swells with importance as it approaches romantic Bradford-on-Avon. The name of this town--from the "broad ford" over the river--is by no means its only indebtedness to the Avon, for the highly picturesque situation of Leland's "clooth-making" centre is entirely the outcome of Nature's handiwork. Immediately on the north side of the river a hill abruptly rises, and it is on the brow and along the sloping declivity of this eminence that most of the tastefully-designed dwellings have been erected. The deep and hollow valley of the Avon now extends between two ranges, the hills here and there richly wooded to their summits; and pretty villages have scattered themselves along these bold acclivities. Bradford-on-Avon Church is of considerable interest, and is remarkable for the success of its highly sympathetic restoration by Canon Jones, the vicar, a distinguished archæologist. Two bridges here cross the Avon; the most ancient, in the centre of the town, being described by Aubrey, two centuries since, as "a strong handsome bridge, in the midst of which is a chapel for Mass." Bradford gained its original eminence in the woollen trade mainly from the introduction of "spinners" from Holland in the seventeenth century, and lost it with the development of the greater Bradford of the North, in the midst of the coalfields. Before, following the more impetuous course of the now considerable river, we quit Bradford and its seductive scenes, the peculiar loveliness of the valley of the Avon in the vicinity of the town, and more particularly at such fascinating spots as Freshfield, Limpley Stoke--just where the river leaves Wiltshire and enters Somerset--and Claverton, to name but a few, must be remarked upon. Then Bladud's creation, "Queen of all the Spas in the World," "City of the Waters of the Sun," "Queen of the West," "King of the Spas," gives greeting to the noble river that plays so great a part in the beautification of the historic city lying at the foot of the valley of the Avon, whence it has grown up its steep banks. Below Bradford the Frome has become a tributary of the Avon, bringing, besides its goodly stream, many most interesting reminiscences of its course. After flowing through the lower part of the agreeably situated town to which it gives its name, the Frome adds its charms to the manifold attractions of the scenery of Vallis Bottom. Just half a mile beyond the time-worn Priory of Hinton, which rears its ivy-clad tower amidst a grove of venerable oaks, Frome merges itself in the Avon. As if Nature were here conspiring to make the river worthy of the city of "Bladud, eighth in descent from Brutus," at Bathford the Avon receives the Box brook, from the vale of that name in Wiltshire, and, after a loop to the west, is joined at Batheaston by another small stream, the Midford, which has enhanced the romantic interest of the Vale of Claverton; whilst a third brook descends from the heights of Lansdowne, the fatal battlefield of Sir Basil Grenville and his Cornish friends, who lost their lives for the Parliamentary cause under the ill-starred leadership of Sir William Waller. Approaching the city of "Beau Nash" from the east, and passing between Bathwick and Bath proper, the Avon washes "Aqua Solis" (or "Sulis") of the Romans on the south, and plays its part in the fair scene which, "viewed under the influence of a meridian sun, and through the medium of an unclouded atmosphere, presents to sight and imagination everything that is united with the idea of perfect beauty." And yet, with all the natural advantages of its situation, Bath long awaited the touch of the wand of the modern magician--the man of enterprise and speculation. There lay the deep romantic valley, gloriously encircled by the triple band of splendid hills--towering Lansdowne to the north, 813 feet above the sea; Claverton and Bathwick to the east, some 600 and 400 feet in height respectively; with Beechen Cliff, Sham Castle, Camden Crescent, and Lansdowne Crescent, all fine natural view-points, below. Compare with the Bath of to-day the overgrown village to the practical government of which the famous Beau Nash succeeded in 1704, when he followed the notorious gambler, Captain Webster, as Master of the Ceremonies, and you have some idea of the miracle of change and growth which has been performed. It was after the death of Beau Nash that the city, waxing great, extended its borders to Bathwick, on the country side of the river. Towards the close of the seventeenth century, private munificence caused a bridge to be thrown across the river, and Bathwick itself, from being a daisied meadowland, became a thickly populated suburb. And even the bridge thus built was shortly occupied with rows of dwelling houses and shops, so that the connection between Bath and Bathwick was complete. Long prior to the building of this, the Poulteney bridge--nearly five centuries before, in point of fact--the Avon was crossed by the St. Lawrence's, or the Old Bridge, as it is now usually called. Originally built in 1304, it became a prey to the fever of building speculation which had marked the career of the elder Wood, of the famous family of Bath architects. Out of date, and, we may presume, somewhat out of repair also, it was rebuilt in 1754. The Poulteney Bridge, crossing to Bathwick, followed in 1769; and half a century's growth of the popular lower suburb revealing the need for further means of communication that would relieve the congested traffic, the Bathwick, or Cleveland, Bridge was added in 1827. Some years later the North Parade Bridge was built. With the advent of the iron horse there had, by this time, arisen a newer necessity still. In comparatively rapid succession the Midland Railway and the Skew Bridge--which justifies its name by the remarkable angle at which it crosses the Avon--with three suspension bridges and a foot-passengers' bridge near the station, have followed. [Illustration: _Photo: J. Dugdale & Co., Bath._ THE AVON AT BATH.] Bath boasts at least one ecclesiastical structure of great interest, in the "Lantern of England," as the tower of the Abbey Church has been styled, because of the unusual number and size of its windows. In the exceptional height of the clerestory and the oblong shape of the tower, the church is also distinguished from the general. Out by the Western Gate the Avon runs, with Holloway Hill and Beechen Cliff conspicuous landmarks on its left. By Twerton--"the town on the banks of the Avon"--there are large cloth-mills on the riverside, relics of the monastic industries established by the monks of Bath so far back as the fourteenth century. Fielding Terrace, in this town, is the reputed neighbourhood of the residence of the novelist, who is said to have written a part of "Tom Jones" during his stay. [Illustration: VIEW FROM NORTH PARADE BRIDGE, BATH.] [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE OLD CITY BRIDGE, BATH.] Now the Avon is in its beloved valley, deep and green again. Three miles, or a little more, from the city, a beautiful circling knoll seems to shut in the vale. The hill is crowned with a handsome house, and ornamented with woodland and lawn. Kelston Round Hill, as this impressive eminence is called, is 730 feet above the sea-level, the Avon winding at its foot and the ascending groves of Newton Park reaching to the fine prospect and the highest hill in this part of Somerset. Ere, at this point, we bid a reluctant adieu to the beauties of Bath, it should be pointed out that in most of the commanding and delightful views obtainable from all the vantage points in and about the city the Avon and its fertile valley conspicuously figure, heightening the interest of each entrancing scene. It is no exaggeration to say that the neighbourhood of Bath is rife with scenic charms. The cliffs, ravines, and deep excavations in the strata lend endless variety to the landscape, which is finely compact of hill, vale, rock, wood and water, the striking beauties of the Avon's course ever and anon lending a crowning grace to the view. Below Kelston the more expanded vale of the Keynsham Hams succeeds. Flowing round this rich tract of land, the Avon becomes the dividing line between Gloucester and Somerset. Just beyond, within the parish of Keynsham, and midway between the sister cities of Bath and Bristol, the waters of yet another tributary, the Chow, a stream which has come down from the north side of the Mendip Hills, are gathered up. Contracted in its channel for more than a mile between lofty rocks at Hanham, the Avon, emerging from its straitened circumstances, diverts itself with the strikingly sinuous course which it then follows between Brislington and St. George's, ere it is sobered and dignified by its contact with the traditional Caer Oder, "the City of the Chasm," the birthplace of Sebastian Cabot, of Southey, and of Chatterton. Before the river begins to be tidal, it has another, perhaps its greatest, recruit in the Lower Frome. After a picturesque course, the Frome washes the Bishop's Palace at Stapleton, enters Bristol, and there loses itself in the Lower Avon. Between modern Bristol and the great port of the "spacious times" the difference is one of degree only, for the commercial spirit is still strong in the sons of Cabot and Canynge; and, amid the thick smoke that overhangs the very centre of the city, there rise e'en to-day the tall spars, fluttering pennons, and the rigging of the ships of the mercantile marine that made the name of the opulent city known in every port and on every sea, and brought to Bristol by the tidal river the trade that trimmed her sails to the breeze of fortune and set her course fair on the voyage to fame and prosperity. One of the earliest chapters of the history of the city is connected with the river. It records the building of the first bridge over the Avon in 1247, an undertaking mentioned in a charter of Henry II. This bridge united the city with what was then the suburb of Redcliffe. To-day, this association is splendidly preserved by that golden historical link, the "finest and stateliest parish church in England," as Queen Elizabeth pronounced the edifice of St. Mary Redcliffe on her visit to Bristol in 1753. The style is the Early English, though the richly sculptured northern doorway and some other portions belong rather to the Decorated Period. The structure was founded about the year 1300, but was enlarged, beautified, and, in fact, refounded by William Canynge, whose effigy, with that of his wife Joan, will be found at the end of the south transept. The upper part of the stone steeple was struck down by lightning in 1445, and not rebuilt for upwards of four hundred years. It was in the muniment room of this church that young Thomas Chatterton professed to have found a number of curious MSS. in prose and poetry, the boy-poet's ingenious deception long escaping detection. Such success, which might never have attended the confessed productions of his own precocious genius, gave the gifted lad of seventeen the necessary stimulus, and his growing ambition led him to London, where he became a mere literary hack, and took a life threatened by starvation. A handsome monument in St. Mary Redcliffe churchyard pays Bristol's tribute to her great, but unhappy, son. Of St. Mary Redcliffe, the "pride of Bristowe," Camden said it was "the most elegant of all the parish churches I have ever seen." The present bridge replaced the thirteenth-century causeway in 1768. It was in 1247 that the course of the Frome was diverted to a new channel. Anciently, the city boundaries were the two confluent rivers which environed it with a natural defence on all sides save one, where a castle stood, protected by a broad deep moat supplied with water from the Frome, which at that time flowed by its northern walls. In Bristol Castle the son of the Conqueror, Robert, was shut up by his brother Henry. Though it has been justly said of the Cathedral that it is remarkable neither for antiquity nor beauty, being far inferior to St. Mary Redcliffe in at least one of these respects, the Berkeley chapel, forming the north aisle of the choir, is worthy of note as an elegant example of Early English. The spacious nave, with side aisles and clerestory in the Early Decorated style, is a modern addition. Among the animated busts are those of Joseph Butler, of "Analogy" fame--one of Bristol's famous line of bishops, two of whom were of the "glorious company" of seven--Robert Southey, and the "Dorcas" of the city, Miss Mary Carpenter. In 1809 our river became a fellow-sufferer with the Frome. The course of the Avon lay through the city, but now a new channel was dug for it on the south side, leaving the river to fall into its original bed at Rownham Ferry. For the rest, the old channels of both the Frome and the Avon were converted into a fine floating harbour, which, at Cumberland Basin, will accommodate some of the largest vessels afloat. "The Chasm" itself, or, as it is more familiarly known, the Gorge of the Avon, lying just below the Basin, is bridged by a triumph of modern engineering art. The Clifton Suspension Bridge--our English "Bridge of Sighs" for suicides--admits to a magnificent view of the Avon where it flows through the romantic defile of St. Vincent's Rocks. As the story runs, St. Vincent, a rival, caught the Giant Goram asleep, and once and for ever determined the course of the river by cleaving the ravine through which the Avon now runs to the sea. Brunel's Bridge, after a remarkably chequered history--its construction being actually suspended for a period of nearly thirty years!--was completed for the visit of the British Association in 1864. The foundations had been laid in 1836. The chains of Hungerford Suspension Bridge at Charing Cross were taken down and here re-hung. The centre span--one of the longest in the world--is 676 feet in extent, and the entire length of the bridge is 1,352 feet. Fifteen hundred tons in weight, the stupendous structure is a wonderful combination of strength and grace, adding a new interest and beauty to the impressive view rather than detracting from its great natural charm. [Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._ BRISTOL, FROM THE SITE OF THE OLD DRAWBRIDGE ACROSS THE HARBOUR.] When "Cook's Folly" and the "Pitch and Pay" gate, of mournful memory, have been passed, and we have reached Sea Mills on the right bank, there is a distinct softening in the character of the scenery. Here is the supposed site of the Roman station Abona. The Avon at this point is joined by the small river Trym. Leland, having the St. Vincent legends clearly in remembrance, wrote of it: "Some think a great piece of the depeness of the haven, from St. Vincent to Hungo-rode, hath been made by hande." As we pass Pill, which furnishes pilots for the port of Bristol, its ancient fish-like smell forces itself upon our attention. Now we near the last reach of the Avon, Broad Pill, where the river widens greatly. Sinuous as well may be, and running between low banks, those "sea-walls" of rich marshland that lie about Birchampton, the river's course beyond that pretty neighbourhood changes fast, and gathers a new and picturesque interest when the tide comes in. Now we are at the mouth of the Avon, and in that fine roadstead which the loyal Bristol seamen would have styled King's Road. From the decks of the great ships that here ride out the light gale in safety a glorious view, up river, along shore, and about the fine anchorage in the estuary of the Avon and the Severn, may be enjoyed. The pier and docks at Avonmouth form another splendid enterprise, which, if it has not come too late, may retain for Bristol something more than a remnant of its ancient glory as the first port of the kingdom, a training ground for the British Navy, the haunt and home of sea-dogs who added many a gallant deed to the proud annals of our island story. /Hugh W. Strong./ [Illustration: CLIFTON SUSPENSION BRIDGE (_p. 79_).] [Illustration: SOURCE OF THE SEVERN, PLINLIMMON.] THE SEVERN CHAPTER I. FROM THE SOURCE TO TEWKESBURY. Birthplace of the Severn--Plinlimmon--Blaenhafren--Llanidloes --Caersws--Newtown--Montgomery--Welshpool--Powys Castle--The Breidden Hills--The Vyrnwy--Distant Views--Shrewsbury--Haughmond Hill--The Caradoc Hills--Atcham--Wroxeter--Condover--The Wrekin--Benthall and Wenlock Edges--Buildwas Abbey--Coalbrook Dale--Ironbridge--Broseley and Benthall--Coalport--Bridgnorth-- Quatford--Forest of Wyre--Bewdley--Stourport--Worcester--The Teme--Ludlow--Tewkesbury. The Severn, though a much longer river than the Dee, for it is the second[1] in Britain, is born among less striking scenery. The latter issues from an upland lake, enclosed by the peaks of the Arans and the craggy slopes of the Arenigs. But south of Cader Idris the mountains become less striking in outline, the cliffs fewer and lower, the summits tamer. It is a region not so much of mountains as of great hills, which stretch away into the distance, range after range, like rollers on the Atlantic after a storm. The central point of this region, the loftiest summit of Mid-Wales, is Plinlimmon, which, though so insignificant in outline, attains to a height of 2,463 feet, and is the parent of quite a family of rivers. Of these, one is the Wye, the other the Severn; the sources of the two, though their paths are distinct unto the end, when they mingle their waters in the Bristol Channel, are some couple of miles apart. Nor is the distance very great between the founts of the Severn and the Dee. If we suppose, as is generally done, the actual head of the latter to be on the flank of Aran Benllyn, the interval between the two is less than twenty-three miles. [Illustration: THE SEVERN, FROM THE SOURCE TO TEWKESBURY.] But to return to the Severn, which rises on the north-east side of Plinlimmon, at Maes Hafren. Our first illustration gives a good idea of the scenery near its source: not, indeed, striking in outline--upland moors without trees, hills nearly without crags, covered for the most part with herbage, coarse on the lower ground near the rivulets, rank in the not unfrequent bogs, but finer on the upper slopes; somewhat monotonous in its tints, yet not without a charm of its own--a sense of freedom and expansion, which is sometimes felt to be wanting among the towering peaks and precipitous ravines of the grander mountain ranges. At first, as is the wont of rivers among such surroundings, the Severn wanders idly through the moorland, a mere brook rippling among stones and boulders; then by degrees it begins to fray out a path for itself and to cut down into the underlying rocks. The second illustration shows it at this stage of life--the child just beginning to feel its strength--and, besides this, gives a good idea of the character of the hill scenery in Mid-Wales, of which we have already spoken. The little Severn has now begun to strike out a way for itself on its journey to the sea; the general plan of its course curiously resembling that of the Dee. Though the two rivers ultimately flow in opposite directions, and finish their courses at opposite ends of the Principality, yet each rises well on the western side of Wales--each, though here and there with some flexures, maintains for long an eastward direction; their paths only diverging when they arrive at the margin of the lowland among the foothills of the more mountainous region. But for some distance there is little material change in the general character of the scenery, except that the valleys gradually become more clearly defined. The next picture shows the youthful Severn about a mile and a half below its source, at Blaenhafren, the first house in the neighbourhood of its banks, the earnest of many a "thorpe and town" by which its waters will flow. A flattish valley bed, a few rather stunted trees, some stone walls, and a rough-built cottage, with great billowy hills behind, make up a scene which is characteristic of a good many square miles in Central Wales. [Illustration: VALLEY OF THE SEVERN, FROM PLINLIMMON (_p. 83_).] This is, as we have said, a comparatively humble beginning for the second in length among the rivers of Britain--for a stream which passes more towns of historic and antiquarian interest than any other in the land, and has been always the delight of poets. The Britons knew it as Hafren, the Romans as Sabrina, from which, obviously, the present name has arisen. For several miles from its birthplace its descent is comparatively rapid, but gradually the slope diminishes, the stream ceases to brawl among rocks and stones, the valley widens, and after a course of from a dozen to fifteen miles, according as its path is estimated, it arrives at its first town, Llanidloes, where it is joined on the northern side by the Clywedog, which flows through a pretty valley and seems to be a longer stream than the Severn itself. At Llanidloes the Severn plunges abruptly into the bustle of life, for this is a town with some ten thousand inhabitants, which carries on a brisk trade in flannels. But, except for its church, which is one of the finest in Wales, and has a handsome carved oak roof, there is nothing to hinder the uncommercial traveller. For another ten miles or so there is little to note along the course of the river; but on approaching a station rejoicing in the modern name of Moat Lane Junction, where the line from Machynlleth, descending the wooded valley of the Carno, joins that which comes down from Llanidloes, one comes to two places which will repay a halt. Here we are carried back over seventeen centuries of history. Here Briton and Roman in former days looked at one another with no friendly eyes across the river; the one, as was his wont, clinging to the mountains, the other to the valley and the river-side. The gods of the one were gods of the hills, those of the other loved the plain. The one preferred the eyrie from which, like the vulture, he could swoop to plunder, and to which he could fly for safety. The other made his hold sure on the fields, the river, and the roads; for where he came there he meant to stay. [Illustration: THE FIRST HOUSE ON THE SEVERN: BLAENHAFREN (_p. 84_).] The British earthwork, Cefn Carnedd by name, from its bastion-like hill between the Carno and the Severn, commands a beautiful view overlooking both valleys. In plan it is a blunt-ended oval, the longer axis lying nearly east and west; on the latter side and towards the north it is enclosed by a triple ditch and rampart, but on the southern side a single entrenchment, owing to the steepness of the hill, suffices for defence. The enclosed area, about 300 yards in length, rises slightly towards the west, and at this end about one-third of the whole is cut off by a ditch and rampart, apparently with the intention of forming a kind of keep. Entrances may still be found and the approaches traced; these evidently were cunningly devised so as to be commanded by the defences; in fact, this must formerly have been one of the strongest and most formidable among the hill-forts of Britain. There are others in the neighbourhood, though these are inferior to Cefn Carnedd. The Roman fortress, Caersws by name, is in the valley on the opposite bank of the Severn, at a distance of some 300 yards from the river. This, too, must have been in its day a place of great strength. It was enclosed by a high quadrangular rampart, with a ditch outside, which still remains in most places, though they have been injured here and there, and one angle of the _vallum_ has been destroyed to make a site for the railway station. Caersws, the Mediolanum of Tacitus, evidently was once a stronghold of great importance, for three Roman roads converge to it. The strategic advantages of the position are obvious. The valley of the Severn is now broadening, and its scenery becomes richer and more fertile, although bare hills still rise in the background. About four miles lower down another manufacturing town is reached, which, however, is considerably smaller than Llanidloes. This is Newtown, a place comparatively modern--as the name implies--which, however, has a certain commercial status as the recognised centre of the Welsh flannel trade, but is otherwise uninteresting, except for a carved rood screen and one or two more relics of an older building preserved in its modern church, and for being the place where Robert Owen, the father of modern socialism, was born and was buried. Wandering on through scenery generally similar in character, pleasant, pretty, and hilly, but without any very bold features, the Severn in a few miles reaches Montgomery, a town which is peaceful enough now, but in former days was not at all suited for people desirous of a quiet life, for it was one of the fortresses of the Marches, over which Welsh and English fought like dogs over a bone. As can be readily seen, the castle was a place of considerable strength, for it stands on a scarped, rocky headland, overlooking the valley. But of its walls and towers not much remains. Near at hand is a British camp, but the first castle was built in the days of William the Norman. After being thrice demolished by the Welsh, it became the residence of a noted family, the Herberts of Cherbury. The last episode of interest in its history was a struggle for its possession in the time of the Civil War. The Royalists were defeated, and the castle was ultimately "slighted" by the victors. At that time it was owned by Edward, first Lord Herbert of Cherbury, the eccentric philosopher, statesman, and gallant; and within its walls, his brother George was born, as noted for the strictness as the other was for the laxity of his religious views. In fact, this is the cradle of a distinguished race. The church is cruciform in plan, and contains old monuments of the Herbert and the Mortimer families. A romantic story is, or was, told about a bare cross visible in the grass of the churchyard; it marks the grave of one Newton, who was hanged on a charge of robbery and murder. He died protesting his innocence, and prayed that the grass might never grow about his burial-place, as a witness to the injustice of his doom. Near Montgomery the Severn begins to change its course, and to trend more towards the north. Down a fertile valley it makes its way towards Welshpool, practically the capital of the shire, for it is almost double the size of Montgomery, and is the assize town. Place and church date from olden times. Near to the town--approached through a gateway in the main street--is the family seat of Castell Coch (the Red Castle, from the stone of which it is built), but more commonly called by the simpler title of Powys Castle. It has been greatly modernised, but a good deal is of Elizabethan or of Jacobean date, and some goes back to the thirteenth century. The site, a rocky knoll, descending steeply in natural terraces, has been occupied from the beginning of the twelfth century, and the earlier building had, of course, its due share of sieges, for, as the centre of the old district of Powysland, it was a place of some importance. In the surrounding park are some fine old oaks, and the views from the terraces under the castle are noted for their beauty; they look over the wooded lowland and down the valley of the Severn to the arched back of the Long Mountain, and the bolder outlines of the Berwyns, of which one mass is foreshortened to be like a huge tumulus and the other forms a sharp pyramid. Entrenchments of various kinds and sizes show that all the district round was formerly one of importance. The noted "Offa's Dyke" is only a very few miles away, and interest is added to the sometimes monotonous aspect of the Long Mountain by a large earthwork on the summit, where, according to tradition, was fought in 1294 the last battle for the independence of Wales. The Severn, still working in a direction more northerly than easterly, leaves the Long Mountain at the gap through which a railway passes towards Shrewsbury, and then sweeps back into its former course as it rounds the feet of the Breidden Hills. It needs but a glance at their bold and rugged outlines to see that they must be carved from a different rock to that of which the Long Mountain and its neighbours is formed. They consist of masses of lava and of hard slaty rock, of a more ancient date than the mudstones of the adjoining district, forming, in fact, a kind of outpost of the Ordovician or Lower Silurian rocks of the west. The highest point, Moel-y-golfa, is as nearly as possible 1,200 feet above sea-level, and its pyramidal outline adds to its apparent elevation. Another, the Breidden proper, is a heavy mass like a flattened dome; it bears a pillar to commemorate Rodney's victory in 1782. The hills are well suited for a watch-tower, for they command a view far and wide--in one direction over the Welsh hills, in another towards the Shropshire lowlands. Two or three miles further a tributary enters the Severn, larger than any which it has hitherto received. This is the Vyrnwy, which drains a considerable area south of a watershed extending from near Aran Mowddwy to the Berwyn Hills, though now a heavy tribute has been exacted from its waters by the town of Liverpool. This great feat of engineering was completed, after years of labour, in 1890. Up to that time Liverpool had drawn its main supply from reservoirs on Rivington Pike. A huge dam, as our illustration (page 89) shows, has been built across the narrowest part of the Vyrnwy valley. It is 1,255 feet in length and 60 in height; the foundations, which at some parts had to be carried down to a depth of 50 feet, resting on the solid rock. By this means a lake has been formed, four miles in length, which hides beneath its waters--800 feet above sea-level--a little village and its church. A curious mound rises near the junction of the two rivers, designed, as some think, to guard the passage; and then the Severn, turning again to the east, passes on towards Shrewsbury. Its valley now has become more open: parks and country houses here and there dapple the gentler slopes within no great distance of the river, and the views of the hills are always beautiful. [Illustration: MOEL-Y-GOLFA AND BREIDDEN, FROM WELSHPOOL (_p. 87_).] [Illustration: _Photo: J. Maclardy, Oswestry._ THE VYRNWY EMBANKMENT, BEFORE THE FLOODING OF THE VALLEY.] [Illustration: _Photo: Robinson & Thompson, Liverpool._ A QUIET NOOK ON THE VYRNWY.] The group of the Breiddens is gradually left behind, then rises the steep mass of Pontesbury Hill, backed by the long ridge of the Stiper Stones, with their broken crests of rugged and hard white rock, and behind them the broad backs of the Longmynds or the distant pyramid of Corndon. But, of course, to enjoy to perfection views of the land which feeds the upper waters of the Severn, it is necessary to quit the valley and obtain a Pisgah sight from some commanding hill. Thence we look over mile after mile of lowland, woodland, cornfield, and pasture, undulating downwards from bare rough hillsides on which the copses often are thickly clinging, to the margins of brooks and to the bed of the main river. To the west, line after line of hills recedes more dimly into the distance, till at last one shadow is pointed out as Plinlimmon, and another, yet fainter, as Cader Idris, and sometimes an apex of a far-off pyramid is said to be Snowdon. South of us, and yet more to the east, lie the nearer masses already mentioned, while in these directions the eye may detect, from some points of view, the peaked summits of the Caradoc Hills, or may rest upon the huge hog's back of the Wrekin as it rises abruptly from the Shropshire lowland. There are few prettier districts in our country than the borderland between England and Wales; and that part of which we now speak can hold its own with most others. Here and there, perhaps, the hills are a little bare, and we seldom find much boldness of outline. In the Shelve district also, the lead mines with their white spoil-banks are distinctly an offence to the eye; but the wooded glens are often singularly beautiful, and the outlook from the heath-covered moorlands gives a sense of breadth and freedom, like the open sea. As it nears Shrewsbury, the Severn quits for a time the hill-country, though it is only near the waterside that the land is distinctly a plain. The town itself is at the edge of a low plateau, and some of its streets are fairly steep, though the ascents are not long. The situation is fine, and in former days, when the town was restricted to narrower limits, must have been much more striking than it is at present. The river bends in sharp curves, like a reversed S, as though the hills had made a final struggle to hold it in bondage. Of these loops, that on the eastern side is the larger; and it forms a kind of horseshoe, almost enclosing a hilly headland of moderate elevation, which shelves down towards the neck of the isthmus, but falls steeply, sometimes almost precipitously, towards the river brink. Thus, with the Severn for a moat on more than three sides, and a comparatively narrow and defensible approach on the fourth, the position is almost a natural stronghold, and it was selected at a comparatively early date as the site of a fortified town. If we could believe certain chroniclers, the history of Shrewsbury would begin more than four hundred years before the Christian era; but we can hardly doubt that the town existed in the days of the Romans. Towards the close of the sixth century English invaders came marauding up the valley of the Severn, and destroyed the old city of Wroxeter. For a time the fugitives found a refuge in the fortified palace of the Princes of Powis, which then stood on the headland now occupied by Shrewsbury; but before long that stronghold also became a prey to the plunderers, and the Britons were forced to seek safety among the fastnesses of Wales. Then Pengwern, as it had been called, became Scrobesbyrig--"the burgh of bushes"--from which obviously it has obtained its present name. Before very long its importance as a frontier town was fully recognised, but at first it remained small--probably because it was too near Wales for merchants or for men of peace--so that at the date of Domesday Book, though it had four churches, it contained only 252 houses. The castle was built a few years later by Roger de Montgomery, a Norman earl, and a gateway leading to the inner court is a relic of his work. The enclosing wall of the town was completed in the reign of Henry III. This follows, as far as possible, the line of the ancient river-cliff, which on the southward side is parted from the Severn by a strip of level land. Portions of this wall still remain, and it can be traced more or less perfectly along the southern and eastern sides. The fortress resisted Stephen, who besieged it in 1138; on its fall, by way of reading a lesson to his enemies, he hanged ninety-four of the defenders. Later on, Shrewsbury was twice betrayed by the Welsh, and had one or two other "sensational" experiences, till the famous fight "for a long hour by Shrewsbury clock." It was a race for the fortress between Hotspur and Henry IV., which was won by the king, who succeeded next day in forcing an action at a place since called Battlefield, about a league north of the town, and a mile from the Severn. The river figures more than once in the accounts of the marching and counter-marching connected with the battle, in which, as everyone knows, the king gained a complete victory, Hotspur falling on the field. Some of his principal associates felt the headsman's axe a couple of days after the fight. In the Wars of the Roses the town was for the House of York, and two sons were born to the Duke within its walls: one died in infancy, and the other was the younger of the two lads murdered in the Tower. In the great Civil War the townsmen repaired their ruined walls and declared for King Charles, who spent a short time in Shrewsbury early in the struggle; but, later on, they were caught napping, for two parties of the Parliamentary Army effected an entrance during the night, one of them by scaling the steep slope below the old Council House. This daring band was headed by Captain Benbow, who afterwards took part with Prince Charles, was captured at Worcester, and was shot on the scene of his former exploit. He was buried in St. Chad's Church, "October y^e 16th, 1651," as may still be read on his tombstone. Since then Shrewsbury has dwelt in peace, and during the last half-century has increased greatly and prospered proportionally. It is now a very important railway junction; the station, too small for its present needs, being on the lower ground on the eastern side of the neck of land already mentioned. In former days the river was crossed by two bridges only, giving access to the headland--one from the eastern side, and so called the English bridge; the other, from the north-western, which, of course, bore the name of the Welsh bridge. Both were fortified in mediæval times, but they were rebuilt in more modern fashion during the eighteenth century. South of the Welsh bridge the plateau occupied by the old town slopes more gently down to the brink of the Severn. This part--a grassy space, planted with avenues of trees, which has long borne the name of the Quarries, from some old excavations--now forms a public park, which, as may be inferred from the illustration (p. 95), adds greatly to the attractions of the town. Between the Welsh and English bridges is the Boathouse Ferry. Shrewsbury has produced its fair share of eminent men, among whom are the fighting old admiral, Benbow, and the great naturalist, Charles Darwin; but for many years past its school has been among its chief glories. This was one of Edward VI.'s foundations, but it assumed its present high position as a nursery of scholars under Dr. Butler, who was appointed headmaster about the beginning of the present century. A few years ago the ancient site had to be discarded, for more room had become imperatively necessary, and new buildings were erected on Kingsland, an excellent site near the edge of the plateau to the south-west, looking towards the town across the Severn. The old school buildings, which are on the left-hand side of the road going down to the railway station, are of considerable architectural interest, for they date from the end of the sixteenth century; they are now used for a town museum and free library. But to a lover of architecture, the especial charm of Shrewsbury lies in its old black-timbered houses. In these it is richer than any town, even in the West of England, with the sole exception of Chester. Indeed, even after the "improvements" which have been rendered necessary by the development of commerce, the street architecture of Shrewsbury is universally quaint and attractive; for we find, shuffled together like the cards in a pack, houses of all dates during the last three centuries. This gives a picturesque irregularity both to the façades and the sky-lines in the streets. But these black-timbered houses keep the chance visitor in a constant state of quiet excitement; he never knows what may be disclosed at the next turning, for Shrewsbury is pre-eminently a town of pleasant architectural surprises. Some of the houses are dated; as is usual, they generally belong to the later part of Elizabeth's reign, and all probably were built during the half century centring on the year 1600. The best specimens are Ireland's Mansion in the High Street, and the group of old shops in Butcher Row, which is considered by Mr. Parker to be the finest example of the kind in England. [Illustration: THE BOATHOUSE FERRY, BETWEEN WELSH AND ENGLISH BRIDGES (_p. 91_).] [Illustration: SHREWSBURY CASTLE (_p. 90_).] But if the antiquary halts in Shrewsbury he will not find it very easy to take his departure. Two of the Shrewsbury churches are unusually interesting; one, St. Mary's, the principal church of the town, stands almost on the brink of the river-cliff, a little to the south of the castle, and its tall tapering spire adds greatly to the picturesque grouping, which, notwithstanding modern changes, the town still presents on the eastern side. St. Mary's is a church of various dates, impossible to describe in a few words; for it has been altered and augmented repeatedly. There is Norman work in the north and south porches of the nave and in the basement of the tower; Early English in the transept; Decorated and Perpendicular in the body of the church, the east window being a very fine example of the former style. It has recently undergone considerable structural repairs, for the upper part of the spire was blown down in a gale early in the year 1894, and its fall greatly damaged the roof of the nave and the fittings of the interior. Holy Cross, the other important church, commonly called the Abbey, stands on the low ground, or in the Foregate, on the English side of the fortress, on the right bank of the Severn. It is a relic of an abbey founded by the first Norman lord of Shrewsbury. The vicissitudes which it has experienced are obvious at a glance. The rather low western tower, with the bays immediately adjoining, are evidence of a reconstruction in the fourteenth century; and Perpendicular work is, on the whole, the more conspicuous in the western and older part. We rail often--and with good cause--at the restorers of our own age, but they of the century and a half before the Reformation were no whit better, as this church can testify. The east end is modern, for it was destroyed after the dissolution of the monasteries, and was only rebuilt in 1887; but some fine massive Norman work remains inside the church, especially in the pillars of the nave, and there are some interesting monuments. The conventual buildings have been destroyed, except a stone pulpit, which was once in the refectory, and now remains looking disconsolately at the rails and trucks in the goods-yard of the railway; for this occupies the site of the monastic buildings, and is on the opposite side of the Severn to the station. [Illustration: QUARRY WALK, SHREWSBURY (_p. 91_).] [Illustration: ENGLISH BRIDGE, SHREWSBURY (_p. 91_).] On leaving Shrewsbury, the Severn still continues to wind. Immediately below the town, it strikes off in a north-easterly direction for well over a mile, then, again swinging to and fro, it almost touches the foot of Haughmond Hill, from which it recoils, still oscillating, in a direction rather east of south. It has now entered an undulating and fertile district, where in one place its waters flow by some river-cliff or wooded brae; in another, between fields which shelve gently down to its brink; in a third, through flat meadows, over which, as can sometimes be detected, it has taken in past ages more than one course. Now more extensive views may be obtained, even from its stream--views to which a distinctive character and a special charm is often added by the peculiar shapes of the hills which here and there rise quite suddenly from the lowlands. Of them, Haughmond Hill is one; the Wrekin is another, but on a far larger scale; the Caradoc Hills are a third instance, but these form quite a little range. All have the same origin; they are wedge-like masses of very old and hard rock, the relics of primæval volcanos, which crop out here and there among the softer sandstones and marls from which the long-continued action of rain, stream, and river has carved the Shropshire lowland. Haughmond Hill looks down upon the scene of the battle between the forces of Henry IV. and of Hotspur, and is associated with its memories, for the Douglas, who had come to aid the Percies, while seeking to escape along its craggy slopes, was so disabled by a fall that he was taken prisoner. On the western side of the Hautmont--for that was the original name--a priory was founded by William Fitzalan, in the days of King Stephen. The monks soon found their way to royal, and even to papal, favour, for they were permitted to say the divine office in a low voice and with closed doors, even when the land lay under an interdict. Then the priory became an abbey of the Augustinian order, until at last it shared the fate of all others at the Reformation, passing into lay hands and being cared for no longer. It is now a complete ruin; the church is gone, though just enough remains to show that it was cruciform in plan. The monastic buildings have been nearly destroyed, though a couple of Norman doors remain, and the more important structures can be identified. The best preserved part is the chapter-house, in the west front of which are three fine arches in the Transitional-Norman style. The views from the slopes above are very attractive, as the eye ranges over the Shropshire lowlands, with their rich alternations of pasture, cornfield, and wood, to the ridges already named, and still further towards the Longmynds, the Breiddens, the Berwyns, and the yet more distant ranges of Wales. [Illustration: BUILDWAS ABBEY (_p. 98_).] On winds the Severn, gliding with steady flow by meadows, shelving fields or copses, till it comes at last to Atcham, with its bridge and picturesque old church near the waterside. Here was born Ordericus, afterwards historian of William the Conqueror. About a mile below, the little Tern adds its waters to the Severn, near the home of the Berwicks; and yet another mile, and the river glides by the parish church of Wroxeter, with its interesting Norman work, and the site of the Romano-British city of Uriconium, on the famous Watling Street road; founded, as is supposed, about the reign of Trajan, to guard the passages over the Severn and the outlets from Wales. In the year 577 a band of West Saxons forced their way, plundering and destroying as they went, up the rich valley of the Severn. Uriconium was taken, and, as the bard lamented, "The white town in the valley went up in flames, the town of white stone gleaming among the green woodland; the hall of its chieftain left without fire, without light, without song: the silence broken only by the eagle's scream--the eagle who had swallowed fresh drink--heart's blood of Kyndylan the Fair." The walls of Uriconium were three miles in extent, and the area enclosed was larger by nearly a third than that of Pompeii. Excavations have been made which have disclosed a basilica, or public hall, a hypocaust belonging to the baths, and many foundations of houses; but no work of a high class, either in architecture or in decorative art, has been discovered. Uriconium at best was only a provincial city, and that in distant Britain; and even if it had possessed any important buildings, they would have perished, if not from the fury of the barbarian invaders, at least by the hands of those in later days, who used it as a quarry. Most of the things dug up are preserved in the museum at Shrewsbury. "In the corner of the hypocaust three skeletons were found--one of a man, and two of women; by the side of the former lay a heap of copper coins, numbering a hundred and thirty-two, which belonged to the days of the later emperors, and some bits of rotten wood and rusty iron, which may have been the fragments of a box. It is supposed that some poor wretches, perhaps servants at the baths, sought refuge here during the sack of the city, and then perished, either suffocated by the smoke of its burning or buried alive by the fallen ruins."[2] [Illustration: THE SEVERN FROM BENTHALL EDGE (_p. 98_).] Below Wroxeter, the undulation of the country through which the Severn now flows, for a time with a straighter course, becomes rather more strongly marked. The Cound brook joins the river on the right, flowing down by Condover village, with its Hall, "a perfect specimen of Elizabethan stonework," and its interesting church and monuments. Then the Severn glides under a red sandstone cliff and beneath the wooden bridge of Cressage, with its memories of old oak trees; then through wooded ravines as the ground begins to rise. On its right bank copse-clad slopes enrich the view, while in one direction or another the great hill masses stand out against the sky. Among these the Wrekin is generally the most conspicuous, and now for a time it rises on the northern side of the river almost without a rival. It is the Salopian's landmark--his Olympus or Parnassus--"all round the Wrekin" is his toast. This is no wonder, for few hills in Britain, considering its moderate elevation--1,320 feet above the sea--are more imposing in aspect, because it rises so boldly and abruptly from the lowland; and though the Salopian could not assert that "twelve fair counties saw the light" of its beacon fire, as was said of the Malverns, still, from far distances and from unexpected places the Wrekin is visible. In shape it is a rather long ridge, steep on either side, capped by three fairly distinct summits, of which the central is the highest. But from many points the lower summits seem to be lost in the central one, and the Wrekin assumes a form rudely resembling a huge tumulus. Like several of the other hills, it is largely composed of very ancient volcanic rocks. As we look down the stream, the view before long appears to be closed by a wooded ridge, which seems at first to prohibit further progress. This is Benthall Edge, which may be said to begin at Lincoln Hill, on the left bank of the Severn, and on the opposite side to join on to Wenlock Edge, to the south-west. It is formed of the Wenlock limestone, belonging to the Silurian system, and so called from the townlet of Much Wenlock. This owes its origin and part of its name--for "Much" is a corruption of _monasterium_, like _moutier_ in French--to its priory, once famed as "the oldest and most privileged--perhaps the wealthiest and most magnificent--of the religious houses of Shropshire." Now it is only a ruin, except that the priory-house is still inhabited, and is a remarkably good instance of a domestic building of the fifteenth century. The ruins, however, are very extensive, and in parts most picturesque. But as they are a league away from the riverside, and are hid by the wooded slopes of Wenlock Edge, we must turn to another ruin, which stands on the level strath, almost by the waterside, just before the hills close in upon the Severn. This is Buildwas Abbey, formerly an abode of the Cistercians, which bears traces of that strict order in the simplicity of its architecture. Still, its ruins are admirable in their noble simplicity. "They impress us with the power of its designer, who ventured to trust simply to the strength of his composition and the grace of his outlines, so as to dispense with almost all ornamentation whatever. It thus gives it a sense of calmness and repose, for which we seek in vain in works of more modern date."[3] The style indicates the passage from Norman to Early English; the influence of the latter, on the whole, predominating. The church and chapter-house are still in fair preservation. The abbot's house--mainly thirteenth-century work--has been restored, and is inhabited. The date of the foundation is a little uncertain; but it is believed to have been about the middle of the twelfth century. Buildwas was a wealthy abbey in its day, but made no figure in history. Through the ridge of Benthall Edge the Severn has sawn its way, so that the river-valley now becomes almost a gorge, along which, on the abrupt southern side, the Severn Valley railway has been conducted, and this not without considerable engineering difficulties. Wooded steeps and grey crags on either side of the strong stream flowing at their feet form a series of exquisite pictures, though unhappily not for long, for a change comes where the dirty hand of man has smirched the face of Nature. To the north and to the east of the limestone hills lies the most noted of the Shropshire coalfields, that of Coalbrook Dale, which is rich also in iron, though its mineral wealth is becoming exhausted. Dismantled engine-houses and great piles of dark rubbish are only one shade less unpicturesque than tall chimneys vomiting black fumes, smelting furnaces, the apparatus of the pit-mouth, and smouldering spoil-banks. But before the days of "smoke, and wealth, and noise," this part of the ravine of the Severn, and even Coalbrook Dale itself, must have been very beautiful. Ironbridge is a dingy-looking town, built on the steep hillside, which gets its name from the metal arch--120 feet in span--by which the Severn was bridged in the year 1779. On the opposite side of the river, hardly more than a mile away, is Broseley, noted for pottery and clay pipes; and another mile west of that, Benthall, equally noted for encaustic tiles. The neighbourhood of the Severn, as far as Coalport, has fallen off in beauty as it has increased in wealth. But soon, in a geological sense, "the old order changeth, yielding place to new": the Severn quits the coal-measures to enter once more upon the red rocks, which belong to a more recent period. Smoking chimneys and spoil-banks are left behind, the valley widens, though the scenery continues to be far from tame, and we pass on by Linley and by Apley Park; the river sometimes gliding beneath sandstone crags and steeply sloping woods, till in about four miles we reach Bridgnorth. The situation is a striking one: the Severn has carved out a deep and rather narrow valley in the sandstone rock, and a tributary stream has fashioned another after a like pattern. Between these the upland forms a wedge-like promontory, defended on either side by a steep, almost precipitous, scarp. On this, not very much less than a couple of hundred feet above the river, the upper town, the church, and the castle were built. The town has gradually climbed down the eastern slope towards the Severn, it has spread out along its margin, it has crossed the stream and has occupied the tract of level meadow on the opposite side, the two portions being connected by a bridge which is in part far from modern. From the lower town here to the upper one on the plateau is a steep ascent, even though the principal road winds up. The church stands near the edge of the scarp, on which the wall of its graveyard is built. Needless to say, it commands a very striking view--sandstone crags, and steeply shelving woods and green fields beyond, with the river and the lower town in the glen beneath. The most interesting part of Bridgnorth is its broad High Street, bounded at one end by a gateway, with the old market hall--a black and white structure, of the date 1652, which is supported on brick arches. This street also contains one or two fine houses of about the same era. Others, again, will be found in or near to the churchyard, and yet another near the end of the street, which descends so steeply as the main way to the lower town. This, which bears the date 1580, is a particularly good specimen of the black-timbered houses so abundant in the valley of the Severn. Here, in the year 1729, Percy was born, the collector and editor of the "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry." Bridgnorth Castle also must not be forgotten; occupying the extremity of the promontory already mentioned, it was a place of great strength in olden days, and stood more than one siege. It was destroyed after holding out for a month for King Charles. The most conspicuous remnant is a massive wall, a portion of the keep, which has heeled over to one side, at so great an angle--about 17 degrees--that it looks actually unsafe. The adjacent church was designed by Telford, the eminent engineer, to whom we are more indebted for the suspension bridge over the Menai Straits than for this rather ugly Renaissance building. [Illustration: IRONBRIDGE (_p. 99_).] [Illustration: 1. THE SEVERN IN WYRE FOREST. 2. NEAR SHRAWLEY. 3. QUATFORD. 4. OLD HOUSES AT BEWDLEY (_p. 102_).] For some miles below Bridgnorth the valley of the Severn is extremely pretty, the banks half slopes of pasture, half masked with trees. "Now it is a little wider, now a little narrower, the hills a little steeper here or a little more wooded there, the grass by the riverside always green, the Severn sweeping on as it swings from side to side of the valley," and breaking here and there into a series of little rapids. It passes Quatford, the site of a Saxon fortress, which was erected in the tenth century, and through the Forest of Morf, long since brought under cultivation. Quatford was a place of some importance till some years after the Conquest, when Bridgnorth was built, and most of its inhabitants removed to the new stronghold. The river leaves on its western side the old Forest of Wyre, which, though it still retains some pretty woods, had lost its best trees even so long ago as the days of Camden. It is now better known as a coalfield, though it is not one of much commercial importance. The Severn glides on beneath the wide arch of an iron railway bridge and across the parting of Shropshire and Worcestershire to Bewdley, pleasantly situated on a slope by the river-bank, and well worthy of its name, _Beau lieu_. In olden times it had an extensive trade by means of the river, when it was a place of import and export, especially for the Principality. All the country round is pretty, notwithstanding occasional symptoms of factories. The lanes are sometimes cut deep in the red sandstone, and here and there the rock is hollowed out into dwellings after a primæval fashion. Three miles or so away to the east is busy but unpicturesque Kidderminster, famed for its carpets. Stourport follows, not less busy, and yet less picturesque, where the Severn is joined by the river after which the place is named. Here the construction of the Worcestershire and Staffordshire Canal has turned a hamlet into a town. Undulating ground on either hand, the long low line of the Lickey Hills some miles away to the east, the slightly more varied forms of the Abberley Hills on the west, limit a piece of country pleasant to the eye through which the Severn flows for several miles, past Shrawley and Ombersley. Then the valley becomes a little broader and flatter. The scarp of the Cotswolds, with Bredon Cloud as an advanced bastion, replaces the Lickey Hills, and on the other side, as the tower of Worcester Cathedral grows more and more conspicuous in the view, the Malvern Hills, with their mountain-like outlines, divert the attention from their humbler advanced post on the north. There are no places of importance near the Severn, though Hartlebury Palace, which has belonged to the See of Worcester for over a thousand years, lies about a league away on the east. Worcester has no special charm in point of situation, though the river itself and the distant hills are always an attraction, but some of its streets are quaint, and its cathedral is grand. The site, comparatively level, but raised well above the river, early attracted settlers, and it is believed to have been inhabited before the days of the Romans. It figures from time to time in our history, but its most stirring days were in the Civil War, when it took the king's side, was twice besieged, twice compelled to surrender, and twice suffered severely for its "malignity." But even the king's death did not bring peace to Worcester, for it was occupied by the younger Charles, and the decisive battle which crushed the hopes of the Cavaliers was fought in its very streets. Since the Restoration it has been undisturbed, and has prospered, especially since it added the manufacture of porcelain to that of gloves, for which it has long been famed, the compounding of sauce to the potting of lampreys, and took to making bricks and yet more strongly scented chemicals. [Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._ WORCESTER CATHEDRAL, FROM THE SEVERN.] The cathedral overlooks the Severn, its precincts being almost bounded by the river-bank. It is a noble pile, the tall central tower being a conspicuous object for many a mile away in the valley, though it has been, perhaps, overmuch restored. Parts, however, of the fabric had become so decayed that it was thought necessary to re-build them. A crypt belongs to a building erected soon after the Norman Conquest, but the greater part of the present structure is Early English, and very beautiful work of its kind, being begun about 1225. The nave, however, is of later date, with the exception of one or two incorporated fragments of the preceding cathedral. Some of the monuments also are interesting. Though King John loved not churches, he lies in the middle of the choir, where his effigy remains, the earliest one of a royal personage in England; a beautiful chantry chapel commemorates Prince Arthur, the elder brother of Henry VIII., and no visitor is likely to forget the mysterious gravestone with its single and sorrowful inscription, "_Miserrimus_." Cloisters, chapter-house, and other portions of the conventual buildings still remain, though the fine old Guesten Hall was destroyed not many years ago. The town also retains some fairly interesting houses, though neither these nor the twelve parish churches are likely to divert the visitors' attention from the cathedral. Below Worcester the Teme comes into the Severn from the west. Few rivers of its size pass through more charming or more interesting scenery. It collects a group of streams that have risen among the great hill-masses on the edges of Radnor and Montgomery, and in the southern part of Shropshire. They have flowed by craggy slopes and wild moorland, by lonely farms and quiet villages, by ancestral oaks and ancient halls, by ruined forts and many a relic of primæval folk. But on these we must not linger; a glance at Ludlow must suffice. It is one of the most attractive towns in England--church and castle crown a hill between the Teme and the Corve, and from it the streets run down the slope. In olden time Ludlow was a place of great importance, for the castle was the chief of thirty-two that guarded the Welsh Marches, and here the Lords Presidents of Wales held their courts. Even after this state had passed away, the town was a centre of county society. The castle, a picturesque ruin, crowns the headland, the inner court occupying its north-western angle, and the main block of buildings overlooks a wooded cliff. These are of various dates, from Norman to Tudor; the most remarkable being a curious little circular chapel of Late Norman work, which now stands alone, its small chancel having disappeared. The castle witnessed sharp fighting more than once in the Border Wars, and finally surrendered to the troops of the Parliament. Here died Arthur, Prince of Wales, son of Henry VII.; here also Milton wrote "The Masque of Comus" and Butler part of "Hudibras." The church--a grand building in the Perpendicular style, on a commanding site--is justly designated one of the noblest parish churches in England. There are several good specimens of timber-work among the older houses; the most striking, perhaps, being the Reader's House in the churchyard, and the Feathers Inn. The grand old trees in Oakley Park, the Clee Hills, Stokesay Castle, Tenbury Church, and St. Michael's College, are but a few of the many attractions of the surrounding district. [Illustration: LUDLOW (_p. 104_).] For some fourteen miles below Worcester the Severn flows through its wide and pleasant valley without passing near any place of special interest, unless it be Kemsey, with its fine church standing within the enclosure of a Roman camp, or Upton, which makes much vinegar and enjoys, besides, considerable traffic up and down the river; for its bridge, in place of a central arch, has a platform which can be raised to let vessels pass. But the foreground scenery, fertile and wooded, is often very pretty: the scarp bounding the limestone uplands of the Cotswolds is pleasant to see, and the range of the Malverns is always beautiful. Passing thus through a fertile land, we come to Tewkesbury, with its abbey church, less magnificent but hardly less interesting than the Cathedral of Worcester, and its black-timbered houses not far behind those of Shrewsbury. But as this town belongs to the Avon even more than to the Severn, it shall be described in connection with the former river. [Illustration: THE SEVERN AT TEWKESBURY.] [Illustration: _Photo: E. H. Speight, Rugby._ THE AVON NEAR RUGBY (_p. 108_).] THE SEVERN. CHAPTER II. THE UPPER OR WARWICKSHIRE AVON. The Watershed of Central England--Naseby--Rugby--The Swift--Lutterworth and Wiclif--Stoneleigh Abbey and Kenilworth Castle--Guy's Cliff--The Leam--Warwick and its Castle--Stratford-on-Avon and its Shakespeare Associations--Evesham--Pershore--Tewkesbury. The Avon is a typical river of the English lowlands, and it is surpassed by few in the quiet beauty of its scenery or in the places of interest on its banks. It rises in the northern part of Northamptonshire, on an elevated plateau, the highest spot on which is nearly 700 feet above sea-level. This forms the watershed of Central England, for on it also the Welland and the Nen begin their courses to the Wash. But it is not only the source of an historic stream, it is also the scene of an historic event. Almost on the highest ground is Naseby Church, and to the north of that, quite in the corner of the county, is the fatal "field" where the forces of Charles and of Cromwell met in a death-grip and the King's cause was hopelessly lost. It was more than a defeat, it was an utter rout. Henceforth Charles was "like a hunted partridge, flitting from one castle to another." From this upland country--pleasantly varied by cornfield, pasture, and copses--the Avon makes its way to the northern margin of the county, and then, working round to the south-west, forms for a while the boundary between it and Leicestershire. Entering Warwickshire, the Avon passes near Rugby. All know the great railway junction, immortalised by Charles Dickens, and the famous school, with its memories of old Laurence Sheriffe the founder, and Dr. Arnold, its great headmaster. Then the river is joined by the tributary Swift, which, while hardly more than a brook, has rippled by the little town of Lutterworth. There, higher up the slope, is the church where Wiclif ministered, the pulpit from which he preached. There, spanning the stream, is a little bridge, the successor of that from which the ashes, after his bones had been dug up and burnt by order of the Council of Constance, were flung into the water. So the Swift bore them to the Avon, and the Avon to the Severn, and that to the sea, to be dispersed abroad into all lands--"which things are an allegory." [Illustration: THE UPPER OR WARWICKSHIRE AVON.] The Avon flows on through the pretty, restful scenery of Warwickshire, which has been rendered classic by the authoress of "Adam Bede," twisting in great curves gradually more and more to the south. It leaves, some three miles away from its right bank, the spires and ancient mansions of Coventry--once noted for its ribbons, now busy in making cycles; it sweeps round Stoneleigh Abbey, with its beautiful park and fine old oaks, where a comparatively modern mansion has replaced a Cistercian monastery. On the opposite side, half a league away, are the ruins of Kenilworth Castle, with their memories of Leicester and Queen Elizabeth. It glides beneath Guy's Cliff, where the famous Earl, the slayer of the Dun Cow, after his return from the Holy Land, dwelt in a cave as a hermit, unrecognised, till the hour of his death, by his own wife, though she daily gave him alms. A little further, and a short distance away on the left, on the tributary Leam, is the modern town of Leamington, which began a career of prosperity just a century ago on the discovery of sundry mineral springs. Then the Avon sweeps by the foot of the hill on which stands the old town of Warwick. The site is an ideal one--a hill for a fortress, a river for a moat--and has thus been occupied from a distant antiquity. Briton, Roman, Saxon--all are said to have held in turn the settlement, till the Norman came and built a castle. The town retains two of its gates and several old timbered houses, one of which, the Leicester Hospital, founded in 1571, is perhaps the finest in the Midlands; and on the top of the hill, set so that "it cannot be hid," is the great church of St. Mary. It is in the Perpendicular style, more or less, for the tower and nave were rebuilt after a great fire in 1694, the choir escaping with little injury. Two fine tombs of the Earls of Warwick are in this part, but the glory of the church is the Beauchamp Chapel, with its far-famed altar-tomb and effigy of Richard Beauchamp, the founder. He died in 1439; and near him lie the Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth's favourite, and other members of the house of Dudley. [Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE.] Warwick Castle is one of the most picturesquely situated mansions in England. It stands on a rocky headland, which descends almost precipitously to the Avon. One of our illustrations (p. 111) may give some notion of the beauty of the view over the rich river-plain; the other (p. 109) indicates the aspect of the castle itself. A mediæval fortress has been gradually transformed into a modern mansion, yet it retains an air of antiquity and not a little of the original structure. It incorporates portions of almost all dates, from the Norman Conquest to the present day. The oldest part is the lofty tower, called Cæsar's tower, which must have been erected not many years after the victory at Hastings. The residential part mostly belongs to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, though alterations and additions have been made, especially during the restoration, which was rendered necessary by a lamentable fire in 1871. We must leave it to the guide-books to describe the pictures, antiquities, and curiosities which the castle contains--relics of the Civil War, when it was in vain besieged by the king's forces, the sword and porridge-pot of the legendary Guy, and the famous Warwick Vase, dug up near Tivoli at Hadrian's Villa. But the view from the windows is so beautiful that the visitor will often find a difficulty in looking at pictures on the walls; he will be well rewarded if afterwards he stroll down towards the old mill by the riverside. After leaving Warwick the Avon keeps winding towards the south-western boundary of the county till, before reaching this, it arrives at another and yet more noted town. Stratford-on-Avon is a household word wherever the English tongue is spoken. No American thinks his visit to the country of his ancestors is complete till he has made a pilgrimage to the birthplace and the grave of Shakespeare--nay, even our distant kinsmen in Germany are not seldom drawn thither by the same magnetic force. The town, till the days of railways, was a quietly prosperous, old-fashioned place, in harmony with the scenery of the neighbourhood. This is thoroughly characteristic of the Midlands, and exhibits one of their most attractive types. "The Avon, a fairly broad bright stream, sweeps silently along on its way to the Severn, through level meadows, where the grass grows green and deep. The higher ground on either side rolls gently down, descending sometimes to the margin of the stream, but elsewhere parted from it by broad stretches of level valley. The slopes are dotted with cornfields, and varied by clumps of trees and lines of hedgerow timber. It is a peaceful, unexciting land, where hurry would seem out of place."[4] The little house where Shakespeare was born--in 1564, on the 23rd of April, as they say--after many vicissitudes has been saved to the nation, and perhaps a little over-restored. It is a parcel-timbered dwelling without enrichment--one of those common in the Midlands--such as would be inhabited by an ordinary burgess of a country town. [Illustration: THE AVON FROM WARWICK CASTLE (_p. 110_).] When Shakespeare returned, a prosperous man, to his birthplace, he lived in a much better house near the church, which he purchased in 1597. This, however, was pulled down by an ill-tempered clerical vandal in the middle of the last century. Shottery, where we can still see the cottage of Anne Hathaway, whom Shakespeare loved not wisely but too well, is a mile away; and about four times that distance is the picturesque old brick and stone mansion of Charlecote, with its beautiful park. Here dwelt Sir Thomas Lucy, with whose deer the youth made too free, and on account of whose anger he ran away to London. The dramatist, it is said, took his revenge on the knight in the portrait of Justice Shallow, but when he looked back on the ultimate results of his flight from Stratford he might have justly said, "All's well that ends well!" [Illustration: STRATFORD-ON-AVON CHURCH.] [Illustration: SHAKESPEARE'S HOUSE (_p. 111_).] In the month of his birth, 1616, Stratford Church received the body of William Shakespeare. "Church and churchyard are worthy of being connected with so great a memory. The former is a fine cruciform structure, crowned with a central spire; the latter a spacious tract, planted with aged trees. An avenue of limes leads up to the church porch, between which, perhaps, the poet often passed to worship, and whose quivering shadows may one sad day have fallen upon his coffin. But there is a part of the God's acre where, perhaps, more than any other, we may think of him, for it is one which can hardly have failed to tempt him to musing. The Avon bounds the churchyard, and by its brink is a terraced walk, beneath a row of fine old elms. On the one hand, through the green screens of summer foliage, or through the chequered lattice-work of winter boughs, we see the grey stones of the church--here the tracery of a window, there a weather-beaten pinnacle--then, through some wider gap, the spire itself. On the other hand, beneath the terrace wall, the Avon slowly and silently glides along by bridge and town, by water-meadows, bright with celandine in spring and thick with lush grass in June."[5] The church, once collegiate, is an unusually fine one, partly Early English, partly Decorated, but mostly Perpendicular in style. To the last belongs the chancel, where Shakespeare is buried, with his wife, daughter, and other relations. His monument, with the bust, is on the north wall, and his grave with the quaint inscription is near at hand, both too well known to need description; but though this one great memory pervades the place, almost to the exclusion of all beside, there are other tombs of interest, and the church of itself is well worth a visit. About a league below Stratford, the Avon becomes a county boundary, separating Warwickshire from the north of Gloucestershire. Then it returns to the former county, and lastly enters Worcestershire. Its valley becomes more and more definitely marked as the river cuts its way through the upland, which forms the eastern limit of the broad Vale of Severn. On a peninsula of Worcestershire made by a southward sweep of the stream, near the boundary of the two other counties, stands an historic town, Evesham, which gives its name to the beautiful vale. A ruined archway and a noble tower are the sole relics of its once famous abbey. This was founded early in the eighth century, on a spot where they said both a swineherd and a bishop had seen a vision of the Virgin. Ultimately it was attached to the Benedictine order, became one of the most wealthy monasteries, with one of the grandest churches in the West. It was exceptionally rich in relics and ornaments. The shrine of the founder was a superb specimen of the goldsmith's work; the forms of worship were unusually sumptuous. But at last the crash came, and the spoiler's hand fell with exceptional weight on the abbey of Evesham. "The estates were confiscated and parcelled out, and the abbey was dismantled and given away to Sir Philip Hoby, a gentleman of Worcestershire, who shortly afterwards seems to have leased out the magnificent buildings of abbey and monastery as a quarry for stone, and thus it continued to be for many a day." So now "it can hardly be called a ruin";[6] but the beautiful tower still remains, which stood at the entrance of the cemetery, and was meant for clock and bells. This was only completed just before the surrender of the abbey. Near it are two churches, each of fair size, each with its own steeple, chapels founded by the monks for the use of the townsfolk. The three, as shown in our illustration (p. 117), form a very striking group. But this quiet town in a peaceful valley was once disturbed by the noise of battle, and witnessed a crisis in English history. Prince Edward, son of Henry III., had contrived by masterly generalship to prevent the junction of the armies of Simon de Montfort and his son. The former was encamped at Evesham. The Prince's army blocked his one outlet by land; a detachment of it had cut off a retreat by the bridges over the river. The fight from the first was hopeless; De Montfort's troops were inferior: "The Welsh fled at the first onset like sheep, and were cut ruthlessly down in the cornfields and gardens where they had sought refuge. The little group of knights around Simon fought desperately, falling one by one till the Earl was left alone. So terrible were his sword-strokes that he had all but gained the hill-top when a lance-thrust brought his horse to the ground; but Simon still rejected the summons to yield, till a blow from behind felled him, mortally wounded, to the ground. Then with a last cry of 'It is God's grace,' the soul of the great patriot passed away."[7] The beauty and richness of the Vale of Evesham are proverbial; it is a land of corn and orchards, and it widens out as the Avon winds on in rounding the northern extremity of the Cotswolds. After a time the stream makes a great undulating sweep to the northward, as if to avoid the outlying mass of Dundry Hill, and brings us to another country town and another fragment of a grand church of olden time. Pershore was founded in the tenth century, as was Evesham, and only a few years afterwards; it too passed under the rule of the Benedictines, and was richly endowed by a pious Saxon noble, not only with lands, but also with relics. Pershore, however, was less uniformly prosperous than Evesham. Edward the Confessor gave of its lands to his new abbey at Westminster. William the Conqueror took of them for himself or his courtiers. For all that, money was found for rebuilding, and for rearing a glorious structure, resembling those at Gloucester and Tewkesbury, in the latter part of the eleventh century. The choir was again re-built in the thirteenth; the central tower dates from the middle of the fourteenth. The Reformation here, as elsewhere, was a time of plunder and destruction--nave, lady-chapel, and monastic buildings were pulled down; the people of Pershore, to their honour, purchased the rest of the church, and thus saved it from annihilation. The north transept fell down at a later date; but what is left has been carefully repaired and restored, and this fragment has been justly called one of the noblest specimens of Norman and Early English work that our country possesses. Though the foreground scenery, as the two valleys merge, becomes less striking, the more distant views are always attractive; for the scarp bounding the limestone uplands of the Cotswolds forms a pleasant feature, and the range of the Malverns is beautiful in its outline. At last, just before its confluence with the Severn, the Avon brings us to another interesting town--Tewkesbury, on the left bank of the latter river, and within half a mile of the former one. Tewkesbury has an abbey church, not so magnificent, but hardly less interesting than that of Worcester, while it is not less rich than Shrewsbury in black-timbered houses. Here the course of the Severn is interrupted by a weir and a lock, constructed in order to make the river navigable to Worcester for vessels of larger tonnage, and is crossed by a fine bridge of iron. It receives the Avon, by the side of which the town is built, and this stream is spanned by another and ancient bridge of stone. The streets, with their old timbered houses, are a delight to the antiquary: they usually have bay windows carried the whole height of the front, the "Wheatsheaf Inn" being one of the best specimens. The abbey, however, is the glory of the town, and in ancient days, before Tewkesbury mustard became a proverb, made its name known all over England. It claims as its founder two kings of Mercia, rather more than eleven and a half centuries ago, and in any case appears to carry back its history almost to this time. But the greater part of the present church was erected early in the twelfth century, though the choir was re-constructed about two centuries afterwards. Yet this, though graceful Decorated work in the upper part, maintains the massive Norman piers below, the combination producing a rather unusual effect. But not only so, the choir terminates in an apse, a feature not very common in our English churches, and certainly not the least among the attractions of Tewkesbury. Central tower, transept, and nave are mainly Norman; and the west end is peculiar, for it terminates in a huge arch, which occupies almost the whole of the façade, and in which a great Perpendicular window has been inserted. It has a curiously incomplete look, so, possibly, the architect contemplated the addition of a façade with towers. The church also is unusually rich in chantries and ancient monuments, secular and ecclesiastical. [Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._ THE AVON AT STRATFORD (_p. 110_).] [Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._ EVESHAM (_p. 114_).] Tewkesbury, too, has a place in English history, for on the meadows south of the abbey was fought the last battle between the houses of Lancaster and York, and the Red Rose was trampled in the mire. Margaret of Anjou was taken prisoner; her only son, Edward, was stabbed by the Yorkists--it is said after the Duke of York had struck him in the face with his gauntlet; and a large number of the chief men on the losing side were killed or were executed after the battle. Some of them fled to the abbey for sanctuary. Edward and his soldiers came in hot pursuit, but a priest, bearing the Host, confronted them on the threshold, nor would he move until the victor promised to spare the lives of the fugitives. But on the third day afterwards a troop of soldiers broke into the building, dragged out the refugees, and promptly struck off their heads. Revenge proved stronger than religion! [Illustration: THE AVON AT TEWKESBURY.] The young prince lies in a nameless grave beneath the central tower of the abbey; and other illustrious victims of the battle were buried within its walls. The building itself has had more than one narrow escape from destruction: it was seriously injured by a fire in the later part of the twelfth century; at the suppression of the monasteries it was placed on the list of "superfluous" buildings and doomed to be pulled down by the greedy vandals of that age. But the good folk of Tewkesbury bought it for themselves, and thus preserved one of the finest and most interesting ecclesiastical buildings in the West Country. They have well earned the gratitude of posterity. The monastic buildings, however, to a great extent have disappeared. The cloisters, which seem to have resembled those at Gloucester, are unfortunately gone, but the monks' infirmary, with some adjacent buildings, has been incorporated into a mansion called Abbey House, and the principal gateway still remains. Tewkesbury, in short, is to the lover of architecture far the most interesting town of its size in the valley of the Severn. [Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF TEWKESBURY.] THE SEVERN. CHAPTER III. FROM TEWKESBURY TO THE SEA. Deerhurst--Gloucester--The "Bore"--May Hill--Minsterworth-- Westbury-on-Severn--Newnham--Berkeley Castle--Lydney--Sharpness --The Severn Tunnel--The Estuary--A Vanished River. Below Tewkesbury several pleasant places, country-houses, parks and quiet villages are situated on the lowland, or on the gentle undulations which diversify the width of the valley, but few are of special interest, except the little church of Deerhurst, standing near the waterside, which was built, as an inscription now preserved at Oxford has recorded, in the year 1056. The greater part of the comparatively lofty tower, with some portions of the body of the church, belongs to this age; but the latter to a considerable extent has been rebuilt at various dates, and its plan altered. There was a priory of earlier foundation, but of this nothing of interest remains. But for some miles a great tower has been rising more and more distinctly above the lush water-meadows, as did that of Worcester on the higher reaches of the Severn. It is another cathedral, on a scale yet grander than the former one, the centre of the old city of Gloucester, which for not a few years has been rapidly increasing; but all about the precincts and in the original streets are many picturesque remnants of the last and preceding centuries, while its churches surpass those of Worcester. Gloucester, as it guards the Severn, and is one of the natural approaches to Wales, very early became a place of mark. An important station for the Roman troops, it was in the days of Bede a very notable town, not only in the Mercian kingdom, but also in all Britain. At Gloucester the first of its Christian kings founded a monastery about eighty years after the landing of Augustine; and when the Dane began to harry England the town had not seldom to fight and sometimes to suffer. Saxon and the earlier Norman kings often visited it. Probably in few cathedrals out of London--except, perhaps, Winchester--were royal worshippers so frequent. Henry III., a boy of ten, was crowned here, and had a particular affection for the town. Hither the murdered Edward II. was brought for burial; Parliaments were held in the city; and most of the kings up to the sixteenth century paid it at least one visit. But when the great Civil War broke out, Gloucester took the side of the Parliament. So, presently, the Royal troops and Charles himself appeared before its walls. For about four weeks it was closely invested, and its defenders were in sore straits, till Essex raised the siege. As a penalty the walls were destroyed after the Restoration. That did no real harm; the city was quietly prosperous, till it was quickened to a more active life by becoming a railway junction, when the "break of gauge" provided many a subject for _Punch_. [Illustration: THE SEVERN, FROM TEWKESBURY TO THE SEA.] The cathedral stands well within the old city, a good quarter of a mile from the Severn. One rose on this site before the Norman Conquest, but that was destroyed by fire--the crypt beneath the choir being the only relic--and another building was erected in the last dozen years of the eleventh century. Notwithstanding great and conspicuous alterations, the shell of this structure is comparatively intact. The nave has undergone the least change, and is a very fine example of the earlier work in that style. It resembles Tewkesbury in the increased height of the piers and consequent dwarfing of the triforium, thus differing from, and not improving on, the great Norman cathedrals of Eastern England; the choir is also of the same age, though the older work is often almost concealed beneath a veil of Perpendicular tracery; and the east window, of the latter date, is the largest in England. The roof also is a magnificent piece of vaulting. In fact, all the eastern part, including the transept, was remodelled between the years 1337 and 1377, but the roof of the nave had been already replaced nearly a century earlier than the former date. The latest conspicuous changes in the cathedral were the additions of the grand Lady Chapel and of the central tower. The former was grafted on to its little Norman predecessor in the last forty years of the fifteenth century, and its great Perpendicular east window still preserves the stained glass with which it was filled on the completion of the structure. The east window of the choir also contains the original glass, which is a yet finer specimen of the art, and is older by nearly a hundred and fifty years. The central tower was begun at the same time, but was not completed till some thirty years later. It has few rivals in Britain; some prefer that in the same position at Lincoln, others Bell Harry Tower at Canterbury. Gloucester, at any rate, is the most ornate, even if it be not the most beautiful. [Illustration: _Photo: H. W. Watson, Gloucester._ GLOUCESTER.] [Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._ THE SEVERN BRIDGE, SHARPNESS (_p 123_).] The old stained glass, the exquisite tracery of its windows, walls and roof, give exceptional richness to the eastern half of the cathedral, but in addition to this, it possesses several remarkable monuments. The luckless Robert Courthose, eldest son of the Conqueror, who died a prisoner at Cardiff Castle, was buried before the high altar. His tomb and effigy, contrary to the usual custom, are of wood (Irish oak), but whether they are contemporaneous is uncertain. The yet more luckless Edward II. was brought from Berkeley Castle to lie under the central arch on the north side of the choir. There his son and successor raised a memorial, which is not surpassed by any in England. Despised in life, this Edward was honoured in death--such is the irony of fate. A constant stream of pilgrims flocked to his grave as to that of an uncanonised saint, and the magnificent reconstruction of the choir was the fruit of their offerings. Telford spanned the Severn with an arch of stone 150 feet in diameter, and below Gloucester the railway runs on a viaduct across the meadows, Alney Island, and the river. The valley now is becoming very wide, and seems to hint that before long the Severn will broaden into an estuary. The river begins to swing in huge curves through the level meadows. The tidal wave, called "the bore," sometimes attains a considerable height, and is one of its "wonders." The Malvern Hills have receded into the background, and their place is taken by May Hill, famous among geologists; on the opposite side the scarp of the Cotswolds continues, though with a rather more broken outline; but outlying hills come nearer to the city. The Severn ebbs and flows by Minsterworth, where Gwillim is buried, whose heraldry was beloved by country squires. The main high road, when possible, keeps away from the stream, for the land lies low and is liable to floods. Westbury-on-Severn is the first place of mark--a small town with a rather large church noted for having a separate steeple, the spire of which is of wood. The Severn here has pressed against higher ground and has carved it into a low cliff, which affords sections well known to every geologist; and in the neighbourhood iron ore is worked, as it has been for many a century. Newnham comes next, a market-town, and an outlet for the important mining district of the Forest of Dean, which lies a few miles away to the west. It still preserves a sword of state given to it by King John, and there is some old Norman work in its church. The Severn is now changing from a river to an estuary. No places of importance lie near the riverside, and its scenery is becoming marshy and monotonous; but some distance away to the east is Berkeley, an old town with an old castle, memorable for the murder of the hapless Edward; and on the other side is Lydney, a quaint little town with a small inland harbour, a market cross, and a fine old church. In the adjacent park, on a kind of elevated terrace overlooking the valley, are the remains of a group of Roman villas, from which many coins, pieces of pottery, and other relics have been unearthed. At Sharpness, above Lydney, a railway crosses the Severn by a long bridge of twenty-eight arches, a magnificent work; but below it ferryboats were the only communication from shore to shore till in 1886 the completion of the Severn Tunnel linked Bristol and the West more closely to the eastern part of South Wales. At this point the river is more than two and a quarter miles across; but the tunnel itself is about double that length. This, the greatest work of its kind in Britain, was completed by the late Sir John Hawkshaw. The banks become yet farther apart, the water is salt, the tide ebbs and flows, as in the sea. The estuary, indeed, continues for many a mile, still retaining the form of a river-valley. Very probably there was a time when a Severn flowed along a broad valley, where now the Bristol Channel parts England from South Wales, to join another stream which had descended over land, now sunk beneath the Irish Sea, and the two rivers discharged their united waters into a more distant Atlantic Ocean; but that was very long ago, so that our task is now completed. We have followed the Severn from its source to its ending--till our brook has become a river, and our river has become a sea. /T. G. Bonney./ [Illustration: A BEND OF THE WYE.] THE WYE. "The Notorious Hill of Plinlimmon"--The Stronghold of Owen Glendower--Llangurig--Rhayader Gwy--Llyn-Gwyn--The Elan, the Ithon, and the Yrfon--Llandrindod--Builth--Aberedw and the Last Prince of Wales--Hay--Clifford Castle and the Fair Rosamond--Hereford--The Lug--"The Wonder"--Ross and John Kyrle--Goodrich Castle--Coldwell Rocks--Symond's Yat--Monmouth--The Monnow, the Dore, and the Honddu--Wordsworth's Great Ode--Tintern Abbey--The Wyndcliff--Chepstow--The Lower Reaches. Like many another thing of beauty, the /Wye/ is born amidst surroundings dreary and dismal. Plinlimmon, the monarch of the vast waste of hills that forms the southern portion of the Cambrian system, has three heads. But no one can point the finger of scorn at him on that account, for great are his cares as he stands there in that region of morass and bog, the father of five rivers. His chief head, towering to the sky, gathers from the heavy clouds as they drift across the land the raindrops and the mist, and these, trickling down his shoulders, are gathered into five different courses, and, hurrying on their way, form the five rivers--the Severn, the Wye, the Rheidol, which flows to Aberystwyth, and the Dulas and the Llyffnant, which by different courses flow to the Dovey. Moreover, the rugged, austere mountain has long been spoken lightly of; for a shepherd--it would never do to call him an humble shepherd--who, in the early part of the present century, had the right to sell ale and small beer in his cottage up amongst the mountain-tops, had a board hung out with this modest sentence, which, to be sure, soon became classic, painted upon it: "The notorious hill of Plinlimmon is on these premises, and it will be shown with pleasure to any gentleman travellers who wishes to see it." So, what with the clouds and mists resting upon his head, the large family of rivers he has to feed, and the slighting language that is held towards him, the "notorious hill of Plinlimmon" is bald and sad and sodden. Unless, therefore, the traveller is fond of dreariness and dankness, he will scarcely find this a profitable journey to make--this climb to the very source of the Wye. [Illustration: _Photos: Hudson._ VIEWS IN THE LOWER ELAN VALLEY (_p. 128_).] Legend, however, weaves a charm over many an else dreary waste, and up amongst the scramble of hills of which Plinlimmon is monarch, legend and history unapocryphal combine to fill the home of mists with interest for all who love a stirring tale. Here, at the very source of the Wye, Owain Glyndwr--the Owen Glendower of Shakespeare's _King Henry IV._--who could call spirits from the vasty deep, had his stronghold, and gathered around him his vicious little band of followers:-- "Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head Against my power: thrice from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottomed Severn have I sent him Bootless home, and weather-beaten back." This he truthfully told his fellow-conspirators. Plinlimmon and the surrounding country is rich in records and legends concerning this turbulent prince, whose very birth, on May 28th, 1354, is said to have been attended by remarkable premonitions of coming trouble, for it is told that on that eventful night his father's horses were found in their stalls standing in a bath of blood that reached to their bellies. This is the popular account, but Shakespeare's imagination created other and farther-reaching warnings to the world concerning the fiery spirit that had been ushered upon the scene:-- "At my nativity The front of Heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets; and at my birth The frame and huge foundation of the earth Shak'd like a coward." From this lofty region, half earth and half sky--for the Wye can lay claim to trace its source to the very clouds that hang thick upon Plinlimmon's head--the tiny rivulet bounds down the mountain-side, and the Fates, catching at a myriad of still smaller rills, braid them into the main stream, as the tresses of a maiden's hair are woven together, till united they form a brook. For a number of miles the land through which the Wye's course is laid continues to be melancholy in the extreme, and the torrent, like all urchins brought up amidst harsh, inclement surroundings, goes on its way brawling and turbulent, playing leapfrog with rocks, flinging itself over precipices, swirling in little maelstroms, and almost getting blown away in spray; and it is not until the pretty village of Llangurig is reached that it comes in part to its senses, and, although still boisterous, shows itself amenable to the influence of civilisation. Not only does the Wye here meet for the first time with civilisation, but here, too, it becomes acquainted with that which later on in its life is one of its glories, almost its crowning glory--trees. The head and shoulders of mighty Plinlimmon afford no gracious foothold for these children of fat lands and lusty air, scarcely a bush raising its branches in the bog and marsh of the mountain. But up to Llangurig a few of them have straggled, to break the monotony of the mountainous region. Here, too, a bridge--one of the few works of man that sometimes add to rather than detract from the effect of river-scenery, always provided that it is not a modern railway bridge of iron--crosses the young stream; and a church, the first of many on the banks of the Wye, stands near by. A short distance below this village the stream spreads out in its valley, and flows more gently amongst huge boulders that have been hurled down from the sides of the mountains. Between Llangurig and the next village of any importance, Rhayader Gwy, to give it its full name, although most people are content to call it by its "Christian" name only, leaving the "Gwy" to take care of itself--between these two villages the Wye enters Radnorshire; and now the scenery, although still wildly mountainous, is of a more subdued description, trees becoming more plentiful, and the rocks, occasionally shaking their heads free from the thick covering of spongy morass, beginning to stand out bold and picturesque, and to take their proper place in the composition of mountain-scenery. A short distance above Rhayader Gwy the river Marteg pours its tiny volume into the Wye, and here is one of the choicest bits of scenery in all the upper reaches of our stream. Nannerth Rocks, lofty crags, confront the river, and narrow the bed so that the combined waters can only squeeze through at the expense of a mighty uproar and much plunging and dashing and flinging of spray and foam, the brawl of the forced passage being audible for a great distance. After its straitened course between these rocks, the river enters an easier bed and flows sulkily down to Rhayader Gwy. This village has a situation as wonderful as any in all the kingdom. On every side tower the great hills, not harsh and gloomy now, but clothed with oak forest thick and deep. Not so many years ago there were, as the name of the village bears record, falls at Rhayader Gwy; but in building the bridge that spans the stream the good people, little caring for the picturesqueness of the place, removed the stones and widened the channel, and so reduced the falls to rapids. Although the place is of little note now, being only a lovely village, once upon a time it was of considerable importance in the country, and saw stirring times. Among other things, it had a strong fortress of its own, erected by Rhys ap Gruffydd, the Prince of South Wales; but this was so thoroughly rased to the ground by Llewelyn, in 1231, that not a vestige remains. At a later day a successor to this stronghold was built, but it, too, fell, in the stormy days of the Parliamentary War, and only a mound marks the spot where it stood. Near to Rhayader Gwy the Wye, like a mountain chief exacting tribute from his weaker neighbours, secures the overflow from a quaint lake, said to be the only beautiful lake in Radnorshire--the Llyn-Gwyn. In olden days many a pilgrim, full of faith in the miraculous powers of this little lake, made his way through the rugged district to bathe in its waters; and there can be little wonder at the hope inspired in their breasts by the sight of Llyn-Gwyn, for it is such a lake as is rarely found, dainty, clear, cool, its high wooded banks rising nearly perpendicularly--a veritable fairies' ocean. With the overflow from this the Wye tumbles along, soon to find tributaries of much more importance. [Illustration: THE WYE AND THE USK.] The first of these is the Elan. This river receives the Claerwen; and near to the juncture of the two streams is Nantgwillt, a house which, in the momentous year 1812, was occupied by the poet Shelley, while at Cwm Elan lived Harriet Grove. The journey from Rhayader to Cwm Elan, a distance of five miles up the valley of the little river, is very beautiful. Mountains rise on every side, as though guarding the privacy of the delicious glen; inspiring sights are to be seen at every turn, dainty views of the Wye and the Elan pleasantly breaking the green of trees and grass, and the variegated colours of rocks. Further up the valley is the scene chosen for the illustration on this page, where the waters of the Elan splash along over the rocks that bestrew their course, until they come to a sombre and forbidding pool, which might well be bottomless. [Illustration: _Photo: J. Owen, Newtown, North Wales._ PONT-HYLL-FAN, IN THE ELAN VALLEY.] Next, the Ithon, its waters drawn from the Montgomeryshire hills, flows into the Wye; and then, more considerable by far than any Brecknock tributary, comes the Yrfon, whose fountain-head is some ten miles from Llanwrtyd. Long time ago a cave near to the river-bank harboured Rhys Gethin, an audacious freebooter, who levied contributions from all and sundry, including his Majesty the King himself. At the Wolf's Leap, a point on the Yrfon worthy of a visit, the river may be said to run on edge, for the rocks close in so that the water, while some 30 feet deep, is only a few inches across. This is the place where, if tradition is to be credited, the last Welsh wolf took matters into his own paws, and committed suicide. The niche of land formed by the junction of the Yrfon with the Wye is pointed to as the spot where Llewelyn, in 1282, made his last stand against Edward I. and his English hosts, and was there slain and buried. About an equal distance from Rhayader and Builth, up the valley of the Ithon, is Llandrindod, long famous for its pure air and healing wells. As long ago as the seventeenth century, the waters of these wells were known to have medicinal properties that made them of peculiar value to those suffering from scrofula and kindred troubles. The water flows out of the rock high up on a hillside, and guests at the pump-house and hotels enjoy a magnificent panoramic view of the valleys of the Wye, Ithon, and Yrfon. In the last century an hotel of extravagant luxury was erected by the side of these wells, but, proving unprofitable, it soon became a favourite resort of gamblers, and continued to be the scandal of the country until a lady of practical piety became possessed of the property, and, so that there should be no doubt about her ideas on the subject of gambling, had the building torn down and utterly removed. That happened long ago, and now other hotels have taken the place of the one of evil repute; and Llandrindod, having railway communication with the outside world, is prospering exceedingly. Let us add that it has not, in its prosperity, come to feel ashamed of its Shaky Bridge--a primitive arrangement of planks and stretched ropes, which will some day, it is to be feared, be displaced by a more "imposing" structure. [Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._ THE SHAKY BRIDGE, LLANDRINDOD.] Builth, on the Wye, is a fisherman's paradise. Using the little town as a base, he has within easy reach the waters of the Wye, the Yrfon, the Edw, the Dihonw, and the Chweffru, all waters rich in sporting fish; and in the seasons of the sport about as many artificial as natural flies skim the waters, for anglers come from far and near to a centre so celebrated. The authentic history of Builth reaches back to Roman times; and in later days the Danes came with fire and sword, and levelled the place with the ground. The Castle of Builth was stormed and destroyed as often as it was rebuilt, the partisans of one chief after another wreaking their rage upon it, and now nothing but a mound marks the spot where once a succession of strongholds stood. History has no more romantic tale to tell, nor one that is more generally known, than that of the ride of the Prince of Wales, Llewelyn, from Aberedw, where on the banks of the Wye he had a castle, towards Builth, which refused to succour him. There is scarce an elementary schoolboy who has not heard of the ingenious blacksmith who hastily nailed to the hoofs of Llewelyn's horse the shoes reversed, so that the tracks in the snow might mislead those who were in hot pursuit; and alas! heard, too, that the blacksmith, clever as he was at his trade, was not clever enough to keep the secret, but betrayed his prince to the enemy, so that the last authentic Prince of Wales was hounded to his death. It is a story destined to immortality, for it has drifted into folklore, and, like the curiously barbarous tale of Little Red Riding Hood, is crooned to each generation of children until every Welsh child dreams at least once in its lifetime of the harried prince and the foaming steed, the new-fallen snow, and the marks of the seven-nailed shoes running, as it were, backwards. The tale has been transplanted to many quarters of the globe, but the Wye knows that the prince fled along its banks from the castle to the cruel, inhospitable town. Of the castle--Llewelyn's--to be sure, almost nothing now remains; but the village is delightfully situated, and is much resorted to by anglers, and not by anglers only. The next place of particular importance is Hay. From the river the streets of this picturesque and thriving little town rise rather too abruptly for the pleasurable convenience of vehicular traffic; but picturesqueness and practicability seldom go hand in hand, and what Hay streets lack in the latter is fully made up in the former virtue. To crown them rises the ivy-clad fragments of the famous castle. [Illustration: _Photo: J. Thirlwall, Hereford._ THE WYE BRIDGE AND HEREFORD CATHEDRAL (_p. 134_).] It is often found that the same hero ciphers through the history of a country or district with the persistence of a damaged note in an organ, although usually with a less irritating effect. In this quarter of the kingdom, which was once the buffer State between England and Wales, the name of Owen Glendower crops up continually, and at Hay among other places. At the head of his wild men from the hills, he came down like an avalanche upon the castle at Hay; when he retired, the pile was a mass of ruins, and now nothing stands of the ancient fort but a gateway--the very stones grey with age--and part of a tower. Legend, which has a pretty fancy and nimble brain, relates that the castle was built in one night by the celebrated Maud de Saint Wallery, alias Maud de Hain, alias Moll Walbee. "She built the Castle of Hay" (to quote Jones's "Brecknock") "in one night, the stones for which she carried in her apron. While she was thus employed, a small pebble, of about nine feet long and one foot thick, dropped into her shoe. This she did not at first regard; but in a short time finding it troublesome, she indignantly threw it over the river Wye into Llowes churchyard, in Radnorshire (about three miles off), where it remains to this day, precisely in the position it fell, a stubborn memorial of the historical fact, to the utter confusion of all sceptics and unbelievers." Americans have long claimed for their Chicago belles the largest feet; but from this well-substantiated fact it is doubtful if any one of them ever wore so spacious a shoe as the fair Maud on the banks of the Wye. King John, in revenge for succour refused, visited the town with his vengeance; and altogether its early history is as stirring as any to be met with in these parts. [Illustration: GOODRICH CASTLE (_p. 138_).] By the time Hay is reached the Wye is fast becoming a stream of considerable size. Now entering Herefordshire, it flows through a broad vale, cultivated and mellow, where Clifford Castle stands a hoary ruin. Here, if history speak true, was born, in the reign of Henry II., one of great and general notoriety, whose name--or _nom de guerre_, as Dryden has it--is woven richly into the ballads of that and later days; for doubtless her beauty, like her failings, was great, and her death untimely and cruel:-- "Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver; Fair Rosamond was but her _nom de guerre_." Fair Rosamond was born about the year 1140. How much of the story coming to us through the medium of ballads and folk-tales be true, it is now quite impossible to discover, but popular fancy still clings to the idea of a lonely and innocently unfortunate girl installed at Woodstock, protected by a nurse who proved insufficient when pitted against the cunning of a scandalised wife and queen. Fair Rosamond was buried at Godstow, and upon her tomb was carved the famous epitaph:-- "Hic jacet in tumba Rosa Mundi, non Rosa munda: Non redolet, sed olet, quæ redolere solet." The railway has not improved the situation of this old castle:-- "Clifford has fallen--howe'er sublime, Mere fragments wrestle still with time; Yet as they perish, sure and slow, And, rolling, dash the stream below, They raise tradition's glowing scene,-- The clue of silk, the wrathful queen; And link in memory's firmest bond The love-lorn tale of Rosamond." Passing between wooded eminences, broad fields, and peaceful farms, the Wye at length reaches the suburbs, and then the ancient city of Hereford. [Illustration: ROSS CHURCH (_p. 136_).] Hereford was a town of importance even at the dawn of English history. Outside its walls stood the palace of Offa, the greatest of all the Mercian princes; and during the reign of the Mercian kings it was the principal town of Mercia. Ethelfleda, sister of Edward the Elder, governed the place with great skill, and she it was who constructed the castle that guarded the town, and constructed it so well that it proved to be one of the strongest in all England. Leland has this to say of the keep: "High, and very strong, having in the outer wall ten semicircular towers, and one great tower within"; and adds that "it hath been one of the largest, fayrest, and strongest castles in England." Here, again, the wily Llewelyn comes upon the scene, for he led his men from the fastness of the Upper Wye, pillaged and burnt the place, murdered the bishop and his assistants, set the cathedral ablaze, and left what had been a fair town a mass of smouldering ruins. A visitor to this ancient city will find it hard to realise that anything but peace and goodwill ever reigned in all the district, for in these days of bustle and worry it would be difficult to discover in all Great Britain a more placid, steady-going, self-satisfied city than Hereford. Well laid out, clean, at least reasonably well-to-do--although it does not lay claim to be a place of great industry, relying more upon the church and the market than upon the manufactory--there seems to be a perpetual air of Sunday hovering over the town. The very visitors--and they are many--move soberly about the streets, and appear to have become imbued with the spirit of the place. No one can be many minutes in Hereford without detecting that not only the people but the very buildings take their key from the grand cathedral that, calmly gazing into the face of Time, has seen of men and houses generations come and generations go. Hereford as an ecclesiastical centre is one of the most ancient in Great Britain, but until the commission of Offa's grievous crime it must have been comparatively unimportant, with a small wooden structure for a church. Offa's perfidy changed all that. It will be remembered that the ruthless prince treacherously induced Ethelbert, King of the East Angles, to visit his Court, where he had him foully murdered, and buried in the church. Offa, of course, then seized Ethelbert's crown. Having secured this, and being safely installed in the place of his murdered guest, he found time to repent; and that his repentance might seem the more real, he endowed with great riches the church in which lay the body of his victim, and soon the wooden building gave place to a stone edifice. No doubt the king's offerings greatly assisted in founding Hereford on a solid ecclesiastical basis, but the effect of his gifts was evanescent, compared with the value of his victim's bones, as an attraction to the devout. Ethelbert's remains had not long been buried in the cathedral ere they began to work miracles, and soon great numbers of people from near and from afar sought the good saint's assistance, so that great riches flowed to the church and town; and from that day to this Hereford has continued to prosper. For two hundred years the church built over the bones of Ethelbert stood, before the Welsh, as has been told, laid the place in ruins. In 1079 Bishop Robert of Lorraine began to rebuild, and the work was not completed until early in the sixteenth century. This is the building--many times restored--that stands to the present day. More than a hundred years ago (in 1786) the western tower collapsed, bringing down with it most of the west front, and this, as well as many other parts of the cathedral, was rebuilt. Inside the cathedral are many interesting monuments of men who played large parts in the history of England, and, besides these, the cathedral has a unique treasure in the far-famed "Mappa Mundi," a production of one De Haldingham, who lived in the fourteenth century. This map, if not the oldest, is at least one of the very oldest in the world. Havergal says of it: "The world is here represented as round, surrounded by the ocean. At the top of the map is represented Paradise, with its rivers and trees; also the eating of the forbidden fruit and the expulsion of our first parents. Above is a remarkable representation of the Day of Judgment, with the Virgin Mary interceding for the faithful, who are seen rising from their graves, and being led within the walls of Heaven. The map is chiefly filled with ideas taken from Herodotus, Solinus, Isidore, Pliny, and other ancient historians. There are numerous figures of towns, animals, birds, and fish, with grotesque customs such as the mediæval geographers believed to exist in different parts of the world. The four great cities are very prominent--Jerusalem as the centre of the world; Babylon, with its famous tower; Rome, the capital of the world ... and Troy.... In Great Britain most of the cathedrals are mentioned, but of Ireland the author seems to have known very little." Truly a wonderful record of the geographical knowledge of the Middle Ages! Hereford was the birthplace of Nell Gwynne, orange-seller, actress, and Court favourite--short, red of hair or nearly so, and with feet so small as to cause general amusement. The street in which she was born is now called Gwynne Lane, and the place is still pointed out to tourists who are interested in the story of the famous beauty. David Garrick also was born in the city. Before leaving Hereford, it may be worth while to note that here, as at many other places, it was once the custom to insert a clause in the indentures of apprentices "that they should not be compelled to live on salmon more than two days in the week." Needless to say, no such clause is now necessary. In 1234 the wolves became so numerous about the outskirts of the city, that a proclamation called upon all the king's liege people to assist in destroying them. And now leaving the cathedral city, our river flows under the Wye Bridge, built so long ago as 1490, with six noble arches, and proceeds on its way towards Ross. Four miles below Hereford, the most important of all the tributaries that spill their floods into the winding Wye is met with. This is the Lug, which itself absorbs the waters of several smaller rivers on its way southwards. The meeting of the Lug with the Wye takes place at the little village of Mordiford, where once upon a time an enormous serpent, winged and awful, used to betake itself from feasting upon men and women and little children to drink of the waters of the Wye. This terrible serpent was destroyed by a malefactor, who was offered a pardon should he accomplish the task of ridding the good people of the sore pest; and it is sad to learn that in killing the serpent he inhaled so much of its poisonous breath that he died almost at the same time as the monster he had brought low. But the results of a later event, almost as important, and awe-inspiring, are to be seen not far from this part of the Wye. They are known as "The Wonder," a mile and a half from Woolhope, in a parish which, one would think, should be called Miracle, but is really called Marcle. To best describe what "The Wonder" is, we will quote Sir Richard Baker's "Chronicles of England" as follows:--"In the thirteenth year of Queen Elizabeth a prodigious earthquake happened in the east part of Herefordshire, at a little town called Kinnaston. On the 17th of February, at six o'clock in the evening, the earth began to open, and a hill, with a rock under it, making at first a great hollowing noise which was heard a great way off, lifted itself up and began to travel, bearing along with it the trees that grew upon it, the sheepfolds, and flocks of sheep abiding there at the same time. In the place from whence it was first moved it left a gaping distance 40 foot broad and fourscore ells long: the whole field was about twenty acres. Passing along, it overthrew a chapel standing in the way, removed a yew-tree planted in the churchyard from the west to the east; with the like force it thrust before it highways, sheepfolds, hedges, the trees; made tilled ground pasture, and again turned pasture into tillage. Having walked in this sort from Saturday evening till Monday noon, it then stood still." Surely, this is a record, even in the land of Saturday-to-Monday trips! [Illustration: SYMOND'S YAT (_p. 140_).] [Illustration: THE FERRY, SYMOND'S YAT.] Between Hereford and Ross the Wye flows quietly, and without many striking features, either as regards the scenery or the stream itself. Upon its breast float pleasure-boats in great numbers, although in the dry season of the year, unless the midmost channel is rigidly adhered to, numbers of shallows interrupt the passage even of skiffs of light draught, for the river occasionally spreads out to a great surface, and runs proportionately shallow over rock and gravel. Indeed, it is not until the ancient town of Ross is reached that the Wye becomes a general favourite with the floating population. Ross, as seen from the surrounding country, appears to be standing a-tiptoe, trying to touch the sky with the tip of its beautiful spire. The church with its slender spire attracts the eye from a great distance--it is, to all appearances, the one prominent object in all the country round about--and the first sight of it has caused travellers to sigh, for to see it for the first time is to be a long, long way from it. Here in this tiny town of Ross lived and died a man whose name is known, one might say, not at all, but whose descriptive appellation, given to him whilst he was still alive, will be recognised the world over. This is John Kyrle, "The Man of Ross." [Illustration: MONMOUTH (_p. 141_).] The history of the town of Ross is principally a mass of details, authentic and apocryphal, regarding the life, times, and labours, the recreations, walks, works, and ways of "The Man of Ross." Few places are so entirely given up to the memory of one man as is Ross to the memory of John Kyrle. Everywhere in that quaint and clean little town, "The Man of Ross," in some form or other, meets the eye. Here his favourite walk, there the park he gave to the people, again the pew in which he worshipped, the house in which he lived, the buildings he reared, the streets he made--everything tells of John Kyrle. He was born in the year 1637, and was educated at Balliol College, Oxford, where is still to be seen a silver tankard bearing his name. As this tankard holds five pints, it is to be inferred that the student who was to become "The Man of Ross" was a lusty drinker, although in after-life he proved himself to be a man of abstemious habits. His long life--he died aged eighty-eight--was devoted to doing good to all whom he could help, improving not only man but town and country as well:-- "But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But, clear and artless, pouring through the plain, Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? Who taught the heaven-directed spire to rise? 'The Man of Ross,' each lisping babe replies." So says Pope in his "Moral Essays," and, in saying this and much more about the good man, scattered the fame of John Kyrle far and wide. It is pleasant to know that a man who showed himself so solicitous that others should taste of enjoyment was able himself to take great delight in simple things. "He dearly loved a goose," says Leitch Ritchie, "and was vain of his dexterity in carving it. During the operation, which he invariably took upon himself, he always repeated one of those old sayings and standing witticisms that seem to attach themselves with peculiar preference to the cooked goose. He never had roast beef on his table save and except on Christmas day, and malt liquors and good Hereford cyder were the only beverages ever introduced." The good man's bones rest in Ross Church, the spire of which he had repaired; and to this day are shown the trees that have forced a way through chinks in the wall and floor of the building, so that their branches and leaves might droop as though in the attitude of mourning over his grave. From the churchyard there is to be had a magnificent view of the Wye sweeping in a great curve far below, the waters hastening on to lose themselves in the Severn. From Ross to the mouth of the Wye, those who can afford the time should make the journey by boat. It will be well to discard the use of adjectives and exclamations in taking this trip, for the most gifted in the use of these parts of speech will speedily find themselves at their wits' end for words to express their admiration of the scenery. [Illustration: _Photo: R. Tudor Williams, Monmouth._ THE MONNOW BRIDGE AND GATE-HOUSE, MONMOUTH (_p. 141_).] Midway between Ross and Monmouth stands Goodrich Castle, grandly seated upon a steep, heavily-wooded hill--a castle built so long ago that the memory of its beginning is lost, in the haze of ancient days. During the Civil War it was besieged and at length successfully stormed by the Roundheads, in 1646. It is in form a parallelogram, having a tower at each angle, and a keep in the south-west part of the enclosure; and, viewed from the Wye, it is a splendid ruin, trees that cling to the face of the cliffs heightening the effect of the picture. The Wye, flowing swiftly, soon sweeps one's boat round its many bends, until the district known as the Forest of Dean is reached, lying between the Wye and the Severn. Striking scenes of stream and forest-clad cliffs, of castles and courts, of abbeys haunted by memories of events rich in historical interest, now follow one another as rapidly as changes in a kaleidoscope. Courtfield claims the honour of being the place where Henry V. was nursed; and there is a cradle to substantiate the claim. After passing Mailscot Wood, the river forms itself into a loop like an elongated horseshoe. On one side of the narrow neck of land are the famous Coldwell Rocks, the beginning of the great limestone cliffs that, onward to the sea, hem in the stream, and carry on their rugged sides clinging woods and ivy. Rains and storms have beaten these Coldwell Rocks into fantastic shapes, until to the traveller who first sets eyes upon them they seem to be castles cut out of stone by a race of mighty giants. "Castles and towers, amphitheatres and fortifications, battlements and obelisks, mock the wanderer, who fancies himself transported into the ruins of a city of some extinct race."[8] [Illustration: TINTERN ABBEY, FROM THE WYE (_p. 145_).] Anyone who has seen the beauty of both the Moselle and the Wye must be struck by the similarity between the two rivers. The Moselle, to be sure, is in every way more important than the Wye--in depth and breadth of stream, in height of the bluffs that at many points form the banks, and in the number of castles that crown the hills; but, notwithstanding these differences, they might almost be called twin rivers. There are no neatly-trimmed vineyards sloping down the sides of the Wye heights, but, on the other hand, the Moselle cannot show such grand forests as can the English stream. And each river, at least once in its course, doubles back upon itself, so that the spectator can trace the loop, and see the stream flowing far beneath on either hand. At Symond's Yat, a little below Coldwell Rocks, the neck of land that divides the Wye from itself is only some 600 yards across; and by standing on the rocky plateau, one may see the river flowing by on both sides. The prospect, one of the finest in all England, embraces large parts of Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, and Monmouthshire, including Coppet Hill, Huntsham, Rocklands, Whitchurch, Goodrich Castle, Coldwell Rocks, the Forest of Dean, Courtfield, and--it is difficult to escape this--the spire of Ross Church. In hurrying between these gigantic cliffs, and sweeping round the loop, it is only natural that the Wye, born with a turbulent disposition, should have many savage encounters with the rocks; and, now grown so mighty, the waters roar their anger in deep-lunged notes. Many obstacles impede the course of the stream, for storms still continue occasionally to hurl great masses of rock from their positions; and altogether, were one to be given the choice of seeing only one part of the Wye, Symond's Yat should be the chosen spot. [Illustration: THE NAVE, TINTERN ABBEY.] Passing between Lords Wood and Lady-Park Wood and skirting Greatwood and Newton Court, the Wye arrives at Monmouth. Encircled by hills, and itself seated high, this town, still unspoiled by the modern builder and restorer, occupies a position between the Wye and the Monnow. Monmouth has had its ups and downs; for long before the Conquest a fortress existed here, and to build a castle has ever been to invite a siege. In the days of Henry III. the castle was levelled with the ground so effectively that Lambarde writes: "Thus the glorie of Monmouth had clean perished; ne hade it pleased Gode longe after in that place to give life to the noble King Henry V., who of the same is called Henry of Monmouth." John of Gaunt lived here, and Henry IV. also, and, as the ancient writer says, Henry V. was born in the castle. This event has not been forgotten, for a statue of the popular king stands opposite the Town Hall in Agincourt Square, the centre of the town. In more ancient days Monmouth was a walled town, and one of the four gates of the wall still stands; and a bridge built in 1272, remarkably narrow, but sturdy and strong, still spans the Monnow; while the meagre ruins of the castle look down from the brow of the river-cliff on the meadows by this tributary stream. St. Mary's Church has a spire 200 feet in height; St. Thomas's Chapel, dating from the days of the Normans, stands in the centre of the part of the town which used to be given up to the making of the renowned Monmouth cap, of which Fuller, in his "Worthies," says: "These were the most ancient, general, warm, and profitable coverings of men's heads in this island. It is worth our pains to observe the tenderness of our kings to preserve the trade of cap-making, and what long and strong struggling our State had to keep up the using thereof, so many thousands of people being thereby maintained in the land, especially before the invention of fulling-mills, all caps before that time being wrought, beaten, and thickened by the hands and feet of men, till those mills, as they eased many of their labour, outed more of their livelihood." Not far from the parish church is the picturesque remnant of a Benedictine priory, founded in the reign of Henry I. by Wyhenoe, third Lord of Monmouth; and here it is not improbable that Geoffrey of Monmouth, compiler of the fabulous "History of the Britons," out of which grew the Poem of the Table Round, was educated. The Monnow, which flows into the Wye below Monmouth, has for its chief tributary the Dore, which winds its way through that delightful region known far and wide as the Golden Valley. This valley is fitly styled Golden, though it has received its designation from a mistaken derivation of its name, which means "water"--that and nothing more--being but a form of the Welsh _dwr_. Round it ring the hills, not bald and craggy, nor morass-bound, but gentle and lush and green, for the valley lies just out of the grip of the mountainous districts of Wales. Here the fields are fresh, the undulations capped with glorious trees, and the whole valley is chequered with tints; for it is a region rich of soil, and highly cultivated. One of the most interesting places on the banks of the stream is the little village of Abbey Dore, where is the remnant of an ancient abbey, now forming the parish church. It was begun for the Cistercians, by Robert of Ewias, in the reign of Henry I., but was only finished in the days of the third Henry. Not less attractive to the antiquary is the tiny Norman church of Kilpeck, celebrated for the richness of its decorations. Near by there once stood a castle, but of this nothing now remains but the mound, a deep moat, and fragments of the walls. Another tributary of the Monnow is the Honddu, which flows down through the Vale of Ewias, past the ruins of Llanthony Priory. This famous house seems to have been founded in the early years of the twelfth century by William de Lacy, a Norman knight, and Ernisius, chaplain to Maud, wife of Henry I. At first it had a prosperous career, but the wild Welshmen soon fell upon it, and the Prior and his brethren were forced to betake themselves to the more peaceable regions of Gloucestershire. When men and times became quieter, however, the monks returned. The remains of the Priory are still beautiful. In 1809 Walter Savage Landor purchased the estate on which they stand, and set about making great improvements. Mr. Colvin, in his "Landor," says: "He imported sheep from Segovia, and applied to Southey and other friends for tenants who should introduce and teach improved methods of cultivation. The inhabitants were drunken, impoverished, and morose: he was bent upon reclaiming and civilising them. The woods had suffered from neglect or malice: he would clothe the sides of the valley with cedars of Lebanon. With that object, he bought two thousand cones, calculated to yield a hundred seeds each, intending to do ten times as much afterwards, and exulting in the thought of the million cedar-trees which he would thus leave for the shelter and the delight of posterity." All Landor's schemes, however, came to nought. Before long he found himself in embarrassed circumstances: Llanthony was, by arrangement, taken out of his hands and vested in those of trustees, and his half-built mansion was pulled down. [Illustration: GATEWAY AT CHEPSTOW.] A little below Monmouth the Trothey, a much smaller stream than the Monnow, also joins the Wye. The banks from Monmouth onwards to the sea are steep and well wooded, and for the greater part of the way a splendid and well-kept road winds along the side of the right bank. Far below, the river is continually appearing and disappearing; and the trees dig their feet into the rocks and seem precariously to cling as they dip down towards the stream. Occasionally a cliff more than usually near to the perpendicular has managed to ward off the encroaching growths of forest and bush and ivy, and to stand bold-faced to the sun; but generally there is foliage to make more refreshing to the sight the precipitous banks. Rivers have ever attracted to their banks poets, who of all men most closely search the heart of Nature in her peaceful and gentle moods; but few streams have enjoyed the good fortune of the Wye to have their very spirit caught and shaped into imperishable verse. Wordsworth's noble poem, "Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour, July 13th, 1798," breathes the inmost soul of river and hills, and of the tranquil, meditative atmosphere that fills the glorious valley. No poet has held his ear so close to Nature's bosom as Wordsworth, and in these lines he has pictured and glorified the Wye as no pen may hope to picture and glorify it again. To quote but the opening score of lines:-- "Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain springs With a sweet inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!" Meditation, contemplation, serenity, each not unmixed with pathos, are the keynotes of this part of the Wye valley; and our river would have done well enough if not another poet had ever afterwards sung of its banks and flood. But this was not to be its fate: for has not Tennyson told us in "In Memoriam" how "half the babbling Wye" is hushed by the Severn, whose mightier tide drives back its flood?-- "The Wye is hushed, nor moved along, And hushed my deepest grief of all When filled with tears that, cannot fall I brim with sorrow drowning song. "The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls; My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then." It is at the Bargain Pool, past the pretty village of Llandogo, that the Severn tide is first met. Now, although the scenery is sublime, there can be no gainsaying that the rise and fall of the tide mars the beauty of the Wye. Instead of the clear mountain water, the stream is turbid, and at low tide the banks present great stretches of soft mud. For the first time the stream now takes on a commercial aspect, lazy barges floating up and down, and a few enterprising little steamers making their cautious way round the sharp bends. [Illustration: _Photo: Harvey Barton, Bristol._ CHEPSTOW CASTLE (_p. 146_).] But forgetting the blemish, if blemish it be, the traveller can set his thoughts upon and his face towards one of the most inspiring of all the ancient memorials of England's past, the home of the Cistercian monks dedicated to the Virgin Mary--Tintern Abbey. Coming round a bend in the river one catches sight of the beautiful ruin with startling suddenness. It stands close by the waterside, on what was once a meadow stretching away from the Wye. Here the hills rise in a complete circle, and nestling in the midst of this amphitheatre is the abbey, a ruin, it is true, yet not so mutilated by the hand of Time as to make it impossible or even difficult at this day to imagine it as it stood in all its completeness and beauty. Whether Tintern, unspoiled by Time and neglect, was as impressive as it is in its decay, though the greenest of green grass now grows on the floor once trodden by the white-robed monks, and the rooks sit in a jet-black line on the top of the roofless walls--one may very well doubt. Those who have passed even a day in and about the ancient abbey will find it easy to believe that its history is one of serenity and peace. The hills that ring it round stand like a cordon of mighty giants to beat back all worldliness that would enter the charmed circle. The very air hangs heavy and still, and the river, forgetting its wild youth and stormy middle age, passes by, if one might so describe it, with bared head and hushed breath. Here for hundreds of years lived successive generations of monks, having little, wanting little, passing their days in the deepest peace and solitude; and though they have long since vanished, they have left behind them what is perhaps the finest monastic ruin in the kingdom. Shortly after the dawn of the twelfth century one Walter de Clare founded Tintern for Cistercian monks, and in the thirteenth century a lord of Chepstow, Roger de Bigod, built the abbey. Cruciform in shape, it was 228 feet in length, 70 feet high, and 37 feet in breadth, with transepts 150 feet long. When King Henry VIII. took possession of the monasteries, he allowed this to fall into rapid decay, and at length presented it to the Earl of Worcester. The ruins now belong to the Duke of Beaufort, and they are watched and guarded from further decay with admirable vigilance, each particular stone being carefully noted, and every moulded arch and mullioned window--indeed, the very ivy and grass--receiving close attention. The magnificent eastern window, 64 feet in breadth, is but one feature of a ruin that attracts multitudes of visitors to the valley of the Wye. Between Tintern and the little metropolis of the lower Wye, Chepstow, duty to one's sense of sight requires him to scale the summit of Wyndcliff. Once on top, nine counties, according to Bevan, can be seen--to wit, Gloucester, Somerset, Wilts, Devon, Glamorgan, Monmouth, Brecknock, Hereford, and Worcester. Not only for the curiosity of a prospect which in its sweep takes in so many shires, but also for the beauty of the view, this ascent of the Wyndcliff should not be missed. For an exquisite blending of rock and river, forests, mountains, and plain, towns and villages, ruins and farmhouses, roads like white-silk threads blown upon the face of the land, black railways, drifting ships, it is not too much to say that the finest views in all the land can do no more than claim to be its peer. After we have passed on the left Llancaut and on the right Pierce Woods, the sturdy old town of Chepstow comes into view. The castle, from the river, seems to have grown out of the living rocks, which here rise sheer from the water to a great height, and form a natural defence that must have rendered the fortress impregnable to all attack from the water. Supposed to have been built in the eleventh and rebuilt in the thirteenth century, it experienced its most stirring times in the days of the Civil War. It was held by the Royalists; and there first appeared before it Colonel Morgan, who, with singular valour and determination, carried it by assault. Later on Sir Nicholas Kemys successfully surprised the place, which action brought before the battlements Cromwell himself, who, however, could not spare the time personally to direct the operations. His substitute, Colonel Ewer, with great skill conducted the siege, and ultimately forced the king's men to throw open the gates. [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE WYNDCLIFF.] [Illustration: OLD MONASTERY ON THE WYE.] Several parts of an ancient wall that once surrounded Chepstow still remain, with the watch-towers complete; and one gate dating from the sixteenth century--the Town Gate--still stands, a curious archway across the principal street, a thoroughfare that slopes steeply down to the Wye. A church of great antiquity is Chepstow Church, built in the days of the Normans, and containing several monuments of unusual interest, with the grave of Henry Marten, one of the signatories of King Charles's death-warrant, who spent many long years as a prisoner in Chepstow Castle. One of the towers of the castle is called Marten's Tower, an unintended commemoration of the Roundhead's imprisonment within its walls. Bidding a final good-bye to towns and tributaries, but still retaining its rugged banks and, in a measure, its stately woods, the Wye makes straight for the sea, where this child of the mountains, after swallowing the largess brought down to it by a score of smaller streams, is itself, in turn, swallowed in the greater flood of the Severn. To the very last, however, the Wye retains its individuality and character--picturesque ever, picturesque to the end. From its fount on Plinlimmon to the end of its course of a hundred and thirty miles, where it gracefully rolls into the broad estuary, it has scarcely ever, even for a mile, been commonplace. /E. W. Sabel./ [Illustration] [Illustration: NEAR THE SOURCE OF THE USK, TALSARN-SIDE.] THE USK. The Black Mountains--Trecastle--The Gaer--Brecon--The Brecknock Beacons--Crickhowell--Abergavenny--Usk--Caerleon and the Arthurian Legend--Christchurch--Newport. The wild and inclement Black Mountains, "Fforest Fawr," between Carmarthenshire and Brecknockshire, collect the first drops that, trickling down the side of the hills, gather volume and strength and in time become rivers that are the delight and pride of a country. Three springs, clear and tiny, away up the dark mountain side, where Talsarn towers to an altitude of more than 2,500 feet, are the fountain-heads of a river that, after an extended course of seven-and-fifty miles in the general shape of a bow, joins the sea at Newport--the /Usk/.[9] Not far away are the sources of many another river--the Tawe and the Neath, to name but two; but of all the streams that are born in this cheerless region the Usk is by far the most important. Hurrying on its way with the leaps and falls that are characteristic of mountain streams, our river is first joined by the Henwen brook, a tiny stream that has the honour of forming a part of the boundary-line between two shires. Beyond the wooded vale of Cwm Wysc the Usk receives the Hydfer, and at length comes to Trecastle, once a place of rare show and importance, but now modest enough in all conscience. Here may still be seen a mound and large earthworks of Bernard Newmarch's Castle. Below this village the Usk receives the waters of Drayton's "Cray," the first stream of real importance that flows into the greater river; and, after leaping a ledge of rock in a beautiful fall, continues its way through a tract of country once the hiding-place of a swarm of determined robbers and outlaws--the Forest of Brecon. At one time this region lay at the mercy of these desperadoes; and it seems to have been necessary for Edward III. to build castles for the protection of people compelled to journey through the forest. Henry IV. sojourned in one of these fortresses in 1403, and thence issued a general pardon to all the rebels who would cease from troubling; but the chances are that this wild and well-nigh inaccessible district offered more attractions to the turbulent robbers than did the prospect of hard and honest work, coupled with the king's pardon. The Usk now receives a goodly contribution from the Yscir; and between the two streams are the remains of a Roman camp, the Gaer, rectangular in form and believed to have been in command of Ostorius Scapula. The ruins of this fort are remarkably well preserved, the walls in places standing six feet high, although partly overgrown with bush. Many valuable coins and other curiosities belonging to the Roman period have here been excavated. Inclining to the south, the Usk now flows through a lovely bit of wooded country, and reaches the village of Llanspyddid, where an attractive view is to be had of the river, still in its youth, running with merry song over shallows and between high picturesque banks. Brecon, occupying a highly picturesque situation, is the first place of any importance that the Usk comes to in its flight from the mountains. Two streams join the river at this point, the Tarel and the Honddu; and, as the town is ringed completely round with high mountains, it may be said to lie in the bottom of a huge bowl. Near by, the Beacons, twin peaks, the highest mountains in South Wales, tower to the sky, and add grandeur to the beauty of the neighbouring hills. In the reign of good Queen Bess, Churchyard was moved to verse at the sight of Brecon and its surroundings. Thus he sings:-- "The towne is built as in a pit it were By waterside, all lapt about with hill; You may behold a ruinous castle there, Somewhat defaste, the walles yet standeth still. Small narrowe streetes through all the towne ye have, Yet in the same are sundrie houses brave; Well built without, yea trim and fayre within, With sweete prospect, that shall your favour win. The river Oske and Hondie runnes thereby, Fower bridges good, of stone stands on each streame." Though a town of great antiquity, Brecon, when compared with many places in Wales, is almost modern, for it seems to have first come into prominence in the days of the Normans, who out of the ruins of the old Roman fortress already referred to built the first stronghold here. It was, of course, a walled town, with ten turrets and five gates, and traces of this old wall still exist. The castle was a strong one, occupying a commanding position. In one of its towers Morton, Bishop of Ely, lay in prison, given into the custody of the Duke of Buckingham by Richard III., who was jealous of the bishop's power; and here the gaoler and prisoner, neither of them well disposed towards the king, plotted to marry Henry of Richmond with the Lady Elizabeth, and thus heal the breach between the rival houses of York and Lancaster. So Morton was allowed to escape, while Buckingham, marching against the king, fell into his enemy's hands and lost his head at Salisbury. The Castle of Brecon met its fate in sorry manner. When the great Civil War broke out, and king and Parliament came to blows, the people of the town, fearing that the fortress would be garrisoned by one party or the other, and that the place would be besieged and themselves visited with all the danger and suffering that waits upon active war, took matters into their own hands by demolishing the stronghold, of which only some ivy-clad walls, with the Ely tower, now remain, overlooking the Honddu. Charles I., in his feverish flight, after the disastrous battle of Naseby, put up for a time at Priory House; and in a humble hostelry in High Street, then known as "The Shoulder of Mutton," Mrs. Siddons, queen of actresses, was born in 1755, her parents being temporarily resident here. The chief glory of the town in these days is the Priory Church of St. John, founded by Bernard Newmarch, in the reign of Henry I., in the hope of atoning for the murders and other crimes that he had committed in hewing his way to the place of power he occupied in this part of Wales. It is a building of unusual interest, predominantly Norman in style, but with Early English and Decorated additions. Another feature of Brecon is the massive bridge of seven strongly buttressed arches which spans the Usk. Taking a south-easterly direction, the Usk flows away from the county town, and soon receives a tiny river that comes from the towering heights of the Beacons, locally called "Arthur's Chair," and forming one of the finest of the sights which Wales offers to her lovers. "Artures Hille," says Leland, "is three good Walche miles south-west from Brekenok, and in the veri toppe of the hille is a faire welle spring. This Hille of summe is countid the hiest Hille of Wales, and in a veri cleere day a mannne may see from hit a part of Malvern hilles, and Glocester, and Bristow, and part of Devenshire and Cornwale. There be divers other hilles by Artures Hille, the wich, with hit, be communely caullid Banne Brekeniane." Wood, in his "Rivers of Wales," declares that "the well here mentioned does not exist," so that it would have been better, perhaps, if Leland had done as Churchyard did, who wrote of nothing he had not seen--if his verse is to be taken quite literally. He says:-- "Nere Breaknoke Towne, there is a mountaine hye, Which shewes so huge, it is full hard to clime. The mountaine seemes so monstrous to the eye, Yet thousands doe repayre to that sometime. And they that stand right on the top shal see A wonder great, as people doe report; Which common brute and saying true may bee, But since, in deede, I did not there resort, I write no more, then world will witnesse well." From the Brecknock Beacons there is a truly remarkable view; and for those unable or unwilling to climb, there is the sight of the mountains themselves. [Illustration: THE USK AT BRECKNOCK.] Continuing its course to the east and south, the Usk passes on, skirting Bwlch, a mountain over which the main road runs, offering glimpses on one hand of the valley of the Wye, and on the other of the valley of the Usk. Presently, our stream passes by the meagre remains of Dinas Castle, which had the honour of being stormed by Alfred the Great's daughter, Ethelfleda, and taken too, although garrisoned at the time by three-and-thirty valiant Welsh women; for the men were all fighting far afield. Through a lovely valley the Usk reaches its second town of consequence--Crickhowell. This "preatie tounlet stondith as in a valley upon Wisk," Leland says; and, indeed, its situation on the north-east bank of the river is beautiful. Whichever way one looks, the scenery is charming in its attractiveness and rich in the romantic and the picturesque. Close to the Abergavenny road stand the ruins of what once must have been a castle of very considerable dimensions, which covered as much as eight acres of ground. Even in the days of Elizabeth this castle was nothing more than a ruin. No great distance from Crickhowell is the Well of St. Cenau, eagerly sought for by the newly-married, for to drink its waters first was to secure command of the house for life:-- "'You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes,' He to the countryman said; But the countryman smiled as the stranger spoke, And sheepishly shook his head. 'I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But, i' faith, she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.'" [Illustration: BIT OF THE ROMAN WALL AT CAERLEON (_p. 155_).] Farther down stream is Llangattoc Park, with its roomy cave, known as Eglwys Faen, "the stone church"; and beyond is Llangwryney, where Richard, Earl of Clare, passing through the wood, preceded by pipers, was set upon by the Welsh and murdered. Here the Gwryney joins the Usk, which, flowing through scenery that has been called the "Garden of Wales," and passing from Brecknock into Monmouth, reaches the ancient town of Abergavenny, lying in the shadow of the Sugar-Loaf Mountain at the junction of the Usk and the Gavenny--"the brook that christneth Abergeney." As is the case with so many Welsh towns, Abergavenny is wholly surrounded by high hills, but here the valley is spacious and fruitful. Of this place Churchyard, whose poetry is met with at every turn, says:-- "Aborganie, behind I kept in store, Whose seat and soyle with best may well compare. The towne somewhat on steepe and mounting hill, With pastor grounds and meddowes great at will: On every side huge mountaines hard and hye, And some thicke woods, to please the gazer's eye." "Hard and hye" the mountains do rise and tower above the luxurious valley of "pastor grounds." Not so long ago all the streets of Abergavenny were narrow and crooked, but of late years there has been a great display of public enterprise. Whether the changes that have been effected are to be regarded as improvements is questionable; for with the widening of the thoroughfares and the building of a new town hall and markets, and so forth, the individuality of a town is apt to disappear; but the residents may be pardoned for thinking themselves to be much better off than were their forefathers. To be sure, the town has scanty remains of a castle rising from a tree-clad hill to overlook the houses and the river. Part of the castle area is covered with houses, and another part has been converted into public gardens. The associations of the fortress are none of the noblest, for historians tell us that "it was dishonoured by treason oftener than any other castle in Wales." It seems to have been the practice of the Norman lords of Abergavenny Castle to invite neighbouring Welsh chiefs to feasts within the walls of the stronghold, and then treacherously murder them. Wood tells of one of the most dastardly of these deeds. "Soon after the murder of Trahaern Vechan, at Slansavaddon lake, by William de Braose (lord of Abergavenny Castle), the Welsh, inflamed with resentment and revenge, commanded by Sitsylt ap Dyfnwald and other Welsh chieftains, surprised the Castle of Abergavenny, and took the whole garrison prisoners. William de Braose recovered his castle by composition; and after the reconciliation of the Welsh lords to King Henry, /A.D./ 1175, he invited Sitsylt, his son Geofrey, and other men of note to a feast, under pretence of congratulation upon the late peace; when, contriving cause for dispute, he called upon his men, who were ready for that purpose, and most treacherously murdered the unsuspicious and unarmed Welsh; then proceeded to Sitsylt's house, slew his son Cadwallader in his mother's presence, and, setting fire to the house, carried her away to his castle." Once upon a time Abergavenny was noted for flannels, but this industry has been wrested from it by more enterprising competitors, while the manufacture of wigs, for which it was once noted, has succumbed to change of fashion. St. Mary's Church, a fine fourteenth-century church, occupying the site of a Norman church which was attached to a Benedictine priory, contains many ancient monuments, amongst others that of Sir Richard Herbert of Coldbrook, who, together with his brother, was beheaded, after the Battle of Banbury, in 1469; and in the Herbert chapel is "a Jesse tree," of which Murray's "Handbook" says that it is "perhaps one of the most perfect extant." Leaving this lovely town, the Usk makes more directly for the sea. A few miles away to the east, in the valley of one of its tributaries, are the ruins of Raglan Castle, standing on a richly-wooded eminence not far from the village of the same name. It was begun not earlier than the reign of Henry V., and apparently not finished until the time of Charles I.; and so strong was it that it had the distinction of being one of the last fortresses in the kingdom to surrender to Cromwell's men. It would be interesting to recall the story of the siege which it endured, and to describe the lovely remains of it; but it lies too far out of our course, and we must return to our river and follow it through the pretty scenery it traverses to the town to which it has lent its name. In days long gone by, Usk had to bear many a sore blow from Owen Glendower, but now it has no more alarming invaders than the placid, contemplative wielders of the rod--for here the Usk is famous for its salmon and its trout. Standing upon a tongue of land formed by the confluence of the Olwey with the main stream, Usk has been identified with a Roman station; and though the evidences are external rather than internal, the theory has been almost universally accepted of antiquaries. Of its castle, occupying a commanding site near the river, and still retaining its outer walls in very fair preservation, with the gateway, towers, and keep, the precise origin is not known; but in the reign of Henry III. it was in the hands of Robert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester. From this family it passed to the Mortimers, Earls of March, and in the reign of Henry VI. was granted to Richard, Duke of York, as nephew of the last of the Mortimers. It became a favourite residence of this personage, and is believed to have been the birthplace of Edward IV. and other princes. Of the scathe which Owen Glendower had wrought at Usk we have already spoken, but it remains to add that the citizens were at last avenged, for here he sustained a crashing defeat and had to flee to the mountains. Flowing beneath the ancient stone bridge shown in our view (page 156), the river passes on, through scenery that is never less than pleasant, to Caerleon, prettily placed on the right bank; and here the Usk takes toll of the Afon. Caerleon is one of the most interesting spots in all this part of Wales. Here was quartered the second Augustan legion, and this was the principal Roman town in the country of the Silures. In those days it must have been a place of great magnificence and refinement as well as of war, for Giraldus Cambrensis, writing in the twelfth century, tells of the remains of splendid palaces, baths, theatres, and other public buildings; and though these have all vanished, an abundance of Roman relics has been unearthed, which are treasured in a museum that has been built by an antiquarian society; and bits of the wall are still to be seen _in situ_. But the legendary associations of Caerleon are even more memorable than its history; for here it was, according to one version of the Arthurian myth, that the British prince, when, after the withdrawal of the legions, the land was laid waste by the "heathen hosts" and by the warfare of the native princes-- "Thro' the puissance of his Table Round Drew all their petty princedoms under him, Their king and head, and made a realm and reigned." The Roman amphitheatre consists of a grassy hollow enclosed by a bank, lying just outside the wall on the east; "Arthur's Round Table" is a bank of earth some sixteen feet high. There is no reason to doubt that after the Roman era Caerleon became the centre of one of the British kingdoms. At a later time it was "threatened by the fleet of Alfred, which, however, was recalled home before making an attack. In early days it had its martyrs--St. Julius and St. Aaron--and afterwards it became the seat of a bishopric, which for some time enjoyed the honour of being the Metropolitan See of Wales. After the Norman Conquest Caerleon was a frequent bone of contention between the Welsh and the invaders, and was alternately taken and retaken. A castle was built here by one of the Norman barons; but it was not until the reign of Edward I. that the English obtained undisturbed possession of the town, which, prior to the building of a castle at Newport, was a place of considerable strategic importance."[10] [Illustration: _Photo: A. Dunning, Usk._ USK (_p. 155_).] [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ CAERLEON.] By this time the Usk has become a tidal stream with a rapidly widening valley; and now it follows a devious course through rich meadows with wooded hills on either hand. A tomb in Christchurch, on the road connecting Caerleon and Newport, was long believed to have miraculous powers of cure for sick children who touched the sepulchre on the eve of the Ascension; and in 1770 as many as sixteen children were laid upon it to pass the night. Newport, four miles from the mouth of the river, owes its prosperity mainly to the great output of iron and coal from the interior of Wales that comes here for shipment. It has many railways to wait upon it, and its facilities in this kind have been greatly increased by the construction of the Severn Tunnel; and it is also furnished with abundant dock accommodation. Of the castle, built by Robert, Earl of Gloucester, a natural son of Henry I., to command the Usk, some of the walls and towers still remain, close to the famous bridge of five arches, reared at the beginning of the century and widened and improved in 1866; but the greater part of the stronghold has been either demolished or converted into business premises. The record of the town is, for the most part, one of peace and commercial development, and contains few episodes of violence, except the attack upon it by the Chartists led by John Frost in the year 1839. The tower of the church of St. Woollos, standing on an eminence overlooking the valley of the Usk and the Bristol Channel, is said by Wood to have been built by Henry III. in gratitude to the inhabitants of this place and surrounding districts, who, by a victory over his enemies, relieved him from captivity. Newport may not have great attractions to offer to the tourist, but in these later days it has not been mindful only of money-making, as one may see from the many public buildings with which it has provided itself. [Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._ NEWPORT: THE BRIDGE AND CASTLE.] Leaving Newport, the Usk wanders through a plain of no particular interest, scenically speaking, and almost at its embouchure is joined by the river Ebbw, which, rising on the border of Brecknockshire in two headstreams that unite near Llanhilleth, has run a course some twenty-four miles long. Thus reinforced, Usk merges itself in the larger life of the Bristol Channel. /E. W. Sabel./ [Illustration: THE BRECKNOCK BEACONS, FROM THE TAFF.] RIVERS OF SOUTH WALES. Brecknock Beacons--The /Taff/: Taff Fawr and Taff Fechan--Cardiff Reservoirs--Merthyr--The Dowlais Steel and Iron Works--The Rhondda--Pontypridd--Castell Coch--Llandaff and its Cathedral--Cardiff and its Castle. The /Neath/: Ystradfellte--The Mellte and its Affluents--The Cwm Porth--Waterfalls and Cascades--The Sychnant--Pont Neath Vaughan--Neath and its Abbey--The Dulas and the Clydach. Swansea and its Docks--Morriston Castle--Swansea Castle--The Mumbles and Swansea Bay. The /Tawe/: Craig-y-Nos--Lly-Fan Fawr. The /Towy/: Ystradffin--Llandovery--Llandilo--Dynevor Castle--Carmarthen and Richard Steele--Carmarthen Bar. The /Taf/: Milford Haven--Carew Castle--Pembroke Castle--Monkton Priory--New Milford and Old Milford--Haverfordwest. The /Teifi/: Strata Florida Abbey--Newcastle Emlyn--Cenarth--Cardigan. The /Ystwith/: The Upper Waters--Aberystwith. The bold-headed, ruddy Brecknock Beacons and their neighbouring heights of the Fforest Fawr are, between them, to be held responsible for the nativity of three important streams of South Wales: the Taff, the Neath, and the Tawe. Not one of these streams is navigable, and they all have courses trivial enough compared with the Severn, the Usk, or the Wye. They are, however, quite strangely remarkable for their natural beauty, and for the scars on their beauty due to the mineral wealth of the valleys they drain. Nowhere in Great Britain is there more fascinating glen scenery or more sequestered and picturesque waterfalls than on the Neath and its tributaries. Yet Neath itself is a grimy town, and the river, which, ten miles to the north, wins admiration from everyone, here flows discoloured amid ironworks and coal mines, with all their ugly rubbish heaps. The Taff and the Tawe begin among heather and bracken, loftily and crystal clear; and they end alike, brown as canals in manufacturing districts, the one among the shipping of Cardiff, and the other in the blackest and most forbidding part of Swansea. [Illustration: LLANDAFF CATHEDRAL: THE WEST FRONT (_p. 164_).] In all Wales there is no finer little group of mountain-tops than the Brecknock Beacons, as seen from the south. Pen-y-Fan, the highest summit, stands 2,910 feet above sea-level, and 500 feet less above the town of Brecon, some five miles to the north. The Beacons are an isolated society, separated by the Usk and its valley from the Black Forest Mountains east, and by the deep Glyn Tarel from the irregular mountain mass whence Tawe springs to the light. Their bases lie set among charming pastoral nooks. Above, they are good to see when autumn has made tawny the acres of their bracken; and at the summits they vie with each other in the redness of their precipices, that of Pen-y-Fan rightly winning the day with a sheer slide of rock some 600 feet deep, at an angle of about 70 degrees. Many are the legends that animate the Beacons. Enough if we believe with certain of the bards that it was here, on Pen-y-Fan, that Arthur called his chivalry together, and initiated the Order of the Knights of the Round Table. In the land of the Red Dragon, centuries ago, there could be no higher dignity than to be associated with him who was to appear for the glory of Britain: "the lamp in darkness":-- "In forest, mountain, and in camp, Before them moved the Burning Lamp; In blackest night its quenchless rays Beckoned them on to glorious days." [Illustration: _Photo: F. Bedford, by permission of Catherall & Pritchard, Chester._ LLANDAFF CATHEDRAL: THE NAVE AND CHOIR (_p. 164_).] Having clambered, not without considerable exertion, to Pen-y-Fan, the traveller, if he feels thirsty, has but to turn his back to the north, face the distant smoke clouds above the hills of Merthyr and Rhymney, and walk a few yards down the western slope of the mountain. Here are two ice-cold springs, the parents of baby rivulets. Below you see how briskly these rivulets broaden and unitedly carry the pure water to the south. This is, in fact, one of the two main sources of the /Taff/. The other also is on the Beacons. The two streams, Taff Fawr and Taff Fechan (the "Great" and "Little" Taff), run parallel, in respective glens, among heather and rocks, for eight or ten miles, to join just above Merthyr. Pollution of all kinds comes to the stream as soon as it is thus fully entitled to be called the Taff. Even before Merthyr is reached, Taff Fawr has learnt something of the pains and penalties of an industrial district. Ere it has run five miles from its source, it falls into the hands of the Cardiff Corporation. Its valley is here a characteristic mountain glen, with heathery solitudes on either side, and little clefts among the heather by which nameless affluents bring their pure tribute to the main stream. Houses there are none. But of a sudden, in all this loneliness, you come to a huge dam built and building across the valley from east to west, and beyond you perceive the goodly lake of which the rising dam is to be the mighty northern boundary. [Illustration: RIVERS OF SOUTH WALES.] Yet farther south are other evidences of Cardiff's great thirst. Our Taff is again enclosed, and flows through a second reservoir, proceeding out of it by a series of prepared waterfalls, not unpicturesque, though they have artificial flagged beds and precise parapets. Here, however, one may almost look one's last at Taff the pellucid. The area of toil and sophistication is at hand. Yet some four miles above Merthyr the river has one notable reach of beauty. There is a ruined turnpike house to hint of the time of "Rebecca," when this part of Wales rose in arms and fought toll-bars as ancient Wales fought the Normans of the Marches; and high above the wrecked house are some precipitous limestone cliffs, with jackdaws always circling about their crests. Taff lies in a deep bed here, with woods on the western slopes where its waters wash them. It rose in the old red sandstone of the Beacons: it has now come to the carboniferous limestone and to the coal-measures to which South Wales owes its phenomenal prosperity. Merthyr would be a pretty place if it were not sullied by smoke beyond redemption. The hills, studded with chimneys, cumber each other; and in all the adjacent hollows, high up and low down, are manufactories. The people wear clogs. As in other such busy centres, they seem happy enough, and by no means tearful about the local desecration of Nature. But it must be admitted that they are grimy, like their environment. Of all the large manufactories round Merthyr, those of the Dowlais Steel and Iron Works, two miles away (a constant ascent), are the most considerable. One may doubt, perhaps, if these are now the largest of their kind in the world, but they are still very extensive. A recent report tells us that they consist of eighteen blast furnaces, producing about 700 tons of iron and 2,400 tons of steel rails per week, and that their collieries can lift 3,700 tons of coal daily. Founded about a hundred and fifty years ago, they have been a staff of life to millions. Few sights of the kind are more impressive than the manipulation here of the huge cruses of molten steel, and the methodical treatment of the ores, which develop in a few hours into red-hot steel rails from thirty to sixty yards long; or than the cutting of these substantial rails into sections by a serrated disc which makes some 1,600 revolutions a minute. The "Dowlais Lights," as they are called, flash at times high over the mountains to the north. The landlord of the little inn at Devynnock called the writer out at night to see them. "It's a sign of rain, for certain," he said. Tradition locally lays down this law; but tradition often errs, and on this occasion the Dowlais lights, seen here twenty miles away, were, as it chanced, the augurs of a glorious autumnal morrow. [Illustration: LLANDAFF CATHEDRAL] [Illustration: NORTH DOOR] From Merthyr downwards Taff flows fast, as if anxious to reach the sea from the uncomely rows of colliers' cottages which rise so thickly above it. It is still hedged about by mountains, but the mountains are not now "things of beauty." Quaker's Yard, Aberdare Junction, and Pontypridd are names of industrial value. At each of these places, "coal" railways from lateral valleys join the Taff Vale line. With these tributary railways descend tributaries for the Taff itself, the river Rhondda (which itself bifurcates higher up into the Rhondda Fawr and Fechan) being the most noteworthy for the volume of its water. The scenery of these affluents is, like that of the Taff itself, imposing, with deep glens and wooded dingles, but mercilessly cut about by capitalists. Pontypridd deserves particular mention for the famous bridge which gives it its name. In the words of a specialist, this bridge "is a perfect segment of a circle, and stretches its magnificent chord of 140 feet across the bed of the Taff, rising like a rainbow from the steep bank on the eastern side of the river, and gracefully resting on the western--the _beau idéal_ of architectural elegance." It is the supreme achievement of a local stonemason named Edwards, who, a hundred and fifty years ago, devoted himself to the construction of bridges much as a mediæval artist devoted himself to the Madonnas of his canvases or to his crucifixes. South Wales owes much to Edwards the bridge-builder: we shall meet with his work on the Towy and the Teifi as well as here. In 1755 this "_beau idéal_ of architectural elegance" showed to better advantage than now, when it is surrounded by the common buildings of a mining town; but it was never more useful than at present. [Illustration: THE PALACE GATEWAY, LLANDAFF (_p. 166_).] Hence, now wide in a shallow bed, and now narrow and rushing deeply between high banks, gaily wooded in places and mere refuse-heaps in others, Taff speeds towards Llandaff. Three or four miles ere it comes to this tranquil spot, a striking crag is seen on its left bank, with glorious beech woods clothing the steep red slopes of the rock. This is an historic spot: Castell Coch, or the Red Castle. It is such a site as in Rhineland would at one time have given a robber-baron a superb base for his depredations. As such, in fact, it was utilised. We read how, in 1158, Ivor Bach of Castell Coch descended upon Cardiff Castle and carried off the Earl and Countess of Gloucester as prisoners: the event is set forth on canvas in the Cardiff Town Hall. Nowadays the turret that rises above the topmost trees of the crag tells of other exploits. Castell Coch belongs to the Marquess of Bute, and it is here that the wine is grown which, in the opinion of some, is convincing proof that England might, if she would, become a viniferous country. In the Cardiff Exhibition of 1896 a stall was devoted to the sale of Castell Coch wines. But the graceful spire and tower of Llandaff soon appear, in the midst of green meadows and lofty old trees, to tell of yet other aspirations, with the myriad houses of expanding Cardiff beyond. Its name describes it: Llan-ar-Daf, "the church on the Taff." It has been spoken of "as the most ancient episcopal see remaining on its original site in Great Britain." The old records go far to acclaim Llandaff as both venerable and ancient. Lucius, the great-grandson of Caractacus, in the second century /A.D./, endowed, we are told, four churches from the royal estates, one being Llandaff. A bishop of Llandaff is also said to have died a martyr in the Diocletian persecution. And yet, with such high associations, forty years ago this cathedral was the most desolate and neglected in the land. As it stands, it is eloquent of the whole-hearted labours of two men, chiefly: Dean Conybeare and Dean Williams. Previous to 1857, the cathedral was a picturesque ivied ruin of Perpendicular tower and Early-English roofless walls, with a ghastly eighteenth-century conventicle absorbing what is now half the nave and the east end of the building. The grand old Norman doorways south, north-east, and west, and also the tower, seemed to have outlived their vocation; and the Norman arch of the interior, above the present altar--perhaps the finest thing in Llandaff--was plastered up and totally expunged. The present cathedral owes its origin to the Norman bishop Urban (1107-33), who was dissatisfied with the church--28 feet long, 15 feet broad, and 20 feet high--to the throne of which he had been raised; and its remarkable restoration to the Llandaff architect, John Pritchard, of recent times. It can no longer be described as, by Bishop Bull in 1697, "our sad and miserable cathedral." Alike within and outside it satisfies by its beauty and good order. The old and the new are well blended here. [Illustration: _Photo: Alfred Freke, Cardiff._ CARDIFF CASTLE (_p. 166_).] [Illustration: _Photo: Valentine & Sons, Dundee._ ST. MARY STREET, CARDIFF.] As a village, Llandaff is now hardly aught except a flourishing suburb of Cardiff. Still, it keeps its individuality, and declines to be incorporated with the great invading town. The remains of the old episcopal palace and the old market-cross consort amicably with the one or two single-storeyed thatched cottages of the village square. The palace gateway has quite a baronial look, but it leads to nothing of particular interest. Bishopscourt, the modern palace, is a more cosy residence than that built by Bishop John de la Zouch early in the fifteenth century, of which this gateway is the most conspicuous relic. Of Cardiff, what can be said adequately in few words? It began the century with about a thousand inhabitants; in 1881 its population was 82,671; and now it is about double as much. The Romans had a fort here, which the Welshmen called Caer Didi, or the fort of Didius (Aldus Didius): hence, Caerdydd and Cardiff. Fitzhamon the Norman, about 1095, erected the castle, the substantial fragments of which adorn the grassy courtyard of the mansion of the Marquess of Bute, who--more than Morgan ap Rhys, or Fitzhamon, who dispossessed Morgan--may well be called the lord of Cardiff. The prosperity of the present town began with the canal and sea-lock, early in this century, which enabled Merthyr to send its coal abroad; but it was guaranteed by the enterprise of the father of the actual Marquess of Bute, who expended millions in the construction of docks. Within the memory of men still living there was tidal mud close to the stately, if _bizarre_, outer wall of the Marquess's residence, with its glass-eyed effigies of wild beasts perched on the stones. But the "Welsh Metropolis," as Cardiff loves to call itself, will not again see those times. One cannot conscientiously say that there is much of romantic or even artistic interest in this thriving town--the castle, with its Asiatic richness of decoration, apart. But the place is at least interesting, in its acres of docks, its prodigious machinery for the control of water-power and for the lading of vessels, and even its long ugly road of mean houses connecting it with the town of Bute Docks. This last is a cosmopolitan district. Coal is in demand everywhere, and it is pre-eminently coal that Cardiff thrives on. In 1849, only 162,829 tons of it were exported hence; in 1895, the amount was 11,067,403 tons. One of the astonishing sights of the Docks is to see a railway truck full of coal lifted by machinery as easily as if it were a penny loaf, emptied into the hold of a ship, and then, in less than a minute, be succeeded by another truck. [Illustration: _Photo: Mr. Francis Bedford, Camden Road, N._ THE DRAWING ROOM, CARDIFF CASTLE.] Cardiff has every incentive and determination to go ahead. St. Mary's, the main street, can boast of costly banks and hotels and a very great deal of traffic. It is singularly noisy at night; and that also, we presume, is evidence of the strong modern spirit of the place. The town in 1896 indulged in an Exhibition on such a scale that its loss may be computed in scores of thousands of pounds; but the Exhibition was an investment, and it is a proof of Cardiff's wealth that it can afford thus to cast expectantly so many thousands upon the waters. The Marquess's castle is as unique in its splendour as is Cardiff among Welsh towns in its development. Of its external towers, one, the Clock Tower (with many quaint, arrangements for spectacular effect), is as modern as the residential part of the building. The other, or Black Tower (though it is of white limestone), dates from early times. It is also known as the Duke Robert Tower, because it was here that Robert Duke of Normandy was, by his own brother, Robert of Gloucester, son of Henry I., confined for many years. [Illustration: IN THE VALE OF NEATH.] Taff has much to be proud of as it glides into the sea past the castle, though it has, for miles and miles ere this, lost its crystal purity. * * * * * The river /Neath/, like Taff, rises among lonely mountains, heather, bracken, and the bracing winds of the uplands. The three summits of the Fforest Fawr range--long-backed ridges, woeful to be lost upon--each give names to the tributaries that flow from them, and at Pont Neath Vaughan form the Neath river proper. Y-Fan-Nedd, Y-Fan-Llia, and Y-Fan-Dringarth thus beget the Little Neath (the "dd" in Welsh being equivalent to our "th"), the Llia, and the Dringarth. The two latter, after about five miles of independence, join just above Ystradfellte, where another Castell Coch reminds us that Wales had long ages of intestine and other strife ere she gave up unfurling the Red Dragon on her hilltops. We are here in the "fiery heart of Cambria," where the rocks and morasses were such mighty fastnesses for the brave Welshmen of old. But these times are long past, and Cambria's fiery heart may now be said to depend literally upon the fuel in the bowels of the land. [Illustration: NEATH ABBEY (_p. 171_).] There is little of exceptional interest in the upper reaches of the Neath's tributaries. Maen Llia, or the Stone of Llia, is a huge boulder of granite some eleven feet high by the Roman road of Sarn Helen, which, far up near the source of the Llia, crosses the mountains with the recognised audacity of a Roman thoroughfare. But few are the wayfarers, other than reckless tramps, who set eyes on this one among the many monoliths that decorate Wild Wales. It is at Ystradfellte that the wonders of the Neath's scenery begin. This little village stands more than 900 feet above the sea-level, and the Mellte (as Llia and Dringarth conjoined are named), in its fall of nearly 500 feet in the five miles between Ystradfellte and Pont Neath Vaughan, is a succession of pictures so lovely, and yet so confined, that they excite as much admiration as despair in the mind of the artist who comes to paint them. The Little Neath runs parallel with the Mellte during this course, separated from it by a high ridge, and scarcely a mile apart. This stream also gallops in a rocky bed, with soaring woods on both banks, and with waterfalls here and there of much beauty. But the Mellte and its two affluents, the Hepste and the Sychnant, quite put the Little Neath in the shade in this respect. You may see it for yourself, and also judge by the opinions expressed without reserve by the many colliers and their families who come hither, on picnic bent, from Hirwain and even Merthyr, over the high eastern hills. The Vale of Neath would be accounted a wonder if it were in Middlesex. But its remoteness keeps metropolitan tourists aloof; its charms are for the local colliers, and few besides. The Cwm Porth, or "river cavern," a mile below Ystradfellte, is the first of the Mellte's marked eccentricities. The combination of rocks and water and wood, with the added element of danger in exploring this rugged, echo-haunted perforation in the cliff, are attractive in the extreme to the able-bodied traveller. Mellte, in time of flood, carries a deal of amber-tinted water in its rocky bed, and Cwm Porth is not in the hands of a company who charge for admittance, and guarantee smoothed paths, and ropes and handrails where there is a risk of broken limbs. This, indeed, is just the best of the Mellte: you feel as if you are on virgin soil while scrambling at a venture in its steep woods, now on the edge of the roaring little stream fifty feet sheer above a waterfall, and now midway in the river itself, perched on a rock, with vistas of boisterous water up and down, and the river's banks, wooded to the sky-line, hundreds of feet on either hand, at an angle of forty-five or fifty degrees. The writer, on one memorable September afternoon, was for hours alone in these woods, passing from waterfall to waterfall, more by instinct than sure guidance, with the gold and bronze and crimson of foliage constantly betwixt him and the blue autumnal sky; nor did he see sign of other human being than himself, nor more than one white farmstead, when he climbed above the topmost trees and returned to the bleak and bare uplands beyond. The squirrels ran from bough to bough, the birds chirped in the infrequent grassy glades, where the sunlight made a bright spot in the midst of this dense, damp shade, and the waters filled the glen with their clamour. In all England there is nothing of its kind so admirable as the seclusion and beauty of this gorge of the Mellte, with its tributary, the Hepste, to the east. Categorically, the chief waterfalls may be mentioned thus: the Clun Gwyn Falls--Upper, Middle, and Lower--and the two Falls of the Hepste. One cannot describe such things; each of these five has such individuality and beauty that on seeing it you prefer it to the others. Their framing is perfect. Even the heron that gathers up its long legs and whips across the stream out of your way is not wanted to complete your satisfaction in such pictures. Yet in a three miles' flight a crow would reach coal mines and swart heaps of such refuse as you would not dream could lie within scores of miles of these divine solitudes. The great Cilhepste Fall, otherwise Ysgwd-yr-Eira (the Spout of Snow), though the best known of the valley's cascades, is, in the writer's opinion, the least convincing. The water is tossed in one curve over a ledge of rock, and falls about 45 feet into a basin, whence it moves downwards to the far finer succession of furious white steps known as the Lower Hepste Falls. The woods in autumn clasp it amphitheatrically with their green and gold. There is no fault anywhere. There is also this added eccentricity: you may walk under the Fall from one side of the river to the other. The writer did it in time of heavy flood, and was soaked for his pains. Afterwards he clambered, not easily, down to the Lower Falls, the disarray of which was much more to his taste. The Ysgwd-yr-Eira would please more if it had a flaw. As it is, it looks as if Nature and man had conspired to make a cascade with surroundings that should be a model of their kind. Yet even this criticism--which may well be held to be of the bilious order--will by most be regarded as highly flattering to the Spout of Snow. After the Mellte, one is not profoundly stirred by the Falls and sylvan graces of the Little Neath and its tributary, the Perddyn. Yet, they, too, are beautiful, especially the cascades of Scwd Gwladys (the Lady's Fall) and Scwd Einon Gam (Crooked Einon's Fall), in the latter stream. The Sychnant, however, is a sensational little river. It joins the Mellte at the foot of a rocky precipice, Craig Dinas, which, even with its mere 170 feet of perpendicular rock, may be warranted to yield a thrill. From the grassy, hawthorned summit of Craig Dinas, one may peer into the deep-cut bed of the Sychnant, where this cleaves through the mountains from Hirwain, and also see its brace of waterfalls. But the glen is well-nigh impassably dense with undergrowth and trees, and bound about with precipices as emphatic, though not as high, as Craig Dinas. Where the Sychnant comes to the light from this dark embedded dingle, it is sadly spoiled by quarry men and others. But even these enterprising gentlemen will fight shy of its higher recesses, especially as they have nothing to gain by the intrusion. Point Neath Vaughan is a snug little village, with none of the airs it might assume in pride of its position as key to the glories of these glens of the Neath. Its inns are homely, modest buildings. South, for the ten or twelve miles to the sea, the river Neath flows through a broad and lovely valley, with wooded or bare mountains on both sides. From Cefn Hirfynydd (west) and Craig-y-Llyn (east) many a dashing little stream, with miniature cascades, makes great haste to swell the main river. But collieries are here, as well as fascinating scenery, and it is impossible to overlook them and their smoke. The town of Neath neither gives to nor gains from its river much distinction where this moves through its midst, brown, and with tidal mud on its banks. It is a colliery town, pure and simple, surprisingly furnished with public-houses. The fragments of its castle that survive are pent about by dismal slums, so that a man must have a very keen antiquarian sense to discover them. Nor are they much when found: just a gateway with its towers, the whole prettily hugged by ivy. Richard Grenville, of Bideford, who founded it in the twelfth century, would not care to see it now. Hence to the much more grandiose ruins of the Cistercian Abbey of St. Mary and the Holy Trinity, which also owed its origin to the same Richard Grenville, is a walk of a mile or more--not a rural walk, by any means. You may, if you will, take a tram-car thither, with collier-lads or their womenfolk for your companions, and with black mud on the roadway. The ruins stand close-girt by canals and mines and ironworks. Leland describes the abbey as, in his day, the fairest in Wales; and in the year 1500 its glories, and especially the sweetness of its convent bells, were bardic themes. Never was there so abject a change; and yet, after the Dissolution, when it fell to the lot of Sir Richard Cromwell, nephew of Henry VIII.'s minister and great-grandfather of Oliver, it was for long an appreciated residence. The white stone mullions of the many windows of the parts of the abbey added by Sir P. Hoby, in 1650 or so, still gleam against the dark gritstone of the walls. [Illustration: OUTSKIRTS OF NEATH.] In spite of its sordid surroundings, however, Neath Abbey is not despicable. The area of its ruins impresses; the jagged towering ends of the ivied walls of its church, with daws croaking about them, and the long-desolate aisle, tangled with coarse grass and brambles, are also impressive. The ecclesiastics who sleep in Neath Abbey may be said to lie fathoms deep under the accumulated soil. Not a trace of one of them remains above the surface. The dark refectory of their convent, with its pillared roof, stands pretty much as it did in the sixteenth century, and of itself would dignify the ruins. But echo alone feasts in its damp, sombre hall. One remembers that it was here our Edward II. sought shelter after his evasion of Caerphilly Castle, and that it was a Neath monk who betrayed him into that terrible custody of Berkeley Castle, where death awaited him; and, remembering this, one is inclined to be sentimental, and to talk about the curse that broods over the Neath Abbey ruins. In truth, however, smoke is the main brooder here. [Illustration: NORTH DOCK, SWANSEA (_p. 174_).] The river Neath glides on to its estuary by Briton Ferry, some two miles distant from the town. Hills escort it right to the sea--not all with smoking chimneys on them. The town is indeed quite uniquely hemmed round with beauty, as well as ugliness. Up the valleys of the Dulas and the Clydach, slim streams which join the Neath near its mouth, are nooks and recesses as winsome as those of the Mellte itself; and once on the tops of the mountains, in any direction, the pedestrian may readily forget coal and iron. * * * * * It is but seven or eight, miles from Neath to Swansea, where the /Tawe/ comes to its end, foully enough, amid ironworks and "coalers." One may, for convenience sake, make the journey, and later rise with the river to its source. There is more satisfaction in seeing it gradually purify than in watching its progress from pellucidity to pollution; from the sweet-aired heather hills where Adelina Patti has fixed her quiet home, to the sulphureous atmosphere of Landore and Hafod. Sweyn's Ea (Sweyne's Eye or Inlet), Aber Tawe--or Swansea, as we modern English call it--is not what it was when Sweyne the King and Rover was wont to come hither as a base for his forays into the vales of South Cambria. Still, it can, if it cares to, brag stoutly of its ancient enlistment in the service of carbon. In 1305 it received a charter from William de Brews (Breos), great-grandson of the famous Lord Marcher, "to have pit coal." That was beginning an industrial career early indeed. Four centuries later, in 1709, its jurisdiction as a port extended from Oxwich, in the Gower peninsula, to Chepstow--of course, including the then unborn and unthought--of Cardiff. It began to smelt copper in 1564, thanks to a charter given by Queen Elizabeth; and it is to copper and shipping, quite as much as to its position at the mouth of a great coalfield (estimated still to hold 19,200,000,000 tons of fuel underground), that Swansea owes its fine fortunes and its population of about a hundred thousand. It seems an ungracious thing to say, but Swansea is apparently somewhat hampered by its antiquity. In the struggle for supremacy with Cardiff, it has not had Cardiff's free hand in the matter of laying out a new town; nor, one may add, quite that powerful vigour of youth which carries all before it. Hence, it has already been left behind. The Duke of Beaufort is not such a potentate in Swansea as the Marquess of Bute in Cardiff; yet he stands to this city somewhat like the Marquess to Cardiff. It was a Duke of Beaufort who cut the first sod of the North Dock, or Town-Float, in 1852; and his Grace has large representation in the Swansea Harbour Trust, which has charge of the city's port affairs. The late Lord Swansea, speaking on behalf of this Corporation, once said: "Swansea, you may depend upon it, is destined to become the Ocean Port of England." Cardiff, at any rate, laughs such words to scorn, and even a layman of England may be allowed to think the prophecy over-sanguine. The North Dock has an area of 14 acres, and is "connected with a half-tide basin of two and a half acres by a lock 160 feet long and 50 feet wide, having at its seaward entrance gates of 60 feet, with a depth of 23 feet over the sill at spring-tides and 16 feet at neaps." This is, of course, but one of Swansea's docks, and by no means the most important of them. Cardiff's docks are undoubtedly finer than Swansea's, with more gigantic fitments. Swansea, though ancient, possesses few relics of its past. The castle tower, in the main street, with a clock set in it, is the chief of them. In the large hall of the Royal Institution of South Wales--one of Swansea's many meritorious establishments--may be seen divers drawings and engravings of the city one, two, and three centuries ago. In all of them the castle towers stand up as if they still had the feudal faith strong in them. Green, pleasant, wooded hills form the invariable background. How changed the landscape now! The green hills are gone; cut bare and covered with mean mechanic tenements or smoking manufactories. On the summit of the most conspicuous of them are a few gaunt walls, which by night may, with the help of a glamorous moon, come near being deceptively picturesque. This is the so-called Morriston Castle, three miles north of the city, yet with the black suburb of Morriston at its feet, an active contributant to Swansea's fortunes. The "castle's" history is brief and ignominious. A hundred years ago Sir John Morris, a maker of tin plates, who gives his name to the suburb, erected a lofty and large building on this breezy hilltop, for the accommodation of four-and-twenty of his workmen and their families. Healthier homes these could not then have had within easy reach of their daily labour. But the gradient of the hill soon wore out their enthusiasm, and, one by one, the families moved down on to the level. Then the lodging-house, being abandoned, fell slowly but surely into ruin. The ruin is now Morriston Castle. Swansea's castle has a more conventional history. It was built in its final form (which can only be conjectured from its remains) by Bishop Gower of St. David's, in the fourteenth century. After the usual vicissitudes of disestablished castles, it still, until 1858, offered its dungeons for the confinement of recalcitrant debtors. In that year even these privileges were taken from it, and, ever since, civilisation has tried to crowd it out of existence. Its body is lost in the various buildings and workshops that have encroached upon it, but the graceful arcaded clock-tower remains. It gives a pretty touch to Swansea's main street, which it commands. Little more can here be said about Swansea, except that the visitor owes it to himself to leave the city (which was made a suffragan bishopric in 1890) as soon as possible, and make friends with the Mumbles. The five-mile curve of bay thither has been compared to that of the Bay of Naples. The comparison is not a modest one. Nevertheless, there is something uncommonly exhilarating about this Swansea Bay, with the red and white green-topped cliffs of the Mumbles at its south-western horn. You soon get out of reach of the fumes of the city's copper and other metal works. The shipping of the Mumbles has a nice clean look after that at the mouth of the Tawe. And, save when the wind is north-east, the air is sweet here, as it is bound to be. Mumbles--or Oystermouth, as it used to be called--has an attractive old castle of its own, of the Decorated period. But it is precious chiefly to Swansea for its sea and the lighthouse islets at the extremity of the headland. The view hence towards the busy city, less than four miles across the water, is not gay. Tall chimneys and a dense canopy of smoke: such is the Erebus you behold from the pleasant Mumbles cliffs. Ere moving up Tawe's valley, it seems quite worth while to tell of Swansea's connection with the fortunes of John Murray, the publisher. Gower the poet, Beau Nash, and other celebrities, owed their birth to this city; and it was while living here in 1806 that one Mrs. Randell compiled the "Domestic Cookery," for which John Murray paid her the solid sum of £2,000, and which, Dr. Smiles tells us, was very profitable to the young publisher, and helped in a great measure to establish his position. It may be added, also, that in the parish churchyard at the Mumbles lies the Dr. Thomas Bowdler who busied himself so strenuously with Shakespeare's Plays, and gave to our dictionaries an awkward, ugly word. The Tawe cannot be much more than twenty-five miles in length, from its source in the lakelet on the Brecknock Van, or summit, of the Fforest Fawr Mountains, to the Swansea Docks. As fully half its course is through a colliery district, it may be supposed that its claims to beauty cannot be of the strongest. But the Neath river has taught us that these South Wales streams cannot be judged thus summarily. One must, therefore, proceed up the long valley of Tawe in the hope of charms other than those that emanate from pit-gear, long chimneys, and factories. [Illustration: MORRISTON.] Morriston has already been noticed for its "castle." It deserves a word also for its bridge over the river. This bears the look of one of Edwards's constructions; its eyelet holes and graceful single curve remind one of Pontypridd. From Morriston to Ystradgynlais, Tawe is continually trammelled. In one part there is a cañon of slag heaps half a mile long for it to descend through. It is here shallow, and not more tainted than you would expect. The hills rise in high long banks on the outer boundaries of the valley, with wooded reaches above the lofty collieries, and crowned by the naked rock. Just south of Ystradgynlais the river receives its chief affluent, the Twrch, which has as bright and lengthy a youth as Tawe itself, rising under the Carmarthen Van, the rival peak of this Fforest Fawr range, which makes so commanding a mark on the two counties of Brecknock and Carmarthen. [Illustration: SWANSEA CASTLE (_p. 174_).] [Illustration: THE MUMBLES (_p. 175_).] The ascent here begins to be steep, and it is constant to the source. The colliery villages become less and less assertive, and the woods greener. By Coelbren a little stream hurries to the Tawe through one of those deep, thickly-treed glens which the Neath river knows so well. It is an enchanting spot, with the blue and green and russet of Craig-y-Nos across the valley to the north-west. The river gets quite near to the palace of our sweetest singer, whose conservatories can be seen gleaming for miles. In South Wales Patti holds a court other than that assured to her in all the world's capitals. She is at home here. Her photographs are in the shop-windows of Neath and Swansea, and so are the photographs of the various luxurious rooms of her mountain palace; and she is praised for other virtues than those that proceed from her entrancing throat. People wonder how she can isolate herself here, where collieries are not so remote that they cannot be seen. But that is Adelina Patti's affair, and has nothing to do with us. She is queen of the Tawe valley, in one sense, as well as the world's queen regnant of melody. At Craig-y-Nos, which is 700 feet above sea-level, Tawe is distant only five or six mountainous miles from its origin. It begins, like the Taff, with numerous slender rills from red cuttings in the stony sides of the bleak uplands, all hurrying together, as if anxious to compose a little strength with their divided weakness. But its chief source is the lonely tarn (to borrow the North-country word) of Lly-Fan Fawr, which never fails to keep it active. This is on the Brecknock Van. On the Carmarthen Van also there is a lake, Lly-Fan Fach, some two miles from the source of Tawe. From Lly-Fan Fach comes the Sawddy, one of the Towy's band of tributaries, which enters that river at Llangadock. * * * * * The /Towy/, which now claims our notice, in a far nobler river than the others treated in this chapter. From its start in the desolate wet uplands of Cardiganshire (less trodden than any other part of Great Britain) to the long channel south of Carmarthen, where it enters the bay of that name, it knows nothing of such pollution as spoils Tawe, Taff, and Neath. It is rural from first to last: savage almost in its upper reaches, beyond Ystradffin, where it can be explored only at some not inconsiderable risks, and where its first company of eager affluents rush to it from all sides in glens and defiles, as deep, craggy, and yet beautiful, as its own. Of its early affluents, the Doethiau certainly deserves particular mention. Hard by its junction with Towy is a strikingly picturesque wooded hill, one of Wales's many Dinases. Ystradffin is scarcely a village, but it boasts of attachment to the memory of a seventeenth-century cattle-raider named Twm Shon Catti (otherwise Tom Jones, the son of Catherine), who made use of a cave in the side of the Dinas by Towy for purposes of concealment. This hero of tradition at length determined to mend his ways, and, we are told, set about it by wooing an heiress. He secured her hand in the literal sense, and vowed to cut it off unless she gave it to him in the matrimonial sense. So stern a courtship was irresistible. Afterwards Twm Shon Catti became respectable, and died holding high office in the county. But the cave over Towy keeps the memory of his naughty youth and early manhood still green. From Ystradffin the river descends circuitously some eleven miles to the well-known fishing and tourist townlet of Llandovery, gambolling gaily in its rocky pools as if resolved to make the most of its youth ere coming to the long green valley which extends from Llandovery to Carmarthen. Here it receives two voluminous aids in the Bran from the north-east, and the Gwedderig from the east, both yielding pleasant prospects even for the few miles their valleys are visible from Llanymddyfri (_i.e._ "the Church amid the Waters"), or, as we know it, Llandovery. Green hills embrace Llandovery as if they loved it. The little town is not so interesting as its situation, apart from its old inn, the "Castle," a mellow, time-worn house. The very rooms here in which you sup on eggs and bacon (if you are lucky enough) may have known that worthy, the Vicar of Llandingat, who, in the seventeenth century, daily came hither for his ale, attended by a goat as thirsty as himself. One day, it is said, this goat drank well rather than wisely, and thenceforward declined to cross the threshold of the "Castle" with its master. One may hope that the Vicar learnt a lesson from the goat. Towy is here a great, clear, rapid stream, and so it continues for the remaining thirty miles of its career. Famous view-points on it are the bridges of Llandovery, Llangadock, and Llandilo, the bridges themselves as graceful as the valley. Llandilo stands on a knoll on the west bank of the river, and rejoices in its superiority to Llandovery as a market-town. This, to the stranger, is much less commendatory than its nearness to one of the most beautiful seats in South Wales, Dynevor, where the Barons of that title have long held sway. The ruins of the old Dynevor Castle, on a hill crowded with oak, ash, and beech trees, are from the river quite ideally picturesque. It is a pity that the "common herd" of tourists have so misbehaved themselves that Lord Dynevor has felt compelled to deny free access to so charming a spot. Golden Grove, an estate as winsome as its name, on the other bank of the Towy, opposite Dynevor, has had its attractions sung by Dyer, the poet, who was born in the neighbourhood, and died rector of Coningsby, in Lincolnshire, in 1757: here is the Grongar Hill, where "often, by the murm'ring rill," one "hears the thrush while all is still." Between Llandilo (Llan-Teilo: the Church of St. Teilo, who died Bishop of Llandaff, in /A.D./ 540) and Carmarthen, Towy's zigzags are many and eccentric. After Dynevor another castle, that of Dryslwyn, is soon passed. It is a mere ruin on a green hill. The Nelson Monument, high in the distance, on the south side of the river, is a more assertive feature in the landscape, though less welcome. Midway towards Carmarthen, we cross the Cothi, the longest of all Towy's affluents, and here, near its mouth, as great a stream as the Towy at Llandovery. Looking up it, there is even here some suggestion of its fine upper gorges. At Abergorlech, some ten miles nearer its sources, either artist or angler would find reason to rejoice in it, while higher still it absorbs streamlets right and left as greedily as the Towy itself. One must, however, resist the temptation to loiter on Cothi's bridge by Llanegwad. There is nothing of especial mark to see by the way, save Merlin's grotto, where the Arthurian wizard fell a victim to the wiles of the fairy Viviana, and where he is still imprisoned, and will be for all time. But you must carry a fine faith with you to be fitly moved by the legend, and it will not be inexcusable if you fail to find it. At the Ivy Bush Hotel of Carmarthen, whence there is a commanding view over the lower part of the valley, one may think tenderly of Sir Richard Steele, who once lived in it. The tablet to his memory in the parish church of St. Peter here describes him as the "first chief promoter of the periodical press of England." What would he say to the growth of the babe for which he is thus made responsible? [Illustration: CAREW CASTLE (_p. 182_).] This capital town, which in the time of Giraldus had walls of burnt brick, is nowadays of the modernest. Its castle, or what was left of it, has been turned into a jail; though you may discern some of its ancient stonework in the adjacent alleys. The town stands well above the river and the seven-arched bridge beneath which Towy now moves with stately ease towards the sea, a navigable stream. There is a small quay here, and a larger one some three miles farther down, for local coasters. For five miles more Towy holds its own against the ocean; and yet another five have to be passed ere, at Carmarthen Bar, the fresh waters gathered from the peaceful and fertile vales of Carmarthenshire are wholly merged in the salt sea. * * * * * We have now come to a singular district of Wales--a part of South Wales that is not Wales, but "a little England in Wales." Close by Towy's mouth, another river Taf (though with only one "f") enters the sea very broadly with the body of water yielded to it by the rivers Dewi Fawr, Gynin, Feni, and Marias, which all have bright tortuous courses among the green hills of Pembrokeshire. And four or five miles still farther west, the "Llans" and "Abers" which proclaim the land of the Cymry end, and give place to names Danish, Norwegian, and Norman. This continues until we are at Newgale Bridge, on St. Bride's Bay, eight miles from the thoroughly reverend and Welsh city of St. David's. Newgale Bridge has a small ale-house adjacent, where they seem contemptuously ignorant of the existence of the Welsh counties of Carmarthen and Glamorganshire to the east, so positively do they inform you that on one side of the streamlet spanned by the bridge it is England, and on the other side Wales. [Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._ CARMARTHEN QUAY (_p. 180_).] The Normans could not, in spite of their sternest efforts, make much impression on Wales as a whole for a century or two after the battle of Senlac. But they could, thanks to Milford Haven, nibble at its south-western extremity. This is what they did, and with the planting here by Henry I. of a large colony of Flemings the earlier stock seems to have been either absorbed or superseded. Milford Haven, with its arms of tidal water extending twenty miles into the heart of the country, was a grand aid to conquest in these parts. The Norman lords who were invited hither to carve out careers for themselves had much success. They raised castles at the extremities of Milford's water-ways, and thus assured to themselves broad controlling powers. Enough if mention be made of only the important fortresses of Pembroke, Haverfordwest, and Carew. The last of these may be first visited. Its situation at the head of a dammed tidal inlet, low-lying and with no prominent hills near, is unworthy of so noble a ruin. But Gerald de Windsor, the Norman lord who built it (having received the land as a dowry with his Welsh wife, Nesta, daughter of Prince Rhys ap Tewdwr of Dinefawr, or Dynevor), probably cared little for the picturesque. The strong western towers still bear witness to him; but to the mere tourist by far the most interesting part of the castle is the east side, over against the water, with its high wall and the lofty great, flaunting skeletons of the windows of the palace above, their white mullions bowing forward with inimitable grace. Unfortunately, one cannot romance about the rooms to which these majestic oriels and bays belonged. This part of the castle is of the sixteenth century, and was left unfinished. Carew Castle (Caerau = fortified camps) still belongs to the Carews. The Windsors took the name of this possession of theirs, and held the castle for more than three hundred years. Then their line of lordship was interrupted; and it was during this period that the great Sir Rhys ap Thomas (whom Henry VII. made a Knight of the Garter for the part he played before and at Bosworth Field in aid of the House of Tudor) held such revels here as have made Carew almost a by-word. Among other shows was a "feate of arms" of five days' duration, to which knights flocked from all parts of England and Wales. These guests filled the castle and more: five hundred, "moste of them of goode ranke," were accommodated with tents in the park adjacent, of which no trace remains. Sir Rhys himself, in gilt armour, on a "goodlie steede," attended by two pages on horseback and a herald, "was the judge of the jousts." This same mighty noble received Henry VII. at Carew before Bosworth Field was fought; and, if tradition speak true, with his own hands killed Richard of Gloucester, who would dearly have liked ere then to have killed him. Sir Rhys lies in the parish church of Carmarthen, with about seven feet of armoured stone for a monument; and a very small effigy of a wife lies by his side. With the Civil Wars came the castle's destruction. The Carews of Crowcombe, in Somersetshire, are now lords of the castle, and anyone may tread its grass and broken stones on payment of a threepenny bit. Carew had the honour of entertaining Henry VII., but Pembroke had the higher honour of being his birthplace, Margaret Beaufort, his mother, being then only in her fifteenth year. Five months later he was an orphan, and Jasper Tudor, his uncle, began his long, exemplary, and singularly fortunate guardianship. Ere then this great castle, at the tip of the most southerly of Milford Haven's arms, had had nearly four centuries of existence. The first castle was only "a slender fortress with stakes and turf," says Giraldus the chronicler. If so, however, it must soon have been ousted by the existing Norman keep, which, with its 70 feet of height and 17 feet of thickness at the base, is anything rather than "a slender fortress." Throughout England there is no better specimen left to us of a feudal keep than this of Pembroke. The castle buildings, as a whole, measure some 500 feet by 400 feet within the walls; and, viewed, from the breezy summit of the keep (reached by broken steps and a rope), are, even in their ruin, a very instructive lesson in feudal history. The gate-house and the keep are by far the best preserved parts; these are both little less serviceable than they were in their prime. The central space, or Outer Ward, is now a grass-plot, kept trim for tennis. One cannot do more than touch on the conventional last scene in this castle's active history. The building was held for Charles I. by Colonel Laugharne and two other Royalists named Powell and Poyer. As was to be expected, they made a stout resistance even to Cromwell, who came hither in person. Eventually, however, supplies were cut off, and the castle surrendered. "The three leaders were condemned to be shot--though the sentence was reduced to one. Lots were drawn, it is said, by a little girl. Two were marked 'Life given by God,' the third was blank, and fell to Poyer, who was shot in Covent Garden, 1649." Since then Pembroke Castle has accepted its _rôle_ as a ruin. The very peacocks that strut about its courtyard seem to understand that their haunt is a superb one. There is little else in Pembroke save two of those pleasant white church-towers which are quite a characteristic, of the shire. Monkton Priory, one of these, has as lengthy a history as the castle. It was founded in 1098, and belonged to a community of Benedictines connected with Jayes in Normandy. Anciently this church, which has a very long back, with the tower about midway in it, was divided by an inner wall between the monks of the priory and the local parishioners. Its Norman nave and Decorated choir are well preserved: indeed, the original builders were as generous of material as they who raised the castle keep. Externally, save for its tower (restored in 1804), and a Norman south doorway, it has a very modern aspect, though its acre or two of gravestones in the churchyard bear witness against appearances. There are two Pembrokes and two Milfords on Milford Haven; in each case one old and the other new. Our New Pembroke, however, goes by the name of Pater or Pembroke Dock, and a very important little town it is for the United Kingdom, with its building slips, dry dock, and naval stores. If you chance to be going from Old Pembroke to Pater between two and three o'clock any Saturday afternoon, you will be tempted to form an exaggerated idea of the number of hands employed at this State dockyard. In fact, there are about 1,000, though, of course, the figure is a variable one. From Pater the view down the Haven is uninterrupted as far as the watering-place of Dale, eight or nine miles due west, just at the north corner of the entrance. The channel is there nearly two miles in breadth, and fortifications on the small island of Thorn, to the south of Dale, are designed to prevent undesirable interference with British property in the Haven's recesses. [Illustration: PEMBROKE CASTLE AND MONKTON PRIORY (_p. 183_).] [Illustration: THE ROYAL DOCKYARD, PEMBROKE DOCK.] In less than five minutes you may cross the Haven, by steam ferry, from Pembroke Dock to New Milford or Neyland, which calls for no particular notice. It is a creation of the Great Western Railway, in connection with which steamers ply nightly to Ireland. Hence to Old Milford is a pleasant walk of three miles, with the water continuously to the left. The low green hills of the Haven to the south are not very beautiful, and it is only on exceptional occasions that the great water-way holds more than half a dozen big ships in its midst. One or two ironclads on guard may, however, at all times be looked for. Imogen, in _Cymbeline_, inquires, as a significant aside-- "by the way, Tell me how Wales is made so happy as To inherit such a haven!" [Illustration: HAVERFORDWEST (_p. 186_).] But Wales's happiness in this possession is of the kind that depends more on the expectation of favours to come than on benefits actually enjoyed. Milford Haven was better appreciated in the Middle Ages than it is now. It was only natural, for example, that Henry Tudor should land here in his quest of the English crown. Here too, earlier still, Richard II. set foot, on his anxious return from Ireland, when Henry of Bolingbroke was troubling his realm. The French chronicler, De la Marque, who was at Milford at this time, finds much to praise in the conduct of the Welshmen who were with the unhappy king. Richard's English retinue deserted him and plundered his baggage, but the Welsh could with difficulty be dissuaded from accompanying him in his march north to Conway, and they fell upon such of the deserters as they could. "What a spirit! God reward them for it!" says De la Marque. Old Milford is a prettily situated town terraced above the Haven, with quays and embankments on its shore-line, ready for the traffic that is still withheld from it. Master Atkins's red coat helps to enliven it. The blue water, the green level ridges that run west to the sea, and the Atlantic itself in the distance, all prepossess in its favour. But Liverpool and Holyhead both hold it aloof from the fortune it aspired to. Before proceeding north to that little known yet seductive river, the Teifi, Haverfordwest, on one of the two Cleddaus, which enter the Haven at its northern and westernmost arms, must be briefly mentioned. It is an ancient town, as its castle--built about 1112 by the father of Richard Strongbow, that eminent castle-builder--testifies. Among its other privileges was that of being county and capital town in one; also of having its own lord-lieutenant. Here the Flemings of the twelfth century most did congregate in this peninsula, and no doubt the little town's prosperity was largely due to them. Nowadays, however, it is a waning place, in spite of its lively look and, considering its remoteness, its fine buildings. This is proven by the number of its Maiden Assizes in the later years of its independence, before its annexation to Carmarthen for judicial purposes, as well as by other less agreeable tokens. It is, perhaps, the most hilly town in the kingdom. Ere you are half a mile away from it on the road to St. David's, it is lost to sight; while, approaching it from Milford, its situation seems quite Alpine. * * * * * The /Teifi/ (or Tivy), like the Towy, is little known to Englishmen other than anglers; and again, like the Towy, it well deserves knowing. The two rivers both rise among the heather-clad moors of Cardiganshire; so near, indeed, that you may stand on the watershed and mark the different trend of their streams. Teifi's chief supply, however, comes from the Teifi pools, three miles from Strata Florida Abbey, a congeries of mountain lakes, the abode of interesting and capricious trout that may be recommended to the traveller with a fishing rod--and a mackintosh. It has as wild an origin as any of the rivers of South Wales. The Cistercians of Strata Florida probably fished these lakes far more than do the moderns. From the pools Teifi descends impetuously to the mere graveyard that reminds one of the Mynachlog Fawr, or Great Monastery, of which only an archway remains. Either Rhys ap Tewdwr or Rhys ap Gruffydd, royal princes both, was the founder of the abbey, which was so important an establishment that Henry IV. made a special expedition to destroy it. If, as tradition says. Dafydd ap Gwilym--"the greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of the first poets of the world," in the opinion of George Borrow--was buried here, one can understand the patriotic influence of such a spot, and Bolingbroke's ruthlessness. But many are the poets and princes, as well as Dafydd ap Gwilym, who lie in this "Westminster of Wales." The Strata Florida monks have been made responsible for the Devil's Bridge, on the Rheidol--that _bonne bouche_ for visitors to Aberystwith. Excavations have recently been made in the abbey precincts, with promising results. Strata Florida is accessible by railway from the Manchester and Milford station of Pontrhydfendigaid. It must be confessed that some courage is required to alight at this dreary place on a wet autumn day. Teifi traverses dismal bog-land for miles hence: a vast flat of glittering pools and reddish grass and reeds, abounding in hares. One marvels that no serious attempt has been made to drain these thousands of acres: not such a difficult task, surely, considering the steep fall to the west beyond the hills. However, each landlord to his own ideas. Tregaron is passed, and still Teifi is rather a dull stream, though it can be seen that, lower down, the hills are drawing together suggestively. This is a famous district for cattle-drovers and cattle fairs. Your modern Cardigan farmer finds in these fairs one of the main excitements of his life. But the dealers are often far gone in whisky by the end of the fair-day, especially if they have had "bargains." So towards Lampeter, leaving on the east Llanddewi Brefi, where, in /A.D./ 519, was held the Great Synod, attended by St. David, at which Pelagius was adjudged a heretic. Teifi has now become a real river, broad and swift, and a charm to the angler. A column on a hill by Derry Ormond holds the eye. This is a tale told of it. The grandsire of the present owner of the estate wooed a young lady of London, and brought her home; but she pined for the Metropolis, and said either that she could not or would not live where she could not see London. To help her a little in this respect, her husband built the column. History does not inform us whether the wife was won to her allegiance by this proof of marital infatuation. Teifi does not excel in its auxiliary streams. This is explainable by the nature of the country it traverses. Its watershed is not an extensive one, like Towy's. The streams that flow to it throughout its course are all insignificant in size, though the two Cletwrs (Fawr and Fach), Afon Cych, and especially the merry little mountain-rivulet that joins it a mile west of Newcastle Emlyn, are not without the customary fascinations of these well-nigh untrodden glens of Wild Wales. It is when Teifi turns decisively to the west and its home in the long inlet of Port Cardigan that its graces become truly bewitching. From Llandyssil to Newcastle Emlyn it alternates between sweet, green, hill-bounded reaches and contracted gorges which trammel and fret it so that it roars with dissatisfaction. At Newcastle its valley is broad again, with wooded hills on all sides, enclosing the pretty little village and its castle. Put thence to Cardigan it is majestic all the way, zigzagging with glorious curves, and with high, densely-wooded banks in the main. Seen when the tints are on its trees, this part of Teifi's course makes an enduring mark on the memory. The salmon-fisher who comes once to Teifi here (and it is a prolific river, in spite of the "professionals," who take heavy tolls at its mouth) will have abundant compensation, even though he have poor sport. There is no railway between Newcastle and Cardigan; but what a nine miles' drive or walk it is! At Cenarth, for instance, it is impossible not to pause awhile. Here the river bursts from a confined defile into greater freedom, sweeping under a bridge of the Edwards hall-mark. Cenarth is a lovely little village, out of the world, given up to the woods and the crying waters. And under its bridge, at the side, you may see some of the tiny coracles still in use on this stream. Fashions die hard in these sequestered parts of Wales. Giraldus tells us that the beaver kept its haunt on the Teifi when it was extinct elsewhere in Great Britain. There is a contenting sameness about Teifi all the way to Cardigan: unchanged perfection. Two miles short of this capital town, however, it speeds to the south, and then turns boldly in its final curve towards the sea. Above it here, on a lofty crag, with woods caressing it, is Kilgerran Castle, which Turner painted. He could hardly have resisted the temptation, having seen it. The castle remains consist of two towers and a gateway, all of the thirteenth century. Historically, little seems known about it. [Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._ MILFORD HAVEN (_p. 185_).] Thence Teifi makes for the defile which ushers it to salt water, past the small yet prosperous county town, which has close sea intercourse with Bristol, and does a good trade in fish. Cardigan, like all these Welsh capitals, has a fragmentary castle; so fragmentary, indeed, that it is hardly discoverable. It has also an old church with a remarkably massive tower, having a buttress like a staircase. From its churchyard tombstones one may learn much, as well as the common lesson of the mortality of mortals. It is, for example, interesting to the stranger to be informed that "Let" is no unusual Christian name for a man here, and "Lettice" for a woman. The town suffers from a complaint nowadays rare among the capitals of British counties, to wit, difficult railway communication with the rest of the land. This will be remedied somewhat when the existing line is continued from Newcastle Emlyn. But one may be excused for hoping that Teifi's banks may for years to come know nothing of the mauling and devastation that will be inevitable when this takes place. If you wish to see Teifi, or Tivy, quite to its end, it is worth while to go north another three miles, to Gwbert-on-the-Sea, a distinctly primitive and pleasing watering-place, facing Kemmaes Head, with the mile and a half of Teifi's mouth (at its widest) intervening. [Illustration: THE TEIFI AT KILGERRAN. _Photo: S. J. Allen, Pembroke Dock._] Bidding farewell to the beauteous Teifi, we must now in few words track the last of our rivers to the same inevitable destination. /Ystwith/ has had no poets that we are aware of. Not all who visit Aberystwith, indeed, perceive (though they surely might) that it gives its name to this salubrious town. The Rheidol, which also enters the sea at Aberystwith, is treated with distinction. For it there is a solid, handsome bridge, lighted with lamps. But for Ystwith there is only a very commonplace bridge. The Ystwith rises in the broken upland a few miles south of Plinlimmon, runs in a deep channel for three or four miles, and then, with little hesitation, though infinite sinuosities, rushes due west. Its entire length is not more than thirty miles. Until it comes to the road by Eglwys Newydd, and within four miles of the Devil's Bridge, on its rival the Rheidol, and even past Hafod, it sees few admirers, though it might have many. People who come to Eglwys Newydd, on their circuitous way to the Devil's Bridge, do not go out of their path to see the Ystwith, but the Chantrey monument, in memory of Miss Johnes, in this "New Church." Farther west the Manchester and Milford Railway runs in its valley from Trawscoed, and accompanies it to the sea. Here its beauty is of a superb order. The wooded mountains soar with most impressive effect on its southern side, now and then parting to show an abysmal glen, just as densely wooded, down which a baby stream tumbles towards our Ystwith. It matters not so very much, except to the angler, if the river does suffer from lead-poisoning. The mines do not obtrude themselves; and one may cheat oneself into the belief that the thickness of its waters comes from the melting snows high up on the mountains which it taps. For a few miles one may search the vocabulary for adjectives in eulogy of Ystwith. Then it sobers into comparatively level ground, and green pastures between receded green and heather-clad hills succeed the splendid towering woods. For the rest of its journey, it is an ordinary stream, and as such it slides into the sea just south of the town with a modesty that is almost affecting. Aberystwith the piered, esplanaded and castled, might well condescend to take a little notice of its humble "godparent," as well as of the Rheidol, and might gain credit in the condescension. This resort of a certain order of fashion (especially now that there are sweet girl-graduates to give a classic touch to its broad breezy promenade) seems, however, fully content to rely on the seducing charms of its powerful pure air, its tea-gardens on Constitution Hill, and--the Devil's Bridge. Wondrous indeed is the power of ozone! It reconciles us to weeks in lodging-houses that are ugly to behold and are in themselves uncomfortable. Not that Aberystwith is worse off in this respect than other places. Indeed, it may be said to be in a better plight than most, since the Esplanade buildings are handsome, once you have accepted their uniformity. Even were it otherwise, it would matter not at all to the sojourner in bracing Aberystwith! He acquires resignation and divers other virtues merely in breathing this pure invigorating air on the broad paved walk between the lodging-houses and the sea. [Illustration: _Photo: E. R. Gyde, Aberystwith._ ABERYSTWITH.] Of Aberystwith's castle it must suffice to say that it dates from the eleventh century, and owes its parentage to Gilbert Strongbow. Cromwell cut its little comb effectually, and now it exists only in fragments. They are, however, attractive morsels, and the little green enclosure which they prettily dignify is a popular resort for visitors. There are seats about it, and you may perch close over the mutilated low cliffs of the coast and watch the breakers rolling in towards the town, while listening with your mind's ear to the tales told by Time of this downright ancient little place. The University buildings adjoin the castle demesne. They are quite grandiose. One wonders how often in the year the noise of the waves on their stones is so loud that it distracts the academic minds within its stately walls. It has been said authoritatively that "Aberystwith stands out as being far and away the Welshiest of the University Colleges, and Cardiff as the most English." This is gratifying to those of us who like to see the boundary-lines of nationalities clearly defined. And yet the faces of the students in the streets here do not show their birthright as one would expect. But enough. One must be very morose or abased in body as well as mind not to perceive the peculiar charms of Aberystwith. To the enterprising, and perhaps jaded, sojourner in this Brighton of Wales it may, moreover, come as welcome news that for a mile or two of its course the Ystwith is of a beauty matchless even in Wales. /Charles Edwardes./ [Illustration] [Illustration: DOLGELLEY (_p. 200_).] RIVERS OF NORTH WALES. CHAPTER I. THE DOVEY, THE DYSYNNI, THE MAWDDACH. Glories of A Wet Autumn in North Wales. The /Dovey/: Source of the Stream--Dinas Mowddwy--Mallwyd--Machynlleth. The /Dysynni/: Tal-y-Llyn--The "Bird Rock"--/Towyn/. The /Mawddach/: The Estuary--The Wnion--Torrent Walk--Dolgelley--Precipice Walk--The Estuary--Barmouth--Harlech Castle--Portmadoc--The Glaslyn--Tremadoc and Shelley--The Traeth Bach. There are times of the year when North Wales seems to be all rivers and mountain torrents and tumbling cataracts. The hills are seamed by thin, white streaks of foaming water. It is as if all the land were rushing down to the valleys and the sea. What was yesterday a slow dribble from pool to pool, a scarcely perceptible moisture among weeds, a narrow reflection of sky among stones and boulders, is to-day a broad, impetuous stream, or a wide expanse of bog-stained water, or a torrent swollen and turbulent. The cataracts which have disappointed the tourist in dry seasons come down in a way that wholly sustains their ancient reputation. But the mountains are, for the most part, hidden in mist, or whelmed in cloud; the white roads glitter like streams, and-- "The rain, it raineth every day; Heigho, the wind and the rain!" Yet, decidedly, it is in a wet autumn that one should see North Wales. "Then, if ever, are perfect days," when the whole glory of wild Nature reveals itself in some interval of dripping rains; when the brown foliage, dipping into the flooded rivers, glows like gold in some sudden outburst of the sun; and when the mountains fade upward from their heathery bases, and purple middle-distances, into shadowy peaks of faintest blue. [Illustration: RIVERS OF NORTH WALES.] How fascinatingly the bells of Aberdovey have rung themselves into the popular consciousness! And all by means of some foolish verses that are as securely immortal as the famous and touching air in which Neil Gow has set the bells of Edinburgh town to music:-- "'Ae os wyt ti'n fy ngharu i Fel 'rwyf fi'n dy garu di, Mal un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump, chwech,' Go the bells of Aberdovey." Seated in a boat in the middle of the estuary of the /Dovey/ river, one laments the fact that the bells exist in legend only. How sweetly they would sound through the distance and in the dusk, over this wide expanse of shallow water and glimmering sand! But the little town of Aberdovey, hugging the hillside at the south-westerly corner of Merionethshire, has certainly had no peal of bells at any date more recent than the time when Owen Glendower descended into the Dovey valley to procure his own proclamation as Prince of Wales. It is a humble little town, which, as somebody has remarked, seems to ask itself why it is not Liverpool. It has a wharf and a deep-water pier, and a railway at only a few yards from the beach. Large vessels could lie in safety near to the doors of the Aberdovey folk, and the maps insist strenuously on the directness of the sea-routes to Dublin, to Rosslare, and to Waterford. They are direct enough, no doubt; but who cares to travel by them? Only a few small schooners are to be seen in the harbour of Aberdovey. Two or three others are drawn up high and dry on the sands, so that one might almost leap on board from the thresholds of the cottages. If the world were more happily ordered, the chief trade of the place might be the exchange of rich merchandise; but, as one may perceive from the pier yonder, it is merely the exportation of slates. The river Dovey--or Dyti, as it is called in the more ancient language--rises among the peaks of Aran Mowddwy, and, dashing down the mountain-sides with a pretty music, leaves Merioneth for a while to course through a jutting corner of Montgomeryshire. Then it becomes the boundary between Merioneth and Cardigan, making its way to the sea through an estuary 6-1/2 miles long--broad, noble, and impressive, with hills green, gentle, and round on its left, and on its right high mountains and purple heather, and "the sleep that is among the lonely hills." It is a river much beloved of angling folk, for there are "salmons" not only, as Fluellen said, in Monmouthshire, but also in Montgomery and Merioneth. Likewise there is abundance of sewin and trout; and the fisherman who visits Dinas Mowddwy, Mallwyd, or Machynlleth will be likely enough to store his memory with recollections not only of fine scenery but of glorious days. Dinas Mowddwy is a small village with a large hotel; but it was nothing less than a city in the old days, and it calls itself a city still. Even up to so recent a date as 1886, it had all the honours of a borough, with a Mayor of its own, and a Corporation, and a Recorder, and the tradition of a charter dating from James I. It may be reached by means of a ridiculous but convenient railway from Cemmaes Road, the trains consisting of an engine and one carriage, with, possibly, a few truckloads of slates attached behind. Aran Mowddwy, on which the Dovey rises, is, next to Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales. It is the centre of a district full of vague traditions and curiously varied grandeur and beauty. After the death of Owen Glendower, "many powerful gentlemen of Wales" assembled at Dinas "for the purpose of making compacts to enforce virtue and order." Their success can scarcely have been very great, for it was at this place, not long afterwards, that the "Red-Haired Banditti of Mowddwy" were wont to hold their meetings and arrange their murders. It is pleasant to be able to record that in due course these gentry were as effectually suppressed as were the Doones of Exmoor, if the story of John Ridd is to be believed. How they found means to exist by rapine in a country so sparsely peopled is not now intelligible; but they were, clearly, a very savage and revengeful folk, for forty arrows were found in the body of a judge who had condemned some of their brethren to death. Sparkling along through Dinas, and flowing under the ruins of an ancient bridge, with a more modern and substantial structure close beside it, the river Dovey shortly reaches Mallwyd, where there is a church that is much visited, occupying the site of an earlier edifice which is said to have been erected by St. Tydecho in the sixth century, and with an ancient yew-tree which the saint himself is believed to have planted. On the other side of the river stands the farmhouse of Camlan, associated by a tradition, into the veracity of which we need not now inquire, with Camelot, and that "battle long ago" in which King Arthur is said to have been overthrown. All this wide, winding Dovey valley teems with history of a sort. At the farmhouse of Mathafarn, below Cemmaes Road, "the great poet and scholar," David Llwyd ap Llewelyn, entertained the Earl of Richmond, who was afterwards to become King Henry VII., and was then on his way to Bosworth fight. At Machynlleth, with its fine, broad, mediæval street, much frequented by salesmen of cattle and sheep, you may see the house in which Owen Glendower held his Parliament after he had "defeated" the English by flying before them into the hills. Machynlleth itself was the Roman station of Maglona, and is now a fairly considerable town, situated almost as happily as Dolgelley, with the square ivy-clad tower of an ancient church dominating the centre of the valley. Here the beautiful river Dulas joins the Dovey, and hence one may travel by the tiny Corris railway to Tal-y-Llyn, through some of the most satisfying scenery in all Wild Wales. [Illustration: TORRENT WALK, DOLGELLEY (_p. 198_).] Before reaching the estuary, the Dovey wanders through much wide marshland, over which a railway has been carried, where there is a railway station set amid desolateness, and where no tree or shrub breaks the flat, brown margins of the stream. From such scenery it is very agreeable to break away to where, at high tide, there is a sheet of water six miles broad--the sweetest, calmest, most restful estuary in all Wales, with Borth sunning itself by the sea far away, with hills at whose feet plantations flourish, and mountains with fir-woods climbing up their slopes. Flowing from the sides of Cader Idris, which holds a gloomy lake in its lap, there is a complex network of streams. Several of these join themselves together to form the little river Dysynni, which, after wandering among the mountains for twelve miles or so, drowns itself in the sea beyond Towyn. One of the sources of the Dysynni is Tal-y-Llyn. Noble and beautiful and ever memorable is the valley through which the stream hurries downwards from that renowned lake, the object of innumerable excursions made from Dolgelley, from Towyn, from Machynlleth, and from all the wild, wonderful, fascinating places roundabout. Tal-y-Llyn is no more than a mile long, and a quarter of a mile broad; but it is like a small piece of Norway transported to Wales. Here alike come those who are intent on reaching the summit of Cader Idris, and those who desire to follow "the contemplative man's recreation," for the Dysynni, like the Dovey, is a famous fishing river. Salmon, sewin, and gwyniad are to be found therein, from May until after the autumn leaves are falling. There are white and sea trout, and bass, and in the estuary plentiful grey mullet, which make fine and exciting sport when a ring of nets is thrown around them, and the noisy and vigorous "beaters" drive them into the meshes. [Illustration: THE LOWER BRIDGE, TORRENT WALK (_p. 199_).] One must go up the Dysynni to see the famous "Bird Rock," a great shoulder of mountain on which the hawk and the cormorant dwell. It is so precipitous that it may be climbed on only two of its sides, and it has one of those echoes for which Wales is almost unapproachable, so that the music of any instrument that is played upon it will be reverberated in a startling chorus from all the surrounding hills. Lower down the river, always amid such scenery as it were vain to describe, there is the site of a manor house from which Prince Llewelyn wrote important letters to ecclesiastical magnates in London, and which that stout soldier-king Edward I. visited, for he dated a charter thence. Older relics there are, like the Tomen Ddreiniog, which, maybe, is one of "the grassy barrows of the happier dead." It is a valley renowned for its birds and their songs, this of the Dysynni, and for its rare plants and mosses, and its rich store of maiden-hair fern. As we approach Towyn the mansion of Ynys-y-Maengwyn, the dwelling of an ancient Welsh family, presents a quaint and most picturesque mixture of architectural periods, for it combines all the styles of domestic architecture that prevailed between the period of Elizabeth and that of the Georges. The Dysynni is a land-locked river as it approaches the sea, for the Cambrian Railway crosses its estuary. There is a spectacle on one hand of what seems a lake among purple mountains, and on the other of a stream winding amid dreary flats to the breezy waters of Cardigan Bay. Towyn, which is but a small place, has a certain fame for sea-bathing, and for its association with "a holy man of Armorica, who came to Wales in the sixth century to refute the Pelagian heresy." One does not inquire too curiously into these things; but there, not far from the estuary of the Dysynni, is St. Cadfan's Church, and St. Cadfan was one who performed miracles; and in the church there is a pillar which, as some aver, is inscribed in debased Roman characters, and once marked the site of St. Cadfan's grave. * * * * * "Neither the North of England, nor Scotland, no, nor Switzerland, can exhibit anything so tranquil, romantic, snug, and beautiful as a Welsh valley." These are the words of John Wilson, the "Christopher North" of the famous "Noctes Ambrosianæ" and the "Recreations"; the "rusty, crusty Christopher" of Lord Tennyson's early satire. He was thinking of Dolgelley and all the indescribable charm of its surroundings. Wilson was a Scot who had dwelt continuously and for many years amid the English Lakes. He knew his Switzerland, too; and it must have been reluctantly, one would think, that he gave this unstinted praise to the particular valley in which North Wales seems most to unite its grander and its quieter beauties, all its wonders of mountains and wood, torrent and waterfall, snug valley and scarred and towering height. The /Mawddach/ estuary, which has the appearance of a chain of lakes, winds among the mountains as far as Penmaenpool, where there is a long, low, sinuous railway bridge of innumerable arches. Here, where the Mawddach suddenly becomes a stream, flowing through green marshes, with its course indicated by lines of deep-driven stakes, Christopher North must often have been reminded of the head of his beloved Windermere, missing only the solemn and silent majesty of the Langdale Pikes. Following the river upward through the wide, marshy plain until it again hides itself among woods and hills, one comes upon the river Wnion, which is chiefly of importance among Welsh rivers because it is famous for its trout, because it winds through Dolgelley on its way, and because, two miles further upwards, it is joined by the tumultuous thread of water which tumbles from pool to pool, over cataract after cataract, close beside the steep, mile-long piece of sylvan beauty known as the Torrent Walk. Until it receives this tributary the /Wnion/ is, except in seasons of rain, but a thin and feeble stream; but it flows through beautiful and shady woods, fretting sometimes over a rocky bed, sometimes flowing in a peaceful, sunlit calm, and now and again reflecting one of those wide-arched, mossy bridges which indicate by their breadth of span how much way this little river claims for itself when the thin silvery threads of all the small streams that flow into it from the Arans on one side, and from the lower slopes of Rhobell Fawr on the other, are swollen into mountain torrents by continuous rain. [Illustration: BETWEEN DOLGELLEY AND BARMOUTH (_p. 202_).] There are innumerable little rivers in North Wales, boiling down over tumbled rocks, in deep valleys, with trees swaying and arching overhead. The type of these is the turbulent brook, so narrow that one might leap across it, which descends through the Dwygyfylchi valley, and then quietly loses itself in the sea between Conway and Penmaenmawr. But in all Wild Wales there is no such mad, merry, laughing, and leaping piece of water as the long cataract which hastens down from the upper to the lower bridge of the Torrent Walk, to join the Wnion two miles above Dolgelley. It falls, like a white mist, amid riven cliffs; it pours itself, with a frolic music, between great masses of moss-grown rock; it dips under tree-trunks which have been thrown across it, like rustic bridges, by long-forgotten storms. The channel which this torrent has made for itself is a deep, dark, winding cleft through a beautiful wood on the side of a steep hill. It is in the late autumn that it is at its best, when the trees are of all rich tints, from russet to gold, and when there is a glorious, glowing carpet of brown leaves on either side of the Torrent Walk, and when the torrent itself, swollen by the unfailing rains, breaks into white spray amid the blue mist of the cataracts. The Wnion is tame enough after such a spectacle; but it makes some really striking loops and bends as it winds away to Dolgelley, broadening out in the ever-broadening valley, and then darting forward to the tall, grey arches of Dolgelley bridge, where it dreams along for a while over its multitudinous pebbles, and then wanders away into the green shadow of trees. [Illustration: _Photo: H. Owen, Barmouth._ BARMOUTH BRIDGE AND CADER IDRIS (_p. 203_).] Dolgelley is the capital of Merioneth, and the curfew is still rung there; and some of its houses retain all the quaintness of the Elizabethan age, and its streets are so odd, and winding, and confused, that one thinks of the legend of the giant's wife who dropped a heap of stones from her apron, the which in due course became a town. In the distance, Dolgelley looks like a grey nest amid green branches, sheltering in a basin of the hills. It is walled round by the mountains, Cader Idris being its loftiest and its grandest bulwark. Owen Glendower had a Parliament House here, pulled down only a few years ago; and that is almost the whole history of the place, which is attaining some small additional importance in these days because the gold mines are not far away, and also by reason of its manufacture of excellent Welsh cloth. [Illustration: _Photo: I. Slater, Llandudno._ SNOWDON, FROM CRIB-GOCH.] It is a land of cataracts all round about; but to reach the finest of those one must leave the river Wnion and ascend the Mawddach valley, up the beautiful Ganllwyd Glen, and so to the gold mines. Rely not too implicitly on those learned books which would instruct the confiding stranger wandering amid these mountainous wildernesses. "There are three fine Falls on the Mawddach," one reads in a book of considerable geographical pretensions--"one of 60 feet in Dolmelynllyn Park, another of 60 feet called the Mawddach Fall, the third, of 150 feet, called the Pistyll-y-Cain." "I wonder," said an American humorist, "whether it is worth while knowing so much that is not so." The Rhaiadr-y-Mawddach--over which, at this stage, flows the river that is shortly to broaden out into the grandest estuary in Wales--descends, in two leaps, into a large and magnificent basin, about which the rocks and trees have arranged themselves into a noble amphitheatre. The Precipice Walk is not far away. One may behold all the Snowdon region from this dizzy height on the open hillside; the Ganllwyd valley opens out below; the Arans tower upwards to the right; and beyond the village of Llanfachreth, looking northward, rises the grand mass of Rhobell Fawr, its head half-hidden in a cloud, "that moveth altogether, if it move at all." And as for the Pistyll-y-Cain and the Rhaiadr-Du, "the black cataract," the one, as its name indicates, is the fall of the river Cain, and the other is the fall of the Camlan, less broad, less precipitous, at the first glance less impressive, than its more renowned rival, but quite wonderfully beautiful in its surroundings, its rocks and woodlands, its dual leap, and many windings, and numerous tumbling streams. Says a Welsh proverb: "There is only one prettier walk in Wales than the road from Dolgelley to Barmouth. It is the road from Barmouth to Dolgelley." The adjective is ill-chosen. Not prettiness, but a calm majesty, is the characteristic of the rich scenery of the valley of the Mawddach. When the tide is up, the river between Penmaenpool and Barmouth is like a chain of lakes among bold and craggy heights, sloping brown moorlands, and terraced woods. One is reminded sometimes of Switzerland and sometimes of the Rhine. It is advisable to ascend the river, as Wordsworth did, in a boat. The poet was at Barmouth in 1824, when he rowed up "the sublime estuary, which may compare with the finest in Scotland." One is always driven back upon these comparisons. The estuary of the Mawddach arouses sensations of strangeness and unexpectedness. Even amid the grandeur and the beauty of North Wales, it seems to belong to some other country, and almost to a land of dreams. It may have been some recollection of rowing upwards towards Penmaenpool that inspired the first and greatest of the Lake poets with two of his most splendid lines:-- "I hear the echoes through the mountains throng; The winds come to me from the fields of sleep." And the scenery here is everything. There is little history to engage the mind. One merely shudders at the story of how, in what are now the grounds of Nannau House, Owen Glendower fought with his cousin, Howel Selé, slew him, and hid the body in a hollow tree. The Abbot of Cymmer is credited with having brought about the meeting, in the hope that the two kinsmen might be reconciled; but who knows anything about the Abbot of Cymmer? So much of the abbey as remains is mixed up with farm buildings, amid beautiful sylvan scenery, about two miles from Dolgelley, and near to the banks of the Mawddach. Griffith and Meredydd, lords of Merioneth and grandsons of Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, founded the abbey in 1198. The architecture suggests Irish influences, and an Irishman by whom such influence is likely to have been exercised is known to have emigrated to Wales at about the time of the foundation. The monks were of the Cistercian order, and the abbey was dedicated to St. Mary. The ruins of the church are the principal portion of what now remains. The abbot's lodgings and part of the refectory have been incorporated into the present farmhouse. The emissaries of Henry VIII. penetrated even to this remote spot, and so the abbey was despoiled. Barmouth, which, in Welsh, is Abermaw, or the mouth of the Mawddach, is built in strange fashion about the foot of a mountain which is surpassingly noble in its contour. Some of the houses cling high up among the perilous slopes. In one direction they look out to sea, and in the other across the "sublime estuary" at its widest part. The rich, glowing woods of Arthog climb up the opposite slopes, with the side of Cader Idris rising like a vast cliff above their topmost branches. The little town, with its tremendous background of rugged mountain, has been likened to Gibraltar. The oldest of its dwellings is alleged to date back to the reign of Henry VII. For us of to-day the place has the interest of having been selected as the earliest of the settlements of Mr. Ruskin's Guild of St. George. "I have just been over to Barmouth," the Master wrote many a year ago, "to see the tenants on the first bit of ground--noble crystalline rock, I am glad to say--possessed by St. George on the island." Grandly impracticable was the idea of settling a community of this kind in such a place, and one looks at the small cottages, high on the hillside, with a feeling that they are a stray and stranded fragment of Utopia. It is a bare, ordinary-looking town, this Barmouth, when surveyed from the level of its lower streets; but there is an unapproachable dignity, beauty, and charm in the wide, level stretch of sand and water which lies between here and Arthog, which winds inland among the brown mountain-slopes, which broadens outward to Cardigan Bay. The bridge is a curious and useful rather than a pleasant feature of the landscape. It carries a railway that branches off to Dolgelley on the one hand, and to Glandovey and South Wales on the other. Fortunately, it lies low down, and close to the water, as it were, its central portion being occasionally raised for the admission of ships, of a tonnage, however, that is marvellously small. From its further side, where the sand has gathered into hillocks, crowned by long, waving, rank grass, the town of Barmouth, with its vast hill of Craig Abermaw, brings into mind the castle of Chillon and its surroundings. It seemed poor and common enough, away there on the other side of the bridge; but from this point it is graceful, noble, almost sublime. * * * * * The grand castle of Harlech looks out on to the waters about midway in that waste of shore which divides Barmouth from Portmadoc. The castle has long been a ruin, but, all things considered, it has been magnificently preserved. It had the fortune to escape the dismantling which was so nearly universal during the Civil Wars. Later times have been less considerate, for many of the houses roundabout have been built from the stone and timber of the fortress; yet, looking at it from a distance, the place still seems to be intact, and grandly formidable in its strength and its situation. From Portmadoc it is the principal feature of the landscape as the eye sweeps round the fine curve of the bay. The interest of Portmadoc itself lies in the incomparable view of the Snowdon range which is to be obtained therefrom, and in a curious association with Shelley. A huge alluvial plain, the Traeth Mawr, or Great Sand, sheltered by an irregular semicircle of hills, makes an impressive foreground. Here one might expect to hear tales of that Prince Madoc who is alleged to have preceded Columbus, by a huge interval, in the discovery of America; but Portmadoc, with its long, low line of railway across the Traeth Bach, its small schooners laden with slate, its rows of houses struggling about the hillside, its active industry, its bridges and quays, is a town of quite modern date, its history extending backward only to the end of the last century, and its name being derived, not from the adventurous prince whom Southey has made the subject of an epic, but from an energetic Mr. Maddocks, who reclaimed 2,000 acres of good land from the sea, and carried a mile-long mole of stone across the great estuary into which the little river Glaslyn flows. Portions of Portmadoc are at this day some two or three feet below the sea-level. One may obtain from here one of the best views of Snowdon; and on the south side of the valley, over which his shadow seems to be cast, the Cynicht--the Matterhorn of Wales, as it has been called--rises up in noble and entrancing proportions. Hence, too, come into impressive prominence the green and grassy sides of Moel Wyn. A walk of a few miles would bring us to Beddgelert, or to the lovely Pass of Aberglaslyn, with its unforgettable admixture of mountain and of sylvan scenery; or, by climbing the hill at our back, we may come within sight of Tremadoc, and the house in which the poet Shelley alleged that he was assailed by a mysterious and murderous visitant. Into the Traeth Bach, which is an unreclaimed extension of the Traeth Mawr, pours down the stream which accompanies the traveller on the "baby railway" from the heights of Blaenau Festiniog. Westward lie Criccieth and Pwllheli, and the sharp bend of the Lleyn peninsula, and Bardsey Island and its lighthouse, round which one may sail into Carnarvon Bay. [Illustration: THE ESTUARY, BARMOUTH.] RIVERS OF NORTH WALES. CHAPTER II. THE SEIONT, THE OGWEN, THE CONWAY. The /Seiont/: Llanberis Pass--Lakes Peris and Padarn--Dolbadarn Castle and Ceunant Mawr--Carnarvon and its Castle. The /Ogwen/: Llyn Ogwen and Llyn Idwal--Bethesda--Penrhyn Castle. The /Llugwy/: Capel Curig--Moel Siabod--Pont-y-Cyfing--Swallow Falls--The Miners' Bridge--Bettws-y-Coed. The /Lledr/: Dolwyddelen--Pont-y-Pant. The /Machno/ and its Fall. The /Conway/: Fairy Glen--Llanrwst--Gwydir Castle--Llanbedr--Trefriw--Conway Marsh--Conway Castle and Town--Deganwy--Llandudno. The river /Seiont/ is only about thirteen miles long. One seldom hears mention of its name, except by the trout-fisher, it may be. It is treated, in general, as of small account. And yet, surely it is one of the most distinguished rivers of North Wales, for does it not drain the north-eastern side of Snowdon, and flow through the Pass of Llanberis, and broaden out into Llyn Peris and Llyn Padarn, and finally, after devious wanderings, and much merry tumbling among rocks, boulders, and little reedy islets, culminate in a port, with the great castle of Carnarvon guarding its exit into the Strait across which one looks to the lovely island of Anglesea? But if few speak of the Seiont, there has been unlimited eloquence concerning the grandeur--what the descriptive writers of the last century would have considered the awfulness--of the Llanberis Pass. The point of view has changed whilst the century has been passing away. Where our great-grandfathers spoke of "horrid scenes" we find nowadays glory of colour, and magnificence of form, and all the finer characteristics of mountain beauty. But something, after all, is to be said from the point of view of our great-grandfathers. We travel through the Pass of Llanberis by coach on good and safe roads, and they ventured, perforce, along "a horse-path so rugged that much of it was like going up and down rough stone stairs." It was between the two lakes Peris and Padarn, and at the new village of Llanberis, that the late Poet Laureate foregathered, in his youth, with his friend Leonard, who sang of "all the cycle of the golden year":-- "We crost Between the lakes, and clambered half-way up The counter side.... ... and high above, I heard them blast The steep slate quarry, and the great echo flap And buffet round the hill from bluff to bluff." The first recorded ascent of Snowdon seems to have been made from the same spot in 1639. "At daybreak on the 3rd of August," says the seventeenth-century mountaineer, "having mounted our horses, we proceeded to the British Alps." After the mountains, Dolbadarn Castle and Ceunant Mawr--the Waterfall of the Great Chasm--are the principal attractions of Llanberis. The cataract is upwards of 60 feet in height. It tumbles over a few ledges, rushes down a wide slope, and falls into a pool below. The castle is singularly well placed for picturesque effect. The one tower now remaining occupies the whole of the surface of a rocky eminence, which presents a precipitous front to the lake, and has a marvellous background of high-peaked mountains. Often enough it can be seen only through mists, or driving sheets of rain, for Llanberis seems to be the home of the rain-cloud and the cradle of the storm. An unspeakable lumber of waste slates stretches out into the lakes as we proceed downwards, but does not interfere with the splendid view of Snowdon which is to be obtained at the point where the Seiont leaves Llyn Padarn. Wooded cliffs and heathery crags, and peeps of wild moorland, and rugged country that is redeemed from desolateness by frequent white cottages, make fine pictures for us as we proceed down the river towards Carnarvon. Here and there the stream is divided by great masses of stone, past which it races in order to drive some watermill, half hidden in leaves. There are reedy pools, in which a wild swan may occasionally be seen, and then willowy marshes; and so, bending this way and that, now bursting into the open sunlight, and then plunging into woodland shade, and always noisy and impetuous, the little river hastens on until it joins the tide, issuing into the Menai Strait between the grimly beautiful walls of Carnarvon Castle and a wooded bank. Only as to its interior can the castle now be properly described as a ruin. Restoration has here taken the form of rebuilding, and this proud stronghold is now immeasurably more complete as to its outward appearance than it can have been when Edward I. exhibited from its walls the prince who, having first seen the light only a few hours before, was "not only born in Wales but could not speak a word of the English tongue." Away from the castle and what remains of the walls, which, in appearance, still to some extent justify the ancient name of "the fort over against Anglesea," the town of Carnarvon is painfully modern; but what there is of it that is really old conveys the impression of mediævalism more completely than any other place in Wales, except, perhaps, the old town of Conway. The walls of the castle, with their numerous towers and turrets, rise up to a prodigious height above the quays, at which little coasting vessels with red sails and gay streaks of paint take in their cargoes of slates. The great gateway looking out seaward has a loftiness and a massiveness which cow the spirit. But the outlook hence becomes all the more beautiful by contrast with this castellated gloom. Yonder is the Isle of Anglesea--the sacred island--shimmering through a sunlit mist, and the Strait; with sandbanks visible here and there, and flocks of sea-birds soaring and dipping and screaming, is like a broad river, widening itself to its utmost until it becomes impossible to distinguish between river and sea. * * * * * At the head of the Pass of Nant Francon, and behind the huge, dark, threatening shoulder of Carnedd Dafydd, Llyn Ogwen stretches along for about a mile or so, hemmed in at its further extremity by a low range of hills. In Cumberland this lake would be called a tarn, as would also Llyn Idwal, a sort of miniature Wastwater, which lodges in a hollow, among deep and gloomy precipices, a few hundred yards to the left. "This," wrote Leland, "is a smoule poule, where they say that Idwalle, Prince of Wales, was killed and drounid." "No human ear but Dunawt's heard Young Idwal's dying scream," says the ballad in which the tradition is enshrined. The appearance of the place may well have suggested either the legend in modern or the crime in ancient days. In stormy weather the surroundings of the little lake are inconceivably wild and forbidding, and the wind swirls about in this hollow of the rocks until Llyn Idwal boils like a sea. [Illustration: PASS OF LLANBERIS (_p. 205_).] Ogwen is a lake of gentler and more serene aspect. At its foot, under Carnedd Dafydd, where the coach-road crosses, its waters, with those from Llyn Idwal, form the Falls of Benglog, so well described by an older writer that his words shall be made to serve the purpose here. "The highest Fall," observes Bingley, "is grand and majestic, yet by no means equal to the other two. At the second, or middle, Fall the river is precipitated, in a fine stream, through a chasm between two perpendicular rocks that each rise several yards above. The mountain, Trivaen, fills up the wide space at the top, and forms a rude and sublime distance. The stream widens as it descends, and below passes over a slanting rock, which gives it a somewhat different direction. In the foreground is the rugged bed of a stream, and the water is seen to dash in various directions among broken masses of rock." At the lowest fall "the stream roars with great fury, and in one sheet of foam, down an unbroken and almost perpendicular rock. The roar of the water, and the broken and uncouth disposition of the surrounding rocks, add greatly to the interest of the scene." And from these Falls of Benglog one looks down the wide, treeless vale of Nant Francon, a broad, peaty marsh, the bed of some ancient lake, as it would appear, hemmed in by dark ridges of mountains. [Illustration: CARNARVON CASTLE (_p. 206_).] Throughout the whole length of Nant Francon the river /Ogwen/ is a thin, quiet, winding, silvery stream, unsheltered by bush or tree; but as it approaches the Bethesda slate quarries it is shadowed by its first foliage, that seems designed to hide from it the gigantic outrage on which was built the scattered and rather extensive town of Bethesda, and which has made Lord Penrhyn one of the wealthiest members of the House of Lords. Below the fine bridge leading to the quarries the river is lost among deep woods; but, pursuing it further, one comes most unexpectedly on a long and romantic series of cascades, continuing until the Ogwen is lost to sight in a deep hollow filled with mist and foam. The river has a beautiful and picturesque bend as it passes behind the cottages of Bethesda, a mile or so lower down, and thenceforward it becomes a river something like the Llugwy in appearance, tumbling over short cataracts, or wandering deep among woods, or emerging now and again amid pleasant green spaces, its banks shaded by overhanging trees. [Illustration: THE SWALLOW FALLS (_p. 210_).] As Carnedd Dafydd, and its twin, Llewelyn, are left behind there comes in sight the steep side and dark, rounded summit of Penmaenmawr, and then, on an opposite and less conspicuous eminence, looking over Bangor and the Menai Strait, and surrounded by woods in which the Ogwen is for a while completely hidden, rises Penrhyn Castle, the seat of Lord Penrhyn, with one great square, turreted tower dominating all the country roundabout. Henceforth the river is little seen until it flows out, through a deep ravine, on to the broad, sandy flats which stretch from Bangor to Beaumaris, its short, swift, troubled life ending thus in sunlit peace. The steep mountain-sides which hem in Lake Ogwen at its foot are so black, bare, rugged, and forbidding, as to suggest the skeleton of an unfinished world. A kindlier scenery opens out beyond the head of the lake, where the river /Llugwy/--the first of the tributaries of the Conway which have now to be noticed--after wandering downwards from a small mountain tarn under the shadow of Carnedd Llewelyn, runs through a wild and fine pass to Capel Curig. The valley is hemmed in by the great mountains, and to the south rise the three peaks of Y Tryfan, with the Glyder-Fach in the hollow to its left. At Capel Curig, where is Pont-y-Garth, the Llugwy is an inconspicuous stream, but it grows wider, and its valley becomes very beautiful, immediately after leaving that place, when it is joined by the waters from the two small lakes which make the best of all the foregrounds to Snowdon. Here is "a region of fairy beauty and of wild grandeur," as George Borrow says. Moel Siabod, "a mighty mountain, bare and precipitous, with two peaks like those of Pindus, opposite Janina," here hides its sternness amid woods of oak and fir. Above the lakes, all the peaks of Snowdon are in sight--Y Wyddfa, which is the summit; Lliwedd, "the triple-crested"; craggy Crib-Goch, advancing itself before the rest; and Crib-y-Ddysgyl. To the right of the valley, which has Moel Siabod on its left, there is a curving range of rocky heights, their harshness softened by bracken and dwarf shrubs, and beyond, and high above, is the stony wilderness of the Glyder-Fach. Afon Llugwy--_afon_ being the pretty Welsh word for "river"--flows through one of the most beautiful of all pastoral valleys on its way from Capel Curig to the Swallow Falls. Every bend of the stream, every green, shady pool, every long stretch of rock impeded water has appeared again and again on the walls of the great picture exhibitions; for there is no river of Wales which is so much haunted by artists as this which we are now following to its junction with the Conway. At Pont-y-Cyfing--a modern bridge of a single tall arch--the river plunges through riven cliffs, boils round enormous masses of rock, and then tumbles over a bold cascade, to recover its quiet almost immediately; but only to be again driven into turbulence where a pretty rustic bridge strides across, to give unimpeded view of a succession of rapids above and below. The Llugwy dreams along through pleasant meadows and by quiet woods before it comes to the famous Rhaiadr-y-Wennol (the Waterfall of the Swallow). Whence, one is driven to ask, comes such a name as this? The easy and the usual reply is that these are called Swallow Falls because of the swiftness with which the water descends. But all waterfalls are swift. The correct answer to the question suggests itself, as one continues to gaze, through a mist of fine spray, when the river comes down in an autumn flood. The ears deafened by the rush of the cataract, the eyes dazzled and fascinated by the breadth and the mass of the falling waters, a dim sense of something white, with black streaks here and there, overpowers all other impressions. As the river sweeps downward over the higher fall, it is broken and divided by dark pillars of rock. Yes, that is the idea, certainly. What these Falls suggested to the ancient inhabitants of Wales, to those who gave its name to the Rhaiadr-y-Wennol, was the swift alternation between the white gleam of the swallow's breast and the dark shadow of its wings, as it darted to and fro between river and sky. George Borrow has a concise, vivid, and fairly correct description of the Falls, which may be quoted here because it is impossible to put the matter in fewer words. "First," he says, "there are a number of little foaming torrents, bursting through rocks about twenty yards above the promontory on which I stood; then come two beautiful rolls of white water, dashing into a pool a little above the promontory; then there is a swirl of water round its corner into a pool below, black as death, and seemingly of great depth; then a rush through a very narrow outlet into another pool, from which the water clamours away down the glen." [Illustration: MINERS' BRIDGE, BETTWS-Y-COED (_p. 212_).] We have had the last sight of the mountains for a while when we enter the little, rock-poised wood from which the Swallow Falls are to be seen. The grand, solitary mass of Moel Siabod lies behind us, one grey, far-away peak of Snowdon exhibiting itself over the lowermost slope. Henceforth, almost to Bettws-y-Coed, the course of the Llugwy is through a deep, rocky, and finely-wooded glen. It is Matlock on a more magnificent scale. It is the High Tor repeating itself again and again, in greater grandeur of scale, and with additional beauty of surroundings. Wild nature is here clothed and softened by luxuriant foliage, which towers up to the heights. The bare rock is visible only where the river courses through the deep woods, which are to be seen to most advantage from the Miners' Bridge, slanting far upward across the river to the opposite slope--a bridge of rough sections of tree trunk bound together, with a hand-rail of long boughs for security--a bridge erected in an emergency, and for a temporary purpose, as one might guess; a bridge of perilous slope, which has done good service to more than one generation of miners, climbing up the hillside to their daily toil. [Illustration: _Photo: I. Slater, Llandudno._ MOEL SIABOD, FROM THE LLUGWY (_p. 211_).] Of Bettws-y-Coed--"the Bede House in the Wood"--so much is known that little needs in this place to be said. Here is Pont-y-Pair, and a scene which painting has made more familiar than almost any other in these islands. The bridge has been associated with the name of Inigo Jones, but at least the base of the structure dates back to the fifteenth century, being the work of a mason who must also have been a fine architect, and who died, as it seems, before his work was complete. It has four lofty arches, about which an ancient and gnarled ivy clings. Below, when the water is quiet, one may see the trout dashing about amid the pools. The river-bed is riven and torn, and full of craggy masses. A rocky islet, on which clusters a most picturesque group of fir trees, divides the accelerating waters, that now, after one final battle with obstructions, sweep sharply round a curve, and shortly join the Conway. [Illustration: PONT-Y-PAIR.] The valley of the /Lledr/ always presents itself to this present writer's recollection as he beheld it first, at the end of a dry summer, when the eye feasted without weariness on glowing colour, and when every bend of the river opened up some piece of country which was like one of Turner's glorious dreams. He saw it last on a day of drifting rain. And in wet or in dry seasons the Lledr valley permits of no comparison between itself and any other. It is incomparable in its various beauty; it is unique in its power of attraction, in its way of producing a satisfying sense of something wholly individual and complete. High up towards Blaenau Festiniog it has little beauty; but before the stream reaches Dolwyddelen Castle the real Lledr valley begins, and is thenceforward down to the junction with the Conway a perpetually changing scene of loveliness. Here again Moel Siabod, seen in a new aspect, but always striking in form and noble in proportions, seems to dominate the landscape. It may be seen from one impressive point with Dolwyddelen Castle in the middle distance. This ruin is the fragment of an ancient stronghold which derives all its present importance from the beauty of its situation. A single tower occupies the summit of a rocky knoll, and stands out clear against its misty mountain background. Yet the castle was fairly large in its day, occupying the whole surface of the hill. Here lived Iorwerth Drwyndwn, whose fortune in battle gained him his surname of "the Broken Nose"; and here, too, Llewelyn the Great is said to have been born. At a later day the castle became the residence of Howel Coetmor, a notorious outlaw and robber chief, who so harried his neighbours that they sat in church with weapons in their hands. A Roman road crossed the Lledr at the village of Dolwyddelen, which is about a mile from the castle, and there are still distinct Roman remains on the hill above the village. But let no one, on that account, meditate on the ruins of empires at the railway station which is called Roman Bridge, for the road crossed the river at quite another place, and the bridge is of an antiquity corresponding to that of the relic which was discovered by the credulous hero of Sir Walter Scott's romance. The Lledr wanders about its valley as if it were loth to leave. It makes huge loops and bends, almost knotting itself sometimes into what the sailors call "a figure of eight." The whole valley is a combination of wildness and fertility, of wide prospects and confined glimpses of sylvan beauty, of wooded hills and frowning crags and broken upland. In rainy weather innumerable foamy streams swell the Lledr, until, in some portions of its course, it seems to make a series of lakes. The oldest bridge is Pont-y-Pant, not far from the entrance to the valley from the direction of Bettws-y-Coed. Below this the stream hurries onwards through woods and meadow-land, under mighty bluffs which are wooded to their summits, and, issuing at length from its rocky barriers, adds to the Conway a volume of water that is equal to its own. The river /Machno/ falls into the Conway a mile or two beyond its junction with the Lledr. It is a short river, drawing to itself a number of little mountain streams, and its principal feature--but that is of the first importance from the tourist point of view--round which painters of landscape seem to encamp themselves all the year through, the falls of the Machno, combines every element of what one may call the ordinary picturesque. The river foams among crags and boulders, and between rocky ledges, from which the trees hang dizzily, casting deep shadows across the stream, and making green reflections in each swirling pool. Then, too, there is Pandy Mill, making a sunshine in the shady place, and a mill-wheel with a tumbling jet of water; and nature seems to have lavished all its softer endearments on this exquisite little scene, delighting the eye with tender arrangements of moss and film-fern, and lichen and hoar boughs. [Illustration: _Photo: Green Bros., Grasmere._ ON THE LLEDR.] Not far below this pretty landscape cameo are the Falls of the Conway, where the river rushes on through a gorge of dark, sloping, almost columnar rocks, and then--divided by a tall crag, on which one or two small bushes have contrived to grow--bends and plunges down two steep descents to where a half-ruinous salmon leap brings to mind the eminence of the Conway as a fishing river. And next, the Fairy Glen! This is a genuine ravine, where the stream forces itself between riven cliffs, and flows in deep, rapid streaks of peaty-brown water among a wilderness of grey rocks, plunging downward, thereafter, into a wild glen overhung by woods. The name of the Fairy Glen would seem inappropriate enough to such a scene were it not that here, again, Nature has thrown all manner of rustic decorations about this frowning gorge. The sunlight, too, seems to fill the place in a strange, mystic way, so that the lichen-encrusted rocks are seen through a kind of blue, misty glamour, and there is a suggestion of rainbow colour over all. [Illustration: ANOTHER VIEW IN THE LLEDR VALLEY.] From the road high above the Fairy Glen there is a fine prospect of the mountains. Moel Siabod seems to have come nearer, and the far distance is closed in by the Glyders, Tryfan, and the Carnedd Llewelyn range. Down in the valley is the Llyn-yr-Afanc, or the Beaver's Pool, and nearer to Bettws-y-Coed the river is crossed by the fine span of the iron bridge which was built in the year of the battle of Waterloo. The /Conway/ has no particular attractiveness as it passes Bettws, where David Cox's famous signboard may still be seen at the Royal Oak Hotel. It has here a green margin of meadow-land, which grows broader as we proceed towards Llanrwst, a sweetly-placed little market town, to which small vessels seem to have made their way in the last century, for a sailor who penned a diary in 1769 wrote how "Llanrwst is situated in a very deep bottom on the river Conway, betwixt Denbigh hills and Carnarvon rocks, some of which appear to hang over the town. Nevertheless, we found a much better anchorage than we could have expected at such a bottom." [Illustration: FAIRY GLEN, BETTWS-Y-COED.] This sailor was an observing man, for he continues:--"Llanrwst is a small market-town, containing one church, a market-hall, as they call it, and about fifty or sixty houses, but never a good house among the whole lot." There are some good houses nowadays, however, and a fine stone bridge of three arches, with a peculiarly high and graceful spring. Here, again, the design is attributed to Inigo Jones, as, perhaps, ought to be the case in the immediate country of that renowned architect. Gwydir Castle, the family mansion of the Wynns, is a conspicuous object among the woods which here cluster under the feet of the craggy Carnarvonshire hills. It has now passed, through the hands of the Earl of Ancaster, whose forbears married with the Wynn family, into the possession of the Earl Carrington. The founder of the castle was Sir John Wynn of Gwydir, who represented Carnarvonshire in Parliament in 1596, and whose soul is said to be imprisoned under the Swallow Falls, "there to be punished, purged, spouted upon, and purified from the foul deeds done in his days of nature." A truly tremendous malediction! Some traces of the sixteenth-century building still remain, but the present castle belongs to our own century, though it contains carved work of the reigns of Elizabeth and James. At Llanbedr, on the hills above the Llanrwst road, may be found one of the most remarkable primitive fortifications that are to be seen anywhere in these islands, Pen-Caer-Helen by name. "It was a British post of great strength," says Pennant, "in some parts singularly guarded. It had the usual fosses, and vast ramparts of stones, with some remains of the facing of walls, and the foundations of three or four round buildings." The remains are still very extensive, and clearly indicate the extent of the ancient stone ramparts. It was a post from which a very great extent of country could be surveyed. In one direction you look over the Conway and the Denbighshire hills, as far as the valley of the Clwyd; in another, the eye stretches over a barren waste to the Carnedd Llewelyn range. The Great and the Little Orme are in sight, and Puffin Island, and the sea. [Illustration: ON THE CONWAY.] The Conway is still navigable by small vessels as far as Trefriw, a pretty village of small houses and neat villas, clustering under the hill, and close to the coach road. Trefriw is renowned not only for its situation, but for its "Fairy Falls," and its "spa," which, says Mr. Halliwell-Phillips, yields "the nastiest chalybeate I ever had the folly to taste." For some distance below Trefriw, the river, now broader and much more deep, runs for a while between great masses of tall reeds and sedge, and then opens out into a lake-like width, with such a prospect of spreading water, and woods and mountain, as recalls the characteristic beauties of Windermere. Very delightful indeed is a voyage in the little steamer which plies between Deganwy, Conway, and Trefriw; but it is at Conway Marsh that the river is at its noblest. When the tide is out, this is a broad, sweeping, sandy bay, with oozy spaces of bright green towards its centre; and when the tide is full, it has the appearance of a large and beautiful islanded lake. The river is walled in on the Conway side, and a thick wood shadows the stream as it bends round towards the sea. It is here that one of the most effective views of Conway Castle comes into sight, with the two white bridges stretching over the narrowing channel, and the great circular towers clustering together in such manner as to convey a most formidable impression of massiveness and strength. One naturally compares Conway with Carnarvon Castle. The two buildings are said to have been designed by the same architect, and, of their kind, they are among the finest in the world. Carnarvon Castle is more elaborated in idea, more ingenious, more decorative, and in general aspect more grand; but Conway suggests a greater antiquity, a more solid strength, a sounder and more artistic unity of structure. It is a mere ruin, having been dismantled in 1665. Even before that period it seems to have been abandoned to time. There is a letter of James I.'s reign which says that "the King's Castle of Conway, in the county of Carnarvon, is in great ruin and decay, whereof the greater part hath been downe and uninhabitable for manie ages past; the rest of the timber supporting the roof is all, or for the most part, rotten, and growth daylie by wet more and more in decay, no man having dwelt in anie part thereof these thirty years past." There is no roof at all now; the timbers are long consumed; the castle is gutted throughout; and yet, as seen from the Conway river, the castle still has a certain august and complete majesty, as if time could do it no real despite. [Illustration: _Photo: I. Slater, Llandudno._ THE CONWAY, FROM CONWAY CASTLE.] Conway Castle, with the Conway mountain, on which there is a British fort, towering up in the rear, held complete command of the estuary. It was an English, not a Welsh, stronghold, being built by Edward I., about 1284. Queen Eleanor is said to have lived there with the king, and one of the towers has been named the "Queen's" tower in memory of that event. The great hall, which was supported on vaults, was 130 feet long by 32 feet broad. The castle was besieged in 1290 by Madoc, one of the sons of Llewelyn, the English king himself being present on the occasion. A fleet bringing provisions saved the garrison just as it was being starved into surrender. When Bolingbroke landed in England, and Richard II. found himself abandoned by his army, he fled here for safety, and at this castle, it is averred, was his abdication signed. Conway town, sloping swiftly down to the riverside, and almost wholly enclosed within its many-towered walls, looks like a contemporary illustration of Froissart. There is no other such perfect specimen of a small mediæval walled town now remaining. The fortifications climb up a steep hillside, in a triangular form--or rather, as has been said, so as to make the figure of a Welsh harp. The highest point of the triangle is so far above the other portions of the walls that the whole has that quaint look of being out of perspective which is the most pronounced characteristic of all mediæval draughtsmanship. [Illustration: CONWAY CASTLE.] Across the water, and on the way to Llandudno, the little town, or village, or city of Deganwy half hides itself among the sands, just above the verge of what was formerly, and even up to recent times, a marsh stretching from opposite Conway to Llandudno Bay. It was hereabout, but on the Conway side of the river, that the pearl-fishing was carried on:-- "Conway, which out of his streame doth send Plenty of pearls to deck his dames withal"-- says Spenser, in the "Faërie Queene." The pearl fishery had once a real importance. Sir Richard Wynn of Gwydir presented to the queen of Charles II. a Conway pearl, which afterwards adorned the regal crown. This was probably of a kind that was found higher up the river, at Trefriw. A more common variety was found in abundance on the bar, and the collection of the pearl-bearing mussels was for a long time a distinct and regular industry. "As for the pearls found in these mountainous rivers," said a letter-writer of the seventeenth century, "they are very plentiful, and uncommonly large, though few of them well coloured. They are found in a large, black muscle, peculiar to such rivers. Several ladyes of this county and Denbighshire have collections of good pearle, found chiefly in the river Conway." Deganwy, "the place where the white waves break upon the shore," was a royal residence from a very remote period. It had a castle, which is said to have been erected in the sixth century by Maelgwyn Gwynedd, and to have been destroyed by Llewelyn the Great, whose statue is to be seen in Conway town. "It was a noble structure," says Giraldus Cambrensis, "and its possession was held to be of great importance to the English, so that Randal Blondevil, Earl of Chester, rebuilt it in 1210. King John encamped at Deganwy two years later, but was compelled to retreat with his army before Llewelyn. There were other royal retreats from Deganwy, before the fierce Welsh, in 1245, 1258, and 1262. There were "great ruines" of the castle in Leland's time; but now it is with difficulty that any fragment is discerned. Deganwy itself has become a watering-place, a small rival to Llandudno, mainly attractive because it presents a magnificent view of the estuary of the Conway, and of the fine range of mountains which ends in Penmaenmawr." Llandudno, for the most part, occupies the flat and formerly marshy space between the Great and the Little Orme. It is altogether a favourable type of the modern watering-place; but it need not detain us here, for we have reached the point at which the river broadens out into Conway Bay, and is lost among the in-rushing waves of the Irish Sea. [Illustration: THE BRIDGE, FROM CONWAY CASTLE.] RIVERS OF NORTH WALES. CHAPTER III. THE CLWYD AND THE DEE. The /Clwyd/: Rhyl--Rhuddlan Castle--The Elwy--A Welsh Gretna Green--St. Asaph--Denbigh--Ruthin. The /Dee/: Bala Lake--Corwen--Vale of Llangollen and Valle Crucis Abbey--Dinas Bran--The Ceiriog--Chirk Castle and Wynnstay--The Alyn--Eaton Hall--Chester--Flint. The town of Rhyl is like a piece of Liverpool or Manchester, "borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air," and arranged in long terraces and orderly blocks on a piece of flat coast-land near the mouth of the river /Clwyd/. The place has been much praised by a grandiloquent writer who, in the very height of his rapture, had to admit that "the great object of attraction was the sun setting in a flood of golden beauty on his evening throne." It is a spectacle that may be observed elsewhere. The virtue of Rhyl is that it is easily accessible from large centres of population, that it enjoys pure and bracing air, that it has a vast expanse of firm sands, that the Great Orme and the Penmaenmawr range look very noble and beautiful from its broad promenade, and that the soft winds blow towards it from the pleasant Vale of Clwyd. But in the immediate neighbourhood of Rhyl even the famous vale has no attractiveness. The bare river flows through bare mud. This enormously wide valley is, for the most part, a soft, dark marsh, on which a thin vegetation struggles to maintain a dank existence. But even from Rhyl there are agreeable views of what the Welsh call Dyffryn Clwyd, the Vale of the Flat, "the Eden of Wales." Three miles away, over an absolutely level and barren space, the wooded knolls and the dark towers of Rhuddlan advance almost to the centre of the valley, and have a fine impressiveness when they are thrown into relief by the shadow of some passing cloud. The Clwydian hills seem to close in behind them, with Moel Fammau in the remote distance. The old poet, Thomas Churchyard, says: "The vale doth reach so far in view of man As he far of may see the seas, indeede; And who awhile for pleasure travel can Throughout this vale, and thereof take good heede, He shall delight to see a soyle so fine, For ground and grass a passing plot devine; And if the truth thereof a man may tell, This vale alone doth all the rest excell." However, it is not until after Rhuddlan has been passed that the great fertility of the Vale of Clwyd declares itself, and to pass Rhuddlan is impossible without some examination, and without some ransacking of one's historical memory; for poor and unimportant as it now seems, this little place has played a great part in the history of Wales. [Illustration: VIEW FROM RHUDDLAN CASTLE.] [Illustration: RHUDDLAN CASTLE.] A long bridge of several arches stretches over from the high road which crosses the marsh, to a steep, firm ascent, a little church with a square tower, and a few small cottages. Other cottages, mostly set amid neat gardens, border on the curves of what is more like a country lane than a village. Then suddenly, for it has been hidden by trees, one comes face to face with the colossal fragments of what must have been a nearly impregnable castle, poised on the summit of a bare, rounded hill, its huge towers buried in ivy, its outer walls sloping down to the Clwyd, and to an outer tower which has long been half in ruins, but which is so strongly built that it may still, for centuries to come, defy the malice of Time. On the partially reclaimed morass on the further side of the river, where a herd of black Welsh cows is grazing, the Saxons under Offa, King of Mercia, fought a great battle with the Welsh, under Caradoc, Prince of Wales, in 795. Caradoc and many of his principal chieftains were slain. The well-known air of "Morva Rhuddlan" commemorates the event, and the native poet sings, not without sweetness and pathos: "I seek the warrior's lowly bed On Rhuddlan's marsh; but cannot trace A vestige of the noble dead, Or aught to mark their resting place. Green rush and reeds are all that grace The graves of those in fight who fell, For freedom--for their land and race, Oh fatal field! farewell, farewell!" Where Rhuddlan Castle stands there was a fortress so early as 1015, and it was taken by Harold Godwinson, in Edward the Confessor's time. Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, rested at Rhuddlan in 1167, when he was preaching a Crusade. Edward I. took Rhuddlan Castle in 1277, and here it was that his son, recently born at Carnarvon, was proclaimed Prince of Wales. Edward made the place his grand depôt for arms and provisions, and his principal residence whilst he was engaged in the conquest of Wales. It was to Rhuddlan, too, that Llewelyn consented to repair to take the oath of fealty. The castle passed into the hands of the Black Prince in the reign of Edward III. Richard II. was here held in honourable captivity after his return from his expedition to Ireland. The forces of the Parliament unsuccessfully besieged the place in 1645, but captured it a year later, when it was ordered to be dismantled, and the long, troubled chapter of its history was finally closed. The sea comes up to Rhuddlan, which, indeed, has some slight pretensions as a port; then, with flat meadows on one side and low-hanging woods on the other, the Clwyd bends about, this way and that, until, before long, it is joined by the river /Elwy/, which, as it is a pretty river to follow, and takes us to St. Asaph, we shall, for a while, keep company. The Elwy is a merry, romantic, shaded stream, with abundant trout. It is fringed by willow and hazel copse. Sometimes it is wholly lost in foliage, except for a silvery gleam among the leaves; sometimes it comes out into the sunlight, and flows by shingly holms and muddy flats. A peaceful, rich, pastoral country is that through which it courses merrily on its way, with here and there groups of cattle huddling under the hedges for coolness and shade. The water is stained brown with peat, telling of its birth on mountain slopes. Below Ffynnon Fair, seated on the brow of a hill, it receives the waters of a holy well, once sheltered by shrine work, and a place of pilgrimage, as the ivy-clad ruins of a cruciform chapel still declare. And this chapel was also the Gretna Green of Wales, a place for the marriage of runaway couples, as this ancient record shows:--"1611. Mem.: Thatt upon Frydaye, at night, happening upon vij. day of Februarie, one Pyers Griffith ab Inn Gryfydd, my brother in lawe, was married clandestinely with one Jane rch Thomas hys second wieff at the chapel at Wicwer called Capel Fynnon Fair." The Elwy loses the shadow of its willows and hazels a mile or so below St. Asaph, which is five miles upwards from Rhyl. Winding among deep banks of rich soil, it makes the necessary part of a pretty picture when, flowing under a fine stone bridge of five arches, it forms a foreground for one of the smallest cities, crowned by the smallest cathedral, in all these islands. St. Asaph may be satisfactorily explored in half an hour's time. It spreads itself over a hill, which is called Bryn Paulen, after some legendary Paulinus, a Roman general. The cathedral, which is no more than an average-sized church, is the central and highest object. St. Kentigern is said to have built a church of wood on the site about the middle of the sixth century, when he was driven from Scotland by a prince who declined to be won from Paganism. St. Asaph, who was a native of Wales, succeeded as bishop when Kentigern returned to Scotland. He built a church of stone, in which he was buried in 576. For five hundred years the see has no dependable history; but in the period of the Civil Wars there was a cathedral in which horses and oxen were stabled, and a see whose revenues were sequestrated by Parliament. The building was restored, when Charles II. came to the throne, by Bishop Griffith, and a bishop's palace was erected by his successor, who was none other than the learned Isaac Barrow. The cathedral of St. Asaph contains the tomb of this distinguished prelate, and a monument to Mrs. Hemans, who spent a large portion of her life in the Vale of Clwyd, as readers of her poems may easily discover. In front of the cathedral stands a tall red-sandstone monument, erected in memory of Bishop Morgan, the first translator of the Bible into the language of Wales. From a couple of miles above St. Asaph to the meeting of the waters above Rhuddlan, the Clwyd and the Elwy pursue an almost parallel course, the Elwy in long bends and sweeps, the Clwyd with almost infinite small windings. To that point their streams have been almost at right angles to each other, the Elwy rising not far from the hills above Llanrwst, overlooking the Conway valley, the Clwyd flowing down by Ruthin and Denbigh, a thin thread of water, except in very rainy seasons, with its course worn so deep, after the lapse of ages, into the rich, yielding soil, that it is sometimes scarcely to be discerned as a feature in the landscape. Denbigh, say the etymologists, hazarding a guess, means "a small hill." In that case, the older designation, Caledfryn-yn-Rhos ("a rocky hill in Rhos"), was much more appropriate, for the town ascends by one long street to heights that appear mountainous to the tired pedestrian; and from Denbigh Castle, the ruins of which occupy the summit of this "small hill," the land slopes off suddenly to an immense depth of rich pastoral landscape, enclosed in a basin of lofty but graciously rounded hills. Like Carnarvon, Denbigh Castle is to some extent being rebuilt; but it is immeasurably a more hopeless sort of ruin. It was dismantled by order of Charles II., and the work seems to have been thoroughly accomplished, for the walls were of great strength, and it must have been a very determined act of destruction that reduced them to such fragments as now remain. Here, within the actual walls of the castle, but in a cottage that has now been destroyed, was Henry M. Stanley born. The special distinction of Denbigh, however, is that it was the last castle which held out for Charles I. It was, indeed, only surrendered at the king's own order, dated from Newcastle, when Charles was himself a prisoner there. [Illustration: ST. ASAPH (_p. 227_).] Eight miles further on is Ruthin, which is another town that clusters about the summit of a hill. The castle here, which has been restored, and is still inhabited, was in existence in the reign of Edward I., and how much earlier is not known. We are now in the richest and most fertile portion of the Vale of Clwyd, with its highest mountain not far away. To the summit of Moel Fammau, 1,845 feet above the level of the sea, is only five miles. The mountain is crowned by the ugly ruin of a tower which was erected at the jubilee of George III. Hence may be seen the valleys of the Dee and the Mersey, and, by aid of a telescope, the coasts of Lancashire and Cheshire. Looking down the Vale of Clwyd, the eye ranges over a landscape that is dotted about with farmhouses and herds of kine; the white, tapering tower of Bodelwyddan Church rises high above its trees, and Rhyl, Llandudno, and Great Orme's Head stand out clearly on the sea margin far away. At a greater distance, and in another direction, one may behold Snowdon and Cader Idris, with their summits buried in brooding clouds. * * * * * The river Dee rises in a country which has been immemorially associated with the Arthurian legends. Here, indeed, was the infant king committed to the care of old Timon, and here his boyhood was spent-- "In a valley green, Under the foot of Rauran mossy hore, From whence the river Dee, as silver clene, His tombling billows rolls with gentle rore." So says Spenser, using a phrase which may have been in Shakespeare's mind when he made Bottom promise to "roar you as gently as any sucking-dove." Almost beyond counting are the streams which empty themselves into Bala Lake, high up among the peaks of Merionethshire. And they scarcely run dry in the hottest summers, for, as a cynical humorist has written-- "The weather depends on the moon as a rule, And I've found that the saying is true; For at Bala it rains when the moon's at the full And it rains when the moon's at the new. "When the moon's at the quarter, then down comes the rain: At the half it's no better, I ween; When the moon's at three-quarters it's at it again, And it rains, besides, mostly between!" The Dee is said to flow through the lake without mingling its waters--a tradition that may be gently set aside. It rises on the flank of Aran Benllyn, and already receives two tributaries before it joins Bala Lake at its head. At Llanuwchllyn, near to the spot at which the three little streams become one, it has grown important enough to be crossed by a rude stone bridge of two arches. [Illustration: _Photo: Catherall & Pritchard, Eastgate Row, Chester._ DENBIGH (_p. 227_).] Drayton speaks of Bala Lake as Pimblemere. That is a name signifying "the lake of the five parishes." Llyn Tegid, the lake of beauty, is the favourite Welsh designation. And a very beautiful lake it is, though with less majesty of surroundings than one would expect to find at such a height, in such a country, where, as George Borrow says, everything is "too grand for melancholy." It was the largest sheet of water in Wales until Lake Vyrnwy was made, its length being about four and a half miles by about a mile in average breadth. In the Welsh mind it has filled so large a place that there is a tradition of how the bursting of the banks of Bala Lake caused the Deluge. A feature that has always attracted much attention is the influence of a south-west wind in driving its waters outward into the Dee. Thus, for example, writes Tennyson, speaking of Enid's nursing of Geraint:-- "Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendence hovering over him, Filled all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west, that blowing Bala Lake, Fills all the sacred Dee." A sacred character has been associated with the Dee from the very earliest times. It was "holy" to the Druids; it was a "wizard stream" to Milton; Drayton speaks of where "Dee's holiness begun," and credits it with presaging woe to the English or the Welsh according as, in one portion of its course, it shifted the bed of its stream. The Dee is a mountain-river from Bala downwards, and until Llangollen has been passed. Its outlet from the lake is through a quaint, many-arched stone bridge--a bridge, as Coleridge might have said, "with a circumbendibus." The railway runs close at hand for almost the whole of its course, which, for the present, lies through what is the peculiar country of Owen Glendower. We have encountered traces of this valiant chieftain at Machynlleth, Dolgelley, and almost everywhere that we have been; but here, at Corwen and roundabout, the country fairly reeks with his memory. The Dee is a fair, wide river when it leaves Bala Lake, and flows for a while through open meadow lands, to plunge before long and with great suddenness into a beautiful mountain gorge, where it is overhung by trees. At the delightful village of Llandderfel it is crossed by another picturesque bridge, set among rocky hills which teem with wild legends, and shortly thereafter it flows once more among wide, open spaces, bare, bleak, and harried by the winds. The Vale of Edeyrnion is the name of the country through which we have just passed, and this valley, in which the character of the scenery changes so conspicuously and so often, comes to an end just before the town of Corwen is reached. Grey, slaty, nestling among trees and wooded heights, with a slate quarry prominent in the foreground, with many odd, old-fashioned, solid-looking houses, Corwen has a church dedicated to Mael and Sulien, saints unknown to the English calendar. Of Sulien it is said that he was "the godliest man and greatest clerke in all Wales." On a stone in the churchyard is shown "the true mark of Owen Glendower's dagger," which weapon he threw from a rock behind the church, thus doing something more to surround his life with legend. There was another Owen whom the Corwen folk hold in loving remembrance--that Owen Gwynedd, Prince of Wales, who opposed himself to Henry II., and who made so strong an encampment near the town that there were vestiges of it remaining in Pennant's time. [Illustration: _Photo: Carl Norman & Co., Tunbridge Wells._ BALA LAKE.] [Illustration: VALLE CRUCIS ABBEY.] There is an exquisite view of the Dee from what is known as Owen Glendower's Mound. The surrounding country is comparatively open; but the river is again, before long, lost in a narrowing valley and among rich woods. And by this time we have come into the region of modern achievement. The valley of the Dee is now to be seen to most advantage from Telford's road, which brings us to more than one of the seven wonders of Wales, and first of all to the glorious Vale of Llangollen. George Borrow has too much limited the scope and range of this glorious valley. "The northern side of the vale," he says, "is formed by certain enormous rocks called the Eglwyseg rocks, which extend from east to west, a distance of about two miles. The southern side is formed by the Berwyn hills." Here, says Mr. Ruskin, speaking from a wide observation, "is some of the loveliest brook and glen scenery in the world." The remains of Valle Crucis give a special human interest to a district that is wonderfully full of beauty and charm. It was a Cistercian house, much smaller than the other famous abbeys of the same order, but resembling them in certain high architectural qualities, as well as in the seclusiveness of its situation. The abbey was founded by Madoc, Lord of Bromfield, in the time of King John, in what was, even at that time, called the Valley of the Cross, in virtue of the mysterious "Eliseg's Pillar," which is still a puzzle to the antiquary. The ruins lie among steep hills-- "For when one hill behind your backe you see, Another comes, two times as high as Dee," as Thomas Churchyard sings. The main tower of the abbey appears to have been standing in the days of this poet; but now nothing remains but its piers. The pointed gables on the eastern and western ends of the church are, however, conspicuous objects still. The abbey is believed to have been at the point of highest prosperity in the time of Owen Glendower. Henry VIII. employed the abbot to draw out a Welsh pedigree for him, which was, no doubt, as faithfully done as circumstances would allow. Two later abbots became Bishops of St. Asaph. And then followed the Dissolution, with all its waste and ruin. [Illustration: LLANGOLLEN.] The Bridge of Llangollen is enumerated among the "seven wonders of Wales," four of which belong to the Valley of the Dee. It scarcely seems to deserve this particular renown, though it is a very excellent specimen of a mediæval bridge, its builder being John Trevor, Bishop of St. Asaph, who completed his work in 1350. The Dee at this point flows over a solid bed of rock, or, as Churchyard says: "And still on rocke the water runnes, you see, A wondrous way--a thing full rare and strange, That rocke can not the course of waters change; For in the streame huge stones and rockes remayne That backward might the flood, of force, constrain." The name of Llangollen is, by some authorities, derived from St. Collen, to whom the church is dedicated. It is an ordinary enough little town in itself; but is so remarkably placed that the eye can scarcely turn in any direction without finding pictures of most extraordinary beauty. On the opposite side of the bridge from the town the hill of Dinas Bran rises, a huge cone, to the height of a thousand feet or so. It is so regular in its conical shape that it at first suggests artificial construction. But just at this place the hills are all abnormal. The Eglwyseg rocks, for example--best seen from the slope of Dinas Bran--might have been transported from some cañon in Colorado. They are a strange series of cliffs, one above the other, regular as walls, and with dark bushes clinging to them in such a manner as to suggest cave dwellings. They are a greater wonder than Dinas Bran itself, which, nevertheless, is very remarkable and striking. On its summit is the ruin of what is popularly known as Crow Castle, attributed in local guide-books to the British, but obviously of much later construction, and probably a relic of Norman times. From this singular eminence there is a far-stretching view of the valley of the Dee, as the river speeds on its way to a rich and more open country. Near to where the stream is further swollen by receiving the waters of the Ceiriog, it is spanned by the majestic aqueduct which carries the waters of the Ellesmere Canal, one of those few architectural achievements which, placed where Nature has done her utmost, add a new beauty to their surroundings. Even more unrestrained praise might be given to the fine, slender, lofty pillars and arches of the Dee viaduct, which is among the greatest works of the Great Western Railway. The aqueduct is Telford's work, and the viaduct was built by Robertson. For the former, however, Telford claimed no credit, for he wrote thus in praise of his foreman:--"The Vale of Llangollen is very fine, and not the least interesting object in it, I can assure you, is Davidson's famous aqueduct, which is already reckoned among the wonders of Wales." Churchyard differentiates very discreetly and observingly between the Ceiriog and the Dee. The one, he says, is "a wonderous violent water when rayne or snowe is greate," and the other is "a river deep and swifte," running "with gushing streame." The meeting-place of the two rivers is distinguished as the site of two famous houses, each surrounded by fine parks. On one side is the feudal castle of Chirk, and on the other is Wynnstay, which has long been the seat of the great family after which it is named. Chirk Castle dates back to the eleventh century. It was the home of those Myddletons to whom belonged that famous Sir Hugh Myddleton who brought the New River to London. Wynnstay also has its history, for here lived Madoc ap Gruffydd Maelor, who built Valle Crucis Abbey. It is now the principal seat of Sir Watkin Williams Wynn, whose possessions are so extensive that he is sometimes called the real Prince of Wales. The present Hall dates only from a time that is still very recent, for its predecessor was burned down in 1858. From the terrace of Wynnstay there is such a view of the Dee--of wood, of river, of lofty bridge and distant mountains slopes--as seems almost to belong to the landscape of another world. [Illustration: _Photo: Hudson._ EATON HALL (_p. 237_).] The Dee has finally emerged from the mountainous country when it flows, with many a sharp bend, and long, glittering loop, between the grounds of Chirk Castle and of Wynnstay. It is shortly to become a river that is English on the one side and Welsh on the other, and already, except in the distance, we have seen the last of the characteristic scenery of North Wales. The Dee now courses through a country of wide plains. Offa's Dyke runs in a straight line through the grounds of Chirk Castle, almost to the point at which the stream is crossed by the railway viaduct. Watt's Dyke commences on the other side of the Dee, a little lower down, and proceeds through the grounds of Wynnstay, past Ruabon, in the direction of Wrexham. What may have been the purpose of these ancient fortifications is a question which the antiquaries have so far failed to answer in any way that is final and conclusive. Thomas Churchyard has an explanation which is as good as any that has since been offered. He says-- "There is famous thing Cal'de Offa's Dyke, that reacheth far in length; All kind of ware the Danes might thither bring; It was free ground, and cal'de the Britaine's strength; Wat's Dyke likewise about the same was set Between which two both Danes and Britaines met, And trafficke still." At these Dykes, too, it would appear, the exchange of prisoners was generally effected. In their origin, no doubt, they were defensive works, as well as lines of demarcation. [Illustration: THE ROODEE, CHESTER (_p. 239_).] After its junction with the Ceiriog, the Dee divides Denbighshire and Shropshire for some two or three miles. Soon afterwards it again becomes wholly Welsh for a brief while, and forms the boundary between Denbighshire and Flint. This is after we have passed Ruabon, and the great Welsh coalfield. Here is Overton Churchyard, one of those "seven wonders of Wales" whose title to fame is so often inexplicable. At this place there is less to wonder at in the churchyard itself than in the view of the Dee which is presented therefrom, for here it winds, with many curves, through a pleasant valley, interspersed with broad, flat green spaces, woods, and low, rounded hills. Bangor-on-Dee, the chief spawning ground for salmon, is near at hand; and, then, before long, the great tower of Wrexham Church comes in sight, much more of a wonder than either Overton Churchyard or Llangollen Bridge. [Illustration: THE DEE AT CHESTER, FROM THE WALLS (_p. 239_).] The river /Alyn/ joins the Dee below Wrexham. It has come through much lovely country, of one portion of which, near Mold, Pennant says:--"I hang long over the charming vale which opens here. Cambria here lays aside her majestic air, and condescends to assume a gentler form, in order to render her less violent in approaching union with her English neighbour." The Alyn runs underground for about half a mile after it has passed the old fortress of Caergwele. Indeed, as Drayton says, with all due exactness, "twice underground her crystal head doth run." Our first great landscape painter, Richard Wilson, was buried at Mold, and it was in the vale of the Alyn that fortune at last came to him, for here, on a small estate which had been bequeathed to him, he came upon a vein of lead, and was henceforth able to live in reasonable affluence. "And following Dee, which Britons long ygone Did call 'divine,' that doth to Chester tend"-- so remarks Edmund Spenser. First, however, we pass Eaton Hall and its splendid grounds. Sir John Vanbrugh built a great mansion on the site, which was pulled down when Gothic architecture again came into fashion. Its successor was, in spite of great cost and elaboration, an architectural failure, and it has now given place to Mr. Waterhouse's greatest and most colossal achievement in domestic architecture. This magnificent seat of the Duke of Westminster is situated in a very extensive park, in which there is one avenue two miles in length, bordered on each side by forest trees. The style of architecture adopted by Mr. Waterhouse is that which prevailed in France in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. "There is not a house in England," it has been said, "that has been built on a more perfect arrangement." The Dee flows round the outskirts of the park to the beautiful village of Eccleston, where the grounds, sloping down to the river, are very beautifully ornamented with trees. Henceforward to Chester the stream is like a broad reach of the Thames, calm, massive, with leafy banks, a truly impressive introduction to one of the most famous of English cities. Chester is remarkable alike for its present and its past. It shares with York the distinction of having kept its ancient walls unimpaired; and the walls of Chester, of a rich red sandstone, are much finer, both in colour and in form, than those of the northern city. The definite history of the place goes back at least as far as Agricola, who was at Chester in the year 60 /A.D./ as an officer in the army of Suetonius Paulinus. Then it was, probably, that the Romans first established a camp on the banks of the Dee. Chester seems to have been the headquarters of the Twentieth Legion, which, soon after the death of Augustus, was stationed at Cologne, on the Rhine, from the reign of Claudius to the departure of the Romans from Britain. The memorials of this occupation are not now very numerous, but are of the highest value in determining what kind of city Chester was when it was occupied by a legion so distinguished that it was generally placed in posts of difficulty and great honour. Probably the most perfect hypocaust in England is that which is to be seen in the grounds attached to the Water Tower at Chester. Ignorant men who offer themselves as guides still speak of the wall as Roman work, and one may find for them this excuse, at least--that the existing walls, with but one deviation, follow the line of the Roman fortifications, part of which can be seen near the canal, not very far from the point at which it communicates with the Dee. The Road-Book of Antonine has this entry: "DEVA. LEG. XX VICTRIX." Among the pictures which most impressed the present writer's boyhood was an illustration of Edgar the Peaceful being rowed down the Dee by eight tributary princes. The incident is not legendary, but historic. One might linger for almost any length of time in this unique city, recalling the memorable facts of its history, were not the Dee still tempting us along. It is a city surrounded by beautiful country, and is full of a quaint charm, with rare architectural features. The famous "Rows"--long covered galleries above the basements of the houses and shops, originally intended for purposes of hasty defence--probably reflect the influence of Rome on the city long after the departure of the legions. This was the surmise of Stukeley, who wrote, "The Rows, or piazzas, of Chester are singular through the whole town, giving shelter to the foot people. I fancied it a remains of the old Roman portico." Nowhere else in these islands are the ancient, half-timbered houses, like the "God's Providence House" which has become so famous, in such satisfactory preservation, and they have given a character even to the modern architecture of Chester, which, in many striking instances, is only a reproduction on a larger scale of the prevailing style of the past. Chester has two cathedrals, and a remarkable ecclesiastical history. The city walls, round which the river sweeps in broad, bold curves, are chiefly of the Edwardian period. From one of the towers, which is now much what it was during the Civil Wars, Charles I. watched the defeat of his army on Rowton Heath. Chester was shortly afterwards surrendered, and thus was finally lost the cause of the king in the north-west. Following the walls to the opposite side of the city, we find that pleasant pictures are made by two of the Dee bridges--the modern Suspension Bridge for foot-passengers, erected where the river is of great breadth, and the old Dee Bridge, just under the walls, with a huge flour-mill beside it, and a little colony of salmon-fishers on the other side, not far away. Passing the Roodee, a great level space by the river, on which the races are held and other popular festivities take place, we arrive at the great iron arch of the Grosvenor Bridge, which is as noticeable on account of its design as because of the breadth of its single span. [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ CHESTER CATHEDRAL, FROM THE SOUTH-WEST.] For eight miles henceforward the river flows through an artificial channel, made for purposes of navigation, and with the consequence of reclaiming some five thousand acres of land. The swing railway bridge, opened by Mrs. Gladstone in 1889, the first cylinder being placed in position by Mr. Gladstone two years earlier, is the next object of interest. Not far away is Hawarden Park, "not exceeded in beauty by any demesne in the world," says Dean Howson. After these eight miles of artificial waterway have been traversed, the Dee suddenly broadens out into a wonderful estuary, which, according to the state of the tide, separates England from Wales by wide stretches of water, or by still wider stretches of sand. We pass the Castle of Flint on our way downwards, with one huge round tower dipping its base into the Dee. The town which it once defended is known in these days for its chemical works; but it has seen stirring times. It was here that Richard II. was held prisoner, within "the rude ribs of that ancient castle," as Shakespeare says, and here, also, it was that Bolingbroke became King of England. The Castle of Mostyn, not far from where the shore of the river becomes the coast of the sea, was also mixed up in these transactions. Nearly midway between these two fragments of mediævalism are Basingwerk Abbey and the Fountain of Holywell, which is even to this day credited with the working of miracles. [Illustration: SWING BRIDGE OVER THE DEE NEAR HAWARDEN (_p. 239_).] The estuary of the Dee has its Lindisfarne; for, as an old writer on Hillbree Island, with the square tower of its church rising above a wooded knoll, has remarked, "It is an island but twice a day, embraced by Neptune only at the full tydes, and twice a day shakes hands with great Britain." The sands stretch away in almost illimitable expanse, the Wirral Promontory making a distant, faint, and irregular boundary between the Dee and the Mersey. Kingsley's account of one of Copley Fielding's sketches of the Dee estuary says almost all that is possible in the way of description:--"A wild waste of tidal sands, with here and there a line of stake-nets fluttering in the wind--a gray shroud of rain sweeping up from the westward, through which low red cliffs glowed dimly in the rays of the setting sun--a train of horses and cattle splashing slowly through shallow, desolate pools and creeks, their wet red and black hides glittering in one long line of level light." It was the simple, dreary grandeur of the picture, combined with the relation of a tragic story, which inspired one of the most pathetic ballads in the language--that long, piercing wail, "The Sands of Dee":-- "'O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.' The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. "The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The blinding mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. * * * * * "They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee." /Aaron Watson./ [Illustration: THE SANDS OF DEE.] [Illustration: THE MERSEY AT STOCKPORT (_p. 244_).] THE MERSEY. A Modern River--Derivations--The Tame, the Goyt, and the Etherow--Stockport--Northenden-The Irwell and its Feeders--Manchester and Salford--The Ship Canal--Bridges over the Irwell--Ordsall--Eccles--Barton--Warburton--Irlam--Warrington-- Latchford--Runcorn and Widnes--The Weaver--Eastham Locks--Liverpool and its Growth--Its Docks and Quays--Birkenhead and its Shipbuilding Yards--New Brighton--Perch Rock Lighthouse. Mersey may be described as the most modern of our rivers. There was a time, in fact--and that not measured by geological computation--when, so far as knowledge of it went, the Mersey could hardly be said to be in existence. Even the great estuary where a world's argosies now assemble escaped the attention of the Romans, and we come down to the beginning of the eleventh century before we find the Mersey named in any record. It is mentioned for the first time in a deed of the reign of Ethelred, and there it figures less as a river than as a boundary mark concerning a grant of some lands "between Maersae and Ribbel." It has been said also of the Mersey that it got its name from the fact that it formed the northern limit of the kingdom of Mercia. Another derivation, and not an altogether unlikely one, when considered along with the chief seat on its banks and the open channel beyond, is that in "Mersey" we have the Celtic word "Marusia," signifying quiet or sluggish water. A more curious derivation, and one lending itself to the belief that in the early history of our country the character and identity of the Mersey were very different from what they are to-day, is that the word is from the Anglo-Saxon "Meres-ig," or "Sea-Island." It is known that what is now the Wirral Peninsula, forming the western boundary of the estuary of the Mersey, was at one time cut off from the mainland by the sea. It is known also that the Dee flowed over into the Mersey; and as the two rivers must then have appeared as one, with a common mouth, it is easily seen how in the long ago the Mersey would escape recognition altogether. But the river that was to minister to the greatness of Lancashire, and through Lancashire to aid so materially in the development of industrial Britain, was, of course, no sudden creation. It may have been for ages nothing but quiet or dead water, but Nature in her slow and sure way was all the while working in its favour. For centuries, vessels, as they sailed up and down the west coast, passed by the Mersey, and found their way instead up the Dee to Chester, or up the Ribble to Preston, and occasionally up the Lune to Lancaster. But, even as they did so, these streams were gradually becoming less navigable. A strong tidal flow raised sand barriers at their entrances, and for some considerable distance upwards, that meant danger to shipping. The same cause gave the Mersey its opportunity and its individuality; and once the bar at its mouth was crossed, there were found not only capacious and safe anchorage, but possibilities for commercial enterprise that have gone on increasing from the moment at which men began to take advantage of them. [Illustration: THE MERSEY.] The Mersey has its origin in three other streams that come down to it from Yorkshire and Derbyshire uplands; and when it becomes for the first time entitled to the name, it is among huge factories, and not by willow-covered banks. The three streams in question are the Tame, the Goyt, and the Etherow. Starting from the Peak district, and running between Derbyshire and Cheshire, the Goyt strikes a northerly course, and for a considerable distance forms the boundary line between the two counties. Near to the village of Mellor it receives the Etherow, which has come down from the breezy region known as the backbone of England, almost at the meeting-point between Yorkshire, Derbyshire, and Cheshire. Like the Goyt, the Etherow serves as a boundary line between Derbyshire and Cheshire. It runs through Longdendale, where is one of those artificial lake districts which come by way of compensation to the country from the town; for here, on the slopes of Blackstone-edge, are the reservoirs which until recently were thought sufficient for the water-supply of Manchester and district. Four in number, they mean a daily supply of 25,000,000 gallons; but that is not enough for the steadily increasing population of the great city and its environs, and Manchester has therefore gone much further afield, and tapped Thirlmere, so as to secure an additional supply of 50,000,000 gallons. From here the Etherow runs merrily down to where the Goyt comes northwards to meet it. The combined stream, now of somewhat doubtful identity, goes westward to Stockport, and receives there the Tame from beyond Saddleworth, on the Yorkshire borders. [Illustration: NORTHENDEN (_p. 245_).] The Mersey now takes name and form. Starting at Stockport, it has an industrial beginning at a point that must formerly have been possessed of no small picturesqueness. Built on the slopes of a gorge, Stockport is in these days a town of bridges. Through it runs the London and North Western railway on a viaduct rising to a height of 111 feet, supported on some twenty arches, and stretching from 600 to 700 feet. Railway lines centre here from all points of the compass; and in the past, as to-day, Stockport was regarded as a key to the situation north and south. The Romans recognised its importance. The Normans were equally alive to its strategic value, and built a stronghold here, where the Earls of Chester long held court. The castle at Stockport was demolished during the Civil Wars by order of the Parliament, but not until it had been taken by Prince Rupert, and by General Leslie after him. It was from Stockport also that Prince Charlie passed during the Stuart rising in 1745. The name of the town gives a clue to its history. Here was a great fort where stores were kept. It is not surprising, therefore, to find that the present spelling of the name is comparatively modern. In old days it appears plainly as Storefort and Stokefort. The place has never lost its reputation as a source of supply, although what it yields now is produced within its own boundaries. It is an important textile centre, and the seat of the felt hat trade; and from it also much good work is sent out in iron and brass. It has always been an active town politically, and a statue of Richard Cobden in the market-place shows the delight the inhabitants take in recollecting that for six years they had the great Free Trader as one of their two representatives in Parliament. [Illustration: ON THE IRWELL.] From Stockport the Mersey serves as the boundary line between the counties of Chester and Lancashire. At Northenden, where its surroundings are rural and pleasing, it takes a sudden turn to the north, and after several twists runs decidedly and sharply to the north-west, till it gets to Stretford. Here it is in touch with the southern suburbs of Manchester, and is at its nearest point to that city. For its natural junction with the stream which leads to Manchester, we must, however, follow the river over what is now a tortuous westerly course, past Flickstone to Irlam. At this point, some nine miles from Manchester, the Irwell and the Mersey used to meet in confluence. They do so still, but under other than the old conditions. In the course of last century Manchester found it advisable to meet the demands of its increasing trade by making the Irwell, and next the upper parts of the Mersey, navigable for small vessels; and in the closing years of the nineteenth century she has caught up the waters of her own considerable tributary, and those of the main stream, in a series of capacious locks along that great water-way which has now made what Mr. Gladstone has called "the commercial metropolis of England" a great inland seaport. The Irwell is fed by more rivers than any other of Mersey's tributaries of the same length, and all along its course it serves manufacturing purposes, as the appearance of its waters betokens only too clearly. Rising in the neighbourhood of Burnley, it passes through Rosenstall, Tottington, Bury, and Radcliffe. At the last-mentioned place it receives the Roch, and then goes westward to Farnworth, where it is joined by the Tong. Taking next a south-easterly direction, it passes through Prestwich, and after a bend to the north of Pendleton it runs into Manchester. At Manchester the Irwell is fed by three other streams darker even than itself, these being the Medlock, the Irk, and the Cornbrook. The Irwell divides Manchester from Salford, but it is only by the black boundary line thus afforded that it is possible to tell where the one borough ends and the other begins. Each is distinct so far as civic and Parliamentary affairs are concerned; but in all that concerns their material well-being, they are one. Both are mentioned in the Domesday Book, and there are glimpses of them back to the Roman occupation. There were signs of industrial activity in Manchester in the thirteenth century, when a fulling mill is mentioned as having been in operation on the riverside, and when the dyeing of yarns and cloth was also practised on the banks of the Irwell, or its tributaries. Leland, coming here in Henry VIII.'s time, found Manchester "the fairest, best builded, quickliest, and most populous towne of all Lancestreshire." Camden, in his pilgrimage in the reign of Elizabeth, also paid Manchester a pretty compliment, seeing that he described it as "surpassing neighbouring towns in elegance and populousness." Dr. Stukeley, writing in the first half of the eighteenth century, refers to Manchester as the "largest, most rich, populous, and busy village in England." The term "village" seems strangely out of place applied to what is now so great a community; but it is significant as showing how enormously Manchester has grown since then. Dr. Stukeley speaks of there being about two thousand families in the place, "and their trade, which is incredibly large, consists of fustians, tickings, girthwebs, and tapes, which are dispensed all over the kingdom, and to foreign parts." The population of Manchester to-day is probably not far short of 600,000, and that of Salford (which for Parliamentary and municipal purposes includes Pendleton) is about 200,000. Both towns combined did not contain more than 90,000 inhabitants at the beginning of the present century. It is estimated that some 700 different industries are now carried on within their borders. The explanation of this extraordinary development is to be found in an observation made by one of the topographers of last century regarding Manchester--namely, "that the inhabitants are not only thrifty and inventive, but very industrious and saving." It is this "striving and inventing something new"--this disposition to go forward, and make the most of their circumstances and surroundings--that has made modern Manchester. Arkwright with his spinning frame, and Hargreaves with his spinning jenny, were not at first made too welcome, masters and men in Manchester combining against these appliances. But the revolution effected by what Arkwright and Hargreaves had done elsewhere was too obvious to be ignored; and when the inventions of these men were fairly introduced into the seat of the cotton trade, followed as they were by Compton's "mule," the way was opened up in Manchester for greater developments. It was not enough, however, to improve the quality of goods and augment the output: it became necessary to increase the facilities for the introduction of the raw material, and for the prompt removal and distribution of the finished article. Much was done in this direction by the ready support Manchester gave from the first to the canal system. The town got into touch with the navigable waters of the Mersey by opening a waterway of its own from Longford Bridge to Runcorn in 1767. Other canals brought it into touch with the north, the south, and the east of England. This was an immense gain over the waggon and pack-horse arrangements that had previously prevailed, and the trade of Manchester grew apace, developing eventually more quickly than there were means for dealing with it. The introduction of the factory system, and the replacing of the old hand-looms by looms having steam as the motive power, forced Manchester to consider whether some still speedier method of transit could not be obtained. Fortunately, with the hour came the man, and with the man came also the agency that was wanted. George Stephenson and his "Rocket" appeared upon the scene. Lines of rails were laid westward, not without immense difficulty, over Chat Moss to Liverpool; and from 1830 it became possible to have communication between Manchester and Liverpool in almost as many minutes as it had formerly taken hours. With the aid of the locomotive, and all that is meant by this mode of transit, the trade of Manchester continued to expand, progressing to such an extent that during recent years it became necessary to consider whether Liverpool itself, although but an hour distant by rail, was not too far away for Manchester merchants. Manchester could not go to the sea, but the sea could be brought to Manchester; and again with the hour the man appeared. In April, 1877, the suggestion came from Mr. Hamilton H. Fulton to establish tidal navigation between Manchester and the Mersey. Beyond an indication of what could be done, nothing came of the proposal, but Manchester people will not forget that Mr. Fulton first mooted the scheme that was eventually taken up on the strength of designs submitted by Mr. E. Leader Williams. A start was given to the movement at a meeting held in June, 1882, at the residence of Mr. Daniel Adamson, of Didsbury. On November 11th, 1887, the first sod in the making of the canal was cut by the Chairman of the Company (Lord Egerton of Tatton) at Eastham. In seven years from that time the canal was completed, it being opened for through traffic on New Year's Day, 1894. The formal opening by the Queen took place on the 21st of May in the same year. At the time of the opening for traffic, the canal, including sums paid in compensation for vested interests, had cost £11,750,000. [Illustration: PENDLETON, FROM THE CRESCENT (_p. 246_).] The Ship Canal being a continuation of the Mersey, and the two blending in some places and in others running in close proximity, some of the engineering and other features of this the greatest of our English artificial waterways will be referred to as the further course of the Mersey is sketched. But as the canal has its headquarters in Manchester, it may be mentioned here that its total length from Eastham, where it runs into the estuary of the Mersey, to Pomona Docks at Manchester is 35-1/2 miles, that its average water width at the level is 172 feet, and that its width at the bottom is 120 feet, except between Barton and Manchester, where the bottom width is as much as 170 feet, with 230 feet stretch at the level. As the minimum depth of the canal is 25 feet, it has, therefore, accommodation for the largest vessels; and as it is lit up with the electric light along its course, it is navigable by night as well as by day. The canal is in four stretches, divided by five sets of locks, that eventually raise its waters to a height of 60-1/2 feet above the sea. There is a range of docks both on the Manchester and on the Salford side of the terminus of the canal, with a great open stretch of water for the movement of vessels. Mere figures give but a poor idea of the extent and character of the canal, but there are certain features which appeal strikingly to the least imaginative mind. Thus, in regard to the excavations, we have the startling statement that the quantity of earth removed to secure a channel for the canal could have made a wall round the globe 6 feet high and 2 feet thick, and that enough bricks were used to make a causeway 6 feet wide from one end of the kingdom to the other. Another point we have to remember is that but for improved machinery and the use of steam and of powerful explosives, the construction of the Manchester Ship Canal in all its parts, instead of being accomplished in seven years, could hardly have been finished in half a century. [Illustration: MANCHESTER, FROM THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL, SHOWING THE CATHEDRAL, THE EXCHANGE, THE TOWN HALL, ETC.] There are political as well as industrial features that cannot be overlooked in any reference to the great seat of the cotton trade. A statue of Cromwell in Victoria Street, standing on a rugged block of granite, may be taken as a memorial of the strong stand Manchester made for the Parliament in the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century. It was in Manchester that the first blow in that struggle is said to have been struck. Curiously enough, however, Manchester, in a moment of impulse, declared for the Stuarts in the rising a century later. Its inhabitants not only welcomed Prince Charlie in his march to the South, but went so far as to proclaim him king. They changed their minds, however, almost as quickly as they had made them up; and the Prince and his adherents received but scant courtesy from the Manchester folk some two weeks later while retreating northward. Agitation for Parliamentary reform ran to fever heat in Manchester almost from the inception of that movement, and had one lamentable incident--a charge by yeomanry at a mass meeting in St. Peter's Field in 1819, when several persons were killed. While deplorable in itself, this event, which has passed into history as the "Peterloo massacre," was not without potent influence in bringing in that better era for which the people of Manchester, in common with the inhabitants of other large towns, were clamouring. Where that memorable mass meeting took place now stands the Free Trade Hall--a suggestive reminder of the fact that in Manchester the Corn Law League, with Mr. Cobden, Mr. Bright, and Mr. Milner Gibson as leading spirits, had its headquarters. In 1832 Manchester obtained the right to send two members to Parliament, Salford getting one member. By the Reform Bill of 1867 both boroughs got an additional representative; and when, in 1885, the great towns were cut up into divisions, Manchester had its Parliamentary strength increased to six members, and Salford to three. Long as it had to wait for Parliamentary recognition, it was still later before Manchester secured the municipal powers to which by its antiquity, its growth, and its business importance it was entitled. Its charter of incorporation as a borough was not obtained until 1838. Nine years later (1847) it was made a city, in the episcopal sense, its collegiate church--"the one Paroch Church" Leland speaks of in his "Itinerary"--ranking as the cathedral. It was six years later still (1853) before the civic charter was obtained confirming what had been done ecclesiastically. In 1893 another titular dignity came to Manchester, its chief magistrate being then created Lord Mayor. The cathedral, regarded as a parish church, dates from 1422, when it was founded by Thomas de la Warre, who was doubly qualified for the work he undertook, being not only lord of the manor but rector of the parish. He founded a church, it is said, "as well for the greater honour of the place as the better edification of the people"--hence its collegiate character. Much has been done, with marked success, to improve the appearance of the building since its elevation to the dignity of a cathedral, and, architecturally and otherwise, it is well entitled to the rank it now holds. Close to it is Chetham College, the original residence of the Warden and Fellows of the old collegiate body. Humphrey Chetham, the founder of this institution, was a dealer in fustians in Manchester early in the seventeenth century. Before his death he saw to the education and maintenance of a number of poor boys of the town and neighbourhood, and by his will he left money to continue and expand the good work he had begun. A still earlier trust is the Grammar School, which goes back to 1515, when it had as its founder Hugh Oldham, Bishop of Exeter. The school drew revenues from the mills on the Irk in the days when that stream ran in limpid purity into the Irwell. It has a high reputation for scholarship. Educationally Manchester owes much also to a citizen of the present century--John Owens, who died in 1846, having left £100,000, to which an equal sum was added for the foundation of the college that bears his name. Manchester has thus been generously helped in the matter both of elementary and of secondary education. And she has had the further satisfaction of mounting the next step in the ladder of learning, having obtained in 1880 a Royal Charter for the founding of Victoria University, of which Owens is one of the colleges, others being the Yorkshire College at Leeds and the University College at Liverpool. Chetham College possesses a finely selected library of 30,000 volumes, housed in a picturesque range of old buildings. And in this connection it is interesting to note that Manchester was the first borough to take advantage of the Free Libraries Act. To-day she has free libraries and reading rooms in every part of the city where they seem needed, in addition to a great central reference library containing about 200,000 volumes. Salford is equally well equipped in this respect; and in both places technical training has kept pace with other forms of instruction. [Illustration: VICTORIA AND BLACKFRIARS BRIDGES (_p. 252_).] With the exceptions named, the principal buildings of Manchester are modern. The Victoria Buildings and Hotel, a palatial pile, now cover what was one of the oldest parts of the city. The Town Hall, completed in 1883, is a fine Gothic structure, occupying a triangular site. It is really a municipal palace--imposing externally, and admirably adapted internally for the conduct of the public affairs of a great city. The rise and progress of the city has been pictorially treated in the great chamber of the Town Hall by Ford Madox Brown. A wide open space known as Albert Square fronts the Town Hall, with an Albert Memorial in the centre, flanked by statues of John Bright and Bishop Fraser. Near by, in St. Anne's Square, is a bronze statue of Richard Cobden. The Assize Courts in Strangeways are as noble architecturally as the Town Hall, and are from designs by the same architect, Mr. Alfred Waterhouse; while the Royal Exchange, in Market Street, is a notable building in the Italian style, possessing the largest meeting room of its kind in the United Kingdom, but a room not too large for the demands made upon its space, as visitors who attempt to inspect it on Tuesdays and Fridays, the chief business days, will readily testify. Then there is the Royal Institution, from designs by Sir Charles Barry, in the Doric style, containing a gallery of paintings and a School of Design, with a statue of Dr. Dalton, the propounder of the Atomic Theory, and a Manchester worthy. The Infirmary, built in the same style as the Exchange, dates from the year 1755. The esplanade in front of it, where are statues of the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, and Dr. Dalton, covers the site of what was the "ducking pond" in Manchester in the days when the town troubled itself less about the spread of enlightenment than it does now. Like the Exchange, the Infirmary exists for the benefit of other places than its own immediate neighbourhood. Some 30,000 patients are treated annually within its walls. Its wards bear the names of various benefactors of the institution, and one of the wings was built through the beneficence of Jenny Lind, who gave two concerts for the purpose. The reference to Jenny Lind suggests the fact that Manchester during the present century has been distinguished as a musical centre. Nor has she been backward as a patron of artists; her Art Treasures Exhibition of 1857 brought together the finest collection of ancient and modern paintings the provinces have known. The needs of the inhabitants, in the physical sense, have also during recent years been well attended to, as is shown by the open spaces made even in busy neighbourhoods, and the parks and recreation grounds in the outskirts of both Manchester and Salford. When the citizens feel disposed to travel far afield, they cannot in these days complain of lack of facilities. Having brought the sea to their own doors, they can go direct by boat to almost every part. By rail they have choice of routes to all the leading towns of the kingdom. [Illustration: STEAMER PASSING THROUGH TRAFFORD ROAD SWING BRIDGE (_p. 254_).] One may not be particularly pleased with what one sees of the Irwell as it passes through the city, but it cannot be regarded as a hindrance to free locomotion. It is bridged over in many places, so much so that it is possible to get to and from Salford along most of the chief thoroughfares of the larger town. The Victoria Bridge is modern, as its name implies. Built two years after the accession of the Queen, it replaced one erected in 1365, and which, from that period up to 1760, was the only bridge connecting Manchester proper with Salford. A wooden structure--built, it is said, by a theatrical company, to enable them to pass between the two towns--preceded the present Blackfriars Bridge, on the line of the street of that name. There are also the Albert, the Regent, the Broughton, and other bridges. At Hulme Hall Road, where the Medlock passes into the main stream, the Irwell loses itself in the ship-canal. Here, too, is the entrance to the Manchester series of docks, which cover the site of the old Pomona Gardens. They are in four arms. The water space occupies 33-1/2 acres, and there is a quay area of 23 acres, with two miles of quay length. On the opposite side lies Ordsall, with a rectangular dock 980 feet by 750 feet, and with another feature of interest in the great calico printing, dyeing, and bleaching works of the Messrs. Worral. From here the canal curves round and flows under a great swing bridge, said to be the largest in the country (it is 265 feet long by 150 feet wide), forming part, when closed, of the Trafford Road. To the right are the Salford Docks, and here the water space covers 71 acres, with a quay area of 129 acres, and 4 miles length of quayage. Just at the entrance to the Salford Docks the canal is at its widest--1,388 feet. A little further down is Mode Wheel, where are the locks that begin the process of descent, the fall at this point being 13 feet. Here the canal runs nearly west, and continues in this direction till it reaches the outskirts of Eccles, where it begins to run due west through a rock cutting that revealed in the exposed gravel, as the work was in progress, the trend of flowing water in historic times. Beyond are the Barton swing aqueduct and locks. The aqueduct which Brindley carried over the roadway here for the Bridgewater Canal was at the close of last century one of the wonders of the Manchester district. It had to be demolished to give place to a still greater wonder of the kind. Not only had a new aqueduct to be constructed to allow the ship-canal to pass underneath, but it had to be made in such a form that it could swing. This was done by forming the bridge portion of the aqueduct into a caisson, or trough, some 90 feet long by 19 feet wide, and 6 feet deep, and weighing some 1,400 tons. Ordinarily, of course, the water in the old canal is continuous, but when a ship is approaching on the larger canal, double sets of gates are closed at each end of the caisson, thus confining the water in the canal above and in the caisson itself. The caisson is then swung round on a central pier, on each side of which vessels may pass on the ship-canal. Below this engineering triumph are the Barton locks on the ship-canal, giving a fall of 15 feet. Here the new waterway takes a south-westerly turn, and continues thus till it gets to Warburton. About midway between Barton and the latter place, Irlam is reached, and here there are several interesting features of the canal to be seen. To begin with, there is another series of locks, giving a descent this time of 16 feet, with a set of sluice gates in addition, which have been constructed to carry off excess of water in times of flood--an expedient rendered necessary by the fact that just below Irlam the Mersey runs into the canal. Here also the Cheshire Railway lines cross the canal, and these had to be dealt with so as to give a clear waterway of 75 feet above water-level. About a mile below the weir at Irlam the canal widens out at the bottom to 250 feet, to form the Partington coal-basin, thus allowing barges and other vessels to be moored at the side, leaving the regulation stretch of the canal for ordinary traffic. Elaborate arrangements are made here to deal with the shipment of coal from both the Lancashire and Yorkshire fields. Just below are the Cadis Head viaducts, carrying the Cheshire lines over the canal, a work that involved much labour to secure the desired gradients and the 75 feet above water-level. At Warburton the roadway has been carried over a high level bridge, on the cantilever principle. The town, which lies to the south of the canal, is of some antiquity, and was the site of a Premonstratensian Priory. Some little distance down, the river Bollin, coming northwards from the neighbourhood of Macclesfield, falls into the canal on one side; on the other, the Mersey is liberated, being now at the same level as the canal itself. Here the Mersey begins to assume its most tortuous course. It twists, bends, and doubles upon itself in a perplexing way, affording a great contrast to the canal, which now runs straight as an arrow all the way to Runcorn. In the course of its meanderings the river comes down to the canal again at Thelwall Ferry, where it had to be deviated for a short distance and made into a straight line. At the end of the deviation it resumes its serpentine character, and here and there accommodation canals run through it to give short cuts. In another of its great bends the Mersey comes down to the canal again at the point where Warrington is brought into touch with the new waterway. Lying almost wholly to the north of the river, Warrington was anciently approached by the south, by way of Latchford, and this route still affords a principal means of access to the town, both by road and by rail. The Mersey touches no part possessing a more remote history. It has been claimed for Warrington that it is the oldest town in Lancashire. It was the Veritenum of the Romans, and it figures in Domesday as Wallingtun. Situated where there was ferryage over the Mersey, and where at one time the river itself seems on occasion to have been fordable, it practically was the key to Lancashire and Cheshire on the west. As may be supposed, there was clashing of arms frequently in its streets and on the road to the riverside. The Botelers were lords of the manor here from the thirteenth century, and they had, among other good things, right of toll on the ferry. The first bridge was the result of a king's visit, and is said to have been constructed by the first Earl of Derby for the better accommodation of Henry VII. when that monarch was a guest at Lathom. With the construction of the bridge the need for the ferry disappeared, and so also did certain emoluments which fell to the lords of the manor, whereupon a feud arose between the Botelers and the Stanleys that was not settled without bloodshed. The bridge had another effect: it caused large numbers of the population to change their quarters in order to be nearer the stream, so that in the end the parish church was left where Leland found it--"at the tail end of the town." It is no longer there, of course, and no longer the only building of its kind, for Warrington has grown with Lancashire generally, and the old church has not been neglected. It has many fine Gothic features, including a spire rising to 200 feet. Timber houses, suggesting the days of the old ford, may be found in some of the streets, but Warrington is by no means a place of the past. It is a very active, thriving community, numbering 60,000, and doing much business in the staple trade of the county, and also in iron, steel, glass, leather, and soap. [Illustration: THE OLD AQUEDUCT, BARTON.] [Illustration: THE SWING AQUEDUCT, BARTON (_p. 254_).] There are locks on the canal at Latchford giving a fall of 16-1/2 feet, but as the water is now tidal the fall varies. The railway line had to be cut through here by the canal, but in the meantime a new route was made for the iron horse, including a massive viaduct, in the piers of which some 12,000,000 bricks are said to have been used. Here, too, as elsewhere, arrangements had to be made for road traffic, and in this connection Latchford has been supplied with both a swing and a cantilever bridge. [Illustration: THE IRWELL AT ORDSALL, WITH WORRALL'S WORKS (_p. 254_).] From Warrington the Mersey, still keeping a sinuous course, begins to expand, and when next it comes into touch with the ship-canal, which it does at a point known as Randall's Creek, it assumes estuarial form, and markedly so just before reaching Runcorn. Then there is a sudden change, caused by the outswelling of both banks of the river, the result being that the Mersey is contracted to about 1,200 feet across, after being more than twice that width. This contraction, known as Runcorn Gap, lies between Widnes Point on the Lancashire side, and Runcorn on the Cheshire side. At this, the nearest point to the upper estuary proper, the Mersey is crossed by a high level bridge, giving the London and North Western Railway access to Liverpool. Runcorn has been made by canals; three, approaching from different directions, touch the Mersey there. The ship-canal lies to the north of the town, after passing through a cutting extending to a depth of 66 feet, the deepest on the route. Lying under the railway bridge, and coming close to the river, it soon finds itself wholly in the bed of the Mersey, separated from the stream by a massive concrete wall, for which in one place a foundation had to be made 70 feet down. There were considerable docks and warehouses here before the greatest of the canals gave additional claim to Runcorn to be considered a seaport. Ethelfreda, daughter of Alfred the Great, is said to have founded the town; and antiquaries are pleased to regard the name as a corruption of Runcofan, from the Anglo-Saxon "cofa," a cove or inlet. The locks on the canal here are so constructed as to enable vessels to leave or enter at any state of the tide. Widnes, on the opposite side of the river, is a busy, thriving manufacturing town, with chemicals as its leading commercial product, but doing a good deal also in various branches of the iron trade. From Runcorn the ship-canal forms the southern side of the Mersey. The outer wall of protection follows the course of the river, bending with it round what may be called the Runcorn headland, and crossing the mouth of the river Weaver. The Weaver being navigable up to Northwich, the construction of the canal across its opening into the Mersey was a work of considerable ingenuity and difficulty. In the first instance, provision had to be made by special locks to give entrance to the tributary before the point of junction with the Mersey could be interfered with; and when the canal itself was carried over the tributary, a series of great sluices had to be constructed to regulate the flow of the waters into the Mersey. Since then the Weaver has not been subjected to the inconvenience of low tide. Another result of the change has been the formation of a new town on its west bank, known as Saltport, with wharves and other arrangements specially adapted for the cargoes of salt that come down the Weaver for shipment elsewhere. In the case of a smaller stream further on, the Gowy, the water had to be carried under the canal by means of syphons strong enough and large enough to withstand tidal influences. From the Gowy the line of the canal follows the northward sweep of the estuary, and continues thus past Ellesmere Port, where is the outlet for the Shropshire Union system of canals. It then passes onward to what may be called the grand entrance to this commercial undertaking, namely, the Eastham Locks. These locks are in sets of varying sizes, according to the vessels that come and go, this arrangement being necessary to avoid waste of water from the canal. From Eastham the distance by the Mersey to Liverpool is six miles, and to the lightship at the bar nineteen miles. The Mersey is at its widest in the neighbourhood of Ellesmere Port, the stretch across from here to Dungeon Point, on the Lancashire side, being about three miles. Gradually narrowing in its progress to the sea, it is only some 1,250 yards wide at the entrance. The passage outwards, between Liverpool and Birkenhead down to the bar, has been compared to a bottle-neck, and it is this feature of the stream, added to the fact that, although a river of the west coast, it turns round and takes a northerly direction, which gives it its commercial importance. Through the narrow passage, the tidal flow is rapid enough to maintain an open channel into the inlying estuary, and to clear a passage for the largest vessels well out into the open sea. One source of danger lies at the bar. Here sand is apt to silt up; and if this were allowed to go on, the result would be that large vessels would have to wait on either side for high water in order to get in or out. The remedy has been found in extensive and frequent dredging, the effect of which is not only to make entrance to the river accessible at all states of the tide, but also to increase the inrush and the outrush of water, to the manifest improvement of the inner channels. The estuary has the further advantage of natural protection. The Wirral Peninsula, as a glance at the map will show, serves as a magnificent break-water, and the harbour has of course a great out-lying safeguard in the barrier Ireland presents between it and the Atlantic. It is where Mersey is at its widest and best--at the places where it affords safe and capacious anchorage for the merchantmen of all nations--that its story begins to unfold itself; and, as has been indicated, it is not an ancient recital, by any means. Elsewhere along its course are references to places and persons that take one back as far as the written history of this island can go, but in the neighbourhood of Liverpool the references are all of them comparatively modern. Here there is trace neither of Roman nor of Norman. Yet if Liverpool and Birkenhead do not figure in the Domesday pages, they are by no means creations of yesterday, though, as we now find them, both are very much the outcome of nineteenth-century enterprise. Liverpool got a charter as far back as the year 1173, and about a century and a half later the enterprising Prior of Birkenhead obtained a licence to build hospices for travellers, and secured at the same time the right of ferryage, of which the Monk's Ferry of to-day is an interesting reminiscence. It is in the early Liverpool charter that the name of the great city is first met with. It is there written Lyrpul, and the name has undergone such variations as Litherpool, Liderpool, Liferpool, and Lithepool, before finally passing into its existing form. No one has been able to say exactly what the name means. The latter part, of course, causes no difficulty. The first part can be one of half a dozen different things, or may mean something else. Certain authorities favour the notion that in Liver we have the name of an aquatic bird of the cormorant family, that found choice food on the shores of the Pool. Others assert for the first part of the name that it comes from the liverwort plant, which grew abundantly in the neighbourhood. Other opinions are that the name really means "Ship Pool," or "the place at the pool," or "the gentle pool," but all that is guesswork. What is certain is that a cormorant or a pelican, or a liver (whatever sort of creature that may have been), has figured upon the borough seal since the time of King John, although advocates for another derivation have claimed that the figure upon the seal was not meant for an aquatic bird, but for an eagle. The authorities of the town never adopted this view; they have kept loyally to the bird that is said to have found peace and plenty on the banks of the stretch of still water around which Liverpool sprang into existence. [Illustration: 1. RUNCORN BRIDGE (_p. 257_). 2. THE LOCKS AT EASTHAM (_p. 258_).] The pool on whose borders the city grew spread out over the site of the Custom House and adjoining buildings. At some uncertain date after the Norman occupation a castle was built where now stands St. George's Church, and this stronghold was held for many generations by the Molineux family, the descendants of William de Molines, one of the Conqueror's lieutenants. In time another Norman family, the Stanleys, found their way into Liverpool, and got possession of "the Tower," a structure which had been raised for the purpose of observation on what is now Water Street. The Stanleys strengthened and fortified "the Tower," building a mansion round it, and covering some four thousand square yards in the process; so that practically Liverpool had two castles, with two powerful families dominating the place, and making life almost unbearable, for they were continually at feud as to their rights, though, curiously enough, fighting side by side for the king as the occasion arose. Neither of castle nor of tower is there any trace to be found in these days. While they existed they were the chief features of Liverpool, but they had nothing in common with the circumstances that led to the development of the port, although their possessors had influence enough with successive sovereigns to obtain privileges for the place, and, indeed, they were far-seeing as well, and believed that the roadstead at their doors meant much for the future of England. King John himself came here, formed Toxteth Park, and gave the town a charter. Henry II. made Liverpool a free port, while Henry III. constituted it a borough. A Parliament summoned at Westminster in the reign of Edward I. was attended by two burgesses from Liverpool; and from the time of Edward III. the town seems to have sent members to Parliament with commendable regularity, although there was but little for them to represent. Liverpool, however, had to be content with only two members down to the Reform Bill of 1867, long after she had made a name and reputation the world over. In 1867 the number was increased to three; and when, in 1885, the Redistribution Scheme came into force, Liverpool was strong enough to secure nine members, and is the only constituency in England whose Irish voters are sufficiently numerous in any one division to return a member after their own heart, though, singular to say, the division which that member represents is known as the Scotland division. [Illustration: _Photo: Valentine & Sons, Dundee._ ST. GEORGE'S LANDING-STAGE, LIVERPOOL (_p. 265_).] Although favoured, as we have seen, in the reign of Edward I., Liverpool was then of so little importance that she was only required to furnish one barque and six sailors for the assistance of that monarch; while Hull, on the east coast, had to supply sixteen ships and four hundred and sixty-six men, and Bristol twenty-one ships and six hundred men. That the town made but slow progress is shown also by the fact that while Charles I. assessed Bristol for £1,000 in ship-money, and Chester at £100, the amount claimed from Liverpool was only £25. Liverpool does not seem to have hesitated to meet the demand, probably because she owed a debt of gratitude to Charles, who raised the place in civic importance by constituting the authorities a corporate body. Nevertheless, the burgesses favoured the Puritan rather than the Royal cause when the crisis came; and probably for this reason, although the Molineuxs in their castle and the Stanleys in their tower stood for the King, the Parliament had no great difficulty in raising the siege of Liverpool and taking possession for the Commonwealth. Prince Rupert had a sufficiently hard task when he tried to win the place back. That dashing leader made light of the defences that had been thrown up; but the citizens kept him outside, for all that, for full three weeks, beating back his troops at every successive assault, and only surrendering after a combined attack by night. The fiery Prince did not appreciate the bravery of the men of Liverpool, but smote them without mercy when the chance came, and did much damage to their property besides. His triumph, however, was of the briefest. The battle of Marston Moor, with its crowning victory for the Commonwealth, was fought six days afterwards, and all that Prince Rupert had gained gradually passed into the hands of the Parliament, Liverpool included, though not without another siege. The attitude of the citizens favoured them with the Protector. As compensation for the loss they had sustained, the Corporation secured rights of ferryage over the Mersey, they were allowed £500 worth of timber from the estates of the Royalists in the neighbourhood, and they got a money allowance in addition of £10,000. Camden in the reign of Elizabeth found Liverpool "not so eminent for being ancient as for being neat and populous"; and the historian who speaks of it in the closing years of the nineteenth century may fittingly describe the city in the same terms. But there is this difference between the two epochs--that while the inhabitants in Camden's time were housed in seven streets, they are now spread over a great area north and south, and away to the east, in streets almost too numerous to count. In 1565 a census that was taken gave the population of Liverpool at 820. In 1700 the number had risen to 5,700. Fifty years later it was about 25,000. At the beginning of the present century it was 85,000. At the present time, including Birkenhead and the suburbs, it probably exceeds 900,000. Its position as a port, as has been shown, was insignificant in the ship-money days; it now handles about one-fifth of the tonnage of Great Britain. In 1801 vessels trading to and from Liverpool numbered 5,000, with an aggregate tonnage of 459,710, providing dues to the extent of about £28,000. For the year ending June 30th, 1896, 23,659 vessels entered the port, representing a tonnage of 11,946,459. For the same period, the total revenue of the dock estate from all sources amounted to £4,014,000. The number of sailing vessels finding their way to the Mersey as compared with the Thames is as three to one, and to the Clyde as two to one. One-third more steamers enter the Thames, but the greater number of large liners that come to Liverpool almost equalises the steam tonnage. It is not difficult to ascertain how this marvellous development of population and trade has taken place. The situation of Liverpool, with its practically open though well protected roadstead, has, of course, had much to do with the change. But this natural advantage has its drawbacks, and these were sufficiently serious to have prevented progress beyond a certain point had not there been public-spirited and large-minded men to direct the enterprise of the community. To attract navigation, the channels of the river had to be defined, and they had to be kept clear. They had to be buoyed and provided with beacons on both sides. Notable among the guiding influences are the New Brighton Lighthouse (known also as the Perch Rock Lighthouse) at the mouth of the river on the Cheshire side, and the Formby and numerous other lights on the other side along the stretch of the Crosby channel until safe passage out to sea is secured. But something more was needed. The tidal rise and fall of the water-level meant a variation of some 30 feet at spring tides, which made the loading and unloading of vessels difficult, and at times dangerous; besides, the vessels soon became too numerous for ordinary quay accommodation. It was necessary to provide special basins, and the first step in this direction was taken as far back as 1699, when the Pool was deepened and improved. This was but an insignificant beginning to what has now grown to such vast dimensions, but it solved a serious problem for the trade of Liverpool of that day; and in about ten years afterwards the Pool was made into a dock some four acres in extent, giving accommodation for 100 small vessels, Liverpool securing its reward in Parliamentary permission "to impose a duty for twenty-one years upon the tonnage of all ships trading to or from the port for making a wet dock." This earliest of the docks no longer exists; but others were soon afterwards constructed in its vicinity, though parallel with the river, and some of these are still in use. The expansion of the dock system eventually necessitated the formation of a Dock Estate and the acquisition of property along the whole city front. The docks now stretch along the line of the Mersey for a distance of from six to seven miles, and comprise some 25 miles of quay space and 380 acres of water space. In addition, there are nine miles of quay space and 164 acres of water space in the dock accommodation provided across the river at Birkenhead. This is irrespective of graving dock arrangements. The area of the Dock Estate exceeds 1,600 acres, inclusive of provision for extension. [Illustration: SWING-BRIDGE OVER THE ENTRANCE TO STANLEY DOCK, LIVERPOOL (_p. 266_).] The dock system of Liverpool, as we now find it, is very largely the work of the present century, and it separates readily into two divisions. For about thirty-six years (from 1824) the docks were laid out upon plans prepared by Mr. Jesse Hartley, assisted by his son, Mr. John B. Hartley. Since then the work has been conducted by Mr. G. F. Lyster, assisted by his son, Mr. A. G. Lyster. In the first instance the docks had to be constructed for sailing vessels. The many additions that have since been made have been almost wholly for the accommodation of steamships. But whether we take the docks that were constructed during the first half of the present century, or those that have been opened since then, they are engineering triumphs; and the world has no more wonderful sight of the kind than they, alike in their capacity, their admirable adaptation to tidal conditions and particular classes of goods, their warehouse and office arrangements, and the care that has been taken to provide ample quay and road space. The cost has been enormous, but it has been justified by the returns. By means of its docks Liverpool is able to meet any demand upon its shipping powers. The vessels that are at times housed within its protecting river chambers, if ranged side by side, would cover the banks of the Mersey along all its navigable length. It is, of course, only a part, although the major part, of the tonnage of Liverpool that finds treatment in this way. There is a constantly moving flotilla. The goods and passenger traffic from one side of the Mersey to the other is scarcely ever at a standstill; but while this traffic passes to or from widely separated points on the Wirral Peninsula, it converges at Liverpool to that which is as much one of the sights of the city as the docks themselves--namely, the landing-stage. This is constructed on a series of enormous floating pontoons, about midway between the northern and southern lines of the docks. Formerly there were two such structures, and nominally there are still two--St. George's and the Prince's; but while they were for many years separated by a space of 500 feet to give access to the St. George's basin, they are now continuous, and their unbroken length makes a stretch of over 2,400 feet. The landing-stage, which is connected with the quay wall by a succession of girder bridges, adapted for both passengers and vehicles, is at any period of the day a scene of unusual activity and bustle; but the official arrangements are admirable, and seldom is there any difficulty in dealing with the great crowds that gather and disperse here, either for lands across sea or on their way to inland towns. Here, if anywhere, the cosmopolitan character of the passenger traffic of Liverpool is seen in its fulness and variety. The landing-stage is, in fact, the temporary meeting-place of people of all nations, and belonging to all grades and conditions of life, from wretched stowaways to ambassadors with princely retinues. [Illustration: LIVERPOOL, FROM BIRKENHEAD (_p. 266_).] Although called a stage, this landing-place is really a magnificent promenade, with ranges of official buildings and waiting and refreshment rooms. Until recently the passengers by the deep-sea liners were taken to and from the steamers in tenders. This arrangement often gave rise to serious inconvenience, and entailed also much loss of time. The latest addition to the stage was therefore contrived specially with the object of overcoming these drawbacks. Passengers may now pass direct from the stage to the largest vessels; and more than this has been done for them. They are now brought close to the stage itself by railway, so that they may book themselves and their luggage from London or from any of our large towns to any part of the world, and have no more trouble on arriving on the banks of the Mersey than is usually involved in a change of conveyance. To facilitate passenger traffic to and from the docks, an electric overhead railway running along the whole stretch of the six or seven miles comprising the city front, and into the districts beyond, has been in operation since February, 1893, when it was formally opened by Lord Salisbury. The line has since undergone extension, and it was carried as far as Dingle in December, 1896. It is now about eight miles long. The Dingle extension presents some notable engineering features. In one place it crosses the Dock Estate by girders 220 feet in length--an unusually large span; in another it is run through a tunnel arch said to be the largest of its kind in the world; while at Dingle the line belies its name, the terminal station being here considerably below the road level. The only dock entrance that runs inland sufficiently far to be crossed by the overhead railway is the Stanley, and here a swing-bridge has been erected, on the double-deck principle, so as to provide for the railway traffic overhead and the usual carriage and foot traffic underneath. This railway may be considered a part of the great work of dock development at Liverpool. A report laying out the scheme was presented by Mr. Lyster, the engineer to the Dock Board, in 1885, but for public and other reasons it was thought advisable to leave the work to private enterprise, and it was therefore undertaken by an incorporated company, Sir William Forwood being the chairman, and Mr. S. B. Cottrell the engineer and general manager. A railway under the Mersey from Birkenhead was opened in 1885 by the Prince and Princess of Wales, to meet the growing increase in the cross-river traffic, and this line, which passes for 2,100 yards under the river, has since been connected with main lines on each side. Liverpool, with its great line of protected dockage and quayage, and the movement of vessels of every description and of every size along its water front, is seen in its finest panoramic effect from the Birkenhead side of the river; but the city reveals itself also in increasing multiplicity of architectural detail and business activity to the visitor whose first impressions of it are obtained as he stands on the vessel that carries him over the Mersey bar to the landing-stage. At the same time, the passenger by rail does not enter Liverpool by any back door. At the Lime Street terminus of the London and North Western Railway he looks out immediately on the municipal centre of the city; should he arrive at the Exchange Station of the Lancashire and Yorkshire and Midland lines, he is at once in the commercial heart of Liverpool, surrounded by noble and spacious buildings. Other lines land him in scenes of shipping activity, others in more residential quarters; but nowhere is he left in squalid surroundings. The front of the Lime Street Station itself adds to the picturesqueness of the street it looks upon. Almost opposite, in isolated grandeur, is St. George's Hall, and on one side of that building is the magnificent range of edifices of the classic order where are housed the Brown Free Library (including the Museum of Natural History, presented by the thirteenth Earl of Derby), the Mayer Museum of Antiquity, the Picton Reading Room, and the Walker Art Gallery--all alike monuments of the beneficence of merchants who in this way have enriched and adorned the city from which they drew their wealth. Even St. George's Hall, the cost of which was £330,000, was in the nature of a gift, it being paid for by the Corporation out of the dock dues, which they controlled up to 1858, when the dues were transferred to the Dock Board. The fact, too, that the Corporation owned large estates makes the burden of taxation rest lightly on the citizens of Liverpool; and since the present century began, improvements have not ceased to be the order of the day in the city. The Town Hall is in Castle Street. It is in the Corinthian style, and is conspicuous for its dome and its raised portico; but a much more majestic building lies behind it in the Royal Exchange--a structure in the Flemish Renaissance style, with a noble façade, and wings that enclose a spacious quadrangle. Here on "the Flags," when the weather is favourable, the merchants and brokers of Liverpool mingle together in animated colloquy and strike their bargains. Education flourishes in Liverpool no less than commerce, and in all its branches has not been without liberal support. University College, although only inaugurated in 1882, has an endowment of over £125,000. It has a numerous staff of professors, technical and medical departments, and is affiliated to the Victoria University. There are several secondary schools of note, Schools of Art, and Nautical Training Institutions. The charitable societies of the city number over 100, the oldest in the medical sense being the Infirmary, which dates from 1748. Of open spaces there is nothing, of course, equal to the grand sweep of the estuary in front of the city. But there are ornamental grounds in the city itself, and in the outskirts recreation grounds and pleasure resorts, the largest and most picturesque being Sefton Park, which was purchased at a cost of over a quarter of a million. For water the city has gone into Mid-Wales and purchased the Vyrnwy Valley, and from the lake and the reservoirs there is able to draw an unfailing supply of some fifty million gallons daily. The bishopric dates from 1879, but Liverpool is without ancient churches. St. Peter's, which serves as the pro-cathedral, is the oldest in structure but not in foundation (that distinction belongs to St. Nicholas', near the Prince's Dock), but this does not carry us further back than the beginning of the eighteenth century. A long list could be made of eminent men connected with Liverpool, were this the place for it. But there are two names that ought not to be omitted--one is Francis Bacon, "the wisest, greatest, meanest of mankind," who was member for Liverpool towards the close of the sixteenth century; the other is Mr. Gladstone, who is a citizen of Liverpool by birthright as well as by complimentary burgess ticket. It is interesting to add also that the Stanley (Derby) and the Molineux (Sefton) families are still closely identified with the town. They are no longer housed in the heart of Liverpool, but their Lancashire seats are close to its boundaries, and they rival one another in the active interest they take in the municipal, commercial, and educational progress of this great community. It is the bottle-neck part of the estuary of the Mersey that runs between Liverpool and Birkenhead, but a good three-quarters of a mile of water separates the two places. They are divided also by county distinctions: otherwise they may be regarded as one, their interests being identical. Many business men of Liverpool make Birkenhead and its outskirts their home. Like the great city on the other side, Birkenhead has its landing-stages adapted to the rise and fall of the tide. Its range of docks has already been touched upon, and need only be referred to again to indicate that they do not run parallel with the river, like those on the other side, but pass inland. Behind them are the commodious water spaces known as the east and west "floats." Nearly all the great liners find their way to the Liverpool side, but on the Birkenhead side great liners are built. Its shipbuilding yards are among the most extensive in the kingdom, and include the great establishment of the Laird Brothers, from which the Confederate cruiser, _The Alabama_, was turned out in 1862. Proportionately, Birkenhead has made even greater progress during the century so soon to close than Liverpool. In 1800 its population numbered only about 100 persons. That figure may now be multiplied 1,000 times over and still be within the mark. Its tonnage is about one-tenth that of Liverpool. In 1861 the town was formed into a Parliamentary borough, with a single member, the gentleman who became its first representative being the late Mr. John Laird, of whom there is a statue in front of the Town Hall. Birkenhead has been a municipal borough since 1887. It did not, however, wait for corporate privileges to show public spirit and enterprise. It was one of the first towns of the kingdom, if not the very first, to introduce tramways, which it did on the suggestion of George Francis Train, who had previously established a similar mode of conveyance in New York. It has long had a public park, 180 acres in extent, laid out by Sir Joseph Paxton, and costing £140,000. Although a hundred years or so ago it consisted of less than a score of habitable houses, it can trace back its name for centuries, and the ruins may be seen of the Benedictine Priory of Byrkhead, founded here in the eleventh century, and whose monks in their simple way did the work that is now carried on by enormous steam ferries on the river, and by railway trains through a submarine tunnel. [Illustration: _Photo: Valentine & Sons, Dundee._ ST. GEORGE'S HALL AND LIME STREET, LIVERPOOL (_p. 266_).] All along the inner line of the Wirral Peninsula, which here bounds the Mersey, are pleasant residential suburbs, and at the extreme end lies New Brighton, beloved of Lancashire and Cheshire folk. Immediately to the north of New Brighton is one of the defences of the river in Rock Fort, and just beyond the fort is the Perch Rock Lighthouse. At this point, the visible shore-line of the Mersey on the west side comes to an end, but the channel of the river runs on over a well-buoyed line of route, some eight or nine miles further on, and for navigation purposes does not really cease till the bar is crossed. Directly to the north-west of the Wirral Peninsula are great sandbanks, but these as a rule are within the ken only of the mariner familiar with the ins and the outs of this great commercial highway. The total length of the river is about 70 miles. At least 12 miles of that, towards the mouth, is a vast basin, having an average width of about two and a half miles, and containing at high tide some 600,000,000 tons of water. To see the Mersey here at the flood is to agree with Drayton:-- "Whence, where the rivers meet with all their stately train, Proud Mersey is so great in entering the Main, As he would make a sea for Empery to stand, And wrest the three-forked mace from out grim Neptune's hand." /W. S. Cameron./ [Illustration: THE PERCH ROCK LIGHTHOUSE.] RIVERS OF LANCASHIRE AND LAKELAND. A Birthplace of Rivers--The /Ribble/: Ribblehead--Horton-in-Ribblesdale--Survival of Old Traditions--Hellifield--The Hodder--Stonyhurst and its College--The Calder--Burnley--Towneley Hall--Preston--Its Development as a Port. The /Wyre/: Poulton-le-Fylde. The /Lune/: Kirkby Lonsdale--The Greta and the Wenning--Hornby Castle--Lancaster--Morecambe Bay--The Journey from Lancaster to Ulverston in Coaching Days--Shifting Sands. The /Kent/: Kentmere--Kendal. The /Gilpin/ and the /Winster/. The /Rothay/ and the /Brathay/. Grasmere and Wordsworth--Rydal Water--Ambleside--Windermere. Troutbeck. Esthwaite Water. The /Leven/: Newby Bridge--The Estuary. The /Crake/: Coniston Water--Coniston Hall--Brantwood and Mr. Ruskin. The /Duddon/: Wordsworth's Sonnets. The /Esk/ and the /Irt/: Wastwater. The /Liza/: Ennerdale Water. The /Ehen/: Egremont Castle. The /Derwent/: The Vale of St. John--The Greta and Keswick--The View from Castlerigg top--Derwent water. In the lonely moorland solitudes guarded by Ingleborough, Whernside, and Pen-y-gent, with outlying fells of almost mountain magnitude, may be traced the birthsprings of many important rivers. They shoot off to every point of the compass, and, gathering in tributary waters from the best of our bold English scenery, are lost in the North Sea as with the Yorkshire Ouse, or in the Irish Sea as with the Ribble, the Lune, and the many minor streams that diversify Morecambe Bay. The whole extent of this corner of the North-West Riding is wild, open country, with diverging dales lost in fading distances: stone walls for leafy hedges, and limitless grazing uplands clothed with the herbage peculiar to unwooded elevations of over two thousand feet. In the blithe springtime, when the tender flush of green proclaims the renewed life-blood of the grass; in the summer prime, when the umbers and greys of prolonged heat are faintly changing the broad faces of the untrodden mountains and silent valleys; and in winter, when all is white with unsullied snow, this expanse of billowy hill and fell has a grandeur all its own. Its features are repeated under a more striking development by-and-by in Lakeland, but this is the crowning point of the great backbone of picturesque highland which, beginning in Derbyshire, defines much of the boundary of Yorkshire and Lancashire. * * * * * The /Ribble/ is one of the rivers which take their rise from the Ingleborough and Whernside heights. It is a babbling brook as it is seen by the railway traveller at Ribblehead, but the source must be sought in one of the rills that tumble down the shoulders of Wold Fell. The difficulty usually encountered in tracing a mountain-born river to the precise bubble of water that may without hesitation be pronounced its source is intensified here. So much depends upon circumstances in these matters. After a rainless month in summer, the wayfarer would note a waterless country; let the rains descend, or the snows melt, and every hill is silvered by tumbling cascades, the air is musical with the leap of a hundred rivulets. So it is that, for the Ribble's source, old Craven maps select Gearstones, north-east of Settle; more recent local authorities are divided between Wold Fell and Cam Fell; and for the world at large Ribblehead serves the general purpose of identification. [Illustration: _Photo: A. Horner, Settle._ STAINFORTH BRIDGE (_p. 273_).] The source of the Ribble, let the spot be where it may, makes it imperative to associate with its distinctions the great engineering triumph that ended in the awakening of its echoes by the railway train. From Settle--where Birkbeck, the founder of the Mechanics' Institutions of our youth, was born--to Carlisle is only a matter of seventy miles, but it cost the invaders three millions sterling to overcome the obstacles of the stubborn Pennine chain, and the enterprise seemed to be well-nigh hopeless when they advanced into the Pen-y-gent region. The course of the young Ribble had hereabouts to be diverted by the blasting out of a new channel; but at length the line was safely laid a thousand feet above sea-level, and clear running for the trains was achieved by means of nineteen tunnels, thirteen embankments, and cuttings innumerable. There are a few villages in the early stages of the Ribble, the first of any note being Horton-in-Ribblesdale, under the shadow of Pen-y-gent. The railway has little spoiled its primitive character, nor have the frequent expresses led to the disbandment of the beagles which still hunt the wild retreats of the mountain-side. There are ancient inhabitants in lonely farmhouses built of hard stone, and gleaming white from afar, who inherit the old traditions that portions of the mountain are honeycombed with giants' graves. There have long been legends to that effect, but men of science explain that the wondrous bones unearthed from caverns, and what not, belonged, not to sons of Anak, but to huge animals now unknown. The dalesmen but slowly discard such beliefs, retaining them as of right, just as the shepherds on the fells, and the hard-headed farmers in the valleys, cling to the customs of their grandfathers. The high-road between Horton and Giggleswick--in whose grammar school Paley was educated--gives access to the heart of Upper Ribblesdale; and the tourist visiting the cascades near Stainforth will recognise the sturdy bridge in the illustration (page 272) as a favourite resting-place. The river is represented in its peaceful mood, in one of its romantic bends. [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ TOWNELEY HALL, BURNLEY (_p. 276_).] The country remains rich in its distinctive botany, and from no portion of the North do the great markets of Manchester and Leeds draw more of their supplies of whortleberry and mushroom in the early autumn months. At such junctions as Hellifield these natural products of the moorland may be seen stacked by the ton. It is almost the only indication of the gradual change that must come with the new era. Yet until comparatively recent times the peel-house at Hellifield stood witness to the remoteness of the district. So long back as the reign of Henry VI. a licence was granted to the Hamerton family to erect and keep as a place of defence the strong square peel which guarded the west; and around Gisburne Hall, the ancestral seat of the Listers, represented now by the Ribblesdale family, the wild cattle of the breed perpetuated chiefly at Chillingham roamed at large in the secluded woods of the high tract whence the feeder Stockbeck fitfully meanders to the valley of the Ribble. The bracing bleakness of Bowland Forest is relieved for many a league by the Hodder, the Ribble's largest and longest tributary, which is in part of its course a natural line of demarcation between the counties that gave title to princely houses when the realm was divided by the Wars of the Roses. Dense fringes of bush and brier proclaim its progress, and exquisitely sweet spots, like that of the oak-covered knoll on which stands the little chapel at Whitewell, occur in the district where, to the commanding eminence of ancient Brownsholm Hall, a curious relic found its way--the veritable Seal of the Commonwealth, with a Bible between two branches of palm as the centre, and the inscription, "Seal for the approbation of Ministers." [Illustration: RIVERS OF LANCASHIRE AND LAKELAND.] The famous Roman Catholic College of Stonyhurst, south-west of Longridge Fell, is near the meeting of Hodder with Ribble. Beautiful is its situation, wooded valleys dipping in the east, and beyond them the substantial landmarks of Clitheroe and Pendle Hill. Stonyhurst, even to one who has no cognisance of its modern character, its origin, or the manner of its conversion from the mansion of the Sherburnes to the purpose which it has fulfilled with high distinction for more than a hundred years, has the appearance and atmosphere, even at a distance, of a place for study and retreat. It is wholly removed from the busy world, and all the surroundings give an involuntary impression of harmony and quiet. Stonyhurst was probably always a home of Catholics at heart, though the Sir Richard Sherburne who was one of Harry VIII.'s Commissioners at the dissolution of religious houses did contrive to be a favourite with young Edward, Mary, and, after her, Elizabeth. He it was who built part of the mansion on the site of an older baronial edifice; and the shapely west front, amongst other considerable portions of the present building, is his work. The Sherburnes, however, were not able to finish the structure; but Sir Nicholas, who was made a baronet, in whom the title became extinct, and who was a man of culture and travel, planned and laid out the gardens which no visitor to Stonyhurst is likely to forget. Through Cardinal Weld, to whose family the property fell, it was in 1794 devoted to the use of the Jesuits driven from Liège by the French Revolutionists. Since then it has gathered high renown as an educational agency amongst the Roman Catholic aristocracy. [Illustration: _Photo: Arthur Winter, Preston._ PRESTON, FROM THE WEST (_p. 278_).] In approaching Stonyhurst, even the simple village on its borders exercises its tranquillising influence upon the visitor; the cemetery and oratory, the trim lawn, the trees on either side of the drive, the sheet of water, and the glimpse of the inner seclusion through the gateway, claim a share of the admiration which is given without stint to the imposing two-towered building so finely situated. The gardens are an enchantment; and the fountain, the observatory with its Peter's telescope, the summer-houses, the tall, deep dividing walls of ancient yew clipped square and pierced with archway exits and entrances, blend in strengthening the conviction that here we are removed from scenes of strife. The Tudor-Gothic church is the most notable of the additions made since Stonyhurst became a college eminent for the most perfect appliances for scientific study, for a well-furnished museum, and all that is best for students at work or play. In the Mitton area, which trends to a point where the two rivers mingle, may be found many interesting specimens of the well-preserved, half-timbered houses for which the two counties (each of which claims a part of Mitton) are celebrated. The well-known doggerel perpetrated in honour of this neighbourhood, may be quoted--not, however, as warranted by any climatic defects, but rather as showing the straits to which the author was put for a rhyme: "The Hodder, the Calder, Ribble, and rain, All meet together in Mitton domain." Into the Ribble, at no great distance below this ancient parish, protruding like a wedge into the County Palatine, flows the Calder, coming from the south-east, and from a district once as wild as Longridge Fell and Bowland Forest, but now reduced to modern uses by the cotton and worsted mills, calico works, and foundries of thriving Burnley, through which ran a Roman way once upon a time. It has an indirect relation with the Ribble, being placed on the Brun, the Calder intervening. Never had manufacturing town a finer "lung" than is furnished by Pendle Hill, which offers a climb of 1,800 feet above sea-level to the dwellers in a district which is in touch also (near or far) with Sawley Ruins, Blackstone Edge, and the Vale of Craven. Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends, was so carried away with delight in his travels thereabouts that he declares he was moved by the Lord to go up to the top of Pendle Hill, and in the clear atmosphere saw the sea shining beyond the Lancashire coast. Amongst many old houses of which Lancashire is proud is Towneley Hall, seat of a family one of whose ancestors was first dean of Whalley Abbey, the ruins of which are one of the most valued relics on the banks of the Calder. This takes us back to a century and a half before the Conquest; and it was one of this ilk who was the last of the deans. The original hall of the Towneleys appears to have partly stood somewhat south of the mansion which is the subject of one of the illustrations to this chapter (page 223). Whitaker, the great authority on Lancashire history, was unable to ascribe a date to the Hall, but it is evident to the modern observer that portions are of considerable antiquity. Many must have been the changes, however, since the six-feet walls were built. The work of Richard Towneley in 1628 is known, and the addition was by W. Towneley in 1741. A still later member of the family removed turrets, gateway, chapel, and sacristy to their present position, but the rebuilding had been begun a few years earlier. The portraits, as is often the case, tell in great measure what the Towneleys were in their day and generation: one died at Wigan Lane, another at Marston Moor; one was an eminent antiquary, another translated "Hudibras" into French, another collected art treasures, secured to the trustees of the British Museum by means of a Parliamentary grant. [Illustration: LANCASTER (_p. 282_).] Some of the most interesting of the old Towneley relics were believed to have been brought from Whalley Abbey, built upon a spot which, before streams were polluted by factories, yielded fish from the river, and feathered game from the woods and heather, whilst the forest and park around the old Hall furnished abundance of venison. Burnley then must have been a delightful town, lying in its hollow, environed by swelling moors and crystal streams. This is the country of which Philip Gilbert Hamerton often pathetically speaks in his "Autobiography," though "the voice of Nature," to which he refers in one of his poems, must even in his young days have been thickened here and there by the smoke of tall chimneys, and marred by the echo of raucous sounds from foundry and loom. "Proud Preston" is an appellation which had its significance in another generation, and was indicative of the loyalty of the town to old traditions, to the Grown, to its own independence. The hundred in which it was situated was attached, in the reign of Athelstan, to the Cathedral Church of York: hence Priests' Town, or Preston. This is evidence of a satisfactory old age; and in 1840 more was forthcoming from a rude box dug up from the alluvial soil on the banks of the Ribble, containing a precious store of coins, rings, and ingots, including nearly 3,000 Anglo-Saxon pieces. Higher up the stream was the still older settlement of Ribchester, the Roman station of Coccium, which declined into nothing as Preston increased in importance. The sweep of country surveyed from Red Scar, where the river curves into a horseshoe course under a precipitous bank, or from the popular point of look-out in Avenham Park, is studded with points around which history clings. The lonesome moor where Cromwell routed Sir Marmaduke Langdale and his Royalists has become an open space for the recreation of the people; the Jacobite rebellions and the temporary sojourn of Charles Edward on that disastrous Derby campaign are remembrances dimmed by the remarkable rise of Preston in modern times as a manufacturing and commercial town. This is owing to its position at the head of the Ribble estuary. There are two things in the present century of which even "Proud Preston" need not be ashamed: it was here that the first total abstinence pledge was taken in England, the signatories being Joseph Livesey and half a dozen brother-abstainers; and it was here that the practical working of the vote by ballot was tested in 1872. For more than thirty years the flourishing town, standing 120 feet above its river, has been undergoing improvements, carried out with great public spirit. Sir Gilbert Scott designed for it the French-Gothic Town Hall which rises gracefully above the other buildings; County Hall, Free Library, and Museum have been added; even the parish church has been rebuilt, and the once steepleless town now boasts, in St. Walburge's Roman Catholic Church, the loftiest spire erected in England since the Reformation. An unbroken link with the past is the Guild-Merchants' Festival, celebrated since 1397 (half a century before the first charter was granted); and for the last 400 years the "Preston Guild" has been observed with intense fervour every twenty years, the next coming due in 1902. The present writer was in Preston during, probably, the saddest circumstances under which such a celebration could occur. It was in 1862, when the cotton famine was sore in Lancashire; but the Prestonians threw themselves with energy into the traditional observance, and made it a memorable success. Rose festivals, morris dances, and other old English revelries retain their hold here, as in other parts of Lancashire, and are likely long to prevail. It is as a port that Preston has recently claimed attention. The changes effected since the passing of the Ribble Navigation Act in 1883 have been striking. The marsh which kept the town apart from its river has been drained, and made fit for houses and streets. Woods that were familiar objects in the immediate landscape have disappeared, and the deepening of the channel of the tidal Ribble to admit ships of 1,700 tons has been but a natural result of Arkwright and his spinning-frame, and the cotton industry that superseded the linen-making of the previous century. The new dock, opened by the Duke of Edinburgh in 1892, with the Corporation as its owners, cost a million of money. The scheme made it necessary to divert the course of the Ribble below the town, and the prediction of the eminent engineer, Sir John Coode, that there would be no port in the country with so free a run to the sea, has been fulfilled. Even with the construction of docks, involving three miles' length of permanent railway sidings, the old charm of the scene is not entirely lost. The brawny shoulders of Longridge Fell may be discerned in the north-east; cattle and sheep graze on the levels; the borders of the Fylde country are in view, and abrupt Rivington Pike is on the remote horizon. * * * * * Between the estuary of the Ribble and the south-eastern boundary of Lancaster Bay is the fertile Fylde district, the conformation of which is, roughly speaking, that of a foreshortened peninsula. The Margate and Ramsgate of Lancashire--if Lytham and Blackpool may be so-called--are on the outlying coast, but they are only of interest to us at the present moment from the arrival of the river /Wyre/ at Fleetwood. This is a seaport and military station of what may, without offence, be termed upstart growth. It is but twenty-one miles north of Preston as the railway flies, and it has the double advantage of being a port and a watering-place. Within the memory of persons who heard about the coronation of Queen Victoria, the place where this important harbour is now situated, with its lighthouse ninety feet high and showing a glare that is visible for thirteen miles at sea, was a mere rabbit-warren, its one adornment a dilapidated limekiln. Its population now must be close upon 10,000, and from its docks lines of steamers ply to and from Belfast and the Isle of Man. [Illustration: WINDERMERE (_p. 291_).] The river Wyre, rising near Brennand Fells, on the western side of the Bowland Forest of which previous mention has been made, takes in as a small tributary another river Calder, which rises on Bleasdale Moor, forming part of a ridge of country often exceeding 1,700 feet above sea-level. Wyresdale is noted for its striking combinations of wild and motley fells in recurring variations, alternating with copse and woodland. One of the earliest ecclesiastical sites in Lancashire is St. Michael's, some miles below Garstang; and, at a point where the river nears the estuary, the Wyre for several miles is protected from the strength of its own current by a series of artificial banks. The old fashioned town of Poulton-le-Fylde overlooks the river where it expands into the salt expanse of Wyre Water, and the estuary, contrary to the usual custom, after broadening out considerably, contracts somewhat sharply at the mouth, at the western point of which is Fleetwood. [Illustration: RYDAL WATER (_p. 290_).] [Illustration: GRASMERE (_p. 290_).] Our next river has been characterised by "Faërie Queene" Spenser as "the stony, shallow Lone, That to old Loncaster his name doth lend." As the poet was probably born near the Burnley which has been described on a previous page, he no doubt knew his Lancashire well, and spoke from the book when he claims that it gives name to the town and the county. The /Lune/ is what in the North-country is called a bonny river, and it rises, not on the edge of Richmondshire, as is sometimes stated, but at the upper extremity of a dale to the south-east of Wharton, in Westmorland. This is a portion of the upheaved Lancashire country, however, that stands something midway between sea-level and the summits of its best mountains. The uplands and highlands of the early course of the Lune range between 500 feet and 1,000 feet, and the lower half is below the smaller figure. The course, however, is through a section of valleys watered by innumerable creeks, and kept in bounds by the lonely fells. Sometimes, as at Howgill, there are fairy glens, and the occasional intervals of fertile pastures and wooded levels are a not ungrateful contrast. On one of the plains of the Lune is Kirkby Lonsdale, the capital of a vale which stretches away with Ingleborough in the distance. The river courses round a half-circle, and the scene, with its mountainous background in the east, is particularly beautiful. It is a rare kind of panorama for this part of the country. The radiating valleys in the Lancashire portion of the Lune's course bring in the Greta and the Wenning. The former must not be confounded with the other Greta that is born near Helvellyn, nor with the tributary of the Tees in the North Riding, at the bridge of which Nicholas Nickleby, old Squeers, and the wretched boys were put down from the coach _en route_ to Dotheboys Hall. This Greta which is a tributary of the Lune is a rocky-bedded, brawling, rushing little stream, tumbling down from Whernside, and, between Ingleborough and Ingleton Fells, finding its way through a dale which is much visited for the sake of the roaring subterranean waterfall of Wethercote Cave, the charming surroundings of Ingleton village, and the caves and fells of Kingsdale valley. The Wenning is the larger tributary, and its popular attractions are the subterranean grotto called Ingleborough Cave, in the gloomy Clapdale ravine, and Hornby Castle, conspicuously placed on a craggy height fringed with old trees. This interesting country is now traversed by a railway branching west from Settle, with a junction at Clapham for the aforesaid Ingleton, and affording to the traveller a sight of Giggleswick Scar and the geological curiosity of Craven Fault. The Hornby Castle referred to was built by one of the Normans on the site of a Roman villa, and the ruins near are those of a priory reared in the sixteenth century. The vale of Caton, within a five-mile walk of Lancaster, at the navigable limit of the Lune, moved the poet Gray to remarks which might fairly be applied to more than one spot in Lunedale. These are the words: "To see the view in perfection, you must go into a field on the left. Here Ingleborough, behind a variety of lesser mountains, makes the background of the prospect. On each hand, up the middle distance, rise two sloping hills, the left clothed with thick woods, the right with variegated rock and herbage. Between them, in the richest of valleys, the Lune serpentines for many a mile, and comes forth ample and clear, through a well-wooded and richly-pastured foreground." For the last seven miles of its course the Lune runs almost parallel to and within a short distance of Morecambe Bay, and the narrow neck of land which it forms is distinguished by the designation of Little Fylde. While Preston, as we have seen, has been rising into importance as a port, and the Ribble has been made worthy of vessels of considerable tonnage, Lancaster, though the county town, has declined very swiftly in maritime importance in the course of the last hundred years. No one looking at John of Gaunt's old home in the present day, and upon the business transacted on the Lune, which passes by it, could guess that it was a very considerable emporium of commerce, being, indeed, ranked above Liverpool when Charles I. levied the ship-money which brought him to disaster. At that time Lancaster was assessed at £30 and Liverpool at £25. Even then the Lancaster ships sailed regularly to the West Indies and the Baltic. The sinuosity of the channel and the shallowness of the ancient ford near the town became a serious hindrance to navigation, but by dint of enterprising dredging Lancaster is still reckoned amongst the English ports, and at Glasson, where the little Conder flows into the estuary under the railway, there is a harbour and dock which may yet revive the prosperity of the town. Lancaster is one of the many Roman settlements about whose name antiquaries are entitled to contend. A piece of brass money, found under one of the foundation-stones of the arch of a former Lancaster bridge, was described as Danish, and in the time of King John the Abbot of Furness had royal permission to get timber from the King's forests of Lancaster for such of the repairs of the bridge as he was "liable to" for his fisheries. These fisheries, like those of the Ribble, were once of the first class, and were granted to the Abbot of Furness in the reign of Stephen. There were always disputes, however, and sometimes hot quarrels, as to the rights in both salmon and timber, and king after king, according to the necessity of those days, backed up the Church, while legal regulations from time to time controlled the fisheries. From this, coupled with the fact that its first charter was granted by Richard I., we may without more ado conclude that Lancaster is an ancient borough. Indeed, there are many curious evidences of this kept alive in surviving customs, the origin of which must be found in musty grants and charters. Lancaster Castle, through whose time-honoured owner the county became a duchy, was strongest, perhaps, in the reign of Elizabeth, when the threat of a Spanish invasion led to the overhauling of all its points of defence. This, too, was the date of the strengthening of the great keep, the remnant of which is a treasured example of Norman architecture. From a mighty royal and baronial residence the castle has now become a gaol, and John of Gaunt's Oven, as the mill and bakery of the fortress was termed, became the Record Office. There were five monastic establishments in Lancaster, with privilege of sanctuary. The time came when the privilege was of no avail. But the unfortunate rebels of 1715 entered Lancaster with flying colours, bravely marching, and mustering in the market-place to the skirl of the bagpipes. They proclaimed the Pretender King of England under the title of James III., and some of them, poor fellows, returned soon afterwards, not in search of the sanctuary they needed, but to be imprisoned in the castle, and to suffer the last penalty of the law as in their case made and provided. Even in the '45 Charles Edward, at the head of his little band, must needs trouble Lancaster, but the invaders were only passing through on their way to Manchester and Derby. A second time they came here, and then they were in full retreat, heralds of a finally lost cause. The situation of Lancaster on the flank of a hill is most favourable for an appreciation of its appearance, and the castle buildings on its summit give a remarkable panorama of the town, the valley of the Lune winding on its way to the sea through the lowland. The principal gateway of the castle is an ancient portcullised archway, flanked by octagonal towers, and in it are chambers to which far-off traditions refer, for the authorities assure us that the gateway belonged to "time-honoured Lancaster's" tower, while in an apartment called the Pin Box Henry IV. gave audience to the King of Scotland and the French Ambassadors. The dungeon tower, demolished in 1818, became the penitentiary for women prisoners. "John of Gaunt's Chair" is a turret at the top of the tower, and from this eminence of ninety feet superb views, which in clear weather comprise shadowy forms in the Lake-country, are to be obtained. Whewell, the Master of Trinity College, is one of the worthies of whom the town is proud, and all the more because he was a son of one of its carpenters. But for the accident of the lad attracting the attention of a kindly master, and the existence of a Grammar School, founded in 1483 by John Gardiner, the distinguished scholar might never have attained his eminence. Another pupil of the school was Sir Richard Owen, the great naturalist. [Illustration: NEWBY BRIDGE (_p. 293_).] [Illustration: ANOTHER BIT OF THE LEVEN.] A couple of lines by Spenser prefaced these remarks about the Lune, and an extract from the river-poet, Drayton, may well conclude them:-- "For salmon me excels; and for this name of Lun, That I am christened by the Britons it begun, Which fulness doth import of waters still increase To Neptune bowting low, when christal Lune doth cease; And Conder coming in conducts her by the hand, Till lastly she salutes the Point of Sunderland, And leaves our dainty Lune to Amphitrite's care. * * * * * Then hey, they cry, for Lune, and hey for Lancashire, That one high hill was heard to tell it to his brother." There are streams which find their way, sometimes through devious and uncertain channels, into Morecambe Bay, but they are little known even to the inquisitive angler, who is always in search of new waters. The local sportsmen in their wisdom periodically look for the run of silver sea-trout, and keep their secret. The line of the bay from its north-eastern corner, where the Kent comes in, and round to Walney Island, is in the most literal sense irregular, for its indentations and river tributaries are continuous. It forms the intake of what Windermere and Coniston water send down to the sea, and it is, moreover, the watery foreground from which the world-famed scenery of Westmorland and Cumberland may be finely viewed. At Carnforth and Silverdale the outlook in this direction is unrivalled; Fairfield, Helvellyn, and Red Screes loom in the clouds or stand clear against the sky afar, and along the shores of the Bay are nestling towns and villages, wooded knolls and slopes, cottages, farms, and, always behind them, that wonderful amphitheatre, tier upon tier, of mountain. [Illustration: THE LIZA AT GILLERTHWAITE.] [Illustration: THE LIZA FLOWING INTO ENNERDALE WATER (_p. 297_).] In pre-railway days the journey from Lancaster to Ulverston was something of an adventure, always exciting, not only on account of the scenery brought under review, but because of the absolute danger of the shifting channels that had to be crossed. The coach was invariably joined at Hestbank (a cliff about three miles from the county town) by guides, whose duty it was to be up to date with the last man[oe]uvres of the quicksands, and to be ready with safe crossing places. These guides were an old institution, and were originally appointed and paid as retainers by the Prior of Cartmel. When the downfall came, and there was no longer an abbey treasure-chest to fall back upon, the Duchy of Lancaster paid the wages. It used to be said that few of those who got their living by "following the sands" died in their beds. Nevertheless, the calling of guide was kept in the same family for generations. The danger of this passage of the sands was long ago put into a distich-- "The Kent and the Keer Have parted many a good man and his mear." Some of the channels, it was said, were never two days together in the same place. The Keer mentioned in the old couplet was very treacherous, and was always carefully sounded before the coach ventured to cross. Sand tracks had to be staked out with furze-bushes, as the channel of a river is buoyed. Perilous difficulties were apprehended when nearing the Cartmel tongue of the Kent; the Leven sands beyond Cartmel and Ulverston were the worst of all. The poet Wordsworth told Mrs. Hemans, according to the lady's own letter, that he admired her exploit in crossing the Ulverston sands as a deed of derring-do, and as a decided proof of taste; and he truly added that the lake scenery is never seen to such advantage as after the passage of what he calls its majestic barrier. Before arriving at the Lake district we might in farewell turn our faces to the south, standing in imagination at Silverdale. There in the picture are the Wharton Crags, with houses great and small amongst their wooded feet; and then there are Bolton-le-Sands, Hestbank, Poulton-le-Sands (which to all intents and purposes is Morecambe), Heysham, and Lancaster Bay. It is a journey of twenty-six miles by rail from Lancaster to Ulverston, and the greater part of the distance is close to the shores of Morecambe Bay. The traveller going north, therefore, has the sea laving the tract to his left, and always, as an alternative prospect, rock, wood, stream, bushy dales and retiring glens to the right. From the sea the fishermen obtain great store of shrimp and flat fish. There are border guard-houses, such as Arnside Tower; and in reaching Hawes Tarn (which is said to be affected somehow by the rise and fall of the tide) groves of larch and pine, with a plenteous undergrowth of gorse and ling, offer themselves to the view. Picturesque Holme Island, at the mouth of the Kent, and the ruins of Peel Castle on the islet of that name, enter into the picture in other directions. The river /Kent/, upon whose left bank the town of Kendal is situated, must not long delay our round of the streams that await introduction. It gives name to Kentmere village, and to the reservoir, or tarn, fed by the beck springing from the mountain bearing, in memory of the Roman road which neared its loftiest point, the very familiar name of High Street. There is also Kentmere Hall, remnant of one of the peel towers, and birthplace of Bernard Gilpin, the almost forgotten Apostle of the North in the dangerous times of Mary and Elizabeth, and after whom a parallel stream westward is called. The Kent, like the Mint from Grayrigg Forest, and the Sprint running down the middle of Long Sleddale--like, indeed, unnumbered becks on every hand in the whole district--is of the rapid order, abounding in boulders, shingly strands, deep channels between banks of imperishable rock, opening pools and pebbly shallows, haunts of trout and of the anglers who understand their ways and know the seasons when salmonidæ should be ascending from the salt water. [Illustration: CONISTON WATER (_p. 294_).] Her Majesty Catherine Parr, who had the good fortune to escape the peril of burning as a heretic, and the loving attention which was fatal to other wives of Bluff Harry, was born on the banks of the Kent, in the castle whose ruins are a prominent object in the scenery of which Kendal is the centre. Wordsworth sketches it in happy terms:-- "A straggling burgh, of ancient charter proud, And dignified by battlements and towers Of a stern castle, mouldering on the brow Of a green hill." Shakespeare and others refer to Kendal in connection with an industry established by the Flemings, who settled there under Edward III. They became famous for their woollens, and their special "line" was the cloth termed "Kendals" in trade parlance, and "Kendal-green" by the outlaws and their critics. This was the colour of the clothes worn by the "three misbegotten knaves" whose exploits upon Falstaff were denounced by Prince Henry as lies "gross as a mountain, open, palpable." The foresters' cloth made by the Flemings was deservedly popular; but cotton superseded woollens in the last century, and this in time gave place to other textile fabrics. The /Gilpin/ flows into the head of the long and crooked estuary a mile or so away from the mouth of the Kent river; and, further south, the viaduct carrying the railway to Grange crosses from Arnside. The isolated conical hill, Castle Head (or Castle Hill), is prettily brightened by foliage, and it is a significant survival of the old landmarks. The waves used to wash the base of this now high and dry eminence, for the plain traversed by the river WINSTER is mostly land reclaimed from the sea at different times, but most extensively for the construction of the railway. Holme Island is opposite and near the mouth of the Winster, and has not been inaptly described as a marine paradise made by the art and industry of man from a rude, isolated rock upon which previously nothing better than whins and brambles struggled for precarious roothold. The causeway which joins this beautiful little realm of a few acres to the mainland makes it an island only in name, but the name abides. Upon the Cartmel peninsula is the wooded domain of Holker Hall, which was the favourite autumnal resort of the late Duke of Devonshire. * * * * * The much more spacious peninsula of Furness--with Ulverston as its central town, the great docks and shipbuilding yards of Barrow marking modern progress, and the ruins of Furness Abbey pointing to a distant past--is divided from Cartmel by the estuary of the Leven. Leven from our point of consideration means Windermere and entrance to the unchanging beauty of Lakeland. The river Leven, however, is but a conclusion; in other words, it is the final link of the chain of water-pictures which have inspired many a poet; and to arrive at the first we must leave for a moment the sands of Morecambe Bay and take a new departure away beyond Grasmere, where the river /Rothay/ (or Rotha) is formed by a congregation of murmuring becks or gills. One of the feeders of the Rothay comes from the tiny Codale Tarn and the larger Easedale Tarn, well known to tourists from the rattling little waterfall, Sourmilk Force. Codale lies pretty high in the world, rising to an altitude considerably over 2,000 feet. Easedale is a basin somewhat down hill, and is in these days much better known than when Wordsworth strolled beside its outpouring stream, and confessed to having composed thousands of verses in the solitude of the vale. The conspicuous headland of Helm Crag is an essential part of the scenery, and it is climbed for the sake of the view over Grasmere, Windermere, Esthwaite Tarn, Helvellyn, and Fairfield. [Illustration: ENNERDALE (_p. 298_).] It may be remarked that we are now in the region of tarns and pikes, and the derivation of the former word, if not strictly correct, is not unpoetical, for it is said to mean "a tear." This imaginative investment reminds us of Wordsworth's declaration that the stream which traverses Easedale is now and again as wild and beautiful as a brook may be. The river Rothay, however, does not rely entirely upon this immortalised brook, but it can fairly reckon upon what can be spared from the tarns when the other gills fail in their shrunken currents. In the valley is the village of Grasmere, sacred to Wordsworth's cottage; and the church, containing a medallion of the author who sang its "naked rafters intricately crossed," and whose grave and that of members of his family, with Hartley Coleridge lying hard by, and a memorial-stone to Clough, attract renewed streams of pilgrims. The cottage is not far from the church, and it is now owned by trustees, who keep it in order for the inspection of visitors. There is no section of this district which is not beautiful, and the recurring clumps of trees recall how the country was at one time alleged to be so covered with wood that wild boars abounded. There was, and probably is, a local saying that a squirrel could travel from Kendal to Keswick without once touching the ground. It was at this cottage that Wordsworth first set up housekeeping, and many and distinguished were his visitors to Grasmere. It had been previously a rustic inn under the prophetic sign of the "Dove and Olive Bough"; and upon about £100 a year the poet contrived to entertain relays of visitors, amongst them Southey, Coleridge, and Scott. It was, perhaps of necessity, a teetotal cottage, and it was here (according to report) that Sir Walter, after dinner, used to pretend that he was going for a meditative stroll, and resort to the public-house for a draught of what was best. Until recent years the descendant of a certain publican--who was said to have given Scott away by addressing him, as he and Wordsworth walked up, with, "Ah, Master Scott, you're early to-day for your drink"--was pointed out as an inhabitant of the village; but there is some doubt about this pretty story, as Sir Walter only visited Wordsworth for one day while he resided at the cottage, and then it was a call in company with Davy, on an occasion when they ascended Helvellyn together. On the whole, the Lake district must remain a most temperate region, for it was reported that on the Christmas day of so recent a year as 1896 a party of young men who called at the most elevated public-house in England were the first customers the landlord had seen for six weeks. The Rothay courses south, a short length between the village and the mere. Writ large in literary associations, and a household word amongst English-speaking peoples, Grasmere is but a mile long, and nothing like so broad at its widest part, but it is a precious gem in a setting where all is worthy. Gray, whose prose descriptions of Lakeland are passed on from writer to writer, rejoiced exceedingly because not a single red tile, and no staring gentleman's house (meaning probably no gentleman's staring house) broke in upon the repose of the unsuspected paradise. The paradise is not any longer unsuspected; it is public property; but there are still left the eternal hills, Grasmere water hollowed in their bosom, the small bays and miniature promontories, the soft turf green as an emerald, trees, hedges, cattle, pastures, and corn-land--items of description that may in a varying degree apply to almost every one of these famous sheets of Lakeland water. In truth, there is no better travelled ground in the three kingdoms than this; and it may be assumed once for all that its general attractions are known to the reader, and that we are free to proceed with our purpose of showing the part borne by the rivers as connecting ways, and systems of supply and relief for the lakes. The river Rothay does precisely what Wordsworth did: it moves from Grasmere to Rydal, flowing along the base of Loughrigg Fell, avoiding the terrace and curving up towards the "Wishing Gate" to the western point of Rydal Water. From any of the paths which conduct downwards the course of the Rothay is brightly and clearly mapped. We need not pause at Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's last residence, nor at the rock which is remembered as his favourite seat, nor at Rydal Hall and the shade-giving trees of its park, nor follow the beck to the little tumbles of water named Rydal Falls, nor stroll the half mile which would bring us to Fox How, the holiday retreat of Arnold of Rugby. Amongst the trees in the so-called Rydal forest there are oaks that must often have given pleasure to Wordsworth in his rambles; and the beck which is always scurrying to the Rothay receives its impetus from the steepness of its journey from the mountain-- "Down Rydal Cove from Fairfield's side." On past Ambleside, which it leaves untouched to the left, the Rothay proceeds, with greetings from Rydal Water to busy Windermere. Ambleside, though it has no immediate lake view, is not without its water effects, both heard and seen when the swollen little tributary gives power to Stock Ghyll Force, a very respectable fall of some seventy feet. Every visitor to Ambleside pays homage to this romantic termination of a delightful walk through a sylvan enclosure. Ambleside is nowadays practically connected with the lake by Waterhead and the extended occupation of the flat; and a short distance above the head of the lake is the junction of the Brathay and the Rothay. The former, like the latter, is in intimate relations with lakelet and feeder, and, in truth, cuts an important figure by its drainage of Great and Little Langdale, its reception of sundry gills from the dominating pikes which seldom allow themselves to be forgotten in the Windermere county, its inclusion of Little Langdale tarn and Elterwater, and its share in keeping in action various waterfalls, of which Dungeon Ghyll Force and the Mill Beck Cascades are the best. The neighbourhood elicited the warmest admiration from Professor Wilson, who said that sweeter stream scenery with richer foreground and loftier background was nowhere to be seen within the four seas. Of the three lakelets he preferred the small tarn on Loughrigg Fell-- "By grandeur guarded in its loveliness." The two rivers have time and space to combine in a united volume before fairly entering Windermere. It is strange to notice the exaggerated idea entertained by those who have never explored Lakeland as to the dimensions of such waters as Windermere, Ullswater, and Derwentwater. They have read so much and so often about them that they have become visions of vast distances, inland seas upon which storm-bound mariners have to run to port for shelter when the stormy winds do blow. Yet Windermere, the first of the lakes in dimensions, is not more than ten miles and a half in length, and, except in its broadest section, opposite Windermere and Bowness towns, less than a mile broad. Its real greatness lies in its exquisite islets or holms, and in the commanding views which receive so much charm from the intervening foreground of water, however limited in extent it may be. Two of the feeders of Windermere, and they the principal ones, have been mentioned in their geographical order; and there remain to complete the category at least two others. /Troutbeck/, which is said to be one of the few streams in all Lakeland that are of small value to the angler, comes in from the north-east down a beautiful valley, an easy excursion distance either from Ambleside for the higher, or from Windermere for the lower, portions; and midway, under Wansfell Pike, lies Troutbeck village, the most picturesque conceivable, as it was also when Christopher North wrote of the scattered dwellings "all dropped down where the painter and the poet would have wished to plant them, on knolls and in dells, on banks and braes, and below tree-crested rocks--and all bound together in picturesque confusion by old groves of ash, oak, and sycamore, and by flower-gardens and fruit-orchards rich as those of the Hesperides." There to the north-east, over against Kentmere Reservoir, Ill Bell offers the temptation of an ascent of 2,476 feet, and Troutbeck valley is preferred as on the whole the easiest and pleasantest route. [Illustration: THE GRETA BETWEEN THRELKELD AND KESWICK (_p. 298_).] Esthwaite Water, one of the smaller lakes, and a satellite of Windermere, is also narrow in proportion to length, and a matter of four miles removed to the west. No one is heard to rave about its homely shores and indifferent setting, but it comes under frequent notice from its nearness to Hawkshead, a quaint little market-town with a notable church, and a grammar school, one of whose forms is preserved with Wordsworth's initials cut in it. Esthwaite Water, however, is bound to receive its due in these pages, as the helpmeet of Windermere through the medium of the short and business-like stream /Cunsey Beck/. At the point where this feeder is lost in the lake, though it is not its deepest part, the angler may reckon upon the miscellaneous sport which is yielded by the lakes generally. In the deeper waters (and the plumb-line makes the bottom 240 feet at the maximum depth) the char, only to be found in a few localities in the three kingdoms, occurs. Its capture with rod and line is sport of a kind, but it is inferior in this respect to the trout. At a time when the available rivers for the angler who cannot afford to be his own riparian owner are becoming fewer and fewer, it is a little remarkable that these countless becks, tarns, full-sized streams and lakes are not more highly prized by the fisherman-tourist. It is true that Windermere, from one cause and another, has of late years fallen into disrepute, but under the operations of a local association there has been distinct improvement, though steamer traffic must always seriously reduce the value of such fishing haunts. [Illustration: THE DERWENT, WITH KESWICK IN THE DISTANCE (_p. 299_).] [Illustration: THE DERWENT AT CROSTHWAITE (_p. 298_).] Very pleasing to the eye are the undulating shores, and the green of the grass, and the foliage of Windermere at its southern end. At Lakeside it is so narrow that it is hard to put your finger on the spot where the /Leven/ begins, though, for want of a better, Newby Bridge, as shown in the illustration (p. 284), will serve. The Leven, as before remarked, is the last link of our Windermere chain, but after Rothay and Brathay, and the becks with their forces and falls, we need give it but the consideration which is due to an outlet bearing to the sea such waters as Windermere does not want, through the long tortuous channel in the sandy wastes of Morecambe Bay. * * * * * The /Crake/ river falls into the Leven so near its mouth that it might almost claim to be a tributary. But it is independent and apart in its character and mission. It belongs to Coniston Water, as Leven belongs to Windermere; and the commonplace scenery of its short course, with its trio of bridges, is another mark of similarity. All that is noticeable around Coniston lake is at the upper portion. The steamer pier is at Waterhead, the village and station are half a mile inland; the Old Man of Coniston (2,633 feet), whom generations of climbers have been proud to attack, is in the same direction, and Yewdale and its tarn, howes, crags and fells are towards the north. The coaching traveller may feast his eyes upon the lancet-shaped water, some five miles long from Schoolbeck at the upper or from the Crake at the lower terminal, and of a uniform width of about half a mile; while the upward trip from Lake Bank affords clear and happy views of the mountains of which the Old Man is the irrepressible head. Off the high road opposite Coniston Hall, a farmhouse once the Westmorland seat of the Le Fleming family, is Brantwood, associated with the names of Gerald Massey, poet and self-made man, of Linton the engraver, and of Ruskin, great as any of those giants of literature whose names are linked with Lakeland. * * * * * The river /Duddon/ as a thing of beauty has often been overpraised, no less an authority than Wordsworth setting the example when, in his "Scenery of the Lakes," he says it may be compared, such and so varied are its beauties, with any river of equal length in any country. Yet there are streams in Wales, and even in the north of England, which their admirers would not hesitate to rank above it. It rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmorland, Cumberland, and Lancashire, and for twenty-five miles or so is the boundary between the two latter counties. It possesses, no doubt, a certain picturesqueness, having its wild mountain phases, its torrents roaring around obstructive rocks, its passage through fertile meadows, and at last its slow ending through the everlasting sands to an open outlet into the Irish Sea at the north end of Walney Island. Donnerdale, with Seathwaite as its most notable centre, has received much attention because Wordsworth (from whom we cannot, and would not if we could, escape in Lakeland) made it the subject of thirty-four sonnets, dedicated to his brother Christopher. The poet evidently set himself down to glorify this particular district by prolonged observation-- "... For Duddon, long-beloved Duddon, is my theme." In the course of his sonnets he sings its dwarf willows and ferny brakes; its sullen moss and craggy mound; its green alders, ash and birch trees, and sheltering pines; its hamlets under verdant hills; its barns and byres, and spouting mills. Nor does he fail to celebrate the gusts that lash its matted forests. When the gale becomes too obstreperous, then, reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, the poet turns him to the warm hearth, to "Laugh with the generous household heartily At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale." The only pollution he would admit in this innocent stream was the occasional sheep-washing by the dalesmen. In his notes Wordsworth recommends the traveller who would be most gratified with the Duddon not to approach it from its source, as is done in the sonnets, nor from its termination, but from Coniston over Walna Scar, first descending into a little circular valley, a collateral compartment of the long, winding vale through which the river flows. In fact, Wordsworth's notes are a very excellent guide to the district, and Thorne, who was a first-hand authority upon rivers, confessedly took the poet as his cicerone when he followed the stream from the very top of Wrynose, marking even the bed of moss through which the water oozes at the source. With a poet's licence, Wordsworth likens his river finally to the Thames; but though the Duddon widens considerably at Ulpha, it loses its beauty before it finishes its career. [Illustration: DERWENTWATER AND SKIDDAW (_p. 299_).] [Illustration: DERWENTWATER FROM SCAFELL.] * * * * * Following the coast around Haverigg Point, whence the sand of the coast becomes only the decent margin which makes the shore pleasant, we pause at the three-branched estuary of the Esk, the creeks, right, left, and middle, being formed by the Esk, the Mite, and the Irt. This is all majestic country. Our Cumberland Esk hails from Scafell, whose pike of 3,210 feet is the highest ground in England. Upper Eskdale may also be spoken of in the superlative degree for its marked grandeur. No mean skill in mountaineering is required to reach Wastdale, Langdale, and Borrowdale from the different paths. The Esk Falls are formed by the junction of becks from Bowfell and Scafell. The fine cataract, Cam Spout, descends from Mickledore; and Hardknott, which is one of the lesser heights, has a Roman ruin spoken of as a castle. There are, moreover, Baker Force and Stanley Gill amongst the waterfalls. Little need be said about the second-named river, the Mite, except that it passes the fell, the railway station, and the castle, bearing each the name of Muncaster. [Illustration: THE COCKER FLOWING FROM CRUMMOCK WATER (_p. 300_).] The river /Irt/ is the outlet of Wastwater, a gloomy lake three and a half miles long and half a mile broad, and of immense depth. It is a tradition in Lakeland that this piece of water is never frozen, but this is clearly an error, for there is a distinct record by the learned brother of Sir Humphry Davy that it was partly covered with ice in the great frost of 1855. The desolate crags around the lake are answerable for much of its severe character, and perhaps it was on this account that the Lakers used to visit it. Waugh, the Lancashire poet, encountered a local gossip who was full of memories of Wordsworth, Wilson, De Quincey, and Sedgwick, and the man very much amused his listener by describing Wordsworth as a very quiet old man, who had no pride, and very little to say. Christopher North was naturally a horse of another colour, being full of his gambols, and creating great excitement by his spirited contests with one of the Cumberland wrestlers. Wastwater is often violently agitated by heavy squalls from the south, which is somewhat of an anomaly, seeing that the boundary on that side is a mighty natural rampart named the Screes, so called from the loose nature of the scarps, which tend to make some of the neighbouring mountains practically inaccessible. [Illustration: THE COCKER AT KIRKGATE (_p. 300_).] * * * * * Ennerdale Water, a few miles to the north, receives its first influx from the river /Liza/, locally known as Lissa Beck. It is a lovely valley, and there is no overcrowding of population. The last house is the farmhouse of Gillerthwaite, and further progress upwards to the mountains is by footpath only. This is in truth the only excuse for mentioning the Liza, though it might serve as an opportunity for singing the praises of the Great Gable, formerly known as the Green Gable. It is one of the most conspicuous of mountain heads, and its frowning peak meets the view from great distances. Pillar Mountain, which is nearer Ennerdale Plain, is almost exactly the same height--2,927 feet, which is about seven yards less than the Gable--and it has a pinnacled and abrupt descent almost to the confines of the lake. Ennerdale Water at one time had the character of being the best fishing resort in the Lakes. "The Anglers' Inn" is not, as may be supposed, an establishment of modern growth, for it is bepraised in the literature of forty years ago. The bold headland projecting into the water at the western end was more than half a century back well known as Angler Fell, for a reason which the term itself explains, and at that time one of the curiosities of the lake was a collection of loose stones which, according to tradition, had been placed at the head of the shoal by unknown mortal or supernatural hands. Anyhow, the heap was always pointed out as a mystery until a scientific visitor explained it away by pronouncing it to be the remnant of an old moraine. Though not so deep as Wastwater, Ennerdale Water can boast its twenty-four fathoms, and the familiar statement is made as to its immunity from ice, the fact being that it is only in the severest frosts that these uncommonly deep lakes are affected. At the lower end the river Ehen takes up the duty of carrying the overflow to the sea, describing a long and semicircular course that from opposite St. Bees becomes by quick swerve a journey due south. The valley thence is of a pastoral character, and is perhaps best known from the establishment on its banks (long before the Cleator Iron Works sent up their smoke) of the little town of Egremont, with its ruins of a strong fortress. It was this that suggested the Cumberland tradition told by Wordsworth in the poem "The Horn of Egremont Castle." * * * * * "Scarcely ever have I seen anything so fine as the Vale of St. John," Southey exclaims; and the Valley of St. John which is named more than once in Scott's "Bridal of Triermain" is always accepted as the same. It is in the country of Helvellyn, of Thirlmere, of the river /Greta/, and Keswick is its capital. The Greta, however, is known by sectional names, even after it issues from the mere, which has the distinction of being, while one of the minor lakes, the highest in altitude. The other lakes are generally something between 200 and 300 feet above sea level. This is over 500 feet, and its precipitous borderings here and there are in accord with its unusual elevation. The stream which has to make so steep a descent before it is received by the Derwent is generally spoken of as St. John's Beck as it trends northward through the namesake vale, Naddle Fell on the one side, and Great Dodd on the other, keeping watch and ward, deeply scored; Saddleback always looming grimly ahead beyond Threlkeld, with Skiddaw as near neighbour. At this stage the Glenderamakin makes conjunction from the east, and, united, the streams become the Greta. From Threlkeld it takes a new course, westerly to Keswick, and its scenery is of the highest beauty as it hurries past Latrigg, otherwise known as Skiddaw's Cub. Greta in this short length of established identity is not to be denied, as Greta Bridge, Greta Hall (the home of Southey for forty years), and Greta Bank testify. Half a mile from Keswick, over the bridge, is Crosthwaite, the old parish church in whose God's acre Southey was buried. The tourist in Lakeland will bring back his special impression of "the very finest view," according to his individual tastes and, maybe, temperament. A well-ordered ballot would probably, however, place at the head of the list that prospect--never to be adequately described--from Castlerigg top. For water there are Bassenthwaite and Derwentwater; for giant mountain forms, Skiddaw and Saddleback; for cloud-capped and shadowy fells, the highlands of Buttermere and Crummock, with "the mountains of Newlands shaping themselves as pavilions; the gorgeous confusion of Borrowdale just revealing its sublime chaos through the narrow vista of its gorge," as De Quincey described them; and for the softer toning and the human interest, the valley of the Greta and the goodly town of Keswick are in the nearer survey. Out of town the river becomes moderately tranquil, and enters the Derwent at the northernmost point of Keswick Lake or Derwentwater. Derwentwater is the most oval in outline of any of the lakes, and it has the bijou measurements of three miles in length, by a mile and a half in breadth. Foreshores of foliaged slopes or herbaged margins give play to an imposing presentment of cliff and wooded knoll, with dark masses of fantastic mountains behind; the clear water is studded with small islands of varying form and bulk, and in its centre is St. Herbert's Isle, sacred to the memory of a "saintly eremite" whose ambition it was to die at the moment when his beloved Cuthbert of Durham expired, so that their souls might soar heavenwards in company. After hot summers a phenomenal floating islet, of bog-like character and covered with vegetation, rises at a point about 150 yards from the shore near the far-famed waters coming down from Lodore. Scafell is somewhat a far cry from Keswick, but one of the most impressively comprehensive views of Derwentwater, as of Windermere and Wastwater in a lesser degree, is to be obtained from the summit. The river /Derwent/, known alternatively as the Grange, rises at the head of Borrowdale, flows along the middle of the valley, and enters the lower part of the lake near the Falls of Lodore. Issuing from the further extremity, augmented by the Greta, it flows north-westwards to pay tribute to Bassenthwaite Water, which, after Derwentwater and its strong features of interest, is somewhat of an anti-climax; yet it is a fine lake some four miles in length, with woods on the Wythop shore, and Armathwaite Hall at its foot commanding a full view of the lake. The Derwent, renewing its river-form on the outskirts of this wooded estate, turns to the west, and arrives at Cockermouth, so named from the river which here joins it from the south. Buttermere and Crummock Water, with Little Loweswater up in the high fells, are the western outposts of Lakeland, and they must be considered as the starting-point of the river /Cocker/. They are a small chain of themselves, equidistant, and in a line from south-east to north-west. Loweswater is of least account, and not in eager request by tourists; but it is the moving spirit of Holme Force, in a wood beside which the explorer of the lake passes; and the lower end, where the small stream connects with Crummock Water, is not without pleasant scenery. Kirkgate, about half a mile south and half-way on the connecting stream, is a favourite resting-point. In the illustration on page 297 the artist has eloquently described the river Cocker in its hill solitudes, and in its early life, when a single arch is enough to span its modest channel; the plain whitewashed cottage in its sheltered nook, the straggling trees, the sheep fresh from the higher grazings, are very typical of these remote districts. Crummock Water, the largest of this trio, is somewhat out of the beaten track, but there are boats upon it, and walls of mountain rise on either side. The tourist generally spends the time possible for the casual excursionist at Scale Force, on a feeder of the Cocker after it has cleared the lake. It is a sheer fall of over a hundred feet when there is plenty of water. A kindred cataract in the neighbourhood is Sour Milk Force, the second waterfall of that name mentioned in this chapter. The main river, having sped through the meres and the meadows that separate them, passes through the Vale of Lorton, and enters the Derwent near the castle ruins at Cockermouth. The town was so important, through its baronial fortress, of which the gateway remains, that the Roundhead troops gave it the fatal honour of a passing visit, and there an end of the castle, which they promptly dismantled. But Wordsworth was born here, and the garden-terrace of his home was by Derwent side. The railway frequently crosses the Derwent between Cockermouth and Workington, keeping it on the whole close company through a generally level and ordinary country. Workington is in these days a prosperous seaport; yet we must not forget that Mary Queen of Scots landed here on a May day in 1568, and Wordsworth tells us how-- "With step prelusive to a long array Of woes and degradations hand in hand-- Weeping captivity and shuddering fear Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay." /William Senior./ [Illustration: _Photo: W. J. Munro, Annan._ THE ANNAN NEAR ANNAN TOWN (_p. 318_).] RIVERS OF THE SOLWAY FIRTH. The Firth--A Swift Tide. The /Eden/: The Eamont--Eden Hall--Armathwaite--John Skelton--Wetheral and Corby Castle--The Caldew and the Petteril--Greystoke Castle--Carlisle, its Romance and History--_Serva Pactum_--"Kinmont Willie" and "bauld Buccleuch"--Executions of Jacobites--The Carlisle of To-day. The /Sark/: Gretna Green. The /Liddel/--Hermitage Water and Castle. The /Esk/: The Tarras--Gilnockie Tower--Carlenrig and Johnnie Armstrong--Young Lochinvar--Kirtle Water and its Tragic Story. The /Annan/: The Land of the Bruces--Thomas Carlyle. The /Nith/: Dumfries--Burns's Grave--Robert Bruce and the Red Cumyn--Drumlanrig and Caerlaverock Castles--The Cairn and its Associations--The New Abbey Pow and Sweetheart Abbey. The /Dee/: Douglas Tongueland--Threave Castle. The /Cree/: Newton Stewart--The "Cruives of Cree." The /Bladenoch/: The Wigtown Martyrs. It is some years since we last saw the Solway Firth, but we well remember the long stretch of naked sand so quickly covered by the galloping tide, and the giant shape of Criffell guarding the whole expanse of water from out which it appeared to rise, so that the prophecy ascribed to Thomas the Rhymer, "In the evil day coming safety shall nowhere be found except atween Criffell and the sea," seemed in truth a hard saying. Our abode was a solitary house on the northern bank, and, save for the wild ebb and flow of the waters, all was peace. On the right was the open sea, not much ploughed of passing keel; straight across was the indented Cumberland shore, well tended and fertile, but not more so than the inland from our cottage. How plainly it comes back as one takes up the pen! "Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curled streams, The Esks, the Solway where they lose their names": so sings quaint and courtly Drummond of Hawthornden. It is before these and the other Solway tributaries "lose their names" that we wish to write of them, touch on their beauty, and repeat again some of the brave tales, weird traditions, and choice songs that hallow their fields. And first as to the Firth itself. The Solway opens so rapidly on the sea that it is hard to draw the line between it and the ocean. We shall not try. The Cumberland side falls rapidly off, and presents a larger coast to the open water. Its rivers are not numerous, but in the Eden it possesses one of great interest and importance. The coast-line of the three counties of Dumfries, Kirkcudbright, and Wigtown forms the northern shore. It has many streams. We do not go beyond the Cree, which runs into Wigtown Bay, and of which we shall count the Bladenoch a tributary. [Illustration: THE EDEN, THE PETTERIL, AND THE CALDEW.] The Solway is noted all the world over for its swift tide: "Love flows like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide," says Scott in one of his best-known lines. A spring-tide, urged by a breeze from the south-west, speeds along at a rate of ten miles an hour. A deep, hoarse roar is heard twenty miles away, a swirling mist glittering with a number of small rainbows is seen on the sea, a huge wave of foam comes into sight, and this resolves itself into a volume of water six feet high--the vanguard of the ocean itself, which follows, a great mass in violent perturbation. The Solway near Annan is crossed by a long railway bridge. Some years ago this bridging of the Firth was considered a remarkable engineering feat, but now that you rattle in express trains over the Tay and the Forth, the Solway viaduct seems a very trumpery affair. In the old days, when communication was slow and costly, and when, maybe, folk were bolder, how strong the temptation to make a dash for it across the sand! And yet how dangerous! Dense fogs would arise of a sudden, quicksands abounded, and had a nasty trick of shifting their place ever and anon. How easy to miscalculate time or distance! Imagine the feeling of the unfortunate traveller, midway across, when there fell on his ear the sullen roar of the advancing tide! Fatal accidents were frequent, especially to those returning from Cumberland fairs with their brains heated and their judgment confused by hours of rustic dissipation. You remember the graphic account in "Redgauntlet" of Darsie Latimer's mishap on the northern shore, and his rescue by the Laird of the Lakes on his great black steed. Scott in his novel gives a vivid account of the salmon-fishing on the Solway: how horsemen with barbed spears dashed at full gallop into the receding tide, and speared the fish with wondrous skill. This picturesque mode is long out of date, and stake nets, which, when the tide is out, stretch like huge serpents over the sand, are now the principal engines of capture. The Solway has somewhat dwindled of late epochs; geologists report it as receding seaward at the rate of a mile a century, which is lightning speed for that species of alteration--but 'twas ever a hasty Firth! * * * * * The /Eden/ is our first river. During its course of thirty-five miles it has much variety of pleasant scenery; whereof let Wordsworth tell:-- "Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed By glimpses only, and confess with shame That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood, Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name: Yet fetched from Paradise, that honour came, Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee flowers That have no rival among British bowers, And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame." It rises in the backbone of England, on the borders of Westmorland, in Yorkshire. We do not loiter in the long street of Kirkby Stephen, or dilate on the many antiquities of Appleby, though in its Westmorland course it flows by both places. On the Cumberland border it is joined by the Eamont, which rises nine miles off in romantic Ullswater--a lake renowned for the remarkable combination of savage and cultivated scenery on its borders. A mile or two further, and the Eden winds through a noble park, wherein stands Eden Hall. Here, since the time of Henry VI., have lived the "martial and warlike family of the Musgraves," as Camden calls them. They acquired the estate by marriage from the heirs of one Robert Turpe, who had it under Henry III.; and how far back _his_ ancestors go--why, 'twould gravel the College of Heralds themselves to tell! Thus Eden Hall has been held by the same race from time immemorial. Not this alone has made the family famous, but the possession of a famous goblet, called "The Luck of the Musgraves," which they got, so the story goes, in this fashion. There stood in the garden St. Cuthbert's Well, of the most exquisite spring water. Hither repaired the Seneschal ("butler" some prosaically dub him; but the other sounds much finer, and is at least as accurate) to replenish his vessels. 'Twas a fine summer evening, and he found the green crowded with fairies, dancing and flirting "and carrying on most outrageous," quite forgetting they had left their magic glass on the brink of the well. The Seneschal promptly impounded it, as a waif and stray, for the benefit of the lord of the manor. The fairies implored and threatened in vain, and at length they vanished, uttering the prophecy-- "If that glass either break or fall, Farewell the luck of Eden Hall." [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ EDEN HALL.] How to doubt this story when the goblet is there to speak for itself? It is of green-coloured glass, ornamented with foliage and enamelled in different colours. Spite of all, some affirm it a church vessel of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, and hint that it came into the family in a more commonplace if equally high-handed way. How far the fame of that goblet has travelled! Uhland, the German poet, makes it the theme of a romantic ballad whose spirit Longfellow's rendering admirably preserves. It tells how young Musgrave wantonly smashed the goblet, and how instant ruin fell on him and his house. All poetic licence! The Musgraves are still lords of Eden Hall. [Illustration: THE WEIR AT ARMATHWAITE.] [Illustration: WETHERAL BRIDGE (_p. 306_).] Ten miles further down the stream we come to Armathwaite. The castle thereof is a plain old tower modernised. Its charm lies in the surroundings. There is a fine wooded walk by the river, which swirls round a huge crag. Above the weir the stream swells out into a lake. The weir itself is some four yards high and twenty long; its slope does not approach the perpendicular; and though the Eden must needs fall over it, it does so with a gentle grace quite in keeping with its character. The place has its musty records: William Rufus built a mill here. Here, too, the Benedictines had a religious house; but what pleasant spot in England is without its religious house? The ancient family of Skelton held the castle from the days of the second Richard; and here most probably John Skelton, the poet--the best known, if not most reputable, member of the race--was born about 1461. He took holy orders, and was rector of Diss, in Norfolk, but lost this and other appointments--from his improper conduct, said his superiors--rather you fancy from his mad wit, which lampooned everything and everybody. Three things he held in special horror: the mendicant friars, Lilly the grammarian, and Cardinal Wolsey. And he found vulnerable points in the red robe of the cardinal. "Why come ye not to Court?" is a bitter, brutal, yet brilliant invective against the great statesman. He taunts the English nobility that they dared not move-- "For dread of the mastiff cur, For dread of the butcher's dog Worrying them like a hog." No doubt Wolsey's father _was_ a butcher, but his Eminence scarce cared to have his memory jogged on the matter; no doubt the English nobles _were_ afraid of the great prelate, but they would rather not be told so. Thus, when vengeance threatened, Skelton found none to take his part. With a mocking grin, you fancy, invoking the protection of the very Church he had disgraced, he took sanctuary at Westminster, whence not even Wolsey dared drag him forth. Here he is said to have amused himself in inditing certain "Merrie Tales," accounts, it would seem, of his own adventures. We must find room for one of these stories from his student days. He had made merry at Abingdon, near Oxford, where he had eaten "salte meates." Returned to Oxford, he "dyd lye in an ine named the 'Tabere.'" At midnight he awoke with a most consuming thirst; he called in succession on the "tappestere" (the quaint mediæval term for a barmaid), "hys oste, hys ostesse, and osteler," but none would give him ear--possibly the poet lacked regularity in his payments. "'Alacke,' sayd Skelton, 'I shall perysh for lacke of drynke: what remedye!'" He soon found one: he bellowed "fyer, fyer, fyer," so long and so loud that presently the whole house was up and scurrying hither and thither in excitement and alarm. Finding nothing, they finally asked the poet where the fire was? The mad rogue, pointing to his open mouth and parched tongue, implored, "fetch me some drynke to quench the fyer and the heate and the driness in my mouthe." Our forefathers dearly loved a joke even at their own expense. The honest folk of the "Tabere" were amused rather than enraged. Mine host produced him of his best, and at length even Skelton's thirst was quenched. Yet this madcap was a man of genius. Erasmus spoke of him to Henry VIII. as "_Britannicarum literarum decus et lumen_"; and if you can endure the obsolete and (one must add) the coarse expressions, you will find in "The Tunnyng of Elynour Running" the most remarkable picture in existence of low life in late mediæval England. But let us return to the Eden, which now enters the parish of Wetheral. Not far from Wetheral Bridge the riverside is precipitous. Here, cut in the face of the rock, forty feet above the water level, are three curious cells known as "Wetheral Safeguards." Tradition affirms that St. Constantine, younger son of an early Scots king, having excavated them with his own hands, lived therein the pious life of a hermit. To him was dedicated Wetheral Priory, whereof a mouldering gateway alone survives the havoc of well-nigh a thousand years. The choicest of Eden scenery is in this parish. There is Cotehill, with its sweet pastoral aspect; Cotehill Island, fringed with trees, whose low-lying branches continually sway to and fro in the stream; and Brackenbank, wherefrom you best catch the prominent features of the surrounding country. We think the pencil gives the aspect of such places better than the pen, so we refer to our illustrations, and move on to Corby Castle in the same parish, which tops a precipitous cliff overhanging the river. From it you see far along the richly wooded banks. Do you wonder that it "has been a gentleman's seat since the Conquest"? And yet, not to be disdained of the most fastidious modern, for "the front of Corby House is of considerable length and consists of a suite of genteel apartments." And those delightful walks through the woods! There among the trees by the edge of the stream is the Long Walk, best of all. The reflection of the moon in the water on a calm summer evening is much admired by amorous couples, who cannot understand, however, why the Walk is called Long. If those same couples go up the winding stairway cut in the rock, they will be chagrined to find that, despite its wildly picturesque appearance, it leads to nothing more romantic than a boathouse! Years ago some ingenious wit carved choice quotations from the poets on the rocks and trees, and the name of the river suggested many passages from Milton's account of Eden in "Paradise Lost"; but the quotations were not appreciated by the rustics, who joyed in defacing them. Edward II. gave the place to the Salkeld family, but it has long been in the possession of the Howards. In Wetheral Church, among many other monuments, is a touching one to the lady of the house, commemorated by Wordsworth in the perfect lines beginning-- "Stretched on the dying mother's lap lies dead Her new-born babe; dire ending of bright hope!" We have now followed the Eden's course to Carlisle; there it is joined by two tributaries, the Caldew and the Petteril, each of some importance. The /Caldew/ rises on the eastern slope of Skiddaw. Both it and its affluent, the Caldbeck, flow through the romantic scenery of the Fells, and dash at quite a headlong pace down steep declines, whereof Howk Fall is the most renowned. At Holt Close Bridge the Caldew deserts the light of day altogether, but after four miles of subterranean windings it "comes up smiling" (as one might say) at Spout's Dub. The /Petteril/ comes from two headstreams in Greystoke Park and by Penruddock, and has a course of some twenty miles through pleasant woodland and meadow scenery. Near the Westmorland border, on a steep eminence by its first headwater, stands Greystoke Castle. The old castle was, during the Civil Wars in 1648, taken by Lambert for the Parliament, and burned to the ground. The remains of the battery he threw up are still called "Cromwell's Holes." This place has long been in the possession of the Howards. The castle was widely famed for its collection of curiosities, more or less authentic. Thus, there were "a large white hat," said to have covered no less a head than Thomas Becket's; and a picture of silk embroidery representing the Crucifixion, worked by the royal hands of Mary Queen of Scots. A fire in 1868 played sad havoc among these oddities; but you may still admire the great park with its deer and its ponds, and the charming prospects of the Lake mountains which you have from the castle windows. [Illustration: /VIEW FROM BRACKENBANK, LOOKING TOWARDS COTEHILL/ (_p. 306_). COTEHILL ISLAND.] And now we are in Carlisle town--to-day a thriving, well-built, but, after all, not very remarkable place. Here as elsewhere, romance has fled, and prosaic comfort takes its place. "Merrie Carlisle" the ballads call it. Do you wonder why? It was in the very centre of border warfare; some eight miles north lay the Debatable Land--for centuries a bone of contention between Scots and English. In frequent incursions the Northman wasted the country far and near, and the warder, as he looked from the Scots Gate--so they termed the northern port of the citadel--could see robber bands moving here and there, and note the country round dotted with fire and smoke; but against the strong walls of Carlisle Castle they dashed themselves in vain. Here was a secure haven of refuge--here at least was peace and comfort, whatever red ruin wasted either border; nay, the town throve on the very disorder; and the bullocks and horses were cheap and good, what need to inquire too curiously whence they came? Far better to get and part with them quickly and quietly and profitably. Even if the seller was a Scot, come there in time of truce, so much more reason to make a profit out of him. And then the merchants had everything to sell, from strong waters to trinkets; so it was strange if the gentleman took much cash away with him. A "merrie" town, in truth! In flowing lines Lydia Sigourney has admirably touched off the place and its history:-- "How fair amid the depth of summer green Spread forth thy walls, Carlisle! Thy castled heights Abrupt and lofty; thy cathedral dome Majestic and alone; thy beauteous bridge Spanning the Eden. * * * * * "Old Time hath hung upon thy misty walls Legends of festal and of warlike deeds,-- King Arthur's wassail-cup; the battle-axe Of the wild Danish sea-kings; the fierce beak Of Rome's victorious eagle: Pictish spear And Scottish claymore in confusion mixed With England's clothyard arrow." [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE LONG WALK, CORBY CASTLE (_p. 307_). ROCK STAIRWAY TO THE BOATHOUSE, CORBY CASTLE.] Some of these legends are but half told or half sung. One scarcely coherent, yet weird and powerful, ballad suggests an ancient, and but for it forgotten, tragedy:-- "She's howket a grave by the light o' the moon. The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'; And there she's buried her sweet babe in, And the lyon shall be lord of a'!" We turn to the authentic, but scarce less tragic or romantic, history to present three pictures from Carlisle's past. Edward I. in his last Scots expedition halted here. The country on whose conquest he had lavished blood and treasure for twenty years, which he had ground under his heel again and again, had revolted yet again with a purpose as fell as his own. When knighting the Prince of Wales, he had given a great banquet, wherein two swans were introduced, "richly adorned with gold network." On these he had made his son swear that fantastic yet terrible vow to God and the swans (in accordance with the etiquette of chivalry), that if he died leaving Scotland unconquered, his son would boil his flesh from his bones and carry these with him to war against the rebels. The king, though stricken with mortal sickness, was carried north as far as Carlisle in a horse-litter. Here he pretended himself recovered, hung his litter in the cathedral as an offering, and, with terrible resolve, mounting his horse, moved onwards for a few miles. Near where the Eden loses itself in the sands of the Solway, at the little village of Burgh-on-the Sands, his strength completely gave way. His dying eyes looked across the waters of the Solway on the land which he had conquered so often in vain, and here the fierce old man made his son renew his solemn oath, and soon all was over. The new monarch was a man of softer mould. Turning with a shudder from the task, he hurried back to the pleasures of London. Go to-day to Westminster Abbey, and read the inscription on the old king's tomb: "_Eduardus Primus Scotorum malleus hic est 1308 pactum serva_." Dean Stanley thinks the last two words merely a moral maxim; others have more reasonably taken it as a reminder to the son to keep his promise. Moreover, it was provided that "once every two years the tomb was to be opened, and the wax of the king's cerecloth renewed"; as if Edward even in death had some work to do. The son, no doubt, meant some day or other to fulfil his promise; but the day never dawned, and the voice from the grave spoke in vain. Our next picture is from the days of Good Queen Bess. In the year 1596 there was peace between England and Scotland, but that did not prevent a little private marauding on the Borders. It was customary for the wardens on either side to hold courts, and there settle their differences. William Armstrong, of Kinmont--to be known to all time as "Kinmont Willie"--a famous Scots freebooter, was present at one of these courts. When it was over he rode away with some friends along the north bank of the Liddel, scornfully heedless of the angry looks of certain Englishmen, who had (you guess) lately suffered from his depredations. By Border law there was truce till the next sunrise; but the sight of Kinmont so slenderly guarded was too much for his southern foes. A troop of two hundred pursued and caught him after a long chase, and so our bold freebooter was laid safely by the heels in a strong dungeon in Carlisle Castle. The feelings with which Scott of Buccleuch, keeper of Liddesdale, received news of this are vigorously described in the old ballad:-- "He has ta'en the table, wi' his hand He garr'd the red wine spring on hie; 'Now, Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 'But avenged of Lord Scrope I'll be.'" Buccleuch, having urged the release of Kinmont Willie in vain, determined to free him by force. At Morton Tower, in the Debatable Land, he collected one evening before sunset a chosen band of followers with scaling ladders and pickaxes. Through the darkness of a misty and stormy night they forded in succession the Esk and the Eden, and halted under the wall of Carlisle two hours before daybreak. Bursting in the postern, and overpowering the sentinels, they made such a ferocious din with tongue and trumpet that the garrison, thinking all the wild men of the Border had got into the town, prudently shut themselves up in the Keep, and then-- "Wi' coulters, and with forehammers, We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Until we came to the inner prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie." The prisoner was soon rescued; and there being no time to knock off his irons, he was mounted on the shoulders of "Red Rowan," described as "the starkest man in Teviotdale." Some attempt was made to prevent the escape; but the night continuing dark, the bold band got away, and a wild gallop brought them safe to the Scots border two hours after daybreak. Kinmont humorously complaining of his steed and his spurs, as he playfully termed his irons, the company halted at a smith's cottage in their own country, and demanded his services. The smith seemed loth to rise so early, whereupon Buccleuch, playfully thrusting his lance through the window, speedily had him wide awake. This stroke of humour was highly appreciated on the Border--was considered quite side-splitting, in fact--but history has failed to record the smith's observations on the incident. The "bauld Buccleuch" himself never did a bolder deed, but Elizabeth was furious. In October, 1597, he was sent to the English court to make what excuse he might to the Queen, who, in one of her Tudor tempers, angrily demanded "how he dared to undertake an enterprise so desperate and presumptuous." "What is there that a man dares not do?" was the answer, surely in fit keeping with the tradition of boldness. Elizabeth turned to her courtiers: "With ten thousand such men our brother of Scotland might shake the firmest throne in Europe!" and so Buccleuch departed in peace. Our last picture is from the days after the Jacobite rising of 1745. A great many of the trials of the Scots rebels took place at Carlisle, and, as one can understand, the accused had but short shrift. "We shall not be tried by a Cumberland jury in the next world!" was the comforting reflection of one of the prisoners. A long series of executions, with all the terrible rites practised on traitors, took place on Gallows Hill, and the heads of these poor Jacobites were planted over Carlisle gates as a warning. A ballad of deepest pathos tells the fate of one unfortunate:-- "White was the rose in his gay bonnet, As he faulded me in his brooched plaidie; His hand, which clasped the truth o' luve, Oh, it was aye in battle readie! "His lang, lang hair in yellow hanks Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie, But now they wave o'er Carlisle yetts, In dripping ringlets, clotting bloodie." [Illustration: _Photo: Frith & Co., Reigate._ GREYSTOKE CASTLE (_p. 307_).] Not all merrie are the records of Carlisle! And to-day you will find the castle has suffered change. You enter through an ancient gateway, and there is still the portcullis adorned with a sadly battered piece of sculpture. Unsightly barracks, and so forth, cumber the outer ward. The half-moon battery is dismantled, and the great keep is now used as an armoury. You turn to the cathedral, and there, spite of many alterations and more or less judicious restoration, there is much to admire. We can but mention the splendid central window at the east end of the choir, the graceful arcades below the windows of the side aisles, and the carved oak work of the stalls. * * * * * At the head of the Solway Firth the /Sark/, a small river, or rather "burn," which in a dry summer well-nigh vanishes, divides the two kingdoms. On the Scots side the first village on the road is Gretna Green, famed for just over a century because of its irregular marriages. Here we might take leave of England were it not that our next two rivers, the Esk and the Liddel, Scots for most of their course and rising at very different points, finally meet and pass into Cumberland, whence they flow into the Solway Firth; the Esk having made a complete circuit round the Sark. The Debatable Land already mentioned was the piece of ground between the Solway and the junction of the two streams, of each of which we must now speak. [Illustration: CARLISLE, LOOKING EAST.] [Illustration: CARLISLE, LOOKING WEST.] * * * * * The /Liddel/ rises in a great morass in Roxburghshire called Deadwater. For some ten miles it is a wild mountain stream, flowing dark and sullen through a rocky glen, but as it reaches lower ground the glen widens and softens into a beautiful valley with trees and fine pasture land, whilst lower still are fertile fields. The Liddel has many tributaries, whereof we will only mention Hermitage Water, near the source. It is a wild mountain stream, and at its wildest part, amidst morasses and bare desolate mountains, stand the ruins of grim old Hermitage Castle, with its thick towers and walls and rare narrow windows. See it on some gloomy November day, when the storm spirit is abroad, and it stands the very abomination of desolation! Turn to its history, and the gloom grows ever darker; for 'tis little but a record of cruel deeds. This is one of the oldest baronial buildings in Scotland. Sir William Douglas, the "Knight of Liddesdale" and "Flower of Chivalry," took the place in 1338 from the English. You wonder at his name! Four years later he wounded and seized at Hawick Sir Alexander Ramsay, Sheriff of Teviotdale, of whose appointment he was jealous, and, throwing him into a deep dungeon at Hermitage, left him to starve. A few chance droppings from the granary protracted his miserable existence through seventeen awful days. His captors, hearing his groans, at length took him out and gave him--not bread, but a priest, in whose arms Ramsay expired! The "Flower of Chivalry" was finally slain by the Earl of Douglas, head of his house, whilst hunting in Ettrick Forest. It was whispered the Earl had discovered that his Countess entertained a guilty passion for the murdered man. A rude old ballad represents her as coming out of her bower when she heard of the crime, and proclaiming her own shame-- "And loudly there she did ca', It is for the Lord of Liddesdale That I let all these tears doune fa'." In October, 1566, Bothwell had gone to the Borders as Warden of the Marshes, to prepare for a court which Mary Queen of Scots was about to hold at Jedburgh for the trial of freebooters. He was wounded by Elliott of the Park, known as "Little Jock Elliott," and lay dangerously ill at Hermitage. The infatuated Mary, scantily attended, dashed over from Jedburgh through the wildest and most dangerous territory (what a prize for a freebooter!), spent two hours by Bothwell's bedside "to his great pleasure and content," and then dashed as madly back again. Who shall dare to guess the secret of that meeting? Seven months earlier was Rizzio's murder, four months later was Darnley's--the great tragedy of Mary's life. The question of her guilt is still open, but no one doubts Bothwell's. Some dark hint of his perhaps caused the torture of mind which men noted in her after the visit. She was immediately stricken down with a fever of ten days' duration, and for some time her life was despaired of. But let us away from this sad old ruin among those far-off gloomy mountains. * * * * * The Liddel is, after all, but a tributary of the /Esk/. There are several rivers of that name in Britain, which fact will not surprise you when you remember that Esk is Celtic for "water." Its scenery has the characteristic features of all these Border streams: wild hills, bare save for a fringe of heather at the source; then richly wooded meadows, with fertile fields in the lower reaches. The Esk and its tributaries are much praised of anglers; nowhere will you find better salmon-fishing. Three miles below Langholm, on the left bank, the Tarras falls into the Esk. Its narrow channel is broken by huge masses of rock over which the water foams and swirls in wild fury. A strange old rhyme ever rings in our ears when we think of its passionate rush-- "Was ne'er ane drowned in Tarras, nor yet in doubt, For e'er the head can win doun the harns are out,"-- which means that Tarras never drowned anybody who fell in, for the excellent reason that before his head touched the bottom, the current and the rocks, between them, knocked out his brains! Is there not a tragic power about this snarling couplet? Indeed, those pithy popular rhymes will well repay attention. Nowhere else is so much said in so few words; each is, in truth, the distilled essence of a poem. The Tarras divides Langholm from Canonbie parish, wherein once stood, in a position of great natural strength, washed on three sides by the Esk, Gilnockie Tower. Johnnie Armstrong, the famous Border freebooter, took his title from this place, whereof not a stone remains. A little higher up the river is Hollows Tower, also a nest of this bird of prey. Johnnie was summoned to appear before James V. when that monarch made a Border tour in 1539 to administer justice. Getting himself up in the most magnificent apparel, and with an easy mind and a clear conscience, he, accompanied by many of his name, whereof "Ill Will Armstrong" is specially noted, set forth to meet the king. On Langholm Holm, according to the Chronicle, "they ran their horse and brak their spears when the ladies lookit frae their lofty windows, saying, 'God send our men well back again.'" The fair dames' anxieties were well founded, for Johnnie's reception was scarce as cordial as he expected. "What wants yon knave that a king should have?" exclaimed James in angry amazement, as he ordered off Gilnockie and his companions to instant execution. The culprit's petition for grace was sternly refused. "Had I known, I'd have lived upon the Borders in spite of King Harry and you both," said Johnnie as they led him away. The trees whereon he and his followers were strung up are still shown at Carlenrig, and tradition still identifies their graves in that lonely churchyard. The ballads praise his honesty and lament the treachery which led to his end. James's was the violent act of a weak man; it had an unroyal touch of trickery; and no good results followed. [Illustration: RIVERS FLOWING SOUTH INTO SOLWAY FIRTH.] Of another romantic character it is written that he "swam the Esk river where ford there was none"--that, of course, was young Lochinvar, who "came out of the west" to run off with a fair daughter of Netherby Hall. The "west" in this case is a lake in Dalry parish, in Kirkcudbrightshire, containing an island which still has remains of the castle of the Gordons, knights of Lochinvar, one of whom was the hero of Lady Heron's song in "Marmion." Netherby is away by the Debatable Land, and Canobie Lee (perhaps) in the Dumfriesshire parish of Canonbie; but how idle to localise the incidents of the splendid ballad! Scott himself never touched the romantic note with truer hand or to better purpose-- "And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine." And then we know how the bride "... looked down to blush and looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye." And how they danced a measure, and how the charger stood near by the hall door, and 'twas but the work of an instant to swing the lady on its back, and so light to the saddle before her he sprung:-- "'She is won! We are gone over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' said young Lochinvar." And the delightful couple again fade away into the "rich heart of the west." [Illustration: THE ESK, NEAR GILNOCKIE (_p. 315_).] There is no end to those ballads and traditions! The very streams in their flow seem to murmur of them. But few can find place here; yet how can we pass from Eskdale and leave untouched its sweetest spot, its most, tragic story, its most pathetic song? Kirtle Water, after a short course of a little over sixteen miles, runs into the Solway at Kirtle Foot, near the head of the Firth. In the parish of Kirkpatrick-Fleming it passes through "fair Kirkconnel Lee," where, in the churchyard of Kirkconnel, sleep the ashes of Helen and her lover. According to the well-known tradition, she was loved by Fleming of Redhall and Bell of Blacket. The latter was not the favoured one, and basely tried to slay Fleming. Helen threw herself in the path of the murderer's bullet, and perished to save her friend. Fleming did speedy justice on his cruel foe, wandered in far lands for many years, and returned to die and be buried in the same grave with the love of his youth. Of the ancestral tower of the Flemings not a fragment is left; and Dryasdust still dully debates the exact measure of historic truth in the story. Some great but unknown poet long ago moulded the passionate complaint of Fleming into imperishable verse, with its mournful refrain:-- "I wish I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnel Lee!" [Illustration: HIGH STREET, DUMFRIES (_p. 319_).] * * * * * Annandale is the second division of Dumfries. /Annan/ means in Celtic "quiet water"; perhaps that river was called so in fear, to propitiate the water-sprite, as malignant fairies were dubbed "the good people" to ward off their anger. Allan Cunningham lauds it as the "Silver Annan," but none the less he has some hard words for it:-- "The cushat, hark, a tale of woe Is to its true love telling; And Annan stream in drowning wrath Is through the greenwood swelling." And the old ballad of "Annan Water" calls it a "drumlie river," and tells a most melancholious tale of a lover and his steed drowned whilst attempting to cross it to keep tryst with his love, Annie, who, we are assured, was "wondrous bonny." The last verse warns the river that a bridge will presently be thrown over, that "ye nae mair true love may sever": the prosaic purposes of transit to kirk or market being, of course, quite unworthy of a minstrel's mention. Well! Annan has its moods--quiet and gentle in the pleasant summer days, given to violent outbursts in time of spate. Annandale was the home of Bruce, and the great Robert is supposed to have been born at Lochmaben, which, situated on seven lochs, is a sort of Caledonian Venice. Bruce, not unmindful of the place of his nativity, is famed to have created it a royal burgh soon after his sword won him the crown. This did not prevent the citizens from treating through many generations his ancestral castle as a common quarry, and nothing is now left but a shapeless mass of stones. According to old Bellenden, in his translation of Boace (1536), the people of former times were a terrible lot; the women worst of all! "The wyvis usit to slay thair husbandis, quhen they wer found cowartis, or discomfit be thair ennymes, to give occasion to otheris to be more bald and hardy quhen danger occurrit." "To learn them for their tricks," as Burns might have remarked. Annandale's most famous modern son was Thomas Carlyle, who, as everybody knows, was born at Ecclefechan in 1795, and was buried there at the end of his long career on a "cloudy, sleety day" early in 1881. Ecclefechan is on the Main Water, a tributary of the Annan; you will find it described in "Sartor Resartus" as Entepfuhl. Many spots around are connected with his life or works. Hoddam Kirk, his parish church, he pointed out to Emerson in a remarkable talk as an illustration of the connection of historical events. His once bosom friend, Edward Irving, was born in the town of Annan, of which Carlyle had his own memories, for here he went to school, first to learn, afterwards to teach. Craigenputtock, where he lived for six years, is in Nithsdale, the third division of Dumfries, to which we now turn. * * * * * The /Nith/, its name-river, in its course of some seventy miles, rising in Ayrshire, passes through the Queen of the South, as its citizens proudly designate Dumfries, and, during the last ten miles of its existence, is rather an estuary than a river. It has many important tributaries--the Carron, with its almost Alpine gorge, known as the Wallpath; the Enterkin, with its famed Enterkin pass, of old time the bridle-path from Clydesdale to Nithsdale, noted for the famous rescue in 1684 of a band of Covenanting prisoners who were being conveyed to Edinburgh; the Minnick Water, with its many traditions of the Hill Folk; and "many mo'." Every variety of scenery diversifies the banks of those streams, and there is a great mass of legendary lore as to the famous men who dwelt by their waters; but one name swallows up all the rest. How to follow the windings of the Nith, or tread the High Street of Dumfries, without thinking of Robert Burns? He sang of the streams of Nith in his choicest verse. "Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes" is linked with one tributary, and the song he fitted to "Ca' the yowes to the knowes"--most musical fragment of old Scots poetry--reminds of another. Among the beautiful ruins of Lincluden Abbey, surrounded by the defaced monuments of the great house of Douglas, he saw that "Vision" which he has commemorated in so remarkable a poem. Not far off is Friars' Carse, where the bacchanalian contest related in "The Whistle" took place. In Dumfries, as an exciseman, he spent the last five years of his life. Let us find place for one incident of his closing days. He had gone to the little village of Brow, on the Solway, to try the effect of the seaside. During a visit to the manse, one of the family remarked the sun shining in his eyes and made some effort to adjust the blind. Burns noted it; "Thank you, my dear, for your kind attention--but ah, let him shine! He will not shine long for me." This was the end of June, 1796; on the twenty-first of July he was dead. "Who will be our poet now?" was the quaint inquiry of an honest Dumfries burgher. Who, indeed! His remains were buried in the churchyard of St. Michael's. "They were originally interred in the north corner, upon which spot a simple table-stone was raised to his memory; but in 1815 his ashes were removed to a vault beneath an elegant mausoleum, which was erected by subscription, as a tribute to his genius, at a cost of £1,450. This monument contains a handsome piece of marble sculpture, executed by Turnerelli, representing the genius of Scotland finding the poet at the plough, and throwing 'her inspiring mantle' over him." Well meant, and yet--! We remember standing in the cemetery at Montmartre by the plain stone that bears the name, and nothing but the name, of Heine. It had a simple, a pathetic, dignity beyond the reach of the most cunningly carved monument. One thought of the "elegant mausoleum" at Dumfries, and sighed for the "simple table-stone" which humble but pious hands had placed as the first and, still after a century the best, monument to Robert Burns. Do you doubt which himself had chosen? Of the antiquities of Dumfries we will only mention its famous mediæval bridge over the Nith, built by Devorgilla, mother of John Baliol. A remarkable old dame this Devorgilla! Balliol College, Oxford, was endowed by her liberality; and we shall come across another of her foundations presently. The Queen of the South has a long history; its most important event is connected with the house rival to Baliol. On the 4th of February, 1306, Robert the Bruce disputing with the Red Cumyn in the Greyfriars' Monastery, struck and wounded him with his dagger. He burst out remorseful, exclaiming, "I fear I have slain the Red Cumyn." "I mak siccar," was the grimly pithful remark of Kirkpatrick of Closeburn as he rushed in, and--_exit_ the Red Cumyn! [Illustration: _Photo: J. Rutherford, Jardington, Dumfries._ LINCLUDEN ABBEY (_p. 319_).] Even in Scotland this district is remarkable for old castles and abbeys. Of these one first notes Drumlanrig Castle, in Durisdeer parish, on a _drum_, or long ridge of hill, on the right bank of the Nith. It is a huge and splendid building, finished in 1689 after ten years' labour, by the first Duke of Queensberry, who spent but one night within its walls. It had splendid woods, which old "Q," that picturesque rascal of the Georgian period, shamelessly depleted, for which he was righteously castigated by Wordsworth; his descendants have repaired the damage, and poets and forest nymphs are at length appeased and consoled. The Highlanders, passing by here in the '45, amused themselves by stabbing the portrait of William III. with their claymores. Again, there is Caerlaverock Castle, the Ellangowan of Scott's "Guy Mannering," situated on the left bank of the Nith, just where it becomes part of the Solway Firth. A wild romantic spot! The boiling tides of the Solway and the Nith approach its walls; and of old time it was so hemmed by lake and marsh as to deserve the name of the "Island of Caerlaverock." It has a long romantic history, in keeping with its environment. It has been in possession of the Maxwells since the beginning of the thirteenth century, and you can still spell out their motto, "I bid ye fair," on its mouldering walls. They took--as was but seemly in so ancient a family--the Stuart side in the rising of 1715; and the title of Baron Herries, held since 1489, was destroyed by attaint in 1716. It was revived, however, in favour of William Constable Maxwell by various Parliamentary proceedings ending in 1858; then high revel was held in the long deserted courts of Caerlaverock, and little imagination was needed to recall the incidents of a long-vanished feudal day. [Illustration: _Photo: J. Rutherford, Jardington, Dumfries._ DRUMLANRIG CASTLE (_p. 320_).] It is hard to leave the Nith, so much is to be said on each of its tributaries. There is the Cairn, for instance, with its memories of the noble family of Glencairn. Also it flows by Maxwellton, still the seat of the Lauries, a fair scion of whose ancient house is celebrated in the pleasing old ditty known to everybody as "Annie Laurie," though _the_ song that rises in your mind when Glencairn is mentioned is Burns's noble tribute to the memory of the fourteenth earl, ending-- "The mother may forget the babe That smiles sae sweetly on her knee, But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me!" Even when we leave Dumfries and pass into Galloway (which consists of the stewartry of Kirkendbright and shire of Wigtown) we are not quite away from the Nith. On the right bank, nearly opposite Caerlaverock, the small stream of New Abbey Pow runs into the estuary. Follow this a little way up, and you come on the scanty but beautiful ruins of Sweetheart Abbey. The origin was as romantic as the name: it was founded in memory of her husband by the Devorgilla already mentioned. He died in 1269 at Barnard Castle, and was buried there, all save his heart, which his spouse had enclosed in a "coffyne of evorie," and ever at mealtimes the "coffyne" was carried in and placed beside her, and she "dyd reverens" to it as if it had been her living lord. Thus she existed for twenty years, and then was splendidly interred before the high altar of Dulee Cor, or Sweetheart Abbey, so called because the heart of her dead spouse was laid on hers. Verily, love is stronger than death! * * * * * The /Dee/, chief river of Kirkcudbrightshire, rises in desolate Loch Dee, among heather-clad hills with impressive names--Lamachen, Cairngarnock, Craiglee, and so forth. How those Celtic words suggest of themselves a remote and desolate wilderness! Dee means "dark river," and in the early part of its flow so sullen is its appearance that, with impressive tautology, it is called the "black water of Dee." Some twenty miles from its source its colour is lightened by its confluence with the Water of Ken, and, like other Border streams, the scenery on its banks gradually becomes softer and richer. We have selected for illustration (p. 326) a beautiful spot on the Dee at Douglas Tongueland, within two or three miles of the burgh of Kirkcudbright. Here the river still retains some of its early wildness, for it rushes foamin' over masses of rock, but the scenery on its banks is sweetly rural rather than wild and mountainous. The most famous place on the Dee is Threave Castle, standing on an islet formed by the river not far from Castle Douglas. It was built by Archibald, called the Grim, third Earl of Douglas, and was the scene of one of the terrible crimes which brought about the ruin of that proud house. William, the eighth earl, had imprisoned there Maclellan, tutor (or guardian) of Bombie, whose relative, Sir Patrick Grey, having procured an order for his release from James II., therewith repaired to the castle. Douglas, knowing very well what he came about, with pretended courtesy refused to receive any message till the guest had dined. Whilst Grey was eating with what appetite he might, the prisoner was led forth and beheaded in the courtyard. Dinner over, Grey produced the royal warrant, which Douglas read with mock respect and consternation. Taking his guest by the hand and leading him to the window overlooking the courtyard, he showed him the bleeding corpse. "There lies your sister's son," quoth he, "he lacks the head, but the body is at your service." Grey dissembled his rage and grief till he was in the saddle, when, turning on the mocking earl, he solemnly vowed his heart's blood should pay for that day's work. "To horse! to horse!" cried the enraged tyrant. The pursuers followed Grey for many a long league, nor did they draw bridle till the Castle-Rock of Edinburgh loomed on the horizon. A few months after, the king stabbed Douglas at a conference at Stirling, and Grey avenged Maclellan by killing the wounded man with a pole-axe. In 1455 King James besieged Threave Castle, which held out under James, the brother of the murdered noble. It seemed impossible to batter down the stronghold till an ingenious blacksmith, M'Kim of Mollance, constructed the enormous gun which lies to-day on the Argyle battery at Edinburgh Castle, and is known far and wide as "Mons Meg"--the "Mons" being a corruption of Mollance, whilst Meg was M'Kim's wife. He named the gun after her in ironical compliment, her voice being, he said, as the cannon's, neither soft nor low. However, this piece was dragged with enormous labour to an eminence commanding Threave Castle. The charge, it is said, consisted of a peck of powder, and a granite ball the weight of a Carsphairn cow. The Countess of Douglas, the Fair Maid of Galloway, who had married in succession the two brothers, sat at table in the banqueting hall when the gun was shot off; the ball crashing into the room, carried away her right hand, wherewith she was in the act of raising a goblet of wine to her lips. The place at once surrendered. Roofless, but still grim and massive, the castle frowns amidst the peaceful surroundings of to-day. They "still show you the gallows knob," "a large block of granite projecting from the front wall immediately over the main gateway; from here the meaner victims of the Earl's vengeance were suspended." Rarely did the knob want the ornament, of a "tassel," as, with ghastly pleasantly, its human burden was termed--nay, it is said that the Douglas was so averse to see the "knob" out of use, and his power of life and death rusting unexercised, that, did the supply of malefactors run short, he would string up on any or no pretext some unoffending peasant--_pour encourager les autres_, no doubt! * * * * * We now pass to the /Cree/ river, which forms the boundary between Kirkcudbright and Wigtown, the two divisions of Galloway. It is endeared to the poets, who name it "the crystal Cree"; either the alliterative effect fascinated the tuneful ear, or they contrasted it with the Dee, that other Galloway river whose dark waters have already been described. Burns also, whose verse is linked with so much of the scenery of his native land, has not forgotten this stream. In pleasing numbers he sings its beauties:-- "Here is the glen, and here the bower, All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has told the hour, O, what can stay the lovely maid?" The song goes on to describe the emotions of the rustic youth, who mistakes the whisper of the evening wind and the "warbler's dying fall" for the voice of the beloved. Well! the lady is a little late, but she keeps her appointment, after all:-- "And art thou come! and art thou true! O welcome, dear, to love and me! And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery bunks of Cree." [Illustration: _Photo: J. P. Gibson, Hexham._ CAERLAVEROCK CASTLE (_p. 320_).] In truth the river has many beautiful prospects, whereof the finest are in the vicinity of Newton Stewart, the most considerable town on its banks. We have selected the river at the bridge for our illustration. The bridge is lauded in the "New Statistical Account" as "elegant and substantial, built of granite, with a freestone parapet"; and another authority assures us that it was built in 1813, and cost £6,000--all which, no doubt, you are prepared to take on trust, as you can scarce be expected to go to Newton Stewart to verify the facts! One must not leave the river without mention of the famous "Cruives of Cree," to wit, "salmon-traps in the stone-cauls or dam-dykes, which, serving the country-folk for bridges, came to be well known landmarks." They were situate near Penninghame House, in the parish of Penninghame, and are commemorated in an ancient rhyme celebrating the power of the Kennedys:-- "'Twixt Wigtown and the town o' Ayr, Portpatrick and the Cruives o' Cree, You shall not get a lodging there Except ye court a Kennedy." * * * * * One more river and we have done. The /Bladenoch/ is a small stream which passes by the town of Wigtown, and falls into Wigtown Bay, the broad estuary of the Cree river. In 1685 it was the scene of the greatest of the Covenanting tragedies, known in history as the death of the Wigtown martyrs. Woodrow, in his "History of the Sufferings of the Church of Scotland," tells the story. In the year noted there lived in the parish of Penninghame a substantial farmer named Gilbert Wilson, a law-abiding person who submitted to all the orders of the Government. He had three children: Gilbert sixteen, Margaret eighteen, and Agnes thirteen years of age. These, unlike their parents, would "by no means conform or hear the Episcopalian incumbent, but fled to the hills, bogs, and caves." The son went abroad, fought as a soldier in the Low Countries, and returned long after the Revolution. The daughters had come to Wigtown, where they were living with an old woman of the name of Margaret McLachlin. All three, being apprehended, were tried at Wigtown on various charges of nonconformity, the chief being their presence at twenty field conventicles. The facts were patent, the law clear, and it was adjudged that "all the three should be tied to stakes fixed within the floodmark in the water of Blednoch, near Wigtown, where the sea flows at high water, there to be drowned." (Drowning, one ought to explain, was the ordinary method of execution for women.) Gilbert Wilson hastened to Edinburgh, and procured, probably bought, a pardon for his younger daughter; then Margaret McLachlin was persuaded to sign a petition in which she promised to conform and besought the Lords of Privy Council to have mercy on her. But the passionate words of field preaching heard in lonely glens had sunk deep into Margaret Wilson's mind; she refused, as she would have said, "to bow the knee to Baal." She wrote a letter from prison to her friends "full of a deep and affecting sense of God's love to her soul, and in entire resignation to the Lord's disposal. She likewise added a vindication of her refusing to save her life by taking the abjuration and engaging conformity; against both she gave arguments with a solidity and judgment far above one of her years and education." [Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, London._ THE DEE AT DOUGLAS TONGUELAND (_p. 322_).] But the brave child's constancy found admirers, and her respite was procured; it was drawn up in a somewhat loose form, and sent off to Wigtown. Either it did not arrive in time, or (more likely) those in authority determined to ignore it; at any rate, the sentence was carried out. The chief actors were Grierson of Lag, the central figure of "Wandering Willie's Tale" in "Redgauntlet"; and David Graham, brother to Dundee. On the fated eleventh of May the two women, being brought from prison, were tied to stakes on the Solway shore. A horror-struck multitude lined the banks, but a force of soldiery rendered any chance of rescue impossible. The women sang psalms; then the fierce tide rushed in, and Margaret McLachlin's sufferings were over. Margaret Wilson had been placed close to the bank of set purpose, and before the Solway had done its fell work there ensued the most moving incident in the martyrology of the Covenant. "While at prayer the water covered her; but before she was quite dead, they pulled her up, and held her out of the water till she was recovered and able to speak; and then, by Major Windram's orders, she was asked if she would pray for the king. She answered that she wished the salvation of all men and the damnation of none. One deeply affected with the death of the other and her case, said, 'Dear Margaret, say "God save the king!" say "God save the king!"' She answered with the greatest steadiness and composure, 'God save him if He will, for it is his salvation I desire.' Whereupon some of her relations near by, desirous to have her life spared if possible, called out to Major Windram, 'Sir, she hath said it; she hath said it.' Whereupon the Major came near and offered her the abjuration, charging her instantly to swear it or else return to the water. Most deliberately she refused, and said, 'I will not; I am one of Christ's children; let me go!' Upon which she was thrust down again into the water, where she finished her course with joy." And so we bid the Solway farewell! /FRANCIS WATT./ [Illustration: _Photo: Poulton & Son, London._ THE CREE AT NEWTON STEWART (_p. 323_).] [Illustration: THE AYR ABOVE MUIRKIRK.] RIVERS OF AYRSHIRE. Poetic Association--Headstreams of the Ayrshire Rivers--"The Land of Barns"--The Ayr and the Doon--Sorn--Catrine--Ballochmyle-- Mossgiel--Manchline--Barskimming--Coilsfield House and the Fail Water--The Coyl--Auchencruive--Craigie--Ayr--The Doon. The rivers of Ayrshire have a corner by themselves in the heart of the Scot, and in the memory of the world. "Bonnie Doon" and "auld hermit Ayr" are better known and more extolled on the banks of the St. Lawrence and of the Ganges than nearer streams incomparably greater in length and volume. Why this should be so, the Philistine who takes no account of the magical power of poetry may find it hard to understand. Those waters of Kyle, Carrick, and Cunningham are short of course and lacking in features of scenery that are in any marked degree impressive or sublime. Their beauty, such as it is, they owe as much to Art as to Nature. None of them can be said to be in any genuine sense navigable. It is true that some among them are centres and outlets of important industries. But even in the sordid affairs of trade their valleys hardly take a first rank among Scottish streams. Commercially, and almost geographically, they might be described as mere tributaries of the wealthy Clyde. The headsprings of these Ayrshire waters are nowhere more than twenty or thirty miles distant from the shores of the Firth, and their sources as well as their mouths come within the range of view of travellers by that broad highway to the Broomielaw. They rise for the most part in high and featureless moorlands, where the county of Ayr borders with Galloway, Lanark, and Renfrew, and disappear in the folds of a lower country in which one appraiser of the picturesque has discovered a general character of "insipidity"--a character which every true-born son of Ayrshire will vehemently deny as belonging to the landscapes of his county, pointing, as his witnesses, to many a "flowery brae," bold crag, and richly-wooded dell watered by the clear currents of his native streams. Some of these slip quietly to the sea behind hills of bent and sand, lonely except for the golfer, the salmon-fisher, and the sea-fowl. Others have at their mouths ancient burghs, busy seaports or pleasant Clyde watering-places flanked by breezy links or steep cliff and headland, that look out across sand and wave to the purple peaks of Arran, to the huge columnar stack of Ailsa Craig, to Bute, and the Cumbraes, and the other wonders of those Western seas. [Illustration: SORN (_p. 332_).] The county might be likened in shape to a boomerang, or to a crescent moon, with horns tapering to a point towards the north and south, the shore-line from Wemyss Bay to Loch Ryan representing the concave inner edge, and the land frontier, roughly approximating to the boundary of the river-basins, standing for the outer surface. To the north the brown moorlands come near to the sea; the streams are correspondingly short, and the strip of fertile coast-territory narrows to nothing. But from the basin of Garnock to that of Doon there extends a diversified plain country, intersected by broad ridges, veined in all directions by roads and railway lines, full of thriving towns and villages, and amply endowed with the charms of wood, water, rock, and hill, as well as with coalfields, pastures, and cornlands. This is the heart of Ayrshire--the classic ground where the Ayr and the Doon are the chief among a host of streams whose currents flow to the music of the choicest of Scotland's lyric songs. South of Doon lies the broken sea of hills known as Carrick, a country with a poorer surface and a wilder and higher background of green or heathy mountains, yet with many beautiful and some spacious and famous river-valleys opening between its barer uplands, which run down to the coast in bold promontories, crowned with ancient castles, or front it with walls of cliff pierced with caves in which has found refuge many a legend of the Killing or the Smuggling times. Not, however, by its memorials and traditions of old strifes--or not by these chiefly--are the hearts and the feet of strangers drawn to Ayrshire. It is the "Land of Burns." The spirit of the song of the Ploughman-Bard has taken possession of the banks of its streams, and has almost silenced all older and harsher strains. Those who wander by them think less about Bruce and Wallace, the grim deeds of the Earls of Cassilis and Lairds of Auchendrane, and the dour faces and pathetic deaths of the martyrs of the Covenant, than of Tam o' Shanter glowering in at the "winnock-bunker" of Alloway's auld haunted kirk, of the "Jolly Beggars" feasting and singing round Poosie Nancy's fireside at Mauchline, and of all the rustic Nells and Jeans, and Nannies and Bessies, and Marys, with whose praises Burns has made the waters of Ayr vocal for all time. But chiefly the music of their currents seems to be a running accompaniment to his own stormy life. It reminds us of his youthful saunterings "adoun some trottin' burn's meander" while the voice of poetry in him was yet only struggling for utterance; of his later hours of rapture or of anguish in meetings with his "Bonnie Jean" in the woods of Catrine or Barskimming or Ballochmyle, or in his parting with Highland Mary where the Fail steals by leafy coverts past the Castle o' Montgomerie to meet the Ayr; and all the other episodes of passionate or pawky love which he turned to song as naturally and spontaneously as do the birds. [Illustration: RIVERS OF AYRSHIRE.] From his earliest years, as he has told us, the ambition fired him to "gar our streams and burnies shine up wi' the best." He lamented that while-- "Yarrow and Tweed to mony a tune Owre Scotland rings; The Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon Naebody sings." Gloriously has the wish been fulfilled and the want retrieved. The very names of these rivers have become instinct with the spirit of lyric poetry. To some he returned again and again, and docked them with the freshest and sweetest garlands of his verse. Who has not heard of "bonnie Doon," of "winding Ayr," of "crystal Afton," and the "moors and mosses mony" of stately Lugar? Others, somewhat more removed from the centre of his enchantments, have been immortalised in a line or two of exquisite characterisation. Cessnock and Stinchar, "Girvan's fairy-haunted stream"; where "well-fed Irwine stately thuds"; where the Greenock "winds his moorland course," and "haunted Garpal draws his feeble source," are all parts of "the dear, the native ground" of this master of the notes of rivers and of human hearts. * * * * * The /Ayr/ and the /Doon/, in particular, Burns has painted for us in all moods of the mind and of the weather. They murmur and rave with him in his despondency, and lilt gaily in sympathy with the brighter hours he spent beside them. He finds them fresh at dawn, when the dew is hanging clear on the scented birks, and they are "sweet in gloaming." He traces them from their first rise on the heathery hillside, through hazelly shaw and hanging wood down to the sea--from "Glenbuck to the Ratton Quay." He is familiar with their aspect in brown autumn and bleak winter, not less than when spring has set their choirs singing, or when summer is in prime. Often must he have stood and watched the effects of spate and storm in his beloved valleys, when, brown and turbid with the rains, or with "snowy wreathes upchoked," "the burns came down and roared from bank to brae," and "auld Ayr" itself became "one lengthened tumbling sea." Nor, after seeing it through the poet's eyes, can we forget the moonlight scene of frost and glamour in the "Twa Brigs," wherein, by a marvellous blending of the real and the imaginary, the river spirits foot it featly over the thin platform of the ice as it "creeps, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream." The description in "Hallowe'en" of the burn where "three lairds' lands met," although Doon might claim it as applied especially to some spot not far from where "fairies light on Cassilis Downans dance," might be drawn as well from scores of nooks by the Ayr and its feeders:-- "Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter'd in the nightly rays, Wi' bickerin', dancin' dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel, Unseen that nicht." Many such might be discovered hidden even in the bare bleak moorlands, bordering upon Clydesdale, where the Ayr has its source. Their brown undulations, nowhere taking any boldness of form, and only in certain lights any beauty of colouring, rise on one hand to the crown of Cairntable, and on the other to Priesthill and its neighbour heights. Stern and moving dramas have been enacted on these bleak hillsides. Priesthill was the home of the "Christian carrier," John Brown, shot beside his own door by Claverhouse's dragoons; and on Airds Moss, the heathery ridge between Ayr and Lugar's mossy fountains, fell Richard Cameron, the "Lion of the Covenant." If desolate, the district is no longer lonely, for coalpits smoke at the taproots of the Ayr beside the reservoirs that supply water to the mills and factories of Catrine; and Muirkirk--the "Muirkirk of Kyle"--is a considerable village, with iron and chemical works. [Illustration: BALLOCHMYLE (_p. 334_).] Through a cold moorish country the Ayr wanders to Sorn, a place not easy to reach even now, when communication has improved so much since the times when a Scottish king testily declared that if he wanted to give "the devil a job" he would send him on a journey in winter to Sorn. Here the face of the valley changes. It runs betwixt high and wooded banks, often rising precipitously in great red cliffs, patched with lichen and fern, and with birch and oak coppice growing in their crannies, below which the strong dark current rushes tumultuously over its shoals or eddies, and sleeps in its deep "wiels," or curves majestically round the green margins of level "holms" or haughs. Wiel and holm, crag and hanging wood, continue indeed to be characteristics of the valley landscapes from this point almost to the sea; and, for its short length of course, few streams, either of the Lowlands or Highlands, or none, can compete with "winding Ayr" in the rich beauty and romantic interest of its scenery. [Illustration: THE AYR AT BARSKIMMING (_p. 334_).] These features are blended in wonderful and picturesque variety where, at the junction of the Cleuch burn, Sorn Castle looks down from its rock upon the Ayr, with the parish church and the village in close proximity. Here we come upon the footsteps of Peden the Covenanter, who was born in this parish, and had his "cave" in the dell. Memories of Burns, however, thrust those of the fierce withstander of the "Godless" into the background even in his native parish. Catrine House, beautifully placed among its woods on the left bank, is lower down; and there the poet, as guest of Professor Dugald Stewart and his father, first "dinnered with a lord"--had his first glimpse into that polite and lettered society which, as many think, did as much harm as good to the man and his genius. Catrine village, a model home of industry ever since David Dale planted his spinning factories here more than a century ago, is on the opposite side of the river; and adjoining it, and skirting the stream, are the "braes of Ballochmyle," whose picturesque beauties are worthy of their singer. And Ballochmyle, the seat in Burns's time and our own of the Alexanders, brings us to the environs of Mauchline, which, next to Ayr and Alloway and Dumfries, may boast of being the locality most closely associated with the poet and his muse. Mossgiel, where he farmed the stiff and thankless soil of the "ridge of Kyle," is three miles behind the town, on high ground forming the watershed between the Cessnock and the Ayr. There, as Wordsworth sings, the pilgrim may find "the very field where Burns ploughed up the daisy," and look far and wide over the undulating plain furrowed by many a tuneful stream to where, "descried above sea-clouds, the peaks of Arran rise." On the road leading down to the clean and thriving little town below, Burns foregathered with Fun and her glum companions on their way to Mauchline "Holy Fair." In the kirkyard one may find the graves of "Daddy Auld" and of "Nance Tinnock." Close by, on the site of the ancient priory that had Melrose as its mother house, Burns wrote some of his best known lyrics; while opposite still stands the change-house of "Poosie Nancy," whose fame has been made immortal by the "Jolly Beggars." Jean Armour was the daughter of a local mason; and other "Mauchline Belles," besides his "Bonnie Jean," attracted his fickle fancy, and spurred his Muse to song. The best and the worst memories of Robert Burns cling about Mauchline. A mile from the town--a mile also below the railway viaduct that bestrides the river--Ayr is joined by Lugar, and the united streams flow in dark swirls under the picturesque arches of Barskimming Bridge and along the margin of the pretty holm in which Burns is said to have composed his "Man was Made to Mourn." The stretch of three or four miles from this point down to Failford is perhaps the most beautiful and romantic on the Ayr. The current alternately hurries and pauses in its winding course, now between lofty crags of old red sandstone or steep banks clad with hawthorn and bramble, now through umbrageous woods of oak and beech coming down to the water's edge, or past the skirts of flat green haughs. Barskimming House, a square red mansion of last century, occupies a noble and commanding position on a rock overlooking some of the deepest pools of Ayr. Beside it, the river is spanned, high above its darkling eddies, by an elegant balustrated bridge grey with age and green with mosses. A mile below, the river path drawn athwart the stoop brae-sides plunges by a tunnel through a great barrier of red rock that rises sheer from the right bank, and openings in the cliff face give glimpses of the rushing stream, and of the trees climbing the crags opposite to where they are crowned by a mimic porticoed temple. Hard by, on the Water of Fail, is the Castle o' Montgomerie, otherwise known as Coilsfield House, where, according to some authorities, Mary Campbell--"Highland Mary"--was dairymaid when Burns was farming at Lochlea, behind the village of Tarbolton, whose "mote hill," high-standing parish church, and long village street, in which thatched cottages still alternate with more modern dwellings, are only half an hour's walk away. These "banks and braes and streams" will be associated with this brief and somewhat obscure episode in the poet's career until song itself is forgotten:-- "Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear." If we may trust his verse on the point, the last meeting of the lovers was some trysting-place by the Ayr:-- "Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, Overhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene." There are scores of spots near the inflow of the Fail to which the description, in "My Mary in Heaven," of the place of meeting might, apply. But tradition and the poet himself point to the lovely wooded glen of the Fail as the scene of parting; and the very spot, beside a rustic bridge, is shown. With many a sweeping curve and abrupt elbow, the Ayr continues to pursue its course by rock and wood and level meadow and factory chimney to the sea; past Coilsholm and the "Dead Man's Holm," a name that may preserve the memory of some otherwise forgotten battle; past Stair village and Stair House, now neglected and forlorn, whence the noble and gifted family of Dalrymple have taken their title; past Dalmore and Enterkin, that early seat of the Cunninghames, and Annbank, where the scene of Burns's "Fête Champêtre" is now obscured by colliery smoke; by Gadsgirth also, whose mansion, standing on a coign of the southern bank, was long the home of the old family of Chalmers; and on to where the river is joined by the Coyle, whose "winding vale," were we to trace it up, would lead us to the bold cliffs and cascades of Sundrum, to Coylton and the "King's Steps," which, too, preserve traditions of "Coil, king of the Britons," said to have been defeated on the neighbouring uplands by "Fergus, king of the Picts and Scots"; and so to the Crains of Kyle, where, among "the bonnie blooming heather," one can look down upon the Doon. [Illustration: AUCHENCRUIVE.] [Illustration: _Photo: Bara, Ayr._ THE TWA BRIGS OF AYR (_p. 338_).] The same scenery--the alternation of pool and shallow, of wood and crag and meadow--continues along the great double curve which the main stream makes past the grounds of Auchencruive. Each wiel and holm has its own name and story; and the woods of Auchencruive, of Laiglan, and of Craigie are full of legends of William Wallace, who here sought shelter when hiding from his English foes, or meditating his attack on the "Barns of Ayr." Auchencruive, so named from the natural trap dyke which here crosses the river, has a Wallace "Seat" and "Cave." It is said to have been a possession of a branch of the family of the "Knight of Elderslie," but passed from them and from their successors, the Cathcarts. "Sundrum shall sink, and Auchencruive shall fa', And the name o' Cathcart shall soon wear awa'." From Burns's day to our own it has been held by the Oswalds. Craigie, too, was for centuries a seat of the Wallaces; and it also has its cave and its well, dedicated to the hero--the mark of his heel is still pointed out on the platform of rock on which he jumped down, and whence rushed, and still rushes, a pure spring of water. And among the trees of Laiglan, Burns tells us that he spent a summer-day tracing the footsteps of the patriot, and in vision saw him "brandish round the deep-dyed steel in sturdy blows." [Illustration: THE DAM AT AYR.] From the summit of these high banks delightful glimpses are had, through the trees, of the ancient burgh of Ayr. "Low in a sandy valley spread"; with spires, towers? and factory stalks rising above the greenery and the masses of houses; its broad and rushing river in the midst of it, crossed by bridges old and new; behind these the sweep of the Bay of Ayr, and, as background towards the south, the dark ridge of Brown Carrick Hill ending seaward in the bold front of the Heads of Ayr--the town shows bravely from a distance. Nor does a nearer view destroy the impression which it makes, especially as seen from the leafy margin of the stream, across the still expanse of the Dam, or from the Railway Bridge. Lower down are the historic arches of the "Twa Brigs" that unite the original Ayr with its northern suburbs of Newtown and Wallacetown. The poet's prophecy, as the citizens noted with ill-concealed delight, has been, at least in part, fulfilled. The Auld Brig, "the very wrinkles Gothic in its face," still stands, although reserved for foot-passengers alone; its younger rival, giving way prematurely to the assaults of time and flood, has had to be rebuilt: "I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn." Near the approaches of the Auld Brig are congregated what remains of the old Ayr houses--a diminishing company, as town improvements break in and sweep away narrow closes and grim dwellings with high-pitched roofs and crow-stepped gables; below it are the harbour and the shipping. Of what was memorable and historic in Old Ayr--its monasteries of the Black and the Grey Friars; its castle, where kings and parliaments sat in council; its ancient church, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, wherein great Kirk controversies have been held, and Knox and other Reformers have preached--all have disappeared except the tower of St. John, and even it was reft of its gables last century "to give it a more modern appearance." Cromwell, to make room for his fort, cleared away church and castle; and the fort itself has followed in its turn. The high places of Ayr are of more modern date; and chief among them, perhaps, are the Wallace Tower, the imposing front of the Joint Railway Station, and the Hospital and the Poorhouse, heirs and successors of the Lepers' Home, endowed by The Bruce in gratitude for the ease yielded to him by the waters of St. Helen's Well at "King's-ease." The handsome Town Hall was destroyed by fire in 1897. Round the margin of the town, especially in the direction of the Doon, are streets of handsome villas and open spaces shaded by trees; and the place grows and thrives steadily if slowly. But, more than of its architecture, Ayr is proud of its sons and daughters:-- "Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a toon surpasses, For honest men and bonnie lasses." The "auld clay biggin" where, in wild January weather, Burns first saw the light, is two or three miles outside the burgh, close to the Doon and to the haunted Kirk of Alloway. Within the thatched and whitewashed cottage--the shrine of crowds of pilgrims, whose numbers grow with the years--is a little museum of Burns mementoes and curiosities; and the beautiful monument of the poet, a temple raised on lofty fluted columns, overlooks the scene. The road thither leads past the racecourse on the way to Maybole, and crosses the romantic wooded dell through which flows the Water of Doon, by the Auld Brig, the senior by some years of the Brig of Ayr itself. Across its keystone young Robin often trudged on his way to school, after the family had removed to Mount Oliphant, two miles off on the Carrick side. In the churchyard his father, whose portrait is so grandly painted in "The Cotter's Saturday Night," is buried. The "cairn above the well," the "winnock-bunker in the east," and other places mentioned in the tale of Tam o' Shanter's ride, are still pointed out in or near the roofless and ivy-clad kirk. The neighbourhood is haunted by the strong and familiar spirit of Robert Burns. [Illustration: _Photo: Bara, Ayr._ THE DOON: THE NEW AND THE AULD BRIG.] Having lingered so long on the Ayr, we can only spare time to glance up "Bonnie Doon," although its charms are scarce less many and celebrated than those of its twin river. Like the Ayr, the channel of its lower course is carved boldly and deeply into the land. It flows, in pool or shallow, under impending crags and steep banks clothed with coppice and greenwood, or past the margin of fertile haughs. It has its ruined castles and venerable mansion houses, its picturesque old kirks and bridges and mills, and its rich dowry of tradition and song. Like its neighbour, too, the Doon draws its strength from waste and solitary places; only, its cradle is in barer and wilder scenes, and is haunted by wilder legends, than are to be found about the headsprings of Ayr. Its windings would bring us to Auchendrane, the home of James Muir, "The Grey Man," as gruesome a villain as ever figured in history or romance; to the woods and cliffs and walls of Cassilis, the seat of the head of the Kennedys--those most unruly of the unruly men of Garrick--whence Johnnie Faa, the Gipsy, stole away the lady, and where he and his men afterwards dangled from the "Dool Tree"; to many a spot beside, famous in song and legend, until, through long bare moorlands on which mineral works and villages have intruded, we come, past Dalmellington, to the solitary shores of Loch Doon, its tunnelled outlet, its islands and old castle of the Baliols; and beyond it, to the high green hills of Galloway now rising over against the dark heathery slopes of the Carrick fells. And so we reach the sources of the stream under the brow of Merrick in the desolate wilderness of granite and peat-moss that surrounds Loch Enoch and the "Wolf's Slock," a region the wildest in the South of Scotland, where Mr. Crockett has found the scenery of his "Raiders" and his "Men of the Moss Hags." /John Geddie./ [Illustration: AYRMOUTH.] THE CLYDE. Clydesdale and its Waters--"The Hill of Fire"--Douglasdale--"Castle Dangerous"--Bonnington Linn--Corra Linn and "Wallace's Tower"--Lanark--The Mouse Water--Stonebyres Linn--The Nethan and "Tillietudlem"--"The Orchard of Scotland"--Hamilton and its Palace--Cadzow Castle and its Associations--Bothwell Brig and Castle--Blantyre--Cambuslang--Rutherglen--Glasgow: The City and its History--The Quays, Docks, and Shipbuilding Yards--The Work of the Clyde Navigation Trust--Govan and Partick--The White Cart--Dumbarton Rock and Castle--The Leven Valley--Ben and Loch Lomond--Greenock--Gourock--The Firth at Eventide. Glasgow City has, as its chief armorial device, a tree of massive trunk and wide-spreading branches. The minor symbols, of bird and bell and fish, have lost their old significance. The salmon no longer ventures so far up the labour-stained waters of the Clyde as Glasgow Green. No more the monkish bell sounds to matins and vespers on the banks of the Molendinar Burn, now turned by man's improving hand into a main sewer. The sooty street-sparrow, almost alone among the feathered tribe, is at home under the great city's pall of smoke. But more than ever the stately and flourishing tree is an apt similitude, not only of the little cathedral town that has grown to be, as its inhabitants proudly boast, the "Second City of the Empire," but also of the stream that has nurtured it to greatness. The Clyde, if it is not the longest of course or the largest of volume of Scottish streams, is beyond all comparison the most important from the point of view of industry and commerce. Within its basin are contained something like one-third of the population and half of the wealth and traffic of the Northern Kingdom. Between Dumbarton Rock and the sources of the infant Clyde we are carried from the busiest hives of labour and marts of trade to green or heathy solitudes, whose silence is only broken by the bleat of the sheep and the cry of the muirfowl. Harking back to the figure of the tree of goodly stem and spread of limb, one has to observe that it is not by any means upon the largest of the branches that immemorial usage has fixed the name of the Clyde. According to the popular saying-- "Tweed, Annan, and Clyde, A' rise in ae hillside." But this description of the source applies only to the "Clyde's Burn," whose valley the main line of the Caledonian Railway ascends, on its way by Beattock Summit into Annandale. When the Clyde's Burn has run its half-dozen miles and met, above Elvanfoot, the Daer Water, coming from a height of over 2,000 feet, on the slopes of the Gana and Earncraig Hills, the latter has already flowed a course more than twice the length; and there are other tributaries--the Powtrail and the Elvan, for instance, draining the eastern slopes of the wild hills, veined with lead-ore, that on the other side command the valley of the Nith--which might successfully compete, as the source of the Clyde, with the modest little runlet, issuing from the shoulder of Clyde's Law, that overlooks Tweed's Well. [Illustration: ONE OF THE SOURCES OF THE CLYDE.] A "sea of hills," green or heather clad, is the whole of this region of Clydesdale, forming the districts of Crawford, Crawfordjohn, and adjoining parishes. It is rolled into great waves--not, however, as Sir Archibald Geikie remarks, steep and impending like those that darken the Highland glens, but rounded and smooth like the swell of the ocean subsiding after a storm. On either hand streams innumerable have hollowed out their channels--"hopes" and "gills" and "cleuchs"--in the heart of the hills; and the clear or brown waters tumble merrily over rock and shingle, or skirt the edges of peat-moss or pasture land on their way to reinforce the Clyde. Bare and bleak are these landscapes, as a rule. But there are not wanting fairylike nooks and glades, as well as scenes of sterner beauty. The watersides are often fringed with a natural growth of birch and oak and alder; and on the hillsides are thriving plantations or groups of ash and rowan, sheltering the infrequent farmhouse or shepherd's cottage. Only at the headstreams of the Glengonnar Water, under the "Green Lowther," have smoky industries broken in upon these pastoral and moorish solitudes of the Upper Ward: for at Leadhills, as at the neighbouring village of Wanlockhead, across the watershed, lead-ore is still worked and smelted in considerable quantity, although the gold mines of this and other parts of Crawford Moor, once the objects of kingly quest and solicitude, have long been abandoned. [Illustration: THE CLYDE.] By the sites of old camps and mote-hills, by grey peels and kirkyards, and clachans and mansion-houses, past Tower Lindsay, looking across from its mound and its grove of lichened plane and oak trees to the tiny barony burgh of Crawford; past the desolate little God's acre of St. Constantine, or Kirkton, where lies the dust of Jane Welsh Carlyle's mother, of the gipsy kin, of the Baillies; past the woods and lawns and pretty red hamlet of Abington, runs the Water of Clyde until, beside the fragment of Lamington Tower--the heritage, if tradition may be credited, of the wife of William Wallace--it brings us fairly under the shadow of Tinto. This "Hill of Fire" spreads its skirts through four parishes, whose boundaries meet at the huge cairn of stones on its crest--the site of old beacon fires, perhaps of Druid altars. It is the sentinel height of Upper Clydesdale. Few hills in Southern Scotland are so isolated or command so wide and glorious a prospect. Its porphyritic mass seems to be set in the very jaws of the Upper Vale; and between Lamington and the mouth of the Douglas Water--little more than six miles as the crow flies--the Clyde meanders through low-lying haughs and holmlands, by Covington and Carstairs and Hyndford Bridge, for a distance of twenty miles and more round the base of Tinto and its subject hills. From the summit, on a clear day, one can descry the Bass Rock and Goat Fell, and even the hills of Cumberland and Ireland, besides portions of nearly a score of Scottish counties. [Illustration: DOUGLAS CASTLE.] Over against it to the eastward rises Cutler Fell and, divided from the latter by the rich plain of Biggar, the heights of Bizzyberry and Quothquan, scenes of the exploits of William Wallace. Its northern slopes all drain into the Douglas Water. The moorland pastures that enclose Douglasdale spread away towards Cairn Table and the Ayrshire border; and from the nearer buttresses of Tinto glimpses are had, in the valley below, of the smoke from its coalfield and of the woods that surround the "Castle Dangerous" of history and romance. The story of the House of Douglas may be read on the walls and on the floor of the church of St. Bride of Douglas, of which there remains only the spire and the choir, lately restored by the latest heir and representative of the Douglas line, Lord Dunglass, the eldest son of the Earl of Home. In its precincts, on Palm Sunday, 1307, took place that memorable struggle between the "good Sir James" of Douglas and his adherents, and the English garrison of Sir John de Walton, who undertook, for the winning of his lovesuit, the perilous emprise of holding the castle of the Douglases against its rightful master. Here, enclosed in what we are told is a silver casket, placed under glass in the floor of the church above the Douglas vault, is the heart of the great warrior and patriot himself, brought home after he had lost his life among the Paynim hosts of Spain while seeking to carry the Bruce's heart to the Holy Land. His recumbent cross-legged effigy is one of the most ancient of the monuments to his kin who lie in the church of St. Bride; among these being "Archibald Bell the Cat," and Archibald the second and James the third Dukes of Touraine, the sons of "Earl Tineman." Hither came Sir Walter Scott, with Lockhart in his company, on his last sad pilgrimage of romance, when the shadows of the grave had already begun to gather about himself and his right hand was already losing its cunning. [Illustration: _Photo: A. Brown & Co., Lanark._ BONNINGTON LINN.] Along the waterside for miles below Douglas extend the magnificent woods and gardens and "policies" of Lord Home's estate, enclosing the grand castellated mansion of Douglas Castle--although this is but a fraction of the vast edifice begun by the last Duke of Douglas; the vestiges of the old "Tower Perilous"; the three artificial lakes, and spots that speak so plainly of the wars of old and of the rough deeds of the Douglases as the "Bloody Sykes," the "Bottomless Mire," and the artificial mound of the "Boncastle." Just where it meets the Douglas Water, the Clyde makes a sharp and momentous turn. It reaches the romantic crisis in its career, and tumbles headlong over the Falls of Clyde. It leaves its youth behind it as it passes the turning-point, and makes its plunge over Bonnington Linn. Hitherto its flow has been placid or rippling; it has been the clear-flowing Clyde Water of song and ballad, winding among lone places of the hills, washing the bases of Roman camps or feudal peels, or skirting leisurely the edges of fertile meadows or rough pastures, browsed by sheep and cattle. The sound and stir of labour have not greatly disturbed it; there have been no busy seats of industry near its banks. But from its great ordeal it comes forth a stream with a changed character and destiny; not less attractive in itself and its surroundings--for a time, indeed, it gains in beauty--but with the sober pace and growing burden of middle life upon it, gathering, as it moves seaward, more and more of the stains and defilements of human toil--the black trickles from the Lanarkshire coalfield, and the sewage of busy towns and villages--until it becomes a muddy and ill-smelling current, flowing between ranks of tenements and ranges of factory chimneys. In the three miles and three-quarters of its course beginning at Bonnington, the Clyde descends a depth of 260 feet, leaping again and again, and yet again, over sheer walls of rock, boiling in pools and pot-holes, and brawling over boulder and shingle bed, between mural cliffs of old red sandstone or high banks clothed with wood or diversified by parks and orchards. In the remaining forty or fifty miles of its journey, before it becomes finally merged in the salt water, its fall is only 170 feet. [Illustration: _Photo: A. Brown & Co., Lanark._ CORRA LINN.] Clyde's first plunge, at the Bonnington, or Boniton, Linn, is the least deep and impressive of the three; and by comparison with the scenes below, the surroundings of the spot where the river takes its leap are open and bare. The water falls sheer over a precipice into a deep cauldron 30 feet below, and is broken in its descent only by a projecting rock in the middle. Thence it churns and eddies and boils between the lofty walls of sandstone overhung by wood, and draped wherever there is hold for root and fibre by trees and undergrowth, to meet a greater catastrophe at Corra Linn. At this the grandest of Scotland's waterfalls--"Clyde's most majestic daughter"--the stream flings itself down from a height of 84 feet, in a tumultuous white mass of foam, the falling body of water being broken and torn in its descent by many sharp ledges and points of rock. In time of spate, especially when the sun shines and wreathes rainbows in the smoke of mist and spray that rises from the fall, the scene is indescribably grand. The deafening roar of the angry waters, the loveliness of the rock and sylvan scenery in which they are set, deepen beyond measure the impression which these Falls of Clyde make on the mind and imagination. The wealth of foliage--bracken, broom, sloe, and wild flowers of many kinds, as well as tall forest trees--drapes what would otherwise be the savage nakedness of the spot with hues and forms of beauty; and there is no lack of the shady "ell-wide walks" which Wordsworth so much appreciated, winding from one to another coign of vantage on the riverside. Nor is there wanting the charm of romantic and historical association:-- "The deeds Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, People the steep rocks and the river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty." [Illustration: _Photo: A. Brown & Co., Lanark._ ROMAN BRIDGE NEAR LANARK (_p. 351_).] "Wallace's Tower" helped to inspire the poet of the "Excursion" at sight of Corra Linn:-- "Lord of the vale! astounding Flood! The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes--conscious of thy power; The caves reply with hollow moan; And vibrates to its central stone Yon time-cemented Tower." There is also a "Wallace Chair" below Corra Linn; and in Bonnington House, whose beautiful grounds, to which the public have access, occupy the right bank of the river opposite both of these upper falls, there are relics of the hero who made Lanark and the Linns of Clyde one of his chief haunts. Quite other memories--those of David Dale, "herd-boy, hawker, manufacturer, turkey-red dyer, banker, and evangelist," and of his partner and son-in-law, Robert Owen--linger about the wheels and chimney-stacks of New Lanark, those celebrated cotton mills which were established, in days before steam had robbed water-power of great part of its workaday functions, for the purpose of carrying out a noble experiment in industry and philanthropy. And Braxfield, still lower down the stream, recalls to us the name and rural tastes--surely, not without a redeeming touch of grace and romance--of that Hanging Judge, the Jeffreys of the Scottish bench, whom Robert Louis Stevenson has immortalised as the Lord Justice Clerk in "Weir of Hermiston." But the Castle Hill and streets of the "ancient burgh of Lanark"--now close by, on the table-land above the river--bring back our thoughts to "Wallace wight" and to lawless and troublous times. The site of the old Royal Castle, which had harboured kings and stood sieges, is now occupied by a bowling green. Lanark Moor, where armies have mustered in the cause of the Douglases or the Stuarts, of King or Covenant, is in peaceful possession of golf and horse-racing. In the Castlegait is the site of the house where, according to a cherished tradition over which the duller Muse of History shakes the head, lived Marion Bradfute, that heiress of Lamington whom Wallace took to wife, and whom he so terribly avenged when Hazelrig, the sheriff and governor of Lanark Castle, had slain her for giving harbourage to the hero. The valley below Lanark gradually opens up into the fruitful "Trough of the Clyde," and becomes beautifully diversified by fertile fields, by woods and lawns, and by cottages surrounded by orchard trees, that in spring are overspread with the tinted and perfumed snow of the apple-blossom. From the right the Mouse Water flows into Clyde through the savage chasm of the Cartland Crags--opposing walls and pinnacles of rock, crowned and seamed with wood, that have apparently been riven apart to allow scant passage for the turbid little moorland stream that brawls over the sandstone reefs and ledges in the green obscurity below. Still the ghost of Wallace flits before us, for in the jaws of the Cartland defile, close to Telford's handsome bridge over the Mouse, is the champion's Cave, and perched on the summit of the cliffs is the "Castle of the Quaw," associated in legend with his deeds. Another arch spanning the Mouse--the Roman Bridge at Cleghorn--has associations much more ancient; it marks the spot where Watling Street, which traversed Clydesdale and crossed Lanark Moor on its way from Carlisle to Antonine's Wall, passed the brawling little stream. Stonebyres Linn, the last of the three great leaps of Clyde, is somewhat more than a mile below Lanark Bridge, and close to the road that holds down the left bank of the stream to Crossford, Dalserf, and Hamilton. It has not the romantic surroundings of Corra Linn. But the fall of water descending headlong over rocky ledges in a dizzy plunge into the "Salmon Pool"--the "thus far and no farther" of the lordly fish that once swarmed in the Clyde--has by many been adjudged more graceful, if less majestic, than the upper linn. Two miles further on comes in the Nethan, winding through its wooded strath under the base of Craignethan Castle. It is the Tillietudlem of "Old Mortality," the name being probably borrowed by Scott from "Gullietudlem," a ravine adjacent to Corra Linn. It was a stronghold of the Hamiltons; and, with its strong position on a steep peninsulated bluff between the Nethan and a tributary burn, its moat, and its massive walls and towers of hewn stone, of which a goodly portion yet keep its place, it must when first built have been well-nigh impregnable. The traditional tale is that the Scottish monarch of the time, taking alarm at the portentous and threatening strength, rewarded the builder and owner--the "Bastard of Arran"--by hanging him betimes as a suspected rebel. The chief incident in its annals is the stay made at Craignethan by Mary Stuart before fortune went finally against her at Langside. More vividly do the frowning keep, the crumbling vaults, the ivy-clad garden walls, and the steep copse-clad dells and braes, recall to our minds Lady Margaret Bellenden sitting down to "disjeune" in the chamber of daïs, Jenny Dennison scalding the too-adventurous Cuddie Headrigg with the porridge, Henry Morton before the Council, and Burley lurking like a wounded wolf in his cave. From this point downward the stream of Clyde, as it winds towards Glasgow through the centre of the great coal and iron field that has fed the wealth of the city and the commerce of the river, becomes more and more closely beset by the great armies of industry. For a time they still keep at a respectful distance; their camp fires--pillars of flame by night and of cloud by day--rising from furnace chimney and pit head on the high ground enclosing the "Trough of the Clyde." Up there, in an intricate network of railway lines, are busy and growing towns and villages sending forth their smoke to overshadow the valley, and pouring down into it, by a score of tributary streams, the lees and pollutions of labour and of crowded urban life. But for a while the sheltered haughs and sloping banks of the Clyde still deserve the name of the "Orchard of Scotland." The drumlie gills and burns, that higher up have drained moss hags and skirted mounds of slag and mean rows of miners' cottages, break into the central valley through bosky and craggy dells, and through acres of fruit trees and the woods and lawns of stately mansion houses, or past venerable parish churches or fragments of old castles, to join the Clyde. There are such fine sweeps of river as those, for instance, that skirt the grounds of Mauldslie Castle, and wind round Dalserf, before the now broad and full stream takes a straighter course under Dalserf Bridge, past Cambusnethan, towards Dalziel and Hamilton. [Illustration: STONEBYRES LINN (_p. 351_).] All these names invite the down-stream wayfarer to pause and survey the beauties of Clydesdale. But the spot of really commanding interest is Hamilton, the centre for four or five centuries of the power of the great family of Hamilton, that succeeded to so much of the dominion and influence owned by the Douglases in the valley of the Clyde. The haughlands here spread out to a truly noble width; and the lawns and parks that surround the chief seat of the Dukes of Hamilton, and stretch down to the right bank of the river and extend along its windings from Hamilton Bridge down to Bothwell Bridge, have space enough to give an air of grandeur and seclusion to the scene, spite of the crowding around it of a modern workaday world. For the town of Hamilton is at the very gate of the palace; and over against the low parks and the racecourse by the riverside rise sheaves of chimney-stacks, crowned with smoke, that proclaim the neighbourhood of Motherwell and other grimy haunts of the Lanarkshire coal and iron industries. From the plain white baronial house of "The Orchard," built in 1591 and set among its pleasant fruit trees, Hamilton Palace has spread and risen into one of the princeliest piles in the land. Its long and lofty façade, adorned with Corinthian columns, overlooks its parterres and flower gardens; the grand mausoleum of the Hamiltons, built--at a cost, it is said, of £150,000--in the style of the castle of San Angelo at Rome; and the spacious parks, dotted with trees, that slope gently towards the margin of Clyde. The soul of Hamilton Palace has departed since the sale in 1881 of the unrivalled collection of pictures, books, and rare works of art, brought together by the taste and wealth of Beckford, the author of "Vathek," and of successive dukes. With this removal the centre of interest seems once more to have shifted to the further side of the busy burgh, where, in the High Parks adjoining the original seat of the Hamilton family, the "crumbled halls" of Cadzow Castle, are to be found the yet more venerable remains of the Caledonian Forest--huge gnarled and decayed boles of ancient oaks, sadly thinned by latter-day gales--and the survivors of what are supposed to be the native breed of wild white cattle. When Queen Mary escaped from Lochleven, she fled for shelter and aid to her kinsfolk at Cadzow. A few years later, as Scott's ballad rehearses, another refugee spurred thither--Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, after assassinating the Regent Moray in the street of Linlithgow. The Magician waves his wand and restores the scene, by Avon side, as it was more than three centuries ago:-- "Where, with the rock's wood-cover'd side Were blended late the ruins green, Rose turrets in fantastic pride, And feudal banners flaunt between. "Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagged with thorn and tangled sloe, The ashlar buttress braves its force, And ramparts frown in battled row." A hundred years later, when Cadzow was already abandoned and in decay, the victorious Covenanting force which had defeated the dragoons of Claverhouse at Drumelog, on the dreary moorland slopes near the sources of the Avon, marched down this waterside--the Evandale of "Old Mortality"--on their way to make their bold but luckless attempt on Glasgow. Soon after they were back again in this neighbourhood in force, preparing to resist, with what disastrous results is well known, the passage of Monmouth's Royalist troops across Bothwell Brig:-- "Where Bothwell Bridge connects the margin steep, And Clyde below runs silent, strong, and deep, The hardy peasant, by oppression driven To battle, deemed his cause the cause of Heaven; Unskilled in arms, with useless courage stood, While gentle Monmouth grieved to shed his blood." So writes the author of "The Clyde"; and in spite of the beauty of the scene, the old associations of Bothwell Brig and its vicinity are with broil and wrong and bloodshed. Below the scene of Monmouth's victory are sylvan banks consecrated to the memory of forsaken love--"O Bothwell bank, thou bloomest fair!" And lower down, facing each other from vantage ground on opposite sides of the stream, are the grand ruins of old Bothwell Castle and the remains of Blantyre Priory. Between these two sentinels of the past--the crumbling but still massive feudal towers of the Douglases on their bold green bank, and the meagre fragment of the monastic house perched on its red sandstone cliff--runs the smooth deep current of the Clyde, inspiring, as Wordsworth has said, "thoughts more in harmony with the sober and stately images of former times, than if it had roared over a rocky channel, and forced its sound upon the ear." The castle, both from the mass and height of its huge walls and round towers and turrets, and from its situation, is still magnificent in its decay. It has had many masters, among them that Aymer de Valence who held Clydesdale for the English and planned the capture of Wallace. Edward I. and Edward III. have sojourned in it. But its best remembered owners are the Black Douglases. They swore indifferently by "St. Bride of Bothwell" and by "St. Bride of Douglas." In the beautiful choir of the old collegiate church, now forming part of the church of the parish, reposes the dust of chiefs of the name; and descendants of the old race still hold the lands and woods around Bothwell Castle. In St. Bride's too, in 1400, a couple of years after its erection, took place in an "unhappy hour" the fateful marriage between David, Duke of Rothesay, and Marjory, the daughter of "Archibald the Grim," Earl of Douglas. A more pleasant association with Bothwell Church is the birth, in the manse here, of Joanna Baillie, the poetess, who has preserved in her verse fond remembrances of the "bonnie braes" and "sunny shallows" of the Clyde, where she spent her childhood. [Illustration: _Photo: F. W. Bergman, Hamilton._ BOTHWELL CASTLE.] The left, or Blantyre, bank of Clyde also has its "stately images of the past." The barony, which had belonged to Randolph and to "Black Agnes of Dunbar," fell, with the Priory lands, to Walter Stewart, the first Baron Blantyre, James VI.'s old classfellow and favourite, whose descendant still bears the title. Blantyre Priory had in its day sheltered Wallace. They will show you the rock, one of many, from which, in legend, the patriot leaped to escape his enemies. It was a daughter-house of the Abbey of Jedburgh, which, like other great Tweedside monasteries, had a retreat in the Clyde, when invading armies crossed the Border. Now the rifled and wasted monk's nest is itself besieged by the clamorous army of labour. In a nook by the waterside, between it and Bothwell Bridge, David Dale and John Monteith planted their calico-printing and turkey-red works--those Blantyre mills which have since thriven so mightily, and under whose shadow David Livingstone was born. Blantyre village grows to a town on the bank above, and behind are the pit shafts of High Blantyre, reminding us of one of the saddest of colliery catastrophes. [Illustration: _Photo: T. & R. Annan & Son, Glasgow._ GLASGOW UNIVERSITY (_p. 358_).] [Illustration: THE BROOMIELAW LANDING-STAGE.] Escaping from the shadow of Bothwell's braes, our river flows smoothly on between widening haughs and opening prospects within sight of Uddington, where Glasgow has planted a colony of villas, by a long serpentine sweep past the parks and trees of Dalbowie, and so under the steep wooded bluff of Kenmuir, long renowned for its wild flowers and its "Wedding Well," to Carmyle, a hamlet that still, in spite of the close neighbourhood of the great city, retains something of rural quaintness and simplicity in its rushing mill-dams and its climbing garden plots. Cambuslang is only a mile below, but on the other or southern bank, along a reach of river beautifully fringed by trees--Cambuslang, with its high-placed church tower, its Kirkton burn bickering down its ravine past the golf-course and the amphitheatre where Whitfield uplifted his voice in the great "Revival Wark" of 1742; and with Rosebank, the home of David Dale, on the river front, shouldered by dye works and neighboured by the fine new railway bridge over the Clyde. The high ground behind "Cam's'lang," as those name it who know it, is a convenient coign from whence to survey the myriad spires and chimneys of Glasgow; for the river makes only a few more great sweeps through a plain where pleasure-grounds alternate with public works, before reaching Rutherglen--the senior and once the rival of Glasgow--and the Green itself, and disappearing into St. Mungo's wilderness of houses and canopy of smoke. Passing strange it is to one who gazes down from Dechmont Hill or from the Cathkin Braes upon the Clyde losing itself in the murky depths of the great city, whose fog and reek and densely packed masses of dwellings seem to fill the valley, to reflect that the spot was originally chosen as a place suitable for seclusion and calm meditation; that so late as the period of the Reformation Glasgow was a country town of three or four thousand people. How much of the legendary story of St. Kentigern is founded on fact, none can positively say. But we can certainly believe that he came here and preached to the heathen Britons of Strathclyde, whose capital, Dumbarton, was not far off, and whose "high places" were on the neighbouring hills; that he gathered disciples about him, and founded a monastery, after the old Columban rule, on the slopes beside the clear Molendinar Burn, something more than a mile above its confluence with the waters of Clyde. His shrine is still the centre of the "Laigh Kirk," or crypt of the Cathedral, and is, indeed, the nucleus around which have grown not only the ancient and beautiful church, but also the vast modern city that bears the name of Mungo "the Beloved." It is the seed out of which Glasgow has grown. A map of Glasgow in the early part of the seventeenth century shows it to have then consisted of little more than two streets crossing each other--one running at right angles to and the other parallel with the course of the Clyde--together with a few tributary vennels and closes, and with "kailyards" rendering upon the open fields. The former thoroughfare, as the Saltmarket and High Street, climbed the slope to the Metropolitan Church and the Bishop's Castle; the other diverged to right and left as the Gallowgait and the Trongait, which latter extended as far as the precincts of the church, croft, and well of St. Tenu--transmogrified by time and wear into St. Enoch's--in the line of the present Argyll Street. At the intersection were the Mercat Cross and the Tolbooth, prison and council chamber in one. The Cross was, accordingly, the centre of the commerce and of the municipal authority of Old Glasgow. The venerable Tolbooth and Cross Steeples still look down upon a busy scene. Still are they redolent of the memories of the citizens and the burgh life of former times: spite of change, they continue to be haunted by the spirit of Bailie Nicol Jarvie picking his way along the street, accompanied by his lass and lantern, to visit Francis Osbaldistone behind prison walls, and of Captain Paton's Nelly bringing an ingredient of that hero's punch from the West Port Well. Halfway between the Cross and the Cathedral, on the west side of a thoroughfare which three hundred years ago was accounted spacious and even stately, were the old College Buildings, where the University, founded in 1450, was housed until, a quarter of a century ago, the intrusion of the railway and other considerations made it flit to more splendid and salubrious quarters at Gilmorehill. In this oldest core of Old Glasgow, there are but few relics left of its buildings mid monuments of early times. The Cathedral is the chief; and, happily, the grey shape of this grand old Gothic pile remains to put to shame even the finest of the modern edifices of which Glasgow is so proud. It is, like most other minsters, of many dates; but there is great harmony as well as dignity both in its exterior and interior aspect, its style being mainly that of the First Pointed, or Early Decorated, period. Only a fragment, in the crypt or lower church, is supposed to remain of the building with which Bishop Joscelin 700 years ago replaced the previous edifice of wood. Within, the solemn grandeur of the lofty groined roof, and the long receding array of arches of the nave, chancel, and choir of the High Kirk, with the perspective closed by the magnificent east window, awe all beholders. But still more impressive are the wonderful clusters of pillars, the low-browed arches, and the dim and obscure "religious light" of the crypt underneath. "There are finer minsters in the kingdom than Glasgow," says Dr. Marshall Lang, the present minister of the Barony Parish, "but there is none with a finer crypt." In the centre of the darkling maze is the shrine of St. Mungo, the position of which, in the sloping ground falling eastward towards the Molendinar, is the key to the construction of the church. After the Reformation, the crypt became the Laigh Barony Church before there was set up, in the Cathedral green without, what Dr. Norman Macleod, one of its later incumbents, called "the Temple of Ugliness," which has in its turn given place to the handsome structure that is the parish church of the old Bishop's Barony. The famous Dr. Zachary Boyd--he who, in the High Church above, railed at Cromwell to his face--was minister for nearly thirty years in the Laigh Barony; and from behind its pillars Rob Roy spoke his warning word into the ears of the English stranger. [Illustration: THE CLYDE AT GLASGOW.] While Time and reforming zeal--aided by the voices and pikes of the citizens of the day--have spared to us St. Mungo's Church, the fortress-like Bishop's Palace and the "Manses" of the thirty prebends and other ecclesiastics have been swept away, along with memorials of earlier and later date; St. Roche's Chapel, in the fields to the north, now flaunts a smoky pennon as St. Rollox; the high ground of the "Craigs," or the "Fir Park," across the once limpid trouting burn--where St. Columba is fabled to have met St. Kentigern--is covered with the thicket of headstones and obelisks of the Necropolis, grouped about Knox's monument, and holds the dust of some of the host and most distinguished of Glasgow's sons; the Molendinar itself has been buried from sight and smell--none too soon. [Illustration: PARTICK (_p. 363_).] Returning to the lower end of what was once the main thoroughfare of the Glasgow of old, the Briggait--once a busy centre of the city's commerce--led to the riverside and what was long the sole bridge connecting the north and south banks of the Clyde. Stockwell Street also gave access to it from the Trongait. Only in the early 'fifties was the ancient stone structure, which had stood for five centuries and which figures prominently in old views of Glasgow from the Clyde, replaced by the present Victoria Bridge. Nine other bridges, including two suspension bridges for foot-passengers and three great railway viaducts, now span the stream within the city bounds. All of them have sprung up within the last fifty years; and the traffic between bank and bank has required, besides, the burrowing under the river-bed of subways and underground lines, and the connection of bank and bank by steam and other ferries. Chief among these bridges, as channels of commerce and intercourse--what London Bridge is to the Metropolis--is the "roaring lane" of the Jamaica Street Bridge. The fine structure immediately below it, which carries the Caledonian line across from the Bridge Street to the Central Station, marks the limits of navigation for all but the smaller kind of river-craft; for here Clyde may be said to merge into Glasgow Harbour, and a new and almost last chapter in its career opens at the Broomielaw. [Illustration: PAISLEY (_p. 366_).] There was a time when Rutherglen reckoned itself a seaport, and when fishermen drew shoals of salmon from the clear-flowing Clyde, and spread their nets on Glasgow Green. Such sights have long ceased to be witnessed; and the Camlachie Burn no longer wimples in the face of day between alder-covered banks through the flat riverside meadow to join the Molendinar and the Clyde. But "the Green" remains the most famous and most prized of the city's open spaces: it is the central "lung" of Glasgow. If not in fashionable surroundings, in its function as a safety valve for popular enthusiasm and excitement it is the Hyde Park of the Second City of the Empire. In it great political and religious gatherings have been and still are held; here do the East-enders throng and bask in holiday time, and here have been seen also riot and rejoicing, and events of note in the history of the municipality, the kingdom, and even of the world. To mention the greatest of all, did not the epoch-making idea of the steam-engine flash through the brain of James Watt as he took a Sunday ramble, thoughtful and solitary, on the Green, near the Humane Society's quarters, where afterwards Lambert, "hero and martyr," achieved his wonderful rescues from drowning? Did not the Regent Moray's army here cross the Clyde to intercept and disperse Mary Stuart's adherents at Langside? And did not Prince Charlie--an unwelcome guest in Whiggish Glasgow--review his Highlanders in the Flesher's Haugh? At the time of the Pretender's visit, the era of Glasgow's commercial prosperity--the reign of the "tobacco dons" and the "sugar dons," who preceded the "cotton lords" and the present reigning dynasty of the "iron kings"--was only opening. The current of the city's business life had already begun to turn aside from the channel of the High Street, in order to run parallel with the river, along the line of the Trongait and Argyll Street, to absorb little suburban villages, to overflow the neighbouring fields, and by-and-by to swallow up, one by one, the mansions of its merchant princes. But when the present century opened, the town could boast of only some 80,000 inhabitants. The Saracen's Head in the Gallowgate was still the chief place of entertainment; there Dr. Johnson housed on his return from his Hebridean tour, and Burns was also among its guests. Queen Street a hundred years ago had not so long ceased to be the Cow Loan through which the citizens drove out their cows to pasture; and George Square, when the century was young, was a retired park, with trees and turf and shrubberies, surrounded by the private dwellings of a few city magnates. [Illustration: DUMBARTON ROCK (_p. 366_).] To this once rural spot the centre of interest and authority of Modern Glasgow has now flitted; and here the city has set up its Valhalla. In the heart of the Square a statue of Sir Walter Scott towers on its high pedestal; and surrounding it are ranks of other monuments--equestrian statues, and figures erect and seated: among them those of Sir John Moore and Lord Clyde, both of them "Glasgow callants" who won for their native city war-laurels to place beside its trophies of peaceful industry; and of Thomas Campbell, the poet, who was born in the High Street, within a stonecast of the old College Buildings. Chief of the public edifices that face the Square are the new Municipal Buildings, in which, after several shiftings from the venerable Tolbooth, the City Fathers have set up their gods. The foundation stone of this magnificent pile was laid in October, 1883, and it has cost the town nearly £600,000. Here would be a convenient standpoint whence to survey the more recent spread and growth of the city, were this a description of Glasgow instead of a glance down the course of the Clyde. From George Square as a centre, a radius of fully two and a half miles would now be required in order to draw a circle embracing the whole area of the city. In that space, and included within the municipal boundaries, is a population which in 1891 numbered 656,000. But the circle would enclose also the police burghs of Govan, Partick, and Kinning Park, which, although partially surrounded by Glasgow, and essentially a part of the same urban community, have separate municipal organisations. Adding these and the suburban villages and populous areas attached to, but outside the circumference of, the city, and making allowance for the growth of five years, we have a greater "geographical Glasgow" which Sir James Bell and Mr. Paton, in their recent work, estimate to contain no fewer than 900,000 souls. So that since the beginning of the century the increase has been something like tenfold in population; while in wealth, in trade, and in the multiplication of the resources of civilisation, its progress has been, perhaps, still more marked. The classic but now much-befouled Kelvin is at its mouth the boundary between the city and the adjoining burgh of Partick; and when it passes this point the Clyde leaves Glasgow territory behind it, without, however, escaping from the sphere of its administrative authority. Very different is this straight, broad highway of commerce--lined by quay walls and wet and graving docks, by shipbuilding yards and boiler-sheds, by factories, timber depôts, and railway sidings, burdened with craft innumerable, and overhung by the shapes of great iron vessels (the pride of Glasgow and the Clyde) in every stage of construction--from the stream that winds and gleams like a serpent between its green banks only a few miles above. The opposing shores send up a perpetual din of iron smiting upon iron: the deafening and yet, to the understanding ear, inspiriting sound of the Clyde's most famous industry--that of shipbuilding. The broad tide of waters is churned by paddles and propellers innumerable. It is muddy and evil-smelling, for Glasgow has not repaid its debt to the Clyde with gratitude, and still makes its river the receptacle of its sewage and garbage. All this, however, is to be changed; already the experiment of sewage purification has been for some years in operation at Dalmarnock, and shortly a scheme intended to embrace the whole north side of Glasgow will be at work on ground purchased by the Corporation at Dalmuir, some miles down the river. So that in time trout may venture back to Kelvin, and the "stately salmon" itself be seen basking in the sandbanks opposite the Broomielaw, or stemming the "amber-coloured Clyde," once more pure and sweet as well as "beneficent and strong." Often the channel itself is choked with mist and overhung with smoke; and vessels and houses loom vaguely through the haze, or stand out in startling relief against their dim background when the sun manages to send his shafts through the mist and to light up river and shipping. Nowhere are there such sunsets to be seen as in this murky and rainy and dinsome clime of Glasgow Harbour. To embark on board one of the river-steamers at the Broomielaw is a convenient mode of surveying what remains to be seen of the river and its surroundings. Steering down-stream by the broad and deep channel between the lines and thickets of masts and funnels of the craft moored to either bank, or assembled in the great dock basins, there is plenty of time to reflect on the changes that have come over the scene, even since Campbell deplored that Nature's face was banished and estranged from the "once romantic shore of his native Clyde," and the face of Heaven was no more reflected in its soot-begrimed waters-- "That for the daisied greensward, down thy stream Unsightly brick-lanes smoke and clanking engines gleam." The days when the river could be forded at high-water opposite Govan Point, and when a voyage up or down stream was a series of bumpings from shoal to shoal, seem almost as far removed from our own as the date of the canoes of our remote ancestors that have been found embedded in the ooze of the channel in the course of dredging operations. Yet they belong to the present century; and even after Henry Bell's _Comet_ inaugurated steam navigation by making her runs between Greenock and Glasgow, the better part of a day has been known to be spent on the trip. In the course of a century and half some sixteen millions have been spent on widening, deepening, and straightening the channel and improving the harbour accommodation of Glasgow; and the revenue of the Clyde Navigation Trust now reaches about £400,000 annually. As the fruit of all this expenditure, the Trust can point to the long lines of quay walls and the magnificent Queen's and Govan Docks, and to a broad and straight waterway which, from Glasgow Bridge to Port Glasgow, has a uniform depth of 28 feet at high tide. [Illustration: _Photo: Andrew Young, Burntisland._ LOCH LOMOND (_p. 367_).] Even fifty years ago Dr. Macdonald could write of Govan as "a still rural-looking village," to which the denizens of St. Mungo resorted on Sundays, after the skailing of the kirks, to "snuff the caller air" by the waterside; and of Partick, on the opposite bank, as an "old-fashioned town with a pleasant half-rural aspect," also in repute as a holiday-resort on account of the "salubrity of its air." Now, these adjuncts of Glasgow, with the adjoining Whiteinch, are world-famous as the headquarters of Clyde shipbuilding. From the Govan, Fairfield, and Linthouse yards, on the south side, and from the Finnieston, Pointhouse, Meadowbank, and Whiteinch slips, on the north bank, have been launched some of the largest and finest vessels--mercantile craft and ships of war--that have ever put to sea. Dwelling-houses and public works have spread over the ground behind, so that little is left of the "rural" or "half-rural" villages of the 'fifties. Yet Govan has its spacious breathing-space in the Elder Park, and elms still shade the ancient Celtic crosses and monuments in its parish kirkyard; Partick still borders on Kelvin Grove; and Whiteinch boasts, in its Victoria Park, of a "Fossil Grove" of more hoar antiquity than Runic crosses, or the prehistoric canoes of Govan. Clyde, as it moves majestically away from the stir and clangour of the water fronts of Govan and Partick, begins slowly to open what Wilson, the descriptive poet of the stream, calls an "ampler mirror" to the sky and the objects on the banks. Its shores resume something of their old romance and rusticity as we come abreast of the woods and lawns of Elderslie and of Blytheswood. Behind them is the ancient burgh of Renfrew--once a fishing port and the rival of Glasgow--which, as part of the earliest heritage of the High Stewards, gives the title of Baron of Renfrew to the Heir Apparent. Further back is the romantic valley of the White Cart, that flows under Gleniffer Braes and through the busy town of Paisley--birthplace of poets, burial-place of kings, and metropolis of thread manufactures--to meet the Black Cart at Inchinnan, and enter the Clyde at the "Water Neb." Opposite, on the busier right bank of the river, are the factories and building-yards of Yoker and Clydebank; below these, Dalmuir and its purification works; and lower down, beyond Erskine Ferry, the houses of old Kilpatrick and of Bowling--its little harbour filled with craft, new and ancient--facing the fine lawns and woods that surround Lord Blantyre's beautiful mansion of Erskine House. Here, where under the rough and furrowed spurs of the Kilpatrick Hills the Highlands meet the Lowlands; where the Forth and Clyde Canal joins the tide-water, and the line of "Grime's Dyke" (the Roman wall of Antonine) found its western term; here where, according to legend, Patrick, the apostle of Ireland, was born and spent his childhood--we might lay down the limits of River and Firth. Or passing the ancient castle of Dunglass and the ford under the Hill of Dumbuck, which was the first great obstacle to Clyde navigation, it might be found in that grandest of landmarks, the Rock and Castle of Dumbarton, 91 miles from the source of the Clydes Burn, and 106 miles from the taproot of the Daer. The lofty isolated double-headed crag sentinels alike the channel of the Clyde and the valley of the Leven, and mounts guard over the ancient and still thriving burgh at its base, once the capital of the Britons of Strathclyde, and for a thousand years the refuge and defence of kings. On the crown or at the base of the Rock many strange scenes in Scottish history have been enacted. From Dumbarton Queen Mary, a child of six, set sail for France to wed the Dauphin; and to the friendly shelter of its castle she was hastening when-- "From the top of all her trust Misfortune laid her in the dust." The town has still its great shipbuilding industry, its shipping trade, and its foundries and turkey-red and other manufactories. Some of the old houses remain, along with a fragment of its collegiate church. Other bold hills beside the Castle Rock overlook it, and the broad and smooth Leven--harbour and river--divides it into two parts. The view northwards from the Rock carries the eye through the wide and beautifully-wooded vista of the Leven valley into the heart of the Highlands. The pyramid of Ben Lomond, buttressed by Ptarmigan Hill, is the presiding shape. But a score of other peaks are huddled behind and around it. Below can be traced the folds of the hills that sheltered Rob Roy, and over against it the glens of the Colquhoun country that witnessed the prowess and revenge of the Wild Macgregors. Loch Lomond, the queen of our northern lakes, with its lovely archipelago of islands, is spread between. Loch Lomond, too, is tributary to the Clyde, and all the waters that tumble through its glens, from Ardlui to Balloch Pier, including the fine stream of the Endrick, which drains the heart of the Lennox, and flows past Buchanan House, the seat of the great family of Montrose, are poured by the Leven past Smollett's old home of Bonhill, and past the busy manufacturing towns of Alexandria, and Renton, to the foot of Dumbarton Rock. The prospect commanded by the southern side of the Rock is hardly less grand, and has infinitely more of movement and space and variety. Winding into view from out of its coverts of smoke, and under its shadowing heights, comes the great river which in its westward course here opens up into the dimensions of a firth; and beyond it the fertile plains and valleys, the busy towns and villages, and the bare enclosing hills of Renfrew, are spread out like a map. The deep-water channel of the Clyde is marked not alone by the line of red buoys and beacons, but by the craft of all nations and all sizes, from the dredger to the huge floating palace of the ocean-going passenger steamer, that are continually plying up or down on it. As the eye travels westward the shores expand and grow dim. But the houses, shipping, and shipbuilding yards of Port Glasgow, and the long line of timber lying off its sea front, are well in view, and beyond them the thicker pall of smoke and the more densely packed masses of dwellings, chimney stalks, and masts that proclaim the whereabouts of Cartsdyke and Greenock. [Illustration: _Photo: Fergus & Sons, Greenock._ GREENOCK.] One has to embark and pass this dingy and crowded side of the birthplace of James Watt--the harbour, the docks, and the shipbuilding yards, the custom house, the steamboat quays, the handsome classic façade and tower of its Municipal Buildings, and the bulk of the many spires and steeples that rise among the masses of houses which climb the hillside--before seeing the fairer and more open face which Greenock presents to those approaching it from the west. Beyond Prince's Pier stretch wide esplanades, lined with trees, lashed with saltwater, and blown upon by salt breezes; and behind and above these are broad and handsome streets and boulevards, ascending to the steeper sides of the Craig and the Whin Hill, on whose airy heights the town has planted its cemetery, golf course, public park, and water works. Beyond Fort Matilda is the semicircular sweep of Gourock Bay, thronged with yachts and lined with villa residences, which stretch on under the base and round the corner of the headland, crowned by a fragment of Gourock Castle, towards the Cloch Light, the beacon of the inner waters of the Firth. [Illustration: GOUROCK.] In mid-firth, opposite Prince's Pier, is the "Tail of the Bank"--the station of the guardship, the anchorage of vessels preparing to ascend the river or put out to sea. Opposite, the dark-wooded headland of Ardmore projects into the estuary, and lower down the beautiful glades and tree-clad slopes surrounding the Grecian front of the Duke of Argyll's mansion rise gently from the water to the bare ridge of the peninsula of Roseneath. Between these opens the Gare Loch--perhaps the most charming nook in all the winding waters of the Clyde--with Craigendoran Pier and Helensburgh on its lip, Row in its narrow throat, and Shandon and a string of other seaside retreats in its inner recesses. Behind this the peaks that mount watch over Loch Lomond, Loch Long, and waters yet more distant--Ben Lomond, Ben Vorlich, The Cobbler, the rugged mass of "Argyll's Bowling Green," and far Ben Cruachan among them--stand up in the evening light in purple and gold. Nearer at hand are lower heights that surround the Holy Loch and guard the entrance to the inner Firth; at their feet are rank upon rank of fine seaside residences and favourite watering-places, to which the crowds in populous city pent rush for fresh air and recreation. All these and other scenes lying beyond, in the outer vestibule of the Firth--the Shores of Cowal and Ayrshire; the Cumbraes; Rothesay, and the windings of the Kyles of Bute; and, well seen from the neighbour island, the rugged peaks and corries of Arran--are fringes of Greater Glasgow, and creatures of the Clyde. /John Geddie./ [Illustration] INDEX. Abbey Dore, 142 Abbot's Worthy, 15 Aberdovey, 104 Abergavenny, 153; streets, historical associations of castle, former industries, St. Mary's Church, 154 Aberglaslyn, Pass of, 204 Abergorlech, 179 Aberystwith: Devil's Bridge, Castle, and University College, 190, 192 Abington, 344 Adur, The, 10, 11 Afon, The, 155 Afon Cych, The, 187 Ailsa Craig, 329 Airds Moss and the death of Richard Cameron, 332 Alexanders, The, Seat of, 334 Alfred the Great and the baptism of Guthrum, 68; his retreat from the Danes, 68, 69; and the monastery in the Isle of Athelney, 70; his fleet at Caerleon, 156 Allen, The, tributary of the Stour, 23 Allen, The (Cornwall), 63 Alresford Pond, 14 Alyn, The: Scenery, and junction with the Dee, Richard Wilson, Eaton Hall, 237 Amberley, 11 Ambleside, 291 Amesbury, 22 Anglesea, Isle of, 206 Annan, The: Meaning of name, and allusion of Allan Cunningham, 317; ballad of "Annan Water," 318; Annandale and Bruce, Ecclefechan and Carlyle, Annantown and Edward Irving, 318 Annbank, 335 Anton River, The, 19 Aran Benllyn, 229 Aran Mowddwy, 195 Ardmore, 368 Argyll, Duke of, Mansion at Roseneath of, 368 Arle, The (or the Titchfield): Source and scenery, 12; Wickham and William of Wykeham, Warton the poet, Funtley Abbey, and Titchfield House, 13 Armathwaite: The Castle, 304; Benedictine monastery, 305; John Skelton, 305, 306 Armstrong, Johnnie, hanged by order of James V., 315 Armstrong, William ("Kinmont Willie"), his imprisonment at Carlisle and rescue, 310, 311 Arnside, 286, 288 Arthur, King: Legends at Caerleon, 156; Knights of the Round Table, 160, 161; Merlin's Grotto, 179; battle at Camlan, 195; association with the Dee, 228, 229 "Arthur's Chair," 151 Arun, The: Its surroundings, Arundel, angling, Pulborough, Amberley, Swanbourne Mill, Arundel Castle, and Littlehampton, 11 Arundel: Scenery, Castle, and Roman Catholic Church, 11 Ashdown Forest, 10 Ashford and the Stour, 3 Atcham, 96 Athelney, Isle of, 69, 70 Attery stream, The, 55 Auchencruive, 337 Auchendrane, 339, 340 Avenham Park, 278 Avon, The Devon, 49 Avon, The Hants: Confluence with the Stour, tributaries, Christchurch, and Amesbury, 22; Salisbury and its cathedral, 22, 23 Avon, The Lower: Source at Estcourt Park, 71: Malmesbury and the abbey, 72; view near Christian Malford, Bradenstoke Priory, Chippenham, 73; Melksham, Bradford and its cloth industry, Freshfield, Limpley Stoke, Claverton, 74; tributary of the Frome, 74, 75; Priory of Hinton, 75; Bath, its history, abbey, and views of the river and bridges, 75-78; Bristol, birthplace of Cabot, Southey, and Chatterton, St. Mary Redcliffe, 78; Bristol Cathedral, "The Chasm," Clifton Suspension Bridge, 79; the lower reaches, site of the Roman station Abona, 79, 80; Avonmouth, 81 Avon, The Upper or Warwickshire: Source, Naseby, 107; Rugby, the Swift, Lutterworth and Wiclif, Coventry, Stoneleigh Abbey, Kenilworth, Leamington, 108; Warwick Castle and Church, 110; Stratford and Shakespeare, 110-114; Evesham and its abbey, death of Simon de Montfort, 114, 115; Pershore Church, 115; Tewkesbury Church, 115, 117; battle of Tewkesbury, 117, 118 Avonmouth, 81 Axe, The Devonshire, 27 Axe, The Somersetshire, 71 Aymer de Valence, and the defence of Clydesdale, 354 Ayr, The, 330; in the poetry of Burns, 331; Priesthill and Muirkirk, 332; scenery at Sorn, 333; Sorn Castle, 333; Catrine House and village, Ballochmyle, Mossgiel, Mauchline, Barskimming Bridge and House, 334; the Castle o' Montgomerie and "Highland Mary," Stair, Enterkin, Gadsgirth, Coylton, 335; Auchencruive and Craigie, 337; Laiglan, 337, 338; Ayr town, 338, 339 Ayr town: Viewed from Laiglan, 338; the two bridges, 338; remnant of ancient buildings, modern buildings, and suburbs, 339 Ayrshire, The rivers and scenery of, General features of, 328-331 Bacon, Francis, and Liverpool, 267 Badgworthy Water, The, 35 Baillie, Joanna, Birthplace of, 355 Bala Lake, 230 Baldwin, Archbishop, at Rhuddlan, 226 Baliol, John, 319 Baliols, The, Castle of, 340 Balliol College, Oxford, and the mother of John Baliol, 319 Ballochmyle, 334 Bampton, 30 Bangor-on-Dee, 236 Barle, The, 29 Barmouth, 202, 203 Barnstaple, 36, 46, 47 Barrow, 288 Barrow, Bishop, 227 Barskimming House, 334 Barton aqueduct and locks, 254 Basingwerk Abbey, 240 Bass Rock, 345 Bath: Names given to it, 74; beauty of approach from the east, Beau Nash, growth, bridges over the Avon, 75; the Skew Bridge, Abbey Church, 76; Twerton and Fielding, 76, 77; Kelston Round Hill, views of the Avon, 77 Batherm, The, 30 Battle, 7 Beacons, The, 150, 152, 159-161 Beaulieu Abbey, 20 Beaulieu river, The, 20 Beckford collection at Hamilton Palace, 353 Beddgelert, 204 Bekesbourne, 6 Ben Cruachan, 369 Ben Lomond, 367 Ben Vorlich, 369 Benbow, Admiral, Birthplace of, 91 Benbow, Captain, and the capture of Shrewsbury, 91 Benglog, Falls of, 207, 208 Benson, Archbishop, and Truro Cathedral, 64 Benthall, 99 Benthall Edge, 98 Berkeley Castle, 122, 123 Berthon boats, 19, 20 Berwyn hills, 232 Bethesda, 208, 209 Bettws-y-Coed, 212, 213 Beult, The, 3 Bewdley, 102 Bickleigh Bridge, 31 Bickleigh Vale, 50 Bideford, its antiquity, bridge, and the Grenvilles, 48, 49 Biggar, Plain of, 345 Birchington, 6 "Bird Rock" on the Dysynni, 197 Birkenhead: Railway to Liverpool, 266; landing-stages and Docks, 267; shipbuilding yards, progress during the century, population, Parliamentary representation, tramways, Priory, 268 Bishop's Sutton, 14 Bishop's Tawton, 46 Bishopsbourne Church and Bishop Hooker, 6 Biss, The, 74 Bizzyberry, 345 Black Mountains, The, and the rise of the Usk, 149 Black Prince and Rhuddlan Castle, 226 Black Rock, 65 Blackstone-edge Reservoirs, 244 Bladenoch, The: Wigtown martyrs, 325, 326 Blaenau Festiniog, 214 Blaenhafren, 84 Blantyre Priory, 354, 355 Blantyre Town, 355 Bleasdale Moor, 279 Blundell, Peter, Grammar School of, 30 Bodinnoc Ferry, 62 Bolton-le-Sands, 286 Bonhill, 367 Bonnington House, 350 Bonnington Linn, 347, 348 Bothwell, visited by Mary Queen of Scots at Hermitage Castle, 314 Bothwell Bridge, 353, 354 Bothwell Castle, 354 Bovey, The, 39 Bowdler, Dr. Thomas, Burialplace of, 176 Bowland Forest, 274, 279 Bowling, 366 Boxbrook, The, 75 Boyd, Dr. Zachary, and the Laigh Barony Church, Glasgow, 359 Brackenbank, 306 Bradenstoke Priory, 73 Bradford-on-Avon: Woollen industry, Church, and bridges, 74 Bramber, 11 Bran, The, 178 Brantwood and its associations, 294 Brathay, The, 291 Braxfield, 350 Bray, The, 29 Brecknock Beacons, 150, 152, 159-161 Brecon: Picturesque situation and Churchyard's verses, 150; history of the castle, birthplace of Mrs. Siddons, Church of St. John, 151 Brede, The, 7 Breidden Hills, The, 87 Brendon Water, The, 35 Bridgnorth, 99, 100 Bridgwater: Manufacture of bath brick, 70, 71; Admiral Blake, St. Mary's Church, 71 Brighton, 11 Bristol: Birthplace of Cabot, Southey, and Chatterton, commerce, first bridge over the Avon, St. Mary Redcliffe, 78; Chatterton's forgeries and monument, 78, 79; Castle, Cathedral, and busts of Joseph Butler, Southey, and Mary Carpenter, floating harbour, "The Chasm," Clifton Suspension Bridge, 79 Broadstairs, 6 Broseley, 99 Broughton Gifiord brook, 74 Brown Willy, 60 Brownsholm Hall and the Seal of the Commonwealth, 274 Bruce, Robert, and Annandale, 318; his dispute with the Red Cumyn, 319 Brue, The, 71 Brydges, Sir Egerton, 6 Buchanan House, 367 Buckfastleigh, 41, 42 Buckland Abbey, 46 Buildwas Abbey, 98, 99 Builth, 130 Burgh-on-the-Sands, 310 Burnham, 71 Burnley, 276 Burns, Robert, at Dumfries, 319; and Lincluden Abbey, 319; incident of his last days, and monument in St. Michael's Churchyard, 319; and the Glencairn family, 321; and the rivers and scenery of Ayrshire, 330, 331, 334, 335, 337; birthplace and relics, 339 Bute, Marquess of, and the Cardiff Docks, 166 Buttermere, 299 Buxted, and the manufacture of the first cannon, 10 Cabot, Sebastian, Birthplace of, 78 Cadbury Castle, 31 Cade, Jack, 3 Cader Idris, 197, 200, 203 Cadzow Castle, 353, 354 Caerlaverock Castle and the Maxwell family, 320, 321 Caerleon, its splendour in Roman times, Arthurian legends, university and bishopric, 155, 156 Caersws fortress in Roman times, 86 Cain, The, 202 Cairntable, 332 Calder, The (Lancashire), 279 Caldew, The, 307 Cale, The, 23 Caledonian Forest, Remains of, 353 Calstock, 56 Cambuslang, 357 Cambusnethan, 353 Camel, The, 54 Camlan, The, 202 Camlan, Farmhouse of, 195 Canford Hall, 23 Canonbie, 314, 315 Canterbury and its associations, 3, 4 Capel Curig, 210 Caradoc Hills, 94 Cardiff: Water-supply, 162; Castle, mansion of the Marquis of Bute, 166; docks, streets, and exhibition, 166, 167 Cardigan, 188 Carew, Bampfylde Moore, the "King of the Beggars," 31 Carew Castle, its historical associations and present condition, 182, 183 Carew family, The, 182, 183 Carlisle: 307; incursions by the Northmen, the Castle, 308; lines by Mrs. Sigourney, 309; Edward I. and the oath enjoined on the Prince of Wales, 309, 310; "Kinmont Willie" and Buccleuch, 310, 311; execution of Jacobites, 311; Cathedral, 312 Carlyle, Thomas, Birthplace of, 319 Carmarthen, 79, 80 Carmyle, 357 Carnarvon, Town and Castle of, 206, 219 Carnforth, 285 Carrick Road estuary, 65 Carron, The, 318 Carstairs, 345 Cartland Crags, 350 Cartmel Peninsula, 288 Cartsdyke, 367 Cassilis and the Kennedys, 340 Castell Coch, 164 Castle Head (or Alterpite Castle), 288 Castlerigg Top, View of Lakeland from, 299 Caton, The Vale of, The poet Gray on, 282 Catrine, 332, 334; and the visit of Burns to Dugald Stewart, 334 Cefn Carnedd, British earthwork, 85 Ceiriog, The, 234 Cenarth, 187 Cessnock, The, 334 Ceunant Mawr, 205, 206 Chagford, 38 Charlecote and Sir Thomas Lucy, 111 Chartists, Attack on Newport of, 158 Chatterton, his birthplace, forgeries, and monument, 78, 79 Chepstow, 146, 147 Cheriton, Defeat of the Royalists at, 15 Chester: Antiquity, "Rows," walls, Cathedrals, 238, 239 Chetham, Humphrey, and Chetham College, 251 Chillingham cattle, 274 Chippenham, 73 Chirk Castle, 234, 235 Chow, The, 78 Christchurch: Salmon-fishing, church, and Shelley memorial, 22 Chudleigh, 38 Churchyard, the poet, on the situation of Brecon, 150; on the Vale of Clwyd, 223; and Valle Crucis Abbey, 233; on the waters of the Dee, 233; and Offa's Dyke, 235 Chweffru, The, 130 Cilhepste Fall, The, 170 Claerwen, The, 127 "Clam" Bridge over the Wallabrook, 38 Clapdale Ravine, 282 Clare, Richard, Earl of, Murder of, 153 Cleghorn, Roman bridge at, 351 Cletwrs, The two, 187 Clifford Castle and Rosamond, 132, 133 Clough, Memorial stone to, 289 Clun Gwyn Falls, 170 Clwyd, The: Rhyl, Rhuddlan, 223-226; junction with the Elwy, 226 Clyde, The: Its importance, the population and wealth within its basin, and variety of scenes on its banks, 342; source and some of its tributaries, 342, 343; the "sea of hills" of Clydesdale, 343, 344; the trees on the banks, 344; smoky industries of the Upper Ward at Leadhills and Wanlockhead, 344; its course past Tower Lindsay, the churchyard of St. Constantine, or Kirkton, the woods and lawns of Abington, and the fragment of Lamington Tower, 344; Tinto Hill--"Hill of Fire"--and the prospects it commands, 344, 345; its meandering through haughs and holmlands, by Covington, Carstairs, and Hyndford Bridge, 345; scenes of Wallace's exploits, 345; Douglas Water, 345, 347; the Church of St. Bride of Douglas and the struggle between the "good Sir James" and St. John de Walton, 345, 346; Douglas Castle, 345, 347; Falls at Bonnington Linn, 347, 348; Corra Linn Falls--"Clyde's most majestic daughter," 348-350; meeting the Douglas Water, 347; "Wallace's Tower" and "Wallace Chair," 350; Braxfield, Lanark, "Trough of the Clyde," 350; Mouse Water and Cartland Crags, 351; Roman bridge at Cleghorn and site of Watling Street, 351; Stonebyres Linn, the Nethan, Craignethan Castle and Mary Stuart, 351; "Orchard of Scotland," 351; Hamilton, 353; Hamilton Palace and the Beckford collection, 353; Cadzow Castle, 353, 354; remains of the Caledonian Forest, 353; Bothwell Castle, 354, 355; Blantyre, 355; Uddington, Dalbowie, Carmyle, Cambuslang, 357; Rutherglen, 358, 361; Glasgow, 358-365; St. Mungo, 358, 364; the early days of steamships, 364; widening and deepening the channel, 364; Partick, Whiteinch, Govan, shipbuilding yards, 365; the opening of an "ampler mirror," 366; Renfrew, valley of the White Cart, Inchinnan, Yoker, Clydebank, Dalmuir and its purification works, Erskine House, Castle of Dunglass, and Hill of Dumbuck, 366; Dumbarton Castle and town, 366; prospects from Dumbarton Rock, 367; Greenock, Gourock, Fort Matilda, Whin Hill, the Clock Light, the "Tail of the Bank," Ardmore, Roseneath, and the Duke of Argyll's mansion, 368; Gare Loch, 368, 369; Craigendoran Pier, Helensburgh, Row, and Shandon, 369; view of the peaks of Ben Lomond, Ben Vorlich, The Cobbler, "Argyll's Bowling Green," and Ben Cruachan, 369; seaside residences and watering-places, 369 Clydebank, 366 Clydesdale, The hills of, 343 Coalbrook Dale, 99 Cobbler Peak, The, 369 Cobden, Richard: Statue at Stockport, 245 Coccium, Roman station of, 278 Cocker, The: Crummock Water, scenery, cataracts, Vale of Lorton, Cockermouth, Workington, 299, 300 Cockermouth, 299, 300 Codale Tarn, 288 Coelbren, 177 Coilsfield House (Castle o' Montgomerie) and "Highland Mary," 335 Coldwell Rocks, 138, 140, 141 Coleridge, Birthplace of, 27 Coleridge, Hartley, Burialplace of, 289 Condover, 98 Coniston Water, 294 Conway, 206, 220 Conway, The: Bettws and Llanrwst, 217, 218; Gwydir Castle, Llanbedr and ancient British post, Trefriw, 218; Castle, 219, 220; Conway town, 220; Deganwy, pearl-fishery and Castle, 221, 222; Llandudno, 222 Conway Castle, 219, 220 Corby Castle, 307 Cornbrook, The, 246 Corra Linn, 348, 349 Corwen and associations of Owen Glendower, 230, 231 Cotehele House, 58 Cotehill, 306 Cothi, 179 Countess Weir, 34 Courtfield and Henry V., 138 Courthose, Robert, eldest son of the Conqueror, tomb in Gloucester Cathedral, 122 Coventry, 108 Covington, 345 Coyle, The, 335 Craig-y-Nos and Madame Patti, 177, 178 Craigendoran, 369 Craigenputtock, 318 Craigie, 337 Craignethan Castle, 351 Craigs of Kyle, 335 Crake, The, 293; and Coniston Water, Brantwood and Gerald Massey, 294 Cranbrook, 38 Cranmer and his palace at Bekesbourne, 6 Cranmere Pool, 37, 41, 45 Crawford, 343, 344 Crawford Moor, 344 "Cray," Drayton's, 150 Cree, The: Scenery near Newton Stewart and bridge, 323; the "Cruives of Cree," 323, 324 Creedy, The, 31 Crewkerne, 67 Crickhowell, 153 Crockett, Mr., Scenes of some of the stories by, 341 Cromwell, Oliver, and the siege of Pembroke Castle, 183; statue at Manchester, 250; Greystoke Castle, 307; at Ayr, 339 Cromwell, Sir Richard, and Neath Abbey, 172 Crosthwaite, 299 Crow Castle, 234 Crummock Water, 299, 300 Cuckfield, 10 Cuckmere, The: Alfriston and its church and cross, 9; Lullington Church, 10 Culm, The, 31 Cumyn, The Red, and Robert Bruce in the Greyfriars' Monastery, 319 Cunningham, Allan, his allusions to the Annan, 317 Cunsey Beck and Esthwaite Water, 292 Cutler Fell, 345 Cwm Porth, The, 170 Cynicht, The, "the Matterhorn of Wales," 204 Daer Water, The, 322 Dalbowie, 357 Dale, David, and his mills at New Lanark, 350, 355 Dalmuir, 366 Dalserf, 353 Dalziel, 353 Dart, The: Mingling of waters of East and West Dart, 40; features of the upper waters, Buckland Beacon, and Holne, 41; Buckfastleigh, 41, 42; Dean Prior and Herrick, Staverton and Dartington Hall, 42; Totnes, its claim to antiquity and general features, 42, 43; the "English Rhine," 43; Sharpham House, Sandridge House and John Davis, Greenway and Sir Humphrey Gilbert, 44; Kingswear, Dartmouth and its associations, 44, 45 Dartington Hall, 42 Dartmoor, 26, 27, 37 Dartmouth, 44, 45 Darwin, Charles, Birthplace of, 91 Davis, John, Birthplace of, 44 Dean Prior and Herrick, 42 Dee, The: Source and length, 82, 228, 229; Bala Lake, 229, 230; Llanuwchllyn, 229; reputed sacred character, 230; Llandderfel and the Vale of Edeyrnion, 230; Corwen and the mark of Owen Glendower's dagger, 230, 231; encampment of Owen Gwynedd, 231; Vale of Llangollen, 232, 234; Valle Crucis Abbey, 232, 233; Bridge of Llangollen, 233; Llangollen town and derivation of name, 234; Dinas Bran, Eglwyseg Rocks, Crow Castle, viaduct and Telford's aqueduct, junction with the Ceiriog, Chirk Castle, and Wynnstay, 234; Offa's Dyke and Watt's Dyke, 235, 236; Overton Churchyard, Bangor-on-Dee, 236; junction with the Alyn, Eccleston, 237; Chester and its history, 238, 239; swing railway bridge, Hawarden, Castle of Flint, 239; Castle of Mostyn, Basingwerk Abbey, Fountain of Holywell, "The Sands of Dee," 240, 241 Dee, The (Kirkendbrightshire): Its rise, meaning of name, confluence with the water of Ken, scenery at Douglas Tongueland, 322; Threave Castle, 322, 323 Deerhurst, 119 Deganwy, 218; ancient pearl-fishery and castle, 221, 222 Denbigh and its castle, 227, 228 Dering family, The, 3 Derry Ormond column and its romance, 187 Derwent, The, also known as the Grange, its rise and course, 299 Derwentwater, 299 Devon, Earl of, Seat of, 34 Devonport, 51, 53 Devorgilla, mother of John Baliol, and the bridge over the Nith at Dumfries, 319; her endowment of Balliol College, Oxford, 319; and Sweetheart Abbey, 322 Dewi Fawr, The, 180 Dihouw, The, 130 Dinas Bran, 234 Dinas Castle and the daughter of Alfred the Great, 153 Dinas Mowddwy, 195 Docks at Liverpool, 263, 264, 266 Doethiau, The, 178 Dolbadarn Castle, 205, 206 Dolbury Hill, 31 Dolgelley, 200, 201 Dolwyddelen Castle, 214 Donnerdale and Wordsworth's sonnets, 294 Doon, The, 330; in the poems of Burns, 331; its attraction, 339; Auchendrane, 339, 340; Cassilis, Dalmellington, Loch Doon, Castle of the Baliols, hills of Galloway, 340; sources, 341 Dorchester, 24 Dore, The, 142 Douglas, Countess of, and the siege of Threave Castle, 323 Douglas, House of, Story of the, 345, 347 Douglas, William, eighth Earl of, and the murder of Maclellan, 322; his death, 323 Douglas, Sir William, his imprisonment of Sir Alexander Ramsay, 313; slain by the Earl of Douglas, 313, 314 Douglas Castle, 347 Douglas Tongueland, 322 Douglas Water, 345, 347 Douglases, The Black, 354 Dovey (or Dyfi), The: Aberdovey, and source, 194; estuary, angling, Dinas Mowddwy, Aran Mowddwy, church at Mallwyd, farmhouse of Camlan, farmhouse of Mathafarn, 195; Machynlleth, 195, 196; the Dulas, 196 Dowlais Steel and Iron Works, 163 Drake, Sir Francis, 50, 51 Drayton, Lines on the Mersey by, 268 Dringarth, The, 168, 169 Drumclog, 354 Drumlanrig Castle, 319, 320 Dryslwyn Castle, 179 Duddon, The: Its rise, Donnerdale, Seathwaite, Wordsworth's allusions, 294; the most picturesque approach, likened to the Thames, 295 Dulas, The, 124, 196 Dumbarton, 358, 366; Rock and Castle of, 366, 367; prospects from the Rock, 367; shipbuilding industry and manufactories, 366 Dumbuck, Hill of, 366 Dumfries: Its memories of Robert Burns, 319; Lincluden Abbey, St. Michael's Churchyard, Devorgilla's Bridge, Bruce's dispute with the Red Cumyn, 319 Dunglass, Ancient Castle of, 366 Dunglass, Lord, heir of the Douglas line, 345 Dunsford Bridge, 38 Dyer the poet, and Golden Grove, 179 Dynevor Castle, 179 Dysynni, The: Source, scenery, Bird Rock, manor-house, and Prince Llewelyn, 197; mansion of Ynys-y-Maengwyn, Towyn, and St. Cadfan's Church, 198 Eamont, The, 303 Easedale Tarn, 288 East and West Dean, 9 Eastham Locks, 258 Eastwell Park, 3 Eaton Hall, 237 Ebbw, The, 158 Ecclefechan and Thomas Carlyle, 318 Eccleston, 237 Eden, The: Length, source, junction with the Eamont, Eden Hall, 303; Armathwaite and John Skelton, 304, 305; Wetheral, Cotehill, Brackenbank, Corby Castle, 306, 307; Carlisle, 307-312 Eden Hall and the Musgrave family, 303, 304; and the story of the fairies' goblet, 303, 304 Edeyrnion, Vale of, 230 Edw, The, 130 Edward I.: Carnarvon Castle, 206; Conway Castle, 220; takes Rhuddlan Castle, 226; his last Scots expedition and the oath enjoined on the Prince of Wales, 309, 310 Edward II.: Memorial in Gloucester Cathedral, 122; at Neath Abbey, 173; and Corby Castle, 307 Egbert, King, and Minster nunnery, 6 Eggesford, 46 Eglwys Newydd, 190 Eglwyseg Rocks, 232, 234 Egremont, 298 Ehen, The, 298 Elan, The, 127, 128 Elizabeth, Queen, visit to Bristol, 78; and Buccleuch's rescue of "Kinmont Willie," 311 Ellesmere Canal, Aqueduct of, 234 Elvan, The, 343 Elwy, The: Junction with the Clwyd, 226; St. Asaph, Denbigh and its castle, 227, 228; Ruthin and its castle, 228 Ennerdale Water, 297, 298 Enterkin, 318, 335 Erme, The, 49 Erskine House, 366 Esk, The (Cumberland): Source, 295; Scafell, Wastdale, Langdale, and Borrowdale, Esk Falls, Cam Spout Cataract, Hardknott, Baker Force and Stanley Gill Waterfalls, 296 Esk, The (Solway): Scenery, angling, the Tarras tributary, 314; Gilnockie Tower, Hollows Tower and Johnnie Armstrong, 315; the romance of Lochinvar, 315, 316 Eskdale, Upper, 295 Esthwaite Water, 292 Ethelbert, Murder of, 134 Etherow, The, 243, 244 Evesham, its Abbey and the death of Simon de Montfort, 114, 115 Exbridge, 29 Exe, The: Source and length, 28; characteristics, and confluence with the Barle, 29; Bampton, Tiverton, and Twy-ford-town, 30; Bickleigh Bridge, Bickleigh Court and the Carews, 31; Cadbury Castle, Dolbury Hill, and the seats of the Aclands and the Earls of Iddesleigh, 31; Exeter, 31-34; Countess Weir, canal to Topsham, Powderham Castle, Starcross, Lympstone, and Exmouth, 34 Exeter: Situation, 31; meaning of name, 32; Castle of Rougemont, 33; Cathedral, 33, 34; Guildhall, canal communication with the sea, 34 Exmoor, 26, 27, 35, 37 Exmouth, 34 Fail, The, 335 Failford, 334 Fair Maid of Galloway, The, 323 Fairfax, General, his rout of the Royalist forces near Taunton, 68; and the river Parret, 71 Fairfield, 285 Fal, The: Its rise in Tregoss Moor, Treviscoe, length of course, Grampound, view about Tregothnan and Queen Victoria's visit, the Kenwyn and Allen, 63; Truro and its cathedral, scenery between King Harry's Passage and Roseland, 64; grounds of Trelissick, view from Malpas Road, Carrick Road, Black Rock and the claim of Truro, 65; Falmouth and its harbour, 65, 66; the Lords of Arwenack, the creeks of Falmouth Harbour, 66 Falls of Clyde, 347-349, 351 Falls of the Hepste, 170 Falmouth and its harbour, 65, 66; and the Lords of Arwenack, 66 Fareham, 12 Feni, The, 180 Fingle Bridge, 38 Fishbourne Creek, 22 Fitzalan, William, Priory founded by, 95 Fleetwood, 279, 280 Fleming of Redhall and Helen, The romance of, 316, 317 Fletching Common, the burialplace of Gibbon, 10 Flint, Town and Castle of, 239, 240 Fordwich, 4; its former name, and Izaak Walton's allusions, 5 Forest of Brecon, 150 Forest of Dean, 123, 138 Fowey, The: Its rise, also called the Dranes, 60; St. Neot, features of scenery, seat of Lord Vivian, Lanhydrock House, 61; Restormel Castle, Lostwithiel, Colonel Titus and the silver oar, Bodinnoc Ferry, 62; Fowey Harbour, 62, 63; seat of the Treffry family, and French assault on Place House, 63 Fowey Harbour, 62, 63 Fox, founder of the Society of Friends, and Pendle Hill, 276 Frampton Court, 24 Frome, The: Branches, Dorchester, Frampton Court, the Black Downs, Roman and British remains, Maiden Castle, and Wareham, 24; tributary of the Avon, 74, 75 Funtley Abbey, 13 Furness Peninsula, 288 Gadsgirth, 335 Gaer, The, Roman camp, 150 Galloway, 321, 340 Gannel, The, 55 Gare Loch, 368, 369 Gaunt's House, 23 Gerald de Windsor and Carew Castle, 182 Gibbon, Burialplace of, 10 Giggleswick, 273 Gilbert, Sir Humphrey, Birthplace of, 44 Gilnockie Tower and Johnnie Armstrong, 315 Gilpin, The, 288 Gilpin, Bernard, Birthplace of, 286 Gisburne Hall, 274 Gladstone, Mr., and the swing railway bridge over the Dee, 239; Hawarden Park, 239; his connection with Liverpool, 267 Glasgow: Its chief armorial device, 342; population at the period of the Reformation, 358; legend of St. Kentigern, 359; its extent in the seventeenth century, 358; the Cathedral, Cross, and other ancient buildings, 358, 359; Laigh Barony Church, 359; St. Roche's Chapel, 359; streets and bridges, 360; the Green, 361; population at the beginning of the nineteenth century, 362; George Square and the monuments, 362, 363; the Municipal buildings, and population in 1891, 363; shipbuilding industry and drainage, 363, 364; sunsets seen from the harbour, docks, and quays, 364; adjoining places, 364-366 Glaslyn, The, 204 Glencairn family, The, 321 Glenderamakin, The, 298 Glendower, Owen, his stronghold on Plinlimmon, 125, 126; at Hay, 130; defeat at Usk, 155; and Aberdovey, 194; his Parliament at Machynlleth, 196; Parliament House at Dolgelley, 200; tight with Howell Selé, 202; and Corwen Churchyard, 231 Gloucester: The Cathedral, 119-122; a Roman station, 119; monastery, 119; during the Civil War, 120 Goat Fell, 345 Golden Grove, 179 Golden Valley, The, 142 Goodrich Castle, 138 Gourock Bay and Castle, 368 Govan, 364, 365 Govan Point, 364 Gowy, The, 258 Goyt, The, 243, 244 Grampound, 63 Grasmere: Wordsworth's cottage, the Church, graves of Wordsworth, Hartley Coleridge, and memorial to Clough, 289; length of Lake and its beautiful surroundings, 290 Gray, The poet, on the Vale of Caton, 282; on Grasmere, 290 Graygarth, 282 Great Gable Mountain, 297 Greenock, 367, 368 Grenville, Richard, and Bideford, 48 Greta, The: Source, 298; Keswick, 298, 299; Crosthwaite, view from Castlerigg Top, 299 Greta, The (Lancashire), 282 Gretna Green, 312 Grey, Sir Patrick, and the Earl of Douglas, 322, 323 Greystoke Castle, 307 Grongar Hill, 179 Grove Ferry, 5 Guild of St. George at Barmouth, 203 Guild-Merchants' Festival at Preston, 278, 279 Gunnislake, 55 Gwbert-on-the-Sea, 189 Gwedderig, The, 178 Gwryney, The, 153 Gwydir Castle, 218 Gwynedd, Owen, 231 Gwynne, Nell, Birthplace of, 135 Gynin, The 180 Hamerton, Philip Gilbert, and the country round Burnley, 278 Hamilton and Hamilton Palace, 353 Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, 353 Hamoaze, The, 58, 59 Hardham, 11 Harewood Forest, 19 Harlech, Castle of, 203 Harold Godwinson and Rhuddlan fortress, 226 Hastings, 8 Haughmond Hill, 94, 95 Haverfordwest, past and present, 186 Haverigg Point, 295 Hawarden Park, 239 Hawes Tarn, 286 Hawkeshead, 292 Hay, its castle and legends, 130-132 Hayle, The, 55 Hel, The, 55 Helensburgh, 369 Hellifield, Peel-house at, 273, 274 Helm Crag, 289 Helvellyn, 285 Hemans, Mrs.: Monument in the Cathedral of St. Asaph, 227; crossing the Ulverston sands, 286 Henfield, 11 Henry IV. and Hotspur at the battle of Shrewsbury, 91, 95 Henry VII. and Carew Castle, 183; at Milford Haven, 185; at Mathafarm, 195 Henry VIII. and his Welsh pedigree, 233 Henwen, The, 149 Hepste The, 170 Herbert of Coldbrook, Sir Richard, 154, 155 Herberts of Cherbury, The, 86, 87 Hereford: Offa's Palace, Llewelyn's raid, 133; murder of Ethelbert, the Cathedral, the "Mappa Mundi," 134, 135; Nell Gwynne, 135 Hermitage Castle and its historical associations, 313, 314 Heslock Towers, 286 Hestbank, 286 Heysham, 286 High Blantyre, 357 Highbridge and the Glastonbury Canal, 71 Hobbes, Birthplace of, 72 Holker Hall, 288 Hollows Tower and Johnnie Armstrong, 315 Holme Island, 286, 288 Holne and Charles Kingsley, 41 Holy Loch, 369 Holywell, Fountain of, 240 Home, Earl of, Estate of, 347 Honddu, The, 142, 150 Honiton, 27 Hooker, Bishop, 6 Hornby Castle, 282 Horton Priory, 3 Horton-in-Ribblesdale, 272 Howgill, Fairy glens at, 281 Hyndford Bridge, 345 Hythe, 7 Iddesleigh, Earls of, Seat of, 31; statue to the first Earl, 33 Idwal, The, 207 Ill Hell, 292 Ingleborough Cave, 282 Ingleborough Heights, 272, 282 Ingleton, 282 Irk, The, 246 Irlam, 245, 254, 255 Ironbridge, 99 Irt, The: Outlet of Wastwater, 296, 297 Irving, Edward, Birthplace of, 318 Irwell, The: Confluence with the Mersey, 246; rise, course, and tributary streams, 246; bridges, 252, 254 Isle, The, 68 Isle of Oxney, 8 Isle of Thanet, 3, 4, 6 Isle of Wight: Lack of running water and woods, 22; the Medina, 22 Itchen, The, 12; source, 13, 14; salmon-fishing, 14, 15; Alresford Pond, 14; tributaries, Cheriton and the defeat of the Royalists, Tichborne and "the Claimant," 15; Nun's Walk, Winchester and Izaak Walton, 16; Hospital of St. Cross, 17; St. Catherine's Hill, 18; Southampton, its docks, piers, etc., 19 Ithon, The, 128, 129 Jacobites, Execution at Carlisle of, 311 James V. and Johnnie Armstrong, 315 Jedburgh, Abbey of, 355 Jesuits, The, and Stonyhurst College, 274 John, King, at Deganwy Castle, 222; and Liverpool, 259, 261 John of Gaunt and Lancaster Castle, 282-284 Johnson, Dr., at Plymouth with Sir Joshua Reynolds, 53 Kemsey, 104 Kendal, 286-288 Kenilworth Castle, 108 Kenmuir, 357 Kennedys, The, Seat of, 340 Kent, The: Kentmere village and Kentmere Hall, 286; Kendal, 286-288 Kentmere, 286 Kenwyn, The, 63 Keswick, 298, 299 Kidderminster, 102 Kilgerran Castle, 188 Kilpeck Church, 142 King's Road Estuary, 65 King's Worthy, 15 Kingsley, Charles, Birthplace of, 41; his description of the Dee estuary, 240 Kingswear, 44, 45 Kinnaston, "The Wonder" of, 135 Kirkby Lonsdale, 281 Kirkconnel and the romance of Helen and her lover, 316, 317 Kirkgate, 300 Kirtle Water and the romance of Helen and her lover, 316, 317 Kit Hill, 58 Kyrle, John, "The Man of Ross," 137, 138 Laiglan, 337, 338 Laira Bridge, 51 Laird, Mr. John, 268 Lamington Tower, 344 Lanark, 350 Lancaster: Former prosperity as a port, 282; associations of John of Gaunt, 282-284; a Roman settlement, ancient fisheries, and first charter, 283; the castle, 283, 284; monastic establishments, proclamation of the Pretender, 283; birthplace of Whewell, Grammar School, 284 Lancaster Bay, 286 Landing-stage at Liverpool, 265, 266 Landor, Walter Savage, and Llanthony, 142, 143 Langdale, Great and Little, 291 Langport, 68 Lansdowne and the defeat of Sir William Waller, 75 Latchford, 255, 256, 257 Lauries, The, The Seat of, 321 Leadhills, 344 Leamington, 108 Lee Priory, 6 Lemon, The, 39 Lenham, The, 3 Lerrin Creek, The, 62 Leven, The, 293 Lewes, Battle of, 10 Liddel, The: Hermitage Castle and its associations, 313, 314 Lid, The, 46 Lincluden Abbey, 319 Lind, Jenny, and Manchester Infirmary, 252 Lindfield, 10 Linton the engraver and Brantwood, 294 Listers, The, Family seat of, 274 Littlebourne, 6 Littlehampton, 11 Liverpool: Early history and variations in name, 259; castles, and feuds between the Molineux and Stanley families, 260; King John and Toxteth Park, Parliamentary representation, 261; during the Civil Wars, 262; allusion by Camden, and population, 262; tonnage of ships entering the port, 263; New Brighton Lighthouse, 263; docks, 263, 264; landing-stage, 265, 266; electric overhead railway, 266; railway to Birkenhead, view of the city from Birkenhead, Lime Street Station, St. George's Hall, etc., 266; Town Hall, Royal Exchange, University College, Infirmary, Sefton Park, water-supply, 88, 267; bishopric, eminent men, 267 Livesey, Joseph, and the first total abstinence pledge, 278 Livingstone, David, Birthplace of, 355 Liza, The and the Great Gable, 297, 298 Llanbedr and its ancient fortifications, 218 Llanberis, and the Pass, 205 Llandaff Cathedral, 165; village and Bishop's palace, 166 Llandderfel, 230 Llanddewi Brefi, 187 Llandilo, 179 Llandingat, Vicar of, Story of the, 179 Llandogo, 144 Llandovery, 178, 179 Llandrindod and its wells, 129 Llandudno, 222 Llanegwad, 179 Llangadock, 179 Llangattoc Park, 153 Llangollen, Vale of, 232; bridge of, 233; town of, and derivation of name, 234 Llangurig, 126 Llangwryney, 153 Llanidloes, 84, 85 Llanrwst, 217, 218 Llanspyddid, 150 Llanthony and its priory, 142; and Walter Savage Landor, 142, 143 Llanuwchllyn, 229 Llanymddyfri, 178 Lledr, The, 213, 214 Llewelyn, Last stand and burialplace of, 128, 129; ride to Builth, 130; at Hereford, 133; and the Dysynni, 197; birthplace of, 214; and Deganwy Castle, 222; at Rhuddlan, 226 Llewelyn, David Llwyd ap, 195 Llia, The, 168, 169 Llugwy, The: At Capel Curig, turbulent course and scenery, 210; Swallow Falls, 210, 211; Moel Siabod, 210, 211; Bettws-y-Coed, 211-213 Llyffnant, The, 124 Llyn-Gwyn Lake, The, 127 Loch Doon, 340 Loch Enoch, 341 Loch Lomond, 367, 369 Loch Long, 369 Lochinvar, The romance of, 315, 316 Lochmaben, the supposed birthplace of Robert Bruce, 318 Lodore, Falls of, 299 "Logan" stone, in Teign valley, 38 Loman, The, 30 Long Mountain, The, 87 Longridge Fell, 279 Looe, The, 55 Lostwithiel, 62 Love, The, 55 Loweswater, 299, 300 Ludlow, its castle and church, 104 Lug, The, 135 Lugar, The, 334 Lundy, 47 Lune, The: Spencer's allusion, its rise, uplands, highlands, valleys, fairy glens, Howgill, Kirkby Lonsdale, 281; the Greta and the Wenning, Vale of Caton, Morecambe Bay and Little Fylde, 212; Lancaster, 282-284; Drayton's lines, 284 Lutterworth and Wiclif, 108 Lydney, 123 Lyminge Church, 3 Lymington river, The, 20 Lympstone, 34 Lyn, The (also called the East Lyn): Source, length, general features, places and scenes described in "Lorna Doone," 35; its beauty between Malmsmead and Watersmeet, 35, 36; Lynton and Lynmouth, 36 Lynher, The, 59 Lynmouth, 36 Lynton, 36, 47 Machno, The: Scenery, Pandy Mill, Falls of the Conway, 215; Fairy Glen, 217 Machynlleth, 195, 196 Madoc, Prince, Tales of, 204, 220 Madoc ap Gruffydd Maelor, 234 Maiden Newton, 24 Mallwyd Church, 195 Malmesbury, ruins of the abbey, William of Malmesbury, and Hobbes, 72 Malpas Road estuary, 65 Manchester: Water-supply, 244; earliest industries, in Tudor times, and population, 246; progress of manufacture and trade, 247; Ship-Canal, 247, 248, 250, 254, 255; during the Civil Wars, Peterloo massacre, Parliamentary representation, Free Trade Hall, incorporation, 250; Cathedral, 250, 251; Chetham College, Grammar School, Owens College, Victoria University, Free Libraries, 251; Albert Memorial, Town Hall, Infirmary and other buildings, 252; the Irwell, 246, 252, 253; Salford docks, 254 "Mappa Mundi," 134 Maresfield and the remains of iron-smelting industry, 10 Margate, 6 Marias, The, 180 Marlan, The, 73 Marteg, The, 127 Martyr's Worthy, 15 Mary Queen of Scots, her landing at Workington, 300; visit to Bothwell, 314; at Craignethan Castle, 351; at Cadzow, 353 Massey, Gerald, and Brantwood, 294 Mauchline, 334 Maud de Saint Wallery and the Castle of Hay, 131 Mauldslie Castle, 353 Mawddach, The, 198; Ganllwyd Glen, 201; the Falls, 201, 202; Barmouth and Wordsworth, Penmaenpool, Abbey of St. Mary, 202; antiquity and appearance of Barmouth, Guild of St. George, hill of Craig Abermaw, 203 Maxwell family, The, and Caerlaverock Castle, 320, 321 Maxwelltown, 321 Meavy, The, 50 Medina river, The, 22 Medlock, The, 246 Melksham, 74 Mellte, The, 169-171 Menai Strait, 206 Meonware, 12 Merlin's Grotto, 179 Mersey, The: A modern river, 242; derivations of name, 242, 243; origin, 243, 244; Blackstone-edge reservoirs and the Manchester water-supply, 244; Stockport, 244, 245; Northenden, Stretford, 245; the Irwell, 245, 246; Manchester and Salford, 246, 247, 250-252, 254, 255, 257; the Ship-Canal, 247, 248, 250; Ordsall, Eccles, Barton, Warburton, Irlam, 254; Warrington, 255, 256; Latchford, 256, 257; Runcorn and Widnes, 257, 258; the Weaver, Saltport, Eastham Locks, Ellesmere Port, 258; entrance to estuary and Wirral Peninsula, 258, 259; Liverpool, 259-268; Birkenhead, 266, 268; New Brighton, Perch Rock Lighthouse, sandbanks, length, lines of Drayton, 268 Merthyr, Manufactories of, 162, 163 Midford, The, 75 Milford, Old and New, 183-186 Milford Haven, 182-186 Minnick Water, The, 318 Minster, 6 Minsterworth, 123 Mint, The, 2-6 Moel Famman, 228 Moel Siabod, 210, 211, 214, 217 Moel Wyn, 204 Mold, 237 Molineux family, The, and Liverpool, 260 Monkton Priory, 183 Monmouth in olden time, 141; St. Mary's Church, St. Thomas's Chapel, Benedictine Priory, the "Monmouth Cap," 142 Monmouth, Earl of, his defeat of the Covenanters at Bothwell Bridge, 354 Monnow, The, 141, 142 "Mons Meg" gun, The, 323 Monteith, John, and the Blantyre mills, 355 Montgomery, its castle and the Herberts of Cherbury, 86; the church and its monuments, 87 Mordiford and the legend of a serpent, 135 Morecambe Bay, 282, 284, 285, 286 Morgan, Bishop, 227 Morley, Earls of, Seat of, 51 Morriston, 175, 176 Morton, Bishop, at Brecon Castle, 151 Morwell Rocks, 55, 56 Morwellham, 56 Moselle, The, its resemblance to the Wye, 140 Mossgiel, 334 Mostyn, Castle of, 240 Motherwell, 353 Mouse Water, The, 350, 351 Much Wenlock, 98 Muchelney Abbey, 68 Muir, James, "The Grey Man," 340 Muirkirk, 332 Mumbles, The, 175 Murray, John, and Mrs. Randell's "Domestic Cookery," 175 Musgrave family, Seat of the, 303, 304 Myddleton, Sir Hugh, and Chirk Castle, 234 Nadder, The, 22 Nailbourne, 6 Nant Francon, Vale of, 206, 208 Naseby, Battle of, 107 Neath, The, 159, 160; its rise, 168; the Stone of Llia, scenery near Ystradfellte, 169; the Mellte, 169, 170; the Little Neath, the Hepste, and the Sychnant, 169-171; the Cwm Porth, 170; waterfalls, 170, 171; Pont Neath Vaughan, 171; Neath and its abbey, 171-173 Neath town, 160, 171; Abbey, 172, 173 Nelson monument near Carmarthen, 179 New Brighton, 268 New Forest, its streams, 20 New Lanark, 350 Newcastle Emlyn, 187 Newgale Bridge, 181 Newmarch, Bernard, Church at Brecon founded by, 151 Newnham, 123 Newport: Trade, docks, and castle, 157; Church of St. Woollos, 158 Newton Abbot, 39 Newton Stewart, 323 Newtown, 86 Nith, The: Its rise, course, and tributaries, 318; Dumfries, 319; Drumlanrig Castle, 319, 320; Caerlaverock Castle, 320, 321; the Cairn, Maxwelltown, 321; Sweetheart Abbey, 322 North, Christopher, on Troutbeck village, 292 North Foreland, 6 North Tamerton, 55 Northenden, 245 Offa, Palace at Hereford of, 133; his murder of Ethelbert and founding of Hereford Cathedral, 134; battle with the Welsh at Rhuddlan, 225 Offa's Dyke, 235, 236 Ogwen, The: Length, Falls of Benglog, 207; Vale of Nant Francon, Bethesda slate quarries, cascades, 208, 209; Penmaenmawr, Penrhyn Castle, 209 Old Man of Coniston, 294 Old Sarum, 22, 23 Oldham, Bishop, and Manchester Grammar School, 251 Olwey, The, 155 Ordericus, Birthplace of, 96 Ordsall, 254 Otter, The: Honiton, Ottery St. Mary, and Coleridge's reminiscences of his birthplace, 27, 28 Ottery St. Mary, 27 Ouse, The Sussex: Course, Fletching Common, Maresfield and its remains of iron-smelting industry, battle of Lewes, 10 Overton Churchyard, 236 Owen, Sir Richard, and Lancaster Grammar School, 284 Owen, Robert, Birthplace of, 86; his mills at New Lanark, 350 Owens, John, and Owens College, 251 Oxenbridge Ogre, The, 7 Oxenhams, The, Tradition relating to, 46 Paisley, 366 Paley and the Grammar School at Giggleswick, 273 Parr, Catherine, Birthplace of, 287 Parret, The: Source, and view at Crewkerne, 67; Church of St. Bartholomew, ruins of Muchelney Abbey, Langport, historical associations, the Tone and Taunton, 68; Athelney Island and Alfred the Great, 69, 70; Sedgemoor, 70; Bridgwater and its trade, Burnham, Highbridge, Wookey Hole, 70, 71 Partick, 363, 365 Patrixbourne, 6 Patti, Madame, and Craig-y-Nos, 177, 178 Paxton, Sir Joseph, 268 Pearl-fishery at Deganwy, 221 Peden the Covenanter, 334 Peel Castle, 286 Pegwell Bay, 6 Pembroke, Old and New, 183, 184 Pembroke Castle, 183 Pendle Hill, 276 Penmaenmawr, 209 Penmaenpool, 198, 202 Penrhyn Castle, 209 Pentillie Castle, 58 Perddyn, The, 171 Peterloo massacre, 250 Petteril, The, and Greystoke Castle, 307 Pillar Mountain, 297 Plinlimmon, source of five rivers, 82, 124; legendary associations, 125, 126 Plym, The: Rise and outlet, 49; Cadaford Bridge, Shaugh Prior, the Dewerstone, the Meavy, Sheepstor, Bickleigh Vale, Plympton Priory, 50; Plympton, Earl, and Sir Joshua Reynolds, Laira Bridge, and Saltram, 51; Plymouth, Devonport, and Stonehouse, 52, 53 Plymouth, 50-53 Plympton Earl and Sir Joshua Reynolds, 51 Plympton St. Mary, 50 Pont Neath Vaughan, 171 Pontypridd and its bridge, 163, 164 Portmadoc, 203, 204 Portsmouth, Earl of, Seat of, 46 Postling and the southern branch of the Canterbury Stour, 3 Potrail, The, 343 Poulton-le-Fylde, 280 Powderham Castle, 34 Powys Castle, 87 Prehistoric animals, Remains of, 273 Preston: Antiquity, Anglo-Saxon remains, rout of the Royalists, buildings, 278; port and docks, 279 Prestonbury, 38 Pretenders, The, at Lancaster, 283 Priesthill and the shooting of John Brown, 332 Prior Matthew, Birthplace of, 23 Pulborough, 11 "Q.," Old, 320 Quatford, 102 Queensberry, First Duke of, and Drumlanrig Castle, 319 Quicksands of Morecambe Bay, 285, 286 Quothquan, 345 Raglan Castle and its siege, 155 Ramsgate, 6 Red Scar, 278 Red Screes, 285 Redbridge, 20 Renfrew, 366, 367 Restormel Castle, 61, 62 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, and his birthplace, 51; at Plymouth with Dr. Johnson, 53 Rhayader Gwy, 126, 127 Rheidol, The, 189, 190 Rhuddlan, 223; Castle and historical associations, 225, 226 Rhyl, 223 Rhys ap Thomas, Sir and Carew Castle, 182 Ribble, The: Source, 271, 272; Settle, formation of the railway and diversion of the river, Horton-in-Ribblesdale, 272; legendary giants, Giggleswick, cascades near Stainforth, whortleberry and mushroom produce, 273; peel-house at Hellifield, 273, 274; Gisburne Hall, wild cattle, Bowland Forest, the Hodder, Whitewell Chapel, Brownsholm Hall, and the Seal of the Commonwealth, 274; Stonyhurst College and the Sherburne family, 274-276; the Calder, Burnley, Pendle Hill, and a story of Fox, 276; Towneley Hall and the ruins of Whalley Abbey, 276, 278; allusions of Philip Gilbert Hamerton, 278; Preston, 278, 279 Richard II., landing at Milford Haven on his return from Ireland, 185; at Conway Castle, 220; a captive at Rhuddlan Castle, 226; at Flint Castle, 239 Richborough Castle, 6 Rivington Pike, 279 Robartes, Lord, Cornish home of, 61 Robertsbridge and the Cistercian Abbey, 8 Roch, The, 246 Romsey: Salmon-fishing, and the abbey, 19 Ropley Dean, and the source of the Itchen, 14 Roseneath, 368 Ross Town and the "Man of Ross," 136-138 Rothay (or Rotha), The: Its feeders, Codale Tarn, Easedale, 288; Helm Crag, Wordsworth's allusion, Grasmere, the Church, aspect of the country in former times, 289; Wordsworth's Cottage, 289, 290; hills and other scenery round Grasmere, 290; Rydal, Rydal Water and Forest, 290, 291; Ambleside, junction with the Brathay, fall into Windermere, 291 Rother, The Eastern, and Bodiam Castle, 7, 8; source, Robertsbridge and its abbey, tributaries, scenery, Isle of Oxney, and Winchelsea, 8 Row, 369 Royal Military Canal, 7 Rugby, 108 Runcorn, 255, 257, 258 Rupert, Prince, and the siege of Liverpool, 262 Ruskin, Mr.: Guild of St. George at Barmouth, 203; allusion to scenery in the Vale of Llangollen, 232; and Brantwood, 294 Rutherglen, 358, 361 Rydal Water, 290, 291 Rye, 7, 8 Saddleback, 298 St. Asaph and its cathedral, 227 St. Augustine, Arrival of, 4; and Littlebourne, 6 St. Austell, The, 55 St. Bride of Douglas, Church of, and the Douglas family, 347 St. Cadoc creek, The, 62 St. Constantine, Churchyard of, 344 St. Finbarrus, first Bishop of Cork, Church dedicated to, 63 St. Giles's Park, 24 St. John's Beck, The, 298 St. Kentigern, Legendary story of, 358 St. Leonard's Forest, 10, 11 St. Michael's, Lancashire, 280 St. Mungo, 358 St. Neot, 61 St. Nicholas-at-Wade, Ford at, 6 St. Patrick, Birthplace of, 366 St. Wilfrid and the South Saxons, 13 Salford, 246, 248, 254. (_See also_ Manchester) Salisbury and the Avon, 22; Cathedral, 23 Saltash, 55, 59 Saltport, 258 Sandwich, 6, 7 Sark, The, 312 Sarr, 5, 6 Sawddy, The, 178 Scafell, 295 Scorhill Down and the "Clam" Bridge, 37, 38 Scott, Sir Walter, at Wordsworth's cottage when an Inn, 290; his visit to the Church of St. Bride of Douglas, 347; and "Old Mortality," 351, 354 Seaford, 8, 10 Seal of the Commonwealth, The, at Brownsholm Hall, 274 Seaton, The, 55 Sedgemoor, 70 Sefton Park, 267 Seiont, The: Length, Pass of Llanberis, 205; Dolbadarn Castle and Ceunant Mawr, 205, 206; view of Snowdon, Carnarvon Castle, Carnarvon, Conway, and the Isle of Anglesea, 206 Serpent of the Wye, The, Legend of, 135 Settle, 272 "Seven Wonders of Wales," 232, 233, 236 Severn, The: Source, 82; length, 82 and _note_; and the course of the Dee, 83; scenery near source, 83; its ancient names, 84; Llanidloes, 84, 85; Blaenhafren, 84; Cefn Carnedd, 85, 86; Caersws fortress, Newtown and Robert Owen, 86; Montgomery, its castle and the Herberts of Cherbury, 86, 87; Welshpool, Powys Castle, Roman entrenchments, the Long Mountain, the Breidden Hills, 87; Vyrnwy tributary, Liverpool water-supply, 88; views from the hills, 87; Shrewsbury, 90-94; Haughmond Hill, 94, 95; Augustinian Priory, 95; Atcham, Wroxeter Church, site of Uriconium, 96; relics of Roman times, 97; Condover, the Wrekin, Benthall Edge, Much Wenlock, Buildwas Abbey, 98; Coalbrook Dale, Ironbridge, Broseley, Benthall, 99; Bridgnorth, 99, 100; Quatford, Bewdley, Kidderminster, Stourport and the canal, 102; Worcester, 102-104; the Teme, Ludlow Castle and Church, 104; Kemsey and Upton, 104; Tewkesbury, 106; Deerhurst, 119; Gloucester, its cathedral and historical associations, 119-122; Telford's bridge, 122; tidal wave, 122; Minsterworth, Westbury, Newnham, Berkeley, Lydney, Sharpness Bridge, tunnel, the estuary, 123 Shaftesbury, Earls of, and St. Giles's Park, 23 Shakespeare, his associations with Stratford-on-Avon, 111-114; his allusions to Kendal, 288 Shandon, 369 Sharpness, 123 Sheffield, Earl of, Seat of, 10 Shelley and Tremadoc, 204 Sherburne family, The, and Stonyhurst College, 274, 275 Ship-Canal, Manchester, 247, 248, 250, 254, 255, 257 Shoreham, 11 Shottery and Anne Hathaway, 111 Shrewsbury: Situation and history, 90; attacks on the fortress, bridges over the Severn, birthplace of Admiral Benbow and Charles Darwin, school, 91; black-timbered houses, Ireland's Mansion, 92; churches, 94; museum, 97 Sid, The, 27 Siddons, Mrs., Birthplace of, 151 Sigourney, Lydia, Lines on Carlisle by, 309 Silverdale, 285, 286 Simon de Montfort, Death of, 115 Simonsbath, 28 Skelton, John, Lampoons of, 305; in sanctuary at Westminster, and story of his student days, 306 Skiddaw, 298, 307 Smeaton and the Eddystone, 52 Smollett, The home of, 367 Snowdon, 204, 205, 210 Solway Firth, 301, 302, 312 Sorn, 332; the castle, 333; the village and the memories of Burns, 333, 334 South Molton, 46 South Tawton, 46 Southampton, 13, 14; docks, piers, suburbs, etc., 19 Southampton Water, 1 Southey, Birthplace of, 78; his allusion to the Vale of St. John's, 298; burialplace, 299 Southwick, 13 Spencer: Allusions to the Dee, 229, 237; allusions to the Lune, 281, 284 Sprint, The, 286 Stainforth, 273 Stair House, 335 Stanley, Mr. H. M., Birthplace of, 228 Stanley family, The, and Liverpool, 260 Starcross, 34 Staverton, 42 Steele, Sir Richard, and Carmarthen, 179, 180 Stephen, King, and his siege of Shrewsbury, 90, 91 Stevenson, R. L., his character of the Lord Justice Clerk in "Weir of Hermiston," 350 Stewart, Dugald, entertains Robert Burns at Catrine House, 334 Steyning, 11 Stockbridge, 19 Stockport: A railway centre, 244; antiquity, historical associations and trade, 245 Stonebyres Linn, 351 Stonehouse, 51, 53 Stoneleigh Abbey, 108 Stonyhurst College, 274-276 Stour, The (Canterbury): Peculiarities, 2; branches, length of course and valley, 3; angling, 3, 5; Ashford, Lenham, Postling, Lyminge, and Wye, 3; Canterbury, 4; Fordwich, 4, 5; Grove Ferry and Sarr, 5, 6; Isle of Thanet, 6; Pegwell Bay, 6 Stour, The (Dorsetshire): Source, and confluence with the Avon, 23; Canford Hall, Gaunt's House, St. Giles's Park, Wimborne and Matthew Prior, 23 Stour, The Lesser: Source and course, Bishopsbourne Church and Bishop Hooker, Cranmer's Palace at Bekesbourne, and general features of the watershed, 6; Sandwich, 7 Stourhead, 23 Stourmouth, 6 Stourport, 102 Strata Florida Abbey, 186 Stratford-on-Avon: The town, 110; Shakespeare, Anne Hathaway, and Sir Thomas Lucy, 111; the church, the poet's burialplace, and monument, 113, 114 Stretford, 245 Sundrum, 335 Swallow Falls, 210, 211 Swanbourne Mill, 11 Swansea: Origin of name, industrial history, 174; Morriston Castle, the Mumbles, literary associations, 175 Sweetheart Abbey, 322 Swift, The, 108 Sychnant, The, 170, 171 Symond's Yat, View from, 140, 141 Taf, The, 180 Taff, The, 159, 160; sources, 161; water-supply of Cardiff, 163; Merthyr and its factories, Dowlais Steel and Iron Works, scenery of affluents, 163; Pontypridd, 163, 164; Castell Coch and its wines, 164; Llandaff, its cathedral and village, 165, 166; Cardiff, 166-168 Tal-y-Llyn, 197 Talsarn Mountain, 149 Tamar, The, 46; its rise, course, scenery on upper waters, cascade at Weir Head, 55; Morwell Rocks, 55, 56; Morwellham, Harewood, and Calstock, 56; Cotehele House, Kit Hill, Danescombe Valley, Pentillie Castle, Cargreen, St. Budeaux Church, Trematon Castle, and junction with the Tavy, 58; width at Saltash, characteristics of Saltash, the Hamoaze, 59 Tame, The, 243 Tarbolton, 335 Tarel, The, 150 Tarras, The, 314 Taunton, 68-70 Tavistock and Drake, 45 Tavy, The: Course and richness of scenery, 45; Tavistock and Drake, 45; Buckland Abbey, tributaries, and confluence with the Tamar, 46, 58 Taw, The: Length, general features, South Tawton and the Oxenhams, Eggesford, Chulmleigh, view from Coddon Hill, Bishop's Tawton, and Tawstock Park, 46; Barnstaple, its history and antiquity, 47; Lundy, Hartland Point, and Baggy Point, 47 Tawe, The, 159, 160; Swansea, 174-176; Mumbles, 175; length, Morriston, 176; the Twrch affluent, 176; Craig-y-Nos and Madame Patti, 177, 178; source, 178 Teifi (or Tivy), The: Source, Great Monastery, the "Westminster of Wales," 186; Tregaron, Llanddewi Brefi, Derry Ormond column and its romance, Newcastle, Cenarth, 187; Kilgerran Castle, Cardigan, 188; Gwbert-on-the-Sea, 189 Teign, The: Source and tributaries, 37; the "Clam" bridge near Scorhill, 37, 38; Leigh Bridge, Chagford, "logan" stone, view of gorge from Fingle Bridge, Prestonbury, Cranbrook, Dunsford Bridge, Heltor, Blackstone, Chudleigh and its limestone, 38; waters of the Bovey, Newton Abbot and the Prince of Orange's proclamation, 39; Teignmouth, 40 Teignmouth, 40 Teme, The, 104 Tennyson at Freshwater, 20; allusions to the Wye, 144; and Llanberis, 205; allusion to Bala Lake, 230 Tern, The, 96 Test, The, 12; source, 13; characteristics, length, tributaries, Stockbridge, angling at Romsey, 19 Tewkesbury, 106; Abbey Church and timbered houses, 115, 116; the last battle between Lancaster and York, 117, 118 Thirlmere, 298 Threave Castle and its history, 322, 323 Tichborne, 15 Tintern Abbey, 145, 146 Tinto Hill, 344; prospect from, 345 Titchfield, The, 12 Titus, Colonel Silas, 62 Tiverton: Former name, Church of St. Peter, Castle, the Grammar School and Peter Blundell, 30 Tomb, Miraculous, at Christchurch, 157 Tone, The, 68 Tong, The, 246 Topsham, 34 Torridge, The, 37, 46; its rise and circuitous course, 47; features of the valley, 47; Torrington and its church, 47, 48; Bideford and its historical associations, 48, 49; Hubbastone, Instow, and Appledore, 49 Torrington and its church, 47, 48 Tortington, 11 Totnes, 42, 43 Tower Lindsay, 344 Towneley Hall and the Towneley family, 276, 278 Towy, The: Source, scenery, absence of pollution, affluents, Ystradffin and the story of Twm Shon Catti, Llandovery, 178; bridges, Llandilo, Dynevor Castle, Golden Grove, Dryslwyn Castle, Nelson monument, the Cothi, Llanegwad, 179; Carmarthen, 79, 80 Towyn, 198 Traeth Bach, The, 204 Train, George Francis, 268 Trecastle, 150 Treffry family, The, Seat of, 63 Trefriw, 218 Tregaron, 187 Tregony, 63 Tregothman, 63, 64 Tremadoc and Shelley, 204 Trothey, The, 143 "Trough of the Clyde," The, 350, 351 Troutbeck, The: Troutbeck village, Ill Bell, 292 Truro, 63, 64; and the jurisdiction over Falmouth, 65; rivalry with Falmouth, 66 Truro River, 63 Twy-ford-town. (_See_ Tiverton) Uddington, 357 Ulleswater, 303 Ulverston Sands, 286 University College, Liverpool, 267 Upavon, 22 Upton, 104 Urieoninm, Site of, 96, 97 Usk, The: Its rise, the Henwen brook, 149; Trecastle and earthworks of Bernard Newmarch's Castle, Drayton's "Cray," Forest of Brecon and its outlaws, the Yscir, remains of Roman camp, view from Llanspyddid, 150; Brecon, 150, 151; "Arthur's Chair," 151; the Beacons, 150, 152; Bwlch, 152; Dinas Castle and Alfred the Great's daughter, Crickhowell and the Well of St. Cenan, Llangattock Park and its cave, Llangwryney, junction with the Gwryney, 153; Abergavenny, 153, 154; Raglan Castle, salmon and trout fishing, Usk and its castle, Caerleon and Roman relics, centre of one of the ancient British kingdoms, 156; miraculous tomb, Newport, Earl of Gloucester's Castle, 157; tower of St. Woollos' Church, 158 Usk town, a Roman station, castle, and scene of defeat of Owen Glendower, 155 Vale of St. John, 298 Valle Crucis Abbey, 232, 233 Victoria University, 251 Vivian, Lord, Seat of, 61 Vyrnwy, The, and the Liverpool water-supply, 88 Wallabrook, The, 37, 38 Wallace, William, Legends of, 337; scenes of his exploits in Clydesdale, 345; his "Tower" and "Chair," 350; and Marion Bradfute, 350; and the "Castle of the Quaw," 351; at Blantyre Priory, 355 Walney Island, 294 Walton, Izaak, his allusions to Fordwich, 5; grave and memorial at Winchester, 16 Wanlockhead, 344 Wantsum, The, 6 War of the Roses and the town of Shrewsbury, 91; battle of Tewkesbury, 117 Warburton, 254, 255 Wareham, 24 Warre, Thomas de la, and Manchester Cathedral, 250 Warrington, 255, 256 Warton the poet, and Wickham, 13 Warwick and its church and castle, 110 Warwick, Guy, Earl of, and Guy's Cliff, 108 Wastwater, 296, 297 Water of Ken, The, 322 Watling Street, Clydesdale, 351 Watt, James, and Glasgow Green, 361; birthplace of, 368 Watt's Dyke, 235, 236 Waugh, the Lancashire poet, and a stranger's description of Wordsworth, 296 Wear Gifford, 48 Wear Water, The, 26 Weaver, The, 258 Weld, Cardinal, and Stonyhurst College, 275 Well of St. Cenau, 153 Welshpool, 87 Wenning, The, 282 Werrington stream, The, 55 West Lynn, The, 29 West Okement, The, 37, 47 Westbury-on-Severn, 123 Westminster, Duke of, and Eaton Hall, 237 Weston-Zoyland, 70 Wetheral, The "Safeguards" and the priory at, 306 Wethercoats Cave, Waterfall of, 282 Whaddon streamlet, The, 74 Whalley Abbey, 276, 278 Wharton Crags, 286 Whernside Heights, 272 Wherwell, 19 Whewell, Dr., Birthplace of, 284 Whitchurch, 19 White Cart, Valley of the, 366 Whiteinch, 365, 366 Whitewell Chapel, 274 Wickham, birthplace of William Wykeham, and residence of Warton the poet, 13 Wickham Breaux, 6 Wiclif and Lutterworth, 108 Widnes, 257 Wigtown martyrs, 325, 326 Wiley, The, 22 William III., his portrait at Drumlanrig Castle stabbed by Highlanders, 320 William Rufus and Armathwaite, 305 William of Wykeham, 13 Wilson, Professor, on the neighbourhood of Windermere, 291 Wilson, Richard, Burialplace of, 237 Wimborne, 23 Winchelsea, 7, 8 Winchester, 15; memorial to Izaak Walton, 16 Windermere: Dimensions, islets, and feeders, 291, 292; depth, angling for char, beauties of the southern end, 293 Winster, The, 288 Wirral Peninsula, 259, 268 Wnion, The: Troutfishing, the Torrent Walk, 198; cataract, 199; Dolgelley, 200, 201 Wookey Hole, 71 Wootton river, The, 22 Worcester: History, 102, 103; Cathedral, 103, 104 Wordsworth, his lines on the Wye, 144; and the estuary of the Mawddach, 202; and Mrs. Hemans crossing the Ulverston Sands, 286; allusion to Kendal, 288; and Easedale Tarn, 288, 289; his cottage and burialplace, 289, 290; on the river Duddon, 294; sonnets on Donnerdale, 294, 295; described by a local gossip, 297; birthplace, 300; on the Eden river, 303; on the scenery of the Clyde, 349, 350 Workington, 300 Wrekin, The, 94, 98 Wrexham Church, 236 Wroxeter, 96 Wrynose Fell, 294 Wye, The: Source, 82, 124; Llangurig, Rhayader Gwy, 126, 127; the Llyn-Gwyn, 127; the Elan tributary, Nantgwillt and Shelley, scenery on the Elan, the Yrfon and Wolf's Leap, 128; burialplace of Llewelyn, 129; Llandrindod and its wells, 129; Builth and Llewelyn's ride, Hay and its castle and legends, 130-132; Clifford Castle and Rosamond, 132, 133; Hereford, Offa, Llewelyn, 133; murder of Ethelbert and origin of the cathedral, 134; "Mappa Mundi," 134, 135; Wye Bridge, Mordiford and the legend of a serpent, "The Wonder," 135; Ross and the "Man of Ross," 136-138; Goodrich Castle, Forest of Dean, Courtfield, 138; Coldwell Rocks, 138, 140; resemblance to the Moselle, 140; view from Symond's Yat, 141; Monmouth, 141, 142; Golden Valley, Abbey Dore, Norman church of Kilpeck, tributaries, 142; Llanthony and W. S. Landor, 142, 143; Wordsworth's and Tennyson's lines, 144; Tintern Abbey, 145, 146; view from Wyndcliff, 146; Chepstow, 146, 147; junction with the Severn, 148 Wye racecourse, 3 Wyndcliff, View of nine counties from, 146 Wynn, Sir John, 218 Wynn, Sir Richard, 221 Wynn, Sir Watkin Williams, Seat of, 234 Wynnstay, 234, 235 Wyre, The: Source, Fleetwood, the fells, 279; St. Michael's, Poulton-le-Fylde, 280 Wyre Water, 280 Yar, The, rising at Freshwater, 22 Yar, The eastern, 22 Yarmouth, 20 Yealm, The, 49 Yeo, The, or Ivel, 68 Yoker, 366 Yrfon, The, 128 Yscir, The, 150 Ystradfellte, 169 Ystradffin and the story of Twm Shon Catti, 178 Ystradgynlais, 176 Ystwith, The: Rise and length, 189; Eglwys Newydd and mountain scenery, 190; Aberystwith, 190, 192 [Illustration] /Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E. C./ FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: The Severn is about 200 miles in length, the Thames being about 250. The Dee is hardly more than 90 miles.] [Footnote 2: "Our Own Country," Vol. V., p. 160.] [Footnote 3: "Our Own Country," Vol. V., p. 169.] [Footnote 4: "Our Own Country." Vol. V., p. 183.] [Footnote 5: "Our Own Country." Vol. V. p. 186.] [Footnote 6: Dean Spence in "Cathedrals, Abbeys and Churches," p. 774.] [Footnote 7: Green. "Short History of the English People," ch. iii.] [Footnote 8: Quoted in "The Wye and its Associations," by Leitch Ritchie.] [Footnote 9: For Map of the Usk _see ante_, p. 127.] [Footnote 10: "Our Own Country," Vol. V.] 
47726	----	[Illustration: ON THE WHARFE--BOLTON ABBEY. W.H.J. BOOT R.B.A. DELT C.O. MURRAY SCULPT] _THE WHARFE, FROM BOLTON ABBEY.--A few signed Artist's Proofs of this Etching on India paper can be obtained, price £1 1s. each, on application to the Publishers_, CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, Ludgate Hill, London. THE RIVERS OF GREAT BRITAIN DESCRIPTIVE HISTORICAL PICTORIAL _RIVERS OF THE EAST COAST_ [Illustration] CASSELL & COMPANY LIMITED _LONDON PARIS NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_ 1889 [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] [Illustration] CONTENTS. THE HIGHLAND DEE.--_By FRANCIS WATT._ PAGE The Source: Larig and Garchary Burns--In the Heart of the Cairngorm Mountains--Ben Macdhui and Braeriach--"A Fery Fulgar Place"--A Highland Legend--The Linn of Dee--Byron's Narrow Escape--The Floods of 1829--Lochnagar and Mary Duff--Influence of the Dee on Byron--Braemar and the Rising of '15--Corriemulzie and its Linn--Balmoral--The "Birks" of Abergeldie--Their Transplantation by Burns--What is Collimankie?--Ballater: the Slaying of "Brave Brackley"--Craigendarroch--The Reel of Tullich and the Origin Thereof--The Legend of St. Nathdan--Mythological Parallels--The Muich--Morven: the Centre of Highland Song and Legend--Birse--Lunphanan Wood--The Battle of Corrichie--Queen Mary and Sir John Gordon--At Aberdeen 1 THE TAY.--_By JOHN GEDDIE._ The Tiber and the Tay--History and Legend--Perthshire and the Tay--The Moor of Rannoch--Blair--Pitlochrie--Killin--Kenmore--The Lyon--The "Rock of Weem"--The "Birks" of Aberfeldy--Dunkeld and Birnam--Invertuthil--The Loch of Clunie--The Isla--Strathmore--Dunsinane Hill--Scone and the Ruthvens--Perth--The Views from Moncrieffe and Kinnoull--Strathearn and the Carse of Gowrie--Dundee--The Tay Bridge, New and Old--View from the "Law"--"Men of Blood" and Men of Business 17 THE FORTH.--_By JOHN GEDDIE._ Comparative--Poetry, Romance, and History--Loch Ard and Flora McIvor--The "Clachan of Aberfoyle"--Lake of Menteith--The Trossachs and Loch Katrine--Ellen and Helen--Loch Achray--Ben Ledi--The View from Stirling Castle--Stirling Town--Bannockburn--The Ochils and the Devon Valley--Alloa--Clackmannan--Kincardine-on-Forth--Tulliallan Castle--Culross: Abbey and Burgh--The "Standard Stone"--Torryburn--Rosyth Castle--"St. Margaret's Hope"--Dunfermline: Tower, Palace, and Abbey--The New Forth Bridge--Inch Garvie and its Castle--Inverkeithing Bay--Donibristle House--Aberdour--Inchcolm, Cramond, Inchkeith, and May Islands--The Bass Rock--Kirkcaldy Bay--Edinburgh--Leith--Seton--Aberlady--Round to North Berwick--Tantallon Castle 41 THE TWEED.--_By W. W. HUTCHINGS._ CHAPTER I.--FROM BERWICK TO KELSO.--Leading Characteristics--The View from Berwick--Lindisfarne--The History and Present State of Berwick--Norham Castle and Marmion--Ladykirk--Tillmouth--Twisell Castle and Bridge--Ford Castle and Flodden--Coldstream--Wark Castle--Hadden Rig 72 CHAPTER II.--FROM KELSO TO TWEEDSWELL.--Kelso and its Abbey--Roxburghe Castle--Floors Castle--The Teviot--Ancrum--Carlenrig--The Ale--The Jed and Jedburgh--Mertoun--Smailholm Tower and Sandyknowe--Eildon and Sir Michael Scott--Dryburgh--The Leader and Thomas the Rhymer--Melrose--Skirmish Hill--Abbotsford--The Ettrick and the Yarrow--Ashestiel--Innerleithen--Horsburgh Castle--Peebles--Neidpath--Manor--Drummelzier--The Crook Inn--Tweedswell 90 THE COQUET.--_By AARON WATSON._ The Fisherman's River--"Awa' to the Border"--Peat-Hags--Eel-Fishing--Alwinton and Harbottle--The Village of Rothbury--Brinkburn Priory--Weldon Bridge and Felton--Warkworth Hermitage and Castle--The Town of Amble--Coquet Isle 113 THE TYNE.--_By AARON WATSON._ CHAPTER I.--THE NORTH TYNE.--Peel Fell--Deadwater Bog--Keilder Castle and the Keilder Moors--The Border Peel--Border Feuds and Friendships--The Charltons--Bellingham--The Reed--Tyne Salmon--The Village of Wark--Chipchase Castle--Haughton Castle and the Swinburnes--Chollerford and the Roman Wall--The Meeting of the Waters 129 CHAPTER II.--THE SOUTH TYNE.--On the "Fiend's Fell"--Tyne Springs--Garrigill--Alston and the Moors--Knaresdale Hall--The Ridleys--Haltwhistle--Allendale--Haydon Bridge and John Martin--The Arthurian Legends 143 CHAPTER III.--FROM HEXHAM TO NEWCASTLE.--Hexham and the Abbey Church--Dilston Hall--The Derwentwater Rising--Corbridge--Bywell Woods--Prudhoe and Ovingham--Stephenson's Birthplace--Ryton and Newburn--The Approach to Newcastle 150 CHAPTER IV.--FROM NEWCASTLE TO THE SEA.--The Growth of Tyneside--"The Coaly Tyne"--Newcastle Bridges--Local Industries--Poetical Eulogies--Tyneside Landscapes--Sandgate and the Keelmen--Wallsend--Jarrow and the Venerable Bede--The Docks--Shields Harbour--North and South Shields--The Tyne Commission--Tynemouth Priory--The Open Sea 157 THE WEAR.--_By JOHN GEDDIE._ William of Malmesbury on the Wear--Its Associations--Upper Weardale and its Inhabitants--Stanhope--Hunting the Scots--Wolsingham--Bollihope Fell and the "Lang Man's Grave"--Hamsterley--Witton-le-Wear--Bishop Auckland--Binchester--Brancepeth Castle--The View from Merrington Church Tower--Wardenlaw--Durham--St. Cuthbert--His Movements during Life and Afterwards--The Growth of his Patrimony--Bishop Carilepho and his Successors--The Battle of Neville's Cross--The Bishopric in Later Times--The Cathedral, Without and Within--The Conventual Buildings--The Castle--Bear Park--Ushaw--Finchale--Chester-le-Street--Lumley and Lambton Castles--Biddick--Hylton--Sunderland and the Wearmouths--The North Sea 173 THE TEES.--_By AARON WATSON._ Among the Fells--The Weel--Caldron Snout--High Force--Gibson's Cave--Bow Leys--Middleton-in-Teesdale--The Lune and the Balder--Scandinavian Names--Cotherstone Cheese--History in Teesdale--Scott's Description of the Tees--Egliston Abbey--Greta Bridge--Dickens and Mr. Squeers--Brignal Banks and Rokeby--The Village of Ovington--Gainford--Pierce Bridge--High and Low Coniscliffe--Croft--Yarm--The Industries of the Tees--Stockton--Middlesbrough--The Sea 197 THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. _By the REV. CANON BONNEY, D.Sc., F.R.S._ CHAPTER I.--THE TRENT, FROM THE SOURCE TO NEWTON SOLNEY.--The Course of the Trent--A Lowland Stream--Etymological--A Fish-Stream--The Source--The Potteries--Burslem, Etruria, and Josiah Wedgwood--Stoke-upon-Trent--Trentham Hall--Stone--Sandon--Chartley Castle--Ingestre and its Owners--The Sow--Tixall--Essex Bridge--Shugborough--Cannock Chase--Rugeley--Beaudesert--Armitage--The Blyth--Alrewas--The Tame--Burton-upon-Trent--Newton Solney 221 _By EDWARD BRADBURY._ CHAPTER II.--THE DOVE.--What's in the Name--Axe Edge and Dove Head--The Monogram--Glutton Mill--Hartington--Beresford Dale--Pike Pool--Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton--Beresford Hall--Dove Dale--Its Associations--Ilam--The Manifold--Ashbourne--Doveridge--Uttoxeter--Sudbury--Tutbury--The Confluence 240 _By CANON BONNEY._ CHAPTER III.--THE TRENT, FROM NEWTON SOLNEY TO THE DERWENT.--Newton Solney--Repton: the School and the Church--Swarkestone: its Bridge and its Church--Chellaston--Donington Park and Castle Donington--Cavendish Bridge 251 _By EDWARD BRADBURY._ CHAPTER IV.--THE DERWENT.--The Derwent in its Infancy--Derwent Chapel and Hall--Hathersage--Eyam--Grindleford Bridge--Chatsworth--The "Peacock" at Rowsley--Haddon Hall--The Wye and the Lathkill--Darley Dale and its Yew-tree--The Sycamores of Oker Hill--The Matlocks and High Tor--Cromford and Willersley Castle--Ambergate--Belper--Derby--Elvaston 257 _By CANON BONNEY._ CHAPTER V.--THE TRENT, FROM THE DERWENT TO THE HUMBER.--The Soar--Trent Junction--The Erewash--Gotham and its Wise Men--Clifton Hall and Grove--Nottingham and its History--Colwich Hall and Mary Chaworth--Sherwood Forest--Newark--Gainsborough--Axholme--The Confluence with the Humber 277 _By W. S. CAMERON._ CHAPTER VI.--THE WHARFE.--General Characteristics--The Skirfare--Langstrothdale--Kettlewell--Dowkabottom Cave--Coniston and its Neighbourhood--Rylstone and the Nortons--Burnsall--Appletreewick: an Eccentric Parson--Simon's Seat--Barden Tower and the Cliffords--The "Strid"--Bolton Abbey and Bolton Hall--The Bridge--Ilkley--Denton and the Fairfaxes--Farnley Hall and Turner--Otley--Harewood--Towton Field--Kirkby Wharfe--Bolton Percy 292 _By W. S. CAMERON._ CHAPTER VII.--THE OUSE.--The Ure and the Swale--Myton and the "White Battle"--Nun Monckton, Overton, and Skelton--The Nidd--York--Bishopthorpe--Selby--The Derwent--The Aire--Howden--Goole--The Don 310 _By W. S. CAMERON._ CHAPTER VIII.--THE ESTUARY.--Drainage and Navigation--Dimensions of the Humber--The Ferribys--Barton-upon-Humber--Hull--Paull--Sunk Island--Spurn Point--Great Grimsby--Places of Call 320 THE RIVERS OF THE WASH.--_By CANON BONNEY._ THE WITHAM: Grantham--Lincoln--Boston. THE NEN: Naseby--Northampton--Earls Barton--Castle Ashby--Wellingborough--Higham Ferrers--Thrapston--Oundle--Castor--Peterborough. THE WELLAND: Market Harborough--Rockingham--Stamford. THE OUSE: Bedford--St. Neots--Huntingdon--St. Ives. THE CAM: Cambridge--"Five Miles from Anywhere"--Ely. FENS AND FENLAND TOWNS: Wisbeach--Spalding--King's Lynn--Crowland 326 THE RIVERS OF EAST ANGLIA.--_By W. SENIOR._ THE CROUCH: Foulness--Little Barsted and Langdon--Canewdon--Rayleigh--Hockley Spa. THE BLACKWATER: Saffron Walden--Radwinter--Cadham Hall and Butler--Bocking--Braintree--Felix Hall--Braxted Lodge--Tiptree--Maldon. THE CHELMER: Thaxted--The Dunmows--Great Waltham--Springfield--Chelmsford--Mersea Island. THE COLNE: Great Yeldham--Castle Hedingham--Halstead--Colchester. THE STOUR: Kedington--Sudbury--Flatford and John Constable--Harwich. THE ORWELL: Stowmarket--Barham--Ipswich. THE DEBEN: Debenham--Woodbridge--Felixstowe. THE ALDE: Aldborough--Southwold--Halesworth. THE WAVENEY: Diss--Bungay--Mettingham--Beccles--Breydon Water--Horsey Mere. THE BURE: Hickling Broads--St. Benet's Abbey--Salhouse and Wroxham Broads--Hoverton Great Broad--Horning Ferry--Fishing in the Broads. THE YARE: Norwich--Yarmouth 350 [Illustration] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. ON THE WHARFE--BOLTON ABBEY _Frontispiece._ _THE HIGHLAND DEE_:-- PAGES Ben Macdhui--The Highland Dee (_Map_)--Linn of Dee--Linn of Corriemulzie--Lochnagar--Braemar--View from the Old Bridge, Invercauld, Braemar--Balmoral--The Castle--Abergeldie Castle--Ballater--Aberdeen 1-16 _THE TAY_:-- Bridge of Tay, Kenmore--The Tay (_Map_)--"Birks" of Aberfeldy--Aberfeldy, from the West--Bridge of Garry--Birnam, from Birnam Hill--Dunsinane Hill--Scone Palace, Perth--Perth, from the West--Tay Street, Perth--On the Firth of Tay--The New Tay Viaduct, from the South--Dundee, from Broughty Ferry--Dundee--Broughty Ferry Castle 17-40 _THE FORTH_:-- Ben and Loch Lomond--The Forth (_Map_)--"Ellen's Isle"--The Trossachs and Ben Venue--Old Bridge of Forth, Stirling--Stirling, from Abbey Craig--Alloa Pier--Salmon Fishing near Stirling--Culross, from the Pier--Culross Abbey--Dunfermline--Forth Bridge, from the South-West--Shore Street, Leith--Edinburgh, from the Fife Shore--Portobello--Kirkcaldy, from the South-East--The Bass Rock, from North Berwick--Tantallon Castle, looking East--North Berwick, from the Harbour 41-71 _THE TWEED_:-- Berwick-on-Tweed--High Street, Berwick, with the Town Hall--The Royal Border Bridge, Berwick--The Course of the Tweed (_Map_)--View from the Ramparts, Berwick--Norham Castle--Junction of the Till and the Tweed--Tillmouth House, from the Banks of the Till--Ford Castle--Flodden Field--Twisell Bridge--Junction of the Till and the Glen--The Glen at Coupland--Coldstream Bridge, from up-stream--Ruins of Wark Castle--Kelso, with Rennie's Bridge--Dryburgh Abbey, from the East--Ruins of Roxburghe Castle--Melrose Abbey, from the South-East--Melrose Abbey: the East Window--Abbotsford--Galashiels--Peebles, from a little below Neidpath--Neidpath Castle--Hart Fell 72-112 _THE COQUET_:-- Among the Fells--The Course of the Coquet (_Map_)--Harbottle--Alwinton Bridge--The Coquet at Farnham--On the Coquet, Brinkburn--At Felton--Morwick Mill, Acklington--Warkworth Castle--The Village of Warkworth--Hunting on Coquetside 113-128 _THE TYNE_:-- Keilder Moors (with Peel Fell to the Right)--The Course of the Tyne (_Map_)--Keilder Castle--Greystead Bridge--Dally Castle--Bellingham Church--Chipchase Castle--Haughton Castle--At Warden--Alston Moor--Featherstone Castle--Featherstone Bridge--Haltwhistle--Haydon Bridge--Hexham Abbey--Prudhoe Castle--Corbridge--Bywell Castle--Newburn--Ovingham--The High-level Bridge at Gateshead--Coal Trimmers--A Coal Staithe--Newcastle-on-Tyne--Quay at Newcastle--Shields Harbour: the High Lights--The River at Tynemouth Castle--Jarrow Church: the Saxon Tower--Tynemouth, from the Sea--Tynemouth, from Cullercoats 129-172 _THE WEAR_:-- In Weardale--The Course of the Wear (_Map_)--Stanhope Bridge--Rogerley--Wolsingham--Harperley--Witton-le-Wear--Bishop Auckland Palace and Park--Willington--Brancepeth Castle--Distant View of Durham--Durham Cathedral and Castle--Chester-le-Street--Distant View of Lambton Castle--Monkwearmouth Church--Looking up the River, Sunderland 173-193 _THE TEES_:-- Cross Fell--The Course of the Tees (_Map_)--High Force--From York Side--Barnard Castle--Barnard Castle: the Town--On the Greta at Rokeby--Junction of the Greta and the Tees--Wycliffe--Gainford Croft--Blackwell Bridge--Yarm--Stockton--High Street, Stockton--Ferryboat Landing, Middlesbrough--Blast Furnaces, from the River, Middlesbrough 197-220 _THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES_:-- THE TRENT, FROM THE SOURCE TO NEWTON SOLNEY.--In the Potteries--The Trent, from the Source to Newton Solney (_Map_)--Etruria--Josiah Wedgwood--Trentham--Ingestre Hall--Wolseley Bridge--Shugborough--Rugeley, from the Stone Quarry--Cannock Chase, from the Trent--From the Meadows near Alrewas--Armitage--Burton-upon-Trent 221-237 THE DOVE.--Dove Head--Map of the Dove--The Monogram at Dove Head--The Banks of the Dove--Ilam Hall--Ashbourne Church--The Straits, Dovedale--John of Gaunt's Gateway, Tutbury Castle 240-250 THE TRENT, FROM NEWTON SOLNEY TO THE DERWENT.--Junction of the Trent and the Dove--Repton--The "Crow Trees," Barrow-on-Trent--The Trent, from Newton Solney to the Derwent (_Map_)--Trent Locks 251-256 THE DERWENT.--Junction of the Derwent and the Trent--The Course of the Derwent (_Map_)--At Ashopton, Derwentdale--Chatsworth--The "Peacock," Rowsley--The Terrace, Haddon Hall--Haddon Hall, from the Wye--Derwent Terrace, Matlock--The High Tor, Matlock--Matlock Bath--Markeaton Bridge--Allestree--Derby, from the Long Bridge--Derby, from St. Mary's Bridge--In the South Gardens, Elvaston 257-276 THE TRENT, FROM THE DERWENT TO THE HUMBER.--Trent Bridge, Nottingham--The Trent, from the Derwent to the Humber (_Map_)--Nottingham, from the Castle--Newark Castle--Carlton--On the Trent at Gainsborough--Old Sluice Gate at Axholme--Meadow Land at Axholme 277-290 THE WHARFE.--Bolton Bridge--The Course of the Wharfe (_Map_)--Skipton Castle, from one of the Towers--Ilkley Bridge--The Bridge, Otley--Farnley Hall--Ruins of Harewood Castle--At Tadcaster--Kirkby Wharfe 292-309 THE OUSE.--The Ouse at York--The Course of the Ouse (_Map_)--Bishopthorpe--Cawood--Selby 310-317 THE ESTUARY.--Barton-upon-Humber--The Course of the Humber--Queen's Dock, Hull--Distant View of Great Grimsby 320-325 _THE RIVERS OF THE WASH_:-- A Bit of Fen--On the Fens in Winter--Map of the Rivers of the Wash--Lincoln, from Canwick--Lincoln Cathedral from the South-West--Boston Church: the Tower--Northampton--Peterborough--Rockingham Village and Castle--Gateway of the Castle--Stamford--Bedford Bridge--Huntingdon Bridge--Old Bridge, St. Ives--Junction of the Cam and the Ouse--Queen's Bridge, Cambridge--Ely Cathedral, from the River--Among the Fens 326-349 _THE RIVERS OF EAST ANGLIA_:-- A Norfolk Broad--Cadham Hall--Portrait of Samuel Butler--Maldon--Map of the East Anglian Rivers--The Shire Hall, Chelmsford--Mill on the Colne--High Street, Colchester--On the Orwell at Ipswich--Harwich: The Quay--The Beach, Yarmouth--Outward Bound 350-370 _We are indebted for the use of Photographs on pages 1, 4, 8, 9, 12, 15, 17, 21, 24, 25, 29, 32, 33, 40, 45, 48, 57, 65, 71, 76, 77, 100, 108, and 109, to Messrs. J. Valentine and Sons, Dundee; on pages 12, 13, 16, 20, 28, 44, 60, 69, 93, 125, 245, 329, and 334, to Messrs. G. W. Wilson and Co., Aberdeen; on pages 53, 73, 74, 92, 96, 105, 193, 205, 217, 250, 300, 316, 317, and 324, to Messrs. Poulton and Son, Lee; on pages 80 and 89, to Mr. T. Scott, Birmingham; on pages 79 and 88, to Mr. T. Foster, Coldstream; on page 85, to Mr. W. Green, Berwick-on-Tweed; on pages 82, 137, and 189, to Mr. H. Piper, Gateshead; on pages 116, 140, 141, 145, 148, 152, 153, and 204, to Mr. J. P. Gibson, Hexham; on pages 120 and 124, to Mr. J. Worsnop, Rothbury; on page 121, to Rev. G. Smith, Bedlington; on pages 145, 200, 208, 209, 211, 213, and 308, to Mr. E. Yeoman, Barnard Castle; on page 150, to Mr. C. C. Hodges, Hexham; on pages 154 and 155, to Messrs. O. M. Lairs and Son, Newcastle-on-Tyne; on pages 181, 184, 189, 265, 269, 277, and 296, to Messrs. Frith and Co., Reigate; on page 212, to Mr. J. W. Cooper, Darlington; on page 224, to Mr. F. Pearson, Basford; on pages 228, 248, 252, 253, 262, 272, 273, 276, 284, and 292, to Mr. R. Keene, Derby; on pages 263 and 264, to Mr. J. W. Hilder, Matlock Bath; on page 288, to Messrs. Allen and Sons, Nottingham; on page 304, to Mr. M. Shuttleworth, Ilkley; on page 336, to Mr. G. A. Nicholls, Stamford; on pages 340 and 341, to Mr. A. Hendrey, Godmanchester; on page 345, to Messrs. Hills and Saunders, Cambridge; on page 353, to Mr. W. W. Gladwin, Maldon; on page 360, to Mr. Gill, Colchester; on pages 350, 357, 360, 361, 364, and 370, to Mr. Payne Jennings, Ashtead._ RIVERS OF GREAT BRITAIN. [Illustration: BEN MACDHUI.] THE HIGHLAND DEE. The Source: Larig and Garchary Burns--In the Heart of the Cairngorm Mountains--Ben Macdhui and Braeriach--"A Fery Falgar Place"--A Highland Legend--The Linn of Dee--Byron's Narrow Escape--The Floods of 1829--Lochnagar and Mary Duff--Influence of the Dee on Byron--Braemar and the Rising of '15--Corriemulzie and its Linn--Balmoral--The "Birks" of Abergeldie--Their Transplantation by Burns--What is Collimankie?--Ballater: The Slaying of "Brave Brackley"--Craigendarroch--The Reel of Tullich and the Origin Thereof--The Legend of St. Nathdan--Mythological Parallels--The Muich--Morven: The Centre of Highland Song and Legend--Birse--Lunphanan Wood--The Battle of Corrichie--Queen Mary and Sir John Gordon--At Aberdeen. Among the streams that meet together in the wild south-west of Aberdeenshire to form the Dee, it is not easy to decide which is chief, or where is the fountain, far up the dark mountain-side, where this parent rill has birth. Dismissing minor pretenders, we can at once state that the original is either the Larig or the Garchary Burn. The first is more in the main line of the river, whilst it has also more water; the second rises higher up, and has a longer course before it reaches the meeting-place. Popularly, the source of the stream is a place about the beginning of the Larig, called the Wells of Dee. Here Nature has built a reservoir perfect in every part. The water escapes from this fountain-head in considerable volume, so that it forms a quite satisfactory source, which we may well adopt. Here, then, our journey commences among "The grizzly cliffs that guard The infant rills of Highland Dee." We are in the very heart of the Cairngorm Mountains, confronted on every side by all that is most savage and grand in nature--frowning precipices, mist-covered heights, sullen black lochs, an almost total absence of vegetation, an almost unbroken solitude. Here rise Ben Macdhui, Braeriach, and Cairntoul, whose streams, running down--often hurled down--their weather-beaten sides, rapidly increase the volume of our river. Braeriach fronts Ben Macdhui on the other side of the infant Dee. It presents to the view a huge line of precipices, dark and sombre, save when the hand of Winter, powdering them with snow, changes them to masses of glittering white. Even at a good distance away you hear the splash and dash of innumerable waterfalls, caused by the burns leaping the cliffs. If you venture to wander among those wilds you must know your ground well, for however bright the day may be one hour, the next you may be shrouded in mist, or drenched with rain, or battered by hail. The mist, indeed, is rarely absent. You see it clinging round the heights and moving restlessly up and down the hillside like some uneasy and malignant spirit. As you walk you are startled at a huge figure striding along. It requires an effort to recognise a mist-picture of yourself--a sort of Scotch Spectre of the Brocken. It was of these wild regions that an old Highlander once remarked to Hill Burton that it was "a fery fulgar place, and not fit for a young shentleman to go to at all." Let us not scorn the ingenuous native; Virgil has said, in the Eclogues (much more elegantly, 'tis true), very much the same thing about very much the same kind of scenery. All our way by Dee will not be among views like this. Indeed, at the mouth are scenes of rich fertility. It is on the fat meadows near Aberdeen that a portion of those innumerable flocks and droves are raised which have so great a reputation in the London market. These are the two extremes, but between them there is every variety of Highland scenery. He who has seen the banks of Dee has seen, as in an epitome or abridgment, all that the north of Scotland has to show. In the midst of variety one thing is constant, whatever landscape you may be passing through: you always have the great hill masses on the horizon. Thus the Dee is a typical Highland river. Even with the sternest parts soft touches are interwoven. Thus take the Lui, which, rising in Ben Macdhui, falls into the Dee at an early point of its course. The lower part of Glen Lui is remarkable for its gentle beauty. The grass is smooth as a lawn, the water of the burn which moves gently along is transparently clear, the regular slope is covered with weeping birches. The perfect solitude of this sweet valley has its own charm, though it be the charm of melancholy. Higher up, nearer Ben Macdhui, in Glen Lui Beg, the scenery is wilder, and the water dashes down more swiftly, as if it longed to be away from its wild source. We must go with it, and bid farewell to Ben Macdhui and the sources of Dee. And for farewell, here is a mountain legend. [Illustration: THE HIGHLAND DEE.] At some time or other a band of robbers who infested this region had acquired a great store of gold. One of their number, named Mackenzie, proved that there is not honour among thieves. He robbed his companions and then hid the twice-cursed pelf in a remote and well-nigh inaccessible spot far up the slope of Ben Macdhui. The work of concealment took him the best part of a short summer night, for the sun rose precisely as he finished. He noticed that as its first beam fell over the ridge to the east, it marked a long burnished line of light over the ground where the treasure lay. This seemed to him to distinguish the spot beyond the possibility of error. Before his death he confided to his sons the secret of his hidden treasure. They were poor and greedy. The rest of their lives was devoted summer after summer to the hunt; but the grim mountain kept its secret well. Often the morning mist mocked their efforts, yet they succeeded no better when, on the anniversary of the burial, the sun rose in a sky of unclouded blue. One by one, prematurely aged, they passed away, till the last died a madman, revealing in his ravings the secret and the ruin of their lives. And still, somewhere on that mountain-side, the gold hoard lies concealed. For some time after we leave the Wells of Dee, we are still in the midst of gloom. Dark black rocks rising on either side to a great height still shut us in, whilst the stillness is only broken by the roar of the wind, the rush of the water, or the (occasional) scream of the eagle; but when we get to the Linn of Dee, near Inverary, we may fairly consider ourselves back among our kind; nay, we are within the very uncharmed circle of the tourist, whereat we may rejoice or grieve as is our liking. This linn is caused by the river rushing through a narrow channel in the rocks over into a pool very deep, and (according to local tradition) unfathomable. Some hardy spirits have jumped across the channel, but if you try, and miss, you will never come out alive. Then your epitaph will be written in a guide-book paragraph, somewhat after the fashion of the lines in Baedeker telling the horrible end of that unfortunate officer who fell into the bear-pit at Berne. Lord Byron, when a boy, had a narrow escape here. "Some heather caught in his lame foot, and he fell. Already he was rolling downwards, when the attendant luckily caught hold of him, and was but just in time to save him from being killed." [Illustration: LINN OF DEE.] [Illustration: LINN OF CORRIEMULZIE.] The great floods of 1829--those floods of which Sir Thomas Dick Lauder is the chronicler--wrought sad havoc here. A bridge spanned the stream at a height of thirty feet. The river, rising three feet higher, swept it away. We must turn to the annals of Strathspey to test the full havoc of the flood fiend, yet it wrought no mean ruin here. I pick out one or two cases. Near Inverey the rising water attacked six houses, destroying each in turn until all the inhabitants were huddled round the hearthstone of the last. Here the water burst in, forcing the poor people to take refuge on a knoll, where, without shelter, and in mortal terror for their lives, they crouched shivering through the night. There is a waterfall on the Quoich, near where it joins the larger river. This was spanned by a bridge so firmly bound to the rocks as to be (it was hoped) immovable. The flood struck it, and it was torn away, with tons of the adjacent rocks. It seemed, indeed, to those who lived through that terrible time, as if the very structure of the earth was breaking in pieces. The days were black with the ever-falling sheets of heavy rain; the nights were vivid with the ever-flashing lightning; whilst day and night alike the wind roared with demoniacal fury. The waters hidden in the bowels of hills and rocks burst forth, leaving great fissures and scars, which remain as a monument of the Titanic forces at work. Shocks of earthquake happened again and again. "I felt the earth hobblin' under me," said a peasant graphically. Many thought the end of all things was at hand. Yet it was in less sensational ravages that the flood wrought its most cruel havoc. The poor man's cottage left a hopeless ruin, the fertile field left a sandy waste--such were the most lamentable signs of its power. Human effort was powerless against it. What could be done with a flood which rose, as was noted at Ballater, not less than one foot in ten minutes? The ravages made have long ago been repaired. At Linn of Dee there is now a handsome white granite bridge, which was opened by the Queen as long ago as the year 1857. [Illustration: LOCHNAGAR.] It is odd that the poet of this essentially Highland river should be an English bard; for if we turn to see what our literature has to say of the Dee, we must turn to Byron. Yet Byron was, as he says, "half a Scot by birth, and bred a whole one." If his ancestors on the father's side "came over" (as he delighted to recall) with the Conqueror, he was not less proud to remember that his mother was of one of the best families of the "Gay Gordons," and that for over three centuries her people had possessed Gight. He went to Aberdeen in 1790, when but two years old; here he stayed till 1798, and during that time he visited again and again most of the finest spots on the Dee. Those mighty hills, those clear, flowing streams, were the earliest things he remembered, and he never failed to acknowledge how deep was the impression they made on him. "From this period I date my love of mountainous countries." Near the end of his life he sings, in "The Island"-- "The infant rapture still survived the boy, And Lochnagar with Ida look'd o'er Troy." His mention of Lochnagar--"dark Lochnagar"--reminds us how peculiarly his name is connected with that Deeside mountain of which he is the laureate. Here, too, sprang the strange child-love of the precocious boy for Mary Duff, with whose beauty the beauty of the country where he came to know her was indissolubly linked in his mind. The scenes in Greece, he says, carried him back to Morven (his own "Morven of snow"), and many a dark hill in that classic land made him "think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbeen;" whilst the very mention of "Auld Lang Syne" brings to his mind the river Dee and "Scotland one and all, Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams." In Moore's biography there are needlessly ingenious arguments to prove that it was not the Dee scenery that made Byron a poet. Of course not. _Poeta nascitur non fit_, to quote the old Latin saying, which puts the matter much more pithily than Moore. But scenery and early impressions determine the course of a poet's genius as surely as the nature of the ground determines the course of the stream. How much Celtic magic there is in all Byron's verses--the love of the wild and terrible and impressive in scenery, as in life! Byron's poetry is before all romantic, and so is Deeside scenery. In his revolt against conventionalities, and even (it must be said) against the proprieties and decencies, we can clearly trace a true Celtic revolt against the dull, hard, prosaic facts of life. Can it be said that if Byron had passed his early years among the Lincolnshire fens or the muddy flats of Essex, "Don Juan" or "Childe Harold" would have been what they are--if, indeed, they had ever existed? Moore under-estimated the influence of such scenes on Byron because he under-estimated the scenes themselves. "A small bleak valley, not at all worthy of being associated with the memory of a poet," says he. At this the local historian, good Mr. James Brown, who, having first driven a coach till he knew every inch of a large stretch of the country, then wrote an excellent Deeside guide, waxes very wroth. "It is really to be wished that Mr. Thomas Moore would not write upon subjects which he knows nothing about. Deeside a small bleak valley! Who ever heard tell of such nonsense!" Moore, however, did after his kind. He who sang the "sweet vale of Avoca" cared little for "dark Lochnagar." Indeed, there are some northern folk very much of Moore's opinion. Does not the old proverb tell us that "A mile of Don's worth two of Dee, Except for salmon, stone, and tree"? But it is for those who love the stone and tree, the wild forests, the wilder hills, that Dee has its surpassing attraction. It adds a fine charm to the enthusiast's enjoyment of such scenery to know it is not everyone who can appreciate it. But we turn now to interest of another kind, for at Castleton of Braemar we touch successive strata of historical events. There is Craig-Koynoch, where Kenneth II., too old for hunting himself, used to watch his dogs as they chased some noble stag, whilst his ears drank in the music of horn and hound. Here, too, in the old castle of Braemar, of which but a few remains are left, Malcolm Canmore, last of Scotland's Celtic kings, had a hunting seat in the midst of the mighty forest of which we still see the remains. There are still great herds of deer to be hunted, though the wolves and wild boars have long since vanished. Here, too, were the great possessions of the Mar family. It was to this place that John Erskine, thirty-ninth Earl of Mar, summoned the Highland clans under pretence of a great hunting party in Braemar forest, and began the rebellion of 1715. The standard was formally set up on the 6th of September, when the gilt ball which ornamented the top fell down, much to the consternation of the superstitious Celts. A famous Jacobite song gives us the names of the leaders and the clans:-- "I saw our chief come up the glen Wi' Drummond and Glengarry, Macgregor, Murray, Rollo, Keith, Panmure and gallant Harry; Macdonald's men, Clan Ronald's men, Mackenzie's men, Macgillivray's men, Strathallan's men, the Lowlan' men, O'Callander and Airly." The hunting party, it should be noted, was not all a pretence. It took place on a magnificent scale, as Taylor the Water Poet, who was there (how or why it would take too long to explain), tells us. After he lost sight of the old castle, he was twelve days before he saw either house, or cornfield, or habitation for any creature but deer, wild horses, wolves, and such-like creatures. Taylor goes on to describe how a great body of beaters, setting out at early morning, drove the deer, "their heads making a show like a wood," to the place where the hunters shot them down. As we all know, the '15 was a disastrous failure--less terrible, it is true, but less glorious, than the '45. Mar turned out to be neither statesman nor soldier ("Oh for one hour of Dundee!" said the old officer at Sheriffmuir). He escaped with the Pretender to France, his vast estates were forfeited, and for a time there was no Earldom of Mar. His poor followers suffered more than their lord. All the houses in Braemar were burnt, save one at Corriemulzie. It was only the seclusion of that narrow glen, so beautiful with its birch-trees and its linn, that saved the lonely habitation. There are memories of the '45 about the district too. For instance, a little way down the river from Castleton is Craig Clunie, where Farquharson of Invercauld lay hid for ten months after Culloden, safe in the devotion of his clan, though his enemies were hunting for him far and near. [Illustration: BRAEMAR.] Ten miles or so below Castleton, we come upon another royal residence, which we all know as Balmoral, the Highland home of Queen Victoria. This place is now one of the most famous spots in Britain, and though its celebrity is of recent date, yet it has an old history of its own. As far back as 1451 it was royal property. In 1592 James V. gave it to the then Earl of Huntly. In 1652, on the downfall of the family, it came into the possession of the Earl of Moray. Enough of these dull details, which are best left in the congenial seclusion of the charter chest. In 1852 the Crown again--and let us hope finally--acquired Balmoral. [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE OLD BRIDGE, INVERCAULD, BRAEMAR.] If anyone wonders why the Queen is so fond of her Highland home, it must be because the questioner has never seen it, since of all the dwelling-places of men it is surely the most desirable. It stands on a slight eminence near the Dee, which winds round it in a great bend. Swiftly the beautifully clear water rolls past. The low ground, richly fertile, is green in summer-time with various leafage. Behind the castle rises the graceful height of Craig-na-gow-an, clothed with the slender birch-tree. The cairn on the top, to the memory of Albert the Good, reminds us of the great sorrow of Victoria's life. The castle lies at the foot of the hill, protected from the wild winter winds. In both near and remote distance we have the ever-beautiful background of the everlasting hills, immovable, and yet ever changing in place and appearance with each change of light and shade. Ben Macdhui in one direction is most prominent, dark Lochnagar in another. The scenery is "wild, and yet not desolate," as the Queen simply, yet truly, puts it. Its varied aspects give, from one point of view or another, examples of all Deeside views. The castle itself is built of very fine granite. It has a noble appearance, yet the architecture is of the simplest baronial Scotch style. It has all the traditional comfort of our island dwellings. It is, in a word, a genuine English home amidst the finest Highland scenery. What combination could be more attractive? Two miles farther down is Abergeldie, of which the castle is occupied by the Prince of Wales when in these parts. Between the two is Crathie Kirk, where the royal household and their visitors worship in simple Presbyterian fashion in the autumn months. Abergeldie has an old reputation for its birks. There used to be a quaint old song in two verses which told their praise. In the first verse an ardent wooer entreats one of those innumerable "bonnie lassies" of Scotch popular poetry to hie thither under his escort. She is to have all sorts of fine things-- "Ye sall get a gown o' silk And coat o' collimankie." What on earth is collimankie? asks the reader. In truth I cannot tell, and I fear to look up the word in Jamieson lest it turn out to be something commonplace. The second verse is the young lady's reply. It is deliciously arch and simple:-- "Na, kind sir, I dare nae gang, My minny will be angry. Sair, sair wad she flyte, Wad she flyte, wad she flyte, Sair, sair, wad she flyte, And sair wad she ban me!" "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," and the probability is that she went after all. At any rate, the picture is perfect. You almost see the peasant girl mincing her words, biting her finger, with a blush on her young face. And what has become of this song, then? Why, Burns laid violent hands on the birks, and transferred them to Aberfeldy; which, thenceforth, was glorified with a most shady grove; in poetry, that is, for in fact there was not a single birk in the place for long afterwards, if, indeed, there is one even now; and, as far as my recollection goes, there is not. But we have still something to relate regarding those famous birks. It seems that the juice of the trees is carefully extracted, and the skilled natives, "by a curious process, ferment the same and make wine of it--which wine is very pleasant to taste, and thought by some to be little inferior to the wine of Champagne and other outlandish countries." So far the local chronicler. We can only toss off a goblet (in imagination) of this extraordinary _vin du pays_ to the prosperity of the birks ere the bend of the Dee hides them from our view. Ballater is the next important place we come to. It is the terminus of the Deeside Extension Railway, and what is for us at present much more important, the centre of the most interesting part of Deeside. One mile south of it is an almost vanished ruin, the scene of a terrible tragedy, the memory of which--though it happened three centuries ago--is still preserved by a poem of a very different sort from the simple peasant idyll just quoted. One of the old tragic ballads which with such profound yet unconscious insight deal with the stormier human passions, tells the story of how Farquharson of Inverey slew, in shameful fashion, Gordon, Baron of Brackley. With what pithy expression the first two lines place you in the very heart of the subject! "Inverey came down Deeside whistlin' and playin', He was at brave Brackley's yetts ere it was dawin'." And then comes the proud, insolent challenge of the murderer-- "Are ye sleepin', Baronne, or are ye waukin'? There's sharp swords at your yett will gar your blood spin." Gordon is brave, but he will not go forth almost alone against so many to meet certain death till his fair, but false, young wife taunts him bitterly with his cowardice. Then he gets ready, though he knows how certain is his doom. "An' he stooped low, and said, as he kissed his proud dame, 'There's a Gordon rides out that will never ride hame.'" There is a narrow glen near by which popular tradition still points out as the spot where they "pierced bonny Brackley wi' mony a woun'." The ballad closes in darkness and sadness, but one is glad to learn from contemporary history that the Earl of Huntly made a foray and avenged the death of his kinsman. Hereby is the hill of Craigendarroch, which we cannot pause to climb, though from it we have a grand view a long way down the Dee Valley. Tullich I can only mention. Have you ever seen, by-the-bye, that extraordinary Highland tarantula called the reel of Tullich? It is perhaps the wildest, maddest dance ever invented. The legend of its origin is this:--One tempestuous Sabbath, about a century and a half ago, the congregation at the parish kirk there were without a minister. The manse was some way off, the roads were rough, and the parson got it into his head that nobody would be at church that day, so _he_ need not go either. The people got tired of waiting; they began to stamp with their feet, then hidden bottles were produced, and then they danced and shouted till at last the whole thing degenerated into a wild orgie, during which the wind roared round the kirk and the sleet beat on the windows in vain. Then they invented and danced the reel of Tullich. Before the year was out all were dead, and by the dance alone are they now remembered. It is worth while quoting this strange story, for it is an example of the rare Presbyterian legend. A place on the river called the King's Pool reminds one of a Catholic myth. St. Nathdan, who once lived here, did penance for some sin by locking a heavy iron chain round his waist. He then threw the key into this pool, saying he should know he was forgiven when he found it again. Long afterwards he went a pilgrimage to Rome, and on the Italian coast some fishermen, in return for his blessing, gave him a fish. Need I add that in the belly he found the key? [Illustration: BALMORAL.] [Illustration: THE CASTLE.] The legends which hang like the mist round every rock and ruin have a weird fascination, but I must stop repeating them, or there will be room for nothing else. I cannot help noting, however, that there is a Deeside version of nearly every ancient myth. Thus one story tells how a Macdonald was suckled by a wolf quite after the fashion of Romulus. Another is of a giant injured by an individual calling himself Mysel, so that when the stupid monster was asked who hurt him, he could only say "Mysel" (myself). This is almost exactly the tale of the giant in the "Odyssey." But more curious than all is a reproduction of the famous apple legend, with Malcolm Canmore for Geisler and one called Hardy for William Tell. The resemblance is exact even down to the two additional arrows; but I can scarcely go so far as the old Deeside lady, who affirmed that since Malcolm Canmore flourished about the time of the Norman Conquest, and William Tell was contemporary with Robert Bruce, the Swiss legend was borrowed from the Scotch! [Illustration: ABERGELDIE CASTLE.] It is difficult to get away from a neighbourhood like Ballater, where there is so much worth seeing. The Muich here, running from the south, falls into the Dee. About five miles up is the Linn of Muich--linns and waterfalls are the peculiar glory of Deeside, I need scarcely say. A great mass of water finds here but one narrow outlet, over which it foams and struggles, and then falls fifty feet with a great splash into a deep pool. The heights of the precipice are clothed with old fir-trees, which also stick out of the crevasses of the rocks. The Muich rises away up at the foot of Lochnagar in Loch Muich, which means, they say, the Lake of Sorrow--so gloomy and sombre is that far-off recess in the hill. To the west of Lochnagar are the Loch and Glen of Callater--wild enough, too; and beyond is the Breakneck Waterfall, which is positively the last fall I shall mention. A stream makes a bold dart over a precipice. It seems like a thread of silver in the sunlight. Down it falls, with a thundering sound on the rock, scattering its spray around in a perpetual shower. A British admiral, some few years ago, slipped over a precipice near here. His hammer (he was specimen hunting) stuck in a crack, and there he held on for two awful days, and still more awful nights. The whole neighbourhood hunted for him, and at last, the black speck being seen on the cliff, he was rescued. Not a man of the rescuers would accept a farthing for what he had done. The Highlander has his faults, but there is always something of the gentleman about him. [Illustration: BALLATER.] Nearly due north of Ballater is Morven--the Morven of Byron, and (perhaps) of Ossian, though there are other places and districts in Scotland bearing the name. Morven is the centre of Highland song and legend. But if it is enchanted, it is also uncertain, ground, and must here be left untraced. We are still forty-three miles from Aberdeen; so we glide through Aboyne and Glentanner, leaving the beautiful castle of the one, and the equally, though differently, beautiful valley of the other, unvisited. Then in many a devious turn we wind round the northern boundary of the parish of Birse. "As auld as the hills o' Birse," says a local proverb, which shows that even in this land of hills the district is considered hilly. Here are some of their names: Torquhandallachy, Lamawhillis, Carmaferg, Lamahip, Duchery, Craigmahandle, Gannoch, Creaganducy. Grand words those, if you can give them their proper sound. Otherwise leave them "unhonoured and unsung," and unpronounced. The local chronicler is much perplexed by another somewhat inelegant Aberdeenshire witticism--"Gang to Birse and bottle skate." With absolute logical correctness he proves that in that inland and hilly parish there are no skate; and that, if there were, to bottle them would be contrary to the principles and practice of any recorded system of fish-curing. We shall not discuss with him this dark saying. On the other side of the Dee is Lunphanan parish, in the "wood" of which Macbeth--according to Wyntoun, though not according to Shakespeare--met his death. His "cairn" is still to be seen on a bare hill in this district, though another tradition tells us that his dust mingles with the dust of "gracious Duncan" in the sacred soil of Iona. The Dee, now leaving its native county, flows for a few miles through the Mearns or Kincardineshire. It returns to Aberdeenshire in the parish of Drumoak, forming for the remaining fourteen miles of its course the boundary between the two counties. [Illustration: ABERDEEN.] It is here we come across the most interesting historical memory connected with Deeside, for it is a memory of Queen Mary. On the south side of the Hill of Fare there is a hollow, where the battle of Corrichie was fought in 1562. I do not wish to enter into the history of that troubled time. Suffice it to say that the Earl of Huntly, chief of the Gordons, and head of the Catholics, was intriguing to secure the power which Murray was determined he should not have. The Queen was with Murray, though her heart, they said, was with the Gordons. Anyhow, she dashed northward gaily enough on a horse that would have thrown an ordinary rider. Murray's diplomacy forced the Gordons into a position of open hostility, and his superior generalship easily secured him the victory at Corrichie. The old Earl of Huntly was taken, it seemed, unhurt, but he suddenly fell down dead--heart-broken at the ruin of himself and his house, said some; crushed by the weight of his armour, said others. They took the body to the Tolbooth in Aberdeen. Knox tells us that the Countess had consulted a witch before the fight, and was comforted by the assurance that her husband would lie _unwounded_ that night in the Tolbooth. The remains, embalmed in some rude fashion, were carried to Edinburgh; for a strange ceremony yet remained ere the Gordon lands were divided among the victors. A Parliament in due time met in Holyrood, and the dead man was brought before his peers to answer for his treasons. A mere formality, perhaps, but an awfully gruesome one. His attainder, and that of his family, together with the forfeiture of his lands, was then pronounced. The battle was a great triumph for the Protestant lords; even the sneering, sceptical Maitland, says Knox, with one of those direct, forcible touches of his, "remembered that there was a God in heaven." There was one who looked on the matter with other eyes. "The Queen took no pleasure in the victory, and gloomed at the messenger who told of it." Indeed, there was a tragedy within this tragedy. Among the prisoners taken at Corrichie was Sir John Gordon, Huntly's second son, "a comely young gentleman," wild and daring, and, though then an outlaw, one who had ventured to hope for the Queen's hand. It was whispered that she was not unfavourable to him; some ventured to say "she loved him entirely." For such a man there was but one fate possible, and that was death. He was executed in the market-place of Aberdeen. Murray looked on at the death of his foe with that inscrutable calm which he preserved in victory and defeat--at his own death, as well as at the death of others. The Queen, too, was forced to be there. Before the axe fell, Gordon professed his unalterable devotion to her. Her presence, he said, was a solace to him, though she had brought him to destruction. The sight was too fearful for Mary, who, in a deadly swoon, was carried to her chamber. Even in her strange life-story there is nothing more terrible. Fotheringay itself is not so tragic. The last four miles of our well-nigh eighty miles' journey are, as noted, on the border of Aberdeen and Kincardine. Here the river enjoys a peaceful old age, after the wild turmoil of its youth. The water, still beautifully clear, moves placidly along amidst rich meadows; the near hills are low, with soft rounded summits. The dwellings of men give a cheerfulness to the scene. It is the very perfection of pastoral landscape. And then, at last, we come to Aberdeen and the sea. But on the wonders of that famous town I cannot here enter. Suffice it to say that our record of the Highland Dee is finished. FRANCIS WATT. [Illustration: BRIDGE OF TAY, KENMORE.] THE TAY. The Tiber and the Tay--History and Legend--Perthshire and the Tay--The Moor of Rannoch--Blair--Pitlochrie--Killin--Kenmore--The Lyon--The "Rock of Weem"--The "Birks" of Aberfeldy--Dunkeld and Birnam--Invertuthil--The Loch of Clunie--The Isla--Strathmore--Dunsinane Hill--Scone and the Ruthvens--Perth--The Views from Moncrieffe and Kinnoull--Strathearn and the Carse of Gowrie--Dundee--The Tay Bridge, New and Old--View from the "Law"--"Men of Blood" and Men of Business. "Behold the Tiber!" said the conquering Roman, when from one of the many 'vantage-grounds commanding the noble stream that sweeps past Perth, the Imperial eagles first saw as fair a scene as they had yet reached in their flight. The ardent lovers of the river--meaning all who know its banks well--have ever since felt, with Scott, half flattered by the traditional compliment, half scornful of the comparison of the puny and "drumlie" Roman stream with the broad, clear, and brimming Tay--the dusty Campus Martius with the green "Inches" of Perth--the featureless and desolate Campagna with the glorious stretch of hill and plain, water and woodland, overlooked from Kinnoull Hill or the "Wicks of Baiglie." It is true that when this pioneer of countless hosts of Southern invaders and sightseers came hither, to admire and covet, the Tay flowed through a savage and shaggy land. There might have been a handful of the skin or wicker-work wigwams of the "dwellers in the forest" on the site of Perth, or at Forteviot or Abernethy, afterwards the capitals of the Picts, and a sprinkling of Caledonian coracles on the neighbouring waters. But if Perthshire and the Tay had a history before the coming of Agricola and the building of the lines of Roman roads and stations that converged upon their great camp, dedicated to Mars, near the meeting-place of this prince of Scottish streams with the tributary waters of the Almond and the Earn, it is utterly lost in the mists of antiquity. History of the most stirring kind the Tay has known enough of since. Every glen and hillside is thronged with memories and legends of the days of romance, which, in Perthshire and on the banks of the Tay, came to an end only about a century ago, when some of the Jacobite lairds were still in exile for being "out" in the '45, and had not utterly given up hope of the "lost cause." Every old castle and little township has played its part in the strange, eventful drama of the national history; and by their record, not less than by its position, Perthshire can lay claim to be the heart, and the Tay to be the heart's blood, of the northern kingdom. Perthshire is the Tay, almost as truly as Egypt is the Nile. It is the case that some of the head-waters of this many-fountained stream rise in other counties--that its furthest, if not its most important, source is in the desolate Moor of Rannoch--"a world before chaos," crudely compounded of bog and rock, where Loch Lydoch trails its black and sinuous length out of Argyllshire into Perth; that, further north, Loch Ericht, straight as a sword-blade, thrusts its sharper end miles deep into the mountains of Laggan, in Inverness-shire, hiding, as tradition tells us, the ruins of submerged fields and houses under its gleaming surface; and that the Isla draws from Forfarshire that portion of its waters which murmurs under the haunted old walls of Airlie and Glamis. True, also, a choice and lovely portion of Perthshire--many deem it the choicest and loveliest of all--drains through the Trossachs to the Forth; and that the Tay itself, after it has ceased to be a river, and has become an arm of the sea, overpasses the bounds of the "central county," and meets the ocean between the Braes of Angus and the hills of Fife--between the clustering spires and chimneys of busy Dundee and the crumbling towers that watch over the secluded dignity of St. Andrews. All this notwithstanding, the periphery of Perthshire may roughly be said to embrace all the wealth of beauty reflected in the Tay, and all the wealth of memories that mingles with its flowing current. And richly endowed is this prince of highland and lowland streams, both with beauty and associations. The centre of the basin of the Tay is somewhere in Glenalmond, between the sweet woodland shades of the "burn-brae" of Lynedoch, under which "Bessie Bell and Mary Gray" rest, with their lover at their feet, and the bare and stilly place where "sleeps Ossian in the Narrow Glen," and where murmurs along "But one meek streamlet, only one, The Song of Battles, and the breath Of stormy war and violent death;" while above, on the summits of the hills, the grey stones and cairns still keep watch, and, interpreted by tradition, point out to us the place where Fingal once held sway in the very heart of Perthshire and of the Caledonian Forest. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE TAY.] Of the ancient woods that are supposed once to have clothed the country, remains may yet, perhaps, be seen in those glorious sylvan demesnes that surround Taymouth in Breadalbane and Blair in Athole; Dupplin, and Drummond Castle, in Strathearn, and Rossie Priory in the Carse of Gowrie; Scone Palace and Dunkeld, Moncrieffe and Kinnoull, overlooking the central and lower reaches of the Tay. Traces of them may also be found in the Woods of Methven, that once gave friendly shelter to Wallace, and in those ragged and giant pines that thinly dot the hillsides in Rannoch and Glenlyon, over which Bruce was once chased by the Lord of the Isles and the English invaders. But a new forest has grown up within a century, to shade once more the waters of the Tay. Whatever may have been the case in Macbeth's or Shakespeare's time, "great Birnam Wood" can no longer be seen from "high Dunsinane Hill" for the growth of trees--the "moving grove"--that has risen up between. The Bruar Water and its falls are now shaded from the sun and the northern blasts, as Burns longed to see them, by "lofty firs and fragrant birks," as well as by their craggy cliffs; and not content with thus fulfilling the poet's wish, the Lords of Athole, from the "Planting Duke" downward, have been nobly ambitious of clothing their once bare hills with forest to the summits. Beside the pillars of ruined Dunkeld Cathedral--almost as worthy of reverence as they--stand the two "Parent Larches," the first trees of their kind introduced into Scotland. Planted only a century and a half ago, millions of their seed and kin have now overrun Perthshire and the Highlands, proving themselves thoroughly at home in the soil and air of the Tay. [Illustration: "BIRKS" OF ABERFELDY.] [Illustration: ABERFELDY, FROM THE WEST.] In the bleak Moor of Rannoch--the "furthest Thule" of Perthshire and of the more northern Tay sources--there are great blank spaces where the heather itself will scarce grow. There are only grey rock and black marsh--"bogs of Styx and waters of Cocytus," with scarce a sign of human habitation or even of animal life. But the logs of oak found embedded in the peat, and the hoary fir trunks that still keep a stubborn stand by Loch Lydoch and the banks of the Guar and the Ericht, show that even in this dreary region a great forest once waved. The "Black Wood of Rannoch" still clothes the southern side of the fine loch of the name; and here, indeed, the Scots fir is to be seen in all its pride and strength, rising above the beautiful growth of oak and birch coppice, and of heather of almost arboreal proportions. Escaping from Loch Rannoch, the Tummel roars down its rocky bed under the piny slopes and crags of Dunalastair, with a halt by the way in Loch Tummel, where, from the "Queen's View," looking back, a magnificent prospect is had of the lovely lake embosomed in woods and hills, dominated by the lofty shape of Schiehallion, with the lonely Black Mount and the more distant Grampians closing the background. Further down, opposite Faskally, the Garry joins it, mingling the streams of Athole with the waters of Rannoch. Before the meeting, the Garry, leaving its parent lake high up near the borders of Inverness, has tumbled in white foam through leagues of the "Struan country," between banks thinly sprinkled with birchwood and edging great tracts of moorland. Then the Erichdie, the Bruar, and the Tilt bring down their contributions from remote mountain corries visited only by the deer-stalker, through deep wild glens, gloriously wooded at their lower extremity. Where the Tilt runs into the Garry stands Blair, the Highland seat of the ducal family of Athole. [Illustration: BRIDGE OF GARRY.] The date when "Blair in Athole" was first occupied as a stronghold of a powerful Highland chieftain is not told in the eventful annals of the Castle. Strategic considerations, from the points of view of war and of the chase, no doubt determined the selection of the site, inside the rugged jaws of the Pass of Killiecrankie, and on a shelf commanding the routes leading across the Grampians from the basin of the Tay to the valleys of the Spey and the Dee. The choice thus made in ruder days is thoroughly pleasing in these "piping times of peace," when the line of the Highland Railway threads its way through the narrow defile, and keeping the main valley of the Garry, skirts the miles of woodland, opening at intervals to afford peeps of the plain, massive white front of the Castle and the broad spaces of its surrounding parks. The way through Glentilt, traversed by the clans to join the Stuart standard at Blair or on the Braes of Mar, is free now only to the deer and the gillies. Without going back to the Athole lines of the Comyns and the Stewarts, or to the joyous hunting scenes in which Queen Mary and other of the old line of Scottish Sovereigns bore a part, Blair has been a centre of historical and social interest ever since it became the chief seat of the Murrays. Montrose assembled the Royalist clans here, and set out upon the campaign which began with the defeat of the Covenanters at Tibbermore and the capture of Perth, and ended at Philiphaugh, where, in one day, the fruits of six brilliant victories were lost. Another darling of cavalier legend, Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, lies buried in the old church near by. In the year of the Revolution he had relieved Blair Castle, where the clansmen of Athole had held out for the Jacobite cause against their titular chief, and having enticed General Mackay through the Pass, he rushed down upon him with all his force from the slopes of the Hill of Urrard, utterly routing and sweeping back the enemy through the narrow gorge of the Garry, and himself falling, shot through the heart, at the moment the Sassenachs turned to run. Notable events happened here also in the "'15" and in the "'45;" and, to come to the recent memories which are cherished with pride in Blair-Athole, Queen Victoria has paid repeated visits to the locality, and was entranced by the magnificent prospects of wood and stream, rugged mountain and fertile strath, that are unfolded from the top of the Hill of Tulloch, and from other points of view in this beautiful district. It is a kind of "holy ground" to fervid Jacobites, one or two of whom are supposed still to linger in Perthshire, if extinct elsewhere. It is also a favourite resort of the increasing host of pilgrims in search of Highland sport and scenery, who invade Athole through the Pass of Killiecrankie, and gaze, with a delight in which there is no longer any tempering of fear of consequences, upon the lofty and impending banks, pine-clad to their summits, and the wilderness of rock and boulder below, through which the Garry glooms and flashes in alternate pool and fall. Pitlochrie is a charming place to halt at before, or after, clearing this "gateway of the Highlands." The Tummel has now joined the Garry, and under the latter name the united streams have but a short way to go before they fall, at Ballinluig, into the stream which, from the place where it issues from Loch Tay, takes the name of the Tay. Were we to seek it still nearer to its sources, we should find ourselves in a district which, before the railway came to disturb its solitude, was as lone and wild as the lochans of the Black Mount or those corries of Ben Alder and Ben-y-Gloe whence the Tummel, the Ericht, and Tilt draw their springs. The line from Oban breaks into Perthshire and the basin of the Tay at Tyndrum, near the head of Strathfillan, not far from the scene of Bruce's defeat at the hands of the Lord of Lorn. Following, from near the base of Ben Lui, the infant Tay--here, however, bearing the names successively of the Fillan and the Dochart--the way leads past the sites of ruined castles and chapels, by cairns yet haunted by memories of the bloody feuds of former days, and wells to which legend still assigns wonderful healing virtues. On the left are bare mountain sides stretching away northward towards the hills that enclose the head of Glen Lochay and Glen Lyon; and to the right the range of alpine heights that culminate in Ben More and impend over Loch Dochart, its old castle, and its "floating island." St. Fillan lived and laboured in Strathfillan; Fingal is said to be buried in Glen Dochart; a hundred traditions cling to the rocks and waters here, and in Glen Ogle, and in the Glen of the Lochay, which, pouring over its pretty "linn," joins the Dochart just before the united stream falls into the head of Loch Tay. Where the waters meet at Killin, a rich feast is spread for the eye of the lover of Highland scenery. Killin, with its wonderful mingling of wild mountain outlines, and the gentle, infinitely varied charms of the lake and running streams and wooded shores, is a painter's paradise. Fifteen miles of the finest salmon-angling water in Scotland, overhung on the north by the vast bulk of Ben Lawers, and bountifully fringed by birch and other wood, separates Killin from Kenmore, at the lower end of the great Loch, whence issues, under its proper name, the Tay. The ruins on the little island near the outlet are those of the Priory erected by King Alexander I. beside the remains of his Queen, Sibylla, daughter of Henry I. of England--a quiet retreat for centuries of the company of nuns from whom the Fair at the neighbouring Kenmore takes the name of the "Holy Women's Market." Kenmore is as lovely in its own way as Killin; but here it is no longer wild Highland landscape, but Nature half-submissive to the embellishing hand of man. It is "A piece of England ramparted around With strength of Highland Ben and heather brae;" and in the centre of the scene, set among ample lawns and magnificent walks and avenues, backed by the high, dark curtain of Drummond Hill, and looking towards the pine-clad heights opposite, stands Taymouth Castle, the princely seat of the Breadalbane family. Famous even among their sept for their politic ability and acquisitiveness, the Campbells, Lords of Glenorchy, who became Lords of Breadalbane, are said to have chosen this site, at the eastern limit of their vast possessions, with the hope of "birzing yont" into richer lands further down the Tay. To this day, the Breadalbane estates extend for a hundred miles westward of Taymouth, to the Atlantic Ocean. Behind Drummond Hill is Glen Lyon, and a vista of its mountains--Schiehallion lording it over the minor heights--opens up at the Vale of Appin, where the Lyon falls into the Tay. A long journey this tributary makes, among savage and solitary hills, and past haunts of Ossian's heroes and of the "Wolf of Badenoch," before it reaches the sylvan beauties assembled round Glenlyon House and Sir Donald Currie's Castle of Garth. But the most venerable of all the objects on the banks of the Lyon--not excluding the reputed birthplace of Pontius Pilate--is the "Old Yew of Fortingal," perhaps "the oldest authentic specimen of vegetation in Europe." [Illustration: BIRNAM, FROM BIRNAM HILL.] [Illustration: DUNSINANE HILL.] On nothing quite so venerable as this does the next outstanding eminence by the Tay--the "Rock of Weem"--look down. But Castle Menzies, for four centuries the home of the Menzies of that ilk, lies surrounded by fine woods at its base; further off is the site of the old Abbey of Dull; and beyond the Bridge of Tay--first place of assembly of the gallant "Black Watch," or 42nd Highlanders--are the Falls of Moness and the "Birks" of Aberfeldy. Mountain ash and pine have to some extent replaced the hazels and birches about which Burns so sweetly sings; but tourists come in larger flocks every season to Urlar Burn and to the pretty village near by. Grandtully Woods, and the old Castle of the Stewarts, which has been said to resemble more closely than any other baronial seat the picture drawn by Scott of Tully-veolan, attract many admiring eyes. Balleichan recalls memories of "Sir James the Rose;" and all down Strathtay, before and after the junction with the Tummel--at Logierait and Kinnaird, Dowally and Dalguise--the enchantments of a romantic past and of superb scenery combine to induce the traveller to linger over every mile of the valley. Dunkeld and Birnam are ahead, however, and the temptations to delay must be foregone. There is no nook of Scotland more gloriously apparelled and richly endowed. Grand forests stretch for miles around, clothing the river-banks, filling the glens, and crowning to their crests Birnam Hill, Newtyle, Craig Vinean, Craig-y-Barns, and other heights that gather round the old cathedral town. Through the centre of the scene the Tay sweeps in smooth and spacious curves and long, bright-rippled reaches. All this loveliness is concentrated around the Palace and Cathedral of Dunkeld. Opposite is Birnam, and, a little above the line of arches of the fine bridge, the "mossy Braan," coming from Loch Freuchie and "lone Amulree," tumbles through the romantic dell of the Rumbling Bridge and the "Hermitage," and over its upper and lower Falls, before entering the Tay. [Illustration: SCONE PALACE, PERTH.] A single gnarled and wide-branched oak represents all that remains of the original Birnam Wood. The glory of the ancient Cathedral has also departed, or undergone a change. For some fifteen hundred years, it is reckoned, there has been a Christian house on this spot; and at as early a date Dunkeld ("Dun-Caledon") had a royal residence, probably on the site of the "dun" or fort on the "King's Seat." St. Columba is thought to have founded the church, and to have preached here to the natives of "Atholl, Caledon, and Angus;" and he is said to have found burial at Dunkeld. Adamnan and Crinan were among its Culdee abbots; and in the long line of its Roman Catholic bishops, whose diocese extended over the greater part of the basin of the Tay, Gawin Douglas, the poet and translator of the "Æneid," is not the only eminent name. Very stately without and beautiful within, the edifice of the Cathedral Church must have looked in its prime, before the Lords of the Congregation sent word to "purge the kyrk of all kynd of monuments of idolatrye," but to "tak guid heid that neither the windocks nor dooris be onywise hurt or broken"--a saving clause to which the zealous Reforming mob paid scant attention. The main portion of the Cathedral--the nave--has long been roofless, but the tower, in which the "Cameronian Regiment" of 1689 offered their brilliant and successful resistance to the victors of Killiecrankie, and stemmed the Highland tide rushing down on the Lowlands, still stands, and the choir has been restored and is used as the parish church. Within the walls, the "Wolf of Badenoch," Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan--that type of a savage and ruthless Highland chieftain--is buried; here also are the vaults of the Athole family, and a monument recording the deeds of the "Black Watch." Without, the beautiful lawns, gardens, and woods of Dunkeld Palace, one of the seats of the Duke of Athole, surround the Cathedral ruins, and come down to the river's edge. Fine villa residences are ranged along the hillside, and the town of Dunkeld offers every evidence of prosperity. At Dunkeld, the Tay takes a long sweep eastward, until at the meeting with the Isla at Meikleour it forms a great elbow and resumes its southward flow. The Murthly estate, which belongs to the owner of Grandtully, occupies the south bank of the river along this portion of its course. From the earliest times royalty, like romance and poetry, has had the good taste to frequent these scenes. The wraiths of Neil Gow, the famous fiddler, and of the Highland caterans hanged in the "eerie hollow" of the Stare Dam, dispute with the ghost of Macbeth the honour of being the familiar spirits of Birnam Hill, once again magnificently clothed with wood. In Auchtergaven is the birthplace of Robert Nicol, the "Peasant Poet;" and here also stood the "Auld House of Nairne," which recalls the name of Caroline Oliphant, Baroness Nairne, the laureate of Jacobite song, and which, like her ancestral home in Strathearn--the "Auld House of Gask"--gave shelter to Prince Charlie. At the Royal Castle of Kinclaven, now a neglected ruin, many a Scottish Sovereign, from the time of Malcolm Ceanmohr and Queen Margaret, had solaced themselves after the chase or battle, before it was captured and recaptured, rebuilt and demolished, in the days of Wallace and Bruce. The northern bank of the Tay is equally rich in scenic beauty and historical associations. Between the grounds of Delvine and Meikleour, and opposite the "Bloody Inches"--believed to preserve the memory of the spot where Redner Lodbrog, the Norse viking and skald, was beaten back to his ships--the important Roman station of Tulina, now Invertuthil, is supposed to have stood. Meikleour the Marchioness of Lansdowne has inherited from her ancestors the Mercers, descendants of a warlike Provost of Perth in the fourteenth century. The village is one of the quaintest and most charming of Scottish hamlets; and the great "beech hedge," ninety feet high, is among the many arboricultural marvels in the valley of the Tay. Hidden from sight among hills and woods, like many other lakes and famous sites of this district, is the Loch of Clunie, with its island castle, the hunting seat of kings and place of rest and retirement of bishops in the old days. The Lunan drains from it into the Isla; but to trace the Isla would be to write pages of description and history concerning Glenardle and Glenshee, Stormont and Strathmore, the slopes of the Sidlaws and the passes through the Grampians into Braemar. We should have to give some idea of the beauties collected about Bridge of Cally, Craighall, and Blairgowrie on the Ericht; to visit the "Reekie Linn," the "Slugs of Auchrannie," and Lintrathen on the Isla; to seek the sites, mythical or otherwise, of Agricola's victory over Galgacus and of Macbeth's defeat by Macduff near Dunsinane Hill; and to speak of what makes Glamis and Airlie and Inverqueich, Alyth and Meigle and Coupar, and the rest of the country lying along the borders of Perth and Angus, memorable and attractive. It would even lead us as far as Forfar and its loch and castles, and the rival little burgh of Kirriemuir--the "Thrums" of recent delightful sketches of old-world Scottish "wabster" and kirk life in Angus--and detain us to the end of the chapter. We resume, instead, the line of the Tay below Meikleour and Kinclaven, and beyond the "Coble o' Cargill," replaced by the more prosaic bridge carrying the railway line from Perth to Aberdeen. This is the heart of Strathmore--the "great valley." Ballathy, Stobhall, Muckersy, and Stanley maintain the repute of the Tay for noble prospects of hill, wood, and stream. Stobhall was the seat of the Drummond family--still a power in Perthshire--before they removed to Drummond Castle on the Earn; and near by, at the Campsie Linn, beside an ancient cell of the monks of Coupar-Angus Abbey, is the waterfall over which--_teste_ the author of the "Fair Maid of Perth"--Conacher, the refugee from the battle on the North Inch, flung himself to hide his shame. Macbeth's Castle, on Dunsinane Hill, and the field of Luncarty--where, nine centuries ago, the peasant ancestor of the Hays of Tweeddale, Errol, and Kinnoull is said to have turned the battle for the Scots against the Danes with his plough-yoke--might detain us. But now, close ahead, the explorer of Tayside views, fringing the right bank of the river for miles opposite the mouth of the Almond, and extending to the environs of the Royal City of Perth, the woods of Scone-- "Towers and battlements he sees, Bosomed high on tufted trees." This is Scone Palace, the magnificent mansion of the Earls of Mansfield, standing almost on the site of the ancient Abbey and royal residence of Scone. Modern Scone and all its surroundings are stately and spacious, but the relics of its early grandeur have disappeared from the landscape, and almost the only memorials of the days when it was the meeting-place of parliaments and councils, the crowning-place of kings, "the Windsor of Scotland," are the mound of the "Motehill," the sycamore tree planted by Queen Mary, and the cross which marks the place where stood the old "City of Scone." In its neighbourhood was fought the last battle that decided the supremacy of the Scots over the Picts and the amalgamation of the two nations in one. On the Motehill, Kenneth Macalpine proclaimed the "Macalpine Laws." Hither, according to tradition, the "Stone of Destiny" was brought, more than a thousand years ago, from the old capital of the Dalriadic Scots in the west--from Dunstaffnage or Beregonium--and the Sovereigns of Scotland continued to be crowned on it until it was carried off to England, as the trophy of conquest, by Edward I. It forms part of the Coronation Chair at Westminster; and patriotic Scots declare that the prophecy bound up in the fateful stone is still being fulfilled, and that where it is, the Sovereigns of a Scottish house rule the land. Though the Coronation Stone was taken away, kings continued to be crowned here. Robert the Bruce was enthroned, and received the homage of his vassals, at Scone; and--to make a wide leap in history--Charles II. was crowned King of Scotland at the spot where his ancestors had been anointed and installed, before he set out on the unlucky expedition which ended at Worcester. Similar preparations were made for the coronation of the Old Pretender; but on the very eve of the event dissensions among his followers, and the approach of Argyll's army, caused him to take flight back to the Continent, leaving his adherents to their fate--an inglorious end to "an auld sang!" [Illustration: PERTH, FROM THE WEST.] Before Kenneth Macalpine's day, Scone was a place where councils of the Early Church met; and nearly eight centuries ago a monastery was founded there, and richly endowed by Alexander I., in gratitude for his escape from an attempt made by insurgent "men of Moray and the Mearns" to capture him at Invergowrie Castle, or "Hurley Hawkin," where two burns meet near the Church of Liff. The Abbots and the Abbey of Scone played a prominent part in the civil and ecclesiastical affairs of Scotland; and we find the patronage and lands of the High Church of St. Giles, in Edinburgh, bestowed upon it, on account of the expenses incurred by the monks at the funeral of Robert II. and coronation of Robert III., when the prelates and nobles encamped on the fields between the Abbey and the Tay trampled down the standing corn, besides eating and drinking their victuals, and also, as the deed of gift runs, "because, at similar times of unction and coronation, through the many and frequent great gatherings of the people, the monastery has sustained great damage in their buildings, and been burdened with heavy expenses." All cares and burdens came to an end in 1559, when the Reforming mob, having destroyed the Blackfriars' and other religious houses in the "City of St. Johnstoun," stormed out of Perth, and burned the Abbey of Scone. Its lands, after remaining a brief time in the hands of the unfortunate House of Gowrie, fell to the branch of the Murrays that became illustrious in law, statecraft, and literature, in the person of William, first Earl of Mansfield. The Abbey site is a clump of trees; and the "Royal City of Scone," expelled outside the park gates, has nothing to represent it but the prosaic village of New Scone. [Illustration: TAY STREET, PERTH.] The Ruthvens have no longer part or lot in this district, where they once lorded it over the stout citizens of Perth, and dared to put their Sovereigns in thrall. Their old home of Ruthven, or Huntingtower Castle, is opposite Scone, and not far from the junction of the Almond with the Tay, where, if we could believe tradition, stood the original Perth--Rath-Inveralmon--until it was visited by one of the many floods that have vexed its burghers, and was removed a mile or two downward to its present site, more close to the shelter of Moncrieffe and Kinnoull Hills and the tide-water of the Tay. All around are historical scenes--among them Methven and Tibbermore, made memorable by stirring passages in the careers of Wallace, Bruce, and Montrose. But at few spots has more history been made, or contrived, than at the Castle of the Ruthvens. Four or five generations of its lords made themselves illustrious or notorious in the annals of the "troublous times" that preceded the Union of the Crowns. Above all, they were zealous, not to say unscrupulous, partisans of the Reformation. It was the third lord who rose from a sick-bed, and, clad in armour, and "haggard and terrific" in visage, took a foremost share in the murder of David Rizzio. His son, the fourth Lord Ruthven, grandfather of the "great Marquis" of Montrose, had a hand in the same bloody business, and he it was who conducted Mary to Lochleven, and extorted from her the renouncement of her right to rule. The year after this same fourth lord had been made first Earl of Gowrie was enacted the "Raid of Ruthven." The young King James was invited to visit Huntingtower Castle, on his way from Athole to Edinburgh, and was there detained by force by the Gowrie faction, whose professed object was to preserve him from evil counsel and wicked favourites. Here, when he wept, he was bluntly told, "Better bairns greet than bearded men." He never forgave the affront, and as soon as he got the power in his hands the ruin of the Ruthvens was decreed. Lingering at Dundee to plot, Gowrie was captured and beheaded, and this event, in the time of the second and last earl, led to the still more mysterious and tragic episode of the "Gowrie Conspiracy," which gave the Stuarts the desired opportunity to "root out the whole name and race." Every reader of Scottish history remembers the strange story--how, in the autumn of 1600, the King was summoned by the Master of Ruthven, at early morning, while buckhunting at Falkland, to ride to Perth to see a "pot of gold" discovered there; how, by his own tale, he found in the turret chamber to which he was led, not a treasure but an armed man, and a portrait on the wall, covered by a curtain, which, being drawn aside, revealed the features of the slain earl; how James shrieked for help, and his attendants, bursting in from the courtyard, found him struggling in the hands of Gowrie and his brother, both of whom were instantly despatched. But the scene of this was not Ruthven Castle, but old Gowrie House, the town residence of the doomed family, which stood on the site of the present County Buildings of Perth, close by the Tay; and the episode belongs to the annals of the "good city of Sanct Johnstoun." Thanks to the civil and religious broils of former days, and to the spirit of modern improvement, nearly all the antiquities of Perth--the relics of days when it was the seat of the Court, the centre of trade and religious life, and the great "objective" of warlike operations and political intrigue--have disappeared from the face of the earth. Of its Castle, which stood near the north end of what is now the Skinnergate, not a trace now remains; of its ancient walls, besieged and breached so often in the wars between Scots and English, scarcely a vestige. Four monasteries, and numerous other religious houses, once existed here; and according to information that reached Erasmus, their inmates led a specially delicate and lazy life. All disappeared--monks and monasteries together--at the Reformation, and the "rascall multitude," who had perhaps seen too much of their cowled and cloistered neighbours to cherish a deep respect for them, showed little scruple in spoiling "the monuments of idolatry," and in making free with the meat and drink with which buttery and cellar were found well stored, and bore in triumph through the streets the great dinner-pot of the Blackfriars, thus spreading abroad the last savour of the mediæval religious life of Perth. Blackfriars Wynd and Street indicate the position of this Dominican convent, and King James VI.'s Hospital serves to mark the site of the only Carthusian foundation that existed in Scotland. In the former, James I. was done to death, and in the latter, richly endowed by him, the murdered poet-king was buried. The dark tale--the portents and warnings vouchsafed to the victim, the midnight clash of arms and flare of torches in the Monastery gardens, while James was gaily chatting with the Queen and her ladies before retiring to rest; the heroism of Catherine Douglas, who thrust her arm through the staple of the door as a bar against the traitors; the temporary escape of the king into the vault below the floor; his discovery, the savage struggle before he was despatched, and the terrible revenge that was wreaked by the widowed Joanna--is as familiar as the Gowrie tragedy itself. The Church of St. John is still a venerable and venerated object in Perth; although it also has suffered from the hard usage of time and the Reformers, and its roof now covers, in place of the numerous shrines and chapels of Roman Catholic days, three Presbyterian places of worship. It was in St. John's that Knox preached his iconoclastic sermon; and many other conspicuous events in the civil and religious history of Scotland--and more particularly during the long struggle between Protestantism and Papacy, and between Episcopacy and the Covenant--were transacted within a stone-throw of its time-worn walls. Fourteen Scottish Parliaments, and a still larger number of Councils of Churchmen, are reckoned to have met in Perth previous to the Reformation. Here schism and martyrdom had begun a century and a half before Knox. Girdings and gibings at priestly ways crept even into the "Miracle Plays" annually performed on Corpus Christi Day; and the town and country around were "more infested with heresy than any other part of the nation." Cardinal Beaton watched from the Spey Tower while example was made of heretics by hanging and drowning them "for the encouragement of others:" to such good effect that in a few years the monasteries were in ashes, and the Lords of the Congregation, assembled at Perth, had proclaimed their resolution to spend goods and lives in the cause of the "true worship of God, the public welfare of the nation, and the common liberty," in token whereof the burghers set out on their southward march with ropes--"St. Johnston's ribands"--about their necks. Mary Queen of Scots and her son had small reason to remember with pleasure their visits to Perth; and after the Gowrie incident King James did all in his power to humiliate the town. It was here that the Assemblies of the Kirk and Parliaments, or Conventions of Estates, alternately proclaimed and disowned the authority of the bishops; the town was the centre of fighting in the long battle between Prelacy and Presbytery. Perth loyally entertained Charles I., and thirteen brethren of the Craft of Glovers--fateful number!--danced the sword-dance before him; and soon after, these selfsame swords were girded to oppose the King at Duns. Montrose captured and pillaged the town, after defeating the Covenanting troops outside at Tibbermore; the young Charles II. lodged in the Gowrie House, and after vainly attempting to run away from the ministers and their long prayers and exhortations, signed the Solemn League and Covenant, and professed, as King of Scots, penitence for the sins and follies of himself and his House. Then came Cromwell and his Ironsides, and built a citadel on the South Inch and a pier on the Tay with the stones of the ruined convents; and Claverhouse, Mar, and Prince Charlie have helped since then to "make history" at Perth and in its neighbourhood. [Illustration: ON THE FIRTH OF TAY.] For nearly a century and a half the annals have been comparatively peaceful and prosaic; even inundation and plague do not trouble the townsmen as of yore. The Tay no longer makes trysts with its tributaries to meet "at the bonny cross of St. Johnstoun." Except in rare times of spate, it sweeps smoothly and sedately under the arches of the bridge, and past the green "Inches," with their spreading trees and spacious walks--the fields of pastime and of strife since long before the memorable battle of the North Inch, when the blade of Hal o' the Wynd, fighting "for his own hand," turned the scale in favour of the champions of Clan Chattan--to meet tide-water and commerce below the town. It is the benefactor and the crowning ornament of Perth, which has considerably grown and beautified itself of recent years, not the least of its sources of wealth being the amenities and romantic associations of the ancient city, and the glorious scenery of the Tay, of which it may be described as at once the gateway and the centre. [Illustration: THE NEW TAY VIADUCT, FROM THE SOUTH.] Within short walking distance of Perth are the Hills of Kinnoull and Moncrieffe. Tay, after leaving the town, turns sharply to the left between these two grand wooded heights--each of them rising over 700 feet above the river--and pursues its way, widening as it goes, between the rich low expanse of the Carse of Gowrie and the opposing shores of Fife. It were hard to decide which of these sentinel hills commands the more magnificent prospect. Each view might challenge comparison with any scene outside of the basin of the Tay for extent and for the mingling of all the elements of beauty in Highland and Lowland scenery. Yet, close as they stand to each other and to Perth, distinctly different panoramas, in foreground and in perspective, are unfolded from the summits of the two heights. They offer companion pictures, and not merely landscapes in duplicate, of the Tay from its sources in the distant blue ranges of the Grampians to the sea. The top of Moncrieffe--or Moredun--beside the foundations of the old Pict fort or _dun_, is the right station whence to survey Strathearn--a valley that rivals that of the Tay itself in the place it holds in the national history and in the affections of the lovers of scenic beauty. Directly below the steep pine-covered crest of Moredun runs the winding Earn, separating the park and woods of Moncrieffe from the pleasant watering-place of Bridge of Earn. Near the confluence with the Tay is Abernethy, its "Round Tower" coeval, perhaps, with the introduction of Christianity to this part of the Tay, and its Castle Law on which, says tradition, Nechtan and other Pictish kings held their state during the two centuries and a half when this decayed little burgh was the capital of the land. Beyond, in the same direction, are the waters of the Firth; Mugdrum Island, long and low; Newburgh, and Norman Law, the Norsemen's look-out, rising on one side above old Ballenbriech Castle and the Fife shores, and on the other commanding the "Howe o' Fife" and the Loch of Lindores. Beside the venerable ruins of Lindores Abbey, close to Newburgh and the Firth, are buried the murdered "heir of Scotland," David, Duke of Rothesay, and James of Douglas--the "grey monk of Lindores"--the last of the ambitious race of the Black Douglases. In the same vicinity, in a glen or pass of the Ochils, stood another grim memorial of feudal or pre-feudal times, "Cross Macduff," now represented only by its pedestal, where the taker of life, if he could "count kin," within nine degrees, with the Thane of Fife, the head of Clan Macduff, could find refuge, and proffer the "blood-penny" in atonement. Over against Moredun are the crests of the Lomonds and the green, smooth, wavy lines of the Ochils; and through Glenfarg to its foot comes the new main line of railway to the North by the Forth Bridge. Right opposite, behind Pitkeathly Wells, Kilgraston, the old kirk and "rocking stone" of Dron, and the ruins of Balmanno Castle, are the "Wicks of Baiglie," whence Scott asserted that the Romans and he could descry the site of Perth. But the eye is carried irresistibly westward along the skirts of the hills and the broad and teeming valley below, towards the Highland mountains that surround the sources of the Earn. Near at hand are Forteviot and its Holyhill--a Scoto-Pictish capital before Perth; Dunning and other villages and hamlets lying along the hill-foots, proud to this day of the memories of the martyrs for "Crown and Covenant," their sufferings at the hands of Montrose and Mar, and the former prosperity of their weaving crafts; and standing on rich flats by the waterside, or in picturesque glens running up into the Ochils, many a mansion and castle of the fighting and grasping Jacobite lairds of Strathearn, ill neighbours of yore to the Whiggish villagers. Over against the "Birks o' Invermay" lies Dupplin Castle (now the seat of Lord Kinnoull), with its loch, its grand woods, and the site of its battlefield, so disastrous to the Scots; and opposite Lord Rollo's park of Duncrub is Gask, still a home of the Oliphants, though the "Auld House" has disappeared. Further west, the Ruthven water comes down through Gleneagles and the lovely wooded "Den" of Kincardine, past the old castle and the single long street of Auchterarder, famous in ecclesiastical history. The Machany flows by Culdees and Strathallan Castles, and not far from Tullibardine, cradle of the noble House of Athole, and burying-place of the great race of Montrose. At Innerpeffray, where the old line of Roman roads and stations crossed the Earn, comes in the Pow, flowing by the ruins of Inchaffray Abbey and the woods of Balgowan and Abercairney; and further on, around Crieff, and thence upwards by Comrie and St. Fillan's, to Loch Earn, lies one of the most glorious districts, not alone of Earnside, but of Scotland. Drummond and Monzie Castles, Ochtertyre and Dunira, Lawers and Aberuchil, are among its grandly wooded demesnes; Glenturret, Glen Lednoch, and Glen Artney contribute each their charms of crag and waterfall, bosky dell and lone hillside, and there are innumerable remains of former days in the form of standing or ruined chapel and castle, and the sites of ancient feud and battle. Little of all this can, of course, be descried from the top of Moncrieffe Hill; but Ben Chonzie, and the Braes of Doune, and the Forest of Glen Artney, and behind them the shapely head of Ben Voirlich and other mountains that mirror themselves in Loch Earn or guard Glen Ogle and Lochearnhead, are full in view. The abrupt front of Kinnoull Hill, on the other hand, commands more directly the lower course of the Tay and its estuary, widening out between the level expanse of the Carse of Gowrie, thickly sprinkled with farms and mansions, and the opposing shores of Fife, onward to where it is closed by the smoke of Dundee and the line of the Tay Bridge. From the pathway below the tower crowning the hill, one looks down--one almost fancies he might leap down--upon the woods and sward surrounding Kinfauns Castle, the residence of the family of Gray. Visible, too, from Kinnoull, or sheltering under the folds of the "Braes o' the Carse," which rise from the flat champaign to the heights of the Sidlaws, are innumerable sites and scenes, equally rich in beauty and in memories of days when Gowrie was busier making history than in raising grain. Among them are St. Madoes' Church and its sculptured Runic stones; Errol and Megginch, ancient heritages of the Hays; Kilspindie, where Wallace spent his schooldays, when he "in Gowrie dwelt, and had gude living there," and the seat, later, of Archibald of Douglas--"Auld Graysteel;" Fingask, the home of the stout old Jacobite family of Murray Thriepland and of the "Lass o' Gowrie" of Scottish song; Kinnaird and Rossie Priory, the earlier and later possessions of the noble House of Kinnaird, champions in these parts, for generations, of the cause of Reform. [Illustration: DUNDEE, FROM BROUGHTY FERRY.] From Rossie Hill, or from the battlements of the fine old baronial tower of Castle Huntly, a nearer view can be had of the beautiful cultivated Carse and its surroundings of firth and hills; or from near the remains of the ancient Church of Invergowrie and the boundary line of the shires of Perth and Stirling you can look across the widest part of the great tidal stream--three miles of shining water or sandbank--to another famous old ivy-clad ruin, Balmerino Abbey, on the opposite and bolder shore of Fife. But as Kinnoull commands the grandest view of the upper part of the Firth of Tay, so Balgay Hill and Dundee Law are the stations to take up for a survey of its lower reaches and its meeting with the North Sea. Round the bases of these eminences the northern coast of the estuary curves outward, leaving a comparatively narrow platform on which, for a space of three miles or more, are grouped the forest of chimneys, spires, and masts of the city and harbour of Dundee. The passage between the sea front of esplanade and docks, and Newport and the line of handsome villas surmounting the rocky bank on the other side, is reduced to less than two miles; and still bending and narrowing, as the Fife shore, in turn, approaches, as if to meet Angus and seal the mouth of the Tay, the waters of the Firth measure only a mile across from Broughty Castle to Ferryport-on-Craig, where, skirted on either hand by broad stretches of sand and "links," they finally open, trumpet-shaped, to meet the German Ocean. Directly under the Law, from Magdalen Point to St. Fort, where begin the narrows and the busier part of Dundee, the line of arches of the new Tay Bridge spans the Firth. The width from bank to bank is 3,440 yards--a little under two miles--including the curve which the long double file of piers makes in approaching the Dundee side. Slight as the structure looks, when first seen from the Law or the river, and compared with the wide expanse of water over which it is carried, it conveys, on more attentive view, an impression of security as well as gracefulness; it is not only a triumph of engineering skill, but a beautiful object in a striking and noble picture. [Illustration: DUNDEE.] Far other are the impressions produced by the appearance, above the water level, and running for part of the way alongside its successor, of the foundations of the first Tay Bridge. This ill-fated undertaking had only been eighteen months open for traffic, when, on a wild night at the close of 1879, the whole of the central portion collapsed and fell into the raging Firth, carrying along with it a train, with its freight of seventy or eighty passengers, which was crossing at the time. Not a soul survived to tell the circumstances of the catastrophe--the most dramatic and one of the most disastrous in the annals of railway accidents in this country. But subsequent inquiry left no doubt that, in the original scheme of the structure, sufficient allowance had not been made for the tremendous pressure put upon it by the currents of air scouring through this funnel of the Firth; and that much of the work, both in the brick foundations and steel superstructure, had been "scamped" and left without proper inspection, so that the first occasion of maximum strain--a passing train, while a tempest was at its height--brought the inevitable result. Dundonians love to survey their city and its surroundings from the "Law." The spectacle is one they may well be proud of. Marvellous has been the change here since Dundee consisted of only four straggling streets, meeting at the central "place" of the "Market Gait," and a congeries of narrow lanes running from these down to the harbour, consisting, as the local historian tells us, of rude jetties added to the natural haven opening between the headlands of the Chapel Craig and the Castle Rock. Even then, however--four centuries ago and more--it had an interesting history; even then the energy of its burgesses and its favourable position at the mouth of the Tay enabled it to carry on a brisk trade with the ports of Holland and the Baltic. Already its Castle, near the head of the Seagate, had suffered sieges; its Constables, the Scrymgeours, were the standard-bearers of Scotland in the national war, and the town disputed with Perth which was the more ancient and honourable. Its situation at the foot and on the slope of the fine acclivity facing the sun and the Tay, got for it from its Lowland and Highland neighbours its name of "Bonny Dundee" and the "pleasant town." It has vastly increased its trade and importance since; but it has also increased its amenities; and even the casual eye overlooking it can see, by the handsome spires and towers rising beside the forest of masts and factory stalks that stretch along the shore, and by the open spaces--Albert Square, and the Baxter and Balgay Parks--that the town is mindful of art and air and beauty, as well as of business. The castles--the early building on the Castle Hill, and the later fortalice of the Constables at Dudhope--have disappeared to the foundations. But the fine old square tower of St. Mary's, in the Nethergate, is still a handsome and conspicuous landmark of Dundee, spite of all the competition of its modern buildings. Although it can hardly be part of the original structure erected by David, Earl of Huntingdon--the hero of the "Talisman"--in gratitude for his escape from manifold perils while serving under Richard Coeur-de-Lion in Palestine, it is a venerable and stately object, and the Dundonians have had this their chief antiquity carefully restored. That Dundee has not more remnants left of its early consequence is due to the march of modern improvement, and to the hard knocks it suffered in times of civil war and invasion. After Pinkie, the English troops seized upon the Castle of Broughty Craig--which, like the Tower of St. Mary's, has been restored, and now guards the entrance to the Firth, with the pleasant backing of marine villa residences and stretches of links and sands much frequented by the good folks of the burgh--and Broughty besieged Dundee, and Dundee Broughty, for two or three years before the intruders were expelled. A hundred years later Montrose and his Irish and Highland kernes swooped suddenly down upon it from the upper valley of the Tay, and plundered and sacked the Covenanting place, the leader looking on from the "Corbie Hill," while the followers burned, slew, and wasted in the streets below. The townsmen magnanimously forgot this when, a few years later, the "Great Marquis" was brought into it, a captive in the hands of his enemies; and "though Dundee," says Wishart, "had suffered more by his army than any other within the kingdom, yet were they so far from insulting him, that the whole town testified very great sorrow for his woful condition." Next year--1651--Dundee had again to endure sack and capture, at the hands of General Monk, when the garrison was put to the sword, the town burned, and, as Carlyle says, "there was once more a grim scene of flames, blood, and rage and despair transacted upon this earth." Claverhouse is close by the town, and John Graham--that other "evil genius of the Covenant"--was Constable of Dudhope, and took his title from "Bonny Dundee." The "bloody Mackenzie" was another of its sons or neighbours; Camperdown House, the home of the valiant Admiral Duncan, is behind Balgay and the busy suburb of Lochee. But, if it has reared many "men of blood," Dundee has been still more prolific in historians and poets, reformers and inventors, of whom Boece and Wedderburn, Halyburton and Carmichael, are representative names. Yet longer is the list of its merchant princes, and its munificent patrons of art and benefactors of the town, of whom the Baxter family are types. They have made of Dundee a great and busy centre of maritime commerce, and placed it first among the trading places of the kingdom in the importation and manufacture of jute; and they have not forgotten generous aid in endowing the town with public parks, museums, libraries, educational institutions, and other resources of civilisation, such as few seats of industry of its size can boast. Dundee has spread over the green slopes and orchard grounds below the Law; but it has only increased the circumference of its fine environment of land and sea. Westward, the view extends over the fertile Carse, and range on range of the Grampians, amid which may be descried Ben Lomond and Schiehallion, and many a Highland peak besides. Behind the Law, the eye rises from the rich valley of the Dichty, flowing by Strathmartine and Claverhouse towards the sea at Monifieth Sands, to the Hill of Auchterhouse, Craig Owl, and other extensions of the Sidlaws, with glimpses of the heads of the loftier hills of Strathmore peeping over their shoulders; and, ridge behind ridge, these uplands subside as they stretch eastward, past many a storied and beautiful scene, towards Arbroath and the sea. Southward, beyond the Firth and the bridge, the rocky northern shores and hilly backbone of Fife are spread out like a map; and behind Newport and Tayport and the waste expanse of Tents Moor shimmer the waters of St. Andrew's Bay and the Eden Estuary, and rise the grey, weather-beaten towers of St. Rule's Cathedral and of Cardinal Beaton's Castle, beside the green links and white sand of St. Andrews. JOHN GEDDIE. [Illustration: BROUGHTY FERRY CASTLE.] [Illustration: BEN AND LOCH LOMOND.] THE FORTH. Comparative--Poetry, Romance, and History--Loch Ard and Flora McIvor--The "Clachan of Aberfoyle"--Lake of Menteith--The Trossachs and Loch Katrine--Ellen and Helen--Loch Achray--Ben Ledi--The View from Stirling Castle--Stirling Town--Bannockburn--The Ochils and the Devon Valley--Alloa--Clackmannan--Kincardine-on-Forth--Tulliallan Castle--Culross: Abbey and Burgh--The "Standard Stone"--Torryburn--Rosyth Castle--"St. Margaret's Hope"--Dunfermline: Tower, Palace, and Abbey--The New Forth Bridge--Inch Garvie and its Castle--Inverkeithing Bay--Donibristle House--Aberdour--Inchcolm, Cramond, Inchkeith, and May Islands--The Bass Rock--Kirkcaldy Bay--Edinburgh--Leith--Seton--Aberlady--Round to North Berwick--Tantallon Castle. Other Scottish streams may dispute with the Forth the prize of beauty, and excel it in length of course and in wealth of commerce. There is none that can contend with it for the palm of historic interest. Nature herself has marked out its valley as the scene of the strife and of the reconciliation of races and creeds. Half the important events in Scottish annals have taken place on or near the banks of the river, and of the Firth--around Doune, and Stirling, and Edinburgh, and Dunfermline; under the shadow of the Campsie and the Ochil Hills; along the margins of the Teith and Allan, Devon and Esk; by the folds of the Forth, or by the shores of Fife and the Lothians. Its course forms no inapt emblem and epitome of the fortunes of Scotland and of the Scottish nation. Drawn from the strength of the hills, and cradled amid scenes of wild and solitary beauty, its deep, dark, winding waters flow through the "Debatable Land" of Roman and Caledonian, of Pict and Scot, of Saxon and Gael. The fords and bridges which Highlander and Lowlander, Whig and Jacobite, have crossed so often on raid or for reprisal, have become bonds of union. The fertile carse-lands wave with the richer harvests for the blood shed in the battles of national independence, and in many a feud now ended and forgotten. The Forth, that "bridled the wild Highlandman," has become the symbol of peace and the highway of intercourse between South and North. Poetry and Romance, as well as History, have made the Forth their favourite haunt. The genius of Scottish Romance, or of Scottish History, could nowhere find a prouder seat than Ben Lomond. At its feet are the waters of Loch Lomond, losing themselves to the north among the enclosing folds of the hills, and broadening out southwards to embrace their beautiful islands; while beyond, like a map, lie the mountains of the West, from Skye to Kintyre, touched here and there with gleams of loch and sea, and with blurs of smoke from factory stalk or steamer. From the other flank of the mountain issues the infant Forth. Ben Lomond presides over all its devious wanderings, from the source to the sea. It looks directly down upon "Rob Roy's country;" and close at hand, and within the basin of the Forth, are Loch Katrine and the Trossachs. The towers of Stirling, and even the "reek" of Edinburgh, may be descried on a clear day. Following the broad valley of the Forth, the eye can take in the sites to which cling most closely the heroic or pathetic memories of "the days of other years;" and over the whole glorious landscape Walter Scott has thrown the glamour of his genius. Romance works with a charm more powerful than that of History itself in attracting visitors to the head-waters of the Forth and Teith, and in enhancing the marvellous natural beauties of their lake and mountain scenery. True, few except stout pedestrians and ardent anglers follow up the Duchray Water, past ivied Duchray Castle, to the corries that seam the base of Ben Lomond. But the path from Inversnaid, that skirts Loch Chon and the more famous and more beautiful northern head-stream of the Forth that issues from it, is not so unfrequented. Further down, Loch Ard opens again, and yet again, a lovely mirror in which are reflected the changeful outlines and rich colours of its girdling hills and woods. Oak coppice, interspersed with the shining trunks of the birch and the dark green of the pines, climbs over every knoll, and clings to every crag, and even covers the little island on the lake, where Duke Robert of Albany hoped to find a refuge from his enemies. Above copse-wood and lake rise the brown slopes and grey precipices of Ben Vogrieh and of Craigmore; while the conical head and broad flanks of Ben Lomond shoulder themselves into view, and close the top of the glen. But the enchantment of Loch Ard would not be complete did not the form of Flora McIvor yet haunt the Linn of Ledeart, in the guise of the Highland Muse, as when first she startled and threw a spell over Edward Waverley; and did not her voice--wild and plaintive as the legends of the land and the genius of its race--mingle, as of yore, with the murmur of the stream. The pass by the lake-side still seems to have the commanding figure of Helen MacGregor presiding over it, and eyeing menacingly Saxon intrusion into this refuge of a proscribed clan. The "Clachan of Aberfoyle," now unexceptionable as a place of travellers' entertainment, can never be disassociated from the memorable experiences of a night's quarters at "Jeanie MacAlpine's." At the "Fords of Frew," we think, more than of anything else, of Rob Roy slipping the belt-buckle in midstream, and of the moving and mysterious night interview on the neighbouring moor between Francis Osbaldistone and Di Vernon. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE FORTH.] The "Clachan" is now all spick and span; but its surroundings are the same. The brawling waters tumble in white foam from Loch Ard, and, mixing with the Duchray, pour their deep sombre current--the Avondhu, or "Black River"--on past Gartmore to wind in labyrinthine folds through the level mosslands towards Stirling. And the natives of the Upper Forth, while they have forgotten the real history of their district, will show you, chained to the tree in front of the inn windows, the veritable "coulter" with which Bailie Nicol Jarvie did such credit to his Highland blood, and the selfsame oak-stump from which he hung suspended over the lake; nor have they wholly lost faith in the Fairy People--the _Daoine Shi_, or "Men of Peace"--with whom these hills and valleys have from time immemorial been favoured haunts. From Aberfoyle, the direct road to Stirling, leaving the Forth, winds round the margin of the Lake of Menteith, overlooked by the outposts of the Grampians, and overlooking the rich beauty of a plain which rises on its southern side behind Bucklyvie and Kippen, to the lower heights and smoother outlines of the Campsie and Fintry Hills. Here, in the heart of Menteith, we are in the country of "the Graemes," and many legends of the great House of Montrose linger about this, as about other spots in the basin of the Forth. But the Lake of Menteith has still earlier and prouder memories. The Comyns and the Stewarts--the old lords of Menteith--wielded almost regal power from their island-castle of Talla; and within bowshot is the larger isle of Inchmahone, where part of the ancient Priory still stands in the shadow of its planes and orchard trees. Mary Stuart spent part of her childhood in the "Isle of Rest"--perhaps the quietest and sweetest period of her troubled life--when it was thought wise, after the battle of Pinkie, to remove the young Queen of Scots to a place of safety. [Illustration: "ELLEN'S ISLE."] The Trossachs and Loch Katrine can be reached in a couple of hours, on foot, from Aberfoyle. More even than the Upper Forth and the banks of Lochs Ard and Menteith, these scenes at the head-waters of the Teith, immortalised in "The Lady of the Lake," are the abodes of the spirit of Highland romance and the shrines of tourist pilgrimage. Once this "fastness of the North" was the impregnable retreat of the proscribed clan of the MacGregors, whence they issued to harry the shores of Loch Lomond with fire and sword, and levy black-mail and empty byres in the Lennox. A century and a half ago it was still thought unsafe for peaceably disposed folk to approach the district, and in the memory of men still alive it had hardly acquired more than local fame for its beauty. Walter Scott and his metrical and prose romances have changed all that. A stream of tourists flows steadily through the passes all the summer and autumn, and more fitfully at other seasons; and steamers, stage-coaches, and hotels have strangely altered the aspect of this "Scottish Lake Country." But the "everlasting hills" look down on it unchanged. The crest of Ben Lomond still dominates the western end of Loch Katrine, girt in by hillsides, or opening into glens as stern and almost as solitary as when they echoed back the slogan of Roderick Dhu. Round the lower extremity of the lake the mountains take closer rank and more varied forms; and the broken and impending precipices, the winding and opening waters, the wooded shores and islands, fringed with grey rock or "silver strand," seem, as when Fitz-James first set his foot here, an "enchanted land" over which Ben Venue and Ben An stand sentinels:-- "High on the south huge Ben Venue Down on the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar; While on the north through middle air Ben An lifts up his forehead bare." [Illustration: THE TROSSACHS AND BEN VENUE.] On the cloven side of Ben Venue is the "Coir-nan-Uriskin"--the Goblin's Cave or Hollow--deserted of its unearthly denizens since it has become an object of interest to the tourist. "Ellen's Isle," clad with wood to the water's edge, seems to shelter in the shadow of the northern shore. Cromwell's men, clambering up the pass, found that the women and children of the clan had sought refuge here; and one bold soldier swam out to the island to bring away a boat. Hardly had he touched ground when a woman--Helen Stuart--drew a dagger from below her apron and slew him. A minstrel's music has slightly changed the name and wholly changed the associations, and the spot is dedicated to another Ellen and to the gentler fancies, not the rude facts, of the days of old. From the "Silver Strand" opposite Ellen's Isle you wind for a couple of miles through the "bristled territory" of the Trossachs before you reach Loch Achray, and "the copse-wood grey that waves and weeps" above the second of the chain of lakes. Ben An and Ben Venue hold the place of sentries to left and to right, and seem to have tumbled down into the narrow pass huge fragments from their splintered sides, to block the way against intruders into this old sanctuary of the Gael. In vain; their very efforts have but added to the wild impressiveness of the scene, and to the crowds that come to wonder and admire. It would be "to gild refinèd gold" to describe the beauties of the Trossachs--the scene where Nature seems to have tried to produce, within the narrowest compass, the most bewildering effects by mingling her materials of rock and foliage and falling waters. Their praises have been sung in words that linger in every memory. Toilsome indeed must the path have been to trace when the wandering James V. came hither in pursuit of game. But a fine road now threads the depths of the ravine, and skirting Loch Achray, and passing the Trossachs Hotel and Church, brings us to Brig of Turk and the opening of "lone Glenfinlas," the haunt of Highland deer and of Highland legend. Every green nook and cranny, every glimpse of copse-wood and tumbling water, moss-grown hut and lichened rock, is a temptation to linger by the way. But Duncraggan must be passed; then Lanrick Mead, at the west end of Loch Vennachar, the meeting-place of the Clan Alpine, summoned by the "Fiery Cross;" and by-and-bye the sounding torrent of Carchonzie, where the Vennachar "breaks in silver" from its lake, and near it Coilantogle Ford, the scene of the deadly strife between James Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu. By this time the form of Ben Ledi--the "Hill of God," the high altar of the old Druidical worship--has lifted itself up mightily upon the left, and, furthest outpost in this direction of the higher Grampians, keeps watch over the "mouldering lines" of the Roman encampment on Bochastle, the Pass of Leny, and the modern village of Callander. It looks across to Ben Voirlich and the heathy solitudes of Uam-Var, where the "noble stag" was first started upon the eventful Chase, and abroad on a prospect which may compare, for richness, variety, and extent, with that from Ben Lomond. Not less magnificent in its own way, and far more accessible, is the view from the bridge of Callander, where the most impressive features of the scene are Ben Ledi itself, the high crag that forms the background of the village, and the deeply wooded flanks of the pass, down which foam the waters of the Leny, coming from the "Braes of Balquhidder" and Loch Lubnaig, to hold romantic tryst here with the stream from Loch Vennachar, and between them to form the Teith. But we must downward with the Teith towards Stirling, only glancing at a few of the scenes on its banks--at the wooded glen of the Keltie, embosoming the far-famed Falls of Bracklinn; at Cambusmore, where Scott began his "Lady of the Lake;" and above all at the "bannered towers of Doune," its huge feudal walls rising above the Teith--walls saturated from dungeon to turret with memories of grim or pathetic events in the histories of the Stewarts of Menteith and Moray, and in the lives of Mary Stuart of Montrose, and of Charles Edward. Murdoch, Duke of Albany, is thought to have built Doune, and may have planted its "Dool Tree." When Murdoch was executed, along with his sons and adherents, on the "Heading Hill" at Stirling, it was on a spot where his eyes might fall upon the strong new castle upon which he had built his hopes of safety. At Stirling Castle it will be convenient to take our next stand, and see "the mazy Forth unravelled." No baronial castle on the Rhine or Danube is more romantically and commandingly placed than these "towers of Snowdoun," or surveys a fairer scene. One can imagine the time--but yesterday in the geologist's record--when the broad valley of the river was filled with the sea, back to the roots of the Grampians, and when Stirling Rock, with its neighbour bluffs, the Abbey Craig and Craigforth, rose as islands or peninsulas over the waters, each with its slope towards the east and its front to the west. The sea has long receded, and Stirling now dominates the green and level floor of its fertile carse. Through the middle of the landscape meanders the Forth, in immense loops and folds--"a foiled circuitous wanderer"-- "Forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain cradle," and using, as it would seem, every circumvolution and chance of tarrying or turning back, to avoid meeting with the Teith, the Allan, and the Bannock, at the base of Stirling Rock. From where the stream debouches from the hills into Flanders Moss, to where it meets the tide-water at Stirling Bridge, there is said to be a fall of only eighteen feet in some eighteen miles, measured "as the crow flies"--a distance increased fourfold by following the intricate gyres of the dark still waters. Below the Bridge, to which vessels are able to come up from the sea, the river still continues to double and turn as far as Alloa, in those "links o' Forth," each of which, according to the old rhyme, is "worth an Earldom in the North." Flat and tame as are the immediate banks of the river, draining through ancient mosses, now turned for the most part into rich corn-bearing land, goodly sites are close at hand in the plain, on the slopes of the enclosing hills, or in the tributary valleys--among them Cardross, and Blair-Drummond, and Keir, all famous in the annals of Scottish law, agriculture, and literature; and Airth and Airthrey Castles, which carry the mind from the doughty deeds of Sir John the Graeme to those of Sir Ralph Abercromby. Of what lies within the valley of the Teith we have seen something. But the banks of Allan Water, behind the favourite Spa of Bridge of Allan and its embosoming woods and hills, are almost as well worth exploring; for they lead, to mention but a few of their attractions, to Dunblane and its beautiful old Cathedral, to Sheriffmuir, and to the Roman Camp at Ardoch. The tide of Scottish history long flowed towards and around Stirling Castle. The time when it was not a place of strength and of strife is lost in the mists of antiquity. Early, too, it became the seat of kings; and the Castle, and the little burgh upon the slope behind, have witnessed many a stirring sight. Scottish Parliaments were held here, or in the Abbey of Cambuskenneth, whose ruined tower rises, on a "link of Forth," opposite what is now the railway station. Sovereigns were born and baptised, were wedded and buried, held joyous jousts, and committed foul deeds of blood and shame, on Stirling Rock or under its shadow. [Illustration: OLD BRIDGE OF FORTH, STIRLING.] The buildings on the highest platform of the Rock--still a fortified and garrisoned place--surround the "Upper Square." What is the Armoury was the Chapel, erected on the site of an older Chapel Royal, by the "Scottish Solomon," to celebrate, with pomp till then unheard of, the baptism of Prince Henry. Opposite is the Palace of James V., its front still embossed with the remains of rich carvings and uncouth sculpture. The Parliament House, built by James III. (now put to barrack purposes), and the building within which James II. stained his name and race with blood, by stabbing to the heart the Earl of Douglas, complete a group of buildings upon which have been indelibly impressed the character and the fate of the Sovereigns of the House of Stuart. The visitor to Stirling Castle can view Highlands and Lowlands from "Queen Mary's Lookout;" and then, for change of sympathy and impression, inspect the pulpit and communion-table of John Knox; or, if his faith be great, the dungeon where Roderick Dhu drew his latest breath. The windy hollow between the Castle and the "Gowling Hills," he is told, is Ballengeich, of which that hero of ballad adventure, James V., was "Gudeman." The most distant of these braes was the "Mote" or "Heading Hill," the old place of execution, where many a noble and guilty head has fallen--the Albany faction and the murderers of James I. among the number. Below the Castle, on the other side, are the King's Garden and King's Park, the scenes of the sports and diversions in the olden time, where James II. held tournaments, and James IV. delighted in his "Table Round." [Illustration: STIRLING, FROM ABBEY CRAIG.] Nor are the history and aspect of the town of Stirling unworthy of its noble station. It, also, is crammed with memories and antiquities--from the square tower of the West Church, grouping so well with the buildings on the Castle, and surmounting the hall where Knox preached and the infant James VI. was crowned, down to the burial-place of the murdered James III., under the tower of Cambuskenneth and close by the winding Forth. But the historical fame and interest of Stirling rest perhaps more upon the bloody and decisive battles fought in its neighbourhood, than upon anything else. From the Castle ramparts one can look down upon Stirling Bridge, Bannockburn, and Sauchie; and Falkirk, Kilsyth, Sheriffmuir, and other stricken fields, reaching from the '45 back to Pictish and Roman times, are not far off. In memory of the Struggle for Independence, but especially of William Wallace, the presentment of a feudal tower, surmounted by a mural crown, rises to a height of over 200 feet on the summit of the Abbey Craig, the most commanding site, next to Stirling Rock itself, in the valley. The Bridges--the old and the new--lie midway between these two bold bluffs. But the former venerable edifice, though it could also tell its strange stories of civil broil, and, among others, of how an Archbishop was hung on its parapet three centuries ago, is by no means the structure where the "Protector of Scotland," watching the passage of the Forth (probably from the slopes of the Abbey Craig), taught so terrible a lesson to Cressingham and the English invaders. This, by all accounts, was a wooden structure placed half a mile above the moss-grown buttresses of the present Old Bridge of Stirling. The fame of the battle fought at Stirling Bridge in 1297, and of the other fight, so disastrous to the Scottish cause, that took place a year later at Falkirk, has been quite obscured by the Bruce's great victory at Bannockburn. One never thinks of Stirling without remembering that near by is the field where was decided, for three centuries, and indeed for all time, the history and fortunes of Scotland. The banks of the Bannock are now peaceful enough, and the people of the village of that name, and of the neighbouring hamlet of St. Ninians, lying still nearer Stirling and the battle-ground, are occupied with nothing more warlike than the weaving of tartans. The slough in which the English chivalry sank, and were overpowered, is now drained and cultivated land. But a fragment of the "Bore Stone," where Bruce set up his standard, is still preserved; and the "Gillies' Hill," behind, commemorates the opportune appearance of the camp-followers of the Scottish army, when they hoisted their blankets on their tent-poles, "And like a bannered host afar Bore down on England's wearied war," putting a finish to the rout of Edward II.'s troops. Leaving Stirling and Bannockburn and all their memories behind us, we can now embark upon the Forth, and follow its broadening stream towards the open sea. The fat carse-lands are still on either hand, rimmed in on one side by the furrowed flanks of Dunmyatt and the Ochils, and bounded on the other by the Campsie Fells, crowned, far off, by Earl's Seat; while beyond, on a clear day such as we have bespoken for our readers, the Bens grouped around the sources of the Forth and Teith lift themselves into view, fronted effectively by the towers of Stirling and the Abbey Craig. As we face now east, now west, now north, now south, on our devious way, these objects shift place bewilderingly, and more and more the "foot-hills" of the Ochils come down to take their place and give a bolder character to the foreground scenery of the Forth. [Illustration: ALLOA PIER.] Very beautiful, at all seasons and in all lights, is this historic range, with its wonderful variety of form and play of shadows. As tales of wild Highland foray and _stieve_ Lowland endurance are mingled in its annals, so the pastoral and mountainous combine in this its southern aspect; and the result is harmony. From the summit of Ben Clench, the highest of the Ochils, and from other coigns of 'vantage, you can gaze down into peaceful, secluded glens, familiar only to the sheep and the curlew, or into busy valleys lined by thriving villages and factory stalks, from which arises the smoke of the bleaching, spinning, and other manufacturing industries that have long had a home in the heart of these hills. Or you can look abroad and take in at one sweeping glance the whole breadth of the country from Glasgow to Dundee--from the Lammermoors and the North Sea to Ben Nevis and the hills of Arran. But the greatest of the glens of the Ochils is that followed by the "clear-winding Devon," over many a rocky scaur and past many a busy mill-wheel, on its way to join the Forth at Cambus. It would take a volume to do justice to the beauties, wild and soft, of the Devon Valley, and to the associations, warlike and peaceful, that have gathered around its noted places; to attempt to describe Crook o' Devon and Rumbling Bridge, the "Devil's Mill" and the "Cauldron Linn," and Dollar and Alva Glens; to collect the memories that cluster about Tillycoultry and Alva, and Menstry and Tullibody; to dwell upon the attractions of its excellent trouting streams; or to peer among the shadows that appropriately shroud the ruins of Castle Campbell--the "Castle of Gloom"--overlooking the "Burn of Sorrow," harried in revenge against Argyll for the burning of the "Bonnie House o' Airlie." [Illustration: SALMON-FISHING NEAR STIRLING.] Unless one has a few days to spare that cannot well be better spent than in exploring Glen Devon and the nooks of the Ochils, he can only glance at the charming wooded valley and blue inviting heights as he follows the windings of the Forth, past the flat green "inches" of Tullibody and Alloa, under the North British Railway Bridge crossing the river between these two islands, to the busy town of Alloa. [Illustration: CULROSS, FROM THE PIER.] More than Alloa itself, with its fame for the brewing of ale, and signs of active shipping and manufacturing trade, the eye will be attracted by Alloa Tower and Park, now the seat of the Earl of Mar and Kellie; for here once ruled the old line of the Erskines, Earls of Mar; here Queen Mary paid repeated visits, sailing up the Forth to meet Darnley, under the conduct of Bothwell as High Admiral; and here her son, King James, spent part of his boyhood, under the eye of the Regent Mar and the strict disciplinary rod of George Buchanan. [Illustration: CULROSS ABBEY.] Below Alloa the river straightens and widens, taking more and more the character of an estuary. One should not miss noting the scattered houses of the old town of Clackmannan, scrambling up the slope to its church and the ancient tower of the Bruces. Clackmannan is the place which Aytoun's recluse thought of selecting for rural retirement, because, "though he had often heard of it, he had never heard of anybody who had been there." It is more out of the world than ever, now that county business has flitted to Alloa. Its visage is not, however, so forlorn as that of Kincardine-on-Forth, the pier of which we now approach; for Kincardine has plainly seen better days, and has little expectation of seeing their return. It was once a busy shipbuilding and shipowning port; and close by was distilled the famous Kilbagie whisky, by which the tinkler in the "Jolly Beggars" swore. Now there is no Kilbagie, and no shipping business to speak of; and Kincardine is a "dead-and-alive" place, and more dead than alive. There are many places like it all along the shores of the Forth--places favoured by special times and special circumstances of trade, which has since drifted or been drawn elsewhere. The massive grey ruins of Tulliallan Castle are in the woods close behind Kincardine. This also was once a stronghold of the Bruces--in fact, it is "Bruce Country" all the way along this northern shore of the Forth, until we come to the last constriction of the estuary, over which the great railway bridge is being thrown at Queensferry. The spidery red limbs of this new giant bestriding the sea begin to come in sight after passing Kincardine Ferry and rounding Longannet Point. For now, especially when the broad mudbanks of the foreshore are covered at high water, the river takes a truly spacious expansion; the salt water begins to assert dominion over the fresh, and the line of the southern bank retires to the distance of three or four miles. It is no great loss; for Grangemouth and Bo'ness are little other than ports for the shipment of coal and pig-iron. The Carron Works show like pillars of fire by night and pillars of smoke by day, hiding Falkirk and Camelon and other spots of historic note. Further east the low shore-line is backed by a monotonous ridge that shuts us out from sight of the valley of which Linlithgow, with its loch and royal palace, is the centre; and even the woods of Kinneil, and the knowledge that along this crest, starting on the shore near the old Roman station of Carriden, run the remains of "Grime's Dyke"--the Wall of Antonine--fail to make the southern side a joy to the eye. There is metal more attractive near at hand, within the sweep of the Bay of Culross. Culross--Koo'ross, as the name sounds familiarly to the ears of those who know it--cherishes a fond tradition that Turner the painter, who visited Sir Robert Preston at the Abbey in the beginning of the century, compared its bay with that of Naples, rather to the disadvantage of the latter. Local partiality is doubtless the father of the legend. Yet there are wonderful charms embraced by the curve of coast facing the south and the Firth, betwixt "Dunimarle and Duniquarle," with Preston Island and its ruined buildings in the string of the arc; the grey and white walls and red roofs of the little royal burgh, following the sinuosity of the shore, or struggling up the wooded slopes; the "corniced" roads and "hanging gardens" behind; crowning the near foreground, the Norman tower of the Abbey Church, the ruins of the ancient monastery, and the stately façade of the mansion of Culross Abbey (the design, it is said, of Inigo Jones); and behind, the forest, moorland, and cultivated tracts, rising towards the wavy green lines, fading into blue in the distance, of the Ochils and of the Cleish and Saline Hills. With the fresh light of morning or the soft colours of evening upon the waters and upon the hills, the scene may well be deemed lovely. Circumscribed as is the space, and few and insignificant as are the remaining actors, Culross and its vicinity have been the theatre of famous events, and have reared many men prominent in the civil and religious history of the country. Here St. Serf, the Apostle of Fife, is supposed to have been born, and to have died. Here St. Thenew, daughter of "King Lot of Lothian," landed from the rotten shallop in which she had been cast adrift at Aberlady, far down the coast, and gave birth to the more famous St. Kentigern, or Mungo, patron saint of Glasgow. From Culross downward, both shores of the Firth, and the islands in its midst, are strewn with the memorials and traditions of the early Culdee missionaries, whose humble cells later became the sites of the wealthier and more imposing religious houses of Catholic times. Besides St. Serf and St. Mungo, Fillan, Palladius, Adamnan, Adrian, Monans, and Columba himself, set their imprint upon these curving coasts and solitary islets; and Inverkeithing, Dysart, and Pittenweem; Abercorn, Inchcolm, Inchkeith, the May, and the Bass, are among the places sanctified by memories of the Early Church. It was not till 1217 that the Monastery of Culross, of which only some fragments remain, was founded by Malcolm, Earl of Fife. At the Reformation the Abbey lands passed chiefly into the hands of the Colvilles of Culross, and this family, with the Erskines, the Cochranes, the Prestons, and the Bruces, have since successively had "the guidin' o't" in the burgh and the surrounding district. So far from the ecclesiastical eminence of Culross terminating with St. Serf, it has continued almost down to our own day; for the town, and the district back from it--at Carnock, and eastward along the hill-skirts to Hill of Beath and beyond--have witnessed the keenest struggles between Conformity and Schism--have been special scenes of the labours of Bishop Blackadder and Bishop Leighton the "Saintly;" of John Row, and of John Blackadder the Covenanter, who held his Conventicles under the wakeful and vengeful eye of Dalzell of Binns--him with the "vowed beard," whose hill-top for "glowering owre" Fife is on the opposite side of the Firth; and in later times, of Boston, of Ralph and Ebenezer Erskine, of Gillespie, and of other founders of the "Relief Church." Culrossians might adopt the Bruce motto, "Fuimus," to describe their industrial as well as their religious past. More than once the burgh has been a spot favoured by trade, as well as by history. The celebrated Sir George Bruce, of Carnock, made its fortunes, as well as his own, by coal-mining and salt-making in the days of James I. of England. Remains, in the shape of a heap of stones, uncovered at low water, are seen of the "Moat"--an "unfellowed and unmatchable work; a darke, light, pleasant, profitable hell," as John Taylor, the "Water Poet" described it in the early years of the seventeenth century--constructed to work the minerals lying under the bed of the sea. But Culross's prosperity did not come to an end with them. Throughout Scotland its "girdles"--iron plates for baking the oaten bread of the "Land o' Cakes"--were also "unfellowed and unmatchable" for many a day. The first of note among the ancestors of the Earl of Rosebery was of the honest guild of the girdlesmiths of the burgh. A "Cu'ross girdle" will soon only be found in an archæological museum; their glory is departing, their use will soon be forgotten. [Illustration: DUNFERMLINE.] A lingering look may be cast in the direction of the "Standard Stone," at Bordie, where Duncan and Macbeth withstood the Danes; and of the Castlehill, or Dunimarle, near by, which lays claim to be the scene of the murder of Lady Macduff and her "pretty chickens" by the Usurper--a claim, however, disputed by the "Thane's Castle," near East Wemyss, by Rhives, and by other sites in the East of Fife. To this famous Whig shire we eventually come at Torryburn, for thus far, since leaving Stirling, we have been skirting on the left the shores of Clackmannan and of a sporadic fragment of Perthshire projected upon the Forth. In its scenic, social, and historic characteristics, however, the whole ground, from where the river begins to broaden, is "Fifish," and, from Dunmyatt to the "East Neuk," bears the traces, in place-names, legends, and ancient remains, of old Pictish possession, and of Norse, Saxon, and Highland incursions; of Culdee settlement and of Roman intrusion; and of all the later strife, in Kirk and State, in which Fife has "borne the gree." Neighbours have been ready to observe that the joint effects of geographical isolation and outside pressure are quite as deeply marked in the character, habits, and ways of the inhabitants; and that, besides occupying a separate "Kingdom," they are in many respects a "peculiar people." [Illustration: FORTH BRIDGE, FROM THE SOUTH-WEST.] Charlestown and Limekilns, after Culross, are but upstart villages, built by the Earls of Elgin as shipping-places for the coal, lime, and ironstone upon their Broomhall Estate. Before us, a prominent object by the shore, is the stark grey keep of Rosyth Castle. And now we are fairly in "St. Margaret's Hope," and under the shelter of the high ground projecting from the Fife shore, which narrows, by a full half, the width of the Firth, and forms, with Inch Garvie island as a stepping-stone in mid-channel, the natural abutment whence the Forth Bridge makes its flying leap to the southern bank. From the lee of this rocky ridge Queen Mary, having rested at Rosyth, set sail for the other shore, after her escape from Loch Leven Castle. On the beach here Sir Patrick Spens may have paced when the "braid letter" was put into his hands, sending him on the luckless voyage to bring back the "Maiden of Norway," while not far off "The King sat in Dunfermline tower, Drinking the blood-red wine." But most famous of the events in the annals of the "Hope"--and one of the epoch-making accidents in the history of Scotland--was the landing, in 1069, of Edgar Atheling and his sisters in this safe harbourage, after grievous tossings by storms and ill-fortune. The then royal residence of Dunfermline is four miles distant, the road leading past Pitreavie, where, six centuries later, Cromwell, descending from the Ferry Hill, so terribly mauled the Scottish army. Tradition points out a stone where the weary Saxon Princess Margaret rested, on a way which became so familiar to her. For she found favour in the sight of King Malcolm Canmore, and made many journeys, by the haven and the ferry that bear her name, to Edinburgh, and to pilgrim shrines in the south. It might almost be said that civilisation, and the English speech, and the Roman hierarchy and influence, landed on the Scottish shores with Saint Margaret; and the whole district around the "Queen's Ferry" is redolent with memories of her to this day. "Dunfermline Tower," or rather the foundations of what is considered the first royal seat there, are within the grounds of Pittencrieff, on the high bank overlooking the Lyne burn. Farther up, and more adjacent to the modern town, is the Palace, built in later times, and still showing a stately front, sixty feet in height, rising above the ancient trees and overlooking the beautiful Glen. Beyond these walls, and the crypt-like chambers which served as kitchen and other offices, little of the Palace remains. The mullioned windows are pointed out of the rooms in which Charles I. and his sister Elizabeth, the "Winter Queen" of Bohemia, were born, and where Charles II. signed the "Solemn League and Covenant;" but within, as without, they only look into "empty air." The Palace communicated by underground passages with the Abbey, founded and dedicated to the Holy Trinity by Malcolm Canmore and Margaret in 1072, and enlarged and beautified by the munificence and piety of their successors. Beyond fragments of the walls, nearly all that remains of the monastic buildings is the Frater Hall, with the delicate Gothic tracery of its west window. But close behind is the Abbey Church, surrounded by its graves, its rookery, and the old houses of the town; and it still ranks as one of the proudest and best-preserved specimens of Anglo-Norman church architecture in Scotland. Rich and quaint are the carvings on its doorways, and dim and mysterious is the light that falls through its illuminated windows as you tread your way between the massive old pillars, and literally over the dust of kings and princes, to the spacious and lightsome New Abbey Church. This portion of the Abbey structure was rebuilt seventy years ago, and in the course of the operations the workmen came upon the tomb and remains of Robert the Bruce--recognisable, among other evidences, by the gigantic stature and by the breast-bone, from which a piece had been sawn to reach the heart that Douglas sought to carry to the Holy Land. The tomb of Malcolm and Margaret is at the east end, and without the present limits of the church; and within, besides "The Bruce," there are buried a score of Scottish Sovereigns and princes, including David I., the builder of monasteries, and the "Sair Saunt for the Crown," and Alexander III., whose fatal mischance near Kinghorn was the beginning of the national troubles. One may range far before finding a group of buildings so intrinsically beautiful, so historically interesting, and so fitly set amid their surroundings. For Dunfermline has many things else, old and new, to attract the visitor--from the "Oratory Cave" of Queen Margaret, to its handsome municipal buildings and Free Library and Baths, the gifts of Mr. Andrew Carnegie. It is a "live place," and not one existing merely on the memories of its past; for it has extensive and growing industries in coal and linen. But it will always be more the "City of Kings" than the seat of trade. From the old Bartizan Tower of the Abbey Church, one can survey a dozen shires, and--contrast as strange as the light and shadow in the churches below--a glimpse is caught, beyond North Queensferry Point, of the limbs of the New Forth Bridge. This gigantic work represents the second undertaking adopted by the North British Railway and the supporting companies for shortening the journey to the North by throwing a bridge over the narrows at Queensferry. The first plan of a suspension bridge was abandoned, after the catastrophe that befell the structure on the Tay; and the design (by Sir John Fowler and Mr. Baker) now on the point of completion is that of a cantilever bridge, founded on three sets of piers--at the edge of the deep-water channels on the north and south sides, and on Inch Garvie island in the middle--united, over the fairways of navigation, by central girders. The whole space spanned is over a mile and a half, but fully a third of this distance is occupied by the viaduct approaches to what may be termed the bridge proper, supported at a height of 165 feet above mean sea-level upon a series of stone piers. At this elevation the line is carried across the Firth, which reaches from 30 to 35 fathoms in depth in the channels between Inch Garvie and the north and south shores. Except the supporting bases of stone, the whole central structure is of steel, wrought and fitted in the works on the southern side; and it is estimated that not less than 50,000 tons of metal have been used in the work. From the three main piers, columned "towers of steel" rise to a height of 630 feet above high-water mark, that on Inch Garvie being wider than the two others. They are formed of tubes of ¾-inch steel, 12 feet in diameter at the base, inclining inwards and towards each other, and united by cross members, in the shape of the letter "X," for purposes of strength; and from these the intricate bracket-work of upper and lower members, with their connecting struts and ties, stretch out over the Firth, and approach each other near enough to be united by the two 350-feet lattice girders over the fairways. The two great centre spans are each 1,700 feet in width, and the half-spans that join them to the great north and south viaduct piers are 680 feet each. All the strains are concentrated upon the bases of the cantilever piers, and the whole structure gives a remarkable impression of combined lightness and strength, as well as of colossal size. From 3,000 to 4,500 men have been employed for several years upon the Bridge, of which it may almost be said that half of the work is under water and out of sight. Its estimated cost is between two and three millions sterling, and, connected with it, new lines are being constructed, by which passengers and goods will henceforth be carried by the shortest available route from south to north, in despite of the obstacles interposed by the Forth, the Ochils, and the Tay. [Illustration: SHORE STREET, LEITH.] Of all the objects dwarfed and changed by the Bridge, Inch Garvie and its Castle have perhaps suffered most. Built long ago to protect the upper waters against the pirates that infested the Outer Firth, it has often since played a part in schemes of national defence. "Roy of Aldivalloch" held Inch Garvie with twenty musketeers against Monk's troops, at the time of Cromwell's invasion; and it was afterwards manned to repel Paul Jones. Now, looking down upon it from the summit of the great pier, it seems as if a good-sized stone would crush, like a toy, the queer admixture of old and new buildings huddled upon it. From this great height, both expanses of the Firth, with their bounding shores, lie spread below like a map. The southern shore, now become once more rich in interest and beauty, has complacently drawn nearer hand. Looking westward, and withdrawing the eyes from the fine amphitheatre of hills that enclose the upper course of the Forth, Blackness Castle--one of the four royal fortalices specially mentioned in the Treaty of Union, and the scene of many stirring events in the national annals: Edinburgh, Stirling, and Dumbarton being the others--is full in sight, upon its peninsula. Nearer are the woods of Abercorn, whose history goes back to Roman times, and earlier; closer still, the magnificent colonnaded front, the sea-terraces, the deer-parks, and the stately lime avenues of Hopetoun House, the seat of the Earl of Hopetoun; and almost below, and on the hither side of Port Edgar Harbour, the ancient town of South Queensferry. The last few years have made "a mighty difference" in many ways to the little burgh, but have not materially altered the somewhat grimy features of its main street, which runs eastward, at the base of the hill, towards the Bridge, the "Hawes Brae," and the "Hawes Inn," where, it will be remembered, Jonathan Oldbuck and his young friend Lovel descended from the Edinburgh Diligence, and cemented acquaintance over a magnum of port, and where, also, adventures first began to overtake the hero of "Kidnapped." [Illustration: EDINBURGH, FROM THE FIFE SHORE.] Turning eastward, this southern shore is prolonged in the wooded knolls of the Dalmeny estate, and round the projecting point, and on the very sea-marge, is the old, but now renovated, Castle of Barnbougle, once the seat of the Mowbrays. Behind it is Dalmeny House, with beautiful sward and woodland extending as far as Cramond, where Lord Rosebery keeps a boat to ferry the public across the Almond water into Midlothian. These latter objects, as has been said, are out of sight from the Bridge, but on the northern side one sees well into the deep inlet of Inverkeithing Bay, where the old royal burgh, dating from before William the Lion's time, lies stranded in mud. It is still proud of having witnessed the last assembly of the Culdees, and the first movement of Scottish "Voluntaryism," and boasts also of containing the "palace" of Queen Annabella Drummond, and the birthplace of Admiral Greig, of the Russian service. For miles the domain of Donibristle follows the advancing and retiring points of the Fife shore, which, now that the outer Firth opens up, recedes away northward as well as eastward. Within the half-circle of Dalgety Bay are the ruins of old Dalgety Church, and what remains of Donibristle House. The estate belongs to the Earl of Moray, the owner of Doune and of many broad lands in the north. The mansion was accidentally burned thirty years ago; but destined for longer remembrance is its burning, not accidental, three centuries since, when took place the tragedy of "the Bonnie Earl o' Moray." The "Bonnie Earl"--son-in-law of the famous Regent Moray--was in 1591 slain, as he was escaping from the blazing building, by Gordon of Buckie and other retainers of Lord Huntly, with the connivance, as was suspected, of James VI. The ballad-writers have their explanation, for "The Bonnie Earl o' Moray, He was the Queen's love." An Earl and Regent Moray of an earlier stem--Randolph, the companion of the Bruce and of the Black Douglas--had his home at Aberdour, the next indentation in this singularly beautiful coast. The line had soon to give place to the Douglases, Earls of Morton, who have ruled here for some five centuries, though their old castle, overlooking the lovely bay, with its projecting bluffs and shining sands, now a favourite resort for bathers and summer visitors, has been long untenanted. The wily and unscrupulous Regent Morton came hither to amuse himself with gardening, in the intervals when, from choice or compulsion, he was not in the thick of political intrigue. Edinburgh was always in view from Aberdour, and nature and simple country pursuits could not hold him long. Through the high beech groves and hanging woods, one of the most charming of walks leads for three miles to Burntisland. But the charm is no longer what it was, for the new railway line running athwart the slope has played havoc with the trees. Outside Aberdour, and partly shielding the bay, is Inchcolm Island. It would need a volume to do justice to the islands of the Forth. Some we have already glanced at. "St. Colme's Inch," where, as Shakespeare tells us, the routed Norsemen were fain to crave permission of the Thane of Cawdor to bury their dead, is the most famous of them all--except perhaps the Bass. The square tower and mouldering walls of its Abbey, rising close to the narrow isthmus where the isle is almost cut in two by the sea, are still prominent objects in the view. The Monastery was founded in 1123, by King Alexander I., in gratitude for his miraculous rescue from shipwreck, and entertainment here by a hermit who followed the rule of St. Columba. It once owned rich possessions in half a dozen shires, granted in part by a Lord Alan Mortimer of Aberdour, whose body the monks flung overboard in a storm while crossing to the island, thus giving a name to the inner channel of "Mortimer's Deep." Invaders, pirates, and rebels, as well as the hand of time, have since sorely visited the island, but still portions of the old buildings stand, and are even habitable. Cramond Island, almost opposite Inchcolm, hugs the other shore, and there is a road across the sands to its little farmhouse at low tide; while in the mid-channel there are many rocky islets, some of them the chosen resorts of cormorants and other sea birds. Further down, half-way between Leith Pier and Kirkcaldy Bay, Inchkeith stretches its length for nearly a mile across the Firth. Inchkeith, also, has harboured anchorites and stood sieges; and there are many curious legends connected with its coves and caves. But its most prominent feature is now the white lighthouse perched upon its highest crest; and barely visible to the eye are the powerful batteries that sweep, on the one side, Leith Roads, and on the other side the North Channel, between the island and Pettycur Point, where also great guns are mounted for the defence of the Forth. Then a long way farther out, at the very entrance to the Firth, and visible only in clear weather and easterly wind, runs the long rock wall of the May Island. In other days the May was a great resort of pilgrims, who held it a merit to reach a place so difficult of access, and barren women especially found a blessing in drinking from the well that had refreshed St. Fillan and St. Adrian. There was a religious house here connected with the Priory of Pittenweem on the adjacent Fife coast, but the monks found it by-and-bye most convenient to reside on shore. Though the light of faith has gone out, another light--a guide to the commerce entering the Firth--has been kept burning upon the May for two centuries and a half. Now its only residents are the lighthouse-men and their families, and its only regular visitors are myriads of sea-fowl. The Carr Rock and Fidra Island lights mark, with the May, the entrance to the Firth; and scattered along the East Lothian coast, from Fidra eastwards, are numerous little islands, "salt and bare." But none of them have the fame or the aspect of the "Bass." This huge mass of rock, heaved up by some convulsion of nature, like North Berwick Law and other great bluffs on shore, presents seawards its precipitous cliff, rising sheer to a height of 400 feet, while towards the land it shows a green slope descending steeply to the landing-place and the remains of its old prison castle. The crevices of the rocks are filled with the nests of the solan-goose and other sea-fowl, and the air around is alive with their cries and the sweep of their wings. But otherwise it is impossible to imagine a spot with the aspect of grim isolation more thoroughly impressed upon it. St. Baldred is said to have lived and died on the Bass Rock; but it came most conspicuously forward in history when it was made the prison of the Covenanters, charged with no other offence than that of following their consciences against the will of the King; and afterwards, when its Jacobite garrison held out for years after every other place in the kingdom had submitted to William of Orange. But on the way from Inchcolm to the Bass, what a marvellous series of noble land and sea pieces, of famous or hallowed sites, we have passed! It were hard to say whether scenic beauty and historical associations cluster more closely upon the shores of the Firth, or upon the surrounding amphitheatre of hills. In the profile of the hills of Fife, the broad-shouldered Lomonds, with their double or triple heads, overtop all--the East Lomond looking down upon the ruins of the old royal hunting seat of Falkland, the scene of Rothesay's cruel pangs, and the western heights upon Loch Leven and the Island Castle, whence Mary made her romantic escape. More in the foreground are Dunearn, crowded by the remains of a Pictish fort, and the steep, rugged front of the Binn of Burntisland, overhanging the town of that name. Rossend Castle--a favourite residence of the Queen of Scots, where took place the incident that cost the enamoured French poet Chastelard his life--fronts the sea at the west end of Burntisland harbour; and to the east, behind a beautiful sweep of sand and "links," rises the cliff at which an evil fate overtook Alexander III. and Scotland. [Illustration: PORTOBELLO.] [Illustration: KIRKCALDY, FROM THE SOUTH-EAST.] Beyond Pettycur, and the high ground of Grange, once the home of that famous champion, Kirkcaldy of Grange, the wide curve of Kirkcaldy Bay opens up. The old burgh of Kinghorn is at one extremity, and the still more ancient town of Dysart at the other; and the middle foreground is largely occupied by the houses and shipping of the "Lang Toun." The very names of Kirkcaldy ("Kirk of the Culdees") and of Dysart ("Desertum") point to the antiquity and the sanctity of the origin of places that to this day are strongly "Churchy." The grotesque folk-tale relates that the devil was "buried in Kirkcaldy," and that his complaint that "his taes were cauld" led the good-natured inhabitants to build house to house, until now the town, with the villages connected, stretches some four miles in a straight line. The story may have had its origin in some of the apostolic doings of St. Serf, who had for a time his "desert" in one of the caves in the red cliffs at Dysart; or else in some magic feat of the wizard Michael Scott--the friend of Dante and Boccaccio--whose weird tower of Balwearie is an uncanny neighbour of the "Lang Toun." The ruins, close by the shore, of Seafield Tower and of Ravenscraig Castle--the latter the home of the line of "high St. Clair," and of the "lovely Rosabelle"--are now strangely backed by floor-cloth factories. Kirkcaldy has, however, other and even better things to be proud of; for here Adam Smith was born; here Edward Irving taught and preached, with Thomas Carlyle, the dominie of a competing school, as his friend and companion on excursions to Inchkeith, and to quaint nooks of the Fife coast. The author of "Sartor Resartus" had kindly recollections of the folks of the "Kingdom"--"good old Scotch in all their works and ways;" and with strong unerring touches brings before us their "ancient little burghs and sea villages, with their poor little havens, salt-pans, and weather-beaten bits of Cyclopean breakwaters, and rude innocent machineries." Portentous for length is the mere list of these surf-washed Fife towns--beloved of wandering artists and haunted by memories and traditions of the olden time--that are sprinkled along the coast eastward. Mention cannot be avoided of Wemyss, Easter and Wester, with their caves and coal-pits rendering upon the sea, and their castles, old and new; of tumbledown Methil and the "ancient and fish-like flavour" of Buckhaven; of Leven and Lundin, their Druidical stones and stretches of breezy links, the delight of golfers; of Largo, where the Law looks down upon "Largo Bay" and its brown-sailed fishing boats, upon the cottage of "Auld Robin Gray," and upon the birthplace of the famous Scottish admiral, Sir Andrew Wood, and of Alexander Selkirk, the "original" Robinson Crusoe; of Elie, most delightful of East Coast watering-places; of St. Monance and its picturesque old church and harbour and ruined tower; of Pittenweem and the remains of its priory, on the site of St. Fillan's cell; of Anstruther, Easter and Wester, the scene of "Anster Fair," and the home of Maggie Lauder; of Cellardyke, Kilrenny, and, quietest and remotest of them all, "the weel-aired ancient toun o' Crail," where Knox preached and Archbishop Sharp was "placed," situated close by Fife Ness, with its wind-twisted bents, its caves, and traces of Danish camps and forgotten fights. The smell and the sound of the sea are about all these Fife burghs and fishing villages, and not less saturated with romance and history are the old-fashioned mansion-houses of the lairds of the East Neuk, that seek shelter in every fold of the land. For Fife was the true soil of the "cock" or "bonnet" laird, whose proverbial heritage was "a wee pickle land, a good pickle debt, and a doo-cot." Little better than a ruined dove-cote--or "a corbie's nest," as the Merry Monarch called Dreel Castle, the old tower of the Anstruthers--shows many a crumbled seat of the long-pedigreed Fife gentry. But they were the nurseries of famous men--witness the Leslies, Alexander and David, and a host besides--who found not only their native shire but their native country too narrow a field for their talents and their ambition. In this, as in other respects, the shores of Fife offer an epitome of Scottish history, and the quintessence of Scottish character. Turn now towards the Southern shore. The spell even of the coasts of Fife cannot long detain us, when Edinburgh, seated on her hills, and queening it over the waters, with the couchant lion of Arthur's Seat beside her, is in view. As Stirling presides over the "Links of Forth," and the upper courses of the river, Edinburgh Rock with its Castle appears the Guardian Genius of the Firth. Round the base of this "Bass Rock upon land," the masses of buildings seem to swirl and surge like a tide-race of human life, and to climb, in broken wave upon wave, crested by the spires and roofs of the Old Town, and overhung by the murky spray of its proverbial "reek," all up the steep slope to the battlements of the Castle. Stirling itself is scarcely its peer for dignity of situation or for renown. From the highest platform of the Rock, where hooped and battered Mons Meg guards the old chapel of Canmore and Margaret, to the profoundest depths of the shadows cast by the tall and beetling houses of the Grassmarket, the West Port, and the Cowgate, it is haunted by traditions; and its history, like its aspect, is most sombre and most striking. Looking from the windows of the rooms which Mary occupied, and whence the infant James was let down in a basket to the bottom of the rock, one glances across the "plainstanes" of the Grassmarket, the scene of Jock Porteous's slaughter, to the Old Greyfriars Churchyard and its graves of martyrs and of persecutors, to the dome and towers of the old and new University buildings, and to the piled and crowded buildings, thinning out and becoming newer as they descend the warm slopes of Morningside and Newington towards the bluffs of Craiglockhart, the whinny slopes of the Braids, and Craigmillar Castle, behind which are the finely pencilled lines of the Pentlands, the Moorfoots, and the Lammermoors. Or the eye can follow the impending walls of the many-storeyed houses of the Lawnmarket and the High Street, as far as the "Crown" of St. Giles and the Parliament House--each of them part and parcel of the national life--and so on by the Canongate and its memorable old "lands" and closes, towards the spot where the Palace and the ruined Abbey of Holyrood, shouldered by breweries and canopied by the smoke of gasworks, shelter under the Salisbury Crags. Or looking away from the grim Old Town, one may travel far before seeing anything to compare with the stately front of Prince's Street, facing its gardens and the sun, and turned away from the cold blasts of the north; the Calton Hill and its monuments; the serried lines of the New Town streets and squares, broken by frequent spires and towers, and sweeping away in one direction towards the wooded sides of Corstorphine, and in the other joining Leith and its shipping; while beyond, if the day be fine, the glorious view is bounded by the Firth and its islands and the hills of Fife, melting in a distance where land, sea, and sky are indistinguishable. Too often, viewing it from the "clouded Forth," the grey city, its castle, and its subject hills are swallowed up in the "gloom that saddens heaven and earth" during the dismal Edinburgh winter and spring, and the uncertain summer and autumn. Sometimes they show huge and imposing, like ghosts in the mist, or rise like islands over the strata of smoke and haze in which Leith lies buried. But there are gloriously fine days at all seasons of the year, even in this much-abused climate, and then the long pier, the shipping in the roadstead, the tangle of masts and rigging in the spacious docks, and the warehouses, churches, and close-built houses of the port of Leith make a brave show in the low foreground of a lovely picture. To the west, the wide arms of the Granton breakwaters enclose a harbour, built at the cost of the Duke of Buccleuch. Nearer to Leith is the white pier-head of Newhaven, with stalwart fishermen, and comely fishwives in white "mutches" and short petticoats, grouped about its quays. Leith itself is an old as well as a brisk seat of trade and shipping. The large business it continues to conduct with the ports of the Baltic and the North Sea it has carried on for many centuries, and in these days it has extended its commercial relations to nearly all parts of the world. Many of the most famous episodes in the national annals began and ended in Leith. But royal embassies no longer land or embark there; it is happily exempt from hostile invasions and bloody civil and religious feuds. [Illustration: THE BASS ROCK, FROM NORTH BERWICK.] Eastward from Leith, sewage meadows and brick-and tile-works suddenly give place to the mile-long front of the Portobello Esplanade, with its pier and bathing coaches and strip of sand, dear to Edinburgh holiday-makers, and with the outline of Arthur's Seat as a noble background to the masses of handsome villas and lodging-houses. Beyond comes a string of little seaside watering-places, fishing and shipping ports--Fisherrow, Musselburgh, Morrisonhaven, Prestonpans, Cockenzie--which, with the country behind them, vie in picturesqueness of aspect with the Fife towns opposite. A high ridge, the last heave of the Lammermoors, marks the limits of this belt of coast country--the old approach of hostile armies from the South--which might dispute with the district around Stirling the title of the "Battlefield of Scotland." Carberry Hill, where Mary fell into the hands of the Lords of the Covenant, overlooks the woods of Dalkeith Palace and the Esk, not far above where, between Fisherrow harbour and Musselburgh, that classic stream enters the sea. A continuation of Carberry are the Fawside braes, and right underneath the ruined castle on the sky-line, and between it and Inveresk Church, was fought the battle of Pinkie, so disastrous for the Scots, when the little burn trickling through Pinkie Woods "ran red with blood." It was on this ground, too, that Cromwell was out-manoeuvred by Leslie, and compelled to fall back, "to make the better spring" upon Dunbar; and by the venerable bridge across the Esk, the Young Pretender led his troops from Edinburgh, on hearing that the Royalist forces were advancing by the coast upon the capital. The site of the battle of Prestonpans is in the fields beyond the tumbledown old town of that name, which boasts--and looks as if it boasted truly--of being the first place in Scotland where coal was worked and salt manufactured from sea-water. In the more thriving looking village of Cockenzie, they point out the house in which "Johnnie Cope" was soundly sleeping when the Highlanders, making a circuit of the high ground behind Tranent, and crossing the marsh at Seton, "sprang upon him out of the mist" of a September morning. [Illustration: TANTALLON CASTLE, LOOKING EAST.] Seton, with its woods and wild-flowers, its lovely sweep of sands, the remains of its ancient church, and the Castle standing on the site of the Palace of the Earls of Winton, is redolent of memories of the "high jinks" of Queen Mary and of other members of the unfortunate House of Stuart, in whose mischances the loyal Setons faithfully shared. The parks of Gosford, their trees strangely bent and twisted by the east wind, line the coast for miles, and the great white front of Lord Wemyss's mansion is a shining landmark. Then comes Aberlady Bay, an expanse of sand and mud at low water, but at high tide a broad arm of the Firth, running up close under the walls of the venerable Parish Church and pretty village of Aberlady, and skirting the favourite golfing links of Luffness and Gullane. From here all the way round to North Berwick, the sea-margin, with its long stretches of grassy turf, interspersed with bent hillocks, whins, sand "bunkers," and other hazards dear to the devotees of cleek and driving-club, may be said to be sacred to the Royal Game of Golf. Four or five spacious golfing courses interpose between; and ardent pursuers of the flying gutta ball have been known to play across the whole distance of seven or eight miles. Numbers of them take up their quarters at Aberlady or at Gullane, placed idyllically upon the edge of the common and the ploughed land, with views extending across the green links and the sea to Fife, and landward over the rich fields of East Lothian to the Lammermoors, with the nearer Garleton Hills, Traprain, and North Berwick Law; a few also at the beautiful old village of Dirleton, beside the ivied ruins of its Castle. North Berwick, however, is the golfer's Mecca on this side of the Firth; and bathers, artists, and other seekers after the pleasures of the sea-shore succumb to its attractions in increasing numbers every season. The sands and the links, the sea lapping upon the beach, or chafing round Craigleith and the other rocky islets and points, exercise a potent spell. But North Berwick's great lion, and a conspicuous landmark over sea and country for a score of miles around, is the natural pyramid of the "Law." It rises immediately behind the town, in lines as steep and symmetrical as if built by art, and from its summit, nearly 1,000 feet high, an almost unrivalled view is obtained over the Forth and the Lothians. Though one would hardly guess it, looking at the clean streets and handsome hotels and villas that line the shore, North Berwick is a burgh and port of great antiquity. That it never throve to any remarkable extent in its earlier history may possibly be in part due to its dangerous proximity to Tantallon Castle, the hold of the Douglases, Earls of Angus. Every visitor to North Berwick, after he has surmounted the Law and wandered his fill by the beach, makes an excursion to Tantallon Castle. The coast eastward is bold and precipitous, and fretted by the waters of the North Sea, for we are now at the very lip of the Firth of Forth; and the Bass Rock, lying opposite the beautiful curve of Canty Bay, looks like a mass of the shore-cliffs washed bodily out to sea. Just where the coast is wildest and least accessible one sees-- "Tantallon's dizzy steep Hang o'er the margin of the deep." The eyrie of the Douglas is now a mere shell; but the extent and immense thickness of the walls still proclaim its strength in the days when it was a proverb to "ding doon Tantallon and make a bridge to the Bass." On three sides it was protected by the sea, and "Above the booming ocean leant The far-projecting battlement." On the land side were those gate-works and walls which Marmion cleared, after bidding bold defiance to the "Douglas in his hall," and behind which the turbulent Earls of Angus, for their part, so often bade defiance to their Sovereigns. James V. once brought up against it "Thrawn-mu'd Meg and her Marrow," and other great pieces of mediæval ordnance from Dunbar, where three lords were placed in pawn for their safe return. But he failed to "ding doon Tantallon"; that feat was reserved for the Covenanters. Now the spirit of Walter Scott seems to haunt the ruins, in company with the ghosts of "Bell-the-Cat," and the other dead Douglases who built or strengthened these storm-battered walls. The Magician of the North has waved his wand over the Forth from Ben Lomond to Tantallon and the Bass! JOHN GEDDIE. [Illustration: NORTH BERWICK, FROM THE HARBOUR.] [Illustration: BERWICK-ON-TWEED.] THE TWEED. CHAPTER I. FROM BERWICK TO KELSO. Leading Characteristics--The View from Berwick--Lindisfarne--The History and Present State of Berwick--Norham Castle and Marmion--Ladykirk--Tillmouth--Twisell Castle and Bridge--Ford Castle and Flodden--Coldstream--Wark Castle--Hadden Rig. "A bonny water" was the phrase used of the Tweed by a peasant-woman whom Dorothy Wordsworth met when she came to spy out the Border river. Homely as the expression is, it would not be easy to find another quite so meet. To grandeur, to magnificence, the stream can make no claim, either in itself or in its surroundings. Of screaming eagles, of awful cliffs, of leaping linns, of foaming waves, it knows nothing. No more horrid sound is heard in its neighbourhood than the cry of the pale sea-maw; its banks are rarely precipitous, never frightful; it has not a single waterfall to its name; and, save where its surface is gently ruffled by glistening pebbles, it flows smooth as (_pace_ the poet) the course of true love usually is. Yet of charms more gracious how profuse it is! In its careless windings, its silvery clearness, its sweet haughs and holms, its affluence of leaf and blade, its frequent breadth of valley, it is dowered with all the amenities of a large and generous landscape, distributed into combinations of incessant variety. Nor does it owe much less to art and association than to Nature. It glides or ripples by some of the most impressive ruins, ecclesiastical and secular, in all Scotland. At point after point it shines, for the inner eye, with "the light that never was on sea or land." If over other Scottish streams as well the magician's wand has waved, the Tweed is twice blessed, since it can speak not only of "Norham's castled steep" and "St. David's ruined pile," but of Ashestiel, and Smailholm, and Abbotsford. And then its course takes it through the very heart of the Debateable Land--birthplace of myth and legend, of fairy tale and folk-song--battlefield where hostile races and envious factions and rival clans have met in mortal strife. For centuries it was the wont of its waters to reflect the fire-bale's ruddy glare, of its banks to resound with the strident Border-slogan; and until long after the coalition of the Crowns its fords continued to be crossed by reiving marchmen in jack and helmet, driving before them their "prey," or scurrying before the avenging "hot trod," led on by blaring bugle-horn and mouthing bloodhound. [Illustration: HIGH STREET, BERWICK, WITH THE TOWN HALL.] A bonny water it truly is, but not a brisk. Except in time of spate, it pursues its way, not wearily, it may be, but certainly lazily, and even wantonly, often wimpling into curves and loops which half suggest that, forgetful of its destiny, it is about basely to wind back to whence it came, and calling to mind Mr. Swinburne's river, of which all that can be said is that it creeps "somewhere safe to sea." When in the chiming humour, which is not seldom, it sings sweetly enough, but crooningly rather than liltingly--less to you than to itself, or in accompaniment to the birds that pour out their lavish strains along its banks. Not that there is any particular reason why it should take life more seriously. To things commercial it does not condescend. It is tidal only to Norham, and none but mere cockle-shells can get even so far. And if it has a drainage basin second only to that of the Tay among Scottish streams, it has never been alleged that in this respect there is any failure of duty. Let it be said, too, that while it rarely hastes, on the other hand it seldom rests. The "mazes" to which it is addicted are not usually "sluggish;" to the spiky rush or the cool shiny discs of the water-lily it shows no special favour; while dark pools "where alders moist and willows weep" are only to be found by those who seek. Exciting the influences of the stream are not; but they are at any rate cheerful. [Illustration: THE ROYAL BORDER BRIDGE, BERWICK.] [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE TWEED.] One whose only knowledge of the Tweed is gained from what can be seen of it at Berwick, and when the tide is out, would not be likely to think of it more highly than he ought to think. For even at its "latter end" it seems to have no great sense of the dignity of life; it rolls neither broad nor deep, and does little more than trickle into the larger life to which it has all along so indolently tended. Nor is it here altogether happy in the surroundings which it owes to art and man's device. Berwick itself, rising from the water's edge to the top of Halidon Hill, and partly girdled by its fine wall, used as a promenade in these piping times of peace, looks quaint, and comely as well, seen from the opposite or southern bank. But when one has crossed the stream by the old bridge--Berwick Bridge, which has stood here since the time of James I.--and looks across at Tweedmouth, exactly opposite, and at Spittal, which has thought fit to spring up a little farther east and just at the river's mouth, the impression is less pleasing. Neither of these places is pretty in itself, while for their size they make an amazing amount of black smoke. Then there is Robert Stephenson's great railway viaduct, the Royal Border Bridge, which it is the fashion to praise up to the skies, as it well-nigh reaches them. As a successful bit of engineering, it is no doubt all very well; but an addition to the beauties of the scene it is not, whatever guide-books and gazetteers may say. In other directions, however, and farther afield, the outlook is more satisfactory. Away to the south the grey and rugged Cheviots make a glorious horizon-line; while out at sea are the Farne Islands, with their memories of St. Cuthbert, most austere of Western ascetics, and of Grace Darling, whose heroism puts so strange a gloss upon the holy man's abhorrence of womankind. The remnants of the ancient Abbey of Lindisfarne are among the very few examples of Saxon architecture which the destructiveness of the Danes has left to us; and that even these ruins remain, is due to no negligence of theirs. When they descended upon the island in the seventh century, not for the first time, they made a brave attempt to leave a desert behind them; but the massive strength which the builders of the church had intended to oppose to "tempestuous seas" was able in some degree to withstand their "impious rage." The abbey no longer shelters St. Cuthbert's remains, which must be sought in the Cathedral that looks down upon the Wear. But the old Saxon arches and columns have a stronger interest than this could have invested them with; for was it not here, in Sexhelm's Vault of Penitence, dimly lighted by the pale cresset's ray, that the hapless Constance de Beverley, after solemn inquisition, was doomed to her terrible death, the while her betrayer was listening to the song which so melodiously contrasts the traitor's fate with the destiny of the true lover? [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE RAMPARTS, BERWICK.] Berwick-on-Tweed is certainly not happy in having no history. Its beginnings are not clearly ascertainable; but it was for long a Saxon settlement, until the Danes, attracted by the rich merse-lands through which the Tweed flows, helped themselves to it. Then came the turn of the Scots, who held it off and on from about the time of Alfred the Great until John Balliol renounced the authority of his liege lord, to whom he had sworn fealty at Norham. When an English army approached, the citizens were by no means alarmed, although it was led by Edward himself. "Kynge Edward," they cried from behind their wooden stockade, "waune thou havest Berwick, pike thee; waune thou havest geten, dike thee." But they were better at flouting than at fighting; and they soon had bitter reason for lamenting that they had not kept their mocks to themselves. The place was stormed with the most trivial loss, and nearly eight thousand of the citizens were massacred. Some brave Flemings who held the Red Hall were burnt to cinders in it; and the carnage only ceased when the sad and solemn priests bore the Host into Edward's presence and implored his mercy. Then the impetuous monarch, who in his old age was able to say that no man had ever asked mercy of him and been refused, burst into tears, and ordered the butchery to stop. But the lion's paw had fallen, and Berwick was crushed. When Edward sat down before it, it was not only the great Merchant City of the North, but ranked second to London among English towns; he left it little more than a ruin, and it has never since been anything but "a petty seaport." Through its gates the king went forth to play the _rôle_ of the conquering hero in Scotland; and when his over-lordship had been effectually vindicated, the Scottish barons and gentry met here to sulkily do him reverence. Two-and-twenty years later there came another turn of the wheel. When Robert Bruce wrested his native land from the feeble hands of the second Edward, Berwick shared in the emancipation. Its capture was held to be an achievement of the first order, and after it, as Leland tells us, "the Scottes became so proud ... that they nothing esteemed the Englishmen." But presently a weaker Bruce reigned in the North and a stronger Edward in the South. In due course the town was again beleaguered by an English force. A Scottish army under the Regent, Archibald Douglas, came to its relief; but the English held a strong position on Halidon Hill, and, met by their terrible showers of clothyard shafts, the Scots turned and fled, leaving Berwick to its fate. Thus it once more became English, and never again did it change masters, though it was allowed to retain many of its privileges. In these later days, however, it has had to part with one after another of its peculiarities, and now it is substantially a part of the county of Northumberland. [Illustration: NORHAM CASTLE.] That a place which has received so many rude buffets should have few very ancient remains is not to be wondered at. The present walls, which stand almost intact, and in excellent preservation, though the town in its recent prosperity has straggled outside their line, have a very respectable antiquity, dating as they do from the closing years of the sixteenth century; but of the older fortifications, which embraced a much more considerable space, scarcely a vestige is left, except an octagonal tower; while of the castle, which frowned over the stream where the north bank is steepest, little beyond the foundations has survived. A part of the site has been appropriated to the uses of a railway station, which by a well-meant but unhappy thought has been made to take a castellated form. The fortifications were dismantled some forty or fifty years ago, but there is still much to recall the ancient importance of the town as a place of arms. Nor have the citizens lost the military spirit which was bred into their forbears. They are proud to tell the stranger within their gates that there is almost as large a garrison here as at Edinburgh; and even the tavern-signs bear witness to a traditional love of arms. The parish church dates only from the Puritan period. It is said to be "quaint" when it is only ugly; and to be a plain specimen of the Gothic when it is not Gothic at all, except in the opprobrious sense in which the term was first applied to mediæval architecture by the superior persons of the Restoration. There being no tower--the Puritans had no taste for "steeple-houses"--the parishioners are summoned to service by the bells of the Town Hall, in the High Street, where also the curfew is still rung at eight of the clock every evening. Although the Anglican is here the Established Church, the prevalent form is the Presbyterian, which has many places of worship, while various other communions are also well represented. But there seems to be some want of resource in finding distinguishing names for the various churches and chapels, for there is a Church Street Church, and hard by a Chapel Street Church, while several places of worship are nameless. Among these latter is one which bears on its front the legend "Audi, Vide, Tace"--intended, presumably, for a concise exposition of the whole duty of the pew in relation to the pulpit. [Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE TILL AND THE TWEED.] Not a great way from the first of the bends in which the stream indulges, and within sight of the towers of Longridge, the Whiteadder from the Lammermoors, reinforced by the Blackadder, renders up its tribute. Two miles above this point the river is crossed by the Union Suspension Bridge, which, built by Sir S. Brown in 1820, is said to have been the first structure of the kind erected in these islands, while as bridges go along the Tweed it is also quite an antiquity; for, until the beginning of the century, there was only one between Peebles and Berwick, a space of more than sixty miles. Now they are many, yet there has been little sacrifice of beauty to utility, for, as a rule, when not picturesque, they are at least neat and modest. Hereabouts the valley is fairly broad, the banks rising on either hand into a long succession of rolling meadows green with herbage, or of furrowed fields red with tilth, in the prime of summer smothered with tender shoots of corn all aglow with the bright yellow blooms of the runch--to the wayfarer a flower, to the husbandman a weed. So curve to curve succeeds until Norham Castle comes in sight, standing on a lofty cliff of red freestone which rises almost sheer from the water on the southern bank, and disdainfully rearing itself high above the trees that have presumed to grow up around it. [Illustration: TILLMOUTH HOUSE, FROM THE BANKS OF THE TILL.] When this ancient little village first had a stronghold no one seems to know. As early as 1121 a fortress was built here by Bishop Flambard, of Durham; but it was not the first to occupy the site. After the death of "this plunderer of the rich, this exterminator of the poor," the castle was so roughly handled by David I. that in 1164 we find another Bishop of Durham, Hugh Pudsey, virtually rebuilding it, and adding a massive keep. But warrior-priests were not much to the mind of the king who suggested the assassination of Thomas à Becket, and so, some ten years after he had rebuilt it, the bishop was prevailed upon to pass it on to William de Neville; and from this time onwards it appears to have been treated as a royal fortress. Thus it came about that more than once it was the scene of conference between William the Lion and the English King whose only association with the noble beast was through his brother. And here also came Edward I., to decide between the thirteen claimants to the crown of Alexander III., and to do a little business on his own account as well. A memoir of the Dacres on its condition early in the sixteenth century speaks of the keep as impregnable; but it was nothing of the kind. Like all these Border strengths, it was always being taken and retaken; and only a few years before this memoir was written, James IV., then on his way to Flodden, had brought up Mons Meg against it, and with the "auld murderess's" help had possessed himself of it. Pudsey's massive keep still remains, though in a greatly shattered state, and shorn of its mighty proportions; there are also bits of other parts of the castle, the whole enclosed within a wall of ample circuit. [Illustration: FORD CASTLE.] [Illustration: FLODDEN FIELD.] In the days when it held a royal garrison, Norham had various castellans, some of them men of distinction in their day; but the most famous of them since the "tale of Flodden Field" was told, has been "Sir Hugh the Heron bold." This "Baron of Twisell and of Ford" passed among men as William Heron; but Hugh was more poetical, and so his baptismal name was changed. Nor, at the time selected for the Lord of Fontenaye's visit, was he here to be twitted with his witching lady's gallantries. Two years before this his bastard brother had taken part in the slaughter of the Scottish Warden of the Middle Marches, Sir Robert Ker of Cessford; and as Sir William himself had been in some sort accessory to the crime, Henry had thought it well to deliver him and one of the actual murderers up to justice, so that at this time he was lying in durance at Fastcastle. This, of course, is the fault of the facts, not of the poetry. Nor need it be disappointing to find Sir Walter himself saying that the Marmion of the romance is "entirely a fictitious personage." When, indeed, it is remembered that one of the Marmions did verily come here, though long years before--in the reign which witnessed the triumph at Bannockburn, instead of the overthrow at Flodden--the poet might very well have been astonished at his own moderation. The errand of the real Marmion was a good deal more romantic than that of his imaginary descendant. At a great feast in Lincolnshire he had been endued with a gold-crested helmet by a lady who had nothing better to do than to drive a brave man into mortal peril. Her charge to him was to "go into the daungerest place in England, and ther to let the healme be seene and known as famous." So he sped him here to Norham, and within four days of his coming, Philip of Mowbray, the guardian of Berwick--now in the hands of the elated Scots--appeared before the walls "with the very flour of the men of the Scottish marches." The castellan at this time was a Grey of Chillingham, who drew out his men before the barriers, and then bade the knight-errant, "al glittering in gold, and wearing the healme," to ride like a valiant man among his foes, adding, "and I forsake God if I rescue not thy body, dead or alyve, or I myself wyl dye for it." Thereupon the knight mounted and rode into the midst of the enemy, "the which layed sore stripes on him, and pulled hym at the last out of his sadel to the ground." But now Grey and his men "lette prick yn among the Scottes" and put them to rout; and he of the "healme," though "sore beten," was horsed again and took part in the chase. As it must have been this visit which made the poet bring his Marmion to Norham, so no doubt it was the deed itself, coupled with an event which actually happened at Tantallon, which suggested the knight's precipitate retreat when he had bearded the Douglas in his halls. [Illustration: TWISELL BRIDGE.] Just above the castle is the village of Norham, with its pretty little church--all but the eastern end, where there is a poor Decorated window, in the Norman style, and still interesting, in spite of the drastic restoration it has endured. It stands in a churchyard which well repays the careful tendance it receives, for it is of exceptionally choice situation, separated by a row of limes from the cosiest of rectories, and by little more than another fringe of foliage from the Tweed, whose waves babble of rest and peace as they ripple by the cells where lie the simple village folk who ended their toilsome lives in their beds, and the warriors who came to a ruder end before or behind the castle walls. Here the northern bank is lofty and pleasantly wooded, as, a little below, is the southern bank. In its approach to the castle the stream bends round to the south, and its waters move less leisurely, as though, fresh from contact with a scene consecrated to peace on the earth and goodwill among men, they cannot abide these grim stark ruins, with their memories of weeping captives and cruel deeds. If the keep yet looks down with something of insolence upon its lowly neighbour on the strath far beneath, it is, for all that, a parable against itself, testifying that it is not to "men of might" but to "men of mean" that the inheritance has been decreed. For while its strength and splendour have for ever fled, the humble sanctuary has renewed its youth; and, though the forms of faith suffer change, it has a good hope that in the far summers which we shall not see it will still be fulfilling its gracious and hallowed offices. [Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE TILL AND THE GLEN.] Within sight of Norham, on the opposite bank, amidst a delightful bit of woodland scenery, is the tiny village of Ladykirk, named, by a reversal of the usual order, from its church, dedicated to the Virgin, and built about the year 1500 by James IV. as a votive gift for his preservation from drowning while crossing a ford at this spot. Thus says tradition, which has so much to answer for. But the story is not improbable. There certainly was a ford here, which was more than usually dangerous when freshets were running; and James, though not a serious-minded or scrupulous man--being, indeed, one of those who prefer to indulge and repent rather than abstain--was not without an easy kind of piety. From Ladykirk onwards to Tillmouth, walking along the banks, there is a rapid succession of varied delights. On one side or the other, when not on both, the stream is edged with lovely copses; and the path, breast-high with tufted grass and tangled briar, runs past many a thicket beloved of the yellow linnet and the spotted thrush, and athwart many a glen where in simpler days fairies held their dainty revels and laid their sprightly plots. [Illustration: THE GLEN AT COUPLAND.] The Till not only augments the waters, but adds to the beauties, of the Tweed. "The sullen Till," Scott calls it in his poetry; but here he is tuning his harp to a minor key to sing the disaster at Flodden; and he can mean no more by the uncomplimentary expression than when in his prose he speaks of it as deep and slow. A very leisurely water it certainly is, and the country through which it flows--past Ewart Newtown, where it is joined by the Glen, which rises on the slopes of the Cheviots as Bowmont Water, and passes through scenery of which that at Coupland may be taken as typical--is not on the whole interesting. But the epithet is less than just if applied to its mouth and the reaches immediately below, for here it flows through a deep, winding, and gloriously wooded glen. On the peninsula where the streams meet and blend, stands a fragment of what was once "a chapel fair," dedicated to St. Cuthbert; for when the roving saint had tired of Melrose and induced his custodians to launch him upon the Tweed in a stone coffin, this "ponderous bark for river-tides" glided "light as gossamer" until it landed here. The coffin used to be shown in two pieces beside the ruin (it was broken by the saint's guardian spirits, to save it from being degraded to an ignoble use); and Sir Walter, who would appear to have seen it, says that it was finely shaped, and of such proportions that with very little assistance it might have floated. To "Tillmouth cell" it was that Clare was conveyed by the pious monk when some "base marauder's lance" had at once rid her of her persecutor and avenged the betrayal of Constance; and here she spent the night in prayer. And to Tillmouth also it was that Friar John was attached, that "blithesome brother at the can" who in evil hour "crossed the Tweed to teach Dame Alison her creed," and being interrupted in the exposition by her churl of a husband, and being on principle an enemy to strife, incontinently fled "sans frock and hood." A boon companion the worthy John must have been, but not a safe guide for Marmion or another, since-- "When our John hath quaffed his ale, As little as the wind that blows And warms itself against his nose, Kens he, or cares, which way he goes." The mere fragment which is all that is left of Twisell Castle stands high above the Till, near its mouth, overlooking Tillmouth House, embosomed in trees a little farther up the Till, and Twisell's "Gothic arch," the picturesque single-span bridge which the foolhardiness of James allowed the van of the English army to cross on the morning of Flodden. Begun in 1770 by Sir Francis Blake, the castle was in the builder's hands off and on for the space of forty years; but it was never completed, and never occupied, although Sir Walter, whose conscience failed him in the matter of castle-building, was pleased to praise it as "a splendid pile of Gothic architecture." William Heron, the castellan of Norham, was, as we have seen, "Baron of Twisell," but his chief seat was Ford Castle, farther up the Till, on the eastern bank; and it was here, and not at Holyrood, that, according to the original legend, which did not quite suit the poet's purpose, the Scottish king fell victim to Lady Heron's charms. The story goes that, having taken Norham and Wark, he had stormed Ford, and was only deterred from demolishing it by its fair castellan's blandishments; and the Scottish chroniclers represent Lady Heron as preening her feathers expressly that the susceptible monarch might lose his chance of striking an effective blow. The whole story is now known to be devoid of truth. The unromantic fact is that Lady Heron deceived neither her husband nor his captor. When the battle of Flodden was fought she was far enough away from Ford Castle, imploring Surrey to make terms with the King of Scotland for the safety of her husband. That James took the castle by storm is no doubt true, but when he departed for Flodden he set it on fire, which was about the worst he could do under the circumstances. Although the castle which Lady Heron's husband extended and strengthened was sorely knocked about by the Scots in 1549, portions of it remain to this day. From the windows a clump of firs which crowns the Hill of Flodden, known as the "King's Chair," on the west bank of the Till, is clearly visible, as it is from the Tweed, from which it is only about three miles distant, to the south; and the present proprietress of the castle, the Marchioness of Waterford, has had a ride cut through the woods straight up the famous height. The chamber occupied by the king may still be seen, and through its large window he must on the fateful morning have looked across the Till upon the gleaming tents of his forces. The position was one of considerable strength; but James recklessly threw away this and every other advantage. Against the remonstrances and appeals of his wisest counsellors he refused to permit Borthwick to open fire upon the English van as it was crossing Twisell Bridge, and so allowed the enemy to cut off his base. And now that the time was come for holding his hand, he resolved to strike; so, firing his tents, he amid profound silence marched down, and the fight began. When night came to enforce a truce, Surrey was in doubt whether the battle was at an end. But the Scots had lost their king, and with him his natural son the boy-Archbishop of St. Andrews, and the flower, and much more than the flower, of their nobility and gentry, and even of the clergy, and there was nothing for them but to draw off under cover of the darkness and carry to their homes the news of the most disastrous blow their nation had ever suffered. Many long refused to believe that their beloved king had fallen, and stories got abroad of his having gone on pilgrimage to win forgiveness for his sin against his father on the inglorious field of Sauchie, but they vainly waited for his reappearance, and there is no reason to doubt that the "King's Stone" pretty accurately marks the spot where he fighting fell. When Sir Walter exclaims-- "Oh for one hour of Wallace wight, Or well-skilled Bruce to rule the fight, And cry 'St. Andrew and our right!' Another sight had seen that morn, From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, And Flodden had been Bannockbourne"-- we hear the patriot as well as the poet. Yet it is the truth that the Scots at Flodden fought no less valiantly than their ancestors had done at Bannockburn. But their king, though a gallant soldier, as in many respects he was a wise statesman, and, like most of his house, an accomplished man, was as bad a general as ever led brave men to destruction; while Surrey could not only head a charge, but play a cunning and wary game. It was not the first time the men had met. Ten years before, the English noble had handed to the Scottish king his bride, Margaret Tudor--then, a girl of fourteen, her mind teeming with dreams of imminent happiness; now, a sad and lonely woman, awaiting tidings of the strife betwixt her husband and her brother which all her tears and caresses had been impotent to avert. At Coldstream, a couple of miles or so farther up the Tweed, pleasantly girdled with trees, we are still in the thick of military memories. Not far from where Smeaton's bridge gives a choice view both up and down stream is the first ford of any importance above Berwick. Here Edward I. crossed in 1296; here also Leslie and his Covenanters crossed in 1640 on their way south. At Coldstream, too, rather more than twenty years afterwards, the general who could make a king and hold his tongue disbanded his regiment as soldiers of the Commonwealth and re-embodied it as the Coldstream Guards before setting forth to undo the work in which the Covenanters had borne so large a share. It was by this ford, again, that Marmion, in his haste not to miss the fighting, made his perilous passage across the stream, having spent the night at Lennel's Convent, of which "one frail arch" is all that is left. [Illustration: COLDSTREAM BRIDGE, FROM UP-STREAM.] A little above the spot "where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep," on the southern bank, is a fragment of Wark Castle. According to Leland, it was "causid to be made" by Henry II. It twice repulsed attack at the hands of David I.; and when on the second occasion he had reduced it by blockade, he thought it well "to ding it doon." But it was rebuilt by Henry, and gave the Scots much further trouble before its final demolition--probably just after the union of the Crowns, when so many Border strongholds were dismantled. When, about the middle of the fourteenth century, David Bruce laid siege to it, the governor himself, Sir William Montague, mounted on a "wight" steed, penetrated the investing lines one dark and stormy night, and carried word to the king, Edward III., of what was happening at Wark, and so the siege was raised. The castle had been Edward's wedding-gift to the Earl of Salisbury, and the countess was here when he relieved it. She was naturally grateful, and her liege complacent; and the gossips say that in this wise began the romance of which one incident was the establishment of the Order of the Garter. The king was certainly in a perilous situation, for had he not just rescued the lady from one? [Illustration: RUINS OF WARK CASTLE.] As the stream is traced upwards, the banks not seldom break into cliffs, the valley gains in breadth and richness, and away to the north the sky-line is broken by the round top of Dunse Law. Nearly midway between Coldstream and Kelso the Tweed ceases to be the Border river, and enters the shire of Roxburgh, and a little higher up it takes toll of the "troutful Eden," which on its way down from the slopes of Boon Hill has watered the village of Ednam (Edenham), where "the sweet poet of the year" was born. A couple of miles or so away to the south is Hadden Rig, scene of the fight between the English and Scottish Marchwardens in 1542. Sir Robert Bowes, Governor of Norham, had, with three thousand horse, ravaged a large part of Teviotdale, and was marching on Jedburgh, when he encountered George Gordon, Earl of Huntly, and, with several of his colleagues and many of his men, was taken prisoner. Fighting on the English side was the exiled Earl of Angus, who only by a desperate exercise of strength and activity escaped capture and the traitor's doom which would inevitably have followed. THE TWEED. CHAPTER II. FROM KELSO TO TWEEDSWELL. Kelso and its Abbey--Roxburghe Castle--Floors Castle--The Teviot--Ancrum--Carlenrig--The Ale--The Jed and Jedburgh--Mertoun--Smailholm Tower and Sandyknowe--Eildon and Sir Michael Scott--Dryburgh--The Leader and Thomas the Rhymer--Melrose--Skirmish Hill--Abbotsford--The Ettrick and the Yarrow--Ashestiel--Innerleithen--Horsburgh Castle--Peebles--Neidpath--Manor--Drummelzier--The Crook Inn--Tweedswell. When Burns came to Kelso in the spring of 1787, and stood upon the bridge which preceded Rennie's fine piece of work, he is said to have reverently uncovered his head and breathed a prayer to the Almighty. A less religious nature than his might well have been moved to the devotional mood, for there can be few scenes so charged with inspiring and exalting influences. If Leyden did not quite hit the mark in saying of the Tweed here that she "her silent way majestic holds," it is only because she chants as she goes: august her course certainly is, for she rolls broad and brisk, and flows into queenly curves. On the one hand is Sir George Douglas's place, Springwood Park, the entrance dignified by some glorious bronze beeches; on the other are the stately ruins of the Abbey; and beyond, the town, neat and clean, gleaming white in the sunshine. Up stream, full in front, stands the palatial Floors Castle, not far from where the Teviot pours its hurrying tide into the Tweed; below bridge the spacious current ripples between thickly wooded banks. The town itself has many interests, modern as well as ancient. For some months towards the end of last century a boy, slightly lame, and much given to poring over old romances, attended the old grammar-school adjacent to the abbey, and still carried on there, though in a new building; and here began that acquaintance with the Ballantynes which was to have such ruinous issues. With another true minstrel also, though one who sings in a lower key, the town has associations. The Free Church, one of the white spired edifices visible from the bridge, was built for Horatius Bonar, who during a long ministry here wrote some sacred songs which men will not soon let die. Against the Free Church nothing need be urged except its newness; but the parish church--octagonal, with a huge slated roof, divided into as many sections--is a building of simply audacious uncouthness, a sight to make "sair eyes." It has been said to be the ugliest parish church in Scotland, and the statement might be amplified and still remain true. During the eighteenth century the parishioners were pleased to commend themselves to the divine mercy in the dismantled abbey, a low vault having been thrown over the transept; while right overhead, under a roof of thatch, certain of their fellows were all the while enduring the rigours of human justice. This felicitous arrangement survived until about 1771, when one Sunday the falling of a lump of plaster from the roof sent the congregation scampering out with the words of an oracular prophecy attributed to Thomas the Rhymer ringing in their ears. Then they set up this detestable building, fashioned in the style of an auction mart, within a stone's-throw of the venerable walls in which they were too superstitious to longer assemble themselves together! The remains of the Abbey are not considerable, consisting of a part of the central tower, about half of the west front, bits of the transept walls, and some fragments of the choir. The style is an interesting mixture of Romanesque and Early Pointed; thus there are round-headed doorways with zigzag mouldings, and series of those intersecting arches which mark the transition from the one style to the other; while the two surviving arches that support the central tower are Early Pointed. Less graceful than the remains of Melrose Abbey, which are much later, they have a massive dignity distinctly superior to those of Dryburgh, which come nearer to them in style. In Burton's opinion, there was no other building in all Scotland which bore so close a resemblance to a Norman castle. It was of course its position in the Debateable Land which prompted its builders to invest it with such strength and solidity. And the days came when it needed all its power of resistance, and more besides, since it often had to bear the brunt of battering-ram, of cannon-shot, and of the still more deadly faggot. Its visitations culminated in 1545, the year when the Earl of Hertford, better known as the Protector Somerset, made his terrible descent upon the northern kingdom. On this occasion it was bravely held by about a hundred defenders, including a dozen of its monks; but it was breached and stormed, and "as many Scots slain as were within." Thus it came about that there was only a remnant of the brotherhood left for the Reformers to expel fifteen years later; and the iconoclasts on principle must have found the wrecking of the building an easy enough task. When the vast possessions of the monastery came to be dealt with, the prudence, if not the generosity, of James VI. reminded him that he had favourites. In the previous reign the abbacy had been conferred upon James Stuart, one of the king's natural sons, while others of his bastards battened upon the revenues of divers other abbeys. On its practical side, it is clear, the Reformation came none too soon. The Abbey of Kelso, like those at Melrose and Jedburgh, and several more in other parts of Scotland, owes its foundation to David I., the pious son of a pious mother--"St." David, as he is often called. Standing at his tomb at Dunfermline, the first of the Jameses, whose taste ran to poetry rather than to piety, and to pursuits yet more frivolous, is said to have uttered the much-quoted remark that his predecessor was "ane sair sanct for the Crown," thinking the while of the revenues which had been alienated to religious uses. The reflection is generally taken seriously, but the wisest of the Stuarts must have meant it at least as much in jest as in earnest. David was, in truth, anything but an ignorant, impulsive fanatic. His training at the refined court of Henry I. had rubbed off "the rust of Scottish barbarity," as an outspoken English annalist puts it; and coming to his kingship an educated and accomplished man, he set about reducing his rude realm to order and civilisation; and in fulfilment of this mission castles were built, burghs erected, and religious establishments founded. Those were the palmy days of monasticism, when religious houses had not come to be filled with ecclesiastics of the type of Friar John of Tillmouth, and the Abbot of Kennaquhair in the "Monastery;" and if it can be said of St. David that "he succeeded in reducing a wild part of Scotland to order," it is chiefly because he gave so powerful a stimulus to the agencies of the Church. [Illustration: KELSO, WITH RENNIE'S BRIDGE.] Between Kelso Abbey and Roxburghe Castle, represented by a small fragment on a ridge just where the Teviot and the Tweed mingle their waters, a close connection is to be traced, for the fortress was once a royal residence, inhabited by St. David himself; and when his one son Henry died within its walls, the body was borne into the church, and there with solemn pomp interred. And when three centuries later James II., at a spot said to be marked by the large holly near the margin of the Tweed, was killed by the bursting of "The Lion" while attempting to wrest the castle from the hands of the English, his son was carried by the nobles into the abbey to be crowned. The catastrophe turned out well neither for the castle nor for its English defenders; for when it occurred, the queen, Mary of Gueldres, held up her boy of seven in view of the troops, and the assault was resumed with such fury that Lord Falconburg had to capitulate. The castle had often been taken by the English, and now, in the exasperation of the Scots at the loss of their king, it was torn stone from stone. Even then it was not to avoid further associations of the same hateful kind, for after the battle of Pinkie in 1547, when the Scots had to smart for their triumph at Ancrum two years before, the Protector Somerset formed a camp among the ruins, and compelled the neighbouring country to come in and pay tribute and "take assurance." It was in carrying out his mission of exacting submission from the recalcitrant that honest Stawarth Bolton visited the mourning Elspeth Brydone at Glendearg, and thought to console her for the loss of her husband by offering himself as his successor. The ancient town which grew up in the shadow of the castle has been literally annihilated; the present village of Roxburghe is a little further eastwards. Floors (Fleurs) Castle, the princely seat of the Duke of Roxburghe, stands on the north bank of the stream, fronted by a spacious lawn. It was built by Vanbrugh, but was transformed to something approximating the Tudor type by Playfair, the Edinburgh architect. Judged by Vanbrugh's achievements elsewhere, the change was most likely an improvement; but the effect has been to give the fabric a composite look which does not appreciate its other attractions--its superb situation, its magnificent proportions, its undeniable air of distinction. [Illustration: DRYBURGH ABBEY, FROM THE EAST.] Something must, in passing, be said of the Teviot, so full of history, of legend, of folk-song, and of romance, and endowed with such various and abundant beauty. Its most romantic association is with Branxholm Hall, cradle of the House of Buccleuch--the "Branksome Hall" where the "nine-and-twenty knights of fame" hung their shields; now a comely family residence, with the ancient tower for nucleus, standing on a steep bank north of the stream, about three miles from Hawick, the town where Sir Alexander Ramsay was captured by the Knight of Liddesdale, to be cruelly starved to death in the dungeon of Hermitage Castle. Denholm, birthplace of Leyden, with Ruberslaw, and many another spot, must be passed over. But at Ancrum Moor we must give ourselves pause for a little, for here in 1545 the Scots "took amends" on the most ruthless and destructive raiders who ever crossed the Tweed. In 1544 Sir Ralph Evers, Governor of Berwick, with Sir Brian Latoun, had made an incursion in the course of which, according to Evers' own inventory, the "towns, towers, barnekynes, parysche churches, bastill houses" which they "burned and destroyed" amounted to 192; while of cattle they had "lifted" 10,386, of "shepe" 12,492, and of nags and geldings 1,296--and these are only some of the details. For these achievements a grateful monarch made Evers a lord of Parliament, and he was celebrated in song as one who, having "burned the Merse and Teviotdale," still was ready "to prick the Scot." The praise was well deserved, for the next year he and Sir Brian made another raid, and beat their record. Returning towards Jedburgh, laden with booty, they were followed by Angus and by Norman Leslie, and while they were halting on Ancrum Moor, Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch came up with a body of retainers. He had a long account to settle. The outworks of his Castle of Branxholm had been burned; all his lands in West Teviotdale and on Kale Water had been harried; and the Moss Tower, near the junction of Kale with Teviot, had been made "to smoke sore." By his counsel Angus took up a position on the piece of low ground called Peniel Heugh, and having drawn the invaders into ambush, an easy victory was won. Evers and Latoun both fell, and a thousand prisoners were made. The scene of the battle is also known as Lilliard's Edge, from the "fair maiden Lillyard," who took part in the fight, and "when her legs were cutted off" by the English louns, "fought upon her stumps." The column on the hill, visible for miles along the valley of the Tweed, as well as in Teviotdale, has nothing to do with this lady's heroism, or with the Scottish victory, but, as the peasantry are surprised to be told, commemorates the Battle of Waterloo. [Illustration: RUINS OF ROXBURGHE CASTLE.] Another place on the Teviot, Carlenrig, not far from the source, near the Dumfries border, is celebrated as the scene of Johnnie Armstrong's execution in the course of James V.'s hanging and hunting expedition. His keep was at Hole House, in Eskdale; but at the head of thirty-six bravely attired horsemen he came to Teviotdale and presented himself to the king, expecting to be received with favour. When James ordered him and his merry men to instant execution, he is represented as making a variety of large offers for pardon--as that he would bring in by a certain day, either quick or dead, any English subject, were he duke, earl, or baron, whom the king might name. But, his terms being all rejected, he said proudly, "It is folly to seek grace at a graceless face." So-- "John murdered was at Carlinrigg, And all his gallant cumpanie; But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae To see sae mony brave men die." Among the Teviot's vassal-streams are the Ale, whose "foaming tide" William of Deloraine swam in his night ride to Melrose; and the brawling Jed, which gives its name to the royal burgh on its banks--famous for "Jethart staves," a species of battle-axe, and for "Jethart justice," the equivalent of "Lydford law" in the West of England. One of those who came into the hangman's hands at Jedburgh was Rattling Roaring Willie, the jovial harper at whose feet the "last minstrel" sat, with such excellent results. He could not brook that the tongue of the scoffer-- "Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong, Or call his song untrue: For this, when they the goblet plied, And such rude taunt had chafed his pride, The bard of Reull he slew. On Teviot's side in fight they stood, And tuneful hands were stained with blood," and so forth. But the minstrel's memory had etherealised the facts. The squalid prose of the story is that a drunken brawl arose at Newmill, on the Teviot, between Willie and a rival from Rule Water, known as Sweet Milk; that they fought it out there and then; and that Sweet Milk was slain on the spot. Above Kelso--to return, with apologies, to the Tweed--the valley opens out, and the trees grow thicker, while the larch and the fir begin to come more into evidence. At Mertoun House, Lord Polwarth's seat, environed with groves, one of those Introductions to the cantos of "Marmion" which so hamper the movement of the poem, while they contain some of the poet's finest lines, is dated. Sir Walter was passing Christmas here, and even then, when the boughs were all leafless, "Mertoun's halls" were fair. In another of the Introductions much that is interesting in a biographical sense is said about the large gabled tower which, as it stands four-square to all the winds that blow, is one of the most prominent objects in the landscape for miles along the valley. It is the Smailholm Tower of the mystical "Eve of St. John," and is built among a cluster of crags a few miles north of the stream, in the parish which contains Sandyknowe, a farmhouse leased by Sir Walter's paternal grandfather from Scott of Harden. Thus it happened that from his third to his eighth year young Walter was often sojourning in the parish of Smailholm; and long afterwards, as the shattered tower and crags amid which the "lonely infant" had strayed and mused until the fire burned, rose up before him in vision, he confessed the poetic impulse which came to him in this "barren scene and wild." The tower, anciently the property of the Pringles of Whytbank, now of Lord Polwarth, is a typical Border peel--not a castle, but simply a large square keep of enormous strength, the walls being nine feet thick; the chambers built over one another in three storeys, with communication by a narrow circular stair; the roof a platform; the whole enclosed by an outer wall. Much nearer the river, on the other side, is another Border strength, Littledean Tower, the keep of the Kers of Nenthorn; and close at hand stands the old shaft of the village cross, where in more stirring days than these, at the "jowing" of the bell, the men of the barony, armed with sword and lance, and sometimes with a "Jethart stave" (the Scots never took kindly to the twanging of the yew), would assemble in their hundreds to guard their own byres, or, mounted on their vigorous little ponies, to prick across the Border to empty their neighbours', and belike to ruin them "stoop and roop." [Illustration: MELROSE ABBEY, FROM THE SOUTH-EAST.] [Illustration: MELROSE ABBEY: THE EAST WINDOW.] The huge three-coned hill which can be seen from below Kelso, and remains in sight for many miles, although it is constantly shifting from left to right, from front to rear, so mazy is the way of the stream, is, of course, the famous Eildon. Tradition says that it was split into three by the magician Scott, not Sir Walter of that ilk, but "the wondrous Michael," more formally, Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie. Indeed, most of the more striking phenomena in these parts are ascribed to "Auld Michael" when they are not credited to "Auld Nickie" or Sir William Wallace. The theory is that he was under the constant necessity of finding employment for a spirit with an enormous appetite for work. On one occasion he bade him "bridle the Tweed with a curb of stone;" and the dam-head at Kelso, constructed in a single night, was the result. The division of Eildon into three was another night's task; and it was not till he had set the industrious demon making ropes out of sea-sand that he himself could find any rest. If these incidents have a legendary look about them, it is certain that Sir Michael himself was no myth. He was profoundly versed in all the learning of the Dark Age; and it is probable that he was one of the ambassadors who sailed "to Noroway o'er the faem" to bring about the return of Alexander's fair daughter. If he was less of a magician than his distant descendant, it was through no fault of his own. He was a diligent student of all the abstruse sciences, and wrote freely about them; and he was credited with uncanny attributes by the learned as well as by the vulgar of his day. While Sir Walter was in Italy he was complaining that the great Florentine had thought none but Italians worthy of being sent to hell. He was reminded that he of all men had no right to grumble, since his ancestor figures among the magicians and soothsayers of the "Inferno." However Eildon got its present shape, it forms a singularly picturesque object in the landscape. And the scene that lies rolled out before anyone who chooses to climb either of the summits is one of the fairest that mortal eye ever rested upon. To the south the view is bounded only by "Cheviot's mountains lone;" to the north, by the Lammermoors; eastwards, the Tweed valley, lustrous in its vesture of green of many shades, spreads itself out for miles beyond Dryburgh and St. Boswell's, although the stream itself, from its way of hiding itself between deep and woody banks, is constantly vanishing from sight; westwards, beyond Abbotsford, to give variety to the view, the valley is less luxuriant, and the hills are larger, and instead of being divided into trim fields and meadows, or covered to their tops with bonny birks and hazels, present an unbroken surface of pasture-land, relieved only by patches of broom. To the south-west the outlying Ettricks keep ward over the valley where the shepherd-poet roamed and dreamed; full in view to the north-west, at the foot of the lovely Gala Water, is busy, brand-new Galashiels, blotting the blue with its smoke, and in other ways as well "sinning its gifts;" while nestling at the foot of the hill is Melrose, now a town rejoicing in "suburbs" and a hydropathic institution. The glory of Dryburgh Abbey is its situation and immediate surroundings, in which it is certainly superior to Melrose, and even to Kelso. To get to it you leave the public highway, cross the water, and presently pace along a shady avenue, to find it at last bosomed in trees, seated on a grassy flat that slopes gently down to the river, whose music may be heard as its waves ripple by, almost insulating the site--for nowhere, perhaps, does the Tweed curl into so many loops as between Mertoun and Abbotsford. And Nature, not content with furnishing an incomparable situation and almost incomparable surroundings, has done her best with ivy and other creeping plants to hide the scars left by the hands of violent men. What now meets the eye is the western gable of the nave, a gable of the south transept, with a five-light window, and a bit of the choir and north transept--sufficient to show that the abbey was much smaller than either of its neighbours. The transept and choir are First, the nave--rebuilt in the first half of the fourteenth century--Second, Pointed, while the conventual buildings, south of the abbey, show the transition from Romanesque to Pointed. At Melrose there is not a vestige of the monastic buildings left; here they are in better preservation than the Abbey itself. The most perfect of them is the chapter-house, over against which are some immemorial yews. The founder was Hugh de Morville, Lord of Lauderdale and Constable of Scotland; the stone--an obdurate brownish sandstone--was hewn from the quarry on the Dryburgh estate which yielded its substance also for Melrose. Ravished and burnt by Edward II., the monastery was at once rebuilt, partly at the charges of Robert the Bruce. Then it was burnt by Richard II.; but it was not actually ruined until the devastating wars which broke out in the reigns of James IV. and V., when it was twice ravaged by Evers and Latoun, and once by the Earl of Hertford, who left it much as we now see it, save for the healing work of Nature and of Time. One feature of the ruins to which a peculiar interest attaches is the gloomy vault in which the "nun of Dryburgh" for years immured herself, never quitting it until dark, returning to it at midnight, and persisting in this strange mode of life until at last the night came which had no morrow, when they buried her in the adjoining graveyard. She never explained herself, but the common belief was that she had vowed never to look upon the sun during the absence of her lover, who came not back, having fallen in the affair of '45. How it came to pass that the dust of "Waverley" lies in St. Mary's aisle we know from Allan Cunningham. When Sir Walter was stricken down in 1819, and was believed to be at the point of death, the Earl of Buchan, the eleventh of his line, made a somewhat fussy though well-intended appeal to Lady Scott to prevail upon her husband to be buried here beside his forbears the Haliburtons of Newmains, to whom the abbey once belonged; and Sir Walter, without seeming greatly impressed, promised that the earl should have the refusal of his bones, since he seemed so solicitous. Things, however, did not shape themselves quite as the nobleman had anticipated. Sir Walter recovered, and the earl had for three years been sleeping with his ancestors in St. Moden's Chapel before that sad September day when the writer whose nimble pen had traced its last word was borne here, and sorrowfully laid beside his wife, whom six years earlier he had followed to the same hallowed resting-place. In the chapel now lie his eldest son, Colonel Sir Walter Scott, and Lockhart, his "son-in-law, biographer, and friend." The aisle, it should be added, contains the dust of other families of note, including the Haigs of Bemerside, who have flourished there ever since the days of Malcolm IV., and who form the subject of one of the barbarous couplets said to have been written by Thomas the Rhymer before--all too tardily--he was appropriated by the fairies. The Earl of Buchan spoken of above had a weakness for setting up monuments, and in indulging it he showed more public spirit than good taste. Close by his suspension bridge he built "an Ionic temple" of red sandstone, with a statue of Apollo under the dome, and a bust of Thomson perched on the top. As time went on, the statue was so much damaged (it may be hoped that something higher than a spirit of destructiveness was the motive of the image-breaking) that it had to be removed, though the bust still holds its place. A furlong or two up the stream, on a thickly timbered eminence, facing the Border, he put up a colossal statue of Wallace, hewn out of the same incongruous material, but painted white, though the paint has long since vanished. Wallace suffered many things during his life, but it was not a Sassenach who did this. Between Dryburgh and Melrose the Tweed is swollen by Leader's "silver tide" from the Lammermoors. On the banks of this water St. Cuthbert tended his flocks in the days of his youth; while at Earlston--formerly Ercildoune--two miles above the confluence, lived Thomas the Rhymer, whose surname appears to have been Lermont or Learmount, and who is believed to have lived in a castle of which a tower is still shown. There is no doubt that Thomas had a real existence; but whether he posed as a prophet, and had commerce with the fairies, and was finally spirited away by a hart and hind that were seen calmly parading the village, is more questionable. The poet, however, is clear enough about it all. With much detail he tells how, when the message came to the Rhymer to follow the deer, he "soon his cloaths did on," and-- "First he woxe pale and then woxe red, Never a word he spake but three: 'My sand is run; my thread is spun; This sign regardeth me.'" Then, having bidden farewell to the Leader, he crossed the flood and was seen no more of men. [Illustration: ABBOTSFORD.] With the situation of St. Mary's Abbey Dorothy Wordsworth was fain to avow herself disappointed. When she came to Melrose she found it "almost surrounded by insignificant houses," which is even truer now than it was then; and she adds that even when viewed from a distance the position did not seem happy, for the church was not close to the river, "so that you do not look upon them as companions to each other." This has been rebuked as "somewhat captious;" but one presumes to think it nothing of the kind. In itself, however, the Abbey is fair beyond description; it would be as difficult to adversely criticise as it is to adequately praise it. To justly appreciate its proportions, graceful and imposing even in its ruin, and with the central tower bereft of its rood-spire, it should be seen from one of the summits of Eildon; yet its details, when minutely scrutinised on the spot, are still more admirable. Burns, before his time in his appreciation of Gothic architecture as in some other things, speaks of it as "a glorious ruin;" to Sir Walter's mind it was "the finest specimen of Gothic architecture and Gothic sculpture which Scotland can boast." It is, in sooth, one of the crowning achievements of the Gothic, with most of its merits and almost none of its faults. Exuberantly ornamented, it never oversteps the thin line which separates richness from redundancy. Even the great east window, built after Richard II.'s devastations in 1385, when the Gothic had passed its prime, has a grace and harmony which justify all the admiration usually accorded to its size; while it is preserved from the stiffness which is the besetting sin of the Perpendicular by the foliaged tracery that knits the long mullions together. The window in the south transept, also in five lights, is, however, to be preferred before it, although considerably smaller; it is in the Second Pointed, or Decorated style, to which the greater part of the ruin belongs, and the lines into which its mullions flow are of indescribable loveliness. The carving on capital and corbel, on boss and buttress, has an elaborate yet dainty beauty such as is seldom met with on either side of the Tweed, and must of a truth be the work of hands that were made cunning by love of art and patient by a sense of pious duty. The first Abbey of Melrose, built of oak and thatched with reeds, occupied a nearly insulated site two miles down the river, where the village of Old Melrose now stands. It was a "Chaldee" foundation, as Mrs. Dods would say--was founded by Aidan of Lindisfarne, was the home of the St. Boisil after whom St. Boswell's is named, as well as of St. Cuthbert, was destroyed by Kenneth, after an existence of three hundred years, and, though rebuilt, sank into decay and ruin. Then, five hundred years after St. Aidan, came St. David, who, when the new monastery had been built, brought Cistercian monks from Rievaulx to fill it. Its experiences at the hands of the second Edward and the second Richard, of Evers and Latoun, and of Hertford, were identical with those of Dryburgh, and the dismal story need not be repeated. After the Reformation a part of the nave was used as the parish church, a barbarous wall of brick being put up at the west end, rising into an equally sightly vault to keep out the weather. Although these additions are a grievous eyesore, it was rightly decided, when early in the present century a church was built, to let them be, lest their removal should leave the ruins less secure. In 1832 these were repaired, and the circumstance that the Duke of Buccleuch allowed Sir Walter Scott to superintend the work is guarantee that it was done with a tender and reverent hand. The bell which counted the slow hours for the drowsy monks still tells the time, with quite as much accuracy as could be expected or desired. To the cloisters access is had by a low door at the north-east end of the nave--the entrance through which William of Deloraine was led to the wizard's grave. One of the tombs bears an incongruous printed label, "Michael Scott;" but the identification rests on evidence which would not even satisfy an antiquary--on nothing else, in truth, than the story of the "last minstrel," who was not scrupulous as to matters of fact. Nor is there anything but tradition to show that the magician was buried in the Abbey at all. In this instance, moreover, tradition is divided against itself, for one story has it that he was interred in the monastery founded by St. Waltheof at Holme Coltrame, in Cumberland. In one particular, however, the stories agree: they both aver that the magic books were buried with the wizard, or preserved in the monastery where he died; and here we have the hint of which Sir Walter has made such splendid use in the "Lay." There has been much controversy, by the way, over the question whether the ruins were ever explored by Scott by moonlight. Old John Bower, who for many years was the keeper of the abbey, maintained that he could never have done so, since he had never borrowed the key from him at night; and a verse has been quoted from Sir Walter himself against those who find it hard to believe that the sweetest lines in the "Lay" were not written from "personal experience":-- "Then go and muse with deepest awe On what the writer never saw, Who would not wander 'neath the moon To see what he could see at noon." The lines are not characteristic, and probably are not genuine. But whether Scott was "too practical a man to go poking about the ruins by moonlight," as Tom Moore contended, or was not, is surely a trivial and even irrelevant question. If Scott never saw the Abbey except when it was being flouted by "the gay beams of lightsome day," it does not follow that the passage is mere moonshine. Peradventure it is poetry. Other doubtful interments here, besides that of the magician, are those of Alexander II. and his queen Joanna. But probably the Abbey does contain the heart of the great Bruce, believed to have been deposited here, in fulfilment of the king's written wish, after Douglas's unsuccessful attempt to bear it to the Holy Land. Nor is it open to doubt that some of the Douglases themselves came here to rest after their stormful lives. The doughty earl who was slain at Otterburn was not "buried at the braken bush," as says the ballad, but beneath the high altar of this Abbey. Hither also was borne Sir William Douglas, the so-called Flower of Chivalry, when Ramsay's murder had been inadequately avenged on Williamhope, betwixt Tweed and Yarrow, by Sir William's godson and chieftain, William Earl of Douglas. It was the wanton defacing of these tombs that nerved the arm of Angus at Ancrum Moor; and when one remembers the scathe wrought upon and within these walls by Lord Evers, it seems to be of the very essence of irony that this should be his place of sepulture. Yet it was not in scorn that he was interred amid the evidences of his destructiveness, but as a mark of honour to a brave albeit pitiless foe. In the churchyard, under the fifth window of the nave, is the tomb of a modern worthy, Sir David Brewster, who lived at Allerly, near Gattonside, and died in 1868. Elsewhere is the grave of faithful Tom Purdie, marked by a monument raised by Scott himself, from whose pen proceeded the inscription. "In grateful remembrance," runs this model epitaph, "of his faithful and attached service of twenty-two years, and in sorrow for the loss of a humble but sincere friend." Poor Tom! he could not have gone about with a prepossessing aspect if he sat for Cristal Nixon in "Redgauntlet." Yet when he was brought before Sir Walter on a charge of poaching, and with mingled pathos and humour set forth his hardships and temptations--a wife and children dependent upon him, work scarce, and grouse abundant--the Sheriff's heart was touched; so Tom, instead of being haled off to prison, was taken on as shepherd, and afterwards made bailiff. Sir Walter was not infallible. He was grossly imposed upon by the Flemish guide at Waterloo. But perhaps no one ever lived who better understood the Lowland peasant; and in this instance he had no reason to question his insight. Purdie identified himself with all Scott's concerns, talked of "our trees" as the plantation at Abbotsford proceeded, and of "our buiks" as the novels came out, and never ceased to amuse his generous master with his quaint humour, or to gratify him by his efficient service. A little above the centre of the town the stream is crossed by a suspension foot-bridge, which connects Melrose with Gattonside, granted to the Abbey by its founder, and still celebrated for its orchards. The footpath which follows the windings of the river, with wooded slopes on either hand, leads past Skirmish Hill, at Darnick, the scene of the "Battle of Melrose," one of many consequences of the disaster at Flodden, which left the realm with a king in long clothes. The gallant attempt made at the king's own suggestion, and in his presence, by Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch, to cut the leading-strings in which the Douglases insisted upon keeping the high-spirited monarch, was frustrated by the inopportune return of the lairds of Cessford and Fairnyhurst, and Buccleuch and his men had to flee for their lives. In the neighbourhood of the picturesque bridge which carries the Galashiels road across the river, and gives the passing traveller a glimpse both up and down stream which must make him hunger for more, is the site of the curious old drawbridge, if so it may be called, which belonged to the Pringles of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, and consisted of three octangular towers or pillars, from the centre one of which the ward would, for a consideration, lay out planks, and so extemporise an elevated footway. It was this service which Peter refused to do for the sacristan of Kennaquhair when the holy man was bearing to the monastery the Lady of Avenel's heretical book. "Riding the water" on a moonlit night, he thought, would do the monk no harm; and so, though a "heavy water" was running, Father Philip had to ford the stream, with results so discomforting and mysterious. It was not only with Peter and his laird that the monks of St. Mary's had disputes. Even when the monastery was founded they were not quite unsusceptible to sports dear to the profane, for in the charter which gave them rights of forestry it was thought necessary to except hunting and the taking of falcons. As they waxed sleek they did not grow less selfish, or less tenacious of their rights; and so there was much contention between them and their neighbours, whose opinion about them sometimes found vent in catches of poetry. The men of God do not appear to have retaliated in verse. But there was the pulpit, and there were penances. Betwixt this point and Abbotsford the Alwyn and Gala Waters flow in--the one babbling down a glen which is in parts prettily wooded, and is recognised as the Glendearg where the Lady of Avenel spent the sad years of her widowhood; the other reeking with the chemical abominations of Galashiels. As the ascent is continued, the valley grows somewhat less rich in beauty, nor is it improved by the flaring red houses which look down upon Abbotsford from the slopes on the opposite bank. When Sir Walter acquired the estate--or, rather, the first bit of it--it must have been much less attractive than now. It was then a farm, a hundred acres in extent, and there was hardly a tree upon it. He was his own architect; and it was one of his boasts that there was not one of the trees which had not been planted under his direction. The house for which he is thus to be held responsible is scarcely imposing, nor can it be said to have the merit of consistency. You can see at a glance that it grew, rather than was made. On the whole, it is pleasing to the eye rather than to the architectural sense; and if, as has been said, its gables and sections and windows and turrets and towers are a little bewildering in their multitude and variety, one still ventures to think that it is better as it is, plentiful as may be its lack of plan, than it would be if it conformed more strictly to the conventional castellated type. The interests of Abbotsford are many and great. It is indeed "a romance in stone and lime," every outline, as Lockhart says, with little exaggeration, "copied from some old baronial edifice in Scotland, every roof and window blazoned with clan bearings, or the lion rampant gules, or the heads of the ancient Stuart kings." And Sir Walter was from his earliest years a diligent gleaner of curiosities; so that, apart from many precious mementoes of himself, the rooms which the Hon. Mrs. Constable Maxwell Scott, his great-grand-daughter, throws open to the public, form a museum of the rarest interest. But, after all, it is chiefly the desire to make acquaintance with the scenes amid which the sanest and shrewdest of our great writers since Shakespeare spent the most eventful years of his blameless life that draws to Abbotsford its crowds of pilgrims. It was here that he wrote most of his works; here that he met the great disaster of his life in a spirit which showed in combination the loftiest chivalry and the nicest commercial integrity; here that he piously submitted himself to the stroke of death. The story of his return to Abbotsford to die is full of pathos. "As we rounded the hill at Ladhope, and the outline of the Eildons burst on him," says his biographer, "he became greatly excited; and when ... his eye caught at length his own towers ... he sprang up with a cry of delight." Then they bore him into the dining-room, and his dogs "began to fawn upon him and lick his hands, and he alternately sobbed and smiled over them until sleep oppressed him." The next day he felt better, he said, and might disappoint the doctors after all. But his strength continued to leave him, and he was often delirious and unconscious. One day, about two months after his return, he sent for his son-in-law, who found him with eye "clear and calm," though in the last extreme of feebleness. "Lockhart," he said, "I may have but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good man--be virtuous, be religious--be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here." These were almost his last words. Four days afterwards he breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. "It was a beautiful day--so warm that every window was open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes." Surely this man died "in the odour of sanctity" as truly as Waltheof of Melrose or any tonsured saint of them all. [Illustration: GALASHIELS.] The Ettrick, which joins the Tweed not a great way above Abbotsford, no longer flows through a "feir foreste;" where once there was "grete plentie" of hart and hind, of doe and roe, mighty flocks of sheep now graze. Of Ettrick House, where the pastoral poet was born; of Thirlestane Castle, the strength of "Ready, aye ready" John Scott; of Tushielaw, where another of the Scotts, Adam of that ilk, was hanged by the king who had no mercy for Johnnie Armstrang; of Carter haugh, where the "fair Janet" met "young Tamlane," and by strength of love won him from the thraldom of the Fairy Queen; of Selkirk, whose burly "souters" (_sutors_) gave so good an account of themselves at Flodden Field--of all this there is no space to speak. Nor can there be anything but barest mention of the Yarrow, whose bonnie holms and dowie dens were dear to Wordsworth and other modern poets, as they were to the old folk-singers of the Border. St. Mary's lone and silent lake, with its swans that "float double;" Henderland, where Cockburne's widow mourned her knight "sae dear;" Dryhope, where the "Flower of Yarrow" was wooed and won by Walter Scott of Harden; Newark's stately tower, where the last minstrel's trembling fingers tuned his harp and swept its strings--these and other scenes must all be left unnoticed. But the Yarrow is perhaps the most benign of Border streams, and it has inspired the sweetest and saddest of Border songs, not excepting even the "Flowers of the Forest," or "Annan Water." And of them all, none is more sad or sweet than that which tells the story of the Baron of Oakwood, who was slain on its "dowie banks," and there found by his "ladye gaye." "She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, She searched his wounds all thorough; She kissed them till her lips grew red On the dowie howms of Yarrow." It is near Philiphaugh that Yarrow and Ettrick wed--Philiphaugh, famed for its memories of Outlaw Murray, and still more for the crushing defeat which Montrose here suffered at the hands of David Leslie. The most princely of apostates was taken completely by surprise, and the men who until now had carried all before them were fleeing for their lives before he could strike a blow. Leslie is said to have butchered many of his prisoners in cold blood, some being shot in the courtyard of Newark Castle, while others were precipitated from a high bridge over the Tweed. It would be pleasant to believe that the story is not true, or is at all events exaggerated. The latter part of it is certainly inaccurate, if not wholly false, for in those days there was no bridge over the Tweed in this region. Sir Walter, however, was at the trouble to point out that there is a bridge over the Ettrick only four miles from Philiphaugh, and another over the Yarrow, either of which might have been the scene of the massacre. Above Clovenfords, celebrated for its vines, the Tweed has burrowed for itself deeper banks, while the valley broadens; and if the braes amid which it insinuates itself are less cultivated, and not so thickly wooded, the water itself moves more swiftly and sings more cheerily, and shines more lucidly than ever, displaying the tawniest of beds. Presently the emulous Cadon Water flows in, and then comes Ashestiel, an earlier residence of Sir Walter, where most of the cantos of the "Lay" and of "Marmion" were written. West of Thornilees stands a fragment of one of many ruined peels which line the stream on both sides, forming an unbroken line of communication, for they were sufficiently close together for the fire-bale's warnings to be passed on from one to another. Beyond this the valley contracts, as the stream winds round a great hill fertile of little but screes, but before long it again opens out; and then comes the solitary bit of prosaic scenery of which the Tweed is guilty. The braes on either side, though not lofty, are nothing but uncomely sheep-walks; the banks themselves are utterly commonplace. The interval, however, is a brief one, and almost before the stranger has recovered from his surprise at finding the bonny water so demeaning itself, he is once more raised to the admiring mood. For he is now at Innerleithen, nicely placed on the lower slopes of an enormous brae, where Leithen Water comes down from the Moorfoot Hills to keep tryst with Tweed. Here are mineral springs, with properties not dissimilar from those of the Harrogate Wells; and to drink the waters of these "filthy puddles," in a more or less serious spirit, many in summer come this way. The good people of the town will not need to be told that for the opprobrious expression here quoted no one but Mrs. Dods is responsible. For when one of the least pleasing, though not the least powerful, of the "Waverley" books saw the light, Innerleithen made haste to identify itself with the _locus in quo_; the St. Ronan's Club was started; and the St. Ronan's games are still kept up. The incident was not a bad thing for Innerleithen, and Sir Walter, being a good-natured man, did not protest; but the wayfarer must not be disappointed if he fail to see much correspondence between the scenery of the book and that of the place. Yet let him not scorn the pious faith. Would not he himself be glad to believe, if there were any shadow of reason, that the lines had fallen to him in the veritable place where Captain MacTurk swaggered, and took his Maker's name in vain, and angrily resented imputations upon his piety; where Mr. Winterblossom appropriated the tit-bits of the table and made phrases; where the omniscient Mr. Peregrine Touchwood circumvented Mr. Valentine Bulmer; where, above all, the immortal Meg spurned "riders" from her door, and rated her "huzzies," and railed at the "stinking well" and all who frequented it? Over against Innerleithen lies the parish of Traquair, with its burn and its "bush." A little to the south of the stream is Traquair House, a seventeenth-century residence tacked on to a much older tower. If the books could be believed, it would be the original of the Baron of Bradwardine's house. "Waverley" himself, however, was of a different opinion. The ruins of Horsburgh Castle, the seat of the family of this name, now for more than a hundred years abandoned to owl and bat, are about a couple of miles or so below Peebles. The town itself has a lovely situation at the point where Eddlestone Water babbles into the Tweed, and at the foot of a glorious brae, broad and lofty, and covered with fir and larch, with rolling hills all around, making a mighty amphitheatre. No wonder that it should have risen to the dignity of a holiday resort with a "season;" or that in other days the Hays of Yester should have been glad to come in from Neidpath Castle to winter in their town-house, the quaint old building in the High Street now known as the "Chambers Institute." In very early days Peebles was a dwelling-place of kings; and by the time of that James who was addicted to "the profane and unprofitable art of poem-making," it was renowned for its games, which were sung either by the monarch himself or by some brother minstrel of not much later date. But about the middle of the sixteenth century the Earl of Hertford came here, and then the town had to make a fresh start. The castle has disappeared from the head of the High Street without leaving a wrack behind. Of the Cross Kirk, built in the thirteenth century by Alexander III., little beyond the shell of the tower and a gable remains, and even the pitiful ivy has not been able to make it a sightly relic. There used to be here also the still older church of St. Andrew; and William Chambers has received much praise for having "restored" it--an exceptionally brutal use of a much-suffering term. The only other building of any note is the "Cross-Keys Inn," many-gabled and picturesque and comfortable. It has seen better days, for it was once upon a time the town-house of the Williamsons of Cardrona; but the crowning glory which it claims is that of being the "public" of Dame Dods, yclept the "Cleikum," which had for sign a large picture of St. Ronan catching hold of the devil's game leg with his episcopal crook. If you ask for evidence, you are pointed to the legend above the doorway, "The original Cleikum Inn, 1653"! [Illustration: PEEBLES, FROM A LITTLE BELOW NEIDPATH.] The stream has now been traced up for a distance of well-nigh seventy miles, yet Peebles is not much more than five hundred feet above the sea-level; herefrom the ascent is more obvious, though still quite gradual, for in the thirty miles or so yet to be traversed the rise is not more than a thousand feet. As they ripple by the town the waters sing a pretty song; but a stone's-throw or two above the comely old bridge which spans them close to where the castle frowned upon all who sought to cross it with hostile intent, it glides smooth and silent, as though it had fallen asleep. Now the valley narrows into a glen, winding and profound; and at Neidpath, in full view of the town, the river dwindles into the merest burn, which it would be no great feat to leap across. But what a burn, and what a glen! Nothing yet seen, or still to be seen, is quite so superb as what now meets the view. For here the braes on either side are steep, and of immense height, and smothered to their tops with firs and larches; and the stream winds more than ever, at one moment widening into still deep pools, at the next shrinking into a dancing rapid; and all around, wherever the eye turns, it rests upon large swelling hills, robed with verdure, and girdled with timber, and crowned with grey cairns. Surely the glen was not much more lovely in the days before the last Duke of Queensberry, to spite the next heir of entail, or to put money into his mistress's purse, barbarously cut down the noble avenue by which the castle was approached, and provoked Wordsworth to gibbet him in an indignant sonnet. Burns, by the way, was aroused to an even finer show of wrath by the similar havoc which "Old Q." had wrought at Drumlanrig, in Nithsdale. [Illustration: NEIDPATH CASTLE.] Neidpath Castle, however, has pleasanter associations with the bards. From the southern branch of the Frasers it passed to the Hays of Yester; and to the ninth lord of Yester, first Marquis of Tweeddale, is credited the earliest surviving lyric inspired by the Tweed. Here are two of the verses:-- "When Maggie and me were acquaint I carried my noddle fu' high; Nae lint-white in a' the grey plain, Nae gowdspink sae bonny as she. "I whistled, I piped, and I sang, I woo'd, but I came nae great speed; Therefore I maun wander abroad, And lay my banes far frae the Tweed." The man who wrote this pretty piece held his castle for Charles II., but it was unable to stand the brunt of Cromwell's cannon, and was not merely captured, but ruined. It was long untenanted, but has now by repair and addition been made habitable, though not more picturesque. Where the Manor Water joins the Tweed they show the grave of the "Black Dwarf," and the cottage which he built with his own hands--with some help from compassionate neighbours--on land which he appropriated without asking any one's leave. The portrait is not very highly coloured: Elshender of Mucklestane Moor had scarcely a sourer or more splenetic humour than David Ritchie, though he may have been a trifle more comprehensive in his misanthropy. Yet David had great sensitiveness to natural influences, and, though he had a reputation in the parish for heresy, would speak of a future state with intense feeling, "and even with tears." Poor "bow'd Davie!" There was little in common betwixt him and his kind, and it seemed to him that his tale of mercies was not a long one; yet there have been many who would be willing enough to part with some of their advantages in exchange for his firm grasp of "the mighty hopes that make us men." As the bridge at Stobo is approached the stream broadens out again, and strolling along the pleasant, shady road cut in the hill there is much to delight the eye, and something as well to please the ear--on the right splendid plantations, climbing up the brae; on the left the water, gleaming through the fluttering leaves, and beyond it a grassy level--where the patient kine make music with their bells--rising into fine slopes of sward, while above these are broad belts of timber. Close beside the stream, above Drummelzier, is the ruined castle of this name, and hard by, but high up the brae, where it must have been almost inaccessible, are some fragments of Thanes or Tinnis Castle, used as a citadel or redoubt by the garrison. Of an early laird of Drummelzier historians relate that when after long absence he came home from the East, where he had crusading been, he was surprised to find his faithful spouse nursing a strapping boy. The lady, however, was able to explain: while she was walking along the banks one day, the spirit of the Tweed had issued forth; and how could a weak woman prevail against a spirit? So the boy was called Tweedie, and founded the great family of that name, whose legend was, "Thole[1] and think." This, however, one supposes, is to be taken as a considerate exhortation to their victims rather than as a motto for their own guidance. So interpreted, it is not less frank than the device of the Cranstouns, "Ye shall want ere I want," or that of the Scotts of Harden, "Reparabit cornua Phoebe." Moonlighting is no invention of the nineteenth century. But Drummelzier's most famous association is with Merlin the seer, Merlin Wylt, the Wild, as he is called, to distinguish him from Merlin Ambrosius, who is believed to have uttered his oracles and succumbed to Vivien's enchantments in the preceding century. The story goes that after the battle of Arderydd, in or about the year 573, he fled to the wilds of Tweeddale, and here passed the remainder of his life with a reputation for insanity; that he prophesied that he should die from earth, water, and wood, and accordingly, being pursued by a band of unappreciative rustics, he leapt into the Tweed here and was impaled upon a stake; and that they buried him where the Pausayl brook flows into the river, the spot being marked by the scraggy thorn which is visible from the churchyard. For anyone not blessed with a mighty intuition it is not easy to be sure of anything about Merlin except that he was, and was not. Mr. Veitch, however, paints an impressive picture of Merlin as no wild man of the woods, but as "a heart-broken and despairing representative of the old Druidic nature-worship, at once poet and priest of the fading faith, yet torn and distracted by secret doubt as to its truth." In the same volume--that on the history and poetry of the Border--the eloquent professor remarks that we are "apt to interject into ancient actors and thinkers modern ideas, at which probably they would have stood amazed." Beyond Merlindale, "hearsed about" with black firs, the stream expands until it becomes broader than it is at many points within a dozen miles of its mouth. The Edinburgh road bears it company nearly from Broughton to its source; but instead of crossing to the western bank some way above Drummelzier, it is pleasanter, if you have no "machine"--that is, are not driving--to keep along the eastern bank for some two or three miles farther, when a delightful saunter across a magnificent haugh, besprinkled with the yellow tormentilla and many another timid wild flower, brings you to Stanhope Bridge, and so again to the highway. A few years ago, when the Tweed had one of its spasms of turbulence, this bridge was swung bodily round to the bank, while several others higher up were swept clean away. As the Crook Inn is approached the stream has again become attenuated; the valley, too, has straitened, the hills are less abrupt and barren than those seen in the distance a few miles below, and occasionally a small plantation is espied, where the mavis and the merle may be heard flooding the air with their amorous minstrelsy. The Crook, beloved of anglers, who have tender memories of its luscious mutton, as well as of the good sport which can almost always be had in this part of the stream, is still the comfortable place it used to be before it classed itself as a hotel and acquired fashionable habits. For the remaining ten or twelve miles the course is one of utter solitude and of growing wildness--not even a shepherd's hut in sight, and no tree, except here and there a stunted hawthorn or a lonely rowan; the braes less verdant, and more given to yielding screes; no sound to be heard but the irritating squeal of the stone-chipper, the low, long-drawn whistle of the "whaup," or the pleading cry of the peewit. Of animated nature no other sign meets the eye save little groups of sheep clinging to the braes--the fierce-looking black-faced variety it may be, or the half-breeds with their still more ferocious-looking streaked visages, or the meeker "cheeviots." So the slow ascent continues until at last Tweedshaws, the solitary farmhouse, is reached, and then, leaving the road a little way up Flocker Hill, you stand at last at Tweedswell, the putative source of the stream. Looking around, you see on every hand huge hills rising in the distance, and making between them a vast circle--Black Dod, and Clyde Law, near which the great western stream rises, and Moll's Cleuch Dod, and Lochraig, and many another, while just behind Flocker Hill, Hart Fell rears its giant form. When Merlin Wylt roamed the wilds of Tweeddale a mighty forest waved over them; now the evidence of their former glory of rowan and birch and hazel must be looked for in the peaty soil which stains the head-streams as they furrow their way down the braes. Later in the year these hills, at present so swart and void, will be brightened with scatterings of purple; and then, under a sunnier sky, their plight will seem less blank and savage. But now they show an aspect stark and grim; for the time of the broom is not yet, and to-day the sun is sulking behind the murk, and their gusty tops are all asmoke. W. W. HUTCHINGS. [Illustration: HART FELL.] [Illustration: AMONG THE FELLS.] THE COQUET. The Fisherman's River--"Awa' to the Border"--Peat-Hags--Eel-Fishing--Alwinton and Harbottle--The Village of Rothbury--Brinkburn Priory--Weldon Bridge and Felton--Warkworth Hermitage and Castle--The Town of Amble--Coquet Isle. "There's a gentleman that will tell ye that just when I had ga'en up to Lourie Lowther's, and had bidden the drinking of twa cheerers, and gotten just in again upon the moss, and was whigging cannily awa' hame, twa land-loupers jumpit out of a peat-hag on me or I was thinking, and got me down, and knevelled me sair eneuch, or I could gar my whip walk about their lugs; and troth, Gudewife, if this honest gentleman hadna come up, I would have gotten mair licks than I like, and lost mair siller than I could weel spare; so ye maun be thankful to him for it under God." So, with all the generations of Pepper and Mustard frisking about him, did honest Dandie Dinmont explain to his wife how he came by a battered face and a wounded head. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE COQUET.] The "peat-hag" is a characteristic not only of the Scottish Border-land, but of wide tracks on the English side, and a very remarkable feature it makes in a wild landscape, being a sort of black precipice made in the green hills by some sudden sinking of the apparently bottomless peat. It is all ancient peat-land together where the river Coquet rises--"Coquet, still the stream of streams," as one of the poets of "The Fisher's Garland" has observed; "the king of the stream and the brae," as has been remarked by another poetical brother of the angle. Other northern rivers the fisherman mentions with respect, and perhaps with joyful remembrance of pleasant and successful days; but of the Coquet he never speaks except with glowing enthusiasm. No tuneful fisher who was friendly with the muse ever failed to give the Coquet a preferential mention in his verse. Now it is-- "Nae mair we'll fish the coaly Tyne, Nae mair the oozy Team, Nae mair we'll try the sedgy Pont, Or Derwent's woody stream; But we'll awa' to Coquet side, For Coquet bangs them a'." And now it is-- "There's mony a saumon lies in Tweed, And many a trout in Till, But Coquet--Coquet aye for me, If I may have my will." A much beloved stream, indeed, is the Coquet, rising in an acre or two of marshy land, losing itself for a while among the peat, then winding into the sunlight round the feet of the green hills, and--after many a mile of joyous wandering--plunging into deep embowered woods and mossy thickets, where, to all but its familiars, it is unsuspected and unseen. All around Coquet Head lies the Debatable Land. Mounting the dark hill of Thirlmoor one may look far away over Roxburghshire, whence, in former rough times, there was many a raid into the rich Northumbrian lands. The district known as Kidland lies along Coquetside, from the Cheviots eastward, and here in the stormy moss-trooping days no soul could be induced to live, even if he were tempted by the offer of free lands. The hills are now covered with sheep; there is a shelter for the shepherds on the top of Thirlmoor; yet to this day Kidland is a country bare of habitations, shrouded for great part of the year in mists; dank, rainy, treeless; swept by fierce winds, treacherous by reason of its numerous bogs. The wild duck may be shot at Coquet Head, but for the most part it lives and breeds here in great safety, too remote from men, too fortunate in its wild surroundings, to be much or frequently incommoded by the English enthusiasm for sport. It is possible, perhaps, to be in as deep a solitude on Dartmoor, but scarcely possible to be so far from the musical church bell and the cheerful cottage smoke. But even in this wild region there are remains of our old civilisation, and numerous relics of "the grandeur that was Rome." What are known as the Ad Fines Camps are situated close to Coquet Head; the Watling Street crosses the young stream not far from its source on Thirlmoor; the Outer and the Middle Golden Pot, Roman milestones of an unusual design, are within easy reach of where the river encloses the ancient camps in one of its forks. These stations were of considerable extent when they were made, and were serviceable in after ages as the meeting-place of the Wardens of the Middle Marches of England and Scotland when they assembled to punish offences against the Border laws. Wild stories of lawless times are told by the shepherds on the hills. There was a "Thieves' Road" over Kidland, along which, doubtless, many a herd of stolen sheep or kine has been driven. Many fights there were in these parts, and much pursuing of raiders from the other side of the Border. The Northumbrians, it must be admitted, were no better than their neighbours, and not the least less inclined to thieving. Even a judge was stolen on one occasion, as he was going the rounds of the King's Justiciaries, and was kept in prison until his captors could exact from him their own terms. The country below Coquet Head is veined by little streams, which pour into the river at brief intervals, so that what was but lately a thread of water hidden among the moss soon becomes a laughing, sparkling river, though even so low down as Blindburn, four or five miles from the source, it may, in very dry seasons, be bridged by a lady's foot. The first house is at Makingdon, rather more than a mile from Ad Fines Camps, and fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea. There are occasional houses at intervals of a mile or two along the far-winding course of the river to Alwinton. Of one of these a Mrs. Malaprop of the hills remarked that "it was in a very digested state," meaning thereby that it stood grievously in need of repair. A descendant of the true Dandie Dinmont lived at Blindburn farmhouse until a few years ago, and kept up the famous breed of terriers, giving to each pair the immortal names of Pepper and Mustard. The traveller into these regions is dependent upon the kindly hospitality of the sparse inhabitants, for there is no house of entertainment within many miles, and a weary distance must the shepherd trudge over the moors before he can forgather with his kind. The Coquet flows through wild and exceedingly rocky scenery between Blindburn and the next house, which is Carl Croft, and anglers, even with long waders, find no inconsiderable difficulty in fishing the stream. Those of the more discerning sort make their way up one of the tributaries, the Carl Croft or the Philip Burn, or, by preference, the Usway--the largest and wildest and most beautiful of the feeders of the Coquet--which joins the river at Shillmoor, distant from the small village of Alwinton only about five miles or so. Near the point of junction the Coquet falls, in leap after leap, among rugged and dangerous rocks. Good eel-spearing may be had here in due season. It is usual to make up a party of ten or a dozen, chiefly composed of the shepherds of the district, and to set out on moonless nights, each man with a torch and four-pronged fork, or "cleek." Those who have tasted its joys say there is no sport in these islands equal to that of spearing eels in the Coquet, with Border shepherds for company. Sometimes, indeed, eels are not the only prey. The river swarms with bull trout, and how is it possible to resist the temptation of cleeking a fine plump fish if it comes within reach of one's spear? Such sport is dangerous, however, being against the laws, and numerous have been the conflicts, in times not long past, between the hillmen and the watchers, their hereditary foes. On some occasions the poachers have played sly tricks on those who have intended their capture. They have sent out rumours of their intention to have "a gey night;" then they have sat in some lonely place drinking whisky and telling stories the night through, issuing thence in the morning, when the watchers had convinced themselves of a hoax, to sweep the Coquet and all the neighbouring streams. [Illustration] [Illustration: HARBOTTLE.] [Illustration: ALWINTON BRIDGE.] The chief resorts alike of shepherds and of anglers are the villages of Alwinton and Harbottle, distant about two miles from each other, and near to where the Coquet winds out of the hills and flows between rich meadow-lands, that slope away to the distant Cheviots on the one hand, and to the nearer Simonside Hills on the other. Alwinton has the large allowance of two inns to about eleven houses. It is one of the most ancient of the Border villages, and had a church in 1293, to which fled one Thomas de Holm, escaped from the prison of the neighbouring town, but taken by Simon Smart and Benedict Grey, who "beheaded him at Simonsett, and hung his head up on the gallows at Harbottle," as a warning to all like evil-doers. Alwinton has its peel-tower, at about half a mile from the present village; but at Harbottle there are far more striking memorials of a stirring past. There is Harbottle Castle, for example, a ruined mass of masonry on the summit of a steep hill between the village and the river. It must anciently have been almost the strongest place on the Borders, when what is now a small village was doubtless a fairly considerable town. "Here Botl," the place of the army--such is the name which it is said to have borne before the Conquest, when it contained a stronghold held by Milred, the son of Ackman. "Robert with the Beard," the lord of Prudhoe, founder of the family of De Umfraville, came into possession of all the surrounding lands in 1076, on condition of defending the countryside against wolves and the enemies of the king. The castle, of which there are portions still remaining, was built in the reign of Henry II., and was the prison and place of execution of all offenders taken in the liberty of Redesdale. Sitting by the castle of Harbottle in these days, and listening to the joyous music of the Coquet stream, the imagination vainly endeavours to piece together the meagre fragments of the past into some consistent whole; for the quiet aspect of things, the sweet rural peace, and this "Place of slumber and of dreams Remote among the hills," make it seem incredible that a great Scottish army can ever have sat down before it, and that the place can have been strong enough to resist a determined siege. [Illustration: THE COQUET AT FARNHAM.] When Harbottle has been left behind, the river no longer strains through narrow passes or hurries by great ramparts of riven cliff. It broadens out, indeed, into a quiet, smiling stream, with a brown shingly bed, and with occasional large masses of reeds, in which an otter may hide. There are now frequent small villages along its course, the most interesting of these being Holystone, where there is a well in which, as Alexander Smith has related-- "The king and all his nobles and his priests, Were by Paulinus in Christ's name baptised, And solemnly unto his service sealed. And then Paulinus lifted up his hands, And blessed them and the people." No less than three thousand Northumbrians are said to have received the sacrament of baptism at this place, a statement which will seem the less incredible if we consider that Northumbria was then the most powerful and populous of the Saxon kingdoms. The famous well lies by the junction of two Roman ways, in a little grove of fir-trees, where the water still bubbles up actively through the sand and gravel. There is above it a stone cross with this inscription: "In this place Paulinus the Bishop baptised 3,000 Northumbrians, Easter, DCXXVII." Under the brow of Simonside, which is a huge shoulder of mountain thrusting itself up suddenly from the ascending land, there are a few cottages, and one great house, and a mill where are manufactured the Cheviot tweeds. This is the village of Tosson. Hence one looks away across the Coquet to the long range of the Cheviot hills, which seem surprisingly near, and yet are separated from Coquetside by many a mile of rich and pleasant pasture land. The ancient village of Rothbury is close at hand, with its one long street dipping down from the moorside to the Coquet banks, with its picturesque "Thrum Mill," its ancient church tower, and its great expanse of furze-bestrewn moors, amid the nearest of which Cragside, the residence of Lord Armstrong, is set. "An Act of Parliament is out of breath before it reaches Rothbury," say the people of the place. It is a saying which has survived from the pre-railroad days, when this portion of the wild Border land seemed as much cut off from the rest of England as if it had been islanded by the sea. Nor, indeed, is the sea so far away. On clear days one may behold it from the top of Simonside, a thin grey streak, scarcely distinguishable from the greyness of the sky. A turbulent little town was Rothbury in its earlier days. It was here that Bernard Gilpin took down from the church door a glove which had been hung up as a challenge to all and sundry, and then preached a powerful sermon on the wickedness of private war. In the same church many years ago an old man who was listening to a condemnation of robbery rose up and said, "Then the de'il I give my sall to, bot we are all thieves." Happily that broad statement no longer applies. The people of Rothbury and the region beyond are honest, stalwart, hard-working, prosperous folk, given to no pursuit more lawless than the occasional poaching of bull trout. And of bull trout, which easily passes for salmon with the unwary, it is well that a word should be said. The _salmo eriox_ has long established its title to the Coquet as its own exclusive stream. "On the Coquet it goes by the name of salmon," says a writer on angling, "there being no true salmon in that river. Bull trout very rarely takes fly or bait of any kind, except when it is in the kelt state, when it is ravenous. It reaches fifteen and twenty pounds in weight." A noble fish, it will be remarked; but why should it have laid exclusive claim to the Coquet, with that river lying, as it does, between such salmon-haunted streams as the Tyne and the Tweed? This is a puzzle which the scientific mind finds itself incapable of solving to this day. A generation since it was maintained that the bull trout devoured the young of salmon, and it was decided, therefore, that the _salmo eriox_ should itself be destroyed. By the connivance of the local landowner every specimen of the bull trout was killed as it entered the river from the sea. Breeding ponds for salmon were then established at Rothbury, and 17,000 young fish were turned into the Coquet in a single year. Many of these were branded for future identification, but, so far as was known, not a single fish of the whole 17,000 ever came back to the stream in which it was bred. Some were caught in the Tyne, and some in the Tweed, and some in more distant rivers, but never did the bite of a true salmon reward the patient angler by Coquetside. Worse than all, too, the common trout deteriorated, for they had fed on the spawn of the _salmo eriox_. These things becoming apparent, as much anxiety was shown to get the bull trout back to the river as there had been eagerness for its destruction. The bull trout is now, in fact, strictly preserved under the salmon laws. There is a Coquet Fish Conservancy Board; and the catching of bull trout in Coquet, alike by nets and by more artificial expedients, is now a considerable industry, much of the so-called salmon exported to France and Spain being no more than the _salmo eriox_ of the English Border. There are those who will not even yet believe that the Coquet cannot be made a salmon river. Now and then some angler confidently announces that he has caught a true salmon in this delightful and prolific stream. Such tales are listened to with interest, but are not believed. Even experienced fishermen are capable of confounding the bull trout with its nobler brother of the streams. [Illustration: ON THE COQUET, BRINKBURN.] At the foot of the long street of Rothbury, and just on the lower outskirt of the village, is the Thrum Mill, the name of which is explained by the fact that the river here strains through a narrow chasm, or thrum, in a piled-up bed of freestone rock. The mill is an object of the conventionally picturesque description, with a moss-grown waterwheel, and with a tumbling torrent for foreground. A bridge here crosses the Coquet, and to the left, half-way up the steep side of a heathery hill, rises the mixed Gothic and Elizabethan mansion of Lord Armstrong. The site has clearly been chosen for the wildness of its surroundings, for whatever changes may be wrought by cultivation, and however the growth of plantations may soften the harsh brown and softer purple of the heather, untamed Nature will still assert itself here, like Hereward's wife at Ely, as "captive but unconquered." At Cragside there is one of the noblest of English picture galleries, the contents of which have been brought together by an exceedingly catholic taste, and by a liberality of expenditure only possible to "wealthy men who care not how they give." Here are Linnell's "Thunderstorm in Autumn," Millais' "Chill October," David Cox's "Ulverstone Sands," Leslie's "Cowslip Gatherers," Wilkie's "Rabbit on the Wall," Rossetti's "Margaret and her Jewels," and some of the finest works of Turner, Landseer, Phillip, Müller, and, coming down to living artists, Sir Frederick Leighton. [Illustration: AT FELTON.] From Rothbury the Coquet takes a long sweep through the fields and then plunges into the woods of Brinkburn. There are here, one reads, great and dangerous holes in the river bed; but so there are at many places on the Coquet, and not at Brinkburn more remarkably or permanently than elsewhere. Such holes are made by the swirling water of the floods, and may change their situation with every spate. Their more particular association with Brinkburn may arise from the fact that the bells of the priory are believed to have been cast into a hole in the river, from which whosoever recovers them, says the tradition, will come into possession of treasures galore. Brinkburn was one of the earliest religious settlements on the disturbed and lawless English side of the Border. Exceedingly courageous must have been those monks who decided to accept the rough chances of life at Brinkburn Priory. They had the protection of the deep woods, indeed. Even now one may pass by Brinkburn without suspecting what rich memorials of a past age and a venerable faith are hid within its leafy coverts. It is not merely embosomed, but buried, in trees. So, too, it must have been when the monks were here, for the story goes that a party of marauding Scots had already passed the priory, and was well on its way toward places under less saintly protection, when the monks too soon set the bells a-ringing for joy at its departure, with the evil result of revealing their hiding-place, so that the Scots, returning, fell upon the black canons of Brinkburn while they were assembled to offer up prayers of gratitude for their deliverance from danger. This priory of Brinkburn was founded in the reign of Henry I. by a certain Sir William de Bertram, Baron of Mitford, by Morpeth, who endowed it liberally from his extensive lands. Its monks were of the order of St. Augustine. Of their history little is known, but it must have been troublous enough, and there is reason to think that they were more than once under the necessity of flight. Having resolved to build a church, the Lord of Mitford determined that it should be such a one as would do honour to his name. The present extensive remains still speak eloquently of the original beauty of the edifice. Of the church, partially restored in 1858 by the present owners of the estate, the Cadogan family, it has been remarked that, "the richest Norman work is here inextricably blended with the purest Early English, and the fabric must be regarded as one of the most fascinating specimens of the transition from one to the other that there is in the country." Out of the ruins of the monastery, and above the cellars in which the monks may have hidden themselves in times of trouble, the present manor house of Brinkburn has been built. It stands not far from the banks of the Coquet, which are here somewhat narrow and steep, with rocky projections, and with no route for the angler except in the bed of the stream, or amid an almost impenetrable confusion of shrubs and brambles and trees. At one point the piers of a Roman bridge may be discerned when the water is low; there is a quaint old watermill by the side of the stream; at a spot but a short distance away, it is averred by a pleasant tradition, the Northumbrian fairies were buried, and there they sleep, like King Arthur under the castle of Sewingshields, until faith shall return to the earth. The most widely known of all the villages below Rothbury is Weldon Bridge, at which one arrives when the Coquet has left Brinkburn Woods. It is the main resort of those anglers who love quiet fishing, and are not adventurous enough to make their way into the hills. Much has it been besung by the poets of the craft. "At Weldon Bridge," says one-- "... there's wale o' wine, If ye hae coin in pocket; If ye can throw a heckle fine, There's wale o' trout in Coquet." It is but a little place, this Weldon Bridge, with a large inn, before whose doors the river flows in gentle music. For the last two or three miles the stream has been characterised by the most capricious bendings, and henceforth, but with rather larger sweeps, it preserves the same wilful habit until it reaches the sea. There are pleasant walks along its banks down to Felton, sometimes diverging into low-lying woods, sometimes climbing the hillsides among farms, and occasionally leading to some ancient ford. At Felton itself the hills close in more narrowly, and the pleasant little village stands on a declivity amongst trees, whilst the river streams through a rocky pass. There is a dam at Felton which furnished material for rather a feeble joke to the late Frank Buckland. He found the fish falling back exhausted from vain attempts to leap the weir, and he posted up a "notice to salmon and bull trout," telling them to go down the river and take the first turn to the right, when they would find good travelling water up stream, and assuring them of the good will of the Duke of Northumberland, who meant to make a ladder for them by-and-bye. The fact that an inspector of fisheries, like Buckland, should have believed that salmon went up the Coquet with the bull trout is a curious illustration of the indeterminate ideas which have until lately prevailed on the subject of the varieties of fish by which this river is frequented. Felton is one of those villages at which it is pleasant to spend a night. Its bridge is almost as beautifully situated as that of Bettws-y-Coed. One stands upon it in the evening, and leans one's arms on the parapet, and looks towards the hills which environ it, and the comfortable village inn, and the quiet cottages, and feels how glorious a land is this England in which we live. There is nothing else to do or to enjoy, unless the river is low, as Frank Buckland saw it, and the fish are crowding up the stream; and then the sight is one that is for the existing moment very exciting and is afterwards difficult to forget. Felton is an ancient place. The old religion lingers there. The Protestant Reformation scarcely penetrated to north Northumberland, and many of the chief families of the district are still attached to the more ancient forms of faith. Attached to Felton Park is the Roman Catholic chapel of St. Mary. There are remains of a more antique edifice of the same faith about two miles away, the Church of St. Wilfred of Gysnes, given to the canons of Alnwick in the twelfth century. Felton is on the old Northern Coach Road, and is not now far away from the rail. Whosoever desires to make acquaintance with the whole of the Coquet should alight at the neighbouring station of Acklington. He may then go downward to Warkworth, to Amble, and the sea; or he may go upward to Brinkburn, to Rothbury, and the moors. [Illustration: MORWICK MILL, ACKLINGTON.] From Felton until Warkworth is in sight there is little over which one need linger. The country is level more or less, and the river seems to flow in a deep trench, with a fringe of trees on either side of it. At one place it comes through a deep break in the solid rock, which seems as if it must originally have been quarried. One speculates in vain as to the mighty force of the water by which such passages must have been hewn. These clefts for rivers are not uncommon, but they are incomprehensible. The water, one is compelled to feel, was but a minor element in their formation. A mile and a half from Warkworth there is another weir, a great straight wall of cement, with a passage for fish on either side. Yet though the fish may go up to left or right, as they may choose, there is what persons addicted to sport might call "an even chance" in connection with their coming down. If they take the ladder to the right they will get off to sea, but if they come down to the left they will fall into a trap, and will, in all probability, be eaten on French dinner tables as salmon. For, at Warkworth, or within a short distance of it, is the great fishery of Mr. Pape, who has not only the weir to assist his operations, but has the right--acquired by paying a rent to the Duke of Northumberland--to stop up one of the fish passes at the extremities of the weir, which privilege he exercises so ingeniously that every fish that chooses the left side of the river for its downward passage gets into his trap, from which it may be lifted out at will. [Illustration: WARKWORTH CASTLE.] [Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF WARKWORTH.] Can Edmund Spenser ever have been at Warkworth? If not, how does he come by this description?-- "A little lowly hermitage it was, Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side; Far from resort of people that did pass In travel to and fro; a little wide There was an holy chapel edified, Wherein the hermit duly wont to say His holy things each morn and eventide; Thereby a crystal stream did gently play, Which from a sacred fountain welled forth alway." Except as regards the little stream and the sacred fountain this is accurately descriptive of the hermitage at Warkworth. The Coquet is here a tolerably broad river indeed, so that to reach the lowly hermit's cell one must make employment of the boatman's art. A little church hewn out of rock, and with a certain architectural skill--that is the famous hermitage of Warkworth. A wood grows high above it; there is a pleasant walk by the riverside below; and above the cave there are some steps by which the hermit is supposed to have ascended to his garden ground. The Hermitage is, as Bishop Percy says-- "Deep hewn within a craggy cliff, And overhung with wood." Never did hermit choose a lovelier spot for his orisons; but this hermit of Warkworth was a man of industry and taste. He used the hammer and the chisel well. He made for himself a chapel, a confessional, and a dormitory, and none of these did he leave without ornament. There is a groined roof, and there is a rood above the doorway, and there is the recumbent figure of a lady with upraised hands. Whosoever chooses to weave legends about the hermitage of Warkworth is at liberty to do so, for nothing is certainly known of the hermit. The received tradition is to be found in Percy's "Reliques," where a member of the family of Bertram by mistake slays his sweetheart and his brother, and expiates his double crime by isolating himself from his kind. The Coquet is very beautiful here, with a mile walk through woods and meadow lands. After the Hermitage a sweet bend of the river brings Warkworth Castle in sight. It stands high up on the summit of grassy slopes, which have a few shrubs scattered about them. Here it was that, according to Shakespeare's narrative of events, Henry Hotspur read the letter of "a pagan rascal--an infidel," who would not join him in his designs against the Crown. The next scene is in the Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap, with Poins and Prince Hal. Shakespeare was so far adherent to fact that Hotspur actually lived at Warkworth Castle. Edward III. had conferred it on the second Lord Percy, and until the middle of the fifteenth century the Percies preferred Warkworth to Alnwick. The Castle is one of the most beautiful and perfect ruins in England. It is not only finely situated, but is unique in design, suggesting less of strength than of taste in constructing a palace which must also be a stronghold. A living novelist, the best of our story tellers, has made Warkworth the starting-point of one of his Christmas tales, and has most admirably conveyed to the reader the feeling of the place. Whom should I mean but Mr. Walter Besant? The church where his hero did penance, and where his heroine bravely stood beside her lover, is at the foot of the village street, which slopes upward to the height on which the Castle stands. Just beyond the church is the great stone archway through which the town must be entered, standing at the inner side of the bridge over the Coquet stream. Altogether, the village does not amount to much. It has a few good inns, and a few old-fashioned cottages. But it is as sweet a place as is to be found in all the countryside, and is therefore much in favour with persons in search of a brief, quiet holiday. In Warkworth, small as it is, one feels everywhere the influence of the past. History seems to keep guard over it as an important part of its story. In 737 it was conferred by King Ceowulph on the monastery of Lindisfarne. The town was burnt in 1174 by the army of William the Lion, who was something of a poltroon. King John visited the place in the thirteenth century, and did much mischief farther up the river. General Forster and his Jacobites were here in 1715. That very Mr. Patten who is a principal figure in Mr. Besant's "Dorothy Forster" writes:--"It may be observed that this was the first place where the Pretender was so avowedly pray'd for and proclaimed as King of these realmes." From the turrets of Warkworth Castle one looks over a wide expanse of land and sea. The coast line is visible for great distances, beyond Alnmouth and Dunstanborough on the one hand, and almost to Tynemouth on the other. The great towers of Alnwick are in sight, and mile on mile of the most fertile land in Northumberland, and mile on mile of rabbit-haunted sandhills by the sea. Just beyond the Castle the land slopes downward, past a cottage or two, and a little wood, and a great clump of whin-bushes, to the Coquetside, and then the river flows through flat marsh-land until the small seaport town of Amble is reached. I have never seen those Essex salt marshes in which Mr. Baring-Gould lays the scene of his powerful "Mehalah," but whenever I read the book I am reminded of the country from Warkworth to the sea. Amble has grown up on a steep above the river; but there are flat spaces all round about it, and the river seems to stagnate where barges and schooners lie grounded in the mud, and beyond the harbour there are great level fields between "the bents" and the sea. Not a cheery place, by any means. Amble is one of the smaller outlets of the Northumberland coal trade. In very early days the Romans had some sort of encampment here, and in the Middle Ages Amble had its Benedictine monastery. It is now an exceedingly prosaic little town, with a harbour quite out of proportion to its size, and with an evident intention of "getting on." [Illustration: HUNTING ON COQUETSIDE. (_From the Picture by Colonel Lutyens, by Permission of Major Browne, Doxford Hall, Northumberland._)] "The bents" are the grass-covered sandhills which time and the winds have piled up between the ancient landmarks and the present limits of the tide. They rise to very considerable heights, and stretch, in great undulations, along many a mile of shore. The Coquet flows down between them to a wide waste of sand when the sea is out, and one may trace its waters, should they be discoloured by flood, on either side of the Coquet Island, which the river must have worn from the mainland very long ago. The island is a low, level strip, containing some sixteen acres of ground. It has a peculiar history of its own. There was a monastery upon it in the seventh century, and here the Abbess of Whitby is said to have met St. Cuthbert, who, for this occasion, had overcome his generally invincible dislike to women. St. Cuthbert's own island is in sight from the Coquet, and if the Farnes were not in the way one's range of vision might extend to Lindisfarne. In later times than those in which Cuthbert taught religion to a rude people the hermit of Warkworth had a rival hermit in the recluse of Coquet Isle; a far more dismal place to reside in, for all around it rage the terrible winter storms of the North Sea. Persons interested in the art of "smashing" may be interested to hear that Coquet Island was resorted to by the makers of false coins--"hard hedds" they were called in those days--so early as 1567. The place was taken by the Scots during the Civil Wars, and there its history ends, except so far as it is continued by shipwreck and disaster at sea. On Coquet Island a lighthouse now stands, tall and white, so that its walls may be seen far away over the sea in the daytime, and its lamps for many a rood at night. Gulls and terns and puffins and guillemots play around it and make their nests amid its sandy turf; and there comes "the dunter," as the fishermen call it, the porpoise as it is called in more ordinary speech, to devour the bull trout as it is making towards the comparative safety of the Coquet waters. All this may be changed a few years hence, for Amble is developing its trade, and hereafter masts of assembled shipping, and a black prospect of "coal-shoots," may be the characteristic features of Coquet mouth. AARON WATSON. [Illustration: KEILDER MOORS (WITH PEEL FELL TO THE RIGHT).] THE TYNE. CHAPTER I. THE NORTH TYNE. Peel Fell--Deadwater Bog--Keilder Castle and the Keilder Moors--The Border Peel--Border Feuds and Friendships--The Charltons--Bellingham--The Reed--Tyne Salmon--The Village of Wark--Chipchase Castle--Haughton Castle and the Swinburnes--Chollerford and the Roman Wall--The Meeting of the Waters. The clouds which are dragging themselves along the summit of Peel Fell were but lately dappling a bleak English landscape with their shadows, and are now being carried by the indifferent winds beyond that border-line over which, at peril of their lives, mail-clad men in earlier and ruder times were wont "to go to Scotland to get a prey." The last house in England, a lonely but pleasant homestead, with its wide sheep-walks and its patch of cultivated land, stands under the shelter of a ridge where the brown waste rises into high moorlands; and beyond it, the fell looms very darkly, save where a beam of sunlight traverses its purple slope, with such bright decisiveness as if it were Ithuriel's spear. Up above Alston, in Cumberland, where the South Tyne comes wandering from the mountain slopes, you may find cottages and farmsteads which were built almost as far back as it is safe to carry a noble pedigree; but here, where the North Tyne oozes out of the fells, we are in a country which was constantly raided from both sides of the Border; and so, for many a mile round about, there is nothing ancient but the castle and the peel tower, the Roman road over the moss, and the Roman wall chaining together the windy ridges of the moors. How could there be, indeed, when the Borderer of former times was accustomed to see his house "all in a low," and was happy and fortunate if he could but drive his cattle in safety to the nearest peel? If a farmhouse dates back a hundred years or so it seems to belong to a venerable past, and if there is in these parts any more noble residence which does not proclaim to the wanderer that it was built for the purposes of defence, it will belong to a day later than that on which James I. crossed the Border to assume the English crown. Peel Fell is the westernmost spur of the Cheviot range. Beheld from afar it seems to be a hill of gentle and inviting slope; but is, in fact, more craggy and broken than any of its kindred hills, which, of all the uplands of our country, are, except for the presence of the shepherds and their sheep, the most solitary. On the summit one stands 1,975 feet above the level of the sea. In these days a railway crosses the Border near to Peel Fell. It has kept to the winding course of the river from Newcastle upwards, and now it plunges into that Debateable Land which was for so long a period the excuse of Border feud and foray, and which was not definitely assigned either to the Scots or the English until 1552. Along the very path which this railway keeps there went, on many a memorable day, "Marching o'er the knowes, Five hundred Fenwicks in a flock;" for their old enemies the Grahams kept the Border beyond the fells, and there was not among the Montagues and Capulets such wild and deep enmity as existed between the Tynedale and the Liddesdale men. It must have been ill-marching enough, for the route lay over Deadwater Bog, where, in case of misfortune and retreat, the Fenwicks would have an advantage over their pursuers in their superior knowledge of the sounder spots of ground. In this Deadwater Bog, it is maintained, the North Tyne takes its rise, though here, as in so many cases in which great rivers originate otherwise than in well-defined springs, there is division of opinion and of faith. The Deadwater is a curving silvery thread in a black setting of peat-moss. It belongs wholly to the English side of the Border, and after its leisurely circuit of an almost level plain it ripples into a wider channel and fuller light through a mask of weaving reeds. But between the stations of Saughtree in Scotland and Keilder in England there is a wet ditch within a railway enclosure, and here, say some of the people of the district, and here the Ordnance Survey also asseverates, we must look for the actual origin of the North Tyne. I would gladly debate the question with the Ordnance Survey, if only to prove that the Tyne is an English river up to the remotest spot to which it can be traced; but it is "ill fechtin'" with those who are appointed to settle questions of boundaries, and whose decisions are held to be final however much they may be disputed; and as the little Deadwater and the small stream which insists on counting honours along with it eventually join together and form the indisputable North Tyne, it will be the discreeter course to let the Ordnance Surveyors have their will. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE TYNE.] The Tyne has scarcely become a distinguishable stream when it commences to take toll of its tributaries. First of all it is broadened and deepened by the junction of the Keilder Burn, whereupon it assumes such dimensions that a wooden bridge is thrown over from bank to bank. Keilder is here a name common to some of the chief features of the landscape--Keilder Castle, Keilder Burn, Keilder Moors. The castle is not one of the old Border strongholds, as might be assumed from its situation, but was built in the latter part of the last century by Hugh, last Earl and first Duke of Northumberland. It is approached by a road over the moors, and through a forest of young fir-trees. Its square tower is half hidden in a wood of more ancient date, and it has for background a fair expanse of purple hills. Between the castle and the fells there is a "forest primeval," as old, it may be, as that which Longfellow describes in the opening of "Evangeline," and far more strictly preserved; for not even the scant natives of the district are permitted to enter here, lest perchance they might disturb the game. On Keilder Moors, to the North of Tynehead, three miles hence, there is as good sport as anywhere in South Britain. All varieties of moor-fowl wend thither. The heron may be seen rising, like an arrow shot from a bow, from Keilder Burn; sea-birds wander thus far inland from Holy Island and the Farne Isles, and even make their nests and breed their young at this distance from their kind. The frequent hooting of the owl may be heard here in the night-time, and the distressed cry of the plover resounds all day over these heathery solitudes, where, but for such shrill voices, the silence and the utter loneliness might be felt as a burden, and the bare, desolate country, stretching to the bare, desolate hills, might seem too horribly remote from the kindly haunts of men. But wild as this country now is, and far scattered as are its inhabitants, there must, "in the dark backward and abysm of time," have been a numerous people here, for there are traces of ancient camps on most of the hills, and within two miles' compass there must have been at least six settlements of the aboriginal inhabitants of these islands, perhaps of those very Picts whose disorderly valour caused the building of the Roman wall. [Illustration: KEILDER CASTLE.] [Illustration: GREYSTEAD BRIDGE.] The woods of Keilder are still in sight when the yet inconsiderable "water of Tyne" is swollen by the broader and more impetuous Lewis Burn, which, after a turbulent career through picturesque glens amid the fells, ploughs its way deep among the pebbly soil of the haughs, and then makes a fatal junction with the more distinguished stream. "There's wealth o' kye i' bonny Braidlees, There's wealth o' youses i' Tine," says the old ballad. It was the habit of the Borderer to regard other folks' possessions as his own, as they might be for the taking, and of these "youses" and kye the hardy wooer remarks to her to whom his speech is here addressed, "these shall all be thine." Here, looking down from the moorlands on the confluence of the Tyne and the Lewis Burn, one sees how this portion of the north country must always have been a rich pastoral land, very alluring indeed to the reivers who lived beyond Peel Fell. The "haughs" are the flat pastures among the hills and by the side of streams. There is a fair, broad prospect of these where the two "waters" come together. Their monotony is here and there broken by dark bands of sheltering trees. Over the sheep and cattle grazing on these lowlands the ancient peel towers kept guard. There were both peels and castles, indeed. The Border peel was a solitary square tower, with stone walls of enormous thickness. Into the lowest of its compartments cattle were driven when there was an alarm of visitors "from over the Border." To the upper storeys those who fled for shelter and safety ascended by means of a ladder, which they drew up behind them, then defending themselves as best they might until their neighbours could be summoned to the conflict by the fire which on these warlike occasions was always hung from a gable of the roof. It was not only to steal cattle and sheep that the marauders came. There were often deep blood-feuds to avenge. The Robsons, who are declared to have been "honest men, save doing a little shifting for their living," made a raid on the Grahams of Liddesdale, and brought home sheep which were found to be afflicted with the scab. Their own flocks died in consequence, and the Robsons became very angry therefore, so that they made a second raid into Liddesdale, and brought back seven Grahams as their prisoners, all of whom they incontinently hanged, with the intimation, quite superfluous under such circumstances, that "the neist time gentlemen cam to tak their schepe they were no to be scabbit." Such acts bred constant retaliation, and in Northumberland to this day there is no very kindly feeling to persons "from the other side of the Border." [Illustration: DALLY CASTLE.] The remains of castles and peel towers crowd together somewhat when we have passed the pleasant little village of Falstone, which seems from time immemorial to have been occupied mainly by the Robson clan. At Falstone, where there are two rival but not unfriendly churches nestling among the trees, was discovered, a while ago, a Runic cross raised to the memory of some old Saxon Hroethbert, from whom, the name being the ancient form of Robert, it is probable enough that the doughty Robsons sprang. There was a peel in the village itself, but this has been long since incorporated with the laird's house. Another stood a short distance away, on the opposite side of the Tyne, below Greystead--where we reach the first important bridge over the North Tyne; and within a short distance of a point where three valleys unite their streams there stood two castles related to each other by a deadly feud, and two peels made famous by a wild friendship. Dally Castle--there are now but a few low, earth-covered walls remaining--occupies the summit of a hill distant about a mile and a half from the south bank of the Tyne. Tarset Castle--recognisable only as a green mound--stood on the north bank, close to where the river is joined by the Tarset Burn. The popular legends have connected these old Border strongholds by a subterranean passage, which is believed to have been haunted through many generations. Here a vivid superstition has heard carriages rolling underground, and has seen long processions emerge from an opening which no country wit had the skill to find. In Tarset Castle lived that Red Comyn who was slain by Robert Bruce, and of whom one of the Bruce's friends "made siccar" by thrusting a dagger to his heart when he had been left for dead. Sir Ralph Fenwick occupied Tarset Castle in 1526, but was driven out by the Charltons, though this must then have been one of the strongest places on the Borders. At some other and undetermined period--so the popular legends say--Tarset and Dally Castles were occupied by families which were at feud with each other, but it so fell out that the Lord of Tarset was smitten by the charms of his enemy's sister, whom he met by stealth in some retired spot on the moorlands. There, one day, he was set upon by the Lord of Dally and killed, and a cross was thereafter set up to his memory--perhaps by the lady for whom he had died--the site of which is pointed out to this day. Far different from the relations which existed between the lords of Tarset and Dally were those of Barty of the Comb and Corbit Jack, who inhabited neighbouring peels further up the Tarset Burn. Barty awoke one morning to find that all his sheep had been driven over the Border. Straight he repaired to his faithful Corbit Jack, and the two friends set off together over the fells; whence Barty of the Comb returned with a sword wound in his thigh, the dead body of his "fere" on his shoulder, and a flock of the Leathem sheep marching before him. The record of such occurrences is preserved only in the stories of those who rejoice in male prowess, and who relate how Barty "garred a foe's heid spang alang the heather like an inion;" but that they had a very pathetic side also the touching ballad of "The Border Widow" might help us to understand. The old feuds were kept up long after all reason for them had ceased to be, and when no more raiders came from the Liddell to the Tyne the men of the neighbouring valleys fought with each other, from lack of more useful employment. It was the wont, for example, of a descendant of this same Barty of the Comb to appear suddenly at Bellingham Fair, with a numerous following of Tarset and Tarret Burn men at his back, and, raising a Border slogan, to behave as if Bellingham had been Donnybrook. This was at the beginning of the present century only, when, according to Sir Walter Scott, the people of North Tynedale were all "quite wild," a statement which is not borne out by other authorities, though this "muckle Jock" of Tarset Burn can by no means have had such manners as stamp the caste of Vere de Vere. The home of those Charltons who drove Sir Ralph Fenwick out of Tarset Castle, and even out of Tynedale, "to his great reproache," observes an old writer, was at Hesleyside, which is nearly two miles from Bellingham northwards. Here a tower was erected in the fourteenth century. There were other powerful Charltons in the immediate neighbourhood--at the Bowere, a mile further up the Tyne, for example, where there lived Hector Charlton, "one of the greatest thieves in those parts," if old stories tell true. It was Hector who bought off two men that were to be hung, and then let them loose to prey on the King's lieges, taking for himself, as became a man boastful of his shrewdness, a due share of their spoil. Also it was the lady of Hesleyside who, in place of a sound meal, would sometimes serve up a spur on an otherwise empty dish, by way of hint that the larder had need to be replenished; and Hesleyside, proud of its past, still keeps this spur as an heirloom. But out of strength, as says Samson's riddle, there cometh sweetness. The later generations of Charltons have been a cultured race, and it was a rare collection of choice books which was dispersed at the Hesleyside sale a few years ago. Of the ancient tower nothing now remains, the present mansion of the family, situated amid woods which are conspicuous for many miles around, having been built at a comparatively recent period. At Bellingham, where several fairs are still annually held, and which has been, so long as local history goes back, the central market town of this remote district, we find amid the billowy moorlands a sweet pastoral country, set about with well-timbered lands. The village took its name from the De Bellinghams (now extinct), a family which tried to drive out the Charltons of Hesleyside, and came to no good thereby. Under Henry VIII. Sir Alan de Bellingham was the Warden of the Marches. The village is somewhat commonplace, but has a very interesting church and beautiful surroundings. A mile away Hareshaw Lynn comes tumbling down, between seamed cliffs and verdurous precipices. "'Tween wooded cliffs, fern-fringed it falls, All broken into spray and foam." For two miles there is a succession of beautiful cascades, which sing their wilful tune under a dappled archway of clinging shrubs and bending trees. Bellingham Castle has disappeared, like the family by which it was erected, but the old church, with its strong stone roof, bears witness of how in the days of the Border feuds even the House of God had need to be built so that it might be defended against wary and ruthless foes. The structure is in the early Norman style. The stone roof was probably added after the church had been twice fired by the Scots. The nave seems to have been used for much the same purpose as the peel towers, the narrow windows having obviously been intended as much for defensive purposes as for the admission of light. At Bellingham, as indeed throughout all this wild Border country, one may gather a plentiful store of song and legend--tales of how a man whom Bowrie Charlton had slain was buried at the Charlton pew door, so that his murderer dared not to go to church again whilst he lived; of how St. Cuthbert appeared in the church to a young lady who sought a miracle, and how the said miracle was but half completed because of the fright of the young lady's mother; of how other miracles were wrought at St. Cuthbert's Well; and of many another strange event of superstitious times. "The past doth win a glory from its being far," but Bellingham is a very humdrum village now, with no more exciting occurrences than its fairs. [Illustration: BELLINGHAM CHURCH.] [Illustration: CHIPCHASE CASTLE.] Shortly after the North Tyne has dreamed leisurely along through Bellingham village, its quiet ways are suddenly disturbed by the inrush of a water which is almost as wide as its own, and greatly more turbulent. The Rede has come down from the wild and bare region which the Watling Street traversed on its way to Jedburgh and beyond. Its springs are in the slopes of the Cheviot range north of Carter Fell. Forcing its way over a rock-strewn bed, it flows under the dark shade of Ellis Crag, and by the battlefield of Otterburn, and, with many a capricious bend or lordly curve, past the ancient Roman station of Habitancum, where, until a splenetic farmer destroyed all but its lower portions, the heroic figure of "Rob of Risingham," one of the most ancient of English sculptures, might be seen. The Rede is a stream which drains an enormous acreage of moor. A day's rain will swell it into a broad and boisterous torrent, with wide skirts extending far over the haughs. Famous for salmon-breeding is the Rede, and it is only by constant watching that the men of Redesdale are prevented from taking, out of all due season, what they regard as their own. When there is no "fresh" in the river the fish may be seen lying crowded together in the shallow pools, so that it is possible to wade in and take them without intervention of net, or gaff, or rod. But it is an exasperating circumstance that, plentiful as the salmon are, the season for rod-fishing in Redesdale is short, in spite of the law which permits it to be pursued for most months of the year; for as the fish come up here for the spawning season only, there are not more than some two months during which they may become the angler's legitimate prey. Doubtless such scenes as that which is depicted by Sir Walter Scott in "Guy Mannering" have been witnessed in Redesdale on many a former day. Salmon-spearing from "trows" was common down to at least the middle of the present century, the "trow" being a sort of double punt, pointed at the bows and joined together by a plank at the stern, and the spear, or "leister," being a barbed iron fork attached to a long pole. The Tyne has a Salmon Conservancy Board in these more severe times, and if trow or leister were to be seen on the river they would be seized as spoil of war. The narrow streak of gleaming water which made a silvery line across Deadwater Bog has now taken toll of wide lands-- "The struggling rill insensibly has grown Into a brook of loud and stately march, Crossed ever and anon by plank and arch." Far more than this it has done, indeed, for no longer would any plank be capable of spanning its waters. The North Tyne, which, with all its winding, keeps a much straighter course than the Rede, is now beyond all doubt a river, and such a river as, being liable to sudden and mighty floods, called "freshes" or "spates" in these parts, is of a width altogether out of proportion to the ordinary depth of its waters. Very pleasant and cool and shady are the banks of the North Tyne on hot summer days, and of such varying beauty, withal, that the angler whose thoughts are not too intently fixed on his creel, and on those stories of extraordinary luck with which he purposes hereafter to entertain his friends, may lose all sense of his occupation in that "peace and patience and calm content" which, says Izaak Walton, seized upon Sir Henry Wotton, "as he sat quietly on a summer's evening, on a bank, a-fishing." He is a fortunate angler who can take "a contemplative man's recreation" on such a river as the North Tyne, where he may camp out for a month together, well assured of sport; but where he need not feel lonely unless he wills, for a moderate walk will generally suffice to bring him to a village and an inn. Among the oldest of these villages is Wark, some five miles below Reedsmouth. In course of centuries of change it has fallen from its high estate, for it was once the capital of North Tynedale, and a session of the Scottish Courts was held on its Moot Hill when Alexander III. was King of Scotland, great part of Northumberland being also under his rule. Wark is a very unpretending village now, with a modern church, and a school founded by a philanthropic pedlar, and nothing about it half so interesting as its history. A mile away stands Chipchase Castle, which looks bright and new as it is seen from the railway, and yet is one of the most ancient and famous strongholds on the Borders. Not all of it is equally ancient, however, for in the time of James I. the present noble manor-house was added to the "keep" of earlier days by a descendant of that Sir George Heron who was slain in "The Raid of the Reidswire," and who is called in the ballad which celebrates that event, "Sir George Vearonne, of Schipsyde House." Ballad-writers were clearly not particular in the matter of proper names, for Sir George's patronymic was known well enough to the Scots, seeing that after his death they made presents of falcons to their prisoners, grimly observing that the said prisoners were nobly treated, since they got "live hawks for dead herons." There was a village of Chipchase in Saxon times, and there are remains of a fort much older than the keep which has been incorporated with the existing mansion. Peter de Insula, a retainer of the Umfravilles of Prudhoe, which is further down the Tyne, lived here in the thirteenth century. The Herons, who followed him, were of the same family as the stout baron who is celebrated by Sir Walter Scott:-- "That noble lord Sir Hugh the Heron bold, Baron of Twisell and of Ford, And captain of the hold." The race has died out, as is the case with so many of the famous families of Northumberland; but coal sustains what a warlike lordship built, and Chipchase Castle is to this day as proud and stately a place as in the time of the noblest Heron of them all. There are grim stories told of what took place there in former rude times. Sir Reginald Fitz-Urse, says tradition, was starved to death in the dungeon of the keep, and another unfortunate knight, pursued by the swords of intending murderers, lost himself in the chambers of the castle walls, and never issued alive therefrom. The peel tower of Chipchase is almost as large as a Norman keep, and is more ornamented than was common in most structures of the kind. The more recent castle is held to be one of the noblest examples of Jacobean architecture that have come down to us. [Illustration: HAUGHTON CASTLE.] Mr. Algernon Charles Swinburne, the poet, has recently reminded the world, through the medium of some Border ballads which but indifferently represent the dialect of Northumberland, that he is himself a Borderer. Long ago he wrote glowingly of "the league-long billows of rolling, and breathing, and brightening heather," and of "the wind, and all the sound, and all the fragrance and freedom and glory of the high north moorland." It is probably from Sir William de Swyneburn of Haughton Castle that he is descended. Haughton stands on the opposite bank of the river to Chipchase, and a brief space lower down. Here Archie Armstrong, the chief of a famous moss-trooping clan, was starved to death long ago--by accident, and not design, let it in justice be said. Sir William de Swyneburn was treasurer to Margaret of Scotland, and is credited with having had a great and insatiable greed for his neighbours' lands. He was succeeded in his tenure of the castle by the Widdringtons, one of whom is celebrated in the ballad of "Chevy Chase." It was he, indeed, for whom the poet's "----heart was woe, As one in doleful dumps; For when his legs were smitten in two He fought upon his stumps." But there was a Sir Thomas Swinburne at Haughton in the reign of Henry VIII. He was Warden of the Marches, and it was through his neglect of a prisoner that Archie Armstrong came to his death. Haughton Castle has a fine look of antique strength, but is nevertheless, in the main, a modern building. The original castle was burned down at some unrecorded time, and its ruins were restored and made habitable in the early part of the present century. Close by, it is sad to say, a former owner had a paper-mill, where forged assignats were manufactured for the purpose of being passed off as the genuine French article during the Duke of York's expedition to Flanders in 1793. To Sir William de Swynburn the people around Haughton are still indebted for the convenience of a ferry, for one which he established so far back as the reign of Henry II. plies in the old fashion--by an overhead rope and pulley--to this day. [Illustration: AT WARDEN.] Past Haughton Castle the river strains and rushes between narrowing banks. Lower down, at Chollerford, it has changed its course somewhat in the lapse of centuries, and the waters of North Tyne now flow over what was the abutment of an ancient bridge. At this spot let the chance visitor take the poet's advice:-- "Here plant thy foot, where many a foot hath trod Whose scarce known home was o'er the southern wave, And sit thee down, on no ignoble sod, Green from the ashes of the great and brave; Here stretched the chain which nations could enslave, The least injurious token of their thrall, Which, if it helped to humble, helped to save; This shapeless mound thou know'st not what to call Was a world's wonder once--this was the Roman wall." Here, indeed, the great bulwark against northern barbarism approached the Tyne on either of its banks. The river is now crossed by a bridge which was built in 1775, but there still exist substantial remains of that by which the Roman legions crossed over to the great stations of Procolitia and Cilurnum. Procolitia was one of a trio of important stations near to this portion of the North Tyne, and is some three or four miles away. Not many years ago no less than 16,000 coins, besides some rings, and twenty Roman altars, were discovered on this site. The coins ranged from the days of the Triumvirate to those of Gratian. The altars were all dedicated to Coventina. Who Coventina may have been, the antiquaries inquire in vain. Of her neither Greek, nor Roman, nor Celtic mythology has kept record. What is clear is that she must have been worshipped by the first cohort of Batavians, which kept guard here when these altars were made. At Cilurnum, now known as the Chesters, nearer by three miles to the bank of the Tyne and the ancient Roman bridge, altars were raised to more various deities. A cohort of Asturians was in garrison here. With the exception of Newcastle, probably, and Birdoswald certainly, this was the most important station on the Roman wall, and is at this time far the most wonderfully preserved. One may stand in the grounds of Mr. John Clayton, at the Chesters, and, with slight exercise of the fancy, reconstruct a Roman city in Britain, so materially is the imagination assisted by what recent excavations have disclosed. Agricola is believed to have built Cilurnum in 81 A.D. It existed as a camp before the wall was built, and covered a space of six acres of ground. Coal was found on one of the hearths when the place was first unearthed, a curious proof of the long period during which that mineral has been in use in the district through which this river flows. Among the statuary discovered was a well-preserved figure which is believed to represent the river-god of North Tyne:-- "The local deity, with oozy hair And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn Recumbent." At Chollerford the even course of the river is broken by a long curving weir, over which the "wan water" comes down magnificently in seasons of flood. "The water ran mountains hie" at Chollerford Brae, says an old ballad; but that is clearly an exaggeration. Nevertheless, Chollerford is not the place at which one would choose to cross the river at flood-time, and without a bridge, as happened with "Jock o' the Side," when he was hotly followed by pursuers from Newcastle town. It is odd how ancient and mediæval and ballad history centres around this quiet spot. Half a mile away is Heaven's Field, where Oswald of Northumbria gathered his army around him, set up the standard of the Cross by the Roman wall, adjured his troops to pray to the living God, and overthrew in one of the most important battles of our early history the far larger forces of heathenesse. Here we are approaching the point where the North and the South Tyne, making a fork of swift, clear-shining water, unite their streams to form the great river of which Milton, and Akenside, and many another poet, have admiringly sung. By the ancient village of Warden, the two streams, as an old writer says, "salute one another;" and where they meet there is a stretch of water as wide almost as a lake, reflecting on still days the high-towering woods and the misty hills which divide North and South Tynedale. [Illustration: ALSTON MOOR.] THE TYNE. CHAPTER II. THE SOUTH TYNE. On the "Fiend's Fell"--Tyne Springs--Garrigill--Alston and the Moors--Knaresdale Hall--The Ridleys--Haltwhistle--Allendale--Haydon Bridge and John Martin--The Arthurian Legends. We are in Cumberland, amid the wilds. How did St. Augustine contrive to penetrate to such a region as this? The land is desolate, bleak, solitary. A desert of heathery hills; here and there a reed-fringed stream; in front the wild and stern face of Cross Fell! A seldom-trodden height, this Cumberland mountain, seeming to stand sentinel over all the country round. On its lower slopes, the three great commercial rivers of the North have their rise. We have come here in search of the source of the South Tyne, but a short morning's wandering would lead us also to the sources of the Wear and the Tees. Cross Fell is 2,892 feet above the level of the sea, and to half that elevation we have ascended to reach these moors in which it seems to be set. The "Wizard Fell," some poet has called it. The "Fiend's Fell" it was called of old. To reach it from Alston one must trudge wearily afoot, or hire such vehicle as may be obtainable where travellers seldom come. The road winds about over windy uplands, ever rising nearer to the drifting clouds. A lead-miner's bothie stands beside it here and there, and one is constantly passing places where the miners have "prospected" for ore. All the roadside, indeed, has been explored and broken. The South Tyne is making music all the way, for it flows downward to one's right, and is constantly tumbling over rocks and forming cascades over little precipices. It becomes a hasty, tumultuous river almost immediately after its birth, increasing in volume with a celerity quite wonderful to see, and seemingly impetuous to lose the cold companionship of these bleak and barren hills, which, despite their sternness, are all aglow with colour, and pulsating with rapid waves of light. To the right, brown ridges of high moorland; to the left, slopes more broken, strewn over, as it would seem, with masses of light-purple rock; beyond all, the dark ridge of Cross Fell closing-in the lonely valley. A streak of brighter and fresher green than any that is visible on the hillsides indicates where a hidden thread of water percolates the moss. Then there is a glint of silver here and there. Finally, the eye lights upon a sedgy pool, in the centre of which there is perceptible that throbbing movement which tells of the presence of a spring. This, then, is the source of the South Tyne. Before its waters have travelled far from here they will be crossed by a rude, ancient bridge, and swollen by many a little tributary from the hills. From the summit of Cross Fell at certain seasons the mysterious and terrible "helm wind" blows. When no breeze disturbs the air, and when, over all the country round, there is a clear and bright sky, a line of strangely tortured and curving clouds will form itself along the ridge of the mountain. Then the shepherds will hie to where shelter may be found, for they know that a wind will soon be blowing before which no human creature can stand upright, and that may uproot trees, and unroof houses, and carry dismay into the valleys far below. It was the fiends holding revel, said the early inhabitants of these regions; wherefore St. Augustine erected a cross on the highest part of the fell, collecting his monks around him, and holding a religious service there, whereby if the fiends were made less harmful they were by no means dispossessed. The nearest inhabited place is Garrigill, which is a prominent object in the valley as one ascends the moor from Alston. A Cumberland village is a series of white gleaming spots against the hillside--a collection of whitewashed walls and grey-blue roofs of stone. This of Garrigill is like so many others, except as to the height at which it has been built, and its bright contrast with the gloom of its surroundings. There is a pleasant shadow of trees about its housetops. There is a village inn, and a village green, and a village well. The young river flows past quickly, merrily, with the music of numerous little falls. The people of these hill regions are miners for the most part. Lead was worked in these mountain sides at times so far back as the Roman occupation of Britain, and some of the miners, if they had kept a record of such things, might show a pedigree longer than that of those whose ancestors were engaged in Senlac fight. Their chief quarters are at Alston and at Allenheads, but their bothies are scattered about these moors. The town of Alston is four miles below Garrigill. It is a pretty, white-looking town, high up on the slope of the moors. Of its two principal streets one is parallel with the river Nent, and the other with the South Tyne, the two streams here joining to make a fairly considerable river. At Alston we are again on the track of St. Augustine's footsteps. He may even have founded a place of worship here, and it is in keeping with the tradition of his having Christianised Cumberland that the church should bear his name. [Illustration: FEATHERSTONE CASTLE.] [Illustration: FEATHERSTONE BRIDGE.] White Alston, with the wild brown moors beyond it, stands between the broad, open desolateness of the mountain region and a lovely district in which the South Tyne laughs under the threading branches of ancient woods, or broadens out by sunny haughs, as if to rest itself between strife and strife. Just below Alston we once more set foot on Northumbrian soil. The Ayleburn and the Gildersdale waters flow from opposite directions along the county boundaries, the one from high moorlands, by the old manor-house of Randalholme, the other from the peaty morass where once flourished the great forest of Gildersdale. Henceforth the country assumes a more gentle aspect. The lead-mines have been left far behind; the river lies broad in the sunlight, or darkens under the shadow of trees; there are gentler undulations in the hills, and "Long fields of barley and of rye That clothe the wold and meet the sky." The remains of Whitley Castle, which is the modern and inappropriate name of a Roman station, are to be seen shortly after the Gildersdale Burn has joined the Tyne, and here, also, one comes upon an ancient Roman road, the Maiden Way, along which it may have been that "a woman might walk scatheless in Eadwine's day." Hereabouts the river is pleasantly fringed, and cool, and full of shadows and deep reflections. At brief intervals it is joined by some new tributary, pouring noisily out of a little valley of its own. Of these one of the most interesting is the Knar, which comes down in a boisterous and scurrying manner from a region of wilderness and lofty fell, where the red deer lingered latest in these parts, and where the remains of ancient forests may be discovered in the soft and treacherous moss. Very rich in interest and beauty are some of the glens through which these mountain rivulets flow, with sudden precipices, and narrow defiles, and rock-strewn gorges, and the charm of moss and fern and overhanging tree. Knaresdale Hall, which is no more than a farmhouse in these days, is some distance lower down the South Tyne than the spot at which the Knar Burn brings its contribution to the constantly broadening stream. It dates back to rough seventeenth century times, and was as strongly built as became the home of the doughty lairds of Knaresdale. But the noblest of South Tyne castles is that of Featherstone, or Featherstonehaugh. It stands in a fine park opposite to where the river is joined by Hartley Burn. When Lord Marmion was feasting full and high at the castle of Norham, on Tweedside-- "A northern harper rude Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud; How the fierce Thirlwalls, and Ridleys all, Stout Willimondswick, And Hardriding Dick, And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o' the Wall Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, And taken his life at the Deadman's Shaw." For "the rest of this old ballad" the notes to "Marmion" refer us to "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." But the ballad has not an old line in it. It is simply one of those sham antiques which it amused Surtees, of Mainsforth, to pass off upon one who trusted to his good faith and his familiarity with Border legend and story. The incident which it records is probably as imaginary as the old woman from whose recitation the words are declared to have been taken down. Featherstone Castle is not built upon elevated ground, as is the case with most of the strong places of the Borders. It stands in a quiet vale amid wooded heights. The Featherstones claimed to have lived there for many centuries, the first of the family, according to tradition, being a Saxon chief of the eighth century. No pedigree can be safely and certainly traced back so far; yet, undoubtedly, the Featherstones were a very ancient race, and maintained their footing here through all the long troubles of the Borders. The nucleus around which the castle has grown was a square peel, of more elaborate ornamentation than was common. It has been declared, indeed, to be "the loveliest tower in the county." At this day it forms but one feature of a splendid group of castellated buildings, with many of the walls overgrown with ivy, and with a Gothic chapel as one of its main features. Near by is the lovely little glen of Pynkinscleugh, concerning which Mother Shipton predicted strange things, as yet unrealised. In Pynkinscleugh it was that Ridley of Hardriding endeavoured to carry off the daughter of the Lord of Featherstonehaugh on her wedding-day, and caused her death thereby, for she ran between the combatants' swords; and this she did so hastily and impetuously that she was slain. The "Willimondswick" mentioned in the ballad of Surtees was one of the very numerous Ridleys of this district. Willimontswick disputes with Unthank Hall the honour of being the birthplace of Bishop Ridley the martyr. He was, in all probability, the only peaceful man of his family, for these Ridleys were through many generations a hard fighting, hard-riding, and turbulent race. From the record of scarcely any deed of violence on the Borders is the name of a Ridley absent. The ballads tell how-- "But an' John Ridley thrust his spear Right through Sim o' the Cuthill's wame;" and how-- "Alec Ridley he let flee A clothyard shaft ahint the wa'; And struck Wat Armstrong in the ee." To such men as these the good Bishop Ridley, about to yield his body to the flames, wrote that, "as God hath set you in our stock and kindred, not for any respect to your person, but of His abundant grace and goodness, to be, as it were, the bell-wether to order and conduct the rest, so, I pray you, continue and increase in the maintenance of truth, honesty, and all true godliness." Bell-wethers they were, indeed, these Ridleys, and to some rough purpose, too. Unthank Hall, to the tenants of which the martyr also wrote letters of farewell, is a recently rebuilt mansion, the near neighbour of Willimontswick, and on the opposite side of the Tyne to the quiet little country town of Haltwhistle. We are here again within a brief distance of the Roman wall. Haltwhistle may have been garrisoned by some of the assailants of that stupendous rampart. There are ancient earthworks on the site of what is known as the Castle Hill, one side of which is defended by an artificial breastwork of precipitous appearance. The former "Castle of Hautwysill" is now no more than a tall barn-like building, with a loop-holed turret resting on corbels. The chancel of the church is a survival from the old rough-riding days, and dates back to the thirteenth century; but there was too much fighting in the little town for much that was ancient in it to have survived into the present century. Haltwhistle has now a growing population of 1,600, and is as sweetly situated as heart could desire. [Illustration: HALTWHISTLE.] [Illustration: HAYDON BRIDGE.] This little town is made attractive not only by its neighbourhood to the Tyne, but through the wild and fantastic beauty of Haltwhistle Burn, which flows down from the desolate, dreary, and cruel-looking Northumberland lakes, where the winds that ruffle the surface of these forlorn waters "Wither drearily on barren moors." Yet there are fine sights enough above the ravine through which Haltwhistle Burn has ravaged and torn its way--wide views of fir-clad slopes, and wide-stretching farm-lands, and rolling moors, and dark precipices, and the ever-pleasant valley of the Tyne. Such another sight there is, with even a more extensive prospect, from the heights above the little hamlet of Bardon Mill. Southward lie Willimontswick, and the ancient chapel of Beltingham, and Ridley Hall, and the confluence of the Allen and the Tyne, and the grey, bright-looking village of Haydon Bridge; northward may be seen the important Roman stations of Vindolana and Borcovicus, and the far-reaching, dipping, and bending line of the Roman wall. Backwards, over the ground which we have traversed from Cross Fell, Saddleback and Skiddaw are in sight, and half the peaks, fells, and ridges of the great Cumbrian group. A little below Bardon Mill the River Allen joins the South Tyne. What the Rede is to the northern, the Allen is to the southern branch of the river--the largest and longest of its affluents. It is formed by the joining of two streams which rise on the extreme southern borders of Northumberland, and which flow some three or four miles apart until they are within about five miles of their confluence with the Tyne. The Allen is one of the loveliest and most retired of streams, flowing between picturesque rocks, and sheltered and darkened by hanging woods. There are here "Steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion." Of all northern rivers this is the one which is most praised for the wild and yet tranquil variety of its scenery, for the charms which the quiet angler finds in the turns and windings of its rocky pass, and for the beauty and diversity of the foliage which clothes its steeply ascending vale. At Haydon Bridge, when the water is low, there lies a great expanse of shingle, polished into whiteness by the floods. White are the houses also, with roofs of bluish stone; and there is an aspect of great quaintness about the little village, which seems to have been founded in Saxon times, and to have borrowed much of its older building material from the Roman wall. Of its former state there are still some small remainders in the chancel of an old chapel, and a cottage here and there on the height. It was at Haydon Bridge that John Martin, the painter of "The Last Judgment," and "The Plains of Heaven," and "Belshazzar's Feast," was born, and here, up to his twelfth birthday, he evoked the wonder of the simple folk with his rough drawings, a number of which, with the family eccentricity, he once exhibited upon his father's housetop. From here it would be easy to make an excursion into King Arthur's country. Not, indeed, to "The island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail, nor rain, nor any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly." Avilion is Glastonbury, it is said; but all about this ruder country there is store of Arthurian legend, mostly of that coarser sort to which belongs the story of the "bag pudding" which "the Queen next morning fried." The King and Queen Guinevere, the King's hounds, and the lords and ladies of his court, lie all together in an enchanted sleep in a great hall beneath the Castle of Sewingshields, near to the Roman wall; or so the legends say. And now we are once more approaching Warden Mill. To the North and South Tyne we must henceforth bid adieu. From this point they will flow together in the same bed. One has come down from the Scottish borders, a holiday stream, for forty-three miles; the other, not without doing its share of work by the way, has hurried over thirty-nine miles from the Cumberland fells. Thirty-six miles more, over half of which extent the Tyne is a great labouring, work-a-day river, and we shall meet the breezes and the billows of the northern sea. [Illustration: HEXHAM ABBEY.] THE TYNE. CHAPTER III. FROM HEXHAM TO NEWCASTLE. Hexham and the Abbey Church--Dilston Hall--The Derwentwater Rising--Corbridge--Bywell Woods--Prudhoe and Ovingham--Stephenson's Birthplace--Ryton and Newburn--The Approach to Newcastle. Until it becomes a tidal river, which does not happen till the huge pillar of smoke that announces Newcastle comes in sight, the Tyne in ordinary seasons is a broad and shallow stream, with occasional deep and quiet pools dreaming in shadowy places. Below Warden its banks are open on either side to the far-away hills, and it has but a bare, starved look among these level and almost naked shores. Yet it is a rich, fertile, and famous country, through which now flows this "water of Tyne." Hexham, renowned for its market-gardens, is close at hand. Its roofs peer out of a wide circle of trees, and above them all, massive and conspicuous, stands sentinel the broad square tower of the Abbey Church. "The heart of all England" is a designation which was long ago claimed for their town by the Hexham folk. Just as Boston is held to be the hub of the universe, so Hexham was declared to be the centre of our right little, tight little island. Hence radiated such Gospel light and such imperfect learning as illumined these wild northern parts in Saxon times. Mr. Green has said of St. Wilfred, whom he calls Wilfrith of York, that his life was made up of flights to Rome and returns to England, which is but a churlish description of a great career; for St. Wilfred, the most magnificent and wealthy ecclesiastic of his period, not only restored York and built the church at Ripon, but erected here at Hexham an abbey and a cathedral of which Richard, the Prior, who assisted to restore it from its ruins, wrote:--"It surpassed in the excellence of its architecture all the buildings of England; and, in truth, there was nothing like it at that time to be found on this side of the Alps." The time to which Prior Richard refers was the latter portion of the seventh century. Wilfred, who was trained at Lindisfarne, visited France and Italy in his youth, and came back full of great architectural ideas. There were then, it is probable, no stone churches in England. At any rate, the first five churches of stone were York, Lincoln, Ripon, Withern, and Hexham; of which Wilfred certainly built three. Never had bishop a vaster diocese. Wilfred, Archbishop of York and Bishop of Hexham, had supreme ecclesiastical control over a district which--during his lifetime, and when he was in misfortune--was divided by Theodore of Tarsus into the four bishoprics of York, Hexham, Withern, and Lindisfarne. Of Wilfred's cathedral of Hexham nothing remains but the underground oratory, built about 674. The church was fired by incursive Danes in 875. Three centuries later the canons of Hexham piously went to work to rebuild and restore; but then the unruly Scots made a raid into England, taking Hexham on their way, and not only destroyed the restored buildings, but slaughtered the townsfolk, and burned to death two hundred children whom they found at school. Hexham was once, says Prior Richard, "very large and stately." However, it diminished in importance under the influence of successive battles, tumults, incursions, and changes. Hexham ceased to be the seat of a bishopric at an early period of its history; and though the monks donned armour and girded swords to their sides when Henry VIII.'s commissioners came, declaring that, "we be twenty free men in this house, and will die all or that you shall enter here," their bravery nothing availed them, and the dissolution of the monastery still further depressed Hexham in the list of English towns. There is a story that the last Superior was hanged at the priory gates, and several of his monks along with him. The beautiful Abbey Church was restored, greatly to its detriment, in 1858. But even the restorers could not spoil it utterly, and it still gives an air of grandeur and stateliness to the quiet town which it adorns. It is all an old battlefield, the land around Hexham. "Wallace wight," who is frequently heard of on Tyneside, generally to his disadvantage, and part of whose body was hung up on the bridge at Newcastle when he was executed, came here and slaughtered the people in 1297. One of the decisive battles of the Wars of the Roses was fought close by Hexham in 1464, on which occasion, as one of the most romantic stories in our history narrates, Queen Margaret and her son found shelter and hiding in a robbers' cave. "Hexham," writes Defoe, "is famous, or rather infamous, for having the first blood drawn at it in the war against their Prince by the Scots in King Charles's time." A good deal of the blood of the families of these parts was shed for the Stuart cause, then and long afterwards. Three miles below Hexham, and near to the scene of the Yorkist and Lancastrian battle, Devil's Water flows into the Tyne, past the grey old tower which is all that remains to attest the former splendour of the Earls of Derwentwater. This Devil's Water--which was Dyvelle's Water in bygone days, so called from an ancient family of these parts--tears its way swiftly between high and verdurous walls of rock-- "It's eddying foam-balls prettily distrest By ever-changing shape and want of rest." The hillsides of Dilston are clothed in magnificent woods. The scene is such as those which the old-fashioned writers were wont to describe as "beautifully sylvan." There are wild wood-paths and beds of fern, the green tangle of underwood, and the varied shade and brightness of interlacing boughs. And hence, with hesitation and a doubtful mind, the last Earl of Derwentwater set out on that rash and unlucky expedition which caused him the loss of his head. [Illustration: PRUDHOE CASTLE.] [Illustration: CORBRIDGE.] The ancient village of Corbridge--the quietest of country villages now, with extensive market-gardens occupying ground on which the Roman legions may have camped--lies but a short distance away, and it was on Corbridge Common that the army of the Stuart adherents came together when preparing to attack Newcastle. There was a British settlement near the little river Cor, as is made evident by certain camps and tumuli in the neighbourhood. The later Roman station of Corstopitum, believed to have been founded by Agricola, was a little west of the present village. It was on the line of the Watling Street, and had considerable extent and importance. Many of the fragments of it have been worked into existing buildings, for the stations of the Roman wall, and the wall itself, were during many generations so many quarries for those who succeeded the first conquerors of our island. For a few years before and after Wilfred's time there may have been a period of quiet, during which a monastery, and, it is believed, even a king's palace, was established; but thenceforward, for long afterwards, Corbridge is mentioned in history only when it is overtaken by some great trouble. When King John arrived here in 1201 he conceived the idea that the place must have been destroyed by an earthquake, so complete and so extensive was the ruin that had been wrought. Yet three times again the town was burnt by the Scots. Even this, however, did not prevent the return of the people, and the founding of a new town of Corbridge, which sent a member to our earliest Parliaments, and only abandoned the privilege when the Corbridge folk became too poor or too indifferent to defray his "proper cost." The bridge which gives the village its name is the only bridge over the river which was not washed away or broken in the great flood of 1771. [Illustration: BYWELL CASTLE.] From Corbridge to Bywell the winding course of the Tyne has as various a beauty as heart could desire. There are wide, open reaches, and still, deep, shadowy spaces between overhanging woods, and passages of lively water scourging a rocky bed. Bywell itself is an idyllic place. There are stories of how it was once a bustling town, much liable to attack from moss-troopers and all manner of Border thieves. Old records have it that so late as "the stately days of Great Elizabeth" it was "inhabited with handicraftsmen, whose trade is in all ironwork for the horsemen and borderers of that county, as in making bits, stirrups, buckles, and such others, wherein they are very expert and cunning, and are subject to the incursions of the thieves of Tynedale, and compelled, winter and summer, to bring all their cattle and sheep into the street in the night-season, and watch both ends of the street, and when the enemy approacheth to raise hue and cry, whereupon all the town prepareth for rescue of their goods, which is very populous, by reason of their trade, and stout and hardy by continual practice against the enemy." A quaintly confused statement this, but sufficiently explicit as to the uncertain conditions under which the artificers of Bywell lived. The place now sleeps quietly under its woods, lulled by the waters of the Tyne as they fall over Bywell Weir, and seems to dream of its past. "The antique age of bow and spear" has left for memorial a ruinous square tower, all mantled over with ivy, and hidden, with the exception of its battlements, in the surrounding trees. This ruin is a portion of a projected castle of the Nevilles, Earls of Westmorland; but the building was never completed, or, indeed, carried far, for the last Earl of Westmorland of the Neville family took part in that "rising of the North" of which Wordsworth's "White Doe of Rylstone" tells the sorrowful tale. Any traveller by Tyneside whom night should overtake would be amazed to see fires gleaming out of the hillside about two miles below Bywell. They are unaccounted for by the presence of any town. The river, indeed, is about to plunge through clustering woods, and there is an aspect of solemn quiet all around. Here, nevertheless, in a small and unpretentious way, the industrial career of the river Tyne begins. The fires between the river and the hill are those of coke ovens, and they burn where, in his sturdy boyhood, Thomas Bewick, the great wood-engraver, used to play. Cherryburn House, his birthplace, is close by, and on the other side of the river--that is to say, on its north bank--stands the ancient village of Ovingham, where a tablet against the wall of the church tower announces his grave. The brother of Dora Greenwell was incumbent of the parish for a while, by which means it came about that the poetess spent much of her youth at Ovingham. On the south side of the river, directly facing Ovingham, on a hill which is like a huge mound, stand some fragments of Prudhoe Castle. A ruin it has been for three centuries at least, and it is a very picturesque and interesting ruin still. [Illustration: NEWBURN.] After a shady passage between high-banked woods, the river emerges to the broad light of day once more in front of the village of Wylam, which is one of the oldest, one of the most dismal and miserable, and one of the most famous, of the colliery villages of Northumberland. Here is George Stephenson's birthplace, a little two-storeyed cottage, standing solitary by the side of a railway. The Roman wall ran along the high ridge of ground beyond Wylam. Some interesting portions of it still remain at Denton Burn, which is over above Newburn, from two to three miles further down the Tyne. At Denton Hall lived Mrs. Montague, first of blue-stockings. Here Johnson was a visitor, and Reynolds and Garrick were occasional guests. There is a "Johnson's chamber" and a "Johnson's walk" to this day. The village of Newburn lies about half-way up the heights, on the north side of the Tyne. Here was the last spot at which the river could be forded, for though Newburn is seventeen miles from the sea, as the river flows, it is reached twice a day by the tide. Across this ford the Scots troops under Lesley poured in 1640, to overcome the king's troops on Ryton Willows. The spot is still marked on the maps as a battlefield, and the event is spoken of as "the battle of Newburn." A little below this place the Tyne is joined by a muddy little brook, known as Hedwin Streams. Here, as it is contended, the jurisdiction of Newcastle begins. From time immemorial--legally defined, I believe, as a period which came to an end with King Richard's return from Palestine--the mayor and citizens of Newcastle have claimed a property in the bed of the river Tyne from Spar Hawk, within the Tyne Piers, to Hedwin Streams here at Newburn, and the claim is still asserted once in five years; when, on what is known as "barge day," the Newcastle Corporation proceeds up and down the river in a series of gaily decorated steamboats, on board which high revel is held. And near Newburn, indeed, Newcastle may be said really to begin. It is five miles to where the city is blackening the atmosphere and dimming the sky with its smoke, but here are clearly discernible the fringes of its dusky robe. To our right, as we pass downward, lies the village of Blaydon. Prosaic Scotswood is on the left, and beyond it are the vast, mile-long works of Armstrong, Leslie, and Co. Where these works are was once one of the pleasantest of valleys. Now the furnaces vomit forth their flames, and the air is filled with smoke and the mighty clang of labour. [Illustration: OVINGHAM.] [Illustration: THE HIGH-LEVEL BRIDGE AND GATESHEAD.] THE TYNE. CHAPTER IV. FROM NEWCASTLE TO THE SEA. The Growth of Tyneside--"The Coaly Tyne"--Newcastle Bridges--Local Industries--Poetical Eulogies--Tyneside Landscapes--Sandgate and the Keelmen--Wallsend--Jarrow and the Venerable Bede--The Docks--Shields Harbour--North and South Shields--The Tyne Commission--Tynemouth Priory--The Open Sea. From Newcastle to the sea, twelve miles by water, the Tyne is a vast tidal dock. It stands second among the rivers of the kingdom for the extent of its commerce. The Thames takes precedence in the number of vessels which enter and leave, and the Mersey stands before it in respect of the total tonnage of the ships by which it is frequented; but the Tyne ranks second to the Thames in the number of vessels which enter the port, and second to the Mersey in the bulk of its trade. But more remarkable even than the commerce of the river are its great industries. From Gateshead to the sea on the one hand, and from Newcastle to the sea on the other, there is a constant succession of shipyards, chemical factories, engineering establishments, glass-works, docks, and coal-shoots. Newcastle, it has been remarked, owes its rise to war, its maintenance to piety, and its increase to trade. A very neat and true saying. But trade has done more for the Tyne than for Newcastle. It has, since the beginning of the century, increased the population of the chief Northumbrian town from 30,000 to 160,000; but it has increased the population of Tyneside to half a million or more. Milton did the river a huge injustice when he called this the "coaly Tyne." His intention was innocent enough, no doubt, since he meant only to acknowledge its celebrity in connection with coal. But it is the fate of these indecisively descriptive phrases to be misunderstood. The Tyne is a brighter and clearer stream than the Mersey, is immeasurably purer than the Thames, is only occasionally muddied like the Humber, and is at no time discoloured by coal. When there are floods in the upper reaches, so much brown soil is carried down by the impetuous water that the current of the river can be traced far out to sea; but at ordinary seasons the local colour of the Tyne approaches that of the sea itself, and is, in fact, a deep, clear olive-green. What is insufficiently understood, however, is that the local colour of a stream is that which is most seldom disclosed. Water takes its hue from the sky above it, and from the light which plays about its face. Hence Spenser's beautiful and much assailed phrase, "the silver-streaming Thames." Hence, also, the Tyneside poet's eulogy of his native stream:-- "Of all the rivers, north or south, There's none like coaly Tyne." The Romans threw three bridges across the river. There was one which crossed with the wall at Chollerford; and there was one which crossed with the Watling Street at Corbridge; and there was a third, earlier and far more important than the other two, which linked together what were afterwards to be named the counties of Durham and Northumberland. The bridge at Newcastle, built by Hadrian on his first visit to these northern parts of Roman Britain, was deemed of so much importance that at Rome a medal was struck to commemorate its erection. Also it gave its name to the Roman station which stood on the heights above. Newcastle first became known to history as Pons Ælii, in honour alike of Hadrian's bridge and of Hadrian's family. And ever since that day the town has been famous for its bridges. There was one which resembled London Bridge in having shops almost from end to end. It endured, says an eloquent local historian, "from the times of the Plantagenets, and through the Wars of the Roses, past Bosworth and Flodden Fields and the Armada, down to the encounter of the King and Parliament, to the Commonwealth, the Restoration, and the Revolution; and beyond the rebellions of 1715 and 1745 it kept its accustomed place across the stream, surviving the daily pressure of the tide, the rage of inundations, the bumping of barges and keels, the shocks of civil war, the negligent inattentions of peace." But at length large portions of it were swept away by the great flood of 1771, one of its houses being carried whole as far as Jarrow Slake, some miles farther down the Tyne. On the bridge of Hadrian two lofty hills looked down. The Tyne has here at some remote period scourged its way through a deep ravine, and Newcastle, and its opposite neighbour, Gateshead, are built partly around the feet of commanding eminences, and still more extensively on the summits of these hills. Old Newcastle was a town of stairs. Communication between its upper and its lower portions was, with the exception of one narrow and steep street leading from the bridge, maintained by means of long flights of stone steps, which still exist, and are up to this day extensively used. All the succeeding bridges were built on the site of that of Hadrian. "The Low Bridge" was the name given to the last of these from the time when the High Level was built. It is the Swing Bridge which now crosses the Tyne at the point selected so many centuries ago, this swing bridge being a gigantic iron structure, with a great central span that is moved by hydraulic power, and leaves two openings of such extent that the _Victoria_, the largest vessel in Her Majesty's Navy, has been able to pass through without grazing either of the piers. But notable as is the Swing Bridge as a work of engineering, it is inferior even in this respect to the High Level Bridge, and very far inferior in grace and beauty. The High Level does for the higher portions of Newcastle and Gateshead what all the bridges from Hadrian's time have done for the lower portions. It is a foot and carriage way between the neighbouring towns; but it is also more than this, for at a height of twenty-seven feet above the roadway, under which a full-rigged ship can sail, there is a railway viaduct along which passes the main line to Scotland. One of the most wonderful of the world's bridges, the High Level is also one of the most handsome and well proportioned, so that it has probably been painted more frequently than any bridges but those of Cumberland and Wales. It is an appropriate thing that in the Swing Bridge and the High Level Bridge, which are likely enough to last for centuries to come, Newcastle should have memorials of its two greatest engineers, the High Level having been built by Robert Stephenson, and the Swing Bridge by Lord Armstrong. Gateshead has been disparagingly described as "a dirty lane leading to Newcastle;" but this was in the days that are no more. It is now a great congeries of lanes, streets, roads, and alleys, dirty and otherwise. But for a large town thus intervening, we might see how rapidly the land slopes upward from the riverside to the two-miles-distant crown of Sheriff Hill, which is on the road southward to Durham, to York, and through the fair English shires to London. It was on the summit of Sheriff's Hill that the Sheriffs of Newcastle--a place which boasted of such officers because it was a county as well as a town--received the King's Judges when coming on Circuit. Thus far they advanced to meet them into the county of Durham. There was a splendid procession through Gateshead, over the Low Bridge, up the steep "Side," into Newcastle, and to the Assize Courts. Gorgeous trumpeters made proclamation; the gilded and hammerclothed carriages of the Mayor and Sheriffs were guarded by halberdiers; a tall official walked in front, with a great fur cap of maintenance and a most amazing sword. When the judges, sated with hospitality, and with the gaol-delivery completed, set off on horseback towards Carlisle, they were presented with money to buy each of them a dagger, to guard themselves against robbers and evil men. [Illustration: COAL TRIMMERS.] [Illustration: A COAL STAITHE.] Gateshead was the site of a Saxon monastery that was certainly in existence in 653. It does not seem to have done much in the way of civilising the people, for when Walcher of Lorraine was made Bishop of Durham by the Conqueror, the Gateshead folk murdered him on the threshold of their church. This was not the present church of St. Mary, which is the most prominent object in Gateshead when the spectator stands on Newcastle Quay, but it probably occupied the same site. Gateshead was a domain of the Bishops Palatine of Durham, except for a short period during which it was annexed to Newcastle, and they built a palace there, no portion of which building now remains. [Illustration: NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.] Between the two great Tyneside towns the river is narrower than at almost any point of its course from Hexham to the sea. Formerly it washed on either side over a shelving beach, and was but a shallow, inconsequential stream. There is a drawing of Carmichael's, made about the end of the first quarter of the century, in which some boats are unloading in the centre of the Tyne. Carts are drawn up beside them, and the horses in the shafts are not standing in water to the depth of their knees. The shores have been partly built upon and partly dredged away since those days, and there is now a depth of twenty-five feet at low water at Newcastle Quay. The High Level Bridge strides across the river to a point which must have been just outside the walls that Rufus built around his castle. The great well-preserved Norman keep is only a few yards away. On the same eminence, and a little nearer to the river, stands the Moot Hall, or Assize Courts, which--all the rest of Newcastle being a county in itself--is still a part of the county of Northumberland. Here it must have been that the station of Pons Ælii was built, in a position admirable alike for watch and for defence. Much the greater portion of old Newcastle clustered around this elevated spot for many centuries. At a distance of not much more than a hundred yards is the ancient church of St. Nicholas, with its famous lanterned steeple, of which a local poet has sung that "If on St. Nicholas ye once cast an e'e, Ye'll crack on't as lang as ye're leevin'." The Quayside at Newcastle has a long line of handsome stone buildings, intersected here and there by narrow "chares" that lead into the old district of Pandon, where the Saxon Kings of Northumberland are said to have had a palace in the olden time. The quay on the Newcastle side of the river is broad and spacious, but there is no quay space to speak of at Gateshead, where dreary and half-ruinous buildings cluster to the edge of the quay wall. Many of the ancient branches of local trade have died, or are dying, out. From the Tyne much wool was formerly shipped for the Netherlands; to Tyneside came the glass-blowers who were driven out of Lorraine by the persecutions, and here they settled once for all, soon exporting more glass from the Tyne than was made in the whole of France. The first window-glass was manufactured at Newcastle, and used in the windows of the church at Jarrow. There is a Tyneside glass industry still, but it no longer maintains its former eminence amongst local trades. Coal export, iron shipbuilding, chemical manufacture, engineering--these are the employments by which all others have been dwarfed on the banks of the Tyne. In the whole of England, so far as my experience goes, there is only one town that is grimier, murkier, or more appalling in appearance than the towns on the lower Tyne as they are seen from the railways which run along either bank of the river. Bilston in Staffordshire is of more fearful aspect than either Hebburn, or Walker, or Felling, or Jarrow. On Tyneside, too, one may look away to the bright open country, to where there are low sunlighted hills on the horizon; but at Bilston an eye which searches over a landscape of blackened and withered grass only beholds more forges. In these northern latitudes, again, the skies are very cloudy and wonderful; and in the Black Country one never becomes aware that Nature can work miracles with her clouds and skies. From the river itself the blackness, the squalor, the apparent dilapidation, of these Tyneside towns are not so conspicuous. The Tyne is like a bending shaft of sunlight, making darkness not only visible but sublime. There is a quaint variety and picturesqueness about the wharves and "staithes" and factories which line its banks. The chemical works are like belated castles, about which hives of Cyclopean industry have grown up, for they thrust tall wooden towers into the air, round which there goes a platform that seems to be intended for sentries on the watch. From Newcastle Quay downwards, ships of all sizes and varieties are anchored at either side of the stream. Some are loading, some are discharging their cargoes, some are waiting to load. There are others which glitter in all the glory of new paint, having but lately been released from the stocks on which they were built. Shipyards, where new vessels are being constructed, may be found here and there between the chemical factories and the engineering works; and just now there is in every berth of every yard a new vessel in some stage of its construction. Out of these heterogeneous materials the sun sometimes builds up magnificent effects on the Tyne. Doubtless, on dull days, as Mr. William Senior has mournfully observed, "the smoke hangs like a funeral pall over the grimy docks and dingy river-banks, and the pervading gloom penetrates one's inner being;" but there are seasons when this grimy stream becomes a painter's river, indescribably striking and grand. [Illustration: QUAY AT NEWCASTLE.] Below Newcastle Quay, at Sandgate and its neighbourhood, was the sailors' and the keelmen's quarter. Tyne sailors were the best that our country produced; and so it happened that the visits of the press-gang were frequent at the Sandgate shore. Many a fight there was before the captured men were carried off. All the folks of the neighbourhood, save such as had gone into hiding, would assemble for battle. The dialect of the place and the manner of these fights may both be surmised from these lines of the local muse:-- "Like harrin', man, they cam' i' showls, Wi' buzzum shanks an' aud bed-powls-- Styens flew like shot throo Sandgeyt. Then tongs went up, bed-powls got smashed, An' heeds wes cracked, an' windors crashed. Then brave keel laddies took thor turn, Wi' smiths an' potters frae the Burn; They cut the Whiteboys doon like corn, An' lyed them law i' Sandgeyt." The Roman Segendunum, which covered about three acres and a half of land, stood near to the river where it comes once more into a straight course after having taken a great bend southward shortly after leaving Newcastle. The wall thus enclosed a great bight of land between Pons Ælii and its eastern extremity, probably made useful in the landing of troops. From Segendunum it would be possible to signal to the important Roman stations at the mouth of the Tyne. But of Roman rule there is now nothing to remind us except after long search. The fame of Wallsend has been carried over the world by its coal, though, curiously enough, no coal is ever brought to bank at this place now. Rather more than half-way from Newcastle to the sea, and over the river from Wallsend, the flames of the Jarrow furnaces leap into the air. At two widely separated periods of our history, Jarrow--the Saxon Gyrwy--has reached a distinction and importance altogether out of proportion to its size and the advantages of its situation. Here, as Mr. Green has beautifully observed, "the quiet grandeur of a life consecrated to knowledge, the tranquil pleasure that lies in learning and teaching and writing, dawned for Englishmen in the story of Bede." And of late years Jarrow has become the seat of an immense industry, whose results are to be met with in all parts of the world and on every sea. The first screw collier, the _John Bowes_, was built at Jarrow. It revolutionised the coal trade, and has made an almost inconceivable change in the commerce of the Tyne. Esteemed a large vessel in its day, it may occasionally be seen in Shields Harbour--for it still carries coals to London--dwarfed into insignificance by the passing to and fro of its gigantic successors. It is probable that the smallest steamer now built in the Jarrow shipyards is larger than the _John Bowes_. The place which gave the little steamer birth has grown into a considerable town, with a mayor and corporation, and some expectation of a member of Parliament by-and-bye. In all England, so far as I know, there is no sight which gives so powerful and weird an idea of a great industry as do the Jarrow furnaces when the flames are leaping from their lofty mouths on a murky night. The fire plays and burns and glows on voluminous clouds of smoke and steam; the Tyne is illumined by blazing pillars and rippling sheets of flame; everything shorewards is gigantic and undefined and awful, "'twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires." [Illustration: SHIELDS HARBOUR: THE HIGH LIGHTS.] How different was the quiet Gyrwy on which Bede first opened his eyes! Beyond the furnaces and the shipyards the river broadens out suddenly over a space which is like a great bay. At low water this is nothing more than a huge acreage of mud, with quicksands beneath. To the right, Jarrow Church and Monastery stand on a lonely eminence; to the left, the little river Don flows sluggishly into the Tyne. After the landing of Hengist, says Gibbon, "an ample space of wood and morass was resigned to the vague dominion of Nature, and the modern bishopric of Durham, the whole territory from the Tyne to the Tees, had returned to its primitive state of a savage and solitary forest." All round Jarrow there was morass only--so much we should know from its ancient name, which means "marsh" or "fen," if there did not now remain something of the ancient appearance of things. The one piece of irredeemable land is this Jarrow "Slake." The river Don must have scoured out a wider estuary in Bede's day and before, for twice at least it was used as a haven--once by the Romans, who anchored their vessels at its mouth, and once by King Egfrid, who found shelter in it for the whole of his fleet. Of Bede's monastery--he was born at Monkton, close by--only a few broken walls remain, but they are attached to a large and interesting church, which has a good example of a restored Saxon tower. Ruin swept over the monastery again and again in its early days. In less than a century after Bede's death, the Danes were spreading themselves over England; the Cross went down before the hammer of Thor; and one mournful illustration of the reasserted supremacy of heathenism was to be found in the ruined monastery of St. Paul at Jarrow. When the monks of Lindisfarne, bearing with them the body of their saint, turned round to look upon Jarrow on their way to Chester-le-Street, they saw quick tongues of flame shooting upwards, and the wild, active figures of marauding Danes visible in the midnight glare. That same year a great battle was fought near the monastery, and the Vikings were overcome; whereat the monks crept back to their former quarters, rebuilt dormitories there, and enjoyed eighty years of peace; but in 867 a fleet of Baltic pirates sailed up the Tyne, and so plundered and burnt Jarrow Monastery that "it remained desolate and a desert for two centuries, nothing being left but the naked walls." In the whole course of the river there is no finer sweep of water than that which stretches from Jarrow Slake into the harbour of Shields. On the north side we have passed the Northumberland Docks, which have a water-space of fifty-five acres, and are entirely devoted to the lading of coals. On the south side are the Tyne Docks of the North-Eastern Railway Company, which have a water space of fifty acres, and are employed equally for coals and general merchandise. The one is the main outlet of the great Northumberland coalfield, the other of the still more productive coalfield of North Durham. With the Albert Edward Dock, constructed more recently than either of these, and fit for ships of heavier draught, this is the whole dock accommodation of the Tyne; for, as I have had occasion previously to remark, the river itself, from the sea to two miles above Newcastle, is a huge tidal dock, which is available in all weathers, and in all states of the tide, for the largest vessels that float. What this phrase means may be seen to the full in Shields Harbour, where, on either side of the broad stream, vessels lie chained to the buoys in tier beyond tier, leaving a wide passage in mid-river along which great steamers are for ever passing to and fro. The story of how the Tyne has been developed from a shallow and perilous stream into one of the noblest rivers of the kingdom makes a curious history, much too long to relate in this place. All the more extensive changes have been effected since the middle of the present century. The Tyne had a foreign as well as a domestic coal trade so early, at least, as the year 1325; but so little had at any time been done for its accommodation that there are many now living who remember how a small vessel might be stranded on sandbanks some five or six times in the course of its passage from Newcastle to Shields. Indeed, the reckless emptying of ballast into the bed of the river, and the utter neglect of means for keeping a navigable passage--things which seem altogether incredible in these days--at length brought matters to such a pass that the small passenger steamers often stuck fast at some portion of their journey, wherefore there was always a fiddler on board, to keep the passengers entertained till the rising of the next tide. It was whilst the Newcastle Corporation still successfully asserted its jurisdiction that such things were, and were growing worse; but as strong young communities grew up along the banks of the Tyne, the oppression and neglect of Newcastle became intolerable, and in 1850 the Tyne Commission was formed, with results that cannot have been foreseen by its founders; for the river has been widened and deepened over an extent of fifteen miles or more. Docks have been made, the Tyne has been straightened where "points" projected dangerously, enormous stone breakwaters have been built out into the sea, and where, in 1851, there were thirty vessels ashore in one confused heap, the British Navy might now safely ride at anchor, even in the teeth of a north-east gale. The transformation of the Tyne from its former dangerous condition into such a harbour of refuge as does not exist elsewhere on our coasts is one of the noblest pieces of engineering that our century has seen, and there is no other great engineering work the fame of which has been so little noised abroad. [Illustration: THE RIVER AT TYNEMOUTH CASTLE.] About Shields Harbour the seagulls pursue each other in play. They come all the way from the Farne Islands, and when the sun has gone down, and the western sky is still full of crimson and orange light, they may be seen circling ever higher, and gathering in bands, and finally setting off in a straight line northwards, calling to each other meanwhile with their shrill, baby-like cries. There is a space of a quarter of a mile or so between the twin but rival towns of North and South Shields. They divide, somewhat unevenly, a population of something over a hundred thousand persons between them. South Shields is of more rapid and most recent growth, but both the towns originated in the erection of a few fishermen's sheds, or shielings, which existed so long ago at least as the reign of Edward I. There were then, and for very long afterwards, two mouths to the Tyne, one of which ran parallel with the present main street of South Shields, and made an island of the Roman station which was founded here. The whole aspect of the land round about has been changed by the deposit of ballast from ships. At many points of the Tyne there are artificial hills and embankments. Some of these are made by the refuse of chemical works; a more numerous and more lofty class are composed entirely of sand and shingle which was brought over-sea as ships' ballast. One of the earlier employments of George Stephenson was the minding of an engine that was employed in building up these huge ballast-heaps, which give a very singular appearance to some of the towns on the banks of the Tyne. South Shields was a spot greatly favoured for the discharging of this refuse, and it therefore happens that what was low and, for the most part, level ground, is now absurdly uneven, some of the streets being built upon the ballast, whilst others are far overtopped by mountains of sand and shingle that it would cost large sums of money to remove. At North Shields there are terrifying flights of innumerable stairs. The lower quarters, both of North and South Shields--those, that is to say, which are nearest to the river--are incomparable as examples of old maritime towns. Something there is at Greenwich of the same character, and something more at Wapping; but nowhere is there such a salt-sea savour about the whole aspect of things. [Illustration: JARROW CHURCH: THE SAXON TOWER.] The sailors, it should be observed, seem to have exercised their own discretion in the naming of streets. There is "Wapping," and "Holborn," and "Thames Street," and what not. These places are narrow thoroughfares running parallel with the river, and are accessible therefrom by means of wooden stairs and cramped passages between high blocks of buildings. The houses facing the Tyne, more particularly on the north side, seem less to have been built than to have been cobbled together. They are made indifferently of brick and wood and stone; they have platforms standing on wooden piles; they are kept out of the river by stout timbers that the tide washes, and that are green with salt-water moss or white with clustering limpets. There is all manner of variety among them, and nothing could be more quaint, ramshackle, or interesting as a reminiscence of an older world. It is the sailors' quarter now, as formerly, this odd assemblage of narrow streets and strange houses. Now, as in freer days, "Up to the wooden bridge and back, To the Low Light shore down in a crack, Rambling, swaggering, away goes Jack, When there's liberty for the sailors." "The Low Lights" is that portion of North Shields which is nearest to the sea. A square white lighthouse stands on a wooden fish-quay, which projects far into the river; another similar lighthouse--"The High Lights"--occupies the top of a neighbouring hill. A ship making the river must have both of these lights in line, as if they were occupying different heights of the same tower. Lighthouses swarm about the mouth of the Tyne. There is a flash-light at the end of "The Groin," a reef which runs into the river from the South Shields side, thus assisting to make a beautiful sheltering bay between this point and the South Pier. There is a gleaming red light on the promontory at Tynemouth, and a vivid electric light flashes over the sea from Souter Point, two or three miles south of the Tyne. At the Quay by the Low Lights, in the herring season, there is a perfect forest of bare poles, and a great acreage of decks, on which brown fishermen are at work hoisting their catch, or mending their nets, or scouring their boats, as the case may be. The lettering of these craft indicates that they come from Kirkcaldy, from the Berwickshire coast, from Yarmouth, from Lowestoft, and from the Isle of Man. There are from two to three hundred of them in the season, and the river has no finer sight than the departure of these herring boats to sea when the wind is fresh enough to fill their sails. Should the evening be calm, they are towed outward in groups of five or six by a steam tug; and a pleasant voyage it is to the herring grounds; whence, when the sun has not long risen, the boats may be seen racing back again to get the best of the market at the Low Lights Quay. There are steam trawlers also at this busy mart in the early morning. It is all fish that comes to their nets, and some of it very queer fish too. A singularly odd mixture of scaly creatures may be seen lying about in heaps on the Quay--ling, skate, plaice, soles, cuttlefish, cat and dog fish, and cod, the biggest of which find their way to the London market; turbot, suggestive of aldermanic banquets; and a host of small fry too numerous to mention. The burly fishermen stride about in their oilskin coats, plentifully besprinkled with silvery scales, and glittering in the morning sunlight. The fishwives keep up a constant clatter of talk, in voices made shrill by their daily cry of "Fe-esh, caller fe-esh!" The auctioneers are very clamorous over their business, and for three hours all is hurry and shouting, and competition and confused haggling as to prices and sales. [Illustration: TYNEMOUTH, FROM THE SEA.] On the north side of the Tyne the rocky promontory of Tynemouth shoots out into the sea. It is the termination of a high chain of banks extending from North Shields to the coast. On these stands the brigade house of the first of the volunteer life brigades; by which one is reminded that if South Shields invented the lifeboat, North Shields has a kindred claim to distinction in the origination of those brave bands of volunteers that watch our coasts in seasons of storm. Between the brigade house and Tynemouth Light, overlooking the entrance to the harbour, stands a colossal statue of Lord Collingwood, a Tyne seaman, mounted on a massive stone pedestal, and guarded by four of the guns of Collingwood's ship, the _Royal Sovereign_. A little further seaward, "their very ruins ruined," surrounded by British, by Roman, and by English graves, are the beautiful remains of Tynemouth Priory, which was built so sturdily, despite a certain apparently fragile character of style, that these ancient walls seem likely to bid defiance to storms for almost as many centuries to come as have already passed them by. A small chapel, built of wood, and dedicated to St. Mary, was the primitive and humble beginning from which sprung the great and powerful monastery of Tynemouth. One of the Kings of Northumberland (Edwin) erected this early in the seventh century, at the instigation of his daughter, who took the veil here. Tynemouth soon gained a reputation for sanctity, and grew so much in public favour that the chapel had to be rebuilt of stone ere long. Many were its vicissitudes during the subsequent warlike years. The priory at the mouth of the Tyne suffered even more frequently from fire and foray than the monastery at Jarrow. But the monks, as attached and devoted in the one case as in the other, returned after each fresh assault; until, in the reign of Henry III., they reared a monastic pile fit to be compared with Whitby for beauty and fame. After the dissolution, unfortunately, it became the prey of whosoever chose to make use of it for building materials; and it was not till the present century that the folk at the mouth of the Tyne began to understand that they are responsible for its preservation. In its rich and prosperous days the walls enclosed the whole of the promontory on which the Priory ruins stand; but now there remain only a small lady-chapel, a few scattered walls, a portion of a groined roof, a fine Norman gateway, and a magnificent remnant of the church. In the grounds where the monks formerly took their exercise red-coated soldiers may now be seen at drill. Pyramids of cannon-balls are piled amid the ruins; there is a large powder-magazine beside what may have been the entrance to the church. It is now fortified and garrisoned, in fact, this promontory where the godly men of old looked away over the wild North Sea. The Tynemouth cliffs have thus, it may be presumed, been brought back to their earliest uses, for the Romans had a station here, and before the Romans came the Britons must have had a camp on the spot, since recent excavations have revealed the existence of British graves. Shooting outward from the Tynemouth shore, the mighty rampart of the North Pier makes division between the river and the sea. Such another pier comes outward from South Shields; and between them these two great works of engineering make a comparatively narrow channel for ships where there was formerly a wide and most dangerous estuary. Terrible indeed are the storms which sometimes rage over them and assail them with the battery of their waves. In a north-east gale the white water leaps above the summit of the Tynemouth cliffs. Outside the piers and beyond the bar the waves seem to be miles long, and when they narrow themselves to enter the river they rise to a height so appalling that the topmasts of a sailing-ship running for shelter may, with every dip the vessel makes, be lost to the view of those on shore. "The next instant," says Mr. Clark Russell, of a ship which he had been watching from Tynemouth when a storm was raging, "she had disappeared, and before another minute had passed I was straining my eyes against the whirling snow and looking into a blackness as empty as fog, amid which the pouring of the hurricane against the cliffs, and the pounding of the ponderous surges a long distance down, sounded with fearful distinctness. For three-quarters of an hour I lingered, peering to right and left of the beach at my feet, as far as the smother of flying flakes would let me look. But I saw no more of the brig." Such incidents were mournfully common before the piers were carried out to their present length. The Tyne was notorious for the number of its wrecks. No more than nine or ten years ago, indeed, I saw fourteen ships ashore in or near the mouth of the river, the spoils of a single night of storm. But this was the last occasion of so much calamity. For some years past now the Tyne has, most happily, almost been free from all disaster but collision. As we round the Tynemouth cliffs the fishing village of Cullercoats comes into sight, rather over a mile away, with the dim, far-projecting Newbiggin Point a few miles beyond. On bright days a flash of light may reveal the white lighthouse at Coquet Island, by Warkworth town. Round the rocky promontory close at hand there is a little bay, a projecting point of rock, and then a long stretch of yellow sand, broken almost at its centre by a brown, weedy reef of rocks, among which the pools linger when the tide goes down. This is "Tynemouth Sands." Here the pleasure-seekers come in crowds the summer through, rejoicing in the fine weather, and yet desiring a storm, a sight which, once beheld, would leave its memory within them their whole lives through. "Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea," runs the touching sailors' hymn, and to those who live about the mouth of a river like the Tyne it has a deep meaning and thrilling pathos, such as those who have never heard it sung when the tempest was blowing outside cannot fathom or understand. For storms only those who live inland have any longing, for though these have heard of the wildness, they do not know the terror of the sea. AARON WATSON. [Illustration: TYNEMOUTH, FROM CULLERCOATS.] [Illustration: IN WEARDALE.] THE WEAR. William of Malmesbury on the Wear--Its Associations--Upper Weardale and its Inhabitants--Stanhope--Hunting the Scots--Wolsingham--Bollihope Fell and the "Lang Man's Grave"--Hamsterley--Witton-le-Wear--Bishop Auckland--Binchester--Brancepeth Castle--The View from Merrington Church Tower--Wardenlaw--Durham--St. Cuthbert--His Movements during Life and Afterwards--The Growth of his Patrimony--Bishop Carilepho and his Successors--The Battle of Neville's Cross--The Bishopric in Later Times--The Cathedral, Without and Within--The Conventual Buildings--The Castle--Bear Park--Ushaw--Finchale--Chester-le-Street--Lumley and Lambton Castles--Biddick--Hylton--Sunderland and the Wearmouths--The North Sea. "Britain," says William of Malmesbury, "contains in its remotest parts a place on the borders of Scotland where Bede was born and educated. The whole country was formerly studded with monasteries, and with beautiful cities, founded therein by the Romans; but now, owing to the devastations of the Danes and Normans, it has nothing to allure the senses. Through it runs the Wear, a river of no mean width and tolerable rapidity. It flows into the sea, and receives ships, which are driven thither by the wind, into its tranquil bosom." With the mending of a few phrases, almost the whole of this description by the twelfth-century chronicler could be transferred to the Wear, and to the Durham and Sunderland, of our own day. The Scots have earned the right to be classed with the Danes and Normans as the pillagers of the fanes and castles of this centre of the ecclesiastical and political power of ancient Northumbria. Their modern successors, as destroyers of objects that "allure the senses," are the mine-owner and the mill-owner, the railway and the blast-furnace, the chemical works and the dockyard. The march of modern industry has taken the place of the foray of the Borderers in the valley of the Wear, as on the neighbour streams of the Tyne and Tees; and, like the fires of Tophet, the smoke of its burning goes up day and night. Yet there are compensations. The Wear does not quarrel with the good fortune that has clouded its once pure air, muddied its whilom clear stream, and disturbed its "tranquil bosom" with keels that no longer depend upon the wind for their coming and going. The wealth that has come to it with peace and the development of its mineral resources and shipping trade is not despised, although it be soiled with honest coal-dust. Besides, those who are acquainted with the Wear know that it has higher boasts than its importance as a channel of navigation and outlet of trade. Even in its busiest parts--from Sunderland and Monkwearmouth to Chester-le-Street and Lambton--venerable associations with feudal and monkish times struggle for notice with the evidences of modern prosperity and enterprise. At Durham decisive victory is won by the memories of the past over the grimy allurements of the present. From the Cathedral City we carry away impressions of the picturesque grouping of its old houses and bridges, of the ruins of its strong Norman keep built by the Conqueror to repress the turbulent townsmen, and of the magnificent fane which covers the bones of St. Cuthbert and of the Venerable Bede, rather than feelings of respect for its manufacturing industry, or even for its distinction as the seat of a Northern University. We remember the former glories of the County Palatine, the semi-regal power and pomp of its Prince-Bishops, the odour of miracle that drew throngs of pilgrims to its saintly shrine, and the treasures that had an equally potent attraction for grasping kings and barons and for marauding Borderers, in preference to statistical and other testimony of the growth of its trade and population. All up the valley of the Wear, to Bishop Auckland and Witton, and to Wolsingham and Stanhope, commerce has pushed its way, and the very sources of the stream have been probed by the lead-mining prospector. But beauty is there also, and in possession--the beauty of stately woods, embowering princely piles, like Brancepeth Castle, the very stones of which are part of the national history; of clear reaches of the river, sweeping under fragments of religious houses, such as Finchale Priory, gently draped by time with moss, lichen, and ivy; of old bridges and mills and quaint bright villages and wide stretches of fertile land. Beyond all these comes a wilder and barer district, where the hills draw closer to the river, and cultivation and population become more rare, and where at length, over the massive and rounded outlines of the fells, as we rise towards the great "dorsal ridge" of England, we catch glimpses of the Cumberland Mountains and of the Cheviots. To trace the Wear upwards or downwards is like ascending or descending the stream of English history; from the busy present we move back into the feudal age, and at length into the quietude of primitive Nature. Primitive Nature holds her ground staunchly on Kilhope Law and the "Deadstones," and over other great bare tracks of rolling upland, near the meeting-point of the shires of Cumberland, Northumberland, and Durham, whence the Welhope, the Burnhope, the Rookhope, and a host of lesser moorland streamlets, bring down their waters to feed the infant Wear. In spite of the mining prospector and the railway projector, many of these fells and dales are more lonely to-day than they were three, or even ten centuries ago. Of the great tangle of lines that cover like a cobweb the lower valleys of the Tyne and Wear, only one or two outer filaments find their way into the neighbourhood of Upper Weardale, and all of them fail by many miles to reach the solitudes of Kilhope Moor. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE WEAR.] The smoke of one of the great "workshops of England" may hang darkly upon the eastern horizon, but it is still too distant to pollute the pure air of the hills. Roads, indeed, cross these wildernesses of "ling" and peat-moss--west and east from Alston and Nenthead into Weardale; north and south, from the valleys of the Allen and Derwent to the Tees--through tracts that, in the early part of the century, were traversed only by bridle and footpaths; but these serve in a measure to concentrate any passing traffic, and to leave the open moors more lonely than before. The travelling chapman with his pack, the drover, and the gipsy, promise to become as extinct, as wanderers of the fells, as is the moss-trooper from the Debateable Land, or the pilgrim on the way to St. Cuthbert's shrine. Their occupants are the wild creatures of the hills and the flocks of black-faced sheep; with a sprinkling of shepherds, who preserve in their dialect and customs many relics of what Durham and the Wear were before the Coal Age. There are mining communities scattered up the valleys and along the hill-slopes; and at Burtreeford, a little above the bridge at Wearhead--the old rendezvous for the wrestling and other sports of Weardale Forest--is what is reported to be the richest vein of lead-ore in England. The lead-miners, like the other dalesmen, are in some ways a race apart, rough and unsophisticated, like the features of the district they occupy, but hearty, sincere, and full of sturdy independence of thought, and free from many of the vices which mark their class elsewhere. It is true now, as it was at the time of the "Raid of Rookhope," when the Tynedale reivers were seen pricking over the moss by Dryrig and Rookhope-head to harry the lands of the Bishopric, that "The Weardale men they have good hearts, And they are stiff as any tree." [Illustration: STANHOPE BRIDGE.] [Illustration: ROGERLEY.] The Middlehope and the Rookhope flow into the Wear from the north, below St. John's Chapel in Weardale, through some of the wildest country in the Forest; and still farther down, upon the same hand, Stanhope burn meets the parent stream at Stanhope. This ground was the favourite hunting-field of the old Bishops of Durham, and in Stanhope Park they had their lodge, where, at stated seasons, they came with a great crowd of retainers to chase the buck and roe. These gatherings are not yet wholly forgotten in the legends of the district. It was the duty of the Auckland vassals of the See to erect the necessary buildings for the housing of the Bishop and his joyous company, including a temporary chapel, where, it may be supposed, the rites of the Church had, on a good hunting day, rather perfunctory performance. The turners of Wolsingham provided the three thousand trenchers for the feeding in the open air; and the Stanhope villeins had the task of carrying the provisions and conveying the surplus venison and game to the palaces at Bishop Auckland and Durham. Often there was more serious sport afoot in Weardale Forest--for instance, when Edward III. hunted the nimble host of Scots whom Lord Moray and the Douglas brought across the Border in 1327 to pillage the Palatinate. The invaders were mounted on hardy little horses, and with their bags of oatmeal at their backs, were themselves as well prepared as their steeds to rough it and pick up their living on the moors. After having been frightened from the neighbourhood of Durham by Edward's approach, they led him a fine wild-goose chase over the hilly country between the Tyne and the Wear. At last the English van, under Rokesby, descried the Scots encamped upon a strong height south of the Wear. To the challenge to come down and fight upon the level, the enemy prudently replied that they were on English ground, and "if this displeased the King, he might come and amend it;" they would tarry for him. There were skirmishing and great noise and bonfires kept up all night; but next morning the King, surveying the ground from Stanhope Park, found that the Scots had shifted to another hill. On the twenty-fourth day of the chase, the English passed the river and climbed the mountain, but found only three hundred cauldrons and a thousand spits, with meat all ready for cooking; also ten thousand pairs of old boots and shoes of untanned hide. The invaders had cleverly outwitted their pursuers, and were already leagues off on their homeward way over Yadsmoss and the western extremity of the county, carrying with them hurdles they had made for crossing the marshy ground where the English could not follow. [Illustration: WOLSINGHAM.] [Illustration: HARPERLEY.] Stanhope is a populous little township on the north side of the Wear, well sheltered by the hills on both banks. Its church and market records go back for five hundred years; and its rectory revenues, mainly drawn from tithes on lead-ore, are among the richest in England. There are rocks and grottoes and beautiful walks along the river margin, as well as around Stanhope Castle, which may stand near the spot where once rose the old forest seat of the bishops. Below Rogerley and Frosterley the valley begins to open; the bare heathy hills withdraw to a more respectful distance; and between them and the river there interpose fine stretches of rich woodland and cultivated fields. For the scarped faces of limestone and marble quarries and the crushing-mill of the lead-mine, one begins to see rising here and there the pit-head machinery of the colliery and the smoke of the iron furnace; from a moorland stream the Wear changes to a lowland river. Wolsingham, which now divides its attention between agriculture and mining, was once on a time the place of hermitage of St. Godric of Finchale, and the villagers held their lands for the service of carrying the Bishop's hawks and going his errands while attending the Weardale Chase. South of Wolsingham is the long dark ridge of Bollihope Fell, and the spot, marked by a pillar, known as "the Lang Man's Grave." Here, says tradition, two huge figures were seen one clear summer evening engaged in mortal strife, until at length one of them fell; and on the place next day was found the dead body of a tall stranger, who was buried where he lay. Below Wolsingham the Wear flows by the grounds of Bradley Hall, an old lordship of the Eures of Witton and afterwards of the family of Bowes; and beyond Harperley the Bedburn Beck comes in, after draining the wild moorland tracts of Eggleston and Hamsterley Commons, and winding through some pretty wooded grounds and pastures. The scattered houses of Hamsterley are on the brow of a hill at the junction of the lead-measures with the great northern coalfield, and for generations its "hoppings," or rural festivals and sports, have been famous in this part of Durham. Some of the most charming "bits" on the Wear are around Witton-le-Wear. The stream bends and twines under the shade of the high wooded banks upon which the village is placed, and the sides of its tributary brooks are not less richly and picturesquely clothed. The centre of all this beauty is Witton Castle, at the meeting of the Linburn with the Wear. It was long the seat of the valiant race of the Eures, who held it on military service from the Prince-Bishops. It is now a possession of the Chaytors, who have preserved part of the old castellated keep, and restored the rest of the building in something like the original style. The course of the Wear has now brought us close to Bishop Auckland, and to Bishop Auckland Palace and Park, all that remains to the Bishops of Durham out of the score of manors and castles which they once held. After Durham Castle, however, Bishop Auckland Castle was always their favourite and most princely seat. It is wedged into a nook between the Wear and the Gaunless, and from the high ridge sloping down to the latter stream it commands magnificent prospects of the country around. The town may be said to have grown up under the shadow of the Bishop's residence, but has in latter days discovered other and more dependable means of support, in manufactures and in the mineral wealth of the district. It is no longer, as in Leland's day, "a town of no estimation," either in trade or population. Formerly it had an ill name for insalubrity; but though the steep narrow streets running down to the Wear remain, it has done something to amend its reputation in this respect. Its chief architectural boasts, outside the Castle bounds, are perhaps the great parochial Church of St. Andrews, founded and erected into a collegiate charge by Bishop Bek nearly six centuries ago, and the fine double arch of Newton Bridge, erected by Bishop Skirlaw in 1388, spanning the Wear at one of the most romantic spots in the course of the river. But with the Park and Palace to be seen, the visitor does not linger long outside the Gothic doorway--itself a poor evidence of episcopal taste--that divides the Bishop's demesne from the Market Place. From the Park and its far-reaching lawns and woodland, the great group of buildings which have been added to and altered by a long line of Bishops of Durham is separated by a battlemented stone screen and arches. Bishop Bek began in earnest the work of beautifying and strengthening the Castle, which had to serve the prelates as a fortified place as well as an episcopal residence. His successors have at intervals zealously, if not always wisely, followed in his footsteps as a builder and renovator. The Bishops dispensed princely hospitality at Auckland; and in Rushall's time it was thought only "fair utterance" for the household to consume a fat Durham ox per week, and to drink eight tuns of wine in a couple of months; and it was this same Bishop who built "from the ground the whole of the chamber in which dinner is served." The place suffered badly, however, in the hands of Pilkington, the first Protestant Bishop, who "built nothing, but plucked down in all places;" and still more deplorable were its fortunes in the storm of the Civil War, when, after having entertained Charles I. as king, the Palace received him as a prisoner, and was afterwards committed to the tender mercies of Sir Arthur Hazelrigg, who pulled down part of the castle and chapel to erect a mansion for himself. Bishop Cosin, on the Restoration, repaired this "ravinous sacrilege" to the best of his ability; and the chapel, as we find it, is largely his work, and fitly covers his tomb. Hazelrigg's hands also fell heavily on the fine Park, where he left "never a tree or pollard standing." But this also has been repaired, though one will look in vain now in the leafy coverts by the banks of the Gaunless for the herds of wild cattle that once frequented them. Perhaps the Park is put to better use as the favourite and delightful resort of the townsfolk and visitors of Bishop Auckland. [Illustration: WITTON-LE-WEAR.] Not far below Newton Bridge and Auckland Park is Binchester, marking the place where the Wear was crossed by the great Roman road of Watling Street, in its straight course across the county from Piercebridge on the Tees to Lanchester on the Browney, and Ebchester on the Derwent. Roman remains, in the form of sculptured stones, of votive altars, and of baths, have been discovered at Binchester, which may be the Binovium of Ptolemy; and here a cross-road from the south joined the old military way, coming past the sites of what are now Raby Castle, Staindrop, Streatham, Barnard Castle, and other scenes in Langleydale and Teesdale and on the banks of the Greta, since immortalised by history and legend. An older seat of the great family of the Nevilles than Raby Hall itself--Brancepeth Castle, beyond Willington--is near at hand. It got into their possession when the grandson of the Neville who "came over with the Conqueror" married the heiress of the Saxon family of Bulmer. From the Bulmers the Nevilles are supposed to have derived their badge of the "Dun Bull;" and one of their race may have been the hero of the legend that accounts for the local nomenclature by telling how "Sir Hodge of Ferryhill" watched the track of the savage boar--the "Brawn's path"--from Brandon Hill, and dug a pitfall for him at the spot still marked by a stone at Cleve's Cross, near Merrington. Brancepeth was the rendezvous of the "grave gentry of estate and name" in the North, who came to aid the Northern Earls, Westmorland, and Northumberland, in the unhappy rising in Queen Elizabeth's time that cost so many of them their heads as well as their lands. It now belongs to Viscount Boyne. In spite of its low situation and the too intrusive neighbourhood of the great Brancepeth Collieries, it is a noble and massive feudal pile, and in its general effect has been pronounced "superior to any other battlemented edifice in the North of England." In the Baron's Hall are memorials of the battle of Neville's Cross; but for the most interesting memorials of the noble family that ruled the Borders from Brancepeth or from Raby, and by turns formed alliances with, and plotted against, the king, one must go to the old church of St. Brandon, and look at the effigies in carved oak or stone of the Nevilles. [Illustration: BISHOP AUCKLAND PALACE AND PARK.] On the other or south side of the Wear are Whitworth Hall, the historic seat of the Shaftos, and Spennymoor, made memorable by a terrible colliery disaster; and by Sunderland Bridge, near the inflow of the Browney, you cross to the vicinity of deep and haunted Croxdale. Behind all these rises the high ridge upon which are perched Ferryhill and the lofty tower of the old Church of Merrington. This is a commanding historic site for surveying the County Palatine; and on a clear day the view ranges all up the valley of the Wear to the mountains of Westmorland and Cumberland, and south-east and east to the mouth of the Tees and to the Cleveland Hills in Yorkshire. Near by are many scenes of note in the annals of Durham. It was in Merrington Church that the usurping Comyn made his last stand in his "lewd enterprise" of seizing the Bishopric in 1144; and it was the gathering-place of the English forces that assembled to repel the Scots before Neville's Cross. Eldon, which gave its name to the eminent Lord Chancellor; Thickley, where were reared those stout Cromwellians, General Robert and Colonel John Lilburn; Mainsforth, the home of Surtees, the historian of Durham and friend of Walter Scott; and Bishop Middleham, the residence of the Bishops for two or three centuries after the Conquest, are all within easy reach. To the north and north-east, Brancepeth and Ushaw College, and the town and towers of Durham, are in sight, and between the Wear and the sea rise Penshaw, Wardenlaw, and other heights, and the smoke of collieries innumerable. Wardenlaw receives most countenance from tradition for the claim that it is the spot where St. Cuthbert made selection of the last resting-place for his bones, weary of long wanderings by land and sea. But, on the ground of situation, the honour might be disputed by a score of other sites commanding a view of the rich valley, the winding river, and the "guarded cliff," crowned by the "Cathedral huge and vast," that is at once a monument and a symbol of the grand old Saint of the North. To visit Durham, or even to see its three great square towers rising in stern and severe majesty over the Wear and the masses of houses and foliage clustered beneath, is to feel that the Age of Miracle is not yet past. Or, if the ancient phases of faith and life be indeed dead or dying, there has nowhere in England been left a more solid and impressive memorial of their former strength than the Cathedral of Durham. The Apostle among the Angles, dead these twelve centuries, seems to haunt his ancient fane, and to cast the influence of his austere spirit over the narrow streets and lanes of the venerable town. The spell by which these stately arches and massive towers rose, and which, in other centuries, drew towards Durham great crowds of pilgrims, and wealth and secular and ecclesiastical power unequalled in the North, is not yet wholly broken. To this day the town stands somewhat aside, with an air of proud seclusion, from the rush and din of the great highways of commerce that pass so near. It gives, indeed, a part of its mind and time to the manufacture of mustard and carpets and the raising of coal, but it does not give its whole heart, like its neighbour cities, to trade. It is a centre of academic culture and learning, and has its thoughts not unfrequently cast back into a darker but splendid past. St. Cuthbert's body may follow the way of all flesh, but his will and his character are still living and acting powers in Durham. Whether chance or heavenly inspiration directed the choice of site, the selection of Durham as the stronghold of the religious feeling and of the temporal power of the North was a happy one. For centuries it was the core, not only of the Vale of Wear and of the County Palatine, but of ancient Northumbria. To the credit of the Scots, to whose account Durham and the Wear had afterwards to set down so terrible an array of losses and grudges, it has to be said that this region of the North was originally missionised and converted to Christianity from the further side of the Tweed. When the greater part of Saxon England was in heathen darkness, a spark of light was struck at Holy Island and Lindisfarne, and a little later at Jarrow and Monkwearmouth, and never after was it extinguished. It was carried thither by apostles of the Early Scottish Church, and when Oswald, King and Saint, granted Holy Island, close by his royal residence of Bamborough, to St. Aidan as a site for a monastic house and a centre of missionary effort, the germ was planted of the future See of Durham. Cuthbert also came from the other side of the Border--a Border, however, which did not exist in those days as a barrier of ecclesiastical and political power. He was a native of the pleasant vale of Lauderdale, and came as a member of the brotherhood of Melrose to reinforce the band of holy men whose home was at Lindisfarne, and whose special field of labour was the region between Tees and Tweed. The zeal and the austerities of his companions were not enough to satisfy the ardent soul of Cuthbert; neither was Holy Island a retreat secluded enough for the practice of those penances and prayers by which he sought to mortify the flesh and to propitiate Heaven in favour of his work. His fame for piety was such that he was promoted to be Bishop of Hexham, and afterwards to be head of the Monastery of Lindisfarne; but, laying down these charges, he retired to the surf-beaten refuge of the Farne Islands, and there spent the solitary close of his days. Even in his lifetime, St. Cuthbert's fasts and prayers had, according to the belief of that time, been efficacious in working miracles; and it may be judged whether his brethren were likely to allow the tales of wondrous cures wrought at the touch or word of the holy man to suffer in repetition, or to permit so valuable a power to die with him. On his death-bed, it is said, he exhorted his companions to hold fast by the faith, and, rather than submit to the violation of a jot or tittle of the doctrine and ritual committed to them, to take up his body and flee with it to some spot where the Church might be free, and finally triumphant. [Illustration: WILLINGTON.] [Illustration: BRANCEPETH CASTLE.] The body of the saint thus became not merely a precious property, in which resided thaumaturgical virtues, but a symbol and pledge of monastic and churchly privileges; and it travelled farther and met with more adventures after death than in life. The pagan Norsemen became soon after the curse and the terror of the Northumberland coasts. Their first descent was made exactly eleven centuries ago--in 789--and four years later they returned and ravaged Lindisfarne, as well as Jarrow and other churches; but the monks, on coming back to their ruined home, found the incorruptible body of their saint intact in its shrine. Still later, in King Alfred's time, the Danes hove down upon the shores of England, and the brethren had again to flee for their lives from the marauders. This time, however, because they were not sufficiently persuaded that another miracle would be vouchsafed for the preservation of the precious remains, or for some other good reason, they did not leave the saint to the mercies of the invaders. Church legend has repeated with many marvellous particulars the story-- "How when the rude Danes burned their pile, The monks fled forth from Holy Isle-- O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore"; how, also, among other strange experiences, the corpse in its stone coffin floated "light as gossamer" down Tweed from Melrose to Tillmouth; and how, after an excursion to Ireland and to Craike Abbey, it was brought back once more to familiar ground by Wear and Tyne, but never again to Lindisfarne. [Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF DURHAM.] It was perhaps because the saint or his guardians thought that the risks of disturbance were too great on Holy Island that the relics sought refuge at Chester-le-Street, and there rested for more than a century. And now began the period of power of the bishopric, united to that of Hexham. Alfred the Great had, on regaining the control of his realm, largely endowed the episcopal seat rendered illustrious by the sanctity of Cuthbert and the learning of Bede. The lands between Tyne and Tees became "the patrimony of St. Cuthbert," and to these were added large possessions or authority in adjoining districts. The king decreed that "whatever additions the bishopric might acquire by benefaction or otherwise should be held free of temporal service of any kind to the Crown"--Cuthbert's dying wish put into the form of a royal grant. The bishop thus became, within his own domain, a vice-king, exercising civil as well as spiritual jurisdiction. Lands and vassals were added by a natural process of selecting the service least onerous in this world and offering the greatest rewards in the next; and the nucleus was formed of the County Palatine, which retained, down to the present century, some of the properties of an _imperium in imperio_. In the time of Ethelred the Unready, the spoilers returned, and the monks and the canonised remains were again driven forth, this time as far as Ripon. There came a time when it seemed safe to move back to Chester-le-Street, but the saint does not appear to have relished reinstatement after eviction. The returning company of monks halted on high ground overlooking the fair Vale of Wear and the likely site of Durham, then an insignificant village, and known as "Dunholm." At the top of the hill the precious burden became miraculously heavy, and the bearers had to set it down. Three days of prayer and fasting were required before inspired direction was obtained through a monk, or a dun cow--tradition is contradictory on the point--and the _cortège_ finally halted in a grove of trees on the platform of the high peninsula formed by the bend of the river. Here first rose a "tabernacle of boughs," and then a humble cell--the "White Church"--on the spot, as is supposed, now occupied by the church of St. Mary-le-Bow, in the North Bailey. In a few years' time the bishop, Aldune, set to work to erect, upon the site of the present cathedral, a "roof divine" to worthily cover the bones of holy Cuthbert; and as the monkish rhyme (translated) runs:-- "Arch follows arch; o'er turrets turrets rise, Until the hallowed cross salutes the skies, And the blest city, free henceforth from foes, Beneath that sacred shadow finds repose." All this happened nine hundred years ago. In counting upon rest, St. Cuthbert and his brethren had reckoned without the Scots and the Normans. Aldune's low and crypt-like structure did not last a century. It was rebuilt in statelier form by Bishop William de Carilepho, and Turgot the Prior; Malcolm of Scotland, then on his way to meet Rufus at Gloucester, also laying a foundation stone. Normans and Scots thus set their hands to the work of repairing the ruin they had made. It was the way of Durham and St. Cuthbert's shrine to thrive more by the assaults of enemies than by the benefits of friends. In the meantime, the fame and importance of the place had vastly increased. King Canute had made a pilgrimage to the shrine of the patron saint, having travelled the distance from Trimdon to Durham, by way of Garmondsway, with naked feet and clad in pilgrim's weeds. He added liberal gifts and fresh franchises to the see, and encouraged the monks to bring the remains of the Venerable Bede, the father of English Church and secular history, from Jarrow Monastery to be laid beside those of Cuthbert. Another great conqueror and sinner--William of Normandy--after he had wreaked terrible vengeance on the town that had become the centre of Saxon feeling in the north, and that had slaughtered his Norman garrison and his Norman Bishop, showed great respect for the shrine and patrimony of the saint; he even wished to look with his own eyes upon the incorruptible body, but a timely illness that seized him after saying mass in the cathedral baulked his purpose. Flambard, Pudsey, and the other successors of Carilepho, were not so much churchmen as great feudal lords, exercising almost regal sway on the Borders and a powerful influence at court. The privileges and revenues of the Prince-Bishops of Durham were a prize that the Sovereign himself might covet. They raised armies, coined money, levied taxes, appointed sheriffs and other judicial officers, and, in spite of their vows, exercised the right of presiding in court when sentences of life or death were adjudged upon criminals. In other respects their sacred office sat lightly upon them, and they caroused and hunted and intrigued and plotted on a grander scale than any baron of their time. Besides being Bishops of St. Cuthbert's See, they were titular Earls of Sadberge, and they found it easy to shuffle off the sacred for the secular character, or the secular for the sacred, as suited them. At the same time they never forgot the tradition of their patron saint, or failed to seize an opportunity of magnifying the office and increasing the dignity and power that centred in the "Haliwerk," or Castle, and the Cathedral. Thus Flambard divided his energies between building strong castles and completing the great church, and endowing public hospitals and his own bastard children. Hugh de Pudsey's wealth--such of it as the rapacious hands of the Anjou kings left--was spent on similar objects; to him Durham town owes its first charter, and the Cathedral its famous "Galilee Porch," or Lady's Chapel, an ingenious compromise, as we are told, between the inveterate ascetic prejudice of St. Cuthbert against the presence of women, and the necessity of allowing the sex access to the chapel dedicated to the Virgin. In Bishop Anthony Bek's days the See may be said to have reached the zenith of its splendour. He was little less than a Sovereign within his extensive domains; was right-hand man of Edward I. in planning and in seeking to carry out the subjugation of Scotland; led the van with his Northumbrian levies at Falkirk, and carried away the Stone of Destiny from Scone to Westminster; and, dying, left all he had to St. Cuthbert and the Church. [Illustration: DURHAM CATHEDRAL AND CASTLE.] Signal revenge did the Scots work for these wrongs in the time of later bishops; England was never engaged in foreign war or domestic broil but they seized the opportunity of crossing the Border, and the See and the city of Durham caught the brunt of their attack. That was a crushing check, however, which they suffered in 1346, in the days of the learned Bishop Hatfield, when David of Scotland, taking advantage of Edward III.'s absence on his French wars, crossed the Border and with a great host of hungry horsemen was harrying the country up to the gates of Durham. England was not altogether defenceless; for the king had left behind him able guardians of the North Country, in the persons of his Queen Philippa and the Prince-Bishop. The "Haliwerk folk" assembled for the protection of their beloved fane, and the Nevilles and other great lords called together their retainers to fight under the standard of St. Cuthbert. The two armies met at the Red Hill, a broken and hilly piece of ground a short distance west of the city; and after having hung long doubtful, the fortune of war went utterly against the Scots, who left their king in the hands of the victors. A group of monks took up their position at the "Maiden's Bower," and signalled to another company upon the central tower of the Cathedral how it went with the battle; and when at length the invaders were put to rout, a solemn "Te Deum" was chanted, and this commemorative custom was continued almost to our own day. Lord Ralph Neville, who led the protecting troops, caused the monument to be raised which has given its name--"Neville's Cross"--to the battle; his body, with that of other members of the great family that once ruled at Brancepeth and Raby, is buried in the nave; and over his grave was placed, with his own standard, the banner wrested from the King of the Scots. Though Queen Philippa was so good a friend to Durham, yet the churlish patron saint could not brook her presence near his shrine, and when she took up her quarters in the Prior's house she had to flee hastily in the night in her bed-gear. Not more hospitable was the welcome given to Margaret of Anjou, when fortune went finally against the House of Lancaster and she fled for refuge to Durham. The town and the Prince-Bishops had ventured and suffered much for the Lancastrian cause in the Wars of the Roses; but they dared not risk the vengeance of the victorious side, and hurried the despairing Queen across the Border into Scotland. More troubles awaited Durham at the time of the Reformation. For six years Cardinal Wolsey held the diocese, but confined his duties to drawing its rich revenues. His successor, Tunstall, was a man of rare moderation for his time. Though a Reformer, like his friend Erasmus, he was inclined to remain attached to the "old religion," and he suffered at the hands of both parties as they successively came uppermost. In his days the monasteries--including that of Durham and the older foundations of Monkwearmouth and Jarrow, which had long been annexed to it as "cells"--were suppressed; and the curious reactionary movement known as the "Pilgrimage of Grace" may be said to have had its beginning at Durham. It was renewed, with like disastrous consequences, in the time of the first Protestant Bishop, Pilkington, in the famous enterprise of the "Rising of the North," when Queen Elizabeth's partisans, the Bowes of Streatham, rose to notice over the ruin of the Nevilles and Percys, Earls of Westmorland and Northumberland. The Bishopric was temporarily suppressed during the Commonwealth; and the Cathedral interior suffered from being the place of confinement of the Scottish prisoners from Dunbar. But amends came at the Restoration, and whatever can be said against the personal or political character of Bishops Cosin and Crewe, they were princely builders, entertainers, and benefactors of the Cathedral and city. Other eminent men have since occupied the episcopal throne and palace--chief among them for learning and good works being Butler, the author of the "Analogy"; but since the year 1836 almost the whole of the old temporal distinctions and franchises have been stripped from the "Fighting Bishopric," and Her Majesty is the Countess Palatine of Durham, and keeps "the peace of St. Cuthbert" as well as that of the Sovereign. [Illustration: CHESTER-LE-STREET.] [Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF LAMBTON CASTLE.] Durham and its cathedral have an aspect worthy of their history. No such grandly imposing combination of massive Norman strength and solemn religious beauty is presented by any other architectural pile in England. Seen from Framwellgate Bridge or any other of the many favourite points of view, it looks, what it has been in the past, "Half house of God, half castle 'gainst the Scot." About its outward shape there is that air of "rocky solidity and indeterminate endurance" which so impressed Dr. Johnson in its interior. Half the majestic effect of Durham Cathedral is derived, however, from its situation, settled firmly and boldly upon the highest platform of the rocky promontory washed by the river, its huge central tower rising sheer above all its surroundings--the focus of the picture; its two lesser towers squarely fronting the west; the pinnacles of the eastern transept, or "Nine Altars," balancing them on the other side; and, grouped around, the Castle and its lowering Norman keep, and the high masses of other buildings that surmount the beautiful green "Banks" and walks descending steeply to the Wear. Nearer at hand, after climbing and threading the narrow streets to the "Castle Green," the exterior view of the great Cathedral is still profoundly impressive if somewhat monotonous. On the north door hangs the knocker and ring, to which the offender against the laws could cling and claim sanctuary, or "the peace of St. Cuthbert." Within, the long arched roof and lines of alternate round and cruciform pillars are almost overwhelming, not so much on account of their height as of their ponderous strength and massive dignity. Many styles are represented, as many hands have been employed, in the interior; but the pervading spirit is the masterful and dominating genius of the Norman. The original work of Carilepho and Flambard is represented by the nave and choir. Bishop Pudsey's hand is manifest in the Transition-Norman of the "Galilee" at the west end, under the light and delicate arches of which repose the bones of the Venerable Bede. The "Nine Altars," extending eastward beyond the choir, is still later work, and was not completed until about the year 1230. In the graceful elegance of its slender shafts of stone shooting up to the extreme height of the roof, and broken only by the rich carvings of the capitals, and in the light that floods it through the beautiful "rose window" and other inlets, it forms a contrast to the somewhat sombre and heavy grandeur of the main portion of the Cathedral, and is one of our finest examples of the Early English style of church architecture. Here, however, was the "most holy place" in the Durham fane; for here is the platform of "the Shrine of St. Cuthbert," and under it the remains of the hermit of Lindisfarne rest after their long wanderings; and beside them lie other relics--"treasures more precious than gold or topaz"--among them the head of St. Oswald, "the lion of the Angles," and bones of St. Aidan. It was long believed that the place of the patron saint's sepulture was a mystery, revealed alone to three brothers of the Benedictine Order, who, under oath, passed on their knowledge, upon their death-bed, to other members of the monastery. "Deep in Durham's Gothic shade His relics are in secret laid, But none may know the place." But excavations made in 1827 have left little doubt that the spot pointed out in this Eastern Transept is that which contains the veritable remains of the "Blessed Cuthbert." Above it hung his banner and "Corporax Cloth," carried before the English host to victory at Falkirk, Neville's Cross, Flodden, and other fields; and the miraculous "Black Rood of Scotland," another of the spoils of war of the Bishopric, was among the treasures of Durham Cathedral until it was lost at the Reformation. The chapter-house, the cloisters, and the dormitory represent most of what remains of the Monastery of Durham. Its priors took rank as abbots, and vied with the bishops of the See in piety and spiritual influence if not in temporal power. In the library and treasury are preserved many valuable manuscript relics of the monastic days, and in the great kitchen of the Deanery one may form an idea of the scale on which the old Benedictines lived and feasted. Other interesting ecclesiastical and secular buildings are collected upon the rocky platform above the Wear; but next to the Cathedral, the Castle takes first rank. It has long ceased to be the seat of episcopal state, as it has ceased to fulfil any warlike purpose in the land. It has been rebuilt, restored and added to many times since the Conqueror founded it to hold in check the Scots and to overawe the burghers; and it now helps to accommodate the Durham University--an institution which Oliver Cromwell first sought to establish, but which was only brought finally into existence upon the redistribution of the revenues of the See in 1837. Norman strength and solidity, so majestically exhibited in the interior and exterior of the Cathedral, become grim and sinister in the lines of the Castle, and in what remains of the fortifications that enclosed the ancient "Ballium." Bishop Hatfield rebuilt the Great Keep and the Hall named after him, in which Bishop Anthony Bek, that "most famous clerk of the realm," feasted Edward Longshanks on his way to conquer Scotland--the Hall which, before or since, has royally entertained a score of different Sovereigns as guests of the Prince-Prelates of Durham. But these restorations were made on the earlier foundations, and Keep and Hall and Norman Chapel retain many of the old features, and something of the old spirit. Feudalism and romance quickly disappear from the scene when Durham is left behind, and the Wear, now becoming navigable for small craft, is followed farther on its course to the sea. There is an air of mournful solitude about the fragmentary ruins of Beaurepaire, or Bear Park, the retreat of the Priors of Durham, and of seclusion at the Roman Catholic College at Ushaw, founded for the use of the French refugees from the Revolution, and even at Sherburn Hospital, Bishop Pudsey's great foundation for lepers, now converted to other charitable purposes. But the squalor of colliery rows intrudes upon the picturesque, and the clash of machinery puts to flight the old spirit of monastic calm. This eastern side of the county of Durham is a vast busy workshop--a Northern "Black Country;" and earth and air and water, and even the minds and thoughts of the inhabitants, seem to have an impregnation of coal-dust and engine-smoke. Finchale, three or four miles below Durham, is still, however, a lonely and retired spot; and a charming road through Kepyer Wood leads to the interesting ruins of the Priory erected by Bishop Pudsey's son, near the place where the good Saint Godric dwelt in hermitage. There are still some remains of the beautiful Decorative work to be seen through the screen of ivy; and the effect is deepened by the situation, on a promontory round which the river makes a bold sweep, and by the fine woods of Cocken that enclose and form a background to the buildings. [Illustration: MONKWEARMOUTH CHURCH.] Chester-le-Street and Lumley and Lambton Castles are the next places of note by the Wear. Something already we know about Chester, and how narrowly it escaped being the civil and ecclesiastical capital of the County Palatine, and the custodian of the bones of St. Cuthbert. Its business is now mainly with coal and ironstone; but it grumbles a little still over the golden chance it missed, and the baser minerals it has to put up with:-- "Durham lads hae gowd and silver, Chester lads hae nowt but brass." It is supposed to have been a Roman station; but at all events its importance was considerable in Saxon times. The Church of St. Mary and St. Cuthbert is six hundred years old; and the most remarkable of its features is perhaps the "Aisle of Tombs," a row of fourteen recumbent effigies supposed to represent the ancestors of the Lumley family, who have lived or had possessions hard by since before the Norman Conquest, and whose pedigree is so long that James I., compelled to listen to its recital, conjectured that "Adam's name was Lumley." Camden has it, however, that a Lord Lumley of Queen Elizabeth's time, who brought this collection of monuments together, "either picked them out of demolished monasteries or made them anew." The family are now represented by the Earl of Scarbrough whose seat, Lumley Castle, overlooks the Wear and the deep wooded valley through which, coming from Houghton-le-Spring and Hetton-le-Hole, runs the Lumley Beck. It is a goodly and in parts an ancient pile, but since the collieries have crowded around it, Lumley sees little of its owners, and has to be content with the range of old family portraits in the Grand Hall, a companion set to the stone effigies in the church. [Illustration: LOOKING UP THE RIVER, SUNDERLAND.] Lambton Castle is not only surrounded but undermined by pit workings to such an extent that the ground and the fine semi-Norman, semi-Tudor building upon it--the home for many centuries of the Lambtons, now Earls of Durham--threatened to collapse, and are partly supported by the solid brickwork with which the old mines were filled. Lambton belonged of old to the D'Arcys; but, according to the legend, it was after it came into the hands of the present family that the famous fight between the heir of the estate and the "Worm" took place. The county, as would appear from its traditions, once swarmed with loathly "worms" or dragons; and this one took up its station by coiling itself around the "Worm Hill," and also frequented the "Worm Well." The heir of Lambton encountered it in armour "set about with razor blades," and the monster cut itself to pieces, the penalty of victory, however, being that no chief of Lambton was to die in his bed for nine generations. The most eminent name in the Lambton pedigree is that of John, first Earl of Durham, the champion of Reform, and the Greek temple that crowns the summit of Penshaw Hill, on the opposite or south side of the Wear, is erected to his memory. At Biddick the great Victoria Railway Bridge crosses the Wear by a series of large spans at a height of 156 feet above the stream. The "Biddickers," now good, bad, and indifferent, like other "keelmen" of their class, were a wild set last century, and among them the Jacobite Earl of Perth found refuge after Culloden. The banks of the stream, crowded with busy and grimy colliery rows and coal staithes, the lines of rail and tramway that run up and athwart the inclines, and the fleets of coal-barges ascending and descending, help to announce the close neighbourhood of Sunderland. Before we reach the seaport of the Wear, however, Hylton Ferry is passed. In spite of the increasing sounds and sights of shipping industry and manufacture, a little bit of superstition and romance continues to linger about dilapidated Hylton Castle, for a fabulous number of centuries the home of the fighting race of Hyltons, now extinct as county landlords: the countryside has not quite forgotten the family goblin or brownie--the "Cauld Lad"--the eccentric ghost of a stable-boy who was killed in a fit of anger by a former lord of Hylton; though it remembers and points out with more pride Ford Hall, where the Havelocks, a martial race of later date and purer fame, were born and bred. It is not easy in these days to associate the three townships comprehended within the municipal and parliamentary bounds of Sunderland with cloistral seclusion or warlike events, or with romance or mystery in any form--more especially when the place is approached by road, rail, or river from the colliery districts that hem it in on the land side. Yet busy, smoky, and in some spots ugly and squalid as it is, Sunderland hardly deserves the censure that has been heaped upon it as a town where "earth and water are alike black and filthy," through whose murky atmosphere the blue sky seldom shows itself, and whose architectural features are utterly contemptible. Sunderland has a number of fine buildings and handsome thoroughfares, and a large part of the town is lifted clear of the dingy streets by the wharves and river-bank. The animation on water and shore, the passing stream of coasting and river craft, and the other signs of shipping, shipbuilding, and manufacturing trade, spanned by the huge arch of the Cast Iron Bridge; the larger vessels--evidences of an ocean-going commerce--in and around the docks on either hand; even the smoke and shadows, and the dirt itself in the streets and lanes, might have been reckoned fine pictorial elements of interest in a foreign seaport. Coal, lime, and iron; timber, glass, and chemicals; ship stores, ship fittings, and fishing, are the businesses to which modern Sunderland, Bishop Wearmouth, and Monkwearmouth, chiefly give mind and time. It was very different when they first began to be mentioned in history. The little harbourage at the mouth of the Wear was a shelter for ships, but it was also a place of refuge for studious and pious men. We hear of it first in the seventh century, when, soon after Aidan became Bishop of Lindisfarne, St. Hilda, or Bega, obtained a grant of land on the north side of the river and founded the convent of St. Bee's. Biscopius, a Saxon knight in the service of King Oswyn of Northumberland, resolved to renounce war and the world, and having prepared himself by making a pilgrimage to Rome, whence he brought back many precious books and relics, he obtained from the pious King Ecgfrith a grant of land near the nunnery--the modern Monkwearmouth--and set to work in 674 to build the monastery of St. Peter's; and a few years later he founded St. Paul's, at Jarrow. It has to be noted that Biscopius, who took the name of Benedict, brought over from France masons and glaziers to instruct the natives in these arts, and that glass-making has ever since flourished on the Wear and Tyne. All this we know from the Venerable Bede, who, when quite a young boy, resided in St. Peter's, under the Abbot Ceolfrid, before he took up his abode for life in the sister monastery at Jarrow. It is thought by archæologists that part of the original building is to be seen to this day in the west porch and west wall of the old church of Monkwearmouth. Sunderland already existed at that date; and the name was probably confined to the peninsula between the natural harbour on the south side of the Wear and the sea. Of Bishop Wearmouth, or "the delightful vill of South Wearmouth," as it was called, we do not hear until Alfred's time, when large additional grants were made to Benedict's monastery, partly in exchange for a "Book of Cosmogony," which had been brought from Rome. The Danes, the pest, and the Scots troubled much the place, and reduced the number of the inmates of the house. Sometimes these were as many as six hundred; sometimes they were like to have perished altogether, and for two centuries the place lay "waste and desolate." Malcolm was here on a plundering excursion when St. Margaret and her brother, the Atheling, happened to be in the Wear, waiting for a fair wind to carry them to Scotland--a meeting that probably changed the rude monarch's life and the national history. In 1083 the brethren of both Wearmouth and Jarrow were removed to Durham, and, as we have seen, both houses were reduced to cells dependent on the monastery of St. Cuthbert. The mouth of the Wear had compensation in the growth of other and more secular interests. Seven centuries ago Bishop Pudsey granted a charter to Sunderland; and the liberties and privileges of the borough were extended by subsequent holders of the See, in consideration of its increasing trade and consequence. In the sixteenth century, as we learn, the coal trade was already of some importance, and Sunderland was "enriched every day thereby;" grindstones also became a far-famed article of export from the Wear. Its industrial development was temporarily checked during the Civil War, when Sunderland became a centre of fighting between Cavaliers and Roundheads. The Scots army, under Leslie, Earl of Leven, encamped on what is now part of the long High Street of Bishop Wearmouth, and not far from the Building Hill, which local tradition points out as a Druidical place of worship. The King's forces from Newcastle drew out to face the "blue bonnets," first on Bolden Hill and afterwards at Hylton; and skirmishing took place, which was not attended with decisive results. The commercial development of Sunderland has since been steady and often rapid. Including Bishop Wearmouth and Monkwearmouth, it now contains some 130,000 inhabitants, and it ranks high among British ports in shipbuilding tonnage and coal output. It has other claims to distinction: Paley was rector of Bishop Wearmouth last century, and wrote his "Evidences" there; and further proofs could be given that learning and piety did not come to an end at Wearmouth in Biscopius's and Bede's time, any more than did the worldly enterprise of the "canny" inhabitants. Outside, the North Sea beats against the long piers and lighthouses, and rocks the fleets of steamers and sailing craft lying at anchor, or plying between the Wear and the Tyne; and on either hand, at Roker and Whitburn, Ryhope and Seaham, are the bold cliffs and bathing sands, the caves and cloven "gills" and wooded "denes," to which the dwellers by the Wear resort to fill their lungs with fresh air. JOHN GEDDIE. [Illustration: CROSS FELL.] THE TEES. Among the Fells--The Weel--Caldron Snout--High Force--Gibson's Cave--Bow Leys--Middleton-in-Teesdale--The Lune and the Balder--Scandinavian Names--Cotherstone Cheese--History in Teesdale--Scott's Description of the Tees--Egliston Abbey--Greta Bridge--Dickens and Mr. Squeers--Brignal Banks and Rokeby--The Village of Ovington--Gainford--Pierce Bridge--High and Low Coniscliffe--Croft--Yarm--The Industries of the Tees--Stockton--Middlesbrough--The Sea. "You can stand in fower keaunties at yance at Caldron Snout," said the companionable whip whom I had engaged to drive me, for such distance as the roads went, towards the first joyous springing up of the Tees at Cross Fell. The statement was a palpable exaggeration; no mere biped can stand in four counties at once; the most that is practicable is to straddle from one county to another. But from Caldron Snout the nearest point of Cumberland is distant at least five miles; so that only the counties of Durham, Yorkshire, and Westmorland touch each other where this marvellous waterfall pours through its rocky and precipitous gorge. However, the information was passably accurate. From the natives of Upper Teesdale no exact knowledge is to be extracted, by hook or by crook. They are chiefly remarkable for what they don't know. From Middleton, Cross Fell was five miles away--six miles, ten miles, fifteen miles, and so on, through an ever-lengthening road. A landlord, who was really not stupid-looking, and who was certainly not indifferent to matters of business, was unable to name the beck which flows within a few yards of his own door. "You will have h'ard o' th' High Force?" queried a Middletonian. "It's a famous place, is th' High Force. Well, no; I've never seen it myself; but I've lived five miles from it all my life, an' it's a fine, famous place is th' High Force." A fair sample of what the inhabitant of Upper Teesdale knows, or cares to know. This singular incuriousness is almost general. The facts of Nature are accepted as matters of course, and without inquiry. The report of the adventurous traveller is enough. In the first fifty miles of wandering by Tees-side I encountered only one man who was proud of his information, and this related exclusively to the places of public entertainment in the village of Yarm. Mr. Samuel Weller's knowledge of London was not more extensive and peculiar. In a slow, cautious, and yet eager style of speaking, he gave a detailed and exhaustive account of every public-house in the village, with sidelong glances at the characters of the various landlords, and an evidently cultivated criticism of the quality of the refreshment supplied by each. The long ridge of Cross Fell was grey and cloudlike, as seen in the morning sunshine, from where our pair of horses finished their journey at the Green Hurth Mines. The intervening space of undulating moor was as parched and brown as if some sudden flame had swept across it; and where the clouds moved slowly across the grey-blue of the sky, long bands of dark shadow fell, so intense as to lend the brightness of contrast to what otherwise might itself have seemed to be a mass of shade. Not a single tree was in sight, but only whin-bushes and their yellow bloom. A white gleam of water in occasional hollows of the hills indicated the sluggish beck which divides Durham from Cumberland; and to the left, in a winding course well marked by the depression of the moorlands, the Tees wandered towards Caldron Snout, flanked by the steep side of Dufton Fell. It is here but a thin and narrow stream on dry summer days, but in times of rain it broadens and swells with an amazing suddenness, rushing downwards with a great roar and tumult of waters, so unexpected, sometimes, and with a character so much resembling the opposite phenomenon of the bore on the Severn, that holiday visitors, inapprehensive of calamity, have before now been carried headlong over the terrible cataract of High Force. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE TEES.] The guide-book accounts of Upper Teesdale are mainly remarkable for their singular inattention to facts, and their following of each other. "Murray" confidently places High Force at a distance of five miles below the source of the river at Cross Fell. As a plain matter of fact, it is five miles from High Force to Caldron Snout, a much more amazing waterfall, and there are more than seven miles as the crow flies between Caldron Snout and Tees Head. It is a country bare of inhabitants and abounding in game. There is no village beyond Langdon Beck, where we begin the ascent of the moors. The Tees is joined by numerous little streams before it leaves Cumberland, and flows through the four or five miles of stern valley where Westmorland and Durham face each other. Just before reaching the wild extremity of Yorkshire it thrusts out a broad arm through a deep, long recess of the hills, and "as with molten glass inlays the vale." The Weel is the odd and unaccountable name which has been given to this winding lake. It lies, white and weird and still, where scarcely even the winds can reach it; and so deserted is it that not so much as a single wild fowl breaks the surface of its ghastly calm. There is henceforth no more rest to the Tees water during the whole of its curiously devious journeying to the sea. Below the Weel it tumbles with desperate tumult over Caldron Snout, foaming down into a pool two hundred feet beneath. Had Southey beheld this waterfall when it was in flood he would scarcely have had the heart to write of the Falls of Lodore. Here there are no mossy rocks or sheltering trees to dapple the scene with their brightness and shadow. The river dashes in a succession of leaps over the bare basalt, swirling and boiling after such manner as easily explains the name given to this most lonely and most splendid of English cataracts, where the creamy waters-- "With many a shock Given and received in mutual jeopardy, Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high!" Here the Tees, in a succession of violent cascades, makes a descent, as we have seen, of two hundred feet. At High Force it falls by only seventy-five feet; but, whereas the lonelier cataract is a long and broken slope, the water at High Force falls with plummet-like directness, in a vast broad sheet when the river is in flood, in two straight white columns when the floods are subsiding, and in a single glittering fall when the river is at its normal height. Here the contrast between the Yorkshire and the Durham side of the Tees first makes itself decisively felt. The steep but still gradual declivity of the Durham side is veiled in woods of birch and beech and fir; on the Yorkshire side the basalt descends sheer to the river's bed, and beyond and above it there is a bare expanse of unprofitable fields, darkened here and there by patches of whin-bush and long streaks of broom. This barren character is maintained, with a gradual decrease of sternness, until the little town of Middleton-in-Teesdale comes in sight. [Illustration: HIGH FORCE.] [Illustration: FROM YORK SIDE.] Middleton is a long, straggling town, starting away from a stone bridge over the Tees, and climbing far away up the sides of the hills. It is built entirely of stone, even to the roofs and the chimneys. This is a peculiarity of all the houses in Upper Teesdale. Slates, in small quantities, have penetrated thus far into the wilds; but of baked clay, otherwise than in the form of pottery, there is no suggestion until the village of Cotherstone is reached, whence emanates the famous Cotherstone cheese. Below the bridge at Middleton the Tees leaves behind it the stern Yorkshire moorlands and scaurs, the hills on either bank withdrawing themselves that it may glitter in the sunbeams over a pebbly bed. Henceforth, until it approaches the large towns, and when it encounters the sea-tides, it flows, broad and open, past richly-wooded banks. In all England there is no more pleasant valley than that which the Tees waters between Middleton and Pierce Bridge. There is an almost equal beauty in the valleys of its numerous tributaries. "All the little rills concealed among the forked hills" have their individual features of loveliness, and hide sweet secrets of their own. About a mile below Middleton the river Lune ripples sunnily down into the Tees. Rising in Westmorland, it flows across that portion of Yorkshire which interposes itself between Westmorland and Durham, wearing one of the deepest of channels for itself, and giving token of frequent floods in the large stones by which its bed is thickly strewn. The river Lune is a favourite stream for trout, but it is still more renowned as a spawning ground for salmon; for as that kingly fish cannot ascend the Tees beyond the seventy-foot precipice at High Force, and as some of the higher tributaries are polluted with water from the lead mines, the Lune and the Balder, a smaller stream which flows into the Tees at Cotherstone, are almost the only accessible breeding beds. [Illustration: BARNARD CASTLE.] "Fish! I should think so!" says a man who has fishings to let. "Why, there are times in the year when you could take salmon out by the armful." To the remark that this is not the time when salmon ought to be taken, he replies that there are good trout at any time of the year; and a very cursory observation of the Tees proves this to be true. The keen observation of Sir Walter Scott led him to remark on the blackness of this river. Coming down from the moorlands, it is thickly stained by the peat; but the peaty colour does not in fact obscure the clearness of the water, and looking down from above, one may everywhere see the fish shooting athwart the stream in little shoals. The river is exceedingly well preserved; indeed, on one side it is in the hands of the Duke of Cleveland, on the other it is well tended by Mr. Morritt of Rokeby, the Earl of Strathmore, and Sir Talbot Constable. Nevertheless, fishing is to be had on easy terms--from Henry Ludgate, of Winston, for example, who was formerly gamekeeper to the Earl of Brownlow, and who now keeps a public-house and writes verses. His political ideas take that turn, he observes, and the visitor to Henry's hostelry may hear some of the verses repeated if he should be so minded as to listen to them. There are no towns on the Tees until one of the most horrible in all England is reached--Stockton, to wit; but there are innumerable villages. Some of these are quite remarkable for their cleanliness and beauty. Romaldkirk, the second village from Middleton, on the Yorkshire side, is an incomparable village, far scattered, but bound together by a plenitude of trees. Romaldkirk--anciently "Rum auld kirk," a serious-minded old villager observed, with a trenchant faith in his etymology--is noticeable not only for its combination of all the charms that an English village can possess, but also on account of its parish church and its parish stocks. The stocks are unique, indeed. Shackles of this ancient description are usually of wood; but the stocks at Romaldkirk are bars of iron, fastened in stone posts, and ingeniously bent so that one of the bars, locked down on the other, will imprison two pairs of feet. In winter the parish stocks of Romaldkirk must have been the most uncomfortable parish stocks in all England. The villagers preserve them now with genuine and reasonable pride, and the oldest inhabitant sits upon them and relates sad stories of the last persons who were imprisoned therein. The church has been so little restored that it remains one of the finest examples of early ecclesiastical architecture. It is unusually large for so small a village, a fact which is explained by its erection by the Barons Fitzhugh, who were buried here whenever they chanced to die in their beds. The building dates from the twelfth century, and is in the Early English style. One of the Lords Fitzhugh is kept in remembrance by a statue in chain-armour, still contemplated by the villagers with a mixture of awe and delight. The Fitzhughs are again in evidence at the village of Cotherstone, two miles further down the Tees. They had a castle there, of which a small portion still remains, bearing the same proportion to a complete feudal castle that an odd brick will bear to a modern house. Cotherstone is a smart, businesslike village, for these parts. Some of its stone roofs have a coping of red tiles, the first to be seen in Upper Teesdale. It has recently built itself a very pretty little church. Above all, it is renowned for its cheese. This cheese of Cotherstone is in shape similar to Stilton; but, however long Stilton cheese may be kept, it can never approach that of Cotherstone in aroma. A Cotherstone cheese, truly, requires a large room all to itself; it is not the kind of cheese that one can live with, even for the short space of lunch; it is a militant sort of cheese--fit to defeat armies. Those who produce it were formerly thought to be rather pronounced rustics by the inhabitants of Teesdale. They were called "Cotherstone calves," and uncomplimentary references were made to the strength of their heads; but the School Boards have changed all that, and a young Cotherstone calf now speaks with a certain air of refinement, and is not above feeling pleasure in giving information to the intruding stranger. The Tees is not a river of traditions and memories. It must have a marvellous history, indeed, but it is, for the most part, unknown. Up among the fells, where it rises, one is constantly in danger of falling into pits in which the Romans or the Britons worked for lead; there is scarcely a space of fifty yards by the present roadside which does not bear traces of former mining; from which one surmises that the very road over which one travels has existed from the time when Rome conquered Britain for the sake of the metals which it was supposed to contain. The Watling Street approached the Tees at Greta Bridge; the Leeming Lane went through the river at Pierce Bridge, to cross the Watling Street near Middleton Tyas, in Yorkshire. There are almost innumerable remains of Roman camps and British defences; but, nevertheless, there is no history to speak of. When Sir Walter Scott sought a story with which to connect the scenery of the Tees he went back no further than to the conflict between the Cavaliers and Roundheads. The records of this wide district have, in fact, perished; between the present population and that of the earlier centuries of the Christian era there is no relationship of blood and no inheritance of tradition. The solitary fragment of the Castle of the Fitzhughs is more like a satirical commentary on the past than its memorial. The Balder joins the Tees at Cotherstone; it is a shady little river flowing through a deep ravine. The Tees itself is at this point exceedingly lovely, streaming in a fine curve from beneath overhanging woods, and winding past a quaint old mill, which nestles by the waterside under high banks that are crowned by a tall fringe of trees. There is, probably, no English river which journeys for so many miles through such beautiful and unbroken woods. From the slope which is occupied by the village of Cotherstone one may see the domes of the Bowes Museum at Barnard Castle, rising out of what appears to be a vast forest, interspersed here and there with patches of cultivated ground. No sparkle of water is anywhere visible in the whole wide landscape, but the course of the Tees may be traced by a wavy and depressed line in the woodland verdure; and one guesses how, over many a mile, the bright river is making a sunshine in the shady place. "Romantic Deepdale" joins the Tees a little above Barnard Castle. It is such a tributary as Wordsworth speaks of, a "----torrent white, The fairest, softest, loveliest of them all! And seldom ear hath listened to a tune More lulling than the busy hum of noon, Swollen by that voice whose murmur musical Announces to the thirsty fields a boon Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall" Deepdale Burn winds away across Yorkshire, over Bowes Moor, and to the borders of Westmorland, through one of the most lovely valleys in the whole of the north country. "Barnard Castle standeth stately upon Tees," says Leland. Stately it is to this day, though it is no more than a group of ruined towers and crumbling walls, and though where the Tees must have flowed deep and wide from below the castle rock there is now at ordinary seasons only a thin stream, threading its way through what might very well be mistaken for a stone-yard. Before the castle is reached we have, in fact, come to the first salmon weir, which, besides its other purpose, is employed to divert the river to the service of industry. From Barnard Castle these weirs become very frequent, and are, in all cases but this, an addition to the attractions of the stream. It was the weir just below Barnard Castle that supplied Creswick with a subject for one of his most famous and successful pictures. The artist visited the town very frequently, and stayed there for weeks on end; wherefore he is still well remembered by some of the older inhabitants, not always with that kindliness which one would have been glad to associate with his name. Barnard Castle is one of the oddest and most interesting towns in the North. There is a wholly individual character in its buildings, as if its architects had devised a style of their own. Few of the houses are older than the period of Elizabeth, but they are almost all of them of respectable age. The building material is stone in all cases, and the houses are unusually high and substantial, often of four and sometimes of five stories. On either bank below the castle they are built down into the bed of the river, and as, in Scott's words, the Tees here "flows in a deep trench of solid rock," the houses by the riverside descend as much below the level of the street as they rise above it. Yet despite the stoutness and the elaboration of these buildings, the riverside streets present that appearance of misery and squalor which seems inevitable in every manufacturing town, however limited may be the field of its industry. Dwellings which were clearly built for persons of wealth and position are let as tenements, and, there is, consequently, an odd contrast between their stateliness and the dress and appearance of those who lounge about their doors. However, the wide central street of Barnard Castle, sloping down from the Market Place to the river, still preserves an air of old-time respectability, and has the sleepy aspect of a country town, as if it had dozed away a century or two without activity or change. There is in this street a remarkable old Elizabethan house, in which Oliver Cromwell is said to have lodged himself for a while. [Illustration: BARNARD CASTLE: THE TOWN.] The Castle, which enclosed a circuit of six acres or more, was built by Bernard Baliol, a son of that Guy Baliol whom I have had occasion to mention in connection with Bywell-on-Tyne. A descendant of Bernard climbed to the Scottish Throne, doing homage for the Crown at Newcastle to the first Edward. Edward Baliol did like homage to Edward III. for the crown and kingdom of Scotland. It was a short and unfortunate dynasty which the Baliols founded, brought to an end by the battle of Bannockburn. John Baliol presumed too much on his independence as a king, wherefore his patron, Edward I., seized upon his castle and his English estates, and the stately building on the banks of the Tees was given to the Beauchamps of Warwick. Thence it passed by marriage into the hands of the Nevilles, and was part of the dower of Anne Neville, the daughter of the King-maker, when she married the scheming politician who was to become Richard III. Gloucester not only dwelt here for some time, but left decided marks of his tenancy, the latest portions of the building being held by antiquarians to have been erected under his superintendence. Since 1592 Barnard Castle has been a ruin, the survey of that year exhibiting it as tenantless, mouldering, and weather-worn, "the doors without locks, the windows without glass." Below Barnard Castle there is an open space of greensward extending over a few acres, and then the river, after falling over Creswick's salmon pass, plunges once more into the woods. Between this point and the village of Wycliffe lies the most lovely scenery of the Tees. At about a mile from Barnard Castle, on the Yorkshire side, Thor's Gill flows into the river through a deep ravine, and out of the neighbouring trees rise the impressive ruins of Egliston Abbey. Tired indeed of the world must have been those who came to this wild and lonely place for service and prayer. With Thor's Gill beside them, and the Tees far down below, in the front of their dwelling, they would look in all other directions over miles of barren moor, now subdued and cultivated by the plough. In time of flood the noise of waters must have drowned the intoning of their psalms, for at this section of its course the river is confined between rocky precipices, and ploughs its way over an amazing bed of that marble for which Barnard Castle formerly had a sort of fame. There is a fine stone bridge below the Abbey, of one enormous span, with the river flowing a hundred feet beneath, "Through paths and alleys roofed with sombre green." The Abbey of Egliston was founded about the beginning of the thirteenth century, and was dedicated to St. Mary and St. John the Baptist. Its inhabitants were the Premonstratensian or White Canons, whose alleged object was to ensure a pure and contemplative life, and who, in coming here, certainly removed themselves from the reach of worldly temptations, and secured plenteous leisure for meditative calm. They must have seemed like ghosts amid these woodlands, their dress being a long white cassock, a rochet, a white cloak, and a white cap. They are supposed to have been the schoolmasters of John Wycliffe, who was born some four or five miles away, and who would find only one other place of education within his reach. In Scott's time some portions of the religious house attached to the Abbey were still habitable, and until quite recently a hermit dwelt in one of the chambers; but the progress of decay has, during the last five or six years, been exceedingly rapid, and before long, probably, this interesting ruin will be no more than a heap of grey stones. At my own recent visit parts of the walls were being removed lest they should fall in, and the materials were being employed in some farm buildings near. There were signs of impending collapse elsewhere, and only such restorations as would be a disfigurement could now save what remains of the Abbey for future generations. [Illustration: ON THE GRETA AT ROKEBY.] About two miles from Egliston, still on the Yorkshire side, is the fine domain of Rokeby Park, along one side of which the Greta flows to the Tees. Greta Bridge is known to all lovers of literature through the mention of it which is made by Dickens. It was there that Nicholas Nickleby descended from the coach which had brought him thus far on his way towards Dotheboys Hall. "About six o'clock that night he and Mr. Squeers and the little boys and their united luggage, were all put down together at the George and New Inn, Greta Bridge." Dickens insists that whilst he was not exaggerating the cruelties practised on boys at schools resembling Dotheboys Hall, Mr. Squeers was the representative of a class and not of an individual. This is a view of the facts that the people around Greta Bridge cannot be induced to accept, and there is no doubt that the novelist really did--without intending it, probably--very serious injury to one who is held by those who knew him to have been a very estimable man. [Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE GRETA AND THE TEES.] There is now no one living to whom a relation of the facts can give pain, and so they shall be stated briefly here. The school which has been generally accepted as the subject of the great novelist's savage exposure was situated at Bowes, four miles from Greta Bridge. Bowes is no more than one straggling street, stretching away towards the desolation of Stanmore, and the school which was identified with Dotheboys Hall is the last house in the village, which lies along the Roman road of the Watling Street. The place was kept by a Mr. Shaw, who is said to have died of a broken heart. He had "only one eye," as Dickens remarked of his grim tyrant; he had also a wife and a daughter who assisted him in the management of the school. So far he "realises the poster," as an actor would say. There is no doubt, either, that his school was visited, and that he was seen by Dickens and by Hablot Browne. The one eye was in itself, unfortunately, a sufficient means of identification, there being no other one-eyed schoolmaster within any known distance of Greta Bridge. Dickens may have meant no more than to make use of this personal characteristic, combined with characteristics derived from other sources, as in the almost equally unlucky Miss Moucher case; but he had so associated a one-eyed schoolmaster with a place not far from Greta Bridge that no amount of explanation could remove the impression that Mr. Squeers was intended for Mr. Shaw, or could repair what was unquestionably an injury to one who stood high in the good opinion of his neighbours. All the members of the Squeers group of characters, indeed, were identified with persons then living in or around Bowes. John Browdie, for instance, is said to have been a farmer named Brown, and of the Browns there are still several families among the substantial farmers of the district. Of the good-feeling of which Mr. Shaw was the subject there are evidences still remaining in the resentment which is felt by the older inhabitants of Bowes when any inquiry is made as to Dotheboys Hall. "You'd better gan and inquire somewheere else," one of these remarked when questioned on the subject. "Yow folks come here asking all manner of questions, and then you gan and write bowks about us." The name of Dickens is absolutely detested by some of those who know the circumstances. As to the lady who was identified with Fanny Squeers, and who died but recently, she is declared to have been distinguished by great kindness of heart, "the sort of woman a dog or a child leaps to instinctively." In fact, however true it may have been that "Mr. Squeers and his school are faint and feeble pictures of an existing reality," it seems to be placed beyond question by common testimony that this reality did not exist at the village of Bowes, though nothing whatever can now remove the impression that Dickens intended to represent the school of Mr. Shaw. [Illustration: WYCLIFFE.] Besides the "George," mentioned by the novelist, there is at Greta Bridge another well-known place of entertainment, the "Morritt Arms." The village is scarcely of consequence, except as the site of a Roman station, of which the remaining indications are now "a grassy trench, a broken stone." The Greta is between here and the Tees so beautiful a river that Scott exhausted upon it all his powers of description, both in verse and prose. Having skirted Rokeby Park, it sweeps over a shelf of rock under a moss-covered bridge half-hidden in trees, and there meets with the obstacle of gigantic rocks, which seem as if they had been carried down in some tremendous flood and piled together in the central bed of the stream. Round these the Greta swirls to the Tees in two long rushing curves when the river is high, but in quiet, dry seasons it has one channel only, down which it rushes impetuously out of the leafy shade into the open sunlight. Two miles above Rokeby are those Brignal banks of which the poet sings-- "O, Brignal banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen." The present mansion of Rokeby is modern, and occupies the site of a manor house which was burned down by the Scots after the battle of Bannockburn. The Rokebys were a powerful family in these parts up to the occurrence of the civil wars. It was a Rokeby who, according to Holinshed, defeated the insurrection of the Earl of Northumberland, in the time of Henry IV., and slew the earl. Scott gives the whole of the family pedigree in the notes to his poem, showing how the Rokebys were High Sheriffs of Yorkshire through many generations, as well as justiciaries, Secretaries of State, and members of Council. They were destroyed by their loyalty and the bad faith of the Stuarts, as was the case with so many other ancient families, and their estates, after passing through the hands of the Robinsons, have been in the possession of the Morritts through several generations. There is a remarkable peel tower, with singularly light and graceful battlements, broken into varying heights, on the ridge of a hill just beyond the junction of the Greta with the Tees. It is now surrounded by farm buildings, but is much visited on account of the spectre called the Dobie of Mortham, a murdered lady whose blood the eye of strong faith may still see on the steps of the tower. High above the Tees on the Durham side, when Mortham has been passed, may be seen the pretty village of Whorlton, the first red-tiled village that we have so far encountered on Tees-side. It is approached by an iron suspension bridge, which crosses the river at a point where its broad bed of solid rock is curiously broken into long uneven steps, giving it the appearance of having been quarried at some remote time, and making a series of falls that, instead of crossing the river, as ordinarily occurs, shelve along one side of it, and continue for long distances, turning the current in an almost indescribable way. [Illustration: GAINFORD.] These singular breaks in the river bed mark the course of the Tees until the Yorkshire village of Wycliffe is reached, something over a mile from Mortham Tower. Except for the fact that the great Reformer was born here, the place is as unimportant as a newly-planted city in the American wilds; it consists, indeed, of no more than four or five scattered cottages, a parsonage, a church, and Wycliffe Hall. The parsonage is very large, and the church is very diminutive, seeming to be only an ornament of the parsonage grounds. But around this little church many of the Wycliffes lie buried, and among the monumental brasses there is one recording the death and the burial of the last of the name. Even yet, however, the Wycliffe blood is not extinct, for it flows in the veins of Sir Talbot Clifford Constable, the owner and tenant of Wycliffe Hall. If the "Morning Star of the Reformation" did not receive his first teaching at Egliston Abbey, as Dr. Vaughan has surmised, he must have ascended the hill from Wycliffe to where now stands the pretty village of Ovington, for here was formerly a priory of Gilbertine canons, though no traces of it now remain. Ovington stands higher than any other village on Tees-side, and from the level of its green the woods through which the river surges are far down below, so that even their highest tops do not reach to the crown of the ridge. Ovington is a right sweet and pleasant and prosperous village, much beloved of anglers, there being abundant fish. Nowhere is the Tees more shaded and beautiful, with its stream broken up into many currents by a series of wooded islands, on which the easy-going inadventurous fisher may lie under the leafy branches through torrid summer days. [Illustration: CROFT.] [Illustration: BLACKWELL BRIDGE.] Ovington is a village with a maypole in the middle of its green--a maypole with tattered garlands still clinging to its iron crown. The neat cottages all have their little gardens in front, and are roofed with rich brown tiles. There is a hostelry with the curious sign of "The Four Alls," where one may find such entertainment as few villages in England can provide, and sit in rooms over the decoration of which an obviously æsthetic taste has presided. The sign of "The Four Alls" is weather-stained unduly, but one may still discern pictures of a crowned king, with the motto, "I govern all;" of a soldier, with the motto, "I fight for all;" of a bishop, with the motto, "I pray for all;" and of a husbandman, with his motto of "I pay for all." This is possibly a product of the native Yorkshire wit, of the same variety as that which has designed the Yorkshire coat of arms, "A flea, a fly, a flitch of bacon, and a magpie." [Illustration: YARM.] The Tees has much loveliness but little variety between Ovington and Yarm; it has lost most of its wilder features, and--through many a winding curve, for it is an erratic river, bending and turning with a strange wilfulness--its deep woods "in seeming silence make A soft eye-music of slow waving boughs, Powerful almost as vocal harmony." At Gainford, which clusters round a large village green, there is an air of rustic fashion and luxury, for here reside many prosperous persons who have places of business in Darlington, which is seven miles away. Gainford boasts of a medicinal spring, or spa. It is a pretty strong fountain of water, situated about half a mile from the village, and close to the banks of the Tees, which at this place has a pathway through the woods. It is affirmed of the Gainford spa that whilst the water has the usual "smell of rotten eggs" it is innocent of unpleasant taste, an asseveration which, having tested it, I cannot conscientiously confirm. The church of Gainford, it is stated in all the guide-books, is of great antiquity, having been built by Egred, Bishop of Lindisfarne, between the years 998 and 1018; but as a matter of fact scarcely anything of this old church remains, except a few sculptured stones and fragments of crosses which have been built, in an exceedingly _olla podrida_ manner, into the porch of the present building, where I found displayed a carefully detailed statement of the week's revenue, amounting to the sum of fifteen shillings and eightpence-halfpenny. On the Yorkshire bank, opposite to Gainford, there is the end of an ancient earthwork, which runs across country from the Swale to the Tees, and which is surmised to be older than the Roman conquest of Britain. At Gainford, Samuel Garth, the poet of the "Dispensary," was born. Two miles from this village, and by so much nearer to the wealthy "Quaker town" of Darlington, a noble stone bridge crosses the Tees, connecting the Yorkshire bank with the site of the ancient Roman station of Magis. Pierce Bridge carries the old Roman road--the Leeming Lane--from Durham to Yorkshire. Careless antiquaries call it the Watling Street, which, however, we left behind us at Greta Bridge. For twenty miles or so, or for an equal space on either side of the Tees, the Leeming Lane, which has various local designations, is probably the straightest road in all England. One may see it rising and falling for miles in front, always keeping the direct course, whatever may be the depressions in the land. At Pierce Bridge, which is famous for its fishing, and where the trout may be seen lightly disporting themselves, the forces under the Earl of Newcastle had a skirmish with those of Lord Fairfax in 1642, at the hottest period of the civil war. A mile further down the river is High Coniscliffe, which is quaintly situated above a sudden cliff, so that it seems as if the first buildings erected here must have been intended for defence. It is but a very little cluster of buildings, this High Coniscliffe, taking its name, perhaps, from the fact that the river banks hereabouts are much frequented by rabbits, as, indeed, is the case with the banks of the Tees from Rokeby downwards. The one prominent building is the church, which has the peculiarity of being seven times as long as it is broad. The other singularity is that the pillars supporting the arches of the nave are no more than six feet in height. Low Coniscliffe, two miles away, is a more humble place, with no appearance of a cliff to account for its designation, and with an aspect of old-world poverty such as is presented by no other place with which we have, so far, met. At this point the interest of the river is, for the present, exhausted, and its beauty is gone, for just beyond Low Coniscliffe there is a quarter of a mile or so of waterworks, stretching on either side of the main road to Darlington, the three towns of Stockton, Darlington, and Middlesbrough, here pumping their water from the Tees. Darlington itself we leave to our left, but pass the mansions of some of its wealthy men--the Peases, the Backhouses, the Frys--who, however much they may retain of the old Quaker simplicity, certainly make no striking exhibition of it in the character of their dwellings. Three miles from "the Quaker town," and a much greater distance from High Coniscliffe, as the river winds, is the ancient village of Croft, occupying both banks of the Tees. On the Yorkshire side is the famous spa, to which invalids resort to drink the waters and to take the baths, and where marvellous cures are said to have been effected in times past. There are four sulphureous springs, of a much more decided character than the one already visited at Gainford, and owing, it may be, some part of their attractiveness to the sweetness of their situation. Croft is very commonplace on the Durham and very lovely on the Yorkshire side. The stone bridge which connects the two portions of the village, built in 1676, is the finest which crosses the Tees at any part of its course. It is on the site of an older structure, which was deemed greatly important by Henry VIII., as "the most directe and sure way and passage for the king our Sovereign Lord's army," when it was necessary to march against the Scots. The present bridge has a series of seven ribbed arches of fair width, and is so substantial that it is likely to endure until it can boast a more than respectable antiquity. Croft Church is a half-brown, half-grey old building of mixed materials and of most evident age. It has an appearance more worn and dilapidated even than its years warrant, though it was built at least as early as the fifteenth century, seeing that it contains a tomb of one Richard Clervaux, who died in 1492. The interior of the church has great architectural interest, and the exterior is, in its quaint way, one of those "things of beauty" which deserve to remain "joys for ever." In this church Bishop Burnet may have listened to his first sermon, for it was at Croft that he was born. The Lord of the Manor of Croft, by the way, formerly held his lands on the peculiar condition that he should meet every newly-appointed Bishop of Durham on Croft Bridge, and, presenting him with a rusty old sword, declare--"My lord, this is the sword which slew the worm-dragon, which spared neither man nor woman nor child." Traditions of these worm-dragons are plentiful in the north of England. There was, for example, "the Lambton worm," slain by an ancestor of the present Earl of Durham, which used to devour a maiden at a meal; and there was "the loathly worm of Spindleston Haugh," with a similarly voracious appetite. The lands of Croft had evidently been given to some supposed dragon-slayer, and were continued to his descendants by the yielding up and the immediate return of the famous sword. We are now more than ever reminded that the Tees is the dividing line of two counties. Though the river has constantly increased in width, all the towns from Croft downwards are situated more or less on each side of the stream. The first of these is the quiet and sleepy town of Yarm, with a single broad street on one side of the river, and a few scattered houses and windmills on the other. Up to Yarm the tide reaches, and here also the net-fishing for salmon begins, small cobles, with salmon-nets on board, being plentiful in the neighbourhood of Yarm Bridge. What else the people of Yarm do for a living in these days is not readily discernible. In former times they were shipbuilders on a limited scale, though they must have been exceedingly small vessels which could be launched in such a situation. Yet there must have been some period of great prosperity in the previous history of the place, as will be guessed from the fact that the houses are almost all of great width and height, and--as is evident from a peculiarity of style not seen elsewhere--were built with some thought of show. The one street of the place is of the width of three or four streets in the more crowded quarters of the larger towns lower down the Tees, and has in its centre an odd sort of Town Hall, like a large sentry-box on arches. At Yarm we set our faces towards the great, growing Tees-side towns, passing the pretty bridge at Blackwell, where Sir Henry Havelock-Allan has a beautiful seat. Already the smoke of great industries is darkening the atmosphere, and when the wind is still and the clouds are low, a black, unpleasant haze creeps over the face of the country and spreads itself far inland. [Illustration: STOCKTON.] By the time it reaches Stockton Bridge the Tees has been transformed from one of the most wild and lovely to one of the most tame and repellent of existing rivers. Its soiled waters henceforth flow between banks of blast-furnace slag; unpleasant odours float about its shores; it is ploughed by great steamships; all around there is the smoke of furnaces, the noise of hammers, the ugliness of trade. Stockton is a town of ancient foundation, which, after sleeping beside the Tees for ages, suddenly woke up to find itself in the nineteenth century, and, full of the nineteenth century desire to "get on," shook off its old apathy, measured itself against the age, deepened its river, built ships, smelted ironstone, cast and forged and manufactured, until it found itself accepted as one of the most spirited and enterprising of English towns. In the process of growth everything that may have been beautiful in its surroundings has been destroyed, and now, glorying in its ugliness, it flaunts its frightful aspect as one of its claims to consideration. [Illustration: HIGH STREET, STOCKTON.] Stockton Manor was granted to the see of Durham after the Conquest. A fortress was built, as was so necessary in those days, and the place was visited in 1214 by King John. In the sixteenth century Stockton was a town to which a Bishop of Durham might retreat from the Plague. The castle was taken by the Parliamentarians in 1644, and destroyed, the only stone houses in Stockton a few years ago being such as were built from the castle walls. There is one fine street and a Borough Hall, but every other part of Stockton bears witness to the fact that a town which is engaged in growing and prospering has neither time nor inclination to attend to its looks. As to the growth of the last half century, there is only one town--the neighbouring Middlesbrough--by which it has been excelled. At the beginning of the century Stockton had already a shipping trade, but one that could seem important only in the eyes of its 11,000 inhabitants. At that time the river kept a tortuous, shallow course until it arrived at the wide, sandy flats which stretched far eastward to the sea. The first improvement was a straightening of its course, which dates back to the year 1810. The effect was a heightening of the tide from eight to ten feet at Stockton Quay, and little short of a doubling of the shipping trade. The construction of the first public railway came just in time to encourage the town in its efforts at development. A Tees Conservancy was formed, with the consequence that the river was so dredged, banked up, and reformed generally, that Stockton is now not only a considerable port and an important manufacturing town, but a centre of shipbuilding, the vessels built here being as large as many of those which are constructed on the Tyne. Wealth and population have increased enormously, and there seems no necessary limit to further industrial development. Any accurate description of Stockton is in many respects applicable to Middlesbrough, a still more wonderful town, which has, within living memory, sprung up close to the estuary of the Tees. Fifty years ago there was only a single farmstead where the great town of Middlesbrough now stands. The United States have few examples of such marvellous growth. At the census of 1831 there were 154 persons in Middlesbrough, and at the census of 1881 the population was 55,281. It was in 1830 that the present town was founded, on 500 acres of marshy land. It has been assisted both by enterprise and good fortune. Originally it was intended as a port for the shipping of coals; but iron was discovered in the Cleveland hills, and blast furnaces were built where it was supposed that only coal-staithes would be seen. The first ton of Cleveland ironstone was mined in 1850, and in sixteen years the output was no less than two and three quarter millions of tons. When the iron trade was declining, a decade since, Middlesbrough men set themselves to devise new methods of manufacturing steel, with the result that Middlesbrough steel is now in demand all over the world. Talent, enterprise, the bounty of Nature, have all combined to make of Middlesbrough one of our large centres of population and industry, and to bring about a growth so rapid as has not previously been witnessed in the history of our country. The brief voyage down the Tees from Stockton to below Middlesbrough should be made in the night time, when clouds of smoke are shot through by columns of flame; when the furnace fires are blazing out into the darkness; when seething bars of iron, crushing and straining through the rolling-mills, make the forges look like some huge Vulcan's smithy; when the steel converters are sending out a fiery rain; and when the Tees is reflecting all manner of strange lights and weird coruscations--an appalling sight to one not accustomed to such spectacles, but grand and deeply impressive and wonderfully characteristic of the age in which we live. Middlesbrough has its fine docks, crowded with shipping. Where, a few years ago, the Tees spread itself over a broad estuary, the channel of the river has been divided from the wide stretch of mud and sand and creeping waves by a curving groin of slag; lines of light stretch downward as far as the eye can follow, guiding ships to the desired haven. Henceforth the Tees-- "Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep; Lingering no more 'mid flower-enamelled lands And blooming thickets; nor by rocky bands Held; but in radiant progress towards the deep"-- flows broadly onward to the Northern Sea. [Illustration: FERRYBOAT LANDING, MIDDLESBROUGH.] During the last quarter of a century the river below Stockton has been constantly undergoing a process of enlargement and improvement, necessarily accompanied by a destruction of its former picturesque beauty. The work done is in the highest sense creditable to northern enterprise. The foundation stones of two great breakwaters were laid in 1863, these defences against the incoming waves being appropriately built of slag from the furnaces of Middlesbrough and Stockton. The large quantity of 443,000 tons of this material was deposited in a single year, and by 1874, when close upon £100,000 had been spent, it was possible to report that a shifting bed of sand had been replaced by a solid and immovable wall. The breakwaters have cost close upon a quarter of a million sterling at the present date, a sum well expended, for a fine harbour has now been constructed only less important than that of the Tyne. On good authority it has been declared that the recent improvements on the Tees are to be ranked amongst the most successful engineering works of the century. Messrs. Besant and Rice have made the marvellous development of Middlesbrough the leading motive of one of their most striking novels. The mere history of the place is in itself a romance. So recently as in 1831 the place had only 154 inhabitants, and it has now, it is believed, considerably more than 60,000. Until iron was discovered in the Cleveland Hills the smelting works of the North of England were situated almost solely on the Tyne and the Wear. The finding of Cleveland iron made a vast change in the _locale_ of a great industry, and covered the low-lying and desolate lands near the estuary of the Tees with mighty forges, and blast furnaces, and iron shipbuilding yards and crowded streets. Where, sixty years ago, a shallow stream wound down to the sea, with only an occasional house discernible along its banks, there is now one of the finest outlets of our commerce and manufactures, and a deep river flowing through thickly populated towns. And as regards development the end is not yet. It has seemed more than once that Middlesbrough would collapse almost as rapidly as it has grown up, but it has risen stronger from every depression, and some new invention or discovery has at each crisis brought its assurance of continued life and growth. However, it is an unlovely Tees that the eye alights upon since the smoke of the blast furnaces came in sight. It would scarcely be possible for a river so beautiful in its upper reaches to undergo a more surprising and spirit-depressing change. Yet standing on the lofty quays at Middlesbrough and looking seaward, one is conscious of a throb of exhilaration, such as the hero of "Locksley Hall" must have felt when, imagining the future, he-- "Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales." In the perpetual coming and going of great steamers, bringing in cargoes of "wheat and wine and oil," and carrying out to all lands the produce of English industry and skill, there is a spectacle which very well atones for the destruction of some little picturesqueness here and there. What was bright and pleasant only is often enough in these cases replaced by what, when properly considered, is sublime. AARON WATSON. [Illustration: BLAST FURNACES, FROM THE RIVER, MIDDLESBROUGH.] [Illustration: IN THE POTTERIES.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER I. THE TRENT, FROM THE SOURCE TO NEWTON SOLNEY. The Course of the Trent--A Lowland Stream--Etymological--A Fish-Stream--The Source--The Potteries--Burslem, Etruria, and Josiah Wedgwood--Stoke-upon-Trent--Trentham Hall--Stone--Sandon--Chartley Castle--Ingestre and its Owners--The Sow--Tixall--Essex Bridge--Shugborough--Cannock Chase--Rugeley--Beaudesert--Armitage--The Blyth--Alrewas--The Tame--Burton-upon-Trent--Newton Solney. Some of our chief English rivers seek out paths for their waters, the motive of which is by no means easy to explain. Father Thames, indeed, goes about this work in a fairly businesslike way. Born on the eastern slopes of the Cotswolds he makes his way to the sea by a tolerably direct course. Not so Trent. Rising on the western slopes of the backbone of England, one would have expected that, like the Weaver on the one side of it, and the Dane on the other, it would have made its way towards the estuaries of the Dee or the Mersey; but it flows first of all nearly south, parallel with the trend of the great hill district of Derbyshire and North Staffordshire, and then after this has sunk down to the lowlands of the latter county, Trent bends towards the east, until the hills are left behind, when it sweeps round to the north, and so makes its way towards the Ouse and the Humber. Thus its course, like that of Dee, still more of Severn, may be roughly likened to a fish-hook. But, unlike these rivers, and like Thames, Trent, throughout its whole course, is a lowland rather than an upland stream. The hill region already mentioned is, indeed, drained by some of its tributaries, and its western slopes give birth to the little stream which first bears the name of Trent, and for a time traverses the North Staffordshire coalfield, but the river soon enters the district composed of sandstones, gravels, and marls (referred by geologists to the Trias), and as these are but rarely either hard or durable, the scenery is neither bold nor conspicuously varied. Such change as it exhibits is due rather to difference of productiveness than to diversity of physical features. In regard to the latter the extremes are only from level plain to undulating hills of moderate elevation, but the former affords every variety between barren moorland and densely wooded or richly cultivated ground. Michael Drayton thus explains the etymology of Trent, and assigns to it a mystic significance when he tells the tale of ... A long-told prophecy, which ran Of Moreland, that she might live prosperously to see A river born of her, who well might reckoned be The third of this large isle: which saw did first arise From Arden, in those days delivering prophecies. * * * * * To satisfy her will, the wizard answers, Trent. For, as a skilful seer, the aged forest wist, A more than usual power did in that name consist, Which thirty doth import; by which she thus divined, There should be found in her of fishes thirty kind; And thirty abbeys great, in places fat and rank, Should in succeeding time have builded on her bank; And thirty several streams from many a sundry way Unto her greatness should their watery tribute pay. On the same side may be quoted Camden and Spenser and Milton, yet philology is too strong for poetry, and modern scholars declare that the name Trent has nothing to do with the Latin word for thirty or any of its modifications in the Romance languages, but is of Celtic origin, is only a contracted form of Derwent, and means river-water. The first of the two words which compose the dissyllable Derwent, and enter into the monosyllabic Trent, is that which appears in the Doire, Dora, Douro, Durance, and other European rivers; the second is indicated by the Latin Venta, a name borne by more than one riverside town in Roman Britain. The Trent and its tributaries were noted of old as fish-streams, and even now, after years of neglect and poaching, it would not be difficult to make up the "thirty kinds of fish" which were once said to people its waters. Isaak Walton has made the upper reaches of the Dove classic ground; and there, as in the Blyth, and in gravelly parts of the main river, one may yet see "here and there a lusty trout and here and there a grayling." Eels were and still are numerous in the more muddy parts of its bed; pike are also common, though the giants of olden days are vanished like the Rephaim; for in the last century, a county historian tells us, fish weighing more than twenty pounds were not seldom caught, and one monster of thirty-six pounds is said to have been found dead. The barbel also is a Trent fish, and the stream may claim the salmon. One was caught many years ago so far away from the sea as Rugeley, but it was white and out of season. Swans in several districts add to the beauty of its waters, and build their nests by its side among the willow-beds and reeds. The river is navigable only as far as Burton, for above that town it is interrupted by weirs and by shallows; but canals follow the valley, and in the year 1849 the railroad uniting Rugby with Stafford passed along it for a few miles, and directed through a district, hitherto secluded, the traffic between London and Holyhead or the great towns of western Lancashire. This railway quitted the Trent near its junction with the Sow, but a few years later the towns higher up the river, forming the important district of the Staffordshire Potteries, were reached by a line which branches off from the main system of the London and North-Western Company at Colwich. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE TRENT, FROM THE SOURCE TO NEWTON SOLNEY.] The birthplace of Trent, like that of many persons afterwards famous, is inconspicuous. The river, according to Erdeswick, "hath its first spring in the moorlands between Bidulph and Norton, and divideth the shire almost into two equal parts, north and south." There is little to note in its earlier course. One or two of the adjacent villages possess some link with our older history, notably "Stanleghe," of which the author just quoted says, "of this small village do all the great houses of Stanley take their name." But before long a district is entered, unpleasing indeed to the artist, but welcome to the man of commerce--a land of chimneys and smoke, of kilns and furnaces, not only for earth but also for metal. This is the district popularly called the Potteries, a group of towns often so nearly confluent as to defy distinction by all but residents. Tunstall and Burslem, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Hanley and Stoke-upon-Trent: these, with such suburbs as Etruria, occupy a strip of country some ten miles long, drained by the youthful Trent and its tributaries, a composite or confluent hive of human bees. We will venture but on one positive statement, that Stoke-upon-Trent is the last of these towns, and below it the river emerges into more attractive scenery. In this district the smelting furnaces and ironworks are industries comparatively modern, but for centuries it has been noted for its earthenware. Burslem, one of the towns more distant from the Trent, appears to be the oldest, for under the name of Bulwardsleme it is mentioned in Domesday Book, and its "butter-pots" were noted in the days of the Stuarts. When Dr. Plot wrote his History of Staffordshire--that is, during the short reign of James II.--it was the chief place for the potter's industry, and he tells us that "for making several sorts of pots they have as many different sorts of clay, which they dig round about the town, all within half a mile's distance, the best being found near the coal." This earthenware was all coloured, for the white clay from Cornwall had not yet been imported into the district. The most marked advance was due to one man--Josiah Wedgwood, who was born to the trade in 1730. The effect of an illness in youth led him to turn his thoughts to the more delicate work, and he soon exhibited great skill in manufacturing ornamental pottery. When nearly thirty years old he established himself in business at Burslem, and produced such results as the white-stone ware, green glazed earthenware, cream-coloured Queen's ware, and the unglazed black porcelain. The works, however, at Burslem soon proved too small for his needs, and in 1766 he purchased an estate, built a large establishment on the bank of the Grand Trunk Canal, between Hanley and Newcastle, calling it Etruria, in remembrance of the so-called "Etruscan vases," which were among his favourite models. Aided in business by his partner, Bentley, in art by the talent of Flaxman, Wedgwood prospered, and Etruria under his management surpassed the fame of Worcester, and rivalled that of Sèvres or Dresden. Wedgwood, in fact, by the graceful form and harmonious decoration of his wares, did not a little to educate the national taste and raise it from the easy contentment with opulent ugliness which is the general characteristic of the "Hanoverian period" of British Art. Since his days the village has become a town; the ironworks of Shelton have helped in blackening the precincts of Etruria Hall, which Wedgwood built, and in the cellars of which he made his experiments; Spode and Minton and Copeland have added to the fame of the Potteries; villages and towns have grown beyond recognition, and houses have hid what once were fields; but though these and other makers have produced, or still produce, many admirable and characteristic works, "old Wedgwood ware" maintains a unique position among the masterpieces of ceramic art. [Illustration: ETRURIA.] [Illustration: JOSIAH WEDGWOOD.] We must not linger over the Grand Trunk Canal, nor the fame of Brindley, the engineer, a native of this part of Staffordshire, nor shall we be much tempted to tarry in Stoke-upon-Trent--at any rate, for æsthetic reasons--unless we confine ourselves to the interior of its show rooms, though there is many a worse place to live in. It is mightily changed since the days when Erdeswick wrote of it, "Of Stoke I can report no more but that the parson of the parish is the best man in the town, being lord thereof, and it being one of the best parsonages in the county." The parson now is a bishop and a baronet, but the town is yet more important. [Illustration: TRENTHAM.] It contains many buildings which larger towns could not despise: a handsome modern church, a fine town-hall, and a school of science and art, which is a memorial to the late Mr. Minton. Statues, or monuments of some kind, to several members of the great potter families--Wedgwood, Spode, Minton, and others--will be found here, and the town itself is regarded as the centre and show place of the district. Below Stoke, and almost within sight of its chimneys by the side of Trent, stands one of the "stately homes" of England--Trentham Hall, a seat of the Duke of Sutherland. The mansion lies low on the flat bed of the valley; the park mounts the slopes on the right hand, thus affording great variety of scenery, from richly-wooded meadows to rather open moorland. There is nothing to suggest a settlement of great antiquity, yet a monastery was founded here in the days of Alfred. Enlarged by Ranulf Earl of Chester, it passed, after the Dissolution, into the hands of the Levesons, ancestors of the present duke. One of them built on its site a fine Jacobean house, of which Plot gives a plate together with the following quaint note: "The stone-rail upon the wall built about the green-court before Trentham House is a pretty piece of work, it being supported with Roman capital letters instead of ballisters, containing an inscription not only setting forth the name of the ancient Proprietor and builder of this Seat, but the time when it was done, the Numeral Letters put together making up the year of our Lord, when it was finish't, viz., 1633." This house was pulled down early in the last century, when the nucleus of the present mansion was erected, which, however, was greatly enlarged and altered by Sir Charles Barry in the time of the late duke. The church, which adjoins the house, contains remnants of very early work and some interesting monuments. There is a large sheet of water in the gardens, which are famed for many a mile round for their beauty, and surpass any that will be found elsewhere near the margin of the Trent. After passing Trentham the river gradually loses the traces of the grime of the potteries and coalfields, and glides along through pleasant pastoral scenery till it reaches Stone. This, for long a sleepy little country town, has been awakened by the railway and other causes, and seems now to be a fairly busy and thriving place, devoted chiefly to malting, brewing, and shoemaking. There is little to indicate antiquity, except a few fragments of an old nunnery, for the church dates from the last century, when that which had once served the religious house tumbled down. Stone, nevertheless, begins its history more than twelve centuries ago. There lived then a certain Wulfere, king of Mercia, who had a residence somewhere near Stone: tradition asserts at Bury Bank, rather higher up the Trent, where an earthwork still exists. Wulfere was a heathen and a persecutor, but a holy hermit, named Ceadda, better known as St. Chad, who died bishop of Lichfield, was dwelling hidden in the neighbouring forest. The king's two sons were hunting one day, and were led by the chase to the saint's abode. The young men felt the charm of his words, repeated their visit, and became converts. Of course this was soon made known to their father; the parent was forgotten in the persecutor, and the young men were put to death. But time brought its revenges, though in this case merciful. Before many years were over Wulfere himself became a Christian, and then, as a monument of sorrow and penitence, he founded a monastery at Stone, where also a nunnery was established by his queen. The last statement, as to the date of the foundation, is probably true, but all the rest of the story, like many another concerning Chad, is only legend. Since then Stone, as is the case with many other country towns, has shared in the beatitude of having no history. The suppression of its convents, the ruin of its church, and a connection with the Rebellion of 1745--the latter events happening in the same decade--appear to have been the chief incidents that have ruffled its even existence. The last-named incident might have given it a place in national history, had things taken another course. The young Pretender Charles Edward, after his triumph in Scotland, had crossed the Solway, and begun his invasion of England. He was expected to advance upon London along the line of the main road from Manchester, so the Duke of Cumberland encamped in the neighbourhood of Stone to dispute his passage. Charles, however, as is well known, struck eastward, and on arriving at Derby, was a long day's march nearer London than the duke's army. The inherent weakness of his forces averted the danger, and the Hanoverian troops had only to pursue the retreating enemy till he made his last hopeless stand on the moor of Culloden. Below Stone the river passes Sandon, an old village. There are not many prettier places in all the valley of the Trent than the park of the Harrowbys with its slopes of grove and sward, the higher parts of which command views of unusual extent, not only over the rich river valley of the Trent, but also as far as the Wrekin and Caradoc hills. On elevated ground, at the edge of the park, is the parish church, containing several interesting remains of olden time, the most conspicuous, though by no means the most ancient, being the monument to Sampson Erdeswick, the historian of Staffordshire, and former owner of the estate, who died in the year 1603. The property ultimately passed into the hands of the Duke of Hamilton, and a law-suit in regard to it is reported to have occasioned the quarrel between the duke and Lord Mohun which, as is well known, had so tragic an ending. Erdeswick's house, of which the site is still marked, was a fine old brick and timber edifice, surrounded by a moat; but in the last century a new and uninteresting mansion was erected by Lord Archibald Hamilton, which was burned down in 1848, and replaced by a more handsome building in the Tudor style. From him the property was purchased by an ancestor of the present owner, the Earl of Harrowby. Rather below Sandon, near the little village of Shirleywich, brine is obtained. Fortunately, however, for the beauty of the scenery, there has been no temptation to establish extensive salt works. The quiet little villages on the lowlands, near the river, offer nothing to delay the traveller; but the grey ruins, high on the left bank, mark a place of some note. Those two broken towers, those fragments of curtain-wall, are remnants of Chartley Castle; the moorland, which extends back from the park, is one of the few spots in England where the descendants of _bos primigenius_ still linger on in a semi-wild condition. The castle, though it carries back its history to early in the thirteenth century, makes little figure in history. The present house is on lower ground, and parts of it are older than the reign of Elizabeth, who not only visited it herself, but made it one of the prisons of Mary Queen of Scots. The estate formerly was included among those of the great Earls of Chester, but has for long been part of the family property of the present owner, Earl Ferrers. There is a tragic tale about a former earl, who was a man of ungovernable temper--probably insane, and shot his own steward. Feudal times were then too far away, and his coronet could not save him from the halter. [Illustration: INGESTRE HALL.] The wild cattle, of which it is not generally easy, and, at certain seasons, not always safe, to obtain a near view are, according to Shaw, the historian of Staffordshire, "in colour invariably white, muzzles and ears black, and horns white, fine-tipped with black." If a black calf be born it is promptly destroyed, not only because it might alter the constancy of the breed, but also because it is deemed an evil omen, for its birth, so folk believe, is followed by the death of a member of the family. [Illustration: WOLSELEY BRIDGE.] [Illustration: SHUGBOROUGH.] Some distance away, on the opposite bank of the Trent, just where the ground begins to rise from the level of the valley, stands one of the most picturesque, and formerly one of the most interesting, mansions along the whole course of the river. This is Ingestre, the home of the Chetwynd-Talbots, now Earls of Shrewsbury. Formerly it was a perfect specimen of an Elizabethan mansion, but in the year 1882 it was reduced by fire to a mere shell of masonry, and many family relics of interest were destroyed. It has, however, been rebuilt, and as in many places the old walls had remained uninjured, the external appearance is little changed. The plate in Plot's "Staffordshire" represents a formal garden and courtyard in front, with the church close at hand, near the eastern end of the house, to which some additions have been subsequently made. The other features, though they can still be traced in part, have been modified in compliance with the less formal taste of later ages; but the church is unaltered--a grey stone structure of little architectural beauty, erected in the latter part of the seventeenth century by the owner of the estates in place of one which occupied a less convenient situation, and was in a dilapidated condition. This is the history of its consecration, as it is given by Plot, who tells us that milled shillings, halfpence, and farthings "coyn'd that year (1673) were put into hollow places cut for that purpose in the larger corner-stone of the steeple." Afterwards he continues, "The church being thus finisht at the sole charge of the said Walter Chetwynd, in August An. 1677 it was solemnly consecrated by the right Reverend Father in God Thomas Lord Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield; the Dean of Lichfield preaching the Sermon, and some others of the most eminent Clergy reading prayers; baptizing a Child; Churching a woman; joyning a couple in Matrimony and burying another; all which offices were also there performed the same day. The pious and generous Founder and Patron offering upon the Altar the tithes of Hopton a village hard by, to the value of fifty pounds _per Annum_, as an addition to the Rectory for ever: presenting the Bishop and Dean at the same time, each with a piece of plate double guilt, as a gratefull acknowledgment of their service: and entertaining the Nobility, Clergy, and Gentry, both Men and Women, of the whole County in a manner, which came that day to see the solemnity performed, with a most splendid dinner at his house near adjoyning." The owners of Ingestre were descendants of the great Talbot family which fills so large a space in English history during the middle ages. The titles of Earl Talbot and Viscount Ingestre were conferred in the eighteenth century, and in the year 1856, in the lifetime of the third earl, the great law-suit was begun to establish his right to the earldom of Shrewsbury, and the large estates covered by the entail. For at least a century and a half the Earls of Shrewsbury had been Roman Catholics, and during all that time the title had not gone by direct descent, so it had become a saying in the county that so long as a Romanist held the title, no heir would be born to him. Thus, on the death of Earl Bertram, while still a young man and unmarried, great doubt existed as to the succession. The suit "involved two separate questions, namely, who was really the next-of-kin, and whether the estates were separable from the earldom. These had been entailed by an Act of Parliament obtained by the Duke of Shrewsbury, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, but it was doubtful whether the entail did not expire in the person of the young Earl Bertram. He was of opinion that it did, and being an ardent Roman Catholic, left the estates and all the art treasures contained in Alton Towers (the principal seat of his ancestors) to the Duke of Norfolk, so that they might still be owned by an obedient son of the Pope of Rome. It was, however, contended that the entail was yet valid and the estates were inseparable from the title. For the latter two claimants appeared, the one Earl Talbot of Ingestre in Staffordshire, the other Major Talbot of Castle Talbot, county Wexford. The former claimed as descendant of a son of the second wife of a certain Sir John Talbot of Albrighton, grandson of the second Earl of Shrewsbury; the latter as a descendant of a son of the first wife of the same person. If Major Talbot could have proved his pedigree, obviously he would have succeeded. This, however, he failed to do to the satisfaction of the House of Lords, who decided that Henry John Chetwynd, the Earl of Talbot, had made out his claim. He accordingly took the oath and his seat as eighteenth earl, June 10th, 1858. The important suit about the estates was not decided till 1860, when the Court of Exchequer pronounced the will of the late Earl Bertram, as far as concerned the entailed property, to be invalid."[2] Neither the winner, nor his son and successor, lived long to enjoy their victory, and the title devolved upon the present earl when he was still a boy. However, the charm seems broken, and the popular belief has been confirmed, for the earldom has already twice descended in the direct line. Beautiful as is Ingestre Hall, its situation is hardly less attractive. The ground swells up from the old-fashioned garden into low hills, carpeted with grass, and shaded by fine old trees and clustering copses, which at last sink down into the rich meadows, through which the Trent winds slowly on. Rather below Ingestre it receives its first important affluent, which bears the prosaic name of the Sow. It is a stream of hardly less magnitude, but of less beauty and interest, which comes down a broad and well-marked valley from Stafford; this, though the chief town of the county, possesses little to interest the traveller; it is, however, an important railway junction, and is, besides, busied in shoemaking. The Sow also, before reaching the Trent, receives an affluent which is hardly less than itself. This is the Penk, which rises on the edge of the industrial district of South Staffordshire, and follows a northerly course through pleasant scenery on the western border of Cannock Chase until it meets the Sow. Between the latter river and the Trent lies the estate of Tixall, once the property of the Astons and then of the Cliffords, but purchased some forty years since by the Talbots. The house, which stands nearer to the Sow, is a comparatively modern stone structure, plain and heavy in style, very inferior to the picturesque old dwelling which is represented by Plot, and of which he remarks that "the windows, though very numerous, are scarce two alike;" but the grey and ivy-clad old gateway "a curious piece of stone-work," built in 1589, though dismantled, still remains much as it was when his plate was engraved. It stands just at the foot of the slope, where the low hills die away to the river plain, which here is perhaps half a mile in width; fine old trees cluster thickly in the neighbourhood of the house and around the little village, almost masking its cottages and its tiny church. Down the valley we see the woods of Shugborough closing the view and clothing the opposite slope beyond the union of the two rivers, and above them rises a triumphal arch, a memorial of a former owner of the hall, who was a man of note in his day and generation. [Illustration: RUGELEY, FROM THE STONE QUARRY.] The Trent, after it has taken large tribute from the Sow, flows through the park of the Earls of Lichfield, which is certainly not the least beautiful of those on its banks. The house, indeed, is not well situated, for it is built on the valley plain near the river, and is an uninteresting structure in the plainest Hanoverian style, but the scenery of the park is no less varied than beautiful. Here are broad and level meadows, shaded by groups of aged trees, and extending to the margin of the river; the plain gradually breaking into picturesque undulations as it approaches either border of the valley. On the left bank this is quickly reached. Here the slopes descend steeply to the river; on the opposite side, at a greater distance, the park begins to climb the outlying moorlands of Cannock Chase, on which, at intervals, cultivation wholly ceases. The ancestors of the present earl have resided on this estate since the reign of James I., but the first to reach the peerage was Admiral George Anson, who, in 1740, began a protracted voyage, during which he circumnavigated the globe, and inflicted great injuries on the Spanish settlements in the New World. Afterwards he defeated the French in a naval engagement. As a reward for these and other services he was created Baron Anson, but the title expired with him. A nephew, however, who succeeded to his estate, was ultimately created Viscount Anson, and the earldom of Lichfield dates from 1831. Shortly below its junction with the Sow the Trent is crossed by a curious old bridge, which, if only for its view of the valley, is worth a visit. Just above it the stream is divided by a wooded island and the western branch tumbles over a tiny weir: then the united waters, after passing beneath the bridge, contract as they flow between banks overhung by trees; these are backed on the left by the steep slopes already mentioned, but on the right stretch away till the wooded plain mounts to the uplands of Cannock Chase. The Essex Bridge, as it is called, from some connection with the family of Devereux, once owners of Chartley, even now consists of fourteen arches, but, according to the old county histories, was formerly of greater length. It is, however, difficult to see on which side the bridge has been cut short; but possibly the road across the valley may have been continued by a causeway, which was included with the bridge. This is a singularly picturesque old structure of grey sandstone, only about four feet in width, with an angle of refuge for foot passengers at every one of the piers--a convenience which will be appreciated by the traveller even if he encounter only a tricycle in crossing. [Illustration: CANNOCK CHASE, FROM THE TRENT.] In the park of Shugborough, and for a short distance below this, Trent approaches nearest to the edge of Cannock Chase. Indeed, for rather more than a mile above Wolseley Bridge, opposite the villages of Great Heywood and Colwich, a walk of a furlong, through a mere belt of cultivated land, leads on to an open moor which in some directions extends without a break for miles. The Chase is an undulating upland rising some three or four hundred feet above the valley of the Trent, and often not far from six hundred feet above sea level, a plateau consisting of rolling hills and narrow valleys with steeply shelving sides, composed almost wholly of the "pebble beds"--thick masses of a rather hard and sandy gravel containing pebbles which often are three or four inches in diameter. There is practically no surface soil, and thus the moors offers little temptation to the "land-grabbers." Of late years indeed its area has been diminished, and its beauties not augmented, by considerable enclosures in the neighbourhood of Rugeley and Hednesford, and by the opening of collieries near the latter place. But the new fields do not seem likely to do much more than pay interest on the first expenditure, and the collieries have not been so uniformly successful as to cause apprehensions that, at any rate in the present generation, the moorland will become a "Black Country." Another danger has lately threatened its solitudes, for a tract of Cannock Chase was one of the sites proposed for the meeting of the National Rifle Association in succession to Wimbledon Common. Bisley has been preferred, but there is still a possibility that this tract may be used as a practice ground for the Volunteers of the Midland and Northern counties, in which case the charm of another large segment of the Chase will quickly vanish. At present, notwithstanding the occasional prospect of distant collieries, there are few districts in the Midlands which offer more attractions than Cannock Chase. The contour of the ground, it is true, does not exhibit much variety. It is, as has been said, an undulating plateau from which fairly well-marked valleys, gradually deepening, descend towards the lowlands, but there is much diversity in the minor details. Here sturdy oaks are scattered or graceful birches cluster close on slope or valley. Here only some weather-beaten sentinel of either tree, or a wind-worn thorn breaks the barrenness of the hill, or a few Scotch firs crown its crest. Almost everywhere the bracken flourishes, and heath or ling grows thick on the stony soil. So, in the late summer, the Chase for miles glows with the crimson bloom of the heath, or is flushed with the tender pink of the ling, while as autumn draws on the fern turns to gold on the slopes, and on the barer brows the bilberry leaf changes to scarlet, and the moor, soon to don the russet hue of its winter garb, seems to reflect the rich tints of the sunset sky. But this is not all. Among its many charms is the contrast of scenery: one moment you may be quite shut in by the undulations of the moorland--sweeps of fern and heath and ling bounding the view on every side--seemingly as far from the haunts of man as among the Sutherland Hills; but the next, on gaining the crest of some rounded ridge, many a mile of fertile lowland spreads out before your eyes--many a league of the rich vales of the Trent and the Sow, one vast and varied tapestry of woodland and cornfield and pasture, while beyond and above, rise, in this direction, the Wrekin dome and the Caradoc peaks, in that the great rounded uplands of Derbyshire, and in that the more broken outlines of the Charnwood Forest Hills. Deer once were common, black-game and grouse abundant, the snipe and even the woodcock made their nests in the valleys, and other rare birds were to be seen. But now the deer are few and the game is scanty. Cannock Chase, like the rest of Great Britain, suffers from the congestion of humanity. But we must return to the Trent, from which we have wandered away into the moors. For a few miles, after leaving Shugborough Park, though it affords much pretty scenery, there is no place of special beauty or of historical interest near its banks. It passes under a new bridge, close to one of the approaches to the Chase; it leaves on the left the village of Colwich and its neat church, on the right Oakedge Park, from which the residence has now disappeared. This, more than a century since, was the scene of a local scandal--a fascinating widow, a midnight marriage, and a verification of the old proverb about haste and leisure in regard to that bond. Then the river glides beneath the three arches of Wolseley Bridge--deservedly held in repute for its graceful though simple design--and passes at the back of Wolseley Hall. The estate has been owned by Wolseleys from before the Norman Conquest--but the house is comparatively modern, is of little interest, and is placed too near the water. Of this family Viscount Wolseley is a member, tracing back his descent to a younger son of a former baronet, and is thus a distant cousin of Sir Charles Wolseley, the present owner of the estate. About half a mile from the Trent, and almost at the foot of the uplands of Cannock Chase, lies Rugeley, a small market town, the chief industry of which is a tannery. This place some thirty years ago acquired an unenviable notoriety as the scene of a case of poisoning, which attracted much attention and presented points of legal interest. The chief railway station is near the river, and so at some distance from the town, of which little is seen. The slender spire which rises above its houses is that of the Roman Catholic Church; the Anglican Church is at the nearer entrance of the town. It was built early in the century, and if ugliness were a merit might claim the first rank, but on the opposite side of the road are the tower and some portions of the old church, which are not without a certain picturesqueness. The tall chimneys on the hill slopes, a mile or more beyond the town, indicate the northern boundary of the South Staffordshire coalfield. Here the escarpment of the moorlands is not very far away from a fault by which the coal measures are thrown down for so many hundred feet that no attempt has yet been made to sink shafts in the valley of the Trent. Also on the uplands, and rather further away from Rugeley, is another of the great houses which are the chief interest of this part of the Trent. This is Beaudesert. Once a country seat of the Bishops of Lichfield, it passed into the hands of the Pagets in the reign of Henry VIII. A peerage has been long in the family, but the first Marquis of Anglesey was a dashing officer, who highly distinguished himself in the great war with France, and lost his leg at the battle of Waterloo, where he commanded the cavalry. The house, which stands in a commanding position high up on the slope of the uplands, is built of brick, and not a little of it dates from the reign of Elizabeth, though it is not a striking example of the architecture of that era. Several small villages are dotted over the lowlands near Trent side, each offering some little bit of antiquity or fragment of history, such as Armitage, with its church looking down on canal and river, or Mavesyn Ridware, with some tombs of interest in its highly restored Trinity aisle, and its story of a feud between Mavesyn de Ridware and Sir William of Handsacre; though over these we must not linger, but follow the Trent as it pursues its course through grassy meadows in a widening valley, leaving the old cathedral town of Lichfield some four miles away amidst the undulating ground on its southern bank. It glides by various small villages, and receives the tributary stream of the Blyth, which traverses one of the prettiest districts of Staffordshire, coming down by the park of the Bagots, and the remnant of the ancient forest of Needwood, where many a grand oak still flourishes. By the water side are many fair pictures--pleasant groupings of trees, and reeds, with wide straths of grass and glimpses of scattered farmhouses, or grey towers of village churches--each with its little cluster of memories, sometimes of more than local interest. Of these perhaps the most noteworthy is Alrewas, once famed for its eels. Excerpts from its registers are quoted by Shaw, and make interesting reading. Here they tell of a murder, there of a suicide, now of a death by drowning in Trent or Tame, now of heat, or drought, or frost. Fires and storms also figure in the record, even an earthquake, but the strangest tale of all is the following: "This 21st day of December, anno 1581, was the water of Trent dryed up and sodenly fallen so ebb that I, John Falkner, vicar, went over into the hall meddow, in a low peare of showes, about 4 of the clocke in the afternoone: and so it was never in the remembrance of any man then living in the droughtest yeare that any man had knownen, and the same water in the morning before was banke full, which was very strange." [Illustration: FROM THE MEADOWS NEAR ALREWAS.] [Illustration: ARMITAGE.] [Illustration: BURTON-UPON-TRENT.] The Tame, which joins the Trent near Alrewas, coming down by "Tamworth tower and town," nearly doubles the volume of the latter, which afterwards flows towards the north, that is in prolongation of the course of the former river. The valley widens yet more between the low hills of Leicestershire and the upland which formed part of Needwood Forest--that region "richly placed," as Drayton says, "'twixt Trent and battening Dove," which, though curtailed of its ancient extent by enclosure, still exhibits more than one grand old oak, and many a choice nook of forest scenery, while the views from the hilly district between the Blyth and the Dove are often of singular variety and beauty. But now chimneys begin to bristle from the river-plain, and smoke to dim the brightness of the air. Is it fancy, or does a pleasant odour of brewing mingle with the scent of meadow-sweet and riverside herbs? It may well be, for we are approaching Burton-upon-Trent, the metropolis of beer. The description written of it for other pages may be given here:--"If the visitor to Burton care neither to drink of beer nor think of beer, he will not find much to detain him there. Though an old place, it possesses little of antiquity; nor is there any picturesqueness either in its houses or in its streets. It gives one the idea of a typical Staffordshire town--that is to say, a very uninteresting one--which during the last half century has developed into an important mercantile centre. There is thus a certain air of incompleteness about it. Homely buildings of the times of our grandfathers are mixed with handsome modern structures; a fine church, school, or institute rises among dwellings of the most ordinary type; one shop is appropriate to the quiet country town of the last generation, another to the bustling country town of the present. But there is one dominant characteristic--Burton is wholly given over to beer. The great breweries occupy whole districts of the town, and are intersected by the streets; these are traversed again and again by rails; and locomotives, dragging laden wagons--trains of beer--pass and repass in a way unprecedented in any other English town. Great piles of barrels--the Pyramids of the Valley of the Trent--greet the traveller's eye as he halts at the station, and the air is redolent with the fumes of brewing."[3] The development of this industry is comparatively of late date, though the ale of Burton has long enjoyed a local reputation. Even the monks of its abbey were noted for the excellence of their beer; but Leland and Camden speak only of its alabaster works. "But in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, beer from the district--which, probably, was in part brewed at Burton--was introduced into London. This, however, bore the name of Derby ale, and by that name is favourably spoken of by Camden. He, however, states that there were diversities of opinion, for a Norman poet had termed it 'a strange drink, so like the Stygian lake.'" The original Burton ale was, however, very different from that for which it is generally celebrated, for it was a strong drink, the India pale ale dating only from the present century. "In the year 1822, one Hodgson, a London brewer who had settled at Burton, brewed something like the present bitter ale, which he accomplished in a teapot in his counting-house, and called it 'Bombay beer.' A retired East India captain named Chapman improved on this, and Burton ale soon attained the celebrity that has made the names of Bass and Allsopp household words all over the world." The heads of each of these firms (now converted into limited companies) have mounted on steps of barrels to the peerage; but there are other firms of slightly younger standing though of hardly less importance. One noteworthy fact in the later history of Burton is the liberality of these its leading citizens. Not a few of the principal public buildings--churches, schools, baths, and other institutions--are gifts from members of this or that firm; the latest is a suspension bridge for foot passengers over the Trent, at the southern end of the town, which is the gift of Lord Burton. Previous to this the river was only bridged in one place. At this spot a bridge has existed for several centuries; but the present structure is quite modern. It is far more commodious, but to the artist less attractive, than its predecessor. That was narrow, built on a curve, consisting of thirty-six arches, hardly any two of which were alike; this is wide, uniform, and strikes straight across the broad valley from bank to bank. Like most old bridges, the former had above its piers the usual nooks for the retreat of passengers, and few who remember it will not feel some regret at the change. But this was inevitable; the old bridge was totally inadequate for the needs of the new Burton, which had become a very different place from the little town pictured by Shaw at the end of the last century, and sentiment was obliged to yield to utility. As might be supposed, the old bridge, in early days, was the scene of more than one conflict. But the history of Burton Town goes back earlier than that of Burton Bridge, even if this, as some have asserted, dated from the reign of William the Norman. Full a thousand years ago there dwelt at Bureton, or Buryton, a noted lady of Irish birth, Modwena by name, who, for curing Alfred, son of Ethelwolfe, of some disease, received a grant of land. Her home for some years was the island between the two branches of the Trent, and the well from which she had been wont to drink sympathetically retained healing virtues, being in repute, as Plot tells us, with those who suffered from the "king's evil." A monastery was afterwards founded by Ulfric Spot, Earl of Mercia, to which her body was translated, and which endured till the suppression of such institutions. The church which was attached to it has been rebuilt, and only some fragments of the conventual buildings remain about the house, which still bears the name of Burton Abbey. The arms of the Trent unite below Burton, and the right bank of the river affords some varied and pleasant scenery, the ground sloping rapidly down to the level water-meadows, with scattered houses, hamlets, and groves of trees. A castellated mansion of pretentious aspect stands on the hill above fine old trees; beyond, on lower ground, embosomed in yet larger and not less ancient groves, is Newton Hall, near the village, called for distinction Newton Solney, which stands nearly opposite to the junction of the Dove with the Trent. T. G. BONNEY. [Illustration: DOVE HEAD.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER II. THE DOVE. What's in the Name--Axe Edge and Dove Head--The Monogram--Glutton Mill--Hartington--Beresford Dale--Pike Pool--Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton--Beresford Hall--Dove Dale--Its Associations--Ilam--The Manifold--Ashbourne--Doveridge-- Uttoxeter--Sudbury--Tutbury--The Confluence. There are two rivers bearing the beautiful name of the Dove--a name derived from "the shimmering gleam of water, corresponding to the lustre of the dove's white wing." There are also two Dove Dales. In Longfellow's "Poems of Places," Wordsworth's tender verses beginning-- "She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove," are often ascribed to the Derbyshire river, which is more than worthy of such a dedication. But the Dove which the venerable recluse of Rydal Mount referred to is the wayward mountain streamlet of his own beloved Lakeland; and the Dove Dale of that district, in its romantic beauty and historic associations, is but a wayside dell in comparison with the enchanting glen where Izaak Walton discoursed upon philanthropy and fishing, and the gallant Charles Cotton alternately entertained the ancient angler, and hid himself in caves to escape the polite attentions of unpleasant creditors. The phrase, however-- "A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye," aptly, if unconsciously, describes Dove Head, where the Derbyshire Dove escapes from the morose moorlands of Axe Edge, the mountain cradle of four other rivers--the Wye, the Dane, the Goyt, and the Manifold. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ MAP OF THE DOVE.] Axe Edge is a wild heathery table-land, in which the counties of Derby, Stafford, and Cheshire meet in a savage solitude. The loneliness of this region is impressive, although fashionable Buxton, the spa of the Peak, is only three miles away. There are whisperings of water everywhere on these breezy highlands, now purple under a passing cloud, now a vivid green in the slanting sunlight, as shadow and shine succeed each other over the rugged slopes. They are mere liquid lispings. Their articulations are not so loud as the crow of the blackcock, the clamour of the peewit, or the call of the grouse. But the imperceptible tinkling, the mere tracery of moisture among the rank grass and ebony peat, grow until the rill has become a rivulet; and now we are at Dove Head. There is an isolated farmstead, the whitewashed buildings of which stand out in strong relief from the sombre moorland background. Over the doorway of this solitary old farmhouse are carved the words "Dove Head." Exactly opposite to this house is a moss-grown trough with bubbling water, clear and cold, not topaz-coloured like most streams that have their origin in mountain mosses. On the slab the initials of Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton are entwined in cypher, after the manner of the monogram in the fishing-house in Beresford Dale. This spot indicates the county boundary. Staffordshire claims one side of the Dove, but Derby has greater pretensions to the ownership of the river, for both its head and its foot are in the latter county. Dove Head is one of the view points of the "Peake Countrie." The panoramic prospect over bleak height and verdant dale is one to transport the landscape painter. Yet it is too near Buxton, with Manchester only forty minutes' railway ride away, to tempt the English artist. There exist, in a relative sense and with due respect to proportion, few wilder or more picturesque "bits" of scenery than are comprised in the ramble from Dove Head to Glutton Mill. For three or four miles the river, a mere brook, passes through a gritstone gorge, with rocky escarpments above, boulders below, and a paradise of ferns around. At Glutton Mill the character of the scenery changes with the geological nature of the country. The limestone now crops up, and there are peculiar volcanic upheavals, such as Chrome Hill and Parker Hill. The rocky glen has widened suddenly into a green and spacious valley, and the harsh and hungry stone walls give place to park-like pastures and hawthorn hedgerows. Chrome Hill and Parker Hill rise steep between the "Princess Dove" in her infancy and her maidenhood; while green High Wheeldon and austere Hollins Clough are the sentinels of two jealous counties. Glutton Mill, with its red-tiled roof, idyllic surroundings, and sleepy atmosphere, might have inspired the Laureate when he confessed-- "I loved the brimming wave that swam Through quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal." Glutton Dale, a rocky gorge, gives access to the odd, old-world village of Sterndale, with a tavern the sign of which is "The Silent Woman." It is a pictorial sign in the most pronounced Van Daub style; but the designer must have been a satirical humourist, for the lady depicted is without a head! The Dove for the next few miles loses its wild features. There are no deep gorges or rocky chasms. The walk now is through lush meadows, and the progress of the stream, so swift and tumultuous in its upper reaches, is in comparison almost sluggish. It ripples with soothing murmur over pebbly shallows, or reflects patches of blue sky in deep and glassy pools. Here and there a water-thread from either the Staffordshire or the Derbyshire side, is welcomed, and trout and grayling invite the angler. Past Beggar's Bridge, Crowdecote Bridge, Pilsbury, Broad Meadow Hall, and a fertile country dotted with dairy farms, and we are at the patrician village of Hartington, with its Elizabethan hall on the hill, and its venerable church with pinnacled tower, dating back to the first part of the thirteenth century, _temp._ Henry III. Hartington, which gives the Marquises their title, is eleven miles from Dove Head, and the length of the river from its source to its junction with the Trent is exactly fifty-six picturesque unpolluted miles, without an uninteresting point along the entire course. A riverside path brings us to Beresford Dale, perhaps the most secluded portion of the valley, for the Dove Dale tourist and the "cheap tripper" rarely penetrate so far up the zigzag windings of the river. Here the stream resumes its romantic features. Limestone tors embroidered with foliage shut it out from the world. There is a strip of white cloud above, and a gleam of liquid light below. Pellucid pools reflect wooded height and gleaming crag. All around is the sense of solitude and the rapture of repose, broken only by the soliloquy of the stream and the song of the wild birds. At Pike Pool (there are no pike), alluded to in the "Compleat Angler," rises from the centre of the Dove a pinnacle of weather-beaten limestone forty feet high. Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton indulge in a characteristic colloquy concerning this isolated needle, "one of the oddest sights." The intimacy of the reckless young squire who penned the indecencies of "Virgil Travestie," and the rigid moralist who wrote the Lives of Hooker and George Herbert, is one of the curiosities of famous friendships. It can only be accounted for by the conclusion that true love is like the law of magnetism--the attraction of opposites. Here, however, "Piscator" and "Viator" cease to be abstractions, for, behold! this is the classic Fishing House, wherein "my dear son Charles" entertained his "most affectionate father and friend." Externally it is the same as when Izaak and Charles smoked their morning pipe, which was "commonly their breakfast," and discoursed of the joys and contentment of country life. The little temple is built on a green peninsula at a pretty bend of the river, with the swing of trees above and the song of the stream below. "It is"--says the author of "Pictures of the Peak"--"a one-storied building, toned with the touch of time. In shape it is a perfect cube of eighteen feet, with a pyramidal stone roof, from which springs a stone pillar and hip knob. There are lattice windows and shutters on all sides. The doorway, with its three moss-grown steps, faces the dale, and over it is a square panel with the inscription-- Piscatoribus Sacrum 1674. A monogram, similar to the one at Dove Head, declares the affinity between the two old-world fishermen!" Formerly the oak wainscoting was covered with paintings of riverside scenes, and the portraits of the "father" and his "adopted son" decorated the panels of the buffet. The old fireplace, the marble table, and the carved oak chairs, however, remain intact. [Illustration: THE MONOGRAM AT DOVE HEAD.] Not far from this fishing house stood Beresford Hall, the ancestral home of Charles Cotton. It was pulled down some years ago, when it was condemned as being structurally unsafe. But the owner (the late Mr. Beresford Hope) had all the stones carefully numbered and marked with a view to their re-erection somewhat after the old style. They now lie in an adjacent meadow. Beresford Hall in Charles Cotton's days was a noble building. It stood in plantations among the rocks with woodland vistas opening out to the windings of the water. The hall was wainscoted in oak. It was rich in old carved furniture, ebony coffers, and trophies of the chase. The most prized possession, surrounded with arms and armour, hunting horns and falcons' hoods and bells, antlers and fowling-pieces, was the fishing rod presented to Charles Cotton by old Izaak, whose bed-chamber, "with sheets laid up in lavender," was one of the choicest apartments of the house. There were figured patterns over the chimney-piece, and angels' heads stamped in relief on the ceiling. On the rocks above the site of the hall are to be seen vestiges of the Prospect Tower, the basement of which was Cotton's study, and the summit a beacon where flambeaux were lit by his wife to guide her husband home in the darkness, even as Hero's watch-fires brought her beloved Leander to her bosom. Cotton himself called this observatory "Hero's Tower," and in a poetic epistle, describing his journey from London to Basford Hall, he thus alludes to the building:-- "Tuesday at noon at Lichfield town we baited, But there some friends, who long that hour had waited, So long detain'd me, that my charioteer Could drive that night but to Uttoxeter. And there, the Wednesday being market-day, I was constrain'd with some kind lads to stay, Tippling till afternoon, which made it night, When from my Hero's Tower I saw the light Of her flambeaux, and fancied, as we drave, Each rising hillock was a swelling wave, And that I swimming was, in Neptune's spight, To my long long'd for harbour of delight." Dissipated Charles! devoted wife! [Illustration: THE BANKS OF THE DOVE.] Leaving Beresford Dale, we come to many enticing passages on the Dove, troutful and leafy, where rock and water and woodland make combinations that are the despair of artists. Wolfscote Ravine, Narrow Dale, Cold Eaton, Alstonfield, Load Mill, and Mill Dale are but topographical expressions, but to those who know the Dove they cease to be words, and become scenes of enchantment. And now we are in the Dove Dale of the tourists and the trippers, the painters and the picnic parties, the fly-fishermen and the amateur photographers. The guide-books have done Dove Dale grievous injustice by "heaping Ossa upon Pelion" with such misleading epithets as "grand," "majestic," "stupendous," "terrific," "awful," etc., _ad nauseam_. Dove Dale is only imposing by its surpassing loveliness, its perfect beauty. A romantic glen three miles long, narrow and winding, it is a dream of pretty scenery. Limestone cliffs close in the clear and voiceful water. Their precipitous sides are draped to the sky-line with a wealth and wonder of foliage, the white tors shining through the green gloom. The wooded slopes, rich with wild flowers, ferns, and mosses, just admit of a pathway by the water, which is now white and wavy with cascades, and now a dreamy calm in reflective pools. Each turn in this romantic valley has its surprise in scenery. A revelation awaits each step. [Illustration: ILAM HALL.] Some of the impending crags have such an individual character that they are known by particular names, such as Sharplow Point, the Twelve Apostles, Tissington Spires, the Lion's Head, the Watch Box, the Straits, the Sugar Loaf, the Church Rock, etc.; whilst perforations in the rock forming natural arches and caverns are entitled Dove Holes, Dove Dale Church, Grey Mare's Stable, Reynard's Cave, Reynard's Kitchen, the Crescent, the Arched Gateway, the Amphitheatre, the Abbey, and so on. These limestone tors, standing out from their green setting, assume castellated shapes. Here they suggest a bastion, there a spire; now an assemblage of towers, anon a convent church. Dove Dale possesses many literary associations apart from those attached to Izaak Walton and his "adopted son" Charles. Surly Samuel Johnson frequently visited his friend Dr. Taylor, the Ashbourne divine who made his will in favour of the Fleet Street philosopher, but who lived to preach his funeral sermon in Westminster Abbey. In Dove Dale Dr. Johnson discovered the Happy Valley of "Rasselas." Morbid Jean Jacques Rousseau found a hospitable asylum at David Hume's house at Wootton Hall. It was another sort of "asylum" to which he should have been admitted, for he quarrelled with his benefactor. In Dove Dale he wandered scattering the seeds of rare plants that still flourish, and pondering over his "Confessions," the most introspective of autobiographies. Thomas Moore lived by the banks of the Dove, and his letters to Lord Byron abound with references to the "beauty spots" of the neighbourhood. He rented a little cottage at Mayfield, where he passed the early years of his married life, buried his first-born, wrote most of "Lalla Rookh," and in "Those Evening Bells" swung into undying music the metallic chimes of Ashbourne Church. Congreve wrote several of his comedies at Ilam. Canning was one of Dove Dale's devotees, and the reader will remember his political squib beginning-- "So down thy slope, romantic Ashbourne, glides The Derby Dilly, carrying six insides." The law of association links the Dove with other illustrious names: with Alfred Butler, the novelist, author of "Elphinstone," "The Herberts," and other works of fiction famous in their day; with Michael Thomas Sadler, author of the "Law of Population;" with Ward, the author of "Tremaine;" with Richard Graves, who wrote the "Spiritual Quixote," and whose portrait Wilkie painted; with Hobbes, the philosopher of Malmesbury; with Wright of Derby; and Edwards, the author of the "Tour of the Dove." Dove Dale proper is at its extremity guarded by two imposing hills--Thorpe Cloud, a cone-shaped eminence of 900 feet, and burly Bunster, less conspicuous, but considerably higher. Passing these portals we come to the Izaak Walton Hotel, with the Walton and Cotton monogram of 1660 over its lichened gateway. The house is even older, and it serves to introduce us to the delightful village of Ilam, with its trim Gothic cottages, its magnificent Hall, its elegant Cross and Fountain, and its pretty church. In the church is Sir Francis Chantrey's masterpiece. It represents David Pike Watts on his death-bed taking leave for ever of his wife and children. The scene is an affecting one, and the composition one of pathetic beauty. It is a sermon in stone, and insensible to all feeling must be the man who can gaze upon this touching group without emotion. In the grounds of Ilam Hall the Manifold joins the Dove. Both rivers had their birthplace on Axe Edge, and throughout their course have never been far apart, although not within actual sight of each other. They have kept a "respectful distance," and not been on "speaking terms." The two rivers might have cherished a mutual aversion, if you can imagine such a repugnance. Before the Manifold emerges into the larger stream it has pursued a subterranean course for several miles. It bursts into daylight from a cave in the limestone rock, and at once plunges into the pure and placid waters of the Dove. After leaving Ilam, the Dove again assumes a pastoral character. It flows with graceful curves through a rich and reposeful landscape, where green woods cover gentle slopes. Passing Okeover and Mappleton, it just avoids Ashbourne, that only needed its silvery, shimmering waters to complete the charm of its dreamy old-world streets, as drowsy and quaint now as they were in the days of the '45, when Prince Charlie raised his standard in the market-place, and the ancient gables framed a Highland picture of targets and claymores and dirks, of unkempt, wild-haired clansmen in bonnet and kilt, ready to face any foe or endure any danger in the cause of the young Chevalier, whom they proclaimed King of England. A local tradition states that the Ashbourne men caught a Highlander, killed him, and found his skin so tough that it was tanned, and made most excellent leather! The church is the pride and glory of Ashbourne, and it is, indeed, a possession worthy of its fascinating surroundings and historic associations. It was dedicated in 1241; its tower and spire attain a height of 212 feet. The long series of Cockayne monuments, dating from the middle of the twelfth century to the end of the sixteenth, are worthy of a volume to themselves. In the chancel is Banks' pathetic monument to the memory of Penelope Boothby. The portrait of this sweet child was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds. One of the illustrated papers has reproduced the picture, and made the innocent little face familiar in every home. Sympathetic inscriptions in English, French, Latin, and Italian on pedestal and slab vainly express Sir Brooke Boothby's poignant grief over his great loss. One of these inscriptions reads:--"She was in form and intellect most exquisite. The unfortunate parents ventured their all on this frail bark, and the wreck was total." One of the legends of art is that Chantrey stole into the church to study this poem in marble, and that it gave him the idea for his "Sleeping Children" in Lichfield Cathedral, which he designed in an Ashbourne hostelry while the inspiration was fresh upon him. After leaving Ashbourne, the Dove, alder-fringed and willowed over, broadening through sweet-smelling pastures and passing prosperous farmsteads, makes its first acquaintance with a railway. The North Staffordshire line and the river play at hide-and-seek all the way down to the Trent, and the traveller has many gratifying glimpses--carriage-window pictures--of the glancing stream. The Dove is now not quite half-way on its journey to the strong and stately Trent. The scenery is very much like that of the Upper Thames, and should tempt some of our bright open-air school of painters. In succession follow Hanging Bridge and Mayfield, associated with the genius of Tom Moore; Church Mayfield, Clifton, Colwich Abbey, and Norbury, with its grand old church glorious in old stained glass, perfect of its kind, and its manor-house rebuilt in 1267. Then comes Rocester, inviting alike the artist, the angler, and the archæologist. The Dove here receives the rippling waters of the Churnet that flows past Alton Towers, and at Marston Montgomery it is joined by the Tean Brook, a tributary of considerable volume. [Illustration: ASHBOURNE CHURCH.] Passing Eaton with its rich verdure and hanging woods, once part of Needwood Forest, we come to Doveridge, the Hall--the seat of Lord Hindlip--rising above the wooded ridge. If the house itself, because of its debased style of architecture, is not an attractive addition to the landscape, its situation, on the green heights above the valley of the Dove, with the rolling Staffordshire moorlands and the obtuse peaks of the Weaver Hills in the distance, is enchanting. The Dove winds in the rich pastoral "strath" below in the most capricious curvatures, and the eye follows the course of the wilful stream by meadow and upland, by deep dell and dusky slope, for many miles. Presently comes Uttoxeter, the spire of the church being a conspicuous feature in a landscape filled with sylvan beauty. The pronunciation of the word puzzles the visitor, and even the natives grow gently disputatious on the subject. A local bard, however, comes to the rescue of the stranger. In a fine patriotic outburst he declares: "In all the country round there's nothing neater Than the pretty little town of Uttoxeter." Uttoxeter is a characteristic specimen of an old English market town, which neither the railway nor what Carlyle contemptuously calls "the age of gin and steam-hammers" has left unspoiled. It has many interesting literary and historical associations. Here Mary Howitt was born; and Dr. Johnson's father, bookseller at Lichfield, kept a stall in the market-place. On one occasion he asked his son to attend the market in his place, but the future lexicographer's stubborn pride led to insubordination. Fifty years afterwards, haunted by this disobedience of the paternal wish, Dr. Johnson made a pilgrimage to Uttoxeter market-place, and in inclement weather stood bare-headed for a considerable time on the spot where his father's stall used to stand, exposed to a pelting rain and the flippant sneers of the bystanders. "In contrition," he confesses, "I stood, and I hope the penance was expiatory." The incident says much for Johnson's character, and the scene may be commended to a painter in search of an historical theme. [Illustration: THE STRAITS, DOVEDALE.] At Uttoxeter the Dove is thirty-eight miles from its mountain home. It now winds past Sudbury, where it is crossed by a strikingly handsome bridge giving access to Lord Vernon's domain, with its deer park of 600 acres and model dairy farm. The Hall is a red-brick mansion in the Elizabethan style, and was erected in the early part of the seventeenth century. This delightful retreat was the residence of the Dowager Queen Adelaide from 1840 to 1843. The church, which is within the park, is a large and venerable structure, grey with age, and green with glossy ivy. Presently comes Tutbury, where the Dove is fifty miles from Axe Edge. It flows under the commanding castle hill, where the ruins of a building that existed before the Norman Conquest look down grim and gloomy upon the glad Dove, glancing up at its dismantled walls with their chequered history from the green plain to which she lends such grace. The three towers associated with John of Gaunt make a diversified sky-line. Tutbury Castle has all the credentials necessary to make the reputation of a respectable ruin. For fifteen years it was the prison-house of Mary Queen of Scots, and it suffered from the cannon of Cromwell. The west doorway of the Priory Church, with its "chevron" tracery, is a glorious specimen of Norman architecture. The village was notorious for its bull-baiting, and everybody has heard of "the fasting woman of Tutbury," one Ann Moore, who professed to live without food. She added an assumption of piety to her imposture, and by this means collected £240. She was subsequently sent to prison for fraud. An interesting feature in connection with the history of the place should receive notice. In 1831 an extraordinary find of coins was made in the bed of the river, over 100,000 in number. People flocked from all parts to dig up the auriferous and argentiferous river-bed, until at last the Crown despatched a troop of soldiers to protect the rights of the Duchy of Lancaster. Still stands the notice-board on the bridge threatening prosecution to all trespassers. It is supposed that the coins formed part of the treasury of the Earl of Lancaster when he had taken up arms against Edward II., and that in the panic of retreat across the Dove the money chests were lost in the swollen river, at that time scarcely fordable. The Dove valley downward from Tutbury past Marston, Rolleston, and Egginton, is full of quiet and stately beauty. At Newton Solney the stream, as crystal as it was in the limestone dales, is greeted by the Trent, its clear waters soon losing their shining transparency in the darker tinged tide of the larger river. EDWARD BRADBURY. [Illustration: JOHN OF GAUNT'S GATEWAY, TUTBURY CASTLE.] [Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE TRENT AND THE DOVE.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER III. THE TRENT, FROM NEWTON SOLNEY TO THE DERWENT. Newton Solney--Repton: The School and the Church--Swarkestone: Its Bridge and its Church--Chellaston--Donington Park and Castle Donington--Cavendish Bridge. Truly a pretty spot is the little village of Newton Solney, rising up the slope from a low scarp which overlooks the Trent, with its scattered houses, its small church spire, and the fine old trees around the hall. This indeed is a modern structure, and certainly not picturesque, but there has been a mansion on this site for many a year, for the De Sulneys had the estate full six centuries ago, and there is a fine monument to one of them in the interesting church. Trent sweeps on through the broad and level meadows, now become a strong full stream, which near Willington Station--where it is bridged--is about eighty yards wide. Here, in the valley indeed, but nearly a mile away from the actual margin of the river, is a little town of great antiquity and unusual interest. Repton, distinguished from afar by the slender and lofty spire of its church, is the Hreopandum of the Anglo-Saxon chronicle. Some suppose it to be the Roman Repandunum; certainly it was a place of importance more than twelve centuries since, for it was selected by Diuma, the first Bishop of Mercia, as the centre of his huge diocese, and here, about the year 658, he died and was buried. Soon after this a nunnery was founded, and before St. Chad removed the "bishop's-stool" to Lichfield, St. Guthlac had started from Repton to float down the Trent, and to wander through the fenland of East Anglia till he settled down on the swampy island of Crowland. So many of the Princes of Mercia were buried here that the abbey is described by a Norman chronicler as "that most holy mausoleum of all the Kings of Mercia." Hither, for instance, in the year 775, the body of Ethelbald was brought for burial from the fatal field of Secandun. No trace of his tomb, or indeed of that of any other Mercian King, now remains. Since those days changes have been so many that monuments have had little chance of escaping; but probably these and the monastery were alike destroyed when a horde of Danish plunderers swept through the Midlands of England, and Bathred of Mercia, in the year 874, had to fly before them. These unwelcome intruders spent the winter at Repington. At their hands Mercian monuments and monastic buildings would fare ill. Prior to this calamity the body of St. Wystan, a devout Prince, heir to the throne of Mercia, was laid here by the side of his mother Alfleda. On Whitsun-eve, 849, he was assassinated by a cousin, and before long miracles in plenty were wrought at his tomb. His relics, on the approach of the Danes, were transferred for safety to Evesham, and when the church was rebuilt, in the tenth century, the new structure was dedicated to his memory. Repton, at the time of Domesday Book, was a part of the Royal demesne; then we find it included in the estates of the Earls of Chester. The nunnery in some way or other had come to an end, for a widowed countess of this line founded on the site a priory of Black Canons in the year 1172, of which considerable remnants may still be seen. [Illustration: REPTON.] [Illustration: THE "CROW TREES," BARROW-ON-TRENT.] The little old-fashioned town occupies some gently rising ground. This is separated from the broad and level water-meadows by a step or craglet a few feet in height, the scarp of an old river terrace; nearest to this are the church and priory buildings, which occupy a considerable tract of land, and look down upon the remnants of the monks' fishponds. The old trees that have here and there fixed their roots in the broken bank-side, the graceful steeple of the church, rising to an elevation of more than sixty yards, the great group of the school buildings--which occupy the site of the old priory, and in which new and old are mingled together in a picturesque confusion--offer, as we approach Repton from the railway station, along the flat and otherwise uninteresting valley, a series of pictures of no little beauty. The school owes its foundation to Sir John Porte, who in the year 1556 endowed it with lands, and assigned to it the buildings of the old priory. These had originally been granted to one Thomas Thacker, but, as is often the case with ill-gotten gains, had brought him little good. Fuller, the Church historian, tells a tale which shows him to have been a man not easily thwarted. At Repton St. Guthlac had a shrine, where was a wonder-working bell, a grand specific for the headache. Public gratitude had found expression in a fine church or chapel, and this was included in Thacker's share of monastic plunder. He had heard that Queen Mary had set up the abbeys again, so he lost no time, but "upon a Sunday (belike the better day the better deed) called together the carpenters and masons of that county and pulled down in one day (church work is a cripple in going up but rides post in coming down) a most beautiful church belonging thereto, saying he would destroy the nest lest the birds should build again." The gateway of the priory, a fine pointed arch, still serves as the entrance to the school premises, and several parts of the buildings evidently carry us back to the days of the Black Canons, while others probably indicate the hands of Elizabethan workmen, when the ruined monastic buildings were converted into a school. Mingled with these are structures of later date, among which those of the present reign are conspicuous, owing to the growth of the school and the development of education in recent days. Thus the whole group, in which new and old are mingled, almost entangled, is always interesting and not seldom picturesque. The school chapel, which is modern, and has been further enlarged of late years in commemoration of the tercentenary of the foundation, stands at some little distance from the other buildings, and on the opposite side of the churchyard. The estate bestowed upon the foundation by Sir John Porte, by whom also a hospital was established and maintained at Etwall, a village some four miles away, has proved valuable, so that the endowment is considerable. The school from a very early period enjoyed a considerable local reputation, which has gradually extended, till at the present day it claims a place in the second group of the great schools of England, for some three hundred lads have replaced the Black Canons, a change which means a good deal for the little town. Among its scholars in olden time were Lightfoot the Hebraist and Stebbing Shaw the historian of Staffordshire, whom we have more than once quoted. The constitution of the school was materially altered by the results of the Endowed Schools Act, for it was originally founded simply as a Free Grammar School for Repton and Etwall. The ample churchyard allows of a good view of the church and its slender spire. At the first glance it would be put down as a rather simple but pleasing structure, most of which would be assigned to some part of the fourteenth century. On entering the interior a diversity of dates would become more obvious; but the general impression made is of a large and well-proportioned rather than of a richly adorned or of a specially interesting church. Monuments also are fairly numerous, but these are in no way remarkable, except for some connection with local history. Repton Church, however, has one treasure, but this is almost hidden underground. Underneath the chancel, approached by a narrow staircase, is a crypt. It is small, for it is only some seventeen feet broad and long, but one would have to travel not a few miles in order to find another remnant of ancient days equally interesting. The roof is rudely vaulted, supported by four columns, which have a spiral ornament of peculiar character, and rather plain flat capitals; the corresponding piers are relieved by a shallow grooving. The work indicates the influence of Classic patterns, with much rudeness of execution. To assign its date is difficult; its style is certainly anterior to the Norman Conquest, and probably the actual date is the same. A recent authority (Dr. Cox) considers this crypt to have been part of the first church dedicated to St. Wystan, erected after the destruction of the older edifice by the Danes, probably in the reign of Edgar the Peaceable (958-975). This is most likely correct, for the work appears a little too highly finished for a date anterior to the tenth century. Dr. Cox, however, remarks that portions of the outer walls of the crypt have been proved to be of earlier date than the pillar-supported roof, and may thus be a remnant of the church in which the Mercian Kings were entombed. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE TRENT, FROM NEWTON SOLNEY TO THE DERWENT.] There is in the crypt an alabaster tomb of a knight in armour, dating from the fifteenth century; and in front of the old gateway is another relic of ancient days. This is the base of a cross, which, to judge from the number of steps, must have been of considerable size, and probably indicated the original market-place; for its proximity to the church and the priory would enable the country folk to attend to the affairs of this world, while at the same time they did not entirely neglect the concerns of the other. One trace both of ancient name and ancient importance is still retained by Repton, for all Derbyshire south of the Trent is called the "Hundred of Repington." This part of the river-course is about twenty-four miles in length. Previous to this it separates for a space Derbyshire from Staffordshire, and it leaves the former county at the junction of the Erewash, a stream from Sherwood Forest, which, for the greater part of its course, forms a parting from Nottinghamshire. Below Repton for several miles there is no place of special interest in the valley of the Trent, though some of the villages in or near it are of considerable antiquity. The sketch of the "Crow Trees," now fewer than formerly, at Barrow, gives a good idea of the quiet but pleasant riverside scenery. At Swarkestone the river is crossed by a curious old bridge, the raised approaches across the water-meadows being about a mile in length. The bridge is assigned by the guide-books to the twelfth century, and is traditionally reported to have been the work of two maiden sisters, who spent upon it all their living. It was the cause of a smart struggle in the civil war of 1643, and was occupied by the advanced guard of the Jacobites in 1745. Chellaston, a short distance from the opposite bank, is a name familiar to geologists. There are extensive workings here for gypsum, and the occurrence of a number of minute fossils (_foraminifera_) in a deposit usually destitute of the remains of organic life has attracted especial attention to the locality. It is, however, now doubted whether these organisms have not been obtained from a deposit of later age. After Stanton-by-Dale and Weston-on-Trent comes Donington Park, with its ample lawns and shady groves extending around the mansion, which was the home of the Hastings family, of one of whom more than enough was heard some few years since. Behind the park the village of Castle Donington straggles down and along the high road leading from Ashby-de-la-Zouch towards the Trent. Here some remnants of a castle are to be seen, said to have been founded by John of Gaunt, and from which the village obtains its distinctive name. Beyond this are Ashton-on-Trent and Cavendish Bridge, which crosses the river a short distance above the confluence of the Derwent. This bridge obtains its name from the family of Cavendish, by members of which it was erected about the middle of the last century. T. G. BONNEY. [Illustration: TRENT LOCKS.] [Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE DERWENT AND THE TRENT.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER IV. THE DERWENT. The Derwent in its Infancy--Derwent Chapel and Hall--Hathersage--Eyam--Grindleford Bridge--Chatsworth--The "Peacock" at Rowsley--Haddon Hall--The Wye and the Lathkill--Darley Dale and its Yew tree--The Sycamores of Oker Hill--The Matlocks and High Tor--Cromford and Willersley Castle--Ambergate--Belper--Derby--Elvaston. It might be interesting to ask how many Englishmen have made the tour of the Derwent--a river so rich in pictorial beauty and historic interest. If the country were polled upon the subject, the result would probably not be gratifying to local patriotism. And yet no more romantic revelations of river scenery exist than those traversed by the Derwent from its source among the dusky moorland heights of the Peak to its junction with the Trent, sixty-three miles from its mountain home, after collecting the waters of 300,000 acres of country. Other streams there are, of course, of greater magnitude, with mountain surroundings more stupendous; but beauty is not to be measured by bulk, or rivers by their breadth and volume, nor is the artistic charm of hills ascertainable by an aneroid. There are several English rivers of the name of Derwent, which is derived from the British _dwr-gwent_, the water of "Gwent," or of the high lands, and the word is often locally pronounced "Darent." There is Wordsworth's Derwent in Lakeland; a Derwent which falls into the sea near Scarborough; and again a Derwent that is a tributary of the Yorkshire Ouse. But it is the Derbyshire Derwent that we now propose to trace down from its source. In the north-east corner of the Peak district, on the stern and austere Yorkshire borderlands, where the Langsett moors are most lonely and impressive, the stream spends its earliest infancy, and you hear its baby prattle in a rocky region, wild and desolate, where the Titans might have been hurling in space gigantic boulders to bring about chaos. The place where the river actually rises is called Barrow Stones. The traveller on the line from Sheffield to Manchester, when he is at Woodhead, with its dismal tunnel and long-linked reservoirs, passes as near as civilisation touches the spot. For some distance the river bubbles and babbles down a boulder-strewn valley, and is the line of demarcation between the counties of York and Derby. It is here a swift tawny streamlet, with effervescent cascades, and deep pools in which you can discern the pebbles at the bottom of the topaz-coloured water. Weather-worn masses of rock are strewn over this heathery wilderness--silvered with rare lichens, and cushioned with delicate mosses. Here and there picturesque little rills pour out their trickling tributaries from numerous mountain springs and musical ferny hollows. The only sound beside that of running water is the cry of the grouse, the blackcock, or the peewit. The Derwent cleaves its rocky way down the valley into Derwent Dale, past Slippery Stones, Rocking Stones, and Bull Clough and Cranberry Clough, with the Bradfield moors rolling away in petrified billowy waves to the horizon line. Before reaching Derwent Chapel it has received the Westend, a considerable stream, and the Abbey Brook, another important contributor, foaming down a deep rugged ravine, with gritstone ridges. In Derwent Dale alder-trees add a shade to the waterside, and the landscape, although still wild in its mountain beauty, is diversified by their green grace. And now we are at the lonely little village of Derwent Chapel, with its grey scattered houses. The hamlet in the pre-Reformation times had four chapels belonging to the ancient Abbey of Welbeck. At Derwent Hall, charmingly placed by the river bridge, are preserved several relics of the monkish days. But the most interesting possessions are the old carved oak pieces of furniture. They form a unique collection, and are of historic value. Some of the cabinets and bedsteads are four hundred years old. The Hall, which formerly belonged to the Balguys, bears over the doorway the arms of that family and the date 1672. The Duke of Norfolk is the present proprietor, and has added a new wing at the expense of £30,000. The pack-horse bridge makes a pleasing picture, and the surrounding prospect is as fair as any that ever inspired poet's pen or painter's pencil. By leafy labyrinthian ways, in fascinating aquatic vagaries, our river, brown with peat-moss, ripples over the shallows or becomes demonstrative when obstructed by boulders on its way to Lady Bower and Ashopton, sentinelled by the bold peaks of Win Hill and Lose, so called from a sanguinary battle having been fought here between two Saxon kings. The victorious army occupied Win Hill, and the vanquished the opposite height. There are other magnificently grouped hills all around. Ashopton is haunted by painters and anglers. Pleasant it is to lounge lazily over the time-stained bridge that spans the Derwent near its confluence with the Ashop, which has found its way down the "Woodlands" from Kinderscout--famous as the highest point in the Peak, 2,088 feet; while from the opposite side the Lady Bower brook adds its trouty current. Here we are tempted to make a _détour_ to visit Castleton with its caverns, almost as wonderful as the famed Congo cavern in South Africa, the Elephanta cave in India, or the Mammoth cave of Kentucky; to climb up the crag to Peveril's ruined castle; to explore the beautiful green basin suggestively called the Vale of Hope; and to penetrate the Edale pass until the frowning Kinderscout morosely blocks the way. But we must keep to Derwentside. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE DERWENT.] The river is now a large stream, and--passing Bamford--at Mytham Bridge it receives the greeting of the Noe. Here we strike the Dore and Chinley Railway, a branch line of the Midland system, at present in process of construction. It follows the course of the Derwent valley for some miles, and is not likely to add to the beauty of the scenery. The noisy puff of the locomotive in this Paradise seems a profanation. The line, however, will open out a new holiday ground, and will give the traveller an alternative route between Sheffield and Manchester, London and Liverpool. This railway extension is twenty miles in length. There are five miles of tunnelling under the mountainous moorland, and the cost will not be covered by an expenditure of less than one million sterling. One of the tunnels is three miles in length, and next to the Severn tunnel the longest in the United Kingdom. At Hathersage, moss-grown and still, and one of the prettiest of Peak villages, a station will be erected, and much of its old-world charm will then have gone for ever. In the churchyard on the hillside may be seen the grave of Robin Hood's stalwart lieutenant, Little John. The resting-place of this romantic outlaw is marked by two stones which by their distance from each other would indicate that he was ten feet high. The famous Forester was born at Hathersage, and fought in the ranks of Simon de Montfort's rebellious barons at Evesham in 1265. After the many vicissitudes of his adventurous life, he returned to his native village to die. Until recent years his cottage was pointed out to visitors, and at the beginning of the present Century Little John's bow and green cap were suspended in the church. They were carried away to Cannon Hall, near Barnsley. [Illustration: AT ASHOPTON, DERWENTDALE.] Hathersage is surrounded with places of interest, and the Derwent is here thirteen miles from its source. Mention should be made of Padley Wood and the ruins of the Roman Catholic Chapel; Burbage Brook, another of the Derwent's many feeders, that brawls through a defile as sweetly wooded as the Fairy Glen at Bettws-y-Coed; Longshaw Lodge, the shooting-box of the Duke of Rutland, with its pretty grounds and rockeries; Fox House, a famous moorland hostelry; Hu Gaer, a hoary rocky platform which is marked on the Ordnance map as a Druidical relic; Caelswark, an old British fort; the Toad's Mouth, a huge and hoary block of gritstone bearing a curious resemblance to that unattractive reptile; Stoney Middleton, whose houses seem to hang dangerously from the bordering cliffs; and Eyam, the scene of the great plague of 1666, when out of a population of 350 no less than 260 were swept away by the pestilence. The infection was brought to the village in a box of clothes from London. The place is hallowed by the devotion of the saintly rector, the Rev. Wm. Mompesson. He never deserted his parishioners (although his wife was one of the first victims); and it was by his exertions that the plague was prevented from spreading far and wide. [Illustration: CHATSWORTH.] [Illustration: The 'Peacock' at Rowsley] But we are now at grey Grindleford Bridge. What a view there is down the richly wooded reaches of the river by Froggatt Edge, Stoke Hall, Curbar, Calver, and Bubnall to Baslow--the threshold of Chatsworth! The Derwent has here accomplished a distance of exactly twenty miles, and received numberless and nameless tributary outpourings from the moors on both the eastern and western sides. It is now a fine river, and lends additional beauty to the Duke of Devonshire's magnificent park, surely the most glorious domain in the wide world. The river sweeps in front of the Palace of the Peak, with ancient trees reflecting soothing shadows in the shining water. So much has been written about Chatsworth--its great hall, its superb state apartments, its miracles of wood-carving, its unique sketch-gallery, its noble libraries, its priceless picture-gallery, its grand drawing-rooms, bed-rooms, and banqueting-rooms, its superb sculpture gallery, its gardens, terraces, conservatories, woods, and fountains--that little fresh can be said upon a subject so well worn. A well-known writer, when he was at Niagara, and was supposed to write a description of the scene, simply remarked, "There are some waterfalls hereabouts, which are said to be pretty." In a similar manner the grandeur of Chatsworth may be summarily dismissed, we being content with the accounts of a thousand and one admirable authors. Enough to say that this treasure-house of art is apt to give the visitor a sense of general splendour on the brain. The house and park are open every week-day to the public, and many thousands of people each year avail themselves of the privileges so freely granted by the generous owner. Sightseers pour into the ducal palace, with its gilded casements and princely saloons, just as if the place belonged to them instead of to the Duke of Devonshire. It is open for them to enjoy, and all their pleasures are prepared for them. They can inspect the carvings by Grinling Gibbons, the masterpieces of Landseer, and Sir Joshua Reynolds' picture of the beautiful Duchess; admire the work of Verrio and Laguerre, and the chisellings of Canova and Thorwaldsen; dwell upon rare tapestry and the choicest products of Sèvres and Dresden; pause at tables of malachite and porphyry, be delighted with the plants and orchids of tropical climes, including the _Victoria Regia_, and stand and watch the Emperor Fountain and all the _grandes eaux_ playing. All this gratification belongs to the public without the slightest cost of maintenance or responsibility of possession, for the head of the illustrious house of Cavendish keeps these precious treasures for his fellow-men rather than for his own private enjoyment. [Illustration: THE TERRACE, HADDON HALL.] [Illustration: HADDON HALL, FROM THE WYE.] There is a pleasant field-path through park and pasture, past Beeley, to Rowsley, three miles away. Just below the grey arches of the bridge at the sign of the Peacock--a quaint ivied Elizabethan building with many gables and battlements, an abundance of heavy-mullioned windows, and green lawns gently sloping down to the water--the Wye has its confluence with the Derwent. It is a pleasant Mesopotamia, the smaller stream issuing from the limestone dales transparent as glass, and so swift in motion as to at first push back the Derwent--flowing slow and strong and stately, the colour of cairngorm through its association with the moors. But the deeper river soon asserts its superior weight and strength, and the two streams--happy in their union--amalgamate in one undivided current, recalling--in, of course, a minor degree--the junction of the Thames and Medway, the alliance of the Rhone and Arve, the coalition of the Moselle and the Rhine. We are now in contact with the Midland Railway, which crosses and recrosses the Derwent by bridge or viaduct fifteen times during the remainder of its course. A short walk from the russet Peacock--half-way between Rowsley and the bonnie town of Bakewell--stands, on a wooded eminence, Haddon Hall. The Wye winds in many a graceful curve, overhung by gnarled trees, at the foot of the grey old pile. The antique appearance of the hostelry has assisted to subdue the contrast that must strike every observer between the comparative newness of Chatsworth (although it is 200 years old) and the venerable aspect of Haddon--a revelation of a bygone age, a memorial of ancient chivalry which is almost unique, for some portions of this perfect baronial castle date back to the twelfth century. Haddon, the property of the Duke of Rutland, is uninhabited, although it is not a ruin, and promises to remain intact for centuries to come. It has never suffered from the violence of war, stronghold as it is, but has always been the home of hospitality. "Lightly falls the foot of Time, That only treads on flowers." "The kitchens and larders all look as if the domestics had only retired for a short time. We come to the dining, drawing, and ball-room, all clean and dry as when abandoned as a human habitation; and as we pace along this latter room with its polished floor, the hollow sounds of our footsteps lead us to the contemplation of the time when the gay Elizabeth, surrounded by her Court, honoured the Vernons with her presence, and made the rooms echo with shouts of merry laughter. A long day may be spent in wandering about the terraces, gardens, and shady walks; the door is pointed out to us through which eloped Dorothy Vernon with her faithful lover (Sir John Manners). Which route they took is left to the visitor's imagination; perchance they crossed the remarkable stone foot-bridge. Suffice it to say the escape was perfected, and adds additional interest to the romance of Haddon Hall." [Illustration: DERWENT TERRACE, MATLOCK.] The Wye is the most important feeder of the Derwent, and runs through scenery that is romantically beautiful. Its length from Axe Edge to its junction with the Derwent at Rowsley is twenty-two miles, although the distance as the crow flies is considerably less. But the little river winds about in capricious curvatures, and its serpentine wanderings add much to its peculiar charm. There are two distinct Wyes, uniting in the Buxton Gardens, to which pleasaunce they add attraction. The larger stream issues from the gritstone formation; the other comes from the limestone. The one is coloured by the peat of the mosses; the other is of pellucid purity. The limestone water has its birthplace in the gloomy recesses of Poole's Cavern, and you may hear it fretting in the chill darkness, as if it were impatient to greet the glad sunlight. In Ashwood Dale, just below the Lovers' Leap, and a mile from the fashionable watering-place, the character of the scenery with which the Wye is for the most part associated begins. Limestone tors, of great height and beautifully wooded, rise above a contracted valley along which the stream pursues its lively course. The river leaves Topley Pike abruptly to the right, and enters Chee Dale. Nature here is in the imperative mood. Chee Tor soars to a height of 300 feet sheer above the water--a solemn limestone headland, its gaping fissures here and there clothed with a pendent tree. It is convex in shape, and is faced by a corresponding bastion, concave in form. In the narrow channel between these bold walls of rock the Wye forces its way through the pent-up space, making a tumult over the obstructing boulders. A scanty footpath is carried over the abyss, making a passage of unequivocal sublimity, for the defile has no superior and few equals in all Derbyshire. Miller's Dale afterwards opens out its picturesque features, although its idyllic charm is marred by the screaming railway junction and by the quarrying operations that are toppling bastions of rock--ancient landmarks--into lime-kilns. Two miles from Miller's Dale is Tideswell, with its grand old church--"the Cathedral of the Peak"--its secluded valleys and immemorial hills. Litton Dale and Cressbrook Dale follow--both wild glens that will repay lovers of rocks, ferns, and flowers. At Monsal Dale the scenery is no longer savage as it was at Chee Tor, but is of winsome loveliness. The Wye winds in green meadows below wooded heights, with here and there a rocky pinnacle jutting out like a spire; "lepping" stones cross the stream, and rustic cottages, with blue filmy smoke curling from their chimneys, stand just where an artist would have placed them. Well might Eliza Cook sing-- "And Monsal, thou mine of Arcadian treasure, Need we seek for Greek islands and spice-laden gales, While a Temple like thee, of enchantment and pleasure, May be found in our native Derbyshire Dales?" Close by is Taddington, an abode of miners, which contests with Chelmerton the claim of being the highest village in England. There is a quaint church, and in the churchyard an ancient cross which archæological authorities argue is the work of the monks of Lindisfarne, who introduced Christianity into Derbyshire. The Peakrels, in their caustic humour, gravely furnish the visitor to Taddington with the information that "only blind, deaf, and dumb persons, and those who do not live in the parish, are buried in the churchyard." Past Demon's Dale, and we are at the pleasant village of Ashford-in-the-Water, celebrated for its inlaid marble manufactures. In the old church are hung five paper garlands. They are the relics of the obsolete custom of carrying garlands before the corpses of maidens in the funeral procession, and subsequently suspending them in the church. The custom is alluded to by Shakespeare. These garlands are Ophelia's "virgin crants" in _Hamlet_. The Priest tells Laertes that but for "just command" Ophelia would have been buried--as a suicide--in "ground unsanctified," and "shards, flints, and pebbles" only would have been "thrown on her"-- "Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial." The innocent observance lingered longer in Derbyshire than anywhere else, and was not abandoned at Ashford-in-the-Water until 1820. The Wye at this point spreads out its waters, turning weedy wheels, and wandering through lush meadow-lands, finely timbered. At Bakewell the stream is of considerable width, and is spanned by a handsome old bridge evidently the work of an architect of imagination. The town itself is of considerable antiquity, and the church, one of the oldest and finest in the county, stands on a commanding hill, and is a picturesque feature in a glorious landscape. Time has made furrow and wrinkle on the grey old fabric, but "Still points the tower and pleads the bell, The solemn arches breathe in stone; Window and walls have lips to tell The mighty faith of days unknown." Bakewell is the Paradise of anglers, and wonderful stories are told of the trophies captured when the May-fly is on the water. The river now narrows, and winds in many a tortuous curve through the Haddon pastures. Below Haddon Hall, at Fillyford Bridge, it receives the limpid Lathkill, a stream to-day as clear as when Charles Cotton described it to "Viator" in "The Compleat Angler" as "by many degrees the purest and most transparent stream that I ever yet saw, either at home or abroad, and breeding the reddest and best trouts in England." [Illustration: THE HIGH TOR, MATLOCK.] After it has welcomed the meandering Wye, the Derwent spreads through an open verdant country of contemplative beauty, with rounded wooded hills in the distance. This spacious golden-green strath is Darley Dale. Lord John Manners (now the Duke of Rutland), viewing this scene from Stanton Woodhouse, a wooded knoll close by, with weather-beaten tors, lofty hunting tower, and Druidical remains, was inspired to crystallise in verse the deep impression that the pastoral scene and its mountain surroundings had made upon his mind:-- "Up Darley Dale the wanton wind In careless measure sweeps, And stirs the twinkling Derwent's tides, Its shallows and its deeps. "From many an ancient upland grange, Wherein old English feeling Still lives and thrives, in faint blue wreaths The smoke is skywards stealing. "The simple cheer that erst sustained The Patriarch Seers of old, Still in these pastoral valleys feeds A race of ancient mould. "And should fell faction rear again Her front on English ground, Here will the latest resting-place Of loyalty be found." In the churchyard at Darley Dale is the most venerable yew-tree in the world. Many authorities claim for it a fabulous age, making it as much as 3,000 years old. It is thirty-three feet in girth, but its trunk has suffered not a little from the modern Goths and Vandals who have carved their names in the bark, and employed other methods of mutilation. The tree is now fenced round to save it from further insult; and "whatever may be its precise age," says the Rev. Dr. John Charles Cox, "there can be little doubt that this grand old tree has given shelter to the early Britons when planning the construction of the dwellings that they erected not many yards to the west of its trunk; to the Romans who built up the funeral pyre for their slain comrades just clear of its branches; to the Saxons, converted, perchance, to the true faith by the preaching of Bishop Diuma beneath its pleasant shade; to the Norman masons chiselling their quaint sculptures to form the first stone house of prayer erected in its vicinity; and to the host of Christian worshippers who, from that day to this, have been borne under its hoary limbs in women's arms to the baptismal font, and then on men's shoulders to their last sleeping-place in the soil that gave it birth." On the left bank of the Derwent, amid rocks and plantations, is the royal residence of the late Sir Joseph Whitworth; and on the opposite side rises, sharply defined, Oker Hill--a green isolated eminence that was once an important Roman station. Growing on the summit of this lofty peak are two sycamores. A legend is attached to the planting of these trees, which Wordsworth has recited in his tender sonnet:-- "'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two brothers clomb; and turning face from face Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still Or feed, each planted on that lofty place A chosen tree. Then eager to fulfil Their courses, like two new-born rivers they In opposite directions urged their way Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill Or blight the fond memorial. The trees grew, And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again Embraced those brothers upon earth's wide plain, Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew, Until their spirits mingled in the sea That to itself takes all--Eternity." [Illustration: MATLOCK BATH.] The trout and grayling fishing in the Derwent here is of excellent quality, the water being stocked and preserved by zealous local angling societies, supported by the Trent Conservancy Board. After leaving Darley the wooded banks contract, and the hills press forward, and at Matlock, nine-and-twenty miles from Barrow Stones, the stream runs through a deep gorge, where limestone precipices, festooned with foliage, rise sheer from the water's edge. This romantic ravine, overtopped by higher hills, extends for about three miles. Matlock is a misleading title. The little town is only a small watering-place, but it is split up into several principalities, governed by two Local Boards, and known as Matlock Bath, Matlock Bridge, Matlock Bank, Matlock Town, Matlock Cliff, and Matlock Green. There are two railway stations, the Bridge and the Bath, a mile apart; but passengers wishful to get to the one place find themselves alighting at the other, and the divisions and sub-divisions are most confusing. Matlock Bank (for which the Bridge is the station, distant a quarter of a mile) is given up to hydropathic establishments, of which there is a colony. Here John Smedley introduced the cold-water treatment many years ago, and the building devoted to his system of cure has developed into one of colossal proportions. Between Matlock Bridge and Matlock Bath the High Tor intervenes, occupying nearly the whole distance. It is a most impressive example of rock scenery, rising in one perpendicular face of grim grey limestone, 400 feet above the Derwent, which brawls angrily over the rocky bed at its stupendous base. The Midland main line perforates this mighty mass, and the dull roar of the trains may be heard reverberating in the gloomy tunnel with strange echoing resonance. There are natural fissures in the rock abounding in dog-tooth crystals, fluor-spar, lead-ore, and other minerals, and at the summit of the giddy cliff are pleasure-grounds. More than one disastrous accident has occurred through people venturing too near the edge and falling into the abyss beneath. Matlock Bath is a continuation of the poetic gorge, the Derwent being almost enclosed on the right by the towering Heights of Masson (commonly called the "Heights of Abraham"), and on the left by the Lovers' Walks. For about a mile the stream is deep and stately, and lends itself admirably to boating. Matlock Bath is a favourite resort of cheap trippers, who find innocent enjoyment in climbing the hills, exploring the caverns, investing their coppers at the petrifying wells, and driving to the Via Gellia, a charming valley within easy distance. The Pavilion is a large modern building standing on a terrace under the Dungeon Tors, and commanding panoramic views of great extent and variety. The Bath is also a much-frequented resort, and contains hotels that favourably compare with the caravansaries of other fashionable watering-places. The New Bath Hotel stands on the site of the old hotel, where Lord Byron met Mary Chaworth, and the lime-tree under which the poet sat with the proud beauty still flourishes. This tree has weathered the storms of more than three hundred winters, and is a marvel of arboreal growth, its wide-spreading branches covering an area of 350 square feet. Byron was a frequent visitor to Matlock, and in one of his letters to Thomas Moore he declares "there are prospects in Derbyshire as noble as in Greece or Switzerland." Mr. Ruskin visits the New Bath Hotel, and the author of "Modern Painters" writes in a characteristic manner:--"Speaking still wholly for myself, as an Epicurean Anchorite and Monastic Misanthrope, I pray leave to submit, as a deeply oppressed and afflicted Brother of that Order, that I can't find anything like Derbyshire anywhere else. '_J'ai beau_,' as our polite neighbours untranslateably express it, to scale the precipices of the Wengern Alp with Manfred, to penetrate with Faust the defiles of the Brocken--the painlessly accessible turrets of Matlock High Tor, the guiltlessly traceable Lovers' Walks by the Derwent, have for me still more attractive peril and a dearer witchery. Looking back to my past life I find, though not without surprise, that it owes more to the Via Gellia than the Via Mala, to the dripping wells of Matlock than the dust-rain of Lauterbrunnen." Leaving Matlock Bath, the Derwent is utilised for commercial purposes by the Arkwrights, in connection with their mill machinery, and a very dangerous weir is the _bête noir_ of the oarsman. Cromford, the cradle of the cotton manufacture, follows. Here are the immense but cleanly factories founded by Sir Richard Arkwright, the Preston barber's apprentice; and here is Willersley Castle, the seat of the family whose fortunes he made, looking down from a natural rocky plateau, embowered in trees, upon the windings of the river. Cromford bridge is a curious old structure. The arches on one side are pointed Gothic in style, and on the other side they are of a semicircular character. The same incongruity in architecture is to be observed in the bridges at Matlock Town and Darley. This is to be accounted for by the fact that they were once pack-saddle structures, and have been widened with no regard to the preservation of uniformity. [Illustration: MARKEATON BRIDGE.] [Illustration: ALLESTREE.] The river now passes down a contracted valley, deeply wooded, to Whatstandwell. A prominent feature on the steep crags to the left is Lea Hurst, the Derbyshire home of Miss Florence Nightingale, and on the other the forest of Alderwasley, a surpassing example of sylvan scenery. Ambergate is the next point of interest, where the Derwent receives the Amber, which has watered the delightful Ashover Valley, and wound under the steep hill dominated by the ruined towers and gables of Wingfield Manor. Then our river flows under hanging woods to Belper, where all its energies are required to turn the ponderous wheels at Messrs. Strutt's cotton mills. Nowhere in all its course is it more picturesque than at Belper bridge. Above the weirs it is lake-like in its wide expanse, reflecting the green verdure at its side, the undulating uplands beyond, and the hillside cemetery that by its delectable situation seems to render Death beautiful. The weirs make the water a live thing. One of these is a merry sluice, with several gates liberating the flood above, which comes down like Southey's torrent at Lodore. The large weir is of great width, and of crescent shape, with a wooded island at its foot. But the best view of this tumult of sunlit foam is obtained when we have for a moment turned to the river-path on the right; then, as we look up the stream, the graceful stone arches frame a picture of dancing water. Above, in the woodland park, is Bridge Hill, the residence of Mr. G. H. Strutt. The ivy-embroidered windows flash back the sunlight, as they look out over the valley of the Derwent. At Belper the river is forty-three miles from its birthplace. Milford comes next, with more of Strutt's mills and more turbulent weirs; and at Duffield, a mile or two farther south, the river Ecclesbourne pours its cheerful waters into the Derwent. It has come from the Wirksworth country, where George Eliot found character and scenery for "Adam Bede." Past pleasant pastoral scenes, farmsteads, and country houses, past Little Eaton and Breadsall, and Allestree Hall, with its ancestral woodlands, the seat of Sir William Thomas Evans; past Darley Abbey, where Evans's cotton mills break up the river into miniature Niagaras, the Derwent pursues its course, until presently we are at Derby, fifty-one miles from where we first made the acquaintance of the stream. An accession of considerable importance, the Markeaton Brook, falls into the river at this point; but we must get into the meadows at the west end of the town to see it, for it follows a subterranean course through the principal streets, being arched over in the year 1845. The upper windings of the Brook afford the painter many pretty "bits," and are held in high favour by lovers of Nature and other lovers. About the ancient borough of Derby there is much that is historically interesting; and although the leading thoroughfares abound in pretentious examples of modern architecture, there still remain some of the old-world buildings that were in existence long before Prince Charlie in the winter of '45 began his disastrous retreat from Derby market-place, the most southerly point to which his army penetrated. A pilot guard advanced, it is true, six miles farther, to Swarkestone Bridge, but the Rubicon, that is the Trent, was not crossed. [Illustration: DERBY, FROM THE LONG BRIDGE.] [Illustration: DERBY, FROM ST. MARY'S BRIDGE.] The Derwent was formerly navigable up to Derby, but the right of communication was sold to the proprietors of two canal companies, who, before the introduction of railways, monopolised the traffic. In this place one peculiarity of the Derwent should not escape notice. The late Dr. Spencer T. Hall observed a distinguishing characteristic of the river, and described it in the following happy manner:--"Of all the rivers of England there is perhaps not one so noted for the sudden rise and lapse of its waters, on the melting of the snows, or the occurrence of summer storms. Even no higher up the stream than Chatsworth, there is an annual average of thirteen inches more rain than at Derby, and farther up the country a higher average still. For this, and for all the ordinary supply, such rapid descent is afforded by the steep cloughs and gullies and mountain roads, that, whenever a sudden thaw or unusual downpour occurs, the normal channel of the river is very soon overfilled, and on rushes the swelling and boiling torrent till it becomes majestic--almost terrific--as it breaks at last from the confines of the mountain gorges into the plain. It is sometimes easy to tell as low down as Derby, by the colour of the water, over which of the tributaries an up-country storm has broken. If out on the heather-side, about the Yorkshire border or the Longshaw and Chatsworth moors, down comes the deluge somewhat the colour of good coffee; if from the limestone districts, almost the colour of cream to it; and in the proportion in which both colours happen to be blended you may calculate pretty nearly how far the storm has been partial or general. Some fine morning you may walk as far as Derwent Bank or Darley Abbey, and see the river winding quietly along with its wonted grace and its usual flow. At noon you look again, and on it comes with the force of a little Niagara through the open flood-gates and over the great weir of Darley Mills, and thence spreads out until the meadows, as far as the Trent, form a series of lakes, which, if that river be also full, soon extends as far or farther down than Nottingham." The Derwent at Derby is spanned by several handsome bridges. The oldest and most picturesque of these structures is St. Mary's. At the foot of the bridge is an ancient chapel where "the busy burgesses or men-at-arms turned aside for a brief silent prayer before crossing the Derwent and plunging into the forests that stretched out before them on the other side of the river." This mediæval bridge-chapel of Our Lady is now used as a mission-room in connection with the church of St. Alkmund. Just below the bridge, on an island, stands the first silk-mill ever erected in England. It is a vast pile of time-toned brick, pierced with as many windows as there are days in the year, and surmounted by a curious bell-tower. The history of the silk trade in Derby dates back to the opening days of the last century. At that period the Italians held secret the art of silk-throwing, and monopolised the market. John Lombe, an ambitious young fellow, full of spirit, an excellent draughtsman, and a capable mechanic, determined to acquire the secret. He visited Italy, and brought to Derby from Piedmont models of the coveted machinery, together with two native craftsmen who had favoured his enterprise and secured his safety. The Derby Corporation leased to Lombe the island swamp in the Derwent, where he erected in 1718 the present immense mill on a foundation of oaken piles. It cost him £30,000, but his manufactures were a superlative success, and the Italian monopoly was driven out of the market. But Lombe did not live more than two years to reap the rich result of his labours. Treachery was at work, and he was poisoned at the hands of an Italian woman who was employed by the Piedmontese, and who contrived to escape the punishment due to her crime. Lombe, who was only twenty-nine when he thus tragically perished, was buried at All Saints', a church whose tower is one of the glories of the midland counties. Here, too, rest several members of the Cavendish family, their virtues commemorated in monumental marble; and there is a magnificent monument to the famous Countess of Shrewsbury, the friend of Queen Elizabeth, but better known as "Building Bess of Hardwick." For many years Derby has been associated with the production of artistic porcelain. The making of china in the town has really never been discontinued since Duesbury commenced his labours here in the middle of the last century, amalgamating the historic works of Bow and Chelsea with his famous factory at Derby. There are now three china-works in the thriving town, which boasts of more than 100,000 inhabitants within the borough boundaries. The factory of the Derby Crown China Company, Limited, is a Palace of Porcelain where poems in pottery are produced. It is one of the sights of the neighbourhood, and is much visited by Americans and foreigners. Established in 1877, the works have been greatly developed, the business connections increased, and an advanced and higher tone given to most of the productions. All the usual services, such as dinner, tea, breakfast, trinket, and _déjeûner_, are made both in porcelain and in semi-vitrified "crown" ware, as are also figures and perforated vases in Parian. The specialities of the Company are vases of every conceivable design and style of decoration, from the most sumptuous Oriental schemes, wrought in raised gold of various hues upon full and lusciously coloured grounds, to the dainty and refined shapes and ornaments of the classic and of the best periods of the Renaissance. Other productions of the Company are the egg-shell specimens of fictile ware, which demand the most artistic skill of the potter. They are of extraordinary thinness; and the beauty of the colouring and the dainty jewelling and enamelling of the ornamentation equal anything achieved at the old works visited by Dr. Johnson in 1777, when he observed:--"The china was beautiful, but it was too dear; for that he could have vessels of silver of the same size as cheap as what were made here of porcelain." Derby, however, is largely dependent for its industrial prosperity upon the Midland Railway Company, who have their chief offices, locomotive, carriage and waggon, telegraph and signal works in the town. They employ in Derby alone a staff of 12,000 officials and workmen, and their estate covers 500 acres. It extends for some distance along the Derwent, which at this point receives the entire sewage of the town. This pollution of the beautiful river calls for legislative interference. What should be a source of delight becomes an object of disgust, and what was lovely is degraded with all that is loathsome. The South Sea Islanders pelt with filth the people they specially wish to honour: Derby treats the Derwent to a similar distinction. But a truce to sanitation and economics. Let us follow the Derwent, unfragrant as it has become, past Spondon and the pretty mills at Borrowash, to Elvaston, the noble domain of the Earl of Harrington. The stream supplies with water a spacious ornamental lake, with four islands, concerning which the first Duke of Wellington, walking round it in company with Charles, the fourth Earl, stopped suddenly, and looking round, exclaimed, "Harrington, this is the only natural piece of artificial water I ever saw in my life." The gardens and grounds themselves are a triumph of arboriculture and landscape gardening; and who is there that has not heard of their avenues of quaintly clipped trees? The church tower and castle rise above a forest of patrician trees, while umbrageous aisles of green give vistas of scenes "where Boccaccio might have wooed and Watteau painted." These poetic perspectives look upon rockery and statuary, lawn and fountain, borders and beds of flowers. There is an avenue of elms a mile in length, framing at the extremity a view of the Gotham hills. The "golden" gates at the entrance-lodge belonged to the first Napoleon, and once occupied a position near the royal palace at Paris; they were erected here in 1819. The castle and church adjoin each other. The former is a Gothic mansion, which in 1643 was plundered by the Cromwellian troops. A costly monument in memory of Sir John Stanhope was demolished, and outrages were committed in the family vault. The church is a picturesque edifice, with a lofty perpendicular tower; in it are effigies of Sir John Stanhope and his wife, dated 1610, and other interesting family memorials. Below Elvaston the Derwent flows through a flat country, and at its estuary at Wilne, near Shardlow, has greatly contracted its banks, so that it presents a striking contrast to the broad and powerful Trent. The Derbyshire river, indeed, is not worth following for its own sake below the county town. EDWARD BRADBURY. [Illustration: IN THE SOUTH GARDENS, ELVASTON.] [Illustration: TRENT BRIDGE, NOTTINGHAM.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER V. THE TRENT, FROM THE DERWENT TO THE HUMBER. The Soar--Trent Junction--The Erewash--Gotham and its Wise Men--Clifton Hall and Grove--Nottingham and its History--Colwich Hall and Mary Chaworth--Sherwood Forest--Newark--Gainsborough--Axholme--The Confluence with the Humber. Shortly after it has received the Derwent and passed by the locks communicating with the Erewash canal, the Trent is joined by another affluent, on its opposite bank. This is the Soar, which, for the latter part of its course, bounds on the west a portion of the county of Nottingham. Rising in the Leicestershire uplands, some miles to the south of the county town, it passes--traversing a rather wide and open valley--by Leicester itself, skirting the precincts of the Abbey--now marked by but scanty ruins--where Cardinal Wolsey died in the "winter of his discontent," disgraced by the king whom he had too well served. Then it flows northward by the lime-kilns of Barrow, and near the granite quarries of Mount Sorrel, wandering through water meadows, flat and at times flooded, but for several miles bounded on its western side by the rugged hills of Charnwood Forest, that insular outcrop of old-world rock which so strangely interrupts the monotonous opulence of the "red marl" scenery, and makes a little Wales in England. To the Soar come tributary streams from the pasture lands of Leicester, dear to the fox-hunter, which tributaries, like the river itself, glide past many a quiet village, of which the churches are often of no little interest, and the houses not seldom afford to us excellent specimens of the domestic architecture of our country from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century. The junction of the Soar is not far from another junction, which has given both an origin and a name to what is rapidly becoming a town. Here the main line of the Midland Railway receives one or two important tributaries, and as the result, Trent Junction has sprung up. As we approach, tall factories are seen to rise above lines of red-brick houses, and the College--a young but important school, which has helped to make the name of the place familiar--is conspicuous just on the outskirts of the town. The valley here is wide and level, and the scenery naturally becomes a little monotonous, but its right bank, near to which the river, for a time, is flowing, is sometimes rather steeply scarped. One of the prettiest spots is near to the place where the railway crosses the Trent, shortly after emerging from the cutting which conducts it from the valley of the Soar to that of the main river. The side of the valley is steep and broken, a pleasant combination of rough grassy slope and clustering trees. The uniform flow of the water is interrupted by a weir, and its surface is flecked with white bubbles, roughened and broken for a time with ripples, while above and below the bridge our eyes range up and down the level meadows broken but slightly with lines of green hedges and dots of trees. Shortly below this place the Trent receives another tributary, the Erewash, a river which traverses the Nottinghamshire coalfield, and is now blackened in many places with collieries and ironworks. Attenborough Church, with its monuments, is of some note, and in the village was born Henry Ireton, son-in-law to Cromwell. Some two miles south of the river is a village known throughout the length and breadth of England, for its inhabitants in olden time have made it a household word. This is Gotham, where wisdom was once to be found; for are not its wise men proverbial? Thoroton, the county historian, thus relates the origin of the saying:--"King John, passing through the place towards Nottingham, and intending to go through the meadows, was prevented by the villagers, who apprehended that the ground over which a king had passed would for ever become a public road. The king, incensed at their proceedings, sent some of his servants to inquire of them the reason of their incivility, that he might punish them by way of fine, or any other way he thought proper. The villagers, hearing of the approach of the king's servants, thought of an expedient to turn away His Majesty's displeasure. When the messengers arrived, they found some of the inhabitants engaged in endeavouring to drown an eel; some were employed in dragging carts on to a barn to shade the wood from the sun; others were tumbling their cheeses down the hill to find their way to Nottingham; and some were engaged in hedging in a cuckoo which had perched upon a bush; in short, they were all employed in some foolish way or other, whence arose the old adage." Obviously, when we remember the monarch with whom they had to deal, they were not quite such fools as they seemed. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE TRENT, FROM THE DERWENT TO THE HUMBER.] The Trent now begins to draw near to Nottingham, and the villages show signs of the approach to a great centre of manufacture. On a cliff above the river is Clifton Hall. According to the county historian, the house stands on a rock of alabaster, "curiously inlaid in many places with beautiful spars." It is approached by "an avenue of trees, a mile in length, upon gentle swells of the earth, which happily destroy the formal line which would have been shown upon a level surface. Below, the silvery Trent meanders." Tradition links a grim story of a murder to the pleasant groves of Clifton, for here, as we are told, "the Clifton Beauty, who was debauched and murdered by her sweetheart, was hurled down the precipice into her watery grave. The place is shown you, and it has been long held in veneration by lovers. Agreeable must be the shady walks above or below on the water's brink. Here the blackbird and the thrush whistle through the day, and the little redbreast in the evening sings the creation to calm repose in plaintive song. Here commerce is wafted from shore to shore, and industry flows for the reciprocal benefit of the human race." Since these words were written, industry has gone on flowing to an extent which would have astonished the historian, and would perhaps have rather deranged the measured progress of his periods. But, even now, the barges not seldom form groups--as they did when Turner sketched--tempting to the artist, and the natural beauty of the approach to Nottingham has not been wholly destroyed by tall mills and lofty chimneys. The Cliftons, from whom the Hall and Grove take their name, are an old and important Nottinghamshire family. Thoroton duly records the items of a feast given at the marriage of one of its members in the year 1530, which are so curious as to be worth repeating as an indication of the state of England some three and a half centuries since. For the more solid comestibles were provided two oxen, six calves, six wethers, seven lambs, and ten pigs. Among the lighter were "sixty couple conys," four dozen chickens, twelve swans, eight cranes, sixteen "hearonsews" (herons), and ten bitterns. To quench the thirst of the guests, there were three hogsheads of wine, "one white, one red, and one claret." The prices were very different from those of Nottingham market at the present time. A pig cost fivepence, a wether two shillings and fourpence, and a calf fourpence more. A chicken could be purchased for a penny, and a couple of rabbits for fivepence. A swan was priced at sixpence, and a crane at fivepence; for the sixteen herons and the ten bitterns the same sum was paid, viz., fourteenpence. One might visit Nottingham market now for a long time before getting a chance of buying any one of these four birds, and would then have to pay a fancy price for it. Cygnet, as everyone knows who has tasted it, is an excellent dish, but we should have thought that the other wild birds would have needed a hunter's appetite. Clifton Grove is also inseparable from the memory of Henry Kirke White, the young poet who died at Cambridge, from overwork, in his twenty-first year. The following quotation from his poem on the place may serve as a specimen of his verses, which we think, in the present day, would not have greatly pleased "reviewers, men, or bookstalls," and may give an idea of the Grove at the beginning of the present century:-- "And oh, how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood That winds the margin of the solemn flood! What rural objects steal upon the sight! What rising views prolong the calm delight! "The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, The woody islands and the naked mead, The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, The rural wicket and the rural stile, And frequent interspersed the woodman's pile. "Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, Rocks, waters, woods in grand succession rise. High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, And mournful larches o'er the wave impend." Not many towns in the Midland counties of England have a finer natural situation than Nottingham. The upland district on the western bank of the Trent terminates in an abrupt craggy scarp above the wide and level valley. The river, just opposite to the town, has swung away into the plain to a distance of more than half a mile from its ancient course, and a tributary stream called the Leen, which has cut deep into the plateau, intervenes between it and the ancient town. This, no doubt, was once limited to the scarped headland which rises between the two valleys, though probably it straggled down into the plain, and gradually extended along the road leading to the old bridge over the Trent. But during the present century Nottingham has gained enormously in size, and lost correspondingly in beauty. It has become less picturesque, though probably more healthy, and certainly more convenient; but now it is not wholly guiltless of smoke; it bristles in parts with chimneys, the utilitarian substitute for spires, and it would require very subjective treatment at the hands of an artist who was desirous of depicting the beautiful. Still, there are some views of the town, from the side of the Leen, which are not even now without a certain beauty. Scarped cliffs of grey sandstone support the gardens and terraces of the castle, in the rear of which the town rises from the valley in alternating lines of trees and houses, broken here and there by the steeple or tower of a church. But in olden times, when the valley plain was free from railways, factories, and chimneys, Nottingham must have been a singularly picturesque town. Then the view from the valley of the Trent, especially from near the influx of the Leen, must have been a worthy subject for an artist. The southern wall of the town crowned the grey cliff; above it rose the noble tower of the principal church, and near the extremity of the headland, above the steepest crags, stood the keep and bastions of the castle. The church remains, but of the rest, as a glance shows, little is left to recall the Nottingham of the days of the Plantagenets. [Illustration: NOTTINGHAM, FROM THE CASTLE.] A better site for a town could not readily have been found in the days when the "good old rule" in regard to taking and keeping prevailed. Thus there was a settlement on the headland at an early epoch, though the exact date of the foundation of Nottingham and its more ancient history are equally obscure. As this is not the place for an antiquarian discussion of the value of legends, we will pass over them in silence. As the Trent appears to have been bridged opposite to the town so long since as the tenth century, it is probable that even then a settlement of some importance was already in existence. Its subsequent history was for a time not altogether peaceful or prosperous. It was sorely harried by the Danes; it was taken and spoiled by the troops of Robert Earl of Gloucester in the days of King Stephen, when numbers of the townspeople were slain and no small part of the town was burnt; it was again besieged and captured by Duke Henry, afterwards the second king of that name. Since this time, though more than once the noise of war has been heard in its gates, the town has been, on the whole, much more fortunate. On two occasions only it occupies a prominent place in the history of England. At Nottingham Castle the young King Edward III. was residing with his mother Isabella and her notorious favourite, Roger Mortimer, when what would now be called a _coup d'état_ was planned and successfully carried out. The insolence of this man had stirred the anger of the English nobles, and they rallied to the aid of the young king. He was lodged outside the castle; within its walls his so-called guardians appeared to be in safety. But one night Edward and his friends were admitted through a long underground passage, which is still shown under the name of "Mortimer's Hole," into the very interior of the castle; the Queen and Mortimer were arrested in their chambers, and the latter was hurried off to London, where the Parliament pronounced his doom, and he was instantly put to an ignominious death, meeting with a fate worse than that of Haman. This great act of justice done, the king, as Froissart says, "took new counsellors, the wisest and best beloved by his people." The other episode occurred after a lapse of more than three centuries. At Nottingham was enacted the first scene of the long drama of the civil war termed by Royalist historians "the Great Rebellion." From York Charles I. had issued a proclamation requiring "all men who could bear arms to repair to him at Nottingham by the 25th of August following, on which day he would set up his royal standard there." On the morning of the day named he reached Nottingham, and took up his lodging at a house in the town, as the buildings of the castle had even then fallen into a dilapidated condition. The day was wild and stormy; but about six o'clock in the evening "the king himself, with a small train, rode to the top of the castle hill, Varney, the Knight Marshal, who was standard-bearer, carrying the standard, which was then erected in that place, with little other ceremony than the sound of drums and trumpets. The standard was blown down the same night it had been set up, by a very strong and unruly wind, and could not be fixed in a day or two, till the tempest was allayed." It was an evil omen, as many observed--not the first in that ill-fated career--and seemed a fitting beginning to the long series of calamities which was closed on the scaffold before the windows of the banqueting house of Whitehall. But in days previous to those of the Stuarts, Nottingham Castle was a not unfrequent residence of the Kings of England. It was sometimes a prison for men of high estate, for here Owen Glendower and David II. of Scotland were immured, the latter for twelve years, after the battle of Neville's Cross. King Charles, after he had set up his standard, was not long able to retain possession of the town, and it fell into the hands of his opponents, who repaired the fortifications, and placed Colonel Hutchinson in command. Several attempts were made by the Royalists to regain possession of so important a centre; but though a metal more valuable than lead was also tried, all were unsuccessful, and the King was never again able to set foot within the walls. The castle was "slighted" at the conclusion of the war, and became ultimately the property of the Duke of Newcastle. He cleared away the ruins, and upon the site built a mansion, the design of which some ascribe to Sir Christopher Wren. If so, it is far from being among the happiest efforts of that great man. How ugly it is those who do not know it may see from Turner's early sketch of Nottingham, which gives an excellent notion of the leading features of the town before its later development. What an offence it had become to the feelings of his maturity may be seen in Turner's latest sketch of the town, engraved on the next plate of "Modern Painters" (vol. IV.), where the castle is almost thrust aside out of the picture, and is treated rather freely, in order to alleviate slightly the hardness of its rectangular walls and windows. It was not, however, for long a favourite residence, and by the earlier part of the present century the ducal owner seldom passed any time under its roof. At last, on the rejection of the Reform Bill by the House of Lords in 1831, the Nottingham "lambs," as the town roughs are called--seemingly because that is about the last animal to which they present any resemblance--"determined to make the castle a burnt-offering to the shade of the outcast Bill." With the usual British negligence, no precautions had been taken against a riot, so they had for a season full opportunity to disport themselves. After a little preliminary diversion in the country they swarmed up the castle hill, forced the gates, piled up combustibles in the rooms, kindled them, and in a short time the whole building was in flames. Thus the duke got rid of a useless house, and as he recovered damages from the Hundred, he probably did not bear much malice against the rabble of Nottingham. For some forty years it stood a mere roofless, floorless, windowless shell, an unpicturesque ruin. The walls, however, were still in good condition, and were ultimately acquired by the municipal authorities, at whose expense the structure was thoroughly restored for use as a museum; this was opened in 1878, the adjoining grounds being laid out as an ornamental garden. The terrace commands a fine view over the valley of the Trent. "Striking at all times, it is never so remarkable as when that river is in flood. Formerly this was a common event, but the inundations were mitigated by the removal, in the year 1871, of the old Trent Bridge, with its narrow arches, and the erection in its stead of the present handsome structure, which gives a more ready passage to the swollen waters. Still, it is not a rare occurrence to see the whole valley, as far as the eye can reach, converted into one huge lake. The roads in many places are submerged; the railway embankments barely overtop the waters; hedges almost disappear, and the trees rise forlornly from the flood; whole groups of houses are converted into a bad imitation of Venice, and the water disports itself on the ground-floors of warehouses, and among the chattels of store-yards, greatly to the detriment of their owners." [Illustration: NEWARK CASTLE.] The stately tower of St. Mary's Church is still conspicuous in the views of the town from the neighbourhood of the Trent, and the whole structure is well worth a visit, for there are few finer churches in the county. It is a noble specimen of Perpendicular architecture, especially remarkable for the number and size of its windows--which, as Leland says, are so many "that no artificer can imagine to set more." The market-place also--a triangular area some four and a half acres in extent--is an interesting spectacle on Saturdays, when it is covered with booths for the sale not only of fish, flesh, and fowl, but of all sorts of wares; for Nottingham market still maintains its ancient repute in the town; and there, on its stony pastures, the Nottingham lambs were formerly wont to disport themselves at election times, and probably will do it again, whenever political feeling is running high. Of this spectacle one might say that distance would certainly lend enchantment to the view. [Illustration: CARLTON.] On University College--a fine new structure, and a lasting monument to the public spirit of the municipality--on the modern churches and public buildings, the arboretum and the town gardens, want of space forbids us to dwell. But the sandstone cliffs so prominent in every view from the river call for the mention of one peculiarity, which is exhibited not only by Nottingham but also by some of the neighbouring villages. In these may be seen dwellings hewn in the rocks, for which some persons claim a remote antiquity, and see in them indeed a survival, if not an actual remnant, of the days when, as the Greek tragedian relates-- Houses of wood or brick they could not frame, But underneath the ground, like swarming ants, In sunless caves they found a hidden home. Be this as it may, houses partly excavated in the rock are still not very uncommon, and there are some singular caves in the cemetery which are now being utilised for vaults, so that "at the present day in the town of Nottingham, we find a return not only to primitive dwellings as at Petra, but to primitive sepulchres as at Jerusalem." The secret of the rapid development of Nottingham during the present century, the cause, direct or indirect, of the great blocks of buildings that rise high above the level of the houses on the hill, and have spread so widely over the meadows of the Trent and Leen, is the manufacture of hosiery and lace. In early days Nottingham was noted for making malt and tanning leather, but the latter trade, happily for the noses of the inhabitants, is not now among the leading industries of the town. It became distinguished for hand-knit stockings not very long after this method of making them was adopted, and one of the first attempts at a weaving machine was set up in a Nottinghamshire village. It is needless to say that the inventor experienced the common fate of those wiser than their generation, and that others reaped the fruits of what he had sown in poverty and sorrow. The machine, after the death of the inventor, was adapted for use in London, and was brought back again into Nottinghamshire, where during the seventeenth century it became firmly established. Great improvements in the methods of weaving were made in the following century, and these during the present one have been carried to a high pitch of perfection. The machinery in the factories produces almost everything that can be woven, from the most ordinary articles of hosiery to the most delicate lacework. From Nottingham to Newark the Trent continues to flow and to wind along a wide open valley, bounded here and there, as at the former town, by sandstone crags, which with their pleasant combinations of rock, wood, and water occasionally relieve the general monotony of the scenery. On the left bank runs the railway. Colwich Hall, which is in the valley not far from Nottingham, is noted for its memories of Mary Chaworth, who first awakened the youthful susceptibilities of Byron, and is commemorated in more than one of his earlier poems. She married the owner of Colwich Hall, and her fate was a sad one. At the time of the riots already mentioned, the house was attacked and plundered by the Nottingham mob; she escaped from the tender mercies of the playful "lambs" into a neighbouring plantation, but the fright and the exposure to the rain caused an illness which proved fatal. West of the Trent lies Sherwood Forest, with its memories of Robin Hood, who more than once played his pranks in the town of Nottingham, and made its officials his victims. On this side also lies the group of ample estates and lordly mansions called the "Dukery"; but on the river itself there is no place of any note--though some of the village churches are of interest--till we reach the old ferry at Fiskerton, near to which is East Stoke, where the misguided followers of Lambert Simnel were crushed and scattered by the troops of Henry VII. Before the Trent reaches Newark it divides into two streams, the larger keeping to the western side of the valley, while the smaller flows nearer to the undulating plateau by which it is bounded on the east. Between the base of this plateau and the water is a broad strip of level land, on which the town is built. It was, in former days, a military post of some importance, for it guarded the line of the Great North Road, which is now carried across the island plain on a raised causeway, constructed by Smeaton. According to tradition, the first fortress by the riverside was erected by Egbert, but this was rebuilt by Leofric, the great Earl of Mercia, when it was called the New Work, and thus gave a name to the town. But of this fortress not a fragment is now visible, the oldest part of the present castle dating from about the year 1123, when it was rebuilt from the ground by one of the Bishops of Lincoln. He had a liking for castle-building, but as he doubted how far such work was episcopal, in order to keep his conscience easy, he always founded a monastery when he built a new fortress. Since this date also very much has been changed, and the ruin as it stands is for the most part distinctly less ancient. Within the walls of Newark Castle, King John, of evil fame, ended his unquiet life; and not long after it was occupied by the nobles who were in arms against him, and was defended for a few days against the Earl of Pembroke, guardian of the young king, his successor. But the most stirring episodes in the history of Newark Castle occurred during the Civil War. After the troubles began, the town, which was exceptionally loyal, was held by a strong Royalist garrison, which for a time formed a serious obstacle to the progress of the other party. So it was beleaguered by three separate bands of the Parliamentary troops. This division of forces proved to be a disastrous policy. The band which had occupied Beacon Hill, to the north-east of the town, was attacked suddenly on one side by Prince Rupert, on the other by a sally of the besieged, and was crushed and captured, whereupon the others retreated hurriedly. Newark was again besieged after Marston Moor, and again relieved by Prince Rupert. But at last, after the fatal field of Naseby, the town was blockaded by the Scotch army. Yet even then it held out till the king had surrendered at Southwell, when, in accordance with his orders, it capitulated. Among the "siege pieces" which remain as memorials of the great struggle, those of Newark are familiar to the collector. The castle, of course, was duly "slighted," and for two centuries the ruins were abandoned to the ravages of the weather and of the local vandals. Now, however, they are carefully preserved. The river front, which consists of a lofty curtain-wall with three towers, is still fairly perfect, but the latter do not project sufficiently to produce an effective outline or a picturesque view. Newark, though now a busy place, for it is the centre of an important agricultural district, and has a noted corn market, besides gypsum and farming implement works and malthouses, still retains several remnants of bygone times, particularly in its ample market-place, where one or two interesting old houses may yet be seen, as well as a curious though much-restored cross, called the Beaumont Cross, at the junction of two of its streets. In former days, as a halting-place on the Great North Road, it was noted for its inns, and two of those which now remain claim to have existed from very early times. The "Saracen's Head" (where Jeanie Deans is lodged by the author of the "Heart of Midlothian") traces back its history to the reign of Edward III., and the "White Hart" to that of Henry IV. But its chief attraction to the antiquarian is the church, the lofty spire of which rises conspicuously above the houses in every view of the town. It yields to few parish churches in England either in size or beauty; and, now that Southwell is a cathedral, may claim to be, on the whole, the finest in the county of Nottingham. It incorporates a few remnants of a Norman building, but the lower part of the tower is Early English--the building as a whole, together with the spire, being Perpendicular. The steeple is at the western end, and the plan is cruciform, but the transepts do not project beyond the outer wall of the aisles. The stalls and woodwork of the choir and the roof are very fine, and some of the brasses are interesting. There is also some good modern stained glass, and an excellent organ. The large churchyard allows the church to be well seen from near at hand, and for many a mile along the broad and level valley of the Trent its steeple rises like a landmark, which in olden times served to guide the traveller to the shelter of the walls of the "New work." [Illustration: ON THE TRENT AT GAINSBOROUGH.] The general course of the Trent is now almost due north to beyond Gainsborough, though the river sweeps through the broad valley in great sinuous curves. The scenery loses its interest, for the slopes which rise from the plain are, as a rule, rather low, and comparatively distant from the waterside. Level meadows have, no doubt, a certain beauty of their own, particularly in the early summer, when the grass is dappled with flowers and the scythe has not yet laid low their beauty. There is a charm in the beds of rustling reeds, in the grey willows overhanging the water, in the clusters of meadow-sweet, willow-herb, and loosestrife, fringing the bank and brightening the ditches; in the swan that "floats double" on the still stream, and the kingfisher that glances over it like a flying emerald; but these after a time become a little monotonous; and neither the river itself, nor the villages near its bank, afford much opportunity for illustration or for description. [Illustration: OLD SLUICE GATE AT AXHOLME.] West of Lincoln, roughly speaking, the Trent ceases to traverse Nottinghamshire, and becomes the boundary between it and the adjoining shire of Lincoln. The only place of importance on the latter portion is Gainsborough, a town of considerable antiquity, for here the fleet of Sweyn was moored, and here he himself, on returning from his foray, "was stabbed by an unknown hand"; but it retains little of interest and is less picturesque than is the wont of riverside towns. The influence of the tide extends some miles above the town, and bare banks of slimy mud are exposed at low water on either side of the stream. The Trent is said to exhibit at spring tides the phenomenon called the "bore" or "eagre," when, at the first rise after low, the tidal wave, forcing its way up the contracted channel of the river from the broad expanse of the estuary, advances as a rolling mass of water, causing no little disturbance to the smaller craft which it meets in its course. A handsome stone bridge of three arches, with a balustraded parapet, spans the river at Gainsborough, and affords a good view both of it and of the town. The latter occupies a strip of level land between the water-brink and the well-defined slope which forms the eastern boundary of the valley. Mills old and new are its most conspicuous features. Not a few have their bases washed by the tide; but at intervals gardens, defended as usual by retaining-walls, come down to the Trent. Chimneys are more prominent than spires, and the principal church--at some distance from the bridge--has a tower inconspicuous either for height or for beauty. On the left bank houses are not numerous; flat meadows and hedgerow trees generally border the stream, and extend for a mile or more, till the ground gradually rises to the opposite slope of the valley. It must be confessed that neither the scenery nor the town itself is particularly attractive; but the former is improved by regarding it from the higher ground on the east, from which also views are obtained across another expanse of comparatively level ground to a line of low hills forming the northern prolongation of the plateau on which stands the Cathedral of Lincoln. The parish church of Gainsborough is said to have been built early in the thirteenth century; but the greater part of the tower must be considerably later in its date, and the body of the church is a heavy stone structure in what its architects would probably have called the Italian style. It has, however, a churchyard, pleasantly--it might be said, thickly--planted with trees; and, to judge by its size, one would infer that Gainsborough at any rate was deemed a good place to die in, whatever it might be for the purpose of living. The town, however, possesses easy communication, by way of the Trent, with the Humber, and is thus an inland port of some rank. [Illustration: MEADOW LAND AT AXHOLME.] The old chapel mentioned by Leland, the traditional burial-place of sundry Danish invaders, is gone; but the visitor who has traversed the rather long and, near the waterside, unlovely streets which intervene between the railway station and the central part of the town, will find, when he has reached the latter, something between it and the river to reward him for his pains. This is a remarkable specimen, in very fair preservation, of the older English domestic architecture. It is called the Old Hall, or Manor House, and John of Gaunt is popularly indicated as its builder; but it may perhaps be doubted whether the greater part, at least, does not belong to a rather later date. The house, which is of considerable size, stands at the end of a kind of open courtyard surrounded by cottages. Its general plan is that of a long central block from which two wings project at right angles. The former is chiefly--at any rate, in the upper portion--of timber-work; the latter are mainly built of brick. The mansion has suffered considerably from the effects of time and neglect, but it has been to some extent restored of late years, and portions of it are still either inhabited or in use. About a century and a half since it was the residence of one Sir Neville Hickman, but since his death it has served various purposes, one part for a time having been converted into a theatre. The tidal river below Gainsborough passes on through scenery less and less interesting. After a time it ceases to divide the county of Nottingham from Lincoln, and is bordered on both banks by the latter. The district to the west is called the Island of Axholme. This, "though now containing some of the richest land perhaps in the kingdom, was formerly one continued fen, occasioned by the silt thrown up the Trent with the tides of the Humber. This, obstructing the free passage of the Dun and the Idle, forced back their waters over the circumjacent lands, so that the higher central parts formed an island, which appellation they still retain. From this circumstance it became a place so deplorable that Roger, Lord Mowbray, an eminent baron in the time of King Henry II., adhering to the interests of the younger Henry, who took up arms against his father, repaired with his retainers to this spot, fortified an old castle, and for some time set at defiance the king's forces who were sent to reduce him to obedience."[4] The authority just quoted tells us that an attempt to regulate the drainage of Axholme was made so long since as the reign of Henry V. by one of the Abbots of Selby, who constructed "a long sluice of wood" upon the Trent "at the head of a certain sewer called the Maredyke," and this he did "of his free goodwill and charity for the care of the country." This was destroyed of malicious purpose in the days of his successor, who rebuilt the same of stone. But the chief reclamation of land, not only in the marshes of Axholme, but also in the adjacent fens called Dikes Mersh and Hatfield Chase, in the county of York, was undertaken in the earlier part of the reign of Charles I., when a contract bearing date May 24, 1646, was made with Cornelius Vermuden, which was successfully carried out during the next five years, so that many thousand acres of land were made available for agricultural purposes--"the waters which usually overflowed the whole level being conveyed into the river Trent, through Snow sewer and Althorpe river by a sluice, which opened out the drained water at every ebb, and kept back the tides upon all comings-in thereof." The confluence of the Trent with the Humber takes place near Alkborough, "where Dr. Stukeley places the _Aquis_ of Ravennas, having discovered a Roman _castrum_ and a vicinal road. The Roman castle is square, 300 feet each side, the entrance north, the west side is objected to the steep cliff hanging over the Trent, which here falls into the Humber; for this castle is very conveniently placed in the north-west angle of Lincolnshire, as a watch-tower over all Nottingham and Yorkshire, which it surveys. I am told the camp is now called _Countess Close_, and they say a Countess of Warwick lived there, perhaps owned the estate; but there are no marks of building, nor, I believe, ever were. The vallum and ditch were very perfect. Before the north entrance is a square plot, called the Green, where I suppose the Roman soldiers lay _pro castris_. In it is a round walk, formed into a labyrinth, which they call 'Julian's Bower.'" So, where Trent and Ouse unite to form the broad and "storming Humber," that "keeps the Scythian's name," our survey ends; the rivers have now become an estuary, and that, as another writer will presently show, soon begins to open out towards the sea, along which the vessels come and go to "merchandising Hull" and other ports which during this century have risen into notice. T. G. BONNEY. [Illustration: BOLTON BRIDGE.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER VI. THE WHARFE. General Characteristics--The Skirfare--Langstrothdale--Kettlewell--Dowkabottom Cave--Coniston and its Neighbourhood--Rylstone and the Nortons--Burnsall--Appletreewick: an Eccentric Parson--Simon's Seat--Barden Tower and the Cliffords--The "Strid"--Bolton Abbey and Bolton Hall--The Bridge--Ilkley--Denton and the Fairfaxes--Farnley Hall and Turner--Otley--Harewood--Towton Field--Kirkby Wharfe--Bolton Percy. The Wharfe is typical of the broad shire. From beginning to end it is a Yorkshire stream. Having its origin on the slopes of the Cam mountain, in the north-west of the county, it traverses, in the sixty or seventy miles of its course to the Ouse, almost every description of the scenery for which this great division of England is famous. Over moorland and meadowland, rushing madly down precipitous rocks and flowing placidly along fertile plains, shut up in some parts within deep gorges and at other points spreading out to river-like dimensions, it has an ever-varying charm to all who trace its progress. And its physical characteristics are but a reflex of the incidents of the story to be gleaned along its banks. To make its acquaintance away up on the fells is to find it blending into many a choice bit of folklore and into old-world customs and superstitions. Here, in a favoured bend, it murmurs in sweet harmony with an idyll of country life; there it dashes wildly on its way, in keeping with the tragic tale of which at this particular spot it is the scene. Yonder it skirts, in a roofless monastery, a memorial of its treachery; here it has turned for generations the waterwheel of a mill that has never failed to find grist from a peaceful farming community. If in one place it sweeps round one of the great battlefields of our country, in another it flows in undisturbed seclusion between wooded slopes where the overhanging trees hide the sunlight from its waters, and dark rock-sheltered pools provide a safe retreat for the otter. Not anywhere, in fact, is the Wharfe devoid of interest or beauty. It retains throughout its freshness and its charm, and it is cheering to know that very watchful are the people who live on its banks to guard it from anything calculated to lessen its attractiveness. A classic English river, tributes have been paid to the Wharfe from the days of the Romans. In our own time Wordsworth got from it the inspiration for some of his finest verse, and Turner found it yield subjects to him in generous abundance for his matchless drawings. Camden must have lingered by the Wharfe. He knew it better than any other early writer. There is evidence, in what he says about it, that he penetrated into those regions where its interest to the modern tourist too often ends, but where to the naturalist, the antiquary, and the artist, some of its choicest features begin to reveal themselves. In his quaint way, in his "Britannia," he tells us that "if a man should think the name of the stream to be wrested from the word Guerf, which in British signifieth swift or violent, verily the nature of the river conspireth with that opinion." Camden's description of the Wharfe is proof that he saw it chiefly in its mountainous aspect. He speaks of it as "a swift and speedy streame, making a great noise as it goeth, as if it were froward, stubborn, and angry." And he further speaks of it as being "verily a troublesome river, and dangerous even in summer time also," which he himself had some experience of, "for it hath such slippery stones in it that our horse had no sure footing on them, or else the violence of the water carried them away from under his feet." The Wharfe is joined, at a point about fifteen miles from its source, by the Skirfare. Both rivers run on a parallel course from the direction of the Cam fells, and are close enough to each other to have a common interest. The Skirfare passes through what Wordsworth, in the "White Doe of Rylstone," using the ancient name, calls "the deep fork of Amerdale." "Amerdale" has for a long period, however, given place to "Littondale," Litton being the name of a village on the banks of the stream. Running north of the Skirfare, and starting from a point a few miles further west, the Wharfe passes down Langstrothdale in the fell country, and then through Kettlewelldale to the point of junction with the Skirfare. The name Langstrothdale has a Celtic ring, and has not inappropriately been translated to mean the long valley. From here are supposed to have come the two scholars of Soleres Hall at Cambridge, mentioned in Chaucer's "Reve's Tale"-- "Of oo towne were they borne that highte Strother, Efer in the North, I cannot tellen where." The spot is, however, pretty clearly identified otherwise by Chaucer himself, the dialect he uses in this tale in connection with the scholars bearing a close resemblance to the Langstrothdale folk-speech. It is a speech deserving the attention of the philologist, agreeing as it does in many of its peculiarities with early English forms. The head waters of the Wharfe lie far out of the beaten track, in a district so broken up into hilly grandeur, and commanding from its heights so many fine glimpses into the dales "where deep and low the hamlets lie," as to form a fitting introduction to the river that in its course yields so much beauty and romance. At Beckermonds, "the mouths of the becks," two small streams unite, and from here the Wharfe passes downwards into Kettlewelldale. Hubberholme, the first village on the river of any note, is supposed to be of Danish origin, and is one of the oldest cluster of houses in this part of the country, possessing a church, dedicated to St. Michael, the history of which is popularly supposed to go back to the time of Paulinus. A short distance below Hubberholme lies Buckden, in a delightful setting of scenery. Then comes Starbotton, a village taking its name from a stream that runs through it, and below is Kettlewell, the best starting point for Upper Wharfedale, and the town from which this section of the river's course takes its name. Kettlewell figures in Domesday as Chetelwell, and is said by some authorities to be derived from "the weiler or dwelling of Chetel." A Norman church of an exceedingly simple pattern remained here until the beginning of the present century, when the existing edifice took its place, only the old font remaining as a memorial of the ancient structure. The town stands at the foot of Great Whernside (2,310 feet) and close to it also is Buckden Pike (2,304 feet). Magnificent views may be obtained from both heights. But one need go no further than the centre of the bridge at Kettlewell to find delightful glimpses of the course of the Wharfe, both east and west. The river at this point comes down with a great rush, the descent from its source, a little over ten miles, exceeding six hundred feet. Two miles or so south of Kettlewell is the well-known, although not easily found, Dowkabottom Cave, perhaps the most interesting of the many openings into the limestone formation in North-West Yorkshire. The entrance to the cave is on a level terrace on the mountain slope, at a point 1,250 feet above the sea. Five chambers and several passage-ways make up the cave, in which are many curious natural formations caused by the percolation of the water through the limestone. The scene inside is singularly weird and fascinating. But the Dowkabottom Cave is more than a curiosity. It was one of the homes of primitive man, and it seems to have been a place of shelter also in the Brito-Roman period. Bones and skulls of animals were found on the surface when the cave was discovered, and since then there have been scientific examinations of the interior, with the result that human skeletons have been unearthed, together with the bones of the wolf, the wild boar, the horse, the red deer, sheep, and other animals. Amongst the articles of domestic use found were bone pins and ornaments belonging to the primeval occupation, and bronze weapons, armlets, rings, coins, etc., of the Brito-Roman days. The theory as to the last-mentioned articles is that the inhabitants of the district found shelter here for a time after the departure of the Romans, when the Northern tribes, held no longer in check, came down into the Craven country. To account for the loose bones, it has been surmised that the wolf may have found a safe den in this cave long after it was driven out of other parts of England. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE WHARFE.] Returning to the Wharfe, and following the river on its way from Kettlewell, Coniston is reached--a picturesque village, with a maypole, trim garden ground in front of most of the houses, and a church which, according to Whitaker, is the most ancient building in Craven. Since Whitaker's time the church has been much improved, but it retains many of its ancient features. From Coniston it is a short walk across country to Kilnsey, where is a grand stretch of overhanging limestone, "a promontory," says Phillips, "of the primeval sea loch, which is now the green valley of the Wharfe." The crag is nearly half a mile in extent, and rises at its highest part, whence there is a fine view, to 165 feet. A beautifully wooded walk of three miles leads from Coniston to Grassington, where at one time a good deal of lead was obtained and smelted. Here is what is said to be the oldest bridge on the river. What became of some earlier bridges on the same stream is told in an entry in the church books of Otley, under date 1673. On the 11th of September in that year there was "a wonderful inundation of waters in the northern parts," and on that occasion "this river of Wharfe, never known to be so big within the memory of man, overturned Kettlewell Bridge, Burnsey Bridge, Barden Bridge, Bolton Bridge, Ilkley Bridge, and Otley Bridge." It also swept away certain fulling mills of wood, and "carried them down whole, like to a ship." And when the flood had passed, "it left neither corn nor cattle on the coast thereof." [Illustration: SKIPTON CASTLE, FROM ONE OF THE TOWERS.] Close to Grassington is Threshfield, where there are several old buildings, and the Grammar School in which Dr. Whitaker, the historian of Craven, received his early education. Then comes Linton, where in the old time every woman in the place "could spin flax from the distaff, or rock as it was called, and could card or spin wool from the piece." Linton, in those days, was a veritable Arcadia in the hills, for here there was neither poor's rate nor public-house, and almost every housekeeper had his "three acres and a cow," or what was tantamount thereto. There has been a change in these conditions, but Linton has not lost its look of prosperity and comfort. Close to the village are what have been called the Falls of the Wharfe--a rocky break in the river, forming a fine study for the artist. Below Linton lies Hebden, a village whose character and position are well expressed in its name--heb, high; and dene, a valley; and across the river at this point lies Thorpe. At Thorpe we are on the road leading to Rylstone, the seat of the Nortons, who risked and lost so much in the "Rising of the North," 1569-- "Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes, They doomed to die; alas! for ruth. Thy revered lockes thee could not save, Nor them their fair and blooming youth." The ballad is an exaggeration, two only of the sons having suffered on the scaffold. The property, however, was cut off, and the "sequestered hall" mentioned in the "White Doe" fell into ruins. The name of the family clings to the district, and is perpetuated in what remains of the Norton Tower. "It fronts all quarters, and looks round, O'er path and road, and plain and dell, Dark moor, and gleaming pool and stream, Upon a prospect without bound." [Illustration: ILKLEY BRIDGE.] The "White Doe" was the pet of "the exalted Emily, maid of the blasted family." It was presented to her by her brother, Francis Norton, of Rylstone. Francis was one of those who perished in the rising of the North. He was buried in Bolton Abbey, and, according to the legend, the sister was a frequent visitor to his grave-- "But most to Bolton's sacred pile, On favouring nights she longed to go; There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle, Attended by the soft-paced doe. Nor did she fear in the soft moonshine To look upon St. Mary's shrine, Nor on the lonely turf that showed Where Francis slept in his last abode." Lying below Thorpe and Hebden is Burnsall, and here the scenery, especially along the banks of the river, is rich in picturesque beauty. Burnsall is Brinshale in Domesday. It is a place where well-worship must have prevailed from a remote time, as is evidenced in its "Thorsill" or Thor's well, and in its other wells dedicated to St. Margaret and St. Helena. Owing to a peculiarity in the division of the manor, the parish at one time rejoiced in two rectors and two rectories, with two pulpits and two stalls in the church. Originally Norman, the church has undergone repair at different times. The latest restoration was in 1859. An inscription on a tablet inside the tower speaks of an earlier work in the same direction, describing how in 1012 the fabric was repaired and beautified at the "onlie coste and charges of Sir William Craven, Knight and Alderman of the Citie of London, and late Lord Mayor of the same." Sir William was a native of Appletreewick close by. His career recalls that of Whittington. He went up to London under the care of a carrier, got employment in the family of a mercer, and eventually excelled his master in business. He was Lord Mayor in 1611. His eldest son distinguished himself in the service of Gustavus Adolphus and the Prince of Orange, and married the Queen of Bohemia. "Thus," says Whitaker, with a touch of pride, "the son of the Wharfedale peasant matched with the sister of Charles I." Sir William Craven also erected and endowed the Grammar School of the village. At this school Eugene Aram is said to have been an usher. A more interesting character than Aram was the Rev. John Alcock, master of the school in Aram's time, and rector of a moiety of the parish. It is said of him that on one occasion, when preaching on behalf of some benevolent object, he noticed his congregation becoming restless. "Oh yes," he said, "I see how it is. You want your dinners; so do I. Very well, there's sermon enough left for another spell, and so we'll postpone the remainder till next anniversary." On another occasion he had no sermon to deliver at all; he had either mislaid or lost his MS. "It's no matter," he said to the clerk, loud enough for all to hear; "hand me up that Bible, and I'll read a chapter in Job worth two of it." Nor is this the only instance showing how coolly this eccentric clergyman could meet an emergency. There is a story to the effect that the pages of a sermon he had were stitched together in such a way as to confuse the argument. He did not discover this until about to announce the text, when he quietly explained what had happened, adding "I've no time to put the leaves right. I shall read them as I find them. You can put everything straight yourselves when you get home." "That's an awkward word," he said to a lady when she came to the "obey" in the marriage service; "you can skip on to the next!" Leaving Burnsall, the Wharfe skirts Hartlington, and flows past Appletreewick. Both of these places trace their history back to Saxon times. There is much to see here, amongst other things caverns worth exploring, and a great collection of boulders known as "the Apronful of Stones." The legend of the stones is that the devil was carrying them, for some purpose best known to himself, when he stumbled over a knoll, causing the apron to give way with the weight that was in it, and the stones to assume their present position. On the river to the south lies Howgill, and we are now close to Simon's Seat (1,593 feet), from whose summit fine views of Upper and Lower Wharfedale and neighbouring valleys are obtained. The name Simon in this connection has been traced to the northern hero Sigmund; but the legend among the dalesmen is that a shepherd once found a male child on the top of the mountain, and adopted the infant, whom he named Simon. As the boy grew up the burden of keeping him was shared by different shepherds. The little fellow was cared for, in fact, "amang 'em;" and "Amanghem" became his surname--a name, whatever is to be said for the story, that is borne by some families in this part of the country. Simon's Seat rises gradually from the Wharfe, and it is an easy descent from its slopes to Barden Tower, whose grey ruins look grandly over a wild and beautiful scene. Barden Tower was the home of Henry Clifford, "the Shepherd Lord," and may be taken as a landmark dividing Upper from Lower Wharfedale. The story of the Shepherd Lord, although some four centuries old, is known by oral transmission all over the countryside here. Unlike a good many of the other tales common among the dalesmen, it has the merit of truth. Its hero was the eldest son of John, "the Black Clifford," who was struck down on the eve of the battle of Towton, and whose estates were forfeited by the issue of that day. The Clifford heir, then a boy of five years, was sent for protection, after the battle, into Cumberland, where he was brought up as a shepherd. He pursued this life for about twenty-five years, and when, on the accession of Henry VII., he secured the inheritance of his ancestors, his desire for a quiet and simple life was shown in the selection he made of Barden Tower for his residence. He found the tower a small keep or lodge, and enlarged it sufficiently to provide accommodation for a few of his friends. Here he spent his time studying astronomy and alchemy, and enjoying the company of such of the monks of Bolton as had similar tastes. The Shepherd Lord could fight valiantly when the need arose, and the dalesmen rallied around his standard when, in his sixtieth year, he went onwards to Flodden:-- "From Penigent to Pendle Hill, From Linton to Long Addingham, And all that Craven coasts did till, They with the lusty Clifford came." The Shepherd Lord survived Flodden about ten years. After his death, Barden Tower was only occasionally used by the Cliffords, and was allowed to fall into decay. An inscription over the gateway states that it was repaired by Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, Dorset, and Montgomery, "and High Sheriffesse by inheritance of the county of Westmorland." This was in the years 1658-9, "after it had layne ruinous ever since about 1589, when her mother then lay in it, and was greate with childe with her, till now that it was repayred by the sayd lady." "The said lady" did a great deal for the houses of her family; hence a citation at the close of the Barden inscription (Isaiah lviii. 12)--"Thou shalt build up the foundations of many generations, and thou shalt be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell in." A small chapel adjoins the ruin, and a part of the tower adjoining the chapel is used as a farmhouse. The property, like the Bolton estate below, now belongs to the Duke of Devonshire. [Illustration: THE BRIDGE, OTLEY.] From Barden Tower the Wharfe falls rapidly over a rocky course, densely wooded on both sides, towards the famous "Strid," a narrow gorge in the rocky bed, through which the water rushes at a furious speed. The name "Strid" has two derivations given to it. One, in common acceptance, is that it is so called because it is possible at this point to stride over the chasm. The more likely derivation is the Anglo-Saxon "stryth," or turmoil. The common meaning, however, suggests the tradition that gives romantic interest to the spot. It was here over seven centuries ago, as the story goes, that "the Boy of Egremond," the heir to the Romillys, perished in the flood while out hunting. "He sprang in glee, for what cared he That the river was strong and the rocks were steep? But the greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap. The Boy is in the arms of Wharfe, And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen Till he rose a lifeless corse." [Illustration: FARNLEY HALL.] Connected with this legend is the founding of Bolton Abbey, situated in the meadow land close to the river some distance below. It is said that the falconer hastened back to the Lady Alice, the mother of the boy, and broke the sad news with the significant question, "What is good for a bootless bene?" Wordsworth scarcely varies from the story as it is still told in the locality:-- "'What is good for a bootless bene?' The Falconer to the Lady said; And she made answer, 'Endless sorrow!' For she knew that her son was dead; She knew it by the Falconer's words, And from the look of the Falconer's eye, And from the love that was in her soul For her youthful Romilly." The story goes that when the Lady Alice fully realised what had happened she vowed, now all hope was gone from her, that many a poor man's son should be her heir. According to the legend, she selected a site for a priory, as near to the scene of the accident as she could find one, and when "the pious structure fair to see" rose up, she transferred it to the Monks of Embsay, in the bleak hilly region beyond. The charter and the romance do not, however, agree. The conveyance of the ground at Bolton to the monks appears to have been made before the accident at the Strid, as the son is named in the document as a party to the transaction, and the reading indicates that the land had been given over in a prosaic fashion by way of exchange. It has been surmised by believers in the story that after the drowning the monks came to the bereaved lady and induced her to build a priory on what was now their property on the Wharfe, as a memorial to her son. Her mother, Cecily, the wife of William de Meschines, and heiress of William de Romilly, had joined with her husband in 1120 in founding the Embsay Priory for Augustinian Canons, the site being two miles east of Skipton. The Embsay endowment, handsome enough to begin with, was increased by the gift of the village and mill at Kildwick and lands at Stratton, the deed setting forth that this was done by the heiress of the Romillys "for the health of her soul and that of her parents." It is stated in the charter that the conveyance in this instance was made by the Lady Cecily, mother of Alice, and William, her son-in-law, placing a knife on the altar of the conventual church. This William, a nephew of David, King of Scotland, was married to Alice, who in her turn became heiress of the estates, and adopted her mother's name. She bore her husband two sons and three daughters. The younger son, "the Boy of Egremond"--so named after one of the baronies of the family--survived his brother until, according to the legend, the sad incident at the Strid put an end to the bright promise of his life, and left his mother in "endless sorrow." Situated on a bend of the Wharfe, with a mountainous background, and an open sylvan expanse of country in front, through which the river moves in a clear, uninterrupted course, the Abbey rises in a scene of great sweetness and beauty. The building, like most other works of its kind, shows traces of the workmanship of different periods; but, unlike similar structures in the same county, it is not wholly a ruin. The nave, roofed over, and partly restored, forms the parish church of Bolton. It is entered through the gateway of what was intended for a western tower, and retains fortunately the original west front, finely detailed, with much arcading, in the Early English style. The entrance, forming the first stage of the contemplated tower, shows excellent Perpendicular work. On the spandrels of the recessed doorway are the arms of the Priory and the Cliffords, and above is a lofty five-light window. The tower was begun by the last of the priors, Richard Moone, as set forth on an inscription (the name symbolised) on the cornice below the window, "In the yer of owr Lord MDCXX, R. [Illustration: Moon] begaun thes fondachon on qwho sowl God haue marce. Amen." The Dissolution put a stop to Prior Moone's work, but it is said that long after this the crane that was used to raise the stones remained fixed, and there was a belief among the dalespeople that the canons would return and complete the building. The nave, which is without a south aisle, is Early English on that side, and Decorated on the north. At the end of the aisle on the north is a chantry founded by the Mauleverers of Beamsley, and beneath is the vault in which members of the family are said to have been buried upright-- "Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door, And through the chink in the fractured floor, Look down, and see a grisly sight-- A vault where the bodies are buried upright!" The ruined portions of the structure include the piers of a central tower, north and south transepts, and a long but aisleless choir, with the remains of chapels on the south side. With the exception of the lower walls, the work here is of the Decorated period, and shows many interesting features. There are monumental fragments, and in the south transept may be seen a tomb-slab with an incised figure representing Christopher Wood, the eighteenth prior, who resigned in 1483. Scant remains of the conventual buildings may be traced to the south of the Priory ruins. To the north is the churchyard. The Priory barn remains in good condition. It is still in use, and has some fine timber work. A short distance west is Bolton Hall, a seat of the Duke of Devonshire. This mansion makes a framework to the gatehouse of the old Priory, the entrance-chamber being formed out of the ancient gateway. The chamber is represented in Landseer's picture of "Bolton Priory in the Olden Time," now at Chatsworth. There are other matters that recall the past conditions of the place even more vividly, as in the case of a Commission sent hither so early as 1274, in which certain irregularities are set forth in these blunt words:--"The whole convent conspired against the predecessors of the present Prior, William de Danfield. Nicholas de Broe, the present sub-prior, is old and useless. Silence is not observed, and there is much chattering and noise. John de Pontefract, the present cellarer, and the sub-cellarer, are often absent from service and refections, and have their meals by themselves, when the canons have left the refectory. The house is in debt," etc. But Dr. Robert Collyer of New York, a Wharfedale worthy, who has gone into the records, tells also how "the merry old rogues" had a certain rough humour, which came out in the names they gave their humbler brethren. "One poor fellow," he says, "has stood on their books these six hundred years as Adam Blunder, a sort of primitive Handy Andy, I suppose. Another, with 'a fair round belly,' no doubt, they dub Simon Paunch. A third is Drunken Dick. A fourth, the cooper, as I guess, and a great hand to spoil his work, is Botch Bucket. The carter is laughingly baptized The Whirl, perhaps because his wheels never do whirl by any accident. One is Rado the Sad; and the blackest sheep of the flock is Tom Nowt--'nowt' in the Dales as applied to a man being still a term of the utmost contempt." The Priory was surrendered in 1540, and the estate was given, two years afterwards, by Henry VIII. to Henry Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland. The property next passed to the Earl of Cork, and thence by descent to the Cavendish family. The grounds over the wide stretch from Barden Tower to Bolton Bridge are open daily (except Sundays) to visitors. Their natural attractions, with their relics and associations, make them one of the most interesting of the show places of Yorkshire. There are two memorials on the estate to Lord Frederick Cavendish, Chief Secretary for Ireland, assassinated in the Phoenix Park, Dublin, May 6, 1882. One, in the churchyard, in the form of an interlaced cross, rising seventeen feet, was erected by the tenantry. The other--a hexagonal fountain, rising into pinnacles with a small lantern crown--is in the Park, and was erected by the electors of the West Riding, of which division of Yorkshire Lord Frederick was for many years a representative. [Illustration: RUINS OF HAREWOOD CASTLE.] It is a pleasant walk from the Priory to the bridge, across the field on which Prince Rupert encamped on the way to Marston Moor. At Bolton Bridge we get to what is now the nearest railway-station for Upper Wharfedale, a connecting line between Ilkley and Skipton having been opened in 1888. From the bridge the river flows past Beamsley, behind which is Beamsley Beacon (1,314 feet). In the village is a hospital founded in the time of Elizabeth, and endowed for thirteen poor widows. Beamsley Hall, near by, retains some old features, including armorial bearings of the Claphams and Morleys, its early possessors. The road here follows the Wharfe through diversified scenery, and leads to Addingham, where is a church which was originally served from Bolton. Here also on the bank of the Wharfe is Farfield Hall, a fine mansion, from whose site commanding views are obtained. Ilkley, three miles further down the stream, is a town of great interest and attractiveness in the modern sense, with a far reaching history. As seen to-day it is almost wholly new; half a century ago it was made up of a few old cottages and its ancient church. Its value as a health resort, and its delightful situation, have since then been fully recognised, and it is now a fashionable inland watering-place with well laid-out streets, and some fine buildings. The records of the town go back to the time of the Romans, and its existing name is supposed to be a corruption of the designation given to it by the Western conquerors. The Romans had here a strong fortress, the foundations of which may be traced. Some interesting Roman relics are preserved in the neighbourhood. On the grounds at Middleton Hall, on the opposite side of the river, is an altar dedicated to the Wharfe, the river figuring in the inscription as "Verbeia." In the churchyard at Ilkley are the shafts of crosses, very rudely sculptured, and undoubtedly very ancient. The church, dedicated to All Saints, is an old foundation, and has some curious features. Its earliest monument is a cross-legged effigy of Sir Adam de Middleton, who died in 1315. The ground rises steeply to the south behind Ilkley, and at a height of 1,300 feet spreads out into a magnificent heathery expanse known as Rombald's Moor. "Rombald" is said to be a corruption of "Romilly," the first Norman lord of the manor; but there is a tradition which speaks of the moor as a promenade of a certain giant Rombald, a mighty figure that is said to have made a stride one day across the valley from Almescliffe Crag far beyond in the north-east, and to have come down with such force as to leave the impression of his foot on the larger of the two rocks above Ilkley, known as the Cow and Calf. The impression is there, of course. The story may have had its origin in the manner in which the valley at this point was absorbed in the interest of the Romillys. From the high land at the Cow and Calf, and from many other points east and west, fine views are obtained of the valley, now opening out to a grand pastoral sweep. On the slopes are several hydropathic establishments of a public and private character. Nearly all are noted for picturesque architectural treatment. This is especially the case with Ilkley Wells, where there is an observation tower, and the still earlier house in the Scotch baronial style, a mile and a half east, at Ben Rhydding, opened in 1844. Across the river from Ben Rhydding lies Denton, the home of the Fairfaxes; and from this point onwards to the Ouse incidents and houses connected with this great family present themselves. In Denton Church many of the name lie buried. The present Denton Hall occupies the site of the old mansion in which Sir Thomas Fairfax, the Parliamentary General, was born. At Burley, on the south bank of the Wharfe, a short distance from Ben Rhydding, is the Yorkshire house of the late W. E. Forster. Here, too, at the river side, are the worsted mills of which Mr. Forster was a part owner, and in the cemetery beyond is his grave, with an inscribed slab to his memory. On the other side of the river is Weston Hall, the property of the Vavasours through a long succession. Family papers at Weston date back to Henry III., and amongst other treasures is an original portrait of Cromwell. Farther east on the same side is Farnley Hall, where are relics of the Commonwealth, including the hat worn by Cromwell at Marston Moor, and the watch and sword of the Protector. Farnley Hall used to be notable also for a unique collection of about fifty drawings by Turner, which were sold in 1890. Turner was a frequent visitor at Farnley Hall, Mr. Walter Fawkes, uncle of the present owner, being one of his earliest patrons and friends. A curious gateway on the property was brought from Menston Hall, a Fairfax seat on the south bank of the river. It is a pleasant descent from Farnley Hall to the Wharfe, on whose south bank at this point is Otley, one of the first towns in Yorkshire to engage in the manufacture of cloth. Otley was long the site of a palace of the Archbishops of York, who were lords of the manor, and is now the headquarters of the Parliamentary division bearing its name. Several of the Fairfaxes are buried in the church. Sloping from the town to the south is the hill familiarly known as "The Chevin" (probably from the Saxon "chevn," a back or ridge). The hill rises to a height of 921 feet, and commands fine views. Near the town is Caley Hall, famous at one time for a park in which many varieties of deer, wild hogs, zebras, and other animals were kept. At Pool, just below Otley, the river expands, and flows pleasantly through the open valley to Arthington (where was once a house for Cluniac or Benedictine nuns), and onwards to the Harewood estates. Here we are still on part of the wide domain held by the ancient Romillys, who are credited with the building of the first Harewood Castle. From the Romillys the Harewood lands passed to the Fitzgeralds, the Lisles, and others, and then to the Gascoignes, from whom they went to the Lascelles (Earls of Harewood), the present possessors. The ruins of a castle built in the fourteenth century rise boldly on a pre-Norman mound near the river. The church at Harewood has some interesting details, and a number of historic monuments--one to Sir William Gascoigne (the Chief Justice who is said to have committed the heir of Henry IV. to prison) and his wife. Harewood House, built in 1760, is seen to advantage from the church. It is a porticoed building, and was erected by the first Lord Harewood, to replace Gawthorpe Hall, the seat of the Gascoignes, and the birthplace of the Chief Justice. To Gawthorpe Hall came at times the great Lord Strafford in search of repose. "With what quietness," he wrote, "could I live here in comparison with the noise and labour I meet with elsewhere; and, I protest, put up more crownes in my purse at the year's end too." In the same parish is the village of Weeton, above which, on the summit of a hill, is a peculiarly shaped rock, known as "the Great Almescliffe." From the rock a fine view is obtained of Wharfedale on the one side, and of Harrogate and the district leading into Nidderdale on the other. From Harewood the Wharfe sweeps placidly onwards to Netherby, and to Collingham and Linton, where there is fine farming country. Then Wetherby is reached on a bend of the river, hence the old Saxon name, Wederbi, "the turn." There is a bridge here of six arches, affording a good view of the stream. Boston Spa--a secluded inland watering place--is the next village. Then comes Newton Kyme, with a fine old church, and the remains of a castle that was held by the Barons de Kyme, the last of whom died as far back as 1358. We are now again on ground over which Roman legions passed, and from which relics of the Roman occupation have been unearthed. The church, dedicated to St. Andrew, is old and interesting, with an ivy-covered embattled western tower. Close to the church is Newton Hall, an old Fairfax seat, with portraits of members of that family. A mile and a half further down is Tadcaster, the Calcaria of the Romans, and the "Langborough" of later times. The Roman name is supposed to have been given on account of the abundance of calx or limestone in the district. Tadcaster was an important outpost of York. Through it ran the road of Agricola--still known as the Roman ridge--from London to Edinburgh, and it was also on the ancient road between York and Manchester. Near the town, at a place called St. Helen's Ford, are traces of a Roman encampment. Of more interest, however, than what Tadcaster reveals of that remote period of its history are the associations that cluster round it in connection with the civil wars. Three miles distant, near to the village of Saxton, is the site of the battle of Towton, "the bloodiest and most fatal engagement fought on English soil since Hastings." Sore fought Towton was, "for hope of life was set on every part," and each side had its awful orders neither to give nor seek quarter. A force of 100,000 men in all mustered for the struggle--40,000 Yorkists with Edward IV. and the Earl of Warwick at their head on the one side; on the other, 60,000 Lancastrians, with whom were Queen Margaret and the Duke of Somerset. About a third of this force perished on the field, the greater number being Lancastrians. The date of the battle is memorable. All the villagers round about tell to this day how it was fought on a Palm Sunday in the long ago. The conflict really began on the Saturday (March 29th, 1461), was suspended during the night, and renewed with vigour in the morning. The issue was decided about noon on the Sunday, the Duke of Norfolk, with reinforcements for Edward, giving the Yorkists an advantage at the critical moment which was at once followed up. Twenty-eight thousand Lancastrians were left dead upon the field, and vast numbers perished in the rout that took place. A field near Towton Dale Quarry, half a mile south of Towton village, and known as "the Bloody Meadow," is pointed out as the scene of the thickest of the fight; but the conflict extended over a wide area, and Towton battlefield may be said to cover the whole ground between Saxton and Towton villages. The Cock, a tributary of the Wharfe, winds round the site. In the swollen waters of this stream many of the Lancastrians perished when they broke rank and fled. On the outskirts of Grimston Park (the seat of Lord Londesborough) near by, is a field called Battle Acre, where the Lancastrians are said to have made their last stand; and here there is annually a prolific growth of white roses-- There is a patch of wild white roses, that bloom on a battlefield, Where the rival rose of Lancaster blushed redder still to yield; Four hundred years have o'er them shed their sunshine and their snow, But in spite of plough and harrow, every summer there they blow. Though ready to uproot them with hand profane you toil, The faithful flowers still fondly cluster round the sacred soil; Though tenderly transplanted to the nearest garden gay, Nor rest nor care can tempt them there to live a single day. Opposite Towton is Hazlewood Hall, the seat of an ancient Yorkshire family, the Vavasours. The hall commands an extensive view, and it is said that from it on a clear day the towers of Lincoln on the one side, and York on the other, sixty miles apart, may be seen. [Illustration: AT TADCASTER.] From two to three miles south-east of Tadcaster is Kirkby Wharfe, where there is a church with some fine Norman remains--notably the pillars of the nave, the porch doorway, and the font. There is also a Saxon cross. The church, which is dedicated to St. John the Baptist, was restored in 1861, in memory of Albert, first Baron Londesborough. The school is at Ulleskelf, one mile to the south-east, where there is a railway station, and a Jubilee memorial in the form of a chapel-of-ease. It is a short walk from here to Bolton Percy, where also there is a station. Bolton Percy was one of the manors granted by the Conqueror to William de Percy, founder of the great house of that name. From a wood in the neighbourhood, the Percys are said to have granted timber for the building of York Minster. The existing church dates from the early part of the fifteenth century, and nearly the whole of it is of that period. It is a noble Perpendicular building, with an exceptionally fine chancel. The east window, rising full twenty-three feet, with a depth of fourteen, presents five unbroken lights. Figured on it are full-length life-size portraits of Archbishops Scrope, Bowet, Kempe, Booth, and Neville, with the armorial bearings of these worthies. Above are representations of Scriptural characters. The living, which exceeds £1,200, is in the gift of the Archbishop of York, and is the richest at his disposal. At Bolton Percy the Fairfaxes were a power in their time. Ferdinando, Lord Fairfax, has an elaborate monument in Bolton Percy Church. To make room for it, one of the chancel piers had to be cut away. The son of Ferdinando--"Black Tom," the General-in-Chief of the Parliamentary forces--died at Nun Appleton Hall, on the south bank of the Wharfe, below Bolton Percy, and is buried at Bilbrough, in the same neighbourhood. Nun Appleton passed by purchase, on the death of the daughter of Thomas Lord Fairfax, to Alderman Milner, of Leeds, whose descendant (Sir Frederick Milner, Bart.) is the present owner. From Nun Appleton the Wharfe passes onward to Ryther (where is a church that was founded in 1100), and just below Ryther it falls into the Ouse. W. S. CAMERON. [Illustration: KIRKBY WHARFE.] [Illustration: THE OUSE AT YORK.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER VII. THE OUSE. The Ure and the Swale--Myton and the "White Battle"--Nun Monkton, Overton, and Skelton--The Nidd--York--Bishopthorpe--Selby--The Derwent--The Aire--Howden--Goole--The Don. The Yorkshire Ouse (from the Celtic "uisg" or water) has one decided peculiarity among important British rivers: it has no natural beginning, and it loses its identity before its waters touch the sea. It is remarkable, further, for the number of other rivers that drain into it. Within the immense water-shed of Yorkshire, it absorbs in its course the Ure, the Swale, the Nidd, the Foss, the Wharfe, the Derwent, the Aire, and the Don. Looked at in connection with these streams and their tributaries, this chief Yorkshire river receives its supplies from over a considerable part of the North of England. Although covering a distance of about fifty miles, it keeps well within its own county, is almost wholly confined, in fact, to the great plain of York. Its value as a waterway was recognised from the dawn of our history. Up its waters rich argosies and primitive war craft have come, and its ramifications east, west, and north proved a convenient channel along which to carry weal or woe into the ancient Northumbria. It traverses beautiful and fertile land, and all its tributaries come to it over picturesque and classic ground. It springs into existence with a full flow of water in the neighbourhood of Aldborough, at the confluence of two of the prettiest rivers in the country, the Ure and the Swale. From this point in the plain of York the Ouse passes smoothly through rich agricultural lands, alongside quaint villages, and through the heart of the capital of the North, and so onwards until it in turn is absorbed in a greater waterway. The Ure (from the Celtic "ur" or "brisk") rises on the mountainous boundary line of Yorkshire and Westmorland, and runs over a course of about fifty miles, passing through Wensleydale, and skirting Ripon on its way into the plain of York. In Wensleydale the progress of the Ure is broken by several fine waterfalls, notably the cataracts at Aysgarth. Close to Aysgarth the river passes Bolton Castle, a magnificent keep, well preserved as regards the external walls. This castle, the stronghold of the ancient Scropes, dates from the fourteenth century. It was one of the prisons of Mary Stuart on her way south to Fotheringay. A short distance further down the valley are the ruins of Middleham Castle, where Warwick the King-maker kept house and hall, and where Richard III., his son-in-law, spent the happiest part of his life. Near to Middleham the Ure receives the Cover, a stream on whose banks are the remains of Coverham Abbey, a house of White Canons. Coverdale is noted also as being the birthplace of the divine of that name to whom we owe an early translation of the Bible. Exceedingly pretty, if scant, monastic ruins are passed by the Ure at Jervaulx, just before Wensleydale comes to an end. The river then flows on through tolerably open ground towards Masham and Tanfield into the Marmion country, and onwards to Ripon, whose Minster dates from the twelfth century, and is the outcome of a much earlier foundation. Near by, on the Skell, a tributary of the Ure, is Fountains Abbey, a majestic and picturesque ruin, whose grounds form part of Studley Royal, the estate of the Marquis of Ripon. As the Ure nears its point of junction with the Swale it passes two towns of great historic and antiquarian interest, lying within touch of each other, namely, Boroughbridge and Aldborough. Boroughbridge is the site of the battle fought in 1322, at which was killed the Earl of Hereford, who, with the Earl of Lancaster, had risen against Edward II. Lancaster was taken prisoner, and conveyed to his own castle at Pontefract, where he was beheaded. Three rude blocks of granite, known as the "Devil's Arrows," form one of the sights of Boroughbridge. They vary in height from sixteen and a half to twenty-two and a half feet above the ground. There were four blocks in Leland's time. One theory is that these monoliths marked the limits of a Roman stadium or racecourse; but they may have had an earlier significance. Aldborough, the ancient Isurium, was, apart from York, the most important Roman station in the county. Here two Roman roads met--one from York and Tadcaster to Catterick, and the other, the famous Watling Street, running north from Ilkley. There was a strongly walled camp at Aldborough, and it is said that the present church occupies a position in the centre of the ancient possession, and is partly built of material from the Roman town. The Swale (probably from "swale," the Teutonic "gentle") rises amidst bleak surroundings on the hills beyond Kirkby Stephen, but soon reaches the picturesque valley to which it gives its name. It takes in Richmondshire in its course, the wide district from which the Saxon Edwin was expelled to make room for the Norman Alan. The Earl Alan built the oldest part of the castle at Richmond. The massive keep was erected later on (about 1146) by Earl Conan. A mile below Richmond are the ruins of Easby Abbey, the ancient granary of which is still used. The river, on passing out of Swaledale, goes onward to Catterick (where the Romans had a walled camp), Topcliffe, and Brefferton. The church at Brefferton is on the brink of the river and is said to mark the spot where Paulinus baptised his converts in the Swale. There is an opinion also that the rite was administered at Catterick; but Bretherick, to judge by ancient place names derived from Paulinus, seems the likelier spot. A little below Bretherton the Swale unites with the Ure, the distance traversed from its source to this point being about sixty miles. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE OUSE.] Close to where the Ouse takes form at the junction of these two rivers is Myton, the scene of a conflict sometimes spoken of as the Battle of Myton, but better known in Yorkshire as the "White Battle," and the "Chapter of Myton." The battle was fought on October 12, 1319. In the autumn of that year Edward II. had equipped an army and gone northward to lay siege to Berwick. While the King was thus engaged a strong detachment of Scots under Randolph and Douglas came into England by the west, and marched close up to the walls of York. They destroyed the suburbs, but failed to effect an entrance into the city. The inhabitants of York were not in a position to do more than protect themselves behind their barriers, all their fighting men being with the King. The Scots had, however, done and said things at the walls that were hard to bear, and on this account an aggressive movement was made from the city. Soon after the troops of Randolph and Douglas had started on their return journey they were surprised to find a motley army of some 10,000 on their rear, made up of clergy, apprentices, and old men, prepared to give battle. Though a valiant venture, it was a wild one. This strange force from York possessed but few weapons, and was without adequate leadership, while the Scots were largely men trained to warfare, well equipped, and skilfully led. The battle was soon over. The Scots turned upon their pursuers and effectually routed them. Great numbers of the English were killed, including the Mayor of York. Many others were drowned in the Swale. The name "White Battle" is accounted for by the large number of priests and clerks who took part in the engagement. [Illustration: BISHOPTHORPE.] From the junction of the two rivers out of which the Ouse is formed onwards to York is a distance of about fifteen miles. About midway over this stretch the stream passes three villages lying near together--Nun Monkton, Overton, and Skelton--each of which has an interesting church. The Skelton Church is Early English throughout, and is dedicated to All Saints, but is popularly known as St. Peter's, from a tradition that it has a claim to be considered part of the Metropolitan Church, it being a common belief that it was built from stones left over after the completion of the south transept of York Minster. The church at Overton shows Transition Norman features, and is close to the site of a Roman settlement, and in the neighbourhood also of a Priory of Gilbertine Canons founded in the reign of John. Nun Monkton has mention in Domesday, and is supposed to be the site of a Saxon monastery. Here, too, in the reign of Stephen, there was a Priory (Benedictine); and the church, Early English, was the chapel of the nuns. At Nun Monkton, the Nidd, after a rapid course from Great Whernside, joins the Ouse. The upper section of Nidderdale is wild and secluded. From Pateley Bridge the tributary water passes Dacre Banks, above which are the curiously shaped boulders known as Brimham Rocks. Further down, Knaresborough, with its castle dating back to Henry I., and its memories of Eugene Aram and Mother Shipton, rises grandly over the river. Both the Ouse and the Nidd skirt the grounds of Beningborough, where the Abbot of St. Mary's, York, had a choice park. At Red Hall on the Ouse, a mile and a half below Nun Monkton, Charles I. slept on his way from Scotland in 1633. The building was a seat of the Slingsbys, who were active Royalists. Sir Henry Slingsby, the entertainer of the King, suffered on Tower Hill in 1658. The minster towers of York are seen to advantage from the plain as the Ouse approaches the ancient city. It is said of York that it was founded a thousand years before Christ, by one Evrog, son of Membyr--hence the ancient British name of the place, Caer Evrog, or Evrog's City. This belongs to Celtic mythology, but it is pretty certain that the Roman Eboracum is a variation of the name possessed by York when the Western conquerors settled here. York in the Roman era was "the seat of the Prefect, with the official staff and the ministers of his luxury, when London was still a mere resort of traders." Here Severus died, and his memory remains perpetuated in Severus Hill. Here Constantine Chlorus also died, and although it is doubtful whether his son, Constantine the Great, was "a born Englishman," and a native of York, as some have asserted, he was certainly proclaimed Emperor in this famous city. Here, too, Paulinus preached, and Edwin of Northumbria was baptised. Our own early Sovereigns held their Courts and Parliaments at York, and for many centuries it was a place of great military, ecclesiastical, and political importance. The Minster--one of the most impressive of all our cathedrals, with a superb west front, which is but one of many glorious features--has in its foundations traces of the Early Saxon Cathedral and Norman work. The superstructure is Early English and Perpendicular. From the platform on the top of the central tower (216 feet) magnificent views are obtained on every side. The ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, near to the river, are very fine, and are carefully preserved. This was a mitred Benedictine house, and was one of the earliest monastic establishments founded in the North after the Conquest. The castle ruins, also seen from the river, occupy the site of a structure raised by the Conqueror. The walls of York, with the ancient gateways or bars, remain one of the features of the city. On the inner side of the embattlements is a promenade, much used. The circumvallation is practically complete. It does not now, of course, embrace the whole city, but it has within its limits the historic York. So well do these old walls become the city, that to this day it is with a shock the fact is recalled that just before the Queen came to the throne the civic authorities actually petitioned Parliament for powers to demolish the ancient environment with its barbicans and posterns. The successors of the men who advocated such an act of vandalism have, however, atoned for the shameless proposal. They have put the walls into thorough repair, and in June, 1889, the Mayor and Corporation took part in the completion of the restoration by throwing open the remaining stretch of the walls running from Monk Bar to Bootham Bar. The Foss enters York on the south, and passes into the Ouse on the east bank. It has a run of about sixteen miles from the Howardian Hills, and flows near Sheriff Hutton Castle, a seat of the Nevilles, originally built in 1140, by Bertram de Bulmer, Sheriff of Yorkshire. At Fulford, just below York, the Ouse skirts the scene of the defeat of the Earls Edwin and Morcar, by Hardrada (1063). A little further down, on the west side, is Bishopthorpe, where the Archbishops have their palace. A palace was built here in the thirteenth century by Archbishop de Gray, and presented to the see. Of the original building there are but few remains. It was at Bishopthorpe that Archbishop Scrope and the Earl Marshal were condemned in the presence of the King (Henry IV.) for treason. The sentence was carried out in a field on the way to York. Old boatmen tell that it was common at one time to fire a salute of three guns from the river on passing the Archbishop's palace, and to be rewarded with a supply of the palace ale. At Naburn, on the east bank, a mile and a half below, is a lock (opened in 1888 by the late Prince Albert Victor) constructed for vessels of 400 tons. Three miles further down is Stillingfleet, and here the river is in the neighbourhood of Escrick Park, the seat of Lord Wenlock. Escrick Hall is Elizabethan, with fine pictures and statuary. Skipwith Common, with its tumuli and ancient turf dwellings, is also in this neighbourhood. East of Skipwith, and near the river, is Riccall. At this point on the Ouse was moored the fleet of Harold Hardrada while his troops advanced to York. A short distance above Riccall, on the west bank, the Wharfe enters the Ouse, and on the same side, half a mile below the point of junction is Cawood, where the Archbishops of York were established in residence from before the Conquest. Wolsey thought much of Cawood, and it was from his palace here that he was taken a prisoner, when he had perforce to bid farewell to all his greatness. There are some remains of the ancient buildings. The gatehouse stands, and in a room over the entrance the Court-leet of the Archbishops is still held. [Illustration: CAWOOD.] Selby, further down the stream on the same side, is a thriving market town. It has the advantage not only of the navigable waters of the Ouse, but of canal communication with the Aire. Its Abbey church has many noteworthy features, not the least of which is its length (296 feet). The building has a double dedication--to SS. Mary and Germanus. The foundation is traced to Benedict, a French monk. That monk, while in the Convent at Auxerre, was, according to the legend, commissioned in a vision by Germanus to go to England, and find there a similar spot to one revealed in the vision, and there he was to halt, set up the Cross and preach. Benedict is said to have been so impressed by the mandate that he started at once, and continued his travels until, sailing up the Ouse, he found on the curve of the river at Selby a district corresponding exactly to what had been revealed to him in the vision. Here he set up a Cross, and constructed a hut for himself by the riverside. The year 1068 has been assigned as the date of this undertaking. There was then, says the old chronicle, "not a single monk to be found throughout all Yorkshire, owing to the devastations of the Northmen by the Conqueror." Benedict found favour in the eyes of the Norman Sheriff, and acting on the suggestion of this functionary, he waited on the King, and succeeded in obtaining a grant of that portion of the manor on which he had settled. A monastery of wood was then erected, and Benedict became first abbot. He held the position for twenty-seven years, when he died. The second abbot was a member of the De Lacy family, and was wealthy enough to begin a permanent building of stone, portions of which may be traced in the existing fabric, which from the time of James I. (1618) has been the parochial church of Selby. Pope Alexander II. made Selby a mitred Abbey, the only other English establishment north of the Trent enjoying this distinction being St. Mary's at York. [Illustration: SELBY] Selby was a place of strategic importance in the wars of the Commonwealth. It changed hands two or three times, but was eventually secured for the Parliament by the Fairfaxes, after a battle in which Lord Bellasis, the Governor of York, and 1,600 men were made prisoners, with much baggage and a useful supply of guns and horses. The victory at Selby, to quote Markham, was "the immediate cause of the battle of Marston Moor, and the destruction of the Royalist power in the North; and the two Houses marked their sense of its importance by ordering a public thanksgiving for the same." There is a tradition that Selby was the birthplace of Henry I., the youngest son of the Conqueror, and Freeman suggests that "William may have brought his wife into Northumbria, as Edward brought his wife into Wales, in order that the expected Atheling might be not only an Englishman born, but a native of that part of England which had cost his father most pains to win." Some three miles below Selby is Hemingborough, where there is a fine church with a lofty spire (180 ft.), and between here and Barmby-on-the-Marsh, the Derwent, after a long, winding course from the high moorland south of Whitby, unites with the Ouse. The Derwent passes Malton, the Roman Derventio, the site of which is still traceable. Here there is an interesting Gilbertine Priory. The river also passes Kirkham, where there are remains, notably an exquisite Early English gateway, of an Augustinian Priory; and on its northern bank at this point is Castle Howard, the Yorkshire seat of the Earl of Carlisle. Many smaller rivers are absorbed by the Derwent, particularly the Rye, on whose banks are the ruins of Rievaulx, the earliest of the Yorkshire Cistercian houses; the Costa, which runs past Pickering Castle, where Richard II. was held a prisoner just before his tragic death at Pontefract; and the Bran, which runs close to the celebrated Kirkdale Cave. Two miles further down, on the west side, the Ouse receives another important feeder in the Aire. Turbid enough is the Aire at this point, after its contact with Leeds and other West Riding manufacturing towns; but no river has a more romantic beginning. Rising mysteriously from its underground source at the foot of Malham Cove, "by giants scooped from out the rocky ground," it flows onward through a scene of surpassing grandeur; and very beautiful still is its course through Airedale proper, from beyond Skipton on to Kirkstall Abbey. The Aire is joined at Leeds by the Liverpool Canal; at Castleford by the Calder; and at Birkin by the Selby Canal; and after a run of about seventy miles it passes into the Ouse at Arnim, opposite the village of Booth. Howden lies a short distance to the north-east of Booth. It possesses a fine old church, dedicated to St. Peter, and is the site of a famous horse fair. Howden boasts also of several celebrities, beginning with Roger de Hoveden, the chronicler, and coming down to the stable boy who became Baron Ward, and was Minister to the Duke of Parma. The church at Howden was handed over by the Conqueror to the Prior and Convent of Durham, and was made collegiate in 1267. The choir and chapter-house are in a ruinous state, and of the former, which was erected in place of an earlier structure about 1300, only the aisle walls and the eastern front remain. The chapter-house, even in decay, is an exceptionally fine example of Early Perpendicular work, with elaborate tracing and arcading. An archæological authority (Hutchinson) writes enthusiastically of "its exquisite and exact proportions," and speaks of it as the most perfect example of its kind in the country. After the dissolution of the collegiate establishment the church at Howden began to be neglected. It suffered much more from natural wear and tear than from vandalism, and much of it was easily restored. The portions in use include the nave, the transept, with eastern chantries, and a central tower. Over a graceful west front rises a central gable, finely crocketed, and flanked with hexagonal turrets. A head carved over the south porch, supposed to be that of Edward II., but also claimed for Henry III., gives some indication of the date of the erection of this part of the building. The tower, lighted by tall and handsome windows, rises 130 feet, and from its summit a commanding view is obtained. Its chambers are of unusual size, and are said to have been constructed to serve as a place of refuge to the inhabitants of the neighbourhood in the event of inundation, the country here having been originally marsh land and subject to floods. The Bishops of Durham took a lively interest in their collegiate church at Howden. Here they had a palace, and here several of them died. From the point where it receives the Aire, the Ouse flows eastwards and southwards, and at the end of the bend thus formed touches Goole--a place which was a quiet village some seventy years ago, but is now a busy commercial centre, and, moreover, a town which, although well inland, lays claim to the position of a seaport. Goole has the advantage of the Don as well as of the Ouse. The former stream comes into it along a straight, artificial channel, known locally as the Dutch river, after its constructor, Vermuyden the engineer. The Don rises in Cheshire, and has branches running out of Derbyshire. It passes Doncaster, Sheffield, Rotherham, and other towns, on its way to the Ouse, and is the last of the streams to fall into the great Yorkshire waterway; the Ouse, after a short run eastward from Goole, uniting with the Trent to form the Humber. W. S. CAMERON. [Illustration: BARTON-UPON-HUMBER.] THE HUMBER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. CHAPTER VIII. THE ESTUARY. Drainage and Navigation--Dimensions of the Humber--The Ferribys--Barton-upon-Humber--Hull--Paull--Sunk Island--Spurn Point--Great Grimsby--Places of Call. A glance at that part of the map where Yorkshire is separated from Lincolnshire reveals the full extent of the Humber, but while it shows a wide estuary, it conveys a poor idea of the national importance of this arm of the sea. Nor is the value of the estuary in this respect much increased by the mere statement that the Humber is formed by the confluence of the Trent and the Ouse. These two rivers have to be considered in connection with their tributary streams before a fair idea is formed, not only of what the Humber is as a channel of trade, but of the wide extent of the water-shed of which it is the basin. The Ouse brings to the Humber nearly all the running water of Yorkshire, the collection having been made over an area exceeding 4,000 square miles; while the supplies from the Trent, though less in quantity because of the lower altitudes of their origin, drain about 4,500 square miles. This makes the Humber the largest river-basin in England, the Severn coming next with a total drainage of 8,580 square miles, as compared with 9,770 in the case of the Humber, made up as follows:--Ouse, 4,100; Trent, 4,500; Humber proper, 1,170. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ THE COURSE OF THE HUMBER.] So far as navigation is concerned, the Humber is an open way, by means of river and connecting artificial links, with the Mersey, the Thames, and the Severn, and practically, therefore, its waters are in touch with the whole country. The Humber figures also in all our histories. From the earliest period the invader found passage along it to Mercia, on the one hand, and to Northumbria on the other; and along the valleys through which its tributaries run it is not a difficult task to trace, in place-names and surnames, the settlements that took place in this part of England in the long ago as a result of the encroachments of Angle, Dane, and Norse. From the date of the withdrawal of the Romans it was always to the Humber that the Vikings steered their course, and hither they kept coming until the Norman conquest was complete, and England out of many elements became compact and strong. At the confluence of the Ouse and Trent the Humber has a width of about a mile. From here to Paull, on the north bank--a point south-east of Hull--the width varies from a mile-and-a-quarter to two miles. From Paull south-east to Grimsby the width gradually increases to about four miles, and where the bank on the Yorkshire side curves inward like a sickle the width exceeds seven miles. Spurn Head, forming the point of the sickle, lies almost direct east from Grimsby, and here, at the mouth of the Humber, the width is about five miles. From the head of the estuary to Paull--a tolerably straight line east--the distance is 18½ miles. From Paull to Spurn the stretch is about a mile less than this, thus giving 36 miles as the full length of the Humber. The towns on each side have from a remote period had ferry communication with each other. It is said that the Romans crossed from the Lincolnshire coast in the neighbourhood of Whitton to Brough on the north bank, and the latter town is spoken of as the Petuaria of Ptolemy. Just below Whitton, on the Lincolnshire side, is Winteringham, close to a Roman station on the route from Lincoln to York. It was to Winteringham Ethelreda came in that flight across the Humber from Egfrid, king of Northumbria. West Halton--anciently Alfham--where she obtained succour, is close by, and the church of this village still bears her name. The next place of interest on the Lincolnshire side of the Humber is South Ferriby, where there is a curious old church--at one time a much larger structure--dedicated to St. Nicholas, of whom there is an effigy over the porch. Immediately opposite, on the Yorkshire side of the Humber, is North Ferriby. Hessle, which lies some three miles further east on the north bank, is noted for its flint deposits; hence its name (from the German _kiesel_). Barton, the Lincolnshire town opposite Hessle, is a place of great antiquity. This is obvious from the tower of the old church, St. Peter's. Usually the Norman evidences in an ecclesiastical building are in the basement, but in the case of this tower they form the superstructure. The lower part is Saxon. It is short and massive, rising seventy feet, and is in three stages. There are some curious features in the church, and amongst the monumental work are effigies of the time of Edward II. St. Mary's Church, close by, is also interesting. It was originally a chapel-of-ease to St. Peter's, and is Norman and Early English. Barton figures in Domesday as Brereton. It was held by the De Gants through Gilbert, son of Baldwin de Gant, a nephew of the Conqueror, who took part in the Norman invasion, and had the land here made over to him. The town carries on a brisk trade, and is noteworthy historically for the fact that it furnished eight vessels fully manned to assist Edward III. in the invasion of Brittany. Hull boasts not only of being the chief port on the Humber, but claims to be the third port in the kingdom, giving precedence only to London and Liverpool. There was a time when it was a mere hamlet; but it has not only outgrown the towns near it that once did a greater business--such as Hedon and Beverley--but has seen what was a much larger commercial centre than either of these places literally pass from the map. What anciently was the chief port on the Humber lay, snugly enough to all seeming, just within the bend at Spurn Head. It was known as Ravenser. It had much shipping, and in the time of Edward I. sent members to Parliament. Henry IV. landed here in 1399. Unfortunately Ravenser, with neighbouring towns, was built on unstable ground. A process of denudation is continually going on at this the extreme point of Yorkshire, and from this cause the sea had left only a fragment of Ravenser in Bolingbroke's day. In no long time after this the town was wholly absorbed by the encroaching waters. Hull began to flourish as Ravenser began to decay. Another circumstance that led to the development of this great Humber port was the difficulty the Beverley merchants had in getting their supplies by river. Hull was originally one of many wykes (the Norse name for a small creek or bay). It got the name of the river (the Hull) on which it stands in the time of Richard I., and by this name it is known everywhere, its corporate title of Kingston-upon-Hull seldom being given to it in print, and still more seldom being applied to it in speech. The royal title was conferred by Edward I., who is said to have noticed the value of the site for commercial purposes while hunting here in 1256. The parish church (Holy Trinity) is a magnificent Decorated and Perpendicular structure, cruciform in plan, with a tower rising to a height of 150 feet. It is one of the largest parish churches in England, its length from east to west being 272 feet, and its width 96 feet; and it is claimed for it that in its chancel and transepts it possesses the earliest examples of brick masonry since the Roman epoch. Holy Trinity was founded in 1285. St. Mary, in Lowgate, also a cruciform structure, with central tower, dates from the early part of the fourteenth century. The Dock Office is a fine structure of the Venetian type; the Trinity House is Tuscan; the Town Hall is Italian; and the High Street shows a picturesque blending of Domestic styles, dating from the thirteenth or fourteenth century onwards to work of the present time. In the Market Place is a statue to William III., "our great deliverer," as he was called here. The statue has the peculiarity of being gilt, probably as a further tribute from the Hull burgesses to the worth of the Prince of Orange. In the Town Hall are statues of Edward I., the founder of the town; of Sir Michael de la Pole, the first Mayor of the borough (1376); of Andrew Marvell, poet, wit, and statesman, a native of the place. A statue of another noted statesman, also a native of Hull, William Wilberforce, the anti-slavery advocate, surmounts a Doric pillar (72 feet) close to the old Docks. The river Hull, which rises in the wolds, and has a course of about thirty miles, flows through the older parts of the town. It is the passage way to several of the Docks, and is itself thronged with shipping on each side, and bordered by warehouses. Paull, or Paghill (anciently Pagula), is about five miles south-east from Hull, and is noteworthy as the spot near which Charles I. in 1642 reviewed his forces. The shore continues in a sharp south-east dip from here to what is known as Sunk Island--a double name, which is now a misnomer, the land being well exposed and no longer an island. It is the peculiarity of this Yorkshire peninsula that while it continually suffers from denudation, it is also being recompensed by the same agency. Sunk Island has been reclaimed from the Humber, and is an interesting example on a small scale of land nationalisation. The soil is exceedingly fertile, and is let out by the Crown, to whom the cottages and other buildings on the estate belong. About 7,000 acres are at present under cultivation, and there is every prospect that the area will go on increasing. From the end of Sunk Island to Spurn Point the Humber takes a wide bay-like sweep inward and southward, the peninsula narrowing considerably as Spurn Point is reached. The Spurn Point of six centuries ago, with the lost town of Ravenspur, lay a little to the west of the present promontory, which has been almost wholly built up afresh by natural causes since that time. There are two lighthouse towers on the Point, the larger of the two being Smeaton's work. [Illustration: QUEENS DOCK, HULL.] It is almost a direct line west across the Humber mouth from Spurn to Grimsby--Great Grimsby as it is called, to distinguish it from the smaller Grimsby, near Louth, in the same county. Here on the Lincolnshire coast the country, viewed from the sea, is flat and Dutch-like, but close at hand it is decidedly English in its bustle and trade and signs of manufacturing progress. There is fine anchorage eastward, to which Spurn Point forms a natural breakwater. Dock extension has done much for Grimsby as for Hull. Considerable trade is carried on here with the Continent, and immense quantities of fish are consigned direct from the North Sea through Grimsby to our leading markets. Some fine buildings surround the harbour. The principal street runs north and south, and is of great length, leading in a straight line to Cleethorpes, a neighbouring watering place. A Danish origin is assigned to Grimsby. Tradition speaks of it as Grim's town. Grim, we are told, was a fisherman who rescued a Danish infant from a boat adrift at sea. This infant was appropriately christened Havloch, or sea waif. He was adopted by Grim, grew up a fine boy, and was afterwards found to be a son of a Danish King. What followed may be readily surmised. Havloch was restored to his own country, and when he came to his own he did not forget his foster-father, on whom he bestowed riches, rights, and privileges, enabling him to become the founder of what is now called Grimsby. The tradition is perpetuated in the ancient common seal of the borough, which in Saxon lettering has the names Gryme and Habloc, and a design typifying the foundation of the town. British and Saxon remains in the neighbourhood show, however, that there were builders here before the somewhat mythical Grim. While the vessels sailing from the Humber do business with every country, they have almost a monopoly of the North Sea trade. And as in the ancient era, so at the present time, this open channel into the heart of England continues to receive at its ports great numbers of Northern and Germanic peoples. The invasions of to-day are, however, chiefly of a temporary character. Hull and Grimsby are places of call for the emigrants from the Continent, who land here to find their way to Liverpool by rail, and from thence to the New World on the Atlantic Liners, or who re-ship into other vessels in the Humber and take the Channel route to New York. W. S. CAMERON. [Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF GREAT GRIMSBY.] [Illustration: A BIT OF FEN.] THE RIVERS OF THE WASH. THE WITHAM: Grantham--Lincoln--Boston. THE NEN: Naseby--Northampton--Earls Barton--Castle Ashby--Wellingborough--Higham Ferrers--Thrapston--Oundle--Castor--Peterborough. THE WELLAND: Market Harborough--Rockingham--Stamford. THE OUSE: Bedford--St. Neots--Huntingdon--St. Ives. THE CAM: Cambridge--"Five Miles from Anywhere"--Ely. FENS AND FENLAND TOWNS: Wisbeach--Spalding--King's Lynn--Crowland. [Illustration: ON THE FENS IN WINTER.] If ever a river could be reproached with not knowing its own mind it would be the WITHAM. Rising in the extreme south of Lincolnshire, it wanders northward along the western side of the county, and at one place seems almost minded to fall into the Trent, from which it is separated only by a belt of land slightly higher than the bed of either river. So slight, indeed, is the division between the present valleys of the Witham and the Trent that it has been urged by a very competent authority that the great gap traversed by the former river at Lincoln really represents the ancient channel of the Trent, which has only adopted the present course towards the Humber at a very late epoch in its geological history.[5] But the Witham at last, after submitting for a time to the influence of a limestone plateau, which rises to a considerable height on its eastern bank, suddenly alters its course, though low and level ground still continues along the same line, and cuts its way through the upland, which is severed by a fairly wide and rather deep-sided valley. Thus it gains access to the broad lowland tract between these hills and the wolds, which is here in immediate communication with the fenland, and along this it pursues a south-easterly course until it reaches the Wash. The streams which presently unite to form the Witham traverse more than ordinarily pretty pastoral scenery--a region now shelving, now almost hilly, of meadow and pasture, cornfield and copse, where is many a mansion pleasantly situated in its wooded park, and many a comely village clustered round a church, which is often both interesting and beautiful--till we arrive at Grantham, once a quiet market town, now rapidly developing into a very important manufacturing centre. The situation of the town on gently undulating ground sloping down to the Witham is rather pretty, though its rapid increase during the last quarter of a century has not made it more acceptable to the artist. The steeple of its church is beautiful, even for a county unusually rich in fine churches. Tower and spire are almost the same height, together giving to the capstone an elevation of 273 feet. The lower part is in the Early English style, the remainder and the body of the church, which is not unworthy of the steeple, belong to the Decorated and the Perpendicular styles, but a considerable part of the spire was rebuilt, without, however, any change being made in the design, in the year 1661. The Angel Hotel is "one of the three mediæval inns remaining in England," and within its walls Richard III. signed the death-warrant of the Duke of Buckingham. Grantham once had a castle, but this has disappeared, and so has a Queen Eleanor Cross, but some traces of its religious houses yet remain. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ MAP OF THE RIVERS OF THE WASH.] Quietly and lazily, after leaving Grantham, the Witham works its way along a broader valley, cut down into the blue clays of the lias formation, and bounded on its eastern side by the low upland plateau formed by the harder limestone beds of the lower part of the oolite, which farther to the south are noted for their stone quarries. Little, however, calls for special notice till a triple group of towers looms up against the sky, and tells of our approach to the turning point in the river course, where for many a century the cathedral and the fortress of Lincoln have kept watch and ward over the gap in the hills, through which, as already stated, the Witham finds an outlet towards the fenland and the sea. Durham Cathedral only, of all those in England, excels that of Lincoln in the beauty of its situation, for even Ely on its island hill, overlooking the wide Cambridgeshire fens, must be content to take a lower place. Like Durham, Lincoln occupies a site which seems to be indicated by Nature for a place of defence and offence in war, for a centre of commerce and industry in peace. Thus full eighteen centuries since it was crowned by a fortified camp, and eight centuries since it was chosen as the more fitting site of the bishop's stool, in a diocese which at that time was the largest in England. Told as briefly as possible and to the barest outline, this is the history of Lincoln. On the south-western angle of the limestone plateau, guarded on the one side by the steep slope which falls down to a level plain--that which prolongs in a northerly direction the valley of the Witham--on the other by the yet steeper slope which descends to the marshes fringing its actual course through the upland, the Romans established a great fortified camp. Of this, portions of the defences both in earth and masonry remain to the present day. It has been argued with probability that in the name, given by these invaders, _Lindum Colonia_, from which the present one has descended, there is evidence that the site was already in British occupation, the first word being compounded from _Llyn_ a pool, and _dun_ a hill fortress; thus signifying the hill by the pool in the marshy expanse of the Witham. Fragments of wall and a gate, the basements of pillars, probably belonging to a great basilica, a sewer, a tesselated pavement, and sundry other relics, remain to this day as memorials of the Roman occupation. From Lincoln also radiate the lines of five main roads, constructed, where they cross the marshes, on solid causeways. Of these the most important are the Fossway and the Ermine Street, which unite just south of Lincoln, then scale the steep slope below the ancient south gate, along the line of the present High Street, and pass out northward beneath the ancient archway, which still, such is the irony of time, retains its ancient name of Newport. [Illustration: LINCOLN, FROM CANWICK.] After the Romans departed, the history of Lincoln for a time is a blank. Doubtless the English invaders plundered, and burnt, and slaughtered, as was their wont, but we hear little more till after the missionaries of Augustine had begun to preach the Gospel to the heathen conquerors of the land. In Lincoln there is a little modern church, a short distance south of the Newport arch, and very near the remnants of the Roman basilica. This marks the site of the first Christian church in Lincoln, the first sign of its second and peaceful conquest by the followers of the Crucified. It was founded by Paulinus, Bishop of York, and his newly-made convert Blæcca, the Governor of Lincoln. Within its walls, as Canon Venables tells us, Honorius, fourth Archbishop of Canterbury after Augustine, was consecrated by Paulinus. Doubtless the church of Paulinus--now St. Paul's--like that of St. Martin at Canterbury, was constructed of Roman materials--perhaps was a restoration of an earlier building, but of this unhappily no trace remains. The Danish invaders sorely harried Lincoln and all the region round. Indeed, in 876 the invaders parcelled out the county among themselves. "Lindsey became largely a Danish land, and Lincoln became pre-eminently a Danish city." Then for a time followed more peaceful days, till William the Norman became master of England. His eye was attracted by the natural advantages of Lincoln, so on the highest point of the plateau, at the south-western angle of the Roman _castrum_, he built a strong castle, remnants of which can still be discerned in the existing walls of that building. To secure space for its outworks he cleared away 166 houses, and in connection with this we have the first distinct notice of the lower town, which at the present day, commercially speaking, is the most important part of Lincoln. It is, however, probable that a suburb had already sprung up at the spot where the Roman road crossed the nearest channel of the Witham--obtaining from its situation the name of Wickerford or Wigford--to which the families dislodged from the upper town no doubt transferred themselves. For them--on land granted by the Conqueror--one Colswegen built some houses, and at the same time founded the churches of St. Mary-le-Wigford and St. Peter-at-Gowts. The towers, and in case of the latter some other portions, of both these churches still remain, and though built somewhere between the years 1068 and 1086 are so completely survivals of the rude style which prevailed in England before the Normans came that they are often quoted as examples of "Saxon" churches. About the same time Remigius, a Norman monk, was consecrated to the See of Lincoln. At that time Dorchester, in Oxfordshire, was the site of the bishop's stool, but then, as now, it was a place of little importance, and inconveniently situated for the management of so vast a diocese; so he commenced the building of a cathedral at Lincoln, of which a part of the western front still remains incorporated into the grand façade of the present cathedral. The severe simplicity of this early Norman fabric was relieved by the more ornate work of a later bishop in the middle part of the twelfth century, which may still be seen in the entrance doors of the western façade and the lower parts of the two western towers. Then by degrees the remainder of the fabric was rebuilt. Most of the work from the eastern transept to the western façade dates from between the end of the twelfth and the middle of the thirteenth century, commencing with that of Bishop Hugh, afterwards St. Hugh, and ending with that of the illustrious Englishman Robert Grostête, who may be numbered with the "Reformers before the Reformation." To receive the relics of the former the famous Angel choir, or Presbytery, was built about the year 1280. The cloisters and upper part of the central tower were added some twenty years later, and certain alterations subsequently made, the most important being the upper stages of the western towers, which are assigned to the middle of the fifteenth century. Thus, while Lincoln Cathedral presents us with examples of English architecture from the very earliest Norman to the close of the so-called Gothic, and even, in its rebuilt northern cloister, of the classic Renaissance, it is in the main a specimen of the First Pointed or Early English style, from its beginning till it merged almost insensibly in the Middle Pointed or Decorated. Over its details and its history, its damage from earthquake and spoiler, the labours of St. Hugh of Avalon, and the tragedy of the little St. Hugh of Lincoln, its sieges and its narrow escape from destruction in the days of Cromwell, it is impossible to linger. Suffice it to say that the building is as beautiful as the site is commanding, and that the minster garth is girdled by ancient houses full of interest, although Lincoln was never, as the popular name would suggest, the centre of a great monastery. [Illustration: LINCOLN CATHEDRAL, FROM THE SOUTH-WEST.] [Illustration: BOSTON CHURCH: THE TOWER.] We must endeavour to summarise the chief attractions of the town and the leading features of the scenery. Of the former it may be said that few towns in England are more full of relics of olden time or more fruitful in pleasant impressions. We never know what the next turn in the most unpromising street may disclose. The Roman relics have been already mentioned, but these and the cathedral do not nearly exhaust the list of its antiquities. Would you look at a wealthy burgess' residence in the earlier part of the twelfth century? You may find it in the Jews' House of the upper town, or "John of Gaunt's" stables in the lower. Would you seek for domestic architecture belonging to the later periods of Pointed work? The gate-houses of the close belong to the earlier part of the fourteenth century; "the chequer or exchequer gate with its shops in the side passage, and the Pottergate remain; several residentiary houses were erected at the same period, and are partly remaining, though much altered and disfigured." At every turn in the older parts of the town the eye falls upon some remnant of ancient days, doorway or gatehouse, window or corner of a wall; it may be merely a fragment, a little block, of mouldering masonry, or it may be an almost perfect example of mediæval architecture. But Lincoln is not only interesting in detail; the town, as a whole, when seen from the flat land by the Witham, is exceptionally attractive. True, it has lost much in recent days. It has become a manufacturing town of some importance; large foundries and other works have sprung up on the meadows by the Witham. The lowland begins to bristle up with tall chimneys, which discharge their clouds of dusky smoke. New and old are in sharp contrast. The tower of St. Mary-le-Wigford looks down on a railway, the quaint little conduit on its churchyard wall is close to a signal-box. Still, ugly as the foreground in many places has become, it cannot spoil the beauty of the town itself, as its houses and gardens climb the steep hillside to the summit of the plateau, where above all peer up the grey remnants of the ancient castle, and the vast mass of the cathedral with its lofty towers rises high above the picturesque buildings of the close and the green trees upon the slope beneath. From the walls of Lincoln the Witham can be watched as it passes onwards to enter the fenland, into which the level valley opens out as the plateau shelves down towards the east. This part of its course is naturally monotonous, so we shall not attempt to describe it in detail, and shall pause only at the old town which forms its port. Boston, anciently Botolph's Town, is a thriving market town, which, as every lover of architecture knows, possesses one of the finest churches in the county, or indeed in the whole country. It stands in an ample churchyard close to the left bank of the Witham; the magnificent tower, crowned by an octagonal lantern, which is supported by flying buttresses, is about 300 feet high, a beacon for many a league of fen and sea. The church itself is not unworthy of the tower, and is one of the largest in England, perhaps the largest of those built on a similar plan. The style is Late Decorated and Perpendicular, though doubtless there was an earlier structure on the same site. The tradition runs that "the first stone was laid in the year 1309 by Dame Margery Tilney, and that she put five pounds upon it, as did Sir John Twesdale the vicar, and Richard Stevenson, a like sum; and that these were the greatest sums at that time given." Progress, however, must at first have been slow, for most of the building is of rather later date. The interior, though rather plain, is very fine, producing an impression which may be summed up in the word "spaciousness." Lofty aisles are connected with the nave by corresponding arches; the clerestory is comparatively small. The chancel is large, and open to the body of the church, so that there is little interruption in any direction to the view. Formerly Boston Church was exceptionally rich in brasses, but most of these have perished; two, however, one of a merchant named Peascod, whose dress is appropriately ornamented with pea-pods, and another of a priest vested in a richly-ornamented cope, still remain at the east end. Among the many minor objects of interest to be found in this grand church, which was carefully restored about thirty years since, may be mentioned the stone roof of the tower, the lower storey of which is open to the church, the chancel-stalls, and the curious Elizabethan pulpit. [Illustration: NORTHAMPTON.] Above the church is a great sluice, below it a bridge, which may be reckoned as the head of the port of Boston. Here sea-going vessels may be seen afloat at high tide, or stranded on the mud bank at low water. The sea itself is about four miles away, and the dead level of the fens extends all around the town. Except the church there is little of interest in Boston, but probably its tower is surpassed by none in the kingdom, in either its fine design or its extensive prospects. [Illustration: PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL.] From the table-land about Naseby, much of which lies at an elevation of some six hundred feet above the sea, flow two of the rivers which ultimately pass through the fenland into the Wash. These are a source of the Nen and the Welland. Near the springs of these rivers, on the undulating upland not far from Naseby, was the last great struggle in the field between Royalist and Roundhead; Charles and Rupert on one side, Cromwell and Fairfax on the other, "looked one another in the face." Both sides were brave enough; but on the one were rashness and incapacity, on the other discipline and skill; so that before four hours had passed the king's army was shattered before the "new model," and he became "like a hunted partridge flitting from one castle to another." Thus the NEN has its sources quite on the western side of the county--thence each feeder flows through a pleasant rolling region, where pastures alternate with cornfields, and both with copses, broadening its valley, as it proceeds, until they join and reach the chief town of the county, by which time the water meadows bordering its banks are of considerable extent. Northampton is a town which has increased rapidly in size, and in consequence diminished rapidly in attractiveness. While it possesses some very interesting remains of ancient days, its older buildings for the most part are those of a midland market town of the last century, and these have been seldom replaced with the more imposing structures erected at the present day; thus, if we except the new Town Hall, the chief additions to Northampton are blocks of factories, and rows of small houses, monotonous wildernesses of red bricks and purple slates. The place is very old, but the politics that prevail are very modern; for some years one of its parliamentary representatives was the late Mr. Bradlaugh. [Illustration: ROCKINGHAM VILLAGE AND CASTLE.] [Illustration: GATEWAY OF THE CASTLE.] This slope above the Nen, where its course begins to bend towards the north, was a town full a thousand years ago, when it bore the shorter name of "Hamtune." For a considerable time it was in the hands of the Danes; it was burned by them in 1010, and harried by the forces of Morkere a year before the Norman Conquest. The successors of William often kept court here, for the Forest of Rockingham--which then spread over a large part of the county--was a favourite hunting ground, and many councils and parliaments were held in the castle. In its hall Becket confronted Henry II., and at a later date, the constitutions of Clarendon were ratified. Its annals have not always been peaceful. De Montford struggled for it with Prince Edward, and the Duke of York with Henry VI. Once Northampton seemed in the way to become a seat of learning, for owing to the state of feeling between "town and gown" in the year 1260 the students abandoned Oxford and settled there; their stay, however, was not long, the "town" found that a proud stomach would soon be an empty one, and made interest with the king to recall the "gown," so the Nen did not replace the Isis. The ruins of the castle are inconspicuous, but Northampton possesses two churches of great interest, one, St. Peter's--a fine, and in some respects remarkable, example of a rather late Norman parish church--which, notwithstanding some alterations, retains in the main its original character, and is an unusually ornate example of that style--and St. Sepulchre's, one of the four churches in England which commemorate in their plan the ancient church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. This church has been much altered and added to, but the rotunda, or rather octagon, is still in fair preservation, and indicates a date rather later than that of its three companions. The Queen's Cross, on the higher ground about a mile south of Northampton, is one of the three which remain to mark the resting-places of Queen Eleanor's body and the affection of her husband. Though somewhat injured, it is still in fair preservation. [Illustration: STAMFORD.] The valley of the Nen below Northampton affords scenery which, if a little monotonous, is generally pretty. There are flat water meadows by the winding stream, forming a plain a mile or so wide, bounded by slopes, rising sometimes gently, sometimes more rapidly, to a low plateau on either side, and pleasantly diversified with copses and hedgerow timber. The district is an excellent example of the ordinary Midland scenery, quiet, peaceful, seemingly fairly opulent, notwithstanding agricultural depression, but offering few subjects, so far as the scenery is concerned, for pen or pencil, though occasionally an ancient bridge and frequently an old farmhouse of grey stone will attract the artist. As we pass along we note high on the left bank the church of Earls Barton, of which the solid and curiously ornamented tower was built before the Norman Conquest, and the body retains remnants of almost every succeeding period of architecture. Indeed, all this part of the valley of the Nen, which is followed for the most part by the railway to Peterborough, if comparatively uninteresting in its scenery, is exceptionally rich in its churches. In the words of the late Canon James: "The Saxon tower of Earls Barton; the complete Early English Church of Warmington, with its wooden vaulting and exquisite capitals; the unique octagon of Stanwick; the lanterns of Lowick, Irthlingborough, and Fotheringay; the spires of Raunds, Rushden, and Irchester; Finedon, perfect in the best style; Strixton, the model of an earlier one; the fine steeple of Oundle--are but selections cut of a line of churches, some but little inferior, terminating in the grand west front and more solemn interior of Peterborough Cathedral." Besides this, opposite to Earls Barton lies Castle Ashby, the home of the Marquis of Northampton, overlooking from its terrace a great extent of the valley of the Nen, and the wooded hills on its other bank. The house, which is built round a quadrangle, replaces a castle which had disappeared by Leland's time. Three sides were built in the reign of Elizabeth, the fourth was added by Inigo Jones. A lettered balustrade, a rather favourite device in Elizabethan and Jacobean work, is to be seen here. The house contains some interesting pictures and some memorials--according to the author of the account in Murray's Guide-book--of the famous spendthrift election, when my Lord Northampton, my Lord Halifax, and my Lord Spencer all ran candidates for the borough of Northampton, and the race cost the winner a hundred thousand pounds, and each of the losers a hundred and fifty thousand pounds! Yardley Chase, a fragment of one of the old Northamptonshire forests, adjoins the park. [Illustration: BEDFORD BRIDGE.] The Nen winds on to Wellingborough, with its chalybeate spring, a town which began to prosper when the iron ore of Northamptonshire found favour in the market. The ore, which is the oxide of iron, popularly known as "rust," occurs in a group of sands of no great thickness at the base of the lower oolites, and overlying the stiff blue lias clay. According to Horace Walpole, quoted in the Guide-book, Wellingborough was not well provided with hotels in 1763. "We lay at Wellingborough--pray never lie there--the beastliest inn upon earth is there! We were carried into a vast bed-room, which I suppose is the club-room, for it stunk of tobacco like a justice of the peace! I desired some boiling water for tea; they brought me in a sugar-dish of hot water in a pewter plate." The church is a fine one, and interesting in more respects than space allows us to enumerate. For the same reason we must pass rapidly by Higham Ferrers, with its old bridge (the best of two or three over this section of the river), and the buildings founded by Archbishop Chichele as a mark of affection for his birthplace. The grand church dates from various periods, commencing with the Early English, and ending with the first half of the seventeenth century, when the steeple was rebuilt, but on the old pattern. The church was made collegiate by Chichele in 1415, to which date belongs the woodwork of the chancel. A brass indicates the burial-place of his parents, and there are several other monuments of great interest. The school-house on the north side of the churchyard, quite close to the steeple, and the bede-house on the south, are also Chichele's work, together with the college, which stood in the main street, but is now in ruins. Probably no townlet in England possesses such a remarkable group of ecclesiastical buildings. The shafts also of two crosses remain. The castle, however, which once belonged to the Earls Ferrers, has now disappeared. Hence the Nen flows on by bridge or mill to the little town of Thrapston, noted for its grain market. "There is a very pretty view from the bridge which crosses the Nen between Thrapston and Islip. The river sweeps round between green meadows, overhung in the foreground by masses of fine trees. Loosestrife, arrowhead, the flowering rush, and many of the rarer water plants, abound, and the tall rushes which border the stream are used here for plaiting the outer portion of horse collars and mats, and for the seats of chairs." Then comes Thorpe with its fragment of a castle and the old bridge over a tributary of the Nen, which near here for a while parts into two channels. The scenery generally in this part of the valley is attractive, especially near Lilford, where the old mansion stands on rising ground surrounded by fine trees; and near to the river are the churches and the ruined Castle of Barnwell. Then, hurrying on, Oundle is reached, with its lofty steeple and fine church, its ancient bridge over the river, and its quaint old houses. Oundle has been inhabited since the days of the Romans, and is justly noted as "one of the pleasantest towns in Northamptonshire." Cotterstock with its memories of Dryden, Tansor with its curious church, come next, then Fotheringay with its "fair builded paroche church" and its ruined castle, in the hall of which stern justice was done to Mary Stuart, overlooks the valley of the Nen. At Wansford the river sweeps round to the east, and glides slowly through a less interesting district down to Peterborough, passing on its way Castor with its interesting church and relics of a Roman station. This, Durobrivæ by name, appears to have occupied both sides of the river, and was evidently a wealthy and important settlement. It was famed also for its pottery; "kilns and great works extended round Castor and its neighbourhood for about twenty miles up and down the Nen valley. Roman potters' kilns have been found nowhere else in England so perfect or in so great numbers." Far above the lowland, far above the fens upon which the river is now entering, rises the huge mass of the Cathedral of Peterborough. The town, once a mere appendage to the great monastery, is now an important centre of railways and of works connected therewith. Within the last forty years the population has trebled; acres and acres of land have been covered with rather commonplace dwellings; but the nucleus of the town, the houses by the Nen bridge, the picturesque market-place, the old residences of the close, and above all the Cathedral, are little changed. A few years ago it was found necessary to rebuild completely the central tower of the Cathedral, for it was on the point of falling; much underpinning and other structural work has had to be done in the choir, during which some very remarkable remnants of the older fabric have been found; and it will probably be some years before the work of restoration is completed, for the expense is great, and neither the chapter nor the diocese is rich. At Peterborough we stand on the brink of the lowland. It is not yet actual fen; the Cathedral, the town, stand on a thin bed of rock, which overlies clay and provides a foundation. Here, about the year 655, the place being then called Medeshamstede, a monastery was founded. For more than two centuries it flourished; then the Dane swooped down on the fenland abbey, and for nearly a hundred years it was desolate. It was rebuilt about 966, and in less than a century had become so wealthy that in the days of Abbot Leofric, a great benefactor, it was called the golden burgh of Peter. The splendour for a time was dimmed when the monastery was burnt, and the church sacked, by Hereward the Wake as an English welcome to the first Norman Abbot. All of this church that was above ground has long disappeared, but considerable portions of the foundation have been discovered during the recent alterations, and will not be again buried. The grand Norman structure which still remains--one of the most complete in the kingdom--was begun about 1118, and completed, except the west front, about 1190. That--a structure perfectly unique, a gigantic portico, in the form of three huge pointed arches--is assigned to the first quarter of the thirteenth century. For boldness of design and perfection of execution it is unsurpassed by anything of this period in the kingdom. The small spires, the pinnacles, and the porch, unfortunately stuffed between the piers of the central arch, are of later date. The "new building" or lady chapel at the east end is a fine piece of Tudor work, but it has not improved the lower part of the Norman church. The Perpendicular architects have inserted poor tracery in many of the windows, and have made other alterations, seldom for the better, but less mischief has been done at Peterborough by these meddlesome blunderers than in most other Norman cathedrals. [Illustration: HUNTINGDON BRIDGE.] * * * * * The WELLAND rises, as has been said, on the high ground near Naseby, but runs parallel with the outcrop of the rocks, while the stream going to the Nen descends with their slope. Thus the valley of the former widens rapidly, and before reaching Market Harborough is already trench-like in outline. This, for long a sleepy little town, seems to have been stimulated into some life by the meeting of railways. Still it possesses one or two old houses, a chapel and a church of some interest; and from it Charles led his army to the fatal field of Naseby. Below Harborough the valley of the Welland continues to broaden and flatten its bed, the slopes often rising steeply on both northern and southern sides. Though sometimes pleasantly wooded around the site of some old family mansion, they are commonly rather bare, and the scenery is on the whole less attractive than is usual in this region of England. Such churches also as are near the river are not remarkable, and it is not till we come to Rockingham that we care to pause. Here, however, high on the right bank, backed by shady woods, are the terraces, gables, and the remaining bulwarks of Rockingham Castle. The road climbs through the picturesque village to the grey old gateway, which, with other portions, dates from the thirteenth century, but the part more conspicuous from the valley is mainly of the reign of Elizabeth. "Anywhere the high site of Rockingham, backed with its avenues of limes and groups of forest trees, would be a fine one, but in Northamptonshire the wild and broken ground of the park, and the abrupt slopes and earthworks on which the castle stands, make it signally unique." The earlier kings of England not seldom used this for a hunting seat in the days when Rockingham Forest was a reality instead of a name. The river winds on with little change in the general character of the scenery; the tower of Gretton looks down from the high scarp of the right bank, the little spire of Seaton rises among trees hardly less high on the left, the small village of Harringworth, with its grey stone houses, its interesting church, and its old cross still standing in the market-place, lies by the river side, near to which a branch of the Midland Railway crosses river and valley on a mighty viaduct of brick arches. Then Collyweston crowns the slope on the right. Here are the quarries of so-called slate, which in former days roofed all the churches and most of the mansions for miles round--a material in its slight irregularity of form and colour far more pleasing to the eye than the formal smoothness and dull tints of the slates of Wales or Westmorland, which now find favour with builders. Then near the river are more grey houses, always worth a passing glance, for they are often at least a couple of centuries old, and as stone was plentiful and good, men in those times forbore to do their work "on the cheap." But here is something more, for above them rises the steeple of Ketton church, perhaps the most graceful to be found in any village in England. High on the hills behind are the famous quarries, which for long took the place of those of Barnack, but are now in their turn becoming exhausted. [Illustration: OLD BRIDGE, ST. IVES.] Then above the willow trees by the water, grey houses, towers, and spires, rise from the bed of the valley, climb the slope on the left, and that on the right also, till the suburb is arrested by densely massed woods. These hide from view the palatial mansion of Burghley; this is "Stamford town," once a noted halting-place on the great North Road. There is, perhaps, no town in England of the same size which is more picturesque or more interesting. Grey stone houses, often of excellent design, overhang the river, and border the streets; the steeple of St. Mary's is very similar, and hardly inferior, to that of Ketton; that of All Saints is also fine. In St. Martin's, near the gate, Burghley, the great Lord Treasurer, the founder of the houses of Exeter and Salisbury, lies buried; the Burghley Bede House, Browne's Hospital, and the ruined priory of St. Leonard's, are full of interest, and the town boasts that to it, as to Northampton, there was once a migration from Oxford. At Stamford itself one would hardly suppose that the fens were near. The ground on either side is fairly high, the valley not notably broad, but the river, like the Witham at Lincoln, after cutting through the great limestone escarpment, passes out into the vast expanse of marsh-land that borders the Wash. * * * * * The OUSE rises in Buckinghamshire not far from Banbury, noted among children for its cross and cakes, and wanders leisurely on by the quiet county town of Buckingham, by Newport Pagnell, and Olney, known to admirers of Cowper, its scenery for the most part opulent, but rather monotonous, till it approaches Bedford--once a town wholly agricultural, now the site of important works of agricultural implements, and evidently prospering. Sleepily the Ouse glides along by its reedy banks through the wide lowland, silently it slides by the waterside houses, the pretty gardens, and the modern bridge which has replaced an earlier and more picturesque structure. Among the fields towards the south, the massive tower of Elstow church rises above the trees, indicating the birthplace of John Bunyan, who "lighted on a den" in Bedford gaol, and there "dreamed the dream" of the "Pilgrim's Progress." Bedford Castle has disappeared, the churches are of little interest, the houses commonplace. Except for a few memorials of Bunyan, Bedford does not offer much to detain the traveller, unless he would examine its excellent schools or search for the remains of palæolithic man in the neighbouring gravels. Below Bedford the Ouse passes on through wide meadows, near the pine-clad hills of Sandy, and the market gardens, fertile from the happy mixture of the light sand of the slopes with the mud of the river; by the old town of St. Neots, with its fine church tower; by Huntingdon with its picturesque bridge and its memories of Cromwell, where the old mansion of the Earls of Sandwich looks from its terrace over the wide and often flooded river plain; and beneath the ancient bridge of St. Ives. The valley becomes less and less definite, the scenery flat, flatter, flattest, till somewhere or other in the fens the Ouse receives the Cam, and somewhere or other at last reaches the sea. This enigmatical sentence will be presently explained; let us now turn back to notice briefly the course of the last-named river. * * * * * The CAM is shorter than any which have been noticed, yet a stream which passes through Cambridge, and may claim to glide by Ely, may well demand a longer notice than any of them. This, however, the limitations of space forbid, so we shall pass over, as generally known, the history of Cambridge and of its University. We will merely glance at the site of the Roman camp on the low plateau and the old "Saxon" tower of St. Benet's on the plain across the Cam, indicating, as at Lincoln, an early separation of the military and the civil element. We will only mention the Round church, another memorial of the Holy Sepulchre. We will not discuss the rise and progress of the University, whether or no its founder was Sigibert, king of the East Angles, nor speak of the work of many a pious benefactor, royal, noble, and lowly born, or of its illustrious sons, its treasures of literature, its museums and colleges. We will merely trace the course of the Cam through the town, because there is no mile of river scenery in all England, or, so far as we know, in all Europe, which can be exactly compared with it. The Cam at Cambridge results from the union of two or three streams which have stolen sluggishly down, from sources a few miles distant among the chalk hills or the yet lower undulations of the clay district, to form a river rather wider and deeper, but hardly more rapid than an ordinary canal. Meadows and osier beds end at a mill, up to which barges can come, and below the pool, at the first bridge leading into the town, the characteristic scenery may be said to begin. Close to this the buildings of Queen's College overhang the water, linked to the garden on the left bank by a picturesque wooden bridge. With tall trees to the left, with another garden on the right, we then glide beneath a single-arch bridge into the precincts of King's College. On the left bank are meadows bordered by tall trees; on the right, from smooth-shaven lawns, rise the master's lodge, the massive Fellows' Buildings, and the stately chapel, the pride of King's College. Overlooking the lawns, but parted by a garden from the river, is the single court of Clare College, an excellent example of seventeenth century domestic architecture, behind which is the group of buildings belonging to the University Library, the older part of which was erected for the students of King's College. A handsome three-arched bridge links Clare to its beautiful gardens on the opposite bank of the Cam, and almost closes the view along the stream, though beneath its arches glimpses are obtained of more gardens and yet more bridges. Rowing on, with some care for our oars, we pass beneath an arch, and glide by the gardens of Clare College and beneath the terraced wall which hides that of Trinity Hall, but not its stately chestnut trees. Then, through a single arch of iron, which carries one of the roads leading into the town, we enter the grounds of Trinity College, the largest, richest, and most aristocratic of the educational foundations of Cambridge. Before us is its bridge, interrupting the noble avenue of limes, which on the one side separates its tree-fringed meadows, on the other leads up to the gateway tower in the façade of the "New Court." There are now neither shrubs nor flowers by the river, but here and there a weeping willow overhangs the water. As we pass beneath one of the arches we obtain on the one side a clearer view of the Trinity meadows; on the other, of Wren's stately but rather ugly library adjoining the "New Court," and in front, across more meadows, and yet more aged trees, we see the grand mass of the "New Court" of St. John's College. [Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE CAM AND THE OUSE.] On approaching these the river bends to the right. Old elms border the meadows of St. John's, an ivy-clad wall bounds an old garden belonging to Trinity, and then, beyond another three-arched bridge, the Cam passes between the buildings of St. John's. They rise directly from the water, like the palaces of Venice; on the right, a picturesque group of red brick and old grey stone, dating from the seventeenth century, linked by a covered bridge of stone--a Gothicised Rialto--to the loftier mass of the New Court on the left. Bridge and buildings were erected rather more than half a century since; the material is a cream-coloured limestone; the style is late Perpendicular. Passing between these and by the gable of the college library, a view is obtained of the Master's lodge and of the west front of the chapel with its heavy inappropriate tower. Both are the work of Gilbert Scott, and the latter is by no means one of his successes. These left behind, some rather poor but not unpicturesque houses border the Cam, till it is crossed by an iron bridge, supporting the main street of the town. Then we glide past the buildings of Magdalene College, which of late years have been opened to the river. Soon after this we emerge from the town, to see, below a lock and weir, the boat-houses of the college rowing-clubs bordering the left bank of the Cam, and the grassy expanse of "Midsummer Common" on the opposite side. For the next three or four miles the margin of the Cam, uninteresting as its scenery may be, is often lively enough, for skiffs, pairs, four-oars, eight-oars, dart up and down, propelled by the strong arms of sturdy rowers. Dingeys or "tubs" progress more leisurely, while now and again a long string of barges is towed or punted onwards, and almost blocks the waterway. As a result of this, the representatives of learning and of commerce exchange compliments, when the language is vernacular rather than classic. Brightest of all is the scene on occasions of the college races. Carriages and spectators crowd the right bank, on the left runs a yelling crowd, which, as it follows the boats, resembles in its motley mixture of uniforms a huge party-coloured water-snake. Age and youth, don and undergraduate, mingle in one confused mass, like a pack of hounds in full cry. Oh, the music of that shout! Oh, the memories of those days when friends were many and cares were few--when many a face was bright which has now faded away into the shadow-land, many a heart was warm which is now mouldering in the dust! [Illustration: QUEEN'S BRIDGE, CAMBRIDGE.] Before long the Cam fairly enters the fenland, and creeps along by willows and reeds, by wide tracts of black earth, once marshy and malarious, now rich plains of corn land. Here and there a cluster of trees, a tower or a spire, marks the spot where some insular bank afforded in olden times a site for a village among the wild waste of flooded fen. When the winter frost has gone, when the spring north-easter is still, when the summer sun is high, it is indeed a sleepy land. The spirit of the scenery may be not inappropriately summed up in the words written over the door of a waterside inn, half-way between Cambridge and Ely: "Five miles from anywhere; no hurry!" One object only breaks the monotony of the horizon; this is the vast mass of Ely Cathedral towering up from its island hill, and overlooking the fens of the Cam and of the Ouse. This isle of Ely, a large but low plateau surrounded by meres and marshes, was of old a place of note. It was the dower of Etheldreda, daughter of Anna, king of the East Anglians, and she, soon after the year 673, founded a monastery near to the site of the present cathedral. Of this she became abbess, and here she died and was ultimately enshrined. To her memorial festival pilgrims crowded from all quarters, and the trifles sold at "St. Awdry's" fair have left their mark upon our language. The Danes came and the monastery was devastated, but it was founded anew about a century before the Norman Conquest. At that epoch it became a "Camp of Refuge" for the patriots who refused submission to the invaders. The deeds of Hereward the Wake are too well known to need recounting; suffice it to say that the resistance was long and stubborn, and that the Normans were more than once beaten off from the isle with heavy loss. The scene of their gravest defeat is still marked by an old causeway which crosses both the fens and a channel of the Ouse to a spot near Haddenham, about four miles distant from Ely.[6] Along this William advanced from Cambridge to the attack. By the river brink there was a desperate struggle, but at last the dry reeds above the causeway on the Norman side were fired by the English; the flame fanned by the evening breeze came roaring down on the invader's column; then was a wild rush for dear life, but between fire and morass many a Norman never got back again to his camp. The monastery which sheltered Hereward's men, the church where they worshipped, have now disappeared. The foundations of the present cathedral were laid by Simeon, the first Norman abbot, who was appointed in 1082. Most of it belongs to a yet later date. The oldest work is found in the transepts; the upper parts of these, with the nave, are Late Norman, the west tower and remaining part of the façade not being completed till near the end of the twelfth century. The singularly beautiful choir is partly Early English, partly Decorated; the eastern bays dating from about 1240, the western nearly a century later. In the year 1322 the Norman central tower fell in with a mighty crash, and was replaced by the octagon and lantern, which form the unique glory of Ely. About the same time the great Lady-chapel at the east angle of the northern transept was added. The beautiful western Galilee porch was built in advance of the western façade, perhaps a quarter of a century after the completion of the latter, which has lost, at what date it is uncertain, its northern wing or transept. [Illustration: ELY CATHEDRAL, FROM THE RIVER.] Of the additions and alterations made by the architects of the Perpendicular period--rarely improvements--it is needless to speak, and through want of space we must pass over the beautiful monuments, the stall work ancient and modern, the decoration of the roof, and the many enrichments which the cathedral has received during the latter part of the present century. Nor can we do more than mention the interesting remains of the annexed monastery--the ruins of the infirmary, the ancient gateway, the deanery and other old houses, or the Bishop's Palace, which stands a little apart from these to the south-west of the cathedral. In this respect its precincts are not less interesting than those of Lincoln and Peterborough. * * * * * We have not attempted to follow either Nen, Welland, or Ouse, to the sea, because their courses through the fenlands are now to a considerable extent artificial, forming part of a connected system of drainage; and because the whole district is an almost unbroken plain. A description written for one part will apply to any other; a few trees, more or less, grouped a little differently by the dykes or on the low shoals which rise a few feet above the plain; a little more or less of marsh or peat still left among the enclosures: that is all; the only differences are in the sluices, pumping-stations, windmills, houses, churches--in short, in the artificial, not in the natural features of the scenery. The history of the drainage of the fens and the rectification of its river courses is a long and complicated one.[7] Restricting ourselves to the vast plain west and south-west of the Wash, the silted-up estuary, rather than the river delta of the Welland, Nen, and Ouse, it may suffice to say that, while works were executed so far back as Roman times, the first great effort for the reclamation of the land dates from the seventeenth century. Formerly these rivers branched in the fenland. The Welland divided at Crowland, one arm passing by Spalding, the other inosculating with an arm of the Nen, which was thrown off near Peterborough; of this river the other arm passed through Whittlesea Mere to Wisbeach, and so to the sea. The Ouse also divided at Erith, one arm passing northward to join part of the Nen, the other, that mentioned above, flowing south of the Isle of Ely and uniting with the Cam. The part of the fens which lay north of the Nen was partially reclaimed in the reign of James I. The drainage was completed by Rennie in the beginning of the present century, but some sixty years afterwards powerful pumps had to be added to his work to discharge the drainage into the sea. The reclamation of the district south of the Nen was undertaken by Vermuyden with the help of the Earl of Bedford. His scheme was elaborate and open to criticism, its history complicated and unsatisfactory. It may suffice to say that the work, begun under Charles, was completed under Cromwell; that the rivers were conducted along channels, mainly artificial, enclosed by banks, and that before long, owing to the drying of the peat, the consequent reduction of the slope of the ground, and the silting-up of the outfalls, it was found necessary to introduce windmills for pumping. Since then many improvements and alterations have been made. Whittlesea Mere, for example, a sheet of water from 1,000 to 1,600 acres in extent, has been drained, new sluices have been added, steam pumping engines erected, and the drainage of the fens may now be regarded as complete. The wild marsh-land, once a steaming swamp in summer, a vast sheet of water in winter, is now a plain of dry black earth, "green in springtime with the sprouting blade, golden in autumn with the dense ears of grain. It is a strange, solemn land, silent even yet, with houses few and far between, except where they have clustered for centuries on some bank of Jurassic clay, which rises like a shoal not many feet above the plain; with water yet dank and dark, but brightened in summer with arrowhead and flowering rush and the great white cups of water-lilies. Strange kinds of hawks yet circle in the air, the swallowtail butterfly yet dances above the sedges, though the great-copper no longer spreads its burnished wings to the sunshine. Few trees, except grey willows or rows of rustling poplars, break the dead level which stretches away to the horizon, like a sea, beneath a vast dome of sky kindled often at sunrise and at sunset into a rare glory of many colours."[8] [Illustration: AMONG THE FENS.] With the progress of cultivation the peculiar flora and fauna are gradually disappearing. The bittern, the spoonbill, the crane, and the wild swan, are becoming rare visitants, the ruffs and reeves, once so common, are now scarce; the decoys are falling into disuse, and the strange unearthly cry of the wild fowl less often breaks the frozen silence of the winter night; but if this is a loss to the naturalist and the sportsman, there is a gain to the labourer and the farmer. Ague and marsh fever have all but disappeared. Though the fenland is less wild and strange than in days of yore, he who has gazed in the early autumn from one of the high church towers over the vast expanse has seen a sight which he will never forget, for all around the endless fields of grain "Are like a golden ocean, Becalmed upon the plain." A word must be said of the fenland towns. Wisbeach claims to be the metropolis. Built upon the Nen, which is navigable up to it for vessels of moderate tonnage, and a prosperous town, it has little of special interest besides its principal church, for its castle has practically disappeared. Spalding, also a bright and thriving place, among shady trees; and King's Lynn, at the mouth of the Ouse, with a fine church, an old Guildhall, and the curious pilgrimage chapel of the Red Mount--claim more than mention. Nor must we forget the once mighty Abbey of Crowland, that grey broken ruin which towers still so grandly over the fens, or its singular triangular bridge, or the memories of St. Guthlac and of Waltheof. T. G. BONNEY. [Illustration: A NORFOLK BROAD.] THE RIVERS OF EAST ANGLIA. THE CROUCH: Foulness--Little Barsted and Langdon--Canewdon--Rayleigh--Hockley Spa. THE BLACKWATER: Saffron Walden--Radwinter--Cadham Hall and Butler--Booking--Braintree--Felix Hall--Braxted Lodge--Tiptree-Maldon. THE CHELMER: Thaxted--The Dunmows--Great Waltham--Springfield--Chelmsford--Mersea Island. THE COLNE: Great Yeldham--Castle Hedingham--Halstead--Colchester. THE STOUR: Kedington--Sudbury--Flatford and John Constable--Harwich. THE ORWELL: Stowmarket--Barham--Ipswich. THE DEBEN: Debenham--Woodbridge--Felixstowe. THE ALDE: Aldborough--Southwold--Halesworth. THE WAVENEY: Diss--Bungay--Mettingham--Beccles--Breydon Water--Horsey Mere. THE BURE: Hickling Broads--St. Benet's Abbey--Salhouse and Wroxham Broads--Hoverton Great Broad--Horning Ferry--Fishing in the Broads. THE YARE: Norwich--Yarmouth. [Illustration] After the Medway and the Thames have delivered their great contributions to the sea, the peculiar Essex coast country--flat, marshy, and often very uninteresting--is sufficiently served by a number of small streams of little note in literature, and generally as commonplace in appearance as in the duties they perform. There are exceptions, which will be duly indicated, but with regard to the majority of the streams of East Anglia, poet has not sung nor painter wrought his magic art. If not remote, unfriended, or melancholy, they are, it cannot be denied, slow. During the hot summer-time, when the level fields through which they meander are quivering with heat-haze, and the pastures and hedgerows are ablaze with the wild flowers which love fat pastures and flourish upon them, the upper waters are choked with luxuriant tangles of aquatic vegetation, and the current is barely sufficient, without the frequent application of scythe and water-rake to the thickets below water, to turn the rustic mills planted upon their banks. The dainty trout loves not the muddy beds and lazy flow of these rivers, which will be found to be much more numerous than is commonly supposed; but the waters are the natural home of the eel, pike, roach, bream, and other specimens of the so-called coarse fishes, or summer spawners, of Great Britain. A purely pastoral country is that watered by these narrow reed-margined rivers, famous for grain, roots, and grassy acres, with good soil where the solid earth lies so low that the hand of man must perforce sometimes exert itself to save it from the inroads of the salt sea. Let us follow the coast-line from the north shore of the Thames, abounding in marshes that have been so well described by Dickens in "Great Expectations," and by the author of "Mehalah" in his novels. * * * * * The first river is the CROUCH, whose estuary is still the groundwork of a remunerative oyster fishery. Anything more dreary than the shores of this long and gaping river-mouth can scarcely be imagined. The beacons out at sea tell the tale of danger, and point to the dread Maplin sands, and the treacherous shoals that culminate in the fatal Goodwins. True, upon Foulness the tenants of Lord Winchilsea most successfully reclaimed a space of forbidding foreshore from the sea, but as a rule these expanses yield little better than coarse marsh grass, wild fowl, and everlasting salt; and the island of Foulness, which is formed by the curvature of one of the smaller channels, half river and half creek, that abound in these parts, is the oasis of this marshy desert. Yet the church on the island, which was built less than forty years ago, occupies the site of one which was founded in the twelfth century, and the Danes, as every schoolboy is taught, built themselves forts hard-by, and made camps that have left their landmarks to this day. At high water the Crouch estuary is a pleasant enough arm of the sea, and as the river is navigable for brigs of respectable tonnage at Burnham, and for smaller craft to Fambridge Ferry, the ruddy and white-sailed boats impart a refreshing liveliness to the scene. Especially is this the case when the little fleet of oyster boats are on active service. The Crouch rises from a couple of springs in Little Bursted and Langdon, the district lying between the high and picturesque uplands of these parts, Billericay (where the Romans had a station) and Langdon Hill. A small stream for a while, the Crouch passes several villages, the branches joining forces at Ramsden Crays; it becomes navigable for barges at Battle Bridge, and for sea-going brigs and schooners at Hull Bridge, near which place the scenery is pretty and undulating. From North Fambridge, however, the normal marsh-land of the estuary begins to assert itself, and Burnham is to all intents and purposes the seaport of this portion of the Hundreds--a local term applying to the aguish levels between the Crouch and the Colne, which latter stream will presently engage our attention. Before leaving the Crouch, however, the village of Canewdon should be mentioned, as being well situated above the flats, and as being in the neighbourhood of a battlefield upon which Canute defeated Edmund Ironside. The discovery of relics from time to time shows that the Romans as well as the Danes were located on the shores of the Crouch, and the ancient village of Rayleigh is claimed to have been the home of the Saxon. The mineral waters of Hockley Spa are credited with peculiar virtues, and the place is in consequence growing in importance. * * * * * [Illustration: CADHAM HALL: PORTRAIT OF SAMUEL BUTLER.] The BLACKWATER, sometimes called the Pant, which is the next river as we proceed northwards, waters a pleasant, flourishing, and populous part of the county of Essex. It is the kind of landscape that delights the agriculturist, and that gives to rural England its distinctive charm, its combination of pasture and arable land, wood and water, village and town. The Blackwater rises near the borders of Cambridge, not far from Saffron Walden, the wooded slope of the Saxon, the strategic position upon which the Britons had formed an ancient encampment, and Geoffrey de Mandeville built his castle in the early days of the Norman Conquest; the place where in more recent times the cultivation of the saffron suggested a suitable prefix to "Weald den." The tower and spire of Radwinter Church forms a conspicuous object from the surrounding country, but the church has been restored and enlarged in our own times. Here, towards the close of the sixteenth century, Robert Harrison, the author of the "Decay of the English Long Bow," and an historical description of the "Land of Britaine," was rector. Lower down the river, in the village church of Hempstead, a monument stands to the memory of William Harvey, the discoverer of the circulation of the blood, but the hall where Harvey's brother Eliab resided no longer exists. Butler is said to have written the greater part of "Hudibras" at Cadham Hall, below Shalford; and at Finchingfield, on a hilly site near a tributary of the main stream, Spains Hall, an Early Tudoresque mansion in a fine park, represents the free hand of the Conqueror, who gave the estate to one of his Normans. [Illustration: MALDON.] Bocking Church, as we descend the river, now running almost due south, stands high, and is of some note as a building of the time of Edward III., in which ministered the Dr. Gauden who, in the opinion of some of the authorities, was the author of _Eikon Basilike_. Bocking is virtually an outlying suburb of the neat market town of Braintree, where a colony of Flemings, settling in the time of Elizabeth, founded the weaving establishments which, with ironworks, corn mills, and malting-houses, maintain the present population in general prosperity. The vale and park of Stisted succeed, and by-and-bye the old-fashioned little town of Coggeshall, partly covering the rising ground of one of the river banks. Weaving is still carried on, though not to the extent of former days, when the town was a valuable centre of the woollen manufacture; and of the Cistercian Abbey founded by Stephen and Maud nothing remains but an antiquated barn appropriating portions of the ruins. John Owen, chaplain to Oliver Cromwell, was born at Coggeshall; and Bishop Bonner probably resided at Feering Bury Manor House, by the village of Feering, nearer Kelvedon, where the Blackwater is crossed by a strong, handsome bridge. Felix Hall is the show-place of the neighbourhood, and its noble park and the works of art contained in the mansion attract numerous visitors. Another beautiful specimen of "the stately homes of England" is Braxted Lodge, perched upon an eminence, with commanding views of one of the most richly cultivated prospects to be found in all Essex, and including, amongst the landscape features of the lovely demesne, a lake some twenty acres in extent. Tiptree, once a notable waste, boasting of nothing but heath, within the memory of living man became even more notable as Tiptree Hall Farm, which was created out of most unpromising materials into a model homestead by the late Mr. Alderman Mechi, a scientific agriculturist who expended large sums of money in machinery for the treatment of sewage and irrigation. The town of Witham, on the further side, stands on the tributary Brain. [Illustration: _Walker & Boutall sc._ MAP OF THE EAST ANGLIAN RIVERS.] The borough and seaport of Maldon, marking the junction of the Chelmer with the Blackwater, stands at the head of a long, uninteresting, marshy estuary of the same pattern as that of the Crouch, and extending a dozen miles before the open sea is reached. Camden infers that Camalodunum was on the site of Maldon, and another historical tradition is that Edward the Elder encamped here to oppose the invasion of the Danes. Local antiquarians point to remnants of the ancient encampment, and assert that though at first the Danes were beaten back, Unlaf in 993 sailed hither and successfully led his Vikings to the rout of the Saxons and capture of the station. Landseer, the painter, lived at Maldon in the early part of his artistic career, and many of his drawings have been preserved in the town and neighbourhood. The Royal Academician Herbert was a native of the town. * * * * * The river CHELMER has been referred to as a tributary of the Blackwater, but it is a navigable river on its own account, and brings the county town, by means of an improved canal system, into communication with Maldon and the sea. Though in the meadows above Chelmsford it, from a not excessive distance, looks but a silver thread trailed across the grass, it has a distinct value in the commerce of the county. Thaxted, near which it takes its rise, is a typical specimen of the decayed country town that, once of some importance, has been left to sleepiness by the march of progress, which somehow passed it by. Its fourteenth century church, with massive tower and lofty octagonal spire, is amongst the finest in a country where good churches are plentiful. Horham Hall was a residence of Queen Elizabeth before she came to the throne; and the pleasantly situated village of Tilty, in the valley of the Chelmer, environed by hills and graced by a wood along the banks, boasts the remains of a Cistercian Abbey dating from the middle of the twelfth century. Easton Park is in the valley; its fine old Elizabethan mansion is in good preservation, and the church contains many interesting memorials of the Maynards, who have long been in possession of the estate. Great Dunmow is the next place touched in our downward course, a comfortable town set upon a hill, with a charming suburb thrown out to the river bank. In the neighbourhood, but on the other side of the stream, is Little Dunmow, associated with the memories of the Fitzwalters, one of whom is credited with the famous bequest of a flitch of bacon to any married couple who could prove that for twelve months and a day they had lived in perfect harmony. The custom of awarding the flitch has been almost forgotten, though Ainsworth made a gallant attempt to revive it, and the prize was claimed as recently as 1876. It was first offered by Robert de Fitzwalter in 1244, the actual conditions being "That whatever married couple will go to the Priory, and kneeling on two sharp-pointed stones will swear that they have not quarrelled nor repented of their marriage within a year and a day after its celebration, shall receive a flitch of bacon." Whether the people of the generations past felt the conditions impossible, or treated the affair as a farce, no one may decide, but it is remarkable that the first prize was not claimed until two hundred years after it was established. Up to 1751 only five flitches had been won, and there have been two since. The parish church of Little Dunmow owes its fine columns, richly carved capitals, and windows, to what is left of the Priory Church of the Augustinian establishment founded in 1104. Onwards through farms and parks, with many a hamlet and village rich in relics of the Middle Ages, the Chelmer flows, laving no land more fair in its disposition of deer parks, woods, lawns, and mansions, than that around the village of Great Waltham. An excellent view of the valley, the river, and a widespread scene which includes the town of Chelmsford, is obtained from Springfield Hall. The village of Springfield is one of many in England which are said to have given Goldsmith the theme of his "Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer's lingering blooms delayed." Had the poet been standing on any of the eminences from which on every side the wayfarer seems to descend upon Chelmsford, he might have noted all the points which are so sweetly made in "The Deserted Village;" but the same remark would apply to many a spot in many an English county. Yet the following lines do chance to answer with happy accuracy to the Springfield outlook:-- "How often have I paused on every charm-- The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made." But Springfield is in these days a portion of Chelmsford, from which it is separated by the Chelmer and the smaller Cann, both crossed by bridges. Chelmsford is one of the characteristic county towns of the smaller type (its population is about 12,000), which thrive in a centre of agricultural activity. The attempts made to restore to the town the privileges of a borough were at last successful, as it was strange they were not before, for though it sent four members to the Council at Westminster in the time of Edward III., it was at last the only county town in England, except the little capital of Rutlandshire, that was not a borough. With its markets and fairs as important periodical events, the Corn Exchange may be regarded as in some respects the principal building, though a more imposing edifice is the older Shire Hall, in which the assizes are held, and in which, so recently as 1879, a precious discovery of ancient documents was made in one of the upper rooms. The papers related to matters of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and comprised records of the persecutions of Episcopalians, Catholics, and Nonconformists, and of punishments, in which the community enjoyed some notoriety, for witchcraft. Chief Justice Tindal was one of the worthies of Chelmsford, and his name is inscribed upon the elegant conduit in the market-place. The Chelmer, as already stated, becomes an established navigation from the county town, and continues its course to the east. The most noticeable feature of the north side of the vale is Boreham House, with its park, avenues of trees, water, and tastefully laid-out gardens. In the parish is New Hall, an educational establishment, on the site of Henry VIII.'s palace of Beaulieu, and used subsequently as a residence by Monk, when Duke of Albemarle. The modern visitor is shown the sculptured initials, with love-knots, of bluff King Hal and Anne Boleyn. To the west of Ulting church, the Chelmer receives the Ter, fresh from the well-wooded park of Terbury Place. Considerably increased in volume by this addition, it hastens to Maldon and its confluence with the Blackwater. [Illustration: THE SHIRE HALL, CHELMSFORD.] In discharging its waters at the termination of its long estuary, the Blackwater, with the Chelmer in union, sweeps along the southern shore of a charming little island in the bay between St. Peter-on-the-Wall and Colne Point. This is Mersea Island, five miles long from east to west, and three miles at its widest portion. The oysters which have made Whitstable famous have good breeding ground in Pyefleet--the creek, passable at low water, which separates the mainland from this prettily wooded and verdant isle, with a bold front to the North Sea. In common with all the coast from Southend to Harwich, the foreshores at low water present a melancholy expanse of ooze, upon which the sea-birds may forage without fear of the approach of man. But while at its lower end Mersea Island faces the outflow of the rivers we have been considering, its upper shores are in a similar position with regard to the Colne, which will next engage our attention. * * * * * Of the four rivers of this name in England three are spelt with the final "e," and this stream in the north-eastern portion of the county is often described as the Essex COLNE to distinguish it from its namesake, which is a tributary of the Thames. Rising near Moynes Park, the river pursues a south-easterly course to Great Yeldham, a village embowered in trees, amongst which must be reckoned, as of particular account, the gnarled oak, of which the inhabitants are not a little proud. A larger village is Castle Hedingham, standing upon its breezy acclivity, and favoured with a delightful prospect of highly cultivated valley. What remains of the Castle which gave name to the place is in grand condition, the great tower or keep, with its stupendously solid walls, standing almost externally entire upon its turfy mound. The Norman masonry is square and lofty, with walls twelve feet in thickness, and the keep, as a whole, is 100 feet high. So well preserved is the structure, that the grooves for the portcullis in the gateway facing the west might still be used for their original purpose. Halstead, lower down the widening river, is doubtless what its name signifies, a healthy place, covering the gentle ascent from the stream. The market is one of the oldest in the country, and for many years the population has prosecuted the trade of straw-plaiting, and manufactures of silk and crape. A tributary feeds the Colne from the extensive lake of 100 acres in the park of Gosfield Hall, three miles below Halstead. Gosfield Hall was the seat of the Nugents, one of whom wrote the life of Hampden, and it afterwards came into the hands of the Marquis of Buckingham. Four villages, three on the left and one on the right, take a portion of their name from the stream:--Colne Engaine, so called from its ancient lords of the manor; Earls Colne, once the residence of the Earls of Oxford; White Colne, a modern rendering of Colne-le-Blanc; and Wakes Colne. This is the Colne village near which, at Chappell, the valley is crossed by the Stour Valley railway viaduct, 1,000 feet in length, and 80 feet above the level of the stream. By the villages of Fordham, West Bergholt, and Lexden, the river at length, by devious ways, arrives at Colchester, the largest town in Essex, the ancient fortified post which historians nominate the capital of the Trinobantes; and Mr. J. H. Round, who has written a history of Colchester Castle, identifies the town with the British Camalodunum. A similar honour, as we have seen, has been claimed for Maldon on the Blackwater. This "hill-town at the bend of the river" has figured often in history, and the relics exhibited in the Colchester Museum, and the writings of early historians, sufficiently warrant us in beginning with the Romans. The number of remains unearthed at Colchester has been enormous, and Romans, Saxons, and Danes, in succession, occupied this valuable position on the eastern coast. It became the point of contention in civil war, sent ships and men to Edward III., was visited by both Mary and Elizabeth, and was a staunch contributor of men and money to the Parliament against Charles I. The river Colne, to which Colchester owes so much of its importance past and present, is navigable to Hythe, where the newest bridge, a construction of iron, replaced a brick bridge which was washed away by a winter flood in 1876. North Bridge is also an iron structure, and East Bridge, with its five arches, is of brick. The public buildings of Colchester are handsome and mostly modern, and the business of the place has been much increased since the extension of Colchester Camp as the headquarters of the Eastern Military District. The picturesque portion of the town must be looked for on the high ground where stand the remains of the Castle, supposed to have been built by the Romans. The monastic ruins in the town are also of more than common interest. The river Colne, widening as it goes, passes Wivenhoe Park, receiving a small tributary called the Roman river, and henceforth it is an estuary proper, with salt water, fishing-boats, oyster-beds, and marshes intersected by creeks dear to the wild-fowler. One of the best known landmarks for the incoming mariner is the tall tower of the church of the fishing village of Brightlingsea. * * * * * Dividing for some distance the counties of Essex and Suffolk, next in order comes the STOUR, born upon the borders of the adjoining county of Cambridge, and running an almost parallel course with the Colne, but longer. Three brooks contend for the reputation of starting the Stour upon its journey, and the matter is not placed beyond dispute until the three become one. The river begins to act as a county boundary at Kedington, where Archbishop Tillotson was rector at the time of the Commonwealth. Birdbrook and Whitley, Baythorn Park and Stoke College, the village which gave a name to the Cavendishes, the old hall of Pentlow, the village of Long Melford, with Melford Hall and Kentwell Hall, and Liston Park opposite, bring us, with a curve of the river, to the borough town of Sudbury, the birthplace of the painter Gainsborough, and the point from whence the Stour becomes navigable. With smaller villages in close succession planted along its course, the Stour at Higham is joined by the Bret, and the district between Higham and the town of Manningtree is the veritable country which inspired in the heart of John Constable a love for rural scenes, and stored his mind with the knowledge which in after life served him so well. The artist was never tired of saying that these soft pastoral landscapes in the Stour valley made him a painter. He was born at East Bergholt, and numbers of his pictures were actually representations of scenes at Flatford. The flocks and herds, the swelling uplands at different periods of the year, the shade of the woods, the sunlight on the corn, the dripping waterwheel, the cottage, and the church--they are still the common objects of the country on either side of the river. At Manningtree the Stour is lost in the sea long ere it arrives at the thriving port of Harwich, where the channel is commanded by a port on either side, and vessels are directed by a couple of lighthouses, one of which is a lofty erection surmounted by a powerful lantern. A new town, the watering-place of Dovercourt, which in all probability has a future before it, is growing up a near neighbour to Harwich. [Illustration: 1. MILL ON THE COLNE. 2. HIGH STREET, COLCHESTER.] * * * * * If the Stour has its Harwich, the river ORWELL, which farther north joins the same estuary, has its Ipswich; and while the name of Constable has been mentioned in connection with the former, that of Crabbe belongs to the latter. The river, rising near the village of Gipping, is generally known to the country people by that name in its freshwater course; and it is formed by three small tributaries which become united near Stowmarket, the ancient county town of Suffolk. This town, celebrated in these later days for the manufacture of the new explosives, fed the fire of genius in former times, for hither came Milton to visit his tutor Young, and until modern times a mulberry tree in the vicarage garden was called the Milton tree. George Crabbe received the rudiments of his education at Stowmarket. The river subsequently passes Needham Market, and a number of country seats and villages; Barham being the parish where Kirby, the entomologist, lived for more than half a century pursuing his patient and successful studies. The stream is navigable to Stowmarket, and in the channel between that town and Ipswich there is a total descent of ninety-three feet, with fifteen locks in a distance of about sixteen miles. It is not until the river approaches the tidal end that it is termed the Orwell. [Illustration: ON THE ORWELL AT IPSWICH.] Ipswich is well situated on rising ground with a southern aspect, and Gainsborough, who lived here, and Constable, who knew it well, thought highly of the district of which it is the capital. Constable said of it, "It is a most delightful county for a painter. I fancy I see Gainsborough in every hedge and hollow tree." Ipswich in many a quaint corner and irregular street gives evidences of its age. The merry dog Rochester, boon companion of a merry king, saw Ipswich once in the small hours of the morning, and described it as a town without people on the banks of a river without water. The tide was out at that time, and the banks of the Orwell are to this day a marvellous acreage of muddy foreshore at low water. But Ipswich has always been a prosperous town, and its leading inhabitants flourishing men of mark. In these days it is the headquarters of agricultural implement manufacture, sending labour-saving machinery to all parts of the world. The busy ironworks extend along both banks of the river. New docks are established where a new cut has been made to serve them. Ocean-going ships and fleets of "billy-boys" from Goole and elsewhere lie along the wharves. Public buildings, in a fine modern group, attest the progress of Ipswich with the advancing times. Even the Grammar School, one of Queen Elizabeth's foundations, has been reared in the newer town. The wealthy merchants, trading with the Continent, used to live in the midst of the people on the lower land; their villas now stud the heights overlooking the river. Yet here and there an antique chimney, an old-world doorway, indicate where the solid old houses once stood. In the Butter Market there is a marvellous piece of ancient architecture, a house front quaintly timbered and embellished with carvings chiselled centuries ago; and the inhabitants love to believe that this is one of the numerous houses in England in which Charles the Second hid from those who sought his life. Also is the visitor taken to see a gate through which it is affirmed entrance was obtained to Cardinal Wolsey's cottage. The Ipswich of to-day, however, with its water and steam mills, its export business in boots and shoes, its great ironworks, is, in East Anglia, the conspicuous type of go-aheadness, and when the Orwell is at high tide the outlook from the heights is of extreme beauty. The estuary then is a lovely stretch of scenery; gently rising hills laid out with grounds and country seats, diversified by woods and high cultivation, appear on either side, and the estuary from grassy shore to grassy shore is covered with water, dotted with white-sailed yachts and craft of more serious order. * * * * * The river DEBEN runs in a parallel direction with the Orwell, rising a short distance northward of Debenham, becoming navigable at Woodbridge (where Crabbe learnt surgery), and making estuary near Felixstowe, the favourite watering-place of southern Suffolk. Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet, thus grandiloquently described the section of the coast:-- "On that shore where the waters of Orwell and Deben Join the dark heaving ocean, that spot may be found: A scene which recalls the lost beauties of Eden, And which Fancy might hail as her own fairy ground." The poet Crabbe, to whom passing reference has been already made, was born at Aldborough, the quiet seaside town which receives its name from the little river ALDE, and which was the subject of the poem "The Borough." The stream passes close to the town, but instead of making for the sea close by, turns abruptly south, and follows the line of the coast, within sound of the ocean, for several miles, past Orford, to Hollesley Bay. North of Aldborough is Southwold at the mouth of the river Blythe, another minor stream, navigable to Halesworth, a picturesquely situated town below Hevingham. * * * * * A district in many respects quite unique meets us at the estuary which is marked on the maps, though scarcely known by the country folk, as Lake Lothing, this being, in point of fact, an estuary harbour a little south of Lowestoft railway station. Following the coast northward, past Great Yarmouth, and up to a trifle beyond Cromer, we have that extremely interesting district known as the East Anglian Broads, which have now become one of the most popular summer resorts for boating and fishing men, and a well-frequented haunt of the wild-fowler who is not afraid to brave the bitter winds of winter, cruising over the great watery wastes in search of the game which can be found in such quantities in this part of the country. Till within a comparatively few years this extraordinary network of waterways connecting freshwater lakes was comparatively little known, but the increase of railway communication, and the spread of knowledge consequent upon the multiplication of cheap literature and the new departure taken by the daily press, brought the rivers and broads of both Norfolk and Suffolk before the public. Now for months together wherries and yachts peculiar to the locality sail by day and anchor at night upon the Broads; and camping-out parties may be encountered at all the villages connected therewith. This may also be described as savouring of Dutch-land, the salient features of which are in some wise reproduced here in our own country. Although elsewhere changes are continually taking place in the habits and customs of the people, and often in the aspect of the country, the Broads so far remain unaltered. The rivers are characterised by a slow rate of speed. Many of them for miles together resemble canals in the appearance of their banks, and in their tardy, discoloured currents. It is difficult sometimes to imagine that the sheets of water are connected with them at all, but, as the name Broad would indicate, the apparent lakes are nothing but openings-out of the waterways, which sooner or later send their contents to the sea. There are two or three exceptions, which will be pointed out, but the Broads are for the most part fed by such rivers as the Bure and the Yare. The southernmost river is the WAVENEY, which at first runs from west to east, until it approaches within a few miles of the estuary above named. Then, however, it takes an arbitrary turn northwards, gives the go-by to Lowestoft, and, joining the river Yare at Breydon Water, empties itself into the sea outside of Gorleston Pier. [Illustration: HARWICH: THE QUAY.] The Waveney, one of the largest of the Norfolk rivers, waters both Norfolk and Suffolk. The talented Agnes Strickland, who wrote of the Queens of England, calls this river the sweet stream of her childhood, and in its upper part it certainly does merit that somewhat poetical description. It rises from springs near Lopham Gate, and the little Ouse, which takes a contrary direction, is also born in the same neighbourhood. The first town on the banks of this river is Diss, which is very prettily situated on high ground, with a considerable lake with steep banks on the eastern side. The little river called the Dove, which passes the borough of Eye, joins the Waveney. The town of Harleston is near the Waveney proper, and at Bungay, on the borders of Norfolk and Suffolk, where the river describes a curious loop towards the village of Ditchingham, the Broads district is held to have its south-western boundary. There are no Broads, however, near, but the tourists who hire their wherries and make water parties for periods of weeks and months frequently push on to this point. The ruins of Bungay Castle remind us of the old days when Barons held their sway, and there is a parish church which was once connected with a nunnery. For the most part, the Broads district is a dead level that becomes monotonous until one gets accustomed to its quietude and freedom. But occasionally there is an exception to the rule, and we have an example at Mettingham, a portion of which parish spreads over a range of hills, upon which are the remains of a castle. Sir John Suckling, the poet, was lord of the manor in the parish of Barham, which has its Hall some distance from the river, and a stretch of marshes bordering it. The mother of Nelson, and Captain Suckling, his uncle, were both born in the Rectory House of Barham. Beccles, with its fen to the north, its racecourse to the right, and the Gillingham marshes on the other side of the river, are important stations connected with the line from Lowestoft and Yarmouth. Beccles was a favourite resort of the poet Crabbe. This little town is finely situated on a promontory, giving a pleasant view of the broad valley, with villages and country houses dotted along its banks. In its northward course the Waveney passes Somerleyton station, then St. Olaves, and finally, running parallel with the terminal course of the Yare, winds through reedy marshes and becomes lost in Breydon Water, a huge expanse of estuary, which visitors to Yarmouth will remember as presenting such a dreary waste of muddy flat at low water. The Yare and the Waveney are connected by an artificial channel, called the New Cut, making the course by water to the ancient City of Norwich complete from the south-eastern portion of the district. Away to the east of the river at St. Olaves is Fritton Decoy, one of the smaller, but at the same time typical, Broads of Norfolk. * * * * * The district of the Broads is computed to hold not less than 5,000 acres of lake, and 200 miles of river, or canal-like waterway that passes as such; but the Broads, as they are popularly known, mostly cluster along the banks of the BURE. Towards the coast in the north-east is delightful little Horsey Mere, the outlying lake in that direction connected with the combination of watery stretches, generally known as Hickling Broads, the largest of the entire series, and brought into the common watery highway by means of the Thurne, sometimes called the Hundred Stream. As a rule, the water of these East Anglian Broads is discoloured by sand in solution, and sometimes, as at Fritton, it assumes a greenish hue. But Hickling, which is a very beautiful sheet of water, though, by reason of its shallowness, not wholly beloved by yachtsmen, has the enviable peculiarity of being clear. Upon the hard gravelly bottom the loveliest of water plants grow; and sailing over them in a small boat, brushing them lightly even with your keel, and the breeze not being sufficiently strong to ruffle the surface, you look down upon a submerged panorama, upon a subaqueous fairyland of mossy meadows and weedy bowers, from and into which the zebra-barred perch and the silvery cyprinidæ glide. From Hickling it is a long sail down to Thurne mouth, where we regain the main stream of the Bure, and the scenery is thoroughly characteristic of East Anglia. Truly there is nothing like it elsewhere in this country. League upon league we steal along the placid waterway, between rustling sedge, flag, reed, and coarse grasses, protecting all the aquatic flowers in their season. Sleek cattle graze upon the low, fat, boundless pastures; everywhere weather-worn windmills catch the breeze, and work devoted to the perpetual service of pumping out the intersecting dykes. Beyond the marshes, undulating country swells gently to picturesque and distant woods; square church-towers peep above the trees. There are cornfields and patches of turnip surrounding the ruddy buildings of many a happy homestead. Hour after hour we silently move between margins gay with the bold purple loosestrife, the free-blossoming willow-herb, the fragrant meadow-sweet, and the dark glossy-leaved alder, which never thrives so well as when its feet are in the water, and which seems to be most strong in the sap when other trees are on the verge of decay. The Broads connected with the upper part of the Bure are the most generally known, following each other in close succession, and having a number of villages in their neighbourhood. The trip from Yarmouth up this river is at first monotonous in the extreme, but the traveller soon gets accustomed to the Hollandish land and water. The smaller the boat for this excursion, the better the speed; the mast has to be lowered at the low, modest bridges, and to meet this requirement the so-called wherries and the una-rigged boats are provided with special appliances. Very soothing it is, when the breeze is merry, to loll upon the cushions aft, gaze up at the heavens, and list to the ripple at the bows. The shivering willows present an everlasting intermingling of moving grey and green as the slender leaves expose now the upper and now the under covering, after their kind. Water-fowl scuttle off to cover as you heave in sight. By-and-bye there will bear down upon you one of the famous East Anglian wherries, half-sister to the sailing-barges of the Medway and the Thames. Her large ruddy sails are hoisted by machinery, and as she sweeps round a bend, running free, she will seem to be dooming you to destruction. Yet she flies past, making splendid speed, and docile as a child under the management of the skipper at the helm. One of the show-places on the Bure is St. Benet's Abbey, to which all strangers resort. The ruins that attract attention long before the landing-place is reached are the remains of an ecclesiastical establishment of the early part of the eleventh century. It was a strong post, and the monks offered a stubborn resistance to William the Conqueror. Eventually the abbey was annexed to the bishopric of Norwich; and, inheriting the old right of the Abbot to a seat in the House of Lords, the Bishops of Norwich, who are in legal parlance Abbots of St. Benet's-at-Holme, as well as Bishops, have a double claim to a seat on the Episcopal Bench. The river Bure was, in those old fighting days, a line of defence to the abbey on the south, and the position of the moat, which completed the isolation, may still be traced. The gateway of the abbey, which was a cruciform building with a plain round tower in the centre, stands, but it is blocked by the rubbish of a large windmill which tumbled upon it in the last century. There are other relics, and the prettiness of the place, its historical associations, and the soft turf that contrasts so agreeably with the rougher herbage of the marshes, make it a resort of picnic parties. Walsham, Ranworth, Hoveton, Woodbastwick, Salhouse, and Wroxham Broads are a close constellation. Wroxham is a typical specimen of the larger Broads upon which regattas are held, where a large yacht may cruise, and the shores of which present diversity of woodland, private grounds, farm lands, and village life. Equally typical of the smaller lakes is Salhouse Broad. I visited it last in the late summer, the boat slipping out of Wroxham Broad through an inviting opening in the reeds. To my mind there is nothing prettier in all Norfolk than this sheltered lakelet, a watery retreat which, like many of the Broads, is private property. The reeds around its margin on one shore, which presents a series of bays within bays, are of gigantic height. They stand out of the water in thickets, lofty walls of slender growth, coped with nodding plumes and restless tassels. On the opposite shore the scenery is park-like. At the time of my visit there were a number of small yachts moored at Salhouse, and upon the weedy shore there was, at points, a striking intermixture of ash trees, alders, and the guelder rose, vieing with one another as to which could thrive best nearest the water's edge. The guelder rose bushes were bright with their clumps of red berries, glittering and transparent like Venetian glass. Out of this small enclosure you push through a narrow waterway into Hoveton Great Broad, a lake of quite another type, particularly Dutch-like in its surroundings. Productive arable land stretches right and left, and windmills mark the horizon all round; no point of the prospect is without its square-towered church or red-tiled houses. So shallow are many portions of Hoveton Broad, that as you sweep through the light beds of reeds, forcing the graceful growths out of your course, there are often not eighteen inches of water beneath your keel, and the Dutch flavour before mentioned is intensified by the appearance of large clumsy boats, laden high with cut reeds, to be used hereafter as fodder. Horning Ferry, a well-known waterside resting-place, may be taken as a typical feature of village life in these parts. At a bend in the river Bure you arrive at a village with granaries, and the red-tiled cottages of a long street close to the water's edge. There are heaps of produce on the bank, a fleet of boats-of-all-work, wherries waiting for cargoes, and a huge windmill on the low ridge behind this quaint country settlement. You sail close to the walls of the village street, and it is expected that you offer a largesse of coppers to the sunbrowned children who run along, keeping pace with the boat, and singing a hymn, as the Horning children have done from time immemorial, in praise of John Barleycorn. All the yachtsmen coming and going halt at Horning Ferry, lounge upon the smooth-shaven lawn, and enjoy the comforts of a civilised inn; for the first time, perchance, for days, in the case of men who have been roughing it in wherries or smaller boats. In the hotel parlour may be noticed a case of stuffed birds, containing excellent specimens of the beautiful summer teal, black tern, solitary fowl, and jack-snipes, and two or three rare visitants, all shot by the proprietor of the hotel. Guns, fishing-rods, hunting pictures, whips and spurs, adorning the walls, give an air of sport to the place both welcome and fitting. [Illustration: THE BEACH, YARMOUTH.] The largest Broad in the north-eastern part of the district I have already nominated as Hickling, which also includes Whitely and Chapman's Broad. Horsey Mere is, however, still further east, and it is a lovely bit of wild water, with an abundance of tall poplars around the shores, and most picturesquely reeded. By proceeding up Palling Dyke, on the trip to which I have once or twice referred, I was able to stroll across to the beach, through the sand dunes, and inhale the real odour of brine from the ocean. On the way I passed the blackened ribs of a wrecked ship protruding from the silver sand which had been drifting year by year with the kindly object of burying them out of sight. The dunes here are high embankments of sand, covered with spear-like grass. Looking east was the blue sea and its ships and steamers; west was a sunshiny land, dotted with villages and farms. Barton Broad is a detached lake of considerable size; and in an opposite direction, south-east, is the long, narrow collection of Broads--Filby, Rollesby, and Ormesby--one expanse of water, independent of the rivers and cuts which abound in every other part of the district of the Broads. This peculiar piece of water straggles along a length of three miles, and throws out queerly shaped arms both east and west. The attractions for visitors to the Broads are sailing, and sport with rod and gun. The country is so sparsely populated that the visitor has to provide rations for himself, and is, when once upon the Broads, far away from the noise of the world. The angler who has read glowing accounts of the sport to be obtained is likely to be disappointed at the large proportion of the water which is in private hands. The Broads and rivers abound with bream and roach; and there are pike, perch, and eels. In some of the Broads the rudd, which is first-cousin to the roach, occurs in incredible quantities, and affords capital fly-fishing on summer evenings off the fringes of the reedy thickets. A wholesale system of poaching, which has not been completely stopped by the special legislation provided by the Norfolk and Suffolk Freshwater Fisheries Act of 1877, has, however, of late years inflicted much injury. In his description of the marriage of Thames and Medway, Spenser selects the Yare as having-- "With him brought a present joyfully Of his own fish unto their festival, Which like none else could show; the which they ruffins call." By "ruffins" Spenser means the pope or ruffe, the voracious little impostor that pretends to be a perch, and that is often a nuisance to the East Anglian fisherman. According to Cuvier, this fish was discovered by Dr. Caius, who was a native of Norwich, and who, taking a ruffe in the Yare, sent it to Gesner. * * * * * Though the Episcopal City of Norwich is its great inland headquarters, Yarmouth is considered to be the capital of the Broads district. In the literal sense of the term these are well-known towns. Norwich abounds with old streets and houses, as becomes a city said to be of more than fourteen centuries date. Kings of East Anglia dwelt in its castle, or were ejected from it, as Saxons and Danes in turn carried it by storm. The keep and outer vallum are well preserved, and in celebration of the Queen's Jubilee the building has been dedicated to the purposes of a County Museum. The cathedral, with its lofty steeple, and the Bishop's Palace, are fine monuments of an historical past, and one of the palace apartments is lined with a carved oak wainscot, brought from the St. Benet's Abbey mentioned on a preceding page. Yarmouth, at the mouth of the Yare, is the Margate, if not the Brighton, of East Anglia. The narrow "rows" or connecting alleys between the main thoroughfares of the oldest portion of the town have a renown all their own. They are the principal curiosities of this emporium of fish-curing, and may be taken as a foil to the magnificent market-place, covering nearly three acres of flagged area. The types of men and women who gather here at the Saturday market are of a most varied and interesting kind; and the booths, like the comfortable country folks who furnish them, are just what they have been during the lifetime of the oldest inhabitant. The far-stretching yellow sands are the abiding strength of Yarmouth as a watering-place, and they give the place a steady average of prosperity which seaside resorts without so noble a beach cannot reckon upon. Of the remains left of the ancient walls, North Gate, bearing the date of 1396, is the best, but there are many venerable buildings worthy of inspection, such as the Elizabethan house on South Quay, built in 1596. The Market Place, as before indicated, is one of the largest in the country; and the grand parish church of St. Nicholas at its foot enjoys the same distinction. In all but name it is a cathedral of which any diocese might be proud. W. SENIOR. [Illustration: OUTWARD BOUND.] FOOTNOTES. [1] Suffer in patience. [2] "Our Own Country" (Alton Towers), Vol. IV., p. 234. [3] "Our Own Country," Vol. VI., p. 155. [4] "Beauties of England and Wales," Vol. IX., p. 566. [5] A. J. Jukes-Browne, "Quarterly Journal of the Geological Society," Vol. XXXIX., p. 606. [6] It is called Aldreth; there was here some twenty years since an old wooden bridge, of which the late Professor Freeman (with whom I first visited the place) wrote in his "Norman Conquest" (vol. iv., p. 465), "It looked very much as if it had been broken down by Hereward, and not mended since." A few years later I found it had almost disappeared. [7] Much information not only on this, but also on many other questions relating to the fens, will be found in Messrs. Miller and Skertchly's book "The Fenland." [8] The Author, "Cambridgeshire Geology," p. 8. INDEX. Abbey Craig, Stirling, 50, 51 Abbotsford, 104, 105 Aberdeen, Meadows of, 2, 15, 16 Aberdour, 62 Aberfeldy, "Birks" of, 10, 24 Aberfoyle, 43; proximity to the Trossachs and Loch Katrine, 44 Abergeldie, 10, 11 Aberlady, 70; the golf links, 70 Abernethy, 34 Aboyne, 14 Achray, Loch, 46 Ad Fines Camps, 115 Agricola, Estimate of the Tay by, 17, 18; camp of, 18; association of with Cilurnum, 142; Corstopitum and, 153 Aire, The, 318 Aldborough, Importance of in Roman times, 311, 312; Crabbe and, 362 Allan Water, 47, 48 Allen, River, 148, 149 Alloa, 47, 53, 54 Alrewas, Registers of, 236 Alston, 144, 145 Alwinton, 116, 117 Amble, Dreary, 127 Ancrum Moor, The fight at, 94, 102 Angus, 38 Anson, Admiral George, 232 Antonine, Wall of, 54 Ardoch, Roman Camp of, 48 Armstrang, Johnie, 95 Armstrong, Lord, Residence of, 120, 121 Ashbourne, The Divine of, 246, 247 Ashestiel, Association of Scott with, 106 Ashford-in-the-Water, 266, 267 Athole, Earls of, Castle of the, 35 Augustine, Saint, 144; on Cross Fell, 144; at Alston, 145 Avondhu, River, 43 Axe Edge, 241 Ayleburn, 145 Baliols, The, and Barnard Castle, 206 Ballater, 11 Balleichan, 24 Ballengeich, 50 Ballinluig, 22 Balmoral, History of, 7, 8; situation and beauty of, 8; the castle, 8-10; the Queen and her "journal," 10 Banbury, 342 Bannockburn, Battle of, 50, 51 Bannock, River, 47 Barnard Castle, 206, 207 Barton, 322 Barty of the Comb, 134, 135 Bass Rock, Firth of Forth, 63, 64; the Covenanters' Prison, 64; "No Surrender," 64; viewed from Tantallon Castle, 70 Beamsley, 304 Bear Park, 191 Beaudesert, 235 Beccles, 365 Bedford, 342 Bellingham, Comparison of with Donnybrook, 135, 136 Belper, 271, 272 Ben Alder, 22 Ben An, 45; as a feature of Loch Achray, 46 Ben Chonzie, 35 Ben Cleuch, 51 Benedict (Biscopius), Labours of, 195, 196 Ben Lawers, 23 Ben Ledi, 46, 47 Ben Lomond, Romantic characteristics of, 42; as the source of the Forth, 42; "Rob Roy's" country, 42; adjacent beauties, 42; extensive prospect from, 42; form of, 42; as a feature of Loch Katrine, 45 Ben Macdhui, 2 Ben Venue, 45; the "Coir-nan-Uriskin," 45; in relation to Loch Achray, 46 Ben Voirlich, 35, 42; as seen from Ben Ledi, 46 Ben-y-Gloe, 22 Beresford Hall, Charles Cotton and, 243, 244; Hero's tower, 244 Berwick-on-Tweed, Position of, 75; Halidon Hill, 75, 78; the town walls, 75, 78; as seen from the south bank, 75; the old bridge, 75; Tweedmouth, 75; Spittal, 75; Royal Border Bridge, 75; view to the Cheviots, 75; the outlook seawards, 75; as a Saxon settlement, 77; advent of the Danes, 77; the town of the Scot, 77; sold by John Baliol, 77; stormed by Edward, 77, 78; crushed into insignificance, 78; emancipated by Robert Bruce, 78; made English once more, 78; the castle ruins, 78; as a garrison town, 78; the parish church, 78, 79; the Town Hall, 79; the curfew bell, 79; churches without names, 79 Bewick, Thomas, Birthplace of, 155 Biddick, 194 Binchester (Binovium), 180 Birnam, Perthshire, 23, 25 Birse, Parish of, 14 Bishop Auckland, Palace and park of, 179; castle of, 179 Bishopthorpe, Archbishop's palace at, 315 Bishop Wearmouth and Paley's "Evidences," 196 Black Adder, River, 79 Black Mount, 20 Blackwater (or Pant), The: Scenery of, 352; source of, 352; Saffron-Walden, 352, 353; Hempstead and William Harvey, 353; Cadham Hall and the author of "Hudibras," 353; Spain's Hall, 353; Bocking Church, 353; Braintree, 353; Stisted Park and Stisted Vale, 354; Coggeshall, 354; Feering and Bishop Bonner, 354; Kelvedon Bridge, 354; Felix Hall, 354; Braxted Lodge, 354; Tiptree Hall Farm, 354; Witham, 354; Maldon, 355; confluence with the Chelmer, 357; Mersea Island and Pyefleet, 357, 358 Blair in Athole, 21, 22 Bochastle, Roman encampment of, 46 Bolton Abbey, 301, 302 Bolton Percy, 308 Bo'ness, 54; pig-iron industry of, 54 Boroughbridge, Historical interest of, 311 Boston, 332-334 Bracklinn, Falls of, 47 Braeriach, Mount, 2 Braes of Doune, The, 35 Braintree, 353 Brancepeth, Castle of, 180, 181 Breadalbane Family, Seat of the, 23 Bridge of Earn, Perthshire, 34 Brig of Turk, The, 46 Brinkburn, Priory of, 122; its history, 122 Broads, East Anglian, Locality of the, 363; as a summer resort, 363; a wild-fowler's paradise, 363; recent revelation of, 363; Holland in England, 363; character of the rivers, 363; a typical example, 365; lake area of, 365; Horsey Mere, 365, 366; Hickling Broads, 365, 366; colour of the waters, 365; a characteristic district, 366; up the Bure from Yarmouth, 366; St. Benet's Abbey, 366, 367; Wroxham Broad, 367; Salhouse Broad, 367; Hoveton Great Broad, 367; Horning Ferry, 367, 368; from Broad to sea, 368, 369; Barton Broad, 369; a curious trio, 369; the fish to be caught, 369; Norwich, 369; Yarmouth, 370 Bruar, River, 21 Bruce, Chase of in Perthshire, 19 Bure, The, _see_ "Broads" Burnet, Bishop, Birthplace of, 215 Burnsall, Well-Worship at, 297, 298 Burslem, Earthenware of, 223, 224 Burton-on-Trent, 238, 239 Burtreeford, Leadmines of, 175 Bywell, 154 Cairngorm Mountains, 2 Cairntoul, Mount, 2 Caldron Snout, A fallacy concerning, 197; a splendid cataract, 199 Canning, Delight of in Dove Dale, 246 Cannock Chase, 234 Callander, 46; view from bridge of, 46, 47 Callater, Loch and Glen, 13 Cambridge, _see_ "Cam" Cambuskenneth, Abbey of, 48 Cambusmore, 47 Campsie Hills, 43 Cam, The, at Cambridge, 343; a unique mile, 343; constituent streams, 343; Queen's College, 343; King's College, 343; Clare College, 343; University Library, 343; Clare College bridge and gardens, 343; Trinity Hall, 343, 344; St. John's College, 344; the town bridge, 344; Magdalene College, 344; the boating reach, 344, 345; through fertile fields, 345; a sleepy land, 346; the Isle of Ely, 346; twixt fire and morass, 346; Ely Cathedral, 346, 317 Carchonzie, River, 46 Castle Donington, 256 Castle Hedingham, 358 Castleton, Caverns of, 259 Castleton of Braemar, 6, 7 Castor, 339 Cawood, Wolsey and, 315 Chad, Saint, A legend concerning, 227, 252 Chantrey, Sir Francis, 246, 247 Charltons, Home of the, 135 Chartley Castle, 227, 228 Chatsworth, 261-263 Chellaston fossils, 256 Chelmer, The, Commercial value of, 355; Thaxted, 355; Horham Hall, 355; Tilty, 355; Easton Park, 355; Great Dunmow, 355; Little Dunmow and the Fitzwalters, 355, 356; Great Waltham, 356; Springfield and the "Deserted Village," 356; Chelmsford, 356, 357; Boreham House, 357; New Hall and Beaulieu, 357; the Ter tributary, 357; confluence with the Blackwater, 357; Mersea Island and oyster breeding, 357, 358 Chelmsford, 356, 357 Chester-le-Street, 192, 193 Chesters (ancient Cilurnum), 142 Chipchase, 138, 139 Chollerford, 142; Roman wall at, 142 Clackmannan, 53, 54 Claverhouse, 40, 41 Cleish Hills, 55 Cockenzie, 68, 69 Coggeshall, 354 Coilantogle Ford, Fight of, 46 Colchester, 358, 359 Coldstream, Historic associations of, 87, 88 Colne, The Essex, 358; source of, 358; early course, 358; Great Yeldham and its oak-tree, 358; Castle Hedingham, 358; Halstead, 358; Gosfield Hall, 358; Stour Valley Railway Viaduct, 358; Colchester, 358, 359; the navigation limit, 359; Hythe Bridge, 359; North and East Bridges, 359; at Wivenhoe Park, 359; the Roman river tributary, 359; Brightlingsea Tower, 359 Comyn, Red, Residence of, 134; death of, 134; "a lewd enterprise," 182 Congreve, Thomas, at Ham, 246 Coniscliffe, High and Low, 214 Coniston, 295 Constable, John, Home of, 359; his opinion of Ipswich, 361 Coquet Isle, The monastery on, 127; coin "smashing," 128 Coquet, The, 113; "peat-bogs," 113; as an angling stream, 114; source in Debateable Land, 114; Thirlmoor, 114; Kidland solitude, 114, 115; Ad Fines Camps, 115; outer and middle Golden Pot, 115; the first house, 115; Dandie Dinmont, 113, 115; Carl Croft and Philip Burn tributaries, 115, 116; the Usway stream, 116; eel-spearing and poaching, 116; Alwinton, 117; Harbottle, 117, 118; Holystone Well and Paulinus, 118; Simonside, 118; Rothbury, 118, 119; Thrum Mill, 118, 120; bull trout, 119; mistaken for salmon, 119, 120; the Armstrongs' seat, 120, 121; a noble picture gallery, 121; Brinkworth, 121, 122; the Priory, 122; an anglers' haunt, 123; Felton, 123; Frank Buckland's joke, 123; Acklington, 124; Warkworth, 124-127; Mr. Pape's fishery, 125; the hermitage, 126; literary associations, 126; the castle, 127; Amble, 127; Farnes, 127; Coquet Island, 127, 128 Corbridge, 153 Coronation Stone, The, 27, 28 Corrichie, Battle of, 14, 15 Cotherstone, 203 Cotton, Charles, 240, 243, 244 Crabbe, Stowmarket and, 361; association of with Woodbridge, 362; birthplace of, 362; visits to Beccles, 365 Cragside, 120 Craigendarroch, 11 Craigmore, Mount, 42 Craig-na-gow-an, 8 Croft, Spa of, 214, 215 Cross Fell, Height of, 143, 144, 197, 198 Crouch, The, Estuary of, 351; Maplin Sands and the Goodwins, 351; Foulness Island, 351; traces of the Danes, 351; limits of navigation, 351; the oyster fishery, 351; source of, 351; Hull Bridge, 351; Burnham, 351; Canewdon and Canute, 352; Roman, Dane, and Saxon, 352; Hockley Spa, 352 Culross, 54, 56 Culross Bay, Beauty of, 54, 55 Dalkeith Castle, 68 Darlington, Mansions of, 214 Deadwater Bog, 130 Deben, The, Source of, 362; the navigation limit, 362; Felixstowe, 362; Aldborough and the poet Crabbe, 362; the Alde tributary, 362, 363; Southwold and the Blythe tributary, 363; Halesworth, 363 Dee, The Highland, Source of, 1, 2; a natural reservoir, 2; typical scenery, 2; the Lui and Glen Lui, 2, 3; Glen Lui Beg, 3; a mountain legend, 3; floods of 1829, 3-5; association of Byron with, 5, 6; Castleton, 6, 7; Morven, 6, 14; last of the Celtic kings, 7; rebellion of 1715, 7; Balmoral, 7-10; Abergeldie, 10; Burns and the birks, 10, 11; Ballater, 11; a Highland tragedy, 11; Craigendarroch, 11; reel of Tullich, 11, 12; a Catholic legend, 12; Deeside and the classics, 12, 13; the Muich and Lynn of Muich, 13; Loch Muich, 13; Loch Callater, 13; Glen Callater, 13; Breakneck Waterfall, 13; an admiral's peril, 14; Aboyne and its castle, 14; Glentamner, 14; hilly Birse, 14; Lunphanan and Macbeth, 14; as a boundary stream, 14; Queen Mary and Corrichie, 14, 15; execution of Sir John Gordon, 15, 16; through fertile meads, 16 Deepdale Burn, 204 Derby, Situation of, 273; a subterranean river, 273; derivation of the name, 273; historical and legendary, 273, 274; St. Mary's Bridge, 274, 275; silk ware at, 275; All Saints' Church, 275; "Crown Derby," 275, 276; the Midland Railway Works, 276 Derwent Chapel, 258, 259 Derwent Dale, Alder trees of, 258 Derwent, The Derbyshire, Comparative neglect of, 257; romantic scenery of, 257; source, length, and drainage area of, 257, 258; derivation of the name, 257, 258; the infant stream, 258; Barrowstones, 258; as a boundary stream, 258; the Westend and Abbey Brook tributaries, 258; in Derwent Dale, 258; at Derwent Chapel, 258; Derwent Hall, 258, 259; Win Hill and Lose, 258, 259; the Ashop and Ashopton, 259; the Lady Bower tributary, 259; Castleton caverns, 259; Mytham Bridge and the Noe tributary, 259; Dore and Chinley Railway, 259; Hathersage and "Little John," 259, 260; Padley Wood, 260; Burbage Brook, 260; Longshore Lodge, 260; Hu Gaer, 260; the Toad's Mouth, 260; Stoney Middleton, 260, 261; Eyam and the Great Plague, 261; Grindleford Bridge, 261; Chatsworth, 261-263; "The Peacock," Rowsley, 263; the Wye tributary, 263-267; the river and the Midland Railway, 263, 264; Haddon Hall, 264, 265; Tideswell Church, 266; the highest village in England, 266; "virgin crants" at Ashford-in-the-Water, 266, 267; a Piscators' Paradise, 267; Darley Dale, 267, 268; a venerable yew, 268; Oker Hill and its sycamores, 268, 270; trout and grayling, 270; at Matlock, 270, 271; Cromford and the cotton mills, 271; Sir Richard Arkwright, 271; Willersley Castle, 271; incongruous bridge architecture, 271; Lea Hurst and Florence Nightingale, 271; Alderwasley Forest, 271; the Amber and Ambergate, 271; Belper and the Strutt cotton mills, 271, 272; Belper Bridge, 272; Milford, 272; Duffield, 272; the Ecclesbourne tributary, 272; the scene of "Adam Bede," 272; Allestree Hall, 273; Darley Abbey, 273; Markeaton Brook, 273; Derby, 273-276; floods, 276; St. Mary's Bridge, 274, 275; enterprise and treachery, 275; pollution of the river, 276; Elvaston, 277; the estuary, 277 Derwentwater, Earls of, 149 Devon, Glen, Ochil Mountains, 52 Devon, River, 52 Dichty, River, 40 Dochart, River, 22, 23 Doune Castle, 47; associations of, 47 Dovercourt, 360 Doveridge Hall, 248 Dove, The Derbyshire, 240; the two Doves and the two Dove Dales, 240; Isaac Walton and Charles Cotton, 240, 243; Dove Head, 241; Axe Edge, 241; county boundary, 241; fishing monogram, 241; proximity to Buxton, 241; Glutton Mill, 241, 242; mountain sentinels, 242; Sterndale and "The Silent Woman," 242; Hartington, 242; Beresford Dale, 242, 243; an isolated needle, 243; "Piscatoribus Sacrum," 243; Beresford Hall, 243, 244; devotion and dissipation, 244; Dove Dale, 245; limestone tors, 245, 246; Samuel Johnson and Dr. Taylor, 246; the Happy Valley of "Rasselas," 246; Jean Jacques at Wootton Hall, 246; Mayfield and Thomas Moore, 240, 248; Thomas Congreve at Ilam, 246; Canning as a devotee of, 246; other literary associates, 246; Thorpe Cloud and Burly Bunster, 246; Ilam, 246; another monogram, 246; Chantrey's masterpiece, 246; the Manifold tributary, 247; Ashbourne in '45, 247; a famous church, 247; Penelope Boothby, 247; North Staffordshire Railway, 247; Norbury, 248; Rocester, 248; the Churnet and Tean tributaries, 248; Doveridge Hall, 248; Uttoxeter, 248, 249; Birthplace of Mary Howitt, 249; Dr. Johnson's penance, 249; Lord Vernon's domain, 249; Tutbury Castle and history, 249, 250; a fasting woman, 250; a rich find, 250; junction with the Trent, 250 Drummelzier, 110, 111 Drummond Family, Ancient seat of the, 27 Drummond Hill, Perthshire, 23 Drumoak, Parish of, 14 Dryburgh Abbey, 98, 99 Duchray Water, 42, 43 Dunblane, 48; the cathedral, 48 Duncan, Locality of burial of, 14 Duncraggan, 46 Dundee, Extent of, 36; width of the Tay at, 38; Angus, 38; Tay bridge, 38; the city from the Law, 38; the growth of four centuries, 38, 39; ancient trade, 38; early records, 38; "Bonnie" Dundee, 38, 39; business and beauty, 39; razed castles, 39; St. Mary's Tower, 39; Broughty Craig Castle and its story, 39; raid of Montrose, 39; magnanimity extraordinary, 39; sack by Monk, 39; John Graham and "bloody Mackenzie," 39; Admiral Duncan, 39; Lochee, 39; famous men of peace, 40; the jute industry, 40; the "Howff," 40; the old amidst the new, 40; a glance around, 40 Dunearn, 64 Dunfermline, 58, 59 Dunkeld, Perthshire, 25 Dunmyatt Hills, 51 Durham, Site of, 182; as a spiritual centre, 183; attacks of the Scots, 187; early history of the See, 186; Bishop-princes, 187; Wars of the Roses, 188; the Reformation's effect, 188; pilgrimage of grace, 188, 189; during the Commonwealth, 189; abolition of the See's temporal distinctions, 189; the cathedral, 186; the "Galilee Porch," 187; transformed into a prison, 189; situation of cathedral, 190; styles of architecture, 190; remains of the monastery, 191; the castle, 191; the university, 191 Earl's Seat, Mount, 51 Earn, River, Perthshire, 34 East Anglian Rivers, General characteristics of, 350, 351 East Lomond, Mount, 64 Eden, River, 88 Edinburgh, Situation of, 66; Arthur's Seat, 66, 68; as guardian of the Firth, 66; Edinburgh rock and castle, 66; Mons Meg, 66; Chapel of Canmore and Margaret, 66; the Grassmarket, 67; West Port, 67; Cowgate, 67; old Greyfriars' Churchyard, 67; University buildings, 67; Morningside, 67; Newington, 67; Craiglockhart, 67; the Braids, 67; Craigmillar Castle, 67; the adjacent hills, 67; the Lawnmarket, 67; High Street, 67; the "Crown" of St. Giles, 67; Parliament House, 67; Canongate, 67; Holyrood Palace and Abbey, 67; Princes Street, 67; Calton Hill, 67; New Town, 67; Corstorphine, 67; Leith, 67, 68; view of, as affected by the weather, 67; Granton breakwater, 67; Newhaven, 67; Portobello Esplanade, 68; seaside watering-places, 68 Ednam, 89 Egliston Abbey, 207 Eildon Hill, 97, 98, 100, 101 Elcho Castle, 35 Eldon, 182 Ellen's Isle, 45, 46 Ely, _see_ "Cam" Erdswick, Sampson, Memorials of, 227 Erichdie, River, 21 Erskines, Earls of Mar, Ancient seat of, 53 Esk, River, 68, 69 Essex Bridge, 233 Ettrick River, The, 105, 106 Eures of Witton, 178 Eyam, Ravages of the Great Plague at, 261 Falstone, 134 Farne Islands, 75-77 Faskally, 20 Featherstone Castle, 146, 147 Felixstowe, 362 Felton, 123, 124 Fen Country, General characteristics of the, 347, 348; drainage and reclamation in the Wash district, 348; fauna and flora of, 348, 349; diminution of fevers, 349; an autumn prospect, 349 Fenwick, Sir Ralph, 134, 135 Ferrers, Earl, Property of, 228 Fife Ness, 66 Fingal, Tradition of, 19 Fintry Hills, 43 Fitzhughs, The, 202, 203 Flodden, Battle of, 86, 87 Flodden Hill, 86 Forteviot, Perthshire, 34 Forth Bridge, The new, 54, 59, 60 Forth, The, Historical pre-eminence of, 41; as an emblem, 41, 42; source, 42; "Rob Roy's" country, 42; Loch Katrine and the Trossachs, 42, 44, 45, 46; the view from Ben Lomond, 42; under the glamour of Scott, 42; the charm of romance, 42; to the head waters, 42; Loch Ard and its associations, 42, 43; the "Clachan of Aberfoyle," 43; combining waters, 43; lingering traditions, 43; in the country of "the Graemes," 43; Lake Menteith and its memories, 44; a Queen's retreat, 44; scenes of "The Lady of the Lake," 44, 45; the MacGregor fastness, 44; Scott's influence, 44, 45; sentinel mountains, 45; Goblin's Cave, 45; Ellen's Isle and its story, 45, 46; to Loch Achray, 46; the art of Nature, 46; Clan Alpine rendezvous, 46; by Coilantogle Ford, 46; on the Hill of God, 46; a tryst of waters, 46, 47; down the Teith to Stirling, 47; Falls of Bracklinn, 47; Cambusmere, 47; Doune Castle, 47; "Heading" Hill, Stirling, 47, 50; Stirling Castle, 47, 48; the river at Stirling, 47; Flanders Moss, 47; tide and navigation limits, 47; the "links o' Forth," 47; goodly sites and historic memories, 47; the banks of Allan Water, 48; Dunblane and the cathedral, 48; a Roman camp, 48; Stirling Rock and its record, 48; baptism of Prince Henry, 48; palace of James V., 48; Parliament House, Stirling, 48; murder by a king, 50; where noble heads have fallen, 50; Stirling battlefields, 50; in memory of Wallace, 50; Bannockburn, 50, 51; on the lower river, 51; through fat meadows, 51; the valley boundaries, 51; beautiful Ochils, 51, 52; river and Glen Devon, 52; Tullibody and Alloa Inches, 53; North British Railway Bridge, 53; Alloa, 53, 54; from river to estuary, 53; Clackmannan, 53; Kincardine, 54; Scotch "Auburns," 54; Tulliallan Castle, 54; in the "Bruce Country," 54; Forth Bridge, 54; broadening to the sea, 54; Grangemouth and Bo'ness, 54; Carron Iron Works, 54; Linlithgow, 54; the wall of Antonine, 54; Culross and Culross Bay, 54-56; sanctified memories, 55; Culross monastery, 55; departed industries, 55, 56; "Cu'ross girdles," 55, 56; from anvil to coronet, 56; "Standard Stone," 56; Castle Hill and its tradition, 56; traces of strife, 56, 57; a "peculiar people," 57; upstart villages, 57; Rosyth Castle, 57; Inch Garvie Island and its memories, 57; "St. Margaret's Hope," 57, 58; Dunfermline Castle, Tower and Palace, 58; New Abbey Church, 58, 59; tomb of Robert the Bruce, 58, 59; graves of kings, 58, 59; Oratory Cave, 59; buildings and industries of Dunfermline, 59; a look over twelve shires, 59; new Forth Bridge, 59, 60; Inch Garvie Castle, 60; Blackness Castle, 61; Abercorn Woods, 61; Hopetown House, 61; South Queensferry, 61; Castle of Barnbougle, 61; Dalmeny, 61, 62; Inverkeithing, 62; Dombristle House and its story, 62; Aberdour and the Douglases, 62; Inchcolm Island, 62, 63; Cramond Island, 63; Inchkeith, 63; May Island, 63; Bass Rock, 63, 64, 70, 71; Dunearn, 64; Rossend Castle, 64; Grange, 65; Kirkcaldy, 65; Largo, 66; Dreel Castle, 66; essence of Scotland, 66; Edinburgh, 66-70; Pinkie and Prestonpans, 68, 69; Cockenzie, 69; Seton, 69; Aberlady, 70; a golf coast, 70; the golfers' Mecca, 70; North Berwick and The Law, 70; Tantallon Castle and the Douglases, 70, 71; under the spell of Scott, 71 Fotheringay, 339 Foulness Island, 351 Gainford, 213, 214 Gainsborough, Birthplace of, 359; residence at Ipswich, 361 Gainsborough, Situation of, &c., 289, 290 Galashiels, 98 Garchary Burn, 1, 2 Garrigill, Cumberland, 144 Garry, River, 20, 22 Garth, Samuel, Birthplace of, 214 Gask, 34 Gateshead, 159, 160 Gildersdale Burn, 145, 146 Glenalmond, 18 Glendeary, 104 Glen Dochart, Legend of, 23 Glen Lochay, 23 Glen Lui, 2, 3 Glen Lui Beg, 3 Glen Lyon, Perthshire, 23 Goole, 318 Gordon, Sir John, 15, 16 Graham of Claverhouse, 22 Grange, 65 Grangemouth, 54 Grantham, 327 Grassington, 295 Great Dunmow, 355 Great Grimsby, Situation of, 323-325 Great Waltham, 356 Greta Bridge and "Nicholas Nickleby," 208, 209 Guthlac, Saint, Floating of, 252; a specific for headaches, 254 Hadrian's Bridge, 158, 159 Halstead, 358 Haltwhistle, 147; Burn of, 148 Harbottle, Castle of, 117 Harrowbys, Seat of the, 227 Hartington, 242 Harvey, William, Monument to, 353 Harwich, 360 Haughton Castle, 139, 140 Hawick, 93 Haydon Bridge, 149 Heaven's Field, Battle of, 142 Hemingborough, 318 Heron, Sir George, 139; grim joking, 139 Heron, Sir Hugh, 82, 83, 86 Hesleyside, 135 Hexham, 150-152 Higham Ferrers, 338 High Force, Danger of, 198-200 Holystone, The famous baptistry of, 118 Howden, 318 Hull, Importance of as a port, 322; growth of, 322; history of the name, 322; Holy Trinity Church, 322, 323; St. Mary's Church, 323; the dock office, 323; Trinity House, 323; the town hall and its statues, 323; domestic architecture, 323; the Prince of Orange statue, 323; the Wilberforce statue, 323 Humber, The, Estuary of, 320; drainage area of compared with the Severn, 320, 321; connection with other great waterways, 321; as a name in history, 321; width and length of, 321; memories of the past, 321; South Ferriby, 321, 322; Hessle and its flint deposits, 322; Barton, 322; Hull, 322, 323; Ravenser and its fate, 322; Paull, 323; Sunk Island, 323; Spurn Point lighthouses, 323; Great Grimsby, 323, 325; the North Sea trade, 325; emigration from, 325 Huntingdon, 342 Huntly, Earl of, 14-16 Hyltons, The, 194; the "Cauld Lad," 194 Ilam, 246, 247 Ilkley, Situation of, 304, 305 Inchcolm Island, Firth of Forth, 62, 63 Inch Garvie Island, 57, 58 Inchkeith Island, Firth of Forth, 63 Inchmahone Island, 44 Ingestre, The Shrewsburys and, 229-231 Innerleithen, 107 Innerpeffray, Perthshire, 35 Inverkeithing, 62 Inversnaid, 42 Invertuthil, Perthshire, 26 Ipswich, Situation of, 361; Gainsborough and, 361; opinion of Constable of, 361; antiquity of, 361, 362; Rochester's description of, 362; a muddy foreshore, 362; prosperity of, 362; industries of, 362; docks and wharves, 362; the public buildings, 362; the grammar school, 362; merchants' villas, 362; ancient architecture, 362; a beautiful outlook, 362 Isla, River, 18 Jarrow-on-Tyne, Shipyards of, 164 Jedburgh, 95 Kedington, Archbishop Tillotson and, 359 Keilder Castle, 131 Keilder Moors, 131, 132 Kelso, 90-92 Keltie, Glen of, 47 Kenmore, Perthshire, 23 Kettlewell, 294, 295 Killiecrankie, Pass of, 21, 22 Killin, Perthshire, Beauty of, 23 Kilnsey, Limestone crag of, 295 Kincardine, 54 Kinderscout, Mount, 259 Kinfauns, 35 King's Lynn, 349 Kinnairds, Homes of the, 35 Kinnoull Hill, Perthshire, 33, 34 Kinnoull, Lord, Family seat of, 34 Kirkby Wharfe, 308 Kirkcaldy, 65 Kirkham, Early English remains at, 318 Knaresborough, 314 Knaresdale Hall, 146 Knar, River, 146 Knox, John, Preaching of in Perth, 31 Ladykirk, Legend of, 84 Laggan Mountains, 18 Lake Lothing, _see_ "Broads" Lambton Castle, 194 Landseer, Residence of at Maldon, 355 Largo, 66 Larig, The, 1, 2 Leith, 67 Leny, River, Source of, 46, 47 Lichfields, Seat of the, 232 Lincoln, Situation of, 328; Roman occupation of, 328; Roman remains, 328; advent of Christianity at, 328, 330; St. Paul's Church, 328, 330; the invading Dane, 330; in the time of the Conqueror, 330; "Saxon" or "Norman" architecture, 330; the cathedral, 328, 330, 331; the Jews' House, 322; John o' Gaunt's stables, 322; "Pointed" architecture, 332; general beauty of, 332 Linlithgow, 54 Linn of Dee, The, 3-5 Linn of Muich, 13 Linton, 296 Little Dunmow, 355, 356 "Little John," Grave of, 260, 261 Loch Ard, 42, 43 Loch Chon, 42 Loch Clunie, Perthshire, 26 Loch Dochart, 23 Loch Earn, 35 Loch Ericht, 18 Loch Katrine, 42; from Aberfoyle to, 44; as a tourist resort, 44; mountain sentinels of, 45; Ellen's Isle, 45, 46; stabbed by a woman, 46; "Silver Strand," 46 Loch Lomond, Situation of, 42 Loch Lydoch, 18 Lochnagar, Mention of by Byron, 5 Loch Tummel, 20 Lomonds, The, 34 Lubnaig, Loch, 47 Lui, River, 2 Lumleys, Seat of the, 194 Lunan, River, Perthshire, 26, 27 Lune, River, Fishing in, 201, 202 Lunphanan, 14 Lyon, River, Perthshire, 23 Macbeth, Locality of death of, 14 Machany, River, Perthshire, 35 Maiden Way, The, 146 Maldon, 355 Malton (Roman Derventio), Gilbertine Priory at, 318 Manifold River, The, 247 Mansfield, Seat of Earls of, 27 Market Harborough, 340 Marston Moor, 347 Martin, John, 149 Matlock, The Derwent at, 270, 271 Mavesyn Ridware, 235 May Island, Firth of Forth, 63 Meikleour, Perthshire, 26, 27 Melrose Abbey, Estimate of by Dorothy Wordsworth, 100-103 Melrose, Battle of, 103 Melrose, Features of, 98 Menteith, Lake, 43, 44 Menzies, Family seat of the, 24 Merrington, 181, 182 Middlesbrough, 218 Milford, Cotton mills of, 272 Milton, John, Association of with Stowmarket, 361 Moncrieffe Hill, Perthshire, 33, 34 Montague, Mrs., 155 Moore, Thomas, Life of at Mayfield, 246 Morven, 6, 14 Muich, Loch, 13 Muich, The, 13 Murray, Earl of, 14, 15 Myton, 312, 313 Naseby, Battle of, 334; Market Harborough and, 340 Needwood Forest, 236, 238 Nent River, The, 145 Nen, The, Source of, 334; early course, 334; Northampton, 334-336; typical Midland scenery, 336; Earls Barton Church, 336; a plenitude of churches, 336, 337; Castle Ashby, 337; a costly election, 337, 338; Yardley Chase, 338; Wellingborough, 338; Higham Ferrers, 338; Thrapston, 338; a pretty view, 338; Thorpe, 338; the river divided, 338; Lilford Mansion, 338; Barnwell Castle, 338; Oundle, 338; Cotterstock, 339; Tansor, 339; Fotheringay Castle, 339; Castor and its remains, 339; Peterborough and its cathedral, 339, 340; Wisbeach, 349; the navigation limit, 349 Nevilles, The, Badge of, 180, 181; Neville's Cross, 181; association of with Barnard Castle, 206 Newark, 286-288 Newburn, 155, 156 Newcastle, Historic associations of, 162; Norman Keep, 162; the Moot Hall, 162; Pons Ælii, 162; St. Nicholas, 162; Quayside, 162; trade of the river, 162, 163; the reign of cloud, 162, 163; Sandgate and its press-gangs, 163; the Roman Segendunum, 164; Wallsend coal, 164; Jarrow, the Saxon Gyrwy, 164; Jarrow shipyards, 164; the first screw collier, 164; Venerable Bede, 164, 165; the old monastery, 165; Danish marauders, 166; Jarrow "Slake," 165, 166; the docks, 166; a grand transformation, 166 Newhaven, 67 Newton Kyme, 306 Nightingale, Florence, Derbyshire home of, 271 Norham, 80-84 Northampton, 334; ancient and modern characteristics, 334, 335; early history of, 335; St. Peter's Church, 336; St. Sepulchre's, 336; the Queen's Cross, 336 North Berwick, 70, 71 Northumberland, Hugh, 131 Norwich, 369 Nottingham, Situation of, 280, 281; beauty _versus_ utility, 281, 282; episodes in the history of, 282, 283; royal residents and prisoners, 283; the Castle and its history, 283, 284; Trent Bridge, 284; in time of flood, 284; St. Mary's Church, 284; the market-place, 284, 285; University College, 285; excavated dwellings, 285, 286; ancient and modern industries, 286 Ochil Hills, 34, 51, 52 Orwell, The, Source of, 360; constituent streams of, 361; Stowmarket, 361; Needham Market, 361; Barham and the entomologist Kirby, 361; the navigation limit, 361; a lock to a mile, 361; Ipswich, 361, 362 Otley, 306 Oundle, 338 Ouse, The Buckinghamshire, Source of, 342; early course of, 342; Banbury, 342; Olney and Cowper, 342; scenery of, 342; Bedford, 342; Elstow and John Bunyan, 342; Sandy and St. Neots, 342; Huntingdon, 342; lost in the Fens, 342; King's Lynn, 329 Ouse, The Yorkshire, Peculiarities of, 310; tributaries of, 310; drainage area of, 310, 320; as a waterway, 310, 311; commencement of, 311; course, 311; the Ure tributary, 311, 312 [see also "Ure"]; the Swale tributary, 312 [see also "Swale"]; Myton and its battle, 312, 313; Nun Monkton, Overton, and Skelton, and their churches, 313, 314; the Nidd tributary, 314; Nidderdale, 314; Brimham Rocks, 314; Knaresborough, 314; Beningborough, 314; Red Hall and the Slingsbys, 314; York, 314, 315; the Foss tributary, 315; Sheriff Hutton Castle, 315; Fulford and its battle, 315; Bishopthorpe, 315; Naburn and its lock, 315; Escrick Park, 315; Skipwith Common, 315; Riccall and Harold Hardrada, 315; junction of the Wharfe with, 315; Cawood and Wolsey, 315; Selby, 315-318; Selby Abbey, 315, 317; Hemingborough, 318; junction with the Derwent, 318; Malton and its Priory, 318; Kirkham, 318; Castle Howard, 318; Rievaulx ruins, 318; Pickering Castle, 318; Kirkdale Cave, 318; the Aire tributary [see also "Aire"], 318; Howden, 318; Goole, 318; the Don tributary, 318; junction with the Trent, 318 Ovingham, 155; St. Wilfrid's Church, 155 Ovington, 212, 213 Pagets, Property of the, 235 Paulinus, Bishop, 118 Peak, The, Highest point of, 259 Peebles, 107-109 Peel Fell, Description of, 130 Perth, Original site of, 30-33 Perthshire, Historic associations of, 18 Peterborough, 339, 340 Philiphaugh, 22, 106 Pierce Bridge and Leeming Lane, 203, 214 Pike Pool, 243 Pinkie, Battle of, 69, 92 Pitlochrie, 22 Porte, Sir John, school, of, &c., 254 Portobello, 68 Pow, River, Perthshire, 35 Preston Island, 54 Prestonpans, 68, 69 Procolitia, 141; Roman relics at, 141, 142 Prudhoe, 117, 118, 155 Pudsey's Priory, 192 Pynkinscleugh, 147 Queensferry, 54 Rannoch, Moor of, 18, 20 Ravenser, Gradual destruction of, 322 Reed, River, 137, 138 Repton, 251-255 Riccall, 315 Ridley, Bishop, 147; a fighting stock, 147 Rizzio, Murder of, 31 Robert the Bruce, 58, 59 Rokebys, The, 210 Romaldkirk, 202 Rosebery, Ancestors of Earl of, 56 Rothbury, 118-120 Rousseau and David Hume, 246 Rugeley, 235 Ruthvens, The, 29, 30 Saffron-Walden, 352, 353 St. Cuthbert, Residence of by the Leader River, 99; the Saint and the Abbess of Whitby, 127; last resting-place of, 182; immortal influence, 182; the wandering of the saint, 183; an incorruptible body, 184, 185; thaumaturgical virtues, 184; pilgrimages to the shrine, 186 St. Ninian's, Stirling, 51 Saline Hills, 55 Schiehallion, Mount, 20, 23 Scone, Perthshire, 27-29 Scott, Sir Michael, 97, 102, 103 Selby, Advantageous situation of, 315-318 Seton, 69, 70 Sewingshields, Castle of, 149 Shaftos, The, Seat of, 181 Sheriffmuir, 48 Shields, Harbour of, 167; rise of South Shields, 107, 168; ballast heaps, 168; North Shields and its stairs, 168; intensely maritime, 168; the "Low Lights" and "High Lights," 169; the first lifeboat and volunteer life brigade, 170; south pier, 171 Soar, The, 277, 278 South Ferriby, Curious church at, 321, 322 South Queensferry, 61 Southwold, 363 Spalding, 349 Spittal, 75 Stamford, 342 Stanhope, The Bishops and, 176 Stephenson, George, Birthplace of, 155 Sterndale, A satirical signboard at, 242 Stirling, Situation of, 47; "Heading Hill," 47, 50; the castle and its record, 47, 48, 50; the bridge, 47; Stirling Rock, 48; palace of James V., 48; Parliament House, 48; memories of Knox, 50; King's Garden and King's Park, 50; West Church, 50; grave of James III., 50; adjacent battlefields, 50; a Wallace memorial, 50; Abbey Craig, 50; the bridges and their stories, 50; Bannockburn, 50, 51; the "Bore Stone," 51; "Gillies Hill," 51 Stirling Castle, 47; commanding site of, 47; a geological retrospect, 47; its place in history, 48; the "Upper Square," 48; a prince's baptism, 48; a royal murderer, 50; "Heading Hill" and its record, 47, 50; pulpit of Knox, 50; the King's Garden and Park, 50; Queen Mary's Lookout, 50 Stockton, 217, 218 Stoke-upon-Trent, 225, 226 Stone, 226, 227 Stour, The, 359, 360 Stowmarket, 361 Strathearn, Perthshire, View of from Moncrieffe Hill, 34, 35; grave of the "heir of Scotland," 34; "Cross Macduff," 34; Forth Bridge Railway, 34; "Wilks of Baiglie," 34; Dupplin Castle, 34; Gask and the Oliphants, 34; Tullibardine, 35; a glorious district, 35 Strathfillan, 22; the home of a saint, 23 Strathmore, Perthshire, 27 Sudbury, Gainsborough and, 359 Sunderland, 195 Surtees, Home of, 182 Sutherland, Seat of the Dukes of, 226 Swale, 312 Swarkestone Bridge, 255, 256 Swyneburn, Sir William de, 139, 140 Tadcaster, 307 Talbots, Home of the, 229-231 Tarset Castle, 134, 135 Tay, The, Comparison of with the Tiber, 17, 18; the camp of Agricola, 18; dawn of history, 18; crowding associations, 18; its sources, 18, 22; its basin, 18; vanished woods, 19, 20; a new forest, 19; the "Planting Duke," 19; "Parent Larches," 19, 20; the Tummel, 20; Loch Tummel, 20; the Garry, 20, 21; feeding streams, 21; Blair and its castle, 20, 21; a memorable campaign, 22; from the hill of Tulloch, 22; a Jacobite shrine, 22; a tourist haunt, 22; Pitlochrie, the "gateway of the Highlands," 22; the infant river and its names, 22; a sainted memory, 23; Fingal's grave, 23; a painters' paradise, 23; a salmon stretch, 23; an ancient priory, 23; lovely Kenmore, 23; Taymouth Castle, 23; the Breadalbane estates, 23; on the Lyon tributary, 23; the "Wolf of Badenoch," 23, 25; Glen Lyon House, 23; Garth Castle, 23; the oldest tree in Europe, 23; the "Rock of Weem," 24; Castle Menzies, 24; Abbey of Dull, 24; Bridge of Tay and the "Black Watch," 24; "birks" of Aberfeldy, 10, 24; Grandtully Castle, 24; a combination of attractions, 24; Dunkeld and Birnam, 25; Gavin Douglas, 25; Murthly estate, 26; Neil Gow, 26; the spirits of Birnham Hill, 26; homes of poets, 26; Caroline Oliphant, 26; Kinclaven Castle, 26; Invertuthil, 26; a Viking tradition, 26; an arboricultural marvel, 26; Loch of Clunie, 26; the Lunan and its legends, 26, 27; in the heart of Strathmore, 27; from "The Fair Maid of Perth," 27; Macbeth's Castle, 27; battle of Lancarty, 27; at Scone, 27; the "Macalpine Laws," 27; the "Stone of Destiny," 27, 28; Scone monastery, 28, 29; the Ruthven family, 29, 30; Huntingtower Castle, 30; deeds of the Ruthvens, 30; revenge of King James, 30; the "Gowrie Conspiracy," 30; the Reformation at Perth, 30, 31; murder of the "poet-king," 31; St. John's, Perth, 31; a sermon by Knox, 31; a schismatic district, 31; martyrdom in Perth, 31; royal visits to Perth, 32; mementoes of Cromwell, 32; a "spate" on the river, 32, 33; benefactor and ornament, 33; 'twixt wooded heights, 33; the Carse of Gowrie, 33, 36; rival prospects, 33, 34; Strathearn, 34, 35; the lower course from Kinnoull Hill, 35; Kinfauns, 35; Elcho Castle and Nunnery, 35; "Braes o' the Carse," 35; St. Madoe's Church, 35; Hay heritages, 35; Wallace's schoolplace, 35; home of the "Lass o' Gowrie," 35; homes of the Kinnairds, 35; Church of Invergowrie, 36; the widest part of Tay Firth, 36; Balmerino Abbey, 36; on the last reaches, 36; Dundee Law, 36-39; at Dundee, 36-38; mouth of the river, 38; the new Tay Bridge, 38; the 1879 catastrophe, 38; Dundee from the Law, 38; history and progress of Dundee, 38, 39; the hero of the "Talisman," 39; defacing blows, 39; the renowned of peace and war, 39, 40; the view around Dundee, 40; drainage area compared with the Tweed, 74 Tees, Source of the, 197; Cross Fell, 197, 198; Caldron Snout, 197-199; a local fallacy exposed, 197; ignorance of the natives, 197, 198; High Force, 198-200; the Weel, 199; Middleton-in-Teesdale, 200, 201; Cotherstone and cheese, 201, 203; tributary Lune, 201, 202; famous fishing, 202; "Rum auld Kirk," 202; the Fitzhughs, 202, 203; Roman camps and British defences, 203; the Balder stream, 203; the Bowes Museum, 203; Deepdale Burn, 204; Barnard Castle, 204-207; Thor's Gill, 207; Egliston Abbey and the White Canons, 207; Rokeby, 208; Greta Bridge, 208; "Dotheboys Hall" located, 208, 209; "Nicholas Nickleby" characters, 209, 210; Scott's description, 210; the Rokebys' mansion, 210; the "Dobie of Mortham," 210; breaks in the river bed, 211; Wycliffe and the great Reformer, 211, 212; Ovington and "The Four Cells," 212, 213; Gainford Springs, 213; an ancient earthwork, 214; Samuel Garth, 214; Pierce Bridge, 214; Coniscliffe waterworks, 214; Darlington villas, 214; Croft Spa, 214, 215; a noticeable bridge, 215; Bishop Burnet's birthplace, 215; a worm-dragon, 215; Yarm, and net-fishing for salmon, 215; tide limit, 215; a change for the worse, 216; Stockton, 216-218; Middlesbrough and progress, 218; the docks, 218; a broad estuary, 218 Teith, River, Source of, 44; its component streams, 47; Glen of Keltie, 47; Falls of Bracklinn, 47; Doune Castle, 47; meeting with the Forth, 47; Stirling Castle, 47 Teviot, River, The, 93; Branxholm Hall and the Buccleuchs, 93; Hawick and Sir Alexander Ramsay, 93, 94; Denholm and Leyden, 94; the revenge of Ancrum Moor, 94; the Waterloo monument, 94; Carlenrig and Johnnie Armstrang, 95; the Ale and Jed tributaries, 95; Jedburgh and its reputations, 95 Thaxted, 355 Thorpe, 338 Thor's Gill, 207 Thrapston, 338; grain market of, 338 Threshfield, 295, 296 Tideswell, 266 Tillotson, Archbishop, Birthplace of, 359 Till, River, 85; as described by Scott, 85; St. Cuthbert's Chapel, 85, 86; St. Cuthbert's coffin, 85, 86; "Tillmouth Cell," 86; Friar John, 86; Twisell Castle, 86; Twisell Bridge and Flodden, 86, 87; Ford Castle and William Heron, 86, 87 Tilt, River, 21 Trent, Course of the, 221, 222; derivation of the name, 222; fish of, 222, 226; relation of to railway, 223; birthplace of, 223; "Stanleghe," 223; the potteries, 223; Burslem and its earthenware, 223-225; Wedgwood, 225; Etruria, 225; Stoke-upon-Trent, 225, 226; Trentham Hall, 226; Stone, 226, 227; legend and history, 226, 227; Sandon, 227; the Harrowbys' estate, 227; Erdswick the historian, 227; Shirleywich brine, 227; Chartley Castle, 227, 228; Mary Queen of Scots, 228; a tragic tale, 228; wild cattle, 228, 229; Ingestre Hall, 229-231; church history, 230; the Talbot family, 230, 231; disputed claims, 230, 231; the Sow and Penk tributaries, 231; Tixall, 231, 232; Shugborough Park, 231, 233; home of the Earls of Lichfield, 232; Admiral George Anson, 232; Essex Bridge, 233; not yet a "Black Country," 233, 234; Cannock Chase and the N.R.A., 234; an attractive district, 234; Colwich, 235; Oakeridge Park and the widow, 235; Wolseley Bridge and Hall, 235; malodorous Rugeley, 235; the Pagets' property, 235; a dashing officer, 235; Armitage, 235; Mavesyn Ridware, 235; Lichfield, 236; the Blyth tributary, 236; a pretty district, 236; Needwood Forest, 236, 238; Alrewas registers, 236; the metropolis of beer, 238; the history of Burton ale, 238, 239; liberal citizens, 239; Burton bridges, 239; a lady doctor, 239; Newton Hall, 239; junction of the Trent and Dove, 239; Newton Solney, 251; Repton, 251-255; the mausoleum of the Kings of Mercia, 252, 253; Danes in possession, 252; the Black Canons' priory, 253, 254; Sir John Porte's school, 254; the church, 254, 255; the Erewash stream, 255; Swarkestone Bridge, 255, 256; geological interest, 256; Stanton-by-Dale, 256; Weston-on-Trent, 256; Castle Donington, 256; Cavendish Bridge, 256; the valley at Trent junction, 278; the Erewash, 278; Attenborough and Henry Ireton, 278; the wise men of Gotham, 278, 279; approaching Nottingham, 279; Clifton Hall and its tragedy, 279; Clifton Grove and Henry Kirke White, 280; Nottingham, 280-286; Trent Bridge, 284; Colwick Hall and Mary Chaworth, 286; Sherwood Forest, 286; the "Dukeries," 286; East Stoke and its battle, 286; Newark, 286-288; from Newark to Gainsborough, 288, 289; as a boundary stream, 289; at Gainsborough, 289, 290; the tide limit, 289; the "bore," 289; Gainsborough Bridge, 289; in Lincolnshire, 290; Axholme Island, 290, 291; land reclamation, 291; confluence with the Humber, 291; Alkborough and the Romans, 291 Trentham Hall, 226; an ancient settlement, 226; its noble owners, 226 Trent Junction, 278; the College, 278 Trossachs, The, 42-47 Tulliallan Castle, 54 Tullibody, 52, 53 Tullich, 11, 12 Tummel, River, 20-22 Tutbury Castle, 249, 250 Tweedmouth, 75 Tweed, The, Homely characteristics of, 72; natural charms, 72, 74; associations, 73; in Debateable Laud, 73; character of its course, 73, 74; tide limit, 74; drainage area, 74; the stream at Berwick, 74, 75; old Berwick Bridge, 75; Royal Border Bridge, 75; Berwick town, 75-79; Longridge, 79; the Adder tributaries, 79; Union Suspension Bridge, 79; Norham and its castle, 80-84; Ladykirk and its legend, 84; a pretty stretch, 84, 85; the Till and Glen tributaries, 85, 86; Twisell Castle, 86; Ford Castle, 86, 87; Flodden Hill, 86; battle of Flodden, 86, 87; Coldstream, 87; Smeaton's bridge, 87; an historic ford, 88; Wark Castle, 88; the Order of the Garter, 88; a broadening valley, 88; in Roxburgh, 88; the Eden tributary, 88; Hadden Rig and its fight, 89; Rennie's Bridge, 90; the river at Kelso, 90; Springwood Park, 90; Kelso Abbey, 90-92; Floors Castle, 90, 93; Roxburghe Castle, 92, 93; an annihilated town, 93; the Teviot and its associations, 93-95; in a broadening valley, 95; Mertoun House and "Marmion," 95, 96; Smailholm and Scott, 96; Littledean Tower, 96; the village cross, 96, 97; Eildon Hill and its legend, 97; Sir Michael Scott, 97; a lovely prospect, 97, 98; Dryburgh Abbey, 98; Earl Buchan's monuments, 99; the Leader tributary, 99; St. Cuthbert and Thomas the Rhymer, 99, 100; Melrose Abbey, 100, 103; the Melrose-Gattonside Suspension Bridge, 103; Skirmish Hill and the battle of Melrose, 103; a drawbridge with a history, 103, 104; the monks of St. Mary's, 104; Alwyn and Gala tributaries, 104; Glendearg and the lady of Avenel, 104; Abbotsford, 104, 105; the Ettrick and its memories, 105, 106; the Yarrow, 100; Philiphaugh, 106; Clovenfords, 106; Cadon Water, 106; Ashestiel, 106; "peels," 106, 107; a prosaic reach, 107; Innerleithen and St. Ronan's Well, 107; Traquair and Traquair House, 107; Horsburgh Castle, 107; Peebles, 107-109; Neidpath Castle, 107-110; Eddlestone Water, 107; "fall" of the river, 109; the climax of beauty, 109, 110; a vandal duke, 109, 110; a marquis's tribute, 110; Manor Water, 110; grave of the "Black Dwarf," 110; Stobo Bridge, 110; Drummelzier and its castle, 110, 111; a queer story, 111; Merlin the Wild, 111; by the Edinburgh road, 111; Stanhope Bridge, 111, 112; the Crook Inn, 112; at the fountain heads, 112 Tyndrum, Bruce's defeat near, 22 Tynemouth, 170, 171 Tyne, The, Sources of, 129, 130; South Tyne, 129, 130; North Tyne, 130; Peel Fell, 130; the border railway, 130; Debateable Land, 130; Deadwater Bog, 130; Source of the North Tyne, 130; Keilder Burn, 131; Keilder Castle, 131; Keilder Moors, 131; good sport, 131; ancient camps, 132; Lewis Burn, 132; in rich pastures, 132, 133; Border Peel, 133; Border feud and foray, 133; Falstone, 134; Greystead Bridge, 134; Dally Castle, 134; Tarset Castle, 134; death of Red Comyn, 134; love and death, 134; Barty of the Comb and Corbit Jack, 134, 135; "Donnybrook," 135; Charltons and Sir Ralph Fenwick, 135; Hesleyside, 135; old stories, 135; Bellingham, 135, 136; Hareshaw Lynn cascades, 135, 136; Bellingham Church, 136; St. Cuthbert, 130; the Reed tributary, 136; salmon fishing, 138; Walk, 138; Chipchase Castle, 138; the Heron family, 139; Haughton Castle and the Swinburnes, 139, 140; Chollerford, 141; the Roman wall, 141; Procolitia and its Roman relics, 141, 142; Cilurnum, 142; Heaven's Field, 142; meeting of the North and South Tyne, 142; in Cumberland, 143; Cross Fell and its rivers, 143, 144; "helm wind," 144; Garrigill, 144; Alston, 144, 145; St. Augustine, 145; junction of Trent and South Tyne, 145; in Northumberland, 145; Whitley Castle, 146; Gildersdale Burn, 146; Maiden Way, 146; the Knar, 146; Knaresdale Hall, 146; Featherstone Castle, 146, 147; birthplace of Ridley, 147; Willimontswick, 147; Unthank Hall, 147; Haltwhistle town and Burn, 147, 148; view from Bardon Mill, 148; Allen tributary, 148, 149; Langley and the Derwentwaters, 149; Haydon Bridge, 149; an artist's birthplace, 149; Arthurian legends, 149; Warden, 150; the "heart of all England," 150-152; Devil's Water, 152; a sylvan scene, 152; Corbridge, 152-154; a Roman station, 153; Bywell Castle, 154; Cherryburn House, 155; Ovingham, 155; Prudhoe Castle, 155; Wylam and George Stephenson, 155; Denton Hall, 155; battle of Newburn, 156; a jurisdiction limit, 156; arsenal of the Tyne, 156; Heaven and Hell, 106; trade of the river,157; a libel refuted, 158; Hadrian's Bridge, 158; the "Tyneside London Bridge," 158; the swing bridge, 159; High Level Bridge, 159; Gateshead, 159, 160; Newcastle Quay, 160, 162; sublime darkness, 162, 163; Sandgate, 163; the Roman Segendunum, 164; Wallsend coal, 164; Jarrow shipyards, 164; Jarrow Church and monastery, 164; Venerable Bede, 165; Don tributary, 164, 165; dock accommodation, 166; engineering extraordinary, 166, 167; South Shields, 168; built upon ballast, 168; North Shields, 168; a salt sea savour, 168; lighthouses, 169; Shields fishing industry, 170; Tynemouth promontory, 170; a colossal statue, 170; Tynemouth Priory, 170, 171; two great piers, 171; immunity from wrecks, 171; Coquet Island lighthouse, 172 Uam-Var, 46; an historic hunt, 46 Ure, The, 311, 312 Urlar Burn, Perthshire, 24 Ushaw College, 191 Uttoxeter, 248, 249 Vennachar, Loch, 46; Clan Alpine and the "Fiery Cross," 46 Vernon, Lord, Seat of, 249 Wallace, William, 19 Walton, Izaak, Charles Cotton and, 240, 213 Wardenlaw, 182 Wark, Antiquity of, 138; Scottish Courts of, 138 Warkworth, 124-127 Waveney, The, Early course of, 363; confluence with the Yare, 363; termination, 363, 365; drainage area of, 363; Agnes Strickland and, 364; source of, 364; Diss, 364; the Dove tributary, 364; on the Broads border, 365; Bungay, 364, 365; Mettingham Parish, 365; Barham and Sir John Suckling, 365; Nelson's mother's birthplace, 365; Beccles, 365; Breydon Water, 365; the New Cut, 365; a typical broad, 365 Wear, The, A twelfth century description of, 173; ancient and modern iconoclasts, 173; the march of industry, 173, 174; venerable associations of, 174; beauties of the river, 174; primitive nature, 174, 175; dalesmen and miners, 175, 176; tributaries, 176; Stanhope Park, 176; provision for the Bishops of Durham, 176, 177; sport, pleasurable and serious, 177, 178; an old township, 178; from moorland stream to lowland river, 178; Walsingham, 178; Lang Man's Grave, 178; Hamsterley, 178; Witton Castle, 178; the Linburn and the Wear, 178; Bishop Auckland Castle, 179; "ravinous sacrilege," 179; princely hospitality, 179; Binchester and Watling Street, 180; the Binovium of Ptolemy, 180; Brancepeth Castle and the Nevilles, 180, 181; Whitworth Hall, 181; Merrington Church, 181, 182; a "lewd enterprise," 182; Eldon, 182; Thickley and the Cromwellians, 182; Mainsworth and the Surtees, 182; Bishop Middleham, 182; St. Cuthbert's resting-place, 182; a view of Durham Cathedral, 182; a suitable site, 182; in warfare, religious and profane, 189-191; the monastery, 191; Bear Park, 191; Ushaw College, 191; an old leper hospital, 191; Chester-le-Street, 192; the "aisle of tombs," 192; "Adam's name was Lumley," 194; Lambton Castle and the Worm, 194; the Biddickers, 194; a ghost story, 194; Sunderland, 195, 196; St. Peter's Monastery, 195; Wearmouth, 196; the North Sea, 196 Wedgwood, Josiah, 224, 225 Weel, The, 199 Weldon Bridge, The angler's favourite, 123 Welland, The, 340-342 Wellingborough, 338 Wells of Dee, The, 1 Weston-on-Trent, 256 White Adder River, 79 Wharfe, The, Source of, 292; length, 292; as an epitome of Yorkshire scenery, 292, 293; ancient and modern tributes to, 293; the Skirfare tributary, 293; Amerdale or Littondale, 293; Langstrothdale, and Chaucer, 293, 294; source scenery, 294; a Danish village, 294; Kettlewell, 294, 295; Dowkabottom Cave, 294, 295; Coniston, 295; Kilnsey Crag, 295; Grassington, 295; the oldest bridge on the river, 295; the floods of 1673, 295; Threshfield, 295, 296; Linton, 296; falls of the Wharfe, 296; Hebden and Thorpe, 296; Rylstone and the Nortons, 296, 297; Burnsall and well-worship, 297, 298; Hartlington and Appletreewick, 298; Satan's stumble and its results, 298, 299; view from Simon's Seat, 299; Barden Tower and the "Shepherd Lord," 299, 300; the "Strid" and its story, 300, 302; Bolton Abbey, 302, 303; Bolton Hall, 303; the Cavendish memorials, 303, 304; Bolton Bridge, 304; Beamsley, 304; Addingham, 304; Farfield Hall, 304; Ilkley, 304, 305; Denton and the Fairfaxes, 305; Burley and W. E. Forster, 305; Weston Hall and the Vavasours, 305; Farnley Hall and its treasures, 305; Otley, 306; "The Chevin," 306; Caley Hall, 306; Harewood estates, 306; Harewood Church, 306; Harewood House, 306; Gawthorpe Hall and the Gascoignes, 306; view from the Great Almescliffe, 306; Wederby and its Saxon bridge, 306; Newton Kyme, 306; Tadcaster, 307; Towton battlefield, 307; Hazlewood Hall, 307, 308; Kirkby Wharfe, 308; Bolton Percy, 308; Nun Appleton, 308, 309 Wharlton, 210 Willimontswick, 147 Wisbeach, 349 Witham, The, Source and course of, 326; pastoral scenery of, 327; Grantham, 327; Lincoln, 328-332; fenland monotony, 332; Boston, 332-334; Naseby, 334 Wolseleys, Hall of the, 235 Wycliffe, John, The White Canons and, 207; birthplace of, 211 Wye, The, Confluence of with the Derwent, 263; Haddon Hall, 264, 265; scenery of, 265; windings of, 265; constituent streams of, 265; characteristic charms, 265, 266; in Chee Dale, 266; Chee Tor, 266; Miller's Dale, 266; Tideswell and its church, 266; Litton and Cressbrook Dales, 266; Monsal Dale, 266; Taddington, 266; an ancient cross, 266; Ashford-in-the-Water, 266, 267; Bakewell, 267; limpid Lathkill, 267 Wylam, 155; Stephenson's home, 155 Wystan, Saint, Murder of, 253; crypt of, 255 
14415	----	Proofreading Team [Transcribers note: Authors 'R.N and J.N.' are Robert Naylor and John Naylor.] [Illustration: Mr. Robert Naylor FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN DURING HIS CANDIDATURE FOR THE REPRESENTATION OF THE CARNAVON BOROUGHS 1906] FROM JOHN O' GROAT'S TO LAND'S END OR 1372 MILES ON FOOT A BOOK OF DAYS AND CHRONICLE OF ADVENTURES BY TWO PEDESTRIANS ON TOUR LONDON CAXTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED CLUN HOUSE, SURREY STREET, W.C. 1916 FOREWORD When Time, who steals our hours away. Shall steal our pleasures too; The memory of the past shall stay And half our joys renew. As I grow older my thoughts often revert to the past, and like the old Persian poet, Khosros, when he walked by the churchyard and thought how many of his friends were numbered with the dead, I am often tempted to exclaim: "The friends of my youth! where are they?" but there is only the mocking echo to answer, as if from a far-distant land, "Where are they?" "One generation passeth away; and another generation cometh," and enormous changes have taken place in this country during the past seventy years, which one can only realise by looking back and comparing the past with the present. The railways then were gradually replacing the stage-coaches, of which the people then living had many stories to tell, and the roads which formerly had mostly been paved with cobble or other stones were being macadamised; the brooks which ran across the surface of the roads were being covered with bridges; toll-gates still barred the highways, and stories of highway robbers were still largely in circulation, those about Dick Turpin, whose wonderful mare "Black Bess" could jump over the turnpike gates, being the most prominent, while Robin Hood and Little John still retained a place in the minds of the people as former heroes of the roads and forests. Primitive methods were still being employed in agriculture. Crops were cut with scythe and sickle, while old scythe-blades fastened at one end of a wooden bench did duty to cut turnips in slices to feed the cattle, and farm work generally was largely done by hand. At harvest time the farmers depended on the services of large numbers of men who came over from Ireland by boat, landing at Liverpool, whence they walked across the country in gangs of twenty or more, their first stage being Warrington, where they stayed a night at Friar's Green, at that time the Irish quarter of the town. Some of them walked as far as Lincolnshire, a great corn-growing county, many of them preferring to walk bare-footed, with their shoes slung across their shoulders. Good and steady walkers they were too, with a military step and a four-mile-per-hour record. The village churches were mostly of the same form in structure and service as at the conclusion of the Civil War. The old oak pews were still in use, as were the galleries and the old "three-decker" pulpits, with sounding-boards overhead. The parish clerk occupied the lower deck and gave out the hymns therefrom, as well as other notices of a character not now announced in church. The minister read the lessons and prayers, in a white surplice, from the second deck, and then, while a hymn was being sung, he retired to the vestry, from which he again emerged, attired in a black gown, to preach the sermon from the upper deck. The church choir was composed of both sexes, but not surpliced, and, if there was no organ, bassoons, violins, and other instruments of music supported the singers. The churches generally were well filled with worshippers, for it was within a measurable distance from the time when all parishioners were compelled to attend church. The names of the farms or owners appeared on the pew doors, while inferior seats, called free seats, were reserved for the poor. Pews could be bought and sold, and often changed hands; but the squire had a large pew railed on from the rest, and raised a little higher than the others, which enabled him to see if all his tenants were in their appointed places. The village inns were generally under the shadow of the church steeple, and, like the churches, were well attended, reminding one of Daniel Defoe, the clever author of that wonderful book _Robinson Crusoe_, for he wrote: Wherever God erects a house of prayer, The Devil always builds a chapel there; And 'twill be found upon examination, The Devil has the largest congregation. The church services were held morning and afternoon, evening service being then almost unknown in country places; and between the services the churchwardens and other officials of the church often adjourned to the inn to hear the news and to smoke tobacco in long clay pipes named after them "churchwarden pipes"; many of the company who came from long distances remained eating and drinking until the time came for afternoon service, generally held at three o'clock. The landlords of the inns were men of light and leading, and were specially selected by the magistrates for the difficult and responsible positions they had to fill; and as many of them had acted as stewards or butlers--at the great houses of the neighbourhood, and perhaps had married the cook or the housekeeper, and as each inn was required by law to provide at least one spare bedroom, travellers could rely upon being comfortably housed and well victualled, for each landlord brewed his own beer and tried to vie with his rival as to which should brew the best. Education was becoming more appreciated by the poorer people, although few of them could even write their own names; but when their children could do so, they thought them wonderfully clever, and educated sufficiently to carry them through life. Many of them were taken away from school and sent to work when only ten or eleven years of age! Books were both scarce and dear, the family Bible being, of course, the principal one. Scarcely a home throughout the land but possessed one of these family heirlooms, on whose fly-leaf were recorded the births and deaths of the family sometimes for several successive generations, as it was no uncommon occurrence for occupiers of houses to be the descendants of people of the same name who had lived in them for hundreds of years, and that fact accounted for traditions being handed down from one generation to another. Where there was a village library, the books were chiefly of a religious character; but books of travel and adventure, both by land and sea, were also much in evidence, and _Robinson Crusoe, Captain Cook's Three Voyages round the World_, and the _Adventures of Mungo Park in Africa_ were often read by young people. The story of Dick Whittington was another ideal, and one could well understand the village boys who lived near the great road routes, when they saw the well-appointed coaches passing on their way up to London, being filled with a desire to see that great city, whose streets the immortal Dick had pictured to himself as being paved with gold, and to wish to emulate his wanderings, and especially when there was a possibility of becoming the lord mayor. The bulk of the travelling in the country was done on foot or horseback, as the light-wheeled vehicles so common in later times had not yet come into vogue. The roads were still far from safe, and many tragedies were enacted in lonely places, and in cases of murder the culprit, when caught, was often hanged or gibbeted near the spot where the crime was committed, and many gallows trees were still to be seen on the sides of the highways on which murderers had met with their well-deserved fate. No smart service of police existed; the parish constables were often farmers or men engaged in other occupations, and as telegraphy was practically unknown, the offenders often escaped. The Duke of Wellington and many of his heroes were still living, and the tales of fathers and grandfathers were chiefly of a warlike nature; many of them related to the Peninsula War and Waterloo, as well as Trafalgar, and boys were thus inspired with a warlike and adventurous spirit and a desire to see the wonders beyond the seas. It was in conditions such as these that the writer first lived and moved and had his being, and his early aspirations were to walk to London, and to go to sea; but it was many years before his boyish aspirations were realised. They came at length, however, but not exactly in the form he had anticipated, for in 1862 he sailed from Liverpool to London, and in 1870 he took the opportunity of walking back from London to Lancashire in company with his brother. We walked by a circuitous route, commencing in an easterly direction, and after being on the road for a fortnight, or twelve walking days, as we did not walk on Sundays, we covered the distance of 306 miles at an average of twenty-five miles per day. We had many adventures, pleasant and otherwise, on that journey, but on the whole we were so delighted with our walk that, when, in the following year, the question arose. "Where shall we walk this year?" we unanimously decided to walk from John o' Groat's to Land's End, or, as my brother described it, "from the top of the map to the bottom." It was a big undertaking, especially as we had resolved not to journey by the shortest route, but to walk from one great object of interest to another, and to see and learn as much as possible of the country we passed through on our way. We were to walk the whole of the distance between the north-eastern extremity of Scotland and the south-western extremity of England, and not to cross a ferry or accept or take a ride in any kind of conveyance whatever. We were also to abstain from all intoxicating drink, not to smoke cigars or tobacco, and to walk so that at the end of the journey we should have maintained an average of twenty-five miles per day, except Sunday, on which day we were to attend two religious services, as followers of and believers in Sir Matthew Hale's Golden Maxim: A Sabbath well spent brings a week of content And Health for the toils of to-morrow; But a Sabbath profaned, WHATE'ER MAY BE GAINED. Is a certain forerunner of Sorrow. With the experience gained in our walk the previous year, we decided to reduce our equipment to the lowest possible limit, as every ounce had to be carried personally, and it became a question not of how much luggage we should take, but of how little; even maps were voted off as encumbrances, and in place of these we resolved to rely upon our own judgment, and the result of local inquiries, as we travelled from one great object of interest to another, but as these were often widely apart, as might be supposed, our route developed into one of a somewhat haphazard and zigzag character, and very far from the straight line. We each purchased a strong, black leather handbag, which could either be carried by hand or suspended over the shoulder at the end of a stick, and in these we packed our personal and general luggage; in addition we carried a set of overalls, including leggings, and armed ourselves with stout oaken sticks, or cudgels, specially selected by our local fencing master. They were heavily ferruled by the village blacksmith, for, although we were men of peace, we thought it advisable to provide against what were known as single-stick encounters, which were then by no means uncommon, and as curved handles would have been unsuitable in the event of our having to use them either for defensive or offensive purposes, ours were selected with naturally formed knobs at the upper end. Then there were our boots, which of course were a matter of the first importance, as they had to stand the strain and wear and tear of a long journey, and must be easy fitting and comfortable, with thick soles to protect our feet from the loose stones which were so plentiful on the roads, and made so that they could be laced tightly to keep out the water either when raining or when lying in pools on the roads, for there were no steam-rollers on the roads in those days. In buying our boots we did not both adopt the same plan. I made a special journey to Manchester, and bought the strongest and most expensive I could find there; while my brother gave his order to an old cobbler, a particular friend of his, and a man of great experience, who knew when he had hold of a good piece of leather, and to whom he had explained his requirements. These boots were not nearly so smart looking as mine and did not cost as much money, but when I went with him for the boots, and heard the old gentleman say that he had fastened a piece of leather on his last so as to provide a corresponding hole inside the boot to receive the ball of the foot, I knew that my brother would have more room for his feet to expand in his boots than I had in mine. We were often asked afterwards, by people who did not walk much, how many pairs of boots we had worn out during our long journey, and when we replied only one each, they seemed rather incredulous until we explained that it was the soles that wore out first, but I had to confess that my boots were being soled the second time when my brother's were only being soled the first time, and that I wore three soles out against his two. Of course both pairs of boots were quite done at the conclusion of our walk. Changes of clothing we were obliged to have sent on to us to some railway station, to be afterwards arranged, and soiled clothes were to be returned in the same box. This seemed a very simple arrangement, but it did not work satisfactorily, as railways were few and there was no parcel-post in those days, and then we were always so far from our base that we were obliged to fix ourselves to call at places we did not particularly want to see and to miss others that we would much rather have visited. Another objection was that we nearly always arrived at these stations at inconvenient times for changing suits of clothes, and as we were obliged to do this quickly, as we had no time to make a long stay, we had to resort to some amusing devices. We ought to have begun our journey much earlier in the year. One thing after another, however, prevented us making a start, and it was not until the close of some festivities on the evening of September 6th, 1871, that we were able to bid farewell to "Home, sweet home" and to journey through what was to us an unknown country, and without any definite idea of the distance we were about to travel or the length of time we should be away. HOW WE GOT TO JOHN O' GROAT'S Sept. 7. Warrington to Glasgow by train--Arrived too late to catch the boat on the Caledonian Canal for Iverness--Trained to Aberdeen. Sept. 8. A day in the "Granite City"--Boarded the s.s. _St. Magnus_ intending to land at Wick--Decided to remain on board. Sept. 9. Landed for a short time at Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands--During the night encountered a storm in the North Sea. Sept. 10. _(Sunday)_. Arrived at Lerwick in the Shetland Islands at 2 a.m. Sept. 11. Visited Bressay Island and the Holm of Noss--Returned to _St. Magnus_ at night. Sept. 12. Landed again at Kirkwall--Explored Cathedral--Walked across the Mainland of the Orkneys to Stromness, visiting the underground house at Maeshowe and the Standing Stones at Stenness on our way. Sept. 13. Visited the Quarries where Hugh Miller made his wonderful geological researches--Explored coast scenery, including the Black Craig. Sept. 14. Crossed the Pentland Firth in a sloop--Unfavourable wind prevented us sailing past the Old Man of Hoy, so went by way of Lang Hope and Scrabster Roads, passing Dunnet Head on our way to Thurso, where we landed and stopped for the night. Sept. 15. Travelled six miles by the Wick coach and walked the remaining fifteen miles to John o' Groat's--Lodged at the "Huna Inn." Sept. 16. Gathered some wonderful shells on the beach and explored coast scenery at Duncansbay. Sept. 17. _(Sunday)_. Visited a distant kirk with the landlord and his wife and listened to a wonderful sermon. OUR ROUTE FROM JOHN O' GROAT'S TO LAND'S END ¶ Indicates the day's journey. ¶¶ Indicates where Sunday was spent. FIRST WEEK'S JOURNEY--Sept. 18 to 24. "Huna Inn"--Canisbay--Bucholie Castle--Keiss--Girnigoe--Sinclair--Noss Head--Wick--or ¶ Wick Harbour--Mid Clyth--Lybster--Dunbeath ¶ Berriedale--Braemore--Maidens Paps Mountain--Lord Galloway's Hunting-box--Ord of Caithness--Helmsdale ¶ Loth--Brora--Dunrobin Castle--Golspie ¶ The Mound--Loch Buidhee--Bonar Bridge--Dornoch Firth--Half-way House [Aultnamain Inn] ¶ Novar--Cromarty Firth--Dingwall--Muir of Ord--Beauly--Bogroy Inn--Inverness ¶¶ pp. 41-76 SECOND WEEK'S JOURNEY--Sept. 25 to Oct. 1. Tomnahurich--Loch Ness--Caledonian Canal--Drumnadrochit ¶ Urquhart Castle--Invermoriston--Glenmoriston--Fort Augustus--Invergarry ¶ Glengarry--Well of the Heads--Loggan Bridge--Loch Lochy--Spean Bridge--Fort William ¶ Inverlochy Castle--Ben Nevis--Fort William ¶ Loch Linnhe--Loch Leven--Devil's Stair--Pass of Glencoe--Clachaig Inn ¶ Glencoe Village--Ballachulish--Kingshouse--Inveroran--Loch Tulla--Bridge of Orchy--Glen Orchy ¶ Dalmally ¶¶ pp. 77-111 THIRD WEEK'S JOURNEY--Oct. 2 to Oct. 8. Loch Awe--Cruachan Mountain--Glen Aray--Inverary Castle--Inverary--Loch Fyne--Cairndow Inn ¶ Glen Kinglas--Loch Restil--Rest and be Thankful--Glen Croe--Ben Arthur--Loch Long--Arrochar--Tarbet--Loch Lomond--Luss--Helensburgh ¶ The Clyde--Dumbarton--Renton--Alexandria--Balloch--Kilmaronock--Drymen ¶ Buchlyvie--Kippen--Gargunnock--Windings of the Forth--Stirling ¶ Wallace Monument--Cambuskenneth--St. Ninians--Bannockburn--Carron--Falkirk ¶ Laurieston--Polmont--Linlithgow--Edinburgh ¶¶ pp. 112-157 FOURTH WEEK'S JOURNEY--Oct. 9 to Oct. 15. Craigmillar--Rosslyn--Glencorse--Penicuik--Edleston--Cringletie--Peebles ¶ River Tweed--Horsburgh--Innerleithen--Traquair--Elibank Castle--Galashiels--Abbotsford--Melrose--Lilliesleaf ¶ Teviot Dale--Hassendean--Minto--Hawick--Goldielands Tower--Branxholm Tower--Teviothead--Caerlanrig--Mosspaul Inn--Langholm--Gilnockie Tower--Canonbie Colliery ¶ River Esk--"Cross Keys Inn"--Scotch Dyke--Longtown ¶ Solway Moss--River Sark--Springfield--Gretna Green--Todhills--Kingstown--Carlisle--Wigton--Aspatria ¶ Maryport--Cockermouth--Bassenthwaite Lake--Portinscale--Keswick ¶¶ pp. 158-232 FIFTH WEEK'S JOURNEY--Oct 16 to Oct. 22. Falls of Lodore--Derwentwater--Bowder Stone--Borrowdale--Green Nip--Wythburn--Grasmere ¶ Rydal--Ambleside--Windermere--Hawkshead--Coniston--Ulverston ¶ Dalton-in-Furness--Furness Abbey--Barrow Monument--Haverthwaite ¶ Newby Bridge--Cartmel Fell--Kendal ¶ Kirkby Lonsdale--Devil's Bridge--Ingleton--Giggleswick--Settle--Malham ¶ Malham Cove--Gordale Scar--Kilnsey--River Wharfe--Grassington--Greenhow--Pateley Bridge ¶¶ pp. 233-277 SIXTH WEEK'S JOURNEY--Oct. 23 to Oct. 29. Brimham Rocks--Fountains Abbey--Ripon--Boroughbridge--Devil's Arrows--Aldeborough ¶ Marston Moor--River Ouse--York ¶ Tadcaster--Towton Field--Sherburn-in-Elmet--River Aire--Ferrybridge--Pontefract ¶ Robin Hood's Well--Doncaster ¶ Conisborough--Rotherham ¶ Attercliffe Common--Sheffield--Norton--Hathersage--Little John's Grave--Castleton ¶¶ pp. 278-339 SEVENTH WEEK'S JOURNEY--Oct. 30 to Nov. 5. Castleton--Tideswell--Miller's Dale--Flagg Moor--Newhaven--Tissington--Ashbourne ¶ River Dove--Mayfield--Ellastone--Alton Towers--Uttoxeter--Bagot's Wood--Needwood Forest--Abbots Bromley--Handsacre ¶ Lichfield--Tamworth--Atherstone--Watling Street--Nuneaton ¶ Watling Street--High Cross--Lutterworth--River Swift--Fosse Way--Brinklow--Coventry ¶ Kenilworth--Leamington--Stoneleigh Abbey--Warwick--Stratford-on-Avon--Charlecote Park--Kineton--Edge Hill ¶ Banbury--Woodstock--Oxford ¶¶ pp. 340-450 EIGHTH WEEK'S JOURNEY--Nov. 6 to Nov. 12. Oxford--Sunningwell--Abingdon--Vale of White Horse--Wantage--Icknield Way--Segsbury Camp--West Shefford--Hungerford ¶ Marlborough Downs--Miston--Salisbury Plain--Stonehenge--Amesbury--Old Sarum--Salisbury ¶ Wilton--Compton Chamberlain--Shaftesbury--Blackmoor Vale--Sturminster ¶ Blackmoor Vale--Cerne Abbas--Charminster--Dorchester--Bridport ¶ The Chesil Bank--Chideoak--Charmouth--Lyme Regis--Axminster--Honiton--Exeter ¶ Exminster--Star Cross--Dawlish--Teignmouth--Torquay ¶¶ pp. 451-545 NINTH WEEK'S JOURNEY--Nov. 13 to Nov. 18. Torbay--Cockington--Compton Castle--Marldon--Berry Pomeroy--River Dart--Totnes--Sharpham--Dittisham--Dartmouth--Totnes ¶ Dartmoor--River Erme--Ivybridge--Plymouth ¶ Devonport--St. Budeaux--Tamerton Foliot--Buckland Abbey--Walkhampton--Merridale--River Tavy--Tavistock--Hingston Downs--Callington--St. Ive--Liskeard ¶ St. Neot--Restormel Castle--Lostwithiel--River Fowey--St. Blazey--St. Austell--Truro ¶ Perranarworthal--Penryn--Helston--The Lizard--St. Breage--Perran Downs--Marazion--St. Michael's Mount--Penzance ¶ Newlyn--St. Paul--Mousehole--St. Buryan--Treryn--Logan Rock--St. Levan--Tol-Peden-Penwith--Sennen--Land's End--Penzance ¶¶ pp. 546-652 HOMEWARD BOUND--Nov. 20 and 21 pp. 653-658 FROM JOHN O' GROAT'S TO LAND'S END HOW WE GOT TO JOHN O' GROAT'S _Thursday, September 7th._ It was one o'clock in the morning when we started on the three-mile walk to Warrington, where we were to join the 2.18 a.m. train for Glasgow, and it was nearly ten o'clock when we reached that town, the train being one hour and twenty minutes late. This delay caused us to be too late for the steamboat by which we intended to continue our journey further north, and we were greatly disappointed in having thus early in our journey to abandon the pleasant and interesting sail down the River Clyde and on through the Caledonian Canal. We were, therefore, compelled to alter our route, so we adjourned to the Victoria Temperance Hotel for breakfast, where we were advised to travel to Aberdeen by train, and thence by steamboat to Wick, the nearest available point to John o' Groat's. We had just time to inspect Sir Walter Scott's monument that adorned the Square at Glasgow, and then we left by the 12.35 train for Aberdeen. It was a long journey, and it was half-past eight o'clock at night before we reached our destination, but the weariness of travelling had been whiled away by pleasant company and delightful scenery. We had travelled continuously for about 360 miles, and we were both sleepy and tired as we entered Forsyth's Hotel to stay the night. _Friday, September 8th._ After a good night's rest, followed by a good breakfast, we went out to inquire the time our boat would leave, and, finding it was not due away until evening, we returned to the hotel and refreshed ourselves with a bath, and then went for a walk to see the town of Aberdeen, which is mostly built of the famous Aberdeen granite. The citizens were quite proud of their Union Street, the main thoroughfare, as well they might be, for though at first sight we thought it had rather a sombre appearance, yet when the sky cleared and the sun shone out on the golden letters that adorned the buildings we altered our opinion, for then we saw the "Granite City" at its best. We spent the time rambling along the beach, and, as pleasure seekers generally do, passed the day comfortably, looking at anything and everything that came in our way. By no means sea-faring men, having mainly been accustomed to village life, we had some misgivings when we boarded the s.s. _St. Magnus_ at eight o'clock in the evening, and our sensations during the night were such as are common to what the sailors call "land-lubbers." We were fortunate, however, in forming the acquaintance of a lively young Scot, who was also bound for Wick, and who cheered us during the night by giving us copious selections from Scotland's favourite bard, of whom he was greatly enamoured. We heard more of "Rabbie Burns" that night than we had ever heard before, for our friend seemed able to recite his poetry by the yard and to sing some of it also, and he kept us awake by occasionally asking us to join in the choruses. Some of the sentiments of Burns expressed ideals that seem a long time in being realised, and one of his favourite quotations, repeated several times by our friend, dwells in our memory after many years: For a' that an' a' that It's coming, yet, for a' that, That man to man the war-ld o'er Shall brithers be for a' that. During the night, as the _St. Magnus_ ploughed her way through the foaming billows, we noticed long, shining streaks on the surface of the water, varying in colour from a fiery red to a silvery white, the effect of which, was quite beautiful. Our friend informed us these were caused by the stampede of the shoals of herrings through which we were then passing. The herring fishery season was now on, and, though we could not distinguish either the fishermen or their boats when we passed near one of their fishing-grounds, we could see the lights they carried dotted all over the sea, and we were apprehensive lest we should collide with some of them, but the course of the _St. Magnus_ had evidently been known and provided for by the fishermen. We had a long talk with our friend about our journey north, and, as he knew the country well, he was able to give us some useful information and advice. He told us that if we left the boat at Wick and walked to John o' Groat's from there, we should have to walk the same way back, as there was only the one road, and if we wished to avoid going over the same ground twice, he would advise us to remain on the _St. Magnus_ until she reached her destination, Lerwick, in the Shetland Islands, and the cost by the boat would be very little more than to Wick. She would only stay a short time at Lerwick, and then we could return in her to Kirkwall, in the Orkney Islands. From that place we could walk across the Mainland to Stromness, where we should find a small steamboat which conveyed mails and passengers across the Pentland Firth to Thurso in the north of Scotland, from which point John o' Groat's could easily be reached, and, besides, we might never again have such a favourable opportunity of seeing the fine rock scenery of those northern islands. [Illustration: WICK HARBOUR. From a photograph taken in 1867.] We were delighted with his suggestion, and wrote a hurried letter home advising our people there of this addition to our journey, and our friend volunteered to post the letter for us at Wick. It was about six o'clock in the morning when we neared that important fishery town and anchored in the harbour, where we had to stay an hour or two to load and unload cargo. Our friend the Scot had to leave us here, but we could not allow him to depart without some kind of ceremony or other, and as the small boat came in sight that was to carry him ashore, we decided to sing a verse or two of "Auld Lang Syne" from his favourite poet Burns; but my brother could not understand some of the words in one of the verses, so he altered and anglicised them slightly: An' here's a haund, my trusty friend, An' gie's a haund o' thine; We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, For the sake o' auld lang syne. Some of the other passengers joined in the singing, but we never realised the full force of this verse until we heard it sung in its original form by a party of Scots, who, when they came to this particular verse, suited the action to the word by suddenly taking hold of each other's hands, thereby forming a cross, and meanwhile beating time to the music. Whether the cross so formed had any religious significance or not, we did not know. Our friend was a finely built and intelligent young man, and it was with feelings of great regret that we bade him farewell and watched his departure over the great waves, with the rather mournful presentiment that we were being parted from him for ever! _Saturday, September 9th._ There were signs of a change in the weather as we left Wick, and the _St. Magnus_ rolled considerably; but occasionally we had a good view of the precipitous rocks that lined the coast, many of them having been christened by the sailors after the objects they represented, as seen from the sea. The most prominent of these was a double-headed peak in Caithness, which formed a remarkably perfect resemblance to the breasts of a female giant with nipples complete, and this they had named the "Maiden's Paps." Then there was the "Old Man of Hoy," and other rocks that stood near the entrance to that terrible torrent of the sea, the Pentland Firth; but, owing to the rolling of our ship, we were not in a fit state either of mind or body to take much interest in them, and we were very glad when we reached the shelter of the Orkney Islands and entered the fine harbour of Kirkwall. Here we had to stay for a short time, so we went ashore and obtained a substantial lunch at the Temperance Hotel near the old cathedral, wrote a few letters, and at 3 p.m. rejoined the _St. Magnus_. The sea had been quite rough enough previously, but it soon became evident that it had been smooth compared with what followed, and during the coming night we wished many times that our feet were once more on _terra firma_. The rain descended, the wind increased in violence, and the waves rolled high and broke over the ship, and we were no longer allowed to occupy our favourite position on the upper deck, but had to descend a stage lower. We were saturated with water from head to foot in spite of our overalls, and we were also very sick, and, to add to our misery, we could hear, above the noise of the wind and waves, the fearful groaning of some poor woman who, a sailor told us, had been suddenly taken ill, and it was doubtful if she could recover. He carried a fish in his hand which he had caught as it was washed on deck, and he invited us to come and see the place where he had to sleep. A dismal place it was too, flooded with water, and not a dry thing for him to put on. We could not help feeling sorry that these sailors had such hardships to undergo; but he seemed to take it as a matter of course, and appeared to be more interested in the fish he carried than in the storm that was then raging. We were obliged to keep on the move to prevent our taking cold, and we realised that we were in a dark, dismal, and dangerous position, and thought of the words of a well-known song and how appropriate they were to that occasion: "O Pilot! 'tis a fearful night, There's danger on the deep; I'll come and pace the deck with thee, I do not dare to sleep." "Go down!" the Pilot cried, "go down! This is no place for thee; Fear not! but trust in Providence, Wherever thou may'st be." The storm continued for hours, and, as it gradually abated, our feelings became calmer, our fears subsided, and we again ventured on the upper deck. The night had been very dark hitherto, but we could now see the occasional glimmering of a light a long distance ahead, which proved to be that of a lighthouse, and presently we could distinguish the bold outlines of the Shetland Islands. As we entered Bressay Sound, however, a beautiful transformation scene suddenly appeared, for the clouds vanished as if by magic, and the last quarter of the moon, surrounded by a host of stars, shone out brilliantly in the clear sky. It was a glorious sight, for we had never seen these heavenly bodies in such a clear atmosphere before, and it was hard to realise that they were so far away from us. We could appreciate the feelings of a little boy of our acquaintance, who, when carried outside the house one fine night by his father to see the moon, exclaimed in an ecstasy of delight: "Oh, reach it, daddy!--reach it!" and it certainly looked as if we could have reached it then, so very near did it appear to us. It was two o'clock on Sunday morning, September 10th, when we reached Lerwick, the most northerly town in Her Majesty's British Dominions, and we appealed to a respectable-looking passenger who was being rowed ashore with us in the boat as to where we could obtain good lodgings. He kindly volunteered to accompany us to a house at which he had himself stayed before taking up his permanent residence as a tradesman in the town and which he could thoroughly recommend. Lerwick seemed a weird-looking place in the moonlight, and we turned many corners on our way to our lodgings, and were beginning to wonder how we should find our way out again, when our companion stopped suddenly before a private boarding-house, the door of which was at once opened by the mistress. We thanked the gentleman for his kind introduction, and as we entered the house the lady explained that it was her custom to wait up for the arrival of the _St. Magnus_. We found the fire burning and the kettle boiling, and the cup that cheers was soon on the table with the usual accompaniments, which were quickly disposed of. We were then ushered to our apartments--a bedroom and sitting or dining-room combined, clean and comfortable, but everything seemed to be moving like the ship we had just left. Once in bed, however, we were soon claimed by the God of Slumber, sleep, and dreams--our old friend Morpheus. _Sunday, September 10th._ In the morning we attended the English Episcopalian Church, and, after service, which was rather of a high church character, we walked into the country until we came in sight of the rough square tower of Scalloway Castle, and on our return we inspected the ruins of a Pictish castle, the first of the kind we had seen, although we were destined to see many others in the course of our journey. [Illustration: LERWICK. Commercial Street as it was in 1871.] The Picts, we were informed, were a race of people who settled in the north of Scotland in pre-Roman times, and who constructed their dwellings either of earth or stone, but always in a circular form. This old castle was built of stone, and the walls were five or six yards thick; inside these walls rooms had been made for the protection of the owners, while the circular, open space enclosed by the walls had probably been for the safe housing of their cattle. An additional protection had also been formed by the water with which the castle was surrounded, and which gave it the appearance of a small island in the middle of a lake. It was connected with the land by means of a narrow road, across which we walked. The castle did not strike us as having been a very desirable place of residence; the ruins had such a very dismal and deserted appearance that we did not stay there long, but returned to our lodgings for lunch. After this we rested awhile, and then joined the townspeople, who were patrolling every available space outside. The great majority of these were women, healthy and good-looking, and mostly dressed in black, as were also those we afterwards saw in the Orkneys and the extreme north of Scotland, and we thought that some of our disconsolate bachelor friends might have been able to find very desirable partners for life in these northern dominions of Her Majesty the Queen. The houses in Lerwick had been built in all sorts of positions without any attempt at uniformity, and the rough, flagged passage which did duty for the main street was, to our mind, the greatest curiosity of all, and almost worth going all the way to Shetland to see. It was curved and angled in such an abrupt and zigzag manner that it gave us the impression that the houses had been built first, and the street, where practicable, filled in afterwards. A gentleman from London was loud in his praise of this wonderful street; he said he felt so much safer there than in "beastly London," as he could stand for hours in that street before the shop windows without being run over by any cab, cart, or omnibus, and without feeling a solitary hand exploring his coat pockets. This was quite true, as we did not see any vehicles in Lerwick, nor could they have passed each other through the crooked streets had they been there, and thieves would have been equally difficult to find. Formerly, however, Lerwick had an evil reputation in that respect, as it was noted for being the abode of sheep-stealers and pirates, so much so, that, about the year 1700, it had become such a disreputable place that an earnest appeal was made to the "Higher Authorities" to have the place burnt, and for ever made desolate, on account of its great wickedness. Since that time, however, the softening influences of the Christian religion had permeated the hearts of the people, and, at the time of our visit, the town was well supplied with places of worship, and it would have been difficult to have found any thieves there then. We attended evening service in the Wesleyan Chapel, where we found a good congregation, a well-conducted service, and an acceptable preacher, and we reflected that Mr. Wesley himself would have rejoiced to know that even in such a remote place as Lerwick his principles were being promulgated. _Monday, September 11th._ We rose early with the object of seeing all we could in the short time at our disposal, which was limited to the space of a single day, or until the _St. Magnus_ was due out in the evening on her return journey. We were anxious to see a large cavern known as the Orkneyman's Cave, but as it could only be reached from the sea, we should have had to engage a boat to take us there. We were told the cave was about fifty feet square at the entrance, but immediately beyond it increased to double the size; it was possible indeed to sail into it with a boat and to lose sight of daylight altogether. The story goes that many years ago an Orkneyman was pursued by a press-gang, but escaped being captured by sailing into the cave with his boat. He took refuge on one of the rocky ledges inside, but in his haste he forgot to secure his boat, and the ground swell of the sea washed it out of the cave. To make matters worse, a storm came on, and there he remained a prisoner in the cave for two days; but as soon as the storm abated he plunged into the water, swam to a small rock outside, and thence climbed to the top of the cliff and so escaped. Since that event it had been known as the Orkneyman's Cave. We went to the boat at the appointed time, but unfortunately the wind was too strong for us to get round to the cave, so we were disappointed. The boatman suggested as the next best thing that we should go to see the Island of Noss. He accordingly took us across the bay, which was about a mile wide, and landed us on the Island of Bressay. Here it was necessary for us to get a permit to enable us to proceed farther, so, securing his boat, the boatman accompanied us to the factor's house, where he procured a pass, authorising us to land on the Island of Noss, of which the following is a facsimile: _Allow Mr. Nailer and friends to land on Noss. To Walter. A.M. Walker_. Here he left us, as we had to walk across the Island of Bressay, and, after a tramp of two or three miles, during which we did not see a single human being, we came to another water where there was a boat. Here we found Walter, and, after we had exhibited our pass, he rowed us across the narrow arm of the sea and landed us on the Island of Noss. He gave us careful instructions how to proceed so that we could see the Holm of Noss, and warned us against approaching too near the edge of the precipice which we should find there. After a walk of about a mile, all up hill, we came to the precipitous cliffs which formed the opposite boundary of the island, and from a promontory there we had a magnificent view of the rocks, with the waves of the sea dashing against them, hundreds of feet below. A small portion of the island was here separated from the remainder by a narrow abyss about fifty feet wide, down which it was terrible to look, and this separated portion was known as the Holm of Noss. It rose precipitously on all sides from the sea, and its level surface on the top formed a favourite nesting-place for myriads of wild birds of different varieties, which not only covered the top of the Holm, but also the narrow ledges along its jagged sides. Previous to the seventeenth century, this was one of the places where the foot of man had never trod, and a prize of a cow was offered to any man who would climb the face of the cliff and establish a connection with the mainland by means of a rope, as it was thought that the Holm would provide pasturage for about twenty sheep. A daring fowler, from Foula Island, successfully performed the feat, and ropes were firmly secured to the rocks on each side, and along two parallel ropes a box or basket was fixed, capable of holding a man and a sheep. This apparatus was named the Cradle of Noss, and was so arranged that an Islander with or without a sheep placed in the cradle could drag himself across the chasm in either direction. Instead, however, of returning by the rope or cradle, on which he would have been comparatively safe, the hardy fowler decided to go back by the same way he had come, and, missing his foothold, fell on the rocks in the sea below and was dashed to pieces, so that the prize was never claimed by him. [Illustration: THE HOLM OF NOSS. "It made us shudder ... as we peered down on the abysmal depths below."] We felt almost spellbound as we approached this awful chasm, and as if we were being impelled by some invisible force towards the edge of the precipice. It fairly made us shudder as on hands and knees we peered down on the abysmal depths below. It was a horrible sensation, and one that sometimes haunted us in our dreams for years afterwards, and we felt greatly relieved when we found that we could safely crawl away and regain an upright posture. We could see thousands upon thousands of wild birds, amongst which the ordinary sea-gull was largely represented; but there were many other varieties of different colours, and the combination of their varied cries, mingled with the bleating of the sheep, the whistling of the wind, the roaring of the waves as they dashed against the rocks below, or entered the caverns with a sound like distant thunder, tended to make us feel quite bewildered. We retired to the highest elevation we could find, and there, 600 miles from home, and perhaps as many feet above sea-level, was solitude in earnest. We were the only human beings on the island, and the enchanting effect of the wild scenery, the vast expanse of sea, the distant moaning of the waters, the great rocks worn by the wind and the waves into all kinds of fantastic shapes and caverns, the blue sky above with the glorious sun shining upon us, all proclaimed to our minds the omnipotence of the great Creator of the Universe, the Almighty Maker and Giver of all. We lingered as long as we could in these lonely and romantic solitudes, and, as we sped down the hill towards the boat, we suddenly became conscious that we had not thought either of what we should eat or what we should drink since we had breakfasted early in the morning, and we were very hungry. Walter was waiting for us on our side of the water, as he had been watching for our return, and had seen us coming when we were nearly a mile away. There was no vegetation to obstruct the view, for, as he said, we might walk fifty miles in Shetland without meeting with a bush or tree. We had an agreeable surprise when we reached the other side of the water in finding some light refreshments awaiting our arrival which he had thoughtfully provided in the event of their being required, and for which we were profoundly thankful. The cradle of Noss had disappeared some time before our visit, but, if it had been there, we should have been too terrified to make use of it. It had become dangerous, and as the pasturage of sheep on the Holm had proved a failure, the birds had again become masters of the situation, while the cradle had fallen to decay. Walter gave us an awful description of the danger of the fowler's occupation, especially in the Foula Island, where the rocks rose towering a thousand feet above the sea. The top of the cliffs there often projected over their base, so that the fowler had to be suspended on a rope fastened to the top of the cliff, swinging himself backwards and forwards like a pendulum until he could reach the ledge of rock where the birds laid their eggs. Immediately he landed on it, he had to secure his rope, and then gather the eggs in a hoop net, and put them in his wallet, and then swing off again, perhaps hundreds of feet above the sea, to find another similar ledge, so that his business was practically carried on in the air. On one of these occasions a fowler had just reached a landing-place on the precipice, when his rope slipped out of his hand, and swung away from the cliff into the empty air. If he had hesitated one moment, he would have been lost for ever, as in all probability he would either have been starved to death on the ledge of rock on which he was or fallen exhausted into the sea below. The first returning swing of the rope might bring him a chance of grasping it, but the second would be too far away. The rope came back, the desperate man measured the distance with his eye, sprang forward in the air, grasped the rope, and was saved. Sometimes the rope became frayed or cut by fouling some sharp edge of rock above, and, if it broke, the fowler was landed in eternity. Occasionally two or three men were suspended on the same rope at the same time. Walter told us of a father and two sons who were on the rope in this way, the father being the lowest and his two sons being above him, when the son who was uppermost saw that the rope was being frayed above him, and was about to break. He called to his brother who was just below that the rope would no longer hold them all, and asked him to cut it off below him and let their father go. This he indignantly refused to do, whereupon his brother, without a moment's hesitation, cut the rope below himself, and both his father and brother perished. It was terrible to hear such awful stories, as our nerves were unstrung already, so we asked our friend Walter not to pile on the agony further, and, after rewarding him for his services, we hurried over the remaining space of land and sea that separated us from our comfortable quarters at Lerwick, where a substantial tea was awaiting our arrival. We were often asked what we thought of Shetland and its inhabitants. Shetland was fine in its mountain and coast scenery, but it was wanting in good roads and forests, and it seemed strange that no effort had been made to plant some trees, as forests had formerly existed there, and, as a gentleman told us, there seemed no peculiarity in either the soil or climate to warrant an opinion unfavourable to the country's arboricultural capacity. Indeed, such was the dearth of trees and bushes, that a lady, who had explored the country thoroughly, declared that the tallest and grandest tree she saw during her visit to the Islands was a stalk of rhubarb which had run to seed and was waving its head majestically in a garden below the old fort of Lerwick! Agriculture seemed also to be much neglected, but possibly the fishing industry was more profitable. The cottages also were very small and of primitive construction, many of them would have been condemned as being unfit for human habitation if they had existed elsewhere, and yet, in spite of this apparent drawback, these hardy islanders enjoyed the best of health and brought up large families of very healthy-looking children. Shetland will always have a pleasant place in our memories, and, as regards the people who live there, to speak the truth we scarcely ever met with folks we liked better. We received the greatest kindness and hospitality, and met with far greater courtesy and civility than in the more outwardly polished and professedly cultivated parts of the countries further south, especially when making inquiries from people to whom we had not been "introduced"! The Shetlanders spoke good English, and seemed a highly intelligent race of people. Many of the men went to the whale and other fisheries in the northern seas, and "Greenland's icy mountains" were well known to them. On the island there were many wives and mothers who mourned the loss of husbands and sons who had perished in that dangerous occupation, and these remarks also applied to the Orkney Islands, to which we were returning, and might also account for so many of these women being dressed in black. Every one told us we were visiting the islands too late in the year, and that we ought to have made our appearance at an earlier period, when the sun never sets, and when we should have been able to read at midnight without the aid of an artificial light. Shetland was evidently in the range of the "Land of the Midnight Sun," but whether we should have been able to keep awake in order to read at midnight was rather doubtful, as we were usually very sleepy. At one time of the year, however, the sun did not shine at all, and the Islanders had to rely upon the Aurora Borealis, or the Northern Lights, which then made their appearance and shone out brilliantly, spreading a beautifully soft light over the islands. We wondered if it were this or the light of the midnight sun that inspired the poet to write: Night walked in beauty o'er the peaceful sea. Whose gentle waters spoke tranquillity, or if it had been borrowed from some more peaceful clime, as we had not yet seen the "peaceful sea" amongst these northern islands. We had now once more to venture on its troubled waters, and we made our appearance at the harbour at the appointed time for the departure of the _St. Magnus_. We were, however, informed that the weather was too misty for our boat to leave, so we returned to our lodgings, ordered a fire, and were just making ourselves comfortable and secretly hoping our departure might be delayed until morning, when Mrs. Sinclair, our landlady, came to tell us that the bell, which was the signal for the _St. Magnus_ to leave, had just rung. We hurried to the quay, only to find that the boat which conveyed passengers and mails to our ship had disappeared. We were in a state of consternation, but a group of sailors, who were standing by, advised us to hire a special boat, and one was brought up immediately, by which, after a lot of shouting and whistling--for we could scarcely see anything in the fog--we were safely landed on the steamboat. We had only just got beyond the harbour, however, when the fog became so dense that we suddenly came to a standstill, and had to remain in the bay for a considerable time. When at last we moved slowly outwards, the hoarse whistle of the _St. Magnus_ was sounded at short intervals, to avoid collision with any other craft. It had a strangely mournful sound, suggestive of a funeral or some great calamity, and we should almost have preferred being in a storm, when we could have seen the danger, rather than creeping along in the fog and darkness, with a constant dread of colliding with some other boat or with one of the dangerous rocks which we knew were in the vicinity. Sleep was out of the question until later, when the fog began to clear a little, and, in the meantime, we found ourselves in the company of a group of young men who told us they were going to Aberdeen. One of them related a rather sorrowful story. He and his mates had come from one of the Shetland Islands from which the inhabitants were being expelled by the factor, so that he could convert the whole of the island into a sheep farm for his own personal advantage. Their ancestors had lived there from time immemorial, but their parents had all received notice to leave, and other islands were being depopulated in the same way. The young men were going to Aberdeen to try to find ships on which they could work their passage to some distant part of the world; they did not know or care where, but he said the time would come when this country would want soldiers and sailors, and would not be able to find them after the men had been driven abroad. He also told us about what he called the "Truck System," which was a great curse in their islands, as "merchants" encouraged young people to get deeply in their debt, so that when they grew up they could keep them in their clutches and subject them to a state of semi-slavery, as with increasing families and low wages it was then impossible to get out of debt. We were very sorry to see these fine young men leaving the country, and when we thought of the wild and almost deserted islands we had just visited, it seemed a pity they could not have been employed there. We had a longer and much smoother passage than on our outward voyage, and the fog had given place to a fine, clear atmosphere as we once more entered the fine harbour of Kirkwall, and we had a good view of the town, which some enthusiastic passenger described as the "Metropolis of the Orcadean Archipelago." _Tuesday, September 12th._ We narrowly escaped a bad accident as we were leaving the _St. Magnus_. She carried a large number of sheep and Shetland ponies on deck, and our way off the ship was along a rather narrow passage formed by the cattle on one side and a pile of merchandise on the other. The passengers were walking in single file, my brother immediately in front of myself, when one of the ponies suddenly struck out viciously with its hind legs just as we were passing. If we had received the full force of the kick, we should have been incapacitated from walking; but fortunately its strength was exhausted when it reached us, and it only just grazed our legs. The passengers behind thought at first we were seriously injured, and one of them rushed forward and held the animal's head to prevent further mischief; but the only damage done was to our overalls, on which the marks of the pony's hoofs remained as a record of the event. On reaching the landing-place the passengers all came forward to congratulate us on our lucky escape, and until they separated we were the heroes of the hour, and rather enjoyed the brief notoriety. There was an old-world appearance about Kirkwall reminiscent of the time When Norse and Danish galleys plied Their oars within the Firth of Clyde, When floated Haco's banner trim Above Norwegian warriors grim, Savage of heart and huge of limb. for it was at the palace there that Haco, King of Norway, died in 1263. There was only one considerable street in the town, and this was winding and narrow and paved with flags in the centre, something like that in Lerwick, but the houses were much more foreign in appearance, and many of them had dates on their gables, some of them as far back as the beginning of the fifteenth century. We went to the same hotel as on our outward journey, and ordered a regular good "set out" to be ready by the time we had explored the ancient cathedral, which, like our ship, was dedicated to _St. Magnus_. We were directed to call at a cottage for the key, which was handed to us by the solitary occupant, and we had to find our way as best we could. After entering the ancient building, we took the precaution of locking the door behind us. The interior looked dark and dismal after the glorious sunshine we had left outside, and was suggestive more of a dungeon than a place of worship, and of the dark deeds done in the days of the past. The historian relates that St. Magnus met his death at the hands of his cousin Haco while in the church of Eigleshay. He had retired there with a presentiment of some evil about to happen him, and "while engaged in devotional exercises, prepared and resigned for whatever might occur, he was slain by one stroke of a hatchet. Being considered eminently pious, he was looked upon as a saint, and his nephew Ronald built the cathedral in accordance with a vow made before leaving Norway to lay claim to the Earldom of Orkney." The cathedral was considered to be the best-preserved relic of antiquity in Scotland, and we were much impressed by the dim religious light which pervaded the interior, and quite bewildered amongst the dark passages inside the walls. We had been recommended to ascend the cathedral tower for the sake of the fine view which was to be obtained from the top, but had some difficulty in finding the way to the steps. Once we landed at the top of the tower we considered ourselves well repaid for our exertions, as the view over land and sea was very beautiful. Immediately below were the remains of the bishop's and earl's palaces, relics of bygone ages, now gradually crumbling to decay, while in the distance we could see the greater portion of the sixty-seven islands which formed the Orkney Group. Only about one-half of these were inhabited, the remaining and smaller islands being known as holms, or pasturages for sheep, which, seen in the distance, resembled green specks in the great blue sea, which everywhere surrounded them. [Illustration: ST. MAGNUS CATHEDRAL KIRKWALL] [Illustration: STROMNESS] I should have liked to stay a little longer surveying this fairy-like scene, but my brother declared he could smell our breakfast, which by this time must have been waiting for us below. Our exit was a little delayed, as we took a wrong turn in the rather bewildering labyrinth of arches and passages in the cathedral walls, and it was not without a feeling of relief that we reached the door we had so carefully locked behind us. We returned the key to the caretaker, and then went to our hotel, where we loaded ourselves with a prodigious breakfast, and afterwards proceeded to walk across the Mainland of the Orkneys, an estimated distance of fifteen miles. On our rather lonely way to Stromness we noticed that agriculture was more advanced than in the Shetland Islands, and that the cattle were somewhat larger, but we must say that we had been charmed with the appearance of the little Shetland ponies, excepting perhaps the one that had done its best to give us a farewell kick when we were leaving the _St. Magnus_. Oats and barley were the crops chiefly grown, for we did not see any wheat, and the farmers, with their wives and children, were all busy harvesting their crops of oats, but there was still room for extension and improvement, as we passed over miles of uncultivated moorland later. On our inquiring what objects of interest were to be seen on our way, our curiosity was raised to its highest pitch when we were told we should come to an underground house and to a large number of standing stones a few miles farther on. We fully expected to descend under the surface of the ground, and to find some cave or cavern below; but when we got to the place, we found the house practically above ground, with a small mountain raised above it. It was covered with grass, and had only been discovered in 1861, about ten years before our visit. Some boys were playing on the mountain, when one of them found a small hole which he thought was a rabbit hole, but, pushing his arm down it, he could feel no bottom. He tried again with a small stick, but with the same result. The boys then went to a farm and brought a longer stick, but again failed to reach the bottom of the hole, so they resumed their play, and when they reached home they told their parents of their adventure, and the result was that this ancient house was discovered and an entrance to it found from the level of the land below. [Illustration: SHETLAND PONIES.] We went in search of the caretaker, and found him busy with the harvest in a field some distance away, but he returned with us to the mound. He opened a small door, and we crept behind him along a low, narrow, and dark passage for a distance of about seventeen yards, when we entered a chamber about the size of an ordinary cottage dwelling, but of a vault-like appearance. It was quite dark, but our guide proceeded to light a number of small candles, placed in rustic candlesticks, at intervals, round this strange apartment. We could then see some small cells in the wall, which might once have been used as burial places for the dead, and on the walls themselves were hundreds of figures or letters cut in the rock, in very thin lines, as if engraved with a needle. We could not decipher any of them, as they appeared more like Egyptian hieroglyphics than letters of our alphabet, and the only figure we could distinguish was one which had the appearance of a winged dragon. The history of the place was unknown, but we were afterwards told that it was looked upon as one of the most important antiquarian discoveries ever made in Britain. The name of the place was Maeshowe. The mound was about one hundred yards in circumference, and it was supposed that the house, or tumulus, was first cut out of the rock and the earth thrown over it afterwards from the large trench by which it was surrounded. [Illustration: "STANDING STONES OF STENNESS."] Our guide then directed us to the "Standing Stones of Stenness," which were some distance away; but he could not spare time to go with us, so we had to travel alone to one of the wildest and most desolate places imaginable, strongly suggestive of ghosts and the spirits of the departed. We crossed the Bridge of Brogar, or Bruargardr, and then walked along a narrow strip of land dividing two lochs, both of which at this point presented a very lonely and dismal appearance. Although they were so near together, Loch Harry contained fresh water only and Loch Stenness salt water, as it had a small tidal inlet from the sea passing under Waith Bridge, which we crossed later. There were two groups of the standing stones, one to the north and the other to the south, and each consisted of a double circle of considerable extent. The stones presented a strange appearance, as while many stood upright, some were leaning; others had fallen, and some had disappeared altogether. The storms of many centuries had swept over them, and "they stood like relics of the past, with lichens waving from their worn surfaces like grizzly beards, or when in flower mantling them with brilliant orange hues," while the areas enclosed by them were covered with mosses, the beautiful stag-head variety being the most prominent. One of the poets has described them: The heavy rocks of giant size That o'er the land in circles rise. Of which tradition may not tell, Fit circles for the Wizard spell; Seen far amidst the scowling storm Seem each a tall and phantom form, As hurrying vapours o'er them flee Frowning in grim security, While like a dread voice from the past Around them moans the autumnal blast! These lichened "Standing Stones of Stenness," with the famous Stone of Odin about 150 yards to the north, are second only to Stonehenge, one measuring 18 feet in length, 5 feet 4 inches in breadth, and 18 inches in thickness. The Stone of Odin had a hole in it to which it was supposed that sacrificial victims were fastened in ancient times, but in later times lovers met and joined hands through the hole in the stone, and the pledge of love then given was almost as sacred as a marriage vow. An antiquarian description of this reads as follows: "When the parties agreed to marry, they repaired to the Temple of the Moon, where the woman in the presence of the man fell down on her knees and prayed to the God Wodin that he would enable her to perform, all the promises and obligations she had made, and was to make, to the young man present, after which they both went to the Temple of the Sun, where the man prayed in like manner before the woman. They then went to the Stone of Odin, and the man being on one side and the woman on the other, they took hold of each other's right hand through the hole and there swore to be constant and faithful to each other." The hole in the stone was about five feet from the ground, but some ignorant farmer had destroyed the stone, with others, some years before our visit. There were many other stones in addition to the circles, probably the remains of Cromlechs, and there were numerous grass mounds, or barrows, both conoid and bowl-shaped, but these were of a later date than the circles. It was hard to realise that this deserted and boggarty-looking place was once the Holy Ground of the ancient Orcadeans, and we were glad to get away from it. We recrossed the Bridge of Brogar and proceeded rapidly towards Stromness, obtaining a fine prospective view of that town, with the huge mountain masses of the Island of Hoy as a background, on our way. These rise to a great height, and terminate abruptly near where that strange isolated rock called the "Old Man of Hoy" rises straight from the sea as if to guard the islands in the rear. The shades of evening were falling fast as we entered Stromness, but what a strange-looking town it seemed to us! It was built at the foot of the hill in the usual irregular manner and in one continuous crooked street, with many of the houses with their crow-stepped gables built as it were over the sea itself, and here in one of these, owing to a high recommendation received inland, we stayed the night. It was perched above the water's edge, and, had we been so minded, we might have caught the fish named sillocks for our own breakfast without leaving the house: many of the houses, indeed, had small piers or landing-stages attached to them, projecting towards the bay. We found Mrs. Spence an ideal hostess and were very comfortable, the only drawback to our happiness being the information that the small steamboat that carried mails and passengers across to Thurso had gone round for repairs "and would not be back for a week, but a sloop would take her place" the day after to-morrow. But just fancy crossing the stormy waters of the Pentland Firth in a sloop! We didn't quite know what a sloop was, except that it was a sailing-boat with only one mast; but the very idea gave us the nightmare, and we looked upon ourselves as lost already. The mail boat, we had already been told, had been made enormously strong to enable her to withstand the strain of the stormy seas, besides having the additional advantage of being propelled by steam, and it was rather unfortunate that we should have arrived just at the time she was away. We asked the reason why, and were informed that during the summer months seaweeds had grown on the bottom of her hull four or five feet long, which with the barnacles so impeded her progress that it was necessary to have them scraped off, and that even the great warships had to undergo the same process. Seaweeds of the largest size and most beautiful colours flourish, in the Orcadean seas, and out of 610 species of the flora in the islands we learned that 133 were seaweeds. Stevenson the great engineer wrote that the large Algæ, and especially that one he named the "Fucus esculentus," grew on the rocks from self-grown seed, six feet in six months, so we could quite understand how the speed of a ship would be affected when carrying this enormous growth on the lower parts of her hull. _Wednesday, September 13th._ We had the whole of the day at our disposal to explore Stromness and the neighbourhood, and we made the most of it by rambling about the town and then along the coast to the north, but we were seldom out of sight of the great mountains of Hoy. Sir Walter Scott often visited this part of the Orkneys, and some of the characters he introduced in his novels were found here. In 1814 he made the acquaintance of a very old woman near Stromness, named Bessie Miller, whom he described as being nearly one hundred years old, withered and dried up like a mummy, with light blue eyes that gleamed with a lustre like that of insanity. She eked out her existence by selling favourable winds to mariners, for which her fee was sixpence, and hardly a mariner sailed out to sea from Stromness without visiting and paying his offering to Old Bessie Miller. Sir Walter drew the strange, weird character of "Norna of the Fitful Head" in his novel _The Pirate_ from her. The prototype of "Captain Cleveland" in the same novel was John Gow, the son of a Stromness merchant. This man went to sea, and by some means or other became possessed of a ship named the _Revenge_, which carried twenty-four guns. He had all the appearance of a brave young officer, and on the occasions when he came home to see his father he gave dancing-parties to his friends. Before his true character was known--for he was afterwards proved to be a pirate--he engaged the affections of a young lady of fortune, and when he was captured and convicted she hastened to London to see him before he was executed; but, arriving there too late, she begged for permission to see his corpse, and, taking hold of one hand, she vowed to remain true to him, for fear, it was said, of being haunted by his ghost if she bestowed her hand upon another. It is impossible to visit Stromness without hearing something of that famous geologist Hugh Miller, who was born at Cromarty in the north of Scotland in the year 1802, and began life as a quarry worker, and wrote several learned books on geology. In one of these, entitled _Footprints of the Creator in the Asterolepis of Stromness_, he demolished the Darwinian theory that would make a man out to be only a highly developed monkey, and the monkey a highly developed mollusc. My brother had a very poor opinion of geologists, but his only reason for this seemed to have been formed from the opinion of some workmen in one of our brickfields. A gentleman who took an interest in geology used to visit them at intervals for about half a year, and persuaded the men when excavating the clay to put the stones they found on one side so that he could inspect them, and after paying many visits he left without either thanking them or giving them the price of a drink! But my brother was pleased with Hugh Miller's book, for he had always contended that Darwin was mistaken, and that instead of man having descended from the monkey, it was the monkey that had descended from the man. I persuaded him to visit the museum, where we saw quite a number of petrified fossils. As there was no one about to give us any information, we failed to find Hugh Miller's famous asterolepis, which we heard afterwards had the appearance of a petrified nail, and had formed part of a huge fish whose species were known to have measured from eight to twenty-three feet in length. It was only about six inches long, and was described as one of the oldest, if not the oldest, vertebrate fossils hitherto discovered. Stromness ought to be the Mecca, the happy hunting-ground, or the Paradise to geologists, for Hugh Miller has said it could furnish more fossil fish than any other geological system in England, Scotland, and Wales, and could supply ichthyolites by the ton, or a ship load of fossilised fish sufficient to supply the museums of the world. How came this vast number of fish to be congregated here? and what was the force that overwhelmed them? It was quite evident from the distorted portions of their skeletons, as seen in the quarried flags, that they had suffered a violent death. But as we were unable to study geology, and could neither pronounce nor understand the names applied to the fossils, we gave it up in despair, as a deep where all our thoughts were drowned. We then walked along the coast, until we came to the highest point of the cliffs opposite some dangerous rocks called the Black Craigs, about which a sorrowful story was told. It happened on Wednesday, March 5th, 1834, during a terrific storm, when the _Star of Dundee_, a schooner of about eighty tons, was seen to be drifting helplessly towards these rocks. The natives knew there was no chance of escape for the boat, and ran with ropes to the top of the precipice near the rocks in the hope of being of some assistance; but such was the fury of the waves that the boat was broken into pieces before their eyes, and they were utterly helpless to save even one of their shipwrecked fellow-creatures. The storm continued for some time, and during the remainder of the week nothing of any consequence was found, nor was any of the crew heard of again, either dead or alive, till on the Sunday morning a man was suddenly observed on the top of the precipice waving his hands, and the people who saw him first were so astonished that they thought it was a spectre. It was afterwards discovered that it was one of the crew of the ill-fated ship who had been miraculously saved. He had been washed into a cave from a large piece of the wreck, which had partially blocked its entrance and so checked the violence of the waves inside, and there were also washed in from the ship some red herrings, a tin can which had been used for oil, and two pillows. The herrings served him for food and the tin can to collect drops of fresh water as they trickled down the rocks from above, while one of the pillows served for his bed and he used the other for warmth by pulling out the feathers and placing them into his boots. Occasionally when the waves filled the mouth of the cave he was afraid of being suffocated. Luckily for him at last the storm subsided sufficiently to admit of his swimming out of the cave; how he managed to scale the cliffs seemed little short of a miracle. He was kindly treated by the Islanders, and when he recovered they fitted him out with clothing so that he could join another ship. By what we may call the irony of fate he was again shipwrecked some years afterwards. This time the fates were less kind, for he was drowned! [Illustration: THE WRECK.] We had a splendid view of the mountains and sea, and stayed as usual on the cliffs until the pangs of hunger compelled us to return to Stromness, where we knew that a good tea was waiting for us. At one point on our way back the Heads of Hoy strangely resembled the profile of the great Sir Walter Scott, and this he would no doubt have seen when collecting materials for _The Pirate_. We had heard both in Shetland and Orkney that when we reached John o' Groat's we should find an enormous number of shells on the beach, and as we had some extensive rockeries at home already adorned with thousands of oyster shells, in fact so many as to cause our home to be nicknamed "Oyster Shell Hall," we decided to gather some of the shells when we got to John o'Groat's and send them home to our friends. The question of packages, however, seemed to be rather a serious one, as we were assured over and over again we should find no packages when we reached that out-of-the-way corner of Scotland, and that in the whole of the Orkney Islands there were not sufficient willows grown to make a single basket, skip, or hamper. So after tea we decided to explore the town in search of a suitable hamper, and we had some amusing experiences, as the people did not know what a hamper was. At length we succeeded in finding one rather ancient and capacious basket, but without a cover, whose appearance suggested that it had been washed ashore from some ship that had been wrecked many years ago, and, having purchased it at about three times its value, we carried it in triumph to our lodgings, to the intense amusement of our landlady and the excited curiosity of the Stromnessians. We spent the remainder of the evening in looking through Mrs. Spence's small library of books, but failed to find anything very consoling to us, as they related chiefly to storms and shipwrecks, and the dangerous nature of the Pentland Firth, whose turbulent waters we had to cross on the morrow. The Pentland Firth lies between the north of Scotland and the Orkney Islands, varies from five and a half to eight miles in breadth, and is by repute the most dangerous passage in the British Isles. We were told in one of the books that if we wanted to witness a regular "passage of arms" between two mighty seas, the Atlantic at Dunnet Head on the west, and the North Sea at Duncansbay Head on the east, we must cross Pentland Firth and be tossed upon its tides before we should be able to imagine what might be termed their ferocity. "The rush of two mighty oceans, struggling to sweep this world of waters through a narrow sound, and dashing their waves in bootless fury against the rocky barriers which headland and islet present; the endless contest of conflicting tides hurried forward and repelled, meeting, and mingling--their troubled surface boiling and spouting--and, even in a summer calm, in an eternal state of agitation"; and then fancy the calm changing to a storm: "the wind at west; the whole volume of the Atlantic rolling its wild mass of waters on, in one sweeping flood, to dash and burst upon the black and riven promontory of the Dunnet Head, until the mountain wave, shattered into spray, flies over the summit of a precipice, 400 feet above the base it broke upon." But this was precisely what we did not want to see, so we turned to the famous _Statistical Account_, which also described the difficulty of navigating the Firth for sailing vessels. This informed us that "the current in the Pentland Firth is exceedingly strong during the spring tides, so that no vessel can stem it. The flood-tide runs from west to east at the rate of ten miles an hour, with new and full moon. It is then high water at Scarfskerry (about three miles away from Dunnet Head) at nine o'clock. Immediately, as the water begins to fall on the shore, the current turns to the west; but the strength of the flood is so great in the middle of the Firth that it continues to run east till about twelve. With a gentle breeze of westerly wind, about eight o'clock in the morning the whole Firth, from Dunnet Head to Hoy Head in Orkney, seems as smooth as a sheet of glass. About nine the sea begins to rage for about one hundred yards off the Head, while all without continues smooth as before. This appearance gradually advances towards the Firth, and along the shore to the east, though the effects are not much felt along the shore till it reaches Scarfskerry Head, as the land between these points forms a considerable bay. By two o'clock the whole of the Firth seems to rage. About three in the afternoon it is low water on the shore, when all the former phenomena are reversed, the smooth water beginning to appear next the land and advancing gradually till it reaches the middle of the Firth. To strangers the navigation is very dangerous, especially if they approach near to land. But the natives along the coast are so well acquainted with the direction of the tides, that they can take advantage of every one of these currents to carry them safe from one harbour to another. Hence very few accidents happen, except from want of skill or knowledge of the tides." [Illustration: A NORTH SEA ROLLER.] There were some rather amusing stories about the detention of ships in the Firth. A Newcastle shipowner had despatched two ships from that port by the same tide, one to Bombay by the open sea, and the other, via the Pentland Firth, to Liverpool, and the Bombay vessel arrived at her destination first. Many vessels trying to force a passage through the Firth have been known to drift idly about hither and thither for months before they could get out again, and some ships that once entered Stromness Bay on New Year's Day were found there, resting from their labours on the fifteenth day of April following, "after wandering about like the _Flying Dutchman_." Sir Walter Scott said this was formerly a ship laden with precious metals, but a horrible murder was committed on board. A plague broke out amongst the crew, and no port would allow the vessel to enter for fear of contagion, and so she still wanders about the sea with her phantom crew, never to rest, but doomed to be tossed about for ever. She is now a spectral ship, and hovers about the Cape of Good Hope as an omen of bad luck to mariners who are so unfortunate as to see her. The dangerous places at each end of the Firth were likened to the Scylla and Charybdis between Italy and Sicily, where, in avoiding one mariners were often wrecked by the other; but the dangers in the Firth were from the "Merry Men of Mey," a dangerous expanse of sea, where the water was always boiling like a witch's cauldron at one end, and the dreaded "Swalchie Whirlpool" at the other. This was very dangerous for small boats, as they could sail over it safely in one state of the tide, but when it began to move it carried the boat round so slowly that the occupants did not realise their danger until too late, when they found themselves going round quicker and quicker as they descended into the awful vortex below, where the ancient Vikings firmly believed the submarine mill existed which ground the salt that supplied the ocean. We ought not to have read these dismal stories just before retiring to rest, as the consequence was that we were dreaming of dangerous rocks, storms, and shipwrecks all through the night, and my brother had toiled up the hill at the back of the town and found Bessie Miller there, just as Sir Walter Scott described her, with "a clay-coloured kerchief folded round her head to match the colour of her corpse-like complexion." He was just handing her a sixpence to pay for a favourable wind, when everything was suddenly scattered by a loud knock at the door, followed by the voice of our hostess informing us that it was five o'clock and that the boat was "awa' oot" at six. We were delighted to find that in place of the great storm pictured in our excited imagination there was every prospect of a fine day, and that a good "fish breakfast" served in Mrs. Spence's best style was waiting for us below stairs. _Thursday, September 14th._ After bidding Mrs. Spence farewell, and thanking her for her kind attention to us during our visit to Stromness, we made our way to the sloop, which seemed a frail-looking craft to cross the stormy waters of the Pentland Firth. We did not, of course, forget our large basket which we had had so much difficulty in finding, and which excited so much attention and attracted so much curiosity towards ourselves all the way to John o' Groat's. It even caused the skipper to take a friendly interest in us, for after our explanation he stored that ancient basket amongst his more valuable cargo. There was only a small number of passengers, but in spite of the early hour quite a little crowd of people had assembled to witness our departure, and a considerable amount of banter was going on between those on board the sloop and the company ashore, which continued as we moved away, each party trying to get the better of the other. As a finale, one of our passengers shouted to his friend who had come to see him off: "Do you want to buy a cow?" "Yes," yelled his friend, "but I see nothing but a calf." A general roar of laughter followed this repartee, as we all thought the Orkneyman on shore had scored. We should have liked to have fired another shot, but by the time the laughter had subsided we were out of range. We did not expect to be on the way more than three or four hours, as the distance was only about twenty-four miles; but we did not reach Thurso until late in the afternoon, and we should have been later if we had had a less skilful skipper. In the first place we had an unfavourable wind, which prevented our sailing by the Hoy Sound, the shortest and orthodox route, and this caused us to miss the proper sea view of the "Old Man of Hoy," which the steamboat from Stromness to Thurso always passed in close proximity, but we could perceive it in the distance as an insular Pillar of Rock, standing 450 feet high with rocks in vicinity rising 1,000 feet, although we could not see the arch beneath, which gives it the appearance of standing on two legs, and hence the name given to the rock by the sailors. The Orcadean poet writes: See Hoy's Old Man whose summit bare Pierces the dark blue fields of air; Based in the sea, his fearful form Glooms like the spirit of the storm. [Illustration: "OLD MAN OF HOY."] When pointing out the Old Man to us, the captain said that he stood in the roughest bit of sea round the British coast, and the words "wind and weather permitting" were very applicable when stoppages wore contemplated at the Old Man or other places in these stormy seas. We had therefore to sail by way of Lang Hope, which we supposed was a longer route, and we were astonished at the way our captain handled his boat; but when we reached what we thought was Lang Hope, he informed the passengers that he intended to anchor here for some time, and those who wished could be ferried ashore. We had decided to remain on the boat, but when the captain said there was an inn there where refreshments could be obtained, my brother declared that he felt quite hungry, and insisted upon our having a second breakfast. We were therefore rowed ashore, and were ushered into the parlour of the inn as if we were the lords of the manor and sole owners, and were very hospitably received and entertained. The inn was appropriately named the "Ship," and the treatment we received was such as made us wish we were making a longer stay, but time and tide wait for no man. For the next inn he spurs amain, In haste alights, and scuds away-- But time and tide for no man stay. [Illustration: THE SHIP INN, LANG HOPE. The sign has now been removed to a new hotel, visible in the photograph, on the opposite side of the ferry.] Whether it was for time or tide or for one of those mysterious movements in the Pentland Firth that our one-masted boat was waiting we never knew. We had only just finished our breakfast when a messenger appeared to summon us to rejoin the sloop, which had to tack considerably before we reached what the skipper described as the Scrabster Roads. A stiff breeze had now sprung up, and there was a strong current in the sea; at each turn or tack our boat appeared to be sailing on her side, and we were apprehensive that she might be blown over into the sea. We watched the operations carefully and anxiously, and it soon became evident that what our skipper did not know about the navigation of these stormy seas was not worth knowing. We stood quite near him (and the mast) the whole of the time, and he pointed out every interesting landmark as it came in sight. He seemed to be taking advantage of the shelter afforded by the islands, as occasionally we came quite near their rocky shores, and at one point he showed us a small hole in the rock which was only a few feet above the sea; he told us it formed the entrance to a cave in which he had often played when, as a boy, he lived on that island. [Illustration: DUNNET HEAD AND LIGHTHOUSE.] The time had now arrived to cross the Pentland Firth and to sail round Dunnet Head to reach Thurso. Fortunately the day was fine, and the strong breeze was nothing in the shape of a storm; but in spite of these favourable conditions we got a tossing, and no mistake! Our little ship was knocked about like a cork on the waters, which were absolutely boiling and foaming and furiously raging without any perceptible cause, and as if a gale were blowing on them two ways at once. The appearance of the foaming mass of waters was terrible to behold; we could hear them roaring and see them struggling together just below us; the deck of the sloop was only a few feet above them, and it appeared as if we might be swallowed up at any moment. The captain told us that this turmoil was caused by the meeting of the waters of two seas, and that at times it was very dangerous to small boats. Many years ago he was passing through the Firth with his boat on a rather stormy day, when he noticed he was being followed by another boat belonging to a neighbour of his. He could see it distinctly from time to time, and he was sure that it could not be more than 200 yards away, when he suddenly missed it. He watched anxiously for some time, but it failed to reappear, nor was the boat or its crew ever seen or heard of again, and it was supposed to have been carried down by a whirlpool! We were never more thankful than when we got safely across those awful waters and the great waves we encountered off Dunnet Head, and when we were safely landed near Thurso we did not forget the skipper, but bade him a friendly and, to him, lucrative farewell. We had some distance to walk before reaching the town where, loaded with our luggage and carrying the large basket between us, each taking hold of one of the well-worn handles, we attracted considerable attention, and almost every one we saw showed a disposition to see what we were carrying in our hamper; but when they discovered it was empty, their curiosity was turned into another channel, and they must see where we were taking it; so by the time we reached the house recommended by our skipper for good lodgings we had a considerable following of "lookers on." Fortunately, however, no one attempted to add to our burden by placing anything in the empty basket or we should have been tempted to carry it bottom upwards like an inmate of one of the asylums in Lancashire. A new addition was being built in the grounds, and some of the lunatics were assisting in the building operations, when the foreman discovered one of them pushing his wheelbarrow with the bottom upwards and called out to him, "Why don't you wheel it the right way up?" "I did," said the lunatic solemnly, "but they put bricks in it!" We felt that some explanation was due to our landlady, who smiled when she saw the comical nature of that part of our luggage and the motley group who had followed us, and as we unfolded its history and described the dearth of willows in the Orkneys, the price we had paid, the difficulties in finding the hamper, and the care we had taken of it when crossing the stormy seas, we could see her smile gradually expanding into a laugh that she could retain no longer when she told us we could have got a better and a cheaper basket than that in the "toon," meaning Thurso, of course. It was some time before we recovered ourselves, laughter being contagious, and we could hear roars of it at the rear of the house as our antiquated basket was being stored there. After tea we crossed the river which, like the town, is named Thurso, the word, we were informed, meaning Thor's House. Thor, the god of thunder, was the second greatest of the Scandinavian deities, while his father, Odin, the god of war, was the first. We had some difficulty in crossing the river, as we had to pass over it by no less than eighty-five stepping-stones, several of which were slightly submerged. Here we came in sight of Thurso Castle, the residence of the Sinclair family, one of whom, Sir John Sinclair, was the talented author of the famous _Statistical Account of Scotland_, and a little farther on stood Harold's Tower. This tower was erected by John Sinclair over the tomb of Earl Harold, the possessor at one time of one half of Orkney, Shetland, and Caithness, who fell in battle against his own namesake, Earl Harold the Wicked, in 1190. In the opposite direction was Scrabster and its castle, the scene of the horrible murder of John, Earl of Caithness, in the twelfth century, "whose tongue was cut from his throat and whose eyes were put out." We did not go there, but went into the town, and there witnessed the departure of the stage, or mail coach, which was just setting out on its journey of eighty miles, for railways had not yet made their appearance in Caithness, the most northerly county in Scotland. We then went to buy another hamper, and got a much better one for less money than we paid at Stromness, for we had agreed that we would send home two hampers filled with shells instead of one. We also inquired the best way of getting to John o' Groat's, and were informed that the Wick coach would take us the first six miles, and then we should have to walk the remaining fifteen. We were now only one day's journey to the end and also from the beginning of our journey, and, as may easily be imagined, we were anxiously looking forward to the morrow. _Friday, September 15th._ At eight o'clock in the morning we were comfortably seated in the coach which was bound for Wick, with our luggage and the two hampers safely secured on the roof above, and after a ride of about six miles we were left, with our belongings, at the side of the highway where the by-road leading in the direction of John o' Groat's branched off to the left across the open country. The object of our walk had become known to our fellow-passengers, and they all wished us a pleasant journey as the coach moved slowly away. Two other men who had friends in the coach also alighted at the same place, and we joined them in waving adieux, which were acknowledged from the coach, as long as it remained in sight. They also very kindly assisted us to carry our luggage as far as they were going on our way, and then they helped us to scheme how best to carry it ourselves. We had brought some strong cord with us from Thurso, and with the aid of this they contrived to sling the hampers over our shoulders, leaving us free to carry the remainder of our luggage in the usual way, and then, bidding us a friendly farewell, left us to continue on our lonely way towards John o' Groat's. We must have presented an extraordinary appearance with these large baskets extending behind our backs, and we created great curiosity and some amusement amongst the men, women, and children who were hard at work harvesting in the country through which we passed. My brother said it reminded him of Christian in John Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_, who carried the burden on his back and wanted to get rid of it; while I thought of Sinbad the Sailor, who, when wrecked on a desert island, was compelled to carry the Old Man of the Sea on his shoulders, and he also wanted to get rid of his burden; but we agreed that, like both of these worthy characters, we should be obliged to carry our burdens to the end of the journey. We had a fine view of Dunnet Head, which is said to be the Cape Orcas mentioned by Diodorus Siculus, the geographer who lived in the time of Julius Cæsar, and of the lighthouse which had been built on the top of it in 1832, standing quite near the edge of the cliff. The light from the lantern, which was 346 feet above the highest spring tide, could be seen at a distance of 23 miles; but even this was sometimes obscured by the heavy storms from the west when the enormous billows from the Atlantic dashed against the rugged face of the cliff and threw up the spray as high as the lights of the building itself, so that the stones they contained have been known to break the glass in the building; such, indeed, was the prodigious combined force of the wind and sea upon the headland, that the very rock seemed to tremble as if it were affected by an earthquake. While on the coach we had passed the hamlets of Murkle and Castlehill. Between these two places was a sandy pool on the seashore to which a curious legend was attached. The story goes that-- a young lad on one occasion discovered a mermaid bathing and by some means or other got into conversation with her and rendered himself so agreeable that a regular meeting at the same spot took place between them. This continued for some time. The young man grew exceedingly wealthy, and no one could tell how he became possessed of such riches. He began to cut a dash amongst the lasses, making them presents of strings of diamonds of vast value, the gifts of the fair sea nymph. By and by he began to forget the day of his appointment; and when he did come to see her, money and jewels were his constant request. The mermaid lectured him pretty sharply on his love of gold, and, exasperated at his perfidy in bestowing her presents on his earthly fair ones, enticed him one evening rather farther than usual, and at length showed him a beautiful boat, in which she said she would convey him to a cave in Darwick Head, where she had all the wealth of all the ships that ever were lost in the Pentland Firth and on the sands of Dunnet. He hesitated at first, but the love of gold prevailed, and off they set to the cave in question. And here, says the legend, he is confined with a chain of gold, sufficiently long to admit of his walking at times on a small piece of sand under the western side of the Head; and here, too, the fair siren laves herself in the tiny waves on fine summer evenings, but no consideration will induce her to loose his fetters of gold, or trust him one hour out of her sight. We walked on at a good pace and in high spirits, but, after having knocked about for nine days and four nights and having travelled seven or eight hundred miles by land and sea, the weight of our extra burden began to tell upon us, and we felt rather tired and longed for a rest both for mind and body in some quiet spot over the week's end, especially as we had decided to begin our long walk on the Monday morning. Visions of a good hotel which we felt sure we should find at John o' Groat's began to haunt us, and the more hungry we became the brighter were our anticipations of the good fare that awaited us. But judge of our surprise and disappointment when a man whom we met on the road told us there was no hotel there at all! We asked if he thought we could get lodgings at John o' Groat's House itself, but the sardonic grin that spread over his features when he told us that that house had vanished long ago was cruel. The information gave us quite a shock, and our spirits seemed to fall below zero as we turned our backs on the man without even thanking him for answering our questions. We felt not too full, but too empty for words, as we were awfully hungry, and I heard my brother murmur something that sounded very like "Liar"; but the man's information turned out to be perfectly correct. Our luggage also began to feel heavier, and the country gradually became more wild and desolate. Our spirits revived a little when a fisherman told us of a small inn that we should reach a mile or two before coming to John o' Groat's. We thought we had surely come to the end of everywhere when we reached the "Huna Inn," for it stood some distance from any other house and at the extreme end of an old lane that terminated at the sea. It was a small, primitive structure, but it was now our only hope, as far as we knew, for obtaining lodgings, and we could scarcely restrain our delight when we were told we could be accommodated there until Monday morning. It was an intense relief to us to be separated from our cumbersome luggage, and we must say that Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie did all in their power to make us comfortable and happy and to make us feel at home. We contented ourselves with some light refreshments which to some non-pedestrians might have appeared decidedly heavy, and then decided to see all that remained of John o' Groat's House. Walking along the beach for about a mile and a half, the distance we were told that separated the ruins from the inn, we failed to find them, and were about to return when we met a shepherd who said we had already passed them. We therefore returned with him, as he told us he was going to the inn, and he showed us a few mounds of earth covered with grass which marked the site of the foundations of John o' Groat's House, but the stones had been removed to build a storehouse, or granary, at a place he pointed out in the distance. We were rather disappointed, as we expected to find some extensive remains, and, seeing they were so very scanty, we wondered why, in a land where stones were so plentiful, some monument or inscribed stone had not been erected to mark the site where this remarkable house once stood, as, in the absence of some one to direct them, strangers, like ourselves, might pass and repass these remains without noticing them. We were not long in reaching the inn, for the shepherd was a big man and took very long strides, and here we wrote a few short letters to our friends to advise them of our safe arrival at John o' Groat's, afterwards walking to the post office about a mile away to post them, and ordering a high tea to be ready for us on our return. It was half-past eight when we finished our tea, after which we were conducted to a little room close to the sea, with two tiny windows in it, one of them without a blind, and with a peat or turf fire burning brightly on the hearth. Mrs. Mackenzie then brought us a small candle, which she lighted, and handed us a book which she said was the "Album," and we amused ourselves with looking over this for the remainder of the evening. It was quite a large volume, dating from the year 1839, and the following official account of the Groat family, headed with a facsimile of the "Groat Arms," was pasted inside the cover: THE CHIEF OF THE RACE OF JOHN O' GROAT IS ALEXANDER G. GROAT, ESQ., ADVOCATE, EDINBURGH. NOTICES OF JOHN O' GROAT'S HOUSE. It is stated in _Sinclair's Statistical Accounts of Scotland_, vol. 8, page 167 and following:--"In the account of Cannisby by the Rev. John Marison, D.D., that in the reign of James the Fourth, King of Scotland, Malcom, Cairn and John de Groat, supposed to have been brothers and originally from Holland, arrived in Caithness from the south of Scotland, bringing with them a letter in Latin by that King recommending him to the countenance and protection of his loving subjects in the County of Caithness." It is stated in _Chambers's Pictures of Scotland_, vol. 2, page 306, "that the foundations or ruins of John o' Groat's House, which is perhaps the most celebrated in the whole world, are still to be seen." Then followed the names and addresses of visitors extending over a period of thirty-three years, many of them having also written remarks in prose, poetry, or doggerel rhyme, so we found plenty of food for thought and some amusement before we got even half way through the volume. Some of these effusions might be described as of more than ordinary merit, and the remainder as good, bad, and indifferent. Those written in foreign languages--and there were many of them--we could neither read nor understand, but they gave us the impression that the fame of John o' Groat's had spread throughout the civilised world. There were many references to Stroma, or the Island of the Current, which we could see in the Pentland Firth about four miles distant, and to the difficulties and danger the visitors had experienced in crossing that "stormy bit of sea" between it and John o' Groat's. But their chief complaint was that, after travelling so far, there was no house for them to see. They had evidently, like ourselves, expected to find a substantial structure, and the farther they had travelled the greater their disappointment would naturally be. One visitor had expressed his disappointment in a verse more forcible than elegant, but true as regarded the stone. I went in a boat To see John o' Groat, The place where his home doth lie; But when I got there, The hill was all bare, And the devil a stone saw I. The following entry also appeared in the Album:-- Elihu Burrit of New Britain, Connecticut, U.S. America, on a walk from Land's End to John o' Groat's, arrived at Huna Inn, upon Monday Sep. 28th, 1863. He visited the site of that famous domicile so celebrated in the world-wide legend for its ingenious construction to promote domestic happiness, and fully realised all he had anticipated in standing on a spot so rich with historical associations and surrounded with such grand and beautiful scenery. He desires also to record his testimony to the hospitality and comfort of the cosy little sea-side Inn, where he was pleasantly housed for the night, and of which he will ever cherish an interesting remembrance. _Saturday, September 16th._ "Now for the shells!" exclaimed my brother, as we awoke early in the morning, for we expected to have a hard day's work before we gathered shells enough to fill our large baskets. So we hurried on with our breakfast, and then, shouldering our hampers, walked quickly along the beach to the place where we had been informed we should find them. When we got there we saw a sight which surely could not have had its parallel in the British Isles, for the beach was white with them for the greater part of two miles. We were greatly astonished, for in some places the beach was so thickly covered that, had we possessed a shovel, we could have filled both our baskets with shells in a very few minutes. We decided therefore to select those best suited to our purpose, and we worked away until we had filled both our hampers. We then carried them one at a time to the "Huna Inn," and arranged with Mr. Mackenzie to have them carefully packed and delivered to the local carrier to be conveyed by road to the steamboat office at Wick, and thence forwarded by water to our home, where we knew their contents would be appreciated for rockery purposes. The whole of our operations were completed by noon, instead of occupying the whole of the day as anticipated, for we had a great advantage in having such an enormous number of shells to select from. Our host told us that farmers occasionally moved them by cart-loads to serve as lime manure on their land. Their accumulation at that particular spot was a mystery which he could not explain beyond the fact that the shells were washed up from the Pentland Firth during the great storms; so we concluded that there must be a land of shell fish in or near that stormy deep, perhaps corresponding with that of the larger fish whose destruction we had seen represented in the Strata of Pomona in the Orkneys. [Illustration: ROCKS AT DUNCANSBAY.] We must not forget to record, however, that amongst the vast number of shells we had turned over we found some of those lovely little shells known as "John o' Groat's buckies," so highly prized by visitors. They were difficult to find, as they were so very small, but we found quite a number, and considered them to be perfect little gems, and so very pretty that we reserved them for special presents to our friends. We afterwards learned that they were known to science as Cyproe Artoca, or European Cowry. * * * * * An interesting account of John o' Groat's House and the shells was written in the year 1698 by the Rev. John Brand, Commissioner of the General Assembly:-- The landing-place was called John o' Groat's House, the northernmost house in Scotland; the man who now liveth in it and keepeth an inn there is called John Grot, who saith his house hath been in the possession of his predecessors of that name for some hundreds of years; which name of Grot is frequent in Caithness. Upon the sand by John Grot's house are found many small pleasant buckies and shells, beautified by diverse colours, which some use to put upon a string as beads, and account much of their rarity. It is also observed of these shells that not one of them can be found altogether like another, and upon the review of the parcel I had I discovered some difference among them which variety renders them the more beautiful. [Illustration: THE STACKS OF DUNCANSBAY.] After our midday dinner had partially digested, for we had eaten rather too much, we started for Duncansbay Head, following the coast line on an up-gradient until we reached the top, which formed the north-eastern extremity of Scotland, and from where we had to start on Monday morning. It was a lonely spot, and we were the only visitors; but we had a lively time there, as the thousands of wild birds whose homes were in the rocks, judging from the loud noises they made as they new about us in endless processions, resented our intrusion into their sacred domain--hovering around us in every direction. Perhaps they were only anxious to ascertain whether we were friends or foes, but we were very much interested in their strange movements. They appeared to be most numerous on and about two or three perpendicular rocks which rose from the sea like pinnacles to a great height. These rocks were named the "Stacks," or the "Boars of Duncansbay," their sides and summits being only accessible to birds, and forming safe resting and nesting-places for them, and on the top of the highest stack the golden-coloured eagles had for ages reared their young. The "Stacks" might once have formed part of the headland or of some adjacent island which had been wasted away by the winds and waves of ages until only these isolated portions remained, and these were worn into all kinds of crevices and fantastic shapes which impressed us with a sense of their great antiquity. We walked along the top of the cliffs, which here presented the appearance of one vast amphitheatre lined with precipices, with small promontories here and there jutting out into the sea resembling fortresses, some of them having the ruins of ancient castles crowning their highest points. We could scarcely bring our minds to realise that these were the very rocks we had seen from the deck of the s.s. _St. Magnus_ only a few days since. We had passed through so many scenes, and had had so many adventures both by night and day since then, that the lapse of time seemed to us to be more like years than days. We retraced our steps to the head, and stood there for some time watching the ships far out at sea, trying to distinguish the _St. Magnus_, as it was just about the time she was again due on her outward journey; but the demands of our hungry insides were again claiming urgent attention, and so we hastened our return to the "Huna Inn." On our way we again encountered the shepherd who had shown us the site of John o' Groat's House, and we invited him to look us up in the evening, as we were anxious to get further information about John and his famous house. "Huna Inn," in spite of its disadvantages, was quite a romantic place to stay at, as it was situated almost on the edge of the boiling torrent of the Pentland Firth, which at times was so stormy that the island of Stroma could not be reached for weeks. The "Swalchie," or whirlpool of Stroma, has been mentioned by many ancient writers, but the most interesting story is that of its origin as given in the old Norse legend headed, "Fenja and Menja," and containing a famous ballad known as the "Grotta Songr," or the "Mill Song," grotta being the Norse for mill, or quern. Odin had a son by name Skjold from whom the Skjoldungs. He had his throne and ruled in the lands that are now called Denmark but were then called Gotland. Skjold had a son by name Fridleif, who ruled the lands after him. Fridleif's son was Frode. He took the kingdom after his father, at the time when the Emperor Augustus established peace in all the earth, and Christ was born. But Frode being the mightiest King in the Northlands, this peace was attributed to him by all who spake the Danish tongue and the Norsemen called it the Peace of Frode. No man injured the other, even though he might meet, loose or in chains, his father's or brother's bane (murderer). There was no thief or robber so that a gold ring would lie a long time on Jalanger's heath. King Frode sent messengers to Sirthjod, to the King whose name was Fjolner, and bought there two maidservants, whose names were Fenja and Menja. They were large and strong. About this time were found in Denmark two millstones so large that no one had the strength to turn them. But the nature belonged to these millstones that they ground whatever was demanded of them by the miller. The name of the mill was Grotte. But the man to whom King Frode gave the mill was called Hengekjapt. King Frode had the maidservants led to the mill and requested them to grind for him gold and peace and Frode's happiness. Then he gave them no longer time to rest or sleep than while the cuckoo was silent or while they sang a song. It is said they sang the song called the "Grotte Song," and before they ended it they ground out a host against Frode, so that on the same night there came the Sea-King whose name was Mysing and slew Frode and took a large amount of booty. Mysing took with him Grotte and also Fenja and Menja and bade them grind salt, and in the middle of the night they asked Mysing whether he did not have salt enough. He bade them grind more. They ground only a short time longer before the ship sank. But in the ocean arose a whirlpool (maelstrom, mill-stream) in the place where the sea runs into the mill-eye: the Swalchie of Stroma. The story "Why is the sea salt?" or "How the sea became salt," has appeared in one form or another among many nations of the world, and naturally appealed strongly to the imagination of the youth of a maritime nation like England. The story as told formerly amongst schoolboys was as follows: Jack had decided to go to sea, but before doing so he went to see his fairy godmother, who had a strange looking old coffee-mill on the mantelshelf in her kitchen. She set the table for tea without anything on it to eat or drink, and then, taking down the old mill, placed it on the table and asked it to grind each article she required. After the tea-pot had been filled, Jack was anxious for something to eat, and said he would like some teacakes, so his fairy godmother said to the mill: "Mill! Mill! grind away. Buttered tea-cakes now I pray!" for she knew Jack liked plenty of butter on his cakes, and out they came from the mill until the plate was well filled, and then she said: "Mill! Mill! rest thee now, Thou hast ground enough I trow," and immediately the mill stopped grinding. When Jack told her he was going away on a ship to sea, his fairy godmother made him a present of the old mill, which he would find useful, as it would grind anything he asked it to; but he must be careful to use the same words that he had heard her speak both in starting and stopping the mill. When he got to the ship, he stored the old mill carefully in his box, and had almost forgotten it when as they neared the country they were bound for the ship ran short of potatoes, so Jack told the Captain he would soon find him some, and ran for his mill, which he placed on the deck of the ship, and said to it: "Mill! Mill! grind away, Let us have some potatoes I pray!" and immediately the potatoes began to roll out of the mill and over the deck, to the great astonishment and delight of the sailors, who had fine fun gathering them up. Then Jack said to the mill: "Mill! Mill! rest thee now, Thou hast ground enough I trow," and immediately the mill ceased grinding. The Captain determined to get the mill from Jack, who would not part with it, and tried to steal it, but did not succeed, and when they reached the port, Jack took the mill ashore with him, and rented a shop that happened to be empty, and had a sign-board placed over it with the words painted in large letters, "All sorts of things supplied here on the shortest notice," and he soon got a pile of money, the last order being one from the King, who wanted clothing for his soldiers in a hurry, as war had broken out unexpectedly. Jack's good fortune was soon heard of by the Captain, and when his ship was ready to sail he contrived to get one of his friends to invite Jack to a party that evening, and then with the help of some of his crew he broke into the shop and stole the old mill. When Jack returned in the morning his mill was gone, and he could just see the sails of the ship far out at sea. But he did not care much, as he had now money enough to keep himself for many years. Meantime the Captain in his hurry to get away had forgotten to bring some things that were wanted, and when he found they had no salt on board, he brought the old mill on deck, and said: "Mill! Mill! grind away Let us have some salt I pray," and immediately the mill began to grind salt at a great speed and presently covered the deck all round where it was working, but the Captain had forgotten the words spoken by Jack when he stopped the mill, and though he used all the words he could think of, the mill kept on grinding, and was rapidly filling every available space on the deck. The Captain then ran to his cabin and brought out his sword, and with a terrific blow he cut the mill in halves; but each piece formed itself into a mill, and both mills continued grinding until the ship sank to the bottom of the sea, where the mills are still grinding in the terrible Swalchie of Stroma, and that is why the water in the sea is salt! There had been a ferry at John o' Groat's years before our visit, and mails and passengers had been carried across the Firth to and from the Orkney Islands, the distance across being shorter from this point than from any other in Scotland; but for some unexplained reason the service had been discontinued, and the presence of the ferry would probably account for so many names being written in the album. The day was already drawing to a close as we sat down to tea and the good things provided by Mrs. Mackenzie, and we were waited upon by a Scotch lassie, who wore neither shoes nor stockings; but this we found was nothing unusual in the north of Scotland in those days. After tea we adjourned to our room, and sat down in front of our peat fire; but our conversational powers soon exhausted themselves, for we felt uncommonly drowsy after having been exposed so long to the open air. We sat there silently watching the curling smoke as it went up the chimney and dreamily gazing into the caverns which had been formed in the fire below, imagining that we could see all kinds of weird objects therein, and then we thought of the times when we should not have been able to rest so securely and comfortably in the "Huna Inn," when one Scottish clan was trying to exterminate another not so far away from where we were then sitting, for no more apparent reason than that the Scots were born soldiers, and if they had no foreigners to fight they must fight among themselves. We must have been nearly asleep when our reveries were interrupted by the entrance of the shepherd, whom for the moment we had entirely forgotten. He had come in response to our invitation to talk with us about things in general, but particularly about John o' Groat, and we were glad to see him, and we now give-- THE SHEPHERD'S STORY John o' Groat was a fisherman belonging to Holland who was caught when at sea in a great storm which damaged his sails so that his boat drifted almost helplessly across the sea. When he came in sight of the Scottish coast he was carried with the current into the Pentland Firth, and as he could not repair the sails in the boat and could not get back to Holland with them in their damaged condition, he decided to land on one of the islands and repair them on shore. His wife was very much opposed to his landing on Stroma, as she thought it was a desert island, so he got his boat across from there to the Scottish coast; but when he attempted to land at Huna, the natives opposed his landing, for they thought he was a pirate. Fortunately for him he had a few kegs of gin in his boat, and when the canny Scots saw these they became more friendly, especially as they had a great respect for Holland's gin, and so they allowed him to land, and even helped him to mend his sails. They afterwards allowed him to settle amongst them on condition that he did not attempt to go into the interior of the country, and that he built his house on the seashore. He got on well amongst his new friends, and in time became their chief and had eight sons, and on one festive occasion, when they all came to see him, they quarrelled as to which should have precedence at his table, so John told them that the next time they came he would have matters so arranged as to avoid that kind of thing in the future. He therefore built an entirely new house with eight sides to it and a door in each, and made a table inside of the same octagonal shape, so that when they came to see him again each of them could enter by his own door and sit at his own head of the table. In reply to our questions the shepherd said he thought this event happened about 350 years ago, but the house had long since disappeared, and only the site of the foundations which he had shown us previously now remained. He also said that heaps of ladies and gentlemen came there to picnic on the site, and he had seen them take even small stones away; but though he had lived there for fifty years, he had never seen John o' Groat's any different from what it was now. We asked him why John did not return to Holland, and he said it was because he had a letter from the king. We thanked the shepherd for his story, and, having suitably rewarded him, bade him farewell and hurried off to bed in the fading light of our rapidly diminishing candle. _Sunday, September 17th._ The strict observance of the Sabbath Day in Scotland was to us a most pleasing feature in Scottish life, and one to which we had been accustomed from early childhood, so we had no desire to depart from it now. We were, therefore, very pleased when Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie invited us to accompany them to the Free Kirk service, and, as half-past ten o'clock was the time fixed for our departure from the inn, we concluded that the kirk could not be far away, as that was the hour that service began in our village church in Cheshire, but we could not remember seeing any kirk in the neighbourhood of the "Huna Inn." We continued walking one mile after another for more than an hour, and must have walked quite four miles before we came in sight of the kirk, and we were then informed that the service did not commence until twelve o'clock! The country through which we passed was very bare, there being a total absence of hedges and trees, so we could see people coming towards the kirk from every direction. Everybody seemed to know everybody else, and, as they came nearer the sacred enclosure, they formed themselves into small groups and stood conversing with each other, chiefly on religious matters, until the minister arrived to take charge of his flock. He was a quaintly dressed and rather elderly man, evidently well known, as he had a nod or a smile of recognition and a friendly word for all. We followed him into the kirk, where we found ourselves in the presence of quite a large congregation, and sat with Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie in their own pew in the rear of the kirk. The form of the service was quite different from that to which we had been accustomed. The congregation stood up while they prayed and sat down while they sang the Psalms, with the exception of one man, who remained standing in what we thought was the clerk's desk immediately below the pulpit. This man acted as leader of the singing, but he failed to get much assistance from the people, and had great difficulty in keeping the singing going. Possibly the failure of the congregational singing might be accounted for by the absence of an organ or other instrument of music to assist and encourage the people to sing, the nearest approach to anything of the kind being the tuning-fork which the conductor held in his hand. There was also the fact that the sitting posture was not the best position for bringing out the powers of the human voice; but we came to the conclusion that music was not looked upon favourably in that remote part of Scotland. In front of the pulpit there was an enclosure, fenced in by the communion rail, and inside this were seated the elders, or deacons of the church. These were very old men with bent heads and white hair, and had the appearance of centenarians; they were indeed the queerest-looking group of old men we had ever seen assembled together. But it was their noses that chiefly attracted our attention, as they were so very long and crooked, and the strange feature about them was that they were all of the same pattern. Their only rival, as far as we could see, in length of nose was the minister, but we thought he had enlarged his by artificial means, as we found to our surprise that he was addicted to snuff-taking, a habit very prevalent in Scotland in those days. Then came the sermon. On the pulpit was the Bible, and beside it a substantial box of snuff, to which the minister resorted occasionally in the course of his long discourse. His pinches must have been considerable, for every sniff lasted from two to three seconds, and could be heard distinctly all over the kirk. This had a tendency to distract our attention from his sermon, which, by the way, was a very good one; but, owing to his rather slow delivery, we experienced a feeling of relief when he reached the end, for it had lasted quite an hour. There was now a slight movement amongst the congregation, which we interpreted as a sign that the service was at an end, and we rose to leave; but, imagine our consternation when our friends told us that what we had listened to was only the first part of the service, and that we must on no account leave, as the second part was to follow immediately. We therefore remained not altogether unwillingly, for we were curious to know what the next service was like. It proved to be almost exactly the same as the first, and we could not distinguish much difference between the two sermons; but we listened attentively, and were convinced that the preacher was a thoroughly conscientious man in spite of his occasional long sniffs of snuff, which were continued as before, but what astonished us was that the old gentleman never once sneezed! It was the most remarkable service we had ever attended, and it concluded exactly at three o'clock, having lasted three hours. We had then to retrace our four-mile walk to "Huna Inn," but the miles seemed rather longer, as Mrs. Mackenzie could only walk in a leisurely manner and we were feeling very hungry. We whiled away the time by talking about the sermons and the snuff, but chiefly about the deacons and their wonderful noses, and why they were all alike and so strangely crooked. Mr. Mackenzie suggested that they were crooked because if they had grown straight they would have projected over their mouths and prevented them from eating, the crook in them being a provision of nature to avoid this; or, they might have descended from the Romans or some other ancient race who had formerly inhabited the coast of that part of Scotland. Books had been written and sermons preached about noses, and the longer the nose the greater the intellect of the owner was supposed to be. We told our host that there was only one-sixteenth part of an inch between the length of Napoleon's nose and that of Wellington's. We had forgotten which was the longer, but as Wellington's was so conspicuous that he was nicknamed "Nosey" by his troops, and as he had won the great battle of Waterloo, we concluded that it was his, and gave him the benefit of the doubt. We quoted the following lines: Knows he, that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence that flows? Knows he the titillating joy Which my nose knows? O Nose, I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows; I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows. Our host confided to us the reason why he was so anxious that we should not leave in the middle of the service. The second service was originally intended for those who had to come long distances to reach the kirk, some of whom came from a place seven miles away, but in late years the two services had become continuous. A few Sundays before our visit some persons had left the kirk at the end of the first part, and in his second sermon the minister had plainly described them as followers of the Devil! so we supposed our host was anxious that we should not be denounced in the same way. We found our tea-dinner waiting our arrival at the inn. We sat down to it at half-past four, and, as we rose from what was left of it at five o'clock, having worked hard meanwhile, we may safely be credited with having done our duty. We had a walk with our host along the shore, and had not proceeded far before we saw a dark-looking object some distance away in the sea. We thought it looked like a man in a boat, rising and falling with the waves, but Mr. Mackenzie told us that it was two whales following the herrings that were travelling in shoals round the coasts. We were very much interested in their strange movements, as they were the only whales we ever saw alive, but we could not help feeling sorry for the fish. Evening was coming on as we re-entered "Huna Inn," and when we were again seated before our turf fire, joined by our host and hostess, our conversation was chiefly on the adventures we had already had, the great walk we were to begin on the morrow, and the pleasure it had given us to see the manifest and steadfast determination of the people at the kirk to observe the Commandment of the God of the Sabbath, "REMEMBER THAT THOU KEEP HOLY THE SABBATH DAY." We wondered how much the prosperity of the Scottish nation and its representatives in every part of the "wide, wide world" was attributable to their strict observance of the Sabbath. Who knows? WE BEGIN OUR JOURNEY _Monday, September 18th._ We rose early and walked along the beach to Duncansbay Head, or Rongisby as the old maps have it, gathering a few of those charming little shells called John o'Groat Buckies by the way. After walking round the site of John o'Groat's house, we returned to our comfortable quarters at the Huna Inn for breakfast. John o'Groat seems to have acted with more wisdom than many entrusted with the affairs of a nation. When his sons quarrelled for precedence at his table, he consoled them with the promise that when the next family gathering took place the matter should be settled to the satisfaction of all. During the interval he built a house having eight sides, each with a door and window, with an octagonal table in the centre so that each of his eight sons could enter at his own door and sit at his own side or "head" of the table. By this arrangement--which reminded us of King Arthur's use of his round table--he dispelled the animosity which previously prevailed. After breakfast, and in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, we made an entry in the famous Album with name and address, object of journey, and exact time of departure, and they promised to reserve a space beneath the entry to record the result, which was to be posted to them immediately we reached our journey's end. [Illustration: JOHN O'GROAT'S HOUSE.] It was about half-past ten o'clock when we started on our long walk along a circuitous and unknown route from John o'Groat's to Land's End. Our host and hostess stood watching our departure and waving adieux until we disappeared in the distance. We were in high spirits, and soon reached the junction of roads where we turned to the left towards Wick. The first part of our walk was through the Parish of Canisbay, in the ancient records of which some reference is made to the more recent representatives of the Groat family, but as these were made two hundred years ago, they were now almost illegible. Our road lay through a wild moorland district with a few farms and cottages here and there, mainly occupied by fishermen. There were no fences to the fields or roads, and no bushes or trees, and the cattle were either herded or tied to stakes. After passing through Canisbay, we arrived at the most northerly house in the Parish of Wick, formerly a public-house, and recognised as the half-way house between Wick and John o'Groat's. We found it occupied as a farm by Mr. John Nicolson, and here we saw the skeleton of a whale doing duty as a garden fence. The dead whale, seventy feet in length, had been found drifting in the sea, and had been hauled ashore by the fishermen. Mr. Nicolson had an ingenious son, who showed us a working sun-dial in the garden in front of the house which he had constructed out of a portion of the backbone, and in the same bone he had also formed a curious contrivance by which he could tell the day of the month. He told us he was the only man that studied painting in the North, and invited us into the house, wherein several rooms he showed us some of his paintings, which were really excellent considering they were executed in ordinary wall paint. His mother informed us that he began to study drawing when he was ill with a slow fever, but not bed-fast. Two of the pictures, that of an old bachelor and a Scotch lassie, a servant, were very good indeed. We also saw a picture of an old woman, a local celebrity, about a hundred years old, which was considered to be an excellent likeness, and showed the old lady's eyes so sunk in her head as to be scarcely visible. We considered that we had here found one of Nature's artists, who would probably have made a name for himself if given the advantages so many have who lack the ability, for he certainly possessed both the imaginative faculty and no small degree of dexterity in execution. He pointed out to us the house of a farmer over the way who slept in the Parish of Wick and took his meals in that of Canisbay, the boundary being marked by a chimney in the centre of the roof. He also informed us that his brother accompanied Elihu Burritt, the American blacksmith, for some distance when he walked from London to John o'Groat's. We were now about eleven miles from Wick, and as Mr. Nicolson told us of an old castle we had missed, we turned back across the moors for about a mile and a half to view it. He warned us that we might see a man belonging to the neighbourhood who was partly insane, and who, roaming amongst the castle ruins, usually ran straight towards any strangers as if to do them injury; but if we met him we must not be afraid, as he was perfectly harmless. We had no desire to meet a madman, and luckily, although we kept a sharp look-out, we did not see him. We found the ruined castle resting on a rock overlooking the sea with the rolling waves dashing on its base below; it was connected with the mainland by a very narrow strip broken through in one place, and formerly crossed by a drawbridge. As this was no longer available, it was somewhat difficult to scale the embankment opposite; still we scrambled up and passed triumphantly through the archway into the ruins, not meeting with that resistance we fancied we should have done in the days of its daring owner. A portion only of the tower remained, as the other part had fallen about two years before our visit. The castle, so tradition stated, had been built about the year 1100 by one Buchollie, a famous pirate, who owned also another castle somewhere in the Orkneys. How men could carry on such an unholy occupation amidst such dangerous surroundings was a mystery to us. [Illustration: MR. NICOLSON'S HOME, SHOWING THE ARCH OF WHALE'S JAW.] On our return we again saw our friend Mr. Nicolson, who told us there were quite a number of castles in Caithness, as well as Pictish forts and Druidical circles, a large proportion of the castles lying along the coast we were traversing. He gave us the names of some of them, and told us that they materially enhanced the beauty of this rock-bound coast. He also described to us a point of the coast near Ackergill, which we should pass, where the rocks formed a remarkably perfect profile of the Great Duke of Wellington, though others spoke of it as a black giant. It could only be seen from the sea, but was marvellously correct and life-like, and of gigantic proportions. Acting on Mr. Nicolson's instructions, we proceeded along the beach to Keiss Castle, and ascended to its second storey by means of a rustic ladder. It was apparently of a more recent date than Buchollie, and a greater portion of it remained standing. A little to the west of it we saw another and more modern castle, one of the seats of the Duke of Portland, who, we were told, had never yet visited it. Before reaching the village of Keiss, we came to a small quay, where we stayed a short time watching the fishermen getting their smacks ready before sailing out to sea, and then we adjourned to the village inn, where we were provided with a first-class tea, for which we were quite ready. The people at the inn evidently did not think their business inconsistent with religion, for on the walls of the apartment where we had our tea were hanging two pictures of a religious character, and a motto "Offer unto God thanksgiving," and between them a framed advertisement of "Edinburgh Ales"! After tea we continued our journey until we came to the last house in the village of Keiss, a small cottage on the left-hand side of the road, and here we called to inspect a model of John o'Groat's house, which had been built by a local stonemason, and exhibited at the great Exhibition in London in 1862. Its skilful builder became insane soon after he had finished it, and shortly afterwards died. It was quite a palatial model and much more handsome than its supposed original was ever likely to have been. It had eight doors with eight flights of steps leading up to them, and above were eight towers with watchmen on them, and inside the house was a table with eight sides made from wood said to have been from the original table in the house of Groat, and procured from one of his descendants. The model was accompanied by a ground plan and a print of the elevation taken from a photo by a local artist. There was no charge for admission or for looking at the model, but a donation left with the fatherless family was thankfully received. We now walked for miles along the seashore over huge sand-hills with fine views of the herring-boats putting out to sea. We counted fifty-six in one fleet, and the number would have been far greater had not Noss Head intervened to obstruct our view, as many more went out that night from Wick, although the herring season was now nearly over. We passed Ackergill Tower, the residence of Sir George Dunbar, and about two miles farther on we came to two old castles quite near to each other, which were formerly the strongholds of the Earls of Caithness. They were named Girnigoe and Sinclair. Girnigoe was the oldest, and under the ruins of the keep was a dismal dungeon. It was now getting dark, and not the pleasantest time to view old castles surrounded by black rocks with the moan of the sea as it invaded the chasms of the rocks on which they stood. Amongst these lonely ruins we spoke of the past, for had our visit been three centuries earlier, the dismal sounds from the sea below would have mingled with those from the unfortunate young man chained up in that loathsome dungeon, whose only light came from a small hole high up in the wall. Such was John, Master of Caithness, the eldest son of the fifth Sinclair, Earl of Caithness, who is said to have been imprisoned here because he had wooed and won the affections of the daughter of a neighbouring laird, marked out by his father, at that time a widower, for himself. He was confined in that old dungeon for more than six long years before death released him from his inhuman parent. During his imprisonment John had three keepers appointed over him--Murdoch Roy and two brothers named Ingram and David Sinclair. Roy attended him regularly, and did all the menial work, as the other two keepers were kinsmen of the earl, his father, who had imprisoned him. Roy was sorry for the unfortunate nobleman, and arranged a plot to set him at liberty, which was unfortunately discovered by John's brother William, who bore him no good will. William told his father, the earl, who immediately ordered Roy to be executed. The poor wretch was accordingly brought out and hanged on the common gibbet of the castle without a moment being allowed him to prepare for his final account. Soon afterwards, in order to avenge the death of Roy, John, who was a man of great bodily strength and whose bad usage and long imprisonment had affected his mind, managed to seize his brother William on the occasion of his visit to the dungeon and strangle him. This only deepened the earl's antipathy towards his unhappy son, and his keepers were encouraged to put him to death. The plan adopted was such as could only have entered the imagination of fiends, for they withheld food from their prisoner for the space of five days, and then set before him a piece of salt beef of which he ate voraciously. Soon after, when he called for water, they refused to give him any, and he died of raging thirst. Another account said they gave him brandy, of which he drank so copiously that he died raving mad. In any case, there is no doubt whatever that he was barbarously done to death. [Illustration: GIRNIGOE CASTLE.] Every castle along the seacoast had some story of cruelty connected with it, but the story of Girnigoe was perhaps the worst of all, and we were glad to get away from a place with such dismal associations. About a hundred years after this sad event the Clan of the Campbells of Glenorchy declared war on the Sinclairs of Keiss, and marched into Caithness to meet them; but the Sinclairs instead of going out to meet them at the Ord of Caithness, a naturally fortified position, stayed at home, and the Campbells took up a strong position at Altimarloch, about two miles from Wick. The Sinclairs spent the night before the battle drinking and carousing, and then attacked the Campbells in the strong position they had taken up, with the result that the Sinclairs were routed and many of them perished. They meet, they close in deadly strife, But brief the bloody fray; Before the Campbells' furious charge The Caithness ranks give way. The shrieking mother wrung her hands, The maiden tore her hair, And all was lamentation loud, And terror, and despair. It was commonly said that the well-known quicksteps, "The Campbells are coming" and the "Braes of Glenorchy" obtained their names from this raid. The Sinclairs of Keiss were a powerful and warlike family, and they soon regained their position. It was a pleasing contrast to note that in 1765 Sir William Sinclair of Keiss had laid aside his sword, embracing the views held by the Baptists, and after being baptized in London became the founder of that denomination in Caithness and a well-known preacher and writer of hymns. In his younger days he was in the army, where he earned fame as an expert swordsman, his fame in that respect spreading throughout the countryside. Years after he had retired from the service, while sitting in his study one forenoon intently perusing a religious work, his valet announced the arrival of a stranger who wished to see him. The servant was ordered to show him into the apartment, and in stalked a strong muscular-looking man with a formidable Andrea Ferrara sword hanging by his side, and, making a low obeisance, he thus addressed the knight: "Sir William, I hope you will pardon my intrusion. I am a native of England and a professional swordsman. In the course of my travels through Scotland, I have not yet met with a gentleman able to cope with me in the noble science of swordsmanship. Since I came to Caithness I have heard that you are an adept with my favourite weapon, and I have called to see if you would do me the honour to exchange a few passes with me just in the way of testing our respective abilities." Sir William was both amused and astonished at this extraordinary request, and replied that he had long ago thrown aside the sword, and, except in case of necessity, never intended to use it any more. But the stranger would take no denial, and earnestly insisted that he would favour him with a proof of his skill. "Very well," said Sir William, "to please you I shall do so," and, rising and fetching his sword, he desired the stranger, who was an ugly-looking fellow, to draw and defend himself. After a pass or two Sir William, with a dexterous stroke, cut off a button from the vest of his opponent. "Will that satisfy you," inquired Sir William; "or shall I go a little deeper and draw blood?" "Oh, I am perfectly satisfied," said the other. "I find I have for once met a gentleman who knows how to handle his sword." In about half a mile after leaving the ruins of these old castles we saw the Noss Head Lighthouse, with its powerful light already flashing over the darkening seas, and we decided to visit it. We had to scale several fences, and when we got there we found we had arrived long after the authorised hours for the admission of visitors. We had therefore some difficulty in gaining an entrance, as the man whose attention we had attracted did not at first understand why we could not come again the next day. When we explained the nature of our journey, he kindly admitted us through the gate. The lighthouse and its surroundings were scrupulously clean, and if we had been Her Majesty's Inspectors of Lighthouses, if such there be, we could not have done otherwise than report favourably of our visit. The attendants were very kind to us, one of them accompanying us to the top, and as the lighthouse was 175 feet high, we had a great number of steps to climb. We had never seen the interior of a lighthouse before, and were greatly interested in the wonderful mechanism by which the flashlight was worked. We were much impressed by the incalculable value of these national institutions, especially in such dangerous positions as we knew from experience prevailed on those stormy coasts. We were highly delighted with our novel adventure, and, after regaining the entrance, we walked briskly away; but it was quite dark before we had covered the three miles that separated the lighthouse from the fishery town of Wick. Here we procured suitable lodgings, and then hurried to the post office for the letters that waited us, which we were delighted to read, for it seemed ages since we left home. (_Distance walked twenty-five miles_.) [Illustration: NOSS HEAD LIGHTHOUSE.] _Tuesday, September 19th._ We had our first experience of a herring breakfast, and were surprised to find how delicious they tasted when absolutely fresh. There was an old proverb in Wick: "When the herrings come in, the doctors go out!" which may indicate that these fish had some medicinal value; but more likely the saying referred to the period of plenty following that of want and starvation. We went down to the quay and had a talk with some of the fishermen whom we met returning from their midnight labours. They told us they had not caught many herrings that night, but that the season generally had been a good one, and they would have money enough to support themselves through the coming winter. There were about nine hundred boats in the district, and sometimes over a thousand, all employed in the fishing industry; each boat was worked by four men and one boy, using nets 850 yards long. The herrings appeared about the second week in August and remained until the end of September, but the whales swallowed barrels of them at one "jow." We called at the steamboat depot and found that our hampers of shells had already arrived, and would be sent forward on the _St. Magnus_; next we went to get our hair and beards trimmed by the Wick barber. He was a curious old gentleman and quite an orator, and even at that early hour had one customer in hand while another was waiting to be shaved, so we had of course to wait our turn. The man who was waiting began to express his impatience in rather strong language, but the barber was quite equal to the occasion, and in the course of a long and eloquent oration, while he was engaged with the customer he had in hand, he told him that when he came into a barber's shop he should have the calmness of mind to look quietly around and note the sublimity of the place, which ought to be sufficient to enable him to overcome such signs of impatience as he had exhibited. We were quite sure that the barber's customer did not understand one-half the big words addressed to him, but they had the desired effect, and he waited patiently until his turn came to be shaved. He was a dark-complexioned seafaring man, and had evidently just returned from a long sea voyage, as the beard on his chin was more like the bristles on a blacking-brush, and the operation of removing them more like mowing than shaving. When completed, the barber held out his hand for payment. The usual charge must have been a penny, for that was the coin he placed in the barber's hand. But it was now the barber's turn. Drawing himself up to his full height, with a dignified but scornful expression on his face, he pointed with his razor to the penny he held in his other hand, which remained open, and exclaimed fiercely, "This! for a month's shave!" Another penny was immediately added, and his impatient customer quickly and quietly departed. It was now our turn for beard and hair trimming, but we had been so much amused at some of the words used by the barber that, had it not been for his awe-inspiring look, the scissors he now held in his hand, and the razors that were so near to us, we should have failed to suppress our laughter. The fact was that the shop was the smallest barber's establishment we had ever patronised, and the dingiest-looking little place imaginable, the only light being from a very small window at the back of the shop. To apply the words sublime and sublimity to a place like this was ludicrous in the extreme. It was before this window that we sat while our hair was being cut; but as only one side of the head could be operated upon at once, owing to the scanty light, we had to sit before it sideways, and then to reverse our position. We have heard it said that every man's hair has a stronger growth on one side of his head than the other, but whether this barber left more hair on the strong side or not we did not know. In any case, the difference between the two sides, both of hair and beard, after the barber's operation was very noticeable. The only sublime thing about the shop was the barber himself, and possibly he thought of himself when speaking of its sublimity. He was a well-known character in Wick, and if his lot had been cast in a more expansive neighbourhood he might have filled a much higher position. He impressed us very much, and had we visited Wick again we should certainly have paid him a complimentary visit. We then purchased a few prints of the neighbourhood at Mr. Johnston's shop, and were given some information concerning the herring industry. It appeared that this industry was formerly in the hands of the Dutch, who exploited the British coasts as well as their own, for the log of the _Dutillet_, the ship which brought Prince Charles Edward to Scotland in 1745, records that on August 25th it joined two Dutch men-of-war and a fleet of herring craft off Rongisby. [Illustration: OLD MAN OF WICK.] In the early part of the fourteenth century there arose a large demand for this kind of fish by Roman Catholics both in the British Isles and on the Continent. The fish deserted the Baltic and new herring fields were sought, while it became necessary to find some method of preserving them. The art of curing herrings was discovered by a Dutchman named Baukel. Such was the importance attached to this discovery that the Emperor Charles V caused a costly memorial to be erected over his grave at Biervlet. The trade remained in the hands of the Dutch for a long time, and the cured herrings were chiefly shipped to Stettin, and thence to Spain and other Roman Catholic countries, large profits being made. In 1749, however, a British Fishery Society was established, and a bounty of £50 offered on every ton of herrings caught. In 1803 an expert Dutchman was employed to superintend the growing industry, and from 1830 Wick took the lead in the herring industry, which in a few years' time extended all round the coasts, the piles of herring-barrels along the quay at Wick making a sight worth seeing. We had not gone far when we turned aside to visit the ruins of Wick Castle, which had been named by the sailors "The Auld Man o'Wick." It was built like most of the others we had seen, on a small promontory protected by the sea on three sides, but there were two crevices in the rock up which the sea was rushing with terrific force. The rock on which its foundations rested we estimated to be about 150 feet high, and there was only a narrow strip of land connecting it with the mainland. The solitary tower that remained standing was about fifty feet high, and apparently broader at the top than at the bottom, being about ten or twelve yards in length and breadth, with the walls six or seven feet thick. The roar of the water was like the sound of distant thunder, lending a melancholy charm to the scene. It was from here that we obtained our first land view of those strange-looking hills in Caithness called by the sailors, from their resemblance to the breasts of a maiden, the Maiden's Paps. An old man directed us the way to Lybster by what he called the King's Highway, and looking back from this point we had a fine view of the town of Wick and its surroundings. Taught by past experience, we had provided ourselves with a specially constructed apparatus for tea-making, with a flask to fit inside to carry milk, and this we used many times during our journey through the Highlands of Scotland. We also carried a reserve stock of provisions, since we were often likely to be far away from any human habitation. To-day was the first time we had occasion to make use of it, and we had our lunch not in the room of an inn, but sitting amongst the heather under the broad blue canopy of heaven. It was a gloriously fine day, but not a forerunner of a fine day on the morrow, as after events showed. We had purchased six eggs at a farmhouse, for which we were only charged fourpence, and with a half-pound of honey and an enormous oatmeal cake--real Scotch--we had a jovial little picnic and did not fare badly. We had many a laugh at the self-satisfied sublimity of our friend the barber, but the sublimity here was real, surrounded as we were by magnificent views of the distant hills, and through the clear air we could see the mountains on the other side of the Moray Firth probably fifty miles distant. Our road was very hilly, and devoid of fences or trees or other objects to obstruct our view, so much so that at one point we could see two milestones, the second before we reached the first. We passed Loch Hempriggs on the right of our road, with Iresgoe and its Needle on the seacoast to the left, also an old ruin which we were informed was a "tulloch," but we did not know the meaning of the word. After passing the tenth milestone from Wick, we went to look at an ancient burial-ground which stood by the seaside about a field's breadth from our road. The majority of the gravestones were very old, and whatever inscriptions they ever had were now worn away by age and weather; some were overgrown with grass and nettles, while in contrast to these stood some modern stones of polished granite. The inscriptions on these stones were worded differently from those places farther south. The familiar words "Sacred to the memory of" did not appear, and the phrasing appeared rather in the nature of a testimonial to the benevolence of the bereft. We copied two of the inscriptions: ERECTED BY ROBERT WALLACE, MERCHANT, LYBSTER, TO THE MEMORY OF HIS SPOUSE CHARLLOT SIMPSON WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE NOV. 21 1845 AGED 30 YEARS. _Lovely in Life_. PLACED BY JOHN SUTHERLAND, FISHERMAN, LYBSTER, IN MEMORY OF HIS WIFE WILLIAMINIA POLSON WHO DIED 28TH MAY 1867 AGED 29 YEARS. _At Death still lovely_. In the yard we noticed a large number of loose stones and the remains of a wall which we supposed had been part of the kirk. The name of the village near here was Mid Clyth, and the ruins those of an old Roman Catholic chapel last used about four hundred years ago. Several attempts had been made to obtain power to remove the surplus stones, but our informant stated that although they had only about a dozen Romanists in the county, they were strong enough to prevent this being done, and it was the only burial-ground between there and Wick. He also told us that there were a thousand volunteers in Caithness. [Illustration: THE NEEDLE OF IRESGOE.] The people in the North of Caithness in directing us on our way did not tell us to turn to right or left, but towards the points of the compass--say to the east or the west as the case might be, and then turn south for a given number of chains. This kind of information rather puzzled us, as we had no compass, nor did we know the length of a chain. It seemed to point back to a time when there were no roads at all in that county. We afterwards read that Pennant, the celebrated tourist, when visiting Caithness in 1769, wrote that at that time there was not a single cart, nor mile of road properly so called in the county. He described the whole district as little better than an "immense morass, with here and there some fruitful spots of oats and bere (barley), and much coarse grass, almost all wild, there being as yet very little cultivated." And he goes on to add: Here are neither barns nor granaries; the corn is thrashed out and preserved in the chaff in bykes, which are stacks in the shape of beehives thatched quite round. The tender sex (I blush for the Caithnessians) are the only animals of burden; they turn their patient backs to the dunghills and receive in their cassties or straw baskets as much as their lords and masters think fit to fling in with their pitchforks, and then trudge to the fields in droves. A more modern writer, however, thought that Pennant must have been observant but not reflective, and wrote: It is not on the sea coast that woman looks on man as lord and master. The fishing industry more than any other leads to great equality between the sexes. The man is away and the woman conducts all the family affairs on land. Home means all the comfort man can enjoy! His life is one persistent calling for self-reliance and independence and equally of obedience to command. The relations Pennant quoted were not of servility, but of man assisting woman to do what she regarded as her natural work. To inland folk like ourselves it was a strange sight to see so many women engaged in agricultural pursuits, but we realised that the men had been out fishing in the sea during the night and were now in bed. We saw one woman mowing oats with a scythe and another following her, gathering them up and binding them into sheaves, while several others were cutting down the oats with sickles; we saw others driving horses attached to carts. The children, or "bairns," as they were called here, wore neither shoes nor stockings, except a few of the very young ones, and all the arable land was devoted to the culture of oats and turnips. We passed through Lybster, which in Lancashire would only be regarded as a small village, but here was considered to be a town, as it could boast of a population of about eight hundred people. We made due note of our reaching what was acknowledged to be the second plantation of trees in the county; there were six only in the entire county of Caithness, and even a sight like this was cheery in these almost treeless regions. An elderly and portly-looking gentleman who was on the road in front of us awaited our arrival, and as an introduction politely offered us a pinch of snuff out of his well-filled snuff-box, which we accepted. We tried to take it, but the application of a small portion to our noses caused us to sneeze so violently that the gentleman roared with laughter at our expense, and was evidently both surprised and amused at our distress. We were soon good friends, however, and he was as pleased with our company as we were with his, but we accepted no more pinches of snuff in Scotland. He had many inquiries to make about the method of farming in Cheshire and regarding the rotation of crops. We informed him that potatoes were the first crop following grass grown in our neighbourhood, followed by wheat in the next year, and oats and clover afterwards--the clover being cut for two years. "And how many years before wheat again?" he asked; but this question we could not answer, as we were not sufficiently advanced in agricultural knowledge to undergo a very serious examination from one who was evidently inclined to dive deeply into the subject. As we walked along, we noticed a stone on the slope of a mountain like those we had seen at Stenness in the Orkneys, but no halo of interest could be thrown around it by our friend, who simply said it had been there "since the world began." Near Lybster we had a good view of the Ord of Caithness, a black-looking ridge of mountains terminating in the Maiden's Paps, which were later to be associated with one of the most difficult and dangerous traverses we ever experienced. The night was now coming on, and we hurried onwards, passing two old castles, one to the left and the other to the right of our road, and we noticed a gate, the posts of which had been formed from the rib-bones of a monster whale, forming an arch ornamented in the centre by a portion of the backbone of the same creature. In the dark the only objects we could distinguish were the rocks on the right and the lights of two lighthouses, one across Dornoch Firth and the other across Moray Firth. In another mile and a half after leaving the farmer, who had accompanied us for some miles and who, we afterwards learned, was an old bachelor, we were seated in the comfortable hotel at Dunbeath. The landlord was civil and communicative, and we sat talking to him about the great difference between Caithness and Cheshire, and the relative values of turf and coal. He informed us that there was very little coal consumed in the county of Caithness, as the English coal was dear and the Scotch coal bad, while the peat was of good quality, the darkest-looking being the richest and the best. Our tea was now ready, and so were we, as we had walked fifteen miles since our lunch in the heather. We were ushered into the parlour, where we were delighted to find a Cheshire gentleman, who told us he had been out shooting, and intended to leave by the coach at two a.m. Hearing that two pedestrians had arrived, he had given up his bed, which he had engaged early in the day, and offered to rest on the sofa until the arrival of the mail-coach. We thanked him for his kind consideration, for we were tired and footsore. Who the gentleman was we did not discover; he knew Warrington and the neighbourhood, had visited Mr. Lyon of Appleton Hall near that town, and knew Mr. Patten of Bank Hall, who he said was fast getting "smoked out" of that neighbourhood. We retired early, and left him in full possession of the coffee-room and its sofa. At two o'clock in the morning we were wakened by the loud blowing of a horn, which heralded the approach of the mail-coach, and in another minute the trampling of horses' feet beneath our window announced its arrival. We rose hurriedly and rushed to the window, but in the hurry my brother dashed against a table, and down went something with a smash; on getting a light we found it was nothing more valuable than a water-bottle and glass, the broken pieces of which we carefully collected together, sopping up the water as best we could. We were in time to see our friend off on the coach, with three horses and an enormous light in front, which travelled from Thurso to Helmsdale, a distance of fifty-eight miles, at the rate of eight miles per hour. (_Distance walked twenty-one and a half miles._) _Wednesday, September 20th._ We rose early, and while waiting for our breakfast talked with an old habitué of the hotel, who, after drawing our attention to the weather, which had now changed for the worse, told us that the building of the new pier, as he called it, at Wick had been in progress for seven or eight years, but the sea there was the stormiest in Britain, and when the wind came one way the waves washed the pier down again, so that it was now no bigger than it was two years ago. He also told us he could remember the time when there was no mail-coach in that part of the country, the letters for that neighbourhood being sent to a man, a tailor by trade, who being often very busy, sent his wife to deliver them, so that Her Majesty's mails were carried by a female! [Illustration: A STORM IN WICK HARBOUR.] Almost the last piece of advice given us before leaving home was, "Mind that you always get a good breakfast before starting out in a morning," and fortunately we did not neglect it on this occasion, for it proved one of the worst day's walks that we ever experienced. Helmsdale was our next stage, and a direct road led to it along the coast, a distance of sixteen miles. But my brother was a man of original ideas, and he had made up his mind that we should walk there by an inland route, and climb over the Maiden's Paps mountain on our way. The wind had increased considerably during the night, and the rain began to fall in torrents as we left the Dunbeath Inn, our mackintoshes and leggings again coming in useful. The question now arose whether we should adhere to our original proposal, or proceed to Helmsdale by the shortest route. Our host strongly advised us to keep to the main road, but we decided, in spite of our sore feet and the raging elements, to cross over the Maiden's Paps. We therefore left the main road and followed a track which led towards the mountains and the wild moors. We had not gone very far when we met a disconsolate sportsman, accompanied by his gillies and dogs, who was retreating to the inn which he had left early in the morning. He explained to us how the rain would spoil his sport amongst the grouse, though he consoled himself by claiming that it had been one of the finest sporting seasons ever known in Caithness. As an illustration, he said that on the eighteenth day of September he had been out with a party who had shot forty-one and a half brace of grouse to each gun, besides other game. The average weight of grouse on the Scotch moors was twenty-five ounces, but those on the Caithness moors were heavier, and averaged twenty-five and a half ounces. He was curious to know where we were going, and when we told him, he said we were attempting an impossible feat in such awful weather, and strongly advised us to return to the hotel, and try the journey on a finer day. We reflected that the fine weather had now apparently broken, and it would involve a loss of valuable time if we accepted his advice to wait for a finer day, so we pressed forwards for quite two hours across a dreary country, without a tree or a house or a human being to enliven us on our way. Fortunately the wind and rain were behind us, and we did not feel their pressure like our friend the sportsman, who was going in the opposite direction. At last we came to what might be called a village, where there were a few scattered houses and a burial-ground, but no kirk that we could see. Near here we crossed a stream known as Berriedale Water, and reached the last house, a farm, where our track practically ended. We knocked at the door, which was opened by the farmer himself, and his wife soon provided us with tea and oatmeal cake, which we enjoyed after our seven or eight-mile walk. The wind howled in the chimney and the rain rattled on the window-panes as we partook of our frugal meal, and we were inclined to exclaim with the poet whose name we knew not: The day is cold and dark and dreary, It rains, and the wind is never weary. The people at the farm had come there from South Wales and did not know much about the country. All the information they could give us was that the place we had arrived at was named Braemore, and that on the other side of the hills, which they had never crossed themselves, there was a forest with no roads through it, and if we got there, we should have to make our way as best we could across the moors to Helmsdale. They showed us the best way to reach the foot of the mountain, but we found the going much worse than we anticipated, since the storm had now developed into one of great magnitude. Fortunately the wind was behind us, but the higher we ascended the stronger it became, and it fairly took our breath away even when we turned our heads towards it sideways, which made us realise how impossible it was for us to turn back, however much we might wish to do so; consequently we struggled onwards, occasionally taking advantage of the shelter of some projecting rock to recover our breathing--a very necessary proceeding, for as we approached the summit the rain became more like sleet, the wind was very cold, and the rocks were in a frozen and slippery condition. We were in great danger of being blown over and losing our lives, and as we could no longer walk upright in safety, we knelt down, not without a prayer to heaven as we continued on our way. Thus we crawled along upon our hands and knees over the smooth wind-swept summit of the Maiden's Paps, now one immense surface of ice. The last bit was the worst of all, for here the raging elements struck us with full and uninterrupted force. We crossed this inches at a time, lying flat on the smooth rock with our faces downwards. Our feelings of thankfulness to the Almighty may be imagined when we finally reached the other side in safety. Given a fine day we should have had a glorious view from this point, and, as it was, in spite of the rain we could see a long distance, but the prospect was far from encouraging. A great black rock, higher than that we had climbed, stood before us, with its summit hidden in the clouds, and a wide expanse of hills and moors, but not a house or tree so far as the eye could reach. This rather surprised us, as we expected the forest region to be covered with trees which would afford us some shelter on our farther way. We learned afterwards that the "forest" was but a name, the trees having disappeared ages ago from most of these forests in the northern regions of Scotland. We were wet through to the skin and shivering with cold as we began to descend the other side of the Maiden's Paps--a descent we found both difficult and dangerous. It looked an awful place below us--a wild amphitheatre of dreary hills and moors! We had no compass to guide us, and in the absence of light from the sun we could not tell in what direction we were travelling, so with our backs towards the hills we had crossed, we made our way across the bog, now saturated with water. We could hear it gurgling under our feet at every stride, even when we could not see it, and occasionally we slipped into holes nearly knee-deep in water. After floundering in the bog for some time, and not knowing which way to turn, as we appeared to be surrounded with hills, we decided to try to walk against the wind which was blowing from the sea, for we knew that if we could reach the coast we should also reach the highway, which ran alongside it. But we soon had to give in, for we came to great rocks impossible for us to scale, so we had to abandon this direction and try another. The rain still continued, and our hands had now been bleached quite white with the rain beating on them, just like those of a washerwoman after a heavy day's washing. We knew that the night would shortly be coming on, and the terrible thought of a dark night on the moors began to haunt us. If we could only have found a track we should not have cared, but we were now really LOST. We were giving way to despair and beginning to think it might be a question of life or death when a bright thought suddenly struck us, and we wondered why we had not thought of it before. Why not follow the water, which would be sure to be running towards the sea? This idea inspired us with hope, and seemed to give us new life; but it was astonishing what a time elapsed before we found a running stream, for the water appeared to remain where it fell. At length we came to a small stream, the sight of which gave us renewed energy, and we followed it joyfully on its downward course. Presently we saw a few small bushes; then we came to a larger stream, and afterwards to a patch of grassland which clearly at one time had been under cultivation. At last we came to trees under which we could see some deer sheltering from the storm: by this time the stream had become a raging torrent. We stood watching the deer for a moment, when suddenly three fine stags rushed past us and dashed into the surging waters of the stream, which carried them down a considerable distance before they could land on its rocky bank on the other side. It was an exciting adventure, as the stags were so near us, and with their fine antlers presented an imposing appearance. We now crossed over some heather in order to reach a small path which we could see alongside the swollen river. How pleased we were when we knew we were out of danger! It seemed to us like an escape from a terrible fate. We remembered how Mungo Park, when alone in the very heart of Africa, and in the midst of a great wilderness, derived consolation from very much smaller sources than the few trees which now cheered us on our way. The path became broader as we passed through the grounds of Lord Galloway's hunting-box, and we soon reached the highway, where we crossed the boiling torrent rushing along with frightful rapidity on its way to the sea. The shades of night were coming on as we knocked at the door of the keeper's cottage, and judge of our surprise when we were informed that, after walking from ten o'clock in the morning to six o'clock at night, we were only about six miles from Dunbeath, whence we had started that morning, and had still about ten miles to walk before we could reach Helmsdale. We were almost famished with hunger, but we were lucky enough to secure a splendid tea at the keeper's cottage. Fortunately for us the good lady of the house had provided a sumptuous repast for some sporting gentlemen she was expecting, but who had been prevented from coming owing to the storm. We kept no record of our gastronomical performances on this occasion, but we can safely state that of a whole rabbit very little remained, and the same remark would apply to a whole series of other delicacies which the keeper's wife had so kindly and thoughtfully provided for her more distinguished but absent guests. We took the opportunity of drying some of our wet clothing, and before we finished our tea the keeper himself came in, to whom we related our adventures. Though accustomed to the broken regions and wild solitudes we had passed through, he was simply astounded that we had come over them safely, especially on such a day. It was pitch dark when we left the keeper's cottage, and he very kindly accompanied us until we reached the highroad in safety. The noise caused by the rushing waters of the rivers as they passed us on their way in frantic haste to the sea, now quite near us, and the roar of the sea itself as it dashed itself violently against the rocky coast, rendered conversation very difficult, but our companion gave us to understand that the road to Helmsdale was very hilly and lonely, and at one time was considered dangerous for strangers. Fortunately the surface was very good, and we found it much easier to walk upon than the wet heather we had passed over for so many miles. The black rocks which lined the road, the darkness of the night, and the noise from the sea as the great waves dashed and thundered on the rocks hundreds of feet below, might have terrified timid travellers, but they seemed nothing to us compared with our experience earlier in the day. The wind had moderated, but the rain continued to fall, and occasionally we were startled as we rounded one of the many bends in the road by coming suddenly on a burn swollen with the heavy rains, hurling itself like a cataract down the rocky sides of the hill, and rushing under the road beneath our feet in its noisy descent helter-skelter towards the sea. We walked on as rapidly as the hilly nature of our road would permit, without seeing a house or human being, until we approached Helmsdale, when we were surprised by the sudden appearance of the stage-coach drawn by three horses and displaying its enormous red lamp in front. The driver suddenly pulled up his horses, for, as he said, he did not know "what the de'il it was coming in front": he scarcely ever met any one on that road, and particularly on such an "awful" stormy night. We asked him how far we were from the town, and were delighted to hear it was only about two miles away. It was after ten o'clock when we arrived at Helmsdale, tired and footsore, but just in time to secure lodgings for the night at the Commercial Inn. (_Distance walked thirty miles_.) _Thursday, September 21st._ Helmsdale was a pleasant little town inhabited chiefly by fishermen, but a place of some importance, for it had recently become the northern terminus of the railway. A book in the hotel, which we read while waiting for breakfast, gave us some interesting information about the road we had travelled along the night before, and from it we learned that the distance between Berriedale and Helmsdale was nine and a half miles, and that about half-way between these two places it passed the Ord of Caithness at an elevation of 1,200 feet above the sea-level, an "aclivity of granite past which no railway can be carried," and the commencement of a long chain of mountains separating Caithness from Sutherland. Formerly the road was carried along the edge of a tremendous range of precipices which overhung the sea in a fashion enough to frighten both man and beast, and was considered the most dangerous road in Scotland, so much so that when the Earl of Caithness or any other great landed proprietor travelled that way a troop of their tenants from the borders of Sutherland-shire assembled, and drew the carriage themselves across the hill, a distance of two miles, quadrupeds not being considered safe enough, as the least deviation would have resulted in a fall over the rocks into the sea below. This old road, which was too near the sea for modern traffic, was replaced by the present road in the year 1812. The old path, looked at from the neighbourhood of Helmsdale, had more the appearance of a sheep track than a road as it wound up the steep brow of the hill 300 or 400 feet above the rolling surge of the sea below, and was quite awe-inspiring even to look at, set among scenery of the most wild and savage character. We had now cleared the county of Caithness, which, like Orkney and Shetland, was almost entirely devoid of trees. To our way of thinking a sprinkling of woods and copses would have much enhanced the wild beauty of the surroundings, but there was a difference of opinion or taste on this point as on everything else. A gentleman who had settled in America, and had had to clear away the trees from his holding, when he passed through Caithness on his way to John o' Groat's was continually ejaculating, "What a beautiful country!" "What a very beautiful country!" Some one who heard him remarked, "You can hardly call it a very beautiful country when there are no trees." "Trees," cried the Yankee; "that's all stuff Caithness, I calculate, is the finest clearing I ever saw in my life!" We had often wondered, by the way, how the Harbour Works at Wick would be affected by the great storms, and we were afterwards greatly interested when we read in a Scotch provincial newspaper the following telegrams: TERRIFIC GALE AT WICK THREATENED DESTRUCTION OF THE HARBOUR WORKS _From our Wick Correspondent_ _Wick, Wednesday_, 12:50--A terrific storm is raging here to-day. It is a gale from the south-east, with an extraordinary surf which is making a complete break of the new Harbour Works, where a number of large stones have been dislodged and serious damage is threatened. 1:30 _p.m._--The storm still continues. A large concrete block, weighing 300 tons, has been dislodged, and the whole building seems doomed unless the storm abates very soon. These hours corresponded with the time we were crossing the Maiden's Paps mountains, and we are not likely ever to forget the great danger we were in on that occasion. We were rather backward in making a start on our journey to-day, for our feet were very sore; but we were advised to apply common soap to our stocking feet, from which we experienced great relief. As we left the town we saw some ruins, which we assumed were those of Helmsdale Castle, and we had now the company of the railway, which, like our road, hugged the seacoast for some miles. About two miles after leaving Helmsdale we sighted the first railway train we had seen since we left Aberdeen a fortnight before. Under ordinary conditions this might have passed unnoticed, but as we had been travelling through such wild country we looked upon it as a sign that we were approaching a part of the country which had communication with civilisation, other than that afforded by sea or mail-coach. [Illustration: PICTISH TOWER (EXTERIOR).] We now walked through the Parish of Loth, where in Glen Loth we were informed the last wolf in Scotland was killed, and about half a mile before reaching Brora we climbed over a stone fence to inspect the ruins of a Pictish castle standing between our road and the railway. The ruins were circular, but some of the walls had been built in a zig-zag form, and had originally contained passages and rooms, some of which still existed, but they looked so dark that we did not care to go inside them, though we were informed that about two years before our visit excavations had been made and several human skulls were discovered. The weather continued wet, and we passed through several showers on our way from Helmsdale to Brora, where, after a walk of twelve miles, we stayed for lunch, and it was again raining as we left there for Golspie. [Illustration: PICTISH TOWER (INTERIOR).] At Brora we heard stories of wonderful fossils which were to be found in the rocks on the shore--shells and fish-scales and remains of bigger creatures--and of a bed of real coal. Certainly the rocks seemed to change their character hereabouts, which may account for the softening of the scenery and the contrast in agricultural pursuits in this region with those farther north. Here the appearance of the country gradually improved as we approached the woods and grounds and more cultivated regions surrounding the residence of the Duke of Sutherland. [Illustration: DUNROBIN CASTLE. "It was the finest building we had seen, not at all like the gloomy-looking castles, being more like a palace, with a fine display of oriel windows, battlements, steeples, and turrets."] We came in sight of another Pictish castle, which we turned aside to visit; but by this time we had become quite familiar with the formation of these strange old structures, which were nearly all built after the same pattern, although some belonged to an earlier period than others, and the chambers in them were invariably dark and dismal. If these were used for the same purpose as similar ones we had seen in Shetland, where maidens of property and beauty were placed for protection from the "gallants" who roamed about the land in those days, the fair prisoners must have had a dismal time while incarcerated in these dungeon-like apartments. In these ruins, however, we saw some ancient utensils, or querns, supposed to have been used for crushing corn. They had been hollowed out in stone, and one of them had a well-worn stone inside it, but whether or no it was the remains of an ancient pestle used in crushing the corn we could not determine; it looked strangely like one. The country hereabouts was of the most charming description, hilly and undulating rather than rugged, and we left the highway to walk along the seashore, where we passed the rifle and artillery ranges of the volunteers. We also saw the duke's private pier extending towards the open sea, and from this point we had a fine view of Dunrobin Castle, the duke's residence, which was the finest building we had seen, and not at all like the other gloomy-looking castles, being more like a palace. It is a happy blending of the German Schloss, the French château, and Scottish baronial architecture, with a fine display of oriel windows, battlements, turrets, and steeples, the great tower rising to a height of 135 feet above the garden terrace below. A vista of mountains and forests lay before any one privileged to ascend the tower. The view from the seashore was simply splendid, as from this point we could see, showing to great advantage, the lovely gardens, filled with beautiful shrubs and flowers of luxuriant growth, sloping upwards towards the castle, and the hills behind them, with their lower slopes covered with thousands of healthy-looking firs, pines, and some deciduous trees, while the bare moorland above formed a fine background. On the hill "Beinn-a-Bhragidh," at a point 1,300 feet above sea-level, standing as if looking down on all, was a colossal monument erected to the memory of the duke's grandfather, which could be seen many miles away. The duke must have been one of the largest landowners in Britain, as, in addition to other possessions, he owned the entire county of Sutherland, measuring about sixty miles long and fifty-six miles broad, so that when at home he could safely exclaim with Robinson Crusoe, "I am monarch of all I survey." The castle had an ancient foundation, for it was in 1097 the dun, or stronghold, of the second Robert of Sutherland, and the gardens have been famous from time immemorial. An extract from an old book written in 1630 reads, "The Erle of Sutherland made Dunrobin his speciall residence it being a house well-seated upon a mole hard by the sea, with fair orchards wher ther be pleasant gardens, planted with all kinds of froots, hearbs and flours used in this kingdom, and abundance of good saphorn, tobacco and rosemarie, the froot being excellent and cheeflie the pears and cherries." A most pleasing feature to our minds was the fact that the gardens were open to all comers, but as we heard that the duke was entertaining a distinguished company, including Lord Delamere of Vale Royal from our own county of Cheshire, we did not apply for permission to enter the grounds, and thus missed seeing the great Scotch thistle, the finest in all Scotland. This thistle was of the ordinary variety, but of colossal proportions, full seven feet high, or, as we afterwards saw it described, "a beautiful emblem of a war-like nation with his radious crown of rubies full seven feet high." We had always looked upon the thistle as an inferior plant, and in Cheshire destroyed it in thousands, regarding it as only fit for food for donkeys, of which very few were kept in that county; but any one seeing this fine plant must have been greatly impressed by its appearance. The thistle has been the emblem of Scotland from very early times, and is supposed to have been adopted by the Scots after a victorious battle with the Danes, who on a dark night tried to attack them unawares. The Danes were creeping towards them silently, when one of them placed his bare foot on a thistle, which caused him to yell out with pain. This served as an alarm to the Scots, who at once fell upon the Danes and defeated them with great slaughter, and ever afterwards the thistle appeared as their national emblem, with the motto, _Nemo me impune lacessit_, or, "No one hurts me with impunity." Golspie was only a short distance away from the castle, and we were anxious to get there, as we expected letters from home, so we called at the post office first and got what letters had arrived, but another mail was expected. We asked where we could get a cup of coffee, and were directed to a fine reading-room opposite, where we adjourned to read our letters and reply to them with the accompaniment of coffee and light refreshments. The building had been erected by the Sutherland family, and was well patronised, and we wished that we might meet with similar places in other towns where we happened to call. Such as we found farther south did not appear to be appreciated by the class of people for whom they were chiefly intended. This may be accounted for by the fact that the working-class Scots were decidedly more highly educated than the English. We were not short of company, and we heard a lot of gossip, chiefly about what was going on at the castle. On inquiring about our next stage, we were told that it involved a twenty-five-mile walk through an uninhabited country, without a village and with scarcely a house on the road. The distance we found afterwards had been exaggerated, but as it was still raining and the shades of evening were coming on, with our recent adventures still fresh in our minds and the letter my brother expected not having yet arrived, we agreed to spend the night at Golspie, resolving to make an early start on the following morning. We therefore went into the town to select suitable lodgings, again calling at the post office and leaving our address in the event of any letters coming by the expected mail, which the officials kindly consented to send to us, and after making a few purchases we retired to rest. We were just dozing off to sleep, when we were aroused by a knock at our chamber door, and a voice from without informed us that our further letters and a newspaper had arrived. We jumped out of bed, glad to receive additional news from the "old folks at home," and our sleep was no less peaceful on that account. (_Distance walked eighteen miles_.) _Friday, September 22nd._ We rose at seven o'clock, and left Golspie at eight _en route_ for Bonar Bridge. As we passed the railway station we saw a huge traction engine, which we were informed belonged to the Duke of Sutherland, and was employed by him to draw wood and stone to the railway. About a mile after leaving the town we observed the first field of wheat since we had left John o' Groat's. The morning had turned out wet, so there was no one at work among the corn, but several machines there showed that agriculture received much attention. We met some children carrying milk, who in reply to our inquiry told us that the cows were milked three times each day--at six o'clock in the morning, one o'clock at noon, and eight o'clock at night--with the exception of the small Highland cows, which were only milked twice. As we were looking over the fields in the direction of the railway, we observed an engine with only one carriage attached proceeding along the line, which we thought must be the mail van, but we were told that it was the duke's private train, and that he was driving the engine himself, the engine being named after his castle, "Dunrobin." We learned that the whole railway belonged to him for many miles, and that he was quite an expert at engine driving. About five miles after leaving Golspie we crossed what was known as "The Mound," a bank thrown across what looked like an arm of the sea. It was upwards of half a mile long, and under the road were six arches to admit the passage of the tide as it ebbed and flowed. Here we turned off to the right along the hill road to Bonar Bridge, and visited what had been once a mansion, but was now nearly all fallen to the ground, very little remaining to tell of its former glory. What attracted us most was the site of the garden behind the house, where stood four great yew trees which must have been growing hundreds of years. They were growing in pairs, and in a position which suggested that the road had formerly passed between them. Presently our way passed through a beautiful and romantic glen, with a fine stream swollen by the recent rains running alongside it. Had the weather been more favourable, we should have had a charming walk. The hills did not rise to any great elevation, but were nicely wooded down to the very edge of the stream, and the torrent, with its innumerable rapids and little falls, that met us as we travelled on our upward way, showed to the best advantage. In a few miles we came to a beautiful waterfall facing our road, and we climbed up the rocks to get a near view of it from a rustic bridge placed there for the purpose. A large projecting rock split the fall into the shape of a two-pronged fork, so that it appeared like a double waterfall, and looked very pretty. Another stream entered the river near the foot of the waterfall, but the fall of this appeared to have been artificially broken thirty or forty times on its downward course, forming the same number of small lochs, or ponds. We had a grand sight of these miniature lakes as they overflowed one into another until their waters joined the stream below. We now left the trees behind us and, emerging into the open country, travelled many miles across the moors alongside Loch Buidhee, our only company being the sheep and the grouse. As we approached Bonar Bridge we observed a party of sportsmen on the moors. From the frequency of their fire we supposed they were having good sport; a horse with panniers on its back, which were fast being ladened with the fallen game, was following them at a respectful distance. Then we came to a few small houses, near which were large stacks of peat or turf, which was being carted away in three carts. We asked the driver of the first cart we overtook how far it was to Bonar Bridge, and he replied two miles. We made the same inquiry from the second, who said three miles, and the reply of the third was two and a half miles. As the distance between the first and the third drivers was only one hundred yards, their replies rather amused us. Still we found it quite far enough, for we passed through shower after shower. Our eighteen-mile walk had given us a good idea of "Caledonia stern and wild," and at the same time had developed in us an enormous appetite when by two o'clock we entered the hotel facing Bonar Bridge for our dinner. The bridge was a fine substantial iron structure of about 150 feet span, having a stone arching at either end, and was of great importance, as it connected main roads and did away with the ferry which once existed there. As we crossed the bridge we noticed two vessels from Sunderland discharging coals, and some fallen fir-trees lying on the side of the water apparently waiting shipment for colliery purposes, apt illustrations of the interchange of productions. There were many fine plantations of fir-trees near Bonar Bridge, and as we passed the railway station we saw a rather substantial building across the water which we were informed was the "Puirshoose," or "Poor House." Observing a village school to the left of our road, we looked through the open door; but the room was empty, so we called at the residence of the schoolmaster adjoining to get some reliable information about our further way, We found him playing on a piano and very civil and obliging, and he advised us to stay for the night at what was known as the Half-way House, which we should find on the hill road to Dingwall, and so named because it was halfway between Bonar and Alness, and nine miles from Bonar. Our road for the first two miles was close along Dornoch Firth, and the fine plantations of trees afforded us some protection against the wind and rain; then we left the highway and turned to the right, along the hill road. After a steep ascent for more than a mile, we passed under a lofty elevation, and found ourselves once more amongst the heather-bells so dear to the heart of every true Scot. At this point we could not help lingering awhile to view the magnificent scene below. What a gorgeous panorama! The wide expanse of water, the bridge we had lately crossed and the adjoining small village, the fine plantations of trees, the duke's monument rising above the woods at Golspie, were all visible, but obscured in places by the drifting showers. If the "Clerk of the Weather" had granted us sunshine instead of rain, we should have had a glorious prospect not soon to be forgotten. But we had still three miles to walk, or, as the people in the north style it, to travel, before we could reach the Half-Way House, when we met a solitary pedestrian, who as soon as he saw us coming sat down on a stone and awaited us until we got within speaking distance, when he began to talk to us. He was the Inspector of Roads, and had been walking first in one direction and then in the other during the whole of the day. He said he liked to speak to everybody he saw, as the roads were so very lonely in his district. He informed us that the Half-Way House was a comfortable place, and we could not do better than stay there for the night. We were glad when we reached the end of our nine-mile walk, as the day had been very rough and stormy. As it was the third in succession of the same character, we did not care how soon the weather took a turn for the better. The Half-Way House stood in a deserted and lonely position on the moor some little distance from the road, without another house being visible for miles, and quite isolated from the outer world. We entered the farmyard, where we saw the mistress busy amongst the pigs, two dogs barking at us in a very threatening manner. We walked into the kitchen, the sole occupant of which was a "bairn," who was quite naked, and whom we could just see behind a maiden of clothes drying before the fire. The mistress soon followed us into the house, and in reply to our query as to whether we could be accommodated for the night said, "I will see," and invited us into the parlour, a room containing two beds and sundry chairs and tables. The floor in the kitchen was formed of clay, the parlour had a boarded floor, and the mantelpiece and roof were of very old wood, but there was neither firegrate nor fire. After we had waited there a short time, the mistress again made her appearance, with a shovel full of red-hot peat, so, although she had not given us a decided answer as to whether we could stay the night or not, we considered that silence gave consent, especially when seconded by the arrival of the welcome fire. "You surely must have missed your train!" she said; but when we told her that we were pedestrian tourists, or, as my brother described it, "on a walking expedition," she looked surprised. When she entered the room again we were sorting out our letters and papers, and she said, "You surely must be sappers!" We had some difficulty in making her understand the object of our journey, as she could not see how we could be walking for pleasure in such bad weather. We found the peat made a very hot fire and did good service in helping to dry our wet clothing. We wanted some hot milk and bread for supper, which she was very reluctant to supply, as milk was extremely scarce on the moors, but as a special favour she robbed the remainder of the family to comply with our wishes. The wind howled outside, but we heeded it not, for we were comfortably housed before a blazing peat fire which gave out a considerable amount of heat. We lit one of our ozokerite candles, of which we carried a supply to be prepared for emergencies, and read our home newspaper, _The Warrington Guardian_, which was sent to us weekly, until supper-time arrived, and then we were surprised by our hostess bringing in an enormous bowl, apparently an ancient punch bowl, large enough to wash ourselves in, filled with hot milk and bread, along with two large wooden spoons. Armed with these, we both sat down with the punch-bowl between us, hungry enough and greedy enough to compete with one another as to which should devour the most. Which won would be difficult to say, but nothing remained except the bowl and the spoons and our extended selves. We had walked twenty-seven miles, and it must have been weather such as we had experienced that inspired the poet to exclaim: The west wind blows and brings rough weather, The east brings cold and wet together, The south wind blows and brings much rain, The north wind blows it back again! The beds were placed end to end, so that our feet came together, with a wooden fixture between the two beds to act as the dividing line. Needless to say we slept soundly, giving orders to be wakened early in the morning. (_Distance walked twenty-seven miles_.) _Saturday, September 23rd._ We were awakened at six o'clock in the morning, and after a good breakfast we left the Half-Way House (later the "Aultnamain Inn"), and well pleased we were with the way the landlady had catered for our hungry requirements. We could see the sea in the distance, and as we resumed our march across the moors we were often alarmed suddenly by the harsh and disagreeable cries of the startled grouse as they rose hurriedly from the sides of our path, sounding almost exactly like "Go back!--go back!" We were, however, obliged to "Go forward," and that fairly quickly, as we were already a few miles behind our contemplated average of twenty-five miles per day. We determined to make the loss good, and if possible to secure a slight margin to our credit, so we set out intending to reach Inverness that night if possible. In spite, therefore, of the orders given in such loud and unpleasant tones by the grouse, we advanced quickly onwards and left those birds to rejoice the heart of any sportsman who might follow. Cromarty Firth was clearly visible as we left the moors, and we could distinguish what we thought was Cromarty itself, with its whitewashed houses, celebrated as the birthplace of the great geologist, Hugh Miller, of whom we had heard so much in the Orkneys. The original cause of the whitewashing of the houses in Cromarty was said to have been the result of an offer made by a former candidate for Parliamentary honours, who offered to whitewash any of the houses. As nearly all the free and independent electors accepted his offer, it was said that Cromarty came out of the Election of 1826 cleaner than any other place in Scotland, notwithstanding the fact that it happened in an age when parliamentarian representation generally went to the highest bidder. We crossed the Strathrory River, and leaving the hills to our right found ourselves in quite a different kind of country, a veritable land of woods, where immense plantations of fir-trees covered the hills as far as the eye could reach, sufficient, apparently, to make up for the deficiency in Caithness and Sutherland in that respect, for we were now in the county of Ross and Cromarty. Shortly afterwards we crossed over the River Alness. The country we now passed through was highly cultivated and very productive, containing some large farms, where every appearance of prosperity prevailed, and the tall chimneys in the rear of each spoke of the common use of coal. The breeding of cattle seemed to be carried on extensively; we saw one large herd assembled in a field adjoining our road, and were amused at a conversational passage of arms between the farmer and two cattle-dealers who were trying to do business, each side endeavouring to get the better of the other. It was not quite a war to the knife, but the fight between those Scots was like razor trying to cut razor, and we wished we had time to stay and hear how it ended. Arriving at Novar, where there was a nice little railway station, we passed on to the village inn, and called for a second breakfast, which we thoroughly enjoyed after our twelve-mile walk. Here we heard that snow had fallen on one of the adjacent hills during the early hours of the morning, but it was now fine, and fortunately continued to be so during the whole of the day. Our next stage was Dingwall, the chief town in the county of Ross, and at the extreme end of the Cromarty Firth, which was only six miles distant. We had a lovely walk to that town, very different from the lonely moors we had traversed earlier in the day, as our road now lay along the very edge of the Cromarty Firth, while the luxuriant foliage of the trees on the other side of our road almost formed an arch over our way. The water of the Firth was about two miles broad all the way to Dingwall, and the background formed by the wooded hills beyond the Firth made up a very fine picture. We had been fully prepared to find Dingwall a very pretty place, and in that we were not disappointed. The great object of interest as we entered this miniature county town was a lofty monument fifty or sixty feet high,[Footnote: This monument has since been swept away.] which stood in a separate enclosure near a graveyard attached to a church. It was evidently very old, and leaning several points from the perpendicular, and was bound together almost to the top with bands of iron crossed in all directions to keep it from failing. A very curious legend was attached to it. It was erected to some steward named Roderick Mackenzie, who had been connected with the Cromarty estate many years ago, and who appeared to have resided at Kintail, being known as the Tutor of Kintail. He acted as administrator of the Mackenzie estates during the minority of his nephew, the grandfather of the first Earl of Cromarty, and was said to have been a man of much ability and considerable culture for the times in which he lived. At the same time he was a man of strong personality though of evil repute in the Gaelic-speaking districts, as the following couplet still current among the common people showed: The three worst things in Scotland-- Mists in the dog-days, frost in May, and the Tutor of Kintail. The story went that the tutor had a quarrel with a woman who appeared to have been quite as strong-minded as himself. She was a dairymaid in Strathconon with whom he had an agreement to supply him with a stone of cheese for every horn of milk given by each cow per day. For some reason the weight of cheese on one occasion happened to be light, and this so enraged the tutor that he drove her from the Strath. Unfortunately for him the dairymaid was a poetess, and she gave vent to her sorrow in verse, in which it may be assumed the tutor came in for much abuse. When she obtained another situation at the foot of Ben Wyvis, the far-reaching and powerful hand of the tutor drove her from there also; so at length she settled in the Clan Ranald Country in Barrisdale, on the shores of Loch Hourn on the west coast of Inverness-shire, a place at that time famous for shell-fish, where she might have dwelt in peace had she mastered the weakness of her sex for demanding the last word; but she burst forth once more in song, and the tutor came in for another scathing: Though from Strathconon with its cream you've driven me, And from Wyvis with its curds and cheese; While billow beats on shore you cannot drive me From the shell-fish of fair Barrisdale. These stanzas came to the ear of the tutor, who wrote to Macdonald of Barrisdale demanding that he should plough up the beach, and when this had been done there were no longer any shell-fish to be found there. The dairymaid vowed to be even with the tutor, and threatened to desecrate his grave. When he heard of the threat, in order to prevent its execution he built this strange monument, and instead of being buried beneath it he was said to have been buried near the summit; but the woman was not to be out-done, for after the tutor's funeral she climbed to the top of the pinnacle and kept her vow to micturate there! As our time was limited, we were obliged to hurry away from this pleasantly situated town, and in about four miles, after crossing the River Conon, we entered Conon village, where we called for refreshments, of which we hastily disposed. Conon was quite an agricultural village, where the smithy seemed to rival the inn in importance, as the smiths were busy at work. We saw quite a dozen ploughs waiting to be repaired in order to fit them to stir up the soil during the ploughing season, which would commence as soon as the corn was cleared off the land. Here we observed the first fingerpost we had seen since leaving John o' Groat's, now more than a hundred miles distant, although it was only an apology for one, and very different from those we were accustomed to see farther south in more important but not more beautiful places. It was simply an upright post with rough pieces of wood nailed across the top, but we looked upon it as a sign that we were approaching more civilised regions. The gentry had shown their appreciation of this delightful part of the country by erecting fine residences in the neighbourhood, some of which we passed in close proximity. Just before crossing over the railway bridge we came to a frightful figure of a human head carved on a stone and built in the battlement in a position where it could be seen by all. It was coloured white, and we heard it was the work of some local sculptor. It was an awful-looking thing, and no doubt did duty for the "boggard" of the neighbourhood. The view of the hills to the right of our road as we passed along was very fine, lit up as they were by the rays of the evening sun, and the snow on Ben Wyvis in the distance contrasted strangely with the luxuriant foliage of the trees near us, as they scarcely yet showed the first shade of the autumn tints. About four miles farther on we arrived at a place called the Muir of Ord, a rather strange name of which we did not know the meaning, reaching the railway station there just after the arrival of a train which we were told had come from the "sooth." The passengers consisted of a gentleman and his family, who were placing themselves in a large four-wheeled travelling-coach to which were attached four rather impatient horses. A man-servant in livery was on the top of the coach arranging a large number of parcels and boxes, those intolerable appendages of travel. We waited, and watched their departure, as we had no desire to try conclusions with the restless feet of the horses, our adventures with the Shetland pony in the north having acted as a warning to us. Shortly afterwards we crossed a large open space of land studded with wooden buildings and many cattle-pens which a man told us was now the great cattlemarket for the North, where sales for cattle were held each month--the next would be due in about a week's time, when from 30,000 to 35,000 sheep would be sold. It seemed strange to us that a place of such importance should have been erected where there were scarcely any houses, but perhaps there were more in the neighbourhood than we had seen, and in any case it lay conveniently as a meeting-place for the various passes in the mountain country. We soon arrived at Beauly, which, as its name implied, was rather a pretty place, with its houses almost confined to the one street, the Grammar School giving it an air of distinction. Our attention was attracted by some venerable ruins at the left of our road, which we determined to visit, but the gate was locked. Seeing a small girl standing near, we asked her about the key, and she volunteered to go and tell the man who kept it to come at once. We were pressed for time, and the minutes seemed very long as we stood awaiting the arrival of the key, until at last we decided to move on; but just as we were walking away we saw an old man coming up a side street with the aid of a crutch and a stick. [Illustration: ON THE BEAULY RIVER.] He pointed with his stick towards the cathedral, so we retraced our steps and awaited his arrival with the key. A key it certainly was, and a large one too, for it weighed 2 lbs. 4 ozs. and the bore that fitted the lock was three-quarters of an inch in diameter. It was the biggest key we saw in all our long journey. We listened to all the old man had to tell us about the cathedral, the building of which begun in the year 1230. It measured 152 feet in length and about 24 feet in breadth, but was ruined in the time of Cromwell. He showed us what he described as the Holy Water Pot, which was quite near the door and had some water in it, but why the water happened to be there the old man could not explain. The front gable of the nave was nearly all standing, but that at the back, which at one time had contained a large window, was nearly all down. The old font was in the wall about half-way down the cathedral; the vestry and chapter house were roofless. The grave-stones dated from the year 1602, but that which covered the remains of the founder was of course very much older. Beauly was formerly a burial-place of the ancient Scottish chieftains, and was still used as the burial-ground of the Mackenzies, the name reminding us of our friends at the "Huna Inn." Rewarding our guide and the bairn who had returned with him for their services, we walked quickly away, as we had still twelve miles to walk before reaching Inverness. [Illustration: BEAULY PRIORY.] After crossing the bridge over the River Beauly we had the company for about a mile of a huge servant-girl, a fine-looking Scotch lassie, with whom we ventured to enter into conversation although we felt like dwarfs in her presence. She told us she had never been in England, but her sister had been there in service, and had formed a bad opinion of the way the English spent their Sundays. Some of them never went to church at all, while one young man her sister knew there actually whistled as he was going to church! It was very different in Scotland, where, she said, all went to church and kept holy the Sabbath day. She evidently thought it a dreadful offence to whistle on Sundays, and we were careful not to offend the susceptibilities of the Scots, and, we may safely say, our own, by whistling on the Lord's day. Whistling was, however, an accomplishment of which we were rather proud, as we considered ourselves experts, and beguiled many a weary mile's march with quicksteps--English, Scotch, Welsh, and Irish--which we flattered ourselves sounded better amongst the hills of the Highlands of Scotland even than the sacred bagpipes of the most famous Scotch regiments. We thanked our formidable-looking friend for her company and, presenting her with a John o' Groat's buckie, bade her farewell. When she must have been a distance away we accelerated our pace by whistling "Cheer, Boys, Cheer!" one of Charles Russell's songs. We could not keep it up for long, as we were not only footsore, but sore in every joint, through friction, and we were both beginning to limp a little when we came to a junction in the roads. Here it was necessary to inquire about our way, and seeing a farm quite near we went to it and asked a gentleman who was standing in the yard which way we should turn for Inverness and how far it was. He kindly directed us, and told us that town was nine miles distant, but added, "I am just going there in my 'machine,' which will be ready directly, and will be glad to give you a lift." This kind offer formed one of the greatest temptations we had during our long journey, as we had already walked thirty miles that day, and were in a pitiable condition, and it was hard to say "No." We thanked the gentleman heartily, and explained why we could not accept it, as we had determined to walk all the way to Land's End, and with an effort both painful and slow we mournfully took our way. We had only travelled a short distance when he overtook us with a spirited horse and a well-appointed conveyance, bidding us "Good night" as he passed. We had a painful walk for the next three miles, and it was just at the edge of dark when we called for tea at the "Bogroy Inn." We were shown into the parlour by the mistress herself, a pleasant elderly lady, very straight, but very stout, and when my brother complimented her on her personal appearance, she told him that when she first came into that neighbourhood thirty-five years ago she only weighed eleven stone, but six years since she weighed twenty-two stone; now, she rather sorrowfully added, "I only weigh seventeen stone!" She evidently thought she had come down in the world, but she was an ideal landlady of the good old sort, for she sent us some venison in for our tea, the first we had ever tasted, and with eggs and other good things we had a grand feast. Moreover, she sent her daughter, a prepossessing young lady, to wait upon us, so we felt ourselves highly honoured. As we were devouring the good things provided we heard some mysterious tappings, which we were unable to locate. My brother suggested the house might be haunted, but when the young lady entered the room again we discovered that the tappings were outside the house, on the shutters which covered the windows, for every one in the Highlands in those days protected their lower windows with wooden shutters. The tappings were accompanied by a low whistle, by which we could see the young lady was visibly affected, until finally she left the room rather hurriedly, never to appear again; nor did we hear the tappings any more, and the requiem we sung was: If she be not fair for me, What care I how fair she be? We were sorry to leave the "Bogroy Inn," as the mistress said she would have been glad of our further patronage, but we had determined to reach Inverness as a better place to stay over the week end. With great difficulty we walked the remaining six miles under the trees, through which the moon was shining, and we could see the stars twinkling above our heads as we marched, or rather crawled, along the Great North Road. On arriving at Inverness we crossed the bridge, to reach a house that had been recommended to us, but as it was not up to our requirements we turned back and found one more suitable across the water. Our week's walk totalled 160 miles, of which thirty-nine had been covered that day. (_Distance walked thirty-nine miles._) _Sunday, September 24th._ After a good night's rest and the application of common soap to the soles of our feet, and fuller's earth to other parts of our anatomy--remedies we continued to employ, whenever necessary, on our long journey--we were served with a good breakfast, and then went out to see what Inverness looked like in the daylight. We were agreeably surprised to find it much nicer than it appeared as we entered it, tired out, the night before, and we had a pleasant walk before going to the eleven-o'clock service at the kirk. Inverness, the "Capital of the Highlands," has a long and eventful history. St. Columba is said to have visited it as early as the year 565, and on a site fortified certainly in the eighth century stands the castle, which was, in 1039, according to Shakespeare, the scene of the murder of King Duncan by Macbeth. The town was made a Royal Burgh by David I, King of Scotland. The Lords of the Isles also appear to have been crowned here, for their coronation stone is still in existence, and has been given a name which in Gaelic signifies the "Stone of the Tubs." In former times the water supply of the town had to be obtained from the loch or the river, and the young men and maidens carrying it in tubs passed this stone on their way--or rather did not pass, for they lingered a while to rest, the stone no doubt being a convenient trysting-place. We wandered as far as the castle, from which the view of the River Ness and the Moray Firth was particularly fine. We attended service in one of the Free Churches, and were much interested in the proceedings, which were so different from those we had been accustomed to in England, the people standing while they prayed and sitting down while they sang. The service began with the one hundredth Psalm to the good old tune known as the "Old Hundredth" and associated in our minds with that Psalm from our earliest days: All people that on earth do dwell, Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice. Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell, Come ye before Him, and rejoice. [Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL, INVERNESS.] During the singing of this, all the people remained seated except the precentor, who stood near the pulpit. Then followed a prayer, the people all standing; and then the minister read a portion of Scripture from the thirty-fourth chapter of the prophet Ezekiel beginning at the eleventh verse: "For thus saith the Lord God; Behold I, even I, will both search My sheep, and seek them out." Another hymn was followed by the Lord's Prayer; after which came the sermon, preached by the Rev. Donald Fraser, M.A., of Marylebone, London, a former minister of the church. He read the last three verses of the ninth chapter of St. John's gospel, continued reading down to the sixteenth verse of the tenth chapter, and then selected for his text the fourth, ninth, and tenth verses of that chapter, the first verse of these reading: "And when he putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice." The sermon had evidently been well thought out and was ably delivered, the subject being very appropriate to a district where sheep abound and where their habits are so well known. Everybody listened with the greatest attention. At the close there was a public baptism of a child, whose father and mother stood up before the pulpit with their backs to the congregation. The minister recited the Apostles' Creed, which was slightly different in phraseology from that used in the Church of England, and then, descending from the pulpit, proceeded to baptize the child in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. The closing hymn followed, and the people stood while the minister pronounced the benediction, after which the congregation slowly separated. [Illustration: INVERNESS CASTLE.] During the afternoon we visited an isolated hill about a mile from the town named Tomnahurich, or the "Hill of the Fairies." Nicely wooded, it rose to an elevation of about 200 feet above the sea, and, the summit being comparatively level and clear from trees, we had a good view of Inverness and its surroundings. This hill was used as the Cemetery, and many people had been buried, both on the top and along the sides of the serpentine walk leading up to it, their remains resting there peacefully until the resurrection, "when the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised incorruptible." We considered it an ideal place for the burial of the dead, and quite a number of people were walking up and down the paths leading under the trees, many of them stopping on their way to view the graves where their friends had been buried. In the evening we attended service in the cathedral, a large modern structure, with two towers, each of which required a spire forty feet high to complete the original design. Massive columns of Aberdeen granite had been erected in the interior to support the roof of polished oak, adorned with carved devices, some of which had not yet been completed. The Communion-table, or altar, made in Italy and presented to the cathedral by a wealthy layman, stood beneath a suspended crucifix, and was further adorned with a cross, two candlesticks, and two vases containing flowers. The service, of a High-Church character, was fully choral, assisted by a robed choir and a good organ. The sermon was preached by the Rev. Provost Powell, who took for his text Romans xiv. 7: "For none liveth to himself and no man dieth to himself." He gave us a clever oration, but whether extempore or otherwise we could not tell, as from where we sat we could not see the preacher. There was not a large congregation, probably owing to the fact that the people in the North are opposed to innovations, and look upon crosses and candlesticks on the Communion-table as imitations of the Roman Catholic ritual, to which the Presbyterians could never be reconciled. The people generally seemed much prejudiced against this form of service, for in the town early in the morning, before we knew this building was the cathedral, we asked a man what kind of a place of worship it was, and he replied, in a tone that implied it was a place to be avoided, that he did not know, but it was "next to th' Catholics." Our landlady spoke of it in exactly the same way. SECOND WEEK'S JOURNEY _Monday, September 25th._ [Illustration: CAIRN ON THE BATTLEFIELD OF CULLODEN MUIR.] We rose early, but were not in very good trim for walking, for a mild attack of diarrhoea yesterday had become intensified during the night, and still continued. After breakfast we went to the post office for our "poste restante" letters, and after replying to them resumed our march. Culloden Muir, the site of the great battle in 1746, in which the Scottish Clans under Prince Charlie suffered so severely at the hands of the Duke of Cumberland, is only six miles away from Inverness, and we had originally planned to visit it, but as that journey would have taken us farther from the Caledonian Canal, the line of which we were now anxious to follow, we gave up the idea of going to Culloden. We were, moreover, in no humour for digressions since we had not yet recovered from the effects of our long walk on Saturday, and our bodily ailments were still heavy upon us. As we crossed the suspension-bridge, in close proximity to the castle, we purchased a few prints of the town and the neighbourhood through which we were about to pass. Inverness is built in a delightful situation, skirting the Ness, which here takes the form of a beautiful, shallow river moving peacefully forward to its great receptacle, Loch Ness, a few miles away; but, although the country near the town is comparatively level, it is surrounded by mountain scenery of the most charming description. Our route lay along the north-western side of the Caledonian Canal in the direction of Fort Augustus, and we again passed the Tomnahurich Hill. Near this we saw a large building which we were surprised to learn was a lunatic asylum--an institution we did not expect to find here, for we had only heard of one madman in the three counties of Scotland through which we had passed. We concluded it must have been built for persons from farther south. [Illustration: CULLODEN MUIR.] The diarrhoea still continued to trouble us, so we asked the advice of a gentleman we met on the road, and he recommended us to call at the next farmhouse, which, fortunately, happened to be only a short distance away, and to "take a quart of milk each, as hot as you can drink it." So away we walked to the farm, which we found standing a short distance from our road, and, after explaining our troubles and wishes to the farmer, were invited into the house, where the mistress quickly provided us with the hot milk, which luckily proved to be a safe and simple remedy. The farmer and his wife were as pleased with our company as we were with theirs, and were just the sort of people that tourists like to meet. We had a long talk with them about the crops, the markets, our long walk, and, last but not least, the weather. Speaking of diarrhoea, the farmer informed us that the water of Inverness often affected strangers in that way, and that it had even been known to produce dysentery. After regaining our road, we had a lovely walk that day; the scenery and the weather were both very fine, and, about a mile farther on, we had a glorious view over Loch Ness, beside which our walk led us, through a delightful country studded with mansions amidst some of nature's most beautiful scenery. Presently we met a party of men, consisting of two soldiers and three civilians, engaged in cutting branches from the trees that were likely to interfere with the working of the telegraph, which passed along the side of the road. It consisted of a single wire, and had only just been erected, for we noticed each post bore the Government mark and the date 1871. We asked the men if they knew of a good remedy for our complaint, and one of the soldiers, who had seen service abroad, recommended "a spoonful of sweet oil and cinnamon mixed with it." Our former remedy had proved to be efficacious, so we had no need to try this, but we give the information here for the benefit of all whom it may concern. [Illustration: THE BURYING-PLACE OF THE CLANS.] We were certainly in for the best day's march we had yet experienced, if not for distance, certainly for beauty of route; and if we had had the gift of poetry--which only affected us occasionally--we should have had here food for poems sufficient to fill the side of a newspaper. Mountain rills, gushing rivulets, and murmuring waters! Here they were in abundance, rolling down the rocky mountains from unknown heights, and lending an additional charm to the landscape! Is it necessary to dilate on such beauties?--for if words were conjured in the most delicate and exquisite language imaginable, the glories of Loch Ness and its surroundings are, after all, things to be seen before they can be fully appreciated. The loch is over twenty miles long, and averages about a mile broad; while a strange fact is that its water never freezes. Scientific men, we were told, attributed this to the action of earthquakes in distant parts of the world, their vibrations affecting the surface of the water here; while others, apparently of the more commonsense type, attribute it to the extreme depth of the water in the loch itself, for in the centre it is said to exceed 260 yards. As we loitered along--for we were very lazy--we decided to have a picnic amongst the large stones on the shore of the loch, so we selected a suitable position, and broke into the provisions we carried in our bags as a reserve for emergencies. We were filling our water-boiling apparatus from the loch, when we saw a steamboat approaching from the direction of Glasgow. It presented quite a picture as it passed us, in the sunshine, with its flags flying and its passengers crowded on the deck, enjoying the fine scenery, and looking for Inverness, where their trip on the boat, like the Caledonian Canal itself, would doubtless end. There was music on board, of which we got the full benefit, as the sound was wafted towards us across the water, to echo and re-echo amongst the hills and adjoining woods; and we could hear the strains of the music long after the boat was cut off from our vision by the branches of the trees which partially surrounded us. [Illustration: THE WELL OF THE DEAD, CULLODEN MUIR. The stone marks the spot where MacGillivray of Dunmaglass died while stretching out his hand toward the little spring of water.] We were, in reality, having a holiday compared with our exertions on Saturday, and, as we were practically on the sick-list, considered ourselves fully entitled to it. We thought we had travelled quite far enough for invalids when, at fourteen miles from Inverness, and in the light of a lovely sunset, we reached Drumnadrochit, a village on the side of the loch. Is it to be wondered at that we succumbed to the seductions of the famous inn there, as distinguished men had done before us, as the records of the inn both in prose and poetry plainly showed? One poetical Irishman had written a rhyme of four verses each ending with the word Drumnadrochit, one of which we thought formed a sufficient invitation and excuse for our calling there; it read: Stop, traveller! with well-pack'd bag, And hasten to unlock it; You'll ne'er regret it, though you lag A day at Drumnadrochit. One of the best advertisements of this hotel and Drumnadrochit generally appeared in a letter written by Shirley Brooks to _Punch_ in 1860, in which he wrote: The inn whence these lines are dated faces a scene which, happily, is not too often to be observed in this planet. I say happily, sir, because we are all properly well aware that this world is a vale of tears, in which it is our duty to mortify ourselves and make everybody else as uncomfortable as possible. If there were many places like Drumnadrochit, persons would be in fearful danger of forgetting that they ought to be miserable. But who would have thought that a quiet and sedate-looking Quaker like John Bright, the famous M.P. for Birmingham, could have been moved by the spirit to write a verse of poetry--such an unusual thing for a member of the Society of Friends! Here it is: In the Highland glens 'tis far too oft observed, That man is chased away and game preserved; Glen Urquhart is to me a lovelier glen-- Here deer and grouse have not supplanted men. But was the position reversed when Mr. Bright visited it? and did the men supplant the deer and grouse then? [Illustration: DRUMNADROCHIT.] Glen Urquhart was one of the places we had to pass on the following day, but as we had no designs on the deer and grouse, since our sporting proclivities did not lie in that direction, we thought that we might be safely trusted to leave the game undisturbed. (_Distance walked fourteen miles_.) _Tuesday, September 26th._ We set out from Drumnadrochit early in the morning, and, leaving Glen Urquhart to the right, after walking about two miles turned aside to view Urquhart Castle, a ruin occupying a commanding position on the side of Loch Ness and immediately opposite the entrance to the glen. The castle was besieged by Edward I when he was trying to subdue Scotland, and a melancholy story was told of that period. The Scots, who were defending the castle, were "in extremis," as their provisions were exhausted and they knew that when they surrendered they would all be slain. The Governor, however, was anxious to save his wife, who was shortly to become a mother, so he bade her clothe herself in rags and drove her from the gate as though she were a beggar who had been shut up in the castle and whom they had driven away because their provisions were running short. The ruse succeeded, for the English, believing her story, let her go; after the garrison saw that she was safe they sallied forth to meet their fate, and were all killed. [Illustration: URQUHART CASTLE.] The approach to the ruins from the road is by upwards of a hundred rough hardwood steps, and the castle must have been a well-nigh impregnable stronghold in former times, protected as it was on three sides by the water of the loch and by a moat on the fourth, the position of the drawbridge being still clearly denned. Beneath the solitary tower is a dismal dungeon, and we wondered what horrors had been enacted within its time-worn and gloomy walls! Once a grim fortress, its ruins had now been mellowed by the hand of time, and looked quite inviting amidst their picturesque surroundings. To them might fitly be applied the words: "Time has made beautiful that which at first was only terrible." Whilst we were amongst the ruins, a steamboat which had called at Drumnadrochit passed close alongside the castle, and we waved our handkerchiefs to those on board, our silent salutations being returned by some of the passengers. We afterwards learned we had been recognised by a gentleman who had met us on the previous day. About ten miles from Drumnadrochit we reached Invermoriston, and visited a church which was almost filled with monuments to the memory of the Grant family, the lairds of Glenmoriston. Among them was the tombstone of the son of a former innkeeper, with the following inscription, which reminded us of our own mortality: Remember, Friend, when this you see, As I am now so you must be; As you are now so once was I. Remember, Friend, that you must die. There was also another tombstone, apparently that of his mother, inscribed: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JEAN SCOTT, THE AMIABLE WIFE OF WILLIAM FALL, INVERMORISTON, INNKEEPER, WHO DIED ON THE 13TH DAY OF APRIL 1837 AGED 68 YEARS. and on this appeared the following epitaph: Weep not for me, O friends, But weep and mourn For your own sins. [Illustration: LOCH NESS FROM FORT AUGUSTUS.] We then went to visit the remarkable waterfall of Glenmoriston, where the water after rushing down the rocks for some distance entered a crevice in a projecting rock below, evidently worn in the course of ages by the falls themselves. Here the water suddenly disappeared, to reappear as suddenly some distance below, where, as if furious at its short imprisonment, it came out splashing, dashing, and boiling in fantastic beauty amongst the rocks over which it pursued its downward course. We descended a few paces along a footpath leading to a small but ancient building, probably at one time a summer house, in the centre of which a very old millstone had done duty as a table. Here we were fairly in the whirl of waters, and had a splendid view of the falls and of the spray which rose to a considerable height. There was no doubt that we saw this lovely waterfall under the best possible conditions, and it was some recompense to us when we thought that the heavy rainfall through which we had passed had contributed to this result. The thistle may overshadow many more beautiful falls than the falls of Glenmoriston, but we claim a share of praise for this lively little waterfall as viewed by us in full force from this shady retreat. [Illustration: GENERAL WADE'S ROAD NEAR FORT AUGUSTUS, WITH LOCH NESS IN THE DISTANCE.] [Illustration: A LIGHTHOUSE ON LOCH NESS.] [Illustration: FALLS OF FOYERS AND LOCH NESS. "Here in the whirl of waters ... the spray rose to a considerable height."] After refreshing ourselves at the inn, we started on our next stage of ten miles to Fort Augustus, the loneliness of our journey through its beauties of scenery being enlivened by occasionally watching the pranks of the squirrels and gazing at the many burns that flowed down the mountain slopes. Before reaching Fort Augustus we had a splendid view as we looked backward over Loch Ness, dotted here and there with several ships tacking and retacking, their white sails gleaming in the sunshine. It had been a calm and lovely day; the sun was sinking in the west as we entered Fort Augustus, but we had only time enough for a superficial survey, for we had to proceed farther, and, however important the Fort might have been in 1729 when General Wade constructed his famous military road, or when the Duke of Cumberland made it his headquarters while he dealt severely with the adherents of Prince Charlie, shooting ruthlessly, laying waste on every side, and driving women and children into the moors only to die, it looked very insignificant that night. The Highland Clans never looked favourably on the construction of these military roads, and would doubtless have preferred the mountain tracks to remain as they were, for by using the Fort as a base these roads became a weapon to be used against them; their only eulogy was said to have been written by an Irish officer: Had you but seen these roads before they were made, You would lift up your eyes, and bless General Wade. My brother said he must have been a real Irishman, with the eye of faith, to see roads _before they were made_! [Illustration: PRINCE CHARLIE'S CAVE, INVERMORISTON.] Fort Augustus stands at the extremity of Loch Ness, at the point where its surplus waters are lowered by means of locks to swell those of Loch Oich, so as to make both lochs navigable for the purposes of the Caledonian Canal. We noticed some corn-stacks here that were thatched with broom, and some small houses that were roofed with what looked like clods of earth, so we concluded that the district must be a very poor one. [Illustration: IN GLENMORISTON.] As darkness was now coming on, we were anxious to find lodgings for the night, and, hearing that there was an inn at a place called Invergarry, seven and a half miles from Fort Augustus, we were obliged to go there. The moon was just beginning to relieve the darkness when we reached Invergarry, and, seeing a servant removing some linen from a clothes-line in a small garden, we asked the way to the inn; she pointed to a building opposite, and said we had "better go in at that door." We entered as directed at the side door, and found ourselves in a rather large inn with a passage through it from end to end. We saw what we supposed to be the master and the mistress snugly ensconced in a room, and asked the master if we could obtain lodgings for the night. He said "yes," but we heard the mistress, who had not seen us, mutter something we could not hear distinctly. My brother said he was sure he heard the words "Shepherd's room." The landlord then conducted us into a room at the end of the long dark passage, in which, we found several shepherds drinking and conversing with each other in Gaelic. One of them said to us "Good night," and as we returned his salutation they all retired from the room. We were now able to look about us, and found the room contained two tables, four forms, and at least two beds ranged lengthways along one side. Presently a servant came in and began to make one of the beds, and then another servant came who, we thought, eyed us rather closely, as we were holding our faces down to conceal the laughter which we could scarcely restrain. When she had made the other bed my brother asked if both the beds were for us. The servant said she couldn't tell, but "Missis says they are both to be made." We had evidently been taken for shepherds, and at first we were inclined to feel angry, for no one came to ask us if we required anything to eat or drink. We could have done with a good supper, but fortunately we had replenished our bags at Fort Augustus, so we were in no danger of being starved. We scribbled in our diaries by the feeble light of the candle which the servants had left on one of the tables, and as no one turned up to claim the second bed we occupied both. There was no lock or fastening on the door, but we barricaded it securely with two of the forms--and it was perhaps as well that we did so, for some one tried to open it after we were in bed--and we slept that night not on feathers, but on chaff with which the beds or mattresses were stuffed. (_Distance walked twenty-seven miles_.) _Wednesday, September 27th._ "The sleep of a labouring man is sweet," and so was ours on the primitive beds of the shepherds. But the sounds in the rear of the hotel awoke us very early in the morning, and, as there was every appearance of the weather continuing fine, we decided to walk some distance before breakfast. We asked one of the servants how much we had to pay, and she returned with an account amounting to the astounding sum of sixpence! Just fancy, ye Highland tourists! ye who have felt the keen grip of many an hotel-keeper there--just fancy, if ye can, two of us staying a night at a large hotel in the Highlands of Scotland for sixpence! We followed the servant to a small room at the front of the hotel, where a lady was seated, to whom the money had to be paid; the surprised and disappointed look on her face as we handed her a sovereign in payment of our account was rich in the extreme, amply repaying us for any annoyance we might have experienced the night before. What made the matter more aggravating to the lady was that she had not sufficient change, and had to go upstairs and waken some unwilling money-changer there! Then the change had to be counted as she reluctantly handed it to us and made a forlorn effort to recover some of the coins. "Won't you stay for breakfast?" she asked; but we were not to be persuaded, for although we were hungry enough, we were of an unforgiving spirit that morning, and, relying upon getting breakfast elsewhere, we thanked her and went on our way rejoicing! About a mile farther on we reached the ruins of Glengarry Castle, which stand in the private grounds of the owner, but locks and bolts prevented us from seeing the interior. This castle remains more complete than many others and still retains its quadrangular appearance, much as it was when Prince Charlie slept there during his flight after Culloden, and, although not built on any great elevation, it looks well in its wooded environs and well-kept grounds. A story was told of the last Lord Glengarry who, in 1820, travelled 600 miles to be present at the Coronation of King George IV. He was dressed on that magnificent and solemn occasion in the full costume of a Highland chief, including, as a matter of course, a brace of pistols. A lady who was at the reception happened to see one of the pistols in his clothing, and, being greatly alarmed, set up a loud shriek, crying, "Oh Lord! Oh Lord! there's a man with a pistol," and alarming the whole assembly. As she insisted on Glengarry being arrested, he was immediately surrounded, and the Garter King of Arms came forward and begged him to give up the much-dreaded pistols; but he refused, as they were not loaded, and pleaded that they formed an essential part of his national garb. At length, however, after much persuasion, he gave them up. Glengarry wrote a letter to the editor of _The Times_, in which he said: "I have worn my dress continually at Court, and was never so insulted before. Pistols, sir, are as essential to the Highland courtier's dress as a sword is to English, French, or German; and those used by me on such occasions as unstained with powder as any courtier's sword, with blood. It is only grossest ignorance of Highland character and costume which imagined that the assassin lurked under their bold and manly form." Glengarry, who, it was said, never properly recovered from the effects of this insult, died in 1828. After about another mile we came to a monument near the side of the road, on the top of which were sculptured the figures of seven human heads held up by a hand clasping a dagger. On each of the four sides of the base there was an inscription in one of four different languages--English, French, Latin, and Gaelic--as follows: As a memorial to the ample and summary vengeance which in the swift course of Feudal justice inflicted by the orders of the Lord MacDonnell and Aross overtook the perpetrators of the foul murder of the Keppoch family, a branch of the powerful and illustrious Clan of which his Lordship was the Chief, this Monument is erected by Colonel MacDonnell of Glengarry XVII Mac-Minc-Alaister his successor and Representative in the year of our Lord 1812. The heads of the seven murderers were presented at the feet of the noble chief in Glengarry Castle after having been washed in this spring and ever since that event which took place early in the sixteenth century it has been known by the name "Tobar-nan-Ceann" or the Well of the Heads. The monument was practically built over the well, an arched passage leading down to the water, where we found a drinking-utensil placed for any one who desired a drink. We were glad to have one ourselves, but perhaps some visitors might be of such refined and delicate taste that they would not care to drink the water after reading the horrible history recorded above. It appeared that Macdonald of Keppoch, the owner of the estate, had two sons whom he sent to France to be educated, and while they were there he died, leaving the management of his estate to seven kinsmen until the return of his sons from France; when they came back, they were murdered by the seven executors of their father's will. The Bard of Keppoch urged Glengarry to take vengeance on the murderers, and this monument was erected to commemorate the ample and summary vengeance inflicted about 1661. [Illustration: INVERGARRY CASTLE.] Leaving this memorial of "ample and summary vengeance," we crossed the Loggan Bridge and gained the opposite bank of the Caledonian Canal. The country we now passed through was very lonely and mountainous, and in one place we came to a large plantation of hazel loaded with nuts. We reflected that there were scarcely any inhabitants to eat them, as the persons we met did not average more than a dozen in twenty miles, and on one occasion only six all told; so we turned into nut-gatherers ourselves, spurred on by the fact that we had had no breakfast and our appetites were becoming sharpened, with small prospect of being appeased in that lonely neighbourhood. A little farther on, however, we met a man with two dogs, who told us he was the shepherd, and, in reply to our anxious inquiry, informed us that we could get plenty to eat at his house, which we should find a little farther on the road. This was good news, for we had walked eight miles since leaving Invergarry. When we reached the shepherd's house, which had formerly been an inn, we found the mistress both civil and obliging, and she did her best to provide for our hungry requirements. The house was evidently a very old one, and we wondered what queer people had sat in that ingle-nook and what strange stories they had told there. The fireplace was of huge dimensions; hanging above it was a single-and a double-barrelled gun, while some old crockery and ancient glass bottles adorned various parts of the kitchen--evidently family heirlooms, which no doubt had been handed down from one generation to another--and a very old bed reposed in the chimney corner. The mistress provided us with a splendid breakfast, upon which we inflicted "ample and summary vengeance," for those words were still ringing in our minds and ears and had already become by-words as we travelled along. The "best tea-pot," which looked as if it had not been used for ages, was brought from its hiding-place; and, amongst other good things, we were treated by way of dessert to some ripe blackberries, which the mistress called brambleberries and which she told us she had gathered herself. It was half-past ten o'clock when we left the shepherd's house, and shortly afterwards we had a view of the snow-covered summit of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Great Britain. We had a lonely walk alongside Loch Lochy, which is ten miles in length; but in about six miles General Wade's road, which we followed, branched off to the left. About four miles from the junction we reached Spean Bridge, over which we crossed the river of that name, which brings along the waters of sundry lochs as well as others from the valley of Glen Roy. This Glen forms an almost hidden paradise beloved of geologists, as along the sides of the valley are the famous "Parallel Roads" belonging to the Glacial Period. We replenished our stock of provisions, which we had rather neglected, at Spean Bridge, and treated ourselves to another little picnic in the lonely country beyond. It was dark before we reached Fort William, where we found comfortable lodgings at the house of Mrs. MacPherson opposite the Ben Nevis Hotel, and retired with the intention of ascending Ben Nevis the following day. (_Distance walked twenty-five and a half miles_.) _Thursday, September 28th._ After breakfast we commissioned Mrs. MacPherson to engage the services of the guide to conduct us to the top of Ben Nevis, which is 4,406 feet high, offering to pay him the sum of one sovereign for his services. We had passed the old castle of Inverlochy in the dark of the previous night, and, as we wished to visit it in the daylight that morning, we arranged that the guide should meet us on a bridge outside the town, which we must cross on our way to and from what we were told was once a royal castle, where King Achius signed a treaty with Charlemagne. The castle was some distance from the town, and quite near the famous distillery where the whisky known as "Long John" or the "Dew of Ben Nevis" was produced. We found ready access to the ruins, as the key had been left in the gate of the walled fence which surrounded them. "Prince Charlie," we learned, had "knocked" the castle to its present shape from an adjoining hill, and what he had left of it now looked very solitary. It was a square structure, with four towers one at each corner, that at the north-west angle being the most formidable. The space enclosed was covered with grass. What interested us most were four very old guns, or cannons, which stood in front of the castle, mounted on wheels supported on wood planks, and as they were of a very old pattern, these relics of the past added materially to the effect of the ancient and warlike surroundings. We did not stay long in the ruins, as we were anxious to begin our big climb, so we returned to the bridge to await the arrival of the guide engaged for us by our hostess, and whom we had not yet seen. We waited there for more than half an hour, and were just on the point of returning to the town when we noticed the approach of a military-looking man carrying a long staff spiked at one end, who turned out to be the gentleman we were waiting for, and under whose guidance we soon began the ascent of the big mountain. After climbing for some time, we came to a huge stone on which the Government engineers had marked the altitude as 1,000 feet above sea-level, and as we climbed higher still we had a grand view of the hills and waters in the distance. We went bravely onward and upward until we arrived at a lake, where on a rock we saw the Government mark known as the "broad arrow," an emblem which we also saw in many other places as we walked through the country, often wondering what the sign could mean. We surmised that it stood for England, Scotland, and Ireland united in one kingdom, but we afterwards learned that it was introduced at the end of the seventeenth century to mark Government stores, and that at one time it had a religious significance connected with the Holy Trinity. The altitude was also marked on the rock as 2,200 feet, so that we had now ascended half-way to the top of Ben Nevis. [Illustration:] On our way up the mountain we had to stop several times, for our guide complained of diarrhoea, but here he came to a dead stop and said he could not proceed any farther. We were suspicious at first that he was only feigning illness to escape the bad weather which we could see approaching. We did our best to persuade him to proceed, but without effect, and then we threatened to reduce his fee by one-half if he did not conduct us to the summit of Ben Nevis as agreed. Finally we asked him to remain where he was until we returned after completing the ascent alone; but he pleaded so earnestly with us not to make the attempt to reach the summit, and described the difficulties and dangers so vividly, that we reluctantly decided to forgo our long-cherished ambition to ascend the highest mountain in Great Britain. We were very much disappointed, but there was no help for it, for the guide was now really ill, so we took his advice and gave up the attempt. Ben Nevis, we knew, was already covered with snow at the top, and a further fall was expected, and without a guide we could not possibly find the right path. We had noticed the clouds collecting upon the upper peaks of the great mountain and the sleet was already beginning to fall, while the wind, apparently blowing from an easterly direction, was icy cold. My brother, who had had more experience in mountain-climbing than myself, remarked that if it was so bitterly cold at our present altitude of 2,200 feet, what might we expect it to be at 4,400, and reminded me of a mountain adventure he had some years before in North Wales. On his first visit to the neighbourhood he had been to see a relative who was the manager of the slate quarries at Llanberis and resided near Port Dinorwic. The manager gave him an order to ride on the slate train to the quarries, a distance of seven miles, and to inspect them when he arrived there. Afterwards he went to the Padaro Villa Hotel for dinner, and then decided to go on to Portmadoc. There was no railway in those days, and as the coach had gone he decided to walk. The most direct way, he calculated, was to cross Snowdon mountain, and without asking any advice or mentioning the matter to any one he began his walk over a mountain which is nearly 3,600 feet high. It was two o'clock in the afternoon when he left the hotel at Llanberis, and from the time he passed a stone inscribed "3-3/4 miles to the top of Snowdon" he did not see a single human being. It was the 23rd of November, and the top of the mountain, which was clearly visible, was covered with snow. All went well with him until he passed a black-looking lake and had reached the top of its rocky and precipitous boundary, when with scarcely any warning he suddenly became enveloped in the clouds and could only see a yard or two before him. He dared not turn back for fear he should fall down the precipice into the lake below, so he continued his walk and presently reached the snow. This, fortunately, was frozen, and he went on until he came to a small cabin probably used by the guide in summertime, but the door was locked, the padlock resting upon the snow; soon afterwards he arrived at the cairn which marked the summit of Snowdon. It was very cold, and he was soon covered with the frozen particles from the clouds as they drifted against him in the wind, which gave out a mournful sound like a funeral dirge as it drove against the rocks. He walked round the tower several times before he could find a way down on the other side, but at length his attention was attracted by a black peak of rock rising above the snow, and to his astonishment, in a sheltered corner behind it, he could distinctly see the footprints of a man and a small animal, probably a dog, that had gone down behind the rock just before the snow had frozen. The prints were not visible anywhere else, but, fortunately, it happened to be the right way, and he crossed the dreaded "Saddleback" with a precipice on each side of him without knowing they were there. It was a providential escape, and when he got clear of the clouds and saw miles of desolate rocky country before him bounded by the dark sea in the background and strode down the remainder of the seven miles from the top of Snowdon, his feelings of thankfulness to the Almighty may be better imagined than described. He himself--a first-class walker--always considered they were the longest and quickest he ever accomplished. He occupied two hours in the ascent, but not much more than an hour in the descent, reaching, just at the edge of dark, the high-road where the words "Pitt's Head" were painted in large letters on some rocks, which he afterwards learned represented an almost exact profile of the head of William Pitt the famous Prime Minister. He stayed for tea at Beddgelert and then walked down the Pass of Aberglaslyn on a tree-covered road in almost total darkness, with the company of roaring waters, which terrified him even more than the dangers he had already encountered, as far as Tremadoc, where he stayed the night. We had a dismal descent from Ben Nevis, and much more troublesome and laborious than the ascent, for our guide's illness had become more acute and he looked dreadfully ill. It was a pitiable sight to see him when, with scarcely strength enough to stand, he leaned heavily upon his staff on one side and on ourselves alternately on the other. We could not help feeling sorry for him for we had so recently suffered from the same complaint ourselves, though in a much milder form. We were compelled to walk very slowly and to rest at frequent intervals, and to add to our misery the rain was falling heavily. We were completely saturated long before reaching Fort William, and were profoundly thankful when we landed our afflicted friend at his own door. We handed him his full fee, and he thanked us and said that although he had ascended Ben Nevis on nearly 1,200 occasions, this was the only time he had failed. [Illustration: BEN NEVIS] We had not been quite satisfied that the cause assigned to our attack at Inverness was the real one, as we had drunk so little water there. We thought now that there might be some infectious epidemic passing through that part of Scotland, perhaps a modified form of the cholera that decimated our part of England thirty or forty years before, and that our guide as well as ourselves had contracted the sickness in that way. We must not forget to record that on our way up the "Ben" we saw a most beautiful rainbow, which appeared to great advantage, as it spread itself between us and the opposite hills, exhibiting to perfection all its seven colours. We were as hungry as hunters when we returned to our lodgings, and, after changing some of our clothes and drying the others, we sat down to the good things provided for our noon dinner, which we washed down with copious libations of tea. As the rain continued, we decided to stop another night at Mrs. MacPherson's, so we went out to make some purchases at the chemist's shop, which also served as an emporium--in fact as a general stores. We had a chat with the proprietor, who explained that Fort William was a very healthy place, where his profession would not pay if carried on alone, so he had to add to it by selling other articles. The Fort, he told us, was originally built in the time of Cromwell by General Monk to overawe the Highlanders, but was afterwards re-erected on a smaller scale by William III; hence its name of Fort William. [Illustration: BEN NEVIS AS SEEN FROM BANAVIE.] We asked the chemist if he could recommend to us a good shoemaker, who could undertake to sole and heel two pairs of boots before morning, as ours were showing signs of wear-and-tear owing to the long distances we had walked both before and after reaching John o' Groat's. This he promised to do, and he sent one across to Mrs. MacPherson's immediately. After we had parted with our boots, we were prisoners for the remainder of the day, though we were partially reconciled to our novel position when we heard the wind driving the rain against the windows instead of against ourselves. But it seemed strange to us to be sitting down hour after hour reading the books our hostess kindly lent to us instead of walking on the roads. The books were chiefly historical, and interested us, as they related to the country through which we were passing. Terrible histories they contained too! describing fierce battles and murders, and giving us the impression that the Scots of the olden times were like savages, fighting each other continually, and that for the mere pleasure of fighting. Especially interesting to us was the record of the cruel massacre of Glencoe, for we intended visiting there, if possible, on the morrow. It was not the extent of the carnage on that occasion, but the horrible way in which it was carried out, that excited the indignation of the whole country, and my brother spent some time in copying in his note-book the following history of-- THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE After King William had defeated the Highland Clans, he gave the Highland Chiefs a year and a half to make their submission to his officers, and all had done this except MacDonald of Glencoe, whose Chief--MacIan--had delayed his submission to the last possible day. He then went to Fort William to tender his Oath of Allegiance to the King's Officer there, who unfortunately had no power to receive it, but he gave him a letter to Sir Colin Campbell, who was at Inverary, asking him to administer the Oath to MacIan. The aged Chief hastened to Inverary, but the roads were bad and almost impassable owing to a heavy fall of snow, so that the first day of January, 1692, had passed before he could get there; Campbell administered the Oath and MacIan returned to Glencoe thinking that all was now right. But a plot was made against him by the Campbells, whose flocks and herds, it was said, the MacDonalds had often raided, and it was decided to punish MacIan and to exterminate his clan; and a company of the Earl of Argyle's regiment, commanded by Captain Campbell of Glenlyon, was sent to Glen Coe to await orders. MacIan's sons heard that the soldiers were coming, and thought that they were coming to disarm them, so they removed their arms to a place of safety, and, with a body of men, they went to meet the soldiers to ask if they were coming as friends or foes. They assured them that they were coming as friends and wished to stay with them for a short time, as there was no room for them, for the garrison buildings at Fort William were already full of soldiers. Alaster MacDonald, one of MacIan's sons, had married a niece of Glenlyon's, so that the soldiers were cordially received and treated with every possible hospitality by MacIan and his Clan, with whom they remained for about a fortnight. Then Glenlyon received a letter from Duncanson, his commanding officer, informing him that all the MacDonalds under seventy years of age must be killed, and that the Government was not to be troubled with prisoners. Glenlyon lost no time in carrying out his orders. He took his morning's draught as usual at the house of MacIan's son, who had married his niece, and he and two of his officers accepted an invitation to dinner from MacIan, whom, as well as the whole clan, he was about to slaughter. At four o'clock the next morning, February 13, 1692, the massacre was begun by a party of soldiers, who knocked at MacIan's door and were at once admitted. Lindsay, who was one of the officers who had accepted his invitation to dinner, commanded the party, and shot MacIan dead at his own bedside while he was dressing himself and giving orders for refreshments to be provided for his visitors. His aged wife was stripped by the savage soldiers, who pulled off the gold rings from her fingers with their teeth, and she died next day from grief and the brutal treatment she had received. The two sons had had their suspicions aroused, but these had been allayed by Glenlyon. However, an old servant woke them and told them to flee for their lives as their father had been murdered, and as they escaped they heard the shouts of the murderers, the firing of muskets, the screams of the wounded, and the groans of the dying rising from the village, and it was only their intimate knowledge of the almost inaccessible cliffs that enabled them to escape. At the house where Glenlyon lodged, he had nine men bound and shot like felons. A fine youth of twenty years of age was spared for a time, but one, Captain Drummond, ordered him to be put to death; and a boy of five or six, who had clung to Glenlyon's knees entreating for mercy and offering to become his servant for life if he would spare him, and who had moved Glenlyon to pity, was stabbed by Drummond with a dirk while he was in the agony of supplication. Barber, a sergeant, with some soldiers, fired on a group of nine MacDonalds who were round their morning fire, and killed four of them, and one of them, who escaped into a house, expressed a wish to die in the open air rather than inside the house, "For your bread, which I have eaten," said Barber, "I will grant the request." Macdonald was accordingly dragged to the door, but he was an active man and, when the soldiers presented their firelocks to shoot him, he cast his plaid over their eyes and, taking advantage of their confusion and the darkness, he escaped up the glen. Some old persons were also killed, one of them eighty years of age; and others, with women and children who had escaped from the carnage half clad, were starved and frozen to death on the snow-clad hills whither they had fled. The winter wind that whistled shrill, The snows that night that cloaked the hill, Though wild and pitiless, had still Far more than Southern clemency. It was thrilling to read the account of the fight between the two Clans, Mackenzie and MacDonnell, which the Mackenzies won. When the MacDonnells were retreating they had to cross a river, and those who missed the ford were either drowned or killed. A young and powerful chief of the MacDonnells in his flight made towards a spot where the burn rushed through a yawning chasm, very wide and deep, and was closely followed by one of the victorious Mackenzies; but MacDonnell, forgetting the danger of the attempt in the hurry of his flight and the agitation of the moment, and being of an athletic frame and half naked, made a desperate leap, and succeeded in clearing the rushing waters below. Mackenzie inconsiderately followed him, but, not having the impulse of the powerful feelings that had animated MacDonnell, he did not reach the top of the opposite bank, succeeding only in grasping the branch of a birch tree, where he hung suspended over the abyss. Macdonnell, finding he was not being followed, returned to the edge of the chasm, and, seeing Mackenzie's situation, took out his dirk, and as he cut off the branch from the tree he said, "I have left much behind me with you to-day; take that also," and so Mackenzie perished. There was another incident of Highland ferocity that attracted us powerfully, and read as follows: "Sir Ewen encountered a very powerful English officer, an over-match for him in strength, who, losing his sword, grappled with the chief, and got him under; but Lochiel's presence of mind did not forsake him, for grasping the Englishman by the collar and darting at his extended throat with his teeth, he tore away the bloody morsel, which he used to say was the sweetest morsel he had ever tasted." We felt that the people hereabouts were still of another nation. The descendants of Prince Charlie's faithful adherents still clung to their ancient religion, and they preserved many of their old customs and traditions in spite of the changes in outlook which trade and the great canal had brought about. It was therefore not to be wondered at that, after impressing our memories with these and other fearful stories and eating the heavy supper provided for us by our landlady, our dreams that night rather disturbed our slumbers. [Illustration: SCENE OF THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. "Especially interesting to us was the account of the cruel massacre of Glencoe. Here was enacted one of the blackest crimes in the annals of Scottish history."] Personally I was in the middle of a long journey, engaged in disagreeable adventures in which I was placed at a considerable disadvantage, as I was walking without my boots, when I was relieved from an unpleasant position by the announcement that it was six o'clock and that our boots had arrived according to promise. (_Distance walked nine miles_.) _Friday, September 29th._ There was a delightful uncertainty about our journey, for everything we saw was new to us, and we were able to enjoy to the fullest extent the magnificent mountain and loch scenery in the Highlands of Scotland, with which we were greatly impressed. It was seven o'clock in the morning, of what, fortunately for us, proved to be a fine day, as we left Fort William, and after coming to the end of the one street which formed the town we reached a junction of roads, where it was necessary to inquire the way to Glencoe. We asked a youth who was standing at the door of a house, but he did not know, so went into the house to inquire, and came out with the information that we could get there either way. We had already walked along the full length of Loch Ness, Loch Oich, and Loch Lochy, so we decided to walk alongside Loch Linnhe, especially as that road had the best surface. So on we went at a quick pace, for the half-day's holiday yesterday had resulted in renewed energy. We could see the great mountains in front which we knew we must cross, and after walking three and a half miles we met a pedestrian, who informed us that we were on the right way, and must go on until we reached Ballachulish, where we could cross the ferry to Glencoe. This information rather troubled us, as we had determined to walk all the way, so he advised us to go round the "Head of the Loch"--an expression we often heard used in Scotland--and to make our way there across the open country; in this case the loch was Loch Leven, so we left the highway and Loch Linnhe and walked to a small farm we could see in the distance. The mistress was the only person about, but she could only speak Gaelic, and we were all greatly amused at our efforts to make ourselves understood. Seeing some cows grazing quite near, my brother took hold of a quart jug standing on a bench and, pointing to the cows, made her understand that we wanted a quart of milk, which she handed to us with a smile. We could not ask her the price, so we handed her fourpence, the highest price we had known to have been paid for a quart of the best milk at home, and with which she seemed greatly pleased. We were just leaving the premises when the farmer came up, and he fortunately could speak English. He told us he had seen us from a distance, and had returned home, mistaking us for two men who occasionally called upon him on business. He said we had gone "three miles wrong," and took great pains to show us the right way. Taking us through a fence, he pointed out in the distance a place where we should have to cross the mountains. He also took us to a track leading off in that direction, which we were to follow, and, leaving him, we went on our way rejoicing. But this mountain track was a very curious one, as it broke away in two or three directions and shortly disappeared. It was unfenced on the moorland, and there were not enough people travelling that way to make a well-defined path, each appearing to have travelled as he pleased. We tried the same method, but only to find we had gone out of the nearest way. We crossed several small burns filled with delightfully clear water, and presently saw another house in the distance, to which we now went, finding it to be the shepherd's house. Here the loud and savage barking of a dog brought out the shepherd's wife, who called the dog away from us, and the shepherd, who was having his breakfast, also made his appearance. He directed us to a small river, which he named in Gaelic, and pointed to a place where it could easily be forded, warning us at the same time that the road over the hills was not only dangerous, but difficult to find and extremely lonely, and that the road to Glencoe was only a drovers' road, used for driving cattle across the hills. We made the best of our way to the place, but the stream had been swollen by the recent rains, and we experienced considerable difficulty in crossing it. At length, after sundry walkings backwards and forwards, stepping from one large stone to another in the burn, we reached the opposite bank safely. The only mishap, beyond getting over shoe-tops in the water, was the dropping of one of our bags in the burn; but this we were fortunate enough to recover before its contents were seriously damaged or the bag carried away by the current. [Illustration: THE PASS.] We soon reached the road named by the shepherd, which was made of large loose stones. But was it a road? Scotland can boast of many good roads, and has material always at hand both for construction and repair; but of all the roads we ever travelled on, this was the worst! Presently we came to a lonely cottage, the last we were to see that day, and we called to inquire the way, but no English was spoken there. This was unfortunate, as we were in doubt as to which was our road, so we had to find our way as best we could. Huge rocks and great mountains reared their heads on all sides of us, including Ben Nevis, which we could recognise owing to the snowy coverlet still covering his head. The country became very desolate, with nothing to be seen but huge rocks, inaccessible to all except the pedestrian. Hour after hour we toiled up mountains--sometimes we thought we reached an elevation of two thousand feet--and then we descended into a deep ravine near a small loch. Who could forget a day's march like this, now soaring to an immense height and presently appearing to descend into the very bowels of the earth! We must have diverged somewhat from the road known as the "Devil's Staircase," by repute the worst road in Britain, for the track we were on was in one section like the bed of a mountain torrent and could not have been used even by cattle. Late in the afternoon we reached the proper track, and came up with several herds of bullocks, about three hundred in number, all told, that were being driven over the mountains to find a better home in England, which we ourselves hoped to do later. [Illustration: IN GLENCOE.] We were fortunate in meeting the owner, with whom we were delighted to enter into conversation. When we told him of our adventures, he said we must have missed our way, and congratulated us on having a fine day, as many persons had lost their lives on those hills owing to the sudden appearance of clouds. He said a heap of stones we passed marked the spot where two young men had been found dead. They were attempting to descend the "Devil's Stair," when the mist came on, and they wandered about in the frost until, overcome by sleep, they lay down never to rise again in this world. He had never been in England, but had done business with many of the nobility and gentlemen there, of whom several he named belonged to our own county of Chester. He had heard that the bullocks he sold to them, after feeding on the rich, pastures of England for a short time, grew to a considerable size, which we thought was not to be wondered at, considering the hardships these shaggy-looking creatures had to battle with in the North. We got some information about our farther way, not the least important being the fact that there was a good inn in the Pass of Glencoe; and he advised us to push on, as the night would soon be coming down. [Illustration: THE PASS IN GLENCOE.] At the close of day we could just see the outline of a deep, dark valley which we knew was the Pass of Glencoe, with a good road, hundreds of feet below. Acting on the advice of the drover, we left the road and descended cautiously until we could go no farther in safety; then we collected an enormous number of old roots, the remains of a forest of birch trees which originally covered the mountain-side, and with some dry heather lighted an enormous tire, taking care to keep it within bounds. A small rill trickling down the mountain-side supplied us with water, and, getting our apparatus to work and some provisions from our bags, we sat down as happy as kings to partake of our frugal meal, to the accompaniment of the "cup that cheers but not inebriates," waiting for the rising of the full moon to light us on our farther way to the road below. We were reclining amongst the heather, feeling thankful to the Almighty that we had not shared the fate of the two young men whose cairn we had seen on the hills above--an end we might easily have met, given the weather of yesterday and similar conditions--when suddenly we heard voices below us. Our fire now cast a glare around it, and everything looked quite dark beyond its margin. Our feelings of surprise increased as from the gloom emerged the gigantic figures of two stalwart Highlanders. We thought of the massacre of Glencoe, for these men were nearly double our size; and, like the Macdonalds, we wondered whether they came as friends or foes, since we should have fared badly had it been the latter. But they had been attracted by the light of our fire, and only asked us if we had seen "the droves." We gave them all the information we could, and then bidding us "good night" they quietly departed. [Illustration: "THE SISTERS," GLENCOE. "Here was wild solitude in earnest.... The scene we looked upon was wild and rugged, as if convulsed by some frightful cataclysm."] The darkness of the night soon became modified by the reflected light from the rising moon behind the great hills on the opposite side of the glen. We extinguished the dying embers of our fire and watched the full moon gradually appearing above the rocks, flooding with her glorious light the surrounding scene, which was of the sublimest grandeur and solitude. [Illustration: THE RIVER COE, GLENCOE.] Many descriptions of this famous glen have been written, and no one who could see it under such favourable and extraordinary conditions as we enjoyed that night would be disposed to dispute the general opinion of its picturesque and majestic beauty. Surely Nature is here portrayed in her mightiest form! How grand, and yet how solemn! See the huge masses of rock rising precipitously on both sides of the glen and rearing their rugged heads towards the very heavens! Here was wild solitude in earnest, and not even the cry of the eagle which once, and even now, had its abode in these vast mountain recesses broke the awful silence which that night prevailed in the Pass, disturbed only by the slumberous rippling of water. The scene we looked upon was wild and rugged, as if convulsed by some frightful cataclysm, and we saw it under conditions in which Nature conspired to enhance its awfulness--a sight which few painters could imitate, few writers could graphically describe. The infidel may deny the existence of the Creator of the universe, but there was here sufficient to fill the soul with awe and wonder, and to influence even the sceptic to render acknowledgment to the great God who framed these majestic hills. The reflection of the moon on the hills was marvellous, lighting up the white road at the upper end of the pass and the hills opposite, and casting great black shadows elsewhere which made the road appear as if to descend and vanish into Hades. We fancied as we entered the pass that we were descending into an abyss from which it would be impossible to extricate ourselves; but we were brought up sharp in our thoughts, for when we reached the road it suddenly occurred to us that we had forgotten to ask in which direction we had to turn for the "Clachaig Inn" named by the drover. We sat down by the roadside in the hope that some one would come from whom we might obtain the information, and were just beginning to think it was a forlorn hope when we heard the sound of horse's feet approaching from the distance. Presently the rider appeared, who proved to be a cattle-dealer, he told us he had some cattle out at the foot of the glen, and said the inn was seven miles away in the direction in which he was going. We asked him if he would kindly call there and tell them that two travellers were coming who required lodgings for the night. This he promised to do, and added that we should find the inn on the left-hand side of the road. We then started on our seven-mile walk down the Pass of Glencoe in the light of the full moon shining from a clear sky, and in about an hour's time in the greatest solitude we were almost startled by the sudden appearance of a house set back from the left-hand side of the road with forms and tables spread out on the grass in front. Could this be the inn? It was on the left-hand side, but we could not yet have walked the distance named by the cattle-dealer; so we knocked at the door, which was opened by a queer-looking old man, who told us it was not the inn, but the shepherd's house, and that the forms and tables in front were for the use of passengers by the coach, who called there for milk and light refreshments. Then the mistress, who was more weird-looking still, came forward, and down the passage we could see other strange-looking people. The old lady insisted upon our coming in, saying she would make us some porridge; but my brother, whose nerves seemed slightly unstrung, thought that we might never come out of the house again alive! We found, however, that the company improved on closer acquaintance. The meal was served in two deep bowls, and was so thick that when our spoons were placed in it on end they stood upright without any further support, so it was, as the Lancashire people describe it, proper "thick porridge." We were unable to make much impression on it, as we had not yet digested the repast we had enjoyed on the hills above, and the good old lady added to our difficulties by bringing a plentiful supply of milk. It was the first time we had tasted meal porridge in Scotland. Needless to say, after paying our hostess for her hospitality, we were allowed to depart in peace, nor were we molested during the remainder of our romantic evening walk. After proceeding about two miles farther amidst some of the most lonely and impressive scenery in the Highlands, we arrived at the "Clachaig Inn." It was after closing-time, but as the gentleman on horseback had delivered our message according to promise, the people of the inn were awaiting our arrival. We received a friendly welcome, and proceeded to satisfy what remained of a formerly voracious appetite by a weak attack on the good things provided for supper, after which, retiring to rest in the two beds reserved for us, we slept so soundly that in the morning when roused by a six-o'clock call we could not recall that our dreams had been disturbed even by the awful massacre enacted at Glencoe, which place was now so near. (_Distance walked thirty miles_.) _Saturday, September 30th._ By seven o'clock a.m. we were again on the road bound for Inverary, which place we were anxious to visit, as it had recently been the scene of a royal wedding, that of the Princess Louise with the Marquis of Lorne. The morning was beautifully fine, but there had been a frost during the night and the grass on the sides of the road was quite white. The sky was clear, not a cloud being visible as we resumed our walk down the glen, and in about three miles we reached the village of Glencoe. Here we heard blasting operations being carried on quite near our road, and presently we reached the edge of the loch, where there was a pier and a ferry. We now found that in directing us to Inverary our friends at the inn had taken it for granted that we wished to go the nearest way, which was across this ferry, and we were told there were others to cross before reaching Inverary. We therefore replenished our stock of provisions at the village shop and turned back up the glen, so that after seeing it in the light of the full moon the night before we had now the privilege of seeing it in the glorious sunshine. We walked on until we got to the shepherd's house where we had been treated to such a heavy repast of meal porridge the previous evening, and there we had a substantial meal to fortify us for our farther journey. On our way up the glen we had passed a small lake at the side of our road, and as there was not sufficient wind to raise the least ripple on its surface it formed a magnificent mirror to the mountains on both sides. Several carts laden with wool had halted by the side of the lake and these also were reflected on its surface. We considered the view pictured in this lake to be one of the prettiest sights we had ever seen in the sunshine, and the small streams flowing down the mountain sides looked very beautiful, resembling streaks of silver. We compared the scene in imagination with the changes two months hence, when the streams would be lines of ice and the mountain roads covered with a surface of frozen snow, making them difficult to find and to walk upon, and rendering travelling far less pleasant than on this beautiful morning. We often thought that we should not have completed our walk if we had undertaken it at the same period of the year but in the reverse direction, since we were walking far too late in the season for a journey of this description. We considered ourselves very fortunate in walking from John o' Groat's to Land's End, instead of from Land's End to John o' Groat's, for by the time we finished deep snow might have covered these Northern altitudes. How those poor women and children must have suffered at the time of the massacre of Glencoe, when, as Sir Walter Scott writes-- flying from their burning huts, and from their murderous visitors, the half-naked fugitives committed themselves to a winter morning of darkness, snow, and storm, amidst a wilderness the most savage in the Western Highlands, having a bloody death behind them, and before them tempest, famine, and desolation when some of them, bewildered by the snow-wreaths, sank in them to rise no more! [Illustration: BRIDGE OF ORCHY.] They were doubtless ignorant of the danger they were in, even as they escaped up the glen, practically the only way of escape from Glencoe, for Duncanson had arranged for four hundred soldiers to be at the top end of the pass at four o'clock that morning, the hour at which the massacre was to begin at the other end. Owing to the heavy fall of snow, however, the soldiers did not arrive until eleven o'clock in the forenoon--long after the fugitives had reached places of safety. Like many other travellers before us, we could not resist passing a bitter malediction on the perpetrators of this cruel wrong, although they had long since gone to their reward. And yet we are told that it hastened that amalgamation of the two kingdoms which has been productive of so much good. We had our breakfast or lunch served on one of the tables ranged outside the front of the shepherd's house, and in quite a romantic spot, whence we walked on to a place which had figured on mileposts for a long distance named "Kingshouse." Here we expected to find a village, but as far as we could see there was only one fairly large house there, and that an inn. What king it was named after did not appear, but there was no other house in sight. Soon after passing it we again came in contact with the master cattle-drover we had interviewed the day before, who told us that he had brought his bullocks from the Isle of Skye, from which place they had to travel seventy-one miles. We also passed several other droves, some of which we might have seen previously, and by nightfall came to Inveroran. Here we saw a comfortable inn which would have just suited us, but as there was no church there and the next day was Sunday, we decided to walk to the next village, about three miles farther on, where we were informed there was a church, and a drover's house quite near it where we could get lodgings. By this time it was quite dark, and we passed Loch Tulla without either seeing it or knowing it was there, and arriving at the Bridge of Orchy we found the drover's house near the church. To our great disappointment the accommodation had all been taken up, and the only place that the lady of the house knew of in the direction we were going was a farmhouse about four miles away, where she said, with a tone of doubt in her voice, "we might get in!" We crossed the bridge and passed over the River Orchy, which connected Loch Tulla with Loch Awe, some sixteen miles distant. Fortunately for us the moon now rose, though obscured by great black clouds, which we could see meant mischief, probably to make us pay dearly for the lovely weather during the day. But luckily there was sufficient light to enable us to see the many burns that crossed the surface of the road, otherwise it would have been impossible for us to have found our way. The streams were very numerous, and ran into the river which flowed alongside our road, from among some great hills the outlines of which we could see dimly to the left. We were tired, and the miles seemed very long, but the excitement of crossing the rushing waters of the burns and the noise of the river close by kept us awake. We began to think we should never reach that farmhouse, and that we had either missed our way or had been misinformed, when at length we reached the desired haven at a point where a gate guarded the entrance to the moor. All was in darkness, but we went to the house and knocked at the front door. There was no response, so we tried the shutters that barricaded the lower windows, our knocks disturbing the dogs at the back of the house, which began to bark and assisted us to waken the occupants. Presently we heard a sleepy voice behind the shutters, and my brother explained the object of our visit in a fine flow of language (for he was quite an orator), including references, as usual, to our "walking expedition," a favourite phrase of his. As the vehement words from within sounded more like Gaelic than English, I gathered that his application for lodgings had not been successful. Tired as I was, I could not help laughing at the storm we had created, in which the "walking expedition" man heartily joined. But what were we to do? Here we were on a stormy night, ten miles from the inn at Dalmally, which for aught we knew might be the next house, hungry and tired, cold and wet; and having covered thirty miles that day and thirty miles the day before, how could we walk a further ten miles? Our track was unfenced and bounded by the river on one side and the moors on the other, but presently we came to a place where the surface of the moor rose sharply and for some distance overhung the road, forming a kind of a cove. Here we gathered, some of the dry heather that extended under that which ornamented the sides of the cove, made quite a respectable fire, and ate our last morsel of food, with which unluckily we were poorly provided. To add to our misfortune, the wind grew into a hurricane and whirled the smoke in every direction, forcing us at last to beat a hasty retreat. We now faced the prospect of a night on the moors, and resolved to crawl along at a sufficient speed to keep up our circulation, stopping at the first house we came to. Here again the subdued light from the moon proved useful, for we had not gone very far before we saw what appeared to be a small house on the moor about a hundred yards away. We approached it very cautiously, and found it was a small hut. How glad we were to see that hut! We struck a light, and at once began an exploration of the interior, which we found contained a form, a rustic table reared against the wall, and, better than all, a fireplace with a chimney above it about a yard high; the door was lying loose outside the hovel. It may have been a retreat for keepers, though more likely a shelter for men who had once been employed on the land, for attached to it was a small patch of land fenced in which looked as though it had been cultivated. With a few sticks which we found in one corner and a handful of hay gathered from the floor we lighted a fire, for we were now becoming experts in such matters; but the smoke seemed undecided which way it should go, for at one minute it went up the chimney, at another it came down. We went outside and altered the chimney a little, for it was only formed of loose stones, and thus effected an improvement for a time. The door gave us the most trouble, since being loose we had the greatest difficulty in keeping it in its proper position, for the wind was now blowing hard--so much so that we thought at times that the hut itself would be blown over. At last a tremendous gust came, and down went the chimney altogether. The fire and smoke now made towards the doorway, so that we had frequently to step outside in order to get a breath of fresh air. We tried to build the chimney up again, but this was impossible owing to the velocity of the wind and rain and the exposed situation. Our slender supply of fuel was nearly exhausted, which was the worst feature, as it was imperative that we should keep ourselves warm; so we decided to go back towards the river, where we had seen a few small trees or bushes lining the bank between our track and the water. Luckily, however, we discovered a dead tree inside the enclosed land, and as I was somewhat of an expert at climbing, I "swarmed" up it and broke off all the dead branches I could reach with safety, it being as much as I could do to retain my hold on the slippery trunk of the tree. With the dead wood and some heather and pieces of turf we returned laden and wet through to our dug-out, where we managed to get our fire burning again and to clear away some of the stones that had fallen upon it. Still there was no sleep for us that night, which was the most miserable one almost that we ever experienced. But just fancy the contrast! In the dead of night, in a desolate Highland glen, scaling a stone fence in a pitiless storm of wind and rain, and climbing up a dead tree to break off a few branches to serve as fuel for a most obstinate fire--such was the reality; and then picture, instead of this, sitting before a good fire in a comfortable inn, with a good supper, and snug apartments with every accommodation--these had been our fond anticipations for the week-end! We certainly had a good supply of wet fuel, and perhaps burned something else we ought not to have done: but we were really prisoners for the night. The merciless wind and rain raged throughout, and we had to stick to our novel apartment and breathe until daylight the awful smoke from the fire we were compelled to keep alight. Yet our spirits were not entirely damped, for we found ourselves in the morning, and often during the night, singing the refrain of an old song: We'll stand the storm, it won't be long; We'll anchor by and by. Just occasionally the gloom thickened when we ventured to think of details, among which came uppermost the great question, "Where and when shall we get our breakfast?" (_Distance walked, including that to Dalmally, forty miles_.) _Sunday, October 1st._ Soon after daylight appeared the rain moderated, and so did the wind, which now seemed to have exhausted itself. Our sleep, as may easily be imagined, had been of a very precarious and fitful character; still the hut had rendered substantial service in sheltering us from the fury of the storm. Soon after leaving our sorry shelter we saw a white house standing near the foot of a hill beyond the moor, and to this we resolved to go, even though it was a long distance away, as it was now imperative that we should obtain food. A knock at the door, more than once repeated--for it was still very early--at last roused the mistress of the house, who opened the door and with kindly sympathy listened to our tale of woe. She at once lit the fire, while the other members of the family were still asleep in the room, and found us some soap and water, our hands and faces being as black as smoke and burnt sticks could make them. After a good wash we felt much better and refreshed, although still very sleepy. She then provided us with some hot milk and oatcake, and something we had never tasted before, which she called "seath." It proved to be a compound of flour and potatoes, and after our long fast it tasted uncommonly good. Altogether we had an enormous breakfast, the good wife waiting upon us meanwhile in what we supposed was the costume common to the Highlands--in other words, minus her gown, shoes, and stockings. We rewarded her handsomely and thanked her profusely as she directed us the nearest way to Dalmally. On arrival at the well-appointed inn there, we received every attention, and retired to our bedrooms, giving strict orders to the waiter to see that we were called in time for lunch, and for the English service at the kirk, which he told us would be held that day between one and two o'clock. In accordance with our instructions we were called, but it was not surprising, after walking quite forty miles since Saturday at daybreak, that we should be found soundly sleeping when the call came. Lunch was waiting for us, and, after disposing of it as hungry folk should, we went to Glenorchy Church, only to find that, unfortunately, there was no service that day. The minister, who had charge of two parishes, was holding a service at his other church, seven miles distant up the glen! We therefore hurried to the Free Kirk, which stood in another part of the village; but as the Gaelic service had been taken at one o'clock and the English service followed it immediately afterwards, the minister had already begun his sermon when we arrived. The door was shut, so entering quietly and closing it behind us, we were astonished to find a table in the vestibule with a plate exposing to our view a large number of coins evidently the result of the collection from the worshippers within. We were surprised at the large proportion of silver coins, an evidence that the people had given liberally. We added our mites to the collection, while we wondered what would have become of the money if left in a similar position in some districts we could think of farther south. We were well pleased with the sermon, and as the congregation dispersed we held a conversation and exchanged views with one of the elders of the church chiefly on the subject of collections. He explained that the prevailing practice in the Scottish Churches was for the collection to be taken--or rather given--on entering the House of God, and that one or two of the deacons generally stood in the vestibule beside the plate. We told him it was the best way of taking a collection that we had ever seen, since it did not interrupt or interfere with the service of the church, and explained the system adopted in the churches in England. In our youthful days collections were only made in church on special occasions, and for such purposes as the support of Sunday schools and Missionary Societies. The churchwardens collected the money in large and deep wooden boxes, and the rattle of the coins as they were dropped into the boxes was the only sound we could hear, for the congregation remained seated in a deep and solemn silence, which we in our youthful innocence thought was because their money was being taken away from them. In later years brass plates were substituted for boxes in some churches, and each member of the congregation then seemed to vie with his neighbours for the honour of placing the most valuable coin on the plate. The rivalry, however, did not last long, and we knew one church where this custom was ended by mutual arrangement. The hatchet was buried by substituting bags, attached, in this case, to the end of long sticks, to enable the wardens to reach the farthest end of the pews when necessary. This system continued for some time, but when collections were instituted at each service and the total result had to be placarded on the outside of the church door, with the numbers and total value of each class of coin recorded separately, the wardens sometimes found a few items in the bags which were of no monetary value, and could not be classified in the list without bringing scandal to the church and punishment to the, perhaps youthful, offenders; so the bags were withdrawn and plates reinstated, resulting in an initial increase of 10 per cent, in the amount collected. The church was a large one, and a great number of ladies attended it on Sundays, their number being considerably augmented by the lady students from the Collegiate Institutions in the town, who sat in a portion of the church specially reserved for them. The Rector of the parish was an elderly man and an eloquent preacher, who years before had earned his reputation in London, where in a minor capacity he had been described by Charles Dickens as the model East End curate. Eight gentlemen were associated with him as wardens and sidesmen, all well-known men in the town, one of whom being specially known for the faultless way in which he was dressed and by his beautiful pink complexion--the presence of the light hair on his face being scarcely discernible, and giving him the appearance of being endowed with perpetual youth. His surname also was that of the gentleman for whom all young ladies are supposed to be waiting, so it was not to be wondered at that he was a general favourite with them, and that some slight feeling of jealousy existed among his colleagues. It was part of their duties to collect the offerings from the congregation, and afterwards assemble at the west end of the church, marching two and two in military step to the east end to hand their collections to the clergyman who stood there waiting to receive them. One Sunday morning, when the favourite collector reached that end of the church where most of the young ladies were located, he was surprised to notice that all of them received him with a smile as he handed them the plate. Several of them actually went so far as to incline their heads slightly, as if adding a nod to their smiles. He thought at first that they were amused at something connected with his new suit of clothes--of which, by the way, he was quite proud--but a hasty examination of his person from collar downwards showed everything to be in perfect order. He felt annoyed and very uncomfortable when the ladies continued to smile as he visited each pew, without his being able to ascertain the reason why, and he was greatly relieved when he got away from them to rejoin his colleagues. As he was advancing with them up the centre of the church his eye chanced to rest for a moment on the contents of his plate, and there, to his horror, he saw a large white mint-drop about the size of a half-crown, which had been placed face upwards bearing the words printed in clear red letters, "WILL YOU MARRY ME?" Then he understood why the young ladies smiled and nodded acceptance so pleasantly that morning, for, unconsciously, he had been "popping the question" all round; although inquired into at the time, the mystery of the mint-drop was never satisfactorily solved. A gentleman to whom we told this story said it reminded him of another of what he called a "swell"--a fine young fellow, with apparently more money than sense--who dropped into a country church for service and was shown into the squire's pew. The squire was old and of fixed habits. After settling in his seat he drew out his half-crown as usual and placed it on the ledge in front. His companion pulled out a sovereign and ostentatiously put it on the ledge too. The squire stared hard at him and soon reckoned him up. He then placed a second half-crown on the first, and the stranger produced a second sovereign. Five times was this repeated during the service. At last the churchwarden brought his brass plate, which the squire gravely took and held out to his neighbour, who swept the five sovereigns on to it in a very grand manner. The squire picked up one half-crown for the plate and, with a twinkle in his eye, returned the rest to his pocket! Since the days of King David singing has always been considered a most valuable aid in the offering up of prayers and praises to the Almighty, and nothing sounded better in our ears than the hearty singing of a good old hymn by the entire congregation. But why this period in the Church Service should have been chosen in later years as a suitable time for the wardens to disturb the harmony and thoughts of the parishioners by handing round their collection plates was beyond our comprehension. The interruption caused by that abominable practice often raised unchristian-like feelings in our minds, and we wished at times that the author of it, whoever he might be, could be brought to the gallows and publicly hanged for his services; for why should our devotions be disturbed by the thought that at any moment during the singing of a hymn the collector might suddenly appear on the scene, possibly sneaking up from the rear like a thief in the night, to the annoyance of every one within reach? If the saving of time is the object, why not reduce the length of the sermon, which might often be done to advantage? or, failing that, why not adopt the system which prevailed in the Scottish Churches? [Illustration: DUNCAN-BANN-MACINTYRE'S MONUMENT.] The elder of the Free Kirk at Dalmally was much interested in what we told him about our English Services, where the congregations both prayed and sang in positions differing from those adopted in Scotland, and to continue the conversation he walked with us as far as Dalmally Bridge, where we parted company. We then continued on our way to visit a monument erected on a hill we could see in the distance "to the memory of Duncan-Bann-Macintyre, the Glenorchy poet, who was born in the year 1724 and departed this life in 1812"; and, judging from the size of the monument, which was in the style of a Grecian temple in grey granite and inscribed to the memory of the "Sweetest and Purest of Gaelic Bards," he must have been a man of considerable importance. From that point we had a fine view of Loch Awe, perhaps the finest obtainable, for although it is above twenty miles long, the lake here, in spite of being at its greatest breadth, appeared almost dwarfed into a pool within the mighty mass of mountains with lofty Ben Cruachan soaring steeply to the clouds, and forming a majestic framework to a picture of surpassing beauty. The waters of the lake reflected the beauties of its islands and of its mountainous banks. These islands all had their own history or clan legend and were full of mysteries. Inishail, once a nunnery, and for ages the burying-place of the clan chieftains; Innischonell, from the eleventh century the stronghold of the Argyll, whence they often sent forth their famous slogan or defiant war-cry, "It's a far cry to Lochawe"; Fraoch Eilean, where the hero Fraoch slew and was himself slain by the serpent that guarded the apples for which the fair Mego longed. We then retraced our steps slowly to the Dalmally inn, where we were served with tea in the sumptuous manner common to all first-class inns in the Highlands of Scotland, after which we retired to rest, bent on making good the sleep we had lost and on proceeding on our journey early the following morning. THIRD WEEKS JOURNEY _Monday, October 2nd._ [Illustration: KILCHURN CASTLE AND LOCH AWE.] We left our comfortable quarters at Dalmally at seven o'clock in the morning, and presently reached Loch Awe, with the poet's monument still in sight and some islands quite near to us in the loch. We soon left Loch Awe, turning off when we reached Cladich and striking over the hills to the left. After walking about two miles all uphill, we reached the summit, whence we had a fine backward view of Loch Awe, which from this point appeared in a deep valley with its sides nicely wooded. Here we were in the neighbourhood of the Cruachan mountains, to which, with Loch Awe, a curious tradition was attached that a supernatural being named "Calliach Bhere," or "The Old Woman," a kind of female genie, lived on these high mountains. It was said that she could step in a moment with ease from one mountain to another, and, when offended, she could cause the floods to descend from the mountains and lay the whole of the low ground perpetually under water. Her ancestors were said to have lived from time immemorial near the summit of the vast mountain of Cruachan, and to have possessed a great number of herds in the vale below. She was the last of her line, and, like that of her ancestors, her existence was bound up with a fatal fountain which lay in the side of her native hill and was committed to the charge of her family since it first came into existence. It was their duty at evening to cover the well with a large flat stone, and in the morning to remove it again. This ceremony was to be performed before the setting and the rising of the sun, that its last beam might not die upon nor its first ray shine upon the water in the well. If this care were neglected, a fearful and mysterious doom would be the punishment. When the father of the Calliach Bhere died, he committed the charge to her, warning her of its importance and solemnity and the fatality attending its neglect. For many years this mysterious woman attended carefully to her duties, but one unlucky evening, tired with her exertions in hunting and ascending the hills, she sat down by the fountain to await the setting of the sun, and falling asleep, did not awake until morning. When she arose she looked around, but the vale had vanished and a great sheet of water taken its place. The neglected well had overflowed while she slept, the glen was changed into a lake, the hills into islets, and her people and cattle had perished in the deluge. The Calliach took but one look over the ruin she had caused, and all that remained of her large possessions in the glen was Loch Awe and its islands! Then she herself vanished into oblivion. It is strange how these old stories are told with but little variation in so many places. This very story appears in Wales and Ireland and other regions where Celts predominate, and except in one instance, that of the destruction of the Lowland Hundreds, now under the water of Cardigan Bay, always in connection with a woman. We first heard it in Shropshire, but there it was an old woman who lived in a small cottage and possessed the only well in the place, charging the townspeople one farthing per bucket for the water. In those remote times this formed a great tax on the poor people, and many were the prayers offered up that the imposition might be removed. These prayers were answered, for one night a great storm arose, the well continued to overflow, and in the morning the old woman and her cottage had disappeared, and in place of the well appeared the beautiful Lake of Ellesmere. [Illustration: INVERARY CASTLE.] We had a fine walk down Glen Aray, with the River Aray on the left for some distance to keep us company, and after about four miles' walking we came to a ladder inserted in a high stone wall to the left of our road, which was here covered with trees. My brother climbed up to see what was on the other side, and reported that there was a similar ladder in the wall for descent, that he could see the river rushing down the rocks, and that a pretty little pathway ran under the trees alongside the stream. We had not met a single person since leaving the neighbourhood of Cladich, and as there was no one about from whom to make inquiries, we took "French leave" and climbed over the fence, to see at once a pretty waterfall and to follow a lovely path for a mile or two until it landed us in one of the main drives from Inverary Castle. Here we stopped to consider whether we should proceed or retreat, for we were sure we had been trespassing. My brother reminded me of an experience that occurred to us in the previous year in London. Before we began our walk home from that great city we visited as many of the sights of London as we could, and amongst these was the famous Tower. We had passed through the Gateway, but were then uncertain how to proceed, when, peeping round a corner, we saw a man dressed in a very strange-looking uniform, whom we afterwards learned was called a "Beef-eater." We approached him rather timidly to make inquiries, to which he kindly replied, but told us afterwards that he knew we were Englishmen the minute he saw us coming round the corner. Foreigners in coming through the gateway always walked firmly and quickly, while the English came creeping along and looking round the corners as if they were afraid. "My advice to you, young men," he said, "when visiting strange places, is to go on until you are stopped!" So on this occasion we decided to follow that advice and to go on towards the castle we could see in the distance. We had not proceeded very far, however, before we met a couple of two-horse open carriages followed by quite a number of persons on horseback. Feeling rather guilty, we stepped upon the grass by the roadside, and tried to look as if we were not there, but we could see that we had been observed by the occupants of the carriages and by their retinue. We knew from their appearance that they belonged to the aristocracy, and were not surprised to learn that the second carriage contained the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, while the people on horseback were the younger members of their family. We had almost reached the castle when we were stopped by a servant in livery, to whom we explained the cause of our presence, asking him the nearest way to Inverary, which he pointed out. He told us, among other things, that the Duke could drive many miles in his own domain, and that his family consisted of thirteen children, all of whom were living. We thanked him, and as we retired along the road he had directed us, we considered we had added one more adventure to enliven us on our journey. We had only walked a little way from the castle when a lady came across the park to speak to us, and told us that the cannon and the large wooden structure we could see in the park had been used for the "spree" at the royal wedding, when the Marquis of Lome, the eldest son of the Duke, had been married to the Princess Louise of England. She also told us that the Princess and the Marquis had been staying at the castle a short time before, but were not there then. Who the lady was we did not know, but she was of fine appearance and well educated, and from her conversation had evidently travelled extensively both at home and abroad. We thanked her for her courage and courtesy in coming to speak to us, at which she smiled and, bowing gracefully, retired towards the castle. How her conduct compared with that of some people in England may be judged from the following extract which we clipped from a Scottish newspaper shortly afterwards: A War Office clerk was riding outside the Oban coach from Inverary. A fellow-passenger at his side remarked, "What a glorious view! what a lovely scene!" to which the young gentleman of the War Office, with a strong glance at the speaker, replied, "Sir, I don't know you; we have not been introduced." It was a fine afternoon, and Inverary town looked at its best and quite pleasant in the sunshine, for most of the houses were coloured white. We halted awhile at the picturesque sculptured cross, where many a weary pilgrim had rested before us, with a glorious view over Loch Fyne and the mountains beyond. The church stood at the end of the street, and the "Argyll Arms Hotel" would have been a fine place to stay at for the night. There was also quite a large temperance hotel where carriages could be hired; but we had only walked about sixteen miles, so we had to resist these attractions and walk on to Cairndow, a further distance of ten miles. [Illustration: INVERARY CROSS] Loch Fyne, along the edge of which our road ran all the way to Cairndow, is tidal and about two miles wide at Inverary. We were now on the opposite side of the castle grounds, and could see another entrance gate, which had been decorated for the royal wedding. Fine woods bounded our road on the left until we reached the round hill of Duniquaich, where it turned rather abruptly until at Strone Point it was nearly opposite Inverary. From this place we had a magnificent view of the district we had just passed through; the splendid castle with its grey walls and the lofty tower on the wooded hill adjoining it contrasted finely with the whitened houses of the town of Inverary, as it stood in the light of the setting sun. We journeyed on alongside the loch, when as the shades of evening were coming on we met a young man and a young woman apparently in great distress. They told us they had crossed the loch in a small boat to look for ferns, and as the tide was going out had thought they might safely leave their boat on the side of the loch, but when they returned they could not find it anywhere. They seemed to have been equally unsuccessful with regard to the ferns, as we could not see any in their possession, but we guessed they had other interests, so we went to their assistance and soon found the boat, which doubtless was in the place where they had left it. The tide must have receded farther than they had anticipated, and they had looked for it too near the water. We assisted them to launch the boat, and when they were safely seated the young woman, who had looked far more alarmed than her companion, smiled upon us sweetly. In response to their looks and words of thanks we wished them a pleasant and safe journey; but we never saw any ferns! Our conversation as we resumed our walk was largely upon this adventure, and we wondered if the ferns could not have been found as easily on the other side of the loch as on this--but then we knew that Love is proverbially blind, and we consigned this fern story to the region of our mythological remembrances, and were still in good humour and not too tired when we reached the Cairndow inn, where we were hospitably, sumptuously, and we could safely add, when we paid the bill next morning, expensively entertained. But was this partly accounted for by the finely flavoured herrings known as Loch Fyne kippers we had for breakfast, which were said to fetch a higher price than any others in Scotland? (_Distance walked twenty-five miles_.) _Tuesday, October 3rd._ We left Cairndow early in the morning, and soon afterwards turned away from Loch Fyne to ascend a rough and lonely road leading towards Loch Long, about eight miles distant. It was a cold, bleak, and showery morning as we travelled along Glen Kinglas against a strong head wind, which greatly impeded our progress. On reaching the top of the glen, we came to the small Loch Restil, reposing at the foot of a mountain the summit of which was 2,955 feet above sea-level. The only persons we had seen on our way up the glen were two shepherds on the slope of one of the hills some distance from our road; but now we came to two men mending the road, in which great holes had been caused by the heavy rainfall. We chatted with them, and they told us that a little farther on we should come to "The Rest." Though it may seem a trifling matter to record, we were very glad to see those two men, as our way had been excessively lonely and depressing, for the pass only reached about 900 feet at its crown, while the great hills which immediately adjoined the road on either side rose to an altitude of from 2,500 to 3,300 feet! When we arrived at "The Rest" we found a rock on which were inscribed the words "Rest and be Thankful," while another inscription informed us that "This is a Military Road repaired by the 93rd Regiment in 1768." We thought that at one time there must have been a stone placed there, to do duty as a travellers' rest, where weary travellers might "Rest and be Thankful," but nothing of the kind existed now except the surface of the road on which we were walking. On reaching a short stiff rise, followed by a sharp double bend in the road, we passed the entrance of a track leading down to "Hell's Glen"; but if this glen was any worse than Glen Kinglas which we had just ascended, or Glen Croe which we now descended, it must have been a very dreadful place indeed. Fortunately for us, the weather began to improve, and before we reached Loch Long with its lofty ramparts the sun shone out in all its matchless glory and lighted up not only the loch but the whole of the amphitheatre formed by the lofty hills that surrounded it. A passenger steamboat plying on the bosom of the loch lent additional interest to the scene, and the combined view quite cheered our drooping spirits. The change, both as regarded scenery and atmosphere, between this side of the pass and the other was really marvellous, reminding us of the contrast between winter and summer. The sight of the numerous little waterfalls flowing over the rocks above to contribute their quota to the waters of the loch below was quite refreshing. One of the great hills we had passed without being able to see its summit--for it was quite near our road--was the well-known Ben Arthur, 2,891 feet high, commonly spoken of either as "The Cobbler" or "The Cobbler and his Wife." It was not until we had got some distance away that our attention was called to it. We walked round the head of Loch Long and crossed a bridge, some words on the iron fixtures informing us that we were now passing from Argyllshire into Dumbartonshire. The coping on the bridge was of fresh, neatly clipped grass instead of the usual stonework we expected to find, and looked very remarkable; we saw nothing like it on our further travels. [Illustration: "REST AND BE THANKFUL," GLEN CROE.] We asked a gentleman who was standing in the road about the various objects of interest in the neighbourhood. Pointing to Ben Arthur in the distance, he very kindly tried to explain the curious formation of the rocks at the summit and to show us the Cobbler and his Wife which they were said to represent. We had a long argument with him, and although he explained that the Cobbler was sitting down, for the life of us we could not distinguish the form either of him or of his Wife. We could see that he considered we were very stupid for not being able to see objects so plain to himself; and when my brother asked him jocularly for the third time which was the Cobbler and which was his Wife, he became very angry and was inclined to quarrel with us. We smoothed him down as well as we could by saying that we now thought we could see some faint resemblance to the objects referred to, and he looked as if he had, as the poet says, "cleared from thick films of vice the visual ray." [Illustration: "THE COBBLER," FROM ARROCHAR.] We thanked him kindly for all the trouble he had taken, and concluded, at first, that perhaps we were not of a sufficiently imaginative temperament or else not in the most favourable position for viewing the outlines. But we became conscious of a rather strong smell of whisky which emanated from our loquacious friend, from which fact we persuaded ourselves that he had been trying to show us features visible only under more elevated conditions. When we last saw him he was still standing in the road gazing at the distant hills, and probably still looking at the Cobbler and his Wife. I asked my brother, as we walked along, why he put his question in that particular form: "Which is the Cobbler and which is his Wife?" He told me he was thinking of a question so expressed many years ago, long before revolving pictures were thought of, and when pictures of any kind were very scarce. A fair was being held in the country, and a showman was exhibiting pictures which were arranged in a row alongside his booth or van in such a way that his customers could pass from one picture to another and which they could see by looking through slightly magnifying glasses placed in pairs, one to fit each eye after the fashion of a pair of spectacles. Before the show stood a number of small boys who would have been pleased to have a peep at the pictures if they could have raised the money. Just at that moment a mother with her two little girls appeared, and when the children came near the show, one of them called out, "Oh, Ma! may we see the peep-shows? It's only a penny!" whereupon the mother took out her purse and handed each of the little girls a penny. When the showman saw them approaching, he shouted angrily to the small boys who were blocking the entrance; "Get away, you little ragged rascals that have no money," and then he added in a much milder tone, "and let the little dears come up what's a-going to pay." When the children reached the first peep-show, he said: "Now, my little dears, look straight forwards, blow your noses, and don't breathe upon the glass! Here you see the combat between the Scotch Lion, Wallace, and the English Bulldogs, for eight hundred guineas a side, while the spectators are a-looking on in the most facetious manner. Here you see the lion has got his paws on one of the dogs whilst he is whisking out the eyes of another with his tail!" The little girls could see a picture but could not quite make out what it was, so one of them called out: "Please, Mr. Showman, which is the lion and which is the dogs?" and he said: "Oh! whichever you please, my little dears, and the likes was never seen, and all for the small sum of one penny!" My brother said that when he asked the gentleman which was the Cobbler and which was his Wife he would not have been surprised if he had said angrily, "Whichever you please," and had walked away, since he seemed in a very irritable frame of mind. Since those "good old times" the character of these country fairs has changed entirely, and we no longer sing the old ballad: Oh yes, I own 'tis my delight To see the laughter and the fright In such a motley, merry sight As at a country fair. Boys on mamma's treacle fed, On spicy cakes and gingerbread. On everybody's toes they tread All at a country fair. The village of Arrochar stood in a very pleasant position, at the head of Loch Long amid scenery of the loftiest and most varied description. Illuminated as it was by the magic rays of the sun, we thought it would compare favourably with any other watering-place in the Highlands, and was just the spot to offer irresistible temptations to those who required a short respite from the more busy scenes of life. [Illustration: LOCH LOMOND FROM INVERSNAID.] We were in high spirits and inclined to speak to every one we saw, so, when we met a boy, we asked him if he had seen a cow on the road, to which he replied, rather seriously, that he had not. We thought afterwards that we had laid ourselves open to a reply like that given by the Orkneyman at Stromness, for the loss of a cow in Scotland was looked upon as a very serious matter, but we escaped for a time. Shortly afterwards, however, we saw a vehicle approaching in the distance labelled "Royal Mail," and then another vehicle, similarly marked, passed us from the opposite direction, in which we noticed the boy we had just seen. When the two conveyances met, they stopped and a number of bags were transferred from the one conveyance to the other, so that it was obvious that they were exchanging their sacks of letters. When we came up to them, the driver of the one that had overtaken us asked if we had lost a cow, and when we answered "No," he said, "But didn't you ask the boy there if he had seen one on the road?" When we answered "Yes," and it was found to be all a joke, there was a general laugh all round, which was joined in heartily by the boy himself, for he had evidently got a ride on the strength of the story of the lost cow. We observed that the cart that overtook us had two horses, whilst that we met had only one, so we conjectured that our further way would be comparatively level, and this we afterwards found to be correct. The boy did not altogether miss his opportunity, for when we had reached, as he thought, a safe distance, we heard him shout: "Ask your mother when you get home if _she_ has seen a cow!"--but perhaps "two calves" would have been nearer the mark. We had a lovely two-mile walk between Arrochar and Tarbet, with a magnificent view of Loch Lomond on our way; while before us, across the loch, stood Ben Lomond, a mountain which rises to the height of 3,192 feet above sea-level. The scene was one that cannot properly be described--the blue waters, of the loch, with the trees beyond, and behind them this magnificent mountain, its top covered with pure white snow, and the sun shining on all, formed a picture beautiful beyond description, which seemed to lift our hearts and minds from the earth to the blue heavens above, and our thoughts to the great Almighty Who is in all and over all in that "land of pure delight where saints immortal reign." [Illustration: LOCH LOMOND AND THE BEN.] Our road now skirted the banks of Loch Lomond, the largest fresh-water lake in Scotland or England, being twenty-four miles long and five miles in width at its broadest point, and containing over twenty islands, some of which we saw. At the hotel where we called for tea it was thus described: Loch Lomond is the paragon of Scottish lakes. In island beauty unrivalled, for all that forms romance is here--scenery varying and increasing in loveliness, matchless combinations of grandeur and softness united, forming a magic land from which poesy and painting have caught their happiest inspirations. Islands of different forms and magnitude. Some are covered with the most luxuriant wood of every different tint; but others show a beautiful intermixture of rock and coppices--some, like plains of emerald, scarcely above the level of the water, are covered with grass; and others, again, are bare rocks, rising into precipices and destitute of vegetation. Scotland has produced many men mighty in mind as well as in body, and their ideas have doubtless been enlarged not only by their advanced system of education, but by the great things which have surrounded them--the great rocks and the great waters. So long as these qualities are turned in a good direction, all goes well, but when in a bad one like the "facilis descensus" described in George Cruikshank's great picture "The Worship of Bacchus," then all goes badly. An illustration of these large ideas turned to a bad account appeared in a story we read of a degenerate son of the North to whom the gods had granted the fulfilment of three wishes: First, he would have a Loch Lomond of whisky; secondly, a Ben Lomond of snuff; thirdly, (with some hesitation) another Loch Lomond of whisky. We did not attempt the ascent of Ben Lomond, as our experiences of mountain climbing hitherto had not been very encouraging. Nor did we require the aid of those doubtful articles so ardently desired by the degenerate Scot as we walked along the good road, sheltered with trees, that lay alongside Loch Lomond, with the slopes of the high hills to the right and to the left, the great loch with its lovely islands backed by the mountains beyond. Tarbet, which we soon left behind us, was notorious as the port of Magnus the Norseman, whose followers dragged their boats there from the sea to harry the islands whither so many of the natives had fled for safety. Ninnius, writing in the eighth century, tells of the great King Arthur, who defeated the Scots and drove them for refuge to Loch Lomond, "in which there were sixty islands and sixty rocks, and on each an eagle's nest. Every first of May they came together, and from the sound of their voices the men of that country knew what should befall during the coming year. And sixty rivers fell into this remarkable lake, but only one river ran from the lake to the sea." The exactness of every point rather amused us, for of course the invincible Arthur, like all other mythological heroes, must ever succeed, and he soon cleared the Scots from their stronghold. Sir Walter Scott has made this district famous, and we could have lingered long in the region of the Trossachs, and should have been delighted to see Loch Katrine, close by, which the "Lady of the Lake" had rendered so familiar, but time is a hard taskmaster and we had to be content with what Loch Lomond provided for us. We therefore hurried on, and eventually reached the lovely little village of Luss, where, as we entered, we were welcomed by the warbling of a robin singing out right merrily, as if to announce our arrival. Our first impression soon told us that Luss was well patronised by visitors and by artists ever on the alert for scenery such as here abounded. It was quite an English-looking village, with a small quarry, not as extensively worked as formerly, we were informed, for only about twenty men were now employed. Before proceeding farther we called for refreshments, and learned that a steamboat called periodically at Luss. We left this favourite resort by the Dumbarton road, walking alongside Loch Lomond--one of the finest walks we ever took and quite baffling description. It was rather provoking, therefore, when darkness came on just as we reached the widest part of the Loch where quite a number of islands could be seen. The road still continued beautiful, being arched over with trees in some places, with the stars shining brightly above. Luss, we learned, had its place in history as the home of the Colquhouns, whose feud with the MacGregors led to such murderous results. But perhaps its associations with Robert Bruce in his days of adversity form its greater claim to fame, and the yews on Inch Lonaig, just above, are said to have been planted by him to supply his bowmen. Before we reached the end of the loch we turned on the Dumbarton road, following the road for Helensburgh, as we wanted to see the River Clyde. This road was fairly level, but about two miles from Helensburgh it rose to an elevation of about 300 feet. On reaching the top, we saw a sight which fairly startled us, for a great stretch of water suddenly and unexpectedly came in view, and across its surface we could see hundreds of gas lights, twinkling like stars in the darkness. We found afterwards that they were those of the town of Greenock, on the other side of the Clyde Estuary, which was some five or six miles across this, its widest part. We considered this was one of the greatest sights of our journey, and one well worth while climbing the hill to see. It must, however, be noted that these were the first gas lights we had seen for what seemed to us to be ages. We went straight to the Temperance Hotel, which had been closed for the night, but we gained admission and found comfortable quarters there. (_Distance walked thirty-one miles_.) _Wednesday, October 4th._ We had pictured Helensburgh, from its name, as a very old town, and were rather surprised when we discovered that it was only founded at the close of the eighteenth century, by Sir James Colquhoun, who named the place after his wife, the Lady Helen Sutherland. At the time of our visit it was a favourite resort of visitors from across the Clyde and elsewhere. We were unable to explore the town and its environs, owing to a dense mist or fog which had accumulated during the night; and this probably accounted for our sleeping longer than usual, for it was quite nine o'clock before we left Helensburgh on our way to Dumbarton. If the atmosphere had been clear, we should have had fine views of Greenock, Port Glasgow, Roseneath Castle, the residence of the Marquis of Lorne, and other places of interest across the Clyde, and of the ships passing up and down the river. As it was, we had to be content with listening to the busy sounds of labour and the thuds of the steam hammers in the extensive shipbuilding yards across the water, and the ominous sounds of the steam-whistles from the ships, as they ploughed their way along the watery tracks on the Clyde. We were naturally very much disappointed that we had to pass along this road under such unfavourable conditions, but, as the mist cleared a little, we could just discern the outlines of one or two of the steamboats as we neared Dumbarton. The fields alongside our road were chiefly devoted to the growth of potatoes, and the fine agricultural land reminded us of England. We stayed to speak with one of the farmers, standing at his gate, and he told us that he sent potatoes to the Manchester market, which struck us with surprise because of the great distance. We also stayed awhile, just before entering Dumbarton, as there had been a slight railway accident, probably owing to the fog, and the officials, with a gang of men, were making strenuous efforts to remove the remains of a truck which had come to grief. We were walking into the town quite unconscious of the presence of the castle, and were startled at its sudden appearance, as it stood on an isolated rock, rising almost perpendicularly to the height of about 300 feet, and we could only just see its dim outline appearing, as it were, in the clouds. We left it for future inspection and, as it was now twelve o'clock, hurried into the town for a noon dinner, for which we were quite ready. As a sample of the brief way in which the history of an important town can be summarised, we give the following extract:-- Dumbarton, immortalised by Osian, possessed in turns by first Edward and John Balliol, the prison of William Wallace, and the scene of that unavailing remorse which agonised the bosom of his betrayer (a rude sculpture within the castle represents Sir John Monteith in an attitude of despair, lamenting his former treachery), captured by Bruce, unsuccessfully besieged by the fourth Edward, reduced by the Earl of Argyll, surprised, while in false security, by the daring of a bold soldier, Captain Crawford, resided in by James V, visited by that fair and erring Queen, the "peerless Mary," and one of the four castles kept up by the Act of Union. And we have been told that it was the birthplace of Taliesin, the early poet of the Celts, and Gildas their historian. In former times the castle of Dumbarton was looked upon as one of the strongest places in the world, and, rising precipitously from the level plain, it appeared to us to be quite impregnable. Captain Crawford's feat in capturing this castle equals anything else of the kind recorded in history. In the time of Queen Elizabeth of England, when a quarrel was raging in Scotland between the partisans of King James and his mother Queen Mary, and when even the children of the towns and villages formed themselves into bands and fought with sticks, stones, and even knives for King James or Queen Mary, the castle of Dumbarton was held for the Queen; but a distinguished adherent of the King, one Captain Crawford of Jordanhill, resolved to make an attempt to take it. There was only one access to the castle, approached by 365 steps, but these were strongly guarded and fortified. The captain took advantage of a misty and moonless night to bring his scaling-ladders to the foot of the rock at the opposite side, where it was the most precipitous, and consequently the least guarded by the soldiers at the top. The choice of this side of the rock was fortunate, as the first ladder broke with the weight of the men who attempted to climb it, and the noise of the fall must have betrayed them if they had been on the other and more guarded side. Crawford, who was assisted by a soldier who had deserted from the castle, renewed the attempt in person, and, having scrambled up a projecting ledge of rock, fastened the ladder by tying it to the roots of a tree which grew midway up the rock. Here they found a footing for the whole party, which was, of course, small in number. In scaling the second precipice, however, one of the party was seized with an epileptic fit, to which he was subject, brought on, perhaps, by terror in the act of climbing the ladder. He could neither ascend nor descend; moreover, if they had thrown him down, apart from the cruelty of the thing, the fall of his body might have alarmed the garrison. Crawford, therefore, ordered him to be tied fast to one side of the ladder, and, turning it round, they mounted with ease. When the party gained the summit, they slew the sentinel before he had time to give the alarm, and easily surprised the slumbering garrison, who had trusted too much to the security of their position. Some of the climbing irons used are shown within the castle. [Illustration: DUMBARTON CASTLE] We now set out from Dumbarton, with its old castle, and the old sword worn by the brave Wallace reposing in the armoury, at the same time leaving the River Clyde and its fine scenery, which, owing to the fog, we had almost totally missed. We proceeded towards Stirling, where we hoped to arrive on the following day; but we now found ourselves passing through a semi-manufacturing district, and gradually it dawned upon us that we had now left the Highlands and were approaching the Lowlands of Scotland. We thought then and many times afterwards of that verse of Robbie Burns's:-- My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer and following the roe-- My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. We passed through Renton, where there were bleaching and calico printing works. A public library graced the centre of the village, as well as a fine Tuscan column nearly 60 feet high, erected to Tobias Smollett, the poet, historian and novelist, who was born in 1721 not half a mile from the spot. The houses were small and not very clean. The next village we came to was Alexandria, a busy manufacturing place where the chief ornament was a very handsome drinking-fountain erected to a member of the same family, a former M.P., "by his tenants and friends," forming a striking contrast to its mean and insignificant surroundings of one-storied houses and dismal factories. We were soon in the country again, and passed some fine residences, including the modern-looking Castle of Tullichewan situated in a fine park, and reached Balloch at the extreme end of Loch Lomond, from which point we had a momentary view of the part of the lake we had missed seeing on the preceding evening. Here we paid the sum of one halfpenny each for the privilege of passing over the Suspension Bridge, which gave us access to a very pleasant part of the country, and crossed one spur of a hill, from the top of which, under favourable conditions, we might have seen nearly the whole of Loch Lomond, including the islands and the ranges of hills on either side-- [Illustration: MAINS CASTLE, KILMARONOCK] Mountains that like giants stand To sentinel enchanted land. But though it was only about a mile and a half from our path to the summit, and the total elevation only 576 feet, 297 of which we had already ascended, we did not visit it, as the mist would have prevented an extended view. It stood in a beautiful position, surrounded by woods and the grounds of Boturich Castle; why such a pretty place should be called "Mount Misery" was not clear, unless it had some connection with one of the Earls of Argyll who came to grief in that neighbourhood in 1685 near Gartocharn, which we passed shortly afterwards. He had collected his clan to overthrow the Government of James VII (James II of England) and had crossed the Leven at Balloch when he found Gartocharn occupied by the royal troops. Instead of attacking them, he turned aside, to seek refuge among the hills, and in the darkness and amid the bogs and moors most of his men deserted, only about five hundred answering to their names the following morning. The Earl, giving up the attempt, was captured an hour or two later as he was attempting to cross the River Clyde, and the words applied to him, "Unhappy Argyll," indicated his fate. We passed Kilmaronock church in the dark and, after crossing the bridge over Endrick Water, entered Drymen and put up at the "Buchanan Arms" Inn, where we had been recommended to stay the night. (_Distance walked twenty miles_.) _Thursday, October 5th._ We were up early this morning and went to have a look round the village of Drymen and its surroundings before breakfast. We were quite near Buchanan Castle, and took the liberty of trespassing for a short time in the walks and woods surrounding it. The Duke of Montrose here reigned supreme, his family the Grahams having been in possession for twenty generations; among his ancestors were Sir Patrick de Graham, who was killed at the Battle of Dunbar in 1296, and Sir John de Graham, the beloved friend of the immortal Wallace, who was slain at the Battle of Falkirk in 1298. The village had been built in the form of a square which enclosed a large field of grass called the Cross Green, with nothing remarkable about it beyond an enormous ash tree supposed to be over 300 years old which stood in the churchyard. It measured about 17 feet in circumference at 5 feet from the ground, and was called the Bell Tree, because the church bell which summoned the villagers to worship was suspended from one of its branches. The tree began to show signs of decay, so eventually the bell had to be taken down and a belfry built to receive it. [Illustration: THE SQUARE, DRYMEN] We finished our breakfast at 8.30, and then, with the roads in a fearfully muddy condition owing to heavy downfalls of rain, started on our walk towards Stirling. The region here was pleasing agricultural country, and we passed many large and well-stocked farms on our way, some of them having as many as a hundred stacks of corn and beans in their stack-yards. After walking about seven miles we arrived at the dismal-looking village of Buchlyvie, where we saw many houses in ruins, standing in all their gloominess as evidences of the devastating effects of war. Some of the inhabitants were trying to eke out their livelihood by hand-loom weaving, but there was a poverty-stricken appearance about the place which had, we found, altered but little since Sir Walter Scott wrote of it in the following rhyme which he had copied from an old ballad: Baron of Buchlivie, May the foul fiend drive ye And a' to pieces rive ye For building sic a town, Where there's neither horse meat Nor man's meat, nor a chair to sit down. We did not find the place quite so bad as that, for there were two or three small inns where travellers could get refreshments and a chair to sit down upon; but we did not halt for these luxuries until we reached Kippen, about five miles farther on. Before arriving there we overtook two drovers who were well acquainted with Glencoe and the Devil's Stairs, and when we told them of our adventures there they said we were very lucky to have had a fine day when we crossed those hills. They told us the story of the two young men who perished there, but thought their death was partially caused through lack of food. Kippen, they informed us, was on the borders of Perthshire and Stirlingshire, and when we told them we intended calling for refreshments they advised us to patronise the "Cross Keys Inn." We found Kippen, or, as it was sometimes named, the Kingdom of Kippen, a pleasant place, and we had no difficulty in finding the "Cross Keys." Here we learned about the King of Kippen, the Scottish Robin Hood, and were told that it was only two miles away to the Ford of Frew, where Prince Charlie crossed the River Forth on his way from Perth to Stirling, and that about three minutes' walk from the Cross there was a place from which the most extensive and beautiful views of the country could be obtained. Rising like towers from the valley of the Forth could be seen three craigs--Dumyate Craig, Forth Abbey Craig, and the craig on which Stirling Castle had been built; spreading out below was the Carse of Stirling, which merged into and included the Vale of Monteith, about six miles from Kippen; while the distant view comprised the summits of many mountains, including that of Ben Lomond. [Illustration: OLD BELFRY, KIPPEN] As usual in Scotland, the village contained two churches--the Parish Church and the United Free Church. In the old churchyard was an ancient ivy-covered belfry, but the church to which it belonged had long since disappeared. Here was the burial-place of the family of Edinbellie, and here lived in olden times an attractive and wealthy young lady named Jean Kay, whom Rob Roy, the youngest son of Rob Roy Macgregor, desired to marry. She would not accept him, so leaving Balquidder, the home of the Macgregors, accompanied by his three brothers and five other men, he went to Edinbellie and carried her off to Rowardennan, where a sham form of marriage was gone through. But the romantic lover paid dearly for his exploit, as it was for robbing this family of their daughter that Rob forfeited his life on the scaffold at Edinburgh on February 16th, 1754, Jean Kay having died at Glasgow on October 4th, 1751. [Illustration: QUEEN MARY'S BOWER, INCHMAHOME.] We were well provided for at the "Cross Keys," and heard a lot about Mary Queen of Scots, as we were now approaching a district where much of the history of Scotland was made. Her name seemed to be on everybody's lips and her portrait in everybody's house, including the smallest dwellings. She seemed to be the most romantic character in the minds of the Scots, by whom she was almost idolised--not perhaps so much for her beauty and character as for her sufferings and the circumstances connected with her death. The following concise account of the career of this beautiful but unfortunate Queen and her son King James greatly interested us. She was born at Linlithgow Palace in the year 1542, and her father died when she was only eight days old. In the next year she was crowned Queen of Scotland at Stirling, and remained at the Castle there for about four years. She was then removed to Inchmahome, an island of about six acres in extent situated in the small Lake of Monteith, about six miles north of Kippen. In 1547, when six years old, she was sent to France in a Flemish ship from Dumbarton, and in the following year she was married to the Dauphin of France, afterwards King Francis II, who died in the year 1560. Afterwards she returned to Scotland and went to Stirling Castle, where she met her cousin Lord Darnley and was married to him at Holyrood in 1565, her son being born in 1566. Troubles, however, soon arose, and for a short time she was made a prisoner and placed in the Castle of Loch Leven, from which she escaped with the intention of going to Dumbarton Castle for safety. Her army under the Earl of Argyll accompanied her, but on the way they met an opposing army commanded by the Regent Murray, who defeated her army, and Queen Mary fled to England. Here she again became a prisoner and was placed in various castles for the long period of nineteen years, first in one and then in another, with a view probably to preventing her being rescued by her friends; and finally she was beheaded in 1587 in the forty-eighth year of her age at Fotheringay Castle in Northamptonshire, by command of her cousin, Queen Elizabeth. Her son James VI of Scotland, who subsequently became James I of England, was baptised in the Royal Chapel at Stirling Castle in 1566, and in 1567, when he was only about thirteen months old, was crowned in the parish church at Stirling, his mother Queen Mary having been forced to abdicate in favour of her son. The great Puritan divine John Knox preached the Coronation sermon on that occasion, and the young king was educated until he was thirteen years of age by George Buchanan, the celebrated scholar and historian, in the castle, where his class-room is still to be seen. He succeeded to the English throne on the death of Queen Elizabeth, and was crowned as King James I of England in the year 1603. Leaving Kippen, we passed through Gargunnock, with the extraordinary windings of the River Forth to our left, and arrived at Stirling at 5.15 p.m., where at the post-office we found a host of letters waiting our arrival and at the railway-station a welcome change of clothing from home. (_Distance walked twenty-two miles_.) _Friday, October 6th._ Stirling is one of the most attractive towns in Scotland, and we could not resist staying there awhile to explore it. It is the "key to the Highlands," and one of the oldest of the Royal burghs. It was a place of some importance in the time of the Romans, as it stood between the two great Firths of the Clyde and the Forth, where the Island of Britain is at its narrowest. The first Roman wall was built between the Forth and the Clyde, and the Second Roman Legion was stationed at Stirling. According to an old inscription on a stone near the Ballengeich road, they kept a watch there day and night, and in A.D. 81 a great battle was fought near by against 30,000 Caledonians, who were defeated. Stirling has a commanding geographical position, and all the roads converge there to cross the River Forth. It was at Stirling Bridge that Wallace defeated the army of 50,000 soldiers sent against him in the year 1297 by Edward I, King of England. The town had also a lively time in the days of Charles Edward Stuart, "Bonnie Prince Charlie," whose father, during his exile in France, had been encouraged by the French to return and lay claim to the English Crown. Landing in Inverness-shire in 1745, Prince Charlie was immediately joined by many of the Highland clans, and passed with his army through Stirling on his way towards London. Not finding the support they expected from the south, they were compelled to return, followed closely along their line of retreat by the English Army, and they were soon back again at Stirling, where they made a desperate but unsuccessful effort to obtain possession of the castle, which was held for the English. The Duke of Cumberland's Army by this time was close upon their heels, and gave them no rest until they caught them and defeated them with great slaughter up at Culloden, near Inverness. [Illustration: STIRLING CASTLE AND NECROPOLIS.] There was much in Stirling and its environs that we wished to see, so we were astir early in the morning, although the weather was inclined to be showery. First of all, we went to see the cemetery, which occupies a beautiful position on a hill overlooking the wonderful windings of the River Forth, and here we found the tomb of the Protestant martyrs "Margaret and Agnes," the latter only eighteen years of age, who were tied to stakes at low water in the Bay of Wigtown on May 11th, 1685, and, refusing an opportunity to recant and return to the Roman Catholic faith, were left to be drowned in the rising tide. Over the spot where they were buried their figures appeared beautifully sculptured in white marble, accompanied by that of an angel standing beside them; the epitaph read: M. O A. MARGARET VIRGIN MARTYR OF THE OCEAN WAVE WITH HER LIKE-MINDED SISTER AGNES. Love, many waters cannot quench! GOD saves His chaste impearled One! in Covenant true. "O Scotia's Daughters! earnest scan the Page." And prize this Flower of Grace, blood-bought for you. PSALMS IX., XIX. [Illustration: THE PROTESTANT MARTYRS] We stayed there for a few solemn moments, for it was a sight that impressed us deeply, and then we went to inspect an old stone with the following curious inscription cut on its surface: Some . only . breakfast . and . away: Others . to . dinner . stay . And . are . full . fed . the . oldest . man . but . sups: And . goes . to . bed: large . is . his . debt: that . lingers . out . the . day: he . that . goes . soonest: has . the . least . to . pay: We saw another remarkable structure called "The Rock of Ages," a large monument built of stone, on each of the four sides of which was a Bible sculptured in marble with texts from the Scriptures, and near the top a device like that of a crown. It was a fine-looking and substantial building, but we could not ascertain the reason for its erection. There were two churches quite near to each other standing at one end of the cemetery, and these, we were informed, were known as the East and West Churches, and had been formed out of the old Church of Stirling, formerly noted for its bells, which were still in existence. One of them, a Dutch bell, was marked "Rotterdam, 1657," and inscribed "Soli Deo Gloria"; the only pre-Reformation bell was one that was said to have come from Cambuskenneth Abbey, measuring 8 ft. 6-1/2 in. round the mouth, 4 ft. 6 in. over the neck, and 2 ft. 1-1/2 in. in depth, and bearing a Latin inscription, in Old English characters, which was said to be the angelic salutation from St. Luke i. 28: "Hail, Mary, full of grace, God is with thee; blessed art thou among women and to be blessed." This bell, dating from the fourteenth century, was perfect in sound, and had been the tone bell in the old abbey. The remainder of the bells of Cambuskenneth had been lost owing to the swamping of the boat that was bringing them across the river. [Illustration: THE GATEWAY TO THE CASTLE.] We now went to view the castle, and as we approached the entrance we were accosted by a sergeant, whom we engaged to act as our guide. The ramparts of the castle command the noblest prospect imaginable--Grampian, Ochil and Pentland Hills, the River Forth, through all its windings, and "Auld Reekie" in the distance--twelve foughten fields are visible--the bridge where Archbishop Hamilton was hanged, the mound on which the Regent, Earl of Levenax, was beheaded on May 25th, 1425, along with the Duke of Albany, his son-in-law, and his grandson--the chamber where the Scottish King James II was assassinated--a noble valley, where tournaments were held, and the hill, whence Beauty viewed "gentle passages of arms" and rewarded knights' valour with her smiles, lie just below the ramparts. Here James I lived, and James II was born, and it was a favourite residence of James III. From these walls the "Good Man of Ballangeich" made many an excursion, and here James V and James VI were indoctrinated at the feet of that stern preceptor, George Buchanan, and the seventh James and the second of England visited here in company with the future Queen Anne and the last of the Stuarts. [Illustration: THE PALACE, STIRLING CASTLE.] [Illustration: STIRLING BRIDGE. "At Stirling Bridge Wallace defeated the army of fifty thousand soldiers sent against him by Edward I; ... it was a battle won by strategy."] [Illustration: STIRLING CASTLE. "The ramparts of the castle command the noblest prospect imaginable--from the top of the walls the sites of seven battlefields were pointed out to us."] Such was the official description of the place we were now visiting. As our guide conducted us through the archway into the castle, he showed us the old chains that worked the portcullis. We noted how cautious the old occupants of these strongholds were, for while one of the massive doors was being drawn up the other went down, so that the inner entrance was always protected. From the top of the walls the sites of seven battlefields were pointed out to us, including those of Bannockburn and Stirling Bridge. The Battle of Stirling Bridge was won by Wallace by strategy; he had a much smaller army than the English, but he watched them until they had got one-half their army over the narrow bridge, and then attacked each half in turn, since the one could not assist the other, the river being between them. In the following year he was defeated himself, but as he retreated he reduced Stirling and its castle to ruins. The Bridge of Allan, which could be seen in the distance, was described as a miniature Torquay without the sea, and the view from the castle on a clear day extended a distance of nearly fifty miles. We were shown the aperture through which Mary Queen of Scots watched the games in the royal garden below, and of course we had to be shown the exact spot where "our most gracious Majesty Queen Victoria with the Prince of Wales" sat on a much more recent date. The castle stood on a rock, rising precipitously on two of its sides, and was now being used as a barracks. It was a fine sight to see the soldiers as they were being drilled. The old Chapel Royal was used as the armoury, and our guide told us of many objects of interest which were stored there; but we had no time to see them, so, rewarding him suitably for his services, we hastened back to the town to refresh the "inner man." It appeared that in former times none of the members of the Town Council accepted any gift or emolument while in office; and, before writing was as common as it is now, the old treasurer kept his accounts in a pair of boots which he hung one on each side of the chimney. Into one of them he put all the money he received and into the other the vouchers for the money he paid away, and balanced his accounts at the end of the year by emptying his boots, and counting the money left in one and that paid away by the receipts in the other. What a delightfully simple system of "double entry," and just fancy the "borough treasurer" with a balance always in hand! Whether the non-payment for services rendered by the Council accounted for this did not appear; but there must have been some select convivials even in those days, as the famous Stirling Jug remained as evidence of something of the kind. It was a fine old vessel made of brass and taken great care of by the Stirling people, who became possessed of it four or five hundred years before our visit. We then walked some distance to see Wallace's Monument, the most conspicuous object for many miles round, and which had only just been erected to perpetuate the memory of that great warrior, having been opened by the Duke of Atholl in 1869. We paid twopence each for admission, and in addition to climbing the hill to reach the entrance to the monument we had to ascend a further 220 feet by means of a flight of 246 steps before we could reach the top. There were several rooms in the basement, in one of which we found an enthusiastic party of young Scots who were vociferously singing: Scots, wha hae wie Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has often led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie. * * * * * Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do or die! These were the first and last verses of the poem written by the immortal Burns to represent Robert Bruce's address to his army before the Battle of Bannockburn. We did not reveal our nationality to the uproarious Scots, but, after listening to the song, which we had never heard sung before, and the cheers which followed it, in which we ourselves joined, we went quietly past them, for fear they might treat us as the "usurpers" named in the last verse and "lay _us_ low." [Illustration: WALLACE MONUMENT.] On reaching the top of the monument we had a magnificent view, which well repaid us for our exertions in climbing up the craig and ascending the tower, and we lingered awhile to view the almost fairy-like scene that lay below us, with the distant mountains in the background. On descending, we entered our names in the visitors' book and took our departure. Just as we were leaving, our attention was attracted by a notice which informed us that Cambuskenneth Abbey was only one mile away, so we walked along the banks of the Forth to that ancient ruin. The abbey was supposed to have taken its name from one Kenneth, who fought a successful battle with the Picts on the site where it was built. A Parliament was held within its walls in 1314 by King Robert Bruce, but the abbey was destroyed, with the exception of the tower, in 1559. The chief object of interest was the tomb of James III, King of Scots, and his Queen, the Princess Margaret of Denmark, who were buried near the High Altar. The tomb, which appeared quite modern, recorded that King James died June 11th, 1488, and that "This Restoration of the Tomb of her Ancestors was executed by command of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, A.D. 1865." We now walked back to Stirling, and were again among the windings of the River Forth, which are a striking feature whether viewed from Wallace's Monument, the Castle walls, or the cemetery. To follow them in some places, the traveller, it was said, would have to go four times farther than by the straighter road. [Illustration: ST. NINIANS CHURCH TOWER.] Recovering possession of our bags from the hotel, we resumed our march along the road to Falkirk, eleven miles distant, and, on the way, came to the village of St. Ninians, with its long, narrow street of dismal-looking houses, many of them empty and in ruins, and some marked "To Let"; and, from their dingy appearance, we imagined they were likely to remain so. The people who lived in these houses were formerly of evil reputation, as, before railways were constructed so far north, all the cattle from the Western Isles and the North were driven along the roads to Falkirk to be sold, and had to pass through St. Ninians, which was so dreaded by the drovers that they called this long, narrow street "The Pass of St. Ninians." For, if a sheep happened to go through a doorway or stray along one of the passages, ever open to receive them, it was never seen again and nobody knew of its whereabouts except the thieves themselves. We walked along this miry pass and observed what we thought might be an old church, which we went to examine, but found it to be only a tower and a few ruins. The yard was very full of gravestones. A large building at the bottom of the yard was, we were told, what now did duty for the original church, which in the time of Prince Charlie was used as a powder magazine, and was blown up in 1745 by a party of his Highlanders to prevent its falling into the hands of the advancing English Army, before which they were retreating. Shortly afterwards we overtook a gentleman whom we at first thought was a farmer, but found afterwards to be a surgeon who resided at Bannockburn, the next village. He was a cheerful and intelligent companion, and told us that the large flagstaff we could see in the fields to the left was where Robert Bruce planted his standard at the famous Battle of Bannockburn, which, he said, was fought at midsummer in the year 1314. Bruce had been preparing the ground for some time so as to make it difficult for the English to advance even though they were much more numerous and better armed than the Scots. As soon as the armies came in sight of each other on the evening of June 24th, King Robert Bruce, dressed in armour and with a golden crown on his helmet, to distinguish him from the rest of his army, mounted on a small pony, and, with a battle-axe in his hand, went up and down the ranks of his army to put them in order. Seeing the English horsemen draw near, he advanced a little in front of his own men to have a nearer view of the enemy. An English knight, Sir Henry de Bohun, seeing the Scottish king so poorly mounted, thought he would rise to fame by killing Bruce and so putting an end to the war at once. So he challenged him to fight by galloping at him suddenly and furiously, thinking with his long spear and tall, powerful horse to extinguish Bruce immediately. Waiting until Bohun came up, and then suddenly turning his pony aside to avoid the point of his lance, Bruce rose in his stirrups and struck Sir Henry, as he passed at full speed, such a terrific blow on the head with his battle-axe that it cut through his helmet and his head at the same time, so that he died before reaching the ground. The only remark that Bruce is said to have made was, "I have broken my good battle-axe." This fearful encounter and the death of their champion was looked upon as a bad omen by the English, and Sir Walter Scott thus describes it: The heart had hardly time to think, The eyelid scarce had time to wink, * * * * * High in his stirrups stood the King, And gave his battle-axe the swing; Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, Fell that stern dint--the first--the last!-- Such strength upon the blow was put, The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut; The axe shaft, with its brazen clasp, Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp. Springs from the blow the startled horse, Drops to the plain the lifeless corse. The battle began on the following morning, Midsummer Day, and the mighty host of heavily armed men on large horses moved forward along what they thought was hard road, only to fall into the concealed pits carefully prepared beforehand by Bruce and to sink in the bogs over which they had to pass. It can easily be imagined that those behind pressing forward would ride over those who had sunk already, only to sink themselves in turn. Thousands perished in that way, and many a thrown rider, heavily laden with armour, fell an easy prey to the hardy Scots. The result was disastrous to the English, and it was said that 30,000 of them were killed, while the Scots were able afterwards to raid the borders of England almost to the gates of York. The surgeon said that in the Royal College of Surgeons in London a rib of Bruce, the great Scottish king, was included in the curios of the college, together with a bit of the cancerous growth which killed Napoleon. It was said that Bruce's rib was injured in a jousting match in England many years before he died, and that the fracture was made good by a first-class surgeon of the time. In 1329 Bruce died of leprosy in his fifty fifth year and the twenty-third of his reign, and was buried in the Abbey Church of Dunfermline. In clearing the foundation for the third church on the same site, in 1818, the bones of the hero were discovered, Sir Walter Scott being present. The breastbone of the skeleton had been sawn through some 500 years before, as was customary, in order to allow of the removal of the heart, which was then embalmed, and given to Bruce's friend, Sir James Douglas, to be carried to Palestine and buried in Jerusalem. The surgeon also told us--in order, we supposed, to cheer our drooping spirits--of another battle fought in the neighbourhood of Bannockburn in 1488, but this time it was the Scottish King James III who came to grief. He had a fine grey courser given him "that could war all the horse of Scotland if the king could sit up well." But he was a coward and could not ride, and when some men came up shouting and throwing arrows, they frightened the king. Feeling the spurs, the horse went at "flight speed" through Bannockburn, and a woman carrying water, when she saw the horse coming, dropped her bucket down on the road and ran for safety. The horse, frightened by the bucket, jumped over the brook that turned the mill, and threw the king off at the mill door. The miller and his wife, who saw the accident, not knowing that the rider was the king, put him in a nook in the mill and covered him with a cloth. When he came round, he asked for a priest and told them he was the king. But he had fallen into the hands of his enemies. The miller's wife clapped her hands, and ran out crying for a priest for the king. A man called out, "I am a priest; where is the king?" When he saw the king he told him he might recover if he had a good leeching, but the king desired him to give him the Sacrament. The supposed priest said, "That I shall do quickly," and suiting the action to the word, he stabbed him several times in the heart. The corpse he took away on his back, no one knew whither, and the king's soldiers, now leaderless, fled to Stirling and Linlithgow. We thanked our friend for his company and bade him farewell, as we reached Bannockburn village. We observed there, as in most villages near Stirling, many houses in ruins or built with the ruins of others. We thought what a blessing it was that the two nations were now united, and that the days of these cruel wars were gone for ever! At a junction of roads a finger-post pointed "To the Bannockburn Collieries," and we saw several coal-pits in the distance with the ruins of an old building near them, but we did not take the trouble to inspect them. The shades of night were coming on when, after walking a few miles, we saw an old man standing at the garden gate of a very small cottage by the wayside, who told us he was an old sailor and that Liverpool had been his port, from which he had taken his first voyage in 1814. He could remember Birkenhead and that side of the River Mersey when there was only one house, and that a farm from which he used to fetch buttermilk, and when there was only one dock in Liverpool--the Prince's. We thought what a contrast the old man would find if he were to visit that neighbourhood now! He told us of a place near by named Norwood, where were the remains of an old castle of Prince Charlie's time, with some arches and underground passages, but it was now too dark to see them. We proceeded towards Camelon, with the great ironworks of Carron illuminating the sky to our left, and finally arrived at Falkirk. Here, in reply to our question, a sergeant of police recommended us to stay the night at the "Swan Inn," kept by a widow, a native of Inverness, where we were made very comfortable. After our supper of bread and milk, we began to take off our boots to prepare for bed, but we were requested to keep them on as our bedroom was outside! We followed our leader along the yard at the back of the inn and up a flight of stone steps, at the top of which we were ushered into a comfortable bedroom containing three beds, any or all of which, we were informed, were at our service. Having made our selection and fastened the door, we were soon asleep, notwithstanding the dreadful stories we had heard that day, and the great battlefields we had visited--haunted, no doubt, by the ghosts of legions of our English ancestors who had fallen therein! (_Distance walked seventeen miles_.) _Saturday, October 7th._ Falkirk, which stands on a gentle slope on the great Carse of Forth, is surrounded by the Grampian Hills, the Ochills, and the Campsie Range. Here King Edward I entirely routed the Scottish Army in the year 1298. Wallace's great friend was slain in the battle and buried in the churchyard, where an inscription recorded that "Sir John de Grahame, equally remarkable for wisdom and courage, and the faithful friend of Wallace, being slain in the battle by the English, lies buried in this place." We left the inn at six o'clock in the morning, the only people visible being workmen turning out for their day's work. The last great fair of the season was to be held that day, and we had the previous day seen the roads filled with cattle making for Falkirk Fair, perhaps one of the largest fairs in the kingdom. We had been told by the drovers that the position was well adapted for the purpose, as the ground was very sandy and therefore not so liable to be trampled into mud by the animals' feet. We passed through the village of Laurieston, where Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite and blasting gelatine, lived, and saw a plough at work turning up potatoes, a crowd of women and boys following it and gathering up the potatoes in aprons and then emptying them into a long row of baskets which extended from one end of the field to the other. A horse and cart followed, and the man in charge emptied the contents of the baskets into the cart. We questioned the driver of the plough, who assured us that no potatoes were left in the land, but that all were turned up and gathered, and that it was a much better way than turning them out by hand with a fork, as was usual in England. [Illustration: LINLITHGOW PALACE.] [Illustration: ANCIENT KEY OF LINLITHGOW PALACE.] About two miles farther on we passed the romantic village of Polmont, and on through a fine stretch of country until we reached another fair-sized village called Linlithgow Bridge. We were then about a mile and a half from the old town of Linlithgow; here the River Avon separates the counties of Stirlingshire and Linlithgowshire. The old bridge from which the place takes its name is said to have been built by Edward I of England. In 1526 the Battle of Linlithgow Bridge was fought at this spot; it was one of those faction fights between two contending armies for predominance which were so prevalent in Scotland at the time, the real object, however, being to rescue King James V from the domination of the Earl of Angus. The opposing fronts under Angus and Lennox extended on both sides of the Avon. The Earl of Lennox was slain by Sir James Hamilton after quarter had been granted to the former. His sword was afterwards found, and may still be seen in the small museum at Linlithgow. In this village Stephen Mitchell, tobacco and snuff manufacturer, carried on business and had an old snuff mill here; he was the first founder in Great Britain of a Free Library. Burns the Scottish poet stayed a night here on August 25th, 1787. We arrived at the royal and ancient burgh of Linlithgow at about nine o'clock. The town, as Burns says, "carries the appearance of rude, decayed, idle grandeur"; it is, however, very pleasantly situated, with rich, fertile surroundings. There is a fine old royal palace here within which, on December 7th, 1542, the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots was born, whose beauty and magnificence have imbued her history with so deep and melancholy an interest. Sir Walter Scott in "Marmion" sings the praises of this palace as follows:-- Of all the palaces so fair, Built for the royal dwelling. In Scotland, far beyond compare Linlithgow is excelling. We fully endorsed the great Sir Walter's opinion, for it certainly was a magnificent structure and occupied a grand situation, with a large lake in front covering perhaps a hundred acres. We were now, however, getting ravenously hungry, so we adjourned to the hotel for breakfast, which was quickly served and almost as quickly eaten. The palace was not open until ten o'clock, so we had to be content with a view of the exterior, nor could we visit the fine old church, for we wanted to reach Edinburgh, where we had decided to stay the week-end in order to see some of the sights of the historic capital. [Illustration: MONUMENT EXECUTED BY A ONE-ARMED MAN.] A halo of deepest interest surrounded the history of Linlithgow, whose every stone spoke volumes of the storied past. The traditions of the place go far back into the dim shadowy regions where historic fact merges into myth and legend. Solid ground is only reached about the twelfth century. The English had possession of the palace in 1313, and the way it was taken from them was probably unique in the history of such places. The garrison was supplied with hay for the horses by a local farmer named Binnock, who determined to strike a blow for the freedom of his country. A new supply of hay had been ordered, and he contrived to conceal eight men, well armed, under it. The team was driven by a sturdy waggoner, who had a sharp axe concealed in his clothing, while Binnock himself walked alongside. The porter, on seeing their approach, lowered the drawbridge and raised the portcullis to admit of the passage of the hay within the castle walls. Just as they reached the centre of the gateway the driver drew his axe and cut off the tackle that attached the oxen to the waggon, at the same time striking the warder dead and shouting a preconcerted signal--"Call all! Call all!" "The armed men jumped from amongst the hay, and a strong party of Scots, who by arrangement were in ambush outside, rushed in and attacked the astonished garrison, who were unprepared for the onslaught--the load of hay being so placed that the gate could not be closed nor the bridge raised--and so the Scots made themselves masters of the palace." [Illustration: WINDOW IN SOUTH CHANCEL OF ST. MICHAEL'S CHURCH, WHERE JAMES IV SAW THE VISION BEFORE THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN.] The last event of any historical interest or importance connected with this palace was the visit paid to it by Prince Charles Stewart in 1745; it was destroyed in the following year. The beautiful old Gothic church of St. Michael is situated close to the palace. Perhaps no tradition connected with this church is more interesting than the vision which is said to have appeared to James IV while praying within St. Catherine's Aisle immediately before the Battle of Flodden. According to Lindsay of Pitscottie, on whose authority the tale rests, the King, being "in a very sad and dolorous mood, was making his devotions to God to send him good chance and fortune in his voyage" when a man "clad in ane blue gown" appeared to him, and with little ceremony declared to the King that he had been sent to desire him "nocht to pass whither he purposed," for if he did, things "would not fare well with him or any who went with him." How little this warning was heeded by the King is known to all readers of Scottish history. The "ghost," if it may be called so, was in all likelihood an attempt to frighten the King, and it is certain that the tale would never have gained the weird interest it possesses if Flodden Field had not proved so disastrous. It has been helped to immortality by Sir Walter Scott, who in "Marmion" has invested Pitscottie's antique prose with the charm of imperishable poetry. [Illustration: THE OLD CROSS WELL.] One characteristic of the towns or villages in Scotland through which we passed was their fine drinking-fountains, and we had admired a very fine one at Falkirk that morning; but Linlithgow's fountain surpassed it--it was indeed the finest we had seen, and a common saying occurred to us: Glasgow for bells, Linlithgow for wells. Linlithgow has long been celebrated for its wells, some of them of ancient date and closely associated with the history of the town. We came to an old pump-well with the date 1720, and the words "Saint Michael is kinde to straingers." As we considered ourselves to be included in that category, we had a drink of the water. [Illustration: THE TOWN HERALD, LINLITHGOW (A survival of the past)] At the end of the village or town we passed the union workhouse, where the paupers were busy digging up potatoes in the garden, and a short distance farther on we passed a number of boys with an elderly man in charge of them, who informed us they came from the "institute," meaning the workhouse we had just seen, and that he took them out for a walk once every week. Presently we met a shepherd who was employed by an English farmer in the neighbourhood, and he told us that the man we had met in charge of the boys was an old pensioner who had served fifty-two years in the army, but as soon as he got his pension money he spent it, as he couldn't keep it, the colour of his nose showing the direction in which it went. It struck us the shepherd seemed inclined that way himself, as he said if he had met us nearer a public-house he would have "treated us to a good glass." We thought what a pity it was that men had not a better eye to their own future interests than to spend all their money "for that which is not bread, and their labour for that which satisfieth not," and how many there were who would ultimately become burdens to society who might have secured a comfortable competency for old age by wisely investing their surplus earnings instead of allowing them to flow down that awful channel of waste! [Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S WELL.] We walked through a fine agricultural district--for we were now in Midlothian--adorned with great family mansions surrounded by well-kept grounds, and arrived in sight of Edinburgh at 1.30, and by two o'clock we were opposite a large building which we were told was Donaldson's Hospital, founded in 1842, and on which about £100,000 had been spent. Our first business on reaching Edinburgh was to find suitable lodgings until Monday morning, and we decided to stay at Fogg's Temperance Hotel in the city. We had then to decide whether we should visit Edinburgh Castle or Holyrood Palace that day--both being open to visitors at the same hour in the afternoon, but as they were some distance apart we could not explore both; we decided in favour of the palace, where we were conducted through the picture gallery and the many apartments connected with Mary Queen of Scots and her husband Lord Darnley. The picture-gallery contained the reputed portraits of all the Kings of Scotland from Fergus I, 330 B.C., down to the end of the Stuart dynasty; and my brother, who claimed to have a "painter's eye," as he had learned something of that art when at school, discovered a great similarity between the portraits of the early kings and those that followed them centuries later. Although I explained that it was only an illustration of history repeating itself, and reminded him of the adage, "Like father, like son," he was not altogether satisfied. We found afterwards, indeed, that the majority of the portraits had been painted by a Flemish artist, one John de Witt, who in the year 1684 made a contract, which was still in existence, whereby he bound himself to paint no portraits within two years, he supplying the canvas and colours, and the Government paying him £120 per year and supplying him with the "originalls" from which he was to copy. We wondered what had become of these "originalls," especially that of Fergus, 330 B.C., but as no information was forthcoming we agreed to consider them as lost in the mists of antiquity. [Illustration: HOLYROOD PALACE.] There was much old tapestry on the walls of the various rooms we inspected in the palace, and although it was now faded we could see that it must have looked very beautiful in its original state. The tapestry in one room was almost wholly devoted to scenes in which heavenly-looking little boys figured as playing in lovely gardens amidst beautiful scenery. One of these scenes showed a lake in the background with a castle standing at one end of it. In the lake were two small islands covered with trees which were reflected in the still waters, while in the front was a large orange tree, growing in a lovely garden, up which some of the little boys had climbed, one of whom was throwing oranges to a companion on the ground below; while two others were enjoying a game of leapfrog, one jumping over the other's back. Three other boys were engaged in the fascinating game of blowing bubbles--one making the lather, another blowing the bubbles, while a third was trying to catch them. There were also three more boys--one of them apparently pretending to be a witch, as he was riding on a broomstick, while another was giving a companion a donkey-ride upon his back. All had the appearance of little cupids or angels and looked so lifelike and happy that we almost wished we were young again and could join them in their play! The rooms more closely connected with the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots were of course the most interesting to visitors; and in her audience-room, where she had such distressing interviews with John Knox, the famous Presbyterian divine and reformer, we saw the bed that was used by King Charles I when he resided at Holyrood, and afterwards occupied on one occasion, in September 1745, by his descendant Prince Charlie, and again after the battle of Culloden by the Duke of Cumberland. [Illustration: WEST DOORWAY, CHAPEL ROYAL.] We passed on to Queen Mary's bedroom, in which we were greatly interested, and in spite of its decayed appearance we could see it had been a magnificent apartment. Its walls were adorned with emblems and initials of former Scottish royalties, and an old tapestry representing the mythological story of the fall of Photon, who, according to the Greeks, lost his life in rashly attempting to drive the chariot of his father the God of the Sun. Here we saw Queen Mary's bed, which must have looked superb in its hangings of crimson damask, trimmed with green silk fringes and tassels, when these were new, but now in their decay they seemed to remind us of their former magnificence and of their unfortunate owner, to whom the oft-quoted words Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown so aptly applied. We wondered how many times her weary head had passed its restless nights there, and in the many castles in which she had been placed during her long imprisonment of nineteen years. Half hidden by the tapestry there was a small door opening upon a secret stair, and it was by this that Darnley and his infamous associates ascended when they went to murder the Queen's unfortunate Italian secretary, Rizzio, in the Queen's supping-room, which we now visited. There we had to listen to the recital of this horrible crime: how the Queen had been forcibly restrained by Darnley, her table overthrown and the viands scattered, while the blood-thirsty conspirators crowded into the room; how Rizzio rushed behind the Queen for protection, until one of the assassins snatched Darnley's dagger from its sheath, and stabbed Rizzio, leaving the dagger sticking in his body, while the others dragged him furiously from the room, stabbing him as he went, shrieking for mercy, until he fell dead at the head of the staircase, pierced by fifty-six wounds; and how one of the assassins threatened to cut the Queen "into collops" if she dared to speak to the populace through the window. The bloodstain on the floor was of course shown us, which the mockers assert is duly "restored" every winter before the visiting season commences. Leaving the Palace, we saw Queen Mary's Bath, a quaintly shaped little building built for her by King James IV, in which she was said to have bathed herself in white wine--an operation said to have been the secret of her beauty. During some alterations which were made to it in 1798, a richly inlaid but wasted dagger was found stuck in the sarking of the roof, supposedly by the murderers of Rizzio on their escape from the palace. [Illustration: CHAPEL ROYAL, HOLYROOD.] We then visited the now roofless ruins of the Abbey or Chapel Royal adjoining the Palace. A fine doorway on which some good carving still remained recalled something of its former beauty and grandeur. There were quite a number of tombs, and what surprised us most was the large size of the gravestones, which stood 6 to 7 feet high, and were about 3 feet wide. Those we had been accustomed to in England were much smaller, but everything in Scotland seemed big, including the people themselves, and this was no less true of the buildings in Edinburgh. There was a monument in one corner of the Chapel Royal on which was an inscription in Latin, of which we read the English translation to be:-- HERE IS BURIED A WORTHY MAN AND AN INGENIOUS MASON, ALEXANDER MILNE, 20 Feb. A.D. 1643 Stay Passenger, here famous Milne doth rest, Worthy to be in Ægypt's Marble drest; What Myron or Apelles could have done In brass or paintry, he could do in stone; But thretty yeares hee [blameless] lived; old age He did betray, and in's Prime left this stage. Restored by Robert Mylne Architect. MDCCLXXVI. The builder of the Palace was Robert Milne, the descendant of a family of distinguished masons. He was the "master mason," and a record of him in large letters on a pillar ran-- FVN . BE . RO . MILNE . M.M. . I . JYL . 1671. After leaving Holyrood we walked up Calton Hill, where we had a splendid view of the fine old city of Edinburgh seated on rocks that are older than history, and surrounded by hills with the gleaming Firth of Forth in the distance. The panorama as seen from this point was magnificent, and one of the finest in Great Britain. On the hill there were good roads and walks and some monuments. One of these, erected to the memory of Nelson, was very ugly, and another--beautiful in its incompleteness--consisted of a number of immense fluted columns in imitation of the Parthenon of Athens, which we were told was a memorial to the Scottish heroes who fell in the Wars of Napoleon, but which was not completed, as sufficient funds had not been forthcoming to finish what had evidently been intended to be an extensive and costly erection. We supposed that these lofty pillars remained as a warning to those who begin to build without first sitting down and counting the cost. They were beautifully proportioned, resembling a fragment of some great ruin, and probably had as fine an effect as they stood, as the finished structure would have had. [Illustration: "MONS MEG."] Edinburgh Castle stood out in the distance on an imposing rock. As we did not arrive during visiting hours we missed many objects of interest, including the Scottish crown and regalia, which are stored therein. On the ramparts of the castle we saw an ancient gun named "Mons Meg," whose history was both long and interesting. It had been made by hand with long bars of hammered iron held together by coils of iron hoops, and had a bore of 20 in.; the cannon-balls resting alongside it were made of wood. It was constructed in 1455 by native artisans at the instance of James II, and was used in the siege of Dumbarton in 1489 and in the Civil Wars. In Cromwell's list of captured guns in 1650 it was described as "the great iron murderer Meg." When fired on the occasion of the Duke of York's visit to Edinburgh in 1682 the gun burst. After this bad behaviour "Meg" was sent to the Tower of London, not, however, to be executed, but to remain there until the year 1829, when, owing to the intercession of Sir Walter Scott with King George IV, the great gun was returned to Edinburgh, and was received with great rejoicings and drawn up with great ceremony to the castle, where it still remains as a relic of the past. On our way we had observed a placard announcing a soirée in connection with the I.O.G.T. (the Independent Order of Good Templars), and this being somewhat of a novelty to us we decided to patronise it. Accordingly at 7 p.m. we found ourselves paying the sum of ninepence each at the entrance to the Calton Rooms. As we filed through along with others, a cup and saucer and a paper bag containing a variety of cakes were handed to us, and the positions assigned to us were on either side of an elderly gentleman whom we afterwards found to be a schoolmaster. When the tea came round there were no nice young ladies to ask us if we took sugar and milk, and how many pieces of sugar; to our great amusement the tea was poured into our cups from large tin kettles carried by men who from their solemn countenances appeared fitting representatives of "Caledonia stern and wild." We thought this method a good one from the labour-saving point of view, and it was certainly one we had never seen adopted before. The weak point about it was that it left no opportunity for individual taste in the matter of milk and sugar, which had already been added, but as we did not hear any complaints and all appeared satisfied, we concluded that the happy medium had been reached, and that all had enjoyed themselves as we did ourselves. Our friend the schoolmaster was very communicative, and added to our pleasure considerably by his intelligent conversation, in the course of which he told us that the I.O.G.T. was a temperance organisation introduced from America, and he thought it was engaged in a good work. The members wore a very smart regalia, much finer than would have suited us under the climatic conditions we had to pass through. After tea they gave us an entertainment consisting of recitations and songs, the whole of which were very creditably rendered. But the great event of the evening was the very able address delivered by the Rev. Professor Kirk, who explained the objects of the Good Templar movement and the good work it was doing in Edinburgh and elsewhere. Every one listened attentively, for the Professor was a good speaker and he was frequently applauded by his audience. We had spent a very pleasant evening, and the schoolmaster accompanied us nearly all the way to our lodgings, which we reached at 11 p.m. (_Distance walked up to 2 p.m. twenty-four miles_.) _Sunday, October 8th._ To judge by what we heard and saw, there were connected with Edinburgh three great characters who stand out above all others in historic importance--Mary Queen of Scots, John Knox, and Sir Walter Scott; but we thought and read more about John Knox this day than either of the others, possibly because it was Sunday. We attended service in three different churches, and give the following particulars for the information of our clerical and other friends who "search the Scriptures," in the hope that they may find in the reading of the texts food for thought. [Illustration: EDINBURGH FROM THE CASTLE] In the morning we went to the High Church. Preacher, the Rev. C. Giffin, M.A. Text. 2 Corinthians viii. 13 and to the end. In the afternoon to the Tron Church. Preacher, the Rev. James McGregor, D.D. Text: Isaiah lvii., the last three verses, and Ephesians ii. and the first clause of verse 14. In the evening to the Wesleyan Chapel, Nicolson Square. Preacher, the Rev. Dr. James, President of the Wesleyan Conference. Text: I Corinthians ii. 1, 2. The excellence of the sermons, and the able way in which they had been prepared and were delivered, gave us the impression that rivalry existed between the ministers of the different churches as to which of them could preach the best sermon. They were all fine orations, carefully thought out and elaborated, especially that by Dr. James. During the intervals between the services we walked about the city, and again passed the splendid monument to Sir Walter Scott with the following remarkable inscription, written by Lord Jeffery, beneath its foundation stone: _This Graven Plate, deposited in the base of a votive building on the fifteenth day of August in the year of Christ 1840, and never likely to see the light again till all the surrounding structures are crumbled to dust by the decay of time, or by human or elemental violence, may then testify to a distant posterity that his countrymen began on that day to raise an effigy and architectural monument to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., whose admirable writings were then allowed to have given more delight and suggested better feelings to a large class of readers in every rank of society than those of any other author, with the exception of Shakespeare alone, and which were, therefore, thought likely to be remembered long after this act of gratitude on the part of the first generation of his admirers should be forgotten. He was born at Edinburgh 15th August 1771: and died at Abbotsford, 21st September 1832._ We also passed that ancient and picturesque mansion in the High Street known as the "House of John Knox," in which the distinguished reformer died in 1572. Born in the year 1505, it was he who, in the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, stirred Scotland to mighty religious impulses, boldly denouncing Mary as a Papist and a Jezebel. How he escaped being beheaded or burned or assassinated was, considering the nature of the times in which he lived, a mystery almost amounting to a miracle. [Illustration: MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS] Queen Mary sailed from France and landed at Leith, near Edinburgh, on August 19th, 1561, where she was welcomed by the Scots as Dowager of France, Queen of Scotland, and heiress of England, and was "gorgeouslie and magnificentlie" received, according to Scottish ideas, by the lords and ladies who came to meet and accompany her to Edinburgh; but, according to the diary of one of the Queen's ladies, "when they saw them mounted on such wretched little hackneys so wretchedly caparisoned they were greatly disappointed, and thought of the gorgeous pomp and superb palfreys they had been accustomed to in France, and the Queen began to weep." On their arrival at Edinburgh they retired to rest in the Abbey, "a fine building and not at all partaking of that country, but here came under her window a crew of five or six hundred scoundrels from the city, who gave her a serenade with wretched violins and little rebecks of which there are enough in that country, and began to sing Psalms so miserably mis-tuned and mis-timed that nothing could be worse. Alas! what music, and what a night's rest!" What the lady would have written if bagpipes had been included in the serenade we could not imagine, but as these instruments of torture were not named, we concluded they must have been invented at a later period. [Illustration: JOHN KNOX'S HOUSE, EDINBURGH. "We also passed the ancient and picturesque mansion in the High Street ... in which that distinguished reformer died."] Mary had been away in France for about thirteen years, and during that time she had for her companions four young ladies of the same name as her own and of about the same age, Mary Fleming, Mary Bethune, Mary Livingstone, and Mary Seaton, all of whom formed part of her retinue on her return to Scotland, where they were known as the "Queen's Marys." [Illustration: GROTESQUE HEADS ON TRINITY COLLEGE CHURCH.] She was a staunch adherent of the Romish Church, a fact which accounted for many of her trials and mortifications. Mainly owing to the powerful preaching of John Knox, many of the people of Scotland, both of high and low degree, had become fierce opponents of that form of religion, which they considered idolatrous. The first Sunday after her arrival was St. Bartholomew's Day, August 24th, and preparations had been made to celebrate mass in the Chapel Royal, at which the Queen was to be present. But no sooner was this known, than a mob rushed towards the edifice, exclaiming: "Shall the idol be again erected in the land?" and shouting, "The idolatrous priests shall die the death!" On September 2nd the Queen made her public entry into Edinburgh, and on the same day John Knox had an audience with Mary, who, hearing of a furious sermon he had preached against the Mass on the previous Sunday in St. Giles's Church, thought that a personal interview would mitigate his sternness. The Queen took him to task for his book entitled _The First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regimen of Women_, and his intolerance towards every one who differed from him in opinion, and further requested him to obey the precepts of the Scriptures, a copy of which she perceived in his possession, and urged him to use more meekness in his sermons. Knox in reply, it was said, "knocked so hastily upon her heart," that he made her weep with tears of anguish and indignation, and she said, "My subjects, it would appear, must obey you, and not me; I must be subject to them, and not they to me!" Knox left Holyrood that day convinced that Mary's soul was lost for ever, and that she despised and mocked all exhortation against the Mass. When Mary attended her first Parliament, accompanied by her ladies, the Duke of Chatelherault carrying the Crown, the Earl of Argyll the Sceptre, and the Earl of Moray the Sword, she appeared so graceful and beautiful that the people who saw her were quite captivated, and many exclaimed, "God save that sweet face!" During this short Parliament Knox preached in St. Giles's Church, and argued that they ought to demand from the Queen "that which by God's Word they may justly require, and if she would not agree with them in God, they were not bound to agree with her in the devil!" and concluded with some observations respecting the Queen's rumoured marriage with Don Carlos of Spain, declaring, "Whenever ye consent that an infidel, and all Papists are infidels, shall be our head to our soverane, ye do so far as in ye lieth to banisch Christ Jesus from his realme; ye bring God's vengeance upon this country, a plague upon yourselves, and perchance ye shall do no small discomfirt to your soverane." [Illustration: JOHN KNOX.] Mary heard of this furious attack upon her, which Knox admitted had offended both Papists and Protestants, and he was again summoned to Holyrood. As soon as Mary saw Knox she was greatly excited, and exclaimed: "Never was prince handled as I am." "I have borne with you," she said to Knox, "in all your vigorous manner of speaking, both against myself and my uncles; yea, I have sought your favour by all possible means--I offered unto you presence and audience whenever it pleased you to admonish me, and yet I cannot be quit of you. I vow to God I shall be once avenged." Knox answered, "True it is, Madam, your Grace and I have been at divers controversies into the which I never perceived your Grace to be offended at me; but when it shall please God to deliver you from that bondage of darkness and error in the which ye have been nourished for the lack of true doctrine, your majesty will find the liberty of my tongue nothing offensive. Without the preaching-place, Madam, I am not master of myself, for I must obey Him who commands me to speak plain, and flatter no flesh upon the face of the earth." The Queen asked him again, "What have ye to do with my marriage, or what are ye in this commonwealth?" "A subject born within the same, Madam," was the stern reply; "and albeit I be neither Earl, Lord, nor Baron within it, yet has God made me, how abject soever I may be in your eyes, a profitable member within the same." He was entering into some personal explanations, when the Queen ordered him to leave the Cabinet, and remain in the ante-chamber till her pleasure should be intimated. Here Knox found himself in the company of the Queen's Marys and other ladies, to whom he gave a religious admonition. "Oh, fair ladies," he said, "how pleasing is this life of yours if it would ever abide, and then in the end that you pass to Heaven with all this gay gear! But fie upon the knave Death, that will come whether we will or not, and when he has laid on his arrest, the foul worms will be busy with this flesh, be it never so fair and tender; and the silly soul, I fear, shall be so feeble, that it can neither carry with it gold, garnishing, targetting, pearl nor precious stones." Several noblemen had accompanied Knox when he went to see the Queen, but only Erskine of Dun was admitted to the Cabinet, and Lord Ochiltree attended Knox in the ante-room while Queen Mary held a consultation with Lord John Stuart and Erskine lasting nearly an hour, at the end of which Erskine appeared and accompanied Knox home. Knox must have been in great danger of losing his life owing to his fearless and determined daring in rebuking those in high places, and indeed his life was afterwards repeatedly aimed at; but Providence foiled all attempts to assassinate him, and in the end he died a peaceful death. On November 9th, 1572, a fortnight before he died, he preached his farewell sermon, the entire congregation following his tottering footsteps to his home. When the time came for him to die he asked for I Corinthians xv., and after that had been read he remarked: "Is not that a comfortable chapter?" There was also read to him Isaiah liii. Asked if he could hear, he replied: "I hear, I thank God, and understand far better." He afterwards said to his wife, "Read, where I cast my first anchor." Mrs. Knox knew what he meant, and read to him his favourite seventeenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. His friend Bannatyne, seeing that he was just about to depart, and was becoming speechless, drew near to him saying, "Hast thou hope?" and asked him if he heard to give them a sign that he died in peace. Knox pointed upwards with two of his fingers, and thus he died without a struggle. Truly one of the most remarkable men that ever lived in Scotland, and whose end was peace. [Illustration: OLD TOWN FROM CALTON HILL.] A vast concourse of people attended his funeral, the nobility walking in front of the procession, headed by Morton, who had been appointed Regent of Scotland on the very day on which Knox died, and whose panegyric at the grave was: "Here lieth a man who in his life never feared the face of man." St. Giles's was the first parochial church in Edinburgh, and its history dates from the early part of the twelfth century. John Knox was appointed its minister at the Reformation. When Edinburgh was created a bishopric, the Church of St. Giles became the Cathedral of the diocese. A remarkable incident happened at this church on Sunday, July 23rd, 1639, when King Charles I ordered the English service-book to be used. It was the custom of the people in those days to bring their own seats to church, in the shape of folding-stools, and just as Dean Hanney was about to read the collect for the day, a woman in the congregation named Jenny Geddes, who must have had a strong objection to this innovation, astonished the dean by suddenly throwing her stool at his head. What Jenny's punishment was for this violent offence we did not hear, but her stool was still preserved together with John Knox's pulpit and other relics. [Illustration: ST. GILES'S CATHEDRAL, EDINBURGH.] Although three hundred years save one had elapsed since John Knox departed this life, his memory was still greatly revered in Edinburgh, and his spirit still seemed to pervade the whole place and to dwell in the hearts and minds of the people with whom we came in contact. A good illustration of this was the story related by an American visitor. He was being driven round the city, when the coachman pointed out the residence of John Knox. "And who was John Knox?" he asked. The coachman seemed quite shocked that he did not know John Knox, and, looking down on him with an eye of pity, replied, in a tone of great solemnity, "Deed, mawn, an' d'ye no read y'r Beeble!" As we walked about the crowded streets of Edinburgh that Sunday evening we did not see a single drunken person, a fact which we attributed to the closing of public houses in Scotland on Sundays. We wished that a similar enactment might be passed in England, for there many people might habitually be seen much the worse for liquor on Sunday evenings, to the great annoyance of those returning from their various places of worship. FOURTH WEEK'S JOURNEY _Monday, October 9th_ There were some streets in Edinburgh called wynds, and it was in one of these, the College Wynd, that Sir Walter Scott was born in the year 1771. It seemed a strange coincidence that the great Dr. Samuel Johnson should have visited the city in the same year, and have been conducted by Boswell and Principal Robertson to inspect the college along that same wynd when the future Sir Walter Scott was only about two years old. We had not yet ventured to explore one of these ancient wynds, as they appeared to us like private passages between two rows of tall houses. As we could not see the other end, we looked upon them as traps for the unwary, but we mustered up our courage and decided to explore one of them before leaving the town. We therefore rose early and selected one of an antiquated appearance, but we must confess to a feeling of some apprehension in entering it, as the houses on each side were of six to eight storeys high, and so lofty that they appeared almost to touch each other at the top. To make matters worse for us, there were a number of poles projecting from the windows high above our track, for use on washing days, when clothes were hung upon them to dry. We had not gone very far, when my brother drew my attention to two women whose heads appeared through opposite windows in the upper storeys, and who were talking to each other across the wynd. On our approach we heard one of them call to the other in a mischievous tone of voice, "See! there's twa mair comin'!" We were rather nervous already, so we beat an ignominious retreat, not knowing what might be coming on our devoted heads if we proceeded farther. In the event of hostilities the two ladies were so high up in the buildings, which were probably let in flats, that we should never have been able to find them, and, like the stray sheep in the Pass of St. Ninians, we might never have been found ourselves. We were probably taken for a pair of sporting young medical students instead of grave searchers after wisdom and truth. We therefore returned to our hotel for the early breakfast that was waiting for us, and left Edinburgh at 8.10 a.m. on our way towards Peebles. [Illustration: QUEEN MARY'S BATH.] [Illustration: CRAIGMILLAR CASTLE.] We journeyed along an upward gradient with a view of Craigmillar Castle to our left, obtaining on our way a magnificent view of the fine city we had left behind us, with its castle, and the more lofty elevation known as Arthur's Seat, from which portions of twelve counties might be seen. It was a curiously shaped hill with ribs and bones crossing in various directions, which geologists tell us are undoubted remains of an old volcano. It certainly was a very active one, if one can judge by the quantity of debris it threw out. There was an old saying, especially interesting to ladies, that if you washed your face at sunrise on May 1st, with dew collected off the top of Arthur's Seat, you would be beautiful for ever. We were either too late or too soon, as it was now October 9th, and as we had a lot to see on that day, with not overmuch time to see it in, we left the dew to the ladies, feeling certain, however, that they would be more likely to find it there in October than on May Day. When we had walked about five miles, we turned off the main road to visit the pretty village of Rosslyn, or Roslin, with its three great attractions: the chapel, the castle, and the dell. We found it surrounded by woods and watered by a very pretty reach of the River Esk, and as full of history as almost any place in Scotland. The unique chapel was the great object of interest. The guide informed us that it was founded in 1446 by William St. Clair, who also built the castle, in which he resided in princely splendour. He must have been a person of very great importance, for he had titles enough even to weary a Spaniard, being Prince of Orkney, Duke of Oldenburg, Earl of Caithness and Stratherne, Lord St. Clair, Lord Liddlesdale, Lord Admiral of the Scottish Seas, Lord Chief Justice of Scotland, Lord Warden of the three Marches, Baron of Roslin, Knight of the Cockle, and High Chancellor, Chamberlain, and Lieutenant of Scotland! The lords of Rosslyn were buried in their complete armour beneath the chapel floor up to the year 1650, but afterwards in coffins. Sir Walter Scott refers to them in his "Lay of the Last Minstrel" thus:-- There are twenty of Rosslyn's Barons bold Lie buried within that proud Chapelle. [Illustration: ROSSLYN CHAPEL--THE "MASTER AND 'PRENTICE PILLARS"] [Illustration: THE "'PRENTICE PILLAR."] There were more carvings in Rosslyn Chapel than in any place of equal size that we saw in all our wanderings, finely executed, and with every small detail beautifully finished and exquisitely carved. Foliage, flowers, and ferns abounded, and religious allegories, such as the Seven Acts of Mercy, the Seven Deadly Sins, the Dance of Death, and many scenes from the Scriptures; it was thought that the original idea had been to represent a Bible in stone. The great object of interest was the magnificently carved pillar known as the "'Prentice Pillar," and in the chapel were two carved heads, each of them showing a deep scar on the right temple. To these, as well as the pillar, a melancholy memory was attached, from which it appeared that the master mason received orders that this pillar should be of exquisite workmanship and design. Fearing his inability to carry out his instructions, he went abroad to Rome to see what designs he could find for its execution. While he was away his apprentice had a dream in which he saw a most beautiful column, and, setting to work at once to carry out the design of his dream, finished the pillar, a perfect marvel of workmanship. When his master returned and found the pillar completed, he was so envious and enraged at the success of his apprentice that he struck him on the head with his mallet with such force that he killed him on the spot, a crime for which he was afterwards executed. We passed on to the castle across a very narrow bridge over a ravine, but we did not find much there except a modern-looking house built with some of the old stones, under which were four dungeons. Rosslyn was associated with scenes rendered famous by Bruce and Wallace, Queen Mary and Rizzio, Robert III and Queen Annabella Drummond, by Comyn and Fraser, and by the St. Clairs, as well as by legendary stories of the Laird of Gilmorton Grange, who set fire to the house in which were his beautiful daughter and her lover, the guilty abbot, so that both of them were burnt to death, and of the Lady of Woodhouselee, a white-robed, restless spectre, who appeared with her infant in her arms. Then there was the triple battle between the Scots and the English, in which the Scots were victorious: Three triumphs in a day! Three hosts subdued by one! Three armies scattered like the spray, Beneath one vernal sun. [Illustration: ROSSLYN CASTLE.] Here, too, was the inn, now the caretaker's house, visited by Dr. Johnson and Boswell in 1773, the poet Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy in 1803, while some of the many other celebrities who called from time to time had left their signatures on the window-panes. Burns and his friend Nasmyth the artist breakfasted there on one occasion, and Burns was so pleased with the catering that he rewarded the landlady by scratching on a pewter plate the two following verses: My blessings on you, sonsie wife, I ne'er was here before; You've gien us walth for horn and knife-- Nae heart could wish for more. Heaven keep you free from care and strife. Till far ayont four score; And while I toddle on through life, I'll ne'er gang bye your door. Rosslyn at one time was a quiet place and only thought of in Edinburgh when an explosion was heard at the Rosslyn gunpowder works. But many more visitors appeared after Sir Walter Scott raised it to eminence by his famous "Lay" and his ballad of "Rosabelle": Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud. Where Rosslyn's chiefs uncoffin'd lie. Hawthornden was quite near where stood Ben Jonson's sycamore, and Drummond's Halls, and Cyprus Grove, but we had no time to see the caves where Sir Alexander Ramsay had such hairbreadth escapes. About the end of the year 1618 Ben Jonson, then Poet Laureate of England, walked from London to Edinburgh to visit his friend Taylor, the Thames waterman, commonly known as the Water Poet, who at that time was at Leith. In the January following he called to see the poet Drummond of Hawthornden, who was more frequently called by the name of the place where he lived than by his own. He found him sitting in front of his house, and as he approached Drummond welcomed him with the poetical salutation: "Welcome! welcome! Royal Ben," to which Jonson responded, "Thank ye, thank ye, Hawthornden." [Illustration: HAWTHORNDEN.] The poet Drummond was born in 1585, and died in 1649, his end being hastened by grief at the execution of Charles I. A relative erected a monument to his memory in 1784, to which the poet Young added the following lines: O sacred solitude, divine retreat, Choice of the prudent, envy of the great! By the pure stream, or in the waving shade I court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid; Here from the ways of men, laid safe ashore, I smile to hear the distant tempest roar; Here, blest with health, with business unperplex'd, This life I relish, and secure the next. Rosslyn Glen was a lovely place, almost like a fairy scene, and we wondered if Burns had it in his mind when he wrote: Their groves of sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen of green bracken, Wi' the burn stealing under the long yellow broom. [Illustration: PENNICUICK HOUSE COURT] We walked very quietly and quickly past the gunpowder works, lest conversation might cause an explosion that would put an end to our walking expedition and ourselves at the same time, and regained the highway at a point about seven miles from Edinburgh. Presently we came to the Glencorse Barracks, some portions of which adjoined our road, and, judging from the dress and speech of the solitary sentinel who was pacing to and fro in front of the entrance, we concluded that a regiment of Highlanders must be stationed there. He informed us that in the time of the French Wars some of the prisoners were employed in making Scotch banknotes at a mill close by, and that portions of the barracks were still used for prisoners, deserters, and the like. Passing on to Pennicuick, we crossed a stream that flowed from the direction of the Pentland Hills, and were informed that no less than seven paper mills were worked by that stream within a distance of five miles. Here we saw a monument which commemorated the interment of 309 French prisoners who died during the years 1811 to 1814, a list of their names being still in existence. This apparently large death-rate could not have been due to the unhealthiness of the Glencorse Barracks, where they were confined, for it was by repute one of the healthiest in the kingdom, the road being 600 feet or more above sea-level, and the district generally, including Pennicuick, considered a desirable health-resort for persons suffering from pulmonary complaints. We stayed a short time here for refreshments, and outside the town we came in contact with two young men who were travelling a mile or two on our way, with whom we joined company. We were giving them an outline of our journey and they were relating to us their version of the massacre of Glencoe, when suddenly a pretty little squirrel crossed our path and ran into a wood opposite. This caused the massacre story to be ended abruptly and roused the bloodthirsty instinct of the two Scots, who at once began to throw stones at it with murderous intent. We watched the battle as the squirrel jumped from branch to branch and passed from one tree to another until it reached one of rather large dimensions. At this stage our friends' ammunition, which they had gathered hastily from the road, became exhausted, and we saw the squirrel looking at them from behind the trunk of the tree as they went to gather another supply. Before they were again ready for action the squirrel disappeared. We were pleased that it escaped, for our companions were good shots. They explained to us that squirrels were difficult animals to kill with a stone, unless they were hit under the throat. Stone-throwing was quite a common practice for country boys in Scotland, and many of them became so expert that they could hit small objects at a considerable distance. We were fairly good hands at it ourselves. It was rather a cruel sport, but loose stones were always plentiful on the roads--for the surfaces were not rolled, as in later years--and small animals, such as dogs and cats and all kinds of birds, were tempting targets. Dogs were the greatest sufferers, as they were more aggressive on the roads, and as my brother had once been bitten by one it was woe to the dog that came within his reach. Such was the accuracy acquired in the art of stone-throwing at these animals, that even stooping down in the road and pretending to lift a stone often caused the most savage dog to retreat quickly. We parted from the two Scots without asking them to finish their story of Glencoe, as the details were already fixed in our memories. They told us our road skirted a moor which extended for forty-seven miles or nearly as far as Glasgow, but we did not see much of the moor as we travelled in a different direction. [Illustration: "JOUGS" AT A CHURCH, PEEBLESSHIRE.] We passed through Edleston, where the church was dedicated to St. Mungo, reminding us of Mungo Park, the famous African traveller, and, strangely enough, it appeared we were not far away from where he was born. In the churchyard here was a tombstone to the memory of four ministers named Robertson, who followed each other in a direct line extending to 160 years. There was also to be seen the ancient "Jougs," or iron rings in which the necks of criminals were enclosed and fastened to a wall or post or tree. About three miles before reaching Peebles we came to the Mansion of Cringletie, the residence of the Wolfe-Murray family. The name of Wolfe had been adopted because one of the Murrays greatly distinguished himself at the Battle of Quebec, and on the lawn in front of the house was a cannon on which the following words had been engraved: _His Majesty's Ship Royal George of 108 guns, sunk at Spithead 29th August 1782. This gun, a 32 pounder, part of the armament of the Royal George, was fished up from the wreck of that ship by Mr. Deans, the zealous and enterprising Diver, on the 15th November 1836, and was presented by the Master-General and Board of Ordnance to General Durham of Largo, the elder Brother of Sir Philip Charles Henderson Durham, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath, Knight Commander of the Most Ancient Military Order of Merit of France, Admiral of the White Squadron of Her Majesty's Fleet, and Commander-in-Chief of the Port of Portsmouth, 1836._ Sir Philip was serving as a lieutenant in the _Royal George_, and was actually on duty as officer of the watch upon deck when the awful catastrophe took place. He was providentially and miraculously saved, but nearly 900 persons perished, amongst them the brave Admiral Kempenfelt, whose flag went down with the ship. The wreck of the _Royal George_ was the most awful disaster that had hitherto happened to the Royal Navy. William Cowper the poet, as soon as the sad news was brought to him, wrote a solemn poem entitled "The Loss of the _Royal George_," from which it seems that Admiral Kempenfelt was in his cabin when the great ship suddenly foundered. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. * * * * * Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone: His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. * * * * * Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more. All sunk beneath the wave. Fast by their native shore! It was nearly dark when we entered the town of Peebles, where we called at the post office for letters, and experienced some difficulty at first in obtaining lodgings, seeing that it was the night before the Hiring Fair. We went first to the Temperance Hotel, but all the beds had been taken down to make room for the great company they expected on the morrow; eventually we found good accommodation at the "Cross Keys Inn," formerly the residence of a country laird. We had seen notices posted about the town informing the public that, by order of the Magistrates, who saw the evil of intoxicating drinks, refreshments were to be provided the following day at the Town Hall. The Good Templars had also issued a notice that they were having a tea-party, for which of course we could not stay. We found Peebles a most interesting place, and the neighbourhood immediately surrounding it was full of history. The site on which our hotel had been built was that of the hostelage belonging to the Abbey of Arbroath in 1317, the monks granting the hostelage to William Maceon, a burgess of Peebles, on condition that he would give to them, and their attorneys, honest lodging whenever business brought them to that town. He was to let them have the use of the hall, with tables and trestles, also the use of the spence (pantry) and buttery, sleeping chambers, a decent kitchen, and stables, and to provide them with the best candles of Paris, with rushes for the floor and salt for the table. In later times it was the town house of Williamson of Cardrona, and in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries became one of the principal inns, especially for those who, like ourselves, were travelling from the north, and was conducted by a family named Ritchie. Sir Walter Scott, who at that time resided quite near, frequented the house, which in his day was called the "Yett," and we were shown the room he sat in. Miss Ritchie, the landlady in Scott's day, who died in 1841, was the prototype of "Meg Dobs," the inn being the "Cleikum Inn" of his novel _St. Ronan's Well_. [Illustration: THE CHURCH AND MONASTERY OF THE HOLY CROSS, PEEBLES, AD 1261.] There was a St. Mungo's Well in Peebles, and Mungo Park was intimately associated with the town. He was born at Foulshiels, Yarrow, in the same year as Sir Walter Scott, 1771, just one hundred years before our visit, and, after studying for the Church, adopted medicine as his profession. He served a short time with a doctor at Selkirk, before completing his course at the University of Edinburgh, and sailed in 1792 for the East Indies in the service of the East India Company. Later he joined an association for the promotion of discovery in Africa, and in 1795 he explored the basin of the Niger. In 1798 he was in London, and in 1801 began practice as a doctor in Peebles. He told Sir Walter Scott, after passing through one of the severe winters in Peebleshire, that he would rather return to the wilds of Africa than pass another winter there. He returned to London in December 1803 to sail with another expedition, but its departure was delayed for a short time, so he again visited Peebles, and astonished the people there by bringing with him a black man named "Sidi Omback Boubi," who was to be his tutor in Arabic. Meantime, in 1779, he had published a book entitled _Travels in the Interior of Africa_, which caused a profound sensation at the time on account of the wonderful stories it contained of adventures in what was then an unknown part of the world. This book of "Adventures of Mungo Park" was highly popular and extensively read throughout the country, by ourselves amongst the rest. [Illustration: THE BLACK DWARF.] It was not until January 29th, 1805, that the expedition left Spithead, and before Mungo Park left Peebles he rode over to Clovenfords, where Sir Walter Scott was then residing, to stay a night with him at Ashestiel. On the following morning Sir Walter accompanied him a short distance on the return journey, and when they were parting where a small ditch divided the moor from the road Park's horse stumbled a little. Sir Walter said, "I am afraid, Mungo, that is a bad omen," to which Park replied, smiling, "Friets (omens) follow those that look for them," and so they parted for ever. In company with his friends Anderson and Scott he explored the rivers Gambia and Niger, but his friends died, and Dr. Park himself was murdered by hostile natives who attacked his canoe in the River Niger. Quite near our lodgings was the house where this famous African traveller lived and practised blood-letting as a surgeon, and where dreams of the tent in which he was once a prisoner and of dark faces came to him at night, while the door at which his horse was tethered as he went to see Sir Walter Scott, and the window out of which he put his head when knocked up in the night, were all shown as objects of interest to visitors. Mungo had at least one strange patient, and that was the Black Dwarf, David Ritchie, who lies buried close to the gate in the old churchyard. This was a horrid-looking creature, who paraded the country as a privileged beggar. He affected to be a judge of female beauty, and there was a hole in the wall of his cottage through which the fair maidens had to look, a rose being passed through if his fantastic fancies were pleased; but if not, the tiny window was closed in their faces. He was known to Sir Walter Scott, who adopted his name in one of his novels, _The Bowed Davie of the Windus_. His cottage, which was practically in the same state as at the period of David Ritchie's death, bore a tablet showing that it had been restored by the great Edinburgh publishers W. and R. Chambers, who were natives of Peebles, and worded: "In memory D.R., died 1811. W. and R. Chambers, 1845." Dr. Pennicuick, who flourished A.D. 1652-1722, had written: Peebles, the Metropolis of the shire, Six times three praises doth from me require; Three streets, three ports, three bridges, it adorn, And three old steeples by three churches borne, Three mills to serve the town in time of need. On Peebles water, and on River Tweed, Their arms are _proper_, and point forth their meaning, Three salmon fishes nimbly counter swimming; but there were other "Threes" connected with Peebles both before and after the doctor's time: "The Three Tales of the Three Priests of Peebles," supposed to have been told about the year 1460 before a blazing fire at the "Virgin Inn." There were also the Three Hopes buried in the churchyard, whose tombstone records: Here lie three Hopes enclosed within, Death's prisoners by Adam's sin; Yet rest in hope that they shall be Set by the Second Adam free. And there were probably other triplets, but when my brother suggested there were also three letter e's in the name of Peebles, I reminded him that it was closing-time, and also bed-time, so we rested that night in an old inn such as Charles Dickens would have been delighted to patronise. (_Distance walked twenty-five miles_.) _Tuesday, October 10th._ This was the day of the Great Peebles Fair, and everybody was awake early, including ourselves. We left the "Cross Keys" hotel at six o'clock in the morning, and a very cold one it was, for there had been a sharp frost during the night. The famous old Cross formerly stood near our inn, and the Cross Church close at hand, or rather all that remained of them after the wars. In spite of the somewhat modern appearance of the town, which was probably the result of the business element introduced by the establishment of the woollen factories, Peebles was in reality one of the ancient royal burghs, and formerly an ecclesiastical centre of considerable importance, for in the reign of Alexander III several very old relics were said to have been found, including what was supposed to be a fragment of the true Cross, and with it the calcined bones of St. Nicholas, who suffered in the Roman persecution, A.D. 294. On the strength of these discoveries the king ordered a magnificent church to be erected, which caused Peebles to be a Mecca for pilgrims, who came there from all parts to venerate the relics. The building was known as the Cross Church, where a monastery was founded at the desire of James III in 1473 and attached to the church, in truly Christian spirit, one-third of its revenues being devoted to the redemption of Christian captives who remained in the hands of the Turks after the Crusades. [Illustration: ST. ANDREWS CHURCH, PEEBLES, A.D. 1195.] If we had visited the town in past ages, there would not have been any fair on October 10th, since the Great Fair, called the Beltane Festival, was then held on May Day; but after the finding of the relics it was made the occasion on which to celebrate the "Finding of the Cross," pilgrims and merchants coming from all parts to join the festivities and attend the special celebrations at the Cross Church. On the occasion of a Beltane Fair it was the custom to light a fire on the hill, round which the young people danced and feasted on cakes made of milk and eggs. We thought Beltane was the name of a Sun-god, but it appeared that it was a Gaelic word meaning Bel, or Beal's-fire, and probably originated from the Baal mentioned in Holy Writ. As our next great object of interest was Abbotsford, the last house inhabited by Sir Walter Scott, our course lay alongside the River Tweed. We were fortunate in seeing the stream at Peebles, which stood at the entrance to one of the most beautiful stretches in the whole of its length of 103 miles, 41 of which lay in Peeblesshire. The twenty miles along which we walked was magnificent river scenery. [Illustration: THE SEAL OF THE CROSS CHURCH.] We passed many castles and towers and other ancient fortifications along its banks, the first being at Horsburgh, where the castle looked down upon a grass field called the Chapelyards, on which formerly stood the chapel and hospice of the two saints, Leonard and Lawrence. At this hospice pilgrims from England were lodged when on their way to Peebles to attend the feasts of the "Finding of the Cross" and the "Exaltation of the Cross," which were celebrated at Beltane and Roodmass respectively, in the ancient church and monastery of the Holy Cross. It was said that King James I of England on his visits to Peebles was also lodged here, and it is almost certain the Beltane Sports suggested to him his famous poem, "Peebles to the Play," one of its lines being: Hope Kailzie, and Cardrona, gathered out thickfold, Singing "Hey ho, rumbelow, the young folks were full bold." both of which places could be seen from Horsburgh Castle looking across the river. We saw the Tower of Cardrona, just before entering the considerable village, or town, of Innerleithen at six miles from Peebles, and although the time was so early, we met many people on their way to the fair. Just before reaching Innerleithen we came to a sharp deep bend in the river, which we were informed was known as the "Dirt Pot" owing to its black appearance. At the bottom of this dark depth the silver bells of Peebles were supposed to be lying. We also saw Glennormiston House, the residence of William Chambers, who, with his brother, Robert, founded _Chambers's Journal_ of wide-world fame, and authors, singly and conjointly, of many other volumes. The two brothers were both benefactors to their native town of Peebles, and William became Lord Provost of Edinburgh, and the restorer of its ancient Cathedral of St. Giles's. His brother Robert died earlier in that very year in which we were walking. We reached Innerleithen just as the factory operatives were returning from breakfast to their work at the woollen factories, and they seemed quite a respectable class of people. Here we called at the principal inn for our own breakfast, for which we were quite ready, but we did not know then that Rabbie Burns had been to Innerleithen, where, as he wrote, he had from a jug "a dribble o' drink," or we should have done ourselves the honour of calling at the same place. At Innerleithen we came to another "Bell-tree Field," where the bell hung on the branch of a tree to summon worshippers to church, and there were also some mineral springs which became famous after the publication of Sir Walter Scott's novel, _St. Ronan's Well_. [Illustration: TRAQUAIR HOUSE.] Soon after leaving Innerleithen we could see Traquair House towering above the trees by which it was surrounded. Traquair was said to be the oldest inhabited house in Scotland. Sir Walter Scott knew it well, it being quite near to Ashiestiel, where he wrote "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Marmion," and "The Lady of the Lake." It was one of the prototypes of "Tully Veolan" in his _Waverley_. There was no abode in Scotland more quaint and curious than Traquair House, for it was turreted, walled, buttressed, windowed, and loopholed, all as in the days of old. Within were preserved many relics of the storied past and also of royalty. Here was the bed on which Queen Mary slept in 1566; here also the oaken cradle of the infant King James VI. The library was rich in valuable and rare books and MSS. and service books of the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries in beautiful penmanship upon fine vellum. The magnificent avenue was grass-grown, the gates had not been opened for many years, while the pillars of the gateway were adorned with two huge bears standing erect and bearing the motto: "Judge Nocht." Magnificent woods adorned the grounds, remains of the once-famous forest of Ettrick, said to be the old classical forest of Caledon of the days of King Arthur. Here was also Flora Hill, with its beautiful woods, where Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, lays the scene of his exquisite poem "Kilmeny" in the _Queen's Wake_, where-- Bonnie Kilmeny gae'd up the Glen, But it wisna to meet Duneira's men, etc. Through beautiful scenery we continued alongside the Tweed, and noticed that even the rooks could not do without breakfast, for they were busy in a potato field. We were amused to see them fly away on our approach, some of them with potatoes in their mouths, and, like other thieves, looking quite guilty. Presently we came to a solitary fisherman standing knee-deep in the river, with whom we had a short conversation. He said he was fishing for salmon, which ascended the river from Berwick about that time of the year and returned in May. We were rather amused at his mentioning the return journey, as from the frantic efforts he was making to catch the fish he was doing his best to prevent them from coming back again. He told us he had been fishing there since daylight that morning, and had caught nothing. By way of sympathy my brother told him a story of two young men who walked sixteen miles over the hills to fish in a stream. They stayed that night at the nearest inn, and started out very early the next morning. When they got back to the hotel at night they wrote the following verse in the visitors' book: Hickory dickory dock! We began at six o'clock, We fished till night without a bite. Hickory dickory dock! This was a description, he said, of real fishermen's luck, but whether the absence of the "bite" referred to the fishermen or to the fish was not quite clear. It had been known to apply to both. Proceeding further we met a gentleman walking along the road, of whom we made inquiries about the country we were passing through. He told us that the castle we could see across the river was named "Muckle Mouthed Meg." A certain man in ancient times, having offended against the laws, was given a choice for a sentence by the King of Scotland---either he must marry Muckle Mouthed Meg, a woman with a very large mouth, or suffer death. He chose the first, and the pair lived together in the old castle for some years. We told him we were walking from John o' Groat's to Land's End, but when he said he had passed John o' Groat's in the train, we had considerable doubts as to the accuracy of his statements, for there was no railway at all in the County of Caithness in which John o' Groat's was situated. We therefore made further inquiries about the old castle, and were informed that the proper name of it was Elibank Castle, and that it once belonged to Sir Gideon Murray, who one night caught young Willie Scott of Oakwood Tower trying to "lift the kye." The lowing of the cattle roused him up, and with his retainers he drove off the marauders, while his lady watched the fight from the battlement of the Tower. Willie, or, to be more correct, Sir William Scott, Junr., was caught and put in the dungeon. Sir Gideon Murray decided to hang him, but his lady interposed: "Would ye hang the winsome Laird o' Harden," she said, "when ye hae three ill-favoured daughters to marry?" Sir Willie was one of the handsomest men of his time, and when the men brought the rope to hang him he was given the option of marrying Muckle Mou'd Meg or of being hanged with a "hempen halter." It was said that when he first saw Meg he said he preferred to be hanged, but he found she improved on closer acquaintance, and so in three days' time a clergyman said, "Wilt thou take this woman here present to be thy lawful wife?" knowing full well what the answer must be. Short of other materials, the marriage contract was written with a goose quill on the parchment head of a drum. Sir William found that Meg made him a very good wife in spite of her wide mouth, and they lived happily together, the moral being, we supposed, that it is not always the prettiest girl that makes the best wife. Shortly afterwards we left the River Tweed for a time while we walked across the hills to Galashiels, and on our way to that town we came to a railway station near which were some large vineries. A carriage was standing at the entrance to the gardens, where two gentlemen were buying some fine bunches of grapes which we could easily have disposed of, for we were getting rather hungry, but as they did not give us the chance, we walked on. Galashiels was formerly only a village, the "shiels" meaning shelters for sheep, but it had risen to importance owing to its woollen factories. It was now a burgh, boasting a coat-of-arms on which was represented a plum-tree with a fox on either side, and the motto, "Sour plums of Galashiels." The origin of this was an incident that occurred in 1337, in the time of Edward III, when some Englishmen who were retreating stopped here to eat some wild plums. While they were so engaged they were attacked by a party of Scots with swords, who killed every one of them, throwing their bodies into a trench afterwards known as the "Englishman's Syke." We passed a road leading off to the left to Stow, where King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were said to have defeated the Heathens. We left Galashiels by the Melrose Road, and, after walking about a mile and a half, we turned aside to cross the River Tweed, not by a ferry, as that was against our rule, but by a railway bridge. No doubt this was against the railway company's by-laws and regulations, but it served our purpose, and we soon reached Abbotsford, that fine mansion, once the residence of the great Sir Walter Scott, the king of novelists, on the building of which he had spent a great amount of money, and the place of his death September 21st, 1832. [Illustration: ABBOTSFORD FROM THE RIVER.] Abbotsford, including the gardens, park, walks and woods, was all his own creation, and was so named by him because the River Tweed was crossed at that point by the monks on their way to and from Melrose Abbey in the olden times. [Illustration: SIR WALTER SCOTT.] We found the house in splendid condition and the garden just as Sir Walter had left it. We were shown through the hall, study, library, and drawing-room, and even his last suit of clothes, with his white beaver hat, was carefully preserved under a glass case. We saw much armour, the largest suit belonging formerly to Sir John Cheney, the biggest man who fought at the battle of Bosworth Field. The collection of arms gathered out of all ages and countries was said to be the finest in the world, including Rob Roy Macgregor's gun, sword, and dirk, the Marquis of Montrose's sword, and the rifle of Andreas Hofer the Tyrolese patriot. Amongst these great curios was the small pocket-knife used by Sir Walter when he was a boy. We were shown the presents given to him from all parts of the kingdom, and from abroad, including an ebony suite of furniture presented to him by King George IV. There were many portraits and busts of himself, and his wife and children, including a marble bust of himself by Chantrey, the great sculptor, carved in the year 1820. The other portraits included one of Queen Elizabeth, another of Rob Roy; a painting of Queen Mary's head, after it had been cut off at Fotheringay, and a print of Stothard's _Canterbury Pilgrims_. We also saw an iron box in which Queen Mary kept her money for the poor, and near this was her crucifix. In fact, the place reminded us of some great museum, for there were numberless relics of antiquity stored in every nook and corner, and in the most unlikely places. We were sorry we had not time to stay and take a longer survey, for the mansion and its surroundings form one of the great sights of Scotland, whose people revere the memory of the great man who lived there. [Illustration: SIR WALTER SCOTT'S STUDY.] The declining days of Sir Walter were not without sickness and sorrow, for he had spent all the money obtained by the sale of his books on this palatial mansion. After a long illness, and as a last resource, he was taken to Italy; but while there he had another apoplectic attack, and was brought home again, only just in time to die. He expressed a wish that Lockhart, his son-in-law, should read to him, and when asked from what book, he answered, "Need you ask? There is but one." He chose the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel, and when it was ended, he said, "Well, this is a great comfort: I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet to be myself again." In an interval of consciousness he said, "Lockhart! I may have but a minute to speak to you, my dear; be a good man, be virtuous, be religious, be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here." A friend who was present at the death of Sir Walter wrote: "It was a beautiful day--so warm that every window was wide open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible--as we kneeled around his bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes." We could imagine the wish that would echo in more than one mind as Sir Walter's soul departed, perhaps through one of the open windows, "Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his." So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there; It is the loneliness in death That parts not quite with parting breath, But beauty with that fearful bloom, The hue which haunts it to the tomb, Expression's last receding ray; A gilded halo hov'ring round decay. [Illustration: ABBOTSFORD.] We passed slowly through the garden and grounds, and when we reached the road along which Sir Walter Scott had so often walked, we hurried on to see the old abbey of Melrose, which was founded by King David I. On our way we passed a large hydropathic establishment and an asylum not quite completed, and on reaching Melrose we called at one of the inns for tea, where we read a description by Sir Walter of his "flitting" from Ashiestiel, his former residence, to his grand house at Abbotsford. The flitting took place at Whitsuntide in 1812, so, as he died in 1832, he must have lived at Abbotsford about twenty years. He was a great collector of curios, and wrote a letter describing the comical scene which took place on that occasion. "The neighbours," he wrote, "have been very much delighted with the procession of furniture, in which old swords, bows, targets, and lances made a very conspicuous show. A family of turkeys was accommodated within the helmet of some _preux chevalier_ of ancient Border fame, and the very cows, for aught I know, were bearing banners and muskets. I assure you that this caravan, attended by a dozen ragged, rosy, peasant children carrying fishing-rods and spears, and leading ponies, greyhounds, and spaniels, would, as it crossed the Tweed, have furnished no bad subject for the pencil." [Illustration: THE CHANCEL, MELROSE ABBEY.] Melrose Abbey was said to afford the finest specimen of Gothic architecture and Gothic sculpture of which Scotland could boast, and the stone of which it had been built, though it had resisted the weather for many ages, retained perfect sharpness, so that even the most minute ornaments seemed as entire as when they had been newly wrought. In some of the cloisters there were representations of flowers, leaves, and vegetables carved in stone with "accuracy and precision so delicate that it almost made visitors distrust their senses when they considered the difficulty of subjecting so hard a substance to such intricate and exquisite modulation." This superb convent was dedicated to St. Mary, and the monks were of the Cistercian Order, of whom the poet wrote: Oh, the monks of Melrose made gude kail (broth) On Fridays when they fasted; Nor wanted they gude beef and ale, So lang's their neighbours' lasted. There were one hundred monks at Melrose in the year 1542, and it was supposed that in earlier times much of the carving had been done by monks under strong religious influences. The rose predominated amongst the carved flowers, as it was the abbot's favourite flower, emblematic of the locality from which the abbey took its name. The curly green, or kale, which grew in nearly every garden in Scotland, was a very difficult plant to sculpture, but was so delicately executed here as to resemble exactly the natural leaf; and there was a curious gargoyle representing a pig playing on the bagpipes, so this instrument must have been of far more ancient origin than we had supposed when we noticed its absence from the instruments recorded as having been played when Mary Queen of Scots was serenaded in Edinburgh on her arrival in Scotland. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO MELROSE ABBEY.] Under the high altar were buried the remains of Alexander II, the dust of Douglas the hero of Otterburn, and others of his illustrious and heroic race, as well as the remains of Sir Michael Scott. Here too was buried the heart of King Robert the Bruce. It appeared that Bruce told his son that he wished to have his heart buried at Melrose; but when he was ready to die and his friends were assembled round his bedside, he confessed to them that in his passion he had killed Comyn with his own hand, before the altar, and had intended, had he lived, to make war on the Saracens, who held the Holy Land, for the evil deeds he had done. He requested his dearest friend, Lord James Douglas, to carry his heart to Jerusalem and bury it there. Douglas wept bitterly, but as soon as the king was dead he had his heart taken from his body, embalmed, and enclosed in a silver case which he had made for it, and wore it suspended from his neck by a string of silk and gold. With some of the bravest men in Scotland he set out for Jerusalem, but, landing in Spain, they were persuaded to take part in a battle there against the Saracens. Douglas, seeing one of his friends being hard pressed by the enemy, went to his assistance and became surrounded by the Moors himself. Seeing no chance of escape, he took from his neck the heart of Bruce, and speaking to it as he would have done to Bruce if alive, said, "Pass first in the fight as thou wert wont to do, and Douglas will follow thee or die." With these words he threw the king's heart among the enemy, and rushing forward to the place where it fell, was there slain, and his body was found lying on the silver case. Most of the Scots were slain in this battle with the Moors, and they that remained alive returned to Scotland, the charge of Bruce's heart being entrusted to Sir Simon Lockhard of Lee, who afterwards for his device bore on his shield a man's heart with a padlock upon it, in memory of Bruce's heart which was padlocked in the silver case. For this reason, also, Sir Simon's name was changed from Lockhard to Lockheart, and Bruce's heart was buried in accordance with his original desire at Melrose. Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie, who also lies buried in the abbey, flourished in the thirteenth century. His great learning, chiefly acquired in foreign countries, together with an identity in name, had given rise to a certain confusion, among the earlier historians, between him and Michael Scott the "wondrous wizard and magician" referred to by Dante in Canto xxmo of the "Inferno." Michael Scott studied such abstruse subjects as judicial astrology, alchemy, physiognomy, and chiromancy, and his commentary on Aristotle was considered to be of such a high order that it was printed in Venice in 1496. Sir Walter Scott referred to Michael Scott: The wondrous Michael Scott A wizard, of such dreaded fame, That when in Salamanca's Cave Him listed his magic wand to wave The bells would ring in Notre Dame, and he explained the origin of this by relating the story that Michael on one occasion when in Spain was sent as an Ambassador to the King of France to obtain some concessions, but instead of going in great state, as usual on those occasions, he evoked the services of a demon in the shape of a huge black horse, forcing it to fly through the air to Paris. The king was rather offended at his coming in such an unceremonious manner, and was about to give him a contemptuous refusal when Scott asked him to defer his decision until his horse had stamped its foot three times. The first stamp shook every church in Paris, causing all the bells to ring; the second threw down three of the towers of the palace; and when the infernal steed had lifted up his hoof for the third time, the king stopped him by promising Michael the most ample concessions. A modern writer, commenting upon this story, says, "There is something uncanny about the Celts which makes them love a Trinity of ideas, and the old stories of the Welsh collected in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries include a story very similar about Kilhwch, cousin to Arthur, who threatens if he cannot have what he wants that he will set up three shouts than which none were ever heard more deadly and which will be heard from Pengwaed in Cornwall to Dinsol in the North and Ergair Oerful in Ireland. The Triads show the method best and furnish many examples, quoting the following: Three things are best when hung--salt fish, a wet hat, and an Englishman. Three things are difficult to get--gold from the miser, love from the devil, and courtesy from the Englishman. The three hardest things--a granite block, a miser's barley loaf, and an Englishman's heart. But perhaps the best known is one translated long ago from the Welsh: A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, The more they are beaten, the better they be. But to return to Michael Scott. Another strange story about Michael was his adventure with the witch of Falschope. To avenge himself upon her for striking him suddenly with his own wand whereby he was transformed for a time and assumed the appearance of a hare, Michael sent his man with two greyhounds to the house where the witch lived, to ask the old lady to give him a bit of bread for the greyhounds; if she refused he was to place a piece of paper, which he handed to him, over the top of the house door. The witch gave the man a curt refusal, and so he fastened the paper, on which were some words, including, "Michael Scott's man sought meat and gat nane," as directed. This acted as a spell, and the old witch, who was making cakes for the reapers then at work in the corn, now began to dance round the fire (which, as usual in those days, was burning in the middle of the room) and to sing the words: "Maister Michael Scott's man Sought meat and gat nane." and she had to continue thus until the spell was broken. Meantime, her husband and the reapers who were with him were wondering why the cakes had not reached them, so the old man sent one of the reapers to inquire the reason. As soon as he went through the door he was caught by the spell and so had to perform the same antics as his mistress. As he did not return, the husband sent man after man until he was alone, and then went himself. But, knowing all about the quarrel between Michael and his wife, and having seen the wizard on the hill, he was rather more cautious than his men, so, instead of going through the door, he looked through the window. There he saw the reapers dragging his wife, who had become quite exhausted, sometimes round, and sometimes through the fire, singing the chorus as they did so. He at once saddled his horse and rode as fast as he could to find Michael, who good-naturedly granted his request, and directed him to enter his house backwards, removing the paper from above the door with his left hand as he went in. The old man lost no time in returning home, where he found them all still dancing furiously and singing the same rhyme; but immediately he entered, the supernatural performance ended, very much, we imagine, to the relief of all concerned. Michael Scott was at one time, it was said, much embarrassed by a spirit for whom he had to find constant employment, and amongst other work he commanded him to build a dam or other weir across the River Tweed at Kelso. He completed that in a single night. Michael next ordered him to divide the summit of the Eildon Hill in three parts; but as this stupendous work was also completed in one night, he was at his wits' end what work to find him to do next. At last he bethought himself of a job that would find him constant employment. He sent him to the seashore and employed him at the hopeless and endless task of making ropes of sand there, which as fast as he made them were washed away by the tides. The three peaks of Eildon Hill, of nearly equal height, are still to be seen. Magnificent views are to be obtained from their tops, which Sir Walter Scott often frequented and of which he wrote, "I can stand on the Eildon and point out forty-three places famous in war and in verse." Another legend connected with these hills was that in the "Eildon caverns vast" a cave existed where the British King Arthur and his famous Knights of the Round Table lie asleep waiting the blast of the bugle which will recall them from Fairyland to lead the British on to a victory that will ensure a united and glorious Empire. King Arthur has a number of burial-places of the same character, according to local stories both in England and Wales, and even one in Cheshire at Alderley Edge, close By the "Wizard Inn," which title refers to the story. [Illustration: MELROSE ABBEY.] Melrose and district has been hallowed by the influence and memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was to Melrose what Shakespeare was to Stratford-on-Avon, and he has invested the old abbey with an additional halo of interest by his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," a copy of which we saw for the first time at the inn where we called for tea. We were greatly interested, as it related to the neighbourhood we were about to pass through in particular, and we were quite captivated with its opening lines, which appealed so strongly to wayfarers like ourselves: The way was long, the wind was cold. The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, Seem'd to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry. We were now nearing the Borders of Scotland and England, where this Border warfare formerly raged for centuries. The desperadoes engaged in it on the Scottish side were known as Moss-troopers, any of whom when caught by the English were taken to Carlisle and hanged near there at a place called Hairibee. Those who claimed the "benefit of clergy" were allowed to repeat in Latin the "Miserere mei," at the beginning of the 51st Psalm, before they were executed, this becoming known as the "neck-verse." William of Deloraine was one of the most desperate Moss-troopers ever engaged in Border warfare, but he, according to Sir Walter Scott: By wily turns, by desperate bounds, Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds; In Eske or Liddel, fords were none, But he would ride them, one by one; * * * * * Steady of heart, and stout of hand. As ever drove prey from Cumberland; Five times outlawed had he been, By England's King, and Scotland's Queen. When Sir Michael Scott was buried in Melrose Abbey his Mystic Book--which no one was ever to see except the Chief of Branxholm, and then only in the time of need--was buried with him. Branxholm Tower was about eighteen miles from Melrose and situated in the vale of Cheviot. After the death of Lord Walter (who had been killed in the Border warfare), a gathering of the kinsmen of the great Buccleuch was held there, and the "Ladye Margaret" left the company, retiring laden with sorrow and her impending troubles to her bower. It was a fine moonlight night when-- From amid the arméd train She called to her, William of Deloraine. and sent him for the mighty book to Melrose Abbey which was to relieve her of all her troubles. "Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, Mount thee on the wightest steed; Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride. Until thou come to fair Tweedside; And in Melrose's holy pile Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. Greet the Father well from me; Say that the fated hour is come, And to-night he shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb: For this will be St. Michael's night, And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright; And the Cross, of bloody red, Will point to the grave of the mighty dead. * * * * * "What he gives thee, see thou keep; Stay not thou for food or sleep: Be it scroll, or be it book, Into it, Knight, thou must not look; If thou readest, thou art lorn! Better had'st thou ne'er been born."-- * * * * * "O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear; Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say, "Again will I be here: And safer by none may thy errand be done, Than, noble dame, by me; Letter nor line know I never a one, Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee." Deloraine lost no time in carrying out his Ladye's wishes, and rode furiously on his horse to Melrose Abbey in order to be there by midnight, and as described in Sir Walter Scott's "Lay of the Last Minstrel": Short halt did Deloraine make there; Little reck'd he of the scene so fair With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, He struck full loud, and struck full long. The porter hurried to the gate-- "Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?" "From Branksome I," the warrior cried; And straight the wicket open'd wide For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood, To fence the rights of fair Melrose; And lands and livings, many a rood, Had gifted the Shrine for their souls' repose. * * * * * Bold Deloraine his errand said; The porter bent his humble head; With torch in hand, and feet unshod. And noiseless step, the path he trod. The archèd cloister, far and wide, Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, Till, stooping low his lofty crest, He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, And lifted his barred aventayle, To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. * * * * * "The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me, Says, that the fated hour is come, And that to-night I shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb." From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard. And strangely on the Knight look'd he, And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide; "And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see What heaven and hell alike would hide? My breast, in belt of iron pent, With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn; For threescore years, in penance spent. My knees those flinty stones have worn; Yet all too little to atone For knowing what should ne'er be known. Would'st thou thy every future year In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, Yet wait thy latter end with fear Then, daring Warrior, follow me!" * * * * * "Penance, father, will I none; Prayer know I hardly one; For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, Save to patter an Ave Mary, When I ride on a Border foray. Other prayer can I none; So speed me my errand, and let me be gone." * * * * * Again on the Knight look'd the Churchman old, And again he sighed heavily; For he had himself been a warrior bold. And fought in Spain and Italy. And he thought on the days that were long since by, When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high-- Now, slow and faint, he led the way, Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay; The pillar'd arches were over their head, And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead. * * * * * The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, * * * * * The silver light, so pale and faint, Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint, Whose image on the glass was dyed; Full in the midst, his Cross of Red Triumphal Michael brandished, And trampled the Apostate's pride. The moon beam kiss'd the holy pane, And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. * * * * * They sate them down on a marble stone,-- (A Scottish monarch slept below;) Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone-- "I was not always a man of woe; For Paynim countries I have trod, And fought beneath the Cross of God: Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear. And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear. * * * * * "In these far climes it was my lot To meet the wondrous Michael Scott; * * * * * Some of his skill he taught to me; And, Warrior, I could say to thee The words that cleft Eildon hills in three, And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone: But to speak them were a deadly sin; And for having but thought them my heart within, A treble penance must be done. * * * * * "When Michael lay on his dying bed, His conscience was awakened He bethought him of his sinful deed, And he gave me a sign to come with speed. I was in Spain when the morning rose, But I stood by his bed ere evening close. The words may not again be said That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid; They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave, And pile it in heaps above his grave. * * * * * "I swore to bury his Mighty Book, That never mortal might therein look; And never to tell where it was hid, Save at his Chief of Branksome's need: And when that need was past and o'er, Again the volume to restore. I buried him on St. Michael's night, When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright, And I dug his chamber among the dead, When the floor of the chancel was stained red, That his patron's cross might over him wave, And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave. * * * * * "It was a night of woe and dread, When Michael in the tomb I laid! Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, The banners waved without a blast"-- Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one!-- I tell you, that a braver man Than William of Deloraine, good at need, Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed; Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread, And his hair did bristle upon his head. * * * * * "Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red Points to the grave of the mighty dead; Within it burns a wondrous light, To chase the spirits that love the night: That lamp shall burn unquenchably, Until the eternal doom shall be."-- Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone, Which the bloody Cross was traced upon: He pointed to a secret nook; An iron bar the Warrior took; And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd hand, The grave's huge portal to expand. * * * * * With beating heart to the task he went; His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent; With bar of iron heaved amain, Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain. It was by dint of passing strength, That he moved the massy stone at length. I would you had been there, to see How the light broke forth so gloriously, Stream'd upward to the chancel roof, And through the galleries far aloof! No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright: It shone like heaven's own blessed light, And, issuing from the tomb, Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale, Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail, And kiss'd his waving plume. * * * * * Before their eyes the Wizard lay, As if he had not been dead a day. His hoary beard in silver roll'd. He seem'd some seventy winters old; A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round, With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea: His left hand held his Book of Might; A silver cross was in his right; The lamp was placed beside his knee: High and majestic was his look, At which the fellest fiends had shook. And all unruffled was his face: They trusted his soul had gotten grace. * * * * * Often had William of Deloraine Rode through the battle's bloody plain, And trampled down the warriors slain, And neither known remorse nor awe; Yet now remorse and awe he own'd; His breath came thick, his head swam round. When this strange scene of death he saw. Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood. And the priest pray'd fervently and loud: With eyes averted prayed he; He might not endure the sight to see. Of the man he had loved so brotherly. * * * * * And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd, Thus unto Deloraine he said:-- "Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue; For those, thou may'st not look upon, Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!"-- Then Deloraine, in terror, took From the cold hand the Mighty Book, With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound: He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd; But the glare of the sepulchral light, Perchance, had dazzled the Warrior's sight. * * * * * When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb. The night return'd in double gloom; For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few; And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew. With wavering steps and dizzy brain, They hardly might the postern gain. 'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd, They heard strange noises on the blast; And through the cloister-galleries small, Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall, Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, And voices unlike the voices of man; As if the fiends kept holiday, Because these spells were brought to day. I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as 'twas said to me. * * * * * "Now, hie thee hence," the Father said, "And when we are on death-bed laid, O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John, Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!"-- The Monk return'd him to his cell, And many a prayer and penance sped; When the convent met at the noontide bell-- The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead! Before the cross was the body laid, With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd. What became of Sir William Deloraine and the wonderful book on his return journey we had no time to read that evening, but we afterwards learned he fell into the hands of the terrible Black Dwarf. We had decided to walk to Hawick if possible, although we were rather reluctant to leave Melrose. We had had one good tea on entering the town, and my brother suggested having another before leaving it, so after visiting the graveyard of the abbey, where the following curious epitaph appeared on one of the stones, we returned to the inn, where the people were highly amused at seeing us return so soon and for such a purpose: The earth goeth to the earth Glist'ring like gold; The earth goeth to the earth Sooner than it wold; The earth builds on the earth Castles and Towers; The earth says to the earth, All shall be ours. Still, we were quite ready for our second tea, and wondered whether there was any exercise that gave people a better appetite and a greater joy in appeasing it than walking, especially in the clear and sharp air of Scotland, for we were nearly always extremely hungry after an hour or two's walk. When the tea was served, I noticed that my brother lingered over it longer than usual, and when I reminded him that the night would soon be on us, he said he did not want to leave before dark, as he wanted to see how the old abbey appeared at night, quoting Sir Walter Scott as the reason why: If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery. And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go--but go alone the while-- Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; And, home returning, soothly swear. Was ever scene so sad and fair? I reminded my brother that there would be no moon visible that night, and that it would therefore be impossible to see the old abbey "by the pale moonlight"; but he said the starlight would do just as well for him, so we had to wait until one or two stars made their appearance, and then departed, calling at a shop to make a few small purchases as we passed on our way. The path alongside the abbey was entirely deserted. Though so near the town there was scarcely a sound to be heard, not even "the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave." Although we had no moonlight, the stars were shining brightly through the ruined arches which had once been filled with stained glass, representing the figures "of many a prophet and many a saint." It was a beautiful sight that remained in our memories long after other scenes had been forgotten. According to the Koran there were four archangels: Azrael, the angel of death; Azrafil, who was to sound the trumpet at the resurrection; Gabriel, the angel of revelations, who wrote down the divine decrees; and Michael, the champion, who fought the battles of faith,--and it was this Michael whose figure Sir Walter Scott described as appearing full in the midst of the east oriel window "with his Cross of bloody red," which in the light of the moon shone on the floor of the abbey and "pointed to the grave of the mighty dead" into which the Monk and William of Deloraine had to descend to secure possession of the "Mighty Book." After passing the old abbey and the shade of the walls and trees to find our way to the narrow and rough road along which we had to travel towards Hawick, we halted for a few moments at the side of the road to arrange the contents of our bags, in order to make room for the small purchases we had made in the town. We had almost completed the readjustment when we heard the heavy footsteps of a man approaching, who passed us walking along the road we were about to follow. My brother asked him if he was going far that way, to which he replied, "A goodish bit," so we said we should be glad of his company; but he walked on without speaking to us further. We pushed the remaining things in our bags as quickly as possible, and hurried on after him. As we did not overtake him, we stood still and listened attentively, though fruitlessly, for not a footstep could we hear. We then accelerated our pace to what was known as the "Irishman's Trig"--a peculiar step, quicker than a walk, but slower than a run--and after going some distance we stopped again to listen; but the only sound we could hear was the barking of a solitary dog a long distance away. This was very provoking, as we wanted to get some information about our road, which, besides being rough, was both hilly and very lonely, and more in the nature of a track than a road. Where the man could have disappeared to was a mystery on a road apparently without any offshoots, so we concluded he must have thought we contemplated doing him some bodily harm, and had either "bolted" or "clapp'd," as my brother described it, behind some rock or bush, in which case he must have felt relieved and perhaps amused when he heard us "trigging" past him on the road. [Illustration: LILLIESLEAF AND THE EILDON HILLS.] We continued along the lonely road without his company, with the ghostly Eildon Hills on one side and the moors on the other, until after walking steadily onwards for a few miles, we heard the roar of a mountain stream in the distance. When we reached it we were horrified to find it running right across our road. It looked awful in the dark, as it was quite deep, and although we could just see where our road emerged from the stream on the other side, it was quite impossible for us to cross in the dark. We could see a few lights some distance beyond the stream, but it was useless to attempt to call for help, since our voices could not be heard above the noise of the torrent. Our position seemed almost hopeless, until my brother said he thought he had seen a shed or a small house behind a gate some distance before coming to the stream. We resolved to turn back, and luckily we discovered it to be a small lodge guarding the entrance to a private road. We knocked at the door of the house, which was in darkness, the people having evidently gone to bed. Presently a woman asked what was wanted, and when we told her we could not get across the stream, she said there was a footbridge near by, which we had not seen in the dark, and told us how to find it a little higher up the stream. Needless to relate, we were very pleased when we got across the bridge, and we measured the distance across that turbulent stream in fifteen long strides. We soon reached the lights we had seen, and found a small village, where at the inn we got some strange lodgings, and slept that night in a bed of a most curious construction, as it was in a dark place under the stairs, entered by a door from the parlour. But it was clean and comfortable, and we were delighted to make use of it after our long walk. (_Distance walked thirty miles_.) _Wednesday, October 11th._ We had been warned when we retired to rest that it was most likely we should be wakened early in the morning by people coming down the stairs, and advised to take no notice of them, as no one would interfere with us or our belongings. We were not surprised, therefore, when we were aroused early by heavy footsteps immediately over our heads, which we supposed were those of the landlord as he came down the stairs. We had slept soundly, and, since there was little chance of any further slumber, we decided to get up and look round, the village before breakfast. We had to use the parlour as a dressing-room, and not knowing who might be coming down the stairs next, we dressed ourselves as quickly as possible. We found that the village was called Lilliesleaf, which we thought a pretty name, though we were informed it had been spelt in twenty-seven different ways, while the stream we came to in the night was known by the incongruous name of Ale Water. The lodge we had gone back to for information as to the means of crossing was the East Gate guarding one of the entrances to Riddell, a very ancient place where Sir Walter Scott had recorded the unearthing of two graves of special interest, one containing an earthen pot filled with ashes and arms, and bearing the legible date of 729, and the other dated 936, filled with the bones of a man of gigantic size. A local historian wrote of the Ale Water that "it is one thing to see it on a summer day when it can be crossed by the stepping-stones, and another when heavy rains have fallen in the autumn--then it is a strong, deep current and carries branches and even trees on its surface, the ford at Riddell East Gate being impassable, and it is only then that we can appreciate the scene." It seemed a strange coincidence that we should be travelling on the same track but in the opposite direction as that pursued by William Deloraine, and that we should have crossed the Ale Water about a fortnight later in the year, as Sir Walter described him in his "Lay" as riding along the wooded path when "green hazels o'er his basnet nod," which indicated the month of September. Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, To ancient Riddell's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountain freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad. Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. * * * * * At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddlebow; Above the foaming tide, I ween, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; For he was barded from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail; Never heavier man and horse Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. The warrior's very plume, I say Was daggled by the dashing spray; Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace, At length he gain'd the landing place. What would have become of ourselves if we had attempted to cross the treacherous stream in the dark of the previous night we did not know, but we were sure we should have risked our lives had we made the attempt. We were only able to explore the churchyard at Lilliesleaf, as the church was not open at that early hour in the morning. We copied a curious inscription from one of the old stones there: Near this stone we lifeless lie No more the things of earth to spy, But we shall leave this dusty bed When Christ appears to judge the dead. For He shall come in glory great And in the air shall have His seat And call all men before His throne. Rewarding all as they have done. We were served with a prodigious breakfast at the inn to match, as we supposed, the big appetites prevailing in the North, and then we resumed our walk towards Hawick, meeting on our way the children coming to the school at Lilliesleaf, some indeed quite a long way from their destination. In about four miles we reached Hassendean and the River Teviot, for we were now in Teviot Dale, along which we were to walk, following the river nearly to its source in the hills above. The old kirk of Hassendean had been dismantled in 1693, but its burial-ground continued to be used until 1795, when an ice-flood swept away all vestiges both of the old kirk and the churchyard. It was of this disaster that Leyden, the poet and orientalist, who was born in 1775 at the pretty village of Denholm close by, wrote the following lines: By fancy wrapt, where tombs are crusted grey, I seem by moon-illumined graves to stray, Where now a mouldering pile is faintly seen-- The old deserted church of Hassendean, Where slept my fathers in their natal clay Till Teviot waters rolled their bones away. [Illustration: LEYDEN'S COTTAGE.] Leyden was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott, whom he helped to gather materials for his "Border Minstrelsie," and was referred to in his novel of _St. Ronan's Well_ as "a lamp too early quenched." In 1811 he went to India with Lord Minto, who was at that time Governor-General, as his interpreter, for Leyden was a great linguist. He died of fever caused by looking through some old infected manuscripts at Batavia on the coast of Java. Sir Walter had written a long letter to him which was returned owing to his death. He also referred to him in his _Lord of the Isles_: His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strains; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour; A distant and a deadly shore Has Leyden's cold remains. The Minto estate adjoined Hassenden, and the country around it was very beautiful, embracing the Minto Hills or Crags, Minto House, and a castle rejoicing, as we thought, in the queer name of "Fatlips." The walk to the top of Minto Crags was very pleasant, but in olden times no stranger dared venture there, as the Outlaw Brownhills was in possession, and had hewn himself out of the rock an almost inaccessible platform on one of the crags still known as "Brownhills' Bed" from which he could see all the roads below. Woe betide the unsuspecting traveller who happened to fall into his hands! But we must not forget Deloraine, for after receiving instructions from the "Ladye of Branksome"-- [Illustration: "FATLIPS" CASTLE.] Soon in the saddle sate he fast, And soon the steep descent he past, Soon cross'd the sounding barbican. And soon the Teviot side he won. Eastward the wooded path he rode. Green hazels o'er his basnet nod; He passed the Peel of Goldieland, And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand; Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound. Where Druid shades still flitted round; In Hawick twinkled many a light; Behind him soon they set in night; And soon he spurr'd his courser keen Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. * * * * * The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;-- "Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark."-- "For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd. And left the friendly tower behind. He turn'd him now from Tiviotside, And, guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride. And gained the moor at Horsliehill; Broad on the left before him lay, For many a mile, the Roman Way. * * * * * A moment now he slacked his speed, A moment breathed his panting steed; Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band, And loosen'd in the sheath his brand. On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, Where Barnhills hew'd his bed of flint; Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest, Where falcons hang their giddy nest Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye For many a league his prey could spy; Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, The terrors of the robber's horn! We passed through a cultivated country on the verge of the moors, where we saw some good farms, one farmer telling us he had 900 acres of arable land with some moorland in addition. He was superintending the gathering of a good crop of fine potatoes, which he told us were "Protestant Rocks." He was highly amused when one of us suggested to the other that they might just have suited a country parson we knew in England who would not have the best variety of potatoes, called "Radicals," planted in his garden because he did not like the name. He was further amused when we innocently asked him the best way to reach Hawick, pronouncing the name in two syllables which sounded like Hay-wick, while the local pronunciation was "Hoike." However, we soon reached that town and had a twelve-o'clock lunch at one of the inns, where we heard something of the principal annual event of the town, the "Common Riding," the occasion on which the officials rode round the boundaries. There was an artificial mound in the town called the "Mote-Hill," formerly used by the Druids. It was to the top of this hill the cornet and his followers ascended at sunrise on the day of the festival, after which they adjourned to a platform specially erected in the town, to sing the Common Riding Song. We could not obtain a copy of this, but we were fortunate in obtaining one for the next town we were to visit--Langholm--which proved to be the last on our walk through Scotland. From what we could learn, the ceremony at Hawick seemed very like the walking of the parish boundaries in England, a custom which was there slowly becoming obsolete. We could only remember attending one of these ceremonies, and that was in Cheshire. The people of the adjoining parish walked their boundaries on the same day, so we were bound to meet them at some point _en route_, and a free fight, fanned by calling at sundry public-houses, was generally the result. The greatest danger-zone lay where a stream formed the boundary between the two parishes, at a point traversed by a culvert or small tunnel through a lofty embankment supporting a canal which crossed a small valley. This boundary was, of course, common to both parishes, and representatives of each were expected to pass through it to maintain their rights, so that it became a matter of some anxiety as to which of the boundary walkers would reach it first, or whether that would be the point where both parties would meet. We remembered coming to a full stop when we reached one entrance to the small tunnel, while the scouts ascended the embankment to see if the enemy were in sight on the other side; but as they reported favourably, we decided that two of our party should walk through the culvert, while the others went round by the roads to the other end. There was a fair amount of water passing through at that time, so they were very wet on emerging from the opposite end, and it was impossible for the men to walk upright, the contracted position in which they were compelled to walk making the passage very difficult. What would have happened if the opposition had come up while our boundary walkers were in the tunnel we could only surmise. Hawick is in Roxburghshire and was joined on to Wilton at a house called the Salt Hall, or the "Saut Ha'," as it is pronounced in Scotch, where a tragedy took place in the year 1758. The tenant of the Hall at that time was a man named Rea, whose wife had committed suicide by cutting her throat. In those days it was the custom to bury suicides at the dead of night where the laird's lands met, usually a very lonely corner, and a stake was driven through the body of the corpse; but from some cause or other the authorities allowed "Jenny Saut Ha'," as she was commonly called, to be buried in the churchyard. This was considered by many people to be an outrage, and the body was disinterred at night, and the coffin placed against the Saut Ha' door, where Rea was confronted with it next morning. There was a sharp contest between the Church authorities and the public, and the body was once more interred in the churchyard, but only to fall on Rea when he opened his door the next morning. The authorities were then compelled to yield to the popular clamour, and the corpse found a temporary resting-place in a remote corner of Wilton Common; but the minister ultimately triumphed, and Jenny was again buried in the churchyard, there to rest for all time in peace. [Illustration: WILTON OLD CHURCH.] We had now joined the old coach road from London to Edinburgh, a stone on the bridge informing us that that city was fifty miles distant. We turned towards London, and as we were leaving the town we asked three men, who had evidently tramped a long distance, what sort of a road it was to Langholm, our next stage. They informed us that it was twenty-three miles to that town, that the road was a good one, but we should not be able to get a drink the whole way, for "there wasn't a single public-house on the road." Presently, however, we reached a turnpike gate across our road, and as there was some fruit exhibited for sale in the window of the toll-house we went inside, and found the mistress working at her spinning-wheel, making a kind of worsted out of which she made stockings. We bought as much fruit from her as the limited space in our bags allowed, and had a chat with her about the stocking trade, which was the staple industry of Hawick. She told us there were about 800 people employed in that business, and that they went out on strike on the Monday previous, but with an advance in their wages had gone in again that morning. The stockings were now made by machines, but were formerly all made by hand. The inventor of the first machine was a young man who had fallen deeply in love with a young woman, who, like most others living thereabouts at that time, got her living by making stockings. When he proposed to her, she would not have him, because she knew another young man she liked better. He then told her if she would not marry him he would make a machine that would make stockings and throw her out of work and ruin them all. But the girl decided to remain true to the young man she loved best, and was presently married to him. [Illustration: GOLDIELANDS TOWER.] The disappointed lover then set to work, and, after much thought and labour, succeeded in making a stocking machine; and although it created a great stir in Hawick, where all three were well known, it did not throw any one out of work, but was so improved upon with the result that more stockings were made and sold at Hawick than ever before! We thanked the old lady for her story, and, bidding her good-bye, went on our way. Presently we came to the ruins of a castle standing near the road which a clergyman informed us was Goldielands Tower, mentioned with Harden by Sir Walter Scott in the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." He told us that a little farther on our way we should also see Branxholm, another place referred to by Scott. Although we were on the look out for Branxholm, we passed without recognising it, as it resembled a large family mansion more than the old tower we had expected it to be. [Illustration: BRANXHOLM TOWER.] It was astonishing what a number of miles we walked in Scotland without finding anything of any value on the roads. A gentleman told us he once found a threepenny bit on the road near a village where he happened to be staying at the inn. When his find became known in the village, it created quite a sensation amongst the inhabitants, owing to the "siller" having fallen into the hands of a "Saxon," and he gravely added to the information that one-half of the people went in mourning and that it was even mentioned in the kirk as the "awfu'" waste that had occurred in the parish! [Illustration] We were not so lucky as to find a silver coin, but had the good fortune to find something of more importance in the shape of a love-letter which some one had lost on the road, and which supplied us with food for thought and words for expression, quite cheering us up as we marched along our lonely road. As Kate and John now belong to a past generation, we consider ourselves absolved from any breach of confidence and give a facsimile of the letter (see page 198). The envelope was not addressed, so possibly John might have intended sending it by messenger, or Kate might have received it and lost it on the road, which would perhaps be the more likely thing to happen. We wondered whether the meeting ever came off. [Illustration: COVENANTER'S GRAVE.] Shortly after passing Branxholm, and near the point where the Allan Water joined the River Teviot, we turned to visit what we had been informed was in the time of King Charles I a hiding place for the people known as Covenanters. These were Scottish Presbyterians, who in 1638, to resist that king's encroachments on their religious liberty, formed a "Solemn League," followed in 1643 by an international Solemn League and Covenant "between England and Scotland to secure both civil and religious liberty." These early Covenanters were subjected to great persecution, consequently their meetings were held in the most lonely places--on the moors, in the glens, and on the wild mountain sides. We climbed up through a wood and found the meeting-place in the ruins of a tower--commonly said to have been built by the Romans, though we doubted it--the remains of which consisted of an archway a few yard longs and a few yards square, surrounded by three trenches. It occupied a very strong position, and standing upon it we could see a hill a short distance away on the top of which was a heap of stones marking the spot where a bon-fire was lit and a flag reared when Queen Victoria drove along the road below, a few years before our visit. In former times in this part of Scotland there seemed to have been a bard, poet, or minstrel in every village, and they appeared to have been numerous enough to settle their differences, and sometimes themselves, by fighting for supremacy, for it was at Bradhaugh near here that a deadly combat took place in 1627 between William Henderson, known as "Rattling Roaring Willie," and Robert Rule, another Border minstrel, in which, according to an old ballad, Willie slew his opponent, for-- Rob Roole, he handled rude. And Willie left Newmill's banks Red-wat wi' Robin's blude. [Illustration: HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.] At Teviothead our road parted company with the River Teviot, which forked away to the right, its source being only about six miles farther up the hills from that point. In the churchyard at Teviothead, Henry Scott Riddell, the author of _Scotland Yet_, had only recently been buried. Near here also was Caerlanrig, where the murder of Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, a very powerful chief who levied blackmail along the Border from Esk to Tyne, or practically the whole length of Hadrian's Wall, took place in 1530. Johnnie was a notorious freebooter and Border raider, no one daring to go his way for fear of Johnnie or his followers. But of him more anon. The distance from Caerlanrig, where Armstrong was executed, to Gilnockie Tower, where he resided, was about seventeen miles, and we had to follow, though in the opposite direction and a better surfaced road, the same lonely and romantic track that he traversed on that occasion. It formed a pass between the hills, and for the first seven miles the elevations in feet above sea-level on each side of the road were: To our right:--1193. 1286. 1687. 1950. 1714. 1317. 1446. To our left:--1156. 1595. 1620. 1761. 1741. 1242. 1209. The distance between the summits as the crow flies was only about a mile, while the road maintained an altitude above the sea of from five to eight hundred feet, so that we had a most lonely walk of about thirteen miles before we reached Langholm. The road was a good one, and we were in no danger of missing our way, hemmed in as it was on either side by the hills, which, although treeless, were covered with grass apparently right away to their tops, a novelty to us after the bare and rocky hills we had passed elsewhere. We quite enjoyed our walk, and as we watched the daylight gradually fade away before the approaching shadows of the night, we realised that we were passing through the wildest solitudes. We did not meet one human being until we reached Langholm, and the only habitation we noted before reaching a small village just outside that town was the "Halfway House" between Hawick and Langholm, known in stage-coach days as the "Mosspaul Inn." It was a large house near the entrance to a small glen, but apparently now closed, for we could not see a solitary light nor hear the sound of a human voice. How different it must have appeared when the stage-coaches were passing up and down that valley, now deserted, for even the railway, which supplanted them, had passed it by on the other side! In imagination we could hear the sound of the horn, echoing in the mountains, heralding the approach of the stage-coach, with its great lamp in front, and could see a light in almost every window in the hotel. We could picture mine host and his wife standing at the open door ready to receive their visitors, expectant guests assembled behind them in the hall and expectant servants both indoors and out; then staying for the night, refreshing ourselves with the good things provided for supper, and afterwards relating our adventures to a friendly and appreciative audience, finally sinking our weary limbs in the good old-fashioned feather-beds! But these visions passed away almost as quickly as they appeared, so we left the dark and dreary mansion whose glory had departed, and marched on our way, expecting to find at Langholm that which we so badly needed--food and rest. The old inn at Mosspaul, where the stage-coaches stopped to change horses, was built at the junction of the counties of Dumfries and Roxburgh, and was very extensive with accommodation for many horses, but fell to ruin after the stage-coaches ceased running. Many notable visitors had patronised it, among others Dorothy Wordsworth, who visited it with her brother the poet in September 1803, and described it in the following graphic terms: The scene, with this single dwelling, was melancholy and wild, but not dreary, though there was no tree nor shrub: the small streamlet glittered, the hills were populous with sheep, but the gentle bending of the valley, and the correspondent softness in the forms of the hills were of themselves enough to delight the eye. A good story is told of one of the Armstrongs and the inn: Once when Lord Kames went for the first time on the Circuit as Advocate-depute, Armstrong of Sorbie inquired of Lord Minto in a whisper "What long black, dour-looking Chiel" that was that they had broc'ht with them? "That," said his lordship, "is a man come to hang a' the Armstrongs." "Then," was the dry retort, "it's time the Elliots were ridin'."[Footnote: Elliot was the family name of Lord Minto.] The effusions of one of the local poets whose district we had passed through had raised our expectations in the following lines: There's a wee toon on the Borders That my heart sair langs to see, Where in youthful days I wander'd, Knowing every bank and brae; O'er the hills and through the valleys, Thro' the woodlands wild and free, Thro' the narrow straits and loanings, There my heart sair langs to be. [Illustration: THE COMMON RIDING, LANGHOLM.] There was also an old saying, "Out of the world and into Langholm," which seemed very applicable to ourselves, for after a walk of thirty-two and a half miles through a lonely and hilly country, without a solitary house of call for twenty-three, our hungry and weary condition may be imagined when we entered Langholm just on the stroke of eleven o'clock at night. We went to the Temperance Hotel, but were informed they were full. We called at the other four inns with the same result. Next we appealed to the solitary police officer, who told us curtly that the inns closed at eleven and the lodgings at ten, and marched away without another word. The disappointment and feeling of agony at having to walk farther cannot be described, but there was no help for it, so we shook the dust, or mud, off our feet and turned dejectedly along the Carlisle road. Just at the end of the town we met a gentleman wearing a top-hat and a frock-coat, so we appealed to him. The hour was too late to find us lodgings, but he said, if we wished to do so, we could shelter in his distillery, which we should come to a little farther on our way. His men would all be in bed, but there was one door that was unlocked and we should find some of the rooms very warm. We thanked him for his kindness and found the door, as he had described, opening into a dark room. We had never been in a distillery before, so we were naturally rather nervous, and as we could not see a yard before us, we lighted one of our candles. We were about to go in search of one of the warmer rooms when the thought occurred to us that our light might attract the attention of some outsider, and in the absence of any written authority from the owner might cause us temporary trouble, while to explore the distillery without a light was out of the question, for we might fall through some trap-door or into a vat, besides which, we could hear a great rush of water in the rear of the premises, so we decided to stay where we were. The book we had obtained at Hawick contained the following description of the Langholm "Common Riding," which was held each year on July 17th when the people gathered together to feast on barley bannock and red herring, of course washed down with plenteous supplies of the indispensable whisky. The Riding began with the following proclamation in the marketplace, given by a man standing upright on horseback, in the presence of thousands of people: Gentlemen,--The first thing that I am going to acquaint you with are the names of the Portioners' Grounds of Langholm:-- Now, Gentlemen, we're gan' frae the Toun, An' first of a' the Kil Green we gang roun', It is an ancient place where Clay is got, And it belangs to us by Right and Lot, And then frae here the Lang-Wood we gang throu' Where every ane may breckons out an' pu', An' last of a' oor Marches they be clear, An' when unto the Castle Craigs we come, I'll cry the Langholm Fair and then we'll beat the drum. Now, Gentlemen. What you have heard this day concerning going round our Marches, it is expected that every one who has occasion for Peats, Breckons, Flacks, Stanes, or Clay, will go out in defence of their Property, and they shall hear the Proclamation of the Langholm Fair upon the Castle Craigs. Now, Gentlemen, we have gane roun our hill, So now I think it's right we had oor fill Of guid strang punch--'twould make us a' to sing. Because this day we have dune a guid thing; For gangin' roun' oor hill we think nae shame, Because frae it oor peats and flacks come hame; So now I will conclude and say nae mair. An' if ye're pleased I'll cry the Langholm Fair. Hoys, yes! that's ae time! Hoys, yes! that's twae times!! Hoys, yes! that's the third and the last time!!! This is to Give Notice, That there is a muckle Fair to be hadden in the muckle Toun o' the Langholm, on the 15th day of July, auld style, upon his Grace the Duke of Buccleuch's Merk Land, for the space of eight days and upwards; and a' land-loupers, and dub-scoupers, and gae-by-the-gate-swingers, that come here to breed hurdums or durdums, huliments or buliments, haggle-ments or braggle-ments, or to molest this public Fair, they shall be ta'en by order of the Bailie and Toun Council, and their lugs be nailed to the Tron wi' a twal-penny nail, and they shall sit doun on their bare knees and pray seven times for the King, and thrice for the Mickle Laird o' Ralton, and pay a groat to me, Jemmy Ferguson, Bailie o' the aforesaid Manor, and I'll awa' hame and ha'e a bannock and a saut herrin'. HUZZA! HUZZAH!! HUZZAH!!! [Illustration: GILNOCKIE BRIDGE, LANGHOLM.] The monument on the top of Whita Hill was erected in memory of one of the famous four Knights of Langholm, the sons of Malcolm of Burn Foot, whose Christian names were James, Pulteney, John, and Charles, all of whom became distinguished men. Sir James was made a K.C.B, and a Colonel in the Royal Marines. He served on board the _Canopus_ at the Battle of San Domingo, taking a prominent part in the American War of 1812. He died at Milnholm, near Langholm, at the age of eighty-two. Pulteney Malcolm rose to the rank of Admiral and served under Lord Nelson, but as his ship was refitting at Gibraltar he missed taking part in the Battle of Trafalgar, though he arrived just in time to capture the Spanish 120-gun ship _El Kago_. He became intimately acquainted with Napoleon Bonaparte, as he had the command of the British worships that guarded him during his captivity at St. Helena. Sir John Malcolm was a distinguished Indian statesman, and it was to him that the monument on Whita Hill had been erected. The monument, which was visible for many miles, was 100 feet high, and the hill itself 1,162 feet above sea-level. Sir Charles Malcolm, the youngest of the four brothers, after seeing much active service, rose to be Vice-Admiral of the Fleet. [Illustration: GILNOCKIE TOWER] If the great fair-day had been on when we reached Langholm we should not have been surprised at being unable to find lodgings, but as it was we could only attribute our failure to arriving at that town so late in the evening, nearly an hour after the authorised closing time of the inns. We found we could not stay very long in the distillery without a fire, for a sharp frost had now developed, and we began to feel the effect of the lower temperature; we therefore decided, after a short rest, to continue our walk on the Carlisle road. Turning over the bridge that crossed the rapidly running stream of the River Esk--the cause of the rush of water we heard in the distillery--we followed the river on its downward course for some miles. It was a splendid starlight, frosty night, but, as we were very tired and hungry, we could only proceed slowly--in fact scarcely quickly enough to maintain our circulation. Being also very sleepy, we had to do something desperate to keep ourselves awake, so we amused ourselves by knocking with our heavy oaken sticks at the doors or window-shutters of the houses we passed on our way. It was a mild revenge we took for the town's inhospitality, and we pictured to ourselves how the story of two highwaymen being about the roads during the midnight hours would be circulated along the countryside during the following day, but we could not get any one to come beyond the keyhole of the door or the panes of the shuttered windows. We were, however, becoming quite desperate, as we were now nearly famished, and, when we came to a small shop, the sounds from our sticks on the door quickly aroused the mistress, who asked us what we wanted. My brother entered into his usual explanation that we were pedestrian tourists on a walking expedition, and offered her a substantial sum for some bread or something to eat; but it was of no use, as the only answer we got was, "I ha' not a bit till th' baker coomes ith' morn'." This reply, and the tone of voice in which it was spoken, for the woman "snaffled," was too much for us, and, tired as we were, we both roared with laughter; absurd though it may seem, it was astonishing how this little incident cheered us on our way. It was a lovely country through which we were travelling, and our road, as well as the river alongside, was in many places overhung by the foliage of the fine trees, through which the brilliant lustre of the stars appeared overhead; in fact we heard afterwards that this length of road was said to include the finest landscapes along the whole of the stage-coach road between London and Edinburgh. The bridge by which we recrossed the river had been partially built with stones from the ruins of Gilnockie Tower, once the stronghold of the famous freebooter Johnnie Armstrong, of whom we had heard higher up the country. [Illustration: COCKBURN'S GRAVE.] Sir Walter Scott tells us that King James V resolved to take very serious measures against the Border Warriors, and under pretence of coming to hunt the deer in those desolate regions he assembled an army, and suddenly appeared at the Castle of Piers Cockburn of Henderland, near where we had been further north. He ordered that baron to be seized and executed in spite of the fact that he was preparing a great feast of welcome. Adam Scott of Tushielaw, known as the King of the Border, met with the same fate, but an event of greater importance was the fate of John Armstrong. This free-booting chief had risen to such consequence, that the whole neighbouring district of England paid him "black-mail," a sort of regular tribute in consideration of which he forbore to plunder them. He had a high idea of his own importance, and seems to have been unconscious of having merited any severe usage at the king's hands. On the contrary, he went to meet his sovereign at Carlingrigg Chapel, richly dressed, and having twenty-four gentlemen, his constant retinue, as well attired as himself. The king, incensed to see a freebooter so gentlemanly equipped, commanded him instantly to be led to execution, saying, "What wants this knave save a crown to be as magnificent as a king?" John Armstrong made great offers for his life, offering to maintain himself, with forty men, to serve the king at a moment's notice, at his own expense, engaging never to hurt or injure any Scottish subject, as indeed had never been his practice, and undertaking that there was not a man in England, of whatever degree, duke, earl, lord, or baron, but he would engage, within a short time, to present him to the king, dead or alive. But when the king would listen to none of his oilers, the robber chief said very proudly, "I am but a fool to ask grace at a graceless face; but had I guessed you would have used me thus, I would have kept the Border-side in spite of the King of England and you, both, for I well know that the King Henry would give the weight of my best horse in gold to know that I am sentenced to die this day." John Armstrong was led to execution, with all his men, and hanged without mercy. The people of the inland countries were glad to get rid of him; but on the Borders he was both missed and mourned, as a brave warrior, and a stout man-of-arms against England. But to return to Gilnockie Bridge! After crossing it we struggled on for another mile or two, and when about six miles from Langholm we reached another bridge where our road again crossed the river. Here we stopped in mute despair, leaning against the battlements, and listening to the water in the river as it rushed under the bridge. We must have been half asleep, when we were suddenly aroused by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching in the distance. Whoever could it be? I suggested one of the Border freebooters; but my brother, who could laugh when everybody else cried, said it sounded more like a free-clogger. We listened again, and sure enough it was the clattering of a heavy pair of clogs on the partly frozen surface of the road. We could not be mistaken, for we were too well accustomed to the sound of clogs in Lancashire; but who could be the wearer! We had not long to wait before a man appeared, as much surprised to see us as we were to see him. We told him of our long walk the day before, how we had been disappointed in not getting lodgings, and asked him how far we were away from an inn. He told us we were quite near one, but it was no use going there, as "they wouldn't get up for the Queen of England." He further told us he was going to the two o'clock "shift" at the colliery. "Colliery!" my brother ejaculated; "but surely there isn't a coal-pit in a pretty place like this?" He assured us that there was, and, seeing we were both shivering with cold, kindly invited us to go with him and he would put us near to a good fire that was burning there. "How far is it?" we asked anxiously. "Oh, only about half a mile," said the collier. So we went with him, and walked what seemed to be the longest half-mile we ever walked in all our lives, as we followed him along a fearfully rough road, partly on the tramlines of the Canonbie Collieries belonging to the Duke of Buccleuch, where two or three hundred men were employed. We each handed him a silver coin as he landed us in front of a large open fire which was blazing furiously near the mouth of the pit, and, bidding us "good morning," he placed a lighted lamp in front of his cap and disappeared down the shaft to the regions below. He was rather late owing to his having slackened his pace to our own, which was naturally slower than his, since walking along colliery sidings at night was difficult for strangers. We had taken of our boots to warm and ease our feet, when a man emerged from the darkness and asked us to put them on again, saying we should be more comfortable in the engine-house. If we stayed there we should be sure to catch a cold, as a result of being roasted on one side and frozen on the other. He kindly volunteered to accompany us there, so we thankfully accepted his invitation. We had some difficulty in following him owing to the darkness and obstructions in the way, but we reached the engine-room in safety, round the inside of which was a wooden seat, or bench, and acting upon his instructions we lay down on this to sleep, with a promise that he would waken us when he went off duty at six o'clock in the morning. We found it more comfortable here than on the windy pit bank, for there was an even and sleepy temperature. We were soon embosomed in the arms of nature's great refresher, notwithstanding the occasional working of the winding engines, sleeping as soundly on those wooden benches as ever we did on the best feather-bed we patronised on our journey. (_Distance walked thirty-nine miles_.) _Thursday, October 12th._ We were roused at six o'clock a.m. by the engine-driver, who had taken good care of us while we slept, and as we had had nothing to eat since our lunch at Hawick the day before, except the fruit purchased from the toll-keeper there, which we had consumed long before reaching Langholm, we were frightfully hungry. The engine-man told us there was a shop close by the colliery gate kept by a young man, where, if he happened to be in, we should be able to get some refreshments. He accompanied us to the place, and, after knocking loudly at the shop door, we were delighted to see the head of the shopkeeper appear through the window above. He was evidently well known to the engineer, who told him what we wanted, and he promised to "be down directly." It seemed a long time to us before the shop door was opened, and every minute appeared more like five than one; but we were soon comfortably seated in the shop, in the midst of all sorts of good things fit to eat. We should have liked to begin to eat them immediately, but the fire had to be lit and the kettle boiled, so we assisted with these operations while the young man cut into a fresh loaf of bread, broke open a pot of plum jam, opened a tin of biscuits, and, with the addition of a large slice of cheese and four fresh eggs, we had a really good breakfast, which we thoroughly enjoyed. He said it was a wonder we found him there, for it was very seldom he slept at the shop. His mother lived at a farm about a mile and a half away, where he nearly always slept; that night, however, he had been sleeping with his dog, which was to run in a race that day, and he spent the night with it lest it should be tampered with. He called the dog downstairs, and, though we knew very little about dogs, we could see it was a very fine-looking animal. Our friend said he would not take £50 for it, a price we thought exorbitant for any dog. When we had finished our enormous breakfast, we assisted the shopkeeper to clear the table, and as it was now his turn, we helped him to get his own breakfast ready, waiting upon him as he had waited upon us, while we conversed chiefly about colliers and dogs and our approaching visit to Gretna Green, which, as neither of us was married, was naturally our next great object of interest. [Illustration: PENTON BRIDGE, CANONBIE.] After our long walk the previous day, with very little sleep at the end of it, and the heavy breakfast we had just eaten, we felt uncommonly lazy and disinclined to walk very far that day. So, after wishing our friend good luck at the races, we bade him good-bye, and idly retraced our steps along the colliery road until we reached the bridge where we had met the collier so early in the morning. We had now time to admire the scenery, and regretted having passed through that beautiful part of the country during our weary tramp in the dark, and that we had missed so much of it, including the Border Towers on the River Esk. Riddel Water, with its fine scenery, was on our left as we came from the colliery, where it formed the boundary between Scotland and England, emptying itself into the River Esk about two miles from Canonbie Bridge, which we now crossed, and soon arrived at the "Cross Keys Inn," of which we had heard but failed to reach the previous night. The landlord of the inn, who was standing at the door, was formerly the driver of the Royal Mail Stagecoach "Engineer" which ran daily between Hawick and Carlisle on the Edinburgh to London main road. A good-looking and healthy man of over fifty years of age, his real name was Elder, but he was popularly known as Mr. Sandy or Sandy Elder. The coach, the last stage-coach that ever ran on that road, was drawn in ordinary weather by three horses, which were changed every seven or eight miles, the "Cross Keys" at Canonbie being one of the stopping-places. [Illustration: "CROSS KEYS INN."] Mr. Elder had many tales to tell of stage-coach days; one adventure, however, seemed more prominent in his thoughts than the others. It happened many years ago, when on one cold day the passengers had, with the solitary exception of one woman, who was sitting on the back seat of the coach, gone into the "Cross Keys Inn" for refreshments while the horses were being changed. The fresh set of horses had been put in, and the stablemen had gone to the hotel to say all was ready, when, without a minute's warning, the fresh horses started off at full gallop along the turnpike road towards Carlisle. Great was the consternation at the inn, and Sandy immediately saddled a horse and rode after them at full speed. Meantime the woman, who Mr. Sandy said must have been as brave a woman as ever lived, crawled over the luggage on the top of the coach and on to the footboard in front. Kneeling down while holding on with one hand, she stretched the other to the horses' backs and secured the reins, which had slipped down and were urging the horses forward. By this time the runaway horses had nearly covered the two miles between the inn and the tollgates, which were standing open, as the mail coach was expected, whose progress nothing must delay. Fortunately the keeper of the first gate was on the look-out, and he was horrified when he saw the horses coming at their usual great speed without Sandy the driver; he immediately closed the gate, and, with the aid of the brave woman, who had recovered the reins, the horses were brought to a dead stop at the gate, Mr. Sandy arriving a few minutes afterwards. The last run of this coach was in 1862, about nine years before our visit, and there was rather a pathetic scene on that occasion. We afterwards obtained from one of Mr. Elder's ten children a cutting from an old newspaper she had carefully preserved, a copy of which is as follows: Mr. Elder, the Landlord of the "Cross Keys Hotel," was the last of the Border Royal Mail Coach Drivers and was familiarly known as "Sandy," and for ten years was known as the driver of the coach between Hawick and Carlisle. When the railway started and gave the death-blow to his calling, he left the seat of the stage coach, and invested his savings in the cosy hostelry of the road-side type immortalised by Scott in his "Young Lochinvar." He told of the time when he did duty on the stage coach for Dukes, Earls, and Lords, and aided run-a-way couples to reach the "blacksmith" at Gretna Green. He told of the days when he manipulated the ribbons from the box of the famous coach "Engineer" when he dashed along with foaming horses as if the fate of a nation depended upon his reaching his stage at a given time. He could remember Mosspaul Inn at the zenith of its fame under the reigning sovereign Mr. Gownlock--whose tact and management made his Hotel famous. He had frequently to carry large sums of money from the Border banks and although these were the days of footpads and highwaymen, and coaches were "held up" in other parts, Sandy's Coach was never molested, although he had been blocked with his four-in-hand in the snow. He gave a graphic description of the running of the last mail coach from Hawick to Merrie Carlisle in 1862. Willie Crozier the noted driver was mounted on the box, and the horses were all decked out for the occasion. Jemmie Ferguson the old strapper, whose occupation like that of Othello's was all gone, saw it start with a heavy heart, and crowds turned out to bid it good-bye. When the valleys rang with the cheery notes of the well-blown horn, and the rumbling sound of the wheels and the clattering hoofs of the horses echoed along the way, rich and poor everywhere came to view the end of a system which had so long kept them in touch with civilisation. The "Engineer" guards and drivers with scarlet coats, white hats, and overflowing boots, and all the coaching paraphernalia so minutely described by Dickens, then passed away, and the solitary remnant of these good old times was "Sandy" Elder the old Landlord of the "Cross Keys" on Canonbie Lea. Soon after leaving the "Cross Keys" we came to a wood where we saw a "Warning to Trespassers" headed "Dangerous," followed by the words "Beware of fox-traps and spears in these plantations." This, we supposed, was intended for the colliers, for in some districts they were noted as expert poachers. Soon afterwards we reached what was called the Scotch Dyke, the name given to a mound of earth, or "dyke," as it was called locally, some four miles long and erected in the year 1552 between the rivers Esk and Sark to mark the boundary between England and Scotland. We expected to find a range of hills or some substantial monument or noble ruin to mark the boundary between the two countries, and were rather disappointed to find only an ordinary dry dyke and a plantation, while a solitary milestone informed us that it was eighty-one and a half miles to Edinburgh. We were now between the two tollbars, one in Scotland and the other in England, with a space of only about fifty yards between them, and as we crossed the centre we gave three tremendous cheers which brought out the whole population of the two tollhouses to see what was the matter. We felt very silly, and wondered why we had done so, since we had spent five weeks in Scotland and had nothing but praise both for the inhabitants and the scenery. It was exactly 9.50 a.m. when we crossed the boundary, and my brother on reflection recovered his self-respect and said he was sure we could have got absolution from Sir Walter Scott for making all that noise, for had he not written: Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd. [Illustration: NETHERBY HALL.] As the morning was beautifully fine, we soon forsook the highway and walked along the grassy banks of the Esk, a charming river whose waters appeared at this point as if they were running up hill. We were very idle, and stayed to wash our feet in its crystal waters, dressing them with common soap, which we had always found very beneficial as a salve. We sauntered past Kirkandrew's Tower; across the river was the mansion of Netherby, the home of the Graham family, with its beautiful surroundings, immortalised by Sir Walter Scott in his "Young Lochinvar," who came out of the West, and-- One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he spran! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? We were far more inclined to think and talk than to walk, and as we sat on the peaceful banks of the river we thought what a blessing it was that those Border wars were banished for ever, for they appeared to have been practically continuous from the time of the Romans down to the end of the sixteenth century, when the two countries were united under one king, and we thought of that verse so often quoted: The Nations in the present day Preserve the good old plan, That all shall take who have the power And all shall keep who can. We were not far from the narrowest point of the kingdom from east to west, or from one sea to the other, where the Roman Emperor, Hadrian, built his boundary wall; but since that time, if we may credit the words of another poet who described the warriors and their origin, other nationalities have waged war on the Borders-- From the worst scoundrel race that ever lived A horrid crowd of rambling thieves and drones, Who ransacked Kingdoms and dispeopled towns, The Pict, the painted Briton, treacherous Scot By hunger, theft, and rapine, hither brought Norwegian Pirates--buccaneering Danes, Whose red-haired offspring everywhere remains; Who, joined with Norman French, compound the breed, From whence you time-born Bordermen proceed. How long we should have loitered on the bank of the river if the pangs of hunger had not again made themselves felt we could not say, but we resolved at last to walk to Longtown for some refreshments, and arrived there by noon, determined to make amends for our shortcomings after lunch, for, incredible though it seemed, we had only walked six miles! But we landed in a little cosy temperance house, one of those places where comfort prevailed to a much greater extent than in many more brilliant establishments. It was kept by one Forster, a gentleman of distinction, possessing a remarkable temperament and following numerous avocations. He informed us he was the parish clerk, and that the Lord Bishop was holding a Confirmation Service in the church at 3 p.m. We had intended only to stay for lunch and then resume our journey, but the mention of a much less important person than the Lord Bishop would have made us stay until tea-time, and travel on afterwards, so we decided to remain for the service. Punctually at three o'clock, escorted by the son of our landlord, we entered the Arthuret Church, the Parish Church of Longtown, about half a mile away from the town. It was built in 1609 and dedicated to St. Michael, but had recently been restored and a handsome stained-glass window placed at the east end in memory of the late Sir James Graham, whose burial-place we observed marked by a plain stone slab as we entered the churchyard. In consequence of a domestic bereavement the organist was absent, and as he had forgotten to leave the key the harmonium was useless. Our friend the parish clerk, however, was quite equal to the occasion, for as the Psalm commencing "All people that on earth do dwell" was given out, he stepped out into the aisle and led off with the good old tune the "Old Hundredth," so admirably adapted for congregational use, and afterwards followed with the hymn beginning "Before Jehovah's awful throne," completing the choral part of the service to the tune of "Duke Street"; we often wondered where that street was, and who the duke was that it was named after. Our admiration of the parish clerk increased when we found he could start the singing of Psalms and on the correct note in the presence of a Lord Bishop, and we contemplated what might have been the result had he started the singing in a higher or a lower key. We rejoiced that the responsibility rested upon him and not on ourselves. The Candidates for Confirmation were now requested to stand while the remainder of the congregation remained seated. The Bishop, Dr. Goodwin, delivered a homely, solemn, and impressive address. His lordship did not take any text, but spoke extempore, and we were well pleased with his address, so appropriate was it to the occasion; the language was easy and suited to the capacities of those for whom the service was specially held. As sympathisers with the temperance movement we thoroughly coincided with the Bishop's observations when he affectionately warned his hearers against evil habits, amongst which he catalogued that of indulgence in intoxicating drinks, and warned the young men not to frequent public-houses, however much they might be ridiculed or thought mean for not doing so. The candidates came from three parishes, the girls dressed very plainly and as usual outnumbering the boys. The general congregation was numerically small, and we were surprised that there was no collection! Service over, we returned to our lodgings for tea, intending to resume our walk immediately afterwards. We were so comfortable, however, and the experiences of the previous day and night so fresh in our minds, and bodies, that we decided to rest our still weary limbs here for the night, even though we had that day only walked six miles, the shortest walk in all our journey. [Illustration: KIRKANDREWS CHURCH.] Our host, Mr. Forster, was moreover a very entertaining and remarkable man. He had been parish clerk for many years, a Freemason for upwards of thirty years, letter-carrier or postman for fourteen years, and recently he and his wife had joined the Good Templars! He had many interesting stories of the runaway marriages at Gretna Green, a piece of Borderland neither in Scotland nor England, and he claimed to have suggested the Act of Parliament brought in by Lord Brougham to abolish these so-called "Scotch" marriages by a clause which required twenty-one days' residence before the marriage could be solemnised, so that although the Act was called Lord Brougham's Act, he said it was really his. Its effects were clearly demonstrated in a letter he had written, which appeared in the Registrar-General's Report, of which he showed us a copy, stating that while in the year 1856, the year of the passing of Lord Brougham's Act, there were 757 marriages celebrated in the district of Gretna Green, thirty-nine entered as taking place in one day, November 8th, in the following year there were only thirty and in the next forty-one, showing conclusively that the Act had been effectual. We could have listened longer to our host's stories, but we had to rise early next morning to make up for our loss of mileage, and retired early to make up for our loss of sleep on the previous night. (_Distance walked six miles_.) _Friday, October 13th._ We left Longtown at 7.30 a.m. by the long and wide thoroughfare which gives rise to its name, and followed the Carlisle road until we turned to the right for Gretna Green. Our road lay between Solway Moss and the River Esk, to both of which some historic events were attached. Solway Moss is about seven miles in circumference, and is covered with grass and rushes, but it shakes under the least pressure, and will swallow up nearly anything. In 1776, after heavy rains, it burst, and, as in Ireland, streams of black peaty mud began to creep over the plain and to overwhelm the houses. It was the scene of a battle fought on November 24th, 1542, when the English Army under Sir Thomas Wharton defeated a Scottish Army of 10,000 men, who were either killed, drowned, or taken prisoners. One of the unfortunates was unearthed in later times by peat-diggers, a man on his horse, who had sunk in the bog. The skeletons were well preserved, and the different parts of the armour easily recognisable. The disastrous result of this battle so affected James V, King of Scotland, that he is said to have died of a broken heart. Personally, we thought he deserved a greater punishment for the murder of Johnnie Armstrong and his followers twelve years before this event, for Armstrong was just the man who could and would have protected the Borders. The River Esk was associated with Prince Charlie, who, with his soldiers, had to cross it when retreating before the army of the Duke of Cumberland. It was a difficult operation to carry out, as the usually shallow ford had been converted by the melting snow into a swift-flowing current four feet deep. The cavalry were drawn up in two lines across the stream, one to break the current and the other to prevent any of the foot-soldiers being washed away as they crossed the river between the two lines of cavalry. Lower down the river still were Prince Charlie and his officers, who were better mounted than the others. The foot-soldiers walked arm-in-arm, with their heads barely above the water, making the space between the cavalry lines to look as if it were set with paving-stones. One poor soldier lost his hold on his comrade and was washed down the river, and would certainly have been drowned had not the Prince seized him by the hair, and, shouting in Gaelic for help, held on until both of them were rescued. After being hunted in the Highland glens for months with a ransom of £30,000 placed on his head--not a Celt betraying his whereabouts--by the help of Flora Macdonald Prince Charlie escaped to Brittany, and finally died at Rome in the arms of the Master of Nairn in 1788. In 1794 the Beds of Esk, a large sandbank where the tide meets the stream, presented an unusual spectacle, and a striking tribute to the dangerous character of the river especially when in flood. Collected together on the beach were a varied assortment of animals and human beings, consisting of no less than 9 black cattle, 3 horses, 1,040 sheep, 45 dogs, 180 hares, many smaller animals, and 3 human beings, all of whom had been cut off by the rapidly advancing tide. Many other events have happened in this neighbourhood, one of the most sensational perhaps being the death of King Edward I, "The Hammer of the Scots," also nicknamed "Longshanks," from the length of his lower limbs, who died in 1307 on these marshes, requesting his effeminate son, the Prince of Wales, as he bade him farewell, not to bury his body until the Scots were utterly subdued, but this wish was prevented by the defeat at the Battle of Bannockburn. We passed by some large peat-fields, and, crossing the River Sark, were once more in Scotland, notwithstanding the fact that we had so recently given three cheers as we passed out of it. We traversed the length of Springfield, a stone-built village of whitewashed, one-storied cottages, in which we could see handloom weavers at work, nearly fifty of them being employed in that industry. Formerly, we were told, the villagers carried on an illicit commerce in whisky and salt, on which there were heavy duties in England, but none on whisky in Scotland. The position here being so close to the borders, it was a very favourable one for smuggling both these articles into England, and we heard various exciting stories of the means they devised for eluding the vigilance of the excise officers. As we passed through the neighbourhood at a quick rate, the villagers turned out to have a look at us, evidently thinking something important was going on. We saw many workers in the fields, who called out to us hinting about the nature of our journey, as we travelled towards Gretna Green. Some of the women went so far as to ask us if we wanted any company. The most conspicuous objects in the village were the church and the remarkably high gravestones standing like sentinels in the churchyard. Bonnie Prince Charlie arrived here on the afternoon of his birthday in 1745, stabling his horse in the church, while the vicar fled from what he described in the church book as "the Rebels." A small cottage--said to be the oldest in Gretna--is shown in which Prince Charlie slept. The village green appeared to us as if it had been fenced in and made into a garden, and a lady pointed out an ancient-looking building, which she said was the hall where the original "Blacksmith" who married the runaway couples resided, but which was now occupied by a gentleman from Edinburgh. She explained the ceremony as being a very simple one, and performed expeditiously: often in the road, almost in sight of the pursuers of the runaway pair. All sorts and conditions of men and women were united there, some of them from far-off lands, black people amongst the rest, and she added with a sigh, "There's been many an unhappy job here," which we quite believed. There were other people beside the gentleman at the hall who made great profit by marrying people, both at Springfield and Gretna, and a list of operators, dated from the year 1720, included a soldier, shoemaker, weaver, poacher, innkeeper, toll-keeper, fisherman, pedlar, and other tradesmen. But the only blacksmith who acted in that capacity was a man named Joe Paisley, who died in 1811 aged seventy-nine years. His motto was, "Strike while the iron's hot," and he boasted that he could weld the parties together as firmly as he could one piece of iron to another. [Illustration: JOSEPH PAISLEY, The Celebrated Gretna-Green Parson Dec'd January 9, 1811, aged 79. The first great "priest" of Gretna Green.] Joe was a man of prodigious strength; he could bend a strong iron poker over his arm, and had frequently straightened an ordinary horse-shoe in its cold state with his hands. He could also squeeze the blood from the finger ends of any one who incurred his anger. He was an habitual drunkard, his greatest boast being that he had once been "teetotal" for a whole forenoon. When he died he was an overgrown mass of superfluous fat, weighing at least twenty-five stone. He was said to have earned quite a thousand pounds per year by his encroachments into the province of the cleric, and when on his deathbed he heard three carriages arrive, he consented to marry the three wealthy couples they contained, and found himself two or three hundred pounds richer than before. He also boasted that the marriage business had been in his family for quite one hundred years, and that his uncle, the old soldier Gordon, used to marry couples in the full uniform of his regiment, the British Grenadiers. He gave a form of certificate that the persons had declared themselves to be single, that they were married by the form of the Kirk of Scotland, and agreeably to that of the Church of England. [Illustration: GRETNA GREEN.] One of the most celebrated elopements to Gretna was that of the Earl of Westmorland and Miss Child, the daughter of the great London banker. The earl had asked for the hand of Sarah, and had been refused, the banker remarking, "Your blood is good enough, but my money is better," so the two young people made it up to elope and get married at Gretna Green. The earl made arrangements beforehand at the different stages where they had to change horses, but the banker, finding that his daughter had gone, pursued them in hot haste. All went well with the runaway couple until they arrived at Shap, in Westmorland, where they became aware they were being pursued. Here the earl hired all the available horses, so as to delay the irate banker's progress. The banker's "money was good," however, and the runaways were overtaken between Penrith and Carlisle. Hero the earl's "blood was good," for, taking deliberate aim at the little star of white on the forehead of the banker's leading horse, he fired successfully, and so delayed the pursuit that the fugitives arrived at Gretna first; and when the bride's father drove up, purple with rage and almost choking from sheer exasperation, he found them safely locked in what was called the bridal chamber! The affair created a great sensation in London, where the parties were well known, heavy bets being made as to which party would win the race. At the close of the market it stood at two to one on the earl and the girl. In those days "postboys" were employed to drive the runaways from the hotels at Carlisle to Gretna, one of the most noted of whom was Jock Ainslie, on the staff of the "Bush Inn" at Carlisle. On one occasion he was commissioned to drive a runaway couple, who had just arrived by the coach from London, to Gretna, but when they got as far as Longtown they insisted they were tired and must stay for dinner before going forward, so they sent Jock back. He returned to Carlisle rather reluctantly, advising the runaways to lose no time. But when he got back to the "Bush Inn" he saw the mother of the lady whom he had left at Longtown drive up to the hotel door accompanied by a Bow Street officer. While they were changing horses, Jock went to the stable, saddled a horse, rode off to Longtown, and told his patrons what he had seen. They immediately hurried into a chaise, but had not gone far before they heard the carriage wheels of their pursuers. Jock Ainslie was quite equal to the occasion, and drove the chaise behind a thick bush, whence the pair had the satisfaction of seeing "Mamma" hurry past at full speed in pursuit. While she was continuing her search on the Annan Road, Jock quietly drove into Springfield and had his patrons "hitched up" without further delay, and doubtless was well rewarded for his services. [Illustration: WILLIE LANG The last of the "Lang" line of priests.] It seemed a strange thing that Lord Brougham, who brought in the famous Act, should himself have taken advantage of a "Scotch" marriage, and that two other Lord Chancellors, both celebrated men, should have acted in the same manner; Lord Eldon, the originator of the proverb-- New brooms sweep clean, was married at Gretna, and Lord Erskine at Springfield. Marriage in this part of Scotland had not the same religious significance as elsewhere, being looked upon as more in the nature of a civil contract than a religious ceremony. The form of marriage was almost entirely a secular matter, and if a man and woman made a declaration before two witnesses that they were single persons and had resided twenty-one days in Scotland, they were considered as being man and wife. At the point where the Black Esk and White Esk Rivers join, a remarkable custom called "Handfasting" prevailed hundreds of years ago. Here, at a place known as Handfasting Hough, young men and women assembled in great numbers and made matrimonial engagements by joining hands. The marriage was only binding for one year, but if both parties were then satisfied, the "handfasting" was continued for life. King Robert II of Scotland, it was said, was one of those who was "hand-fasted" there. [Illustration: (Facsimile of Lord Erskine's signature.)] [Illustration: SPRINGFIELD TOLL.] We now left Gretna, still single, for Carlisle, nine and a half miles away, the distance to Glasgow in the opposite direction being eighty-five miles. We recrossed the River Sark, the boundary here between Scotland and England, the famous tollbar through which eloping couples had to hurry before they could reach Gretna Green. In those days gangs of men were ever on the watch to levy blackmail both on the pursued and their pursuers, and the heaviest purse generally won when the race was a close one. We saw a new hotel on the English side of the river which had been built by a Mr. Murray specially for the accommodation of the runaways while the "Blacksmith" was sent for to join them together on the other side of the boundary, but it had only just been finished when Lord Brougham's Act rendered it practically useless, and made it a bad speculation for Mr. Murray. Passing through the tollgate we overtook a man with half a dozen fine greyhounds, in which, after our conversation with the owner of the racing dog at Canonbie Collieries, we had become quite interested; and we listened to his description of each as if we were the most ardent dog-fanciers on the road. One of the dogs had taken a first prize at Lytham and another a second at Stranraer. We passed through a country where there were immense beds of peat, hurrying through Todhilis without even calling at the "Highland Laddie" or the "Jovial Butcher" at Kingstown, and we crossed the River Eden as we entered the Border city of Carlisle, sometimes called "Merrie Carlisle," or, as the Romans had it, Lugovalum. An elderly gentleman whom we overtook, and of whom we inquired concerning the objects of interest to be seen, appeared to take more interest in business matters than in those of an antiquarian nature, for he told us that "Carr's Biscuit Manufactory" with its machinery was a far finer sight than either the cathedral or the castle. Perhaps he was right, but our thoughts were more in the direction of bygone ages, with the exception of the letters that were waiting for us at the post office, and for which we did not forget to call. Merrie Carlisle, we were informed, was the chief residence of King Arthur, whose supposed ghostly abode and that of his famous knights, or one of them, we had passed earlier in the week. We were now told that near Penrith, a town to the south of Carlisle, there was still to be seen a large circle surrounded by a mound of earth called "Arthur's Round Table," and that in the churchyard were the giants' graves. In the very old ballad on the "Lothely Lady" King Arthur was described as returning after a long journey to his Queen Guenevere, in a very sad mood: And there came to him his cozen, Sir Gawain, Y' was a courteous Knight; Why sigh you soe sore, Unkle Arthur, he said, Or who hath done thee unright? Arthur told him he had been taken prisoner by a fierce, gigantic chief, who had only released him and spared his life on condition that he would return and pay his ransom on New Year's Day, the ransom being that he must tell the giant "that which all women most desire." When the morning of the day arrived, Arthur was in great despair, for nearly all the women he had asked had given him different answers, but he was in honour bound to give himself up; and as he rode over the moors he saw a lady dressed in scarlet, sitting between an oak and a green holly. Glancing at her, Arthur saw the most hideous woman he had ever seen. Then there as shold have stood her mouth, Then there was sett her e'e, The other was in her forhead fast, The way that she might see. Her nose was crooked, and turned outward, Her mouth stood foul awry; A worse formed lady than she was, Never man saw with his eye. King Arthur rode on and pretended not to see her, but she called him back and said she could help him with his ransom. The King answered, "If you can release me from my bond, lady, I shall be grateful, and you shall marry my nephew Gawain, with a gold ring." Then the lothely lady told Arthur that the thing all women desired was "to have their own way." The answer proved to be correct, and Arthur was released; but the "gentle Gawain" was now bound by his uncle's promise, and the "lothely lady" came to Carlisle and was wedded in the church to Gawain. When they were alone after the ceremony she told him she could be ugly by day and lovely by night, or _vice versa_, as he pleased, and for her sake, as she had to appear amongst all the fine ladies at the Court, he begged her to appear lovely by day. Then she begged him to kiss her, which with a shudder he did, and immediately the spell cast over her by a witch-step mother was broken, and Gawain beheld a young and lovely maiden. She was presented to Arthur and Guenevere, and was no longer a "lothely" lady. Then the ballad goes on: King Arthur beheld the lady faire, That was soe faire and bright; He thanked Christ in Trinity, For Sir Gawain, that gentle Knight. King Arthur's table was supposed to have been made round for the same reason that John o' Groat's was made octagonal--to avoid jealousy amongst his followers. [Illustration: CARLISLE CATHEDRAL.] We visited the cathedral, which had suffered much in the wars, but in the fine east window some very old stained glass remained, while parts of the building exhibit the massive columns and circular arches typical of the Norman architect. Here, in the presence of King Edward I and his Parliament, Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland, was excommunicated by the Papal Legate for the murder of the Red Comyn in the Church of the Minorite Friars in Dumfries. Here, too, Sir Walter Scott was married to Charlotte Carpenter in the presence of Jane Nicholson and John Bird on December 29th, 1797. Sir Walter was touring in the Lake District in July of that year, and while staying at Gilsland Wells he first saw a fascinating and elegant young lady, the daughter of Jean Charpentier of Lyons, then under the charge of the Rev. John Bird, a Minor Canon of Carlisle Cathedral. She was described, possibly by Sir Walter himself, as being rich in personal attractions, with a form fashioned as light as a fairy's, a complexion of the clearest and finest Italian brown, and a profusion of silken tresses as black as the raven's wing. A humorous savant wrote the following critique on this description of the beauty of Sir Walter's fiancée: It is just possible the rascal had been reading some of the old Welsh stories collected in the twelfth century and known as the Mabinogion stories. In one Oliven is described so-- "More yellow was her head than the yellow of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the sprays of the meadow fountain. The eye of the trained hawk, the glance of the three-mewed falcon was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more snowed than the heart of the white swan; her cheek was redder than the reddest roses." [Illustration: THE "POPPING STONE," GILSLAND.] Or again, both of the love-stricken swains may have dipped, into the _Arabian Nights_, where imagination and picture painting runs riot. There was no doubt that Scott fell deeply in love with her, so much so that a friend whom he visited in 1797 wrote that "Scott was 'sair' beside himself about Miss Carpenter and that they toasted her twenty times over and raved about her until one o'clock in the morning." Sir Walter seemed to have acted in his courtship on the old north-country adage, "Happy is the wooing that is not long a-doing," for he was married to her three months afterwards. The whole details are carefully preserved in local tradition. The River Irthing runs through Gilsland, and at the foot of the cliffs, which rise go feet above the river, were the Sulphur Wells. Near these, on the bank of the river, was a large stone named the "Popping Stone," where it was said that Sir Walter Scott "popped the question," and all who can get a piece of this stone, which, by the way, is of a very hard nature, and place it under the pillow at night, will dream of their future partners. The hotel people tell a good story of a gentleman, an entire stranger to the district, who went in company with a lady who knew the neighbourhood to see the famous stone. After walking for some distance they were passing a stone, when the gentleman asked, "Is this the popping stone?" "No," answered his fair companion, "but any large stone will do." Near the stone there was a bush called the "Kissing Bush," where Sir Walter was said to have sealed the sweet compact when the temperature was only "two in the shade." Oh happy love! where Love like this is found! Oh heartfelt raptures! Bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary mortal round, If Heaven a draught of Heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful loving modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale Beneath the "Kissing Bush" that scents the evening gale. [Illustration: CARLISLE CASTLE] John Wesley visited Carlisle and preached there on several occasions. Rabbie Burns, too, after the publication of the first edition of his poems, visited it in 1786, patronising the "Malt Shovel Inn," where, as he wrote, "he made a night of it." We paid a hurried visit to the castle on the summit of a sharp aclivity overlooking the River Eden, in whose dungeons many brave men have been incarcerated, where we saw a dripping-or dropping-stone worn smooth, it was said, by the tongues of thirsty prisoners to whom water was denied. The dropping was incessant, and we were told a story which seems the refinement of cruelty, in which the water was allowed to drop on a prisoner's head until it killed him. From the castle mound we could see the country for a long distance, and there must have been a good view of the Roman wall in ancient times, as the little church of Stanwix we had passed before crossing the River Eden was built on the site of a Roman station on Hadrian's Wall, which there crossed the river on low arches. The wall was intended to form the boundary between England and Scotland, and extended for seventy miles, from Bowness-on-the-Solway to Wallsend-on-the-Tyne, thus crossing the kingdom at its narrowest part. We left Carlisle at a speed of four miles per hour, and within the hour we had our first near view of the Cumberland Hills, Scawfell being the most conspicuous. We decided to go to Maryport, however, as we heard that a great number of Roman altars had recently been discovered there. We were now once more in England, with its old-fashioned villages, and at eleven miles from Carlisle we reached Wigton, whose streets and footpaths were paved with boulders and cobble-stones; here we stayed for refreshments. A further eight-miles' walk, some portion of it in the dark, brought us to Aspatria, but in the interval we had passed Brayton Hall, the residence of Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Bart., M.P., the leader of the Legislative Temperance Movement for the abolition of the Liquor Traffic, and who, at a later date, was said to be the wittiest member of the House of Commons. As Chairman of the United Kingdom Alliance, that held its annual gatherings in the great Free Trade Hall in Manchester, a building capable of seating 5,000 persons, so great was his popularity that the immense building, including the large platform, was packed with people long before the proceedings were timed to begin, there being left only sufficient space for the chairman and the speakers. The interval before the arrival of these gentlemen was whiled away by the audience in singing well-known hymns and songs, and on one occasion, when Sankey and Moody's hymns had become popular, just as the people were singing vociferously the second line of the verse-- See the mighty host advancing, Satan leading on! [Illustration: CARLISLE CASTLE] Sir Wilfrid appeared on the platform followed by the speakers. His ready wit seized the humour of the situation, and it is said that he was so deeply affected by this amusing incident that it took him a whole week to recover! As a speaker he never failed to secure the attention and respect of his audience, and even of those in it who did not altogether agree with his principles. As an advocate of the total suppression of the Liquor Traffic, on every occasion his peroration was listened to with almost breathless attention, and concluded in an earnest and impressive manner which left a never-to-be-forgotten impression upon those who heard it, the almost magic spell by which he had held the vast audience being suddenly broken, as if by an electric shock, into thunders of applause when he recited his favourite verse. We can hear his voice still repeating the lines: Slowly moves the march of ages, Slowly grows the forest king, Slowly to perfection cometh Every great and glorious thing! It was 8 p.m. as we entered Aspatria, where we found lodgings for the night at Isaac Tomlinson's. We expected Aspatria, from its name, to have had some connection with the Romans, but it appeared to have been so called after Aspatrick, or Gospatrick, the first Lord of Allerdale, and the church was dedicated to St. Kentigern. The Beacon Hill near the town was explored in 1799, and a vault discovered containing the skeleton of a gigantic warrior seven feet long, who had been buried with his sword, dagger, gold bracelet, horse's bit, and other accoutrements dating from the sixth century. We had passed a small village near our road named Bromfield, which was said to possess strong claims to have been the site of the Battle of Brunanburch, fought in the year 937, when Anlaf, King of Dublin, formed a huge confederacy with the King of the Scots, the King of Strathclyde, and Owen, King of Cumbria, against Athelstan, King of England, by whom, however, they were signally defeated; but we afterwards came to a place a long way further south which also claimed to have been the site of that famous battle. According to the following record, however, our native county of Chester appeared to have the strongest claim to that distinction: It is not actually certain where the Battle of Brunanburch was fought, but it is by all historians said to have taken place in the Wirral Peninsula about the site where Bromborough is now situated. The Battle took place in 937 A.D., and it was here that Athelstan defeated the united forces of Scotland, Cumberland, and the British and Danish Chiefs, which is recorded in the Saxon Chronicle in a great war song. The name given in the Chronicle is Brunesburgh, but at the time of the Conquest it was called Brunburgh. The fleet set sail from Dublin under the command of the Danish King Anlaf or Olaf to invade England. He had as his father-in-law, Constantine, King of the Scots, and many Welsh Chieftains supported him. They made good their landing but were completely routed by King Athelstan, Grandson of Alfred, as stated above. It is more than probable that Anlaf sailing from Dublin would come over to England by the usual route to the havens opposite, near the great roadstead of the Dee estuary. One must not forget that the sea has made great ravages upon this coast, destroying much ground between Wallasey and West Kirby, though compensating for it in some measure by depositing the material in the estuary itself in the shape of banks of mud and sand. Nor must one overlook the existence of the old forest of Wirral, which stretched, as the old saying ran-- From Blacon Point to Hilbre Squirrels in search of food Might then jump straight from tree to tree. So thick the forest stood! Chester was held by the king, for the warlike daughter of Alfred, Ethelfleda, had rebuilt it as a fort after it had been lying in waste for generations, and had established another at Runcofan, or Runcorn. It was natural, therefore, for Anlaf to avoid the waters protected by Athelstan's fleet and seek a landing perhaps at the old Roman landing-place of Dove Point, near Hoylake, or in the inlet now carved into the Timber Float at Birkenhead. Norse pirates had made a settlement here beforehand, as the place names, Kirby, Calby, Greasby, and Thorstaston, seem to indicate. Bromborough would be just the spot for a strategist like Athelstan to meet the invader, trying to force a way between the forest and the marshes about Port Sunlight. This old port at Dove Point has been washed away, though many wonderful relics of Roman and earlier times have been found there, and are safely housed in the Chester Museum. Once again it was used for the embarking of the army under William III, when he sailed for Ireland to meet the late king, James II, in battle. When Chester began to lose its trade through the silting up of its harbour, about the reigns of the Lancastrian kings, it became necessary to sail from lower down the estuary, Parkgate being in the best position and possessing a quay, while Dawpool was also frequently used. But a good port was necessary, because Ireland was frequently in rebellion, and troops were usually passed over the channel from this region. Parkgate was most prosperous in the eighteenth century, but the construction of the great Irish road through Llangollen to Holyhead, and of a good coach road from Warrington to Liverpool, and the later development of railways caused its decline, until in our time it was only known for its shrimps and as the headquarters of a small coast fleet of fishing-boats. It was to Dawport, or Darport, that Dean Swift usually sailed from Dublin at the beginning of the eighteenth century for his frequent visits to his brother wits, Addison and Steele. It was strange how many common sayings of to-day were his in origin such as, "There is none so blind as they that won't see," and, "A penny for your thoughts." Like many witty people, he must needs have his little joke. He was made Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin, in 1713, and was accustomed to preach there each Sunday afternoon, and was said to have preached on the same subject on sixteen consecutive occasions. On making his seventeenth appearance he asked the congregation if they knew what he was going to preach about. Most of them answered "Yes," while others replied "No." "Some of you say Yes," said the Dean, "and some of you say No. Those who know, tell those who don't know," and he immediately pronounced the benediction and left the pulpit! At Chester he was accustomed to stay at the "Yacht Inn" in Watergate Street, the old street of Roman origin, which led westwards to the river beneath the River Gate. A dean is a dean, and his dignity must be preserved in a Cathedral city. Of a Dean of Chester of the early nineteenth century it is recounted that he would never go to service at the Cathedral except in stately dignity, within his stage coach with postillions and outriders, and would never even take his wife with him inside. Dean Swift probably announced his arrival to his brother of Chester as one king announces his approach to another king. But the story goes that a great cathedral function was on and no one came to welcome the great man. Perhaps there was a little excuse, for most likely they had suffered from his tongue. But, however much they might have suffered, they would have hurried to see him had they foreseen his revenge. And perhaps a poor dinner had contributed to the acidity of his mind when he scratched on one of the windows the following verse: Rotten without and mouldering within. This place and its clergy are all near akin! It is a far cry from the battle of Brunanburch to Dean Swift, but the thought of Anlaf took us back to Ireland, and Ireland and Chester were closely connected in trade for many centuries. So it was with thoughts of our homeland that we retired for the night after adding another long day's walk to our tour. (_Distance walked thirty-two and a half miles_.) _Saturday, October 14th._ The long, straggling street of Aspatria was lit up with gas as we passed along it in the early morning on the road towards Maryport, and we marched through a level and rather uninteresting country, staying for slight boot repairs at a village on our way. We found Maryport to be quite a modern looking seaport town, with some collieries in the neighbourhood. We were told that the place had taken its name from Mary Queen of Scots; but we found this was not correct, as the name was given to it about the year 1756, after Mary the wife of Humphrey Senhouse, the Lord of the Manor at that period, the first house there apart from the old posting-house, having been built in the year 1748. For centuries there had been a small fishing-village at the mouth of the river, which in the time of Edward I was named Ellenfoot, while the river itself was named the Alne, now corrupted into Ellen. Maryport was of some importance in the time of the Romans, and their camp, about five acres in extent, still overlooked the sea. It was probably founded by Agricola about A.D. 79, and in A.D. 120 was the station of the Roman Fleet under Marcus Menaeius Agrippa, Admiral of the Roman Fleet in British Waters, and a personal friend of Hadrian. The Roman name of the station was probably Glanoventa, though other names have been suggested. The North-east Gateway was more distinct than other portions of the camp, the ruts made by the chariot wheels of the Romans being still visible inside the threshold. The Roman village in those days covered the four fields on the north-east side of the camp, and since the seventeenth century about forty Roman altars had been found, seventeen of them having been discovered in 1870, the year before our visit. They had been carefully buried about 300 yards east of the camp, and were discovered through a plough striking against one of them. Among them were altars to Jupiter, Mars, Virtue, Vulcan, Neptune, Belatucadrus, Eternal Rome, Gods and Goddesses, Victory, and to the Genius of the Place Fortune, Rome. In addition there were twelve small or household altars, querns, Roman millstones, cup and ring stones, a large, so-called, serpent stone, and several sepulchral slabs, sculptures, etc. There were also large quantities of Samian and other pottery, and articles in glass, bronze, lead, and iron, with about 140 coins, many of these remains being unique. This wonderful discovery proved that the Romans were resident here right up to the end of their occupation of Britain, as the coins bore the names of thirty-two Roman Emperors. The altars themselves were buried where they were found probably before A.D. 200. It is well known that their soldiers were drafted from many other nations, and there is distinct evidence that amongst others the first cohort of Spaniards appeared to have been prominent, while the Legionary Stones were of the Second and Twentieth Legions, the latter being stationed for a long time at Chester and moved to the north of England in the latter half of the fourth century. [Illustration: ALTAR STONES. "Roman remains found at Maryport, and dating probably about or before A.D. 200."] [Illustration: ALTAR STONES. "Among them were altars to Jupiter, Mars, Vulcan, household altars, and legionary stones."] [Illustration: THE SERPENT STONE.] The Roman ships carried stores here from Deva, their station on the Dee, now known as Chester, for the use of the builders of Hadrian's Wall, so that Maryport ought to be a happy hunting-ground for antiquaries. After the departure of the Romans, Maryport must have been left to decay for over a thousand years, and it seemed even now to be a place that very few tourists visited. Netherhall, where most of the antiquities were carefully stored, was originally a Peel Tower, and up to the year 1528 was the home of the Eaglesfields and the reputed birthplace of Robert Eaglesfield, the founder of Queen's College, Oxford; it was now in possession of the Senhouse family. There was also the Mote Hill, overlooking the river and surrounded by a deep ditch, under the protection of which the Roman galleys anchored. A romantic legend of the period of the Roman occupation still clings to the neighbourhood, called the Legend of the Golden Coffin: The daughter of one of the Roman officers was loved by a young warrior from the other side of the Solway. Their trysting-place was discovered by the girl's father, who had a number of soldiers with him, and in spite of the entreaties of the girl, her lover was killed. With his death the maiden had no desire to live; night after night she made her way to the fatal spot, where she was eventually found, having died of a broken heart. The father prepared a wonderful funeral for her. Her body was arranged in silken garments, and then placed in a golden coffin and buried in a deep grave just outside the camp, where her spirit was still supposed to haunt the place at midnight. On the sea coast a sunken forest existed, while the shore was covered with granite boulders of many sizes and shapes, and large numbers of similar stones were ploughed up in the fields, all apparently ice-borne, and having been carried mostly from Criffel on the Scottish coast, and the following legend was told here to explain their presence on the English side of the Solway. There once lived a giant on Criffel which was on the opposite coast of the Solway Firth, while another giant lived on Skiddaw, one of the highest mountains in Cumberland. For a time they lived in peace and quietness, but an occasion came when they quarrelled. Then they took up stones and hurled them at each other; but many of them fell short, and hence they are now widely scattered. [Illustration: WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE, COCKERMOUTH.] We now returned towards the hills and followed what was once a Roman road through a level country to Cockermouth, passing on our way through the colliery village of Dearham, a name meaning the "home of wild animals"; but we saw nothing wilder than a few colliers. The church here was built in 1130, while the tower was built in the fourteenth century for defence against the Scotch marauders. There were many old stones and crosses in the churchyard. Cockermouth, as its name implies, is situated at the mouth of the River Cocker, which here joins its larger neighbour the River Derwent, and has been called the Western Gate of the Lake District. Here also were Roman, Saxon, and Norman remains. The castle, standing in a strong position between the two rivers, was rebuilt in the reign of Edward I, and in Edward II's time his haughty favourite, Piers Gaveston, resided in it for a short period. It was held for the king during the Civil War, but was left in ruins after an attack by the Parliamentarians in 1648. The Gateway Tower displayed many coats of arms, and there was the usual dungeon, or subterranean chamber, while the habitable portion of the castle formed the residence of Lord Leconfield. The poet, William Wordsworth, was born at Cockermouth on April 7th, 1770, about a hundred years before we visited it, and one of his itinerary poems of 1833 was an address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle: Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, Poet! that, stricken as both are by years, We, differing once so much, are now compeers, Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link United us; when thou in boyish play, Entered my dungeon, did'st become a prey To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink Of light was there; and thus did I, thy Tutor, Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave; While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor, Up to the flowers whose golden progeny Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave. [Illustration: COCKERMOUTH CASTLE] Mary Queen of Scots stayed at Cockermouth on the night of May 17th, 1568--after the defeat of her army at Langside--at the house of Henry Fletcher, a merchant, who gave her thirteen ells of rich crimson velvet to make a robe she badly needed. [Illustration: PORTINSCALE.] The weather turned out wet in the afternoon, so we stayed for tea at one of the inns in the town, and noted with curiosity that the number of the inhabitants in Cockermouth was 7,700 at one census, and exactly the same number at the next, which followed ten years afterwards. The new moon was now due, and had brought with it a change in the weather, our long spell of fine weather having given place to rain. We did not altogether agree with our agricultural friends in Cheshire that it was the moon that changed the weather, but it would be difficult to persuade the farmers there to the contrary, since the changes in the weather almost invariably came with the phases in the moon; so, without venturing to say that the moon changed the weather or that the weather changed the moon, we will hazard the opinion that the same influences might simultaneously affect both, and the knowledge that we were approaching the most rainy district in all England warned us to prepare for the worst. The scenery improved as we journeyed towards Keswick, the "City of the Lakes," but not the weather, which continued dull and rainy, until by the time we reached the British stronghold known as Peel Wyke it was nearly dark. Here we reached Bassenthwaite Lake, four miles long and one mile broad, and had it not been for the rain and the darkness we might have had a good view across the lake of Skiddaw Mountain, 3,054 feet above sea-level and towards the right, and of Helvellyn, a still higher mountain, rising above Derwent Water, immediately in front of us. We had seen both of these peaks in the distance, but as the rain came on their summits became enveloped in the clouds. We walked about three miles along the edge of Bassenthwaite Lake, passing the villages of Thornthwaite and Braithwaite, where lead and zinc were mined. On arriving at Portinscale we crossed the bridge over the River Derwent which connects that lake (Derwent Water) with Bassenthwaite Lake through which it flows, and thence, past Cockermouth, to the sea at Workington. Soon after leaving Portinscale we arrived at Keswick, where we were comfortably housed until Monday morning at the Skiddaw Hotel, formerly a licensed house, but since converted into a first-class temperance house by Miss Lawson, the sister of Sir Wilfrid Lawson, Bart., M.P. (_Distance walked twenty-eight miles_.) _Sunday, October 15th._ Rain had fallen heavily during the night, but the weather cleared up a little as we wended our way to morning service at Crosthwaite Church, dedicated to St. Kentigern, a Bishop of Glasgow, in the sixth century, and doing duty, we supposed, as the parish church of Keswick. The font there dated from the year 1390, and bore the arms of Edward III, with inscriptions on each of its eight sides which we could not decipher. In the chancel stood an alabaster tomb and effigy of Sir John Radcliffe and his wife, ancestors of the Earl of Derwentwater. The church also contained a monument to Southey the poet, erected at a cost of £1,100, and bearing the following epitaph written by the poet Wordsworth: The vales and hills whose beauty hither drew The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you His eyes have closed! And ye, lov'd books, no more Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore, To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown. Adding immortal labours of his own-- Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal For the State's guidance, and the Church's weal Or fancy, disciplined by studious art, Inform'd his pen, or wisdom of the heart. Or judgements sanctioned in the Patriot's mind By reverence for the rights of all mankind. Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast Could private feelings meet for holier rest. His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud From Skiddaw's top; but he to heaven was vowed. Through his industrious life, and Christian faith Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death. We attended the same church in the afternoon, and both the sermons were preached by the curate, his texts being Deut. vi. 5 in the morning and Hebrews iv. 3 in the afternoon. We were surprised to see such large congregations on a wet day, but concluded that the people were so accustomed to rain in that part of the country that they looked upon it as a matter of course. The people of Keswick evidently had other views as regards church-going than is expressed in the following lines by an author whose name we do not remember: No pelting rain can make us stay When we have tickets for the play; But let one drop the side-walk smirch. And it's too wet to go to church. At the morning service we sat in a pew in the rear of the church, and at one point in the service when it was usual in that part of the country for the congregation to sit down, one gentleman only remained standing. We could scarcely believe our own eyes when we recognised in this solitary figure the commanding form of Colonel Greenall of the Warrington Volunteers, a gentleman whom we know full well, for his brother was the rector of Grappenhall, our native village, where the Colonel himself formerly resided. He was a great stickler for a due recognition of that pleasing but old-fashioned custom now fallen out of use, of the boys giving the rector, the squire, or any other prominent member of their families a respectful recognition when meeting them in the village or on their walks abroad. On one occasion the boys had forgotten their usual obeisance when meeting some relatives of the Colonel. He was highly indignant at this sin of omission, and took the earliest opportunity to bring the matter forcibly before his Sunday-school class, of which my brother was a member. The Colonel spoke long and feelingly to the boys on the subject of ordering themselves lowly and reverently before all their "betters," including governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters, and to all those who were put in authority over them, and wound up his peroration with these words, which my brother never forgot, "And now, boys, whenever you meet ME, or any of MY FAMILY, mind you always touch your HATS!" [Illustration: CROSTHWAITE CHURCH, KESWICK.] We did not stop to speak to the Colonel, as he was at the other end of the church and passed out through another door, but we were recognised by one of his men, who told us the Colonel had only just removed to that neighbourhood. He had liked his summer's experiences there, but did not know how he would go on in the winter. The Colonel and his man were the only persons we saw on the whole of our journey that we knew. To return to our boyish experiences and to the Colonel, the subject of his Sunday-school lesson was taken from the Summary of the Ten Commandments in the Church of England Prayer Book, where they were divided into two parts, the first four relating to our duty to God, and the remaining six to our duty towards our neighbour. It was surprising how these questions and answers learned in the days of our youth dwelt in our memories, and being Sunday, we each wrote them down from memory with the same result, and we again record them for the benefit of any of our friends who wish to "read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest." "_Question_.--What is thy duty towards God? "_Answer_.--My duty towards God, is to believe in Him, to fear Him, and to love Him with all my heart, with all my mind, with all my soul, and with all my strength; to worship Him, to give Him thanks, to put my whole trust in Him, to call upon Him, to honour His holy Name and His Word, and to serve Him truly all the days of my life. "_Question_.--What is thy duty towards thy Neighbour? "_Answer_.--My duty towards my Neighbour, is to love him as myself, and to do unto all men, as I would they should do unto me: To love, honour, and succour my father and mother: To honour and obey the Queen, and all that are put in authority under her: To submit myself to all my governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters: To order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters: To hurt no body by word nor deed: To be true and just in all my dealing: To bear no malice nor hatred in my heart: To keep my hands from picking and stealing, and my tongue from evil-speaking, lying, and slandering: To keep my body in temperance, soberness, and chastity: Not to covet nor desire other men's goods; but to learn and labour truly to get mine own living, and to do my duty in that state of life, unto which it shall please God to call me." The word "duty" in the last paragraph of the explanation of one's duty to one's neighbour must have been in the thoughts of both Nelson and his men at the Battle of Trafalgar when he signalled, "England expects that every man this day will do his duty." Although objections may be raised to clauses in the summary, we always thought that our country could be none the worse, but all the better, if every one learned and tried to act up to the principles contained in these summaries of the Ten Commandments. In the evening we attended St. John's Church, where the Vicar officiated and preached from Isaiah lxvii. 7 to a large congregation, and after the service we returned to our hotel. Keswick was a great resort of tourists and holiday people, and we were not without company at the hotel, from whom we obtained plenty of advice concerning our route on the morrow. We were strongly recommended to see the Druidical Circle and to climb Skiddaw, whose summit was over 3,000 feet above sea-level, from which we should have a view scarcely surpassed in the whole of Europe, and a scene that would baffle the attempts of ordinary men to describe, having taxed even the powers of Southey and Wordsworth. These recommendations and others were all qualified with the words "if fine." But, oh that little word "if"--so small that we scarcely notice it, yet how much does it portend! At any rate we could not arrive at a satisfactory decision that night, owing to the unfavourable state of the weather. FIFTH WEEK'S JOURNEY A WEEK IN THE RAIN _Monday, October 16th._ The morning was showery, but we were obliged to continue our walk, so we left Keswick with the intention of visiting the Falls of Lodore, the large Bowder Stone, and the Yew Trees in Borrowdale, and afterwards crossing over the fells to visit the graves of the poets at Grasmere. We had been recommended to ascend the Castle Rigg, quite near the town, in order to see the fine views from there, which included Bassenthwaite Lake and Derwent Water. The poet Gray, who died in 1771, was so much impressed by the retrospect, and with what he had seen from the top where once the castle stood, that he declared he had "a good mind to go back again." Unfortunately we had to forgo even that ascent, as the rain descended in almost torrential showers. So we journeyed on in the rain alongside the pretty lake of Derwent Water, which is about three miles long and about a mile and a half broad, the water being so clear, we were informed, that a small stone could be seen even if five or six yards below the surface. It was certainly a lovely lake, and, with its nicely wooded islands dotting its surface, recalled memories of Loch Lomond. The first of these islands, about six acres in extent, was named the Vicar's or Derwent Island, on which a family mansion had been erected. On Lord's Island, which was quite near the side, were the ruins of an old summer-house built by the Ratcliffe family with the stones from their ruined castle on Castlerigg. The third island, which was in the centre of the lake, also had a summer-house that had been built there by the late Sir Wilfrid Lawson, composed of unhewn stone and covered with moss to make it look ancient. This was known as St. Herbert's Island, after a holy hermit who lived there in the sixth century, the ruins of whose hermitage could still be traced. It was said that so great and perfect was the love of this saintly hermit for his friend St. Cuthbert of Holy Island, whose shrine was ultimately settled at Durham, that he used to pray that he might expire the moment the breath of life quitted the body of his friend, so that their souls might wing their flight to heaven in company. Although not so large as Lake Windermere, Derwent Water was considered the most beautiful of the lakes because of these lovely islands on its surface and the grand hills that encircled it. This lake of unsurpassed beauty was associated both in name and reality with the unfortunate Earl of Derwentwater, who suffered death for the part he took in the Jacobite rising in 1715, and to whom Lord's Island belonged. He was virtually compelled by his countess to join the rising, for when she saw his reluctance to do so, she angrily threw her fan at his feet, and commanded him take that and hand her his sword. The Earl gravely picked it up, returned it to her, and, drawing his sword, cried, "God save King James!" The Jacobites were supporters of James II, who was supplanted by William III, Prince of Orange, in 1689, James then retreating to Ireland, where he was defeated at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. The rising in which the Earl of Derwentwater took part in the year 1715 was in support of the son of James II, James Edward, whose adherents were defeated at Preston in November of the same year, the unfortunate Earl, with many others, being taken prisoner. The son of this James Edward was the "Bonnie Prince Charlie" so beloved of the Scots, who landed to claim the English Crown in 1745, and was defeated at the Battle of Culloden in 1746, where the Jacobite movement found its grave. Much sympathy was felt at the time for the young Earl of Derwentwater, and there was a tradition in the family that in times of great peril a supernatural figure appeared to warn them of approaching fate. It is said that when his lordship was wandering over the hills, a figure approached clothed in the robe and hood of grey which the supernatural figure always wore, gave him a crucifix, which was to render him proof against bullet and sword, and then immediately disappeared. The Earl joined the insurgents, who were defeated by the Royal troops at Preston, and he, with other leaders, was taken to London, placed in the Tower, and condemned to death for treason. His wife, taking the family jewels with her, implored King George I, on her knees, for mercy; and Sir Robert Walpole declared in the House of Commons that he had been offered £60,000 if he would obtain Lord Derwentwater's pardon; but all efforts were in vain, for he died by the axe on Tower Hill, February 24th, 1716, and his estates were forfeited to the Government. [Illustration: FALLS OF LODORE.] We enjoyed our walk along Derwentwater in spite of the weather, but as we approached Lodore, and heard the noise of the waters, we realised that we had scored one great advantage from the continued rain, for we could not have seen the falls to better advantage, as they fully carried out the description of Southey, written when he was Poet Laureate of England, in the following jingling rhyme: "How does the water come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me thus, once on a time, Moreover, he task'd me to tell him in rhyme; Anon at the word there first came one daughter. And then came another to second and third The request of their brother, and hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, with its rush and its roar, As many a time they had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store. And 'twas my vocation that thus I should sing. Because I was laureate to them and the king. Visitors to the Lake District, who might chance to find fine weather there, would be disappointed if they expected the falls to be equal to the poet's description, since heavy rains are essential to produce all the results described in his poem. But seen as we saw them, a torrential flood of water rushing and roaring, the different streams of which they were composed dashing into each other over the perpendicular cliffs on every side, they presented a sight of grandeur and magnificence never to be forgotten, while the trees around and above seemed to look on the turmoil beneath them as if powerless, except to lend enchantment to the impressive scene. And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing-- And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever are blending. All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar-- And this way the water comes down at Lodore! The water rolled in great volumes down the crags, the spray rising in clouds, and no doubt we saw the falls at their best despite the absence of the sun. Near Lodore, and about 150 yards from the shore of Derwentwater, was a floating island which at regular intervals of a few years rises from the bottom exposing sometimes nearly an acre in extent, and at others only a few perches. This island was composed of a mass of decayed weeds and earthy matter, nearly six feet in thickness, covered with vegetation, and full of air bubbles, which, it was supposed, penetrated the whole mass and caused it to rise to the surface. [Illustration: HEAD OF DERWENTWATER. "So we journeyed on in the rain alongside the pretty lake of Derwentwater; ... with its nicely wooded islands dotting its surface it recalled memories of Loch Lomond."] By this time we had become quite accustomed to being out in the rain and getting wet to the skin, but the temperature was gradually falling, and we had to be more careful lest we should catch cold. It was very provoking that we had to pass through the Lake District without seeing it, but from the occasional glimpses we got between the showers we certainly thought we were passing through the prettiest country in all our travels. In Scotland the mountains were higher and the lakes, or lochs, much larger, but the profiles of the hills here, at least of those we saw, were prettier. About two miles from the Falls of Lodore we arrived at the famous Bowder Stone. We had passed many crags and through bewitching scenery, but we were absolutely astonished at the size of this great stone, which Wordsworth has described as being like a stranded ship: Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay Right at the foot of that moist precipice, A stranded ship with keel upturned, that rests Careless of winds and waves. [Illustration: THE BOWDER STONE.] The most modest estimate of the weight of the Bowder Stone was 1,771 tons, and we measured it as being 21 yards long and 12 yards high. This immense mass of rock had evidently fallen from the hills above. We climbed up the great stone by means of a ladder or flight of wooden steps erected against it to enable visitors to reach the top. But the strangest thing about it was the narrow base on which the stone rested, consisting merely of a few narrow ledges of rock. We were told that fifty horses could shelter under it, and that we could shake hands with each other under the bottom of the stone, and although we could not test the accuracy of the statement with regard to the number of horses it could shelter, we certainly shook hands underneath it. To do this we had to lie down, and it was not without a feeling of danger that we did so, with so many hundreds of tons of rock above our heads, and the thought that if the rock had given way a few inches we should have been reduced to a mangled mass of blood and bones. Our friendly greeting was not of long duration, and we were pleased when the ceremony was over. There is a legend that in ancient times the natives of Borrowdale endeavoured to wall in the cuckoo so that they might have perpetual spring, but the story relates that in this they were not entirely successful, for the cuckoo just managed to get over the wall. We now continued our journey to find the famous Yew Trees of Borrowdale, which Wordsworth describes in one of his pastorates as "those fraternal four of Borrowdale": But worthier still of note Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uniformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; a pillared shade, From whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially--beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked With unrejoicing berries--ghostly shapes May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton, And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. [Illustration: BORROWDALE AND SEATHWAITE] It was a lonely place where the four yew trees stood, though not far from the old black lead works which at one time produced the finest plumbago for lead pencils in the world. As the rain was falling heavily, we lit a fire under the largest of the four trees, which measured about twenty-one feet in circumference at four feet from the ground, and sheltered under its venerable shade for about an hour, watching a much-swollen streamlet as it rolled down the side of a mountain. Near the yew trees there was a stream which we had to cross, as our next stage was over the fells to Grasmere; but when we came to its swollen waters, which we supposed came from "Glaramara's inmost Caves," they were not "murmuring" as Wordsworth described them, but coming with a rush and a roar, and to our dismay we found the bridge broken down and portions of it lying in the bed of the torrent. We thought of a stanza in a long-forgotten ballad: London Bridge is broken down! Derry derry down, derry derry down! Luckily we found a footbridge lower down the stream. It was now necessary to inquire our way at one of the isolated farms in the neighbourhood of Borrowdale, where the people knew very little of what was going on in the world outside their own immediate environs. We heard a story relating to the middle of the eighteenth century, when in the absence of roads goods had to be carried on horseback. A rustic, who had been sent for a bag of lime, the properties of which were unknown in remote places, placed the bag on the back of his horse, and while he was returning up the hills the rain came on, soaking the bag so that the lime began to swell and smoke. The youth thought that it was on fire, so, jumping off his horse, he filled his hat with water from the stream and threw it on the bag. This only made matters worse, for the lime began smoking more than ever; so he lifted it from the horse's back and placed it in the water at the edge of the stream, where, in addition to smoking, it began to boil and to make a hissing sound, which so frightened the young man that he rode home in terror, feeling sure that it was the Devil who had sneaked inside the bag! We made our way to a farmhouse which we could see in the distance, but the farmer advised us not to attempt to cross the fells, as it was misty and not likely to clear up that day. So we turned back, and in about two miles met a countryman, who told us we could get to Grasmere over what he called the "Green Nip," a mountain whose base he pointed out to us. We returned towards the hills, but we had anything but an easy walk, for we could find no proper road, and walked on for hours in a "go as you please" manner. Our whereabouts we did not know, since we could only see a few yards before us. We walked a long way up hill, and finally landed in some very boggy places, and when the shades of evening began to come on we became a little alarmed, and decided to follow the running water, as we had done on a very much worse occasion in the north of Scotland. Presently we heard the rippling of a small stream, which we followed, though with some difficulty, as it sometimes disappeared into the rocks, until just at nightfall we came to a gate at the foot of the fells, and through the open door of a cottage beheld the blaze of a tire burning brightly inside. We climbed over the gate, and saw standing in the garden a man who stared so hard at us, and with such a look of astonishment, that we could not have helped speaking to him in any case, even had he not been the first human being we had seen for many hours. When we told him where we had come from, he said we might think ourselves lucky in coming safely over the bogs on such a misty day, and told us a story of a gentleman from Bradford who had sunk so deeply in one of the bogs that only with the greatest difficulty had he been rescued. He told us it was his custom each evening to come out of his cottage for a short time before retiring to rest, and that about a month before our visit he had been out one night as usual after his neighbours had gone to bed, and, standing at his cottage door, he thought he heard a faint cry. He listened again: yes, he could distinctly hear a cry for help. He woke up his neighbours, and they and his son, going in the direction from which the cries came, found a gentleman fast in the rocks. He had been on a visit to Grasmere, and had gone out for an afternoon's walk on the fells, when the mist came on and he lost his way. As night fell he tried to get between some rocks, when he slipped into a crevice and jammed himself fast between them--fortunately for himself as it afterwards proved, for when the rescuing party arrived, they found him in such a dangerous position that, if he had succeeded in getting through the rocks the way he intended, he would inevitably have fallen down the precipice and been killed. After hearing these stories, we felt very thankful we were safely off the fells. Without knowing it, we had passed the scene of the Battle of Dunmail Raise, where Dunmail, the last King of Cumbria, an old British kingdom, was said to have been killed in 945 fighting against Edmund, King of England. The place we had stumbled upon after reaching the foot of the fells was Wythburn, at the head of Thirlmere Lake, quite near Amboth Hall, with its strange legends and associations. The mansion was said to be haunted by supernatural visitors, midnight illuminations, and a nocturnal marriage with a murdered bride. The most remarkable feature of the story, however, was that of the two skulls from Calgarth Hall, near Windermere, which came and joined in these orgies at Amboth Hall. These skulls formerly occupied a niche in Calgarth Hall, from which it was found impossible to dislodge them. They were said to have been buried, burned, ground to powder, dispersed by the wind, sunk in a well, and thrown into the lake, but all to no purpose, for they invariably appeared again in their favourite niche until some one thought of walling them up, which proved effectual, and there they still remain. The rain had now ceased, and the moon, only three days old, was already visible and helped to light us on our four-mile walk to Grasmere. On our way we overtook a gentleman visitor, to whom we related our adventure, and who kindly offered us a drink from his flask. We did not drink anything stronger than tea or coffee, so we could not accept the whisky, but we were glad to accept his guidance to the best inn at Grasmere, where we soon relieved the cravings of our pedestrian appetites, which, as might be imagined, had grown strongly upon us. (_Distance walked twenty-two miles_.) _Tuesday, October 17th._ GRASMERE. Our first duty in the morning was to call at the post office for our letters from home, and then to fortify ourselves with a good breakfast; our next was to see the graves of the poets in the picturesque and quiet churchyard. We expected to find some massive monuments, but found only plain stone flags marking their quiet resting-places, particularly that of Wordsworth, which was inscribed: WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1850 MARY WORDSWORTH 1859. The grave of Hartley Coleridge, his great friend, who was buried in 1849, was also there. There are few who do not know his wonderful poem, "The Ancient Mariner," said to have been based on an old manuscript story of a sailor preserved in the Bristol Library. Strange to say, not far from his grave was that of Sir John Richardson, a physician and arctic explorer, who brought home the relics of Sir John Franklin's ill-fated and final voyage to the Arctic regions to discover the North-West Passage. This brought to our minds all the details of that sorrowful story which had been repeatedly told to us in our early childhood, and was, to our youthful minds, quite as weird as that of "The Ancient Mariner." [Illustration: GRASMERE CHURCH.] Sir John Franklin was born in 1786. Intended by his parents for the Church, but bent on going to sea, he joined the Royal Navy when he was fourteen years of age, and served as a midshipman on the _Bellerophon_ at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, afterwards taking part in Captain Flinders' voyage of discovery along the coast of Australia. His first voyage to the Arctic Regions was in 1818, and after a long and eventful career he was created Governor of Van Diemen's Land in 1837, whither criminals convicted of grave offences involving transportation for life were sent from England, where he did much for the improvement and well-being of the colony. On May 19th, 1845, he left England with the two ships _Erebus_ and _Terror_, having on board 28 officers and 111 men--in all 134 souls--on a voyage to the Arctic Regions in the hope of discovering the North-West Passage. They reached Stromness, in the Orkneys, on July 1st, and were afterwards seen and spoken to in the North Sea by the whaler _Prince of Wales_, belonging to Hull. After that all was blank. Lady Franklin did not expect to receive any early news from her husband, but when two years passed away without her hearing from him, she became anxious, and offered a large reward for any tidings of him. In 1848 old explorers went out to search for him, but without result. Still believing he was alive, she sent out other expeditions, and one was even dispatched from America. All England was roused, and the sympathy of the entire nation was extended to Lady Franklin. Nine long years passed away, but still no news, until intelligence arrived that an Eskimo had been found wearing on his head a gold cap-band which he said he had picked up where "the dead white men were." Lady Franklin then made a final effort, and on July 1st, 1857, Captain McClintock sailed from England in the _Fox_. In course of time the matter was cleared up. It was proved that the whole of the expedition had perished, Sir John Franklin having died on June 11th, 1847. Many relics were found and brought back to England. [Illustration: DOVE COTTAGE.] Lady Franklin, who died in 1875, was still alive at the time we passed through Grasmere. One of her last acts was to erect a marble monument to Sir John Franklin in Westminster Abbey, and it was her great wish to write the epitaph herself, but as she died before this was accomplished, it was written by Alfred Tennyson, a nephew of Sir John by marriage, and read as follows: Not here! the white North hath thy bones, and thou Heroic Sailor Soul! Art passing on thy happier voyage now Towards no earthly pole. Dean Stanley added a note to the effect that the monument was "Erected by his widow, who, after long waiting and sending many in search of him, herself departed to seek and to find him in the realms of light, 18th July, 1875, aged eighty-three years." But to return to Grasmere. Wordsworth lived there from 1803 to 1809 at the Dove Cottage, of which, in the first canto of "The Waggoner," he wrote: For at the bottom of the brow Where once the "Dove and Olive-Bough" Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale; And called on him who must depart To leave it with a jovial heart; There, where the "Dove and Olive-Bough" Once hung, a poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking Bard. When Wordsworth moved to Rydal Mount, this cottage, which had formerly been a public-house, was taken by that master of English prose, Thomas de Quincey, author of the _Confessions of an English Opium Eater_. [Illustration: RYDAL MOUNT.] [Illustration: THE POET'S SEAT, RYDAL WATER.] Wordsworth had the habit of reciting his poetry aloud as he went along the road, and on that account the inhabitants thought he was not quite sane. When Hartley Coleridge, his great friend, asked an old man who was breaking stones on the road if he had any news, he answered, "Why, nowte varry partic'lar; only awd Wordsworth's brokken lowse ageean!" (had another fit of madness). On another occasion, a lady visitor asked a woman in the village whether Wordsworth made himself agreeable among them. "Well," she said, "he sometimes goes booin' his pottery about t'rooads an' t'fields an' tak's na nooatish o' neabody, but at udder times he'll say 'Good morning, Dolly,' as sensible as owder you or me." The annual sports held at Grasmere were of more than local interest, and the Rush-bearing was still kept up, but not quite in the manner prevalent in earlier centuries. When heating apparatus was unknown in churches, the rushes were gathered, loaded in a cart, and taken to the church, where they were placed on the floor and in the pews to keep the feet of the worshippers warm while they were in the church, being removed and replenished each year when the rush-bearing festival came round again. One of our earliest recollections was sitting amongst the rushes on the floor of a pew in the ancient country church at Lymm in Cheshire. [Illustration: WORDSWORTH'S GRAVE.] An item in the Church Book at Grasmere, dating from the seventeenth century, recorded the cost of "Ye ale bestowed on ye Rush Bearers," while in 1830 gingerbread appeared to have been substituted or added as a luxury to "ye ale." We passed alongside the pretty lakes of Grasmere and Rydal Water amid beautiful scenery. Mrs. Hemans, in her sonnet, "A remembrance of Grasmere," wrote: O vale and lake, within your mountain urn, Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return. Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep. Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float On golden clouds from spirit-lands, remote Isles of the blest:--and in our memory keep Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene Most loved by Evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar The perfect music of the charm serene: Still, still unchanged, may _one_ sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer! On our way to Ambleside we passed Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's residence until his death in 1850 in the eightieth year of his age. Mrs. Hemans has described it as "a lovely cottage-like building, almost hidden by a profusion of roses and ivy." Ambleside was a great centre for tourists and others, being situated at the head of the fine Lake of Windermere, to which its admirers were ambitious enough to apply Sir Walter Scott's lines on Loch Katrine: In all her length far winding lay With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that impurpled bright Floated amid the livelier light. And mountains that like Giants stand To sentinel enchanted land. There was a Roman camp which we proposed visiting, and possibly Helvellyn, but we were compelled for a time to seek refuge in one of the hotels from the rain. There we met a gentleman, a resident in the locality, who was what we might describe as a religious enthusiast, for he had a very exalted opinion of the Vicar of Ambleside, whom he described as a "Christian man"--a term obviously making distinctions among vicars with which we heartily agreed. There must have been an atmosphere of poetry in the Lake District affecting both visitors and natives, for in a small valley, half a mile from a lonely chapel, stood the only inn, bearing the strange sign of "The Mortal Man" on which some native poet, but not Wordsworth, had written: O Mortal Man, who liv'st on bread, What is't that makes thy nose so red?-- Thou silly ass, that looks so pale. It is with drinking Burkett's ale. [Illustration: THE OLD MILL AT AMBLESIDE.] Immediately behind Ambleside there was a fearfully steep road leading up to the head of Kirkstone Pass, where at an altitude of quite 1,400 feet stood the "Travellers' Rest Inn." In our time walking was the only means of crossing the pass, but now visitors are conveyed up this hill in coaches, but as the gradient is so steep in some parts, they are invariably asked to walk, so as to relieve the horses a little, a fact which found expression in the Visitors' Book at the "Travellers' Rest" in the following lines: He surely is an arrant ass Who pays to ride up Kirkstone Pass, For he will find, in spite of talking, He'll have to walk and pay for walking. Three parts of Windermere is in Lancashire, and it is the largest and perhaps the deepest water in the Lake District, being ten and a half miles long by water, and thirteen miles by road along its shores; the water is at no point more than two miles broad. It is said to maintain the same level at the upper end whether it rains or not, and is so clear that in some places the fish can plainly be seen swimming far beneath its surface. The islands are clustered together at its narrowest part, by far the largest being Belle Isle, a finely wooded island with a mansion in the centre, and a noted stronghold of the Royalists during the Civil War, at which time it was in the possession of the ancient Westmorland family of Phillipson. We did not walk alongside Windermere, but passed by the head of the lake to the old-world village of Hawkshead, and called at the quaint old-fashioned inn known by the familiar sign of the "Red Lion." While tea was being prepared we surveyed the village, and on a stone in the churchyard we found the following epitaph: This stone can boast as good a wife As ever lived a married life, And from her marriage to her grave She was never known to mis-behave. The tongue which others seldom guide, Was never heard to blame or chide; From every folly always free She was what others ought to be. [Illustration: HAWKSHEAD SQUARE AND INN.] We had a long talk with the mistress of the inn, who told us that Wordsworth was educated at the Grammar School in the village, and we were surprised to hear from her that the Rev. Richard Greenall, whom we had often heard officiate when he was curate of our native village of Grappenhall, was now the vicar of Hawkshead. We had quite as exalted an opinion of him as the gentleman we met at Ambleside had of his vicar. He was a clergyman who not only read the prayers, but prayed them at the same time: I often say my prayers, But do I ever pray? and it was a pleasure to listen to the modulations of his voice as he recited the Lord's Prayer, and especially when repeating that fine supplication to the Almighty, beginning with the words "Almighty and most merciful Father." At that time it was not the custom to recite, read, or sing the prayers in one continual whine on one note (say G sharp) when offering up supplications to the Almighty--a note which if adopted by a boy at school would have ensured for him a severe caning, or by a beggar at your door a hasty and forcible departure. Nor were the Lessons read in a monotone, which destroys all sense of their full meaning being imparted to the listeners--but this was in the "good old times"! [Illustration: CONISTON.] We had to listen to another version of the story of the two Calgarth skulls, from which it appeared that the Phillipsons wanted a piece of land that belonged to Dorothy, the wife of Kraster Cook, who refused to sell it, although asked repeatedly to do so. Myles Phillipson swore he would have that land "be they alive or dead." After a quiet interval he invited Kraster and his wife Dorothy to a feast, and afterwards accused them of stealing a silver cup. This they strongly denied, but the cup was found in their house, where it had been purposely hidden by the squire's orders. Stealing was at that time a capital offence, and as Phillipson was the magistrate he sentenced them both to death. In the court-room Dorothy arose, and, glaring at the magistrate, said loudly, "Guard thyself, Myles Phillipson. Thou thinkest thou hast managed grandly; but that tiny lump of land is the dearest a Phillipson has ever bought or stolen; for you will never prosper, neither your breed: whatever scheme you undertake will wither in your hand; the side you take will always lose; the time shall come when no Phillipson will own one inch of land; and while Calgarth walls shall stand, we'll haunt it night and day--never will ye be rid of us." They were both executed and their property appropriated, but ever afterwards the Phillipsons had two skulls for their guests. They were found at Christmas at the head of a stairway; they were buried in a distant region, but they turned up in the old house again; they were brazed to dust and cast to the wind; they were several years sunk in the lake; but the Phillipsons never could get rid of them. Meanwhile old Dorothy's prophecy came true, and the family of Phillipson came to poverty and eventually disappeared. We left Hawkshead by a road leading to Ulverston, for we had decided to visit Furness Abbey. Had the weather been fine and clear, we should have had some splendid views, since we had Windermere on one side and Coniston Water on the other; but the showers continued, and we could not even see the "Coniston Old Man," although he raised his head to the height of 2,577 feet above sea-level. We were, in fact, passing through the district of Seathwaite, where the rainfall is very much heavier than in any other district in England. We consoled ourselves, however, with the thought that we could not expect to see fine lakes in a land where there was no rainfall, and after walking a considerable distance in the darkness, two weary and rain-soddened pedestrians took refuge for the remainder of the night in the well-appointed Temperance Hotel at Ulverston. (_Distance walked twenty-four and a half miles_.) _Wednesday, October 18th._ Ulverston has been described as the "Key to the Lake District," and Swartmoor, which adjoined the town, took its name from a German--Colonel Martin Swart---to whom the Duchess of Burgundy in 1486 gave the command of about 2,000 Flemish troops sent to support the pretended title of Lambert Simnel to the Crown of England. He landed in Ireland, where a great number of the Irish joined him, and then, crossing over to England, landed in Furness and marshalled his troops on the moor which still bears his name, and where he was joined by many other conspirators. They encountered the forces of King Henry VII near Newark-on-Trent in June 1487, and after a stubborn fight were defeated, 4,000 men, with all their commanders, being killed. Ulverston is also associated with George Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends. He was born in 1624, at Drayton-on-the-Clay, in Leicestershire, and in 1650 was imprisoned at Derby for speaking "publickly" in a church after Divine Service, and bidding the congregation to "_tremble at the Word of God_." This expression was turned into one of ridicule, and caused the Society of Friends all over the kingdom to be known as "Quakers." Fox preached throughout the country, and even visited America. When he came to Ulverston, he preached at Swartmoor Hall, where he converted Judge Fell and his wife, after which meetings at the Hall were held regularly. The judge died in 1658, and in 1669, eleven years after her husband's death, Mrs. Fell, who suffered much on account of her religion, married George Fox, who in 1688 built the Meeting-house at Ulverston. He died two years afterwards, aged sixty-seven years, at White Hart Court, London, and was buried in Banhill Fields. Leaving our bags at the hotel, we walked to Furness Abbey, which, according to an old record, was founded by King Stephen in 1127 in the "Vale of the Deadly Nightshade." It was one of the first to surrender to King Henry VIII at the dissolution of the monasteries, and the Deed of Surrender, dated April 9th, 1537, was still in existence, by which the abbey and all its belongings were assigned to the King by the Abbot, Roger Pile, who in exchange for his high position agreed to accept the living of Dalton, one of his own benefices, valued at that time at £40 per year. The Common Seal of the abbey was attached to the document, and represented the Virgin Mary standing in the centre of the circle with the Infant in her left arm and a globe in her right hand. She stood between two shields of arms, which were suspended by bundles of nightshade, and on each of which were represented the three Lions of England, each shield being supported from the bottom by a monk in his full dress and cowl. In the foreground in front of each monk was a plant of the deadly nightshade, and over his head a sprig of the same, while in the lower part was the figure of a wivern--_i.e._ a viper or dragon with a serpent-like tail--this being the device of Thomas Plantagenet, the second Earl of Lancaster, who was highly esteemed by the monks. We did not notice any nightshade plant either in or near the ruins of the abbey, but it was referred to in Stell's description of Becan-Gill as follows: _Hæc vallis unuit olim sibi nomen ab herba Bekan, qua virtuit dulcis nune, tune sed acerbe; unde Domus nomen Bekangs-Gille claruit._ [Illustration: FURNESS ABBEY] Although my brother could repeat the first two rules in the Latin Grammar with their examples, one of which he said meant "The way to good manners is never too late," he would not attempt the English translation of these Latin words. We were the only visitors then at the abbey, no doubt owing to the bad state of the weather, and we were surprised at the extent and magnificence of the ruins and the ponderous walls and archways, with their fine ornamentations, impressive reminders of their past greatness. In order to get a better view we mounted the adjoining hill, from which we could see a portion of the rising town of Barrow-in-Furness. We returned by the footpath alongside the railway, and entered into conversation with a man who was standing on the line. He informed us that he was the ganger, or foreman, over the plate-layers on the railway, and that at one time he had lived in Manchester. He also said he had joined the Good Templars, who were making headway in Barrow-in-Furness, where he now resided. Just before reaching the main road we were somewhat startled to see a railway train quite near the abbey ruins, and the thought of home, sweet home, accentuated by the rainy weather, came so strongly upon us that we asked ourselves the question, "Shall we give in and go home!" We were only the length of one county away, and about to make a long detour to avoid going near, yet here was the train waiting that would convey us thither. What a temptation! But for the circumstance that we had left our bags at Ulverston our story might have ended here. Some of the streams over which we passed on our way were quite red in colour, and the puddles on the muddy roads were just like dark red paint, indicating the presence of iron ore. We saw several miners, who told us that they got the ore (known as haematite, or iron oxide) at a depth of from 90 to 100 yards, working by candle-light, and that they received about 2s. 6d. per ton as the product of their labour. The ore, it seemed, filled up large cavities in the mountain limestone. It was about one o'clock by the time we reached Ulverston again, and we were quite ready for the good lunch which had been prepared for us. [Illustration: THE NORTH TRANSEPT, FURNESS ABBEY.] Leaving Ulverston, we passed the old parish church and entered a picturesque footpath quite appropriately named the Lover's Walk and covered with fine trees, through which we had glimpses of Morecambe Bay; but the lovers had been either driven away by the rain or we were too early in the day for them to take their walks abroad. We mounted the Hoad Hill to inspect a lofty monument which had been erected on the top in the year 1850, in memory of Sir John Barrow. Sir John, the founder of the great works at Barrow-in-Furness (afterwards Vickers, Sons & Maxim), the noise of which we had heard in the distance, was a native of the district, having been born in a small cottage near Ulverston in 1764. He travelled in China and South Africa, and in 1804 became Secretary to the Admiralty, a position he held for forty years, during which he took part in fitting out Lord Nelson's fleet for the Battle of Trafalgar. He also assisted in promoting the expedition to the Arctic Regions which was commanded by Sir John Franklin. We were informed that his favourite saying was: "A man's riches consist not so much in his possessions as in the fewness of his wants"--a saying we were glad to adopt for ourselves. We passed through the entrance to the monument, but could see no one about. On a desk in the entrance-room lay a Visitors' Book, in which we wrote our names, and then ascended to the top of the monument by a rather dangerous staircase of over a hundred steps. As the well of the tower was open from top to bottom the ascent and descent were very risky for nervous people, and we felt thankful when we reached the foot of the staircase safely, though disappointed because the weather had prevented our enjoying the splendid view from the top that we had anticipated. As we were leaving the monument we met an old man who had charge of it, carrying some large mushrooms, which he told us he had seen from the top of the monument, and very fine ones they were too. [Illustration: ULVERSTON, BARROWS MONUMENT IN THE DISTANCE.] But we are forgetting to mention that we had passed through Dalton--formerly the capital of Furness--where George Romney, the celebrated painter, was born in 1734. West, the inventor of the key bugle, the forerunner of the modern cornet, was also a native of Dalton-in-Furness. As the days were rapidly becoming shorter and the gloomy weather made them appear shorter still, it was growing quite dark when we called for tea at a village inn, the sign on which informed us that it was "Clarke's Arms," and where we were very quickly served in the parlour. During our tea a tall, haggard-looking man, whose hands were trembling and whose eyes were bloodshot, entered the room, and asked us to have a glass each with him at his expense, saying, "I'm drunken Jim Topping as 'as had aw that heap o' money left him." He pressed us very hard again and again to have the drink, but we showed him the tea we were drinking, and we felt relieved when the landlord came in and persuaded him to go into the other room, where we soon heard an uproarious company helping "Jim" to spend his "heap o' money" and to hasten him into eternity. The landlord afterwards informed us that "Drunken Jim" was a stonemason by trade, and that a relation of his had just died, leaving him £80,000, as well as some property. [Illustration: SIR JOHN BARROW'S MONUMENT.] It was dark when we left the inn, and about a mile farther, on the Kendal road, we saw, apparently crossing the road, a large number of glowworms, which, owing to the darkness of the night, showed to the best advantage. So numerous were they that we had great difficulty in getting over them, for we did not wish to crush any under our feet. We had never seen more than two or three together before, so it was quite a novel sight for us to find so many in one place. Presently we arrived at the entrance to a small village, where our attention was arrested by a great noise in a building a little distance from the road. The sound of juvenile voices predominated, and as my brother was a great lover of children, and especially of girls, as illustrated by a remark he was partial to--"Girls and flowers are the nicest things that heaven sends us"--we must needs stop and see what was going on. Climbing up some steps and passing under some trees, we found, as we had surmised, the village school. After looking through the windows we entered the schoolroom, whereupon the noise immediately ceased. We ascertained that it was the village choir awaiting the arrival of the schoolmistress to teach them the hymns to be sung in the church on the following Sunday. My brother insisted that he had come to teach the choir that night, and went at once to the harmonium, which was unfortunately locked. He said he would no doubt be able to go on without it, and, having arranged the choir in order, was just about to commence operations when who should come in but the schoolmistress herself, causing us to beat a rather hasty retreat. We groped our way under the trees again and down the steps, and were quite surprised when suddenly we found ourselves close to a comfortable inn where we could be accommodated for the night. After supper we retired to rest, wondering whether we were to pass the night in Lancashire or Westmorland, for we had no idea where we were, and, strange to say, we forgot to ask the name of the place when we left in the morning. (_Distance walked nineteen miles_.) _Thursday, October 19th._ We left the inn at eight o'clock in the morning, but the weather still continued very rainy, and we had often to seek shelter on our way owing to the heavy showers. Presently we came to a huge heap of charcoal, and were about to shelter near it when we were told that it was part of the gunpowder works in the rear, so we hurried away as fast as we could walk, for we did not relish the possibility of being blown into millions of atoms. When we reached what we thought was a fairly safe distance, we took refuge in an outbuilding belonging to a small establishment for smelting iron, and here we were joined by another wayfarer, sheltering like ourselves from the rain, which was coming down in torrents. He told us about the stonemason who had recently had the fortune left to him, but he said the amount mentioned in the newspaper was £40,000 and not £80,000, as we had been informed. He wished the money had been left to him, as he thought he could have put it to better use, for he had been an abstainer from intoxicating drinks for twelve years, whereas the man with the fortune, who at the moment was drinking in a beerhouse close by, had no appetite for eating and would soon drink himself to death. What the fate of poor "Jim Topping" was we never knew, but we could not help feeling sorry for him, as he seemed to us one of those good-natured fellows who are nobody's enemy but their own. The man told us that Jim was a heavy drinker before he had the fortune left him. He surmised that the place we had stopped at last night was Haverthwaite in Lancashire. We saw a book of poems written in the Cumberland dialect, and copied the first and last verses of one that was about a Robin Redbreast: REED ROBIN Come into mey cabin, reed Robin! Threyce welcome, blithe warbler, to me! Noo Siddaw hes thrown a wheyte cap on, Agean I'll gie shelter to thee! Come, freely hop into mey pantry; Partake o' mey puir holsome fare; Tho' seldom I bwoast of a dainty. Yet meyne, man or burd sal aye share. * * * * * O whoar is thy sweetheart, reed Robin? Gae bring her frae hoosetop or tree: I'll bid her be true to sweet Robin, For fause was a fav'rite to me. You'll share iv'ry crumb i' mey cabin, We'll sing the weyld winter away-- I winna deceive ye, puir burdies! Let mortals use me as they may. On leaving our shelter, we passed a large mill, apparently deserted, and soon afterwards reached Newby Bridge, where we crossed the River Leven, which was rapidly conveying the surplus water from Windermere towards the sea. Near this was a large hotel, built to accommodate stage-coach traffic, but rendered unnecessary since the railway had been cut, and consequently now untenanted. We had already crossed the bridge at the head of Lake Windermere, and now had reached the bridge at the other end. An old book, published in 1821, gave us the following interesting information about the lake: It was at one time thought to be unfathomable, but on the third and fourth of June, 1772, when the water was six feet below its greatest known height, and three feet above the lowest ebb, a trial was made to ascertain by soundings the depth and form of the lake. Its greatest depth was found to be near Ecclesrigg Crag--201 feet. The bottom of the lake in the middle stream is a smooth rock; in many places the sides are perpendicular, and in some places they continue so for a mile without interruption. It abounds with fish, and the Rivers Brathay and Rothay feed the lake at the upper end, and in the breeding-season the trout ascend the Rothay, and the char the Brathay only; but in the winter, when these fish are in season, they come into the shallows, where they are fished for in the night, at which time they are the more easily driven into the nets. We now turned along an old coach road which crossed the hills over Cartmel Fell to Kendal, and appeared to be very little used. Our road climbed steadily for about two miles, when suddenly there came a bright interval between the showers, and we had a magnificent view of a portion of Lake Windermere, with a steamboat leaving the landing-stage near Newby Bridge. We stood, as it were, riveted to the spot; but another shower coming on, the view vanished like a dream, though it lasted sufficiently long to bring us encouragement and to cheer us upon our wet and lonely way. The showers seemed as full of water as ever they could hold, and sheltering-places were by no means plentiful. Sometimes sheltering behind trees and sometimes in farm buildings, we proceeded but slowly, and about eight miles from Kendal we halted for lunch at a small inn, where we found cover for so long a time that, after walking about three miles from that town, we called at another inn for tea. It was astonishing how well we were received and provided for at these small inns in the country. Every attention was given to us, a fire lighted to dry our coats, and the best food the place could provide was brought on to the table. We were shown into the parlour, and the best cups and saucers were brought out from the corner cupboards. The temperance movement appeared to be permeating the most unlikely places, and we were astonished to find the crockery here painted with temperance signs and mottoes, including a temperance star, and the words "Be them faithful unto death." This seemed all the more remarkable when we saw that the sign on the inn was the "Punch Bowl." The rain had apparently been gradually clearing off, while we were at tea, but it came on again soon after we left the comfortable shelter of the inn, so we again took refuge--this time in the house of a tollgate, where we had a long talk with the keeper. He pointed out a road quite near us which had been made so that vehicles could get past the toll-bar on their way to and from Kendal without going through the gates and paying toll. This had been constructed by a landowner for the use of himself and his tenants. As a retort the toll people had erected a stump at each side of the entrance, apparently with the object of placing a chain across the road, and had also erected a wooden hut to shelter a special toll-keeper who only attended on Kendal market days. Some mischievous persons, however, had overturned the hut, and we did not envy the man who on a day like this had to attend here to collect tolls without any shelter to protect him from the elements. Tollgates and turnpikes were ancient institutions on the British roads, and in many places were in the hands of Turnpike Trusts, who often rented the tolls to outsiders and applied the rent chiefly to the repair of the roads. A fixed charge was made on cattle and vehicles passing through the gates, and the vehicles were charged according to the number of animals and wheels attached to them, a painted table of tolls being affixed to the tollhouse. The gates were kept closed, and were only opened when vehicles and cattle arrived, and after payment of the charges. There was no charge made to pedestrians, for whom a small gate or turnstile was provided at the side nearest the tollhouse. The contractors who rented the tolls had to depend for their profit or loss upon the total amount of the tolls collected minus the amount of rent paid and toll-keepers' wages. Towards the close of the Trusts the railways had made such inroads upon the traffic passing by road that it was estimated that the cost of collection of tolls amounted to 50 per cent. of the total sum collected. The tollgate-keeper informed us that Dick Turpin, the highwayman, never paid any tolls, for no collector dare ask him for payment, and if the gate was closed, "Black Bess," his favourite mare, jumped over it. He had a lot to tell us about Furness Abbey. He knew that it had been built by King Stephen, and he said that not far from it there was a park called Oxen Park, where the king kept his oxen, and that he had also a Stirk Park. He asked us if we had seen the small and very old church of Cartmel Fell, and when we told him we had not, he said that travellers who did not know its whereabouts often missed seeing it, for, although not far from the road, it was hidden from view by a bank or small mound, and there was a legend that some traveller, saint, or hermit who slept on the bank dreamed that he must build a church between two rivers running in opposite directions. He travelled all the world over, but could not find any place where the rivers ran in opposite directions, so he came back disappointed, only to find the rivers were quite near the place he started from. The church was of remote antiquity, and was dedicated to St. Anthony, the patron saint of wild boars and of wild beasts generally; but who built the church, and where the rivers were to be found, did not transpire. We had carried our mackintoshes all the way from John o' Groat's, and they had done us good service; but the time had now arrived when they had become comparatively useless, so, after thanking the keeper of the tollhouse for allowing us to shelter there, we left them with him as relics of the past. The great objection to these waterproofs was that though they prevented the moisture coming inwards, they also prevented it going outwards, and the heat and perspiration generated by the exertion of walking soon caused us to be as wet as if we had worn no protection at all. Of course we always avoided standing in a cold wind or sitting in a cold room, and latterly we had preferred getting wet through to wearing them. We arrived in Kendal in good time, and stayed at the temperance hotel. In the town we purchased two strong but rather rustic-looking umbrellas, without tassels or gold or silver handles--for umbrellas in the rainy region of the "North Countrie" were wanted for use and not for ornament. We found them quite an agreeable change from the overalls. Of course we held them up skilfully, and as we thought almost scientifically, when walking in the rain, and it was astonishing how well they protected us when holding them towards the same side and angle as the falling rain. Many people we met were holding them straight up, and looking quite happy, reminding us of the ostrich when hunted and hard pressed, hiding its head in the sand and imagining that its body was covered also! The draper who sold us the umbrellas told us that Professor Kirk, whom we had heard in Edinburgh, was to deliver an address in the evening on the Good Templar Movement, so we decided to attend. The Professor, a good speaker, informed us that there were between five and six hundred members of the Order in Kendal. Mr. Edward Dawson of Lancaster also addressed the meeting, and told us there were about three hundred members in Lancaster, while the Professor estimated the number in Scotland at between fifty and sixty thousand. It was quite a new movement, which had its origin apparently in America, and was becoming the prevailing subject of conversation in the country we travelled through. [Illustration: KENDAL CASTLE.] Kendal was an ancient place, having been made a market town by licence from Richard Coeur de Lion. Philippa, the Queen of Edward III, wisely invited some Flemings to settle there and establish the manufacture of woollen cloth, which they did. Robin Hood and his "merrie men" were said to have been clothed in Kendal Green, a kind of leafy green which made the wearers of it scarcely distinguishable from the foliage and vegetation of the forests which in Robin Hood's time covered the greater part of the country. Lincoln Green was an older cloth of pure English manufacture. Robin Hood was the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, and Shakespeare makes Falstaff say-- All the woods Are full of outlaws that in Kendal Green Followed the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon. Catherine Parr was born at Kendal, and an old writer, noting that she was the last Queen of Henry VIII, added, "a lady who had the good fortune to descend to the grave with her head on, in all probability merely by outliving her tyrant." This beautiful and highly accomplished woman had already been married twice, and after the King's death took a fourth husband. She narrowly escaped being burnt, for the King had already signed her death-warrant and delivered it to the Lord Chancellor, who dropped it by accident, and the person who found it carried it to the Queen herself. She was actually in conversation with the King when the Lord Chancellor came to take her to the Tower, for which the King called him a knave and a fool, bidding him "Avaunt from my presence." The Queen interceded for the Chancellor; but the King said, "Ah, poor soul, thou little knowest what _he_ came about; of my word, sweetheart, he has been to thee a very knave." [Illustration: KENDAL CHURCH.] Kendal possessed a fine old church, in one of the aisles of which was suspended a helmet said to have belonged to Major Phillipson, whose family was haunted by the two skulls, and who was nicknamed by Cromwell's men "Robert the Devil" because of his reckless and daring deeds. The Phillipsons were great Royalists, and Colonel Briggs of Kendal, who was an active commander in the Parliamentary Army, hearing that the major was on a visit to his brother, whose castle was on the Belle Isle in Lake Windermere, resolved to besiege him there; but although the siege continued for eight months, it proved ineffectual. When the war was over, Major Phillipson resolved to be avenged, and he and some of his men rode over to Kendal one Sunday morning expecting to find Colonel Briggs in the church, and either to kill him or take him prisoner there. Major Phillipson rode into the church on horseback, but the colonel was not there. The congregation, much surprised and annoyed at this intrusion, surrounded the major, and, cutting the girths, unhorsed him. On seeing this, the major's party made a furious attack on the assailants, and the major killed with his own hand the man who had seized him, and, placing the ungirthed saddle on his horse, vaulted into it and rode through the streets of Kendal calling upon his men to follow him, which they did, and the whole party escaped to their safe resort in the Lake of Windermere. This incident furnished Sir Walter Scott with materials for a similar adventure in "Rokeby," canto vi.: All eyes upon the gateway hung. When through the Gothic arch there sprung A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed-- Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd. The vaults unwonted clang return'd!-- One instant's glance around he threw, From saddle-bow his pistol drew. Grimly determined was his look! His charger with the spurs he strook-- All scatter'd backward as he came, For all knew Bertram Risingham! Three bounds that noble courser gave; The first has reach'd the central nave, The second clear'd the chancel wide. The third--he was at Wycliffe's side. * * * * * While yet the smoke the deed conceals, Bertram his ready charger wheels; But flounder'd on the pavement-floor The steed, and down the rider bore, And, bursting in the headlong sway. The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 'Twas while he toil'd him to be freed. And with the rein to raise the steed. That from amazement's iron trance All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. (_Distance walked fifteen miles_.) _Friday, October 20th._ We left Kendal before breakfast, as we were becoming anxious about maintaining our average of twenty-five miles per day, for we had only walked nineteen miles on Wednesday and fifteen miles yesterday, and we had written to our friends some days before saying that we hoped to reach York Minster in time for the services there on Sunday. [Illustration: KIRKBY LONSDALE CHURCH.] In the meantime we had decided to visit Fountains Abbey, so, crossing the River Kent, we walked nine miles along a hilly road over the fells, which were about 800 feet above sea-level. We stopped at a place called Old Town for breakfast, for which our walk through the sharp clear air on the fells had given us an amazing appetite. We then walked quickly down the remaining three miles to Kirkby Lonsdale, passing on our way the beautiful grounds and residence of the Earl of Bective. At the entrance to the town we came to the school, and as the master happened to be standing at the door, we took the opportunity of asking him some particulars about Kirkby Lonsdale and our farther way to Fountains Abbey. He was a native of Scotland, and gave us some useful and reliable information, being greatly interested in the object of our journey. We found Kirkby Lonsdale to be quite a nice old-fashioned town with a church dedicated to St. Mary--a sign, we thought, of its antiquity; the interior had been recently restored by the Earl of Bective at a cost of about £11,000. An old board hanging up in the church related to one of the porches, on which was painted a crest and shield with the date 1668, and the following words in old English letters: This porch by y' Banes first builded was, (Of Heighholme Hall they weare,) And after sould to Christopher Wood By William Banes thereof last heyre. And is repayred as you do see And sett in order good By the true owner nowe thereof The foresaid Christopher Wood. There was also painted in the belfry a rhyming list of the "ringers' orders": If to ring ye do come here, You must ring well with hand and ear; Keep stroke and time and go not out, Or else you'll forfeit without doubt. He that a bell doth overthrow Must pay a groat before he go; He that rings with his hat on, Must pay his groat and so begone. He that rings with spur on heel, The same penalty he must feel. If an oath you chance to hear, You forfeit each two quarts of beer. These lines are old, they are not new. Therefore the ringers must have their due. _N.B._--Any ringer entering a peal of six pays his shilling. The first two lines greatly interested my brother, whose quick ear could distinguish defects when they occurred in the ringing of church bells, and he often remarked that no ringer should be appointed unless he had a good ear for music. There were one or two old-fashioned inns in the town, which looked very quaint, and Kirkby Old Hall did duty for one of them, being referred to by the rhymester "Honest" or "Drunken Barnaby" in his Latin Itinerary of his "Travels in the North": I came to Lonsdale, where I staid At Hall, into a tavern made. Neat gates, white walls--nought was sparing, Pots brimful--no thought of caring; They eat, drink, laugh; are still mirth-making, Nought they see that's worth care-taking. The men of the North were always warlike, and when in the year 1688, in the time of James II, a rumour was circulated that a large French Army had landed on the coast of Yorkshire, a great number of men assembled on the outskirts of the town and were waiting there ready for the call to arms, when news came that it was a false alarm. Of course this event had to be recorded by the local poet, who wrote: In eighty-eight, was Kirby feight. When nivver a man was slain; They ate the'r mey't, an' drank the'r drink, An' sae com' merrily heame again. We were sorry we could not stay longer in the neighbourhood of Kirkby Lonsdale, as the scenery in both directions along the valley of the River Lune was very beautiful. As we crossed the bridge over it we noticed an old stone inscribed: Fear God Honer the King 1633, and some other words which we could not decipher. The bridge was rather narrow, and at some unknown period had replaced a ford, which was at all times difficult to cross, and often dangerous, and at flood-times quite impassable, as the river here ran between rocks and across great boulders; it was, however, the only ready access to the country beyond for people living in Kirkby Lonsdale. One morning the inhabitants awoke to find a bridge had been built across this dangerous ford during the night, and since no one knew who had built it, its erection was attributed to his Satanic Majesty, and it was ever afterwards known as the Devil's Bridge. The bridge was very narrow, and, although consisting of three arches, one wide and the others narrow, and being 180 feet long, it was less than twelve feet wide, and had been likened to Burns' Auld Brig o' Ayr, With your poor narrow footpath of a street. Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet. The country people had a tradition that it was built in windy weather by the Devil, who, having only one apron full of stones, and the breaking of one of his apron-strings causing him to lose some of them as he flew over Casterton Fell, he had only enough left to build a narrow bridge. [Illustration: DEVIL'S BRIDGE, KIRKBY LONSDALE.] Another legend states that "Once upon a time there lived a queer old woman whose cow and pony pastured across the river and had to cross it on their way to and from home. The old woman was known as a great cheat. One dark and wet night she heard her cow bellow, and knew that she was safely across the ford; but as the pony only whined, she thought that he was being carried away by the flood. She began to cry, when suddenly the Devil appeared, and agreed to put up a bridge that night on conditions named in the legend: "To raise a bridge I will agree. That in the morning you shall see. But mine for aye the first must be That passes over. So by these means you'll soon be able To bring the pony to his stable. The cow her clover." In vain were sighs and wailings vented, As she at last appeared contented. It was a bargain--she consented-- For she was Yorkshire. Now home she goes in mighty glee. Old Satan, too, well pleased he Went to his work, sir. He worked hard all night, and early in the morning the bridge was made, as the old woman knew by the terrible noise. He called to the old woman to come over, but she brought her little mangy dog, and, taking a bun out of her pocket, threw it over the bridge. The dog ran over after it. "Now--crafty sir, the bargain was That you should have what first did pass Across the bridge--so now--alas! The dog's your right." The cheater--cheated--struck with shame. Squinted and grinned: then, in a flame He vanished quite. [Illustration: EBBING AND FLOWING WELL.] On reflection we came to the conclusion that whenever and however it was built, the bridge was of a type not uncommon in Cheshire, and often called Roman bridges, but erected in all probability in mediæval times, when only width enough was required for the passing of one horse--in other words, when most roads were nothing but bridlepaths. We were glad of the assistance afforded by the bridge for the rushing waters of the River Lune were swollen by the heavy rains, and our progress in that direction would have been sadly delayed had we arrived there in the time of the ancient ford. We now passed the boundaries of Lancashire and Westmorland and entered the county of York, the largest in England. A large sale of cattle was taking place that day at a farm near the bridge, and for some miles we met buyers on their way to the sale, each of whom gave us the friendly greeting customary in the hilly districts of that hospitable county. Seven miles from Kirkby Lonsdale we stopped at Ingleton for some dinner, and just looked inside the church to see the fine old Norman font standing on small pillars and finely sculptured with scenes relating chiefly to the childhood of our Saviour. Joseph with his carpenter's tools and the Virgin Mary seated with the infant Saviour on her knees, the Eastern Magi bringing their offerings, Herod giving orders for the destruction of the young children, Rachel weeping, and others--all damaged in the course of centuries, though still giving one an idea of the great beauty of the font when originally placed in position. We heard about the many waterfalls to be seen--perhaps as many as could be visited in the course of a whole week; but we had seen--and suffered--so much water and so many waterfalls, that for the time being they formed no attraction. Still we resolved to see more of this interesting neighbourhood on a future occasion. Passing through Clapham, said to be one of the finest villages in England, and where there was a cave supposed to run about half a mile underground, we came to some fine limestone cliffs to the left of our road, which were nearly white as we approached nearer to the town of Settle, situated at the foot of Giggleswick Scar, alongside which our road passed. We visited the Ebbing and Flowing Well, where the much-worn stones around it proclaimed the fact that for many ages pilgrims had visited its shrine; but how "Nevison's Nick," a famous highwayman, could have ridden his horse up the face of the rock leading up to it--even with the aid of his magic bridle--was more than we could understand. Another legend stated that a nymph pursued by a satyr was so afraid that he would overtake her that she prayed to the gods to change her into a spring. Her prayer was granted, and the ebbs and flows in the water were supposed to represent the panting of the nymph in her flight. [Illustration: THE MARKET-PLACE, SETTLE.] We turned aside to visit Giggleswick village, with its old cross, which seemed to be nearly complete, and we found the old church very interesting. It contained some ancient monuments, one of which represented Sir Richard Temple, born 1425, knighted at the Battle of Wakefield, 1460, attainted for treason 1461, pardoned by King Edward IV, and died 1488, the head of his charger being buried with him. There was also the tomb of Samuel Watson, the "old Quaker," who interrupted the service in the church in 1659, when the people "brok his head upon ye seates." Then there was the famous Grammar School, a very old foundation dating back to early in the sixteenth century. We were delighted with our visit to Giggleswick, and, crossing the old bridge over the River Ribble, here but a small stream, we entered the town of Settle and called for tea at Thistlethwaite's Tea and Coffee Rooms. There were several small factories in the neighbourhood. We noticed that a concert had recently been held in the town in aid of a fund for presenting a lifeboat to the National Society, one having already been given by this town for use on the stormy coasts of the Island of Anglesey. [Illustration: GIGGLESWICK CHURCH.] Leaving Settle by the Skipton road, we had gone about a mile when we met two men who informed us we were going a long way round either for Ripon or York. They said an ancient road crossed the hills towards York, and that after we had climbed the hill at the back of the town we should see the road running straight for fourteen miles. This sounded all right, and as the new moon was now shining brightly, for it was striking six o'clock as we left the town, we did not fear being lost amongst the hills, although they rose to a considerable height. Changing our course, we climbed up a very steep road and crossed the moors, passing a small waterfall; but whether we were on or off the ancient road we had no means of ascertaining, for we neither saw nor met any one on the way, nor did we see any house until we reached the ancient-looking village of Kirby Malham. Here we got such very voluminous directions as to the way to Malham that neither of us could remember them beyond the first turn, but we reached that village at about ten o'clock. We asked the solitary inhabitant who had not retired to rest where we could find lodgings for the night. He pointed out a house at the end of the "brig" with the word "Temperance" on it in large characters, which we could see easily as the moon had not yet disappeared, and told us it belonged to the village smith, who accommodated visitors. All was in darkness inside the house, but we knocked at the door with our heavy sticks, and this soon brought the smith to one of the upper windows. In reply to our question, "Can we get a bed for the night?" he replied in the Yorkshire dialect, "Our folks are all in bed, but I'll see what they say." Then he closed the window, and all was quiet except the water, which was running fast under the "brig," and which we found afterwards was the River Aire, as yet only a small stream. We waited and waited for what seemed to us a very long time, and were just beginning to think the smith had fallen asleep again, when we heard the door being unbolted, and a young man appeared with a light in his hand, bidding us "Come in," which we were mighty glad to do, and to find ourselves installed in a small but very comfortable room. "You will want some supper," he said; and we assured him it was quite true, for we had not had anything to eat or drink since we left Settle, and, moreover, we had walked thirty-five miles that day, through fairly hilly country. In a short time he reappeared with a quart of milk and an enormous apple pie, which we soon put out of sight; but was milk ever so sweet or apple pie ever so good! Forty-five years have passed away since then, but the memory still remains; and the sweet sleep that followed--the rest of the weary--what of that? (_Distance walked thirty-five miles_.) _Saturday, October 21st._ One great advantage of staying the night in the country was that we were sure of getting an early breakfast, for the inns had often farms attached to them, and the proprietors and their servants were up early to attend to their cattle. This custom of early rising also affected the business of the blacksmiths, for the farmers' horses requiring attention to their shoes were always sent down early to the village smithy in order that they could be attended to in time to turn out to their work on the roads or in the fields at their usual hour. Accordingly we were roused from our sound slumber quite early in the morning, and were glad to take advantage of this to walk as far as possible in daylight, for the autumn was fast coming to a close. Sometimes we started on our walk before breakfast, when we had a reasonable prospect of obtaining it within the compass of a two-hours' journey, but Malham was a secluded village, with no main road passing through it, and it was surrounded by moors on every side. There were several objects of interest in Malham which we were told were well worth seeing: Malham Cove, Janet's Foss or Gennetth's Cave, and Gordale Scar. The first of these we resolved to see before breakfast. We therefore walked along a path which practically followed the course of the stream that passed under the brig, and after a fine walk of about three-quarters of a mile through the grass patches, occasionally relieved by bushes and trees, we reached the famous cove. Here our farther way was barred by an amphitheatre of precipitous limestone rocks of a light grey colour, rising perpendicularly to the height of about 200 feet, which formed the cove itself. From the base of these rocks, along a horizontal bedding plane and at one particular spot, issued the stream along which we had walked, forming the source of the River Aire, which flows through Skipton and on to Leeds, the curious feature about it being that there was no visible aperture in the rocks, neither arch nor hole, from which it could come. The water appeared to gain volume from the loose stones under our feet, and as we had not seen a sight like this in all our travels, we were much surprised to find it forming itself immediately into a fair-sized brook. We gazed upwards to the top of the rocks, which were apparently unprotected, and wondered what the fate would be of the lost traveller who unconsciously walked over them, as there seemed nothing except a few small bushes, in one place only, to break his fall. We heard afterwards of a sorrowful accident that had happened there. It related to a young boy who one day, taking his little brother with him for company, went to look for birds' nests. On reaching the cove they rambled to the top of the cliff, where the elder boy saw a bird's nest, to which he went while his little brother waited for him at a distance, watching him taking the eggs. All at once he saw him stoop down to gather some flowers to bring to him, and then disappear. He waited some time expecting his brother to return, but as he did not come back the little fellow decided to go home. On the way he gathered some flowers, which he gleefully showed to his father, who asked him where he had got them, and where his brother was. The child said he had gone to sleep, and he had tried to waken him but couldn't; and when he told the full story, the father became greatly alarmed, and, taking his child with him, went to the foot of the cliffs, where he found his son lying dead where he had fallen, with the flowers still clasped in his hand! [Illustration: MALHAM COVE.] We were afterwards told that above the cliff and a few miles up a valley a great stream could be seen disappearing quietly down into the rock. It was this stream presumably which lost itself in a subterranean channel, to reappear at the foot of Malham Cove. After breakfast we again resumed our journey, and went to inspect Janet's Cave or Foss--for our host told us that it was no use coming to see a pretty place like Malham without viewing all the sights we could while we were there. We walked up a lovely little glen, where it was said a fairy once resided, and which if it had been placed elsewhere would certainly have been described as the Fairy Glen; but whether or not Janet was the name of the fairy we did not ascertain. In it we came to a pretty little waterfall dropping down from one step to another, the stream running from it being as clear as crystal. The rocks were lined with mosses, which had become as fleecy-looking as wool, as they were almost petrified by the continual dropping of the spray from the lime-impregnated water that fell down the rocks. There were quite a variety of mosses and ferns, but the chief of the climbing plants was what Dickens described "as the rare old plant, the ivy green," which not only clung to the rocks, but had overshadowed them by climbing up the trees above. To see the small dark cave it was necessary to cross the stream in front of the waterfall, and here stepping-stones had been provided for that purpose, but, owing to the unusual depth of water, these were covered rather deeply, with the result that all the available spaces in our boots were filled with water. This was, of course, nothing unusual to us, as we had become quite accustomed to wet feet, and we now looked upon it as an ordinary incident of travel. The cave was said to have been the resort of goblins, and when we wondered where they were now, my brother mildly suggested that we might have seen them if we had possessed a mirror. We had seen a list of the names of the different mosses to be found in the Malham district, but, as these were all in Latin, instead of committing them to memory, we contented ourselves with counting the names of over forty different varieties besides hepaties, lichens, ferns, and many flowers: Hie away, hie away, Over bank and over brae, Where the copsewood is the greenest, Where the fountains glisten sheenest. Where the lady-fern grows strongest, Where the morning dew lies longest, Where the blackcock sweetest sips it. Where the fairy latest trips it; Hie to haunts right seldom seen, Lovely, lonesome, cool and green; Over bank and over brae Hie away, hie away! So we now "hied away" to find Gordale Scar, calling at a farmhouse to inquire the way, for we knew we must cross some land belonging to the farm before we could reach the Scar. We explained to the farmer the object of our journey and that we wished afterwards to cross the moors. After directing us how to reach the Scar, he said there was no necessity for us to return to Malham if we could climb up the side of the waterfall at the Scar, since we should find the road leading from Malham a short distance from the top. He wished us good luck on our journey, and, following his instructions, we soon reached Gordale Scar. It was interesting to note the difference in the names applied to the same objects of nature in the different parts of the country we passed through, and here we found a scar meant a rock, a beck a brook, and a tarn, from a Celtic word meaning a tear, a small lake. Gordale Scar was a much more formidable place than we had expected to find, as the rocks were about five yards higher than those at Malham Cove, and it is almost as difficult to describe them as to climb to the top! [Illustration: GORDALE SCAR.] Gordale Beck has its rise near Malham Tarn, about 1,500 feet above sea-level; and, after running across the moor for about three miles, gathering strength in its progress, it reaches the top of this cliff, and, passing over it, has formed in the course of ages quite a considerable passage, widening as it approaches the valley below, where it emerges through a chasm between two rocks which rise to a great height. It was from this point we had to begin our climb, and few people could pass underneath these overhanging rocks without a sense of danger. The track at this end had evidently been well patronised by visitors, but the last of these had departed with the month of September, and as it was now late in October we had the Scar all to ourselves. It was, therefore, a lonely climb, and a very difficult one as we approached the top, for the volume of water was necessarily much greater after the heavy autumnal rainfall than when the visitors were there in the summer; and as we had to pass quite near the falls, the wind blew the spray in some places over our path. It seemed very strange to see white foaming water high above our heads. There was some vegetation in places; here and there a small yew tree, which reminded us of churchyards and the dark plumes on funeral coaches; but there were also many varieties of ferns in the fissures in the rocks. When we neared the top, encumbered as we were with umbrellas, walking-sticks, and bags, we had to assist each other from one elevation to another, one climbing up first and the other handing the luggage to him, and we were very pleased when we emerged on the moors above. [Illustration: KILNSEY CRAGS.] Here we found the beck running deeply and swiftly along a channel which appeared to have been hewn out expressly for it, but on closer inspection we found it quite a natural formation. We have been told since by an unsentimental geologist that the structure is not difficult to understand. As in the case of the Malham Cove stream, this one passed into the rock and gradually ate out a hollow, while ultimately escaping from the cliff as in the cove; but the roof of the cave collapsed, forming the great chasm and revealing the stream as it leaped down from one level to another. Looking about us on the top we saw lonely moors without a house or a tree in sight, and walked across them until we came to a very rough road--possibly the track which we expected to find leading from Malham. Malham Tarn was not in sight, but we had learned that the water was about a mile in length and the only things to be seen there were two kinds of fish--perch and trout---which often quarrelled and decimated each other. The weather was dull, and we had encountered several showers on our way, passing between the Parson's Pulpit to the left, rising quite 1,700 feet, and the Druid's Altar to our right; but we afterwards learned that it was a poor specimen, and that there were much finer ones in existence, while the Parson's Pulpit was described as "a place for the gods, where a man, with a knowledge of nature and a lover of the same, might find it vantage ground to speak or lecture on the wonders of God and nature." We were pleased to get off the moors before further showers came on, and before we reached Kilnsey, where this portion of the moors terminated abruptly in the Kilnsey Crags, we passed by a curious place called Dowker Bottom Cave, where some antiquarian discoveries had been made about fifteen years before our visit, excavations several feet below the lime-charged floor of the cave having revealed the fact that it had been used by cave-dwellers both before and after the time of the Romans: there were also distinct traces of ancient burials. The monks of Furness Abbey formerly owned about 6,000 acres of land in this neighbourhood, and a small vale here still bore the name of Fountains Dell; but the Scotch raiders often came down and robbed the monks of their fat sheep and cattle. The valley now named Littondale was formerly known as Amerdale, and was immortalised as such by Wordsworth in his "White Doe of Rylstone": Unwooed, yet unforbidden. The White Doe followed up the vale, Up to another cottage, hidden In the deep fork of Amerdale. The road passes almost under Kilnsey Crag, but though it seemed so near, some visitors who were throwing stones at it did not succeed in hitting it. We were a little more successful ourselves, but failed to hit the face of the rock itself, reminding us of our efforts to dislodge rooks near their nests on the tops of tall trees: they simply watched the stones rising upwards, knowing that their force would be spent before either reaching their nests or themselves. On arriving at Kilnsey, we called at the inn for refreshments, and were told that the ancient building we saw was Kilnsey Old Hall, where, if we had come earlier in the year, before the hay was put in the building, we could have seen some beautiful fresco-work over the inside of the barn doors! After lunch we had a very nice walk alongside the River Wharfe to a rather pretty place named Grassington, where an ancient market had been held since 1282, but was now discontinued. We should have been pleased to stay a while here had time permitted, but we were anxious to reach Pateley Bridge, where we intended making our stay for the week-end. We now journeyed along a hilly road with moors on each side of us as far as Greenhow Hill mines, worked by the Romans, and there our road reached its highest elevation at 1,320 feet above sea-level--the village church as regarded situation claiming to be the highest in Yorkshire. We had heard of a wonderful cave that we should find quite near our road, and we were on the look-out for the entrance, which we expected would be a black arch somewhere at the side of the road, but were surprised to find it was only a hole in the surface of a field. On inquiry we heard the cave was kept locked up, and that we must apply for admission to the landlord of the inn some distance farther along the road. We found the landlord busy, as it was Saturday afternoon; but when we told him we were walking from John o' Groat's to Land's End and wanted to see all the sights we could on our way, he consented at once to go with us and conduct us through the cave. We had to take off our coats, and were provided with white jackets, or slops, and a lighted candle each. We followed our guide down some steps that had been made, into what were to us unknown regions. We went along narrow passages and through large rooms for about two hundred yards, part of the distance being under the road we had just walked over. We had never been in a cave like this before. The stalactites which hung from the roof of the cavern, and which at first we thought were long icicles, were formed by the rain-water as it slowly filtered through the limestone rock above, all that could not be retained by the stalactite dropping from the end of it to the floor beneath. Here it gradually formed small pyramids, or stalagmites, which slowly rose to meet their counterparts, the stalactites, above, so that one descended while the other ascended. How long a period elapsed before these strange things were formed our guide could not tell us, but it must have been very considerable, for the drops came down so slowly. It was this slow dropping that made it necessary for us to wear the white jackets, and now and then a drop fell upon our headgear and on the "slops." Still we felt sure it would have taken hundreds of years before we should have been transformed into either stalactites or stalagmites. In some of the places we saw they had long since met each other, and in the course of ages had formed themselves into all kinds of queer shapes. In one room, which our guide told us was the "church," we saw the "organ" and the "gallery," and in another the likeness of a "bishop," and in another place we saw an almost exact representation of the four fingers of a man's hand suspended from the roof of the cave. Some of the subterranean passages were so low that we could scarcely creep through them, and we wondered what would become of us if the roof had given way before we could return. Many other images were pointed out to us, and we imagined we saw fantastic and other ghostly shapes for ourselves. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE CAVE.] We were careful to keep our candles alight as we followed our guide on the return journey, and kept as close together as we could. It was nearly dark when we reached the entrance of the cavern again, and our impression was that we had been in another world. Farther south we explored another and a larger cave, but the vandals had been there and broken off many of the "'tites," which here were quite perfect. We had not felt hungry while we were in the cave, but these well-known pangs came on us in force immediately we reached the open air, and we were glad to accept the landlord's offer to provide for our inward requirements, and followed him home to the inn for tea. The landlord had told the company at the inn about our long walk, and as walking was more in vogue in those days than at later periods, we became objects of interest at once, and all were anxious to form our acquaintance. [Illustration: STUMP CROSS CAVES The Four Fingers. The "'tites" and "'mites."] We learned that what we had noted as the Greenhow Cave was known by the less euphonius name of the "Stump Cross Cavern." It appeared that in ancient times a number of crosses were erected to mark the limits of the great Forest of Knaresborough, a royal forest as far back as the twelfth century, strictly preserved for the benefit of the reigning monarch. It abounded with deer, wild boars, and other beasts of the chase, and was so densely wooded that the Knaresborough people were ordered to clear a passage through it for the wool-carriers from Newcastle to Leeds. Now we could scarcely see a tree for miles, yet as recently as the year 1775 the forest covered 100,000 acres and embraced twenty-four townships. Before the Reformation, the boundary cross on the Greenhow side was known as the Craven Cross, for Craven was one of the ancient counties merged in what is called the West Riding. The Reformers objected to crosses, and knocked it off its pedestal, so that only the stump remained. Thus it gradually became known as the Stump Cross, and from its proximity the cavern when discovered was christened the Stump Cross Cavern. We were informed that the lead mines at Greenhow were the oldest in England, and perhaps in the world, and it was locally supposed that the lead used in the building of Solomon's Temple was brought from here. Two bars of lead that had been made in the time of the Romans had been found on the moors, and one of these was now to be seen at Ripley Castle in Yorkshire, while the other was in the British Museum. Eugene Aram, whose story we heard for the first time in the inn, was born at a village a few miles from Greenhow. The weather had been showery during the afternoon, but we had missed one of the showers, which came on while we were in the cavern. It was now fine, and the moon shone brightly as we descended the steep hill leading to Pateley Bridge. We had crossed the River Dibb after leaving Grassington, and now, before crossing the River Nidd at Pateley Bridge, we stayed at the "George Inn," an old hostelry dating from the year 1664. (_Distance walked twenty-one and a half miles_.) _Sunday, October 22nd._ We spent a fairly quiet day at Pateley Bridge, where there was not a great deal to see. What there was we must have seen, as we made good use of the intervals between the three religious services we attended in exploring the town and its immediate neighbourhood. We had evidently not taken refuge in one of the inns described by Daniel Defoe, for we were some little distance from the parish church, which stood on a rather steep hill on the opposite bank of the river. Near the church were the ruins of an older edifice, an ancient description running, "The old Chappel of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Pateley Brigg in Nidderdale." We climbed the hill, and on our way came to an old well on which was inscribed the following translation by Dryden from the Latin of Ovid [43 B.C.-A.D. 18]: Ill Habits gather by unseen degrees, As Brooks run rivers--Rivers run to Seas. and then followed the words: The way to church. We did not go there "by unseen degrees," but still we hoped our good habits might gather in like proportion. We went to the parish church both morning and evening, and explored the graveyards, but though gravestones were numerous enough we did not find any epitaph worthy of record--though one of the stones recorded the death in July 1755 of the four sons of Robert and Margaret Fryer, who were born at one birth and died aged one week. In the afternoon we went to the Congregational Chapel, and afterwards were shown through a very old Wesleyan Chapel, built in 1776, and still containing the old seats, with the ancient pulpit from which John Wesley had preached on several occasions. It was curious to observe how anxious the compilers of the histories of the various places at which we stayed were to find a remote beginning, and how apologetic they were that they could not start even earlier. Those of Pateley Bridge were no exception to the rule. The Roman Occupation might perhaps have been considered a reasonable foundation, but they were careful to record that the Brigantes were supposed to have overrun this district long before the Romans, since several stone implements had been found in the neighbourhood. One of the Roman pigs of lead found hereabouts, impressed with the name of the Emperor "Domitian," bore also the word "Brig," which was supposed to be a contraction of Brigantes. A number of Roman coins had also been discovered, but none of them of a later date than the Emperor Hadrian, A.D. 139, the oldest being one of Nero, A.D. 54-68. [Illustration: THE OLD PARISH CHURCH, PATELEY BRIDGE.] Previous to the fourteenth century the River Nidd was crossed by means of a paved ford, and this might originally have been paved by the Romans, who probably had a ford across the river where Pateley Bridge now stands for the safe conveyance of the bars of lead from the Greenhow mines, to which the town owed its importance, down to the beginning of the nineteenth century. But though it could boast a Saturday market dating from the time of Edward II, it was now considered a quiet and somewhat sleepy town. The valley along which the River Nidd runs from its source in the moors, about ten miles away, was known as Nidderdale. In the church book at Middlesmoor, about six miles distant, were two entries connected with two hamlets on the banks of the Nidd near Pateley Bridge which fix the dates of the christening and marriage of that clever murderer, Eugene Aram. We place them on record here: RAMSGILL.--Eugenious Aram, son of Peter Aram, bap. ye 2nd of October, 1704. LOFTUS.--Eugenius Aram and Anna Spence, married May 4th, after banns thrice pub. 1731. We retired to rest early. Our last week's walk was below the average, and we hoped by a good beginning to make up the mileage during the coming week, a hope not to be fulfilled, as after events proved. SIXTH WEEK'S JOURNEY A WEEK OF AGONY _Monday, October 23rd._ We left Pateley Bridge at seven o'clock in the morning, and after walking about two miles on the Ripley Road, turned off to the left along a by-lane to find the wonderful Brimham rocks, of which we had been told. We heard thrashing going on at a farm, which set us wondering whether we were on the same road along which Chantrey the famous sculptor walked when visiting these same rocks. His visit probably would not have been known had not the friend who accompanied him kept a diary in which he recorded the following incident. They were walking towards the rocks when they, like ourselves, heard the sound of thrashing in a barn, which started an argument between them on their relative abilities in the handling of the flail. As they could not settle the matter by words, they resolved to do so by blows; so they made their way to the farm and requested the farmer to allow them to try their hand at thrashing corn, and to judge which of them shaped the better. The farmer readily consented, and accompanied them to the barn, where, stopping the two men who were at work, he placed Chantrey and his friend in their proper places. They stripped for the fight, each taking a flail, while the farmer and his men watched the duel with smiling faces. It soon became evident that Chantrey was the better of the two. The unequal contest was stopped, much to the chagrin of the keeper of the diary, by the judge giving his verdict in favour of the great sculptor. This happened about seventy years before our visit, but even now the old-fashioned method of thrashing corn had not yet been ousted by steam machinery, and the sound of the flails as they were swung down upon the barn floors was still one of the commonest and noisiest that, during the late autumn and winter months, met our ears in country villages. When the time came for the corn to be thrashed, the sheaves were placed on the barn floor with their heads all in the same direction, the binders which held them together loosened, and the corn spread out. Two men were generally employed in this occupation, one standing opposite the other, and the corn was separated from the straw and chaff by knocking the heads with sticks. These sticks, or flails, were divided into two parts, the longer of which was about the size of a broom-handle, but made of a much stronger kind of wood, while the other, which was about half its length, was fastened to the top by a hinge made of strong leather, so that the flail was formed into the shape of a whip, except that the lash would not bend, and was as thick as the handle. The staff was held with both hands, one to guide and the other to strike, and as the thrashers were both practically aiming at the same place, it was necessary, in order to prevent their flails colliding, that one lash should be up in the air at the same moment that the other was down on the floor, so that it required some practice in order to become a proficient thrasher. The flails descended on the barn floors with the regularity of the ticking of a clock, or the rhythmic and measured footsteps of a man walking in a pair of clogs at a quickstep speed over the hard surface of a cobbled road. We knew that this mediæval method of thrashing corn would be doomed in the future, and that the old-fashioned flail would become a thing of the past, only to be found in some museum as a relic of antiquity, so we recorded this description of Chantrey's contest with the happy memories of the days when we ourselves went a-thrashing corn a long time ago! [Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF BRIMHAM ROCKS.] What Chantrey thought of those marvellous rocks at Brimham was not recorded, but, as they covered quite fifty acres of land, his friend, like ourselves, would find it impossible to give any lengthy description of them, and might, like the auctioneers, dismiss them with the well-known phrase, "too numerous to mention." To our great advantage we were the only visitors at the rocks, and for that reason enjoyed the uninterrupted services of the official guide, an elderly man whose heart was in his work, and a born poet withal. [Illustration: THE DANCING-BEAR ROCK.] The first thing we had to do was to purchase his book of poems, which, as a matter of course, was full of poetical descriptions of the wonderful rocks he had to show us--and thoroughly and conscientiously he did his duty. As we came to each rock, whether we had to stand below or above it, he poured out his poetry with a rapidity that quite bewildered and astonished us. He could not, of course, tell us whether the rocks had been worn into their strange forms by the action of the sea washing against them at some remote period, or whether they had been shaped in the course of ages by the action of the wind and rain; but we have appealed to our geological friend, who states, in that emphatic way which scientific people adopt, that these irregular crags are made of millstone grit, and that the fantastic shapes are due to long exposure to weather and the unequal hardness of the rock. Our guide accompanied us first to the top of a great rock, which he called Mount Pisgah, from which we could see on one side a wilderness of bare moors and mountains, and on the other a fertile valley, interspersed with towns and villages as far as the eye could reach. Here the guide told my brother that he could imagine himself to be like Moses of old, who from Pisgah's lofty height viewed the Promised Land of Canaan on one side, and the wilderness on the other! But we were more interested in the astonishing number of rocks around us than in the distant view, and when our guide described them as the "finest freak of nature of the rock kind in England," we thoroughly endorsed his remarks. We had left our luggage at the caretaker's house, which had been built near the centre of this great mass of stones in the year 1792, by Lord Grantley, to whom the property belonged, from the front door of which, we were told, could be seen, on a clear day, York Minster, a distance of twenty-eight miles as the crow flies. As may be imagined, it was no small task for the guide to take us over fifty acres of ground and to recite verses about every object of interest he showed us, some of them from his book and some from memory. But as we were without our burdens we could follow him quickly, while he was able to take us at once to the exact position where the different shapes could be seen to the best advantage. How long it would have taken that gentleman we met near Loch Lomond in Scotland who tried to show us "the cobbler and his wife," on the top of Ben Arthur, from a point from which it could not be seen, we could not guess, but it was astonishing how soon we got through the work, and were again on our way to find "fresh fields and pastures new." [Illustration: THE HIGH ROCK.] We saw the "Bulls of Nineveh," the "Tortoise," the "Gorilla," and the "Druids' Temple"--also the "Druids' Reading-desk," the "Druids' Oven," and the "Druid's Head." Then there was the "Idol," where a great stone, said to weigh over two hundred tons, was firmly balanced on a base measuring only two feet by ten inches. There was the usual Lovers' Leap, and quite a number of rocking stones, some of which, although they were many tons in weight, could easily be rocked with one hand. The largest stone of all was estimated to weigh over one hundred tons, though it was only discovered to be movable in the year 1786. The "Cannon Rock" was thirty feet long, and, as it was perforated with holes, was supposed to have been used as an oracle by the Ancients, a question asked down a hole at one end being answered by the gods through the priest or priestess hidden from view at the other. The different recesses, our guide informed us, were used as lovers' seats and wishing stones. The "Frog and the Porpoise," the "Oyster Rock," the "Porpoise's Head," the "Sphinx," the "Elephant and Yoke of Oxen," and the "Hippopotamus's Head" were all clearly defined. The "Dancing Bear" was a splendidly shaped specimen, and then there was a "Boat Rock," with bow and stern complete. But on the "Mount Delectable," as our guide called it, there was a very romantic courting and kissing chair, which, although there was only room for one person to sit in it at a time, he assured us was, in summer time, the best patronised seat in the lot. We remunerated him handsomely, for he had worked hard and, as "England expects," he had done his duty. He directed us to go along a by-lane through Sawley or Sawley Moor, as being the nearest way to reach Fountains Abbey: but of course we lost our way as usual. The Brimham Rocks were about 1,000 feet above sea-level, and from them we could see Harrogate, which was, even then, a fashionable and rising inland watering-place. Our guide, when he showed us its position in the distance, did not venture to make any poetry about it, so we quote a verse written by another poet about the visitors who went there: Some go for the sake of the waters-- Well, they are the old-fashioned elves-- And some to dispose of their daughters, And some to dispose of themselves. But there must be many visitors who go there to search in its bracing air for the health they have lost during many years of toil and anxiety, and to whom the words of an unknown poet would more aptly apply: We squander Health in search of Wealth, We scheme, and toil, and save; Then squander Wealth in search of Health, And only find a Grave. We live! and boast of what we own! We die! and only get a STONE! [Illustration: FOUNTAINS AND THE RIVER SKELL.] [Illustration: FOUNTAINS ABBEY. "How grand the fine old ruin appeared, calmly reposing in the peaceful valley below."] [Illustration: THE CLOISTERS, FOUNTAINS ABBEY. "Many great warriors were buried beneath the peaceful shade of Fountains Abbey."] [Illustration: THE NAVE] Fortunately we happened to meet with a gentleman who was going part of the way towards Fountains Abbey, and him we accompanied for some distance. He told us that the abbey was the most perfect ruin in England, and when we parted he gave us clear instructions about the way to reach it. We were walking on, keeping a sharp look out for the abbey through the openings in the trees that partially covered our way, when suddenly we became conscious of looking at a picture without realising what it was, for our thoughts and attention had been fixed upon the horizon on the opposite hill, where for some undefined reason we expected the abbey to appear. Lo and behold, there was the abbey in the valley below, which we might have seen sooner had we been looking down instead of up. The effect of the view coming so suddenly was quite electrical, and after our first exclamation of surprise we stood there silently gazing upon the beautiful scene before us; and how grand the fine old ruin appeared calmly reposing in the beautiful valley below! It was impossible to forget the picture! Why we had expected to find the abbey in the position of a city set upon a hill which could not be hid we could not imagine, for we knew that the abbeys in the olden times had to be hidden from view as far as possible as one means of protecting them from warlike marauders who had no sympathy either with the learned monks or their wonderful books. Further they required a stream of water near them for fish and other purposes, and a kaleyard or level patch of ground for the growth of vegetables, as well as a forest--using the word in the Roman sense, to mean stretches of woodland divided by open spaces--to supply them with logs and with deer for venison, for there was no doubt that, as time went on, the monks, to use a modern phrase, "did themselves well." All these conditions existed near the magnificent position on which the great abbey had been built. The river which ran alongside was named the Skell, a name probably derived from the Norse word _Keld_, signifying a spring or fountain, and hence the name Fountains, for the place was noted for its springs and wells, as-- From the streams and springs which Nature here contrives, The name of Fountains this sweet place derives. [Illustration: THE GREAT TOWER] The history of the abbey stated that it was founded by thirteen monks who, wishing to lead a holier and a stricter life than then prevailed in that monastery, seceded from the Cistercian Abbey of St. Mary's at York. With the Archbishop's sanction they retired to this desolate spot to imitate the sanctity and discipline of the Cistercians in the Abbey of Rieval. They had no house to shelter them, but in the depth of the valley there grew a great elm tree, amongst the branches of which they twisted straw, thus forming a roof beneath which they might dwell. When the winter came on, they left the shelter of the elm and came under that of seven yew-trees of extraordinary size. With the waters of the River Skell they quenched their thirst, the Archbishop occasionally sent them bread, and when spring came they built a wooden chapel. Others joined them, but their accession increased their privations, and they often had no food except leaves of trees and wild herbs. Even now these herbs and wild flowers of the monks grew here and there amongst the old ruins. Rosemary, lavender, hyssop, rue, silver and bronze lichens, pale rosy feather pink, a rare flower, yellow mullein, bee and fly orchis, and even the deadly nightshade, which was once so common at Furness Abbey. One day their provisions consisted of only two and a half loaves of bread, and a stranger passing by asked for a morsel. "Give him a loaf," said the Abbot; "the Lord will provide,"--and so they did. Marvellous to relate, says the chronicle, immediately afterwards a cart appeared bringing a present of food from Sir Eustace Fitz-John, the lord of the neighbouring castle of Knaresborough, until then an unfriendly personage to the monks. [Illustration: "Beneath whose peaceful shades great warriors rest."] Before long the monks prospered: Hugh, the Dean of York, left them his fortune, and in 1203 they began to build the abbey. Other helpers came forward, and in course of time Fountains became one of the richest monasteries in Yorkshire. The seven yew trees were long remembered as the "Seven Sisters," but only one of them now remains. Many great warriors were buried beneath the peaceful shade of Fountains Abbey, and many members of the Percy family, including Lord Henry de Percy, who, after deeds of daring and valour on many a hard-fought field as he followed the banner of King Edward I all through the wilds of Scotland, prayed that his body might find a resting-place within the walls of Fountains Abbey. Lands were given to the abbey, until there were 60,000 acres attached to it and enclosed in a ring fence. One of the monks from Fountains went to live as a hermit in a secluded spot adjoining the River Nidd, a short distance from Knaresborough, where he became known as St. Robert the Hermit. He lived in a cave hewn out of the rock on one side of the river, where the banks were precipitous and covered with trees. One day the lord of the forest was hunting, and saw smoke rising above the trees. On making inquiries, he was told it came from the cave of St. Robert. His lordship was angry, and, as he did not know who the hermit was, ordered him to be sent away and his dwelling destroyed. These orders were in process of being carried out, and the front part of the cave, which was only a small one, had in fact been broken down, when his lordship heard what a good man St. Robert the Hermit was. He ordered him to be reinstated, and his cave reformed, and he gave him some land. When the saint died, the monks of Fountains Abbey--anxious, like most of their order, to possess the remains of any saint likely to be popular among the religious-minded--came for his body, so that they might bury it in their own monastery, and would have taken it away had not a number of armed men arrived from Knaresborough Castle. So St. Robert was buried in the church at Knaresborough. [Illustration: THE BOUNDARY STONE KNARESBOROUGH FOREST.] St. Robert the Hermit was born in 1160, and died in 1218, so that he lived and died in the days of the Crusades to the Holy Land. Although his name was still kept in remembrance, his Cave and Chapel had long been deserted and overgrown with bushes and weeds, while the overhanging trees hid it completely from view. But after a lapse of hundreds of years St. Robert's Cave was destined to come into greater prominence than ever, because of the sensational discovery of the remains of the victim of Eugene Aram, which was accidentally brought to light after long years, when the crime had been almost forgotten and the murderer had vanished from the scene of his awful deed. The tragedy enacted in St. Robert's Cave has been immortalised in poetry and in story: by Lord Lytton in his story of "Eugene Aram" and by Tom Hood in "The Dream of Eugene Aram." Aram was a man of considerable attainments, for he knew Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and other languages, and was also a good mathematician as well as an antiquarian. He settled in Knaresborough in the year 1734, and among his acquaintances were one Daniel Clark and another, John Houseman, and these three were often together until suddenly Daniel Clark disappeared. No one knew what had become of him, and no intelligence could be obtained from his two companions. Aram shortly afterwards left the town, and it was noticed that Houseman never left his home after dark, so they were suspected of being connected in some way with the disappearance of Clark. It afterwards transpired that Aram had induced Clark to give a great supper, and to invite all the principal people in the town, borrowing all the silver vessels he could from them, on the pretence that he was short. The plot was to pretend that robbers had got in the house and stolen the silver. Clark fell in with this plot, and gave the supper, borrowing all the silver he could. After all was over, they were to meet at Clark's house, put the silver in a sack, and proceed to St. Robert's Cave, which at that time was in ruins, where the treasure was to be hidden until matters had quieted down, after which they would sell it and divide the money; Clark was to take a spade and a pick, while the other two carried the bag in turns. Clark began to dig the trench within the secluded and bush-covered cave which proved to be his own grave, and when he had nearly finished the trench, Aram came behind and with one of the tools gave him a tremendous blow on the head which killed him instantly, and the two men buried him there. [Illustration: ST. ROBERT'S AND EUGENE ARAM'S CAVE.] Clark's disappearance caused a great sensation, every one thinking he had run away with the borrowed silver. Years passed away, and the matter was considered as a thing of the past and forgotten, until it was again brought to recollection by some workmen, who had been digging on the opposite side of the river to St. Robert's Cave, finding a skeleton of some person buried there. As the intelligence was spread about Knaresborough, the people at once came to the conclusion that the skeleton was that of Daniel Clark, who had disappeared fourteen years before. Although Aram had left the neighbourhood soon after Clark disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone, Houseman was still in the town, and when the news of the finding of the skeleton reached him, he was drinking in one of the public-houses, and, being partly drunk, his only remark was, "It's no more Dan Clark's skeleton than it's mine." Immediately he was accused of being concerned in the disappearance of Clark, and ultimately confessed that Aram had killed Clark, and that together they had buried his dead body in St. Robert's Cave. Search was made there, and Clark's bones were found. One day a traveller came to the town who said he had seen Aram at Lynn in Norfolk, where he had a school. Officers were at once sent there to apprehend Aram, and the same night-- Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between With gyves upon his wrist. Aram was brought up for trial, and made a fine speech in defending himself; but it was of no avail, for Houseman turned "King's Evidence" against him, telling all he knew on condition that he himself was pardoned. The verdict was "Guilty," and Aram was hanged at York in the year 1759. [Illustration: ST. ROBERTS CHAPEL.] Fountains Abbey in its prime must have been one of the noblest and stateliest sanctuaries in the kingdom. The great tower was 167 feet high, and the nave about 400 feet long, while the cloisters--still almost complete, for we walked under their superb arches several times from one end to the other--were marvellous to see. One of the wells at Fountains Abbey was named Robin Hood's Well, for in the time of that famous outlaw the approach to the Abbey was defended by a very powerful and brave monk who kept quite a number of dogs, on which account he was named the Cur-tail Friar. Robin Hood and Little John were trying their skill and strength in archery on the deer in the forest when, in the words of the old ballad: Little John killed a Hart of Greece Five hundred feet him fro, and Robin was so proud of his friend that he said he would ride a hundred miles to find such another, a remark-- That caused Will Shadlocke to laugh. He laughed full heartily; There lives a curtail fryer in Fountains Abbey Will beate bothe him and thee. The curtell fryer, in Fountains Abbey, Well can a strong bow draw; He will beate you and your yeomen. Set them all in a row. [Illustration: ROBIN HOOD'S WELL, FOUNTAINS ABBEY.] So Robin, taking up his weapons and putting on his armour, went to seek the friar, and found him near the River Skell which skirted the abbey. Robin arranged with the friar that as a trial of strength they should carry each other across the river. After this had been accomplished successfully Robin asked to be carried over a second time. But the friar only carried him part way and then threw him into the deepest part of the river, or, in the words of the ballad: And coming to the middle streame There he threw Robin in; "And chuse thee, chuse thee, fine fellow, Whether thou wilt sink or swim." Robin evidently did not care to sink, so he swam to a willow bush and, gaining dry land, took one of his best arrows and shot at the friar. The arrow glanced off the monk's steel armour, and he invited Robin to shoot on, which he did, but with no greater success. Then they took their swords and "fought with might and maine": From ten o' th' clock that very day Till four i' th' afternoon. Then Robin came to his knee Of the fryer to beg a boone. "A boone, a boone, thou curtail fryer, I beg it on my knee; Give me leave to set my horn to my mouth And to blow blastes three." The friar consented contemptuously, for he had got the better of the fight; so Robin blew his "blastes three," and presently fifty of his yeomen made their appearance. It was now the friar's turn to ask a favour. "A boone, a boone," said the curtail fryer, "The like I gave to thee: Give me leave to set my fist to my mouth And to whute whues three." and as Robin readily agreed to this, he sounded his "whues three," and immediately-- Halfe a hundred good band-dogs Came running o'er the lee. "Here's for every man a dog And I myself for thee." "Nay, by my faith," said Robin Hood, "Fryer, that may not be." Two dogs at once to Robin Hood did goe. The one behinde, the other before; Robin Hood's mantle of Lincoln greene Offe from his backe they tore. And whether his men shot east or west. Or they shot north or south, The curtail dogs, so taught they were, They kept the arrows in their mouth. "Take up the dogs," said Little John; "Fryer, at my bidding be." "Whose man art thou," said the curtail fryer, "Come here to prate to me!" "I'm Little John, Robin Hood's man. Fryer, I will not lie. If thou tak'st not up thy dogs, I'll take them up for thee." Little John had a bowe in his hands. He shot with mighte and maine; Soon half a score of the fryer's dogs Lay dead upon the plaine. "Hold thy hand, good fellow," said the curtail fryer. "Thy master and I will agree, And we will have new order ta'en With all the haste may be." Then Robin Hood said to the friar: "If thou wilt forsake fair Fountains Dale And Fountains Abbey free, Every Sunday throughout the yeare A noble shall be thy fee. "And every holiday throughout the yeare Changed shall thy garment be If thou wilt go to fair Nottinghame And there remaine with me." This curtail fryer had kept Fountains Dale Seven long years and more; There was neither knight, lord or earle Could make him yield before. According to tradition, the friar accepted Robin's offer and became the famous Friar Tuck of the outlaw's company of Merrie Men whom in _Ivanhoe_ Scott describes as exchanging blows in a trial of strength with Richard Coeur de Lion. It was said that when Robin Hood died, his bow and arrows were hung up in Fountains Abbey, where they remained for centuries. We procured some refreshments near the abbey, and then walked on to Ripon, through the fine park and grounds of Studley Royal, belonging to the Marquis of Ripon, and we esteemed it a great privilege to be allowed to do so. The fine trees and gardens and the beautiful waters, with some lovely swans floating on them, their white plumage lit up with the rays of the sun, which that day shone out in all its glory, formed such a contrast to the dull and deserted moors, that we thought the people of Ripon, like ourselves, ought to be thankful that they were allowed to have access to these beautiful grounds. The town of Ripon, like many others in the north of England, had suffered much in the time of the wars, and had had an eventful history, for after being burnt by the Danes it was restored by Alfred the Great in the year 860, only to be destroyed once more by William the Conqueror in his ruthless march through the northern counties. A survival of Alfred's wise government still existed in the "Wake-man," whose duty it was to blow a horn at nine o'clock each night as a warning against thieves. If a robbery occurred during the night, the inhabitants were taxed with the amount stolen. A horn was still blown, three blasts being given at nine o'clock at the Market Cross and three immediately afterwards at the Mayor's door by the official horn-blower, during which performances the seventh bell in the cathedral was tolled. The ancient motto of the town was: EXCEPT Ye LORD KEEP Ye CITTIE Ye WAKEMAN WAKETH IN VAIN. In 1680 the silver badges that adorned the horn were stolen by thieves, but they had long since been replaced, and the horn was now quite a grand affair, the gold chain purchased for it in 1859 costing £250. The town was again burnt by Robert Bruce in 1319, when the north of England was being devastated after the disastrous Battle of Bannockburn; but it soon revived in importance, and in 1405 Henry IV and his court retired thither to escape the plague which at that time was raging in London. In the time of the Civil War Charles I was brought to Ripon by his captors, and lodged for two nights in a house where he was sumptuously entertained, and was so well pleased with the way he had been treated that his ghost was said to have visited the house after his death. The good old lady who lived there in those troubled times was the very essence of loyalty and was a great admirer of the murdered monarch. In spite of Cromwell she kept a well-furnished wine-cellar, where bottles were continually being found emptied of their contents and turned upside down. But when she examined her servants about this strange phenomenon, she was always told that whenever the ghost of King Charles appeared, the rats twisted their tails round the corks of the bottles and extracted them as cleverly as the lady's experienced butler could have done himself, and that they presented their generous contents in brimming goblets to the parched lips of His Majesty, who had been so cruelly murdered. This reply was always considered satisfactory and no further investigation was made! "Let me suffer loss," said the old lady, "rather than be thought a rebel and add to the calamities of a murdered king! King Charles is quite welcome!" [Illustration: RIPON MINSTER.] Eugene Aram, we were informed, spent some years of his life in Ripon at a house in Bond-Gate. St. Wilfrid was the patron saint of Ripon, where he was born. Legend states that at his birth a strange supernatural light shone over the house, and when he died, those who were in the death chamber claimed that they could hear the rustling of the angels' wings who had come to bear his spirit away. As we saw some figures relating to him in the cathedral we presumed that he must have been its patron saint. We found afterwards it was dedicated to St. Peter and St. Wilfrid. St. Wilfrid was an enthusiast in support of the Church control of Rome. One sympathises with the poor king, who had to decide between the claims of Rome and the Celtic Church, whether priests should have their hair cut this way or that, and if the date of Easter should be decided by the moon or by some other way. He seems to have been a simple-minded fellow, and his decision was very practical. "I am told that Christ gave Peter the keys of heaven to keep, and none can get in without his permission. Is that so?" to which Wilfrid quickly answered "Yes." "Has your saint any power like that?" he asked Oswin, who could but say "No." "Then," said the king, "I vote for the side with the greater power," and decided in favour of Wilfrid. Like other cathedrals, Ripon had suffered much in the wars, but there were many ancient things still to be seen there. Near the font was a tomb covered with a slab of grey marble, on which were carved the figures of a man and a huge lion, both standing amongst some small trees. It was supposed to have covered the body of an Irish prince who died at Ripon on his way home from the Holy War, in Palestine, and who brought back with him a lion that followed him about just like a dog. In the cathedral yard there was an epitaph to a fisherman: Here lies poor but honest Bryan Tunstall. He was a most expert angler until Death, envious of his merit, threw out his line, and landed him here 21st day of April, 1790. [Illustration: RIPON MINSTER, WEST FRONT] We left Ripon by the Boroughbridge road, and when about a mile from the town we met one of the dignitaries of the cathedral, who from his dress might have been anything from an archdeacon upwards. We asked him if he could tell us of any objects of interest on our farther way. He told us of Aldborough, with its Roman remains and the Devil's Arrows, of which we had never heard before; and he questioned us about our long tramp, the idea of which quite delighted him. We told him that we had thrown our mackintoshes away, and why we had done so, and had bought umbrellas instead; and he said, "You are now standing before a man who would give fifty pounds if he had never worn a mackintosh, for they have given me the rheumatism!" The church at Kirkby Hill had just been restored. We saw an epitaph in the churchyard similar to one which we found in a graveyard later on, farther south: Whence I came it matters not. To whom related or by whom begot; A heap of dust is all that remains of me, 'Tis all I am, and all the proud shall be. [Illustration: THE DEVIL'S ARROWS.] We soon reached the famous Boroughbridge, one of the most historical places in all England, the borough meaning Aldborough, the ISUER of the Brigantes and the ISURIUM of the Romans. Here we crossed the bridge spanning the Yorkshire River Ouse, which almost adjoined Aldborough, and were directed for lodgings to the house of a widowed lady quite near the church. It was nearly dark then, the moon, though almost at the full that night, not having yet risen. We decided to wait until after a substantial meal before visiting the Devil's Arrows a short distance away. There were only three of them left--two in a field on one side of the road, and one in a field opposite. The stones were standing upright, and were, owing to their immense size, easily found. We had inspected the two, and were just jumping over the gate to cross the narrow lane to see the other in the next field, when we startled a man who was returning, not quite sober, from the fair at Boroughbridge. As we had our sticks in our hands, he evidently thought we were robbers and meant mischief, for he begged us not to molest him, saying he had only threepence in his pocket, to which we were welcome. We were highly amused, and the man was very pleased when he found he could keep the coppers, "to pay," as he said, "for another pint." The stones, weighing about 36 tons each, were 20 to 30 feet high, and as no one knew who placed them there, their origin was ascribed to the Devil; hence their name, "the Devil's Arrows." Possibly, as supposed in other similar cases, he had shot them out of his bow from some great hill far away, and they had stuck in the earth here. There was fairly authentic evidence that twelve was the original number, and the bulk of opinion favoured an origin concerned with the worship of the sun, one of the earliest forms known. Others, however, ascribe them to the Romans, who erected boundary stones, of which several are known, on the hills farther south. We returned to our lodgings, but not to sleep, for our sleeping apartment was within a few feet of the church clock, on the side of a very low steeple. As we were obliged to keep our window open for fresh air, we could hear every vibration of the pendulum, and the sound of the ponderous bell kept us awake until after it struck the hour of twelve. Then, worn out with fatigue, we heard nothing more until we awoke early in the morning. [Illustration: ALDBOROUGH CHURCH, BOROUGHBRIDGE.] (_Distance walked twenty miles_.) _Tuesday, October 24th._ The history of Aldborough, the old _burh_ or fortified Saxon settlement, in spite of its Saxon name, could clearly be traced back to the time of the Brigantes, the ancient Britons, who inhabited the territory between the Tweed and the Humber. A Celtic city existed there long before Romulus and Remus founded the city of Rome, and it was at this city of ISUER, between the small River Tut and its larger neighbour the Yore, that their queen resided. Her name, in Gaelic, was Cathair-ys-maen-ddu ("Queen of stones black"), rather a long name even for a queen, and meaning in English the Queen of the City of the Black Stones, the remaining three, out of the original twelve, being those, now known as the Devil's Arrows, which we had seen the preceding night. [Illustration: CAER CARADOC HILL, CHURCH STRETTON.] The Romans, however, when they invaded Britain, called her Cartismunda, her city ISURIUM, and the Brigantes' country they named Brigantia. But as the Brigantes made a determined resistance, their invasion of this part of England, begun in A.D. 47, was not completed until A.D. 70. Queen Cartismunda was related to the King of Siluria, which then embraced the counties of Hereford and Monmouth, besides part of South Wales. He was one of the greatest of the British chieftains, named Caradoc by the Britons and Caractacus by the Romans. He fought for the independence of Britain, and held the armies of the most famous Roman generals at bay for a period of about nine years. But eventually, in A.D. 50, he was defeated by the Roman general Ostorius Scapula, in the hilly region near Church Stretton, in Shropshire, not far from a hill still known as Caer Caradoc, his wife and daughters being taken prisoners in the cave known as Caradoc's Cave. He himself escaped to the Isle of Mona, afterwards named Anglesey, with the object of rallying the British tribes there. It so happened that some connection existed between Queen Cartismunda and the Romans who had defeated Caradoc, and after that event Ostorius Scapula turned his army towards the north, where he soon reached the border of Brigantia. As soon as the queen, of whose morals even the Britons held no high opinion, heard of his arrival, she and her daughters hastened to meet the conqueror to make terms. If beauty had any influence in the settlement, she seems to have had everything in her favour, as, if we are to believe the description of one of the Romans, who began his letter with the words "Brigantes faemina dulce," the Brigantes ladies must have been very sweet and beautiful. A most objectional part of the bargain was that Caractacus should be delivered up to the Roman general. So the queen sent some relatives to Mona to invite him to come and see her at Isuer, and, dreaming nothing of treachery, he came; but as soon as he crossed the border into the queen's country he was seized, bound and handed over to Ostorius, who sent him to Rome, together with his already captured wife and daughters. On arrival at Rome Caractacus was imprisoned with some of his countrymen and in course of time brought before the Emperor Claudius. The brave and fearless speech he made before the Emperor on that occasion is one of the most famous recorded in history, and has been immortalised both in prose and poetry. "Now I have spoken, do thy will; Be life or death my lot. Since Britain's throne no more I fill, To me it matters not. My fame is clear; but on my fate Thy glory or thy shame must wait." He ceased: from all around upsprung A murmur of applause; For well had truth and freedom's tongue Maintained their holy cause. The conqueror was the captive then-- He bade the slave be free again. Tradition states that one of his companions in the prison in Rome was St. Paul, who converted him to the Christian faith, with two of his fellow-countrymen, Linus and Claudia, who are mentioned in St. Paul's second Epistle to Timothy (iv. 21). Descendants of Caradoc are still to be traced in England in the family of Craddock, whose shield to this day is emblazoned with the words: "Betrayed! Not conquered." We awoke quite early in the morning--a fact which we attributed to the church clock, although we could not remember hearing it strike. My brother started the theory that we might have been wakened by some supernatural being coming through the open window, from the greensward beneath, where "lay the bones of the dead." Aldborough church was dedicated to St. Andrew, and the register dated from the year 1538--practically from the time when registers came into being. It contained a curious record of a little girl, a veritable "Nobody's child," who, as a foundling, was brought to the church and baptized in 1573 as "Elizabeth Nobody, of Nobody." [Illustration: KNARESBOROUGH CASTLE.] Oliver Cromwell, about whom we were to hear so much in our further travels, was here described in the church book as "an impious Arch-Rebel," but this we afterwards found was open to doubt. He fought one of his great battles quite near Aldborough, and afterwards besieged Knaresborough Castle, about eight miles away. He lodged at an old-fashioned house in that town. In those days fireplaces in bedrooms were not very common, and even where they existed were seldom used, as the beds were warmed with flat-bottomed circular pans of copper or brass, called "warming-pans," in which were placed red-hot cinders of peat, wood, or coal. A long, round wooden handle, like a broomstick, was attached to the pan, by means of which it was passed repeatedly up and down the bed, under the bedclothes, until they became quite warm, both above and below. As this service was performed just before the people retired to rest, they found a warm bed waiting for them instead of a cold one. But of course this was in the "good old times." Afterwards, when people became more civilised (!), they got into bed between linen sheets that were icy cold, and after warming them with the heat of their bodies, if they chanced to move an inch or two during the night they were either awakened, or dreamed about icebergs or of being lost in the snow! The young daughter of the house where Oliver Cromwell lodged at Knaresborough had the task of warming Oliver's bed for him, and in after years when she had grown up she wrote a letter in which she said: "When Cromwell came to lodge at our house I was then but a young girl, and having heard so much talk about the man, I looked at him with wonder. Being ordered to take a pan of coals and 'aire' his bed, I could not forbear peeping over my shoulders to see this extraordinary man, who was seated at the far side of the room untying his garters. Having aired the bed I went out, and shutting the door after me, I peeped through the keyhole, when I saw him rise from his seat, advance to the bed, and fall on his knees, in which attitude I left him for some time. When returning I found him still at prayer---and this was his custom every night as long as he stayed at our house--I concluded he must be a good man, and this opinion I always maintained, though I heard him blamed and exceedingly abused." Aldborough was walled round in the time of the Romans, and portions of the walls were still to be seen. So many Roman relics had been found here that Aldborough had earned the title of the Yorkshire Pompeii. So interested were we in its antiquities that we felt very thankful to the clerical dignitary at Ripon for having advised us to be sure to visit this ancient borough. [Illustration: TESSELLATED ROMAN PAVEMENT UNEARTHED AT ALDBOROUGH.] We now wended our way to one of the village inns, where we had been told to ask permission from the landlord to see the Roman tessellated pavement in his back garden. We were conducted to a building, which had been roofed over to cover it. Our attendant unlocked the door, and after the sawdust which covered the floor had been carefully brushed aside, there was revealed to our gaze a beautifully executed floor, in which the colours of the small tiles were as bright as if they had been recently put there. We could scarcely realise that the work we were looking at was well-nigh two thousand years old: it looked more like the work of yesterday. It had been accidentally discovered by a man who was digging in the garden, at about two feet below the surface of the soil; it was supposed to have formed the floor of a dwelling belonging to some highly placed Roman officer. We were speculating about the depth of soil and the difference in levels between the Roman Period and the present, but we found afterwards that the preservation of this beautiful work, and of others, was due not to any natural accumulations during the intervening centuries, but to the fact that the devastating Danes had burnt the town of Aldborough, along with many others, in the year 870, and the increased depth of the soil was due to the decomposition of the burnt ruins and debris. When we noted any event or object dating from 1771, we described it as "one hundred years before our visit," but here we had an event to record that had happened one thousand years before. Neither the attendant nor the landlord would accept any remuneration for their services, and to our cordial thanks replied, "You are quite welcome." We now went to see the cottage museum, which was well filled with Roman relics of all kinds, arranged in such fashion as would have done credit to a very much larger collection. The Roman remains stored here were described as "one of the most comprehensive collections of Roman relics in England," and included ornaments and articles in glass, iron, and bronze. There was also much pottery and tiles; also coins, images, and all kinds of useful and ornamental articles of the time of the Roman Occupation in Britain. Besides self-coloured tiles, there were some that were ornamented, one representing the "Capitoli Wolf," a strange-looking, long-legged animal, with its face inclined towards the spectator, while between its fore and hind legs could be seen in the distance the figures of Romulus and Remus, the founders of the city of Rome, who, tradition states, were suckled in their infancy by a wolf. But my brother reminded me that none of these things were fit to eat, and that our breakfast would now be ready, so away we sped to our lodgings to get our breakfast and to pay our bill, and bid good-bye to our landlady, who was a worthy, willing old soul. Just across the river, about a mile away, was the site of the "White Battle," fought on October 12th, 1319--one of the strangest and most unequal battles ever fought. It occurred after the English had been defeated at Bannockburn, and when the Scots were devastating the North of England. The Scots had burnt and plundered Boroughbridge in 1318 under Sir James Douglas, commonly known, on account perhaps of his cruelty, as the "Black Douglas." Even the children were afraid when his name was mentioned, for when they were naughty they were frightened with the threat that if they were not good the Black Douglas would be coming; even the very small children were familiar with his name, for a nursery song or lullaby of that period was-- Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye, Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye, The Black Douglas shall not get ye. Just before the "White Battle" the English Queen Isabel, wife of Edward II, had taken up her abode with a small retinue in the country near York, when an effort was made by the Scots to capture her; they nearly succeeded, for she only just managed to get inside the walls of York when the Scots appeared and demanded admittance. This was refused by the aged Archbishop Melton, who had the bulwarks manned and the fortifications repaired and defended. The Scots were enraged, as York was strongly fortified, and they shouted all manner of epithets to the people behind the walls; one of them actually rode up to the Micklegate Bar and accused the queen of all manner of immoralities, challenging any man to come forth and clear her fame. The Archbishop in a stirring appeal called upon every man and youth to attack the invaders. His eloquence was irresistible, and although there were not more than fifty trained soldiers in the city, they attacked the Scots, who retreated. The Archbishop's army was utterly unskilled in the arts of war, and carried all kinds of weapons, many of them obsolete. The Bishop of Ely, Lord High Chancellor of England, rode alongside the Archbishop, and behind them rode the Lord Mayor, followed by a multitude of clergy in white surplices, with monks, canons, friars, and other ecclesiastics, all fully dressed in the uniform of their offices. But only one result was possible, for they were opposed to 16,000 of Robert Bruce's best-trained soldiers. Meantime the Scots did not know the character of the foe before whom they were retreating, but, crossing the River Swale near the point where it meets the Yore, they set fire to a number of haystacks, with the result that the smoke blew into the faces of the Archbishop and his followers, as the wind was blowing in their direction. They, however, pressed bravely forward, but the Scots attacked them both in front and rear, and in less than an hour four thousand men and youths, their white robes stained with blood, were lying dead on the field of battle, while many were drowned in the river. The sight of so many surpliced clergy struck terror into the heart of the Earl of Murray and his men, who, instead of pursuing farther the retreating army, amongst whom were the aged Archbishop and his prelates--the Lord Mayor had been killed--retired northwards. Through the long hours of that night women, children, and sweethearts gazed anxiously from the walls of York, watching and waiting for those who would never return, and for many a long year seats were vacant in the sacred buildings of York. Thus ended the "Battle of the White," so named from the great number of surpliced clergy who took part therein. The old Archbishop escaped death, and one of the aged monks wrote that-- The triumphal standard of the Archbishop also was saved by the cross-bearer, who, mounted on a swift horse, plunged across the river, and leaving his horse, hid the standard in a dense thicket, and escaped in the twilight. The pike was of silver, and on the top was fixed the gilded image of our Lord Jesus Christ. Near where it was hidden a poor man was also hiding, and he twisted some bands of hay round it, and kept it in his cottage, and then returned it to the Bishop. About this time England was like a house divided against itself, for the barons had revolted against King Edward II. A battle was again fought at Boroughbridge on June 22nd, 1322, between the rebel army led by the Earls of Lancaster and Hereford, and the King's forces who were pursuing them. They were obliged to retreat over the bridge, which at that time was built of wood; but when they reached it, they found another part of the King's army of whose presence they were unaware, so they had to fight for the possession of the bridge. During the fight a Welshman, armed with a long spear, and who was hidden somewhere beneath the bridge, contrived to thrust his spear through an opening in the timbers right into the bowels of Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford, who fell forward mortally wounded. Thus died one of the most renowned warriors in England. The Earl of Lancaster made a final effort to cross the bridge, but his troops gave way and fled, the Earl taking refuge in the old chapel of Boroughbridge, from which he was dragged, stripped of his armour, and taken to York. Thence he was conveyed to his own castle at Pontefract, and lowered into a deep dungeon, into which, we were told, when we visited that castle later, he had himself lowered others, and soon afterwards he was condemned to death by the revengeful Edward, who had not forgotten the Earl's share in the death of his favourite, Piers Gaveston. Mounted on a miserable-looking horse, amidst the gibes and insults of the populace, he was led to the block, and thus died another of England's famous warriors. [Illustration: OLIVER CROMWELL, THE GREAT PARLIAMENTARIAN.] Needless to relate, we had decided to visit York Minster as our next great object of interest after Fountains Abbey, and by accident rather than design we had in our journey to and from York to pass over two battle-fields of first importance as decisive factors in the history of England--viz., Marston Moor and Towton Field. Marston Moor lay along our direct road from Aldborough to York, a distance of about sixteen miles. Here the first decisive battle was fought between the forces of King Charles I and those of the Parliament. His victory at Marston Moor gave Cromwell great prestige and his party an improved status in all future operations in the Civil War. Nearly all the other battles whose sites we had visited had been fought for reasons such as the crushing of a rebellion of ambitious and discontented nobles, or perhaps to repel a provoked invasion, and often for a mere change of rulers. Men had fought and shed their blood for persons from whom they could receive no benefit, and for objects in which they had no interest, and the country had been convulsed and torn to pieces for the gratification of the privileged few. But in the Battle of Marston Moor a great principle was involved which depended en the issue. It was here that King and People contended--the one for unlimited and absolute power, and the other for justice and liberty. The iron grasp and liberty-crushing rule of the Tudors was succeeded by the disgraceful and degrading reign of the Stuarts. The Divine Right of Kings was preached everywhere, while in Charles I's corrupt and servile Court the worst crimes on earth were practised. Charles had inherited from his father his presumptuous notions of prerogative and Divine Right, and was bent upon being an absolute and uncontrolled sovereign. He had married Henrietta, the daughter of the King of France, who, though possessed of great wit and beauty, was of a haughty spirit, and influenced Charles to favour the Roman Catholic Church as against the Puritans, then very numerous in Britain, who "through the Bishop's courts were fined, whipt, pilloried, and imprisoned, so that death was almost better than life." [Illustration: JOHN HAMPDEN.] A crisis had to come, and either one man must yield or a whole nation must submit to slavery. The tax named "Ship Money," originally levied in the eleventh century to provide ships for the Navy, was reintroduced by Charles in 1634 in a very burdensome form, and the crisis came which resulted in the Civil War, when Hampden, who resided in the neighbourhood of the Chiltern Hills, one of the five members of Parliament impeached by Charles, refused to pay the tax on the ground that it was illegal, not having been sanctioned by Parliament. He lost his case, but the nation was aroused and determined to vindicate its power. Hampden was killed in a small preliminary engagement in the early stages of the war. The King was supported by the bulk of the nobility, proud of their ancient lineage and equipments of martial pomp, and by their tenants and friends; while the strength of the Parliamentary Army lay in the town population and the middle classes and independent yeomanry: prerogative and despotic power on the one hand, and liberty and privilege on the other. The Royal Standard was raised at Nottingham and the din of arms rang through the kingdom. The fortress of Hull had been twice besieged and bravely defended, and the drawn Battle of Edgehill had been fought. In the early part of 1644 both parties began the war in earnest. A Scottish army had been raised, but its advance had been hindered by the Marquis of Newcastle, the King's commander in the north. In order to direct the attention of Newcastle elsewhere, Lord Fernando Fairfax and Sir Thomas his son, who had been commissioned by Parliament to raise forces, attacked Bellasis, the King's Yorkshire Commander, and Governor of York, who was at Selby with 2,000 men, and defeated them with great loss, capturing Bellasis himself, many of his men, and all his ordnance. Newcastle, dismayed by the news, hastened to York and entered the city, leaving the Scots free to join Fairfax at Netherby, their united forces numbering 16,000 foot and 4,000 horse. These partially blockaded York, but Newcastle had a strong force and was an experienced commander, and with a bridge across the River Ouse, and a strong body of horse, he could operate on both sides of the stream; so Crawford, Lindsey, and Fairfax sent messengers to the Earl of Manchester, who was in Lincolnshire, inviting him to join them. He brought with him 6,000 foot and 3,000 horse, of the last of which Oliver Cromwell was lieutenant-general. Even then they could not invest the city completely; but Newcastle was beginning to lose men and horses, and a scarcity of provisions prevailed, so he wrote to the King that he must surrender unless the city could be relieved. Charles then wrote to Prince Rupert, and said that to lose York would be equivalent to losing his crown, and ordered him to go to the relief of York forthwith. [Illustration: PRINCE RUPERT.] Rupert, the son of Frederick V, Elector of Bavaria, and a nephew of Charles I, was one of the most dashing cavalry officers in Europe. He lost no time in carrying out his commission, and in a few days Newcastle received a letter saying that he was stabling his horses that same night at Knaresborough, and that he would be at York the following day, Rupert's own horse being stabled that same night in the church at Boroughbridge. The news was received with great rejoicings by the besieged garrison and the people in York, but spread dismay amongst the besiegers, who thought York was about to capitulate. To stay in their present position was to court disaster, so they raised the siege and encamped on Hessey Moor, about six miles away, in a position which commanded the road along which Rupert was expected to travel. But by exercise of great military skill he crossed the river at an unexpected point and entered York on the opposite side. The Prince, as may be imagined, was received with great rejoicings; bells were rung, bonfires lighted, and guns fired, and the citizens went wild with triumphant excitement. Difficulties arose, however, between Newcastle, who was a thoughtful and experienced commander, and Rupert, who, having relieved the city, wanted to fight the enemy at once. As he scornfully refused advice, Newcastle retired, and went with the army as a volunteer only, Meantime there were dissensions among the Parliamentary generals, who were divided in their opinions--the English wishing to fight, and the Scots wishing to retreat. They were all on their way to Tadcaster, in search of a stronger position, when suddenly the vanguard of Rupert reached the rearguard of the other army at the village of Long Marston. This division of the retreating army included their best soldiers, and was commanded by Leslie and two other brave men, Sir Thomas Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell. Their rearguard halted, and, seeing the plain covered with pursuers, they sent word to the generals who had gone on in front, asking them to return and take possession of the dry land of the Moor, which was higher than that occupied by the Royalist army. Oliver Cromwell had already risen in the opinion of the army by his conduct in Lincolnshire, and he was dreaded by the Royalists, for he had already shown his ability to command. Stalwart and clumsy in frame, he had an iron constitution, and was a bold and good rider and a perfect master of the broadsword then in use. He had also a deep knowledge of human nature, and selected his troopers almost entirely from the sons of respectable farmers and yeomen, filled with physical daring and religious convictions, while his own religious enthusiasm, and his superiority in all military virtues, gave him unbounded power as a leader: What heroes from the woodland sprung When through the fresh awakened land The thrilling cry of freedom rung. And to the work of warfare strung The Yeoman's iron hand. The generals who had gone on in front now returned with their men to the assistance of their rearguard, and the whole army was brought into position on the high ground in the middle of the day, July 2nd, 1644. The position was a good one, sloping down gradually towards the enemy. The Royalist army numbered about 23,500 men, and that of the Parliament slightly more. It must have been a wonderful sight to see these 50,000 of the best and bravest men the kingdom could produce, ready to wound and kill each other. The war-cry of the Royalists was "God and the King," and that of the others was "God with us"--both sides believing they were fighting for the cause of religion. There were curses on one side and prayers on the other, each captain of the Parliament prayed at the head of his company and each soldier carried a Bible bearing the title "The Souldier's Pocket Bible, issued for use in the Commonwealth Army in 1643." It only consisted of fifteen pages of special passages that referred particularly to the soldier's life and temptations. Cromwell stood on the highest point of the field--the exact position, locally know as "Cromwell's Gap," was pointed out to us--but at the time of the great battle it was covered with a clump of trees, of which now only a few remained. The battle, once begun, raged with the greatest fury; but Cromwell and his "Ironsides" (a name given to them because of their iron resolution) were irresistible, and swept through the enemy like an avalanche; nothing could withstand them--and the weight of their onset bore down all before it. Their spirit could not be subdued or wearied, for verily they believed they were fighting the battles of the Lord, and that death was only a passport to a crown of glory. Newcastle's "White Coats," a regiment of thoroughly trained soldiers from the borders of Cheshire and Wales, who would not retreat, were almost annihilated, and Prince Rupert himself only escaped through the superior speed of his horse, and retired into Lancashire with the remains of his army, while Newcastle and about eighty others fled to Scarborough, and sailed to Antwerp, leaving Sir Thomas Glemham, the Governor of York, to defend that city. But as most of his artillery had been lost at Marston Moor, and the victors continued the siege, he was soon obliged to surrender. He made a very favourable agreement with the generals of the Parliamentarian forces, by the terms of which, consisting of thirteen clauses, they undertook to protect the property and persons of all in the city, not plunder or deface any churches or other buildings, and to give a safe conduct to officers and men--who were to march out with what were practically the honours of war--as far as Skipton. The agreement having been signed by both parties on July 16th, 1644, Sir Thomas Glemham, with his officers and men, marched out of the city of York with their arms, and "with drums beating, colours flying, match lighted, bullet in mouth, bag and baggage," made for Skipton, where they arrived safely. The Battle of Marston Moor was a shock to the Royalist cause from which it never recovered. [Illustration: YORK MINSTER.] From Marston Moor we continued along the valley of the River Ouse until we arrived at the city of York, which Cromwell entered a fortnight after the battle; but we did not meet with any resistance as we passed through one of its ancient gateways, or "bars." We were very much impressed with the immense size and grandeur of the great Minster, with its three towers rising over two hundred feet in height. We were too late to see the whole of the interior of this splendid old building, but gazed with a feeling of wonder and awe on one of the largest stained-glass windows in the world, about seventy feet high, and probably also the oldest, as it dated back about five hundred years. The different scenes depicted in the beautiful colours of the ancient glass panels represented every important Biblical event from the Creation downwards. We were surprised to find the window so perfect, as the stained-glass windows we had seen elsewhere had been badly damaged. But the verger explained that when the Minster was surrendered to the army of the Commonwealth in the Civil War, it was on condition that the interior should not be damaged nor any of the stained glass broken. We could not explore the city further that afternoon, as the weather again became very bad, so we retreated to our inn, and as our sorely-tried shoes required soling and heeling, we arranged with the "boots" of the inn to induce a shoemaker friend of his in the city to work at them during the night and return them thoroughly repaired to the hotel by six o'clock the following morning. During the interval we wrote our letters and read some history, but our room was soon invaded by customers of the inn, who were brought in one by one to see the strange characters who had walked all the way from John o' Groat's and were on their way to the Land's End, so much so that we began to wonder if it would end in our being exhibited in some show in the ancient market-place, which we had already seen and greatly admired, approached as it was then by so many narrow streets and avenues lined with overhanging houses of great antiquity. We were, however, very pleased with the interest shown both in ourselves and the object of our walk, and one elderly gentleman seemed inclined to claim some sort of relationship with us, on the strength of his having a daughter who was a schoolmistress at Rainford village, in Lancashire. He was quite a jovial old man, and typical of "a real old English gentleman, one of the olden time." He told us he was a Wesleyan local preacher, but had developed a weakness for "a pipe of tobacco and a good glass of ale." He said that when Dick Turpin rode from London to York, his famous horse, "Black Bess," fell down dead when within sight of the towers of the Minster, but the exact spot he had not been able to ascertain, as the towers could be seen from so long a distance. York, he said, was an older city than London, the See of York being even older than that of Canterbury, and a Lord Mayor existed at York long before there was one in London. He described the grand old Minster as one of the "Wonders of the World." He was very intelligent, and we enjoyed his company immensely. [Illustration: YORK MINSTER.] [Illustration: MICKLEGATE BAR, YORK.] [Illustration: STONE GATE, YORK.] York was the "Caer Ebranc" of the Brigantes, where Septimus Severus, the Roman Emperor, died in A.D. 211, and another Emperor, Constantius, in 306. The latter's son, who was born at York, was there proclaimed Emperor on the death of his father, to become better known afterwards as Constantine the Great. In A.D. 521 King Arthur was said to have spent Christmas at York in company with his courtiers and the famous Knights of the Round Table; but Geoffrey of Monmouth, who recorded this, was said to have a lively imagination in the way of dates and perhaps of persons as well. It is, however, certain that William the Conqueror built a castle there in 1068, and Robert de Clifford a large tower. (_Distance walked sixteen miles_.) _Wednesday, October 25th._ The boots awoke us early in the morning, only to say that he had sent a messenger unsuccessfully into the town for our shoes; all the consolation he got was that as soon as they were finished, his friend the shoemaker would send them down to the hotel. It was quite an hour after the time specified when they arrived, but still early enough to admit of our walking before breakfast round the city walls, which we found did not encircle the town as completely as those of our county town of Chester. Where practicable we explored them, and saw many ancient buildings, including Clifford's Tower and the beautiful ruins of St. Mary's Abbey. We also paid a second visit to the ancient market-place, with its quaint and picturesque surroundings, before returning to our inn, where we did ample justice to the good breakfast awaiting our arrival. [Illustration: MONK BAR, YORK.] We left the City of York by the same arched gateway through which we had entered on the previous day, and, after walking for about a mile on the Roman road leading to Tadcaster, the CALCARIA of the Romans and our next stage, we arrived at the racecourse, which now appeared on our left. Here we entered into conversation with one of the officials, who happened to be standing there, and he pointed out the place where in former years culprits were hanged. From what he told us we gathered that the people of York had a quick and simple way of disposing of their criminals, for when a man was sentenced to be hanged, he was taken to the prison, and after a short interval was placed in a cart, to which a horse was attached, and taken straightway to the gallows. Here a rope was suspended, with a noose, or running knot, at the end, which was placed round the culprit's neck, and after other preliminaries the hangman saw to it that the man's hands were securely handcuffed and the noose carefully adjusted. At a given signal from him the cart was drawn from under the man's feet, leaving him swinging and struggling for breath in the air, where he remained till life was extinct. The judge when passing the death-sentence always forewarned the prisoner what would happen to him, and that he would be taken from there to the prison, and thence to the place of execution, "where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead." Why he repeated the last word over and over again we could not explain. It was spoken very solemnly, and after the first time he used it there was a pause, and after the second, a longer pause, and then came the third in an almost sepulchral tone of voice, while a death-like silence pervaded the court, each word sounding like an echo of the one before it: dead!--dead!!--dead!!! Perhaps, like the Trinity, it gave a sense of completion. [Illustration: ST. MARY'S ABBEY, YORK.] The executions in those days were public, and many people attended them as they would a fair or the races; and when held outside the towns, as at York, a riotous mob had it in its power either to lynch or rescue the prisoner. But hangings were afterwards arranged to take place on a scaffold outside the prison wall, to which the prisoner could walk from the inside of the prison. The only one we ever went to see was outside the county gaol, but the character of the crowd of sightseers convinced us we were in the wrong company, and we went away without seeing the culprit hanged! There must have been a great crowd of people on the York racecourse when Eugene Aram was hanged, for the groans and yells of execration filled his ears from the time he left the prison until he reached the gallows and the cart was drawn from under him, adding to the agony of the moment and the remorse he had felt ever since the foul crime for which he suffered. As we stood there we thought what an awful thing it must be to be hanged on the gallows.[Footnote: In later years we were quite horrified to receive a letter from a gentleman in Yorkshire who lived in the neighbouring of Knaresborough in which he wrote: "I always feel convinced in my own mind that Eugene Aram was innocent. Note these beautiful lines he wrote the night before his execution: "Come, pleasing rest! eternal slumber fall, Seal mine, that once must seal the eyes of all; Calm and composed, my soul her journey takes, No _guilt_ that _troubles_, and no _heart_ that _aches_! Adieu, thou sun! all bright like her arise; Adieu, fair friends! and all that's good and wise. "I could give you," he added, "the most recent thoughts and opinions about the tragedy, and they prove beyond doubt his innocence!"] But, like other dismal thoughts, we got rid of it as soon as possible by thinking how thankful we should be that, instead of being hanged, we were walking through the level country towards Tadcaster, a Roman station in the time of Agricola. From some cause or other we were not in our usual good spirits that day, which we accounted for by the depression arising from the dull autumnal weather and the awful histories of the wars he had been reading the previous night. But we afterwards attributed it to a presentiment of evil, for we were very unfortunate during the remainder of the week. Perhaps it is as well so; the human race would suffer much in anticipation, did not the Almighty hide futurity from His creatures. [Illustration: OLD GOTHIC CHURCH, TADCASTER.] Just before reaching Tadcaster we crossed the River Wharfe, which we had seen higher up the country, much nearer its source. Here we turned to the left to visit Pontefract, for the sole reason, for aught we knew, that we had heard that liquorice was manufactured there, an article that we had often swallowed in our early youth, without concerning ourselves where or how that mysterious product was made. It was quite a change to find ourselves walking through a level country and on a level road, and presently we crossed the River Cock, a small tributary of the Wharfe, close by the finely wooded park of Grimstone, where Grim the Viking, or Sea Pirate, settled in distant ages, and gave his name to the place; he was also known as "the man with the helmet." We then came to the small hamlet of Towton, where on the lonely heath was fought the Battle of Towton Field, one of the most bloody battles recorded in English history. This great and decisive battle was fought in the Wars of the Roses, between the rival Houses of York and Lancaster, for the possession of the English Crown--a rivalry which began in the reign of Henry VI and terminated with the death of Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field. It has been computed that during the thirty years these wars lasted, 100,000 of the gentry and common people, 200 nobles, and 12 princes of the Royal Blood were killed, all this carnage taking place under the emblems of love and purity, for the emblem or badge of the House of Lancaster was the red rose, and that of York the white. The rivalry between the two Houses only came to an end when Henry VII, the Lancastrian, married the Princess Elizabeth, the daughter of Edward IV, the Yorkist. The Battle of Towton, like many others both before and since, was fought on a Sunday, which happened to be Palm Sunday in the year 1461, and the historian relates that on that day the "heavens were overcast, and a strong March wind brought with it a blinding snowstorm, right against the faces of the Lancastrians as they advanced to meet the Yorkists, who quickly took advantage of the storm to send many furious showers of arrows from their strong bows right into the faces of the Lancastrians, causing fearful havoc amongst them at the very outset of the battle. These arrows came as it were from an unknown foe, and when the Lancastrians shot their arrows away, they could not see that they were falling short of the enemy, who kept advancing and retreating, and who actually shot at the Lancastrians with their own arrows, which had fallen harmlessly on the ground in front of the Yorkists. When the Lancastrians had nearly emptied their quivers, their leaders hurried their men forward to fight the enemy, and, discarding their bows, they continued the battle with sword, pike, battle-axe, and bill. Thus for nearly the whole of that Sabbath day the battle raged, the huge struggling mass of humanity fighting like demons, and many times during that fatal day did the fortune of war waver in the balance: sometimes the White Rose trembling and then the Red, while men fought each other as if they were contending for the Gate of Paradise! For ten hours, with uncertain result, the conflict raged, which Shakespeare compared to "the tide of a mighty sea contending with a strong opposing wind," but the arrival of 5,000 fresh men on the side of the Yorkists turned the scale against the Lancastrians, who began to retreat, slowly at first, but afterwards in a disorderly flight. The Lancastrians had never anticipated a retreat, and had not provided for it, for they felt as sure of victory as the great Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, who, when he was asked by a military expert what provision he had made for retreat in the event of losing the battle, simply answered, "None!" The Lancastrians were obliged to cross the small River Cock in their retreat, and it seemed almost impossible to us that a small stream like that could have been the cause of the loss of thousands upon thousands of the finest and bravest soldiers in England. But so it happened. There was only one small bridge over the stream, which was swollen and ran swiftly in flood. This bridge was soon broken down with the rush of men and horses trying to cross it, and although an active man to-day could easily jump over the stream, it was a death-trap for men weighted with heavy armour and wearied with exertion, the land for a considerable distance on each side the river being very boggy. As those in front sank in the bog, those from behind walked over them, and as row after row disappeared, their bodies formed the road for others to walk over. The carnage was terrible, for King Edward had ordered that no quarter must be given and no prisoners taken. It was estimated that 28,000 of the Lancastrians were slaughtered in this battle and in the pursuit which followed, and that 37,776 men in all were killed on that dreadful day. In some parts of Yorkshire the wild roses were very beautiful, ranging in colour from pure white to the deepest red, almost every shade being represented; the variation in colour was attributed to the difference in the soil or strata in which they grew. But over this battle-field and the enormous pits in which the dead were buried there grew after the battle a dwarf variety of wild rose which it was said would not grow elsewhere, and which the country people thought emblematical of the warriors who had fallen there, as the white petals were slightly tinged with red, while the older leaves of the bushes were of a dull bloody hue; but pilgrims carried many of the plants away before our time, and the cultivation of the heath had destroyed most of the remainder. In the great Battle of Towton Field many noblemen had perished, but they appeared to have been buried with the rank and file in the big pits dug out for the burial of the dead, as only a very few could be traced in the local churchyards. The Earl of Westmorland, however, had been buried in Saxton church and Lord Dacres in Saxton churchyard, where his remains rested under a great stone slab, 7 feet long, 4-1/2 feet wide, and 7 inches thick, the Latin inscription on which, in old English characters, was rapidly fading away: HIC JACET RANULPHUS D.S. DE DAKREET--MILES ET OCCISUS ERAT IN BELLO PRINCIPE HENRICO VIe ANNO DOM 1461.--29 DIE MARTII VIDELICET DOMICA DIE PALMARUM--CUJUS ANIME PROPITIETUR DEUS.--AMEN. The local poet, in giving an account of the battle, has written:-- The Lord Dacres Was slain at Nor acres, for his lordship had been killed in a field known as the North Acres. He had removed his gorget, a piece of armour which protected the throat, for the purpose, it was supposed, of getting a drink to quench his thirst, when he was struck in the throat by a bolt, or headless arrow, shot from a cross-bow by a boy who was hiding in a bur-tree or elder bush. The boy-archer must have been a good shot to hit a warrior clothed from head to foot in armour in the only vulnerable point exposed, but in those days boys were trained to shoot with bows and arrows from the early age of six years, their weapons, being increased in size and strength as they grew older; their education was not considered complete until they could use that terrible weapon known as the English long-bow, and hit the smallest object with their arrows. Lord Dacres was buried in an upright position, and his horse was buried with him; for many years the horse's jaw-bone and teeth were preserved at the vicarage, One of his lordship's ancestors, who died fighting on Flodden Field, had been buried in a fine tomb in Lanercrost Abbey. Lord Clifford was another brave but cruel warrior who was killed in a similar way. He had removed his helmet from some unexplained cause--possibly to relieve the pressure on his head--when a random arrow pierced his throat; but his death was to many a cause of rejoicing, for owing to his cruel deeds at the Battle of Wakenfield, he had earned the sobriquet of "the Butcher." While that battle was raging, the Duke of York's son, the Earl of Rutland, a youth only seventeen years of age, described as "a fair gentleman and maiden-like person," was brought by his tutor, a priest, from the battle-field to shelter in the town. Here he was perceived by Clifford, who asked who he was. The boy, too much afraid to speak, fell on his knees imploring for mercy, "both by holding up his hands and making dolorous countenance, for his speech was gone from fear." "Save him," said the tutor, "for he is a prince's son and, peradventure, might do you good hereafter." With that word Clifford marked him, and said, "By God's blood thy father slew mine, and so will I thee, and all thy kin," and, saying this, he struck the Earl to the heart with his dagger, and bade the tutor bear word to his mother and brothers what he had said and done. Not content with this, when he came to the body of the Duke, the child's father, he caused the head to be cut off and a paper crown to be placed on it; then, fixing it on a pole, he presented it to the Queen, saying, "Madame, your war is done--here is your King's ransom." The head was placed over the gates of York by the side of that of the Earl of Salisbury, whom Queen Margaret had ordered to be beheaded. For some little time we had been walking through what was known as the "Kingdom of Elmet," but whether this was associated with the helmet of Grim we were unable to ascertain, though we shrewdly suspected it was an old Celtic word. We arrived at the village of Sherburn-in-Elmet, an important place in ancient times, where once stood the palace of Athelstan, the grandson of Alfred the Great, the first ruler of all England, who was crowned King of England in the year 925. In celebration of his great victory over the combined army of the Danes and Scots at Brunnanburgh, King Athelstan presented his palace here, along with other portions of the Kingdom of Elmet, to the See of York, and it remained the Archbishop of York's Palace for over three hundred years. But when the See of York was removed to Cawick, a more convenient centre, the Sherburn Palace was pulled down, and at the time of our visit only the site and a portion of the moat remained. We were much interested in the church, as the historian related that "within the walls now existing the voices of the last Saxon archbishop and the first Norman archbishop have sounded, and in the old church of Sherburn has been witnessed the consummation of the highest ambition of chivalric enterprise, and all the pomp attending the great victory of Athelstan at Brunnanburgh." Here in the time of Edward II, in 1321, "a secret conclave was held, attended by the Archbishop, the Bishops of Durham and Carlisle, and Abbots from far and near, the Earls of Lancaster and Hereford, and many Barons, Baronets, and Knights. To this assembly Sir John de Bek, a belted Knight, read out the Articles which Lancaster and his adherents intended to insist upon." But what interested us most in the church was the "Janus Cross" The Romans dedicated the month of January to Janus, who was always pictured with two faces, as January could look back to the past year and forwards towards the present. The Janus Cross here had a curious history; it had been found in the ruins of an ancient chapel in the churchyard dedicated to the "Honour of St. Mary and the Holy Angels." One of the two churchwardens thought it would do to adorn the walls of his residence, but another parishioner thought it would do to adorn his own, and the dispute was settled by some local Solomon, who suggested that they should cut it in two and each take one half. So it was sawn vertically in two parts, one half being awarded to each. In course of time the parts were again united and restored to the church. [Illustration: ST. JANUS CROSS, SHERBURN-IN-ELMERT CHURCH.] Arriving at Ferry Bridge, we crossed the River Aire, which we had seen at its source, but which here claimed to have become one of the most useful rivers in Yorkshire, for its waters were valuable for navigation and for the manufacturing towns near which they passed. My foot, which had pained me ever since leaving York, so that I had been limping for some time, now became so painful that I could scarcely walk at all. Still, we were obliged to reach Pontefract in order to procure lodgings for the night, so my brother relieved me of all my luggage excepting the stick, in order that I might hobble along to that town. It was with great difficulty that I climbed up the hill to the inn, which was in the upper part of the town, and there I was painfully relieved by the removal of my boot, and found that my ankle was seriously swollen and inflamed. It might, of course, have arisen through over-exertion, but we came to the conclusion that it was caused through the repair of my boots at York. Before arriving there the heels were badly worn down at one side, and as I had been practically walking on the sides of my feet, the sudden reversion to the flat or natural position had brought on the disaster that very nearly prevented us from continuing our walk. We applied all the remedies that both our hostess and ourselves could think of, but our slumbers that night were much disturbed, and not nearly so continuous as usual. (_Distance walked twenty-three and a half miles_.) _Thursday, October 26th._ [Illustration: THE OLD CHURCH, PONTEFRACT.] The great object of interest at Pontefract was the castle, the ruins of which were very extensive. Standing on the only hill we encountered in our walk of the previous day, it was formerly one of the largest and strongest castles in England, and had been associated with many stirring historical events. It was here that King Richard II was murdered in the year 1399, and the remains of the dismal chamber where this tragedy took place still existed. During the Wars of the Roses, when in 1461 Queen Margaret appeared in the north of Yorkshire with an army of 60,000 men, the newly appointed King, Edward IV, sent the first portion of his army to meet her in charge of his most influential supporter, the Earl of Warwick, the "King Maker." The King followed him to Pontefract with the remainder of his army, and the old castle must have witnessed a wonderful sight when that army, to the number of 40,660 men, was marshalled in the plains below. But it was in the Civil War that this castle attained its greatest recorded notoriety, for it was besieged three times by the forces of the Parliament. Sir Thomas Fairfax was in charge of the first siege, and took possession of the town in 1644, driving the garrison into the castle. He had a narrow escape from death on that occasion, as a cannon-ball passed between him and Colonel Forbes so close that the wind caused by its passage knocked both of them down to the ground, Forbes losing the sight of one of his eyes. The castle was strongly defended, but just as one of the towers collapsed, a shot from the castle struck a match, and the spark, falling into Fairfax's powder stores, caused a tremendous explosion which killed twenty-seven of his men. In January 1645 Forbes sent a drum to the castle to beat a parley, but the Governor, Colonel Lowther, and his brave garrison said they would go on with the defence to the last extremity. The besiegers then began to lay mines, but these were met by counter-mines driven by the garrison, who now began to suffer from want of food. At this critical moment a Royalist force of 2,000 horse arrived under Sir Marmaduke Langdale, who had made a forced march from Oxford to relieve the garrison. He drove off the besiegers, first to Ferry Bridge, and afterwards to Sherburn and Tadcaster, inflicting severe loss, and so the garrison was revictualled. The Parliamentary forces, however, soon made their appearance again, and on March 21st, 1645, the second siege began. They again took possession of the town, and after four months of incessant cannonading the garrison capitulated and the castle was garrisoned by the other side. The war continued in other parts of the country, and towards the end of it a conspiracy was formed by the Royalists to recover possession of the castle, which through the treachery of a Colonel Maurice was successful. Many of the garrison at that time lived outside the walls of the castle, and Maurice persuaded the Governor, Cotterel, to order them to move their homes inside, to which he assented, issuing an order in the country for beds to be provided on a certain day. Taking advantage of this, Maurice and another conspirator dressed themselves as country gentlemen, with swords by their sides, and with nine others, disguised as constables, made their appearance at the castle entrance early in the morning, so as to appear like a convoy guarding the safe passage of the goods. The Governor, who kept the keys, was still in bed, and the soldier on guard at the inside of the gates, who was in league with Maurice, went to inform him the beds had arrived. He handed over the keys, and, not suspecting treachery, remained in bed with his sword at his side as usual. The remainder of the conspirators then drew their swords, and the garrison, on condition that their lives should be spared, surrendered, and were put into one of the prison dungeons. The conspirators then went to the room of the Governor, who, hearing a noise, jumped out of bed and defended himself, but was soon wounded, disarmed, and placed in the dungeon along with the rest, while the Royalists took possession of the castle. This happened in June 1648. The dungeons in the castle, which were still to be seen, were of the most awful description, for, sunk deep down into the solid rock, it was scarcely necessary to write over them-- Abandon Hope, all ye who enter here. There was one dungeon under the Round Tower, which was reached by passing down some winding steps, into which no ray of light ever entered, as dark and dismal a place as could be imagined. Here Earl Rivers and his fellow peers were incarcerated, praying for their execution to end their misery. There was also a cellar for the storage of food and drink, sunk some forty or fifty feet in the solid rock, and capable of holding two or three hundred men, and this too was used as a dungeon by the Royalists. Here the prisoners taken by the Royalist army were confined, and many of their names appeared cut in the walls of solid rock. The history of these places, if it could be written, would form a chapter of horrors of the most dreadful character, as in olden times prisoners were often forgotten by their captors, and left in the dungeons to perish. It was not without a tinge of satisfaction that we heard that the Earl of Lancaster, to whom the castle belonged, was himself placed in one of these dungeons after the Battle of Boroughbridge in 1322, and after being imprisoned there a short time, where he had so often imprisoned others, was led out to execution. The third siege of Pontefract Castle happened in the autumn of 1648, for after the Parliamentarians had gained the upper hand, the castles that still held out against them were besieged and taken, but the turn of Pontefract Castle came last of all. Oliver Cromwell himself undertook to superintend the operations, and General Lambert, one of the ablest of Cromwell's generals, born at Kirkby Malham, a Yorkshire village through which we had passed some days before, was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the forces. He arrived before the castle on December 4th, 1648, but such was the strength of the position that though he had a large number of soldiers and a great service of artillery, it was not until March 25th, 1649, when scarcely one hundred men were left to defend the walls, that the garrison capitulated. Meantime the tremendous effect of the artillery brought to bear against them had shattered the walls, and finally Parliament ordered the castle to be dismantled. With the surrender of this castle the Civil War came to an end, but not before King Charles I had been beheaded. [Illustration: THE GATE AND KEEP, PONTEFRACT CASTLE.] Last year, before we began our walk from London to Lancashire, we visited Whitehall and saw the window in the Banqueting-hall through which, on January 30th, 1649, about two months before Pontefract Castle surrendered, he passed on his way to the scaffold outside. In its prime Pontefract Castle was an immense and magnificent fortification, and from its ruins we had a fine view on all sides of the country it had dominated for about six hundred years. We were now journeying towards the more populous parts of the country, and the greater the mileage of our walk, the greater became the interest taken both in us and our adventures. Several persons interviewed us in our hotel at Pontefract, and much sympathy was extended towards myself, as my foot was still very painful in spite of the remedies which had been applied to it; but we decided not to give in, my brother kindly consenting to carry all the luggage, for we were very anxious not to jeopardise our twenty-five miles' daily average beyond recovery. My boot was eased and thoroughly oiled; if liquorice could have done it any good, we could have applied it in addition to the other remedies, as we had bought some both for our own use and for our friends to eat when we reached home. All we had learned about it was that it was made from the root of a plant containing a sweet juice, and that the Greek name of it was _glykyr-rhiza_, from _glykys_, sweet, and _rhiza_, root. After making a note of this formidable word, I did not expect my brother to eat any more liquorice; but his special aversion was not Greek, but Latin, as he said both his mind and body had been associated with that language through the medium of the cane of his schoolmaster, who believed in the famous couplet: 'Tis Education forms the common mind. And with the cane we drive it in behind! He was always suspicious of the Latin words attached to plants, and especially when quoted by gardeners, which I attributed to jealousy of their superior knowledge of that language; but it appeared that it was founded on incidents that occurred many years ago. He was acquainted with two young gardeners who were learning their business by working under the head gardener at a hall in Cheshire, the owner of which was proud of his greenhouses and hothouses as well as of the grounds outside. As a matter of course everything appeared up to date, and his establishment became one of the show-places in the neighbourhood. The gardener, an elderly man, was quite a character. He was an Irishman and an Orangeman as well, and had naturally what was known in those parts as "the gift of the gab." The squire's wife was also proud of her plants, and amongst the visitors to the gardens were many ladies, who often asked the gardener the name of a plant that was strange to them. As no doubt he considered it _infra dig._ to say he did not know, and being an Irishman, he was never at a loss when asked, "What do you call this plant?" he would reply, "Oh, that, mum, is the Hibertia Canadensus, mum!" and a further inquiry would be answered in a similar manner--"That, mum, is the Catanansus Rulia, mum!" and again the lady would thank him and walk on apparently quite pleased and happy, probably forgetting the name of the plant before she had gone through the gardens. The young men were often at work in the houses while the visitors were going through, and of course they were too deeply engaged in their work either to see the visitors or to hear all the conversation that was going on, but they told my brother that they could always tell when the gardener did not know the real name of a plant by his invariably using these two names on such occasions, regardless of the family or species of the plant in question. Pomfret was the local abbreviation of Pontefract, the name of the town, and "Pomfret Liquorice" claimed not only to be a sweetmeat, but a throat remedy as well, and was considered beneficial to the consumer. The sample we purchased was the only sweet we had on our journey, for in those days men and women did not eat sweets so much as in later times, they being considered the special delicacies of the children. The sight of a man or woman eating a sweet would have caused roars of ridicule. Nor were there any shops devoted solely to the sale of sweets in the country; they were sold by grocers to the children, though in nothing like the variety and quantity that appeared in later years. The most common sweet in those days was known as "treacle toffy," which was sold in long sticks wrapped from end to end in white paper, to protect the children's fingers when eating it, in spite of which it was no unusual sight to see both hands and faces covered with treacle marks, and thus arose the name of "treacle chops," as applied to boys whose cheeks were smeared with treacle. There was also toffy that was sold by weight, of which Everton toffee was the chief favourite. My brother could remember a little visitor, a cousin of ours, who could not speak very plainly, and who always called a cup a "tup," being sent to the village shop for a pound of coffee, and his delight when he returned laden with a pound of toffy, which was of course well-nigh devoured before the mistake was found out! By this day we were ready for anything except walking as we crawled out of the town to find our way to Doncaster, and our speed, as might be imagined, was not excessive; for, including stoppages, which were necessarily numerous, we only averaged one mile per hour! There was a great bazaar being held in Pontefract that day, to be opened by Lord Houghton, and we met several carriages on their way to it. After we had walked some distance, we were told--for we stopped to talk to nearly every one we met--that we were now passing through Barnsdale Forest. We could not see many trees, even though this was formerly the abode of Robin Hood and Little John, as well as Will Scarlett. It was in this forest that Robin, hearing of the approach of the Bishop of Hereford, ordered his men to kill a good fat deer, and to make a repast of it by the side of the highway on which the Bishop was travelling. Robin dressed himself and six of his men in the garb of shepherds, and they took their stand by the fire at which the venison was being roasted. When the Bishop came up, with his retinue, he asked the men why they had killed the King's deer, and said he should let the King know about it, and would take them with him to see the King. "Oh pardon, oh pardon," said bold Robin Hood, "Oh pardon, I thee pray. For it becomes not your Lordship's coat To take so many lives away." "No pardon, no pardon," said the Bishop, "No pardon I thee owe; Therefore make haste and come along with me, For before the King ye shall go." Then Robin pulled his bugle horn from beneath his coat and blew a long blast, and threescore and ten of his followers quickly appeared-- All making obeysance to Robin Hood, 'Twas a comely sight to see; "What is the matter, master?" said Little John, "That you blow so heartily?" Robin replied that the Bishop of Hereford refused all pardon for slaying the deer, and had said they must at once accompany him to the King. Little John then suggested that they should cut off the Bishop's head and throw him in a grave; but the Bishop craved pardon of the outlaw for his interference, and declared that had he known who was on the road, "he would have gone some other way." "No pardon, no pardon," said bold Robin Hood, "No pardon I thee owe; Therefore make haste and come along with me, For to merry Barnsdale you shall go." So thither they led the Bishop, and made him sup with them right merrily and royally. "Call in a reckoning," said the Bishop, "For methinks it grows wondrous high;" "Lend me your purse, master," said Little John, "And I'll tell you by and bye!" Little John took the Bishop's cloak And spread it upon the ground. And out of the Bishop's portmanteau He told three hundred pound. "Here's money enough, master," said Little John, "And a comely sight to see; It makes me in charity with the Bishop, Though he heartily loveth not me." Robin took the Bishop by the hand, And he caused the music to play; And he made the Bishop to dance in his boots. And glad he could get away! [Illustration: DONCASTER RACECOURSE. "We had walked for five days over the broad acres of Yorkshire and had seen many fine horses, for horse-breeding was a leading feature of that big county, and horses a frequent subject of conversation."] We heard all sorts of stories from the roadmen, some of which might not be true; but in any case about seven miles from Doncaster we reached Robin Hood's Well, at the side of the road. It was quite a substantial structure, built of soft limestone, and arched over, with a seat inside--on which doubtless many a weary wayfarer had rested before us. The interior was nearly covered with inscriptions, one dated 1720 and some farther back than that. We had a drink of water from the well, but afterwards, when sitting on the seat, saw at the bottom of the well a great black toad, which we had not noticed when drinking the water. The sight of it gave us a slight attack of the horrors, for we had a particular dread of toads. We saw at the side of the road a large house which was formerly an inn rejoicing in the sign of "Robin Hood and Little John," one of the oldest inns between York and London. We called at a cottage for tea, and here we heard for the first time of the Yorkshireman's coat-of-arms, which the lady of the house told us every Yorkshireman was entitled to place on his carriage free of tax! It consisted of a flea, and a fly, a flitch of bacon, and a magpie, which we thought was a curious combination. The meaning, however, was forthcoming, and we give the following interpretation as given to us: A flea will bite! and so will a Yorkshireman; A fly will drink out of anybody's cup! and so will a Yorkshireman; A magpie will chatter! and so will a Yorkshireman: And a flitch of bacon looks best when it's hung! and so does a Yorkshireman. We fancied a Lancashire man must have written that ditty. [Illustration: ROBIN HOOD'S WELL.] The moon was shining brightly as we left the cottage, and a man we met, when he saw me limping so badly, stopped us to inquire what was the matter. He was returning from Doncaster, and cheered us up by pointing to the moon, saying we should have the "parish lantern" to light us on our way. This appeared to remind him of his parish church, where a harvest thanksgiving had just been held, with a collection on behalf of the hospital and infirmary. He and seven of his fellow servants had given a shilling each, but, although there were "a lot of gentry" at the service, the total amount of the collection was only one pound odd. The minister had told them he could scarcely for shame carry it in, as it was miserably small for an opulent parish like that! We arrived at Doncaster at 8.30 p.m., and stayed at the temperance hotel in West Laith Street. The landlord seemed rather reluctant about letting us in, but he told us afterwards he thought we were "racing characters," which greatly amused us since we had never attended a race-meeting in our lives! (_Distance walked fourteen miles_.) _Friday, October 27th._ Our host at Doncaster took a great interest in us, and, in spite of my sprained ankle, we had a good laugh at breakfast-time at his mistaking us for "racing characters." My brother related to him his experiences on the only two occasions he ever rode on the back of a horse unassisted. The first of these was when, as quite a young boy, he went to visit his uncle who resided near Preston in Lancashire, and who thought it a favourable opportunity to teach him to ride. He was therefore placed on the back of a quiet horse, a groom riding behind him on another horse, with orders not to go beyond a walking pace; but when they came near the barracks, and were riding on the grass at the side of the road, a detachment of soldiers came marching out through the entrance, headed by their military band, which struck up a quickstep just before meeting the horses. My brother's horse suddenly reared up on its hind legs, and threw him off its back on to the grass below, or, as he explained it, while the horse reared up he reared down! He was more frightened than hurt, but the groom could not persuade him to ride on the horse's back any farther, so he had to lead the horses home again, a distance of two miles, while my brother walked on the footpath. It was years before he attempted to ride on horseback again, but this time he was mounted upon an old horse white with age, and very quiet, which preferred walking to running; this second attempt also ended disastrously. It was a very hot day, and he had ridden some miles into the country when he came to a large pit, on the opposite side of the road to a farmhouse, when, without any warning, and almost before my brother realised what was happening, the horse walked straight into this pit, and, in bending its head to drink at the water, snatched the bridle out of his hands. He had narrowly escaped drowning on several occasions, and was terrified at the thought of falling into the water, so, clutching hold of the horse's mane with both hands, he yelled out with all his might for help--which only served to make the horse move into a deeper part of the pit, as if to have a bathe as well as a drink. His cries attracted the attention of some Irish labourers who were at work in a field, and they ran to his assistance. One of them plunged into the water, which reached half way up his body, and, taking hold of my brother, carried him to the road and then returned for the horse. He was rewarded handsomely for his services, for my brother verily believed he had saved him from being drowned. He was much more afraid of the water than of the horse, which was, perhaps, the reason why he had never learned to swim, but he never attempted to ride on horseback again. On the wall in front of the farmhouse an old-fashioned sundial was extended, on the face of which were the words: Time that is past will never return, and on the opposite corner were the Latin words _Tempus fugit_ (Time flies). My brother seemed to have been greatly impressed by these proverbs, and thought of them as he led the white horse on his three-mile walk towards home; they seemed engraven upon his memory, for he often quoted them on our journey. [Illustration: THE GUILDHALL, DONCASTER.] My ankle seemed to be a shade easier, and, after the usual remedies had again been applied, we started on another miserable walk, or limp, for we only walked twelve miles in twelve hours, following the advice of our host to take it easy, and give the ankle time to recover. We rested many times on the road, stopped to talk to many people, got to know all about the country we were passing through, read papers and books, called for refreshments oftener than we needed them, wrote letters to our friends, and made copious entries in our diaries---in fact did everything except walk. The country was very populous, and we attracted almost universal sympathy: myself for my misfortune, and my brother for having to carry all the luggage. Doncaster takes its name from the River Don, on which it is situated, and it was the only town in England, after London and York, that possessed a "Mansion House." We had walked for five days over the broad acres of Yorkshire and had seen many fine horses, for horse-breeding, we found, was a leading feature in that big county, and horses a frequent subject of conversation. Doncaster was no exception to the rule, as the Doncaster Races were famous all over England, and perhaps in other countries beyond the seas. We were too late in the year for the great St. Leger race, which was held in the month of September, and was always patronised by Royalty. On that occasion almost every mansion in the county was filled with visitors "invited down" for the races, and there was no doubt that agricultural Yorkshire owed much of its prosperity to the breeding of its fine horses. The racecourse was situated on a moor a little way out of the town, the property of the Corporation, and it was said that the profit made by the races was so great that the Doncaster people paid no rates. This might of course be an exaggeration, but there could be no doubt that the profit made by the Corporation out of the moor on which the races were held would largely reduce the rates of the town. Doncaster races owed their origin to a famous Arab horse named Rasel-Fedawi (or the "Headstrong"), which was purchased from the Anazeh tribe of Arabs by a Mr. Darley, an Englishman who at that time resided at Aleppo, a Turkish trading centre in Northern Syria. This gentleman sent the horse to his brother at Aldby Park in Yorkshire, and what are now known as "thoroughbreds" have descended from him. His immediate descendants have been credited with some wonderful performances, and the "Flying Childers," a chestnut horse with a white nose and four white legs, bred from a mare born in 1715, named "Betty Leedes," and owned by Leonard Childers of Doncaster, was never beaten. All sorts of tales were told of his wonderful performances: he was said to have covered 25 feet at each bound, and to have run the round course at Newmarket, 3 miles 6 furlongs, in six minutes and forty seconds. After him came another famous horse named "Eclipse" which could, it was said, run a mile a minute. When he died in 1789 his heart was found to weigh 14 pounds, which accounted for his wonderful speed and courage. Admiral Rous records that in the year 1700 the English racehorse was fifteen hands high, but after the Darley Arabian, the average height rose to over sixteen hands. It was said that there were races at Doncaster in the seventeenth century, but the great St. Leger was founded by General St. Leger in 1778, and the grand stand was built in the following year. The Yorkshire gentlemen and farmers were naturally all sportsmen, and were credited with keeping "both good stables and good tables." The invitation to "have a bite and a sup" was proverbial, especially in the wold or moorland districts, where hospitality was said to be unbounded. A learned man wrote on one occasion that "an honest walk is better than a skilled physician. It stimulates heart, brain, and muscles alike, sweeping cobwebs from the mind and heaviness from the heart." But this was probably not intended to apply to a man with a sore foot, and it was difficult to understand why the ankle failure had come so suddenly. We could only attribute it to some defect in the mending of the boot at York, but then came the mystery why the other ankle had not been similarly affected. The day was beautifully fine, but the surroundings became more smoky as we were passing through a mining and manufacturing district, and it was very provoking that we could not walk through it quickly. However, we had to make the best of it, imagining we were treading where the saints had trod, or at any rate the Romans, for this was one of their roads to the city of York upon which their legions must have marched; but while we crossed the rivers over bridges, the Romans crossed them by paved fords laid in the bed of the streams, traces of which were still to be seen. We made a long stay at Comsborough, and saw the scanty remains of the castle, to which Oliver Cromwell had paid special attention, as, in the words of the historian, "he blew the top off," which had never been replaced. And yet it had a very long history, for at the beginning of the fourth century it was the Burgh of Conan, Earl of Kent, who with Maximian made an expedition to Armorica (now Brittany), where he was eventually made king, which caused him to forsake his old Burgh in England. Maximian was a nephew of King Coel, or Cole, the hero of the nursery rhyme, of which there are many versions: Old King Cole was a jolly old soul, And a jolly old soul was he; He called for his ale, and he called for his beer, And he called for his fiddle-diddle-dee. [Illustration: CONISBOROUGH CASTLE.] But he seemed to have been a jolly old sinner as well, for he formed the brilliant idea of supplying his soldiers with British wives, and arranged with his father-in-law, the Duke of Cornwall, to send him several shiploads from the "old country," for British women were famous for their beauty. His request was complied with, but a great storm came on, and some of the ships foundered, while others were blown out of their course, as far as Germany, where the women landed amongst savages, and many of them committed suicide rather than pass into slavery. Who has not heard of St. Ursula and her thousand British virgins, whose bones were said to be enshrined at Cologne Cathedral, until a prying medico reported that many of them were only dogs' bones--for which heresy he was expelled the city as a dangerous malignant. Troublesome times afterwards arose in England, and on the Yorkshire side, Briton and Saxon, and Pict and Scot, were mixed up in endless fights and struggles for existence. It was about this period that Vortigern, the British King, invited Hengist and Horsa, the Saxon Princes, to lend their assistance against the Picts and the Scots, which they did for a time; and when Hengist asked for a residence in his country, the King gave him Conan's Burgh, which was then vacant. Conan was never again seen in England, but in 489 his great-grandson Aurelius Ambrosius became King of the Britons. In the meantime the Saxons had so increased in numbers that they determined to fight for the possession of the country, and, headed by Hengist, who had turned traitor, fought a great battle, in the course of which Eldol, Duke of Gloucester, encountered Hengist in single combat, and, seizing him by the helmet, dragged him into the British ranks shouting that God had given his side the victory. The Saxons were dismayed, and fled in all directions, and Hengist was imprisoned in his own fortress of Conisborough, where a council of war was held to decide what should be his fate. Some were against his being executed, but Eldol's brother Eldad, Bishop of Gloucester, "a man of great wisdom and piety," compared him to King Agag, whom the prophet "hewed to pieces," and so Hengist was led through the postern gate of the castle to a neighbouring hill, and beheaded. Here Aurelius commanded him to be buried and a heap of earth to be raised over him, because "he was so good a knight." A lady generally appeared in these old histories as the cause of the mischief, and it was said that one reason why King Vortigern was so friendly with Hengist was that Hengist had a very pretty daughter named Rowena, whom the King greatly admired: a road in Conisborough still bears her name. Aurelius then went to Wales, but found that Vortigern had shut himself up in a castle into which Aurelius was unable to force an entrance, so he burnt the castle and the King together; and in a wild place on the rocky coast of Carnarvonshire, Vortigern's Valley can still be seen. Sir Walter Scott, who was an adept in selecting old ruins for the materials of his novels, has immortalised Conisborough in his novel of _Ivanhoe_ as the residence, about the year 1198, of the noble Athelstane or Athelstone, who frightened his servants out of their wits by demanding his supper when he was supposed to be dead. Yorkshire feasts were famous, and corresponded to the "wakes" in Lancashire and Cheshire. There was a record of a feast at Conisborough on the "Morrow of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross," September 15th, 1320, in the "14th year of King Edward, son of King Edward," which was carried out by Sir Ralph de Beeston, one of our Cheshire knights, and Sir Simon de Baldiston (Stewards of the Earl of Lancaster), to which the following verse applied: They ate as though for many a day They had not ate before. And eke as though they all should fear That they should eat no more. And when the decks were fairly cleared And not a remnant nigh, They drank as if their mighty thirst Would drain the ocean dry. A curious old legend was attached to the town well in Wellgate, which formerly supplied most of the inhabitants of Conisborough with water; for once upon a time, when the town was suffering from a great drought, and the people feared a water famine, they consulted an old man known by the name of St. Francis, who was very wise and very holy. He told the people to follow him singing psalms and hymns to the Willow Vale, on the Low Road. There he cut a wand from a willow tree, and stuck it into the ground, and forthwith a copious supply of water appeared which had flowed steadily ever since. The wand had been so firmly and deeply stuck into the ground by St. Francis that it took root and grew into a large tree. In 1863 there was a great flood in Sheffield, which did a lot of damage, and amongst the debris that floated down the river was noticed a cradle containing a little baby. It was rescued with some difficulty, and was still alive when we passed through the town, being then eight years old. [Illustration: ROCHE ABBEY.] After leaving Conisborough we lost sight of the River Don, which runs through Mexborough; but we came in touch with it again where it was joined by the River Rother, at Rotherham. Here we crossed over it by the bridge, in the centre of which stood the decayed Chapel of our Lady. On our way we had passed to our right Sprotborough, where in 664 King Wulfhere when out hunting came to a cave at the side of the river where a hermit named St. Ceadde or St. Chad dwelt, the country at that time being "among sheep and distant mountains which looked more like lurking-places for robbers and dens of wild beasts than dwellings of men." There were many objects of interest on each side of our road, including, a few miles to the left, Roche Abbey, the seat of the Earl of Scarborough, and to the right Wentworth House, one of the largest private houses in England, and the seat of Earl Fitzwilliam, the owner of the far-famed Wharncliffe Crags, which are skirted by the waters of the River Don. It was in Wharncliffe Forest that Friar Tuck, the jolly chaplain of Robin Hood, had his abode; and below the crags, in the bed of the River Don, there was a rock that appeared to be worn by the friction of some cylindrical body coiled about it. This was supposed to be the famous Dragon of Wantley, an old name for Wharncliffe. It was here that the monster was attacked and slain by Guy, the famous Earl of Warwick. Near the top of the crag, which was formerly a hunting-seat, stood a lodge where an inscription on a stone in the floor of the back kitchen stated that "Geoffrey de Wortley, Knight of the body to the Kings Richard III, Henry VII, and Henry VIII, built this Lodge for his pleasure, so that he might hear the red deer bray." In the lodge too was a most ponderous boot said to have been worn by Oliver Cromwell at the Battle of Marston Moor. We stayed at Rotherham for the night. (_Distance walked twelve miles_.) _Saturday, October 28th._ The inn where we stayed the night had not been very satisfactory, as, although the cooking was good, the upper apartments were below the average. We took to the road again as early as possible, especially as a decided improvement showed itself in the condition of my swollen foot, and we were able to make a little better progress. For some days we had been walking through a comparatively level country, but from the appearance of the hills to our right as well as before us, we anticipated a stiff climb. It was not until we approached Sheffield that the tug of war began, and, strange to say, I found it easier to walk uphill than on a level surface. Meantime we continued through a level and busy country, and were in no danger of losing our way, for there were many people to inquire of in case of necessity. At one time it had been a wild and lonely place, known as Attercliffe Common, and we were told that Dick Turpin had been gibbeted there. We had often heard of Turpin, and knew that he was hanged, but did not remember where, so we were anxious to see the exact spot where that famous "knight of the road" ended his existence. We made inquiries from quite a number of people, but could get no satisfactory information, until we met with an elderly gentleman, who informed us that it was not Dick Turpin who was gibbeted there, but a "gentleman" in the same profession, whose name was Spence Broughton, the only trace of him now being a lane that bore his name. As far as he knew, Dick Turpin had never been nearer Sheffield than Maltby, a village five miles away, and that was on his ride from London to York. He was hanged at Tyburn. The hills we could see were those of the Pennine range, with which we must have formed acquaintance unconsciously when farther north, as although the high hills in the Lake District, through which we had passed, were not included in the range, some of the others must have been, since the Pennines were bounded on one side by Cumberland, Westmorland, and Lancashire, and on the other by Northumberland, Durham, and Yorkshire, attaining an elevation of 3,000 feet in the north and 2,000 feet in the south. The Pennines here were described to us as the "backbone of England," for they were looked upon as being in the centre, equidistant from the east and west coasts, and hereabouts thirty miles in breadth. The district verging upon Sheffield was well known to the Romans as producing the best iron in the world, the ore or iron-stones being obtained in their time by digging up the earth, which was left in great heaps after the iron-stones had been thrown out; many of these excavations were still to be seen. In manufacturing the iron they took advantage of the great forests around them to provide the fuel for smelting the ore, for it was a great convenience to have the two elements so near at hand, as it saved carriage from one to the other. Forests still existed thereabouts in the time of Robin Hood, and were well known to him and his band of "merrie men," while his jovial chaplain, Friar Tuck, had his hermitage amongst their deep recesses. Many woods round Sheffield still remained in the time of Mary Queen of Scots, who passed some portion of her imprisonment at the old Manor House, which was then a castellated mansion. Visitors were now conducted up a narrow flight of stairs to a flat roof covered with lead, from which that unfortunate Queen had looked out over the hills and forests, and breathed the pure air as it passed over them. But now all appeared to be fire and smoke, and the great works which belched them forth seemed a strange and marvellous sight to us after walking so long through such lonely districts. [Illustration: THE SMOKE OF SHEFFIELD. "The district verging upon Sheffield was well known to the Romans as producing the best iron in the world."] Sheffield has a world-wide reputation for its cutlery and for its other productions in brass, iron, and steel, for the manufacture of which pure water of a particular variety was essential. The town was well provided in that respect, for no less than five rivers flowed towards Sheffield from the Pennine range above. From the finest steel all sorts of things were made, ranging from the smallest needle or steel pen up to the largest-sized gun or armour-plate. It would no doubt have interested us greatly to look through one of the works, but such as we passed were labelled "No admittance except on business," which we interpreted to mean that no strangers were allowed to enter, lest they might carry away with them the secrets of the business, so we walked slowly onward in the hope of reaching, before nightfall, our next great object of interest, "The Great Cavern and Castle of Peveril of the Peak." Passing along the Ecclesall Road, we saw, in nicely wooded enclosures, many of the houses of manufacturers and merchants, who, like ourselves in after life, left their men to sleep in the smoke while they themselves went to breathe the purer air above, for Ecclesall was at a fair elevation above the town. But one gentleman whom we saw assured us that, in spite of the heavy clouds of smoke we had seen, the town was very healthy, and there was more sunshine at Sheffield than in any other town in England. Shortly afterwards we came to a finger-post where a road turned off towards Norton and Beauchief Abbey. Norton was the village where the sculptor Chantrey, of whom, and his works, we had heard so much, was born, and the monument to his memory in the old church there was an attraction to visitors. Chantrey was a man of whom it might safely be said "his works do follow," for my brother, who always explored the wild corners of the country when he had the opportunity, was once travelling in Wales, and told a gentleman he met that he intended to stay the night at the inn at the Devil's Bridge. This was not the Devil's Bridge we had crossed so recently at Kirkby Lonsdale, but a much more picturesque one, which to visit at that time involved a walk of about thirteen miles in the mountainous region behind Aberystwyth. "Have you ever seen that fine monument by Chantrey there?" asked the gentleman. "No," said my brother in astonishment, knowing the wild nature of the country thereabouts. "Well," he said, "mind you go and see it! Here is my card, and when you have seen it, write me whether you have seen a finer monument in all your life." My brother found the monument in a small church about three miles from the hotel in the hills above. He was very much astonished and deeply impressed by the sculpture, acknowledging in his promised letter that it was by far the finest he had seen. The origin of it was as follows: The owner of the estate had an only child, a daughter, lovely, clever, and accomplished, but slightly deformed in her back. When she was twenty-one years old she was taken by her parents to London to have her back straightened, but never recovered from the operation. The statuary represented the daughter lying on a couch, her father standing at the head looking down into the eyes of his dying daughter, while her mother is kneeling at the foot in an attitude of prayer. The daughter's instruments of music and painting, with her books, appear under the couch, while every small detail, from the embroidery on the couch to the creases in the pillow, are beautifully sculptured. This great work of art cost £6,000, and was exhibited in London for some time before it was placed in the small church of Hafod. It was said to have made Chantrey's fortune. [Illustration: THE CHANTREY MONUMENT IN HAFOD CHURCH.] Beauchief Abbey, we were informed, was built by the murderers of Thomas a Becket in expiation of their sin, but only a few fragments of the buildings now remained. We halted for rest and refreshments at the "Fox House Inn," which stood at a junction of roads and was formerly the hunting-box of the Duke of Rutland. We had by this time left the county of York and penetrated about four miles into Derbyshire, a county we may safely describe as being peculiar to itself, for limestone abounded in the greater part of its area. Even the roads were made with it, and the glare of their white surfaces under a brilliant sun, together with the accumulation of a white dust which rose with the wind, or the dangerous slippery mud which formed on them after rain or snow or frost, were all alike disagreeable to wayfarers. But in later times, if the worthy writer who ventured into that county on one occasion, had placed his fashionable length on the limy road when in a more favourable condition than that of wet limy mud, he might have written Derbyshire up instead of writing it down, and describing it as the county beginning with a "Big D." [Illustration: THE PLAGUE COTTAGES, EYAM.] The colour of the green fields which lined the roads contrasted finely in the distance with the white surface of the roads, both fields and roads alike were neatly fenced in with stone walls. We wondered many times where all these stones could have come from, and at the immense amount of labour involved in getting them there and placing them in position. Their purpose in breaking the force of the wind was clear, for the greater part of the county consisted of moors, some portions of which were being cultivated, and although they were almost entirely devoid of trees, there were plenty of trees to be seen in the valleys, the Dales of Derbyshire being noted for their beauty. The River Derwent ran along the valley opposite the inn, and on the other side was the village of Eyam, which became famous in the time of the Great Plague of London in 1665. It seemed almost impossible that a remote village like that could be affected by a plague in London, but it so happened that a parcel arrived by coach from London addressed to a tailor in Eyam, who opened it with the result that he contracted the disease and died; in the same month five others died also, making a total of six for September, which was followed by 23 deaths in October, 7 in November, and 9 in December. Then came a hard frost, and it was thought that the germs would all be killed, but it broke out again in the following June with 19 deaths, July 56, August 77, September 24, and October 14, and then the plague died out--possibly because there were very few people left. During all this time Eyam had been isolated from the rest of the world, for if a villager tried to get away he was at once driven back, and for any one to go there was almost certain death. The Earl of Devonshire, who nobly remained at Chatsworth all the time, sent provisions periodically to a certain point where no one was allowed to pass either inwards or outwards. At this time even the coins of the realm were considered to be infectious, and large stones hollowed out like basins, which probably contained some disinfectant, were placed between Eyam and the villages which traded with them. Meantime the rector of Eyam, whose name was Mompesson, stood his ground like a true hero, ministering to his parishioners; and, although his wife contracted the disease and died, and though he referred to himself as "a dying man," yet was he mercifully preserved; so too was the Rev. Thomas Stanley, who had been ejected from the rectory after eighteen years' service because he would not subscribe to the Corporation Act of 1661. He stood by Mompesson and did his duty quite as nobly; and some years afterwards, when some small-minded people appealed to the Duke of Devonshire as Lord Lieutenant of the county to have Stanley removed, he indignantly refused and rebuked the petitioners very strongly. William and Mary Howitt wrote a long poem entitled "The Desolation of Hyam," and described the village as-- Among the verdant mountains of the Peak There lies a quiet hamlet, where the slope Of pleasant uplands wards the north winds bleak: Below, wild dells romantic pathways ope: Around, above it, spreads a shadowy cope Of forest trees: flower, foliage and clear rill Wave from the cliffs, or down ravines elope: It seems a place charmed from the power of ill By sainted words of old:--so lovely, lone and still. William Wood wrote the _Plague Chronicle_, and on his gravestone was inscribed: Men like visions are; Time all doth claim; He lives who dies and leaves A lasting name. We had often read the wonderful epitaphs on the tombs of the nobility, but we had been warned that in former times these were often written by professional men who were well paid for their services, and the greater the number of heavenly virtues attributed to the deceased, the greater of course the fee; but those written by the poetical curate of Eyam were beyond suspicion if we may judge from the couplet he wrote to be placed on the gravestone of a parishioner: Since life is short and death is always nigh, On many years to come do not rely. We were now passing through Little John's country, and we heard more about him in this neighbourhood than of his master, Robin Hood, for Little John's Well was not far away, and Hathersage, our next stage, was where he was buried. We were very much interested in Robin Hood and Little John, as my name was Robert, and my brother's name was John. He always said that Little John was his greatest ancestor, for in the old story-books his name appeared as John Nailer. But whether we could claim much credit or no from the relationship was doubtful, as the stanza in the old ballad ran: Robin Hood did little good And Little John did less. In later times the name had been altered to Naylor, in order, we supposed, to hide its humble though honourable origin; for there was no doubt that it was a Nailer who fastened the boards on Noah's Ark, and legend stated that when he came to nail the door on, he nailed it from the inside! The stanza, he explained, might have been written by the Bishop of Hereford or one of Robin Hood's other clients, whom he and Little John had relieved of his belongings; but the name Naylor was a common one in South Yorkshire, and, although our branch of the family were natives of South Lancashire, their characteristics showed they were of the same stock, since, like Little John, they were credited with having good appetites and with being able to eat and retain any kind of food and in almost any quantity. On one occasion we happened to meet with a gentleman named Taylor, and, after remarking there was only one letter different between his name and ours, my brother said, "But we are much the older family," and then named the Noah's Ark incident; when the gentleman quietly remarked, "I can beat you." "Surely not," said my brother. "Yes, I can," replied Mr. Taylor, "for my ancestor made the tails for Adam's coat! He was a Tailer." My brother collapsed! But the greatest blow he received in that direction was when he found a much more modern story of "Robin Hood and Little John," which gave Little John's real name as John Little, saying that his name was changed to Little John because he was such a big man. My brother was greatly annoyed at this until he discovered that this version was a comparatively modern innovation, dating from the time of Sir Walter Scott's _Talisman_, published in 1825, and inserted there because the proper name would not have suited Sir Walter's rhyme: "This infant was called 'John Little,' quoth he; "Which name shall be changed anon. The words we'll transpose, so wherever he goes His name shall be called Little John." On our way from the "Fox House Inn" to Hathersage we passed some strange-looking rocks which were said to resemble the mouth of a huge toad; but as we had not studied the anatomy of that strange creature, and had no desire to do so, a casual glance as we walked along a down gradient into Hathersage was sufficient. As we entered the village we saw a party of men descending a road on our right, from whom we inquired the way to Little John's grave, which they told us they had just been to visit themselves. They directed us to go up the road that they had just come down, and one of them advised us to call at the small inn which we should find at the top of the hill, while another man shouted after us, "Aye! and ther's a mon theere 'ats getten 'is gun!" We found the inn, but did not ask to see the gun, being more interested at the time in bows and arrows, so we called at the inn and ordered tea. It was only a cottage inn, but the back of it served as a portion of the churchyard wall, and the mistress told us that when Little John lay on his deathbed in the room above our heads, he asked for his bow and arrow, and, shooting through the window which we would see from the churchyard at the back of the inn, desired his men to bury him on the spot where they found his arrow. [Illustration: THE TOAD'S MOUTH.] We went to see the grave while our tea was being prepared, and found it only a few yards from the inn, so presumably Little John was very weak when he shot the arrow. The grave stood between two yew trees, with a stone at the head and another at the foot, the distance between them being ten feet. The church was a very old one, dating from the early part of the fourteenth century. It was said that a search for Little John's skeleton had been made in 1784, when only a thigh-bone had been found; but as this measured twenty-nine and a half inches, a very big man must have been buried there. On our right across the moor rose sharply what seemed to be a high, continuous cliff, which we were told was the "edge" of one of the thick, hard beds of millstone grit, and as we proceeded the edge seemed to be gradually closing in upon us. After tea we walked slowly on to Castleton, where we selected a clean and respectable-looking private house to stay and rest over the week-end, until Monday morning. (_Distance walked twenty-two miles_.) _Sunday, October 29th._ We were very comfortable in our apartments at Castleton, our host and hostess and their worthy son paying us every possible attention. They were members of the Wesleyan Church, and we arranged with the young man that if he would go with us to the Parish Church in the morning, we would go to the Wesleyan Chapel in the evening with him. So in the morning we all went to church, where we had a good old-fashioned service, and saw a monument to the memory of a former vicar, a Mr. Bagshawe, who was Vicar of Castleton from 1723 to 1769; the epitaph on it described him as-- A man whose chief delight was in the service of his Master--a sound scholar--a tender and affectionate husband--a kind and indulgent parent--and a lover of peace and quietness, who is gone to that place where he now enjoys the due reward of his labours. This Vicar had kept a diary, or journal, from which it appeared that he began life in a good position, but lost his money in the "South Sea Bubble," an idea floated in the year 1710 as a financial speculation to clear off the National Debt, the Company contracting to redeem the whole debt in twenty-six years on condition that they were granted a monopoly of the South Sea Trade. This sounded all right, and a rush was made for the shares, which soon ran up in value from £100 to £1,000, fabulous profits being made. Sir Robert Walpole, who was then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and afterwards Prime Minister for the long period of twenty-two years, was strongly opposed to the South Sea Scheme, and when, ten years later, he exposed it, the bubble burst and the whole thing collapsed, thousands of people, including the worthy Vicar of Castleton, being ruined. [Illustration: CASTLETON CHURCH.] It also appeared from the diary that, like the vicar Goldsmith describes, he was "passing rich on forty pounds a year," for he never received more than £40 per year for his services. The prices he paid for goods for himself and his household in the year 1748 formed very interesting reading, as it enabled us to compare the past with the present. Bohea Tea was 8s. per pound; chickens, threepence each; tobacco, one penny per ounce; a shoulder of mutton cost him fifteen-pence, while the forequarter of a lamb was eighteen-pence, which was also the price of a "Cod's Head from Sheffield." He also recorded matters concerning his family. He had a son named Harry whom he apprenticed to a tradesman in Leeds. On one occasion it appeared that the Vicar's wife made up a parcel "of four tongues and four pots of potted beef" as a present for Hal's master. One of the most pleasing entries in the diary was that which showed that Harry had not forgotten his mother, for one day a parcel arrived at the Vicarage from Leeds which was found to contain "a blue China cotton gown," a present from Hal to his mother. Who fed me from her gentle breast. And hush'd me in her arms to rest, And on my cheeks sweet kisses prest? My Mother. Who sat and watched my infant head When sleeping on my cradle bed. And tears of sweet affection shed? My Mother. Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well? My Mother. Who taught my infant lips to pray. And love God's holy Book and day. And walk in Wisdom's pleasant way? My Mother. And can I ever cease to be Affectionate and kind to thee, Who wast so very kind to me? My Mother. Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear, And if God please my life to spare, I hope I shall reward thy care. My Mother. When thou art feeble, old, and grey. My healthy arm shall be thy stay, And I will soothe thy pains away, My Mother. After dinner we decided to visit the Castle of _Peveril of the Peak_, and as the afternoon was very fine we were able to do so, under the guidance of our friend. We were obliged to proceed slowly owing to my partially disabled foot, and it took us a long time to reach the castle, the road being very narrow and steep towards the top--in fact, it was so difficult of approach that a handful of men could have defeated hundreds of the enemy. We managed to reach the ruins, and there we reposed on the grass to view the wild scenery around us and the curious split in the limestone rocks through which led the path known as the "Winnats," a shortened form of Wind Gates, owing to the force of the wind at this spot. The castle was not a large one, and there were higher elevations quite near; but deep chasms intervened, and somewhere beneath us was the largest cave in England. While we were resting our friend related the history of the castle, which had been built by William Peverell in 1068, and rebuilt by Henry II in 1176-7 after he had received here the submission of Malcolm, King of Scotland. Peverell was a natural son of William the Conqueror, who had distinguished himself at the Battle of Hastings, for which William had bestowed upon him many manors in Derbyshire. What was known as the Peak of Derbyshire we found was not one single rock, as we supposed, but a huge tableland with rising heights here and there. Our friend, whose name was William, told us a legend connected with the Peverell family. Pain Peverell, the Lord of Whittington, in Shropshire, had two daughters, the elder of whom was very beautiful, and had so many admirers that she could not decide which of them to accept. So she consulted her father on the matter, who advised her to accept only the "Bravest of the Brave," or the one who could prove himself to excel all others in martial skill. Her father therefore proclaimed a tournament, which was to take place, in the words of an ancient writer, at "Peverell's Place in the Peke," inviting all young men of noble birth to compete for the hand of the beautiful "Mellet," whose dowry was to be Whittington Castle. The contest, as might be supposed, was a severe one, and was won by a knight bearing a maiden shield of silver with a peacock for his crest, who vanquished, amongst others, a Knight of Burgundy and a Prince of Scotland. He proved to be Fitzwarren, and the Castle of Whittington passed to him together with his young bride. [Illustration: CASTLETON ROCKS.] Our friend was surprised when we told him we knew that castle and the neighbourhood very well, and also a cottage there where Dick Whittington was born, who afterwards became Sir Richard de Whittington, Lord Mayor of London. We again discussed the question of the desirability of returning home, as we were now much nearer than when at Furness Abbey, where we had nearly succumbed to home-sickness before; but my brother said he should continue the journey alone if I gave in, and as he kindly consented again to carry all the luggage, I agreed to complete the journey with him. [Illustration: THE WINNATS, CASTLETON.] I walked down the hill supported by my brother on one side and our friend on the other, and returned to the latter's home for tea, after which our host showed us some remarkable spar stones--dog-tooth spar we were told was their name--found in the lead mines, whose white crystals glistened in the light, and I could see by the covetous look in my brother's eyes that he was thinking of the rockeries at home. His look was also seen by our worthy host, for he subsequently presented him with the stones, which my brother afterwards declared were given to him as a punishment for coveting his neighbour's goods. It was now time to fulfil our engagement to accompany our friend to the Wesleyan Chapel and to go through what proved one of the most extraordinary services we ever attended. Our host and hostess went with us, but they sat in a pew, while we three sat on a form. We remained for the "Prayer Meeting," which the minister announced would be held after the usual service. We had read that the "Amens" of the early Christians could be heard at long distances, but we never attended a meeting where the ejaculations were so loud and fervent as they were here. Each man seemed to vie with his neighbour as to which could shout the louder, and every one appeared to be in great earnest. The exclamations were not always "Amens," for we heard one man shout "Aye!" at exactly the same moment as another man shouted "Now!" and if the Leader had not been possessed of a stentorian voice he would not at times have been able to make himself heard. The primitive custom of conducting prayer meetings was evidently kept up at Castleton, as might perhaps have been expected in a place which before the appearance of the railway was so remote and inaccessible, but it was difficult to realise that "yes" and "no," or "aye" and "now," could have the same meaning when ejaculated at the same moment. Still, it might have been so in this case. Who knows! In travelling through the country we had noticed that in the neighbourhood of great mountains the religious element was more pronounced than elsewhere, and the people's voices seemed stronger. At the close of this second service, for which nearly the whole of the congregation stayed, the conductor gave out one of Isaac Watts's well-known hymns, and the congregation sang it with heart and voice that almost made the rafters in the roof of the chapel vibrate as if even they were joining in the praises of the Lord! These were the first two verses: Jesus shall reign where'er the sun Doth his successive journeys run; His Kingdom stretch from shore to shore, Till moons shall wax and wane no more. People and realms of every tongue Dwell on His love with sweetest song, And infant voices shall proclaim Their early blessing on His Name. We must say we joined as heartily as any of the others, for it was sung to one of the good old Methodist tunes common to all the Churches in the days of Wesley. As we walked back through the village we felt all the better for having attended the full service, and later, when we watched the nearly full moon rise in the clear night air above the hills, our thoughts turned instinctively towards the Great Almighty, the Father and Maker and Giver of All! SEVENTH WEEK'S JOURNEY _Monday, October 30th._ [Illustration: PEVERIL CASTLE.] The Scots as a nation are proverbial for their travelling propensities; they are to be found not only in every part of the British Isles, but in almost every known and unknown part of the wide world. It was a jocular saying then in vogue that if ever the North Pole were discovered, a Scotsman would be found there sitting on the top! Sir Walter Scott was by no means behind his fellow countrymen in his love of travel, and like his famous Moss-troopers, whose raids carried them far beyond the Borders, even into foreign countries, he had not confined himself "to his own--his Native Land." We were not surprised, therefore, wrhen we heard of him in the lonely neighbourhood of the Peak of Derbyshire, or that, although he had never been known to have visited the castle or its immediate surroundings, he had written a novel entitled _Peveril of the Peak_. This fact was looked upon as a good joke by his personal friends, who gave him the title of the book as a nickname, and Sir Walter, when writing to some of his most intimate friends, had been known to subscribe himself in humorous vein as "Peveril of the Peak." [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE PEAK CAVERN.] There were several objects of interest well worth seeing at Castleton besides the great cavern; there was the famous Blue John Mine, that took its name from the peculiar blue stone found therein, a kind of fibrous fluor-spar usually blue to purple, though with occasional black and yellow veins, of which ornaments were made and sold to visitors, and from which the large blue stone was obtained that formed the magnificent vase in Chatsworth House, the residence of the Duke of Devonshire, and in other noble mansions which possess examples of the craft. In the mine there were two caverns, one of them 100 feet and the other 150 feet high, "which glittered with sparkling stalactites." Then there was the Speedwell Mine, one of the curiosities of the Peak, discovered by miners searching for ore, which they failed to find, although they laboured for years at an enormous cost. In boring through the rock, however, they came to a large natural cavern, now reached by descending about a hundred steps to a canal below, on which was a boat for conveying passengers to the other end of the canal, with only a small light or torch at the bow to relieve the stygian darkness. Visitors were landed on a platform to listen to a tremendous sound of rushing water being precipitated somewhere in the fearful and impenetrable darkness, whose obscurity and overpowering gloom could almost be felt. On the slope of the Eldon Hill there was also a fearful chasm called the Eldon Hole, where a falling stone was never heard to strike the bottom. This had been visited in the time of Queen Elizabeth by the Earl of Leicester, who caused an unfortunate native to be lowered into it to the full length of a long rope; when the poor fellow was drawn up again he was "stark mad," and died eight days afterwards. We had to leave all these attractions to a later visit, since we had come to Castleton to see the largest cavern of all, locally named the "Devil's Hole," but by polite visitors the "Peak Cavern." The approach to the cavern was very imposing and impressive, perpendicular rocks rising on both sides to a great height, while Peveril Castle stood on the top of the precipice before us like a sentinel guarding entrance to the cavern, which was in the form of an immense Gothic arch 120 feet high, 42 feet wide, and said to be large enough to contain the Parish Church and all its belongings. This entrance, however, was being used as a rope-walk, where, early as it was, the workers were already making hempen ropes alongside the stream which flowed from the cavern, and the strong smell of hemp which prevailed as we stood for a few minutes watching the rope-makers was not at all unpleasant. [Illustration: ROPE-WALK AT ENTRANCE INSIDE CAVE, CASTLETON, IN 1871.] If it had been the entrance to Hades, to which it had been likened by a learned visitor, we might have been confronted by Cerberus instead of our guide, whom our friends had warned overnight that his attendance would be required early this morning by distinguished visitors, who would expect the cave to be lit up with coloured lights in honour of their visit. The guide as he handed a light to each of us explained apologetically that his stock of red lights had been exhausted during the season, but he had brought a sufficient number of blue lights to suit the occasion. We followed him into the largest division of the cavern, which was 270 feet long and 150 feet high, the total length being about half a mile. It contained many other rooms or caves, into which he conducted us, the first being known as the Bell House, and here the path we had been following suddenly came to an end at an arch about five yards wide, where there was a stream called the River Styx, over which he ferried us in a boat, landing us in a cave called the Hall of Pluto, the Being who ruled over the Greek Hades, or Home of Departed Spirits, guarded by a savage three-headed dog named Cerberus. The only way of reaching the "Home," our guide told us, was by means of the ferry on the River Styx, of which Charon had charge, and to ensure the spirit having a safe passage to the Elysian Fields it was necessary that his toll should be paid with a coin placed beforehand in the mouth or hand of the departed. We did not, however, take the hint about the payment of the toll until after our return journey, when we found ourselves again at the mouth of the Great Cavern, a privilege perhaps not extended to Pluto's ghostly visitors, nor did we see any of those mysterious or mythological beings; perhaps the nearest approach to them was the figure of our guide himself, as he held aloft the blue torch he had in his hand when in the Hall of Pluto, for he presented the appearance of a man afflicted with delirium tremens or one of those "blue devils" often seen by victims of that dreadful disease. We also saw Roger Rain's House, where it always rained, summer and winter, all the year round, and the Robbers' Cave, with its five natural arches. But the strangest cave we visited was that called the "Devil's Wine Cellar," an awful abyss where the water rushed down a great hole and there disappeared. Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria, visited the cavern in 1832, and one of the caves was named Victoria in memory of that event; we had the honour of standing on the exact spot where she stood on that occasion. Our visit to the cavern was quite a success, enhanced as it was by the blue lights, so, having paid the guide for his services, we returned to our lodgings to "pack up" preparatory to resuming our walk. The white stones so kindly presented to my brother--of which he was very proud, for they certainly were very fine specimens--seemed likely to prove a white elephant to him. The difficulty now was how to carry them in addition to all the other luggage. Hurrying into the town, he returned in a few minutes with an enormous and strongly made red handkerchief like those worn by the miners, and in this he tied the stones, which were quite heavy and a burden in themselves. With these and all the other luggage as well he presented a very strange appearance as he toiled up the steep track through Cave Dale leading from the rear of the town to the moors above. It was no small feat of endurance and strength, for he carried his burdens until we arrived at Tamworth railway station in Staffordshire, to which our next box of clothes had been ordered, a distance of sixty-eight and a half miles by the way we walked. It was with a feeling of real thankfulness for not having been killed with kindness in the bestowal of these gifts that he deposited the stones in that box. When they reached home they were looked upon as too valuable to be placed on the rockeries and retained the sole possession of a mantelshelf for many years. My ankle was still very weak, and it was as much as I could do to carry the solitary walking-stick to assist me forwards; but we were obliged to move on, as we were now quite fifty miles behind our projected routine, and we knew there was some hard work before us. When we reached the moors, which were about a thousand feet above sea-level, the going was comparatively easy on the soft rich grass which makes the cow's milk so rich, and we had some good views of the hills. That named Mam Tor was one of the "Seven wonders of the Peak," and its neighbour, known as the Shivering Mountain, was quite a curiosity, as the shale, of which it was composed, was constantly breaking away and sliding down the mountain slope with a sound like that of falling water. Bagshawe Cavern was near at hand, but we did not visit it. It was so named because it had been found on land belonging to Sir William Bagshawe, whose lady christened its chambers and grottos with some very queer names. Across the moors we could see the town of Tideswell, our next objective, standing like an oasis in the desert, for there were no trees on the moors. We had planned that after leaving there we would continue our way across the moors to Newhaven, and then walk through Dove Dale to Ashbourne in the reverse direction to that taken the year before on our walk from London to Lancashire. Before reaching Tideswell we came to a point known as Lane Head, where six lane-ends met, and which we supposed must have been an important meeting-place when the moors, which surrounded it for miles, formed a portion of the ancient Peak Forest. We passed other objects of interest, including some ancient remains of lead mining in the form of curious long tunnels like sewers on the ground level which radiated to a point where on the furnaces heaps of timber were piled up and the lead ore was smelted by the heat which was intensified by these draught-producing tunnels. [Illustration: TIDESWELL CHURCH.] When Peak Forest was in its primeval glory, and the Kings of England with their lords, earls, and nobles came to hunt there, many of the leading families had dwellings in the forest, and we passed a relic of these, a curious old mansion called Hazelbadge Hall, the ancient home of the Vernons, who still claim by right as Forester to name the coroner for West Derbyshire when the position falls vacant. Tideswell was supposed to have taken its name from an ebbing and flowing well whose water rose and fell like the tides in the sea, but which had been choked up towards the end of the eighteenth century, and reopened in the grounds of a mansion, so that the cup-shaped hollow could be seen filling and emptying. A market had existed at Tideswell since the year 1250, and one was being held as we entered the town, and the "George Inn," where we called for refreshments, was fairly well filled with visitors of one kind or another. We left our luggage to the care of the ostler, and went to visit the fine old church adjacent, where many ancient families lie buried; the principal object of interest was the magnificent chancel, which has been described as "one Gallery of Light and Beauty," the whole structure being known as the Cathedral of the Peak. There was a fine monumental brass, with features engraved on it which throw light on the Church ritual of the day, to the memory of Bishop Pursglove, who was a native of Tideswell and founder of the local Grammar School, who surrendered his Priory of Gisburn to Henry VIII in 1540, but refused, in 1559, to take the Oath of Supremacy. Sampson Meverill, Knight Constable of England, also lies buried in the chancel, and by his epitaph on a marble tomb, brought curiously enough from Sussex, he asks the reader "devoutly of your charity" to say "a Pater Noster with an Ave for all Xtian soules, and especially for the soule of him whose bones resten under this stone." Meverill, with John Montagu, Earl of Shrewsbury, fought as "a Captain of diverse worshipful places in France," serving under John, Duke of Bedford, in the "Hundred Years' War," and after fighting in eleven battles within the space of two years he won knighthood at the duke's hands at St. Luce. In the churchyard was buried William Newton, the Minstrel of the Peak, and Samuel Slack, who in the last quarter of the eighteenth century was the most popular bass singer in England. When quite young Slack competed with others for a position in a college choir at Cambridge, and sang Purcell's famous air, "They that go down to the sea in ships." When he had finished, the Precentor rose immediately and said to the other candidates, "Gentlemen, I now leave it to you whether any one will sing after what you have just heard!" No one rose, and so Slack gained the position. Soon afterwards Georgiana, Duchess of Sutherland, interested herself in him, and had him placed under Spofforth, the chief singing master of the day, under whose tuition he greatly improved, taking London by storm. He was for many years the principal bass at all the great musical festivals. So powerful was his voice, it is said, that on one occasion when he was pursued by a bull he uttered a bellow which so terrified the animal that it ran away, so young ladies who were afraid of these animals always felt safe when accompanied by Mr. Slack. When singing before King George III at Windsor Castle, he was told that His Majesty had been pleased with his singing. Slack remarked in his Derbyshire dialect, which he always remembered, "Oh, he was pleased, were he? I thow't I could do't." Slack it was said made no effort to improve himself either in speech or in manners, and therefore it was thought that he preferred low society. When he retired and returned to his native village he was delighted to join the local "Catch and Glee Club," of which he soon became the ruling spirit. It held its meetings at the "George Inn" where we had called for refreshments, and we were shown an old print of the club representing six singers in Hogarthian attitudes with glasses, jugs, and pipes, with Slack and his friend Chadwick of Hayfield apparently singing heartily from the same book Slack's favourite song, "Life's a Bumper fill'd by Fate." Tideswell had always been a musical town; as far back as the year 1826 there was a "Tideswell Music Band," which consisted of six clarionets, two flutes, three bassoons, one serpent, two trumpets, two trombones, two French horns, one bugle, and one double drum--twenty performers in all. They had three practices weekly, and there were the usual fines for those who came late, or missed a practice, for inattention to the leader, or for a dirty instrument, the heaviest fine of all being for intoxication. But long after this there was a Tideswell Brass Band which became famous throughout the country, for the leader not only wrote the score copies for his own band, but lithographed and sold them to other bands all over the country. [Illustration: "LIFE'S A BUMPER."] We were particularly interested in all this, for my brother had for the past eight years indulged in the luxury of a brass band himself. The band consisted of about twenty members when in full strength, and as instruments were dear in those days it was a most expensive luxury, and what it had cost him in instruments, music, and uniforms no one ever knew. He had often purchased "scores" from Metcalf, the leader of the Tideswell Band, a fact that was rather a source of anxiety to me, as I knew if he called to see Metcalf our expedition for that day would be at an end, as they might have conversed with each other for hours. I could not prevent him from relating at the "George" one of his early reminiscences, which fairly "brought down the house," as there were some musicians in the company. His band had been formed in 1863, and consisted of about a dozen performers. Christmas time was coming on, when the bandsmen resolved to show off a little and at the same time collect some money from their friends to spend in the New Year. They therefore decided that the band should go out "busking" each evening during Christmas week. They had only learned to play five tunes--two of them belonging to well-known hymns, a third "God Save the Queen," while the remaining two were quicksteps, one of which was not quite perfectly learned. They were well received in the village, and almost every house had been visited with the exception of the Hall, which was some distance away, and had been left till the last probably owing to the fact that the squire was not particularly noted for his liberality. If, however, he had been at home that week, and had any sense of music, he would have learned all their tunes off by heart, as the band must have been heard clearly enough when playing at the farms surrounding the mansion. To avoid a possibility of giving offence, however, it was decided to pay him a visit; so the band assembled one evening in front of the mansion, and the conductor led off with a Psalm tune, during which the Hall door was opened by a servant. At this unexpected compliment expectations rose high amongst the members of the band, and a second Psalm tune was played, the full number of verses in the hymn being repeated. Then followed a pause to give the squire a chance of distinguishing himself, but as he failed to rise to the occasion it was decided to play a quickstep. This was followed by a rather awkward pause, as there were some high notes in the remaining quickstep which the soprano player said he was sure he could not reach as he was getting "ramp'd" already. At this moment, however, the situation was relieved by the appearance of a female servant at the door. The member of the band who had been deputed to collect all donations at once went to the door, and all eyes were turned upon him when he came back towards the lawn, every member on tip-toe of expectation. But he had only returned to say that the squire's lady wished the band to play a polka. This spread consternation throughout the band, and one of the younger members went to the conductor saying, "A polka! A polka! I say, Jim, what's that?" "Oh," replied the conductor, "number three played quick!" Now number three was a quickstep named after Havelock the famous English General in India, so "Havelock's March played quick" had to do duty for a polka; but the only man who could play it quickly was the conductor himself, who after the words, "Ready, chaps!" and the usual signal "One-two-three," dashed off at an unusual speed, the performers following as rapidly as they could, the Bombardon and the Double B, the biggest instruments, finishing last with a most awful groan, after which the conductor, who couldn't stop laughing when once he started, was found rolling on the lawn in a kind of convulsion. It took them some time to recover their equilibrium, during which the Hall door remained open, and a portion of the band had already begun to move away in despair, when they were called back by the old butler appearing at the Hall door with a silver tray in his hand. The collector's services were again requisitioned, and he returned with the magnificent sum of one shilling! As most of the farmers had given five shillings and the remainder half a crown, the squire's reputation for generosity had been fully maintained. One verse of "God save the Queen," instead of the usual three, was played by the way of acknowledgment, and so ended the band's busking season in the year 1863. We quite enjoyed our visit to Tideswell, and were rather loath to leave the friendly company at the "George Inn," who were greatly interested in our walk, several musical members watching our departure as the ostler loaded my brother with the luggage. Tideswell possessed a poet named Beebe Eyre, who in 1854 was awarded £50 out of the Queen's Royal Bounty, which probably inspired him to write: Tideswell! thou art my natal spot, And hence I love thee well; May prosperous days now be the lot Of all that in thee dwell! The sentiments expressed by the poet coincided with our own. As we departed from the town we observed a curiosity in the shape of a very old and extremely dilapidated building, which we were informed could neither be repaired, pulled down, nor sold because it belonged to some charity. On the moors outside the town there were some more curious remains of the Romans and others skilled in mining, which we thought would greatly interest antiquarians, as they displayed more methods of mining than at other places we had visited. A stream had evidently disappointed them by filtering through its bed of limestone, but this they had prevented by forming a course of pebbles and cement, which ran right through Tideswell, and served the double purpose of a water supply and a sewer. We crossed the old "Rakes," or lines, where the Romans simply dug out the ore and threw up the rubbish, which still remained in long lines. Clever though they were, they only knew lead when it occurred in the form known as galena, which looked like lead itself, and so they threw out a more valuable ore, cerusite, or lead carbonate, and the heaps of this valuable material were mined over a second time in comparatively recent times. The miner of the Middle Ages made many soughs to drain away the water from the mines, and we saw more of the tunnels that had been made to draw air to the furnaces when wood was used for smelting the lead. The forest, like many others, had disappeared, and Anna Seward had exactly described the country we were passing through when she wrote: The long lone tracks of Tideswell's native moor, Stretched on vast hills that far and near prevail. Bleak, stony, bare, monotonous, and pale. The poet Newton had provided the town with a water supply by having pipes laid at his own expense from the Well Head at the source of the stream which flowed out of an old lead-mine. Lead in drinking-water has an evil name for causing poisoning, but the Tideswell folk flourish on it, since no one seems to think of dying before seventy, and a goodly number live to over ninety. They have some small industries, cotton manufacture having spread from Lancashire into these remote districts. It is an old-fashioned place, with houses mostly stuccoed with broken crystals and limestone from the "Rakes" and containing curiously carved cupboard doors and posts torn from churches ornamented in Jacobean style by the sacrilegious Cromwellians, many of them having been erected just after the Great Rebellion. [Illustration: THE DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER.] [Illustration: BRIDGE CARRYING THE CANAL OVERHEAD.] We now journeyed along the mountain track until it descended sharply into Miller's Dale; but before reaching this place we were interested in the village of Formhill, where Brindley, the famous canal engineer, was born in 1716. Brindley was employed by the great Duke of Bridgewater, the pioneer of canal-making in England, to construct a canal from his collieries at Worsley, in Lancashire, to Manchester, in order to cheapen the cost of coal at that important manufacturing centre. It was an extraordinary achievement, considering that Brindley was quite uneducated and knew no mathematics, and up to the last remained illiterate. Most of his problems were solved without writings or drawings, and when anything difficult had to be considered, he would go to bed and think it out there. At the Worsley end it involved tunnelling to the seams of coal where the colliers were at work so that they could load the coal directly into the boats. He constructed from ten to thirteen miles of underground canals on two different levels, with an ingeniously constructed connection between the two. After this he made the great Bridgewater Canal, forty miles in length, from Manchester to Runcorn, which obtained a fall of one foot per mile by following a circuitous route without a lock or a tunnel in the whole of its course until it reached its terminus at the River Mersey. In places where a brook or a small valley had to be crossed the canal was carried on artificially raised banks, and to provide against a burst in any of these, which would have caused the water to run out of the canal, it was narrowed at each end of the embankment so that only one boat could pass through at a time, this narrow passage being known as a "stop place." At the entrance to this a door was so placed at the bottom of the canal that if any undue current should appear, such as would occur if the embankment gave way, one end of it would rise into a socket prepared for it in the stop-place, and so prevent any water leaving the canal except that in the broken section, a remedy simple but ingenious. On arriving at Runcorn the boats were lowered by a series of locks into the River Mersey, a double service of locks being provided so that boats could pass up and down at the same time and so avoid delay. [Illustration: JAMES BRINDLEY.] When the water was first turned into the canal, Brindley mysteriously disappeared, and was nowhere to be found; but as the canal when full did not burst its embankments, as he had feared, he soon reappeared and was afterwards employed to construct even more difficult canals. He died in 1772, and was buried in Harriseahead Churchyard on the Cheshire border of Staffordshire. It is computed that he engineered as many miles of canals as there are days in the year. [Illustration: THE BOTTOM LOCKS AT RUNCORN.] It must have been a regular custom for the parsons in Derbyshire to keep diaries in the eighteenth century, for the Vicar of Wormhill kept one, like the Vicar of Castleton, both chancing to be members of the Bagshawe family, a common name in that neighbourhood. He was a hard-working and conscientious man, and made the following entry in it on February 3rd, 1798 _Sunday_.--Preached at Wormhill on the vanity of human pursuits and human pleasures, to a polite audience, an affecting sermon. Rode in the evening to Castleton, where I read three discourses by Secker. In the forest I was sorry to observe a party of boys playing at Football. I spoke to them but was laughed at, and on my departure one of the boys gave the football a wonderful kick--a proof this of the degeneracy of human nature! On reaching Miller's Dale, a romantic deep hollow in the limestone, at the bottom of which winds the fast-flowing Wye, my brother declared that he felt more at home, as it happened to be the only place he had seen since leaving John o' Groat's that he had previously visited, and it reminded him of a rather amusing incident. [Illustration: THE BRIDGEWATER CANAL--WHERE IT ENTERS THE MINES AT WORSLEY.] Our uncle, a civil engineer in London, had been over on a visit, and was wearing a white top-hat, then becoming fashionable, and as my brother thought that a similar hat would just suit the dark blue velveteen coat he wore on Sundays, he soon appeared in the prevailing fashion. He was walking from Ambergate to Buxton, and had reached Miller's Dale about noon, just as the millers were leaving the flour mills for dinner. One would have thought that the sight of a white hat would have delighted the millers, but as these hats were rather dear, and beyond the financial reach of the man in the street, they had become an object of derision to those who could not afford to wear them, the music-hall answer to the question "Who stole the donkey?" being at that time "The man with the white hat!" He had met one group of the millers coming up the hill and another lot was following, when a man in the first group suddenly turned round and shouted to a man in the second group, "I say, Jack, who stole the donkey?" But Jack had not yet passed my brother, and, as he had still to face him, he dared not give the customary answer, so, instead of replying "The man with the white hat," he called out in the Derbyshire dialect, with a broad grin on his face, "Th' feyther." A roar of laughter both behind and in front, in which my brother heartily joined, followed this repartee. Probably some of the opprobrium attached to the white hat was because of its having been an emblem of the Radicals. We had seen that worn by Sir Walter Scott in his declining days, but we could not think of including him in that extreme political party, though its origin dated back to the time when he was still alive. Probably the emblem was only local, for it originated at Preston in Lancashire, a place we knew well, commonly called Proud Preston, no doubt by reason of its connection with the noble family of Stanley, who had a mansion in the town. Preston was often represented in Parliament by a Stanley, and was looked upon as a Pocket Borough. In the turbulent times preceding the Abolition of the Corn Laws a powerful opponent, in the person of Mr. Henry Hunt, a demagogue politician, who had suffered imprisonment for advocating Chartism, appeared at the Preston election of 1830 to oppose the Honourable E.G. Stanley, afterwards Earl of Derby. He always appeared wearing a white hat, and was an eloquent speaker, and for these reasons earned the sobriquet of "Orator" Hunt and "Man with the White Hat." The election contest was one of the most exciting events that ever occurred in Preston, and as usual the children took their share in the proceedings, those on Mr. Stanley's side parading the streets singing in a popular air: Hey! Ho! Stanley for Ever! Stanley for Ever! Hey! Ho! Stanley for Ever Ho! Stanley, Stanley, Stanley, Ho! Stanley is my honey Ho! When he weds he will be rich, He will have a coach and six. Then followed the chorus to the accompaniment of drums and triangles: Hey! Ho! Stanley for Ever, Ho! In spite of this, however, and similar ditties, "Orator Hunt," by a total vote of 3,730, became M.P. for Preston, and it was said that it was through this incident that the Radicals adopted the White Hat as their emblem. Lord Derby was so annoyed at the result of the election that he closed his house, which stood across the end of a quiet street, and placed a line of posts across it, between which strong chains were hung, and on which my brother could remember swinging when a boy. One of our uncles was known as the "Preston Poet" at that time, and he wrote a poem entitled "The Poor, God Bless 'Em!" the first verse reading: Let sycophants bend their base knees in the court And servilely cringe round the gate, And barter their honour to earn the support Of the wealthy, the titled, the great; Their guilt piled possessions I loathe, while I scorn The knaves, the vile knaves who possess 'em; I love not to pamper oppression, but mourn For the poor, the robb'd poor--God bless 'em! A striking contrast to the volubility of Mr. Hunt was Mr. Samuel Horrocks, also M.P. for Preston, whose connection with the "Big Factory" in Preston probably gained him the seat. He was said to have been the "quiet Member," never known to make a speech in the House of Commons, unless it was to ask some official to close a window. The main thoroughfare in Preston was Fishergate, a wide street, where on one Saturday night two men appeared walking up the middle of the street, carrying large papers suspended over their arms and shouting at the top of their voices. "The Speech of Samuel Horrocks, Esquire, M.P., in the British House of Commons! one penny," which they continued to repeat. "Eh! owd Sammy's bin makkin' a speech," and a rush was made for the papers. The streets were poorly lighted in those days, and the men did a roaring business in the dark. One man, however, was so anxious to read the speech that he could not wait until he got home, but went to a shop window, where there was a light, but the paper was blank. Thinking they had given him the wrong paper, he ran after the men and shouted, pointing to the paper, "Hey, there's nowt on it." "Well," growled one of the men, "_he said nowt_." [Illustration: CHATSWORTH HOUSE.] We now climbed up the opposite side of the dale, and continued on the moorland road for a few miles, calling at the "Flagg Moor Inn" for tea. By the time we had finished it was quite dark, and the landlady of the inn did her best to persuade us to stay there for the night, telling us that the road from there to Ashbourne was so lonely that it was possible on a dark night to walk the whole distance of fourteen miles without seeing a single person, and as it had been the Great Fair at Newhaven that day, there might be some dangerous characters on the roads. When she saw we were determined to proceed farther, she warned us that the road did not pass through any village, and that there was only a solitary house here and there, some of them being a little way from the road. The road was quite straight, and had a stone wall on each side all the way, so all we had got to do was to keep straight on, and to mind we did not turn to the right or the left along any of the by-roads lest we should get lost on the moors. It was not without some feeling of regret that we bade the landlady "Good night" and started out from the comfortable inn on a pitch-dark night. Fortunately the road was dry, and, as there were no trees, the limestone of which it was composed showed a white track easily discernible in the inky darkness which surrounded it. As we got farther on our way we could see right in front a great illumination in the mist or clouds above marking the glare from the country fair at Newhaven, which was only four miles from the inn we had just left. We met quite a number of people returning from the fair, both on foot and in vehicles, and as they all appeared to be in good spirits we received a friendly greeting from all who spoke to us. Presently arriving at Newhaven itself, which consisted solely of one large inn, we found the surrounding open space packed with a noisy and jovial crowd of people, the number of whom absolutely astonished us, as the country around appeared so desolate, and we wondered where they all could have come from. Newhaven, which had been a very important place in the coaching-days, was a big three-storeyed house with twenty-five bedrooms and stabling for a hundred horses. It stood at a junction of roads about 1,100 feet above sea-level in a most lonely place, and in the zenith of its popularity there was seldom a bedroom empty, the house being quite as gay as if it had been in London itself. It had been specially built for the coach traffic by the then Duke of Devonshire, whose mansion, Chatsworth House, was only a few miles distant. King George IV stayed at Newhaven on one occasion, and was so pleased with his entertainment that he granted to the inn a free and perpetual licence of his own sovereign pleasure, so that no application for renewal of licence at Brewster Sessions was ever afterwards required; a fact which accounted in some measure for the noisy company congregated therein, in defiance of the superintendent of police, who, with five or six of his officers, was standing in front of the fair. Booths had been erected by other publicans, but the police had ordered these to be removed earlier in the day to prevent further disturbances. We noticed they had quite a number of persons in custody, and when I saw a policeman looking very critically at the miscellaneous assortment of luggage my brother was carrying, I thought he was about to be added to the number; but he was soon satisfied as to the honesty of his intentions. The "New Haven" must have meant a new haven for passengers, horses, and coaches when the old haven had been removed, as the word seemed only to apply to the hotel, which, as it was ten miles both from Buxton and Ashbourne, and also on the Roman road known as Via Gellia, must have been built exactly to accommodate the ten-mile run of the coaches either way. It quite enlivened us to see the old-fashioned shows, the shooting-boxes, the exhibitions of monstrosities, with stalls displaying all sorts of nuts, sweets, gingerbreads, and all the paraphernalia that in those days comprised a country fair, and we should have liked to stay at the inn and visit some of the shows which were ranged in front of it and along the green patches of grass which lined the Ashbourne road; but in the first place the inn was not available, and in the second our twenty-five-mile average daily walk was too much in arrears to admit of any further delay. [Illustration: THE DOVE HOLES, DOVEDALE.] All the shows and stalls were doing a roaring trade, and the naphtha lamps with which they were lighted flared weirdly into the inky darkness above. Had we been so minded, we might have turned aside and found quarters at an inn bearing the odd sign of "The Silent Woman" (a woman with her head cut off and tucked under her arm, similar to one nearer home called the "Headless Woman"--in the latter case, however, the tall figure of the woman was shown standing upright, without any visible support, while her head was calmly resting on the ground--the idea seeming to be that a woman could not be silent so long as her head was on her body), but we felt that Ashbourne must be reached that night, which now seemed blacker than ever after leaving the glaring lights in the Fair. Nor did we feel inclined to turn along any by-road on a dark night like that, seeing that we had been partly lost on our way from London the previous year, nearly at the same place, and on quite as dark a night. On that memorable occasion we had entered Dovedale near Thorpe, and visited the Lovers' Leap, Reynard's Cave, Tissington Spires, and Dove Holes, but darkness came on, compelling us to leave the dale to resume our walk the following morning. Eventually we saw a light in the distance, where we found a cottage, the inmates of which kindly conducted us with a lantern across a lonely place to the village of Parwich, which in the Derbyshire dialect they pronounced "Porritch," reminding us of our supper. [Illustration: TISSINGTON SPIRES.] [Illustration: REYNARD'S CAVE, DOVEDALE.] It was nearly closing-time when we were ushered into the taproom of the village inn among some strange companions, and when the hour of closing arrived we saw the head of the village policeman appear at the shutter through which outside customers were served with beer. The landlord asked him, "Will you have a pint?" Looking significantly at ourselves, he replied, "No, thank you," but we noticed the "pint" was placed in the aperture, and soon afterwards disappeared! At Newhaven we ascertained that we were now quite near Hartington and Dovedale. Hartington was a famous resort of fishermen and well known to Isaak Walton, the "Father of Fishermen," and author of that famous book _The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man's Recreation_, so full of such cheerful piety and contentment, such sweet freshness and simplicity, as to give the book a perennial charm. He was a great friend of Charles Cotton of Beresford Hall, who built a fine fishing-house near the famous Pike Pool on the River Dove, over the arched doorway of which he placed a cipher stone formed with the combined initials of Walton and himself, and inscribed with the words "Piscatoribus Sacrum." It was said that when they came to fish in the fish pool early in the morning, Cotton smoked tobacco for his breakfast! What spot more honoured than this beautiful place? Twice honoured truly. Here Charles Cotton sang, Hilarious, his whole-hearted songs, that rang With a true note, through town and country ways, While the Dove trout--in chorus--splashed their praise. Here Walton sate with Cotton in the shade And watched him dubb his flies, and doubtless made The time seem short, with gossip of old days. Their cyphers are enlaced above the door, And in each angler's heart, firm-set and sure. While rivers run, shall those two names endure, Walton and Cotton linked for evermore--- And Piscatoribus Sacrum where more fit A motto for their wisdom worth and wit? Say, where shall the toiler find rest from his labours, And seek sweet repose from the overstrung will? Away from the worry and jar of his neighbours Where moor-tinted streamlets flow down from the hill. Then hurrah! jolly anglers, for burn and for river. The songs of the birds and the lowing of kine: The voice of the river shall soothe us for ever, Then here's to the toast, boys--"The rod and the line!" [Illustration: TISSINGTON HALL, GATEWAY.] We walked in the darkness for about six miles thinking all the time of Dovedale, which we knew was running parallel with our road at about two miles' distance. When we reached Tissington, about three miles from Ashbourne, the night had become lighter, and there ought to have been a considerable section of the moon visible if the sky had been clear. Here we came to quite a considerable number of trees, but the village must have been somewhere in the rear of them. Well-dressing was a custom common in Derbyshire, and also on a much smaller scale in some of the neighbouring counties; but this village of Tissington was specially noted in this respect, for it contained five wells, all of which had to be dressed. As the dressers of the different wells vied with each other which should have the best show, the children and young people had a busy time in collecting the flowers, plants, buds, and ferns necessary to form the display. The festival was held on Holy Thursday, and was preceded with a service in the church followed by one at each of the wells, and if the weather was fine, hundreds of visitors assembled to criticise the work at the different wells. The origin of well-dressing is unknown, but it is certainly of remote antiquity, probably dating back to pagan times. That at Tissington was supposed to have developed at the time of the Black Plague in the fourteenth century, when, although it decimated many villages in the neighbourhood, it missed Tissington altogether--because, it was supposed, of the purity of the waters. But the origin of well-dressing must have been of much greater antiquity: the custom no doubt had its beginnings as an expression of praise to God from whom all blessings flow. The old proverb, "We never know the value of water till the well runs dry," is singularly appropriate in the hilly districts of Derbyshire, where not only the wells, but the rivers also have been known to dry up, and when the spring comes and brings the flowers, what could be more natural than to thank the Almighty who sends the rain and the water, without which they could not grow. [Illustration: TISSINGTON CHURCH.] We were sorry to have missed our walk down Dove Dale, but it was all for the best, as we should again have been caught in the dark there, and perhaps I should have injured my foot again, as the path along the Dale was difficult to negotiate even in the daylight. In any case we were pleased when we reached Ashbourne, where we had no difficulty in finding our hotel, for the signboard of the "Green Man" reached over our heads from one side of the main street to the other. (_Distance walked twenty-six and a half miles_.) _Tuesday, October 31st._ The inn we stayed at was a famous one in the days of the stagecoaches, and bore the double name "The Green Man and the Black's Head Royal Hotel" on a sign which was probably unique, for it reached across the full width of the street. A former landlord having bought another coaching-house in the town known as the "Black's Head," transferred the business to the "Green Man," when he incorporated the two signs. We were now on the verge of Dr. Johnson's country, the learned compiler of the great dictionary, who visited the "Green Man" in company with his companion, James Boswell, whose _Life of Dr. Johnson_ is said to be the finest biography ever written in the English language. They had a friend at Ashbourne, a Dr. Taylor, whom they often visited, and on one occasion when they were all sitting in his garden their conversation turned on the subject of the future state of man. Johnson gave expression to his views in the following words, "Sir, I do not imagine that all things will be made clear to us immediately after death, but that the ways of Providence will be explained to us very gradually." [Illustration: "THE GREEN MAN AND BLACK'S HEAD."] Boswell stayed at the "Green Man" just before journeying with Dr. Johnson to Scotland, and was greatly pleased by the manners of the landlady, for he described her as a "mighty civil gentlewoman" who curtseyed very low as she gave him an engraving of the sign of the house, under which she had written a polite note asking for a recommendation of the inn to his "extensive acquaintance, and her most grateful thanks for his patronage and her sincerest prayers for his happiness in time and in blessed eternity." The present landlady of the hotel appeared to be a worthy successor to the lady who presided there in the time of Boswell, for we found her equally civil and obliging, and, needless to say, we did justice to a very good breakfast served up in her best style. [Illustration: IN ASHBOURNE CHURCH IN YE OLDEN TIME.] The Old Hall of Ashbourne, situated at the higher end of the town, was a fine old mansion, with a long history, dating from the Cockayne family, who were in possession of lands here as early as the year 1372, and who were followed by the Boothby family. The young Pretender, "Bonnie Prince Charlie," who had many friends in England, stayed a night at the Hall in 1745, and the oak door of the room in which he slept was still preserved. He and his Highlanders never got farther than Derby, when he had to beat a hurried retreat, pursued by the Duke of Cumberland. Prince Charlie, to avoid the opposing army at Stafford and Lichfield, turned aside along the Churnet valley, through Leek, and so to Ashbourne. At Derby he called a Council of War, and learned how the Royal forces were closing in upon him, so that reluctantly a retreat was ordered. Then began a period of plundering and rapine. The Highlanders spread over the country, but on their return never crossed into Staffordshire, for, as the story goes, the old women of the Woodlands of Needwood Forest undertook to find how things were going, and crept down to the bridges of Sudbury and Scropton. As it began to rain, they used their red flannel petticoats as cloaks, which the Highlanders, spying, took to be the red uniforms of soldiers, and a panic seized them--so much so, that some who had seized some pig-puddings and were fastening them hot on a pole, according to a local ditty, ran out through a back door, and, jumping from a heap of manure, fell up to the neck in a cesspool. The pillage near Ashbourne was very great, but they could not stay, for the Duke was already at Uttoxoter with a small force. [Illustration: ASHBOURNE CHURCH.] George Canning, the great orator who was born in 1770 and died when he was Prime Minister of England in 1827, often visited Ashbourne Old Hall. In his time the town of Ashbourne was a flourishing one; it was said to be the only town in England that benefited by the French prisoners of war, as there were 200 officers, including three generals, quartered there in 1804, and it was estimated that they spent nearly £30,000 in Ashbourne. An omnibus was then running between Ashbourne and Derby, which out of courtesy to the French was named a "diligence," the French equivalent for stage-coach; but the Derby diligence was soon abbreviated to the Derby "Dilly." The roads at that time were very rough, macadamised surfaces being unknown, and a very steep hill leading into the Ashbourne and Derby Road was called _bête noire_ by the French, about which Canning, who was an occasional passenger, wrote the following lines: So down the hill, romantic Ashbourne, glides The Derby Dilly, carrying three insides; One in each corner sits and lolls at ease, With folded arms, propt back and outstretched knees; While the pressed bodkin, pinched and squeezed to death, Sweats in the midmost place and scolds and pants for breath. We were now at the end of the last spur of the Pennine Range of hills and in the last town in Derbyshire. As if to own allegiance to its own county, the spire of the parish church, which was 212 feet high, claimed to be the "Pride of the Peak." In the thirteenth-century church beneath it, dedicated to St. Oswald, there were many fine tombs of the former owners of the Old Hall at Ashbourne, those belonging to the Cockayne family being splendid examples of the sculptor's art. We noted that one member of the family was killed at the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1404, while another had been knighted by King Henry VII at the siege of Tournay. The finest object in the church was the marble figure of a little child as she appeared-- Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers, which for simplicity, elegance, and childlike innocence of face was said to be the most interesting and pathetic monument in England. It is reputed to be the masterpiece of the English sculptor Thomas Banks, whose work was almost entirely executed abroad, where he was better known than in England. The inscriptions on it were in four different languages, English, Italian, French, and Latin, that in English being: I was not in safety, neither had I rest, and the trouble came. The dedication was inscribed: TO PENELOPE ONLY CHILD OF SIR BROOKE BOOTHBY AND DAME SUSANNAH BOOTHBY. Born April 11th 1785, died March 13th 1791. She was in form and intellect most exquisite The unfortunate parents ventured their all in this Frail bark, And the wreck was Total. The melancholy reference to their having ventured their all bore upon the separation between the father and mother, which immediately followed the child's death. The description of the monument reads as follows: The figure of the child reclines on a pillowed mattress, her hands resting one upon the other near her head. She is simply attired in a frock, below which her naked feet are carelessly placed one over the other, the whole position suggesting that in the restlessness of pain she had just turned to find a cooler and easier place of rest. [Illustration: PENELOPE.] Her portrait was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, her name appearing in his "Book of Sitters" in July 1788, when she was just over three years of age, and is one of the most famous child-pictures by that great master. The picture shows Little Penelope in a white dress and a dark belt, sitting on a stone sill, with trees in the background. Her mittened hands are folded in her lap, and her eyes are demurely cast down. She is wearing a high mob-cap, said to have belonged to Sir Joshua's grandmother. This picture was sold in 1859 to the Earl of Dudley for 1,100 guineas, and afterwards exhibited at Burlington House, when it was bought by Mr. David Thwaites for £20,060. The model for the famous picture "Cherry Ripe," painted by Sir John Everett-Millais, was Miss Talmage, who had appeared as Little Penelope at a fancy-dress ball, and it was said in later years that if there had been no Penelope Boothby by Sir Joshua Reynolds, there would have been no "Cherry Ripe" by Sir John Everett-Millais. Sir Francis Chantrey, the great sculptor, also visited Ashbourne Church. His patron, Mrs. Robinson, when she gave him the order to execute that exquisite work, the Sleeping Children, in Lichfield Cathedral, expressly stipulated that he must see the figure of Penelope Boothby in Ashbourne Church before he began her work. Accordingly Chantrey came down to the church and completed his sketch afterwards at the "Green Man Inn," working at it until one o'clock the next morning, when he departed by the London coach. Ashbourne is one of the few places which kept up the football match on Shrove Tuesday, a relic probably of the past, when the ball was a creature or a human being, and life or death the object of the game. But now the game was to play a stuffed case or the biggest part of it up and down the stream, the Ecclesbourne, until the mill at either limit of the town was reached. The River Dove, of which it has been written the "Dove's flood is worth a king's good," formed the boundary between Derbyshire and Staffordshire, which we crossed by a bridge about two miles after leaving Ashbourne. This bridge, we were told, was known as the Hanging Bridge, because at one time people were hanged on the tree which stood on the border between the two counties, and we might have fared badly if our journey had been made in the good old times, when "tramps" were severely treated. Across the river lay the village of Mayneld, where the landlord of the inn was killed in a quarrel with Prince Charlie's men in their retreat from Derby for resisting their demands, and higher up the country a farmer had been killed because he declined to give up his horse. They were not nearly so orderly as they retreated towards the north, for they cleared both provisions and valuables from the country on both sides of the roads. A cottage at Mayneld was pointed out to us as having once upon a time been inhabited by Thomas, or Tom Moore, Ireland's great poet, whose popularity was as great in England as in his native country, and who died in 1852 at the age of seventy-three years. The cottage was at that time surrounded by woods and fields, and no doubt the sound of Ashbourne Church bells, as it floated in the air, suggested to him one of his sweetest and saddest songs: Those evening bells! those evening bells, How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime. Those joyous hours are passed away, And many a heart that then was gay Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone: The tuneful peal will still ring on: While other bards shall walk these dells And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. We passed Calwick Abbey, once a religious house, but centuries ago converted into a private mansion, which in the time of Handel (1685-1759) was inhabited by the Granville family. Handel, although a German, spent most of his time in England, and was often the guest of the nobility. It was said that it was at Calwick Abbey that his greatest oratorios were conceived, and that the organ on which he played was still preserved. We ourselves had seen an organ in an Old Hall in Cheshire on which he had played when a visitor there, and where was also shown a score copy in his own handwriting. All that was mortal of Handel was buried in Westminster Abbey, but his magnificent oratorios will endure to the end of time. On arrival at Ellastone we left our luggage at the substantially built inn there while we went to visit Norbury Church, which was well worth seeing, and as my foot had now greatly improved we were able to get over the ground rather more quickly. Norbury was granted to the Fitzherberts in 1125, and, strange as it may appear, the original deed was still in the possession of that ancient family, whose chief residence was now at Swynnerton at the opposite side of Staffordshire, where they succeeded the Swynnerton family as owners of the estate. The black image of that grim crusader Swynnerton of Swynnerton still remained in the old chapel there, and as usual in ancient times, where the churches were built of sandstone, they sharpened their arrows on the walls or porches of the church, the holes made in sharpening them being plainly visible. Church restorations have caused these holes to be filled with cement in many places, like the bullet holes of the more recent period of the Civil War, but holes in the exact shape of arrow heads were still to be seen in the walls at Swynnerton, the different heights showing some of the archers to have been very tall men. In spite of severe persecution at the time of the Reformation this branch of the family of the Fitzherberts adhered to the Roman Catholic Faith, Sir Thomas Fitzherbert being one of the most prominent victims of the Elizabethan persecutions, having passed no less than thirty years of his life in various prisons in England. Norbury church was not a large one, but the chancel was nearly as large as the nave. It dated back to the middle of the fourteenth century, when Henry of Kniveton was rector, who made the church famous by placing a number of fine stained-glass windows in the chancel. The glass in these windows was very chaste and beautiful, owing to the finely tinted soft browns and greens, now probably mellowed by age, and said to rank amongst the finest of their kind in England. The grand monuments to the Fitzherberts were magnificently fine examples of the art and clothing of the past ages, the two most gorgeous tombs being those of the tenth and eleventh lords, in all the grandeur of plate armour, collars, decorations, spurs, and swords; one had an angel and the other a monk to hold his foot as he crossed into the unknown. The figures of their families as sculptured below them were also very fine. Considering that one of the lords had seventeen children and the other fifteen it was scarcely to be wondered at that descendants of the great family still existed. Sir Nicholas, who died in 1473, occupied the first tomb, his son the second, and his children were represented dressed in the different costumes of their chosen professions, the first being in armour with a cross, and the next as a lawyer with a scroll, while another was represented as a monk with a book, but as the next had his head knocked off it was impossible to decipher him; others seemed to have gone into businesses of one kind or another. The oldest monument in the church was a stone cross-legged effigy of a warrior in armour, dating from about the year 1300; while the plainest was the image of a female corpse in a shroud, on a gravestone, who was named ... Elysebeth ... The which decessed the yeare that is goone, A thousand four hundred neynty and oone. The church was dedicated to St. Barloke, probably one of the ancient British Divines. On returning to Ellastone we learned that the inn was associated with "George Eliot," whose works we had heard of but had not read. We were under the impression that the author was a man, and were therefore surprised to find that "George Eliot" was only the _nom de plume_ of a lady whose name was Marian Evans. Her grandfather was the village wheelwright and blacksmith at Ellastone, and the prototype of "Adam Bede" in her famous novel of that name. [Illustration: GEORGE ELLIOT'S "DONNITHORPE ARMS," ELLASTONE.] It has been said that no one has ever drawn a landscape more graphically than Marian Evans, and the names of places are so thinly veiled that if we had read the book we could easily have traced the country covered by "Adam Bede." Thus Staffordshire is described as Loamshire, Derbyshire as Stoneyshire, and the Mountains of the Peak as the barren hills, while Oakbourne stands for Ashbourne, Norbourne for Norbury, and Hayslope, described so clearly in the second chapter of _Adam Bede_, is Ellastone, the "Donnithorpe Arms" being the "Bromley Arms Hotel," where we stayed for refreshments. It was there that a traveller is described in the novel as riding up to the hotel, and the landlord telling him that there was to be a "Methodis' Preaching" that evening on the village green, and the traveller stayed to listen to the address of "Dinah Morris," who was Elizabeth Evans, the mother of the authoress. [Illustration: ALTON TOWERS.] Wootton Hall, which stands immediately behind the village of Ellastone, was at one time inhabited by Jean Jacques Rousseau, the great French writer, who, when he was expelled from France, took the Hall for twelve months in 1776, beginning to write there his _Confessions_, as well as his _Letters on Botany_, at a spot known as the "Twenty oaks." It was very bad weather for a part of the time, and snowed incessantly, with a bitterly cold wind, but he wrote, "In spite of all, I would rather live in the hole of one of the rabbits of this warren, than in the finest rooms in London." We now hurried across the country, along old country lanes and over fields, to visit Alton Towers; but, as it was unfortunately closed on that day, it was only by trespassing that we were able to see a part of the grounds. We could see the fine conservatories, with their richly gilded domes, and some portion of the ground and gardens, which were in a deep dell. These were begun by Richard, Earl of Shrewsbury, in the year 1814, who, after years of labour, and at enormous expense, converted them from a wilderness into one of the most extraordinary gardens in Europe, almost baffling description. There was a monument either to himself or the gardener, on which were the words: He made the desert smile. From the Uttoxeter Road we could see a Gothic bridge, with an embankment leading up to it, and a huge imitation of Stonehenge, in which we were much interested, that being one of the great objects of interest we intended visiting when we reached Salisbury Plain. We were able to obtain a small guide-book, but it only gave us the information that the gardens consisted of a "labyrinth of terraces, walls, trellis-work, arbours, vases, stairs, pavements, temples, pagodas, gates, parterres, gravel and grass walks, ornamental buildings, bridges, porticos, seats, caves, flower-baskets, waterfalls, rocks, cottages, trees, shrubs and beds of flowers, ivied walls, moss houses, rock, shell, and root work, old trunks of trees, etc., etc.," so, as it would occupy half a day to see the gardens thoroughly, we decided to come again on some future occasion. A Gothic temple stood on the summit of a natural rock, and among other curiosities were a corkscrew fountain of very peculiar character, and vases and statues almost without end. We now followed the main road to the Staffordshire town of Uttoxeter, passing the ruins of Croxden Abbey in the distance, where the heart of King John had been buried, and where plenty of traces of the extreme skill in agriculture possessed by the monks can be seen. One side of the chapel still served as a cowshed, but perhaps the most interesting features were the stone coffins in the orchard as originally placed, with openings so small, that a boy of ten can hardly lie in one. But we missed a sight which as good churchmen we were afterwards told we ought to have remembered. October 31st was All-Hallows Eve, "when ghosts do walk," and here we were in a place they revelled in--so much so that they gave their name to it, Duninius' Dale. Here the curious sights known as "Will-o'-the-Wisp" could be seen magnificently by those who would venture a midnight visit. But we had forgotten the day. [Illustration: CROXDEN ABBEY.] We stopped for tea at Uttoxeter, and formed the opinion that it was a clean but rather sleepy town. There was little to be seen in the church, as it was used in the seventeenth century as a prison for Scottish troops, "who did great damage." It must, however, have been a very healthy town, if we might judge from the longevity of the notables who were born there: Sir Thomas Degge, judge of Western Wales and a famous antiquary, was born here in 1612, and died aged ninety-two; Thomas Allen, a distinguished mathematician and philosopher, the founder of the college at Dulwich and the local Grammar School as well, born 1542, died aged ninety; Samuel Bentley, poet, born 1720, died aged eighty-three; Admiral Alan Gardner, born at the Manor House in 1742, and who, for distinguished services against the French, was raised to the Irish Peerage as Baron Gardner of Uttoxeter, and was M.P. for Plymouth, died aged sixty-seven; Mary Howitt, the well-known authoress, born 1799, also lived to the age of eighty-nine. A fair record for a small country town! John Wesley preached in the marketplace, in the centre of which was a fountain erected to the memory of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the distinguished lexicographer. His father, whose home was at Lichfield, was a bookseller and had a bookstall in Uttoxeter Market, which he attended on market days. The story is told that on one occasion, not feeling very well, he asked his son, Samuel, to take his place, who from motives of pride flatly refused to do so. From this illness the old man never recovered, and many years afterwards, on the anniversary of that sorrowful day, Dr. Samuel Johnson, then in the height of his fame, came to the very spot in the market-place where this unpleasant incident occurred and did penance, standing bareheaded for a full hour in a pitiless storm of wind and rain, much to the surprise of the people who saw him. [Illustration: THE WHITE CATTLE OF CHARTLEY.] We now bade good-bye to the River Dove, leaving it to carry its share of the Pennine Range waters to the Trent, and walked up the hill leading out of the town towards Abbots Bromley. We soon reached a lonely and densely wooded country with Bagot's Wood to the left, containing trees of enormous age and size, remnants of the original forest of Needwood, while to the right was Chartley Park, embracing about a thousand acres of land enclosed from the same forest by the Earl of Derby, about the year 1248. In this park was still to be seen the famous herd of wild cattle, whose ancestors were known to have been driven into the park when it was enclosed. These animals resisted being handled by men, and arranged themselves in a semi-circle on the approach of an intruder. The cattle were perfectly white, excepting their extremities, their ears, muzzles, and hoofs being black, and their long spreading horns were also tipped with black. Chartley was granted by William Rufus to Hugh Lupus, first Earl of Chester, whose descendant, Ranulph, a Crusader, on his return from the Holy War, built Beeston Castle in Cheshire, with protecting walls and towers, after the model of those at Constantinople. He also built the Castle at Chartley about the same period, A.D. 1220, remarkable as having been the last place of imprisonment for the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots, as she was taken from there in 1586 to be executed at Fotheringhay. [Illustration: THE "BANK INN," CHARTLEY.] [Illustration: BEGGARS' OAK, BAGOTS WOOD. "We soon reached a lonely and densely wooded country with Bagots Wood to the left, containing trees of enormous size--remnants of the original forest of Needham."] We were interested in these stories of Chartley Castle, for in our own county cattle with almost the same characteristics were preserved in the Parks of Lyme and Somerford, and probably possessed a similar history. That Ranulph was well known can be assumed from the fact that Langland in his _Piers Plowman_ in the fourteenth century says: I cannot perfitly my paternoster as the Priest it singeth. But I can rhymes of Robin Hood and Randall Erie of Chester. Queer company, and yet it was an old story that Robin did find an asylum at Chartley Castle. [Illustration: THE HORN DANCERS, ABBOTS BROMLEY.] We overtook an elderly man on the road returning home from his day's toil on the Bagot estate, and he told us of an old oak tree of tremendous size called the "Beggar's Oak"; but it was now too dark for us to see it. The steward of the estate had marked it, together with others, to be felled and sold; but though his lordship was very poor, he would not have the big oak cut down. He said that both Dick Turpin and Robin Hood had haunted these woods, and when he was a lad a good many horses were stolen and hidden in lonely places amongst the thick bushes to be sold afterwards in other parts of the country. The "Beggar's Oak" was mentioned in the _History of Staffordshire_ in 1830, when its branches were measured by Dr. Darwen as spreading 48 feet in every direction. There was also a larger oak mentioned with a trunk 21 feet 4-1/2 inches in circumference, but in a decayed condition. This was named the Swilcar Lawn Oak, and stood on the Crown lands at Marchington Woodlands, and in Bagot's wood were also the Squitch, King, and Lord Bagot's Walking stick, all fine trees. There were also two famous oaks at Mavesyn Ridware called "Gog and Magog," but only their huge decayed trunks remained. Abbots Bromley had some curious privileges, and some of the great games were kept up. Thus the heads of the horses and reindeers for the "hobby horse" games were to be seen at the church. [Illustration: MARKET PLACE, ABBOT'S BROMLAY] The owner of this region, Lord Bagot, could trace his ancestry back to before the Conquest, for the Normans found one Bagod in possession. In course of time, when the estate had become comparatively poor, we heard that the noble owner had married the daughter of Mr. Bass, the rich brewer of Burton, the first of the Peerage marriages with the families of the new but rich. We passed the Butter Cross and the old inn, reminiscent of stage-coach days, as the church bell was tolling, probably the curfew, and long after darkness had set in, for we were trying to reach Lichfield, we came to the village of Handsacre, where at the "Crown Inn" we stayed the night. (_Distance walked twenty-five miles_.) _Wednesday, November 1st._ Although the "Crown" at Handsacre was only a small inn, we were very comfortable, and the company assembled on the premises the previous evening took a great interest in our travels. We had no difficulty in getting an early breakfast, and a good one too, before leaving the inn this morning, but we found we had missed seeing one or two interesting places which we passed the previous night in the dark, and we had also crossed the River Trent as it flowed towards the great brewery town of Burton, only a few miles distant. [Illustration: WHERE OFFA'S DYKE CROSSES THE MAIS ROAD.] [Illustration: LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL] Daylight found us at the foot of the famous Cannock Chase. The Chase covered about 30,000 acres of land, which had been purposely kept out of cultivation in olden times in order to form a happy hunting-ground for the Mercian Kings, who for 300 years ruled over that part of the country. The best known of these kings was Offa, who in the year 757 had either made or repaired the dyke that separated England from Wales, beginning at Chepstow in Monmouthshire, and continuing across the country into Flintshire. It was not a dyke filled with water, as for the most part it passed over a very hilly country where water was not available, but a deep trench sunk on the Welsh side, the soil being thrown up on the English side, forming a bank about four yards high, of which considerable portions were still visible, and known as "Offa's Dyke." Cannock Chase, which covered the elevations to our right, was still an ideal hunting-country, as its surface was hilly and diversified, and a combination of moorland and forest, while the mansions of the noblemen who patronised the "Hunt" surrounded it on all sides, that named "Beau-Desert," the hall or hunting-box of the Marquis of Anglesey, being quite near to our road. We soon arrived at Lichfield, and on entering the town the three lofty and ornamental spires of the cathedral, which from their smart appearance were known as "The Three Ladies," immediately attracted our attention. But for these, travellers entering Lichfield by this road might easily have passed the cathedral without noticing it, as it stands on low and rather swampy ground, where its fine proportions do not show to advantage. The Close of the cathedral, which partially surrounded it, was heavily fortified in the time of the Civil War, causing the cathedral to be very badly damaged, for it suffered no less than three different sieges by the armies of the Parliament. [Illustration: ST. CHAD'S WELL, LICHFIELD.] The cathedral was dedicated to St. Chad, but whether he was the same St. Chad whose cave was in the rocky bank of the River Don, and about whom we had heard farther north, or not, we could not ascertain. He must have been a water-loving saint, as a well in the town formed by a spring of pure water was known as St. Chad's Well, in which the saint stood naked while he prayed, upon a stone which had been preserved by building it into the wall of the well. There was also in the cathedral at one time the "Chapel of St. Chad's Head," but this had been almost destroyed during the first siege of 1643. The ancient writings of the patron saint in the early Welsh language had fortunately been preserved. Written on parchment and ornamented with rude drawings of the Apostles and others, they were known as St. Chad's Gospels, forming one of the most treasured relics belonging to the cathedral, but, sad to relate, had been removed by stealth, it was said, from the Cathedral of Llandaff. The first siege began on March 2nd, 1643, which happened to be St. Chad's Day, and it was recorded that during that siege "Lord Brooke who was standing in the street was killed, being shot through the eye by Dumb Dyott from the cathedral steeple." The cathedral was afterwards used by Cromwell's men as a stable, and every ornament inside and outside that they could reach was greatly damaged; but they appeared to have tried to finish the cathedral off altogether, when in 1651 they stripped the lead from the roof and then set the woodwork on fire. It was afterwards repaired and rebuilt, but nearly all the ornaments on the west front, which had been profusely decorated with the figures of martyrs, apostles, priests, and kings, had been damaged or destroyed. At the Restoration an effort was made to replace these in cement, but this proved a failure, and the only perfect figure that remained then on the west front was a rather clumsy one of Charles II, who had given a hundred timber trees out of Needwood Forest to repair the buildings. Many of the damaged figures were taken down in 1744, and some others were removed later by the Dean, who was afraid they might fall on his head as he went in and out of the cathedral. [Illustration: "THE THREE LADIES"] In those days chimney sweepers employed a boy to climb up the inside of the chimneys and sweep the parts that could not be reached with their brush from below, the method of screwing one stale to the end of another and reaching the top in that way being then unknown. These boys were often cruelly treated, and had even been known to be suffocated in the chimney. The nature of their occupation rendered them very daring, and for this reason the Dean employed one of them to remove the rest of the damaged figures, a service which he satisfactorily performed at no small risk both to himself and others. There is a very fine view in the interior of the cathedral looking from west to east, which extends to a distance of 370 feet, and of which Sir Gilbert Scott, the great ecclesiastical architect, who was born in 1811, has written, "I always hold this work to be almost absolute perfection in design and detail"; another great authority said that when he saw it his impressions were like those described by John Milton in his "Il Penseroso": Let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embossed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim, religious light: There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire below. In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstacies. And bring all heaven before mine eyes. We had not much time to explore the interior, but were obliged to visit the white marble effigy by the famous Chantrey of the "Sleeping Children" of Prebendary Robinson. It was beautifully executed, but for some reason we preferred that of little Penelope we had seen the day before, possibly because these children appeared so much older and more like young ladies compared with Penelope, who was really a child. Another monument by Chantrey which impressed us more strongly than that of the children was that of Bishop Ryder in a kneeling posture, which we thought a very fine production. There was also a slab to the memory of Admiral Parker, the last survivor of Nelson's captains, and some fine stained-glass windows of the sixteenth century formerly belonging to the Abbey of Herckrode, near Liège, which Sir Brooke Boothby, the father of little Penelope, had bought in Belgium in 1803 and presented to the cathedral. [Illustration: THE WEST DOOR, LICHFIELD.] The present bishop, Bishop Selwyn, seemed to be very much loved, as everybody had a good word for him. One gentleman told us he was the first bishop to reside at the palace, all former bishops having resided at Eccleshall, a town twenty-six miles away. Before coming to Lichfield he had been twenty-two years in New Zealand, being the first bishop of that colony. He died seven years after our visit, and had a great funeral, at which Mr. W.E. Gladstone, who described Selwyn as "a noble man," was one of the pall-bearers. The poet Browning's words were often applied to Bishop Selwyn: We that have loved him so, followed and honour'd him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Caught his clear accents, learnt his great language, Made him our pattern to live and to die. There were several old houses in Lichfield of more than local interest, one of which, called the Priest's House, was the birthplace in 1617 of Elias Ashmole, Windsor Herald to King Charles II, and founder of the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford. When we got into the town, or city, we found that, although St. Chad was the patron saint of the cathedral, there was also a patron saint of Lichfield itself, for it was Johnson here, Johnson there, and Johnson everywhere, so we must needs go and see the house where the great Doctor was born in 1709. We found it adjoining the market-place, and in front of a monument on which were depicted three scenes connected with his childhood: the first showing him mounted on his father's back listening to Dr. Sacheverell, who was shown in the act of preaching; the second showed him being carried to school between the shoulders of two boys, another boy following closely behind, as if to catch him in the event of a fall; while the third panel represents him standing in the market-place at Uttoxeter, doing penance to propitiate Heaven for the act of disobedience to his father that had happened fifty years ago. When very young he was afflicted with scrofula, or king's evil; so his mother took him in 1712, when he was only two and a half years old, to London, where he was touched by Queen Anne, being the last person so touched in England. The belief had prevailed from the time of Edward the Confessor that scrofula could be cured by the royal touch, and although the office remained in our Prayer Book till 1719, the Jacobites considered that the power did not descend to King William and Queen Anne because "Divine" hereditary right was not fully possessed by them; which doubtless would be taken to account for the fact that Johnson was not healed, for he was troubled with the disease as long as he lived. When he was three years old he was carried by his father to the cathedral to hear Dr. Sacheverell preach. This gentleman, who was a Church of England minister and a great political preacher, was born in 1672. He was so extremely bitter against the dissenters and their Whig supporters that he was impeached before the House of Lords, and suspended for three years, while his sermon on "Perils of False Brethren," which had had an enormous sale, was burnt by the common hangman! It was said that young Johnson's conduct while listening to the doctor's preaching on that occasion was quite exemplary. [Illustration: MONUMENT TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LICHFIELD.] Johnson was educated at the Lichfield Grammar School under Dr. Hunter, who was a very severe schoolmaster, and must have been one of those who "drove it in behind," for Johnson afterwards wrote: "My Master whipt me very well. Without that I should have done nothing." Dr. Hunter boasted that he never taught a boy anything; he whipped and they learned. It was said, too, that when he flogged them he always said: "Boys, I do this to save you from the gallows!" Johnson went to Oxford, and afterwards, in 1736, opened a school near Lichfield, advertising in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for young gentleman "to be boarded and taught the Latin and Greek languages, by Samuel Johnson." He only got eight pupils, amongst whom was David Garrick, who afterwards became the leading tragic actor of his time. Johnson had for some time been at work on a tragedy called _The Tragedy of Irene_, though whether this decided Garrick to become a tragedy actor is not known; the play, however, did not succeed with the play-going public in London, and had to be withdrawn. Neither did the school succeed, and it had to be given up, Johnson, accompanied by David Garrick, setting off to London, where it was said that he lived in a garret on fourpence-halfpenny per day. Many years afterwards, when Johnson was dining with a fashionable company, a remark was made referring to an incident that occurred in a certain year, and Johnson exclaimed: "That was the year when I came to London with twopence-halfpenny in my pocket." Garrick overheard the remark, and exclaimed: "Eh, what do you say? with twopence-halfpenny in your pocket?" "Why, yes; when I came with twopence-halfpenny in my pocket, and thou, Davy, with three-halfpence in thine." Poverty haunted Johnson all through life until 1762, when he was granted a pension of £300 a year by King George III, on the recommendation of Lord Bute, the Prime Minister, who, in making the offer, said: "It is not given you for anything you are to do, but for what you have done." In the meantime Johnson had brought out his great Dictionary, at which he had worked for years in extreme poverty, and in the progress of which he had asked Lord Chesterfield to become his patron, in the hope that he would render him some financial assistance. When he went to see him, however, he was kept waiting for over an hour, while his lordship amused himself by conversing with some second-rate mortal named "Colley Cibber," and when this man came out, and Johnson saw who it was for whom he had been kept waiting, he hurriedly and indignantly took his departure. When his Dictionary was nearly ready for publication and likely to become a great success, his lordship wrote to Johnson offering to become his patron; but it was now too late, and Johnson's reply was characteristic of the man, as the following passages from his letter show: Seven years, my Lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on with my work through Difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one-smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a Patron before. The notice you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for myself! [Illustration: LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL, WEST FRONT.] Johnson's name is often associated with London taverns, but it would be wrong to assume on that account that he had bibulous tendencies, for although he described Boswell, who wrote his splendid biography, as a "clubable" man, and the tavern chair as the throne of human felicity, it should be remembered that there were no gentlemen's clubs in London in those days, hence groups of famous men met at the taverns. Johnson had quite a host of friends, including Garrick, Burke, Goldsmith, Savage (whose biography he wrote), Sheridan, and Sir Joshua Reynolds. When Sir Joshua Reynolds and Johnson were dining at Mrs. Garrick's house in London they were regaled with Uttoxeter ale, which had a "peculiar appropriate value," but Johnson's beverage at the London taverns was lemonade, or the juice of oranges, or tea, and it was his boast that "with tea he amused the evenings, with tea solaced the midnight hour, and with tea welcomed the morning." He was credited with drinking enormous quantities of that beverage, the highest number of cups recorded being twenty-five at one time, but the size of the cups were very much smaller in those days. Johnson, who died in 1784 at the age of seventy-five, was buried in Westminster Abbey, and, mainly through the exertions of his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds, a statue of him was erected in St. Paul's Cathedral. Other eminent men besides Dr. Johnson received their education at Lichfield Grammar School: Elias Ashmole, founder of the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford, Joseph Addison the great essayist, whose father was Dean of Lichfield, and David Garrick the actor, were all educated at the Grammar School. There were five boys who had at one period attended the school who afterwards became judges of the High Court: Lord Chief Justice Willes, Lord Chief Justice Wilmot, Lord Chief Baron Parker, Mr. Justice Noel, and Sir Richard Lloyd, Baron of the Exchequer. Leaving Lichfield, we passed along the racecourse and walked as quickly as we could to Tamworth, where at the railway station we found our box awaiting us with a fresh change of clothing. In a few minutes we were comfortably rigged out for our farther journey; the box, in which my brother packed up the stones, was then reconsigned to our home address. I was now strong enough to carry my own luggage, which seemed to fit very awkwardly in its former position, but I soon got over that. There was at Tamworth a fine old church dedicated to St. Editha which we did not visit. We saw the bronze statue erected in 1852 to the memory of the great Sir Robert Peel, Bart., who represented Tamworth in Parliament, and was twice Prime Minister, and who brought in the famous Bill for the Abolition of the Corn Laws. These Laws had been in operation from the year 1436. But times had changed: the population had rapidly grown with the development of industries, so that being limited to home production, corn reached such a high price that people came to see that the laws pressed hardly upon the poorer classes, hence they were ultimately abolished altogether. The Bill was passed in 1846, Cobden, Bright, and Villiers leading the agitation against them, and after the Corn Laws were abolished a period of great prosperity prevailed in England. [Illustration: SIR ROBERT PEEL. _From the portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence_.] Sir Robert Peel died from the effect of an accident sustained when riding on horseback in Hyde Park, on June 25th, 1850; he fell from his horse, dying three days afterwards, and was buried in his mausoleum, in the Parish Church of Drayton Bassett, a village about two miles from Tamworth. It was the day of the Municipal Elections as we passed through Tamworth, but, as only one ward was being contested, there was an almost total absence o f the excitement usual on such occasions. [Illustration: TAMWORTH CASTLE.] Tamworth Castle contains some walls that were built by the Saxons in a herringbone pattern. There was a palace on the site of the castle in the time of Ofta, which was the chief residence of the Kings of Mercia; but William the Conqueror gave the castle and town of Tamworth and the Manor of Scrivelsby in Lincolnshire to his dispensor, or royal steward, Robert of Fontenaye-le-Marmion in Normandy, whose family were the hereditary champions of the Dukes of Normandy: These Lincoln lands the Conqueror gave, That England's glove they might convey To Knight renowned amongst the brave-- The Baron bold of Fontenaye. [Illustration: THE "LADY" BRIDGE, TAMWORTH.] Robert Marmion, therefore, was the first "King's Champion of England," an honour which remained in his family until the death of the eighth Lord, Philip Marmion, in 1291. This man was one of the leading nobles at the Court of Henry III, and the stubborn defender of Kenilworth Castle, acting as King's Champion at the Coronation of Edward I on August 19th, 1274. The duty of the King's Champion on the day of Coronation was to ride completely armed on a barbed horse into Westminster Hall, and there to challenge to combat any who should gainsay the king's title. On the death of Philip de Marmion the Castle of Tamworth passed by marriage to the Trevilles, Sir Alexander Treville, as owner of the castle, officiating; as Royal Champion at the Coronation of Edward III in 1327; but at the Coronation of Richard II, in 1377, the right of the Treville family to act as champion was disputed by Sir John Dymoke, to whom the Manor of Scrivelsby had descended by marriage from another relative of Phillip Marmion. It was decided that the office went with the Manor of Scrivelsby, and the Dymokes had acted as King's Champion ever since, their coat of arms bearing in Latin the motto, "I fight for the king." As we passed over what is known as the Lady Bridge spanning the River Tame, just where it joins the River Anker at the foot of the castle, we saw a stone built in the bridge called the Marmion Stone, and remembered Sir Walter Scott's "Tale of Flodden Field" and his famous lines: "Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion. But we found other references in Sir Walter's "Marmion": Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck, With silver scutcheon round their neck And there, with herald pomp and state, They hail'd Lord Marmion: They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye, Of Lutterward, and Scrivelsbaye, Of Tamworth tower and town. and in the Fifth Canto in "Marmion," King James of Scotland is made to say: "Southward I march by break of day; And if within Tantallon strong. The good Lord Marmion tarries long, Perchance our meeting next may fall At Tamworth, in his castle-hall."-- The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt: "Much honour'd were my humble home, If in its halls King James should come. * * * * * And many a banner will be torn, And many a knight to earth be borne, And many a sheaf of arrows spent. Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent." Sir Walter described Marmion as having been killed in the battle together with one of his peasants, and that as both bodies had been stripped and were covered with wounds, they could not distinguish one from the other, with the result that the peasant was brought and buried at Lichfield instead of his lord. Short is my tale:--Fitz-Eustace' care A pierced and mangled body bare To moated Lichfield's lofty pile; And there, beneath the southern aisle, A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair, Did long Lord Marmion's image bear, (Now vainly for its sight you look; 'Twas levell'd when fanatic Brook The fair cathedral storm'd and took; But, thanks to Heaven, and good Saint Chad, A guerdon meet the spoiler had!) There erst was martial Marmion found, His feet upon a couchant hound, His hands to heaven upraised: And all around, on scutcheon rich, And tablet carved, and fretted niche, His arms and feats were blazed. And yet, though all was carved so fair, And priest for Marmion breathed the prayer, The last Lord Marmion lay not there. [Illustration: MEREVALE ABBEY.] [Illustration: "KING DICK'S WELL."] The Marmion stone on the bridge has five unequal sides, and at one time formed the base for a figure of the Virgin and the Child, which stood on the bridge. The ancient family of Basset of Drayton, a village close by, were in some way connected with this stone, for on one side appeared the arms of the family, on another the monogram M.R. surmounted by a crown, and on the two others the letters I.H.C. About two miles farther on we entered the village of Fazeley, purposely to see a house where a relative of ours had once resided, being curious to know what kind of a place it was. Here we were only a short distance away from Drayton Manor, at one time the residence of the great Sir Robert Peel. Having gratified our curiosity, we recrossed the River Tame, passing along the great Watling Street, the Roman Road which King Alfred used as a boundary in dividing England with the Danes, towards Atherstone in search of "fields and pastures new," and in a few miles reached the grounds of Merevale Abbey, now in ruins, where Robert, Earl Ferrers, was buried, long before coffins were used for burial purposes, in "a good ox hide." Here we reached the town of Atherstone, where the staple industry was the manufacture of hats, the Atherstone Company of Hat-makers being incorporated by charters from James I and Charles II. Many of the chiefs on the West Coast of Africa have been decorated with gorgeous hats that have been made at Atherstone. When the Romans were making their famous street and reached the spot where Atherstone now stands, they came, according to local tradition, to a large stone that was in their way, and in moving it they disturbed a nest of adders, which flew at them. The stone was named Adders' Stone, which gradually became corrupted to Athers' Stone, and hence the name of the town. The Corporation of the Governors embodied this incident in their coat of arms and on the Grammar School, which was endowed in 1573: a stone showed the adders as springing upwards, and displaying the words, "Adderstonien Sigil Scholæ." We called at the "Old Red Lion Inn," and, going to explore the town while our refreshments were being prepared, found our way to a church, once part of a monastery, where the old fourteenth-century bell was still tolled. It was in the chancel of this church that Henry, Earl of Richmond, partook of Holy Communion on the eve of his great victory over Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field, by which he became King Henry VII. He had also spent a night at the "Three Tuns Inn" preparing his plans for the fight, which occurred two days later, August 22nd, 1485. There was on the site of the battle a well named "King Dick's Well," which was covered with masonry in the form of a pyramid, with an entrance on one of its four sides, and which covered the spring where Richard, weary of fighting, had a refreshing drink before the final charge that ended in his death. He, however, lost the battle, and Henry of Richmond, who won it, was crowned King of England at Stoke Golding Church, which was practically on the battlefield, and is one of the finest specimens of decorated architecture in England. But what an anxious and weary time these kings must have had! not only they, but all others. When we considered how many of them had been overthrown, assassinated, taken prisoners in war, executed, slain in battle, forced to abdicate, tortured to death, committed suicide, and gone mad, we came to the conclusion that Shakespeare was right when he wrote, "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." In his _King Richard II_ he makes the King say: "And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of Kings: How some have been deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd; All murder'd." One good result of the Battle of Bosworth Field was that it ended the "Wars of the Roses," which had been a curse to England for thirty years. [Illustration: BULL BAITING STONE, ATHERSTONE.] Bull-baiting was one of the favourite sports of our forefathers, the bull being usually fastened to an iron ring in the centre of a piece of ground, while dogs were urged on to attack it, many of them being killed in the fight. This space of land was known as the Bull-ring, a name often found in the centre of large towns at the present day. We knew a village in Shropshire where the original ring was still to be seen embedded in the cobbled pavement between the church and the village inn. But at Atherstone the bull had been fastened to a large stone, still to be seen, but away from the road, which had now been diverted from its original track. The ancient whipping-post, along with the stocks, which had accommodation for three persons, had found their last resting-place inside the old market-hall. They must have been almost constantly occupied and used in the good old times, as Atherstone was not only on the great Watling Street, but it had a unique position on the other roads of the country, as an old milestone near our hotel, where we found our refreshments waiting our arrival, informed us that we were a hundred miles from London, a hundred miles from Liverpool, and a hundred miles from Lincoln, so that Atherstone could fairly claim to be one of the central towns in England, though the distance to Lincoln had been overstated. [Illustration: STOCKS IN ATHERSTONE MARKET-HALL.] We continued walking along the Watling Street for a short distance, until we reached the end of the town, and then we forked on to the right towards Nuncaton; but in a very short distance we came to the village of Mancetter, where there was a fine old church, apparently the Parish Church of Atherstone. When the Romans were here they protected their "Street" by means of forts, and one in a small chain of these was at Mancetter, the Manduesdum of the Romans, their camp appearing in the form of a square mound, with the "Street" passing through the centre. Inside the church were quite a number of very old books, in one of which we were shown a wood-cut representing the burning of Robert Glover and Cornelius Bongley at Coventry in 1555. Glover was a gentleman who lived at the Manor House here, and was one of the Mancetter Martyrs, the other being Mrs. Lewis, a tenant of his who lived at the Manor House Farm. She was burnt in 1557, two years later. A large tablet was placed in the church to their memories, both of them having suffered for their adherence to the Protestant Faith. The east-end window was a curiosity, for it contained a large quantity of thirteenth-century stained glass which had been brought here from Merevale Abbey. It was probably damaged both there and in transit, as it seemed to have a somewhat rough appearance; the verger informed us, when pointing out several defects in the figures, that a local glazier had been employed to erect it who did not understand such work, and though he had no doubt done his best, he had made some awkward mistakes. Why David's sword appeared behind his back the verger could not explain, so my brother suggested that either the head or the body had been turned the wrong way about. [Illustration: THE MANOR HOUSE, MANCETTER.] There were five bells in the church tower, the largest of which was, of course, the tenor bell, weighing thirty-three hundredweight, and the words that had been cast on it set us a-thinking: My soaring sound does warning give That a man on earth not only lives. There were usually some strange records in these country churchyards, and we generally found them in the older portions of the burial-grounds; but we had very little time to look for them as the night was coming on, so we secured the services of the verger, who pointed out in the new part of the churchyard a stone recording the history of Charles Richard Potter in the following words: Born--May 11, 1788. Married--May 11, 1812. Died--May 11, 1858. So the eleventh day of May was a lucky or an unlucky day for Mr. Potter--probably both; but one strange feature which we only thought of afterwards was that he had lived exactly the allotted span of three score years and ten. In the old part of the yard were the following epitaphs: The Earth's a City Full of crooked streets Death is ye market-place Where all must meet If life was merchandise That man could buy The rich would always live Ye poor must die. In bygone times it was no unusual thing to find dead bodies on the road, or oftener a short distance from it, where the owners had laid themselves down to die; we ourselves remembered, in a lonely place, only a field's breadth from the coach road to London, a pit at the side of which years ago the corpse of a soldier had been found in the bushes. Here, apparently, there had been a similar case, with the exception that the man had been found by the side of the Watling Street instead of the fields adjoining. No one in the district knew who the stranger was, but as sufficient money had been found on him to pay the cost of the burial, his corpse was placed in Mancetter Churchyard, and as his name was unknown, some mysterious initials, of which no one now living knew the meaning, appeared on the headstone. Here lieth interr'd the Body of I. H. I. M. What Ere we was or am it matters not to whom related, or by whom begot, We was, but am not. Ask no more of me 'Tis all we are And all that you must be. We now hurried on, but as every finger-post had been painted white to receive the new letters, the old words beneath the paint were quite illegible, and, the road being lonely, of course we got lost, so, instead of arriving at Nuneaton, we found ourselves again at the Watling Street, at a higher point than that where we had left it when leaving Atherstone. Nearly opposite the lane end from which we now emerged there was a public-house, set back from the road, where a sign, suspended from a pole, swung alongside the Watling Street to attract the attention of travellers to the inn, and here we called to inquire our way to Nuneaton. The name of the house was the "Royal Red Gate Inn," the pole we had seen on the Watling Street holding a wooden gate painted red. We asked why the red gate was a royal one, and the landlady said it was because Queen Adelaide once called there, but who Queen Adelaide was, and when she called there, she did not know. When asked what she called for, she replied, "I don't know, unless it was for a drink!" As we did not know who Queen Adelaide was ourselves, we had to wait until we reached Nuneaton, where we were informed that she was the wife of William IV, and that in her retirement she lived at Sudbury Hall in Derbyshire, so this would be on her coach road to and from London. The lane at one end of the Red Gate went to Fenney Drayton, where George Fox the Quaker was born, about whom we had heard farther north; but we had to push on, and finally did reach Nuneaton for the night. _(Distance walked twenty-seven miles_.) _Thursday, November 2nd._ In our early days we used to be told there was only one man in Manchester, which fact was true if we looked at the name; in the same way we were told there was but one nun in Nuneaton, but the ruins of the nunnery suggested that there must have been quite a number there in the past ages. We had seen many monasteries in our travels, but only one nunnery, and that was at York; so convent life did not seem to have been very popular in the North country, the chorus of a young lady's song of the period perhaps furnishing the reason why: [Illustration: "GEORGE ELLIOT."] Then I won't be a Nun, And I shan't be a Nun; I'm so fond of pleasure That I _cannot_ be a Nun. The nuns had of course disappeared and long since been forgotten, but other women had risen to take their places in the minds and memories of the people of Nuneaton, foremost amongst whom was Mary Ann Evans, who was born about the year 1820 at the South Farm, Arbury, whither her father, belonging to the Newdegate family, had removed from Derbyshire to take charge of some property in Warwickshire. "George Eliot" has been described as "the greatest woman writer in English literature," and as many of her novels related mainly to persons and places between Nuneaton and Coventry, that district had been named by the Nuneaton people "The Country of George Eliot." _Scenes of Clerical Life_ was published in 1858, and _The Mill on the Floss_ in 1860, and although the characters and places are more difficult to locate than those in _Adam Bede_, the "Bull Hotel" at Nuneaton has been identified as the "Red Lion" in her novel, where Mr. Dempster, over his third glass of brandy and water, would overwhelm a disputant who had beaten him in argument, with some such tirade as: "I don't care a straw, sir, either for you or your encyclopædia; a farrago of false information picked up in a cargo of waste paper. Will you tell me, sir, that I don't know the origin of Presbyterianism? I, sir, a man known through the county; while you, sir, are ignored by the very fleas that infest the miserable alley in which you were bred!" [Illustration: SOUTH FARM, ARBURY, THE BIRTHPLACE OF "GEORGE ELIOT"] We left the "Newdegate Arms" at Nuneaton early in the morning, on our way to Lutterworth, our next object of interest, and passed by the village of Hartshill, where Michael Drayton was born in 1563. He was a lyric poet of considerable fame and a friend of Shakespeare. His greatest work, _Polyolbion_, a poetic description of different parts of England, was published in 1613. He became Poet Laureate, and at his death, in 1631, was buried in Westminster Abbey. We again went astray owing to the finger-posts being without names, but at length reached the Watling Street at cross-roads, where there was a very old public-house called "The Three Pots," and here we turned to the right along the Street. The road was very lonely, for there were very few houses on the Street itself, the villages being a mile or two away on either side, but we had not gone very far before we met a Church of England clergyman, who told us he had just returned from India, and that he would much have liked to form one of our company in the journey we were taking. He was sorry he had not met us lower down the road so that he could have detained us a short time to listen to some of our tales of adventures, and he would have given us a glass of beer and some bread and cheese; which he altered to milk and eggs when we told him we did not drink beer. We explained to him that we should never be able to complete our journey if we joined the company of the beer-drinkers at the many taverns we passed, and lingered at, on our way. Our experience was that we were expected to tell tales, and the farther we travelled the more we should have had to tell. He quite saw the force of our argument, and then he said: "I presume you are not married," and when we told him we were not, he said, "I thought not, as you would never have been allowed to engage in so long a journey," and added, "I am just about to be married myself." We told him we were sorry he was about to lose his liberty, and, wishing him much happiness, and again thanking him for his proffered hospitality, we resumed our march. [Illustration: HIGH CROSS, THE CENTRE OF ENGLAND.] In passing through country villages we often met the local clergyman or doctor, of whom we invariably inquired concerning any objects of interest to be seen. It was marvellous how many of them expressed a wish to imitate our example. This, however, was only on fine days, for we seldom met those gentlemen when the weather was bad, and we wondered whether, if we had, they would still have expressed a wish to form one of our company! Fine weather prevailed that day, and we soon arrived at the High Cross which marked the Roman centre of England. It was at this point that their most celebrated roads, the Fosse Way and the Watling Street, crossed each other, running, we supposed, from north-east to south-west and from north-west to south-east, to the extreme ends of the kingdom in each direction. The Cross in the time of the Romans was made of wood, being replaced or renewed in successive generations, until in the middle of the seventeenth century it was utilised as a finger-post, consisting of a long pole with four arms, to direct the way from "London to West Chester," and from "York to Bristol." In 1712 an ornamental stone cross was erected on the same spot by a number of gentlemen headed by Basil, the fourth Earl of Denbigh, who had large estates in that neighbourhood. The tableland on which it stood was 440 feet above the sea-level, rivers running from it in every direction, and such was the extent of the country visible from the Cross that with the aid of a telescope fifty-six churches could be seen. This elevated position might account for the Cross being struck by lightning in 1791 and partially destroyed, but the inscriptions on the base, which had been left standing, were still visible, although partially obscured by the numerous names and initials of vandals, who have succeeded in closing many interesting places to more civilised and sensible people. We could perhaps go further and describe them as fools, for what will it matter to posterity what their initials or names are; they only rouse the ire of those who follow them and a feeling of disappointment that they had not caught the offenders in their act of wanton mischief and been able to administer some corporal punishment or other. Years ago the benevolent owner of a fine estate situated near a town decided to open his beautiful grounds to his poorer neighbours, but before doing so he erected at the entrance gate two large wooden tablets resembling the two tablets of the Ten Commandments formerly fixed in churches but now rapidly disappearing, and on these he caused his conditions and desires to be painted in poetry, four verses on each tablet. They represent what most landowners desire but few obtain: I No chief to enter at this gate To wander through this fine estate; The owner of this ancient Hall A kindly welcome bids to all: Yet hopes that no one will neglect The following wishes to respect. II When in the meadows grown for hay. Keep to the Drive or right of way. Fright not the cattle on the lea Nor damage flower nor shrub nor tree; And let no vestiges be found Of paper, scattered o'er the ground. III One more request will sure suffice: From carving any rude device Refrain! and oh let no one see Your name on post, or bridge or tree. Such were the act of fool, whose name We fear can ne'er descend to fame. IV Your olive-branches with you take, And let them here their pastime make. These scenes will ever seem more fair When children's voices fill the air: Or bring, as comrade in your stroll, Your Dog, if under due control. V If, to the gentle art inclined, To throw a fly you have a mind. Send in your card and state your wish To be allowed to catch a fish: Or if the woodland to explore, Pray seek permission at the door. VI These boons are granted not quite free, Y'et for a very moderate fee; Nor fear but what it is ordained That all the money thus obtained Shall to the fund be handed down For aid to sick in yonder Town. VII The owner of this blest domain Himself to sojourn here is fain; And if by land or sea he roam Yet loveth best his native home, Which, for two centuries or near, His ancestors have held so dear. VIII Admire well the graceful art Of Nature's hand in every part: Full well he knoweth how to prize This fair Terrestrial Paradise; And 'tis his wish sincere and true That others should enjoy it too. But to return to the High Cross and the Watling Street. The description on the Cross was in Latin, of which the following is a translation: The noblemen and gentry, ornaments of the counties of Warwickshire and Leicestershire at the instance of the Right Honourable Basil Earl of Denbigh, have caused this pillar to be erected in grateful as well as perpetual remembrance of peace at last restored by her Majesty Queen Anne. If, Traveller, you search for the footsteps of the ancient Romans you may here behold them. For here their most celebrated ways crossing one another extend to the utmost boundaries of Britain. Here the Bennones kept their quarters and at the distance of one mile from here Claudius, a certain commander of a Cohort, seems to have had a camp towards the Street, and towards the Fosse a tomb. We were pleased to see that the remains of the Cross had been enclosed in the garden of a house belonging to the Earl of Denbigh, a descendant of the Earl who had been instrumental in building it, and it was now comparatively safe from further defacement. The Romans built stations along their roads, and near the High Cross stood their military station Bennones, on the side of which many Roman remains, including a Roman urn, had been discovered. It was of great importance to them that any hostile movement amongst the turbulent Britons should be reported immediately, so young men who were quick runners were employed to convey intelligence from one station to another; but this system was improved upon later by building on the side of the road, in as prominent a position as possible, at intervals of five or six miles, a house where forty horses were stabled so that news or soldiers could, if required, be carried by relays of horses a distance of a hundred miles along the road in the course of a single day. We were now only about twelve miles from Leicester, and we had to walk about six miles in that county in order to reach Lutterworth, famous throughout England as the parish where the great Reformer John Wiclif spent the last nineteen years of his life as rector. We passed through a fine grazing and fox-hunting country on our way, and found Lutterworth a rather pleasantly situated little town. Our first visit was naturally to the church, and as we walked along the quiet street leading up to it we saw a woman standing at her cottage door, to whom we spoke concerning the great divine, asking incidentally how long it was since he was rector there. She said she did not know exactly, but as far as she could remember she thought it was about 146 years since he died. On arriving at the church we found that it was about 487 years since Wiclif departed, and we thought it strange that a lady who lived almost under the shadow of the church steeple could have been so ill-informed. The church had recently been restored, and a painting of the Day of Doom, or Judgment, had been discovered over the arch of the chancel under the whitewash or plaster, which we were told Oliver Cromwell had ordered to be put on. At the top of this picture our Saviour was represented as sitting on a rainbow with two angels on each side, two of whom were blowing trumpets, and on the earth, which appeared far down below, the graves were opening, and all sorts of strange people, from the king down to the humblest peasant, were coming out of their tombs, while the fire and smoke from others proclaimed the doom of their occupants, and skulls and bones lay scattered about in all directions. [Illustration: JOHN WICLIF. _From the portrait in Lutterworth Church_] It was not a very pleasant picture to look upon, so we adjourned to the vestry, where we were shown a vestment worn by Wiclif in which some holes had been cut either with knives or scissors. On inquiry we were informed that the pieces cut out had been "taken away by visitors," which made us wonder why the vestment had not been taken better care of. We were shown an old pulpit, and the chair in which Wiclif fell when he was attacked by paralysis, and in which he was carried out of church to die three days afterwards. We could not describe his life and work better than by the inscription on the mural monument subscribed for in 1837: Sacred to the Memory of John Wiclif the earliest Champion of Ecclesiastical Reformation in England. He was born in Yorkshire in the year 1324, and in the year 1375 he was presented to the Rectory of Lutterworth. At Oxford he acquired not only the renown of a consummate Schoolman, but the far more glorious title of the Evangelical Doctor. His whole life was one perpetual struggle against the corruptions and encroachments of the Papal Court and the impostures of its devoted auxiliaries, the Mendicant Fraternities. His labours in the cause of Scriptural truths were crowned by one immortal achievement, his Translation of the Bible into the English tongue. This mighty work drew on him, indeed, the bitter hatred of all who were making merchandise of the popular credulity and ignorance, but he found abundant reward in the blessing of his countrymen of every rank and age, to whom he unfolded the words of Eternal Light. His mortal remains were interred near this spot, but they were not allowed to rest in peace. After a lapse of many years his bones were dragged from the grave and consigned to the flames; and his ashes were cast in the waters of the adjoining stream. That he was a man of distinction may be taken for granted, as he was master of that famous college at Oxford, Balliol College, where his picture hangs in the dining-hall to-day. When in Lichfield Cathedral, where we saw Chantrey's monument of Bishop Ryder, we had omitted to ask for particulars about him, but here we were told that he was appointed Rector of Lutterworth in 1801, and had been a benefactor to the town. He was made Canon of Windsor in 1808, Dean of Wells 1812, Bishop of Gloucester 1815, and finally became Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry. He died at Hastings in 1836, and as Chantrey himself died in 1841, his monument of Bishop Ryder, that had impressed us so deeply, must have been one of his latest and best productions. [Illustration: LUTTERWORTH CHURCH] Lutterworth was the property of William the Conqueror in 1086, and it was King Edward III who presented the living to Wiclif, who was not only persecuted by the Pope, but also by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London. On two occasions he had to appear before the Papal Commission, and if he had not been the personal friend of John o' Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, the fourth son of the King Edward who had given him the living, and probably the most powerful man in England next to the king, he would inevitably have suffered martyrdom. He was equally fortunate in the following reign, as John o' Gaunt was uncle to Richard II, the reigning monarch, under whose protection he was spared to finish his great work and to translate the Holy Bible so that it could be read in the English language. We went to see the bridge which crossed the small stream known as the River Swift, for it was there that Wiclif's bones were burned and the ashes thrown into the stream. The historian related that they did not remain there, for the waters of the Swift conveyed them to the River Avon, the River Avon to the River Severn, the Severn to the narrow seas, and thence into the wide ocean, thus becoming emblematic of Wiclif's doctrines, which in later years spread over the wide, wide world. A well-known writer once humorously observed that the existence of a gallows in any country was one of the signs of civilisation, but although we did not see or hear of any gallows at Lutterworth, there were other articles, named in the old books of the constables, which might have had an equally civilising influence, especially if they had been used as extensively as the stocks and whipping-post as recorded in a list of vagrants who had been taken up and whipped by Constables Cattell and Pope, from October 15th, 1657, to September 30th, 1658. The records of the amounts paid for repairs to the various instruments of torture, which included a lock-up cage for prisoners and a cuck, or ducking-stool, in which the constables ducked scolding wives and other women in a deep hole near the river bridge, led us to conclude that they must have been extensively used. A curious custom prevailed in Lutterworth in olden times. There were two mills on the River Swift, and the people were compelled to grind all their malt at one mill and all their corn at another, and to bake all their bread in one oven; in those "days of bondage" a person durst not buy a pound of flour from any other miller. These privileges were abused by the millers to make high charges, and it was on record that a person who ventured to bake a cake in his own oven was summoned, but discharged on his begging pardon and paying expenses. This unsatisfactory state of things continued until the year 1758, when a rebellion arose headed by a local patriot named Bickley. This townsman roused his fellow-citizens to resist, and built a malthouse of his own, his example being soon followed by others, who defied the owner of the privileged mill, and entered into a solemn bond to defend any action that might be brought against them. The contest was one of the most interesting and remarkable ever known in the district, and was decided at the Leicester Assizes in July 1758, the verdict being in favour of the parishioners, with costs to the amount of £300. One of the greatest curiosities to be seen in Lutterworth was an old clock which was there in 1798, and still remained in good working order; the description of it reads as follows: The case is of mahogany; and the face is oval, being nineteen inches by fifteen inches. The upper part exhibits a band of music, consisting of two violins, a violoncello, a German flute, three vocal performers, and a boy and girl; the lower part has the hour and minutes indicated by neat gilt hands; above the centre is a moment hand, which shows the true dead beat. On the right is a hand pointing to--chimes silent--all dormant--quarters silent--all active; to signify that the clock will perform as those words imply. On the left is a hand that points to the days of the week, and goes round in the course of seven days, and shifts the barrel to a fresh time at noon and midnight. The clock strikes the hour, the four quarters, and plays a tune three times over every three hours, either on the bells alone, the lyricord, or on both together. Three figures beat exact time to the music, and three seem to play on their instruments; and the boy and the girl both dance through the whole if permitted. But still, by a touch all are dormant, and by another touch all are in action again. The lyricord will play either low or loud. The machine goes eight days, either as a watch clock, quarter clock, quarter-chime-clock or as a quarter chime lyrical clock. It will go with any or all parts in action, or with any or all parts dormant. It has four chime barrels, and plays sixty-five tunes, many of them in two or three parts, on nineteen musical bells, and on the like number of double musical wires. A child may do everything necessary to show its varied and complicated action. [Illustration: LUTTERWORTH AND THE RIVER SWIFT, WHERE THE ASHES OF WICLIF WERE SCATTERED.] The maker was Mr. Deacon, a Baptist minister of Barton-in-the-Beans, who began life as a farm boy when he was eleven years of age. A gentleman happened to call on the farmer one evening and had some nuts given to him, and as he could not crack them, one of the other servants said to the boy, "Sam, bring the wooden nut-crackers you made!" When the boy brought them, the visitor, after cracking a nut, examined them carefully for some time, and was so struck with the ingenuity displayed in their construction that he took the lad and apprenticed him to a clock-maker in Leicester, where he became one of the cleverest workmen in the kingdom, the most elaborate and curious piece of mechanism he made being this wonderful clock. We returned from Lutterworth by a different route, for we were now off to see Peeping Tom at Coventry; but our experiments on the roads were not altogether satisfactory, for we got lost in some by-roads where there was no one to inquire from, and eventually reached the snug little village of Monks Kirby. Here, according to the name of the village, we should at one time have found a Danish settlement, and at another a church belonging to the monks; but on this occasion we found a church and a comfortable-looking inn opposite to it, where we called for an early tea. This was quickly served and disposed of, and shortly afterwards we reached, coming from the direction of the High Cross, the Fosse, or Foss-way, one of the four great roads made by the Romans in England, so named by them because there was a fosse, or ditch, on each side of it. We walked along its narrow and straight surface until we came to a road which crossed it, and here, about halfway between Rugby and Coventry, we turned to the right, leaving the "fosse" to continue its course across Dunsmore Heath, where in ancient times Guy, the famous Earl of Warwick, slew the terrible Dun Cow of Dunsmore, "a monstrous wyld and cruell beast." The village of Brinklow was now before us, presenting a strange appearance as we walked towards it from the brook below, for at the entrance stood a lofty mound formerly a Roman camp, while behind it was a British tumulus. In the Civil War there was much fighting all along the road from here to Coventry, and Cromwell's soldiers had not left us much to look at in the church, as the windows had all been "blown out" at that time, leaving only some small pieces of stained glass. The church, however, was quite a curiosity, for it sloped with the hill, and was many feet lower at the Tower end than at the east. We walked along a rather steep inclined plane until we came to a flight of four steps which landed us on the chancel floor, where another inclined plane brought us up to the foot of the two steps leading to the altar; we were told that there was only one other church built in such a form "in all England." We were now well within the borders of the county of Warwickshire, which, with the other two Midland Counties of Worcestershire and Staffordshire, formerly contained more leading Roman Catholic families than any other part of England, so we were not surprised when we heard that we were passing through a country that had been associated with the Gunpowder Plot, and that one incident connected with it had occurred at Combe Abbey, which we would pass a mile or two farther on our way. The originator of the Gunpowder Plot, Catesby, was intimately connected with many of the leading families in these counties, and was lineally descended from the Catesby of King Richard III's time, whose fame had been handed down in the old rhyme: The Rat, the Cat, and Lovel the Dog Rule all England under the Hog. the rat meaning Ratcliffe, the cat Catesby, and the hog King Richard, whose cognisance was a boar. Robert Catesby, the descendant of the "cat," was said to be one of the greatest bigots that ever lived; he was the friend of Garnet, the Jesuit, and had been concerned in many plots against Queen Elizabeth; when that queen died and King James, the son of Mary Queen of Scots, ascended the throne, their expectations rose high, for his mother had suffered so much from Queen Elizabeth that they looked upon her as a martyr, and were sure that their form of religion would now be restored. But great was their chagrin when they found that James, probably owing to his early education under John Knox in Scotland, was more ready to put the laws in force against the Papists than to give them greater toleration. [Illustration: THE OLD MANOR HOUSE, ASHBY ST. LEDGERS.] Catesby and his friends resolved to try to depose James and to place the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I, afterwards the beautiful Queen of Bohemia, whom her royal parents had placed under the care of the Earl of Harrington, then the owner of Combe Abbey, about five miles from Coventry, on the throne in his stead. The conspirators assembled at Dunchurch, near Rugby, but held their meetings about six miles away, in a room over the entrance to the old Manor House at Ashby St. Ledgers, the home of Catesby, where it was proposed to settle matters by blowing up the Houses of Parliament. These were to be opened on November 5th, 1605, when the King, Queen, and Prince of Wales, with the Lords and Commons, would all be assembled. In those days the vaults, or cellars, of the Parliament House were let to different merchants for the storage of goods, and one of these immediately under the House of Lords was engaged and filled with some innocent-looking barrels, in reality containing gunpowder, which were covered by faggots of brushwood. All preparations were now completed except to appoint one of their number to apply the torch, an operation which would probably involve certain death. In the meantime Catesby had become acquainted with Guy Fawkes, a member of an old Yorkshire family, and almost as bigoted a Papist as himself, who had joined the conspirators at Dunchurch, the house where he lodged being still known as Guy Fawkes' House, and when the question came up for decision, he at once volunteered his services, as he was a soldier and a brave man. They were accepted, and Sir Everard Digby was to stay at Dunchurch in order to be ready to seize the young Princess Elizabeth while the others went to London. It so happened that one of the conspirators had a friend, Lord Monteagle, whom he knew would be sure to attend the opening of Parliament, and as he did not want him to be killed he caused an anonymous letter to be written warning him not to attend the opening of Parliament, "for though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow this Parliament, and yet shall not see who hurts them." The letter was delivered to Monteagle by a man in a long coat, who laid it on his table and disappeared immediately. It was afterwards handed to King James, who, after reading the last paragraph, repeated it aloud, "and yet they shall not see who hurts them," and said to Cecil, "This smells gunpowder!" Their suspicions were aroused, but they waited until midnight on November 4th, and then sent soldiers well armed to search the vaults, where they found a man with a long sword amongst the barrels. He fought savagely, but was soon overpowered. When the conspirators found that their plot had been discovered, and that Guy Fawkes was in custody, instead of escaping to France as they might easily have done, they hastened down to Dunchurch, "as if struck by infatuation," in the wild hope of capturing the young Princess and raising a civil war in her name; but by the time they reached Combe Abbey, the Earl of Harrington had removed Elizabeth to Coventry, which at that time was one of the most strongly fortified places in England. They now realised that their game was up, and the gang dispersed to hide themselves; but when the dreadful nature of the plot became known, it created such a profound sensation of horror throughout the country, that every one joined in the search for the conspirators, who in the end were all captured and executed. Great rejoicings were held, bonfires lit, bells rung, and guns fired in almost every village, and thereby the people were taught to-- Remember, remember, the Fifth of November The Gunpowder, Treason, and Plot. These celebrations have been continued on each fifth of November for centuries, November 5th becoming known as "Bonfire Day." And in our Book of Common Prayer there was a special service for the day which was only removed in the time of Queen Victoria. Guy Fawkes was executed on February 6th, 1606. Fortunately for the Protestants the reign of the queen who was known by them as the "Bloody Queen Mary" was of short duration, for they were then subjected to very great cruelties; on the other hand there was no doubt that during the much longer reign of Queen Elizabeth that followed, the Papists also suffered greatly; still under James they were now bound to suffer more in every way, short of death, for the great mass of their fellow-countrymen had turned against them owing to the murderous character of the Gunpowder Plot, so-- On Bonfire Day, as Britons should, They heaped up sticks, and turf, and wood; And lighted Bonfires bright and hot, In memory of the Popish Plot! We were ourselves greatly interested in November 5th, which was now due to arrive in three days' time; not because some of our ancestors had been adherents to the Roman Catholic Faith, nor because of the massacres, for in that respect we thought one side was quite as bad as the other; but because it happened to be my birthday, and some of our earliest and happiest associations were connected with that day. I could remember the time when a candle was placed in every available window-pane at home on November 5th, and when I saw the glare of the big bonfire outside and the pin-wheels, the rip-raps, and small fireworks, and heard the church bells ringing merrily, and the sound of the guns firing, I naturally thought as a child that all these tokens of rejoicing were there because it was my birthday. Then the children from the village came! first one small group and then another; these were the "Soulers," or "Soul-Cakers," who ought to have appeared, according to history, on All Souls' Day; they were generally satisfied with apples or pears, or with coppers. The most mysterious visitor was the horse's head, or hobby horse, which came without its body or legs, but could make a noise just like the neighing of a horse, and could also open its mouth so wide that a glass filled with beer could pass down its throat. To complete the illusion we could hear its jaws, which were filled with very large teeth, close together with a crack, and although the glass was returned in some way or other, we never saw the beer again. The horse's head was accompanied by a lot of men known as Mummers, dressed in all sorts of queer clothes, who acted a short play, but the only words I could remember were, "King George, King George, thou hast killed my only son!" and at that point one of the actors fell on the grass as if he were dead. But these were reveries of the past; when the spell broke I found myself walking with my brother in the dark alongside the grounds of Combe Abbey, the only lights we could see being some in the park, which might have been those from the abbey itself. We were expecting to come upon a private menagerie which was supposed to exist somewhere in the park, and we had prepared ourselves for the roars of the lions seeking their prey as they heard our footsteps on the road, or for the horrid groans of other wild animals; but beyond a few minor noises, which we could not recognise, all was quiet, and passing the small village of Binley we soon arrived at Coventry, where we stayed for the night at an ancient hostelry near the centre of the town. St. George, the Patron Saint of England, who lived in the early part of the fourth century, and was reckoned among the seven champions of Christendom, was said to have been born in Coventry. In olden times a chapel, named after him, existed here, in which King Edward IV, when he kept St. George's Feast on St. George's Day, April 23rd, 1474, attended service. Coventry was a much older town than we expected to find it, and, like Lichfield, it was known as the city of the three spires; but here they were on three different churches. We had many arguments on our journey, both between ourselves and with others, as to why churches should have towers in some places and spires in others. One gentleman who had travelled extensively through Britain observed that towers were more numerous along the sea coasts and on the borders of Wales and Scotland, while spires were most in evidence in the low Midland plains where trees abounded. In these districts it was important to have part of the church standing out from the foliage, while on a hill or a bare cliff a short tower was all that was needed. He actually knew more than one case where the squires in recent times had a short spire placed on the top of the church tower, like the extinguisher of an old candlestick, because it was said they needed guide-posts by which to find their way home from hunting! [Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S CHURCH SPIRE, COVENTRY.] In olden times, ere the enemy could approach the village, the cattle were able to be driven in the church, while the men kept an easy look-out from the tower, and the loopholes in it served as places where arrows could be shot from safe cover. In some districts we passed through we could easily distinguish the position of the villages by the spires rising above the foliage, and very pretty they appeared, and at times a rivalry seemed to have existed which should possess the loftiest or most highly decorated spire, some of them being of exceptional beauty. The parish churches were almost invariably placed on the highest point in the villages, so that before there were any proper roads the parishioners could find their way to church so long as they could see the tower or spire, and to that position at the present day, it is interesting to note, all roads still converge. We had no idea that the story of Lady Godiva and Peeping Tom was so ancient, but we found it dated back to the time of Leofric, Earl of Mercia, who in 1043 founded an abbey here which was endowed by his wife, the Lady Godiva. The earl, the owner of Coventry, levied very hard taxes on the inhabitants, and treated their petitions for relief with scorn. Lady Godiva, on the contrary, had moved amongst the people, and knew the great privations they had suffered through having to pay these heavy taxes, and had often pleaded with her husband on their behalf. At last he promised her that he would repeal the taxes if she would ride naked through the town, probably thinking his wife would not undertake such a task. But she had seen so much suffering amongst the poor people that she decided to go through the ordeal for their sakes, and the day was fixed, when she would ride through the town. Orders were given by the people that everybody should darken their windows and retire to the back part of their houses until Lady Godiva had passed. All obeyed except one man, "Tom the Tailor," afterwards nicknamed "Peeping Tom," who, as the lady rode by on her palfrey, enveloped in her long tresses of hair, which fell round her as a garment, looked down on her from his window, and of him the historian related that "his eyes chopped out of his head even as he looked." The ride ended, the taxes were repealed, and ever afterwards the good Lady Godiva was enshrined in the hearts of the people of Coventry. Many years later a beautiful stained-glass window was placed in the Parish Church to commemorate this famous event, and Leofric was portrayed thereon as presenting Godiva with a charter bearing the words: I Luriche for love of thee Doe make Coventry toll free. [Illustration: THOMAS PARR =_The Olde, Old, very Olde Man or Thomas Par, the Sonne of John Parr of Winnington in the Parish of Alberbury. In the County of Shropshire who was Borne in 1483 in The Raigne of King Edward the 4th and is now living in The Strand, being aged 152 yeares and odd Monethes 1635 He dyed November the 15th And is now buryed in Westminster 1635_=] This story Tennyson has immortalised, and its memory is still perpetuated in the pageants which are held from time to time in the city. Coventry was described in 1642 by Jeremiah Wharton, an officer under the Earl of Essex in the Parliamentary Army, as "a City environed with a wall, co-equal with, if not exceeding, that of London, for breadth and height, and with gates and battlements, and magnificent churches and stately streets, and abundant fountains of water, altogether a place very sweetly situated, and where there was no lack of venison." The walls of Coventry, begun in the year 1355, were very formidable, being six yards high and three yards thick, and having thirty-two towers and twelve principal gates. They defied both Edward IV and Charles I when with their armies they appeared before them and demanded admission, but they were demolished after the Civil War by order of Charles II, because the people of Coventry had refused admission to his father, King Charles I. Coventry possessed a greater number of archives than almost any other town in England, covering eight centuries and numbering over eleven thousand. My brother was delighted to find that one of them related to a very old man named Thomas Parr, recording the fact that he passed through the town on his way to London in 1635, at the age of 152 years. It reminded him of a family medicine known as Old Parr's Pills, which at one time was highly prized; they had been used by our grandfather, who died in his ninety-seventh year, and he often wondered whether his longevity was in any way due to those pills. They were supposed to have been made from the same kind of herbs as old Parr was known to have used in his efforts to keep himself alive, and during supper my brother talked about nothing else but that old man; if he was an authority on anything, it was certainly on old Thomas Parr. This man was born on the Montgomery border of Shropshire, where a tablet to his memory in Great Wollaston Church bore the following inscription: The old, old, very old man THOMAS PARR was born at Wynn in the Township of Winnington within the Chapelry of Great Wollaston, and Parish of Alberbury, in the County of Salop, in the year of our Lord 1483. He lived in the reigns of 10 Kings and Queens of England, King Edward IV. and V. Richard III. Henry VII. VIII. Edward VI. Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth. King James I. King Charles I. He died the thirteenth and was buried at Westminster Abbey on the fifteenth November 1635 Age 152 years and 9 months. John Taylor, known as the Water Poet because he was a Thames waterman, who was born in 1580, and died in 1656, was a contemporary of Parr, and wrote a book in 1635, the same year that old Parr died, entitled _The Olde, Olde, very Olde Man_, in which he described Thomas Parr as an early riser, sober, and industrious: Though old age his face with wrinkles fill. He hath been handsome and is comely still; Well-faced, and though his Beard not oft corrected Yet neate it grows, not like a Beard neglected. Earl Arundel told King Charles I about this very old man, and he expressed a desire to see him; so the earl arranged to have him carried to London. When the men reached old Parr's cottage, which is still standing, they found an old man sitting under a tree, apparently quite done. Feeling sure that he was the man they wanted, they roused him up, and one said, "We have come for you to take you to the King!" The old man looked up at the person who spoke to him, and replied, "Hey, mon! it's not me ye want! it's me feyther!" "Your father!" they said, in astonishment; "where is he?" "Oh, he's cuttin' th' hedges!" So they went as directed, and found a still older man cutting away at a hedge in the small field adjoining the cottage, and him they took, together with his daughter, for whom the earl had provided a horse. Musicians also went with him, and it was supposed that he was exhibited at the different towns they called at on their way to London, and such was the crush to see him in Coventry that the old man narrowly escaped being killed. When he was taken into the presence of King Charles, the king said, "Well, Parr, you've lived a long time," and Parr answered, "Yes I have, your Majesty." "What do you consider the principal event in your long life?" asked the king, to which Parr replied that he hardly knew, but mentioned some offence which he had committed when he was a hundred years old, and for which he had to do penance in Alberbury Church, with the young woman sitting beside him barefooted, and dressed in white clothing! Whereupon King Charles said, "Oh, fie, fie, Parr, telling us of your faults and not your virtues!" [Illustration: OLD PARR'S COTTAGE.] Parr was fêted in London to such an extent that he died of surfeit, and was buried in the Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey, where his tombstone still exists, and is inscribed: Thomas Parr of Y'E County of Sallop Borne in A'P 1483. He lived in Y'E Reignes of Ten Princes VIZ:-- K. Edw. 4. K. Edw. 5. K. Rich. 3. K. Hen. 7. K. Hen. 8. K. Edw. 6. Q. Ma. Q. Eliz. K. Ja. & K. Charles Aged 152 Years & was buried Here Novemb. 15. 1635. His portrait was painted by Van Dyck, who at that time was the Court painter of King Charles I, and there were other oil paintings of him in various places in England and abroad. (_Distance walked thirty-one miles_.) _Friday, November 3rd._ [Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S CHURCH, COVENTRY.] Our hotel was quite near the Coventry Parish Church dedicated to St. Michael, which was said to be the largest parish church in England, so we went out early this morning to visit it. We found it to be a very fine church, and in it we saw some workmen erecting a beautiful stained-glass window in which they had already placed the likeness of two saints, one of whom was St. Ambrose. We wondered why they should be putting such images in what we supposed to be the Reformed Church of England. The men told us we should find a very fine stained-glass window across the way in St. Mary's Hall, which had been erected in the time of Henry VI, and was originally the work of John Thornton of Coventry, who also had charge of the erection of the famous east window we had already seen in York Minster. We only saw the exterior of the windows in St. Mary's Hall, as we could not find any door that was open, so we hurried away to form the acquaintance of "Peeping Tom," whose image we had come so many miles to see. We found him high up on a corner of a street as if looking down on the passers-by below. The building in which he appeared was doing duty as a public-house, so we went in and saw the landlord, to whom we explained the nature of our visit and journey, and he kindly conducted us up the steps to the small room at the top of the house where Peeping Tom was to be seen. He was a repulsive-looking image of humanity, made of wood, without arms, and with a hideous face; how long he had occupied his present position no one knew, but as we had seen images of wood made hundreds of years ago, we were willing to suppose that he was a relic of antiquity. Photography at the time of our visit was only in its infancy, but small cards, 4 inches long by 2-1/2 inches wide, with photographic views on them, were beginning to make their appearance--picture postcards being then unknown. On our tour we collected a number of these small cards, which were only to be found in the more populous places. In our case we were able to get one at Coventry of Peeping Tom, a facsimile of which we here produce. We did not stay long in his company, for we looked upon him as an ugly and disreputable character, but hurried back to our hotel for a good breakfast before starting on our walk to the country of Shakespeare. [Illustration: PEEPING TOM AT HIS WINDOW.] [Illustration: PEEPING TOM.] The dull days of November were now upon us, which might account to some extent for the sleepy appearance of the old town of Coventry; but it appeared that underlying all this was a feeling of great depression caused by the declining state of its two staple industries--watches and silk. The manufacture of watches had been established here for many years, for as early as 1727 the archives recorded that a watch-maker had been appointed Mayor of Coventry, and for anything we knew the manufacture of silk might have been quite as old an industry there; but the competition of American and Swiss watches was making itself seriously felt, and the Treaty with France which admitted French silks into England, duty free, was still more disastrous, causing much apprehension for the future prosperity of the "good old town." We lost a little time before starting, as my brother had seen something in a shop window that he wanted to buy, but having forgotten the exact position of the shop, we had to search diligently until we found it. It was quite an artistic bookmarker made of white silk, with ornamental bordering in colours which blended sweetly, enclosing a scroll, or unfolding banner, which only displayed one word at each fold: The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. I never knew what became of that book-mark until years later, after he was married, when I saw it in his family Bible, and then I could guess where it had been in the interval. I noticed also that he began to quicken his speed considerably, and to be inclined to walk farther each day, his explanation being that we were obliged to make up for lost time. I also noticed that he wrote more notes in his diary in shorthand, his knowledge of which I envied. He said that before he started on the journey he imagined he knew the history of England, but had now become convinced that he had it all to learn, and he thought the best way to learn it thoroughly was by walking from John o' Groat's to Land's End. [Illustration: KENILWORTH CASTLE FROM THE BRIDGE.] A story was once told of two commercial travellers who had travelled extensively, and were asked to write down the prettiest road in all England, and one of them wrote "from Kenilworth to Coventry" and the other wrote "from Coventry to Kenilworth"! This was the road on which we had now to walk to reach what was known as "Shakespeare's country." There were many pretty roads in England, and although this road was very fine, being wide and straight and passing through a richly wooded country, we had seen many prettier roads as regarded scenery. We soon arrived at the historical Castle of Kenilworth, which, judging from the extent of its ruins and lofty towers, must at one time have been a magnificent place. According to local history the castle was originally built in the reign of Henry I, and at one time it was in the possession of Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, who was born in 1206, and who has been described as the "Father of English Parliaments." Henry belonged to the Plantagenet family, the reigning house from Henry II in 1154 to Richard III, who was killed at the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. The strangest history in that family appeared to be that of Eleanor Plantagenet, the daughter of Henry II, who caused her to be married when only four years old to the great Earl of Pembroke, who was then forty, and who took her as a bride to his home when she was only fourteen years old, leaving her a widow at sixteen. She was thrown into such an agony of grief that she took a solemn vow in the presence of the Archbishop of Canterbury never to marry again, but to become a bride of Christ. Seven years afterwards, however, she returned to the Court of her brother, who was then Henry III, and, meeting Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, the king's favourite, one of the most handsome and accomplished of courtiers, to whom he had given Kenilworth Castle, the widowed countess forgot her vow, and though solemnly warned by the Archbishop of the peril of breaking her oath, Montfort easily persuaded Henry to give him his sister in marriage. The king knew that both the Church and the barons would be violently opposed to the match, and that they could only be married secretly; so on one cold January morning in 1238 they were married in the king's private chapel at Windsor; but the secret soon became known to the priests and the peers, and almost provoked a civil war. The Princess Eleanor was not happy, as her husband, who had lost the favour of her brother the king, was ultimately killed in the cause of freedom, along with her eldest son, at the Battle of Evesham. He was the first to create a Parliament. [Illustration: ELIZABETH, QUEEN OF ENGLAND.] In the year 1206 a festival was held at Kenilworth, attended by one hundred knights of distinction, and the same number of ladies, at which silks were worn for the first time in England, and in 1327 Edward II was there compelled to sign his abdication in favour of his son. Kenilworth Castle probably attained the zenith of its prosperity in the time of Queen Elizabeth, who in 1563 conferred it upon her favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, who entertained her there with great magnificence on four different occasions, 1566, 1568, 1572, and 1575. But the former glory of Kenilworth Castle had departed, and we only saw it in the deplorable condition in which it had been left by Cromwell's soldiers. They had dismantled the lofty towers, drained the lake, destroyed the park, and divided the land into farms, and we looked upon the ruins of the towers, staircases, doorways, and dungeons with a feeling of sorrow and dismay. We could distinguish the great hall, with its chimney-pieces built in the walls; but even this was without either floor or roof, and the rest appeared to us as an unintelligible mass of decaying stonework. And yet, about half a century before we made our appearance at the ruins, a visitor arrived who could see through them almost at a glance, and restored them in imagination to their former magnificence, as they appeared in the time of Queen Elizabeth. He has described the preparations for the great feast given in her honour in 1575 by the Earl of Leicester, and resuscitated the chief actors in that memorable and magnificent scene. He was described as "a tall gentleman who leaned rather heavily on his walking-stick," and although little notice was taken of him at the time, was none other than the great Sir Walter Scott, whose novel _Kenilworth_ attracted to the neighbourhood crowds of visitors who might never have heard of it otherwise. We had begun to look upon Sir Walter in the light of an old acquaintance, once formed never to be forgotten, and admired his description of Kenilworth Castle: The outer wall of this splendid and gigantic structure inclosed seven acres, a part of which was occupied by extensive stables, and by a pleasure garden, with its trim arbours and parterres, and the rest formed a large base-court, or outer yard, of the noble Castle. The Lordly structure itself, which rose near the centre of this spacious enclosure was composed of a huge pile of magnificent castellated buildings, apparently of different ages, surrounding an inner court, and bearing in the names of each portion attached to the magnificent mass, and in the armorial bearings which were there blazoned, the emblems of mighty chiefs who had long passed away, and whose history, could Ambition have lent ear to it, might have read a lesson to the haughty favourite who had now acquired and was augmenting the fair domain. A large and massive Keep, which formed the Citadel of the Castle, was of uncertain, though great antiquity. It bore the name of Cæsar, perhaps from its resemblance to that in the Tower of London so called. The external wall of this Royal Castle was on the south and west sides adorned and defended by a Lake, partly artificial, across which Leicester had constructed a stately bridge, that Elizabeth might enter the Castle by a path hitherto untrodden. Beyond the Lake lay an extensive Chase, full of red deer, fallow deer, roes, and every species of game, and abounding with lofty trees, from amongst which the extended front and massive towers of the Castle were seen to rise in majesty and beauty. The great feast provided by the Earl of Leicester in honour of the visit of Queen Elizabeth to Kenilworth Castle in 1575 was of a degree of magnificence rarely equalled either before or since, extending continuously over the seventeen days of the queen's stay, beginning at two o'clock, at which time the great clock at the castle was stopped and stood at that hour until the Princess departed. The cost of these ceremonies was enormous, the quantity of beer alone consumed being recorded as 320 hogsheads. [Illustration: KENILWORTH CASTLE, LEICESTER BUILDINGS AND CÆSAR'S TOWER.] Sir Walter describes the preparations for the feast and the heterogeneous nature of the crowd of people who attended it. The resources of the country for miles round were taxed to their utmost, for not only the queen's purveyors, but the Earl of Leicester's household officers had been scouring it in all directions to provide the necessary viands and provisions. The services in this respect of all the leading families had been requisitioned, and-- They took this opportunity of ingratiating themselves by sending large quantities of provisions and delicacies of all kinds, with game in huge quantities, and whole tuns of the best liquors, foreign and domestic. Thus the high-roads were filled with droves of bullocks, sheep, calves and hogs, and choked with loaded wains, whose axle-trees creaked under their burdens of wine-casks and hogsheads of ale, and huge hampers of grocery goods, and slaughtered game, and salted provisions, and sacks of flour. Perpetual stoppages took place as these wains became entangled; and their rude drivers, swearing and brawling till their wild passions were fully raised, began to debate precedence with their wagon-whips and quarter-staves, which occasional riots were usually quieted by a purveyor, deputy-marshal's man, or some other person in authority breaking the heads of both parties. Here were, besides, players and mummers, jugglers and showmen, of every description, traversing in joyous bands the paths which led to the Palace of Princely Pleasure; for so the travelling minstrels had termed Kenilworth in the songs which already had come forth in anticipation of the revels, which were there expected. In the midst of this motley show, mendicants were exhibiting their real or pretended miseries, forming a strange though common contrast betwixt the vanities and the sorrows of human existence. All these floated along with the immense tide of population, whom mere curiosity had drawn together; and where the mechanic, in his leathern apron, elbowed the dink and dainty dame, his city mistress; where clowns with hobnailed shoes were treading on the kibes of substantial burghers and gentlemen of worship; and where Joan of the dairy, with robust pace and red sturdy arms, rowed her way onwards, amongst those prim and pretty moppets, whose sires were knights and squires. The throng and confusion was, however, of a gay and cheerful character. All came forth to see and to enjoy, and all laughed at the trifling inconveniences which at another time might have chafed their temper. Excepting the occasional brawls we have mentioned among that irritable race the Carmen, the mingled sounds which arose from the multitude were those of light-hearted mirth and tiptoe jollity. The musicians preluded on their instruments--the minstrels hummed their songs--the licensed jester whooped betwixt mirth and madness, as he brandished his bauble--the morrice-dancers jangled their bells--the rustics hallow'd and whistled--men laughed loud, and maidens giggled shrill; while many a broad jest flew like a shuttle-cock from one party to be caught in the air, and returned from the opposite side of the road by another, at which it was aimed. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE GREAT HALL, KENILWORTH.] The arrival of the Queen, who had journeyed from Warwick Castle, had been somewhat delayed, and the Guards had some difficulty in keeping the course clear until she appeared with the lords and ladies who accompanied her. It was dark when she approached the Castle, and immediately there arose from the multitude a shout of applause, so tremendously vociferous that the country echoed for miles around. The Guards, thickly stationed upon the road by which the Queen was to advance, caught up the acclamation, which ran like wildfire to the castle, and announced to all within that Queen Elizabeth had entered the Royal Castle of Kenilworth. The whole music of the castle sounded at once, and a round of artillery, with a salvo of small arms, was discharged from the battlements; but the noise of drums and trumpets, and even of the cannon themselves, was but faintly heard amidst the roaring and reiterated welcome of the multitude. As the noise began to abate, a broad glare of light was seen to appear from the gate of the park, and, broadening and brightening as it came nearer, advance along the open and fair avenue that led towards the Gallery Tower, lined on either hand by the retainers of the Earl of Leicester. The word was passed along the lines, "The Queen! The Queen! Silence, and stand fast!" Onward came the cavalcade, illuminated by 200 thick waxen torches, in the hands of as many horsemen, which cast a light like that of broad day all around the procession, but especially on the principal group, of which the Queen herself, arrayed in the most splendid manner, and blazing with jewels, formed the central figure. She was mounted on a milk-white horse, which, she reined with peculiar grace and dignity, and in the whole of her stately and noble carriage you saw the daughter of a hundred kings. [Illustration: KENILWORTH CASTLE IN 1871.] Leicester, who glittered like a golden image with jewels and cloth of gold, rode on her Majesty's right hand, as well in quality as her Host as of her Master of the Horse. The black steed which he mounted had not a single white hair on his body, and was one of the most renowned chargers in Europe, having been purchased by the earl at large expense for this royal occasion. As the noble steed chafed at the slow speed of the procession, and, arching his stately neck, champed on the silver bits which restrained him, the foam flew from his mouth and speckled his well-formed limbs as if with spots of snow. The rider well became the high place which he held and the proud animal which he bestrode, for no man in England, or perhaps in Europe, was more perfect than Dudley in horsemanship and all other exercises belonging to his rank. He was bareheaded, as were all the courtiers in the train, and the red torchlight shone upon his long curled tresses of dark hair and on his noble features, to the beauty of which even the severest criticism could only object the lordly fault, as it may be termed, of a forehead somewhat too high. On that proud evening he wore all the graceful solicitude of a subject, to show himself sensible of the high honour which the Queen was conferring on him, and all the pride and satisfaction which became so glorious a moment. The train, male and female, who attended immediately upon the Queen's person, were of course of the bravest and the fairest--the highest born nobles and the wisest councellors of that distinguished reign, and were followed by a crowd of knights and gentlemen. It was now the part of the huge porter, a man of immense size, to deliver an address and drop his club and resign his keys to give open way to the Goddess of the Night and all her magnificent train, but as he was so overwhelmed with confusion of spirit--the contents of one immense black jack of double ale--Sir Walter only records the substance of what the gigantic warder ought to have said in his address: What stir, what turmoil, have we for the nones? Stand back, my masters, or beware your bones! Sirs, I'm a warder, and no man of straw, My voice keeps order, and my club gives law. Yet soft,--nay stay--what vision have we here? What dainty darling this--what peerless peer? What loveliest face, that loving ranks enfold. Like brightest diamond chased in purest gold? Dazzled and blind, mine office I forsake, My club, my Key, my knee, my homage take. Bright paragon, pass on in joy and bliss;-- Beshrew the gate that opes not wide at such a sight as this! Elizabeth received most graciously the homage of the herculean porter and then passed through the guarded tower amidst the sounds of trumpets and other instruments stationed on the tower and in various parts of the castle, and dismounted near Mortimer's Tower, which was as light as day as she walked across the long bridge built especially for her and lit with torches on either side. She had no sooner stepped upon the bridge than a new spectacle was provided, for as soon as the music gave signal that she was so far advanced, a raft on the lake, disposed as to resemble a small floating island, illuminated by a great variety of torches, and surrounded by floating pageants formed to represent sea-horses, on which sat Tritons, Nereids, and other fabulous deities of the seas and rivers, made its appearance upon the lake, and, issuing from behind a small heronry where it had been concealed, floated gently towards the farther end of the bridge. On the islet appeared a beautiful woman, clad in a watchet-coloured silken mantle, bound with a broad girdle, inscribed with characters like the phylacteries of the Hebrews. Her feet and arms were bare, but her wrists and ankles were adorned with gold bracelets of uncommon size. Amidst her long silky black hair she wore a crown or chaplet of artificial mistletoe, and bore in her hand a rod of ebony tipped with silver. Two nymphs attended on her, dressed in the same antique and mystical guise. The pageant was so well managed that the Lady of the Floating Island, having performed her voyage with much picturesque effect, landed at Mortimer's Tower with her two attendants, just as Elizabeth presented herself before that outwork. The stranger then in a well-penned speech announced herself as that famous Lady of the Lake renowned in the stories of King Arthur, who had nursed the youth of the redoubted Sir Lancelot, and whose beauty had proved too powerful both for the wisdom and the spells of the mighty Merlin. Since that period she had remained possessed of her crystal dominions, she said, despite the various men of fame and might by whom Kenilworth had been successively tenanted. The Saxons, the Danes, the Normans, the Saintlowes, the Clintons, the Montforts, the Mortimers, the Plantagenets, great though they were in arms and magnificence, had never, she said, caused her to raise her head from the waters which hid her crystal palace. But a greater than all these great names had now appeared, and she came in homage and duty to welcome the peerless Elizabeth to all sport which the castle and its environs, which lake or land, could afford! The queen received the address with great courtesy and the Lady of the Lake vanished, and Arion, who was amongst the maritime deities, appeared upon his dolphin in her place. But amidst all this pageantry Sir Walter throws a side-light on Mervyn's Tower, where we see a prisoner, a pale, attenuated, half dead, yet still lovely lady, Amy Robsart, the neglected wife of Leicester, incarcerated there while her husband is flirting with the queen in the gay rooms above. Her features are worn with agony and suspense as she looks through the narrow window of her prison on the fireworks and coloured fires outside, wondering perhaps whether these were emblems of her own miserable life, "a single spark, which is instantaneously swallowed up by the surrounding darkness--a precarious glow, which rises but for a brief space into the air, that its fall may be lower." [Illustration: MERVYN'S TOWER, KENILWORTH CASTLE.] Sir Walter Scott described Kenilworth as "a place to impress on the musing visitor the transitory value of human possessions, and the happiness of those who enjoy a humble lot in virtuous contentment," and it was with some such thoughts as these in our own minds that we hurried away across fields and along lovely by-lanes towards Leamington, our object in going there by the way we did being to get a view of the great mansion of Stoneleigh, the residence of Lord Leigh, who was also a landowner in our native County of Chester. It seemed a very fine place as we passed through the well-wooded park surrounding it, and presently reached his lordship's village of Ashow, where the old church, standing on a small knoll at the end of the village, looked down upon the River Avon below, which was here only a small stream. The roofs of many of the cottages were thatched with straw, and although more liable to be set on fire than those covered with the red tiles so common in the County of Warwick, they looked very picturesque and had the advantage of not being affected so much by extremes of temperature, being warmer in winter and cooler in summer for those who had the good fortune to live under them. We noticed several alms houses in the village, and near the smithy had a talk with an old man who was interested to know that we came from Cheshire, as he knew his lordship had some property there. He told us that when a former Lord Leigh had died, there was a dispute amongst the Leigh family as to who was the next owner of the estate, and about fifty men came up from Cheshire and took possession of the abbey; but as the verdict went against them they had to go back again, and had to pay dearly for their trespass. He did not know where the Leighs came from originally, but thought "they might have come from Cheshire," so we told him that the first time they were heard of in that county was when the Devil brought a load of them in his cart from Lancashire. He crossed the River Mersey, which divided the two counties, at a ford near Warrington, and travelled along the Knutsford road, throwing one of them out occasionally with his pikel, first on one side of the road and then on the other, until he had only a few left at the bottom of his cart, and as he did not think these worth taking any farther, he "keck'd" his cart up and left them on the road, so there were persons named Lee, Legh, or Leigh living on each side of that road to the present day. The old man seemed pleased with our story and grinned considerably, and no doubt it would be repeated in the village of Ashow after we had left, and might probably reach the ears of his lordship himself. Two of the Lees that the Devil left on the road when he upset his cart took possession of the country on either side, which at that time was covered with a dense forest, and selected large oak trees to mark their boundaries, that remained long after the other trees had disappeared. But in course of time it became necessary to make some other distinction between the two estates, so it was arranged that one landlord should spell his name Legh and the other Leigh, and that their tenants should spell the name of the place High Legh in one case and High Leigh in the other, so that when name-plates appeared on carts, each landlord was able to tell to which estate they belonged. There were many antiquities in the country associated with his Satanic Majesty, simply because their origin was unknown, such as the Devil's Bridge over which we had passed at Kirkby Lonsdale, and the Devil's Arrows at Aldborough, and it was quite possible that the remote antiquity of the Legh family might account for the legend connected with them. There were several facts connected with the Cheshire estate of the Leghs which interested us, the first being that my grandfather was formerly a tenant on the estate, and the squire had in his possession the rent rolls for every year since about 1289. A fact that might interest ladies who are on the lookout for a Mr. Wright is, that out of a hundred tenants on that estate at the present day, twenty-seven householders bear the name of Wright. [Illustration: REMAINS OF THE BROAD OAK, HIGH LEGH.] But the strangest incident connected with High Legh was the case of a young man who came from Scotland to work in the squire's gardens there. He had attended Warrington Market, and was returning over the river bridge when he stopped to look at a placard announcing a missionary meeting to be held in the town that night. He decided to stay, although he had quite seven miles to walk on his way home, and was so impressed by what he heard that he decided to become a missionary himself, and became one of the most famous missionaries of the nineteenth century. His name was Robert Moffat, and he laboured hard in South Africa, where his son-in-law, David Livingstone, following his example, also became a renowned explorer and missionary in the "Dark Continent." Accept me for Thy service, Lord, And train me for Thy will, For even I in fields so broad Some duties may fulfil; And I will ask for no reward Except to serve Thee still. MOFFAT. [Illustration: ROBERT MOFFAT.] We soon arrived at Leamington, which was quite an aristocratic town, and different from any other we had seen on our journey, for it consisted chiefly of modern houses of a light stone colour, which contrasted finely with the trees with which the houses were interspersed and surrounded, and which must have appeared very beautiful in the spring time. The chief object of interest there was the Spa, which although known to travellers in the seventeenth century, had only come into prominence during recent times, or since the local poets had sung its praises. In the introduction to a curious book, published in 1809 by James Bissett, who described himself as "Medallist to his Majesty King George the Third, proprietor of the Picture Gallery, public, news-room, and the museum at Leamington," there appeared the following lines: Nay! Foreigners of rank who this look o'er To try the Wells may quit their native shore; For when they learn the virtues of the Spaw Twice tens of thousands to the spot will draw, As when its wondrous powers are pointed out And men found cap'ring who have had the gout; When pallid cheeks regain their roseate blush And vigorous health expels the hectic flush When those once hypp'd cast the crutch away; Sure when the pride of British Spas they see They'll own the humble instrument in me! The Spa, it appeared, had been patronised by royalty on several occasions, and Queen Victoria in 1838 acceded to the request that the inhabitants might henceforth style the town the "Royal Leamington Spa." Benjamin Satchwell claimed to have discovered the principal well there in 1784, and on his tombstone in the churchyard appeared the following: Hail the unassuming tomb Of him who told where health and beauty bloom, Of him whose lengthened life improving ran-- A blameless, useful, venerable man. We only stayed a short time here, and then walked quickly through a fine country to the ancient town of Warwick, with Guy's Cliffe and Blacklow Hill to our right, the monument on the hill being to Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, the hated favourite of Edward II. Gaveston was beheaded on the hill on July 1st, 1312, and the modern inscription reads: In the hollow of this rock was beheaded, on the first day of July 1312, by barons, lawless as himself, Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall, the minion of a hateful King, in life and death a memorable instance of misrule. [Illustration: GUY'S TOWER, WARWICK] Gaveston surrendered to the insurgent barons at Scarborough, on condition that his life should be spared; but he had offended the Earl of Warwick by calling him the "Black Hound of Arden," and the earl caused him to be conveyed to Warwick Castle. When brought before Warwick there, the Earl muttered, "Now you shall feel the Hound's teeth," and after a mock trial by torchlight he was led out of the castle and beheaded on the hill. Every one of the barons concerned in this rather diabolical action died by violence during the next few years. [Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE FROM THE RIVER. "As we crossed the bridge we had a splendid view of Warwick Castle ... the finest example of a fortified castle in England ... the 'fairest monument of ancient and chivalrous splendour yet uninjured by time.'"] [Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE] [Illustration: THE PORTCULLIS.] [Illustration: ENTRANCE TOWERS.] [Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE] As we crossed the bridge leading over the River Avon we had a splendid view of Warwick Castle, which had the reputation of being the finest example of a fortified castle in England, Sir Walter Scott describing it as "the fairest monument of ancient and chivalrous splendour which yet remain uninjured by time." It could boast of a continuous history from the time of Ethelfreda, the daughter of the Saxon King, Alfred the Great, and its towers rose to a considerable height, Cæsar's tower reaching an elevation of 174 feet. Here could be seen the famous and exquisite Vase of Warwick, in white marble, of unknown age and of fabulous value, said to have been found at the bottom of a lake near Hadrian's Villa, at Tivoli, in Italy. There were an immense number of curios in the castle, some of which were connected with that famous character Guy, Earl of Warwick, including his shield, sword, and helmet, and his kettle of bell-metal, twenty-six feet wide and capable of holding 120 gallons of water. We had no time to visit the interior of the castle, but it was interesting to read, in one of his letters, what Dr. Adam Clark saw there in 1797: "I was almost absolutely a prey to astonishment and rapture while I contemplated the painting of the wife of Schneider by Rubens, such a speaking canvas I never beheld." He saw the large Etruscan vases collected by Sir William Hamilton, some bronze cups dug out of the ruins of Herculaneum, and the bed in which Queen Anne slept and which, according to report, she wrought with her own hands. In the Armoury he was permitted to fit on some of the armour, and attempted also to wield the sword of Guy, Earl of Warwick, which weighed seventy pounds. He also examined the rest of Guy's gigantic equipments, not omitting his porridge-pot, which held no gallons and was filled every time an Earl of Warwick came of age. This Guy was not the famous King Maker, but the original Guy, who lived at a time when England was covered with thick forests in which savage beasts, now unknown, roamed at large, causing great havoc amongst the early settlers, both to their persons and their cattle. Of gigantic stature, he was renowned for his courage and prowess, and, being in love with the fair Felice at Warwick Castle, for her sake he performed prodigious feats of valour, both at home and abroad. Amongst other monsters which preyed upon and terrified human beings he killed the wild and fierce Dun Cow which infested Dun's Moor, a place we had passed by the previous day; and we were reminded of his prowess when we saw the sign of the "Dun Cow" displayed on inns in the country, including that on the hotel at Dunchurch. He went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where he killed many Saracens, and when on his return he landed at Portsmouth, King Athelstane, ignorant of his name, asked him if he would become his champion in a contest on which the fate of England depended. The king told him that the Danes had with them a champion named Colbran, a gigantic Saracen, and that they had offered to stake their fortunes on a duel between him and an English champion, not yet found, on condition that if Colbran won, England must be given up to Anlaf, King of Denmark, and Govelaph, King of Norway. Guy undertook the fight willingly, and defeated and killed the gigantic Saracen, after which he privately informed the king that he was the Earl of Warwick. He secured the hand and affections of the fair Felice, but when the thoughts of all the people he had killed began to haunt him, he left her, giving himself up to a life of devotion and charity, while he disappeared and led the life of a hermit. She thought he had gone into foreign lands, and mourned his loss for many years; but he was quite near the castle all the time, living beside the River Avon in a cave in a rock, which is still called Guys Cliffe, and where he died. Huge bones were found and kept in the castle, including one rib bone, which measured nine inches in girth at its smallest part and was six and a half feet long; but this was probably a bone belonging to one of the great wild beasts slain by the redoubtable Guy. We were sorry we could not explore the castle, but we wanted particularly to visit the magnificent Beauchamp Chapel in St. Mary's Church at Warwick. We found this one of those places almost impossible to describe, and could endorse the opinion of others, that it was "an architectural gem of the first water and one of the finest pieces of architectural work in the kingdom." It occupied twenty-one years in building, and contains the tomb of Richard Beauchamp, under whose will the chapel was begun in 1443; Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the haughty favourite of Queen Elizabeth, was also entombed here. We had too much to do to-day to stay very long in any place we visited, but we were interested in the remains of a ducking-stool in the crypt of the church, although it was far from being complete, the only perfect one of which we knew being that in the Priory Church of Leominster, which reposed in a disused aisle of the church, the property of the Corporation of that town. It was described as "an engine of universal punishment for common scolds, and for butchers, bakers, brewers, apothecaries, and all who give short measure, or vended adulterated articles of food," and was last used in 1809, when a scolding wife named Jenny Pipes was ducked in a deep place in one of the small rivers which flowed through that town. The following lines, printed on a large card, appeared hanging from one of the pillars in the aisle near the stool: [Illustration: TOMBS IN THE BEAUCHAMP CHAPEL.] [Illustration: THE DUCKING-STOOL, WARWICK.] There stands, my friend, in yonder pool, An engine called a Ducking Stool; By legal power commanded down, The joy, and terror of the town. If jarring females kindle strife, Give language foul, or lug the coif: If noisy dames should once begin To drive the house with horrid din, Away! you cry, you'll grace the stool We'll teach you how your tongue to rule. Down in the deep the stool descends, But here, at first, we miss our ends, She mounts again, and rages more Than ever vixen did before. If so, my friend, pray let her take A second turn into the lake; And rather than your patience lose Thrice and again, repeat the dose, No brawling wives, no furious wenches No fire so hot, but water quenches. [Illustration: THE DUCKING-STOOL, LEOMINSTER] The stool was exactly like a chair without legs, fastened on one end of a long pole, in the centre of which was a framework with solid wooden wheels. The culprit was fastened in the chair with her face towards the men, who were at the other end of the pole, and who had to push and guide the machine through the narrow streets of the town until they reached the "deep hole," where the unfortunate woman had to be ducked overhead in the river. Her feet were securely tied to the top of the pole to prevent them from being hurt when passing through the town, and to hinder her from using them to keep her head above the water. The poet describes the "engine called a ducking-stool" as the "joy and terror of the town," but the "joy" could only have been that of the men, women, and children who could be spared to see the show, and knew the woman's scolding propensities. If she continued scolding after the first "duck," down she went again, and again, until, as we imagined, half filled with water, she was unable to scold further, and so the water triumphed in the end: No brawling wives, no furious wenches No fire so hot, but water quenches. The tower of St. Mary's Church was built on four lofty arches, one of which formed the entrance to the church while the other three formed entrances to the street, the footpath passing through two of them. [Illustration: LORD LEICESTER'S HOSPITAL AND GATE.] We passed alongside the ancient and picturesque half-timbered building known as Lord Leicester's Hospital, which was one of the few buildings in the town that escaped the fire in 1694. It had been built by Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the favourite of Queen Elizabeth and of Kenilworth fame, to accommodate twelve poor men or brethren besides the master, who, according to Dugdale the famous antiquary, "were to be clothed in blew cloth, with a ragged staff embroydered on the left sleeve," and not to go into the town without them. The hospital dated from 1571, but what was formerly the banqueting-hall belonged to an earlier period, and owed its preservation largely to the fact that the timber of which the roof had been constructed was Spanish chestnut, a timber which grew luxuriantly in the forests of England, and resembled English oak. It was largely used by the monks in the building of their refectories, as no worm or moth would go near it and no spider's web was ever woven there, the wood being poisonous to insects. It is lighter in colour than oak, and, seeing the beams so clean-looking, with the appearance of having been erected in modern times, it is difficult for the visitor to realise that they have been in their present position perhaps for five or six centuries. Over one of the arched doorways in the old hospital appeared the insignia of the bear and the ragged staff, which was also the sign of public houses, notably that at Cumnor, the village of Amy Robsart. This we discovered to be the arms of the Earls of Warwick, originating during the time of the first two earls: the first being Arth or Arthgal of the Round Table--Arth meaning bear--and the second Morvid, who in single combat overcame a mighty giant who came against him with a club--a tree pulled up by the roots and stripped of its branches; and in remembrance of his victory over the giant the "ragged staff" ever afterwards appeared on the coat of arms of the Earls of Warwick. [Illustration: CÆSAR'S TOWER, WARWICK CASTLE.] At the end of the hospital stood St. James's Chapel, built over the West Gate of the town, which we left by the footpath leading both under the church and its tower, on our way to Stratford-on-Avon. [Illustration: SHAKESPEARE'S HOUSE (Before Restoration).] We walked the eight miles which separated the two towns at a quick speed, and, leaving our luggage at the "Golden Lion Inn" at the entrance to Stratford, we went to explore that town, and soon arrived at the birthplace of Shakespeare, one of the few houses in England where no fire is ever lit or candle lighted. It was a very old-fashioned house built with strong oak beams, the ceiling of the room in which Shakespeare was born in 1564 being so low that visitors could easily reach it, and they had written their names both on it and the walls until there was scarcely an available space left. Written with lead pencil, some of the autographs were those of men distinguished in every rank of life both past and present, and would doubtless have become very valuable if they had been written in a book, but we supposed Visitors' Books had not been thought of in those days. We wondered if the walls would ever be whitewashed again, and this thought might have occurred to Sir Walter Scott when he scratched his name with a diamond on one of the window panes. It was at another house in the town that Shakespeare wrote his plays and planted a mulberry-tree in the garden. This mulberry-tree used to be one of the objects of interest at Stratford, nearly every pilgrim who arrived there going to see it. There came a time when the house and garden changed hands, and were sold to a clergyman named Gastrell, who we were sorry to learn was a countryman of ours, as he belonged to Cheshire. He had married a "lady of means," who resided at Lichfield, and they bought this house and garden, we supposed, so that they might "live happily ever afterwards"; but the parson, who must have had a very bad temper, was so annoyed at people continually calling to see the mulberry-tree that he cut it down. It was probably owing to this circumstance that he had a furious quarrel with the Corporation of Stratford because they raised the rates on his property. When he complained that they were excessive and the surveyor insisted on their being paid, Gastrell ended the matter by pulling the house down to the ground, and leaving the neighbourhood, so we supposed it was then a case of-- Where he's gone and how he fares Nobody knows and nobody cares. Eventually the site became a public garden, where a slip of the mulberry-tree may still be seen. [Illustration: SHAKESPEARE'S TOMB, STRATFORD-ON-AVON.] Shakespeare died in 1616, and was buried in the church at Stratford, where on the ancient stone that covered his remains were inscribed in old English characters the well-known words: Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear To dig the dust enclosed here, Blest be the man that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones. Shakespeare's threatened curse was doubtless one reason why his bones had remained undisturbed, for it was no uncommon occurrence in his time for the bones of the dead to be removed from a tomb and to be replaced or mingled with those of a stranger, for even the tomb of his daughter, who died in 1649, shared that fate, her epitaph being effaced and replaced by another of a person in no way related to the Shakespeare family, but who was buried in the same grave. In one corner of the church was a tomb bearing the effigy of John O'Combe, who we thought might have hailed from the neighbourhood of the old abbey of that name which we passed the night before. In spite of his benefactions recorded in the church, he was looked upon as a usurer, because he charged 10 per cent, for his money. He was at one time a friend of Shakespeare, and often asked the poet, who was no doubt acquainted with his rate of interest, to write him an epitaph. When at length he acceded to his request he greatly offended Combe by writing: "Ten in the hundred" lies here en-graved, 'Tis a hundred to ten if his soul be saved. If any one asks who lies in his tomb-- "Oho" quoth the devil "'tis my John O'Combe." Shakespeare bought the house in which he wrote his plays from the Clopton family, calling it "New Place," and a sorrowful story was connected with the Clopton vault in Stratford Church. Sir Hugh Clopton, who was buried there, was Lord Mayor of London in 1492, and had a very beautiful young daughter named Charlotte, who, according to her portrait, which was still in existence, had light blue eyes and pale golden hair. In the time when a plague was raging in Stratford she was said to have been found sitting in a chair in the garden apparently dead, and was at once carried to the vault to be buried. A few days afterwards another member of the family died of the plague, and was also taken to the vault; but when the torch-bearers descended the steps leading into the vault, the light from their torches revealed the form of Charlotte Clopton leaning against the side of the tomb. They were stricken with horror, but had arrived too late to save her, as she was now quite dead. The poor girl must have been in a trance when they carried her to the vault, and in her agony of hunger had bitten a piece of flesh from her own shoulder! We found the "Golden Lion" quite a comfortable hotel, and had a first-class tea there in the company of an actor from London, who, like ourselves, was exploring the country hereabouts, though perhaps from a different point of view, and who had a lot to tell us about Shakespeare and his plays. He had been to a village named Bidford a few miles away where there was an old-fashioned inn, in the courtyard of which Shakespeare and his friends had acted his _Midsummer's Night Dream_ long before it appeared in London. It was at that inn that Shakespeare on one occasion had too much to drink, and when on his way home to Stratford he lay down under a thorn tree to sleep off the effects; the tree was fenced round later on in memory of that rather inglorious event. Although we were temperance men, we had to admit that the old inns where the stage-coaches stopped to exchange passengers and horses had a great attraction for us, and it was not without a feeling of regret that we found them being gradually closed throughout the country we passed through. They had mostly been built after the same model, the gateway or door at the entrance being arched over and placed in the centre of the front of the hotel. Through this archway the coaches, with passengers and luggage, could pass in and out, a door on each side of the entrance leading into different sections of the inn. The yards of the inns were in the form of an oblong, generally roofed over, and along each side were the out-offices, storerooms, and stables, with a flat roof overhead, extending backwards as far as the bedroom doors, and forming a convenient platform for passengers' luggage as it was handed on and off the roof of the coach. The outside edge of the platform was sometimes ornamented with a low palisade, which gave the interior of the covered yard quite a pleasant and ornamental appearance. [Illustration] Such was the character of the inns that existed in the time of Shakespeare, and although sanitary regulations in later times required the horses to be provided for in stable-yards farther in the rear, very little structural alteration in the form of the inns had taken place. The actor told us that in Shakespeare's time nearly all the acting outside London and much within was done in the courtyards of these inns. The actors travelled in two covered wagons or coaches, and when they arrived at the inn they were drawn into the inn yard, while two members of the party went out into the town or village vigorously beating a drum to announce the arrival of the actors, almost the entire resident population, men, women, and children, following them to the inn yard to listen to the play, which custom, he said, was referred to by Shakespeare in one of his plays in the passage: The Actors have come and the rout are following! The covers were then taken off the top of the wagons and placed round the sides of the wheels, to act as screens while the actors changed their dresses, which had to be done underneath the coaches. Meanwhile boards, kept at the inns specially for that purpose, were fastened over the tops of the wagons, and on these the actors performed their plays. The squire, or lord of the manor, had the right to see the plays free of charge, and when he came, a bar of wood was placed across the entrance to one of the horse-boxes to keep off the spectators who thronged the inn yard. From these people the actors collected what money they could, while those who were better able to pay were accommodated on the platform above the stables, which commanded a better view of the play. When theatres were built, he informed us, they were modelled in the same shape as the yards of these inns, their arrangement being also the same: the stage represented the boards on the wagons and the actors dressed underneath it, the pit corresponded to the inn yard, the gallery to the platform over the stables, the boxes to the place railed off for the squire. The actor was not sure about the stalls, and thought these were instituted at a later period; but we reminded him that stalls were a necessary adjunct to stables. [Illustration: STRATFORD-ON-AVON CHURCH.] He also told us that the actors had a language peculiar to their profession, which also dated from the time when they acted in the country inn yards, for even when they travelled by train they were always "on the road," and when acting in the theatre they were still "on the boards." We asked him if he knew about Shakespeare's stealing the deer from Charlecote Park, Sir Thomas Lucy's property, and he said he did; but the report was not quite correct, for at that time the park was surrounded by Common Land, and it was there that Shakespeare shot the deer, which only went into the park to die. Shakespeare followed it, and as he was removing the carcase he was caught and summoned; the case hinged on whether he had his weapon with him or not. As that could not be proved against him, the case was dismissed. It appears that the Law of England is the same on that point to-day as in the time of Shakespeare, for if a man shoots a hare on his own land, and it dies on adjoining land belonging to some one else, he has a perfect right to remove it, providing he does not take his gun with him, which would constitute a punishable offence. We were sorry to leave the hotel, as we should have been very comfortable there, and the actor, who wanted to hear of our adventures, did his best to persuade us to stay; but our average must be made up, and I particularly wanted to celebrate my birthday on the following Sunday at Oxford. It was quite dark as we crossed the river bridge on our way to Kineton, ten miles distant, and we soon lost sight of the lights of Stratford; as we left we could see the church being lit up for evening service. A man on the bridge in directing us the way to Kineton told us we should pass the park where "old Shakespeare stole the deer," and he seemed to think he was a regular poacher there. We could not see the deer, but we heard them as we passed alongside the park, the noise resembling that of a pig, but not nearly so loud. We soon afterwards arrived at a fair-sized village about half-way between Stratford and Kineton, where we recrossed the river and, turning towards the right, walked along a lonely road for an hour or two, until we reached Kineton, where we intended to stay the night. We were, however, doomed to disappointment, for, as the railway was being cut through there, the whole place was completely filled with engineers and navvies, who had taken up all the accommodation. There was not even a chair "to be let," so we were obliged to move on in the hope that we might come to some house or village on the road where we could obtain lodgings for the night. We had already walked thirty miles and were sleepy and tired and could not walk quickly enough to keep ourselves warm, for the night was damp with fog and very cold, and our quick walk had caused us to perspire, so that we were now in what might be termed a cold sweat, a danger to which we were often exposed during these later stages of our long journey. Fortunately for us, however, the cuttings from the sides of the hedges and ditches, which extended for miles, had been tied in neat little bundles, possibly for sale, and deposited on the sides of the road, and every now and then we set fire to one of these and stayed a few minutes to warm ourselves, expecting every moment to attract the attention of a policeman, and get ourselves into trouble, but none appeared. The last quarter of the moon was now due, and although we could not see it through the misty clouds overhead, it lighted up the air considerably when it rose, so that we could then see the fields on either side of the road, especially when we came to an upward gradient. We gradually became conscious of what appeared to be a great black cloud in front of us as we climbed up the road, and were astonished when we perceived that instead of a cloud it was a tremendous hill, towards which our road was leading us. We had been walking for days through a level country, and did not expect to come to a hill like this, and this strange and sudden development sharpened us up a little, for we had only been walking at about the rate, including stoppages, of one mile per hour, so we walked steadily up the hill, and presently came in sight of some large trees, from which we knew that we were approaching civilisation; we had not seen a single habitation or a living being of any kind since leaving Kineton. On the other side of a field to the left of our road we could see a rustic-looking shed which we resolved to visit, so, climbing over the fence, we walked cautiously towards it, and found it was an ancient store-shed for hay and straw. We listened attentively for a few moments and, as there was no wind, we could have heard the breathing of a man or of any large animal that might have been sleeping there; but as all appeared quiet, we sat down on the dry straw thankful to be able to rest our weary limbs if only for a short time. We had some difficulty in keeping ourselves awake, but we durst not go to sleep as the night was so very cold, and there was a rough floor immediately above us which had caused us some uneasiness. When we heard the footsteps of some small animal creeping stealthily amongst the straw over our heads, as if preparing to make a spring, we decided to evacuate our rather eerie position. It might have been a rat or more likely a cat, but as we did not care for the company of either of these animals, we lost no time in regaining the road. As we approached the top of the hill we came to some quaint-looking houses, which appeared much too large for their occupiers to take in visitors at that early hour of the morning, especially two tramps like ourselves. We were almost sure that one of the houses was an inn, as it had a sign on the wall, though too high up for us to read in the dark. Presently we passed what appeared to be an old castle. We could now only walk very slowly, or at a speed that my musical brother described as about equivalent to the "Dead March in Saul," and at seven o'clock in the morning reached the entrance to the town of Banbury, exciting considerable curiosity among the men we met on the way to their work in the country. We called at the first respectable-looking inn that we came to, where the mistress informed us we could not have two beds, "as the other people hadn't got up yet," but a gentleman who had to leave early was just getting up now, and we "could have his bed if we liked." We were glad to accept the offer lest in going farther we might fare worse. We could hear the gentleman's heavy footsteps on the floor above our heads, and as soon as the room was prepared we got into the bed he had vacated, which was still quite warm, extremely thankful to get in anywhere, and in spite of the noises usual in inns on Saturday morning we "slept like bricks" until eleven o'clock, the hour arranged for our "call." (_Distance walked forty-two and a half miles_.) _Saturday, November 4th._ [Illustration: EDGE HILL.] We were quite surprised to find that the night before we had been walking along the site of one of the most famous battles--because it was the first--in the Great Civil War of the seventeenth century, named after the strange hill we had walked over, and known to history as the "Battle of Edge Hill." We learned that had we crossed it on a fine clear day instead of in the dark we should have obtained a splendid view over the shires of Warwick, Gloucester, and Worcester, and portions of other counties besides. The hill itself stood in Warwickshire, but we had crossed the boundary into Oxfordshire on our way to Banbury some time in the early hours of the morning. The Royalist Army, under King Charles I, had encamped a few miles from Banbury, when Prince Rupert sent the king word that the army of the Parliament, under the command of the Earl of Essex, had arrived at Kineton. The king's army had left Shrewsbury two days before Essex's army departed from Worcester, and, strange as it might appear, although they were only about twenty miles away from each other at the start, they travelled almost side by side for ten days without either army knowing the whereabouts of the other. The distance between them was only six miles when the news reached the king, who, although the day was then far advanced, resolved to give battle at once. The Earl of Lindsey, who had acquired his military experience fighting in the Low Countries, was General of the king's army, while the king's nephew, Prince Rupert, the finest cavalry officer of his day, commanded the Horse, Sir Jacob Astley the Foot, Sir Arthur Aston the Dragoons, Sir John Heyden the Artillery, and Lord Bernard a troop of Guards. The estates and revenues of this single troop were estimated to be at least equal to those of all the members who, at the commencement of the war, voted in both Houses of Parliament; so if money could have won the battle, the king's army ought to have been victorious; the king, moreover, had the advantage of a strong position, as his army was well placed under the summit of the hill. The battle was fought on Sunday, October 23rd, 1643, and resulted in a draw, and, though the armies stood facing each other the next day, neither of them had the heart to take the initiative or to fight again, for, as usual in such warfare, brother had been fighting against brother and father against son; so Essex retired to Warwick and the king to Oxford, the only town on whose loyalty he could depend. But to return to the battle! The prayer of Sir Jacob Astley, the Commander of the king's foot soldiers, has been recorded as if it were one of the chief incidents on that unhappy day, and it was certainly admirable and remarkable, for he said, "O Lord! Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me!" and then in place of the usual "Amen" he called out "March on, boys!" Prince Rupert, with his dashing and furious charge, soon put Essex's cavalry to flight, pursuing them for miles, while the right wing was also driven back; but when the king's reserve, commanded by Sir John Byron, saw the flight of both wings of Essex's army, they made sure that the battle was won, and, becoming anxious for some share in the victory, joined the others in their chase. Sir William Balfour, however, who commanded Essex's reserve, seeing the advantage this afforded him, wheeled about upon the Royal Infantry, now left without horse, and dashed in amongst them, slaying right and left. Lindsay fell mortally wounded, and was taken prisoner, and his son in trying to save him shared the same fate, while the Royal Standard Bearer, Sir Edmund Verney, was slain and the standard taken; but this was afterwards recovered. When Rupert returned from his reckless chase, it looked more like a defeat than a victory. Both armies had suffered severely, and when Mr. Fisher, the Vicar of Kineton, was commissioned by Lord Essex to number those killed on the side of the Parliament, he estimated them at a little over 1,300 men, all of whom were buried in two large pits on land belonging to what was afterwards known as Battle Farm, the burial-places being known as the Grave Fields. As these were about half-way between Radway and Kineton, we were quite near them when we were lighting the fires on the sides of the road the night before, and this may have accounted for the dreary loneliness of the road, as no one would be likely to live on or near the fields of the dead if he could find any more desirable place. It was at the village of Radway where tradition stated the king and his sons breakfasted at a cottage in which for many years afterwards the old table was shown to visitors on which their breakfast stood, and it was on the hill near there where the boy-princes, Charles and James, narrowly escaped being captured as they were watching the battle that was being fought on the fields below. We were in no hurry to leave Banbury, for we had not recovered from the effects of our long walk of the previous day and night, and were more inclined to saunter about the town than to push on. It is astonishing how early remembrances cling to us in after life: we verily believed we had come to Banbury purposely to visit its famous Cross, immortalised in the nursery rhyme: Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady get on a white horse; She's rings on her fingers and bells on her toes. And she shall have music wherever she goes. [Illustration: BANBURY CROSS.] The rhyme must, like many others, have been of great antiquity, for the old Cross of Banbury had been removed by the Puritans in the year 1602, and its place taken by a much finer one, recently erected to commemorate the marriage of the Emperor Frederick of Germany to the Princess Royal of England. The fine lady and the white horse were also not to be found, but we heard that the former was supposed to have been a witch, known as the Witch of Banbury, while the white horse might have been an emblem of the Saxons or have had some connection with the great white horse whose gigantic figure we afterwards saw cut out in the green turf that covered the white chalk cliffs of the Berkshire Downs. The nursery rhyme incidentally recorded the fact that the steps at the base of the Cross at Banbury were formerly used as a convenience to people in mounting on the backs of their horses, and reminded us of the many isolated flights of three or four stone steps we had seen on our travels, chiefly near churches and public-houses and corners of streets, which had been used for the same purpose, and pointed back to those remote times when people rode on horseback across fields and swampy moors and along the pack-horse roads so common in the country long before wheeled vehicles came into common use. We had eaten Eccles cakes in Lancashire, and Shrewsbury cakes in Shropshire, and had walked through Scotland, which Robbie Burns had described as-- The Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, but we had never heard of Banbury cakes until we walked through the streets of that town, and found that the making of these cakes formed one of its leading industries. The cakes in Scotland were of a sterner, plainer character than those farther south, the cakes at Banbury being described as a mixture between a tart and a mince-pie. We purchased some, and found them uncommonly good, so we stowed a few in our bags for use on our way towards Oxford. This industry in Banbury is a very old one, for the cakes are known to have been made there as far back as 1602, when the old Cross was pulled down, and are mentioned by Ben Jonson, a great dramatist, and the friend of Shakespeare. He was Poet Laureate from 1619, and had the honour of being buried in Westminster Abbey. In his comedy _Bartholomew Fair_, published in 1614, he mentions that a Banbury baker, whom he facetiously named Mr. "Zeal-of-the-Lord Busy," had given up the making of these cakes "because they were served at bridals and other profane feasts." This baker, we imagined, must have been a Puritan, for from the reign of Queen Elizabeth to that of Charles II Banbury had been noted for the large number of Puritans who lived there, and for their religious zeal; they had even been accused of altering the names of the staple industries of the town from "Cakes and Ale" to "Cakes and Zeal," and were unpopular in some quarters, for Braithwaite in his _Drunken Barnaby_ cuts at them rather savagely: To Banbury came I, O profane one: Where I saw a Puritane one Hanging of his cat on Monday For killing of a mouse on Sunday. [Illustration: THE PURITAN.] The Academy at Banbury was famous as the place where Dean Swift began to write his famous satire entitled _Travels of Lemuel Gulliver_, the reading of which had been one of the pleasures of our schoolboy days. He was said to have copied the name from a tombstone in the churchyard. There were several charming old gabled houses in the town, and in "Ye Olde Reindeere Inn" was a beautiful room called the "Globe," a name given it from a globular chandelier which once stood near the entrance. This room was panelled in oak now black with age, and lighted by a lofty mullioned window extending right across the front, while the plastered ceiling was considered to be one of the finest in the county of Oxford. In the High Street stood a very fine old house with, three gables erected about the year 1600, on which was placed an old sun-dial that immediately attracted our attention, for inscribed on it appeared the Latin words, "Aspice et abi" ("Look and Go"), which we considered as a hint to ourselves, and as the Old Castle had been utterly demolished after the Civil War, and the fine old Parish Church, "more like a cathedral than a church," blown up with gunpowder in 1740 "to save the expense of restoring it," we had no excuse for staying here any longer, and quickly left the town on our way to Oxford. [Illustration: THE REINDEER INN, BANBURY. (Outside the Globe Room.)] The Latin motto "Look and Go" reminded my brother of an old timber-built mansion in Staffordshire which, as it stood near a road, everybody stayed to admire, its architectural proportions being so beautiful. It was said that when the fugitive King Charles was in hiding there he was greatly alarmed at seeing a man on the road staring stedfastly at the house, and as he remained thus for a considerable period, the king at last exclaimed impatiently, "Go, knave, what lookest at!" Long after the king had departed the owner of the house caused his words to be carved in large characters along a great beam extending in front of the mansion, which travellers in the present day still stay to admire, though many take the words as being meant for themselves, and move on as we did at Banbury, but perhaps more slowly and reluctantly. We had the valley of the River Cherwell to our left, and at Deddington we saw the site of the old castle from which Piers Gaveston, the unlucky favourite of Edward II, was taken by the Earl of Warwick. He had surrendered to "Joseph the Jew," the Earl of Pembroke, at Scarborough on condition that the barons spared his life, but Warwick said he never agreed to that, and as Gaveston had greatly offended him by nicknaming him the "Black Hound" or the "Black Dog," he took him to Warwick Castle and wreaked his venegance upon him by cutting off his head. By what we called a "forced march" we arrived at the grounds of the famous Palace of Woodstock, and were lucky in meeting with a woodman who took us across the park, where we had a fine view of the monument, the lake, and the magnificent Palace of Blenheim. [Illustration: BLENHEIM PALACE.] Woodstock is a place full of history and in a delightful position, with woods still surrounding it as in the days of yore, when it was the abode of kings and a royal residence. A witenagemot, or supreme council, was held here by King Ethelred in the year 866, and Alfred the Great pursued his literary work here by translating the _Consolations of Boethius_, and in the grounds he had a deer-fold. In Domesday Book it is described as a royal forest, and Henry I had an enclosure made in the park for lions and other wild beasts, which he surrounded by a very high wall, in which menagerie he placed the first porcupine ever seen in England, presented to him by William de Montpellier. The country people at that time imagined that the quills of the porcupine were weapons which the animal could shoot at those who hunted it. Henry II resided at the palace with the lady of his love, the Fair Rosamond. She was the second daughter of Walter, Lord de Clifford, who built his castle on a cliff overlooking a ford on the River Wye at Clifford in Herefordshire, and his daughter Rosa-mundi (the rose of the world) was born there. She had a local lover whom she discarded when Prince Henry appeared on the scene, and finally Henry took her away to Woodstock, where he built magnificent apartments for her and her children, the entrance to which was through an intricate maze in the castle grounds. The rear of the buildings adjoined the park, so that Rosamond and her children could pass out at the back into the park and woods without being perceived from the castle. Queen Eleanor was naturally jealous when she heard that she had been superseded in the king's affections, and it was said she tried all available means to discover the whereabouts of the Fair Rosamond, but without success, until she contrived to fasten a thread of silk to one of the king's spurs, which she afterwards followed in the maze in the castle grounds to the point where it had broken off at the secret entrance. She waited for her opportunity, and when the king was away she had the trap-door forced open, and, taking a large bowl of poison in one hand and a sharp dagger in the other, found Rosamond near a well in the park and commanded her to end her life either with one or the other. Rosamond took the poison, "and soe shee dyed," and the well ever since has been known as Fair Rosamond's Well; we afterwards found another well of the same name in Shropshire. She had two sons, one of whom became the Earl of Salisbury and the other Archbishop of York; an old ballad runs:-- But nothing could this furious queen Therewith appeased bee: The cup of deadlye poyson strong. As she knelt on her knee, She gave this comlye dame to drink, Who took it in her hand; And from her bended knee arose And on her feet did stand. And casting up her eyes to heaven, She did for mercy calle; And drinking up the poyson strong. Her life she lost with-alle. Edward III and his Queen Phillipa resided at Woodstock in the fourteenth century, and it was here that the Black Prince, who figured so largely in English history, was born. A nice little love story was connected with their court. The king had a page and the queen had a damsel, who fell deeply in love with each other, and whenever they got a chance walked out in the beautiful park and woods which surrounded the castle, where the young man made some poetry about the "Cuckoo and Nightingale," whose notes they so often heard amongst the sylvan beauties of Woodstock. The king was pleased with the poetry, and the young page became quite a favourite with him. He afterwards became known as the "Father of English Poetry." His name was Chaucer, and he achieved immortality by his "Canterbury Tales." He was not only successful in his own love affairs, but assisted John o' Gaunt with his, and was instrumental in obtaining for him the hand of Blanche of Lancaster, who had inherited from her father, the Duke of Lancaster, an enormous fortune, of which Kenilworth formed a part. Chaucer wrote an allegorical history of that love story in his poem entitled "Chaucer's Dream," and John o' Gaunt being a true friend, as was shown by his protection of his friend John Wiclif, the great reformer, Chaucer had no reason to regret the services he had rendered, for his fortunes rose with those of John o' Gaunt, whose great power and wealth dated from the marriage. Chaucer described Woodstock Park as being walled round with green stone, and it was said to have been the first walled park in England. Richard III held a tournament in it at Christmas 1389, at which the young Earl of Pembroke was accidentally killed. Henry VII made additions to the palace, and built the front gate-house in which his granddaughter Elizabeth, afterwards Queen of England, was imprisoned by command of her sister Mary, when she wrote with charcoal on one of the window shutters: Oh, Fortune, how thy restless wavering state, Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt. Witness this present prysoner, whither Fate Could bear me, and the joys I quitt; Thou causeth the guiltie to be loosed From bonds wherein an innocent's inclosed, Causing the guiltless to be straite reserved, And freeing those that Death hath well deserved; But by her malice can be nothing wroughte, So God send to my foes all they have thought. A.D. 1555--Elizabeth, "Prisoner." In Cromwell's time Woodstock suffered severely, and the castle was defended for the king by a great warrior, Captain Samuel Fawcett, who would have been buried beneath the ruins rather than surrender had not the king ordered him to hand it over to the Parliament. The manor and park continued to be vested in the Crown until the time of Queen Anne, who bestowed it on her famous general, the Duke of Marlborough, as a reward for his numerous victories abroad, so that he might have a home worthy of him. The nation voted the successful soldier half a million of money wherewith to build a magnificent palace to be named after one of his greatest victories, and Blenheim was the result. We were astonished at the enormous size of the mansion, in which, we heard, many art treasures were stored, and the woodman told us that the wall that enclosed the mansion and the park was more than eleven miles long. A lofty column, with a statue of the great duke on the top, in the garb of a Roman warrior, had been erected in the park, the base of which monument was covered with inscriptions containing thousands of words, including more names of battles won than we had seen on any monument previously. The Battle of Blenheim was fought in 1704, and forms the subject of Southey's well-known poem in which he describes old Kaspar sitting before his cottage door on a summer evening after his day's work was done, while his grandchildren, little Wilhelmine and her brother Peterkin, were playing on the green before him. The children had found something in the stream hard by, and had brought it to Kaspar to explain to them what it was that they had found "that was so large and smooth and round." We could almost imagine we could see old Kaspar taking it up in his hand and explaining to the children that it was the skull of some poor fellow amongst the thousands who had been slain in that great battle, and describing the misery that followed it, to teach them, and all mankind, the curse of war. [Illustration: MONUMENT TO THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.] Then followed the questions of the little children, often difficult to answer as everybody knows, and which even puzzled, old Kaspar himself: "Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory." "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin:-- "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory." We found a very comfortable hotel at Woodstock where we got a splendid tea, and stayed some time, with an inward desire to stay longer; but we wanted to reach Oxford that night, and so walked on in the dark and arrived at the Temperance Hotel there at ten o'clock p.m. We had seen a few bonfires on our way, but when November 5th happened to fall on a Sunday, causing the ceremonies of the "glorious fifth" to be celebrated either a day sooner or a day later, the proceedings invariably fell flat and lost their éclat; but Oxford was notorious on Gunpowder Day for a faction fight known as the Gown and the Town fight, which generally began in front of the church dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin, and on that day more heads were damaged in the city than on any other day in the year, the fight always ending in a number of both parties being taken care of for the night. But the custom was now dying out, and as our entry into the city was on November 4th, probably these festivities had not taken place or we had arrived too late to witness them. (_Distance walked twenty miles_.) [Illustration: MARTYRS' MEMORIAL, OXFORD.] _Sunday, November 5th._ I was roused in good time this morning by my brother knocking at my door and wishing me many happy returns of my birthday, consequently we were able to go out in the town before breakfast and see how Oxford looked in the daylight. As we walked through the principal streets we were astonished at the number of towers and spires on the churches and colleges, which appeared in every direction, and the number of trees and gardens which surrounded them. We saw the Martyrs' Memorial, which we must have passed as we entered the city the previous night, an elaborate and ornate structure, fully seventy feet high, with a cross at the summit. The monument had been erected at a cost of £5,000, to the memory of Bishops Ridley and Latimer, who were burnt to death near the spot, October 16th, 1555, and of Archbishop Cranmer, who followed them on March 21st, 1556; their statues in Caen stone filled three of the niches. The memorial was decorated after the manner of the Eleanor Crosses erected by King Edward I in memory of his wife, the Queen Eleanor, and the inscription on the base was as follows: _To the Glory of God and in grateful commemoration of His servants--Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, prelates of the Church of England; who near this spot yielded their bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the sacred truths which they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church of Rome, and rejoicing that to them it was given not only to believe in Christ, but also to suffer for His sake. This monument was erected by public subscription in the year of our Lord God MDCCCXLI_. Ridley and Latimer were burned together on the slope of the city near Balliol College, where stakes had been placed to receive them. On the day of their execution they were brought from their prison and compelled to listen to a sermon full of reproaches and uncharitable insinuations from the preacher, Dr. Smith, who took his text from the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul's first Epistle to the Corinthians: "If I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it availeth me nothing." [Illustration: OXFORD'S TOWERS. "We were astonished at the number of towers and spires on the churches and colleges which appeared in every direction, and the number of trees and gardens which were around them."] Each of the bishops expressed a desire to reply to the sermon, but neither of them was allowed to do so, and they were led to the place of execution. Ridley was told that if he would recant, his life would be spared, but he replied, "So long as the breath is in my body I will never deny my Lord Christ and His known truth. God's will be done in me." His companion, Latimer, before he removed his prison dress, looked like a withered and bent old man, but afterwards appeared quite changed, and stood upright, "as comely a father as one might lightly behold." He distributed several small articles he had about him amongst his friends who stood near him, and said, "Well, there is nothing hid but it shall be opened"--a remark he had often made before--and then he prayed aloud to the Almighty, concluding with the words, "I beseech Thee, Lord God, take mercy on this realm of England, and deliver the same from all her enemies." [Illustration: THE BURNING OF RIDLEY AND LATIMER.] After embracing each other they were chained to the stakes, and the faggots of wood piled around them, while a brother-in-law tied a bag of gunpowder round Ridley's neck. As the fires were being lighted, the brave old Latimer uttered these memorable words: "Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man! We shall this day light such a candle in England as I trust shall never be put out!" He then received the flame in his hands, as if embracing it, and, stroking his face with it, died apparently without pain. Ridley lived longer, but when the powder exploded, he fell dead at Latimer's feet. Latimer had often prayed during his imprisonment that he might shed his heart's blood for the truth, and that God would restore His gospel to England, and preserve the Lady Elizabeth. As his body was consumed, the bystanders were astonished at the quantity of blood that gushed from his heart. His words proved to be prophetic, for the fires of the martyrs restored the light to their country, and spread like wildfire throughout the land, carrying all before them. How strong must have been their belief when, with the offer of life held out to them, they elected to die for the faith "which is in Christ Jesus." Cranmer had signed a recantation and was brought to St. Mary's Church to proclaim his adhesion to the Roman faith, but instead of doing so, he created a great sensation by boldly repudiating all he had said in favour of Romish assumption. He said it was contrary to the truth; and "as for the Pope," he continued. "I refuse him as anti-Christ." A great uproar followed. The preacher shouted, "Stop the heretic's mouth!" and Cranmer was immediately led out to be burnt, suffering death on that same day, March 21, 1556. A portion of the stake to which he was fastened and the band of iron which was placed round his waist were still preserved at Oxford. Mary, who was Queen of England at that time, was a zealous Roman Catholic, and the Reformers were looked upon as heretics, and punished accordingly. So many of them were executed during her reign, that she became known to history as "Bloody Mary." Her sister Elizabeth was known to favour the Protestants, and as she would follow as Queen of England, her life was often in danger. It was for her preservation that Latimer so often prayed. Mary's reign was a short one, but Elizabeth was spared to reign over England for the long period of forty-four years. Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_ describes the horrible sufferings of many of these martyrs, and, though an awful book to read, was one of the few books extensively published in our early days, chained copies being placed in many churches, some of which we saw on our journey. [Illustration: BEAUMONT PALACE IN 1832: THE BIRTHPLACE OF RICHARD I.] A small group of excited people were standing near the Martyrs' Memorial, and we passed several others in the city. On inquiry we were informed that the body of a murdered woman had been found during the night, on the Banbury road. On hearing this news I must confess to feeling some slight apprehension when I considered the strong prima facie case that could have been made against us: our travel-stained appearance, faces bronzed almost to the colour of the red soil we had walked over, beards untrimmed and grown as nature intended them, clothes showing signs of wear and tear, our heavy oaken sticks with worn ferrules, and our suspicious and seedy-looking bags; our late arrival last night, and, above all, the fact that we had entered the town by the very road on which the murder had been committed! What if we were arrested on suspicion! I had been practically arrested under far less suspicious circumstances the previous year, when we were walking home from London. [Illustration: "THE HIGH," WITH QUEEN'S COLLEGE.] Just before reaching Nottingham we saw a large concourse of people in an open space some distance away from our road; out of curiosity we went to see what was going on, and found it to be a cricket match just finishing. Two men in the crowd to whom we spoke told us that great interest was being taken in the match, as a man named Grace was taking part in the game. We waited till the end, and came along with the two men towards the town. We had to cross the bridge over the River Trent, and my brother had already crossed when he found I was not following. So he turned back, and saw me talking to a policeman in the centre of the bridge. "What's the matter?" he shouted, and I replied, "He wants to look in my bag." My brother made use of some expression quite unusual to him, and a regular war of words ensued between him and the officer; as we declined to open the bag, he requested us to follow him to a small temporary police office that had been built on the side of the bridge. Meantime a crowd of men had collected and followed us to the station; every pane of glass in the office windows was occupied by the faces of curious observers. The officer quite lost his temper, saying that he had had men like us there before. We asked him to break the bag open, but he declined to do so, and made himself very disagreeable, which caused my brother to remark afterwards that we ought to have thrown him over the parapet of the bridge into the river below, if only to cool his temper. It would have pleased us to stay and fight the matter out, but we had a friend meeting us at Buxton to accompany us on the last day's march home, and were obliged to give in on that account; so we opened the bag, and it was amusing to see the crestfallen appearance of the officer when he saw the contents, and his fiery temperature almost fell below zero when we told him we should report the matter to his chief. We heard in the town that some of the squires on that side of Nottingham had been troubled with poachers on their estates, and the police had orders to examine all persons with suspicious-looking parcels coming into the town by that road, whether by vehicles or on foot. About a fortnight before our adventure the same policeman had stopped a man who was carrying a similar bag to mine, and found in it a complete set of housebreaker's tools. He had been complimented by the magistrates for his smart capture, so possibly our reluctance to open the bag, and its similarity to that carried by the housebreaker, had confirmed him in his opinion that he was about to make a similar capture. Another thought, however, that occurred to me was that the man I was walking with might be "known to the police," as I noticed he disappeared in the crowd immediately the officer approached. But be that as it may, we wrote to the Chief Constable of Police at Nottingham soon after we reached home, who replied very civilly, and said he hoped we would not proceed with the case further, as just then the police in that neighbourhood had very difficult duties to perform, and so the matter ended. [Illustration: MERTON GARDENS.] But to return to Oxford. My brother only smiled at my fears, and remarked that being apprehended by the police would only be a small matter compared with being taken to prison and put on the treadmill, a position in which he boasted of having once been placed. When he happened to mention this to a tramp on the road, I was greatly amused to hear the tramp in a significant and confidential tone of voice quietly ask, "What was you in for?" He was only a small boy at the time, and had gone with our father, who was on the jury, to the county prison. Part of the jury's business in the interval was to inspect the arrangements there, which of course were found in applepie order. My brother was greatly impressed by his own importance when the man in livery at the head of the procession repeatedly called to the crowd, "Make way for the Grand Jury!" He saw the prisoners picking "oakum," or untwisting old ropes that had been used in boats, tearing the strands into loose hemp to be afterwards used in caulking the seams between the wood planks on the decks and sides of ships, so as to make them water-tight; and as it was near the prisoners' dinner-time, he saw the food that had been prepared for their dinner in a great number of small tin cans with handles attached, each containing two or three small pieces of cooked meat, which he said smelled very savoury. Finally they came to the treadmill, and as no prisoners were on it, some of the jury expressed a wish to try it; one of the jurymen seeing my brother, who was the only child present, kindly took him on and held him by the hand. When all were in position the wheel was started slowly, and as one step went down they mounted the next, and so on up the stairs, but they never got to the top! The steps creaked under them as the wheel turned slowly round, and a prison officer stood behind them with a big stick, which he was careful not to use on any of the jurymen, though my brother heard him say he had to use it sometimes on the prisoners. As the wheel turned round it moved some kind of machinery which they could not see. [Illustration: GREAT TOM BELL, OXFORD.] But to return to Oxford again. We were not suspected of being concerned in the murder, nor did we venture to inquire whether the culprit had been found, for fear that we might be suspected of being concerned in the case; but if a police raid had been made on the Oxford Temperance Hotel--most unlikely thing to happen--we should have been able to produce a good record for that day, at any rate, for we attended four different services in four different places of worship. The first was at Christ Church, whither we had been advised to go to listen to the choir, whose singing at that time was considered to be the best in Oxford. Certainly the musical part of the service was all that could be desired. There were more than twenty colleges at Oxford, and we had a busy day, for between the services we looked through the "Quads," with their fine gardens and beautiful lawns, hundreds of years old. In the services, every phase of religious thought in the Church of England seemed to be represented--the High Church, the Low Church, and the Broad Church; and many men in all vocations and professions in life had passed through the colleges, while valuable possessions had been bequeathed to them from time to time, until Oxford had become a veritable storehouse of valuable books, pictures, and relics of all kinds, and much of the history of the British Empire seemed to have been made by men who had been educated there. It would have taken us quite a week to see Oxford as it ought to be seen, but we had only this one day, and that a Sunday. [Illustration: TOM TOWER, WITH WOLSEY STATUE.] Christ Church, where we went to our first service, one of the finest buildings in Oxford, was founded by the great Wolsey in the reign of Henry VIII. It contains the statue and portrait of the Cardinal, and in the Library his Cardinal's Hat, also his Prayer Book--one of its most valued possessions, beautifully illuminated and bound in crimson velvet set with pearls and dated 1599. The famous bell of Christ Church, known as the "Great Tom," weighing about 17,000 lbs., is tolled every night at five minutes past nine o'clock--101 times, that being the original number of the students at the college--and at its solemn sound most of the colleges and halls closed their gates. The students were formerly all supposed to be housed at that hour, but the custom is not now observed--in fact, there was some doubt about it even in the time of Dean Aldrich, the author of the well-known catch, "Hark! the bonny Christ Church bells," published in 1673: Hark the bonny Christ Church Bells 1 2 3 4 5 6-- They sound so wondrous great, so woundy sweet As they trowl so merrily, merrily. Oh! the first and second bell. That every day at four and ten, cry, "Come, come, come, come to prayers!" And the verger troops before the Dean. Tinkle, tinkle, ting, goes the small bell at nine. To call the bearers home; But the devil a man Will leave his can Till he hears the mighty Tom. The great bell originally belonged to Oseney Abbey, and hung in the fine cupola over the entrance gate, named after it the "Great Tom Gate," and had been tolled every night with one exception since May 29, 1684. The statue of Wolsey, which now stood over the gateway, was carved by an Oxford man named Bird in the year 1719, at the expense of Trelawny, Bishop of Winchester, one of the seven bishops and hero of the famous ballad-- And shall Trelawny die? At the time of the Restoration Dr. John Fell was appointed Vice-Chancellor, and he not only made the examinations very severe, but he made the examiners keep up to his standard, and was cordially hated by some of the students on that account. An epigram made about him at that time has been handed down to posterity: I do not like thee, Dr. Fell; The reason why I cannot tell; But this I know, and know full well, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell. William Penn, the Quaker, the famous founder of the Colony of Pennsylvania, "came up" to Christ Church in 1660, but was "sent down" in 1660 for nonconformity. [Illustration: LEWIS CARROLL.] But we were more interested in a modern student there, C.L. Dodgson, who was born in 1832 at Daresbury in Cheshire, where his father was rector, and quite near where we were born. There was a wood near his father's rectory where he, the future "Lewis Carroll," rambled when a child, along with other children, and where it was thought he got the first inspirations that matured in his famous book _The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland_, which was published in 1865--one of the most delightful books for children ever written. We were acquainted with a clergyman who told us that it was the greatest pleasure of his life to have known "Lewis Carroll" at Oxford, and that Queen Victoria was so delighted with Dodgson's book _Alice in Wonderland_, that she commanded him if ever he wrote another book to dedicate it to her. Lewis Carroll was at that time engaged on a rather abstruse work on _Conic Sections_, which, when completed and published, duly appeared as "Dedicated by express command to Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria." The appearance of this book caused some surprise and amusement, as it was not known that the Queen was particularly interested in _Conic Sections_. No doubt Her Majesty anticipated, when she gave him the command personally, that his next book would be a companion to the immortal _Alice_. Our friend the vicar, who told us this story, rather surprised us when he said that Lewis Carroll did not like the sea, and had written a "Sea Dirge," which, when recited at parochial entertainments, generally brought "down the house" at the conclusion of the ninth verse: A SEA DIRGE There are some things like a spider, a ghost. The income tax, the gout, an umbrella for three. That I hate, but the thing I hate the most, Is a thing they call the sea. Pour some salt water over the floor. Ugly I'm sure you'll allow that to be, Suppose it extended a mile or more, That would be like the sea. Beat a dog till it howls outright-- Cruel, but all very well for a spree; Suppose it did so day and night, That would be like the sea. I had a vision of nursery maids, Tens of thousands passed by me, Each carrying children with wooden spades, And that was by the sea. Who could have invented those spades of wood? Who was it that cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could-- Or one who loved the sea. It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt to float With thoughts as boundless and souls as free, But suppose you are very unwell in the boat-- Then how do you like the sea? Would you like coffee with sand for dregs? A decided hint of salt in your tea? And a fishy taste in the very eggs? Then by all means choose the sea. And if with such dainties to drink and eat You prefer not a vestige of grass or a tree, And a chronic condition of wet in your feet, Then--I recommend the sea. There is an animal people avoid. Whence is derived the verb to flee, Where have you been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the sea. Once I met with a friend in the street, With wife and nurse and children three; Never again such a sight may I meet, As that party from the sea. Their looks were sullen, their steps were slow, Convicted felons they seemed to be,-- "Are you going to prison, dear friend?"--"Oh no; We're returning from the sea!" [Illustration: GUY FAWKES'S LANTERN.] Every college had some legend or story connected with it, and University College claimed to have been founded by King Alfred the Great, but this is considered a myth; King Alfred's jewel, however, a fine specimen of Saxon work in gold and crystal, found in the Isle of Athelney, was still preserved in Oxford. Guy Fawkes's lantern and the sword given to Henry VIII as Defender of the Faith were amongst the curios in the Bodleian Library, but afterwards transferred to the Ashmolean Museum, which claimed to be the earliest public collection of curiosities in England, the first contributions made to it having been given in 1682 by Elias Ashmole, of whom we had heard when passing through Lichfield. In the eighteenth century there was a tutor named Scott who delivered a series of lectures on Ancient History, which were considered to be the finest ever known, but he could never be induced to publish them. In one of his lectures he wished to explain that the Greeks had no chimneys to their houses, and created much amusement by explaining it in his scholarly and roundabout fashion: "The Greeks had no convenience by which the volatile parts of fire could be conveyed into the open air." This tutor was a friend of the great Dr. Johnson, and seemed to have been quite an original character, for when his brother, John Scott, who was one of his own pupils, came up for examination for his degree in Hebrew and History, the only questions he put to him were, "What is the Hebrew for skull?" to which John promptly replied "Golgotha," and "Who founded University College?" to which his reply was "King Alfred!" Both the brothers were very clever men, and the tutor developed into Lord Stowell, while the pupil was created Lord Eldon. [Illustration: THE QUADRANGLE, JESUS COLLEGE.] Jesus, the Welsh College, possessed an enormous silver punch-bowl, 5 feet 2 inches in girth, which was presented in 1732 by the great Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn, who was known as the King _in_ Wales. Over his great kitchen mantelpiece there he had the words "Waste not, want not," a motto which did not appear to apply to the punchbowl, for the conditions attached to it were that it was to become the property of him who could span it with his arms and then drain the bowl empty after it had been filled with strong punch. The first condition had been complied with, and the second no doubt had been often attempted, but no one had yet appeared who had a head strong enough to drain the bowl without assistance, so it still remained the property of the College! [Illustration: "MAY MORNING": THE CHOIR ON THE TOWER.] Magdalen College--or Maudlen, as they pronounced it at Oxford--as easily distinguished from the others by its fine tower, rising to the height of 145 feet, the building of which dates from the end of the fifteenth century. We took a greater interest in that college because the rector of Grappenhall in Cheshire, where we were born, had been educated there. An ancient May-day custom is still observed by the college, called the "Magdalen Grace" or the "May Morning Hymn," this very old custom having been retained at Magdalen long after others disappeared. On May-day morning the choristers ascend to the top of the great tower and enter the portion railed off for them and other men who join in the singing, while the remainder of the space is reserved for members of the University, and other privileged persons admitted by ticket. They wait until the bell has sounded the last stroke of five o'clock, and then sing in Latin that fine old hymn to the Trinity, beginning with the words: Te Deum patrem colimus. My brother, however, was sure our rector could never have sung that hymn, since in cases of emergency he always appealed to him to start the singing in the Sunday school--for although a very worthy man in other respects, he was decidedly not musical. Among the great Magdalen men of the past are the names of Cardinal Wolsey, Cardinal Reginald Pole, Addison, Gibbon, Collins, Wilson, John Hampden, and John Foxe, author of the _Book of Martyrs_. The ecclesiastical students included two cardinals, four archbishops, and about forty bishops; and my brother would have added to the Roll of Honour the name of our rector, the Rev. Thomas Greenall, as that of a man who conscientiously tried to do his duty and whom he held in lasting remembrance. [Illustration: AN OXFORDSHIRE FARM.] There was a kind of haze hanging over Oxford, which gave me the impression that the atmosphere of the neighbourhood was rather damp, though my brother tried to persuade me it was the mist of antiquity; but when I found the rivers Thames (or Isis) and the Cherwell encircled the city on three sides, and that its name was derived from a passage over which oxen could cross the water, and when I saw the stiff clay of the brickfields, I was confirmed in my opinion. [Illustration: HINKSEY STREAM.] As early as the year 726 a prince named Didan settled at Oxford, and his wife Saxfrida built a nunnery there for her daughter Frideswyde, so that she could "take the veil" in her own church. As she was considered the "flower of all these parts," we could not understand why this was necessary, especially as she was sought in marriage by Algar, King of Leicester, described as "a young and spritely prince," and who was so persistent that he would not accept her refusal, actually sending "ambassadors" to carry her away. These men, however, when they approached her were smitten with blindness; and when Frideswyde saw that she would not be safe in "her own church" nor able to remain in peace there, she fled into the woods and hid herself in a place that had been made as a shelter for the swine. King Algar was greatly enraged, and, breathing out fire and sword, set out for Oxford. As he still pursued her, he too was smitten with blindness; and she then returned, but did not live long, as she died in 739. St. Frideswide's Chapel was said to have been built over her shrine, around which Oxford, the "City of the Spires," had extended to its present proportions. Oxford is also mentioned in A.D. 912 in the _Saxon Chronicle_, and Richard Coeur de Lion, the great Crusader, was born there in 1156, and often made it his home. The city was besieged on three different occasions--by Sweyne, the King of Denmark, in 1013, by William the Conqueror in 1067, and by Fairfax in 1646--for it was one of the King's great strongholds. EIGHTH WEEK'S JOURNEY _Monday, November 6th._ We had been very comfortable at our hotel, where I had spent a very pleasant birthday at Oxford, and was sorry that we could not stay another day. But the winter was within measurable distance, with its short days and long dark nights, and we could no longer rely upon the moon to lighten our way, for it had already reached its last quarter. We therefore left Oxford early in the morning by the Abingdon Road, and soon reached the southern entrance to the city, where in former days stood the famous tower from which Roger Bacon, who died in 1292, and who was one of the great pioneers in science and philosophy, was said to have studied the heavens; it was shown to visitors as "Friar Bacon's study." [Illustration: FRIAR BACON'S STUDY, FOLLEY BRIDGE, OXFORD.] A strange story was told relating to that wonderful man, from which it appeared he had formed the acquaintance of a spirit, who told him that if he could make a head of brass in one month, so that it could speak during the next month, he would be able to surround England with a wall of brass, and thus protect his country from her enemies. Roger Bacon, on hearing this, at once set to work, and with the aid of another philosopher and a demon the head was made; but as it was uncertain at what time during the next month it would speak, it was necessary to watch it. The two philosophers, therefore, watched it night and day for three weeks, and then, getting tired, Bacon ordered his man Myles to watch, and waken him when it spoke. About half an hour after they had retired the head spoke, and said, "Time is," but Myles thought it was too early to tell his master, as he could not have had sleep enough. In another half-hour the head spoke again, and said, "Time was," but as everybody knew that, he still did not think fit to waken his master, and then half an hour afterwards the head said, "Time is past," and fell down with a tremendous crash that woke the philosophers: but it was now too late! What happened afterwards, and what became of Myles, we did not know. In the neighbouring village of North Hinksey, about a mile across the meadows, stands the Witches' Elm. Of the Haunted House beside which it stood hardly even a trace remained, its origin, like its legend, stretching so far back into the "mists of antiquity" that only the slenderest threads remained. Most of the villages were owned by the monks of Abingdon Abbey under a grant of the Saxon King Caedwalla, and confirmed to them by Caenwulf and Edwig. The Haunted House, like the Church of Cumnor, was built by the pious monks, and remained in their possession till the dissolution of the monastery, then passing into the hands of the Earls of Abingdon. [Illustration: THE WITCHES' ELM.] The last tenant of the old house was one Mark Scraggs, or Scroggs, a solitary miser who, the story goes, sold himself to the Devil, one of the features of the compact being that he should provide for the wants of three wise women, or witches, who on their part were to assist him in carrying out his schemes and make them successful. In everything he seemed to prosper, and accumulated great hoards of wealth, but he had not a soul in the world to leave it to or to regret his leaving in spite of his wealth. At length the time approached when his terrible master would claim him body and soul, but Scraggs worked out a scheme for evading his bond, and for a time successfully kept Satan at bay and disposed of the three witches by imprisoning them in a hollow tree close by, on which he cast a spell which prevented them from communicating with their master the evil one, or enabling him to find them. This spell was so successful that Scraggs soon felt himself secure, but one day, venturing beyond the charmed circle, he was immediately seized by the Devil, who attempted to carry him off by way of the chimney, but failed, as the shaft was not sufficiently wide for the passage of the man's body. In the struggle the chimney was twisted in the upper part, and remained so till its total destruction, while Satan, rinding he could not carry off his body, tore him asunder, and carried off his soul, dashing the mutilated remains of the miser upon the hearth beneath. The death of Scraggs dissolved the spell which bound the witches, and their release split the tree in which they were confined from the ground to the topmost branch. The great uproar of this Satanic struggle aroused the neighbourhood, and the miser's body, when it was discovered, was buried beneath the wall of the church--neither inside nor outside the sacred edifice. Ever afterwards the house was haunted by the apparition of old Scraggs searching for his lost soul with groans and hideous cries, until at last the old mansion was pulled down and its very stones were removed. The old shattered and knarled elm alone remained to keep alive the legend of this evil compact. The story, improbable as it may appear, no doubt contained, as most of these stories do, the element of fact. Possibly the old man was a miser who possessed wealth enough to become the source of envy by some interested relations. Perhaps he was brutally murdered, perhaps, too, the night of the deed may have been wild with thunder and lightning raging in the sky. Probably the weird story, with all its improbable trappings, was circulated by some one who knew the truth, but who was interested in concealing it. Who knows? [Illlustration: HINKSEY, AN OXFORDSHIRE VILLAGE IN WHICH THE ROAD WAS CONSTRUCTED BY RUSKIN AND A BAND OF OXFORD STUDENTS.] We were now passing through scenes and pastures, quiet fields and farms, of which many of Oxford's famous students and scholars had written and sung. Matthew Arnold had painted these fields and villages, hills and gliding, reedy streams in some of his poems, and they were the objective of many of his Rambles: Hills where Arnold wander'd and all sweet June meadows, from the troubling world withdrawn. Here too in one of these small hamlets through which we passed Ruskin with a gang of his pupils in flannels started roadmaking, and for days and weeks were to be seen at their arduous task of digging and excavation, toiling and moiling with pick, spade, and barrow, while Ruskin stood by, applauding and encouraging them in their task of making and beautifying the roads of these villages which he loved so well. [Illustration: THE SCENE OF THE DIGGING OPERATIONS.] This experiment was undertaken by Ruskin as a practical piece of serviceable manual labour, for Ruskin taught in his lectures that the Fine Arts required, as a necessary condition of their perfection, a happy country life with manual labour as an equally necessary part of a completely healthy and rounded human existence, and in this experiment he practised what he preached. The experiment caused no little stir in Oxford, and even the London newspapers had their gibe at the "Amateur Navvies of Oxford"; to walk over to Hinksey and laugh at the diggers was a fashionable afternoon amusement. The "Hinksey diggings," as they were humorously called, were taken up with an enthusiasm which burned so fiercely that it soon expended itself, and its last flickering embers were soon extinguished by the ironic chaff and banter to which these gilded youths were subjected. The owner of the estate sent his surveyor to report the condition of the road as they had left it, and it is said that in his report he wrote: "The young men have done no mischief to speak of." The River Thames, over which we now crossed, is known in Oxford as the "Isis," the name of an Egyptian goddess--though in reality only an abbreviated form of the Latin name Tamesis. As the Thames here forms the boundary of Oxfordshire, we were in Berkshire immediately we crossed the bridge. We followed the course of the river until we reached Kennington, where it divides and encloses an island named the Rose Isle, a favourite resort of boating parties from Oxford and elsewhere. It was quite a lovely neighbourhood, and we had a nice walk through Bagley Woods, to the pretty village of Sunningwell, where we again heard of Roger Bacon, for he occasionally used the church tower there for his astronomical and astrological observations. He must have been an enormously clever man, and on that account was known as an alchemist and a sorcerer; he was credited with the invention of gunpowder, and the air-pump, and with being acquainted with the principle of the telescope. In the time of Queen Mary, Dr. Jewel was the rector of Sunningwell, but had to vacate it to escape persecution; while in the time of the Civil War Dr. Samuel Fell, then Dean of Christ Church, and father of John Fell, was rector. He died from shock in 1649 when told the news that his old master, King Charles, had been executed. He was succeeded as Dean by John Fell, his son. [Illustration: SUNNINGWELL CHURCH.] [Illustration: SUNNINGWELL, BISHOP JEWELL'S PORCH.] [Illustration: ABBEY GATE, ABINGDON, SHOWING ALL THAT NOW REMAINS OF THE ABBEY.] We soon arrived at Abingdon, and were delighted with the view of the town, with its church spire overlooking it as we approached to the side of the Thames, which now appeared as a good-sized river. As we stopped a minute or two on the bridge, my brother got a distant view of some pleasure boats, and suggested we should stay there for the rest of the day, to explore the town, and row up and down the river! He had evidently fallen in love with Abingdon, but I reminded him that our travelling orders were not to ride in any kind of conveyance during the whole of our journey, and that, if we got drowned, we should never get to the Land's End, "besides," I added, "we have not had our breakfast." This finished him off altogether, and the pleasure-boat scheme vanished immediately we entered the portals of a fine old hostelry, where the smell of bacon and eggs recalled him from his day dreams. We handed our luggage to the boots to take care of, and walked into the coffee-room, where to our surprise we found breakfast set for two, and the waitress standing beside it. When we told her how glad we were to find she had anticipated our arrival, she said that the bacon and eggs on the table were not prepared for us, but for two other visitors who had not come downstairs at the appointed time. She seemed rather vexed, as the breakfast was getting cold, and said we had better sit down to it, and she would order another lot to be got ready and run the risk. So we began operations at once, but felt rather guilty on the appearance of a lady and gentleman when very little of the bacon and eggs intended for them remained. The waitress had, however, relieved the situation by setting some empty crockery on another table. Having satisfied our requirements, we tipped the waitress handsomely while paying the bill, and vanished to explore the town. We were captivated with the appearance of Abingdon, which had quite a different look from many of the towns we had visited elsewhere; but perhaps our good opinion had been enhanced by the substantial breakfast we had disposed of, and the splendid appetites which enabled us to enjoy it. There were other good old-fashioned inns in the town, and a man named William Honey had at one time been the landlord of one of the smaller ones, where he had adopted as his sign a bee-hive, on which he had left the following record: Within this Hive we're all alive, Good Liquor makes us funny; If you are dry, step in and try The flavour of our Honey. The early history of Abingdon-on-Thames appeared, like others, to have begun with that of a lady who built a nunnery. Cilia was the name of this particular lady, and afterwards Hean, her brother, built a monastery, or an abbey, the most substantial remains of which appeared to be the abbey gateway; but as the abbey had existed in one form or another from the year 675 down to the time of Henry VIII, when it was dissolved, in 1538, Abingdon must have been a place of considerable antiquity. St. Nicholas's Church was mentioned in documents connected with the abbey as early as 1189, and some of its windows contained old stained glass formerly belonging to it, and said to represent the patron saint of the church restoring to life some children who had been mutilated and pickled by the devil. There was also a fine old tomb which contained the remains of John Blacknall and Jane his wife, who appeared to have died simultaneously, or, as recorded, "at one instant time at the house within the site of the dissolved monastery of the Blessed Virgin Marie, of Abingdon, whereof he was owner." The following was the curious inscription on the tomb: Here rest in assurance of a joyful resurrection the Bodies of John Blacknall, Esquire, and his wife, who both of them finished an happy course upon earth and ended their days in peace on the 21st day of August in the year of our Lord 1625. He was a bountiful benefactor of this Church--gave many benevolencies to the poor--to the Glory of God--to the example of future ages: When once they liv'd on earth one bed did hold Their Bodies, which one minute turned to mould; Being dead, one Grave is trusted with the prize, Until that trump doth sound and all must rise; Here death's stroke even did not part this pair, But by this stroke they more united were; And what left they behind you plainly see, An only daughter, and their charitie. And though the first by death's command did leave us, The second we are sure will ne'er deceive us. This church, however, was very small compared with its larger neighbour dedicated to St. Helen, which claims to be one of the four churches in England possessing five aisles, probably accounting for the fact that its breadth exceeded its length by about eleven feet. The oldest aisle dates from the year 1182, and the church contains many fine brasses and tombs, including one dated 1571, of John Roysse, citizen and mercer of London, who founded the Abingdon Grammar School. There is also a stone altar-tomb in memory of Richard Curtaine, who died in 1643, and who was described as "principalle magistrate of this Corpe"; on the tomb was this charming verse in old English lettering: Our Curtaine in this lower press. Rests folded up in nature's dress; His dust P.fumes his urne, and hee This towne with liberalitee. Abingdon is fortunate in having so many benefactors, who seem to have vied with each other in the extent of their gifts; even the church itself is almost surrounded with almshouses, which, owing to their quaint architectural beauty, form a great attraction to visitors. It is doubtful whether any town in England of equal size possesses so many almshouses as Abingdon. Those near this church were built in the year 1446 by the Fraternity or Guild of the Holy Cross, and the fine old hospital which adjoined them, with its ancient wooden cloisters and gabled doorways and porch, was a sight well worth seeing. The hall or chapel was hung with painted portraits of its benefactors, including that of King Edward VI, who granted the Charter for the hospital. This Guild of the Holy Cross assisted to build the bridges and set up in the market-place the famous Abingdon Cross, which was 45 feet high. Standing upon eight steps, this cross had "eight panels in the first storey and six in the second; of stone, gilt and garnished, adorned with statuary and coats of arms, a mightily goodly cross of stone with fair degrees and imagerie." The design of the Abingdon Cross had been copied for other crosses, including, it was said, portions of those of Coventry and Canterbury; and it must have been of extraordinary beauty, for Elias Ashmole, who was likely to know, declared that it was not inferior in workmanship and design to any other in England. The cross was restored in 1605, but when the army of the Parliament occupied the town in 1644, it was "sawed down" by General Waller as "a superstitious edifice." The Chamberlain's Accounts for that year contained an entry of money paid "to Edward Hucks for carrying away the stones from the cross." [Illustration: MARKET CROSS, ABINGDON. _From an old print_.] The records in these old towns in the south, which had been kept by churchwardens and constables for hundreds of years, were extremely interesting; and there was much information in those at Abingdon that gave a good idea of what was to be found in a market-place in "ye olden time," for in addition to the great cross there were the May pole, the cryer's pulpit, the shambles, the stocks, the pillory, the cage, the ducking-stool, and the whipping-post. In the year 1641, just before the Civil War, Abingdon possessed a Sergeant-at-Mace in the person of Mr. John Richardson, who also appears to have been a poet, as he dedicated what he described as a poem "of harmless and homespun verse to the Mayor, Bayliffs, Burgesses, and others," in which are portrayed the proceedings at the celebration of the peace between the King and the Scots. Early in the morning the inhabitants were roused by "Old Helen's trowling bells," which were answered by the "Low Bells of honest Nick," meaning the bells of the two churches: To Helen's Courts (ith'morne) at seven oth' clock, Our congregation in great numbers flock; Where we 'till Twelve our Orisons did send To him, that did our kingdom's Quarrels end. And these two Sermons two Divines did preach, And most divinely gratitude did teach. After these five hours of service, the congregation again returned to church from two till four, and then proceeded to the cross in the market-place. And thus we march'd: First with my golden Mace I pac'd along, and after followed mee The Burgesses by senioritee. Our Praetour first (let me not misse my Text), I think the Clergie-men came marching next; Then came our Justice, with him a Burger sage, Both marched together, in due equipage. The rest oth' Burgers, with a comely grace, Walked two and two along to th' market-place. And when the procession arrived at the steps of the cross-- The Clerk was call'd, and he a Bible took, The hundred and sixt Psalme he out did look; Two thousand Quoristers their notes did raise And warbled out the Great Creator's praise! After this came bonfires and wine and beer, and then the musketeers with rattling drums and fifes and colours flying, under the "skilfull Sergeant Corderoy," who fired off a barrel of powder before the well-known "Antelope Inn." Abingdon was rather roughly handled during the Civil War, for, in addition to the "sawing off" of the cross, the horses of the Parliamentary Army were stabled in St. Helen's Church, an entry being afterwards made in the churchwardens' book of a sum paid "for nailes and mending the seats that the soldiers had toorne." The fines recorded during the Commonwealth were: "For swearing one oath, 3s. 4d.; for drawing Beere on the Sabboth Day, 10s. 0d.; a Gent for travelling on the Sabboth, 10s. 0d." Our journey might have been devised on a plan to evade all such fines, for we did not swear, or drink beer, or travel on Sundays. We might, however, have fallen into the hands of highway robbers, for many were about the roads in that neighbourhood then, and many stage-coaches had been held up and the passengers robbed. There was a rather imposing County Hall at Abingdon, built towards the close of the seventeenth century, at which an ancient custom was performed on the coronation of a king. The mayor and corporation on those occasions threw buns from the roof of the market-house, and a thousand penny cakes were thus disposed of at the coronation of George IV, and again at the accession of William IV and of Queen Victoria. An apprentice of a cordwainer in the town ran away in 1764, or, as it was worded on the police notice, "did elope from service." He was described as a "lusty young fellow, wearing a light-coloured surtout coat, a snuff-coloured undercoat, a straw-coloured waistcoat, newish leather breeches, and wears his own dark brown hair tied behind," so it appeared to us that he had not left his best clothes at home when he "did elope," and would be easily recognised by his smart appearance. We also noticed that about the same period "Florists' Feasts" were held at Abingdon, perhaps the forerunners of the "Flower Shows" held at a later period. In those days the flowers exhibited were chiefly "whole-blowing carnations," while the important things were the dinners which followed the exhibitions, and which were served at the principal inns. [Illustration: THE "CROWN AND THISTLE INN," ABINGDON.] But we must not leave Abingdon without giving an account of another benefactor to the town, though rather on different lines, of whom a detailed account was given in _Jackson's Oxford Journal_ of November, 1767, from which it appeared that State lotteries were in vogue at that time in England. The story chiefly related to a Mr. Alder, a cooper by trade, who kept a "little public house" called the "Mitre." His wife had handed him £22 to pay the brewer, but instead of doing so he only paid him £10, and with the other twelve bought a ticket for the lottery, the number of which was 3379. The following precise account, copied from the _Journal_, will give the result, and show how events were described in newspapers in those days, the punctuation being carefully attended to, a more extensive use made of capital letters to distinguish the more important words, and some words written separately which now are joined together: Last Friday about one o'clock in the morning a Messenger in a Post Chaise and Four arrived Express at the Crown and Thistle in Abingdon, Berks., from the Office where his Ticket was sold and registered, to give Mr. Alder the owner of it, the most early Advice of his good Fortune, upon which Mr. Powell immediately went with the Messenger to carry this important Intelligence. Mr. Alder was in Bed, but upon being called jumped out, and opened the Window; when Mr. Powell told him he had brought good News, for his Ticket was come up a Prize. Mr. Alder replied that he knew very well it was only a Joke, but nevertheless he would come down and drink with him, with all his Heart. This Point being settled, both Mr. Alder and his Wife came down; when the Prize still continued to be the Subject of Conversation whilst the Glass went round, and it was magnified by Degrees, till at length Mr. Alder was seriously informed that this Ticket was the Day before drawn a Prize for _Twenty Thousand Pounds_, and that the Gentleman then present was the Messenger of his Success. Though the utmost Precaution had been used, it is natural to suppose that so sudden and unexpected an Acquisition must produce very extra ordinary Emotions: Mr. Alder, however, supported him with great Decency, but almost immediately slipped out into the Yard behind his House, where he staid some little Time, probably to drop a joyful Tear, as well as to offer an Ejaculation for these Blessings of Providence; but at his Return into the House, we are told, he manifested a most open and generous Heart: He was immediately for doing good, as well as rewarding every one who had in any wise been instrumental in the Advancement of his Fortune. Mr. Powell was welcome to the Use of Half the Money without Interest; his Son, and all his Neighbours were called; he kept open House, set the Bells a'ringing, and came to the following Resolutions, viz.: That the Messenger that came down, and the two Blue-coat Boys who drew the Prize, should be handsomely rewarded; that he would give Mr. Blewitt, Owner of the Abingdon Machine, at least a New Body for his Stage, on which should be painted the Cooper's Arms, together with the Number of his Ticket, 3m379; that he would clothe all the Necessitous of his own Parish; and likewise give a Couple of the finest fat Oxen he could purchase to the Poor of Abingdon in general, and lay out the price of these Oxen in Bread, to be distributed at the same time. To the Ringers, in Number, fourteen, he gave Liquor in Plenty, and a Guinea each; and calling for a wet Mop, rubbed out all the Ale Scores in his Kitchen. In a Word he displayed a noble Liberality, made every Body welcome; and what is highly to be applauded, showed a charitable Disposition towards the Relief of the Poor. We could imagine the joviality of Mr. Alder's customers when they found their ale scores so generously cancelled, which must have been fairly extensive, seeing that it required a "mop" to remove them from the inside of his kitchen door. We had often seen these "scores" at country inns behind the doors of the rooms where the poorer customers were served. It was a simple method of "book-keeping," as the customers' initials were placed at the head of a line of straight strokes marked by the landlord with white chalk, each figure "one" representing a pint of beer served to his customer during the week, and the money for the "pints" had to be paid at the week's end, for Saturday was the day when wages were invariably paid to working men in the country; as scarcely one of them could write his own name, it was a simple method of keeping accounts that appealed to them, and one that could easily be understood, for all they had to do, besides paying the money, was to count the number of strokes opposite their names. In some places it was the custom to place P. for pint and Q. for quart, which accounted for the origin of the phrase, _Mind your p's and q's_, so that the phrase, becoming a general warning to "look out," was originally used as a warning to the drinker to look at the score of p's and q's against him. We once heard of a landlord, however, whose first name was Daniel, and who was dishonest. When a customer got "half-seas over" and could not see straight, he used a piece of chalk with a nick cut in it, so that when he marked "one" on the door the chalk marked two; but he was soon found out, and lost most of his trade, besides being nicknamed "Dan Double-chalk." The custom of keeping ale scores in this way was referred to in the poem of "Richard Bell," who was-- As plodding a man, so his neighbours tell, as ever a chisel wielded. Richard's fault was that he spent too much money at a public-house named the "Jolly Kings," and-- One night, 'twas pay night! Richard's score Reach'd half across the Parlour door. His "Pints" had been so many And when at length the bill was paid, All that was left, he found, dismay'd, Was but a single penny! If Mr. Alder's customers had spent their money as freely as Richard had spent his, we could imagine their feelings of joy when they found their ale scores wiped out by Mr. Alder's wet mop! But during all the Jollity occasioned by this Event (the _Journal_ continued), it seems Mrs. Alder was in no wise elated, but rather thought the having such a great deal of Money a Misfortune; and seemed of Opinion that it would have been better to have had only enough to pay the Brewer, and a few Pounds to spare; for it would now certainly be their Ruin, as she knew well her Husband would give away all they had in the World, and indeed that it was _presumptuous_ in him at first to buy the Ticket. The Presumption alluded to by Mrs. Alder, we find, is that she had made up the Sum of 22l. for the Brewer, which her Husband took from her for that Purpose, but he having a strong Propensity to put himself in Fortune's Way, only paid 10l., and with the other Twelve purchased the Ticket. On Thursday last Mr. Alder set out for London, with Mr. Bowles of Abingdon, Attorney-at-Law; in order to Cheque His Ticket with the Commissioners Books, and take the Steps necessary for claiming and securing his Property. Subsequent reports in the _Journal_ described Mr. Alder as clothing the poor and distributing bread and beef throughout the whole place, and of being elected a churchwarden of St. Helen's, a result, we supposed, of his having become possessed of the £20,000. [Illustration: THE ROMAN WAY: WHITE HORSE HILL IN THE DISTANCE.] We now bade farewell to Abingdon and walked in the direction of Salisbury Plain, for our next great object of interest was the Druidical circles of Stonehenge, many miles distant. As we had to cross the Berkshire Downs, we travelled across the widest part of the Vale of the White Horse, in order to reach Wantage, a town at the foot of those lonely uplands. We had the great White Horse pointed out to us on our way, but we could not see the whole of it, although the hill on which it stood was the highest on the downs, which there terminated abruptly, forming a precipitous descent to the vale below. The gigantic figure of the horse had been cut out of the green turf to the depth of two or three feet, until the pure white chalk underneath the turf had been reached. The head, neck, and body were cut out in one waving line, while the legs were cut out separately, and detached, so that the distant view showed the horse as if it were galloping wildly. It was 374 feet long, and covered an acre of land, and was supposed to have been cut out originally by the army of King Alfred to celebrate his great victory over the Danes at the Battle of Ashdown, about three miles distant. It was, however, held by some people that the origin of the horse was far beyond the time of King Alfred, as the shape strongly resembled the image of the horse found on early British coins. Certainly there was a British camp quite near it, as well as a magnificent Roman camp, with gates and ditch and mounds still as complete as when the Romans left it. It was, moreover, close to the Icknield Way, 856 feet above sea-level, from which portions of eleven counties could be seen. On a clear day a view of the horse could be obtained from places many miles distant, its white form showing clearly against the green turf surrounding it. [Illustration: THE ICKNIELD WAY, LOOKING FROM THE WHITE HORSE.] [Illustration: "BLOWING STONE": ALFRED'S BUGLE HORN.] Occasionally the outline had been obscured by the growth of turf and weeds, and then the lord of the manor had requisitioned the services of the inhabitants of several of the pretty villages near the downs, who climbed up to the horse at the appointed time and, armed with picks, spades, and brushes, "scoured" the horse until it was quite white again, and its proportions clearly shown. After their work was done a round of merry-making followed, the occasion being celebrated by eating and drinking to the health of his lordship at his expense. The first verse in the "White Horse Ballad," written in the local dialect, was: The ould White Horse wants zettin' to rights. And the Squire has promised good cheer; Zo we'll gee un a scrape to kip' un in shape, And a'll last for many a year. A Roman road skirted the foot of the White Horse Hill, and on the side of this road was a strangely shaped sarsen-stone called the "Blowing Stone." It was quite a large stone, in which holes had been formed by nature, running through it in every direction like a sponge. It was said to have been used by King Alfred to summon his troops, as by blowing down one of the holes a booing sound was produced from the other holes in the stone. On a later occasion my brother tried to make it sound, and failed to do so, because he did not know the "knack," but a yeoman's wife who was standing near, and who was quite amused at his efforts to produce a sound, said, "Let me try," and astonished him by blowing a loud and prolonged blast of a deep moaning sound that could have been heard far away. The third verse in the ballad referred to it as: The Blewin Stun, in days gone by, Wur King Alfred's bugle harn, And the tharn tree you med plainly zee. As is called King Alfred's tharn! The thorn tree marked the spot where the rival armies met--the pagans posted on the hill, and the Christians meeting them from below--it was through the great victory won on that occasion that England became a Christian nation. We were now in "King Alfred's country," for he was born at Wantage in 849, but his palace, if ever he had one, and the thorn tree were things of the past, and what traces there were of him in the town were very scant. There were King Arthur's Well and King Arthur's Bath; the most substantial building bearing his name was the "King Alfred's Head Inn," where we called for light refreshments, and where in former years the stage-coaches plying between Oxford and London stopped to change horses. Wantage must have been a place of some importance in ancient times, as a Witenagemote was held there in the year 990 in the time of Ethelred, at which the tolls were fixed for boats sailing along the Thames for Billingsgate Market in London. [Illustration: WANTAGE MARKET-PLACE.] There were several old inns in the town, and many of the streets were paved with cobble-stones. Tanning at one time had been the staple industry, a curious relic of which was left in the shape of a small pavement composed of knuckle-bones. Early in the century the town had an evil reputation as the abode of coiners, and when a man was "wanted" by the police in London, the Bow Street runners always came to search for him at Wantage. We had now to climb to the top of the downs, and after about two miles, nearly all uphill, reached the fine old Roman camp of Segsbury, where we crossed the Icknield Way, known locally as the Rudge or the Ridge-way--possibly because it followed the ridge or summit of the downs. It had every appearance of having been a military road from one camp to another, for it continued straight from Segsbury Camp to the Roman camp on the White Horse Hill, about six miles distant. The "Rudge" was now covered with turf, and would have been a pleasant road to walk along; but our way lay in another direction along a very lonely road, where we saw very few people and still fewer houses. It was quite dark when we crossed the small River Lambourn at the village of West Shefford, and after a further walk of about six miles we arrived at the town of Hungerford, where we stayed the night. What a strange effect these lonely walks had upon us when they extended from one centre of population to another! We could remember the persons and places at either end, but the intervening space seemed like a dream or as if we had been out of the world for the time being, and only recovered consciousness when we arrived at our destination and again heard the sounds of human voices other than our own. The origin of the name Hungerford appeared to have been lost in obscurity. According to one gentleman, whose interesting record we afterwards saw, it "has been an etymological puzzle to the topographer and local antiquarian, who have left the matter in the same uncertainty in which they found it"; but if he had accompanied us in our walk that day across those desolate downs, and felt the pangs of hunger as we did, mile after mile in the dark, he would have sought for no other derivation of the name Hungerford, and could have found ample corroboration by following us into the coffee-room of the "Bear Hotel" that night. We were very hungry. (_Distance walked thirty miles_.) _Tuesday, November 7th._ The "Bear Inn" at Hungerford, standing as it did on the great coach road from London to the West, had been associated with stirring scenes. It was there that a gentleman who had fallen ill while travelling by the stage-coach had died, and was buried in the churchyard at Hungerford, with the following inscription on his gravestone: Here are deposited the remains of William Greatrake, Esqr., native of Ireland, who on his way from Bristol to London, died in this town in the 52nd year of his age, on the 2nd August 1781 _Stat nominis umbra_ In the year 1769, some remarkably able and vigorous political letters signed "Junius" appeared in the London _Public Advertiser_. They were so cleverly written that all who read them wanted to know the author, but failed to find out who he was. Afterwards they were published in book form, entitled _The Letters of Junius_: in our early days the author of these letters was still unknown, and even at the time of our walk the matter was one of the mysteries of the literary world. The authorship of _The Letters of Junius_ was one of the romances of literature. Whoever he was, he must have been in communication with the leading political people of his day, and further, he must have been aware of the search that was being made for him, for he wrote in one of his letters, "If I am a vain man, my gratification lies within a narrow circle. I am the sole depository of my own secret; and it shall perish with me." Controversy was still going on about the _Letters of Junius_, for early in the year of our walk, 1871, a book was published entitled _The Handwriting of Junius Professionally Investigated by Mr. Charles Chabot, Expert_, the object being to prove that Sir Phillip Francis was the author of the famous Letters. The publication of this book, however, caused an article to be written in the _Times_ of May 22nd, 1871, to show that the case was "not proven" by Mr. Chabot, for William Pitt, the great Prime Minister, told Lord Aberdeen that he knew who wrote the Junius Letters, and that it was not Francis; and Lady Grenville sent a letter to the editor of _Diaries of a Lady of Quality_ to the same effect. While Mr. Greatrake was lying ill at the "Bear Inn" he was visited by many political contemporaries, including the notorious John Wilkes, who, born in 1729, had been expelled three times from the House of Commons when Member for Middlesex; but so popular was he with the common people, whose cause he had espoused, that they re-elected him each time. So "the powers that be" had to give way, and he was elected Alderman, then Sheriff, and then Lord Mayor of London, and when he died, in 1797, was Chamberlain of London. Mr. Greatrake was born in County Cork, Ireland, about the year 1725, and was a great friend of Lord Sherburn, who afterwards became Prime Minister, in which capacity he had to acknowledge the independence of the United States, and was eventually created Marquis of Lansdowne. Mr. Greatrake was known to have been an inmate of his lordship's house when the letters were being published, and the motto on them was _Stat nominis umbra_--the words which appeared on the tomb of Mr. Greatrake; and his autograph bore a stronger resemblance than any other to that of Junius; so what was a secret in his lifetime was probably revealed in that indirect way after his death. The old church of Hungerford had fallen down, and a new one was built, and opened in the year 1816, the ancient monument of the founder, Sir Robert de Hungerford, being transferred to the new church--though, as usual, in a damaged condition. It dated from 1325, and had been somewhat mutilated in the time of the Civil War. The inscription over it in Norman-French almost amounted to an absolution or remission of sins, for it promised, on the word of fourteen bishops, that whoever should pray for the soul of Sir Robert de Hungerford should have during his life, and for his soul after his death, 550 days of pardon. The list of the vicars of Hungerford showed that most of them for some reason or other--my brother suggested hunger--had served for very short periods, but there was one notable exception--the Rev. William Cookson, son of William Cookson of Tomsett, Norfolk, doctor, who held the living for the long term of forty-eight years (1818-1866). The constables of Hungerford were elected annually, and the extracts from their accounts were very interesting, as references were made to instruments of torture: "Cucking stoole, Pilliry, Stocks, and a Whippinge Post," the last-named having been most extensively used, for the constables had to whip all wandering tramps and vagrants "by stripping them naked from the middle upwards, and causing them to be lashed until their bodies be bloody, in the presence of the Minister of the Parish, or some other inhabitant, and then to send them away to place of birth!" Women were stripped as well as men, and in 1692 the town Serjeant had even to whip a poor blind woman. The whipping of females was stopped by statute in 1791. As Hungerford was on one of the main roads, many people passed through there, and in 1678 the whippings were so numerous that John Savidge, the town Serjeant, was given a special honorarium of five shillings "for his extraordinary paines this year and whippinge of severall persons." Prince William with his Dutch troops halted at Hungerford on December 8th, 1688, on his way from Torbay to London, where, three days afterwards, he was proclaimed King William III. He was armed on his back and breast, and wore a white plume, and rode on a white charger, surrounded by nobles bearing his banner, on which were the words: THE PROTESTANT RELIGION AND THE LIBERTY OF ENGLAND. We were now practically at the end of Berkshire, and perhaps the River Kennett, over which we passed, and on which John o' Gaunt of Lancaster had given free fishery rights to Hungerford town, might have formed the boundary between that county and Wiltshire. We could not hear of any direct road to Stonehenge, so we left Hungerford by the Marlborough road with the intention of passing through Savernake Forest---said to be the finest forest in England, and to contain an avenue of fine beech trees, in the shape of a Gothic archway, five miles long. The forest was about sixteen miles in circumference, and in the centre was a point from which eight roads diverged. We had walked about a mile on our way when we came to some men working on the roads, who knew the country well, and strongly advised us not to cross the forest, but to walk over the downs instead. We decided to follow their advice, for the difficulty that first occurred to us was that when we got to the eight roads there might be no one there to direct us on our further way; and we quite saw the force of the remark of one of the men when he said it was far better to get lost on the down, where we could see for miles, than amongst the bushes and trees in the forest. They could only give us general information about the best way to get to Stonehenge, for it was a long way off, but when we got to the downs we must keep the big hill well to the left, and we should find plenty of roads leading across them. We travelled as directed, and found that the "big hill" was the Inkpen Beacon, over a thousand feet above sea-level, and the highest chalk down cliff in England; while the "plenty of roads" were more in the nature of unfenced tracks; still, we were fortunate in finding one leading in the right direction for Stonehenge and almost straight. The Marlborough Downs which adjoined Salisbury Plain are very extensive, occupying together three-fifths of the county of Wilts, being accurately described as "ranges of undulating chalk cliffs almost devoid of trees, and devoted almost exclusively to the pasturage of sheep from remote ages." These animals, our only companions for miles, can live almost without water, which is naturally very scarce on chalk formations, since the rain when it falls is absorbed almost immediately. Very few shepherds were visible, but there must have been some about, for every now and then their dogs paid us rather more attention than we cared for, especially my brother, who when a small boy had been bitten by one, since which time not much love had been lost between him and dogs. As there were no fences to the roads, we walked on the grass, which was only about an inch deep. Sheep had been pastured on it from time immemorial, and the constant biting of the surface had encouraged the side, or undergrowth, which made our walking easy and pleasant; for it was like walking on a heavy Turkey carpet though much more springy. The absence of trees and bushes enabled us to distinguish the presence of ancient earth-works, but whether they were prehistoric, Roman, Dane, or Saxon we did not know. Occasionally we came to sections of the downs that were being brought under cultivation, the farms appearing very large. In one place we saw four ploughs at work each with three horses, while the farmer was riding about on horseback. We inquired about the wages from one of the farm hands, who told us the men got about 9s. per week, and the women who worked in the fields were paid eightpence per day. Possibly they got some perquisites in addition, as it seemed a very small amount, scarcely sufficient to make both ends meet. We had been walking quickly for more than four hours without encountering a single village, and were becoming famished for want of food; but the farmer's man told us we should come to one where there was a public-house when we reached the River Avon by following the directions he gave us. At Milston, therefore, we called for the refreshments which we so badly needed, and quite astonished our caterers, accustomed even as they were to country appetites, by our gastronomical performances on that occasion. We were very much surprised when we learned that the small but pretty village of Milston, where we were now being entertained, was the birthplace of Joseph Addison, the distinguished essayist and politician, who, with his friend Steele, founded the _Spectator_, and contributed largely to the _Tatler_, and whose tragedy _Cato_ aroused such enthusiasm that it held the boards of Drury Lane for thirty-five nights--a great achievement in his time. As an essayist Addison had no equal in English literature, and to his writings may be attributed all that is sound and healthy in modern English thought. In our long walk we met with him first at Lichfield, where at the Grammar School he received part of his early education, and where, on one occasion, he had barred out the schoolmaster. In the cathedral we saw his father's monument--he was Dean of Lichfield Cathedral--and at Magdalen College, Oxford, where he completed his education, we again encountered remembrances of him--we saw a delightful retreat called after him, "Addison's Walk." On our journey farther south, when we passed through Lostwithiel, we were reminded that he was also a politician, for he represented that place in parliament. His father was Rector of Milston when Joseph was born, in 1672. He was chiefly remembered in our minds, however, for his _Divine Poems_, published in 1728, for we had sung some of these in our early childhood, until we knew them off by heart, and could still recall his beautiful hymn on gratitude beginning: When all Thy mercies, oh my God, My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise. Some of his hymns, which were of more than ordinary merit, were said to have been inspired by his youthful surroundings. Salisbury Plain, with its shepherds and their sheep, must have constantly appeared before him then, as they were immediately before us now, and would no doubt be in his mind when he wrote: The Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye; My noonday walks He shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend. And then there was his magnificent paraphrase of the nineteenth Psalm: The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens--a shining frame-- Their great Original proclaim. Th' unwearied sun from day to day. Doth his Creator's power display. And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The Moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll. And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball; What though no real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing as they shine, "The Hand that made us is divine." After resting a short time and carefully writing down the instructions given us as to how to reach Stonehenge, and the way thence to Amesbury, we resumed our journey; and near the place where we crossed the River Avon we had the first indication of our proximity to Stonehenge by the sight of an enormous stone lying in the bed of the stream, which we were told was like those we should find at Stonehenge. It was said to be one that the Druids could not get across the stream owing to its great size and weight, and so they had to leave it in the river. The country became still more lonely as we walked across Salisbury Plain, and on a dark wet night it might quite come up to the description given of it by Barham in the _Ingoldsby Legends_ in "The Dead Drummer, a Legend of Salisbury Plain," the first verse of which runs: Oh, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare, At least so I've heard many people declare, For I fairly confess I never was there;-- Not a shrub nor a tree, not a bush can you see; No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles, Much less a house, or a cottage for miles;-- It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain When night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain. Cruikshank's illustration of the legend represents a finger-post on the Plain without a bush or a tree or a house being visible, one finger of the post being marked "Lavington" and the other "Devizes." The Dead Drummer is leaning against the post, with two men nervously approaching him in the dark, while a flash of lightning betrays the bare plain and the whole scene to the terrified men. Hannah More, who was born in 1745, wrote a large number of stories chiefly of a religious character, and was said to have earned £30,000 by her writings, amongst them a religious tract bearing the title of "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain." We found he was not a mythical being, for David Saunders, the shepherd referred to, was a real character, noted for his homely wisdom and practical piety, and, as Mrs. More described him, was quite a Christian Hero. He resided at Great Cherwell, near Lavington, where his house was still pointed out to visitors. A typical shepherd of Salisbury Plain was afterwards pictured by another lady, and described as "wearing a long black cloak falling from neck to heels, a round felt hat, like a Hermes cap without the wings to it, and sometimes a blue milk-wort or a yellow hawk-weed in the brim, and walking with his plume-tailed dog in front leading his sheep, as was customary in the East and as described in the Scriptures--"the sheep follow him, for they know his voice." We did not see one answering to that description as we crossed the Plain, but no doubt there were such shepherds to be found. The sky had been overcast that day, and it was gloomy and cloudy when we reached Stonehenge. Without a house or human being in sight, the utter loneliness of the situation seemed to add to our feelings of wonder and awe, as we gazed upon these gigantic stones, the remains of prehistoric ages in England. We had passed through the circles of stones known as the "Standing Stones of Stenness" when we were crossing the mainland of the Orkney Islands on our way to John o' Groat's, but the stones we now saw before us were much larger. There had been two circles of stones at Stonehenge, one inside the other, and there was a stone that was supposed to have been the sacrificial stone, with a narrow channel in it to carry off the blood of the human victims slain by the Druids. In that desolate solitude we could almost imagine we could see the priests as they had been described, robed in white, with oak crowns on their heads, and the egg of a mythical serpent round their necks; we could hear the cries and groans of the victims as they were offered up in sacrifice to the serpent, and to Bel (the sun). Tacitus said they held it right to stain their altars with the blood of prisoners taken in war, and to seek to know the mind of the gods from the fibres of human victims. One very large stone outside the circles was called the "Friar's Heel," the legend stating that when the devil was busy erecting Stonehenge he made the observation to himself that no one would ever know how it had been done. This remark was overheard by a friar who was hiding amongst the stones, and he replied in the Wiltshire dialect, "That's more than thee can tell," at which the devil took up a big stone to throw at him, but he ran away as fast as he could, so that the stone only just grazed his heel, at the place where it now stands. [Illustration: DRUIDICAL REMAINS, STONEHENGE.] We walked about these great stones wondering how they could have been raised upright in those remote times, and how the large stones could have been got into position, laid flat on the tops of the others. Many of the stones had fallen down, and others were leaning over, but when complete they must have looked like a circle of open doorways. The larger stones, we afterwards learned, were Sarsen Stones or Grey Wethers, of a siliceous sandstone, and were natural to the district, but the smaller ones, which were named the blue stones, were quite of a different character, and must have been brought from a considerable distance. If the ancient Welsh story could be believed, the blue stones were brought over in ships from Ireland after an invasion of that country under the direction of Merlin the Wizard, and were supposed to be mystical stones with a medicinal value. As to the time of the erection of these stones, we both agreed to relegate the matter to the mists of antiquity. Some thought that because Vespasian's Camp was on Amesbury Hill, Stonehenge might have been built by the Romans in the time of Agricola, but others, judging perhaps from the ancient tombs in the neighbourhood, thought it might date backwards as far as 2,000 years B.C. Nearly all agreed that it was a temple of the worshippers of the sun and might even have been erected by the Phoenicians, who must have known how the Egyptians raised much heavier stones than these. By some Stonehenge was regarded as the Round Temple to Apollo in the land of the Hyperboreans, mentioned by Hecatoens in the sixth century B.C., and after the Phoenicians it was supposed to have been used by the Greeks, who followed them as traders with the British tin mines. According to this theory, the Inner Ellipse or Horseshoe of Blue Stone was made by them, the Druids adopting it as their temple at a much later date. [Illustration: STONEHENGE.] "Amongst the ruling races of prehistoric times the father sun-god was the god on the grey white horse, the clouds, and it was this white horse--the sun-god of the limestone, flint, and chalk country---which was the god of Stonehenge, the ruins of which describe the complete ritual of this primeval worship. The worshippers of the sun-god who built this Temple must, it was thought, have belonged to the Bronze Age, which theory was supposed to have been confirmed by the number of round barrow tombs in the neighbourhood. It was also noted that the white sun-horse was still worshipped and fed daily at Kobé, in Japan." Stonehenge had been visited by Pepys, who described the stones in his _Diary_ as being "as prodigious as any tales as I had ever heard of them, and worth going this journey to see"; and King Charles II had counted them over several times, but could not bring them twice to the same number, which circumstance probably gave rise to the legend that no two people ever counted the number alike, so of course we did not attempt to count them. But the king's head must have been uneasy at the time he counted them, as it was after the Battle of Worcester, when he was a fugitive, retreating across the country in disguise and hidden by his friends until he could reach the sea-coast of Sussex, and escape by ship from England. One of his hiding-places was Heale House, about four miles from Stonehenge, where the lady of the house had hidden him in what was known as the "Priest's Hole," arrangements having been made for some friends to meet him at Stonehenge, and accompany him a stage farther towards the south. His friends, however, had been delayed a little on their way, so they did not reach Stonehenge at the appointed hour; and Charles whiled away the time by counting and recounting the stones. Cheshire was formerly noted for the great number of landowners of the same name as the parishes in which they resided, such as Leigh of Leigh, Dutton of Dutton, Antrobus of Antrobus. The last-named squire had left Antrobus and gone to reside at Amesbury in Wiltshire, letting his mansion in Cheshire and the land attached to it, as a farm, to a tenant named Wright. This Mr. Wright was an uncle of ours, whom we had often visited at Antrobus. The elder of his two sons, who followed him as tenant of the farm, told us a story connected with the old Hall there. He and his brother when they were boys slept in the same bed, and one morning they were having a pushing match, each trying, back to back, to push the other out of bed. He was getting the worst of the encounter when he resolved to make one more great effort, and placed his feet against the wall which was near his side of the bed; but instead of pushing his brother out, he and his brother together pushed part of the wall out, and immediately he found himself sitting on a beam with his legs hanging outside over the moat or garden, having narrowly escaped following the panel. The stability of these old timber-built halls, which were so common in Cheshire, depended upon the strong beams with which they were built, the panels being only filled in with light material such as osiers plastered over with mud; and it was one of these that had been pushed out. The old mansion was shortly afterwards taken down and replaced by an ordinary red-brick building. We had often wondered what sort of a place Amesbury was, where the Squire of Antrobus had gone to reside, and had decided to go there, although it was rather out of our way for Salisbury, our next stage. We found that Stonehenge was included in his estate as well as Amesbury Abbey, where he lived, and Vespasian's Hill. When we came in sight of the abbey, we were quite surprised to find it so large and fine a mansion, without any visible trace of the ancient abbey which once existed there, and we considered that the lines of Sir Edmund Antrobus, Bart., had fallen in pleasant places when he removed here from the damper atmosphere of Cheshire, and that he had adopted the wisest course as far as health was concerned. We had thought of calling at the abbey, but as it was forty-nine years since he had left our neighbourhood and he had died in the year 1830, we could not muster up sufficient courage to do so. We might too have seen a fine portrait of the old gentleman, which we heard was hanging up in one of the rooms in the abbey, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, a friend of George IV, and President of the Royal Academy, who had also painted the portraits of most of the sovereigns of Europe reigning in his time, and who died in the same year as Sir Edmund. Amesbury Abbey formerly belonged to the Duke of Queensberry, who made great additions to it from the plans of the celebrated architect Inigo Jones, who designed the famous Banqueting Hall at Whitehall in London and the fine gateway of St. Mary's, Oxford. He was known as "the English Palladio" because he adopted the style of Andrea Palladio, a celebrated Italian architect of the sixteenth century. He was responsible for the two Palladian pillars attached to the quaint and pretty entrance gates to the Abbey Park, and for the lovely Palladian bridge that spanned the River Avon, which flowed through the grounds, forming a favourite resort for wild ducks, kingfishers, herons, and other birds. Inigo Jones was a staunch Royalist, who suffered severely during the Civil War, and died in 1652. The park was not a very large one, but was very pretty, and contained the famous Amesbury Hill, which was covered with fine trees on the slope towards the river; some of which had been arranged in the form of a diamond, partly concealing a cave now known as the Diamond Cave, but formerly belonging to the Druids, as all the sunrises would be visible before the intervening trees were planted. This cave was the favourite resort of John Gay, the poet, who loved to write there. He was a great friend of the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, who then owned the Amesbury estate, was the author of the _Beggar's Opera_, published in 1727, and lies buried in Westminster Abbey. [Illustration: THE CAVE IN THE DIAMOND.] The church had been heavily restored in 1853, and one of its former vicars had been a famous man in his day according to the following account from the _Gentleman's Magazine_, 1789. INVENTOR OF THE WATER PUMP Until the year 1853, a slab before the Communion Table in Amesbury Church bore the following inscription In memory of the Revd. Thomas Holland, who was for half a century Minister of this Parish, a small living yet he never solicited for a greater nor improved to his own advantage his marvellous talents in applying the powers of nature to the useful purposes of life, the most curious and complete engine which the world now enjoys _for raising water_ being invented by him. He departed the 11th day of May in the year of our Lord 1730, Aged 84 years. During his term of office the register was kept in a very careful manner and excellent handwriting, a contrast to later efforts by his successors. [Illustration: OLD SARUM: THE MAIN GATE OF THE CASTLE FROM WITHIN.] The evening was now coming on, and we had yet to walk eight miles into Salisbury by what was called the "Upper Road," which crossed a tract of bleak and rather uninteresting downs; but the road was well defined and the daylight, such as it was, remained with us longer than if we had gone by the more picturesque road along the tree-lined banks of the River Avon. Amesbury was but a small place, and the only industry that we could hear of that ever existed there was the manufacture of tobacco pipes branded with a gauntlet, the name of the maker. We had a lonely walk, and about two miles from Salisbury saw to the right the outline of a small hill which turned out to be Old Sarum, a name that figured on the mileposts for many miles round Salisbury, being the ancient and Roman name for that city. Old cities tend to be on hills, for defence, but modern equivalents occur in the valley below, representative of peace conditions and easy travelling for commercial purposes. It was now, however, only a lofty grass mound, conical in shape and about a hundred feet high. It was of great antiquity, for round about it stood at one time one of the most important cities in the south of England, after the prehistoric age the Sorbiodunum of the Romans, and the Sarisberie of the Domesday Book. Cynric captured it by a victory over the Britons in 552, and in 960 Edgar held a Council there. Sweyn and the Danes pillaged and burnt it in 1003, and afterwards Editha, the Queen of Edward the Confessor, established a convent of nuns there. It was made an Episcopal See in 1072, and twenty years afterwards Bishop Osmond, a kinsman of William the Conqueror, completed the building of the cathedral. It was in 1076 that William, as the closing act of his Conquest, reviewed his victorious army in the plain below; and in 1086, a year before his death, he assembled there all the chief landowners in the realm to swear that "whose men soever they were they would be faithful to him against all other men," by which "England was ever afterwards an individual kingdom." In course of time the population increased to such an extent round the old mound that they were short of room, and the soldiers and the priests began to quarrel, or, as an old writer described it, "the souldiers of the Castell and chanons of Old Sarum fell at odds, inasmuch that often after brawles they fell at last to sadde blowes and the Cleargie feared any more to gang their boundes. Hereupon the people missing their belly-chere, for they were wont to have banketing at every station, a thing practised by the religious in old tyme, they conceived forthwith a deadly hatred against the Castellans." The quarrel ended in the removal of the cathedral to the plain below, where Salisbury now stands, and the glory of Old Sarum departed. As far back as the time of Henry VIII the place became utterly desolate, and it was interesting to read what visitors in after times had written about it. [Illustration: OLD SARUM: BASE OF THE LOOK-OUT TOWER.] John Leland, who was born in 1506 and was chaplain to Henry VIII, made a tour of the kingdom, and wrote in his well-known _Itinerary_, "Their is not one house, neither within or without Old Saresbyri inhabited. Much notable minus building of the Castell yet remayneth. The diche that envirined the old town was a very deepe and strong thynge." Samuel Pepys, who was born in 1632, and who was secretary to the Admiralty during the reigns of Charles II and James II, describes in his famous _Diary_ many interesting incidents in the life of that period. He wrote of Old Sarum: "I saw a great fortification and there light, and to it and in it, and find it so prodigious as to frighten one to be in it at all alone at that time of night." It would probably be at an earlier hour of a lighter night when Mr. Pepys visited it, than when we passed it on this occasion, for the hill now was enveloped in black darkness "deserted and drear," and we should scarcely have been able to find the entrance "to it and in it," and, moreover, we might not have been able to get out again, for since his time an underground passage had been opened, and who knows what or who might have been lurking there! Dr. Adam Clark visited Old Sarum in 1806, and wrote: "We found here the remains of a very ancient city and fortress, surrounded by a deep trench, which still bears a most noble appearance. On the top of the hill the castle or citadel stood, and several remains of a very thick wall built all of flint stone, cemented together with a kind of everlasting mortar. What is remarkable is that these ruins are still considered in the British constitution as an inhabited city, and send two members to Parliament. Within the breadth of a field from this noble hill there is a small public-house, the only dwelling within a very great space, and containing a very few persons, who, excepting the crows, hens, and magpies, are the only beings which the worthy members have to represent in the British Senate." We were glad when we reached Salisbury and found a comfortable refuge for the night in one of the old inns in the town. It was astonishing how cosy the low rooms in these old-fashioned inns appeared, now that the "back end" of the year was upon us and the nights becoming longer, darker, and colder. The blazing fire, the ingle nook, the pleasant company, such as it was, the great interest taken in our long walk--for people knew what heavy walking meant in those days--all tended to make us feel comfortable and at home. True, we did not care much for the dialect in these southern counties, and should much have preferred "a bit o' gradely Lankyshur," so as a rule we listened rather than joined in the conversation; but we were greatly interested in the story of the Wiltshire Moonrakers, which, as we were strangers, was apparently given for our benefit by one of the older members of the rather jovial company. It carried us back to the time when smuggling was prevalent, and an occasion when the landlord of a country inn near the sea-coast sent two men with a pony and trap to bring back from the smugglers' den two kegs of brandy, on which, of course, duty had not been paid, with strict orders to keep a sharp look-out on their return for the exciseman, who must be avoided at all costs. The road on the return journey was lonely, for most people had gone to bed, but as the moon was full and shining brightly, all went well until the pony suddenly took fright at a shadow on the road, and bolted. The men, taken by surprise, lost control of the reins, which fell down on the pony and made matters worse, for he fairly flew along the road until he reached a point where it turned over a canal bridge. Here the trap came in contact with the battlement of the bridge, causing the pony to fall down, and the two men fell on top of him. Fortunately this saved them from being seriously injured, but the pony was bruised, and one of the shafts of the trap broken, while the kegs rolled down the embankment into the canal. With some difficulty they managed to get the pony and broken trap into a farm building near the bridge, but when they went to look for the kegs they saw them floating in the middle of the canal where they could not reach them. They went back to the farm building, and found two hay-rakes, and were just trying to reach the kegs, the tops of which they could plainly see in the light of the full moon, when a horseman rode up, whom, to their horror, they recognised as the exciseman himself. When he asked "What's the matter?" the men pretended to be drunk, and one of them said in a tipsy tone of voice, "Can't you see, guv'nor? We're trying to get that cheese out o' th' water!" The exciseman couldn't see any cheese, but he could see the image of the full moon on the surface of the canal, and, bursting into a roar of laughter at the silliness of the men, he rode off on his way home. But it was now the rustics' turn to laugh as they hauled the kegs out of the canal and carried them away in triumph on their shoulders. The gentleman who told the story fairly "brought down the house" when he added, "So you see, gentlemen, they were not so silly after all." [Illustration: HIGH STREET GATE, SALISBURY.] One of the company asked my brother if he had heard that story before, and when he said "No, but I have heard one something like it in Yorkshire," he at once stood up and called for "Silence," announcing that there was a gentleman present who could tell a story about the Yorkshire Moonrakers. My brother was rather taken aback, but he could always rise to the occasion when necessary, so he began in his usual manner. "Once upon a time" there were two men living in a village in Yorkshire, who went out one day to work in the fields amongst the hay, taking their rakes with them. They were good workers, but as the day turned out to be rather hot they paid too much attention to the large bottle of beer in the harvest field, with the consequence that before night came on the bottle was empty; so they went to the inn, and stayed there drinking until it was nearly "closing time." By that time they were quite merry, and decided to go home by the nearest way, leading along the towing-path of one of the canals, which in the north are wider and deeper than those farther south. As it was almost as light as day, the moon being at its full, they got along all right until one of them suddenly startled his mate by telling him that the moon had fallen into the canal! They both stood still for a moment, thinking what an awful thing had happened, but there seemed to be no doubt about it, whatever, for there was the moon lying in the middle of the canal. It would never do to leave it there, but what could they do to get it out? Their first thought was the rakes they were carrying home on their shoulders, and they decided to rake the moon to the side of the canal, where they would reach it with their hands. They set to work--but although their rakes were of the largest size, and their arms long and strong, the canal was too wide to enable them to reach the moon. They were, however, agreed that they must get it out some way or other, for it would be a pity if it got drowned. At last they decided that they would both get into the canal, and fetch the moon out themselves. They pulled off their coats, therefore, and, laying them on the path, got into the water, only to find it much deeper than they had expected; their feet sank into the mud at the bottom, and the water came nearly up to their necks at once, and as it was deeper towards the middle, they found it impossible to carry out their task. But the worst feature was that neither of the men could swim, and, being too deeply immersed in the water to reach high enough on the canal bank to pull themselves out again, they were in great danger of drowning. Fortunately, however, a boat was coming along the canal, and when the man who was driving the horses attached to the boat heard their cries, he ran forward, and, stopping where he found the coats on the towing-path, was horrified to see the two men holding on to the stones that lined the canal. They were fast losing consciousness, but with the assistance of the other men on the boat he got them out on the bank, and when they had recovered a little, assisted them home, for they both had drunk too much beer. The incident created a great sensation at the time, but as "all's well that ends well," it was afterwards looked upon as a great joke--though the two men were ever afterwards known as the Moonrakers, a nickname that was eventually applied to all the inhabitants of that village. The story was well received, but not quite so loudly applauded as that which preceded it, until one gentleman in the company rose and asked my brother if he could name the village in Yorkshire where the incident occurred. "Certainly, sir," he replied; "the place was called Sloyit." "Sloyit! Sloyit!" murmured the gentleman; and then he said, "How do you spell it?" and, taking out his notebook and adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles, he prepared to record the name of the place as my brother gave out each letter. And then followed one of the most extraordinary scenes we had witnessed on our journey, for just at that moment some one in the rear made a witty remark which apparently was aimed at the searcher after knowledge, who was now on his feet, and which caused general laughter amongst those who heard it. The gentleman was evidently a man of some importance in the city, and his notebook was apparently known to the company almost as well as himself, but perhaps not looked upon as favourably, for its production under the present circumstances seemed to have caused this unwonted amusement. [Illustration: ST. ANN'S GATE, SALISBURY.] My brother could not proceed until he could make himself heard, and it was difficult to restore order at that late hour of the evening; but when the laughter had subsided, he called to the gentleman in a loud voice, "Are you ready, sir?" and when he said "I am, sir!" he proceeded to call out each letter slowly and distinctly, so that all the company could hear, the gentleman as he entered them in his book repeating the letters in a minor key which sounded exactly like the echo. "S," shouted my brother, "s," echoed the gentleman; "L," said my brother, "L" softly responded the gentleman slowly; and then followed A, a letter which the gentleman did not expect, as he said, "Did you say 'A,' sir?" "I did, sir," he replied, repeating the letter, which was repeated doubtfully as the listener entered it in his book. The next letters were "I" and "T," which were followed by the letter "H." These were inserted without comment, beyond the usual repetition in a subdued tone, but when my brother followed with "W," it became evident that the gentleman thought that there was "something wrong somewhere," and that he had a strong suspicion that he was being led astray. When my brother assured him it was quite correct, he rather reluctantly entered it in his book; but now there was a slight pause, as the space originally allotted for the name had been fully occupied, and the remainder of the word had to be continued on another page, much to the annoyance of the writer. The company had by this time become greatly interested in the proceedings; but the fact was that the name of the place was not sounded as it was spelled, and it was amusing to watch the expressions on their faces as my brother proceeded to call out the remainder of the letters. I could see they were enjoying the discomfiture of the old gentleman, and that a suspicion was gaining ground that all the other letters of the alphabet might yet be included! When the gentleman had selected the corner in his note-book to record the remaining letters, and my brother began with the letter "A," he remonstrated that he had given him that letter previously, and a strong assurance from my brother was necessary in order to ensure the entry of the letter in the notebook; but when it was followed by "I" and "T" and including the "A" in exactly the same order as he had recorded them before, his patience was quite exhausted, and his previous suspicions confirmed that he was being hoaxed. The remainder of the party amidst their hardly suppressed laughter insisted upon their being entered, and when my brother called out the final letter "E," and repeated the whole of the letters SLAITHWAITE and pronounced the word "Slawit" or "Sloyt," the hitherto suppressed amusement burst in a perfect roar of laughter, the company evidently thinking that the gentleman who had asked the question had got his answer! Taking advantage of the general hilarity, we quietly and quickly retreated to another and less noisy room upstairs, for the night. (_Distance walked twenty-eight and a half miles_.) _Wednesday, November 8th._ It must have been a great work to remove the City of Old Sarum and to rebuild it in another position a mile or two away from its ancient site. The removal began in 1219, and was continued during about 120 years; Royal consent had to be obtained, as well as that of the Pope, Honorius III. The reason then given for its removal was that Old Sarum was too much exposed to the weather, and that there was also a scarcity of water there--in fact "too much wind and too little water." There was some difficulty in deciding the position on which the new cathedral should be built, but this was solved by the Bishop shooting an arrow from the top of the Castle of Old Sarum; wherever the arrow alighted the new cathedral was to be built. The arrow fell very conveniently in the meadows where four rivers ran--the Avon, Bourne, Nadder, and Wylye--and amongst these the magnificent cathedral of Salisbury was built. The rivers, which added to the picturesque beauty of the place, were fed by open canals which ran through the main streets of the city, causing Salisbury to be named at that time the "English Venice." Nearly every King and Queen of England, from the time of Henry III, who granted its first Charter in 1227, had visited Salisbury, and over twenty of their portraits hung in the Council Chamber. Two Parliaments were held in Salisbury, one in 1328 and another in 1384; and it was in the market-place there, that Buckingham had his head cut off in 1483 by order of his kinsman, Richard III, for promoting an insurrection in the West of England. Henry VIII visited the city on two occasions, once with Catherine of Aragon, and again with Anna Boleyn. James I too came to Salisbury in 1611, and Charles II with his queen in 1665--on both these occasions to escape the plagues then raging in London. Sir Walter Raleigh was in the city in 1618, writing his _Apology for the Voyage to Guiana_, before his last sad visit to London, where he was beheaded. James II passed through the town in 1688 to oppose the landing of William of Orange, but, hearing he had already landed at Torbay, he returned to London, and William arrived here ten days later, occupying the same apartments at the palace. But the chief object of interest in Salisbury was the fine cathedral, with its magnificent Decorated Spire, the highest and finest in England, and perhaps one of the finest in Europe, for it is 404 feet high, forty feet higher, we were informed, than the cross on the top of St. Paul's Cathedral in London. This information rather staggered my brother, for he had an exalted opinion of the height of St. Paul's, which he had visited when he went to the Great Exhibition in London in 1862. On that occasion he had ascended the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral from the inside by means of the rickety stairs and ladders provided for that purpose, and had reached the golden ball which supported the cross on the top, when he found it already occupied by two gentlemen smoking cigars, who had arrived there before him, and who kindly assisted him into the ball, which, although it only appeared about the size of a football when seen from the city below, was big enough to hold four men. They also very kindly offered him a cigar, which he was obliged to decline with thanks, for he did not smoke; but when they told him they came from Scotland, he was not surprised to find them there, as Scotsmen even in those days were proverbial for working their way to the top not only of the cathedrals, but almost everywhere else besides. The "brither Scots" were working to a previously arranged programme, the present item being to smoke a cigar in the golden ball on the top of St. Paul's Cathedral. When my brother began the descent, he experienced one of the most horrible sensations of his life, for hundreds of feet below him he could see the floor of the cathedral with apparently nothing whatever in the way to break a fall; so that a single false step might have landed him in eternity, for if he had fallen he must have been dashed into atoms on the floor so far below. The gentlemen saw he was nervous, and advised him as he descended the ladder backwards not to look down into the abyss below, but to keep his eyes fixed above, and following this excellent advice, he got down safely. He always looked back on that adventure in the light of a most horrible nightmare and with justification, for in later years the Cathedral authorities made the Whispering Gallery the highest point to which visitors were allowed to ascend. We did not of course attempt to climb the Salisbury spire, although there were quite a number of staircases inside the cathedral, and after climbing these, adventurous visitors might ascend by ladders through the timber framework to a door near the top; from that point, however, the cross and the vane could only be reached by steeple-jacks. Like other lofty spires, that of Salisbury had been a source of anxiety and expense from time to time, but the timber used in the building of it had been allowed to remain inside, which had so strengthened it that it was then only a few inches out of the perpendicular. When a new vane was put on in 1762 a small box was discovered in the ball to which the vane was fixed. This box was made of wood, but inside it was another box made of lead, and enclosed in that was found a piece of very old silk--a relic, it was supposed, of the robe of the Virgin Mary, to whom the cathedral was dedicated, and placed there to guard the spire from danger. The casket was carefully resealed and placed in its former position under the ball. A very large number of tombs stood in the cathedral, including many of former bishops, and we were surprised to find them in such good condition, for they did not appear to have suffered materially in the Civil War. The very oldest were those that had been removed from Old Sarum, but the finest tomb was that of Bishop Giles de Bridport, the Bishop when the new cathedral was completed and consecrated. He died in 1262, and eight carvings on the stone spandrel above him represented the same number of scenes in his career, beginning with his birth and ending with the ascent of his soul into heaven. The figure of a boy in full episcopal robes, found under the seating of the choir in 1680, and named the "Boy Bishop," was an object of special interest, but whether it was a miniature of one of the bishops or intended to represent a "choral bishop," formerly elected annually by the choir, was unknown. There were also tombs and effigies to the first and second Earls of Salisbury, the first, who died in 1226, being the son of Henry II and Fair Rosamond, of whom we had heard at Woodstock. He was represented in chain armour, on which some of the beautiful ornaments in gold and colour still remained. His son, the second Earl, who went twice to the Holy Land as a Crusader under St. Louis, was also represented in chain armour and cross-legged. Near this was the tomb of Sir John Cheney, a man of extraordinary size and strength, his thigh-bone measuring 21 inches, whose great armour we had seen in Sir Walter Scott's house at Abbotsford. He was bodyguard to Henry of Richmond at the Battle of Bosworth Field, near which we passed at Atherstone. Sir William Brandon was Richmond's standard-bearer, and was cut down by King Richard himself, who tore his standard from him and, flinging it aside, rode at Sir John Cheney and hurled him from his horse just before he met his own fate. [Illustration: SALISBURY CATHEDRAL. "The fine Cathedral, with its magnificent Decorated spire, the highest and finest in England--perhaps the finest in Europe, for it is forty feet higher than the Dome of St. Paul's in London."] There are a large number of pillars and windows in Salisbury Cathedral, but as we had no time to stay and count them, we accepted the numbers given by the local poet as being correct, when he wrote: As many days as in one year there be, So many windows in this Church we see; As many marble pillars here appear As there are hours throughout the fleeting year; (8760) As many gates as moons one year does view. Strange tale to tell; yet not more strange than true. The Cathedral Close at Salisbury was the finest we had seen both for extent and beauty, the half-mile area of grass and the fine trees giving an inexpressible charm both to the cathedral and its immediate surroundings. The great advantage of this wide open space to us was that we could obtain a magnificent view of the whole cathedral. We had passed many fine cathedrals and other buildings on our walk whose proportions were hidden by the dingy property which closely surrounded them, but Salisbury was quite an exception. True, there were houses in and around the close, but these stood at a respectful distance from the cathedral, and as they had formerly been the town houses of the aristocracy, they contained fine old staircases and panelled rooms with decorated ceilings, which with their beautiful and artistic wrought-iron gates were all well worth seeing. The close was surrounded by battlemented stone walls on three sides and by the River Avon on the fourth, permission having been granted in 1327 by Edward III for the stones from Old Sarum to be used for building the walls of the close at Salisbury; hence numbers of carved Norman stones, fragments of the old cathedral there, could be seen embedded in the masonry. Several gate-houses led into the close, the gates in them being locked regularly every night in accordance with ancient custom. In a niche over one of these, known as the High Street Gate, there was a statue which originally represented James I, but when he died it was made to do duty for Charles I by taking off the head of James and substituting that of Charles, his successor to the throne, with the odd result that the body of James carried the head of Charles! There were many old buildings in the city, but we had not time to explore them thoroughly. Still there was one known as the Poultry Cross nobody could fail to see whether walking or driving through Salisbury. Although by no means a large erection, it formed one of the most striking objects in the city, and a more beautiful piece of Gothic architecture it would be difficult to imagine. It was formerly called the Yarn Market, and was said to have been erected about the year 1378 by Sir Lawrence de St. Martin as a penance for some breach of ecclesiastical law. It consisted of six arches forming an open hexagon, supported by six columns on heavy foundations, with a central pillar square at the bottom and six-sided at the top--the whole highly ornamented and finished off with an elaborate turret surmounted by a cross. It was mentioned in a deed dated November 2nd, 1335, and formed a feature of great archaeological interest. [Illustration: POULTRY CROSS, SALISBURY.] The old portion of St. Nicholas' was in existence in 1227, and in the Chorister's Square was a school established and endowed as far back as the year 1314, to support fourteen choristers and a master to teach them. Their costumes must have been rather picturesque, for they were ordered to be dressed in knee-breeches and claret-coloured coats, with frills at the neck instead of collars. Quite a number of ancient inns in Salisbury were connected with the old city life, Buckingham being beheaded in the yard of the "Blue Boar Inn" in the market-place, where a new scaffold was provided for the occasion. In 1838 a headless skeleton, believed to be that of Buckingham, was dug out from below the kitchen floor of the inn. The "King's Arms" was another of the old posting-houses where, when King Charles was hiding on Salisbury Plain in the time of the Civil War, after the Battle of Worcester, a meeting was held under the guidance of Lord Wilmot, at which plans were made to charter a vessel for the conveyance of the King from Southampton to some place on the Continent. Here we saw a curiosity in the shape of a large window on the first floor, from which travellers formerly stepped on and off the top of the stage-coaches, probably because the archway into the yard was too low for the outside passengers to pass under safely. There was also the "Queen's Arms," with its quaint porch in the shape of a shell over the doorway, and the "Haunch of Venison," and others; but in the time of the Commonwealth we might have indulged in the luxury of staying at the Bishop's Palace, for it was sold at that time, and used as an inn. It must have had rough visitors, for when the ecclesiastical authorities regained possession it was in a very dilapidated condition. One of the oldest coaching-houses in Salisbury in former years was the "George Inn," mentioned in the city records as far back as the year 1406; but the licence had lapsed, and the building was now being used for other purposes. Its quaint elevation, with its old-fashioned bow-windows, was delightful to see, and in the year 1623 it was declared that "all Players from henceforth shall make their plays at the George Inn." This inn seemed to have been a grand place, for Pepys, who stayed there in 1668, wrote in his _Diary_ in his quaint, abrupt, and abbreviated way: "Came to the George Inne, where lay in a silk bed and very good diet"; but when the bill was handed to him for payment, he was "mad" at the charges. We left Salisbury with regret, and with the thought that we had not seen all that we ought to have seen, but with an inward resolve to pay the ancient city another visit in the future. Walking briskly along the valley of the river Nadder, and taking advantage of a field road, we reached the village of Bemerton. Here George Herbert, "the most devotional of the English poets," was rector from 1630 to 1632, having been presented to the living by Charles I. Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle, near the Shropshire border, and came of a noble family, being a brother of the statesman and writer Lord Herbert of Chirbury, one of the Shropshire Herberts. He restored the parsonage at Bemerton, but did not live long to enjoy it. He seems to have had a presentiment that some one else would have the benefit of it, as he caused the following lines to be engraved above the chimneypiece in the hall, giving good advice to the rector who was to follow him: If thou chance for to find A new house to thy mind, And built without thy cost. Be good to the poor As God gives thee store And then my labour's not lost. It was here that he composed most of his hymns, and here he died at what his friend Izaak Walton described in 1632 as "the good and more pleasant than healthful parsonage." A tablet inscribed "G.H. 1633" was all that marked the resting-place of "the sweetest singer that ever sang God's praise." Bemerton, we thought, was a lovely little village, and there was a fig-tree and a medlar-tree in the rectory garden, which Herbert himself was said to have planted with his own hands. Here we record one of his hymns: Let all the world in every corner sing My God and King! The Heavens are not too high. His praises may thither fly; The earth is not too low, His praises there may grow. Let all the world in every corner sing My God and King! Let all the world in every corner sing My God and King! The Church with psalms must shout, No door can keep them out; But above all the heart Must bear the longest part. Let all the world in every corner sing My God and King! The old church of Chirbury belonged to the Herberts, and was noted for its heavy circular pillars supporting the roof, which, with the walls, were so much bent outwards that they gave one the impression that they would fall over; but nearly all the walls in old churches bend that way more or less, a fact which we always attributed to the weight of the heavy roof pressing on them. At one village on our travels, however, we noticed, hanging on one of the pillars in the church, a printed tablet, which cleared up the mystery by informing us that the walls and pillars were built in that way originally to remind us that "Jesus on the cross His head inclined"; and we noticed that even the porches at the entrance to ancient churches were built in the same way, each side leaning outwards. A great treat was in store for us this morning, for we had to pass through Wilton, with its fine park surrounding Wilton House, the magnificent seat of the Herberts, Earls of Pembroke and Montgomery. Our first impression was that Wilton was one of the pleasantest places we had visited. Wiltshire took its name from the river Wylye, which here joins the Nadder, so that Wilton had been an important place in ancient times, being the third oldest borough in England. Egbert, the Wessex King, had his palace here, and in the great contest with Mercia defeated Beornwulf in 821 at Ellendune. A religious house existed here in very early times. In the reign of Edward I it was recorded that Osborn de Giffard, a relative of the abbess, carried off two of the nuns, and was sentenced for that offence to be stripped naked and to be whipped in the churches of Wilton and Shaftesbury, and as an additional punishment to serve three years in Palestine. In the time of Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn wished to give the post of abbess to a friend, but King Henry had scruples on the subject, for the proposed abbess had a somewhat shady reputation; he wrote, "I would not for all the gold in the world clog your conscience nor mine to make her a ruler of a house, which is of so ungodly a demeanour, nor I trust you would not that neither for brother nor sister I should so bestain mine honour or conscience." This we thought to be rather good for such a stern moralist as Henry VIII, but perhaps in his younger days he was a better man than we had been taught to believe. Wilton suffered along with Old Sarum, as the loss of a road was a serious matter in those days, and Bishop Bingham, who appeared to have been a crafty man, and not at all favourable to the Castellans at Old Sarum, built a bridge over the river in 1244, diverting the main road of Icknield Way so as to make it pass through Salisbury. As Leland wrote, "The changing of this way was the total cause of the ruine of Old Saresbyri and Wiltown, for afore Wiltown had 12 paroche churches or more, and was the head of Wilesher." The town of Wilton was very pleasant and old-fashioned. The chief industry was carpet-making, which originally had been introduced there by French and Flemish weavers driven by persecution from their own country. When we passed through the town the carpet industry was very quiet, but afterwards, besides Wilton carpets, "Axminster" and "Brussels" carpets were manufactured there, water and wool, the essentials, being very plentiful. Its fairs for sheep, horses, and cattle, too, were famous, as many as 100,000 sheep having been known to change owners at one fair. [Illustration: WILTON HOUSE FROM THE RIVER.] We were quite astonished when we saw the magnificent church, on a terrace facing our road and approached by a very wide flight of steps. It was quite modern, having been built in 1844 by Lord Herbert of Lea, and had three porches, the central one being magnificently ornamented, the pillars resting on lions sculptured in stone. The tower, quite a hundred feet high, stood away from the church, but was connected with it by a fine cloister with double columns finely worked. The interior of the church was really magnificent, and must have cost an immense sum of money. It had a marble floor and some beautiful stained-glass windows; the pulpit being of Caen stone, supported by columns of black marble enriched with mosaic, which had once formed part of a thirteenth-century shrine at Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome, some of the stained glass also belonging to the same period. The great House of Wilton, the seat of the Herberts, had been built in a delightful situation on the site of the old monastery, amidst beautiful gardens and grounds. It was a veritable treasure-house for pictures by the most famous painters, containing a special gallery filled almost exclusively with portraits of the family and others painted by Vandyck. The collection included a good portrait of Prince Rupert,[Footnote: See page 303.] who gave the army of the Parliament such a lively time in the Civil War, and who is said, in spite of his recklessness, to have been one of the best cavalry officers in Europe. Queen Elizabeth stayed three days there in 1573, and described her visit as "both merrie and pleasante." During this visit she presented Sir Philip Sidney, the author of _Arcadia_, with a "locke of her owne hair," which many years afterwards was found in a copy of that book in the library, and attached to it a very indifferent verse in the Queen's handwriting. Charles I, it was said, visited Wilton every summer, and portraits of himself, Henrietta Maria and their children, and some of their Court beauties, were also in the Vandyck gallery. Wilton Park attracted our attention above all, as the rivers Wylye and Nadder combined to enhance its beauty, and to feed the ornamental lake in front of the Hall. There were some fine cedar trees in the park, and as we had often seen trees of this kind in other grounds through which we had passed, we concluded they dated from the time of the Crusades, and that the crusaders had brought small plants back with them, of which these trees were the result. We were informed, however, that the cedar trees at Wilton had only been planted in the year 1640 by the Earl of Devonshire, who had sent men to collect them at Lebanon in the Holy Land. Thus we were compelled to change our opinion, for the trees we had seen elsewhere were of about the same girth as those at Wilton, and must therefore have been planted at about the same period. The oak trees in the park still retained many of their leaves, although it was now late in the autumn, but they were falling off, and we tried to catch some of them as they fell, though we were not altogether successful. My brother reminded me of a verse he once wrote as an exercise in calligraphy when at school: Men are like leaves that on the trees do grow, In Summer's prosperous time much love they show, But art thou in adversity, then they Like leaves from trees in Autumn fall away. But after autumn and winter have done their worst there are still some bushes, plants, or trees that retain their leaves to cheer the traveller on his way. Buckingham, who was beheaded at Salisbury, was at one time a fugitive, and hid himself in a hole near the top of a precipitous rock, now covered over with bushes and known only to the initiated as "Buckingham's Cave." My brother was travelling one winter's day in search of this cave, and passed for miles through a wood chiefly composed of oak trees that were then leafless. The only foliage that arrested his attention was that of the ivy, holly, and yew, and these evergreens looked so beautiful that he occasionally stopped to admire them without exactly knowing the reason why; after leaving the great wood he reached a secluded village far away from what was called civilisation, where he inquired the way to "Buckingham's Cave" from a man who turned out to be the village wheelwright. In the course of conversation the man informed him that he occasionally wrote poetry for a local newspaper with a large circulation in that and the adjoining counties. He complained strongly that the editor of the paper had omitted one verse from the last poem he had sent up; which did not surprise my brother, who inwardly considered he might safely have omitted the remainder. But when the wheelwright showed him the poem he was so pleased that he asked permission to copy the verses. The fairest flower that ever bloomed With those of bright array In Seasons' changeful course is doomed To fade and die away; While yonder's something to be seen-- It is the lovely evergreen! The pretty flowers in summer-time Bring beauty to our land, And lovely are the forest trees-- In verdure green they stand; But while we gaze upon the scene We scarcely see the evergreen! But lo! the wintry blast comes on, And quickly falls the snow; And where are all the beauties gone That bloom'd a while ago? While yonder stands through winter keen The lovely-looking evergreen! Our lives are like a fading flower, And soon they pass away, And earthly joys may last an hour To disappear at close of day; But Saints in Heaven abide serene And lasting, like the evergreen! My brother felt that here he had found one of nature's poets, and no longer wondered why he had admired the evergreen trees and bushes when he came through the forest. [Illustration: COL. JOHN PENRUDDOCKE.] In about two miles after leaving Wilton we parted company with the River Nadder, and walked along the road which passes over the downs to Shaftesbury. On our way we came in sight of the village of Compton Chamberlain, and of Compton House and park, which had been for centuries the seat of the Penruddocke family. It was Colonel John Penruddocke who led the famous "forlorn hope" in the time of the Commonwealth in 1655. He and another champion, with 200 followers, rode into Salisbury, where, overcoming the guards, they released the prisoners from the gaol, and seizing the two judges of assize proclaimed Charles II King, just as Booth did in Cheshire. The people of the city did not rise, as they anticipated, so Penruddocke and his companions dispersed and rode away to different parts of the country; eventually they were all taken prisoners and placed in the Tower of London. Penruddocke was examined personally by Cromwell at Whitehall, and it was thought for a time that he might be pardoned, but ultimately he was sent to the scaffold. He compared the steps leading up to the scaffold to Jacob's ladder, the feet on earth but the top reaching to heaven; and taking off his doublet he said, "I am putting off these old rags of mine to be clad with the new robes of the righteousness of Jesus Christ." The farewell letters between him and his wife were full of tenderness and love, and what he had done was doubtless under the inspiration of strong religious convictions. It was said that it was his insurrection that led to the division of the country into military districts, which have continued ever since. The lace cap he wore on the scaffold, blood-stained and showing the marks of the axe, was still preserved, as well as his sword, and the beautiful letters that passed between him and his wife, and the Colonel's portrait was still to be seen at the mansion. About a mile before reaching Shaftesbury we left Wiltshire and entered the county of Dorset, of which Shaftesbury was said to be the most interesting town from an antiquarian point of view. Here the downs terminate abruptly, leaving the town standing 700 feet above the sea level on the extreme point, with precipices on three sides. Across the far-famed Blackmoor Vale we could quite easily see Stourton Tower, standing on the top of Kingsettle Hill, although it was twelve miles distant. The tower marked the spot where, in 879, King Alfred raised his standard against the Danes, and was built in 1766, the inscription on it reading: Alfred the Great A.D. 879 on this summit erected his standard against Danish invaders. To him we owe the origin of Juries, the establishment of a Militia, the creation of a Naval Force. Alfred, the light of a benighted age, was a Philosopher, and a Christian, the father of his people, the founder of the English monarchy and liberty. In the gardens near that tower the three counties of Dorset, Somerset, and Wilts meet; and here in a grotto, where the water runs from a jar under the arm of a figure of Neptune, rises the River Stour, whose acquaintance we were to form later in its sixty-mile run through Dorset. Shaftesbury had been a stronghold from the earliest times, and so long ago, according to Geoffrey of Monmouth, who was born A.D. 1100, that an Eagle spoke to the people who were building the walls words that even he dare not write. Elgiva, the queen of the Saxon King Edward the Elder, was buried in the Abbey at Shaftesbury, as were also the remains of Edward the Martyr, who was murdered by Elfrida his step-mother in 980. When the bones of this canonised king began to work miraculous cures, there was a rush of pilgrims to the town, which at one time contained twelve churches. King Canute, it was stated, died here in 1035; and in 1313 Elizabeth, the wife of Robert Bruce of Scotland, was brought to the Abbey as a prisoner. The building was demolished in the time of Henry VIII, all that remained of it being what is known as the old Abbey wall. Most of the old churches had disappeared too, but under St. Peter's there was a wine-cellar belonging to a public-house displaying the strange sign of the "Sun and Moon." The proximity of inns to churches we had often noted on our journey, but thought _this_ intrusion had been carried rather too far, although the age of the church proclaimed it to be a relic of great antiquity. We must not forget to record that between Wilton and Shaftesbury we saw a large quantity of pheasants feeding under some oak trees. We counted more than twenty of them, and had never seen so many gathered together before. Among them we noted three that were white, the only white pheasants we had ever seen. Leaving Shaftesbury, we crossed over one section of the Blackmoor Vale, or what we might describe as the Stour country, for there were many place-names in which the word Stour occurred. The place where the River Stour rises is known as Stourhead; and we had seen a monument, rather a fine one, in Salisbury Cathedral, to the murderer, Lord Charles Stourton. Three holes on each side of the monument represented the sources of the Stour at Stourhead, and these figured in the armorial bearings of the family. Lord Charles was hanged with a silk cord instead of the usual one made of hemp, the execution taking place in Salisbury Market-place in 1556; his crime was the murder of two of the family agents, father and son. His own four agents were hanged at the same time along with him, and a piece of twisted wire resembling the halter was suspended over his tomb for many years, to remind people of his punishment and crime. We took the precaution of getting our tea before leaving Shaftesbury, as there was some uncertainty about the road to Sturminster, where, attracted by the name, we expected to find a minster or cathedral, and had therefore decided to make that town our next stage. We could see a kind of mist rising at several points in the valley as we descended the steep hill leading out of the town in the direction of the Stour valley. No highway led that way except one following a circuitous route, so we walked at a quick pace along the narrow by-road, as we had been directed. Darkness soon came over us, and we had to moderate our speed. We met very few persons on the road, and saw very few houses, and it seemed to us a marvel afterwards that we ever reached Sturminster (or Stourminster) that night. It would have been bad enough if we had been acquainted with the road, but towards the close of our journey we could hear the river running near us for miles in the pitch darkness, and although my brother walked bravely on in front, I knew he was afraid of the water, and no doubt in fear that he might stumble into it in the dark. We were walking in Indian file, for there was no room to walk abreast in safety, while in places we had absolutely to grope our way. We moved along Like one who on a lonely road Doth walk in fear and dread. And dare not turn his head, For well he knows a fearful fiend Doth close behind him tread. It is perhaps unnecessary to explain that the "fearful fiend" was not either my brother or myself, but some one supposed to be somewhere in the rear of us both; but in any case we were mightily pleased when we reached the "King's Arms" at Sturminster, where we were looked upon as heroes, having now walked quite 1,100 miles. (_Distance that day, twenty-eight miles_.) _Thursday, November 9th._ A sharp frost during the night reminded us of the approach of winter, and we left Sturminster early this morning with the determination of crossing the county of Dorset, and reaching the sea-coast that night, thence to follow the coast-line as far as was consistent with seeing all the sights we could, until we reached the Land's End. We again crossed the bridge over the River Stour by which we had entered the town in the black darkness of the previous night, and were careful not to damage any of the six arches of which it was composed, as a notice inscribed on the bridge itself stated that any one damaging any portion of it would be guilty of felony and liable to transportation for life! We had not been able to find any special object of interest in the town itself, although King Edgar had given the manor to the monks of Glastonbury. Even the old church, with the exception of the tower, had been pulled down and rebuilt; so possibly the old and well-worn steps that had formed the base of the cross long since disappeared might claim to be the most ancient relic in the town. The landlord of the inn had told us that Sturminster was famous for its fairs, which must have originated in very early times, for they were arranged to be held on saints' days--St. Philip and Jacob's, and St. Luke's respectively. [Illustration: ALL THAT REMAINS OF STURMINSTER CROSS] After crossing the bridge we climbed up the small hill opposite, to view the scant ivy-clad ruins of Sturminster-Newton Castle, which was all that remained of what was once a seat of the Saxon Kings, especially of Edgar and Edward the Elder. We had a pleasant walk for some miles, and made good progress across the southern end of the Vale of Blackmoor, but did not keep to any particular road, as we crossed the country in the direction of some hills we could occasionally see in the distance. Eventually we reached Cerne-Abbas, where we were told we ought to have come in the springtime to see the primroses which there grew in immense profusion. We had heard of the "Cerne Giant," whose fixed abode was now the Giant's Hill, immediately behind the village, and whose figure was there cut out in the turf. Formerly this monster caused great loss to the farmers by eating their sheep, of which he consumed large quantities. They were quite powerless to stop him, owing to his immense size and the enormous club he carried; but one day he had eaten so many sheep that he felt drowsy and lay down to sleep. He was seen by the farmers, who could tell by his heavy breathing that the giant was fast asleep, so they got together all their ropes and quietly tied his limbs and fastened him to the earth; then, attacking him with their knives and axes, they managed to kill him. This was a great event, and to celebrate their victory they cut his figure in the chalk cliff to the exact life-size, so that future generations could see what a monster they had slain. This was the legend; and perhaps, like the White Horses, of which there were several, the Giant might have been cut out in prehistoric times, or was it possible he could have grown larger during the centuries that had intervened, for he was 180 feet in height, and the club that he carried in his hand was 120 feet long! Cerne Abbas was a very old place, as an early Benedictine Abbey was founded there in 987, the first Abbot being Aelfric, who afterwards became Archbishop of Canterbury. It was at Cerne that Queen Margaret sought refuge after landing at Weymouth in 1471. Her army had been defeated at Barnet on the very day she landed; but, accompanied by a small force of French soldiers, she marched on until she reached Tewkesbury, only to meet there with a final defeat, and to lose her son Edward, who was murdered in cold blood, as well as her husband Henry VI. Very little remained of the old abbey beyond its ancient gateway, which was three stories high, and displayed two very handsome double-storeyed oriel windows. We now followed the downward course of the River Cerne, and walking along a hard but narrow road soon reached the village of Charminster. The church here dated from the twelfth century, but the tower was only built early in the sixteenth century by Sir Thomas Trenchard of Wolfeton, whose monogram T.T. appeared on it as well as in several places in the church, where some very old monuments of the Trenchard family were also to be seen. Wolfeton House was associated with a very curious incident, which materially affected the fortunes of one of England's greatest ducal families. In 1506 the Archduke Philip of Austria and Joanna his wife sailed from Middelburg, one of the Zeeland ports, to take possession of their kingdom of Castile in Spain. But a great storm came on, and their ship became separated from the others. Becoming unmanageable, it drifted helplessly down the Channel, and to make matters worse took fire just when the storm was at its height, and narrowly escaped foundering. Joanna had been shipwrecked on a former occasion, and when her husband came to inform her of the danger, she calmly put on her best dress and, with all her money and jewels about her, awaited her fate, thinking that when her body was found they would see she was a lady of rank and give her a suitable burial. With great difficulty the ship, now a miserable wreck, was brought into the port of Weymouth, and the royal pair were taken out with all speed and conveyed to the nearest nobleman's residence, which happened to be that of Sir Thomas Trenchard, near Dorchester, about ten miles distant. They were very courteously received and entertained, but the difficulty was that Sir Thomas could neither speak Spanish nor French, and the visitors could not speak English. In this dilemma he suddenly remembered a young kinsman of his, John Russel of Berwick House, Bridport, who had travelled extensively both in France and Spain, and he sent for him post-haste to come at once. On receipt of the message young Russel lost no time, but riding at full gallop, soon arrived at Wolfeton House. He was not only a good linguist, but also very good-looking, and the royal visitors were so charmed with him that when King Henry VII sent the Earl of Arundel with an escort to convey Philip and Joanna to see him at Windsor Castle, Russel went with them, and was introduced to King Henry by his royal guests as "a man of abilities, fit to stand before princes and not before meaner men." This was a good start for young Russel, and led to the King's retaining him at Court. He prospered greatly, rising high in office; and in the next reign, when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, Russel came in for a handsome share of the spoils, including Woburn Abbey; he was created a peer, and so founded the great house of Bedford, made a dukedom in 1694 by William III. One of his descendants, the third son of the sixth Duke of Bedford, was Lord John Russell (the name being then able to afford an extra letter), who brought the Great Reform Bill into Parliament in the year 1832. He was Prime Minister then and in several subsequent Parliaments, and his name was naturally a household word all over the kingdom; but what made my brother more interested in this family was that as early as the year 1850 he was nicknamed "Lord John," after Lord John Russell, who was then the Prime Minister. We were now quite near Dorchester, but all we knew about that town previously was from a song that was popular in those days about "Old Toby Philpot," whose end was recorded in the last verse, when-- His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut, And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt! Our expectations of finding a brewery there were fully realised, and, as anticipated, the butts we saw were of much larger dimensions, especially about the waist, than those we had seen farther north. If "Toby" was of the same proportions as one of these he must have been quite a monstrosity. We were surprised to find Dorchester such a clean and pretty town. Seeing it was the county town of Dorset, one of the most ancient settlements in England, and the Durmovaria of the Romans, we expected to find some of those old houses and quaint passages so common to ancient county towns; but we learned that the old town had been destroyed by a fire in 1613, and long before that (in 1003) Dorchester had been burnt to the ground by the Danes. It had also suffered from serious fires in 1622, 1725, and 1775, the last having been extinguished by the aid of Johnny Cope's Regiment of Dragoons, who happened then to be quartered in the town. But the great fire in 1613 must have been quite a fearful affair, as we saw a pamphlet written about it by an eye-witness, under the title of _Fire from Heaven_. It gave such a graphic description of what such a fire was like, that we copied the following extract, which also displayed the quaint phraseology and spelling peculiar to that period: The instrument of God's wrath began first to take hold in a tradesman's worke-house ... Then began the crye of fier to be spread through the whole towne man, woman and childe ran amazedly up and down the streetes, calling for water, so fearfully, as if death's trumpet had sounded a command of present destruction. The fier began between the hours of two and three in the afternoone, the wind blowing very strong, and increased so mightily that, in a very short space, the most part of the town, was tiered, which burned so extreamely, the weather being hot, and the houses dry, that help of man grew almost past ... The reason the fier at the first prevailed above the strength of man was that it unfortunately happened in the time of harvest, when people were most busied in the reaping of their corne, and the towne most emptyest, but when this burnying Beacon of ruyne gave the harvestmen light into the field, little booted it to them to stay, but in more than reasonable hast poasted they homeward, not only for the safeguard of their goods and houses, but for the preservation of their wives and children, more dearer than all temporall estate or worldly abundance. In like manner the inhabitantes of the neighbouring townes and villages, at the fearful sight of the red blazing element, ran in multitudes to assist them, proffering the dear venture of their lives to oppresse the rigour of the fier, but all too late they came, and to small purpose showed they their willing minds, for almost every streete was filled with flame, every place burning beyond help and recovery. Their might they in wofull manner behold merchants' warehouses full of riche commodities on a flaming fier, garners of breade corn consuming, multitudes of Wollen and Linnen Clothes burned into ashes, Gold and Silver melted with Brasse, Pewter and Copper, tronkes and chestes of Damaskes and fine linnens, with all manner of rich stuffs, made fewell to increase this universe sole conqueror.... The fierceness of the fier was such that it even burnet and scorchet trees as they grew, and converted their green liveries into black burned garments; not so much as Hearbes and Flowers flourishing in Gardynes, but were in a moment withered with the heat of the fier.... Dorchester was a famous towne, now a heap of ashes for travellers that passe by to sigh at. Oh, Dorchester, wel maist thou mourn for those thy great losses, for never had English Towne the like unto thee.... A loss so unrecoverable that unlesse the whole land in pitty set to their devotions, it is like never to re-obtain the former estate, but continue like ruinated Troy, or decayed Carthage. God in his mercy raise the inhabitants up againe, and graunt that by the mischance of this Towne both us, they and all others may repent us of our sins. Amen. It was computed that over three hundred houses were destroyed in this great fire; but the prayer of the writer of the pamphlet, as to the town's being raised up again, had been granted. The county of Dorset generally, lies in the sunniest part of England, and the town was now prospering and thoroughly healthy, the death-rate being well below the average: did not the great Dr. Arbuthnot leave it in despair with the remark, "In Dorchester a physician can neither live nor die"? Dorchester was one of the largest stations of the Romans in England, and their amphitheatre just outside the town was the most perfect in the country, the Roman road and Icknield ways passing quite near it. There were three great earthworks in the immediate neighbourhood--the Maumbury Rings or Amphitheatre, the Poundbury Camp, and the far-famed Maiden Castle, one of the greatest British earthworks; in fact Roman and other remains were so numerous here that they were described as being "as plentiful as mushrooms," and the whole district was noted for its "rounded hills with short herbage and lots of sheep." We climbed up the hill to see the amphitheatre, which practically adjoined the town, and formed one of the most remarkable and best preserved relics of the Roman occupation in Britain. It was oval in shape, and had evidently been formed by excavating the chalk in the centre, and building up the sides with it to the height of about thirty feet. It measured 345 feet by 340, and was supposed to have provided ample accommodation for the men and beasts that figured in the sports, in addition to about 13,000 spectators. In the year 1705 quite 10,000 people assembled there to witness the strangling and burning of a woman named Mary Channing, who had murdered her husband. This woman, whose maiden name was Mary Brookes, lived in Dorchester with her parents, who compelled her to marry a grocer in the town named Richard Channing, for whom she did not care. Keeping company with some former gallants, she by her extravagance almost ruined her husband, and then poisoned him. At the Summer Assizes in 1704 she was tried, but being found pregnant she was removed, and eighteen weeks after her child was born, she was, at the following Lent Assizes, sentenced to be strangled and then burned in the middle of the area of the amphitheatre. She was only nineteen years of age, and insisted to the last that she was innocent. About a hundred years before that a woman had suffered the same penalty at the same place for a similar offence. This horrible cruelty was sanctioned by law, in those days, in case of the murder of a husband by his wife; and the Rings were used as a place of execution until the year 1767. There was a fine view of the country from the top of the amphitheatre, and we could see both the Poundbury Camp and the Mai-Dun, or "Hill of Strength," commonly called the Maiden Hill, a name also applied to other hills we had seen in the country. The Maiden Hill we could now see was supposed to be one of the most stupendous British earthworks in existence, quite as large as Old Sarum, and covering an area of 120 acres. It was supposed to be the Dunium of which Ptolemy made mention, and was pre-Roman without a doubt. At Dorchester the Romans appear to have had a residential city, laid out in avenues in the direction of Maumbury Camp, with houses on either side; but the avenues we saw were of trees--elm, beech, and sycamore. The burial-places of the Romans were excavated in the chalk, and this being naturally dry, their remains were preserved much longer there than if they had been buried in damp soil. Many graves of Roman soldiers had been unearthed from time to time, and it was discovered that the chalk had been scooped out in an oblong form to just the exact size of the corpse. The man was generally found buried on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest, all sorts of things being buried with him, including very often a coin of the then reigning emperor placed in his mouth. His weapon and utensils for eating and drinking, and his ornaments, had been placed as near as possible to the positions where he had used them in life; the crown of his head touched one end of the oval-shaped hole in which he had been buried and his toes the other. The tomb was exactly in the shape of an egg, and the corpse was placed in it as tightly as possible, like a chicken in its shell. Women's ornaments were also found buried with them, such as pins for the hair and beads for the neck; but we did not hear of any rings having been found amongst them, so possibly these tokens of slavery were not worn by the Roman ladies. We might have found some, however, in the local museum, which was full of all kinds of old things, and occupied a house formerly tenanted by that man of blood---Judge Jeffreys, whose chair was still preserved, and whose portrait by Lely was sufficient alone to proclaim his brutal character. In the time of Monmouth's rebellion in 1685 Judge Jeffreys began his "Bloody Assize" at Dorchester. Monmouth had landed at Lyme Regis in the south of the county, and the cry was "A Monmouth! A Monmouth! The Protestant Religion!" and a number of Puritans had joined his standard. More than three hundred of them had been taken prisoners and were awaiting their trial at Dorchester, the county town. Jeffreys let it be known that their only chance was to plead guilty and throw themselves on the mercy of their country, but in spite of this two hundred and ninety-two received sentence of death. Twenty-nine of these were despatched immediately, and about ninety were executed in various parts of the country, their bodies being brutally dismembered and exposed in towns, villages, and hamlets. Great efforts were made to save one young gentleman named Battiscombe, who was engaged to a young lady of gentle blood, a sister of the Sheriff; she threw herself at the feet of Jeffreys to beg for mercy, but he drove her away with a jest so shocking to decency and humanity that it could not be repeated, and Battiscombe perished with the others. Altogether three hundred persons were executed, more were whipped and imprisoned, and a thousand sold and transported to the Plantations, for taking part in this rebellion, the money going as perquisites to the ladies of the Court. Jeffreys rose to be Lord Chancellor, but falling into disgrace after the abdication of James II, he was committed to the Tower of London and there died in 1689, before he could be brought to trial. It saddened us to think that this brute really belonged to our own county, and was at first the Justice for Chester. The following entry appeared in the records of the town: To a Bill for disbursements for ye Gallows. Burning and boiling ye Rebels, executed p. order £116 4s. 8d. Paid Mr. Mayers att ye Beare, for so much hee pd. for setting up of a post with ye quarters of ye Rebells att ye town end as p. his Bill 1s. 6-1/2d. These entries bear evidence of this horrible butchery; but the Dorcestrians seem to have been accustomed to sights of this kind, as there had been horrible persecutions of the Roman Catholics there in the time of Queen Elizabeth--sequel perhaps to those of the Protestants in the time of Queen Mary--one man named Pritchard was hanged, drawn, and quartered in 1583, and in 1584 four others were executed. Dorchester, like other places, could boast of local celebrities. Among these was John White, who in 1606 was appointed rector of Dorchester and held that office until the day of his death in 1648. He was the son of one of the early Puritans, and was himself a famous Puritan divine. At the Assembly of Divines at Westminster in 1643 he was said to have prayed before the House of Commons in St. Margaret's for an hour and a half, in the hope that they might be induced to subscribe to the "Covenant" to resist the encroachments of Charles I on religious liberty. He was a pioneer in the New England movement, and was virtually the founder of Massachusetts, in America. From the first he took a most active part in encouraging emigration and in creating what at that time was known as New England, and he was also the founder of the New England Company. It was in 1620 that the good ship _Mayflower_ arrived at Plymouth with Robinson's first batch of pilgrims from Holland on their way across the Atlantic. It is not certain that White crossed the ocean himself; but his was the master-mind that organised and directed the expeditions to that far-distant land, and he was ably seconded by Bishop Lake, his friend and brother Wykehamist. [Illustration: JOHN ENDICOTT, FIRST GOVERNOR OF MASSACHUSETTS.] He also influenced John Endicott, "a man well known to divers persons of note" and a native of Dorchester, where he was born in 1588, to take an active part in developing the new Colonies, and mainly through the influence of White a patent was obtained from the Council on March 19th, 1628, by which the Crown "bargained and sold unto some Knights and Gentlemen about Dorchester, whose names included that of John Endicott, that part of New England lying between the Merrimac River and the Charles River on Massachusetts Bay." At the time this "bargain" was made very little was known about America, which was looked upon as a kind of desert or wilderness, nor had the Council any idea of the extent of territory lying between the two rivers. This ultimately became of immense value, as it included the site on which the great town of Boston, U.S.A., now stands--a town that was founded by pilgrims from Boston in Lincolnshire with whom John White was in close contact. John Endicott sailed from Weymouth in the ship _Abigail_, Henry Gauder, Master, with full powers to act for the Company. The new Dorchester was founded, and soon afterwards four "prudent and honest men" went out from it and founded Salem. John White procured a patent and royal charter for them also, which was sealed on March 4th, 1629. It seemed the irony of fate that on the same day 147 years afterwards Washington should open fire upon Boston from the Dorchester heights in the American War of Independence. A second Dorchester was founded in America, probably by settlers from the second Dorchester in England--a large village near which we had passed as we walked through Oxfordshire, where in the distance could be seen a remarkable hill known as Dorchester Clump. Although it had been a Roman town, the city where afterwards St. Birinus, the Apostle of Wessex, set up his episcopal throne from 634 to 707, the head of the See of Wessex, it was now only a village with one long street, and could not compare with its much larger neighbour in Dorset. Its large ancient church, with a fine Jesse window, gave the idea of belonging to a place once of much greater size. The "hands across the sea" between the two Dorchesters have never been separated, but the pilgrims now come in the opposite direction, thousands of Americans visiting Dorchester and its antiquities; we heard afterwards that the American Dorset had been presented with one of the tessellated pavements dug up from a Roman villa in what we might call "Dorchester, Senior," in England, and that a memorial had been put up in the porch of Dorchester Church inscribed as follows: In this Porch lies the body of the Rev. John White, M.A., of New College, Oxford. He was born at Christmas 1575. For about forty years he was Rector of this Parish, and also of Holy Trinity, Dorchester. He died here July 21st, 1648. A man of great godliness, good scholarship, and wonderful ability. He had a very strong sway in this town. He greatly forwarded the migration to the Massachusetts Bay Colony, where his name lives in unfading remembrance. [Illustration: STATUE OF WILLIAM BARNES.] Another clergyman, named William Barnes, who was still living, had become famous by writing articles for the _Gentleman's Magazine_ and poems for the _Dorset County Chronicle_, and had published a book in 1844 entitled _Poems of Rural Life in Dorset Dialect_, some of which were of a high order. They were a little difficult for us to understand readily, for these southern dialects did not appeal to us. After he died a statue was erected to his memory, showing him as an aged clergyman quaintly attired in caped cloak, knee-breeches, and buckled shoes, with a leather satchel strung over his shoulder and a stout staff in his hand. One of his poems referred to a departed friend of his, and a verse in it was thought so applicable to himself that it was inscribed on his monument: Zoo now I hope this kindly feäce Is gone to find a better pleäce; But still wi vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind. Thomas Hardy, the founder of Rochester Grammar School in 1569, was the ancestor of Admiral Hardy, Nelson's flag-captain, who received the great hero in his arms when the fatal shot was fired at Trafalgar, and whose monument we could see on Blackdown Hill in the distance. Not the least distinguished of this worthy family is Thomas Hardy, the brilliant author of the famous series of West-country novels, the first of which was published in 1872, the year after our visit. Our next stage was Bridport, and we had been looking forward to seeing the sea for some time past, as we considered it would be an agreeable change from the scenery of the lonely downs. We passed by Winterbourne Abbas on our way, and the stone circle known as the "Nine Stones." The name Winterbourne refers to one of those ancient springs common in chalk districts which burst out suddenly in great force, usually in winter after heavy autumn rains, run for a season, and then as suddenly disappear. [Illustration: BRIDPORT.] Bridport was an important place even in the time of Edward the Confessor, when it contained 120 houses and a priory of monks. It was the birthplace of Giles de Bridport, the third Bishop of Salisbury, whose fine tomb we had seen in that cathedral, and who died in 1262; of him Leland wrote, "he kivered the new Cathedral Church of Saresbyrie throughout with lead." In the time of the Plantagenet kings Bridport was noted for its sails and ropes, much of the cordage and canvas for the fleet fitted out to do battle with the Spanish Armada being made here. Flax was then cultivated in the neighbourhood, and the rope-walks, where the ropes were made, were in the streets, which accounted for some of the streets being so much wider than others. Afterwards the goods were made in factories, the flax being imported from Rusfia. We did not quite reach the sea that night, as it was a mile or two farther on; but we put up at the "Bull Hotel," and soon discovered we had arrived at a town where nearly all the men for ages had been destined for the army or navy, and consequently had travelled to all parts of the world--strong rivals to the Scots for the honour of being found sitting on the top of the North Pole if ever that were discovered. King Charles II was nearly trapped here when he rode into the town in company with a few others and put up at the "George Inn." The yard of the inn was full of soldiers, but he passed unnoticed, as they were preparing for an expedition to the Channel Islands. Charles received a private message that he was not safe, and that he was being pursued, and he and his friends hastily departed along the Dorchester road. Fortunately Lord Wilton came up, and advised them to turn down a small lane leading to Broadwindsor, where Charles was immediately secreted; it was lucky for him, as the pursuing party passed along the Dorchester road immediately afterwards, and he would certainly have been taken prisoner if he had gone there. A large stone was afterwards placed at the corner of Lea Lane, where he turned off the high road, and still remained there to commemorate that event, which happened on September 23rd, 1651. One Sunday morning in 1685 about three hundred soldiers arrived in the town from Lyme Regis, where the Duke of Monmouth had landed on his unfortunate expedition to seize the crown of his uncle James II. They were opposed by the Dorset Militia and fired upon from the windows of the "Bull Inn," where we were now staying, being eventually forced to retire. In still later years Bridport was kept alive in anticipation of the hourly-expected invasion of England by the great Napoleon, who had prepared a large camp at Boulogne, the coast of Dorset being considered the most likely place for him to land. (_Distance walked thirty miles_.) _Friday, November 10th._ We left the "Bull Hotel" a little before daylight this morning, as we had a long walk before us, and in about half an hour we reached Bridport Quay, where the river Brit terminates in the sea, now lying before us in all its beauty. There were a few small ships here, with the usual knot of sailors on the quay; but the great object of interest was known as the Chesil Bank, "one of the most wonderful natural formations in the world." Nothing of the kind approaching its size existed elsewhere in Europe, for it extended from here to Portland, a distance of sixteen miles, and we could see it forming an almost straight line until it reached Portland, from which point it had been described as a rope of pebbles holding Portland to the mainland. The Bank was composed of white flint pebbles, and for half its distance from the Portland end, an inlet from the sea resembling a canal, and called "the Fleet," passed between the land and the Bank, which was here only 170 to 200 yards wide: raised in the centre and sloping down to the water on either side. The pebbles at the Bridport end of the Bank were very small, but at the Portland end they were about three inches in diameter, increasing in size so gradually that in the dark the fishermen could tell where they had landed by the size of the pebbles. The presence of these stones had long puzzled both British and foreign savants, for there were no rocks of that nature near them on the sea-coast, and the trawlers said there were no pebbles like them in the sea. Another mystery was why they varied in size in such a remarkable manner. One thing was certain: they had been washed up there by the gigantic waves that rolled in at times with terrific force from the Atlantic; and after the great storms had swept over the Bank many curious things had been found, including a large number of Roman coins of the time of Constantine, mediæval coins and antique rings, seals, plates, and ingots of silver and gold--possibly some of them from the treasure-ships of the Spanish Armada, which were said to have been sunk in the Bay. Geologists will explain anything. They now assert that the Bank is the result of tidal currents which sweep along the coast eastwards--that they have destroyed beds in the cliff containing such pebbles, and as the current loses strength so the bigger and heavier stones are dropped first and the smaller only reach the places where the current disappears. [Illustration: CHESIL BEACH, PORTLAND.] This portion of the sea, known as the West Bay, was the largest indentation on the coast, and on that account was doubly dangerous to ships caught or driven there in a storm, especially before the time when steam was applied to them, and when the constant traffic through the Channel between Spain and Spanish Flanders furnished many victims, for in those days the wrecks were innumerable. Strange fish and other products of the tropical seas had drifted hither across the Atlantic from the West Indies and America, and in the fishing season the fin whale, blue shark, threshers and others had been caught, also the sun fish, boar fish, and the angler or sea-devil. Rare mosses and lichens, with agates, jaspers, coloured flints and corals, had also been found on the Chesil Bank; but the most marvellous of all finds, and perhaps that of the greatest interest, was the Mermaid, which was found there in June 1757. It was thirteen feet long, and the upper part of it had some resemblance to the human form, while the lower part was like that of a fish. The head was partly like that of a man and partly like that of a hog. Its fins resembled hands, and it had forty-eight large teeth in each jaw, not unlike those in the jaw-bone of a man. Just fancy one of our Jack-tars diving from the Chesil Bank and finding a mate like that below! But we were told that diving from that Bank into the sea would mean certain death, as the return flows from the heavy swell of the Atlantic which comes in here, makes it almost impossible for the strongest swimmer to return to the Bank, and that "back-wash" in a storm had accounted for the many shipwrecks that had occurred there in olden times. From where we stood we could see the Hill and Bill of Portland, in the rear of which was the famous Breakwater, the foundation-stone of which had been laid by the Prince Consort, the husband of Queen Victoria, more than twenty years previously, and although hundreds of prisoners from the great convict settlement at Portland had been employed upon the work ever since, the building of it was not yet completed. The stone from the famous quarries at Portland, though easily worked, is of a very durable nature, and has been employed in the great public buildings in London for hundreds of years. Inigo Jones used most of it in the building of the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall, and Sir Christopher Wren in the reconstruction of St. Paul's Cathedral after the Great Fire, while it had also been used in the building of many churches and bridges. We had expected to find a path along the cliffs from Bridport Quay to Lyme Regis, but two big rocks, "Thorncombe Beacon" and "Golden Cap," had evidently prevented one from being made, for though the Golden Cap was only about 600 feet above sea-level it formed the highest elevation on the south coast. We therefore made the best of our way across the country to the village of Chideoak, and from there descended into Charmouth, crossing the river Char at the entrance to that village or town by a bridge. On the battlement of this bridge we found a similar inscription to that we had seen at Sturminster, warning us that whoever damaged the bridge would be liable to be "transported for life," by order of King George the Fourth." Charmouth had been one of the Roman stations and the scene of the fiercest battles between the Saxons and the Danes in 833 and 841, in the reigns of Egbert and Ethelwolf, in which the Danes appeared to have been victorious, as they were constantly being reinforced by fellow-countrymen arriving by sea. But these were practically forgotten, the memories of them having been replaced in more modern times by events connected with the Civil War and with the wanderings of "Prince Charles," the fugitive King Charles II. What a weary and anxious time he must have had during the nineteen days he spent in the county of Dorset, in fear of his enemies and watching for a ship by which he could escape from England, while soldiers were scouring the county to find him! [Illustration: HOUSE WHERE KING CHARLES LODGED IN CHARMOUTH.] He wrote a _Narrative_, in which some of his adventures were recorded, and from which it appeared that after the Battle of Worcester and his escape to Boscobel, where the oak tree in which he hid himself was still to be seen, he disguised himself as a manservant and rode before a lady named Mrs. Lane, in whose employ he was supposed to be, while Lord Wilton rode on in front. They arrived at a place named Trent, a village on the borders of Somerset and Dorset, and stayed at the house of Frank Wyndham, whom Charles described in his _Narrative_ as a "very honest man," and who concealed him in "an old well-contrived secret place." When they arrived some of the soldiers from Worcester were in the village, and Charles wrote that he heard "one trooper telling the people that he had killed me, and that that was my buff coat he had on," and the church bells were ringing and bonfires lighted to celebrate the victory. The great difficulty was to get a ship, for they had tried to get one at Bristol, but failed. In a few days' time, however, Wyndham ventured to go into Lyme Regis, and there found a boat about to sail for St. Malo, and got a friend to arrange terms with the owner to take a passenger "who had a finger in the pye at Worcester." It was arranged that the ship should wait outside Charmouth in the Charmouth Roads, and that the passenger should be brought out in a small boat about midnight on the day arranged. Charles then reassumed his disguise as a male servant named William Jackson, and rode before Mrs. Connisby, a cousin of Wyndham's, while Lord Wilton again rode on in front. On arrival at Charmouth, rooms were taken at the inn, and a reliable man was engaged who at midnight was to be at the appointed place with his boat to take the Prince to the ship. Meantime the party were anxiously waiting at the inn; but it afterwards appeared that the man who had been engaged, going home to change his linen, confided to his wife the nature of his commission. This alarmed her exceedingly, as that very day a proclamation had been issued announcing dreadful penalties against all who should conceal the Prince or any of his followers; and the woman was so terrified that when her husband went into the chamber to change his linen she locked the door, and would not let him come out. Charles and his friends were greatly disappointed, but they were obliged to make the best of it, and stayed at the inn all night. Early in the morning Charles was advised to leave, as rumours were circulating in the village; and he and one or two others rode away to Bridport, while Lord Wilton stayed at the inn, as his horse required new shoes. He engaged the ostler at the inn to take his horse to the smithy, where Hamnet the smith declared that "its shoes had been set in three different counties, of which Worcestershire was one." The ostler stayed at the inn gossiping about the company, hearing how they had sat up with their horses saddled all the night, and so on, until, suspecting the truth, he left the blacksmith to shoe the horse, and went to see the parson, whom Charles describes as "one Westly," to tell him what he thought. But the parson was at his morning prayers, and was so "long-winded" that the ostler became tired of waiting, and fearing lest he should miss his "tip" from Lord Wilton, hurried back to the smithy without seeing the parson. After his lordship had departed, Hamnet the smith went to see Mr. Westly--who by the way was an ancestor of John and Charles Wesley--and told him the gossip detailed to him by the ostler. So Mr. Westly came bustling down to the inn, and accosting the landlady said: "Why, how now, Margaret! you are a Maid of Honour now." "What mean you by that, Mr. Parson?" said the landlady. "Why, Charles Stewart lay last night at your house, and kissed you at his departure; so that now you can't be but a Maid of Honour!" Margaret was rather vexed at this, and replied rather hastily, "If I thought it was the King, I should think the better of my lips all the days of my life; and so you, Mr. Parson, get out of my house!" Westly and the smith then went to a magistrate, but he did not believe their story and refused to take any action. Meantime the ostler had taken the information to Captain Macey at Lyme Regis, and he started off in pursuit of Charles; but before he reached Bridport Charles had escaped. The inn at Charmouth many years afterwards had been converted into a private house, but was still shown to visitors and described as the house "where King Charles the Second slept on the night of September 22nd, 1652, after his flight from the Battle of Worcester," and the large chimney containing a hiding-place was also to be seen there. [Illustration: OMBERSLEY VILLAGE: "THE KING'S ARMS," WHERE CHARLES II RESTED DURING HIS FLIGHT AFTER THE BATTLE OF WORCESTER, 1652.] Prince Charles and some friends stood on the tower of Worcester Cathedral watching the course of the battle, and when they saw they had lost the day they rushed down in great haste, and mounting their horses rode away as fast as they could, almost blocking themselves in the gateway in their hurry. When they reached the village of Ombersley, about ten miles distant, they hastily refreshed themselves at the old timber-built inn, which in honour of the event was afterwards named the "King's Arms." The ceiling, over the spot where Charles stood, is still ornamented with his coat of arms, including the fleur-de-lys of France, and in the great chimney where the smoke disappears above the ingle-nook is a hiding-place capable of holding four men on each side of the chimney, and so carefully constructed that no one would ever dream that a man could hide there without being smothered by the smoke. The smoke, however, is drawn by the draught past the hiding-place, from which there would doubtless be a secret passage to the chamber above, which extended from one side of the inn to the other. In a glass case there was at the time of our visit a cat and a rat--the rat standing on its hind legs and facing the cat--but both animals dried up and withered like leather, until they were almost flat, the ribs of the cat showing plainly on its skin. The landlord gave us their history, from which it appeared that it had become necessary to place a stove in a back kitchen and to make an entrance into an old flue to enable the smoke from the stove-pipe to be carried up the large chimney. The agent of the estate to which the inn belonged employed one of his workmen, nicknamed "Holy Joe," to do the work, who when he broke into the flue-could see with the light of his candle something higher up the chimney. He could not tell what it was, nor could the landlord, whom "Joe" had called to his assistance, but it was afterwards discovered to be the cat and the rat that now reposed in the glass case. It was evident that the rat had been pursued by the cat and had escaped by running up the narrow flue, whither it had been followed by the cat, whose head had become jammed in the flue. The rat had then turned round upon its pursuer, and was in the act of springing upon it when both of them had been instantly asphyxiated by the fumes in the chimney. With the exception of some slight damage to the rat, probably caused in the encounter, they were both almost perfect, and an expert who had examined them declared they must have been imprisoned there quite a hundred years before they could have been reduced to the condition in which they were found by "Holy Joe"! The proprietors of the hostelries patronised by royalty always made as much capital out of the event as possible, and even the inn at Charmouth displayed the following advertisement after the King's visit: Here in this House was lodged King Charles. Come in, Sirs, you may venture; For here is entertainment good For Churchman or Dissenter. [Illustration: MISS MARY ANNING.] We thought we had finished with fossils after leaving Stromness in the Orkney Islands and trying to read the names of those deposited in the museum there, but we had now reached another "paradise for geologists," this time described as a "perfect" one; we concluded, therefore, that what the Pomona district in the Orkneys could not supply, or what Hugh Miller could not find there, was sure to be found here, as we read that "where the river Char filtered into the sea the remains of Elephants and Rhinoceros had been found." But we could not fancy ourselves searching "the surrounding hills for ammonites and belemnites," although we were assured that they were numerous, nor looking along the cliffs for such things as "the remains of ichthyosaurus, plesiosaurus, and other gigantic saurians, which had been discovered there, as well as pterodactyles," for my brother declared he did not want to carry any more stones, his adventure in Derbyshire with them being still fresh on his mind. We therefore decided to leave these to more learned people, who knew when they had found them; but, like Hugh Miller with his famous Asterolepis, a young lady named Mary Anning, who was described as "the famous girl geologist," had, in 1811, made a great discovery here of a splendid ichthyosaurus, which was afterwards acquired for the nation and deposited in the British Museum. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE ICHTHYOSAURUS.] Charmouth practically consisted of one long street rising up the hill from the river, and on reaching the top after getting clear of the town we had to pass along a curved road cut deeply through the rock to facilitate coach traffic. In stormy weather the wind blew through this cutting with such terrific fury that the pass was known as the "Devil's Bellows," and at times even the coaches were unable to pass through. The road now descended steeply on the other side, the town of Lyme Regis spread out before us, with its white houses and the blue sea beyond, offering a prospect that dwelt in our memories for many years. No town in all England is quite like it, and it gave us the impression that it had been imported from some foreign country. In the older part of the town the houses seemed huddled together as if to protect each other, and many of them adjoined the beach and were inhabited by fishermen, while a newer and larger class of houses was gradually being built on the hill which rose rather abruptly at the rear of what might be called the old town. [Illustration: REMAINS OF ICHTHYOSAURUS DISCOVERED AT CHARMOUTH.] A curious breakwater called the Cobb stretches out a few hundred yards into the sea. This was originally built in the time of Edward I as a shelter for the boats in stormy weather, but was destroyed by a heavy sea in the reign of Edward III, who allowed a tax to be levied on all goods imported and exported, the proceeds to be applied towards the rebuilding of the Cobb. [Illustration: DUKE OF MONMOUTH.] After the death of Charles II his place was filled by his brother, who ascended the throne as James II; but Charles had a natural son, James, the Duke of Monmouth, who had been sent abroad, but who now claimed the English crown. On June 11th, 1685, the inhabitants of Lyme were alarmed by the appearance of three foreign ships which did not display any flags. They were astonished to find that it was an expedition from Holland, and that James, Duke of Monmouth, had arrived to lead a rebellion against his uncle, James II. The Duke landed on the Cobb, which at that time did not join the shore, so that he could not step on shore without wetting his legs; but Lieut. Bagster of the Royal Navy, who happened to be in a boat close by, jumped into the water and presented his knee, upon which the Duke stepped and so reached the shore without inconvenience. Monmouth then turned to Lieut. Bagster, and familiarly striking him on the shoulder, said, "Brave young man, you will join me!" But Bagster replied, "No, sir! I have sworn to be true to the King, and no consideration shall move me from my fidelity." Monmouth then knelt down on the beach and thanked God for having preserved the friends of liberty and pure religion from the perils of the sea, and implored the Divine blessing on what was to be done by land. He was received with great rejoicings in Lyme, where there was a strong Protestant element, and many joined his standard there, including Daniel Defoe, the author of _Robinson Crusoe_, then only twenty-four years of age. As the people generally had no grievance against James II, Monmouth's rebellion failed from want of support, and although he raised an army of 5,000 men by the time he reached Sedgmoor, in Somerset, he was there defeated and taken prisoner by the King's army, and beheaded in the same year. Defoe appears to have escaped capture, but twelve local followers of Monmouth were hanged afterwards on the Cobb at Lyme Regis. After Monmouth's execution a satirical ballad was printed and hawked about the streets of London, entitled "The Little King of Lyme," one verse being: Lyme, although a little place, I think it wondrous pretty; If 'tis my fate to wear a crown I'll make of it a city. We had a look through the old church, and saw a stained-glass window which had been placed there in 1847 to the memory of Mary Anning, for the services rendered by her to science through her remarkable discovery of fossils in the cliffs of Lyme. There were also some chained books in the church, one of which was a copy of the Breeches Bible, published in 1579, and so called because the seventh verse in the third chapter of Genesis was rendered, "The eyes of them bothe were opened ... and they sowed figge-tree leaves together, and made themselves breeches." We passed from Dorsetshire into Devonshire as we walked up the hill loading from Lyme Regis, and we had a fine view when we reached the summit of the road at Hunter's Cross, where four roads meet. Here we saw a flat stone supposed to have been the quoin of a fallen cromlech, and to have been used for sacrificial purposes. From that point a sharp walk soon brought us to the River Axe and the town of Axminster. In the time of the Civil War the district between Lyme Regis and Axminster appears to have been a regular battle-field for the contending parties, as Lyme Regis had been fortified in 1643 and taken possession of by Sir Walter Erie and Sir Thomas Trenchard in the name of the Parliament, while Axminster was in the possession of the Royalists, who looked upon the capture of Lyme as a matter of the highest importance. In 1644 Prince Maurice advanced from Axminster with an army of nearly five thousand Royalists and cannon and attacked Lyme from the higher end of that town; but although they had possession of many fortified mansions which acted as bases or depots they were defeated again and again. The inhabitants of the town were enthusiastic about what they considered to be the Protestant cause, and even the women, as in other places, fought in male attire side by side with the men, to make the enemy think they had a greater number opposed to them. The lion's share of the defence fell to the lot of Captain Davey, who, from his fort worked his guns with such amazing persistence that the enemy were dismayed, while during the siege the town was fed from the sea by ships which also brought ammunition and stores. After righting for nearly two months and losing two thousand of his men Prince Maurice retired. The cannon-balls that he used, of which some have been found since that time on or near the shore, and in the outskirts of the town, weighed 17-1/2 lb. One of the defenders was Robert Blake, the famous Admiral, who afterwards defeated the Dutch in a great battle off Portland. He died in his ship at Portsmouth, and his body was taken to Greenwich and afterwards embalmed and buried in Westminster Abbey. But Charles II remembered the part Blake had taken in the defeat of the Royalist forces at Lyme Regis, and ordered his ashes to be raked from the grave and scattered to the winds. As may be imagined, in the fights between the two parties the country-people suffered from depredations and were extensively plundered by both sides. This was referred to in a political song entitled "The West Husbandman's Lamentations," which, in the dialect then prevailing, voices the complaint of a farmer who lost six oxen and six horses: Ich had zix Oxen t'other day, And them the Roundheads vetcht away-- A mischief be their speed! And chad zix Horses left me whole. And them the Cabballeeroes stole, Chee vore men be agreed. We were rather disappointed when we arrived at Axminster, for, having often heard of Axminster carpets, we expected to find factories there where they made them, but we found that industry had been given up for many years. We saw the factory where they were formerly made, and heard a lot about Mr. Whitty, the proprietor. He had made two beautiful carpets, and exhibited them in London before sending them to a customer abroad who had ordered them. They were despatched on board a ship from the Thames, which did not arrive at its destination and was never heard of afterwards. One of these carpets was described to us as being just like an oil painting representing a battle scene. The carpets were made in frames, a woman on each side, and were worked with a needle in a machine. We saw the house where Mr. Whitty formerly resided, the factory being at one end of it, while at the back were his dye-works, where, by a secret method, he dyed in beautiful tints that would not fade. The pile on the carpets was very long, being more like that on Turkey carpets, so that when the ends were worn they could be cut off with a machine and then the carpet appeared new again. Mr. Whitty never recovered from the great loss of the two carpets, and he died without revealing his secret process even to his son. The greater part of the works was burnt down on Trinity Sunday, 1834, and though some portion was rebuilt, it was never again used for making Axminster carpets, which were afterwards made at Wilton, to which place the looms were removed in 1835; the industry, started in 1755, had existed at Axminster for eighty years. King Athelstan founded a college here in commemoration of the Battle of Brunnenburh, fought in 937, in which fell five kings and seven earls. The exact site of this battle did not appear to have been located, though this neighbourhood scarcely had more substantial claims to it than the place we passed through in Cumberland. Axminster took its name from the river Axe, which passes near the town, and falls into the sea at Axemouth, near Seaton; the name Axe, as well as Exe and Usk, is Celtic and signifies water--all three being the names of rivers. There was not much left of Axminster at the end of the Civil War, except the church, for most of the buildings had been burnt down. A letter written on November 21st, 1644, by a trooper from Lyme Regis to his parents in London contained the following passage: Hot newes in these parts: viz., the 15th of this present November wee fell upon Axminster with our horse and foote, and through God's mercie beat them off their works, insomuch that wee possessed of the towne, and they betook them to the Church, which, they had fortified, on which wee were loath to cast our men, being wee had a garrison to look on. My brother and myselfe were both there. We fired part of the towne, what successe we had you may reade by the particulars here inclosed. Wee lost only one man in the taking of the towne, and had five wounded. The Monday following wee marched to Axminster againe. Major Sydenham having joyned with us that Lordis Day at night before, thinking to have seized on the Church, and those forces that were in it, but finding them so strong, as that it might indanger the loss of many of our men, wee thought it not fit to fall upon the Church, but rather to set the houses on fire that were not burnt at the first firing, which accordingly we did, and burnt doune the whole toune, unlease it were some few houses, but yet they would not come forth out of the Church. When Prince Charles, afterwards Charles II, was defeated at Worcester, it was only natural that he should go amongst his friends for protection, and a curious story was told here about his narrow escape from his pursuers in this neighbourhood. He had stayed a short time with the Wyndham family, near Chard, when news came that his pursuers were on his track, and that no time must be lost, so he was sent to Coaxden, two miles from Axminster, to take refuge with the Cogan family, relatives of the Colonel Wyndham who took a leading part in securing his safe retreat. He had only just gone when the soldiers arrived and insisted upon looking through the house and searching it thoroughly; even a young lady they met in the house was suspected of being the King in disguise, and it was with some difficulty that they were persuaded otherwise. They examined every room and linen chest, and then departed in full chase towards the south. Meanwhile, Charles had arrived at Coaxden, and entering the parlour, where Mrs. Cogan was sitting alone, threw himself upon her protection. It was then the fashion for ladies to wear very long dresses, and as no time was to be lost, the soldiers being on his heels, she hastily concealed him beneath the folds of her dress. Mrs. Cogan was in her affections a Royalist, but her husband, who was then out upon his estate, belonged to the opposite party. Observing the approach of the soldiers, he made towards the house, and together they entered the room where the lady was sitting, who affected surprise at their intrusion. The men immediately announced their business, stating that Prince Charles had been traced very near the house, and as he must be concealed upon the premises, they were authorised to make a strict search for him. Assenting with apparent readiness to their object, Mrs. Cogan kept her seat, whilst her husband accompanied the men into every room. At length, having searched the premises in vain, they took their departure, Mr. Cogan going out with them. Being now released from her singular and perilous situation, the lady provided for the security of the fugitive until it was prudent for him to depart, when, furnished with provisions and a change of apparel, he proceeded on his journey to Trent, and after further adventures, from thence to Brighthelmstone, then a poor fishing town, where he embarked for France. After he had reached the Continent Charles rewarded the lady's fidelity by sending her a handsome gold chain and locket having his arms on the reverse, which was long preserved in the family. There was a curious stone in the churchyard at Axminster placed over the remains of a crippled gentleman whose crutches were buried with him, a copy of them being carved on the stone. He was the father of William Buckland, the eminent geologist, who was Dean of Westminster and died in 1856. Our next stage was Honiton, the "town of lace," and we walked quickly onwards for about six miles until we reached the foot of Honiton Hill, a considerable elevation which stood between ourselves and that town; and after an upward gradient of a mile or two we gained a fine view both of the town and the beautiful country beyond, which included Dumpdown Hill, crowned with an ancient circular camp. Several definitions of the word Honiton had been given, but the most acceptable, and perhaps the correct one and certainly the sweetest, was that of the "Honey Town," originating, it was said, at a time when the hills which surrounded the place were covered with thyme, "sweet to the taste and fragrant to the smell; and so attractive to the bees that large quantities of honey were produced there." The bee-farmers even in Saxon times were important personages, for sugar was not imported and honey was the sweetener for all kinds of food and liquor. Honiton, like many other towns, largely consisted of one wide street; and Daniel Defoe, in his journey from London to Land's End, early in the year 1700, described this "town of lace" as large and beautiful, and "so very remarkably paved with small pebbles, that on either side the way a little channel is left shouldered up on the sides of it; so that it holds a small stream of fine running water, with a little square dipping-place left at every door, so that every family in the town has a clear running river just at their own door; and this so much finer, so much pleasanter than that of Salisbury, that in my opinion there is no comparison." The running streams had now disappeared both here and at Salisbury, but we could quite understand why one was so much better than the other, as the water running through Salisbury was practically on the level, while that at Honiton ran down the hill and had ample fall. Lancashire ideas of manufacturing led us to expect to find a number of factories at Honiton where the lace was made for which the town was so famous, but we found it was all being worked by hand by women and girls, and in private houses. We were privileged to see some very beautiful patterns that were being worked to adorn fashionable ladies in London and elsewhere. The industry was supposed to have been introduced here originally by Flemish refugees in the fifteenth century, and had been patronised by Royalty since the marriage of Queen Charlotte in 1761, who on that occasion wore a Honiton lace dress, every flower on which was copied from nature. We were informed by a man who was standing near the "Dolphin Inn," where we called for tea, that the lace trade was "a bigger business before the Bank broke," but he could not tell us what bank it was or when it "broke," so we concluded it must have been a local financial disaster that happened a long time ago. The Roman road from Bath to Exeter passed through Honiton, and the weekly market had been held on each side of that road from time immemorial; the great summer fair being also held there on the first Wednesday and Thursday after July 19th. A very old custom was observed on that occasion, for on the Tuesday preceding the fair the town crier went round the town carrying a white glove on a pole and crying: O yes! The Fair is begun, And no man dare to be arrested Until the Fair is done, while on the Friday evening he again went round the town ringing his bell, to show that the fair was over. The origin of this custom appeared to be shrouded in mystery, as we could get no satisfactory explanation, but we thought that those three days' grace must have served as an invitation to evil-doers to visit the town. The church contained the tomb of Thomas Marwood, who, according to an inscription thereon, "practised Physick and Chirurgery above seventy-five years, and being aged above 105 years, departed in ye Catholic Faith September ye 18th Anno Domini 1617." Marwood became famous in consequence of his having--possibly, it was suggested, by pure accident--cured the Earl of Essex of a complaint that afflicted him, for which service he was presented with an estate in the neighbourhood of Honiton by Queen Elizabeth. The "Dolphin Inn" at Honiton was where we made our first practical acquaintance with the delectable Devonshire clotted cream, renewed afterwards on every possible occasion. The inn was formerly the private mansion of the Courtenay family, and its sign was one of the family crests, "a Dolphin embowed" or bent like a bow. This inn had been associated with all the chief events of the town and neighbourhood during the past three centuries, and occupied a prominent position near the market cross on the main road. In January 1688 the inn had been willed to Richard Minify, and after his death to his daughter Ann Minify, and it was in that year that William, Prince of Orange, set sail for England, and landed at Torbay in Devonshire. The advanced guard of his army reached Honiton on October 19th, and the commander, Colonel Tollemache, and his staff occupied the "Dolphin." William was very coldly received by the county families in Devonshire, as they remained strongly attached to the Jacobite cause, and to demonstrate their adhesion to the House of Stuart they planted Scotch fir trees near their mansions. On the other hand, many of the clergy sympathised with the rebellion, and to show their loyalty to the cause they planted avenues of lime trees from the churchyard gate to the church porch. James II, whom William came to replace, wrote in his memoirs that the events that happened at Honiton were the turning-point of his fortunes, and it was at the "Dolphin" that these events culminated, leading to the desertion of the King's soldiers in favour of William. It seemed strange that a popular song set to a popular tune could influence a whole army, and incidentally depose a monarch from his throne. Yet such was the case here. [Illustration: EXAMPLES OF HONITON LACE. From specimens kindly lent by Mrs. Fowler, of Honiton. The lower example is a corner of a handkerchief specially made for Queen Mary.] Lieutenant-General Richard Talbot, who was in Ireland in 1685, had recommended himself to his bigoted master, James II, by his arbitrary treatment of the Protestants in that country, and in the following year he was created Earl of Tyrconnel, and, being a furious Papist, was nominated by the King to the Lord Lieutenancy of Ireland. In 1688 he was going to Ireland on a second expedition at the time that the advanced guard of William of Orange reached Honiton, and when the advanced guard of King James's English army was at Salisbury. It was at this critical period that Lord Wharton, who has been described as "a political weathercock, a bad spendthrift, and a poet of some pretensions," joined the Prince of Orange in the Revolution, and published this famous song. He seems to have been a dissolute man, and ended badly, although he was a visitor at the "Dolphin" at that time, with many distinguished personages. In the third edition of the small pamphlet in which the song was first published Lord Wharton was described "as a Late Viceroy of Ireland who has so often boasted himself upon his talent for mischief, invention, and lying, and for making a certain 'Lilliburlero' song with which, if you will believe himself, he sung a deluded Prince out of three kingdoms." It was said that the music of the song was composed by Henry Purcell, the organist of Westminster Abbey, and contributed not a little to the success of the Revolution. Be this as it may, Burnet, then Bishop of Salisbury, wrote: It made an impression on the King's army that cannot be imagined.... The whole army, and at last the people, both in city and country, were singing it perpetually ... never had so slight a thing so great an effect. Purcell's music generally was much admired, and the music to "Lilli Burlero," which was the name of the song, must have been "taking" and a good tune to march to, for the words themselves would scarcely have had such a momentous result. It was a long time before it died out in the country districts, where we could remember the chorus being sung in our childhood's days. A copy of the words but not the music appeared in Percy's _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_: Ho! broder Teague, dost hear de decree? Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- Dat we shall have a new deputie, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. _Chorus_: Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la, Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la. Ho! by Shaint Tyburn, it is de Talbote: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- And he will cut all de English troate: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Dough by my shoul de English do praat, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- De law's on dare side, breish knows what: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. But if dispense do come from de Pope, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- We'll hang Magna Charta and dem in a rope: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. For de good Talbot is made a lord, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- And with brave lads is coming a-board: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Who in all France have taken a sware, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- Dat dey will have no Protestant heir: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Ara! but why does he stay behind? Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Ho! by my shoul 'tis a Protestant wind: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore. Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- And we shall have commissions gillore: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. And he dat will not go to de mass, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- Shall be turn out and look like an ass: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Now, now de hereticks all go down, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. By Chrish and Shaint Patrick, de nation's our own: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. Dare was an old Prophecy found in a bog, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- "Ireland shall be rul'd by an ass and a dog": Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. And now dis Prophecy is come to pass, Lilli burlero, bullen a-la-- For Talbot's de dog, and James is de ass: Lilli burlero, bullen a-la. _Chorus after each verse_: Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la, Lero lero, lilli burlero, lero lero, bullen a-la. Lilliburlero and Bullen a-la were said to have been words of distinction used among the Irish Papists in their massacre of the Protestants in 1641--a massacre which gave renewed strength to the traditions which made the name of Bloody Mary so hated in England. In 1789 George III halted opposite the "Dolphin" to receive the loyal greetings of the townspeople, and on August 3rd, 1833, the Princess Victoria, afterwards Queen, stayed there to change horses; the inn was also the leading rendezvous at the parliamentary elections when Honiton returned two members to Parliament. In the eighteenth century the inn was often the temporary home of Sir William Yonge and Sir George Yonge, his equally famous son, and of Alderman Brass Crosby, Lord Mayor of London, each of whom was M.P. for Honiton. The family of Yonge predominated, for whom Honiton appeared to have been a pocket borough, and a very expensive one to maintain, as Sir George Yonge, who was first returned in 1754, said in his old age that he inherited £80,000 from his father, that his wife brought him a similar amount, and Government also paid him £80,000, but Honiton had swallowed it all! A rather numerous class of voters there were the Potwallers or Potwallopers, whose only qualification was that they had boiled their pots in the parish for six months. Several attempts were made to resist their claim to vote, but they were unsuccessful, and the matter was only terminated by the Reform Bill of 1832; so possibly Sir George had to provide the inducement whereby the Potwallopers gave the family their support during the full term in which he served the free and independent electors of Honiton in Parliament. A hospital for lepers, founded as early as the fourteenth century, was now used for the deserving poor; and near the old chapel, attached to the hospital cottages, the place was pointed out to us where the local followers of the Duke of Monmouth who were unfortunate enough to come under the judgment of the cruel Judge Jeffreys were boiled in pitch and their limbs exhibited on the shambles and other public places. We had a comparatively easy walk of sixteen miles to Exeter, as the road was level and good, with only one small hill. For the first four miles we had the company of the small river Otter, which, after passing Honiton, turned here under the highway to Ottery St. Mary, on its course towards the sea. The county of Devon is the third largest in England, and having a long line of sea-coast to protect, it was naturally warlike in olden times, and the home of many of our bravest sailors and soldiers. When there was no foreign enemy to fight they, like the Scots, occasionally fought each other, and even the quiet corner known as the Fenny Bridges, where the Otter passed under our road, had been the scene of a minor battle, to be followed by a greater at a point where the river Clyst ran under the same road, about four miles from Exeter. In the time of Edward VI after the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII changes were made in religious services, which the West-country people were not prepared to accept. On Whit-Sunday, June 9th, 1549, the new service was read in the church of Sampford Courtenay for the first time. The people objected to it, and compelled the priest to say mass as before, instead of using the Book of Common Prayer, which had now become law. Many other parishes objected likewise, and a rebellion broke out, of which Humphrey Arundel, the Governor of St. Michael's Mount in Cornwall, took the lead. Their army of 10,000 men marched on to Exeter and besieged it, and they also occupied and fortified Clyst St. Mary and sent up a series of demands to the King. Lord Russell, who had been glutted with the spoils of the monasteries, and was therefore keen in his zeal for the new order, was sent with a small force accompanied by three preachers licensed to preach in such places as Lord Russell should appoint; but he was alarmed at the numbers opposed to him, and waited at Honiton until the arrival of more troops should enable him to march to the relief of Exeter. Being informed that a party of the enemy were on the march to attack him, Russell left the town to meet them, and found some of them occupying Fenny Bridges while the remainder were stationed in the adjoining meadow. He was successful in winning the fight, and returned to Honiton to recruit. He then attacked the rebels on Clyst Heath and defeated them, but it was a hard-fought fight, and "such was the valour of these men that the Lord Grey reported himself that he never, in all the wars he had been in, did know the like." The rebels were mercilessly butchered and the ringleaders executed--the Vicar of St. Thomas' by Exeter, a village we passed through the following morning, who was with the rebels, being taken to his church and hanged from the tower, where his body was left to dangle for four years. We had been walking in the dark for some hours, but the road was straight, and as we had practically had a non-stop walk from Honiton we were ready on our arrival at Exeter for a good supper and bed at one of the old inns on the Icknield Way, which, with several churches, almost surrounded the Cathedral. (_Distance walked thirty-eight miles_.) _Saturday, November 11th._ Exeter, formerly known as the "City of the West" and afterwards as the "Ever-Faithful City," was one of the most interesting places we had visited. It had occupied a strong strategical position in days gone by, for it was only ten miles from the open sea, sufficient for it to be protected from sudden attacks, yet the river Exe, on which it is situated, was navigable for the largest ships afloat up to about the time of the Spanish Armada. Situated in the midst of a fine agricultural country, it was one of the stations of the Romans, and the terminus of the ancient Icknield Way, so that an army landed there could easily march into the country beyond. Afterwards it became the capital of the West Saxons, Athelstan building his castle on an ancient earthwork known--from the colour of the earth or rock of which it was composed--as the "Red Mound." His fort, and the town as well, were partially destroyed in the year 1003 by the Danes under Sweyn, King of Denmark. Soon after the Norman invasion William the Conqueror built his castle on the same site--the "Red Mound"--the name changing into the Norman tongue as Rougemont; and when King Edward IV came to Exeter in 1469, in pursuit of the Lancastrian Earls Clarence and Warwick, who escaped by ship from Dartmouth, he was, according to Shakespeare's _Richard III_, courteously shown the old Castle of Rougemont by the Mayor. We could not requisition the services of his Worship at such an early hour this morning, but we easily found the ruins of Rougemont without his assistance; though, beyond an old tower with a dungeon beneath it and a small triangular window said to be of Saxon workmanship, very little remained. The ruins had been laid out to the best advantage, and the grounds on the slope of the ancient keep had been formed into terraces and planted with flowers, bushes, and trees. As this work had originally been carried out as far back as the year 1612, the grounds claimed to be the oldest public gardens in England: the avenues of great trees had been planted about fifty years later. Perkin Warbeck was perhaps one of the most romantic characters who visited Exeter, for he claimed to be Richard, Duke of York, who, he contended, was not murdered in the Tower of London, as generally supposed. As the Duke he claimed to be more entitled to the Crown of England than Henry VII, who was then on the throne, Perkin Warbeck, on the other hand, was described as the son of a Tournai Jew, but there seemed to be some doubt about this. In any case the Duchess of Burgundy acknowledged him as "her dear nephew," and his claim was supported by Charles VIII of France and James IV of Scotland; from the former he received a pension, and from the latter the hand of his relative Lady Catherine Gordon in marriage. [Illustration: ATHELSTAN'S TOWER.] He arrived at Exeter on September 27th, 1497, with 7,000 men, and after burning the North Gate he forced his way through the city towards the Castle, but was defeated there by Sir Richard Courtenay, the Earl of Devon, and taken prisoner. For some mysterious reason it was not until November 3rd, 1499, more than two years after the battle, that he was hanged for treason, at Tyburn. Another strange incident was that when King Henry VII came to Exeter after the battle, and the followers of Perkin Warbeck were brought before him with halters round their necks and bare-headed, to plead for mercy, he generously pardoned them and set them at liberty. The fighting in the district we had passed through last night occurred in 1549, the second year of the reign of King Edward VI. A pleasing story was related of this King, to the effect that when he was a boy and wanted something from a shelf he could not quite reach, his little playfellow, seeing the difficulty, carried him a big book to stand upon, that would just have enabled him to get what he wanted; but when Edward saw what book it was that he had brought he would not stand upon it because it was the "Holy Bible." The religious disturbances we have already recorded were not confined to the neighbourhood of Exeter, but extended all over England, and were the result of an Act of Parliament for which the people were not prepared, and which was apparently of too sweeping a character, for by it all private Masses were abolished, all images removed from churches, and the Book of Common Prayer introduced. It was the agitation against this Act that caused the 10,000 Cornish and Devonian men, who were described as rebels, incited also by their priests, to besiege the city of Exeter, and to summon the Mayor and Council to capitulate. This the "Ever-Faithful City" refused to do, and held out for thirty-six days, until Lord Russell and Lord Grey appeared on the scene with the Royal army and raised the siege. In 1643, during the Civil War, Exeter surrendered to Prince Maurice, the nephew of Charles I, and three years later capitulated to the Army of the Parliament on condition that the garrison should march out with all the honours of war. The unhappy wife of Charles I arrived at Exeter in 1644, having a few days previously bidden her husband "Good-bye" for the last time, a sorrowful parting which we had heard about at Abingdon, where it had taken place, and whither Charles had accompanied her from Oxford. She stayed at Bedford House in Exeter, where she was delivered of a daughter, who was named Henrietta, being baptized in the cathedral in a magnificent new font erected especially for the occasion. The Queen left the city on July 14th, and sailed from Falmouth to France, where she stayed at the Court of Louis XIV. Twelve days later the King reached Exeter, and called to see his infant daughter, and he again stayed at Bedford House on his return from Cornwall on September 17th, 1645. [Illustration: EXETER CATHEDRAL, WEST FRONT.] In 1671 Charles II, his son, also passed through Exeter, and stayed to accept a gift of £500 from the city as a testimony of its loyalty and gratitude for his restoration and return; and the "Merrie Monarch" afterwards sent the city a portrait of his sister, the unfortunate Henrietta, to whom he was passionately attached. As Duchess of Orleans she had an unhappy life, and her somewhat sudden death was attributed to poison. Her portrait, painted by Lely, was still hanging in the Guildhall, and was highly prized as one of the greatest treasures of the city. We went to see the Cathedral, but were rather disappointed with its external appearance, which seemed dark and dismal compared with that of Salisbury. A restoration was in progress, and repairs were being carried out with some light-coloured and clean-looking stone, not of a very durable nature, which looked quite beautiful when new, but after being exposed to the weather for a few years would become as dull and dark-looking as the other. The interior of the cathedral, however, was very fine, and we were sorry we had not time to explore it thoroughly. Some very old books were preserved in it--the most valuable being a Saxon manuscript called _Codex Exoniensis_, dating from the ninth century, and also the _Exeter Domesday_, said to be the exact transcript of the original returns made by the Commissioners appointed by William the Conqueror at the time of the Survey, from which the great Domesday was completed. The minstrel gallery dated from the year 1354, and many musical instruments used in the fourteenth century were represented by carvings on the front, as being played by twelve angels. The following were the names of the instruments: cittern, bagpipe, clarion, rebec, psaltery, syrinx, sackbut, regals, gittern, shalm, timbral, and cymbals! Some of these names, my brother remarked, were not known to modern musicians, and they would be difficult to harmonise if all the instruments had to be played at the same time; his appreciation of the bagpipe was doubtless enhanced, seeing that it occupied the second position. The cathedral also possessed a marvellous and quaint-looking clock some hundreds of years old, said to have been the production of that famous monk of Glastonbury who made the wonderful clock in Wells Cathedral, which on striking the hour sets in motion two armoured figures of knights on horseback, armed with spears, who move towards each other in a circle high above the central arches, as if engaged in a tournament. The clock at Exeter showed the hour of the day and the age of the moon, and upon the face or dial were two circles, one marked from 1 to 30 for the days of the month, and the other figured I to XII twice over for the hours. In the centre was a semi-globe representing the earth, round which was a smaller ball, the moon, painted half gold and half black, which revolved during each month, and in turning upon its axis showed the various phases of the luminary that it represented. Between the two circles was a third ball representing the sun, with a fleur-de-lys which pointed to the hours as the sun, according to the ancient theory, daily revolved round the earth; underneath was an inscription relating to the hours: PEREUNT ET IMPUTANTUR (They pass, and are placed to our account.) The notes telling the hours were struck upon the rich-toned bell named "Great Peter," which was placed above, the curfew or _couvre-feu_ ("cover-fire") being also rung upon the same bell. The curfew bell was formerly sounded at sunset, to give notice that all fires and lights must be extinguished. It was instituted by William the Conqueror and continued during the reign of William Rufus, but was abolished as a "police regulation" in the reign of Henry I. The custom was still observed in many places, and we often heard the sound of the curfew bell, which was almost invariably rung at eight o'clock in the evening. The poet Gray commences his "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard" with-- The curfew tolls the knell of parting day; and one of the most popular dramatic pieces in the English language, written by an American schoolgirl born in 1850, was entitled "The Curfew Bell." She described how, in Cromwell's time, a young Englishwoman, whose sweetheart was doomed to die that night at the tolling of the curfew bell, after vainly trying to persuade the old sexton not to ring it, prevented it by finding her way up the tower to the belfry and holding on to the tongue of the great bell. Meanwhile the old sexton who had told her "the curfew bell _must_ ring tonight" was pulling the bell-rope below, causing her to sway backwards and forwards in danger of losing her life while murmuring the words "Curfew shall _not_ ring to-night": O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow, Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; And her sweet young face, still haggard with the anguish it had worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light. "Go! Your lover lives!" cried Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet; Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered: "Darling, you have saved me; curfew will not ring to-night!" The "Great Peter" bell was presented to Exeter Cathedral in the fifteenth century by Bishop Peter Courtenay, and when re-cast in 1676 weighed 14,000 lb., being then considered the second largest bell in England. The curfew was tolled on "Great Peter" every night at eight o'clock, and after that hour had been sounded and followed by a short pause, the same bell tolled the number of strokes correspending with the day of the month. This was followed by another short pause, and then eight deliberate strokes were tolled. Ever since the time of William the Conqueror there appeared to have been too many churches in Exeter, for it was said that thirty-two were known to have existed at the time of the Conquest, and that in the year 1222 the Bishop reduced the number to nineteen, of which sixteen still remained at the time of our visit, while the sites of the remaining three could be located. A further effort to reduce the number was made in the time of the Commonwealth, when an Act was passed to reduce them to four, but the accession of King Charles II prevented this from being carried out. One of the old churches stood at the top of a small elevation known as Stepcote Hill, approached by a very narrow street, one half of which was paved and the other formed into steps leading to the "Church of St. Mary's Steps," the tower of which displayed a sixteenth-century clock. On the dial appeared the seated figure of King Henry VIII guarded by two soldiers, one on each side, who strike the hours; they are commonly known as "Matthew the Miller and his two sons." [Illustration: THE GUILDHALL, EXETER. "We thought the old Guildhall even more interesting than the Cathedral."] Matthew was a miller who lived in the neighbourhood, and was so regular in his goings out and comings in that the neighbours set their time by him; but there was no doubt that the figure represented "Old King Hal," and it seemed strange that the same king should have been associated by one of the poets with a miller who had a mill in our county town of Chester: There dwelt a Miller hale and bold Beside the river Dee, He work'd and sang from morn till night, No lark more blithe than he; And this the burden of his song For ever used to be-- "I envy nobody, no, not I, And nobody envies me!" "Thou'rt wrong, my friend," cried Old King Hal "Thou'rt wrong as wrong can be; For could my heart be light as thine I'd gladly change with thee. And tell me now what makes thee sing With voice so loud and free, While I am sad though I'm the King, Beside the river Dee!" The Miller smil'd and doff'd his cap, "I earn my bread," quoth he; "I love my wife, I love my friend, I love my children three; I owe no penny I cannot pay; I thank the river Dee, That turns the mill that grinds the corn To feed my babes and me." "Farewell," cried Hal, and sighed the while, "Farewell! and happy be-- But say no more, if thou'd be true, That no one envies thee; Thy mealy cap is worth my crown, Thy mill, my kingdom's fee; Such men as thou are England's boast, Oh Miller of the Dee." [Illustration: MATTHEW THE MILLER AND HIS TWO SONS.] We thought the old Guildhall even more interesting than the Cathedral, the old Icknield Way, which entered the city by the High Street, passing close to it; and in fact, it seemed as if the Hall, which formed the centre of the civic life of the city, had encroached upon the street, as the four huge pillars which supported the front part were standing on the outside edge of the footpath. These four pillars had the appearance of great solidity and strength, as also had the building overhead which they supported, and which extended a considerable distance to the rear. The massive entrance door, dated 1593, thickly studded with large-headed nails, showed that the city fathers in former times had a lively sense of self-protection from troublesome visitors. But the only besiegers now were more apparent than real, as the covered footpath formed a substantial shelter from a passing shower. Behind this a four-light window displayed the Arms of France as well as those of England; there were also emblazoned in stained glass the arms of the mayors, sheriffs, and recorders from 1835 to 1864. The city arms were ratified in 1564, and in the Letters Patent of that date they are thus described: Uppon a wreathe golde and sables, a demye-lyon gules, armed and langued azure crowned, supportinge a bale thereon a crosse botone golde, mantelled azure doubled argent, and for the supporters two pagassis argent, their houes and mane golde, their winges waney of six argent and azure. [Illustration: PRINCESS HENRIETTA. (_From the painting by Lely, in the Guildhall_.)] The motto "Semper Fidelis" (ever faithful) had been bestowed on the city by Queen Elizabeth, and Exeter has ever since been described as "The Ever-Faithful City." There were a number of fine old paintings in the Hall, but the one which attracted the most attention was that of the Princess Henrietta by Sir Peter Lely. In the turret above was hung the old chapel bell, which served as an alarm in case of fire, and bore an inscription in Latin, "Celi Regina me protege queso ruina," or "O Queen of Heaven, protect me, I beseech thee, from harm." The insignia case in the Guildhall contained four maces, two swords of state, a cap of maintenance, a mayor's chain and badge, four chains for the sergeants-at-mace, a loving cup, and a salver. The mayor's chain dated from 1697. The older sword of the two was given to the city by Edward IV on the occasion of his visit in 1470, "to be carried before the mayor on all public occasions." The sheath is wrapped in crape, the sword having been put in mourning at the Restoration; it was annually carried in the procession to the cathedral on the anniversary of the death of Charles I until the year 1859, when the service in commemoration of his death was removed from the Prayer-Book. The other sword was given to the city by Henry VII on his visit in 1497, after his victory over Perkin Warbeck, when "he heartily thanked his citizens for their faithful and valuable service done against the rebels"--promised them the fullness of his favour and gave them a sword taken from his own side, and also a cap of maintenance, commanding that "for the future in all public places within the said city the same should be borne before the mayor, as for a like purpose his noble predecessor King Edward the Fourth had done." The cap of maintenance was formerly worn by the sword-bearer on ceremonial occasions, but was now carried on a cushion. The cap was made of black beaver, and was preserved inside the embroidered crimson velvet cover made in 1634. The sword of Edward IV was said to be the only existing sword of the early English monarchs. [Illustration: THE COMMON SEAL OF EXETER.] The beautiful silver chains worn by the sergeants-at-mace with alternate links of X and R, standing for Exeter, date from about the year 1500, and were previously worn by the city waits. Exeter is the only city that has four mace-bearers, and the common seal of the city is one of the oldest in the kingdom, dating from 1170, and still in use. The civic ceremonies, and especially those on Assize Sunday, are very grand affairs. On that occasion the Judges and Corporation attend the cathedral in state. The Judges arrive in the state-coach attired in their robes and wigs, attended by the county sheriff in uniform, and escorted by trumpeters and a posse of police. The Corporation march from the Guildhall, the mayor in his sable robe and the sheriff in purple, attended by their chaplains and the chief city officials in their robes, and accompanied also by the magistrates, aldermen, and councillors. In front are borne the four maces, Henry VII's sword and the cap of maintenance, escorted by the city police. The Judges on their arrival at the great west door of the cathedral are met by the Bishop and other dignitaries of the Church in their robes and conducted to their official places in the choir, whilst the beautiful organ peals out the National Anthem. On the third Tuesday in July a curious custom was observed, as on that day a large white stuffed glove decorated with flowers was hung in front of the Guildhall, the townspeople having been duly warned, to the sound of the drum and fife, that the great Lammas Fair, which lasted for three days, had begun; the glove was then hoisted for the term of the fair. Lammas Day falls on the first day of August, and was in Saxon times the Feast of First-fruits; sometimes a loaf of bread was given to the priest in lieu of first-fruit. It seems to have been a similar fair to that described at Honiton, but did not appear to carry with it freedom from arrest during the term of the fair, as was the case in that town. The records or archives possessed by the city of Exeter are almost continuous from the time of Edward I, and have been written and compiled in the most careful manner. They are probably the most remarkable of those kept by the various towns or cities in the provinces. They include no less than forty-nine Royal Charters, the earliest existing being that granted by Henry II in the twelfth century, and attested by Thomas à-Becket. A herb (_Acorus calamus_ or sweet sage), which was found in the neighbourhood of Exeter, was highly prized in former times for its medicinal qualities, being used for diseases of the eye and in intermittent fevers. It had an aromatic scent, even when in a dried state, and its fragrant leaves were used for strewing the floors of churches. It was supposed to be the rush which was strewn over the floor of the apartments occupied by Thomas à-Becket, who was considered luxurious and extravagant because he insisted upon a clean supply daily; but this apparent extravagance was due to his visitors, who were at times so numerous that some of them were compelled to sit on the floors. It was quite a common occurrence in olden times for corpses to be buried in churches, which caused a very offensive smell; and it might be to counteract this that the sweet-smelling sage was employed. We certainly knew of one large church in Lancashire within the walls of which it was computed that 6,000 persons had been buried. It was astonishing how many underground passages we had heard of on our journey. What strange imaginations they conjured up in our minds! As so few of them were now in existence, we concluded that many might have been more in the nature of trenches cut on the surface of the land and covered with timber or bushes; but there were old men in Exeter who were certain that there was a tunnel between the site of the old castle and the cathedral, and from there to other parts of the city, and they could remember some of them being broken into and others blocked up at the ends. We were also quite sure ourselves that such tunnels formerly existed, but the only one we had actually seen passed between a church and a castle. It had just been found accidentally in making an excavation, and was only large enough for one man at a time to creep through comfortably. There were a number of old inns in Exeter besides the old "Globe," which had been built on the Icknield Way in such a manner as to block that road, forming a terminus, as if to compel travellers to patronise the inn; and some of these houses were associated with Charles Dickens when he came down from London to Exeter in 1835 to report on Lord John Russell's candidature for Parliament for the _Morning Observer_. The election was a very exciting one, and the great novelist, it was said, found food for one of his novels in the ever-famous Eatonswill, and the ultra-abusive editors. Four years afterwards Dickens leased a cottage at Alphington, a village about a mile and a half away from Exeter, for his father and mother, who resided there for three and a half years. Dickens frequently came to see them, and "Mr. Micawber," with his ample seals and air of importance, made a great impression on the people of the village. Dickens freely entered into the social life of Exeter, and he was a regular visitor on these occasions at the old "Turk's Head Inn," adjoining the Guildhall, where it was said he picked up the "Fat Boy" in _Pickwick_. Mrs. Lupin of the "Blue Dragon" appeared as a character in _Martin Chuzzlewit_, and "Pecksniff" was a local worthy whom he grossly and unpardonably caricatured. [Illustration: "MILE END COTTAGE," ALPHINGTON.] On leaving Exeter we crossed the river by the Exe bridge and followed the course of that stream on our way to regain the sea-coast, entering the suburb of St. Thomas the Apostle, where at a church mentioned in 1222 as being "without the walls," we saw the tower from which the vicar was hanged for being concerned in the insurrection of 1549. At Alphington we had pointed out to us the "Mile End Cottage," formerly the residence of the parents of Charles Dickens, and then walked on to Exminster, expecting from its name to find something interesting, but we were doomed to disappointment. On the opposite side of the river, however, we could see the quaint-looking little town of Topsham, which appeared as if it had been imported from Holland, a country which my brother had visited seven years previously; we heard that the principal treasures stored in the houses there were Dutch tiles. Ships had formerly passed this place on their way to Exeter, but about the year 1290 Isabella de-Fortibus, Countess of Exeter, having been offended by the people there, blocked up the river with rocks and stones, thereby completely obstructing the navigation and doing much damage to the trade of Exeter. At that time cloths and serges were woven from the wool for which the neighbourhood of Exeter was famous, and exported to the Continent, the ships returning with wines and other merchandise; hence Exeter was at that time the great wine-importing depot of the country. The weir which thus blocked the river was still known as the "Countess Weir," and Topsham--which, by the way, unlike Exeter, absolutely belonged to the Earls of Devon--increased in importance, for ships had now to stop there instead of going through to Exeter. The distance between the two places is only about four miles, and the difficulty appeared to have been met in the first instance by the construction of a straight road from Exeter, to enable goods to be conveyed between that city and the new port. This arrangement continued for centuries, but in 1544 a ship canal was made to Topsham, which was extended and enlarged in 1678 and again in 1829, so that Exeter early recovered its former position, as is well brought out in the finely-written book of the _Exeter Guild of Merchant Adventurers_, still in existence. Its Charter was dated June 17th, 1599, and by it Queen Elizabeth incorporated certain merchants under the style of "The Governors Consuls, and Society of the Merchant Adventurers of the Citye and County of Exeter, traffiqueing the Realme of Fraunce and the Dominions of the French Kinge." The original canal was a small one and only adapted for boats carrying about fifteen tons: afterwards it was enlarged to a depth of fifteen feet of water--enough for the small ships of those days--for even down to Tudor times a hundred-ton boat constituted a man-of-war. This canal made Exeter the fifth port in the kingdom in tonnage, and it claimed to be the first lock canal constructed in England. Its importance gradually declined after the introduction of railways and the demand for larger ships, and the same causes affected Topsham, its rival. [Illustration: POWDERHAM CASTLE.] Leaving Exminster, we had a delightful walk to Powderham, the ancient seat of the Courtenay family, the Earls of Devon, who were descended from Atho, the French crusader. The first of the three branches of this family became Emperors of the West before the taking of Constantinople by the Turks, the second intermarried with the royal family of France, and the third was Reginald Courtenay, who came to England in the twelfth century and received honours and lands from Henry II. His family have been for six centuries Earls of Devon, and rank as one of the most honoured in England. We called to see the little church at Powderham, which stood quite near the river side, and which, like many others, was built of the dark red sandstone peculiar to the district. There were figures in it of Moses and Aaron, supposed originally to be placed to guard the two tablets containing the Ten Commandments; and there were the remains of an old screen, but the panels had suffered so severely that the figures and emblems could not be properly distinguished. There was also under an arch a very old monument, said to be that of the famous Isabella de-Fortibus, Countess of Devon, who died in 1293. She was the sister of the last Earl Baldwin de Redvers, and married William de-Fortibus, Earl of Albemarle, in 1282. Her feet rested on a dog, while on either side her head were two small child-angels, the dog and children being supposed to point to her as the heroine of a story recorded in a very old history of Exeter: An inhabitant of the city being a very poor man and having many children, thought himself blessed too much in that kind, wherefore to avoid the charge that was likely to grow upon him in that way absented himself seven years together from his wife. But then returning, she within the space of a year afterwards was delivered of seven male children at a birth, which made the poor man to think himself utterly undone, and thereby despairing put them all in a basket with full intent to have drowned them: but Divine Providence following him, occasioned a lady then within the said city coming at this instant of time in his way to demand of him what he carried in that basket, who replied that he had there whelps, which she desired to see, who, after view perceiving that they were children, compelled the poor man to acquaint her with the whole circumstances, whom, when she had sharply rebuked for such his humanity, presently commanded them all to be taken from him and put to nurse, then to school, and so to the university, and in process of time, being attained to man's estate and well qualified in learning, made means and procured benefices for every one of them. The language used in this story was very quaint, and was probably the best tale related about Isabella, the Countess of Devon; but old "Isaacke," the ancient writer, in his history remarks that it "will hardly persuade credit." We could not learn what became of William her husband; but Isabella seemed to have been an extremely strong-minded, determined woman, and rather spiteful, for it was she who blocked the river so that the people of Exeter, who had offended her, could have neither "fishing nor shipping" below the weir. On one occasion, when four important parishes had a dispute about their boundaries, she summoned all their principal men to meet her on the top of a swampy hill, and throwing her ring into the bog told them that where it lay was where the parishes met; the place is known to this day as "Ring-in-the-Mire." We passed by Powderham Castle, and saw some magnificent trees in the park, and on a wooded hill the Belvedere, erected in 1773. This was a triangular tower 60 feet high, with a hexagonal turret at each corner for sight-seeing, and from it a beautiful view over land and sea could be obtained. With regard to the churches in this part of England, we learned that while Somerset was noted for towers and Cornwall for crosses, the churches in Devonshire were noted for screens, and nearly every church we visited had a screen or traces where one had existed, some of them being very beautiful, especially that in Kenton church, which we now went to inspect. Farther north the images and paintings on the screens, and even the woodwork, had been badly disfigured, but some of the old work in Devon had been well preserved. The screens had been intended to protect the chancel of the church from the nave, to teach people that on entering the chancel they were entering the most sacred part of the church, and images and paintings were placed along the screens. The same idea, but in another direction, was carried out on the outside of the churches; for there also the people, scarcely any of whom in those days could read or write, were taught, by means of images and horrible-looking gargoyles worked in stone placed on the outside of the church and steeple, that everything vile and wicked was in the world outside the church. The beautiful pictures and images inside the church were intended to show that everything pure and holy was to be found within: the image of the patron saint being generally placed over the doorway. [Illustration: BELVEDERE TOWER.] [Illustration: KENTON CHURCH.] The village of Kenton was hidden in a small dell, and possessed a village green, in the centre of which were the remains of an old cross. The church tower was one hundred feet high, surmounted by an unusually tall pinnacle at each corner, the figure of a saint appearing in a niche, presumably for protection. Kenton must have been a place of some importance in early times, for Henry III had granted it an annual fair on the feast of All Saints. The magnificent screen in the church not only reached across the chancel, but continued across the two transepts or chapels on either side, and rose in tiers of elaborate carving towards the top of the chancel arch. No less than forty of its panels retained their original pictures of saints and prophets, with scrolls of Latin inscriptions alternating with verses from the Old Testament and clauses from the Apostles' Creed. Most of the screen was fifteenth-century work, and it was one of the finest in the county; much of the work was Flemish. On it were images of saints, both male and female, and of some of the prophets, the saints being distinguishable by the nimbus or halo round their heads, and the prophets by caps and flowing robes after the style of the Jewish costumes in the Middle Ages. There was also a magnificent pulpit of about the same date as the screen, and so richly designed as to equal any carved pulpit in Europe. It was said to have been carved from the trunk of a single oak tree and ornamented in gilt and colours. The number of screens in the churches near the sea-coast caused us to wonder whether some of them had been brought by sea from Flanders or France, as we remembered that our Cheshire hero, and a famous warrior, Sir Hugh de Calveley, who kept up the reputation of our county by eating a calf at one meal, and who died about the year 1400, had enriched his parish church with the spoils of France; but the lovely old oak furniture, with beautifully figured panels, some containing figures of saints finely painted, which he brought over, had at a recent "restoration" (?) been taken down and sold at two pounds per cartload! We sincerely hoped that such would not be the fate of the beautiful work at Kenton. We now came to Star Cross, a place where for centuries there had been a ferry across the River Exe, between the extreme west and east of Devon. The rights of the ferry had formerly belonged to the abbots of Sherborne, who had surmounted the landing-place with a cross, which had now disappeared. The ferry leads by a rather tortuous passage of two miles to Exmouth, a town we could see in the distance across the water; but troublesome banks of sand, one forming a rabbit warren, obstructed the mouth of the river. We also passed through Cofton, a small village noted for its cockles, which the women gathered along the shore in a costume that made them resemble a kind of mermaid, except that the lower half resembled that of a man rather than a fish. About two miles from Cofton was the village of Mamhead, with its obelisk built in 1742, one hundred feet high, on the top of a spur of the Great Haldon Hill. The rector of the church here at one time was William Johnson Temple, often mentioned in _Boswell's Life of Johnson_. He was the grandfather of Frederick Temple, Bishop of Exeter at the time we passed through that city, afterwards Bishop of London, and finally Archbishop of Canterbury, to whose harsh voice and common sense we had once listened when he was addressing a public meeting in Manchester. In the churchyard at Mamhead was an enormous yew tree, over eight hundred years old. In 1775, when Boswell came to see Lord Lisburne at Mamhead Park, and stayed at the vicarage, he was so much impressed by the size and magnificence of this great tree, that he made a vow beneath its great branches "never to be drunk again"--a vow he soon forgot when he was out of sight of the tree. We soon arrived at the pretty little town of Dawlish, and perhaps it was its unique appearance that gave us the impression that we had reached another of the prettiest places we had visited. There we halted for refreshments and for a hurried excursion in and about the town, as we were anxious to reach Torquay before night, where we had decided to stay until Monday morning. We walked towards the source of the water, which comes down from the higher lands in a series of pretty little waterfalls, spreading out occasionally into small lakes adorned at the sides with plots of grass and beds of flowers. The name Dawlish, we learned, came from two Cornish words meaning "deep stream," or, as some have it, "Devil's Water"; and behind the town on Haldon Hill was the "Devil's Punchbowl," from which descended the water that passed through the town, but which is in much too pleasant a position, we thought, to be associated with his satanic majesty. [Illustration: THE CONGER ROCK, DAWLISH] Modern Dawlish (though "Doflisc" appears in early charters) only dated from the year 1810, when the course of a small stream was changed, and the pretty waterfalls made; rustic bridges were placed over it and houses built near the banks; this scheme, which was intended to make the fortunes of the prospectors and of the inhabitants generally, was completed at the beginning of November in that year. But, sad to relate, before nine o'clock on the morning of November 10th in that same year scarcely a vestige of the improvements remained, and in place of a small rippling stream came a great river, which swept away four houses with stables and other buildings and eight wooden bridges. It seemed almost as if the devil had been vexed with the prospectors for interfering with his water, and had caused this devastation to punish them for their audacity. But a great effort was made in 1818, and a more permanent scheme on similar lines was completed; and Dawlish as we saw it in 1871 was a delightful place suggestive of a quiet holiday or honeymoon resort. Elihu Burritt, in his _Walk from London to Land's End_, speaks well of Dawlish; and Barham, a local poet and a son of the renowned author of _Ingoldsby Legends_, in his legend "The Monk of Haldon," in the July number of _Temple Bar_ in 1867, wrote: Then low at your feet, From this airy retreat, Reaching down where the fresh and the salt water meet, The roofs may be seen of an old-fashioned street; Half village, half town, it is--pleasant but smallish, And known where it happens to _be_ known, as Dawlish. A place I'd suggest As one of the best For a man breaking down who needs absolute rest, Especially too if he's weak in the chest; Torquay may be gayer, But as for the air It really can not for a moment compare With snug little Dawlish--at least so they say there. [Illustration: ON THE COAST NEAR DAWLISH.] The light-coloured cliffs of Dorsetshire had now given place to the dark red sandstone cliffs of Devonshire, a change referred to by Barham in "The Monk of Haldon," for he wrote: 'Tis certainly odd that this part of the coast, While neighbouring Dorset gleams white as a ghost, Should look like anchovy sauce spread upon toast. We were now bound for Teignmouth, our next stage; and our road for a short distance ran alongside, but above, the seashore. The change in the colour of the cliffs along the sea-coast reminded my brother of an incident that occurred when he was going by sea to London, about nine years before our present journey. He had started from Liverpool in a tramp steamboat, which stopped at different points on the coast to load and unload cargo; and the rocks on the coast-line as far as he had seen--for the boat travelled and called at places in the night as well as day--had all been of a dark colour until, in the light of a fine day, the ship came quite near Beachy Head, where the rocks were white and rose three or four hundred feet above the sea. He had formed the acquaintance of a young gentleman on board who was noting every object of interest in a diary, and who, like my brother, was greatly surprised at the white cliffs with the clear blue sky overhead. Presently the captain came along, and the young man asked him why the rocks were white. "Well, sir," said the captain, "the sea is as deep there as the rocks are high, and they are so dangerous to ships in the dark that the Government has ordered them to be whitewashed once a month to prevent shipwreck." Out came the pocket-book, and as the captain watched the passenger write it down, my brother looked hard in the captain's face, who never moved a muscle, but a slight twinkle in one of his eyes showed that he did not want to be asked any questions! The Devon red sandstone was not very durable, and the action of the sea had worn the outlying rocks into strange shapes. Before reaching Teignmouth we had some good views of the rocks named "the Parson and the Clerk," the history of which was by no means modern, the legend being told in slightly different ways: A great many years ago the vicar of Dawlish and his clerk had been to Teignmouth to collect tithes, and were riding home along the cliffs on a dark wet night when they lost their way. Suddenly they came to a house that they did not remember having seen before. The windows were bright and light, and they could hear the shouts and laughter of a very merry company within; they were just wishing themselves inside when a window was thrown open and they were invited to come in, an invitation they very willingly accepted, and they soon began to enjoy themselves, drinking deeply and waxing merrier every moment, the parson singing songs that were quite unfit for a priest, entirely forgetting the sanctity of his calling, while the clerk followed his master's example. They stayed long, and when, with giddy heads and unsteady legs, they rose to depart, the parson said he was sure he could not find the way, and he must have a guide, even if it were the devil himself. The man who had invited them into the house said he would put them on the right way for Dawlish, and led them to the top of the road, and telling them to go straight on, immediately disappeared. When they had gone a little way, they thought the tide uncommonly high, as it reached their feet, although a minute before they were sure they were on dry land; and the more they attempted to ride away the faster rose the water! Boisterous laughter now echoed around, and they shouted for help, and a bright flash of lightning revealed the figure of their guide, who was none other than the devil himself, jeering and pointing over the black stormy sea into which they had ridden. Morning came, and their horses were found quietly straying on the sands, but neither the parson nor his clerk were ever seen again: but meantime two isolated rocks, in which were seen their images, had risen in the sea as a warning to their brethren of future generations to have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness. From the Teignmouth side the Parson appeared seated in a pulpit the back of which was attached to the cliff, while under him was an arch just like the entrance to a cave, through which the sea appeared on both sides; while the poor Clerk was some distance farther out at sea and much lower down. We thought it was a shame that the parson should be sitting up there, watching the poor clerk with the waves dashing over him, as if perfectly helpless to save himself from drowning. Still, that was the arrangement of the three-decker pulpit so common in the churches of a hundred years ago--the clerk below, the parson above. Our road terminated on the beach at Teignmouth, and near St. Michael's Church, where on a tablet appeared the figure of a ship, and underneath the following words: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF RICHARD WESTLAKE, AGED 27 YEARS, MASTER OF THE BRIG "ISLA," ALSO JOHN WESTLAKE, HIS BROTHER, AGED 24 YEARS, WHO LOST THEIR LIVES IN THE SAID BRIG WHICH FOUNDER'D IN THE STORM ON THE 29TH DAY OF OCTOBER 1823 WITHIN SIGHT OF THIS CHURCH. Readers be at all times ready, for you Know not what a day may bring forth. Teignmouth was a strange-looking town, and the best description of it was by the poet Winthrop Mackworth Praed, who described it as seen in his time from the top of the Ness Rock: A little town was there, O'er which the morning's earliest beam Was wandering fresh and fair. No architect of classic school Had pondered there with line and rule-- The buildings in strange order lay, As if the streets had lost their way; Fantastic, puzzling, narrow, muddy, Excess of toil from lack of study. Where Fashion's very latest fangles Had no conception of right angles. Possibly the irregular way in which the old portion of the town had been built was due to the inroads of the French, who had invaded and partially destroyed the town on two occasions; for in those days the English coast between Portland and Plymouth was practically undefended. By way perhaps of reprisal Teignmouth contributed seven ships and 120 mariners to Edward III's expedition to Calais in 1347. [Illustration: "THE PARSON AND CLERK ROCK," DAWLISH.] That unfortunate young poet John Keats visited Teignmouth in 1818. He had begun to write his poem "Endymion" in the Isle of Wight the year before, and came here to revise and finish it. The house where he resided, with its old-fashioned door and its three quaint bow windows rising one above another, was pointed out to us, as well as a shop at that time kept by the "three pretty milliners" in whom poor Keats was so greatly interested. Endymion was a beautiful youth whom Selene, the moon, wrapped in perpetual sleep that she might kiss him without his knowledge. Keats, who was in bad health when he came to Teignmouth, was reported to have said he could already feel the flowers growing over him, and although he afterwards went to Rome, the warmer climate failed to resuscitate him, and he died there in 1820, when only twenty-five years old. We had expected to have to walk thirty miles that day, via Newton Abbot, before reaching Torquay; but were agreeably surprised to find we could reduce the mileage to twenty-three and a half by crossing a bridge at Teignmouth. The bridge was quite a formidable affair, consisting of no less than thirty-four arches, and measured 1,671 feet from shore to shore. It was, moreover, built of beams of wood, and as it had been in existence since the year 1827, some of the timber seemed rather worn. The open rails at the sides and the water below, and our solemn thoughts about Keats, tended to give us the impression that we were not altogether safe, and we were glad when we reached the other side, and landed safely at St. Nicholas, or rather at the villages which formed the southern portion of Teignmouth. With the Ness Rock, a huge dark red rock with a nose turned upwards towards the sky, to our left, we walked briskly along the coast road towards Torquay in order to reach that town before dark, as we were obliged to find a good inn to stay in over the Sunday. Continuing along this road, with fine views in the neighbourhood of Anstey's Cove, we soon arrived at Torquay, of which we had heard such glowing descriptions on our journey. Near the entrance to the town we overtook a clergyman, with whom we entered into conversation, telling him of our long journey, in which he was much interested. We asked him if he could recommend us a good hotel where we could stay until Monday morning, as we did not walk on Sundays; and he suggested that we should stay at one of the boarding-houses. We had never thought of staying at these places, but when he said he knew of one that would just suit us, and would be pleased to accompany us there, we were delighted to accept his kind offer. [Illustration: TEIGNMOUTH NESS LIGHTHOUSE.] I knew my brother was rather suspicious of boarding-houses, and when we arrived opposite the rather nice house where the clergyman had taken us I noticed he looked rather critically at the windows both below and above. When he saw that the curtains were drawn equally on each side of the windows and all the blinds drawn down to almost exactly the same distance, he was quite satisfied, as he had often said it was a sure sign that there was somebody in the house who was looking after it, and that similar order would be certain to reign within. [Illustration: ANSTEY'S COVE. TORQUAY.] The clergyman was evidently well known to the people at the house, and an introduction to the master and mistress, and (shall we record?) to their two daughters as well, placed us immediately upon the best of terms with the whole family. We received every attention, and after a good tea we had a walk in and around the town, and were well pleased with the appearance of Torquay. It was a much larger place than we had anticipated. In a stationer's shop window we saw exhibited a small _Guide to Torquay_, published in Manchester, and sold for the small sum of one penny, from which we learned that the population of Torquay had risen enormously during the past few years, for while it registered 11,294 in 1858 and 16,682 in 1868, in 1871, the year of our journey, it stood at 26,477; and it further informed us that the distance from there to London was 216 miles, and that "the express which leaves Paddington at 9.15 and arrives at Torquay at 4.34 has a third-class carriage for Torquay"--an example of the speed of express trains in those days. The _Guide_ must have only just been issued, evidently in advance for the coming year, as it gave the Torquay High Water Table from May to October inclusive for 1872, and the following precise account of Anstey's Cove. ANSTIS COVE Anstis Cove deserves a special visit. Passing from the Strand, under an avenue of trees opposite the Post-Office, and leaving the Public Gardens on the right hand, the visitor will go as straight as the road will permit till he comes in sight of St. Matthias' Church. The road to the right leads down to Anstis Cove. He will notice among the ferns and trees a door in the mossy bank, like the entrance to a hermitage in the wilderness. It is the door of the venerable Kent's Cavern. Persons who are now employed by the Torquay Natural History Society will guide the visitor and supply candles. The vast cavern is six hundred and fifty feet in length, with small caverns and corridors, which are most dangerous without a guide, rugged, wet, and slippery. Some years ago the skeleton of a woman who had lost her way was found. No one now enters without a guide. In some parts the cavern is so low that the visitors are obliged to crawl and squeeze, but in other parts it is 30 feet high. The eminent geologist, Dr. Buckland, here discovered the bones of rhinoceros, elephants, lions, wolves, bears, hippopotami, and hyaenas--beasts of prey that haunted the forests of prehistoric England before the times of the Celts. Rude implements which have been found in the cavern prove that in very remote times it was the resort of savage tribes. The cavern is now in process of careful examination by qualified persons, at the expense of the British Association, to whom they make periodical reports. Fossil remains which have been, discovered may be seen at the museum of the Natural History Society, in Park Street, between the hours of ten and four daily. But Anstis Cove is the object of our search. Proceeding down the shady lane, taking the first turning on the left hand, we find a gateway leading to a footpath among all kinds of bushes and shady trees, down to the pebbly beach. The lofty limestone cliff of Walls Hill is before us--such rocks as are nowhere else to be seen. They seem like huge monsters creeping into the ocean. Here, amongst huge rocks on the shore, are the bathing machines. The water is clear as crystal. Rowing-boats are also here for hire, and here the strata of the neighbouring cliffs hanging over the sea can be examined. Here is a cottage, too, where lobsters and picnic viands may be procured. On the beach the fossil Madrepore is often found. We were the only visitors at the boarding-house, where the cleanliness and the catering were all that could be desired. The young ladies vied with each other to make our visit a pleasant one, and after a good supper we stayed up relating some of our adventures until the clock struck ten, when we retired for a well-earned rest, having walked quite 179 miles that week. (_Distance walked twenty-three and a half miles_.) _Sunday, November 12th._ We rose at our usual early hour this morning, and were downstairs long before our friends anticipated our arrival, for they naturally thought that after our long walk we should have been glad of an extra hour or two's rest; but habit, as in the time of Diogenes, had become second nature, and to remain in bed was to us equivalent to undergoing a term of imprisonment. As boot-cleaning in those days was a much longer operation than the more modern boot-polish has made it, we compromised matters by going out in dirty boots on condition that they were cleaned while we were having breakfast. It was a fine morning, and we were quite enchanted with Torquay, its rocks and its fine sea views on one side, and its wooded hills on the other, with mansions peeping out at intervals above the trees. We could not recall to mind any more beautiful place that we had visited. [Illustration: TORQUAY FROM WALDON HILL IN 1871.] After breakfast we attended morning service at the church recommended by our host, but after travelling so much in the open air the change to the closer atmosphere of a church or chapel affected us considerably. Although we did not actually fall asleep, we usually became very drowsy and lapsed into a dreamy, comatose condition, with shadowy forms floating before us of persons and places we had seen in our travels. The constant changes in position during the first part of the Church Service invariably kept us fairly well alive, but the sermon was always our chief difficulty, as during its delivery no change of posture was required. When the service began, however, we were agreeably surprised to find that the minister who officiated was none other than the clergyman who had so kindly interested himself in finding us lodgings yesterday. This awakened our interest in the service, which we followed as closely as we could; but when the vicar announced his text, beginning with the well-known words, "They that go down to the sea in ships," we were all attention, for immediately our adventures in the North Sea came into our minds, and the ocean, that great work of the Almighty, is so graphically described in that 107th Psalm, and the dangers of the sailors with their fears and hopes so clearly depicted, that we record the whole text, as it appeared in the versified rendering of the Psalms, in the hope that some one may "read, mark, learn and inwardly digest": They that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy their business in great waters; these men see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep. For at His word the stormy wind ariseth, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They are carried up to the heaven, and down again to the deep: and their soul melteth away because of the trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end. So when they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, He delivereth them out of their distress. For He maketh the storm to cease, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad, because they are at rest, and so He bringeth them unto the haven where they would be. O that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness, and declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men. The preacher referred feelingly to a great storm or tornado which had visited the South Coast about six years before, when a large number of ships, sheltering in Torbay, were swept out by a sudden change in the wind and over forty of them were sunk. This happened in the month of January, when drifting snow filled the eyes of the spectators, who were within hearing distance but could render no assistance. The Brixham sailors acted most bravely and saved many lives, but over one hundred people were drowned. We could see that some members of the congregation still mourned the loss of friends who had perished on that sad occasion. We were well pleased with the service, and after a short ramble returned to our lodgings for dinner at one o'clock, afterwards adjourning to the drawing-room, where we were presently joined by our host, who suggested a walk that afternoon to see the beautiful views in the neighbourhood, a proposition to which we readily assented. [Illustration: THE OUTER HARBOUR, BRIXHAM.] But while he was getting ready my brother happened to strike a few chords on the piano, which immediately attracted the attention of the two young ladies, who told us they had seen us at church, where they were in the choir. They were beginning to learn some pieces to sing at Christmas, and, producing a pianoforte copy, asked my brother to play the accompaniment while they tried them over. He made some excuses, but they said they knew he could play as soon as they heard him strike the chords; so, as his excuses were not accepted, he had to submit to the inevitable---not altogether unwillingly. They had only just begun when their father came into the room and claimed our company for the promised walk, and, as I was the only member of the party ready to join him, we went out with the understanding that they would follow us. After walking a short distance I suggested waiting for them, but the gentleman assured me they knew the way he always went on Sundays, and would be sure to find us. I enjoyed the company of our host, as he seemed to know the history of the whole neighbourhood, and possessed a fund of information ready at command concerning every object of interest we saw. He pointed out Portland in the far distance, where convicts worked, and where the stones used for sharpening scythes were produced. He also told me that formerly Torquay consisted merely of a few cottages inhabited by fishermen, but some nobleman bought the place for £13,000, and let the ground in lots on short leases for building purposes. Now that it was covered with fine houses, he received tens of thousands a year from chief rent, while many of the houses would come to his family in a few years' time. It surprised me greatly how much I missed my brother's company. We had never been separated for so long a period during the whole of our journey, and at every turn I found myself instinctively turning round to see if he were following. It was a lovely walk, but when we reached the house on our return, neither my brother nor the young ladies were to be found, and it was nearly time for the five-o'clock tea before they returned. They all looked very pleasant, and assured us they had followed us as promised, and the young ladies seemed able to convince their father that they had done so; but to my mind the matter was never satisfactorily cleared up, and I often reminded my brother in after years about those two young ladies at Torquay, who, by the way, were very good-looking. Many years afterwards some poetry was written by a lady who must have been an authority on the "Little Maids of Devon," for she wrote: Oh! the little maids of Devon, They've a rose in either cheek, And their eyes like bits of heaven Meet your own with glances meek; But within them there are tiny imps That play at hide and seek! Oh! the little maids of Devon, They have skins of milk and cream, Just as pure and clear and even As a pool in Dartmoor stream; But who looks at them is holden With the magic of a dream. Oh! the little maids of Devon, They have honey-coloured hair. Where the sun has worked like leaven. Turning russet tones to fair, And they hold you by the strands of it, And drive you to despair. Oh! the little maids of Devon, They have voices like a dove, And Jacob's years of seven One would serve to have their love; But their hearts are things of mystery A man may never prove! We all attended church again for evening service, and after supper passed the evening singing hymns, in which I was able to join, some of them very beautiful and selected because they had been composed by people connected with the County of Devon. One of them was written by Charlotte Elliott, who died at Torquay in 1871, the year we were there, and still a favourite even in these later years, the first verse being: Just as I am, without one plea But that Thy Blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come. The first vicar of Lower Brixham was the Rev. Henry Francis Lyte, who at fifty-four years of age began to suffer from consumption, and who, when he knew he had not long to live, prayed that he might be enabled to write something that would live to the glory of God after he was dead. As a last resource he had been ordered by the doctors to go to the Riviera, where he died at Nice a month later. The night before he started he preached his farewell sermon, and, returning to his house as the sun was setting over the ships in the harbour, many of which belonged to the fishermen he had laboured amongst for so many years, he sat down and wrote that beautiful hymn: Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me. Then there was the Rev. A.M. Toplady, for some time vicar of Broad Hembury, near Honiton. While walking out with some friends in Somerset, he was caught in a storm, and the party sheltered in a well-known cave by the roadside, where, standing under its rocky entrance, he wrote this famous hymn: Rock of ages, cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee; Let the Water and the Blood, From Thy riven Side which flow'd, Be of sin the double cure, Cleanse me from its guilt and power. All these hymns are sung in every part of the world where the English tongue is spoken. The two ladies were good singers, one soprano and the other contralto, while I sang tenor and my brother tried to sing bass; but, as he explained, he was not effective on the lower notes (nor, as a matter of fact, on the high ones either). He said afterwards it was as much as he could do to play the music without having to join in the singing, and at one point he narrowly escaped finishing two bars after the vocalists. Still we spent a very pleasant evening, the remembrance of which remained with us for many years, and we often caught ourselves wondering what became of those pretty girls at Torquay. NINTH WEEK'S JOURNEY _Monday, November 13th._ From time immemorial Torbay had been a favourite landing-place both for friends and foes, and it was supposed that the Roman Emperors Vespasian, Titus, and Adrian, when on their way to the camp on Milber Downs, had each landed near the place where Brixham now stands. Brixham was the best landing-place in the Bay, and the nearest to the open sea. It was a fishing-place of some importance when Torquay, its neighbour, was little known, except perhaps as a rendezvous of smugglers and pirates. Leland, in his famous _Itinerary_ written in the sixteenth century, after describing the Bay of Torre as being about four miles across the entrance and "ten miles or more in compace," says: "The Fishermen hath divers tymes taken up with theyr nettes yn Torre-bay mussons of harts, whereby men judge that in tymes paste it hath been forest grounds." Clearly much of England has been washed away or has sunk beneath the ocean. Is not this part of the "Lyonesse" of the poets--the country of romance--the land of the fairies? [Illustration: BRIXHAM HARBOUR] In 1588, when the Spanish Armada appeared outside the Bay, there was great excitement in the neighbourhood of Torbay, which grew into frenzy when the first capture was towed in. The _Rosario_, or, to give her the full name, _Nuestra Señora del Rosario_, was a fine galleon manned by 450 men and many gallant officers. She was the _capitana_, or flagship, of the squadron commanded by Don Pedro de Valdez, who had seen much service in the West Indies and who, because of his special knowledge of the English Channel, was of great importance in the council of the Armada. He was a bold, skilful leader, very different from the Commander-in-Chief, and as his ship formed one of the rearguard he took an early part in the fight with the pursuing English. He was badly mauled, losing his foremast and suffering worse by fouling two ships, one of his own squadron, the other a Biscayan; all three were damaged. He demanded assistance of Medina Sidonia, but the weather was rough and the Duke refused. In the darkness the _Rosario_ drove off one or two English attempts to cut her off, but Drake himself in the famous _Revenge_ lay alongside and called upon Valdez to surrender. His reply was a demand for honourable terms, to which Drake answered that he had no time for parley--the Spanish commander must come aboard at once or he would rake her. The name of Drake (El Draque, the Dragon) was enough for the Spaniard, and Valdez, in handing over his sword, took credit to himself that he yielded to the most famous captain of his day. Drake in reply promised good treatment and all the lives of the crew, a thing by no means usual, as can be guessed by the remark of the disgusted Sheriff, when so many prisoners were handed over at Torbay; he wished "the Spaniards had been made into water-spaniels." Drake sent the _Roebuck_ to see the ship safely into Torbay, where she was left in charge of the Brixham fishermen, her powder being secured at once and sent by the quickest of the fishing-boats to our own ships, at that moment badly in need of it. The prisoners were taken round to Torbay, where they were lodged in a building ever afterwards known as the "Spanish barn." [Illustration: STATUE OF WILLIAM, PRINCE OF ORANGE, BRIXHAM, ERECTED ON THE SPOT WHERE HE LANDED.] In 1601 the first squadron organised by the East India Company sailed from Torbay, and in 1667 the Dutch fleet, commanded by De Ruyter, paid the Bay a brief but not a friendly visit, doing some damage. In 1688 another fleet appeared--this time a friendly one, for it brought William, Prince of Orange, who had been invited to occupy the English throne abdicated by James II. We were informed that when his ship approached the shore he spoke to the people assembled there in broken English--very broken--saying, "Mine goot people, mine goot people, I mean you goot; I am come here for your goot, for your goots," and suggested that if they were willing to welcome him they should come and fetch him ashore; whereupon one Peter Varwell ran into the sea, and carried the new King to the shore, gaining much renown for doing so. This happened on November 5th, the date for landing doubtless having been arranged to coincide with the anniversary of the attempt of Guy Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament with gunpowder eighty-three years before, so that bonfire day served afterwards to celebrate the two occasions. The house where William stayed that night was still pointed out in Brixham. In 1690 James II, who had been dethroned and exiled to France, told Tourville, the French Admiral, that if he would take his fleet to the South of England he would find all the people there ready to receive him back again, so he brought his ships off Torbay. Instead of a friendly reception here, he found the people decidedly hostile to James's cause, so he detached two or three of his galleys to Teignmouth, quite a defenceless place, where they committed great ravages and practically destroyed the town. These galleys were a class of boat common in the Mediterranean, where they had been employed ever since the warlike times of the Greeks and Romans. In addition to sails, they were propelled with oars manned by slaves; and a similar class of ship worked by convicts was used by the French down to the middle of the eighteenth century. The men of Teignmouth, who had no wish to be captured and employed as galley slaves, seeing that they were in a hopeless position, retreated inland. Lord Macaulay thus describes the position in his History: The Beacon on the ridge above Teignmouth was kindled, Hey-Tor and Cawsand made answer, and soon all the hill tops of the West were on fire. Messengers were riding all night from deputy lieutenant to deputy lieutenant; and early the next morning, without chief, without summons, five hundred gentlemen and yeomen, armed and mounted, had assembled on the summit of Haldon Hill, and in twenty-four hours all Devonshire was up. It was therefore no wonder that Trouville found his landing opposed by thousands of fierce Devonshire men, who lined the shores and prevented him from landing his troops; the expedition was a complete failure, and he returned to France. In those days, when railways and telegraphy were unknown, the whole country could be aroused very quickly and effectively by those beacon fires. The fuel was always kept ready for lighting on the Beacon hills, which were chosen so that the fire on one hill could be seen from the other. On our journey through England we passed many of these beacons, then used for more peaceful purposes. In 1815 another ship appeared in Torbay, with only one prisoner on board, but a very important one. The ship was the British man-of-war the _Bellerophon_, and the prisoner the great Napoleon Bonaparte. We had already come to the conclusion that Torquay, with its pretty bay, was the most delightful place we had visited; and even Napoleon, who must have been acquainted with the whole of Europe, and who appeared in Torbay under what must have been to him depressing circumstances, exclaimed when he saw it, "_Enfin, voilà un beau pays_!" (What a beautiful country this is!) He arrived on July 24th, five weeks after the Battle of Waterloo, and departed on August 8th from Plymouth, having been transferred to the _Northumberland_ for the voyage to his prison home in St. Helena, a South Atlantic island 760 miles from any other land, and where he died in 1821. During the few days' visit of the _Bellerophon_ at Torbay, thousands upon thousands of people came by land and water in the hope of seeing the great general who had so nearly made himself master of the whole of Europe, and although very few of them saw Napoleon, they all saw the lovely scenery there, and this, it was said, laid the foundation of the fortunes of the future Torquay. [Illustration: NAPOLEON ON THE _BELLEROPHON_. _From the Painting by Orchardson_.] We had intended leaving Torquay for Totnes by the main road, which passed through Paignton, but our host informed us that even if we passed through it, we should not see Paignton in all its glory, as we were twelve years too early for one pudding and thirty-nine years too late for the next. We had never heard of Paignton puddings before, but it appeared that as far back as 1294 Paignton had been created a borough or market town, and held its charter by a White-Pot Pudding, which was to take seven years to make, seven years to bake, and seven years to eat, and was to be produced once every fifty years. In 1809 the pudding was made of 400 lbs. of flour, 170 lbs. of suet, 140 lbs. of raisins, and 240 eggs. It was boiled in a brewer's copper, and was kept constantly boiling from the Saturday morning until the Tuesday following, when it was placed on a gaily decorated trolley and drawn through the town by eight oxen, followed by a large and expectant crowd of people. But the pudding did not come up to expectations, turning out rather stodgy: so in 1859 a much larger pudding was made, but this time it was baked instead of boiled, and was drawn by twenty-five horses through the streets of the town. One feature of the procession on that occasion was a number of navvies who happened to be working near the town and who walked in their clean white slops, or jackets, and of course came in for a goodly share of the pudding. One of the notables of Paignton was William Adams, one of the many prisoners in the hands of the Turks or Saracens in the time when the English Liturgy was compiled. It was said that the intercession "for all prisoners and captives" applied especially to them, and every Sunday during the five years he was a prisoner at Algiers, William Adams' name was specially mentioned after that petition. The story of his escape was one of the most sensational of its time. Adams and six companions made a boat in sections, and fastened it together in a secluded cove on the seacoast; but after it was made they found it would only carry five of them, of whom Adams was of course one. After the most terrible sufferings they at length reached "Majork," or Majorca Island, the Spaniards being very kind to them, assisting them to reach home, where they arrived emaciated and worn out. The two men left behind were never heard of again. We had often heard the name "Bill Adams," and wondered whether this man could have been the original. The county historian of those days had described him as "a very honest sensible man, who died in the year of our Lord 1687, and his body, so like to be buried in the sea and to feed fishes, lies buried in Paignton churchyard, where it feasteth worms." [Illustration: PAIGNTON OLD TOWER] We could see Paignton, with its ivy-covered Tower, all that was left of the old Palace of the Bishops of Exeter, but we did not visit it, as we preferred to cross the hills and see some other places of which we had heard, and also to visit Berry Pomeroy Castle on our way to Totnes. Behind Torquay we passed along some of the loveliest little lanes we had ever seen. They must have presented a glorious picture in spring and summer, when the high hedges were "hung with ferns and banked up with flowers," for even in November they were very beautiful. These by-lanes had evidently been originally constructed for pedestrian and horse traffic, but they had not been made on the surface of the land, like those in Dorset and Wilts, and were more like ditches than roads. We conjectured that they had been sunk to this depth in order that pirates landing suddenly on the coast could see nothing of the traffic from a distance. But therein consisted their beauty, for the banks on either side were covered with luxuriant foliage, amongst which ferns and flowers struggled for existence, and the bushes and trees above in many places formed a natural and leafy arch over the road below. The surface of the roads was not very good, being naturally damp, as the drying influences of the wind and sun could scarcely penetrate to such sheltered positions, and in wet weather the mud had a tendency to accumulate; but we did not trouble ourselves about this as we walked steadily onwards. The roads were usually fairly straight, but went up and down hill regardless of gradients, though occasionally they were very crooked, and at cross-roads, in the absence of finger-posts or any one to direct us, it was easy to take a wrong turning. Still it was a real pleasure to walk along these beautiful Devonshire lanes. [Illustration: A TYPICAL DEVONSHIRE LANE.] In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along T'other day, much in want of a subject for song, Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain-- Sure, marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. In the first place 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet; For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, there is no turning round. But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride; And e'en then 'tis a chance but they sit in a pother. And joke and cross and run foul of each other. But thinks I too, the banks, within which we are pent, With bud, blossom, berry, are richly besprent; And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam. Looks lovely, when deck'd with the comforts of home. In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows: The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose, And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife Soothes the roughness of care--cheers the winter of life. Then long be the journey, and narrow the way, I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay; And whate'er others say, be the last to complain. Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. Late though it was in the year, there was still some autumn foliage on the trees and bushes and some few flowers and many ferns in sheltered places; we also had the golden furze or gorse to cheer us on our way, for an old saying in Devonshire runs-- When furze is out of bloom Then love is out of tune, which was equivalent to saying that love was never out of tune in Devonshire, for there were three varieties of furze in that county which bloomed in succession, so that there were always some blooms of that plant to be found. The variety we saw was that which begins to bloom in August and remains in full beauty till the end of January. Beside the fire with toasted crabs We sit, and love is there; In merry Spring, with apple flowers It flutters in the air. At harvest, when we toss the sheaves, Then love with them is toss't; At fall, when nipp'd and sear the leaves, Un-nipp'd is love by frost. Golden furze in bloom! O golden furze in bloom! When the furze is out of flower Then love is out of tune. Presently we arrived at Cockington, a secluded and ancient village, picturesque to a degree, with cottages built of red cobs and a quaint forge or smithy for the village blacksmith, all, including the entrance lodge to the squire's park, being roofed or thatched with straw. Pretty gardens were attached to all of them, and everything looked so trim, clean, and neat that it was hard to realise that such a pretty and innocent-looking place had ever been the abode of smugglers or pirates; yet so it was, for hiding-holes existed there which belonged formerly to what were jocularly known as the early "Free Traders." Near Anstey's Cove, in Torbay, we had seen a small cave in the rocks known as the "Brandy Hole," near which was the smuggler's staircase. This was formed of occasional flights of roughly-hewn stone steps, up which in days gone by the kegs of brandy and gin and the bales of silk had been carried to the top of the cliffs and thence conveyed to Cockington and other villages in the neighbourhood where the smugglers' dens existed. [Illustration: COCKINGTON VILLAGE.] Possibly Jack Rattenbury, the famous smuggler known as "the Rob Roy of the West," escaped to Cockington when he was nearly caught by the crew of one of the King's ships, for the search party were close on his heels when he saved himself by his agility in scaling the cliffs. But Cockington was peaceful enough when we visited it, and in the park, adorned with fine trees, stood the squire's Hall, or Court, and the ivy-covered church. Cockington was mentioned in Domesday Book, and in 1361 a fair and a market were granted to Walter de Wodeland, usher to the Chamber of the Black Prince, who afterwards created him a knight, and it was probably about that time that the present church was built. The screen and pews and pulpit had formerly belonged to Tor Mohun church, and the font, with its finely carved cover and the other relics of wood, all gave us the impression of being extremely old, and as they were in the beginning. The Cary family were once the owners of the estate, and in the time of the Spanish Armada George Cary, who was afterwards knighted by Queen Elizabeth, with Sir John Gilbert, at that time the owner of Tor Abbey, took charge of the four hundred prisoners from the Spanish flagship _Rosario_ while they were lodged in the grange of Tor Abbey. [Illustration: COMPTON CASTLE.] From Cockington we walked on to Compton Castle, a fine old fortified house, one of the most interesting and best preserved remains of a castellated mansion in Devonshire. One small portion of it was inhabited, and all was covered with ivy, but we could easily trace the remains of the different apartments. It was formerly the home of the Gilbert family, of whom the best-known member was Sir Humphrey Gilbert, a celebrated navigator and mathematician of the sixteenth century, half-brother of Sir Walter Raleigh, and knighted by Queen Elizabeth for his bravery in Ireland. Sir Humphrey afterwards made voyages of discovery, and added Newfoundland, our oldest colony, to the British Possessions, and went down with the _Squirrel_ in a storm off the Azores. When his comrades saw him for the last time before he disappeared from their sight for ever in the mist and gloom of the evening, he held a Bible in his hand, and said cheerily, "Never mind, boys! we are as near to Heaven by sea as by land!" We had a splendid walk across the hills, passing through Marldon, where the church was apparently the burial-place of the Gilbert family, of which it contained many records, including an effigy of Otho Gilbert, who was Sheriff of the County and who died in 1476. But the chief object of interest at Marldon appeared to be a six-barred gate called the Gallows Gate, which stood near the spot where the three parishes converged: Kingskerswell, Cockington, and Marldon; near this the culprits from those three places were formerly hanged. We looked for the gate in the direction pointed out to us, but failed to find it. Some people in the village thought its name of the Gallows Gate was derived from an incident which occurred there many years ago. A sheep-stealer had killed a sheep, and was carrying it home slung round his shoulders when he came to this gate. Finding it fastened, he was climbing over, when in the dark his foot slipped and the cord got across his neck. The weight of the carcase as it fell backwards, added to his own, caused him to be choked, so that he was literally hanged upon the gate instead of the gallows for what was in those days a capital offence. After passing the Beacon Hill, we had very fine views over land and sea, extending to Dartmoor and Dartmouth, and with a downward gradient we soon came to Berry Pomeroy, the past and present owners of which had been associated with many events recorded in the history of England, from the time of William the Conqueror, who bestowed the manor, along with many others, on one of his followers named Ralph de Pomeroy. It was he who built the Castle, where the Pomeroys remained in possession until the year 1547, when it passed into the hands of the Seymour family, afterwards the Dukes of Somerset, in whose possession it still remained. After the Pomeroys disappeared the first owner of the manor and castle was Edward Seymour, afterwards the haughty Lord Protector Somerset, who first rose in royal favour by the marriage of his eldest sister Jane Seymour to Henry VIII, and that monarch appointed him an executor under his will and a member of the Council on whom the duty devolved of guarding the powers of the Crown during the minority of his son and successor Edward VI, who only reigned six years, from 1547 to 1553; and Seymour's father, Sir John, had accompanied King Henry VIII to his wars in France, and to the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Henry VIII had great faith in his brother-in-law, and after the King's death Seymour quickly gained ascendency over the remaining members of the Council, and was nominated Lord Treasurer of England, and created Earl of Somerset, Feb. 17, 1567; two days afterwards he obtained a grant of the office of Earl Marshal of England for life, and on the 12th of March following he procured a patent from the young King, who was his nephew, constituting himself the Protector of the Realm, an office altogether new to the Constitution and that gave him full regal power. It was about that time that the English Reformation began, and the free circulation of the Bible was permitted. The Latin Mass was abolished, and the English Liturgy substituted, and 42 Articles of Faith were adopted by the English Protestants. Protector Somerset was a Protestant, and always took advice of Archbishop Cranmer, and care was taken that the young King was instructed in the Reformed Religion. King Henry VIII had arranged in his lifetime that Edward VI should marry Mary, the young Queen of Scotland, and Somerset raised an army and went to Scotland to secure her person: but after fighting a battle he only just managed to win, he found that the proposed union was not looked upon favourably in Scotland, and that the young Queen had been sent away to France for greater safety. Meantime Somerset's brother Thomas Seymour, High Admiral of England, had married Catherine Parr, widow of Henry VIII, without the knowledge of the Protector; and this, with the fierce opposition of the Roman Catholics, and of the Barons, whose taking possession of the common lands he had opposed, and the offence given to the population of London through demolishing an ancient parish church in the Strand there, so that he could build a fine mansion for himself, which still bears the name of Somerset House, led to the rapid decline of his influence, and after causing his brother to be beheaded he himself shared a similar fate. Berry Pomeroy was a lovely spot, and the foliage was magnificent as we walked up to the castle and then to the village, while every now and then we came to a peep-hole through the dense mass of bushes and trees showing a lovely view beyond. The ruins of the castle were covered with ivy, moss, and creeping plants, while ferns and shrubs grew both inside and out, forming the most picturesque view of the kind that could be imagined. We were fortunate in securing the services of an enthusiastic and intelligent guide, who told us many stories of events that had taken place there, some of them of a sensational character. He showed us the precipice, then rapidly becoming obscured by bushes and trees, where the two brothers Pomeroy, with their horses, were dashed to pieces. The castle had been besieged for a long time, and when the two brothers found they could hold out no longer, rather than submit to the besiegers they sounded their horns in token of surrender, and, blindfolding their horses, mounted and rode over the battlements into the depths below! The horses seemed to know their danger, and struggled to turn back, but they were whipped and spurred on to meet the same dreadful fate as their masters. One look over the battlements was enough for us, as it was horrible to contemplate, but our guide seemed to delight in piling on the agony, as most awful deeds had been done in almost every part of the ruins, and he did not forget to tell us that ghosts haunted the place at night. [Illustration: GUARD CHAMBER, BERRY POMEROY] In a dismal room, or dungeon, under what was known as St. Margaret's Tower, one sister had imprisoned another sister for years, because of jealousy, and in another place a mother had murdered her child. He also told us a story of an old Abbot who had been concerned in some dreadful crime, and had been punished by being buried alive. Three days were given him in which to repent, and on each day he had to witness the digging in unconsecrated ground of a portion of his grave. He groaned horribly, and refused to take any food, and on the third morning was so weak that he had to be carried to watch the completion of the grave in which he was to be buried the following day. On the fourth day, when the monks came in to dress him in his burial garments and placed him on the bier, he seemed to have recovered a little, and with a great effort he twisted himself and fell off. They lifted him on again, and four lay brothers carried him to the side of the deep grave. As he was lowered into the tomb a solemn dirge was sung by the monks, and prayers were offered for mercy on his sinful soul. The earth was being dropped slowly on him when a faint groan was heard; for a few moments the earth above him seemed convulsed a little, and then the grave was closed. The ghost of the blood-stained Fontebrant and that of his assassin were amongst those that haunted Pomeroy Castle and its lonely surroundings, and cries and groans were occasionally heard in the village below from the shrieking shade of the guilty Eleanor, who murdered her uncle. At midnight she was said to fly from the fairies, who followed her with writhing serpents, their tongues glistening with poisonous venom and their pestiferous breath turning black everything with which they came in contact, and thus her soul was tortured as a punishment for her horrible deeds. Amongst the woods glided the pale ghosts of the Abbot Bertrand and the mother with her murdered child. What a difference there is in guides, and especially when no "tips" are in sight! You go into a church, for instance, and are shown round in a general kind of a way and inquiries are answered briefly. As you leave the building you hand the caretaker a silver coin which he did not expect, and then, conscience-stricken, he immediately becomes loquacious and asks if you saw an object that he ought to have shown you, and it generally ends in your turning back and seeing double the objects of interest you saw before, and possibly those in the graveyard as well. Then there are others whose hearts are in their work, and who insist upon your seeing all there is to be seen and hearing the history or legends connected with the place. Such was our guide that morning; he was most enthusiastic when giving us his stories, but we did not accept his invitation to come some evening to see the ghosts, as we could not imagine a more lonely and "boggarty" spot at night than amongst the thick bushes and foliage of Berry Castle, very beautiful though it looked in the daylight; nor did we walk backwards three times round the trunk of the old "wishing tree," and in the process wish for something that we might or might not get; but we rewarded our guide handsomely for his services. [Illustration: BERRY POMEROY CHURCH.] We had a look in the old church, where there were numerous tombs of the Seymour family; but the screen chiefly attracted our attention. The projection of the rood-loft still remained on the top, adorned with fan tracery, and there was also the old door which led up to it. The lower panels had as usual been much damaged, but the carved figures could still be recognised, and some of the original colouring in gold, vermilion, green, and white remained. The figures were said to represent St. Matthew with his club, St. Philip with the spear, St. Stephen with stones in his chasuble, St. Jude with the boat, St. Matthias with the battle-axe, sword, and dagger, St. Mary Magdalene with the alabastrum, St. Barbara with the tower, St. Gudala with the lantern, and the four doctors of the Western Church. The ancient pulpit was of the same period as the screen, as were also the old-fashioned, straight-backed, oak pews. [Illustration: THE SCREEN, BERRY POMEROY CHURCH] The vicarage, which was as usual near the church, must have been a very healthy place, for the Rev. John Prince, author of _The Worthies of Devon_, published in 1901, who died in 1723, was vicar there for forty-two years, and was succeeded by the Rev. Joseph Fox, who died in 1781, aged eighty-four, having been vicar for fifty-eight years. He was followed by the Rev. John Edwards, who was vicar for fifty-three years, and died in 1834 aged eighty-three. This list was very different from that we had seen at Hungerford, and we wondered whether a parallel for longevity in three successive vicars existed in all England, for they averaged fifty-one years' service. [Illustration: PARLIAMENT COTTAGES.] There were some rather large thatched cottages in Berry Pomeroy village, where Seymour, who was one of the first men of rank and fortune to join the Prince of Orange, met the future King after he had landed at Brixham on November 5th, 1688. A conference was held in these cottages, which were ever afterwards known as "Parliament Buildings," that meeting forming William's first Parliament. Seymour was at that time M.P. for Exeter, and was also acting as Governor of that city. When William arrived there four days afterwards, with an army of 15,000 men, he was awarded a very hearty reception, for he was looked upon as more of a deliverer than a conqueror. It was only a short distance from Berry Pomeroy to Totnes, our next stage, and we were now to form our first acquaintance with the lovely valley of the River Dart, which we reached at the foot of the hill on which that picturesque and quaint old town was situated. Formerly the river had to be crossed by a rather difficult ford, but that had been done away with in the time of King John, and replaced by a narrow bridge of eight arches, which in its turn had been replaced in the time of William and Mary by a wider bridge of three arches with a toll-gate upon it, where all traffic except pedestrians had to contribute towards the cost of its erection. A short distance to the right after crossing the bridge was a monument to a former native of the town, to whom a sorrowful memory was attached; it had been erected by subscription, and was inscribed: IN HONOR OF WILLIAM JOHN WILLS NATIVE OF TOTNES THE FIRST WITH BURKE TO CROSS THE AUSTRALIAN CONTINENT HE PERISHED IN RETURNING, 28 JUNE 1861 When the Australian Government offered a reward for an exploration of that Continent from north to south, Wills, at that time an assistant in the Observatory at Melbourne, volunteered his services along with Robert O'Hara Burke, an Irish police inspector. Burke was appointed leader of the expedition, consisting of thirteen persons, which started from Melbourne on August 20th, 1860, and in four months' time reached the River Barco, to the east of Lake Eyre. Here it became necessary to divide the party: Burke took Wills with him, and two others, leaving the remainder at Cooper's Creek to look after the stores and to wait there until Burke and his companions returned. They reached Flinders River in February of the following year, but they found the country to be quite a desert, and provisions failed them. They were obliged to return, reaching Cooper's Creek on April 21st, 1861. They arrived emaciated and exhausted, only to find that the others had given up all hope of seeing them again, and returned home. Burke and his companions struggled on for two months, but one by one they succumbed, until only one was left--a man named King. Fortunately he was found by some friendly natives, who treated him kindly, and was handed over to the search-party sent out to find the missing men. The bodies of Burke and Wills were also recovered, and buried with all honours at Melbourne, where a fine monument was erected to their memory. Many of the early settlers in Australia were killed by the aborigines or bushmen, and a friend of ours who emigrated there from our native village many years ago was supposed to have been murdered by them. He wrote letters to his parents regularly for some years, and in his last letter told his friends that he was going farther into the bush in search of gold. For years they waited for further news, which never arrived; and he was never heard of again, to the great grief of his father and mother and other members of the family. It was a hazardous business exploring the wilds of Australia in those days, and it was quite possible that it was only the numerical strength of Burke's party and of the search-party itself that saved them from a similar fate. But many people attributed the misfortunes of the expedition to the number who took part in it, as there was a great prejudice against the number thirteen both at home and abroad. We had often, indeed, heard it said that if thirteen persons sat down to dinner together, one of their number would die! Some people thought that the legend had some connection with the Lord's Supper, the twelve Apostles bringing the number up to thirteen, while others attributed it to a much earlier period. In Norse mythology, thirteen was considered unlucky, because at a banquet in Valhalla, the Scandinavian heaven, where twelve had sat down, Loki intruded and made the number thirteen, and Baldur was killed. The Italians and even the Turks had strong objections to the number thirteen, and it never appeared on any of the doors on the streets of Paris, where, to avoid thirteen people sitting down to dinner, persons named Quatorziennes were invited to make a fourteenth: _Jamais on ne devrait Se mettre a table treize, Mais douze c'est parfait_. My brother thought the saying was only a catch, for it would be equally true to say all would die as one. He was quite prepared to run the risk of being the thirteenth to sit down to dinner, but that was when he felt very hungry, and even hinted that there might be no necessity for the others to sit down at all! But we must return to Totnes and its bridge, and follow the long narrow street immediately before us named Fore Street until we reach "the Arch," or East Gate. The old-fashioned houses to the right and left were a great attraction to my brother, who had strong antiquarian predilections, and when he saw the old church and castle, he began to talk of staying there for the rest of the day and I had some difficulty in getting him along. Fortunately, close at hand there was a quaint Elizabethan mansion doing duty as a refreshment house, with all manner of good things in the windows and the word "Beds" on a window in an upper storey. Here we called for refreshments, and got some coffee and some good things to eat, with some of the best Devonshire cream we had yet tasted. After an argument in which I pointed out the danger of jeopardising our twenty-five-mile average walk by staying there, as it was yet early in the forenoon, we settled matters in this way; we would leave our luggage in Totnes, walk round the town to the objects of greatest interest, then walk to Dartmouth and back, and stay the night on our return, thus following to some extent the example of Brutus, the earliest recorded visitor: Here I stand and here I rest, And this place shall be called Totnes. [Illustration: TOTNES CHURCH WALK] There was no doubt about the antiquity of Totnes, for Geoffrey of Monmouth, the author of the famous old English Chronicle, a compilation from older authors, in his _Historia Britonum_, 1147, began his notes on Totnes not in the time of the Saxons nor even with the Roman Occupation, but with the visit of Brutus, hundreds of years before the Christian era. Brutus of Troy had a strange career. His mother died in giving him birth, and he accidentally shot his father with an arrow when out hunting. Banished from Italy, he took refuge in Greece, where it was said he married a daughter of the King, afterwards sailing to discover a new country. Arriving off our shores, he sailed up the River Dart until he could get no farther, and then landed at the foot of the hill where Totnes now stands. The stone on which he first set foot was ever afterwards known as Brutus's stone, and was removed for safety near to the centre of the town; where for ages the mayor or other official gave out all royal proclamations from it, such as the accessions to the throne--the last before our visit having been that of her most gracious Majesty Queen Victoria. The Charter of Totnes was dated 1205, the mayor claiming precedence over the Lord Mayor of London, for Totnes, if not the oldest, was one of the oldest boroughs in England. It was therefore not to be wondered at that the Corporation possessed many curios: amongst them were the original ring to which the bull was fastened when bull-baiting formed one of the pastimes in England; a very ancient wooden chest; the staves used by the constables in past generations; a curious arm-chair used by the town clerk; a list of mayors from the year 1377 to the present time; two original proclamations by Oliver Cromwell; many old placards of important events; an exceptionally fine fourteenth-century frieze; a water-pipe formed out of the trunk of an elm tree; the old stocks; and an engraving representing the arrival of William of Orange at Brixham. There was a church at Totnes in the time of the Conquest, for it was mentioned in a charter by which "Judhel de Totnais," the Norman Baron to whom the Conqueror gave the borough, granted the "Ecclesiam Sancte Marie de Toteneo" to the Benedictine Abbey at Angers; but the present church was built in 1432 by Bishop Lacy, who granted a forty-days' indulgence for all who contributed to the work. His figure and coat-of-arms were still to be seen on the church tower, which was 120 feet high, with the words in raised stone letters, "I made the Tour." There was also a figure of St. Loe, the patron Saint of artificers in brass and iron, who was shown in the act of shoeing a horse. The corporation appeared to have had control of the church, and in 1450 had erected the altar screen, which was perhaps the most striking object there, for after the restoration, which was in progress at the time of our visit, of nine stone screens in Devon churches, excepting that in Exeter Cathedral, it claimed to be the most beautiful. In the church there was also an elaborate brass candelabrum for eighteen lights with this suitable inscription: Thy Word is a Lantern to my Feet And a light unto my Path. _Donum Dei et Deo_ 17th May 1701. The corporation has also some property in the church in the shape of elaborately carved stalls erected in 1636; also an ancient Bible and Prayer Book handsomely bound for the use of the mayor, and presented April 12th, 1690, by the Honble. Lady Anne Seymour of Berry Pomeroy Castle, whose autograph the books contain; and in the Parvise Chamber attached to the church there were about 300 old books dating from 1518 to 1676, one a copy of Sir Walter Raleigh's _History of the World_, published in 1634. The carved stone pulpit, of the same date as the screen, had at one time been divided into Gothic panels, on which were shields designed to represent the twelve sons of Israel: Judah was represented by a lion couchant, Zebulon by a ship under sail, Issachar as a laden ass resting, and Dan as a serpent coiled with head erect, and so on according to the description given of each of the sons in the forty-ninth chapter of Genesis. There were a number of monuments in the church, the principal being that of Christopher Blacall, who died in 1635. He was represented as kneeling down in the attitude of prayer, while below were shown his four wives, also kneeling. The conductor showed us the very fine organ, which before being placed there had been exhibited at the Great Exhibition in London in 1851; and we also saw the key of the church door, which, as well as the lock, had been in use for quite four hundred years. [Illustration: SEXTON'S COTTAGE, TOTNES.] We then paid a hurried visit to the ruins of the old castle, which in the time of Henry VIII was described by Leland the antiquary as "The Castelle waul and the strong dungeon be maintained; but the logginges of the Castelle be cleane in ruine"; but about thirty years before our visit the Duke of Somerset, the representative of the Seymour family, laid out the grounds and made of them quite a nice garden, with a flight of steps of easy gradient leading to the top of the old Norman Keep, from which we had a fine view of the country between Dartmoor and the sea. Totnes was supposed to have been the Roman "Ad Darium," at the end of the Fosse Way, and was also the famous harbour of the Celts where the great Vortigern was overthrown by Ambrosius. As the seas were infested with pirates, ports were chosen well up the estuaries of rivers, often at the limit of the tides; and Totnes, to which point the Dart is still navigated, remained of importance from Saxon times, through the struggles with the Danes until the arrival of the Normans; after this it was gradually superseded by Dartmouth. At Totnes, when we asked the way to Dartmouth, the people jocularly told us that the only direct way was by boat down the river; but our rules and regulations would not permit of our going that way, so we decided to keep as near to the river as we could on the outward journey and find an alternative route on our return. This was a good idea, but we found it very difficult to carry out in the former case, owing to the streams which the River Dart receives on both sides on its way towards the sea. Relieved of the weight of our luggage, we set off at a good speed across fields and through woods, travelling along lanes the banks of which were in places covered with ferns. In Cheshire we had plenty of bracken, but very few ferns, but here they flourished in many varieties. A gentleman whom we met rambling along the river bank told us there were about forty different kinds of ferns and what he called "fern allies" to be found in the lanes and meadows in Devonshire. He said it was also noted for fungi, in which he appeared to be more interested than in the ferns, telling us there were six or seven hundred varieties, some of them being very beautiful both in colour and form; but we never cared very much for these, as we thought them too much akin to poisonous toadstools. We asked him why the lanes in Devonshire were so much below the surface of the land, and he said they had been constructed in that way in very ancient times to hide the passage of cattle and produce belonging to the British from the sight of their Saxon oppressors. He complained strongly of the destruction of ferns by visitors from populous places, who thought they would grow in their gardens or back-yards, and carried the roots away with them to be planted in positions where they were sure to die. In later years, it was said, young ladies and curates advertised hampers of Devonshire ferns for sale to eke out their small incomes; and when this proved successful, regular dealers did the same, and devastated woods and lanes by rooting up the ferns and almost exterminating some of the rarer kinds; but when the County Councils were formed, this wholesale destruction was forbidden. [Illustration: SHARPHAM ON THE DART.] We had a fairly straight course along the river for two or three miles, and on our way called to see an enormous wych-elm tree in Sharpham Park, the branches of which were said to cover a quarter of an acre of ground. It was certainly an enormous tree, much the largest we had seen of that variety, for the stem was about sixteen feet in girth and the leading branches about eighty feet long and nine feet in circumference. The Hall stood on an eminence overlooking the river, with great woods surrounding it, and the windings of the river from this point looked like a number of meres or lakes, while the gardens and woods of Sharpham were second to none in the County of Devon. Near the woods we passed a small cottage, which seemed to be at the end of everywhere, and was known locally as the "World's End." The first watery obstruction we came to was where the River Harbourne entered the River Dart, and here we turned aside along what was known as the Bow Creek, walking in a go-as-you-please way through lovely wooded and rocky scenery until we reached a water-mill. We had seen several herons on our way, a rather scarce bird, and we were told there was a breeding-place for them at Sharpham, together with a very large rookery. We passed Cornworthy, where there was an old church and a prehistoric camp, and some ruins of a priory of Augustinian nuns which existed there in the fourteenth century; but we had no time to explore them, and hastened on to Dittisham, where we regained the bank of the River Dart. This was another of the places we had arrived at either too late or too early, for it was famous for its plums, which grew in abundance at both Higher and Lower Dittisham, the bloom on the trees there forming a lovely sight in spring. A great many plums known as damsons were grown in Cheshire, and in olden times were allowed to remain on the trees until the light frosts came in late September or early October, as it was considered that they had not attained their full flavour until then; but in later times as soon as they were black they were hurried off to market, for they would crush in packing if left until thoroughly ripe. Dittisham was also noted for its cockles and shrimps. The river here widened until it assumed the appearance of a lake about two miles wide, and the steamboat which plied between Totnes and Dartmouth landed passengers at Dittisham. As it lay about half way between the two places, it formed a favourite resort for visitors coming either way, and tea and cockles or tea and shrimps or, at the right time, tea and damsons--might be obtained at almost any of the pleasant little cottages which bordered the river. These luxuries could be combined with a walk through lovely scenery or a climb up the Fire Beacon Hill, about 600 feet above sea-level; or rowing-boats could be had if required, and we were informed that many visitors stayed about there in the season. Across the river were several notable places: Sandbridge to the left and Greenway to the right. At Sandbridge was born the famous navigator John Davis, who was the first to explore the Arctic regions. On June 7th, 1575, he left Dartmouth with two small barques--the _Sunshine_, 50 tons, carrying 23 men, and the _Moonshine_, 35 tons, and 19 men--and after many difficulties reached a passage between Greenland and North America, which was so narrowed between the ice that it was named Davis' Straits. He made other voyages to the Arctic regions, and was said to have discovered Hudson's Straits. Afterwards he sailed several times to the East Indies; but whilst returning from one of these expeditions was killed on December 27th, 1605, in a fight with some Malay pirates on the coast of Malacca. Greenway House, on the other hand, was at one time the residence of those two remarkable half-brothers Sir Humphrey Gilbert and Sir Walter Raleigh, and it was there that Sir Walter planted the first potato ever grown in England, which he had brought from abroad. As he was the first to introduce tobacco, it was probably at Greenway that his servant coming in with a jug of beer, and seeing his master as he thought burning, threw it in his face--"to put his master out," as he afterwards explained. Sir Humphrey Gilbert appeared to have been a missionary as well as an explorer, for it was recorded that he "set out to discover the remote countries of America and to bring off those savages from their diabolical superstitions to the embracing of the Gospel," which would probably account for his having a Bible in his hand when he went down with his ship--an event which in later years was immortalised by Longfellow: Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; Three days or more seaward he bore. Then, alas! the land wind failed. * * * * * He sat upon the deck, The Book was in his hand; "Do not fear, Heaven is as near," He said, "by water as by land!" Beyond Dittisham the river turned towards Dartmouth through a very narrow passage, with a dangerous rock near the centre, now called the Anchor Stone, which was covered at high water. It appeared, however, to have been used in former times to serve the purpose of the ducking-stool, for the men of Dartmouth and Dittisham brought scolds there and placed them on the rock at low water for immersion with the rising tide, whence it became known-as the "Scold's Stone." One hour on the stone was generally sufficient for a scolding woman, for she could see the approach of the water that would presently rise well above her waist, and very few chose to remain on the stone rather than repent, although of course it was open to them to do so. After negotiating the intricacies of one other small creek, we entered the ancient town of Dartmouth highly delighted with our lovely tramp along the River Dart. We were now in a nautical area, and could imagine the excitement that would be caused amongst the natives when the beacon fires warned them of the approach of the Spanish Armada, for Dartmouth was then regarded as a creek of Plymouth Harbour. The great fleet invincible against us bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. [Illustration: THE MOUTH OF THE DART FROM MOUNT BOONE.] Dartmouth is one of the most picturesquely situated towns in England, and the two castles, one on either side of the narrow and deep mouth of the Dart, added to the beauty of the scene and reminded us of the times when we were continually at war with our neighbours across the Channel. The castles were only small, but so were the ships that crossed the seas in those days, and they would no doubt be considered formidable fortresses then. At low tide the Dart at that point was never less than five yards deep, and in the dark it was an easy matter for a ship to pass through unobserved. To provide against this contingency, according to a document in the possession of the Corporation dating from the twenty-first year of the reign of King Edward IV, a grant of £30 per annum out of the Customs was made to the "Mayor, Bailiffs, and Burgesses of Dartmouth, who had begonne to make a strong and myghte Toure of lyme and stone adjoining the Castelle there," and who were also to "fynde a cheyne sufficient in length and strength to streche and be laide over-thwarte or a travers the mouth of the haven of Dartmouth" from Dartmouth Castle to Kingswear Castle on the opposite bank to keep out all intruders. This "myghte cheyne" was raised across the entrance every night so that no ships could get through, and the groove through which it passed was still to be seen. Dartmouth Castle stood low down on a point of land on the seashore, and had two towers, the circular one having been built in the time of Henry VIII. Immediately adjoining it was a very small church of a much earlier date than the castle, dedicated to St. Petrox, a British saint of the sixth century. Behind the castle and the church was a hill called Gallants' Bower, formerly used as a beacon station, the hollow on the summit having been formed to protect the fire from the wind. This rock partly overhung the water and served to protect both the church and the castle. Kingswear Castle, on the opposite side of the water, was built in the fourteenth century, and had only one tower, the space between the two castles being known as the "Narrows." They were intended to protect the entrance to the magnificent harbour inland; but there were other defences, as an Italian spy in 1599, soon after the time of the Spanish Armada, reported as follows: Dartmouth is not walled--the mountains are its walls. Deep water is everywhere, and at the entrance five yards deep at low water. Bastion of earth at entrance with six or eight pieces of artillery; farther in is a castle with 24 pieces and 50 men, and then another earth bastion with six pieces. The harbour was at one time large enough to hold the whole British navy, and was considered very safe, as the entrance could be so easily defended, but its only representative now appeared to be an enormous three-decker wooden ship, named the _Britannia_, used as a training-ship for naval officers. It seemed almost out of place there, and quite dwarfed the smaller boats in the harbour, one deck rising above another, and all painted black and white. We heard afterwards that the real _Britannia_, which carried the Admiral's flag in the Black Sea early in the Crimean War, had been broken up in 1870, the year before our visit, having done duty at Dartmouth as a training-ship since 1863. The ship we now saw was in reality the _Prince of Wales_, also a three-decker, and the largest and last built of "England's wooden walls," carrying 128 guns. She had been brought round to Dartmouth in 1869 and rechristened _Britannia_, forming the fifth ship of that name in the British navy. [Illustration: H.M.S. _BRITANNIA_ AND _HINDUSTANI_ AT THE MOUTH OF THE DART.] It was in that harbour that the ships were assembled in 1190 during the Crusades, to join Richard Coeur-de-Lion at Messina. In his absence Dartmouth was stormed by the French, and for two centuries alternate warlike visits were made to the sea-coasts of England and France. In 1338 the Dartmouth sailors captured five French ships, and murdered all their crews except nine men; and in 1347, when the large armament sailed under Edward III to the siege of Calais, the people of Dartmouth, who in turn had suffered much from the French, contributed the large number of 31 ships and 757 mariners to the King's Fleet, the largest number from any port, except Fowey and London. In 1377 the town was partly burnt by the French, and in 1403 Dartmouth combined with Plymouth, and their ships ravaged the coasts of France, where, falling in with the French fleet, they destroyed and captured forty-one of the enemy. In the following year, 1404, the French attempted to avenge themselves, and landed near Stoke Fleming, about three miles outside Dartmouth, with a view to attacking the town in the rear; but owing to the loquacity of one of the men connected with the enterprise the inhabitants were forewarned and prepared accordingly. Du Chatel, a Breton Knight, was the leader of the Expedition, and came over, as he said, "to exterminate the vipers"; but when he landed, matters turned out "otherwise than he had hoped," for the Dartmouth men had dug a deep ditch near the seacoast, and 600 of them were strongly entrenched behind it, many with their wives, "who fought like wild cats." They were armed with slings, with which they made such good practice that scores of the Bretons fell in the ditch, where the men finished them off, and the rest of the force retreated, leaving 400 dead and 200 prisoners in the hands of the English. [Illustration: OLD HOUSES IN HIGHER STREET, DARTMOUTH] In 1620 the Pilgrim Fathers called at Dartmouth with their ships _Speedwell_ and _Mayflower_, as the captain of the _Speedwell_ (who it was afterwards thought did not want to cross the Atlantic) complained that his ship needed repairs, but on examination she was pronounced seaworthy. The same difficulty occurred when they reached Plymouth, with the result that the _Mayflower_ sailed alone from that port, carrying the Fathers to form a new empire of Englishmen in the New World. We were delighted with the old towns on the south coast--so different from those we had seen on the west; they seemed to have borrowed some of their quaint semi-foreign architecture from those across the Channel. The town of Dartmouth was a quaint old place and one of the oldest boroughs in England. It contained, both in its main street and the narrow passages leading out of it, many old houses with projecting wooden beams ornamented with grotesque gargoyles and many other exquisite carvings in a good state of preservation. Like Totnes, the town possessed a "Butter Walk," built early in the seventeenth century, where houses supported by granite pillars overhung the pavement. In one house there was a plaster ceiling designed to represent the Scriptural genealogy of our Saviour from Jesse to the Virgin Mary, and at each of the four corners appeared one of the Apostles: St. Matthew with the bull or ox, St. Luke with the eagle, St. Mark with the lion, and St. John with the attendant angel---probably a copy of the Jesse stained-glass windows, in which Jesse is represented in a recumbent posture with a vine or tree rising out of his loins as described by Isaiah, xi. I: "And there shall come forth a Rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a Branch shall grow out of his roots." The churches in Dartmouth were well worth a visit. St. Saviour's, built in 1372, contained an elaborately carved oak screen, one of the finest in the county and of singular beauty, erected in the fifteenth century. It was in perfect condition, and spread above the chancel in the form of a canopy supporting the rood-loft, with beautiful carving and painted figures in panels. The pulpit was of stone, richly carved and gilt, and showed the Tudor rose and portcullis, with the thistle, harp, and fleur-de-lys; there were also some seat-ends nicely carved and some old chandeliers dated 1701--the same date as the fine one we saw in the church at Totnes. [Illustration: ST. SAVIOUR'S CHURCH, DARTMOUTH.] The chancel contained the tomb, dated 1394, of John Hawley, who died in 1408, and his two wives--Joan who died in 1394, and Alice who died in 1403. Hawley was a rich merchant, and in the war against France equipped at his own expense a fleet, which seemed to have been of good service to him, for in 1389 he captured thirty-four vessels from Rochelle, laden with 1,500 tons of wine. John Stow, a famous antiquary of the sixteenth century, mentioned this man in his _Annals_ as "the merchant of Dartmouth who in 1390 waged war with the navies and ships of the ports of our own shores," and "took 34 shippes laden with wyne to the sum of fifteen hundred tunnes," so we considered Hawley must have been a pirate of the first degree. There was a brass in the chancel with this inscription, the moral of which we had seen expressed in so many different forms elsewhere: Behold thyselfe by me, I was as thou art now: And them in time shalt be Even dust as I am now; So doth this figure point to thee The form and state of each degree. [Illustration: ANCIENT DOOR IN ST. SAVIOUR'S CHURCH] The gallery at the west end was built in 1631, and there was a door in the church of the same date, but the ironwork on this was said to be two hundred years older, having probably been transferred to it from a former door. It was one of the most curious we had ever seen. Two animals which we took to be lions were impaled on a tree with roots, branches, and leaves. One lion was across the tree just under the top branches, and the other lion was across it at the bottom just above the roots, both standing with their heads to the right and facing the beholder; but the trunk of the tree seemed to have grown through each of their bodies, giving the impression that they were impaled upon it. The date of the woodwork (1631) was carved underneath the body of the lion at the top, the first figure in the date appearing to the left and the remaining three to the right, while the leaves on the tree resembled those of the oak. Whether the lions were connected in any way with those on the borough coat-of-arms we did not know, but this bore a lion on either side of it, the hinder portion of their bodies hanging over each side of an ancient boat and their faces being turned towards the spectator, while a crowned king, evidently meant for Richard Coeur-de-Lion, was sitting between them--the lions being intended to represent the Lions of Judah. The King was crowned, but above him, suspended over the boat, was a much larger crown, and underneath that and in the air to the left, but slightly above the King's crown, was the Turkish Crescent, while in a similar position to the right was represented the Star of Jerusalem. The original parish church of Dartmouth, on the outskirts of the town, contained two rather remarkable epitaphs: Here lyeth buried the Bodie of Robert Holland who Departed this life 1611 beinge of The age of 54 years 5 months and odd dayes. Here lies a breathless body and doth showe What man is, when God claims, what man doth owe. His soule a guest his body a trouble His tyme an instant, and his breath a bubble. Come Lord Jesus, come quickly. The other was worded: William Koope, of Little Dartmouth dyed in Bilbao January the 30th, 1666, in the 6 yeare of his abode there beinge embalmed and put into a Leaden Coffin, was, after Tenn Weekes Tossinge on the seas, here Below interred May ye 23 AO. DOM. 1667 Ætates svæ 35. Thomas Newcomen, born at Dartmouth in 1663, was the first man to employ steam power in Cornish mines, and the real inventor of the steam engine. The first steamboat on the River Dart was named after him. In the time of the Civil War Dartmouth was taken by the Royalists, who held it for a time, but later it was attacked from both land and sea by Fairfax, and surrendered to the Parliament. Immediately afterwards a rather strange event happened, as a French ship conveying despatches for the Royalists from the Queen, Lord Goring, and others, who were in France, entered the port, the captain being ignorant of the change that had just taken place. On hearing that the Parliament was in possession, he threw his despatches overboard. These were afterwards recovered and sent up to Parliament, where they were found to be of a very important nature--in fact, the discoveries made in them were said to have had some effect in deciding the fate of King Charles himself. We had now to face our return journey to Totnes, so we fortified ourselves with a substantial tea, and then began our dark and lonely walk of twelve miles by the alternative route, as it was useless to attempt to find the other on a dark night. We had, however, become quite accustomed to this kind of thing, and though we went astray on one occasion and found ourselves in a deep and narrow road, we soon regained the hard road we had left. The thought of the lovely country we had seen that day, and the pretty places we had visited, cheered us on our way, and my brother said he should visit that neighbourhood again before long. I did not treat his remark seriously at the time, thinking it equivalent to the remarks in hotel books where visitors express their unfulfilled intention of coming again. But when on May 29th, 1873, a lovely day of sunshine, my brother departed with one of the handsomest girls in the village for what the newspapers described as "London and the South," and when we received a letter informing us that they were both very well and very happy, and amusing themselves by watching the salmon shooting up the deep weir on the River Dart, and sailing in a small boat with a sail that could easily be worked with one hand, and had sailed along the river to Dartmouth and back, I was not surprised when I found that the postmark on the envelope was TOTNES. In his letter to me on that occasion, he said he had received from his mother his "marching orders" for his next long journey; and although her letter is now old and the ink faded, the "orders" are still firmly fixed where that good old writer intended them to be, and, as my brother said, they deserved to be written in letters of gold: =_My earnest desire is that you may both be happy, and that whatever you do may be to the glory of God and the good of your fellow-creatures, and that at the last you may be found with your lamps burning and your lights shining, waiting for the coming of the Lord!_= (_Distance walked thirty-one-miles_.) _Tuesday, November 14th._ We had made good progress yesterday in consequence of not having to carry any luggage, but we had now to carry our belongings again as usual. Totnes, we learned, was a walled town in the time of the Domesday Survey, and was again walled in 1265 by permission of Henry III. Of the four gates then existing, only two now remained, the North and the East; they were represented by archways, the gates themselves having long since disappeared. We passed under the Eastgate Archway, which supported a room in which were two carved heads said to represent King Henry VIII and his unfortunate wife Anne Boleyn; and with a parting glance at the ancient Butter Cross and piazzas, which reminded us somewhat of the ancient Rows in Chester, we passed out into the country wondering what our day's walk would have in store for us. We had thought of crossing over the centre of Dartmoor, but found it a much larger and wilder place than we had imagined, embracing over 100,000 acres of land and covering an area of about twenty-five square miles, while in the centre were many swamps or bogs, very dangerous, especially in wet or stormy weather. There were also many hills, or "tors," rising to a considerable elevation above sea-level, and ranging from Haytor Rocks at 1,491 feet to High Willheys at 2,039 feet. Mists and clouds from the Atlantic were apt to sweep suddenly over the Moor and trap unwary travellers, so that many persons had perished in the bogs from time to time; and the clouds striking against the rocky tors caused the rainfall to be so heavy that the Moor had been named the "Land of Streams." One of the bogs near the centre of the Moor was never dry, and formed a kind of shallow lake out of which rose five rivers, the Ockment or Okement, the Taw, the Tavy, the Teign, and the Dart, the last named and most important having given its name to the Moor. Besides these, the Avon, Erme, Meavy, Plym, and Yealm, with many tributary brooks, all rise in Dartmoor. Devonshire was peculiar in having no forests except that of Dartmoor, which was devoid of trees except a small portion called Wistman's Wood in the centre, but the trees in this looked so old and stunted as to make people suppose they had existed there since the time of the Conquest, while others thought they had originally formed one of the sacred groves connected with Druidical worship, since legend stated that living men had been nailed to them and their bodies left there to decay. The trees were stunted and only about double the height of an average-sized man, but with wide arms spread out at the top twisted and twined in all directions. Their roots were amongst great boulders, where adders' nests abounded, so that it behoved visitors to be doubly careful in very hot weather. We could imagine the feelings of a solitary traveller in days gone by, with perhaps no living being but himself for miles, crossing this dismal moor and coming suddenly on the remains of one of these crucified sacrificial victims. Not far from Wistman's Wood was Crockern Tor, on the summit of which, according to the terms of an ancient charter, the Parliament dealing with the Stannary Courts was bound to assemble, the tables and seats of the members being hewn out of the solid rock or cut from great blocks of stone. The meetings at this particular spot of the Devon and Cornwall Stannary men continued until the middle of the eighteenth century. After the jury had been sworn and other preliminaries arranged, the Parliament adjourned to the Stannary towns, where its courts of record were opened for the administration of Justice among the "tinners," the word Stannary being derived from the Latin "Stannum," meaning tin. Some of the tors still retained their Druidical names, such as Bel-Tor, Ham-Tor, Mis-Tor; and there were many remains of altars, logans, and cromlechs scattered over the moors, proving their great antiquity and pointing to the time when the priests of the Britons burned incense and offered human victims as sacrifices to Bel and Baal and to the Heavenly bodies. There was another contingency to be considered in crossing Dartmoor in the direction we had intended--especially in the case of a solitary traveller journeying haphazard--and that was the huge prison built by the Government in the year 1808 on the opposite fringe of the Moor to accommodate prisoners taken during the French wars, and since converted into an ordinary convict settlement. It was seldom that a convict escaped, for it was very difficult to cross the Moor, and the prison dress was so well known all over the district; but such cases had occurred, and one of these runaways, to whom a little money and a change of raiment would have been acceptable, might have been a source of inconvenience, if not of danger, to any unprotected traveller, whom he could have compelled to change clothing. We therefore decided to go round the Moor instead of over it, and visit the town of Plymouth, which otherwise we should not have seen. The whole of Dartmoor was given by Edward III to his son the Black Prince, when he gave him the title of Duke of Cornwall after his victorious return from France, and it still belonged to the Duchy of Cornwall, and was the property of the Crown; but all the Moor was open and free to visitors, who could follow their own route in crossing it, though in places it was gradually being brought into cultivation, especially in the neighbourhood of the many valleys which in the course of ages had been formed by the rivers on their passage towards the sea. As our road for some miles passed along the fringe of the great Moor, and as the streams crossed it in a transverse direction, on our way to Plymouth we passed over six rivers, besides several considerable brooks, after leaving the River Dart at Totnes. These rivers were named the Harbourne, Avon, Lud, Erme, Yealm, and Plym, all flowing from Dartmoor; and although there was such a heavy rainfall on the uplands, it was said that no one born and bred thereon ever died of pulmonary consumption. The beauty of Dartmoor lay chiefly along its fringes, where ancient villages stood securely sheltered along the banks of these streams; but in their higher reaches were the remains of "hut circles" and prehistoric antiquities of the earliest settlers, and relics of Neolithic man were supposed to be more numerous than elsewhere in England. There was no doubt in our minds that the earliest settlers were those who landed on the south coast, and in occupying the country they naturally chose positions where a good supply of water was available, both for themselves and their cattle. The greater the number of running streams, the greater would be the number of the settlers. Some of the wildest districts in these southern countries, where solitude now prevailed, bore evidence of having, at one time, been thickly populated. We did not attempt to investigate any of these pretty valleys, as we were anxious to reach Plymouth early in order to explore that town, so the only divergence we made from the beaten track was when we came to Ivybridge, on the River Erme. The ivy of course flourished everywhere, but it was particularly prolific in some parts of Devon, and here it had not only covered the bridge, over which we crossed, but seemed inclined to invade the town, to which it had given its name. The townspeople had not then objected to its intrusion, perhaps because, being always green, it was considered to be an emblem of everlasting life--or was it because in Roman mythology it was sacred to Bacchus, the God of Wine? In Egyptian mythology the ivy was sacred to Osiris, the Judge of the Dead and potentate of the kingdom of ghosts; but in our minds it was associated with our old friend Charles Dickens, who had died in the previous year, and whom we had once heard reading selections from his own writings in his own inimitable way. His description of the ivy is well worth recording--not that he was a poet, but he once wrote a song for Charles Russell to sing, entitled "The Ivy Green ": Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green. That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are its meals, I ween; In its cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim, And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a dainty meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings. And a staunch old heart hath he: How closely he twineth, how tight he clings. To his friend the huge oak tree; And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves As he joyously hugs and crawleth around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green; The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past, For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. It is remarkable that the ivy never clings to a poisonous tree, but the trees to which it so "closely twineth and tightly clings" it very often kills, even "its friend the huge oak tree." Near the bridge we stayed at a refreshment house to replenish the inner man, and the people there persuaded us to ramble along the track of the River Erme to a spot which "every visitor went to see"; so leaving our luggage, we went as directed. We followed the footpath under the trees that lined the banks of the river, which rushed down from the moor above as if in a great hurry to meet us, and the miniature waterfalls formed in dashing over the rocks and boulders that impeded its progress looked very pretty. Occasionally it paused a little in its progress to form small pools in which were mirrored the luxuriant growth of moss and ferns sheltering beneath the branches of the trees; but it was soon away again to form similar pretty pictures on its way down the valley. We were pleased indeed that we had not missed this charming bit of scenery. Emerging from the dell, we returned by a different route, and saw in the distance the village of Harford, where in the church a brass had been placed to the Prideaux family by a former Bishop of Worcester. This bishop was a native of that village, and was in a humble position when he applied for the post of parish clerk of a neighbouring village, where his application was declined. He afterwards went to work at Oxford, and while he was there made the acquaintance of a gentleman who recognised his great talents, and obtained admission for him to one of the colleges. He rose from one position to another until he became Bishop of Worcester, and in after life often remarked that if he had been appointed parish clerk he would never have become a bishop. We recovered our luggage and walked quickly to Plymouth, where we arrived in good time, after an easy day's walk. We had decided to stop there for the night and, after securing suitable apartments, went out into the town. The sight of so many people moving backwards and forwards had quite a bewildering effect upon us after walking through moors and rather sleepy towns for such a long period; but after being amongst the crowds for a time, we soon became accustomed to our altered surroundings. As a matter of course, our first visit was to the Plymouth Hoe, and our first thoughts were of the great Spanish Armada. [Illustration: SIR FRANCIS DRAKE. _From the picture in the possession of Sir T.F. Elliot Drake._] The position of England as the leading Protestant country, with the fact of the refusal of Queen Elizabeth when the King of Spain proposed marriage, made war between the two countries almost certain. Drake had also provoked hostilities, for he had sailed to the West Indies in 1587, and after defeating the Spaniards there had entered the Bay of Cadiz with thirty ships and destroyed 10,000 tons of shipping--an achievement which he described as "singeing the whiskers of the King of Spain." In consequence of this Philip, King of Spain, declared war on Elizabeth, Queen of England, and raised a great army of ships to overwhelm the English. It was on Friday, July 19, 1588, that Captain Thomas Fleming, in charge of the pinnace _Golden Hind_, ran into Plymouth Sound with the news that the Spanish Armada was off the Lizard. The English captains were playing bowls on Plymouth Hoe when Captain Fleming arrived in hot haste to inform them that when his ship was off the French coast they had seen the Spanish fleet approaching in the distance, and had put on all sail to bring the news. This was the more startling because the English still believed it to be refitting in its own ports and unlikely to come out that year. Great excitement prevailed among the captains; but Drake, who knew all that could be known of the Spanish ships, and their way of fighting, had no fear of the enemy, and looked upon them with contempt, coolly remarking that they had plenty of time to finish the game and thrash the Spaniards afterwards. The beacon fires were lighted during the night, and-- Swift to east and swift to west The ghastly war-flame spread; High on St. Michael's Mount it shone, It shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniards saw Along each southern shire Cape beyond cape, in endless range Those twinkling points of fire. The Armada consisted of 131 large ships accompanied by galleys armed with heavy guns, and many smaller vessels, carrying 27,345 men, of whom 8,050 were seamen and 19,295 soldiers. The twelve largest ships were named after the twelve Apostles, and a hundred priests were distributed through the fleet, for King Philip was a very pious man, and the Armada had been blessed by the Pope. They were under the command of the Duke of Medina Sidonia, and the Spaniards, who were proverbially cruel, were so sure of victory that they had brought with them many strange instruments of torture, some of which we had seen in the Tower of London on our visit there the previous year. The Lord High Admiral of England was Lord Charles Howard, a grandson of the Duke of Norfolk and a cousin to Queen Elizabeth, besides being a leader of the Court circle. He had, however, been trained as a sailor, and the advice and assistance of such brave and experienced sailors as Drake, Hawkins, and Frobisher were sufficient to carry him through any crisis. Drake had inspired his people so that none had any dread of the Spaniards or of their big ships, which were constructed for fighting at close quarters only; while Drake pinned his faith on light ships, easily managed and capable of quick manoeuvring, but armed with big cannon, so that he could pound away at a safe distance. Compared with the small English ships, the big ships of the Spaniards, with their huge superstructures, looked like castles floating on the sea, and the ocean seemed to groan beneath its heavy burden. But how astonished the English must have been, both at the vast number and size of the ships composing the Armada, proudly floating up the Channel in a formation resembling an arc or segment of a circle extending nearly seven miles. When the battle commenced, Lord Howard had only got together a fleet of about a hundred ships, but it soon became evident that the light and well-handled ships of the English, with their more rapid sailing and clever manoeuvring, were more than a match for the much larger ships of the Spaniards. Sir Francis Drake followed the Armada closely during the night, and came up with a large galleon commanded by Don Pedro de Valdez that had been damaged in the fight, and this he captured with all on board. The weather now began to grow stormy, and the strong gale which sprang up during the night caused some of the Spanish ships to foul each other, and the English captured several of them the next day. The wind now began to blow in all directions, and some of the Spanish ships becoming unmanageable, their formation was broken, so that there was no fixed order of battle. Meantime the shots from the English, whose boats were lower in the water, had played havoc with the lofty hulls of the Spanish ships, whose shot often passed over the English and damaged their own vessels. The following day Howard was unable, for want of ammunition, to carry on the fight, so he took the opportunity to divide his fleet into four parts: the first he commanded himself, in the _Ark Royal_; the second he placed under Sir Francis Drake in the _Revenge_; the third under Sir John Hawkins in the _Victory_; and the fourth under Captain Frobisher in the _Triumph_. [Illustration: SIR JOHN HAWKINS _Portrait from the "Horologia" published in 1620_] When they came opposite the Isle of Wight the storm ceased and there was a calm; but Sir John Hawkins contrived to get his ship the _Victory_ alongside a large Portuguese galleon, the _Santa Aña_, and a single combat ensued. Both fleets watched the progress of the fight, the Spaniards being quite certain of their comrades' victory, while the English placed their confidence in the bravery of their champion. It was a stiff fight, in which many were killed and wounded, but at last the English were seen swarming like ants up the sides of their opponents' great ship, and in a few moments her brave captain was seen handing his sword to Sir John Hawkins. The flag of Spain on the mast of the _Santa Aña_ descended, and the white flag and red cross of St. George soon floated in its place. Then arose a mighty cheer, and the triumphant hurrahs of the English proclaimed the victory to the anxious watchers on shore. But three huge Spanish galleons were rowed to the scene to recover the Portuguese ship, and Howard towed the _Ark Royal_ and the _Golden Lion_ to fight them. It was a desperately unequal fight, and the boats were for a time hidden from view by the smoke, but in the end the cheers of the English announced that the galleons had been driven off and the _Santa Aña_ lost to Spain. The Armada continued its progress towards the Straits of Dover, with the English hanging on, and anchored off Calais; but by this time the English fleet had been reinforced by many ships raised by private gentlemen and others, which brought the number to about 140. Howard now decided to draw the Spanish fleet from its anchorage, and Drake, turning eight of his oldest ships into fire-ships, distributed them in the night amongst the enemy, ordering the crews to set them on fire and then return in their small boats. The ships were piled up with inflammable material, with their guns loaded, and when these exploded, the Spaniards were so terrified that they unfurled their sails, cut their cables, and so lost their anchors. They fled in confusion, many being seriously damaged in collision, but only to encounter the English ships _Revenge, Victory, Mary Rose_, and _Dreadnought_, which immediately attacked. Some of the Spanish vessels were captured and some were lost on the shores of France and Holland; but the main body, much battered and with their crews badly out of spirits, sailed on into the North Sea. Howard was close up to them east of the Firth of Forth, but shortage of water and provisions, as well as of munitions, kept him from attacking, and with bad weather threatening he made for the Channel ports, and on August 7th, 1588, the Lord High Admiral returned to England with his victorious fleet. The remaining ships of the Armada encountered furious storms off the coast of Ireland, where ten were sunk; and it was not until the end of September that the battered remnants of the once great fleet reached the coast of Spain. Queen Elizabeth went in state to St. Paul's Cathedral to offer up thanks to the Almighty for the safety of her Kingdom and herself, and caused a medal to be struck bearing on it a fleet scattered by a tempest and the words: He blew with His winds and they were scattered. Plymouth Hoe is an elevation between that town and the sea, and its history dates back to legendary ages, when Brutus and Corineus came to Albion with their Trojan warriors, and found the land inhabited by great giants, who terrified their men with their enormous size and horrid noises. Still they were enabled to drive them away by hurling darts and spears into their bodies. The leader of the giant race of Albion was Gogmagog, who was the biggest of them all, but they wounded him badly in the leg, as the story goes, and dragged him to Plymouth Hoe, where they treated him kindly and healed his wounds. But the question arose who should be king, and it was decided to settle the matter by a wrestling match, the winner to be king. The giants selected Gogmagog as their champion and the Trojans chose Corineus, brute strength and size on the one hand being matched by trained skill on the other. On the day fixed for the combat the giants lined one side of the Hoe and the Trojans the other. At length Corineus succeeded in forcing Gogmagog to the ground. He fell on his back, the earth shaking with his weight and the air echoing with the noise of his mighty groan as the breath was forced from his body. Then, after breathing a minute, Corineus rushed upon his fallen foe, dragged him with a great effort to the edge of the cliff, and pushed him over. The giant fell on the rocks below, and his body was broken in pieces. Michael Drayton, whose birthplace we had passed in the Midlands, wrote in his _Polyolbion_ that there was a deadly combat between two giants "upon that lofty place the Hoe," which took place after the arrival of the Trojans under Brutus of Troy, and that the figures of the two wrestlers, one bigger than the other, with clubs in their hands, were cut out in the turf on Plymouth Hoe, being renewed as time went on. They vanished when the citadel was built by King Charles II, though in the digging of the foundations the great jaws and teeth of Gogmagog were found. It was supposed that the last of the giants were named Gog and Magog, and were brought to London and chained in the palace of Bruté, which stood on the site of the Guildhall there; their effigies were standing in the Guildhall in the reign of Henry V, but were destroyed in the Great Fire of London. The present Gog and Magog in the Guildhall, 14 feet high, were carved by Richard Saunders in 1708, and are known as the "City Giants." [Illustration: CITADEL GATE, PLYMOUTH.] We had often heard and read about Brutus, one of those mysterious men whose history we could not fathom, for as far north as York we read in a book there that "Brutus settled in this country when the Prophet Eli governed Israel and the Ark was taken from the Philistines, about 1140 B.C., or a century and a half later than when David was singing Psalms in Jerusalem"; then the writer went on to say that a direct descendant of Brutus, King Ebrancus, anxious to find occupation for his twenty sons and thirty daughters, built two cities, one of which was York; so possibly the other city might have been London. Plymouth Hoe in the time of Drake was a piece of hilly common land with a gallows standing at one corner, and nearer the sea a water tower and a beacon to signal the approach of enemies. But it was also a place of recreation, and used for drilling soldiers and sailors. There were archery butts, and there must also have been a bowling green, on which the captains of the fleet were playing bowls when the news reached them of the approach of the Spanish Armada. Amongst the English captains were one from Cheshire, George de Beeston, of Beeston, and a near relative of his, Roger Townshend. Both had charge of leading ships, and were knighted on board the _Ark_ by Lord Howard for their services. When we visited Plymouth Hoe we found it laid out with broad walks and large plots of grass, where sailors and soldiers were much in evidence. In later years the greater portion of the old Eddystone Lighthouse was re-erected there, from the cage on the top of which was a very fine view over Plymouth Sound, one of the most beautiful in England. Besides the town and the famous Hoe there could be seen, seawards, Drake's or St. Nicholas' Island, the famous Breakwater, and the still more famous Eddystone Lighthouse, while on the Cornish side were the beautiful woods of Mount Edgcumbe reaching down to the water's edge. Then there was the estuary of the River Tamar, called the Hamoaze, with the huge railway bridge crossing it to Saltash, the frame of the general picture being formed by the hills which surrounded Plymouth, including those of Dartmoor in the background. O the fair Town of Plymouth is by the sea-side, The Sound is so blue and so still and so wide, Encircled with hills, and with forests all green, As a crown of fresh leaves on the head of a queen. O dear Plymouth town, and O blue Plymouth Sound! O where is your equal on earth to be found? Eddystone Lighthouse, the top of which could just be seen from the Hoe, stood on a group of rocks nine miles from the Cornish Coast and fourteen miles from Plymouth. These rocks were covered at high water by the sea, and were so dangerous to ships moving in and out of Plymouth or along the coast, that a lighthouse of wood was built on them in the year 1700, which was washed away by a great storm three years afterwards, when the lighthouse people perished as well as the unfortunate architect, Winstanley, who happened to be there on a visit at the time. In 1709 a second and a stronger wooden lighthouse was built by Rudyard, but the progress of the work was delayed owing to the workmen being carried on to France by a French ship and lodged in a prison there. King Louis XIV, when he heard of this, chivalrously ordered the Englishmen to be liberated and their captors to be put in the prison in their places, remarking that "though he was at war with England, he was not at war with mankind." So the lighthouse was completed, and remained until 1755, when it was destroyed by fire. It was the work of years to construct and build a lighthouse on a rock in the midst of the stormy seas, but a third was built by Smeaton in 1759, this time made of granite and Portland stone, and modelled after the shape of the trunk of an old oak tree. The stones had been prepared on land, and were sent to the rock as required for the various positions, and so the lighthouse was raised in about four months. This one was strongly built, and braved the storms for more than a hundred years, and was still in position when we visited Plymouth; but a portion of the rock on which it was built was causing some anxiety, as it showed signs of giving way. A fourth lighthouse was therefore prepared during the years 1879-82, being built wholly of granite, the old lighthouse doing duty meanwhile. This was designed and carried out by Sir James Douglas, at a cost of about £80,000. It was a substantial structure, and built on a different foundation 133 feet high, being 50 feet taller than its predecessor, and containing a number of rooms. It had two 2-ton bells at the top to sound in foggy weather, and the flash-lights could be seen from a distance of many miles. The greater portion of the old lighthouse built by Smeaton was carefully taken down and removed to Plymouth, where it was re-erected on the Hoe as a lasting memorial to the man whose wonderful genius had conferred such a benefit on the sailors of all nations--for it was impossible to calculate how many lives had been saved during the 120 years his lighthouse had been protecting the ships of all nations from the dangerous reef on which it stood. The old lighthouse now forms a conspicuous object on the Hoe, and contains some interesting relics, and in the lantern are the candlesticks in which the lights were placed that guided the mariners across the stormy ocean in past ages. Over the lantern are the words "24 August 1759" and "Laus Deo" (Praise to God), for the goodness of the Almighty was always acknowledged in those days both in construction of great works and otherwise, and another inscription also appears which seems very appropriate: Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it. Plymouth at first sight had the appearance of a new town, with so many new buildings to attract the eye of a stranger. Elihu Burritt, however, when he, like ourselves, was journeying to Land's End, described it as "the Mother Plymouth sitting by the Sea." The new buildings have replaced or swamped the older erections; but a market has existed there since 1253, and members have been returned to Parliament since 1292, while its list of mayors is continuous from the year 1439. It was to Plymouth that the Black Prince returned with his fleet after his great victories in France in the reign of Edward III. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Plymouth was the port from which expeditions were sent out to explore and form colonies in hitherto unknown places abroad, and in these some of the most daring sailors the world has ever known took part. Sir Martin Frobisher, the first navigator to attempt to find the north-west passage to India, and from whom comes the name Frobisher's Strait, to the south of Baffin Land, was knighted, along with Townshend and Beeston, for his services in the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Sir Francis Drake, the great Admiral of Queen Elizabeth's time, made many adventurous voyages, partly for discovery and partly for plunder, and was the first Englishman to sail round the world. He brought news of the existence of gold in some places where he had been, and when he returned his well-filled ship stimulated others to emulate the Spaniards in that direction. Sir Walter Raleigh, who was described as a scholar, courtier, soldier, sailor, and statesman, discovered Virginia in 1584. He was in great favour at Court, but he quarrelled with Queen Elizabeth, who had granted him a Patent for the discovery and settlement of unknown countries in the West. When James I ascended the throne he was suspected of being a conspirator and was sentenced to death, but the sentence was altered to imprisonment in the Tower of London, where during his twelve years' confinement he wrote his _History of the World_. In 1615 James set him at liberty, and put him at the head of an expedition to Guinea to find gold, but, being unsuccessful, on his return he was beheaded in Old Palace Yard in 1618--a sad ending to a great career. It was at Virginia that he discovered tobacco, and possibly the potato, for he introduced both these plants into England; and "Virginia Leaf" tobacco is still the finest produced in America. Sir Walter explored the place when it was named Pamlico Sound, but it was afterwards named "Virginia" by Queen Elizabeth herself, and to Sir Walter Raleigh's efforts to colonise this and other places we owe many of our possessions to-day. In the struggle for independence Virginia took the lead, and the first Representative Assembly in America was held there, while in the war between the North and South it was the scene of the last battle and the final surrender. Captain James Cook, whose book _Voyages round the World_ is now a classic, made many discoveries for Great Britain, including that of the Sandwich Islands; and he sailed from Plymouth on two occasions, 1768 and 1772. He made three voyages round the world, but on the third was murdered by natives at Hawaii. He discovered Botany Bay in New South Wales in 1770, which was afterwards made a penal colony, whither early in the year 1787 eleven ships sailed from Plymouth, with 800 criminals, over 200 officials, and many free settlers. But the most important departure from the port was in 1620, when the _Mayflower_ sailed for America with the "Pilgrim Fathers" on board. She was only a little barque of 180 tons, and was sadly tossed about by the big waves in the Atlantic. But after enduring many hardships, the emigrants landed on the barren shores of Massachusetts Bay, and named the spot where they landed "New Plymouth," that being no doubt what Elihu Burritt had in his mind when he described Plymouth as "the Mother Plymouth sitting by the Sea," for so many emigrants had gone from there to America and other places that there were now quite forty places named Plymouth in different parts of the world. The place whence the "Fathers" left the port on their perilous journey was afterwards marked with a stone. This we went to see, but we were driven off the Hoe by a heavy shower of rain. [Illustration: THE "MAYFLOWER STONE," PLYMOUTH HARBOUR.] Plymouth was also the last port of call in Europe of the ship _Northumberland_ bound for St. Helena, with Napoleon Bonaparte on board; and we thought it a strange incident of travel that the list of distinguished visitors here in 1871 should have included (in addition to ourselves of course!) the names of the unfortunate Emperor Napoleon III, and his still more unfortunate son, who had been there about a fortnight before we arrived. During that year the French agreed to pay the great indemnity which the Germans demanded, and which it was said laid the foundation of the prosperity of the German Empire. (_Distance walked twenty-three and a half miles_.) _Wednesday, November 15th._ We left our hotel at daylight this morning, having made special arrangements last night for a good breakfast to be served in time for an early start, for we had a heavy day's walk, before us. We were now in sight of Cornwall, the last county we should have to cross before reaching Land's End. We had already traversed thirteen counties in Scotland and fourteen in England since leaving John O' Groat's. But an arm of the sea named the Hamoaze separated us from Cornwall, and as our rules prevented us from crossing it either by boat or train, the question arose how we were to get across the water, which was one of the greatest naval anchorages in the world, and near the great dockyards in which the Government employed some thousands of men. We had come that way in the hope of seeing some of the big warships near Devonport, and at length we came to the great railway bridge at Saltash. The thought occurred to us that we might reach the Cornish coast by walking over the bridge to the other side. We had walked across a railway bridge on one occasion in Scotland to enable us to reach Abbotsford, the former residence of the great Sir Walter Scott, so why not adopt a similar plan here? We were some time before we could find a place where we could scale the embankment, but ultimately we got on the railway and walked to the entrance of the bridge; but when we reached the path at the side of the bridge it looked such a huge affair, and such a long way across the water, that we decided not to venture without asking some advice. We waited until we saw coming along the railway track a workman, to whom we confided our intention. He strongly advised us not to make the attempt, since we should run great bodily risk, as well as make ourselves liable to the heavy fine the railway company had power to inflict. We rather reluctantly returned to the road we had left, but not before seeing some of the big ships from the bridge--the finest and last of the iron tubular bridges built by the famous engineer Brunel, the total length, including approaches, being 2,200 feet. It had been opened by H.R.H. the Prince Consort in 1859, and was named after him the "Royal Albert" Bridge. We had now to leave the main road and find our way across country, chiefly by means of by-lanes, until we reached Tavistock, where there was a bridge by which we could cross the River Tavy. We had become quite accustomed to this kind of experience, and looked upon it as a matter of course, for repeatedly in Scotland we had been forced to make a circuit to find the "head of the loch" because we objected to cross the loch itself by a ferry. [Illustration: THE "ROYAL ALBERT" BRIDGE, SALTASH] We had only proceeded a mile or two beyond the great bridge at Saltash, when we came in sight of the village of St. Budeaux, at the entrance of which we came upon a large number of fine-looking soldiers, who, we were informed, were the 42nd Highlanders, commonly known as the Black Watch. They were crossing a grass-covered space of land, probably the village green, and moving in the same direction as ourselves, not marching in any regular order, but walking leisurely in groups. We were surprised to see the band marching quietly in the rear, and wondered why they were not marching in front playing their instruments. The soldiers, however, were carrying firearms, which quite alarmed my brother, who never would walk near a man who carried a gun--for if there was one thing in the world that he was afraid of more than of being drowned, it was of being shot with a gun, the very sight of which always made him feel most uncomfortable. He had only used a gun once in all his life, when quite a boy, and was so terrified on that occasion that nothing could ever induce him to shoot again. He was staying at a farm in the country with a cousin, who undertook to show him how to shoot a bird that was sitting on its nest. It was a very cruel thing to do, but he loaded the gun and placed it in my brother's hand in the correct position, telling him to look along the barrel of the gun until he could see the bird, and then pull the trigger. He did so, and immediately he was on the ground, with the gun on top of him. His cousin had some difficulty in persuading him that the gun had not gone off at the wrong end and that he was not shot instead of the bird. It was one of the old-fashioned shot-guns known as "kickers," and the recoil had sent him flying backwards at the moment of the noise of the discharge--a combination which so frightened him that he avoided guns ever afterwards. [Illustration: THE HAMOAZE, SEPARATING DEVON AND CORNWALL] We were obliged to walk quickly, for we knew we had a long walk before us that day and must get past the Highlanders, who fortunately were in no hurry. We passed one group after another until we reached the narrow road along which we had been directed to turn. Here we saw the soldiers going the same way, now walking in twos and threes, and presently the road developed into one of the deep, narrow lanes so common in Devonshire. We continued to pass the soldiers, but there was now a greater distance between the small groups. Presently we were accosted by a sergeant, one of the most finely proportioned men we had ever seen--a giant, as we thought, amongst giants, for all the soldiers were very big men--who said to us, "Now, my lads! if you see any of the enemy, tell them we are two or three miles away, will you?" We wondered what he meant, but as he smiled, we considered it a joke, and replied, "All right!" as we moved on. We had passed all the soldiers except the first two, who were about fifty yards ahead. They had climbed up the high bank on the left-hand side of the lane, and were apparently looking over the country and shading their eyes with their hands so as to get a better view, when we saw a number of others belonging to the same regiment file quietly down-the opposite side. Crossing the lane, they ran up the bank where the two soldiers were still standing, and almost before they realised what was happening their bonnets had been taken off their heads and they found themselves prisoners. It was a clever capture, and as it took place immediately before our eyes, we remained standing there looking on with astonishment, for we had no idea what was about to happen. But immediately the scene changed, and soldiers appeared in front, both in the lane and high up above the road. But the worst feature was that they began firing their guns; so here we were in a deep lane from which there was no escape, and, as we afterwards ascertained, between the two halves of one of the most famous regiments in the British army, one ambuscaded by the other! We were taken completely by surprise, as we had never seen or heard of a sham fight before, and it appeared a terrible thing to us, as the fiery eyes and fierce countenances of the soldiers were fearful to see, and we became greatly alarmed, expecting every minute to be taken prisoners. I consoled my brother by telling him the guns were only loaded with blank cartridges, but his only remark was, "But suppose one of them isn't, and we get shot," and he began to walk onwards more quickly than I had ever seen him walk before. Keeping as near one side the road as possible, and dodging between the soldiers, with myself following closely behind his heels, perspiring profusely with fear and exertion until there was scarcely a dry thread upon us, we managed at last to escape, and were profoundly thankful when we got clear of the Black Watch and so ended one of the most exciting adventures we ever had. It reminded my brother of the Charge of the Light Brigade, a story he was very familiar with, an Irish friend of his named Donoghue being one of the trumpeters who sounded it, and of Tennyson's words: Cannon to right of them. Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volley'd and thundered. In our case, he said, we had guns at our back in addition. We did not know at that time that the 42nd Highlanders were so famous, but a friend of ours, an officer in the army, has since handed us a description of that regiment, bringing its history down to a later period. The 42nd Highlanders were originally formed from the independent companies raised in the year 1729 to keep the King's peace among the Highland Hills; the Black Watch, so called from the dark hue of its tartan, was first paraded as a regiment of the British army in 1740. They had distinguished themselves in all parts of the world: America, India, Flanders, Egypt, Corunna, Waterloo, Sevastopol, Indian Mutiny, Ashantee, Egypt, Nile, and South Africa, and lost heavily at Ticonderago, Toulouse, Waterloo, and afterwards in the Boer War. They were amongst our bravest soldiers, and were famous as being one of the four regiments named for distinction by Wellington at Waterloo; twice they had been specially called upon, once at the Battle of Alexandria, when the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Ralph Abercromby, called for a special effort at a critical period in the fight, saying, "My brave Highlanders! Remember your forefathers! Remember your country!" and victory immediately ensued; and again at the Battle of Corunna, when Sir John Moore in the thick of the fight, before being mortally wounded, exclaimed, "Highlanders! Remember Egypt!" and the foe was scattered in all directions. In Egypt, after storming Tel-el-Kebir and taking part in the battles that followed, such was the conduct of the Black Watch that Lord Wolseley sent the following telegram: "Well done, old comrades of the Black Watch." Such we may venture to say were the men among whom we found ourselves on that occasion. In after life we always took a deep interest in the doings of that famous regiment, and we noticed that when any hard fighting had to be done, the Black Watch nearly always assisted to do it--so much so that sometimes we regretted that we had not had the honour of having been taken prisoner by them on that ever-memorable occasion! The next village we came to was Tamerton Foliot, in a lovely situation, standing at the end of a creek which fills with the tide. At that point the waters of the Tavy join those of the larger River Tamar, and eventually assist to form the Hamoaze. Tamerton was a very old settlement, as Gilbert Foliot, who was Bishop of London from 1163 to 1188, and one of the most prominent opponents of Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, was a native of that village. There was a recumbent effigy in the church dating from the year 1346; but beyond that the great object of interest in the village was an old oak tree named the Coppleston Oak, because of a very sorrowful incident which occurred near the church one Sunday morning many centuries ago. It appeared that a local squire named Coppleston, a man of bad temper and vile disposition, when at dinner made some gross remarks which were repeated in the village by his son. He was so enraged when he heard of it, on the Sunday, that as they were leaving the church he threw his dagger at the lad, wounding him in the loins so that he fell down and died. An oak tree was planted near the spot, and was still pointed out as the Coppleston Oak. The father meanwhile fled to France, and his friends obtained a conditional pardon for him; but to escape being hanged he had to forfeit thirteen manors in Cornwall. [Illustration: TAMERTON CHURCH AND THE FATAL OAK] We were now fairly off the beaten track, but by devious ways, with lovely wooded and river scenery to the left and the wild scenery of Dartmoor to the right, we managed to reach Buckland Abbey. This abbey was founded in 1278 by the Countess of Baldwin-de Redvers, Earl of Devon, and we expected to find it in ruins, as usual. But when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, he gave Buckland to Sir Richard Grenville, who converted it into a magnificent mansion, although some few of the monastic buildings still remained. He formed the great hall so as to be under the great central tower of the old abbey, and the dining-room he formed out of a portion of the nave, while the drawing-room was at the end of a long gallery upstairs; so that altogether it formed a unique structure. In 1581, however, it was sold to Sir Francis Drake, and the mansion contained some relics of his, amongst which were two drums; there were also a chair and a table made out of one of his old ships, the _Pelican_, and a fine portrait of Sir Francis by Jansen, dated 1594. The gardens were very beautiful, as the trees in this sheltered position grew almost without let or hindrance; there were some of the finest tulip trees there that we had ever seen. We were informed that when Sir Francis Drake began to make some alteration in his new possessions, the stones that were built up in the daytime were removed during the night or taken down in some mysterious manner. So one moonlight night he put on a white sheet, and climbed a tree overlooking the building, with the object of frightening any one who might come to pull down the stones. When the great clock which formerly belonged to the old abbey struck the hour of twelve, he saw the earth open below, and about twenty little black devils came out and started to pull down the wall. Sir Francis began to move his arms about and flap them as if they were wings, and then crowed like a cock. The devils, when they heard the white bird crowing, looked up, and, thinking the morning must be close at hand, immediately disappeared to the regions below. We could not learn if or how often these performances were repeated, but it seemed a very unlikely thing for Sir Francis Drake to do, and the story sounded as if it belonged to a far remoter period than that of the Spanish Armada. [Illustration: DRAKE'S STATUE, TAVISTOCK.] Drake was idolised in Plymouth and the surrounding country, where his name was held in everlasting remembrance, and his warlike spirit pervaded the British navy. At a much later period than that of our visit even his drum was not forgotten. Whether it was one of those that were preserved in the old abbey or not we did not know, but it is the subject of a stirring poem by Sir Henry Newbolt. DRAKE'S DRUM Drake he's in his hammock, an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?), Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago. Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the Drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! In olden times there existed a much older abbey than Buckland, named Buckfast Abbey, but it was right on the other side of Dartmoor, and the abbots and monks formerly crossed from one to the other. In those remote times there were no proper roads, and the tracks between the two places were mainly made by the feet of the monks, with crosses placed at intervals to prevent their losing the way, especially when the hills were covered with snow. The track still existed, being known as the "Abbots' Way." The distance between the two abbeys was about sixteen miles as the crow flies, but as the track had to go partially round some of the tors, which there rose to an elevation of about 1,500 feet above sea-level, and were directly in the way, it must have involved a walk of quite twenty miles from one abbey to the other. Buckfast Abbey is one of the oldest in Britain, and ultimately became the richest Cistercian house in the West of England. The last abbot was Gabriel Donne, who received his appointment for having in 1536 captured Tyndale the Reformer, who was in the same year put to death by strangling and burning. [Illustration: BUCKLAND ABBEY.] One of the earliest stories of the "lost on the moors" was connected with that road. Childe, the "Hunter of Plymstock," had been hunting in one of the wildest districts on Dartmoor, and was returning home at night, when a heavy snowstorm came on and the night became bitterly cold. Having completely lost his way, and as his tired horse could go no farther, he stopped at one of the ancient crosses and dismounted. His blood, however, began to freeze within him, and to try to save his own life he killed his horse, and, cutting a great hole in its body, crept inside. When daylight came in the morning, knowing he was dying, and that some of the monks would probably find his body when they came to the cross, he dipped his fingers in his horse's blood and scribbled on the stone: They fyrste that fyndes and brings mee to my grave, The Priorie of Plymstocke they shall have. His body was found by the "monks of Tavystoke," and buried in their abbey at Tavistock; and from that time to the dissolution of the monasteries the Abbey of Tavistock had possession of the manor of Plymstock, Childe having no children to follow him. We were sorry that we had been unable to explore Dartmoor itself instead of only its fringes, so we decided to make an effort to see Dartmoor Prison, which we were given to understand was only a few miles away. We changed our course a little and passed on to Walkhampton, where we were advised to follow the by-road above the Walkham river, from which the village took its name, this being the easiest and most pleasant way. We had a nice walk along the valley until we reached Merridale, but there we succumbed to the attractions of the small inn. We felt that we should never be able to wait for food until we reached Tavistock, as the mountain air and the exertion of climbing up the hill had been too much for us, so we ordered refreshments there instead of at Tavistock, as originally intended. We had loitered a little on our way up the hill, stopping to look at the views behind us, which were better than those in front--a necessary procedure, for we were rather inclined at times "to keep our noses too near the grindstone," or perhaps, like Othello, to be "led by the nose as asses are," and to toil up the hills with the wilderness before us, in total forgetfulness of the lovely scenes behind. We therefore advise all tourists on a walking expedition to look back occasionally, since much of the pleasure and beauty of the tour may otherwise be lost. [Illustration: VIXEN TOR, TAVISTOCK.] We had a short walk in the direction of Princetown, where the prison was situated, but we were not at all favourably impressed by the appearance of the country, without a house in sight except the inn where our refreshments were being prepared. Presently we met an official in uniform, who told us the prisoners were not always kept inside the prison, but were employed in making and repairing roads and fences and in cultivating land. He pointed out some men a long distance away who were so employed, and strongly advised us not to go any farther in that direction. The only objects of interest on the Moor, beyond the tors and the views from their summits, were the antiquities, which in that part were particularly numerous, for without leaving the road between the prison and Merridale there could be seen a cluster of hut circles, a kistvaen, a menhir, and a double line of stone rows, and within a short radius many other relics of prehistoric man, as well as one or two logans or rocking-stones. We therefore returned with him to the inn--for even an antiquary cannot live on stones; he ought to be well supported with both food and clothing to enable him fully to explore and appreciate the ancient relics of Dartmoor. Our refreshments were quite ready and were soon put out of sight, and, as we had a downward gradient to the River Tavy, we had made up for our delay when we crossed the bridge over the river and entered the town of Tavistock. The earliest history of Tavistock was no doubt associated with the prehistoric remains on the hills above, if that had been written; but as early as the tenth century Orgarius, Earl of Devon, in consequence of a dream, decided to build a magnificent abbey there, and to dedicate it to St. Mary. He began to build it in 961, but as he died before it was completed, his son Ordulph completed it in 981 and endowed it with the manor of Tavistock and others. Ordulph was also a nephew of King Ethelred, and, according to tradition, was a giant able to stride across a river ten feet wide. Orgarius had not only left a gigantic son, but he had also left a daughter of such surpassing beauty that her fame spread all over England; and Edgar, who by that time was king, hearing of the wonderful beauty of Elfrida, sent his favourite--Athelwold--to her father's castle to ascertain if her beauty was such as had been reported. Athelwold went on his mission, but was so struck and bewildered with Elfrida's beauty that he fell violently in love with her himself, and when he returned he told Edgar that Elfrida was not so beautiful, but was rich and more fit to be the wife of a subject than a king. Edgar therefore consented to his favourite's marriage with her; but the king, discovering that he had been deceived, insisted on paying Athelwold a visit at his home in Devonshire. Athelwold craved permission to go home and prepare for the king's visit, which was granted, and with all possible haste he went and, kneeling before his wife, confessed all, and asked her to help him out of his difficulties by putting on an old dress and an awkward appearance when the king came, so that his life might be spared. Elfrida was, however, disappointed at the loss of a crown, and, instead of obscuring her beauty, she clothed herself so as to appear as beautiful as possible, and, as she expected, captivated the royal Edgar. A few days afterwards Athelwold was found murdered in a wood, and the king married his widow. But the union, beginning with crime, could not be other than unhappy, and ended disastrously, the king only surviving his marriage six or seven years and dying at the early age of thirty-two. He was buried at Glastonbury, an abbey he had greatly befriended. At the Dissolution the lands of Tavistock Abbey were given by King Henry VIII, along with others, to Lord John Russell, whose descendants, the Dukes of Bedford, still possess them. Considerable traces of the old abbey remained, but, judging from some old prints, they had been much altered during the past century. The fine old chapter-house had been taken down to build a residence named Abbey House, which now formed the Bedford Hotel; the old refectory had been used as a Unitarian chapel, and its porch attached to the premises of the hotel; while the vicarage garden seemed to have absorbed some portion of the venerable ruins. There were two towers, one of which was named the Betsey Grinbal's Tower, as a woman of that name was supposed to have been murdered there by the monks; and between that and the other tower was an archway which connected the two. Under this archway stood a Sarcophagus which formerly contained the remains of Ordulph, whose gigantic thigh-bones we afterwards saw in the church. The ruins were nearly all covered with ivy, and looked beautiful even in their decay; but seeing the purpose to which some of them had been applied, we thought that the word "Ichabod" (the glory hath departed) would aptly apply, and if the old walls could have spoken, we should not have been surprised to hear a line quoted from Shakespeare--"to what base uses do we come at last." [Illustration: THE STILL TOWER, TAVISTOCK ABBEY] The old abbey had done good service in its time, as it had given Tavistock the claim of being the second town in England where a printing press was erected, for in 1524 one had been put up in the abbey, and a monk named Rychard had printed a translation of Boethius' _De Consolatione Philosophiæ_, and a Saxon Grammar was also said to have been printed there. The neighbourhood of Tavistock was not without legends, which linger long on the confines of Dartmoor, and, like slander, seemed to have expanded as time went on: The flying rumours gathered as they rolled, Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told, And all who told it added something new, And all who heard it made enlargement too! On every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew. Fitzford was the name of one of the river suburbs of Tavistock, and was once upon a time the residence of the Fitze family. According to some ancient histories of Devon, one of which had the significant title of _The Bloudie Book_, Sir John Fitze was noted as a turbulent, dangerous man, ever ready with his sword on all occasions. Meeting with many of his neighbours at a noontide dinner at Tavistock, he was vaunting his free tenure and boasting that he did not hold a foot of land from any but the "Queene of England," when his neighbour, "Maister Slanning," reminded him of a small piece of land he had of his for which he was liable for rent, but for which no payment had been asked by reason of "courtesie and friendshippe." Upon hearing these words Fitze flew in a furious rage and told Slanning with a great oath that he lied, and withal gave fuel to his rage and reines of spight in the unjustness of his anger--offering to stab him. But Maister Slanning, who was known to be a man of no less courage, and more courtesie, with a great knife that he had, warded the hazard of such threatenings. The quarrel was stopped by the intervention of friends, and Slanning, thinking the matter was at an end, shortly afterwards rode home in company with only one servant. Long had they not ridden but commanding the man to walk down his horses in the way, himself the while taking the greene fields for his more contented walking; he might behold Sir John Fitze, with four more, galloping amane after him, which sight could not but be a great amazement to Maister Slanning. The quarrel was renewed, and Slanning, who was, by the way, a brave man, perceived that Fitze was determined to kill him; but he had no chance against live swords, and when he got to Fitzford gateway he received a blow from behind which staggered him, and Fitze, seizing the opportunity, ran his sword through his body, and poor Slanning fell to the floor a murdered man. Fitze fled to France, and his friends obtained some kind of a pardon for him; but when he returned they all gave him the cold shoulder; he was avoided by everybody, and to add to his discomfort the children of Slanning sued him in London for compensation. Meanwhile the guilt in blood weighed heavily upon him, increasing in intensity as years went on, and the shade of Slanning never left him day or night, until finally he could not sleep, for the most horrid dreams awoke him and his screams in the night were awful to hear. Sometimes he dreamt he was being pursued by the police, then by black demons and other hideous monsters, while in the background was always the ghost of the man he had so cruelly murdered. Late one night a man on horseback, haggard and weary, rode up to the door of the "Anchor Inn" at Kingston-on-Thames and demanded lodgings for the night. The landlord and his family were just retiring to rest, and the landlady, not liking the wild and haggard appearance of their midnight visitor, at first declined to receive him, but at length agreed to find him a room. The family were awakened in the night by the lodger crying in his sleep, and the landlady was greatly alarmed as the noise was continued at intervals all through the night. They had to rise early in the morning, as the landlord had some work to do in his fields, but his wife would not be left in the house with the stranger who had groaned so horribly during the night. Their footsteps seem to have awakened the man, for suddenly they were terrified to see him rush downstairs with a drawn sword in his hand, throw himself upon a man standing in the yard, and kill him instantly. It was thought afterwards that he must have mistaken his victim for a constable; but when he came to his senses and found he had killed the groom to whom he had given orders to meet him early in the morning, he turned his sword against himself and fell--dead! And such was the tragic end of John Fitze. [Illustration: LYDFORD CASTLE.] There is a saying, "Like father, like son," which sometimes justifies itself; but in the case of Fitze it applied not to a son, but to a daughter, who seems to have followed his bad example and to have inherited his wild nature, for it was said that she was married four times--twice before she reached the age of sixteen! She afterwards married Lord Charles Howard, son of the Duke of Suffolk, and after she had disposed of him--for the country people believed she murdered all her husbands--she married Sir Richard Granville, the cruel Governor of Lydford Castle, but preferred to retain the title of Lady Howard. It was said that she died diseased both in mind and body, and that afterwards she had to do penance for her sins. Every night on the stroke of twelve a phantom coach made of bones, drawn by four skeleton horses and ornamented with four grinning skulls, supposed to be those of her four husbands, issued from under Fitzford gateway with the shade of Lady Howard inside. A coal-black hound ran in front as far as Okehampton, and on the return journey carried in its mouth a single blade of grass, which it placed on a stone in the old courtyard of Fitzford; and not until all the grass of Okehampton had been thus transported would Lady Howard's penance end! The death-coach glided noiselessly along the lonely moorland roads, and any person who accepted Lady Howard's invitation to ride therein was never seen again. One good effect this nocturnal journey had was that every one took care to leave the inns at Tavistock in time to reach home before midnight. My Lady hath a sable coach, With horses two and four; My Lady hath a gaunt bloodhound. That goeth on before: My Lady's coach hath nodding plumes, The driver hath no head; My Lady is an ashen white As one that long is dead. I'd rather walk a hundred miles, And run by night and day. Than have that carriage halt for me And hear my Lady say: "Now pray step in and make no din, Step in with me to ride; There's room, I trow, by me, for you And all the world beside!" The church at Tavistock was dedicated to St. Eustachius, for we were now quite near Cornwall, a land of saints with all kinds of queer names. The church had the appearance of having passed through the ordeal of some severe restorations, but we saw many objects of interest therein. There was a tomb with effigies of Judge Granville, his wife, and three sons and four daughters, erected in 1615 by his widow after she had married again--a circumstance that might give rise to some speculations. The children's heads had all been knocked off, and the boys had disappeared altogether; probably, we thought, taken prisoners by some of Cromwell's men to serve as ornaments elsewhere. There was also a monument to the Fitze family, including a figure of Sir John Fitze, the last of the line, who was buried at Twickenham; but whether he was the hero of the legend or not we could not ascertain. Thomas Larkham, who was vicar from 1649 to 1660, stood out against the Act of Conformity, and was dismissed. But he kept a diary, and a page of it had been preserved which referred to the gifts presented to him after being deprived of his stipend. 1653, _Nov. 30th._--The wife of Will Hodges brought me a fat goose; Lord, do them good! Edward Cole sent by his daughter a turkey; Lord, accept it! _Dec. 2nd._--Sara Frowt a dish of butter; accept, Lord! _Dec. 6th._--Margaret Sitwell would not be paid for 2-1/2 lbs. of butter; is she not a daughter of Abraham? Father, be pleased to pay her. Walter Peck sent me, _Dec. 14th_, a partridge, and Mr. Webb the same day pork and puddings; Lord, forget not! Mrs. Thomasin Doidge--Lord, look on her in much mercy--_Dec. 19th_, gave me 5s. _Jan. 25th._--Mrs. Audry sent me a bushel of barley malt for housekeeping; Lord, smell a sweet savour! Patrick Harris sent me a shoulder of pork,--he is a poor ignorant man. Lord, pity him! There was a curious thirteenth-century chest, trapezium in form, and said to be the only one of that shape in the West of England. It was of carved oak, and called a treasure chest, because it had a secret recess at the back where the priest kept a jewel with which he fastened his robes. Another old chest contained some ancient Latin writings, the earliest of which bore the dates 1285, 1325, and 1370, written in old lettering with what was known as "monk's ink," made from vegetables. Some of the documents bore seals with rush rings attached, and there was a black-letter Bible, and a chained book dated 1588, the year of the Spanish Armada. We were also shown four pewter flagons for Communion wine, all of the time of Charles I, two churchwardens having each given one in 1633 and two other wardens one each in 1638. Asked why so many were required, we were informed that in those days all the people were compelled to come to church, and it was nothing unusual for quarts of wine to be used at one Communion, at a cost of several pounds! But in those days Holy Communion was only administered four times a year! [Illustration: BRENT TOR, TAVISTOCK.] Tavistock was one of the four Stannary towns in Devonshire, where Stannary Courts were established to deal with all matters relating to tin and the tinners who produced it. Under a charter of Edward I tin was ordered to be officially weighed and stamped in the towns so appointed. But while the tinners had the privilege of digging for tin on any person's land without payment for rent or damage, they were subject to heavy penalties and impositions in other ways, and especially in the case of adulteration of tin with inferior metal. The forest laws also in those early times were terrible and barbarous. To enforce the authority of the Stannary Courts a prison was constructed in the thirteenth century out of the keep or dungeon of Lydford Castle, about nine miles north of Tavistock; and in the sixteenth century this prison was described as "one of the most annoyous, contagious, and detestable places in the realm." When Sir Richard Granville, who was noted for his extremely cruel disposition, was Governor, prisoners were known to be compelled to swallow spoonfuls of the molten metal they were supposed to have adulterated. William Browne, a poet born at Tavistock in 1590, in one of his pastorals perpetuated the memory of Lydford Castle: I oft have heard of Lydford law-- How in the morn they hang and draw. And sit in judgement after. [Illustration: KIT HILL, CALLINGTON.] We had now to return towards the coast-line from which we had diverged after leaving Plymouth, and we decided to walk from Tavistock to Liskeard and stay there for the night. The country was rather hilly, and in about three miles we crossed the River Tamar, at the same point passing from Devon into Cornwall, for the river here divided the two counties. It had made for itself in the course of ages a deep passage through the hills, which for the pedestrian involved a deep descent and a sharp ascent on the other side to and from the river. Our way now crossed the Hingston Downs, where we came to one of the chief landmarks of Cornwall, named the Kit Hill, at an elevation of 1,067 feet above sea-level, standing quite near our road. This hill marked the site of a desperate battle in 835, between King Edgar of Wessex on the one side and the Danes combined with the men of Cornwall on the other. The Saxons lost heavily, but they won the battle, and the neighbouring barrows, or tumuli, were supposed to have covered the remains of those who fell on that occasion. We were now amongst the tin mines, of which there were quite a number, used and disused, in sight, some right on the top of the hills; and from these highlands we could see the two Channels, the English on one side and the Irish on the other. It was supposed that the Irish had originally inhabited the whole of Cornwall, but the old Cornishmen were in reality Celts of a different tribe. One of the miners told us that on his return from South Africa he could see Kit Hill distinctly from a long distance out at sea. Some of the tin miners, it seemed, were emigrating to South Africa, while others were going to America. Soon afterwards we reached the fair-sized village or town of Callington, which under the old franchise returned two Members to Parliament, one of whom had been Horace Walpole, the son of the famous Robert Walpole. We looked through the church, where we saw a rather fine monument to Lord Willoughby de Broke erected in 1503. He was represented as wearing armour and the insignia of the Garter, and at his feet were two curious figures of monks, said to be unique, for the figures in that position were invariably those of lions or other animals. A lady from the vicarage told us that his lordship was the steward of the Duchy of Cornwall, and an important person, but there was some doubt about his being buried there. There was another church in the neighbourhood, and as both the villages belonged to him, he had a tomb made in each, so that he could be buried in whichever part of his property he happened to be in when he died, or, as he explained to his friends, "where you drop, there you may be buried." There were more temperance hotels, or houses, in Cornwall than in most other counties we had passed through, almost invariably clean and good, and it was to one of these that we adjourned at Callington for tea. We found it quite up to the mark, and we had a splendid feed there both as regarded quantity and quality, Devonshire cream being evidently not confined to its own county. It would have been a grand place in which to stay the night, but, though the weather was threatening, we must place our average mileage in a safe position, especially as we were now nearing the end of our long walk. It was nearly dark when we left Callington, and, on our inquiring the way to Liskeard, a man we saw at the end of the village said he could put vis in a nearer way than going along the high road, which would save us a good half-mile in the journey. Going with us to the entrance of a narrow lane, he gave us very careful and voluminous instructions about the way we must follow. Thanking him, we left him, and proceeded along the lane in search of a farmhouse, or rather a gate at the end of the road leading towards it, for he had told us we should not be able to see the house itself in the dark, but should be sure to see the gate, as it was a large one, painted white, and after passing this we were to make one or two turns which he described. The sky was overcast and the night very dark, and although there was a new moon, it was only three days old--too young to be of any service to us. But we could not find either the gate or the farm, or any turns in the road, nor could either of us remember distinctly the latter part of the instructions given to us by the man, one thinking we had to turn to the right and the other to the left. The fact was, we had calculated upon meeting some one on the road from whom, we could inquire further. We had been walking slowly for some time, stopping occasionally to listen for the footsteps of some person from whom we could inquire, but not a sound could we hear until we almost stumbled against a gate that barred our further progress, for it reached right across our road, and beyond this we could hear the sound of rushing water. I knew now that we had come to a full-stop, as my brother would never go beyond that gate after he had heard the roar of the stream, which must have been quite near us. He had often rowed a boat on dangerous rivers and on the sea; had been nearly lost one dark night in a high spring-tide on the sandbanks of the River Mersey; had been washed out to sea through the failure of an oar at Barmouth; had narrowly escaped being swamped with his boat off the East Coast; and a few years before had a hair-breadth escape from drowning by being drawn under the wooden framework protecting the piles for a future famous bridge over the River Thames near the heart of London; but, owing to a narrow escape from drowning when he was almost a child, he had the greatest horror of having his head under water and of being drowned, and even now he was afraid of the sound of rushing water in the dark, for he could not swim a yard; but he was a brave man nevertheless! So there we stood on a pitch-dark night, leaning over a gate in an unknown country, and on a by-road, listening to the rush of the water beyond, wishing that some one might come that way to direct us; but it was hopeless. When we struck a match and lit a piece of paper, we discovered that there was no road beyond the gate, the lane having made an abrupt turning towards the left upon reaching it. We walked along carefully, striking a match occasionally, and at length came to a finger-post, green with age; we could not, however, distinguish the lettering on the arms at the top, so I knew that my turn had now come, as when there was any climbing to be done during our journey, I had to do it. I "swarmed up" the post to the arms at the top, while my brother lighted a piece of newspaper below; but it was of no use, as the names were partly obscured. Still I could see that Liskeard was not one of them, so I dropped down again, nearly knocking my brother over, as the ground was not level at the foot of the post and the light had gone out. We had to stop a minute or two, for the glare of the light from the burning paper had made the darkness more impenetrable than before; but the narrowness of the road was an advantage to us, as we knew we could not get far astray. Coming to a good hard road, we arrived at a bridge where there were a few houses, and soon we were walking quickly again on the right way to Liskeard; but how we blessed that countryman who with the best of intentions had directed us the nearer way! In a few miles we saw a light ahead, and found it came from a small inn by the roadside where one road crossed another, and here we called to inquire our way, and were informed we had arrived at St. Eve, which we thought must be the name of some doubtful Cornish saint; but that impression was removed when we found it was the local pronunciation for St. Ive. We could just discern the outline of a small church to the right of our road, and as there were so few houses we did not confound it with the much larger place in Cornwall, St. Ives, nor, needless to say, with another place named St. Ives in Huntingdonshire, which we passed through on our walk from London the previous year. It was getting unpleasantly near "closing time" when we reached Liskeard, but we were just in time to be well entertained and housed for the night. (_Distance walked thirty-six miles_.) _Thursday, November 16th._ Liskeard was visited in 1757 by John Wesley, who described it as "one of the largest and pleasantest towns in Cornwall," a description with which we agreed, but we were inclined to add the words, "and of no occupation," for there was no outward or visible sign of any staple industry. As in other similar places we had visited, the first question that suggested itself to us was, "How do the people live?" Their appearance, however, caused us no anxiety, as every one we saw looked both well and happy. They had made a clean sweep of their old castle, which was said to have been built in the thirteenth century by Richard, Earl of Cornwall, and King of the Romans, the brother of Henry III; the site they had formed into a public park, in which stood the old grammar school where Dr. Wolcot was educated, who wrote a number of satirical odes, letters, and ballads, under the name of "Peter Pindar," in the time of George III, many of his satires being levelled at the king himself. Eventually he sold his works for an annuity of £250. Liskeard was remarkable for the spring of water round which the town had been built, and which was described by Leland in his _Itinerary_ as "a good conduit in the middle of the Town very plentiful of water to serve the Town." Four pipes originally conveyed the water to different points, and the street where the well existed was known as Pipewell Street. The wells of Cornwall were famous, being named after the different saints who had settled beside them in ancient times, appreciating the value of the pure water they contained. We had often tested the water of the wells and springs we had come to in the course of our long walk, and the conviction had grown upon us that we owed much of our continued good health to drinking water. We naturally perspired a good deal, especially when we walked quickly, which of course created thirst; and the different strata of the various rock-formations we had crossed must have influenced the water and ourselves to some extent. We had come to the conclusion that people who went on holidays and attributed the benefit derived solely to "the change of air" might have equally benefited by the change of water! In one part of Cheshire, formerly in possession of the Romans, there was a rather remarkable spring of water known as the "Roman Well," over which appeared the following Latin inscription, difficult to translate, but which had been interpreted thus: _Sanitate Sacrum_: Sacred to Health! _Obstructum reserat_, It removes obstruction. _Durum terit_, It crushes the hard, _Humida siecat_, It dries the moist, _Debile fortificat_, It strengthens the weak, _Si tamen arte bibis_. Provided thou drinkest with knowledge. The water rises from some subterranean source in the sandstone rock and enters with considerable force into the receptacle prepared for it, which is about five feet deep. The water was always beautifully clear and cool, and visitors often amused themselves by throwing halfpennies into the bath and watching them apparently being transformed into shillings as they reached the bottom--a fact attributed to the presence of lime in the water. In striking contrast to this was the water afterwards brought through the district from a watershed on the distant Welsh hills, which depended for its supply almost entirely on the downfall from the clouds. The difference between that and the water from the Roman well was very marked, for while the rainwater was very soft, the other that contained the lime was very hard, and therefore considered more conducive to the growth of the bones in children. Our personal experiences also with the water at Inverness, and in the neighbourhood of Buxton in the previous year, which affected us in a similar way, convinced us that water affected human beings very markedly; and then we had passed by Harrogate and Leamington, where people were supposed to go purposely to drink the waters. Even the water of the tin-mining district through which we were now passing might contain properties that were absent elsewhere, and the special virtues attributed to some of the Saints' Wells in Cornwall in olden times might not have been altogether mythical. Besides the four Stannary towns in Devon there were originally four in Cornwall, including Liskeard, where all tin mined in their respective districts had to be weighed and stamped. Probably on that account Liskeard returned two members to Parliament, the first members being returned in 1294; amongst the M.P.'s who had represented the town were two famous men--Sir Edward Coke, elected in 1620, and Edward Gibbon, in 1774. Sir Edward Coke was a great lawyer and author of the legal classic _Coke upon Littleton_. He became Speaker of the House of Commons, Attorney-General, and afterwards Chief Justice, and was the merciless prosecutor of Sir Walter Raleigh, and also of the persons concerned in the Gunpowder Plot; while his great speech against Buckingham towards the close of the career of that ill-fated royal favourite is famous. Edward Gibbon was the celebrated historian and author of that great work _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. The history of his Parliamentary connection with Liskeard was rather curious. One morning in 1774, when in London, he was asked if he would like to enter the House of Commons, and when he consented, the "free and independent electors" of Liskeard were duly "instructed" to return him. But it was very doubtful whether he ever saw any of the electors, or had any dealings with the Constituency whatever, although he acted as one of their members for about eight years. Possibly, as there were two members, the other M.P. might have been the "acting partner." Liskeard church was the second largest in Cornwall, and in it we saw a "Lepers' squint" and also a turret at the corner of the aisle from which the priest could preach to the lepers without coming in contact with them, for the disease was very infectious--so much so that the hospital built for them was a mile or two from the town. "Lepers' squints" had been common in some parts of England, and as the disease is often mentioned in the Bible, we considered it must have been imported from the East, perhaps from Palestine by the Crusaders. We had not seen or heard of any cases of leprosy on our journey, and we concluded that the disease could not have been natural to our colder climate, and had therefore died out as a result of more cleanly habits. The pulpit was dated 1632, the carving on it being the work of a local sculptor, whose remuneration, we were told, was at the rate of one penny per hour, which appeared to us to be a very small amount for that description of work. Possibly he considered he was working for the cause of religion, and hoped for his further reward in a future life; or was it a silver penny? [Illustration: LISKEARD CHURCH.] The houses in Liskeard were built of stone, and the finest perhaps was that known as Stuart House, so named because King Charles I stayed there for about a week in 1644. This was of course in the time of the Civil War, when Cornwall, as it practically belonged to the King or his son, did not consider itself as an ordinary county, but as a duchy, and was consequently always loyal to the reigning sovereign. It was also a difficult county for an invading army to approach, and the army of the Parliament under the Earl of Essex met with a disastrous defeat there. But we must not forget the Holy Wells, as the villages and towns took their names from the saints who presided at the wells. That of St. Keyne, quite near Liskeard, is described by Southey: A Well there is in the West Country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West Country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. St. Keyne introduced the rather remarkable belief that the first of a newly married couple to drink of the water of her well, whether husband or wife, should in future rule the home. We supposed that the happy pair would have a race to the well, and the one who arrived there first would ever afterwards play the first fiddle, if that instrument was in use in the time of St. Keyne. But a story was related of how on one occasion the better-half triumphed. No sooner had the knot been tied than the husband ran off as fast as he could to drink of the water at St. Keyne's Well, leaving his wife in the church. When he got back he found the lady had been before him, for she had brought a bottle of the water from the well with her to church, and while the man was running to the well she had been quietly seated drinking the water in the church porch! [Illustration: ST. KEYNE'S WELL.] The story was told by the victim to a stranger, and the incident was recorded by Southey in his poem "The Well of St. Keyne": "You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said: But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head: "I hastened as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith! she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church." It was at Liskeard that we first heard of George Borrow, a tramp like ourselves. Although we should have been pleased to have had a talk with him, we should scarcely have been able to accompany him on one of his journeys, for he was 6 feet 3 inches in height against our 5 feet 8 inches, and he would have been able to walk quicker than ourselves. He was born in 1803 and died in 1881, so that he was still alive when we were walking through Cornwall, and was for many years a travelling agent for the British and Foreign Bible Society. In the course of his wanderings, generally on foot, he made a study of gipsy life, and wrote some charming books about the Romany tribes, his _Lavengro_ and _Romany Rye_ being still widely read. He was a native of Norfolk, but his father was born near Liskeard, to which place he paid a special visit at the end of 1853. On Christmas Day in that year, which was also a Sunday, he walked to St. Cleer and attended service in the church, Mr. Berkeley being the preacher, and although there was no organ, he saw a fiddle in the gallery, so fiddles must have then been in use in Cornwall. He would also see the Well of St. Cleer, which was quite near the church, and must in the time of the Saxons have been covered over with stone, as the old arches and columns were Saxon work. Borrow's father was born at Trethinnick Farm, near St. Cleer, which he also went to see. He left Liskeard in January 1854 on a tramp through Truro and Penzance to Land's End by almost the same route as that we were about to follow ourselves. As he made many notes during his wanderings in Cornwall, his friends naturally expected him to publish an account of his travels there, after the manner of a book he had published in 1862 entitled _Wild Wales_, but they were disappointed, for none appeared. [Illustration: ST. CLEER'S WELL.] It was said that Cornwall did not grow wood enough to make a coffin, and the absence of trees enabled us to see a number of huge, mysterious-looking stones: some upright and standing alone, others in circles, or in groups named cists composed of upright stones, forming a cavity between them in the shape of a chest covered at the top, and not intended to be opened again, for they had been used as tombs. Occasionally the stones stood quite near our road, some in the shape of crosses, while we could see others in fields and on the top of small hills. There were some remarkable stones near St. Cleer, including the famous "Cheesewring," formed of eight circular stones each resembling a cheese, placed one on top of another and rising to a height of about eight yards; but the strange part about this curious erection was that the four larger and heavier stones were at the top and the four smaller ones at the bottom. It was a mystery how in such remote times the builders could have got those immense stones to the top of the others and there balanced them so exactly as to withstand the storms of so many years. [Illustration: THE CHEESEWRING] Near this supposed Druidical erection was a rough cave known as "Daniel Gumb's House," formerly inhabited by a man of that name who came there to study astrology and astronomy, and who was said to have had his family with him. He left his record by cutting his name at the entrance to the cave, "D. Gumb 1735," and by inscribing a figure on the roof representing the famous 47th proposition in the First Book of Euclid. The Trethevy Menhir, a cromlech or "House of the Dead," which George Borrow went to see, consisted of seven great hewn slabs which formed a chamber inside about the height of a man; over the top was an enormous flat stone of such great weight as to make one wonder how it could have been placed there so many centuries ago. At one corner of the great stone, which was in a slanting position, there was a hole the use of which puzzled antiquarians; but George Borrow was said to have contrived to get on the top of it and, putting his hand through the hole, shouted, "Success to old Cornwall," a sentiment which we were fully prepared to endorse, for we thought the people we saw at the two extremes of our journey--say in Shetland, Orkney, and the extreme north of Scotland, and those in Devon and Cornwall in the South of England--were the most homely and sociable people with whom we came in contact. [Illustration: "DANIEL GUMB'S HOUSE," LISKEARD.] Some of the legends attached to the stones in Cornwall were of a religious character, one example being the three stone circles named the "Hurlers"; eleven in one circle, fourteen in another, and twelve in a third--thirty-seven in all; but only about one-half of them remained standing. Here indeed might be read a "sermon in stone," and one of them might have been preached from these circles, as the stones were said to represent men who were hurling a ball one Sunday instead of attending church, when they and the two pipers who were playing for them were all turned into stone for thus desecrating the Sabbath Day. We crossed the country to visit St. Neot, and as the village was away from the main roads and situated on the fringe of Bodmin Moor, we were surprised to find such a fine church there. We were informed that St. Neot was the second largest parish in Cornwall, and that the moor beyond had been much more thickly populated in former times. We had passed through a place of the same name in Huntingdonshire in the previous year, when walking home from London, and had been puzzled as to how to pronounce the name; when we appealed to a gentleman we met on the road outside the town, he told us that the gentry called it St. Netts and the common people St. Noots, but here it was pronounced as spelt, with just a slight stress on the first syllable--St. Ne-ot, the letter "s" not being sounded officially. St. Neot, supposed to have been related to King Alfred, being either a brother or an uncle, came here from Glastonbury and built a hermitage near his well, in which he would stand for hours immersed up to his neck in the water in order "to mortify his flesh and cultivate his memory," while he recited portions of the Psalter, the whole of which he could repeat from memory. Though a dwarf, he was said to be able to rescue beasts from the hunters and oxen from the thieves, and to live on two miraculous fishes, which, though he ate them continually, were always to be seen sporting in the water of his well! St. Neot was the original burial-place of the saint, and in the church there was a curious stone casket or reliquary which formerly contained his remains; but when they were carried off to enrich Eynesbury Abbey at the Huntingdon St. Neots, all that was left here was a bone from one of his arms. This incident established the connection between the two places so far apart. [Illustration: TRETHEVY STONES, LISKEARD.] The church had a beautiful Decorated tower and a finely carved sixteenth-century roof, but its great glory consisted in its famous stained-glass windows, which were fifteen in number, and to each of which had been given a special name, such as the Young Women's Window, the Wives' Window, and so on, while St. Neot's window in its twelve panels represented incidents in the life of that saint. It was supposed that these fine windows were second to none in all England, except those at Fairford church in Gloucestershire, which we had already seen, and which were undoubtedly the finest range of mediæval windows in the country. They were more in number, and had the great advantage of being perfect, for in the time of the Civil War they had been taken away and hidden in a place of safety, and not replaced in the church until the country had resumed its normal condition. The glass in the lower panels of the windows in the Church of St. Neot's, Cornwall, had at that time been broken, but had been restored, the subjects represented being the same as before. Those windows named after the young women and the wives had been presented to the church in the sixteenth century by the maids and mothers of the parish. On our way from here to Lostwithiel, which my brother thought might have been a suitable name for the place where we went astray last night, we passed along Braddock or Broad-oak Moor, where in 1643, during the Civil War, a battle was fought, in which Sir Ralph Hopton defeated the Parliamentary Army and captured more than a thousand prisoners. Poetry seemed to be rather at a discount in Cornwall, but we copied the following lines relating to this preliminary battle: When gallant Grenville stoutly stood And stopped the gap up with his blood, When Hopton led his Cornish band Where the sly conqueror durst not stand. We knew the Queen was nigh at hand. We must confess we did not understand this; it could not have been Spenser's "Faerie Queene," so we walked on to the Fairy Cross without seeing either the Queen or the Fairy, although we were fortunate to find what might be described as a Fairy Glen and to reach the old Castle of Restormel, which had thus been heralded: To the Loiterer, the Tourist, or the Antiquary: the ivy-covered ruins of Restormel Castle will amply repay a visit, inasmuch as the remains of its former grandeur must, by the very nature of things, induce feelings of the highest and most dignified kind; they must force contemplative thought, and compel respect for the works of our forefathers and reverence for the work of the Creator's hand through centuries of time. [Illustration: RESTORMEL CASTLE.] It was therefore with some such thoughts as these that we walked along the lonely road leading up to the old castle, and rambled amongst the venerable ruins. The last of the summer visitors had long since departed, and the only sound we could hear was that made by the wind, as it whistled and moaned among the ivy-covered ruins, and in the trees which partly surrounded them, reminding us that the harvest was past and the summer was ended, while indications of approaching winter were not wanting. The castle was circular in form, and we walked round the outside of it on the border of the moat which had formerly been filled with water, but now was quite dry and covered with luxuriant grass. It was 60 feet wide and 30 feet deep, being formerly crossed by a drawbridge, not now required. The ruins have thus been described by a modern poet: And now I reach the moat's broad marge, And at each pace more fair and large The antique pile grows on my sight, Though sullen Time's resistless might, Stronger than storms or bolts of heaven, Through wall and buttress rents have riven; And wider gaps had there been seen But for the ivy's buckler green, With stems like stalwart arms sustained; Here else had little now remained But heaps of stones, or mounds o'ergrown With nettles, or with hemlock sown. Under the mouldering gate I pass, And, as upon the thick rank grass With muffled sound my footsteps falls, Waking no echo from the walls, I feel as one who chanced to tread The solemn precincts of the dead. The mound on which the castle stood was originally of Celtic construction, but was afterwards converted into one of the fortresses which the Normans built in the eastern part of Cornwall as rallying-points in case of any sudden insurrection among the "West Welshmen." The occupation of the fortress by the Normans was the immediate cause of the foundation of the town of Lostwithiel, to which a charter was granted in 1196 by Robert de Cardinan, the then owner of the castle and the surrounding country. An exchequer deed showed how the castle and town of Lostwithiel came into the possession of the Dukes of Cornwall: Know ye present and to come that I, Isolda-de-Tracey, daughter and heir of Andrew de Cardinan, have granted to Lord Richard, King of the Romans, my whole Manor of Tewington.... Moreover I have given and granted to the aforesaid Lord the King, Castle of Restormell and the villeinage in demesne, wood and meadows, and the whole Town of Lostwithiel, and water of Fowey, with the fishery, with all liberties, and free customs to the said water, town, and castle, belonging. Whereof the water of Fowey shall answer for two and a half knights fees (a "knight's fee" being equal to 600 acres of land). In the year 1225 Henry III gave the whole county of Cornwall, in fee, to his brother Richard, who was created Earl of Cornwall by charter dated August 12th, 1231, and from that time Restormel became the property of the Earls of Cornwall. Afterwards, in 1338, when the Earldom was raised to a Dukedom, the charter of creation settled on the Duchy, with other manors, the castle and manor of Restormel, with the park and other appurtenances in the county of Cornwall, together with the town of Lostwithiel: and it was on record that the park then contained 300 deer. Richard, Earl of Cornwall and King of the Romans, caused extensive alterations and improvements in the castle at Restormel, and often made it his residence, and kept his Court there. He was elected King of the Romans or Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire at Frankfort on January 13th, 1256, and crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle, November 27th, 1257. Edward the Black Prince, upon whom the Dukedom was confirmed when only seven years old, paid two visits to Restormel. The first of these was in 1354, possibly while his expedition to France was being prepared at Plymouth, and the second in 1363. In the time of the Civil War the commanding position of the castle caused it to be repaired and held by the Parliamentarians; but after the disastrous defeat of their army under the Earl of Essex in 1644 it was garrisoned by Sir Richard Grenville for the King. In recent times it was again visited by royalty, for on Tuesday, September 8th, 1846, the royal yacht _Victoria and Albert_ sailed into Fowey and landed a royal party, who drove to Restormel Castle. It revived old memories to read the names of the party who came here on that occasion, for in addition to Queen Victoria and her husband, Prince Albert, there were the Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales, Lady Jocelyn, Miss Kerr, Mdlle. Geuner, Lord Spencer, Lord Palmerston, Sir James Clark, Mr. Anson, and Col. Grey. The castle was not a very large one, and we were more impressed by the loneliness of its situation than by the ruin itself, for there was a long approach to it without a cottage or a friendly native in sight, nor did we see any one in the lonely road of quite a mile along which we passed afterwards to the town of Lostwithiel. But this road was quite pleasant, following the tree-covered course of the River Fowey, and lined with ferns and the usual flower-bearing plants all the way to that town. [Illustration: LOSTWITHIEL ANCIENT BRIDGE AND LANDING PLACE.] Here we rejoined the Liskcard highway, which crossed the river by an ancient bridge said to date from the fourteenth century. At this point the river had long ago been artificially widened so as to form a basin and landing-place for the small boats which then passed to and fro between Fowey and Lostwithiel. The derivation of the last place-name was somewhat doubtful, but the general interpretation seemed to be that its original form was Lis-guythiel, meaning the "Palace in the Wood," which might be correct, since great trees still shut in the range of old buildings representing the remains of the old Palace or Duchy House. The buildings, which were by no means lofty, were devoted to purposes of an unimportant character, but they had a decidedly dungeon-like appearance, and my brother, who claimed to be an authority on Shakespeare because he had once committed to memory two passages from the great bard's writings, assured me that if these old walls were gifted with speech, like the ghost that appeared to Hamlet, they "could a tale unfold, whose lightest word would harrow up our souls; freeze our young blood; make our eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; our knotted and combined locks to part, and each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine"; but fortunately "this eternal blazon must not be to ears of flesh and blood," and so we hurried away up the town. Lostwithiel, one of the Stannary towns, was at one time the only coinage town in Cornwall, and traces of the old Mint and Stannary Court could yet be seen. The town had formerly the honour of being represented in Parliament by the famous writer, statesman, and poet, Joseph Addison. [Illustration: LOSTWITHIEL CHURCH, SOUTH PORCH AND CROSS] The church was dedicated to St. Bartholomew, and was described as "a perfect example of the Decorated period" and the "glory of Cornwall." It possessed a lantern spire "of a kind unexampled elsewhere in the West of England"; but as our standard was high, since we had seen so many churches, we failed to appreciate these features, and, generally speaking, there were no very fine churches in Cornwall compared with those in other counties. This church, however, had passed through some lively scenes in the Civil War, when the Royalist army was driving that of the Parliament towards the sea-coast, where it was afterwards cornered and captured. A Provost named Marshall commanded the detachment of the Parliamentary forces at Lostwithiel, and to show their contempt for the religion of the Church of England, they desecrated the church by leading one of their horses to the font and christening him Charles "in contempt of his most sacred Majesty the King." Meanwhile two Cavaliers, supporters of the King, and gentlemen of some repute in the county, had hidden themselves in the church tower and drawn the ladder up after them. When they saw the Provost preparing to depart, for he was now in a hurry to get away from the approaching Royalist soldiers, they jeered at him through a window in the tower. He called to them, "I'll fetch you down," and sent men with some "mulch and hay" to set fire to the tower into which the Cavaliers had climbed, but they only jeered at him the more, which caused him to try gunpowder, intending, as he could not smoke them out, to blow them out; but he only succeeded in blowing a few tiles off the roof of the church. The font was a fine one, octagonal in form, and carved on all the eight panels, though some of the figures had been mutilated; but it was still possible to discern a horrible-looking face covered with a wreath of snakes, a mitred head of a bishop, a figure of a knight with a hawk, horn, and hound, and other animals scarcely suitable, we thought, for a font. The army of the Parliament was gradually driven to Fowey, where 6,000 of them were taken prisoner, while their commander, the Earl of Essex, escaped by sea. Fowey was only about six miles away from Lostwithiel, and situated at the mouth of the River Fowey. It was at one time the greatest port on the coast of Cornwall, and the abode of some of the fiercest fighting men in the British Isles. From that port vessels sailed to the Crusades, and when Edward III wanted ships and men for the siege of Calais, Fowey responded nobly to the call, furnishing 47 ships manned by 770 men. The men of Fowey were the great terror of the French coast, but in 1447 the French landed in the night and burnt the town. After this two forts were built, one on each side of the entrance to the river, after the manner of those at Dartmouth, a stout iron chain being dropped between them at nightfall. Fowey men were in great favour with Edward IV because of their continued activity against the French; but when he sent them a message, "I am at peace with my brother of France," the Fowey men replied that they were at war with him! As this was likely to create friction between the two countries, and as none of his men dared go to Fowey owing to the warlike character of its inhabitants, the King decided to resort to strategy, but of a rather mean character. He despatched men to Lostwithiel, who sent a deputation to Fowey to say they wished to consult the Fowey men about some new design upon France. The latter, not suspecting any treachery, came over, and were immediately seized and their leader hanged; while men were sent by sea from Dartmouth to remove their harbour chain and take away their ships. Possibly the ships might afterwards have been restored to them upon certain conditions, but it was quite an effectual way of preventing their depredations on the coast of France. They seem to have been a turbulent race of people at Fowey, for they once actually became dissatisfied with their patron saint, the Irish St. Finbar, and when they rebuilt their church in 1336 they dismissed him and adopted St. Nicholas to guide their future destinies. Perhaps it was because St. Nicholas was the patron saint of all sailors, as he allayed a great storm when on a voyage to the Holy Land. What is now named Drake's Island, off Plymouth, was formerly named St. Nicholas. It would not be difficult to find many other churches dedicated to St. Nicholas on the sea-coast from there to the north, and we remembered he was the patron saint at Aberdeen. St. Nicholas is also the patron saint of the Russians, some of the Czars of that mighty Empire having been named after him. While St. Catherine is the patron saint of the girls, St. Nicholas is the patron saint of the boys, and strange to relate is also the patron saint of parish clerks, who were formerly called "scholars." When pictured in Christian art this saint is dressed in the robe of a bishop, with three purses, or three golden balls, or three children. The three purses represent those given by him to three sisters to enable them to marry; but we did not know the meaning of the three golden balls, unless it was that they represented the money the purses contained. My brother suggested they might have some connection with the three golden balls hanging outside the pawnbrokers' shops. Afterwards we found St. Nicholas was the patron saint of that body. But the three children were all boys, who once lived in the East, and being sent to a school at Athens, were told to call on St. Nicholas on their way for his benediction. They stopped for the night at a place called Myra, where the innkeeper murdered them for their money and baggage, and placed their mangled bodies in a pickling-tub, intending to sell them as pork. St. Nicholas, however, saw the tragedy in a vision, and went to the inn, where the man confessed the crime, whilst St. Nicholas, by a miracle, raised the murdered boys to life again! Sometimes he had been nicknamed "Nick," or "Old Nick," and then he became a demon, or the Devil, or the "Evil spirit of the North." In Scandinavia he was always associated with water either in sea or lake, river or waterfall, his picture being changed to that of a horrid-looking creature, half-child and half-horse, the horse's feet being shown the wrong way about. Sometimes, again, he was shown as an old black man like an imp, sitting on a rock and wringing the dripping water from his long black hair! On our way towards St. Austell we passed some very interesting places to the right and left of our road, and had some fine views of the sea. Presently we arrived at a considerable village inhabited by miners, the name of which we did not know until my brother, who was walking with a miner in the rear, suddenly called to me, and pointing to a name on a board, said: "See where we've got to!" When my brother called out the name of the place, I heard a man shout from across the road in a triumphant tone of voice, "Yes, you're in it now, sir!" and sure enough we had arrived at St. Blazey, a rather queer name, we thought, for a place called after a saint! But, unlike the people of Fowey, the inhabitants seemed quite satisfied with their saint, and indeed rather proud of him than otherwise. Asked where we could get some coffee and something to eat, the quarryman to whom my brother had been talking directed us to a temperance house near at hand, where we were well served. We were rather surprised at the number of people who came in after us at intervals, but it appeared afterwards that my brother had incidentally told the man with whom he was walking about our long journey, and that we had walked about 1,300 miles. The news had circulated rapidly about the village, and we eventually found ourselves the centre of a crowd anxious to see us, and ask questions. They seemed quite a homely, steady class of men, and gave us a Cornish welcome and a Cornish cheer as we left the village. [Illustration: SARCOPHAGUS OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON IN THE CRYPT OF ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL.] Just before reaching St. Blazey, however, we walked a short distance up a very charming little valley, which has been described as a paradise of ferns, wooden glades, and granite boulders, and possesses some of the finest landscapes in the district, with the ground in springtime azure with wild hyacinths. Some of the finest ferns grew in profusion in this glen, including the "Osmunda regalis" and the graceful lady fern; but, fortunately for the ferns, much of the valley passed through private grounds, and the pretty Carmears waterfall could only be seen on certain days. The parish church of Luxulyan, after which village the valley was named, stood at the head of the glen, and as the people of Cornwall had so many saints, they had been able to spare two of them for Luxulyan, so that the church was dedicated conjointly to St. Cyricus and St. Julitta, while the name of a third was said to be concealed in the modern name of the village, St. Suhan, a saint who also appeared in Wales and Brittany. The name of the village well was St. Cyricus, which probably accounted for the name appearing the first in the dedication of the church. The church tower at one time contained the Cornish Stannary Records, but in the time of the Civil War they had been removed for greater safety to Lostwithiel, where they were unfortunately destroyed. There were many ancient and disused tin workings in the parish of Luxulyan, but a particularly fine kind of granite was quarried there, for use in buildings where durability was necessary--the lighthouse and beacon on Plymouth Breakwater having both been built with granite obtained from these quarries. There was also a very hard variety of granite much used by sculptors called porphyry, a very hard and variegated rock of a mixed purple-and-white colour. When the Duke of Wellington died, the Continent was searched for the most durable stone for his sepulchre, sufficiently grand and durable to cover his remains, but none could be found to excel that at Luxulyan. A huge boulder of porphyry, nearly all of it above ground, lying in a field where it had lain from time immemorial, was selected. It was estimated to weigh over seventy tons, and was wrought and polished near the spot where it was found. When complete it was conveyed thence to St. Paul's Cathedral, and now forms the sarcophagus of the famous Iron Duke. The total cost was about £1,100. We had now to walk all the way to Land's End through a tin-mining country, which really extended farther than that, as some of the mines were under the sea. But the industry was showing signs of decay, for Cornwall had no coal and very little peat, and the native-grown timber had been practically exhausted. She had therefore to depend on the coal from South Wales to smelt the ore, and it was becoming a question whether it was cheaper to take the ore to the coal or the coal to the ore, the cost being about equal in either case. Meantime many miners had left the country, and others were thinking of following them to Africa and America, while many of the more expensive mines to work had been closed down. The origin of tin mining in Cornwall was of remote antiquity, and the earliest method of raising the metal was that practiced in the time of Diodorus by streaming--a method more like modern gold-digging, since the ore in the bed of the streams, having been already washed there for centuries, was much purer than that found in the lodes. Diodorus Siculus, about the beginning of the Christian Era, mentioned the inhabitants of Belerium as miners and smelters of tin, and wrote: "After beating it up into knucklebone shapes, they carry it to a certain island lying off Britain named Ictis (probably the Isle of Wight), and thence the merchants buy it from the inhabitants and carry it over to Gaul, and lastly, travelling by land through Gaul about thirty days, they bring down the loads on horses to the mouth of the Rhine." There was no doubt in our own minds that the mining of tin in Cornwall was the most ancient industry known in Britain, and had existed there in the time of prehistoric man. We often found ourselves speculating about the age, and the ages of man. The age of man was said to be seventy, and might be divided thus: At ten a child, at twenty wild, At thirty strong, if ever! At forty wise, at fifty rich, At sixty good, or never! There were some curious Celtic lines which described the age of animals compared with that of man: Thrice the age of a dog is that of a horse; Thrice the age of a horse is that of a man; Thrice the age of a man is that of a deer; Thrice the age of a deer is that of an eagle. The ages of man were divided into three by Lucretius as: (1) "The Stone Age," when celts or implements of stone were employed. (2) "The Bronze Age," when implements were made of copper and brass. (3) "The Iron Age," when implements were made of iron, as in the present day. This being the order of antiquity and materials employed in making the implements, it was therefore safe to conclude that the mining of tin must have dated back as far as the Bronze Age, for there could have been no bronze made without tin, since bronze is produced by the mixing of copper and tin. Appliances for crushing and smelting the ore were already in existence in very early times, as well as blowing-houses and moulds in which to run the molten metal. The ingots of tin were in the form of an astragal, and an ancient ingot of large size dredged up in Falmouth Harbour, weighing 150 lbs., resembled the letter H in form. This was the most convenient shape for carriage, either in a boat or slung across the back of a horse, and horses were employed in that way to convey the tin along the steep and narrow roads from the mines to the sea-coast. The Romans made use of the Cornish mines, for an ingot of tin bearing a Roman stamp and inscription was preserved in the Truro Museum, and Roman coins had been found in the mines. With St. Austell's Bay to our left, we soon came in sight of the town of St. Austell, behind which were the Hensbarrow Downs, rising over 1,000 feet above sea-level. From the beacon on the top the whole of Cornwall can be seen on a clear day, bounded by the Bristol Channel on one side and the English Channel on the other; on the lower reaches, and quite near St. Austell, were the great tin mines of Carclaze, some of the largest and most ancient in Cornwall. Another great industry was also being carried on, as in the year 1768 W. Cookworthy, a Plymouth Quaker, had discovered an enormous bed of white clay, which had since been so extensively excavated that the workings now resembled the crater of an extinct volcano. This clay, of the finest quality, was named China clay, because it was exactly similar to that used in China, where porcelain was made many centuries before it was made in England, the process of its manufacture being kept a profound secret by the Chinese, whose country was closed to Europeans. A story, however, was told of an Englishman who succeeded in entering China and obtaining employment at one of the potteries, where he eventually became acquainted with the secrets of the whole business. The difficulties he experienced in getting out of the country again, and his adventures and hairbreadth escapes from death, were thrilling to listen to. The pattern on the famous Willow plates, which he was afterwards able to produce in England, was commonly supposed to represent some of his own adventures, and he was thought to be the man pictured as being pursued across a bridge and escaping in a boat. This, however, was not correct, as all the views had been copied from the original Chinese willow pattern, the interpretation of which was as follows: To the right is a lordly Mandarin's country-seat, which is two storeys high to show the rank and wealth of the possessor. In the foreground is a pavilion, and in the background an orange-tree, while to the right of the pavilion is a peach-tree in full bearing. The estate is enclosed by an elegant wooden fence, and at one end of the bridge stands the famous willow-tree and at the other is the gardener's cottage, one storey high, and so humble that the grounds are uncultivated, the only green thing being a small fir-tree at the back. At the top of the pattern on the left-hand side is an island with a cottage; the grounds are highly cultivated and much of the land has been reclaimed from the water. The two birds are turtle-doves, and the three figures on the bridge are the Mandarin's daughter with a distaff, nearest the cottage, the lover with a box is shown in the middle, and nearest the willow-tree is the Mandarin with a whip. [Illustration: THE LOVE-STORY OF LI-CHI AND CHANG.] The written history of China goes back for 4,000 years, a period more than twice that over which English history can be traced; and it is about 2,600 years since Confucius wrote his wonderful laws. Since that time his teachings have been followed by countless millions of his countrymen, and temples have been erected to him all over that great country, whose population numbers more than 300 millions. The origin of the legend represented on the willow pattern must therefore have been of remote antiquity, and the following is the record of the tradition: The Mandarin had an only daughter named Li-chi, who fell in love with Chang, a young man who lived in the island home represented at the top of the pattern, and who had been her father's secretary. The father overheard them one day making vows of love under the orange-tree, and sternly forbade the unequal match; but the lovers contrived to elope. They lay concealed for a while in the gardener's cottage, and thence made their escape in a boat to the island-home of the young lover. The enraged Mandarin pursued them with a whip, and would have beaten them to death had not the gods rewarded their fidelity by changing them into turtle-doves. The picture is called the willow pattern not only because it is a tale of disastrous love, but because the elopement occurred when the willow begins to shed its leaves. Much of the clay at Carclaze was being sent to the Staffordshire potteries, to be used in the production of the finest porcelain. It was loaded in ships and taken round the coast via Liverpool to Runcorn, a port on the River Mersey and the terminus of the Duke of Bridgewater's Canal, where it was transhipped into small boats, which conveyed it to the potteries in Staffordshire, involving a carriage of about fifty miles, After being manufactured into porcelain, it was packed into crates and again consigned by canal to many places inland and to Liverpool for shipment abroad, the carriage being cheaper and safer than if consigned by rail, owing to the fragile nature of the goods. Some of the earthenware had of course to be sent by rail, but the breakages in shunting operations and the subsequent claims on the railway companies caused the rate of carriage to be very high. In later years the pottery trade became rather depressed owing to competition from abroad, and a story was told of a traveller from the Staffordshire Potteries who called at a wholesale house in London where he invariably got some orders, but on this occasion was unsuccessful. When he inquired the reason, he was taken to the warehouse and shown a small china tea service. "Do you know that?" asked the manager. "Yes!" quickly replied the traveller; "that comes from so-and-so in the Potteries, and is their favourite pattern and design!" "And what did I pay for it?" "Twelve and six," promptly replied the traveller. "Ah," said his customer, "you are wrong this time; that set cost us 10s. 6d., and came from Germany!" The traveller reported the matter to his firm, who on inquiry discovered that the Germans had erected a pottery on their sea-coast and, by taking advantage of sea carriage both ways, were able to undersell the British manufacturer with pottery for which the clay had been found in his own country. Arriving at St. Austell, we had a look round the town, and visited the church, which was dedicated to St. Austell. But in the previous year it had undergone a restoration, and there appeared to be some doubt whether the figure on the tower was that of the patron saint or not. There were other figures, but the gargoyles were as usual the ugliest of the lot. There was formerly a curious clock there which was mentioned in an old deed of the time of Edward VI recording that St. Austell's tower had "four bells and a clok," but the bells had been increased to eight and a new clock placed in the tower, though the face of the old one, representing the twenty-four hours in as many circles, could still be seen. When the old clock had been made, it was evident there was no repetition in the afternoon of the morning's numerals, as the hours after twelve noon were the thirteenth and fourteenth, and so on up to twenty-four. The church porch was quite a fine erection, with a chamber built over it, at one time used as a sleeping-room by travelling monks, and, like the nave, with a battlement along the top, an old inscription over the porch, "Ry du," having been interpreted as meaning "Give to God." The carving over the doorway represented a pelican feeding its young with blood from its own breast, and a sundial bore the very significant motto: Every hour shortens man's life. Inside the church there was a curiosity in the shape of a wooden tablet, on which was painted a copy of a letter of thanks from King Charles I to the county of Cornwall for its assistance during his conflict with the Roundheads, It was written from his camp at Sudeley Castle on September 10th, 1643, and was one of several similar tablets to be found in various churches in Cornwall. [Illustration: REV. JOHN WESLEY. (_The Founder of Methodism in England._)] The Wesleyan chapel at St. Austell, with accommodation for a congregation of 1,000 persons, also attracted our attention, as it had a frontage like that of a mansion, with columns supporting the front entrance, and was situated in a very pleasant part of the town. John Wesley laboured hard in Cornwall, and we were pleased to see evidences of his great work there as we travelled through the Duchy; and as Cornishmen must surround the memory of their saints with legends, it did not surprise us that they had one about Mr. Wesley. He was travelling late one night over a wild part of Cornwall when a terrific storm came on, and the only shelter at hand was a mansion that had the reputation of being haunted. He found his way into the hall and lay down on a bench listening to the raging elements outside until he fell fast asleep. About midnight he awoke and was surprised to find the table in the hall laid out for a banquet, and a gaily dressed company, including a gentleman with a red feather in his cap, already assembled. This person offered Wesley a vacant chair and invited him to join them, an invitation which he accepted; but before he took a bite or a sup he rose from his chair, and said, "Gentlemen! it is my custom to ask a blessing on these occasions," and added, "Stand all!" The company rose, but as he pronounced the sacred invocation the room grew dark and the ghostly guests vanished. We should have liked to hear what followed, but this was left to our imagination, which became more active as the darkness of night came on. As we walked we saw some beautiful spar stones used to repair the roads, which would have done finely for our rockeries. Late that night we entered Truro, destined to become years afterwards a cathedral town. (_Distance walked thirty-three miles_.) _Friday, November 17th._ Truro formerly possessed a castle, but, as in the case of Liskeard, not a vestige now remained, and even Leland, who traced the site, described the castle as being "clene down." He also described the position of the town itself, and wrote, "The creke of Truro afore the very towne is divided into two parts, and eche of them has a brook cumming down and a bridge, and this towne of Truro betwixt them both." These two brooks were the Allen, a rivulet only, and the Kenwyn, a larger stream, while the "creke of Truro" was a branch of the Falmouth Harbour, and quite a fine sheet of water at high tide. Truro was one of the Stannary Towns as a matter of course, for according to tradition it was near here that tin was first discovered. The discoverer of this valuable metal was said to have been St. Piran, or St. Perran--as the Roman Catholic Church in Truro was dedicated to St. Piran we agreed to record that as the correct name. The legend stated that he was an Irish saint who in his own country had been able by his prayers to sustain the Irish kings and their armies for ten days on three cows! But in spite of his great services to his country, because of his belief in Christ his countrymen condemned him to die, by being thrown over a precipice into the sea, with a millstone hung about his neck. The day appointed for his execution was very stormy, but a great crowd of "wild Irish" assembled, and St. Piran was thrown over the rocks. At that very moment the storm ceased and there was a great calm. They looked over the cliffs to see what had become of him, and to their intense astonishment saw the saint calmly sitting upon the millstone and being carried out to sea. They watched him until he disappeared from their sight, and all who saw this great miracle were of course immediately converted to Christianity. St. Piran floated safely across the sea and landed on the coast of Cornwall, not at Truro, but on a sandy beach about ten miles away from that town, the place where he landed being named after him at the present day. When the natives saw him approaching their coasts, they thought he was sailing on wood, and when they found it was stone they also were converted to Christianity. St. Piran built an oratory and lived a lonely and godly life, ornamenting his cell with all kinds of crystals and stones gathered from the beach and the rocks, and adorning his altar with the choicest flowers. On one occasion, when about to prepare a frugal meal, he collected some stones in a circle and made a fire from some fuel close to hand. Fanned by the wind, the heat was intensified more than usual, with the result that he noticed a stream of beautiful white metal flowing out of the fire. "Great was the joy of the saint when he perceived that God in His goodness had discovered to him something that would be useful to man." Such was the origin of tin smelting in Cornwall. St. Piran revealed the secret to St. Chiwidden, who, being learned in many sciences, at once recognised the value of the metal. The news gradually spread to distant lands, and eventually reached Tyre, the ancient city of the Phoenicians, so that their merchants came to Cornwall to buy tin in the days of King Solomon. The Britons then, fearing an invasion, built castles on their coast, including that on St. Michael's Mount, while St. Piran became the most popular saint in Cornwall and eventually the patron saint of the miners of tin. His name was associated with many places besides the sands he landed upon, including several villages, as well as a cross, a chapel, a bay, a well, and a coombe. But perhaps the strangest of all was St. Piran's Round, near Perranzabuloe Village. This, considered one of the most remarkable earthworks in the kingdom, and of remote antiquity, was a remarkable amphitheatre 130 feet in diameter, with traces of seven tiers of seats; it has been used in modern times for the performance of miracle-plays. One of the "brooks" at Truro mentioned by Leland was the River Kenwyn, which joined the River Allen to form the Truro River; but before doing so the Kenwyn, or some portion of its overflow, had been so diverted that the water ran down the gutters of the principal streets. It was a novelty to us to see the water so fresh and clean running down each side of the street--not slowly, but as if at a gallop. In the time of the Civil War Truro was garrisoned for the King, but in 1646, after a fierce engagement between the Royalists under Sir Ralph Hopton and Cromwell's forces under Sir Thomas Fairfax, a treaty was signed at Tresillian River Bridge (a pretty place which we had passed last night, about three miles outside the town on the St. Austell road), by which Truro was surrendered quietly to the Parliament. The Grammar School, where many eminent men had been educated, was founded in 1549. Among its old pupils was included Sir Humphry Davy, born in 1778, the eminent chemist who was the first to employ the electric current in chemical decomposition and to discover nitric oxide or "laughing gas." He was also the inventor of the famous safety-lamp which bears his name, and which has been the means of saving the lives of thousands of miners. Truro was the birthplace of several men of note: Samuel Foote, Richard Lander, and Henry Martyn, two of them having been born in public-houses in the town. Samuel Foote, a famous dramatist and comedian, was born at the "Old King's Head Inn" in 1720, and was buried in Westminster Abbey in 1777. He was a clever actor and mimic, "and kept London in a good humour"; he wrote the _Mayor of Garrett_ and many other comedies. Richard Lander, born at the "Fighting Cocks Inn" in 1804, became famous as an African explorer. He took part in the expedition to Africa which was the first to discover and trace the Niger. He was injured by savages and died at Fernando Po in 1834. Henry Martyn, born in 1781, the son of a miner, was a noble and devoted missionary. He left home when twenty-four years of age to labour amongst the Hindus and Mahometans at Cawnpore in India, and travelled in Persia and Armenia. He translated portions of the Bible and Prayer Book into the Persian and Hindustani languages, and at last, weary and worn out in his Master's service, died of fever at Tokat in 1812. [Illustration: THE FRONTAGE, OLD ST. MARY'S CHURCH.] St. Mary's Church was built in 1518, and was remarkable for its two east windows and some fine carving on the walls outside. It was surrounded by narrow streets and ancient buildings. We had no time to explore the interior, so contented ourselves with a visit to an old stone preserved by the Corporation and inscribed: DANIEL JENKIN, MAIOR, WHO SEEKS TO FIND ETERNAL TREASVRE MVST VSE NO GVILE IN WEIGHT AND MEASVRE. 1618. We now considered that we had arrived at the beginning of the end of our journey, and left Truro with the determination to reach Land's End on the morrow, Saturday. We continued our walk as near the sea as the rivers or inlets would admit, for we were anxious to see as much as possible of the fine rock scenery of the Cornish coast. We were in the best of health and spirits, and a thirty-mile walk seemed to have no effect upon us whatever, beyond causing a feeling of drowsiness when entering our hotel for the night. We soon arrived at the quaint little village with a name, as my brother said, almost as long as itself, Perranarworthal, connected with Falmouth by a creek, which seemed to have made an effort to cross Cornwall from one side to the other, or from one Channel to the other. It was at Falmouth that on one dark stormy night some years previously the ship my brother was travelling by called for cargo, and the shelter of the harbour was much appreciated after passing through the stormy sea outside. Perran in the name of the village meant the same as Piran, and the small church there was dedicated to that saint, who deserved to be called the St. Patrick of Cornwall, for he occupied the same position in the popular imagination here as that saint did in Ireland. It was in this parish that St. Piran had his Holy Well, but that had now disappeared, for accidentally it had been drained off by mining operations. Gwennap was only about three miles away--formerly the centre of the richest mining district in Cornwall, the mines there being nearly six hundred yards deep, and the total length of the roads or workings in them about sixty miles. No similar space in the Old World contained so much mineral wealth, for the value of the tin mined during one century was estimated at ten million pounds sterling. After the mines were abandoned the neighbourhood presented a desolate and ruined appearance. [Illustration: OLD ST. MARY'S CHURCH, TRURO. (_The Cathedral of Truro is now built on the site where this old church formerly stood._)] Many human remains belonging to past ages had been found buried in the sands in this neighbourhood; but Gwennap had one glorious memory of the departed dead, for John Wesley visited the village several times to preach to the miners, and on one occasion (1762), on a very windy day, when the sound of his voice was being carried away by the wind, he tried the experiment--which proved a great success--of preaching in the bottom of a wide dry pit, the miners standing round him on the sloping sides and round the top. The pit was supposed to have been formed by subsidences resulting from the mining operations below, and as he used it on subsequent occasions when preaching to immense congregations, it became known as "Wesley's Preaching Pit." It must have been a pathetic sight when, in his eighty-fifth year, he preached his last sermon there. "His open-air preaching was powerful in the extreme, his energy and depth of purpose inspiring, and his organising ability exceptional; and as an evangelist of the highest character, with the world as his parish, he was the founder of the great religious communion of 'the people called Methodists.'" It was therefore scarcely to be wondered at that the Gwennap pit should be considered as holy ground, and that it should become the Mecca of the Cornish Methodists and of others from all over the world. Wesley died in 1791, and in 1803 the pit was brought to its present condition--a circular pit formed into steps or seats rising one above another from the bottom to the top, and used now for the great annual gathering of the Methodists held during Whitsuntide. The idea was probably copied from St. Piran's Round, a similar but much older formation a few miles distant. [Illustration: GWENNAP PIT, REDRUTH.] Penryn was the next place we visited, and a very pretty place too! It was situated on the slope of a picturesque hill surrounded by orchards and gardens, and luxuriant woodlands adorned its short but beautiful river. The sea view was of almost unequalled beauty, and included the magnificent harbour of Falmouth, of which an old writer said that "a hundred vessels may anchor in it, and not one see the mast of another"--of course when ships were smaller. The old church at Penryn was that of St. Gluvias, near which were a few remains of Glassiney College, formerly the chief centre from which the vernacular literature of Cornwall was issued and whence our knowledge of the old legends and mysteries of Cornwall was derived. The town was said to have had a court-leet about the time of the Conquest, but the borough was first incorporated in the seventeenth century by James I. The Corporation possessed a silver cup and cover, presented to them by the notorious Lady Jane Killigrew, and inscribed--"To the town of Penmarin when they received me that was in great misery. J.K. 1633." Lady Jane's trouble arose through her ladyship and her men boarding some Dutch vessels that lay off Falmouth, stealing their treasure, and causing the death of some of their crews. In the time of James I. a Spanish man-of-war came unseen through the mist of the harbour, and despatched a well-armed crew with muffled oars to plunder and burn the town of Penryn. They managed to land in the darkness, and were about to begin their depredations when suddenly they heard a great sound of drums and trumpets and the noise of many people. This so alarmed them that they beat a rapid retreat, thinking the militia had been called out by some spy who had known of their arrival. But the Penryn people were in happy ignorance of their danger. It happened that some strolling actors were performing a tragedy, and the battle scene was just due as the Spaniards came creeping up in the darkness; hence the noise. When the Penryn folk heard the following morning what had happened, it was said they had to thank Shakespeare for their lucky escape. No one passing through the smiling and picturesque town of Penryn would dream that that beautiful place could ever have been associated with such a fearful and horrid event as that known to history as the "Penryn Tragedy," which happened during the reign of James I. At that time there lived at the Bohechland Farm in the parish of St. Gluvias a well-to-do farmer and his wife and family. Their youngest son was learning surgery, but, not caring for that profession, and being of a wild and roving disposition, he ran away to sea, and eventually became a pirate and the captain of a privateer. He was very successful in his evil business, amassing great wealth, and he habitually carried his most valuable jewels in a belt round his waist. At length he ventured into the Mediterranean, and attacked a Turkish ship, but, owing to an accident, his powder magazine exploded, and he and his men were blown into the air, some of them being killed and others injured. The captain escaped, however, and fell into the sea. He was an expert swimmer, and reached the Island of Rhodes, where he had to make use of his stolen jewels to maintain himself. He was trying to sell one of them to a Jew when it was recognised as belonging to the Dey of Algiers. He was arrested, and sentenced to the galleys as a pirate, but soon gained great influence over the other galley slaves, whom he persuaded to murder their officers and escape. The plan succeeded, and the ringleader managed to get on a Cornish boat bound for London. Here he obtained a position as assistant to a surgeon, who took him to the East Indies, where his early training came in useful, and after a while the Cornishman began to practise for himself. Fortunately for him, he was able to cure a rajah of his disease, which restored his fortune, and he decided to return to Cornwall. The ship was wrecked on the Cornish coast, and again his skill in swimming saved him. He had been away for fifteen years, and now found his sister married to a mercer in Penryn; she, however, did not know him until he bared his arm and showed her a mark which had been there in infancy. She was pleased to see him, and told him that their parents had lost nearly all their money. Then he showed her his possessions, gold and jewels, and arranged to go that night as a stranger to his parents' home and ask for lodgings, while she was to follow in the morning, when he would tell them who he was. When he knocked, his father opened the door, and saw a ragged and weather-beaten man who asked for food and an hour's shelter. Taking him to be a sea-faring man, he willingly gave him some food, and afterwards asked him to stay the night. After supper they sat by the fire talking until the farmer retired to rest. Then his wife told the sailor how unfortunate they had been and how poor they were, and that they would soon have to be sold up and perhaps finish their life in a workhouse. He took a piece of gold out of his belt and told her there was enough in it to pay all their debts, and after that there would be some left for himself. The sight of the gold and jewels excited the woman's cupidity, and when the sailor was fast asleep she woke her husband, told him what had happened, and suggested that they should murder the sailor and bury his body next day in the garden. The farmer was very unwilling, but his wife at length persuaded him to go with her. Finding the sailor still fast asleep, they cut his throat and killed him, and covered him up with the bedclothes till they should have an opportunity of burying him. In the morning their daughter came and asked where the sailor was who called on them the previous night, but they said no sailor had been there. "But," she said, "he must be here, for he is my brother, and your long-lost son; I saw the scar on his arm." The mother turning deadly pale sank in a chair, while with an oath the father ran upstairs, saw the scar, and then killed himself with the knife with which he had killed his son. The mother followed, and, finding her husband dead, plunged the knife in her own breast. The daughter, wondering why they were away so long, went upstairs, and was so overcome with horror at seeing the awful sight that she fell down on the floor in a fit from which she never recovered! The first difficulty we had to contend with on continuing our journey was the inlet of the River Helford, but after a rough walk through a rather lonely country we found a crossing-place at a place named Gweek, at the head of the river, which we afterwards learned was the scene of Hereward's Cornish adventures, described by Charles Kingsley in _Hereward the last of the English_, published in 1866. Here we again turned towards the sea, and presently arrived at Helston, an ancient and decaying town supposed to have received its name from a huge boulder which once formed the gate to the infernal regions, and was dropped by Lucifer after a terrible conflict with the Archangel St. Michael, in which the fiend was worsted by the saint. This stone was still supposed to be seen by credulous visitors at the "Angel Inn," but as we were not particularly interested in that angel, who, we inferred, might have been an angel of darkness, or in a stone of such a doubtful character, we did not go to the inn. Helston was one of the Stannary Towns, and it was said that vessels could at one time come quite near it. Daniel Defoe has described it as being "large and populous, with four spacious streets, a handsome church, and a good trade." The good trade was, however, disappearing, owing to the discovery of tin in foreign countries, notably in the Straits Settlements and Bolivia; the church which Defoe saw had disappeared, having since been destroyed by fire and rebuilt in 1763. We did not go inside, but in walking through the churchyard we casually came upon an ordinary headstone on which was an inscription to the effect that the stone marked the resting-place of Henry Trengrouse (1772-1854), who, being "profoundly impressed by the great loss of life by shipwreck, had devoted the greater portion of his life and means to the invention and design of the rocket apparatus for connecting stranded ships to the shore, whereby many thousands of lives have been saved." [Illustration: MONUMENT TO HENRY TRENGROUSE. (_Inventor of the rocket apparatus._)] We had seen many fine monuments to men who had been instrumental in killing thousands of their fellow creatures, but here was Trengrouse who had been the humble instrument in saving thousands of lives, and (though a suitable monument has since been erected to his memory) only the commonest stone as yet recorded his memory and the inestimable services he had rendered to humanity: the only redeeming feature, perhaps, being the very appropriate quotation on the stone: They rest from their labours and their works do follow them. Helston was another town where a lovely double stream of water ran down the main street, rendering the town by its rapid and perpetual running both musical and clean. The water probably came from the River Cober, and afterwards found its way into the Looe Pool at the foot of the town. This pool was the great attraction of Helston and district, as it formed a beautiful fresh-water lake about seven miles in circumference and two miles long, winding like a river through a forked valley, with woods that in the springtime were filled with lovely wild flowers, reaching to the water's edge. It must have been a paradise for one fisherman at any rate, as he held his tenure on condition that he provided a boat and net in case the Duke of Cornwall, its owner, should ever come to fish there; so we concluded that if the Duke never came, the tenant would have all the fish at his own disposal. The curious feature about the lake was that, owing to a great bank of sand and pebbles that reached across the mouth, it had no visible outlet where it reached the sea, the water having to percolate as best it could through the barrier. When heavy rain came on and the River Cober delivered a greater volume of water than usual into the lake, the land adjoining was flooded, and it became necessary to ask permission of the lord of the manor to cut a breach through the pebbles in order to allow the surplus water to pass through into the sea, which was quite near. The charge for this privilege was one penny and one halfpenny, which had to be presented in a leather purse; but this ancient ceremony was afterwards done away with and a culvert constructed. On this pebble bank one of the King's frigates was lost in 1807. [Illustration: A STREET IN HELSTON. (_Showing the running stream of water at the side of the street._)] There is a passage in the book of Genesis which states that "there were giants in the earth in those days"--a passage which we had often heard read in the days of our youth, when we wished it had gone further and told us something about them; but Cornwall had been a veritable land of giants. The stories of Jack the Giant-Killer were said to have emanated from this county, and we now heard of the Giant Tregeagle, whose spirit appeared to pervade the whole district through which we were passing. He was supposed to be the Giant of Dosmary Pool, on the Bodmin Downs, which was believed at one time to be a bottomless pit. When the wind howls there the people say it is the Giant roaring, and "to roar like Tregeagle" was quite a common saying in those parts. "His spirit haunts all the west of Cornwall, and he haunts equally the moor, the rocky coasts, and the blown sandhills; from north to south, from east to west, this doomed spirit was heard of, and to the Day of Judgment he was doomed to wander pursued by avenging fiends. Who has not heard the howling of Tregeagle? When the storms come with all their strength from the Atlantic, and hurl themselves upon the rocks about the Land's End, the howls of this spirit are louder than the roaring of the wind." In this land of legends, therefore, it is not surprising that the raising of that extraordinary bank which blocks the end of the River Cober, at what should be its outlet into the sea, should be ascribed to Tregeagle. It appeared that he was an extremely wicked steward, who by robbery and other worse crimes became very wealthy. In the first place he was said to have murdered his sister, and to have been so cruel to his wife and children that one by one they perished. But at length his end came, and as he lay on his death-bed the thoughts of the people he had murdered, starved, and plundered, and his remorseful conscience, so haunted him, that he sent for the monks from a neighbouring monastery and offered them all his wealth if they would save his soul from the fiends. They accepted his offer, and both then and after he had been buried in St. Breock's Church they sang chants and recited prayers perpetually over his grave, by which means they kept back the demons from his departing soul. But a dispute arose between two wealthy families concerning the ownership of some land near Bodmin. It appeared that Tregeagle, as steward to one of the claimants, had destroyed ancient deeds, forged others, and made it appear that the property was his own. The defendant in the trial by some means or other succeeded in breaking the bonds of death, and the spirit of Tregeagle was summoned to attend the court as witness. When his ghostly form appeared, the court was filled with horror. In answer to counsel's questions he had to acknowledge his frauds, and the jury returned a verdict for the defendants. The judge then ordered counsel to remove his witness, but, alas! it was easier to raise evil spirits than to lay them, and they could not get rid of Tregeagle. The monks were then sent for, and said that by long trials he might repent and his sins be expiated in that way. They would not or could not hand him over to the fiends, but they would give him tasks to do that would be endless. First of all they gave him the task of emptying Dosmary Pool, supposed to be bottomless, with a small perforated limpet shell. Here, however, he narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the demons, and only saved himself by running and dashing his head through the window of Roach Rock Church. His terrible cries drove away the congregation, and the monks and priests met together to decide what could be done with him, as no service could be held in the church. [Illustration: KYNANCE COVE AND THE LION ROCK. "The fine rock scenery on the coast continues all the way to Land's End, while isolated rocks in many forms and smugglers' caves of all sizes are to be seen."] [Illustration: NEAR THE LIZARD. "The Lizard Point with the neighbouring rocks, both when submerged and otherwise, formed a most dangerous place for mariners, especially when false lights were displayed by those robbers and murderers, the Cornish Wreckers."] They decided that Tregeagle, accompanied by two saints to guard him, should be taken to the coast at Padstow, and compelled to stay on the sandy shore making trusses of sand and ropes of sand to bind them, while the mighty sea rose continually and washed them away. The people at Padstow could get no rest day or night on account of his awful cries of fear and despair, and they sought the aid of the great Cornish Saint Petrox. The saint subdued Tregeagle, and chained him with bonds, every link of which he welded with a prayer. St. Petrox placed him at Bareppa, and condemned him to carry sacks of sand across the estuary of St. Looe and empty them at Porthleven until the beach was clean to the rocks. He laboured a long time at that work, but in vain, for the tide round Treawavas Head always carried the sand back again. His cries and wails disturbed the families of the fishermen, but a mischievous demon came along, and, seeing him carrying an enormous sack full of sand and pebbles, tripped him up. Tregeagle fell, and the sack upset and formed the bar that ruined the harbour of Helston, which up to that time had been a prosperous port, the merchant vessels landing cargoes and taking back tin in exchange. The townspeople, naturally very wroth, sought the aid of the priests, and once more bonds were placed upon Tregeagle. This time he was sent to the Land's End, where he would find very few people to hear his awful cries. There his task was to sweep the sands from Porthcurnow Cove, round the headland called Tol-Peden-Penwith, into Nanjisal Cove. At this task, it is said, Tregeagle is still labouring, his wails and moans being still borne on the breeze that sweeps over the Land's End; so as this was our destination, we had rather a queer prospect before us! Between Gweek and Helston we crossed the famous promontory known as the Lizard, which in length and breadth extends about nine miles in each direction, although the point itself is only two miles broad. The rocks at this extremity rise about 250 feet above the stormy sea below, and are surmounted by a modern lighthouse. Originally there was only a beacon light with a coal fire fanned with bellows, but oil was afterwards substituted. The Lizard Point in those days, with the neighbouring rocks, both when submerged and otherwise, formed a most dangerous place for mariners, especially when false lights were displayed by those robbers and murderers, the Cornish wreckers. The Lizard, the Corinum of the ancients, is the most southerly point in England, and the fine rock scenery on the coast continues from there all the way to the Land's End, while isolated rocks in many forms and smugglers' caves of all sizes are to be seen. Weird legends connected with these and the Cornish coast generally had been handed down from father to son from remote antiquity, and the wild and lonely Goonhilly Downs, that formed the centre of the promontory, as dreary a spot as could well be imagined, had a legend of a phantom ship that glided over them in the dusk or moonlight, and woe betide the mariners who happened to see it, for it was a certain omen of evil! The finest sight that we saw here was in broad daylight, and consisted of an immense number of sailing-ships, more in number than we could count, congregated together on one side of the Lizard. On inquiring the reason, we were told that they were wind-bound vessels waiting for a change in the wind to enable them to round the point, and that they had been known to wait there a fortnight when unfavourable winds prevailed. This we considered one of the most wonderful sights we had seen on our journey. As we left Helston on our way to Penzance we had the agreeable company as far as St. Breage of a young Cornishman, who told us we ought to have come to Helston in May instead of November, for then we should have seen the town at its best, especially if we had come on the "Flurry" day. This he said was the name of their local yearly festival, held on or near May 8th, and he gave us quite a full account of what generally happened on that occasion. We could easily understand, from what he told us, that he had enjoyed himself immensely on the day of the last festival, which seemed to be quite fresh in his mind, although now more than six months had passed since it happened. In fact he made us wish that we had been there ourselves, as his story awoke some memories in our minds of-- The days we went a-gipsying a long time ago When lads and lasses in their best were dressed from top to toe, When hearts were light and faces bright, nor thought of care or woe, In the days we went a-gipsying a long time ago! [Illustration: THE "FLURRY" DANCE.] His description of the brass band of which he was a member, and the way they were dressed, and the adventures they met with during the day, from early morning till late at night, was both interesting and amusing. Their first duty was to play round the town to waken people who were already awake--sleep was out of the question--children too had a share in the proceedings. They knew that booths or standings would be erected all over the town, some even on the footpath, displaying all manner of cakes, toffy, and nuts that would delight their eyes and sweeten their mouths, if they had the money wherewith to buy, and if not, there was the chance of persuading some stranger to come to the rescue! But first of all they must rush to the woods and fields in search of flowers and branches, for the town had to be decorated before the more imposing part of the ceremonies began. Meantime the bandsmen were busy devouring a good breakfast, for bandsmen's appetites are proverbial. Perhaps they are the only class of men who play while they work and work while they play. In any case, after breakfast they sauntered round the town talking to the girls until the auspicious hour arrived when they had to assemble in the market square to head the procession of the notables of the town dressed in all kinds of costumes, from that of William the Conqueror onwards. My brother was anxious to know what quickstep they played, and if it was "Havelock's Quick March"; but our friend said it was not a quickstep at all, but something more like a hornpipe. Was it the College or the Sailor's Hornpipe? It was neither, was the reply, as it had to be played slowly, for the people danced to it while they marched in the procession, and occasionally twirled their partners round; and then after some further ceremonies they separated and all the people began to dance both in the streets and through the houses, going in at one door and out at another, if there was one, tumbling about and knocking things over, and then out in the street again, and if not satisfied with their partners, changing them, and off again, this kind of enjoyment lasting for hours. Sometimes, if a man-of-war happened to be in the neighbourhood, the sailors came, who were the best dancers of the lot, as they danced with each other and threw their legs about in a most astonishing fashion, a practice they were accustomed to when aboard ship. There were also shows and sometimes a circus, and the crowds that came from the country were astonishing. Now and then there was a bit of a row, when some of them had "a drop o' drink," but the police were about, and not afraid to stop their games by making free use of their staves; this, however, was the shady side of the great "Flurry" day. Meantime every one had learned the strange dance-tune by heart, which our friend whistled for us, whereby we could tell it had come down from remote times. Indeed, it was said that these rejoicings were originally in memory of the victory of the great Michael over the Devil, and no one thought of suggesting a more modern theory than that the "Flurry" was a survival of the Floralia observed by the Romans on the fourth of the Calends of May in honour of Flora, the Goddess of Flowers. The very mention of the names of band and hornpipe was too much for my brother, who could not resist giving the Cornishman a few samples of the single and double shuffle in the College Hornpipe, and one or two movements from a Scotch Reel, but as I was no dancer myself, I had no means of judging the quality of his performances. I kept a respectful distance away, as sometimes his movements were very erratic, and his boots, like those of the Emperor Frederick, were rather heavy. We could not persuade our friend to come with us a yard farther than the village. As a fellow bandsman, he confided the reason why to my brother; he had seen a nice young lady at the "Flurry" who came from that village, and he was going to see her now. He was standing in the street on the "Flurry" day when the lady came along, and stopped to look at the bandsmen, who were then at liberty, and he said to her jocularly, "Take my arm, love--I'm in the band," and, "By Jove," he said, "if she didn't come and take it," to his great astonishment and delight. Apparently his heart went at the same time, and we surmised that everything else would shortly follow. After bidding him good-bye, we looked round the church, and then my brother began to walk at an appalling speed, which fortunately he could not keep up, and which I attributed in some way to the effect of the bandsman's story, though he explained that we must try to reach Penzance before dark. The church of St. Breage was dedicated to a saint named Breaca, sister of St. Enny, who lived in the sixth century and came from Ireland. There was a holed sandstone cross in the churchyard, which tradition asserted was made out of granite sand and then hardened with human blood! The tower was said to contain the largest bell in Cornwall, it having been made in the time of a vicar who, not liking the peals, had all the other bells melted down to make one large one. The men of St. Breage and those of the next village, St. Germoe, had an evil reputation as wreckers or smugglers, for one old saying ran: God keep us from rocks and shelving sands, And save us from Breage and Germoe men's hands. Opposite Breage, on the sea-coast, was a place named Porthleven, where a Wesleyan chapel, with a very handsome front, had been built. No doubt there are others in the country built in a similar way, for to it and them the following lines might well apply: They built the church, upon my word, As fine as any abbey; And then they thought to cheat the Lord, And built the back part shabby. After a walk of about two miles we arrived at the village of St. Germoe. The saint of that name was said to have been an Irish bard of royal race, and the font in the church, from its plain and rough form, was considered to be one of the most ancient in the county. In the churchyard was a curious structure which was mentioned by Leland as a "chair," and was locally known as St. Germoe's Chair, but why it should be in the churchyard was a mystery, unless it had been intended to mark the spot where the saint had been buried. It was in the form of a sedilium, the seat occupied by the officiating priest near the altar in the chancel of a church, being about six feet high and formed of three sedilia, with two pillars supporting three arches, which in turn supported the roof; in general form it was like a portion of the row of seats in a Roman amphitheatre. On the opposite coast, which was only about a mile away, was the famous Prussia Cove, named after a notorious smuggler who bore the nickname of the King of Prussia; and adjoining his caves might still be seen the channels he had cut in the solid rock to enable his boats to get close to the shore. His real name was Carter. He became the leader of the Cornish smugglers, and kept the "Old King of Prussia Inn," though having the reputation of being a "devout Methodist." He was said to be so named because he bore some resemblance to Frederick the Great, the King of Prussia. We had seen other inns in the south of the same name, but whether they were named after the king or the smuggler we could not say. He seemed to have had other caves on the Cornish coast where he stored his stolen treasures, amongst which were some old cannon. One moonlight night, when he was anxiously waiting and watching for the return of his boats, he saw them in the distance being rapidly pursued by His Majesty's Revenue cutter the _Fairy_. The smuggler placed his cannon on the top of the cliff and gave orders to his men to fire on the _Fairy_, which, as the guns on board could not be elevated sufficiently to reach the top of the cliff, was unable to reply. Thus the boats escaped; but early the following morning the Revenue boat again appeared, and the officer and some of the crew came straight to Carter's house, where they met the smuggler. He loudly complained to the officer that his crew should come there practising the cutter's guns at midnight and disturbing the neighbourhood. Carter of course could give no information about the firing of any other guns, and suggested it might be the echo of those fired from the _Fairy_ herself, nor could any other explanation be obtained in the neighbourhood where Carter was well known, so the matter was allowed to drop. But the old smuggler was more sharply looked after in future, and though he lived to a great age, he died in poverty. Our road crossed the Perran Downs, where, to the left, stood the small village of Perranuthnoe, a place said to have existed before the time of St. Piran and named Lanudno in the taxation of Pope Nicholas. It was also pointed out as the place where Trevelyan's horse landed him when he escaped the inrush of the sea which destroyed Lyonesse, "that sweet land of Lyonesse," which was inseparably connected with the name of King Arthur, who flourished long before the age of written records. Lyonesse was the name of the district which formerly existed between the Land's End and the Scilly Islands, quite twenty-five miles away. When the waves from the Atlantic broke through, Trevelyan happened to be riding on a white horse of great swiftness. On seeing the waters rushing forward to overwhelm the country, he rode for his life and was saved by the speed of his horse. He never stopped until he reached Perranuthnoe, where the rocks stopped the sea's farther progress. But when he looked back, he could see nothing but a wide expanse of water covering no less than 140 parish churches. He lived afterwards in the cave in the rocks which has ever since borne the name of Trevelyan's Cave. It was beyond doubt that some great convulsion of nature had occurred to account for the submerged forests, of which traces were still known to exist. Soon afterwards we reached a considerable village bearing the strange name of Marazion, a place evidently once of some importance and at one time connected with the Jews, for there were the Jews' Market and some smelting-places known as the Jews' Houses. Here we came to the small rock surmounted by a castle which we had seen in front of our track for some miles without knowing what it was. Now we discovered it to be the far-famed St. Michael's Mount. According to legend this once stood in a vast forest of the mysterious Lyonesse, where wild beasts roamed, and where King Arthur fought one of his many battles with a giant at the "Guarded Mount," as Milton has so aptly named it. As we were told that the Mount was only about half a mile away, we decided to visit it, and walked as quickly as we could along the rough-paved road leading up to it. On the Mount we could see the lights being lit one by one as we approached, and, in spite of the arrival of the first quarter of the moon, it was now becoming dark, so we discussed the advisability of staying at St. Michael's for the night; but we suddenly came to a point on our road where the water from the sea was rushing over it, and realised that St. Michael's Mount was an island. We could see where the road reappeared a little farther on, and I calculated that if we made a dash for it the water would not reach above our knees, but it was quite evident that we had now come to a dead stop. The rock by this time looked much higher, spreading its shadow over the water beneath, and the rather serious question arose as to how or when we should be able to get back again, for we had to reach Land's End on the next day. Finally we decided to retrace our steps to Marazion, where we learned that the road to the Mount was only available under favourable conditions for about eight hours out of the twenty-four, and as our rules would have prevented our returning by boat, we were glad we had not proceeded farther. [Illustration: ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT.] According to the _Saxon Chronicle_, the inroad from the sea which separated St. Michael's from the mainland occurred in 1099. The Mount had a sacred character, for St. Michael himself was said to have appeared to a holy man who once resided there, and St. Keyne also had made a pilgrimage to the Mount in the year 490. The rock rises about 230 feet above sea-level, and is about a mile in circumference, but the old monastery had been made into a private residence. At an angle in one of the towers, now called St. Michael's Chair, in which one person only could sit at a time, and that not without danger, as the chair projected over a precipice, was a stone lantern in which the monks formerly kept a light to guide seamen. The legend connected with this was that if a married woman sits in the chair before her husband has done so, she will rule over him, but if he sits down on it first, he will be the master. We thought this legend must have resulted from the visit of St. Keyne, as it corresponded with that attached to her well near Liskeard which we have already recorded. Perkin Warbeck, about whom we had heard at Exeter, and who in 1497 appeared in England with 7,000 men to claim the English throne, occupied the castle on St. Michael's Mount for a short time with his beautiful wife, the "White Rose of Scotland," whom he left here for safety while he went forward to London to claim the crown. He was said to be a Jew, or, to be correct, the son of a Tournai Jew, which possibly might in some way or other account for the Jewish settlement at Marazion. His army, however, was defeated, and he was hanged at Tyburn, November 23rd, 1499, while his wife was afterwards removed to the Court of Henry VII, where she received every consideration and was kindly treated. We soon covered the three miles which separated us from Penzance, where we went to the best hotel in the town, arriving just in time for dinner. There was only one other visitor there, a gentleman who informed us he had come from Liverpool, where he was in the timber trade, and was staying at Penzance for a few days. He asked what business we were in, and when we told him we had practically retired from business in 1868, and that that was the reason why we were able to spare nine weeks to walk from John o' Groat's to Land's End, he seemed considerably surprised. We did not think then that in a few years' time we should, owing to unexpected events, find ourselves in the same kind of business as his, and meet that same gentleman on future occasions! We shall always remember that night at Penzance! The gentleman sat at the head of the table at dinner while we sat one on each side of him. But though he occupied the head position, we were head and shoulders above him in our gastronomical achievements--so much so that although he had been surprised at our long walk, he told us afterwards that he was "absolutely astounded" at our enormous appetites. He took a great interest in our description of the route we had followed. Some of the places we had visited he knew quite well, and we sat up talking about the sights we had seen until it was past closing-time. When we rose to retire, he said he should esteem it an honour if we would allow him to accompany us to the Land's End on the following day to see us "in at the finish." He said he knew intimately the whole of the coast between Penzance and the Land's End, and could no doubt show us objects of interest that we might otherwise miss seeing. We assured him that we should esteem the honour to be ours, and should be glad to accept his kind offer, informing him that we intended walking along the coast to the end and then engaging a conveyance to bring us back again. He thought that a good idea, but as we might have some difficulty in getting a suitable conveyance at that end of our journey, he strongly advised our hiring one at Penzance, and offered, if we would allow him, to engage for us in the morning a trap he had hired the day before, though we must not expect anything very grand in these out-of-the-way parts of the country. We thankfully accepted his kind offer, and this item in the programme being settled, we considered ourselves friends, and parted accordingly for the night, pleasantly conscious that even if we did not walk at all on the morrow, we had secured our average of twenty-five miles daily over the whole of our journey. (_Distance walked thirty-four and a half miles_.) _Saturday, November 18th._ We had ordered breakfast much later than usual to suit the convenience of our friend, but we were out in the town at our usual early hour, and were quite astonished at the trees and plants we saw growing in the grounds and gardens there, some of which could only be grown under glass farther north. Here they were growing luxuriantly in the open air, some having the appearance of the palm-trees we had seen pictured in books. We had been favoured with fairly fine weather for some time, and although we had passed through many showers, we had not encountered anything in the nature of continuous rain, although Cornwall is naturally a humid county, and is said to have a shower of rain for every day in the week and two for Sunday. We kept near the edge of the sea, and the view of the bay, with St. Michael's Mount on one side and the Lizards on the other, was very fine; but the Mount had assumed quite a different appearance since yesterday, for now it appeared completely isolated, the connection with the mainland not being visible. We were sure that both St. Michael's Mount and Penzance must have had an eventful history, but the chief event in the minds of the people seemed to have been the visit of the Spaniards when they burnt the town in 1595. The Cornishmen made very little resistance on that occasion, owing to the existence of an old prophecy foretelling the destruction of Penzance by fire when the enemy landed on the rock of Merlin, the place where the Spaniards actually did land. Probably it was impossible to defend the town against an enemy attacking Penzance from that point, as it was only about a mile distant. We returned to our hotel at the time arranged for breakfast, which was quite ready, the table being laid for three; but where was our friend? We learned that he had gone out into the town, but we had got half-way through our breakfast, all the while wondering where he could be, when the door opened suddenly and in he came, with his face beaming like the rising sun, although we noticed he glanced rather anxiously in the direction of the remaining breakfast. He apologised for being late, but he had not been able to obtain the conveyance he mentioned to us last night, as it was engaged elsewhere. He had, however, found another which he thought might suit our purpose, and had arranged for it to be at the hotel in half an hour's time. He also brought the pleasing intelligence that we might expect a fine day. The trap duly arrived in charge of the owner, who was to act as driver; but some difficulty arose, as he had not quite understood the order. He thought he had simply to drive us to the Land's End and back, and had contemplated being home again early, so our friend had to make another financial arrangement before he would accept the order. This was soon negotiated, but it was very difficult to arrange further details. Here our friend's intimate knowledge of the country came in useful. There was no direct driving road along the coast, so it was arranged that our driver should accompany us where he could, and then when his road diverged he should meet us at certain points to be explained by our friend later in the day. Mutual distrust, we supposed, prevented us from paying him in advance, and possibly created a suspicion in the driver's mind that there was something wrong somewhere, and he evidently thought what fools we were to walk all the way along the coast to Land's End when we might have ridden in his trap. We journeyed together for the first mile or two, and then he had to leave us for a time while we trudged along with only our sticks to carry, for, to make matters equal in that respect, our friend had borrowed one at the hotel, a much finer-looking one than ours, of which he was correspondingly proud. [Illustration: PENZANCE] [Illustration: DOROTHY PENTREATH'S STONE, ST. PAUL'S CHURCH.] He insisted upon our seeing everything there was to be seen, and it soon became evident that what our companion did not know about the fine rock scenery on this part of the coast of Cornwall was not worth knowing, so that we were delighted to have him with us. The distance from Penzance to Land's End was not great, but by the route selected it occupied the whole of the day, including many stoppages, and we had a glorious walk. The weather had been rather squally yesterday, and there was a steady breeze still blowing. We enjoyed seeing the breakers dash themselves into foam against the rocks and thunder inside the fissures and caverns below. Occasionally we got a glimpse of the red tinge given to the smoother waters of the sea by the shoals of pilchards passing along the coast, so that in the same journey we had seen the water reddened with herrings in the extreme north and with pilchards in the extreme south of Britain. At Newlyn we were delighted with the quaint, crooked little passages which did duty for streets, and we were informed that the place was noted for artists and fish--a rather strange combination. We learned that when first the pilchards arrived at Land's End, they divided into two immense shoals, one going in the direction of Mounts Bay and the other towards St. Ives Bay, the record catch in a single haul at that place being 245 millions! There was a saying at Newlyn that it was unlucky to eat a pilchard from the head, as it should be eaten from its tail; but why, it was difficult to define, unless it was owing to the fact that it was the tail that guided the head of the fish towards the coasts of Cornwall. We also passed through a village named Paul, which had been modernised into St. Paul. Its church had a rather lofty tower, which stood on the hill like a sentinel looking over Mounts Bay. This place was also burnt by the Spaniards in 1595. It appeared that George Borrow had visited it on January 15th, 1854, as he passed through on his way to Land's End, for the following entry appeared in his Diary for that day: "Went to St. Paul's Church. Saw an ancient tomb with the inscription in Cornish at north end. Sat in a pew under a black suit of armour belonging to the Godolphin family, with two swords." We copied this Cornish epitaph as under: _Bonnas heb duelth Eu poes Karens wei tha pobl Bohodzhak Paull han Egles nei_. which translated means: Eternal life be his whose loving care Gave Paul an almshouse, and the church repair. There was also an epitaph in the churchyard over the grave of an old lady who died at the age of 102, worded: Here lyeth interred Dorothy Pentreath, who died in 1778, said to have been the last person who conversed in the ancient Cornish, the peculiar language of this county from the earliest records, till it expired in the eighteenth century in this Parish of St. Paul. This stone is erected by the Prince Louis Lucien Bonaparte, in union with the Rev. John Garrett, Vicar of St. Paul 1860. Under the guidance of our friend, who of course acted as leader, we now passed on to the famous place known as Mousehole, a picturesque village in a shady hollow, with St. Clement's Island a little way out to sea in front. This place, now named Mousehole, was formerly Porth Enys, or the Island Port, and a quay was built here as early as the year 1392. We saw the cavern, rather a large one, and near it the fantastic rocks associated with Merlin the "Prince of Enchanters," some of whose prophecies applied to Cornwall. At Mousehole there was a large rock named Merlin's Stone, where the only Spaniards that ever devastated the shores of England landed in 1595. Merlin's prophecy in the Cornish language reads: _Aga syth lyer war and meyne Merlyn Ava neb syth Leskey Paul, Penzance hag Newlyn_. which means, translated: There shall land on the stone of Merlyn Those who shall burn Paul, Penzance, and Newlyn. Jenkin Keigwin. There was a [Illustration: THE CAVERN, MOUSEHOLE.] They also burnt Mousehole, with the exception of one public-house, a house still standing, with walls four feet thick, and known as the "Keigwin Arms" of which they killed the landlord, rock here known as the "Mermaid," which stood out in the sea, and from which songs by female voices were said to have allured young men to swim to the rock, never to be heard of again. We next came to the Lamora Cove, where we walked up the charming little valley, at the top of which we reached the plain of Bolleit, where Athelstan defeated the Britons in their last desperate struggle for freedom. The battle lasted from morning until night, when, overpowered by numbers, the Cornish survivors fled to the hills. After this battle in the light of the setting sun, Athelstan is said to have seen the Scilly Islands and decided to try to conquer them, and, if successful, to build a church and dedicate it to St. Buryana. He carried out his vow, and founded and endowed a college for Augustine Canons to have jurisdiction over the parishes of Buryan, Levan, and Sennen, through which we now journeyed; but the Scilly Islands appeared to us to be scarcely worth conquering, as, although they comprised 145 islets, many of them were only small bare rocks, the largest island, St. Mary, being only three miles long by two and a half broad, and the highest point only 204 feet above sea-level; but perhaps the refrangible rays of the setting sun so magnified them that Athelstan believed a considerable conquest was before him. We next went to see the "Merry Maidens" and the "Pipers." They were only pillars of stone, but our friend assured us they were lively enough once upon a time, and represented seven young but thoughtless ladies who lived in that neighbourhood. They were on their way to Buryan church one Sabbath day when they saw two pipers playing music in a field, who as they went near them began to play dance tunes. The maidens forgot the sacred character of the day, and, yielding to temptation, began to dance. By and by the music became extremely wild and the dancing proportionately furious. The day was beautifully fine and the sun shone through a clear blue sky, but the pipers were two evil spirits, and suddenly a flash of lightning came from the cloudless sky and turned them all, tempters and tempted, into stone, so there they stand, the girls in a circle and the pipers a little distance away, until the Day of Judgment. By this time we were all getting hungry, as the clear air of Cornwall is conducive to good appetites; but our friend had thoughtfully arranged for this already, and we found when we entered the inn at Buryan that our conveyance had arrived there, and that the driver had already regaled himself, and told the mistress that she might expect three other visitors. The old church of St. Buryan was said to be named after Buriena, the beautiful daughter of a Munster chieftain, supposed to be the Bruinsech of the Donegal martyrology, who came to Cornwall in the days of St. Piran. There were two ancient crosses at Buryan, one in the village and the other in the churchyard, while in the church was the thirteenth-century, coffin-shaped tomb of "Clarice La Femme Cheffroi De Bolleit," bearing an offer of ten days' pardon to whoever should pray for her soul. But just then we were more interested in worldly matters; and when, after we had refreshed ourselves in a fairly substantial way, our friend told us he would take us to see a "Giant's Castle," we went on our way rejoicing, to regain the sea-coast where the castle was to be seen, but not before the driver had made another frantic effort to induce us to ride in his trap. [Illustration: THE "KEIGWIN ARMS," MOUSEHOLE. "They (the Spaniards) also burnt Mousehole, with the exception of one public house, a house still standing, with walls four feet thick and known as the 'Keigwin Arms.'"] The castle of Treryn, which our friend pronounced Treen, was situated on a small headland jutting out into the sea, but only the triple vallum and fosse of the castle remained. The walls had been built of huge boulders, and had once formed the cyclopian castle of Treryn. Cyclops, our friend explained, was one of a number of giants who had each only one eye, and that in the centre of the forehead. Their business was to forge the iron for Vulcan, the god of fire. They could see to work in mines or dark places, for their one eye was as big as a moon. Sometimes they were workers in stone, who erected their buildings chiefly in Europe and Asia, and their huge blocks of stone were worked so nicely that they fitted together without mortar. Treryn Castle was the stronghold of a giant who was stronger than most of the other giants who lived in those parts, and was, in addition, a necromancer or sorcerer, in communication with the spirits of the dead, by whose aid he raised this castle by enchantment from the depths of the sea. It was therefore an enchanted castle, and was kept in its position by a spell, a magic key, which the giant placed in a hole in a rock on the seacoast, still named the Giant's Lock. Whenever this key, which was a large round stone, could be taken out of the lock, the castle and the promontory on which it stood would disappear beneath the sea to the place from whence it came. Very few people had seen the key, because its hiding-place was in such a very dangerous position that scarcely any one was courageous enough to venture to the lock that held it. To reach the lock it was necessary to wait for a low tide, and then to walk along a ledge in the side of the rock scarcely wide enough for the passage of a small animal, where in the event of a false step the wanderer would be certain to be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. At the end of this dangerous path there was a sharp projecting rock in which was a hole wide enough for a man's hand and arm to pass down, and at the bottom of the hole he could feel a rather large but smooth stone in the shape of an egg, which he could easily move in any direction. Then all he had to do further was to draw it out through the hole; but the difficulty was that the stone was larger than the aperture, and the mystery was who placed it there. [Illustration: ROCKS NEAR LAND'S END.] The dangerous nature of the approach, in addition to the difficulty of getting back again, was quite sufficient to deter any of us from making the attempt; even if we gained possession of the magic key we might have been taken, with it and the castle and promontory, to the enchanted regions below, so we decided to refrain, for after all there was the desirability of reaching home again! It was a very wild place, and the great rocks and boulders were strongly suggestive of giants; but our friend would not have us linger, as we must go to see the famous Logan Rock. In order to save time and risk, he suggested that we should secure the services of a professional guide. We could see neither guides nor houses, and it looked like a forlorn hope to try to find either, but, asking us to stay where we were until he came back, our friend disappeared; and some time afterwards he reappeared from some unknown place, accompanied by an intelligent sailorlike man whom he introduced to us as the guide. The guide led us by intricate ways over stone walls, stepped on either side with projecting stones to do duty as stiles, and once or twice we walked along the top of the walls themselves, where they were broad enough to support a footpath. Finally we crossed what appeared to be a boundary fence, and immediately afterwards found ourselves amongst a wilderness of stones and gigantic boulders, with the roar of the waves as they beat on the rocks below to keep us company. It was a circuitous and intricate course by which our guide conducted us, up and down hill, and one not altogether free from danger, and we had many minor objects to see before reaching the Logan Rock, which was the last of all. Every precaution was taken to prevent any accident at dangerous places on our way. Amongst other objects our guide pointed to the distant views of the Lizard Point, the Wolf Rock Lighthouse, and the Runnel Stone Bell Buoy, and immediately below us was the Porthcurnow Bay and beach. Then there were some queerly shaped rocks named the Castle Peak, the "Tortoise," the "Pig's Mouth," all more or less like the objects they represented, and, as a matter of course, the giants were also there. Our guide insisted upon our sitting in the Giant's Chair, where King Arthur, he said, had sat before us. It was no easy matter to climb into the chair, and we had to be assisted by sundry pushes from below; but once in it we felt like monarchs of all we surveyed, and the view from that point was lovely. Near by was the Giant's Bowl, and finally the Giant's Grave, an oblong piece of land between the rocks, which my brother measured in six long strides as being eighteen feet in length. The Logan or Swinging Stone was estimated to weigh about eighty tons, and although it was quite still when we reached it, we were easily able to set it moving. It was a block of granite, and continued to oscillate for some little time, but formerly it was said that it could not be moved from its axis by force. This led to a foolish bet being made by Lieutenant Goldsmith of the Royal Navy, who landed with his boat's crew on April 8th, 1824, and with the united exertions of nine men with handspikes, and excessive vibration, managed to slide the great stone from its equilibrium. This so roused the anger of the Cornish people that the Admiralty were obliged to make Mr. Goldsmith--who, by the way, was a nephew of Oliver Goldsmith, the author of the _Vicar of Wakefield_--replace the stone in its former position, which, owing to its immense weight and almost inaccessible situation, was a most difficult and costly thing to do. Mr. Davies Gilbert persuaded the Lords of the Admiralty to lend the necessary apparatus from Pymouth Dockyard, and was said to have paid some portion of the cost; but after the assistance of friends, and two collections throughout the Royal Navy, Goldsmith had to pay quite £600 personally, and came out of the transaction a sadder, wiser, and poorer man. Like other stones of an unusual character, the Logan Rock was thought to have some medicinal properties, and parents formerly brought their children to be rocked on the stone to cure their diseases; but the charm was said to have been broken by the removal of the stone, which did not afterwards oscillate as freely as before. It was reinstated in its former position on November 2nd, 1824. We also saw the Ladies' Logan Rock, weighing nine tons, which could easily be moved. In a rather dangerous portion of the rocks we came to a "wishing passage," through which it was necessary to walk backwards to obtain the fulfilment of a wish--doubtless in the case of nervous people that they might get away from the rocks again in safety. The rocks hereabouts are very vividly coloured at certain times of the year, and in the spring are covered with lichens and turf, with blossoms of the blue scilla. [Illustration: THE LOGAN ROCK.] Porthcurnow, which runs a short distance into the rocky coast, is one of Cornwall's most picturesque little bays. Round the foot of the rocks we saw what appeared to be a fringe of white sand, which at first sight we thought must have been left there by the Giant Tregeagle, as it was part of his task to sweep the sands from Porthcurnow Cove; but we ascertained that what we thought was white sand was in reality a mass of extremely small shells. The surface of the rocks above abounded with golden furze, which in summer, mingled with purple heather, formed a fine contrast. In the background was a small and dismal-looking valley known locally as the "Bottoms," which was often obscured by mists rising from the marshes below, and which few people cared to cross after nightfall. It was near the "Bottoms" that a mysterious stranger took up his abode many years ago. He was accompanied by an evil-looking foreign man-servant, who never spoke to any one except his master--probably because he was unable to speak English. No one knew where these strange people had come from, but they kept a boat in the cove, in which they used to start off to sea early in the morning and disappear in the distance, never returning until dead of night. Sometimes when the weather was stormy they remained out all night. Occasionally, but only on stormy and dark nights, they stayed on shore, and then they went hunting on the moors, whence the cry of their hounds was often heard in the midnight hours. [Illustration: ROCKY COAST NEAR LAND'S END.] At length the mysterious stranger died and was buried, the coffin being carried to the grave followed by the servant and the dogs. As soon as the grave was filled in with earth the servant and the dogs suddenly disappeared, and were never heard of again, while at the same time the boat vanished from the cove. Since this episode a ghostly vessel had occasionally appeared in the night, floating through the midnight air from the direction of the sea--a black, square-rigged, single-masted barque, sometimes with a small boat, at other times without, but with no crew visible. The apparition appeared on the sea about nightfall, and sailed through the breakers that foamed over the dangerous rocks that fringed the shore, gliding over the sands and through the mist that covered the "Bottoms," and proceeding in awful silence and mystery to the pirate's grave, where it immediately disappeared; and it is an ill omen to those who see that ghostly vessel, the sight of which forebodes misfortune! It was near St. Levan's Church that the stranger was buried, but when this happened was beyond record. St. Levan himself appeared to have been a fisherman, but only for food, not sport; the valley in his day was not the dreary place it was now, for grass and flowers sprang up in his footsteps and made a footpath from his church to the sea. He only caught one fish each day, as that was sufficient for his frugal meal. One evening, however, when he was fishing, he felt a strong pull at his line, and on drawing it up found two fish (bream) on his hook. As he only needed one and desired to be impartial and not to favour one more than the other, he threw them both into the sea. Then he threw his line in afresh, and again they both came on the hook, and were again thrown back; but when they came a third time, St. Levan thought there must be some reason for this strange adventure, and carried them home. On reaching his house he found his sister St. Breaze and her two children had come to visit him, and he was glad then that he had brought the two fish, which were cooked for supper. The children were very hungry, as they had walked a long distance, and ate fast and carelessly, so that a bone stuck in the throat of each and killed them! St. Levan must have been a strong man, for he once split a rock by striking it with his fist, and then prophesied: When with panniers astride A pack-horse can ride Through St. Levan's stone The world will be done. The stone was still to be seen, and in the fissure made by the saint the flowers and ferns were still growing; but there did not appear to be any danger of the immediate fulfilment of the saint's prophecy! [Illustration: SENNEN CHURCH.] We now walked on to one of the finest groups of rocks in the country, named "Tol-Peden-Penwith"--a great mass of granite broken and shattered into the most fantastic forms and wonderfully picturesque. It formed the headland round which Tregeagle had to carry the sand, and the remainder of the coast from there to Land's End and beyond formed similar scenery. We were quite enraptured with the wild beauty of the different headlands and coves pointed out to us by our friend; but suddenly he saw a church tower in the distance, and immediately our interest in the lovely coast scenery faded away and vanished, for our friend, pointing towards the tower, said he knew a public-house in that direction where he had recently had a first-class tea. We all three hurried away across stone fences towards the place indicated until we reached a road, and we had just turned off on coming to a junction, when we heard a stentorian voice in the distance saying, "Hi! That's not the way!" We had forgotten all about the driver for the moment, but there he was in another road a few fields away, so we shouted and motioned to him to follow us, and we all had tea together while his horse was stabled in the inn yard. The tea, for which we were quite ready, was a good one, and when we had finished we walked on to the Land's End, giving our driver an idea of the probable time we should be ready for him there. The name of the village was Sennen, and near the church was a large stone 8 feet long and 3 feet wide, said to have been the table-stone at which seven Saxon kings once dined. An old historian gave their names as Ethelbert V, King of Kent; Cissa II, King of the South Saxons; Kinigils, King of the West Saxons; Sebert, King of Essex or the East Saxons; Ethelfred, King of Northumbria; Penda, King of Mercia; and Sigebert V, King of East Anglia. It was also supposed that King Alfred had on one occasion dined at the same stone after defeating the Danes at Vellandruacher. The mile or so of moorland over which we now walked to the Land's End must have looked very beautiful earlier in the year, as the gorse or furze was mingled with several varieties of heather which had displayed large bell-formed blooms of various colours, and there had been other flowers in addition. Even at this late period of the year sufficient combination of colour remained to give us an idea how beautiful it must have appeared when at its best. From some distance away we could see the whitewashed wall of a house displaying in large black letters the words: "THE FIRST AND LAST HOUSE IN ENGLAND," and this we found to be an inn. Here we were practically at the end of our walk of 1,372 miles, which had extended over a period of nine weeks. We had passed through many dangers and hardships, and a feeling of thankfulness to the Almighty was not wanting on our part as we found ourselves at the end. We had still to cross a narrow neck of land which was just wide enough at the top for a footpath, while almost immediately below we could hear the sea thundering on each side of us. As we cautiously walked across in single file our thoughts were running on the many Cornish saints in whose footsteps we might now be treading, and on King Arthur and the Giant Tregeagle, when our friend, who was walking ahead, suddenly stopped and told us we were now on the spot where Charles Wesley stood when he composed a memorable verse which still appeared in one of his hymns: Lo! on a narrow neck of land, 'Twixt two unbounded seas I stand Secure, insensible; A point of time, a moment's space, Removes me to that heavenly place Or shuts me up in hell. As we were crossing the narrow path we had not thought of the Wesleys as being amongst the Cornish saints; but where was there a greater saint than John Wesley? and how much does Cornwall owe to him! He laboured there abundantly, and laid low the shades of the giants and the saints whom the Cornish people almost worshipped before he came amongst them, and in the place of these shadows he planted the better faith of a simple and true religion, undefiled and that fadeth not away! We must own to a shade of disappointment when we reached the last stone and could walk no farther--a feeling perhaps akin to that of Alexander the Great, who, when he had conquered the known world, is said to have sighed because there were no other worlds to conquer. But this feeling soon vanished when with a rush came the thoughts of those dear friends at home who were anxiously awaiting the return of their loved ones whom they had lost awhile, and it was perhaps for their sakes as well as our own that we did not climb upon the last stone or ledge or rock that overhung the whirl of waters below: where the waters of the two Channels were combining with those of the great Atlantic. [Illustration: ENYS-DODNAN, ARMED KNIGHT, AND LONGSHIPS.] We placed our well-worn sticks, whose work like our own was done, on the rock before us, with the intention of throwing them into the sea, but this we did not carry out. We stood silent and spell-bound, for beyond the Longships Lighthouse was the setting sun, which we watched intently as it slowly disappeared behind some black rocks in the far distance. It was a solemn moment, for had we not started with the rising sun on a Monday morning and finished with the setting sun on a Saturday night? It reminded us of the beginning and ending of our own lives, and especially of the end, as the shadows had already begun to fall on the great darkening waters before us. Was it an ancient mariner, or a long-forgotten saint, or a presentiment of danger that caused my brother to think he heard a far-away whisper as if wafted over the sea? [Illustration: LONGSHIPS LIGHTHOUSE, LAND'S END.] Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. HOMEWARD BOUND (BY MR. ROBERT NAYLOR) We retraced our steps to the "First and Last House in England," where we found our driver waiting for us with his conveyance, which we had now time to examine, and found to be a light, rickety, two-wheeled cart of ancient but durable construction, intended more for use than ornament, and equivalent to the more northern shandrydan or shandry. The strong board which formed the seat was placed across the conveyance from one side to the other a few inches below the top-rail, and would slide to any point required between the front and back of the trap, the weight of the driver or other passengers holding it in its place. It would only hold three persons, including the driver. The first difficulty that presented itself, however, was the fact that we were not sufficiently provided with warm clothing to face the twelve-mile drive to Penzance in the cold night air; but, fortunately, our friend had an overcoat which had been brought out by the driver; so after a short consultation we arranged that I should sit between the driver and our friend, a comparatively warm position, while my brother sat on the floor of the conveyance, where there was a plentiful supply of clean dry straw, with his face towards the horse and his back supported by the backboard of the trap, where our presence on the seat above him would act as a screen from the wind. After arranging ourselves as comfortably as possible in our rather novel positions, with which we were rather pleased than otherwise, we proceeded on our way at a brisk speed, for our horse was quite fresh and showed no disposition to loiter on the road, since like ourselves he was on his way home. Lighting regulations for vehicles were not in force in those days, and conveyances such as ours carried no lights even on the darkest night; but with a total absence of trees, and lighted by the first quarter of the new moon, we expected to reach Penzance before the night became really dark. The conversation as we passed into the open country was carried on by the three of us in front, as my brother could not join in it owing to his position; and we had just turned towards him with the jocular remark, "How are you getting on down there?" and had received his reply, "All right!" when, with scarcely a moment's warning, we met with an accident which might have killed him and seriously injured ourselves. We suddenly crashed into a heavy waggon drawn by two horses, the first wheel of the waggon striking dead against ours. The force of the collision caused our seat to slide backwards against my brother, pinning him against the backboard of the cart, but, fortunately for him, our driver, who had retained his hold on his reins, jumped up at the same moment and relieved the pressure, so that he had only the weight of two men against him instead of three. Meantime all was confusion, and it was a case of every one for himself; but the only man who was equal to the occasion was our driver, who with one hand pulled his horse backwards almost as quickly as the other horses came forward, and with his whip in the other hand slashed furiously at the face of the waggoner, who was seated on the wide board in front of his waggon fast asleep and, as it afterwards appeared, in a state of intoxication. Our conveyance was on its proper side of the road and quite near the fence, so that our friend jumped out of it on the land above, quickly followed by myself, and, rapidly regaining the road, we ran towards the horses attached to the waggon and stopped them. A tremendous row now followed between the waggoner, who was a powerfully built man, and our driver, and the war of words seemed likely to lead to blows; but my brother, whom in the excitement of the moment we had quite forgotten, now appeared upon the scene in rather a dazed condition, and, hearing the altercation going on, advanced within striking distance of the waggoner. I could see by the way he held his cudgel that he meant mischief if the course of events had rendered it necessary, but the blood on the waggoner's face showed he had been severely punished already. Seeing that he was hopelessly outnumbered, the waggoner, who was almost too drunk to understand what had happened, became a little quieter and gave us his name, and we copied the name of the miller who employed him from the name-plate on the waggon, giving similar information to the driver concerning ourselves; but as we heard nothing further about the matter, we concluded the case was settled out of court. We all congratulated my brother on his almost providential escape from what might have been a tragic ending to his long walk. He had told me he had a foreboding earlier in the evening that something was about to happen to him. From the position in which he was seated in the bottom of the trap he could not see anything before him except the backs of the three men sitting above, and he did not know what was happening until he thought he saw us tumbling upon him and myself jumping in the air over a bush. He described it in the well-known words of Sir Walter Scott: The heart had hardly time to think. The eyelid scarce had time to wink. The squeeze, as he called it, had left its marks upon him, as his chest was bruised in several places, and he was quite certain that if we had slid backwards another half-inch on our seat in the trap we should have finished him off altogether--for the back of the trap had already been forced outwards as far as it would go. He felt the effects of the accident for a long time afterwards. We complimented our driver on his wonderful presence of mind and on the way he had handled his horse under the dangerous conditions which had prevailed. But we must needs find the smithy, for we dared not attempt to ride in our conveyance until it had been examined. The wheel had been rather seriously damaged, and other parts as well, but after some slight repairs it was so patched up as to enable us to resume our journey, with a caution from the blacksmith to drive slowly and with great care. We arrived at Penzance safely, but much later than we had expected, and after paying our driver's fee together with a handsome donation, we adjourned with our friend to the hotel for a substantial dinner and to talk about our adventure until bedtime. When bidding us "good night," our friend informed us that, as he had an engagement in the country some miles away, we should not see him on the next day, but he promised to visit us after his return to Liverpool. This he did, and we saw him on several occasions in after years when, owing to unforeseen circumstances, we found ourselves, like him, in the timber trade. _Sunday, November 19th._ Sir Matthew Hale was a member of Cromwell's Parliament and Lord Chief Justice of England in 1671. His "Golden Maxim" is famous: A Sabbath well spent brings a week of content, And health for the toils of to-morrow; But a Sabbath profaned, whate'er may be gained, Is a certain forerunner of sorrow! Anxious as we were to reach our home as soon as possible, our knowledge of Sir Matthew's maxim and of the Commandment "_Remember_ that thou keep holy the Sabbath Day," prevented us from travelling on Sunday. Penzance is said to have a temperature cooler in summer and warmer in winter than any other town in Britain, and plants such as dracænas, aloes, escollonia, fuchsias, and hydrangeas, grown under glass in winter elsewhere, flourished here in the open air, while palms or tree ferns grow to a wonderful height, quite impossible under similar conditions in our more northern latitude, where they would certainly be cut down by frost. We also noted that the forest trees were still fairly covered with autumnal leaves, but when we arrived home two days later similar trees were quite bare. After a short walk we returned to the hotel for breakfast, over which we discussed the disappearance of our friend of yesterday, wondering what the business could be that had occupied his time for a whole week in the neighbourhood of Penzance, and why he should have an engagement on the Sunday "some miles in the country," when we could have done so well with his company ourselves. But as there seemed to be some mystery about his movements, we came to the conclusion that there must be a lady in the case, and so, as far as we were concerned, the matter ended. We attended morning service in accordance with our usual custom, and listened to a sermon from a clergyman who took for his text the whole of the last chapter in the Book of Ecclesiastes, with special emphasis on the first word: REMEMBER Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them. He began by informing us that we had nearly arrived at the end of the religious year, and that the season of Advent, when the Church's new year would begin, was close at hand. He then passed on to his text and began to describe the days of our youth. We listened intently as he took us by degrees from our youth up to old age and to the years when we might have to say we had no pleasure in them. He was a powerful preacher, and we almost felt ourselves growing older as we followed his references to each verse in the short chapter he had taken for his text. Then he described the failure of the different organs of the human mind and body: the keepers of the house trembling; the strong men bowing their heads towards the earth to which they were hastening; the grinders, or teeth, ceasing because they were few; the eyes as if they were looking out of darkened windows; the ears stopped, as if they were listening to sounds outside doors that were shut; followed by the fears of that which was high "because man goeth to his long home"; and finally when the silver cord was loosed or the golden bowl broken, the dust returning to the earth as it was, and the spirit unto God Who made it! We waited for the peroration of his fine sermon, which came with startling suddenness, like our accident yesterday, for he concluded abruptly with the following words: Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil. My brother took shorthand notes of portions of the sermon for future reference, for we were both greatly impressed by what we had heard, and conversed about some of the points raised as we returned to the hotel. Later in the day we attended the Wesleyan chapel, where we formed two units in a large congregation, as we had done in the far-off Wesleyan chapel of the Shetland Islands. Here again we appreciated the good service, including the fine congregational singing. Early on Monday morning we started by train for home; but travelling by rail was much slower in those days, and although we journeyed the whole of the day and late into the night which followed, we did not reach our home at Thelwall until Tuesday, November 21st, at two o'clock in the morning, where we awoke the sleepers by singing "Home, Sweet Home" beneath a bedroom window on the east side of Cuerden Hall, where we knew our father and mother would be waiting for us--as they are now, but in no earthly home. [Illustration: THE ROCKERIES AT THELWALL.] The news of our arrival soon spread through the surrounding country, where we were well known, and for a time we were lionised and visited by a host of friends, and our well-worn sticks, which at one time we thought of leaving in the sea at Land's End, were begged from us by intimate friends and treasured for many years by their new owners in the parish of Grappenhall. Considerable interest had naturally been taken locally in our long walk, for we had been absent from our customary haunts for seventy-five days, having travelled by land and sea--apart from the actual walk from John o' Groat's to Land's End--a distance nearly a thousand miles. Everybody wanted to be told all about it, so I was compelled to give the information in the form of lectures, which were repeated in the course of many years in different parts of the country where aid for philanthropic purposes was required. The title of the lecture I gave in the Cobden Hall at Hull on January 25th, 1883, was "My journey from John o' Groat's to Land's End, or 1,372 miles on foot," and the syllabus on that occasion was a curiosity, as it was worded as follows: John O' Groat's House and how we got there--Flying visit to Orkney and Shetland--Crossing Pentland Firth in a sloop--Who was John o' Groat?--What kind of a house did he live in?--A long sermon--The great castles--Up a lighthouse--The Maiden's Paps--Lost on the moors--Pictish towers--Eating Highland porridge--The Scotch lassie and the English--A Sunday at Inverness--Loch Ness--The tale of the heads--Taken for shepherds--Fort William--Up Ben Nevis--The Devil's Staircase--Glencoe--A night in Glen-Orchy--Sunday at Dalmally--Military road--The Cobbler and his Wife--Inverary and the Duke of Argyle--Loch Lomond--Stirling Castle--Wallace's Monument--A bodyless church--Battle of Bannockburn-Linlithgow Palace--A Sunday in Edinburgh, and what I saw there--Roslyn Castle--Muckle-mouthed Meg--Abbotsford, the residence of Sir Walter Scott--Melrose Abbey--A would-not-be fellow-traveller--All night under the stairs--Lilliesleaf--Hawick--A stocking-maker's revenge--Langholm--Taken for beggars--In a distillery--A midnight adventure in the Border Land--A night at a coal-pit--Crossing the boundary--A cheer for old England--Longtown and its parish clerk--Hearing the bishop--Will you be married?--Our visit to Gretna-Green--Ramble through the Lake District--Sunday at Keswick--Furness Abbey--A week in the Big County--Stump Cross Cavern--Brimham rocks--Malham Cove--Fountains Abbey--The Devil's Arrows--Taken for highwaymen--Tessellated pavements--York Minster--Robin Hood and Little John--A Sunday at Castleton--Peveril of the Peak--The cave illuminated--My sore foot and the present of stones--March through Derbyshire--Lichfield Cathedral--John Wiclif--High Cross--A peep at Peeping Tom at Coventry--Leamington--Warwick Castle--Beauchamp chapel--In Shakespeare's House at Stratford-on-Avon--Inhospitable Kineton--All night in the cold--Banbury Cross--A Sunday at Oxford--March across Salisbury Plain--Stonehenge--Salisbury Cathedral--Where they make carpets--Exeter Cathedral--Bridport--Honiton--Dawlish--A Sunday at Torquay--Devonshire lanes--Totnes--Dartmouth--Plymouth and the Big Bridge--Our adventure with the 42nd Highlanders--Tramp across Dartmoor--Lost in the dark--Liskeard--Truro--Tramp through the land of the saints--St. Blazey--St. Michael's Mount--A Sunday at Penzance--Catching pilchards--The Logan Rock--Druidical remains--The last church--Wesley's Rock--Land's End--narrow escape--Home, sweet home--God save the Queen. To this lengthy programme the secretary added the following footnote: Mr. Naylor is probably one of the few men living, if not the only one, who has accomplished the feat of walking from one end of the kingdom to the other, without calling in the aid of any conveyance, or without crossing a single ferry, as his object was simply pleasure. His tour was not confined to the task of accomplishing the journey in the shortest possible time or distance, but as it embraced, to use his own words, "going where there was anything to be seen," his ramble led him to view some of the most picturesque spots in the kingdom. After this lecture I wired my brother, "I only got as far as York." As he knew I had gone to Hull by train, he read the telegram to mean I had only been able to reach York that day, and he imagined how disappointed my friends in Hull would be when I did not arrive there in time to give the lecture. But he was relieved when he afterwards discovered that my wire referred to the lecture itself. He thought I had done well to get as far as York, for "John o' Groat's to Land's End" was much too large a subject to be dealt with in the course of a single lecture. [Illustration: LAND'S END.] [Illustration: [signature of] John Naylor] IN MEMORIAM Time plays many pranks with one's memory. The greatness of the journey is no longer with me, and my companion has been called away. But this much stands out clearly in my recollections: my brother was the leading spirit of the adventure--his was the genius which conceived it and it was his courage and perseverance which compelled us to keep on in spite of many difficulties. I have now set out our peregrinations at length from the diaries we kept during the journey. The record, such as it is, I give to those who knew us as a tribute to his memory. [Illustration: BEESTON TOWERS.] JOHN NAYLOR. BEESTON TOWERS, CHESHIRE, 1916. 
46223	----	Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. Archaic spellings (i. e. visiters, wo, scissars, apalling, recal, mattrass, etc.) have been retained. A few misspellings in French and German have not been corrected. The footnotes have been moved to the end of the text body. TOUR IN ENGLAND, IRELAND, AND FRANCE, IN THE YEARS 1826, 1827, 1828, AND 1829. WITH REMARKS ON THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF THE INHABITANTS, AND ANECDOTES OF DISTINGUISHED PUBLIC CHARACTERS. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. BY A GERMAN PRINCE. PHILADELPHIA: CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD, CHESTNUT STREET. 1833. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND VOLS. OF THE LONDON EDITION The following work being the genuine expression of the thoughts and feelings excited by this country in the mind of a foreigner whose station, education, and intelligence seem to promise no common degree of aptitude for the difficult task of appreciating England, it has been thought worth while to give it to the English public. The Translator is perfectly aware that the author has been led, or has fallen, into some errors both of fact and inference. These he has not thought it expedient to correct. Every candid traveller will pronounce such errors inevitable; for from what class in any country is perfectly accurate and impartial information to be obtained? And in a country so divided by party and sectarian hostilities and prejudices as England, how must this difficulty be increased! The book is therefore given unaltered; except that some few omissions have been made of facts and anecdotes, either familiar to us, though new to Germans, or trivial in themselves. Opinions have been retained throughout, without the least attempt at change or colouring. That on some important subjects they are not those of the mass of Englishmen, will, it is presumed, astonish no reflecting man. They bear strong marks of that _individuality_ which characterizes modes of thinking in Germany, where men are no more accustomed to claim the right of thinking for others, than to renounce that of thinking for themselves. This characteristic of the German mind stands in strong contrast to the sectarian division of opinion in England. The sentiments of the author are therefore to be regarded simply as his own, and not as a sample of those of any sect or class in Germany: still less are they proposed for adoption or imitation here. The opinion he pronounces on French and German philosophy is, for example by no means in accordance with the popular sentiment of his country. The Letters, as will be seen from the Preface, were published as the work of a deceased person. They have excited great attention in Germany; and rumour has ascribed them to Prince Pückler Muskau, a subject of Prussia, who is known to have travelled in England and Ireland about the period at which these Letters were written. He has even been mentioned as the author in the Berlin newspapers. As, however, he has not thought fit to accept the authorship, we have no right to fix it upon him; though the public voice of Germany has perhaps sufficiently established his claim to it. At all events, the Letters contain allusions to his rank, which fully justify us in ascribing them to _a German Prince_. They likewise furnish internal evidence of his being a man not only accustomed to the society of his equals, but conversant with the world under various aspects, and with literature and art: of fertile imagination; of unfettered and intrepid understanding; and accustomed to consider every subject in a large, tolerant, and original manner. The author of the '_Briefe eines Verstorbenen_,' be he who he may, has had the honour and happiness of drawing forth a critique from the pen of Göthe. None but those incapable of estimating the unapproachable literary merits of that illustrious man, will be surprised that the Translator should be desirous of giving the authority of so potential a voice to the book which it has been his difficult task to render into English. The following extracts from Göthe's article in the _Berliner Jahrbuch_ will do more to recommend the work than all that could be added here:-- "The writer appears a perfect and experienced man of the world, endowed with talents, and with a quick apprehension; formed by a varied social existence, by travel and extensive connections; likewise a thorough, liberal-minded German, versed in literature and art. * * * "He is also a good companion even in not the best company, and yet without ever losing his own dignity. * * * "Descriptions of natural scenery form the chief part of the Letters; but of these materials he avails himself with admirable skill. England, Wales, and especially Ireland, are drawn in a masterly manner. We can hardly believe but that he wrote the description with the object immediately before his eyes. As he carefully committed to paper the events of every day at its close, the impressions are most distinct and lively. His vivacity and quick sense of enjoyment enable him to depict the most monotonous scenery with perfect individual variety. It is only from his pictorial talent that the ruined abbeys and castles, the bare rocks and scarcely pervious moors of Ireland, become remarkable or endurable:--poverty and careless gaiety, opulence and absurdity, would repel us at every step. The hunting parties, the drinking bouts, which succeed each other in an unbroken series, are tolerable because he can tolerate them. We feel, as with a beloved travelling companion, that we cannot bear to leave him, even where the surrounding circumstances are least inviting; for he has the art of amusing and exhilarating himself and us. Before it sets, the sun once more breaks through the parted clouds, and gives to our astonished view an unexpected world of light and shadow, colour and contrast. "His remarks on natural scenery, which he views with the eye of an artist, and his successive and yet cursive description of his route, are truly admirable. "After leading us as patient companions of his pilgrimage, he introduces us into distinguished society. He visits the famous O'Connell in his remote and scarcely accessible residence, and works out the picture which we had formed to ourselves from previous descriptions of this wonderful man. He next attends popular meetings, and hears speeches from O'Connell, Shiel, and other remarkable persons. He takes the interest of a man of humanity and sense in the great question which agitates Ireland; but has too clear an insight into all the complicated considerations it involves to be carried away by exaggerated hopes. * * * "The great charm, however, which attaches us to his side, consists in the moral manifestations of his nature which run through the book: his clear understanding and simple natural manners render him highly interesting. We are agreeably affected by the sight of a right-minded and kind-hearted man, who describes with charming frankness the conflict between will and accomplishment. "We represent him to ourselves as of dignified and prepossessing exterior. He knows how instantly to place himself on an equality with high and low, and to be welcome to all. That he excites the attention of women is natural enough,--he attracts and is attracted; but his experience of the world enables him to terminate any little _affaires du coeur_ without violence or indecorum. "The journey was undertaken very recently, and brings us the latest intelligence from the countries which he viewed with an acute, clear, and comprehensive eye. "He gradually affords us a clue to his own character. We see before us a finely constituted being, endowed with great capacity; born to great external advantages and felicities; but in whom a lively spirit of enterprise is not united to constancy and perseverance; whence he experiences frequent failure and disappointment. But this very defect gives him that peculiar genial aimlessness, which to the reader is the charm of his travels. * * * "His descriptions are equally good in the various regions for which talents of such different kinds are required. The wildest and the loveliest scenes of nature; buildings, and works of art; incidents of every kind; individual character and social groups,--all are treated with the same clear perception, the same easy unaffected grace. * * * "The peculiarities of English manners and habits are drawn vividly and distinctly, and without exaggeration. We acquire a lively idea of that wonderful combination, that luxuriant growth,--of that insular life which is based in boundless wealth and civil freedom, in universal monotony and manifold diversity; formal and capricious, active and torpid, energetic and dull, comfortable and tedious, the envy and the derision of the world. "Like other unprejudiced travellers of modern times, our author is not very much enchanted with the English form of existence: his cordial and sincere admiration are often accompanied by unsparing censure. * * * "He is by no means inclined to favour the faults and weaknesses of the English; and in these cases he has the greatest and best among them--those whose reputation is universal--on his side."--GÖTHE. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH VOLS. OF THE LONDON EDITION. Since it has been suggested that I ought not to suffer several glaring, though (as I think) unimportant, errors to pass unnoticed, as if I were not aware of them, I mention the most conspicuous. The Author says the Royal Exchange was built by Charles II.; that the piece of water at Blenheim covers eight hundred acres, whereas I am told it covers only two hundred and fifty;--he calls the great Warwick Beauchamp, and not Neville:--alluding to Sir Walter Scott's 'Kenilworth,' he calls Varney, Vernon; and he lays the scene of Varney's murder of his wife at Kenilworth, instead of at Cumnor.--There may be more such mistakes for aught I know. Such are to be found in every account of a foreign country I have ever seen, with the exception of some two or three works of faultless correctness and veracity, which nobody reads. Of these Carsten Niebuhr's may be taken as a representative. Whoever has had the good fortune to see a work on Germany, which was considerably accredited here, commented with marginal notes by an intelligent and veracious German, may have had a fair opportunity of comparing the sum of misstatements between the two countries. Of our 'natural enemies' I say nothing, nor of our irritable child, whom so much has been done to irritate, across the Atlantic. Of Italian travellers, Eustace is given up as nearly a romance-writer; Englishmen believe Forsyth to be extremely correct, but instructed Italians point out errors grosser than any of those here noticed. After all, errors of the kind are (except to tourists) comparatively unimportant, when they relate to countries which are not explored with a view to science, but merely for the purpose of giving the general aspect, moral and physical, of the country. Whoever succeeds in doing that with anything like fairness, may be regarded as having effected as much as the extreme difficulty of obtaining accurate information, even on the spot, will admit; and, in a work like the present, which makes no pretension to any higher character than that of chit-chat letters to an intimate friend, will have accomplished all that it is fair to look for. It has also been suggested that I ought to have given the names of the persons alluded to at length, instead of merely copying the initials given in the original. To this I can only reply, that had I the inclination, I am totally without the power. I know nothing of any of the persons or incidents recorded; nor have I any means, which are not equally at the command of all my readers, of guessing to whom the Author alludes in any case. Inquiries of the kind are as foreign to my tastes and pursuits as the society in question is from my station in life. I have regarded these incidents solely in the light of illustrations of national manners; and the applying them to individuals is a matter in which I should take not the slightest interest. But since it is obvious that this is not the common taste, I have rather thought to obscure than to elucidate those parts of the book which are objectionably personal. If I could have done this still more, without entirely changing the character of the work, I should have done it. But by any such material change I should have made myself, in some sort, responsible for its contents: which, as a mere translator, I can in no way be held to be. Whenever I find that the English public are likely to receive, with any degree of favour, such a German work as it would be my greatest pride and pleasure to render into my native tongue to the best of my ability, I shall be too happy to share with the illustrious and humanizing poets and philosophers of Germany any censure, as I should feel it the highest honour to partake in the minutest portion of their glory. * * * * * Hitherto I have found no encouragement to hope that any such work as I should care to identify myself with, would find readers. * * * * * The Reviews and other Journals (which, for the most part, have been divided between excessive praise, and censure equally excessive, of this slight but clever work) have, of course, not been sparing in allusions to the personal character of the Author. Of that, and of all that concerns his residence here, I am utterly ignorant. When I projected the translation of the book, I believed it to be, what the title announces, _The Letters of a deceased Person_. All that I now know of the Author's personal history while in England, (if information from such sources may be called knowledge,) is gained from the writings of his reviewers. Whether their representations be true or false, I have not the slightest interest in discussing. Even if every several anecdote related by him were a lie, it would remain to be considered, whether or not his remarks on England and English society tallied in the main with those of other instructed foreigners, and with those of the more impartial and enlightened portion of Englishmen. PREFACE OF THE EDITOR. The Letters which we now lay before the public have this peculiarity,--that, with very few and unimportant exceptions, they were actually written at the moment as they appear in these pages. It may, therefore, easily be imagined that they were written without the most distant view to publicity. The writer, however, is now numbered with the departed. Many scruples are thus removed: and as his Letters contain not only many interesting details, but more especially internal evidence of a real individuality; as they are written with no less uncoloured freedom than perfect impartiality,--we thought that these elements are not so abundant in our literature as to render such a work a superfluity. It was, I must confess, an infelicity which attended the deceased author during life, that he set about everything in a manner different from that pursued by other men; from which cause few things succeeded with him. Many of his acquaintances thought that he affected originality. In that they did him injustice. No man was ever more sincere and genuine in his singularities; none, perhaps, had less the appearance of being so. No man was more natural, in cases where everybody thought they saw design. This untoward fate still, in a certain degree, pursues the appearance of his Letters. Various circumstances, which cannot be explained here, compel us, contrary to all usage, to begin with the last two volumes, which the public must accept as the first. Should these meet with approbation, we hope soon to be able to publish that _preceding sequel_ which will be found no less independent than these. For the convenience of the reader, we have annexed a short table of contents, as well as occasional notes, _ad modum Minellii_; for which we beg pardon and indulgence. _B----, October 30, 1829._ CONTENTS. LETTER I. Departure. Madame de Sevigne. Dresden. Homoeopathic disposition. The art of travelling comfortably. Reminiscences of youth. Weimar. Grand Duke's library. The Court. The park. Dinner at Court. Duke Bernhard. Anecdote. Visit to Göthe. A day in the Belvedere. Late Queen of Wurtemberg. Granby. English abroad and at home......1 LETTER II. Gotha. Old friends. Eisenach. The wedding. Hasty flights. The banks of the Ruhr. Wesel. Fatherlandish sandbanks. Beautiful gardens of Holland. Foreign air of the country. Culture. Utrecht. The cathedral at Gouda. Houses built aslant. Fantastic windmills. Rotterdam. The civil banker. Pasteboard roofs. The golden gondola. Ætna. The lovely girl. L'adieu de Voltaire......9 LETTER III. The passage. The planter. The English custom-house. The lost purse. Macadamized roads. Improvements of London. Specimens of bad taste. National taste. The Regent's Park. Waterloo bridge. London Hotels. The bazaars. Walks in the streets. Shops. Dinner at the ---- Ambassador's. Johannisberg. Chiswick. Decline of taste in the science of gardening. Favourable climate. The menagerie. Life in the City. The universal genius. The exchange and Bank. The gold cellar. Court of justice of the Lord Mayor. Garroway's Coffee-house. Rothschild. Nero. Exeter 'Change. Wurtemberg diplomacy. Theatre in the Strand. The ingenious man. Too much for money. Hampton Court. Dangerous fumigation......14 LETTER IV. Climate. British Museum. Its guards. Strange _Mischmasch_. Journey to Newmarket. English scenery. Life there. The races. The betting-post. Visit in the country. English hospitality. The Dandy. Englishmen on the continent. National customs. Order of dinner. Hot-houses. Audley end. The Aviary. Short Grove. Sale of Land in England......23 LETTER V. Advice to travellers. Clubs. Virtue and Umbrellas. Arrangement of Maps. English wine. How an Englishman sits. Comfortable customs. Rules of behaviour. Treatment of Servants. The higher classes. Rules of play. Pious wishes for Germany. Good-breeding of a Viscount. The actor Liston. Madame Vestris. 'Manger et digerer.' Sentimental effusion. Inconvenient Newspapers. Drury-lane. Braham the everlasting Jew. Miss Paton. Vulgarity of the theatre. Coarseness of an English audience......34 LETTER VI. Barrel organs. Punch. His biography. Ruined Houses. The King in Parliament. Contrast. George the Fourth. The Opera. Figaro without Singers. English melodies. Charles Kemble. Costume of old times. Prince E----. A diplomatic 'bon mot.' Sir L---- M----. Practical Philosophy. Falstaff as he is and as he should be. The King in Hamlet. The intelligent actor from Newfoundland. Little circle in the great world. How the day passes here. Learning languages. The author of Anastasius. His antique furniture. Oberon. The chorus of rocks. Presentation to the King. Incidents at the levee. Dinner with Mr. R----. Real piety. His fashionable friends. State carriage of the King of the Birmans. Mathews at home......44 LETTER VII. The auctioneer. The Napoleonist. French theatre. A rout. Lady Charlotte B----. Politics and conversation. English Aristocracy. The foggy sun of England. Extraordinary testamentary dispositions. Modern knights of St. John. Sion House. Richmond. Adelphi. Admirable drunkard. Alexander Von Humboldt. King of Prussia. The Diorama......58 LETTER VIII. Journey of business. Gothic and Italian villa. Stanmore Priory. English country inns. Breakfast. Cashiobury Park. Tasteful magnificence. Drawings by Denon. Flower-Gardens. Ashridge. Modern Gothic. Woburn Abbey......64 LETTER IX. Warwick Castle. Feudal Grandeur. The baronial hall. Portraits. Joan of Arragon. Machiavelli. Leamington. Guy's Cliff. His cave. Gaveston's cross. Tombs of Warwick and Leicester. The ruins of Kenilworth. Elizabeth's balcony. The past. Birmingham. Mr. Thomasson's manufactory. Aston Hall. Cromwell. Chester. The town prison. The rogue's fête......70 LETTER X. Hawkestone Park. Uncommonly beautiful scenery. The red castle and New Zealander's hut. More manufactories. Dangerous employment. The room in which Shakspeare was born. His grave. Various parks. The Judith of Cigoli. Blenheim. Vandalism. Pictures. Oxford. Its Gothic aspect. The Sovereigns as Doctors. The Museum. Tradescant and his bird Dodo. The blue dung-beetle in the character of a knight. Elizabeth's riding gaiters, and her lover's locks of hair. The library. Manuscripts. Stowe. Overloading. Louis the Eighteenth's lime trees. Valuables behind a grating. Decoration for Don Juan. Portrait of Shakspeare. Ninon de l'Enclos. Balustrade. Christmas pantomimes......81 LETTER XI. Conversational talents of the French. Death of the Duke of York. Adventure at his house. English mourning. Excerpts from my journal. Lady Morgan's Salvator Rosa. 'What is conscience?' Cosmorama. Skating on the Serpentine. The blacking-manufacturer's 'sporting match.' Visit to C---- Hall. Life there. Lord D----'s recollections of M----. Pictures. The most beautiful woman. The Park......97 LETTER XII. Brighton. Sunset. Oriental baths. 'Gourmandise' and heroism. Count F----. Ride on the sea-shore. Almack's ball. English notions of precedence. The romantic Scot. Sermon and priests. Duties of a clergy. The windmill. Party at Count F----'s. Highland Costume. Private balls. Wanderings of the garden Odysseus. Innocent politics......107 LETTER XIII. Beggar's eloquence. Tea-kettle pantomime and jugglers. Dream Superstition. The fancy ball. Miss F----. Mrs. F----. Remarks on society, 'Nobodies.' Pleasures of a ball. Pictures in the clouds. The French Physician. Amateur Concerts. Chinese feet. Italian Opera. Hyde Park. English horsemanship......117 LETTER XIV. Technicalities of English Society. 'Bonne chere.' Captain Parry and his ship. The Guards' mess. Play. 'Le Moyen age.' Monkeys and Poneys. 'Le Grand Seigneur dentiste.' Lady Hester Stanhope in Syria. Adam still alive. Tippoo Saib's shawl. Homeward flight. Lord Mayor's dinner. Lord H----'s and the Banker's houses. Inaccessibleness of Englishmen. Persian Charge d'affaires. Courtesy of the English princes. Ride in the suburbs......123 LETTER XV. Correspondence. Lord Mayor's feast. Speeches. Caricatures. Dangers of a fog. English society. Middle classes. Critical position of the Aristocracy. Freedom of the press. Newspaper extracts. Dinner at Mr. Canning's. Concert. Easy manners. Liston. The Areopagus. Rev. R. Taylor. Almack's. Rapid travelling. Prince Schw----. House of Commons; Messrs. Peel, Brougham, Canning. House of Lords; Duke of Wellington, Lords Goderich, Holland, Lansdowne, Grey. Value of a ticket for Almack's. Lady Politicians. Indian Melodrame. Sir Thomas Lawrence. Portuguese eyes. Prince Polignac. London season. Duchess of Clarence. Countess L----'s ball. English horsewomen. Breakfast at the Duke of Devonshire's. The new Venus. Crush of Carriages. Dinner at the Duke of Clarence's. Fitzclarence family. English-French. Dinner at Mr. R----'s. Marchioness of L----. Marquis of L----. Bishops' aprons. Concerts of ancient music. Ambulating advertisements. Mr. R----. Aristocracy in Religion. Dream......130 LETTER XVI. Mr. Hope's collection of pictures and statues. Toilette-necessaries of a Dandy. Ladies' conference. Style of invitations. Duke of Sussex. Major Kepple. Ascot races. S---- Park. The charming fairy and her country-house. Windsor Castle. Disaster. Greek boy. British cavalry. Absence of military pedantry. Balls. Disenchantments. Horticultural breakfast. Colossal pines. Tyrolese singers. Northumberland-house. Sir Gore Ousley. Persian anecdotes. Flower-table. Children's balls. Art and nature. Greenwich. Execution. Contrasts. Party at the Duchess of Kent's. Marie Louise. King of Rome. Heat. King's-bench and Newgate prisons. The unconscious philosopher. Vauxhall. The battle of Waterloo. Ball at Lady L----'s. Phrenology. Mr. Deville's character of myself. Mr. Nash's library. Dinner at the Portuguese Ambassador's. St. Giles's. Exhibition of English pictures. Pounds and thalers. 'Excerpts'. Gossip. Visions of the past. The Tunnel. Astley's Theatre. Parody of the Freischutz. Bedlam. The last of the Stuarts. Funerals. Omens. Barclay's brewery. West India docks. Amusing charlatanerie. Westminster Abbey by night. Dinner at Sir L---- M----'s. Practical Bull. English Opera. New organ. Miss Linwood. Solar Microscope. Panoramas. Death of Canning. 'Vivian Grey.' St. James's Park. Respect for the public. Propensity to mischief in the people. Exclusiveness of the great. London in autumn. Newspaper facts......146 LETTER XVII. Descent in a diving-bell. Obliging fire. College of Surgeons. The false mermaid. The sagacious ourang-outang. Extraordinary recovery. The living skeleton. Fortune. The desperate lover. Salthill. Stoke Park. Dropmore. Windsor Castle. Eton. St. Leonard's Hill. Windsor Park. Habits of George the Fourth. The giraffe. Virginia Water. Lord and Lady H----. Character of Lord Byron. Windsor Terrace. St. George's Chapel. Day dreams. English promptitude. Military men of England. Frogmore. Anecdote of Canning. Egham races. Dwarf trees. Moonlight walk. Respect for the law......177 LETTER XVIII. What a park should be. Horses. Lady ----. Hatfield and Burleigh. Doncaster Races. Pomp in the country. Duke of Devonshire's equipage. Madame de Maintenon. Useless talents. York Minster. Library. Walk in the city. Skeleton of a Roman lady. Clifford's Tower. The county jail. Thieves' wardrobe. Ascent. Town-hall. Armorial bearings of citizens. Madame de Maintenon. Archbishop's palace and kitchen-garden. Singular absence of mind. Castle Howard. Pictures. The three Mary's. Painted memoirs. English habits. Bad climate. Equine sagacity. Scarborough. The rock-bridge. Light-house on Flamborough-head......188 LETTER XIX. Whitby. What is remarkable in a Duke. The ruin. The Museum. Alum mines. Lord Mulgrave's castle and park. Singular accident. Fountain's Abbey. Studley Park. The Catacombs at Ripon. Harrowgate. The End of the World. The old General. Aristocratical influence. Harewood park. Kennel. Horses. Wooden curtains. Lord Harewood. Leeds. Reform in Parliament. Cloth manufactory. Templenewsome. Rotherham. Disappointment. Wentworth House. Portraits. Sheffield. Knives and scissars. Nottingham. Wild beasts. Lord Middleton's seat. St. Albans Abbey. Duke of Gloucester's tomb. Return to London......200 LETTER XX. Excursion to Brighton. Arundel Castle. Petworth House. Portraits. Hotspur's sword. Old 'Whalebone.' The fortunate duchess. 'Prognostica.' Continuation of Don Juan. The year 2200. 'Etourderie.' Rules of behaviour. English politicians. Charles Kemble's Falstaff. License of English actors. Young as Hotspur. German and English stage. Wonders of the age. 'Flirtation.' Singular ball. Macready's Macbeth. Thoughts on the tragedy of Macbeth. Der Freischutz. 'Liaison' with a mouse. Street mystifiers. Nights in London. Visit to Woolmers. Ball at Hatfield. Pansanger. Grand Signor. Persian valuables......212 LETTER XXI. Billy, the Rat-destroyer. English amusements. The newest Roscius. Fancy. Freewill. Original sin. Austrian philosophy. Colours of the days. Friday. Don Miguel. American Anecdote. English 'tournure.' Unpleasant Christmas-box. Portuguese etiquette. Ludicrous incident in the theatre. English flints. Parties in honour of the infant. Baroness F----. The charming aid-de-camp. Anecdote told by Sir Walter Scott. B---- Society. Disadvantages of a sandy soil. India House. Tippoo Saib's amusements. Shawls. Ride in the Steam-carriage. Ride in a carriage drawn by kites. Fox-hunt. Clerical fox-hunters. Thoughts on death. Recommendation of Blotting-paper. The Atlas of life. Bellows. Advantages of illness. Instruction. Convalesence......226 LETTER XXII. The Thelluson will. The Dandy in the back settlements of America. English justice. A Chancery suit. Dramatic juggler. Fall of the Brunswick theatre. Party at Mr. Peel's. 'Chapeau de Paille.' Mr. Carr's collection of pictures. General Lejeune's battle-pieces. The courtier. Mina, Arguelles, and Valdez. On the acting and translating of Shakspeare. Kean, Young, and Kemble, in Othello. Character of Iago......241 LETTER XXIII. Aristocracy and liberalism united in one person. Fête at the Duchess of ----'s. Wonderful tale of Mr. H----. Toads. The menagerie in Regent's Park. Marshal Beresford. Rural dinner in H---- Lodge. Zoological Garden. The patient witling. Uncomfortable customs. Dinner at H---- Lodge. Sir Walter Scott; his appearance and conversation. A charming girl. Tailors, butchers, and fishmongers. Crockford's. Spring-festival. Rural pleasures. Musical indigestion. Strawberry-Hill, the seat of Horace Walpole. German customs in England. Epsom races. Soirée at the King's. Historical portraits. Paintings in watercolour. The little paradise. The branch from Birnam Wood. Bonneau the Second. The Empress Josephine's Fortune-telling book. Introduction to the Duchess of Sachsen Meiningen. The Pigeon Club. The aquatic theatre. The Doomed. The new Ninon de l'Enclos. Another déjeuné champetre. The two Marshals......250 LETTER XXIV. A rout 'par excellence.' English squeeze. Visit to Cobham. Lord D----'s birthday. Mr. Child's speech. Rochester Castle. The most natural camel. The downfall. The water party. Return to London. The Exhibition of Arts and Manufactures. The nursery-garden. 'Apperçu' of English fashionable society......262 LETTER XXV. Departure from London. Cheltenham. English comfort. Mineral waters. Promenades. Sources of the Thames. Lackington Hill. The village in the wood. Ancient Roman villa. Tea-garden. Avenues. Master of the Ceremonies. Field of Tewksbury. Worcester. Cathedral. King John. The Templar. Prince Arthur's tomb. Enjoyments of travelling. Picture in the mist. Vale of Llangollen. Churchyard, and view from it. Mountain breakfast. Celebrated ladies. Visit to them. Lofty mountains. Comparison with those of Silesia. The road. The stone bishop. The indefatigable. Jest and Earnest. German titles. German placemen. German nobles. Romances. Feudal opinions. English domestic architecture. Penrhyn Castle. The slate quarry. Operations there. Reflections of a pious soul of Sandomir, or Sandomich. Conversions. Missions. Extracts from Berlin journals......272 LETTER XXVI. Bangor. Welsh driving. Lake of Llanberris. Fish-hunting dogs. Storm. Shelter in the old castle. Hut, and its inhabitants. Ascent of Snowdon. Mountain poney and sheep. Veiled summit and my _double_. Libation. Rocky path. View. Region of birds of prey. Return on the lake. Caernarvon Castle. Edward's birth. King's stratagem. Origin of the English Motto. Contrast in the ruins. Eagle Tower. Sea-bath. Billiard table. Weather and eating. The Hebe of Caernarvon. Extracts from the "Lammszeitung." Intolerance of Berlin Saints. Church and King sole guides of faith. Duties of rich and poor contrasted. Promenade round Bangor. Bath at Bangor. Beaumaris. The castle. Craig y don. Menai Straits. Chain bridge over the sea......293 LETTER XXVII. Plague of flies. Project for a Park. Plas Newydd. Cromlechs. Druid's cottage. New kaleidescope. Journey into the interior of the mountains. Unworthy views of Providence. Protestant Jesuits. Destinies of man. Cars. Lake of Idwal. Path at the foot of the Trivaen. Welsh guide. Wearisome ascent. Rose-coloured light. Valley of Rocks. The eagle. "The bad pass." Bog. Capel Cerig. Valley of Gwynant. Elysium. Dinas Emris. Merlin's rock. Dangers. Pleasant inn at Bedgellert. The blind harper and his blind dog. The Devil's bridge. Tan y Bwlch. Beautiful Park. Gigantic dam. Tremadoc. Reminiscences of sand, dirt, and father-land. Evening fancies. Crumbs of philosophy. Possessor of Penrhyn Castle. Road over Penman Mawr. Conway Castle with fifty-two towers. "Contentment" villa. The Queen's closet. Hooke and his forty-one sons. Gothic mania. Truly respectable Englishman. Fashion-hunting......303 LETTER XXVIII. 'Vie de Château.' Cathedral at St. Asaph. Tabernacle. True faith. Denbigh Castle. Meeting of Harpers. Romantic Valley. Pretty Fanny. Her dairy and aviary. Paradise of fowls. Ride through romantic country. Short stay at Craig y Don. Newspaper article. Irish dinner. Happy condition of the middle classes. Opinions on England. The Isle of Anglesea. Paris mines. Copper smelting. New inventions. Holyhead. Light-house. Terrific rocks. Sea-birds. Hanging bridge. Stormy passage to Ireland. First Impression of the country. Dublin. Exhibition of fruits and flowers. Walk in the city. Sight-seeing. Palace of the Lord Lieutenant, and modern Gothic chapel. University. My Cicerone. Organ of the Armada. Archimedes' burning glass. Portraits of Swift and Burke. Battle of Navarino. Phoenix Park. Characteristics of the people. Lady B----. The meaning of "character" in England. The Liffy. W---- Park. Charming entrance. "The Three Rocks." Beautiful view. Irish peasant women. Wooden Capuchin. The Dandy. Comfortable arrangements for the English aristocracy. Country visit. First interview with Lady M----. Unfortunate end of a ride. Further particulars concerning the Muse of Ireland......317 LETTER XXIX. Ride on horseback into the county Wicklow. Bray. Student's equipment. English piety. Kilruddery. Glen of the Downs. Summer-house. Vale of Durwan. The giant. The Devil's Glen. Küleborn. Rural repast in Rosanna. The tourists. Avondale, an Eden by moonlight. Avoca Inn. The meeting of the Waters. Castle Howard. Beautiful portrait of Mary Stuart. Bally Arthur. The ha-ha. My horse at blind-man's buff. Shelton Abbey. The negro porter. Loss of my pocket-book. What is a gentleman? Valley of Glenmalure. Lead mines. Military road. The sun behind black masses of clouds. The seven churches. Mysterious tower without an entrance. The black lake of St. Kevin. The giant Fian M'Cumhal. The enamoured Princess. Her tragical end, and the saint's excessive rigour. Irish toilet. Walter Scott and Moore in the mouth of a peasant. Morass and will-o'-the-wisp. A night upon straw. Hedge of Mist. First peep of sun over the lake and valley of Luggelaw. Romantic solitude. The statue of rock. P---- Park. Intolerance, cant, and abuse of the Sunday. Sugar-loaf. Rich country. Repose by the brook. Lord Byron......331 LETTER XXX. Donnybrook fair. The lovers. Powerscourt. The Dargle and The Lover's Leap. The waterfall. Galopade, with the guide behind me. Inn at Bray. Sketch of English manners. Grand Duke of S---- W.----. Advantages of a humble mode of travelling. Activity of beggars. Kingston. Construction of the harbour. Machinery. The Spectre ship. Tasteless and appropriate monument in honour of George the Fourth. Fine road to Dublin. Catholic association. English horse-riders and admirable clowns. The dance of Polypi......340 LETTER XXXI. The young parson. Journey with him to the West. Connaught. Singular country. Visit at Capt. B----'s. Life of a true Irishman. They are not over fastidious. Divine service in Tuam. Service of the Church of England. Galway race. Resemblance of the Irish people to savages. The town of Galway. Want of books there. The race. Accident of a rider. Indifference of the public. The fair African. Athenry, a bathing place, like a Polish village. King John's castle. The abbey. Popular escort. Whisky. Castle Hackett. The fairy queen. She carries off a lover. Splendid sunset. Definition of 'Good temper.' Cong. Irish wit. The Pigeon-hole. Subterranean river. Meg Merrilies. Illuminated cavern. Enchanted trout. Lough Corrib, with its three hundred and sixty-five islands. The monastery. Irish mode of burial. Hearty kindness of the old captain......345 LETTER XXXII. 'Hors d'oeuvre.' German Character. Adventure with a gipsy. How we acquire a soul. State of the Irish peasantry. Stupid rage of an Orangeman. Beautiful park and disposition of water. Picture gallery at M---- B----. St. Peter with a scarlet wig, by Rubens. Winter landscape, by Ruisdael. Magnificent Asiatic Jew, by Rembrandt. Irish hunters. Departure by the Postman's cart. The obliging Irishman. Desert country. Poverty and light-heartedness of the people. Sure revelation. "The cross bones." The Punch-bowl. Lord Gort's park. Desire of my horse to stay there. Irish posting. Its characteristics......357 LETTER XXXIII. Limerick. Antique character of that city. Catholics and Protestants. Deputation, and offer of the Order of the Liberator. O'Connell's cousin. Cathedral. I am taken for a son of Napoleon. I substitute my valet and make my retreat. Conversation in the stage. The Shannon. Its magnificent size. New sort of industry of a beggar in Lisdowel. Twelve rainbows in a day. Killarney. Voyage on the lake in a storm. The dandy and the manufacturer. Some danger of drowning. Inisfallen island. O'Donaghue's white horse. His history and apparition. The old boat, man and his adventure. _Journal des Modes_ of the infernal regions. Mucruss Abbey. The large yew-tree. Influence of the Catholic priests. O'Sullivan's waterfall. Young Sontag. The wager. Ross Castle. Two Englishmen 'de trop'. Bad taste of quizzing. The Knight of the Gap. The "madman's rock." Brandon Castle. A bugleman. The eagle's nest. Coleman's leap. The dinner. Fresh salmon boiled on arbutus sticks. Voyage back. Melancholy thoughts. Christening with whisky. Julia Island. Journey to Kenmare. Shillelah battle. Ride to Glengariff by night. Extraordinary road. The intelligent poney. Beautiful bay of Glengariff. Colonel W----'s park a model. Family of the possessor. Lord B----'s hunting seat. Bad weather. Rocks, storm and apparition of ----......367 LETTER XXXIV. Kenmare. Irish messenger. Road to Derrinane. Bridge of the black water. Chaos. Terrific coast. Perplexities. Aid from a smuggler. Mountain pass at night. Derrinane Abbey. O'Connell the great Agitator; Father L'Estrange his confessor. O'Connell as chieftain giving laws to his subjects. His intolerance in matters of religion. Departure from Derrinane. Danish forts. Leave-taking. Irish modes of conveyance. Amiable character of the lower Irish. Example of it. Sorrows of Werther. Opinion of it. Faust. The Innkeeper's daughter at Kenmare. Hungry Hill and its majestic waterfall. O'Rourke's eagle. The modern Ganymede. Seals under my window. Their love for music. English family worship. Theological discussion on the deluge, the day of judgment, and the Apocalypse. Extraordinary beauties and advantages of this spot......380 LETTER XXXV. Wild honeycomb. Egyptian lotus. Visit to an eagle's nest; their romantic dwelling, and wonderful instinct. The wild huntsman of the South of Ireland. The caves of the Sugar Loaf. Track of the fairy queen's carriage wheels. Dangerous hunting in these mountains. The fogs, bogs, and wild bulls. Manner of taming one......393 LETTER XXXVI. Idolatry of Sunday in England. Wonderful conversion of a Protestant to Catholicism. Riding in a car. The Whiteboys. Macroom. The naïve mamma and the spoiled child in the gingle. The strong king of the Danes. Cork. Voyage to Cove: beautiful entrance from the sea. Folko's sea castle. Monkstown. Remarkable appearance of two perfect rainbows at once. The amphitheatre of the town of Cove. Disappointed expectation of fish. Illuminated night-scene. The stars. Departure in the Mail. Mitchelstown and Castle. Materials for novels. Lord K----. Extraordinary weather for Ireland. The soldier of O'Connell's Militia. The Galtees. Cahir. Another of King John's castles. Lord Glengall's beautiful park. The Prince's equipage at Cashel. Force of habit. Secret of all educations. Club dinner......395 LETTER XXXVII. The rock of Cashel. One of the most curious ruins in Ireland. The Devil's Bite. Old Saxon architecture. Bell of the Inquisition. The statue of St. Patrick, and throne at Scone. Hore and Athassil abbeys. Lord L----. Condition of the Catholics in Tipperary. Church of Ireland. Laughable article in the newspaper concerning myself. My speech......404 LETTER XXXVIII. The swan. Holy Cross and its monuments. Irish Catholic clergy. Dinner with eighteen clergymen. Conversation at it. Comparison of the Wendish and the Irish. List of the Catholic and Protestant parishes in Cashel. Curious details and remarks upon them. Well-meant exorcism. Irish breakfast. Breakneck hunt. The wandering bog. Feats of horses. Country gentleman's life. The Castle in the air. Potheen enthusiasm. Irish gentry. Lord H----......408 LETTER XXXIX. The brothers. Animal life. Devils. The pretty hostess. The piper. The robbers. The lawyer cheated. The murder of Baker. The motionless cock. Fitzpatrick and his bag-pipe......415 LETTER XL. Killough Hill. The fairy garden. Romantic sentry-box. Return to Dublin. Madame de Sevigne. Lord Byron's tempest. Dinner with the Lord Lieutenant. The Marquis of Anglesea. Catholic worship. Invisible music. St. Christopher. Comparison of the Catholic and Protestant divine service. Allegory. Journal of a London life. Difference between English and German modes of thinking. Remarks on English Women. Malahide. Furniture seven hundred years old. Duchess of Portsmouth. Charles the First at the court of Spain. Howth Castle. Ducrow's living statues......420 LETTER XLI. Evening at Lady M----'s. Her nieces. Curious conversation. More theology. The nightingales. All the _corn_ of Europe. National scene. Domestic pictures. The authoress's boudoir. The miniature Napoleon. The Catholic Association. Shiel, Lawless, and others. Artificial resolution. Ride in the mountains. Sentimentality of a dandy......427 LETTER XLII. B---- H---- on modern piety. O'Connell in a long-tailed wig. The Don Quixote and the Dandy of the Association. Acting charades at Lady M----'s. 'Love me love my dog.' Miss O'Neil. Her acting......436 LETTER XLIII. Dead-letter office. £3000 incognito. The doctor. New surgical instrument. The bank. Bank-note metal. Gymnastics. Parlour philosophy. Paradoxes......441 LETTER XLIV. Favour of Neptune. The dream. Voyage across the channel. The young heir. Night in the mail. Shrewsbury. The tread-mill. Yellow criminals. Church. Curious old houses. Street curiosity. The little scholar. Ross. The river Wye. Goderich Castle. Varied prospects. Three counties at once. Childhood of Henry the Fifth. Grotesque rocks. Unfortunate tourist. The Druid's Head. Monmouth. Birth-place of Henry the Fifth. A poultry-yard. The bookseller and his family. Theft. Kind, simple-hearted people. Tintern abbey. The ivy avenue. The Wind Cliff. Sublime view. Chepstow Castle. Cromwell and Henry the Eighth improvers of the picturesque. Discovery. Penitence......451 LETTER XLV. Chepstow. Marten the Regicide. The girl's explanation. Taxes imposed by English lords and gentlemen on travellers. The possessor of Piercefield. Crossing the Bristol Channel. Men and horses pèle mèle. Recapitulation. Natural pictures. The most beautiful building. Bristol. The feudal churches. Disinterested piety of English clergymen. The mayor's equipage. Cook's Folly. Lord de Clifford's park. Russian fleet. The model of a village. Clifton. The black and white house. Sensibility of surgeons. Bath. The king of Bath. The Abbey church. Singular decoration. King James the Second's heroic feat. The eccentric Beckford. The tower. Strange _cortege_. The visit over the wall. Gothic architecture. Christmas-eve market. Walks by day and night. The conflagration......460 LETTER XLVI. The widow. Love of the English for horrors. More agreeable travelling companion. Examinations, and learned examiners. Stonehenge. Sinister meeting and accident. Salisbury Cathedral. Monuments. The spire. Frightful ascent. The hawk on the cross, and the bishop's pigeons. His Lordship's functions. Pious wish for my Country. Mirror of the past and future. Wilton castle. The Chatelaine antiques. Pictures. Temple built by Holbein. Talent and taste of English ladies. Entrance by stratagem. Langford park. Fine pictures. Egmont. Alba. Orange. Emperor Rudolph's throne. Boxing-match, the betting coachman. Modern English aristocratic morality. March of intellect. Military school. Fox-chace. National duty. The new year. London. Canterbury cathedral. The Black Prince. Splendour of colouring. The archbishop. The damaged boiler. Dover fortress. Short passage. The air of France. The jetty. English children. Unequal contest between a French bonne and a resolute little English girl. The chief and father of dandies. Anecdotes......469 LETTER XLVII. French diligence. The conducteur. An old soldier of Napoleon's garde. German Plinzen. La 'mechanique.' Value of freedom. Paris. Revision of the old acquaintance. Bad new one. Theatre de Madame Leontine Fay. Virtuous Uncle Martin. 'La charte pour les cafes.' Rosini the tamer of wild beasts. Cheapness of Paris. Burlesque exhibition of the death of Prince Poniatowski. Praiseworthy 'ensemble' of French acting. Gleanings in the Louvre. The sphinx out of place. The Mephistophiles Waltz. Heaven and Hell......479 LETTER XLVIII. Ascetic walk. Anecdotes of the Buonaparte family. Spanish courtesy. Theatre Français. Omnibus. Thoughts in a Dame Blanche. Il Diavolo. Singers. _Agrémens_ of Paris. La Morne. Polar bear. Desaix's monument. Disappointed hope. The _Amas_. Departure......490 LETTERS ON ENGLAND, IRELAND, AND FRANCE. LETTER I. _Dresden, Sept. 8th, 1826._ MY DEAR FRIEND, The love you showed me at our parting in B---- made me so happy and so miserable, that I cannot yet recover from it. Your sad image is ever before me; I still read deep sorrow in your looks and in your tears, and my own heart tells me too well what yours suffered. May God grant us a meeting as joyful as our parting was sorrowful! I can now only repeat what I have so often told you: that if I felt myself without you, my dearest friend, in the world, I could enjoy none of its pleasures without an alloy of sadness; that if you love me, you will therefore above all things watch over your health, and amuse yourself as much as you can by varied occupation. As I resolved to combat the melancholy which gives so dark a colouring to all objects, I sought a kind of aid from your Sevigné, whose connexion with her daughter has, in fact many points of resemblance to that which subsists between us, only with the exception, 'que j'ai plus de votre sang,'[1] than Madame de Grignan had of her mother's. But your resemblance to the charming Sevigné is like the hereditary likeness to the portrait of an ancestor. The advantages which she possesses over you are those of her time and education; you have others over her; and what in her appears more finished and definite--classic,--in you assumes a romantic character; it becomes richer, and blends with the infinite,--I opened the book at random: it was pleasant enough that I lighted upon this passage-- "N'aimons jamais, ou n'aimons guères, Il est dangereux d'aimer tant." On which she remarks with great feeling, "Pour moi, j'aime encore mieux le mal que le remède, et je trouve plus doux d'avoir de la peine à quitter les gens que j'aime, que de les aimer médiocrement." It is a real consolation to me to have already written a few lines to you: since I have conversed with you, I feel as if I were nearer to you. I have no adventures to relate as yet. I was so entirely engrossed by my own thoughts and feelings, that I scarcely knew through what places my road lay. Dresden appeared to me less cheerful than usual, and I was thankful when I found myself quietly established in my room at the inn. The storm which blew in my face during the whole day, has heated and fatigued me; and as I am, you know, otherwise unwell, I want rest. Heaven send you also a tranquil night, and affectionate dreams of your friend! _Sept. 10th.--Morning._ 'Vous avez sans doute cuit toutes sortes de bouillons amers, ainsi que moi.' Nevertheless I rose in better health and spirits than yesterday, and immediately set to work making all the little arrangements necessary at the beginning of a long journey. In the evening I felt extremely depressed, and as I dreaded an attack of my nervous hypochondriacal disorder, which you christened my 'maladie imaginaire,' I sent for Hofrath (Court-counsellor) W----, the favourite physician of the strangers who pass through Dresden, because, independently of his skill, he is an amusing and merry companion. You know the use I make of physicians. Nobody can be of a more homoeopathic nature than I am; for the mere conversing with a medical man on my complaint and its remedies, generally half cures me; and if I take any of his prescriptions, it is only in thousandth parts. This was the case to-day; and after some hours, which W---- passed by my bedside, and seasoned with many a piquant anecdote, I supped with better appetite, and slept tolerably till morning. On opening my eyes, they lighted on a letter from you, which the honest B---- had laid upon my bed, well knowing that I could not begin the day so joyfully. Indeed, after the pleasure of hearing from you, I have only one other--that of writing to you. Do but continue thus unrestrainedly to give utterance to all your feelings, and fear not to wound mine. I well know that your letters must long resemble a sad and dreary landscape. I shall be tranquil, if I do but see an occasional gleam of sunlight throw its rays across it. _Leipsig, Sept. 11th._ In a very pretty room, with well waxed parquet, elegant furniture, and silken curtains, all in their first 'fraicheur,' the waiter is now laying the table for my dinner, while I employ these few minutes in writing to you. I left Dresden at ten o'clock this morning, in tolerably good spirits,--that is, painting fancy pictures for the future. But my lingering regrets at leaving you, dear Julia, and the comparison of my insipid and joyless solitude with the exquisite pleasure I should have had in taking this journey under more happy circumstances, with you, fell heavily upon my heart. Of the road hither, there is not much to be said; it is not romantic,--not even the vineyards, which extend to Meissen, and which present to the eye more sand than verdure. Yet the country, though too open, sometimes excites agreeable feelings by its freshness and fertility: this is the case at Oschatz, where the pretty bushy Culmberg looks down upon the plain, like the rich-locked head of youth. The 'chaussée' is good, and it appears that the post is improving even in Saxony, since the excellent Nagler created a new post-era in Prussia. Nothing amuses me more than the energetic zeal with which B---- drives on the willing as well as the phlegmatic: he behaves to them as if he had already made the tour of the globe with me, and had--of course--found things better everywhere than at home. In the delicate state of my health, the comfortable English carriage is a real blessing. I rather hug myself on understanding the art of travelling better than my neighbours; particularly as far as the maximizing of comfort is concerned: in this I include the taking the greatest possible number of things (often dear, accustomed memorials) with the least possible 'embarras' and loss of time,--a problem which I have now perfectly solved. In Dresden, before I packed up, you would have taken my room for a broker's shop. Now all my wares have vanished in the numerous receptacles of the carriage: yet without giving it that heavy, overloaded look, at which our postilions so readily take fright; and which marks a man, to the discriminating eye of innkeepers, as one embarked on the grand tour. Every article is at hand, and yet perfectly distinct, so that when I reach my nightly quarters, my _domestic relations_ are quickly re-established in a strange place. On the road, the transparent crystal windows of the largest dimensions obstructed by no luggage or coach-box, afford me as free a view of the country as an open 'calèche,' while they leave me lord of the temperature. The men on their lofty seat behind overlook the luggage and the horses, without the power of casting curious glances into the interior, or of listening to the conversation which may be passing there; if, perchance, on our arrival in the country of the Lilliputs or the Brobdignags, secrets of state should come under discussion. I could deliver a course of lectures on this subject,--one by no means unimportant to travellers; but I have been thus diffuse here only for the sake of furnishing you with a complete picture of myself as you are to think of me, wandering over the face of the earth, while my nomadic dwelling and the ever changing post-horses daily bear me further from your sight. The host of the Hotel de Saxe, unquestionably one of the best inns in Germany, is an old acquaintance of mine, and established many strong claims on my gratitude when I was a student at Leipsig. Many a joyous and sometimes rather riotous repast was given at his house; and I now invited him to partake of my solitary one, that he might talk to me of the past, and of the wild days of my youth. The present times are, alas! become more serious everywhere. Formerly, pleasure was almost raised into a business,--men thought of nothing else--studied nothing else; and feet, so ready to dance, were lightly set in motion. Now-a-days, people find their pleasure only in business, and stronger excitements are required to make us merry--if that ever be the end proposed. _Weimar, Sept. 13th.--Evening._ I will not weary you with any 'tirades' on the battle-fields of Leipsig and Lützen, nor with a description of the 'chétif' monument to Gustavus Adolphus, or of the meagre beauties of the environs of Schulpforte. In Weissenfels, where I wanted to buy a book, I was surprised to learn that not a bookseller was to be found in the residence of the great Müllner. They were most likely afraid that he would saddle them with a law-suit, at first hand. I trod the plains of Jena and Auerstadt with just such feelings as a Frenchman of the 'grande armée' might have had in the years 1806 and 1812, when he marched across the field of Rossbach;--for the last victory, like the last laugh, is always the best. And as the seat of the Muses, the cheerful Weimar, received me in its bosom after all these battle reminiscences, I blessed the noble prince who has here erected a monument of peace; and has helped to light up a beacon in the domain of literature, which has so long illumined Germany with its many-coloured flames. Next day I presented myself to this my old commander, and to the rest of the illustrious family, whom I found little altered. The Court had, however, received the agreeable addition of two amiable princesses, who, had they been born in the humblest sphere, would have been distinguished for their external charms and their admirable education. A stranger is received here with a politeness and attention now completely out of fashion in other places. Scarcely was I announced, when a 'laquais de cour,' waited upon me to place himself and a court equipage at my disposal during the time of my stay, and to give me a general invitation to the Grand Duke's table. In the morning, the Grand Duke had the kindness to show me his private library, which is elegantly arranged, and remarkably rich in splendid English engravings. He laughed heartily when I told him that I had lately read in a Paris journal that Schiller had been disinterred by his order, and that the skeleton of the illustrious poet was to be placed in the Grand Ducal library. The truth is, that his bust, with some others, decorates the room, but that his skull, if I was rightly informed, is enclosed in the pedestal;--certainly a somewhat singular token of respect. I visited the park with renewed pleasure. The ground is not, indeed, rich in picturesque beauty, but the laying out is so skilful, the several parts are so well imagined and executed, that they leave on the mind a feeling of satisfaction which such combinations, even under more favourable natural circumstances, seldom produce in an equal degree. Among the new improvements I found a small botanic garden, laid out in a circular plot of ground, in the centre of which stands a majestic old tree. The garden is arranged according to the Linnæan system, and exhibits a single specimen of every tree, shrub, and plant which will stand abroad, and is to be found in the park and gardens. It is impossible to conceive a more agreeable spot for the living study of botany than the seat under this tree, which, like a venerable patriarch, looks down upon the surrounding youthful generations of every form, foliage, blossom, and colour. Continuing my walk, I saw a model farm of the Grand Duke's, where gigantic Swiss cows give little milk,--for transplantations of this sort seldom answer. Further on, I found the pretty pheasantry, which is rich in gold and silver pheasants and white roes. The great ladder on which from seventy to eighty heavy turkeys are drilled by the gamekeeper to climb in company is curious enough; and the old lime-tree, completely loaded with such fruit, has a strange exotic aspect. As the Court dines at a very early hour, I had scarcely time to put myself into costume, and arriving late found a large company already assembled. Among them I remarked several Englishmen, who very wisely study German here, instead of first learning, with great trouble, the ungraceful dialect of Dresden: they are most hospitably received here. The conversation at table was very animated. You know the joviality of the Grand Duke, who in this respect completely resembles his friend, the never-to-be-forgotten King of Bavaria. We recapitulated many a laughable story of the time when I had the honour of being his adjutant; after which I was compelled to ride my grand 'cheval de bataille'--my expedition in the air-balloon. Much more interesting were Duke Bernard's descriptions of his travels in North and South America, which I understand we shall soon have an opportunity of reading in print, with remarks by Göthe. This prince, whom the accident of birth has placed in a high station, occupies a still higher as man: no one could be better fitted to give the free Americans a favourable idea of a German prince than he, uniting, as he does, frank dignity of deportment with genuine liberality of thought, and unpretending kindness and courtesy. In the evening there was a grand assembly, which, in virtue of its nature and quality, was not particularly rich in enjoyment. Every agreeable feeling however revived within me, when I found myself seated at cards opposite to the Grand Duchess. Who has not heard of this noble and truly excellent German woman, before whose serene and clear spirit Napoleon himself, in the plenitude of his power, stood awed, and who is beloved by every one who is permitted to enjoy her gentle and heart-cheering society? We sat indeed at the card-table, but gave little heed to the laws of whist; while time fled amid animated and delightful conversation. In a court like this, visited by so many foreigners, there cannot fail to be originals who afford matter for piquant anecdotes, even those least given to scandal. Some very diverting stories were related to me when, on rising from table, I mingled again in the crowd. Among other things, a visiting card, 'in naturâ,' was showed to me which apparently owed its existence to a well-known anecdote concerning an Englishman. This example suggested to the mad-cap Baron J---- the thought of re-acting the affair with one of his table companions, a ci-devant captain, who was tolerably ignorant of the world and its usages. With this view, he hinted to the poor man, who had been leading a secluded life in D----, that politeness required of him to make a round of visits in the town; to which the unsuspecting captain patiently replied, that he was not conversant in these matters, but would willingly put himself under J----'s guidance. "Well then," said he, "I will provide the cards, which must be written in French, and in three days I will call you in my carriage. You must put on your uniform, and your cards must express to what service you formerly belonged." All was done according to agreement; but you may imagine what laughing faces greeted our visitors, when you learn that the following 'carte de visite' was sent up before them in every house:-- "Le Baron de J----, pour présenter _feu_ Monsieur le Capitaine de M----, jadis au service de plusieurs membres de la Confédération du Rhin." _September, 14th._ This evening I paid my visit to Göthe. He received me in a dimly lighted room, whose 'clair obscure' was arranged with some 'coquetterie'; and truly, the aspect of the beautiful old man, with his Jove-like countenance, was most stately. Age has changed, but scarcely enfeebled him: he is perhaps somewhat less vivacious than formerly, but so much the more equable and mild; and his conversation is rather pervaded by a sublime serenity, than by that dazzling fire which used occasionally to surprise him, even in the midst of his highest 'grandezza.' I rejoiced heartily at the good health in which I found him, and said with a smile, how happy it made me to find our spiritual King in undiminished majesty and vigour. "Oh, you are too _gracious_," said he, (with the yet uneffaced traces of his South German manner, accompanied by the satirical smile of a North German,[2]) "to give me such a title." "No," replied I, truly from my very heart, "not only king, but despot, for you have subjugated all Europe." He bowed courteously, and questioned me concerning things which related to my former visit to Weimar; then expressed himself very kindly with regard to M----, and my efforts to improve it, gently remarking, how meritorious he ever thought it to awaken a sense of beauty, be it of what kind it may, since the Good and the Noble unfolded themselves in manifold ways out of the Beautiful. Lastly, he gave me some gleam of hope that he might comply with my earnest request that he would visit us there. Imagine, dearest, with what 'empressment' I caught at this, though perhaps but a 'façon de parler.' In the course of our conversation we came to Sir Walter Scott. Göthe was not very enthusiastic about the Great Unknown. He said he doubted not that he wrote his novels in the[3] same sort of partnership as existed between the old painters and their scholars; that he furnished the plot, the leading thoughts, and skeleton of the scenes, that he then let his pupils fill them up, and retouched them at the last. It seemed almost to be his opinion, that it was not worth the while of a man of Sir Walter Scott's eminence to give himself up to such a number of minute and tedious details. "Had I," added he, "been able to lend myself to the idea of mere gain, I could formerly have sent such things anonymously into the world, with the aid of Lenz and others--nay, I could still--as would astonish people not a little, and make them puzzle their brains to find out the author; but after all they would be but manufactured wares." I afterwards observed, that it was gratifying to Germans to see what victories our literature was achieving in other countries; "And," added I, "our Napoleon has no Waterloo to dread." "Certainly," replied he, disregarding my 'fade' compliment, "setting aside all our original productions, we now stand on a very high step of culture, by the adoption and complete appropriation of those of foreign growth. Other nations will soon learn German, from the conviction that they may thus, to a certain extent, dispense with the learning of all other languages; for of which do we not possess all the most valuable works in admirable translations?--The ancient classics, the master-works of modern Europe, the literature of India and other eastern lands,--have not the richness and the many-sidedness[4] of the German tongue, the sincere, faithful German industry, and deep-searching German genius, reproduced them all more perfectly than is the case in any other language?" "France," continued he, "owed much of her former preponderance in literature to the circumstance of her being the first to give to the world tolerable versions from the Greek and Latin: but how entirely has Germany since surpassed her!" On the field of politics, he did not appear to me to give into the favourite constitutional theories very heartily. I defended my own opinions with some warmth. He reverted to his darling idea, which he several times repeated;--that every man should trouble himself only thus far,--in his own peculiar sphere, be it great or small, to labour on faithfully, honestly, and lovingly; and that thus under no form of government would universal well being and felicity long be wanting:--that, for his own part he had followed no other course; and that I had also adopted it in M---- (as he kindly added), untroubled as to what other interests might demand. I replied frankly, but in all humility, that however true and noble this principle were, I must yet think that a constitutional form of government was first necessary to call it fully into life, since it afforded to every individual the conviction of greater security for his person and property, and consequently gave rise to the most cheerful energy, and the most steady trust-worthy patriotism, and that a far more solid universal basis would thus be laid for the quiet activity of each individual in his own circle: I concluded by adducing,--perhaps unwisely,--England in support of my argument. He immediately replied, that the, choice of the example was not happy, for that in no country was selfishness more omnipotent; that no people were perhaps essentially less humane in their political or in their private relations;[5] that salvation came not from without, by means of forms of government, but from within, by the wise moderation and humble activity of each man in his own circle; that this must ever be the main thing for human felicity, while it was the easiest and the simplest to attain. He afterwards spoke of Lord Byron with great affection, almost as a father would of a son, which was extremely grateful to my enthusiastic feelings for this great poet. He contradicted the silly assertion that Manfred was only an echo of his Faust. He confessed, however, that it was interesting to him to see that Byron had unconsciously employed the same mask of Mephistophiles as he himself had used, although, indeed, Byron had produced a totally different effect with it. He extremely regretted that he had never become personally acquainted with Lord Byron, and severely and justly reproached the English nation for having judged their illustrious countryman so pettily, and understood him so ill. But, on this subject, Göthe has spoken so satisfactorily and so beautifully in print, that I can add nothing to it. I mentioned the representation of Faust in a private theatre at Berlin, with music by Prince Radzivil, and spoke with admiration of the powerful effect of some part of the performance.--"Well," said Göthe gravely, "it is a strange undertaking; but all endeavours and experiments are to be honoured." I am angry with my vile memory that I cannot now recollect more of our conversation, which was very animated. With sentiments of the highest veneration and love, I took my leave of the great man,--the third in the great triumvirate with Homer and Shakspeare,--whose name will beam with immortal glory as long as the German tongue endures; and had I had anything of Mephistophiles in me, I should certainly have exclaimed on the step of his door, "Es ist doch schön von einem grossen Herrn Mit einem armen Teufel so human zu sprechen."[6] I was invited to dine with the Grand Duke to-day at the Belvedere, and at two o'clock set out on the pleasant road thither. Ever since I have been here the weather has been wonderful:--days of crystal, as your Sevigné says, in which one feels neither heat nor cold, and which only spring and autumn can give. The Hereditary Grand Duke and his wife live at Belvedere quite like private people, and receive their guests without etiquette, though with the most perfect politeness. The Grand Princess (Grossfürstin) appeared still much depressed in consequence of the Emperor's death, but when the conversation grew animated, she gave us a very affecting description of the floods at St. Petersburg, of which she had been an eyewitness. I have always admired the excellent education and the various attainments which distinguish the Russian princesses. The late Queen of Wurtemberg was even learned. I had once to deliver a letter to her in Frankfurt, and remained by her desire standing in the circle after I had given it to her, till the other persons of whom it was composed were dismissed. A professor of a Pestallozian school was the first in turn, and appeared to know less about his system than the Queen, then Grand Princess (Grossfürstin) Katharine, who several times corrected his diffuse and inaccurate answers with singular acuteness. A 'diplomate' followed, and he also, in his sphere, received the most dextrous and well-turned replies. She next entered into a scientific discussion with a celebrated economist from A----; and lastly, profound and brilliant reflections, in a lively controversy with a well-known philosopher, closed this remarkable audience. After dinner, the Hereditary Grand Duke took us into his conservatories, which, next to Schönbrunn, are the richest in Germany. You know, dear Julia, that I lay little stress on mere rarity, and, in plants, as in other things, delight only in the beautiful. Many treasures were therefore thrown away upon me; and I could not share in the raptures into which several connoisseurs fell at the sight of a stalk, which was indeed only six inches high, and had not above five leaves, and no flowers, but, on the other hand, had cost sixty guineas, and is as yet the solitary specimen of its kind in Germany. I was, however, greatly delighted by a _Cactus grandiflorus_ in full flower, and many other splendid plants. I looked with great reverence at a magnificent large Bread-fruit tree, and pleased myself with dyeing my fingers crimson from the cochineal insects which inhabited a Cactus. The varieties of plants exceed sixty thousand. The orangery is beautiful, and contains a veteran with a trunk of an ell and a half in circumference, which has safely weathered five hundred and fifty northern summers. I spent the evening at Herr V. G----'s, a clever man, and an old friend of Madame Schoppenhauer, who is also a kind patroness of mine. Frau V. G----e came in afterwards, and was a very agreeable addition to our company. She is a lively, original, and clever woman, on whom the incense strewed upon her with so much justice by her father-in-law, has not been entirely without its influence. She evinced great pleasure at the arrival of a first copy of Granby, which she had just received from the author, who had studied German in Weimar. The offering did not strike me as anything very considerable; and I told her I could only wish the author might be more interesting than his work. Perhaps I said this from 'dépit,' for here, as all over the Continent, it is the fashion to flatter the English inordinately, and God knows how 'mal à propos.' _September 16th._ After taking my leave this morning of all the illustrious family, I devoted the rest of the day to my friend Sp----, who, together with his family, affords a proof that a life at court and in the great world is perfectly compatible with the simplest domestic habits and the most attaching kindness of heart. A young Englishman, secretary to Mr. Canning, who spoke German like a native, entertained us with some humorous descriptions of English society, and was exceedingly bitter upon the discourtesy and want of good-nature which characterize it. This gave him, at the same time, a good opportunity of saying handsome things of the Germans, particularly those present. _It is only while they are abroad that Englishmen judge thus_: when they return, they quickly resume their accustomed coldness and haughty indifference, treat a foreigner as an inferior being, and laugh at the German 'bonhommie,' which they praised as long as _they_ were the objects of it; while they regard the truly laughable veneration which we cherish for the very name of Englishman, as the rightful tribute to their superiority. This is the last letter, dear Julia, which you will receive from hence. Early in the morning,--not at cock-crow, that is, but according to _my_ calendar,--at about twelve o'clock,--I intend to set out, and not to stop till I reach London. Take care of your health, I beseech you, for my sake, and tranquillize your mind as much as you can by the aid of that wondrous self-controlling strength with which the Creator has endowed it. Love me nevertheless--for my strength is in your love. Your faithful L----. LETTER II. _Wesel, Sept. 20th, 1826._ BELOVED FRIEND, After taking leave of Göthe and his family, and paying a last visit to a distinguished and charming artist in her 'atélier,' I quitted the German Athens, stored with pleasant recollections. I staid only just so long in Götha as was necessary to visit an old friend and comrade, the minister and astronomer (heaven and earth in strange conjunction) Baron Von L----. I found him still suffering from the consequences of his unfortunate duel in Paris, but bearing this calamity with the calmness of a sage, which he has displayed in every circumstance of his life. It was dark when I reached Eisenach, where I had a message to deliver to another old comrade from the Grand Duke. I saw his house brilliantly lighted up, heard the music of the dance, and was ushered into the midst of a large company, who looked astonished at my travelling costume. It was the wedding-day of my friend's daughter, and heartily did he welcome me as soon as he recognized me. I apologized to the bride for my unbridal garments, drank a glass of iced punch to her health, another to that of her father, danced a Polonaise, and disappeared, 'à la Française.' Very shortly afterwards I made my night toilet, and laid myself comfortably to rest in my carriage. When I awoke, I found myself a stage from Cassel, at the very place where, ten years ago, we made our strange 'entrée,' with the pole of our carriage standing erect, and the postilion apparently mounted upon it. I breakfasted here, and thought over many circumstances of that journey; drove through the pretty, melancholy little capital without stopping; then through a noble beech wood, which gleamed in the sunshine with a gold-green lustre; made romantic observations on a curious hill covered with the moss-grown ruins; and hurrying on through this monotonous district, reached the ancient see of Osnabruck at dinner-time. One always sleeps better in a carriage the second night than the first; the motion acts upon one like that of a cradle upon children. I felt well and in good spirits next morning, and remarked that the whole face of the country began to assume a Dutch character. Antique houses, with numerous gables and windows; an unintelligible _Platt Deutsch_, which nowise yields in harmony to the Dutch; a more phlegmatic people; better furnished rooms, though still without Dutch cleanliness; tea instead of coffee; excellent fresh butter and cream; increased extortions of innkeepers;--all presented a new shade of this many-coloured world. The country through which my road lay had a more agreeable and softer character, especially at Stehlen on the Ruhr, a place made for a man who wishes to retire from the tumult of the world to cheerful seclusion. I could not gaze my fill on the fresh succulent vegetation, the magnificent oak and beech woods which crowned the hills on the right and left, sometimes growing down to the very road, sometimes going off into the distance; everywhere skirting the most fruitful fields, shaded with red and brown where they had been newly ploughed, clothed in deep or tender green where they were covered by the young winter crops or the fresh clover. Every village is surrounded by a belt of beautiful trees, and nothing can exceed the luxuriance of the meadows through which the Ruhr winds in fantastic meanderings. Towards evening, as I was comparing this smiling landscape with our gloomy pine forests, a tongue of homelike land suddenly appeared as if by enchantment, with its sand, shingle, and arid stunted birch-trees, stretching across the road as far as the eye could reach. In ten minutes the green meadows and proud beeches greeted us again. What revolution was it that threw this tract of sand here? A few miles from Wesel, however, the whole country becomes 'tout de bon' fatherlandish, and, as the 'chaussée' ends here, one wades once more through Berlin loose sand. I arrived unfortunately a day too late to sail from hence by the steamboat, otherwise I might have reached London from Weimar in four days and a half. Now I must travel by land to Rotterdam, and there wait the departure of the first vessel. _Rotterdam, Sept. 25th._ My journey from Wesel to Arnheim was tedious enough. The horses toiled slowly on, through a dull country, amid endless sands. There was nothing interesting to be seen but the great brick-kilns by the roadside, which I looked at attentively on account of their superiority to ours. The more agreeable, and really magical in its effect, is the contrast of the extensive garden which lies between Arnheim and Rotterdam. On a 'chaussée' constructed of clinkers, (very hard-baked tiles,) and covered with a surface of fine sand--a road which nothing can excel, and which never takes the slightest trace of a rut--the carriage rolled on with that soft unvarying murmur of the wheels so inviting to the play of the fancy. Although there is neither rock nor mountain in the endless park I traversed, yet the lofty dams along which the road sometimes runs, the multitude of country-seats, buildings and churches grouped into masses, and the many colossal clumps of trees rising from meadows and plains, or on the banks of clear lakes, gave to the landscape as much diversity of surface as of picturesque objects of the most varied character; indeed its greatest peculiarity consists in this rapid succession of objects which incessantly attract the attention. Towns, villages, country-seats, surrounded by their rich enclosures; villas of every style of architecture, with the prettiest flower-gardens; interminable grassy plains, with thousands of grazing cattle; lakes which have gradually grown merely from turf-digging to an extent of twenty miles; countless islands, where the long reed, carefully cultivated for thatch, serves as a dwelling-place for myriads of water-birds;--all join in a gladsome dance, through which one is borne along as if by winged horses; while still new palaces and other towns appear in the horizon, and the towers of their high Gothic churches melt into the clouds in the misty distance. And even in the near-ground the continually changing and often grotesque figures leave no room for monotony. Now it is a strange carriage, decorated with carved work and gilding, without a pole, and driven by a coachman in a blue jacket, short black breeches, black stockings, and shoes with enormous silver buckles, who sits perched on a narrow board; or women walking under the load of gold or silver ear-rings six inches long, and Chinese hats like roofs upon their heads: then yew-trees cut into dragons and all sorts of fabulous monsters; or lime-trees with trunks painted white, or many-coloured; chimneys decorated in an Oriental style, with numbers of little towers or pinnacles; houses built slanting for the nonce; gardens with marble statues as large as life, in the dress of the old French Court, peeping through the bushes; or a number of brass bottles or cans, polished like mirrors, standing on the grass by the roadside, glittering like pure gold, yet destined to the humble purpose of receiving the milk with which the lads and lasses are busily filling them. In short, a multitude of strange, unwonted and fantastic objects every moment present to the eye a fresh scene, and stamp the whole with a perfectly foreign character. Imagine such pictures set in the golden frame of the brightest sunshine, adorned with the richest vegetation, from giant oaks, elms, ashes and beeches, to the rarest hot-house plant, and you will have a tolerably perfect and by no means exaggerated idea of this magnificent part of Holland, and of the high enjoyment of my day's ride. There was only a part of it which, as to vegetation and variety, formed an exception; but in another point of view was, if not so pleasant, equally interesting. Between Arnheim and Utrecht you come upon a tract, four miles long,[7] of the sand of the Luneberg heath, as bad as the worst plains of the Mark; nevertheless--such is the power of intelligent cultivation--the finest plantations of oak, white and red beech, birch, poplar, &c., flourish by the side of the stunted thorns and heather, which are the only natural productions of the soil. Where the ground has too little strength to grow trees, it is planted with brushwood, which is lopped every five or six years. The magnificent road is skirted the whole way on each side with rows of well-kept flourishing trees; and to my surprise I found that, spite of the arid sand, oaks and beeches seemed to thrive better than birches and poplars. A number of the exquisitely neat Dutch houses and villas were built in the midst of the dreary heath: many were only begun, as well as the laying-out of pleasure-grounds around them. I could not understand how people could have pitched upon this inhospitable soil upon which to found expensive establishments: but learned that the Government had been wise enough to grant out the whole of this hitherto unprofitable tract of land to the neighbouring proprietors and other opulent persons, free of all charges for fifty years, with the sole condition that they must immediately either plant or otherwise cultivate it. Their heirs or successors are to pay a very moderate rent. I am persuaded, from what I here saw, that the greater part of our hungry heaths might in a century be converted by a similar process, and by continued cultivation, into thriving fields and woods, and the whole district thus change its character. Utrecht is prettily built, and, like all Dutch towns, a model of cleanliness. The painted exterior of the houses and their various forms, the narrow winding streets, and the old-fashioned 'ensemble,' are much more pleasing to my eye than the so-called handsome towns, the streets of which, like mathematical figures, invariably intersect at right angles, and the whole weary line of each street is to be seen at a glance. The environs are charming, the air very healthful, Utrecht being the highest town in Holland, and, as I was assured, the society in winter and spring very lively and agreeable, as all the wealthiest nobles of the country make it their residence. The trade is inconsiderable, and the whole air of the town and its inhabitants rather aristocratical than commercial. From thence I proceeded to Gouda, the cathedral of which place is celebrated for its painted glass. Eighty thousand gulden[8] was lately bidden in vain by an Englishman for one of these windows. In execution it is equal to a miniature picture, and the splendour of the colours is indescribable;--the gems and pearls in the garments of the priests emulate real ones. Another, half of which was lately shattered by lightning, was presented to the church by Philip II. There is a portrait of him in it, dressed in a mantle of genuine purple; not the usual reddish colour, but a lustrous violet, between the deepest blue and crimson, more beautiful than anything I ever saw in glass. A third contains a portrait of the Duke of Alva. All the windows are of extraordinary dimensions, and with few exceptions in exquisite preservation. They are all of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries except one, which was not painted till the seventeenth, and which betrays the decline of the art, both by the inferiority of the colours and of the conception and drawing. He who has seen Gouda may spare himself the trouble of a journey to the leaning tower of Pisa, for here the whole town seems to have been built on the same principle. Though the Dutch, who have been on many accounts not inappropriately called the Chinese of Europe, might very fairly be believed capable of preferring so extraordinary a style of architecture, yet it is probable that the really alarming aspect of the buildings here is to be attributed chiefly to the unsteady boggy soil.[9] Almost all the houses stand with their gable ends to the street, every one of which is differently ornamented. In very narrow lanes they almost meet, and form a triangle, under which one walks with some solicitude. As it was Sunday I found the town extremely lively, though with a quiet and decent gaiety. Most of the people stood idle, gazing about. They took off their hats very politely as I passed. Before you reach Rotterdam you ride through a long series of country-houses with flower-gardens, separated from the road on either side by a narrow canal. The entrance to each of the houses is over a mighty drawbridge, which contrasts oddly enough with the insignificance of the water, over which a good leap would carry you. Just as 'baroque' are the tower-like windmills outside the town: they are gilded, and ornamented with the wildest carvings, besides which, the walls of many of them are so finely covered with thick rushes that at a distance they look like fur; others resemble the skin of a crocodile; some are like Chinese pagodas; but, in spite of all this extravagance, the whole group produces a very striking effect. Interspersed among them are seen the rising masts of the vessels in the harbour, and the great glass roof under which the ships of war are built, announcing a maritime and commercial city. I soon entered a long street thronged with people, at the end of which a high black clock tower, with flaming red figures and hands, served as 'point de vue;' and it was a good quarter of an hour before I reached the Hotel des Bains, on the quay, where I am now very well and comfortably lodged. From my window I look down upon a broad expanse of water, and the four steam-vessels, one of which is to convey me the day after to-morrow to England. Boats row swiftly to and fro, and the busy crowd hurry along the quay, the edge of which is adorned with lofty elms, probably cotemporaries of Erasmus. After a little walk under these trees, I ate a good dinner, and then added to this ell-long letter, which alas, will cost more than it is worth. My health is not entirely as I wish it, though daily improving. Perhaps the sea will cure me. _September 26th._ The manner of living here approaches to that of England. They rise late, dine at 'table d'hôte,' at four o'clock, and drink tea in the evening. 'Au reste,' there is little amusement or variety for strangers, in this great city: there is not even a stationary theatre; the company from the Hague give occasional performances in a miserable house. Everybody seems occupied with trade, and finds his recreation after it only in domestic pleasures, which are indeed the most appropriate and the best, but in which a traveller can have no share. I went into the counting-house of a Jewish banker to change some English money: notwithstanding the insignificance of the sum, he behaved in the most respectful manner, and after carefully counting out the money for me, accompanied me to the door himself. I was not a little astonished to learn from my 'laquais de place' that this man's fortune was estimated at two millions of guilders (gulden). It seems, therefore, that wealth has not yet made bankers so haughty and insolent here as at other places. I visited the arsenal, which, compared with English establishments of the like kind, appeared to me insignificant. Many of the large buildings are covered with pasteboard, which is said to be very lasting, and looks very well. Square sheets of pasteboard, of an ordinary thickness, are dipped several times into a cauldron of boiling tar, till they are thoroughly saturated with it: they are then hung up to dry in the sun. They are laid on a very flat roof, like sheets of copper, one over another, and nailed to planks underneath, which they thus preserve from the wet for many years. The officers of the yard assured me that a roof of this kind would last much longer than shingle, or than the best tarpauling. I was much interested by a very detailed model of a ship of war, which could be entirely taken to pieces. It was made for the naval school at Delft, and gives a perfect illustration of the instruction they receive. The King's golden barge, or gondola, though probably not quite equal in magnificence to that of Cleopatra, was shown to me with great self-satisfaction by the Dutchmen. It is rotting away on dry land, being very seldom used. The country round Rotterdam is famous for its pretty girls and excellent fruit, which (the latter I mean) forms a considerable article of export to England. Nowhere are such enormous grapes to be found. I saw some exposed to sale in the market, which had the appearance and the size of plums. Sauntering idly about, I saw an advertisement of a panorama of Ætna,--entered, in the train of a party of ladies,--and alas! lost my heart. The loveliest girl I ever saw, smiled upon me from the foot of the volcano, with eyes which must have borrowed their glow from its eternal fires, while her lips smiled archly with a bloom equal to that of the oleander at her side. The prettiest foot, and most exquisite symmetry of person,--all were combined to form an ideal, if not of heavenly, at least of the most seductive earthly beauty. Was this a Dutch woman? Oh no, a true Sicilian; but alas, alas! only painted. The glances she cast at me from her viny bower as I went out, were therefore those of triumphant mockery; for since Pygmalion's days are over, there is no hope for me. To-morrow, instead of the glowing sun and subterranean heat of Sicily, the cold wet sea will be around me; but I shall not say, with Voltaire, on quitting pleasant Holland, 'Adieu Canards, Canaux, Canailles.' I shall not write again till I reach London. I will tell you whether I determine to make a long stay there, which I shall decide on the spot. 'En attendant,' I send you a lithographic print of the steamboat in which I sail. A + marks, after the fashion in which the knights of old signed their names, the place where I stand, and with a little help from your imagination you will see how I wave my handkerchief, and send you a thousand affectionate greetings from afar. Your faithful L----. LETTER III. _London, Oct. 5th, 1826._ I have had a most disastrous passage. A squall, constant sea-sickness, forty hours instead of twenty,--and, to crown the whole, striking on a sandbank in the Thames, where we had to lie six hours, till the tide set us afloat again;--such were the disagreeable incidents of our voyage. It is ten years since I quitted England; and I know not whether I saw all things before with beautifying eyes, or whether my imagination had unconsciously brightened the colouring of the distant picture; but the views on the banks of the Thames appeared to me neither so fresh nor so picturesque as formerly, though superb groups of trees and cheerful pretty villas were frequently in sight. But here, as in North Germany, the lopping of the trees often spoils the landscape; only that the quantity of them in the numerous hedges which enclose the fields, and the preservation of at least the topmost branches, render the effect less melancholy here than in the otherwise so beautiful Silesia. Among the passengers was an Englishman who had just returned from Herrnhut, and had also visited the baths of M----. It diverted me highly, unknown to him as I was, to hear his opinions of the plantations there. How much tastes differ, and how little, therefore, anybody needs to despair, you may conclude from this,--that he expressed the highest admiration for that gloomy district, solely on account of the immensity of the 'evergreen woods,' as he called the endless monotonous pine-forests, which appear to us so insufferable, but which are a rarity in England, where fir-trees are carefully planted in parks, and commonly thrive but ill. An American was extremely incensed at being sea-sick during this trumpery passage, after having crossed the Atlantic to Rotterdam without being at all so; and a planter from Demarara, who was in a continual shiver, complained even more of the "impolitic" abolition of the slave-trade than of the cold. He thought that this measure would speedily bring about the total ruin of the colonies; for, said he, a slave or a native never works unless he is forced; and he does not need to work, because the magnificent country and climate afford him food and shelter sufficient. Europeans _cannot_ work in the heat, so that nothing remains but the alternative,--colonies with slaves, or no colonies;--that people knew this well enough, but had very different ends in view from those which they put forward with such a parade of philanthropy. He maintained that the slaves were, even for their owners' interest, far better treated than the Irish peasants,--far better than he had often seen servants treated in Europe:--an exception might be found here and there; but this was not worth considering in a view of the whole subject. I tried to turn the conversation from a subject so distressing to every friend of humanity, and got him to describe to me the mode of life in Guiana, and the majesty of its primeval woods. His descriptions filled me with a sort of longing after these wonders of nature, in a country where all is nobler, and man alone is baser, than with us. The ridiculous element of the voyage was an English lady, who with unusual volubility seized every occasion of entering into conversation in French. Though no longer in the bloom of youth, she carefully concealed this defect even on ship-board, by the most studied toilet. At a late hour in the morning, when we all crawled on deck more or less wretched, we found her already seated there in an elegant 'negligée.' In the middle of the second night we anchored just below London Bridge, the most unfortunate circumstance that can happen to a man. In consequence of the severity of the Custom-house, he is not permitted to take his things on shore before they are inspected; and the office is not opened till ten in the morning. As I did not choose to leave my German servants alone with my carriage and effects, I was compelled to pass the night, almost dressed as I was, in a miserable sailors' tavern close to the river. In the morning, however, when I was present at the examination, I found that the golden key, which rarely fails, had not lost its efficacy here, and saved me from long and tedious delays. Even a few dozen French gloves, which lay in all innocence open upon my linen, seemed to be rendered invisible;--nobody took any notice of them. I hastened as quickly as possible out of the dirty city, swarming like an ant-hill, but had half a stage to travel with post-horses before I reached the 'West end of the town,' where I put up at my old quarters, the Clarendon Hotel. My former host, a Swiss, had exchanged England for a yet unknown country. His son, however, occupied his place, and received me with all that respectful attention which distinguishes English innkeepers, and indeed all here who live by the money of others. He very soon rendered me a real service; for I had hardly rested an hour before I discovered that, in the confusion of the night, I had left a purse with eighty sovereigns in a drawer in my bed-room. Monsieur Jaquier, 'qui connoissait le terrain,' shrugged his shoulders, but instantly sent off a confidential person to the spot, to recover the lost purse if possible. The disorder which reigned in the miserable inn, stood me in good stead. Our messenger found the room uncleared; and to the, perhaps disagreeable, surprise of the people, the purse where I left it. London is now so utterly dead as to elegance and fashion, that one hardly meets an equipage; and nothing remains of the 'beau monde' but a few ambassadors. The huge city is, at the same time, full of fog and dirt, and the macadamized streets are like well-worn roads; the old pavement has been torn up, and replaced by small pieces of granite, the interstices between which are filled with gravel; this renders the riding more easy, and diminishes the noise; but, on the other hand, changes the town into a sort of quagmire. Were it not for the admirable 'trottoirs,' people must go on stilts, as they do in the Landes near Bourdeaux. Englishwomen of the lower classes do indeed wear an iron machine of the kind on their large feet. London is, however, extremely improved in the direction of Regent Street, Portland Place, and the Regent's Park. Now, for the first time, it has the air of a seat of Government (Residenz), and not of an immeasurable metropolis of 'shopkeepers,' to use Napoleon's expression. Although poor Mr. Nash (an architect who has great influence over the King, and is the chief originator of these improvements) has fared so ill at the hands of connoisseurs,--and it cannot be denied that his buildings are a jumble of every sort of style, the result of which is rather 'baroque' than original,--yet the country is, in my opinion, much indebted to him for conceiving and executing such gigantic designs for the improvement of the metropolis. The greater part too is still 'in petto,' but will doubtless soon be called into existence by English opulence and the universal rage for building. It's true, one must not look too nicely into the details. The church, for instance, which serves as 'point de vue' to Regent Street, ends in a ridiculous spire, while every part seems at variance with every other. It is a strange architectural monster. There is an admirable caricature, in which Mr. Nash, a very small shrivelled man, is represented booted and spurred, riding spitted on the point of the spire. Below is the inscription "_National_ (sounded _nashional_) _taste_." Many such monstrosities might be mentioned. Among others, on a balcony which adorns the largest mansion in the Regent's Park, there are four figures squeezed flat against the wall, whose purpose or import is extremely mysterious. They are clad in a sort of dressing-gown, whence we gather that they are at least designed for human figures. Perhaps they are emblems of an hospital; for these apparent palaces, like that at Potsdam, have unity and grandeur in their façade alone. They are often, in fact, only a conglomeration of small houses dedicated to the purposes of trade, manufacture, or what not. Faultless, on the other hand, is the landscape-gardening part of the park, which also originates with Mr. Nash, especially in the disposition of the water. Art has here completely solved the difficult problem of concealing her operations under an appearance of unrestrained nature. You imagine you see a broad river flowing on through luxuriant banks, and going off in the distance in several arms; while in fact you are looking upon a small piece of standing, though clear, water, created by art and labour. So beautiful a landscape as this, with hills in the distance, and surrounded by an enclosure of magnificent houses a league in circuit, is certainly a design worthy of one of the capitals of the world; and when the young trees are grown into majestic giants, will scarcely find a rival. In the execution of Mr. Nash's plan many old streets have been pulled down, and during the last ten years more than sixty thousand new houses built in this part of the town. It is, in my opinion, a peculiar beauty of the new streets, that, though broad, they do not run in straight lines, but make occasional curves which break their uniformity. If ever London has quays, and St. Paul's Church is laid open, according to the ingenious project of Colonel Trench, she will excel all other cities in magnificence, as much as she now does in magnitude. Among the new bridges, Waterloo Bridge holds the first rank. The proprietors are said to have lost 300,000_l._ feet in length, and enclosed between solid balustrades of granite, it affords an agreeable and almost solitary walk, and commands the finest river view, in so far as the fog will permit it to be seen,--in which palaces, bridges, churches, and vessels, are proudly blended. The contrivance for checking the toll-receivers was new to me. The iron turnstile through which you pass, and which is in the usual form of a cross, is so contrived that it describes each time only a quarter of the circle, just as much as is necessary to let one person through; and at the moment when it stops, a mark falls in an enclosed case under the bridge. There is a similar contrivance for carriages; and the proprietors have only to count the marks in an evening, to know accurately how many foot and horse-passengers cross the bridge daily. The former pay a penny, the latter three-pence, by which it was expected that three hundred pounds a day would be taken, instead of which the receipts seldom exceed fifty. _October 7th._ What would delight you here is the extreme cleanliness of the houses, the great convenience of the furniture, and the good manners and civility of all serving people. It is true that one pays for all that appertains to luxury (for the strictly necessary is not _much_ dearer than with us), six times as high; but then one has six times as much comfort. In the inns everything is far better and more abundant than on the Continent. The bed, for instance, which consists of several mattrasses laid one upon another, is large enough to contain two or three persons; and when the curtains which hang from the square tester supported on substantial mahogany columns, are drawn around you, you find yourself as it were in a little cabinet,--a room, which would be a very comfortable dwelling for a Frenchman. On your washing-table you find--not one miserable water-bottle, with a single earthen or silver jug and basin, and a long strip of a towel, such as are given you in all hotels and many private houses in France and Germany; but positive tubs of handsome porcelain, in which you may plunge half your body; half-a-dozen wide towels; a multitude of fine glass bottles and glasses, great and small; a large standing looking-glass, foot-baths, &c., not to mention other anonymous conveniences of the toilet, all of equal elegance. Everything presents itself before you in so attractive a guise, that as soon as you wake you are allured by all the charms of the bath. If you want anything, the sound of your bell brings either a neatly dressed maid-servant, with a respectful curtesy, or a smart well-dressed waiter, who receives your orders in the garb and with the air of an adroit valet; instead of an uncombed lad, in a short jacket and green apron, who asks you, with a mixture of stupidity and insolence, "Was schaffen's Ihr Gnoden?" (What is it, your Honour?), or "Haben _Sie_ hier jeklingelt?" (Was it _you_, here, that rung?), and then runs out again without understanding properly what is wanted. Good carpets cover the floors of all the chambers; and in the brightly polished steel grate burns a cheerful fire, instead of the dirty logs, or the smoky and ill-smelling stoves to be found in so many of our inns. If you go out, you never find a dirty staircase, nor one in which the lighting serves only to make darkness visible. Throughout the house, day and night, reign the greatest order and decency; and in some hotels every spacious set of apartments has its own staircase, so that no one comes in contact with others. At table, the guest is furnished with a corresponding profusion of white table linen, and brilliantly polished table utensils; with a well-filled 'plat de ménage,' and an elegance of setting out which leaves nothing to wish for. The servants are always there when you want them, and yet are not intrusive: the master of the house generally makes his appearance with the first dish, and inquires whether everything is as you desire;--in short, the best inns afford everything that is to be found in the house of a travelled gentleman, and the attendance is perhaps more perfect and respectful. It is true the reckoning is of a piece with the rest, and you must pay the waiters nearly as much as you would a servant of your own. In the first hotels, a waiter is not satisfied with less than two pounds a-week for his own private fees. Such gifts or vales are more the order of the day in England than in any other country, and are asked with the greatest shamelessness even in the churches. I visited the bazaars to-day. These establishments have come very much into fashion within the last few years, and afford great facilities to buyers. The so-called horse bazaar is built on a very large scale, and daily draws together a very motley assemblage. It includes several extensive buildings, where hundreds of carriages and harness of every kind, new and old (the latter made to look like new), are exposed to sale, at all prices, in a very long gallery. In other rooms are porcelain wares, articles of dress, glass mirrors, 'quincaillerie,' toys, and even collections of foreign birds and butterflies, all for sale. At length you reach a coffee-room in the centre of the establishment, with a glazed gallery running round an open space. Here, while comfortably seated at breakfast (in rather mixed company it is true), you see a number of horses led out from the extensive stables where they are well taken care of, and to which any one who has a horse to sell may send it for a certain fee. They are then put up to auction. When a horse is warranted sound by the auctioneer, you may buy it with tolerable safety, since the proprietor of the establishment is responsible for the warranty. The best are certainly not to be found here, but the cheapest are; and to many this is a great recommendation: perhaps a still greater is the being able to get all one wants in the same place. There are already, as I said, several of these bazaars, and they are worth a visit. The convenient walking on the excellent 'trottoirs,' the gay and ever-changing groups, and the numerous splendid shops, make the streets of London, especially in the evening, a very agreeable walk to a foreigner. Besides the brilliant gas-lights, there are large globes of glass in the druggists' shops, filled with liquid of a deep red, blue, or green colour, the splendid light of which is visible for miles, and often serves as a beacon, though sometimes as an 'ignis fatuus,' if you are unlucky enough to mistake one for another. Of all the shops, the most attractive are those in which the beautiful English crystal is sold. Real diamonds can scarcely glitter more dazzlingly than the far-gleaming collections of some manufacturers. I observed too some articles of rose or other coloured glass, but I was surprised to see how little the forms were changed. The crown lustres, for instance, are just the same as ever; and yet I should think that they might be made in the form of suns with diverging rays, or of bouquets of flowers, instead of this eternal crown; or that small lustres of gay colours, set like 'bijous' of various gems, and fixed against the walls of rooms of appropriate, perhaps oriental, decorations, would produce a new and striking effect. Other very interesting shops contain all the newest implements of agriculture and the mechanic arts, from huge drilling machines and an apparatus for uprooting old trees, to small delicate garden shears, all set out in extensive premises, all arranged with a certain elegance, which is universal, even among the dealers in meat, fish and vegetables. The shops of ironmongers and dealers in lamps well deserve a visit; affording, as they do, a display of the new and the useful, which it would not be easy to find on the whole Continent, either to the same extent or in the same exact perfection. The traveller, however, who confines himself to the 'salons' and the like, and who wants to see only _genteel sights_, had better stay at home. I closed the day with a walk to Chelsea, the hospital for invalid soldiers, where one rejoices to see the old warriors well taken care of, inhabiting a palace, and enjoying gardens with the most beautiful smooth-mowed 'bowling-green' and lofty avenues of horse-chestnut trees, of which a little sovereign might be proud. I dined at the ---- ambassador's at eight o'clock. The dinner was remarkable not only for the amiability of the host, but for genuine Metternich-Johannisberg; for which nectar, even the most inveterate liberal must allow justice to be done to the great minister. At table I found friend B----, the youth of forty, who charged me with abundance of compliments to you. He is the same as ever, and entertained me with a long conversation about his toilet; he declared that he had grown dreadfully thin in England from ennui. I must here give you notice that I can say nothing about London society till a longer residence and 'the season' have enabled me to speak with more confidence on the subject. So long as London remains desert as Palmyra, as to the fashionable world, I shall confine myself to a description of places. _October 10th._ A few days ago I took advantage of rather brighter weather to visit Chiswick, a villa of the Duke of Devonshire's, which is esteemed the most elegant specimen of garden decoration, of its kind, in England. I had seen it some years ago at a fête given by the Duke but only superficially. I could not, even now, see the pictures, as the house was inhabited by a visitor. I found the garden much altered, but not I think for the better; for there is now a mixture of the regular and the irregular which has a very unpleasant effect. The ugly fashion now prevalent in England, of planting the 'pleasure-ground' with single trees or shrubs placed at a considerable distance almost in rows, has been introduced in several parts of these grounds. This gives the grass-plats the air of nursery-grounds. The shrubs are trimmed round, so as not to touch each other, the earth carefully cleared about them every day, and the edges of the turf cut into stiff lines, so that you see more of black earth than of green foliage, and the free beauty of nature is quite checked. Mr. Nash, however, adheres to a very different principle, and the new gardens of Buckingham Palace are models to all planters. The most favourable circumstance to English gardeners is the mildness of the climate. Common and Portuguese laurels, azaleas, and rhododendrons are not injured by the frost, and afford the most beautiful luxuriant thickets, summer and winter, and, in their respective seasons, the richest blossoms and berries. Magnolias are seldom covered, and even camellias stand abroad in peculiarly sheltered spots, with only the protection of a matting. The turf preserves its beautiful freshness all winter; indeed at that season it is usually thicker and more beautiful than in summer, when I remember, in dry weather, to have seen it worse than ever I saw it in the Mark. The present is just the season in which the whole vegetation is in its utmost magnificence. A pretty effect is produced at Chiswick by a single lofty tree, the stem of which has been cleared up to the very top, and from beneath which you command a view of the whole garden and a part of the park;--a good hint to landscape gardeners, which I advise you to profit by at M----. The cedars here (which unfortunately will not thrive with us) are celebrated, and grow to the size of old fir-trees. Colossal yew hedges also show how long this estate has been an object of extraordinary care. The new conservatories do more credit to the taste of the present possessor than the pleasure-ground. It is strange enough that orange-trees nowhere reach any great size in England. They are very 'mésquin' here. On the other hand, the flower-gardens are magnificent. The beds are so thinly planted that each separate plant has room to spread, excepting in those beds which are entirely filled with one sort of flower. In them, the chief aim is the perfection of the whole, and they are consequently by far the most beautiful. In the pinery I saw, for the first time, the great Providence pines, specimens of which have been produced of twelve pounds weight. There is a menagerie attached to the garden, in which a tame elephant performs all sorts of feats, and very quietly suffers anybody to ride him about a large grass-plat. His neighbour is a lama, of a much less gentle nature; his weapon is a most offensive saliva, which he spits out to a distance of some yards at any one who irritates him; he takes such good aim, and fires so suddenly at his antagonist, that it is extremely difficult to avoid his charge. Chiswick has unfortunately only stagnant slimy water, which is sometimes so low that the elephant, if he were thirsty, might drink it up at a draught. Passing through a continued series of pretty villas and country-houses of every kind, amid the whirl of horsemen, stage-coaches, travelling-carriages, and coal-wagons drawn by gigantic horses, with occasional pretty glimpses of the Thames, I reached Hyde-Park Corner, after an hour's quick driving, and buried myself anew in the labyrinth of the huge town. The next day I visited the City, accompanied by my 'laquais de place,' a Swiss, who had travelled in Egypt, Syria, Siberia, and America; had published a Russian Post-book; brought the first intelligence of the taking of Hamburg, together with an actual specimen of a live Cossack, to London; bought Napoleon's coronation robes at Paris, and exhibited them here; and speaks almost all the European languages. I think all this is not dear at half-a-guinea a day. He may be useful, too, as a physician, for he has collected so many secrets and recipes in his travels, that he has a domestic remedy for every disorder, and moreover, as he maintains, is in possession of a thousand different receipts for making punch. Under the conduct of this universal genius, I entered the Royal Exchange for the first time. In other cities the Exchange has merely a mercantile air--here it has a completely historical one. The imposing statues of English sovereigns around, the most remarkable among whom are Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth, combined with the antique and stately architecture, excite a poetical feeling, to which the thought of the boundless commerce of which London is the centre gives a still deeper significancy. The men, however, who animate the picture soon draw one back into the region of common-place, for selfishness and avarice gleam but too clearly from every eye. In this point of view, the place I am describing, and indeed the whole city, have a repulsive sinister aspect, which almost reminds one of the restless and comfortless throng of the spirits of the damned. The great court of the Exchange is surrounded by covered arcades, on which inscriptions point out to the merchants of every nation their several places of assembling. In the centre stands a statue of Charles the Second, who built this edifice. Its port and bearing precisely express the man whom history describes; not handsome, but somewhat graceful, and with an inveterate levity of features, composed, as if in mockery, to seriousness: a levity which nothing could correct, because it sprang from mediocrity, and which made this king as agreeable and careless a 'roué' as he was a worthless ruler. In niches above stand the busts of other English sovereigns. I have already mentioned Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth. They would be striking, independently of all associations;--- Henry, fat and contented, and with an expression of wanton cruelty: Elizabeth, with an air of masculine greatness, and yet of feminine spite. The busts are doubtless copied from the best originals by Holbein. On this story is the celebrated Lloyd's Coffee House, the dirtiest place of the kind in London, which exhibits few traces of the millions daily exchanged in it. Close by is the vast and beautiful building, the Bank of England, containing a number of rooms of various dimensions, generally lighted from above, and destined to the various offices. Hundreds of clerks are here at work, and mechanically conduct the gigantic business, at which the 'nil admirari' becomes a difficult matter to a poor German; especially when he is admitted into the Bullion Office where the ingots are kept, and gazes astounded on the heaps of gold and silver which appear to him to realize the wonders of the Arabian Nights. From hence I proceeded to the Town-House (Guildhall), where the Lord Mayor was just in the act of administering the law. The present Lord Mayor is a bookseller, but cut a very good figure in his blue gown and gold chain, and assumed a truly monarchical dignity. I do not think that he acquitted himself at all worse than a regular officer of justice;--ever since Sancho Panza's time, it is admitted that a sound understanding often discerns the right more truly than learned subtlety. The scene of action was a moderate-sized room, half-filled with the lowest populace. The matter in hand was the most frequent and ordinary theme in England--a theft; and as the culprit, who appeared equally indifferent and 'ennuyé', after a little hesitation, confessed the offence, the drama soon came to a close. Further still did we wander on in the tumultuous 'City,' where you may be lost like a flitting atom, if you do not pass on to the right or left according to rule; where you seem to be in continual danger of being spitted on the shaft of a cabriolet driving too near the narrow 'trottoir,' or crushed under the weight of an overloaded and tottering stage-coach edifice. At length we reached an extremely dark and mean-looking coffee-house, called Garroway's, where estates and houses of enormous value are daily put up to sale. We took our seat with great gravity, as if we had been desirous of making some important purchase, and admired the uncommon suavity of manner and incredible address with which the auctioneer excited the desire to purchase among his audience. He was very well dressed in black, with a wig, and stood with all the dignity of a professor in his chair. He pronounced a charming oration on every estate, and failed not to season it with various jokes and witticisms, at the same time eulogizing every object in so irresistible a manner that one would have sworn that all the property went for an old song. How could I leave the city without visiting the true 'Lion,' (the English expression for anything extraordinary)--the sovereign--in a word, Rothschild? I found him, too, in a poor obscure-looking place, (his residence is in another part of the town,) and making my way with some difficulty through the little court-yard, blocked up by a wagon laden with bars of silver, I was introduced into the presence of this Grand Ally of the Holy Alliance. I found the Russian consul in the act of paying his court. He is an acute, clever man, perfect in the part he has to play, and uniting the due respect with a becoming air of dignity. This was the more difficult, because the very original aristocrat of the city did not stand much on ceremony. On my presenting my letter of credit, he said ironically, that we were lucky people who could afford to travel about so, and take our pleasure; while he, poor man, had such a heavy burthen to bear. He then broke out into bitter complaints that every poor devil who came to England had something or other to ask of him. "Yesterday," said he, "here was a Russian begging of me" (an episode which threw a bitter-sweet expression over the consul's face); "and," added he, "the Germans here don't give me a moment's peace." Now it was my turn to put a good face upon the matter. After this, the conversation took a political turn, and we both of course agreed that Europe could not subsist without him;--he modestly declined our compliment, and said, smiling, "Oh no, you are only jesting--I am but a servant, who people are pleased with because he manages their affairs well, and to whom they let some crumbs fall as an acknowledgment." All this was said in a language quite peculiar to himself, half English, half German--the English part with a broad German accent, but with the imposing confidence of a man who feels such trifles to be beneath his attention. This truly original language struck me as very characteristic of a man who is unquestionably a person of genius, and of a certain sort of greatness of character. I had begun my day, very appropriately for England, with the Royal Exchange, the resort of merchants, and ended it with Exeter 'Change, where I saw the representatives of the colonies,--the wild beasts. Here I found another lion, and this time a genuine one, called Nero, who besides his tameness, has the rarer merit in our northern latitude, of having presented England with six generations of young lions. He is of enormous size and dignified aspect, but now rests upon his laurels and sleeps royally nearly all day long. If he wakes in an ill humour, however, he makes the old wooden house and all the herd of subject beasts tremble. These consist of elephants, tigers, leopards, hyænas, zebras, monkeys, ostriches, condors, parrots, &c. It is curious that they are not upon the ground floor, but up one or two pair of stairs, so that one can ride on a tame elephant which stands always ready saddled, and enjoy a fine extensive prospect. The variety is great, and the price moderate. The ambassador of the late King of Würtemburg had, as I well remember, more occupation here than in St. James' and Downing Street; and, indeed, I know that he was for a considerable time in fear of losing his post on account of a strange enormous dead tortoise. On the way home to my hotel we passed a house which furnished my cicerone with an occasion of telling the following interesting story. If it is 'brodé,' I beg of you to blame him and not me.[10] _October 13th._ Fatigued by my tour the day before yesterday, I passed the following morning in my own room. In the evening I visited the English Opera. The house is neither large nor elegant, but the actors very good. There was no opera, however, but hideous melo-drames; first, Frankenstein, where a human being is made by magic,--a manufacture which answers very ill; and then the Vampire, after the well-known tale falsely attributed to Lord Byron. The principal part in both was acted by Mr. Cooke, who is distinguished for a very handsome person, skilful acting, and a remarkably dignified, noble deportment. The acting was, indeed, admirable throughout, but the pieces so stupid and monstrous that it was impossible to sit out the performance. The heat, the exhalations, and the audience were not the most agreeable. Besides all this, the performance lasted from seven to half-past twelve,--too long for the best. The next day I drove to Hampton Court to visit the palace, the stud, and my old friend Lady ----. Of all three I found the first the least altered, and the celebrated vine laden as usual with grapes. It had considerably above a thousand bunches, and completely covered a hot-house of seventy-five feet long by twenty-five wide. In a corner stood, like the dim progenitor of a haughty race, its brown stem, as lost and obscure as if it did not belong to the magnificent canopy of leaves and fruit which owe their existence to it alone. Most of the rooms in the palace have still the same furniture as in the time of William the Third. The torn chairs and curtains are carefully preserved. The walls are hung with many interesting and admirable pictures;--above all, the celebrated Cartoons of Raphael, which, however, are soon to be transferred to the King's new palace. I must only mention two fine portraits,--that of Wolsey, the haughty founder of this palace, and that of Henry the Eighth, his treacherous master. Both are admirable and highly characteristic. You remember that fat lawyer whom we had such difficulty in getting rid of; with an animal expression of countenance, sensual, bloodthirsty as far as the present times render it possible to be so, clever, subtle, full of talent and of craft, with boundless haughtiness, and yet a resistless tendency to the vulgar, and, lastly, utterly and frankly devoid of all conscience;--give the picture of Henry a green frock-coat and pearl buttons, and you have a most faithful portrait of him. Nature continually repeats herself in different 'nuances,'--they vary according to the state of mankind and of the world. In the night I was very nearly suffocated. The Jocrisse I imported, who had probably been too hospitably entertained by some English acquaintance, thought proper to take the coals out of the fireplace while I was asleep, and left them standing in my room in a lackered coal-scuttle. A frightful smoke and infernal smell fortunately awoke me just as I was dreaming that I was a courtier of Henry the Eighth, and was paying my court to a French beauty at the Champ du Drap d'Or; otherwise I should have gone to meet the fair one of my dream in heaven. Almost like that heaven, as distant and as lovely, appears to me the place where you are dwelling, my truest friend: and thus I send you the kiss of peace across the sea, and close my first English letter, wishing you health and every blessing. Your devoted L----. LETTER IV. _London, Oct. 15th, 1826._ It seems to me that I shall never get accustomed to this climate, for ever since my landing I have felt perpetually unwell. However, so long as I am not confined to my chamber, I do not suffer it to depress me much; I ride a great deal in the lovely cultivated environs of London, and do not abstain from my walks about the town. The turn of the British Museum came lately, where a strange "_Mischmasch_" of works of art, natural curiosities, books, and models, are preserved in a miserable building. At the top of the staircase, as you enter, stand two enormous giraffes, in the character of stuffed guards, or emblems of English taste! There is, doubtless, much that is interesting in the various apartments. I confess, however, to my shame, that I must be in a peculiarly favourable state of mind not to have an attack of indigestion after such a surfeit of sights. Among the antediluvian remains I saw an enormous and remarkably perfect pair of stag's antlers, at least six times as large as the largest of those which friend C---- keeps in the stag-gallery of his castle. In a huge shed are deposited the noble Elgin Marbles, as they are here called. A bust of Hippocrates struck me as being so perfect a representation of the physician by profession, that here in England one can hardly look at it without putting one's hand in one's pocket.[11] I looked at the celebrated Portland Vase with all the enthusiasm it is calculated to excite. I send you two little works on the Vase and the Elgin Marbles, with very tolerable outline engravings. But I must now quit you to give orders about packing; for to-morrow I mean to start for Newmarket races. _Newmarket, Oct. 19th._ The beauty of the country, and the extraordinary neatness and elegance of every place through which my road lay to-day, struck me anew in the most agreeable manner. These fertile and well-cultivated fields; these thousands of comfortable and pretty farm-houses and cottages scattered over every part of the country; this incessant stream of elegant carriages, well-mounted horsemen, and well-dressed foot-passengers, are peculiar to England. The beautiful picture has but one fault,--it is all too cultivated, too perfect; thence always and everywhere the same, and consequently, in the long run, wearisome:--indeed I can even conceive that it must become distasteful in time, like a savoury dish of dainties to the stomach of a sated man. This may explain the great taste of the English for travelling on the Continent. It is just so in life,--the thing men can the least bear is undisturbed good fortune, and it may be doubted whether father Adam would not have died of ennui in paradise. To-day, however, a due proportion of shadows was provided for me. In consequence of the great resort to the races, I found at every stage only miserable overdriven horses, sometimes none at all, so that, according to the English standard, I travelled wretchedly, and did not reach Newmarket till late at night. There was no room in any of the inns; and I thought myself happy at last to get one small room in a private house, for which I paid five guineas a week. Fortunately I met an old acquaintance in the same house,--the son of a little Hungarian Magnate, who seems formed to please himself and others by his unpretending good-nature and joyous temper. I revere such natures, precisely because they have all that I want. Next morning I rode about with him to reconnoitre the ground a little. One day here is precisely like another. At half-past nine in the morning you see some hundreds of race-horses, carefully clothed, taking their morning promenade on a rising ground. The bare, wide-spread heath is covered with them as with a herd of cattle; some are walking at a foot pace, others galloping, some slower, some quicker, but none at full speed. An inspector on a little poney generally accompanies the horses which belong to the same gentleman, or which are under the care of the same training-groom. The horses are all ridden without a saddle by little half-dressed lads, one of whom is every now and then thrown for the amusement of the spectators. After this exhibition, certainly a most interesting one to every amateur of horses, people breakfast, and in half an hour go to the sale, which takes place almost every day in the open street, under the auspices of the far-famed Mr. Tattersall. They then ride or drive to the races. These begin pretty punctually at twelve o'clock. An interminable grassy plain covered with a thick short turf is the ground, where various distances, from a full German mile as maximum, to an eighth or tenth, as minimum, are marked for the course in a perfectly straight line. Near the end, this course is enclosed between ropes, on the outside of which rows of carriages three and four deep are drawn up, generally without horses, and covered within and without, from top to bottom, with spectators. At the goal itself is a wooden house on wheels, very like those the shepherds have in many parts of Germany, so that it can be moved about in case the course is lengthened or shortened: in this sits the judge. Just opposite to him is a post fixed in the ground, by means of which he determines which horse's nose first appears exactly on a line with it; for an inch often decides the race: and it is a very skilful piece of policy and jockeyship of the riders here, to betray the real speed of their horses as little as possible, and to display only as much of it as is necessary to win the race. If they see they have no chance, they immediately give up; so that those who contend for victory to the last, are always very nearly together at the goal. The grotesque spectacle of a rider a mile in the rear, belabouring his horse with whip and spur, like a steam-engine, is exhibited only in France and Germany. If two horses reach the post exactly at the same moment, (which frequently happens,) they must run again. The judge is upon oath, and there is no appeal from his decision. The English jockeys (who are not, as foreigners think, little boys, but often dwarfish men of sixty,) form a perfectly distinct class, and are the best practical riders I know of. You remember that I kept race-horses myself, and had a Newmarket jockey for a time in my service, who won a considerable bet for me at Vienna. It amused me greatly to see this fellow 'training' himself. After dosing himself severely, he would go out in the greatest heat, dressed in three or four great-coats, ride a certain distance at a hard trot, till the sweat streamed off him in torrents, and he almost sank from exhaustion; 'mais tel étoit son plaisir,' and the more completely good-for-nothing he felt, the better he was pleased.[12] But there are bounds to this: for the man, by excessive training, may reduce himself below the weight which the horse is bound to carry, and thus subject himself to the inconvenient necessity of carrying lead in the girths. At a certain distance from the goal, about a hundred paces to the side, stands another white post called the betting-post. Here the bettors assemble, after they have seen the horses saddled in the stables at the beginning of the course, thoroughly examined into all the circumstances of the impending race, or perhaps given a wink to some devoted jockey. The scene which ensues would to many appear the most strange that ever was exhibited. In noise, uproar, and clamour, it resembles a Jews' synagogue, with a greater display of passion. The persons of the drama are the first peers of England, livery-servants, the lowest 'sharpers' and 'blacklegs;'--in short, all who have money to bet here claim equal rights; nor is there any marked difference in their external appearance. Most of them have pocket-books in their hands, each calls aloud his bet, and when it is taken, each party immediately notes it in his book. Dukes, lords, grooms, and rogues, shout, scream, and halloo together, and bet together, with a volubility and in a technical language out of which a foreigner is puzzled to make anything; till suddenly the cry is heard, "The horses have started!" In a minute the crowd disperses; but the bettors soon meet again at the ropes which enclose the course. You see a multitude of telescopes, opera-glasses and eye-glasses, levelled from the carriages and by the horsemen, in the direction whence the jockeys are coming. With the speed of the wind they are seen approaching; and for a few moments a deep and anxious silence pervades the motley crowd; while a manager on horseback keeps the course clear, and applies his whip without ceremony to the shoulders of any intruder. The calm endures but a moment;--then once more arises the wildest uproar; shouts and lamentations, curses and cheers re-echo on every side, from Lords and Ladies, far and wide. "Ten to four upon the Admiral!" "A hundred to one upon Madame Vestris!" "Small Beer against the field!" &c. are heard from the almost frantic bettors: and scarcely do you hear a "Done!" uttered here and there, when the noble animals are before you--past you--in the twinkling of an eye; the next moment at the goal, and luck, or skill, or knavery have decided the victory. The great losers look blank for a moment; the winners triumph aloud; many make 'bonne mine à mauvais jeu,' and dart to the spot, where the horses are unsaddled and the jockeys weighed, to see if some irregularity may not yet give them a chance. In a quarter of an hour the same scene begins anew with other horses, and is repeated six or seven times. "Voilà les courses de Newmarket!" The first day I was gifted with such a prophetic vision, that twice, by the mere exercise of my proper observation and judgment, I betted upon the winner at the saddling, and gained a considerable sum. But I had the usual fate of play,--what I won that day I lost the next, and as much more to boot. Whoever is a permanent winner here, is sure of his game _beforehand_; and it is well known that the principles of many of the English nobility are remarkably wide and expansive on this head. Among the company present, I found several old acquaintances, who gave me permission to see their running horses in the stable, which is regarded as a signal favour. They also offered to introduce me into the Club here;--an honour, however, which I declined. It is purely a gambling Club,--which a man should beware of in England, more than in any other country. It may be regarded as a part of the national costume, and highly characteristic of the general tradesman-like spirit, that beforehand all advantages are fair; but that after a bet is once taken, though often amidst the greatest hurry and confusion, it is scarcely ever disputed. On the other hand, a man who has lost more than he can pay, before reckoning-day becomes invisible, that is, commits an act of bankruptcy, and betakes himself to the Continent, either for ever, or till he can pay. On the first day of my visit to Newmarket, my Hungarian friend introduced me to the family of a rich merchant of this neighbourhood, who with his visitors, among whom were some very pretty girls, came daily to the races, and returned home after them. They invited us to dine with them the next day, and stay the day after, which we accepted with much pleasure. About five o'clock we set out on horseback. A newly planted, very broad double avenue of beeches marked the beginning of our host's property, and led us through about half a mile of road to the entrance of his park,--a sort of triumphal arch between two lodges, to which the park paling joined. This was however concealed in the plantation for some distance on either side the lodges, so that they appeared to stand in the midst of wood, and thus produced a very good effect. For some time our way led us through a thick plantation, till we reached the lawn, studded with groups of trees, which invariably forms the chief feature of an English park. Here we caught sight of the house, behind which lay the high trees and 'shrubberies.' Some cows lay on the grass just before the door of the house, so that we were obliged almost to ride over them--a strange anomaly, which even Repton animadverts upon. It is the custom here to have the park, that is the ornamented pasture land, extend on one side, if not on both, to the very house; but surely it would be in better taste to have the garden and pleasure-ground around the house. It seems to me, that however agreeable the distant view of cattle may be, their immediate vicinity, with all its accompaniments, is not very pleasant. We found a pretty numerous company, consisting of the master and mistress of the house, both of middle age, their eldest married daughter with her husband, two younger daughters, a neighbouring Baronet with his pretty wife, and her very pleasing but very melancholy sister, Miss ----, a much courted lady who frequently moves in higher circles, three gentlemen not remarkable for anything, the son of the house, and lastly, a London beau of the second class,--a study of an aspiring City dandy. The Baronet had served in Germany, and had, as he told us, obtained the cross of Maria Theresa. He did not wear it, because he thought the thing very well for a young man, but not at all suitable to the quiet country gentleman's life he now led. He was a simple, kind-hearted man, who appeared to have been invited to meet us as best acquainted with the Continent. We however preferred taking lessons in English manners of his wife and her sister. According to this system of manners, as it appeared, a visit from two 'Noblemen,' (even foreign ones, though these are full fifty per cent. under natives,) was an honour to a house of the 'volée' of our host's. We were therefore amazingly 'fêtés;' even the dandy was--as far as the rules of his 'métier' permitted--civil and obliging to us. It is an almost universal weakness of the unnoble in England, to parade an acquaintance with the noble: the noble do the same with regard to the 'fashionable' or 'exclusive;' a peculiar caste, an _emperium in imperio_, which exercises a still more despotical power in society, and is not influenced by rank, still less by riches, but finds the possibility of its maintenance only in this national foible. It is therefore a great delight to the English of the middle classes to travel on the Continent, where they easily make acquaintance with people of rank, of whom they can talk as of intimate friends when they come home. A merchant's wife once gave me a specimen of this: "Do you know the Queen of ----?" said she. I replied that "I had had the honour of being presented to her." "She is a great friend of mine," added she,--exactly as if she had been talking of her husband's partner's wife. She immediately exhibited, among the numerous trinkets which hung about her, a portrait of the Queen, which, as she said, Her Majesty had given her. It was very likely true, for her daughter produced a letter from Princess ----, a married daughter of the Queen, containing the most confidential communications concerning her marriage and domestic affairs, which has probably been made to serve for some time as 'cheval de parade' to gratify the vanity of the possessor. Is it not most extraordinary that our German great people, many of whom are by no means wanting in pride and 'morgue' towards their own countrymen, should treat every little English Squire or Miss, however utterly deficient in intellectual pretensions, almost as an equal, without in the least inquiring whether this person occupies a station at home which warrants such a reception? Nothing lets us down more in the eyes of the English themselves than this obsequious worship of foreigners; the meanness of which consists in this, that its true foundation generally lies in the profound respect which high and low have for English money. It requires a considerable fortune here to keep up a country-house; for custom demands many luxuries, and, according to the aspiring and imitative manners of the country, as much (in the main things) at the shopkeeper's house, as at the Duke's;--a handsomely fitted-up house, with elegant furniture, plate, servants in new and handsome liveries, a profusion of dishes and foreign wines, rare and expensive dessert, and in all things an appearance of superfluity,--'plenty' as the English call it. As long as there are visitors in the house, this way of life goes on; but many a family atones for it by meagre fare when alone: for which reason nobody here ventures to pay a visit in the country without being invited, and these invitations usually fix the day and hour. The acquaintances are generally numerous; and as both room and the time allotted to the reception of guests are small, one must give place to another. True hospitality this can hardly be called; it is rather the display of one's own possessions, for the purpose of dazzling as many as possible. After a family has thus kept open house for a month or two, they go for the remainder of the time they have to spend in the country, to make visits at the houses of others; but the one hospitable month costs as much as a wealthy landed proprietor spends in a whole year with us. As you never were in England, I must say a few words on the routine of an English dinner, which, as I have said, is, 'à peu de chose près', everywhere alike. You like the details of daily life, and have often told me that you feel the want of them in most books of travels, and yet that nothing gives you a more lively conception of a foreign country. You must therefore forgive me if I go into trifles. The gentlemen lead the ladies into the dining-room, not as in France, by the hand, but by the arm; and here, as there, are emancipated from the necessity of those antiquated bows, which even in some of the best society in Germany, are exchanged every time one hands out a lady. On the other hand, there is a most anxious regard to rank, in the midst of all which the strangest blunders are made as to that of foreigners. I execrated mine to-day, as it brought me to the head of the table; while my friend very cleverly slipped himself in between the pretty sisters. When you enter, you find the whole of the first course on the table, as in France. After the soup is removed, and the covers are taken off, every man helps the dish before him, and offers some of it to his neighbour;[13] if he wishes for anything else, he must ask across the table, or send a servant for it;--a very troublesome custom, in place of which, some of the most elegant travelled gentlemen have adopted the more convenient German fashion of sending the servants round with the dishes. It is not usual to take wine without drinking to another person. When you raise your glass, you look fixedly at the one with whom you are drinking, bow your head, and then drink with great gravity. Certainly many of the customs of the South Sea Islanders, which strike us the most, are less ludicrous. It is esteemed a civility to challenge anybody in this way to drink; and a messenger is often sent from one end of the table to the other to announce to B---- that A---- wishes to take wine with him; whereupon each, sometimes with considerable trouble, catches the other's eye, and goes through the ceremony of the prescribed nod with great formality, looking at the moment very like a Chinese mandarin. If the company is small, and a man has drunk with everybody, but happens to wish for more wine, he must wait for the dessert, if he does not find in himself courage enough to brave custom. At the conclusion of the second course comes a sort of intermediate dessert of cheese, butter, salad, raw celery, and the like; after which ale, sometimes thirty or forty years old, and so strong that when thrown on the fire it blazes like spirit, is handed about. The tablecloth is then removed: under it, at the best tables, is a finer, upon which the dessert is set. At inferior ones, it is placed on the bare polished table. It consists of all sorts of hot-house fruits, which are here of the finest quality, Indian and native preserves, stomachic ginger, confitures, and the like. Clean glasses are set before every guest, and, with the dessert plates and knives and forks, small fringed napkins are laid. Three decanters are usually placed before the master of the house, generally containing claret, port, and sherry, or madeira. The host pushes these in stands, or in a little silver wagon on wheels, to his neighbour on the left. Every man pours out his own wine, and if a lady sits next him, also helps her; and so on till the circuit is made, when the same process begins again. Glass jugs filled with water happily enable foreigners to temper the brandy which forms so large a component part of English wines. After the dessert is set on, all the servants leave the room: if more is wanted the bell is rung, and the butler (Haushofmeister) alone brings it in. The ladies sit a quarter of an hour longer, during which time sweet wines are sometimes served, and then rise from table. The men rise at the same time, one opens the door for them, and as soon as they are gone, draw closer together; the host takes the place of the hostess, and the conversation turns upon subjects of local and everyday interest, in which the stranger is pretty nearly forgotten, and must content himself with listening to what he can take very little part in. Every man is, however, at liberty to follow the ladies as soon as he likes,--a liberty of which Count B---- and I very quickly availed ourselves. We had the singular satisfaction of learning that this was in accordance with the latest mode, as much drinking is now 'unfashionable.' Accordingly the dandy had already preceded us. We found him with the ladies, who received us in a 'salon,' grouped around a large table on which were tea and coffee.[14] When the whole company was re-assembled, all fell off into groups, according to their pleasure. Some entertained themselves with music; here and there a couple whispered in the recess of a window; several talked politics;--the dandy alone remained solitary: sunk into a large easy chair, he had laid his elegantly shod right foot over his left knee, and in that attitude became apparently so absorbed in Madame de Stäel's 'Allemagne' that he took not the slightest notice of any one present. 'A tout prendre,' I must do this pretty young fellow the justice to say that he was not at all a bad copy of higher originals. Perhaps I was bribed into this favourable opinion by his talking much at dinner about the great Göthe, and praising his '_Fost_;' both of whom (Göthe and _Fost_) Lord Byron has brought into fashion in England. _Fost_ seemed to please him, particularly on account of what he conceived to be its atheistical tendency, for he had, as he informed us, spent half his life in Paris, and avowed himself an 'esprit fort.' The following day, after all breakfasting together, we rode with the ladies in the park, which contained nothing remarkable except a canal of stagnant and slimy water, which had cost five thousand pounds in the digging;--an expense better spared. The fruit-gardens and hot-houses were admirable: the latter, a hobby of the proprietor, were heated by steam on a very ingenious plan of his own, and the heat increased or diminished at pleasure by simply turning a cock. Three-and-twenty different sorts of pines,--above which, pendent from the glass roof, hung gigantic purple grapes,--fill these spacious, elegant houses; and in the fruit-garden we admired pears on the wall seven inches in length, sixteen in circumference, and of an excellent flavour. Several of the gentlemen went hunting; but we preferred the society at home. The gay amusing B---- was become the favourite of the ladies, and was evidently greatly regretted by them when the post-chaise arrived at one o'clock in the morning to take us back to Newmarket. I must confess that we took rather a laughing review of some things that struck us as ridiculous, though I was really ashamed that we were such genuine B---- 's[15] as to make ourselves merry at the expense of our host and his company, instead of feeling hearty gratitude for our hospitable reception. But now-a-days the world is spoiled; and besides, hospitality which springs from ostentation cannot expect the same hearty requital as that which is the offspring of the heart. Probably we guests fared no better in the house we had just quitted. At the races the next morning we saw the young ladies again, betted gloves with them till we lost, and delighted them with some Paris ones. We declined a second invitation, as we were engaged to a gentleman's dinner, and Count B---- was going to a fox-hunt at Melton. I shall leave Newmarket too, and continue my letter in London. _Epping-place, Oct. 20th._ I have travelled as far as I wished, and must pass the night here, as the inspection of two parks has fully occupied my day. My trouble has been richly rewarded. The first, Audley-End, belonging to Lord Braybrooke, claims a place among the finest in the country. The road lies through the middle of it, with a deep ha-ha on each side, which secures the park and yet leaves a full view into it. You see, at first, an extensive green landscape, in the centre of which is a broad, river-like, and beautifully formed piece of water, which unfortunately, however, has too little motion to prevent its being covered with duckweed. Near to the opposite shore stands the splendid Gothic castle, which was originally built by the Duke of Suffolk, and was then three times as large as it is now. The multitude of its towers, projecting angles, and lofty many-formed windows, still give it a very imposing and picturesque appearance. Although Lady Braybrooke was at home, I obtained the uncommon permission to view it. I entered a wide and very simple hall, ornamented only with some gigantic stag's horns of great antiquity, and furnished with a few massive benches and chairs, on which the arms of the family were painted; some very old paintings; a Gothic lamp; a large table, consisting of two pieces of serpentine, of which only the upper side was polished, the rest quite rough; and a dozen leather fire-buckets, also painted with the family arms. The ceiling was of wood, with deeply-carved compartments and old faded paintings. One saw at the first glance that it was no house of yesterday one had entered. A high door of heavy carved oak led from hence into the baron's hall, a large room whose enormous windows reached from the ceiling to the floor, and afforded a free view of the landscape. Several family pictures, as large as life, partly painted by Vandyck, hung on the opposite wall; and between them rose the huge marble chimney-piece, with the richly-coloured arms of the Suffolks executed upon it in stucco. The third side of the room,--that on which we entered,--was entirely covered with very fine and highly relieved carvings, figures half the size of life, like those one sees in the choirs of Gothic churches. Opposite were large folding doors which opened into the eating-hall, and on each side an open staircase leading to the first story. The dining-room contains a portrait of Suffolk, and one of Queen Elizabeth. Her red hair, 'fade' complexion and false look, and her over-done finery, gave no advantageous idea of the vain and gallant 'Maiden Queen.' On the first floor is a long narrow gallery full of pretty knick-knacks and antique curiosities. In the centre is a large chart of the winds, connected with the weather-cock on the tower, and destined to show the sportsman every morning which way the wind sets.[16] This serves as drawing-room, for most English country-houses and mansions are judiciously made to contain only one principal entertaining room; which is much more convenient for the reception of a large company. The chapel is modern, but richly and tastefully ornamented; and here, if the chaplain is absent, the lord of the house, according to ancient usage, reads divine service at ten o'clock every morning, at which all the family and servants must attend. The park is of considerable extent, but intersected by a troublesome number of fences, which serve to allot to the sheep, cows, horses and deer, their several territories. Of the latter, there are from four to five hundred head, which generally graze pretty near together like a herd of tame cattle, and do not answer at all to our idea of game.[17] The flesh too has a totally different flavour from that of the animals which roam free in our woods, just as they say the flesh of wild oxen differs from that of tame. The preserves for partridges and hares are also fenced in to protect the low copse from the cattle, in consequence of whose presence, the greater part of an English park consists, as I have already remarked, only of groups of high trees whose branches the cattle cannot reach. These extensive views, grand and striking as they are at first, become tiresome in time from their uniformity. Nor can I see that the numerous enclosures are advantages to the landscape. Almost every young tree has a fence round it to protect it from the cattle. Two temples and an obelisk, to which there is no other way than across the turf, have a very heterogeneous appearance in the midst of these pasture-grounds. The distant Gothic tower of Walden church, rearing its head picturesquely over the summits of the oaks, was in much better keeping. On the other hand I greatly admired the flower-garden and pheasantry. The first describes a large oval, surrounded with a thick natural evergreen wall of yew, laurel, rhododendron, cedar, cypress, box, holly, &c.; a brook, adorned with a grotto and water-fall, flows through the velvet turf, on which the rare and splendid plants and flower-beds of every form and colour group themselves most beautifully. The pheasantry, which is nearly two miles from this spot, is a thick shady grove of various sorts of trees, of considerable extent, and surrounded by a high wall. We could only get to it over the wet grass, as the gravel-walk commenced from the entrance-gate. This is from economy, for roads are excessively expensive both to make and to keep up in England. There is generally but one carriage-road to the house, and even the footpaths cease with the iron fences of the pleasure-grounds. The English ladies are not so afraid of setting their feet on wet grass as ours are. After many windings, the path brought me, under a most lovely leafy canopy, unexpectedly before the ivy-covered door of a little building, adjoining to which, still more buried in the wood, was the gamekeeper's house. This door opened from within, and most enchanting was the view that it disclosed to us. We had entered a little open saloon, the isolated pillars of which were entirely covered with thick monthly roses;--between them was seen a large aviary filled with parrots on the right, and on the left an equally extensive habitation for canaries, goldfinches, and other small birds; before us lay an open grass-plat dotted with evergreens, and behind this a background of high woods, through which small peeps at a distant village and a solitary church-tower had been cut with singular taste and skill. On this grass-plat, the keeper now called together perfect clouds of gold, silver, and pied pheasants, fowls, of exotic breeds, tame rooks, curious pigeons, and other birds that were accustomed to be fed here, and thronged together in the most gay and motley crowd. Their various manners and gestures, rendered more lively by their passionate eagerness, afforded an amusing spectacle. The behaviour of a gold pheasant who, like a beau of the old school, seemed trying to make his court to all the assembled hens with the most ludicrous struts and airs, was so excessively comic that my old B---- burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; whereat the English servants, who are accustomed to observe an exterior of slavish reverence in the presence of their masters, looked at him with a consternation at his boldness, which amused me as much as the 'Pantalonnade' among the fowls. There are above five hundred gold and silver pheasants. They have all one wing cut as soon as they are hatched, which for ever prevents their flying. They inhabit these woods winter and summer, without wanting even the shelter of a shed,--so mild is this climate. Not to weary you, I omit the description of the second park, Short Grove, which had nothing remarkable to boast, and appeared much neglected. The house, park, hot-houses, &c., the former completely furnished, were to let for the moderate rent of four hundred a-year,--a very common custom here when the possessors are travelling. We should not like to imitate it; while on the other hand, a part of our town-houses are almost always let, the proprietors inhabiting only the 'bel étage.' This again appears very strange to the English, and certainly is extremely inconvenient, for the presence of several families in one house is not favourable either to order or cleanliness. The house-door at Short Grove was covered on the outside with looking-glass,--a very pretty idea: as you enter the house you have a beautiful picture of the country. The great wealth of the landholders of England must always strike people from the Continent, where the landed proprietors are the poorest class, and the least protected by laws and institutions. Here everything conspires for their advantage. It is very difficult for the fundholder to acquire the free and full possession of land. Almost the whole soil is the property of the aristocracy, who generally let it only on lease; so that when a great man calls a village his, this does not mean, as with us, merely that he has the lordship (_Oberherrschafft_) over it, but that every house is his absolute property; and only granted to the actual inhabitants for a certain time. You may conceive what enormous and ever increasing revenues this must bring them, in a country where trade and population are continually on the increase; and may admire with me the concert and address with which this aristocracy has contrived for centuries to turn all the institutions of the country to its own advantage. The free sale of a portion of land is attended by many difficult conditions, and at so high a price that it is out of the reach of small capitalists, who find it more advantageous to hire it on lease. Leases here are, however, of a very different nature from ours. The piece of land is let to the tenant for ninety-nine years on payment of a certain yearly rent, which varies from a few shillings to five and ten pounds yearly per foot of the frontage, if it be for building on; in large portions, it is so much per acre. The tenant now does with it what he likes, builds where he pleases, lays out gardens, pleasure-grounds, and so on: but after the lapse of the ninety-nine years, the whole reverts just as it stands, sound and tight, to the family of the original lord of the soil: nay more; the tenant must keep the house in perfect repair, and paint it every seven years. During his allotted term he may sell or let it to others, but of course only up to that period when it reverts to the original proprietor. Almost all the country-houses, villas, &c., that one sees, thus belong to great land-owners; and although the tenants at the expiration of their term generally re-establish this sort of precarious property in them, yet they must double or treble their rent, according to the increased value of land, or the improvements they themselves have made upon it. Even the greater part of London belongs, on such terms, to certain noblemen, of whom Lord Grosvenor, for instance, is said to derive above 100,000_l._ a year from his ground-rents. Scarcely a single inhabitant of London, therefore, except a few members of the high aristocracy, is the real owner of his house. Even Rothschild's is not his own: and when a man buys one, as it is called, people ask him for how long. The price varies according as the house is taken at first hand, commonly then for a rent; or at second or third, and then more usually for a sum of money. The greater part of the profits of industry thus inevitably falls into the hands of the aristocracy, and necessarily increases the enormous influence which they already exercise over the government of the country.[18] _London, October 21st._ This afternoon I got home safe and well through the incessant rain, refreshed myself with a good dinner at the Club, and in the evening, let me tell you, won just six times my travelling expenses. I am well and in good spirits, and find that I want nothing but you. Let me finish my letter at so favourable a conjuncture. It is already swelled to a packet. Ever your faithfully devoted L----. LETTER V.[19] _London, Nov. 20th, 1826._ BELOVED FRIEND, I advise travellers never to take servants out of their fatherland into strange countries, especially if they imagine they shall save by it,--now-a-days always a prime object. This piece of economy belongs to the class of those, _one_ of which costs more than _four_ pieces of extravagance; besides which, one hangs a load round one's neck which is burthensome in various ways. These wise reflections are excited in me by my old valet, who seems inclined to fall into the English spleen because he finds so many daily difficulties here;--above all, in getting soup for his dinner, the thought of which beloved aliment of his home calls tears into his eyes. He reminds me of the Prussian soldiers, who, amid streams of Champagne, beat the French peasants for not setting Stettin beer before them. True it is that the English of the middle classes, accustomed to substantial flesh diet, are not acquainted with the Northern broths and soups: what goes under that name in England is an expensive extract of all sorts of peppers and spices from both Indies, like that brewed in a witches' cauldron. The face of my faithful liegeman, at the first spoonful of this compound he put into his mouth, would have been worthy to figure in Peregrine Pickle's antique repast, and turned my anger into loud laughter. Yet I see beforehand that his devotion to me will be wrecked on this rock; for our Germans are, and ever will be, curious beings; holding longer than any others to the accustomed,--be it faith, love or soup. In the absence of society, the various Clubs, (to which, contrary to former custom, a stranger can now gain admittance,) are a very agreeable resource. Our ambassador introduced me into two of them,--the United Service Club, into which no foreigners are admitted except ambassadors and military men,--the latter of the rank of staff-officers: and the Traveller's Club, into which every foreigner of education, who has good introductions, is admitted; though every three months he is made to undergo the somewhat humiliating ceremony of requesting a fresh permission, to which he is held with almost uncivil severity. In Germany, people have as little notion of the elegance and comfort of Clubs, as of the rigorous execution of their laws which prevail here. All that luxury and convenience, without magnificence, demand, is here to be found in as great perfection as in the best private houses. The stairs and rooms are covered with fresh and handsome carpets, and rugs (sheepskins with the wool nicely prepared and dyed of bright colours) are laid before the doors to prevent drafts; marble chimney-pieces, handsome looking-glasses (always of one piece,--a necessary part of solid English luxury), a profusion of furniture, &c. render every apartment extremely comfortable. Even scales, by which to ascertain one's weight daily--a strange taste of the English--are not wanting. The numerous servants are never seen but in shoes, and in the neatest livery or plain clothes; and a porter is always at his post to take charge of great-coats and umbrellas. This latter article in England deserves attention, since umbrellas, which are unfortunately so indispensable, are stolen in the most shameless manner, be it where it may, if you do not take particular care of them. This fact is so notorious that I must translate for your amusement a passage from a newspaper, relating to some Society for the encouragement of virtue, which was to award a prize for the most honourable action. "The choice," continues the author, "was become extremely difficult; and it was nearly determined to give the prize to an individual who had paid his tailor's bill punctually for several years; when another was pointed out, who had twice sent home an umbrella left at his house. At this unheard-of act," adds the journalist, "the company first fell into mute wonder that so much virtue was still found in Israel; but at length loud and enthusiastic applause left the choice no longer doubtful." In the elegant and well-furnished library there is also a person always at hand to fetch you the books you want. You find all the journals in a well-arranged reading-room; and in a small room for maps and charts,[20] a choice of the newest and best in their kind. This is so arranged that all the maps, rolled up, hang one over another on the wall, thus occupying but a small space; and each is easily drawn down for use by a little loop in the centre. A pull at a loop at the side rolls up the map again by a very simple piece of mechanism. The name of each country is inscribed in such large letters on the mahogany staff on which the map is rolled, that it may be read with ease across the room. By this contrivance a great number of maps may be hung in a very small closet, and when wanted, may be found and inspected in a moment, without the slightest trouble, or derangement of the others. The table,--I mean the eating,--with most men the first thing, and with me not the last,--is generally prepared by a French cook, as well and as cheaply as it is possible to have it in London. As the Club provides the wines, and sells them again to each member, they are very drinkable and reasonable. But 'gourmands' must ever miss the finest wines, even at the best tables in London. This arises from the strange habit of the English (and these people, too, stick faster to their habits than an oyster to its shell,) of getting their wines from London wine-merchants, instead of importing them from the places where they grow, as we do. Now these wine-merchants adulterate their wine to such a degree, that one who was lately prosecuted for having some thousand bottles of port and claret in his cellars which had not paid duty, proved that all this wine was manufactured by himself in London, and thus escaped the penalty. You may imagine, therefore, what sort of brewage you often get under the high-sounding names of Champagne, Lafitte, &c. The dealers scarcely ever buy the very best which is to be had in the native lands of the several wines, for the obvious reason that they could make little or no profit of it; at best they only use it to enable them to get off other wine of inferior quality. Excuse this wine-digression, which to you, who drink only water, cannot be very interesting; but you know I write for us both, and to me the subject is I confess not unimportant. "_Gern fuhre ich Wein im Munde._" But let us back to our Clubs. The peculiarity of English manners may be much better observed here, at the first 'abord,' than in the great world, which is everywhere more or less alike; whereas the same individuals, of whom it is in part composed, show themselves here with much less restraint. In the first place, the stranger must admire the refinement of convenience with which Englishmen sit: it must be confessed that a man who is ignorant of the ingenious English chairs, of every form, and adapted to every degree of fatigue, indisposition, or constitutional peculiarity, really loses a large share of earthly enjoyment. It is a positive pleasure even to see an Englishman sit, or rather lie, in one of these couch-like chairs by the fire-side. A contrivance like a reading-desk attached to the arm, and furnished with a candlestick, is so placed before him, that with the slightest touch he can bring it nearer or further, push it to the right or the left, at pleasure. A curious machine, several of which stand around the large fire-place, receives one or both of his feet; and the hat on his head completes the enchanting picture of superlative comfort. This latter circumstance is the most difficult of imitation to a man brought up in the old school. Though he can never refrain from a provincial sort of shudder when he enters the brilliantly lighted saloon of the Club-house, where dukes, ambassadors and lords, elegantly dressed, are sitting at the card-tables, yet if he wishes to be 'fashionable' he must keep on his hat, advance to a party at whist, nod to one or two of his acquaintances; then carelessly taking up a newspaper, sink down on a sofa, and, not till after some time, 'nonchalament' throw down his hat (which perhaps has all the while been a horrid annoyance to him); or, if he stays but a few minutes, not take it off at all. The practice of half lying instead of sitting; sometimes of lying at full length on the carpet at the feet of ladies; of crossing one leg over the other in such a manner as to hold the foot in the hand; of putting the hands in the arm-holes of the waistcoat, and so on,--are all things which have obtained in the best company and the most exclusive circles: it is therefore very possible that the keeping on the hat may arrive at the same honour. In this case it will doubtless find its way into Paris society, which, after being formerly aped by all Europe, now disdains not to ape the English,--sometimes grotesquely enough,--and, as is usual in such cases, often outdoes its original. On the other hand, the English take it very ill of foreigners, if they reprove a waiter who makes them wait, or brings one thing instead of another, or if they give their commands in a loud or lordly tone of voice; though the English themselves often do this in their own country, and much more in ours, and though the dining-room of the Club is in fact only a more elegant sort of 'restauration,' where every man must pay his reckoning after he has dined. It is regarded not only as improper, but as unpleasant and offensive, if any one reads during dinner. It is not the fashion in England; and, as I have this bad habit in a supreme degree, I have sometimes remarked satirical signs of displeasure on the countenances of a few Islanders of the old school, who shook their heads as they passed me. One must be on one's guard, generally, to do things as little as possible unlike the English, and yet not to try to imitate them servilely in everything, for no race of men can be more intolerant. Most of them see with reluctance the introduction of any foreigner into their more private societies, and all regard it as a distinguished favour and obligation conferred on us. But of all offences against English manners which a man can commit, the three following are the greatest:--to put his knife to his mouth instead of his fork; to take up sugar or asparagus with his fingers; or, above all, to spit anywhere in a room. These are certainly laudable prohibitions, and well-bred people of all countries avoid such practices,--though even on these points manners alter greatly; for Marshal Richelieu detected an adventurer who passed himself off for a man of rank, by the single circumstance of his taking up olives with his fork and not with his fingers. The ridiculous thing is the amazing importance which is here attached to them. The last-named crime is so pedantically proscribed in England, that you might seek through all London in vain to find such a piece of furniture as a spitting-box. A Dutchman, who was very uncomfortable for the want of one, declared with great indignation, that an Englishman's only spitting-box was his stomach. These things are, I repeat, more than trivial, but the most important rules of behaviour in foreign countries almost always regard trivialities. Had I, for example, to give a few universal rules to a young traveller, I should seriously counsel him thus:--In Naples, treat the people brutally; in Rome, be natural; in Austria, don't talk politics; in France, give yourself no airs; in Germany, a great many; and in England, don't spit. With these rules, the young man would get on very well. What one must justly admire is the well-adapted arrangement of every thing belonging to the economy of life and of all public establishments in England, as well as the systematical rigour with which what has once been determined on is unalterably followed up. In Germany, all good institutions soon fall asleep, and new brooms alone sweep clean; here it is quite otherwise. On the other hand, every thing is not required of the same person, but exactly so much, and no more, as falls within his department. The treatment of servants is as excellent as their performance of their duties. Each has his prescribed field of activity; in which, however, the strictest and most punctual execution of orders is required of him, and in any case of neglect the master knows whom he has to call to account. At the same time, the servants enjoy a reasonable freedom, and have certain portions of time allotted to them, which their master carefully respects. The whole treatment of the serving classes is much more decorous, and combined with more 'égards,' than with us; but then they are so entirely excluded from all familiarity, and such profound respect is exacted from them, that they appear to be considered rather as machines than as beings of the same order. This, and their high wages, are no doubt the causes that the servants really possess more external dignity than any other class in England, relatively to their station. In many cases it would be a very pardonable blunder in a foreigner to take the valet for the lord, especially if he happened to imagine that _courtesy_ and a good address were the distinguishing marks of a man of quality. This test would be by no means applicable in England, where these advantages are not to be found among the majority of persons of the higher classes; though there are some brilliant exceptions, and their absence is often redeemed by admirable and solid qualities. In the men, indeed, their arrogance, often amounting to rudeness, and their high opinion of themselves, do not sit so ill; but in the women, it is as disgusting and repulsive, as, in some other of their countrywomen, the vain effort to ape continental grace and vivacity. I once before praised the admirable spirit of adaptation and arrangement which pervades all establishments here. As a sample, I will give you the organization of the card-room in the Traveller's Club-house. This is not properly a gaming club, but, as its name denotes, one expressly for travellers. Such only can become actual members of it as have travelled a certain prescribed number of miles on the Continent, or have made yet more distant expeditions. In spite of this, one does not perceive that they are become less English, which, however, I do not quarrel with. At the Travellers' Club, then, short whist and ecarté are played very high, but no hazard. In our Casinos, 'Ressources,' and so on, a man who wishes to play must first laboriously seek out a party; and if the tables are full, may have to wait hours till one is vacant. Here it is a law that every one who comes may take his seat at any table at which a rubber has just ended, when he who has played two consecutive rubbers must give up his place. It is pleasant, too, to a man who has lost, and fancies that the luck goes with the place, to quit it and seek better fortune in another. In the centre of the room stands a 'bureau' at which is posted a clerk, who rings whenever a waiter is wanted; brings the bill;[21] and, if any contested point occur, fetches the classical authorities on whist; for never is the slightest offence against the rules of the game suffered to pass without the infliction of the annexed punishment. This is rather annoying to a man who plays only for amusement; but yet it is a wise plan, and forms good players. The same clerk distributes the markers to the players to obviate the great annoyance of meeting with a bad payer, the Club is the universal payer. Actual money does not make its appearance, but every man who sits down to play receives a little basket of markers of various forms, the value of which is inscribed upon them, and which the clerk enters in his book; as often as he loses, he asks for more. Each player reckons with the clerk, and either proves his loss, or, if he has won, delivers up the markers. In either case he receives a card containing a statement of the result, and the duplicate of the reckoning in the account-book. As soon as any one is indebted more than a hundred pounds, he must pay it in the following morning to the clerk; and every man who has any demands can claim his money at any time. None but a nation so entirely commercial as the English can be expected to attain to this perfection of methodizing and arrangement. In no other country are what are here emphatically called 'habits of business' carried so extensively into social and domestic life; the value of time, of order, of despatch, of inflexible _routine_, nowhere so well understood. This is the great key to the most striking national characteristics. The quantity of material objects produced and accomplished--_the work done_--in England, exceeds all that man ever effected. The causes and the qualities which have produced these results have as certainly given birth to the dulness, the contracted views, the _routine_ habits of thought as well as of action, the inveterate prejudices, the unbounded desire for, and deference to, wealth, which characterize the mass of Englishmen. It were much to be wished that in our German cities we imitated the organization of English Clubs, which would be very practicable as to the essentials, though our poverty would compel us to dispense with many of their luxuries. In this case we ought to repay the English like for like, and not prostrate ourselves in puerile slavish admiration of their money and their name; but while we treated them with all civility, and even with more courtesy than they show to us, yet let them see that Germans are masters of their own house, particularly as many of them only come among us either to economize, or to form connexions with people of rank, from which their own station at home excluded them, or to have the satisfaction of showing us that in all arrangements for physical comfort we are still barbarians compared with them.[22] It is indeed inconceivable, and a proof that it is only necessary to treat us contemptuously in order to obtain our reverence, that, as I have remarked, the mere name of Englishman is, with us, equivalent to the highest title. Many a person, who would scarcely get admission into very inferior circles in England, where the whole of society, down to the very lowest classes, is so stiffly aristocratical, in the various states of Germany is received at Court and fête by the first nobility; every act of coarseness and ill-breeding is set down as a trait of charming English originality, till perhaps, by some accident, a really respectable Englishman comes to the place, and people learn with astonishment that they have been doing all this honour to an ensign 'on half pay,' or a rich tailor or shoemaker. An individual of this rank is, however, generally, at least civil, but the impertinence of some of the higher classes surpasses all belief. I know that in one of the largest towns of Germany, a prince of the royal house, distinguished for his frank, chivalrous courtesy, and his amiable character, invited an English Viscount, who was but just arrived, and had not yet been presented to him, to a hunting-party; to which His Lordship replied, _that he could not accept the invitation, as the prince was perfectly unknown to him_. It is true, that no foreigner will ever have it in his power so to requite a similar civility in England, where a grandee considers an invitation to dinner (they are very liberal of invitations to routs and soirées, for the sake of filling their rooms) as the most signal honour he can confer upon even a distinguished foreigner,--an honour only to be obtained by long acquaintance, or by very powerful letters of introduction. But if by any miracle such a ready attention were to be paid in England, it would be impossible to find a single man of any pretensions to breeding, on the whole Continent, who would make such a return as this boorish lord did.[23] _November 21st._ I called yesterday morning on L---- to execute your commission, but did not find him at home. Instead of him, I found to my great joy a letter from you, which I was so impatient to read, that I set myself down in his room, and read it attentively two or three times. Your affection, which strives to spare me everything disagreeable, and dwells only upon those subjects which can give me pleasure, I acknowledge most gratefully. But you must not spare me more than you are convinced you can do without detriment to our common interests. You estimate my letters far more highly than they deserve; but you may imagine that, in my eyes, it is a very amiable fault in you to overvalue me thus. Love paints the smallest merit in magic colours. I will, however, do myself the justice to believe that you, who have had such ample opportunities of knowing me, may find in me qualities which shrink from the rude touch of the world. This consoled me,--but your expression "that all you wrote appeared to you so incoherent, that you thought the grief of parting had weakened your intellects," gave me great pain. Do I then want phrases? How much more delightful is that natural, confidential talk, which flows on without constraint and without effort, and _therefore_ expresses itself admirably. I am particularly delighted at your sentiments concerning what I tell you; they are ever exactly such as I expect and share. Accompany your friend to the capital:--it will amuse you, and at the same time you will find many opportunities of promoting our interests. 'Les absens ont tort;' never forget that. I must disapprove B----'s levity. He has no solicitude about his reputation, though he be in fact an angel of virtue and benevolence; he who cares not what is said of him,--perhaps even laughs at it,--will soon find that the malignity of men has left him in the same condition as to reputation as Peter Schlemil was with regard to his shadow. At first he thought it nothing to forego a thing so unsubstantial: but in the end he could scarcely endure existence without it. Only in the deepest solitude, far from all the world, striding restlessly with his seven-league boots from the north pole to the south, and living for science alone, did he find some tranquillity and peace. At the conclusion of your letter I see but too clearly that melancholy gains the upper hand,--and I could say something on that subject too,--'mais il faut du courage.' In every life there are periods of trial, moments when the bitterest drops in the cup must be drained. If the sun do but illumine the evening, we will not murmur at the noontide heat. But enough of these serious subjects: let me now turn your attention from them, by leading you to the Haymarket Theatre, which I lately visited, when the celebrated Liston enchanted the public for the hundred-and-second time in Paul Pry, a sort of foolish lout. The actor, who is said to have made a fortune of six thousand a-year, is one of those whom I should call natural comic actors, of the same class as were Unzelmann and Wurm in Berlin, and Bösenberg and Döring in Dresden; men who, without any profound study of their art, excite laughter by a certain drollery of manner peculiar to themselves, an inexhaustible humour, 'qui coule de source;' though frequently in private life they are hypochondriacal, as it is said to be the case with Liston. The notorious Madame Vestris, who formerly made 'furore,' was also there. She is somewhat 'passée,' but still very fascinating on the stage. She is an excellent singer, and still better actor, and a greater favourite of the English public even than Liston. Her great celebrity, however, rests on the beauty of her legs, which are become a standing article in the theatrical criticisms of the newspapers, and are often displayed by her in man's attire. The grace and the exhaustless spirit and wit of her acting are also truly enchanting, though she sometimes disgusts one by her want of modesty, and coquettes too much with the audience. It may truly be said in every sense of the words, that Madame Vestris belongs to all Europe. Her father was an Italian; her mother a German and a good pianoforte player; her husband, of the illustrious dancing family of France, and herself an Englishwoman: any chasms in her connexion with other European nations are more than filled up by hundreds of the most 'marquant' lovers. She also speaks several languages with the utmost fluency. In the character of the German 'broom girl' she sings "Ach, du lieber Augustin," with a perfect pronunciation, and with a very 'piquant' air of assurance. To-day I dined with our ambassador. This prevented my visiting the theatre, which I have too much neglected. I have resolved to attend it with more constancy, in order that I may gradually give you a tolerably perfect report of it, though in detached descriptions. We were quite 'en petit comité,' and the company unusually animated and merry. We had a certain great 'gourmand' among us, who took a great deal of joking, 'sans en perdre un coup de dent.' At last Prince E---- told him that whenever he went to purgatory his punishment would undoubtedly be to see the blessed eat, while he was kept fasting. * * * Lord ---- was there too. He treats me in the most friendly manner to my face, but, I am told, loses no opportunity of injuring me in society. * * * A man of warmer heart would have spoken to me face to face of this supposed wrong. 'Diplomates,' however, have too much fishes' blood in their organization. * * * Happily, I can laugh at all such 'menées:' for a man who seeks nothing and fears little, who interests himself in the great world only in so far as it affords him opportunities for making experimental observations on himself and others; who is, as to necessaries at least, independent, and has a few but faithful friends,--such a man it is difficult seriously to injure. Experience too has cooled me;--my blood no longer flows with such uncontrollable impetuosity; while my lightheartedness has not deserted me, still less the capacity of loving intensely. I therefore enjoy life better than in the bloom of youth, and would not exchange my present feelings for that early tumultuous vehemence. Nay, in such a frame of mind, I feel not the least dread of old age, and am persuaded that when that period of life arrives, it will turn to us many a bright and beautiful side whose existence we suspect not, and which those only never find who want to remain youthful for ever. I lately met with some pretty English verses which I translated, after my fashion, with a thought of you, my best friend, who too often regret departing youth. These are the delightful lines: Ist gleich die trübe Wange bleich, Das Auge nicht mehr hell, Und nahet schon das ernste Reich, Wo Jugend fliehet schnell! Doch lächelt Dir die Wange noch, Das Auge kennt die Thräne noch, Das Herz schlägt noch so warm und frei Als in des Lebens grünstem Mai. So denk' denn nicht, dass nur die Jugend Und Schönheit Segen leiht-- Zeit lehrt die Seele schönre Tugend, In Jahren treuer Zärtlichkeit. Und selbst wenn einst die Nacht von oben Verdunkelnd Deine Brust umfängt, Wird noch durch Liebeshand gehoben Dein Haupt zur ew'gen Ruh' gesenkt. O, so auch blinkt der Abendstern, Ist gleich dahin der Sonne Licht, Noch sanft und warm aus hoher Fern', Und Tages-Glanz entbehrst Du nicht.--[24] Yes, my beloved Julia, thus has time taught us, in years of tenderness, that nothing can have so genuine a value as that. We have now before us an evening star, whose mild light is far more delightful than that mid-day sun which often rather scorches than warms. I drove home with L----, and we had a long conversation by the snug fireside on the affairs of our country. * * * L---- is very kind to me, and I am doubly attached to him; first, for his own amiable and honourable character; secondly, for the sake of his excellent father, to whom we owe more real gratitude than to ----, though he had no other motive than his own impartial love of justice. _November 23d._ A strange custom in England is the continual intrusion of the newspapers into the affairs of private life. A man of any distinction not only sees the most absurd details concerning him dragged before the public,--such as where he dined, what evening party he attended, and so forth, (which many foreigners read with the greatest self-complacency,)--but if anything really worth telling happens to him, it is immediately made public without shame or scruple. Personal hostility has thus 'beau jeu,' as well as the desire of making profitable friends. Many use the newspapers for the publication of articles to their own advantage, which they send themselves. The foreign embassies cultivate this branch with great assiduity. It is easy to see what formidable weapons the press thus furnishes. Fortunately, however, the poison brings its antidote with it. This consists in the indifference with which the public receives such communications. An article in a newspaper after which a Continental would not show himself for three months, here excites at most a momentary laugh, and the next day is forgotten. About a month ago the papers made themselves extremely merry about the duel of a noble lord here; who, according to their representation of the matter, had not cut a very heroic figure. They made the most offensive remarks, and drew the most mortifying inferences as to the calibre of his valour; and all this had not the smallest perceptible effect in disabling him from presenting himself in society with as much ease and unconcern as ever. They have tried to give me too a 'coup fourré.' * * * But I have served under an old soldier, and learned from him always to have the first and loudest laugh at myself, and not to spare an inoffensive jest at myself and others. This is the only safe way of meeting ridicule in the world: if you appear sensitive or embarrassed, then indeed the poison works; otherwise it evaporates like cold water on a red-hot stone. This the English understand to perfection. This evening I spent, true to my determination, in Drury Lane, where, to my infinite astonishment, old Braham appeared, still as first singer, with the same applause with which I saw him, even then an old man, perform the same part for his own benefit the day before my departure from England, twelve years ago. I found little difference in his singing, except that he shouted rather more violently, and made rather more 'roulades' in order to conceal the decline of his voice. He is a Jew, and I am firmly convinced the everlasting one,[25] for he does not seem to grow old at all. 'Au reste,' he is the genuine representative of the English style of singing, and, in popular songs especially, the enthusiastically adored idol of the public. One cannot deny to him great power of voice and rapidity of execution, and he is said to have a thorough knowledge of music: but a more abominable style it is impossible to conceive. The Prima Donna was Miss Paton, a very agreeable, but not a first-rate singer. She is well-made, and not ugly, and is a great favourite with the public. What would appear extraordinary among us,--she is married to Lord W---- L----, whose name she bears in her own family and in private.[26] On the stage, however, she is Miss Paton again, and paid as such, which is not unacceptable to her lord. The most striking thing to a foreigner in English theatres is the unheard-of coarseness and brutality of the audiences. The consequence of this is that the higher and more civilized classes go only to the Italian opera, and very rarely visit their national theatre. Whether this be unfavourable or otherwise to the stage, I leave others to determine. English freedom here degenerates into the rudest license, and it is not uncommon in the midst of the most affecting part of a tragedy, or the most charming 'cadenza' of a singer, to hear some coarse expression shouted from the galleries in stentor voice. This is followed, according to the taste of the bystanders, either by loud laughter and approbation, or by the castigation and expulsion of the offender. Whichever turn the thing takes, you can hear no more of what is passing on the stage, where actors and singers, according to ancient usage, do not suffer themselves to be interrupted by such occurrences, but declaim or warble away, 'comme si rien n'était.' And such things happen not once, but sometimes twenty times, in the course of a performance, and amuse many of the audience more than that does. It is also no rarity for some one to throw the fragments of his 'gouté,' which do not always consist of orange-peels alone, without the smallest ceremony on the heads of the people in the pit, or to shail them with singular dexterity into the boxes; while others hang their coats and waistcoats over the railing of the gallery, and sit in shirt-sleeves; in short, all that could be devised for the better excitement of a phlegmatic _Harmonie_ Society of the workmen in Berlin, under the renowned Wisotsky, is to be found in the national theatre of Britain. Another cause for the absence of respectable families is the resort of hundreds of those unhappy women with whom London swarms. They are to be seen of every degree, from the lady who spends a splendid income, and has her own box, to the wretched beings who wander houseless in the streets. Between the acts they fill the large and handsome 'foyers,' and exhibit their boundless effrontery in the most revolting manner. It is most strange that in no country on earth is this afflicting and humiliating spectacle so openly exhibited as in the religious and decorous England. The evil goes to such an extent, that in the theatres it is often difficult to keep off these repulsive beings, especially when they are drunk, which is not seldom the case. They beg in the most shameless manner, and a pretty, elegantly dressed girl does not disdain to take a shilling or a sixpence, which she instantly spends in a glass of rum, like the meanest beggar. And these are the scenes, I repeat, which are exhibited in the national theatre of England, where the highest dramatic talent of the country should be developed; where immortal artists like Garrick, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O'Neil, have enraptured the public by their genius, and where such actors as Kean, Kemble, and Young, still adorn the stage. Is not this--to say nothing of the immorality--in the highest degree low and undignified? It is wholly inconsistent with any real love of art, or conception of its office and dignity. The turbulent scenes I have described above scarcely ever arise out of anything connected with the performance, but have almost always some source quite foreign to it, and no way relating to the stage. Farewell! Ever your L----. LETTER VI. _London, Nov. 25th, 1826._ BELOVED, It is sometimes a perfect want with me to spend a day entirely alone in my own room. I pass it in a sort of dreamy brooding. I go over the past and the future,--all that I have felt and suffered,--till, by the mixture of so many colours, one misty grey tint overspreads the whole; and the dissonances of life melt away at length, in a soft objectless melancholy. The barrel-organs which resound day and night in every street, and are at other times insufferable, are favourable to such a state of mind. They too mingle a hundred different airs, till all music loses itself in an indistinct dreamy ringing in the ears. A much more entertaining thing is another sort of street performance,--a genuine national comedy. It afforded me great amusement from my window, and is well worth a somewhat particular description. The hero of this drama is Punch,--the English Punch,--perfectly different from the Italian Pulcinella. I send you a faithful portrait of him in the act of beating his wife to death;--for he is the most godless droll that ever I met with; and as completely without conscience as the wood out of which he is made;--a little, too, the type of the nation he represents. Punch has, like his namesake, something of rum, lemon and sugar in him; he is strong, sour and sweet, and withal pretty indifferent to the confusion he causes. He is, moreover, the most absolute egotist the earth contains, 'et ne doute jamais de rien.' He conquers everything by his invincible merriment and humour, laughs at the laws, at men, and at the devil himself; and shows in part what the Englishman is, in part what he wishes to be, in one composite picture;--on the native side, selfishness, perseverance and high spirit, and, wherever it is called for, reckless determination;--on the foreign, unconquerable levity, and ever ready wit. But allow me to paint Punch to you by his own proper words, and to take my further account of him from his biography. As a descendant of Pulcinella of Acerra, he is, in the first place, unquestionably a nobleman of ancient stock. Harlequin, Clown, the German Casperle and others are his near of kin;--but he, for his great audacity, stands best as head of the family. Pious, alas! he is not: being a true Englishman, he doubtless goes to church on Sundays; though, may be, would beat any parson to death who bored him with attempts to convert him. It is not to be denied that Punch is a wild fellow,--no very moral personage, and not made of wood for nothing. No man can be better fitted for a boxer,--other men's hits he feels not, and his own are irresistible. With that, he is a true Turk in his small respect for human life; endures no contradiction, and fears not the devil himself. On the other hand, we can but admire his great qualities in many respects. His admirable insensibility, and his already-commended invariable good humour; his high heroic egotism; his unalterable self-complacency; his exhaustless wit, and the consummate cunning with which he gets himself out of every scrape, and triumphs victoriously over every antagonist,--throws a bright lustre over all the little freedoms which he is apt to take with human life. In him has not inaptly been observed a compound of Richard the Third and Falstaff. Even in his outward man he unites the crooked legs and hump-back of Richard, with the portly rotundity of Falstaff; to which are added the long nose and the fiery black eyes of Italy. His dwelling is a box, with suitable internal decorations, set on four poles,--a theatre which can be erected in a few seconds in any place; a drapery falling over the poles, or legs, conceals Punch's soul, which animates the puppets and lends them the needful words. The drama in which he daily appears in the streets, varies, therefore, with the talents of the person who acts as interpreter between Punch and the public. The course of the incidents is however always essentially the same, and pretty nearly as follows: As the curtain rises, Punch is heard behind the scenes trolling the French ballad 'Malbrooke s'en va-t-en guerre,' and presently appears dancing, and in high good humour, and in droll verses tells the spectators what manner of humour he is of. He calls himself a gay merry fellow, who loves to give a joke, but is not very ready to take one; and if he is ever gentle, it is only towards the fair sex. With his money he is frank and free; and his grand object is to laugh his whole life long, and to grow as fat as he can. He declares himself a great admirer and seducer of the girls, and, as long as he can get it, a friend of good cheer; when he cannot, however, he can live on cheese-parings, and if he die--why then there's no more to be said, than that's all over, and there's an end of Punch and the play. (This latter avowal unquestionably smells a little of atheism.) After this monologue, he calls behind the scene for Judy, his young wife, who will not come, but at last sends her dog instead. Punch strokes and caresses him, but the spiteful cur seizes him by the nose, and holds him fast, till after a laughable fight, and various rough jokes of the not too discreet Punch, he at last beats off the dog and gives him a sound drubbing. His neighbour Scaramouch, hearing the noise, here enters with a large stick, and calls Punch to account why he beat Judy's favourite dog, "that _never_ bit anybody." "And I _never_ beat a dog," replied Punch; "but," continues he, "what have you there in your hand, my dear Scaramouch?" "Oh, nothing but a fiddle; will you hear the tone of it? Do but come and hear what a fine instrument it is." "Thank ye, thank ye, my good Scaramouch," replies Punch modestly, "I can distinguish the tone of it very well here." Scaramouch, however, is not to be so put off, and while he dances about to the sound of his own singing, and flourishes his stick, he gives Punch, as if by accident, a great knock on the head. Punch affects not to heed it, but begins to dance too, and watching his opportunity suddenly snatches the stick out of Scaramouch's hand, and in a trice gives him such a blow with it that poor Scaramouch's head rolls down at his feet,--for where Punch lays about him the grass does not grow. "Ha! ha!" cries he, laughing, "did you hear the fiddle, my good Scaramouch? What a fine tone it has! As long as you live, my lad, you'll never hear a finer. But where is my Judy? My sweet Judy, why don't you come." Meanwhile Punch has hidden the body of Scaramouch behind the curtain, and Judy, the 'feminine' pendant of her husband, with the same monstrous nose, enters. A comically tender scene ensues, after which Punch asks for his child; Judy goes to fetch it, and Punch breaks forth into an ecstatic monologue on his happiness as a husband and father. The little monster arrives, and now the parents can hardly contain themselves for joy, and lavish upon it the tenderest names and caresses. Judy, however, called away by her household duties, soon departs, and leaves the infant in its father's arms, who somewhat awkwardly tries to play the nurse and to dandle the child, which begins to cry piteously, and to behave very naughtily. Punch at first tries to soothe it, but soon grows impatient, beats it, and, as it screams all the more violently, he flies into a rage, and throws it out of the window, with curses, plump into the street, where it falls among the spectators and breaks its neck. Punch leans over the edge of the stage and looks after it, makes a few grimaces, shakes his head, and begins to laugh, and then dances about, singing merrily. Meantime Judy returns, and asks with alarm for her darling. "The child is gone to sleep," replies Punch carelessly; however, after a long investigation he is forced to confess that while he was playing with him, he let him fall out of the window. Judy is out of herself, tears her hair, and overwhelms her cruel tyrant with the most dreadful reproaches. In vain does he try to soothe her; she will not hear him, and runs away uttering vehement threats. Punch holds his belly for laughter, dances about, and for very wantonness, beats time with his own head upon the walls. But Judy now comes behind him with a broomstick and belabours him with all her might. At first he gives her good words, promises never to throw another child out of the window; begs her, however, not to take the joke so seriously;--but finding that nothing will avail, he loses his patience at last, and concludes the affair as with Scaramouch;--he beats poor Judy to death. "Now," says he drily, "our quarrel is over, dear Judy, and if you are satisfied, so am I. Come, stand up again, Judy. Oh, don't sham, this is only one of your tricks. What, you won't get up? Well, then, off with you!" So saying, he flings her after her child into the street. He does not even trouble himself to look after her, but bursting into one of his usual fits of loud laughter, cries out, "'Tis a fine piece of luck to lose a wife!" In the second act we find Punch at a rendezvous with his mistress Polly, to whom he pays his court, not in the most refined manner, and assures her that she alone can drive away all his cares, and that if he had as many wives as Solomon, he could kill them all for her sake. A courtier and friend of Polly's then pays him a visit; this time he does not kill his man, but only thrashes him well: he is then 'ennuyé,' and declares that the weather being fine he will take a ride. A wild horse is brought, upon which he capers about for some time in a ludicrous fashion; but at last, from the dreadful plunging of the untameable animal, is thrown. He calls out for help, and happily his friend the doctor happens to be passing, and comes immediately. Punch lies like dead, and groans piteously. The doctor tries to tranquillize him, and feels his pulse: Punch, to be short, makes so uncivil a return for the doctor's attentions, that the latter exclaims, "Here, Master Punch, I bring you a wholesome medicine, the only one fit for you," and begins to thump him soundly with his gold-headed cane. "Oh dear!" cries Punch, "many thanks to you; I want none of your physic, it gives me the headache." "Ah, that's only because you have taken it in too small doses," says the doctor; "take a little more, and it will cure you." Punch at last feigns himself conquered, falls down exhausted, and begs for mercy; but when the credulous doctor bends down over him, Punch darts upon him like lightning, wrests the stick out of his hand and lays about him as usual. "Now," cries he, "you must take a little of your charming physic,--only a little, respected friend;--there--there!" "Oh Lord, you will kill me!" cries the doctor. "Not worth talking of--only what's usual--doctors always die when they take their own physic. Come, only one last pill:" and so saying, the ruthless Punch runs him through the body with the point of his stick. The doctor dies. Punch, laughing, exclaims, "Now, my good friend, cure yourself if you can." [_Exit, singing and dancing._ After other adventures, which have almost all the same tragical end, justice is at length awake, and the constable is sent to arrest Punch. He finds him, as usual, in the highest glee, and just busied, as he says, in making music with the help of a dustman's bell (a very 'naïf' confession of the musical capacity of the nation.) The dialogue is brief and important.[27] It ends with the constable showing Punch the warrant for his arrest: "And," says Punch, "I have a warrant for you, which I will soon execute." Hereupon he seizes the bell, which he has held concealed behind him, and gives the constable such a blow on the occiput, that, like his predecessors, he falls lifeless; whereupon Punch springs off with a 'capriole,' and is heard singing behind the scenes. The magistrate, who comes after the death of the constable, has no better fate. At length the hangman, in proper person, lies in wait for Punch, who in his joyous recklessness runs upon him without seeing him. For the first time he seems somewhat embarrassed by this rencontre, is very slightly cast down, and does his best to flatter Mr. Ketch; calls him his old friend, and inquires very particularly after the health of Mistress Ketch. The hangman, however, soon makes him understand that all friendship must now have an end; and sets before him what a bad man he is to have killed so many men, and his wife and child. "As to them," says he, "they were my own property, and 'tis hard if a man may not do what he likes with his own." "And why did you kill the poor doctor, who came to help you?" "Only in self-defence, good Mr. Ketch; he wanted me to take his medicine." But all excuses and evasions are useless. Three or four men spring forward and bind Punch, whom Ketch leads to prison. In the next scene we behold him at the back of the stage, trying to look out from behind an iron grating, and rubbing his long nose against the bars. He is very wroth and miserable, yet, according to his use and wont, sings a song to drive away time. Mr. Ketch enters, and with the assistance of his helpers erects a gallows before the prison-door. Punch becomes sorrowful, but, instead of feeling repentance, has only a fit of greater fondness and longing for his Polly. He however mans himself again, and makes various 'bon mots' on the handsome gallows, which he compares to a tree planted, as it seems, for the adornment of his prospect. "How beautiful it will be when it bears fruit!" cries he. Some men now bring the coffin, and place it at the foot of the gallows. "What have you there?" says Punch. "Ah ha! that is no doubt the basket to put the fruit in." Meanwhile Ketch returns, and greeting Punch, and opening the door politely, tells him that all is ready,--he may come when he likes. You may think that Punch is not very eager to accept the invitation. After a good deal of discussion Ketch calls out, "It's of no use, Master Punch, you must come out and be hanged." "You won't be so cruel." "Why were you so cruel as to kill your wife and child?" "Is that any reason for your being cruel too?"--(argument against capital punishment.) Ketch appeals to no better principle than that of the strongest, and drags out Punch by his hair, begging for mercy and promising amendment. "Now, my good Punch," says Ketch, coolly, "do but have the goodness to put your head into this noose, and all will soon be over." Punch affects awkwardness, and can't get his head right into the noose. "Good God! how awkward you are!" exclaims Ketch; "you must put your head in so"--showing him. "Ay so, and then draw it tight," cries Punch, drawing up the unwary hangman in a moment, and hanging him on the gallows; after which he hides himself behind the wall. Two men come to take away the body, lay it in the coffin, believing it to be that of the criminal, and carry it out, while Punch laughs in his sleeve, and dances away as usual. But the shrewdest battle is yet to come, for the devil himself 'in propriâ personâ,' now comes to fetch him. Vainly does Punch lay before him the most acute observations; that he is a very stupid devil to wish to carry off the best friend he has on earth, and the like. The devil will not hear reason, and stretches out his long claws horribly at him. He appears just about to fly away with him, as erst with Faust, but Punch is not so easily to be dealt with; manfully he grasps his murderous staff, and defends himself even against the devil. A fearful fight ensues, and--who would have thought it possible?--Punch, so often in uttermost danger, at length remains universal conqueror, spits the black fiend on his stick, holds him up aloft, and whirling about with him with shouts of triumph, sings, while he laughs more heartily than ever. I leave it to you to make all the philosophical reflections; of which Punch's career is fitted to excite not a few. Above all interesting would be the inquiry, how far the daily repetition of this favourite popular drama for so many years has influenced the morality of the lower classes. To conclude,--for the sake of tragic justice, I sketch on the margin of my sheet a second portrait of Punch, as he appears sitting in prison, when the gallows is just brought before him. In my next letter you will have all the details you desire concerning B----, which pious personage I have to-day forgotten for the more interesting sinner Punch.--Adieu for to day! _December 1st._ You remember what I told you of the mode of letting land in this country. As the builders of houses have only ninety-nine years to reckon on, they build as slightly as possible; the consequence of which is that one is not very sure of one's life in some of the London houses. A house, by no means old, fell last night in St. James's street, close by me, just like a house of cards, carrying the half of another with it. Several persons were severely hurt, but the greater number had time to escape, as there were threatening warnings. Such is the rapidity with which they build here, that in a month the whole will doubtless be standing again, though perhaps not much safer than before. A few days ago I attended the interesting ceremony of the opening of Parliament by the King in person; a ceremony which has not taken place for several years. In the centre of the House of Lords were assembled the Peers, their scarlet mantles negligently thrown over their ordinary morning dress. Near the wall opposite to the entrance stood the King's throne; on benches on the left sat a number of ladies in full dress; on the right the diplomatic corps and foreigners. In front of the throne was a bar, and behind it the members of the Lower House, in the common dress of our day. The house without, and the staircase, were filled with servants and heralds in the costume of the fourteenth century. At two o'clock discharges of cannon announced the arrival of the King in state. A number of magnificent carriages and horses composed the procession, a sketch of which I have taken in my book of reminiscences,[28] and have placed it in contrast with a drawing of one of Cæsar's triumphs. At the sight of these pictures one involuntarily asks oneself, whether mankind have really made any progress. Scarcely, as it seems, in as far as art is concerned; especially when we look at the two prominent personages,--those who occupy the highest seats at the respective ceremonies,--the King's body-coachman, and Cæsar. At about half-past three the King made his appearance, he alone being in full dress, and truly covered from top to toe with the ancient kingly decorations; with the crown on his head and the sceptre in his hand. He looked pale and bloated, and was obliged to sit on the throne for a considerable time before he could get breath enough to read his speech. During this time he turned friendly glances and considerable bows towards some favoured ladies. On his right stood Lord Liverpool, with the sword of state and the speech in his hand; and the Duke of Wellington on his left. All three looked so miserable, so ashy-gray and worn out, that never did human greatness appear to me so little worth; indeed the tragic side of all the comedies we play here below, fell almost heavily on my heart; and yet it excited in me a strong feeling of the comic, to see how the most powerful monarch of the earth was obliged to present himself, as chief actor in a pantomime, before an audience whom he deems so infinitely beneath him. In fact, the whole pageant, including the King's costume, reminded me strikingly of one of those historical plays which are here got up so well; nothing was wanting but the 'flourish of trumpets' which accompanies the entrance and exit of one of Shakspeare's kings, to make the illusion complete. In spite of his feebleness, George the Fourth read the 'banale' speech with great dignity and a fine voice; but with that royal 'nonchalance' which does not much concern itself what His Majesty promises, or whether or not he is sometimes unable to decipher a word. It was very evident that the monarch was heartily glad when the 'corvée' was over, so that the conclusion went off somewhat more rapidly than the beginning. Since my last letter I have been twice to the theatre, which the late hours of dining render it impossible to do when one has any engagement. I saw Mozart's Figaro announced at Drury-lane, and delighted myself with the idea of hearing once more the sweet tones of my fatherland:--what then was my astonishment at the unheard-of treatment which the master-work of the immortal composer has received at English hands! You will hardly believe me when I tell you that neither the Count, the Countess, nor Figaro sang; these parts were given to mere actors, and their principal songs, with some little alteration in the words, were sung by the other singers; to add to this, the gardener roared out some interpolated popular English songs, which suited Mozart's music just as a pitch-plaster would suit the face of the Venus de' Medici. The whole opera was moreover 'arranged' by a certain Mr. Bishop (a circumstance which I had seen noticed in the bill, but did not understand till now),--that is, adapted to English ears by means of the most tasteless and shocking alterations. The English national music, the coarse heavy melodies of which can never be mistaken for an instant, has, to me at least, something singularly offensive; an expression of brutal feeling both in pain and pleasure, which smacks of 'roast-beef, plum-pudding, and porter.' You may imagine, therefore, what an agreeable effect these incorporations with the lovely and refined conceptions of Mozart must produce. 'Je n'y pouvais tenir'--poor Mozart appeared to me like a martyr on the cross, and I suffered no less by sympathy. This abominable practice is the more inexcusable, since here is really no want of meritorious singers, male and female; and, with better arrangement, very good performances might be given. It is true, even if the stage were in good order, a second Orpheus would still be required to tame English audiences. Far better was the performance in Covent Garden, where Charles Kemble, one of the best English actors, gave an admirable representation of the part of Charles the Second. Kemble is a man of the best education, and has always lived in good society; he is therefore qualified to represent a king royally;--with the 'aisance,' that is proper to all exalted persons. He very skilfully gave an amiable colouring to the levity of Charles the Second; without ever, even in moments of the greatest 'abandon,' losing the type of that inborn conscious dignity, so difficult to imitate. The costume, too, was as if cut out of the frame of an old picture, down to the veriest trifle; and this was observed by all the other actors, for which Kemble, who is also manager, deserves great praise. I must, however, confess that in the next piece, in which Frederick the Great plays the principal part, there was not the same intimate knowledge and perfect imitation of foreign costume; both the king and his suite seemed to have borrowed their wardrobe from that of a pantomime. Zieten presented himself in a high grenadier's cap, and Seydlitz appeared in locks 'a là Murat,' and with as many orders as that royal actor used to wear; a profusion of which were by no means the fashion in Frederick's day, nor were they then worn as mere appendages of the toilet. _December 2nd._ I often dine at Prince E----'s, who exhibits a perfect model to 'diplomates' how dignified 'représentation' may be combined with agreeable facile manners; and how a man may please every body if he understands the art of placing himself 'à sa portée,' yet without suffering his own dignity to be forgotten for an instant:--'un vrai Seigneur,'--such as are every day becoming rarer. Never too did a foreigner _succeed_ so perfectly in England; and yet, most assuredly, without the slightest concession to English arrogance. This implies infinite tact; the lighter, more vivacious character of a South German; and the most astute intellect concealed beneath the most unpretending 'bonhommie;' the whole backed and set off by a great name and a splendid fortune. The other members of the diplomatic corps, with few exceptions, are left by him quite in the back-ground, and most of the plenipotentiaries here disappear completely in the crowd. Among the ambassadors there is, however, one of the female sex who plays a great part * * * But more of this another time. I entered upon the subject of Diplomates, only for the sake of repeating to you a very pretty 'bon mot' of one of them whom you know. I heard it to-day at dinner. Count H---- was ambassador at a German court renowned for its economy ('pour ne pas dire mesquinerie,') and on some solemn occasion received a snuff-box with the portrait of the sovereign; which, however, was set round with very small, paltry diamonds. Shortly afterwards, one of his colleagues asked him to show him his present. "Vous ne trouverez pas le portrait ressemblant," said the Count, giving him the snuff-box,--"mais les diamants." I occasionally see, with great satisfaction, the venerable Elliot, who, together with the dry but very interesting Lord St. Helens, whom Ségur so often mentions in his Memoirs, belongs to the 'Doyens' of English diplomacy, and still dwells with extraordinary pleasure on the recollection of his residence at Dresden. He has several very charming daughters, and finds it difficult to live in a style befitting his rank, for his long services have not been rewarded with English liberality.[29] Another very interesting person is Sir L---- M----, who was formerly in high favour with the king, then Prince of Wales, and deserves mention, first, because he is a most agreeable Amphitryon and entertains his friends admirably, and secondly, because he is one of the most original of men, and one of the few _truly practical_ philosophers I have ever met with. The prejudices of the many seem for him to have no existence; and nobody could be more difficult to impose on by mere authority, whether on matters of heaven or earth. Although sixty years old, and a martyr to the most unheard-of tortures with which gout and stone can rack an unhappy mortal, no one ever heard a complaint from him; nor is his cheerful, nay merry humour ever saddened by it for a moment. It must be confessed that there are dispositions and temperaments which are worth a hundred thousand a year. When I was first introduced to him, a short time since, he had just undergone the terrible operation for the stone. The surgeon refused to undertake it, on the ground that the weakness of the patient rendered it too hazardous, but was at length almost compelled by him to perform it. At that time he kept his bed, and looked like a corpse, and at going in I involuntarily made 'une mine de doléance,' upon which he instantly interrupted me, and told me to lay aside all grimaces. "What cannot be cured," said he, "must be endured; and better gaily, that sadly:" for himself, he said, he had certainly abundant cause to laugh at his physicians, who had given him his passport with the utmost certainty at least ten times, but had almost all gone to the d--l before him. "Besides," said he, "I have enjoyed life as few have, and must now learn the dark side." In spite of all his pleasures, and all his pains, the gay-hearted man is still in such good preservation, that, since he is about again, with his artist-like peruque, he does not look much above forty, and exhibits a spirited and 'rayonnante' physiognomy, whose features must once have been handsome. _December 3rd._ Kemble gave me a high treat this evening as Falstaff. It is certain that even the greatest dramatic poets stand in need of the actor's aid to bring out their work. I never so fully understood the character of the mad knight; never was it so manifest to me what his outward deportment must have been, as since I saw him new-born in the person of Charles Kemble. His dress and mask were striking indeed, but by no means such a caricature as on our stages. Still less had he the air of a man of low rank and breeding, visibly a mere 'farceur,' as Devrient, for instance, represented him in Berlin. Falstaff, although a man of vulgar _soul_, is still by habit and inclination a practised courtier; and the coarseness which he often assumes in the prince's company is at least as much intentional acting, employed by him to amuse the Prince (for princes often love vulgarity from its very contrast with the gloomy elevation of their own station,) as to gratify his own humour. Mr. Kemble caught the finest shades of the character; for, although he never lost sight of the natural, invincible humour, the witty presence of mind, and the diverting drollery which made Falstaff such an agreeable companion,--nay, which rendered him almost a necessary of life to those who had once associated with him,--he is quite another man when he appears at Court in the presence of the king and other dignified persons; or when he plays antics with the Prince and his companions; or, lastly, when he is alone with the latter. In the first case, you see a facetious man, somewhat like the Maréchal de Bassompierre, ludicrously fat, but a man of dignified and gentleman-like air; always a joker, it is true, but in a good 'ton,' never forgetting the respect due to the place and the presence in which he is. In the second stage, he allows himself to go much further; takes all sorts of coarse freedoms; but ever with observable care to exalt the Prince, and to assume only the privilege of a Court fool, who, _apparently_, may say all that comes into his head. In the last stage, we see Falstaff in complete 'negligé,' after he has thrown off all regard to appearances. Here he wallows delightfully in the mire, like a swine in a ditch; and yet even here he still remains original, and excites more laughter than disgust. This is the supreme art, the last triumph of the poet: he alone can give, even to the most horrid monsters of sin and shame, something like a divine impress; something which awakens our interest and attracts us, even to our own astonishment. This is the high dramatic truth, the creative power of genius, speaking of which Walter Scott so prettily says, "I can only compare Shakspeare with that man in the Arabian Nights, who has the power of passing into any body at pleasure, and imitating its feelings and actions." I must here remark, that there is but one character in this immortal poet's works which always appeared to me ill-drawn and unnatural, nor does any excite less interest in general. This is the king in Hamlet. To mention only one trait, it appears to me quite psycologically false, when the author makes the king kneel down, and then exclaim, "I cannot pray." The king is never represented as an irreligious man, a subtle sceptic, but merely as a coarse sensual sinner; now we daily see that a man of this cast cannot only pray regularly and zealously, but even pray that his crimes may prosper: like that woman who was found alone in a robber's cave, after the capture of the gang, on her knees, praying earnestly to heaven that the expedition in which she believed them then engaged might be successful, and that they might return laden with booty. Nay even public pre-appointed prayers have often no better aim. What examples of this kind does not history afford! No, the sinful king _can_ pray,--the person in this tragedy who _cannot_, is Hamlet. For it is only the unbelieving; the man who wants to fathom everything; the spiritual chemist who sees one apparently firm substance after another melt away; this man--till he is enabled by the divine influence to construct one,[30] inward and indestructible, (and this point Hamlet has manifestly not reached) this man alone, I say, _cannot pray_, for the Object fails him. He cannot deny it to himself,--when he prays, he is only acting a part with himself. This is a melancholy process to pass through, and is imputed to unhappy mortals as a crime by those who first place the poor child on the bed of Procrustes, and by that means often render it impossible for the cramped and shortened limbs ever to extend themselves again to their natural length. But back to the play. It concluded with a melo-drama, in which a large Newfoundland dog really acted admirably; he defended a banner for a long time, pursued the enemy, and afterwards came on the stage wounded, lame, and bleeding, and died in the most masterly manner, with a last wag of the tail that was really full of genius. You would have sworn that the good beast knew at least as well as any of his human companions what he was about. I left the theatre in such good humour that I won eight rubbers at whist after it at the Club, for luck at play goes with good spirits and confidence.--But good night. _December 4th._ In consequence of the opening of Parliament, society begins to be more lively, though London 'en gros' is still empty. The most elegant ladies of the first circles now give small parties, access to which is far more difficult to most Englishmen than to foreigners of rank; for the despotism of fashion, as I have already told you, rules in this land of freedom with iron sceptre, and extends through all classes in a manner we on the Continent have no conception of. But without indulging too early in general observations, I will describe to you my own way of life in London. I rise late; read, like a half-nationalized foreigner, three or four newspapers at breakfast; look in my 'visiting-book' what visits I have to pay, and either drive to pay them in my cabriolet or ride. In the course of these excursions, I sometimes catch the enjoyment of the picturesque; the struggle of the blood-red sun with the winter fogs often produces wild and singular effects of light. After my visits are paid, I ride for several hours about the beautiful environs of London, return when it grows dark, work a little, dress for dinner, which is at seven or eight, and spend the evening either in the theatre or at some small party. The ludicrous 'routs,'--at which one hardly finds standing-room on the staircase,--where one pushes and is pushed, and is kept for hours in a hot-house temperature,--have not yet commenced. In England however, except in a few diplomatic houses, you can go nowhere in an evening except on special invitation. In these small parties there is not much 'géne,' but general conversation has no place: each gentleman usually singles out a lady who peculiarly interests him, and does not quit her for the whole evening. Many fair ones are thus frequently left sitting alone, without an opportunity of speaking a word; they however do not betray any dissatisfaction, even by a look or gesture, for they are of a very passive nature. Every body of course speaks French, as with us, 'tant bien que mal,' but this continued 'géne' annoys the ladies so much after a time, that a man has no little advantage who can speak English tolerably. You see this life is pretty much a 'far niente,' though not a very sweet one to my taste, for I love society only in intimate circles, and attach myself with difficulty,--indeed now scarcely at all,--to new acquaintances. The ennui, which seizes me in such an indifferent state of mind, is too clearly written on my undiplomatic face not to extend to others as contagiously as yawning. Here and there I find an exception:--to-day for instance I made the acquaintance of Mr. Morier, the clever and very agreeable author of Hadji Baba; and of Mr. Hope, the imputed author of Anastasius, a work of far higher genius. This book is worthy of Byron: many maintain that Mr. Hope, who is rather remarkable for his reserve than for anything poetical in his appearance, cannot possibly have written it. This doubt derives considerable force from a work which Mr. Hope formerly published on furniture, the style and contents of which certainly contrast strangely with the glowing impassioned Anastasius, overflowing with thought and feeling. An acquaintance of mine said to me, "One thing or the other: either Anastasius is not by him, or the work on furniture." But matter so different brings with it as different a style; and as I observed Mr. Hope, perhaps with involuntary prepossession, he appeared to me no ordinary man. He is very rich, and his house full of treasures of art, and of luxuries which I shall describe hereafter. His furniture theory, which is fashioned on the antique, I cannot praise in practice:--the chairs are ungovernable; other trophy-like structures look ridiculous, and the sofas have such sharp salient points in all directions, that an incautious sitter might hurt himself seriously. On my return home at night I found your letter, which, like everything from you, gave me more pleasure than aught else can. Say not, however, that the pain of parting occasions you such deep depression,--let it not be deeper than a joyful meeting can at once remove; and that is probably not very distant. That you point to another life, as soon as things do not go precisely according to our wishes in this, seems to me, dearest, to show a want of Christian patience and confidence. No, I confess it, spite of transient fits of melancholy, I still feel the attraction of earth; and this 'span of life,' as you call it, has strong hold on my heart. If indeed you, my affectionate tutelary goddess, were also Fortuna, I should fare better than any mortal living: 'et toutes les étoiles pâliraient devant la mienne;'--but since you love me, you are my Fortuna, and I desire no better. Do not suffer your own melancholy, or mine, to deceive you. As for me, you know that a nothing raises the barometer of my spirits, and a nothing often depresses it. This is certainly too delicate a nervous organization, and little fitted for every-day, home-baked (_hausbacknen_) happiness,--which requires strong nerves. _December 5th._ Oberon, Weber's song of the swan, has occupied my evening.--The execution of both the instrumental and vocal parts left much to desire; but on the whole, the opera was extremely well performed, for London. The best part was the decorations, especially at the conjuration of the spirits. They appear, not, as usual, in the standing costume,--scarlet jackets and breeches, with snaky locks and flames on their heads,--but in the form of huge rocky caves, which occupy the whole stage; every mass of rock then suddenly changes into some fantastic and frightful form or face, gleaming with many-coloured flames and lurid light, out of which here and there a whole figure leans grinning forward, while the fearful thrilling music re-echoes on every side from the moving chorus of rocks. The opera itself I regard as one of Weber's feebler productions. There are beautiful parts, especially the introduction, which is truly elf-like. I am less delighted with the overture, though so highly extolled by connoisseurs. I ought to have begun by telling you that I was presented to the King to-day, at a great levée.--I give you as a proof of the extraordinary voluntary seclusion of the present sovereign, that our Secretary of Legation was presented with me _for the first time_, though he has been here in that capacity for two years. His Majesty has a very good memory. He immediately recollected my former visit to England, though he mistook the date of it by several years. I took occasion to make my compliments to him on the extraordinary embellishment of London since that time, which indeed is to be ascribed in great measure to him. After a gracious reply, I passed on, and placed myself in a convenient station for seeing the whole spectacle. It was odd enough. The king, on account of the feeble state of his health, remained seated;--the company marched past him in a line; each made his bow, was addressed or not, and then either placed himself in the row on the other side of the room, or quitted it. All those who had received any appointment kneeled down before the king and kissed his hand, at which the American Minister, near whom I had accidentally placed myself, made a rather satirical face. The clergymen and lawyers in their black gowns and white powdered wigs, short and long, had a most whimsical masquerading appearance. One of them was the object of an almost universal ill-suppressed laugh. This personage had kneeled to be 'knighted,' as the English call it, and in this posture, with the long fleece on his head, looked exactly like a sheep at the slaughter-block. His Majesty signed to the great Field Marshal to give him his sword. For the first time, perhaps, the great warrior could not draw the sword from the scabbard; he pulled and pulled,--all in vain. The king waiting with outstretched arm; the duke vainly pulling with all his might; the unhappy martyr prostrate in silent resignation, as if expecting his end, and the whole brilliant court standing around in anxious expectation:--it was a group worthy of Gilray's pencil. At length the state weapon started like a flash of lightning from its sheath. His Majesty grasped it impatiently,--indeed his arm was probably weary and benumbed with being so long extended,--so that the sword, instead of alighting on a new knight, fell on an old wig, which for a moment enveloped king and subject in a cloud of powder. _December 6th._ Mr. R---- had long ago invited me to visit him at his country-house, and I took advantage of a disengaged day to drive out with my friend L---- to dine there. The royal banker has bought no ducal residence, but lives in a pretty villa. We found some Directors of the East India Company, and several members of his own family and faith, whom I liked very much. I extremely respect this family for having the courage to remain Jews. Only an idiot can esteem a Jew the less for his religion, but renegades have always a presumption against their sincerity, which it is difficult to get over. There are three cases in which I should unconditionally allow Jews to change their religion. First, if they really believe that only Christians can be saved; secondly, if their daughters wish to marry Christians, who will have them on no other terms; thirdly, if a Jew were elected king of a Christian people,--a thing by no means impossible, since men far below the rank of Jewish barons, and notorious for the absence of all religion, have frequently ascended the throne in these latter days.[31] Mr. R---- was in high good-humour, amusing, and talkative. It was diverting to hear him explain to us the pictures around his dining-room, (all portraits of the sovereigns of Europe, presented through their ministers,) and talk of the originals as his very good friends, and, in a certain sense, his equals. "Yes," said he, "the ---- once pressed me for a loan, and in the same week in which I received his autograph letter, his father wrote to me also with his own hand from Rome to beg me for Heaven's sake not to have any concern in it, for that I could not have to do with a more dishonest man than his son." 'C'était sans doute très Catholique;' probably, however, the letter was written by the old ----, who hated her own son to such a degree, that she used to say of him,--everybody knows how unjustly,--"He has the heart of a t---- with the face of an a----." The others' turn came next. * * * He concluded, however, by modestly calling himself the dutiful and generously paid agent and servant of these high potentates, all of whom he honoured equally, let the state of politics be what it might; for, said he, laughing, "I never like to quarrel with my bread and butter." It shows great prudence in Mr. R---- to have accepted neither title nor order, and thus to have preserved a far more respectable independence. He doubtless owes much to the good advice of his extremely amiable and judicious wife, who excels him in tact and knowledge of the world, though not perhaps in acuteness and talents for business. On our way there we had been tempted to alight to see the state-carriage of another monarch of Asiatic origin, the King of the Birmans. It was taken in the late war. It is crowded with precious stones, valued at six thousand pounds, and has a splendid effect by candlelight: its canopy-like pyramidal form seemed to me in better taste than that of our carriages. The attendants sitting on it were odd enough,--two little boys and two peacocks, carved in wood and beautifully painted and varnished. At the time it was taken, it was drawn by two white elephants; and fifteen thousand precious stones, great and small, all unpolished, still adorn the gilded wood of which it is made. A number of curious and costly Birman arms were placed, as trophies, round the spacious apartment, which gave a doubly rich and interesting effect to the whole exhibition. As people always give a great deal for money here, there was a Poecilorama in an adjoining room, consisting also of Birman and Indian views, over which the light is ingeniously thrown so as to produce very lively and varied effects. I don't know why such things are not used as decorations for rooms. At a fête, for instance, a room thus fitted up would surely be a much greater novelty than the hackneyed ornaments of gay draperies, orange trees, and flowers. _December 8th._ On my way home from a dinner at M. de Polignac's, a very agreeable but highly orthodox representative of 'l'ancien regime,' I was in time to find the celebrated Mathews "At Home" at his theatre. The curtain was dropped, and Mr. Mathews sitting in front of it at a table covered with a cloth. He began by discursively relating to the public that he was just returned from a journey to Paris, where he had met with many original individuals and droll adventures. Imperceptibly he passed from the narrative style to a perfectly dramatic performance, in which, with almost inconceivable talent and memory, he placed before the eyes of his audience all that he had witnessed; while he so totally altered his face, speech, and whole exterior, with the rapidity of lightning, that one must have seen it to believe it possible. His outward helps consist only of a cap, a cloak, a false nose, a wig, &c., which he draws from under the table cover, and with these slender means produces an entire and instant transformation. The applause was tumultuous and the laughter incessant. The principal persons (who were introduced in various situations,) were an old Englishman, who found fault with everything abroad and praised everything at home; a provincial lady who never walked in the street without a French dictionary in her hand, worried the passers-by with incessant questions, and seized every opportunity of assisting other English people with her superior knowledge, in doing which, as may be imagined, she stumbled upon the most perverted, burlesque, and often equivocal expressions; a dandy from the city, who affected 'le grand air;' and his opposite, a fat farmer from Yorkshire, who played pretty much the part of farmer Feldkümmel. The most amusing thing to me was an English lecture on craniology by Spurzheim. The likeness to that person, so well known in England,--to his whole manner and his German accent,--was so perfect, that the theatre shook with incessant laughter. I was less pleased with some other imitations; particularly that of Talma, who is far above the reach of any mere mimic, be his talents what they may. Besides, his death is too recent, and sorrow for his irreparable loss too great in the mind of every lover of art, to render such a parody agreeable. The performance concluded with a little farce, for which the curtain was drawn up, and in which Mathews again played alone. He filled seven or eight different parts, exclusive of those of a dog and a child, which were indeed personated by puppets, but which he barked and prattled, in as masterly a manner as he spoke the others. At first he is a French tutor, who is going to travel with a little lord ten years old, whom he shuts into a guitar-case that he may save the fare of the diligence, and at the same time charge it to the papa. At every stage he takes him out, to give him air and make him say his lesson. He carries on the conversation with infinite drollery, and surprising skill as a ventriloquist. The boy's resistance to being shut up in his box again,--the way in which his murmurs and complaints die away, like the waltz in the Freischütz, till at length the lid is clapped to, and the last tones come from the shut case like a faint echo,--are inconceivably comic. After many adventures which beset the diligence and its passengers, an old maid (again Mathews) makes her appearance. She has a favourite lapdog, which is not suffered to travel inside, but which she is trying to smuggle in, and fixes her eye on the guitar-case as a fit hiding-place for her darling. In her hurry to accomplish her purpose she does not observe that the place is already occupied. But hardly has she laid the case out of her hand, when the dog begins to growl and bark, the boy to howl, and she to scream for help; which trio made the gallery almost frantic with delight. The whole affair is, as you perceive, not exactly æsthetic, and rather fitted to an English stomach than to any other. It is, indeed, almost painful to see such skill devoted to such absurd buffooneries; the talent, however, is still most remarkable; and even the physical powers wonderful, which can support these efforts of acting and continual speaking, with all these fatiguing disguises, without a single slip or stumble, for hours together. Not to require as great an exertion of patience from you, I will now conclude. I wish heartily that my display of the meagre peep-shows of the town may not tire you too much. You asked for pictures of daily life; you expect from me no statistical work, no topography, no regular enumeration of the so-called sights of London, and no systematic treatise on England; nor am I in any condition to afford you such. Receive, therefore, the unpretending humble fare I send you, in good part. It is at all events now and then seasoned with a grain of pepper. Your faithful L----. LETTER VII. _London, Dec. 9th, 1826._ DEAREST FRIEND, It is not uninteresting to attend the auctions here; first, on account of the multitude of extremely rare and valuable things, which form the wonderful activity of life and the constant vicissitudes of fortune are daily brought into the market, and often sold very cheap; and secondly, for the ingenuity and eloquence of the auctioneers, of which I have already made honourable mention. They embroider their orations with more wit gratis, than ours would be willing to furnish for ready money. This morning I saw the sale of an Indian cabinet, the property of a bankrupt Nabob, which contained some curious and beautiful works of art. "The possessor of these treasures," said the orator, "has taken much trouble for nothing; for nothing to himself, I mean, but a great deal to you, gentlemen. He had once doubtless more money than wit, but has now, as certainly, more wit than money." "Modesty and merit," observed he afterwards, "go together only thus far,--both begin with an _m_." And in this style, and with such 'jeus de mots,' he continued. "What enables the poor to live?" concluded he. "Charity or liberality do but little towards it. Vanity, vanity is the thing,--not theirs, poor devils, but that of the rich. If you then, gentlemen, will but display a little of this praiseworthy vanity, and buy, you will earn a blessing even without meaning it." Yes, truly, thought I, there you are right, old jester, for so admirably is the world contrived, that good must ever arise out of evil; and the existence of evil only serves to render the good which succeeds it more conspicuous. One must moralize everywhere. I dined at the house of a lady of distinction, who talked to me the whole time we were at table about Napoleon, and, with true English exaggeration, was so enamoured of him, that she thought the execution of the Duke d'Enghien, and the betrayal of Spain, laudable acts. Though I do not go quite so far, I am, as you know, an admirer of this man's colossal greatness, and delighted my neighbour highly by describing to her Napoleon's former magnificence, of which I was an eyewitness,--those brilliant days in which Cæsar himself stood amazed at his splendour; "Quand les ambassadeurs de tant de rois divers Vinrent le reconnoître au nom de l'univers." _For his own fame_, I do not wish otherwise any of his later misfortunes; nor for _the tragic interest_, any of his errors and faults. He bore 'coups d'épées' and 'coups d'épingles' with equal fortitude and dignity; and left an epitaph worthy of his life in the words, 'Je lègue l'opprobre de ma mort à l'Angleterre.' Thus much is certain, he is still too near us for impartial judgment; and experience has amply taught us that it was less his despotic principles than his personal aggrandisement which provoked such inveterate hostility. The principles exist still; but, God be praised, the energy with which he put them in practice, is utterly wanting, and that is a great gain for human nature.[32] There is now a French theatre here, which is attained only by the best company, and nevertheless is like a dark little private theatre. Perlet and Laporte are its great supports, and play admirably. The latter also, with true French assurance, acts on the English stage, and thinks, when the audience laughs at his accent and French manners, that it is merely a tribute to his 'vis comica.' I went to the theatre with Mrs. ----, wife of the well-known minister and member of parliament, and accompanied her after the play to the first genuine rout I have attended this time of my being in England,--what is more, too, in a house in which I was entirely a stranger. It is the custom here to take your friends to parties of this sort, and to present them, then and there, to the mistress of the house, who never thinks you can bring enough to fill her small rooms to suffocation: the more the better; and for the full satisfaction of her vanity, a 'bagarre' must arise among the carriages below; some must be broken to pieces, and a few men and horses killed or hurt, so that the 'Morning Post' of the following day may parade a long article on the extremely 'fashionable soirée' given by 'Lady Vain,' or 'Lady Foolish.' In the course of the evening I made a more interesting acquaintance than I expected on the staircase, (I could get no further,) in Lady C---- B----, who has some reputation as an authoress. She is the sister of a Duke, and was a celebrated beauty. The next morning I called on her, and found everything in her house brown, in every possible shade;--furniture, curtains, carpets, her own and her children's dresses, presented no other colour. The room was without looking-glasses or pictures; and its only ornaments were casts from the antique. * * * * * After I had been there some time, the celebrated bookseller C---- entered. This man has made a fortune by Walter Scott's novels, though, as I was told, he refused his first and best, Waverly, and at last gave but a small sum for it. I hope the charming Lady C---- B---- had better cause to be satisfied with him. I thought it discreet to leave her with her man of business, and made my bow. _December 10th._ The affairs of Portugal are now much discussed in all circles; and the Marquis P---- read us the just printed English Declaration to-night, in a box at the French theatre. Politics are here a main ingredient of social intercourse; as they begin to be in Paris, and will in time become in our sleepy Germany; for the whole world has now that tendency. The lighter and more frivolous pleasures suffer by this change; and the art of conversation as it once flourished in France, will perhaps soon be entirely lost. In this country I should rather think it never existed, unless perhaps in Charles the Second's time. And, indeed, people here are too slavishly subject to established usages; too systematic in all their enjoyments; too incredibly kneaded up with prejudices; in a word, too little vivacious, to attain to that unfettered spring and freedom of spirit, which must ever be the sole basis of agreeable society. I must confess that I know none more monotonous, nor more persuaded of its own pre-excellence, than the highest society of this country,--with but few exceptions, and those chiefly among foreigners, or persons who have resided a good deal on the Continent. A stony, marble-cold spirit of caste and fashion rules all classes, and makes the highest tedious, the lower ridiculous. True politeness of the heart and cheerful 'bonhommie' are rarely to be met with in what is called society; nor, if we look for foreign ingredients, do we find either French grace and vivacity, or Italian naturalness; but at most, German stiffness and awkwardness concealed under an iron mask of arrogance and 'hauteur.' In spite of this, the 'nimbus' of a firmly anchored aristocracy and vast wealth, (combined with admirable taste in spending it, which no one can deny them,) has stamped the Great World of this country as that 'par excellence,' of Europe, to which all other nations must more or less give way. But that foreigners individually and personally do not find it agreeable, is evident by their rarity in England, and by the still greater rarity of their desire to stay long. Every one of them at the bottom of his heart thanks God when he is out of English society; though personal vanity afterwards, leads him to extol that uninspiring foggy sun, whose beams assuredly gave him but little 'comfort' when he lived in them. Far more loveable, because far more loving, do the English appear in their domestic and most intimate relations; though even here some 'baroque' customs;--for instance, that sons in the highest ranks, as soon as they are fledged, leave the paternal roof and live alone; nay actually do not present themselves at their fathers' dinner-table without a formal invitation. I lately read a moving instance of conjugal affection in the newspaper: The Marquis of Hastings died in Malta; shortly before his death he ordered that his right hand should be cut off immediately after his death, and sent to his wife. A gentleman of my acquaintance, out of real tenderness, and with her previously obtained permission, cut off his mother's head, that he might keep the skull as long as he lived; while other Englishmen, I really believe, would rather endure eternal torments than permit the scalpel to come near their bodies. The laws enjoin the most scrupulous fulfilment of such dispositions of a deceased person; however extravagant they may be, they must be executed. I am told there is a country-house in England where a corpse, fully dressed, has been standing at a window for the last half-century, and still overlooks its former property. Just as I was going to entertain you with more English originalities, my long-desired head-gardener entered my room, bringing your letters. What a pity that you could not put yourself into the large packet, (of course in all your 'fraicheur,' and not like Lord Hastings' hand,) or inhabit a pretty box, like Göthe's delightful Gnome, so that I might call you out and share with you every enjoyment, fresh as it arises, without this long interval! As it is, you are melancholy, because I was so a fortnight before; or your sympathizing answer to a cheerful letter of mine arrives just as I am labouring under a fresh attack of 'spleen.' As you say, such an old letter is often like a dead body which, after being forgotten, is fished up out of the sea. I must laugh at you, and scold you for one thing--that you write me, as is your way, scarcely any details about what is passing at my beloved M----, and send me, instead, long extracts out of a book of Travels in Africa, which I have read here ages ago in the original. I will certainly pay you in your own coin the next time you do so. I am just studying a very interesting work, _Dass Preussische Exercier-Reglement von 1805_, out of which, when other matter fails me, I shall send you the cleverest and most entertaining extracts. O you gentle lamb! you shall often be 'shorn' with these African novelties of yours; the more so, as the last shearing took place a long time ago, and you must be sitting as deeply imbedded in your wool as the Knights of St. John in B----, when, displaying their double crosses, they await the highest bidder on their Woolsacks. The seat of the Lord Chancellor here is also a Woolsack, but of rather a more aristocratical sort, more nearly allied to the Golden Fleece. I now make almost daily park-excursions with R----, to render his visit to England as useful as possible; for a good gardener will learn more here in his profession during a short stay, than in a study of ten years at home. There are indeed in the immediate neighbourhood of London a great number of very interesting seats, all of them situated on very pleasant and animated roads. Amongst these may particularly be mentioned a villa of Lord Mansfield's, the decorations of which do much honour to the taste of his lady. Sion House, belonging to the Duke of Northumberland, and laid out by Brown, is also extremely worth seeing, on account of its remarkable green-houses, and the multitude of gigantic exotic trees in the open air, none of which would bear our climate. Here are also to be seen whole groves of rhododendrons, camellias, &c., which are but partially covered in winter; and all kinds of beautiful evergreens thrive luxuriantly in every season. The green and hot-houses, which form a front of three hundred feet, consist only of stone, iron and glass; a style of building which has here the additional advantage of being cheaper than that with wood. I was interested by a kind of chain, the links of which consisted of scythes, for the purpose of clearing the large standing waters (a defect in most English parks): by merely drawing it, like a drag-net, along the bottom, it entirely removes the weeds. In the vast pleasure-ground twelve men are daily mowing from five till nine o'clock. By this means high grass is never to be seen there, and at the same time the disagreeable general mowing is avoided, which destroys the neatness of the garden for some days. It is true that they can do only a part daily; but it is so managed that they finish a certain allotted portion, and they come round so often that the difference in the turf is not perceptible. This short grass is, indeed, quite lost to economy; but beauty and utility cannot always be combined, and the latter must certainly be subordinate in a pleasure-ground, or it is better to relinquish all pretensions to one. Kew, which is on the opposite bank of the river, unquestionably possesses the most complete collection of exotic plants in Europe. The park has also a great advantage in its beautiful situation on the Thames, but is in general rather neglected. Yew trees are found here of the height of our firs, and very fine specimens of holly and evergreen oak; in other respects the old Queen's plantations are not very tasteful. Wimbledon Park, stretching over several hills and full of beautiful groups of trees, present fine views, but the effect of the whole is spoiled by some degree of monotony. ---- House is very near, and almost in the suburbs of London: its architecture is not without interest. I tell you nothing of the enchanting valley of Richmond. Every traveller falls into an ecstacy about it, and with justice; but he does not always excite a similar feeling in the reader by his descriptions. I therefore avoid them, and remark only that the excellent aristocratic inn (the Star and Garter,) from which one overlooks this paradise, whilst one's corporeal wants are admirably provided for, enhances the pleasure. Solitude and tranquillity joined to every comfort of life, in a country beautiful above all expression, powerfully invite to enjoyment. In the evening I took R---- to the Adelphi Theatre. It is small and neat, and distinguished for the goodness of its machinery; just now, too, it possesses several excellent actors. One of them played the drunkard more naturally than I ever saw it. It is true that he has more facilities here for the study of that state of mind,--for the same reason that the ancients represented the naked figure better than our artists,--namely, because they saw it more frequently. An excellent trait of real life was, that the drunkard, who cherished a tender passion for a young and poor girl in the house where he lodged, when sober formed other projects, but in his drunken fits invariably returned with tears 'à ses anciennes amours,' and in that state of mind was at length happily brought to marry her. _December 23d._ Many thanks for the news from B----. I am particularly pleased that Alexander Von Humboldt is employed by Government. It must give pleasure to every patriot to see a man like him at length fixed in his native country, which is so justly proud of his fame in all parts of the world. It must be a happy occurrence too for many circles there, in which the salt will at length be mingled, the want of which has so long rendered them quite unpalatable. How much I lament the accident which has befallen our good and noble King, (and I had already learned it from L----,) you can easily imagine, as you know my feelings on that subject; but I hope to God that his strong constitution, and the help of such skilful men, will remove every remaining evil. How rare, and how beautiful, to hear a whole nation exclaim with one heart and mind, "May heaven preserve to us our beloved Monarch!"[33] My own state of spirits is, 'au reste,' somewhat of the same melancholy cast, probably from the everlasting fogs, which are often so bad that one is obliged to light candles in the middle of the day, and yet cannot see. 'Le pire est, que je suis tantôt trop, et tantôt trop peu sensible á l'opinion et aux procédés des autres.' In the former disposition, (and dispositions unfortunately govern me with despotic power,) they not only make me sad or cheerful, but, what is worse, wise or foolish. I sometimes appear to myself like a person who has climbed up a ladder of ropes, where his hands have grown benumbed; and after hanging for a long time near the top, and endeavouring to get still higher, is now on the point of being obliged to let go, and fall down again to the bottom. And yet, perhaps, when once arrived on the level plain of common-place and obscurity, he may be more tranquil than in the stormy breezes; and though his hopes be less, he may be surrounded by a happier, though a more simple reality. But a truce to such vain speculations. They are unprofitable, and even fears of a threatening real misfortune ought always to be forcibly banished; for why torment ourself with anxieties about that which _may_ come, and yet perhaps never _does_ come; yet, as a mere dreamy phantom, has embittered so much of a present which might otherwise have been cheerful? In all such states of mind, your image is my best comfort; and to you, my only and unchanging friend, I turn at length with tearful eyes, and tender gratitude for all your manifold love, kindness and indulgence. In your faithful bosom I deposit my grief as well as my joy, and all my hopes; the most brilliant fulfilment of which would, without you, lose all value for me. But now I must leave you, as my duty requires, (for otherwise I would not,) to go to a large party; where I am destined, as in life, to lose myself in the multitude. It is, I think, my last visit to the gay world, as I am preparing to set out on a park-and-garden journey with B----, which probably will take us a month. The present season is indeed just the best for him who wishes to make landscape-gardening a study, for the leafless trees afford a clear and free view in all directions; one can thus see the whole artificial landscape in a single tour, understand the effects produced, and judge of the whole like a plan on paper; as well as distinguish the parts of every plantation in their intended order. Yesterday we visited, 'en attendant,' the parks in town,--Kensington Gardens;--Regent's park, 'en détail,' &c., on which occasion we did not omit to look in at the Diorama exhibited there. This far surpassed my expectations, and all that I had formerly seen of the same kind. It is certainly impossible to deceive the senses more effectually; even with the certitude of illusion one can hardly persuade himself it exists. The picture represented the interior of a large abbey-church, appearing perfectly in its real dimensions. A side door is open, ivy climbs through the windows, and the sun occasionally shines through the door, and lightens with a cheering beam the remains of coloured windows, glittering through cobwebs. Through the opposite window at the end you see the neglected garden of the monastery, and above it, single clouds in the sky, which, flitting stormily across, occasionally obscure the sunlight, and throw deep shadows over the church--tranquil as death; where the crumbled but magnificent remains of an ancient knight reposes in gloomy majesty. As our departure is fixed for to-morrow, I send off this letter, although it has not yet grown to the usual corpulence. How slender are yours in comparison! Certainly, whenever our descendants find the dusty correspondence of their ancestors in a corner of the old library, they will be equally astonished at my prodigality and at your avarice, 'A propos,' do not be too dissipated in B----, and forget not, even for the shortest time, The most faithful of your friends, L. LETTER VIII. _Watford, December 25, 1826._ DEAR FRIEND, This morning we started,--unluckily in bad rainy weather. Ten miles from London we commenced operations with the inspection of two villas and a large park, near the pretty little village of Stanmore. The first villa was thoroughly in the rural Gothic style, with ornamented pointed gables; a 'genre' in which English architects are peculiarly happy. The interior was also most prettily fitted up in the same style, and at the same time extremely comfortable and inviting. Even the doors in the walls surrounding the kitchen-garden were adorned with windows of coloured glass at the top, which had a singular and beautiful brilliancy among the foliage. The little flower-garden, too, was laid out in beds of Gothic forms surrounded by gravel walks, and the fancy had not a bad effect. Very different was the aspect of the other villa, in the Italian taste, with large vases before it, filled not with flowers but with green and yellow gourds and pumpkins. A superabundance of wooden statues, painted white, decorated, or rather deformed, the gardens. Among them a roaring rampant lion vainly sought to inspire terror, and a Cupid hanging in a bush threatened, as abortively, the passengers with his darts. The Priory, formerly a religious house, now the seat of Lord Aberdeen, has many beauties. The number of magnificent firs and pines in the park give it a singularly foreign air. The simple beautiful house is almost concealed amid trees of every size and form, so that one catches only glimpses of it glancing between the shrubs, or overtopping the high trees. This is always very advantageous to buildings, especially those of an antique character. One seldom sees here those unbroken views over a long and narrow strip of level grass, but which have no other effect than that of making distance appear less than it really is. We walked about the grounds for a considerable time, while a bevy of young ladies and gentlemen of the family came around us, mounted on small Scotch poneys; and one of the latter, a pretty boy, attached himself to us as guide, and showed us the interior of the house, whose dark walls were most luxuriantly clothed, up to the very roof, with ivy, pomegranate and China-rose. It was twilight before we quitted the park, and in half an hour we reached the little town of Watford, where I am now reposing in a good inn. R---- takes this opportunity of commending himself most respectfully to you, and is writing very busily in his journal, which makes me laugh. I must just remark, that at Stanmore Priory we saw (I steal it out of the fore-named journal) a single rhododendron standing abroad, fifteen feet high, and covering a circumference of at least twenty-five feet with its thick branches. Such vegetation is more inviting to 'parkomanie' than ours. _Woburn, December 26th._ We have made a calculation, dear Julia, that if you were with us (a wish ever present to the minds of your faithful servants) you could not, with your aversion to foot-exercise, see above a quarter of a park a-day; and that it would take you at least four hundred and twenty years to see all the parks in England, of which there are doubtless at least a hundred thousand, for they swarm whichever way you turn your steps. Of course we visit only the great ones, or look, 'en passant,' at any little villa that particularly strikes and pleases us. Notwithstanding this, we have seen so many proud and magnificent seats to-day, that we are still in perfect rapture at them. For I, you know, never could subscribe to the rule of the 'nil admirari,' which cramps and destroys our best enjoyments. Before I begin my description, I must, however, give the excellent inns their meed of praise. In the country, even in small villages, you find them equally neat and well attended. Cleanliness, great convenience, and even elegance, are always combined in them; and a stranger is never invited to eat, sit and sleep in the same room, as in the German inns, in which there are generally only ball-rooms and bed-chambers. The table-service generally consists of silver and porcelain: the furniture is well contrived; the beds always excellent; and the friendly, flickering fire never fails to greet you. A detailed description of this morning's breakfast will give you the best idea of the wants and the comfortable living of English travellers. N. B. I had ordered nothing but tea. The following is what I found set out when I quitted my bed-room,--in a little town scarcely so extensive as one of our villages. In the middle of the table smoked a large tea-urn, prettily surrounded by silver tea-canisters, a slop-basin, and a milk-jug. There were three small Wedgwood plates, with as many knives and forks, and two large cups of beautiful porcelain: by them stood an inviting plate of boiled eggs, another 'ditto' of broiled 'oreilles de cochon à la Sainte Ménéhould;' a plate of muffins, kept warm by a hot water-plate; another with cold ham; flaky white bread, 'dry and buttered toast,' the best fresh butter in an elegant glass vessel; convenient receptacles for salt and pepper, English mustard and 'moutarde de maille;' lastly, a silver tea-caddy, with very good green and black tea. This most luxurious meal,--which I hope you will think I have described as picturesquely as a landscape,--is, moreover, in proportion very cheap; for it was charged in the bill only two shillings (16 Gr.). Travelling is however, on the whole, very expensive,--especially the posting (which is exactly four times as much as with us,) and the fees which you are expected to be giving all day long, in all directions, to every species of servant and attendant. At ten o'clock we reached Cashiobury Park, the seat of the Earl of Essex. I sent in my name to him; upon which his son-in-law, Mr. F----, (whom I had formerly known in Dresden, and with whom I was happy to renew my acquaintance,) came to conduct me about. The house is modern Gothic, and magnificently furnished. You enter a hall with coloured windows, which afford a view into an inner court laid out as a flower-garden: leaving the hall, you go through a long gallery on the side, hung with armour, to the rich carved oak staircase leading to the library, which here generally serves as principal drawing-room. The library has two small cabinets looking on the garden, and filled with rarities. Among these I was particularly pleased with two numerous sketches by Denon, representing the levée of Cardinal Bernis at Rome, and a dinner at Voltaire's, with the Abbé Maury, Diderot, Helvetius, d'Alembert, and other philosophers,--all portraits. I was much interested too by a complete toilet of Marie Antoinette's, on which the portraits of her husband and of Henry the Fourth were painted in several places. From the library you go into an equally rich second drawing-room; and from thence into the dining-room. Near to both these rooms was a green-house, in the form of a chapel; and in every apartment windows down to the ground afforded a view of the noble park and the river flowing through it. On a distant rising ground you look along a very broad avenue of limes, exactly at the end of which, during a part of the summer, the sun sets: its horizontal rays passing along the whole length of the green-house must afford the most splendid natural decoration, heightened by the reflection of its beams from a large mirror at the end. The walls of the dining-room are covered with oaken 'boiserie,' with beautiful cornices and carving; the furniture is of rose-wood, silk and velvet; and valuable pictures in antique gilded frames adorn the walls. The proportions of the room may be called hall-like, and the whole is regularly heated to a temperature of fourteen degrees of Reaumur. The somewhat remote stables and all the domestic offices, &c., are on the left, connected with the house by an embattled wall; so that the building extends along an uninterrupted length of a thousand feet. The flower-gardens occupy a very considerable space. Part of them are laid out in the usual style; that is, a long green-house at the bottom, in front of which are several 'berceaux' and shady walks around a large grass-plat, which is broken with beds of all forms, and dotted with rare trees and shrubs. But here was also something new;--a deep secluded valley of oval form, around which is a thick belt of evergreens, and rock-plants planted impenetrably thick on artificial rockeries; a background of lofty fir-trees and oak, with their tops waving in the wind; and, at one end of the grass-plat, a single magnificent lime-tree surrounded by a bench. From this point the whole of the little valley was covered with an embroidered parterre of the prettiest forms, although perfectly regular. The egress from this enclosure lay through a grotto overgrown with ivy, and lined with beautiful stones and shells, into a square rose-garden surrounded with laurel hedges, in the centre of which is a temple, and opposite to the entrance a conservatory for aquatic plants. The rose-beds are cut in various figures, which intersect each other. A walk, overarched with thick beeches neatly trimmed with the shears, winds in a sinuous line from this point to the Chinese garden, which is likewise enclosed by high trees and walls, and contains a number of vases, benches, fountains, and a third green-house,--all in the genuine Chinese style. Here were beds surrounded by circles of white, blue, and red sand, fantastic dwarf plants, and many dozens of large China vases placed on pedestals, thickly overgrown with trailing evergreens and exotics. The windows of the house were painted like Chinese hangings, and convex mirrors placed in the interior, which reflected us as in a 'camera obscura.' I say nothing of the endless rows of rich hot-houses and forcing-beds, nor of the kitchen-gardens. You may estimate the thing for yourself, when I repeat to you Mr. F----'s assurance that the park, gardens, and house cost ten thousand a-year to keep up. The Earl has his own workmen in every department; masons, carpenters, cabinet-makers, &c., each of whom has his prescribed province. One has, for instance, only to keep the fences in order, another the rooms, a third the furniture, &c.; a plan well worthy of imitation in the country. I paid my visit to the venerable Earl, who kept his chamber with the gout, and received from the kind friendly old man the best information, and some (highly necessary) cards of admittance for my further journey. Our road lay for a long time through the park, till we reached one of the principal features in it, called the Swiss Cottage, which stands in a lovely secluded spot in the midst of a grove on the bank of the river. We drove over the turf; for, as I have told you, many parks here are quite like free uncultivated ground, and have often only one road, which leads up to the house and out on the other side. Having regained the high road, we drove along twenty miles of country, all equally beautiful, equally luxuriant in fertility and vegetation, and at five o'clock reached Ashridge Park, the seat of the Earl of Bridgewater. Here you can follow me better, dear Julia, if you open Repton's book, in which you will find several views, and the ground-plan of this charming garden, which old Repton himself laid out. Remember the 'Rosary,' and you will immediately know where to look for it. This park is one of the largest in England, for it is nearly three German miles in circumference; and the house which, like Cashiobury, is modern Gothic, is almost endless, with all its walls, towers, and courts. I must, however, frankly confess, that this modern Gothic ('castellated') style, which looks so fairy-like on paper, in reality often strikes one not only as tasteless, but even somewhat absurd, from its overloaded and incongruous air. If in the midst of the most cultivated, peaceful fields, amid the mingled beauties of countless flowers, you see a sort of fortress, with turrets, loopholes, and battlements, not one of which has the slightest purpose or utility, and, moreover, many of them standing on no firmer basis than glass walls (the green-houses and conservatories connected with the apartments,)--it is just as ridiculous and incongruous, as if you were to meet the possessor of these pretty flower-gardens walking about in them in helm and harness. The antique, the old Italian, or merely romantic[34] style, adapted to our times, harmonizes infinitely better with such surrounding objects, has a more cheerful character, and even, with smaller masses, a much grander and more majestic air. The interior of this house has certainly the most striking effect, and may truly be called princely. The possessor has very wisely limited himself to few, but large, entertaining-rooms. You enter the hall, which is hung with armour and adorned with antique furniture. You then come to the staircase, the most magnificent in its kind that can be imagined. Running up three lofty stories, with the same number of galleries, it almost equals the tower of a church in height and size: the walls are of polished stone, the railings of bright brass, the ceiling of wood beautifully carved in panels and adorned with paintings, and around each landing-place or gallery are niches with statues of the Kings of England in stone. Ascending this staircase we reached a drawing-room decorated with crimson velvet and gilded furniture, lighted in front by enormous windows which occupy nearly the whole side of the room, and disclose the view of the 'pleasure-ground' and park. Sidewards, on the left, is another room as large, in which are a billiard-table and the library. On the other side, in the same suite, is the dining-room; and behind it a noble green-house and orangery, through which you pass into the chapel, which is adorned with ten windows of genuine antique painted glass, and with admirable carvings in wood. All the benches are of walnut-tree, covered with crimson velvet. In the rooms are some fine and interesting pictures, but most of them by modern artists. The pleasure-grounds and gardens are still larger than those at Cashiobury. You will find a part of them in Repton, viz. the American garden, the Monk's garden, and the Rosary; to which I must add, first, the very elegant French garden, with a covered gallery, on one side; a porcelain-like ornament with flower-pots in the centre; and a large parterre, every bed of which is filled with a different sort of flower: secondly, the Rockery, in which are to be found every kind of rock and creeping plant. Nothing but the long habit of great luxury could enable people even to conceive a whole so manifold, so equally exemplary in all its parts, and in such perfect order and condition; for we must confess that even our sovereigns possess only fragments of what is here found united. Some thousand head of deer, and countless groups of giant trees, animate and adorn the park, which with the exception of the road leading through it, is left wholly to nature, and to its numerous grazing herds. Accept it as a small sacrifice, dear Julia, that I send you all these minute details. They may not be useless in our own plans and buildings, and are at least more tedious to write than to read.[35] For better illustration, I take sketches of everything interesting, which will stand us in good stead, as furnishing new ideas. In the morning we are going to see Woburn Abbey, the seat of the Duke of Bedford, one of the richest peers of England, which is said to exceed Ashbridge in extent and grandeur, as much as that does Cashiobury; a very agreeable climax. The inn whence I write is again very good, and I purpose, after all my fatigues, to do as much honour to my principal meal as I did to my breakfast; though the former is here far more simple, and consists of the same dishes day after day. The eternal 'mutton chops' and a roast fowl with 'bread sauce,' with vegetables boiled in water, and the national sauce, melted butter with flour, always play the principal part. _Leamington, Dec. 21st._ I am now in a large watering-place, of which, however, I have as yet seen but little, as I only arrived at eleven o'clock last night. The greater part of the day was spent in seeing Woburn Abbey. This beautiful palace is in the Italian taste; the design simple and noble, and infinitely more satisfactory than the colossal would-be-Gothic 'nonsense.' Its stables, riding-school, ball-rooms, statue and picture galleries, conservatories and gardens, form a little town. For three centuries this estate has been transmitted in a direct line in this family,--even in England a rare instance;--so that it is not to be wondered at, if, with an income of a million of our money, an accumulation of luxury and magnificence has been formed here, far exceeding the powers of any private person in our country: and indeed even were money here and there forthcoming in like profusion, yet the state of society adapted for centuries to the providing of the materials for a luxury so refined, and so complete in all its parts, exists not among us. The house, properly speaking, is a regular quadrangle; and the 'bel étage,' which is always 'de plein pied' in country-houses, forms an unbroken suite of rooms, occupying the whole superficial extent. These rooms are hung with valuable pictures, and richly furnished with massive and magnificent stuffs; the ceilings and the 'embrasures' of the doors are of white plaster with gold ornaments, or of rare carved wood,--all equally simple and massy. In one room was a remarkable collection of miniature portraits of the family, from the first Russell (the name of the Dukes of Bedford) to the present Duke, in an unbroken line. Under such circumstances, a man may be permitted to be a little proud of his family and his noble blood.[36] These miniatures were arranged in a very tasteful manner on crimson velvet, in a long narrow gold frame, and set like medallions. The stoves are mostly of gilt metal, with high marble chimney-pieces; the chandeliers of bronze, richly-gilded; everywhere the same magnificence, yet nowhere overloaded. The library is at the end, divided into two rooms, and opening immediately on the delightful garden with wide glass doors. The gardens appear to me peculiarly charming, so admirably interwoven with the buildings and so varied that it is difficult to describe them adequately. To give you at least a general idea of them, let me tell you, that all along the various buildings, which sometimes project, sometimes retreat, form now straight and now curved lines, runs an unbroken arcade clothed with roses and climbing plants. Following this, you come to a succession of different and beautiful gardens. Over the arcade are partly chambers, partly the prettiest little green-houses. One of them contains nothing but heaths, hundreds of which, in full blow, present the loveliest picture, endlessly multiplied by walls of mirror. Immediately under this, Erica-house was the garden for the same tribe of plants; a glass-plat with beds of various forms, all filled with the larger and hardier sorts of heath. In one place the bowery-walk leads quite through a lofty Palm-house, before which lie the most beautiful embroidered parterres, intersected with gravel walks. Adjoining this house is the statue-gallery, the walls of which are covered with various sorts of marble; there are also very beautiful pillars from Italy. It contains a number of antique sculptures, and is terminated at either end by a temple, the one dedicated to Freedom, and adorned with busts of Fox, &c., the other to the Graces, with Canova's exquisite group of the tutelary goddesses. From this point the arcade leads along an interminable plantation, on a sloping bank entirely filled with azaleas and rhododendrous, till you reach the Chinese garden, in which 'the Dairy' is a prominent and beautiful object. It is a sort of Chinese temple, decorated with a profusion of white marble and coloured glasses; in the centre is a fountain, and round the walls hundreds of large dishes and bowls of Chinese and Japan porcelain of every form and colour, filled with new milk and cream. The 'consoles' upon which these vessels stand are perfect models for Chinese furniture. The windows are of ground glass, with Chinese painting, which shows fantastically enough by the dim light. A further pleasure-ground, with the finest trees and many beautiful surprises,--among others pretty children's gardens, and a grass garden in which all sorts of gramineous plants were cultivated in little beds, forming a sort of chequer-work,--led to the Aviary. This consists of a large place fenced in, and a cottage, with a small pond in the centre, all dedicated to the feathered race. Here the fourth or fifth attendant awaited us, (each of whom expects a fee, so that you cannot see such an establishment under some pounds sterling,) and showed us first several gay-plumed parrots and other rare birds, each of whom had his own dwelling and little garden. These birds' houses were made of twigs interwoven with wire, the roof also of wire, the shrubs around evergreen, as were almost all the other plants in this enclosure. As we walked out upon the open space which occupies the centre, our Papageno whistled, and in an instant the air was literally darkened around us by flights of pigeons, chickens, and heaven knows what birds. Out of every bush started gold and silver, pied and common, pheasants; and from the little lake a black swan galloped heavily forward, expressing his strong desire for food in tones like those of a fretful child. This beautiful bird, raven black with red feet and bill, was exceedingly tame, ate his food 'chemin faisant' out of the keeper's pocket, and did not leave us for a moment while we were sauntering about the birds' paradise, only now and then pushing away an intrusive duck or other of the vulgar herd, or giving a noble gold pheasant a dig in the side. A second interesting but imprisoned inhabitant of this place was Hero, an African crane, a creature that looks as if it were made of porcelain, and frequently reminded me in his movements of our departed dancing Ballerino. The incident of his history which had gained him his lofty name was unknown to the keeper. The park, which is four German miles in circuit, does not consist merely of heath or meadow-land and trees, but has a fine wood, and also a very beautiful part fenced in, called the 'Thornery,' a wild sort of copse intersected with walks and overgrown with thorns and brushwood; in the midst of which stands a little cottage with the loveliest flower-garden. Here terminate the splendours of Woburn Abbey. But no--two things I must still mention. In the house, the decorations of which I have described to you 'en gros,' I found a very ingenious contrivance. Round all the apartments of the great quadrangle runs an inner wide gallery, on which several doors open; and a variety of collections, some open, some in glass cases, and here and there interspersed with stands of flowers, are set out. This affords a walk as instructive as it is agreeable in winter or bad weather, and is rendered perfectly comfortable by the 'conduits de chaleur,' which heat the whole house.--The second remarkable thing is a picture of the Earl of Essex as large as life. He is represented as of a fine and slender person, but not a very distinguished face; small features without much expression, small eyes, and a large red beard with dark hair. But I have written off a quarter of an inch of my finger, and must conclude. To-morrow another step in the ascending scale, for I must see Warwick Castle, which is spoken of as England's pride. I am curious to see if we can really mount higher; hitherto we have certainly ascended from beautiful to more beautiful. As the mail is just going off I enclose this to L----, who will have the kindness to forward it to you more quickly than it would otherwise go. Think of the wanderer in your tranquil solitude, and believe that if fate drove him to the antipodes, his heart would ever be near you. Your L----. LETTER IX. _Warwick, Dec. 26th, 1826._ DEAR JULIA, Now, indeed, for the first time, I am filled with real and unbounded enthusiasm. What I have hitherto described was a smiling country, combined with everything that art and money could produce. I left it with a feeling of satisfaction; and, although I have seen things like it,--nay, even possess them,--not without admiration. But what I saw to-day was more than that,--it was an enchanted palace decked in the most charming garb of poetry, and surrounded by all the majesty of history, the sight of which still fills me with delighted astonishment. You, accomplished reader of history and memoirs, know better than I that the Earls of Warwick were once the mightiest vassals of England, and that the great Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, boasted of having deposed three kings, and placed as many on the vacant throne. This was his castle, standing ever since the ninth century, and in the possession of the same family since the reign of Elizabeth. A tower of the castle, said to have been built by Beauchamp himself, remains unaltered; and the whole stands colossal and mighty, like an embodied vision of former times. From a considerable distance you see the dark mass of stone towering above the primæval cedars, chestnuts, oaks and limes. It stands on the rocks on the shore of the Avon, and rises to a perpendicular height of two hundred feet above the level of the water. Two towers of different forms overtop the building itself almost in an equal degree. A ruined pier of a bridge, overhung with trees, stands in the middle of the river, which becoming deeper just at the point where the building begins, forms a foaming waterfall, and turns a mill, which appears only like a low abutment of the castle. Going on, you lose sight of the castle for awhile, and soon find yourself before a high embattled wall, built of large blocks of stone covered by Time with moss and creeping plants. Lofty iron gates slowly unfold to admit you to a deep hollow way blasted in the rock, the stone walls of which are tapestried with the most luxuriant vegetation. The carriage rolled with a heavy dull sound along the smooth rock, which old oaks darkly overshadow. Suddenly, at a turn of the way, the castle starts from the wood into broad open daylight, resting on a soft grassy slope; and the large arch of the entrance dwindles to the size of an insignificant doorway between the two enormous towers, at the foot of which you now stand. A still greater surprise now awaits you when you pass through the second iron gate into the court-yard: it is almost impossible to imagine anything more picturesque, and at the same time more imposing. Let your fancy conjure up a space about twice as large as the interior of the Colosseum at Rome, and let it transport you into a forest of romantic luxuriance. You now overlook the large court, surrounded by mossy trees and majestic buildings, which, though of every variety of form, combine to create one sublime and connected whole, whose lines now shooting upwards, now falling off into the blue air, with the continually changing beauty of the green earth beneath, produce, not symmetry indeed, but that _higher harmony_, elsewhere proper to Nature's own works alone. The first glance at your feet falls on a broad simple carpet of turf, around which a softly winding gravel-walk leads to the entrance and exit of the gigantic edifice. Looking backwards, your eye rests on the two black towers, of which the oldest, called Guy's Tower, rears its head aloft in solitary threatening majesty, high above all the surrounding foliage, and looks as if cast in one mass of solid iron;--the other, built by Beauchamp, is half hidden by a pine and a chestnut, the noble growth of centuries. Broad-leaved ivy and vines climb along the walls, here twining around the tower, there shooting up to its very summit. On your left lie the inhabited part of the castle, and the chapel, ornamented with many lofty windows of various size and form; while the opposite side of the vast quadrangle, almost entirely without windows, presents only a mighty mass of embattled stone, broken by a few larches of colossal height, and huge arbutuses which have grown to a surprizing size in the shelter they have so long enjoyed. But the sublimest spectacle yet awaits you, when you raise your eyes straight before you. On this fourth side, the ground, which has sunk into a low bushy basin forming the court, and with which the buildings also descend for a considerable space, rises again in the form of a steep conical hill, along the sides of which climb the rugged walls of the castle. This hill, and the keep which crowns it, are thickly overgrown at the top with underwood, which only creeps round the foot of the towers and walls. Behind it, however, rise gigantic venerable trees, towering above all the rock-like structure. Their bare stems seem to float in upper air; while at the very summit of the building rises a daring bridge, set, as it were, on either side within trees; and as the clouds drift across the blue sky, the broadest and most brilliant masses of light break magically from under the towering arch and the dark coronet of trees. Figure this to yourself;--behold the whole of this magical scene at one glance;--connect with it all its associations;--think that here nine centuries of haughty power, of triumphant victory and destructive overthrow, of bloody deeds and wild greatness,--perhaps too of gentle love and noble magnanimity,--have left, in part, their visible traces, and where _they_ are not, their vague romantic memory;--and then judge with what feelings I could place myself in the situation of the man to whom such recollections are daily suggested by these objects,--recollections which, to him, have all the sanctity of kindred and blood;--the man who still inhabits the very dwelling of that first possessor of the fortress of Warwick, that half-fabulous Guy, who lived a thousand years ago, and whose corroded armour, together with a hundred weapons of renowned ancestors, is preserved in the antique hall. Is there a human being so unpoetical as not to feel that the glories of such memorials, even to this very day, throw a lustre around the feeblest representative of such a race? To make my description in some degree clear, I annex a ground-plan, which may help your imagination. You must imagine the river at a great depth below the castle-plain, and not visible from the point I have been describing. The first sight of it you catch is from the castle windows, together with the noble park, whose lines of wood blend on every side with the horizon. You ascend from the court to the dwelling-rooms by only a few steps, first through a passage, and thence into the hall, on each side of which extend the entertaining-rooms in an unbroken line of three hundred and forty feet. Although almost 'de plein-pied' with the court, these rooms are more than fifty feet above the Avon, which flows on the other side. From eight to fourteen feet thickness of wall forms, in each window-recess, a complete closet, with the most beautiful varied view over the river, wildly foaming below, and further on flowing through the park in soft windings, till lost in the dim distance. Had I till now, from the first sight of the castle, advanced from surprise to surprise,--all this was surpassed, though in another way, by what awaited me in the interior. I fancied myself transported back into by-gone ages as I entered the gigantic baronial hall,--a perfect picture of Walter Scott's;--the walls panelled with carved cedar; hung with every kind of knightly accoutrement; spacious enough to feast trains of vassals,--and saw before me a marble chimney-piece under which I could perfectly well walk with my hat on, and stand by the fire, which blazed like a funeral pile from a strange antique iron grate in the form of a basket, three hundred years old. On the side, true to ancient custom, was a stack of oak logs piled up upon a stand of cedar, which was placed on the stone floor partially covered by 'hautelisse' carpets. A man-servant dressed in brown, whose dress, with his gold knee-bands, epaulets and trimmings, had a very antique air, fed the mighty fire from time to time with an enormous block. Here, in every circumstance, the difference between the genuine old feudal greatness and the modern imitations was as striking, as that between the moss-grown remains of the weather-beaten fortress and the ruins built yesterday in the garden of some rich contractor. Almost everything in the room was old, stately, and original; nothing tasteless or incongruous, and all preserved with the greatest care and affection. Among them were many rich and rare articles which could no longer be procured,--silk, velvet, gold and silver blended and interwoven. The furniture consists almost entirely either of uncommonly rich gilding, of dark brown carved walnut or oak, or of those antique French 'commodes' and cabinets inlaid with brass, the proper name of which I have forgotten. There were also many fine specimens of mosaic, as well as of beautiful marquetry. A fire-screen, with a massy gold frame, consisted of a plate of glass so transparent that it was scarcely distinguishable from the air. To those who love to see the cheerful blaze without being scorched, such a screen is a great luxury. In one of the chambers stands a state bed, presented to one of the Earls of Warwick by Queen Anne; it is of red velvet embroidered, and is still in good preservation. The treasures of art are countless. Among the pictures, there was not one 'mediocre;' they are almost all by the first masters: but, beyond this, many of them have a peculiar family interest. There are a great many ancestral portraits by Titian, Van Dyk, and Rubens. The gem of the collection is one of Raphael's most enchanting pictures, the beautiful Joan of Arragon,--of whom, strangely enough, there are four portraits, each of which is declared to be genuine. Three of them must of course be copies, but are no longer distinguishable from the original. One is at Paris, one at Rome, one at Vienna, and the fourth here. I know them all, and must give unqualified preference to this. There is an enchantment about this splendid woman which is wholly indescribable. An eye leading to the very depths of the soul; queenlike majesty united with the most feminine sensibility; intense passion blended with the sweetest melancholy; and withal, a beauty of form, a transparent delicacy of skin, and a truth, brilliancy and grace of the drapery and ornaments, such as only a divine genius could call into perfect being. Among the most interesting portraits, both for the subject and the handling, are the following. First, Machiavelli, by Titian.--Precisely as I should imagine him. A face of great acuteness and prudence, and of suffering,--as if lamenting over the profoundly-studied worthless side of human nature; that hound-like character which loves where it is spurned, follows where it fears, and is faithful where it is fed. A trace of compassionate scorn plays round the thin lips, while the dark eye appears turned reflectingly inward. It appears strange, at first sight, that this great and classic writer should so long have been misunderstood in the grossest manner. Either he has been represented as a moral scarecrow (and how miserable is Voltaire's refutation of that notion!); or the most fantastic hypothesis is put forth, that his book is a satire. On more attentive observation, we arrive at the conviction that it was reserved for modern times, in which politics at length begin to be viewed and understood from a higher and really humane point of view, to form a correct judgment of Machiavel's Prince. To all arbitrary princes--and under that name I class all those who think themselves invested with power solely 'par la grace de Dieu' and for their own advantage,--all conquerors, and children of fortune, whom some chance has given to the people they regard as their property,--to all such as these, this profound and acute writer shows the true and only way to prosper; the exhaustive system they must of necessity follow, in order to maintain a power radically sprung from the soil of sin and error. His book is, and must ever be, the true, inimitable gospel of such rulers; and we Prussians, especially, have reason to congratulate ourselves that Napoleon had learned his Machiavel so ill;--we should otherwise probably be still groaning under his yoke. That Machiavel felt all the value and the power of freedom, is plain, from many passages in his book. In one he says, "He who has conquered a _free_ city, has no secure means of keeping it, but either to destroy it, or to people it with new inhabitants; _for no benefit a sovereign can confer will ever make it forget its lost freedom_." By proving, as he incontestably does, that such a degree of arbitrary power can be maintained only by the utter disregard of all morality, and by seriously inculcating this doctrine upon princes, he also demonstrates but too plainly, that the whole frame of society, in his time, contained within itself a principle of demoralization; and that no true happiness, no true civilization, was possible to any people till that principle was detected and destroyed. The events of modern times, and their consequences, have at length opened their eyes to this truth, and they will not close them again! The Duke of Alva, by Titian.--Full of expression, and, as I believe, faithful;--for this man was by no means a caricature of cruelty and gloom;--earnest, fantastical, proud, firm as iron; practically exhibiting the Ideal of an inflexibly faithful servant, who, having once undertaken a charge, looks neither to the right nor to the left in the execution of it; is ready blindly to fulfil the will of his God and of his master, and asks not whether thousands perish in torture; in a word, a powerful mind, not base but contracted, which lets others think for it, and works to establish their authority. Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn, by Holbein.[37]--The King in a splendid dress,--a fat, rather butcher-like man, in whom sensuality, cunning, cruelty, and strength, rule in a frightfully complacent and almost jovial physiognomy. You see that such a man might make you tremble, and yet somehow attach you. Anne Boleyn is a good-natured, unmeaning, almost stupid-looking, genuine English beauty, like many one sees now, only in another dress. Cromwell, by Van Dyk.--A magnificent head: somewhat of the bronze gladiator-look of Napoleon; but with much coarser features, through which, as behind a mask, is seen the light of a great soul: enthusiasm is, however, too little perceptible in them. There is an expression of cunning in the eye, combined with something of honesty, which renders it the more deceptive; but not a trace of cruelty,--with that, indeed, the Protector cannot be reproached. The execution of the King was a cruel act, but one which appeared to Cromwell's mind in the light of a necessary political operation, and in no degree sprang from a delight in bloodshed. Under this picture hangs Cromwell's own helmet. Prince Rupert, by Van Dyk.--Completely the bold soldier! Every inch a cavalier! I do not mean in the exclusive sense of an adherent of the King, but in that of an accomplished gentleman and knight: a handsome face, as dangerous to women as to the enemy, and the picturesque garb and port of a warrior. Elizabeth, by Holbein.--The best and perhaps the most faithful picture I have ever seen of her. She is represented in her prime, almost disgustingly fair, or rather white, with pale red hair. The eyes somewhat Albino-like, and almost without eyebrows. There is an artificial good-nature, but a false expression. Vehement passions and a furious temper seem to lie hidden under that pallid exterior, like a volcano under snow; while the intense desire to please is betrayed by the rich and over-ornamented dress. Quite different,--stern, hard, and dangerous to approach,--does she appear in the pictures of her at an advanced age, but even then extremely over-dressed. Mary of Scotland.--Probably painted in prison, and shortly before her death: it has the air of a matron of forty.--There is still the faultless beauty; but it is no longer the light-minded Mary, full of the enjoyment of life, and of her own resistless charms; but visibly purified by misfortune,--with a sedate expression;--in short, Schiller's Mary,--a noble nature, which has at length found itself again! It is one of the rarest pictures of the unhappy Queen, whom one is accustomed to see depicted in all the splendour of youth and beauty. Ignatius Loyola, by Rubens.--A very beautifully painted and grand picture; but which immediately strikes one as a fiction, and no portrait. The sanctified expression, common to so many pictures of saints and priests, is unmeaning. The colouring is by far the finest thing about the picture. But I should never have done, were I to attempt to go through this gallery. I must take you for a minute into the furthest cabinet, which contains a beautiful collection of enamels, chiefly after designs by Raphael, and a marble bust of the Black Prince, a sturdy soldier both in head and hand,--at a time when the latter alone sufficed to secure the highest renown. Many valuable Etruscan vases and other works of art, besides the pictures and antiques, decorate the various apartments, and with great good taste are arranged so as to appear as harmonious accessories, instead of being heaped up in a gallery by themselves as dead masses. It was pointed out to me as a proof of the perfect and solid architecture of the castle,--that, in spite of its age, when all the doors of the suite of rooms are shut, you see the bust placed exactly in the centre of the furthest cabinet, through the keyholes, along a length of three hundred and fifty feet;--a perfection, indeed, which our present race of workmen would never think of approaching. Though, as I told you, the walls of the hall are hung with a great quantity of armour, there is also an armoury, which is extremely rich. Here is the leathern collar, stained with blood blackened by time, in which Lord Brook, an ancestor of the present Earl, was slain at the battle of Litchfield. In one corner of the room lies a curious specimen of art, very heterogeneous with the rest,--a monkey, cast in iron, of a perfection and 'abandon' in the disposition of the limbs which rivals Nature herself. I was sorry the 'châtellaine' could not tell me who had made the model for this cast. He must be an eminent master who could thus express all the monkey grace and suppleness with such perfect fidelity, in an attitude of the most enjoying laziness. Before I quitted the princely Warwick, I ascended one of the highest towers, and enjoyed a rich and beautiful prospect on every side. The weather was tolerably clear. Far more enchanting than this panorama, however, was the long walk in the gardens which surround the castle on two sides, whose character of serene grandeur is admirably adapted to that of the building. The height and beauty of the trees, the luxuriance of the vegetation and of the turf, cannot be exceeded; while a number of gigantic cedars, and the ever-varying aspect of the majestic castle, through whose lofty cruciform loop-holes the rays of light played, threw such enchantment over the whole scene that I could hardly tear myself away. We walked about till the moon rose; and her light, as we looked through the darkening alleys, gave to all objects a more solemn and gigantic character. We could therefore only see the celebrated colossal Warwick Vase by lamplight. It holds several hundred gallons, and is adorned with the most beautiful workmanship. We also saw some ancient curiosities which are kept in the Porter's Lodge; particularly some cows' horns and wild boar's tusks, ascribed to beasts which Guy,--a hero of Saxon times, the fabulous ancestor of the first Earls of Warwick,--is said to have destroyed. The dimensions of his arms, which are preserved here, bespeak a man of such strength and stature as Nature no longer produces. Here at length I took a lingering farewell of Warwick Castle, and laid the recollection, like a dream of the sublime and shadowy past, on my heart. I felt, in the faint moonlight, like a child who sees a fantastic giant head of far distant ages beckoning to it with friendly nod over the summit of the wood. With such fancies, dear Julia, I will go to sleep, and wake to meet them again in the morning, for another scene of romance awaits me,--the ruins of Kenilworth. _Birmingham, Dec. 29th: Evening._ I must continue my narrative.--Leamington ('car il faut pourtant que j'en dise quelque chose') was only a little village a few years ago, and is now a rich and elegant town, containing ten or twelve palace-like inns, four large bath-houses with colonnades and gardens, several libraries, with which are connected card, billiard, concert and ball-rooms (one for six hundred persons,) and a host of private houses, which are almost entirely occupied by visitors, and spring out of the earth like mushrooms. All here is on a vast scale, though the waters are insignificant. The same are used for drinking as for bathing, and yet it swarms with visitors. The baths are as spacious as the English beds, and are lined throughout with earthenware tiles. Not far from Leamington, and a league from Warwick, is a beautiful enchanting spot called Guy's Cliff; part of the house is as old as Warwick Castle. Under it is a deep cavern, in the picturesque rocky shore of the Avon, into which, as tradition says, Guy of Warwick, after many high deeds at home and abroad, secretly retired to close his life in pious meditation. After two years of incessant search, his inconsolable wife found him lying dead in his cave, and in despair threw herself down from the rocks into the Avon. In later times a chapel was built in the rock to commemorate this tragic event, and adorned by Henry the Third with a statue of Sir Guy. This has unhappily been so mutilated by Cromwell's troops, that it is now but a shapeless block. Opposite to the chapel are twelve monks' cells hewn in the rock, now used as stables. The chapel itself, which has been entirely renovated in the interior, is connected with the dwelling of the proprietor, part of which is Gothic some centuries old, part in the old Italian style, and part quite new, built exactly to correspond with the most ancient part. The whole is extremely picturesque, and the interior is fitted up with equal attention to taste and comfort. The drawing-room, with its two deep window-recesses, struck me as uncommonly cheerful. One of these windows stands above a rock which rises fifty feet perpendicularly from the river, in whose bosom lies a lovely little island, and behind it a wide prospect of luxuriant meadows, beautiful trees, and, quite in the background, a village half buried in wood. At a short distance on the side is an extremely ancient mill, said to have been in existence before the Norman invasion. A little further off, the picture was terminated by a woody hill, also within the enclosure of the park, on which a high cross marks the spot where Gavestone, the infamous favourite of Edward the Second, was executed by the rebellious lords Warwick and Arundel. All these recollections, united with so many natural beauties, make a strong impression on the mind.--The other window afforded a perfect contrast with this. It overlooks a level plain laid out as a very pretty French garden, in which gay porcelain ornaments and coloured sand mingled their hues with the flowers, and terminates in a beautiful alley overshadowed with ivy cut into a pointed arch. In the room itself sparkled a cheerful fire; choice pictures adorned the walls, and several sofas of various forms, tables covered with curiosities, and furniture standing about in agreeable disorder, gave it the most inviting and home-like air. I returned back to the town of Warwick to see the church, and the chapel containing the monument of the great King-Maker, which he placed there in his life-time, and now reposes under. His statue of metal lies on the sarcophagus; an eagle and a bear at his feet. The head is very expressive and natural. He does not fold his hands as is the case in most statues of knights, but only raises them a little to heaven, as though he would not pray, and could greet even his Maker only with a gesture of courtesy: his head is slightly inclined, but with no air of humility. Round his stone coffin are emblazoned the splendid bearings of all his lordships, and an enormous sword lies threatening by his side. The splendid painted windows, and the numerous well-preserved and richly gilded ornaments give to the whole a stately, solemn character. A family of the town most unfortunately got permission, about a hundred and fifty years ago, to erect a monument to some country 'squire or other, immediately under the large central window. It occupies the entire wall, and destroys the beautiful simplicity of the whole by this hideous, disgraceful modern excrescence. By the side-wall lies another intruder carved in stone, but one of better pretensions;--no less a man than the powerful earl of Leicester: he is represented of middle age, a handsome, high-bred and haughty looking man; but without the lofty genius in his features so strikingly portrayed on the metal countenance of the great Warwick. A few posts from Leamington, in a country which gradually becomes more solitary and dreary, lies Kenilworth. With Sir Walter Scott's captivating book in my hand I wandered amid these ruins, which call up such varied feelings. They cover a space of more than three-quarters of a mile in circumference, and exhibit, although in rapid decay, many traces of great and singular magnificence. The oldest part of the castle, built in 1120, still stands the firmest, while the part added by Leicester is almost utterly destroyed. The wide moat which formerly surrounded the castle, and around which stretched a park of thirty English miles in circuit, was dried up in Cromwell's time, in the hope of finding treasure in it. The park, too, has long disappeared, and is now changed into fields, on which are some scattered cottages. A part of the castle, standing isolated and almost hidden under creeping plants, is transformed into a kind of out-work; and the whole surrounding country has a more barren, deserted and melancholy aspect than any part we have travelled through. But this harmonizes well with the character of the principal object, and enhances the saddening effect of greatness in such utter decay. The balcony called Elizabeth's Bower is still standing; and the tradition goes, that in moonlight nights a white figure is often seen there looking fixedly and immovably into the depth below. The ruins of the banqueting-hall, with the gigantic chimney-piece, the extensive kitchen, and the wine-cellar beneath, are still clearly distinguishable; and many a lonesome chamber may still be standing in the towers, to which all access is cut off. The fancy delights in guessing the past by what still remains; and I often dreamed, while climbing among the ruins, that I had found the very spot where the infamous Vernon traitorously plunged the truest and most unhappy of wives into eternal night. But equally lost are the traces of the crimes and of the virtues which lived within these walls; Time has long since thrown his all-concealing veil over them; and gone are the eternally-repeated sorrows and joys, the mouldering splendour, and the transient struggle. The day was gloomy; black clouds rolled across the heavens, and occasionally a yellow tawny light broke from between them; the wind whistled among the ivy, and piped shrilly through the vacant windows; now and then a stone loosened itself from the crumbling building, and rolled clattering down the outer wall. Not a human being was to be seen; all was solitary, awful;--a gloomy but sublime memorial of destruction. Such moments are really consolatory:--we feel more vividly than at any other that it is not worth while to grieve and trouble ourselves about earthly things, since sorrow, like joy, lasts but for a moment. As an illustration of the eternal mutation of human affairs, I found myself transported in the evening from the mute and lifeless ruins to the prosaic tumult of a multitude, busied but in gain; in the reeking, smoky, bustling manufacturing town of Birmingham. The last romantic sight was the flames which at night-fall illuminated the town on all sides from the tall chimneys of the iron-works. Here is an end to all sport of the fancy till more fitting time and place. _December 30th._ Birmingham is one of the most considerable and one of the ugliest towns of England. It contains a hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants, of whom two-thirds are doubtless workmen, and indeed, it presents only the appearance of an immeasurable workshop. Immediately after breakfast I went to the manufactory of Mr. Thomasson, our consul here,--the second in extent. The first,--where a thousand workmen are daily employed, and an eighty-horse power steam-engine is applied to innumerable uses, even in the manufactory of livery buttons and pins' heads,--has been hermetically sealed to all foreigners ever since the visit of the Austrian princes, one of whose suite carried away some important secret. I passed several hours here with great interest, though in hideous, dirty, and stinking holes, which serve as the various workshops; and made a button, which R---- will deliver to you as a proof of my industry. In a better room below are set out all the productions of the manufactory, in gold, silver, bronze, plated, and lackered wares, the latter surpassing their Japan originals in beauty; steel wares of every kind;--all in a profusion and elegance which really excite amazement. Among other things, I saw the copy of the Warwick Vase, of the same size as the original. It is cast in bronze, and cost four thousand pounds. I saw also magnificent table-services in plated ware, brought to such perfection that it is impossible to distinguish it from silver. The great people here often mix it among their plate, as the Paris ladies mix false stones and pearls with their real ones. I made acquaintance with a multitude of new and agreeable inventions of luxuries in great and small, and could not quite resist the temptation to buy, which is here so powerful. The trifles I bought will soon reach you in a well-packed box. The iron-works, with their gigantic steam-engines, the needle manufactory, the steel works,--where you find every article from the most delicate scissars to the largest grate, polished like mirrors, with all the intermediate 'nuances,'--afford agreeable occupation for a day:--but pardon me any further description of them; 'Ce n'est pas mon métier.' _December 31st:--Sunday._ As the manufactories are at rest to-day, I made an excursion to Aston Hall, the seat of Mr. Watt, where, indeed, there is little to be seen in the way of gardening, but the old house contains many curious portraits. Unfortunately an ignorant porter could give me but little information about them. There was an extremely fine picture of Gustavus Adolphus, as large as life. The good-nature, dignity and prudence; the clear honest eyes, which yet express much more than honesty; and the gentle, but not the less firm, assurance in his whole aspect,--were in the highest degree attractive. Near to it stood an excellent bust of Cromwell, which I should think a better likeness than the picture at Warwick. It is more consonant with his historic character;--coarse, and, if you will, vulgar features; but a rocky nature in the whole countenance, clearly allied to that dark enthusiasm and demoniac cunning which so truly characterize the man. Two cannon-balls which Cromwell threw into the house, then fortified, and which broke the banisters in two places, are carefully left on the very spot where they fell, and the railing not repaired,--though it has since most stupidly been painted white even in the broken part. Not to lose a day, as there is nothing to see here but workshops, I intend to set off this evening and travel through the night to Chester. There we shall spend to-morrow in seeing Eaton, Lord Grosvenor's celebrated seat, of which I wrote you word that Bathiany gave me such a magnificent description, and which, according to all I hear, contains whatever gold can procure. The day after to-morrow I shall return hither, visit some more manufactories, and then go back to Oxford, in the neighbourhood of which are two of the largest parks in England, Blenheim and Stowe. _Chester, January 1st, 1827._ Another year gone! None of the worst to me, except for the separation from you. I lighted the lamp in the carriage and read Lady Morgan's last novel with great pleasure, while we rolled swiftly over the level road. As soon as the hand reached twelve o'clock, R---- congratulated me on the new year, for myself and for you. In twelve hours more we reached Chester, an ancient 'baroque' city. Though we had gone nineteen German miles in thirteen hours, I find that in England, as well as in France, as you go further from the metropolis you find a general deterioration;--the inns are less excellent, the post-horses worse, the postilions more dirty, the dress of the people generally less respectable, and the air of bustle and business less. At the same time, the dearness increases, and you are subjected to many extortions which, nearer to London, are prevented by the great competition. The new year set in with unfavourable weather. It rained the whole day. As soon as we had made a little toilet, we hastened to see the wonders of Eaton Hall, of which, however, my expectations were not very high. Moderate as they were, they were scarcely realized. The park and the gardens were, to my taste, the most unmeaning of any of their class I had seen, although of vast extent; and the house excited just the same feeling in me as Ashbridge, only with the difference that it is still more overloaded, and internally far less beautiful, though furnished still more expensively, in patches. You find all imaginable splendour and ostentation which a man who has an income of a million of our money can display; but taste not perhaps in the same profusion. In this chaos of modern Gothic excrescences, I remarked ill-painted modern glass windows, and shapeless tables and chairs, which most incongruously affected to imitate architectural ornaments. I did not find one single thing worth sketching; and it is perfectly inconceivable to me how M. Lainé, (to whose merits in the embellishment of his country all must do justice,) could, in the Annals of the Berlin Horticultural Society, prefer this to any he had seen; at which indeed his English critics have made merry not a little. M. Lainé imitated this garden in the one in front of the palace at Potsdam. In his place I should, I confess, have chosen another model; though this style is certainly far better suited to the palace in question than to a Gothic castle. Treasures of art I saw none: the best was a middling picture by West. All the magnificence lay in the gorgeous materials, and the profuse display of money. The drawing-room or library, would, for size, make a very good riding-school. The large portraits of the possessor and his wife, in the dining-room, have little interest, except for their acquaintances. A number of 'affreux' little Gothic temples, deface the pleasure-ground, which has, moreover, no fine trees: the soil is not very favourable, and the whole seems laid out in comparatively recent times. The country is rather pretty, though not picturesque, and too flat. As we had time to spare, we visited the royal castle of Chester which is now converted into an excellent county gaol. The whole arrangement of it seemed to me most humane and perfect. The view from the terrace of the 'corps de logis,' in which are the Courts of Justice, down upon the prisoners in their cells, is extremely curious and surprising. Imagine a high terrace of rock, on which stands a castle with two wings. The 'corps de logis' is, as I said, dedicated to the courts, which are very spacious; and the wings, to the prisoners for debt. The court-yard is laid out as a little garden, in which the debtors may walk. Under the court are cells in which the criminals are confined; the further end on the right is appropriated to the women. The cells are separate, and radiate from a centre; the little piece of ground in front of each is a garden for the use of the prisoner, in which he is permitted to walk; before trial his dress is gray; after it, red and green. In each division of the building behind the cells is a large common-room, with a fire, in which the prisoners work. The cells are clean and airy; the food varies with the degree of crime,--the lowest is bread, potatoes and salt. To-day, being new-year's-day, all the prisoners had roast-beef, plum-pudding, and ale. Most of them, especially the women, became very animated, and made a horrible noise, with hurrahs to the health of the Mayor who had given them this fête. The view from the upper terrace, over the gardens, the prison, and a noble country, with the river winding below, just behind the cells;--on the side, the roofs and towers of the city in picturesque confusion; and in the distance, the mountains of Wales,--is magnificent, and 'a tout prendre' our country counsellors of justice (_Oberlandes gerichtsrathe_) are seldom lodged so well as the rogues and thieves here. Thank Heaven, we set out on our return to-morrow, for I am quite weary of parks and sights. I am afraid you will be no less so, of my monotonous letters; but as you have said A you must say B, and so prepare for a dozen parks before we reach London. Meanwhile I send my epistle thither, to afford you at least an interval, and pray God to have you in his merciful and faithful keeping. Your ever devoted L----. LETTER X. _Hawkestone Park, Jan. 2nd, 1827._ BELOVED FRIEND, Though I felt perfectly 'blasé' of parks yesterday, and thought I could never take any interest in them again, I am quite of another mind to-day, and must in some respects give Hawkestone the preference over all I have seen. It is not art, nor magnificence, nor aristocratical splendour, but nature alone, to which it is indebted for this pre-eminence, and in such a degree that were I gifted with the power of adding to its beauty, I should ask, What can I add? Turn your imagination to a spot of ground so commandingly placed, that from its highest point you can let your eye wander over fifteen counties. Three sides of this wide panorama rise and fall in constant change of hill and dale, like the waves of an agitated sea, and are bounded at the horizon by the strangely-formed jagged outline of the Welsh mountains, which at either end descend to a fertile plain shaded by thousands of lofty trees, and in the obscure distance where it blends with the sky is edged with a white misty line--the ocean. The Welsh mountains are partly covered with snow, and all the cultivated country between so thickly intersected with hedge-rows and trees, that at a distance it has rather the appearance of a thinly planted wood, here and there broken by water or by numberless fields and meadows. You stand directly in the centre of this scene, on the summit of a group of hills, looking down over the tops of groves of oaks and beeches alternating with the most luxuriant slopes of meadow-land, upon a wall of rock five or six hundred feet high, which forms numerous steep precipices and pretty valleys. In one of the gloomiest spots of this wilderness arise the venerable ruins of 'the Red Castle,' a magnificent memorial of the time of William the Conqueror. Now imagine this whole romantic group of hills, which rises isolated from the very plain, to be surrounded almost in a perfect circle by the silver waves of the river Hawke. This naturally bounded spot is Hawkestone Park, a spot whose beauties are so appreciated even in the neighbourhood, that the brides and bridegrooms of Liverpool and Shrewsbury come here to pass their honeymoon. The park seems indeed rather the property of the public than of its possessor, who never resides here, and whose ruinous and mean-looking house lies hidden in a corner of the park, like a 'hors d'oeuvre.' There is, however, a pretty inn, in which visitors find all that is needful to their comfort. Here we passed the night, and after a good breakfast 'á la fourchette,' set out on our long excursion on foot; for the roads are so bad that we could not drive. Our scrambling walk, almost dangerous in winter, lasted four hours. We crossed a grassy plain, shaded by oaks and covered with grazing cattle, to the rocks I have mentioned, in which the pale green veins show the existence of copper. They rise out of a lofty hanging wood of old beeches, and are crowned at their summits with black firs, the whole effect of which is most striking. In this natural wall is a grotto, which, after climbing wearily along a zig-zag path in the wood, you reach through a dark covered way more than a hundred feet long, hewn in the rock. The grotto consists of numerous caverns incrusted with all sorts of minerals. There are small openings in which are set pieces of coloured glass cut like brilliants; in the dark they gleam like the precious stones of Aladdin's cave. An old woman was our guide, and excited our wonder by her unwearied walking, and the dexterity with which she climbed up and down the rocks in slippers. The irregular steps of stone were as smooth as glass, and so difficult sometimes to pass over, that our good R----, who had iron heels to his boots, complained bitterly of the efforts he had to make to keep himself up. We reached a summer-house, built of trunks and branches of trees and covered with moss, which commanded a picturesque view of a fantastic hill called the Temple of Patience. Our way then led us to the so-called Swiss Bridge, which is boldly thrown from one rock to another. As the railing is partly broken down and the passage rather a dizzy one, my good Julia, if it were possible for her to have come thus far, would have found an end to her expedition. How fortunate it is to have such an unwearied guide through the regions of imagination--one who bears you in an instant across the giddy bridge, and now places you before a black tower-like rock projecting out of the glittering beeches, overgrown with thorns and festooned with garlands of ivy! This was long the abode of a fox, who lived secure from pursuit in his castle of Malapartus; it is still called Reynard's House. We went on, up hill and down dale, and at length, rather tired, reached the terrace, an open place with beautiful peeps at the country cut in the wood. Not far from thence, behind very high trees, stands a column a hundred-and-twenty feet high, dedicated to the founder of the family,--a London merchant and Lord Mayor of London in the time of Henry the Third,--whose statue crowns the pillar. A convenient winding staircase in the inside leads to its summit, whence you overlook the panorama of fifteen counties already mentioned. You pass through still wider chasms between the rocks to a lovely cottage, standing in complete seclusion at the end of a green valley, where formerly various beasts and birds were kept, which are now preserved stuffed in a room of the cottage. A young woman showed them to us, with the strange announcement,--'All these animals that you see _used to live_ formerly.' I spare you the green-house built of masses of rock and branches of trees, and the Gothic tower--a sort of summer-house, and lead you a long, long way through wood, then over green hills and through a narrow defile to the magnificent ruin, the sublimely situated Red Castle. The decayed walls and the hewn rocky sides are of great extent. You can reach the interior only through a winding passage blasted in the rock, so utterly dark that I found myself obliged to use my guide's petticoat as an Ariadne's clue, for I literally could not see my hand before my eyes. Out of this tunnel you emerge into a picturesque alley of rock, with smooth high walls overarched with mountain-ashes. On the side you perceive a cavern, the mouth of which is still closed with a rusty iron gate. Climbing rude steps in the rock, you reach the upper part of the ruin--a high roofless tower, in whose walls, fifteen feet thick, many trees centuries old have struck their roots, and in the interior of which is a well, which appears to sink down to the entrails of the earth. The massy and unshaken barrier around it, the lofty tower through which the sky appears above, and the bottomless depth beneath, where reigns eternal night, produce an effect I never remember to have experienced. You see Hope and Despair allegorically united in one picture before you. The tower, and the rock on which it stands, look down from a giddy height, in a perfectly perpendicular line, upon the valley, in which the huge trees appear like copse-wood. By a somewhat considerable leap of the imagination you reach a New Zealander's hut on the banks of a little lake, built many years ago from a drawing of Captain Cook's, and furnished with arrows, spears, tomahawks, skulls of eaten enemies, and such-like pretty trifles, the innocent luxuries of these children of nature. Here we closed our walk, leaving unseen several devices which deform the place, and which, as well as (alas!) the paths, are somewhat in decay. But these defects are slight, in a whole so full of sublime and wondrously-varied natural beauty. _Newport, Jan. 3rd._ It is winter in good earnest;--the earth covered with ice and six inches of snow, and the cold in the rooms, so insufficiently warmed by open fires, almost insufferable. As I passed the greater part of the day in the carriage, I have little to tell. _Birmingham, Jan. 4th._ To-day too we saw nothing remarkable on our road but a newly laid out park through which we drove, with a small but elegant garden, with very pretty flower-stands of various sorts, and baskets, all of fine wire, and clothed with creepers. R---- was obliged to draw them with stiff fingers. The inn at which we ate our luncheon bore the date 1603 carved in stone, and is the prettiest specimen of a cottage in an antique style, with brickwork in various patterns, I have met with. Towards evening we reached Birmingham, where I am reposing comfortably after the excessive cold. _January 6th._ The whole day has been, as in my last visit, devoted to the manufactories and warehouses. The poor workmen, however, have a bad time of it. Their earnings are sufficient, it is true; but many of their occupations are of such a kind that the slightest neglect or carelessness may be productive of the most dreadful consequences. I saw a man whose business it is to hold the piece of metal out of which livery buttons are stamped. He has had his thumbs twice shattered, and they are now only little formless lumps of flesh. Wo to those whose clothes approach too near to the steam-engines or other hideous machines! Many a one has this inexorable power seized and crushed, as the boa crushes its helpless prey. Some occupations are as unhealthy as those of the lead-works in Siberia; and in others there is a stench which a stranger can scarcely endure for a minute. Everything has its dark side,--this advanced state of manufacture among the rest; but that is no reason for rejecting it. Even virtue has its disadvantages when it oversteps the bounds of moderation; while on the other hand the greatest evil, crime itself not excepted, has its bright spots. It is remarkable that, in spite of this wonderful progress in all discoveries, the English have not yet been able, as Mr. Thomasson assured me, to rival the iron-castings of Berlin. What I saw of this kind were immeasurably inferior. I am sometimes tempted to think that we are arrived at that point at which, far as the English now excel us, they will begin to descend, and we to ascend. But as they have to fall from such a height, and we to rise from such a depth, a long time may elapse before we arrive at the meeting-point. However, as I said, I think we have started on the road. _Deutschland, Gluck auff!_ if thy sons obtain but freedom, their efforts will succeed. _Stratford-on-Avon, Jan. 6th._ This day's journey was not long, but full of interest; for the place whence my letter is dated is the birth-place of Shakspeare. It is profoundly affecting to see the familiar trifles which centuries ago stood in immediate and domestic contact with so great and beloved a man; then to visit the place where his bones have long been mouldering; and thus in a few moments to traverse the long way from his cradle to his grave. The house in which he was born, and the very room hallowed by this great event, still stand almost unchanged. The latter is perfectly like a humble tradesman's room, such as we commonly find them in our small towns; quite suited to the times when England stood on the same step of civilization which the lower classes still occupy with us. The walls are completely covered with the names of men of every country and rank; and although I do not particularly like the parasitical appendages on foreign greatness, like insects clinging to marble palaces, yet I could not resist the impulse of gratitude and veneration, which led me to add my name to the others. The church on the Avon (the same river which washes the noble walls of Warwick,) where Shakspeare lies buried, is a beautiful remnant of antiquity, adorned with numerous remarkable monuments; among which, that of the chief of poets is, of course, the most conspicuous. It was formerly painted and gilded, as was the bust; but through the stupidity of a certain Malone, was whitewashed over about a century ago, by which it lost much of its singular character. The bust is far from having any merit as a work of art: it is devoid of expression, and probably, therefore, of resemblance. It was not without a considerable outlay of trouble and money that I succeeded in getting a little engraving of the monument in the original colours,--the last copy the clerk's wife had, as she assured me. I send it with my letter. I also bought in a bookseller's shop several views of the place, and of the objects I have mentioned. In the town-house there is a large picture of Shakspeare, painted in more recent times; and a still better one of Garrick, which has some resemblance, not only in the features but the 'tournure' to Iffland. _Oxford, Jan. 7th._ After having given the 'parkomanie' two days rest, we revived it to-day, having visited no less than four great parks, the last of which was the famous Blenheim. But in order:--'Exécutez vous.' First we passed through Eastrop Park, remarkable in as far as it is of the time in which the French style had just begun to decline; but at this transition period the change was as yet so slight, that avenues of clumps, of different but regularly alternating figures, replaced avenues of single trees; and hedges were planted in serpentine lines. The whole appeared in great decay. Ditchley Park is more beautiful. Unfortunately, the English climate played us a sad trick to-day. In the morning (for the second time since we left London) the sun shone, and we were triumphing in our good luck, when suddenly there fell such a fog that during the whole remaining day we never could see a hundred steps before us,--often scarcely ten. In the house we found a number of good pictures, especially very fine portraits, but no creature could tell us whom they represented. We learned nothing new in _our_ art, but we found a novelty in another department. In the gamekeeper's lodge, in default of spoils of nobler beasts, were about six dozen rats nailed up, their legs and tails displayed with great taste. Our third visit was to Blandford Park, belonging to Lord Churchill; very inconsiderable as a park, but the house contains some noble pictures. Two, I particularly envied the possessor. The first, a female figure, attributed, no doubt falsely, to Michael Angelo. The drawing is certainly bold, but there is a truth and elasticity in the flesh, a Titian-like colouring, and a lovely archness of expression, which betray no Michael Angelo,--even suppose the assertion to be false, that we possess no oil-paintings of that great master. The second riveted me still more;--a Judith ascribed to Cigoli, a painter whose works I do not remember to have seen. The subject is common enough: the triumphant virgin, with the trunkless head in her hand, has always appeared to me rather disgusting than attractive; but here the artist has diffused an expression over Judith's elevated and captivating face, which appears to me to be conceived in the very spirit of poetry. I had rather possess good copies of such exquisite pictures, than less interesting originals by great masters:--it is the poetical not the technical part of a work of art that has charms for me. I pass over a fine collection of drawings by Raphael, Claude, and Rubens, and many interesting portraits. The horrid fog was thicker and thicker, and we saw Blenheim as if by twilight. In grandeur and magnificence it is doubtless extraordinary; and I was much pleased with what I saw, or rather divined; for it was all shrouded in a veil, behind which the sun appeared rayless, like the moon. The house is very large and regular, built, unhappily, in the old French style, and truly royal in magnificence. The park is five German miles in circumference, and the piece of water, the finest work of its kind existing, occupies alone eight hundred acres. The pleasure-grounds are on an equally vast scale; forty men are daily employed in mowing. Opposite to the house the water forms a cascade, so admirably constructed of large masses of rock brought from a great distance, that it is difficult to believe it artificial. One cannot help admiring the grandeur of Brown's genius and conceptions, as one wanders through these grounds: he is the Shakspeare of gardening. The plantations have attained to such a height that we saw a single Portugal laurel growing out of the turf, which measured two hundred feet in circumference. The present possessor, with an income of seventy thousand pounds, is so much in debt that his property is administered for the benefit of his creditors, and he receives five thousand a year for his life. It is a grievous pity that he spends this little in pulling in pieces Brown's imposing gardens, and modernizing them in a miserable taste; transforming the rich draperies which Brown had thrown around Nature, into a harlequin jacket of little clumps and beds. A large portion of the old pleasure-ground is thus destroyed; as the old gardener, almost with tears in his eyes, remarked to us. Many noble trees lay felled around; and a black spot on the turf showed the place where a laurel, nearly as large as the one I mentioned, lately stood in all its pride and beauty. I thought with grief how vain it is to attempt to found anything lasting, and saw in imagination those of my successors who will destroy the plantations which we have designed and tended together with so much fondness. Blenheim is chiefly situated on the spot where stood the ancient royal park of Woodstock (which you remember from Walter Scott's last novel). A great part of the oak wood which existed in the time of the unhappy Rosamond is still alive, and dying in an agony of a century's duration. There are perfect monsters of oaks and cedars, both as to form and size. Many are so entirely enwreathed with ivy that it has killed them, but at the same time clothed them with a new and more beautiful evergreen foliage which enwraps the decayed trunk, like a magnificent shroud, till it falls into dust. Deer, pheasants and cattle, people the park, whose green plains seemed, in the uncertain mist, boundless as the sea; in some places, bare as a Steppe, in others thickly planted. The interior of the house looks rather neglected, but contains a number of valuable works of art. It must be confessed that never did a nation bestow a richer reward on one of its great men than Blenheim, which is princely even in its minutest details.[38] As we entered, there was such a smoke that we thought we had to encounter a second fog in the house. Some very dirty shabby servants--a thing almost unheard-of here--ran past us to fetch the 'Chátelaine,' who, wrapped in a Scotch plaid, with a staff in her hand and the air of an enchantress, advanced with so majestic an air towards us, that one might have taken her for the Duchess herself. The magic wand was for the purpose of pointing more conveniently to the various curiosities. As a preliminary measure, she required that we should inscribe our names in a large book: unhappily, however, there was no ink in the inkstand, so that this important ceremony was necessarily dispensed with. We passed through many chill and faded rooms, decorated with numerous and fine pictures, though among them are many inferior ones, on which the names of Raphael, Guido, &c. are liberally bestowed. The gallery is extremely rich in fine and genuine Rubens'; the most attractive among which, to me, was his own frequently repeated but excellent portrait. I was also much interested by a whole length portrait of the wild Duke of Buckingham, by Van Dyk,--a roué of a very different sort, both in the delicate turn of the features, the chivalrous dignity, and the tasteful dress, from our modern ones. Further on is a beautiful Madonna, by Carlo Dolce, less smooth and 'banale' than most of those by the same master; and an excellent and most characteristic portrait of Catharine of Medicis. She is very fair, with exquisitely beautiful hands, and a singular expression of cold passion (if I may use the words) in her features, which yet does not excite the feeling of repulsion one would anticipate. Ruben's wife hangs opposite to her,--a handsome Flemish housewife, somewhat vulgar, but beautifully painted and admirably conceived. Philip the Second, by Titian, appeared to me unmeaning:--two beggar boys, by Morillo, admirable. Lot and his daughters, by Rubens;--the female figures somewhat less vulgar and coarse than most of his beauties, who generally have too much in common with the chief produce of his native country: Lot is admirably painted: the picture is however a very unpleasing one. In the bedroom was hung, oddly enough, a disgusting, fearful picture of Seneca's death in the bath,--Seneca already a livid corpse. The portrait of the Duke's mother by Sir Joshua Reynolds is extremely pleasing. Her beauty and sweet child-like look were worthy of a Madonna; and the little boy is a perfect Cupid, full of archness and grace. The library is a magnificent room, containing seventeen thousand volumes, decorated on the one side with a marble statue of Queen Anne; on the other, a strange pendant--a colossal antique bust of Alexander; a model of youthful beauty, in my opinion excelling the Apollo Belvedere. It is more human, and yet the god-like nature appears through the human,--not indeed in the christian, but the pagan sense of the word. It is but fair to notice the portrait of the great Duke of Marlborough, to whom this whole splendid edifice owes its existence. His history is remarkable in many points of view: I especially advise every man who _wishes to make his fortune_ to study it attentively; he may learn much from a character so formed to _get on_ in the world.--The following anecdote has always appeared to me remarkable, insignificant as was the incident. The Duke was one day overtaken by a violent shower of rain while riding with his suite. He asked his groom for his cloak; and not receiving it at the instant, repeated his order in a rather hasty tone. This provoked the man, and he replied with an impertinent air, "Well, I hope you will wait just till I have unbuckled it." The Duke, without evincing the slightest irritation, turned smiling to the person next him, and said, "Now would I not for all the world be of that fellow's temper." The more well-known story of the 'petulance' of the Duchess of Castlemaine, which Churchill turned to such good account, and which in the strangest way laid the basis of his great career, showed an entirely similar 'disposition,' and power over himself. In night and fog we reached Oxford, where I alighted at the Star, and refreshed myself with an admirable dinner prepared by a French cook from London. Though I do not, like the ancients, regard cooks as objects of religious veneration, I cannot deny that I have singular respect for their art: 'Il est beau au feu' may be said with as much justice of a virtuoso of this kind, as of the most dashing soldier; and in the field of politics and diplomacy, every minister knows how much he is indebted to his cook. My excursion draws to a close, and in three days I hope to send off B---- with all the materials he has collected, like a bee laden with honey. _January 8th._ Oxford is a most singular city. Such a crowd of magnificent Gothic buildings, from five hundred to a thousand years old, can nowhere else be found collected in one place. There are spots in which you can imagine yourself transported back to the fifteenth century. You see nothing around you but monuments of that period, without a single incongruous object. Many, nay almost all, of these old colleges and churches are also very beautiful in detail, and all of a most picturesque character. I have often wondered why we do not adopt many of the details of this style of architecture; for instance, the broad light windows in two or three divisions, sometimes diversified with large bows and irregularly divided; only habit could make us endure the uniform rows of square holes which we call windows. I went first to the so-called Theatre, which was built by a bishop three hundred years ago. The iron railing which surrounds it has, instead of pillars, a sort of 'termini' with the heads of the Roman Emperors, a strange fancy, but the effect is not bad. In this theatre--which, as might be expected from its origin, is more like a church--the Emperor of Russia, the King of Prussia, and the Prince Regent were made Doctors, and were obliged to appear in scarlet robes. The portraits of all three have since been placed here. The King of England in his coronation robes--an admirable picture by Lawrence, worthy of ancient times--hangs in the centre, in a most splendid frame; on either side, in far simpler frames and simpler garb, hang the Emperor of Russia, and the King of Prussia, also by Lawrence. The King is not like: of the Emperor Alexander I never saw a better portrait. At the University Stereotype Press, where the printing of a sheet on both sides is accomplished in five minutes, I again displayed my activity, and had the honour to print a sheet, which I send you as companion to the Birmingham button: it contains some interesting incidents concerning the Maccabees. A great deal of the printing for the Bible Society is done here; and if it goes on at this rate, the time will soon arrive concerning which a periodical called 'The Catholic,' of the year 1824, prophesied in this wise: "If it comes to that, that all read the Bible, the world will be a fit abode only for wild beasts." If "the Catholic" means that all will _understand_ it, he may be right, for then the whole human race will be ripe for another world. Nevertheless I am so far of "the Catholic's" mind, that I think the indiscriminate diffusion of the Bible among all,--even the rudest savages,--is throwing pearls before swine. I next went to the Museum, which contains a very heterogeneous mixture of things. On the staircase as you enter is a picture of the battle of Pavia, in which the principal figures are portraits painted at the time, as is expressed on the canvass. It is precisely in the style of the old miniatures, and very interesting for the accuracy of the dresses and armour: under it is the inscription "Comen les gens de Lempereur deffirent les francoys en lan 1525." Portraits of Cardinal Wolsey and Cardinal Richelieu also adorn the staircase. Under them was that of Tradescant, a noted gardener of Charles the First, from which it was impossible to tear his colleague R---- away; he looked at the picture with a sort of protecting air, and was specially delighted with a garland of mulberries and cucumbers which picturesquely surrounded this father of gardeners. The most interesting thing in the picture, to me, was the portrait of a strange large bird; worthy of the Arabian Nights, called Dodo, which belonged to the gardener when alive, and whose like has never been seen in these parts since. As a proof that this is no fable, they showed us the genuine head and beak--wonderfully odd. In the collection of natural history were a great many rare parrots, and a curious bird with spikes on its wings, with which it spears fish as with a lance. The diminutive warrior, who is only six inches high, looks uncommonly fierce and bold; he is like a miniature crane, only much more cunning and pugnacious. Here is the duck-billed platypus, that strange animal from New Holland. The productions of that part of the globe are so unlike those of all the others, that they almost make one imagine it belongs to another era of creation, or that it dropped on our earth from some wandering star. The colours of a picture made of humming-bird's feathers seemed something unearthly. Equally curious was a bas-relief of a knight in splendid gold-green armour made of beetles' wings. Our modern knights might be very handsomely represented in steel-blue armour, made from the wings of the dung-beetle. I cannot attempt to give you an inventory of the cabinet of curiosities; I confined myself, as I always do, to what struck me, which was not always the most celebrated;--a jewelled glove of Henry the Eighth's;--an autograph letter of Queen Elizabeth's to Lord Burleigh, beautifully written;--a pretty riding-cloak and shoe of the Maiden Queen, which latter proves the extreme beauty of her foot; lastly, her watch, with a tasteful chain consisting of five medallions in a row, each containing hair of a different colour--probably of her chief favourites. Far more curious and sacred is a medallion with a portrait rudely executed in mosaic, and an inscription signifying that it belonged to the great Alfred. This precious relic was found ten years ago in ploughing a field in the island of Athelney, where Alfred lay hidden from the Danes. I must now conduct you to the picture-gallery built by Elizabeth, and preserved exactly 'in statu quo.' The roof is of wainscot panelled, and in each panel a coat-of-arms, which has a most antique and magnificent effect. Very good models of the principal temples of antiquity stand in the ante-room. There are some excellent pictures. The one which charmed me the most was an authentic portrait of Mary of Scotland, by Zuccaro, painted just after her arrival from France, and brilliant in all the indescribable radiance and fascination of her youth and freshness. It is easy to understand how it was that this woman had only passionate adorers and devoted partisans, or furious enemies. A face more, in the true sense of the word, _charming_,--seductive,--can scarcely be imagined: with all its French graces, it however betrays the selfishness of the beauty, the recklessness of unbridled passion; but of malignity or vulgarity, such as we see, the former in Elizabeth, the latter in Catharine of Medicis, not a trace;--in short, a perfectly womanlike, and _therefore_ perfectly captivating character of countenance, with all the virtues and all the weaknesses and vices of her sex in their fullest proportions. I should think the possession of such a picture a real happiness,--that of the original might give one too much trouble. The same artist painted a portrait of Elizabeth, precisely like that at Warwick. The Earl of Leicester, taken shortly before his death, is extremely interesting. His face is as elegant and high-bred as it is handsome; and though not indicative of genius, has the expression of a sagacious, dignified, and powerful man. There are no remains of the brilliancy of youth, but a proud complacent consciousness of secure unalterable favour. In a copy of the School of Athens by Giulio Romano, I admired once more the exquisite face of the young duke of Urbino,--that ideal of soft youthful beauty:--the loveliest girl might be more than satisfied with the possession of it. Garrick's portrait, by Raphael Mengs, did not answer my idea of that great actor so perfectly as the one at Stratford-on-Avon. I was delighted with a picture of Charles the Twelfth, by Schröter,--every inch a grand Don Quixotte: and with a very characteristic Charles the Second, by Sir Peter Lely. Charles' aspect, like his age, seems to me entirely French, even to his features, which are strikingly like those of Bussy Rabutin. His father hangs near,--a more attractive picture than usual. He has unquestionably a fine face, with very speaking eyes; but the soft, melancholy, ideological expression too plainly shows that the bearer of such features was little fitted to encounter such a man as Cromwell, or such an age as that he lived in. It is the greatest calamity for a prince to fall upon an ill-suited time, unless he be strong enough to impress his own stamp upon it. The great Locke, by Gibson, is a pale attenuated student. Near him is a handsome portly Luther, by Holbein;--the stately Handel, by Hodson;--and Hugo Grotius, with his acute, crafty, and yet high chivalrous face, more that of an energetic man of the world than of a man of letters. These are the subjects that struck me the most. _January 9th._ To-day I have walked all over Oxford; and I cannot express with what intense delight I wandered from cloister to cloister, and refreshed myself at this living spring of antiquity. There is a magnificent avenue of elms, which like the buildings around it, dates from the year 1520. From this queen of avenues, in which not a single tree is wanting, and which leads through a meadow to the river, you see on one side a charming landscape, on the other a part of the city, with five or six of the most beautiful Gothic towers,--ever a noble view, but to-day rendered almost like a picture of fairy enchantment: the sky was overcast, the wind drove the black fantastic clouds, like a herd of wild beasts, across it; at length the most beautiful rainbow, vaulting from one tower and descending on another, spanned the whole city. From this ancient seat of the Muses of England, from all its colleges,--each different from the other,--each enclosing a spacious court, and adorned with noble towers,--each with its own more or less beautifully ornamented church, its library and picture-gallery, all in their kind of new and varied interest,--I carry away the most agreeable recollections. If you can bear to drink again and again from the old cup, you shall accompany me in my rambles. My first walk was to the Ratcliffe Library; a round and modern building,--erected, that is, in the last century, at Dr. Ratcliffe's cost,--nearly in the centre of the town. The interior is simply a rotunda in three stages or stories, with a cupola and two open galleries, whence side-rooms radiate from the inner, to the outer circles. Below are casts of the best antiques. A small winding staircase leads to a side tower, from the roof of which you have a splendid view of the Gothic palaces pointing to heaven with their hundred spires. The surrounding country is cheerful, fertile, and well wooded. There are four-and-twenty colleges (a sort of cloister for education,) and thirteen churches in this small town, containing only sixteen thousand inhabitants. From hence we proceeded to Henry the Eighth's Library, preserved, externally and internally, in nearly its original state, and containing not less than three hundred thousand volumes. The 'locale' is like no other of the kind, and transports one completely into past ages. The cruciform room; the strange shelves; the iron gratings, half blue, half gilded, and of a form no longer seen; the enormous windows, as broad as three church windows together and ornamented with beautiful coloured glass; the gay gilded ceiling, with numberless panels, each containing the picture of an open Bible with four crowns; even the Doctors sitting at the tables in the dress of Luther, which they still wear,--how strangely is the fancy excited by such a scene! A gallery runs round midway of the high shelves, for the purpose of reaching the books above. On the railing of this gallery are hung the portraits of the various librarians, from the first to the last; some, unhappily, in modern dresses, who look like apes among their venerable predecessors. In the middle of the room the shelves are so arranged on either side, that they form a long alley of enclosed closets, in which every man who wishes to use the library can work completely undisturbed,--an old and most exemplary arrangement. There are also books in the rooms which occupy the whole ground-floor of this quadrangular edifice. Here are some very curious manuscripts and specimens of early printing. I saw with sorrow how large a tribute the poverty of Germany has been compelled to pay to the wealth of England; among other things, a magnificent copy of Faust's first Bible, of the year 1440, which I think belonged to our Doctor Barth, and is inscribed with a number of notes in his handwriting. I was delighted to find a manuscript so exactly like a volume of Froissart in our library, (that with the miniatures in every leaf,) embellished with the same arabesques of fruit and flowers on a gold ground, the style and colouring of the figures so precisely the same, that it is scarcely to be doubted they are by the same painter. Unfortunately there is neither name nor date. The text is Quintus Curtius,--all the figures exactly in the costume of the time of the illuminator: Alexander, cased in iron from head to foot, breaks a lance with Darius, and throws him from his saddle, just in the style of the French and English Knights in Froissart. A very curious French manuscript, the subject of which is an heroic poem, contains the name of the writer with the date 1340, (an extremely rare occurrence,) and under it the name of the painter with the date 1346; this gives reason to conclude that the latter had spent six years in the illuminating, which is almost all executed on a very unusual design, in gold, blue and red in squares, like a carpet. This manuscript is peculiarly interesting from the circumstance that the painter, instead of enclosing the text within a border or arabesque, has surrounded it with a representation of the trades, sports, and pastimes of his time. A cursory glance showed me, together with many games and occupations which we have lost, so many which are still so precisely the same, that I was really surprised. For instance, a masked-ball; _Kammerchen vermiethen_;[39] the _Handespiel_, or 'gioco di villano;' the same with the feet, which we boys often used to play in winter to warm ourselves; throwing at cocks, and cockfighting; rope-dancers and conjurors; horse-riders and trained horses, whose feats are more wonderful than ours; rifle-shooting at a man who ('mille pardons') turns himself in unseemly wise to the company, like one still existing on a gate at Lausitz; a smithy, where a horse is shoeing; a wagon, with three large cart-horses harnessed out at length, with harness, &c. all in the present form, even the driver's costume,--a blue slop--the very same; and many other things which I have not time to notice,--showed that though many things change, yet an infinite deal remains unaltered, and perhaps, 'à tout prendre,' human life is more the same in different ages than we generally imagine. A Boccacio, with exquisitely beautiful miniatures, is one of the show-pieces of the library. A copy of the Acts of the Apostles, of the seventh century, in Greek and Latin, is shown as a great curiosity: each line contains only one word in each language. Considering its great antiquity, it is in very good preservation. In the beautiful court of All Souls College--which moreover is carpeted with the finest turf--there is a spot whence you have a most magnificent view of spires, towers, and façades of ancient buildings, rising in unbroken series, one behind another, without the least mixture of modern houses. Here is another noble library. In the middle is an orrery, which illustrates our solar system very clearly, and keeps equal course with the sun and planets through the year. Christ's College is a beautiful building of modern times; a part of it only is very old. The church is of Saxon architecture; round and pointed arches intermingle, but do not at all offend the eye. Here is the famous shrine of St. Frisdewilde, a most magnificent and tasteful Gothic monument of the beginning of the eighth century, and still in good preservation. It was enriched with silver Apostles and other ornaments, which were plundered in Cromwell's time. That unhappy religious war did irreparable damage to the antiquities of England; till then, all these sacred relics were in perfect preservation. Attached to this college is that most charming walk I described to you above. It leads us to Magdalen College, which has been in part newly restored. The restoration is perfectly in the ancient style, and renders this part of the building secure for five hundred years to come; it has already cost forty thousand pounds, though but a small part is completed:--it may be imagined what enormous sums the execution of such works from the foundation would cost. Nothing great in art can be executed now, for the money it would cost is absolutely unattainable. The sum which formerly purchased a god-like work of Raphael's, would now (even allowing for the difference in the value of money) scarcely buy a moderate portrait by Lawrence. The Botanic Garden, which closed our walk, contains nothing worth describing. I therefore release you for the present, my dear Julia; 'mais c'est á y revenir demain.' _Buckingham, Jan. 10th._ It is a sin how long my private journal has been neglected. The more my letters to you swell, the more does my unhappy journal shrink. If you were to burn these letters, I should have no trace of what had become of me all this time. Imagine how unpleasant to vanish from one's own memory! My imagination is so 'montée' by the many vestiges and echoes of past times, that I dream of a distant future, in which even ruins will be no more,--in which we shall lose not only these shadows of humanity, but human nature itself, and begin a new life in new spheres. For in remembrance, say what you will, we entirely lose that which we actually were;--even here, the old man nearly loses himself as a child. We may indeed find ourselves again, my best friend, and then will the tie that binds us necessarily re-unite. Let this satisfy us. 'Mais revenons à nos moutons;--c'est à dire, parlons de nouveau de parcs.' Dreadful weather--rain and darkness, detained me at Oxford till three in the afternoon, when it cleared sufficiently for me to set out. The postilion missed the road, which is not a main one, and drove us a long way about, so that we arrived very late. While the fire was lighting in my room, I sat down in mine host's, where I found a very pretty girl, his niece, and two doctors of the place, with whom I talked away the evening very pleasantly. _Aylesbury, Jan. 11th._ Stowe is, like Blenheim, another specimen of English grandeur and magnificence. The park embraces a large tract of undulating ground, with fine trees; the house is a noble building in the Italian style. The grounds were laid out long ago; and though in many respects beautiful, and remarkable for fine lofty trees, are so overloaded with temples and buildings of all sorts, that the greatest possible improvement to the place would be the pulling down ten or a dozen of them. There is a charming flower-garden, thickly surrounded with high trees, firs, cedars and evergreens, and flowering shrubs. The parterre forms a regular pattern like a carpet, in front of a crescent-formed house filled with rare birds. In the middle of this carpet is a fountain, and on either side are two pretty 'volières' of wire. In the park stands a tower called the Bourbon Tower, from the circle of limes around it which Louis the Eighteenth planted during his long residence at Hartwell in this neighbourhood. The tower, though modern, is half fallen in. I wish this be no ill omen for the Bourbons in France, where even the sage Charter-giver could obtain no better titles from his subjects than 'Louis l'Inévitable,' and 'Deux Fois Neuf.' Here is a monument deserving of mention, dedicated to the great men and women of England, with very appropriate inscriptions, and busts modelled after the best pictures. The façade of the building is four hundred and fifty feet long, and as long is the unbroken 'enfilade' of rooms in the 'bel étage,' which you enter from the garden by a fine flight of steps. You pass through a bronze door into an oval marble hall with a beautiful dome, whence alone it is lighted. A circle of twenty pillars of red scagliola marble surrounds it, and in the niches between them are ten antique statues. The floor is paved with real marble, and a gilded grating admits heated air. I will not weary you with further description of the rooms;--they are very rich, and all more or less decorated with pictures and curiosities. The state bed-room, which is not used, is crowded with fine porcelain, and contains a curious old bed of embroidered velvet with gold fringe. In a boudoir near were many other curiosities, which we were only permitted to see through a grating. The loss of a ruby necklace formerly belonging to Marie Antoinette, is the very sufficient reason for this prohibition, which is never removed but in the Duke's presence. The library is a long gallery covered from top to bottom with shelves, with a light and elegant gallery in the middle. An adjoining room, fitted up in the same way, contains nothing but maps and engravings, probably one of the richest collections in the world. This seems the peculiar taste of the present Duke. The hall on the other side of the house, looking on the park, commands a view which struck me as quite peculiar. You see a large open grassy plain, skirted on either side by an oak wood, and in the middle and back ground meadows and wood interspersed. In the centre of the plain, about sixty or seventy paces from the house, stands, perfectly isolated, a colossal snow-white equestrian statue, of admirable workmanship. The pedestal is so high that the horseman seems to rest on the top of the wood behind him. Not a building, nor any other object than trees, grass, and sky, are visible; and the whole scene so utterly still and inanimate, that the white spectral image rivets the attention:--no finer decoration for Don Juan could be imagined. It happened, too, by a fortunate chance, that the sky on that side of the house was perfectly black with a threatening snow-storm, so that the dazzling white statue stood out in almost fearful grandeur. At the moment, it looked alive, and every muscle seemed to rise in the sharp lights. Among the pictures is a treasure which seems to be unknown to our German travellers, at least I never saw it noticed:--a genuine portrait of Shakspeare, painted during his lifetime by Barnage. The hypercritics of England will have it there is no genuine portrait of Shakspeare; but it seems to me almost impossible to _invent_ a physiognomy carrying on it such a triumphant air of truth, so fully expressing the grandeur and originality of the man; furnished with all the intellectual elevation, all the acuteness, wit, delicacy, all the genuine humour, whose exhaustless treasures were never so lavished on any mortal. The countenance is nowise what is vulgarly called handsome; but the sublime beauty of the mind within beams from every part. Across the lofty forehead gleam the bright flashes of that daring spirit; the large dark brown eyes are penetrating, fiery, yet mild; around the lips play light irony and good-natured archness, but wedded to a sweet benevolent smile, which lends the highest, the most heart-winning charm to the lofty, awful dignity of the intellectual parts of the face. Wondrously perfect appears the structure of the skull and forehead; there are no single prominences, but all the organs so capacious and complete that we stand astonished before such a glorious pattern of perfect organization, and feel a deep joy at finding the man in so beautiful a harmony with his works. Two excellent Albrecht Dürers--a pair of female saints in a fantastic landscape--attracted me, particularly by their primitive German character. They are two genuine Nürnberg housewives, dressed in their fatherlandish caps, and taken from nature itself; good-natured, and busied about their saintly affairs.--A picture of Luther, by Holbein, is more intellectual and less fat than usual. There is a remarkable picture, by Van Dyk, of the Duke of Vieuxville, ambassador from the Court of France to Charles the First, who with chivalrous devotion followed the King into the field and was killed at Newbury. The dress is old, but picturesque;--a white 'juste-au-corps, à la Henri Quatre,' with a black mantle thrown over it; full short black breeches falling over the knee, with silver points; pale violet stockings with gold clocks, and white shoes with gold roses. On the mantle is embroidered the star of the Holy Ghost, four times as large as it is now worn, the blue riband 'en sautoir,' but hanging down very low, and the cross worn in the present fashion, on the side; it is narrower and smaller than now, and hangs by the broad riband almost under the arm. The Duke de Guise was not such as I had pictured him to myself:--a pale face with reddish beard and hair; with the expression rather of an 'intriguant' than of a great man.--A picture which corresponds better with the character of the person it represents is Count Gondemar, Spanish ambassador to the Court of James the First, by Velasquez; he ingratiated himself with the King by his dog-Latin, in which burlesque form he made free to say anything. He brought the gallant Sir Walter Raleigh to the scaffold by his Jesuitical intrigues. A picture of Cromwell, by his Court painter Richardson, has a double interest for the family. It was painted expressly for one of the Duke's ancestor's, who appears in the same picture as page, in the act of tying the Protector's scarf. This portrait is not much like the others of the same personage I have seen; it represents him as younger, and of a more refined nature, and is therefore probably flattered. From the hand of a Court painter this is to be expected. I must only mention two fine and large Teniers', one of which represents three wonderfully characteristic Dutch boors, meeting in a village and gossiping with their pipes in their mouths; an excellent Ruysdael; six famous Rembrandt's, and Titian's lovely mistress. I admired, too, a new specimen of art,--two Sèvres cups with miniatures after Pétitot, by that admirable porcelain-painter Madame Janquotot. The one represents Ninon de l'Enclos, of whom I had never before seen a picture that answered to my idea of her. This expressed her character fully, and is of the most attractive beauty,--genuine French, lively as quicksilver, bold almost to impudence, but too generous and too truly natural to leave any other than an engaging impression on the mind. The other--a gentle, placid, and voluptuous beauty--- was inscribed, Françoise d'Orleans de Valois. As thoroughly initiated in French genealogies and memoirs, you will know who she is. 'Je l'ignore.' Each cup cost a thousand francs. In a beautiful moonlight we drove to Aylesbury, whence I now write. _Uxbridge, Jan. 12th._ This evening I hope to be in London again. While the horses are putting-to I write a few words. We saw Lord Carrington's park this morning,--for your comfort be it said, the last, at present at least. The garden is nothing remarkable: the house is in the beloved modern Gothic style, but, being simple and unpretending, looks less affected. It is built of stone, without ornament. A good portrait of Pitt hangs in the library. This great man has anything but the face of a man of genius,--and who knows whether posterity will think his deeds betray more than his face? One thing pretty I observed in the garden,--a thick massy wreath of ivy planted on the turf. It looks as if negligently dropped there. Our excursion was to be closed by the sight of Bulstrode, which Repton describes at such length as the model of parks; but this drop is spared you, my poor Julia, for the Duke of Portland has sold it, and the present owner has felled the trees about which Repton is so enthusiastic, ploughed up the park, and pulled down the house to sell the stone. It was a miserable scene of desolation,--made more miserable by the strange dress of the women at work; they were wrapped from top to toe in blood-red cloaks, and looked like an ill-omened assemblage of executioners. _London, Jan. 13th._ By bright gas-light, which is always like a festal illumination here, we drove into town, and as I wished to have an instant contrast with my park-and-garden life, I alighted at Covent Garden to see my first Christmas pantomime. This is a very favourite spectacle in England, particularly with children; so that I was quite in my place. Playwrights and scene-painters take great pains to make every year's wonders exceed the last. Before I bid you good-night I must give you a rhapsodical sketch of the performance. At the rising of the curtain a thick mist covers the stage and gradually rolls off. This is remarkably well managed by means of fine gauze. In the dim light you distinguish a little cottage, the dwelling of a sorceress; in the back-ground a lake surrounded by mountains, some of whose peaks are clothed with snow. All as yet is misty and indistinct;--the sun then rises triumphantly, chases the morning dews, and the hut, with the village in the distance, now appear in perfect outline. And now you behold upon the roof a large cock, who flaps his wings, plumes himself, stretches his neck, and greets the sun with several very natural _Kikerikys_.[40] A magpie near him begins to chatter and to strut about, and to peck at a gigantic tom-cat lying in a niche in the wall, who sleepily stretches himself, cleans his face, and purrs most complacently. This tom-cat is acted with great 'virtuosité' by an actor who is afterwards transformed into Harlequin. The way in which he plays with a melon, the lightness and agility with which he climbs up the chimney and down again, his springs, and all his gesture, are so natural that they could only be acquired by a long study of the animal himself. Happily the scenic art is come to that, that it no longer suffers men to be excelled by poodles and monkeys, but has actually raised them to the power of representing those admired animals to the life. Meanwhile the door opens, and Mother Shipton, a frightful old witch, enters with a son very like herself. The household animals, to whom is added an enormous duck, pay their morning court to the best of their ability. But the witch is in a bad humour, utters a curse upon them all, and changes them on the spot into the persons of the Italian comedy, who, like the rest of the world, persecute each other without rest, till at last the most cunning conquers. The web of story is then spun on through a thousand transformations and extravagances, without any particular connexion, but with occasional good hits at the incidents of the day; and above all, with admirable decorations, and great wit on the part of the machinist. One of the best scenes was the witch's kitchen. A rock cleaves open and displays a large cave, in the midst of which more than a cart-load of wood forms the fire, before which a whole stag with its antlers, a whole ox, and a pig, are turning rapidly on the spit. On a hearth on the right side is baking a pie as big as a wagon, and on the left a plum-pudding of equal calibre is boiling. The 'chef de cuisine' appears with a dozen or two assistants in a grotesque white uniform, with long tails, and each armed with a gigantic knife and fork. The commandant makes them go through a ludicrous exercise, present arms, &c. He then draws them up 'en péloton' to baste the roast, which is performed with ladles of the same huge proportions as the other utensils, while they industriously fan the fire with their tails. The scene next represents a high castle, to which the colossal 'batterie de cuisine' is conveyed like a park of artillery. It appears smaller and smaller along the winding path, till at length the pie disappears in the horizon like the setting moon. Next we are transported into a large town, with all sorts of comical inscriptions on the houses, most of them satires on the multitude of new inventions and companies for all manner of undertakings; such as, "Washing Company of the three united kingdoms;" "Steam-boat to America in six days;" "Certain way of winning in the lottery;" "Mining shares at ten pounds a share, by which to become worth a million in ten years." The fore-ground exhibits a tailor's workshop, with several journeymen busily stitching away in the 'rez de chaussée; a pair of shears six yards long are fixed over the door as a sign, with the points upwards. Harlequin arrives, pursued by Pantaloon and Co., and springs through the air with a somerset in at a window on the first story, which breaks with a loud crash. The pursuers drawing back from the 'salto mortale,' tumble over and thump each other with artist-like skill and wonderful suppleness. Ladders are now brought, and they climb into the house after Harlequin: but he has made his escape through the chimney, and runs off over the roofs. Pantaloon with his long chin and beard leans out of the window before which the shears are placed, to see which way Harlequin is gone. Suddenly the parted blades shut to, and his head falls into the street. Pantaloon, not a whit the less, runs down stairs and rushes out at the door after his rolling head;--unluckily a poodle picks it up and runs off with it, and Pantaloon after him. But here he meets Harlequin again, disguised as a doctor, who holds a consultation with three others as to what is to be done for the unhappy Pantaloon. They at length decide to rub the place where the head is wanting with Macassar oil; and by means of this operation a new head happily grows under the eye of the spectators. In the last act, Tivoli at Paris is well given. A balloon ascends with a pretty child. While he floats from the stage over the heads of the audience the earthly scene gradually sinks, and as the balloon reaches the lofty roof, where it makes a circuit round the chandelier, the stage is filled with rolling clouds through which a thousand stars shine and produce a very pretty illusion. As the balloon sinks, town and gardens gradually rise again. A rope is next stretched, on which a lady drives a wheelbarrow to the summit of a Gothic tower, in the midst of fire-works; while other 'equilibristes' perform their break-neck feats on level ground. At the conclusion, the stage is transformed, amid thunder and lightning, into a magnificent Chinese hall with a thousand gay paper lanterns; where all spells are dissolved, the witch banished to the centre of the earth by a beneficent enchanter, and Harlequin, recognized as legitimate prince, marries his Columbine. On our way home we had another and more terrible spectacle, gratis. A lofty column of lurid smoke poured from a chimney, and soon became tinged with blue, red and green;--the nearer we came the thicker and more variegated it ascended, like one of the Chinese fireworks we had just seen. "Probably," said I to R----, "a chemical laboratory, if it be not indeed a fire in earnest." Hardly had I said the words when my fears were fulfilled. Cries resounded from all sides, the flames streamed wildly forth towards heaven, the people flocked together, and fire-engines soon rattled through the streets. But the huge city swallows up all particular incidents,--five hundred steps further, and the fire in the neighbourhood excited no interest whatever; the guests in an illumined mansion danced merrily, the play-goers walked quietly home, and all traces of alarm or sympathy were lost. But, my dear Julia, 'il faut que tout finesse'--and so must my long narrative, which certainly furnishes you with a sheet for every year of my life. That it ends with fire you must take as an emblem of ardent love,--and here it is not necessary, as your superstition requires, to exclaim "In a good hour be it said." Every hour, even the most unfortunate, is good--where love is. Your L----. LETTER XI. _London, Jan. 19th, 1827._ DEAREST JULIA, R---- left London to-day for Harwich, and will be with you in a fortnight. I know how glad you will be to have a living witness of the sayings and doings of your L----; one whom you can question about so many things which, even with the best intentions cannot always find place in letters. I have now settled myself into a town life again. Yesterday I dined with Prince E----, where the---- secretary of legation kept us in an incessant laugh. He is a kind of agreeable buffoon, and although of very mean extraction, a superlative ultra; ('tel le maitre, tel le valet.') I have often admired the talent of the French, and envied it too, for making the most amusing stories out of the most common-place incidents;--such as lose all their salt coming from any mouth but theirs. Nobody possesses this talent in a higher degree than Monsieur R----. He affords another proof that it is entirely the result of a language so admirably adapted to produce it, and of an education which springs from the same source; for Monsieur R---- is a German--I think a Swabian; but was brought to France when only two years old, and educated as a Frenchman. Language makes the man, more than blood;--though 'tis true, blood has first made the language. 'Au reste,' one must acknowledge that however brilliant such agreeable chatter may be at the moment, it goes out like a fusee, and leaves nothing on the memory; so that the pedantic German feels a sort of uneasiness after listening to it, and regrets having spent his time so unprofitably. Had it been possible to that element of Germanism which formed our language, to give it that lightness, roundness, agreeable equivocalness, and at the same time precision and definiteness,--qualities which are called into full play in society by French audacity,--the conversation of the German would certainly have been the more satisfactory of the two, for he would never have neglected to connect the useful with the agreeable. As it is, we Germans have nothing left in society, but that sort of talent which the French call 'l'esprit des escaliers;'--that, namely, which suggests to a man as he is going down stairs, the clever things he might have said in the 'salon.' Of this Frenchman's fireworks and crackers I retain nothing but the following anecdote. A diplomatic writer, who passed as authority in the time of Louis the Fourteenth, concluded a treatise on the great privileges pertaining to foreign envoys, with the following words;--'mais dès qu'un ambassadeur est mort, il rentre dans la vie privée.' _January 22nd._ The poor Duke of York is at length dead, after a long illness, and lay in state yesterday with great magnificence. I saw him in October, and found him, even then, the shadow of the robust stately man whom I had formerly so often seen at Lady L----'s, and at his own house, where six bottles of claret after dinner scarcely made a perceptible change in his countenance. I remember that in one such evening,--it was indeed already after midnight,--he took some of his guests, among whom were the Austrian Ambassador, Count Meerveldt, Count Beroldingen, and myself, into his beautiful armoury. We tried to swing several Turkish sabres, but none of us had a very firm grasp; whence it happened that the Duke and Count Meerveldt both scratched themselves with a sort of straight Indian sword, so as to draw blood. Count Meerveldt then wished to try if it cut as well as a real Damascus, and undertook to cut through one of the wax candles which stood on the table. The experiment answered so ill, that both the candles, candlesticks and all, fell to the ground and were extinguished. While we were groping about in the dark, and trying to find the door, the Duke's aide-de-camp, Colonel C----, stammered out in great agitation, "By God, Sir, I remember the sword is poisoned!" You may conceive the agreeable feelings of the wounded at this intelligence. Happily on further examination it appeared that claret and not poison was at the bottom of the Colonel's exclamation. The Duke seems to be much regretted, and the whole country wears deep mourning for him, with crape on the hat, and black gloves, 'ce qui fait le désespoir' of all shopkeepers. People put their servants into black liveries, and write on paper with a broad black edge. Meantime the Christmas pantomimes go on as merrily as ever. It has a strange effect to see Harlequin and Columbine skipping about on the stage in all conceivable frivolities and antics, while the coal-black audience, dressed as for a funeral procession, clap and shout with delight. I this minute received your letter from B----. Really so merry, I might almost say so pungent a one, you have not written of a long time. The B---- originals seem to have quite electrified you, and though I rejoice at it, I can't help being a little jealous. But you will soon come back to _your_ original. I say with Cæsar, I fear not the fat, but the lean; and so long as you tell me that you preserve your charming 'embonpoint,' I am easy. I had a great mind, however, to plague you a little in return; but I know you don't bear jesting 'par distance' well, so I abstain. To vent my humour in some way, I send you a bit out of my journal,--a 'pendant' to your African Travels; for the poor meagre journal is still alive, though it has received no nutriment by the month together, and the little it has had, has not the least 'haut gout.' Don't expect, therefore, anything facetious or satirical, but something quite serious. It is laid upon you as a punishment. EXTRACTS FROM MY JOURNAL. I was lately reading a review of Lady Morgan's Salvator Rosa. A passage in it touched me deeply, 'et pour cause.' It is the very original description of her hero, nearly as follows. "With a thirst for praise, which scarcely any applause could satisfy, Salvator united a quickness of perception that rendered him suspicious of pleasing, even at the moment he was most successful. A gaping mouth, a closing lid, a languid look, or an impatient hem! threw him into utter confusion, and deprived him of all presence of mind, of all power of concealing his mortification.... Abandoned by the idle and the great, whom his delightful talents had so long contributed to amuse, he voluntarily excluded himself from the few true and staunch friends who clung to him in his adversity, and shut himself up equally from all he loved and all he despised.... His reference to this journey is curious, as being illustrative of those high imaginations, and lofty and lonely feelings, in which lay all the secret of his peculiar genius: while his pantings after solitude, his vain repinings, exhibit the struggles of a mind divided between a natural love of repose and a factitious ambition for the world's notice and the _eclat_ of fame,--no unusual contrast in those who, being highly gifted and highly organized, are placed by nature above their species in all the splendid endowments of intellect; and who are, by the same nature, again drawn down to its level through their social and sympathetic affections.... His fine but fatal organization, which rendered him so susceptible of impressions, whether of good or evil, and which left him at times no shelter against 'horrible imaginings,' or against those real inflictions, calumny and slander, plunged him too frequently into fits of listless melancholy, when, disabused of all illusion, he saw the species to which he belonged in all the nakedness of its inherent infirmity." Yes, this picture is copied from the very soul; and it is no less true, that a man born with such a disposition can never feel at ease or happy in the world which surrounds him, unless he be placed very much above it, or live in it entirely unnoticed. So far I was led by the thoughts of others. Now I must conclude for to-day with a few of my own, the subject of which lies far nearer to our inmost hearts; and discuss a question, the full investigation of which must interest every one, be he ever so little a philosopher by profession. What is conscience? Conscience has unquestionably a twofold nature, as it has a twofold source. The one flows from our highest strength, the other from our greatest weakness; the one from the spirit of God dwelling in us, the other from sensual fear. Perfectly to dissever and distinguish these two kinds of conscience, is necessary to that serenity of mind which can arise only out of the utmost possible clearness: for man, when he has once got beyond the original dominant instinct of feeling, attains to the Permanent, even the recognition of truth, only by mental labour and conflict,--the moral 'sweat of his brow.' Man, however, is a whole, compounded of countless parts; and it is only in the perfect equipoise of these parts, that, _as man_--that is, as a being at once sensual and spiritual--he can obtain perfect happiness and contentment. It is the common, ever-recurring error, to strive to cultivate one side predominantly:--with one man it is the province of religion; with another, that of severe reason; with the man of the world, those of the understanding and the senses alone. But all these together, exercised, enjoyed, and blended, so to speak, with artist-like skill, can alone produce the most perfect Life for this earth, and for our destinies while upon it,--the complete, entire Truth. Under this point of view, then, must that which we call Conscience be considered, and the true distinguished from the false. Under the head of the True, I understand the infallible suggestions of the divine spirit in us; which restrains us from evil, generally, as from the wholly one-sided, inconsistent, and negative: and this requires no further explanation. By the False, I mean that which arises only from the Conventional; from custom, authority, from subtleties which have grown out of these foundations, and from overstrained anxiety;--in a word, from fear. Delicate, excitable natures, in whom the cerebral system predominates, in whom, therefore, the head and the fancy are more powerful and active than the heart: in whom the distributing intellect too easily breaks up and scatters the depth and intensity of the full feelings, are most subject to this kind of error. It is, however, so difficult to follow these subtle ramifications and secret counter-workings, that we often take that for a primary feeling, which is only the retro-action of a sophistical intellect. Now, as right and wrong, applied to the individual actions of human life with all their various conditions and intricacies, must obviously be relative; nothing remains but that every man should, with the help of all the powers of his soul, make quite clear to himself, sincerely and faithfully lay down to himself, what he can reasonably regard as right and what as wrong; and having ascertained it, thenceforward tranquilly apply that standard; and not trouble himself further about his so-called conscience; that is, the inward uneasiness and uncertainty which disturb the mind under new and conflicting circumstances. These cannot possibly be avoided; since the distinctions we have heard of right and wrong, reasonable and absurd, in our childhood and early youth, will ever exercise an irresistible influence.[41] To give a few exemplifications.--A man of gentle temper, educated in the fear of God and the love of man, who becomes a soldier, the first time he has to take deliberate aim at human life will hardly do it without a strong pang of conscience. So, at least, it was with me. Nevertheless it is his duty; a duty which may be justified on higher, although worldly grounds; so long at least as mankind are not further advanced than they now are. In like manner, he who after a long struggle forswears the religion of his fathers--the daily repeated lesson of his youth,--and embraces another on full conviction that it is better, will generally feel a slight, but difficultly subdued inquietude; and it is with that, just as it is with the most absurd fear of ghosts in those who have been educated in the belief of ghosts. They have a _ghost-conscience_, which they cannot get rid of. Nay, even more; with irritable characters, the mere persuasion that others hold them guilty of an evil action will give them so much the feeling of an evil conscience, that it appears in all its usual outward signs--embarrassment, blushing, and turning pale. This may be carried so far as to lead to insanity. For instance: A man universally believed to have killed another, or one who really, though quite innocently, has killed another, may never enjoy a moment's tranquillity or happiness again. We even read of a Bramin, whose religious creed makes the murder of an insect as criminal as that of a man, who killed himself because an English 'savant' told him that he never drank a glass of water without destroying thousands of invisible creatures. 'Il n'y a qu'un pas du sublime au ridicule.' Ugoni, in his Life of one of the most conscientious of men, Passaroni, relates that as he was one day going over the bridge of the 'Porta Orientale,' he saw a man lying fast asleep on the broad stone parapet, whence, if suddenly waked, he would probably have fallen into the river. He seized him by the arm, with difficulty aroused him, and with still greater made him understand why he had waked him. The porter, in a passion, requited his trouble with a hearty curse, and bid him go to the devil. Passaroni, greatly mortified and grieved at being the innocent cause of the man's wrath, pulled out a handful of coin, and gave it to him to drink the giver's health. Thereupon he left him quite satisfied; but had scarcely reached the end of the bridge, when it struck him that his gift would probably produce even worse consequences than his waking of the man had done; for that it would very likely lead the poor fellow into the crime of drunkenness. He immediately hurried back in great anxiety, found the man fortunately at the same spot, where he had laid himself down again exactly in his old position, and begged him, with some embarrassment, to give him back so much of the money as he did not want for his most pressing necessities. But as the rage of the porter, who thought himself fooled, now boiled over more furiously than ever, Passaroni devised another expedient: "Here, my friend," said he, "as you will not give me anything back, take another scudo, and promise me solemnly, that if you spend all the rest of the money in drink, you will buy something with that scudo to eat with it." Having received this promise from the 'fachino,' Passaroni's conscience was at length at rest, and he went contentedly home. We must, I repeat,--if we would not be either unhappy, or ridiculous, and like a reed shaken with every wind,--_educate_ our consciences as well as all the other faculties of our souls: that is, while we preserve them in all their purity, prescribe to them due limits; for even the noblest are otherwise liable to deterioration and perversion. The simplest and most universally applicable and universally intelligible guide is the precept of Christ, "Do not unto others (nor, we might add, to yourselves) what ye would not that others do unto you." But as there exist, as yet, no true Christians, certain exceptions to this rule are, and, in the present state of society, must be, permitted, as for instance, the case of the soldier above cited; or that of a man who obeys the laws of honour, which in certain stations it is utterly impossible to brave. And then there remains no other solution of the difficulty, than to allow to others the same liberty of making exceptions that we find ourselves compelled to claim;--in this way we just manage to preserve charity, and, at all events, that justice which is called the 'lex talionis.' That man has a happy, an enviable existence, to whom nature and surrounding circumstances have made it easy or possible to walk constantly in a beaten track; to be, from youth upwards, kind and loving, moderate in his desires and pure in his actions. The first fault is pregnant with sorrow and evil; for, as our philosophical poet so truly says, "Das eben ist der Fluch des Bösen Dass es fortwuchernd immer Böses muss gebahren!" And regeneration in this life is not always to be attained. May it not, then, be the last and highest act of mercy of Eternal Love, to have appointed death as a means of wiping out the confused and blotted scrawl, and restoring the troubled, misguided, soul to the condition of a pure white sheet, ready for happier trials? For that upon which the Holy has already been written here, must far higher bliss be in store. All-loving Justice punishes not as weak man punishes; but it can reward only where reward is due,--where it follows as an inevitable consequence of the past. _January 21st._ It is become very cold again, and the fire-place, '_wo Tag und Nacht die Kohle brennt_,' is unhappily quite insufficient to produce a warm room, such as our stoves--which, spite of their ugliness, I now think of as admirably efficient--procure us. To set my blood in motion I ride the more, and to-day, on my way home, saw one of the many Cosmorames exhibited here, which certainly affords a very agreeable _chamber journey_, as they call it in B----. The picture of the Coronation of Charles the Tenth in the Cathedral at Rheims, doubtless gave me a far more commodious view of it than I should have had in the crowded church. But what tasteless costume, from the King to the lowest courtier! New and old mixed in the most ludicrous and offensive manner! If people will perform such farces, the least they can do is to make them as pretty as those at Franconi's. The ruins of Palmyra lay outstretched in solemn majesty in the boundless Desert, which a caravan in the distant horizon is slowly traversing under a torrid sun. The most perfect illusion was the great fire at Edinburg:--it actually burned. You saw the flames stream upwards; then clouds of black smoke ascend; while the view of the whole landscape incessantly changed with the changes of this fearful light, just as in a real fire. Probably the proprietor's kitchen was behind the picture, and the fire which heated the fancy of credulous spectators like myself, roasted the leg of mutton which our shillings paid for. _January 28th._ For some days I have vegetated too completely to have much to write to you about. This morning I was not a little surprised to see R----, whom I thought almost with you, enter my room. He had been shipwrecked on his way to Hamburg, and driven back by the storm to Harwich; had passed a whole night in imminent peril, and is so heartily frightened, that he will hear no more of the sea as long as he lives. I therefore send him by Calais, and only write that you may not be uneasy. He has unfortunately lost some of the things he took for you. Hyde Park afforded a new spectacle this morning. The large lake was frozen, and swarmed with a gay and countless multitude of skaters and others, who enjoyed these wintry pleasures, so rare here, with true child-like delight. A few years ago, in weather like this, a strange wager was laid. The notorious Hunt deals in shoe-blacking: a large sort of wagon filled with it and drawn by four fine horses, which the young gentleman his son drives 'four-in-hand,' daily traverses the city in all directions. This young Hunt betted a hundred pounds that he would drive the equipage in question at full speed across the 'Serpentine,' and won his wager in brilliant style. A caricature immortalized this feat, and the sale of his blacking, as is reasonable, increased threefold. My house is grown very musical, for Miss A----, a newly-engaged opera-singer, has come to live in it. The thin English walls give me the advantage of hearing her every morning gratis. I have not been well for some days. The town air does not agree with me, and compels me to follow a 'régime' like that in your song:-- "un bouillon d'un roguon de papillon." _C---- Hall, Feb. 2d._ Lord D----, to whose wife I had been introduced in London, invited me to visit him for a few days at his country house. I accepted his invitation with more pleasure because C---- Hall is the place of which Repton says that he had laboured at its embellishment, together with its proprietor, forty years ago. Indeed it does him the greatest honour; though, from all I saw and heard, it appeared to me that the admirable taste of its Lord was entitled to the largest share of the merit; especially in sparing old trees which Repton would have removed. Nevertheless an honourable feeling of gratitude has dedicated an alcove, commanding a wonderfully beautiful prospect, to the man to whom landscape-gardening is so much indebted. Repton's son, who was with us, had told Lady D---- a great deal about M----; and as she is almost as good a 'parkomane' as myself, we had a very attractive subject in common, and walked about for some hours in the flower-garden, which is still more tasteful than splendid, and is adorned with some graceful marble statues by Canova. I did not see the master of the house, who was suffering from gout, till we came down to dinner, when I met a large company; amongst others Lord M----, who had just been to inspect the ships of war lying in the Thames. Lord D---- was lying on a sofa, covered with a Scotch plaid, and embarrassed me a little by his first address. "You don't know me," said he, "and yet we saw each other very often thirty years ago." Now as I was in frocks at the time he spoke of, I was obliged to beg for a further explanation, though I cannot say I was much delighted at having my age so fully discussed before all the company,--for you know I claim not to look more than thirty. However, I could but admire Lord D----'s memory. He remembered every circumstance of his visit to my parents with the Duke of Portland, and recalled to me many a little forgotten incident. What originals were then to be found, and how joyously and heartily people entered into all sorts of amusement in those days, his conversation gave me new and very entertaining proof of. He mentioned among others a certain Baron, who believed as firmly in ghosts as in the Gospel, and held Cagliostro for a sort of Messias. One day when he went out alone, to skate on the lake near our house, the whole party dressed themselves in sheets and other things borrowed from the wardrobe of the theatre, and presented to the eyes of the terrified Illuminatus the awful appearance of a party of ghosts, in broad daylight, on the ice. In mortal terror he fell on his knees, spite of his skates; and with a volubility which the venerable Lord could not think of, even now, without laughing, uttered "Abracadabra," and bits of Faust's incantations, interspersed with fragments of quavering psalms. During this, one of the ghosts, who, with the help of a long stick under his sheet, made himself sometimes tall and sometimes low, slipped and fell, stripped of all disguise, directly before the knees of the praying Baron. His faith was too robust, however, to be shaken by such a trifle. On the contrary, his terror was increased to such a pitch, that he sprang up, fell again, in consequence of his unlucky 'chaussure,' but soon scrambled up, and with a dexterity no one gave him credit for before, vanished like the wind, amid the cheers of the whole company. Even the confession of the whole joke by the actors in it never could convince him that he had been hoaxed, and no power on earth could ever induce him to see the frightful lake again as long as he remained at M----. You know I cannot avoid the reflections which often fill me with melancholy even on the most joyous occasions. So was it with me now, as Lord D---- thus conjured up before me the picture of departed times;--as he eulogized my grandfather's amiable character, described my mother's high spirit, and what a wild child I was: 'Hélas, ils sont passés ces jours de fête.' The amiable man has long lain mouldering in his grave; the high-spirited young woman is old, and no longer high-spirited; and even the wild boy is more than tamed--nay, not very far from those days in which he will say, "I have no pleasure in them:" the mad-cap young Englishman who played the ghost on the ice, lay before me, an old man, tortured with gout, stretched helpless on a sofa,--the tale of the merry pranks of his youth interrupted by sighs extorted by pain; while the poor fool whom he so terrified as ghost has long been a ghost himself, and the good Lord would be not a little alarmed if his visit happened to be returned. "Oh world, world!" as Napoleon said.[42] _February 3d:--Evening._ Lord D---- possesses a fine collection of pictures, among which are Titian's celebrated Venus; the death of Regulus, by Salvator Rosa; a large picture of Rubens, which has frequently been engraved; and a very fine Guido. In the two latter indeed, a not very agreeable subject, a lifeless head, is the principal object; in the one that of Cyrus, in the other that of John the Baptist. But Guido's Herodias is another of those figures instinct with the genius of poetical, divine beauty, uniting the most lovely womanliness with the deepest tragic expression, which leave so indelible an impression, and are so seldom found in reality. There is a lady of your acquaintance who corresponds with this ideal, Countess A---- of B----. She was, when I knew her,[43] the most beautiful and richly dressed woman I ever beheld. Perfect symmetry, absolute harmony, reigned in her person and in her mind; so that the most heterogeneous things equally became her. Majestic as a queen, when she was 'en representation;' distinguished by the most easy and graceful manners, the most exquisite knowledge of the world, when doing the honours of her own house; and by the most 'naïve,' touching kindness and sweetness in the circle of her family;--but under every aspect rendered more interesting and impressive by a trace of thoughtful melancholy never wholly effaced, allied to that perfect feminine tenderness which gives to woman the highest and most resistless charm in the eyes of men;--her resemblance to this picture of Guido's was striking. Two very pretty attendants of Herodias are in admirable contrast with the main figure. They are perfect ladies-in-waiting, who have no soul for anything beyond their court and their service; and their beauty receives from its very unmeaningness a certain rather animal character, which we can contemplate with an agreeable carelessness--a sort of repose to the mind after the profound and thrilling impression made by the main figure. The one is watching the glance of her mistress with an unmeaning smile; the other looks at the head of the Martyr in the charger with the same indifference as if it were 'a pudding.' I must describe to you, once for all, the 'vie de château' in England; of course only the common canvas, on which the Special is in every case embroidered by each man according to his fancy. The groundwork is in all the same, nor did I find it at all altered from what I formerly saw here. It forms, without any question, the most agreeable side of English life; for there is great freedom, and a banishment of most of the wearisome ceremonies which, with us, tire both host and guest. Notwithstanding this, one finds not less luxury than in the town; this is rendered less burthensome by the custom I mentioned of receiving guests only during a short period of the year, and on invitation. The ostentation which, doubtless, lies at the root of such customs, we may well forgive, for the better reception it procures us. Strangers have generally only one room allotted to them, usually a spacious apartment on the first floor. Englishmen seldom go into this room except to sleep, and to dress twice a-day, which, even without company and in the most strictly domestic circle, is always 'de riguer;' for all meals are commonly taken in company, and any one who wants to write does it in the library. There, also, those who wish to converse give each other 'rendezvous,' to avoid either the whole society, or particular parties, in the formation of which people are quite at liberty. Here you have an opportunity of gossiping for hours with the young ladies, who are always very literarily inclined. Many a marriage is thus concocted or destroyed, between the 'corpus juris' on the one side and Bouffler's Works on the other, while fashionable novels, as a sort of intermediate link, lie on the tables in the middle. Ten or eleven is the hour for breakfast, at which you may appear in 'negligée.' It is always of the same kind as that I described to you in the inn, only of course more elegant and complete. The ladies do the honours of the table very agreeably. If you come down later, when the breakfast is removed, a servant brings you what you want. In many houses he is on the watch till one o'clock, or even later, to see that stragglers do not starve. That half-a-dozen newspapers must lie on the table for every one to read who likes, is, of course, understood. The men now either go out hunting or shooting, or on business; the host does the same, without troubling himself in the least degree about his guests (the truest kindness and good breeding;) and about half an hour before dinner the company meet again in the drawing-room in elegant toilette. The course and order of dinner I have already described to you. * * * * * England is the true land of contrasts--'du haut et du bas' at every step. Thus, even in elegant houses in the country, coachmen and grooms wait at dinner, and are not always free from the odour of the stable. At the second breakfast, the 'luncheon,' which is served a few hours after the first, and is generally eaten only by the women (who like to make 'la petite bouche' at dinner,) there are no napkins, and altogether less neatness and elegance than at the other meals. This as parenthesis:--I now return to the 'order of the day.' When the men have drunk as much as they wish, they go in search of tea, coffee, and the ladies, and remain for some hours with them, though without mixing much. To-day, for instance, I observed the company was distributed in the following manner. Our suffering host lay on the sofa, dosing a little; five ladies and gentlemen were very attentively reading in various sorts of books (of this number I was one, having some views of parks before me;) another had been playing for a quarter of an hour with a long-suffering dog; two old Members of Parliament were disputing vehemently about the 'Corn Bill;' and the rest of the company were in a dimly-lighted room adjoining, where a pretty girl was playing on the piano-forte, and another, with a most perforating voice, singing ballads. I cannot help remarking here, that Lord and Lady D---- are among the most enlightened, unpretending, and therefore most agreeable, of the people of rank here. He is of the moderate Opposition, and desires the real good of his country, and nothing else; a patriot wholly devoid of egotism,--the noblest title that a cultivated man can bear. She is goodness, cordiality, and unpretendingness itself. A light supper of cold meats and fruits is brought, at which every one helps himself, and shortly after midnight all retire. A number of small candlesticks stand ready on a side-table; every man takes his own, and lights himself up to bed; for the greater part of the servants, who have to rise early, are, as is fair and reasonable, gone to bed. The eternal sitting of servants in an ante-room is not the custom here; and except at appointed times, when their services are expected, they are little seen, and one waits on oneself. At night I found a most excellent chintz bed with a canopy. It was so enormously large that I lay like an icicle in it,--for the distant fire was too remote to give any sensible warmth. _February 5th._ Between ourselves be it said, however agreeable, however unconstrained may be one's abode in another's house, it is always too constrained, too unaccustomed, above all too dependent for me, proud and fond of ease as I am, ever to feel perfectly at home. This I can be nowhere but within my own walls, and, next to that, in a travelling carriage or an inn. This may not be the best taste in the world, but it is mine. There are so many men who have no taste of their own, at all, that I am delighted with myself for having one, though it be not of the best. I shall therefore not exhaust the term of my invitation, but evacuate my large bed to-morrow, and proceed to Brighton, a watering-place now in great fashion. I have ridden all over the park here, in company with Lord D----'s very kind and polite son. It is less remarkable for features of striking beauty, than for the absence of all defect. Some views through wooded valleys, of the distant Thames, the town of Gravesend and its rising masts, have however a grand character; but nothing can exceed the incomparable skill with which the walls of wood within the park are planted, in masterly imitation of nature. As a study, I should recommend Cobham, in some respects, more than any of the parks I have described; though in extent and costliness it is surpassed by many. It is very modest, but to the admirer of nature its character is only the more delightful and satisfactory. It has also a great variety of hill, valley, and wood. I took leave of Lady D---- in her own room; a little sanctuary, furnished with delightful disorder and profusion:--the walls full of small 'consoles,' surmounted with mirrors and crowded with choice curiosities; and the floor covered with splendid camellias, in baskets, looking as if they grew there. Among these flowers, dear Julia, I take my leave of you. I entreat you to send me an answer of equal length, that your conscience may not reproach you with loving me less than I love you. Your hearty Friend, L----. LETTER XII. _Brighton, Feb. 7th, 1827._ BELOVED, I travelled these sixty miles yesterday with great rapidity, and in the most charming state of indolence, without even the exertion of looking up;--for one must once in a while travel like a fashionable Englishman. It seems that here is a better atmosphere than in any other part of the land of fog; the bright sunshine waked me this morning as early as nine o'clock. I soon went out;--first on the Marine Parade, which stretches to a considerable extent along the sea; then made a tour through the large, clean, and very cheerful town, which with its broad streets is like the newest parts of London; and concluded with visits to several London acquaintances. I then rode out, for I had sent my horses here before me. Vainly did I look around for a tree. The country is perfectly naked: nothing is to be seen but hilly downs covered with short turf; and sea and sky are the only picturesque objects:--even this first day of my visit they greeted me with the most beautiful sunset. The majestic orb was veiled in a rosy transparent mist, so that it darted forth no rays, but was like a ball of massive gold, glowing with the most fervid heat: as it touched the water, it appeared slowly to dissolve, and to spread itself over the surface of the blue deep. At length Ocean swallowed the fiery globe; the burning hues faded from red to violet, then gradually to whitish gray, and at length the waves driven by the evening wind, dashed murmuring on the shore in the dim twilight, as if in triumph over the buried sun. A distinguished old Minister enjoyed this noble spectacle with me, and was fully alive to its beauty. Lord Harrowby is an amiable man, of mild refined manners, and of great experience of the world and of business. _February 8th._ Public rooms, lists of visitors (_Badelisten_), &c., do not exist here. Brighton has only the name of a bathing-place in our sense of the word, and is chiefly resorted to by the inhabitants of London for recreation and pure air. People who have no country-house, or who find London too expensive, spend the winter, which is the fashionable season, here. The King was formerly very fond of Brighton, and built a strange Oriental Palace, which seen from the adjoining heights, with its cupolas and minarets, looks exactly like the pieces on a chess-board. The interior is splendidly though fantastically furnished. Although it has cost enormous sums, its possessor, long sick of it, is said to have shown a desire to pull it down, which indeed would be no great subject of lamentation. The only large trees I have seen in the neighbourhood are in the gardens of this Palace. But the walks by the sea are so ageeable that one does very well without; especially the large Chain Pier, which extends a thousand feet into the sea, and from whose extremity the steam-vessels sail for Dieppe and Boulogne. Not far from thence an Indian has established Oriental baths, where people are shampooed after the Turkish fashion, which is said to be very healthful and invigorating, and is in great favour with the fashionable world. I found the interior arrangements very European. The treatment is like that in the Russian vapour-baths, only I think not so good. I cannot help thinking the sudden cold after such profuse perspiration very dangerous. I thought the method of drying linen more worth imitating. It is laid in a sort of wardrobe lined with tin, and kept at an equal heat by means of steam. _February 9th._ The sun has disappeared again, and the cold has returned with such force that I am writing to you in gloves--for the better preservation of my white hands, to which I, like Lord Byron, attach great importance. I honestly confess I don't see that a man is 'un fat' merely for trying to preserve the little beauty God has given him; at all events chapped hands are a horror to me and always were.--Talking of this, I remember that I was once in the boudoir of a very beautiful woman in Strasburg, where I met Field-marshal W---- (then only General), who in eulogizing Napoleon laid a peculiar stress on his temperance, adding in a contemptuous tone, "A hero could not be a 'gourmand.'" Now the fair lady, who was otherwise a very kind friend of mine, knew me to be not quite insensible to 'bonne chére,' to gratify her malicious pleasure in teasing me, made the General repeat his observation. Though I never set up for a hero, (except in a little romance or two, here and there,) I felt that I blushed; one of those stupidities of which I never could break myself, even on many occasions where there was no ground for it. Provoked at myself, I said with some pique, "It is fortunate for the lovers of a good table, General, that there are a few brilliant exceptions to your rule. Remember Alexander:--it is true that a too luxurious feast led him into the burning of Persepolis;--but I think you will allow him to have been a hero for all that: and 'gourmandise' did not prevent Frederick the Great from acquiring immortal renown, both as a warrior and ruler.--You, General, who have fought with the French with so much glory, should not attack a good 'cuisine;' for that nation, however, distinguished be her generals, will obtain a wider and perhaps more lasting fame from her cooks." This last sentence was doubtless inspired by a prophetic spirit; and how would the enthusiastic eulogist of Napoleon have wondered, had I told him that in a little while he would stand opposed to the great 'non-gourmond' himself, and would receive one of the last effectual 'coups de griffes' of the sick lion. You think, I dare say, dear Julia, that this anecdote is as much in place here as one of our friend H----'s 'a-propos.' But you are mistaken. I now go to adduce Alcibiades and Poniatowsky, as examples of men distinguished for attention to dress and to their persons; thus proving from experience that neither sensibility to good cheer, nor a little 'fatuité,' are any obstacles to heroism, if other qualities be not wanting. A visit from Count F----, one of the most agreeable and respectable representatives of Napoleon's time, who carried into the Imperial Court 'les souvenirs de l'ancien regime,' and into the present one the reputation of spotless integrity and fidelity, (a most rare instance!)--here interrupted me. He came to invite me to dinner to-morrow. This has detained me:--it is too late to ride; I am not in the humour to seek Club society: I shall put on a second dressing-gown, dream about you and M----, read over your letters, and patiently freeze in my room,--for more than eight degrees of heat I find it impossible to procure by means of an open fire in my airy and many-windowed room.--'Au revoir,' then. _February 10th._ It was fair that I should indemnify myself to-day for my confinement to my room, so I wandered about in the neighbourhood for many hours. I enjoyed my freedom the more, as I was to execute myself in the evening at a great subscription ball. The country all around is certainly very remarkable; for in a four hours ride I did not see a single full-grown tree. Yet the numerous hills, the large town in the distance, several smaller ones scattered about, the sea and ships--all under rapidly changing lights, sufficiently diversified the landscape; and even the contrast with the generally well-wooded character of England was not without its charms. The sun at length retired to rest incognito, the sky cleared, and the moon rose cloudless and brilliant over the waters. I now turned my horse's head from the hills down to the sea, and rode five or six miles, about the distance to Brighton, hard on the edge of the waves along the sandy shore. The tide was coming in, and my horse sometimes shyed when a wave, crowned with snowy foam, rolled under his feet and quickly retreated as if in sport. I love nothing better than to ride alone by moonlight on the wide shore,--alone with the plashing and roaring and murmuring of the waves;--so near to the mysterious deep, that my horse can only be kept within reach of its rolling waters by force, and as soon as his rein is loosened darts away with redoubled speed towards the firm land. How different from this poetical scene was the prosaic ball!--which moreover so little answered my expectations that I was perfectly astonished. A narrow staircase led directly into the ball-room, which was ill-lighted and miserably furnished, and surrounded with worsted cords to divide the dancers from the spectators. An orchestra for the musicians was hung with ill-washed white draperies, which looked like sheets hung out to dry. Imagine a second room near it, with benches along the walls, and a large tea-table in the middle; in both rooms the numerous company raven black from head to foot, gloves inclusive; a melancholy style of dancing, without the least trace of vivacity or joyousness; so that the only feeling you have is that of compassion for the useless fatigue the poor people are enduring;--and now you have a true idea of the Brighton Almack's, for so these very fashionable balls are called. The whole establishment is droll enough. Almack's balls in London are the resort of people of the highest rank during the season, which lasts from April to June; and five or six of the most intensely fashionable ladies (Princess L---- among the number), who are called Patronesses, distribute the tickets. It is an immense favour to obtain one; and, for people who do not belong to the very highest or most modish world, very difficult. Intrigues are set on foot months beforehand, and the Lady-patronesses flattered in the meanest and most servile manner, to secure so important an advantage; for those who have never been seen at Almack's are regarded as utterly unfashionable--I might almost say disreputable; and the would-be-fashionable English world naturally holds this to be the greatest of all possible calamities. So true is this, that a novel was lately written on this subject, which contains a very fair delineation of London society, and has gone through three editions. On nearer observation, however, one sees that it betrays more of the ante-chamber than of the 'salon,'--that the author is one, as the Abbé de Voisenon said, 'qui a écouté aux portes.' How admirably well-informed the English are concerning foreigners is seen in a passage in this novel, in which the wife of a foreign ambassador, born however in England, is extremely facetious on the ignorant Londoners who assigned a higher rank to a German Prince than to her husband the Baron, whose title was far nobler. "But the word Prince," adds she, "whose nullity is well known to everybody on the Continent, dazzled my stupid countrymen." 'C'est bien vrai,' says a Frenchman, 'un Duc cirait mes bottes à Naples, et à Petersbourg un Prince Russe me rasait tous les matins.' As the English generally mis-spell and mis-quote foreign words and phrases, I strongly suspect that a slight mistake has crept in here, and that it ought to be printed, "un Prince Russe me _rossait_ tous les matins."[44] You may partly conceive the burlesque effect such a fashionable novel produces on people in the middling society of London, who are continually groping in the dark after 'le bel air,' are consequently in perpetual terror and agony, lest they should betray their acquaintance with the great world, and thus generally make themselves exquisitely ludicrous. I had a very amusing example of this a few weeks before the publication of the book in question. I was invited, with several other foreigners, to dine with a very rich * * * * * * * * Among them was a German Prince, who had visited at the house before, and, luckily for the farce, a German Baron also. When dinner was announced, the Prince advanced, as usual, to the lady of the house to hand her out, and was not a little amazed when she turned her back upon him with a slight curtesy, and took the arm of the most agreeably-surprised Baron. A laugh, which I really found it impossible to suppress, almost offended the good Prince, who could not explain to himself the extraordinary behaviour of our hostess; but, as I instantly guessed the cause, I soon helped him out of his wonderment. Regardless of rank, he now took the prettiest woman of the party; while I, for my part, made haste to secure ----, that I might be sure of an amusing conversation during dinner. The soup was hardly removed, when I expressed to her as politely as I could, how much her nice tact and exact knowledge of the usages of even foreign society had surprised me. "Ah," replied she, "when one has been ---- so long, one becomes thoroughly acquainted with the world." "Certainly," replied I, "especially in ----, where you have all that sort of thing in black and white." "You see," said she, speaking rather low, "we know well enough that 'a foreign Prince' is nothing very great, but to a Baron we give the honour due." "Admirably distinguished!" exclaimed I; "but in Italy you must be on your guard, for there 'barone' means a rascal." "Is it possible?" said she; "what a strange title!" "Yes, madam, titles on the Continent are mysterious things; and were you the Sphinx herself, you would never fathom the enigma." "May I help you to some fish?" said she. "With great pleasure," answered I, and found the turbot, even without a title, excellent. But, to return to Almack's:--The oddest thing is, that one of these tickets, for which many English men and women struggle and strive, as if for life and death, are, after all, to be paid for with the sum of ten shillings; for Almack's are neither more nor less than balls for money. 'Quelle folie que le mode!' We are sometimes forced to conclude that our planet is the mad-house of the solar system. In Brighton we find the copy of London in little. The present Lady-patronesses are * * * When I entered, I saw no one of my acquaintance, and therefore addressed myself to a gentleman near me to show me the Marchioness of ----, from whom I had received my ticket, through the 'entremise' of Countess F----. I was obliged to present myself to her, to return my thanks; and found her a very kind, amiable, domestic woman, who had never quitted England. She introduced me to her daughters, and also to a certain Lady----, who spoke very good German. That is the fashion now, and the young ladies labour hard to accomplish it. I afterwards found a gentleman of my acquaintance who introduced me to several very pretty young ladies, among whom Miss W----, a niece of Lord C----, was peculiarly distinguished. She was brought up in Germany, and is more German than English,--of course an advantage in my eyes. She was by far the prettiest and most graceful girl in the room, so that I was almost tempted to dance once more; though from vanity (for I always danced badly) I renounced that so-called pleasure years ago. I might safely enough have attempted it here, for God knows, nowhere do people jump about more awkwardly; and a man who waltzes in time is a real curiosity. But it seems to me too ludicrous, to join the worshippers of the tarantula so far on my way towards forty. 'Il est vrai que la fortune m'a souvent envoyé promener, mais danser--c'est trop fort!' I was told that the chief of a Highland clan, with a name as long as a Spaniard's,--a descendant of some island king, and proud as Holofernes of a thousand years of noble ancestry,--wished to make my acquaintance. I had reason to congratulate myself on making his; for I found him a living model of one of Walter Scott's pictures. A genuine Highland Scot, hanging with body and soul on ancestry and ancient customs, having great contempt for the English, full of fire, good-natured, loyal-hearted, and brave; but childishly vain, and, on that side, as easy to wound as to win. I very gladly took refuge from the tedium of the crowd in conversation with a man of so original a character. I sat down by him on a bench in the tea-room, and got him to tell me of all the glories of his ancient heritage, all the battles of his forefathers, and his own travels and adventures. The worthy man described to me at great length his Highland dress, to which he evidently attached immense importance; and told me a long history of the effect his appearance in it had produced on the Court of Berlin. There was doubtless enough to excite a smile in his account of the astonishment of the King and Queen, and of the signal attentions his striking dress commanded; yet there was a fire and a simplicity in his manner of relating the triumphs of his national costume, that touched me extremely. _February 11th._ This morning I went to church, with a full intention of being pious; but it did not succeed. Everything was too cold, dry, and unæsthetic. I am an advocate for a more imaginative worship, though it be addressed rather more to the senses. If we did but follow Nature, we should find her the best instructress in religion, as in other things. Is it not by her most magnificent and sublime spectacles that she awakens our hearts to emotions of piety? by the painting of her sunsets, by the music of the rolling deep, by the forms of her mountains and her rocks? Be not wiser, my brethren, than him who created all these wonders, and formed the human heart to feel them; but imitate him, according to the measure of your feeble powers. But on this matter I should preach to deaf ears, except to yours, dear Julia; they have long listened, with me, to the heavenly song of the spheres, which ceaselessly resounds in the eternal, beautiful creation, if men did not stop their ears with the cotton of positive dogmas and traditions, through which they cannot hear it.[45] The sermon too which I heard, though prepared beforehand, and read, was stony and unprofitable. Preachers would do much more good if they would lay aside the old mechanical custom of taking texts only out of the Bible, and take them from local life and circumstances, and from human society as it now exists; if they would rather seek to foster the in-dwelling poetical religion, than the mere spirit of dogma; if they would treat morality not only as the Commanded, but as the Beautiful and the Useful,--the Necessary, indeed, to the happiness of the individual, and of society. If more pains were taken to _instruct_ the working-man from the pulpit,--to form him to _think_ instead of to _believe_,--crime would soon become less frequent; he would begin to feel a real interest in what he heard,--a positive want of the church and of the sermon, for his own guidance and information: whereas he now attends them mechanically and without reflection, or from some motives equally unprofitable. The laws of the land, too, and not the Ten Commandments alone, should be declared and expounded to the people from the pulpit;--they should be made perfectly conversant with them, and with the grounds of them; for, to use the words of Christ, how many sin without knowing what they do![46] The best practical receipt for a universal morality is, without doubt, to ask oneself whether an action, or course of action, _if adopted by every man_, would be useful or injurious to society. In the first case, it is of course good,--in the second, bad. Had Governments, and those upon whom devolves the sacred and neglected duty of instructing the people, habituated them to the constant application of this test or measure of conduct, and then demonstrated to them, directly, 'ad oculos,' the inevitable, ultimate reaction of evil conduct _on themselves_, they would, in the course of a few years, have improved not only the morality of the country, but its physical condition and commercial prosperity; whereas the ordinary priestly wisdom, which sets faith, authority, and dogma above everything, has left mankind in the same state for centuries,--if indeed it have not made them worse. It would, perhaps, do no harm occasionally to choose teachers who have been converted to virtue by experience of the evil consequences of vice (as, for instance, the late Werner,) and who are therefore best informed on the subject. Not only is there more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety-and-nine just men, but such a man is more firm in his convictions and perceptions, and generally more zealous in reclaiming others, as the examples of many holy men prove. Above all, in every well-organized society all clergymen, be they of what persuasion they may, must, in my opinion, be paid by fixed salary, and not be permitted to take money for every separate consolation of real, or ceremony of conventional, religion;--a meanness which necessarily destroys all true reverence for the priest, and which must degrade him in his own eyes, if he have any delicacy. It is really dreadful to see the poor man stick his two _groschen_ behind the altar for the holy elements he has just received; or crowd a fee into the reverend gentleman's hand when his child is christened, just as if he were giving him a shilling to drink. But when we hear the parson storm and scold from the pulpit, because his offerings and tithes decrease; when we hear him announce such a falling-off in his revenues as a proof of the decline of religion; then, indeed, we feel distinctly why there are so many parsons, and what they themselves regard as their true and proper vocation. Soldiers naturally love war, and in like manner priests love religion,--for their own advantage. But patriots love war only as a means of obtaining freedom; and philosophers, religion only for its beauty and its truth. That is the difference.--But, as the author of the Zillah so truly says, "Establishments endure longer than opinions; the church outlasts the faith which founded it; and if a priesthood has once succeeded in interweaving itself with the institutions of the country, it may continue to subsist and to flourish long after its forms of worship is regarded with aversion and contempt." The afternoon was more satisfactory.--I climbed the hills around the town, and at last crept up to the top of a windmill in order to see the whole panorama of Brighton. The wind turned the sails of the mill with such force that the whole building rocked like a ship. The miller's lad, who had shown me the way up, went to a flourbin and took out a telescope. Spite of its soft bed, it was unhappily broken. I was however well satisfied with the general view, enlivened as it was by hundreds of fishing-boats which seemed struggling with the storm, and hastened back with the sinking sun to my social duties. The party at Count F----'s was small but interesting; it was rendered so in the first place by the host himself; then by a lady celebrated for her beauty; and lastly, by a former well-known leader of 'ton' in Paris. In his youth he played a considerable part there, and was at the same time constantly implicated in political affairs. He now passes a great part of the year in England, probably still not without political views. He is one of that sort of men, daily becoming more rare, who live in great style, one knows not how; contrive to acquire a sort of authority everywhere, one knows not why; and under whom one always expects to find something mysterious, one knows not wherefore. ---- is very agreeable, at least when he chooses: he narrates admirably, and has forgotten nothing of his eventful life which can give zest to his conversation. For adventurers of this high order, whose consummate knowledge of the world affords continual matter for admiration, (though generally employed only to make dupes,) the French character is better suited than any other. Their agreeableness in society smooths their way; and their not over warm hearts and oeconomical understandings, (if I may use the expression,) admirably enable them to keep all the ground they have won, and to maintain a firm footing on it for ever. The clever man of whom I am now speaking plays also very agreeably; and jestingly declares, like Fox, that after the pleasure of winning, he knows no greater than that of losing. We talked a great deal about Napoleon, of whom our host, like all who lived long in immediate intercourse with him, could not speak without veneration. He mentioned a circumstance which struck me. The Emperor, he said, was so incredibly exhausted by the violent excitement of the Hundred Days and the events that succeeded them, that on his retreat from Waterloo, in the early part of which he was protected by a batallion of his 'Garde,' he proceeded very slowly, and without any precipitation (quite contrary to our version of the affair.) Two or three times he fell asleep on his horse; and would have fallen off, had not Count F---- himself held him on. But the Count declared that, except by this complete corporeal exhaustion, he never exhibited the slightest mark of internal agitation. _February 14th._ My original friend, the Scot--who, I am told, has killed two or three men in duels--visited me this morning, and brought me his genealogy, printed, with the whole history of his race or 'clan.' He complained bitterly that another man of his name contested the rank of chieftain with him; and took great pains to prove to me, from the work he had brought, that he was the true one: he added, that "the judgment of Heaven between them would be the best way of deciding their respective claims." He then called my attention to his arms, of the origin of which he related a curious history, * * * * * * * * * * It was, like most of these traditions, poetical enough, and a striking picture of those rude but vigorous ages. I did not fail to relate to him a 'pendant' to his story, from the Nibelungenlied, concerning my own ancestors;--probably both were equally true. We parted over the ghosts of our forefathers, the best friends in the world. There are now private balls every evening: and in rooms to which a respectable German citizen would not venture to invite twelve people, some hundreds are here packed like negro slaves. It is even worse than in London; and the space allotted to the quadrilles allows only the mathematical possibility of making something like dancing demonstrations. A ball without this crowd would be despised; and a visitor of any fashion who found the staircase empty, would probably drive away from the door. This strange taste reminded me of one of Potier's characters, a 'ci-devant jeune homme' who orders a pair of pantaloons of his tailor which are to be 'extraordinairement collant:' as the 'artiste' is going away he calls after him, "Entendez vous?--extraordinairement collant; si j'y entre, je ne le prends pas." In like manner an English dandy would say of a rout, "Si j'y entre, je n'y vais pas." When you are once in, however, I must confess that nowhere do you see a greater number of pretty girls, against whom you are squeezed 'bongré malgré,' than here. Some of them have been educated for a year or two in France, and are distinguished for a better 'tournure' and style of dress; many of them speak German. A man may have as many invitations to 'soirées' of this sort as he likes; but he may go away as perfect a stranger as if he had been uninvited; for if he does not stay long, he does not so much as see the hostess, and certainly she does not know half the people present. At one o'clock a very 'recherché' cold supper is served, with 'force champagne.' The supper-room is usually on the ground-floor, and the table of course cannot contain above twenty persons at a time, so that the company go down in troops, and meet, pushing and elbowing, on the narrow staircase. If you succeed in getting a seat, you may rest a little; and many avail themselves of this privilege with small regard to their successors: little attention is paid to giving place to the ladies. On the other hand, the servants are very active in continually replacing the dishes and bottles, as fast as they are emptied, on the side of the table to which the guests have no access. In order to see the whole of the thing, I stayed till four in the morning in one of the best houses, and found the end of the fête, after three-fourths of the company were gone, the most agreeable; the more so as the daughters of the house were remarkably pretty amiable girls. There were some famous originals, however, at the ball; among others, a fat lady of at least fifty-five, dressed in black velvet with white trimmings, and a turban with floating ostrich feathers, who waltzed like a Bacchante whenever she could find room. Her very pretty daughters tried in vain to rival their mamma. My curiosity being excited by such a display of Herculean vigour and pertinacity, I found the lady's large fortune had been made by speculations in cattle. The music in most of these balls was extremely meagre and bad. The musicians, however, contrive to produce such a noise with such instruments as they have, that you cannot hear yourself speak near them. _February 16th._ I read yesterday that "strong passions are increased by distance." Mine for you must be very strong then--though indeed tender friendship is ever the surest of any--for I love you better than ever:--but this is intelligible enough. If we truly love a person, we have, when absent from him, only his good and agreeable qualities before our eyes; the unpleasant little defects which exist in every man, and which, however trifling they may be, annoy us when present, vanish from our recollection,--and thus love naturally increases in absence. And you--what do you think on this subject? How many more faults have you to cover with the mantle of Christian love in me! I am going to London to-morrow, expressly to deliver this letter to our ambassador with my own hands, since the last was delayed so long. Probably it fell into the hands of the curious, for we shall not soon get rid of the 'infamie' of opening letters. In two days I shall return, and shall be happy enough to miss three or four balls in the interval.--I took a long walk this morning, and this time not entirely alone, but with one of the many agreeable girls I have met with here. When young unmarried women are once 'lancées' in the world, they enjoy more rational freedom in England than in any other country in Europe. The young lady 'quæstionis' was just seventeen, and polished in Paris. On my return home I found, to my no small astonishment, a letter from the luckless R----, who has been again driven back to Harwich, and despairingly implores money and help. Contrary to my desire, as I now learn for the first time, he did not go by Calais. These wanderings of the Garden-Odysseus are as ludicrous as they are disagreeable, and you will doubtless think the adventurer 'malgré lui' is eaten by the fishes, till you have ocular proof of the contrary. I recollect that twelve years ago, about this same season, I was going to embark for Hamburg, from which I was fortunately dissuaded by my old French valet. He said, with rather an odd turn of expression; "Dans ces tems ci, il y a toujours _quelques équinoxes_ dangéreuses, qui peuvent devenir funestes." He was right; the vessel was wrecked, and several lives lost. _London, Feb. 18th._ Honour to Mr. Temple!--Your letter, which he forwarded, reached me in ten days, while those which come through our diplomacy are three weeks on the road. Give him my best thanks. I laughed heartily at the news H---- sends me so humourously. The little _Criminal-rath_ ('conseiller criminel') whom the jester calls 'le Rat criminel'; the 'Renvoyé extraordinaire,' and the 'Diplomate à la fourchette,' are admirably painted; so is The Fortunate house-court-state-and body-servant. Don't wonder at his success: it is indisputable that there is a sort of narrowness which almost always succeeds in the world; and a character of mind which never succeeds. Mine is of this latter sort--a fantastic picture-making mind, that fashions its own dream-world anew every day, and thence remains for ever a stranger in the actual world. You tell me that if Fortune had offered herself to me, I should have slighted her, or at most, playfully taken her by the finger, instead of clutching her earnestly;--that I never valued the present till it stood as a picture in the far distance;--that then indeed it was often a picture of repentance and regret; the future, a picture of longing and aspiration; the present, never anything but a misty spot. 'A merveille.' You say all this most charmingly; and I must acknowledge that nobody understands better how to moralize impressively than you.--If it were but of any use to me! But tell me,--if you could convince the lame man that it were far better for him not to be lame;--as soon as the poor wretch tries to set one foot before the other, does he limp the less? 'Naturam expellas furca,' &c. Vainly do you desire your stomach to digest better, your wit to be sharper, your reason to be more efficient:--things go on in their old train, with a few modifications. The decisions of the Ministers on the S---- affair, which you communicate to me, also remain after the old sort, in spite of the extreme politeness of those gentlemen. Is it not strange, however, that our inferior functionaries distinguish themselves as much by their 'tracasseries,' and by their ill-bred, and I might say contemptuous style, as the higher do (with a single exception) by their care in using none but the most refined and polished forms? Do not these on this very account wear the appearance of the bitterest irony? You may give this as a subject for a prize-essay to our G---- dilettante academy. 'A propos,'--who is that very wise Minister of whom H---- speaks? Ah ha! I guess--but all Ministers are now-a-days so wise 'ex officio,' that it is difficult to know which he means. The other, however, I guessed instantly--as well as the pure horizontal individual, whose illness grieves me heartily; for when he is well, he stands, in my opinion, most singularly perpendicular, towering above disfavour or envy, by the dignity of his character, and by his experience and talents for business. There are, to be sure, some official persons in our country whom one might fairly ask, with Bürger's Lenore, every time one sees them, "Bist lebend, Liebster, oder todt?"[47] Heaven preserve us both in better health of body and mind! And, above all, may it preserve to me your tender friendship, the most essential element of my well-being! Your faithful L----. LETTER XIII. _Brighton, Feb. 19th, 1827._ DEAR JULIA, 'To make the best of my time,' (as the practical English say,) before I left town yesterday I visited three theatres in succession. In the first piece I saw, the principal person was an Irish servant. According to all I have been able to learn from plays and novels, these Irish must be an odd people,--of a fresh originality very unlike the English. Irish beggars are very common in the streets of London, where they are easily recognized by their Gascon-like manner and dialect. A modern author remarks with equal drollery and truth: "The English beggar whines out the same monotonous words in a drawling tone, 'Give a poor man a halfpenny, Give a poor man a halfpenny.'--What an orator is his Irish colleague! 'O your honour, give us a penny, only one blessed penny, your honour's honour, and God's blessing be upon your children, and your children's children! Give us only one little penny, and may Heaven grant you a long life, and a quiet death, and a blessed resurrection!'" Who can withstand entreaties so humorously moving? In the next theatre we were regaled with a pantomime, in which was a quadrille of birds, and another of tea-things; after which the tea-pot, milk-jug, and cup, executed a 'pas de trois,' while spoons, knives, and forks danced around them as 'figurantes.' The birds were 'à s'y méprendre,' and I recommend something of the same kind, with parrots which might speak too, to be arranged for the S---- Court theatre by Mephistophiles. A clever account of it would be a still further novelty, and a tea-kettle and accompaniments would be very suitable additions to the society. I saw the Indian jugglers for the third time. They exhibited something quite new. Instead of balls, they threw up and caught short burning torches. This produces a curious sort of fire-work, a continuous developement of burning figures,--wheels, serpents, triangles, stars, flowers, &c., as if in a kaleidescope. The immovable steadiness and accuracy of these people never misses. The fantastic absurdities of the pantomimes probably affected my imagination in the night, which I dosed away between London and Brighton; for I had the strangest visions in my carriage. At first I was mounted on my beautiful gray, whom for once I could not manage: he constantly resisted my will; and when at last I mastered him, shook his head with such fury, that it broke from his neck and flew to a distance of twenty paces, while I plunged down a precipice on the headless body.--I was next sitting on a bench in my park, and watching the devastations made by a frightful hurricane, which tore up the old trees far and near, and threw them together like faggots.--At last I quarrelled with you, dear Julia, and in despair went for a soldier. I forgot you (which is possible only in sleep,) and found myself in my new sphere, once more young and brilliant, full of fresh spirit, and not less full of wanton pride. It was the day of battle. The thunder of the cannon rolled magnificently; noble martial music accompanied it, and animated our spirits; while, with the prerogative of a dream, we sat quietly breakfasting on a 'pâté aux truffes et champagne,' in the midst of a fire of musketry. A spent cannon-ball now came 'en ricochet' towards us; and before I could spring aside, carried off the head of my comrade, who was sitting on the ground by my side, and both my legs, so that I fell groaning with pain and horror. When I recovered my senses, the storm was roaring around me, and the sea howled in my ears. I thought myself on the voyage, when, behold my carriage stopped at the door of the inn on the Marine Parade at Brighton! To-morrow perhaps I shall dream out the rest. But are the waking fancies of life much less confused? Castles in the air, for good and for evil;--nothing but castles in the air. Some stand for minutes, some for years, some for tens[48] of years; but they all fall at last, and palace, just as easily as a miserable hut, a grave or a dungeon. But you are ever by, my Julia, either sharing the palace, adorning the hut, weeping over the grave, or consoling me in bonds. At this moment I am floating midway, without any determinate abode: I am, however, all the more ethereal and light-hearted for that; but, I must confess, with a very sleepy 'physique,' for it is three in the morning: and so I kiss your hand, and bid you good-night. But I beg you to look in your dream-book what these adventures of mine portend. You know my favourite superstition, which I set too high a value upon to have it torn from me by chaffy reasonings. As, for instance, when an 'esprit fort' shrugs up his shoulder, (if he does not venture to turn up his nose in my face,) or a well-anointed priest says, "It is extraordinary to see how inconsistently many men refuse to believe in religion, (by which parsons always mean _their_ Church and its ordinances,) and yet give way to the utmost credulity in the greatest absurdities." "But, reverend Sir," I ask in reply, "in what then do these absurdities consist?" "Why, the belief in sympathies, in dreams, in the influence of the stars, and so on." "But, most respected Sir, I see no inconsistency in the matter. Every reflecting man must confess that there are a number of mysterious powers in nature,--influences, and attractions, both of our earth, and of the system to which it belongs, of which many that formerly passed for fables have been discovered; others that as yet we do but suspect or divine, and cannot ascertain. It is therefore by no means contrary to reason to make one's own hypothesis concerning them, and to believe in these more or less. I do not, therefore, contest your miracles, nor your symbols;--I contest only certain other things, which many of you teach, and which are equally incomprehensible to the understanding and repugnant to the heart: for instance, a God more passionate and partial than the frailest man; infinite torments appointed by infinite love, for finite sins; arbitrarily-predestined forgiveness or damnation,--and so on. Such things can be possible only when two and two shall make five, and no superstition can approach the insanity of such a belief." _February 22nd._ I am just returned from a grand Almack's fancy ball, where everybody was either in some fantastic outlandish dress, or in uniform,--a 'mélange' which does not seem to me in very good taste, nor very respectful to the latter. You may imagine that my friend the Highland chieftain did not fail to appear in his national costume. It is really very handsome; in the highest degree rich, picturesque, and manly: the only thing that does not please me is the shoes with the large buckles. The sword is just in the form of one of our student's rapiers; and besides that, there is a dagger, pistols, and cartouche-box. The arms are set with precious stones; and an eagle's feather, the badge of a chieftain, adorns the cap. I escorted two ladies to the ball,--the one a good-natured and sensible woman, still very pretty at five-and-thirty, who likes the world and is liked by it, and nurses an invalid husband with the most unremitting care. Her 'tournure' is agreeable, her disposition kind and good,--so that she is just the person 'pour en faire une amie dans le monde.' The other lady, her intimate friend, is a young and very pretty widow; not a very considerable only _seem_ realities. Nobody can furnish a greater abundance of plans to architects of such castles than I. On the slightest inducement I can build a fairy person, but a good-tempered friendly little creature, who is perfectly contented if you tell her that her teeth are pearls and her eyes violets. I had no reason to be ashamed of my ladies, either as to person or dress; but they, and all present, were eclipsed by the youthful Miss ----. She is really one of the most beautiful girls I have seen,--a little sylph,--who must have stolen her exquisite foot and her graces from another land. She is only sixteen,--wild, and mobile as quicksilver; unwearied in dancing as in frolic. I was so fortunate as to gain her good graces to-day by a lucky offering. This consisted in a 'cornet' of remarkably well-made 'bonbon' crackers, in the distribution of which she had found infinite diversion at the last ball. This indecorum had been strongly reprobated by the mammas; so that there were no more to be had at supper, as heretofore. I had providentially laid in a stock at the confectioner's, and now presented them to her unexpectedly; and I doubt whether the gift of a million of money would give poor me half the pleasure I now bestowed by such a trifle. The little thing was in an ecstacy of delight, and immediately prepared her batteries, which were the more successful, as the enemy thought themselves secure. At every explosion she laughed as if she would kill herself; and every time I met her she smiled upon me with her sparkling eyes, as sweetly as a little angel. Poor child! this perfect innocence, this overflow of happiness and joy, touched me deeply--for, alas! she will soon, like all the rest, be undeceived. There were many other very pretty young women; but they were too 'dressées'; some were loaded with jewels and trinkets, but none were comparable to this girl. _February 24th._ I spent this evening at Mrs. F----'s, a very dignified and delightful woman, formerly, as it is affirmed, married to the King. She is now without influence in that region, but still universally beloved and respected,--'d'un excellent ton et sans prétension.' I there heard some interesting details concerning Lord Liverpool: a man who, an hour before, ruled half a world with energy and sagacity, becomes an 'imbecile' from the neglect to open a vein! His predecessor, Lord Castlereagh, from the same cause commits suicide!--On how frail a tenure hangs the human intellect! In this house one sees only 'beau monde.' Indeed there is not much of the very emptiest, the exclusive society here; or they live completely retired, that they may not come into collision with the persons they call 'Nobodies,' whom they shun with greater horror than Brahmins shun Parias. Though my station and connexions allow me to enter the sanctuary, I do not on that account disdain the world without. As a foreigner, and still more as an independent man, I take the liberty to seek enjoyment wherever I can find it, unfettered by such restrictions,--nor do I always find the most in the highest places. Even the vulgar and laughable 'singerie' of the 'parvenus' is sometimes extremely amusing, and has a much more burlesque character in England than in any other country; since wealth, establishment, and luxury,--in a word, all their 'entourage,'--are essentially the same as those of the great and high-bred; only the persons wander among them as if stripped bare. Here occurred a long pause in my correspondence. Pardon,--I was eating my solitary dinner; a snipe stood before me, a 'mouton qui rêve' by my side. You guess who is the latter. Don't be distressed about the place on the left, for on the right is a blazing fire, and I know how much you fear that. I shall spend the evening again at Count F----'s, who is of the Brahmin class. Have I described him to you? He is no insignificant person. Uniting French agreeableness with English solidity, he speaks both languages with nearly equal ease and fluency. Though no longer young, he is still a handsome man, and his external appearance is rendered more striking by a very noble, dignified air. Simple, and thoroughly polite, cheerful without sarcasm or malignity, his conversation amuses and satisfies, even when it is not brilliant at the moment. His wife is neither remarkable for beauty nor the contrary. She has sense, 'l'usage du grand monde, et quelque fois de la politesse;' no inconsiderable talent for music, and ten-thousand a-year. With all these materials, I need not tell you the house is an extremely pleasant one. _February 25th._ There is a delightful custom for the men at English balls. After the conclusion of a dance, each takes his partner on his arm, and walks about with her till the next begins. Many a man has thus time to conquer his timidity, and nothing is wanting but our large and numerous rooms to make it more agreeable. Here there is no wider field to expatiate in than down the stairs to the eating-room, and up again; still many a gentle word may be whispered in the crowd, for nobody heeds what his neighbour does. As I am tormented on all sides to dance, (a German who does not waltz appears incomprehensible here,) and do not like it, I have given out that I am restrained by a vow, and leave it to be inferred that it is a tender one. The ladies do not know how to reconcile this with the persuasion that I came here in search of a wife, which they stoutly maintain. Thank Heaven! I find my tranquillity quite undisturbed. * * * A poor Englishman here is in much worse plight. He threw himself off the pier to-day, being, as the English say, 'crossed in love,' and only yesterday he was dancing as if stung by a tarantula. The poor fellow must have been like the turkeys that are made to dance ballets in Paris by being set on a metal plate, under which a fire is lighted. The spectator who sees their convulsive bounds, thinks they are very merry, while the poor things are burning by inches. I have often complained that Brighton has no vegetation; but the sun sets in the sea, and the cloud-pictures by which they are accompanied, exceed all I ever beheld in variety. To-day it had rained all day, and in the evening, when it cleared up, a dark range of mountains formed itself above the watery mirror, gradually acquiring a firmer consistency as the sun reached the highest peak, and broke through the black masses as if with clefts of flaming gold; I thought I saw Vesuvius again, streaming with lava. After I had attended this magnificent 'coucher' of the monarch of the heavens till its last moment, I wandered about the bare downs till it was perfectly dark, scouring hill and dale on my swift steed. Probably he too had pictures in his fancy which urged him to greater speed,--enticing visions of oats and hay. _March 14th._[49] These everlasting balls, concerts, dinners, and promenades, I cannot call exactly tedious, but time-killing. Meanwhile a poor dying man has taken up his abode in my house; and his groans and complaints, which all night long reach me through the thin walls, form too sharp and melancholy a contrast with this abode of frivolity and dissipation. I can do nothing for him, so I shall leave the house to-morrow for London. I have received both your letters, and am heartily grieved to hear that both cook and doctor are wanting at your baths. You must do everything you can to get both these important chemists, (destined by Nature to play into each other's hands,) as soon as possible, and of the best quality. You know that a celebrated French physician, the first time he was called into a house, always began by running into the kitchen, embracing the cook, and thanking him for a new patient. When Louis the Fourteenth grew worse and worse, and, distrusting his own physicians, consulted our Esculapius, the latter made representations to the first 'homme de bonne bouche' that he should provide fewer and simpler dishes for the King. "Allons donc, Monsieur," replied the heroic cook, embracing the physician, "mon métier est de faire manger la Roi, le votre de lui en ôter les suites. Faisons chacun le notre." Before I left Brighton I was forced to be present at a musical 'soirée,' one of the severest trials to which foreigners in England are exposed. Every mother who has grown-up daughters, for whom she has had to pay large sums to the music-master, chooses to enjoy the satisfaction of having the youthful 'talent' admired. There is nothing therefore but quavering and strumming right and left, so that one is really overpowered and unhappy: and even if an Englishwomen has the _power_ of singing, she has scarcely ever either science or manner. The men are much more agreeable 'deletanti,' for they, at least, give one the diversion of a comical farce. That a man should advance to the piano-forte with far greater confidence than a David, strike with his forefinger the note he thinks his song should begin with, and then 'entonner,' like a thunder-clap, (generally a note or two lower than the pitch,) and sing through a long 'aria' without rest or pause, and without accompaniment of any sort, except the most wonderful distortions of the face,--is a thing one must have seen to believe it possible, especially in the presence of at least fifty people. Sometimes the thing is heightened by their making choice of Italian songs; and, in their total ignorance of the language, roaring out words, which, if they were understood by the ladies, would force them to leave the room. It did not appear to me that people constrained themselves much in laughing on these occasions: but some vocalists are far too well established in their own opinion to be disturbed by that;--once let loose upon society, they are extremely hard to call off again. _London, Feb. 17th._ I am once more in Albemarle Street, and after my long absence I yesterday paid no fewer than twenty-two visits; dined at a Club dinner;[50] went to a ball at the house of the above-mentioned fair Napoleonist, and closed the day with a 'soirée' at Mrs. Hope's, a very fashionable and pretty woman, wife of the author of Anastasius. To-day I visited 'in another quarter' two Chinese ladies who also receive company here, and in a very original style too,--only one must pay one's 'entrée.' Even from the very staircase everything is arranged as if in China itself; and when you enter, and see the ladies reclining, with outstretched feet five inches in length, under an illumination of paper lanterns, you may almost fancy yourself in Canton. They claim to be of high descent,--to which their feet bear witness; for the lower classes, of course, have not this distinguishing mark. The small-footed women have so little centripedal power, that they can hardly totter from one ottoman to another without a stick. I am a passionate admirer of small feet in women; but these are too small, and horrible to behold naked: the toes, doubled under from infancy, are literally grown into the sole. This practice is nearly as absurd as the stays of our ladies, though perhaps not quite so injurious to the health. I bought a new pair of shoes of these princesses, which I made them try on before my eyes. I send them to you, together with several other Chinesiana, silk hangings, pictures, &c.; among others, portraits of the Emperor and Empress. The good creatures seem to me, spite of their quality, to have brought a complete warehouse with them, for the moment a thing is sold it is replaced by another. Though they have been for some time in England, they have not learned a single word of English. Their own language appeared to me very heavy and dragging; and their faces were, to a European taste, more than ugly. _February 18th._ The Italian Opera has commenced,--the only theatre 'du bel air,' except the French Play. As people cannot appear there but 'en toilette,' even in the pit, the effect is very brilliant. The opera however was bad, orchestra as well as singers, and the ballet likewise. The lighting of the theatre is better adapted for being seen than for seeing: in front of every box hangs a chandelier, which dazzles one very offensively, and throws the actors into the shade. The opera lasts till one o'clock, so that you have ample time to visit it without giving up other engagements. The 'trouble' has now begun in good earnest; one seldom gets home before three or four o'clock in the morning: and a man who chooses to be very 'répandu'--which the exclusives indeed do not, but which is amusing to a foreigner--may very well accept a dozen invitations for every evening. The great world is consequently not alive before two o'clock in the afternoon. The Park hours are from four till six, when the ladies drive about by thousands in their elegant equipages and morning dresses, and the gentlemen on their beautiful horses 'voltigent' about from flower to flower, displaying all the grace Heaven has bestowed upon them. Almost all Englishmen, however, look well on horseback, and ride better and more naturally than our riding-masters, who certainly understand admirably, when they are on a horse trained to every sort of pace and speed, how to sit like a clothes-peg on a linen-line. The green turf of the Park swarms with riders, who can ride faster there than in the 'corso.' Among them are many ladies, who manage their horses as skilfully and steadily as the men. But Miss Sally is now led out before my door, and snorts impatiently on the macadamized pavement. My letter is long enough:--a thousand greetings to all who are good enough to remember me, and the most affectionate farewell to you! Your friend L----. LETTER XIV. _London, March 25th._ DEAREST AND BEST, It would be too tiresome if I sent you a daily list of the parties I go to: I shall only mention them when anything strikes me as remarkable; and perhaps hereafter, if I feel the inclination and the power, I shall give you a general 'apperçu' of the whole. The technical part of social life--the arrangements for physical comfort and entertainment--is well understood here. The most distinguished specimen of this is the house of the Duke of D----, a king of fashion and elegance. Very few persons of rank have what we, on the Continent, call a palace, in London. Their palaces, their luxury and their grandeur, are to be seen in the country. The Duke of D---- is an exception;--his palace in town displays great taste and richness, and a numerous collection of works of art. The company is always the most select; and though here, as everywhere, too numerous, is rendered less oppressive by the number of rooms: still it is too much like a crowd at a fair. The concerts at D---- House, particularly, are very fine entertainments, where only the very first talent to be found in the metropolis is engaged, and where perfect order combined with boundless profusion reigns throughout. Among other things, the arrangement of the suppers and 'buffets,' which are excellent in such crowded parties, is most recommendable. In a separate room is a long table, with the most delicate and choice refreshments of every kind, so placed that it is accessible to the guests only on one side. Behind it stand maid-servants, in a uniform of white gowns and black aprons, who give everybody what he asks for, and have room enough to do their ministering conveniently: behind them is a door communicating with the 'offices,' through which everything needful is handed to them without disturbance to the company;--the disagreeable procession of troops of men-servants balancing great trays and pushing about the 'salons' with them, always in danger of discharging their contents, cold or warm, into the laps or pockets of the company, is thus avoided. The supper is served at a later hour, by male attendants, in another room, which communicates with the kitchen. The waiting is far better, with much fewer people, than on the Continent, and accomplished without the least confusion. I must observe, by the by, as to 'bonne chère,' that the very best in the world is to be found at the first tables in London: they have the best French cooks and the best Italian confectioners, for the very simple reason that they pay them best. I am told there are cooks who receive twelve hundred a year here;--to merit, its crown! Sometimes, after concert and supper, at two in the morning dancing begins, and one drives home by sunlight. This suits me admirably, for you know I always had the taste of Minerva's bird. In such a night-morning I often enjoy a drive in the Park; for, thank heaven! Spring is visibly coming, and the tender green of the young leaves and the pink almond blossoms peep forth over the garden-walls and amid the dark net-work of the swelling branches. _March 26th._ I devoted this morning to an excursion to Deptford, to see Captain Parry's ship, the Hecla, which is to sail in a few days for the North Pole. Whether she will reach it, is another matter: I wish it may not fare with Parry as with poor Count Zambeccari, who to this hour is not returned from his last ærial voyage. Captain Parry did the honours of his singular vessel with great politeness; his air and manner perfectly bespeak the frank, determined, gallant seaman he is known to be. Some curiously formed boats, which were likewise to serve as sledges, lay on the deck. The ship herself has double sides, filled with cork, to keep in the heat; she is also warmed by 'conduits de chaleur.' The provisions consist of the strongest extracts; so that a whole ox in his quintessence can be put in a man's coat-pocket, like the stereotype editions of the 'chef d'oeuvres' of the whole literature of England in one volume. All the officers seemed picked men. I found Captain Ross, who has accompanied Captain Parry in all his voyages, a very polished and agreeable man. The ship was thronged with visiters, climbing in a continual stream up the rope-ladder. It was impossible to look without intense interest on a crew who were going to confront such toils and dangers, in the light-hearted and enterprising spirit of their class, solely for the advancement of science and the satisfaction of a noble curiosity. I was invited to dine in barracks by a Major of the Horse Guards. There is a most advantageous custom prevalent throughout the English army,--I mean the so-called 'Mess.' Each regiment has its common table, to which every officer is bound to contribute a certain sum, whether he choose to avail himself of it or not. By this he is entitled to the privilege of dining at it daily, and of bringing an occasional guest according to some established regulations. A committee superintends the economical part. Each officer presides at table in turn, from the colonel down to the youngest lieutenant, and is invested, so long as he is 'en fonction,' with the requisite authority. The 'ton' of the officers is excellent; far more 'gentleman-like' than that commonly to be found on the Continent; at least so I am bound to conclude from this sample. Although the strictest subordination prevails in service, yet when that is over, they meet as gentlemen, so entirely on an equality, that it were impossible for a stranger to discover from their deportment the superior from the subordinate officers. The table was admirably served. There was not wanting either an elegant service of plate, or champagne, claret, or any of the requisites of luxury. The dinner was followed by no excess; and the conversation, though perfectly unconstrained and cheerful, was confined within the bounds of decorum and good breeding. To crown all, the whole did not last too long; so that I had still time to pay some visits at the opera, which is convenient enough for that purpose. _March 28th._ In most companies pretty high play is the order of the day, and the ladies are the most eager players. The crowding to the 'écarté' table, which is almost out of fashion at Paris, is incessant; and the white arms of the English beauties appear to great advantage on the table-covers of black velvet embroidered with gold. But if their arms are dangerous, their hands are still more so, 'car les vieilles surtout trichent impitoyablement.' There are some old maids whom one meets in the first society who make a regular trade of play, so that they carry off fifty pounds at a stroke without changing a feature. They have small parties at their own houses, which are as 'like tripots' as possible. In no country can the admirer of 'le moyen age,' 'fair, fat and forty,' meet more women in high preservation than in England. Even still more mature years do not obliterate all pretensions. * * * * * I closed my day with reading and whist at the Club. My party was most curiously composed;--the Portuguese Ambassador, who is strikingly like Napoleon; a Neapolitan ex-minister, brought hither by the failure of the revolution; the Frenchman whom I described to you at Brighton; and my German insignificance, who however this time gained the victory; for I won eight rubbers and two 'Monkeys.' What is a 'Monkey?' you ask. Fashion has given strange names to the markers. One for twenty-five pounds is called a Poney; and one for fifty, a 'Monkey.' _April 3rd._ You are accustomed to follow me from the palace to the cottage, and from the decorated room to more beautiful nature. To-day I must introduce you to my dentist, the celebrated Mr. Cartwright. This gentleman is said to make ten thousand a year by his profession, and exercises it in the most 'grandiose' style. In the first place he goes to no one, excepting the King: every subject, male or female, must wait on him. But this is not all;--you must announce yourself a week or fortnight beforehand, and solicit an audience: you then receive a card containing the following answer:-- "Mr. Cartwright will have the pleasure of receiving N---- N---- on such a day and such an hour." You appear at the appointed time, and are ushered into an elegant room, where a piano-forte, prints, books and other helps to pass time are placed; a very necessary attention, as you often have to wait an hour or more. When I entered, I found the Duchess of Montrose and Lady Melville and her daughters, who were called away 'gradatim,' so that at length my turn came. When you have once reached this point, you find indeed infinite reason to be satisfied; for Mr. Cartwright is the most skilful and scientific man of his profession I ever met with,--perfectly devoid of all trace of 'charlatanerie,' which the difficulty of access might lead you to anticipate. He has also a settled price, and not an exorbitant one,--'mais c'est un Grand Seigneur dentiste.' In the evening, after wandering to four or five places in search of something interesting, I at last fixed myself at Lady ----'s where I was riveted by the conversation of a Captain ----, a half German who is just returned from the East, and gave a very interesting account of his travels. Among other things he told me the following strange anecdotes of Lady Hester Stanhope, a niece of Pitt's, who left England many years ago, turned Arab, and has established herself in Syria. She is now honoured by the Arabs as a prophet, lives with all the state of a native princess, and seldom allows Europeans to see her. After a great deal of trouble Captain ---- gained access to her. The first thing she required was his promise that he would not write anything about her. This vow being made, (luckily I am bound by none such,) she was cheerful and conversable, and talked with equal ease and cleverness. She made it no secret that she had renounced the Christian faith, and at the same time that she still looked for the appearing of the true Son of God, before whom she was appointed to prepare the way. Hereupon she showed the Captain a noble Arab mare, which had a curious bony excrescence on the back exactly in the form of a saddle. "This horse," said she,--with a look of which Captain ---- declared he was still in doubt whether to ascribe to madness or to a desire to hoax him,--"This horse God has saddled for his own Son, and wo to the man who shall dare to mount it! Under my protection it awaits its true master." She afterwards assured him, 'en passant,' that Adam was still living, and that she knew perfectly the place of his concealment, but would not reveal it. The lady of the house listened to his narration, and assured him that Lady Hester had been only 'quizzing' him; for that she had known her well, and that never had woman a clearer, more determined, and at the same time more astute mind. For a person of such a character, she has made a good exchange in renouncing Western for Eastern life. She rules; she is free as bird in air; while in the centre of civilization she would never have been able to subtract herself from the slavery which must ever remain, more or less, the dark side of civilized life. _April 4th._ Sir Alexander Johnston, a great Orientalist, but in another sense of the word, invited me to dinner, and seasoned the repast by his intelligent and learned conversation. He has effected many important things in his department; but we, dear Julia, are both of us too ignorant on the subject for me to attempt to give you an account of them. One thing however will interest you. He told me of a cachemir shawl of Tippo Saib's, embroidered in gold, and silks of all colours, ten ells long and worth a thousand pounds--a thing well calculated to set a female imagination on fire. _April 6th._ Can you tell me why all objects reflected by art give us only pleasure, whereas all realities have at least one defective side? We see the torments of Laocoon in marble with undisturbed delight,[51] while the actual scene would excite simply horror. A Dutch fish-market, represented with perfect fidelity by a humorous painter, charms us, and our pleasure increases as we follow out the details; in the real market, we should pass along rapidly with averted eyes and nose. The joys and sorrows of the hero of a poem or work of imagination affect us in like manner with deep pleasure, while we feel only pain at actual sufferings, and actual joys ever appear incomplete and imperfect. Even happiness, supposing it to be attained, always brings with it the bitter thought, How long will it last? Well, therefore does Schiller say, "Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist die Kunst." (Serious, or stern, is life, cheerful is art.) Art alone,--the creation of fancy,--procures unmingled pleasure; and therefore let us, dear Julia, never cease to rejoice that an active creative fancy is stirring within us, and sometimes procures us enjoyments which reality cannot bestow. Shall I then prepare for myself such an innocent festival, and fly across the sea to you? we have been but too long asunder. How beautiful does everything appear to me! It is spring;--the violets send forth enchanting fragrance after the heavy shower; swallows are twittering in the air, and pretty little water-wagtails are running merrily round the lake. And now the sun breaks from behind the last lingering dark cloud, in all his majesty, and draws strange characters on the distant mountains. The old limetrees around us gleam like emeralds; gay butterflys try their light wings, and frolic, as if drunk with joy, over the grassy carpet. Bees hum busily around the thousand fresh flowers, and green beetles glitter in the sunlight. But now a splendid bow arises out of the west, spans the blue sky above the castle, and sinks on the black pine-forest. Now is the cheerful white-covered table set, and decked with polished utensils. The juicy fruits of the hot-house, hyacinthine Xeres in crystal cups, and champagne covered with thick mist, from the ice, await the guests:--and see who advances slowly and gravely among the shrubs, with that dignified air? Ah, it is you, dear Julia, I exclaim enraptured--fly towards you, and * * * * * Thus does fancy paint. What however in reality unhinges me is, that it is a long time since I had a letter from you, and I really want one to restore my nerves. But I must dress for a couple of 'Russian steam balls' as they ought to be called. _April 7th._ As the Lord Mayor has invited me to his great dinner, I rode into the city this morning to call on him: this is rather a perilous enterprise, with a fidgetty horse. Once I got so entangled in the crowd, that I was absolutely forced to turn my horse on the 'trottoir.' This the people regarded as an invasion of their rights; and not observing that necessity drove me thither, began to abuse me, and some to strike my horse: a huge gigantic carter held up his fist and challenged me to box with him: as however I felt no inclination to make this practical application of the lessons I have taken in the 'noble art of self-defence,' I pressed forward to a small gap which happily offered itself, and made my escape. I dined with Count Munster, a noble representative of Germany, who has endeavoured as far as possible to preserve German simplicity in his household. Everybody knows his distinguished qualities as a statesman: he is not less remarkable for his agreeable manners and talents in social and domestic life. Since his residence in England, he has designed and painted the decorations for his castle in the Harz, with great taste and skill; and his wife's paintings on glass are very beautiful: in a few years all the windows of the castle chapel will be adorned with her own works. The German housewife however is no mere modern bel-esprit, or artist, but, like one of the knightly dames who are the subjects of her pencil, she takes care to have excellent beer brewed in her own house:--she gave me some, which I drank with all the gratitude of a guest in the hall of Valhalla. In the evening a great fête at Lord Hertford's, with concert, ball, French-play, &c., assembled the fashionable and half-fashionable world[52] in a magnificent and tastefully furnished house. The singularity in it is, that all the rooms are decorated in the same manner,--flesh-coloured stucco and gold, with black bronze, very large looking-glasses, and curtains of crimson and white silk. This uniformity produces a very 'grandiose' effect. One room alone (of extraordinary size for London) is white and gold, carpeted with scarlet cloth, and with furniture and curtains of the same colour. The company, 'c'est a dire la foule,' was not more vivacious than usual, and the whole affair 'magnifiquement ennuyex.' Another house worth seeing is that of the great banker ----, especially on account of the fine collection of pictures. Here is also that triumph of modern sculpture, Thorwaldson's Jason, and some valuable antiques. On a sort of terrace on part of the house are hanging-gardens; and though the shrubs have only three feet of earth, they grow very luxuriantly. The lady of the gardens is however no Semiramis; 'il s'en faut,' whatever she may think * * * * * * * * I could not help comparing her with her far more wealthy rival Madame R----, and remarking how far the Jewish golden queen surpassed the Christian one in cordial amiability and external dignity and good-breeding. _April 8th._ What contributes much to the 'dullness' of English society, is the haughty aversion which Englishmen (note well that I mean in their own country, for 'abroad' they are ready enough to make advances) show to addressing an unknown person; if he should venture to address them, they receive it with the air of an insult. They sometimes laugh at themselves for this singular incivility, but no one makes the least attempt to act differently when an opportunity offers. There is a story that a lady saw a man fall into the water, and earnestly entreated the dandy who accompanied her, and who was a notoriously good swimmer, to save his life. Her friend raised his 'lorgnette' with the phlegm indispensable to a man of fashion, looked earnestly at the drowning man, whose head rose for the last time, and calmly replied, "It's impossible, Madam, I never was introduced to that gentleman." I made the acquaintance of a man of very different manners this evening; the Persian Chargé d'Affaires, an Asiatic of very pleasant address, and whose splendid costume and black beard were only deformed, in my eyes, by the Persian peaked cap of black sheepskin. He speaks very good English, and made very acute observations on European society. Among other things he said, that though in many respects we were much further advanced than they, yet that all their views of existence were of a firmer and more composed character; that every man reconciled himself to his lot; whereas he remarked here an incessant fermentation, an everlasting discontent, both of masses and of individuals; nay, he confessed that he felt himself infected by it, and should have great trouble, on his return to Persia, to fall back into that old happy track, in which a man who is unfortunate consoles himself, exclaiming, "Whose dog am I then, to want to be happy?" This indeed furnishes ample matter for reflection to the pursuers of the ideal, to which secret association I, alas! belong. A ball at Mrs. Hope's was very splendid, 'mais c'est toujours la même chose.' In a party to which I went before this, I was presented to the Duke of Gloucester. I only mention the fact for the sake of remarking, that the English Princes of the Blood observe a much more courteous sort of etiquette than most of those on the Continent: the Duke, who was playing whist, rose from the table, and did not sit down again till our short conversation was ended. But let me go back for a moment to the beginning of the day. The gardens of the neighbourhood are now in full bloom, the weather is fine, and my ride this morning brought me about thirty miles from town. In variety and richness the suburbs of London surpass those of any other capital; which here and there display natural beauties, but never that exquisite mixture of nature and the highest cultivation,--never at least in any considerable masses. I should have gladly ridden further and further, and returned at length with great regret. The meadows around me were so luxuriant, that it was only at a distance they looked green; when you were near them they were embroidered with blue, yellow, red, and lilac, like a carpet of Tournay. The cows were wading up to their bellies in the gay flowers, or resting under the shadow of huge domes of foliage, impenetrable to every ray of sun. It was magnificent, and adorned with a richness which art can never reach. In an hour's riding I reached a hill where the ruins of a church stood in the midst of a garden. The sun darted its rays from behind a cloud athwart the whole sky, like a huge torch, the centre of which rested directly on the metropolis of the world,--the immeasurable Babel which lay outstretched with its thousand towers, and its hundred thousand sins, its fog and smoke, its treasures and its misery, further than the eye could reach. It was in vain! I must plunge into it again, from the spring and its bursting blossoms, from the green meadows--again into the macadamized slough,--into the everlasting dead monotony,--into dinners and routs. Accept my farewell--my next letter will go on to tell what became of Daniel in the lion's den. Your faithful friend L----. LETTER XV. _London, April 15th, 1827._ DEAREST FRIEND, At length the long-desired letter is arrived, and another in its company. Why was it so long on the road?--'Quien sabbe?' as the South Americans say. Probably the official reader was lazy, and let it lie by him some time before he would take the trouble to re-seal it dexterously. But, dear Julia, how pretty and tender is your poem--a new talent, which I never discovered in you before. Yes, may God grant that "all your tears may turn to flowers, to adorn us and refresh us with their fragrance!" and that this beautiful and loving prophecy may soon be fulfilled! And yet the fairest flowers would be too dearly bought, for me, at that price. _Your_ tears at least ought not to flow to produce them. What you say of H----, "qu'il se sent misérable parcequ'il n'est fier que par orgueil et libéral que par bassesse" is striking, and will unfortunately suit too many liberals. I wrote to you on the occasion in question, that you should think only of yourself; and you reply, that I am yourself. Best and kindest! yes, one self we will remain wherever we may be; and had men guardian spirits, ours must act in common: but here we have no other tutelary genius than that moral strength which Heaven has given us. And is it really so melancholy in M----? You tell me of storms and torrents of rain that threaten destruction. But a fortnight has passed since that was written--before this reaches you it will be a month. I shall hope therefore that you are reading it in the midst of the green spring, with every thing blooming around you, and with the zephyr fanning you instead of the furious wind. I told my old B----dt that there were terrible storms in M----. "Ja, ja," replied he, "those are the Brighton ones." If you had known that, dearest Julia, you would have thought them more agreeable, for they would have brought you the latest news of your friend. I beg you to give my most sincere and heartfelt thanks to our honoured Premier. Were all of his class like him, how much more popular would government be! Were all Ministers as high-minded and as upright, how would the universal discontent be diminished! and how much more free and independent would they themselves be of those many weights which drag them down, just when it is most necessary they should soar! All goes on here as usual. This evening, a splendid fête at Lord H----'s closed the Easter festivities. Most fashionable people now make another short stay in the country, and in a fortnight hence _the season proper_ begins. I am going back to Brighton for a few days, but shall wait for the Lord Mayor's dinner. _April 16th._ This took place to-day in Guildhall; and now that I have recovered from the fatigue, I am extremely glad I went. It lasted full six hours, and six hundred people were present. The tables were set parallel from the top to the bottom of the hall, with the exception of one which was placed across it, at the top. At this the Lord Mayor himself and his most distinguished guests were seated. The 'coup d'oeil' from hence was imposing;--the vast hall and its lofty columns, the tables extending further than the eye could reach, and the huge mirrors behind them, so that they seemed prolonged to infinity. The brilliant illumination turned night into day; and two bands of music, in a balcony at the end of the hall opposite to us, played during the toasts, which were all of a national character. The Lord Mayor made six-and-twenty speeches, long and short, well and truly counted. A foreign diplomate also ventured upon one, but with very bad success, and had it not been for the good-nature of the audience, who called out 'Hear, hear!' every time he was at fault, till he had collected himself again, he must have stuck fast, and so remained. At every toast which the Lord Mayor gave, a sort of master of the ceremonies decorated with a silver chain, who stood behind his chair, called aloud, 'My lords and gentlemen, fill your glasses!' The ladies were frightfully dressed, and with a 'tournure' to match. I was seated next to an American, the niece of a former President of the United States, as she told me,--but I really forget which. It is to be presumed that her red hair and Albino complexion are not common among her countrywomen, or their beauty would not be so celebrated. Her conversation, however, was very clever, and had something of the humour of Washington Irving. At twelve o'clock the ball began. It must have been curious enough, from the motley character of the company: I was, however, so tired with sitting six mortal hours at dinner, in full uniform, that I drove home as fast as I could, and for once went to bed at midnight. _Brighton, April 17th._ In this morning's paper we read the speech of the diplomate I mentioned to you:--N. B. not what it was, but what it ought to have been,--which is often the case. Immediately after breakfast I drove out with Count D----, a very merry, amusing Dane, and spent the evening at Lady ----'s, where I met many of the persons I had seen here before: and Lady ----, whom you remember at Paris as the object of the Duke of Wellington's adorations. A propos of him,--do you read the newspapers? Here is a great crisis in the political world. Canning's appointment as Premier has given such offence to the other Ministers, that seven have resigned, and only three remain in place. It is said that the party will find it difficult to go on without some of them,--for instance, Lord Melville. The Duke of Wellington also loses considerably by the change. He who was all in all, is now declared, with the usual exaggeration of party spirit, "politically dead." There is, however, something magnanimous in thus sacrificing one's personal views to one's opinions. Caricatures rain upon the defeated, and some of them are very witty. The old Lord Chancellor Eldon, who is very unpopular, is particularly ill-treated. So is Earl W----, a singular old man, who has the most preposterous aristocratical haughtiness, looks like a mummy, and spite of his eighty years, is daily to be seen crossing St. James's park on a fast-trotting horse, with the velocity of a bird. _Brighton, April 20th._ To-day I have had full experience how dangerous the fogs here may become. I had not thought of this in London, where the scenes they occasion are generally only ludicrous. An acquaintance had lent me his hunter, as I had left mine in London, and I determined to ride, in a direction as yet unknown to me, towards what is called the Devil's Dyke. I had already ridden some miles over the smooth turf, when suddenly the air was obscured, and in a few minutes I could not see ten steps before me. Thus it remained; nor did there appear the least hope of its clearing. I passed an hour in riding to and fro in search of a tracked road;--my light clothing was soaked through, the air ice-cold, and had night overtaken me, the prospect was not the most agreeable. In this extremity, wholly unacquainted with the country, it happily occurred to me to give my old horse, who had often hunted over these downs, completely his own way. In a few paces after he felt himself perfectly free he turned short about, and set off at a pretty brisk gallop directly down the hill upon which I was. I took good care not to disturb him, spite of the obscurity around me, even when he broke through a field of high prickly broom and furze, over which he leapt like a hare. A few inconsiderable hedges and ditches of course retarded him still less; and after half an hour's pretty hard running, the good beast brought me safely to the entrance of Brighton, though on the opposite side to that from which I had set out. I was heartily glad to get off so well, and seriously determined to be more prudent in this land of fog for the future. I generally spend my evenings at Lady K----'s or Mrs. F----'s, and play écarté and whist with the men, or loo with the young ladies. These small circles are much more agreeable than the great parties of the metropolis. There, every art is understood but the art of society. Thus, for instance, musicians, artists, poets, and men of talent generally, are invited merely as fashionable decorations; to live with them, to extract enjoyment from their conversation, or from their genius, is a thing utterly unknown. All real cultivation has a political character and tendency; party spirit, and the fashionable spirit of caste pervade all society. Hence arises not only a universal 'décousu,' but a rigorous division of the several elements; which, combined with the naturally unsocial temper of Englishmen, must render a residence among them unpleasant to every foreigner, unless he either has access to the most intimate family circles, or can take a lively interest in political affairs. The happiest and the most respectable class in England is, without all doubt, the middle class, whose political activity is confined to the improvement of their own immediate province, and among whom tolerably just views and principles generally prevail. People of this unfashionable class are also the only truly hospitable, and are wholly devoid of the arrogant airs so disgusting in their superiors. They do not run after a foreigner; but if he comes in their way, they treat him with kindness and sympathy. They love their country passionately, but without any view to personal interest,--without hope of sinecures, or intrigue for place. They are often ridiculous, but always deserving of respect, and their national egotism is restricted within more reasonable bounds than that of their superiors. It may now be said with equal truth of England as it formerly was of France, 'que les deux bouts du fruit sont gâtés,'--the aristocracy and the mob. The former unquestionably holds a most noble station: but without great moderation, _without great concessions made to reason and to the spirit of the times_, they will perhaps not occupy this station half a century longer. I once said as much to Prince E----; he laughed in my face,--'mais nous verrons.' I send you a few excerpts from the newspapers, to give you an idea of the freedom of the press. 1st. "Every ship in the Navy ought to hoist her colours; for Lord Melville was an incubus that weighed down the service. Meritorious officers may now have a chance,--under Lord Melville they had none." 2nd. "We hear from good authority that the Great Captain takes extraordinary pains to get into the Cabinet again, but in vain. This _spoiled child of fortune_ ought not to have imagined that his resignation could for a moment have embarrassed the government. We believe, however, that he is not the only ex-Minister who already bitterly repents his folly and arrogance." 3rd. "The Ministerial Septemvirate who wanted to extort power, are much indebted to Mr. Hume's new Act. According to the old law, servants who tried to extort higher wages from their masters were very properly sent to the tread-mill." 4th. "We are assured that a great Septemvir has offered to re-enter the service, on condition that he be made Directing Minister, Grand Constable, and Archbishop of Canterbury." Our Ministers would stare not a little if our blotting-paper journals were to make as free with them. To-morrow I return to _town_: for as the Romans formerly called Rome "the city," so do the English call London "town." _London, April 22nd._ I arrived just in time to be present at a dinner-party at the new Premier's, to which I received an invitation in Brighton. This distinguished man is as remarkable for the grace and charm with which he does the honours of his house, as for the eloquence with which he carries away his auditors. 'Bel esprit' and statesman by turns, he wants nothing but better health: he seemed to me very unwell and suffering. Mrs. Canning is also a very intelligent woman. I have been assured that she holds the newspaper department, _i. e._ that she reads them, and informs her husband of all the important matter they contain; nay, even that she has occasionally written articles herself. A concert of Countess ----'s was very fully attended. Galli and Pasta, who are arrived, and will greatly raise the state of the Opera, sang. The rooms were choke-ful, and several young men lay on the carpet at the feet of their ladies, with their heads luxuriously reclined against the cushions of the sofas on which their fair ones were seated. This Turkish fashion is really very delightful; and I wondered extremely that C---- did not introduce it in Berlin, and deposit himself for once at the feet of one of the ladies in waiting. The Berliners would have thought this 'charmant' (as they call it) in the English Ambassador. _April 25th._ After a long interval I re-visited the theatre. I was in good luck, for Liston acted 'à mourir derire,' in a little farce the scene of which is laid in Paris in the time of Louis the Fifteenth. A rich English merchant, tormented with the spleen, goes to that city for amusement. Scarcely is he fairly settled in his hotel when the minister of police is announced, and presently enters, admirably dressed in the costume of the time. He discloses to the astonished citizen that the police is on the track of a notorious gang of thieves, who, suspecting that he had a great deal of money with him, had laid a plan to break into his house that night, and to rob and murder him. The minister adds, that every thing now depends on his own behaviour; that if he shows the slightest consciousness, if he appears less cheerful than usual, or does any thing unwonted betraying anxiety, he will probably hasten the proceedings of the robbers, and in that case that the police could not be answerable for his safety--indeed that his life would probably be in the greatest danger, for that it was not sure that the people of the house were not in the plot;--he must therefore go to bed at ten o'clock as usual, and let matters take their course. Mr. Jackson, more dead than alive at this intelligence, wants instantly to leave the house. But the minister gravely replies that this can by no means be suffered, and would be no security to him; for that the robbers would discover his new residence, and then make more sure of their prey. "Make yourself perfectly easy," concludes Monsieur de Sartines, "all will be well if you do but put a good face upon the affair." You may easily imagine what ludicrous scenes are produced by the continual efforts of the old merchant to conceal the horrible fright he is in. Meanwhile his servant, a true Englishman, always thirsty, finds some wine in a closet and eagerly drinks it. It turns out to be antimonial wine, and in a few minutes he is seized with violent sickness; his master instantly concludes that the plan is to poison, instead of shooting or stabbing him. At this moment the hostess comes in with a cup of chocolate. In a transport of rage and terror, Liston seizes her by the throat, and forces her to drink the chocolate; which, after some surprise at the oddness of English manners, she very willingly does. Liston's by-play during this, and the manner in which, suddenly recollecting his promise, he bursts into a convulsive laugh, and tries to turn it off as a jest, is unspeakably droll. At length ten o'clock arrives; and after many burlesque incidents, Mr. Jackson goes to bed in his velvet breeches, lays a sword and pistols by his side, and draws the curtains quite close. It unfortunately happens, that the daughter of the host has a love-affair, and had given her lover 'rendezvous' in this very room before the stranger had engaged the lodging. To avoid discovery she glides softly in, puts out the light cautiously, and goes to the window, at which her lover is already climbing in. As soon as he springs into the middle of the room, and begins to speak, groans of terror are heard from the bed: first one pistol falls down with a clatter, then another; the curtain opens; Liston makes a feeble thrust with the sword, which falls from his trembling hand, throws himself out of bed, and in his curious costume falls on his knees before the girl, who is as terrified as himself, and pitiously implores mercy, while the lover slily conceals himself behind the bed. The door is thrown open, and the minister of police enters with torches, to inform the trembling Jackson that the band of robbers is taken; and adds, with a smile, as he looks at the group, "I congratulate you that you have found so agreeable a way of passing the time." _April 26th._ A strange place I have visited to-day! A church called the Areopagus, in which a clergyman, the Rev. Robert Taylor, preaches _against_ Christianity, and permits anyone publicly to oppose him. He has retained only one thing of the Anglo-Christian church--to make you pay a shilling for your seat. Mr. Taylor has some learning, and is no bad speaker, but as passionate a fanatic for the destruction of Christianity as some others are for its support. He says strong things--sometimes true, often false; sometimes witty, and sometimes utterly indecorous. The place was thronged with hearers of all classes.--In a nation which is at so very low a point of religious education, it is easy to understand that a negative apostle of this sort may attract a great concourse. In Germany, where the people are far advanced in the rational path of gradual reform, an undertaking of the kind would fill some with pious horror, would attract nobody, and would justly disgust all,--even if the police did not render such an exhibition impossible. The first Almack's ball took place this evening: and from all I had heard of this celebrated assembly, I was really curious to see it; but never were my expectations so disappointed. It was not much better than at Brighton. A large bare room, with a bad floor, and ropes around it, like the space in an Arab camp parted off for the horses; two or three small naked rooms at the side, in which were served the most wretched refreshments; and a company into which, spite of the immense difficulty of getting tickets, a great many 'Nobodies' had wriggled; in which the dress was generally as tasteless as the 'tournure' was bad;--this was all. In a word, a sort of inn-entertainment:--the music and the lighting the only good things. And yet Almack's is the culminating point of the English world of fashion. This overstrained simplicity had, however, originally a motive. People of real fashion wished to oppose something extremely cheap to the monstrous 'faste' of the rich 'parvenus;' while the institution of Lady-patronesses, without whose approbation no one could be admitted, would render it inaccessible to them. Money and bad company (in the aristocratic sense of the word) have however, forced their way: and the only characteristic which has been retained is the unseemly place, which is not unlike the 'local' of a shooting ball in our large towns, and forms a most ludicrous contrast with the general splendour and luxury of England. _May 1st._ At E----'s this morning I found Prince S----, who is just come from the coronation at Moscow by way of Brazil; (such is the ease and rapidity of travelling in our times.) For natural beauty, he gave the preference to the island of Madeira, over every country he had seen. He was but just eight days in coming from thence to London, which has set me longing to make the excursion as soon as the season is over. From four o'clock in the afternoon till ten, I sat in the House of Commons; crowded, in horrible heat, most uncomfortably seated; and yet with such eager, excited attention, that the six hours passed like a moment. There is something truly great in such a representative assembly! This simplicity of exterior; this dignity and experience; this vast power without, and absence of all pomp within! The debate this evening was moreover of the highest interest. Most of the former Ministers have, as you know, resigned; among them, some of the most influential men in England, and (since Napoleon's and Blücher's death) the greatest Commander in Europe. Canning, the champion of the liberal party, has defeated this Ministry, and is, spite of all their efforts, become head of the new one, the formation of which was left to him, according to the usual custom here. But the whole power of the exasperated ultra-aristocracy and their dependants presses upon him; and even one of his most particular friends, a commoner like himself, is among the resigning Ministers, and has joined the hostile party. This gentleman (Mr. Peel) to-day opened the attack, in a long and clever speech, though full of repetition. It would lead me too far, and greatly exceed the bounds of a correspondence like ours, were I to go into the details of the present political questions. My object is only to give you an idea of the tactic with which on the one side, the leader of the new Opposition headed the attack, and was followed by several more obscure combatants, who planted a stroke here and there; while on the other, the old Opposition, the Whigs, (who now support the liberal ministry with all their might,) more skilfully commenced with their musketry, and reserved the heavy fire of their great gun, Brougham. In a magnificent speech which flowed on like a clear stream, he tried to disarm his opponent; now tortured him with sarcasms; now taking a higher flight, wrought upon the sensibility, or convinced the reason of his hearers. I must attempt to give you a specimen of this extraordinary piece of eloquence.[53] The orator closed with the solemn declaration, that he was perfectly impartial; that he _could_ be impartial; for that it was his fixed determination never, and on no terms, to accept a place in an Administration of these kingdoms.[54] I had heard and admired Brougham before. No man ever spoke with greater fluency,--hour after hour, in a clear unbroken stream of eloquence,--with a fine and distinct organ,--riveting the attention,--without once halting, or pausing,--without repeating, recalling, or mistaking a word; defects which frequently deform Mr. Peel's speeches. Brougham speaks as a good reader reads from a book. Nevertheless, it seems to me that you perceive only extraordinary talent, formidable pungent wit, and rare presence of mind:--the heart-warming power of _genius_, such as flows from Canning's tongue, he possesses, in my opinion, in a far lower degree. Canning, the hero of the day, now rose.--If his predecessor might be compared to a dexterous and elegant boxer, Canning presented the image of a finished antique gladiator. All was noble, refined, simple;--then suddenly, at one splendid point, his eloquence burst forth like lightning--grand and all-subduing. A kind of languor and weakness, apparently the consequence of his late illness and of the load of business laid upon him, seemed somewhat to diminish his energy, but perhaps increased his influence over the feelings. His speech was, in every point of view, the most complete, as well as the most irresistably persuasive;--the crown and glory of the debate. Never shall I lose the impression which this, and that other celebrated speech of his on the affairs of Portugal, made upon me. Deeply did I feel on each of these occasions, that the highest power man can exercise over his brother man,--the most dazzling splendour with which he can surround himself, before which that of the most successful warrior pales like the light of phosphorus in the sun,--lies in the divine gift of eloquence. Only to the great master in this godlike art is it given to affect the heart and mind of a whole nation with that sort of magnetic somnambulism, in which nothing is possible to it but blind and absolute surrender and following; while the magic rod of the magnetiser is equally absolute over rage and gentleness, over war and peace, over tears and smiles. On the following day the House of Lords was opened under the same remarkable circumstances as the House of Commons had been, though there are no men of talents equal to Brougham, nor, above all, to Canning. Lord Ellenborough rose first, and said that the late Ministers were accused of having resigned in consequence of a combination, and of having thus been guilty of the great offence of endeavouring to abridge the constitutional prerogative of the King to change his ministers entirely at his own free will. For the preservation of their honour he must therefore claim for them to be heard fully in their own justification.--Here I saw the great Wellington in a terrible strait. He is no orator, and was compelled, 'bongré, malgré,' to enter upon his defence, like an accused person. He was considerably agitated; and this senate of his country, though composed of men whom individually, perhaps, he did not care for, appeared more imposing to him 'en masse' than Napoleon and his hundred thousands. There was, however, something touching to me in seeing the hero of this century in so subdued a situation. He stammered much, interrupted and involved himself; but at length, with the help of his party, who at every stumbling-block gave him time to collect himself by means of noise and cheers (exactly as it was with the Ambassador's speech at the Lord Mayor's feast,) he brought the matter tolerably to this conclusion,--that there was no 'conspiracy.' He occasionally said strong things,--probably stronger than he meant, for he was evidently not master of his stuff. Among other things, the following words pleased me extremely.--"I am a soldier and no orator. I am utterly deficient in the talents requisite to play a part in this great assembly. I must be more than mad if I ever entertained the insane thought (of which I am accused) of becoming Prime Minister."[55] All the Lords who had resigned made their apology in turn, as well as they could. Old Lord Eldon tried the effect of tears, which he has always at hand on great occasions: but I did not see that they produced any corresponding emotion in the audience. He was answered by the new Peer and Minister, Lord Goderich, formerly Mr. Robinson, for himself and the Premier, who, being a commoner, cannot appear in the House of Lords, though he governs England, and is become too illustrious, as Mr. Canning, to exchange that name for a title. The new peer's speech was a very good one, but the beginning excited an universal laugh. True to long habit, he addressed the speaker of the House as "Sir." He was so 'décontenancé' at his blunder, that he put his hand to his forehead, and remained for a time speechless; but recovered his self-possession with the help of the friendly "Hear, hear!" Lord Holland distinguished himself as usual by sharp and striking exposition; Lord King by a great deal of wit, not always in the best taste; Lord Lansdowne by calm, appropriate statement, more remarkable for good sense than for brilliancy. Lord Grey far excelled the rest in dignity of manner, a thing which English orators, almost without exception, either neglect or cannot acquire. The want of decorum, remarkable in the lower house, which is like a dirty coffee-house, and where many of the representatives of the people lie sprawling on the benches with their hats on, and talking of all sorts of trifles while their colleagues are speaking, seldom appears here. The place and the deportment are, on the contrary, suited to the senate of a great nation. When I question myself as to the total impression of this day I must confess that it was at once elevating and melancholy;--the former when I fancied myself an Englishman, the latter when I felt that I was a German. This twofold senate of the People of England, spite of all the defects and blemishes common to human nature which are blended in its composition, is yet something in the highest degree grand; and in contemplating its power and operation thus near at hand, one begins to understand why it is that the English nation is, as yet, the first on the face of the earth. _May 3d._ To-day, for a change, you shall follow me from the serious business of Parliament to the theatre. The piece was a mere spectacle:--dramatic exhibitions of that sort are more beautifully and skilfully executed here than in any other country. I shall confine myself to describing the 'scenery.' In a wild mountain district of Spain, a Moorish castle rises amid rocks in the distance. It is night, but the moon shines brightly in the blue heavens, and mingles her pale light with the brilliant illumination of the windows of the castle and the chapel. A road winding among the mountains is visible at many points; and at length, supported on arches of masonry, leads to the foreground. A band of robbers now glide stealthily forth from the thicket, and conceal themselves by the road-side.--You discover from their conversation that they are lying in wait for a rich prize. Their handsome young leader is distinguished by his commanding air and his splendid dress, in the style of the Italian banditti. After a short interval you see the castle-gates in the distance unclose, a drawbridge is let down, and a state-carriage drawn by six mules rolls along the road. Sometimes you lose it behind the mountains;--it approaches, growing larger and larger (an effect admirably produced by figures of various dimensions,) and at length comes on the stage at a brisk trot. A few shots are immediately fired by the robbers, the coachman is killed, and the plunder of the carriage goes forward amid noise and confusion. In the midst of the tumult the curtain falls. At the beginning of the second act you see the same scene, but it excites quite different emotions. The lights in the castle are extinguished,--the moon is veiled behind a cloud. In the dim light you imperfectly distinguish the carriage, with the doors rent from the hinges. On the box lies the murdered driver; the pallid head of one of the fallen robbers is seen above a stone trench; and the handsome captain leans dying against the trunk of a tree, while his boy Gilblas is vainly trying to check the flight of the departing spirit. This half-dead, half-living picture, is extremely powerful and touching. My morning calls were useful, for they procured me three tickets for the next Almack's; and I prevailed upon one of the most rigorous and dreaded of Patronesses to give me a ticket for a little obscure 'Miss of my acquaintance,'--an immense 'faveur!' I was, however, obliged to manoeuvre and entreat a long time to obtain it. The young lady and her party nearly kissed my hands, and behaved as if they had gained the great prize in the lottery. After Almack's, there is no way of approaching an English lady so good as politics. There has been nothing to be heard lately, whether at dinner or at the Opera, nay even at balls, but Canning and Wellington from every pretty mouth; nay, Lord E---- complained that his wife disturbed him with politics at night. She frightened him by suddenly calling out in her sleep, "Will the Premier stand or fall?" If I improve myself in nothing else here, I shall in politics and cabriolet-driving; the latter one learns to perfection. You wind along at full speed, among carts and carriages, where you would have thought you must have stopped for minutes. A residence in such a metropolis of the world certainly tends to correct all one's small views of things: one regards them in a broader manner, and more 'en bloc.' _May 10th._ The eternal uniformity of the season goes on for ever. A soirée at Lady Cowper's, one of the gentlest of Lady-patronesses; another at Lady Jersey's, one of the handsomest and most distinguished women in England,--both preceded by an Indian mélodrame,--filled my evening very agreeably. The scene of the mélodrame lay in an island whose inhabitants were endowed with the delightful gift of flying. The prettiest girls came floating in in masses, like flights of cranes, and when very pressingly courted just let their wings sink; but if you were emboldened by this,--a nod--and the graceful, many-coloured folds expanded, and away they went; nor could one so much as see the slender cords by which they were drawn up. At a dinner and soirée at Prince Polignac's there were several interesting persons; among them the Governor of Odessa, one of the most agreeable Russians I have seen, and Sir Thomas Lawrence, the celebrated painter. I was told that he regularly loses at billiards (of which he makes the great mistake of fancying himself a master) the enormous sums he gains by his art. He is a man of interesting appearance, with something 'du moyen age' in his features, strongly reminding one of the pictures of the Venetian school. Still more was I attracted by the Portuguese eyes of the Marchioness ----: Portuguese and Spanish eyes eclipse all others. Prince Polignac's niece told me that her uncle's hair, which is perfectly white, while the rest of his appearance is youthful and agreeable, had turned gray at the age of five-and-twenty, in the course of a few weeks, from the anxiety and horror of a revolutionary dungeon.[56] He may well find the present contrast agreeable; but, alas! the Restoration cannot restore the colour of his hair. I was interested by this circumstance; for you know, my good Julia, mine has also patriotically begun to assume our national colours, white and black. A curious foreigner who wishes to see all the gradations of social life, can hardly hold out a London season. More than forty invitations are now lying on my table,--five or six for each day. All these fête-givers must be called upon in a morning; and, to be courteous, one must go in person. 'C'est la mer à boire;' and yet on my way to parties I continually pass ten or a dozen houses which I don't know, where the same mass of carriages is standing before the door. A ball at which I was lately present was peculiarly brilliant, and was attended by some of the Royal Princes. When this is the case, the vanity of the host has introduced the fashion of mentioning it on the card: "To meet his Royal Highness," &c. &c. is the laughable phrase. The whole garden belonging to the house was built over, and divided into large rooms, which were hung with draperies of rose-coloured and white muslin, ornamented with enormous mirrors and numerous chandeliers, and perfumed with the flowers of every zone. The Duchess of Clarence honoured the entertainment with her presence; and all pressed forward to see her, for she is one of the few Princesses whose personal character inspires far more respect than their rank, and whose infinite goodness of heart and amiable disposition have gained her a popularity in England of which we Germans may be proud; the more so as she is probably destined to be Queen of these realms. The person who gave this ball was, however, far from being fashionable; a quality which is susceptible of the strangest 'nuances.' But every one, fashionable or not, refines upon his neighbour's entertainment as he can. The next day Countess L---- gave a ball, at which I was obliged to alight at least a thousand steps from the house, as it was utterly impossible to get through the crowd of carriages. Several equipages that had tried to force their way were fast locked together, and the coachmen were swearing the most terrible oaths. At this ball the hot-houses were tapestried with moss of various hues, and the ground thickly strewed with new-mown grass, out of which flowers seemed to grow freely here and there; the stalks were illuminated, which doubled the splendour of their colours. The walks were marked by coloured lamps, glittering like jewels in the grass. Gay arabesques were described among the moss on the walls in the same manner. In the background was a beautiful transparent landscape with moonlight and water. _May 15th._ Riding out to-day with several ladies, the question arose which way we should take, the best to enjoy the beautiful spring evening. Just then we saw an air-balloon floating in the sky, and the question was answered. For more than ten miles did the untired ladies follow their aerial guide, as if on a 'steeple chase,' but it vanished at length from our sight. The evening was devoted to a grand diplomatic dinner, at which several of the new Ministers were present; and to a ball in a German house, whose solid and tasteful magnificence equals the best English ones, and excels most in the agreeable qualities of its possessors; I mean Prince Esterhazy's. My journal will soon be like Bernouilly's Travels, which mainly treat of invitations, dinners, and evening parties. But you must take the thing as it comes. Liken this journal to a stuff upon which are very different embroideries, some rich, some poor. The strong lasting stuff is my unalterable love for you, and the wish to make you live with me, as far as it is possible, my distant life; the embroideries are only copies of what I see or experience, and must therefore take the same character, be the colours sometimes glowing, sometimes faint. And it were not to be wondered at if they faded altogether in the choking city, which never can afford such lovely hues as beautiful nature. _May 21st._ I give you notice beforehand that I must remain true to the same theme, and record a breakfast at the Duke of Devonshire's at Chiswick. This is the prettiest sort of fête given here; they are given in the country, and the company are dispersed through the house and the beautiful gardens. Though called breakfasts, they begin at three and do not leave off before midnight. Prince B----, brother-in-law of Napoleon, was there,--another of those whom I formerly saw in that splendour which they borrowed only from the Sun of the world,--a splendour which so quickly vanished with its source. But the great ornament of the fête was the beautiful Lady Ellenborough. She came in a small carriage drawn by poneys not larger than Kamtschatkadale dogs, which she drove herself. From henceforward the doves may be unyoked from the chariot of Venus, and poneys harnessed to it instead. All sorts of equipages fare worse here than any where. At last night's Almack's there was such a 'bagarre' among them, that several ladies were obliged to wait for hours before the chaos was reduced to any order. The coachmen on these occasions behave like madmen, trying to force their way, and the English police does not trouble itself about such matters. As soon as these heroic chariot-drivers espy the least opening, they whip their horses in, as if horses and carriage were an iron wedge; the preservation of either seems totally disregarded. In this manner, one of Lady Sligo's horses had its two hind-legs entangled in such a manner in the fore-wheel of a carriage, that it was impossible to release them, and one turn of the wheel would infallibly have broken both. Notwithstanding this, the other coachman could hardly be prevailed on to stand still. When the crowd dispersed a little, they were forced to take out both horses, and even then it was with some difficulty they extricated the entangled one. All this time the poor animal roared like the lion in Exeter 'Change. At the same time a cabriolet was crushed to pieces, and 'en révanche' drove both its shafts through the window of a coach, from which the screams of several female voices proved that it was already full: many other carriages were damaged. After this description, you, dearest, with your 'poltronnerie,' will scarcely trust yourself here in a carriage. It were certainly safer to adopt the fashion of the time of Queen Bess, when all, even the most delicate court-maidens, went a-visiting on horseback. _May 27th._ I had the honour of dining with the Duke of Clarence to-day. The Princess Augusta, the Duchess of Kent, her daughter, and the Duchess of Gloucester were present. The Duke is a very kind, friendly host, and always does me the favour to remind me of the various times and places at which we have met before. He has much of the true Englishman, in the best sense of the word, and the English love of domestic life. This dinner was given in celebration of the birthday of Princess Carolath.[57] He gave her health; at which the gentle Emily, spite of her intimacy with the amiable Duchess, her relation and friend, blushed over and over. Among the guests I must mention Sir George Cockburn, who took Napoleon to St. Helena. He told me many circumstances which proved Napoleon's extraordinary power of winning those whom he had any desire to win. The Admiral likewise admired the sincerity with which Napoleon spoke of himself, as of an indifferent historical personage; and among other things, openly declared that the Russians had so completely outwitted him in Moscow, that up to the very last day he was continually in hope of peace, till at length it was too late. 'C'était sans doute une grande faute,' added he coolly. The Duke's daughters are 'd'un beau sang,' all remarkably pretty, though all in a totally different style. Among the sons, the most distinguished is Colonel Fitzclarence, whose travels overland from India, through Egypt, you read with so much interest. He has also written on the German Landwehr, of which he is no partisan. Seldom does one find a young officer of such varied accomplishments. I have known him a long time, and have frequently had occasion to be grateful for his obliging and friendly manners. His eldest sister is married to Sir Philip Sidney. I heard from her that not only has the series of portraits been preserved unbroken in that illustrious family from Lord Leicester's time downwards, but also a lock of hair of every successive head of the family. Among other curious documents they have also a list of the guests at the feast at Kenilworth, and some very remarkable household accounts of that time. I believe Sir Walter Scott has used these papers. In the evening Pasta warbled at Countess St. A----'s, and two or three balls closed the day. _May 26th._ This morning in the Park I could not restrain a hearty laugh at a young lord, who has not profited much by his residence at Paris, and whose beautiful horse attracted more admiration than himself. "Quel beau cheval que vous avez là!" said I. "Oui," replied he, with his English accent; "je l'ai fait moi même, et pour celà je lui suis beaucoup attaché." Is not this almost as good as the deaf Russian officer in B----, to whom the King said, on the entrance of a surgeon, "Ce poisson là est bien fréquent chez vous." "Oui, Sire," replied he, with a profound bow, "je l'ai été pendant quinze ans." 'Rex Judæorum' gave a magnificent dinner, the dessert of which alone, as he told me, cost a hundred pounds. I sat next to a very clever woman, Mrs. A----, the friend of the Duke of W----, a very characteristic, acute, un-English physiognomy,--you may think what an 'enragée' politician. I must have annoyed her excessively; in the first place I am a great Canningite; in the second, I hate politics at dinner. We had a great exhibition of splendour. The table service was of vermillion and silver; that of the dessert, I think, all gold. Under the portrait of Prince Metternich (a present from the original) in an adjoining room, was a large gold box, perhaps a copy of the Ark of the Covenant. A concert succeeded the dinner, at which Mr. Moschelles played as enchantingly as his wife looked. It was not till two o'clock that I got away to a rout at the Duke of Northumberland's, a small party of about a thousand persons. Music was performed in an immense picture-gallery, at thirty degrees of Reaumur. The crowd and bustle was however so great that we heard little of it. The atmosphere was like that of the black-hole at Calcutta. Are these really the amusements of civilized nations! _May 31st._ The rich Lady L----, with whose 'black diamonds' her complexion forms the most agreeable contrast, and whose 'air chiffonné' is quite original, showed me her bazaar this morning. It is no common one, for it contained jewels to the amount of three hundred thousand reichsthalers. The whole boudoir full of perfumes, flowers, and rarities, the 'clair obscur' of rose-coloured curtains, and the Marchioness herself in a dress of yellow gauze, reclined on her chaise longue 'plongée dans une douce langueur;'--it was a pretty picture of 'refinement.' Diamonds and pearls, pens and ink, books, letters, toys and seals, and an unfinished purse, lay before her. Among the seals, two were piquant, from their contrast,--the one from Lord Byron: "Love will find its way Where wolves would fear to stray." The other says, with true French 'philosophie,' 'Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe.' Nothing, however, was so common in the house as portraits of the Emperor Alexander who had paid great attention to the Marchioness at V----, and whose image had been thus multiplied by gratitude. Her husband was ambassador there, and used his English prerogative to its full extent. Once he boxed with a 'fiacre' driver: another time he presented the Archduchess, and, if I mistake not, the Empress herself, to his wife, instead of the reverse;--then he ran into the kitchen to stab his cook for having offended the Marchioness: 'enfin, il faisant la pluie et le beau tems à V----; ou plutôt l'orage et la grêle.' Just conceive how 'disappointed' the poor lady must be, after so long ruling on the Continent, 'malgré ses diamans, son rang, et sa jolie mine,' not to be able to be really and truly fashionable. But this aristocracy of fashion is more difficult to attain to than the highest rank of freemasonry, and much more capricious than that venerable institution, though both alike make something out of nothing. I dined at Lord Darnley's, where I met Lord Bloomfield, formerly a conspicuous man, and great favourite of the King's 'du tems de ses frédaines.' There was also the Archbishop of York, a majestic old man, who began life as a private tutor, and has reached this elevated station by the patronage of his pupils. Nothing can be at once more ugly and more laughable than the demi-toilette of an English Archbishop. A short schoolmaster's wig ill-powdered, a black French coat, and a little black silk ladies' apron hung over the inexpressibles in front, just as our miners hang theirs behind. We were extremely well entertained with game and excellent fruits from Cobham; and after dinner drove to a concert, which was very different from any I had heard here. These concerts were set on foot by several noblemen and distinguished persons, admirers of the music of Handel, Mozart, and the old Italian masters, whose compositions are here exclusively performed. It's long since I had such a treat! What is the modern _Trilliliren_ compared with the sublimity of that old church music? I felt transported back to the days of my childhood, a feeling which always strengthens the soul for days, and gives it a fresher, lighter flight. The singing was excellent throughout, and often of an unearthly beauty in its simplicity; for it is inconceivable what a power God has given to the human voice when rightly employed, and poured forth in a simple and sustained flow. Handel's choruses in the Oratorio of Israel in Egypt, make you think you _feel_ the night which overshadowed Egypt, and hear the tumult of Pharaoh's host, and the roaring of the sea that engulfs them in its waters. I could not bring myself to listen to ball-fiddling after these sacred tones, and therefore retired to my own room at twelve o'clock, willingly leaving Almack's and another fashionable ball unvisited. I shall carry the echo of this music of the spheres into my dreams, and, borne on its wings, shall take a spiritualized flight with you, my Julia: 'Are you ready? Now we fly.' _June 1st._ My old B---- waked me very early, which he never does unless he has a letter from you to give me. On all lesser occasions he lets me sleep on, however particularly I may have desired him to call me. His apology always is, "You were so sound asleep!" It is really lucky that I have not that sort of vanity which is intoxicated by praise, otherwise you would make a complete fool of me. Alas! I know myself too well, and a hundred faults which your love but half perceives. The little devil whom you attack certainly often possesses me. But he is tolerably innocent, often a poor foolish, honest little devil, of a sort that stands midway between angel and devil, as to the morality of the business;--in a word, a genuine weak child of man. But as he displeases you, poor little imp, I shall put him into a bottle, like Hofmann, and cork him down with Solomon's seal. From this time I shall produce only the Herrnhüter before you:--you know I passed my youth among that sect, 'et si je m'en ressens, je ne m'en ressens guères.' I shall certainly be present at the fancy-ball you mean to give in imitation of that at Brighton. Nobody will know me, for the good reason that I shall be invisible: I shall only imprint a kiss on your forehead, and then be off like a thought:--be on the watch therefore! _June 3d._ I wandered yesterday from the regions of the gay world once more into the city, and observed the toiling industry which is continually producing some fresh article of luxury. Every day sees some new invention. Among them may be reckoned the countless advertisements, and the manner of putting them 'en evidence.' Formerly people were content to paste them up; now they are ambulant. One man has a pasteboard hat, three times as high as other hats, on which is written in great letters, "Boots at twelve shillings a pair,--warranted." Another carries a sort of banner, on which is represented a washerwoman, and the inscription, "Only three-pence a shirt." Chests like Noah's ark, entirely pasted over with bills, and of the dimensions of a small house, drawn by men or horses, slowly parade the streets, and carry more lies upon them than Münchausen ever invented. I arrived at Mr. R----'s very tired, and accepted an invitation to dine with him at his counting-house. During dinner we philosophized on the subject of religion. 'R---- est vraiment un très bon enfant,' and more obliging than most men of his class,--whenever he thinks he risks nothing by it, which one cannot blame him for. In our religious discussion he had somewhat the best of it, for he is of the ancient nobility in matters of faith: they are the true aristocrats in this subject, and will hear of no innovation or reform. I wound up by saying, with Göthe, _Alle Ansichten sind zu loben_; and drove in a crazy hackney-coach back to the 'West End of the Town,'--where there are neither Jews nor Christians, but only Fashionables and Nobodies,--to hear Pasta sing at Mrs. P----'s, and to play écarté, de moitié with Lord H----'s friend. I came home at four o'clock, fell asleep by rosy day light, and fancied my bed was the moss of a forest. I was waked by a piteous cry: I looked around, and saw a poor devil come plump down through the air from the top of a high tree, and fall on the ground near me. Groaning, and pale as ashes, he crawled up, and cried out that it was all over with him. I was hastening to help him when a creature like an inkstand with a stopper came up, and, with heavy curses, gave the half-dead man several blows with his stopper. I watched my time, pulled out the stopper; and as the ink streamed forth, he changed himself into a Moor in a splendid silver jacket and elegant costume, who cried out laughing, that if I would only let him alone, he would shew me such things as I never saw before. Now began such conjurations as left all the Pinettis and Philadelphias in the world far behind. A large closet changed its contents every minute; and all the treasures of Golconda, with unheard-of curiosities, were presented to my view. My dream went on increasing in extravagance. Did you ever hear of such mad visions as haunt me here? It's the melancholy fog, the suffocating air of London, which clouds my senses. I send them to you therefore, that you may let them out in our own sunshine, and on their heavy wings I lay a thousand affectionate greetings of your faithful Friend, L----. LETTER XVI. _London, June 5th, 1827._ This morning I paid a visit to Mrs. Hope, and saw her husband's collection of works of art more in detail. A very beautiful Venus by Canova was peculiarly interesting to me, having seen it some years ago, unfinished, in the 'atélier' of that delightful artist in Rome; it then left a more agreeable impression on my mind than any of his works. Among the pictures, I was particularly struck with the infamous Cesare Borgia, by Correggio. What a sublime villain! He stands in the most intrepid manly beauty; vigour and loftiness of mind beam from every feature; in the eyes alone lurks the ferocious tiger. The collection is peculiarly rich in pictures of the Flemish school; many of them are of inimitable truth, which I freely confess has often a greater charm for me than even the perfect representation of an Ideal, if that does not happen to hit some kindred conception in my own mind. Thus a fine stately old Dutch burgher's wife, drinking down a glass of wine with great 'délice,'--her husband wrapped in his cloak with the bottle out of which he has just helped her still in his hand, while he looks at her with good-natured pleasure,--was to me a very attractive subject. So, likewise, some officers of the sixteenth century in their handsome and appropriate dress, carousing after their hard and bloody toils: and several others, equally true to nature. Among the landscapes I made acquaintance with a Hobbima, which has the greatest resemblance to the manner of Ruysdael. Fruit, which almost deceived the sense, by Van Huysum and Van Os. Houses, in which every tile is given, by Van der Meer. Several Wouvermans, Paul Potters, &c. &c.--nothing was wanting to complete the richness of the collection. Only the modern English pictures were bad. The rest of the day I staid at home, to hallow the birthday of my good mother, alone and in quiet. _June 7th._ As a sample of the necessities of a London dandy, I send you the following statement by my 'fashionable' washerwoman, who is employed by some of the most distinguished 'élégans,' and is the only person who can make cravats of the right stiffness, or fold the breasts of shirts with plaits of the right size. An 'élégant,' then, requires per week,--Twenty shirts; twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs; nine or ten pair of 'summer trowsers;' thirty neck-handkerchiefs (unless he wears black ones;) a dozen waistcoats; and stockings 'á discretion.' I see your housewifely soul aghast. But as a dandy cannot get on without dressing three or four times a day, the affair is 'tout simple,' for he must appear,-- 1st. In breakfast toilette,--a chintz dressing-gown and Turkish slippers. 2nd. Morning riding dress,--frock coat, boots and spurs. 3rd. Dinner dress,--dress coat and shoes. 4th. Ball dress, with 'pumps,' a word signifying shoes as thin as paper. At six o'clock the Park was so full that it was like a rout on horseback, only much pleasanter; instead of carpets or chalked floors there was the green turf, a fresh breeze instead of stifling heat and vapour; and instead of tiring one's own legs, one made the horse's do all the work. Before I rode thither I called on Princess E---- and found three young and handsome 'ambassadrices en conférence, toutes les trois profondement occupées d'une queue;' namely, whether it was necessary to wear one at the queen of Würtemberg's, or not. At a ball this evening, at the forementioned Marchioness of Londonderry's, I saw the Polonaise and the Mazurka danced here for the first time,--and very badly. We supped in the Statue Gallery. Many ladies had hung shawls and other articles of dress on the statues, which dreadfully shocked one's feeling for art. At six I came home, and am writing to you while they are closing my shutters to make an artificial night. The valets here have a sad life of it, and can only sleep out of hand, if I may say so, or like watchmen, in the day. _June 13th._ I have already told you that one is invited here to a Royal Prince, just as in some other places, among intimate friends, to a dainty dish. I was thus invited yesterday to dine with the Duchess of Gloucester, and to-day with the Duke of Sussex. This Prince, who is 'brouillé' with the King, has gained great popularity by his liberal opinions, and quite deserves it. He has been much on the Continent, and likes the German mode of life. Our language is perfectly familiar to him, as indeed it is to most of his brothers. In compliment to him, after the ladies left the table, cigars were brought, and more than one smoked, which I never before saw in England. Monsieur de Moutron told a great many droll stories, with genuine French address. But the most amusing person was Major Keppel, the Persian traveller, who related some rather 'scabreuses' but amazingly 'piquantes' anecdotes, which he would not commit to print, and which I reserve till we meet. In the morning I drive to Ascot with young Captain R----, and shall visit Windsor, to make some break in this life of uniform dissipation. It is supposed that the races will be unusually brilliant, as the King is to be present, and his horses are to run. _Windsor, June 14th._ After a rapid drive of twenty-five English miles,--partly through Windsor Park, behind which the Castle, the residence of so many kings, rears its head,--we reached the wide and barren heath of Ascot, where the races are held. The place presented a perfect picture of pleasuring encampment. Endless lines of tents for horse and man; streets of carriages along the course, chiefly filled with pretty women; high stands, consisting of three or four stages one above another, with the King's stand at the goal;--all this enlivened by twenty or thirty thousand people, of whom many have been encamped here five or six days:--such are the leading features of the motley picture. One part forms a sort of fair, where among the other booths and tents,--like a Liberty or Free Quarter[58] in the middle ages,--are to be found various games of hazard, elsewhere severely forbidden. The ladies in the carriages are provided with excellent breakfasts, and champagne, which they distribute with great hospitality. I found many old friends, and made some new acquaintances; among others, an extremely agreeable woman, Lady ----, who invited me to dine at her cottage. As the races ended for to-day at six o'clock, we drove to T---- Park, through a most beautiful country, so thickly studded with trees that spite of its ploughed fields it had the appearance of a cultivated wood. We arrived before the family, and found the house open, but without a servant or any living creature in it. It was like the enchanted dwelling of a fairy, for a more lovely abode cannot be conceived. Could you but have seen it! On a rising ground, half-concealed by the most magnificent old trees, stood a house whose various jutting parts, built at different periods, and here and there hidden by the shrubberies, never permitted the eye to catch its entire outline. A sort of colonnade of rose-trees, covered with flowers, led directly into the hall; and passing through some other apartments and a corridor, we reached the dining-room, where a table stood richly covered,--but still no human being was visible. The garden lay before us, a perfect paradise, lighted by the glow of the evening sun. Along the whole house, now projecting, now receding, were verandas of various forms, and clothed with creeping plants. These formed a border to the gayest flower-garden, covering the whole slope of the hill. Close upon the edge of it was a deep and narrow green valley; behind which the ground rose again and formed a higher line of hill, the side of which was clothed with huge beeches. At the end of the valley the near view was terminated by water. In the distance, above the crown of trees, was seen the 'Round Tower' of Windsor Castle, with the majestic royal banner floating in the blue air. This was the only object to remind us that Nature, or some beneficient fairy, did not reign alone here; but that man, with his pleasures, his pomps, and his necessities, was near at hand. Like a beacon-tower of ambition it looked down upon the peaceful cottages; alluring the gazer to a higher but more deceitful enjoyment, which he who obtains buys only with his own grievous loss. Peace and contentment abide in the valley. My poetical 'extase' was interrupted by my fair hostess, who was greatly amused at our description of her enchanted palace, and immediately took care that we should be shown to our rooms, to make our toilet, which the dust and heat rendered very necessary. An excellent dinner, with iced champagne and delicious fruits, was very grateful, and we remained at table till midnight. Coffee and tea, with music, occupied two hours more, the latter of which, I must in all sincerity confess, we could willingly have dispensed with. After our agreeable evening a rather disagreeable incident awaited me. As I was going to bed B---- began to exclaim that ill-luck followed him everywhere. "Why, what has happened?" "O Lord! if I could help it I would not tell, but it must come out." "Now, Devil take you, make an end; what is it?" The confused-headed old fellow had put a purse with five and twenty pounds I gave him into the pocket of the carriage, instead of into the seat; and, like Kotzebue's stupid country squire, took it out in the tumult of the booths to pay for a glass of beer, changed a sovereign, because as he said he had no small money, and then carefully put the purse in the same place again. It followed, as a matter of course in England, that when he returned to the carriage it was gone. _Richmond, June 13th._ This morning we visited the Castle, which is now completing according to the old plan, and is already the vastest and most magnificent residence possessed by any sovereign in Europe. The time was too short to see the interior, which I therefore deferred to another opportunity. I only paid a visit to the Duchess of C----, who lives in the great tower and enjoys a delicious view from her lofty balcony. Among her attendants was a beautiful Greek boy in his national costume, scarlet, blue, and gold, with naked legs and feet. He was saved from the massacre of Scio by being hidden in an oven. He is now become a perfect Englishman, but has retained something inexpressibly noble and foreign in his air. At one o'clock we returned to the race-ground; and this time I received my breakfast (luncheon) from the hands of another beauty. At the close of the races we drove to Richmond, where R----'s regiment is quartered, and passed a very joyous evening with the officers. The universal competence of England permits a far more luxurious life than military men enjoy with us. These gentlemen deny themselves nothing, and their mess is better served throughout than many a princely table in Germany. In the morning this regiment of Hussars and a regiment of Lancers are to be reviewed by an Inspecting General, which I shall stay to see. _June 16th._ The regiment went through its business very well; with less affectation,--perhaps with less precision,--than our marvellously trained three-year horse-soldiers; but with more true military coolness, and with the steadiness and ease resulting from long habit: all their evolutions too were more rapid, from the excellence of their horses, with which those of the Continent are not to be compared. The English cavalry has gained immensely in command of the rein, and in military seat, since the last war, which is mainly to be ascribed to the care and attention of the Duke of Wellington: the men had their horses as well in hand as the best of ours. The extraordinary thing, according to our notions, was to see the perfect ease with which fifty or sixty officers in plain clothes,--several General officers among them, some in undress jackets and top-boots, some in frock-coats and coloured cravats,--took part in the review, and thronged around the Inspecting General, who with his two aids-de-camp were the only men in uniform, except the regiment. Nay, even some supernumerary officers of the regiment itself, not on actual service, rode about with him in civil dress and shoes,--a sight which would have given such shock to the nerves of a ---- general, as would have endangered his intellects for ever. In a word, one sees here more of the reality; with us, more of the form. Here, 'tis true, the clothes do not make the man; and this simplicity is sometimes very imposing. R---- told me that this regiment was originally formed by the Tailors' Company, at the time of the threatened French invasion, and at first consisted entirely of tailors. They are now transformed into very sturdy martial hussars, and fought with great distinction at La Belle Alliance. _June 18th._ Since the day before yesterday I have returned to the old track. I 'débutai' with four balls, and a dinner at Lord Caernarvon's, where I met Monsieur Eynard, the celebrated Philhellenist, whose pretty wife manifests an equal enthusiasm for the Greek cause. Yesterday I dined at Esterhazy's, and met a young Spaniard whom I could not help wishing an actor, that he might play Don Juan, for he seemed to me the perfect Ideal of that character. With the tones of the dramatic Pasta, whom one hears every evening, ringing in my ears, I went to bed. This evening there was a concert at the tall Duke's, where every body was in raptures at old Velluti, because he sang well once upon a time. He lives here upon his ancient fame. From thence I went to one of the prettiest balls I have seen in London, at the house of a Scotch woman of rank. The largest room was entirely decorated with paper lamps made in the forms of various flowers, very tastefully grouped. As we got into our carriages at six o'clock, by sunshine, the ladies had a most strange appearance. No 'fraicheur' could stand this test: they changed colour like chameleons. Some looked perfectly blue, some mottled, most of them death-like, their locks hanging about, their eyes glassy. It was frightful to see how the blooming rosebuds of lamplight were suddenly changed by the sunbeams into faded withered roses. _June 23rd._ What say you, dear Julia, to a breakfast given to two thousand people? Such an one took place to-day in the 'Horticultural Gardens,' which are extensive enough to accommodate that number of persons conveniently. Not that there was any deficiency of horrible crowding in the tents in which the provisions were placed,--especially where the prize fruits were exhibited. As soon as the prizes were distributed, they were devoured in the twinkling of an eye, in the coarsest and most unseemly manner. There was one Providence pine which weighed eleven pounds; deep red and green ones of not much smaller dimensions; strawberries as big as small apples; and the rarest choice of delicious fruits of all kinds. The fête, on the whole, was gay, and of an agreeable rural character. The smooth turf, and the well-dressed company that trod it; the tents and groups among the shrubs; perfect masses of roses and flowers of every kind, produced the most cheerful, agreeable scene. I drove there with our Ambassador, with whom I returned at seven in the evening. We could not help laughing at the strange industry of an Irishman, who affected to light us to our carriages, with a lantern in which there was, of course, no light, as it was broad day. By this piece of manual wit he earned a shilling from the merry and good-natured. One of his English comrades called out to him, "You are showing the way to liberal people." "Oh!" said he, "if I did not know them for such, I should not go with them." Odd enough too were the Tyrolese singers, who are in great fashion; they call every body, even the King, who talks German with them, '_Du_' (thou), and are strangers to all false shame or fear of man. It is comical enough to see one of them go up to Prince Esterhazy, to whose patriotic favour they are chiefly indebted for their great vogue, put out his hand to him and exclaim, "_Nun, was machst Du, Esterhazy?_" (literally, "Well, what art thou about, Esterhazy?") The little female in this party of wonderful animals came up to me to-day and said, "I have been looking at thee a long time, for thou art so like my dear John, that I must give thee a kiss." The offer was not very tempting, for the girl is ugly; but as His Majesty himself has kissed her (of which there is a good caricature in the shops), the proposal is now esteemed flattering. _June 26th._ The Duke of Northumberland had the kindness to show me his fine palace to-day in detail. I here found what I had long vainly desired to see,--a house in which not only the general effect is that of the highest splendour and elegance, but every thing, the greatest as well as the smallest, is executed with equal exactness and perfection,--'ou rien ne cloche.' Such an Ideal is in this instance completely realized. You do not find the smallest trifle neglected, not a line awry, not a speck of dirt, nothing faded, nothing out of fashion or keeping, nothing worn out, nothing sham, not an article of furniture, not a window, or a door, which is not, in its way, a model of workmanship. This extraordinary perfection has indeed cost several hundred thousand pounds, and doubtless no little trouble; but it is perhaps unique in its kind. The richest embellishment from works of art and curiosities is also not wanting. The arrangement of the latter on terrace-formed shelves covered with violet velvet, behind which are looking-glasses in one piece, is very tasteful. One of the most striking things is the marble staircase, with a railing of gilded bronze. The hand-rail of polished mahogany at the top is a curious piece of workmanship: by some contrivance, which remains a secret, the wood is so put together that it is impossible to discover a single joint from top to bottom. The whole seems to be made of one piece, or is so really. Another remarkable thing is the false 'porte cochère' in the outer wall, which is only opened on occasion of a great press of carriages; and when closed, cannot be detected in the façade. It is of iron, and so completely masked by a coating of composition stone and a false window, that it cannot be distinguished from the rest of the house.--Of the pictures another time. At the Duke of Clarence's, in the evening, I made the acquaintance of a very interesting man,--Sir Gore Ouseley, late ambassador to Persia, who was accompanied by Mr. Morier, the author of Hadji Baba, as his secretary of legation. I must tell you two or three characteristic anecdotes of that country, which I heard from him. The present Shah was held in such a state of dependence by his prime minister, Ibrahim Khan, who had placed him on the throne while yet a child, that he had little more than the name of a ruler. It was impossible for him to make any resistance, since every province or city throughout the empire was governed, without exception, by relations or creatures of the minister. At length the Shah determined to withdraw himself at all risks from such a bondage, and devised the following energetic means, which bear the genuine stamp of Oriental character. According to the ancient institutions of the country, there exists a class of soldiers, thinly scattered through all the principal towns, called the King's guard. These obey no order that does not proceed immediately from the King himself, and bear his own private signet: this guard has thus remained the only body independent of the minister, and the sole sure support of the throne. The King now secretly despatched orders, written by his own hand, to the chief of this faithful band, requiring them on a particular day and hour to put to death all Ibrahim's relations throughout the kingdom. On the appointed day the Shah held a Divan, sought to bring on a dispute with Ibrahim, and when the latter assumed his usual lofty tone, commanded him immediately to retire to the state prison. The minister smiled, and replied, "that he would go, but that the King would be pleased to consider that the governor of every one of his provinces would call him to account for this act." "Not now, friend Ibrahim," exclaimed the King gaily,--"Not now." Then drawing out his English watch, and casting a withering glance at the perplexed minister, he coolly added, "At this minute the last of your blood has ceased to breathe, and you will soon follow." And so it happened. The second anecdote shows that the Shah acts on the principle of the French song, which says, "quand on a dépeuplé la terre, il faut la répeupler aprés." At Sir Gore's audience of leave, he begged the Shah graciously to tell him what was the number of his children, that he might give his own monarch correct information on so interesting a subject, provided, as was probable, he should make any inquiry. "A hundred and fifty-four sons," replied the Shah. "May I venture to ask your Majesty how many children?" The word daughters, according to the rules of Oriental etiquette, he dared not to pronounce, and indeed the general question was, according to Persian notions, almost an offence. The King, however, who liked Sir Gore very much, did not take it ill. "Ha ha! I understand you," said he laughing; and called to the chief of his eunuchs, "Musa, how many daughters have I?" "King of kings," answered Musa, prostrating himself on his face, "five hundred and sixty." When Sir Gore Ouseley repeated this conversation to the Empress-mother in Petersburg, she only exclaimed, "Ah, le monstre!" _June 29th._ As the season, thank Heaven, now draws near its close, I project a tour to the north of England, and Scotland, whither I have received several invitations, but had rather preserve my liberty in order to scour the country 'à ma guise,' if time and circumstances permit. To-day we had the finest weather I have seen in England; and as I returned from the country in the evening, after an early dinner at Count Münster's, I saw, for the first time, an Italian light on the distance,--shades of blue and lilac as rich and as soft as a picture of Claude's. 'A propos,' among the notabilia for imitation I must mention a flower-table of the Countess's. The top is a crystal-clear glass, under which is a deep box or tray filled with wet sand, with a fine wire net over it, in the interstices of which fresh flowers are closely stuck. The tray is pushed in, and you have the most beautiful flower-picture to write or work over. If you wish to regale yourself with the fragrance, you may open the glass cover, or remove it entirely. Children's balls are now the order of the day, and I went to one of the prettiest this evening at Lady Jersey's. These highborn northern children had every possible advantage of dress, and many were not without grace; but it really afflicted me to observe how early they had ceased to be children;--the poor things were, for the most part, as unnatural, as unjoyous, and as much occupied with themselves, as we great figures around them. Italian peasant-children would have been a hundred times more graceful and more engaging. It was only at supper that the animal instinct displayed itself more openly and unreservedly, and, breaking through all forms and all disguises, reinstated Nature in her rights. The pure and lovely natural feeling, however, was the tenderness of the mothers, which betrayed itself without affectation in their beaming eyes, made many an ugly woman tolerable, and gave to the beautiful a higher beauty. A second ball at Lady R----'s presented the hundredth repetition of the usual stupid throng, in which poor Prince B----, for whose corpulence these squeezes are little adapted, fainted, and leaning on the banister, gasped for air like a dying carp. Pleasure and happiness are certainly pursued in very odd ways in this world. _July 3rd._ This afternoon I rode by a long circuitous way to eat a solitary fish dinner at Greenwich. The view from the Observatory is remarkable for this,--that almost the whole surface of ground you overlook is occupied by the city of London, which continually stretches out its polypus arms wider and wider, and swallows up the villages in its neighbourhood, one after another. Indeed, for a population equal to that of half the kingdom of Saxony some space is wanted. I went into the Ship tavern, gave my horse to the hostler, and was shown into a very neat little room with a balcony projecting over the Thames, under which the fish were swimming which I, merciless human beast of prey, was about to devour. The river was enlivened by a hundred barks; music and song resounded cheerfully from the steam-boats passing by; and behind the gay scene, the sun, blood-red, and enveloped in a light veil of mist, declined towards the horizon. As I sat at the window, I gave audience to my thoughts, till the entrance of various sorts of fish as variously prepared, called me to more material pleasures. Iced champagne, and Lord Chesterfield's Letters, which I had put into my pocket, gave zest to my repast; and after a short siesta, during which night had come on, I remounted my horse and rode the German mile and a half to my home through an unbroken avenue of brilliant gas lamps, and over well-watered roads. It was just striking midnight when I reached the house, and a coffin hung with black passed me on the left like an apparition. _July 5th._ B---- gave me your letter at Almack's, and I immediately hastened 'home' with it. How greatly have your descriptions rejoiced me! I was near weeping over the venerable trees that called to me, through you,--"Oh, our master and lord, hearest thou not the rustling of our leafy tops, the home of so many birds?" Ah, yes, I hear it in spirit, and shall have no true enjoyment till I am once more therewith my truest friend, and the plants that are to me as loving children. I thank you cordially for the leaf of cinq foil; and as the horse of the accompanying Vienna postillion, the bearer of a thousand blessings, has lost his tail on the road, I have replaced it by this leaf, which gives him a genuine Holy Alliance look. Here my old B---- interrupted me with the question whether he might stay out for the night, promising to be back by eight in the morning. I gave him leave, and asked, laughing, what adventure he had in hand? "Ach!" said he, "I only want for once to see how they hang people here, and at six o'clock in the morning five men are to be hanged at once." What a discord rang through my whole being, just filled with joyous tumult! What a contrast between the thousands, wearied with the dance, and sated with multiplied amusements, returning home at that hour to their luxurious couches, and those wretched beings who are condemned to pass through anguish and pain into eternity! I exclaimed again with Napoleon, "Oh, monde, monde!" and for a long time, after a day wasted in frivolity, could not go to sleep; I was pursued by the thought that at that very moment perhaps these unhappy ones were called to take so fearful a leave of the world and its joys; not excited and elevated by the feeling of being martyrs to some good or great cause, but the victims of vulgar, debasing crime. Men pity those who suffer innocently: how much more pitiable do the guilty appear to me! My imagination when once excited always outstrips wisdom and expediency; and thus did all vain pleasures, all those refinements of luxury which mock at misery and privation, now appear to me in the light of real sins: indeed I very often feel in the same temper with regard to them. A luxurious dinner has often been spoiled to me when I have looked at the poor servants, who are present indeed, but only as assistant slaves; or thought of the needy, who at the close of a long day's ceaseless toil can hardly obtain their scanty miserable meal; while we, like the epicure in the English caricature, envy the beggar _his hunger_. Yet spite of all these good and just feelings, (I judge of others by myself,) we should be greatly incensed if our servant played the Tantalus and removed the dishes from our tempting table, or if the poor man invited himself to share our feast without the wedding garment. Heaven has ordained that some should enjoy, while others want; and so it must remain in _this_ world. Every shout of joy is echoed, in some other place, by a cry of grief and despair; and while one man here breaks the cord of existence in phrensy, another is lost elsewhere in an ecstasy of delight. Let no one therefore fret himself vainly concerning it, if he neither deserve nor understands that it should fare better or worse with him than with others. Fate delights in this bitter irony--therefore pluck, O man! the flowers with child-like joy so long as they bloom; share their fragrance and beauty when you can with others, and manfully present a breast of steel to your own misfortunes. _July 7th._ I return to my daily chronicle. After dining with the epicurean Sir L----, I passed the evening very agreeably in a small party at the Duchess of Kent's. The Court circles here, if they may be called so, have no resemblance whatever to those of the Continent, which once led the absent Count R---- into such a strange scrape. The King of B---- asked him how he enjoyed the ball that evening; "Oh," replied he, "as soon as the Court is gone I think it will be very pleasant." At a very late hour I drove from thence to a ball at Princess L----'s, a lady whose entertainments are perfectly worthy of her Fashionableness 'par excellence.' A conversation I accidentally fell into with another diplomate procured me some interesting particulars. He told me about that difficult mission, the purpose of which was to induce the Empress of the French voluntarily to quit an army still devoted to Napoleon, and consisting of at least twelve thousand picked men. Contrary to all expectation, however, he found in Marie Louise scarcely a disposition to resist, and very little love for the Emperor (which indeed the sequel has sufficiently proved.) The little King of Rome alone, then only five years old, steadfastly refused to go, and could only be removed by force;--just as on a former occasion, led by the same heroic instinct, he had resisted the Regent's pusillanimous flight from Paris. His account of the parts which many distinguished men played on this occasion I must omit: I can only say that it confirmed me in the persuasion that the French nation never sunk to so low a pitch of baseness as at the time of Napoleon's abdication. _July 10th._ It is now more oppressively hot than I had imagined possible in this misty country. The turf in Hyde Park is of the colour of sand, and the trees dry and sear; the squares in the town, spite of all the watering, do not look much better. Nevertheless the grass-plots are as carefully mowed and rolled as if there were really grass upon them. No doubt, with equal care and labour, even more beautiful turf could be obtained in South Germany than here; but we shall never get to that,--we love our ease too well. As the heat increases, London empties, and the season is nearly over. For the first time I found myself without an invitation to-day, and employed my leisure in sight-seeing. Among other things I visited the King's Bench and Newgate prisons. The former, which is principally appropriated to the reception of debtors, is a perfect isolated world in miniature;--like a not insignificant town, only surrounded by walls thirty feet high. Cookshops, circulating libraries, coffee-houses, dealers, and artizans of all kinds, dwellings of different degrees, even a market-place,--nothing is wanting. When I went in, a very noisy game at ball was going on in the latter. A man who has money lives as well and agreeably as possible within these walls,--bating liberty. Even very 'good society,' male and female, is sometimes to be found in this little commune of a thousand persons; but he who has nothing fares ill enough; to him, however, every spot on the globe is a prison. Lord Cochrane passed some time in the King's Bench, for spreading false intelligence with a view to lower the Funds; and the rich, highly respected, and popular Sir Francis Burdett was also imprisoned here some time for a libel he wrote. The prisoner who conducted me about had been an inhabitant of the place twelve years, and declared in the best possible humour, that he had no hope of ever coming out again. An old French-woman of very good air and manners said the same; and declared that she did not intend ever to acquaint her relations with her situation, for that she lived very contentedly here, and did not know how she might find matters in France. She seemed perfectly persuaded 'que le mieux est l'ennemi du bien.' The aspect of Newgate, the prison for criminals, is more apalling. But even here the treatment is very mild, and a most exemplary cleanliness reigns throughout. The Government allows each criminal a pint of thick gruel in a morning, and half a pound of meat or a mess of broth alternately for dinner, with a pound of good bread daily. Besides this, they are permitted to buy other articles of food, and half a bottle of wine a day. They employ themselves as they please; there are separate courts belonging to a certain number of rooms or cells: for those who like to work there are work rooms; but many smoke and play from morning till night. At nine o'clock they must all attend divine service. Seven or eight generally inhabit one room. They are allowed a mattress and two blankets for sleeping, and coals for cooking, and, in winter, for warming the cells. Those condemned to death are put in separate less convenient cells, where two or three sleep together. By day, even these have a court-yard for recreation, and a separate eating room. I saw six boys, the eldest of whom was not more than fourteen, all under sentence of death, smoking and playing very merrily. The sentence was not yet confirmed, however, and they were still with the other prisoners; it was thought it would be commuted for transportation to Botany Bay. Four of a maturer age, in the same predicament,--only that the enormity of their crimes left them no hope of pardon,--took their fate still more gaily. Three of them were noisily playing whist with Dummy,[59] amid jokes and laughter; but the fourth sat in a window-seat busily engaged in studying a French grammar. 'C'était bien un philosophe sans le savoir!' _July 12th._ Yesterday evening I went for the first time to Vauxhall, a public garden, in the style of Tivoli at Paris, but on a far grander and more brilliant scale. The illumination with thousands of lamps of the most dazzling colours is uncommonly splendid. Especially beautiful were large bouquets of flowers hung in the trees, formed of red, blue, yellow, and violet lamps, and the leaves and stalks of green; there were also chandeliers of a gay Turkish sort of pattern of various hues, and a temple for the music, surmounted with the royal arms and crest. Several triumphal arches were not of wood, but of cast-iron, of light transparent patterns, infinitely more elegant, and quite as rich as the former. Beyond this the gardens extended with all their variety and their exhibitions, the most remarkable of which was the battle of Waterloo. They open at seven: there was an opera, rope-dancing, and at ten o'clock (to conclude) this same battle. It is curious enough, and in many scenes the deception really remarkable. An open part of the gardens is the theatre, surrounded by venerable horse-chesnuts mingled with shrubs. Between four of the former, whose foliage is almost impervious, was a 'tribune,' with benches for about twelve hundred persons, reaching to the height of forty feet. Here we took our seats, not without a frightful squeeze, in which we had to give and take some hearty pushes. It was a warm and most lovely night: the moon shone extremely bright, and showed a huge red curtain, hung, at a distance of about fifty paces from us, between two gigantic trees, and painted with the arms of the United Kingdom. Behind the curtain rose the tops of trees as far as one could see. After a moment's pause, the discharge of a cannon thundered through the seeming wood, and the fine band of the second regiment of Guards was heard in the distance. The curtain opened in the centre, was quickly drawn asunder; and we saw, as if by the light of day, the outwork of Houguemont on a gently rising ground, amid high trees. The French 'Gardes' in correct uniform now advanced out of the wood to martial music, with the bearded 'Sapeurs' at their head. They formed into line; and Napoleon on his gray horse, and dressed in his gray surtout, accompanied by several marshals, rode past them 'en revue.' A thousand voices shout 'Vive l'Empereur!'--the Emperor touches his hat, sets off at a gallop, and the troops bivouac in dense groups. A distant firing is then heard; the scene becomes more tumultuous, and the French march out. Shortly after, Wellington appears with his staff,--all very good copies of the individuals,--harangues his troops, and rides slowly off. The great original was among the spectators, and laughed heartily at his representative. The fight is begun by the 'tirailleurs;' whole columns then advance upon each other, and charge with the bayonet; the French cuirassiers charge the Scotch Grays; and as there are a thousand men and two hundred horses in action, and no spare of gunpowder, it is, for a moment, very like a real battle. The storming of Houguemont, which is set on fire by several shells, was particularly well done: the combatants were for a time hidden by the thick smoke of real fire, or only rendered partially visible by the flashes of musquetry, while the foreground was strewed with dead and dying. As the smoke cleared off, Houguemont was seen in flames,--the English as conquerors, the French as captives: in the distance was Napoleon on horseback, and behind him his carriage-and-four hurrying across the scene. The victorious Wellington was greeted with loud cheers mingled with the thunder of the distant cannon. The ludicrous side of the exhibition was the making Napoleon race across the stage several times, pursued and fugitive, to tickle English vanity, and afford a triumph to the 'plebs' in good and bad coats. But such is the lot of the great! The conqueror before whom the world trembled,--for whom the blood of millions was freely shed,--for whose glance or nod kings waited and watched,--is now a child's pastime, a tale of his times, vanished like a dream,--the Jupiter gone, and as it seems, Scapan only remaining. Although past midnight it was still early enough to go from the strange scene of illumination and moonlight to a splendid ball at Lady L----'s, where I found a blaze of diamonds, handsome women, dainty refreshments, a luxurious supper, and gigantic ennui; I therefore went to bed as early as five o'clock. _July 13th._ I had often heard of a certain Mr. Deville, a disciple of Gall; a passionate craniologist, who voluntarily, and only with a view to the advancement of his science, gives audience every day at certain hours. He carefully examines the skulls of his visitors, and very courteously communicates the result of his observations. Full of curiosity, I went to him this morning, and found a gallery containing a remarkable collection of skulls and casts, filled with ladies and gentlemen; some of whom brought their children to be examined with a view to their education. A pale, unaffected, serious man was occupied in satisfying their curiosity with evident good-will and pleasure. I waited till all the rest were gone, and then asked Mr. Deville to do me the favour to grant me an especial share of attention; for that, though it was unhappily too late for education with me, I earnestly wished to receive from him such an account of myself as I might place before me as a sort of mirror. He looked at me attentively, perhaps that he might first detect, by the Lavaterian method, whether I was 'de bonne foi,' or was only speaking ironically. He then politely asked me to be seated. He felt my head for a full quarter of an hour; after which he sketched the following portrait of me, bit by bit. You, who know me so well, will doubtless be as much surprised at it as I was. I confess that it plunged me into no little astonishment, impossible as I knew it to be that he could ever have known anything about me. As I wrote down all he said immediately, and the thing interested me, as you may believe, not a little, I do not think I can have mistaken in any material point.[60] "Your friendship," he began, "is very difficult to win, and can be gained only by those who devote themselves to you with the greatest fidelity. In this case, however, you will requite their attachment with unshaken constancy." "You are irritable in every sense of the word, and capable of the greatest extremes; but neither the passion of love, of hatred, nor any other, has very enduring consequences with you." "You love the arts, and if you had applied, or would apply to them, you would make great proficiency with little difficulty. I find the power of composition strongly marked upon your skull. You are no imitator, but like to create: indeed you must often be driven by irresistible impulse to produce what is new." "You have also a strong sense of harmony, order, and symmetry. Servants or workmen must have some trouble in satisfying you, for nothing can be complete and accurate enough for you." "You have,--strangely enough,--the love of domestic life and the love of rambling about the world (which are opposed,) of equal strength. No doubt, therefore, you take as many things about with you as you can find means to convey; and try in every place to surround yourself with accustomed objects and images as quickly as possible." (This, so strikingly true, and so much in detail, astonished me particularly.) "There is a similar contradiction in you between an acute understanding (forgive me, I must repeat what he said,) and a considerable propensity to enthusiasm and visionary musing. You must be profoundly religious, and yet, probably, you have no very strong attachment to any particular form of religion, but rather (his very words) revere a First Cause under a moral point of view." "You are very vain,--not in the way of those who think themselves anything great, but of those who wish to be so. Hence, you are not perfectly at ease in the society of your superiors, in any sense of the word,--nay, even of your equals. You are perfectly at ease only where, at least on one point, either from your station, or from some other cause, you have an acknowledged preponderance. Contradiction, concealed satire, apparent coldness, (especially when ambiguous and not decidedly and openly hostile,) paralyze your faculties; and you are, as I said, perfectly unrestrained and 'cheerful' only in situations where your vanity is not 'hurt;' and where the people around you are, at the same time, attached to you, to which your good-nature--one of your strongest characteristics--makes you peculiarly susceptible." "This latter quality, united to a strong judgment, makes you a great venerator of truth and justice. The contrary incenses you; and you would always be disposed to take the part of the oppressed, without any individual interest in the matter. You are ready to confess your own injustice, and to make any reparation you can. Unpleasant truths concerning yourself may vex you, but if said without hostile intention, will incline you to much higher esteem for the sayer. For the same reason, you will not rate distinctions of birth too highly, though your vanity may not be wholly insensible to them." "You are easily carried away, and yet levity is not one of your characteristics: on the contrary, you have 'cautiousness'[61] in a high degree. It is indeed the wormwood in your life; for you reflect far too much upon everything; you conjure up the strangest fancies, and fall into distress and trouble, mistrust of yourself and suspicion of others, or into perfect apathy, at mere trifles. You occupy yourself almost _always with the future_, little with the past, and less with the present." "You continually _aspire_ (_streben_); are covetous of distinction, and very sensitive to neglect; have a great deal of ambition, and of various kinds; these you rapidly interchange, and want to reach your object quickly, for your imagination is stronger than your patience; and therefore you must find peculiarly favourable circumstances in order to succeed." "You have, however, qualities which make you capable of no common things, even the organ of perseverance and constancy is strongly expressed on your skull, but obstructed by so many conflicting organs, that you stand in need of great excitement to give room for it to act: then the nobler powers are called forward, and the meaner ones recede." "You value wealth very highly, as all do who wish to accomplish great objects,--but only as means, not as end. Money in itself is indifferent to you, and it is possible that you are not always a very good manager of it." "You want to have all your wishes gratified in a moment, as with an enchanter's wand: often however, the wish expires before the fulfilment is possible. The pleasures of sense, and delight in the beautiful, have a powerful influence over you; and as you certainly incline to the imperious, the ambitious, and the vain, you have here a cluster of qualities, against which you have need to be upon your guard not to fall into great faults; for all propensities in themselves are good; it is only their abuse that renders them a source of evil. Even the organs so erroneously designated by the father of our science the organs of murder and theft, (now more correctly termed organs of destructiveness and acquisitiveness) are only marks of energy and of desire to possess, which, when united with good-nature, conscientiousness and foresight, form a finely constituted head; though without these intellectual qualities they may easily lead to crime." He also said, that in judging of a skull it was necessary to regard not the separate organs, but the aggregate of the whole; for that they respectively modified each other in various ways; nay, sometimes entirely neutralized each other; that therefore the proportions of the whole afforded the true key to the character of the man. As a universal rule, he laid down, that men whose skulls, if divided by a supposed perpendicular line drawn through the middle of the ear, presented a larger mass before than behind, were the higher portion of the species; for that the fore part contains the intellectual, the hind part the animal propensities. All the skulls of criminals who had been executed, for instance, which he had in his collection, confirmed his theory; and in one distinguished for the atrocious character of his offence, the occiput was two-thirds of the whole head. The busts of Nero and Caracalla exhibit the same proportions.--Where the contrary extreme prevails, the individual in question is deficient in energy: and here, as in every thing, a balance is the true desideratum. Mr. Deville affirmed that it was possible, not only to enlarge organs already prominent by the exercise of the qualities they denote, but by that very process to diminish others; and assured me that no age was excepted from this rule. He showed me the cast of a skull of a gentleman who, when near sixty, devoted himself intensely to the study of astronomy; and in a few years the appropriate 'bosse' became so prominent as to project considerably beyond all others.[62] _July 14._ I have paid several visits to Mr. Nash, to whom I am indebted for much valuable instruction in _my_ art. He is said to have 'erected' an enormous fortune. He has a beautiful country-house, and no artist is more handsomely lodged in town. I was particularly pleased with his library. It consists of a long and wide gallery, with twelve deep niches on each side, and two large doorways at the ends, leading into two other spacious rooms. In each niche is a semicircular window in the roof, and on the wall a fresco painting, copied from the 'Logge di Rafaelle;' and below these, casts of the best antique statues, on pedestals. The remaining space in the niches is occupied by books, which, however, rise no higher than the pedestal of the statues. Arabesques, also copied from those of the Vatican, admirably executed in fresco, adorn the broad pilasters between the niches. All the space on the walls or pilasters not covered with paintings is of a pale red stucco, with small gold mouldings. The execution seems thoroughly finished and excellent. I dined at the Portuguese Ambassador's. Our dinner was very near ending like Prince Schwartzenberg's at Paris. One of Rundell and Bridge's beautiful brilliant silver girandoles came too near the curtain, which immediately blazed up. The flames were extinguished by the Spanish Ambassador; a fact which may afford matter for witticisms to the newspapers, in the present political conjuncture. I drove half a post further in the streets, late at night, to see the tower of St. Giles's church, whose new bright-red illuminated clock-face shines like a magnificent star in the dark. I found your letter at home, with all sorts of affectionate reproaches for my neglect of our own interests for indifferent things. Even were this sometimes the case, you must not think that my heart is the less filled with you. The rose, too, sometimes yields a stronger, sometimes a weaker perfume; nay, sometimes there is not a flower on the bush; in their season they bud and blossom again--but the nature of the plant is always the same. Herder's prayer is beautiful--but it is not applicable to this earth; for though it is true that God's sun shines on the evil and on the good, it is equally true that His thunderbolt strikes the good and the evil. Each must protect himself from calamity, with all the wisdom and the courage he is endowed with. Men are wearisome to you, you say. Oh, Heaven! how wearisome are they to me! When one has lived so long in the interchange of all feelings and all thoughts, the intercourse with the 'banal' unsympathizing world is more than empty and tasteless. Your hypothesis, that two kindred souls will, in another world, melt into one existence, is very pretty--but I should not like to be united to you in that manner. One being _must_, indeed, love itself; but the mutual love of two is voluntary, and that alone has value. Let us therefore hope to meet again, but to be one, as we are now,--one only in mutual love and truth. One of the many currents of this great stream carried me into the Annual Exhibition of Pictures. In historical pictures there was little to delight the lover of art. Some portraits by Sir Thomas Lawrence showed, as all his do, his great genius, and at the same time his carelessness. He finishes only particular parts, and daubs over the remainder in such a manner that it must be looked at from a distance, like scene-painting. The great masters of the art painted not so, when they devoted their talents to portrait painting. In landscapes, on the other hand, there was much that was attractive. First, The Dead Elephant.--The scene is a wild mountain-district in the interior of India. Strange gigantic trees and luxuriant tangled thickets surround a dark lake. A dead elephant lies stretched on its shore, and a crocodile, opening its wide jaws and displaying its frightful teeth, is seen climbing up the huge body, driving away a monstrous bird of prey, and menacing the other crocodiles which are eagerly swimming across the lake to their repast. Vultures are poised on the branches of the trees, and the head of a tiger glares from the jungle. On the other side are seen three still more formidable predatory animals,--English hunters, whose guns are pointed at the great crocodile, and will soon excite more terrific confusion among this terrific group. Another view is on the sea-shore of Africa. You see ships in the far distance. In the foreground a palm-grove slopes down to the clear stream, where a boat is lying at anchor, in which a negro is sleeping--but in what a fearful situation! A gigantic boa-constrictor has issued from the wood, and, while its tail rests in the thicket, has twined itself in a loose ring around the sleeper, it now rears its head aloft hissing with rage at his companions, who are hastening with their axes to his assistance. One of them has just fortunately succeeded in scotching it, and has thus saved the negro, who wakes, and stares in wild terror on the serpent. It is said that as soon as the muscles of the back of the boa are divided in any part it loses all its power. The picture is taken from an incident which really occurred in the year 1792. We are still in a distant part of the globe, but in more remote ages. A wondrously beautiful moonlight gleams and glitters on the Bay of Alexandria. Majestic monuments and temples of Egyptian art lie in the strongly contrasted light and shadow; and from the steps of a hall of noble architecture, Cleopatra, surrounded by all the luxury and pomp of the East, is descending to the golden bark which is to bear her to Antony. The most beautiful boys and girls strew flowers under her feet, and a chorus of old men with snowy beards and clad in purple, are seated on the sea-shore, singing a farewell song to their golden harps. Have you not enough of this yet, dear Julia? Well then, look at the Travelled Monkey, who returns to his brethren in the woods, in the dress of a modern 'exclusive.' They throng around him in amazement; one pulls at his watch chain, another at his well starched cravat. At length, one whose jealousy is excited by his finery gives him a box on the ear: this is a signal for an universal pillage. In a few minutes he will be reduced to appear once more 'in naturalibus.' Here I close my exhibition. Dear Julia, confess that if you were the editor of the '_Morgen Blatt_,' you could not have a more indefatigable correspondent. Whether I be well or ill, merry or sad, I always fulfil my duty. Just now I am by no means at my best: I am ill, and I have lost a great deal of money at whist. It is really extraordinary how soon one comes to regard a pound as a 'thaler.' Though I know the difference full well, and often find it not very agreeable, yet the physical effect of the 'sovereign' here, is constantly the same upon me as that of the 'thaler' at home, for which I often laugh at myself. I wish fate would make a similar mistake, and convert our 'thalers' into pounds. I, for one, should certainly not bury mine. Yet we should put our gains to good interest; for when one tries to make a beautified living creation out of dead money, as we have done, and at the same time to increase the comfort of those around one,--as I did by employing them, and you by the more direct means of bounty,--surely one has gained usurious interest. Prudence, however, is not our 'forte,' and if you have shown rather more than I, it is only because you are a woman, and have therefore the habit of being on the defensive. Prudence is far more a weapon of defence than of attack. You have now a good opportunity for the exercise of it in the S---- society, and I already see you in thought taming the refractory, and speaking the words of peace with dignified serenity. Here is your portrait on the margin, 'à la Sir Thomas Lawrence.' You will doubtless recognize that strong bent for art which the Gallite discovered on my cranium. The surrounding caricatures you must ascribe to my somewhat sulky humour. As a mind in this flat depressed tone is little fertile in thoughts, permit me to supply the place of them by some passages out of a singular book I have met with. You will think that it must have flowed not only from my pen but from my most inmost soul. "It is incalculable," says the author, "what an influence the objects which surround our childhood exercise over the whole formation of our character in after life. In the dark forests of the land of my birth, in my continual solitary wanderings where nature wears so romantic an aspect, arose my early love for my own meditations, and, when I was afterwards thrown among numbers of my own age at school, rendered it impossible to my disposition of mind, to form any intimate companionships, except those which I first began to discover _in myself_. "In the day my great pleasure was lonely wandering in the country:--in the evening, the reading of romantic fictions, which I connected in my mind with the scenes I was so familiar with; and whether I sat in winter in the chimney corner poring over my book, or in summer lay stretched in luxurious indolence under a tree, my hours were equally filled with all those misty and voluptuous dreams which were perhaps the essence of poetry, but which _I was not gifted with the genius to embody_. Such a temper is not made for intercourse with men. One while I pursued an object with restless activity,--another I lived in perfectly supine meditation. Nothing came up to my wishes or my imaginings, and my whole being was at last profoundly imbued with that bitter, melancholy philosophy, which taught me, like Faust, that knowledge is but useless stuff, that hope is but a cheat; and laid a curse upon me, like that which hangs on him who, amid all the joys of youth and the allurements of pleasure, feels the presence of a spirit of darkness ever around him. "The experience of longer and bitterer years makes me doubt whether this earth can ever bring forth a living form which can realize the visions of him who has dwelt too long absorbed in the creations of his own fancy." In another place, he says of a man who was much praised: "He was one of the macadamized Perfections of society. His greatest fault was his complete levelness and equality; you longed for a hill to climb;--for a stone, even if it lay in your way. Love can attach itself only to something prominent, were it even a thing that others might hate. One can hardly feel what is extreme for mediocrity." 'C'est vraiment une consolation!' Further: "Our senses may be enthralled by beauty; but absence effaces the impression, and reason may vanquish it." "Our vanity may make us passionately adore rank and distinction, but the empire of vanity is founded on sand." "Who can love Genius, and not perceive that the feelings it excites are a part of our own being and of our immortality?" _July 18th._ Would you believe, dearest Julia, that although annoyed in various ways, and almost ill, I have found these days of solitude, in which I have been occupied only with you, my books, and my thoughts, much more satisfactorily,--how shall I express it?--much more fully employed, than that comfortless existence which is called society and the world. Play forms an ingredient, for that is a mere killing of time without any result, but has at least the advantage, that we are not conscious of the time we are wasting during its lapse, as we are in most so-called amusements. How few men can rightly enter into such a state of mind! and how fortunate may I esteem myself that you can! You are only too indulgent towards me, and that makes me place less confidence in your judgments. Now for a secret:--When I send you any extracts from books, you are never to swear whose they are; for, thanks to my boasted organ of composition (you see I am still busied with Mr. Deville,) exact transcribing is almost an impossibility with me. A borrowed material always becomes something different, if not something better, under my hands. But as I am so excitable and mobile, I must often appear inconsistent, and my letters must contain many contradictions. Nevertheless, I hope a genuinely humane spirit always appears in them, and, here and there, a knightly one; for every man must pay his tribute to the circumstances with which birth and existence have surrounded him. Ah, if we did but live together in the old knightly days! Many a time has the enchanting picture of the castle of our fathers,--such as they inhabited it, in the wild Spessart, frowning from rocks surrounded by old oaks and firs,--stood like a dim recollection before my fancy. Along the hollow way in the valley, I see the lord of the castle with his horsemen riding to meet the morning sun, (for as a true knight he is an early riser.) You, good Julia, lean forward from the balcony, and wave your handkerchief till not a steel breastplate glitters in the sunbeam, and nothing living is in sight, save a timid roe that darts out of the thicket, or a high-antlered stag that looks proudly down from some crested crag on the country beneath. Another time we are seated, after some successful feud, at our goblets. You pour out the wine, which I quaff like a brave and true knight, while the good chaplain reads the wonders of a legend. Now the warder's horn is heard on the turret, and a banner is seen winding up to the castle gate. It is your former lover returned from the Holy Land--'Gare à toi.'[63] _July 19th._ A cheerful ray of sun enticed me forth, but I soon exchanged the clear air of heaven for subterranean gloom. I went into the famous Tunnel, the wonderful passage under the Thames. You have read in the papers that the water broke in some weeks ago, and filled the part that was completed, five hundred and forty feet in length. Any event, lucky or unlucky, is sure to give birth to a caricature in a few days. There is one representing the Tunnel catastrophe, in which a fat man on all-fours, and looking like a large toad, is trying to save himself, and screaming 'Fire!' with a mouth extended from ear to ear. With the aid of the diving-bell the hole has been so stopped, that it is asserted there is no fear of a recurrence of the accident. The water has been pumped out by a steam-engine of great power, so that one can descend with perfect safety. It is a gigantic work, practicable nowhere but here, where people don't know what to do with their money. From hence I went to Astley's theatre, the Franconi's of London, and superior to its rival. A horse called Pegasus, with wings attached to his shoulders, performs wonderful feats; and the drunken Russian courier, who rides six or eight horses at once, cannot be surpassed for dexterity and daring. The dramatic part of the exhibition consisted of a most ludicrous parody of the Freischütz. Instead of the casting of the bullets, we had Pierrot and Pantaloon making a cake, to which Weber's music formed a strangely ludicrous accompaniment. The spirits which appear are all kitchen spirits, and Satan himself a 'chef de cuisine.' As the closing horror, the ghost of a pair of bellows blows out all the lights, except one great taper, which continually takes fire again. A giant fist seizes poor Pierrot; and a cook almost as tall as the theatre, in red and black devilish costume, covers both with an 'extinguisher' as big as a house. These absurdities raise a laugh for a moment, it is true; but they cannot make a melancholy spirit cheerful, and you know I have so many causes for gloom which I cannot forget * * * * * * * * Some evil constellation must now reign over us; for certainly there are lucky and unlucky tides in man's life, and to know when they set in would be a great assistance to the steersman. The star which you tell me burns so brightly over your residence must have a hostile influence. One star, however, shines benignly upon me, and that is your love. With that, would my life be extinguished. Change of scene seems to become more and more necessary to me, especially as there is little here to amuse or interest. After rain, sunshine:--forward then,--and do you rouse me by your letters. Let them be cheering and invigorating by their own cheerfulness, for that is more important to me than all the intelligence, bad or good, they can contain. Nothing is so terrible to my imagination as to think of you, at a distance, distressed or out of spirits. It is so great an art to suffer triumphantly--like a martyr; and it is practicable when one suffers innocently, or for love of another. You, my dearest Julia, have known few other sufferings than these. Of myself I cannot speak so proudly. _July 23rd._ This morning I visited Bedlam. Nowhere are madmen--confined ones, that is--better lodged. There is a pleasure-ground before the door of the palace, and nothing can be cleaner and more conveniently fitted up than the interior. As I entered the women's gallery, conducted by a very pretty young girl, who officiated as keeper, one of the patients, a woman of about thirty, looked at me for a long time very attentively,--then suddenly coming up to me she said, "You are a foreigner: I know you, Prince! Why did you not put on your uniform to come to see me? that would have become you better. Ah, how handsome Charles used to look in his!" You may imagine my painful astonishment. "Poor thing!" said my guide, "she was seduced by some foreign prince, and every foreigner she sees she fancies is one. Sometimes she cries the whole day long, and will let nobody go near her: after that she is quite sensible again for weeks. She was very pretty once, but fretting has spoiled all her beauty." I was greatly struck by a young man, evidently of respectable station and education, who was possessed by one fixed idea,--that he was a Stuart, and had therefore a lawful claim to the throne. I conversed with him for half an hour without being able to get him upon this subject. He always broke off cautiously, nay cunningly, and talked in a very interesting manner of other things, particularly of America, where he had travelled for a considerable time; nor did he exhibit the slightest trace of insanity. Speaking of Walter Scott's novels, I several times mentioned the Pretender, which I thought would excite him to speak; and at length said in a confidential tone, "I know you are a Stuart yourself." This seemed to alarm him; and laying his finger on his lips, he whispered, "We must not speak of that _here_; the triumph of justice can be brought about by time alone, but the light will soon shine forth." "I am going into Wales," replied I, (he is a native of the Principality,) "will you give me your father's address, that I may carry him your greetings?" "With the greatest pleasure," said he; "give me your pocket-book, and I will write it." I gave it him, and he wrote his real name, ---- ----; then pointing to it with a smile, he added, "That's the name under which my father passes there.--Adieu!" and with a gracious motion of the hand he left me. What a dreadful spectacle! One single inveterate idea converts the most agreeable man into an incurable lunatic, costs him his freedom, and condemns him to the society of vulgar madness for life. What is unhappy man in conflict with physical evil,--and where, then, is the freedom of his will? There was a foreign patient, whose conceits were more ridiculous,--if those of madness can ever be so;--a German pedant and writer of tours, who joined me in looking about the house, of which he was a constant inmate. He was incessantly taking notes. He addressed each of the patients at great length, and carefully committed their answers to paper, though they were often any thing but complimentary to him. Scarcely had he observed my conversation with the young man I have mentioned, when he came up to me, and besought me pressingly to let him see what that gentleman had written in my pocket-book. I told him. "Oh excellent--singular," said he, "perhaps a real Stuart! I must inquire into it immediately,--a secret of state perhaps,--who knows? Very remarkable. _Ich empfehle mich unterthänigst._" So saying, he strutted away, with an awkward, silly air, yet perfectly satisfied with himself. On my way home I met a number of funerals, which indeed in a gulf like London, where Death must be ever at work, is no wonder; and yet I must always regard it as a bad omen, even though the superstition that deems it so belong rather to Bedlam than to a reasonable head.--With me it has some foundation. When I was very young I was once driving in a curricle through the town of J---- where I then resided. A long funeral procession met me: I was forced to stop; and as my horses were shy and restive, I had some difficulty in holding them in, and at length became infected with their impatience. I broke through the train, and inconsiderately exclaimed, "The D--l take all this absurd funeral pomp; I can't be detained by it any longer." I drove on; and had scarcely gone fifty paces further, when a little boy darted out of a shop door, and ran with such rapidity between the horses and the carriage that it was impossible to check them till the wheel had passed over the whole length of the poor child's body, and he lay lifeless on the pavement. You may imagine my mortal terror. I sprang out, raised the little fellow; and a number of people were already gathered around us, when the mother rushed forward, rent my heart with her cries, and excited the people to take vengeance on me. I was obliged to harangue the crowd to allay the rising storm; and after relating the manner of the accident, giving my name, and leaving money with the mother, I succeeded, not without some difficulty, in regaining my carriage and escaping from the tumult. I was near the gate, to which you descend by a tolerably steep hill. I was so absorbed by the thought of the accident which had just occurred, that I did not attend to the reins,--one slipped out of my hand. The horses, already hurried and alarmed by the confusion, set off, and came in contact with a wagon, with such force that one of them was killed on the spot, and my curricle smashed to pieces. I was thrown out with great violence, and for a moment rendered senseless by the shock. On recovering, I found myself lying with my face pressed so close to the ground that I was almost stiffled. I felt, however, the plunging of a furious animal above me, and heard the thunder of blows which seemed to strike my head, and yet gave me but little pain. In the midst of all, I clearly distinguished the cries of several persons around, and the exclamation, "He is a dead man--shoot the horse instantly!" At these words I received a blow on the temple which entirely deprived me of sense. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on a mattrass in the middle of a miserable room: an old woman was washing the blood from my head and face, and a surgeon, busied with his instruments, was preparing to trepan me. "Oh, let the poor gentleman die in peace!" cried the woman compassionately: and as I thought I felt distinctly that, spite of my external wounds, I had received no internal injury, I happily found strength to resist the operation; though the young man, who was an hospital pupil, was extremely eager to prove his skill--which, he encouragingly added, he had not yet had an opportunity of trying--upon my skull. I exerted all my remaining strength, ordered a carriage, asked for water and a looking-glass, in which, however, I could scarcely recognize myself, the greater part of the skin of my face being left in the high road. It was not till nature had replaced it by a new one, that my groom,--who was sitting by me at the time of the accident, and was thrown into a field by the road-side and but little hurt,--told me what strange circumstances had attended the accident. The pole of the curricle had splintered like a lance against the wagon: the light vehicle fell forwards, and I with it. The stump of the pole had stuck into the earth, and had fastened down my head. Upon me laid the horse entangled in the traces, making the most furious efforts to get free, and continually kicking with his hind feet against the broken pole, which thus became my sole preserver, by receiving the blows which would otherwise have dashed my head into a hundred pieces. This lasted almost a quarter of an hour before they could disengage the horse. From that day I never liked meeting funerals. As postscript to these reminiscences of my past life, I must add one comical incident. The boy I ran over recovered completely, and six weeks after his accident and mine, his mother brought him to me with rosy cheeks and dressed in his Sunday clothes. As I kissed him and gave his mother a parting present, the poor woman exclaimed with tears of joy, "Oh, Sir, I wish my boy could be run over so every day of the week!" _July 28th._ It was a long time since I had visited the City, and I accordingly devoted yesterday to it. As I am, in my quality of Teutonic knight, a beerbrewer, I turned my 'cab' to Barclay's brewery, which the vastness of its dimensions renders almost romantic, and which is one of the most curious sights in London. From twelve to fifteen thousand barrels, that is about twenty thousand quarts[64] of beer, are brewed here daily. Every thing is done by machinery, which is all set in motion by a single steam-engine. The beer is boiled in four vats, each of which holds three hundred barrels. The hops are first put into the vat or cauldron dry, and kept stirring by a machine, that they may not burn. During this process the sweet-wort flows in upon them. There is a curious apparatus for cooling the beer in hot weather;--it is made to pass through a number of pipes like those of an organ, through which a stream of cold water is then let to flow, and so on, alternately. At last the beer flows into a barrel as high as a house, of which there are ninety-nine under gigantic sheds. You can't conceive the strange effect of seeing a vessel holding six hundred thousand quarts tapped for you to drink a glass of porter, which, 'par parenthèse,' is excellent, and cold as ice. These barrels are covered with a little hill of fresh sand, and preserve the beer fresh and good for a twelvemonth. It is drawn off into smaller casks, and sent out to the consumer. The drawing off is effected with great rapidity by means of leathern pipes, as the smaller casks are arranged in readiness under the floor on which the great ones stand. A hundred and fifty horses, like elephants, one of which can draw a hundred hundred-weight, are daily employed in carrying out the beer. A single enormous chimney devours the smoke of the whole establishment; and from the roof of the principal building you have a very fine panoramic view of London. I next proceeded to the West-India docks and warehouses,--an immeasurable work; one of those at the sight of which the most cold-blooded spectator must feel astonishment, and a sort of awe at the greatness and the might of England. What a capital lies here in buildings, wares, and vessels! The admirably excavated basin, which it took me half an hour to walk round, is thirty-six feet deep, and surrounded by sheds and warehouses, some of which are five or six stories high: some of them are built entirely of iron, the foundations only being of stone. This mode of building has however been found to be dangerous, from the contraction and expansion of the metal. In these boundless depositories there was sugar enough to sweeten the whole adjoining basin, and rum enough to make half England drunk. Two thousand artisans and overseers are commonly employed daily, and the value of the goods here collected is estimated at twenty millions sterling; exclusive of the stores, which are kept in great quantities in a storehouse, so that the breaking or spoiling of any of the tools delays the work only a few minutes. The number of well-contrived tools and machines is wonderful. I looked on with great pleasure while blocks of mahogany and other foreign woods, many larger than the largest oak, were lifted up like feathers, and deposited on drays or wagons as carefully as if they had been the most brittle ware. Everything is on a colossal scale. On each side of the basin lie rows of ships, most of them newly painted. There are two basins, one for import and the other for export. I was obliged to leave this interesting place sooner than I wished, as the entrance-gate and all the warehouses are closed at four o'clock. The gatekeeper does not take the slightest trouble to ascertain whether there is any one in the yard, so that it appeared to me one would have to bivouac there for the night if one missed the hour. The man very coolly assured me that if the King were there he would not wait a minute; I made my escape therefore as quickly as I could. On my way home I passed a booth where a man was calling out that here were the famous German dwarf and his three dwarf children; the living skeleton; and, to conclude, the fattest girl that ever was seen. I paid my shilling, and went in. After waiting a quarter of an hour, till five other spectators arrived, the curtain was drawn up, and the most impertinent 'charlatanérie' exhibited that ever I witnessed. The living skeleton was a very ordinary sized man, not much thinner than I. As an excuse for our disappointment, we were assured that when he arrived from France he was a skeleton, but that since he had eaten good English beef-steaks, it had been found impossible to check his tendency to corpulence. The fattest woman in the world was a perfect pendant to the skeleton. She was not fatter than the Queen of Virginia Water. Last came the so-called dwarfs--which were neither more nor less than the little children of the 'Impressario,' stuck into a sort of bird-cage, their faces shaded, and only their hands and feet left free. With the former the little wretches made a horrible noise with great bells.--Here closed the exhibition:--an English hoax, which no Frenchman could have executed more burlesquely nor with more effrontery. _July 29th._ Since I became Mr. Deville's pupil I cannot help measuring the skulls of all my acquaintances with my eye, before I open myself to them; and to-day, like the man in Kotzebue's comedy, I examined an English servant I was hiring, 'in optima forma.' Let us hope the result will not be similar,--for the line drawn through the ear gave good promise. And here it struck me that the common proverb (and how much popular truth do such often contain!) is perfectly in accordance with Deville's principle--"He has it behind the ear, beware of him!" (_Er hat es hinter den Ohren, hütet euch vor ihm!_) Joking apart, I am perfectly convinced that, as with magnetism, so with craniology, people throw away the good with the bad[65] when they treat it as a mere chimera. It may admit of many modifications: but I have so fully proved the justice of the leading principles upon my own skull, that I should not think people at all ridiculous for paying some attention to it in educating their children--nor even for using it to aid their own self-knowledge. I, at least, have gained a more clear idea of myself by this means than I had before. As I had been writing all day, I took advantage of the mild and clear moonlight for my ride. The night was quite Italian, and the roads lighted to a great distance with lamps, within the region of which I remained, and rode for several hours in the town and suburbs. The view from Westminster-bridge was most striking. The numerous lights on board the vessels danced like Will-o'-the-Whisps, on the surface of the Thames; and the many bridges spanned the noble stream as with arches of light. Westminster Abbey alone was without any artificial illumination. Only the loving moon, the betrothed of ruins and Gothic temples, caressed with her pale beams the stone pinnacles and ornaments, sought every deep nook with eager fondness, and silvered the long glittering windows; while the roof and towers of the lofty building reared themselves, still and cold, in black colourless majesty, above the lights and the tumult of the city, into the deep blue firmament. The streets remain busy till midnight: nay, I even saw a boy of eight years old at the utmost, perfectly alone in a little child's carriage drawn by a large dog, driving along full trot, and without the slightest fear, among the latest carriages and stage-coaches. Such a thing can be seen only in England, where children are independent at eight, and hanged at twelve. But good morning dear Julia; it is time to go to bed. _August 1st._ The heat is still very oppressive--the earth is like an ash-heap; and if the macadamized streets were not kept watered by a continual succession of large water-carts, the dust would be insufferable. But this makes driving and riding pleasant still; and though the fashionable time is over, shopping is very amusing: one is greatly tempted to buy more than one wants; and as I have very little money just now, I am obliged to call in fancy to my aid to procure me all I covet for you and for myself. I sent you some time ago a description of a very original man, Sir L---- M----. I was invited to his house to-day, to a most luxurious dinner, fixed so long beforehand that a diplomatic guest had been summoned across the seas, from Baden, by courier, a month ago. He arrived punctually on the very morning, and seemed to have brought a "British and foreign" appetite with him. He had not forgotten to load himself with continental delicacies, to which, as well as to the numerous excellent wines, the most exemplary justice was done. One had need have a strong head to withstand such things, but the air really makes a great deal of food and strong drink more necessary than with us. A man who could at first hardly drink a glass of English claret, (that is, mixed with brandy,) after a time finds a whole bottle of port agree very well with his health, and with the English fogs. But if our palates were especially consulted at this repast, there was no want of salt in the conversation. An officer who had served in the Birman war told us many interesting details of that people. Another man related an Irish bull, which appeared to me the best I had heard--inasmuch as the blunder was no less than a man's cutting off his own head. The fact is, however, as he asserted, authentic, and occurred as follows:-- The peasants of Ulster use an enormous scythe, with the end of the handle sharpened to a point, that they may stick it into the ground. When they go home from work, they carry these formidable weapons over their shoulders, in such a manner that the edge of the scythe lies round their neck. Two peasants were sauntering home by the side of a river, when they spied a large salmon with his head hidden under the roots of an old tree, and his tail lying out into the stream. "Look, Paddy," said one, "at the stupid salmon! he thinks because he can't see us that we can't see him: if I had but my pike I would let him know the difference." "Och!" said the other, creeping down the bank, "sure the scythe-handle will do for that--here goes!" And so saying, he struck at the salmon; and hit him truly enough,--only, unfortunately, with the same stroke he took off his own head, which fell plump into the water before the eyes of his astonished comrade. For a long time he could not understand how it was that Paddy's head fell off so suddenly, and still maintains that there was something not quite as it should be in the business. I closed the day with the English Opera. At the end of the first act a mine falls in and buries the principal persons of the piece alive. In the last scene of the second act they reappear in the bowels of the earth, nearly starved indeed, having lain there three days, and utterly exhausted. This, however, proves no impediment to the prima donna singing a long Polonaise air, to which there is a chorus with trumpets, "Ah, we are lost, all hope is gone!" but, oh miracle! the rocks fall asunder again, and open a wide entrance to the light of day. All distress, and with it the distressing nonsense of the piece, was at an end. _August 2nd._ Yesterday's debauch called my attention to an organ which Mr. Deville did not include in his list--the organ of 'gourmandise,' which immediately confines on that of murder, and is in fact, like that, a species of destructiveness. I find I possess it in a considerable degree, and I only wish all the bumps and knobs on my skull gave as innocent and agreeable results. It indicates not the mere vulgar desire for eating and drinking, but enables its possessor to estimate the delicate fragrance of wine, or the inventive genius of a cook. It is inimical to human happiness only when found in conjunction with a sentimental stomach,--which happily does not appear to be the case with me. To-day I saw an exhibition of an entire gallery of pictures embroidered with the needle, and the work of one person: their excellence is really surprising. The name of the artist, the most patient of women, is Miss Linwood. At a little distance the copies are very like the originals, and the enormous prices she gets for them shows that their merit is recognized. I heard that one such piece of tapestry, after Carlo Dolce, sold for three thousand guineas. There was a portrait of Napoleon during the Consulate, which must have been very like him at that time, and was regarded by some Frenchmen present with great admiration. I next went to see the solar microscope, the magnifying power of which is a million. What it shows is really enough to drive a man of lively imagination mad. Nothing can be more horrible,--no more frightful devilish figures could possibly be invented,--than the hideous, disgusting water animalculæ (invisible to the naked eye, or even to glasses of inferior power,) which we daily swallow. They looked like damned souls darting about their filthy pools with the rapidity of lightning, while every motion and gesture seemed to bespeak deadly hate, horrid torture, warfare, and death. I was seized with a sight-seeing fit, and wished to efface the shocking impressions of that infernal world by something more agreeable. I visited three panoramas,--Rio Janeiro, Madrid, and Geneva. The first is a singular and paradisaically luxuriant country, differing completely from the forms and appearances of that which surround us. The second, in its treeless sandy plain, looks the picture of blank stationariness and of the Inquisition: burning heat broods over the whole scene like an 'auto da fè.' The third appeared to me like an old acquaintance; and with a full heart I looked long at the immoveable and unchangeable fatherlandish friend,--the majestic Mont Blanc. _August 8th._ Canning is dead. A man in the plenitude of his intellectual power, who had but a few weeks ago arrived at the goal of his active life, who had risen to be the ruler of England, and, in that quality, unquestionably the most influential man in Europe; endowed with a spirit of fire that would have guided the reins he held with a mighty hand, and a soul capable of embracing the good of his species from a station more elevated than any to which human ambition could raise him. One shock has overthrown this proud structure of many years. And this high-spirited man was doomed to end his days by a sudden and tragic death, amid fearful sufferings, the victim of a relentless Destiny, who steps on with iron foot, treading down all that comes in her way, heedless whether it be the young seedling, the swelling blossom, the lordly tree, or the withering plant, that she crushes. What will be the consequences of his death? Years must elapse before that will be seen; perhaps it will hasten on a conclusion which seems to threaten us on many sides, and to which only a large-minded, liberal, and enlightened statesman, like Canning, were capable of giving unity and a favourable direction. It is not impossible that the party which now so indecently and unfeelingly triumphs at his untimely death, may be the first to be placed in real and imminent peril by that very event; for not in vain has Lord Chesterfield said, with a far-seeing prophetic eye, "Je prevois que dans cent ans d'ici les métiers de gentilhomme et de moine ne seront plus de la moitié aussi lucratifs qu'ils le sont aujourd'hui." But what do I care about politics? Could I but always preserve the due equipoise in myself, I should be content. Meantime Canning's death is now, of course, the talk of the town, and the details of his sufferings are truly afflicting. The Saints, who hated him for his liberal opinions, try to set it abroad that during his physical torments he was converted--what _they_ call converted. One of his friends, on the other hand, who was by his bed-side for a considerable time, knew not how sufficiently to eulogize his stoical courage, and the serenity with which he bore his cruel fate;--occupied to the last moment with plans for the weal of England and of humanity, and anxiously desiring to impress them once more on the heart of the King. As the grave and the gay, the tragic and the frivolous, shake hands here below, a very curious novel divides attention with this great calamity. It is remarkable for its rather 'baroque,' but often witty and faithful delineations of continental manners. I give you the description of the beginning of a ball at Ems, as a sample of the observations of Englishmen on our manners and customs. "The company at the Archduke's fête was _most select_: that is to say, it consisted of every single person who was then at the baths: those who had been presented to His Highness having the privilege of introducing any number of their friends: and those who had no friend to introduce them, purchased tickets at an enormous price from Cracowsky--the wily Polish intendant. The entertainment was most imperial; no expense and no exertion were spared to make the hired lodging-house look like an hereditary palace; and for a week previous to the great evening, the whole of the neighbouring town of Wisbaden,[66] the little capital of the duchy, has been put under contribution. What a harvest for Cracowsky!--What a commission from the _restaurateur_ for supplying the refreshments!--What a per-centage on hired mirrors and dingy hangings! "The Archduke, covered with orders, received every one with the greatest condescension, and made to each of his guests a most flattering speech. His suite, in new uniforms, simultaneously bowed directly the flattering speech was finished. "'Madame von Furstenburg, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. Madame von Furstenburg, I trust that your amiable and delightful family are quite well." [The party passed on.]--'Cravatischeff!' continued His Highness, inclining his head round to one of his aid-de-camps; 'Cravatischeff! a very fine woman is Madame von Furstenburg. There are few women whom I more admire than Madame von Furstenburg.'" "'Prince Salvinski, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. Poland honours no one more than Prince Salvinski.'--'Cravatischeff! a remarkable bore is Prince Salvinski. There are few men of whom I have a greater terror than Prince Salvinski.'" "'Baron von Konigstein, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. Baron von Konigstein, I have not yet forgot the story of the fair Venetian.'--'Cravatischeff! an uncommonly pleasant fellow is Baron von Konigstein. There are few men whose company I more enjoy than Baron von Konigstein's.'" "'Count von Altenburgh, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends. You will not forget to give me your opinion of my Austrian troop.'--'Cravatischeff! a very good billiard-player is Count von Altenburgh. There are few men whose play I'd sooner bet upon than Count von Altenburgh's.'" "'Lady Madeleine Trevor, I feel the greatest pleasure in seeing you. My greatest pleasure is to be surrounded by my friends.--Miss Fane, your servant--Mr. Sherborne--Mr. St. George--Mr. Grey.'--'Cravatischeff! a most splendid woman is Lady Madeleine Trevor. There is no woman whom I more admire than Lady Madeleine Trevor;--and, Cravatischeff! Miss Fane, too! a remarkably fine girl is Miss Fane.'" Stinging enough, is it not, Julia? I have met with few descriptions that have amused me more: and my translation,--extremely good, is it not? There are few translations that please me more than my own. In a serious style, too, the Author is not amiss.[67] More practically does the celebrated Smollett write to a friend: "I am old enough to have seen and convinced myself that we are all the playthings of Destiny, and that it often depends on a trifle not more important than the toss-up of a halfpenny, whether a man should raise himself to riches and honours, or pine away in misery and want till he dies. _August 15th._ I daily inspect the workmen in St. James's Park, formerly only a sort of meadow for cows, and now converted into beautiful gardens, according to a plan of Mr. Nash's. The water is also much better distributed. I acquire a great deal of technical information here, and admire the judicious division and series of the work, the ingenious modes of transport, the moveable iron railways, &c. It is characteristic, that while the laws which protect private property are so strict that a man who climbs over a wall into a garden runs the risk of being hanged, or otherwise grievously punished; that if it occurs in the night the proprietor may shoot him dead;--with the public, wherever they have the shadow of a claim, it is necessary to go to work as gingerly as you would with a raw egg. This park is the property of the Crown, but has been open to the public from remote ages; and Government does not dare to close it, even temporarily, notwithstanding the improvements which the King is now carrying on, (at the nation's cost, it is true.) A board is put up on which is inscribed literally as follows:--"The public are most respectfully requested, during the operations which are designed for the increase of their own gratification, not to injure the carts and tools of the workmen, and to avoid as much as possible the part where the men are at work." Very little attention, however, is paid to this respectful and reasonable petition, and the carts and barrows which lie empty when the men leave work are often used by the boys to wheel each other about, and to play all sorts of tricks with. The girls seesaw on the long planks, and many little wretches amuse themselves with throwing stones in the water just at the very spot where ladies are standing, who are of course so splashed as to be obliged to hasten home. This brutal love of mischief is quite peculiar to the English people, and forms the sole apology for the grudging inhumanity with which the opulent classes shut up their charming pleasure-grounds. It is worth inquiring, however, whether the moroseness of the rich was not the cause, instead of the effect, of the mischievous temper of the poor. It is difficult for people on the Continent to imagine to what a pitch it goes. The anxiety with which the rich English shut up their property from the profaning eyes of the stranger is sometimes truly amusing, but may chance to be painful. I was riding one day in the neighbourhood of London,--and attracted by the sight of a fine house and grounds, I asked the porter who stood at the lodge, whether he would allow me to look at the gardens? He had many scruples, but at last he opened the gate, taking charge of my horse during the time. I might have walked about for a quarter of an hour, and was just looking at the neatly-kept pleasure-ground, when a somewhat fat personage in his shirt appeared at a window of the house; he seemed to be running about in great distress, but at last threw open the window with great vehemence, and whilst I heard the violent ringing of a large bell, cried out to me with half-suppressed rage, "Qui êtes-vous, Monsieur? que cherchez-vous ici?" I thought it too ridiculous to shout back the answer from such a distance, and soon found it unnecessary; for a number of servants, alarmed by the ringing of the bell, flocked together from all directions, one of whom now repeated to me the question 'ex officio.' In a few words I let the proprietor know by him that I was a foreigner who had been attracted by fondness for gardening; that I had not climbed over the wall, as he seemed to believe, but had entered through the usual entrance, where my horse was still waiting; that I was heartily sorry for having caused him such a shock in his illness, and only wished that it might have no serious consequences, at the same time assuring him of my best respects, and that I would immediately leave the forbidden garden. I soon reached my horse, and rode off laughing, for this was the gay side of the affair. About a fortnight after, I passed by chance near the same house: I approached the lodge again, and rang the bell; another man appeared; and in a mischievous fit I inquired after the health of his master, and whether I could be permitted to see the garden? "God forbid!" was the answer, "on no account!" I now heard from the servant, to my sincere grief, that the poor fellow, his predecessor, had been dismissed with his wife and children, though he had been in the service of the family for many years, merely for having let a stranger enter without permission. Nevertheless this severe gentleman is one of the patent liberals of England. What would an illiberal one have done? The walks and rides in the neighbourhood are now very inviting again, for autumn has set in early. The scorched grass has resumed its coat of bright green, and the trees hold their foliage longer and fresher than with us, though they begin to change their colour earlier. Winter comes late, often not at all, to throw its broad white mantle over them. The mowing of the grass, and cleaning and sweeping of the gardens and grounds never cease; indeed, as autumn and winter are 'the seasons' in the country, that is just the time when most care is bestowed upon them. London is deserted by the fashionables; and that with such affectation, that many who are obliged to remain on business positively conceal themselves. The streets in the west end of the town are like those of a deserted city. * * * * * * * * They are still infested with beggars, and with that most affecting sort of beggars who ply their melancholy trade in the night. Not only English women, but foreigners here contract this shocking custom. I was really made almost desperate by a withered French woman, of whom I could not get rid, even by the usual shilling:--"Encore un moment," exclaimed she; "je ne demande rien, c'est seulement pour parler Français, pour avoir une conversation raisonnable, dont ces Anglais ne sont pas capables." In the present solitude one has at least as much time to oneself as one likes; one can work, and read the legion of newspapers at one's leisure. The absurdities which daily appear in them on foreign affairs are almost incredible. To-day I found the following article: "The admiration of the Emperor Alexander for Napoleon was for a long time boundless. It is well known that at the theatre at Erfuth, when Talma uttered the words 'L'amitié d'un grand homme est un bienfait des Dieux,' Alexander leaned over to Napoleon and said, 'Ces paroles ont été écrites pour moi.'--The following anecdote is probably less known. _We can vouch for the truth of it._ Alexander one day expressed to Duroc the intense desire he had to possess a pair of breeches of his great ally the Emperor Napoleon. Duroc sounded his master on this very extraordinary subject. Napoleon laughed heartily. 'Oh,' cried he, 'donnez lui tout ce qu'il veut, pourvu qu'il me reste une paire pour changer.' _This is authentic._ We are also assured that Alexander, who was very superstitious, never wore any other breeches than Napoleon's in the field, during the campaigns of 1812-13." The day ended very pleasantly for me with the arrival of my friend L----, for whom I now leave you, and close this letter (which is far enough from being amusing or instructive in proportion to its dreadful length,) with the old assurance, which to you I know will want no charm of novelty, that, far or near, you are ever next to my heart. Your faithful L----. LETTER XVII. _London, Aug. 20th, 1827._ DEAR AND FAITHFUL FRIEND, Curiosity led me again to-day to the Tunnel. I went in the diving-bell down to the bed of the river, and spent half an hour there, looking at the process of stopping the breach with sand-bags and earth. Excepting a rather violent pain in my ears, I found it more comfortable in our metal box, the deeper we sank. It has two thick glass windows at the top: and near them two leathern pipes which admit fresh air. The bell has no floor,--only a narrow board on which to set your feet, and two strong benches on the sides. It is lighted by lanterns. The workmen had capital water-boots, which resist the wet four-and-twenty hours; and I was particularly delighted at writing the address of the maker in my pocket-book among the fishes, "_auf des Stromes tiefunterstem Grunde_." After having escaped safe and sound from the water, I was near suffering a sad calamity from fire. I had gone for a minute into another room, and a candle which had burned down in the socket set fire to the papers on my writing-table: before I could extinguish it, many things very interesting to me were destroyed. Copies of letters, prints and drawings, an unfinished novel, (what a pity!) numberless addresses, a part of my journal,--all became the prey of the flames. I could not help laughing when I saw that all the receipts were left untouched, while the unpaid bills were consumed to the last vestige. That's what I call an obliging fire. The great packet of your letters is burnt round the edges, so that they look as if they were written on mourning paper:--right again, for letters between people who love each other, always mourn over the necessity for writing them. The Vienna courier you wot of, who came charged with a hundred thousand blessings, is turned negro; but his life is happily saved, and his cinq-foil leaf is in full preservation. I send him back to you as a witness and a messenger of the fire. _August 21st._ There is such an extent and variety of 'terra incognita' in this illimitable London, that with no other guide than chance one is sure to fall upon something new and interesting. In this way I found myself to-day in Lincoln's Inn Fields, a noble square, almost a German mile from my lodging, surrounded with fine buildings, and adorned with lofty trees and beautiful turf. The most considerable edifice is that of the College of Surgeons, and contains a very interesting museum. One of the gentlemen showed me the establishment with great civility. The first thing which claimed my attention was a very pretty little mermaid which had been exhibited here for money some years ago, and was afterwards sold for a thousand pounds, when it was discovered that she was a deceptive contrivance made out of a small ourang-outang and a salmon, joined together in a most workmanlike manner. The existence of such creatures remains, therefore, as much a problem as ever. Near to it stood a real large ourang-outang, who lived here for a long time, and performed many domestic services in the house. Mr. C---- (so my informant was called) assured me that he must regard this animal as of a distinct genus, nearer to man than to the ape. He had long and attentively observed this individual, and had found in him the most certain proofs of reflection and combination, evidently far beyond the reach of instinct. Thus, he remarked that Mr. Dick (as he called him) felt in gentlemen's pockets, if he were permitted, for eatables; but if his search was unsuccessful, carefully replaced every thing that did not answer his purpose, instead of throwing it away or letting it fall, as all other monkeys do. He was so sensitive to the slightest mark of displeasure, that he was depressed and unhappy for days after being unkindly spoken to. He was observed, too, to try of his own accord to assist the servants, if he saw them unusually oppressed with work. There were some preparations exhibiting almost incredible cases of recoveries from wounds. The most extraordinary among them was the breast of a man (which Mr. C---- showed me, preserved in spirits,) who had been so completely spitted by the shaft of a carriage, that he could only be dragged from it by the efforts of several persons. The shaft had passed close to the heart and lungs, which, however, it only gently forced aside, without doing them the least injury, and had broken the ribs before and behind. After the man had been extricated from his horrible situation, he had strength enough left to walk up two flights of stairs, and to lie down on a bed. He lived fourteen years after the accident, sound and well; but the surgeons had kept their eye upon him, and got possession of his body as soon as he was dead. They have placed him in their museum, together with the shaft, which had been kept in his family as a relic. I was struck by a small, beautifully-formed greyhound, which was built up in a cellar, and was found, after the lapse of many years, perfectly dried. He looked as if carved out of gray sandstone, and presented an affecting image of resignation,--rolled up as if in sleep, and with such a mournful expression of his little head, that one could not look at it without pity. A cat, starved and dried in the same manner, looking on the contrary savage and fiendish. Thus, thought I, is gentleness beautiful even in suffering! It was a picture of the good and the wicked in a like situation; and yet how different the effects! I must mention the skeleton of the Frenchman who was exhibited here as 'the living skeleton,' his bones being really covered with little more than skin. His stomach was smaller than that of a new-born child; and the unhappy creature was condemned to a prolonged starvation, for he could not eat more than half a cup of broth a-day. He was twenty years old,--died in London, and sold himself, while yet alive, to the museum. As I was driving home, I had taken a quantity of small money in change at the turnpikes, and I amused myself in an odd humour by letting a penny fall quietly out of the carriage every time I saw a poor, ragged person. Not one of them perceived it; all passed over it. And just so does Fortune with us! She drives continually through the world in her chariot, and throws out her gifts blindfold. How seldom do any of us see them, or stoop to pick them up! We are generally seeking elsewhere at the lucky moment. On my return home, I found a real gift of fate, and a very precious one,--a long letter from you * * * Herr von S----, whom you mention as one of the recent arrivals at the baths, is an old acquaintance of mine, a strange original whom we all liked, and yet could not resist making a butt of, and who was continually meeting with adventures the most ludicrous and the most serious. You have seen what a caricature he looks, and that he is of all men the least formed to be a man 'à bonnes fortunes.' When a young lieutenant, however, he was madly in love with one of the most beautiful women of her time, Baroness B----; and one evening, on her torturing him to the utmost by some biting jest, he ran a sword through his body before her eyes. The weapon went through his lungs, so that a candle held to the wound was blown out. Nevertheless our tragic madman was cured, and Frau von B---- was so touched by this proof of passion, that she became less cruel to so desperate a lover. * * * _Salthill, August 25th._ I have at length left town with L----, who will accompany me for some days, after which I shall continue my travels alone. The first resting place is a delightful inn, like a gentleman's villa, in the neighbourhood of Windsor. The prettiest veranda festooned with roses and all sorts of creepers, and adorned with a quantity of flowers in pots, covers the whole front; and a pleasure-ground and flower-garden, in exquisite order, stretch before my window. From hence I have a noble view of the gigantic Castle in the distance, which, set in a frame of two massy horse-chestnut-trees, gleamed like a fairy palace in the evening sun. The long rain had painted every thing emerald-green, and the sweet fresh country has the most benign influence on my mind and spirits. I can talk of you too, my good Julia, to L----, whose society is very agreeable to me. To-morrow we mean to see a multitude of things. This evening, as it was late, we contented ourselves with a ramble in the fields. _August 26th._ Early in the morning we drove to Stoke Park, the residence of a grandson of the celebrated Quaker, William Penn. In the house is preserved a bit of the tree under which he concluded the treaty with Indian chiefs. The park is fine, and contains the greatest variety of deer either L---- or I had ever seen,--black, white, striped, mottled, black with white spots on the forehead, and brown with white feet. The park and garden, though beautiful, presented nothing remarkable. This we found in Dropmore, the seat of Lord Grenville, where the most extraordinary trees and an enchanting flower-garden excited all our attention. It was more properly two or three gardens;--in richness of flowers, really unique; the beds partly cut in the turf, partly surrounded with gravel. Each bed contained only one sort of flower, which threw an indescribable richness of colour over the whole picture. Countless geraniums of every sort and colour, with many other flowers we hardly know, or of which we possess at most only single specimens, were arranged in large and splendid masses. The colours too were so admirably grouped that the eye rested on them with extreme delight. Yet a great part of the park consisted only of barren soil with heather,--just like that of our woods. The turf was dry and scorched, yet the high cultivation gave to the whole an air of great beauty, and confirmed me in my persuasion that with money and patience every soil may be overcome,--climate alone cannot. After we had seen another park, which commanded some remarkably fine views, we drove to Windsor to see the new part of the Castle 'en detail.' Unfortunately, almost at the same minute the King came up with his suite, in five phætons drawn by poneys; so that we were obliged to wait more than an hour till he drove off again, and we were permitted to enter. In the interval we visited Eton College, an old establishment for education founded by Henry the Sixth. Its exterior is that of a vast and handsome Gothic building with a church attached to it; its interior, of a simplicity hardly exceeded by our village schools. Bare white walls, wooden benches, carved with the names of the scholars who have studied here, (among which are those of Fox, Canning, and other celebrated men,) are all that distinguish the room in which the best born youth of England are educated. According to the rules of the foundation, the King's scholars have nothing day after day but mutton. What could the royal founder propose to himself by this singular law? The library is very handsomely decorated, and contains some interesting manuscripts. On our return from Eton the King had driven away, and Mr. Wyatville his architect, under whose direction the new part of the Castle is erecting, had the kindness to give us detailed information about every part. It is a vast work, and the only one of its kind in England, which is executed not only at a great cost and with technical skill, but with uncommon taste, nay genius. The grandeur and magnificence of the Castle, which, though not half finished, has cost three millions of our money, are truly worthy of a King of England. Situated on a hill above the town, and commanding a beautiful view, while it presents a noble object from every side, its position gives it an immense advantage. Its historical interest, its high antiquity, and its astonishing vastness and extent, unite to render it single in the world. The magnificence of the interior corresponds with the exterior. Each of the separate panes of glass in the huge Gothic windows cost twelve pounds sterling, and the eye is dazzled with velvet, silk, and gilding. A high terrace on the side of the king's chamber, which forms hot-houses in the inside, and on the outside looks only like a high abrupt wall in the stern character of the rest of the building, encloses the most charming garden and pleasure-ground. The four great gates into the castle yard are so admirably contrived, that each encloses one of the most interesting points of the landscape as in a frame. All the recent additions are, as I have already mentioned, so perfectly executed, that they are hardly to be distinguished from the old part; and I cannot blame the architect for having faithfully imitated even the less tasteful details. On the other hand, I must confess that the internal decorations, spite of all their gorgeousness, appeared to me to leave much to wish for. They are enormously overloaded in parts, and are not always either in keeping with the character of the building, or calculated to produce an agreeable effect. _August 28th._ L---- left me yesterday,--sooner than he had intended. I am extremely sorry for it; for so agreeable and friendly a companion doubles every pleasure. I afterwards drove with an acquaintance of the Guards, to St. Leonard's Hill, belonging to Field-marshal Lord H----, to whom E---- had given me a letter. The weather, which had been overcast, and from time to time rainy, was splendid; scarcely a cloud in the sky. On no more beautiful day could I see a more beautiful place than St. Leonard's Hill. These giant trees; this fresh wood, full of variety; these enchanting views, both far and near; this delightful house, with the most lovely of all flower-gardens; this luxuriant vegetation, and this delicious retirement, from which, as from behind a curtain, you look out upon a world of diversified beauty lying in the valley beneath,--form a whole which has not its equal in England. The possessors are a very agreeable old couple, unfortunately without children to whom to transmit this paradise. The old lord seemed much pleased at my enthusiasm for the beauties of the place, and invited me to spend the following day, which I accepted with great pleasure. To-day I was engaged to dine with my friend Captain B---- at the Guards' mess at Windsor, where I passed the evening, from six o'clock till midnight. At an early hour in the morning I was summoned by Lord H----, who is Ranger of Windsor Park, and wished to show it me before the King made his appearance. As soon as he rides out, the private part of the ground is hermetically sealed to every one, without exception, who does not belong to his own invited company. I was rather late; the kind-hearted old lord scolded me a little, and made me instantly get into a landau drawn by four noble horses, in which we rolled rapidly through the high beech woods. The King has had several roads cut, for his own special and peculiar use, through the most interesting parts of his immense park of Windsor. We drove along one of them; and in half an hour reached the royal stables, where the celebrated giraffe is kept. Here, unhappily, we heard that the King's carriages had been ordered, and indeed they stood already harnessed in the yard. There were seven, of various forms, but all with very low wheels, almost as light as children's carriages, and drawn by little poneys; the King's with four, which he drives himself,--the others with two: most of the poneys were of different colours. Lord H---- beheld these equipages with dismay. He was afraid the King might meet us, and feel 'mal à son aise' at the sight of unexpected strangers--for the monarch's tastes are singular enough. It is unpleasant to him to see a strange face, or indeed a human being of any kind whatsoever, within his domain; and the Park is consequently (with the exception of the high road which crosses it,) a perfect solitude. The King's favourite spots are, for further security, thickly surrounded by screens of wood, and plantations are daily laid out to add to the privacy and concealment. In many places where the lay of the ground would enable you to get a glimpse of the sanctuary within, three stages of fence are planted one behind the other. We hastened accordingly to secure a sight of the giraffe, which was led out before us by two Moors who had accompanied her from Africa. A wonderful creature indeed! You know her form; but nothing can give an idea of the beauty of her eyes. Imagine something midway between the eye of the finest Arab horse, and the loveliest Southern girl, with long and coal-black lashes, and the most exquisite beaming expression of tenderness and softness, united to volcanic fire. The giraffe is attached to man, and is extremely 'gentle' and good-natured. Her appetite is good, for she daily sucks the milk of three cows who were lying near her. She uses her long bright-blue tongue like a trunk, in which way she took from me my umbrella, which she liked so much that she would not give it up again. Her walk was somewhat ungainly, from having sprained her leg on board ship; but the Africans assured us that when in perfect health she is very swift-footed. Lord H---- hurried off, for fear of the King; and after passing through a thickly-planted part of the pleasure-ground attached to the 'Cottage,' which we only saw from a distance, we directed our course to Virginia Water, the King's favourite haunt. It is a large, artificial, but very natural-looking lake, on which His Majesty almost daily fishes. I was not a little surprised to see the whole country here assume a new character, and one very uncommon in England,--that of my beloved Fatherland:--fir- and pine-wood intermingled with oaks and alders; and under foot our heather, and even our sand, in which this year's plantations were completely dry and withered. I could have given the King's gardeners some useful hints about planting in sand, for I convinced myself that they do not at all understand the treatment of that sort of soil.--A little frigate lay rocking on the lake, on whose banks were various little devices,--Chinese and Moorish houses executed with taste and not caricatured. The haste with which we drove along rendered it only possible to see things in a transient, and for the most part distant manner. I was, however, very glad to have gained at least a general idea of the whole. My venerable host climbed up on the seat of the carriage, and stood there, supported by his wife and me, to look about whether the King might not be somewhere in sight; nor was he perfectly tranquil till the gate of the sanctuary closed upon us. On our way back we saw the King's hunters--beautiful animals, as you may suppose,--and a peculiar breed of small elegant hounds, which are not to be met with out of England. We returned with good appetites for dinner, where I found several guests. Our hostess is a very agreeable woman, and as 'parkomane' as myself. All the noble trees in front of the house, between which glimpses of the distant landscape appear like separate pictures, were planted by herself forty years ago, and from that time to this only two have been removed. Every day convinces me more and more that the wide unbroken prospects which are here almost prohibited, destroy all illusion. With the exception of some few very old parks, you find hardly a house in England the view from which is not broken by scattered trees. Drawings deceive you, because the main object of the draftsman generally is to show the architecture and size of the building, and he consequently leaves out the trees. A most useful contrivance in this garden was a gigantic umbrella as large as a little tent, with an iron spike at the bottom to stick into the ground. You could thus establish yourself in any spot shaded from the sun. I gladly accepted an invitation from my friendly host for the following day, to meet the ladies of honour (_Hofdamen_[68]) of the Queen of Würtemburg. After dinner we walked again, to see a cottage in the low ground of the park. Enclosed on every side by hill and wood, it forms a charming contrast to the handsome villa on the height. Rode home (B---- and I) by brilliant star-light. _August 29th._ After paying a visit to Mrs. C---- in Windsor, I returned to Lord H---- 's, enjoying with new delight the noble oakwoods of his park, at the entrance of which, the prettiest lodge, tastefully built of trunks and branches of trees, and overgrown with roses, is a sort of index to the lovely character of the whole. I found a large party assembled;--the principal lady of honour (_Oberhofmeisterin_,) two ladies in waiting (_Hofdamen_,) and two equerries of the Queen of Würtemburg,--all German: le Marquis de H----, a Frenchman, with two sons and a daughter, (the latter a true 'Parisienne;') an English clergyman, and another foreign nobleman. The French party have judiciously put forward their cousinship with the childless Peer, are very kindly received, live in the cottage in the valley which I described yesterday, and have expectations of inheriting this noble property,--so that the little French girl is already regarded as 'a good match.' The most interesting person to me in the whole company, however, was the Countess herself. She is a most amiable old lady, full of dignified courtesy, united to a very agreeable turn of mind. She has seen much of life, and relates what she has seen in the most interesting manner. She told me many particulars concerning Lord Byron, who passed much of his boyish time in her house, and was then so untameable that she said she had had unspeakable trouble with the daring, mischievous boy. She did not think him base, but ill-tempered; for she observed that he always took a sort of pleasure in giving pain, especially to women; though when he chose to be amiable, she confessed that it was hardly possible to resist him. She added, that whatever were the defects of his wife, he had certainly treated her very ill, and had exercised a refinement of torture towards her; probably because she had formerly refused him, for which he swore never-ending vengeance even on the day of his marriage. I did not put implicit faith in this account, in spite of my great respect for the narrator. The soul of a poet like Byron is hard to judge;--the ordinary standard is quite inadequate to it, and very few people have any other to apply. Where one is much pleased, one generally pleases; and accordingly I was pressingly invited to spend a few days in this little paradise. My restlessness is, however, as you know full well, equal to my indolence: and as I am difficult to move from a place where I have once fixed myself, ('témoin' my long unprofitable abode in London,) I find it equally difficult to bring myself to remain where the immediate interest is exhausted. I therefore gratefully declined the invitation, and returned to Salthill. _August 30th._ The terrace of Windsor Castle forms a delightful promenade for the people of the town, and is frequently enlivened by the band of the Guards. I walked there this morning with the pretty and amiable Misses C----, and paid a visit with them to the 'châtelaine' of the Palace, an old unmarried lady. It is impossible to have a more delightful residence. Every window commands a beautiful landscape. The venerable lady showed me a stone in the wall of her bedroom, on which was a decayed inscription. "This," said she, "was carved by a charming young knight who pined here in captivity, just before his death; he was suffocated under this very stone." "Good God!" said I, "are you not afraid to sleep here--suppose the young knight's ghost should appear!" "Never fear!" exclaimed the sprightly old lady, "at my time of life one is not so timid; I am safe from all young knights, living or dead." We proceeded to the noble chapel, where divine service was going on. The banners, swords, and coronets of the Knights of the Garter proudly ranged around; the melancholy light of the coloured windows; the beautiful carvings in stone and wood; the reverential groups of hearers,--formed a fine picture only defaced by some few objects: for instance, the ridiculous monument of the Princess Charlotte, in which the four subordinate figures turn their backs completely on the spectator; while on the other hand the Princess appears in a twofold character,--extended as a corpse, and ascending to heaven as an angel. Lulled by the music, I gave myself up, in the quiet nook in which I had niched myself, to my fancies, and, absorbed in the kingdom of sound, soon forgot all around me. At last I thought myself dead, and yet I fancied myself a visitor of that Gothic chapel we wished to build, dear Julia, and standing before my own tomb. In the centre of the church, on a white marble sarcophagus, lay a figure wrapped in thick folds of drapery, with a wolf and a lamb at his feet. Another pedestal of the same form was vacant. I approached, and read the following inscriptions on the marble. On the end under the head of the recumbent figure were the following words, In thy bosom, O God! Rests his imperishable spirit, For the eternal law of life Is death and resurrection. At the opposite end was written; His childhood was deprived of its greatest blessing,-- Loving education in the paternal house. His youth was stormy, and vain, and foolish, But never estranged from Nature and from God. On the one side, Serious and melancholy was his manhood;-- It would have been shrouded in night, Had not a loving woman, Like the sun, with clear benign beams, Oft changed the dark night into cheerful day. On the other side, Length of days was denied him: What were his works and his deeds? They live and bloom around you. What else he strove for, or attained, on earth,-- To others it availed much, to himself little. And now I thought much of you, and of all I love, and I felt a sort of pious sorrow for myself;--and as the sudden pause of the music awoke me from my dream, the silent tears were actually upon my cheek, so that I was almost ashamed to be seen. _August 31st._ One is well served in England,--that is certain. I was invited to dine at six at the Guard's mess which is very punctual, and sat writing till late. The barracks are three miles from my inn, which is, as usual, a post-house. I therefore told my servant to call for 'horses' instantly. In less than a minute they were harnessed before the door, and, in fifteen, driving like the wind, I was at table as the clock struck six. The military profession is on a far more social footing here than with us, for the simple reason that the members of it are richer. Though the service is as far as possible from being neglected, there is not the slightest trace of pedantry; and, out of service, not the least distinction between the colonel and the youngest lieutenant. Every man takes as unrestrained a part in conversation as in any other society. In the country the officers are all in uniform at mess, but not in London,--with the exception of the officer 'du jour.' After dinner, however, they all take their ease; and to-day I saw a young lieutenant sit down in dressing-gown and slippers to play whist with his colonel in uniform. These gentlemen have given me a general invitation to their table as long as I remain in the neighbourhood, and are extremely friendly and cordial to me. I had passed the morning in seeing Frogmore, and the pictures in Windsor Castle. In the hall of the throne are several tolerable battle-pieces, by West: the subjects are the feats of Edward the Third and the Black Prince,--a throng of knights, snorting horses, ancient armour and caparisons, lances, swords and banners, which form a very appropriate decoration for a royal hall. In another room I was struck by the very expressive portrait of the Duke of Savoy,--the true Ideal of a ruler. Luther and Erasmus, by Holbein, are excellently paired, and yet contrasted: the acute and sarcastic countenance of the latter looks as if he were just about to utter the words he wrote to the Pope, who reproached him with not keeping his fasts: "Holy Father, my soul is Catholic, but my stomach is Protestant." The beauties of the Court of Charles the Second, who adorn a whole wall, are well suited to lead a man into transgression of another kind. There is nothing remarkable at Frogmore.--The piece of water is now only a swamp for frogs, though surrounded by hedges of rose and hew. A complete encampment of light moveable tents on the turf had a pretty effect. _September 3rd._ I have been prevailed upon to devote some days to the enjoyment of a country life at the beautiful Lady G----'s, a relation of Canning. At breakfast she told me that she was present some months ago when Canning took leave of his mother (both being then in perfect health) in these words: "Adieu, dear mother! in August we shall meet again." In July the mother died suddenly, and in the beginning of August her son followed her. Yesterday and the day before we drove to Egham races, which are held on a plain surrounded by hills. I met many persons I knew; was presented by the Duke of Clarence to the Queen of Würtemberg; betted successfully; and in the evening went to a pic-nic ball in the little town, which, as with us, was fruitful with country dandies and other amusing provincialisms. To-day I walked nearly the whole day long with some young ladies. Young Englishwomen are indefatigable walkers, through thick and thin, over hill and dale,--so that it requires some ambition to keep up with them. In the park of a nabob we found an interesting curiosity; two dwarf trees, transplanted from China,--elms a hundred years old, with completely the shrivelled look of their age, and yet scarcely two feet high. The secret of rearing such trees is unknown in Europe. At last the high-spirited girls climbed over a fence of Windsor Park, and disturbed the shades sacred to royal solitude with their merry laugh. By this means I saw several forbidden parts of the lovely scenery round Virginia Water, into which the anxious Lord H---- had not ventured;--had we been caught, it surely would not have gone very hard with us in such company. _Windsor, Sept. 5th._ During the four days of my stay we had become such cordial friends, that I felt almost sad at parting. The ladies accompanied me two or three miles before I got into the carriage. I drove away somewhat 'triste,' and directed the post-boy to the barracks of the Guards, where I arrived just in time for dinner. With the aid of much champagne and claret, (for my long walk had made me thirsty,) I consoled myself for the parting with my fair friends as well as I could, and then drove with Captain B---- to a 'soirée' at Mrs. C----'s. After tea, at about eleven o'clock of a splendid night, in compliance with the wishes of the ladies, it was determined to take a walk in the Park, to see the gigantic castle by moonlight from a peculiarly favourable point. The walk was certainly rather long, but it well rewarded us. The sky had flocks of sheep scattered over its deep blue fields, (one of the officers, with more exactness than poetry, compared it to curds and whey,) over which the light of the lustrous moon was beautifully diffused. Our delight was soon rather rudely interrupted by two sentinels with muskets, who challenged and prepared to arrest us as trespassers and breakers of the peace. (N. B. A company of twenty persons, principally ladies, and at least seven officers of the Guards in full uniform!) At last they consented to be satisfied with two officers whom they immediately took into custody. How different from our manners! With us, officers would have felt themselves dishonoured by the hard words the sentinels used, and perhaps have thought it their duty to run them through on the spot. Here, it appeared quite in order, and not the slightest attempt at resistance was made. The rest of us went home; and in about an hour the two prisoners returned, having had to encounter many delays before they could obtain their release. One of them, Captain F----, laughed heartily while he told us that the gamekeeper had reproved him severely, and said "it was a shame that officers, who were bound by their profession to repress all disorders, should not have abstained from committing a trespass," and so forth. "The man was not so much in the wrong," added he; "but ladies' wishes must always be complied with, 'quand même.'" On returning to my inn I found my old B----, who came to receive my orders in person before his final departure. I am very well pleased with the Englishman whose character I investigated craniologically, and therefore shall not miss my old countryman so much. He is the bearer of a large plan of a garden, on which I lay outstretched for an hour before I went to bed, to finish it; as Napoleon used to lie on his maps and plans. He, however, with his rough pencil drew blood; I, only water and flower-beds;--he fortifications, I summer-houses;--he soldiers, and I trees. In the sight of the All-seeing it may be the same whether his children play with cannon-balls or with nuts; but to men the difference is considerable:--in their opinion, he who causes them to be shot by thousands is far greater than he who only labours to promote their enjoyment. A long index will illustrate my plan. Go hard to work to execute what I lay before you, and gladden my return with the realization of all my garden-dreams which have your approbation. My intention is now to return to London for a few days, for the purpose of seeing my horses embarked, and then to set out on my long tour in the country. The Journal will therefore have a long time to swell before I can send it you. Do not think, however, that I grow negligent; for, as the illustrious and brilliant prince says, "There are few things I enjoy more than writing to you." Your L----. LETTER XVIII. _London, Sept. 7th, 1827._ DEAR FRIEND, I am, as you know, not strong in remembering anniversaries and the like; but I know full well that to-morrow is the day on which I left my poor Julia alone in B----. A year has rolled over us, and we insects are still creeping on in the old track. But we love each other as much as ever, and that is the main thing. We shall work our way in time through those great heaps under which we are now forced to toil so wearily; and perhaps reach the fresh grass and the beautiful flowers on which the morning has scattered her diamonds, and the gay sunbeams dance glittering in the wet crystal. 'Soyez tranquille, nous doublerons encore un jour le Cap de bonne espérance.' For some days I have written nothing about my sayings and doings, because they amounted only to this,--that I worked and wrote daily with B----, dined with L---- at the Travellers' Club, and went to bed. Yesterday we had the company of another German at dinner, Count ----, who is come to buy horses. He seems to have a good deal of money, and is young enough to enjoy it; 'au reste,' the perfect picture of a good-natured country gentleman (_Landjunker_,)--of a truth, a most happy sort of man:--I only wish I were one. As to your opinion about parks, I must remark that the extent of them, especially when properly rounded, can never be great enough. Windsor park is the only one which has fully satisfied me as a whole, and the reason for that is its enormous size. It realizes all I would have;--a pleasant tract of country, within the bounds of which you can live and do what you like, without privation or constraint; hunt, fish, ride, drive, without ever feeling cramped; in which you never see a point, except just at the entrance-gates, at which you remark, Here is a boundary; and to which all the beauties of the surrounding country to the remotest distance have been rendered tributary by a cultivated taste. In other respects you are right: one must not throw away good and bad together; and it is better to conceal many defects and limitations of the ground by skilfully-planned paths and plantations, than to make disproportionate sacrifices to them. My horses are safe on board, and sail to-day; though the beautiful Hyperion behaved like mad, dashed the box in which he was enclosed into pieces like glass, and burst all the halters and straps that confined him. He was within an inch of falling into the river, and will probably give them a good deal of trouble on the passage, though we have bound him like a wild beast. One can't blame the poor animal for being frightened when the crane, like a giant's arm, seized him and bore him into the air. Many, however, take it very quietly, for even among horses there are Stoics. There is nothing which needs really detain me now in London; but Lady ---- is still here in the solitude,--and she is so attractive. To quit such a friend were a sin,--the more so, as I have not the least idea of falling in love with her. But is not the true unmixed friendship of a charming woman something very sweet? I have often remarked how men destroy all friendship with women, because they always think it incumbent on them to play the adorer; they thus alarm their delicacy, and check at once that unsuspecting confidence and ease which might otherwise subsist between them. I am well contented with the mere friendship of an amiable woman, especially when I can read it in her soft blue eyes, hear it from a mouth of pearl and coral, and feel it in the kind pressure of a velvet hand. To this portrait you have only to add the innocent look of a dove, long dark-brown curling hair, a slender form, and the most beautiful English complexion, and you have Lady ---- before your eyes. _Doncaster, Sept. 16th._ I might almost have dated from London, so rapidly have I skimmed over these hundred and eighty miles; and yet I have had time to get a sight of two celebrated houses of the time of Elizabeth, though a transient one. The first, Hatfield, which belonged to herself, and which she frequently inhabited, is less magnificent than the second, Burleigh House, which was built by her great minister Cecil. Hatfield is built of brick; only the eyebrows of the windows, the corners, &c. are of stone. The proportions are good and grand. There is nothing remarkable in the park and garden, but a fine avenue of oaks, which are reported to have been planted by the Queen herself. I could only see the outside of Burleigh House; for though the family were all absent, the 'châtelaine' was in no way to be moved to desecrate the sabbath by showing the house to a foreigner. I regretted this the more, because there is a fine collection of pictures. The ancient park is full of the finest trees; but the water, both here and at Hatfield, stagnant and muddy. The house itself is in a confused style, Gothic below, and with chimneys like Corinthian pillars. The great statesman must have had a very corrupt taste in art. _York, Sept. 17th._ Doncaster races are the most frequented in England, and the course is far preferable to any in the country for elegance, fitness, and commodious sight of the whole. The view of the race is more agreeable, and less brief and transient; for from the lofty and elegant stand you distinctly overlook the whole course from beginning to end. The horses run in a circle, and the same point serves as starting-post and goal. The concourse of people, of handsome women and fashionable company, was extraordinary. All the great neighbouring nobility came in their gala equipages,--a very interesting sight to me, because I thus learned one sort of state observed here in the country, which is very different from that in town. The most distinguished equipage was that of the Duke of Devonshire, and I describe his train to you as a notice for M----. The Duke's party were seated in a full-bodied carriage drawn by six horses, the harness and hammercloth of moderate richness, and the coachman in intermediate livery, flaxen wig, and boots. The carriage was escorted by twelve outriders: namely, four grooms mounted on horses of different colours, with light saddles and bridles, four postillions on carriage-horses exactly like those in the carriage, with harness-reins, and postillions' saddles; lastly, four footmen in morning jackets, leathern breeches and top-boots, with saddle-cloths and holsters embroidered with the Duke's arms. The order of the train was as follows: first, two grooms; then two postillions; then the carriage with its six beautiful horses which the coachman drove from the box, a postillion riding the leader. On the left rode a footman; another somewhat further back on the right; behind the carriage two more postillions, then two grooms, and lastly, two more footmen. The little fellow who rode the leader was the only one in full state livery,--yellow, blue, black and silver, with a powdered wig,--rather a theatrical dress, with the arms embroidered on his left sleeve. The St. Leger race, which took place to-day, has probably caused many a sleepless night, for enormous sums have been lost. A little mare, which was so lightly esteemed that the bets were fifteen to one against her, was in first of twenty-six horses that ran. An acquaintance of mine won nine thousand pounds, and had he been unsuccessful, would have lost hardly as many hundreds. Another is said to have lost nearly every thing he had, and, as it is asserted, through the trickery of the owner of one of the horses. Immediately after the races, which with their animated crowd and thousand equipages afforded me a most striking exhibition of English wealth, I drove further north, towards some object yet unknown to myself, and arrived at one o'clock in the morning at this city of York. During the whole ride I read by my lamp Madame de Maintenon's Letters to the Princess des Ursins, which entertained me extremely. Many passages are remarkably illustrative of the manners of her age. The incognito Queen of course understands court-life to the very bottom; and often reminded me strongly of a good friend of yours, especially by her manner of affecting complete ignorance of all that was passing, and of undervaluing her own influence. She however shows great mildness and prudence, and such extraordinary tact and good-breeding in all she says and does, that one is constrained to think her more amiable than history represents her. It is indeed always a bad thing to let an old woman govern, whether in petticoats or breeches; but it was easier then than now, for all ranks of people were obviously far more like great 'naïfs' children. They even made war in that spirit. Nay, they regarded Almighty God as a Louis the Fourteenth in the highest '_potenz_;' and, like true courtiers, when they were 'in articulo mortis,' they left their earthly king in a moment,--taking no further notice of him,--to devote themselves exclusively to that mightier Ruler, whom they had hitherto neglected as too distant. One can distinctly perceive in these old 'Mémoires,' that those who had been tolerably successful at Court went out of the world with considerable confidence in their 'savoir faire' in heaven; while those who were in disgrace suffered much greater fear of death, and severer stings of conscience. It is quite impossible, now, to represent to oneself such a Court or such an existence, faithfully; but perhaps for our particular class, it was not such a bad state of things. I fell into many reflections on this eternal change in human affairs; and at length breathed upon by that invisible spirit which pervades the Whole, turned with loving greetings to the brilliant star of eve, which from endless years had looked down upon all this struggle with pitying tolerance and untroubled peace. _September 19th._ There are certainly some talents in me which it is a pity to think of * * * * * Now all this is lost and thrown away (for one always serves oneself badly,) like many better things:--for example, a wondrously beautiful tree in some American wilderness, which every spring decks itself in vain with the richest foliage and the most fragrant blossoms, where no human being can gladden his senses and his spirit by its sweetness. Such an existence we call useless. What amiable egotism!--and under its unjust sentence I too must suffer, for those above-mentioned virtues of mine are just as useless;--nay, my whole person would probably be so, were I not of substantial use to the post-boys and waiters, who take my money; and valuable to you, my kind friend, ('je m'en flatte au moins,') on other grounds. So that I do not live in the world absolutely and utterly for nothing; and, as on the other hand I hurt nobody, my account stands tolerably fair after striking a balance. This whole day I have been wandering about the town. I began with the cathedral, which may be compared to that of Milan for the richness of its ornaments, as well as for its size. The founder was Archbishop Scrope, (one of Shakespeare's personages,) whom Henry the Fourth beheaded as a rebel in 1405. He lies buried in the church; and in the chapter-house is a table covered with a piece of tapestry belonging to him, and embroidered with his arms. It is still in tolerable preservation. The windows in the church are chiefly of old stained glass, only here and there repaired with new. The carving in stone is everywhere admirable, and has all the delicacy and elegance of carved wood, representing all sorts of foliage, animals, angels, &c. One of the great windows is not less than seventy-five feet high and thirty-two broad. That at the other end represents, by its strange stone ramifications, the veins of the human heart, and, with its blood-red glass, produces a curious effect. One of the side windows is remarkable for being painted in imitation of embroidery; it is like a gay carpet. In the choir is an old chair in which several Kings of England were crowned. I sat down in it, and found it, for stone, very comfortable; I dare say I should have thought it still more so if it had been the preparation for a throne. Near the church is a very pretty Gothic library, the arrangements of which appeared to me very well contrived. Every book has three numbers on the back. At the top, that of the shelf, then that of the compartment, and below, its own number; so that it can be found in a moment. The numbers are on pretty little labels, and do not at all deform the books. In one corner is a very light and convenient staircase leading to the gallery, which runs about midway round the room. The alphabetical catalogue is arranged as follows: Page 20. +-------+-----------+-------------+------+------------+---------+ | | | | | | | | Form. | Letter C. | Edition. |Shelf.|Compartment.| Number. | | | | | | | | +-------+-----------+-------------+------+------------+---------+ | 8vo. |Cosmo, &c. |Verona 1519| II. | 7 | 189-192 | | 4to. |Cavendish |London 1802| I. | 5 | 52-55 | | Folio |Colley |London 1760| XI. | 3 |1080-1082| | 12mo |Corneille |Paris 1820| X. | 6 | 920-930 | +-------+-----------+-------------+------+------------+---------+ This will suffice to make it clear to you; and as I know by experience what a difficult matter the arranging of a library is, and how many are the ways of doing it, I send you this scheme, as very well suited to a small collection of books. I could not get a sight of any of the rare books or manuscripts kept here, as the librarian was absent. In a corner I found a very curious drawing of the procession at the great Marlborough's funeral. It is almost incredible how totally the dresses and customs have altered even since that time. The aged clerk who conducted me about, said he remembered when a boy to have seen soldiers with long bag-wigs like those in the picture. About three-quarters of a mile from the Minster, on a hill near to the town, are the romantic ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, overgrown with trees and ivy. The people here have the not very praiseworthy project of erecting a public building on the same hill: they have even begun to dig the foundation; in doing which they have come upon some of the most beautiful remains of the old abbey, as perfect as if executed yesterday. I saw several exquisite capitals still in the earth, and in a neighbouring house, admirable bas-reliefs which have been deposited there while the work is going on. We crossed the river Ouse in a boat, and continued our walk along the top of the old city wall,--a picturesque but rather impracticable way. The surrounding country is very fresh and green; and the numerous Gothic towers of the town give great diversity and beauty to the prospect. After a quarter of an hour's walk, we reached the Micklegate, from which the old barbican has been pulled down, but which has otherwise retained its original form. The gorgeous arms of York and England glittered upon it with knightly splendour. In an adjoining field a Roman tomb was discovered fifteen years ago, and the owner who found it, now exhibits it in his cellar. The arch, of Roman brick, is perfectly fresh: the skeleton, lying in a stone coffin beneath, is pronounced by anatomists to be that of a young woman; and, (which is saying a good deal at the end of two thousand years,) she has still 'des beaux restes,'--splendid teeth, and a beautifully formed skull. I examined the organs carefully, and found all the most desirable qualities; to such a degree, indeed, that I could not help regretting making her acquaintance two thousand years too late, or I should certainly have married her. A better organized cranium I shall never find--that's certain. She does not seem to have been rich, for nothing was found in her coffin but two glass bottles,--very curious things in themselves, more perfect and more like our glass than any I ever saw, except at Pompeii. It is distinguishable from ours only by its silvery shine, and exhibits no mark of having been blown, though no means have been discovered of concealing such marks in any of our uncut glass. The British Museum has offered the possessor a large sum for these glasses. He finds it, however, more advantageous to show the curiosities himself, at a 'thaler' of our money a-head. We returned to the Micklegate, and proceeded with still more difficulty along the crumbling wall, till, after half an hour's scrambling, we came to a beautiful ruin called Clifford's Tower. This ancient fortress plays a part in English history. On one occasion a thousand Jews were burnt alive in it,--having no Rothschild then to save them. At last, about a century ago, being used as a magazine for gunpowder, it was blown up, and has ever since been abandoned to the eating tooth of Time. But time not only destroys, but builds up: and thus as the ruins decayed, ivy, in which thousands of sparrows nestle, curled itself around them like thick tresses; and in the centre of the tower is a large nut-tree, which overtops the roofless walls. The hill or mound on which the ruin stands, was constructed by the Romans; and a man who lately dug to a considerable depth in search of treasure, found almost the whole foundation of it composed of bones of men and horses. Such is the earth--the universal grave and cradle. From ruins and death I proceeded to the living dead, who pine at the foot of the hill--the poor prisoners in the county jail. Externally their dwelling appears a palace. The interior has a very different aspect; and my heart ached for the poor devils who were to sit the whole winter through till March, in cells, which are clean, it is true, but chill and damp, only _on suspicion_; with the pleasant prospect, perhaps, of being hanged at the end. If they are acquitted, they have no indemnification to expect. In the court in which the debtors were allowed to walk, were two horses, a she-goat, and an ass. In all the rooms and cells I visited, I observed the greatest cleanliness and order. But the strangest peculiarity of this prison, was a sort of thieves' wardrobe, arranged with real elegance, like the wardrobe of a theatre. A jailor, whose head was considerably overloaded with drink, stammered out the following explanation: "Here you see the wigs of the famous Granby, which disguised him so, that for ten years he could never be caught. He was hanged here in 1786.--Here is the stake with which George Nayler was knocked down two years ago on the road to Doncaster. He was hanged here last spring.--Here is Stephen's 'knock-down,' with which he killed six people at once. He was hanged here likewise two years ago.--Here are the enormous iron leg-bolts, the only things that would hold Fitzpatrick. He escaped seven times out of the strongest prisons: but these leg-bolts, which I fastened on him myself, were a little too heavy for him. (They were complete beams of iron, which a horse could hardly have dragged along.) He did not wear them long, for two months afterwards, on the first of May,--a beautiful morning 'twas,--he was sent to another world.--Here are the machines with which Cook coined false money. He was quite the gentleman--hanged in 1810." "Pray," interrupted I, "what sort of a weapon is this immense wooden mallet?" "Oh!" grinned the old fellow, "that's innocent enough; that's only what I break sugar with when I make negus, He, he, he!--only I put it here ready." The wardrobe was immediately adjoining his room, and seemed an amateur collection, which owed its rise entirely to his own taste and zeal. How various are the hobby-horses of men! I am afraid you are already tired of this long walk, dear Julia; but you must follow me a little further; nay, you may even consent to climb from the depth to the highest height. I wished to see the whole panorama of my walk at a glance, and selected for that purpose a Gothic tower of the finest proportions. It is of the most beautiful, elaborate architecture from top to bottom; and behind the transparent tracery I had espied from a distance, with the aid of my opera-glass, ladders which extremely tempted me to mount. After a stout walk,--in the course of which we came to another old gate, called the Nobles' Gate, which was built up fifty years ago and is now re-opened to serve as a passage to the new cattle-market,--we at length reached the desired tower, a part of the oldest church in York. I had some trouble in finding the clerk, a black man, more like a coal-heaver than a servant of the church,--but full of goodwill. I asked him if one could get up to the fine galleries at the top. "That I don't know," replied he, "for I never went up, though I have been clerk these ten years. There are only old ladders, and some are broken at the top, so that I don't think it possible." This was enough to fire my adventurous soul; and I hastened up the worst, darkest, narrowest, and most decayed winding staircase you can imagine. We soon reached the ladders; we climbed them without halting, and came to the first landing-place. But here the clerk and the 'laquais de place' hesitated to proceed. A high and certainly very frail-looking ladder, wanting many staves, led to a small square hole at the top (where, for a space of about six feet, the staves were entirely gone;) through this you reached the roof. I was determined not to go back 're infectâ,' so I scrambled up, reached the edge of the opening with my hands, and swung myself up with some little difficulty. The view was indeed magnificent, and I exactly attained my chief end,--to see the noble Minster, (which is so miserably encumbered by houses below,) perfectly free in all its colossal majesty, like a line-of-battle ship among boats. The wind, however, blew so terribly around my elevated post, and all seemed in such a decaying state, that I could almost fancy the whole tower rocked in the blast. By degrees I grew uncomfortable in this continued storm. I began my descent, but found that far more difficult than the ascent, as is generally the case in such places. But one must not stay to think, if one begins to feel what the English call 'nervous.' Holding fast by my hands, therefore, I let my feet drop like feelers in search of the highest stave, and very glad was I when I found it. On my arrival at the bottom I was as black as the clerk. Meanwhile it was the time of evening service in the Minster, where a fine organ and well-selected music in so noble a building, promised me a delightful resting-place. I hastened thither, and dreamed away a delicious half-hour under the influence of sweet sounds and melancholy; while this vast organ,--the tyrant of music, as Heinze calls it,--rolled pealing through the immense aisles, and the sweet voices of children, like the breath of spring, lulled the awe-struck soul again to peace. Almost in the twilight I visited the town-hall, where the Lord Mayor (only London and York have _Lord_ Mayors) holds his court three times a week, and where the sessions are held every three months. It is an old and handsome Gothic building. Near it are two rooms for the barristers and attorneys (_obern und untern Advocaten_.) In the upper room the Lord Mayor's arms are emblazoned in modern painted glass,--for every tradesman has arms here. One can generally discover from them what is the calling of the possessor. The mottos, however, are less business-like, and seem to me to affect too noble an air. I have now established the proper balance, that is to say, my hands are as tired of writing as my feet of walking. It is time to give the stomach some work to do. If I were Walter Scott, I would give you the bill of fare; but as it is, I don't venture. Instead of it I shall subjoin a word upon my after-dinner reading, which will be furnished again by Madame de Maintenon. It really touched me to see how vividly the poor woman paints the melancholy uniformity, the bitter 'gêne' of her life: and how often and heartily she longs, with a force and a sincerity that cannot be mistaken, for her dismissal from this stage, which, as she says, "worse than all others, _lasts from morning till night_." Amidst all her power and splendour, she still seems to regard death as the most desirable of things: and indeed, after the long endless void,--after the sacrifice of every personal feeling and inclination year after year, one can imagine the mortal weariness of the spirit, longing for its release. This explains the religious mania that took possession of her, which was also characteristic of the childishness of the age. Had a woman of Madame de Maintenon's talents lived at a later period, Molinistes and Jansenistes would hardly have succeeded in extorting a smile of contempt from her; but in her time it was otherwise. Still she is in her way a great woman, as Louis the Fourteenth is, in his, a great king--in a little age. It was precisely because it _was_ little that it formed little things,--Court, society, &c.--to far greater perfection than ours; and thence to the imaginative mind, which contemplates with pleasure the Perfect in every thing, great or small, must ever present an attractive picture. _Sept. 20th._ This morning I devoted to the gleanings, and visited the ancient church of All Saints, where I found some admirable painted glass, though in very bad preservation. There was a Virgin and Child, of a beauty and sweetness of expression of which Raphael would not have needed to be ashamed. I then went to another old church, St. Mary's, where there is a strange gateway on which a number of hieroglyphics and the signs of the zodiac are beautifully carved in stone. As I had been introduced to the Archbishop of York in London, I wrote him a note yesterday, and begged to be allowed to pay my respects to him. He returned a most polite answer, begging me to pass some days at his house. I however declined his invitation to more than a dinner, and drove to his country-house at five o'clock. I found a beautifully kept, luxuriant pleasure-ground, and stately old Gothic structure in a peculiar style, which pleased me much. It was not very large, but perfectly elegant; and at the four corners of the flat roof stood four colossal eagles with out-stretched wings. Instead of the heavy battlements, which have a good effect only in enormous masses, a beautiful sort of open-work ornament in stone, at once rich and light, ran round the roof as a parapet. That the interior corresponded in magnificence with the exterior you may conclude from the ecclesiastical rank and wealth of the possessor. The venerable Archbishop, still a very hale active man, conducted me about, and showed me his kitchen-gardens and hot-houses, which are remarkably fine. They were as neat as the most elegant drawing-room,--a thing which it would be impossible to make our gardeners understand. Not a trace of disorder or dirt, of boards and tools lying about, dunghills near the paths, or the like. On the walls were the choicest fruit-trees arranged in symmetrical lines; among them currant-bushes which had attained to such a growth by the removal of all the small under-branches, that they were twelve feet high, and loaded to excess with bunches like small grapes. In the hot houses, in which pines and grenadillas (a West-Indian fruit in the form of a little melon, and with a flavour like that of a pomegranate,) grew luxuriantly, was a different sort of vine in every window: all were thick-hung with fruit. The fruit-trees on the walls were covered with nets, and at a later season are matted, so that one may pluck ripe fruit till January. One part of the garden was full of ripe strawberries of a peculiar kind, and His Grace assured me he had them in the open air till January. He pointed out to me the Norman cress as a new vegetable of remarkably fine flavour, and told me it might be cut in the snow. The multitude of flowers still in blossom which edged the beds of the kitchen-garden was striking. I know that this climate is favourable to gardeners, nevertheless they must excel ours in the management of flowers. In the pleasure-ground I saw larches not only of enormous size, but as thick in foliage as pines, and their pendent branches extending twenty feet over the turf. I heard here, for the first time, that it is thought very beneficial to trees of this tribe[69] to touch the moist earth with their branches, for that they draw great nourishment in that way. A dinner worthy of an Archbishop closed this agreeable evening. I have told you that the wives of English Bishops do not share their husband's titles. The wife of the Archbishop of York is however, a 'Lady in her own right;' and what is more, a very agreeable woman. She has ten sons and three daughters. _Scarborough, Sept. 21st._ I forgot to tell you a droll story that was related yesterday; the strongest instance of 'distraction' (except that of the self-decapitating Irishman,) you ever heard. Lord Seaford said, that his uncle, the old Earl of Warwick, who was famous for fits of absence, travelled up to London one evening from Warwick Castle on important business, which he settled to his satisfaction the following day, and returned again in the night. He had hardly reached home, when he fainted. All the family were alarmed, and asked his valet if his Lord had been ill in London. "No," replied the man, "he has been very well: but I really believe that he has forgotten to eat ever since he was away." This was actually the case, and a plate of soup soon restored His Lordship to his accustomed health. I write to you from a sea bathing place that has the reputation of being very beautiful. As yet I know nothing about it, for it was pitch dark when I arrived. In the morning I hope to enjoy the best possible view, for I am lodged in the fourth story, the house being choke-full. On my journey I visited Castle Howard, the seat of Lord Carlisle. It is one of the English 'show places,' but does not please me in the least. It was built by Vanbrugh, an architect of the time of Louis the Fourteenth, who built Blenheim in the same bad French taste. That, however, imposes by its mass, but Castle Howard neither imposes nor pleases. The whole park, too, has something to the last degree melancholy, stiff, and desolate. On a hill is a large temple, the burial-place of the family. The coffins are placed around in cells, most of which are still empty; so that the whole looks like a bee-hive, only indeed more silent and tranquil. In the castle are some fine pictures and antiques. Among the former, the celebrated Three Marys of Annibal Carracci is particularly remarkable. This picture represents the dead Christ, behind whom his mother has sunk fainting; the elder Mary hastens to her with a gesture of lamentation, while Mary Magdalene throws herself despairingly on the body. The gradation from actual death to fainting, thence to the subdued grief of age, and lastly, to the living despair of youth, is given with inimitable truth. Every limb in the body of Christ appears truly dead: you see that the vital spirit has utterly quitted this form, so motionless, cold, and stiff. On the contrary, all is life and motion in the beautiful Magdalene, even to the very hair; all is the vigour and fulness of life, excited by the bitterest grief.--Opposite hangs Annibal's portrait by himself. It has very striking features, but looks more like a 'highwayman' than an artist. You, dear Julia, would have been most attracted by a collection of drawings of the Lords and Ladies of the Court of Francis the First,--fifty or sixty portraits: they were painted memoirs. Among the antiques I was amused by a Goose of the Capitol in bronze, which you fancy you hear cackling with its outstretched wings and open bill. A picture of Henry the Eighth, by Holbein, in admirable preservation, is worth mention;--otherwise nothing particularly struck me. The well-known St. John by Domenichino is here, and given out to be an original. If I mistake not, the real one is in Germany. The park, planted in large stiff masses, is remarkably rich in archways: I passed through about seven before I reached the house. Over a muddy pond, not far from the Castle, is a stone bridge of five or six arches, and over this bridge--no passage. It is only an 'object;' and that it may answer this description thoroughly, there is not a tree or a bush near it or before it. It seems that the whole grounds are just as they were laid out a hundred and twenty years ago. Obelisks and pyramids are as thick as hops, and every view ends with one, as a staring termination. One pyramid is, however, of use, for it is an inn. _Sept. 22nd._ If colds and consumptions are frequent in England, it is more to be attributed to the habits of the people than the climate. They have a peculiar predilection for walks on the wet grass; and in every public room there are open windows, so that it is hardly possible to bear the drafts. Even when they are shut the wind whistles through them; for they are seldom substantial, and never double. The climate too, however favourable to vegetation, is dreadful for men. This morning at nine o'clock, I rode out on a hired horse, in beautiful weather and a cloudless sky, and before I had been out an hour the most soaking rain wetted me through and through. At last I reached the village, where, in despair at not finding even a gate-way under which to take shelter, I sprang from my horse, and seeing a cottage door open, went in, and found two old women cooking something over a fire. In England, everything domestic is held so sacred and inviolable, that a man who enters a room without having cautiously announced himself and begged pardon, instantly excites alarm and displeasure. Although the cause of my intrusion ran in pretty obvious streams from my hat and clothes, I was not very cordially received by the old ladies. But what was the rage and horror of my hostesses 'malgré elles,' when my steed, whose sagacity would have done honour to Nestor himself, walked in at the door, and before anything could be done to stop him, took his station in the most quiet and decorous manner before the chimney-piece, and with a look of sly, affected stupidity, began to dry his dripping ears at the fire. I thought the women would have died of rage, and I of laughing. I had such compassion for my poor comrade in misfortune, that I did not like to turn him out by force; and so,--they scolding and storming, I trying to appease them with gentle words, and the more approved eloquence of other silver sounds,--we staid, half by force, half by entreaty, till the storm was a little over, and we were a little dried. The drying, however, was of small avail; for, at the entrance to the romantic Forge Valley, storm and rain began afresh. I surrendered myself to my fate, though wholly without defence, and consoled myself with the beauties of the surrounding spot,--a deep, narrow valley, clothed with rich wood, through which a rapid, foaming streamlet took its way. By the side of the brook was a good road. I remarked a pretty and simple way of enclosing a spring between two large blocks of stones set upright, and a third laid across. Through this rude portal the water gushed forth, and bounded on its course. To avoid catching cold, if possible, I took a warm salt bath as soon as I arrived, and then proceeded to the 'Sands,'--that is, the part of the beach left by the tide; a very singular promenade. Saddle-horses, and carriages of all kinds, stand in numbers for hire; and you may ride for miles on the very brink of the waves, over ground like velvet. The old Castle of Scarborough on the one side, and a fine iron bridge connecting two hills on the other, increase the picturesque character of the scene. I rode by the light of the evening sun up to the Castle, from which the view is magnificent, and which is itself an imposing object. On the highest point of the ruin is an iron machine like a kibble, which serves as a beacon. A large tar-barrel is placed in it and set on fire. It burns like a flaming torch the night through. The Castle stands on a projecting rock, which rises to the height of a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet perpendicular from the sea. Around the Castle its summit is like a bowling-green. _Sept. 23rd._ To-day I rode along the sea-coast to Filey, where there is a celebrated bridge of rocks built into the sea by the hand of Nature. The sea was blue, and covered with sails. At Filey I took a guide. We passed along many strangely-shaped rocks, and came at length to this bridge, which is in fact only a broad reef, running out about three-quarters of a mile into the sea. The detached blocks were thrown about in fantastic groups, and it was necessary to take some care not to slip over their smooth-washed sides. The tide was coming in, and already covered a part of the reefs. After satisfying my curiosity I scrambled back, and took my way through a pleasant field to the nearest inn. _Flamborough Head, Sept. 24th:--Evening._ Distances are calculated quite otherwise here than with us. My respectable old mare, a hired one, brought me here very well, five German miles in two hours. As soon as I arrived, I hired another horse to ride a mile and a half (German) further, to see the light-house and cavern which render Flamborough Head remarkable. The weather was most brilliant, with a good deal of wind, so that I hoped this time to escape a wetting; but I was deceived; for I had scarcely reached the cliffs when I was regaled not only with the 'obligato' drenching rain, but also with the accompaniment of a violent tempest. This, however, was an agreeable variety; for thunder and lightning beheld from beetling cliffs overhanging a foaming sea are worth encountering some inconvenience for. The custom-house officer who accompanied me, very civilly brought me an umbrella, seeing the lightness of my dress; but the storm, and the slippery and perilous path at the edge of the precipice rendered it useless. The sea has washed away the rocks in such a manner that many stand like solitary towers or columns in the waves. They looked like huge sea-spirits,--their whiteness rendered more glaring by the inky sky. There are many caverns, to which there is access at low water. It was now high-tide, however, and I was obliged to hire a fishing-boat to take me to the largest of them. Inspired by the fresh breeze, I took an oar for the first time in my life, and rowed heartily: I find the exercise so pleasant that I shall certainly take it as often as possible. The sea was so rough that I could not help thinking we were in some danger, and expressed as much to my companion. He answered me very poetically; "O Sir! do you think life is not as sweet to me as it is to you, because I am only a poor fisherman? As far as the mouth of the cavern there is no danger, but we can't go in to-day." I was therefore obliged to content myself with casting a glance into the huge arch-way, whence the foam flew up like smoke, amid the howling and bellowing of the waves. As the fisherman assured me that sea-water never gave cold, I mounted my horse, still dripping from the salt wave, and rode to the light-house. This was the more interesting to me, as I had till now but a very imperfect conception of the construction of these buildings.[70] An opportunity, which has presented itself, of sending this letter safely to the Embassy, enables me to share my travels with you thus far. I therefore close it for the present,--always with Scheherezade's condition of beginning again to-morrow. 'Sans adieu,' therefore, Your L----. LETTER XIX. _Whitby, Sept. 25th._ DEAR JULIA, I slept rather late after my yesterday's fatigues, and did not leave Scarborough till two o'clock. The road to Whitby is very hilly, and the aspect of the country singular. As far as the eye can reach, neither tree, house, wall, nor hedge;--nothing but an endless sea of wavy hills, often of a strange regularity of form, like heaps of rubbish shot down, thickly overgrown with heather, which at a near view presents the most beautiful shades of purple and red, but at a distance sheds one uniform dingy brown over the whole landscape, promising a rich harvest to grouse-shooters. Nothing breaks the uniformity but a number of white spots moving slowly here and there--the down sheep, with their black faces and fine wool. About three miles from Whitby, as you descend from the hilly country, the scene gradually changes, and near the town becomes very romantic. Meanwhile English cleanliness and elegance sensibly diminish. Whitby is exactly like an old German town; without 'trottoirs,' equally dirty, and with as narrow streets. Probably few strangers of any 'apparence' visit this miserable place; or whether they took me for somebody else I know not,--but so it was, that they besieged me like some strange animal, and did not let me depart without an escort of at least a hundred people, who crowded round me, very good-naturedly indeed, but rather too pressingly, and examined me from head to foot. I could not help thinking of a droll anecdote the Duke of Leeds told me. This nobleman was very affable with his tenants and people; one of them came up to him one day when he was riding, and told him he had a great favour to beg of him. The Duke asked him what it was. The man replied, after some hesitation, that he had a little boy who plagued him day and night to let him see the Duke, and that as His Grace was now close to his cottage, he would perhaps do him the great favour to let his son look at him. The Duke readily consented, and rode laughing to the cottage, where the delighted father ran in and fetched his child. The boy stood amazed, looking at the middle-aged gentleman of not very commanding exterior before him, of whose greatness and power he had heard so much; gazed at him a long time; then touched him; and suddenly asked, "Can you swim?" "No, my good boy," said the Duke. "Can you fly?" "No, I can't fly neither." "Then I like father's drake better, for he can do both." Whitby has a harbour shut in between very picturesque rocks, with a handsome granite pier stretching far into the sea, from which you have a fine view of the town. The ruins of the celebrated abbey, standing on an abrupt crag, are peculiarly beautiful. It was founded by a King of Northumberland in the sixth century, and is now the property of some private individual, who does nothing for the preservation of this sublime memorial of ancient greatness. His cattle feed among its mouldering walls, which are so choked with dirt and rubbish that I could hardly approach to see them. I alighted by the light of the young moon, and was enchanted by the romantic effect,--lofty columns, darting up into the air like the slender trunks of pines; long rows of windows in good preservation, and many finely executed ornaments about them, still as perfect as if the wind of the first autumn now played among their ample arches. Other parts were quite altered and decayed, and many a frightful face lay scattered about, grinning at me in the moonlight. Near the abbey is a very ancient church, which is still used, and is surrounded by hundreds of moss-grown gravestones. I am lodged in a humble but very comfortable country inn, kept by two sisters, whose civility is of that sort which springs from real good-nature and zeal, and not from regard to pelf alone. As I asked for a book they brought me the Chronicle of Whitby, which I turned over, while the wind roared as loudly without, as it does round our good castle of M----. In this Chronicle is a valuation of lands in the seventh century, in which Whitby, with its appurtenances, is rated at sixty shillings! I find from it, that the vast and magnificent abbey has been destroyed neither by fire nor by violence, but was delivered over by more silent tyranny to the tooth of time. Henry the Eighth confiscated this with the rest, and sold it, even to the stones of the building. Fortunately, after several houses in the town had been built of the materials, an ancestor of the present possessor bought what remained, which has ever since been left 'in statu quo.' _Guisborough:--Evening._ I had written a note to Lord Mulgrave, the proprietor of a great alum-work, and of a beautiful house and park on the sea-shore, begging permission to see them. He sent me a very polite answer, and a groom on horseback to conduct me. This aggravated the yesterday's misery; and the chief magistrate of the little town now though fit to becompliment me by the mission of two of his colleagues, who were also secretaries of the Museum, which they proposed to show me. As it contains many very curious fossils found in this neighbourhood, I accepted their offer. Half the town was collected again, and followed us, with an 'arrière garde' of a very noisy 'jeunesse.' In the Museum I found a number of the members assembled, and a blooming company of ladies, from whose attractive faces I was continually forced to turn away my eyes to look at a crocodile or a petrified fish. The two secretaries had divided the duties between them:--one did the honours of the fish and amphibia; the other of the quadrupeds, birds, and minerals: and both were so zealous that I should see everything in their respective departments, while some dilettanti were no less eager to show me other things, that I had need of the hundred eyes of Argus to take in all. The thing which interested me the most was an Esquimaux canoe with the fishing apparatus complete, presented by Captain Parry. It is made entirely of whalebone and seal-skins, and so light that one can scarcely conceive how it can encounter the sea. It is tolerably long; but in the centre, at its greatest breadth, scarcely a foot across; the whole is enclosed like a box, with the exception of a round hole in the middle, in which the Esquimaux sits and balances his little bark with a double oar. The petrifactions of all kinds, as well of existing as of antediluvian animals and plants, are extremely numerous and fine, and the large crocodile, almost perfect, is certainly 'unique' in its kind. The gentlemen insisted on accompanying me back to my inn, whither we were attended by the usual 'cortège.' As I drove off, a dreadful hurrah resounded, and several of the children of both sexes did not quit me till they found it impossible to keep pace with the horses. I now drove slowly along the beach, conducted by Lord Mulgrave's servant. I alighted to walk, and amused myself with picking up little stones of the most brilliant colours which covered the beach. In an hour we reached the alum-work, which lies in the most romantic situation, between the abrupt cliffs overhanging the sea. I examined it all very minutely, as you will see by the accompanying letter to the A---- D----. I had to go back along a path which seemed fit only for goats, and of the inconveniences of which the overseer had advertized me. Sometimes it was scarcely a foot broad, and at its sides rose a smooth alum rock of two hundred feet perpendicular height. Along such paths, many of which intersect the rocks, the men work, and hew away the alum ore which lies near the surface. This affords the strangest spectacle you can imagine: the men appear to hang to the wall of rock like swallows, and are often obliged to be pulled up by ropes. Below, in the valley, are large cars for carrying away the ore, which is incessantly heard clattering down the rocks. It took me two hours to see all; and I then drove to the house, where Lord Mulgrave's son (the earl himself being ill of the gout) regaled me very hospitably with an excellent luncheon, and conducted me about the park. It is indebted for its greatest beauties to Nature, to whose rocks, brooks, and wooded glens, you have access through very judiciously-cut roads, some German miles in length. From the house you look from under high oaks and beeches along a velvet turf, upon the sea, covered with a hundred sails. One of the greatest ornaments of the park is the old castle,--a ruin believed to have been originally a Roman fort, and afterwards the castle of the Saxon prince Wanda. At a later period it was given to the ancestor of the present family by King John, as a reward for the murder of the young prince, so touchingly described by Shakspeare. The view from the old battlements is wild and picturesque. In the new castle, which was built fifty years ago in the Gothic style, I was much struck with the portrait of a female ancestor of the present earl, who must have been lovely and no less original; for she is painted in deep mourning, and yet she sits smiling at a window with this inscription in old English: "Since my husband's love was but a jest, so is my mourning but a jest." Young Mr. Phipps told me that a strange accident occurred on a ridge of slate-rocks which run into the sea near the house.--Two girls were sitting on a cliff with their backs to the sea; a sharp fragment of the slate split off from the rock high above them, and falling with increasing velocity cut off the head of one of them, (who was earnestly talking to the other,) so clean, that it rolled to a distance on the sand, while the trunk remained unmoved. The parents are still living in the village. _Ripon, Sept. 27th._ I slept through the night very well in my carriage, breakfasted in the garden of a pretty inn, and then hastened to Studley Park, which contains the famous ruins of Fountain's Abbey, esteemed the largest and most beautiful in England. They far exceeded my expectation, as did the park.--I must describe them to you as I saw them. The way leads through a majestic wood, first to a steep hill, and then, at an abrupt turn, to a green valley about three or four hundred feet wide, in the centre of which is a little river broken into various natural waterfalls. On one side of the valley is a considerable chain of hills, overgrown with venerable ashes, beeches, and oaks; on the other, an abrupt wall of rock overhung with trailing plants, and also crowned with old trees. The whole end of the valley is closed by the ruins and the lofty towers of the abbey. You will easily form some conception of the vastness of these ruins, when I tell you that the buildings belonging to the abbey, when entire, covered fifteen acres of ground, and that the ruins now cover four. The nave of the church, great part of the walls of which are still standing, is three hundred and fifty-one feet in length, the oriel window fifty feet high, and the tower, though partly fallen down, a hundred and sixty-six feet high. The architecture is of the best period--the twelfth and thirteenth centuries--as simple as it is grand. A gateway leads from the church to the cloister, three hundred feet long and forty-two wide; a second to the cloister garden, which is cultivated as a flower-garden by its present possessor, and surrounded by various picturesque ruins,--the library, court and chapter-house. The vaulted ceiling of the latter, like the Römer in Marienburg, is supported by a single pillar in the centre. The groined roof of the kitchen is constructed, with consummate skill, without any support. Near it is the magnificent confectory, a hundred and eight feet long and forty-five wide:--this was, of course, the crown and glory of the abbey, which was famed for its luxury and dissoluteness. In the church are many monuments--one of Lord Mowbray in full chain armour, carved in stone; further on, several abbots; and lastly, a stone coffin, which contained the mortal remains of Harry Percy. Above it is an angel, in good preservation, and beneath it the date 1283, very distinct. At the top of the tower is a Latin inscription in gigantic Gothic letters, which proclaims from on high these beautiful and appropriate words, "Glory and praise to God alone through all ages!" The whole ruin is hung with draperies of ivy and creeping plants, and majestic trees here and there wave their tops above it. The river winds by, and a few steps further on, turns the old abbey-mill, which is still in use; as if to teach the lesson, that when power and magnificence pass away, the useful retains its modest existence. At a short distance behind the abbey stands the old dwelling of the proprietor, which was built out of the fallen stones of the ruins in the sixteenth century. This, too, is highly picturesque, though of course in a far less noble style. Its walled gardens with their high-cut yew hedges, and regular, trim flower-beds; and the mixture of objects comparatively modern, yet now fast acquiring a claim to antiquity, give the fancy an agreeable and spacious field to expatiate in. Here are perhaps the oldest yews in England. One, which is thought to be a thousand years old, is thirty feet in circumference in the thickest part of its stem. Among the carvings in the house are those of two old knights taken from the abbey, with the inscription, probably modern, 'Sic transit gloria mundi.' The decay of Fountain's Abbey, too, is to be attributed to the suppression of monasteries under Henry the Eighth. Leaving the abbey, in half an hour you reach a beautiful and finely kept pleasure-ground, which is rendered peculiarly delightful by its diversity of hill and vale, noble trees, and well-placed clumps; though rather encumbered with a multitude of old-fashioned summer-houses, temples, and worthless leaden statues. In one of these temples, dedicated to the Gods of antiquity, stands a bust of--Nero! But these slight defects might easily be removed, while such a combination of natural beauty can rarely be met with. At the end of the deer-park stands the house of the proprietress, an elderly single lady of large fortune. I met her in the garden, and was invited by her to luncheon, which I gladly accepted, as my long walk had made me very hungry. To return to the ruin.--Giving way to my critical vein, I must add one thing,--which is, that while too little care is bestowed upon Whitby, too much is bestowed upon this. Not a loose stone lies on the ground, which is mowed as smooth as a carpet. The old cloister garden is laid out in a too modern taste; and were this poetic structure mine, I would immediately set out about creating a little more artificial wildness about it; for the whole ought to partake of that air of half-decayed grandeur which has the greatest power over the imagination. After my return to Ripon I visited the church there--another beautiful remnant of antiquity, with a choir full of the richest carvings. There is a subterranean arched room--a sort of catacomb, adorned with skulls and bones,--in which I busied myself a long while with my favourite craniological researches. Among these human ruins was a skull so strikingly like my own, that it even struck the clerk. What may the old boy have been?--perhaps myself in another garment? Nobody could give me any account of this house of bone. There was the genuine French skull of an emigrant priest, which the clerk himself had smuggled in. He looked so polite and so talkative, that I fancied he would have said, 'Monsieur, j'ai l'honneur de vous présenter mes respects; vous êtes trop poli de venir nous rendre visite. Nous avons si rarement l'occasion de causer ici!' It was a well bred skull--that you saw at the first glance; my portrait, on the other hand, looked very thoughtful and silent. It would be odd enough if one thus stood over one's own old bones. _Harrowgate, Sept. 28th._ This bathing place is much after the fashion of ours, and more social than most of the English ones. People meet at 'table d'hôte,' at tea, and at the waters, and thus easily become acquainted. The place consists of two villages, both pretty and cheerful, and situated in a beautiful fertile country. Unfortunately, the weather is now dreadful: it rains incessantly; and the sulphureous water I drank to-day has made me so ill that I cannot leave my room. _September 29th._ These waters do not agree with me at all; nevertheless, I made my way to-day to the World's End, a short walk here,--'The World's End' being only a neighbouring village, with a pretty view into--the world's beginning; for as it is round, you may make it begin and end where you will. At 'table d'hôte' I met about seventy other persons. Though the season is nearly over, there are still about a thousand visitors, most of them of the middle classes; for Harrowgate is not one of the fashionable watering places, though it seems to me far more pleasant than the most fashionable Brighton. An old General of eighty, who was my neighbour at dinner, interested me extremely. He had met with Frederick the Great, Kaunitz, the Emperor Joseph, Mirabeau, and Napoleon, on various occasions of his life, and told me many interesting particulars about them. He had likewise been Governor of Surinam, and of the Isle of France; had commanded for a long time in India, and was now what we call General of Infantry, (next rank to a Field-Marshal.) All this would give him a high station with us:--here, no such thing; and this he remarked himself. "Here," said he, "the aristocracy is every thing: without family influence, without connexion, without some person of rank by whom a man may be pushed, he may indeed attain a high rank in the army; but, except under some very peculiar circumstances, this gives him no consideration. I am only a baronet," added he; "yet that empty and trifling hereditary title gives me more consideration than my long services or my high military rank; and I am not called General,--or, as I should be with you, '_Euer Excellenz_,'--but Sir Charles." After dinner the company re-assembled to tea, which ended with a little dance. _Leeds, Oct. 1st._ I remained in Harrowgate so long, chiefly in expectation of letters from you, as I had given L---- that address. To-day, then, I found one on my return from my walk: you can think the joy it gave me. I have accompanied you in thought to Dresden, and drunk your health before the illuminated letters of your name. It is one of my strange peculiarities, that though I was four years in garrison at D----, I never saw either Pillnitz or Moritzburg; so that your description of the latter, with the old Landvoigt, was very interesting to me. You reproach me with liking better to write than to speak upon certain subjects. You are right on the whole. But this affair,--and indeed all sorts of petitioning,--is so contrary to my nature, that I speak awkwardly and ill, and do better if I write. Besides, failure is not so disagreeable.--But back to my journey. The magnificent seats in England are really almost countless. One must confine oneself to the most remarkable. Ten miles from Harrowgate I found Harewood Park, a delightful residence;--fine natural wood, with glens, rocks, a copious mountain stream, the ruin of an old castle on a hill,--all situated in the richest country, and with distant views of the Cumberland mountains. The scene was enlivened in a striking manner. Just as I drove past the house, I saw the possessor, Lord Harewood, with his pack of a hundred hounds, his red-coated huntsmen, and a number of high-mettled horses coming down a hill, on their return from a fox-hunt. I could not avoid going up to him to explain the cause of my being here. I found a tall handsome man, of remarkably winning air, in appearance and manner young and active, in years (which one must be assured of to believe it,) sixty-five. He received me with singular courtesy, said he had had the pleasure of seeing me several times in London, ('je n'en savais pas un mot,') and begged me to allow him to show me his park. I entreated him not to give himself the trouble, after the toils of the chase (in which men generally ride five or six German miles full gallop, and leap fifty or sixty hedges and ditches:) but all my entreaties were vain; and this fine old man accompanied me, up hill and down dale, over the whole of his princely domain. What interested me most, as being new to me, was the kennel. Here I saw a hundred and fifty dogs in two perfectly clean rooms, each containing a large bed for seventy-five dogs, and each having its own enclosure in front. There was not the slightest offensive smell, nor the least dirt. In each yard was a tub with running water, and a man armed with a broom, whose whole business it is to keep the ground continually washed, for which purpose he can let the water flow over it at pleasure. The dogs are accustomed to perfect obedience, and keep their bed and room very clean. It is a great art to feed them properly; for to sustain their great exertions, they must be kept very lean, and yet their flesh ought to be as firm as iron. This was perfectly accomplished here; and there could not be a more beautiful sight than these slender, obedient, and happy-looking animals, half of whom were just returned from the chase, and yet seemed quite unwearied. They all lay however on their huge common bed, and looked at us affectionately, wagging their tails; while the other half sprang eagerly and wildly forward, into their court. The stables too, built in a quadrangle at a little distance from the house, were very fine, and contained about thirty noble horses. My carriage had followed, and Lord Harewood now gave the postillion instructions which way to drive through the park, that I might see the most beautiful points, and then sauntered home accompanied by two great water-dogs and a jet-black spaniel. He was in fox-hunting costume,--a scarlet coat that looks like a livery. I forgot to say that we had first made a tour through the house, which is richly and handsomely furnished, and contains family pictures by Vandyk, Reynolds, and Lawrence, the three best painters of England in their several centuries. There was one work of art in the principal apartment quite peculiar,--red curtains painted on wood, so admirably executed that Rauch himself would have been astounded at the flow of the drapery. Though I was told what they were, I could scarcely believe it till I convinced myself by the touch, so completely deceptive was the imitation of the silken stuff. Another uncommon decoration consisted in having the ceilings of all the rooms of the same designs as the carpets; a very expensive thing, if, as I imagine, the carpets were all woven after the pattern of the ceilings. The long drive through the park, a good league, was very delightful. The road lay at first along the lake, with a majestic view of the house, and then through the wood to the river, which forms various cascades and little lakes. The wood itself was full of variety,--now thick and almost impervious to the view; then grove-like; then open patches with a dense enclosure; or young copse from which deer were peeping out; or anon a long and narrow vista to the distant mountains. A nobleman thus situated is a dignified representative of his class; and it is very natural that, thus favoured by nature and by fortune, he should appear kind, benevolent, respectable, and happy, like this noble Earl, whose image will always afford me as delightful and refreshing a subject of recollection, as the beautiful landscape it graces. Very different from the impression of the day, and yet not less agreeable, was that of the evening. I reached the great manufacturing town of Leeds just in the twilight. A transparent cloud of smoke was diffused over the whole space which it occupies, on and between several hills; a hundred red fires shot upwards into the sky, and as many towering chimneys poured forth columns of black smoke. The huge manufactories, five stories high, in which every window was illuminated, had a grand and striking effect. Here the toiling artisan labours far into the night. And that some romantic features might not be wanting in the whirl of business and the illumination of industry, two ancient Gothic churches reared their heads above the mass of houses, and the moon poured her silver light upon their towers, and seemed to damp the hard glare of the busy crowd below, with her serene majesty. Leeds has near 120,000 inhabitants, and yet no representatives in parliament,--because it is a new town: while, as it is well known, many a wretched ruined village sends two members, who are, of course, the creatures of the proprietor. Glaring and monstrous as is this nuisance, the statesmen of England have not yet dared to abate it; perhaps because they fear that any change in so complicated a piece of machinery may be a dangerous operation, to which recourse should be had only in extreme necessity. _Late in the Evening._ I have adapted myself to many English customs,--among others, to cold dinners. As a change they are sometimes wholesome, and, being completely national, are almost always of excellent quality. To-day my solitary table was covered with no less than the following varieties; a cold ham, an awful 'roast beef,' a leg of mutton, a piece of roast veal, a hare pie, a partridge, three sorts of pickle, cauli-flowers cooked in water, potatoes, butter, and cheese. That this would have been meat enough to feed a whole party of German burghers, 'saute aux yeux.' _October 2nd._ The first thing I saw this morning before my windows was the refined contrivance of a grocer, who had not been satisfied with exhibiting, like most of his brethren, a number of Chinese tea-chests, mandarins, and vases, but had put a piece of clockwork in his window, a stately automaton Turk diligently grinding coffee. From hence I proceeded on my further tour. First I visited the Market-hall, a beautiful building, in which the market is held under a glass roof; then the Cloth-hall, an immense room entirely filled with cloth of all sorts and colours; and lastly, the largest cloth manufactory of the place, which is worked by three steam-engines. Here you begin with the raw material (the sorting of the wool,) and finish with the perfect cloth; so that if you took a tailor with you, you might bring your wool in the manufactory in the morning, and come out with a coat made of it in the evening. Our friend R---- actually performed this feat, and wore the coat for a long time with great predilection. The various machines are ingenious in the highest degree; but the stench and the unwholesome air, as well as the dust in many of the operations, must be very unhealthy to the poor workmen, who moreover were all of a dark blue colour. The young man who showed me the manufactory said, however, that the cotton manufactories were much more unhealthy, from the fine and subtle dust; that in them a workman seldom reached his fiftieth year, whereas here there were instances of men of sixty. The Gothic churches which yesterday produced such an effect at a distance, presented nothing remarkable on a nearer inspection; and the town itself, enveloped in an everlasting fog produced by the smoke, which never ceases day nor night, is the most disagreeable place you can imagine. _Rotherham:--Evening._ Continuing my journey, I made the first halt at Templenewsome, a house of Elizabeth's time, belonging to the Dowager Marchioness of Hertford. This edifice has a great singularity; instead of battlements, a stone gallery surrounds the roof, consisting of letters which compose a sentence from the Bible. The park is melancholy, and the furniture of the house old-fashioned, without being interesting. I found nothing remarkable in the picture-gallery, but in the other rooms there were some interesting portraits: both the Guises, the uncles of Mary of Scotland; General Monk, who is strikingly like our old friend Thielemann; and Lord Darnley (Mary's husband,) to whom this castle belonged; it hangs in the room in which he was born. I had a very bad headache; for which reason, perhaps, a second park, Stainbrook, appeared to me dreary and uncomfortable, nor could I admire the pictures. The road then led me through a series of manufacturing places, which looked like burning towns and villages. Rotherham itself, where I now am, is celebrated for its great iron-works, and I intend to see some of them to-morrow, if my illness goes off. _October 3rd._ After having walked half a German mile to the largest iron-work, I unluckily found the engine stopped, in consequence of the furnace having received some damage yesterday. I could therefore see but little, and went a mile further on to the steel-works. Here the steam-engine had just got out of order, and the operations were likewise suspended. So I wandered on again to the thread and linen manufactory; and my own astonishment, as well as that of my guide, was not small, when we perceived no signs of working here also, and heard that the great spindle had been broken in the morning. With this extraordinary 'guignon' ended my useless efforts to instruct myself for to-day; indeed there was no time to make any more. _Sheffield:--Evening._ I rode from Rotherham to Wentworth House, the seat of Lord Fitzwilliam, another truly regal domain, for extent, richness, and splendour; but (like many English parks) melancholy and monotonous; the immense tracts of grass, with a few scattered trees, and the tame sheep-like deer grazing upon them, in time become intolerable. Certainly, it is a most tasteless custom to have these green deserts extend on one side up to the very houses; it makes them look like enchanted palaces, inhabited by deer instead of men. It is easier to give oneself up to this notion since there is seldom a human being to be seen outside the house, which is usually shut up, so that you are often obliged to ring at the door for a quarter of an hour before you can get admittance, or the Lady 'Chátelaine' appears to play the cicerone, and receive her fee. Wentworth House is adorned with many valuable statues and pictures. Amongst others, a beautiful picture by Vandyk, representing the builder of the castle, Lord Strafford, just as sentence of death has been announced to him: he is holding the fatal scroll in his hand, and dictating to his secretary his last will. Another picture represents his son, a beautiful boy of sixteen, in a most becoming mourning dress,--black, with rich lace, fawn-coloured boots, a tight enamelled collar, a short cloak, a rich sword, and a scarf 'en bandoulière.' The picture of a race-horse as large as life, painted on gray linen, and placed in a niche without a frame, really deceived me; I thought it alive. This horse won so much, that the former lord built a quadrangle of magnificent stables, the most complete I have seen in this country, with the money. In these stables, which contain also a riding-school, stand sixty beautiful and picked horses. An excellent portrait of the vain and ambitious Cardinal Wolsey, and one of the fickle Duke of Buckingham, are very interesting. The housekeeper, pointing to the portrait of Harvey, said: "This is the man who invented the circulation of the blood." One would like to make that man's acquaintance. In the flower-gardens I found some beautiful parts; amongst others, an enclosure made of wire-fence, running along the gay parterres, peopled with foreign birds, a clear brook flowing through it, and planted with evergreens, on which the feathered inhabitants could sport at pleasure. Several black swans, which have already reared four young ones, were swimming on a small pond near it. They seem to be completely accustomed to this climate. I was struck by a common beech on the banks of the water, which, by early polling, had completely changed its character. It was very low, but its branches stretched out on all sides, so as to cover an immense space, and form a regularly leafy tent of unequalled beauty. A fir, polled in the same manner, had attained a beauty far greater than that of its natural growth. I arrived in good time at Sheffield, where, from the quantity of smoke, the sun appeared shorn of his beams. I looked at the astonishing productions in cutlery; as, for instance, a knife with a hundred and eighty blades; scissors which cut perfectly and can be used, though hardly visible with the naked eye, &c. &c. In defiance of superstition, I bought you needles and scissors enough for your whole life, with some other newly-invented trifles, which I am sure will please you. _Nottingham, Oct. 4th._ I rode the whole night, and saw only from a distance, and by moonlight, Newstead Abbey, Lord Byron's birth-place and family seat, now much neglected. Besides the Gothic church (of which nearly every English town possesses one, more or less beautiful,) there is not much to be seen in Nottingham; a remarkable manufactory of net excepted, where the steam-engines do all the work, and only a single man stands by the machinery to take care that nothing goes wrong. It is most strange to see the iron monsters begin to work, as if moved by invisible hands, and the most beautiful lace, stretched in a frame, comes slowly forth at the top, neat and finished; while the spindles, with the raw thread wound round them, keep on their perpetual motion below; the whole unaided, as I have said, by a single human hand. It was just the time of the Fair, which had drawn together a great number of curiosities; among others, a beautiful collection of wild beasts. Two Bengal tigers, of an enormous size, were so perfectly tame, that even ladies and children were allowed to enter their cage, or the animals were let out in the riding school where the collection was exhibited. No dog could be more gentle; but I doubt whether our police would have suffered such experiments. A remarkable animal was the horned horse, or Nyl Ghau, from the Himalaya mountains,--handsome and fleet, and in some respects very strangely formed. The beautiful wild ass of Persia, which they say is swifter and more untireable than a horse, and can live for weeks without food, was new to me. There were also here, as in the collection of animals on the Pfaueninsel near Berlin, a giant and a dwarf. _London, Oct. 6th._ Before I left Nottingham I visited the neighbouring seat of Lord Middleton, which is worth seeing. The park offered little remarkable. There was a curious old picture--a faithful portrait of the house and gardens as they existed two hundred years ago. It is very interesting; the more so, as you see the family in the strangest dresses, with a great company and numerous attendants, walking in the garden, and as the noble owner therein represented is the same who is so often mentioned in connexion with the celebrated ghost story. Every one ought to have pictures of this kind painted for his successors: the comparisons they suggest are always amusing, and sometimes instructive. I reached St. Albans in the night, and saw the celebrated Abbey by the light of the moon, and of lanterns. The clerk was quickly awakened, and conducted me thither. I first admired the exterior of the building, built by the Saxons, in the eighth century, of indestructible Roman bricks, and then entered the imposing interior. The nave of the church is doubtless one of the largest in the world; it is more than six hundred feet long. There are many beautiful stone carvings; and although little could be distinctly seen by so feeble a light, the general effect by this strange and uncertain illumination, with our dark figures in the middle, and the sounds of the midnight bell from the tower, was most romantic and awful. This was still more the case when we descended into the vault where, in an open leaden coffin, lies the skeleton of the Duke of Gloucester who was poisoned six hundred years ago by Cardinal Beaufort. Time has rendered it as brown and smooth as polished mahogany; and curious antiquarians have already robbed it of several bones. The clerk, who was an Irishman, seized one of the leg-bones without ceremony, and brandishing it in the air like a cudgel, he remarked that this bone had become so beautiful and hard with time, that it would make an excellent shillelah. What would the haughty Duke have said, if he could have known how his remains would be treated by such ignoble hands? The magnificent oak ceiling, more than 1000 years old, is a glorious proof of the solid architecture of those times. It is still as beautiful and perfect as if there were no cyphers after the unit. The painted windows, with the golden tomb of St. Alban, were unhappily almost entirely destroyed in Cromwell's time. I reached London early enough to repose half the night; and my first business in the morning was to finish this letter, already swollen to a packet. In a few hours I hope it will be on its way. Do not be impatient therefore; and receive this letter with the same affectionate indulgence as its numerous predecessors. Your faithful L----. LETTER XX. _London, Nov. 1st, 1827._ A FRENCHMAN says; "L'illusion fut inventée pour le bonheur des mortels; elle leur fait presqu'autant de bien que l'espérance." If this is true, happy man is my dole, for I am never at a loss for illusions or hopes. Some of these have certainly been thrown to the winds by your letter; but be of good courage, there is already a fresh crop of new ones springing up as fast as mushrooms.--More of them anon. Concerning the intolerable, sleepy President, I cannot possibly write from hence. Besides, as a dandy would say, the man is not 'fashionable' enough. And indeed you manage all these affairs so admirably, that it were a shame not to leave them entirely to you. This is selfishness on my part, but of a pardonable sort, since it is advantageous to us both * * * * * * * * During the last few days I have made a little excursion to Brighton, taking a circuitous route back. Arundel Castle, the seat of the Duke of Norfolk, was one of the objects of my curiosity. It has some points of resemblance to Warwick, but is far inferior to it, though of equal antiquity. Here also is an artificial mound and keep, at the eastern end. The view from the top of the round ruined tower must be magnificent, but to-day the fog rendered it impossible to see it; indeed I could not even distinguish the terrace gardens surrounding the castle: I therefore consoled myself in the company of a dozen large tame horned owls, which inhabit what was once the warder's room. One of them has been here these fifty years, is very amiable, and barked when he wanted any thing, exactly like a dog. The English are great lovers of animals,--a taste in which I entirely sympathize. Thus, in many parks you find colonies of rooks, which hover round the house or castle in vast flights, and are in very good keeping with an ancient castle and its towering trees; though their cawing is not the most agreeable music in the world. The interior of Arundel Castle has nothing very distinguished. The numerous painted windows are modern; and among the family pictures only one struck me,--that of the accomplished Lord Surrey, put to death by Henry the Eighth, the costume of which was very singular. The library is small, but very magnificent; wainscoted with cedar, and ornamented with beautiful carving and painting; in short, it wanted nothing but books, of which there were not more than a few hundreds. A very large but very simple hall, called the Baron's Hall, has a great number of painted windows, the merit of which is not remarkable. In the apartments there was a quantity of old furniture, preserved with great care to prevent its falling to pieces, in its frail condition. This fashion is now general in England. Things which we should throw away as old-fashioned and worm-eaten, here fetch high prices, and new ones are often made after the old patterns. In venerable mansions, when not destructive of convenience, they have a very good effect. In modern buildings they are ludicrous. The old part of the castle is said to have been a Roman fort, and many Roman bricks are found in the walls. In later times it was still a place of defence, and sustained several sieges. The modern part, in the style of the ancient, was built by the predecessor of the present duke, and cost, as I was told, eight hundred thousand pounds. The same thing might certainly have been done in Germany for three hundred thousand reichsthalers. The garden appeared to me diversified and extensive, and the park is said to be very noble and picturesque, but the horrid weather hindered me from seeing it. In the evening I drove to Petworth, where there is another fine house. I write from the inn, where I was settled in a few minutes as if at home, for my travelling arrangements and conveniences have been greatly perfected since my residence in England. _Petworth House, Oct. 26._ Colonel C---- came to my inn early in this morning, and reproached me with not driving straight to the house of his father-in-law, Lord E----, the owner of Petworth House. He pressed me so kindly to spend at least a day there, that I could not refuse. My luggage was soon transported thither, and I as quickly installed in my room. It is a fine modern palace, with a noble collection of pictures and antiques, and a large park which contains a celebrated stud. I was peculiarly struck with three of the pictures,--Henry the Eighth, a full-length, by Holbein, remarkable for the exquisite painting of the dress and ornaments, and the fresh masterly colouring: a portrait of the immortal Newton, which is far less distinguished for its expression of intelligence, than for its pre-eminently elegant and gentlemanly air; and one of Maurice of Orange, so like our poet Houwald that it might pass for him. The mixture of statues and pictures which is common here, is disadvantageous to both. Among the curiosities is a family relic,--the great sword of Harry Percy, an ancestor of Lord E----'s. The library served, as usual, as drawing-room,--a very rational and agreeable plan. It was fitted up according to your taste,--only the best modern books, in elegant bindings; for all others there was another room upstairs. The freedom in this house was perfect, which rendered it doubly agreeable to me. One really feels not the slightest 'gène.' There were many guests of both sexes. The host himself is a learned and accomplished connoisseur in art, and at the same time a very conspicuous and successful man 'on the turf.' In his stud I saw a horse about thirty years old, ('Whalebone',) who was obliged to be supported by several grooms when he attempted to walk, and whose foals still unborn, fetch enormous sums. That's what I call a glorious old age. 'Au reste,' the regulations of the stud are very different here from ours. With all your appetite for knowledge, however, this 'thema' might interest you little, so that I shall go on to other matters. On the following day, arrived the Duchess of St. A----, a woman whose ever ascending fortunes have been remarkable enough. The earliest recollections of her infancy are those of a deserted, starving, shivering child, in a solitary barn in an English village. Thence she was taken by a band of gipsies;--quitting them, she entered a strolling company of players. By her agreeable person, high spirits, and original humour, she gained some reputation in her new profession, gradually secured patronage and friends, and lived in long and undisturbed connexion with a rich banker, who at length married her, and at his death left her seventy thousand a year. This enormous fortune afterwards promoted her to be the wife of the third English Duke, and (by a curious coincidence) the descendant of the celebrated actress Nell Gwynne, to whose charms the Duke owes his title, in the same manner as his wife has acquired hers. She is a very good-natured woman, who is not ashamed to speak of the past--on the contrary, alludes to it perhaps rather too much. * * * * * After an agreeable visit of three days, I returned hither, and now celebrate my birth-day in the profoundest solitude, with closed doors. Three-fourths of my melancholy fits I may certainly ascribe to the month in which I first saw the light. May children are far more cheerful: I never saw a hypochondriacal son of the Spring. A song called _Prognostica_ once fell into my hands: I am very sorry I did not keep it; for it told a man's fortune according to the month of his birth. I only remember that those born in October were to have a melancholy temper, and that the prophecy began thus:-- "Ein Junge geboren im Monat October Wird eim Critiker, und das ein recht grober."[71] I leave you now for a great dinner at Prince E----'s, for I will not devote the whole day to solitude; I am too superstitious for that. Adieu. _November 4th._ In my quality of Chevalier de St. Louis, I was invited to-day to a great dinner at Prince P----'s, in commemoration of the Saint's day, or the 'jour de fête' of the king of France,--I really don't know which. After it, I went to see the _Continuation_ of Don Juan at Drury Lane. 'Of course' the first act was laid in hell, where Don Juan immediately seduces the Furies, and at last even the devil's grandmother, for which offence he is forcibly ejected by His Satanic Majesty. Just as he reaches the picturesque shores of the fire-rolling Styx, Charon is in the act of ferrying over three female souls from London. While they are landing, Don Juan occupies the old ferryman's attention with changing a bank-note (for paper money is current in the infernal regions,) seizes the moment to make off with them from the shore, and conducts them back to earth. Arrived in London, he has his usual adventures,--duels, elopements, &c.; the equestrian statue at Charing Cross invites him to tea; but his creditors carry him off to the King's Bench, whence he is delivered by marrying a rich wife, in whom he at length finds that full punishment for all his sins which hell could not afford. Madame Vestris as Don Juan is the prettiest and most seductive young fellow you can imagine, and, it is easy to see, does not want practice. The piece amused me. Still more amusing was a new novel which I found on my table, the scene of which is laid in the year 2200,--not a very new idea, certainly. It represents the religion of England as once more Catholic, the government an absolute monarchy, and universal education so diffused, that learning is become the common property of the lower classes. Every artisan works upon mathematical or chemical principles. Footmen and cooks, with such names as Abelard and Heloisa, speak in the style of the _Jenaer Literaturzeitung_. On the other hand, it is the fashion among the higher classes, by way of distinguishing themselves from the 'plebs,' to use the most vulgar language and expressions, and carefully to conceal any knowledge that goes beyond reading and writing. There is some wit in this idea, and perhaps it is prophetic. The habits of life of this class are also very simple. Few and homely dishes appear on all their tables, and luxury is to be met with only at those of the servants. That air-balloons are the common conveyances, and that steam governs the world, are matters of course. A German professor, however, makes a discovery in galvanism, by which he is enabled to bring the dead to life; and the mummy of King Cheops, recently found in a pyramid which had remained unopened, is the first person on whom this experiment is tried. How the living mummy comes to England, and how horribly he behaves there, you may read when the novel is translated into German. 'Au reste,' I often feel like a mummy myself,--bound hand and foot, and eagerly waiting my release. _Nov. 5th._ Such a fog covered the whole town this morning that I could not see to breakfast without candles. Going out till evening was not to be thought of. I was invited to dinner at ----: P---- was there too, to whom she generally shows great hostility, I know not why. To-day, with his usual 'étourderie,' he ruined himself for ever. The lady has, as you may remember, rather a red nose, which the malicious have ascribed to the custom with which General Pillett reproaches Englishwomen. P---- probably did not know this, and remarked that she mixed a dark liquid with her wine. In the innocence--or the wickedness--of his heart, he asked her whether she was so much of an Englishwoman as to mix her wine with Cognac. It was not till he remarked the redness diffuse itself over her whole face, and the embarrassment of those who sat near, that he was conscious of his 'bévue;' for the innocent beverage was toast and water. This suggested to me the ludicrous directions given by a book of _Rules for Good Behaviour_, written in our pedantic national manner. "When you go into company," says the author, "be sure to inform yourself accurately beforehand concerning the persons you are likely to meet; their parentage, connexions, foibles, faults, and peculiarities; so that you may not, on the one hand, say any thing unknowingly which may touch a sore place, and on the other, may be able to flatter in an easy and appropriate manner." Laughably expressed enough, and difficult to accomplish, but not a bad precept! There was a great deal of political talk, particularly of this dashing commencement of a war, by the destruction of the Turkish fleet. How inconsistent is the language of Englishmen on this subject! But ever since the fall of Napoleon the leading politicians do not seem to know rightly what they would be at. The miserable results of their Congresses do not satisfy even them; but yet there has appeared no original mind capable of making these meetings conduce to more important consequences; no master-will to guide them; and the fate of Europe depends no longer on its leaders, but on chance. Canning was but a transient vision; and how are his successors employed? The destruction of the fleet of an old and faithful ally, without a declaration of war, is the best proof; though, as man and Philhellene, I heartily rejoice at it. But amid all these political abortions, this tottering and vacillating of all parts, we shall certainly live to witness still more extraordinary things;--perhaps combinations which have hitherto been deemed impossible. This is partly to be ascribed to Canning himself,--for his plans were not matured; and a man of eminent genius is always detrimental to his successors when they are pygmies. The present Ministers have completely the air of wishing to lead England slowly into the pit which Canning dug for others. Even the very storm which they have been gathering on the boundaries of Asia, will perhaps burst most furiously over the centre of Europe. I hope however the God of the thunder will be with _us_. The future prospects of Prussia appear to my anticipations far higher and more glorious than any fate has yet granted her; only let her never lose sight of her motto, "_Vorwärts_." On returning home I found your letter, which amused me much; especially K----'s sallies, vainly bottled up in Paris to be let loose in S----, where they find so little success; for indeed you are right, "Rien de plus triste qu'un bon mot Qui se perd dans l'oreille d'une sot." And that he may experience often enough. _Oct. 29th._ As one has now time to go to the theatre, and the best actors are playing, I devote many of my evenings to this æsthetic pastime. Last night I saw with renewed pleasure Kemble's artist-like representation of Falstaff, about which I once wrote to you. I must however mention, that his dress of white and red,--very 'recherché,' though a little worn, combined with his handsome curling white hair and beard,--gave him a happy mixture of the gentleman and the droll, which in my opinion greatly heightened, and, so to say, refined the effect. Generally speaking, the costume was excellent;--on the other hand it must be admitted to be an unpardonable destruction of all illusion, that as soon as Henry the Fourth, with his splendid Court, and his train of knights, brilliant in steel and gold, quit the stage, two servants in theatrical liveries, with shoes and red stockings, come on to take away the throne. I found it just as impossible to reconcile myself to hearing Lord Percy address the King, who was sitting at the back of the stage, for a quarter of an hour, during the whole of which time I never could catch sight of anything but his back. It is remarkable that the most celebrated actors here regularly affect this offensive practice; while with us they run into the contrary fault, and the 'primo amoroso' during the most ardent declaration of love, turns his back on his mistress to ogle the audience. To hit the right medium is certainly difficult, and the stage arrangements ought to assist the actor. Of the character of Percy, German actors generally make a sort of mad calf, who behaves both towards his wife and towards the King as if he had been bitten by a mad dog. These men don't know when to soften, and when to heighten the effects of the poet. Young understands this thoroughly, and knows perfectly how to unite the stormy vehemence of the youth with the dignity of the hero and the high bearing of the prince. He suffered the electric fire to dart in lightnings from the thunder-cloud, but not to degenerate into a pelting hail-storm. They appear to me, too, to act together here, better than on the German stage, and many of the scenic arrangements seemed to me judicious. To give you one example:--you remember (for we once saw this play together at Berlin) the scene in which the King receives Percy's messengers. You thought it so indecorous that Falstaff should be continually pressing forward before, and up to, the King, and rudely interrupting him every moment with his jokes. The cause of this was, that our actors think so much more of their persons than of their parts. Herr D---- feels himself 'every inch a King' in comparison with Herr M----; and forgets whom they severally represent at the moment. Here Shakspeare is better understood, and the scene more appropriately represented. The King stands with the ambassadors in the front of the stage; the Court is scattered in groups; and midway on one side are the Prince and Falstaff. The latter cracks his jokes, as a half-privileged buffoon; but rather addresses them in an under voice to the Prince than directly to the King: when addressed by him, he immediately assumes the respectful attitude suited to his station, and does not affect to fraternize with his sovereign as with an equal. In this manner you can give in to the illusion of seeing a Court before you; in the other, you think yourself still in Eastcheap. The actors here live in better society and have more tact. _Nov. 23d._ It is curious enough that men regard that alone as a wonder which is at a distance from them, in time or space; the daily wonders near them they pass by unheeded. Yet we must be now living in the days of the Arabian Nights, for I have seen a creature to-day far surpassing all the fantastic beings of that time. Listen what are the monster's characteristics. In the first place, its food is the cheapest possible, for it eats nothing but wood or coals. When not actually at work, it requires none. It never sleeps, nor is weary; it is subject to no diseases, if well organized at first, and never refuses its work till it becomes incapable by great length of service. It is equally active in all climates, and undertakes every kind of labour without a murmur. Here it is a miner, there a sailor, a cotton-spinner, a weaver, a smith, or a miller;--indeed it performs the business of each and all of them; and though a small creature, it draws ninety tons of goods, or a whole regiment of soldiers packed into carriages, with a swiftness exceeding that of the fleetest stage-coaches. At the same time it marks its own measured steps on a tablet fixed in front of it. It regulates, too, the degree of warmth necessary to its well-being: it has a strange power of oiling its inmost joints when they are stiff, and of removing at pleasure all injurious air which might find its way into its system;--but should any thing become deranged in it, it immediately warns its master by the loud ringing of a bell. Lastly, it is so docile, spite of its immense strength (nearly equal to that of six hundred horses,) that a child of four years old is able in a moment to arrest its mighty labours, by the pressure of his little finger. Would people formerly have believed that such a ministering spirit could be summoned by anything but Solomon's signet? or did ever a witch burnt for sorcery produce its equal? Now a new wonder. Only magnetise five hundred gold pieces with a strong will to change them into such a creature, and after a few preliminary ceremonies, you will see him established in your service. The spirit ascends in vapour, but never vanishes. He remains your lawful slave for life. Such are the miracles of our times, which perhaps surpass many of the most extraordinary of former ages. I spent the evening at the house of Lady C---- B----, who has just finished a new novel, called "Flirtation." I talked very frankly to her about it, for she is a clever and a good woman.* * * * * * * * I don't know whether I told you that I lodge at the house of a dress-maker in Albemarle-street, who has collected around her a perfect garland of English, French, and Italian girls. All is decorum itself; but there are many talents among them which can be turned to account--among others, that of a French girl, who has a genius for cooking, and has thus enabled me to entertain my kind friend L---- in my own little home. Dinner, concert (droll enough it was, for the performers were all 'couturières'), a little dance for the young ladies, a great many artificial flowers, a great many lights, a very few intimate friends;--in short, a sort of rural fête in this busy town. The poor girls were delighted, and it was almost morning before they went to bed, though the duenna kept faithful watch and ward to the last moment. I was greatly praised and thanked by all; though in their hearts they no doubt liked my young friend L---- much better. _Nov. 28th._ A great actor,--a true master of his art, certainly stands very high. What knowledge and power he must have! How much genius must he unite with corporeal grace and address!--how much creative power, with the most perfect knowledge of wearisome 'routine!' This evening, for the first time since my residence here, I saw Macbeth,--perhaps the most sublime and perfect of Shakspeare's tragedies. Macready, who has lately returned from America, played the part admirably. The passages in which he appeared to me peculiarly true and powerful, were, first, the night-scene in which he comes on the stage after the murder of Duncan, with the bloody dagger, and tells his wife that he has done the deed. He carried on the whole conversation in a low voice, as the nature of the incident requires;--like a whisper in the dark,--yet so distinctly, and with such a fearful expression, that all the terrors of night and crime pass with the sound into the hearer's very soul. Not less excellent was the difficult part with Banquo's ghost. The fine passage-- "What man dare, I dare. Approach, then, like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or Hyrcanian tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble. Or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhibit, then protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, terrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence!" &c. with great judgment he began with all the vehemence of desperation; then, overcome by terror, dropped his voice lower and lower, till the last words were tremulous and inarticulate. Then, uttering a subdued cry of mortal horror, he suddenly cast his mantle over his face and sank back half-lifeless on his seat. He thus produced the most apalling effect. As man, you felt tremblingly with him, that our most daring courage can oppose nothing to the terrors of another world;--you saw no trace of the stage-hero, who troubles himself little about nature; and playing only to produce effect on the galleries, seeks his highest triumph in an ascending scale of noise and fury. Macready was admirable, too, in the last act; in which conscience and fear are equally deadened and exhausted, and rigid apathy has taken the place of both; when the last judgment breaks over the head of the sinner in three rapidly succeeding strokes,--the death of the Queen, the fulfilment of the delusive predictions of the witches, and Macduff's terrific declaration that he is not born of woman. What had previously tortured Macbeth's spirit--had made him murmer at his condition, or struggle against the goadings of his conscience,--can now only strike him with momentary terror, like a lightning flash. He is weary of himself and of existence; and fighting, as he says in bitter scorn, 'bear-like,' he falls at length, a great criminal--but withal a king and a hero. Equally masterly was the combat with Macduff, in which inferior actors commonly fail;--nothing hurried, yet all the fire, nay, all the horror of _the end_,--of the final rage and despair. I shall never forget the ludicrous effect of this scene at the first performance of Spiker's translation at Berlin. Macbeth and his antagonist set upon each other in such a manner, that, without intending it, they got behind the scenes before their dialogue was at an end; whence the words "Hold--enough!" (what went before them being inaudible,) sounded as if Macbeth was run down and had cried, (holding out his sword and deprecating any further fighting,) "Leave off--hold--enough!" Lady Macbeth, though played by a second-rate actress,--for, alas! since the departure of Mrs. Siddons and Miss O'Neil there is no first rate--pleased me better in her feeble delineation of the character, than many would-be-great 'artistes' of our fatherland, whose affected manner is suited to no single character in Shakspeare. I do not, however, entirely participate in Tieck's well-known view of this character. I would fain go still deeper into it. Scarcely any man understands how the love of a woman sees _every thing_ solely as it regards or affects the beloved object; and thence, for a time at least, knows virtue or vice only with relation to him. Lady Macbeth, represented as a furious Megæra who uses her husband only as an instrument of her own ambition, is wanting in all inward truth, and, still more, in all interest. Such a woman would be incapable of that profound feeling of her own crime and misery so fearfully expressed in the sleeping scene; it is only in the presence of her husband, and in order to give him courage, that she always seems the stronger; that she shows neither fear nor remorse; that she jests at them in him, and seeks to deafen herself to their voice in her own heart. She is certainly not a gentle, feminine character; but womanly love to her husband is nevertheless the leading motive of her actions. As the poet reveals to us her secret agonies in the night scene, so likewise does he suffer us to perceive that Macbeth had long ago betrayed to her those ambitious wishes lurking in his breast, which he had scarcely confessed to himself: and thus it is that the witches choose Macbeth as their own,--as worms and moths attack what is already diseased and decaying,--only because they find him ripe for their purpose. She knows then, the inmost desires of his heart; to _satisfy him_, she hurries with passionate vehemence to his aid, and, with all the devoted impetuosity of a woman, far outstrips even his thoughts. The more Macbeth falters and draws back--half acting a part with himself and with her,--the more is her zeal quickened; she represents herself, to herself and to him, more cruel, more hard-hearted than she is; and works herself up by artificial excitements, only that she may inspire him with the courage and determination necessary to accomplish his ends. To him she is ready to sacrifice not only all that stands between Macbeth and his wishes, but _herself_; the peace of her own conscience--nay, all womanly thoughts and feelings towards others; and to call the powers of darkness to aid and strengthen her. It is only when viewed in this manner that her character appears to me dramatic, or the progress of the piece psychologically true. Viewed in the other light, we find nothing in it but a caricature--a thing impossible to Shakspeare's creative spirit, which always paints possible men, and not unnatural monsters or demons of the fancy. And thus do they mutually urge each down the precipice; for neither, singly, would have fallen so far;--Macbeth, however, manifestly with greater selfishness; and therefore is his end, like his torment, the more painful. It is a great advantage to the performance of this piece when the part of Macbeth, and not that of the Lady, falls to the actor of genius. Of that I was strongly convinced to-day. If Lady Macbeth, by superiority of acting, is converted into the principal character, the whole tragedy is contemplated in a false point of view. It is something quite other than the real one, and loses the greatest part of its interest, when we see a ferocious amazon, and a hero under her slipper who suffers himself to be used as a mere tool of her projects. No,--in _him_ lies the germ of the sin from the beginning; his wife does but help him: he is by no means a man of originally noble temper, who, seduced by the witches, becomes a monster;--but, as in Romeo and Juliet the passion of love is led from the innocent childishness of its first budding, in a mind too susceptible of its power, through all the stages of delight, to despair and death,--so in Macbeth the subject of the picture is self-seeking ambition fostered by powers of evil, passing from an innocence that was but apparent, and the fame of an honoured hero, to the blood-thirstiness of the tiger, and to the end of a hunted wild beast. Nevertheless, the man in whose soul the poison works is gifted with so many lofty qualities, that we can follow the struggle and the developement with sympathy. What an inconceivable enjoyment would it be to see such a work of genius represented by great actors throughout, where none were a mere subordinate! This however could be accomplished only by spirits, as in Hofmann's ghostly representation of Don Juan. You will perhaps find much that is incongruous in these views; but recollect that great poets work like Nature herself. To every man they assume the garb and colour of his own mind, and thence admit of various interpretations. They are so rich, that they distribute their gifts among a thousand poor, and yet have abundance in reserve. Many of the stage arrangements were very praiseworthy. For instance, the two murderers whom Macbeth hires to murder Banquo, are not, as on our stage, ragged ruffians,--by the side of whom the King, in his regal ornaments and the immediate vicinity of his Court, exhibits a ridiculous contrast, and who could never find access to a palace in such a dress; but of decent appearance and behaviour,--villains, but not beggars. The old Scottish costume is thoroughly handsome, and is probably more true to the times, certainly more picturesque, than with us. The apparition of Banquo, as well as the whole disposition of the table, was infinitely better. In this the Berlin manager made a ludicrous 'bévue.' When the King questions the murderers concerning Banquo's death, one of them answers, "My lord, his throat is cut." This was taken so literally, that a most disgusting pasteboard figure appears at table with the throat cut from ear to ear. The ascent and descent of this monster is so near akin to a puppet-show, that, with all the good-will in the world to keep one's countenance, one can hardly manage it. Here the entrance of the ghost is so cleverly concealed by the bustle of the guests taking their seats at several tables, that it is not till the King prepares to sit down that the dreadful form seated in his place, is suddenly visible to him and to the audience. Two bloody wounds deface his pale countenance (of course it is the actor himself who played Banquo), without rendering it ludicrous by nearly severing the head from the body; and when he looks up fixedly at the King from the festive tables, surrounded by the busy tumult of the guests, then nods to him, and slowly sinks into the earth, the illusion is as perfect as the effect is fearful and thrilling. But, to be just, I must mention one ridiculous thing that occurred here. After the murder of the King, when there is a knocking at the door, Lady Macbeth says to her husband-- "Hark, more knocking! Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, And show us to be watchers." Now 'nightgown' does indeed mean dressing-gown; but yet I could scarcely believe my eyes, when Macready entered in a fashionable flowered chintz dressing-gown, (perhaps the one he usually wears,) loosely thrown over his steel armour, which was seen glittering at every movement of his body, and in this curious costume drew his sword to kill the chamberlains who were sleeping near the King. I did not observe that this struck any body; indeed the interest was generally so slight, the noise and mischief so incessant, that it is difficult to understand how such distinguished artists can form themselves, with so brutal, indifferent, and ignorant an audience as they have almost always before them. As I told you, the English theatre is not fashionable, and is scarcely ever visited by what is called 'good company.' The only advantage in this state of things is, that actors are not spoiled by that indulgence which is so ruinous to them in Germany. The Freischütz was performed the same evening--after Macbeth. Weber, like Mozart, must be content to be 'travaillé' by Mr. Bishop, with his abridgments and additions. It is a positive affliction and misery to hear them: and not only the music, but the fable, is robbed of all its character. It is not Agatha's lover, but the successful marksman, who comes to the wolf's glen and sings Caspar's favourite song. The Devil, in long red drapery, dances a regular shawl-dance before he carries off Caspar to hell, which is very pleasingly represented by cascades of fire, scarlet 'coulisses,' and heaps of skeletons. Here then the comparison with Germany is as much to our advantage as it is the contrary in tragedy. I wish, however, the matter were reversed. _Dec. 2nd._ I wrote you word lately, that I was better; since that time I have been almost constantly unwell. One ought never to boast of anything, as the old women say; for, adds Walter Scott, "it is unlucky to announce things which are not yet certain." This indeed I have often experienced. As to my health, it is as unintelligible as all the rest of me. You doubtless wonder that I remain in London in this thankless season; but I have still friends here--besides, I have settled into this quiet life, which is only interrupted by the noise and clatter of the little troop of 'couturières' in the house; the theatre too has begun to interest me, and the serenity of this seclusion refreshes me after the former tumult. It is indeed so quiet and solitary, that, like the celebrated prisoner in the Bastille, I have formed a 'liaison' with a mouse,--a darling little creature, and doubtless an enchanted 'lady:' when I am at work, she glides timidly out of her hole, looks at me from a distance with her little eyes twinkling like stars, becomes tamer every day; and enticed by bits of cake which I regularly deposit six inches from her residence, in the right corner of my room.--At this moment she is eating one with great grace--and now she frisks about the room quite at her ease. But what do I hear? an incessant loud cry in the street! Mousey has fled in terror to her corner. "What is the matter?" said I; "what an infernal noise!" "War is proclaimed--a second edition of The Times is cried about the streets." "War, with whom?" 'I don't know.' This is one branch of trade among the poor devils in London: when they can contrive nothing else, they cry some 'great news,' and sell an old paper to the curious for sixpence; you seize it in a hurry, you understand nothing clearly, you look at the date, and laugh at finding you have been taken in. As is always the case when I live alone, I have unfortunately so completely turned day into night, that I seldom breakfast before four in the afternoon, dine at ten or eleven after the play, and walk or ride in the night. It is generally not only finer but ('mirabile dictu') brighter in the night. The days are so foggy that even if there are lamps and candles you can't see them a yard off; but in the night the gas-lights sparkle like diamonds, and the moon shines as bright as in Italy. As I galloped home last night through the wide and quiet streets, white and coal-black clouds coursed each other swiftly over her face, and afforded a singularly wild and enchanting spectacle. The air was serene and mild; for the late cold has been succeeded by almost spring weather. Except L---- and the standing dishes at the clubs, I see few persons but Prince P----, who is accused here of great haughtiness and _brusquerie_. They likewise whisper that he is a very Blue Beard to his poor wife, and that he shut her up for six years in a solitary castle in a wood, so that at last, wearied by ill treatment, she was obliged to consent to a separation. What say you, good Julia, to this unhappy fate of your best friend. How strangely, however, do rumours and calumnies sometimes arise! How little can we foresee the inconceivable heterogeneous consequences of human actions! What quite unexpected rocks peril our course! Nay, in the moral as in the physical world, we often see tares arise where wheat was sown, while beautiful flowers and fragrant herbs spring out of the dunghill. I have received your long letter, and give you my heartiest thanks for it. Do not be displeased that I so seldom answer in detail, but in some sort pay off the sum of the passages, the neglect of which you reproach me with. Be assured that not a word is lost upon me. Remember that one gives no other answer to the rose for its precious fragrance, than to inhale it with delight. To dissect it would not enhance our pleasure. 'Au reste,' I regret that I have now neither the materials nor the disposition to send you such roses in return. The wall is as bare before me as a white sheet--no kind of 'ombre Chinoise' will appear upon it. _Woolmers, Dec. 11th._ Sir G---- O----, formerly English ambassador to Persia, had invited me to his country house, whither I drove this morning. I arrived late, in darkness and rain, and was obliged to dress instantly to go to a ball at Hatfield, which Lady Salisbury gives on a certain day of the week to the neighbourhood, during the whole time of her residence in the country. The going there is therefore received as a sort of call, and no invitations are sent. Sir G---- took his whole party, among whom was Lord Strangford, the well-known ambassador to Constantinople. You remember that on my return from my northern excursion I saw Hatfield 'en passant.' I found the interior as imposing and respectable, from its air of antiquity, as the exterior. You enter a hall hung with banners and armour; then climb a singular staircase, with carved figures of apes, dogs, monks, &c., and reach a long and rather narrow gallery, in which the dancing was going on. The walls are of old oak 'boiserie,' with curious old-fashioned silver chandeliers fixed to them. At one end of this gallery is a library, and at the other a splendid room with deep metal ornaments depending from the panels of the ceiling, and an enormously high chimney-piece surmounted by a statue of King James. The 'local' was very beautiful, but the ball dull enough, and the company rather too rural. At two o'clock all was over, and I very glad; for, weary and 'ennuyé,' I longed for rest. The next morning I delighted myself with a review of the various Persian curiosities which decorated the rooms. I was particularly struck by a splendid manuscript, with miniatures, which excelled all the illuminations of the middle ages in Europe, and were often more correct in drawing. The subject of the book is the history of Tamerlane's family, and is said to have cost two thousand pounds in Persia. It is a present from the Shah. Doors inlaid with precious metals; sofas and carpets of curious velvet, embroidered with gold and silver; above all, a golden dish splendidly enamelled, and many finely-worked 'bijoux,' show that if the Persians are behind us in many things, they surpass us in some. The weather has cleared a little, and enticed me to a solitary walk. Noble trees, a little river, and a grove, under whose thick shade a remarkably copious spring gushes forth as if from the centre of the earth, are the chief beauties of the park. When I returned, it was two o'clock, the hour of luncheon; after which Sir Gore showed me his Arabian horses, and some of them were quickly saddled for a ride. The groom had little else to do than to jump off and on his horse to open the gates which interrupted our course every minute. This is the case in most English parks, and still more in fields, which makes riding, except on the high roads, somewhat troublesome. In the afternoon we had music. The daughter of the house and Mrs. F---- distinguished themselves as admirable pianistes. The hearers were, however, perfectly unconstrained; they went and came, talked or listened, just as they felt inclined. When the ladies had retired to dress, Sir Gore and Lord Strangford told us many anecdotes of the East--a theme of which I never tire. Both these gentlemen are great partisans of the Turks, and Lord Strangford spoke of the Sultan as a very enlightened man. He was probably, he said, the first ambassador from any Christian power who had had several private conferences with the Grand Signior. At these a singular etiquette was observed: the Sultan received him in the garden of the Seraglio, in the dress of an officer of his body-guard, and in that character always addressed Lord Strangford with the greatest deference in the third person; Lord Strangford did not venture to let it appear that he recognized him. He declared that the Sultan was better informed about Russia than a great many European politicians, and knew perfectly well what he was undertaking.[72] After dinner, at which we had some Oriental dishes, and I drank genuine Schiraz for the first time in my life, (no very pleasant wine, by the by, for it tastes of the goat-skins,) we had music again, and 'des petits jeux.' As these latter were not remarkably successful, the whole party went to bed in good time. _December 12th._ I have bought a coal-black horse, a thing as wild as a roe, of my host's Arab breed; and to give him a longer trial, we rode over to pay a visit to Lady Cowper, who lives in the neighbourhood. The park and house of Pansanger are well worth seeing, especially the picture-gallery, which contains two of Raphael's early Madonnas; and a singularly fine portrait of Marshal Turenne on horseback, by Rembrandt. Lady Cowper received us in her boudoir, which led immediately into a beautiful garden, even now gay with flowers, on the other side of which are green-houses, and a dairy in the form of a temple. Pansanger is celebrated for the largest oak in England. It is nineteen feet and a half in circumference six feet from the ground, and is at the same time very straight and lofty, though its branches reach to a great extent on all sides. We have larger oaks than this in Germany. To reconnoitre the country still more fully, we afterwards made a second visit to Hatfield, which I viewed more accurately. The whole house, including kitchen and wash-house, is heated by one steam-engine. The Dowager Marchioness, the most active woman in England of her age, did the honours herself, and led us about into every hole and corner. The chapel contains some admirable old painted glass,--buried in Cromwell's time, to which it is indebted for its escape when the frantic iconoclasts destroyed all the church windows. In one of the rooms was a fine portrait of Charles the Twelfth,--that 'Don Quixote en grand,' who, but for Pultawa, would perhaps have become a second Alexander. In the present stables (formerly the house,) Elizabeth lived a captive during the reign of her sister Mary. The Queen ordered a very lofty pointed chimney, surmounted with an iron rod, to be built on a gable opposite to her sister's window, and caused it to be insinuated to her that this rod was destined to receive her head. So the Marchioness told us. The chimney is still standing, and is thickly overgrown with ivy; but Elizabeth, to feast on the delightful contrast in after years, when she could contemplate the threatening pinnacle with more agreeable feelings, built the new palace close to it. The house is poor in works of art, and the park rich only in large avenues of oaks and in rocks; otherwise dreary, and without water, except a nasty green standing pool near the house. _December 13th._ In my host's house is a singular picture gallery,--a Persian one, which contains some very curious things. The portraits of the present Shah, and of his son Abbas, are the most interesting. The yellow dress of the former, covered with precious stones of every kind, and his enormous black beard, form a very characteristic picture of this Son of the Sky and of the Sun. _His_ son, however excels him in beauty of feature; but he is almost too simply dressed, and the pointed sheepskin cap is not becoming. The late Persian ambassador to England completes the trio. He was a very handsome man, and fell into European manners and customs with such ease, that the English speak of him as a perfect Lovelace. On his return home he proved himself nowise 'discret,' but compromised several English ladies of rank in a shameful manner. Some large dressed dolls gave a faithful idea of the fair sex in Persia, with long hair painted red or blue, arched and painted eyebrows, large languishing eyes of fire, pretty gauze pantaloons, and gold rings round the ankles. Lady O---- told us many amusing details of the Harem, which I reserve till we meet, that I may not exhaust all my resources. Many things in Persia seem to be very agreeable, many the very reverse; among them the scorpions and insects. These things we are free from in our temperate climates. Let us all therefore be contented in them; a wish which I cordially form for you and me. Your L----. LETTER XXI. _London, Dec. 16, 1827._ DEAR JULIA, After writing some verses in the W---- album, in which Arabian steeds, Timour's magnificence, Cecil, Elizabeth, and the fair beauties of Teheran, met in agreeable confusion, I took leave of my kind hosts, and returned to London. The same evening L---- took me to a singular exhibition. In a suburb, a good German mile from my lodging, we entered a sort of barn; dirty, with no other ceiling than the rough roof, through which the moon peeped here and there. In the middle was a boarded place, about twelve feet square, surrounded by a strong wooden breastwork: round this was a gallery filled with the lowest vulgar and with perilous-looking faces of both sexes. A ladder led up to a higher gallery, for the patrician part of the spectators, which was let out at three shillings a seat. There was a strange contrast between the 'local' and a crystal lustre hanging from one of the balks of the roof lighted with thick wax candles: as well as between the 'fashionables' and the populace among whom they were scattered, who--the latter I mean--were continually offering and taking bets of from twenty to fifty pounds. The subject of these was a fine terrier, the illustrious Billy, who pledged himself to the public to kill a hundred rats in ten minutes. As yet the arena was empty, and there was an anxious, fearful pause; while in the lower gallery huge pots of beer circulated from mouth to mouth, and tobacco smoke ascended in dense clouds. At length appeared a strong man, bearing a sack, looking like a sack of potatoes, but in fact containing the hundred live rats. These he set at liberty in one moment by untying the knot, scattered them about the place, and rapidly made his retreat into a corner. At a given signal Billy rushed in, and set about his murderous work with incredible fury. As soon as a rat lay lifeless, Billy's faithful esquire picked him up and put him in the sack; among these some might be only senseless, or perhaps there might be some old practitioners who feigned themselves dead at the first bite. However, be that as it may, Billy won in nine minutes and a quarter, according to all the watches; in which time a hundred dead, or apparently dead, rats were replaced in their old quarters--the sack. This was the first act. In the second, the heroic Billy, (who was greeted with the continual shouts of an enraptured audience,) fought with a badger. Each of the combatants had a second, who held him by the tail. Only one bite or gripe was allowed; then they were separated, and immediately let loose again. Billy had always the best of it, and the poor badger's ears streamed with blood. In this combat, too, Billy was bound to seize the badger fast in a certain number of minutes,--I don't recollect how many. This he accomplished in brilliant style, but retired at last greatly exhausted. The _amusements_ ended with bear-baiting, in which the bear treated some dogs extremely ill, and seemed to suffer little himself. It was evident through the whole, that the managers were too chary of their animals to expose them in earnest; I therefore, as I said, suspected from the beginning some hidden talents for representation--even in the rats. In a few months, cock fights will be held in the same place. I shall send you a description of them. _Dec. 21st._ There are unquestionably three natures in man,--a vegetable one, which is content merely to exist; an animal, which destroys; and an intellectual, which creates. Many are satisfied with the first, most lay claim to the second, and a few to the third. I must confess, alas! that my life here belongs to Class I., at which I am often discontented enough: 'but I can't help it.' You have heard of the English Roscius. A new little wonder of this kind has appeared, and the maturity of his early talent is really astonishing. Master Burke (so this little fellow is called) acts at the Surrey Theatre. Though only ten years old, he played five or six very different parts, with a humour, apparent familiarity with the stage, 'aplomb,' volubility of utterance, accurate memory, and suppleness and power over his little person, which are perfectly amazing. What struck me most, however, was, that in a little interlude he acted his own natural part,--a boy of ten years old,--with such uncommon truth that the genuine 'naivété' of childhood he represented, could be nothing but the inspiration of genius,--it is impossible it could be the result of reflection in such a child. He began with the part of an Italian music-master, in which he displayed extraordinary mastery of the violin, and that not only in acquired dexterity, but in the good taste of his playing, and a fulness and beauty of tone seldom equalled. You perceived in his whole performance that he was born a musician. Next followed a learned pedant; then a rough captain of a ship; and so on;--every part admirably filled, and the by play, in which so many fail, peculiarly easy, clever, and appropriate. His last character was Napoleon,--the only one in which he failed; and this failure was exactly the thing that put the crown to my admiration. It is characteristic of true genius, that in the meagre, absurd, and foolish, it appears foolish too; and this part was the quintessence of bad taste and stupidity. It is the same in life. Turn Lessing into a courtier for instance, or Napoleon into R---- Lieutenant, and you will see how miserably each will fill his part. Generally speaking, the important thing is that every man should be in his right place. If he is, some excellence will scarcely ever fail to be developed in him. Thus, for instance, my genius consists in a fancy, so to say, practically applicable; I have nothing to do but to wind it up like a watch, not only to find myself immediately at home in every actual situation, but employing it as a stimulus, to throw myself headlong down any conceivable precipice. If I get hurt in the fall, I can use it again as a restorative, by the unexpected discovery of some wonderful piece of luck or other. Now is this the consequence of an accidental physical organization, or of an acquired power,--acquired perhaps through a hundred preceding generations? Had this spiritual individual whom I call _myself_, any previous existence connected with another form? and does it endure independent, or does it lose itself again in the universal Whole, after the bursting of that bubble which the eternal fermentation of the universe throws up? Is--as many will have it--the history of the world (or what passes in time), as well as of nature (or what passes in space,) predetermined through its whole course, according to the immutable laws of a guiding will? and does it end like a drama in the victory of good over evil?--or does the free power of the spirit fashion its own future, uncertain in all its incidents, and only subject to the conditions necessary to its existence?--'That is the question!' Meantime, thus much appears to me clear;--that, by the adoption of the former hypothesis,--turn it which way we will,--we are all, more or less, mere finely-constructed puppets: it is only according to the second, that we remain free spirits. I will not deny that there is in me an unconquerable, instinctive feeling, like the deepest consciousness of _self_, which impels me to the latter belief. This may possibly be an inspiration of the devil! Yet he does not lead me so far astray, as that I do not, with profound humility and gratitude, ascribe this, our mysterious being, to that great incomprehensible Creator, the object of my highest and deepest love. But forasmuch as our origin is god-like, we must live on, independently, in God. Hear what Angelius Silesius, the pious Catholic, says on this subject. "Soll ich mein letztes End, und ersten Anfang finden, So muss ich mich in Gott und Gott in Mir ergrunden; Und werden das, was Er, ich muss ein Schein im Schein, Ich muss ein Wert im Wort, ein Gott im Gotte seyn."[73] For this very reason is the doctrine intolerable to me, that man was formerly in a more exalted and perfect state than now; but has gradually degenerated, and must labour up again, through sin and misery, till he reach his pristine perfection. How much more accordant with all the laws of nature,--how much more consistent with the character of an eternal, most high, all-pervading, all-ruling Love and Justice, is it, to imagine that the human race (which I regard as one) advances, from a beginning necessarily imperfect, onward and onward towards perfection, by its own energy; although indeed the germ of that energy be implanted by the love of the Most Highest! The golden age of mankind, says the Duke de St. Simon, very justly, is not behind, but before us. Our age might be called (rather for the will than the power) the mystic age. True mysticism is indeed rare; but it must be confessed that it is a most skilful and profitable invention of the worldly-wise, to throw a cloak of titular mysticism over absurdity itself. Behind this curtain, unhappily, lurk many things,--even that original sin which our modern mystics dwell upon so much. Some years ago I was in a very intelligent party, though small in number,--consisting only of a lady and two gentlemen. An argument arose concerning original sin. The lady and I declared ourselves against the doctrine,--the two gentlemen, for it, though perhaps, more for the sake of letting off some intellectual fireworks than from conviction. "Yes," said our antagonists at length, "the doctrine of original sin is doubtless true: like the new French Charter, it was the impulse towards knowledge forcing its way. With the gratification of this impulse came evil into the world; which, however, was also necessary to our purification,--to our _own_ merit, the only thing truly meritorious." "On this interpretation," replied I, turning to my ally, "we may be content to admit it; for this is only our own meaning in other words,--a schooling--the necessary transition from bad to better, by the help of our own experience and acquired wisdom." "Certainly," added the lady; "only then you ought not to call it _hereditary sin_."[74] "'Gnädige Frau,'" answered one of our antagonists, "we will not quarrel about the name; if you like it better, we will call it _hereditary nobility_ for the future." After all these profound and subtle reflections, I made the discovery to-day that the most frivolous people in the world do actually reflect on their own minds and characters. An Austrian of rank who has been here some time, did me the favour to give me the following counsels of practical philosophy, which I must record literally for the sake of their originality. "I hold nothing to be more silly," said he, "than to annoy oneself about the future. Look ye,--when I came here it was just summer, and the season was over. Now another man would have been annoyed at having arrived just at such a bad time; but I thought it would pass over, and--just so--you see we're got to November. In the mean time Esterhazy took me into the country, where I enjoyed myself amazingly; and now there is one more month bad, and then 'twill be full again: the balls and the routs will begin,--and what can I wish better? Should not I have been a perfect fool, now, to distress myself without a cause? Am I not right? We must live in the world just like a H----, and never think too much of the future."[75] I admit, indeed, that this practical gentleman and I are of very different natures; and doubtless many a philosopher by profession must regard my lucubrations with about as much pity as I do the Austrian's. And yet the result is, alas! the same with all: the only uncertainty is, which is the majority. Probably they who think themselves the cleverest. _Dec. 28th._ I have received the unpleasant intelligence that the vessel on board which I sent you all the seeds and flowers I had bought, has been wrecked off Heligoland, and but few of the hands saved. Friend L---- has also lost a great part of his effects. This is the only vessel that has been lost in those seas this year, and has doubtless the folly of sailing on a Friday to thank for it. You laugh; but that day has a peculiar quality, and I too have a dread of it; for in the inexplicable embodied picture of the days of the week, which my fancy has involuntarily painted, that is the only one coal-black. Perhaps you'd like to know, now I am upon the subject, the colours of the others. It is a mystical sort of secret. Well then; Sunday is yellow, Monday blue, Tuesday brown, Wednesday and Saturday brick-red, Thursday ash-gray. All these day-persons have also an extraordinary and appropriate spiritual body,--that is, transparent, without any determinate form or size. But to return to Friday.--The American Secretary of Legation lately told me what follows. "The superstition that Friday is an unlucky day," said he, "is firmly rooted in the minds of our seamen to this hour. An enlightened merchant in Connecticut conceived the wish, a few years ago, to do his utmost to weaken an impression which has often very inconvenient results. He therefore had a new ship laid on the stocks on a Friday: on a Friday she was launched; he named her Friday; and by his orders she sailed on her first voyage on a Friday. Unhappily for the effect of his well-meant experiment, nothing was ever heard of the vessel or crew from that day to this." Yesterday I received your letter. That your jewel, as you affectionately call him, should be not only overlooked by many in the world, but with great satisfaction trodden under-foot, arises naturally enough from this,--that he is polished only on some few sides; and if one of these does not happen to strike the eye of the passer-by, he is 'comme de raison,' regarded as a mere common pebble; and, if it happens that one of his sharp points gives pain, is trodden down as much as possible. He is valued only by here and there a connoisseur, and by the possessor,--who overvalues him. Your description of the English family in B---- made me laugh; the originals for such portraits are common enough in the world of London. The 'tournure' of the ladies, with few exceptions, is indeed as awkward as what you have seen in B----; but long enjoyed and boundless wealth, old historic names, and stately invincible reserve, give to the aristocratical society of England something imposing--especially to a North-German nobleman, who is so small a personage. Do not take to heart the little disaster you tell me of. What are these but insignificant clouds, so long as the sun of the mind shines clear in our inward heaven? You should seek more amusement. Go to W----, to H----, to L----. We ought not to visit people only when we stand in need of them: if we do, they cannot believe that we love and value them, but only that we use them;--and yet could these three but see our hearts, they would learn to know and to love us better, than by words or visits. As to the park, I'm afraid you have murdered venerable age in cold blood, like a cruel tyrant as you are. So then, limes that had seen three centuries fell unwilling martyrs to a clear view. That is certainly in the spirit of the age. Henceforward, however, I give you my instructions only to plant; plant as much as you like, but remove nothing that is there. By-and-by I shall come myself and sever the tares from the wheat. _Dec. 31st._ Don Miguel of Portugal is arrived, and I was presented to him this morning. No body was present but the 'corps diplomatique' and a few foreigners. The young Prince is not ill-looking, and indeed resembles Napoleon; but his manner was rather embarrassed. He wore seven stars, and seven great orders over his coat. His complexion is like the olive of his fatherland, and the expression of his countenance rather melancholy than otherwise. _Jan. 1st, 1828._ My best wishes and a hearty kiss at the beginning of a new year. Perhaps this is the good year which we have been so long expecting, like the Jews their Messias, in vain. I ushered it in at least very cheerfully. We spent yesterday at Sir L---- M----'s, who had invited five or six very pretty girls, and at midnight we drank a toast to the new year. L---- and I took occasion to introduce the German mode of saluting the ladies, to which, after the prescribed quantity of resistance, they consented. To-day I ate part of an Hanoverian roe (there are none in England) at Count Münster's country-house. Somebody, by way of Christmas present, fired a blunderbuss into the large window of his sitting-room at the very moment the Countess was distributing her Christmas gifts to her children.[76] The shot had pierced the looking-glasses like pasteboard, in a hundred little holes, without breaking one of them. Fortunately the Christmas presents were placed so far from the window that the shot did not reach the spot. Nobody can guess who was the perpetrator of this horrid act. Don Miguel's arrival makes London alive. To-night there was a soirée at the Duke of Clarence's, and to-morrow there will be a great ball at Lady K----'s. The Prince seems to be a universal favourite; and now that he is more at home here, has something very calm and gentleman-like in his 'tournure;' though it strikes me that in the back-ground, behind his great affability, lurks more than one 'arrière pensée.' Portuguese etiquette is so rigorous, that our good Marquis P---- is obliged to kneel down every morning when he first sees the Prince. _Jan. 3rd._ I pass over yesterday's fête at Prince E----'s to tell you about this evening's pantomime, which Don Miguel honoured with his presence. He was in a more awkward predicament than the late Elector of Hessen Cassel at Berlin, when, at the opening chorus of "Long life to the Amazon Queen," he got up and returned thanks. The people here, to whom Don Miguel had been represented as a ferocious tyrant, and who saw the formidable monster appear in the shape of a pretty young fellow, have passed from aversion to fondness, and receive the Prince everywhere with enthusiasm. So it happened to-day in the theatre: Don Miguel immediately rose with his Portuguese and English suite, and returned thanks most courteously. Shortly after the curtain drew up, and now arose a fresh violent clapping at the beautiful scenery. Again Don Miguel rose and bowed his thanks: surprised and somewhat perplexed, the audience, however, overlooked the mistake, and greeted him with fresh cheers. But now appeared the favourite buffoon, in the person of a great ourang outang, with all the suppleness of Mazurier. Louder than ever resounded the enthusiastic applause; and again Don Miguel arose and bowed his thanks. This time, however, the compliment was only answered by a hearty laugh; and one of his English attendants, Lord M---- C----, without ceremony seized the Infant by the arm and motioned to him to resume his seat. No doubt, however, Don Miguel and the favourite actor will long remain involuntarily associated in the public mind. _Jan. 6th._ We float in a sea of fêtes. Yesterday the beautiful Marchioness gave her's; to-day was the admired Princess L----'s, which lasted till six o'clock. People are busied from morning till night in amusing the Prince. It is agreeable enough to be this privileged sort of person, whom the highest and the lowest, the wisest and the silliest, are all doing their utmost to please. In the midst of this 'trouble' I received another letter from you through L----, and rejoiced in the hundred-thousandth assurance of your love, an assurance of which I shall certainly not be tired before the millionth, and shall then exclaim, 'L'appétit vient en mangeant!' Just as little tired, it seems, are people here with these fêtes. While the dark clouds are gathering heavier and heavier around their horizon, our diplomates dance and dine, and meet the threatening storm with jests and laughter; and the great and the elevated are mingled with the vulgar and the common place, as in Shakespeare's faithful mirrors of life. My own spirits are favourably excited by all this, and my mind is in a healthy and vigorous state. My masculine soul (for I have a feminine one of my own, besides yours, which belongs to me) is just now 'du jour;' and when that is the case, I always feel more free and independent, and less sensitive to external influences. This state of mind is quite the right one for a residence here, for Englishmen are like their flints,--cold, angular, and furnished with cutting edges; but the steel succeeds in striking live sparks out of them, thus producing light by a friendly antagonism. Generally speaking, I am too indolent, or rather, too little excited by them, to be either willing or able to act as steel to any of the individuals who surround me; but I have, at least, opposed to their pride still greater pride, and thus softened some and repulsed others. Both were just what I wished; for the craniologist said of me very truly, that I was endowed with a strong tendency to creativeness; and such minds can only love those which act with the same elective affinities as themselves; or those which, in a subordinate station, are useful instruments on which to play the melodies of their own composition. All others are either opposite to, or remote from them. _Jan. 11th._ The last party given in honour of Don Miguel took place to-night at the Dutch Ambassador's, to which little incident one might hang all sorts of interesting historical reminiscences. Both Portugal and Holland, though so small in territorial extent, were once great powers. The one took the road of freedom, the other that of slavery, and yet both are become equally insignificant; nor does their internal prosperity and happiness seem very greatly to differ. But I will leave these considerations, and substitute for them a few words in praise of the amiable Ambassadress, whose French vivacity has not yet given place to the melancholy, ponderous follies of English fashion. Her house, too, is one of the few which one may visit in an evening in the Continental fashion, uninvited, and be sure to find _conversation_. When Madame de F---- was living in Tournay before her marriage, my beloved 'chef,' the old Grand Duke of W----, lived in her parents' house for some time during the war of deliverance,[77] and used jestingly to call the charming daughter his favourite aide-de-camp. As I had filled that post, I had to plead a sort of comradeship, an honour I am the less disposed to forego my claim to, as her husband is a very agreeable man, equally distinguished for the goodness of his heart and the soundness of his head. I ate a German dinner to-day at Count Münster's, who from time to time regales us with a wild Hanoverian. To-day it was a noble boar, with that royal sauce invented by George the Fourth, of which it is written in the Almanac des Gourmands, 'qu'avec une telle sauce on mangérait son père.' Over and above this delicacy, we were treated with a good anecdote by Sir Walter Scott. He said he one day met an Irish beggar in the street, who asked him for six-pence; Sir Walter could not find one, and at last gave him a shilling, saying, with a laugh, "But mind now, you owe me six-pence." "Och, sure enough!" said the beggar, "and God grant you may live till I pay you." Before I went to bed I read over your last letter again. You have entered completely into my view of the character of Macbeth, and the few words you say about it and about the performance of our actors are masterly. It is strange, but true, that acting is every where degenerated. Surely this lies in the selfish, mechanical, unpoetical spirit of our times. Equally true is your remark on the high society of B----; that the wit, and even the learning, which display themselves so ostentatiously there have nothing of that good-humoured attaching character which is necessary to give to both the true social charm. The warm heart's pulse is wanting in that arid soil;--the people can't help it:--and when they hunt after Fancy, she always appears to them, as she did to Hofmann, in the form of a horrible lay-figure, or of a spectre. Your friend, who does not fare much better, was also, unhappily, born in the sand: but I think the metallic exhalations which issued from the shafts, the flaming breath of the gnomes from beneath, the dark solitude of the pine-forests above, and the whisper of the Dryads from amid their thick branches, surrounded his cradle, and shed over the poor child some foreign and beneficent influences. The 'parforce' members of the new Parforce hunt[78] made me laugh heartily. They are the best contrast to the volunteers of the Landwehr. I am myself a sincere advocate of the latter, because I love our King from my heart; and to serve him is not only a duty, but a real enjoyment, in my estimation. When I return, therefore, I shall very willingly suffer 'une douce violence,' and accompany the 'parforce' hunt, were it only from respect and attachment to the elegant and amiable Prince who is the leader of it. The field horsemanship, almost forgotten among us, will thus be revived; and England daily teaches me, that habit and amusements connected with danger and hardship have a very favourable effect on the youth of a nation, and consequently on its whole character. _January 14th._ I drove into the City this morning with Count B---- and a son of the celebrated Madame Tallien, to see the India House, where there are many remarkable curiosities. Among them is Tippoo Saib's dream-book, in which he daily wrote his dreams and their interpretation with his own hand, and to which he, like Wallenstein, might mainly ascribe his fall. His armour, a part of his golden throne, and an odd sort of barrel-organ are also preserved here. The latter is concealed in the belly of a very well represented metal tiger, of natural colours and size. Under the tiger lies an Englishman in scarlet uniform, whom he is tearing to pieces; and by turning the handle, the cries and moans of a man in the agonies of death, terrifically interspersed with the roaring and growling of the tiger, are imitated with great truth. This is a highly characteristic instrument, and greatly assists our judgment of that formidable foe of the English, who took the stripes of the tiger as his coat of arms, and was wont to say that he would rather live one day as a tiger going out to seek his prey, than a century as a quiet grazing sheep. Daniel's magnificent work on the celebrated temple of Ellora, hewn in the solid rock, interested me uncommonly. The age of these majestic remains is completely unknown. It is highly curious, and in full conformity with Merkel's hypothesis, that the most ancient civilization of the earth originated with the negro races, that the statue of the deity in the sanctuary of the oldest temple of Buddha, distinctly exhibits the peculiar features and woolly hair of a negro. A large stone from the ruins of Persepolis, entirely covered with the yet-undeciphered arrow-writing; large Chinese paintings; huge Chinese lanterns; a very large plan of the city of Calcutta, and some beautiful Persian illuminated manuscripts, are among the greatest curiosities of this collection. We then visited the warehouses, where you may buy all sorts of Indian goods uncommonly cheap, provided you ship them immediately for the Continent, in which case they pay no duty to the Government. Shawls, which with us would cost at least a hundred louis d'ors, are here to be bought in abundance for forty. The most beautiful I ever saw, and of a fineness and magnificence which would make it a most enviable possession in the eyes of our ladies, was only a hundred and fifty guineas: but shawls are not much worn in England, and are thought little of; so that nearly all these are sent abroad. _January 16th._ The new steam-carriage is completed, and goes five miles in half an hour on trial in the Regent's park. But there was something to repair every moment. I was one of the first of the curious who tried it; but found the smell of oiled iron, which makes steam-boats so unpleasant, far more insufferable here. Stranger still is another vehicle to which I yesterday entrusted my person. It is nothing less than a carriage drawn by a kite,--and what's more, a paper kite very like those which children fly. This is the invention of a schoolmaster, who is so skilful in the guidance of his vehicle, that he can get on very fairly with a half wind, but with a completely fair one and on good road, he goes an English mile in three-quarters of a minute. The sensation is very agreeable, for you glide over the little unevennesses of the road as if carried over them. The inventor proposes to traverse the African deserts in this manner, and with this view has contrived a place behind, in which a poney stands, like a footman, and in case of a calm can be harnessed in! What is to be done for forage, indeed, is not thoroughly clear, but the schoolmaster reckons upon regular trade winds in those regions. As a country diversion, the invention is, at all events, greatly to be recommended; and I therefore send you herewith a 'brochure' announcing it, with explanatory plates, after which you can commission some amateur among your own schoolmasters to make a similar attempt. I devoted the evening to a pantomime, the strange extravagance of which was sustained by such admirable scenery and machinery, that you could think yourself in fairy-land, without any great effort. Such pretty nonsense is delightful. For instance, an immeasurable rushy bog in the kingdom of the Frogs, the inhabitants of which are most accurately represented by clever actors; and a temple of glow-worms, which in wildness of fancy, and wonderful brilliancy, surpasses any Chinese firework. _Brighton, Jan. 23rd._ Fashion is a great tyrant; and however clearly I see this, I suffer myself to be ruled by her as others are. She led me hither a few days ago, to the agreeable Miss J----, the discreet Lady L----, the charming F----, &c. &c. I am already wearied again with balls and dinners, and have resumed my coquetry with the sea, the only poetical object in this prosaic place. I walked just now, after leaving a 'rout' at the further end of the town, for half an hour on its shore, amid the thundering and foaming of the coming tide. The stars looked down in all their brightness; eternal repose reigned above; and wild tumult and ceaseless agitation below;--heaven and earth in their truest emblems. How beautiful, how beneficent, how fearful, how perturbing, is this universe!--this universe, whose beginning and end we know not; whose extent is illimitable; before whose infinite series, on every side, even Fancy sinks to earth, veiling herself with reverential awe. Ah, my dear Julia! Love alone finds an exit from this labyrinth. Does not Göthe, too, say, "Glücklich allein ist die Seele die liebt!" _Jan. 24th._ We have had a fine day's hunting here. The weather was remarkably clear and sunny, and at least a hundred red coats took the field. Such a sight is certainly full of interest; the many fine horses; the elegantly dressed huntsmen; fifty or sixty beautiful hounds following Reynard over stock and stone; the wild mounted troop behind; the rapid change of wood and hill and valley; the cries and shouts--it is a miniature war. The country here is very hilly, and at one time the hounds ran up so steep and long a hill, that most of the horses were unable to follow them, and those that did, panted like the bellows of a smithy. But when we had once reached the top, the 'coup d'oeil' was glorious; you looked down upon the whole, from the fox to the last straggler, all in full movement, with one glance; and besides that, over a rich valley to the left, which extends to London, and to the right over the sea gleaming like a mirror beneath the bright sun. The first fox we took; the second reached Malapartus[79] in safety, and thus escaped his pursuers. Almost all these hunts are maintained by subscription. The pack here, for instance, consisted of eighty dogs and three huntsmen, with their nine horses, costs 1,050_l._ a year, which is divided among five-and-twenty subscribers. Any man who has a mind may ride with them. Thus it costs each subscriber not more than forty-two pounds a year. The shares, however, are by no means equally divided. The rich give much, the poor little, according to their means. Some give as much as two hundred a year, some not above ten; and I think this scheme would be a very good one to introduce into Germany, especially for poor men. The most striking thing, however, in the whole business, to German eyes, is the sight of the black-coated parsons, flying over hedge and ditch. I am told they often go to the church, ready booted and spurred, with the hunting-whip in their hands, throw on the surplice, marry, christen, or bury, with all conceivable velocity, jump on their horses at the church-door, and off--tally-ho! They told me of a famous clerical fox-hunter, who always carried a tame fox in his pocket, that if they did not happen to find one, they might be sure of a run. The animal was so well trained that he amused the hounds for a time; and when he was tired of running, took refuge in his inviolable retreat--which was no other than the altar of the parish church. There was a hole broken for him in the church wall, and a comfortable bed made under the steps. This is right English religion. _Feb. 6th._ I caught a cold which brought on a violent nervous fever. This has confined me to my bed for a fortnight, and weakened me to an extraordinary degree. It has not been wholly unattended with danger; but my physician assures me that is quite past; therefore do not be alarmed. Strange that, in a complaint so exhausting, one should be so indifferent to the thought of death! It appears to us only like rest and slumber; and I fervently wish myself such a slow and gradual approach of my dissolution from the body, whenever my time comes. As one that delights in observing, I would fain, so to say, see and feel myself die, as far as that is possible; that is, watch my own sensations and thoughts with full possession of my faculties, and thus taste existence up to the very last moment. A sudden death appears to me something vulgar,--animal; a slow one alone, with perfect consciousness of its approach, refined, noble,--human. I hope moreover to die very tranquilly; for although I have never attained to sanctity of life, I have held fast to the Loving and the Good, and have loved mankind, though not perhaps many individual men. Thus, though not yet ripe for heaven, I wish extremely, according to my doctrine of metempsychosis, to become once more an inhabitant of this beloved earth. The planet is beautiful and interesting enough to like to rove about in it in ever-renewed human shape. But if it be ordered otherwise, I am content. From God and his universe we cannot be cut off; and it is not probable that we shall become more foolish or more wicked; but rather, wiser and better. The sting of death to me would be the thought of your sorrow; and yet perhaps, without the certainty of your love I could not die so happy and resigned:--it is so sweet a feeling in death, that we leave some one behind who will cherish our memory with tenderness, and in and with whom we shall live, so long as his eyes remain open to the light. Is this selfishness? As we are talking of dying, I must mention a melancholy incident. Do you remember a Scottish chieftain, of whom I told you during my last visit to Brighton?--a somewhat fantastic, but powerful and original Highlander. In the full pride of manly strength he has ceased to live. He was on board a steamboat with his two daughters, and shortly before landing received such a blow on the head from one of the yards, that he fell into a fit of delirium on the spot, sprang into the sea, and swam to shore, where he soon after expired. This end has a certain kindred tragic character with the history of an ancestor he told me of with such pride, to which he traced the origin of his arms--a bloody hand on a field azure.--This is the tradition: Two brothers who were engaged in an expedition against some Scottish island had entered into an agreement, that he who should first touch the land with flesh and blood (a Scotch expression) should remain undisputed lord of it. Approaching the shore with all the force with which they could ply their oars, they came to a part where the projecting rocks barred all nearer approach; and both brothers, with their followers, dashed into the sea to swim to the island. As the elder saw that the younger was getting before him, he drew his short sword, laid his left hand on a point of rock, cut it off with one stroke, took it up by the fingers and threw it bleeding, past his brother on the shore: "God is my witness," cried he, "that my flesh and blood have first touched this land." And thus was he king of the island, which his descendants ruled for centuries with unlimited sway. _Feb. 8th._ The doctor finds me very patient--Good God! I have been taught patience--and to be just, adversity is an admirable school for the spirit. Adversity, however, if we look deep enough, arises only from these faults in us, which are corrected by it; and we may unconditionally affirm, that if men began and persevered in an undeviating course of reasonable and virtuous conduct, they would scarcely know suffering:--but their pleasures must then become so subtle and ethereal, that they would set but little value on any thing earthly. No more dinners,--at which to get indigestions. No more fame,--which they hunt after with such delighted vanity: no more of love's sweet and perilous risks: no pomp or show for the sake of surpassing others: it would be at last--God forgive me for saying so!--a very humdrum life--a dead calm, under an outward show of perfection. The essence of life, on the contrary, is motion and contrast. It would therefore be the greatest derangement and annoyance if we were all to become perfectly reasonable. But I don't think the danger very pressing.--You see my illness has not altered me: I should not have told you anything about it, but that this letter must go before I am quite recovered. You may, however, read it with perfect tranquillity of mind, and be assured that I mean to enjoy everything that a benevolent Creator has bestowed upon us, to my very latest breath; whether halfpence, or guineas; houses of cards, or palaces; soap-bubbles, or rank and dignities,--as time and circumstance present them;--and at last even death itself, and whatever here or elsewhere may follow it. The severer virtues just show their beautiful roots. Thus, for instance, I really enjoy my present temperance; I feel an ethereal lightness from it, and am more elevated than usual above all that is animal. Other _égarements_ are wholly out of the question; and all this gives me a foretaste of that purer pleasure to come--old age. For in certain things--let us but confess it frankly and freely--the wicked Frenchman is half in the right:--'que c'est le vice qui nous quitte, et bien rarement nous qui quittons le vice.' _Feb. 9th._ I never had a physician who was so kind--to the apothecary;--two doses a day. I live upon nothing else; but, as I am unhappily ill in earnest, I take what is sent me with great resignation. I miss terribly such a nurse as you are; and my dry, hard landlady, who has frequently offered her services very civilly, would be a poor substitute. Meanwhile I read a great deal, and am in very good spirits. If I were disposed to give myself up to melancholy self-tormentings, I could find negative as well as positive grounds for them. Now that I am confined to the house, the weather is uniformly most beautiful: but as I have set the hands of my spiritual watch in a quite other direction, I am on the contrary, very thankful to see the bright sun daily;--very thankful that, spite of his glory and majesty, he disdains not to warm my room from early morning; to greet me all day with friendly beams, which clothe everything in a robe of gold; and in the evening, that he takes the trouble to paint the wildest pictures in the clouds that hang over the sea, deep blue, flaming amber, or purple,--for me, poor invalid! who sit wrapt up at a large window: and at length, when taking leave, shows himself in such splendour, that the remembrance of it long afterwards robs the dusky shades of night of that gloomy impression which they are wont to leave on the spirit of the solitary and the suffering. And thus has everything two sides. There is nothing at which the fool may not fall into despair, or the wise man feel satisfaction and enjoyment. Feb. 10th. A letter from you always causes me the greatest delight, as you know; but how much more in my present state! Judge, therefore, with what delight yours was received to-day.* * * * * * * * * * * * * F---- is very wrong to refuse what was offered to him. It were madness for a shipwrecked man, struggling with the waves and nearly exhausted, to disdain a fishing-boat which presented itself to save him, that he might wait for a three-decker. It is certainly possible that such an one is already coming round that point; and at the moment when the boat has borne him away to some meaner destination, may heave in sight with all her canvass set. But we are not omniscient; we must treat the chances which the concatenation of events offers us, according to probability, not to possibility. My presents please you, then? Now God bless them! Little pleasures are as good as great ones; and we ought diligently to study the art of creating to ourselves such, far oftener than we do; there is abundance of cheap materials for the purpose: but no superstition must intrude--like that which you express about the scissars. Good Julia, the scissars are not yet invented which can cut our love;--they must be crab-like, and with a backward action cut away all memory of the past. Now I must scold you for another thing. To what end did I send you all that beautiful coloured 'blotting-paper,' if you relapse into the horrid fashion of strewing sand on your paper, which is as unknown in England as sanded floors? Several ounces of this ingredient in your correspondence flew in my face when I opened your letter. Will you, too, throw dust[80] in my eyes, dear Julia? and has Jeremiah brought you a new serious sand-box for the purpose from B----? I am very industrious, and employ my leisure in putting in order several volumes of my life-atlas. The whole day long I arrange, cut, write, (for you know there's a commentary to every picture)--in short all that a poor sick man can do to pass time. Behold, with your mind's eye, twenty folio volumes of the classic work standing in our library, and ourselves, grown old and bowed, sitting before them, rather doting, but still triumphing in the glorious old times. Young shot-up things are laughing by stealth behind our backs: flying out and in; and when one of them asks "What are the old people about?" another answers, "O! they are sitting poring over their picture-bible, and have no eyes nor ears for anything else." Now this is what I should like to live to see, and it always seems to me as if it must come to this. What lies between, however--that indeed God only knows. Bellows now cut a great figure in the newspapers. An ass, poisoned by way of experiment, was restored to life by continual blowing into his lungs; and the Houses of Parliament are going to be furnished with pure air during the whole sessions by means of a great pair of bellows. As an infallible remedy against suffocation, nothing more is necessary than to hold the patient by the nose, and blow common atmospheric air into his lungs, with the bellows out of the chimney corner. There will therefore be a greater number of puffed-up people in England now than ever. _Feb. 12th._ My illness has hindered me from going to Scotland, for which I had prepared every thing, and received many invitations; and now the expected arrival of W---- and the beginning of the season will keep me in London. To-day for the first time my doctor let me go out: and I took my way to Stranmore Park, which is at no great distance, that I might enjoy fresh air and the pleasure of a romantic walk. I was, however, not permitted to enter the garden, though I sent in my card. We are more liberal, indeed,--but this stern repulsiveness has its advantages:--it gives more value both to the thing itself, and to the permission to see it, when you do obtain it. 'A propos,' this reminds me of your new steward. It is desirable for us to keep him; nevertheless I beg you to behave to him a little as the lady of Stranmore did to me. Don't be too 'empressée' in your kindness; that, if he deserves it, you may leave yourself the power of increasing it. Be kind, but with dignity; always shading off the superior station which you must necessarily maintain with regard to him. Don't try to attach him by indulgence or over-civil behaviour, but by confidence, which does him honour; and also by substantial advantages, which in the end never fail to have their effect upon people, let them say, or even think, as they will. But you must address yourself no less to his ambition: keep it always awake by discreet concessions, by gratitude for proofs of zeal, and no less by gentle reproof whenever you think it necessary; that he may see you have _a judgment_. As an honourable man, he will then not fail to conduct our affairs with the same interest as if they were his own. Lastly, take care not to fatigue him, in his province of supervision, with details: don't attempt to exercise control over him in every trifle, and keep vigilant watch to support his authority over those under him, no less than your own over himself;--in those cases only where you see reason to fear that something important is amiss, do not delay an instant to require a full explanation. In very weighty cases that admit of delay, you will of course consult me. Herewith does Polonius conclude his exhortations. _Feb. 15th._ The short flight was premature, for it did not agree with me. The charming weather, too, is become horrible. A snow-storm now flogs the sea under my windows, so that it foams and roars again for rage, and its billows dash over the high pier up to the houses. In the midst of this thunder I yesterday began to write my memoirs, and finished eight sheets, which I send you herewith. I have also taken advantage of this time to go through Lesage's historical Atlas again; and I cannot say that during my whole illness I ever felt a moment's ennui. Indeed the perfect repose and passionless calm of such a period refreshes my soul. My body will soon be restored also; and then, as soon as the sky clears a little, I think to return once more to the haunts of men. A----,[81] to whom I sent your letter, desires her best love to you. From her great intimacy with the future Queen, she is treated quite like a 'Princesse du Sang.' She begins to feel her own importance a little; her former shy, timid 'tournure' is altered much to her advantage, and she has learnt to assume a certain air without losing her affability. The sun of fortune and favour changes a human being, as the sun of heaven does a plant which faded in darkness, and now raises its drooping head in his bright beams, and penetrated by the genial warmth opens fragrant blossoms to the light. We, dear Julia, still lie in the cellar, like hyacinth roots; but the gardener can place us in a more favourable soil and brighter sun in the spring--if it please him. _Feb. 20th._ I have been out--and behind every thing is become strange wherever I went. My acquaintances were almost all gone, and in the houses and promenades new faces met me. The bare country alone I found in its former state, except that the green fields were manured--with oystershells. Miss ----, a not very young, but rich and 'agreeable' lady, told me that the papers here had spoken of me as lying at the point of death, while the London 'Morning Post' introduced me as dancing at Almack's, which certainly looks rather spectral. This good-natured Miss ---- is still full of acknowledgments for a ticket I once got her for Almack's, and played and sang her thanks to me rather more than the weak state of my nerves could bear. I took my leave, but soon fell into the hands of two other Philomels who are also belated here. As soon as my strength is quite restored I shall return to London, and can now, with a good conscience, and without fear of causing you anxiety, despatch this long letter. The short meaning of many words is ever the same--the hearty love of Your L----. LETTER XXII. _London, Feb. 28th, 1828._ I must go back to mention to you an acquaintance I made at Brighton, which in one point of view is interesting. You have no doubt heard that an ancestor of the Thelluson family made a will, according to which his property was to accumulate for a hundred and fifty years, interest upon interest, and the then existing young Thelluson to come into possession of the whole. In twenty years this term will expire; and I saw the present Mr. Thelluson, a man of forty, who has very little; and his son, a pretty boy of eight, who is probably destined in his twenty-eighth year to be master of twelve millions sterling,--ninety four millions of our money. An act of Parliament has prohibited all such wills for the future; but could not invalidate this, though great efforts were made to do so. So enormous a fortune certainly invests a private man with a very unnatural degree of power. However, I could not help heartily wishing good luck to the little fellow, with his splendid hopes. There is really something grand in having such enormous wealth; for it cannot be denied that money is the representative of most things in the world. What marvellous objects might be attained by such a fortune well applied! Next to this young Croesus 'in spe,' I was interested by a man of very original character, Colonel C----, who was here some days. Lady M---- directed my attention to him, and told me as follows: "When I was young, the elegant middle-aged man you see there, was one of the most admired beaux of the metropolis. After he had run through all his fortune, with the exception of a few thousand pounds, chance one day led him before a map of America, and the thought suddenly struck him that he would go there and turn backwoodsman. He examined the map, and fixed on a solitary spot on Lake Erie, sold all his effects the same week, married his servant to a pretty young girl, embarked with them, and arrived in safety at the spot he had chosen in the primeval woods, where he lived for a few days by hunting, and slept under the leafy canopy: with the help of some backwoodsmen he soon built a log-house, which he still inhabits. He acquired a considerable influence over the settlers scattered around him, which he employed in encouraging them to their joint labours, and rendered himself peculiarly agreeable to them by playing the part of cook, and preparing palatable food, instead of the half-raw meat they used to eat. He sees an increasing and attached population spring up around him, is proprietor of a little principality in extent, calculates his income at ten thousand a year, and comes regularly every tenth year, for 'one season,' to England, where he lives, as formerly, with all the 'aisance' of a fashionable man of the world, and then returns to his woods." My first visit in the metropolis was to Countess M----, who, 'malgré ses quarantes ans,' has added another child to her dozen during my absence. I dined there, and admired a beautiful present of plate from the King, the workmanship of which is finer here than anywhere, so that the cost of the labour is often ten times that of the metal. At dinner the Count told a curious anecdote, characteristic of the administration of justice in this country. "A man whom I know," said he, "had his pocket-handkerchief stolen in the street. He seized the thief, and, being the stronger, held him fast, though not without receiving several violent blows; and at length gave him into the charge of a police officer who came up. The transaction was perfectly clear, and passed in the presence of many witnesses; and the delinquent, if prosecuted, would have been transported. His wife went to the gentleman, begged for mercy on her knees: the thief himself, who was not an uneducated man, wrote the most moving letters,--and who will wonder that he at length found pity? On the appointed day the prosecutor staid away, and the criminal was accordingly acquitted. "The gentleman paid dearly enough for his ill-timed compassion. A fortnight after this transaction, he was prosecuted, by the very man who picked his pocket, for an assault, which was proved on the testimony of several witnesses. The defendant replied, that it was certainly true that he had seized the man, but that he had done so only because he had caught him in the act of picking his pocket. But as the criminal had already been acquitted of this, and no man can be twice tried for the same offence, no notice was taken of the justification. In short, it cost the too generous sufferer about a hundred pounds, which he had to pay partly to the man who robbed him, and partly to the Court." The whole company thought this sort of justice monstrous; but an old Englishman defended it with great warmth and pertinacity. "I think," exclaimed he earnestly, "that the incident just related, exactly goes to illustrate the wisdom of our laws in the most striking manner. All laws and judicial authorities are instituted solely for the purpose of preventing crime. This is also the sole end of punishment. The receiver of stolen goods is therefore, in the eye of the law, nearly as guilty as the thief; and he who knowingly tries to rescue a criminal from the grasp of the law, is almost as pernicious to the community as the criminal himself. That man who, perhaps, began his career of crime with the stealing of this pocket-handkerchief, and therefore ought to have been withdrawn from society for penitence and amendment, now, emboldened by success, is probably planning a larger theft,--perhaps a murder. Who ought to bear the blame? This very gentleman,--who has been deservedly punished for his illegal pity. He who thrusts his hand uncalled for and inconsiderately between the wheels of a useful machine, must not wonder if he breaks his fingers." The English are, it must be confessed, most skilful sophists, whenever their usages are called in question. The most distinguished man among them, however, Brougham, lately made a speech of six hours long, which treated entirely of the defects and abuses of English law. The most stupendous of these seemed to be, that there is now in 'the Court of Chancery' the enormous sum of fifty millions sterling, which has no actual determined owner. A suit in this Court is become proverbial for something interminable; and there is a very diverting caricature, which bears the inscription, 'A Chancery Suit.' At first a young man handsomely dressed, and in high blooming health, fills the hat of a starved skeleton of a lawyer with guineas, by way of retaining fee. A long, long procession of men and things follows; and at last we see the young man as a ragged broken-down beggar, asking alms of the lawyer, now grown fat as a tun, which the latter scornfully refuses. 'Hélas, c'est encore tout comme chez nous,' only in more corpulent proportions. On many things, however, which appear to foreigners most exasperating, they ought to take care not to form too hasty a judgment, since abuses and even obvious original defects are often only the inevitable shadows of a far greater light;--as, for instance, bribery at elections,--perhaps even the 'rotten boroughs,' and the acknowledged dependence of a considerable portion of the members of parliament on Government, by means of 'patronage,' and so forth. It seems to be quite a question whether any Ministry could stand without these means, apparently so pernicious. It is, however, something gained, that a Government should not have that conceded in theory (as it is in despotic states) which nevertheless, perhaps, they cannot quite dispense with in practice;--as the preacher's life never quite comes up to his doctrine. We must not forget that an approach to perfection is all that can be expected from human things; and therefore reformers ought carefully to keep in mind 'que le mieux est l'ennemi du bien.' Nevertheless, I think I see many indications that England is advancing towards a reform; and indeed, that it is, from various causes, quite inevitable. Whether it will end advantageously for her, or not, is another question. Perhaps the very necessity is a proof that she has outlived her highest greatness, and is already declining. In the evening I visited the Adelphi Theatre, where a juggler exhibited his feats of art in a very new manner, under the title of 'Conversazioni.' He stood surrounded by various tables and machines on the stage, and began with a history of his journey in the Diligence: into this he introduced various characters and anecdotes, sang songs, and interspersed his narrative with tricks, or optical deceptions, or phantasmagoria, as appropriate incidents,--a good idea enough, which increases the interest of such exhibitions. His dexterity and certainty as a juggler were moreover as remarkable as his good dramatic acting and his memory. He concluded with playing on the musical glasses; not only in the harmonica style, but waltzes and the like; and even introduced long shakes, which he executed admirably. _March 9th._ The season already asserts its prerogative. The streets swarm with elegant equipages; the shops spread forth fresh treasures; all the houses are full, and all prices raised doubly and trebly. Mr. Peel the Minister gave a brilliant soirée this evening to the Duchess of Clarence. His house is decorated with many fine pictures, among which is Rubens' famous 'Chapeau de paille.' Mr. Peel gave fifteen thousand reichsthalers for this picture--a half-length. I went with Prince E---- yesterday to see the small private collection of a clergyman (Mr. Carr,) which consists of not above thirty pictures, has cost him twenty thousand pounds, and is quite worth it. There are as many master-pieces as pictures,--the only true sort of collection for a private man, who does not use his gallery for instruction in the art, but for enjoyment. Here is a Garoffolo, of such unearthly transparency and brightness, of so holy and deep a poetry, that you think you behold a picture of Eden, not of this earth; and a large Claude, also of the highest order of beauty, in which the smallness of the means employed are as wonderful as the extraordinary effects produced. In an adjoining room were some beautiful landscapes by Domenichino and Annibal Caracci. The richness of composition, the deepness and freshness of invention, were adorned with such a fantastic charm and such variety of details, that I could have lost myself all day long in these strange regions, with their broad watery mirrors; their islands, groves and pretty huts; their deep blue mountains, and forests of spectral darkness. In a third room you reach the crown of the whole collection, a picture by Leonardo da Vinci, in which he has represented, in the three persons of the Saviour, Peter and John, the Ideal of youth, manhood, and old age; all of a beauty, truth, and perfection, which leaves nothing to desire. It is the only head of Christ, of all I ever saw, which fully satisfies me; it is as strikingly expressive of grandeur and force of mind, as of purity and meekness; while at the same time it unites this speaking expression with perfect ideal beauty. The grouping of the whole, too, is so satisfactory to the eye; the colouring so brilliant and so fresh; the execution, down to the smallest details so masterly,--that one feels a fulness of delight such as few works of art bestow.[82] But nothing remains of the exquisite pleasure of contemplating such a work, save a cold dissection of it by words. I will therefore quit the subject; only I wish to make connoisseurs better acquainted with this choice collection. There is an exhibition of battles by Generat Lejeune, which he first fought, and then painted. They show great talent and power. In the battle of the Moskwa, the theatrical Murat and his suite form the principal group; he, streaming with feathers, ringlets, fringe, and embroidery,--standing, with his self-satisfied air, under a fire of musketry; he is in the act of giving the order to the French and Saxon cuirassiers for that murderous attack, and the storming of a battery of forty guns, which cost so many their lives, and among them my beloved friend H----. The King is just about to put himself at the head of them. Who could then have predicted that he would so soon be ignominiously beaten by a mob, and shot as a criminal? Deeply affecting, though too horrible for art, is the figure of an Austrian staff-officer at the battle of Marengo, who has been shot through the belly, so that the bowels are lying on the ground. The unfortunate wretch, to escape from his insufferable torture, has entreated a French 'gens d'arme' to lend him his pistol, which he is putting to his mouth with a look of despair, while the owner of the weapon turns away shuddering. In another picture is the onslaught of a party of Spanish guerillas on a French detachment. You see a most romantic pass in the mountains of Catalonia, remarkable for four stone oxen, the erection of which is ascribed to Hannibal. At their feet lie two or three skeletons of French cuirassiers, still in full armour. Not a soul escaped this slaughter except General Lejeune himself, and this only by a half-miracle;--three of the guns aimed at him missed, which the Empecinado superstitiously took for a warning, and commanded the men not to fire at him again. You see General Lejeune stripped naked; one murderer has caught him by the hair, another is treading on his body, and the arms of the others are pointed against him; while his servants and a soldier, pierced through and through by pikes and swords, breathe their last at his side. The battle of the Nile,--where the Mamelukes, in half-frantic flight, spur their noble Arabian horses from a high hill down into the river, whence but a few reach the opposite bank,--has also a very romantic effect. _March 13th._ I forgot to tell you that about a fortnight ago the elegant little Brunswick Theatre, scarcely finished, fell in during the rehearsal of a new piece, and destroyed a great many lives. I went to look at the ruins yesterday; the carcasses of two cart-horses, which had been crushed in the street were still lying under the rubbish. It was a fearful sight. Only one single box remained standing; in this, Farren the actor saved himself, by his coolness in not stirring from the spot.--Thence he saw the whole horrible catastrophe,--only too real and unexpected a tragedy. In the whirl of the season it's all forgotten. Yet this tumultuous life furnishes far less stuff for thought than might be imagined; and what it does furnish, is soon forgotten in the confusion. A family dinner at the great R----'s, who has been likened to the Sultan, because the one is the Ruler of all Believers, and the other the Believer in all Rulers, occurred as a variety. This man has really something very original about him. He was peculiarly merry to-day; ordered the servant to bring his new Austrian consular uniform, which "his friend M----ch," as he said, had sent him from Vienna; showed it to us, and even suffered himself to be persuaded to try it on before the looking-glass, and to walk about in it. And, as virtuosi when they have once begun never know when to stop, he now sent for other magnificent Court dresses, and changed his toilette several times, as if he had been on the stage:--and that with such child-like good-nature and naïveté, that I could only compare such a golden hero with Henry the Fourth, found by the foreign ambassadors acting as horse to his little son. It was, 'au reste,' rather droll to see how this otherwise serious tradesman-like man tried to assume the various bendings and bowings, and the light and gracious air, of a courtier; and, not in the least disconcerted by our laughing, assured us, with as much confidence as joviality, that N---- M---- R----, if he liked, could act any part; and, with the help of five or six glasses of wine extra, could make as good a figure at Court as the best of them. An acquaintance I made a few days ago had a very different sort of interest for me,--I mean that of General Mina. You have seen several portraits of him, all of which represent him with huge mustachios and wild features, like a ferocious captain of brigands. Think then of my astonishment at seeing, in the hero of Spain, a mild, simple, and singularly modest man, without the slightest trace of what is called a military 'tournure;' on the contrary, like a country schoolmaster or farmer, with an open good natured countenance, and blushing at every compliment paid him, like a girl. When he grew animated with conversation, I, however, remarked a change in his features and a lightning of his dark eye, which betrayed the spirit within. He is in very good preservation, and has scarcely the air of a man of forty, though his short hair is quite white; but this by no means makes him look old,--it only gives him the appearance of being powdered. He said, in the course of conversation, that he never had that luxuriant bush of hair to boast, which people are so fond of bestowing upon him, and that he had often laughed at the caricatures which he saw of himself in the shop-windows. There were two other distinguished Spaniards present: Arguelles,--Minister under the Constitutional Government, and the most celebrated popular orator of Spain--a man of most prepossessing appearance and polished manners; and General Valdez, Commandant of Cadiz during the last siege. It was he who took the beloved Ferdinand on board his ship, (he being then senior Admiral of the Fleet) to the French camp. Though as he said, before and during the voyage the King overwhelmed him with caresses, repeatedly expressed his thanks for the treatment he had received in Cadiz, and made great promises for the future, the fate of poor Valdez was already sealed. "The moment the King quitted my ship," continued Valdez, "his behaviour suddenly changed; and as soon as he felt himself secure, he cast a piercing look of triumph and of long suppressed rage at me. _I knew this look_, and instantly took my resolution. Without waiting to deliberate or take leave, I sprang on board my ship, and set sail instantly for Cadiz. I thus probably escaped death: but my exile here, in poverty and wretchedness,--far from my unhappy country,--is, for a man of sixty, accustomed to wealth and greatness, perhaps a greater evil." I must now take you again to the theatre, and in the company, too, of the celebrated Lord L----, an old acquaintance of mine, who, after his varied and busy career, now preserves himself by daily washing with vinegar; whereas he used formerly to pickle others in a sauce as sour and pungent as that of the former 'Confiseur' of the _Elegante Zeitung_, both in writing and by word of mouth. We talked of past times; and as we reached the door of Drury Lane, he recited some wild but beautiful verses of Moore's.[83]* * * * * * * * They are nearly as follows, in my usual halting verse--translations of the moment.[84] * * * * * * * * * * No bad motto for Desdemona, which awaited us; though truly the Moor's was a fearful return for such devoted love. Before I go to the performance itself, let me make a few general remarks. It is a constantly contested point in Germany, whether Shakspeare should be given in a literal translation, in a free one, or in a still freer paraphrase. I decide for the second; premising that the liberty should be restricted to this,--unfettered scope in the spirit of the German tongue,--even though a play of wit or words should occasionally be lost by the means. But to alter in any considerable degree the course of the play; to omit scenes; to give to Shakspeare words and ideas perfectly foreign to him,--can only deform and mutilate him, even when done by the greatest poet. People say Shakspeare is better to read than to see, and cannot be performed in a literal translation without carrying us back to the infancy of the scenic art; since, as they maintain, theatrical representations in Shakspeare's time were no more than stories in dialogue, with some attempt at costume. I will not go into the question of the accuracy of this assertion; but thus much I know,--that the representation of Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Hamlet, and Othello, on the English stage,--all which pieces are given with slight omissions, and in which things generally supposed the most shocking to taste and probability, even the obligato king's trumpeters, are not wanting,--nevertheless leave a feeling of such full and untroubled satisfaction on my mind, as reading or hearing read (even by Tieck, the best reader I know of,) never had the power to produce in the most distant degree;--nay, still more, I confess that it is only since I have see them _here_, that I have been sensible of all Shakspeare's gigantic proportions in their full amplitude. It is true, that to produce this, a degree of concert on the part of all the actors and an excellence in those who support the chief characters are necessary, which are wholly wanting in Germany;--for Macbeths in Berlin, (as Clauren would say,) and Macbeths in London, are as different sort of people as Shaskpeare himself and his excellent commentator Franz Horn. The first actors here, such as Kean, Kemble, Young, &c., are, as I have elsewhere remarked, men of great cultivation, who have seen the best society, and devoted their lives to the earnest study of their great national poet. They seldom act any other characters than his, and do not mix up a tragic hero with one of Iffland's _Geheimenräthe_ (privy councillors,) nor Talbot with Herr von Langsalm, nor appear to-day in Othello, and to-morrow in Wollmarkt. It strikes one as very singular, that in appearance, and to a great extent in reality, the public before whom these distinguished artists have to present themselves is so rude, ignorant and unmannerly. Yet perhaps this very thing may produce a good effect on them. As the truly virtuous love virtue, so must an English actor love his art,--for its own sake alone,--and trouble himself little about his reception: in the end, he is thus most sure to obtain universal applause. And indeed I must confess that, spite of all this roughness, there is a portion of English audiences which has at bottom sounder taste and sense than the feeble, hyper-refined people of our German metropolitan towns; nay, even among the vulgar crowd there is an invisible church of the initiated, whose existence never suffers the sacred fire in the breast of the actors to be wholly extinguished; it is not very busy in public criticism, but has a mighty effect in society. Many Germans don't like to be told that other nations excel us in any thing: and truly I perceive the fact with great regret: but that must not prevent my speaking out my conviction, that, as we have no dramatic poet of Shakspeare's calibre, so we possess no actor capable of making his characters live before our eyes in their full significancy. It was not always so, as it is asserted; and I myself have retained impressions received in my earliest youth from Fleck and Unzelmann, which have never been renewed in Germany. Schröder and Eckhof seem to have stood yet higher; and I remember with singular pleasure the enthusiastic descriptions given me of them by old Archenholz, who had also seen Garrick. He thought Schröder at least Garrick's equal. That in order to form anything like a correct judgment of foreign actors, we must first in some degree throw ourselves in thought into their nationality;[85] must accustom ourselves to many of their manners and usages, which, like many turns of their language, always affect us as strange, however well we may understand them,--will be admitted by every thinking man. At first, these causes always more or less distract the attention; and I never saw more than one individual who, (if I may use the expression,) had a perfectly cosmopolitan organization,--the perhaps never-equalled, certainly never-surpassed, Miss O'Neil. In her it was only the pure abstract human mind and soul that spoke;--nation, time and external appearance, vanished from the thoughts in an ecstacy which carried all before it. But back to the present. We saw Othello, then; in which the combined acting of the three greatest dramatic artists of England afforded me a high intellectual treat, and has elicited this somewhat long 'expectoration;' but caused me to feel most painfully the want of the above-mentioned heroine. Had she been there, I should have witnessed the highest point of all theatrical representation. Kean, Young, and Kemble, compose the ruling triumvirate of the English stage. The first has without doubt the most genius; the second is brilliant and sustained in his acting; the third, though less distinguished in the highest tragedy, uniformly dignified and intelligent. This representation of Othello was the first time of their playing together. It was indeed a rare enjoyment! Othello and Shylock are Kean's greatest parts. It is amazing with what profound knowledge of the human heart he not only portrays the passion of jealousy,--first slumbering, then gradually awaking, and ending in madness; but with what wondrous accuracy he catches the Southern nature of the Moor,--the peculiar characteristics of the race, and never for a moment loses sight of them. In the midst of the high and noble bearing of the hero, something animal occasionally peeps forth that makes us shudder, while on the other hand it gives force to his agonizing torment, and places it bodily before our eyes. The simplicity of his acting at first, the absence of all bragging about his past achievements, and his intense love for the woman of his choice, win the hearts of the spectators as they have won that of Desdemona: the ugly Moor is forgotten in the complete, heroic man; till, amid the torments of lacerating jealousy, that hidden fierce nature slowly reveals itself to our eyes; and at length we think we see before us a raging tiger, rather than a being of like nature with ourselves. I was here confirmed anew in my persuasion, that a great poet, still more than a moderate one, stands in need of a great actor to make him perfectly understood and estimated. In Berlin, for instance, the strangling scene was not only ludicrous, but really indecent. Here, the blood froze in one's veins; and even the boisterous and turbulent English public was for a time speechless, motionless--as if struck by lightning. Nay, I must acknowledge that sometimes during the tragedy, Othello's long torment, which the fiend-like Iago with such devilish calmness doles out to him drop by drop, was so painful, and the terror of what I knew was to follow grew upon me so involuntarily, that I turned away my face as from a scene too horrible to contemplate. Young's Iago is a master-piece, and _his_ acting first made this character thoroughly clear to me. It is, perhaps--and here I must recant, at least in this one case, an assertion I made before--Iago is perhaps, contrary to Shakspeare's usual custom, not a character quite founded in nature, but rather a brilliant conception of the poet:--but then with what astonishing consistency is it carried through! He is an incarnate fiend; a being nourished with gall and bitterness, capable neither of love nor joy; who regards evil as his element; the philosophizing on himself, the contemplating and full and clear setting forth of his own atrocities, is his only enjoyment. The tie which binds him to human kind is feeble; it is only revenge for the suspected injury done him by the Moor: and even this seems but a sort of pretext which he makes to himself with the last expiring breath of moral sensibility, and his genuine delight in torture and distress ever the real and leading motive. And yet even this monster is not utterly revolting. His intellectual superiority, his courage, his consistency, and, at the last, his firmness in extremity, never suffer the consummate villain to sink into abject, vulgar degradation. Iago is a hero, compared to Kotzebue's models of virtue. Completely in this sense Young played the character: his manners are gloomy and morose, but noble; no smile passes over his lips, and his jests lose nothing by this dryness: certain of his power, he treats all with calm superiority, but with well-defined 'nuances:' to his wife he is simply rough and domineering; to Roderigo, authoritative and humorous; to Cassio, polite and friendly; to the Moor, reverential and attached, but always serious and dignified. Kemble, on his part, played Cassio as admirably; and perfectly as Shakspeare describes him; "a man, framed to make women false;" young, gay, gallant, of a noble mein, good-natured character, and polished manners.--Desdemona, unhappily, was but moderately represented; and yet the touching contrast of her gentle, patient, womanly devotedness, with the Moor's burning passion, was not utterly lost. Kean played Othello in the dress of a Moorish King out of the Bible,--in sandals, and a long silk talar, which is manifestly absurd. But one soon forgets his dress in his glorious acting. Your faithful L----. LETTER XXIII. _London, March 24th, 1828._ BELOVED FRIEND, Among the most aristocratical parties are to be numbered the concerts of one of the most liberal members of the Opposition,--an anomaly often to be found here; where a certain vague general liberalism goes hand-in-hand with the narrowest pride and most arrogant conceit of class; and where the haughtiest man in his own house possesses the reputation of the most liberal in public life. Very amusing parties are also given by a Duchess, whose brevet is so new that she is reckoned a plebeian by the exclusives:--such an one took place to-day. On the second floor there was an excellent concert, on the first a ball, and on the ground-floor constant eating. At the dinner which preceded, the servants waited in white kid gloves, an imitation of another fashionable Duke. This almost disgusted me, for I could not get out of my head the lazaretto, and other disagreeable cutaneous associations. More rich in intellectual enjoyment was my yesterday's dinner at the Duke of Somerset's, a man of very various accomplishments. At table, a celebrated parliamentary orator told some strange things: among others, he said that he had lately been a member of a Commission for investigating the connexion between the police and the thieves, about which so many complaints have been made. It came out, that a Society existed in London, completely organized with 'bureaux,' 'clerks,' &c., which directed thefts and coining on a large scale, supported those who were taken, and afforded powerful assistance both offensive and defensive, &c. He asserted, that at the head of this association were not only several people in respectable stations, and members of Parliament, but even a well-known Peer of the realm. The proofs were of a kind that left no room for doubt; but to avoid the dreadful scandal, the Ministry had determined to let the matter drop. One sees that in free countries things go forward which we don't so much as dream of. A lover of natural history afterwards read us a lecture on toads, which, in their sphere, seemed to me as odd sort of people as the foregoing. _March 27th._ I am just come back from the Levée, which was very numerously attended. The King was obliged to sit, on account of his gout, but looked very well. The Duke of Wellington returned thanks for his elevation to the Premiership by falling on both knees, whereas it is usual only to kneel on one. His gratitude was probably double, on account of his double quality of Prime Minister and former Commander-in-Chief, as the caricatures represent him,--the left half of his body dressed as a courtier, the right as field-marshal, but laughing on both sides of his face. As, with the exception of the 'Grande entrée,' almost everybody is admitted to these levées if they can but appear in the prescribed dress, there cannot be better sport for the lovers of caricatures. The unaccustomed dress, and no less unwonted splendour of royalty, raise the national awkwardness and embarrassment to their highest pitch. Our charming well drilled court-ladies would often distrust their own eyes. As soon as I had changed my dress, I rode in the most delightful spring weather in the still solitary Regent's Park, where hundred of almond-trees are in blossom; and visited the ménagérie lately established there, which presents a model worthy of imitation. There is nothing over-done, and at the same time a neatness, which assuredly can be attained nowhere but in England. Here I saw a tiger-cat, a creature which seemed to me a perfect model of beauty and elegance among quadrupeds. I afterwards went to a grand dinner at the Marquis of Thomond's, an Irish peer, at which I met one of the most conspicuous Tories in England, the Duke of N----. I must confess he has not much the look of a genius; and the whole party was so stiffly English, that I heartily rejoiced at being seated next to Princess P----, whose lively good-natured ultra prattle appeared to me, to-day, as agreeable as if it had been the most intellectual conversation in the world. I concluded the evening with a ball at the Marquis of Beresford's, in honour of the Marchioness de Louly, sister of Don Miguel, who however seemed not a little bored. She speaks only Portuguese, and therefore could converse with scarcely any body but the host. The Marshal himself is a striking soldierlike-looking man, against whom party spirit has been very unjustly directed. He is a man of resolute character, as well as of attractive manners, such as many Governments, beside the Portuguese, might employ to advantage; strong as a lion, and prudent as a serpent. He considers Don Miguel's claim to the throne of Portugal as better founded than that of his brother; and maintains, that in judging of persons and events in other countries, we must resort to a totally different standard from that which we employ in our own. He says that Don Miguel's education was so neglected, that in his three-and-twentieth year he could not write; that much therefore could not be expected from such a prince; but that he had some brilliant natural qualities, and that the newspapers were not to be implicitly believed. This latter assertion, at least, I am not inclined to doubt. _April 7th._ I thought it a real blessing to-day to dine in the country, quite 'sans gêne' at H---- Lodge, the pretty villa of the Duchess of St. A----. In front of the house, which stands on the slope of a hill, bloomed a splendid star of crocuses and other early flowers, in the midst of the bright green turf, surrounding a marble fountain; while over the tops of the trees the giant city lay dimly seen in the valley, like a 'fata montana' of the New Jerusalem in a gauze mist. The dinner was, as usual, excellent; and after dinner we had a concert in a beautiful green-house filled with flowers and fruits. I sat at table next to a lineal descendant of Charles the Second, a relation of the Duke's,--for about half a dozen English Peers spring from mistresses of the merry monarch, and bear the royal arms quartered with their own, of which they are not a little proud. It is still very cold, but yet leaves and flowers break forth vigorously,--a sight that would enrapture me at home, but here gives me a heart sickness that is often hardly endurable. Nevertheless I do not choose to sit down again on the old golden seat of thorns, but will rather seek out a smooth and comfortable common stool, on which I may repose in freedom. _---- Park, April 9th._ I came here yesterday, and am with a large party at the house of a very 'fashionable' lady. The house is as tastefully and richly adorned as possible, but too stately and too portentous in its beauty to be truly agreeable, at least to me. Besides, there is a certain L---- here, a patent witling, whose every word the extremely good-natured company holds itself bound to admire: people affect great liking for him, from fear of his evil tongue. Such intellectual bullies are my mortal abhorrence; especially when, like this, to a repulsive exterior they unite all the gall and acrimony of satire, without any of its grace. They appear in human society like venomous insects, whom, from some pitiable weakness, we assist in feeding on the blood of others, so that they do not suck our own. The still life about me speaks more to my heart than the human beings; especially the sweet flowers which are placed in pretty vases and receptacles of all sorts in all the apartments. Among the pictures, I admired a Joseph leading the little Jesus, by Morillo. In the beautiful child lies the germ of the future greatness and god-like nature of the Redeemer: as yet it slumbers dimly, but is wonderfully expressed in the prophetic beaming of the eye. Joseph appears a plain simple man, in the full vigour of middle age, betraying dignity of character though not of station:--the landscape is wild and original, and cherubs' heads peep sweetly forth out of the dark clouds. The picture, the owner told me, cost him two thousand and five hundred pounds. I was much pleased with a conservatory for palms, built almost entirely of glass,--so transparent that it looks like a house of ice. The country life here is in some respects too social for my taste. If, for instance, you wish to read, you go into the library, where you are seldom alone:--if you have letters to write, you sit at a great common writing table just as much in public; they are then put into a box with holes, and taken by a servant to the Post. To do all this in your own room is not usual, and therefore surprises and annoys people. Many a foreigner would like to breakfast in his own room; but this he cannot well do, unless he pleads illness. With all the freedom and absence of useless ceremonies and tedious complimenting, there is yet, for a person accustomed to our habits, a considerable degree of constraint, which the continual necessity of speaking in a foreign tongue renders more oppressive. _London, April 12th._ I took my leave of ---- Park this morning just as an April storm was clearing off, breathed the spring air with delight, and looked with ecstacy at the brilliant green and the bursting buds,--a sight of which I am never weary. Spring indemnifies our northern climes for all the discomfort of their winter; for this awakening of young Nature is accompanied with far less coquetry on her part in the South. I was invited again to dinner at the Duchess of St. A----'s country-house, where a very agreeable surprise awaited me. I arrived late, and was placed between my hostess, and a tall very simple, but benevolent looking man of middle age, who spoke broad Scotch,--a dialect anything but agreeable; and would probably have struck me for nothing else, had I not soon discovered that I was sitting next to--the Great Unknown. It was not long ere many a sally of dry, poignant wit fell from his lips, and many an anecdote, told in the most unpretending manner, which, without seeming brilliant, was yet striking. His eye, too, glanced, whenever he was animated, with such a clear, good-natured lustre, and that with such an expression of true-hearted kindness and natural feeling, that it was impossible not to conceive a sort of love for him. Towards the end of dinner he and Sir Francis Burdett told ghost-stories, half-terrible, half-humorous, admirably, one against the other. This at last encouraged me to tell your famous key story, which I embelished a little in the 'dénouement.' It had great success; and it would be droll enough if you were to find it in the next romance of the prolific Scotchman. He afterwards recited a curious old inscription which he had recently discovered in the churchyard of Melrose Abbey. It was as follows: "The earth goes on the earth, glittering in gold, The earth goes to the earth sooner than it would; The earth builds on the earth castles and towers, The earth says to the earth--All this is ours." When translated, something like this: "Erd' geht auf Erde glänzend in Gold, Erd' geht zur Erde früher denn wollt'; Erd' baut auf Erde Schlösser von Stein, Erd' sagt zur Erde--Alles ist mein!' True enough; for earth we were, are, and shall be. A little concert concluded the evening; in which the very pretty daughter of the great bard,--a healthy-looking Highland beauty,--took part; and Miss Stephens sang nothing but Scotch ballads. It was not till late in the night that I reached London and enriched my book of memoranda with a sketch of Sir Walter Scott--very like, for which I am indebted to the kindness of my hostess. As none of the engravings I have seen resemble him, I shall send you a copy with this letter. _April 27th._ The 'trouble' of this day was very monotonous; only a dinner at the Spanish ambassador's furnished me with one agreeable recollection. A Spanish girl, full of fire and beauty, sang boleros in such a manner that they awakened a completely new musical sense in me. If I may judge from them, and from a fandango I once saw danced, Spanish society must be very different from ours, and far more 'piquante.' Yesterday I was invited 'to meet the Dukes of Clarence and Sussex,' declined the honour for the sake of meeting Mademoiselle H---- at our friend B----'s. I had not seen her, and great and small are now at her feet. She is indeed an enchanting creature, and very dangerous to all who are either new in the world, or who have nothing to think of but their own pleasure. It is impossible to conceive a more unstudied and yet effective inborn coquetry, (if I may use the expression,) so child-like, so engaging, 'et cependent le díable n'y perd rien.' She seemed to seize my weak side as well as that of every other man, immediately, and talked to me, though without the slightest apparent design, only of what was likely to be appropriate and agreeable to me. The tones of my fatherland, too, fell from her pretty mouth in the stream of conversation, like pearls and diamonds, and the loveliest blue eyes lightened upon them like a spring sun behind a thin veil of clouds. "To-morrow Kean plays Richard the Third," said she carelessly. "The Duke of D---- has offered me his box;--would you like to accompany me?" That such an in invitation will supersede all others, follows of course. _April 28th._ Never did I see or hear less of a play than this evening, and yet I must confess never did one appear to me shorter. Spite of the presence of a 'gouvernante,' and a visit from Mr. Kemble between the acts, there was scarcely a pause in our conversation, which so many reminiscences of home rendered doubly interesting. This agreeable 'excitement,' too, lasted, on my side, during the ball which followed at the fashionable Lady Tankerville's; for I felt less 'ennuyé' than usual at these heartless wooden parties. Forgive me if I write only these few words, for Helios is leaving his bed, and I must go to mine. _April 29th._ Everything here is in colossal dimensions, even the workshop of my tailor, which is like a manufactory. You go to ask about the fate of a coat you have ordered; you find yourself surrounded by hundreds of bales of cloth; and as many workmen;--a secretary appears with great formality; and politely asks the day on which it was ordered. As soon as you have told him, he makes a sign for two folios to be brought, in which he pores for a short time. "Sir," is at last the answer, "to-morrow at twenty minutes past eleven the 'frac' will be so far advanced that you can try it on in the dressing-room." There are several of these rooms, decorated with large looking-glasses and 'Psyches,' continually occupied by fitters, where the wealthy tailor in person makes a dozen alterations without ever betraying the least impatience or ill-humour. As soon as justice was done to the 'frac,' I continued my walk, and came to a butcher's shop; where not only are the most beautiful garlands, pyramids, and other fanciful forms constructed of raw meat, and elegant vessels filled with ice give out the most delightful coolness, but a play-bill hangs behind every leg of mutton, and the favourite newspapers lie on the polished tables. A few houses further on, a dealer in sea-monsters competes with him, and sits, like King Fish in the fairy tale, between the marble and the fountain. He would however find it difficult to rival his celebrated colleague Crockford, who understands how to catch something better than common fish. This person is a man of genius, who has raised himself from the estate of a poor fishmonger, to that of the scourge, and at the same time the favourite, of the rich and fashionable world. He is a gambler, who has won millions,[86] and with them has built a gaming palace on the plan of the 'salons' at Paris, but with a truly Asiatic splendour almost surpassing that of royalty. Everything is in the now revived taste of the time of Louis the Fourteenth; decorated with tasteless excrescences, excess of gilding, confused mixture of stucco painting, &c.,--a turn of fashion very consistent in a country where the nobility grows more and more like that of the time of Louis the Fourteenth. Crockford's cook is the celebrated Ude, practically and theoretically the best in Europe. The table and attendance are in the highest perfection, combined with 'un jeu d'enfer,' at which twenty thousand pounds and more has often been lost in one evening, by one man. The company forms a club; admission is very difficult to obtain; and although games at hazard are illegal in England, most of the Ministers are members, and the Duke of Wellington, the Premier, one of the managers of this gaming club. _May 2nd._ Yesterday, the wedding day of the Duchess of St. A---, was celebrated by a very pleasant rural fête at her villa. In the middle of the bowling-green was a Maypole decorated with garlands and ribands, and gaily-dressed peasants in the old English costume danced around it. The company wandered about in the house and garden as they liked; many shot with bows and arrows; others danced under tents, swung, or played all sorts of games, or wandered in the shade of thick shrubberies; till at five o'clock a few blasts of a trumpet announced a splendid breakfast, at which all the delicacies and costly viands that luxury could furnish, were served in the greatest profusion. Many servants were dressed in fancy dresses as gardeners; and garlands of fresh flowers were hung upon all the bushes, which produced an indescribably rich effect. The day, too, was so singularly fine that I was able, for the first time, to see London quite clear from fog, and only slightly obscured by smoke. As night drew on, the effect of the garlands of flowers was renewed by many-coloured lamps, tastefully distributed amid the trees, or half hidden among the thick shrubs. It was past midnight when breakfast ended. There was a concert, and then a ball, at which the lovely German waltzer outshone all her rivals,--and with the most unpretending air, as if she did not perceive one of her conquests. Perhaps there never was a woman who had the art of appearing more innocent and childlike; and certainly this captivating sort of coquetry is the greatest charm, though not, perhaps, the greatest merit, of women. _May 8th._ For a week past two or three concerts have resounded in my ears every evening, or, as they here more properly say, every night. They are all on a sudden become a perfect rage, from the highest and most exclusive down to the herd of 'nobodies.' Mesdames Pasta, Caradori, Sontag, Brambilla, Messrs. Zuchelli, Pellegrini, and Curioni, sing for ever and ever the same airs and duets; which, however, people seem never tired of hearing. They often sing--doubtless tired themselves of the eternal monotony--very negligently, but that makes no difference whatever. The ears that hear them are seldom very musically organized, and are only awakened by 'fashion;' and those who are in the centre of the crowd certainly can often hardly distinguish whether the Bassist or the Prima Donna is singing, but must fall into extacies like the rest, notwithstanding. For the performers, this 'furore' is profitable enough. Sontag, for instance, in every party in which she is heard at all, receives forty pounds, sometimes a hundred; and occasionally she attends two or three in an evening. Pasta, whose singing is, to my taste, sweeter, grander, more tragic, rivals her; the others, though their merit is considerable, are in a subordinate rank. Besides these, Moschelles, Pixis, the two Bohrers, 'enfin' a herd of virtuosi, are here, all flocking to English gold, like moths around a candle. Not that they burn themselves; on the contrary, the women, at least, kindle fresh flames, right and left, which are sometimes even more profitable than their art. The concerts at Prince Leopold's are generally the most agreeable, and the insufferable squeezing is somewhat avoided in his large rooms. This Prince is less popular than he deserves; for the English can't forgive him for being a foreigner. _May 9th._ Riding with M----, we accidentally came through a charming country to Strawberry Hill,--the house built by Horace Walpole, which he mentions so often in his letters, and which has been wholly unaltered and little inhabited since his death. It is the first attempt at modern Gothic in England--quite in the 'clinquant' taste of that time; the stone-work imitated in wood, and a great deal more that glitters without being gold. There are, however, many real treasures of art and curiosities. Among them is a magnificent prayer-book set with jewels, filled with drawings by Raphael and his pupils; Cardinal Wolsey's hat; a very expressive portrait of Madame du Deffant, Walpole's blind and witty friend; and a picture of the celebrated Lady Mary Wortley Montague, in a Turkish dress. As every thing is to be found in England, I met with an Englishman of rank, to-day, who has endeavoured to introduce German habits, German domestic arrangements, and a German tone of society into his house. This is Earl S----, who lived in our fatherland for a long time in rather narrow circumstances, and suddenly came into a very large fortune. The only thing in the English taste was the crimson liveries of his people, with canary-coloured inexpressibles and _stockings_;--all the rest was German; even the hour of dining was an approach to ours. The length of the dinner was in the highest degree wearisome to me; I sat upon thorns, especially as I was expected elsewhere. In spite of my ill-humour, however, I could not help laughing at the _Wienerisch_ (Vienna dialect) of my Austrian neighbour. _May 16th._ I have been spending some days in the country at the Epsom races. The scene was very lively; all the roads full of swiftly-rolling equipages; and a large green hill in the middle of the plain, around which the races are held, so thickly covered with a thousand unharnessed carriages, and a motley crowd of horsemen and foot-passengers, that I never saw a more picturesque popular festival.--Now set this picture in the frame of a pretty cultivated landscape, with a sky full of dark clouds, much rain, and rare but hot gleams of sunshine. I returned yesterday, that I might not miss a party at the King's to-day, to which I was invited--an event here looked upon as an extraordinary 'bonne fortune.'--You must not associate any idea of Court with it: but it is certain that the Ideal of a fashionable house cannot be more completely realized. Every comfort and every elegance of a private gentleman is united in the most tasteful and substantial manner with royal magnificence; and the monarch himself is, as is well known, prouder of nothing than of the title of "the first gentleman in England." _May 30th._ Though the everlasting whirl leaves little leisure, (and once drawn into the vortex it is not easy to extricate one's-self, even though one may find no pleasure in it,) I yet find a moment, from time to time, for more quiet and more durable enjoyment. In one such, I lately visited a most interesting collection of pictures;--all portraits of persons eminent in English history. It was remarkable how frequently most of them corresponded in features and expression with the picture history has left us of them. The celebrated Lord Burleigh had moreover a striking resemblance to the great State Chancellor (_Staats Kanzler_) of Prussia, though he is greatly disguised by his head-dress, which is like an old wife's cap. James the First was divertingly true to his character; as was also his ambassador, the eccentric knight who so delightfully declares in his memoirs, that wherever he went, he charmed both men and women; and that his nature was like that of no other man, for that both he and all descended from him sent forth an atmosphere of the most agreeable natural fragrance. I then went to another collection, consisting of modern paintings in water-colours, in which branch of art the English have certainly attained to a singular perfection. One is astonished at the glow and depth of colouring they produce. The Scotch landscapes were remarkably fine: there was a Sunset in the Highlands which rivalled Claude in truth; and a twilight on Loch Lomond, a poem full of romantic beauty. I had still time for a long ride, in the course of which, committing myself as usual to the guidance of chance, I came upon a most enchanting park, such as only the climate of England can produce. The gardens lay, in all their indescribable glow of beauty, in a narrow and fertile green valley full of high trees, under which three silver springs gushed forth, and flowing away in meandering brooks, took their course in all directions amid impervious thickets of blooming rhododendrons and azaleas. My delight in such scenes is ever saddened by the regret that you cannot behold them with me: your fine and accurate taste would draw from them a thousand ideas of new and lovelier creations; either by the skilful grouping of colours, or by graceful forms, or by the distribution of light, the effect of which may be so greatly enhanced by judicious thinning or massing of the foliage. The pleasant remembrance of this morning must diffuse itself over the rest of the day, which was filled by a dinner at Lady P----'s, distinguished for her love of good cheer; two balls at residences of British and foreign diplomacy; and a concert at Lord Grosvenor's. This was given, it is true, in a gallery of fine pictures; but on such an occasion they hardly give one more pleasure than any other hangings. _June 6th._ One of the most interesting houses to me is that of a noble Scot, the Earl of W----, a lineal descendant of Macduff. In his armoury is a branch of a tree said to be of Birnam Wood; probably a relic of the same quality as most others. Blessed is he who can believe in them! The family is most accomplished, and the Scotch mind is more nearly akin to the German than the English is. The amiable daughters taught me a new manner of preserving faithful and lasting portraits of feathered favourites:--the feathers are pulled off, and pasted on card-board or varnished wood, together with the legs and beak; this produces a bas-relief of great truth, and not exposed to destruction. Charles the Tenth spent some time in Scotland, at Lord W----'s and left him an old maitre d'hotel, who, drolly enough, is called Bonneau, like him of the Pucelle; and is one of that nearly extinct domestic race of 'hommes de confiance' who are now never seen but on the stage, and hardly there. As such, and having been twenty-five years 'en fonction,' he is allowed occasionally to put in a word,--quite contrary to English manners, which do not permit servants to make the slightest approach to their masters, except in the way of their service. I have really found few things more amusing than this old Frenchman's stories about Court and society; his world, in fact, terminated with those times of which we can now scarcely form an idea. That the singular old man is only a 'a maitre d'hotel' detracts nothing from the interest; for he has seen more of the great world, and observed it better, than many of higher rank. When I paid my visit to Lady W---- this morning, she had just received a great cargo of curiosities from one of her sons, who is travelling in South America. Among them was a lion-monkey, with a tail and mane like those of the king of beasts, on a body not larger than that of a rat. Instead of the disagreeable smell of most of his tribe, this little fellow exhales musk and cinnamon; and, like the knight I lately mentioned, perfumed the room like a pastile. A very complete collection of serpents, and another of butterflies, exhibited colours such as are only painted by the rising and setting sun. I dined at Lady F----'s, where a curious incident occurred. Her husband was formerly Governor of the Isle of France, where a black-woman sold her a fortune-telling book, which, as she asserted, had belonged to the Empress Josephine before her departure for France, and in which she had read her future greatness and subsequent fall. Lady F---- produced it at tea, and invited the company to interrogate Destiny according to the prescribed method.--Now listen to the answers it gave, which are really remarkable. Madame de Rothschild was the first: she asked, whether her wishes would be fulfilled? She received for answer, "Weary not Fate with wishes; one who has received so much ought to be satisfied." Mr. Spring Rice, a distinguished member of Parliament, and one of the most zealous champions of Catholic emancipation, (a subject in which everybody here takes a strong interest, either for or against,) next asked if this Bill would pass the Upper House, in which it was to be finally debated on the morrow?--I must interrupt my narrative to tell you that it is well known that it will not pass, but it is as universally believed that next session the desired object must be attained. "You will have no success this time," was the laconic reply. A young American lady was now urged to inquire whether she would soon be married. The answer was, "Not in this hemisphere." Next came my turn, and I asked whether what now so strongly agitated my heart were for my happiness. "Let the inclination drop," replied the magic book, "for you will find it is neither real nor permanent." The company who of course had no guess at my real meaning in this question, made themselves very merry about the answer I had received, and insisted upon my proposing another. I therefore asked, "Will Fortune be more favourable to me in more serious projects?" "Seek," was the reply, "and you will find; persevere, and you will obtain." Without seeking, I found this evening something very agreeable; for I was presented by the Duchess of Clarence to her mother, the Duchess of Meiningen; a most amiable woman, of true German character; whom neither years nor rank have been able to rob of her 'naïf' natural manners,--perhaps the surest proof of a pure and lovely mind. This worthy mother of an honoured daughter must be a welcome guest to the English, who are much attached to their future Queen, and accordingly they pay her the greatest attentions. Pity, that high as well as low are generally too deficient in grace of manners, or felicity of address, to be able to act the drama of society on such occasions, so as to render the whole a pleasing or elegant spectacle! a drawing-room and a presentation at Court here are as ludicrous as the levée of a Bürgermeister of the ancient Free Imperial cities of our fatherland; and all the pride and pomp of aristocracy disappears in the childish 'embarras' of these 'ladies,' loaded,--not adorned,--with diamonds and fine clothes. In 'negligé,' and when they move at ease in their own houses and their accustomed circle, young Englishwomen often appear to great advantage: in 'parure' and large parties, scarcely ever; for an uncontrollable timidity, destructive of all grace, so paralyses even their intellectual powers, that a rational conversation with them would certainly be a most difficult matter to obtain. Of all the women of Europe, I therefore hold them to be the most agreeable and 'comfortable' wives; and at the same time the most incapable of presenting themselves with grace, address, or presence of mind; and the least fitted to embellish society. In this judgment the praise manifestly far outweighs the censure. _June 16th._ To-day I was present at an interesting breakfast, given by the Pigeon Club. This title by no means implies that the members are gentle and harmless as doves:[87]--on the contrary, they are the wildest young fellows in England, and the poor pigeons have nothing to do with the matter but to be shot at. The arena was a large grass-plat surrounded by a wall. On one side was a row of tents; in the largest of which a table was spread with viands, from one o'clock till six, and furnished with a constant supply of iced moselle and champagne. About a hundred members and some guests were present; and they shot, ate and drank, by turns. The pigeons were placed in a row, eight at a time. Cords are fastened to the doors of their houses, which meet at the shooting-stand; when one is pulled it opens the door, and the pigeon flies out. The man who shot last pulls for his successor,--but standing behind him, so that the latter cannot see which cord he pulls, and is therefore uncertain which of the eight pigeons will fly out: if the pigeon falls within the wall after his fire, it is reckoned his; if not, it does not count. Every man has a double-barrelled gun, and may use both barrels. The two most famous shots in England, are Captain de Roos and Mr Osbaldistone. They shot for a wager of a thousand pounds which is not yet decided. Neither missed once; and Captain de Roos's birds never fell twelve paces from the spot, and scarcely fluttered, but dropped like stones almost the moment he fired. Never did I see such admirable shooting. A pretty little spaniel belonging to the Club fetched every pigeon, and performed his duty like a machine, without either delay, neglect or hurry. At last the whole party shot for a golden vase of two hundred pounds value, (the annual prize of the Club,) which was won by Captain de Roos. I did not get away from this jolly breakfast till seven o'clock, when I went to a little theatre, as yet unknown to me, called Sadler's Wells, which is a good three-quarters of a mile (German) from my dwelling. I went in a hackney coach. When I wanted to go home, towards one o'clock, I could find no coach in this out-of-the-way place, and all the houses were shut. This was the more disagreeable, as I had really not the least idea in what part of the town I was. After wandering about the streets in vain for half an hour in search of a coach, I resigned myself to the idea of finding my way home on foot, with the aid of a watchman, when a stage coach came by which was going my way, and with which I happily regained my Penates about two o'clock.--The peculiarity of this theatre is that it contains real water, in which element the actors splash and dabble about by the hour together, like ducks or water rats: 'au reste,' nothing can surpass the nonsense of the melodrame, nor the horror of the singing by which it was accompanied. _June 20th._ I have been to another fancy ball, which has left only a melancholy impression on my mind. I remarked a pale man wrapped in a plain black domino, on whose countenance indescribable traces of the bitterest mental suffering were imprinted. It was not long before I asked L---- about him, and he told me as follows: "This truly pitiable man might serve as the hero of a fearful romance. If it can be said of any one that he was born to misfortune, that is the man. Early in life he lost his large property by the fraudulent bankruptcy of a friend. A hundred times since has Fortune approached him, but only to mock him with hopes which were invariably dashed from him at the decisive moment: in almost every case it was some insignificant trifle--the delay of a letter--some easy mistake--some indisposition, slight in itself but disastrous in its consequences, that wrecked everything; apparently, always by his own fault, and yet, in fact, a tissue woven by mocking, malignant spirits. "For a long time past he has made no more attempts to alter his condition; he seeks no improvement of his lot, persuaded beforehand, by long and cruel experience, that nothing _can_ ever succeed _with him_. I have known him from youth up. Though guileless and unoffending as a child, the world in general deems him malignant; though one of the most upright of men, false and intriguing; he is shunned and dreaded, though never did a heart beat more warmly for the weal of others. The girl he adored committed suicide in consequence of his suspected infidelity. He found himself, by a series of unheard-of circumstances, accused of the murder of his brother, near whom he was found bleeding, having risked his life in his defence:--he was saved from an ignominious death only by the King's pardon; and it was not till some time afterwards that the proofs of his innocence came to light. Lastly, a woman with whom he was betrayed into marriage by an infamous and long protracted system of deceit, ran away with another man, and artfully contrived that, in the eyes of the world, the greater portion of the blame should rest with him.--All confidence in himself thus utterly crushed and blighted, every hope in destiny or in men annihilated, he lives among them like an unsympathizing, unconnected ghost,--a heart-rending example that there are beings who (as far as this life is concerned) seem to be sold to the Devil before their birth; for when the curse of destiny has once scathed a man, it not only raises up to him enemies at every step, but robs him of the confidence and, in time, of the hearts of his friends; till at length the unhappy one, crushed, rejected, and trodden under foot on every side, lays down his weary, wounded head, and dies; while his last sigh appears to the pitiless crowd an assumption and an intolerable discord. Wo to the unlucky! Threefold wo to them. For to them there is neither virtue, nor wisdom, nor skill, nor joy! There is but one good for them; and that is--death." _June 25th._ There is certainly something pleasant in having so many invitations at your disposal every day; and, if you are not pleased in one place, in being able immediately to seek out company that suits you better. Here and there, too, one finds something new, piquant, and interesting. Yesterday, at Prince L----'s, for instance, I met with a second Ninon de l'Enclos. Certainly nobody would take Lady A----, to be more than forty, and yet I was assured she is near eighty. Nothing in her appears forced or unnatural, but every thing youthful; figure, dress, air, vivacity of manners, grace and elasticity of limb, as far as this is discernible at a party,--all about her is perfectly young, and scarcely a wrinkle in her face. She has never made herself anxious, and has lived a very gay life from her youth up: she ran away from her husband twice, on which account she quitted England for a long time, and spent her large fortune in Paris. Altogether she is a very 'amiable' person, more French than English in her deportment, and quite 'du grand monde.' The science of the toilet she has studied profoundly, and has made some important discoveries in it. From all I could see of the results, I should be very glad to impart them to you and my other fair friends. Next day the Duke of S---- gave a 'déjeuné champêtre' at his villa, at which invention was racked for something new in an entertainment of the kind. His whole house was hung with beautiful 'hautelisse' and gay Chinese hangings;--a multitude of sofas, easy chairs, 'chaises longues,' mirrors, &c., in all parts of the garden as well as of the rooms; besides a little encampment of tents of white and rose-coloured muslin, which had a beautiful effect, set in the emerald-green of the grounds. In the evening, followed, as usual, an illumination, consisting chiefly of single lamps, half-hidden in tree and bush, like so many ruddy fruits or bright-glow worms, enticing the loving or the lonely. Those who preferred noisy to quiet pleasures also found their heart's desire. Here, a large part of the company was dancing in a wide tent, the way to which lay under a bowery archway of roses, brilliantly illuminated;--there, resounded a delightful concert, executed by the best performers from the Italian Opera. Italian weather, too, happily shone on this fête from beginning to end; any little mischievous spirit of air might have totally ruined it. I have now so disposed my affairs that I shall be able to quit England in a month at furthest, to make a longer tour in Wales, and more especially in Ireland; which latter country, according to all I hear of it, excites my interest much more than even Scotland. Yet I am sorry that illness first, and the distractions of the metropolis afterwards, have robbed me of the sight of that country. It is an omission I must enter in my book of sins, which, alas! contains so many under the same head--Indolence--that terrible foe of man! Certainly that French Marshal in Louis the fourteenth's time,--a time so unfavourable to 'parvenus,' answered rightly, when he was asked, how it was possible that he could have raised himself to the highest dignities of his profession from the condition of a common soldier, "Only by this means," said he; "I never deferred till to-morrow what I could do to-day." Almost under the same head may be classed Indecision, that other hereditary foe of the species, which another celebrated Marshal, Suvaroff, hated so much, that, with the usual exaggerations of his character, he instantly withdrew all favour from a man who replied to any question he asked him, "I don't know." 'Non mi ricordo' does better; and according to my principles I apply this to all the above-named sins, when once they are committed. We ought daily to repeat to ourselves, The past is dead, the future only lives. May it smile upon us, dearest Julia! Your faithful L----. LETTER XXIV. _Cobham Hall, June 30th._ BELOVED FRIEND, After I had sent away my letter to you, and made an excursion into the country with some ladies, I drove to a party at the Duke of Clarence's, where there was, this time, such a genuine English squeeze, that I and several others could by no means get in; and went away, after waiting half an hour, 're infectâ,' to console ourselves at another ball. The mass in the first room was so jammed together that several men put on their hats, that they might have their arms more at liberty for active service. Ladies, covered with jewels were regularly 'milled,' and fell, or rather stood, fainting: cries, groans, curses, and sighs, were the only sounds to be heard. Some only laughed; and, inhuman as it was, I must accuse myself of having been among these latter; for really it was too droll to hear this called _society_. To say truth, I never saw any thing equal to it before. Early the next morning I rode to Cobham Hall, to spend a few days there on occasion of Lord D----'s birthday, which was celebrated to-day in a rural and unpretending manner. Excepting myself, there was no one but the family, which was increased by the presence of the elder son and his beautiful and charming wife, who usually reside in Ireland. All was ordered for domestic enjoyment. We dined early, in order that we might be present at a supper in the open air, which Lord D---- gave to all his labourers, about a hundred in number. It was managed with the greatest decorum. We sat next to the iron fence in the pleasure-ground, and the tables for the people were placed on the new-mown grass. First, about fifty young girls, from the Lancasterian school which Lady D---- has established in the park, were regaled with tea and cakes. They were all dressed alike, and very prettily too; they were children of from six to fourteen. After them came the labourers, and seated themselves at a long table plentifully furnished with enormous dishes of roast beef, vegetables, and pudding. Each brought his own knife and fork and earthen pot. The servants of the house set on the dinner, did the honours, and poured out the beer from great watering-pots. The village musicians played all the while, and were really better than ours; they were also better dressed. On the other hand the labourers did not look so well or so neat as our Wends in their Sunday clothes. No one was invited except those who constantly worked for Lord D----. The health of every member of the family was drunk with nine times nine; on which our old coachman Child, (now in Lord D----'s service,) who is a kind of English improvisatore, got upon the middle of the table, and delivered a most comical speech in verse, in which I was introduced, and truly with this wish,-- To have always plenty of gold, And never to become old; the double impossibility of which sounded rather ironical. During all this time, and till it was dark, the little girls danced and skipped about incessantly, with great gravity, on the grass, without any sort of plan or connectedness, like puppets,--whether the music played or not. Our party in the pleasure ground was at length attacked by the dancing mania; and I myself constrained to break my vow, for I could not possibly refuse to dance with such a partner as lady D----. _July 4th._ I have not been so happy and amused for a long time as here. In the morning I make excursions in the beautiful country, or drive in lady D----'s little one horse phæton about the fields and park, without road or path; and in the evening I, like the rest, take only just so much part in the conversation as I like. Yesterday after dinner we all sat (nine persons) at least a couple of hours together in the library, reading,--each, of course I mean, in his own book,--without one single word being spoken. At which peripatetic silence we at last, all by common consent, laughed. We thought of the Englishman at Paris, who maintained 'que parler c'étoit gâter la conversation.' After visiting the Lancasterian school I mentioned,--where one person teaches sixty girls, some of whom come from the remotest parts of Lord D----'s estate, many miles, daily--I rode to Rochester to see the fine ruin of the old castle. What has not been destroyed by violence stands like a rock, from the time of William the Conqueror. The remains of the eating-hall, with its colossal pillars united by richly ornamented Saxon arches, are singularly fine. The stone ornaments were all carved in Normandy, and sent hither by water. I mounted the highest point of the ruin, whence I had a noble view of the union of the Thames and the Medway, the towns of Rochester and Chatham, with the dockyards of the latter, and a richly cultivated country. At dinner our company received an addition,--Mr and Mrs P----, Mr M----, and a nephew of Lord D----'s. Mrs P---- told a good anecdote of Kemble the actor. On a professional tour in the provinces, he acted in a piece in which a camel is introduced. He told the 'décorateur' that, as he had just seen, there was a camel actually in the town, and that he had better therefore go and look at it, that he might make his artificial one as like it as possible. The man seemed extremely annoyed, and replied, he was sorry gentlemen in London thought people in the country were so ignorant; for his part, he flattered himself that, without going to look at any thing, he should produce a more natural camel this evening than any that was walking about the streets. The following day we rode out, and this time in company with the ladies, after which we went on the water in Lord D----'s elegant yacht. I was to drive the party down to the Thames, four-in-hand, in which I have had so little practice of late years, that at a crossway the leaders, in spite of my efforts, ran their heads against a stage-coach driving across us:--this occasioned a scream in both the carriages, which greatly incensed old Child, who looks upon me as his pupil. Thus, like the great Corsican, in one day I lost all my renown in the high art of guiding the reins--from the throne, ycleped ruling,--from the box, driving. I was therefore obliged to abdicate the latter, since the ladies maintained that my possession of this exalted seat was attended with too much danger to them. This mortified me so sorely, that when we got on board the yacht I climbed up the shrouds, and seated myself at the mast-head, where, fanned by a mild zephyr, I admired at my ease the ever-changing prospect, and philosophized on my downfall. _July 5th._ After I had vigorously assisted in hewing out some new prospects in the thicket, (at which we all lent a hand,) and planned a road through the park which is to be so far honoured as to bear my name, I took a cordial leave of this most estimable family, (who might serve as a pattern to the nobility of any country,) and returned to London, provided with many letters of introduction for Ireland. _July 8th._ As before I depart I mean to send you all sorts of things, with my horses, carriage and birds, (of the latter you will receive a complete cargo of the rarest sorts), I have had enough to do to-day to complete my purchases. In the course of this occupation I fell upon an exhibition of machinery and manufactures, among which are many interesting things; as, for instance, a machine which draws of itself, (if I may say so,) all the objects visible within its horizon, in perspective: a piano-forte which, besides serving the usual purpose, plays (extra) a hundred pieces by itself, which you may accompany with extemporary `fantasie' on the keys: a very compendious domestic telegraph, which spares the servants half their labour, and us nearly all their burdensome presence: a washing machine, which requires only one woman to wash a great quantity of linen: a most elegant churn, with which you can make butter on your breakfast table in two minutes; and other novelties of the like kind. From hence I drove to the greatest nursery garden in the neighbourhood of London, which I had long wished to see. The multifold wants of such a number of rich people raise private undertakings to a magnitude and extent in England which they reach nowhere else. On such a scale I found a collection of green-houses in this garden. In many were small leaden tubes, carried along the edges of the glass roof,--three or four on each side: the tubes are perforated with very small holes: by only turning a cock, a stream of water is carried through them; and in one moment the whole house is filled with a thick shower, just like natural rain. This makes the labour of watering almost unnecessary, has a much more powerful and uniform effect, and only requires some aid where the leaves are too large and thick to allow the rain to penetrate. Without going into the details of the innumerable sorts of pines, roses, &c., I must only remark, that in the department of esculent vegetables, there were four hundred and thirty-five sorts of salad, two hundred and sixty-one of peas, and two hundred and forty of potatoes,--and all other articles of garden commerce in the same proportion. On my way back I met the Tyrolers, who had been making holiday, and asked my old acquaintance (the girl) how she was pleased with her stay here. She declared with enthusiasm that her Saint must have brought her here; for that they had made 7000_l._ sterling in a few months, which they had earned--hard money--only with singing their dozen songs. Prince Esterhazy has made this _Gejodle_[88] the fashion here, and fashion in England is every thing. Sontag and Pasta, with their wonderful talents, have chiefly this to thank for their success--they were the fashion; for Weber, who did not understand the art of making himself fashionable, gained, as is well known, almost nothing;--the two Bohrers, Kiesewetter, and other men of real genius, were not more fortunate. While I am talking of fashion, it seems a suitable occasion, before I quit England, to enter a little more at large on the subject of the structure and tone of English society, which is certainly rather more striking to a stranger in this admired land, than fog, steam-engines, or stage-coaches. It is not necessary to remark here, that in such general descriptions only the most prominent and reigning peculiarities are taken into consideration, and that, in the censure which is passed on the whole, the hundred honourable exceptions which exhibit the praiseworthy contrast in such full perfection, are left wholly out of the account. England is now--viewed, certainly, with relation to a totally different universal spirit of the age--in a similar state to that of France thirty years before the revolution. And it will fall out with her as with her great rival, if she does not avert the storm by radical but continuous reform. Nearly-allied fundamental evils are present here, as there. On the one side, the undue preponderance, misused power, inflexible stony arrogance, and heartless frivolity of the great; on the other, selfishness and rapacity are grown into the national character of the mass of the people. Religion no longer dwells in the heart and spirit, but is become a dead form; notwithstanding the most unenlightened _spirit_ of Catholicism,--with fewer ceremonies, indeed, but combined with like intolerance, and a similar hierarchy; and which besides the bigotry and the pride of Rome, has this over and above, that it possesses an enormous share of the property of the country.[89] Like causes have also given an analogous tone and direction to what is pre-eminently called, Society. Experience will confirm this to every man who has access to what is called high life in England; and it will be highly interesting to him to observe how different a growth and aspect the same plant has assumed in France and England, in consequence of the original difference of the soil; for in France it grew rather out of chivalry and poetry, combined with the dominant vanity of the nation, with levity of character, and a real delight in social existence:--in England, out of a brutal feudal tyranny, the commercial prosperity of later years, an ill-humour and moroseness innate in the nation, and a cold stony self-love. People on the continent generally form to themselves a more or less republican picture of English society. In the public life of the nation this is certainly very observable,--as also in their domestic habits, in which selfishness is strangely prevalent. Grown-up children and parents soon become almost strangers; and what we call domestic life[90] is therefore applicable only to husband, wife, and little children living in immediate dependence on their father; as soon as they grow up, a republican coldness and estrangement take place between them and their parents. An English poet maintains, that the love of a grandfather to his grandchildren arises from this--that in his grown-up sons he sees only greedy and hostile heirs,--in his grandchildren, the future enemies of his enemies. The very _thought_ could never have arisen but in an English brain! In the relations and tone of society, on the other hand, from the highest step to the very lowest, not a trace of any element of republicanism is to be found. Here, everything is in the highest degree ultra-aristocratic--it is caste-like. The present so-called great world would probably have taken a different form and character if a Court, in the continental sense of the word, had given tone and direction in the highest instance. Such a one, however, does not here exist. The Kings of England live like private men; most of the high officers about the Court are little more than nominal, and are seldom assembled except on occasions of great ceremony. Now, as somewhere in society a focus must be organized, from which the highest light and the highest authority in all matters connected with society must emanate, the rich aristocracy seemed here called to assume this station. It was, however, spite of all its wealth and puissance, not yet qualified to maintain such a station unquestioned. The English nobility, haughty as it is, can scarcely measure itself against the French in antiquity and purity of blood (if any value is to be attached to such things), and in no degree against the higher German nobility, which is for the most part intact.[91] It dazzles only by the old historic names so wisely retained, which appear through the whole of English history like standing masks; though new families, often of very mean and even discreditable extraction, (such as descendants of mistresses, and the like), are continually concealed behind them. The English aristocracy has indeed the most solid advantages over those of all other countries--from its real wealth, and yet more from the share in the legislative power allotted to it by the Constitution: _but as it is not upon these grounds that it chooses to assert or to justify its supremacy, but precisely upon its assumed noble blood and higher extraction_, the pretension must, unquestionably, appear to the rest of the world doubly ludicrous. The members of the aristocracy probably had an instinctive feeling of this; and thus, by a tacit convention--not nobility, not wealth, but an entirely new power was placed upon the throne, as supreme and absolute sovereign--Fashion: a goddess who in England alone, reigns in person, (if I may so express myself), with despotic and inexorable sway,--though always represented to mortal eyes by a few clever usurpers of either sex. The spirit of _caste_, which, emanating from this source, descends through all stages of society in greater or less force, has received here a power, consistency and full development, wholly unexampled in any other country. The having visited on an intimate footing in a lower class is sufficient to ensure you an extremely cold reception in the very next step of the ladder; and no Brahmin can shrink with more horror from all contact with a Paria, than an 'Exclusive' from intercourse with a 'Nobody.'--Every class of society, as well as every field, in England is separated from every other by a hedge of thorns. Each has its own manners and turns of expression,--its 'cant' language, as it is called, and, above all, a supreme and absolute contempt for all below it. Of course every reflecting person sees at a glance, that a society so constituted must necessarily become eminently provincial (_kleinstädtisch_, i. e. _small-townish_) in its several coteries; and this strikingly distinguishes it from the large and cosmopolitan society of Paris. Now, although the aristocracy, as I have remarked, does not stand _as such_ on the pinnacle of this strange edifice, it yet exercises great influence over it. It is indeed difficult to become fashionable without being of good descent; but it by no means follows, that a man is so in virtue of being well born--still less of being rich. It sounds ludicrous to say, (but yet it is true), that the present King for instance, is a very fashionable man; that his father was not in the least degree so, and that none of his brothers have any pretension to fashion;--which unquestionably is highly to their honour:--for no man who has any personal claims to distinction, would be frivolous enough long to have either the power or the will to maintain himself in that category. On the other hand, it would be a doubtful and critical matter to affirm decidedly what are the qualities which secure the highest places in that exalted sphere. You see alternately the most heterogeneous qualities occupy a post in it; and political motives, in a country like this, cannot be entirely without influence: yet I believe that caprice and luck, and, above all, women, here, as in the rest of the world, do more than anything else. On the whole, fashionable Englishmen, however unable they may be to lay aside their native heaviness and pedantry, certainly betray the most intense desire to rival the dissolute frivolity and 'jactance' of the old Court of France in their fullest extent; while in exactly the same proportion the French now seek to exchange this character for old English earnestness, and daily advance towards higher and more dignified purposes and views of existence. A London Exclusive of the present day is in truth nothing more than a bad, flat, dull impression of a 'roué' of the Regency and a courtier of Louis the Fifteenth: both have, in common, selfishness, levity, boundless vanity, and an utter want of heart; both think they can set themselves above everything by means of contempt, derision and insolence; both creep in the dust before one idol alone--the Frenchman of the last age, before his King--the Englishman of this, before any acknowledged ruler in the empire of fashion. But what a contrast if we look further! In France, the absence of all morality and honesty was at least in some degree atoned for by the most refined courtesy; the poverty of soul, by wit and agreeableness; the impertinence of considering themselves as something better than other people, rendered bearable by finished elegance and politeness of manners; and egotistical vanity in some measure justified, or at least excused, by the brilliancy of an imposing Court, a high-bred air and address, the perfect art of polished intercourse, winning 'aisance,' and a conversation captivating by its wit and lightness.--What of all this has the English 'dandy' to offer? His highest triumph is to appear with the most wooden manners, as little polished as will suffice to avoid castigation; nay, to contrive even his civilities so, that they are as near as may be to affronts:--this indeed is the style of deportment which confers upon him the greatest celebrity. Instead of a noble, high-bred ease,--to have the courage to offend against every restraint of decorum: to invert the relation in which our sex stands to women, so that they appear the attacking, and he the passive or defensive party;--to treat his best friends, if they cease to have the stamp and authority of fashion, as if he did not know them,--"to cut them," as the technical phrase goes; to delight in the ineffably 'fade' jargon, and the affectation of his 'set;' and always to know what is 'the thing:'--these are pretty nearly the accomplishments which form a young 'lion' of the world of fashion. If he has, moreover, a remarkably pretty mistress, and if it has also happened to him to induce some foolish woman to sacrifice herself on the altar of fashion, and to desert husband and children for him, his reputation reaches its highest 'nimbus.' If, added to this, he spends a great deal of money, if he is young, and if his name is in the 'Peerage,' he can hardly fail to play a transient part; at any rate he possesses in full measure all the ingredients that go to make a Richelieu of our days. That his conversation consists only of the most trivial local jests and scandal, which he whispers into the ear of a woman in a large party, without deigning to remark that there is anybody in the room but himself and the happy object of his delicate attentions; that with men he can talk only of gambling or of sporting; that, except a few fashionable phrases which the shallowest head can the most easily retain, he is deplorably ignorant; that his awkward 'tournure' goes not beyond the 'nonchalance' of a plough-boy, who stretches himself at his length on the ale-house settle; and that his grace is very like that of a bear which has been taught to dance,--all this does not rob his crown of a single jewel. Worse still is it, that, notwithstanding the high-bred rudeness of his exterior, the moral condition of his inward man must, to be fashionable, stand far lower. That cheating is prevalent in the various kinds of play which are here the order of the day, and that when long successfully practised it gives a sort of 'relief,' is notorious: but it is still more striking, that no attempt is made to conceal that 'crasse' selfishness which lies at the bottom of such transactions,--nay, that it is openly avowed as the only rational principle of action, and 'good-nature' is laughed at and despised as the 'comble' of vulgarity. This is the case in no other country: in all others, people are ashamed of such modes of thinking, even if they are wretched enough to hold them. "We are a selfish people," said a favourite leader of fashion, "I confess; and I do believe that what in other countries is called 'amor patriæ' is amongst us nothing but a huge conglomeration of love of ourselves: _but I am glad of it; I like selfishness_; there's good sense in it;"--and he added, not satirically, but quite in earnest, "Good-nature is quite 'mauvais ton' in London; and really it is a bad style to take up, and will never do." It is true that if you choose to analyze and hunt down every feeling with the greatest subtlety, you may discover a sort of selfishness at the very bottom of everything; but in all other nations a noble shame throws a veil over it; as there are instincts very natural and innocent, which are yet concealed even by the most uncivilized. Here, however, people are so little ashamed of the most 'crasse' self-love, that an Englishman of rank once instructed me that a good 'fox-hunter' must let nothing stop him, or distract his attention when following the fox; and if his own father should be thrown in leaping a ditch, and lie there, should, he said, 'if he couldn't help it,' leap his horse over him, and trouble himself no more about him till the end of the chase.[92] With all this, our pattern 'dandy' has not the least independence, even in his bad qualities: he is the trembling slave of fashion, even in the extremest trifles; and the obsequious, servile satellite of the fortunate individuals who are higher than himself. Were virtue and modesty suddenly to become the fashion, nobody would be more exemplary,--difficult as would be the task to accomplish. Destitute of all originality, and without a thought he can properly call his own, he may be compared to a clay figure, which, for a while, deceives one with all the properties of a human being, but returns into its native mud as soon as you discover that it has not a soul. Whoever reads the best of the recent English novels--those by the author of Pelham--may be able to abstract from them a tolerably just idea of English fashionable society; provided (N.B.) he does not forget to deduct qualities which national self-love has claimed, though quite erroneously:--namely, grace for its 'roués,'--seductive manners and amusing conversation for its 'dandies.' I mixed for a while with those who dwell on the very pinnacle of this fool's world of fashion; with those who inhabit its middle regions, and with those who have pitched their tents at its foot, whence they turn longing, lingering looks at the unattainable summit; but rarely did I ever find a vestige of that attractive art of social life, that perfect equipoise of all the social talents, which diffuses a feeling of complacency over all within its sphere;--as far removed from stiffness and prudery as from rudeness and license, which speaks with equal charm to the heart and the head, and continually excites, while it never wearies; an art of which the French so long remained the sole masters and models. Instead of this, I saw in the fashionable world only too frequently, and with few exceptions, a profound vulgarity of thought; an immorality little veiled or adorned; the most undisguised arrogance; and the coarsest neglect of all kindly feelings and attentions haughtily assumed, for the sake of shining in a false and despicable 'refinement,' even more inane and intolerable to a healthy mind, than the awkward and ludicrous stiffness of the most declared Nobodies. It has been said that vice and poverty are the most revolting combination:--since I have been in England, vice and boorish rudeness seem to me to form a still more disgusting union. * * * * * * * * Passing over some of the most remarkable English rulers of fashion, I must mention one foreign potentate, who has placed herself on the same throne with the highest. The haughty and masculine spirit of this lady, which, when she chooses, she knows how to conceal under the most engaging affability, combined with all the diplomatic craftiness of her station, have enabled her to set her foot on the neck of English supremacy; but she has not been able to give to the court that surrounds her and bows blindly to all her decrees, either her wit and tact, or her high-born air, or that repulsive politeness _to all_, which is the 'ne plus ultra' of the manner which it is the main object of an Exclusive's life to attain. The distance in these respects between her and her associates in sovereignty is almost burlesque; yet they rule side by side in Olympus. But even the immortal gods have to encounter opposition; and thus we find a gigantic antagonist in the monarch of the nether world. * * * * * * * * At his house are to be seen many of the 'Dii minores gentium,' such as actresses turned into duchesses and countesses, &c. who are not admitted into the circle 'par excellence.' * * * * * * * * A high degree of influence is also possessed by a foreign ambassador; and without doubt he would possess the very highest, if the best tone, kind-hearted amiability, high rank, the finest taste, and (notwithstanding an assumed English 'tournure') a perfect absence of that heaviness and pedantry, of which English fashionables can never divest themselves, constituted the sole claims to pre-eminence. But it is precisely because he is too far removed from the English, both by that native amiability which continually gains an involuntary conquest over his 'Anglo manie,' and by his German cordiality, that he excites their envy rather than their admiration; and though 'recherche' by most, because he is the fashion, remains a strange meteor in their system, whom they attack where they can, and whom, at all events, they cannot take to their hearts as they do their own Jupiter Ammon, nor acknowledge in him 'autorité sans replique' with that blind submission they pay to their Autocratess. Perhaps the wife of the ambassador might easily have played the part of that lady, whom she excels in beauty as well as in youth; and for a time the chances stood equal between them; but she was too heedless, too natural and good-tempered to obtain a definitive conquest. However high therefore be her place in the fashionable world, her rival has unquestionably achieved the highest. Nobody who knows the causes will think the loser the less amiable. Among the other female rulers of the first category, I must mention one or two whom no one may omit who seeks entrance into the sanctuary. At the very top, is a no longer young but still lovely Countess; one of the very few Englishwoman of whom it can be said, that she possesses a perfect, and truly distinguished 'tournure.' With her natural gifts she would, in any other country, have been thoroughly amiable and delightful; but here none can escape the deadening impress of that spirit of caste, so utterly blighted to all that is lovely and loving in the human heart. * * * * * * * * In the age of innocence of the English world of fashion, when the natives as yet were fain to copy continental manners, and had not attained to that independence which now asserts its claim to serve as model to other countries, a Dandy governed by means of his coat; and the celebrated Brummel tyrannized over town and country, by this simple instrument, during long years of glory. But this is no longer the case: the sublime Exclusive, on the contrary, affects a certain inattention to his dress, which is almost always alike; and is quite above running after or inventing new fashions: his dress is at most distinguished only for exquisite neatness and delicacy of texture. Far other qualities are now necessary to constitute a man of fashion. He must, as formerly in France, have the reputation of a heartless seducer, and be a _dangerous_ man. But as, with all the good-will in the world, it is not so easy for men of graceless manners and invincible awkwardness to rival the brilliant charm and captivating address of the Frenchman of the 'Vieille Cour,' it is necessary, like Tartuffe, to play the soft and insidious hypocrite; with the subdued voice which is now the fashion, and false words, to make a way in the dark to unprincipled acts; such as false play, or the 'gulling' of a novice in every species of sport, in which so many young Englishmen find despair and suicide, where they sought recreation and excitement;--where these arts are not applicable, to seek, by all sorts of intrigue, to destroy the fortune and reputation of those who stand in their way, or, at the least, to rob them of all influence in exclusive society. He who is intimately acquainted with England's dark side, will not accuse me of exaggeration in this description. * * * * * * * * Let a man's moral and intellectual qualities be what they may, if he is the fashion, he can say or do nothing that will not be received with admiration and applause. His words are oracles; his wit _must be_ exquisite, since he has received his patent for it from fashionable society; and where Fashion speaks, the free Englishman is a slave. Besides, the vulgar feel that in all matters of art, talent or taste, they are no very competent judges; they therefore think it safer blindly to applaud a 'bon mot' when they see it has made their superiors laugh; or to repeat an opinion which has proceeded from privileged lips:--just as the public were in the third heavens with ecstasy for a whole winter at a party of Tyrolese ballad-singers, and rained down money, which the green butcher-family pocketed with a laugh. * * * * * * * * The far-famed Almack's, and the unrivalled puissance of the Lady-Patronesses, I have already described to you. I must add two signal acts of their power. In a fit of pretty ill-humour these high and mighty Ladies ordered that no person who came after midnight should be admitted. Soon after, the Duke of Wellington came from the House of Lords a few minutes too late, and thought he should be certain to find an exception in his favour. 'Point du tout'--the hero of Waterloo could not carry this fortress, and was obliged to retreat. Another time the Lady-Patronesses issued a decree, that only gentlemen who were bow-legged should be permitted to appear in loose pantaloons: all others were ordered to wear breeches;--in England, where the very name is forbidden, certainly a bold decree. The dread of the new tribunal of inquisition was so great, that at first even this edict was obeyed. But a reaction followed. A great number of gentlemen appeared at the door in the prohibited pantaloons, and demanded admittance on the plea of crooked legs, of which they declared themselves guilty; and, in case they were not believed, invited the Lady-Patronesses to convince themselves of the fact by personal inspection. From that time the Ladies have winked at this offending portion of male attire. _July 10th._ To-morrow I hope to be able to take my way to wider and freer regions; and it will be some time before I resume the pent-up life of a city. Lord Byron somewhere says of himself, that his soul never enjoyed its full activity but in solitude. This truth is applicable to lesser people, for it is just so with me. In wearisome society I am but half conscious of a soul: and I am oppressed by the horrible thought--Now, if possible, you must be 'amiable.' On the other hand, I am, as you know, least alone when alone; for then do I the least miss your society, my best of friends! However distant you may be, my spirit hovers around your waking and your dreaming hours; and over sea and mountain my heart feels the affectionate pulse of yours. L----. LETTER XXV. _Cheltenham, July 12, 1828._ MY DEAR JULIA, I left London at two o'clock in the morning, very ill and out of spirits; in harmony with the weather, which was perfectly 'à l'Anglaise.' It blew a hurricane, and rained water-spouts. About eight o'clock, however, the sky cleared. I had been lulled into a gentle slumber by the rapid and easy roll of the carriage; all nature shone with an emerald brightness, and a delicious fragrance poured in at the open windows from every field and flower; and your care-worn, melancholy friend was again, in a few moments, the light-hearted child rejoicing in the beautiful world, and in its mighty and merciful Creator. Travelling in England is, indeed, most delightful. Could I but witness your pleasure in it! Could I but feel my own doubled by your participation! It rained occasionally through the day, but I was little incommoded by this in a close carriage, and found the air mild and balmy. The former part of the country through which our road lay, teemed with all the luxuriant vegetation of the most beautiful park; the next presented boundless corn fields without hedges, which is a rarity in England; and the last nearly resembled the rich plains of Lombardy. I passed many large parks, which, however, weather being uncertain, and time limited, I left unvisited. It is not easy, after my long park and garden chase through half England, to find any thing new of this kind. In Cirencester I visited a beautiful Gothic church of great antiquity, with windows of coloured glass in pretty good preservation, and curious grotesque carvings. It is a grievous pity that the Gothic churches in England, without exception, are defaced by tasteless modern grave-stones and monuments. Late in the evening I reached Cheltenham, an extremely pretty watering-place, of an elegance nowhere to be found on the continent. Even the splendid gas-lights and the new villa-looking houses, each surrounded by its little flower-garden, put the mind into a cheerful and agreeable tone. I arrived, too, just in the hour when the contest between the light of day and the artificial illumination produces a peculiar and, to me, pleasing effect. As I entered the inn, which, I might almost call magnificent, and ascended the snow-white stone staircase, ornamented with a gilt bronze railing, and trod on fresh and brilliant carpets, lighted by two servants to my room, I gave myself up, 'con amore,' to the feeling of 'comfort' which can be found in perfection nowhere but in England. In this point of view, it is a country completely made for a misanthrope like myself;--since all that is unconnected with social life, all that a man can procure _with money_, is excellent and perfect in its kind; and he may enjoy it isolated, without any other human being troubling himself about him. A larger mass of varied and manifold enjoyments may certainly be found in England than it is possible to procure with us. Not in vain have wise institutions long prevailed here. What especially soothes and gladdens the philanthropist is the spectacle of the superior comfort and more elevated condition in the scale of existence, universally prevailing. What with us are called luxuries, are here looked upon as necessaries, and are diffused over all classes. Hence arise, even in the smallest and most ordinary details, an endeavour after elegance, an elaborate finish and neatness; in a word, a successful combination of the beautiful with the useful, which is entirely unknown to our lower classes. The distress, in truth, consisted in this; that the people, instead of having three or four meals a day, with tea, cold meat, bread and butter, beef-steaks or roast meat, were now obliged to content themselves with two, consisting only of meat and potatoes. It was, however, just harvesttime, and the want of labourers in the field so great, that the farmers gave almost any wages. Nevertheless, I was assured that the mechanics would rather destroy all the machinery and actually starve, than bring themselves to take a sickle in their hands, or bind a sheaf: so intractable and obstinate are the English common people rendered by their universal comfort, and the certainty of obtaining employment if they vigorously seek it. From what I have now told you, you may imagine what deductions you ought to make from newspaper articles. _July 13th._ This morning I visited some of the public walks, which fell short of my expectations; and drank the waters, which have some resemblance to those of Carlsbad. I found them very heating. The doctors here say, as ours do, that they must be drunk early in the morning, or they lose a great part of their efficacy. The joke is, however, that here, _early_ begins exactly where it ends with us, namely, at ten o'clock. The weather is unfortunately not favourable: cold and stormy, after a continuance of heat pretty long for England. For travelling, however, it is not bad; at least I find myself in far better spirits than in London, and am in great delight at the anticipation of the beautiful scenery of Wales, towards which I am now bending my course. I entreat you to be with me, at least in thought, and let our spirits journey together over sea and land, look down from the summits of mountains and enjoy the sweet repose of valleys; for I doubt not that spirits, in forms as infinitely various as infinity itself is boundless, rejoice, throughout all worlds, in the beauty of God's magnificent creation. I will first lead you to the seven sources of the Thames, which arises two or three miles from Cheltenham. I set out on this excursion in 'a Fly' (a kind of small landau, drawn by one horse), on the top of which I sat, that I might enjoy the beautiful prospect from the highest station. After a long ascent, you come to some solitary grassy hills; on the top of these, under the shade of two or three alders, is a little group of plashy springs, which trickle away, forming, as far as the eye can follow them, an insignificant brook. Such is the modest infancy of the proud Thames. I felt a tide of poetry come over my mind, as I thought, how, but a few hours ago, and but a few miles hence, I had seen these same waters covered with a thousand vessels; how this glorious stream, in its short course, bears on its bosom more ships, more treasures, and more human beings, than any of its colossal brethren; how the capital of the world lies on its banks, and by her omnipotent commerce may be almost said to rule the four quarters of the globe. With reverential admiration I looked down on the gushing drops, and compared them, one while with Napoleon, who, obscurely born in Ajaccio, in a few years made all the thrones of the earth tremble;--then with the avalanche, which, loosened from its bed under the foot of a sparrow, in five minutes buries a village;--then with Rothschild, whose father sold ribands, and without whose assistance no power in Europe is now able to carry on war. My driver, who was at the same time an accredited Cheltenham cicerone, took me from this spot to a high hill called Lackington Hill, from which there is a celebrated view, with the appendage of a pleasant inn for the accommodation of visitors. Hidden under a bower of roses[93] my eye commanded an extent of seventy English miles;--a rich plain studded with towns and villages, among which the cathedral of Gloucester is the most striking and stately object. Behind it rose two ridges, the Malvern Hills and above them the Welsh mountains. Beautiful as was all around me, the distant blue mountains, bathed in air, awoke in me only an intense longing after home. How gladly should I have flown to your side with the aid of Fortunatus's cap! Up to this time black clouds had chased each other across the heavens; just as I turned away from the prospect the sun provokingly broke forth: it lighted me through a beautiful beech-wood to the charming seat of Mr. Todd, who has built a smiling village in the midst of the leafy shade, consisting of straw-roofed cottages and pretty moss houses. In the centre of a green level turf stands a noble lime-tree, surrounded by three tiers of benches for as many generations. Not far distant, on the withered trunk of a tree, is a sun-dial, and on the edge of the hill overlooking the valley, a rural seat, sheltered by a little arched roof covered with heather, and its sides tastefully interwoven with roots. On holidays it is often covered with evergreens and flowers, and lighted at evening with gay lamps. In the neighbouring park, which has many distinguishing beauties, are the ruins of a Roman villa: they were accidentally discovered about eight years ago by the sudden sinking-in of a tree. Some baths are still in good preservation, as are also two tessellated floors; they are however of rather coarse workmanship, and bear no comparison with those discovered at Pompeii. The walls are in part covered with red and blue stucco, two inches thick, and the brick pipes for conveying heat are of a quality and durability now unequalled. About three quarters of a mile further on, the Roman road is distinctly to be traced, and a portion of it is indeed in actual use: it is to be distinguished from the English road chiefly by its running, like a north-German 'Chaussée,' in a perfectly straight line. It is to be hoped, however, that the taste of the Romans was too good to allow them to enclose their roads between two endless rows of Lombardy poplars, and thus inflict a twofold torture of monotony on the unfortunate traveller. How different from an English road, which winds around the hills in soft and graceful sweeps, avoiding deep valleys or reverend trees, instead of following the one inveterate idea of a straight line, at a sixfold cost, through thick and thin, over hill and valley. On my return to Cheltenham, I passed through a large village, where I visited for the first time what is here called a tea-garden. The ingenuity with which a small space is made to contain a hundred little niches, benches, and picturesque, nay, often romantic seats, is quite extraordinary, and forms a curious contrast with the phlegm of the gaily dressed multitude who rather garnish than animate the scene. As it was rather early when I reached the town, I took advantage of the beautiful evening to visit more of the mineral waters, and I found that in the morning I had stumbled on the least important. These establishments are extremely splendid, ornamented with marble decorations, and still more with flowers, green-houses and pretty plantations. As soon as a thing is the fashion in England it becomes the subject of enormous speculation. This is to such a degree the case here, that the value of an acre of land in the neighbourhood of the town has risen within fifteen years from forty to a thousand guineas. The gardens and grounds which are destined to be places of public resort and amusement, are here, and I think rightly, laid out in a totally different style from the gardens and parks of private gentlemen. Broad and shady walks, and distinct open spaces, are rather to be aimed at, than picturesque views, or a large and landscape-like whole. Their manner of planting shady walks pleases me. A strip of ground about five feet wide, on each side of the way, is dug and thickly planted with a mixture of various trees and shrubs. The most flourishing trees are afterwards left to grow, and the others are kept down by the shears as irregular underwood. Between this and the top of the high trees the prospect is as it were set in a beautiful frame; the whole is fuller and more luxuriant; and wherever the country is uninteresting, it may be shut out by merely suffering the underwood to grow. _Worcester, July 14th._ Yesterday, 'entre la poire et le fromage,' I received the twice-declined visit of the master of the ceremonies,--the gentleman who does the honour of the baths, and exercises a considerable authority over the company of an English watering-place, in virtue of which he welcomes strangers with most anti-English officiousness and pomposity, and manifests great care and zeal for their entertainment. An Englishman invested with such a character has _mauvais jeu_, and vividly recalls the ass in the fable, who tried to imitate the caresses of the lapdog. I could not get rid of my visitor till he had swallowed some bottles of claret with me, and devoured all the dessert the house afforded. At length he took his leave, first extorting from me a promise that I would honour the ball of the following evening with my presence. However, I had so little inclination for company and new acquaintances, that I made 'faux bond,' and left Cheltenham early in the morning. The country continued most lovely, the near ground full of soft meadows and deep green clumps of trees; the horizon bounded by the mountains, which at every mile grew in magnitude and distinctness of outline. At almost every stage I passed a considerable town, which was never without its towering Gothic church. The situation of Tewksbury struck me as peculiarly delightful. Nothing can be more tranquil, more pastoral; and yet all these blooming plains were bloody battle-fields in the times of the countless civil wars of England, whence they retain the names, now so inappropriate, of Bloody Field, Field of Bones, &c. Worcester, where I am now writing, the chief city of the county, has nothing remarkable except its magnificent cathedral; the windows contain but small remains of ancient painted glass: to these, new has been added, which is very little inferior either in softness or brilliancy to the old. In the middle of the nave King John is buried: his effigy in stone reposes on the tomb; the oldest monument of an English king which Great Britain contains. The tomb was opened some years ago, when the skeleton was found in good preservation, and in precisely the same dress as that represented in the statue: as soon as it came in contact with the air, the materials of which it was composed crumbled into dust; the sword was entirely consumed by rust, and only its handle remained. Another very interesting monument is that of a Templar, of the year 1220, with this Norman inscription: "Ici gist syr guilleaume de harcourt fys robert de harcourt, et de Isabel de camvile." The figure of the knight (whose costume, by-the-by, is totally different from that of Count Brühl's Templar at Berlin[94]) is an admirable piece of sculpture, and reposes with an ease and 'abandon' which would do no discredit to antique art: his dress consists of boots or stockings (whichever you choose to call them) of mail, and golden spurs; the knee is naked; above the knee is again covered with mail, which so completely encloses the whole body, and even the head, that only the face is visible. Over this shirt of mail is a long red mantle, falling in folds below the calf; and over this a black baldrick, from which hangs a sword in a red scabbard: the left arm supports a narrow pointed shield bearing the family arms, and not the cross of the Temple. This is found only on the tomb. The whole figure is, as you perceive, painted; and the colours are from time to time renewed. As the greatest of all curiosities, strangers are shown Prince Arthur's tomb, the intricate stone tracery of which is really like the most exquisite carvings in wood or ivory. On one side of the chapel are fine rows of small figures, one above another. The order is as follows: on the lowest row the abbesses; above them bishops; above them kings; then saints; and at the top of all, angels. 'Quant à moi, qui ne suis encore ni saint, ni ange, souffrez que je vous quitte pour mon diner.' _Llangollen, July 15th._ If I had the honour to be the wandering Jew (who of course must have money _ad libitum_), I should most certainly spend the greatest part of my immortality on the high road, and specially in England. ''Tis so delightful' for a man of my opinions and character. In the first place, no human being troubles or constrains me. Wherever I pay well, I am the first person (always an agreeable feeling for the lordly sons of men), and meet with none but smiling faces and obliging people, full of zeal to serve me. Continued motion, without fatigue, keeps the body in health; and the rapidly succeeding changes in beautiful, free nature have the same strengthening influence on the mind. I must confess that I am partly of Dr. Johnson's opinion:--he maintained that the greatest human felicity was to drive rapidly over an English road in a good postchaise, with a pretty woman by one's side. It is one of the most agreeable sensations in the world to me to roll along in a comfortable carriage, and to stretch myself out at my ease while my eye feasts on the ever-changing pictures, like those of a magic lantern. As they pass, they awaken fancies serious and gay, tragic and comic; and I find an intense pleasure in filling up the sketches thus presented to my eye. What strange fantastic shapes often start up with the rapidity of lightning, and flit before my mind like figures in the clouds! Then if my fancy droops her wings, I read and sleep in my carriage. I am little troubled with my baggage, which from long practice is so well arranged that I can get at every thing I want in a moment, without tormenting my servants. Sometimes, when the weather is fine and the country beautiful, I walk for miles together: in short, I can desire no more perfect freedom than I enjoy here. Lastly, it is no slight pleasure that I can close the day by devoting a tranquil hour to conversing with the friend of my heart on all that has passed before me. But to return to my narrative.--I travelled all night, after witnessing an extraordinary sport of nature in the clouds. From the top of a hill I saw what appeared to me a gigantic range of black mountains, and at its foot a boundless lake: it was long before I could persuade myself that it was only an illusion, created by mist and cloud. The sky above was of an uniform light grey; upon it lay a coal-black mass of clouds thrown together in the form of the wildest mountains, the upper edge of which shaped itself into a bold and abrupt outline, while the lower was trans-sected by a horizontal line of mist. This wore the appearance of a boundless extent of silvery water; and, as the green foreground of sunny wooded plains which lay beneath my feet was immediately bounded by it, the illusion was indeed complete. As I descended the hill, step by step, the magic picture faded from before my eyes. The most beautiful reality, however, awaited me this morning in Wales. The vision of clouds seemed to have been the harbinger of the magnificence of the vale of Llangollen,--a spot which, in my opinion, far surpasses all the beauties of the Rhine-land, and has, moreover, a character quite its own, from the unusual form of the peaked tops and rugged declivities of its mountains. The Dee, a rapid stream, winds through the green valley in a thousand fantastic bendings overhung with thick underwood. On each side, high mountains rise abruptly from the plain, and are crowned with antique ruins, modern country-houses, manufactories, whose towering chimneys send out columns of thick smoke, or with grotesque groups of upright rocks. The vegetation is every where rich, and hill and vale are filled with lofty trees, whose varied hues add so infinitely to the beauty and picturesque effect of a landscape. In the midst of this luxuriant nature, arises, with a grandeur heightened by contrast, a single long, black, bare range of mountains, clothed only with thick, dark heather, and from time to time skirting the high road. This magnificent road, which from London to Holyhead, a distance of two hundred miles,[95] is as even as a 'parquet,' here runs along the side of the left range of mountains, at about their middle elevation and following all their windings; so that in riding along at a brisk trot or gallop, the traveller is presented at every minute with a completely new prospect; and without changing his position, overlooks the valley now before him, now behind, now at his side. On one side is an aqueduct of twenty-five slender arches, a work which would have done honour to Rome. Through this a second river is led over the valley and across the Dee, at an elevation of a hundred and twenty feet above the bed of the natural stream. A few miles further on, the little town of Llangollen offers a delightful resting-place, and is deservedly much resorted to. There is a beautiful view from the churchyard near the inn: here I climbed upon a tomb, and stood for half an hour enjoying with deep and grateful delight the beauties so richly spread before me. Immediately below me bloomed a terraced garden, filled with vine, honey-suckle, rose, and a hundred gay flowers, which descended to the very edge of the foaming stream. On the right hand, my eye followed the crisped waves in their restless murmuring course through the overhanging thicket; before me rose two lines of wood, divided by a strip of meadow-land filled with grazing cattle; and high above all, rose the bare conical peak of a mountain crowned by the ruins of the old Welsh castle Dinas Bran, or the Crow's Fortress. On the left, the stone houses of the town lie scattered along the valley; the river forms a considerable waterfall near the picturesque bridge, while three colossal rocks rise immediately behind it like giant guards, and shut out all the more distant wonders of this enchanting region. Permit me now to turn to some less refined and romantic, but not less real, enjoyments of sense--to my own room; where my appetite, enormously sharpened by the mountain air, was most agreeably invited by the aspect of the smoking coffee, fresh guinea-fowls' eggs, deep yellow mountain butter, thick cream, 'toasted muffins' (a delicate sort of cake eaten hot with butter), and lastly, two red spotted trout just caught; all placed on a snow-white table-cloth of Irish damask;--a breakfast which Walter Scott's heroes in 'the highlands' might have been thankful to receive at the hands of that great painter of human necessities. 'Je dévore déjà un oeuf.'--Adieu. _Bangor.--Evening._ The rain, which with short intervals accompanied me from London, remained constant to me to-day; but the weather seems now inclined to change for the better. I have all sorts of things to tell you, and a very interesting day to recount. Before I left Llangollen I recollected the two celebrated ladies who have inhabited this valley for more than half a century, and of whom I had heard once as a child, and again recently in London. You have doubtless heard your father talk of them,--'si non voilà leur historie.' Fifty-six years ago, two young, pretty and fashionable ladies, Lady Eleanor Butler, and the daughter of the late Lord Ponsonby, took it in their heads to hate men, to love only each other, and to live from that hour in some remote hermitage. The resolution was immediately executed; and from that time neither lady has ever passed a night out of their cottage. On the other hand, no one who is presentable travels in Wales unprovided with an introduction to them. It is affirmed that the 'scandal' of the great world interests them as much as when they lived in it; and that their curiosity to know what passes has preserved all its freshness. I had compliments to deliver to them from several ladies, but I had neglected to furnish myself with a letter. I therefore sent my card, determined if they declined my visit, as I was led to fear, to storm the cottage. Here, as elsewhere, however, in England, a title easily opened the door, and I immediately received a gracious invitation to a second breakfast. Passing along a charming road, through a trim and pretty pleasure-ground, in a quarter of an hour I reached a small but tasteful Gothic cottage, situated directly opposite to Dinas Bran, various glimpses of which were visible through openings cut in the trees. I alighted, and was received at the door by the two ladies. Fortunately I was already prepared by hearsay for their peculiarities; I might otherwise have found it difficult to repress some expression of astonishment. Imagine two ladies, the eldest of whom, Lady Eleanor, a short robust woman, begins to feel her years a little, being now eighty-three; the other, a tall and imposing person, esteems herself still youthful, being only seventy-four. Both wore their still abundant hair combed straight back and powdered, a man's round hat, a man's cravat and waistcoat, but in the place of 'inexpressibles,'[96] a short petticoat and boots: the whole covered by a coat of blue cloth, of a cut quite peculiar,--a sort of middle term between a man's coat and a lady's riding-habit. Over this, Lady Eleanor wore, first, the grand cordon of the order of St. Louis across her shoulder; secondly, the same order around her neck; thirdly, the small cross of the same in her button-hole, and, 'pour comble de gloire,' a golden lily of nearly the natural size, as a star,--all, as she said, presents of the Bourbon family. So far the whole effect was somewhat ludicrous. But now, you must imagine both ladies with that agreeable 'aisance,' that air of the world of the 'ancien regime,' courteous and entertaining, without the slightest affectation; speaking French as well as any Englishwoman of my acquaintance; and, above all, with that essentially polite, unconstrained, and simply cheerful manner of the good society of that day, which, in our serious hard-working age of business, appears to be going to utter decay. I was really affected with a melancholy sort of pleasure in contemplating it in the persons of the amiable old ladies, who are among the last of its living representatives; nor could I witness without lively sympathy the uninterrupted, natural and affectionate attention with which the younger treated her somewhat infirmer friend, and anticipated all her wants. The charm of such actions lies chiefly in the manner in which they are performed,--in things which appear small and insignificant, but which are never lost upon a susceptible heart. I began by saying that I esteemed myself fortunate in being permitted to deliver to the fair recluses the compliments with which I was charged by my grandfather, who had had the honour of visiting them fifty years ago. Their beauty indeed they had lost, but not their memory: they remembered the C---- C---- very well, immediately produced an old memorial of him, and only expressed their wonder that so young a man was dead already. Not only the venerable ladies, but their house, was full of interest; indeed it contained some real treasures. There is scarcely a remarkable person of the last half century who has not sent them a portrait or some curiosity or antique as a token of remembrance. The collection of these, a well furnished library, a delightful situation, an equable, tranquil life, and perfect friendship and union,--these have been their possessions; and if we may judge by their robust old age and their cheerful temper, they have not chosen amiss. I had made my visit to them in a tremendous rain, which continued undiminished as I proceeded on my journey past the ruins of an abbey, and then by the palace of Owen Glendower, a personage whom you must remember from my Shaksperian readings at M----. The variety of the scenery is extraordinary; sometimes you are hemmed in by a chaotic heap of mountains, of every form; in a few minutes you have so extensive a view before you that you could almost believe yourself in a level country; the scene shifts again, and you are in a road enclosed and overshadowed by wood. Further on, the stream turns a peaceful mill, and immediately after rushes foaming over masses of rock, and forms a magnificent waterfall. But the vale of Llangollen is only the proem to the true epopea, the high mountain district. After quitting the waterfall and riding for about half an hour through a nearly level country, all at once, a little beyond the inn at Cernioge Maur, you enter the holy of holies. Huge black rocks form a sublime amphitheatre, and their jagged and rent peaks seem to float in the clouds. Below, at a depth of eight hundred feet of perpendicular rock, the mountain torrent forces its difficult way, leaping headlong from chasm to chasm. Before me lay mountains rising one above another in endless perspective. I was so enchanted that I exclaimed aloud with delight. And in the midst of such scenery, it is impossible to say enough in praise of the road, which, avoiding every great inequality of surface, allows the traveller to enjoy at his ease all the 'belles horreurs' of this mountain region. Wherever it is not protected by the rocks, it is fenced by low walls; at equal distances are niches neatly walled in, in which are deposited the stones for mending the roads: this has a much better effect than the open heaps by the sides of our roads. The mountain region of Wales has a very peculiar character, which it is difficult to compare with any other. Its height is about that of the Riesengebirg, but it is infinitely grander in form, richer in striking and picturesque grouped peaks. The vegetation is more varied in plants, though there is less wood, and it contains rivers and lakes, in which the Riesengebirg is quite deficient. On the other hand, it wants the majestic impervious forests of the abode of Rübezahl;[97] and in some places cultivation has already occupied the middle ground in a manner which would harmonize better with the beautiful than with the sublime. The road from Capel Cerig to within a few miles of Bangor is, however, wild and rugged as can be desired; and broad masses of red and yellow heath flowers, ferns and other plants which do not bloom in our severe climate, clothe the rocks and replace the trees which do not flourish at such an elevation. But the most striking variety of the picture is produced by the strange, wild and colossal forms of the mountains themselves; some of them are much more like clouds than solid masses. The peak of Trivaen is surmounted by such extraordinary basaltic pillars, that travellers can hardly be persuaded they are not men: they are only mountain spirits, keeping the everlasting station to which Merlin condemned them. I was struck with the good taste which had rendered all the houses along the high-road so perfectly in keeping with the scenery: they are built of rough stone of a reddish colour, roofed with slate, in a heavy, simple style of architecture, and enclosed by iron gates, the gratings of which are so disposed as to represent the intersecting rays of two suns. The post-boy pointed out to me the remains of a Druidical castle, into which, as my guide-book informed me, Caractacus retired after his defeat at Caer Caredoc. The Welsh language sounds like the cawing of rooks. Almost all their names begin with C, pronounced with a guttural explosion which no foreign organs can imitate. The ruin is converted into two or three inhabited huts, nor are the boundaries of the original building even distinguishable. A more remarkable object is a rock a little further on, in the form of a bishop with crozier and mitre, as if he had just started from the caverns of the mountain to preach Christianity to the heathen. Whence comes it that when Nature plays these sportive tricks, the effect is almost always sublime; when Art seeks to imitate them, it is invariably ludicrous? A minor 'tormento' in this region is the multitude of children, who start up and vanish like gnomes: they pursue the carriage, begging with inconceivable pertinacity. Wearied by their importunity, I had made a positive determination not to give anything to any-body; a single deviation from which rule insures your never being rid of them for a moment. However, one little girl vanquished all my resolutions by her perseverance: she ran at least a German mile, up hill and down dale, at a brisk trot, sometimes gaining upon me a little by a foot-path, but never losing sight of me for a minute. She ran by the side of the carriage, uttering the same incessant tone of plaintive lamentation, like the cry of a sea-mew, which at length became so intolerable to me that I surrendered, and purchased my deliverance from my untireable pursuer at the price of a shilling. The ill-boding tone had however taken such possession of my ear, that I could not get rid of it for the whole day. _August 16th._ I have slept admirably, and am now sitting at the window of an inn on the sea-shore, and enjoying the sight of the ships cutting the transparent waters in every direction. On the landward rises a castle built of black marble, surrounded by ancient oaks. As I am very comfortably housed, I shall make this inn my head-quarters, and begin my excursions by this castle. I found here, very unexpectedly, an amusing countryman. You know the clever A----, who is so thin, and yet exhibits such magnificent calves, so elegantly dressed, and yet so frugal, so good-natured, and yet so sarcastic, so English, and yet so German. Well, this same A---- ate a second breakfast with me, without any visible diminution of appetite from the former one; and in return, regaled me with the most diverting conversation. He came from S----, concerning which he told me as follows. JEST AND EARNEST. You know, my dear friend, that in Vienna, every man who can eat a roast fowl, and (N.B.) pay for it, receives the title of _Euer Gnaden_ (Your Grace.) In S----,[98] on the other hand, every man who has a whole coat is called, _in dubio_, _Herr Rath_ (Counsellor;) or still better, _Herr Geheimer Rath_ (Privy Counsellor.) They do not trouble themselves with the distinctions between an actual and a nominal _Rath_, a half, (that is a pensioned,) or a whole, (that is a full-payed,) and a payless _Rath_, a titular nullity. The attributes and functions of this mysterious Counsellorship are wonderfully various. In the first place comes the invalid statesman in the _Residenz_, who, from respect for his declining years, and as a reward for living over half a century, has been invested with the yellow griffin; or a provincial chief president, more remarkable for his prepossessions in his own behalf, than for his public labours, whom his services on occasion of the visit of some foreign sovereign have raised to honours and to orders. Here we find the vigorous prop of the finances, or that 'rara avis,' a man of influence near the throne, yet as full of modesty as of merit: there a vegetating _Excellenz_, who knows no other occupation than that of going from house to house dishing up antiquated jokes and _jeux de mots_, which for half a century have enjoyed the uninterrupted privilege of delighting 'la crême de la bonnie société' in the capital. Next we see it in the person of one who is equally delightful as man and as poet, and who has never trodden any but the straight forward path. A little further we recognize it in the form of a less brilliant but more comprehensive genius, which, although consecrated to Themis, has an acute eye for the glories of the theatrical, as well as the celestial stars. This Proteus then transforms itself into a _Cameralist_, celebrated for his breed of sheep and his political economy, who manures his fields;--then into a physician, who performs a similar good office on the churchyard. It is also to be found in the invincible _Landwehr_; nay even the post,[99] the lottery, &c., cannot exist without it. The court-philosopher, and court-theologian, all shake hands as _Geheime Räthe_; for so they are, have been, or shall be hereafter: in short, no nation under the sun is more richly provided with counsel, and truly of the most privy kind; for such is the modesty of these countless counsellors, that many of them keep their talents buried in the most profound secrecy. It is, however, a real pleasure to see with what unconstrained and touching 'bonhommie' they bandy titles and compliments, every one exalting the other, and awaiting in return a grateful reciprocity of good offices. The various adjuncts and applications of the poor word _geboren_ (born) must doubtless for ever remain a mystical enigma to all foreigners who endeavour to acquire the German language. Without plunging deeper into this labyrinth, I will only mention for their information, that with us the meanest beggar will no longer condescend to be merely _geboren_; that _Edelgeboren_[100] (nobly born) begins to be a sensible affront to the lower order of official persons; and _Wohlgeboren_ (well born) no less so to the higher, but not noble functionaries. For my part, I am very careful to write to my tailor, "_Hochwohlgeborner Herr_" (High-well-born Sir.) He was moreover a very distinguished man, a descendant of our old friend Robinson Crusoe, who has attained to historic importance by the daring and inimitable cut of uniforms: he was therefore deserving, at the least, of an order of merit.[101] That no restraint may be imposed on this arbitrary distribution and assumption of titles, matters are so favourably arranged, that with all this avidity for rank, there exists no real and fixed order of rank, either determined by the court, or by birth, or grounded on opinion and custom, so general and rooted in the nation as to have nearly the force of law. Sometimes it is birth, oftener place; sometimes merit, sometimes favour, sometimes irresistible impudence which seizes precedence wherever accident or circumstances offer it. This gives occasion to many strange anomalies, which an old nobleman like myself, a Baron von Tunderdendronk, "qui ne sauroit compter le nombre de ses ânes," as general P---- said, cannot understand. Complaints, affronts, and anxieties are therefore endless in society. There is only a certain lively and excellent old lady, who has the sole and proper art of maintaining the first place almost everywhere, and under all circumstances. She unites great talents with remarkable bodily strength and bravery; and by means of these mingled advantages, sometimes by wit, sometimes by unimaginable rudeness; sometimes, when nothing else will do, by a hearty push, she takes and maintains precedency at court and on all gala occasions. I know from good authority that Countess Kackelack, at one of our courts (for you know we have many,) felt herself slighted and aggrieved by a certain court party, and by the advice of her friend the Starost von Pückling addressed a petition directly to our upright and equitable ruler, praying that her place might be officially determined. It was allotted immediately after that of the Princess Bona, who (for once, on account of the services of her late husband,) is in possession of the first. The Grand-Marshal (_Grosswürdenträger_, Grand-dignity-bearer) Prince Weise, brought her the order, and added, "But, my dear Countess, you must yield precedence to Baroness Stolz, for with your slender person what can you do against her? A single blow from her elbow lames you for ever. Do therefore let her go first; for you know even the police is afraid of her since the famous challenge she put forth some years ago." Everything must yield to force; and this shows how difficult it is to secure precedence to mere merit without universal and declared rules:--merit is so relative. If a minister or a general is a great man,--who can deny that the best of cooks, the loveliest of opera-dancers, has great merit? merit which, as history teaches us, monarchs and states have recognized and honoured. In England, where antiquity of title gives precedence (be it remarked, by-the-bye, the safest and best adapted to a monarchy,[102]) the great Field Marshal and Prime Minister Wellington must yield precedence to the little Duke of St. Albans, (who is known, indeed, but not very illustrious,) because the latter is an older Duke; that is to say, the services of his progenitress Nell Gwynn, an actress and mistress of Charles II., are of more ancient date than those of the Duke of Wellington, and consequently entitle her descendants to all the rights of precedence over the great general. In our capital it is otherwise. We are generally too well accustomed to bad eating to estimate very highly the merits of a good cook, and are of late universally become so virtuous that nobody has a mistress. As to rewarding merit, that is a thing which does not often come under contemplation.[103] What really and mainly gives rank and consideration here, is _to be a servant_ of the state or of the court, 'n'importe lequel et comment.' "Beati possidentes." The good old German proverb applies here, "When God gives a place, he gives brains to fill it." The Bureaucracy has taken the place of the Aristocracy, and will perhaps soon become equally hereditary. Even now the Government itself cannot dismiss any of its 'employées' without regular trial and judgment: every man regards his place as his most stable property, and it is not to be wondered at that place-holders laud this state of things to the skies. Strange, that nevertheless all states which have a free constitution,--all in which it is a recognized principle that the nation, and not any privileged class--not even that of its official servants--is the main object,--follow a totally opposite system.[104] The middle classes are, in another way, happy in their disregarded state: they enjoy their competence 'con amore,' and, as the salt of life, they indulge themselves now and then with a lawsuit, for which the ministers of justice afford them every possible facility. The merchant, whether Christian or præ-Christian, finds his account in this, and, if he knows how to come at it, useful patronage. Indeed to have a great deal of money is almost as good as to be a _wirklicher Geheimerath_ (actual privy counsellor):[105] and rich bankers, who keep a good house, are reckoned among the privileged classes, and not unfrequently for these high deserts elevated to nobility. In this manner, all manage to get something; the unfortunate nobles, especially those of ancient date, are the only people with whom it goes hard. Without money, without any land of which he has the free disposal, his titles affording an example of infinite multiplication, and his hereditary estates of infinite division, without any share in the legislation, long stripped of his ancient endowments and benefices,[106] unnecessarily and unfairly annoyed by the authorities, his ill-supported claims often bringing upon him not only ridicule and contempt, but hostility and persecution, the nobleman has, _as member of a Corporation_, lost all dignity and importance in the eyes of the people, and he retains scarcely any other distinction than that of serving as the only stuff out of which to make chamberlains and lords in waiting, in the respective courts of the capital;--doubtless always a most enviable lot. This last truth is duly known to many; and a great deal of talent has been displayed thereupon by a celebrated authoress, who was some time ago engaged in a sort of amicable rivalry with her husband on the field of romance,--a contest which used to produce two or three works of that nature, consisting of as many volumes each, every Leipsig fair, to the great joy of the public. The most extraordinary part of the story is, that the works of the husband were characterized by the overflowing tenderness of a female pen; those of the wife, on the contrary, by a somewhat unwieldy quantity of masculine knowledge, a lead which even the alchemical hand of an amiable and accomplished prince could not turn to gold. The works of both, especially the former, have outlived their vogue; and the graceful and child-like simplicity of the Northern heroes, who tilted at each other with tenderness, looked on their slain friend with clear blue eyes, and imprinted upon his lips the kiss of peace; nay, even their wondrous steeds, who galloped over precipitous crags and swam after their lords through seas, have been forced, spite of all their marvellous gifts, to give way to Walter Scott's unbreeched Highlanders. The poetical young lords of the chamber, and the learned tea-parties of the noble lady, had long before been deserted as somewhat insipid. In such a tea-party did Ahasuerus, (as we read in the memoirs of the Devil,) after his long and restless wanderings, first find repose, and sink into a refreshing sleep. Since that time, the thick volumes of the distinguished authoress have dwindled to small tales,--pretty ephemera,--which live but a day indeed, but are well requited by the honour of circulating exclusively in courts and antechambers, among princes, ladies in waiting, and maids of honour, lords of the chamber, equerries and grooms of the chambers (for nothing within the precinct of a court is to be treated lightly). Haunted rooms were lately introduced, but the ghosts were so dull and _fades_, so like white-washed boards, 'avec un bel air de famille,' that the utmost they could do was to make one _think_ of a cold shudder, never to excite one. The most piquant of all these stories was unquestionably that which 'persiffloit' the society of the capital, in which poor Viola played a very suspicious part, and a fashionable lady was introduced, who sold her for a large sum to an illustrious person. This story was justly called moral: for it excited in every person of good feeling, who read it, detestation of calumny and of hasty condemnations. The ill-natured, however, were delighted with it for other reasons; and so in one way or other it was not without value. It might fairly be called a master-piece when compared with the "Tales of the middle ages," full of virtue and distress, of Christianity and indecency, of Italianism and Germanism, which the necessities of journal and almanack literature call into existence by myriads, and of which we may say with Schiller, "When people are gorged with vice, set virtue on the table."[107] These do not reach either the one or the other; but, from the beginning to the end, one suffers the moral 'pendant' of a so-called medical cure by nausea. After enduring all sorts of allusions, the whole thing burns in the pan, and so far from being fit to bring to table, the unfortunate reader is for a long time disgusted with all food whatsoever.[108] But to return to the learned and amiable lady, of whom we were just speaking. At the time I was in those regions, a strange swarm of insects sported in the wintry sun of her courtly and literary celebrity, ycelped in the great world a coterie, which, I believe, establishes it as a principle (who has not principles now-a-days?), that nobles have really and truly a different sort of blood in their veins from that of other men; and that if a common tree can be ennobled at all, it can be only by the process of grafting; for instance, by the insertion of some illegitimate scion of a noble stock. They teach that this nobility should remain, before all things, pure and distinct; it must dishonour itself neither by trade nor by any speculations of public utility, which latter offence has lately been denounced as the cause of the decay of the nobility of the land by a certain Frau von Tonne in a very voluminous work. To dabble a little in authorship and artistship is lawful (even for money, nay for burghers' money,) seeing that artists[109] occupy a sort of middle region between the noble and the _bourgeois_. A constitutional high nobility and a representative government are by no means to the taste of this party; from the very natural reason that under any such terrible system, men, the date of whose nobility is known to nobody but themselves, and whose encumbered estates are split up into portions of microscopic invisibility, would be condemned to the horror of being compelled to take their seat in the Chamber of Commons (where else?). Who can blame them, therefore, under circumstances, for preferring the chambers of princes, especially if they can lord it there? Which Heaven forfend! It is to be hoped they will remain merely titular, and not actual _privy_ counsellors and _lords_ of the bedchamber. _Evening._ I could bear no longer to sit still in my room, while the castle opposite to my windows tempted me forth. As soon therefore as A---- had taken his departure, I procured a mountain pony and rode out in high spirits. This remarkable edifice was built by the proprietor of the slate quarries, situated about three miles distant, which bring him a yearly income of 40,000_l._ He has laid out a part in the most delightful situation on the sea-shore; and has pursued the strange but admirably executed idea of erecting every building within its enclosure in the old Saxon style of architecture. The English falsely ascribe the introduction of this style to the Anglo-Saxons: it arose in the time of the emperors of Saxon line; and it is quite certain that none of the numerous Saxon remains are to be traced to an earlier date. The high wall, which surrounds the park in a circuit of at least a German mile, has a very singular appearance; pointed masses of slate three or four feet high, and of irregular shape, are built upright into the top of the wall. At every entrance a fortress-like gate with a portcullis frowns on the intruder,--no inapt symbol, by-the-bye, of the illiberality of the present race of Englishmen, who shut their parks and gardens more closely than we do our sitting-rooms. The favoured visitor must then cross a drawbridge before he passes the gate-way of the imposing castle. The black marble of the island of Anglesea, rudely hewn, harmonizes admirably with the majestic character of the surrounding scenery. The pure Saxon style is preserved in the minutest details, even in the servants' rooms and meanest parts of the building. In the eating-hall I found an imitation of the castle of William the Conqueror, at Rochester, which I formerly described to you. What could then be accomplished only by a mighty monarch, is now executed, as a plaything,--only with increased size, magnificence and expense,--by a simple country-gentleman, whose father very likely sold cheeses. So do times change! The ground-plan of the building, which the architect had the politeness to show me, gave occasion to certain domestic details, which I am glad to be able to communicate to you; because nearly all large English country-houses are constructed on the same plan; and because in this, as in many other things, the nice perception of the useful and commodious, the exquisite adaptation of means to ends, which distinguish the English, are conspicuous. The servants never wait in the ante-room,--here called the hall,--which, like the overture of an opera, is designed to express the character of the whole: it is generally decorated with statues or pictures, and, like the elegant staircase and the various apartments, is appropriated to the use of the family and guests, who have the good taste rather to wait on themselves than to have an attendant spirit always at their heels. The servants live in a large room in a remote part of the house, generally on the ground-floor, where all, male and female, eat together, and where the bells of the whole house are placed. They are suspended in a row on the wall, numbered so that it is immediately seen in what room any one has rung: a sort of pendulum[110] is attached to each, which continues to vibrate for ten minutes after the sound has ceased to remind the sluggish of their duty. The females of the establishment have also a large common room, in which, when they have nothing else to do, they sew, knit, and spin: close to this is a closet for washing the glass and china which comes within their province. Each of them, as well as of the men-servants, has her separate bed-chamber in the highest story. Only the 'housekeeper' and the 'butler' have distinct apartments below. Immediately adjoining that of the housekeeper, is a room where coffee is made, and the store-room containing every thing requisite for breakfast, which important meal, in England, belongs especially to her department. On the other side of the building is the washing establishment, with a small court-yard attached; it consists of three rooms, the first for washing, the second for ironing, the third, which is considerably loftier, and heated by steam, for drying the linen in bad weather. Near the butler's room is his pantry, a spacious fire-proof room, with closets on every side for the reception of the plate which he cleans here, and the glass and china used at dinner, which must be delivered back into his custody as soon as it is washed by the women. All these arrangements are executed with the greatest punctuality. A locked staircase leads from the pantry into the beer and wine cellar, which is likewise under the butler's jurisdiction. I followed a very romantic road, which led me through the park, and then along the bank of a beautifully wooded mountain stream, and in about an hour arrived at the slate quarry, which lies in the midst of the mountains, six miles from the castle. From what I have already told you, you may imagine what a vast work this is. Five or six high terraces of great extent rise one above another on the side of the mountain; along these swarm men, machines, trains of a hundred wagons attached together and rolling rapidly along the iron railways, cranes drawing up heavy loads, water courses, &c. It took me a considerable time to give even a hasty glance at this busy and complicated scene. In order to reach a remote part of the works, where they were then blasting rocks with gunpowder,--a process which I had a great desire to see,--I was obliged to lie down in one of the little iron wagons which serve for the conveyance of the slate, and are drawn by means of a windlass through a gallery hewn in the solid rock, only four feet in height, four hundred paces in length, and pitch dark. It is a most disagreeable sensation to be dragged through this narrow passage at full speed, and in Egyptian darkness, after having had ample opportunity of seeing at the entrance the thousand abrupt jagged projections by which one is surrounded. Few strangers make the experiment, spite of the tranquillizing assurances of the guide who rides before. It is impossible to get rid of the idea that if one came in contact with any of these salient points, one would, in all probability, make one's egress without a head. After passing through this gallery, I had to walk along a path at the edge of the precipice, only two feet wide, and without any railing or defence; then to pass through a second low cavern, when I reached the fearfully magnificent scene of operations. It was like a subterranean world! Above the blasted walls of slate, smooth as a mirror, and several hundred feet high, scarcely enough of the blue heaven was visible to enable me to distinguish mid-day from twilight. The earth on which we stood was likewise blasted rock; just in the middle was a deep cleft six or eight feet wide. Some children of the workmen were amusing themselves in leaping across this chasm, for the sake of earning a few pence. The perpendicular sides were hung with men, who looked like dark birds, striking the rock with their long picks, and throwing down masses of slate which fell with a sharp and clattering sound. But on a sudden the whole mountain seemed to totter, loud cries of warning re-echoed from various points,--the mine was sprung. A large mass of rock loosened itself slowly and majestically from above, fell down with a mighty plunge, and while dust and splinters darkened the air like smoke, the thunder rang around in wild echoes. These operations, which are of almost daily necessity in one part or other of the quarry, are so dangerous, that, according to the statement of the overseer himself, they calculate on an average of one hundred and fifty men wounded, and seven or eight killed in a year. An hospital, exclusively devoted to the workmen on this property, receives the wounded; and on my way I had met, without being aware of it, the body of one who had fallen the day before yesterday; 'car c'est comme un champ de bataille.' The people who escorted it were so smartly dressed and so decorated with flowers, that I at first took the procession for a wedding, and was shocked when, in answer to my inquiry for the bridegroom, one of the attendants pointed in silence to the coffin which followed at some distance. The overseer assured me that half these accidents were owing to the indifference of the men, who are too careless to remove in time and to a sufficient distance, though at every explosion they have full warning given them. The slate invariably splits in sharp-edged flakes, so that an inconsiderable piece thrown to a great distance, is often sufficient to cut a man's hand, leg, or even head, clean off. On one occasion, this last, as I was assured, actually happened. As we ourselves were not far enough from the 'foyer,' I instantly obeyed the signal, and turned on the left through the infernal gallery, to inspect the more peaceful operations: these are extremely varied and interesting. Paper cannot be cut more neatly and rapidly than slates are here; and no deal board can split more easily and delicately than the blocks which the workmen with one single stroke of the mallet divide into slices, from three to four feet in breadth, as thin as the thinnest pasteboard. The rough blocks come from the region I have just described, down Parisian 'montagnes russes' to the stone-hewer; and, as in those, the downward impetus of the loaded wagons sends them up again when empty. The iron railways are not here, as they commonly are, concave, but convex, and the wagon wheels correspond. _July 17th._ The day has passed in rest, writing, and reading; so that it affords few materials. But before I go to bed I must indulge the delightful habit of chatting with you. I was just thinking of home, and our honoured friend L----, who is now travelling, and has sent me a whole volume of his former lucubrations. Shall I send you a specimen? Listen then. "REFLECTIONS OF A PIOUS SOUL OF SANDOMIR, OR SANDOMICH.[111] "1. _On occasion of the quantity of Schnapps drunk at my expense by the Saxon postillions._ "How much better is our country in all respects than any other! Really one witnesses strange things! For instance, it is certainly an extraordinary circumstance,--and yet after repeated experience I cannot doubt it,--that when the horses here are tired and lazy, (which, alas! is too often the case,) the postilion has only to drink Schnapps, to render them brisk and active. The wisdom of Nature and her hidden powers are unfathomable! The above-mentioned phenomenon may perhaps be elucidated by the well-known fact, that wine begins to ferment in the cask when the vine blossoms.[112] At the last stage before Torgau, my companion Count S----, Lieutenant of the Guards, from Potsdam, upon whom the light of Grace hath not yet broken, and who consequently is unduly moved by worldly things, was so angry with the postilion that he shook his stick at him, and called him a Saxon dog. 'O Lord! no, sir,' answered the fellow stupidly; 'there you're mistaken--we have been Prussian dogs these ten years and more.' This is a plain proof that the people here are entirely destitute of that high civilization which prevails among us. "2. _After my signal deliverance on the 6th of July, 1827._ "For four weeks I have not been able to write! With thankfulness and deep inward feeling I now take up my pen for the first time, to set forth the wonderful dispensation I have experienced. As I was travelling to M---- last month, I was overturned directly before the door of the tollhouse, and broke my right arm. My first exclamation--I confess it to my shame--was a shocking curse: but my second, thanks, fervent thanks to the Creator that I had broken my arm and not my neck. In such events we clearly perceive the 'unfathomable ways' and the protecting arm of Providence, which is ever at hand to help us at the moment of need. Did not my life hang upon a hair? and was it not the Lord's pleasure herein to give me an impressive proof that it depends on him alone to close my eyes for ever, or still to preserve my young life, which perhaps (for what is impossible to him?) is reserved for great and weighty things? Yes, ye philosophers, with heartfelt joy and triumph do I feel it, Faith alone makes us happy. "3. _On occasion of my being nearly drowned in the Elbe, near Torgau._ "Certain it is that we ought not to venture into the water till we can swim, as a Grecian sage hath very justly remarked. I was so imprudent as to bathe yesterday without having acquired this art, for I ever kept myself far aloof from all revolutionary gymnastics and exercises of that sort, and being seized with a cramp in the calf of my leg, and consequently somewhat frightened, I should perhaps now be among the dead, had it not been for a man whom Heaven led in this direction, _exactly at this time_, for my preservation. Can I be blind at such repeated proofs of special interposition in my favour? The whole Elbe is, nevertheless, become rather disagreeable to me. I strive with this as a blameable feeling, since we ought to recollect how useful this river is to many of our fellow-creatures.[113] The remark has I believe been made before, but it nevertheless is not the less worthy of attention--that wherever we find a large city, we almost invariably find a great river by the side of it;--but so wisely, so graciously has a kind Providence arranged all things for our good, though we men acknowledge it but too seldom! Yes, Nature, like a good mother, has taken care for all. To the bee she gave her sting, to the beaver his tail, to the lion his strength, to the ass patience; but to man his lofty understanding, and--on subjects which this, with our deceitful reason, cannot reach--divine revelations. O how thankful do I always feel when I think rightly on this! I, who moreover have so much more cause than numbers of my brethren to be thankful for the manifold bodily and mental advantages I enjoy. May I never forget them!--Amen. "4. _On occasion of my being forced to pay Abraham the Jew my twice prolonged bill, with 'alterum tantum.'_ "I have been sorely disquieted by the doubt, whether the Jews are really to remain to the end of the world; and, in spite of the curse which lies upon them, scattered and oppressed as they are on earth, to continue for ever to cheat us so astonishingly as they do. "Yet is not this very doubt a sin? since we are assured in many holy books that this will certainly be the case. Besides, the conversion of these misguided wretches is now proceeding from our country, whence the greatest light formerly went forth. But alas! here a new fearful doubt besets me: Will all the inhabitants of the earth ever _be called_ Christians? It is indeed so declared: but in the course of my learned studies I lately met with a calculation which, to my horror, showed me that out of eight hundred millions of souls on the earth, only two hundred millions are called by the true name. Let us hope, however, that the worthy and admirable Bible Societies will do their part, and not weary. The English cannot be truly in earnest in this matter, seeing that as yet they have hardly made a convert in India. It is probable that they, as usual, have only political ends in view.[114] I read lately, that a Hindoo audaciously answered a missionary who was trying to convert him, 'I shall not suffer myself to be converted to Christianity by you, till you consent to be converted to the religion of Brama by me. I believe in the truth of my religion, as you believe in the truth of yours; and what is right for one, is fair for the other. Some fables and abuses may perhaps have crept into both, but they are of the same family.' What dreadful views! I myself, who,--I say it without vain-glory,--persuaded an old Jew, whose trade had fallen off, to be baptized, (for which I still allow him a pension,) sought also to contribute my mite by the spiritual change of a _real_ Indian, who after many wonderful adventures had been driven into our hyperborean regions, where the Herrnhuters had long, though vainly, laboured at his conversion. He heard me very patiently; and, to say the truth, I was so carried away by the momentous nature of the circumstance, that I wondered at my own eloquence. But what was the result? he smiled at me, took my gift, shook his head like a Chinese idol, and left me without an answer. "P. S. I have just heard, to my inexpressible horror, that the Jew I converted is dead: and being seized on his death-bed by pangs of conscience (would any body think it possible?) turned Jew again. "5. _On returning from Madame R----'s funeral._ "A most remarkable incident occurred here a few days ago. About ten years since a pretty and, what is far more important, a pious young woman served in a confectioner's shop. Although exposed by her sweet occupation to many temptations, (for all young men who frequent confectioners' shops have not my morals,) she would listen to no one, and found all her pleasure in godliness. She never missed a prayer-meeting at President S----'s, or at any other house where she could gain admittance; and above all, went to church at least once every Sunday. One Sunday, however, (it was St. Martin's day if I mistake not,) she forgot her duty and staid at home, busied with worldly attire. Then did the Tempter draw near in the form of a young man, to whom she had long been secretly attached. It seems probable that on that fatal day he made great advances in her favour, since they were shortly after married. At first they lived very happily, and had several children. By degrees she exhibited a sensible falling off in piety, in consequence of the cares and distractions of married life. The unhappy woman appeared greatly attached to her duties as wife and mother, and henceforth preferred them to the comfort of prayer-meetings and pious readings. But the consequences of her carnal-mindedness soon appeared: her husband was assailed by numerous and, as I am assured, otherwise undeserved misfortunes; some of her children died; the whole family fell into poverty; and the husband, at length, into the deepest melancholy. Last Sunday, exactly on the tenth anniversary of that fatal Sunday on which the misguided girl did _not_ go to church, her husband in a paroxysm of madness horribly murdered himself and his wife.--Here may be seen that the divine wrath if slow, is so much the more sure. I refrain from all severe animadversions:--but he who is not rendered serious by this warning, who does not see how sinful and dangerous it is to neglect, even for once, regular attendance at church, is truly an object of my pity. He can be made wise only by his own suffering; and well is it for him if he become so in time! "6. _On my last disappointment at D----._ "I am very unfortunate in love,--a circumstance which it is difficult to understand; but it is nevertheless true that another of my best laid plans has miscarried! "For a long time I had loved Miss M---- with all the fire of my impetuous character. I did not venture to declare it; but my eyes, which I fixed upon her for hours with languishing tenderness, spoke too plainly not to be understood. Nevertheless, I had never been able to win aught but a scornful smile from my adored fair; when an important epoch, viz. her eighteenth birthday, arrived. I determined now to lay storm to her heart by some distinguished act of gallantry--which I could do with the greater propriety, and without any stings of conscience, since I never entertain any but the most virtuous designs. I now meditated long what to choose;--roses, and all sorts of botanical presents, as fruit and the like, are so common-place;--dress would not do, for that would have looked like an insinuation that I thought her vain;--still less could I offer her any thing costly, which would have appeared an indirect accusation of a mercenary spirit: I dared not choose a pious hymn-book, or other godly work, lest I should sinfully profane what is holy by using it with an earthly aim;--no, it must be something tender, and containing a delicate allusion to our situation. Suddenly, like a flash of lightning in a dark night, the thought occurred to me that the season of new herrings was at hand. The word electrified me, and, with the wonted rapidity of my conceptions, I instantly saw the meaning which lay hidden. I immediately sent an estafette to Berlin, where, as is well known, every thing new is to be had, in order, if possible, to get the above-mentioned creatures of the Lord before the annual advertisement of them appeared in the two blotting-paper journals of that city. Every thing succeeded according to my wishes:--ere many days had elapsed, a couple lay before me. I had them laid upon some leaves of artificial 'forget-me-not,' instead of parsley, and once more reflected upon all that their mute language (I mean the herrings') could convey. "It would perhaps appear too far-fetched were I to urge how _herring_ resembles _hymen_; these words having clearly an etymological relation, since both begin with a great H,[115] and a little _n_ occurs in both. But there was one circumstance which spoke plainer, viz. that they were a _couple_--the principal point of view from which they were to be regarded. The blue colour, which reminds us of heaven, signified our mutual gentleness and meekness; and the strong salt wherewith they were salted, the acuteness of our understandings, and our attic wit. The unfading leaves cried aloud, 'Forget me not!' and at the same time clearly alluded to that never-fading delight we should find in each other! But in my opinion the crown of the whole was the pretty play of words which is in the name itself--_herring_--_here-ring_. It was impossible for me to declare my love and my honourable intentions more plainly, and at the same time more delicately, (in every sense of the word, for new herrings are a great delicacy in Prussia and Saxony.) To make all doubly sure, however, I laid on them a beautiful rose, painted and cut out of Chinese rice-paper, in the leaves of which I concealed with a trembling hand the first effort of my youthful muse, in which I expressed all these tender and delicate ideas. "Who could believe that all would be in vain! The mother answered me in plain prose, briefly and carelessly, that her daughter was very sorry that she had always had an idiosyncratical antipathy to herrings; so strong indeed, that she had not been able to sit out the last play of the celebrated Wilibald Alexis, having accidentally heard that his real name was Herring. She therefore sent me back my fish and the accompanying poetry, with many thanks for my good intentions. "Happily, godliness consoles a spirit truly possessed by it for every thing; but I was obliged to read the Bible two hours before I recovered my accustomed patience and composure. I read for my edification the history of Jonas; and although the whale which swallowed him was so very large, it continually disappeared in my fancy before the luckless herrings. "In my anger (which alas! I have not yet completely conquered) I must now censure some things in the two blotting-paper periodicals above mentioned. They ought not only to strive after a more correct orthography in their advertisements, but to pay some attention to the sense. In a collection of natural curiosities made by a Berlin friend of mine, I find two of the above-named newspapers, containing the two following notices of deaths inserted by the same unfortunate father; and an old advertisement of a concert. 1. 'This day the Lord, on his journey through Tettow, took to himself my youngest son Fritz, with his teeth.' 2. (A month later). 'This day the Lord again took to himself my daughter Agnes to eternal blessedness.' 3. 'On Monday a concert will be given at the theatre. The receipts are to serve as the basis of a fund destined for the support of our countrymen who fell in defence of their country.' "Now I ask anybody whether this is not making death ludicrous,--certainly a grievous sin, even when done unintentionally." So far friend L----. But the night grows pale--already the morning dawns. I must say, therefore, like Moore, it is day--therefore good night. I send you this long letter, which an acquaintance takes to London to-morrow morning, through our embassy; and with it a hearty kiss, which I hope the P---- custom-house will suffer to pass undisputed. Your faithful L---- LETTER XXVI. _Caernarvon, July 19th, 1828._ MY BELOVED FRIEND, I am now returned, dog-tired, from ascending Snowdon, the highest mountain in England, Scotland, and Wales, which indeed is not saying much. Excuse me till morning, when I will give you a faithful relation of my 'fata'. Meantime, good night. _July 20th._ As soon as I had committed the packet for you to Mr. S----, with the strongest injunctions to care, I left Bangor as quickly as four post-horses could convey me. On the way I visited some iron-foundries, which, however, I shall spare you, as I observed nothing new in them. I was rather unwell when I arrived at the inn at Caernarvon, where a most beautiful girl with long black hair, the daughter of the absent host, did the honours with great grace and sweetness. The following morning at nine o'clock I set out in tolerable weather on a 'char-à-banc,' drawn by two horses of the country. My driver was a little boy who did not understand a word of English. He drove like mad, 'en train de chasse,' over the narrow cross-roads of this rocky country. All my shouts and expostulations were vain, or seemed to be interpreted by him in the very contrary sense from what I intended; so that we went nine miles from the lake of Llanberis in less than half an hour, over stock and stone: I do not understand how the horses and carriages bore it. By the fishermen's huts which lie scattered along the shore, I found a gentler mode of conveyance, a pretty little boat, in which I embarked with two robust mountaineers. Snowdon now lay before us, but unfortunately had, as the country-people say, put on his night-cap, while the lower mountains around shone in the brightest sunshine. It is not more than about four thousand feet high, but has a very imposing aspect, in consequence of its immediate rise from the shore of the lake, whereas most other mountains of the same class spring from a base of considerable elevation. From the point where we embarked, to the little inn at the foot of Snowdon, the lake is three miles over; and as the wind was very high, our voyage was rough and tedious. The water of the lake is black as ink; the mountains bare and strewed with rock, and only varied by occasional small green glens: here and there are a few stunted trees, but the general aspect is wild and desert. Not far from the small church of Llanberis is the so-called Holy Well, inhabited by a solitary trout of enormous size, who has for centuries been exhibited to strangers. Frequently, however, he will not be tempted from his hiding-place; and the country-people think it an unlucky omen if he appears immediately. As I am an enemy of all oracles, I did not visit it. My companions also told me a history of a wondrous amazon of gigantic strength, who long led a wild masculine sort of life here: and described to me certain enormous bees, which the Welsh admire and venerate so much that they think them natives of Paradise. Excellent salmon are caught here: the manner of catching them is strange; they are hunted by small dogs trained to the sport, who drag them out of the mud into which they occasionally creep. As soon as I arrived at the inn I secured a 'poney' (a small mountain horse), and a guide, and hastened to set out, in hope that the threatening clouds would break about noon. Unfortunately, the very contrary happened; it grew darker and darker, and before I had climbed half an hour, followed by my guide leading the poney, one uniform mantle enshrouded hill and valley; and a heavy rain, against which my umbrella did not long protect me, beat upon us. We at length took refuge in the ruins of an old castle; and after I had laboriously climbed a decayed winding staircase I reached the remains of a balcony, where I found shelter under a dense mass of ivy. Everything around me wore an air of profound gloom; the crumbling walls, the wind which moaned plaintively through their fissures, the monotonous dropping of the rain, and the disagreeable termination of my hopes conspired to throw me into a melancholy frame of mind. I thought with a sigh, how nothing,--not even the smallest trifle,--falls out as I wish it;--how all that I undertake looks ill-timed and eccentric as soon as _I_ undertake it; so that everywhere, as here, what others accomplish in light and sunshine, I must toil through in storm and rain. Impatiently I left the old walls, and once more climbed the mountain. The weather was, however, now so terrible, and the increasing storm so dangerous even, that we were once more compelled to seek shelter in a miserable ruinous hut. The inside was filled with smoke, in the midst of which sat an old woman spinning in silence, while some half-naked children lay on the ground, gnawing dry crusts of bread. The whole family seemed hardly conscious of my entrance; at least they made no pause or change in their occupations. For a moment the children stared stupidly and incuriously at me, and then fell again into the apathy of wretchedness. I seated myself on the round table, the only piece of furniture in the house, and once more gave audience to my thoughts, which were not the most exhilarating. Meanwhile, as the storm raged more furiously, my guide earnestly advised me to turn back. This would doubtless have been the most reasonable course, particularly as we had not yet ascended a third way up the mountain. But as I had long resolved to drink your health, dear Julia, on the summit of Snowdon, in champagne, and had brought a bottle with me from Caernarvon for that express purpose, it seemed to me of ill omen to give it up. With the cheerfulness which a firm determination and fixed purpose, whether in great things or small, never fails to impart, I said, laughing, to my guide, "If it were to rain stones instead of water, I would not turn back till I had been at the top of Snowdon." I made the poor old woman a little present, which she received with apathy. The road was become extremely difficult; it lay over loose and smooth stones washed by the rain, or over very slippery turf. I admired how my active sturdy little beast, shod as he was with smooth English shoes, could step so securely forward on such a road. Meanwhile it soon became so piercingly cold, that, drenched as I was by the rain, I could keep my seat no longer. I am so out of practice in climbing, that I was sometimes nearly overpowered by weariness; but as the Knight in the Romance of old Spiess was cheered by the sound of the bells of the twelve sleeping virgins, so I was continually exhorted to perseverance by the "_ma--ma_" of the mountain sheep, who were feeding in hundreds on the thin herbage around me. I thought of our pet lamb at home, and stepped vigorously onward, till at the end of an hour I had recovered from my fatigue, and felt fresher than at setting out. I was not compensated for my sufferings by the view, for, shrouded as I was in clouds, I could hardly see twenty paces before me. In this mysterious 'clair obscur' I reached the wished-for summit, the way to which lies over a narrow irregular wall of rocks. A pile of stones, in the centre of which is a wooden pillar, marks the highest point. I thought I met my _wraith_, as a young man emerged from the mist who precisely resembled me, that is to say what I was when I wandered over the Swiss Alps sixteen years ago. He had, like myself, a light knapsack on his back, a sturdy staff in his hand, and a substantial dress, which may be called the classical costume of mountain travellers, contrasting as strongly with my London boots, stiff cravat, and tight frock-coat, as the youthful freshness of his face with the yellow, city hue of mine. He looked like the young son of Nature; I like the 'ci-devant jeune homme.' He had ascended the mountain from the other side, and, without stopping, asked me eagerly how far it was to the inn and what sort of road it was. As soon as I had given him the information he desired, he bounded away over the rocks, singing carelessly, and soon disappeared from my sight. I scratched my name near a thousand others on a block of stone, took out the drinking-horn which my host had lent me, and ordered the guide to draw the cork out of my bottle of Champagne. It must have contained an unusual portion of fixed air, for the cork flew higher than the top of the pillar by which we stood; and you may therefore, without imitating Münchausen, assert, that when I drank your health on the 17th of July, 1828, the cork of the Champagne bottle flew four thousand feet above the level of the sea. I filled the horn, to the foaming brim, and shouted with stentor voice into the dim obscure, 'Long life to Julia!' with nine times nine (in the English style). Three times I emptied the cup; and thirsty and exhausted as I was, never did I relish Champagne more. After my libation was completed, the prayers I sent up were not words, but profound emotions; the most fervent among which was the wish, that it might be Heaven's will to grant happiness on earth to you, and then 'if possible,' to me;--and see, a pretty lamb sprang forth from the cloudy veil, and the mist opened and rolled away, and before us lay the earth suddenly gilded by a momentary gleam of sunshine. But in a minute the curtain fell again,--an emblem of my destiny: the beautiful and the desirable--the _gilded_ earth--appear now and then like delusive meteors before me: as soon as I seek to grasp them, they vanish like dreams. As there was no hope that the weather would become permanently clear in these elevated regions, we resolved to return. I found myself so strengthened that I not only felt no trace of weariness, but experienced a feeling unknown for years, in which walking and running, so far from being irksome, are in themselves a source of elastic enjoyment. I sprang, therefore, like my youthful _double_, so rapidly over the rocks and down the wet rushy slopes, that in a few minutes I accomplished a portion of the way which it had taken me an hour and a half to ascend. I emerged at length from the interminable cloud; and if the prospect were less magnificent than from the summit, it still afforded me great delight. It was still about seven hundred feet above the level of the sea, which lay in boundless extent before me. The Island of Anglesea reposed on its bosom; and in the mountain-gorges, which intersected each other in every direction, I counted above twenty small lakes; some dark, some so brightly illumined by the sun that the eye could scarcely bear to rest on their mirror-like surface. Meanwhile the guide had overtaken me; but as I could now perfectly distinguish the 'terrain,' the evening was beautiful, and I felt no fatigue, I let him and his clever little horse return home by the straight road, and determined to take my solitary way across the most striking points, 'et bien m'en,' for since I was in Switzerland I remember no more delicious walk.--I followed a defile along the wild pass of Llanberis, celebrated in the wars between the English and the Welsh, and where the latter, under their great prince Llewellyn, often contemplated the destruction of their foreign invaders, perhaps from the very spot where I then stood. The jagged walls of rock which in many places sank perpendicularly to the pass, are a good exercise for heads subject to giddiness. I gradually ascended many considerable peaks of the same kind, and found only an enjoyment the more in the slight shudder which my perilous station excited. "L'émotion du danger plait à l'homme," says Madame de Staël. My solitude was not complete. The mountain sheep which I have already mentioned, much smaller than the ordinary breeds, wild and agile as the chamois, often bounded before me like roes, and in their flight leaped down crags and precipices where it would not have been easy for any one to follow them. The wool of these sheep is as remarkable for coarseness, as their flesh for tenderness and delicacy. The London 'gourmands' set a high value upon it, and maintain that a man who has not eaten roast mutton from Snowdon has no conception of the _ideal_ in that kind. I came almost into collision with a large bird of prey, which hovering slowly with out-spread wings, had fixed his eyes so intently on something beneath, and had so little calculated on making my acquaintance in this impracticable path, that I could almost have seized him with my hands before he perceived me. He darted away with the velocity of an arrow, but did not for a moment lose sight of the object of his eager pursuit; and I saw him for a long time like a point, poised in the blue ether, till the sun sunk behind the surrounding mountain. I now endeavoured to reach the hut at which I had before stopped, in as straight a line as possible. Not far from it a girl was milking her cow, which afforded me a refreshing draught. Here too I found my guide, and thankfully availed myself of his services during the rest of my way, wrapt in my cloak and resting most luxuriously on my sure-footed 'poney.' After returning to my inn and changing my clothes, I set out afresh and embarked on the lake, now splendidly burnished with the glow of evening. The air was become mild and soft; fish leaped sportively from the water, and herons wheeled their graceful flight around the sedgy shores; while here and there a fire gleamed upon the mountains, and the heavy thunder of blasted rocks resounded from the distant quarries. Long had the moon's sickle stood aloft in the deep blue heavens, when the dark-locked Hebe welcomed me back to Caernarvon. _July 21st._ I was still somewhat fatigued by my yesterday's expedition, and contented myself with a walk to the celebrated castle built by Edward I. the conqueror of Wales, and destroyed by Cromwell. It is one of the most magnificent ruins in England. The only thing to regret is, that it stands so near the town, and not in solitary grandeur amid the mountains. The outer walls, although in ruins, still form an unbroken line, enclosing nearly three acres of ground. The interior space, overgrown with grass and filled with rubbish and with thistles, is nearly eight hundred paces long. It is surrounded by seven slender but strong towers, of different forms and sizes. One of them may still be ascended, and I climbed by a crumbling staircase of a hundred and forty steps to its platform, whence I enjoyed a magnificent view over sea, mountains, and town. On descending, my guide showed me the remains of a vaulted chamber, in which, according to tradition, Edward II., the first prince of Wales, was born. The Welsh, in consequence of the oppression of English governors in the earlier times of partial and momentary conquest, had declared to the king that they would obey none but a prince of their own nation. Edward therefore sent for his wife Eleanor in the depth of winter that she might lie-in in Caernarvon castle. She bore a prince: upon which the king summoned the nobles and chiefs of the land, and asked them solemnly whether they would submit to the rule of a prince who was born in Wales, and could not speak a word of English. On their giving a joyful and surprised assent, he presented to them his new-born son, exclaiming in broken Welsh, _Eich dyn!_ i. e. "This is your man!" which has been corrupted into the present motto of the English arms, _Ich Dien_. Over the great gate still stands the statue of Edward, with a crown on his head and a drawn dagger in his right hand, as if after six centuries he were still guarding the crumbling walls of his castle. He might justly have broken out into indignant complaint at the desecration I witnessed. In the midst of these majestic ruins, a camel and some monkeys in red jackets were performing their antics, while a ragged multitude stood shouting and laughing around, unconscious of the wretched contrast which they formed with these solemn remains of past ages. The tower in which the prince was born is called the Eagle Tower; not from that circumstance, but from four colossal eagles which crowned its pinnacles, one of which is still remaining. It is believed to be Roman, for Caernarvon stands on the site of the ancient Segontium, which.... But I am wandering too far, and am in the high road to fall into the tone of a tour-writer by profession, who thinks himself privileged to _bore_ if he does not instruct, although his information is generally the result of a weary search through road-books and local descriptions. 'Je n'ai pas cette prétension, vous le savez, je laisse errer ma plume,' heedless whither it leads me. The Marquis of Anglesea has lately established a sea-bath here, which is supplied by a steam-engine, and very elegantly fitted up. I availed myself of it on my way back from the castle, and observed in the entertaining-room a billiard-table of metal set in stone. It is impossible to desire one more accurate;--whether the steam-engine performed the office of marking, I forgot to ask. This is by no means impossible, in a country in which somebody has gravely proposed to establish steam-waiters in coffee-houses, and in which affairs would go on much the same if a forty-horsepower steam-engine sat upon the throne. Dear Julia, a traveller must be allowed to speak often and much of weather and of eating. The Novels of the Illustrious, erst Unknown, or the Illustrious Unknown, derive no inconsiderable part of their attractions from the masterly pictures of this kind they contain. Whose mouth does not water when he sees Dalgetty, the soldier of fortune, display at the table a prowess even greater than in the fight? I am really not in joke when I assure you that when I have lost my appetite, I often read an hour or two in the works of the Great Unknown, and find it completely restored. To-day I wanted no stimulus of this or any kind. It was sufficient to see the most excellent fresh fish and the far-famed 'mountain mutton' smoking on the table, to induce me to fall on them with ravenous hunger; for a sea-bath and the ascent of Snowdon have a yet greater influence on the stomach than Walter Scott. My dark-locked maiden, who, as I was the only guest in the house, waited on me herself, was at length impatient of my reiterated attacks on the mutton; and said somewhat sullenly that I did nothing but eat, except when I was rambling about. She was of a much more ethereal nature, and in the short time I had been here, had read through half my portable Novel library. Every time I saw her she presented me with a newly devoured volume, and begged so earnestly for another, that I must have had a hard heart to refuse her. _July 22._ A large packet has been sent after me to-day from Bangor. I vainly searched it for tidings from you; but could not refrain from laughing heartily over a letter from L----, who writes to me in despair at the scrape he is in. He tells me that he suffered his "Reflections" (the beginning of which I sent you,) to be printed in fragments, and a certain party which feels itself too sore not to be over-sensitive 'y a entendu malice.' They have inserted a furious article against him in the Lamb's Journal; and poor L----, who knows the people he has to deal with, is afraid that he will certainly be rejected at his examination. As this philippic is not long, and is very characteristic of our times, and as I have a holiday to-day, I shall transcribe it with some abridgments. "_On the_ REFLECTIONS _of a pious Soul of Sandomir: A discourse by Herr von Frommel, Adjutant of his Highness the Prince of ----. Pronounced in the Nobility's pious Conventicle for both sexes, at A----, No. 33, Zion Street, May 4th, 1828_. (_Reprinted separately, from the Collection, for true Christians._) "High and high-well born, pious brethren and sisters! Truly is it said there be many wolves in sheep's clothing! The author of these reflections is doubtless the wearer of such a sheepskin. It is not difficult to discover that under the mask of godliness, and of a simplicity approaching to silliness, are heard the hissings of that same mischievous serpent who seduced our pious mother Eve, who has since incessantly vented his venom upon our holy Religion, and still labours to overthrow the throne and the altar. But we, my brethren, will not resemble our, alas! too credulous Mother, but will exterminate the satellites of the Devil wherever we find them, with fire and sword. "Yes, my friends, _you_ know and are certain that the Devil is, and lives--not as the unbelieving herd say, _in us_, as the demon of anger, of vanity, of hatred, of sin;--no, bodily he roams over the earth, like a roaring lion, with goat's horns and a long tail and pestilential stench, wherever he chooses to show himself. He who does not _thus_ believe on the Devil, has no true religion. But wherefore do I urge this? _We_ are no reasoners--no worldly-wise: here are none but simple lambs, one flock under one shepherd. "A warning is, however, necessary; and therefore I now give the alarm. We have as yet seen only fragments of these poisonous 'Reflections,' and know not how far the author means to go;--but they are aimed at us; of that there is no doubt; and, God be praised! we find already enough fully to justify our denouncing him as an Atheist. Is it not obvious that he jests at Providence and its omnipotence? We hope, we pray, therefore, confidently and earnestly, that Omnipotence will speedily avenge itself, and give this presumptuous soul a foretaste of what awaits him in the everlasting flames. And may the all-merciful God do this promptly and fearfully, that no innocent lamb of our flock may be led astray by that unclean one. Certainly, my friends, a fiend, a vampire, an atheist wrote these words. Nothing is sacred to him. He attacks not alone the Creator, but even the Redeemer of the world. "Oh my brethren and sisters! horrible--we may reckon upon it assuredly--horrible will be the lot of such an one at the last day! when the dead shall arise in the body, and his carnal ear shall hear again, only to listen to the thunders of the trumpets which announce to him his eternal damnation. _There_ will be no pity! There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth! And let us follow that example, and be inexorable towards him, as will be that eternal condemnation. "We could scarcely have believed that after all our Christian labours in our so truly--I say it with pride--Christian city, in which everything is done to destroy the poison of toleration and of mad confidence in our own judgment, men could be found amongst us, who would dare, unrestrained by all authority, to go their own way in search of truth;--these free-thinkers and heathens spring up only because the constituted authorities (even our otherwise so active Censorship at their head) are far too indulgent towards the greatest of all crimes, unbelief. It would perhaps have been expedient and beneficial to introduce a moderate Inquisition, together with the new prayer book, for the defence of true believers, those genuine Christians, those sole predestined favourites of God, who believe whatever their King and their Church order, without hesitation or examination. Only such can have any real value for Church or State. Away then with all others! Be they damned for ever! like all the unbaptized children of Jews and Heathens. Oh could we but for ever expunge from our annals that disgraceful period in which a philosopher (and not merely an ideological but a practical philosopher) sat on a German throne,--and, my Christian brethren, would you believe it? received the name of the Great! The mildest that we, converted to the grace of godliness with tears of blood, can now say of him is, the Lord be merciful to his poor soul! Long however must the pious and their sacred legion struggle, before the seed which this _great_ (!!!) man sowed will be wholly trodden down; before the last trace of that miserable Reason which he fostered will be entirely eradicated. Nevertheless, despair not, my Christian brethren; to such holy zeal as ours nothing is impossible, and this world's rewards await you in various forms here, from those exalted sources from which we daily draw; and hereafter yet greater glories in the Palace of the Lord. Only beware of reasoning, in every shape: believe--not upon your own inquiry--but as it is prescribed to you; and above all, beware of Toleration! Love your Redeemer not only above all, but solely and alone. But he who is not for him is against him, and upon such have no mercy. Persecute them without intermission. And if this cannot be done openly, undermine him with calumnies, with secret detraction; yea, shun not the rankest lies, provided you can disseminate them with security to yourselves; for remember that the end sanctifies all means. Ah, were we but in such a frame of mind as never to wax cool in our zeal! It is only because we are luke-warm, that these philosophers have dared to preach that virtue of heathens, toleration. We have seen to what it brought us when the delirious raving about freedom seized the mob, and universal anarchy threatened to overthrow the throne, the church, our old nobility, and everything venerable. Therefore away with every thought of mischievous tolerance towards those who think otherwise! Christ indeed has said, "Bless those who curse you:" and further, "If any man strike you on one cheek, offer him the other also." But upon this subject I have my own thoughts. Passages of this sort ought certainly to be differently understood: for how could they be reconciled with the indispensable laws of our station? Does not the honour of our rank, and of our uniform, command us instantly and without hesitation, to strike again a man who should dare to lay hands upon us? Yes, I know not whether even I, the favourite of my prince, should dare to show myself at court or in the highest places, after publicly receiving a slap on the face. It is therefore highly probable that our Saviour intended these words to be taken with one limitation,--that is, _for the common people_, in whom it is unquestionably meritorious when struck on one cheek, instead of giving way to wrath and bitterness, to offer the other. Let it be remembered also, that when Christ became man, he sought out not only a noble but a royal race. And who knows whether the disciples were really of such mean extraction as they are represented, and not perhaps men of old Jewish families of high descent? the matter is wrapt in so much historical darkness. And doth not Christ say, "My coming is not to bring peace, but rather the sword?" These two passages would seem to contradict each other, if we did not understand that patience is enjoined to one class and warfare to the other. For is not that the primitive destination of the nobility?--formerly with the sword, now with the pen and the word. For this cause, my brethren and sisters, strive against the unbelieving. Gird on the sword of the times, and strive for the Lord with the Bible and Jacob Böhmen, with the Chamberlain's Key and the Field Marshal's Baton, with the Prayer-book and the Surplice. Believe me, my dear friends, soon shall we earn the fruits of our holy zeal; soon shall we begin to stand on the brazen floor. "People yield more and more to our secret influence and strong union: the powerful support which we give to all our fellow-labourers when their labours in the vineyard deserve it; the many favours from exalted sources, of which we are the sharers; above all, the inexorable piety we are known to possess, hold even the most daring within bounds, and lay the timid in shoals at our feet. "But whenever an Antichrist dares to attack us, (and whoever dares to do so is one,) I exhort you again,--watch, strive, destroy, and rest not till your victim is fallen. It is all for Charity's sake, the last effort for a poor erring mortal, to force him, if possible, to acknowledge Christ.--Amen. "It will perhaps be agreeable to this noble congregation in Christ, and moving to their hearts, if I hereby communicate to them, that we have been so happy in the course of the present month as to bring seven and a half condemned souls to the true faith, which has cost us not more than a hundred reichsthalers. As we are obliged to keep a worldly account of these matters, we have agreed to reckon children under twelve years of age as half souls. And may Heaven in like manner bless our further pious efforts, and the disinterested zeal with which the unconverted are drawn to the lap of Jesus.--Amen." I had read thus far when the little Eliza appeared with my breakfast, and with an arch good-nature bid me good morning "after my long sleep." She had just been to church, had all the consciousness of being well-dressed, and was waiting upon a foreigner; three things which greatly incline women to be tender-hearted. She accordingly seemed almost embarrassed when I inquired about my departure early the following morning; but was soon consoled when I promised to leave her my travelling library, and to bring her a fresh assortment of books in a week. After dinner I went, under her guidance, to visit the walks around the town. One of these is most romantically placed on a large rock. We saw from hence to Snowdon, in almost transparent clearness, undimmed by a single cloud; and I could not restrain some feelings of vexation at having so exactly missed the right day. After this pastoral walk, 'tender mutton' closed a day of which I am sorry to have nothing more interesting to record. But I now recollect a somewhat singular incident which my host told me to-day. On the night of the 5th of August, 1820, the boat which crossed a ferry at this place was lost, and out of twenty-six persons only one man was saved. Exactly thirty-seven years before, the same disaster occurred, and out of sixty-nine persons only one survived. What renders the coincidence the more perfect is, that on both occasions the name of the sole survivor was Hugh Williams. _Bangor, July 22d._ Bangor is also a bathing place; that is, every body may jump into the sea who likes it. The artificial arrangements for the purpose are reduced to the private tub-establishment of one old woman, who lives in a wretched hovel on the shore; and if an order is given an hour before, heats the sea-water in pots and kettles on her hearth, and proceeds 'sans façon,' to undress and afterwards to rub down and dress again any stranger who may come unprovided with a servant. I entered her hut accidentally, and after I had taken a bath of this sort, 'pour la rarité du fait,' I hired a boat to take me across the arm of the sea which divides Wales from the island of Anglesea. Here is another castle built by Edward I., and destroyed by Cromwell; it was originally even of greater extent than that at Caernarvon, and covered five acres of ground; but the ruins are less picturesque, in consequence of its having lost all its towers. To see it thoroughly one must walk along the narrow and lofty walls, which are wholly unprotected. The boy who keeps the keys ran along like a squirrel; but the barber of the town, who offered his services as guide when I landed, left me in the lurch at the first step. The ruin stands in the park of a Mr. Bulkley: with singular bad taste he has made a tennis-court within its enclosure. His house commands a very celebrated view. It is, however, far surpassed by one I met with about a mile and a half further on, from a simple and elegant cottage called Craig y Don. This is a true gem,--one of those blessed spots which leave nothing to wish. It lies between thickly wooded rocks close to the sea: not too large, but adorned like a boudoir, surrounded by the greenest turf, and by the blended beauty of flowers of all colours; the whole house, with its thatched roof and verandah tapestried with China roses and blue convolvuluses, forms a picture which, enclosed as it is between wood and rock, formed the most indescribably beautiful contrast with the sublime scenery around it. Labyrinthine footpaths wind in all directions through the cool and shady thicket, subdividing into many and exquisite fragments the rich treasures of landscape beauty afforded by the situation. Beneath and in front lies the deep blue sea, whose surf beats against the sharp pointed rocks upon which I stood; while further away on its smooth mirror a hundred fishing-boats and other vessels glided to and fro. Among them I descried the cutter of the proprietor of Craig y Don lying at anchor, and two steam-boats, one of which, far in the distance, left a long line of smoke; the other, close to shore, sent up a slender column of white vapour. On the right, a deep bay stretches into the land, studded with little islands of every character and form; some clothed with brushwood, others bare and almost polished by the waves; some covered with little huts, others crowned with upright tower-like rocks. On turning again toward the strait, and following its gradual contraction, my eye rested with amazement on that stupendous chain-bridge which closes the prospect: that giant work which is justly called the eighth wonder of the world, and which, bidding defiance to nature, has united two portions of land which she had severed by the ocean. I shall have an opportunity hereafter of describing it more nearly; from this point it looks as if spiders had woven it in the air. After I had satisfied myself with gazing at this romantic specimen of human power and skill, I turned to one of the greatest and most varied works of nature;--the entire range of the Welsh mountains, which rises immediately from the water, distinct and near enough clearly to distinguish woods, villages and valleys, and stretches along an extent of ten miles. The mountains grouped themselves in every variety of light and shadow; some were wrapped in clouds, some gleamed brightly in the sun, others stretched their blue heads even above the clouds; and villages, towns, white churches, handsome country-houses and castles, were visible in their gorges, while shifting gleams of light played on the green slopes at their foot. The eye, wearied with a variety, turns to the north, which is on my left. Here nothing distracts the gaze: the wide ocean alone blends with the sky. For a short time you follow the retreating shore of Anglesea at your side, on which large nut-trees and oaks droop their pliant boughs into the sea, and then you are alone with air and water; or at most you fancy you descry the sails of a distant vessel, or shape fantastic pictures in the clouds. After an hour of intense enjoyment, I rode at the full speed of a pony, which I hired in Anglesea, to the great bridge. The best point of view is from the beach, near some fishing huts about a hundred paces from the bridge. The more thoroughly and minutely I viewed it, the greater was my astonishment. I thought I beheld in a dream a filagree work suspended by fairies in the air. In short, the fancy cannot exhaust itself in comparisons; and as a stage-coach with four horses drove rapidly over the arch a hundred feet high and six hundred wide, half concealed by the intertexture of the chains on which the bridge is suspended, I thought I saw larks fluttering in a net. The men who were seated in various parts of the chain-work, giving it its first coat of paint, were like captive insects. Those who know the castle at Berlin will be able to form some idea of the enormous dimensions of this bridge, when they hear that it would stand perfectly well under the centre arch: and yet the chains hold the latter so firmly, that even driving at the quickest rate or with the heaviest burden, which is by no means forbidden, does not excite the smallest perceptible vibration. The bridge is divided at the top into three roads, one for going, another for returning, and a third for foot-passengers. The planks rest on an iron grating, so that they are easily removed when out of repair, and no danger is to be apprehended when they break. Every three years the whole iron work receives a fresh coat of paint, to prevent rust. The name of the architect, who has earned a high and lasting reputation, is Telford. 'Sur ce, n'ayant plus rien à dire,' I close my epistle, and wish you, my dear Julia, all the happiness and blessings you deserve, 'et c'est beaucoup dire.' Ever your most faithful L----. LETTER XXVII. _Bangor, July 23, 1828._ CHERE ET BONNE, One little defect in this otherwise so beautiful landscape is caused by the ebb and flow. During a considerable part of the day a large portion of the channel of the Menai (as this strait is called) is dry, and exhibits only a tract of sand and mud. Probably the indescribably persecuting swarms of flies which infest this place, pouring forth in thousands in search of prey, attacking man and beast, and pursuing their victims with relentless pertinacity, may be ascribed to the same cause. In vain do you put your horse to his full speed: the swarm, congregated into a ball like the Macedonian phalanx, accompany your flight, and disperse themselves over their prey the moment you stop; nor will anything but their complete destruction deliver you from them. Even a house does not always afford secure refuge. I have found in some of my expeditions that when once they have seized upon a victim, they will wait patiently at the door till he comes out again. The only way is to seek out some place through which a strong current of wind passes. This they cannot resist. The cows which graze on the hilly shores are quite aware of this fact, and are always to be seen standing perfectly still, ruminating, in such spots. I watched one to-day for a long time, as she stood on a solitary point of rock, her outline thrown out sharply on the sky behind; motionless, but for the slight working of her jaw, or the occassional sweep of her tail against her sides. How well, thought I, might an ingenious mechanic frame a colossal image of this animal, and provide it with the simple mechanical apparatus necessary to imitate that slight motion,--and what an acquisition were this for a German-English garden at home! for instance at Cassel, opposite to the Hercules, or at Wörlitz, where she might be set to graze on the burning mountain. This meritorious conception you must try to put in execution. Do you remember Clementi Brentano? When the amiable and kind-hearted grandson of Count L---- was showing him the view from his hunting-seat over a flat but beautifully wooded country, the Count joined them, and asked Brentano rather absurdly, "what great improvement he could suggest?" Brentano fell into a profound meditation, and after some time replied, looking earnestly at the attentive and expecting Count, "What think you, Count, of making some hills of boards and painting them blue?" Improvements in this taste, though perhaps not quite so absurd and palpable, are still daily perpetrated in our beloved fatherland, in spite even of the Berlin Horticultural Society. Dearest Julia, will you drive with me to Plâs Newydd, Lord Anglesea's park in Anglesea? The horses of fancy are soon harnessed. We repass the giant bridge, follow the high-road to Ireland for a short time, and soon see from afar the summit of the pillar which a grateful country has raised to General Paget, then Lord Uxbridge, and now Marquis of Anglesea, in memory of the leg which he left on the field of Waterloo. About a mile and a half further on, we arrive at the gate of Plâs Newydd. The most remarkable things here are the cromlechs, whose precise destination is unknown; they are generally believed to be druidical burial places. They are huge stones, commonly three or four in number, forming a sort of rude gateway. Some are of such enormous size that it is inexplicable how they could be brought to such elevated situations without the most mechanical aid. It is, however, difficult to say what is possible to human strength, excited by unfettered will or by religious fanaticism. I remember reading that a captain of a ship coasting along the shore of Japan, saw two junks of the largest size, that is, nearly as big as frigates, carried by thousands of men across a chain of hills. The cromlechs of Anglesea, which are not of the largest class, have probably suggested the thought of building a druidical cottage in an appropriate spot, commanding a beautiful view of Snowdon. It is, however, a strange heterogeneous chaos of ancient and modern things. In the small dark rooms light is very prettily introduced, by means of looking-glass doors, which answer the double purpose of reflecting the most beautiful bits of the landscape like framed pictures. In the window stood a large sort of show-box, a camera-obscura, and a kaleidescope of a new kind--not filled like the old one, but exhibiting under countless changes any object beheld through it. Flowers especially produce a most extraordinary effect, by the constantly varying brilliancy of their colours. If you wish for one I will send it you from London: it costs eight guineas. The house and grounds contain nothing remarkable, and are seldom inhabited by the proprietor, whose principal residence is in England. _July 23rd._ To-day I received, with great delight, a long letter from you * * * * * * I am very glad that you are not offended at L----'s jest, and that you do not, like Herr von Frömmel,[116] consider him an impious wretch. You must see, in the first place, that he aims his wit only at the servile credulity of those men who convert the Unutterable, the Being of all Beings,--who is ever present to us in a deep and dim consciousness, but whom we can never comprehend,--into a strange compound of tyrant, pedagogue, and attendant spirit: who think themselves constantly guided by him in leading-strings, and regard all they see and hear, or whatever happens to them, as an interposition of God, and regarding their own littleness alone. If, for instance, they fall into the water, or if they win a prize in the lottery, they see the finger of God incontestably in that incident; if they escape any danger, they pour out the most vehement thanks to God, as if some strange power had sent the danger, and God, like a careful and prompt guardian, had flown to their succour and deliverance. They might reflect, that whence the deliverance comes, thence comes also the danger; whence the pleasure, the pain; whence life, death. The whole is one scheme of existence, bestowed and governed not according to momentary caprice, but to immutable laws. Such petty views as those he satirizes, bring down the idea of Omnipotence to our own mutability and frailty. Our thanks, be they even speechless, are due to Eternal Love, for all that is; and perhaps no prayer offered by man can be more worthy of the Deity, than that mute and rapturous feeling of gratitude. But it is childish to be ever ascribing to the intervention of Omnipotence common-place and _external_ individual occurrences; such as lucky and unlucky accidents, riches, poverty, death, and the like, which are subjected to the laws of nature; or (according to the measure of our powers) to our own control. Such an intervention on the behalf of our beloved selves, would be no less strange and ill-adapted, with a view to our instruction and improvement, than experience proves it to be useless. His satire is also directed against Christians--who are no Christians--and are neither so-called Atheists (almost always a senseless denomination), nor yet genuine sincere fanatics; but that odious race of modern pietists, who are either feeble creatures with irritable nerves, or hypocrites of the most impious sort, and further removed from the elevated purity of Christ than the Dalai Lama. These are the true Pharisees and dealers in the temple, whom Christ would cast out were he now on earth. These are they who, were he now to appear, under a new and obscure name, would be the first to cry out, 'Crucify him!'[117] In the main I confess I agree with L----; though, with regard to the subject of the 'Reflections,' every opinion can be but hypothetical, and in truth, what relates to another state of existence must, of necessity, be totally different from all that we have the capacity of understanding in this. Had we been able to know it, or had it been designed that we should do so, the Author of our nature would have rendered it as clear, as obvious to us, as it is that we feel, or think, or exist. What is needful, is revealed to us _inwardly_; and this has been declared from all time, in words more or less plain and significant, by the great spirits whom He has sent on earth. That the human race is not destined to stand still like a machine devoid of will, or to revolve in one perpetual circle,--but, on the contrary, continually to advance, till it has ended its cycle of existence, and attained the highest perfection of which it is capable, I never for an instant doubt. But my hypothesis is this;--that our earth, like a vessel loosened from her moorings, is left, under the protection and coercion of the immutable laws of nature, to the management of her own crew. We ourselves, thenceforth, are the framers of our own destiny, (insofar as it depends on human operation, and not on those immutable laws,) and of our own history, whether great or small, by our own moral strength or weakness. It is not, in my opinion, necessary to suppose the extraordinary and special interposition of any power who causes a hard winter in Russia for the special overthrow of Napoleon;--Napoleon rather is overthrown by the vicious principle which guides him; and which, in the long run, must inevitably wreck him upon some such external and immediate cause or other. The physical incident happens, _with reference to him_, only accidentally; with reference to itself, doubtless, in that necessary series of laws to which it is subject, although these laws are unknown to us. On the same grounds, Providence will generally favour the virtuous, the industrious, the frugal, the prudent, and grant many or most of their desires; while the foolish and the wicked, who set themselves in opposition and hostility to the world, are not ordinarily so successful or so happy. If a man lets his hand lie in the ice, it is probable that Providence will ordain it to be frozen; or if he holds it in the fire, to be burnt. Those who go to sea, Providence will sometimes permit to be drowned; those, on the other hand, who never quit dry ground, Providence will hardly suffer to perish in the sea. It is therefore justly said, "Help yourself, and Heaven will help you." The truth is, that God _has_ helped us from the beginning: the work of the master is completed; and, as far as it was intended to be so, perfect: it requires, therefore, no further extraordinary aids and corrections from above; its further development and improvement in this world is placed in our own hands. We may be good or bad, wise or foolish, not always perhaps in the degree which we, as _individuals_, might choose, were our wills perfectly free, but so far as the state of the human race immediately preceding us has formed us to decide. Virtue and vice, wisdom and folly, are indeed words which receive their meaning solely from human society, and apart from that would have no signification. The ideas of the good and the wicked are excited solely by the effect of our actions upon others; for a man who never saw a fellow-man can act neither well nor ill,--nay, can scarcely feel or think, well or ill: he possesses, indeed, all the requisite capacities which form the groundwork of his higher moral and intellectual nature; but it is only by means of creatures of a like nature, that these capacities can be brought into activity; as fire can only exist, or become sensible, when combustible materials are present. The ideas of prudent and imprudent arise indeed earlier, and with reference to the individual alone; for a single man in conflict with inanimate nature may either injure himself foolishly, or employ the materials given him with prudence and skill; and may have a full perception of these qualities or modes of action in himself. To be good, therefore, in every point of view, means nothing but to love other men, and to submit to the laws and rules imposed by society: to be wicked, to rebel against those laws, to disregard the weal of others, and in our conduct to have only our own momentary gratification in view. To be prudent, on the other hand, is only to have the power of perceiving and securing our own advantage by the best and aptest means: to be imprudent, to neglect these means, or to form a false estimate concerning them. It is evident also that good and prudent--wicked and imprudent--are in the highest sense nearly synonymous: for a man who is good, will, in the common order of events, please his fellow-men, consequently will be beloved by them, and consequently will be found to be prudent,--that is, to have secured his own greatest happiness and advantage: while the bad man, engaged in an interminable conflict, must at length have the worst, and consequently suffer loss and injury. But when once the moral sense has received its last development and highest culture, the virtuous man, though insulated, frames laws to himself, which he follows, unheeding of advantage, danger, or the opinion of others. The bases of these laws will, however, always be what I have described;--consideration of the well-being of his fellow-men, and of the duty thence deduced, which follows as a consequence of the way he has traced out to himself. But when this point is reached, the inward consciousness of having fulfilled this duty, gives the moral man purer and higher satisfaction than the possession of all earthly enjoyments could confer upon him. It is therefore permanently, and in both views of the subject, true, that it is the highest prudence to be virtuous, the greatest folly to be wicked. But here, indeed, from the busy and complicated nature of human life, arise many and varied shades and distinctions. It is very easy, even with great prudence, where the earthly and external is concerned, to seize upon appearance instead of reality. It is possible for one man to deceive others, and to make them believe that he does them good, that he deserves their respect and their thanks, when he only uses them as instruments of his own advantage, and does them the bitterest injury. Folly too often produces the opposite effect, and imputes to others wicked designs and bad motives, where the very contrary have place. Hence arises the maxim,--painful indeed! but too firmly based on universal experience,--that in worldly connections and affairs, folly and imprudence are productive of more certain disadvantage to the individual than vice and wickedness. The external consequences of the latter may be kept off, perhaps entirely prevented, by prudence; but nothing can ward off the consequences of folly, which is perpetually working against itself. The want, and the existence, of positive religions are mainly attributable to the general persuasion of this truth, and of the consequent insufficiency of penal laws of human institution. Hence arises the doctrine of future rewards and punishments, awarded by an All-seeing Power, against whose eye the precautions of prudence are vain, and from whom the imprudent expects pity and compensation: for truly he who has combined prudence and virtue needs no further recompense,--he finds it rich and overflowing in himself. Who would not, without a moment's hesitation, give everything in the world to enjoy the blessedness of being perfectly good? A time may perhaps come, when all church and state religions may be buried and forgotten; but Poetry and Love, whose flower is true religion, whose fruit Virtue, must forever rule the human heart in their holy Tri-unity,--the adoration of God as the source of all existence, the admiration of nature as his high work, and love to men as our brethren. And this is the true doctrine of Christ,--by none more purely, touchingly, simple, and deeply expressed, although its forms and premises are adapted to the times in which he lived. And therefore is he become the seed from which the fruit of after-times shall arise; the true Mediator, whose doctrine, as we must hope, will, in time, become Christianity in deed and in truth, and not in words alone. * * * [Here occurs a chasm in the letters, which begin again on the 28th.] _Capel Cerig, July 28th, late in the evening._ As the weather cleared up, and the friends whom I expected did not arrive, I hastened to take advantage of the first ray of sun to penetrate deeper amid the mountains; and set off about seven in the evening, in an Irish car drawn by one horse, for Capel Cerig. I left my servant, and took only a light travelling-bag containing a little linen and a change of clothes.--This carriage consists of an open box, standing on two wheels, resting on four horizontal springs, and containing two opposite benches, on which four persons can commodiously sit. You ascend from behind, as the door is between the wheels;--the whole is very light and convenient. The moment was unusually propitious;--nearly a week of rain had so swollen all the waterfalls, brooks, and rivers, that they appeared in their fullest beauty; trees and grass were clothed in their softest green, and the air was transparent and pure as crystal. I admired the rich masses of gay mountain flowers and heaths which grew luxuriantly in the clefts of the rocks, and regretted that I did not know enough of botany to enjoy them with more than my eye. I soon reached that sterner region in which flowers are rarely seen, and trees never. I alighted at the waterfall of Idwal to visit a little lake, which might serve as the entrance to Hades. The dreary and wild aspect of the deep mountain enclosure is really awful. I had read that it was possible to reach Capel Cerig from hence, going in a straight line over Trivaen (the mountain with basaltic columns, of which I have spoken) and the surrounding rocks. The passage was represented as very difficult, but surpassingly beautiful. At this moment I saw a shepherd descending from the mountain, and I felt the strongest inclination to attempt the expedition with the guide which chance thus so opportunely threw in my way. I got the postilion to act as interpreter of my wishes. The man thought it was too late, and that the descent on the other side by night would be hazardous. On my pressing him further, he said, however, that there would be a moon, and that if I could follow him at a brisk rate, he thought we might manage to cross the mountain in two hours,--but that there were some very awkward places to pass. I had tried my strength too well on Snowdon to shrink from the enterprise; I therefore closed the bargain, only taking the precaution to order the driver to wait for me an hour, lest any unforeseen difficulties should cause me to return, and then to drive back to Capel Cerig. The path along which we had to climb was from the outset very steep, and lay over a boggy soil between enormous detached masses of rock strewed in wild disorder. It might be about half past seven o'clock:--there was no trace of any beaten path; Trivaen reared its grotesque peak like an embattled wall before us, nor was it easy to discover how we were to cross it. The mountain sheep here rendered us good service; they climbed before us, and showed the often uncertain guide the most practicable places. After a quarter of an hour of very wearisome climbing, with many a giddy glance into the chasms beneath, to which, however, the eye became gradually familiarized, we came to a little swampy 'plateau' through which we were obliged to wade knee-deep in a bog. Here we had a beautiful view of the sea, the Isle of Man, and Ireland dimly appearing in the distance. Immediately above the bog a completely different sort of ground awaited us; a wall of perpendicular and compact sharp and ragged rocks, over which we scrambled on hands and feet. The sun had already sunk behind a high mountain sideward of us, and reddened the whole wild scenery around, as well as the wall on which we hung, with a dark and fiery glow--one of the strangest effects of sunlight I ever beheld. It was like a theatrical representation of Hell. Our way now lay across a swollen mountain-stream, over which a fallen block of stone had formed a natural bridge; and then over bare rocks wholly unmixed with earth, till at length we reached the high crest which had so long stood right before us, and at which I expected an end of all our difficulties. I was therefore not a little disappointed when I saw another defile before me, which we must first descend and then climb up the opposite side, for no human foot could have found a sure hold on the semicircular edge of the crest, across which lay a shorter road. We had now entirely lost sight of the sea; our view lay landward, where the mountain region of Wales lay before us in its whole breadth; peak above peak, solitary, silent, and mighty. The sterile valley beneath us was filled with giant stones hurled about in wild disorder; and truly the game which was here played, with rocks for balls, must have been a spectacle for Gods. While I stood lost in contemplation of this chaos, I heard a shrill reiterated cry close to me, and looking up saw two majestic eagles soaring over our heads with outstretched wings--a rarity in these mountains. Welcome faithful birds[118] of my house, exclaimed I,--here, where there are only hard rocks, but no false hearts; are you come to carry me, like the Roc bird, into some valley of diamonds? or do you bring me tidings from my far distant home? The noble creatures seemed as if they answered me by their cries; but unfortunately I am not skilled in the language of birds: and they left me, wheeling higher, till they disappeared among the columns of Trivaen. I look upon the repeated attentions paid me by birds of prey as a good omen. It was extremely inconvenient that I could no more speak with my guide than with the eagles, for he understood not a word of English. We could therefore only converse by signs. After we had for some time descended with comparative ease, he pointed to a place to which we must now turn our steps:--we had arrived at the 'bad passage.' This consisted of a perfectly perpendicular wall, certainly not less than six hundred feet in depth; and above it a scarcely less steep ascent of earth, washed over by the rain, and strewed with small loose stones. Across this we were to make our way--a distance of fifteen hundred paces. Formerly, I should have regarded this undertaking as impracticable; but being urged by necessity, after the first few steps I found it quite easy. It certainly looked most terrific, but the numerous stones and the moist soft earth afforded a firmer footing than might have been expected: indeed these things, even in an unexaggerated description, always sound more perilous than they are. It is very true that one false step would cause inevitable destruction; but this is exactly what one takes good care not to set: so a man must be drowned in the water, if he leaves off swimming. Any body who can walk, and has a steady head, may perform such exploits without the slightest danger. Twilight now began to close in; the mountains became dim and indistinct; under us lay, like steaming cauldrons, the misty lakes of Capel Cerig and Beddgelert. We had reached the highest point, and hastened as much as possible to reach the former lake. We waded through another bog, and scrambled down over rocks, till we came to the part of our way which looked the least difficult, but was in fact the most fatiguing;--a firm and smooth hill covered with turf, very steep, and with a substratum of rock which in many parts presented itself at the surface in broad smooth shelves. Down this declivity we rather slid than walked; and the effort was at length followed by such pain in the knees, that both the guide and I fell several times, though without sustaining any hurt. The lofty mountains around us had hitherto concealed the moon, which now arose large and bloody-red above their wavy line. We soon lost her again. Near our journey's end she once more rose upon us, golden, clear, and small, mirrored in the still waters of the lake, on whose shores the inn stood. The last part of the way lay along a level high-road, and offered such a contrast to what had preceded it, that I felt as if I could have walked along it sleeping. It was as if my steps were not the result of any act of the will, but rather of some mechanical power; like children's toys, which when wound up run round and round the table without stopping. We completed our expedition in an hour and three quarters; and proud of my achievement, I entered Capel Cerig, where my host would hardly believe we had accomplished the distance by night in so short a time.--I had lived such an indolent, effeminate life for some years, that I fancied myself grown almost old; but to-day's experience proved, to my great joy, that I want nothing but stimulus and opportunity, to recover all the freshness and vigour of my bodily and mental powers;--danger and difficulty had always been my most kindred element when fate threw them in my way. My driver had not yet returned with the carriage, and I was obliged to equip myself in the clothes of my portly host, in which I now doubtless cut a very extraordinary figure; while my own are drying at the kitchen-fire; and I am alternately occupied in writing to you, and in drinking tea. To-morrow morning I shall leave my pillow at four o'clock,--guess in search of what;--the rock of the enchanter Merlin, where he prophesied to king Vortigern the history of coming times, and where his wondrous treasures, the golden throne and diamond sword, still lie buried in its hidden caves. Here is a new and most safe object of speculation to the mining companies of London and Elberfield. _Beddgelert, July 29th, early._ Admire Merlin's vale with me, dearest Julia. It is indeed enchanting; but its rocks--Dinas Emrys, I shall long remember. But let me begin at the beginning. I went to bed at one, rose again punctually at four, and in ten minutes was ready to start: for as soon as you bid adieu to servants and luxuries, everything goes at an easier and quicker pace. The fine weather had given place to the usual mists of these mountains; and I was glad to avail myself of my mountain walking-stick of yesterday in its other capacity of umbrella, as well as of that venerable cloak, the honoured relic of my warlike services against France, which I was once forced to throw out of a balloon, together with all other ballast, to avoid ending my aerial excursion in the water. At first the road was dull and uninteresting enough, till we came to the foot of Snowdon, which reared its uncovered head majestically above the clouds, by which we were encircled and bedewed. Its aspect is peculiarly grand and sublime from this point. It rises in nearly perpendicular height from the vale of Gwynant, which commences here. This richly watered valley unites the most luxuriant vegetation with the sublimest views. The loftiest mountains of Wales are grouped around it in manifold forms and colours. The river which flows through it forms, in its course, two lakes, not broad but deep, the valley being narrow throughout, a circumstance which greatly contributes to enhance the colossal air of the mountains which enclose it. In the richest part of it a merchant of Chester has a park, which he justly calls Elysium. On a high and thickly wooded ridge, out of whose deep verdure rocks which rival each other in wildness of form break forth, overlooking the mountain river which flows through a beautiful stretch of meadows, stands the unpretending and lovely villa. Below lies the lake, behind which stands Merlin's solitary rock, apparently closing the valley, which here makes an abrupt turn. Dinas Emrys is doubly impressed on my memory: first, for its romantic beauty; secondly, because on it I literally hung between life and death. Although not above four or five hundred feet high, it is considered accessible only on one side. I had taken a little boy with me as guide, but when we reached the spot he seemed to know very little about the matter. The way which he took through an oak copse appeared to me from the first suspicious, from its uncommon steepness; but he tranquillized my fears in broken English, and I could do nothing but follow the little fellow, (who sprang before me like a chamois,) as well as I could. Merlin appeared to frown upon us: a violent wind had arisen, and the sun, which had shone upon us for a moment, imbedded himself behind black clouds; while the long wet grass which hung over the blocks of stone made climbing very dangerous. This did not much impede the barefooted little boy, but was a serious obstacle to my limbs, somewhat stiff from my yesterday's exploits. The higher we went, the steeper the rocks became; often we were obliged to swing ourselves up by the help of the shrubs which grew out of the clefts, avoiding as well as we could to look behind us. At length I observed that the boy himself was quite irresolute, and creeping on his belly looked anxiously around. We now wriggled right and left through some clefts, and suddenly found ourselves standing on the peak of a smooth and lofty wall, with scarcely room to set our feet, and above us a similar wall, out of which grew some tufts of grass. The summit of this appeared to overtop the whole. The prospect was not encouraging: the child began to cry, and I considered not without some uneasy feelings what was to be done. Willingly, I confess, should I have climbed down again, and left Merlin's rock to witches and gnomes, if I had thought it possible to descend without dizziness, or indeed to find the way by which we had ascended. Before us there lay no chance of escape but by scaling the wall as we best might. The boy, as the lightest and most practised, went first; I followed him step by step, holding by the slight support of tufts of grass, clinging with hand and foot in every little cleft; and thus hanging between heaven and earth we reached the giddy summit in safety. I was quite exhausted. A more daring climber may laugh at me; but I honestly confess to you, that when a tuft of grass or root seemed unsteady, and threatened to give way before I had raised myself up by it, I felt what terror is. As I lay now panting with fatigue and fright on the turf, I saw a large black lizard couched just opposite to me, who appeared to look at me with scornful, malicious eyes, as if he were the enchanter himself in disguise. I was however glad to see him, and in high good humour at having got out of the scrape so cheaply; though I thought fit to threaten the little imp, who like a mischievous gnome had enticed me into such perils, with all sorts of terrible punishments, if he did not make out the right way back. In his absence I examined the remains of the area, as it is here called,--the ruined walls, where "Prophetic Merlin sat, when to the British king The changes long to come auspiciously he told." I grubbed among the stones, I crept into the fallen caverns--but from me, as from others, the treasures remained hidden;--the moment has not yet arrived. As a compensation, the boy reappeared jumping gaily along, and boasting of the beauty of the way, which he had at length found. If it was not quite so smooth and easy as that of sin, it was at least not like the last, inaccessible. Merlin's displeasure, however, pursued us in the shape of torrents of rain, which obliged me again to send my clothes to the kitchen fire, at which I am reposing. The inn, completely shaded by high trees, is most delightful. Just before my window is a fresh-mown meadow, behind which a huge mountain rears itself, covered from top to bottom with deep purple heather, glowing like the morning sky, in spite of the sheets of rain and of the clouded heavens. While my dinner was preparing, (for I dine like Suwarroff at eight o'clock in the morning), a harper, the humble relic of Welsh bards, played on his curious and primitive instrument. He is blind, and so is his dog, who stands behind him on his hind legs, waiting with unwearied patience, till one bestows a piece of money on his master, and of bread on himself. _Beddgelert_ means "Gelert's grave," _bed_ and _grave_ being poetically expressed in Welsh by the same word. Gelert was no other than a greyhound, whose history is, however, so touching, that as soon as my 'déjeuné dinatoire' is removed, I will tell it you. _Caernarvon, July 30th._ I had kept the harper playing during the whole time of dinner at Beddgelert, and had amused myself, like a child, with his dog, with whom it had become so much a second nature to stand on two legs, that he would have been a better representative of man than Plato's plucked fowl. The perfect ease of his attitude, together with his serious countenance, had something so whimsical, that one had only to imagine him in a petticoat, with a snuff-box in his paw, to take him for a blind old lady. In the same proportion as this dog resembles the heroic Gelert, do the modern Welsh seem to resemble their ancestors. Without the energy or activity of the English, still less animated by the fire of the Irish, they vegetate, poor and obscure, between both. They have, however, retained the simplicity of mountaineers, and they are neither so rude and boorish, nor do they cheat so impudently, as the Swiss. 'Point d'argent, point de Suisse' is not yet applicable here. On the contrary, living is so cheap that bankrupt Englishmen often retire hither: I am assured that a man may have good board and lodging, the use of a poney, and leave to shoot, for fifty guineas a year. The environs of Beddgelert are the last continuation of the magnificent valley which I have described to you. It was now alive with a hundred waterfalls, which dashed foaming and white as milk from every chasm and gorge. About a mile and a half in the rear of the village the rocks stand so near together that there is scarce room for road and river to run side by side. Here rises the Devil's bridge, and closes the valley, or rather the defile. You now again approach the sea, and the country assumes a gayer character. In two hours I reached the great resort of tourists, Tan y Bwlch, whose chief attraction is a beautiful park extending over two rocky mountains overgrown with lofty wood, between which gushes a mountain stream forming numerous cascades. The walks are admirably cut, leading, through the best chosen gradations and changes, to the various points of view; from which you catch now an island in the sea, now a precipice, with a foaming waterfall, now a distant peak, or solitary group of rock under the night of primeval oaks. I wandered for above an hour along these walks; but was greatly surprised to see them in so neglected a state, that in most places I had to wade through the deep grass, and to toil through the rank and overgrown vegetation. Even the house seemed in decay. I afterwards learned that the proprietor had lost his fortune at play in London. As I feared I should spend too much time here, I gave up my visit to Festiniog and its celebrated waterfall, hired an airy 'Sociable' (a sort of light four-seated 'calêche' without a roof) from my host, and set out for Tremadoc, distant about ten miles. I was richly rewarded, although the road is the very worst I have yet met with in Great Britain; for some miles it runs _in_ the sea, that is to say, through a part of it which Mr. Maddox, a rich land owner here, has cut off by a monstrous dam; he has thus redeemed from the ocean a tract of fertile land equal in extent to a _rittergut_ (a knight's fee). From this dam, twenty feet high and two miles long, you command the most magnificent views: the drained land forms a nearly regular semicircle, whose walls appear to be formed by the whole amphitheatre of the mountains. Here the art of man has drawn aside the veil from the bottom of the deep; and instead of the ship, the plough now tracks the broad expanse. But on the left, the ocean still hides all the secrets of "the fathomless profound" under his liquid mountains. The line of coast is terminated at no great distance by a bold headland, on which the ruins of Harlech Castle, with its five mouldering towers, overhang the waves. In front, at the end of the dam, a quiet cheerful valley opens before you, cradled amid lofty mountains, with a small but busy harbour, near which Tremadoc seems to grow out of the rock. In spite of all this, you, my Julia, would hardly bring yourself to ride across this dam, which is indeed better fitted for foot-passengers. It is, as I have already said, twenty feet high, and consists of rude, angular, and jagged blocks of stone, heaped on one another. The road at the top is only four ells wide, without any thing like a railing. On one side the breakers dash furiously against it; and if your horses shyed at them, you would infallibly be thrown on the points of rocks which bristle like pikes on the other. The mountain horses alone can cross such a road with safety, as they seem to estimate the danger and to be familiar with it: nevertheless a carriage is seldom seen here. Wagons of stone cross the dam on a railroad, which makes it still worse for all other vehicles. Tremadoc itself stands on land formerly redeemed by a similar process. The resemblance which this land, reclaimed some centuries since, has to the sandy banks of northern Germany, which were gained from the sea perhaps a thousand years ago, is very striking: the little town itself and its inhabitants--as if like soil produced like character of people--as completely resembled the melancholy villages of that country. It is dreary, neglected, and dirty; the men ill-clad; the inn not better than a Silesian one, nor less filthy; and, that nothing might be wanting, the post-horses out at field, so that I had to wait an hour and a half for them. When they appeared, their condition, the wretched state of their tackle, and the dress of the postilion, were all perfectly true to their model. This applies only to the part redeemed from the sea: as soon as you have gone four or five miles further, and reached the surrounding heights, the country changes to the fruitful and the beautiful. It had, indeed, lost its wild and gigantic character; but after so long a stay among the rocks, this change refreshed me, especially as the most brilliant and lovely evening shone over the landscape. The sun gleamed so brightly on the emerald meadows, woody hills lay so peacefully as if at rest around the crystal stream, and scattered cottages hung so temptingly on their shady sides, that I felt as if I could have staid there forever. I had dismounted from the carriage; and throwing myself on the soft moss under a large nut-tree, I gave myself up with delight to my dreams. The evening light glittered like sparks through the thick-leaved branches, and a hundred gay insects sported in its ruddy light; while the gentle wind sighed in its topmost boughs, in melodies which are understood and felt by the initiated. The carriage arrived. Once more I cast a longing glance on the dark blue sea; once more I drank in the fragrance of the mountain flowers, and the horses bore the loiterer quickly to the plains. From this point the romantic wholly ceases; I rode along a well-tilled country till the towers of Caernarvon castle rose in the twilight above the trees.--Here I intend to rest some days, having performed seventy-four English miles to-day, partly on foot, between four in the morning and ten at night. _August 1st._ This morning I received letters from you, which make me melancholy.--Yes, indeed, you are right; it was a hard destiny which troubled the calmest and cheerfullest happiness, the most perfect mutual understanding, and tore asunder the best suited minds (both too in the full enjoyment of their respective tastes and pursuits), as a storm troubles and tears up the peaceful sea. At one time, indeed, this was well-nigh destruction to both; condemning the one to restless wandering, the other to comfortless solitude; both to grief, anxiety, and vain longings. But was not this storm necessary for the dwellers on the deep? would not, perhaps, the stagnant and motionless air have been yet more destructive to them? Let us not therefore give way to excessive grief: let us never regret the past, which is always vain; let us only stretch forward to what is better, and even in the worst exigencies let us be true to ourselves. How often are the evils created by our own imaginations the hardest to bear! What burning pains are caused by wounded vanity! what agonizing shame by notions of false honour! I am not much the better for perceiving this, and am often tempted to wish for Falstaff's philosophy. Nature has however endowed me with one precious gift, which I would most gladly share with you. In every situation, I promptly, and as it were by instinct, discover the good side of things and enjoy it, be it what it may, with a freshness of feeling, a childlike Christmas-day delight in trifles, which I am convinced will never grow old in me. And in what situation does not the good, in the long run, outweigh the evil?--this persuasion is the ground-work of my piety. The gifts of God are infinite; and we might almost say we are inexcusable if we are not happy. How often indeed we have it in our power to be so, every one may see, who looks back at his past life;--he cannot escape the conviction that he might easily have turned almost every evil to good. As I have long ago and often said to you, We are the makers of our own destiny. It is true, however, that ourselves we have _not_ made, and therein lies a wide unknown Past, concerning which we perplex our spirits in vain: our speculations can lead to no practical end. Let every one only do his utmost to be of good courage, and to regard the outward things of this world, without exception, as of light moment,--for the things of this world are really light and unimportant, in good as in evil. There is no better weapon against unhappiness; only we must not on that account cross our hands, and do nothing. Your womanish fault, my dear Julia, is, in evil times to abandon yourself to Heaven and its assistance, as 'Deus ex machinâ,' with a feeble and helpless sort of piety. For if this assistance fails us, our ruin is then certain and inevitable. Both, pious hope and energetic action, consist perfectly well together, and indeed mutually aid each other. No man can doubt that the former greatly lightens the latter: for if that sort of piety which is common in the world,--that confident expectation of earthly and peculiar protection from above, that supplication for good and against evil,--is merely a self-delusion, still it is a beneficent one, and perhaps grounded in our very nature, subject as we are to so many illusions, which, when they take fast hold on our minds, become to us individual truth. It appears that our nature has the power of creating to itself a factitious reality, as a sort of auxiliary support, where reality itself is unattainable. Thus a pious confidence in special interpositions, though but a form of superstition, gives courage. A man who goes into battle with a talisman which he believes renders him invulnerable, will see bullets rain around him with indifference. But still more powerful and exalting is the enthusiasm excited by ideas which place us above the external world; thus religious fanatics have frequently been seen animated by a spirit which enabled them to brave the most horrible bodily tortures with truly miraculous power:--thus do the afflicted and oppressed create to themselves blissful hopes of a future state of felicity, which indemnify them even here. All these are effects of the potent instinct of self-preservation in its widest sense,--which brings the abovenamed power of our nature into operation wherever it is needed. Hence, lastly, in feeble characters, those death-bed conversions, useless indeed in themselves, but tranquillizing. Every being must pay his tribute to this want in one form or other: every one creates to himself his earthly god; and thus is the descent of God to us under human attributes ever repeated. The conception of the all-loving Father is certainly the noblest and most beautiful of these images, nor can the human imagination rise higher. And it must be conceded, that the mere idea of the Highest Principle of all things, exalted, sublimated, and I might almost say, evaporated, to the Incomprehensible, the Unutterable, no longer warms the human heart, conscious of its own weakness, with the same fervent emotion. It often appears to me that all which is fashioned by nature or by man, may be reduced to two primary elements, Love and Fear, which might be called the Divine and the Earthly principles. All thoughts, feelings, passions and actions arise from these: either from one, or from a mixture of the two. Love is the divine cause of all things;--Fear seems to be their earthly preserver. The words, 'Ye shall love God and fear him,' must be so interpreted, or they have no meaning; for absolute and unmixed love _cannot_ fear, because it is the absence of all self-regarding thoughts and feelings; and indeed, if it truly inspired us, would make us one with God and the universe; and we _have_ moments in which we feel this. When I use this notion as a standard or measure by which to try all human actions, I find it constantly confirmed. Love fertilizes,--fear preserves and destroys. In all nature, too, I see the principle of self-preservation or fear, (it is one and the same,) in what we call, according to our system of morals, crime or wickedness; that is, founded on the annihilation of another's individuality. One race lives by the destruction of another; life is fed by death, to all eternity of reproduction and reappearance, which, precisely by this kind of unity, continues in perpetual change. It is also worthy of note, that this fear, although so indispensably necessary to all of us for our earthly support and preservation, is even here so little esteemed by our diviner part, that scarcely any possible crime is covered with such deep contempt as cowardice. On the other hand, nothing so effectually conquers fear, as a great and lofty idea springing from the dominion of love. A man inspired by such a feeling, even hurries along others with him; and whole nations devote themselves under its influence, although nothing earthly can remain pure from all admixture of the baser principle. Fear has reference to the future in time and space: Love, to the present, eternally; and knows neither time nor space. Love is endless and blessed--Fear dies an eternal death. _K---- Park, August 2nd._ On my return to Bangor, I made acquaintance with the possessor of ---- Castle, (the black Saxon castle which I described to you,) a man to whom I am strongly attracted by our common building mania. It is now seven years since the castle was begun, in which time 20,000_l._ have been spent upon it; and it will probably take four years more to complete it. During all this time, this wealthy man lives with his family in a humble hired cottage in the neighbourhood, with a small establishment; he feasts once a week on the sight of his fairy castle, which, after the long continuance of such simple habits, he will probably never bring himself to inhabit. It appeared to give him great pleasure to show and explain everything to me; and I experienced no less from his enthusiasm, which was agreeable and becoming in a man otherwise cold. In compliance with an invitation which I had received in London, and which had since been pressingly renewed, I came hither yesterday morning. My road lay at first through fertile fields, between the lake and the foot of the mountains; sometimes crossed by a sudden defile or glen, and by rapid brooks hurrying to the sea. On Penman Mawr, the road, which is blasted in the rock, contracts into a narrow and fearful pass, the left side of which overhangs the sea at a perpendicular height of five hundred feet. A most necessary parapet wall guards carriages. I sat on the imperial, a place which I frequently take in fine weather, and enjoyed the wide sea-view in full freedom: the wind meanwhile sighed and whistled in every variety of tone, and I with difficulty kept my cloak about me. In an hour I reached Conway, whose site is most beautiful. Here stands the largest of those strong castles which Edward built, and Cromwell demolished. It is likewise the most remarkable for the picturesque beauty both of its position and structure. The outer walls, though ruinous, are still standing, with all their towers, to the number, it is said, of fifty-two. The whole town, a strange, but not unpicturesque mixture of old and new, is contained within the enclosure of these walls. A chain-bridge, with pillars in the form of Gothic towers, has lately been thrown over the river Conway, on whose banks the castle stands: it increases the grandeur and strangeness of the scene. The surrounding country is magnificent: woody hills rise opposite to the ruins, and behind them appears a yet higher range. Numerous country-houses adorn the sides of the hills; among others a most lovely villa, which is for sale, and bears the seducing name of 'Contentment.' In the castle, the imposing remains of the banqueting-hall, with its two enormous fire-places are still visible, as is also the king's chamber. In the queen's closet there is an altar of beautiful workmanship, in tolerably good preservation, and a splendid oriel window. The town also contains very remarkable old buildings, with strange fantastic devices in wood. One of these houses was built, as a tombstone in the church testifies, in the fourteenth century, by a man named Hooke, the forty-first son of his father--a rare instance in Christendom. A large child in swaddling-clothes, carried by a stork, was carved in oak, and occurred in various parts of the building. Conway is a laudable place in a gastronomic point of view: it abounds with a fish, the firm yet tender flesh of which is delicious. Its name is Place,[119] as who should say, Place for me, who am the worthiest! And truly I shall always be glad to give him the place of honour at my table. I quitted Conway early, driving across the chain-bridge, which serves as a most noble 'point d'appui' to the ruined castle. The monstrous chains lose themselves so romantically in the solid rock-like towers, that one would scarcely be reminded of their newness, if there were not unluckily a tollhouse on the other side, built exactly in the form of a diminutive castle, and looking like a harlequin apeing the other. The nearer you approach to St. Asaph, the softer the character of the country becomes. In a semicircular bay, which the eye can scarcely traverse, the tranquil sea washes fruitful fields and meadows, richly studded with towns and villages. All the country gentlemen seem lovers of the Gothic style of architecture. The taste is carried so far, that even an inn by the road-side was provided with portcullis, loopholes and battlements, though there was no garrison to defend it, except geese and hens. Don Quixote might have been excused here; and the host would not do amiss to hang out the knight of the sorrowful countenance, with couched lance and brazen helmet, as his sign. At some distance I saw what appeared to be a ridge of hills crowned with a Gothic castle:--it had such a striking aspect that I was duped into dismounting and climbing the toilsome ascent. It was at once ridiculous and vexatious to find that the kernel of the jest was only a small and insignificant house, and that which had attracted me were mere walls, which, built on the summits and declivities of the mountain, represented towers, roofs, and large battlements, half hidden in wood; but served, in fact, only to enclose a kitchen and fruit garden. A lucky dog, a shopkeeper, who had suddenly become rich, had built this harmless fortress, as I was told, in two years--a perfect satire on the ruling taste. Towards evening I arrived at the house of my worthy Colonel, a true Englishman, in the best sense of the word. He and his amiable family received me in the friendliest manner. Country gentlemen of his class, who are in easy circumstances (with us they would be thought rich,) and fill a respectable station in society; who are not eager and anxious pursuers of fashion in London, but seek to win the affection of their neighbours and tenants; whose hospitality is not mere ostentation; whose manners are neither 'exclusive' nor outlandish; but who find their dignity in a domestic life polished by education and adorned by affluence, and in the observance of the strictest integrity;--such form the most truly respectable class of Englishmen. In the great world of London, indeed, they play an obscure part; but on the wide stage of humanity, one of the most noble and elevated that can be allotted to man. Unfortunately, however, the predominance and the arrogance of the English aristocracy is so great, and that of fashion yet so much more absolute and tyrannous, that such families, if my tribute of praise and admiration were ever to fall under their eye, would probably feel less flattered by it, than they would be if I enumerated them among the leaders of 'ton.' To what a pitch this weakness reaches, even amongst the worthiest people in this country, is not to be believed without actual observation and experience;--without seeing all classes of society affected by it in a most ludicrous manner.--But I have written you enough on this subject from the 'foyer' of European Aristocracy, and will not therefore repeat myself. It is, moreover, high time to close this letter, otherwise I fear my correspondence will be too long even for you; for though the heart is never weary, the head puts in other claims. But I know how much I may trust to your indulgence in this point. Your ever truly devoted L. LETTER XXVIII. _K---- Park, August 4th, 1828._ MY DEAREST FRIEND, I am in most agreeable quarters. The manner of living is 'comfortable' the society cordial, 'la chere excellente,' and the freedom, as it is every where in the country, perfect. Yesterday I took a very agreeable ride of some twenty miles on an untireable horse of my host's;--for distances disappear before the excellence of the horses and of the roads:--I must tell you all I saw. I rode first to the small town of St. Asaph to look at the cathedral, which is adorned with a beautiful window of modern painted glass. Many coats of arms were extremely well executed, and the artist had the good sense to avoid the common error of endeavouring to represent objects not suited to his art, which requires masses of colour and no delicate and floating shades. To obtain a more perfect knowledge of the country, I ascended the tower. At a distance of about twelve miles I espied a church-like building on the summit of a high mountain, and asked the clerk what it was. He replied, in broken English, that it was 'the king's tabernacle,' and that whoever would pass seven years without washing himself, cutting his nails, or shaving his beard, would be allowed to live there; and at the expiration of the seventh year he would have a right to go to London, where the king must give him a pension and make him a 'gentleman.' The man believed this wild story implicitly, and swore to its truth; 'Voilà ce que c'est que la foi.' I inquired afterwards the true state of the affair, and heard the origin of this history; namely, that the building was erected by the province, or 'county,' to commemorate the jubilee of the last king's reign, and had stood empty ever since: but that a wag had advertised a considerable reward in the newspapers, to any man who would fulfil the above-named conditions. The common people had mixed up this strange ordeal with the 'tabernacle' of King George III. I descended the towers, and now you may see me galloping at the foot of some gentle slopes, till I reach a rocky isolated hill, on which stands Denbigh Castle. The side of the hill is covered with the ruinous houses and huts of the miserable little town, and you climb through its narrow lanes to the top. A gentleman, who afterwards declared himself to be the surgeon of the town, very kindly showed me the way, and did the honours of the ruins with great politeness. Here is a sort of casino most romantically situated within the walls, and a very pretty flower-garden, commanding a beautiful view. The rest of this vast edifice offers only a neglected labyrinth of walls, standing amid the rank luxuriance of grass and thistles. Every third year, notwithstanding, a great national festival is held on this spot;--the meeting of Welsh bards, who, like the old German Minnesingers, repair hither to a trial of skill. The victor wins a golden cup; and a chorus of a hundred harps resounds to his fame amid these ruins. The meeting will take place in three months, when the Duke of Sussex is expected to be present. Following a ravine, I now entered a most lovely valley. Deep wood overshadowed me; rocks stretched out their mossy heads, like old acquaintances--from the branches; the wild torrent foamed, leaping and dancing amid the flowers; and the golden-green of the meadows here and there gleamed through the shade. I wandered for some hours in this place, and then climbed the heights by a weary foot-path, to discover where I was. I stood immediately above the bay and the broad tranquil sea, which appeared to be nearer to the gentle descent in front than it really was. After some effort, I espied among the groups of trees on the plain the house of K---- park, and trotting briskly onward, reached it in time to dress for dinner. _August 5th._ I walked this morning, while all the rest of the family were still in bed, with the charming little Fanny, the youngest daughter of the house who is not yet 'out.'[120] She took me round the park and garden, and showed me her 'dairy' and 'aviary.' I told you once before, that the dairy is one of the principal decorations of an English park, and stands by itself, quite away from the cow-house. It is generally an elegant pavilion, adorned with fountains, marble walls, and rare and beautiful porcelain; and its vessels, large and small, filled with the most exquisite milk and its products, in all their varieties. There can be no better place of refreshment after a walk. It is of course surrounded by a flower-garden, which the English love to attach to all their buildings. In this, the mineral rivalled the vegetable kingdom in brilliancy and beauty of colour. The proprietor has a share in the principal copper mines in Anglesea, and little mountains of ore, glittering with red, blue, and green, formed a gorgeous bed for rare and curious plants. The aviary, which elsewhere is filled with gold pheasants and other foreign birds, was here more usefully tenanted; and was exclusively devoted to cocks and hens, geese, ducks, peacocks, and pigeons. It was however, from its extraordinary cleanliness and nice adaptation, a very pretty and agreeable sight. German housewives, listen and wonder! Twice a-day are the yards, which are provided with the most beautiful receptacles of water,--the separate houses, pigeon-holes, &c.,--twice a-day are they cleaned: the straw nests of the hens were so pretty; the perches on which the fowls roost, so smooth and clean; the water in the stone basins, which served as duck-ponds, so clear; the barley and the boiled rice (equal to Parisian 'riz au lait') so tempting--that one thought one's self in the Paradise of fowls. They enjoyed, too, the freedom of Paradise: here were no clipped wings; and a little grove of high trees, close by their house, formed their pleasure-ground. Most of them were still poised in air, waving to and fro on the topmost boughs, when we arrived: but scarcely did they espy the rosy little Fanny tripping towards them, with dainties in her apron, like a beneficent fairy, than they flew down in a tumultuous cloud, and ran to her feet, pecking and fluttering. I felt a sort of pastoral sensibility come over me, and turned homewards, to get rid of my fit of romance before breakfast. But now the children's gardens were to be visited, and a sort of summer house, and heaven knows what;--in short, we were too late, and got a scolding. Miss Fanny exclaimed, with true English pathos,-- "We do but row, And we are steer'd by fate;" in the words of our proverb, _Der Mensch denkt Gott lenkt_. Yes, indeed, thought I, the little philosopher is right: things always turn out differently from what one intends, even in such small events as these. After dinner I mounted my horse again. I sought the most untracked ways in the wildest mountain country on the land side, frequently fording the rapid stream, and revelling in the most beautiful and striking scenery. Here and there I met a country girl working in the fields. They are strikingly pretty in the singular costume which sets off their fine persons to the greatest advantage. They are moreover shy as roes, and chaste as vestals. Every thing shows the mountain character; my horse among the rest:--unwearied as a machine of steel, he gallops over the stones, up hill and down; leaps with undisturbed composure over the gates which continually intercept my way across the fields, and tires me long before he feels the least fatigue himself. This, to me, is the true pleasure of riding; I love to traverse mile after mile of country which I had never seen before, where I know not whither I am going, and must find out my way back as I can. To-day I came upon a park, in which wooden statues painted white contrasted strangely with the sublimity of nature. No human being was visible; only hundreds of rabbits put their heads out of the holes in the side of the hill, or coursed rapidly across the road. All sorts of strange and curious devices marked the proprietor as an original. The only thing that pleased me was a dark fir grove, surrounded by a belt of bright crimson mallows. I at length reached the top, a bare hill, and went out as I had come in, through a gate, which fell to of itself. The same solitude reigned throughout, and the enchanted castle was soon far behind me. _Bangor, August 8th._ I was to stay some weeks at K---- park: but you know my restlessness; uniformity, even of the good, soon wearies me. I therefore took leave of my kind friends,--made a visit of some hours, instead of days, to another country-gentleman who had invited me,--saw a sun-set from the ruins of Conway Castle,--ate a plaice, and returned to my head-quarters, which I now leave for ever. I am unfortunately not very well, my chest seems somewhat the worse for my late fatigues, and frequently gives me great pain; 'mais n'importe.' _Craig y Don, August 9th, early._ Do you recollect this name? It is the beautiful villa which I described to you. I have since become acquainted with its amiable possesor, whose friendly invitation to spend my last night in Wales with him I could not resist. The pain in my chest prevented my taking more than short walks in the garden, with the son of my host; and the attempt to climb a hill in the neighbourhood made me so ill that I was obliged to amuse myself after dinner with reading the newspaper. In this vast desert I met with only one thing which I think worth quoting to you. The article treated of the speech from the throne, in which were the words "The Speaker is commanded to congratulate the people on their universal prosperity." This, says the writer, is too insolent, openly to make a jest of the miseries of the people. It is indeed a settled point, that truth is never to be expected in a speech from the throne; and if ever a king were mad enough to speak the real truth on such an occasion, he must begin his speech, "My knaves and dupes," instead of the wonted exordium "My Lords and Gentlemen." My host is a member of the yacht club, and a passionate lover of the sea. Our dinner would have contented the most rigid Catholic in lent: it consisted entirely of fish, admirably dressed in various ways. An oyster bank under his windows contributed its inhabitants for our dessert; the cows grazing before the house also afforded many delicacies; and the hot-houses adjoining the dining-room, delicious fruits. Does it not do one good to think that perhaps not less than a hundred thousand persons in England are in the enjoyment of such an existence as this; of such substantial and comfortable luxury in their peaceful homes! free monarchs in the bosoms of their families, where they live in the security of their inviolable rights of property! Happy men! they are never annoyed with the oppressive missives of uncivil functionaries, who want to rule everything even in their drawing-rooms and bed-chambers, and think they have rendered the state an important service when they have put the unhappy subject to an expense of many thousand dollars in a year for unnecessary postage;--who are not contented to be placed _above_ the governed, but must place themselves _against_ them; thus uniting in their own persons party and judge. Happy men! free from assaults on their purses,--from personal indignities,--from the insolence of officials, eager to show their power by useless and frivolous vexations,--from the avidity of insatiable blood-suckers!--unrestrained masters of their own property, and only subject to those laws which themselves have contributed to make! When we reflect on this, we must confess that England, though not a perfect country, is a most fortunate one. We ought not, therefore, to be much offended at Englishmen if, feeling strongly the contrast between their own country and most others, they can never, whatever be their courtesy and kindness, get over the distance which separates them from foreigners. Their feeling of self-respect, which is perfectly just, is so powerful, that they involuntarily look upon us as an inferior race. Just as we, for example, in spite of all our German heartiness, should find it difficult to fraternize with a Sandwich Islander. In some centuries we shall perhaps change places; but at present, unhappily, we are a long way from that.[121] _Holyhead, August 9th,--Evening._ I have had a bad night, a high fever, bad weather, and rough roads. The latter misery I incurred by choosing to visit the celebrated 'Paris mines' in the Isle of Anglesea. This island is the complete reverse of Wales; almost entirely flat--no trees, not even a thicket or hedge--only field after field. The copper-mines on the coast are, however, interesting. My arrival having been announced by Colonel H----, I was received with firing of cannon, which resounded wildly from the caves beneath. I collected several beautiful specimens of the splendid and many-coloured ore: the lumps are broken small, thrown into heaps, and set on fire like alum ore, and these heaps left to burn for nine months: the smoke is in part caught, and forms sulphur. It is curious to the uninitiated, that during this nine months' burning, which expels all the sulphur by the force of the chemical affinity created by the fire, the pure copper, which had before been distributed over the whole mass, is concentrated, and forms a little compact lump in the middle, like a kernel in a nut-shell. After the burning, the copper, like alum again, is washed; and the water used for the purpose is caught in little pools: the deposit in these, contains from twenty-five to forty per cent of copper; and the remaining water is still so strongly impregnated, that an iron key held in it, in a few seconds assumes a brilliant copper colour. The ore is then repeatedly smelted, and at last refined; after which it is formed into square blocks, of a hundred pounds weight, for sale; or pressed by mills into sheets for sheathing vessels. A singular circumstance is observable at the founding, which is a pretty sight. The whole mass flows into a sand-bed or matrix, divided into eight or ten compartments, like an eating-trough for several animals: the divisions do not quite reach the height of the exterior edge; so that the liquid copper, which flows in at one end, as soon as the plug is drawn out must fill the first compartment before it reaches the second, and so on. Now the strange thing is, that all the pure copper which was contained in the furnace remains in this first compartment,--the others are filled with slag, which is only used for making roads. The reason is this;--the copper ore contains a portion of iron, which is magnetically affected: this holds the copper together, and forces it to flow out first. Now as they know pretty accurately, by experience, what proportion of pure copper any given mass of ore will contain, the size of these compartments is regulated so as exactly to contain it. The manager, a clever man, who spoke half Welsh half English, told me that he had first invented this manner of founding, which spared much trouble, and that he had taken out a patent for it. The advantages which arise from it are obvious; since without these divisions or compartments, the copper, even if it flowed out first, must afterwards have spread itself over the whole mass. The Russians, who in matters of trade and manufacture suffer nothing to pass neglected, soon sent a traveller hither to make himself master of the process. It was not in the slighest degree concealed from him;--indeed it is but justice to say that the masters of all commercial and manufacturing establishments in England are generally very liberal. While I was yet standing by the furnace, an officer made his appearance, and in the name of the brother of Colonel H----, who is likewise a colonel, and commands a Hussar regiment in this neighbourhood, invited me to dine and spend the night. I was, however, too tired and unwell to venture on the exploit of a mess-dinner in England; where, in the provinces at least, the wine is dealt out in right old English measure. I wished too to sail by the packet of to-night; and therefore gratefully declined the invitation, and took the road to Holyhead, where I arrived at ten o'clock. My usual ill luck at sea did not permit me to sail,--the night was so rough that the packet went off without passengers. I staid behind, not very unwillingly, to take another day's rest in a comfortable inn. _August 10th._ Ill and languid as I am, an excursion to the newly built light-house, four miles from hence, has given me extraordinary pleasure. Although the Island of Anglesea appears very flat, its picturesque craggy rocks rise on the western shore to a very considerable height above the sea. On one of these rocks, which stands out to sea, abrupt and isolated, is placed the light-house. This indescribably wild cliff is not only perpendicular--the summit actually projects several hundred feet beyond the line of the base; so that it appears rather as if blasted by powder, than the work of nature. Treading on a thick carpet of yellow dwarf broom and crimson heath, you reach the edge of the precipice: you then descend four or five hundred steps, roughly hewn in the rock, till you come to a little bridge suspended on ropes; across this, holding by its net-work sides, you swing, as it were, over the chasm which separates this rock from the main land. Thousands of sea-mews wheeled around us, uttering their ceaseless melancholy wail to the storm. The young ones were just fledged, and the parent birds took advantage of the rough weather to exercise them. Nothing could be more graceful and interesting than these flying lessons. The young were easily distinguished by their gray colour and their yet unsteady flight; while the old ones hung poised sometimes for the space of a minute without moving a wing, as if upborne motionless by the storm. The young ones often rested in the crevices of the rocks, but were soon driven out to fresh exertions by their inexorable parents. The light-house is exactly like that which I have described to you at Flamborough Head, on the eastern coast of England, only without the revolving lights. The neatness of the oil-vessels, and the wonderful brightness of the mirror-like reflectors were here, as there, most admirable. I remarked an ingenious sort of rough-weather window, which may be opened in the hardest gale, without trouble or danger of breaking; and a vertical stone staircase, like a saw, which saves much room. But I cannot make you understand either without a drawing. _Dublin, Aug. 11th._ A more unprosperous voyage it is hardly possible to have. I was ten hours tossed about, sick to death. The heat, the disgusting smell of the steam-boiler, the universal sickness,--it was a frightful night--a picture of human misery, worthy of Carl of Carlsberg. In a longer voyage one gets hardened, and many new sources of pleasure compensate for privations; but short voyages, which show only the dark side of the picture, are my greatest aversion. Thank God it's over, and I once more feel firm ground under me; though I sometimes think Ireland rocks a little. _Evening._ This country has more resemblance to Germany than to England. That universal and almost over-refined industry and culture disappears here, and with it, alas! English neatness. The houses and streets have a dirty air, although Dublin is adorned with many magnificent palaces and broad straight streets. The lower classes are in rags; those somewhat higher want the English elegance; while the variety of brilliant uniforms, which are never seen in the streets of London, still more strongly remind one of the continent. The environs of the city have no longer the accustomed freshness; the soil is more neglected, the grass and trees scantier. The grand features of the landscape, however, the bay, the distant mountains of Wicklow, the Hill of Howth, the amphitheatrical mass of houses, the quays, the harbour, are beautiful. Such, at least, is the first impression. I find myself, in the best inn in the city, less comfortable than in the little town of Bangor. The house is large, but seems silent and deserted; while I remember that there, only during my dinner, I saw fifteen carriages arrive, all of which were necessarily sent away from the door. The influx of strangers is so great along the high-roads of England, that waiters in the inns are not hired, but on the contrary, sometimes pay as much as 300_l._ a year for their places. They make a handsome profit, nevertheless, from the fees they receive. In Ireland, we return to the continental custom. As soon as I had a little refreshed myself I took a walk through the city; in the course of which I passed two rather tasteless monuments. The one represents William of Orange on horseback, in Roman costume. Both man and horse are deformed: the horse has a bit in his mouth, and head-gear on, but no appearance of reins, though the king's hand is stretched out exactly as if he were holding them. Does this mean that William wanted no rein to ride John Bull? The other monument is a colossal statue of Nelson, standing on a high pillar, and dressed in a modern uniform. Behind him hangs a cable, which looks more like a pack-thread. The attitude is devoid of dignity, and the figure is too high to be distinctly seen. I afterwards came to a large round building, towards which the people crowded, keeping watch on the outside. On inquiry, I learned that the yearly exhibition of fruits and flowers was held here. They were just taking away the former as I entered; notwithstanding which, I saw many fine specimens. In the midst of the flowers, which formed a sort of temple, there was an enclosed space railed round for the fruits, which twelve judges ate with great gravity and apparent satisfaction. They must have been a long time in coming to a decision; for rinds of melons, pears and apples, fragments of pines, stones of plums, apricots and peaches, lay in mountains on the table beneath; and although the flowers were all gradually removed by the proprietors, I did not see that any of the fruits found their way out of this temple of Pomona. _August 12th._ As I knew not what else to do (for all the 'notables' who inhabit the town were in the country,) I visited a number of 'show places.' First the Castle, where the vice-King resides, and whose miserable state-apartments with coarsely boarded floors do not offer anything very attractive.--A modern Gothic chapel, the exterior of which is a deceptive imitation of antiquity, is more worth seeing: the interior is decorated with splendid painted glass from Italy, of the fifteenth century, and richly ornamented with modern carvings in wood, of truly antique beauty. The whole chapel is heated by pipes of hot air; and a passage, warmed in the same manner and carpeted, connects it with the Lord Lieutenant's apartments. In the extensive and beautiful buildings belonging to the University a student acted as my cicerone. These young men, when within the precincts of the college, are obliged to wear, over their usual clothes, a black mantle, and a strange high cap with tassels three-quarters of an ell long, which gives them a rather grotesque appearance. This dress is as rigorously adhered to, as at one time a pig-tail and powder were by Saxon staff-officers. The young man took me into the Museum; showed me the burning-glass with which Archimedes set fire to the Roman fleet! Ossian's harp;[122] a stuffed Indian chieftain with tomahawk and spear; and some fragments of pillars from the Giant's Causeway, which could not be more accurately formed by the hand of man, and which ring like English glass. 'Je vous fais grace du reste.' In the great hall in which the examinations are held, (the student told me this with a slight shudder,) stands a Spanish organ, built for the grand Armada.--Much more interesting are the portraits of Swift and Burke: both physiognomies express the known qualities of the men. The one has an expression as acute and sarcastic as it is native and original: the other, full of intellect and power, somewhat blunt, but yet benevolent and honest, announces the thundering orator who contended sincerely and without reserve for his opinion, but never glossed over his own interest with affected enthusiasm for others. After visiting the Courts of Justice, the Custom-house, and other magnificent buildings, I was going home, when I was tempted by the advertisement of a 'Peristrephic Panorama' of the battle of Navarino. This is a very amusing sight; and gives so clear an idea of that 'untoward event,' that one may console one's self for not having been there. You enter a small theatre,--the curtain draws up, and behind it is discovered the pictures which represent, in a grand whole, the series of the several incidents of the fight. The canvas does not hang straight down, but is stretched in a convex semicircle, and moved off slowly upon rollers, so that the pictures are changed almost imperceptibly, and without any break between scene and scene. A man describes aloud the objects represented; and the distant thunder of cannon, military music, and the noise of the battle, increase the illusion. By means of panoramic painting, and a slight undulation of that part which represents the waves and the ships, the imitation almost reaches reality. The first scene represents the bay of Navarino with the whole Turkish fleet in order of battle. At the opposite extremity of the bay is seen Old Navarino and its fortress perched on a high rock; on the side of it the village of Pylos, and in the foreground the city of Navarino with Ibrahim's camp, where groups of fine horses, and beautiful Greek prisoners surrounded by their captors, attract the eye. In the distance, just at the extremity of the horizon, the allied fleets are faintly descried. This picture slowly disappears, and is succeeded by the open sea,--the entrance to the bay of Navarino then gradually succeeds. You distinguish the armed men on the rocks, and at length see the allied fleet forcing the passage. By some optical deception everything appears of its natural size; and the spectator seems to be placed in the Turkish position in the bay, and to see the admiral's ship, the Asia, bearing down upon him with all sails set. You see Admiral Codrington on the deck in conversation with the captain. The other vessels follow in extending lines, and with swelling sails, as if ready for the attack;--a glorious sight! Next follow the separate engagements of the several ships, the explosion of a fireship, and the sinking of some Turkish frigates. Lastly, the engagement between the Asia and the Egyptian admiral's ship on the one side, and the Turkish on the other, both of which, as you know, sank after an obstinate defence of many hours. The battle is succeeded by some views of Constantinople, which give a very lively idea of Asiatic scenes and habits. In the evening I visited the theatre; a very pretty house, with a somewhat less rough and obstreporous audience than those of London. The actors were not bad, though none of them rose above mediocrity. Numerous uniforms were intermingled among the ladies in the lower tier of boxes, which seemed to be elegantly filled. The higher classes, however, as I am told, seldom visit the theatre here, any more than in London. _August 13th._ Having seen enough of the city, I have begun my rides in the neighbourhood, which is much more beautiful than its appearance at my first approach, on the least favourable side, led me to expect. A road commanding charming views,--first of the bay, which is intersected by a mole five miles in length, and bounded at either extremity by the two light-houses of Dublin and Howth, rising like columns in the distance; then of the mountains of Wicklow, some clothed with wood, some rising like sugar-loaves high above the others; and lastly, along an avenue of noble elms by the side of a canal,--brought me to the Phoenix Park, the Prater of Dublin, which in no respect yields to that of Vienna, whether we regard its expanse of beautiful turf for riding, long avenues for driving, or shady walks. A large but ill-proportioned obelisk is erected here to the Duke of Wellington. I found the park rather empty, but the streets through which I returned full of movement and bustle. The dirt, the poverty, and the ragged clothing of the common people often exceed all belief. Nevertheless they seem always good-natured, and sometimes have fits of merriment in the open streets which border on madness;--whiskey is generally at the bottom of this. I saw a half-naked lad dance the national dance in the market-place so long, and with such violent exertion, that at last he fell down senseless amid the cheers of the spectators, totally exhausted, like a Mohammedan dervise. The streets are crowded with beggar-boys, who buzz around one like flies, incessantly offering their services. Notwithstanding their extreme poverty, you may trust implicitly to their honesty; and wretched, lean, and famished as they appear, you see no traces of melancholy on their open, good-natured countenances. They are the best-bred and most contented beggar-boys in the world. Such a little fellow will run by your horse's side for hours, hold it when you alight, go on any errand you like; and is not only contented with the few pence you give him, but full of gratitude, which he expresses with Irish hyperbole. The Irishman appears generally more patient than his neighbours, but somewhat degraded by long slavery. I was witness among other things to this:--A young man had pasted up a wrong play-bill: the manager of the theatre came up and hit him a slap on the face, and otherwise ill-treated him, without his making any resistance; an Englishman would have made instant reprisals. I passed the evening in the family circle of an old acquaintance, a brother of the Lord-lieutenant, who was just come to town for a few days. We talked over old times, as we had been much together in London. He has a remarkable talent for imitating the late Kemble, whom he resembles in person. I thought I saw Coriolanus and Zanga again. _August 14th._ Another friend, of yet older date, Mr. W----ts, to whom I had once an opportunity of rendering some service in Vienna, paid me a visit this morning, and offered me his country-house as a residence.--He had scarcely quitted me, when I was told that Lady B----, an Irish 'peeress,' and one of the most beautiful women in the country, whose acquaintance I had cultivated during the last season in the metropolis, was in her carriage below, and wished to speak to me. As I was still in the most absolute 'negligée,' I told the waiter, (a perfect 'Jocrisse,' whose 'Irish blunders' daily amuse me,) that I was not dressed, as he saw, but that I would be ready immediately. He announced the state of my toilet; but added, 'de son chef,' that "my Lady had better come up." Imagine my astonishment when he came back and told me that Lady B---- had laughed very much, and had bid him say that she would willingly wait, but that to pay gentlemen morning visits in their chambers was not the custom in Ireland. In this answer appeared the cordial, frank, and good-natured character of the true Irish woman, which I had already learned to love and admire. A prudish Englishwoman would have driven away in high displeasure, and perhaps have ruined the reputation of a young man for such a 'qui pro quo' as this: for in English society people do not only stumble at things which in other countries produce quite a contrary effect; but the 'it is said' in the mouth of an influential person is a two-edged sword. 'He has a bad character'{*} is sufficient to shut a hundred doors against a stranger. An Englishman is much less guided by his own observation than is generally imagined: he always attaches himself to some party, with whose eyes he sees. {*} _Character_, in England, means (most _characteristically_, in a country where _appearance_ has more weight than in any other,) not the result or sum of a man's moral and intellectual qualities, but his _reputation_, what is said of him.--EDITOR.] In the afternoon I went to dine at my friend's villa. The road was very agreeable. It began with the Phoenix Park, and followed the course of the Liffey, the river which flows through Dublin, where its beautiful quays, stone and iron bridges, add so much to the embellishment of the town. Here it has a rural and romantic character, bordered with the broad leaves of the tussilago, and enclosed by soft hills and verdant thickets. I asked a beggar whom I met, how far it was to W---- park, and whether the road continued equally beautiful all the way. 'Long life to your honour!' exclaimed he, with Irish patriotism, 'only keep right on, and you never saw anything more beautiful in this world!' The entrance to W---- park is indeed the most delightful in its kind that can be imagined. Scenery, by nature most beautiful, is improved by art to the highest degree of its capability; and without destroying its free and wild character, a variety and richness of vegetation is produced which enchant the eye. Gay shrubs and wild flowers, the softest turf, and giant trees festooned with creeping plants, fill the narrow glen through which the path winds by the side of the clear dancing brook; falling in little cataracts, it flows on, sometimes hidden in the thicket, sometimes resting like liquid silver in an emerald cup, or rushing under overhanging arches of rock, which nature seems to have hung there as triumphal arches for the beneficent naïad of the valley to pass through. As soon as you leave the glen, the enchantment suddenly ceases: the rest in no respect answers your high-raised expectations. Scanty grass, stunted trees, and thick stagnant water, surround a small Gothic castle, which looks like a poor scene in a play. In it, however, you find some interesting objects:--among others, some good pictures; and the best and most cordial host that one can desire. I must also mention a curious 'pavillon rustique' which is built in a suitable spot in the 'pleasure ground.' It is hexagonal, three sides solid, and fashioned of pieces of rough branches of trees very prettily arranged in various patterns; the other three consist of two windows and a door. The floor is covered with a mosaic of little pebbles from the brook, the ceiling with shells, and the roof is thatched with wheat straw on which the full ears are left. _August 15th._ Although my chest continues to give me pain, and my doctor sometimes makes solemn faces, I go on with my expeditions, which afford me great pleasure. I had already fixed a longing eye on one of three hills, four or five miles from the city, on the summit of which stand three distinct upright masses of rock, from which it takes its name, 'The Three Rocks.' The view from it must needs be beautiful. I got up, therefore, earlier than usual, that I might reach the top in good time. I asked repeatedly in the villages through which I passed, which was the best way, but could never get a distinct answer. At length I was assured by the inhabitants of a house at the foot of the hill, that I could not ride up, and must dismount. This in the present state of my chest was not practicable; but as I have long learned what people's impossibilities are, I took the path they showed me, on horseback, without hesitation. I could safely trust my little compact mare, for the Irish horses climb over rocks or walls like cats. For sometime I followed a tolerably beaten foot-path, and when this ceased, the dry bed of a mountain stream, along which I rode without much difficulty for about two miles. I now found myself on a large and naked 'plateau,' and saw the three rocks, like witches' stones, rearing their heads before me. The intervening space, however, seemed an impassable bog. I tried it very cautiously, and found a shingly bottom at about eight or ten inches under the boggy soil. This continued all the way; till after some time I reached firm ground, and stood upon the highest point. The wished-for prospect lay before me: Ireland, like a map; Dublin, like a smoking lime-kiln in the green plain, (for the coal-smoke did not allow me to distinguish one single building;) the bay with its light-houses; the boldly marked headland of Howth; and on the other side, the mountains of Wicklow, stretching away to the horizon, lay beneath me bathed in sunlight, and rewarded me for all my fatigue. But the scene was yet further animated by a sweet-looking young woman, whom I discovered in this wild solitude, busied in the humble employment of straw-platting. The natural grace of the Irish peasant-women, who are often truly beautiful, is as surprising as their dress, or rather their want of dress; for though it was very cold on these hills, the whole clothing of the young woman before me consisted of a large very coarse straw hat, and _literally_ two or three rags of the coarsest sackcloth suspended under the breast by a piece of cord, and more than half disclosing her handsome person. Her conversation was cheerful, sportive and witty; perfectly unembarrassed, and in a certain sense free; but you would fall into a great error if you inferred from that, any levity or looseness of conduct. The women of this class in Ireland are, almost universally, extremely chaste, and still more disinterested. If one of them ever strays from the path of virtue, she is very rarely seduced by those considerations of gain, which are so degrading, and, in such matters, so unnatural. After I had descended the mountain on the other side, leading my horse, who scrambled after me as well as he could, I reached the high-road, and came upon an open park gate, (for in this also Ireland resembles the continent, where every proprietor, from the king to the humble country-gentleman, enhances his own enjoyment by sharing it with the public,) and rode in. I soon gave up the enterprise, however, on seeing two gigantic capuchins with gown and cross cut out of painted boards, standing in a cross-way, and each of them holding a book on which was written--"To the Pheasantry," "To the Abbey." Such bad taste is rare here. In the street I met a London 'dandy,' who called out to me, (for I did not recognize him,) laughed heartily at our meeting 'in such a horrid place,' ran on for some time in a satirical vein on Dublin society, and at last concluded by informing me, that through the influence of his family, he had just obtained a place here, which, indeed, brought him in 2000_l._ a year, and gave him nothing to do, but which compelled him 'pro forma' to pass a part of every year in this 'shocking' abode. With such, and even much richer sinecures, are the younger sons of the English aristocracy provided in countless numbers, and in all parts of the empire. I think, however, that even here, the pitcher will not always go to the well without breaking; though I must confess that these defects in the English government, compared with the arbitrary power exercised in other states, are but spots on the sun. I of course entirely except Ireland, which appears to experience, in almost every instance, a step-mother's care; which contributes largely to the power and splendour of the English nobility, without receiving back the smallest portion of those advantages of which England receives so much. _August 18th._ Your letters are still so melancholy, dear Julia * * * * * * * * You see, then, that it is not events themselves, so much as your own view of them, which years have tinged with a more gloomy colour. But alas! this is the most irremediable of all evils! We are not what we were; and the one eternal and universal error remains--that we think we can help ourselves by an exertion of strength, when the strength is no longer there:--as soon can we be or look young again! I too begin to feel traces of this--but only there, where the world lays its fetters around me; when alone with God and nature, the gloomiest horizon has no power to darken my inner sun. I accompanied Lady B----, of whom I have already spoken, to breakfast to-day at the country-house of a much admired young lady. The master of the house excused himself on the plea of headache, and I was therefore left to take a long walk in the grounds with the two ladies alone. On our arrival at the gate which was to lead us to one of the most beautiful parts of the wood, it was locked--no key to be found; and according to the report of the old gardener, the lady's maid had gone in, and taken it away with her. A servant was ordered to jump over the wall, and to seek the offender: he came back, however, without any tidings of her. I now got a ladder, and helped my laughing companions to climb over the wall; they professed great awkwardness, but acquitted themselves most gracefully. After walking a quarter of an hour we met the unfortunate lady's maid, and--as she thought herself safe--not alone: it may be imagined in what company. A mute domestic scene followed: and as I am too good natured to laugh, it really grieved me that my ladder had been the cause of such distress. I declined staying to dinner, and hastened back to town to call on Lady M----, to whom I had a letter of introduction, and who had already sent me a polite invitation which I had not been able to accept. I was very eager to make the acquaintance of a woman whom I rate so highly as an authoress. I found her, however, very different from what I had pictured her to myself. She is a little, frivolous, lively woman, apparently between thirty and forty, neither pretty nor ugly, but by no means disposed to resign all claim to the former, and with really fine and expressive eyes. She has no idea of 'mauvaise honte' or embarrassment; her manners are not the most refined, and affect the 'aisance' and levity of the fashionable world, which, however, do not sit calmly or naturally upon her. She has the English weakness,--that of talking incessantly of fashionable acquaintances, and trying to pass for very 'recherché' to a degree quite unworthy of a woman of such distinguished talents; and she is not at all aware how she thus underrates herself. She is not difficult to know, for with more vivacity than good taste, she instantly professes perfect openness, and especially sets forth on every occasion her liberalism and her infidelity; the latter of the somewhat obsolete school of Helvetius and Condillac. In her writings she is far more guarded and dignified than in her conversation. The satire of the latter is, however, not less biting and dexterous than that of her pen, and just as little remarkable for a conscientious regard to truth. You may think that with all these elements two hours flew rapidly away. I had enthusiasm enough to be able to utter some 'à propos' which pleased her, and she treated me with marked attention: first, because I happened to have a distinguished title; and secondly, because she had seen my name as dancing at Almacks, and as present at several 'fêtes' of the great leaders of Ton--a circumstance which appeared so important in her eyes, that she repeatedly recurred to it. _August 20th._ Yesterday evening I was engaged to a 'soirée' at Lord C----'s, the head of a new family, but one of the oldest 'wits' of Dublin. I was invited to accompany his friend lady M----, but was prevented by a tragi-comical incident. I had ridden out to visit Mr L---- at his country-seat (a trouble which between ourselves neither he nor his family deserved), and it was late when I set out on my return. To save time, I took my way across the country, 'à la Seidlitz.' For some miles all went on capitally, till just at twilight I came to a very wide ditch, the opposite bank of which was considerably lower than the one on which I stood, and surrounded a broad meadow. I leaped into this enclosure; but on trying to get out on the other side, my horse refused, and all my efforts to bring him to obedience were vain. I alighted to lead him, mounted again to try to leap him at another place,--tried fair means and foul; all equally in vain: till at length he made an awkward attempt at a leap, fell with me into the muddy water, and with some difficulty scrambled back again to the inner and lower bank. All hope of getting out of the enchanted spot in which I was caught as in a mouse-trap, was now lost:--it was become quite dark, I was wet through, and extremely heated; and was at last obliged to come to the determination of leaving my horse, getting over the fatal ditch, 'tant bien que mal,' on foot, and seeking help and shelter where I could. The moon came kindly from behind the clouds, and aided me with her welcome light. After a most toilsome walk of half an hour over ploughed land and through high wet grass, I reached a miserable hut, in which every body was already asleep. I walked in, (for the houses here are never fastened;) a couple of pigs grunted under my feet, and near them lay the master of the house. With some difficulty I made him understand my request, which I enforced by jingling some silver close to his ear. This universal language awakened him more effectually than my invocations; he sprang up, called a comrade, and went out to my 'Didone abbandonata.' Irishmen are never at a loss for expedients; they found a broken and deserted wooden bridge near at hand, laid it across the ditch, and I at length found myself on the high road with my liberated steed. I reached home so late, and in such a plight, that I desired nothing but rest, and was sorry to hear that lady M---- had been to fetch me, and had driven away in great vexation an hour ago. The next morning I went to make my excuses. She pardoned me graciously, but assured me that I had lost a _great deal_, for that all the rank and fashion of the town were there. I assured her with great sincerity that I regretted nothing but the loss of her society, but that I hoped to be indemnified for that as soon as I had made my 'sentimental journey' to the county of Wicklow, for which my German romantic soul ardently thirsted, and which I intended to commence the following morning on horseback. The conversation became very gay,--for she likes that; and at last ended so petulantly, that she exclaimed, 'Finissez!' when you come back I shall receive you just like an elder sister: to which I answered, laughing, 'That I cannot agree to;--je craindrais le sort d'Abufar.' Addressed to Lady M---- this was certainly rather a 'fade' joke. The continuation of my adventures you will receive from the midst of rocks and mountains. Adieu! may heaven send you serenity and peace, and may every word of my letters whisper to you 'true love till death.' Your L----. LETTER XXIX. _August 22nd, 1828._ BELOVED JULIA, About noon I quitted Dublin entirely alone, comfortably established on my good steed. I left my carriage and people in the town, and sent a little travelling bag, containing my most necessary effects, before me by the stage-coach. Unfortunately, however, this was changed by mistake; and though I waited for it a whole day and night in Bray, only twenty miles from Dublin, it did not overtake me; rather than go back or wait longer, I bought a Scotch cloak and some linen in Bray, and entered on my tour quite after the fashion of a student. I supped with a young parson of good family, who made me laugh heartily at his orthodoxy in matters of religion, interspersed with talk which was by no means remarkable for severe decorum or virtue. But such is the piety of Englishmen,--it is to them at once a party matter and an affair of good manners; and as in politics they follow their party implicitly, through thick and thin, reasonable and unreasonable, because it _is_ their party;--as they submit to a custom for ever because it _is_ a custom; so they regard their religion, (without the least tincture of poetry,) in exactly the same point of view: they go to church on Sundays, just as regularly as they dress every day for dinner; and regard a man who neglects church, just in the same light as one who eats fish with a knife.[123] Accompanied by the young divine, who was travelling the same way for some distance, I left Bray at five o'clock in the morning. In a most lovely country we passed Kilruddery, a newly built seat of the Earl of Meath, in the style of the houses of Elizabeth's time;--in this case the masses are not sufficiently large to produce a good effect. The park is not very extensive, but long and narrow; the gardens, in the old French taste, are very celebrated; but, probably owing to our unpretending appearance, we were most discourteously denied admittance. In England this is common enough, but rare in Ireland, and gave no very favourable impression of the philanthropy of the possessor. My companion, who is an adherent of 'la grace efficace,'--that is to say, who is firmly persuaded that God, from all eternity, predestined his favourites for heaven, and others who pleased him less for hell,--made no doubt; in his wrath, that the Lord of Kilruddery belonged to the latter category. "It is a disgrace to an Irishman!" exclaimed he, angrily; and I had some difficulty in making him understand the duty of tolerance. A second park, Bellevue, the property of a worthy old gentleman, readily opened its gates to us. Here is a summer-house which seems to hang in the air, and overlooks the 'Glen of the Downs,' a deep valley, behind which two extinct volcanoes rear their conical heads. The summer-house had just been prettily covered with purple heather. A less happy thought was a stuffed tiger, lying as if alive in the anteroom. My travelling chaplain here quitted me, and I rode alone to the vale of Durwan, where, in a narrow romantic pass, stands a rock eighty or a hundred feet high, shaped in the rude outline of the human figure. The country people, who relate many wondrous stories about it, call it the Giant. Not far from it are the ruins of a castle, so entirely overgrown with ivy, that you must approach very near to distinguish it from the surrounding trees. At the end of the valley the path winds over meadows to a considerable height, which command a most exquisite view. I looked across the sea, and saw, almost with a feeling of home sickness, the Welsh mountains in the blue distance. After having refreshed myself with bread and milk in a little country inn, I took my way to the 'Devil's Glen,' which merits the name it bears. The wild scene opens with a Gothic castle, whose blackened walls rise above the surrounding wood: you then plunge into a glen whose sides gradually rise higher and higher, and are more and more contracted, while the moaning breeze rustles louder through the dark thicket, and the torrent roars more fearfully. I rode on with difficulty over the slippery earth, incessantly annoyed by the overhanging boughs, and suddenly found the path terminated by a magnificent cascade, which plunges headlong over lofty crags, and disappears foaming in the bottom. If not the devil himself, it is at least Kühleborn. Most agreeable is the change from this awful glen to the lovely sylvan valley of Rosanna, where I ate my mid-day repast under the shade of high ash-trees. I found two regular English tourists, armed with _hortus siccus_ and hammers. They had resided here for some weeks, during which time they had had the clean table-cloth removed from the dirty table, and remained sitting an hour at dessert, with exactly the same punctuality as in a London coffee-house, though they had miserable sloe-juice instead of claret, and roasted apples instead of ripe fruit. At seven o'clock I mounted my horse again, galloped ten miles along the main road, and just before sunset reached the exquisitely beautiful Avondale. In this paradise every possible charm is united. A wood which appears of measureless extent, two noble rivers, rocks of every variety of picturesque form, the greenest meadows, the most varied and luxuriant shrubberies and thickets; in short, scenery changing at every step, yet never diminishing in beauty. The last time I traversed the valley it was moonlight, and I should have found my way with difficulty but for a young man who was returning from shooting; with true Irish kindness and courtesy he accompanied me at least three miles on foot, far beyond the most intricate parts. The night was extremely clear and mild, the sky as blue as by day, and the moon lustrous as a gem. Though I lost something in extent of view, I gained perhaps more by the magic light which was diffused through the atmosphere; by the darker and more fantastic 'contours' of the rocks,--the thought-pregnant stillness,--and the sweetly-awful loneliness of night. At ten o'clock I reached the end of my day's journey, Avoca Inn; where I found very tolerable accommodation, kind and hearty attendance, and moderate charges. I met another English tourist in the eating-room:--but this was a high spirited and interesting young man, who fully sympathized in my rapture at the enchanting country, and with whom I talked away a very pleasant hour at tea, before I sat down to write to you. But now good night, for mountain travelling demands early rising. _Roundwood, August 23rd._ Yesterday I rode eight German miles,--to-day nine; and my chest is not at all the worse. Pleasure is an excellent restorative; and I have seen so many varied objects, that these few days appear to me like so many weeks. I had slept well, though the broken windows of my chamber were only repaired with pillows. My humble lodging was succeeded by a better breakfast, and my horse was excellently taken care of. I ride like the Arabs, either at a gallop or a foot pace: this fatigues one the least, and gets over the most ground. My first excursion was to the celebrated 'Meeting of the Waters,' where the two rivers Avon-beg and Avon-more unite their streams. They have chosen the most picturesque spot in which to celebrate their nuptial feast. On a rock on this side stands Castle Howard, with its numerous towers and battlements, which, unluckily, were but just finished, and on a near approach lost all their imposing effect. I found the castle still buried in sleep; and a servant in his shirt showed me the pictures, among which is a splendid portrait of Mary Stuart. This must be a speaking likeness; it is clearly of her time; and the attractive, truly French face, with the delicate nose, the captivating mouth, the languishing fire of the eyes; and that indescribable, inimitable expression which, without making any direct advance, yet somehow inspires courage, and though not devoid of womanly dignity, yet at the first glance bespeaks confidence and intimacy,--all convince one that thus the woman must have looked, whom scarcely any man could approach nearly, however severed by inequality of rank, without soon assuming the character of a lover. Her hands are exquisite; and in her dress, although of the 'barroque' style of that age, there reigns such harmony, that one is instantly convinced she was not less skilled in the arts of the toilet than her countrywomen of the present day. An excellent road leads from this place through the 'entire vale' to the park of Bally-Arthur. The peculiar characteristic of this valley is, that the hills on either side are clothed with such impenetrable beech-woods that there is no visible interval between the masses, and it really looks as if you could ride on the tops of the trees. I here quitted the road, and followed a footpath in the thicket, which led me to a very beautiful view; at the termination of the long glen, the towers of Arklow appeared as if set in a frame. About a mile and a half further on, the path suddenly ends in a ha-ha, over which my horse utterly refused to leap. As the wall was on my side, and the turf below very soft, I hit upon a new expedient: I tied my handkerchief over the eyes of the refractory beast, and pushed him down backwards over the wall. He was very little frightened, and not at all hurt by the fall as I had expected, and grazed peaceably blindfold till I rejoined him. This manoeuvre saved me at least five miles. The new park in which I now found myself,--for all this part of the country is a continued pleasure-ground,--belonged to Shelton Abbey, a modern piece of Gothicry, intended to represent an old abbey. The possessors had been absent for years; and a negro who was at work in the garden, showed me the rooms, in which are some very interesting pictures. The hero of one is the great-grandfather of the possessor; the scene in Italy, and the costume, as well as the manners represented, most strange and even revolting. The civil negro led me across the fields and through a pretty deep ford in the river, (whose ice-cold waters did not seem to alarm him), to the town of Arklow, whence I returned along the high road to dinner at Avoca Inn. In the course of my ride I ascended another hill, from which I looked down into three distinct valleys, the contrasted character of which afforded a most singular view. Scarcely had I seated myself at table (at Avoca), when I was told that some one wished to speak to me. A young man, whom I had never seen, was shown in, and presented to me a pocket-book, which, to my no small astonishment, I recognized as my own; containing, besides other important papers which I always carry about me, all the money I had taken for my journey. I had, Lord knows how, dropped it out of my breast-pocket in the summer-house; and had, therefore, no small reason to congratulate myself on so honourable and obliging a finder. In England I should hardly have had the good fortune to see my pocket-book again, even if a 'gentleman' had found it; he would probably have let it lie in peace,--or kept it. I must here take occasion to explain to you what this far-famed epithet 'gentleman' means, since the signification affixed to it is inimitably characteristic of the English. 'A gentleman' is neither a man of noble birth, nor a man of noble sentiments (_weder ein Edelmann noch ein edler Mann_--neither a Nobleman nor a noble man;) but, in strictness,[124] a man of independent means, and perfect knowledge of the usages of good society. He who serves or works for the public in any way, (the higher functionaries of the state, and here and there a poet or artist of the first category only excepted,) is no 'gentleman,' or at best only a half a one. I was greatly astonished at hearing a certain well-known personage, with whom all lovers of horses, native and foreign, are well acquainted; who is rich, who is on a footing of intimacy with many Dukes and Lords, and enjoys great consideration, but who presides at a weekly auction of horses (thereby doing useful service to the public)--say of himself, "I can't imagine how the Duke of B---- could commission me to carry a challenge to Count M----; he ought to have employed a gentleman,--those things are not in my way." A really poor man, who is not in a situation to contract debts, can on no terms be a 'gentleman.' On the contrary, a rich scamp, who has had what is called a good education, so long as he preserves his 'character'[125] (reputation) dexterously, passes for a 'perfect gentleman.' In the exclusive society of London there are yet finer 'nuances.' A man, for instance, who were to manifest any timidity or courtesy towards women, instead of treating them in a familiar, confident, and 'nonchalant' manner, would awaken the suspicion that he was 'no gentleman:' but should the luckless man ask twice for soup at dinner, or appear in evening dress at a breakfast which begins at three in the afternoon and ends at midnight,--he may be a prince and a 'millionaire,' but he is no gentleman. But let us back from Babylon's tyrannous jargon to the freedom of the hills. The country through which I now rode was strikingly like the flat part of Switzerland, gradually rising till I found myself opposite to the highest mountains of Wicklow, whose heads were shrouded in clouds. The valley of Glenmalure has a character of desolate sublimity, which harmonized perfectly with the weather. In the midst stands a deserted and already decaying barrack, which looks like a haunted castle;--neither tree nor bush is to be seen, and the sides of the mountains are covered with loose stones. The valley has only subterranean inhabitants, and their life produces death. Here are great lead-works, whose unwholesome exhalations are traced on the pallid faces of the workmen. I dressed myself in a black slop, and was driven into one of the entrances,--a gloomy and terrific journey. The passages were cold as ice; pitch-darkness reigned in them, and a cutting wind loaded with a death-like smell blew in our faces. Minute drops fell with a hollow sound from the low roof, which bent us nearly double; and the jolting of the car, which a man dragged slowly over the rugged bottom, completed the picture of horrors. The delicate state of my chest did not permit me to remain long here, and I gave up all further researches, glad 'once more to see the rosy light.' I had now to ride over a new and magnificent military road (for the government has the watchfulness of a bad conscience about Ireland,) over one of the mountains which enclose the valley. The view from the heights was extensive and beautiful, and yet of a very different character from any I had yet seen: it was much improved by a most favourable light thrown by the sun from beneath a line of black clouds. No effect of light gives such clearness and brilliancy to distant objects as this. The rays lay in broad stripes like a glory on the intersecting lines of hills; and the two 'Sugar Loaves' stood overtopping all, in deep blue against this clear horizon. The way down the mountain is so serpentine that I could gallop along it with ease. It was nevertheless quite evening before I reached the last valley which I had yet to see in this day's tour--the Valley of the Seven Churches. Here stood, above a thousand years ago, 'sic fabula docet,' a large city with seven churches, which the Danes destroyed. A handsome gateway still remains almost entire, though the key-stone is wanting. Time has repaired this loss by a thick ivy branch, which holds together the whole arch. Seven distinct ruins are, according to the popular belief, the remains of those holy structures which gave its name to the valley. Only one of them indisputably bears this character, and is remarkable from one of the highest of those strange mysterious towers, without doors or windows, which are found near many ruins of religious houses in Ireland. At the further end of the valley, sunk in the deepest hollow and most sacred repose, sleep two dark lakes, celebrated for the adventures of Saint Kevin. The rocks around them are uncommonly steep, and in many places formed like stairs. In one is a narrow and deep cleft, exactly as if cut by a mighty blow. The legend tells that the young giant Fian MacCumhal, being thought by his comrades yet too weak to serve in the war they were then waging, cleft the rock with his sword, and so put an end to their doubts. Further still, in a rock overhanging the lake, you descry a black hole in the cave,--Saint Kevin's cell. Here the saint sought refuge from the persecuting love of the king's beautiful daughter Cathelin, and lived for a long time in solitude on roots and herbs. In a fatal hour the wandering fair-one discovered the fugitive, and surprised him in the dead of night on his mossy couch. With sweet kisses she awakened the ungallant saint; who seeing his danger, took the desperate resolution of pushing Cathelin over the precipice into the lake, where she lost life and love in its dark waters. But the man of God felt some touch of human pity, and commanded that no other life should ever be lost in these waters,--a charm which, as my guide testified, is in full force to this day. This 'cicerone' was a pretty, and as usual half-naked, boy of about eleven; his dress was a specimen of an Irish toilette, worthy of mention. He wore the coat of a grown man, which besides many diaphanous places, was deficient in a sleeve and a half, and one flap, while the other streamed after him like the tail of a comet. Neckcloth, waistcoat, and shirt were dismissed, as wholly superfluous: to make amends, the remains of a pair of red plush breeches made a most magnificent appearance, though in somewhat strong contrast with the naked legs beneath. To see this figure scramble over the rocks like a squirrel, singing all the while bits of "Tommy"[126] Moore and Walter Scott, was certainly characteristic. As he led me to the cave, at a point where the passage was rather slippery, he cried, "Oh you can come on very well; I brought Sir Walter Scott here, and he climbed over the worst places, though he had a lame foot." He could talk of nothing else; and recited rapidly four lines which Scott or Moore, I forget which, had composed in the cavern. These people are so exactly suited to the wild and ruin-clad country, that without them it would lose much of its romantic interest. In order to reach a tolerable inn at night, I had to ride ten miles over an interminable moor, the usual haunt of all sorts of spirits, though only now and then a solitary Will-o'-the-wisp flitted by me. When I reached the village, both the inns were filled with 'tourists;' and it was with the greatest difficulty that I procured a little sort of ante-room, in which I was to sleep on straw. The tea, butter, toast and eggs were, however, excellent, and hunger seasoned my repast. I cannot describe to you how delightful this life is to me. Amidst all its privations, I feel myself a hundred times more 'à mon aise,' than encumbered and annoyed with a thousand unnecessary conveniences. I am as free as the bird in the air, and that is one of the highest enjoyments. And now, honour to whom honour is due. Few men would sit down with religious regularity every evening, after such fatigues, to write you a faithful report of all the events of the day. If it does but give you pleasure, I am rewarded a thousandfold. _Bray, August 24th._ Gall maintained, as you may remember, when he examined my skull in Paris, that I have a very prominent organ of veneration. Nevertheless many have regarded me as a vile heretic; but he was right;--that is, if religion consists in love, and in a sincere striving after truth. In such a joyful, pious frame of mind did I greet the fresh morning with prayer and praise, and the inward brightness broke through the gloomy damp mist which surrounded me; for the weather was extremely bad. The road too was desert and melancholy;--but, patience! the evening brought back sunshine and beauty. For the present I saw nothing around me, as far as my eye could reach, but barren heath and moor; a stormy wind blew across it in gusts; and drove before it the rack, which, when I came within its reach, wetted me like a heavy rain. Short and feeble gleams of sun gave momentary hope, till about noon the clouds parted; and exactly as I reached the summit of the mountain above the magnificent valley and lake of Luggelaw, the sun gilded all the country beneath me, though the tops of the hills were yet shrouded in mist. This valley belongs to a wealthy proprietor, who has converted it into a delightful park. It is singularly laid out, and I will try to give you an idea of it. The valley forms a nearly regular long oval basin. The lake occupies the immediate fore-ground to the mountain's foot; the middle-ground is meadow-land, studded with groups of trees, and watered by a meandering stream; and in its centre, backed by a solitary rock, is an elegant 'shooting lodge.' The mountains surrounding the valley are very high and steep, and rise on every side, in a bare and unbroken line from the perfectly level plain. On the left are naked rocks of imposing aspect, only here and there overgrown with heath-plants; the three other sides are clothed with thick and varied vegetation, whose foliage hangs into the very lake. At the spot where the mountain streams flow through bright green herbage into the lake, it forms a broad waterfall. It is indeed a lovely spot of earth, lonely and secluded; the wood full of game, the lake full of fish, and nature full of poetry. As the shooting season has not yet begun, the proprietor was absent; and the wife of the steward, a still pretty woman, though rather 'passée,' with handsome white hands, and manners above her station, at my request prepared my breakfast; while her lively little son conducted me about the valley. A beautiful greyhound, who bounded over the ground as lightly as a leaf borne by the wind, and enjoyed his freedom in the wildest gambols, accompanied us. We climbed, not without pain to my chest, 'car je ne vaux plus rien à pied,' to a rocky table-land, four hundred feet high, which overlooks the whole valley. Opposite is a strange sport of nature,--a monstrous face regularly formed in stone, looking gloomily and angrily on the lake below. The eye-brows and beard were distinctly marked by moss heath, and the prominent cheeks and deep sunk eyes perfectly formed by the clefts in the rock. The mouth is open;--when you remove further off it closes, but without altering the other features. It is really a high prerogative to possess such a living image of a mountain spirit. He looks, however, as I said, angrily on the lake, and seems to call aloud with open mouth, "Ye human creatures, leave my valley, my fish, my game, my rocks, and woods in peace! Leave them, or I will bury you, ye pigmies, under my ruins!" But it is in vain! the voice of spirits is become powerless since man's own spirit awoke. Rübezahl's countenance is turned to stone, and his voice dies away in the gusty breeze, which irreverently sports with his bushy eyebrows, and curls the waves of the lake as if in scorn against him. An interval of ten miles of uninteresting country lay between this walk and my arrival at the gate of the park of P----, one of the most extensive and beautiful in Ireland. But it was Sunday, the lord of the domain a saint,--and of course the gate locked. On this day, according to his view of the matter, a pious man must on no account leave his house except to enclose himself within the gloomy walls of a damp church: on no account rejoice himself in God's own wondrous and magnificent temple. This was a sin to which Lord P---- would by no means afford encouragement, and at his recent departure had therefore prohibited the opening of his gate. Instructed by the adventure which you may recollect befell me in England, I made no attempt at winning a passage by means of a gift, but pursued my way along a wall, over which from time to time I cast a longing and stolen glance at the magnificent waterfall and the enchanting scene. Thou beneficent God! thought I, in what different ways art thou worshipped! One man roasts his neighbour to thy honour; another fashions thee as Apis: some represent thee more partial and unjust than the devil himself; others think they offer thee the most acceptable service when they deface thy loveliest gifts, or deprive themselves and others of the enjoyment of them. Oh! Lord P----, you will not read these lines; but it were good for you if you could, and if you would lay them to heart! Full many a poor man, who sweats through the whole week that he may pay you your rent, would feel his heart expand with joy on a Sunday in your beautiful park, and would bless the goodness of that God who has not left him wholly destitute; who has spread out before his eyes the glory and the beauty of creation. And this joy would be reflected back upon yourself;--but perhaps, you are not even present? Perhaps you send your pious commands from afar? You are, perhaps, like so many of your colleagues, one of those 'absentees' who by the hands of ravenous and merciless agents strip the people of their last rag, rob them of their last potatoe,[127] to enrich the charlatans of London, Paris, or Italy. Then, indeed, if that be the case, your religion can hardly go beyond superstitious veneration for the Sunday, and for the ceremonies of your priests. From hence to Bray the cultivation is luxuriant; the country is filled with houses and gardens of the opulent citizens: the road lies at the foot of the Great Sugar Loaf, whose hoary naked cone is barren of all vegetation. I saw some travellers who had just ascended it, and looked like moving chess-men; I envied them the magnificent view, for the day was brilliant and the atmosphere perfectly clear. Towards evening I lay myself down in a lonely spot, among the field-flowers by the side of a brook, and gave myself up to a dreamy and grateful delight in this beautiful world; leaving, like a knight-errant, my faithful steed to graze by my side. I thought of you and of past times; I called on the living to appear, and the dead to arise, and looked into my past life as into a mirror--now with a melancholy, then with a cheerful smile: for through all the follies and vanities of this world, through errors and faults, there still ran one pure silver thread strong enough to endure;--feelings of childlike love, and a high capacity for enjoyments which God's goodness renders attainable by all. I returned to Bray in good time, and found my travelling-bag arrived; it contained many things which, after long privation, were not to be despised: among others, it afforded me the most interesting of companions, Lord Byron. I have now two portraits of him before me, drawings which have been given me, and which I have had bound in the Giaour and Don Juan. Like Napoleon, while yet aspiring, he is thin, wild and melancholy; when he had reached the summit, he is fat and smiling. But in both these otherwise so different countenances is seen that scornful, haughty spirit, deeply shaken by fate, more deeply sensitive by nature, which animated these features. I can never refrain from laughing at the English, who pass such pitiful cockney judgments on this their second poet (for after Shakspeare the palm is surely his,) because he ridiculed their pedantry, because he could not adapt himself to the manners and usages of their little nook, nor share in their cold superstition; because their insipidity was sickening to him, and because he denounced their arrogance and hypocrisy. Many of them cross themselves (inwardly) when they mention him; and even the women, though their cheeks glow with enthusiasm when they read him, in public take part vehemently against their secret favourite. It was worthy of grateful Germany, worthy of our Patriarch, to erect a lasting German arch of triumph, to a man who belongs to Europe, opposite to that monument of infamy which the English have laboured to build. Could I but bid you a 'farewell' as immortal as his,--it should be no last, I hope no long farewell, but as tender and as touching. Think of me thus. Your faithful L----. LETTER XXX. _Dublin, Aug. 29th, 1828._ DEAR AND KIND ONE, I have passed the last few days in bed with fever and pain. I am but now sufficiently recovered to answer your letter. What you send me from B---- is indeed very flattering to me, though the enthusiasm which my little labours excite in him is the growth of his own poetical soul alone, which paints what _ought to be_, and believes that _it is_. Do not wish for my return before it is possible; and trust me, that where a man is _not_ he is commonly desired; as soon as he is there, he is thought, by many, in the way. I rode out again to-day for the first time to see the fair at Donnybrook, near Dublin, which is a kind of popular festival. Nothing indeed can be more national! The poverty, the dirt, and the wild tumult were as great as the glee and merriment with which the cheapest pleasures were enjoyed. I saw things eaten and drunk with delight, which forced me to turn my head quickly away to remain master of my disgust. Heat and dust, crowd and stench, ('il faut le dire,') made it impossible to stay long; but these do not annoy the natives. There were many hundred tents, all ragged like the people, and adorned with tawdry rags instead of flags; many contented themselves with a cross on a hoop; one had hoisted a dead and half putrid cat as a sign! The lowest sort of rope-dancers and posture-masters exercised their toilsome vocation on stages of planks, and dressed in shabby finery, dancing and grimacing in the dreadful heat till they were completely exhausted. A third part of the public lay, or rather rolled about, drunk; others ate, screamed, shouted and fought. The women rode about, sitting two and three upon an ass, pushed their way through the crowd, smoked with great delight, and coquetted with their sweethearts. The most ridiculous group was one which I should have thought indigenous only to Rio de la Plata: two beggars were seated on a horse, who by his wretched plight seemed to supplicate for them; they had no saddle, and a piece of twine served as reins. As I left the fair, a pair of lovers, excessively drunk, took the same road. It was a rich treat to watch their behaviour. Both were horribly ugly, but treated each other with the greatest tenderness, and the most delicate attention. The lover especially displayed a sort of chivalrous politeness. Nothing could be more gallant, and at the same time more respectful, than his repeated efforts to preserve his fair one from falling, although he had no little difficulty in keeping his own balance. From his ingratiating demeanour and her delighted smiles, I could also perceive that he was using every endeavour to entertain her agreeably; and that her answers, notwithstanding her 'exalté' state, were given with a coquetry and an air of affectionate intimacy which would have been exquisitely becoming and attractive in a pretty woman. My reverence for truth compels me to add that not the slightest trace of English brutality was to be perceived: they were more like French people, though their gaiety was mingled with more humour, and more genuine good-nature; both of which are national traits of the Irish, and are always doubled by Potheen (the best sort of whisky illicitly distilled.) Don't reproach me for the vulgarity of the pictures I send you: they are more akin to nature than the painted dolls of our 'salons.' _Bray, August 30th._ I am returned hither on purpose to see the park of Powerscourt, from which Sunday lately debarred me. It would not be easy for Nature to unite greater capabilities than she has lavished here with bounteous hand; and her gifts have been skilfully turned to account. You enter by the Dargle, a very deep and narrow glen, thickly wooded with high trees. In the bottom gushes a full and rapid stream. The road ascends on the right side, and the eye travels down the green depths, out of which it catches here and there a gleam of the water, or a bold group of rocks. Three large mountains rise above the glen, and, though at some distance, seem quite close, as their base is hidden: they were tinged this evening with a deep rosy red, by a sun worthy of Italy, and contrasted beautifully with the bright green of the oaks. Further on, the path suddenly opens on a rocky cliff, called 'The Lover's Leap' where the glen diverges into several valleys, formed by chains of lesser hills, but terminated at some distance by the highest mountains of the neighbourhood. In the midst of this landscape appears the house, situated on a gentle slope on the edge of a wood, and surrounded by beautiful flower-gardens. From hence to the great waterfall, a distance of five miles, the road leads through ever varying scenes, which are more like those of beautiful nature than of a park. At length you reach a wood, and the rush of the distant waterfall meets your ear before you catch sight of it. It is inconsiderable, except after rain, but then it is magnificent. The lofty rocks are thickly covered on either side with shrubs, the cascade dashes through their varied foliage, and falling into a basin, flows away through a beautiful meadow. Around this are venerable oaks, under which a house, suited to the character of the place, has been built. Here, refreshments are to be obtained, and it is the usual resort of the many parties of pleasure who come hither. Green footpaths lead still further into the wild mountain country; but as it was already dark, I was obliged to return. On my way hither, I had gone over the greater distances in a gallop; and to avoid unnecessary delay, had taken up the ragged boy who acted as guide, behind me, regardless of the wonderment of the passers by, who knew not what to make of so extraordinary a cavalcade. At night I was obliged to ride slowly along the stony road, till the moon rose, orange-coloured, behind the mountains, and half shrouded herself in evening mists. I reached the inn at Bray, tired and hungry, at eleven o'clock. _August 31st._ I found this country inn so pleasant that I resolved to prolong my stay over to day--Sunday. Living at inns affords one a good opportunity of observing the middle classes. Every man here shows himself as he is, and seems to feel himself alone. I have already told you that English travellers of this class (I include all the inhabitants of the three kingdoms who have English manners and habits) usually pass their time, when not out of doors, in a common room called the coffee-room. In the evening this coffee-room is lighted with lamps; candles are carried, if called for, to the gentlemen who sit at the separate little tables. It has often surprised me that in a country in which luxury and refinement on all the wants of life are so universal, even in the best provincial inns (and often in London) tallow candles are commonly used. Wax candles are an unwonted luxury; and if you ask for them, you are treated with redoubled civility, but your bills are also doubled throughout. It is very diverting to observe the perfect uniformity with which all behave, as if machines out of one workshop. This is particularly observable in their eating: though placed at separate tables, and no individual taking the slightest notice of any other, they all seem to have exactly the same usages, exactly the same gastronomic tastes. Nobody eats soup, which, unless bespoken beforehand, is not to be had. (This is the reason, by-the-bye, for which my old Saxon servant left me. He declared that he could not exist any longer in such a state of barbarism--without soup!) A large joint of roast meat is commonly carried from one to another, and each cuts off what he likes. This is accompanied by potatoes or other vegetables, boiled in water; and a 'plat de ménage' filled with sauces is placed on every table; beer is poured out, and there, in a common way, ends the dinner. Only the luxurious eat fish before meat. But now follows the second stage:--the tablecloth is removed; clean plate, and knife and fork laid; wine and a wine-glass, and a few miserable apples or pears, with stony ship-biscuits, are brought: and now the diner seems to begin to enjoy tranquillity and comfort. His countenance assumes an expression of satisfaction; apparently sunk in profound meditation, leaning back in his chair, and looking fixedly straight before him, he suffers a sip of wine to glide down his throat from time to time, only breaking the death-like silence by now and then laboriously craunching his rocky biscuits. When the wine is finished, follows stage the third,--that of digestion. All motion now ceases; his appetite being satisfied, he falls into a sort of magnetic sleep, only distinguishable from the natural by the open eyes. After this has lasted for half an hour or an hour, all at once it ceases; he cries out, as if under the influence of some sudden possession, 'Waiter, my slippers;' and seizing a candle, walks off gravely to his chamber to meet his slippers and repose. This farce acted by five or six men at once has often amused me more than a puppet-show; and I must add, that with the exception of the incident of the slippers, pretty nearly the same scene is represented in the first clubs of the metropolis. I scarcely ever saw an Englishman read at dinner; I am not sure that they don't think it an act of indecorum--perhaps of impiety--like singing or dancing on a Sunday for instance. Perhaps, however, it is only a rule of diatetics converted by time into a law, which no vivacity of temper can break through. Englishmen who do not belong to the aristocracy, and are not very rich, usually travel without a servant by the mail or stage-coach, which deposits them at the inn. The man who waits on strangers to the coach, cleans their boots, &c. has the universal appellation 'Boots.' It is, accordingly, 'Boots' who brings your slippers, helps you to pull off your boots, and then departs, first asking at what time you will have, not as in Germany, your coffee, but your hot water to shave. He appears with it punctually at the appointed hour, and brings your clothes cleanly brushed. The traveller then hastens to dress himself and return to his beloved coffee-room, where the ingredients of breakfast are richly spread upon his table. To this meal he seems to bring more animation than to any other, and indeed I think more appetite; for the number of cups of tea, the masses of bread and butter, eggs and cold meat, which he devours, awaken silent envy in the breast, or rather in the stomach, of the less capable foreigner. He is now not only permitted, but enjoined (by _custom_, his gospel) to read. At every cup of tea he unfolds a newspaper of the size of a table-cloth. Not a single speech, crim. con., murder or other catastrophe invented by the 'accident maker' in London, escapes him. Like one who would rather die of a surfeit than leave any thing uneaten which he had paid for, the systematic Englishman thinks that having called for a newspaper he ought not to leave a letter of it unread. By this means his breakfast lasts several hours, and the sixth or seventh cup is drunk cold. I have seen this glorious meal protracted so long that it blended with dinner; and you will hardly believe me when I assure you, that a light supper followed at midnight without the company quitting the table. On this occasion several were assembled; and I must remark, generally, that when that is the case, a very different scene is exhibited. The wine, instead of producing the lethargic reverie I have described, makes them rather too talkative. Something of the kind occurred to-day. Five or six travellers were very jovial, and having carried this a little too far, a violent quarrel arose among them, which, after long continued noise and confusion, ended, strangely enough, in their all falling foul of the waiter and pushing him out at the door. Upon this the host was forced to come in, and to beg pardon for the poor fellow, who was perfectly innocent. Not one of the men who were eating at their solitary tables took the slightest notice of this affray, but stared straight before them just as indifferently as if nothing were going on. Soon, however, one of them who had begun his dinner very late gave us a new scene. He was dissatisfied with the mutton they had brought him, and desired the waiter to tell the cook she was a d---- b----. On receiving this communication, the Irishwoman lost all respect for the author of so sensible an insult; tore herself out of the arms of her companions who vainly attempted to hold her at the dining-room door, darted with doubled fists on the offender, and overwhelmed him with such a torrent of truly national epithets, that he turned pale and left the field, roaring "my slippers" as loud again as usual, and without further attempt at resistance hastily retreated to his chamber in the third story; for, as you know, the bedrooms here are always under the roof, 'comme au Columbier.' When the late Grand Duke of W---- was in England, he was seized with the desire to travel alone and incognito by the 'stage,' as a means of becoming more intimately acquainted with English life. It amused him much: the next morning, however, he was not a little surprised, when the 'boots' brought him his clothes, at his saying, "I hope your Royal Highness slept well last night." He thought, however, he might have misunderstood, and taking no notice of the thing, continued his journey on the outside. The next morning, the same title. He now inquired into the matter, and found that a card with his name and rank was stitched to the inside of his cloak, and had destroyed his 'incognito.' What struck him the most doubtless was, that people troubled themselves so little whether a German sovereign prince sat on the top of the stage-coach or not. The common people in England care little about rank,--about foreign rank nothing. It is only the middle classes that are servile: they are delighted to talk to a foreign nobleman because they cannot get at their own haughty aristocracy. The English nobleman, even the least of the Lords, in the bottom of his heart thinks himself a greater man than the king of France. This mode of travelling, to a man who has any thing in view beside mere change of place, or who does not feel himself flattered by the increased reverence of innkeepers and waiters, is certainly preferable to the usual manner of making the grand tour. The diminution of comfort and convenience is counterbalanced by so much that is instructive and agreeable, that one gains a hundredfold by the change. _Dublin, September 1st._ I returned, this time, by way of Kingston, along a rough but very romantic road, close to the sea. A crowd of beggars stood on the road. They were not, however, deficient in industry and activity, for an old woman among them was busily gathering up some white sand which had fallen from a cart. How I wished to open the treasures of our Sand-Golconda to this poor creature! As I could not, I made her happy with a few pence, of which I always carry a cargo in my coat-pocket to throw out like corn among fowls; for here every body begs. Kingston is a little town, consisting chiefly of the country houses of the opulent people of Dublin. The Lord Lieutenant sometimes resides here. Since the king's visit a harbour has been made, at which the men are still at work. The shallowness of Dublin Bay renders this very desirable; but its principal end now is to give work to the lower classes. The many ingenious inventions which are here applied, the four rail-roads running side by side, on which one horse can draw enormous loads, the chain windlasses by which huge masses are brought to hand and walled into the dam, and other things of the like kind, are uncommonly interesting and instructive. Several large ships are lying in the unfinished harbour, in which they already find deep water and safe anchorage. Among them I was struck by the appearance of a black hulk, which lay like a solitary ghost; it contained, as I was told, the convicts ordered for transportation to Botany Bay; the transport ship which was to convey them had already arrived. This is no very severe punishment (deducting sea-sickness), and converts two-thirds of these criminals into useful citizens. Every government might (according to its local resources) create a Botany Bay; but it will be long ere the principle of vengeance is banished from our systems of law or of religion. A monument has been erected at the entrance of the harbour, in honour of the King's memorable visit (memorable, that is, for its disappointing all hopes and expectations). It is designed and executed with the sort of taste which seems to lie like a curse on all the public buildings of Great Britain: it is a small, ridiculous stump of an obelisk, perched on the corner of a natural rock; it stands on four balls, and looks precisely as if the first blast of wind would roll it into the sea. One cannot suppress the wish that this may happen;--the sooner the better. The royal crown is stuck at the top like a lid on a mustard-pot, and the whole, contrasted with the noble dimensions of the harbour and surrounding buildings, is so small and 'mesquin' that it might be taken for the whim of a private man, but certainly never for a national monument. Perhaps the architect was a 'mauvais plaisant,' and meant it satirically:--as an epigram it is deserving of praise. The road from hence to Dublin is very fine, and covered with riders and carriages. I wondered not to find it watered, which makes the roads near London so agreeable. Probably it is only done when the Lord Lieutenant is here. The dust to-day was almost insufferable, and all the trees covered as if with chalk. I returned to Dublin just at the moment of a meeting of the 'Catholic Association,' and alighted at the door of their house: unfortunately, however, neither Shiel nor O'Connell was present, so that there was no great attraction. Heat and bad smells, ('car l'humanité Catholique pûe autant qu'une autre,) drove me out in a few minutes. In the evening I was better amused by the performances of some other charlatans,--a company of English horse-riders who are here. Mr. Adams, in his way indisputably 'le premier des hommes,' was leader of the 'Academy,' which deserved its name better than some others I could mention. It was pleasant to see about twenty elegantly dressed young men, all moving with nearly equal grace and dexterity--often bewildering the eye by the artful confusion, the variety, difficulty and extreme rapidity of their movements, forming a wild dissonance or chaos, and then resolving this into the most graceful harmony. Still more delightful were two inimitable clowns, whose limbs were perfectly at their disposal. The one was excellently supported by his piebald ass, which shamed the noblest horses in the precision with which he executed his feats; and the other on an instrument of his own invention, produced a sort of music so truly mad, that even the mere tones excited resistless laughter. The performance was closed by a 'pas de deux' of the two clowns, danced on their hands and feet; the latter cutting capers in the air, while the former supported the weight of their bodies. Here the human form seemed obliterated; and the scene, frightful as a tale of Hoffman's, appeared to the bewildered spectator like the dance of two mad polypi. [Here some leaves of the correspondence are wanting.] LETTER XXXI. _B----m, in the West of Ireland, Sept. 5, 1828._ DEAR JULIA, You make me laugh by your gratitude for my diligence in writing. Are you not aware that I can have no greater enjoyment? I have hardly written a word before I feel myself at home, and new comfort and courage are infused into my heart. Do you remember the young parson at Bray? Though he converted the God of Mercy into the greatest of all tyrants, he himself is a very good-hearted fellow 'qui n'y entend pas malice.' He gave me such a hearty invitation to accompany him to his father's house in Connaught,--who, as he assured me, was no less hospitable than rich,--that I consented, 'et m'y voilà!' This wild part of Ireland, seldom visited by natives, never by foreigners, has such a bad name, that there is a proverb--'Go to hell and Connaught!' It was therefore a matter worthy of deliberation; but what deters others often attracts me;--such situations too I have often found the richest in amusement. The present promises me this in abundance, at least so far as novelty and strangeness go. Yesterday evening after dinner we left the metropolis in my carriage. We had just a hundred-and-one miles to go. In England this is soon accomplished; here things are very differently managed, and it took us four-and-twenty hours. The scenery is strikingly like the Wendish districts of Lower Lusatia, whither my unlucky stars once drove me; except that there are thick woods, while here, with the exception of a few arid furs, they appear only to _have been_. Boundless plains are covered with bog and turf; the oakwood, thousands of years old, which is found sometimes at a great depth, fetches a high price for decorative furniture; snuff-boxes and ladies' ornaments are likewise made of it. The other part of the soil is sandy or wet: the dry lands are meagre and barren; but on the other hand the bog cultivation, which is admirably understood, is very successful. The bog is first levelled, the projecting part being cut into squares of turf, and the soil then burnt and sown with corn. All the bogs appear to be remarkably deep: the principal crops are buckwheat, potatoes, and oats. The cabins of the inhabitants are beyond description wretched, and the appearance of all the flat country extremely poor, till you approach my friend's estate, where Nature becomes more smiling; and blue hills, the scene of many a wondrous tale, peep above the horizon. My host, Captain W----, is one of the 'Notables' of his county, but his house is not better than that of a German nobleman of moderate estate. English elegance and English luxury are not to be thought of; wax lights are unknown; port and sherry, but above all 'whiskey-punch,' are the only beverages: the coffee is detestable; but the food excellent, nutritious, and plentiful. The house is not over-clean; the small establishment very respectable from length of service, zeal and attachment, but of a somewhat unwashed and boorish appearance. From my chamber windows I penetrate into all the mysteries of the domestic economy, which is too modest to spread out the dunghills as chief 'point de vûe,' as in North Germany. The rain (for alas! it does rain) runs merrily through my windows, and falls in romantic cascades from the window-sill to the floor, where an old carpet thirstily drinks the stream. The furniture is rather tottering; but I have tables enough (a great matter to me with my multitude of things,) and the bed seems at least large and hard enough. In my chimney burns, or rather smoulders, capital turf, which not only gives heat, but covers everything with fine ashes, like an eruption of Vesuvius. All this does not sound brilliant;--but how largely are these trifles outweighed by the patriarchal hospitality, the cheerful, easy, unaffected kindness of the family. It is as if my visit were a distinguished favour, for which all seem to feel indebted to me as for some real service. _Sept. 5th._ I like my host very much; he is seventy-two years old, and still hale and vigorous as a man of fifty. He must have been very handsome, and has given the world twelve sons and seven daughters,--all by the same wife, who is still living, though just now too unwell for me to see her. Some of the sons and daughters have been long married, and the old man sees his grandsons of twelve at play with his youngest daughter of fourteen. The greater part of the family is now here, which makes the abode rather a noisy one; this is increased by the musical talents of the daughters, who daily perform on an instrument horribly out of tune,--a circumstance which seems not to annoy them in the slightest degree.[128] The men generally talk about horses and dogs, and are somewhat uninstructed. To-day a country squire in the neighbourhood searched long and patiently in a map of Europe for the United States:--at last his brother-in-law gave him the fortunate suggestion of trying his luck on the map of the world. The occasion of the search was, that the old gentleman wanted to show me Halifax and B---- town, which latter takes its name from him. He laid the first stone of both during the American war, in which he commanded seven hundred men, and loves to recal those days of his youth and importance. The scrupulous and chivalrous courtesy of his manners, the constant and ready sacrifice of his own convenience to others, are proofs of the education of times long passed, and marks his age more surely than his appearance does. Our amusements for some days to come are arranged as follows.--In the morning we go to church; the day after to the town of Galway, to see some horse-races, in which the poor animals not only run a German mile, but in the course of it have to leap several walls! They are ridden by gentlemen. In the evening is a ball, at which I am promised a sight of all the beauty of the neighbourhood. To tell you the truth, touched as I am by the kindness shown me in this house, I rather dread a long stay: I should, however, vex these excellent, cordial people if I showed it; 'Je m'exécute donc de bonne grace.' _Sept. 7th._ The manners here are so old-fashioned that the master of the house every day drinks to my health, and we have no napkins at table, for which pocket-handkerchiefs or the corners of the table-cloth are obliged to serve as deputies. We passed four hours this morning in the church of the neighbouring town of Tuam, and saw four clergymen ordained by the archbishop. The English Protestant service differs much from ours: it is a strange mixture of Catholic ceremony and Protestant simplicity. Pictures on the walls are not suffered,--on the windows they are. The dress of the priests, even of the archbishops, consists only of a white surplice. On the other hand, the seat of the latter, built like a throne, covered with purple velvet and adorned with an archbishop's crown, stands ostentatiously opposite to the chancel. The sermon is read, and lasts very long. The most wearisome part, however, both before and after it, is the endless repetition of antiquated and contradictory prayers, the burthen to which is occasionally re-echoed in singing from the choir. These form a perfect course of English history. Henry the Eighth's ecclesiastical revolution, Elizabeth's policy, and Cromwell's puritanical exaggerations, meet and shake hands; while certain favourite phrases are repeated every minute, many of which are more characteristic of cringing slaves prostrate in the dust before an eastern tyrant, than of Christian freedom and dignity. The text was chosen, strangely enough, from the story of the passage of the evil spirits into the herd of swine; and after this had been discussed for an hour, the four priests were ordained. The old archbishop, who enjoys a high reputation for strict orthodoxy, has a very dignified air, and a fine sonorous voice; but the deportment of the young divines displeased me exceedingly; it was disgustingly hypocritical. They continually wiped their eyes with their pocket-handkerchiefs, held them before their faces as if in the deepest emotion, answered with a broken voice;--in short, Herrnhuters could not have acted it better: 'La grace n'y étoit pas;'--of no kind. One of the oddest customs is, that every body during the short prayer at coming and going, turns himself to the wall, or into a corner, as if he were doing something not fit to be seen. I must frankly confess it,--I do not understand how a reflecting man can be edified by such a service. And yet how beautiful, how elevating might the service of God be, if while we dismissed all ridiculous and unmeaning ceremonies, we did not require an abstract worship, from which sense were utterly excluded,--an impossibility for creatures of sense! Why should we not devote all our best powers to the honour of him who gave them? Why not employ every art in its highest perfection, in order to consecrate to God the noblest, the finest works that the human faculties can produce? I can imagine a congregation, whose piety is equally removed from mean servility and from arrogant conceit; who meet to praise the infinite greatness and love of the Universal Father, and the wonders of his creation--not to bring within the walls consecrated to him the hatred of bigotry and intolerance;--whose creed demands from each man only that degree of belief which his own inward revelation makes possible to him. Before my fancy no longer float separate churches for Jews, and for fifty sorts of Christians; but true temples of God and Man, whose gates at all times stand open to every human being, who when oppressed by the Earthly, seeks to have the Holy and the Heavenly within him, animated and sustained by all the aids and appliances of sense or spirit; or who longs to pour out the overflowings of his heart, when filled with happiness and gratitude. _Galway, Sept. 8th._ We arrived very late on the 'race-course,' and saw little of this day's sport. The sight of the people was however extremely curious and interesting to me. In many points of view this nation is really semi-barbarous. The universal want of decent clothing among the lower classes, even on festivals like the present; their utter inability to resist ardent spirits, so long as they have a penny in their pockets; the sudden and continual wild quarrels and national pitched battles with the shillelah (a murderous sort of stick which every man keeps hidden under his rags), in which hundreds take part in a minute, and do not resist till several are left dead or wounded on the field; the frightful war-whoop which they set up on these occasions; the revenge for an affront or injury, which is cherished and inherited by whole villages:--on the other hand, the light-hearted carelessness which never thinks of the coming day; the heart-felt merriment, forgetful of all want and suffering; the kind hospitality which ungrudgingly shares their last morsel; the unreserved cordiality with the stranger, who makes any advances to them; the natural fluency and eloquence which they have ever at command;--all are characteristics of a half-civilized people. Hundreds of drunken men accompanied our carriages as we drove from the race-course to the town, and more than ten times, fights arose among them. The confluence of guests was so great that we with difficulty found a miserable lodging:--our dinner was however good and very abundant. Galway was chiefly built by the Spaniards. Some descendants of the ancient families still exist, as do several very curious houses of that period. It struck me as characteristic, that in a town of forty thousand inhabitants there was not a single bookseller's shop or circulating library to be found. The suburbs and all the villages through which we passed on our way, were of a kind which I should vainly attempt to liken to any thing ever seen before:--pigsties are palaces in comparison; and I often saw numerous groups of children (for the prolificness of the Irish people seems to keep pace with their wretchedness), naked as they came into the world, roll and paddle about with the ducks in the filthy kennels, with the greatest delight. _Athenrye, Sept. 10th: Morning._ I write to you this morning from the house of one of the sweetest women I ever saw in my life: an African too,--and as she tells me, by birth a Mademoiselle H----. 'Que dites vous de cela?' But more of her hereafter. You must now accompany me to the 'race-course,' and see the running and leaping from the beginning. It is a remarkable sight of its kind, and exactly suited to a half-savage nation. I confess that it far exceeded my expectations, and kept me in a state of intense anxiety; only one must leave pity and humanity at home, as you will see from what follows.--The race-course is an elongated circle. On the left side is the starting post; opposite to it, on the right, is the goal. Between them, at the opposite points of the circumference, are built walls of stone without mortar, five feet high and two broad. The course, two English miles in length, is run over once and a half. You see then, from my description, that the first wall must be leaped twice, the second only once in each heat. Many horses run, but none is declared winner till he has beaten the others in two heats; so that this is often repeated three, four, or even five times, if a different horse comes in a-head each time. To-day they ran four times; so that the winner, in a space of less than two hours, reckoning the intervals, ran twelve English miles at full speed and leaped the high wall twelve times!--a fatigue which it is difficult to conceive how any horse can stand. Six gentlemen in elegant jockey dresses of coloured silk jackets and caps, leather breeches and top-boots, rode the 'race.' I had an excellent hunter belonging to the son of my host, and could, therefore, by crossing the course, keep up perfectly well, and be present at every leap. It is impossible not to have a favourite on such occasions. Mine, and indeed that of the public, was an extremely beautiful dark bay, called Gamecock, ridden by a gentleman in yellow,--a handsome young man of good family, and a most admirable rider. After him the horse which pleased me the most was a dark brown mare called Rosina, ridden by a cousin of Captain B----; a bad rider, in sky blue. The third in goodness, in my opinion, Killarney, was a strong, but not very handsome horse, ridden by a young man who showed more power of endurance than perfect horsemanship: his dress was crimson. The fourth gentleman, perhaps the most skilful, though not the strongest of the riders, rode a brown horse, not remarkable in its appearance, and was dressed in brown. The other two deserve no mention, as they were 'hors du jeu' from the beginning: they both fell at the first leap; the one sustained a severe injury on the head, the other came off with a slight contusion, but was disabled from riding again. Gamecock, who darted off with such fury that his rider could hardly hold him in, and flew, rather than leapt, over the walls, with incredible bounds, won the first heat with ease. Immediately after him came Rosina without her rider, whom she had thrown, and took the remaining leaps of her own accord with great grace. Gamecock was now so decidedly the favourite that the bets were five to one upon him: but the result was far different from these expectations, and very tragical. After this noble animal had distanced the other two in two successive heats, and had achieved the two first leaps in the most brilliant manner, he set his foot, in the third, on a loose stone which one of the less skilful horses had pushed down as he fell, and which _it was not permitted to remove out of the course_. He fell backward upon his rider with such violence that both lay motionless, when the other riders came up, took not the slightest notice of them, and accomplished the leap. After a few seconds Gamecock got up, but his rider did not recover his senses. A surgeon present soon pronounced his state to be hopeless; both his breast-bone and skull were fractured. His old father, who stood by when the accident happened, fell senseless on the ground, and his sister threw herself with heart-rending cries on the yet palpitating though unconscious body. But the general sympathy was very slight. After the poor young man had been repeatedly bled, so that he lay on the turf weltering in his blood, he was taken away, and the race began again at the appointed time as if nothing had happened. The brown rider had been the first in the preceding heat, and hoped to win the last and decisive one. It was what the English call 'a hard race.' Both horses and men did their part admirably, they ran and leaped almost in rank. Killarney at last won only by a quarter of a head:--it was necessary therefore to run again. This last contest was of course the most interesting, since one of the two running must of necessity win everything. There was a great deal of betting, which at first was even. Twice did the victory appear decided, and yet at last terminated on the contrary side. At the first leap the horses were together; before they reached the second it was evident that the brown was exhausted, and Killarney gained so much upon him that he reached the second wall more than a hundred paces before him. But here, contrary to all expectations, he refused to leap, and the rider had lost all power over him. Before he could be brought to obey, the brown came up,--made his leap well; and now putting out all his strength, was so much a-head that he seemed sure of winning. Bets were now ten to one. But the last wall was yet to cross, and this was fatal to him. The tired animal, who had exhausted his last remaining strength in fast running, tried the leap willingly enough indeed, but had no longer power to effect it; and half breaking down the wall, he rolled bleeding over and over, burying his rider under him so that it was impossible for him to rise. Killarney's rider had in the mean time brought his refractory horse into subjection, achieved the two remaining leaps amid the cheers of the multitude, and then rode at a foot pace, perfectly at his ease and without a rival, to the goal. He was so exhausted, however, that he could scarcely speak. In the intervals between the preceeding heats I was introduced to many ladies and gentlemen, all of whom most hospitably invited me to their houses. I however preferred following my young host, who promised to show me the fairest of the fair, if I would give myself up to his guidance, and not object to riding ten miles in the dark. On the way he told me that this lady was called Mrs ----, and was the daughter of the late Dutch governor of ----, that she had had a complaint in the lungs, and was now staying in the solitary village of Athenrye, on account of the salubrity of its air. We did not arrive till ten; and surprised her in her little cottage (for the place is miserable) at tea. I wish I could describe this sweet and lovely being to you in such a manner as to place her visibly before you; certain that you, like me, would love her at the first glance. But I feel that here all description falls short:--all about her is heart and soul, and that is not to be described;--she was dressed in black, with the greatest simplicity, her dress up to the neck, but fitting closely to her beautiful form. Her person is slender and extremely youthful, full of gentle grace, and yet not without animation and fire in her movements. Her complexion is of a pure and clear brown, and has the soft polish of marble. More beautiful and brilliant black eyes, or teeth of more dazzling whiteness, I never beheld. Her mouth too, with the angelic, childlike character of her smile, is enchanting. Her refined unaffected good-breeding, the sportive graces of her gay and witty conversation, were of that rare sort which are innate, and must therefore please, whether in Paris or in Pekin, in town or country. The greatest experience of society could not give more ease or address, and no girl of fifteen could blush more sweetly, or jest more joyously. And yet her life had been the most simple and uniform, and her youth was rather the unfading spring of the soul than that of the body; for she was mother of four children, near thirty, and but just recovered from an attack on the lungs which had threatened to prove fatal. But the fire of all her movements, the lightning-flashes of her conversation, had all the freshness and all the power of youth, imparting a resistless charm to the gentleness of her nature. One felt that this was the child of a warmer and kindlier sun, of a more luxuriant soil, than are to be found in our misty climes. And indeed she felt the most melancholy longings after her native land, and a painful expression passed over all her lovely features as she said, she should never more breathe that balmy air charged with sweet odours. I was too much absorbed in looking at her to think of food, had she not, with all the kind activity of a good housewife, made preparations for entertaining us as well as she could in her little cabin. A table was set in the room in which we sat; so that our frugal meal caused no interruption to the conversation, and it was long after midnight ere we separated. It was not till I was in bed that I learned that, finding it impossible to get us beds in a place consisting of only a few cabins, this kind-hearted and unceremonious woman had quitted her own for me, and gone to sleep with her eldest daughter. Concerning her family, whose name was necessarily so striking to me, Mrs ---- herself could tell me but little. She had married Mr ----, then a captain in the British army, in her twelfth year: immediately afterwards she lost her father, and embarked with her husband for Ireland, which she has never left. She had heard, indeed that she had relations in Germany, but never corresponded with them. Three years ago she received a business letter from a cousin in A----, announcing that her father's brother had died and had left her heir to his whole property. The indifference of this African child of nature went so far, that she had not only up to the present time left this letter unanswered, but, as she told me, had never been able to decypher the whole of it, as it was written in Dutch, and she had almost entirely forgotten the language. "I don't know the man," added she innocently, "and the money affairs I left to my husband." This bathing-place, Athenrye, is also one of the curiosities of Ireland. From what I have already said, you will conclude that no Polish village can have a more wretched aspect. The cluster of cabins is on a bare hill rising out of the bog, without tree or bush, without an inn, without any convenience, inhabited only by ragged beggars, and by the few invalids who bring with them everything they want, and must send for even the most trifling article of food to Galway, a distance of twelve miles. Once it was otherwise; and it saddens one to see at the further extremity of this wretched village the proud ruins of better times. Here stood a rich abbey, now overgrown with ivy: the arches which once protected the sanctuary lie in fragments amid the unsheltered altars and tombstones. Further on is a castle, with walls ten feet thick, in which King John held his court of justice when he came over to Ireland. I visited these ruins with a most numerous company: I do not exaggerate when I say that at least two hundred half-naked beings, two-thirds of whom were children, had collected round my carriage at a very early hour in the morning, doing nothing: they now thronged round me, all begging, and shouting, "Long life to your honour!" Every individual among them stuck faithfully by me, leaping over stones and brambles. The strangest compliment now and then resounded from the midst of the crowd: at last some called out, "Long life to the King!" On my return I threw two or three handfuls of copper among them; and in a minute half of them, old and young, lay prostrate in the sand, while the others ran with all speed into a whiskey-shop, fighting furiously all the way. Such is Ireland! Neglected or oppressed by the government, debased by the stupid intolerance of the English priesthood, and marked by poverty and the poison of whiskey, for the abode of naked beggars!--I have already mentioned that even among the educated classes of this province, the ignorance appears, with our notions of education, perfectly unequalled: I will only give you one or two examples. To-day something was said about magnetism, and no one present had ever heard the slightest mention of it. Nay, in B----m, in a company of twenty persons, nobody knew that such places as Carlsbad and Prague existed. The information that they were situated in Bohemia did not mend the matter:--Bohemia was not less unknown; and in short, everything out of Great Britain and Paris was a country in the moon.[129] "And where do you come from?" asked one. "From Brobdignag," said I in jest. "O! is that on the sea? Have they whiskey there?" asked another. The son of my host, whom I have repeatedly mentioned, asked me one day very seriously as we met some asses, whether there were any such animals in my country? "Ah! but too many," replied I. _B----m, Sept. 12th._ Yesterday we returned home, tearing ourselves away from the lovely African, who however had promised soon to follow us. To-day I took advantage of a leisure day to ride to Castle Hackett, a solitary hill in the neighbourhood, believed by the people to be a favourite resort of the fairies, or 'good people' as they call them. No nation is more poetical, or more richly endowed with fancy. An old man who has the care of the woods of Castle Hackett, and has the reputation of knowing more than other men about the 'good people,' told us these circumstances connected with the death of his son, in the style of a romance. "I knew it," said he, "four days before--I knew he would die; for as I was going home that evening about twilight, I saw them scouring in a wild chase over the plain: their red dresses fluttered in the wind; and the lakes turned to ice as they came near, and walls and trees bowed themselves to the earth before them; and they rode over the tops of the thicket as if it were over the green grass. In front rode the queen, on a white stag-like horse; and by her I saw, with a shudder, my son, whom she smiled upon and caressed; while he, with a fevered eye, looked wistfully at her, till all were past Castle Hackett. Then I knew it was all over with him;--that same day he took to his bed;--on the third I carried him to the grave. There was not a handsomer or a better lad in Connemara, and it was for that the queen chose him." The old man seemed so firmly and unaffectedly convinced of the truth of his story, that it would only have offended him to express the least doubt of it. He replied to our inquiries for further details with great readiness, and I promise myself the pleasure of giving you the most accurate description of the dress of the fairy queen for your next masked ball. At the foot of this hill is a pretty country-seat; and the hill itself is covered to its summit with young and thriving plantations. On the top is a sort of artificial ruin, made of loose stones piled together,--laborious and almost dangerous to climb. The view from it is, however, worth the exertion. On two sides the eye wanders over the almost immeasurable plain; on the other two lies Lough Corrib, a lake thirty miles in length, behind which are the mountains of Clare; and in still remoter distance the romantic ridge of Connemara. The lake just at its middle bends inland like a river, and its waters gradually lose themselves between the lofty mountains, which seem to form a gateway for their entrance. Just at this point the sun set; and Nature, who often rewards my love for her, displayed one of her most wondrous spectacles. Black clouds hung over the mountains, and the whole heavens were overcast. Only just at the point where the sun looked out from beneath the dusky veil, issued a stream of light which filled the whole ravine with a sort of unearthly splendour. The lake glittered beneath it like molten brass; while the mountains had a transparent, steel-blue lustre, like the gleam of diamonds. Single streaks of rose-coloured cloud passed slowly across this illumined picture over the mountains; while on both sides of the opened heavens, distant rain fell in torrents, and formed a curtain which shut out every glimpse of the remaining world. Such is the magnificence which Nature has reserved for herself alone, and which even Claude's pencil could never imitate. On our way home my young friend discoursed largely on the perfections of Mrs L----. Among other things, he said, "Never with all her vivacity did I see, even for an instant, the least trace of impatience or ill-humour about her; never had a woman a sweeter temper." This word is, like 'gentle,' untranslatable. Only the nation which invented 'comfort' was capable of conceiving 'good temper,' for 'good temper' is to the moral what 'comfort' is to the physical man. It is the most contented, the most _comfortable_ state of the soul: the greatest happiness both for those who possess it, and for those who feel its influence. Perhaps it is found in perfection in woman alone; for it is rather a passive than an active quality: and yet we must by no means confound it with mere apathy, which is either tedious, or exasperates one's anger and contempt; whereas 'good temper' soothes and tranquillizes all who approach it. It is a truly kind, loving and cheerful principle; mild and balmy as a cloudless Mayday. With 'gentleness' in his own character, 'comfort' in his house, and 'good temper' in his wife, the earthly felicity of man is complete. 'Good temper,' in the highest sense, is doubtless one of the rarest qualities;--the consequence of an absolute harmony, or equilibrium of the moral powers,--the most perfect _health of the soul_. Great and striking single qualities cannot therefore be combined with it; for wherever one quality is predominant, the equilibrium is destroyed. It is possible to be most captivating, to inspire passionate love, admiration or esteem, without 'good temper;'--to be _perfectly_ and lastingly amiable without it, it is impossible. The contemplation of harmony in all things has a salutary effect on the mind; often unconscious of the cause, the soul is gladdened and refreshed by it, whatever be the sense through which it is communicated. A person therefore who is gifted with 'good temper,' affords us continual enjoyment, without ever awakening our envy, or exciting any vehement emotion. We gain strength from his tranquillity, courage from his cheerfulness, comfort from his resignation; we feel our anger vanish before his loving patience, and are finally the better and the happier for listening to the spiritual music of his harmony. How many words, you will say, to describe one! And yet, dear Julia, I have very imperfectly expressed what 'good temper' is. _September 13th._ The beautiful view of yesterday evening enticed me to take a nearer survey of what I had beheld at a distance. My obliging friend speedily fitted out an equipage for this purpose, a little 'char à banc,' which was drawn by two horses 'tandem' (one horse before another). We determined to visit Lake Corrib, Cong and its caverns, and to return in the night. After four hours smart trotting, and some little accidents to our frail tackle, we reached Cong, at a distance of twenty miles, where we ate a breakfast we had brought with us, of lobster prepared after the Irish fashion.[130] Knives and forks were not to be had, so that we adopted the Chinese mode of eating. We then set out to the caverns, accompanied as usual by a half-naked _cortège_. Every one of them was on the watch to do us some service: if I stooped to pick up a stone, ten or a dozen scrambled for it, and then asked for money; if there was a gate to open, twenty rushed to it, and expected a like reward. After I had given away all my small money, came one who affirmed that he had shown me some trifle or other. I unwillingly refused him, and told him my purse was empty. "Oh," said he, "a gentleman's purse can never be empty!"--no bad answer; for under the form of a compliment lurks a sort of reproach. "You look too much like a 'gentleman' not to have money, but if you are so ungenerous as not to give any, you are not a true gentleman; and, if you really have none, still less are you one." The crowd felt this, and laughed till I bought my deliverance from him. But to return to the 'Pigeon-hole.' It lies in the middle of a field, bare, and treeless, which, although flat, is covered with masses of limestone of a peculiar form, between which the scanty soil is with difficulty cultivated. These pieces of rock are as smooth as if polished by art, and look like stones regularly piled and half prepared for some colossal building. In this rocky plain, at about half a mile from Lough Corrib, is the entrance of the cave, like a broad dark well, in which thirty or forty steps, roughly hewn in the rock, lead down to the stream, which here flows subterraneously, making its way through long and romantic arches, till at length it rises into day, and turns a mill. It then buries itself a second time in the earth, and at length appears again as a broad, deep, and crystal river, and thus flows on till it falls into the lake. Not far from the cave before which we were now standing lives a 'Donna del Lago' who pays the lord of the soil four pounds a-year for the privilege of showing the 'Pigeon-hole' to strangers. She was admirably fitted for the porteress of such an entrance to the nether world, and indeed the whole scene could not be better 'in character,' as the English say. We had descended the steps in the dark, and heard the rush of invisible waters, when the gigantic, haggard old woman, with a scarlet cloak loosely thrown around her, long streaming white hair, and a firebrand in each hand, came down--the living original of Meg Merrilies. It was a wild scene! Her flickering torches threw fitful gleams on the rolling water, and the lofty vaulted roof bristling with stalactites; and now and then brought out the pale and squalid figures behind her with a broad red glare. She took some bundles of straw, and with words which sounded like an incantation, lighted them and threw them blazing into the stream. As they floated rapidly away, they disclosed new grottoes, more grotesque forms, and at length, after a hundred windings, disappeared in the distance like small tapers. We followed them, scrambling over the slippery stones as far as we could, and discovered here and there a trout in the ice-cold water. They have this peculiarity, that whatever bait may be offered them, no attempt to catch one has ever succeeded. The people of course think them enchanted. On emerging from the darkness to the spot where daylight breaks faintly, as down a shaft, you see the ivy and creeping plants hang around the rocks in the most picturesque festoons and garlands. Here flocks of wild pigeons roost, whence the cave has its name. The popular superstition permits no sportsmen to molest them in this spot, so that they are fearless as in a dove-cote. We quitted this gloomy region, where all is close and oppressive, and wandered down to the broad sea-like lake, where all seems to lose itself in boundless space. This majestic body of water fills a basin of twelve German miles long, and at its widest point, three broad. It contains just as many islands as the year days; at least so the natives assert,--I did not count them. It is bounded on two sides by the high mountains of Connemara; on the others its waters are nearly level with the plain: the approach to it opposite to the mountains was, therefore, more beautiful than the return. The navigation of this lake is very dangerous from its numerous rocks and islands, and the sudden squalls which often arise upon it. We saw in a newspaper a short time ago, that a boat, having on board a butcher and his sheep, had gone down, and man and beast perished. We had a very calm, though not a bright day. When we landed, my companion went before to give some orders; while as the sun was setting, I visited the ruins of an abbey, which contained some striking remains of architectural and sculptural beauty. Ireland is studded with ruins of old castles and monasteries more thickly than any country in Europe, though they do not present such enormous masses as those in England. These _old_ ruins (for unfortunately even here are many new ones) are constantly used by the people as places of burial,--a poetical idea, peculiar, I believe, to this nation. As there are none of those tasteless modern monuments which deform English churches, and the grave is marked only by a mound of earth, or at most a flat stone, the touching picture of human frailty is enhanced, not impaired, by this custom. The impression is, however, sometimes heightened into horror by the little heed paid by those who dig the graves to the earlier buried, whose skeletons are thrown out without ceremony as soon as there is a want of room. The ruins are consequently filled with heaps of skulls and bones thrown confusedly together, and sometimes placed in pyramids or other forms by children at play. I climbed over a heap of mingled stones and bones, and crawled up into a ruinous chamber of the first story, where I feasted myself on the strange romantic picture. On my left the wall had fallen in, and opened to the eye the beautiful landscape which surrounds the lake, with its bright-green foreground, the mountains in the distance, and on one side the house and the high trees in the park of the Macnamaras, who reside here. Before me was a window in good preservation, surrounded with carvings like 'point d'Alençon;' above it hung large bunches of deep purple blackberries pendant from their luxuriant branches, which crept in one continuous mass along the open wall. On the right, where the wall of the chamber remained perfect, was a low niche, which no doubt formerly contained a saint, but was now occupied by a skull; the empty eye-sockets were directed exactly towards the beautiful landscape spread before it, as if its brilliancy and freshness had power to gladden even death itself. Following the same direction, I discovered a grated window just above the ground, which I had till then overlooked: it gave light to a spacious cellar, in which I descried a vast heap of bones, all arranged in the way I have mentioned, in various forms. The sunny landscape above, the dark charnel-house below, in which childhood sported with death,--it was a glance at once into life and the grave,--the joys of the one, and the unsympathizing calm of the other; while the rays of the setting sun threw a cheering glow over the living and dead, like messengers from a fairer world. Our return in a dark night, with incessant rain, was fatiguing and unpleasant; we broke several springs of our carriage, and had all sorts of calamities to endure. We arrived at B---- after midnight, and to my real dismay found the good old Captain and the whole family still up, and waiting supper for us. The prodigal attentions and the infinite kindness of these excellent people daily put me to shame, and I continually admire to see that their cordial hospitality is not deformed by the slightest trace of ostentation. That my letter may not be too large, and cost too much postage, (for I have to pay some pounds sterling to the English post-office for my voluminous packets,) I close it before I leave B----m. You will know me safe and well up to this point, and in the care of people whose hearts are like your own, however inferior to you they may be in mind and cultivation.--Heaven bless and preserve you. Your most faithful L.----. LETTER XXXII. _B----m Sept 14th, 1828._ BELOVED FRIEND, Your sermon is excellent; your reasons are unanswerable;--but I happen to believe the contrary; and belief is, as you know, a thing which not only removes mountains, but often builds up such as it is impossible to see over. No conversion can consequently be effectual, be the subject what it may, till the opposite belief has already begun to totter. Till that point is reached, though you speak with the wisdom of Plato, and act with the purity of Jesus, every man will retain his belief, on which reason and good sense have ordinarily little influence. He who wishes to produce any sudden change in the minds of men before they are already disposed to it, will either be confined as a madman, or stoned and crucified as a martyr. History teaches us this in every page. What is applicable universally, is also applicable individually,--and now, 'parlez-moi raison si vous l'osez.'--But, seriously speaking, a man who has the misfortune to be born with a too independent spirit, and who cares little for common opinion, merely because it is common, should remain unchanged all his life. The consequences of such a turn of mind, and the hostilities it excites, becomes painful, and at length dangerous, only when he grows weak and ceases to be self-sustained; when instead of despising, as before, the opinions of others, he begins to fear them. The multitude are quick to perceive the change, and instantly begin a steady and vigorous pursuit of the game which flees before them, and which, so long as it stood at bay and looked them boldly in the face, they dared not openly attack. For getting on in the world, there is no better maxim than this, 'Bouche riante, et front d'airain, et vous passez par tout.' We Germans are almost always too earnest as well as too timid, and are capable of only momentary struggles against these defects, which, like all such attempts, generally overshoot the mark. This makes us so fond of retirement and of converse with our own fancy,--our best and faithfullest companion;--we are sovereign lords of the regions of air, as Madame de Staël says. The world, as it is, does not please us, and we are just as little fitted to please the world. Retirement, and with it freedom, are therefore what we love best. We have had a strange accomplishment of a prophecy.--Miss Kitty, one of my host's daughters, and a very nice girl, had her fortune told yesterday by gipseys. I was by, and heard the woman say to her, among many common-place predictions, "Be upon your guard; for a shot will be fired in at your window, and your stay in B---- will not be long after that." We thought the prediction rather serious, and communicated it to the family on our return, but were only laughed at. The next morning early, we were all alarmed by the firing of two shots; Miss Kitty rushed down stairs half dressed, and nearly fainting from terror; and every one in the house ran to see what was the matter. We found that two of Kitty's younger brothers, who had been on a visit to Mrs. M----, had returned quite unexpectedly to fetch their sister, had played the silly trick of firing their fowling-pieces up at her window, and had done it so awkwardly that they had broken it. They were soundly rated, and then drove off with Miss Kitty; so that everything happened precisely as the old woman,--Heaven only knows how!--had seen in the lines of her hand. _September 15th._ I was a little hypochondriacal and dull yesterday, but to-day I am better in health, and consequently full of philanthropical sentiments,--virtuous, 'faute d'occasion de pêcher,' and merry, because I can laugh at myself 'faute de trouver quelque chose de plus ridicule.' Meanwhile the scene here has altered. The fair African is arrived, and we immediately set out, ten in number, on a ride; in the course of which the old Captain showed us his bog cultivation and his draining with all the ardour of a young man. He was as much enchanted by a field of potatoes as I by my fair companion. Pointing to a good crop, he cried out with enthusiasm, "Is not that a magnificent sight?" it certainly never came into his head that we could be thinking of other things, and that we assented only out of civility. I found some peasants for my plan of colonization; they were all eager to go, but unfortunately had not a penny in the world in furtherance of such a scheme. One runs no risk in promising them that they will find everything better than they have here, where a man must subsist from half an acre of land; and if he be ever so willing to seek work abroad, cannot find it. Those of them who are best off live in dwellings which our peasants would think too bad for their cows or horses. I visited one of these cabins and found the walls built of rude blocks of stone, with moss stuffed into the interstices, and a roof covered partly with straw, partly with turf. The floor consisted of the bare earth; there was no ceiling, and the roof admitted the light in many places. Chimneys seem to be esteemed a useless luxury. The smoke ascended from the open hearth, and found its way through the holes, which served as windows. A lower shed on the right was the bed-room of the whole family; a similar one on the left, the habitation of the pig and the cow. The house stood in the middle of a field, without garden, and utterly bare, and this they all called an _excellent_ house. When we got home our pretty visitor's hands were nearly frozen, even at this season. They were perfectly white and insensible, and were rubbed a quarter of an hour before the blood and life returned to them. 'C'est le sang Africain.' She is in perfect comfort only when seated close to a glowing turf fire, which would scorch any body else; then she recovers her child-like freedom and sportiveness, which sometimes carries even me away with it. _September 17th._ To-day Mr L---- came to visit us. How strangely are the good things of this world distributed! * * * He is a furious Orangeman: it was to be expected that such a character as his would range itself on the side of injustice, and delight in party rage. But on what principles! As this is a specimen of the height to which the spirit of party has reached, and the shamelessness with which it dares to avow itself, I will give you the quintessence of his conversation. "I have served my king for nearly thirty years in almost every part of the world, and want rest. Nevertheless, it is my most ardent wish, which I daily pray God to grant, that I may live to see a 'good sound rebellion' in Ireland. If I were called out to serve again, or if I were to lay down my life the very day it broke out, I should make the sacrifice willingly, could I but be sure that the blood of five millions of Catholics would flow at the same time with my own. Rebellion!--that's the point at which I want to see them, at which I wait for them, and to which they must be led on, that we may make an end of them at once; for there can be no peace in Ireland till the whole race is exterminated, and nothing but an open rebellion, and an English army to put it down, can effect this!"--Would it not be right to confine such a wicked madman for life, dear Julia, and give his sweet wife to some one more worthy of her? The youthful and uncorrupted hearts of the sons of my host were roused as much as my own: they manfully combatted these diabolical principles; but this exasperated the maniac Orangeman still more, till at length all were silent. Several had early dropped off from table to escape from such revolting conversation. _September 18th._ Mr L----'s visit fortunately lasted only a few days, and we are once more alone. We took advantage of our recovered freedom to make an excursion of twenty miles to Mount B----, the beautiful residence of a nobleman, and did not get back till late at night. The park at Mount B---- affords a perfect study for the judicious distribution of masses of water, to which it is so difficult to give the character of grandeur and simplicity that ought always to belong to them. It is necessary to study the forms of nature for the details; but the principal thing is never to suffer an expanse of water to be completely overlooked, or seen in its whole extent. It should break on the eye gradually, and if possible lose itself at several points at the same time, in order to give full play to the fancy,--the true art in all landscape gardening. The lord of the demesne, who is rich, possesses a numerous collection of pictures, some of which are excellent. There is a winter landscape of Ruysdaal's, the only one of its kind which I remember to have seen by that master. The character of the cold foggy air, and the crisp frozen snow, are so perfectly given, that I almost shivered before it; I felt at least that the flickering blaze in the fire-place beneath had a double charm. A fine and undoubted Rubens, the 'Miraculous Draught of Fishes,' is chiefly remarkable for a strange singularity. St Peter has a scarlet wig, and yet the general expression of the picture is not injured. It has the effect of a glory, and seems to shed light around. I should think it was a trial of skill, perhaps undertaken by the painter in consequence of some jest, 'pour prouver la difficulté vaincue.' A very laborious landscape on wood, by an unknown hand, was formerly in the private collection of Charles I., whose cipher and name, with the crown above, are branded on the back. The gem of the collection appeared to me a picture of Rembrandt's, supposed to be the portrait of an Asiatic Jew; it is, at any rate, the ideal of one. The reality of the eyes and their blighting look is almost terrific; the dark and sinister, yet sublime expression of the whole is increased by the inky blackness of the rest of the picture, out of which the fiery eyes and satanic mouth look as if peeping forth frightfully from the midst of Egyptian night. After breakfast several hunters and racers were brought out, and we exhibited our feats of horsemanship to the ladies. The hunters of this country are not, perhaps, quite so swift as the best English ones, but they are unequalled at leaping, to which they are trained from their youth. They go up to a wall with the most perfect composure, and mount it with their fore and hind feet like a dog. If there is a ditch on the other side, they leap that also by giving themselves a fresh 'élan' on the top of the wall. The less the rider attempts to help a well trained horse the better. If he keeps a steady light rein upon him he may safely leave him to himself. I don't know whether these details of horsemanship are very interesting to you, but as my letters are at the same time my journal (for how should I find time to keep any other?) you must be so kind as to receive with indulgence whatever has any interest, not only for you, but for myself. _Galway, Sept. 19th, Evening._ You know that my determinations are often of a very sudden nature,--my pistol-shots, as you used to call them. I have just discharged one. You may think that I did not quit such cordial friends without great regret, but I had resolved to go, and adhered steadily to my resolution. To avoid the delay of sending for post-horses, I rode with James for the last time on 'Doctor,' his admirable hunter, to Tuam, leaving all needful arrangements to my servant. I intended to leave Tuam by the mail, but it was not its day for going, and no species of conveyance to Galway was to be had, except the little two-wheeled cart of the man who carries the letter-bags, in which there is room for two passengers. I did not deliberate long, but giving James a last shake by the hand, sprang into this frail vehicle, and 'clopin-clopant,' away rattled the old horse with us through the streets. The other passenger was a fine athletic young man, well dressed, with whom I soon got into an interesting conversation on the beauties and wonders of his country, and the character of his countrymen. He was not long without affording me a fresh proof of the hearty kindness and civility of the latter. I was very lightly dressed, and heated with riding, so that I suffered from the cold wind. I offered the driver some money to surrender his cloak to me: on a nearer view, however, this appeared so fearfully dirty and disgusting, that I could not bring myself to put it on. The young man immediately took off a magnificent great-coat of vast dimensions, and almost forced me to take it, protesting that he never caught cold, that he could sleep in the water without taking any harm, and that he had put on the great-coat only because he did not know what to do with it. This friendly act of his made us more quickly acquainted than we should otherwise have been; and the time passed away, amid all sorts of talk, much more rapidly than I had ventured to hope; for the distance was six German miles, the road very rough, the equipage as bad as possible, the seat uneasy, the country monotonous and dreary. Not a hill, not a tree to be seen; only a network of walls drawn over the whole surface. Every field is enclosed within walls of loose stones without mortar, but so well constructed, that unless violently shaken they stand very firm. Many ruins of castles were visible, but in such a flat, desert plain, without one bush or bough to break it, they produced no romantic effect. We found the ragged potatoe-eating people everywhere gay and joyous. They always beg, to be sure, but they beg laughing, with wit, humour, and the drollest expressions, without importunity, and without 'rancune' if they get nothing. Most striking, amid such singular poverty, is the no less singular honesty of these people; perhaps, however, the one arises out of the other, for luxury makes us covetous, and the poor man can often bear the privation of necessaries more easily than the rich of superfluities. We saw a number of labourers sitting by the road-side on heaps of stone, which they were breaking. My companion said, "Those are conquerors; their whole business is to break in pieces and destroy, and they rise on the ruins they make." Meanwhile our driver blew his horn to announce the post, for which, as with us, everything must make way: the tone, however, came forth with such difficulty and sounded so piteously, that we all laughed. A pretty boy, of about twelve, looking like a personification of happiness and joy, though half naked, was sitting on a heap of stones, hammering. He shouted with mischievous glee, and called out to the angry driver, "Oh ho, friend! your trumpet has caught cold; it is as hoarse as my old grandmother: cure it directly with a glass of potheen, or it will die of a consumption before you reach Galway!" A loud laugh from all the labourers followed as chorus. "There," said my companion, "there you see our people,--starvation and laughter,--that is their lot. Would you believe that, from the number of labourers and the scarcity of labour, not one of these men earns enough to buy sufficient food; and yet every one of them will spare something to his priest: and if you go into his cabin, will give you half of his last potatoe and a joke into the bargain." We now approached the Galway mountains, over which the sun was setting magnificently. This is a spectacle which I can never behold unmoved; it always enchants me, and leaves a feeling of calm and security, arising from the certainty that this language, which God himself speaks to us, cannot lie, though human revelations be but piece-meal, differently understood by every different interpreter, and often abused to the purposes of cunning and selfishness. We alighted at the same inn at which I had been during the races; and to make some return for my young friend's civility, I invited him to sup with me. It was late when we separated,--probably forever; but such acquaintanceships I like; they leave no time for dissembling: ignorant of each other's social relations, each values in the other only _the man_. Whatever each obtains from the other of kind feeling or good opinion, he owes to himself alone. _Sept. 20th, Morning._ I had hoped my carriage would have arrived during the night, but it is not yet come; and I therefore employed my leisure in taking a more perfect survey of this ancient city. I was greatly assisted by some fragments of an old Chronicle, which I accidentally picked up in a grocer's shop, where I made some inquiries. In an obscure corner of the town stands a house of extreme antiquity, over the door of which are still to be seen a skull and cross-bones, remarkably well sculptured, in black marble. This house is called "The Cross-bones," and its tragical history is as follows. In the fifteenth century, James Lynch, a man of old family and great wealth, was chosen mayor of Galway for life;--an office which was then nearly equal to that of a sovereign in power and influence. He was reverenced for his inflexible rectitude, and loved for his condescension and mildness. But yet more beloved,--the idol of the citizens and their fair wives,--was his son, according to the Chronicle, one of the most distinguished young men of his time. To perfect manly beauty and the most noble air, he united that cheerful temper, that considerate familiarity, which subdues while it seems to flatter,--that attaching grace of manner, which conquers all hearts without an effort, by its mere natural charm. On the other hand, his oft-proved patriotism, his high-hearted generosity, his romantic courage, and complete mastery in all warlike exercises, forming part of an education singular in his age and country, secured to him the permanency of an esteem which his first aspect involuntarily bespoke. So much light was not without shadow. Deep and burning passions, a haughty temper, jealousy of all rival merit, rendered all his fine qualities only so many sources of danger to himself and others. Often had his stern father, although proud of such a son, cause for bitter reproof, and for yet more anxious solicitude about the future. But even he could not resist the sweetness of the youth,--as quick to repent as to err, and who never for a moment failed in love and reverence to himself. After his first displeasure was past, the defects of his son appeared to him as they did to all others, only spots on the sun. He was soon still further tranquillized by the vehement and tender attachment which the young man appeared to have conceived for Anna Blake, the daughter of his best friend, and a girl possessing every lovely and attaching quality. He looked forward to their union as the fulfilment of all his wishes. But fate had willed it otherwise. While young Lynch found more difficulty in conquering the heart of the present object of his love than he had ever experienced before, his father was called by business to Cadiz;--for the great men of Galway, like the other inhabitants of considerable sea-ports in the middle ages, held trade on a large scale to be an employment nowise unworthy even men of noble birth. Galway was at that time so powerful and so widely known, that, as the Chronicle relates, an Arab merchant, who had long traded to these coasts from the East, once inquired "in what part of Galway Ireland lay?" After James Lynch had delegated his authority to trusty hands, and prepared every thing for a distant journey, with an overflowing heart he blessed his son, wished him the best issue to his suit, and sailed for his destination. Wherever he went, success crowned his undertakings. For this he was much indebted to the friendly services of a Spanish merchant named Gomez, towards whom his noble heart conceived the liveliest gratitude. It happened that Gomez also had an only son, who, like Edward Lynch, was the idol of his family, and the darling of his native city, though in character, as well as in external appearance, entirely different from him. Both were handsome; but Edward's was the beauty of the haughty and breathing Apollo; Gonsalvo's of the serene and mild St. John. The one appeared like a rock crowned with flowers; the other like a fragrant rose-covered knoll, threatened by the storm. The Pagan virtues adorned the one; Christian gentleness and humility the other. Gonsalvo's graceful person exhibited more softness than energy; his languid dark blue eyes, more tenderness and love than boldness and pride; a soft melancholy overshadowed his countenance, and an air of voluptuous suffering quivered about his smiling lips, around which a timid smile rarely played, like a gentle wave gliding over pearls and coral. His mind corresponded to such a person: loving and endearing, of a grave and melancholy serenity, of more internal than external activity, he preferred solitude to the bustle and tumult of society, but attached himself with the strongest affection to those who treated him with kindness and friendship. His inmost heart was thus warmed by a fire, which, like that of a volcano buried too deep to break out at the surface, is only seen in the increased fertility of the soil above, which it clothes in the softest green, and decks with the brightest flowers. Thus captivating, and easily captivated, was it a wonder if he stole the palm even out of the hand of Edward Lynch? But Edward's father had no such anticipations. Full of gratitude to his friend, and of affection for his engaging son, he determined to propose to the old Gomez a marriage between Gonsalvo and his daughter. The offer was too flattering to be refused. The fathers were soon agreed; and it was decided that Gonsalvo should accompany his future father-in-law to the coast of Ireland, and if the inclinations of the young people favoured the project, their union should take place at the same time with Edward's, after which they should immediately return to Spain. Gonsalvo, who was just nineteen, accompanied the revered friend of his father with joy. His young romantic spirit enjoyed in silent and delighted anticipation the varying scenes of strange lands which he was about to see; the wonders of the deep which he would contemplate; the new sort of existence of unknown people with whom he was to be connected; and his warm heart already attached itself to the girl, of whose charms her father gave him, perhaps, a too partial description. Every moment of the long voyage, which at that time abounded with dangers and required a much longer period than now, increased the intimacy and mutual attachment of the travellers: and when at length they descried the port of Galway, the old Lynch congratulated himself not only on the second son which God had sent him, but on the beneficial influence which the unvarying gentleness of the youth would have on Edward's darker and more vehement character. This hope appeared likely to be completely fulfilled. Edward, who found all in Gomez that was wanting in himself, felt his own nature as it were completed by his society; and as he had already learned from his father that he was to regard him as a brother, their friendship soon ripened into the warmest and most sincere affection. But not many months had passed before some uneasy feelings arose in Edward's mind to trouble this harmony. Gonsalvo had become the husband of his sister, but had deferred his return to Spain for an indefinite time. He was become the object of general admiration, attention, and love. Edward felt that he was less happy than formerly. For the first time in his life neglected, he could not conceal from himself that he had found a successful rival of his former universal and uncontested popularity. But what shook him most fearfully, what wounded his heart no less than his pride, what prepared for him intolerable and restless torments, was the perception, which every day confirmed, that Anna, whom he looked upon as _his_,--though she still refused to confess her love,--that _his_ Anna had ever since the arrival of the handsome stranger grown colder and colder towards himself. Nay, he even imagined that in unguarded moments he had seen her speaking eyes rest, as if weighed down with heavy thoughts, on the soft and beautiful features of Gomez, and a faint blush then pass over her pale cheek; but if his eye met hers, this soft bloom suddenly become the burning glow of fever. Yes, he could not doubt it; her whole deportment was altered: capricious, humoursome, restless, sometimes sunk in deep melancholy, then suddenly breaking into fits of violent mirth, she seemed to retain only the outward form of the sensible, clear-minded, serene, and equal tempered girl she had always appeared. Everything betrayed to the quick eye of jealousy that she was the prey of some deep-seated passion,--and for whom?--for whom could it be but for Gomez! for him, at whose every action it was evident the inmost cords of her heart gave out their altered tone. It has been wisely said, that love is more nearly akin to hate than to liking. What passed in Edward's bosom was a proof of this. Henceforth it seemed his sole enjoyment to give pain to the woman he passionately loved: and now, in the bitterness of his heart, held guilty of all his sufferings. Wherever occasion presented itself, he sought to humble and to embarrass her, to sting her by disdainful pride, or to overwhelm her with cutting reproaches; till, conscious of her secret crime, shame and anguish overpowered the wretched girl, and she burst into torrents of tears, which alone had power to allay the scorching fever of his heart. But no kindly reconciliation followed these scenes, and, as with lovers, resolved the dissonance into blessed harmony. The exasperation of each was only heightened to desperation: and when he at length saw enkindled in Gomez,--so little capable of concealment,--the same fire which burnt in the eyes of Anna; when he thought he saw his sister neglected and himself betrayed by a serpent whom he had cherished in his bosom,--he stood at that point of human infirmity, of which the All-seeing alone can decide whether it be madness, or the condition of a still accountable creature. On the same night in which suspicion had driven Edward from his couch, a restless wanderer, it appears that the guilty lovers had for the first time met in secret. According to the subsequent confession of Edward, he had concealed himself behind a pillar, and had seen Gomez, wrapped in his mantle, glide with hurried steps out of a well-known side-door in the house of Anna's father, which led immediately to her apartments.--At the horrible certainty which now glared upon him, the fury of hell took possession of his soul: his eyes started from their sockets, the blood rushed and throbbed as if it would burst his veins, and as a man dying of thirst pants for a draught of cooling water, so did his whole being pant for the blood of his rival. Like an infuriate tiger he darted upon the unhappy youth, who recognized him, and vainly fled. Edward instantly overtook him, seized him, and burying his dagger a hundred times, with strokes like lightning-flashes, in the quivering body, gashed with satanic rage the beautiful features which had robbed him of his beloved, and of peace. It was not till the moon broke forth from behind a dark cloud, and suddenly lighted the ghastly spectacle before him,--the disfigured mass, which retained scarcely a feature of his once beloved friend, the streams of blood which bathed the body and all the earth around it,--that he waked with horror as from some infernal dream. But the deed was done, and judgment was at hand. Led by the instinct of self-preservation, he fled, like Cain, into the nearest wood. How long he wandered there he could not recollect. Fear, love, repentance, despair, and at last madness, pursued him like frightful companions, and at length robbed him of consciousness,--for a time annihilating the terrors of the past in forgetfulness; for kind nature puts an end to intolerable sufferings of mind, as of body, by insensibility or death. Meanwhile the murder was soon known in the city; and the fearful end of the gentle youth, who had confided himself, a foreigner, to their hospitality, was learned by all with sorrow and indignation. A dagger, steeped in blood, had been found lying by the velvet cap of the Spaniard, and not far from it a hat, ornamented with plumes and a clasp of gems, showed the recent traces of a man who seemed to have sought safety in the direction of the wood. The hat was immediately recognized as Edward's; and as he was nowhere to be found, fears were soon entertained that he had been murdered with his friend. The terrified father mounted his horse, and, accompanied by a crowd of people calling for vengeance, swore solemnly that nothing should save the murderer, were he even compelled to execute him with his own hands. We may imagine the shouts of joy, and the feelings of the father, when at break of day Edward Lynch was found sunk under a tree, living, and although covered with blood, yet apparently without any dangerous wound. We may imagine the shudder that ran through the crowd,--but the feelings of the father we _cannot_ imagine,--when, restored to sense, he embraced his father's knees, declared himself the murderer of Gonsalvo, and earnestly implored instant punishment. He was brought home bound, tried before a full assembly of the magistrates, and condemned to death by his own father. But the people would not lose their darling. Like the waves of the tempest-troubled sea, they filled the market-place and the streets, and forgetting the crime of the son in the relentless justice of the father, demanded with threatening cries the opening of the prison and the pardon of the criminal. During the night, though the guards were doubled, it was with great difficulty that the incensed mob were withheld from breaking in. Towards morning, it was announced to the mayor that all resistance would soon be vain, for that a part of the soldiers had gone over to the people;--only the foreign guard held out, and all demanded with furious cries the instant liberation of the criminal. At this, the inflexible magistrate took a resolution, which many will call inhuman, but whose awful self-conquest certainly belongs to the rarest examples of stoical firmness.--Accompanied by a priest, he proceeded through a secret passage to the dungeon of his son; and when, with newly-awakened desire of life, excited by the sympathy of his fellow-citizens, Edward sunk at his feet, and asked eagerly if he brought him mercy and pardon? The old man replied with unfaultering voice, "No, my son, in this world there is no mercy for you: your life is irrevocably forfeited to the law, and at sunrise you must die. One-and-twenty years have I prayed for your earthly happiness,--but that is past,--turn your thoughts now to eternity; and if there be yet hope there, let us now kneel down together and implore the Almighty to grant you mercy hereafter;--but then I hope my son, though he could not live worthy of his father, will at least know how to die worthy of him." With these words he rekindled the noble pride of the once dauntless youth, and after a short prayer, he surrendered himself with heroic resignation to his father's pitiless will. As the people, and the greater part of the armed men mingled in their ranks, now prepared, amidst more wild and furious menaces, to storm the prison, James Lynch appeared at a lofty window; his son stood at his side with the halter round his neck. "I have sworn," exclaimed the inflexible magistrate, "that Gonsalvo's murderer should die, even though I must perform the office of the executioner myself. Providence has taken me at my word; and you, madmen, learn from the most wretched of fathers that nothing must stop the course of justice, and that even the ties of nature must break before it." While he spoke these words he had made fast the rope to an iron beam projecting from the wall, and now suddenly pushing his son out of the window, he completed his dreadful work. Nor did he leave the spot till the last convulsive struggles gave certainty of the death of his unhappy victim. As if struck by a thunder-clap, the tumultuous mob had beheld the horrible spectacle in death-like silence, and every man glided as if stunned to his own house. From that moment the mayor of Galway resigned all his occupations and dignities, and was never beheld by any eye but those of his own family. He never left his house till he was carried from it to his grave. Anna Blake died in a convent. Both families in course of time disappeared from the earth; but the skull and cross-bones still mark the scene of this fearful tragedy. _Limerick, Sept. 21st._ At ten o'clock my carriage arrived, and I immediately quitted Galway. As long as the country remained monotonous, I beguiled the time by reading. At Gort it becomes more interesting. Not far from it flows a river, which, like that at Cong, looses itself several times in the earth. One of the deepest basins which it forms is called "The Punch-bowl." To fill such a bowl would require a larger tun than that at Heidelberg. You now begin to approach the Clare mountains: and Nature decks herself in more picturesque attire. A park belonging to Lord Gort broke upon me like a magnificent picture: it is bounded by a broad lake, in which are thirteen beautiful wooded islands; these, with the mountains in the back-ground, and the expanse of water, which the eye never completely embraces, in front, produced a grand and striking effect. One of the most miserable post-horses seemed to participate so intensely in my delight, that it was impossible to make him stir. After many vain attempts to induce him to change his position, during which the postilion repeatedly protested that it was only this one spot to which he was so attached, but that if we could once get him away from it, he would go like the devil himself, we were obliged to unharness him;--he had begun to kick and to break our crazy equipage. In comparison with the Irish post establishment, that of Saxony, erst so celebrated, might fairly be called excellent. Bleeding skeletons, galled all over, starved and superannuated, are fastened by rotten harness to your carriage, and if you ask your postilion (whose dress consists of a few rags,) if he thinks that such cattle can go a mile, much more a stage of twelve or fifteen, he answers very seriously, "Sure there's no better equipage in England; I shall take your honour there in less than nothing." Scarcely, however, have you gone twenty steps, when something breaks, one horse is restive, and the other falls down exhausted: this does not put him the least out of countenance, he has always some admirable excuse ready, and at last, if nothing else will do, he declares himself bewitched. This was the course of things to-day. We must probably have passed the night in the park of Gort, had not assistance and horses been most hospitably despatched to us from the house. Notwithstanding this, our stay was so long that it was ten before I reached Limerick. My letter is so thick that I must send it away before its corpulence becomes 'impayable.' You will not hear of me again in less than a fortnight, as I am determined to plunge into those wild regions, which foreign foot has seldom trod. Pray for a prosperous journey for me; and above all, love me with the same tenderness as ever. Your faithful L----. LETTER XXXIII. _Limerick, Sept. 22d, 1828._ DEAREST FRIEND, Limerick is the third city in Ireland, and of the kind of cities I like, old and venerable, adorned with Gothic churches and moss-covered ruins; with dark narrow streets, and curious houses of various dates; a broad river flowing through its whole length, and crossed by several antique bridges; lastly, a busy market-place, and cheerful environs. Such a city has for me a charm like that of a wood, whose dark branches, now low, now high, afford sylvan streets of various forms, and frequently over-arch the way like a Gothic roof. Modern regular cities are like a trimly cut French garden: they do not suit my romantic taste. I was not quite well, and returned after a little walk in the town to my inn. I found a sexton of one of the Catholic churches waiting for me; he told me that they had rung the bells as soon as they knew of my arrival, and hoped I would give them ten shillings as a gratuity. 'Je l'envoyai promener.' In a few minutes a Protestant functionary of the same sort was announced. I asked him what he wanted. "Only to warn your royal highness against the impositions of the Catholics, who annoy strangers in the most shameless manner, and to beg that your royal highness will not give them anything:--at the same time I take the liberty to ask a small contribution to the Protestant poor-house." (You must observe that the people of this country are extremely lavish of titles to anybody who travels with four horses.) "Go to the d----l, Protestants and Catholics," said I in a rage, and flung the door in his face. But this was not all; I was soon waited upon by a deputation of the catholics, consisting of the French Consul (an Irishman,) a relation and namesake of O'Connell, and some others, who harangued me, and begged to present me with the Order of the Liberator. I had the greatest possible difficulty in excusing myself from this honour, and in declining an invitation to dine with their club. We compromised the matter by my accepting the offer of two of them to accompany me all over the town as ciceroni. I resigned myself very patiently, and was first conducted to the cathedral, a building of great antiquity, more in the style of a fortress than of a church; the architecture solid and rude, but imposing by its massiveness. In the interior I admired a carved chair of the most exquisite workmanship; it is five hundred years old, and made of bog-oak, which time has rendered black as ebony. Its rich ornaments consisted of beautiful arabesques and most curious masks, which were different on every side. The grave of Thomond, King of Ulster and Limerick, though mutilated and defaced by modern additions, is a very interesting monument. Descendants of this royal line are still in existence. The head of the family bears the title of Marquis of Thomond, a name which you will remember to have seen in my letters from London, where its possessor was distinguished for the excellence of his dinners. Ireland has many families of great antiquity, who pique themselves on never having contracted a 'mésalliance,' a practice so common among the English and French nobility, that pure unmixed blood (_stiftsfähiges Blut_,[131] as we call it in Germany) is no longer to be found in either of those kingdoms. The French nobles called these marriages for money 'mettre du fumier sur ses terres,' a joke not very flattering to the bride.--And many an English lord owes all the present splendour of his family to such 'fumier.' We quitted the church, and were proceeding to visit the rock near the Shannon, upon which the English signed the treaty after the battle of the Boyne; a treaty which they have not been remarkably scrupulous in observing. I remarked that we were followed by an immense crowd of people, which increased like an avalanche, and testified equal respect and enthusiasm. All on a sudden they shouted "Long life to Napoleon and Marshal ----." "Good God," said I, "for whom do the people take me? As a perfectly unpretending stranger I cannot in the least degree understand why they seem disposed to do me so much honour." "Was not your father the Prince of ----?" said O'Connell. "Oh no," replied I; "my father was indeed a nobleman of rather an older date, but very far from being so celebrated." "You must forgive us then," said O'Connell incredulously; "for to tell you the truth, you are believed to be a natural son of Napoleon, whose partiality to your supposed mother was well known." "You joke," said I laughing: "I am at least ten years too old to be the son of the great emperor and the beautiful princess." He shook his head, however, and I reached my inn amid reiterated shouts. Here I shut myself up, and shall not quit my retreat to-day. The people, however, patiently posted themselves under my windows, and did not disperse till it was nearly dark. _Tralee, Sept. 23rd._ This morning I was again received with cries of "Long life to Napoleon and your honour!" And while my servant, who was seated in my carriage, and passed for Napoleon's son, drove off in the midst of cheers and acclamations, I slipped out at a back-door, with a lad who carried my travelling bag, and took my place in the stage, which was to convey me to the lake of Killarney. My people had orders to wait for me in Cashel, where I shall probably rejoin them in a fortnight. With my present simple exterior no human being thought of assailing me with homage; and I could not help philosophizing on this public farce, and thinking how often the desire of glory and renown leads only to disguise and false assumption. Certainly of all the dreams of life this is the most shadowy! Love sometimes satisfies, knowledge tranquilizes, art gladdens and amuses; but ambition, ambition gives only the tormenting passion of a hunger which nothing can allay,--a chase after a phantom which is ever unattainable. In a quarter of an hour I was comfortably established in the stage-coach. The passengers inside consisted of three women; one fat and jovial, another extremely lean, and a third pretty and well proportioned. There was also a man who had the air of a pedagogue, with a long face, and still longer nose. I sat entrenched between the two slender ladies, and conversed with the corpulent one, who was very talkative. On my letting down a window she told us that she had lately been nearly _sea-sick_ in this very coach, because an ailing lady who sat opposite to her would not allow a window to be opened on any account. That _she_, however, did not give it up; and after a quarter of an hour's persuasion had succeeded in prevailing on the lady to admit of one inch of air; a quarter of an hour after another inch, and so on, till she manoeuvered the whole window open. "Excellent," said I; "that is exactly the way in which women manage to get all they wish; first _one_ inch, and then--as much as they want. How differently do men act under similar circumstances," continued I. "An English writer, in his directions to travellers, says, that if anybody in the mail should insist on keeping all the windows closed, you should not enter into any 'pour parler' with him, but immediately thrust your elbow through the window as if by accident, beg his pardon, and quietly enjoy the cool air." The ruins of Adair now attracted our attention, and interrupted the conversation. Further on the Shannon appeared in all its grandeur. In some parts it is like an American river, nine miles broad, and its shores finely wooded. At Lisdowel, a little place where we dined, hundreds of beggars assembled as usual about the coach. One novelty struck me; they had little wooden cups fixed at the end of long sticks, which they reached in at the window, and thus more conveniently secured the desired 'pence.' One beggar had built himself a sort of sentry-box of loose stones in the road, in which he seemed to remain in a state of perpetual bivouac. I must conclude; for the mail drives off again in a few hours, and I want rest. More to-morrow. _Killarney, Sept. 24th._ In the course of to-day I saw twelve rainbows, a bad omen for the steadiness of the weather; but I receive it as a good one for me. It promises me a many-coloured journey. The company had dropped off, one by one, like ripe fruit, and I found myself alone with an Irish gentleman, a manafacturer from the north, when I entered the pretty cheerful town of Killarney, where the incessant resort of English tourists has almost introduced into the inns English elegance and English prices. We immediately inquired for boats, and for the best way of seeing the lake, but were told that it was imposible to go on in such a storm: no boat could 'live on the lake,' as the fisherman expressed it. An English dandy, who had joined us during breakfast, ridiculed these assurances; and as I, you know, am also rather incredulous about _impossibilities_, we outvoted the manufacturer, who showed very little ardour for the undertaking, and embarked, 'malgré vent et marée,' near Ross Castle, an old ruin not far from Killarney. We had a capital boat, an old characteristic-looking grey-headed steersman, and four sturdy rowers. The heaven was as if torn open; in some places blue, in others various shades of gray; but for the most part raven-black. Clouds of all forms rolled in wild disorder, now and then tinged by a rainbow, or lighted by a pale sunbeam. The high mountains scarcely appeared through their gloomy veil, and on the lake all was like night. The Black waves heaved in busy and ceaseless tumult; here and there one bore a crest of snow-white foam. As the motion was nearly as great as at sea, I was slightly sea-sick. The manufacturer was pale from fear; the young Englishman, proud of his amphibious nature, laughed at us both. Meanwhile the storm piped so loud that we could hardly hear each other speak; and when I asked the old steersman where we should land first, he said, "At the Abbey, if we can land anywhere." This did not sound encouraging. Our boat, which was the only one on the lake, for even the fishermen would not venture out, danced so fearfully up and down without making the smallest way, in spite of all the efforts of the rowers, that the manufacturer began to think of wife, children and manufactory, and peremptorily insisted on returning, as he had no intention of sacrificing his life to a party of pleasure. The dandy on the other hand was ready to burst with laughter: he protested that he was a member of the Yacht Club, and had seen very different sort of danger from this; and promised the rowers, who would rather have been at home, money without end if they would but hold out. For my own part, I followed General Yermoloff's maxim, "neither too rash nor too timid," took no part in the contest, wrapped myself in my cloak, and awaited the issue in peace. It seems I had all the beauty of the scene to myself; one of my companions being prevented from seeing it by fear, the other by self-complacency. For some time we struggled with the waves, on which we floated like sea-birds in storm and darkness; till at last such a violent wind came upon us from a gorge in the mountains opposite to which we lay, that it grew rather too serious even for the 'member of the Yacht Club,' and he acceded to the request of the steersman, to row back with the wind, and land on an island till the storm abated a little, which was generally the case about noon. This happened as he predicted: and after encamping for some hours in Innisfallen, a lovely little islet with beautiful groups of trees and ruins, we were able to continue our voyage. All the islands of this little lake, even to the smallest, called the Mouse, which is only a few yards long, are thickly clothed with arbutus, and other evergreens. They grow wild; and both in summer and in winter enliven the scene with the bright colours of their flowers and fruit. The forms of many of these islets are as curious as their names. They are generally called after O'Donaghue. Here is O'Donaghue's 'White Horse,' on whose rocky hoofs the surf breaks; there, his 'Library;' further on, his 'Pigeon-house,' or his 'Flower-garden;' and so on. But you do not know how the lake of Killarney arose. Listen then. O'Donaghue was the powerful chieftain of a clan inhabiting a great and opulent city, which stood where the lake now rolls its waters. It had everything in abundance except water; and the legend says, that the only little spring which it possessed was the gift of a mighty sorcerer, who called it up at the prayer of a beautiful virgin; adding a solemn warning, that they should never forget to close it every evening with a large silver cover which he left for that purpose. The strange forms and ornaments seemed to confirm this wonderful command; and never was the old custom neglected. But O'Donaghue, a mighty and dauntless warrior (perhaps too, like Talbot, an incredulous one,) only made merry at this story, as he called it; and one day, being heated with more wine than usual, he commanded, to the terror of all present, the silver cover to be carried into his house, where, as he jestingly said, it would make him an excellent bath. All remonstrances were vain: O'Donaghue was accustomed to make himself obeyed: and as his terrified vassals at length dragged in their ponderous burthen, amid groans and lamentations, he exclaimed laughing "Never fear, the cool night air will do the water good, and in the morning you will all find it fresher than ever." But those who stood nearest to the silver cover turned away shuddering, for it seemed to them as if the strange intricate characters upon it moved, and wreathed like a knot of twisted snakes, and an awful sound appeared to come forth mournfully from it. Fearful and anxious, they retired to rest: one alone fled to the adjoining mountains. And now when morning broke, and this man looked down into the valley, he thought he was in a dream;--city and land had disappeared; the rich meadows were no more to be seen, and the little spring bursting forth from the clefts of the earth has swelled into a measureless lake. What O'Donaghue prophesied was true; the water had become cooler for them all, and the new vessel had prepared for him his last bath. In very clear bright weather, as the fishermen assured us, some have seen at the lowest bottom of the lake, palaces and towers glimmering as through glass: but many have beheld, at the approach of a storm, O'Donaghue's giant figure riding over the waves on a snorting white horse, or gliding along the waters with the quickness of lightning in his unearthly bark. One of our boat's crew,--a man of about fifty, with long black hair, which the wind blew wildly about his temples, of an earnest and quiet but imaginative look,--was stealthily pointed out to me by one of his companions, while they whispered in my ear that "he had met him." You will believe that I quickly entered into conversation with this boatman, and sought to gain his confidence, knowing that these people, whenever they anticipate unbelief and jesting, observe an obstinate silence. At first he was reserved; but at length he became warmed, and swore by St. Patrick and the Virgin that what he was going to tell me was the naked truth. He said he had met O'Donaghue at twilight, just before the raging of one of the most terrific storms he had ever witnessed. He had staid out late fishing; it had rained torrents the whole day; it was piercingly cold, and without his whiskey-bottle he could not have held out any longer. Not a living soul had been visible on the lake for a long time,--when all at once a boat, as if fallen from the clouds, sailed towards him; the oars plied like lightning, and yet no rowers were visible: but at the stern sat a man of gigantic stature: his dress was scarlet and gold, and on his head he wore a three-cocked hat with broad gold lace. The spirit-boat passed him: Paddy fixed his eyes intently upon it: but when the tall figure was over against him, and two large black eyes glared forth out of the mantle, and scorched him like living coals, the whiskey fell out of his hand, and he did not come to himself till the rough caresses of his other half waked him. She was in a great rage, and called him a drunken fellow:--She might think the whiskey had brought him to that, but he knew better. Is it not curious that the costume here described exactly corresponds with that of our German Devil of the last century, who is now come into such great favour again? And yet Paddy had most certainly never heard of the Freischütz. It seems almost as if Hell had its 'Journal des Modes.' I was extremely amused at the old man's penitence and distress after he had finished his story. He loudly reproached himself for it, crossed himself, and incessantly repeated, "O'Donaghue, though terrible, looked like a 'real gentleman; 'for," said he, looking round fearfully, "'a perfect gentleman' he was, is now, and always will remain." The younger boatmen were not such firm believers, and seemed to have a good mind to joke the ghost-seer a little, but his seriousness and indignation soon overawed them all. One of these young men was a perfect model of a youthful Hercules. With all the overflowing spirits of a body sound to the core, he played incessant tricks, and did the work of three at the same time. We landed at Mucruss Abbey, which stands in Mr. Herbert's park, notwithstanding which it is plentifully furnished with skulls and bones. The ruins are of considerable extent, and full of interesting peculiarities. In the court yard is a yew-tree, perhaps the largest in the world; it not only overtops all the building, but its branches darken the whole court, like a tent. In the first story I observed a fire-place, on which two ivy branches, one on each side, formed a most beautiful and regular decoration, while their leaves covered the mantel-piece with a mass of foliage. Our guide here gave us a curious example of the unbounded power of the Catholic priests over the common people. Two clans, the Moynihans and the O'Donaghues had been in a state of perpetual feud for half a century. Wherever they met in any considerable numbers, a shillelah battle was sure to take place, and many lives were usually lost. Since the formation of the Catholic Association, it has become the interest of the priests to establish peace and concord in their flocks. Accordingly, after the fight which took place last year, they enjoined as penance that the Moynihans should march twelve miles to the north, and the O'Donaghues an equal distance to the south, and both pronounce certain prayers at their journey's end; that all the lookers on should make a pilgrimage of six miles in some other direction; and in case of a repetition of the offence, the penance to be doubled. All this was executed with religious exactness; and ever since the war is at an end. Continuing our progress for about three miles on this side the lake, we landed on a thickly wooded shore, and visited O'Sullivan's waterfall, which, swollen by the rain, was doubly magnificent. The luxuriance of the trees and trailing of the plants which overhang it, and the cave opposite, in which you stand protected from the wet to view this foaming cataract, increase the picturesque and wild beauty of the scene. Here are sweet lonely walks, which lead over the mountains to a village imbedded in a wood, and cut off from all the world. But as the sun was struggling with the clouds, and we were soaked through and through (by the heavens and the lake whose waters had more than once washed over us,) and very weary, we resolved to close our labours for to-day, and to return by Lady Kenmare's pretty villa. As we had still about four miles to go by water, the handsome young fellow, who by-the-bye, in spite of his athletic frame, had a most remarkable resemblance to Mademoiselle Sontag, offered to bet three shillings that he would row us home in half an hour. The old ghost-seer would not undertake such an exertion, but young Sontag declared he would row for him. We accepted the wager, and now flew like an arrow across the lake. Never did I see a finer exhibition of power and persistency, amid constant singing, jokes, and sportive tricks. The rowers won their wager only by half a minute, but received from us more than double their bet, which all promised with great glee to drink in the course of the night. To conclude the whole, they held a conversation, already got up for the purpose, with the echo of the walls of Ross Castle. The answers had always some double meaning; for instance, 'Shall we have a good bed?'--answer, 'Bad,' and so on. _Sept. 25th._ Unfortunately two Englishmen of my acquaintance arrived to-day, and joined us, which destroyed my beloved incognito; for though I am no 'exalted personage,' I find as much pleasure in it as if I were. When one is unknown, one always escapes some _gene_, and gains some freedom the more, however inconsiderable one may be. As I could not help myself in this case, I contrived at least to perform half this day's tour by land with my worthy friend the manufacturer, and let the three Englishmen go together by boat. It was the same which we had yesterday, and had then engaged for to-day. My poney had the high sounding name of 'the Knight of the Gap.' He was but a recreant knight, however, and would not move without whip and spur. Before we came to the great ravine or gap, from which he takes his name, we had a very beautiful view of the mountains from a hill which rises in the midst of the plain. Mountain, water, and trees, were so happily distributed as to produce the more refreshing harmony:--the long ravine appears all the wilder and more, monotonous; in the style of Wales, but not so vast. In one part of it a large mass of rock loosened itself some years ago, and lies, split in two, across the road. A man had the project of excavating these pieces of rock as a hermitage, but remained faithful to his strange dwelling only three months. The people, with their usual energy of expression, call it "the madman's rock." Some way further on we saw an old woman cowering on the road, whose appearance exceeded all that has ever been invented in fairy tales. Never did I see anything more frightful and disgusting: I was told that she was a hundred-and-ten years old; and had survived all her children and grandchildren. Although in an intellectual point of view reduced to a mere animal, all her senses were in tolerable preservation. Her form was neither human nor even animal, but resembled rather an exhumed corpse reanimated. As we rode by, she uttered a piteous whine, and seemed satisfied when we threw her money. She did not reach however to pick it up, but sank back into her former torpor and apathy. All the furrows of her livid face were filled with black dirt, her eyes looked diseased, her lips were of a leaden blue; in short, imagination could conceive nothing so shocking. We met our boat at Brandon Castle, a ruin rendered habitable, with a high tower and neglected pleasure-grounds. There are some pieces of water through which our guides carried us on their backs. The boat appeared 'à point nommé;' it sailed round a projecting point just as we reached the shore, and had on board the best bugleman in Killarney. He blew a sort of Alpine horn with great skill, and called forth many a delightful echo. We passed the arch of a bridge, on which, when the waters are swollen, boats are often wrecked. Our bugleman told us that he had been twice upset here, and the last time nearly drowned. He wished, therefore, to be put on shore, and climb along the rocks past this formidable place; but the old steersman would not consent, declaring that if the strange gentlemen remained in the boat it became him to stay, and be drowned with them. We all passed quite safely however. The rock called "The Eagle's Nest," which is the almost constant abode of those kingly birds, is of a fine and imposing form. Not far from it is Coleman's Leap,--two rocks standing upright in the water at some distance; on which are the marks of feet, three or four feet deep in the rock. Such leaps and footmarks are to be found in almost all mountains. Our boat was fully victualled for a brilliant dinner (a thing which Englishmen seldom forget,) and as we espied a most romantic cottage under high chesnut trees, we determined to land here, and eat our repast. It would have been extremely agreeable, had not the dandy spoiled it by his affectation, his want of all feeling for the beautiful, and his ill-natured 'persiflage' of the less polished but far more estimable Irishman. He gave him the nickname of Liston (a celebrated actor, who is particularly distinguished in silly absurd characters,) and made the poor devil unconsciously act so burlesque a part, that I was reluctantly constrained to laugh, though the whole thing was quite 'hors de saison,' and in the most execrable taste. It is possible, too, that the Irishman only affected stupidity, and was, in fact, the most cunning of the two,--at least he addressed himself to eating and drinking with such unwearied perseverance while the others were occupied with laughing, that very little remained for them. I cannot deny that he received powerful support in this department from me.--A fresh-caught salmon broiled on arbutus-sticks over the fire was an admirable specimen of Irish fare. We rowed slowly back by moonlight, while the bugleman's horn started echo after echo from her repose. It was an enchanting night; and wandering from thought to thought, I reached a state of mind in which I too could have seen ghosts. The men near me seemed to me only like puppets; Nature alone, and the sweetness and the majesty that surrounded me, seemed real. Whence comes it, thought I, that a heart so loving is not social? that men are generally of so little worth to you?--Is your soul too small for intercourse with the intellectual world, too nearly allied to plants and animals?--or have you outgrown the forms of this state of existence in some prior one, and feel pent up in your too narrow garments? And when the melancholy tones of the bugle-horn again trembled in soft notes across the waves, and gave to my fancies the sounds of a strange language, like the voice of invisible spirits, I felt like Göthe's fisherman,--as if some irresistible force dragged me softly down into the calm element, to seek O'Donaghue in his coral rocks. Before we landed, a curious ceremony took place. The boat's crew, with young Sontag at their head,--who always called me 'his gentleman,' in virtue of a somewhat larger fee he had received from me,--asked permission to lie-to at a little island, and to christen this after me, which could only be done by moonlight. I was therefore told to stand on a projecting rock: the six boatmen leaning on their oars formed a circle around me, while the old man solemnly pronounced a sort of incantation in a wild measure, which sounded awfully in this romantic scenery and the night. Young Sontag then broke off a large arbutus branch, and giving a twig of it first to me, and then to the gentlemen in the boat, we fixed them in our hats; the rest he divided among his comrades, and then asked me--with respectful earnestness what name the island--with O'Donaghue's permission--was in future to bear? "Julia!" said I with a loud voice:--on which this name was repeated, not very accurately, three times with thundering hurrahs. A third man now took a bottle filled with water, delivered a long address in verse to O'Donaghue, and threw the bottle with all his might against a piece of rock, so that it broke into a thousand pieces. A second bottle filled with whiskey was then drunk to my health, and a threefold cheer again given to Julia Island. The boatmen, to whom the name was strange, took it for mine, and henceforth called me nothing but Mr. Julia, which I heard with a melancholy satisfaction. Your domains are thus increased by an island on the romantic lake of Killarney: it is only a pity that the next company that lands on the same spot will probably rob you of it; for doubtless such christenings take place as often as godfathers are to be found. The real child, the whiskey-bottle, is always at hand. Nevertheless, I enclose an arbutus leaf from the identical sprig which flourished on my hat, that you may at least retain undisputed possession of something from your island. _Glengariff, Sept. 26th._ To write to you to-day is really an effort which deserves reward; for I am excessively tired, and have, like my father Napoleon, been obliged to drink coffee incessantly to keep me awake.[132] I left Killarney at nine o'clock in the morning in a car of the most wretched construction, and followed the new road which leads along the upper and lower lake to the Bay of Kenmare. This road discloses more beauties than are seen from the lakes themselves, which have the great disadvantage of affording a picturesque view on one side only,--the other shore is quite flat. On the road which lies along the side of the mountain and through a wood, every turn presents you with pictures, which are the more beautiful from being framed. I remark, generally, that views seen from the water lose: they want the principal thing--the foreground. Near a beautiful cascade, and in the most charming wilderness, though not far from the road, a merchant has built himself a villa, and surrounded it with a garden and park. He must have expended at least five or six thousand pounds,--perhaps much more,--and yet the land is the property of his family only for ninety-nine years; at the expiration of that time it falls, together with all that is upon it, to the lord of the soil, Lord Kenmare, and must be delivered up to him in perfect repair. No German would feel disposed to spend his money in decorative improvements on such terms: but in England,--where almost the whole soil belongs either to the government, the church, or the powerful aristocracy, and therefore can seldom be purchased in fee; where, on the other hand, industry, fostered by a wise government, in alliance with agriculture, has enriched the middling and trading classes,--such contracts are extremely common, and obviate many of the inconveniences of the distribution of landed property, without diminishing its great utility to the state. The ascent now became steeper and steeper, and we soon found ourselves in the midst of bare heights; for vegetation here seldom extends above midway up the mountains. It is not as in Switzerland, where luxuriant verdure reaches almost to the snowy region. To take Switzerland as a standard by which to try Ireland, would however be absurd. Both countries afford romantic beauties of a totally different character; both excite admiration and astonishment at the sublime works of Nature, though in Switzerland they are on a more colossal scale. The road was so winding, that after half an hour's climbing we found ourselves precisely over the cottage I mentioned, which with its shining gray thatch looked, at that depth, like a little mouse sunning itself in the green grass;--for the sun, after a long struggle, had at length become undisputed lord of the heavens. Eight miles from Killarney we reached the highest point of the road, where stands a solitary inn. You look down upon the broad valley, in whose lap lies the greater part of the three lakes, so that you behold them all with one glance. From this point the road descends, leading between naked mountains of bold forms to the sea. It was fair-time when I arrived in Kenmare, and I could hardly penetrate through the bustling crowd with my one-horse vehicle, especially from the number of drunken men who would not--perhaps could not--get out of the way. One of them fell in consequence of an attempt to do so, and knocked his head so violently on the pavement that he was carried away senseless,--a thing of such common occurrence that it attracted no attention. The skulls of Irishmen appear to be universally of a more firm and massive construction than those of other people, probably because they are trained to receive shillelah blows. While I dined, I had another opportunity of observing several affrays. First a knot of people collect, shouting and screaming; this rapidly thickens; and all at once, in the twinkling of an eye, a hundred shillelahs whirl in the air, and the thumps,--which are generally applied to the head,--bang and snap like the distant report of fire-arms, till one party has gained the victory. As I was now at the fountain-head, through the mediation of mine host I bought one of the finest specimens of this weapon, yet warm from the fight. It is as hard as iron, and that it may be sure to do execution, it is also weighted at the end with lead. The celebrated O'Connell is now residing at about thirty miles from hence, in his solitary fortress in the most desert region of Ireland. As I have long wished to know him, I sent a messenger from this place, and determined, while waiting for his answer, to make an excursion to Glengariff Bay, whither I accordingly set out as soon as I had dined. Driving is now completely at an end: I can proceed only on a poney or on foot. I set out, a poney carrying my baggage, and I and my guide walking by his side. If either of us were tired, the good little horse was to carry us too. The sun soon set, but the moon shone bright. The road was not uninteresting, though horribly bad, often leading through bog and brook without bridge or stepping-stone. It became indescribably difficult after six or eight miles, where we had to climb a high and nearly perpendicular hill, treading only on loose and pointed stones, from which we slipped back at every step nearly as far as we went forward. The descent on the other side was still worse, especially when a mountain intercepted the moon's light. I was so weary that I could walk no further, and seated myself on the poney. This little creature showed almost human intelligence. Going up-hill he helped himself with his nose, and I think even with his teeth, as a fifth leg; and down-hill, he wriggled with incessant twisting of his body like a spider. When he came to a boggy place, in which there was only here and there a stone, thrown by way of step, he crept as slowly as a sloth, always trying first with his foot whether the stone would bear him and his burthen. The whole scene was most singular. The night was so clear, that I could see around me to a great distance; but nothing met my eye save rocks ranged above rocks, of every shape and kind, standing out gigantic, wild and sharp, against the sky. No living creature, not a tree or bush, was to be seen, only our own shadows trailed after us; not a sound was heard but our own voices, and sometimes the distant rush of a mountain-stream, or more rarely the melancholy horn of a herdsman collecting his cattle wandering amid these pathless wilds. Once only we saw one of these cows, which, like the mountain-sheep of Wales, have caught the shyness of wild animals. She was lying in the road, but on our approach sprang bellowing over the rocks, and vanished in the darkness like a black spirit. About an hour before you reach Glengariff Bay the landscape becomes as luxuriant and park-like as it has heretofore been dreary and barren. Here the rocks arise in the strangest forms, out of Hesperian thickets of arbutus, Portugal laurel, and other lovely and fragrant shrubs. Many of these rocks stand like palaces, smooth as marble, without excrescence or inequality; others form pointed pyramids, or long continuous walls. In the valley sparkled solitary lights, and a gentle breeze waved the tops of the high oaks, ashes, and birches, intermingled with beautiful holly, whose scarlet berries were visible even by moonlight. The magnificent bay now glittered under the web of moonbeams which lay upon it; and I really thought myself in Paradise when I reached its shore, and alighted at the door of a pretty cheerful inn. Cheerful as was its exterior, mourning was within its gates. The host and hostess, very respectable people, came out to receive me, dressed in deep mourning. On my inquiring the cause, they told me that her sister, the most beautiful girl in Kerry, eighteen years of age and the picture of health, died the day before of a brain-fever, or rather, of the ignorance of the village doctor:--the poor woman added, weeping, that a week's illness had changed her to forty, so that nobody could recognize the corpse of the once blooming girl, or those sweet features which were so lately the pride of her parents and the admiration of all the young men in the neighbourhood. She lies close by my bed-room, dear Julia! parted from me only by a few boards.--Four feet from her stands the table at which I am writing to you. Such is the world;--life and death, joy and grief, are never far apart. _Kenmare, Sept. 27th._ At six o'clock I was stirring, and at seven in the magnificent park of Colonel W----, brother of Lord B----, whose family possesses all the country around the bays of Bantry and Glengariff, perhaps the most beautiful part of Ireland. The extent of this estate is princely, although in a pecuniary point of view not so considerable, the greater part of the land, consisting of uncultivated rocks and mountains, which pay only the rent of romantic beauties and magnificent views. Mr. W---- 's park is certainly one of the most perfect creations of that kind, and owes its existence entirely to his perseverance and good taste. It is true, that he could nowhere have found a spot of earth more grateful for his labours; but it seldom happens that art and nature so cordially unite. It is enough to say that the former is perceptible only in the most perfect harmony; otherwise, it appears to vanish into pure nature:--not a tree or a bush seems planted by design. The vast resources of distant prospect are wisely husbanded; they come upon the eye by degrees, and as if unavoidably: every path is cut in a direction which seems the only one it could take without constraint and artifice: the most enchanting effects of woods and plantations are produced by skilful management, by contrast of masses, by felling some, thinning others, clearing off or keeping down branches; so that the eye is attracted now into the depths of the wood, now above, now below the boughs; and every possible variety within the region of the beautiful is produced. This beauty is never displayed naked, but always sufficiently veiled to leave the requisite play for the imagination: for a perfect park,--in other words, a tract of country idealized _by art_,--should be like a good book, which suggests _at least_ as many new thoughts and feelings as it expresses. The dwelling-house is not visible till you reach an opposite height; it then suddenly emerges from the mass of wood, its outline broken by scattered trees in groups, and its walls garlanded with ivy and roses and creeping plants. It was built after the plan of the possessor; in a style not so much Gothic as antiquely picturesque, such as a delicate feeling of the suitable and harmonious conceived to be in keeping with the surrounding scenery. The execution is excellent; for the imitation of the antique is quite deceptive. The ornaments are so sparingly and so suitably interspersed, the whole so well constructed for habitation and comfort, and the part which appears the oldest has such a neglected and uninhabited air, that the impression it made, on me at least, completely answered the intention of the architect; for I took it to be an old abbey, lately rendered habitable, and modernized just so far as our habits rendered necessary. At the back of the house are hot-houses and a walled garden in beautiful order, both connected with the sitting-rooms,--so that you live in the midst of flowers, tropical plants and fruits, without leaving the house. The climate is the most favourable possible for vegetation,--moist, and so warm that not only azaleas, rhododendrons, and all sorts of evergreens stand abroad through the winter, but even, in a favourable aspect, camellias. Dates, pomegranates, magnolias, lyriodendrons, &c. attain their fullest beauty; and the three last are not even covered. The situation affords extensive views, remarkable variety, and yet a complete whole, enclosed within high mountains. Bantry and Glengariff bays are seas in miniature, and supply to the eye the want of the ocean. On the land side the wavy lines of mountain seem nearly endless. The lesser bay of Glengariff, which stretches in front of the house, is nine miles, the other fifty miles in circumference. Among the mountains immediately opposite to the park rises another sugar-loaf, and at its foot a narrow line of hills stretches into the midst of the bay, where its termination is picturesquely marked by a deserted fort. The park itself lies along one entire side of the bay, and at its lesser end borders on that of Bantry, where Lord B----'s house forms the principal object from this side. This whole beautiful domain was called out of nothing only forty years ago, and is yet only half finished. Such a work deserves a crown: and the excellent man who with slender means, but with singular talent and perseverance, has accomplished it, ought to be held up as a model to those Irish proprietors who spend their money abroad. I heard with real satisfaction, that on his and Lord B----'s estates party hate is unknown. Both are Protestants,--all their 'tenants' are Catholics; nevertheless they render an obedience as boundless as it is voluntary and cordial. Colonel W----, indeed, lives like a patriarch among them, as I learnt from the common people themselves, and settles all their differences, so that not a penny is spent in the wire-drawings of the law. You may be sure that I was eager to make the acquaintance of so admirable a man: I esteemed myself, therefore, highly favoured by fortune in meeting him in the park inspecting the operations of his workmen. Our conversation took a very interesting and, to me, very instructive turn. I readily accepted his invitation to breakfast with him and his family; and found in his wife a lady with whom I had made a transient acquaintance in the whirl of London. She received so unexpected a guest most cordially, and introduced me to her two daughters of seventeen and eighteen. They are not yet out; for as I have told you, in England, where they bring out horses 'sans comparaison' too early, the poor girls are let to grow almost old before their leading-strings are taken off and they are launched into the wicked world. The family show me all possible civility and kindness; and as the ladies saw me so passionate a lover of nature, they urged me to stay some days, that I might visit the various wonders of their neighbourhood, especially the celebrated waterfall, and view from Hungry Hill, in their company. It was impossible for me to stay, as I had already announced myself at O'Connell's; but shall certainly avail myself of their invitation on my way to Cork, for such society is not of the kind that I shun. I therefore contented myself for the present with taking a long walk with the whole family, first along the bay, to obtain a general view of the park and garden; then into a wood, in which Lord B---- has a 'shooting lodge.' This spot is as if invented for a romance. All that the most secluded solitude, the richest vegetation, the freshest and greenest meadows, surrounded by rocks and mountains; valleys on whose sides precipitous walls of rock, sometimes a thousand feet high, thickly-wooded glens, a rapid torrent dashing over masses of rock and over-arched by picturesque bridges of trunks and arms of trees; groves amid which the sunbeams play, and the cool waters refresh a thousand wild flowers; animals sporting about in joyous security, majestic eagles and gay-plumed singing birds, all rendered doubly dear to the poetic heart by the sweetest repose and retirement;--all that such elements can produce is here found combined in the richest profusion. With melancholy regret I quitted these enchanting fancies of our dear mother earth, and tore myself away, when we reached the rustic gate, at which my guide and poney were already waiting for me. As I took leave of my new friends, and turned my back on the lovely valley, the heavens were overclouded anew, and on my entrance into the dreary rocky region which I described to you yesterday, assumed the hue most suited to my disposition and to the surrounding objects. Tired of my long ride of yesterday, I wished to walk; but on my inquiring for my over-shoes, which the wetness of the road rendered needful, I found that the guide had lost one of them; and as fine scenery is better enjoyed dry-footed, I sent him back, hoping to restore to my sorrowful galoche its faithful mate, at least for the morrow: for to-day I resolved to continue my way through thick and thin on foot. A soft rain began to fall,--one mountain after another was veiled from sight; and I wandered on, to the region where only the vast bones of the earth are visible, casting back many a melancholy lingering thought to the lost paradise. Meanwhile the rain became more and more heavy, and sudden gusts of wind soon announced a serious storm. I had to climb the high mountain which lies in the middle of the first half of the way, and already I was met by torrents of water which gushed like little cascades through every cleft. As I am seldom in the way of enjoying such a bath in the open air, I waded with a great feeling of satisfaction and pleasure through the streams, throwing myself in some degree into the pleasurable state of mind of a duck. Nothing of that kind is, as you know, impossible to my mobile fancy. But as the weather became every minute more dark and stormy, my thoughts also became more gloomy, and indeed fell almost into the fashionable scornful satanic vein. The superstition of the mountains surrounded me; I could not withstand it, and Rübezahl, the Bohemian Huntsman, elfs, fairies, and the Evil One himself, all passed before my mind; and I asked myself, "why should not the Devil appear to me, as well as to other respectable gentlemen?" At this instant I reached the highest point of the steep mountain. The storm howled furiously, water fell in sheets from the heavens, and the deep basin below me appeared now and then for a minute from behind its black curtain, and then vanished again in the rolling mist and the gathering twilight. A sudden gust of wind now completely inverted my umbrella, and nearly threw me down. I felt as if some giant fist had struck me. I turned and saw--nothing:--But how? does not something move there in the corner?--by heaven it does! My amazement was not slight when I now discerned, as clearly as darkness and rain would permit, a figure clad in black from head to foot, with a scarlet cap on its head advancing at a slow and limping pace towards me. Now, dear Julia, 'est-ce moi ou le diable qui écrira le reste?' or do you think I am inventing a fable to amuse you. 'Point du tout'--_Ditchung und Wahrheit_[133] is my motto. At all events I must close my letter here: I venture to hope my next will be expected with some impatience. Wholly yours, L---- LETTER XXXIV. _Kenmare, Sept. 28th, 1828._ BELOVED FRIEND.--Was it the devil or not then? you ask. 'Ma foi, je n'en sais rien.' At any rate he had assumed a very 'recommendable,' though rather dangerous form,--that of a pretty girl, who, wrapped in her long dark blue cloak, made darker by the rain, and with the red cap of Kerry on her head, barefoot and shivering with cold, was going to pass by me, when I asked her what made her limp? and why she was wandering alone in such weather? "Ah!" said she, in half-intelligible patois, and pointing to her foot bound up, "I was only going to the next village, and I am belated, and I fell into the terrible weather, and I have hurt myself very much;" and then she looked down with an arch bashfulness, and showed the pretty wounded ancle. We walked on together and shared the difficulties of the way,--helped one another where we could, and at length found in the valley, first, better weather; then a place of shelter; and at last, a refreshing draught of new milk. Thus invigorated I wandered on by night; and when I reached Kenmare, I had walked four German miles in something more than six hours: I was, however, heartily tired, and as soon as I reached my bed-room I exclaimed with Wallenstein, "Ich denke einen langen Schlaf zu thun!"[134] _Derrinane Abbey, Sept. 29th._ This accordingly happened; and I had plenty of time, for the weather was so horribly bad that I waited in vain, alas! till three in the afternoon for better. I had sent a messenger to O'Connell the evening before, and had very inconsiderately paid him beforehand. I found him at the inn, without an answer and with broken shins. As soon as he had felt the money in his pocket he had been unable to resist the whiskey, and in consequence he and his horse had fallen down a rock in the night. He had, however, had the extraordinary sense and thought to send on a friend of his to fulfil his mission; and at my waking I found a very polite invitation from the Great Agitator. I have already said that I did not set out till three o'clock; and although I had to ride seven hours with a most violent rain beating in my face, and in this desert where not even the shelter of a single tree is to be found, I had not a dry thread upon me after the first half hour. I would on no account have missed this extraordinary part of my adventures. The beginning was certainly difficult. At first I could not get a horse, for that which I had ridden at Glengariff had hurt his foot. At length appeared an old black cart-horse, which was destined for my use, and a sort of cat-like little animal intended for my guide. I was also in _imbroglio_ with regard to my toilet. The lost galoche had not been found, and the umbrella was already unreeled on the haunted mountain. I replaced the first by a large slipper of my host's; the second I tied together as well as I could, and then holding it before me like a shield, with a pocket-hankerchief covered with a piece of oil-cloth over my head, I galloped off in search of fresh adventures,--a perfect Don Quixote, and attended by a no less faithful representative of Sancho Panza. Before I got a quarter of a mile from the town a destructive gust of wind made a deplorable end of my umbrella, once the ornament of New Bond Street, and since the companion of so many a disaster. All its cords broke, and left only a torn piece of silk and a bundle of whalebone in my grasp: I gave the remains to my guide, and surrendered myself without further solicitude or defence to the elements, determined to bear good-humouredly what could not be altered. As long as we coasted the bay of Kenmare, we rode on as quickly as possible, the road being tolerable. Soon, however, it assumed a worse aspect. The entrance to the wilder mountain country is marked by a picturesque bridge, thrown across a chasm an hundred feet high, called "The Bridge of the Black Water." The sides of the chasm were clothed with oaks,--the last trees which I beheld. I remarked that my valise, which my guide had fastened on his horse, must inevitably be soaked through, and ordered the man to endeavour, if possible, to get a mat or sack at the nearest cabin, to lay over it. This incautious act I had abundant cause to rue: he too was, apparently, detained by the fascinations of whiskey; at any rate, though I frequently stopped in the hope that he would overtake me, I did not see him again till just at the end of my journey, which afterwards caused me the greatest perplexity. The road, which gradually grew worse and worse, lay for the most part close to the sea, which the storm threw into magnificent agitation;--sometimes across a dreary flat of bog, sometimes by the side of chasms and steep precipices, or through wide chaotic plains, in which masses of rock were thrown together in such wild confusion, that it seemed the spot from which the giants had stormed heaven. At rare intervals I met a solitary ragged wanderer; and the thought often recurred to me, how easy it were in this desert region to rob or murder me without the slightest risk of discovery. My whole travelling properly resides in my breast pocket; for in the Grecian fashion I carry 'omnia mea' with me. But far removed from all predatory thoughts, these poor good-hearted people invariably greeted me with respectful kindness, although my exterior was anything but imposing, and to an English eye by no means bespoke a 'gentleman.' I was frequently in utter uncertainty which of the half-imperceptible roads I ought to take, but unfortunately determined to keep as near to the sea as possible, which, though not the nearer, was the surest. Meanwhile time passed on; and when, at long intervals, I met a human being, and asked "How far is it to Mr. O'Connell's?" the object of my visit always drew down a blessing upon me. I was answered with a "God bless your honour!" but the miles seemed rather to increase than to diminish. At length it began to grow dark just as I reached a part of the coast, which assuredly it would be difficult to parallel. Foreign travellers have probably never been thrown into this desolate corner of the earth, which belongs rather to owls and sea-mews than to men, and of whose awful wildness it is difficult to give an idea.--Torn, jagged, coal-black rocks, with deep caverns, into which the sea breaks with ceaseless thunder, and then again dashes over the top of the tower-like crags its white foam; which, drying, is borne by the wind in compact masses, like locks of wool, over the highest points of the mountains;--the wailing cry of the restless fluttering sea-fowl, piercing through the storm with its shrill monotonous sound;--the incessant howl and roar of the under-mining waves, which sometimes suddenly dashed over my horse's hoofs, and then ran hissing back again;--the comfortless removal from all human help;--the ceaseless pattering rain, and the coming-on of night on an uncertain and entirely unknown road. I began really to feel uneasy, in earnest,--not half in jest as the day before. Your eager search for the romantic will turn out as ill for you, as for the Sorrowful Knight, thought I, and urged on my tired horse to his utmost speed. He stumbled every moment over the loose stones, and with great difficulty I at length brought him into a heavy trot. My anxiety was increased by O'Connell's letter. He had written to me that the proper approach to his house was from Killarney,--that carriages must cross thence by water; but that the road from Kenmare was the most difficult, and that I must therefore be sure to provide myself with a safe guide. And, as is generally the case when we pursue one train of thoughts with great pertinacity, a popular tale of Croker's, which I had lately read came into my mind. "No land," says he, "is better than the coast of Inveragh to be drowned in the sea; or if you like that better, to break your neck onshore." Yet thought I--and here my horse suddenly stumbled, shyed, and turned with such a leap as I had hardly given the old mare credit for. I now found myself in a narrow pass. It was still light enough to see several steps before me clearly, and I could not understand what had struck this panic into my horse. Making all the resistance he could, and only in obedience to the admonitions of my shillelah, he at length went on again; but in a few steps I perceived with astonishment that the path, which had appeared pretty well tracked, terminated directly in the sea. The bridle nearly dropped out of my hand, as a foaming wave chased by the storm sprang upon me like a huge monster, and scattered the narrow cleft far behind me with its spray. Here was really a difficult situation. Bare inaccessible rocks surrounded me on every side,--before me rolled the ocean,--there was nothing for me but to retreat. But if I had lost my way, as I could not but suspect, how could I reckon on meeting my guide, even by returning; and if I did not meet him, where was I to pass the night? With the exception of O'Connell's old castle, there was no hope of meeting with the least trace of a shelter for twenty miles round. I was already shivering with cold and wet, and my constitution would certainly not carry me through a bivouac in such a night. I had doubtless cause for some alarm. It was useless, however, to consider: I must ride back, that was clear; and as quickly as possible. My horse seemed to have come to the same conclusion; for, as if inspired with new force, he bore me away from the spot at a gallop. But would you believe it: a black figure was again destined to help me in my difficulty. You will say this is too much. `Ce n'est pas ma faute; le vrai souvent n'est pas le vrai-semblable.' In short, I saw a black figure glide like a dim phantom across my path, and disappear behind the rocks. Invocations, prayers, promises, were in vain:--Was it a smuggler allured to this coast by the ample facilities it offers? or a superstitious peasant who took my unhappy person for a ghost? At all events it appeared that he did not choose to venture from his hiding-place, and I began to despair of the help I had thought at hand; when suddenly his head peeped out close to me from the cleft of a rock. I soon succeeded in tranquillizing his fears, and he explained to me the puzzle of the road terminating in the sea. "This road was made for low water; the tide is now," he said, "about half in; a quarter of an hour later it is impossible to pass; but now, if you'll pay me well, I will try and bring you through,--but we must not loose a moment." With these words he seated himself at one bound on the horse behind me, and we made what speed we could back to the sea, which was rolling with great rapidity. I felt a strange sensation as we now appeared deliberately to plunge down into the stormy sea, and had to make our difficult way amid the white waves and the rocks, which looked like ghosts in the dim twilight. We had the greatest trouble too with the horse: however, the black man knew the ground so perfectly that we reached the opposite coast in safety, though bathed up to the arms in salt-water. Unluckily, the terrified beast shyed again here at a projecting rock, and broke both the rotten girths directly in the middle, a mischance for which there was no remedy here. After all my disasters, I had the agreeable prospect of riding the last six miles balancing on the loose saddle. My black guide had indeed given me the clearest directions for the prosecution of my journey; but it was now so dark that the landmarks were no longer visible. The road lay, as it appeared to me, across a wide moor, and was at first quite level. After half an hour of rough and stumbling trotting, during which I pressed my knees as hard as possible together, that I might not lose my saddle, I remarked that the road turned again to the right into the higher range of mountains; for the climbing grew steeper and more continual. Here I found a woman, who was passing the night with her pigs or goats. The road branched off into two divisions, and I asked her which I must take to reach Derrinane Abbey? "Oh! both lead there," said she; "but that on the left is two miles nearer." Of course I took this, but soon found to my cost that it was practicable only for goats. I execrated the old witch, and her traitorous intelligence:--my poor horse exhausted himself in vain efforts to climb through the blocks of stone, and at length, half stumbling half falling, he threw both saddle and me. It was impossible to keep the saddle on him alone; it fell down incessantly, and I was obliged to load my own shoulders with it, and to lead my horse besides. Till now I had kept in pretty good temper;--the spirit was still willing, but the flesh began to be weak:--the man on the cliff had said, only six miles further, and you are there; and now, after half an hour's hard riding, the woman insisted upon it that it was still six miles, the shortest way, to Derrinane. I began to fear that this mountain fortress was not to be found, and that I was the sport of Kobolds, who bandied me from one to another. I seated myself on a stone quite out of heart, fevered with alternate heat and cold; when, like the voice of an angel in the wilderness, the shouts of my guide resounded in my ear, and I soon heard the trampling of his horse's hoofs. He had taken quite a different way though the interior of the mountains, to avoid the sea, and had luckily met the woman whose direction I had followed. In the delicious feeling of present security, I forgot all my disasters, loaded my deliverer with the saddle and my wet cloak, gave up my horse to his guidance, and seated myself upon his, thus making what speed I might. We had, in fact, five miles yet to ride, and that through a mountain-pass surrounded by precipices,--but I can give you no further description of the road. The darkness was so complete, that I was obliged to strain my eyes to the utmost to follow the man, who appeared only like a dim shadow flitting indistinctly before me. I perceived by the stumbling of my horse that we were on uneven ground; I felt that it was a continual alternation of steep ascents and descents; that we waded through two deep and rapid mountain torrents,--but that was all:--now and then, indeed, I suspected, rather than saw, that a bare wall of rock rose by my side, or the deeper black beneath me betrayed the precipice which yawned below. At length,--at length a bright light broke through the darkness; the road grew more even; here and there a bit of hedge was visible; and in a few minutes we stopped at the gate of an ancient building standing on the rocky shore, from the windows of which a friendly golden radiance streamed through the night. The tower clock was striking eleven, and I was, I confess, somewhat anxious as to my dinner, especially as I saw no living being, except a man in a dressing-gown at an upper window. Soon, however, I heard sounds in the house; a handsomely-dressed servant appeared, bearing silver candlesticks, and opened the door of a room, in which I saw with astonishment a company of from fifteen to twenty persons sitting at a long table, on which were placed wine and desserts. A tall handsome man, of cheerful and agreeable aspect, rose to receive me, apologized for having given me up in consequence of the lateness of the hour, regretted that I had made such a journey in such terrible weather, presented me in a cursory manner to his family, who formed the majority of the company, and then conducted me to my bedroom.--This was the great O'Connell. On my return to the dining-room I found the greater part of the company there assembled. I was most hospitably entertained; and it would be ungrateful not to make honourable mention of Mr. O'Connell's old and capital wine. As soon as the ladies had quitted us, he drew his seat near me, and Ireland was of course the subject of our conversation. He asked me if I had yet seen many of the curiosities of Ireland? whether I had been at the Giant's Causeway?--"No," replied I, laughing, "before I visit the Giant's Causeway, I wished to see Ireland's Giants;"--and therewith drank a glass of claret to his high undertakings. Daniel O'Connell is indeed no common man,--though the man of the commonalty. His power is so great, that at this moment it only depends on him to raise the standard of rebellion from one end of the island to the other. He is, however, too sharp-sighted, and much too sure of attaining his end by safer means, to wish to bring on any such violent crisis. He has certainly shown great dexterity in availing himself of the temper of the country at this moment, legally, openly, and in the face of the government, to acquire a power scarcely inferior to that of the sovereign; indeed, though without arms or armies, in some instances far surpassing it:--for how would it have been possible for His Majesty George IV. to withhold 40,000 of his faithful Irishmen for three days from whiskey-drinking; which O'Connell actually accomplished in the memorable Clare election. The enthusiasm of the people rose to such a height, that they themselves decreed and inflicted a punishment for drunkenness. The delinquent was thrown into a certain part of the river, and held there for two hours, during which time he was made to undergo frequent submersions. The next day I had fuller opportunity of observing O'Connell. On the whole, he exceeded my expectations. His exterior is attractive; and the expression of intelligent good-nature, united with determination and prudence, which marks his countenance, is extremely winning. He has, perhaps, more of persuasiveness than of genuine large and lofty eloquence; and one frequently perceives too much design and manner in his words. Nevertheless, it is impossible not to follow his powerful arguments with interest, to view the martial dignity of his carriage without pleasure, or to refrain from laughing at his wit. It is very certain that he looks much more like a general of Napoleon's than a Dublin advocate. This resemblance is rendered much more striking by the perfection with which he speaks French,--having been educated at the Jesuits' Colleges at Douai and St. Omer. His family is old, and was probably one of the great families of the land. His friends, indeed, maintain that he springs from the ancient kings of Kerry,--an opinion which no doubt adds to the reverence with which he is regarded by the people. He himself told me,--and not without a certain _pretension_,--that one of his cousins was Comte O'Connell, and 'cordon rouge' in France, and another a baron, general and chamberlain to the Emperor of Austria, but that he was the head of the family. It appeared to me that he was regarded by the other members of it with almost religious enthusiasm. He is about fifty years old, and in excellent preservation, though his youth was rather wild and riotous. Among other things he became notorious, about ten years ago, for a duel he fought. The Protestants, to whom his talents early made him formidable, set on a certain Desterre,--a bully and fighter by profession,--to ride through all the streets of Dublin with a hunting-whip, which, as he declared, he intended to lay on the shoulders of the king of Kerry. The natural consequence was a meeting the next morning, in which O'Connell lodged a bullet in Desterre's heart; Desterre's shot went through his hat. This was his first victory over the Orangemen, which has been followed by so many more important, and, it is to be hoped, will be followed by others more important still. His desire for celebrity seemed to be boundless; and if he should succeed in obtaining emancipation, of which I have no doubt, his career, so far from being closed, will I think only then properly begin. But the evils of Ireland, and of the constitution of Great Britain generally, lie too deep to be removed by emancipation.--To return to O'Connell; I must mention, that he has received from nature an invaluable gift for a party-leader; a magnificent voice, united to good lungs and a strong constitution. His understanding is sharp and quick, and his acquirements out of his profession not inconsiderable. With all this, his manners are, as I have said, winning and popular; although somewhat of the actor is perceivable in them, they do not conceal his very high opinion of himself, and are occasionally tinged by what an Englishman would call "_vulgarity_." Where is there a picture entirely without shade! Another interesting man, the real though not ostensible head of the Catholics, was present, Father L'Estrange, a friar, and O'Connell's confessor. He may be regarded as the real founder of that Catholic Association so often derided in England, but which by merely _negative_ powers, by dexterous activity in secret, and by universally organizing and training the people to one determinate end,[135] attained a power over them as boundless as that of the hierarchy in the middle ages; with this difference, that the former strove for light and liberty, the latter for darkness and slavery. This is another outbreak of that _second_ great revolution, which solely by intellectual means, without any admixture of physical force, is advancing to its accomplishment; and whose simple but resistless weapons are public discussion and the press. L'Estrange is a man of philosophical mind and unalterable calmness. His manners are those of an accomplished gentleman, who has traversed Europe in various capacities, has a thorough knowledge of mankind, and with all his mildness cannot always conceal the sharp traces of great astuteness. I should call him the ideal of a well-intentioned Jesuit. As O'Connell was busy, I took an early walk with the friar to a desert island, to which we crossed dry-footed over the smooth sand now left by the ebb. Here stand the genuine ruins of Derrinane Abbey, to which O'Connell's house is only an appendix. It is to be repaired by the family, probably when some of their hopes are fulfilled. On our return we found O'Connell on the terrace of his castle, like a chieftain surrounded by his vassals, and by groups of the neighbouring peasantry, who came to receive his instructions, or to whom he laid down the law. This he can the more easily do being a lawyer; but nobody would dare to appeal from his decisions: O'Connell and the Pope are here equally infallible. Lawsuits therefore do not exist within his empire; and this extends not only over his own tenantry, but I believe over the whole neighbourhood. I wondered, when I afterwards found both O'Connell and L'Estrange entirely free from religious bigotry, and even remarked in them very tolerant and philosophical views, though they persisted in choosing to continue true Catholics. I wished I had been able to conjure hither some of those furious imbeciles among the English Protestants,--as for instance Mr. L----, who cry out at the Catholics as irrational and bigoted; while they themselves alone, in the true sense of the word, cling to the fanatical faith of their politico-religious party, and are firmly predetermined to keep their long ears for ever closed to reason and humanity. In the course of the day we were to have a hare-hunt, (for O'Connell has a small pack of hounds,) which would certainly have presented a most picturesque spectacle on these mountains and broad naked steeps: the bad weather, however, prevented it. I found much greater enjoyment in repose, and in the very interesting company, to which I am indebted for much instructive information. _Kenmare, Sept. 30th._ Although my kind hosts with true Irish hospitality pressed me to stay a week longer for a great festival which is in preparation, and to which a large company is expected, I did not think it right to take this entirely 'à la lettre;' besides which I had such a longing after Glengariff, that I did not wish to absent myself from it longer than was necessary for the end I had in view. I therefore took leave of the family this morning, with the sincerest thanks for the friendly welcome they had given me. O'Connell himself escorted me to the boundaries of his demesne, mounted on a large and handsome gray horse, on which he looked more military than ever. The rugged way is bare of all vegetation, but affords many sublime views, sometimes inland, sometimes to the sea, studded with rocks and islands, some of which rise completely isolated out of the water like high-peaked mountains. O'Connell pointed out one to me, on which he told me he had ordered an ox to be landed that he might fatten on the rich and undisturbed herbage. After some days the animal took such decided possession of the island that he was furious if any body attempted to land on it, and attacked and drove away even the fishermen who used to dry their nets on the shore. He was often seen, like Jupiter under his transformation, with uplifted tail and glaring eyes, bounding furiously along to reconnoitre the bounds of his domain, and to see if any intruder dared to approach. The emancipated ox at last became so troublesome and dangerous, that they were obliged to shoot him. This appeared to me a good satire on the love of liberty, which as soon as it has gained the power it seeks, degenerates into violence and tyranny; and the association of ideas brought many comical images involuntarily before my mind. We afterwards came to a remarkable ruin, one of those so-called Danish forts, which were built, not _by_ the Danes but _against_ them. They are more than a thousand years old, and the lower walls, although put together without mortar, remain in excellent preservation. At the ruins of a bridge carried away by the swelling of a mountain-stream, O'Connell stopped to take a final leave of me. I could not help expressing to the champion of the rights of his countrymen, my wish that when we next met, the dungeons and fortresses of English intolerance might be overthrown by him and his allies, as completely as these ruined walls had been by the swollen and overflowing torrent.[136] So we parted. As I returned by nearly the same way as I had come, I have little new to say about it, except that, though the day was fine, it tired me twice as much as before; probably because my mind was less excited. Not far from Kenmare I met several loads of stones, planks, beer, and butter. Every thing is conveyed on the backs of horses. The Irish are very ingenious in means of transport. I have already described their admirable cars, with which one horse can so commodiously draw five or six persons. They have also a sort of car, equally well contrived, for the carriage of hay, wood, &c.; by means of which one horse does as much work as three with us. This is accomplished entirely by the skill with which the weight is balanced. A car is loaded with long timber, for instance, in such a manner that the horse is hardly visible under the complete covering of wood, the ends of which project many yards before the horse's head and behind the car. The division of the weight at each end is thus so perfect that the timbers press only on one point, and the horse has thus comparatively little to draw. The driver helps a little, going up or down hill, by heaving up or bearing down the ends, which the slightest force is sufficient to move. In the same manner five or six heavy oak planks are laid flat across the saddle of a horse, who carries them thus, like a balancing pole, without much labour, though the same weight in a different volume, a chest for instance, would suffice to crush him. They have another ingenious contrivance for transporting stone; a sort of wooden baskets or cradles which they hang over the saddle, binding them on the horse's back over a thick bundle of straw. The merry humour and good-natured politeness of the people I met were very engaging. I know no nation of which the lower classes appear so little selfish; so thankful for the least friendly word vouchsafed to them by a gentleman, without the least idea of gain. I really know no country in which I would rather be a large landed proprietor than here. What I did elsewhere, and earned only ingratitude and opposition of every kind, would here attach ten or twelve thousand people to me body and soul;--the only difference is, that here with much less time and cost I should have attained infinitely greater results, since here nature and man make almost every thing attainable. The people taken in a body, with all their wildness, unite the frank honesty and poetical temper of the Germans, with the vivacity and quickness of conception of the French, and the pliability, naturalness, and submissiveness of the Italians. It may with the fullest justice be said of them, that their faults are to be ascribed to others, their virtues only to themselves. Now I am upon this subject, I must relate to you an incident of no great importance which befell me some days ago: it deserves mention, as illustrative of the national character. As I was going from Killarney to Kenmare, I met a continual succession of people driving cattle from some neighbouring fair. Most of them were riding colts they had just bought, without bridles; and as man and beast were strangers to each other, the latter were not in a very perfect state of subordination: we were therefore often forced to stop. At last I grew tired of this; and at the third or fourth rencontre of the kind, I called out to the people that I had not time to spend half the day on the road on account of their clumsiness; and somewhat hastily ordered the coachman to drive on. In an instant two colts set off with their riders, galloping before the carriage as hard as ever they could, while the whole drove of cattle took to the mountains. I was now sorry for my impatience, and desired the driver to stop again. There were in all four or five drovers whom I had thus routed, all sturdy young fellows; and the trick I had played them was certainly one of the most disagreeable that could be imagined, as it would take them at least half an hour to collect their dispersed cattle. If a traveller in a miserable one-horse vehicle had given such a job to Germans, Englishmen, or Frenchmen, they would certainly have attacked him with appropriate abuse, and very likely have tried to catch him and do him some injury. The behaviour of these good-natured fellows was far different: at once respectful and witty. "Oh! murther, murther!" cried one, while his 'crantancarous' colt made another attempt to dart up the hill, and nearly threw him; "God bless your honour! but every _gentleman_ in England and Ireland gets out of the way of cattle! Oh, for God's sake stop now, your honour, stop!" I immediately stopped: and after the poor devils had had the greatest trouble in fetching back the part of the cattle that had run the furthest, they came back to my car, with a "long life to your honour!" to thank me for my goodness, and went merrily off with their recaptured prize. I must confess that their behaviour was far more commendable than mine, which I repaired as well as I could by means of a handsome present. _October 1st: Morning._ Although dreadfully tired I could not sleep last night, and asked the host if he had a book. He brought me an old English translation of the Sorrows of Werther. You know highly, how intensely I honour our prince of poets, and will therefore hardly believe me when I say that I had never read this celebrated book. The cause would appear to many very childish. The first time it came into my hands, the passage at the beginning in which Charlotte wipes the little boy's dirty nose excited in me such disgust that I could read no further; and this disagreeable image remained, always present to my mind. I now, however, set earnestly to work to read it, struck with the strangeness of the accident which led me to read Werther for the first time in a foreign tongue, and in the midst of the wild mountains of Ireland. But even here, I must honestly confess I could not feel any hearty relish for the antiquated "Sufferings;"[137] the quantity of bread and butter, the provincial and obsolete manners, and even the ideas, which were then new, but are now become common-place,--like Mozart's beautiful melodies degraded into street ditties; lastly, the involuntary recollection of Potier's admirable parody,--it was absolutely impossible for me to work myself up to the right "communion frame of mind," as Madame von Frömmel calls it. But thus much I could perceive, jesting apart, that the book was calculated to 'far furore' at one period: for the morbid state of mind under which Werther sinks is truly German, and German feeling was just then beginning to make its way through the materialism which had taken possession of the rest of Europe. Wilhelm Meister indeed followed it with far different steps; and Faust has since traversed it with giant strides. We have, I think, outgrown the Werther period, but have not yet reached that of Faust; nor will any age, so long as men exist, out-grow that. In the tragedy of Faust, as in those of Shakspeare, the whole inward man is mirrored forth; the principal figure is a personification of the eternal mysterious longings of the human heart, the restless striving after the Unknown and the Unattainable. Hence this drama can obviously never have a fully definitive end, even were it extended through many more acts than it is. But as the lofty spirit here treads a path dizzy as the bridge of Al Sirat, he is every moment nearer to the bottomless fall than the human animal who remains quietly on the secure plain, and feeds. A cousin of O'Connell's, who gives hunting parties on the lake of Killarney, had promised me one for to-morrow. I have, however, a positive antipathy to going to see what I have seen before, as long as there is any thing new to see; and I cannot imagine that dogs and horses can make any great alteration in the features of a scene I know so well. On the other hand, in Glengariff, amiable people and a great deal of novelty awaited me: I therefore preferred it, rode once more across the Devil's Mountain, this time by daylight, and arrived here about an hour ago. I am established in a pretty little room, and all the glories of the Bay are spread before my window. Before I quitted Kenmare my vanity was put to a severe trial. The Irish naïveté of the innkeeper's daughter made such an agreeable impression on me, that on my return to her father's inn I scarcely talked to any body else, and thus won her good graces. She had never quitted her native mountains, and was as ignorant of the world as it is possible to conceive. I asked her, in jest, if she would go with me to Cork. "Oh no," said she, "I should be afraid to go so far with you.--Do tell me now who you really are: You are a Jew;--that I know already." "Why, are you mad?" said I; "what makes you think I must be a Jew?" "Ah, you can't deny it; hav'n't you a black beard all round your chin, and five or six gold rings on your fingers? And are you not an hour washing yourself in a morning, and don't you go through ceremonies such as no Christian ever saw? Confess it now,--you are a Jew, ar'n't you?" My disclaimer was of no use. At last, however, she said good-humouredly, that if I positively would not allow that I was one, she wished at least that I might 'become as rich as a Jew,' (an English phrase.) I confirmed this with a Christian 'Amen.' _October 2d._ I am just returned from an excursion of sixteen miles with Colonel W---- to Hungry Hill, a lofty mountain at the end of Bantry Bay, remarkable for its waterfall, and for Thomas O'Rourke's flight to the moon on an eagle's back, which began here, and has so often been related in prose and verse. Even in Germany this amusing tale has been repeatedly translated, and has probably fallen into your hands. The hero of the story is a game-keeper of Lord B----'s, who is still alive, and almost always drunk. On our return Colonel W---- introduced him to me at the inn. He is now extremely proud of his celebrity, and seemed to me when I saw him to be projecting another visit to the moon. The quantity of rain which has fallen these few days has added much to the beauty of the waterfalls. The fall at Hungry Hill entirely disappears in dry weather, but after violent rains exceeds the Staubbach and Terni. Hungry Hill is a huge mass of naked rock about two thousand feet high. On the land side it forms two steep terraces, on the 'plateau' between which there is a lake, which of course is not visible from below, whence you see only the continuous lines of these colossal terraces. The upper one consists of bare rock, and is divided in the middle by a deep vertical groove, which looks as if cut by art; the lower, although also free from any visible inequality, has its side clothed with heather and coarse grass, on which hundreds of goats are seen grazing. Through the groove or channel mentioned above the mass of water shoots from the highest point of the mountain, falls into the lake on the lower terrace, and filling that, rushes down afresh in four distinct cascades on the valley below. These form such vast arches, that the goats feed peacefully under them, while the streams convert the meadows below into a temporary lake. As the spectator who stands below cannot see the division between the upper and the lower falls, nor the lake which lies between them, the whole appears one enormous cataract, the effect of which exceeds all description. Colonel W---- assured me that when the waters are at the highest he has seen the arch so enormous, that, to use his expression, a regiment of soldiers might have marched under it without a man being wetted; and, as he added, the noise would serve admirably for the thunder of the cannon. One of the neighbouring glens was, according to the somewhat fabulous history of Ireland, the scene of a memorable battle between the great O'Sullivan and O'Donovan. The people show the remains of a very old arbutus, on which, as they relate, O'Donovan was hanged. It is very certain that money and jewels have recently been found buried deep in the earth in this enclosure. The eagles of these mountains, who build on inaccessible rocks, play a very principal part in the popular stories. They are extremely large and strong, and it is certain that they sometimes carry off even children. Some time ago an eagle carried off a boy of three years old, and deposited him, probably because he was too heavy, nearly uninjured on a shelf of rock, to which the people below climbed and saved him. The new Ganymede, the 'corpus delicti,' is now living, and in full vigour. Another more tragical circumstance of the same kind occurred a few months ago. An eagle bore off a little girl before her father's eyes, and disappeared with her among the rocks; nor could the least trace of the poor child ever be discovered. _October 3d._ Col. W---- is as great a 'parkomane' as I, but not quite such a 'gourmet.' Field-sports by land and water furnish his table with many delicacies. The grouse or moor-fowl are particularly good; and the oyster-bed on the edge of the park supplies oysters of a peculiar fine flavour, and as large as a plate. The bay swarms with fish and sea-dogs:--I saw one of the latter sitting on a projecting cliff just opposite my window, and listening with a delighted and almost dancing motion to the music of a bagpipe which resounded from a neighbouring public-house. These creatures are so passionately fond of music, that they follow the pleasure-boats, with bands of music on board, in herds of twenty or thirty. They are decoyed in this way by sportsmen. It is really barbarous thus to abuse their love of the arts! Unfortunately it rained all day, so that I was obliged to remain in the house. In the morning I attended the daily worship of the family, the female members of which are somewhat bigoted as to form, though, as it seemed to me, sincerely pious. We all sat round in a circle, and the mother read one verse out of the Church of England Prayer-book, the eldest daughter the next, and so on, alternately, imitating the parson and clerk at a church. After this, the daughter, who has something reserved and enthusiastic about her, began a strange and very long prayer, which lasted a full quarter of an hour; during which all, (and of course I among the number,) turned decorously towards the wall, fell on their knees before their chair, and hid their faces in their hands. The mother sighed and groaned; the father seemed somewhat 'ennuyé;' the youngest daughter,--a charming girl, who is a good deal more mundane than her sister,--had now and then fits of absence; and the son had thought it expedient to absent himself altogether. I, who think every sincere feeling or virtuous aspiration, at whatever time of the day, a prayer to God, believed myself not impiously employed in observing a little what was going on. After the company had all stood up, brushed their knees, and smoothed down their petticoats, (for English enthusiasm does not easily forget _itself_,) a chapter from the Gospel was read by the mother. The one chosen was that in which six thousand men were fed on three loaves and two fishes, if I remember right, and much was still left remaining. Happily for us, our dinner was not measured out to us upon this scale, and the gifts of God were consumed with great cheerfulness and satisfaction. To this, however, I soon gave an involuntary shock: I happened to speak in jest of the comet of the year 1832, which, it is predicted, is to approach nearer the earth's orbit than any hitherto known. I remarked that, according to Lalande's reckoning, a comet which should approach within fifty thousand miles of the earth must inevitably exercise such a power of attraction as to raise the waters of the sea above the top of Chimborazo. If the one of 1832 comes so near us, said I, we shall infallibly all be drowned. "I beg your pardon, that is impossible," replied Mrs. W---- very earnestly, "for that would be a second deluge, and you appear to have entirely forgotten that we are promised in the Bible that there should never be another deluge, but that the earth should at last be destroyed by fire." ('Il faut avouer que la faveur n'est pas grande.') "That this destruction is at hand," continued she, sighing, "I certainly believe; for the most learned of our pious men are agreed that we are now, probably, in the seventh kingdom of the Revelation of St. John, in which the end of the world is predicted, and in which our Saviour will come to judge us." What singular people these 'saints' are! On this, mother and daughter fell into such a violent, and at last such a bitter dispute, that I, unworthy layman, was obliged to interpose, and endeavour to re-establish peace. The question was, whether, at the time of this final catastrophe, men were to be immediately judged and then burnt, or first burnt and then judged. The daughter indignantly asked ('je vous jure que je ne brode pas') if our Saviour, on his coming, was to wait to pronounce judgment till the world was burnt? She said it was plainly written in the Scriptures that he would come to judge the quick and the dead; and how would this be possible if all were first burnt? It was clear that the world would not be burnt till all were judged. This the mother declared was perfect 'nonsense!'--that men must necessarily first die, before they could receive either eternal blessedness or damnation,--that the passage which speaks of the quick and the dead, regarded only on the one hand those who would be still living at the time of the conflagration, or on the other, those who had long lain in the grave. She insisted therefore, "_first_ burnt, and _then_ judged." Both now appealed to me, in the hope of strengthening themselves by the accession of a partisan. I ventured to reply that I really was not much skilled in these details, and that their dispute appeared to me very like that in which Madame du Deffant was called upon to decide, viz., whether St. Denis had walked one mile or six without his head: to which she replied, "que dans ces sortes de choses ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute!" That I must confess that in the doctrines of Christ I had always chiefly sought to imbibe rules of duty, confidence in God, meekness, and love to man, though I had unhappily rarely succeeded to the extent of my wishes. I hoped, however, that I might dismiss all anxiety as to whether we were to be first judged and then burnt, or first burnt and then judged; that I believed whatever God did was perfectly well done. I must confess that I considered myself just as much in the hand of God, and just as near to his power, in the present life as after the close of my earthly career, or even after the destruction of the little globe which we call 'the world.' That judgment was in my opinion for ever going on, and was as eternally active as the spirit which creates and vivifies the universe. This confession of faith had the effect of entirely reconciling the combatants, by uniting them against me. I retreated from the field, however, in so dexterous a manner as not entirely to lose their favour. In the evening, between torrents of rain, twilight, and sunset, we had another magnificent effect of light. _Our_ waterfall in the park was so swollen that it took up itself to thunder a little too, and grass and bush were prettily illuminated with gay sunbeams. We walked about till it was quite dark, saw the Great Sugar-loaf gradually change its hue from dark blue into rose-colour, and feasted our eyes on the clear mirror of the lake, the leaping of the fish on its surface, and the peaceful sporting of the otters. Every thing here is beautiful,--even the air, which is famed for its salubrity. There are no tormenting insects; for the bay is so deep, that the ebb leaves no muddy shore, and the constant gentle breeze of the valley is probably not agreeable to them. The climate is extremely equable, neither too hot nor too cold; and the vegetation so luxuriant, that only one thing more and one less are wanting to clothe the greater part of the bare mountains, and even the interstices between the rocks, with the richest and most beautiful woods: these two things are, planters, and goats. The former have no money, or none that they choose to spend in planting _here_; the latter suffer nothing to grow that is not enclosed within double walls. It appears that these mountains were formerly covered with forests; but the English, who have never had any other thought with regard to Ireland but how to draw as much money from her as possible, felled them all. Their remains are still visible in many places. Another advantage of this spot is, to my taste at least, its perfect seclusion. It can hardly be reached in a carriage; and with the exception of a few curious travellers, like myself, no attempt is made to overcome the difficulty of the approach. It is inhabited by a good-natured people, not congregated in villages, but scattered in solitary dwellings amid the mountains, and living a patriarchal life, unspoiled by the tumult of cities. Nor are they so distressingly poor as in other parts of the country: their wants are few; turf for fuel they have for the fetching, grass for their cows in the bogs, and the sea supplies them with an abundance of fish far beyond what they can consume. For a landowner, inspired with a spirit of enterprize and a love of improvement, an inexhaustible field here presents itself. Were I a capitalist, this is the spot where I would settle. My worthy host takes upon himself to forward this letter immediately. Heaven grant that it may find you in the same happy state of mind which has inspired it! Remember the favourite saying of my venerable ancestress,--'Coeur content, grand talent.' Your truly devoted, L----. LETTER XXXV. _Glengariff, October 4th, 1828._ DEAR JULIA, To-morrow I set out, 'et bien à regret.' I carry with me a precious memorial,--one of the few perfectly delightful pictures which I have met with in my wanderings. In my walk this morning, I found heath-plants of such luxuriance hanging from the rocks, that one stalk measured ten feet in length. The gardener, who accompanied me, drew my attention to another curiosity. In a secluded spot, not far from the pretty rustic dairy, a swarm of bees had made a large honeycomb in the open air; it was suspended to the branch of a blackberry-bush in the thicket. The weight of the honey bowed the branch to the earth; and they were still busily adding to the store. The dairy is roofed with earth, out of which the purple heather is growing. A clear spring flows through it, on whose banks the Egyptian lotus thrives admirably, and stands through the winter. In the afternoon I rode out with Colonel W---- to visit an eagle's nest. We first passed the belt of wood in which Lord B----'s pretty shooting-lodge stands, then forded the swollen river three times, and after some hours riding, reached a wild desert, where at the foot of a perpendicular rock stand two solitary huts. About five hundred feet over head is the eagle's eirie, in a cleft overhung with ivy. At their hatching season they are frequently seen flying home with fowls, hares, lambs, &c. for the family table; by some curious instinct, however, they are warned never to carry off any thing from the two families below them, but to respect the same laws of hospitality which are observed towards themselves. I was greatly disappointed that these monarchs of the rocks did not make their appearance; they were both gone on some distant expedition. We returned across the Sugar-loaf. This is the haunt of a wild huntsman, and no mortal tally-ho may sound as far as his right of sporting extends. If any attempt it, he quickly rushes by with all his wild troop, and hurries the rash offender along in his train. He is of a totally different nature from his German comrade. He is an elfin king, as small as Tom Thumb, splendidly dressed in emerald green, and accompanied by a train mounted on horses as big as rats, who gallop over rock and sea with the swiftness of lightning. The Sugar-loaf itself is the great resort of all the Irish fairies: its caverns are full of fossil-shells and stones of fantastic shapes, which excite the curiosity of the visitor; but no native would pass a night in one of them for all the treasures the earth contains. From the summit of this mountain, or rather rock, down to the cavern, a strange sport of nature is visible in clear weather;--two channels or grooves, winding, but always parallel, which in the distance look exactly like ruts: what could they be but the track of the fairy queen's carriage, in which indeed many an old mountaineer has seen her at rise or set of sun, riding in unearthly pomp to grace the annual feast with her presence. The old man would doubtless be ready to confirm his statement with the most solemn oaths,--for he believes it. This it is which gives to the legends of the Irish such a wonderful charm that it is almost impossible to withstand it. Colonel W----, who was formerly a passionate lover of the chase, knows every mountain in the district from the summit to the foot, and 'chemin faisant,' told me so many interesting particulars about them, that my letter would never come to an end if I attempted to make it the faithful echo of all his stories. Hunting is here attended with dangers of no trifling kind. They are of three sorts: first, the being suddenly surprised in the midst of the rocks with one of those cold fogs which here frequently come on, and enwrap the wanderer with almost instant darkness and icy chill; he has then only the alternative either of perishing from cold (for the fogs sometimes hang in the gorges for whole days and nights,) or of falling headlong down some invisible precipice. If he is in favour with the fairies, he emerges happily into light; but wo to him who has incurred their displeasure!--his friends find him the next morning frozen or dashed to pieces. The second peril is of quite a different kind. On the wide interminable tablelands, which blend with the horizon like the sea, not a bush or hillock breaking the sublime monotony, are extensive bogs, which the game (the grouse, a bird somewhat like a partridge, peculiar to the British islands,) chooses as its favourite haunt. These bogs are full of little clumps like mole-hills, formed by the heather, scattered about at intervals. The bogs can only be traversed by jumping from one of these clumps to another: if in the ardour of the chase the sportsman misses his leap, and does not find another clump close by to jump to instantly, he is certain to sink in the morass. The only means of deliverance is instantly to stretch out his arms, or to hold his gun horizontally, till help arrives, or till he can struggle on to the next clump. But worse and more tremendous than all this, is an attack from one of the wild oxen which inhabit these mountains. Colonel W---- has been several times in this predicament, and always had the good fortune to escape, though in different ways. Once he or his servant shot the bull before he came up with them: another time he took refuge in one of the bogs I have just described, where the furious beast dare not follow him, but laid regular siege to him for more than an hour. The history of his latest adventure seemed to me particularly curious, and proves that man, with strength, courage and address, may single-handed resist any other living creature. Colonel W---- was accompanied by a friend, and by a native of these mountains, who led the dogs, and was furnished with a long white staff, such as is in use here. Just as the Colonel's friend shot a grouse, he saw at the distance of about eighty feet a bull advancing furiously towards them. Colonel W---- called out to his friend to load instantly, while he fired; and was taking aim, when the man called out, "Promise me a glass of whiskey extra, and I will manage the beast by myself." W---- fired, but his gun missed fire; his friend had not loaded; and he had hardly time to call out, "You shall have a dozen bottles," when this hero of the mountains ran towards the ox at the same speed with which it was rushing upon them. In the twinkling of an eye they were together. The young man, with singular dexterity, caught the horns of the bull, whose head grazed the earth, darted a step sideways, and then during the spring of his antagonist, making a similar step backwards, with the rapidity of lightning caught the bull's tail, without letting go his stick. All this was done with the quickness of thought; and now began the strangest race that ever was beheld. The bull tried by every means to get rid of the burthen hanging at his tail, but in vain. Up hill and down, over rock, and through river, he ran like mad; while his companion, like a Kobold, swung himself over every obstacle, often flying rather than running, at the end of the creature's tail. In a short time the bull was wearied by fear and fatigue, and at length sank down exhausted and powerless at the foot of a green declivity, immediately in front of the spot where Colonel W---- and his friend beheld with astonishment the issue of the contest. But his punishment only now began, and probably his vicious temper was on that day cured for ever. For now the mountaineer began to employ his stick, weighted with lead and armed with an iron point, which he had providentially kept as an instrument of correction, and belabouring the beast with all his might, forced him to crawl down the mountain, where he at length sank, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and panting for breath, at Colonel W----'s feet, who left him in this state of total exhaustion. The young peasant, whom Colonel W---- described as a wonder of youthful power and agility, seemed, on the contrary, not the least fatigued by his chase, nor vain of his achievement; but coolly looking about for his powder-horn and his dogs, did not expend a word on the past, except just to wink to Colonel W----, and say, "Now, master, don't forget the bottles." The sight of a fox-chase among these rocks must be magnificent,--now sweeping along their heights or sides,--now fox and hounds darting down the steep declivities, all suddenly vanishing like a shadowy picture in the gorges. Colonel W---- once saw such a one from Hungry Hill, in which the whole pack ran under the arch of the waterfall, while their cry mingled wildly with the roaring of the cataract, till at last Reynard experienced the same lot which had befallen three or four of the dogs; he slipped from the polished rock, and fell, amid shouts and halloos, from a height of several hundred feet into the midst of the hunters, who were looking on at their ease from the meadow below. Shall I tell you any more stories?--Well, then, once more for witches and fairies: saddle me the poney, and away to the land of tales and legends; of the land-rocks, and the waves which for ages have fretted them away with their snow-white teeth. Jump up behind me, Julia, 'en croupe,' like an Irish girl, and follow me quickly through the air, back to Iveragh, O'Connell's wild region. Truly is it a land of the eagle and the vulture, of the stormy wave and the rugged rock! But there is a spot in Ballinskellig bay, not far from O'Connell's Castle-abbey, where in old times many a dance was danced, and many a wedding celebrated. For peaceful and lovely was the lonely spot, with its velvet turf; its high walls of rock sheltered it from the storm, and sand smooth as satin edged the sea, which seemed to sleep, like the entire creation, in the clear moonlight, its little billows only lightly ruffled by the zephyr's breath, rolling and curling with a dreamy soothing motion. LETTER XXXVI. _Macroom, October 5th, 1828._ DEAREST ONE, The parting was hard; but you who wish me in a very different place, will say that I have staid quite long enough. I tore myself away from these excellent people and their romantic dwelling. It was Sunday; and the worthy lady, in spite of her manifest regard for me, could not help exclaiming reproachfully, "But how is it possible that a good man like you can set out upon a journey on a Sunday?" You know that the English have stamped this day with a sort of death-like character; dancing, music and singing are forbidden; indeed, the severely pious hang their canary-birds in some remote corners, that no voice of song may offend their ears during these holy hours. This idolatry of the Sunday began in the time of James the First, and was the cause of furious dissentions. No bread must be baked, and no useful work performed; but drunkenness and other vices thrive more luxuriantly than on the week-days. I have observed that the streets are never so bestrewed with drunken people as on Sunday evenings; nor, as is well known to the police, are the resorts of vice ever so filled. Many English people think dancing on a Sunday unquestionably a greater crime than a little theft or so; and I lately read in print a history of Whitby, in which it was seriously affirmed, that the rich abbey there was doubtless destroyed because the monks did not only indulge in every possible crime, rape and murder not excepted, but their sinful abbot had permitted the repairs of the abbey and other labours to go on on a Sabbath-day. The worthy Mrs. W---- was infected with this same strange conceit; and it was somewhat difficult for me to excuse my half-committed sin on the ground of urgent necessity. To appease her, I went first with the whole family along the bay to B---- church, which was quite out of my way. In going along, I related to her the strange vision of one of the sons of my former excellent host, Captain B----, by which he had been induced to go over to the Catholic church. He was, as he himself told me, a most zealous Protestant and Orangeman, and went one day into a Catholic chapel in Dublin, rather with the intention of making himself merry at the ceremonies than from any better motive. But the beautiful music touched him against his will; and as he raised his eyes to the high altar, the Redeemer stood bodily before him, his eyes fixed intently on him with an expression of angelic mildness. The divine vision smiled upon him, beckoned with his hand, and then slowly ascended, still looking fixedly at him, till at length it disappeared, borne by angels through the dome. From this moment B---- was persuaded he was an especial object of the divine favour; and in a few days he became a member of _another_ church which has the exclusive privilege of ensuring salvation, (for the orthodox English Protestants also believe that they enjoy this monopoly.) How philosophically did my pious friends reason on _this_ conversion! "Is it possible!" exclaimed they. "What superstition! Without doubt this was either a feverish delirium, or the man is a hypocrite, and has good reasons for what he does. Either he is mad, or he invented the story for his own profit." Oh, men, men! How justly does Christ say, "Ye behold the mote in the eye of another; ye cannot see the beam in your own!" No doubt this is the case with us all, more or less; and be assured I make no exception in favour of your poor friend. We parted at last, not without emotion; and I seated myself on a mountain car, drawn by a horse whose appearance was by no means brilliant. The young ladies were greatly delighted at my eccentric mode of travelling. The journey I had to accomplish was thirty miles, and began most tediously. After a little time the wretched horse was so restive at going up hill, that I was obliged to alight, rather than run the risk of being dashed down a precipice. The stubborn beast was now forced to be constantly led, without which he would not advance a single step. For a long while the driver trotted sturdily on by his side, but at length could go no further; and Heaven knows what would have become of us, had we not luckily met a man on horseback, who consented to harness in his horse instead of ours. I reached Macroom late in the evening. Nothing struck me much in the way but a long and deep glen, in which at the time of the White Boy conspiracies, Lord B---- and Colonel W---- were attacked by a party who were posted on the heights, and had a narrow escape for their lives. The White Boys had taken their measures extremely well, and during the night had loosened a great mass of rock, which they suddenly rolled down directly across the road through which the troops were marching. By this means the detachment of cavalry was not only prevented from advancing, but was cut off in its rear, and thus placed in a desperate situation. A great many were killed; the two gentlemen, who rode capital hunters, luckily escaped. Their good steeds climbed up the almost inaccessible side of a rock, amidst an incessant shower of musketry. Colonel W---- was slightly wounded in the right arm; Lord B---- escaped quite unhurt. In this extremely wild region, not far from hence, lies a large lake with a woody island in its centre. Here stands a chapel of great sanctity, to which numerous pilgrimages are yearly made. It was too late for me to see it more nearly. Macroom is a cheerful pretty place, with a handsome house belonging to the uncle of the beautiful African, or rather of her husband. She gave me a letter to him, but I had not time to use it. _Cork, Oct. 6th._ I left Macroom very early in a 'gingle,' a sort of covered stage with two horses. It rained and blew again; for, dear Julia, I find that I am no longer, as the Irish prettily say, 'on the sunny side of life.' My fellow-travellers were three women and a great cub of five years old, who made himself extremely disagreeable, and was horribly spoiled by his pretty and lively mamma. Although he had a great loaf, and a cake of similar dimensions, with which he was incessantly stuffing himself, and filling the coach with bits and crumbs, his ill humour broke out at every moment. The scream he then set up, and the stamping of his feet, which he often placed upon mine without the slightest reserve; the coaxings of the mother, and her cries for help to her husband on the outside; then her incessant prayers to 'stop just a moment,' because the poor little dear was ill with the motion of the coach, or because he was thirsty, or because something or other; her keeping the windows hermetically closed for fear he should catch cold, in spite of his furred coat;--it was really a trial of fortitude. The young woman seemed as anxious for herself as for her child; whenever the coach leaned a little on one side, she began to scream, and clung to me with both hands, taking me almost round the neck. This was the most endurable of my sufferings; and I often amused myself with increasing her fright. In the intervals she enlarged with great patriotism on the beauty of the country, pointed out to me the fine ruins, and told me their histories. At last she showed me a pointed and tower-like stone, and said that a Danish king had thrown this across the sea to show his strength. She would have her husband get down from the roof to admire this stone, and remarked to him with some contempt that the men now-a-days were miserable feeble pigmies compared to those giants. At the same time she gave him the boy to take beside him. The poor devil made a long face, pulled his nightcap over his ears, and quietly obeyed orders. The country was now very fertile, full of rich meadows, with here and there a stately mansion. Cork lies most picturesquely in a deep valley on the sea-shore. It has an air of antiquity, which is rendered more peculiar by the roofs of scale-like slates with which many of the houses are covered. The two new prisons are magnificent buildings; they are erected, the one by the city, the other by the county: the former is in an antique taste, the latter in the perfectly Gothic style, and has the appearance of a great fortress. After I had breakfasted, I hired what they call here a whale-boat, narrow and pointed at each end, and thence safer and swifter, and sailed with a fair wind along the bay, which is called the 'river of Cork,' to Cove, where I intended to dine. A part of this bay, which is about three-quarters of a mile broad, forms one of the most beautiful harbours in the world. Both shores consist of high hills, covered with palaces, villas, country-seats, parks, and gardens. On either side, rising in unequal height, they form the richest and most varied boundary. By degrees the city advances into the middle of the picture, and terminates on the brow of the highest hill, with the imposing mass of the barracks. This is the view from the sea. Towards Cove it frequently changes, as the windings of the channel present objects in different positions. One of these pictures was finely bounded by a Gothic castle, which has been built with great good taste by the city on a bold projecting rock. Its admirable site not only gives it importance, but it appears, if I may so say, as if it grew there naturally; while buildings of this kind in ordinary situations so often strike one as unpleasant 'hors d'oeuvres.' Though I think we excel the English in the higher sorts of architecture, we are very deficient in attention to the objects and the scenery which surround our buildings; and yet these are the circumstances which ought generally to decide the style. This castle seemed built for one of the sea-kings, for the only entrance is from the sea. A colossal gate, adorned with a coat of arms, beneath which the waves wash the steps, overarches the dark entry. I thought of Folko with the vulture's wings returning hither after a successful seafight; and peopled the deep with fantastic beings from Fouque's "Magic Ring." We sailed with a fair wind past Passage, a fishing village, and then past Monkstown, which takes its name from a ruin of a monastery in a wood above. The rain, which had ceased for a time, here began to fall again, but I was requited by a splendid effect. We turned, near the island of Arboul, into the narrow bay of Cove, which afforded a very beautiful view; its mouth is bounded on the left by a high coast, covered with houses and gardens; on the right by the rocky island I have just named, on which are situated a fort, marine buildings, and store-houses containing the 'matériel' for the naval service; before us, in the bay itself, lay several line-of-battle ships and frigates, and another convict ship at anchor; behind them arose the town of Cove, built in steps or terraces on the side of the mountain. While all this was full in our view, the sun, now near its setting, broke forth from a flame-coloured spot in the heavens, below the rain clouds, while a rainbow more perfect and deeply coloured than I ever remember to have seen, with both feet on the sea, spanned the entrance of the bay like a portal of flowers leading from earth to heaven. Within its gigantic arch appeared the sea and the ships, shaded from the sun's rays by a mountain behind us perfectly black; in contrast with which the evening glow resting on the lofty amphitheatre of Cove, shed such a glory that the sea-mews poised in it looked like glittering silver, and every window in the town, (which is spread out on the side of the hill,) gleamed like burnished gold. This indescribably beautiful scene not only lasted till we entered the bay, but just before we landed the rainbow doubled itself, each bow glowing in equal beauty of colour. We had hardly set foot on the shore when both disappeared almost instantaneously. I now established myself very agreeably at the window of the little inn, in the hope of an excellent fast-day dinner of the most delicate fresh fish. No part of my scheme was verified but the fasting; not a fish, not an oyster was to be had. This happens oftener than you would think in the little fishing towns on the coast, every thing 'disponible' being immediately carried to the great cities. In this point of view therefore I attained my end but badly, and I was forced to content myself with the eternal 'mutton-chops.' However, I did not suffer this to disturb my equanimity. I read an old newspaper or two, not having seen one for a long time, and took my way homewards by land, when it was nearly dark. An open car, with a bundle of straw as a seat, was the only carriage I could get. The wind blew cold and gusty, and I was obliged to wrap myself closely in my cloak. We skirted the shore at a considerable elevation, and the numerous lights of the ships and marine buildings below us were like an illumination. Five flickering flames danced like Will-o'-the-wisps on the black convict ship, and the report of a cannon from the guard-ship thundered through the stillness of night. As this view disappeared, I turned my eyes to the unusually clear firmament. Who can look intently on the sublime and holy beauty of those glittering worlds, and not be penetrated by the deepest and the sweetest emotions? They are the characters by which God has from all time spoken most clearly to the soul of man; and yet I had not thought of these heavenly lights so long as the earthly ones sparkled before me! But thus is it ever. When earth forsakes us, we seek heaven. Earth is nearer, and her authority more powerful with us; just as the peasant stands more in awe of the justice than of the king; the soldier fears the lieutenant more than the general; the courtier is more assiduous to please the favourite than the monarch; and lastly, the fanatic--but we won't philosophize further about it, dear Julia; for I need not repeat to you, 'qu'il ne faut pas prendre le valet pour le roi.' _Mitchelstown, October 9th.--Morning._ At four o'clock yesterday afternoon I left Cork by the mail. I was seated by the coachman, whose four horses I occasionally drove. For about three miles from the city the country continues picturesque; it then became uninteresting, and soon it was too dark to distinguish. After a few stages we left most of our passengers, and I took my seat inside the coach, where I was destined to enjoy a three hours tête-à-tête with a lady,--unfortunately, however, she was seventy, and a Puritan. This disagreeably company, combined with the eulogies which a former travelling companion had pronounced on the newly built Gothic castle at Mitchelstown, induced me to leave the mail in the middle of the night, and to stay here till the morrow. At seven o'clock I was waked to go to view this much lauded edifice. I was sorely disappointed, as were some other strangers who had been drawn hither by the same object. We were certainly shown a huge heap of stone which had cost its possessor 50,000_l._; but one ingredient was unluckily forgotten,--good taste. The building is, in the first place, much too high for its extent; the style is confused without variety; the outline heavy, and the effect small, though the mass is great. It stands, too, on the bare turf, without the slightest picturesque break, which castles in the Gothic or kindred styles peculiarly need; and the inconsiderable park possessed neither a handsome group of trees nor a prospect worth describing. I have thrown away so many words on this abortive work, because, from the name of its possessor, and the great cost of its erection, it enjoys a certain reputation in Ireland. Yet how infinitely preferable is the place of my excellent Colonel W----, on which perhaps an eighth part of the money has been spent. The internal decorations of the castle are of a piece with its exterior: in five minutes we had quite enough of them, and as we heard of a fine prospect from the top of the tower, but the key was no where to be found, we all returned in no very good-humour to our inn. Here one of the strangers entertained me during breakfast with all sorts of interesting stories of this part of the country and its inhabitants. He told me among other things, that Lord K---- and his family had been remarkable for their very extraordinary adventures. He is now one of the most zealous Orangemen, and is rather feared than loved. His father, when just twelve years old, was married to the heiress of the whole property now possessed by the family, who was just ten. The tutor and governess received the strictest injunctions to watch the young couple most narrowly, and to prevent every possibility of a tête-à-tête. But 'somehow or other,' as my informant said, three years afterwards they found means to elude their vigilance, and the present Lord was the result of this little 'equipée.' They had afterwards several children, of whom I happened to know one at Vienna. He was a remarkably handsome man, and celebrated for his 'bonnes fortunes;' at one time the avowed lover of the Duchess of----, whom he treated with so little ceremony, that once when he invited me to breakfast at the hotel where they were living, I found the Duchess alone, and he came into the room some time after, in dressing gown and slippers, out of his or their chamber. The youngest child grew up to be one of the most attractive girls in Ireland. She was just sixteen when a cousin on the mother's side, a married man, named F----, who then enjoyed the greatest celebrity as a resistless seducer, fell in love with her, and confirmed his reputation in so conspicuous a manner, that he actually brought this beautiful girl, the idolized daughter of an earl, not only to sacrifice her innocence to him, but to accompany him to England as his avowed mistress. Here they lived for a year, at first in concealment; but at last he had the effrontery to take her to one of the most frequented watering-places. Her abode was of course discovered, and she was carried off at her father's command, and placed in safe custody in the north of England. F----, perhaps only irritated by the resistance of the family, determined, let it cost what it would, to get her again into his power; and as he thought she had been taken to her father's residence, he hurried off to Ireland in disguise. Here he lodged in the very inn in which we were breakfasting, and endeavoured to discover the place of her concealment. His minute inquiries, his mysterious behaviour, and the unlucky accident that a former acquaintance of his met him and remarked that he never saw a greater resemblance than between this stranger and the notorious F----, awakened the suspicions of the host, who immediately went to impart them to Lord K----. The Earl received the communication with perfect apparent indifference, and only enjoined on the informer absolute secrecy. He then asked at what hour the stranger generally rose; learned that it was never before eight: dismissed the host with a present,--and added, that he would examine into the matter himself at six o'clock the next morning, at which hour he desired him to expect him, and to be quite alone. Morning came; and with it, punctually, the Earl. Without any further inquiry he went up stairs accompanied by the host, and desired the stranger's servant to open his master's door instantly. The man refused; on which he broke open the door with his foot, walked up to the bed in which F----, awakened by the noise, had just raised himself, looked intently at him; and as soon as he had satisfied himself of his identity, drew a pistol from his pocket, and with perfect coolness blew out the brains of this modern Don Juan, who sank back in the bed without a groan. The sequel proves how lightly the laws sit on great men in England, when there is not a still greater who has an interest in putting them in force. Lord K---- was, indeed, brought to trial; but as he had taken good care to arrange the affair with the only two witnesses, and to get them out of the way, he was acquitted for want of evidence. No man in England can be tried twice for the same offence; so that from this moment, in spite of the perfect notoriety of the murder, all danger to the murderer was at an end. The unhappy girl soon after disappeared,--it was reported, died. Lord K---- long survived her; and at a very late period of his life was famed for the beauty of his mistresses, one of whom inhabited each of his seats. The consequences of this depravity, at length, was a separation from his wife, and the bitter hostility and litigation which subsisted between them till his death. Meanwhile his eldest son, the present Earl, had married, while yet a minor, in Sicily; had already three children by his young wife, and lived completely separated from his country; when suddenly he received a most affectionate invitation from his father, who promised to forget and forgive the past. He was induced by this to set out for Ireland with all his family. Scarcely was he returned, when his father employed all his influence to get the marriage annulled. The young mother was sent home; and the children, declared illegitimate, were disposed of in England. The son, contrary to all expectation, seems to have given in to his father's schemes without much difficulty, and soon after married a rich heiress. After his father's death he carried on a still fiercer lawsuit with his mother than his father had done, in order to get possession of an estate which she refused him. In this, however, he could not accomplish his end; nor could she at a later period obtain hers, which was to disinherit him entirely. Here is a picture of the manners of the great and noble of the eighteenth century. _Cashel.--Evening._ My communicative friend travelled on with me to Cashel. The weather was tolerable,--that is, it did not rain, and that was sufficient in this watery land to set my worthy Irishman repeatedly exclaiming, "What a delightful day!" "What lovely weather!"--I proposed to go a part of the way on foot; on which a tall lad of eighteen, ragged 'comme de raison,' offered himself as guide. He walked with great difficulty in a sort of slippers, and appeared to have wounded his feet. I asked him if that was the case: "Oh no," said he, "it's only the shoes I've put on, because I'm going to be a soldier, and must get used to wearing shoes: but the things are such a plague that I can't get on with them at all." After my usual fashion of disdaining no sources of information,--by which means I often glean some ears from conversation even with the lowest,--I made inquiries of my guide as to the present state of his country. "Yes," said he, "it's quiet enough here at present, but in Tipperary, which we shall soon come to, especially off to the north, they know how to stand against the Orangemen: O'Connell and the Association have organized us there, like regular troops: I belong to them, and I have a uniform at home: if you saw me in it, you'd hardly know me;--three weeks ago we all met there, above 40,000 men, to be reviewed. We had all green jackets, (for every man must get one as well as he can,) with an inscription on the arm--King George and O'Connell. We have chosen our own officers; they drill us, and we can march and wheel already like the redcoats. We had no arms to be sure, but they could be had too if O'Connell chose. We had flags, and whoever deserted them or got drunk, we threw into the water till he was sober again: but that very seldom happened.--They call us O'Connell's Militia." The Government has since prudently forbidden this military display; and my promising citizen-soldier was furious against Lord K----, who had arrested all his tenants (little farmers who are as dependent on their lords as serfs) who were present at the review. "But," added he, "every hour that they sit in prison shall be paid by their tyrants, whom we had rather see dead than alive;--if they in Cork here were not such tame sheep! In Tipperary they would have settled his business long ago: O'Connell never comes here, even when it's his nearest way, for he cannot endure the sight of K----." This is the spirit of party every where at work! and so well informed is this nation of beggars as to the state of their affairs! The journey to Cahir was not very interesting. The road lies between two chains of mountains, the Galtees and the Knockmildown mountains; but as the wide plain between them affords little wood or variety of objects, the view is not agreeable. My travelling companion pointed out the highest peak of the Galtees, where the most renowned sportsman[138] of the neighbourhood was buried with his dog and his gun. Not far from thence are subterranean caverns, of unfathomable extent, full of stalactites. They are accessible only in the hottest weather; at all other seasons they are filled with water. In Cahir there is a beautiful park belonging to Lord Glengall, who furnished the London caricaturists and the public with so much amusement last year. At the entrance is an imposing ruined castle of King John's, on whose tower Lord Glengall's banner is now flying. At the other end of the park is the contrast to this ruin, namely, a 'cottage ornée,' in which the possessor resides when he is here. The situation of this cottage is so charming and so well chosen that it deserves a fuller description. The whole park, beginning with the town and King John's castle, consists of a long and narrow valley, with a river flowing through meadows. Along these, clumps of trees and little thickets are beautifully scattered, and a path leads on each side of the river. The mountain ridges which close the valley are completely clothed with wood, through which the paths are cut. Near the end of the park, which is about three miles long, the glen opens and discloses a beautiful view of the higher Galtees. But before you reach this point there is a long isolated hill, directly in the middle of the valley, rising from the meadow-land. On this side is built the cottage, more than two-thirds hidden by the wood which clothes the whole hill. Within this wood is situated the 'pleasure-ground' and gardens of various sorts, with flowery walks which command the loveliest views of the valley on either side. Several ruins of castles and monasteries are visible on the distant mountains; but in the immediate neighbourhood all is repose, rural quiet, and the gay beauty of flowers even in winter. On my return to dinner, the landlord told me, as a great piece of news, that the carriage and servants of a foreign prince had been waiting for him in Cashel for the last fortnight; but that he was gone on a secret journey to O'Connell, and that the whole country was in a stir and wonderment about it. Many thought he was sent by the King of France, with secret propositions to O'Connell; some had actually seen him in Limerick, and maintained that he was a son of Napoleon. While my host was uttering this and more nonsense of the like kind, not suspecting that he was talking to the 'personage' himself, who had just dismounted from a car; he announced that the second car, (the only carriage to be got,) was ready, and waited my orders. I set out, and had soon an opportunity of making fresh philosophical observations on the power of habit in the beast that drew me. He was a very good and willing animal; but as soon as he reached the place where for fifteen years he had been accustomed to be led to water, he suddenly stopped, and fire would not have moved him till he had had his drink. After that he needed no driving; but he repeated the same manoeuvre when we met a return car, on which occasions it is usual to stop and exchange information. As if suddenly struck lame, he drew up and stood stock still; as soon as the drivers had shaken hands over his back he instantly went on of his own accord. This is really the great secret in the education of man or beast,--habit, 'voilà tout.' The Chinese are a glorious example of this. I remember that once in London, the well-known ambassador of a great nation tried at great length to convince me that the Chinese form of government was the best and most efficient, because there every thing remained unaltered: 'C'est plus commode pour ceux qui regnent, il n'y a pas de doute.' About seven I reached Cashel, having passed the Suir, a river which is called the flower of Ireland, because the richest pastures and the most beautiful seats lie on its banks. I found a terrible tumult in the inn,--one of the liberal 'Clubs' were having a meeting and a dinner.[139] I had hardly taken possession of my room, when the president, in propriâ personâ, and a deputation, came to invite me to their dinner. I entreated them to excuse me, on the ground of the fatigue of my journey and a violent head-ache, but promised to come in at the dessert, for indeed I was curious to see what was going forward. The club was instituted with an admirable purpose;--it consisted of Catholics and Protestants, who proposed to unite their efforts to reconcile the parties, and to co-operate with all their might to obtain emancipation. When I entered, I found from eighty to a hundred persons sitting at a long table; they all stood up while the president led me to the top. I thanked them; upon which they drank my health, and I was again forced to reply. Innumerable other toasts followed, all accompanied by speeches. The eloquence of the speakers was not very remarkable, and the same common-places were served up over and over again in different words. In half an hour I seized a favourable moment to take my leave.--Forgive me, for I was very tired. I have not heard any thing from you for a long time, and must wait for letters till I get to Dublin. Only be well,--that is the main thing for you; and don't cease to love me, for that is the main thing for me. Your faithful L----. LETTER XXXVII. _Cashel, Oct. 10th, 1828._ DEAR AND KIND FRIEND, The "Rock of Cashel," with its celebrated noble ruin is one of the greatest lions of Ireland, and was mentioned to me by Walter Scott himself as the most worth visiting after the Abbey of Holy Cross. It is a rock standing isolated in the midst of the plain. It is odd enough, that in one of the distant mountains there is a cavity of just the same size as the rock:--according to the legend, the devil bit it out in a rage at losing a soul he was carrying off to hell. As he flew over Cashel he spit the bit out again. Upon this rock M'Cormack, king and archbishop of Cashel, built a castle and a chapel, which are both in remarkable preservation. In the twelfth century, I think, Donald O'Brien added the church and abbey. The whole forms a most magnificent ruin, in which all the details of Saxon architecture may be studied in the most interesting manner. This has been greatly facilitated by the labours of the son-in-law of the present archbishop, Dr. Cotton, who some months ago had M'Cormack's chapel entirely cleared of the accumulations of dirt and rubbish, and has, at considerable expense, rendered the whole ruin accessible. Nothing can be more strange,--I might say, more barbarically elegant,--than these grotesque, fantastic, but often admirably executed ornaments. Many sarcophagi and monuments found buried under rubbish or earth, suggests curious and interesting speculations. One is tempted to think that the frightful images, like Indian idols, must have belonged to some earlier religion, did we not know how slowly Paganism gave way to Christianity, how obstinately it still lingers. I have in my possession a little bell, which one of my ancestors brought with him from the prisons of the Inquisition, and on which the Virgin is surrounded with apes instead of angels, some playing the violin, while others are making somersets in the clouds! I examined the whole ruin minutely, and climbed to the highest accessible point just as the sun was setting over the Devil's Bite. The archbishop had had the kindness to send his librarian to show me the ruin. From this gentleman I learned that the celebrated and often cited Psalter, written in the Irish language, which is mentioned in every Traveller's Guide as the standing wonder of Cashel, is a mere fable; at least, that no such thing was ever known to exist here. This interested me little; but I was really alarmed at hearing that the Catholics entertain the idea of restoring and rebuilding the church, if they could get possession of the ground. Heaven preserve the sacred ruin from their pious designs! On a plain in front of the church stands an extremely ancient and mutilated statue of St. Patrick, on a pedestal of granite. Near this was formerly to be seen the coronation-seat, said to have been brought from Portugal hither, and afterwards sent to the coronation of the Scottish king, Fergus, at Scone, whence Edward I. brought it to Westminster-abbey, where it now is. At the foot of the Rock of Cashel stand the very curious ruins of Hore Abbey, which, it is asserted, were formerly connected with the castle by subterranean passages. The beautiful proportions and perfect ornaments of a great window are particularly striking. _October 11th._ One of the gentlemen whose acquaintance I made yesterday, a man of good family and engaging manners, offered me his horse to visit the ruins of the Abbey of Athassil, and the park and seat of the wealthy Earl of Llandaff. The excellent hunters soon carried us to the spot: the object, however, was not equal to my expectations. The abbey is certainly a beautiful and extensive ruin; but its situation, in a bog surrounded by ploughed fields without tree or shrub, is so unfavourable as to deprive it of all picturesque effect. Lord Llandaff's park is likewise of great extent, two thousand eight hundred acres, but has no distinguishing beauties. The trees are not fine, water almost entirely wanting, and the modern Gothic house, painted light blue, appear to me hideous. The possessor is a still handsome and interesting man of seventy, who has the great, and in Ireland the rare merit of residing on his property. We found a person who is distinguished in society by the foreign polish of his manners, in the character of a plain farmer, in marsh-boots and waterproof cloak, standing in the rain directing his labourers. This pleased me greatly, for reasons you can guess. On our return, Captain S---- gave me a great many interesting details respecting the really atrocious and crying injustice and oppression under which the Irish Catholics labour: it is more intolerable than that which the Greeks suffer from their Turkish masters. The Catholics are not allowed to call their places of worship churches, only chapels; they must have no bells in them,--things inconsiderable in themselves, but degrading and insulting in their intent. No Catholic can, as you know, sit in Parliament, nor be general in the army, minister of state, judge, &c.[140] Their priests cannot perform the ceremony of marriage, in cases where one party is Protestant, and their titles are not recognised by the law. The most scandalous thing however is, that the Catholics are forced to pay enormous sums to the Protestant clergy, while they have entirely to maintain their own, of whom the state takes no notice. This is manifestly one great cause of the incredible poverty of the people. How intolerable must it appear in a country like Ireland, where more than two-thirds of the whole population are most zealously devoted to the Catholic religion! In the South the proportion is much larger. In the county of Tipperary there are about 400,000 Catholics, and only 10,000 Protestants: nevertheless, the Protestant clergy costs the inhabitants the following sums yearly: The Archbishop £25,000 The Dean 4,000 For about 50 parishes, on an average, each 1,500 which charge, of course, falls mainly on the Catholics. Most of the parsons do not even live in Ireland, but put some poor devil with a salary of £50 or £60 a year to perform their duties: these are the far-famed curates: the duties are indeed soon performed, as there are parishes which do not contain more than ten Protestants; and, indeed, there is one in this neighbourhood in which _not one_ is to be found; and not even a church,--only an old ruin, in which the 'farce' of divine worship is once a year acted to empty walls, during which a Catholic, hired for the occasion, performs the office of clerk! Meanwhile, the clergy are year after year wearing away the pavement of London and Paris, and living as unspiritual a life as possible. I lately read in an English newspaper, that a clergyman in Boulogne had lost a large sum at play; that an affair had ensued in which he had shot his antagonist, and had been obliged immediately to quit the place and _return to his living_. Even the higher clergy, who must at least reside at certain stated periods in their episcopal and archiepiscopal sees, suffer none of their ill-gotten gains, (for what else can money so acquired be called?) to return back again to the poor people from whom they have wrung it, but save all they can, that they may enrich their families. Can anybody wonder that such institutions have frequently goaded the unhappy people to despair and rebellion? and yet at every struggle their chains are riveted tighter, and eat more deeply into the bleeding flesh. Wherever you see a beautiful estate and fertile land, if you ask who is the proprietor, you are generally told "It is forfeited land," once belonging to Catholics, now to Protestants. O'Connell told me, that not long ago a law was in force, ordaining that no Catholic should hold landed property in Ireland; and if a Protestant could prove before a court of justice that this was in any instance the case, the property was taken from the Catholic and given to him: the only remedy lay in a feigned conversion. But in spite of this bounty on hypocrisy and deceit, land to the value of millions of pounds was transferred into the hands of Protestants by this atrocious process. Is it not marvellous that Protestants, who in a barbarous age severed themselves from the Romish church on account of her intolerance and rapacity, should now, in an enlightened one, cherish the very same vices,--thus incurring a far greater comparative load of guilt than they would have had to bear before. Will this monstrosity, the offspring of despotism and hypocrisy, which has so long been nourished by the tears and blood of the world, never be destroyed by more enlightened generations! If ever it is, they will look back upon us with the same sort of pity as we do upon the darkness of the middle ages. In the afternoon I visited the Catholic dean, an extremely agreeable man, who lived a long time on the continent, and was chaplain to the late Pope. His frank and enlightened conversation excited my surprise; for we are accustomed to think that every Catholic must of necessity be a superstitious bigot. Among other things, he said to me, "Believe me, this country is devoted to misfortune. We have scarcely such a thing as a Christian among us: Catholics and Protestants have one common religion,--that of hatred." Some time afterwards, Captain S---- brought me the latest newspaper, in which my visit to the meeting was mentioned: the few words I said there, and the other speeches, were dressed up with the accustomed charlatanerie, and filled three or four columns of the paper. To give you a specimen of this 'genre,' and at the same time to cut a figure in your eyes by my eloquence, I translate the beginning of the article, in which I am puffed in the same style as that in which a quack doctor sets forth the unparalleled virtues of his pills, or a horse-dealer those of his horses:--listen. "As soon as the arrival of the * * * * was known, the president, accompanied by a deputation, repaired to his apartment, to invite him to honour our feast with his presence. Shortly afterwards, the * * * * entered the room. His air is 'commanding and graceful.' He wore moustaches, and although very pale, his countenance is 'exceedingly pleasing and expressive.' He took his seat at the upper end of the table, and, bowing to the company, spoke distinctly and 'with proper emphasis,' though with a foreign accent, the following words:--'Gentlemen,--Although ill and very tired, I feel myself too much flattered by your kind invitation not to accept it with thanks, and to express to you personally the lively interest I take in your struggles on behalf of your country. May God bless this beautiful and richly-gifted land! which offers to every foreigner such manifold enjoyments; but in which I, especially, have reason to acknowledge with the deepest gratitude, the kindness and hospitality which I have every where experienced. May Heaven, I repeat, bless this sorely-tried country, and every true Irishman, whether Catholic or Protestant, who desires the welfare not of any exclusive sect or party, but of Ireland!--a welfare that can be attained only by peace, forbearance, and 'civil and religious liberty,' (a standing phrase in these islands.) Gentlemen, fill your glasses and allow me to give you a toast:--'The King, and Erin go bragh!' (This is the old Irish motto, which is on the medal of the order of the Liberator, and signifies 'Erin for ever!') "The President:--'Gentlemen, I beg you to participate in my feelings, and to receive the expression of them from me. May our 'illustrious guest,' to whose health we now fill our glasses,--if ever he return among us,--find us in the enjoyment of equal laws and equal privileges, and in the possession of that internal tranquillity which alone we have combined to obtain. Three times three:--The '* * * *.'" I repeated my thanks for the honour done me, and added, "That nothing could make me happier than to be an eye-witness of the fulfilment of their and my wishes, in a country which I loved as my own, and quitted with extreme regret." Now, dear Julia, what do you think of me? Cannot I string common-places as well as another upon occasion? What is no common-place, though reiterated at the end of every one of my letters, is, the assurance of the tender affection with which I am, and ever shall be, Your Friend L----. LETTER XXXVIII. _Cashel, Oct. 12th, 1828._ DEAREST FRIEND, Why do I like so much to write to you? Certainly because it gives you pleasure to hear from me from afar: but also, because you understand me, which nobody else does. This alone would suffice to enchain me to you for ever, for I live _in_ the world, but _with_ you alone,--as much alone, as if we were on a desert island. Thousands of beings swarm around me, but I can speak only with you. If I attempt it with others, my habit and disposition, always to speak the truth, often cost me dear; or I blunder in some way or other. Worldly wisdom is as decidedly and unattainably denied to my nature, as to the swan--who in winter waddles clumsily across the frozen lake before your window--the power of running races with the sledges that glide over it. However, his time too comes, when he cleaves his own free and beautiful element, or sails through the blue æther. Then he is himself again. But back to Cashel.--I used my good friend's horses, which daily stand at my disposal, for a second excursion to the ruins of Holy Cross, six miles off, the worthy rival of the Devil's Rock. We amused ourselves by riding across the country, and leaping some stone enclosures; and reached a height from which 'The Rock,' as it is here briefly called, presents the most imposing aspect. The circle of distant blue mountains encircling the rock, which stands alone in the midst of the fruitful plain; the castle, abbey, and cathedral,--which, forming a majestic group, look down from the summit, and in silent and sublime language relate the history of successive ages; lastly, the town at its foot, so wretched, although the seat of two archbishops, (a Protestant and a Catholic,) and which also tells its own mute but intelligible tale concerning the present times,--combine to awaken varied and contradictory emotions. Holy Cross is of a totally different character.--Cashel stands in solitary grandeur, all rock and stone, barren and black, with only here and there a straggling ivy-branch creeping feebly through a crevice. Holy Cross, on the contrary, lies in a valley on the banks of the Suir, buried in copsewood, and clothed with ivy of such luxuriant growth that hardly a wall can be seen: and even the lofty cross, the last which still remains standing,[141] is so enwreathed with it, that it seems as if it clung fondly to shelter it from every profane touch. The interior is magnificent, and contains the beautiful monument of Donough O'Brien, king of Limerick, who founded this abbey in the twelfth century; and a canopy, exquisitely carved in stone, under which repose the ashes of the abbots,--both in perfect preservation. The view from the tower is beautiful. You are very near the Devil's Bite, whose grotesque form is too striking not to have furnished matter for legends to the Irish, who have a story ready fitted to every extraordinary natural object. We hastened back sooner than I wished, in consequence of an invitation I had received from the Catholic dean to meet the archbishop and sixteen other clergymen at dinner: no layman but myself was invited. The table did honour to a chaplain of the Holy Father. "You never were at a dinner, I dare say," said the archbishop to me, "at which all the guests were clerical." "Yes, indeed, my lord," replied I; "and what is more, I myself was a sort of bishop a little while ago." "How is that possible?" said he, surprised. I explained to him, that I * * * * * * * * "We are, therefore," said I, "eighteen priests here assembled; and I can assure you, that I make no distinction between Catholics and Protestants;--that I see in both only Christians." The conversation then turned on religious subjects, and was in a perfectly free and impartial spirit. Never did I perceive the least trace of bigotry or of the disgusting affectation of puritanical rigour. At the dessert, several sang their national songs, some of which had no pretension to sanctity. As the one who sat next me remarked some little surprise on my countenance, he said in my ear, "Here we forget the foreign * * * *, the archbishop, and the priest,--at table, we are only gentlemen, and meet to enjoy ourselves." This man was the undisputed descendant of an Irish royal line; and although no trace of it remained about him, he was not the less proud of it. "I have a strange abode for a clergyman," said he; "if ever you visit Ireland again, I hope you will allow me the pleasure of doing the honours of it to you. It lies immediately under the Devil's Bite, and a finer view than this same Bite commands does not exist in all Ireland." He afterwards remarked, that to be a Catholic in this country is almost a proof of noble blood: as only the new families are Protestant, the Catholics must of necessity be the old ones; for since the reformation _they_ have made no proselytes. The melodies which were sung had a striking resemblance to those of the Wendish nations. This is one of the many features of similarity which strike me between those nations and the Irish. Both manufacture, and have an exclusive taste for, spirit distilled from corn; both live almost entirely on potatoes; both have the bagpipe; both are passionate lovers of singing and dancing, and yet their national airs are of a melancholy character; both are oppressed by a foreign nation, and speak a gradually expiring language, which is rich and poetical, though possessed of no literature; both honour the descendants of their ancient princes, and cherish the principle that what is not renounced is not utterly lost; both are superstitious, cunning, and greatly given to exaggeration; rebellious where they can, but somewhat cringing to decided and established power; both _like_ to go ragged, even when they have the means of dressing better; and lastly, spite of their miserable living, both are capable of great exertion, though they prefer indolence and loitering; and both alike enjoy a fertile soil, which the Wendish phrase calls "the roast meat of poor people." The better qualities which distinguish the Irish are theirs alone. I took advantage of the acquaintance I made to-day, to gain more information respecting the actual proportion in number between Catholics and Protestants. I found all I had heard fully confirmed, and have gained some further details: among others, the official list of a part of the present parishes and livings in the diocese of Cashel, which is too remarkable not to send it to you, though the matter is somewhat dry, and seems almost too pedantic for our correspondence. Catholics. Protestants. Thurles has 12,000 250} Cashel 11,000 700} Clonoughty 5,142 82} Cappawhyte 2,800 76} Killenaule 7,040 514} Boherlahan 5,000 25} Feathard 7,600 400} Military included. Kilcummin 2,400 --} Mickarty 7,000 80} Golden 4,000 120} Anacarty 4,000 12} Doniskeath 5,700 90} New Erin 4,500 30} In thirteen districts, 78,182 Catholics and 2,379 Protestants. Each of these districts has only one Catholic priest, but often four or five Protestant clergymen; so that, on an average, there are scarcely twenty persons to each Protestant congregation. Kilcummin is the place I mentioned to you where there is not a single parishioner, and the service, which according to law must be performed once a year, is enacted in the ruin with the help of a Catholic clerk. In another, called Tollamane, the same farce takes place. But not a whit the less must the non-attending parishioners pay the uttermost farthing of their tithes and other dues; and no claims are so bitterly enforced as those of this Christian church:--there is no pity, at least none for Catholics. A man who cannot pay the rent of the church-land he farms, or his tithes to the parson, inevitably sees his cow and his pig sold, (furniture, bed, &c. he has long lost,) and himself, his wife, and probably a dozen children, ('car rien n'engendre comme les pommes de terre et la misère,') thrust out into the road, where he is left to the mercy of that Providence who feeds the fowls of the air and clothes the lilies of the field. 'Quelle excellente chose qu'une religion d'état!' So long as such exist, and every individual is not permitted, as in the United States, to worship God in his own way, without any civil disability or loss,--so long the age of barbarism has not ceased. The time must come when in the state, as in nature, laws alone must rule. Religion will then be left to her appropriate functions: she will console us in misfortune, and heighten our pleasures; but she will cease to wield the sceptre or the sword. The laws alone should employ inflexible restraint; opinion should enjoy unbounded freedom. The civilized portion of mankind have a right to demand this at the stage to which they have attained, and to which they have fought their way through so much suffering and blood. What frantic folly, to want to prescribe to men what is to become of them after death, or what they shall believe about it! It is bad enough that here on earth the best institutions, the wisest laws, must ever be defective;--let the invisible future at least shape itself out to every mind according to that mind's power and comprehension! And yet have great and wise and good men thought themselves justified in exercising this sort of despotism. But such is human frailty! the same individual will prove himself sublime in eleven things, and in the twelfth think and act like an idiot. While Cardinal Richelieu afforded to all succeeding ages the model of a great and sagacious minister, his chief solicitude was to be thought a good poet; and he tortured himself to write wretched tragedies, which after his death were waste paper. The great Louis, who might be called the absolute king 'par excellence,' seriously exclaimed after the battle of Malplaquet, 'Et Dieu, a-t-il donc oublié ce que j'ai fait pour lui?' Cromwell, at once an enthusiast and the most audacious and most cunning of dissemblers, after heaping murder on murder and violence on violence, found his conscience tranquillized, when in answer to his interrogatories a clergyman assured him, that a man who had once felt assured of the motions of grace within him, must be eternally blessed, let him have done what he would. "Then I am saved," cried the Protector joyfully, "for I know to a certainty that once, at least, I felt myself in a state of grace." Such are men! and _therefore_ is it that human authority will never have weight with me, when it is not confirmed by my own judgment, exercised to the best of my power after mature reflection. Nay, were even all mankind opposed to me, it could not alter an opinion so formed. Thank God! we are all individual minds, and not sheep who must follow one leader. And what is universal opinion? One is tempted to think it is only another name for universal error, so frequently does it alter. It seems to depend only on time and place. If you are born in Constantinople you swear by Mahomet; in the rest of Europe by Moses or Christ; in India, by Brama. Had you come into the world a subject of Augustus, you would have been a Pagan. In the Middle Ages you would have advocated fist-law (_Faust-recht_;) and now you clamour for the liberty of the press, as the one thing without which it is impossible to exist.[142] You yourself, in the course of your short life,--how different is your being! how different your modes of thinking, as a child, as a youth, as an old man! Herder was right when he said, "No two drops of water are alike,--and yet you would give to all mankind the same belief!" We might add, No atom remains unchanged, and you would bid the human mind stand still! Before the archbishop retired, he said to me in a most obliging manner, "You are, as you tell us, a bishop, consequently you owe obedience to the archbishop. I employ this my authority to command you to dine here to-morrow with your colleague the Bishop of Limerick, whom we expect to-day;--I must hear of no excuse." I answered, taking up the jest, "I readily confess that it does not beseem me to withstand the discipline of the Church, and Your Grace[143] and the Dean know so well how to sweeten obedience, that I submit the more willingly." I passed the evening in the society of the * * *. I have seldom found Protestant clergymen so frank and sincere as these Catholics. We came to the conclusion, that we must either receive blindly the hereditary faith the Church prescribes; or, if this be not in our power, from our own religious system as the result of individual thoughts and individual feelings,--which may rightly be called the religion of philosophers. The * * * spoke French most fluently, I therefore quote his own words: "Heureusement on peut en quelque sorte combiner l'un et l'autre; car, au bout du compte, il faut une religion positive au peuple." "Et dites surtout," replied I, "qu'il en faut une aux rois et aux prêtres; car aux uns elle fournit le 'par la grâce de Dieu, et aux autres, de la puissance, des honneurs, et des richesses; le _peuple_ se contenterait, peut-être, de bonnes lois et d'un gouvernement libre." "Ah," interrupted he, "you think like Voltaire, "Les prêtres ne sont pas ce qu'un vain peuple pense, Et sa crédulité fait toute notre science." "Ma foi," said I, "si tous les prêtres vous ressemblaient je penserais bien autrement." _October, 13th: Evening._ I was unfortunately unable to keep my word with my friendly Amphitryon. A 'megrim' confined me all day to my bed. The archbishop sent me word that he would cure me; and, if I would but bring firm faith, would be sure to drive away the headache-fiend by a well-applied exorcism. I was, however, obliged to reply, that this devil was one of the most tractable, and that he respected no one but Nature, who sends and recalls him at her pleasure, which, alas! is seldom in less than four-and-twenty hours. I must therefore cut off even you, dearest Julia, with a few words. _October 14th._ 'Après la pluie le soleil!' This day has indemnified me for the last. I was on horseback by six o'clock, on my way to breakfast at Captain S---- 's country-house, where the sportsmen were to rendezvous for a hare-hunt. I found six or seven sturdy squires assembled: they do not think much, but their life is all the more gay and careless. After we had eaten and drank the most heterogeneous things,--coffee, tea, whiskey, wine, eggs, beef-steaks, honey, mutton-kidneys, cakes, and bread and butter, one after another,--the company seated themselves on two large cars, and took the direction of the Galtee mountains; where, at a distance of about eight miles, the hounds and horses were waiting for us. The weather was fine, and the ride very pleasant, along a ridge of hills commanding a full view of the fruitful plain, enclosed by mountains and richly varied by a multitude of gentlemen's seats and ruins which are scattered over the whole level country. I enjoyed these beauties, as usual, alone; my companions had only dogs and horses in their heads. A spot was pointed out to me where a strange phenomenon took place ten years ago. A bog which lay at a considerable elevation, forced up probably by subterranean springs, was completely loosened from its bottom, and travelled on in a mass, sixteen feet high and three or four acres in extent. It moved on in a continual zigzag, according to the nature of the objects it encountered; and thus passed over a distance of nine miles till it reached the nearest river, into which it slowly discharged itself, causing an overflow of the waters. The rate of its progress was about three miles an hour. It laid waste every thing in its course. Houses were levelled with the earth at its touch; trees torn up at once by the roots; the fields completely covered, and the valleys filled with bog. An immense multitude had assembled at the end of its course, without the power of offering the slightest resistance to the progress of this awful and majestic phenomenon. On our arrival at the appointed place of meeting, the horses were there, but no dogs. There were, however, a great many gentlemen, and instead of hunting hares we now all traversed the fields in every direction in search of the stray hounds. The sort of riding on these occasions is a thing of which people in our country can form no idea. Although most of the fields are enclosed by stone hedges from three to six feet high, and either piled loosely together or regularly cemented, and some of them edged by ditches; or strong walls of earth and stones pointed at the top, from five to seven feet high, with a ditch on one, sometimes on both sides;--all this is not admitted as any pretext whatever for the riders to deviate from a straight line. If I mistake not, I have already described to you how wonderfully the horses here leap; the sagacity is also admirable with which they distinguish a loose hedge from a firm one; one recently thrown up, from one hardened by time. The loose ones they spring over at one leap,--'clear them,' according to the technical expression; but they take the firm ones more easily, making a sort of halt at the top. All this takes place equally well in a full gallop, or, with the utmost coolness, at a foot pace, or with a very short run. Some gentlemen fell, but were only laughed at; for a man who does not break his neck on the spot must look for no pity, but on the contrary, ridicule. Others dismounted at very bad places, and their docile steeds leaped without them, and then stood still, grazing while their riders climbed over. I can assure you I very often thought I should be compelled to follow their example; but Captain S----, who knew the excellent horse on which he had mounted me, and was always by my side, encouraged me to trust with perfect security to the admirable creature; so that at the end of the day I had acquired a very considerable reputation even among 'fox-hunters.' Certainly it is only in Ireland one sees all that horses are capable of; the English are far behind them in this respect. Wherever a man could get through, my horse found means to do so in one way or other, leaping, crawling, or scrambling. Even in swampy places where he sank up to his girths, he laboured through without the least hurry or agitation, where a more lively and timorous horse, though equally strong, would certainly never have made his way. Such a horse on a field of battle would be beyond all price: but only very early and perfect training, joined to the excellence of the breed, can produce such an one. Experience shows that a peculiar bent of education, continued through centuries, ends in rendering the superinduced qualities natural even in animals. I saw pointers in England, which without any training, stood still and pointed as decidedly the first time they were taken out shooting, as if they had been ever so carefully trained. The price of these admirable horses was extremely reasonable ten years ago, but since the English have begun to buy them for hunting, it is greatly raised, and an Irish hunter of the quality of the one I rode to-day, would fetch from a hundred and fifty to two hundred guineas. At the Galway races I saw a celebrated blood-hunter, for which Lord Cl---- had given the latter sum. He had won every 'steeple-chase' he had ever run; was as light as he was powerful, swift as the wind, a child could manage him, and no hedge was too high, no ditch too wide for him. At length we found the dogs: the men who had the care of them having got completely drunk. Our hunt did not end till the approach of twilight. It was become excessively cold, and the flickering fire, with the table spread before it, shone most agreeably upon us on our arrival at Captain S----'s house. A genuine sportsman's and bachelor's feast followed. There was no attempt at show or elegance. Glasses, dishes, and all the furniture of the table, were of every variety of form and date: one man drank his wine out of a liqueur glass, another out of a champagne glass, the more thirsty out of tumblers. One ate with his great-grandfather's knife and fork, his neighbour with a new green-handled one which the servant had just bought at Cashel fair. There were as many dogs as guests in the room: every man waited on himself; and the meats and potables were pushed on the table in abundance by an old woman and a heavy-fisted groom. The fare was by no means to be despised, nor the wine either, nor the potheen clandestinely distilled in the mountains, which I here tasted for the first time genuine and unadulterated. For sweetening a pudding, two large lumps of sugar were handed about, and we rubbed them together as the savages do sticks for kindling the fire. That the drinking was on a vast and unlimited scale you may safely presume: but though many at last could not speak very articulately, yet no one attempted any thing indecorous or ill-bred; and the few who were much excited, enhanced the merriment by many a 'bon mot' or droll story. I am indebted for the great cordiality, I might say enthusiasm, with which I am received here, to my visit to the 'Man of the People,' with whom the curious believe me to be in God-knows-what connection. I am greeted with hurrahs in every village I ride through; and in Cashel, the market-place, in which my inn stands, is daily filled with people, who congregate at an early hour, and cheer me every time I go out. Many press forward and ask leave to shake my hand, (a no very gentle operation,) and are quite happy when they have accomplished this. We rose from table very late. I was packed into my host's car with another gentleman, and set off for Cashel through an icy fog. Every individual ran out to my assistance. One would draw a pair of furred gloves on my hands; another lent me a cloak; a third tied a handkerchief round my neck;--every man insisted on doing me some little service: and with many a 'God bless his Highness!' I was at length suffered to depart. The gentleman with me, Mr. O'R--, was the most original, and the most drunk of any. Equally bent on doing me some kindness, he invariably made the matter worse than he found it. He unfastened my cloak, in trying to fasten it; tore off my handkerchief, instead of tying it; and fell upon me, in his efforts to make room. His poetical humour displayed itself as characteristically when we reached the Rock of Cashel. It was dreadfully cold, and the cloudless firmament twinkled and glittered as if bestrewn with diamonds. Between the road and the rock, however, a thick mist lay along the earth, and covered the whole surrounding country as with a veil, though it did not rise higher than to the foot of the ruin. Its base was invisible, and it appeared as if it stood built on a cloud in the blue æther, and in the midst of the stars. I had been admiring this striking night-scene some time, when my neighbour, whom I thought asleep, suddenly cried aloud, "Ah, there is my glorious rock! look, how grand! and above all, the sacred place where all my ancestors repose, and where I too shall lie in peace!" After a pause he tried in a fit of greater ecstasy to stand up, which but for me would probably have ended in his falling from the carriage. As soon as he was firm on his legs, he took off his hat reverently, and with a sort of devotion, at once affecting and burlesque, called out with tears in his eyes, "God bless Almighty God, and glory to him!" Notwithstanding the nonsense, I was touched by the feeling which broke through it, and in this at least I sympathized with my whole soul. _October 15th._ Lord H----, whom I knew in London, invited me to spend some days at his beautiful residence in this neighbourhood. This invitation I was obliged to refuse, but went to-day to dine with him. The well-kept pleasure-ground, and the excavation of a hollow for a little lake, recalled to me but too strongly the castle where you, my dear! are now living, to be able to look at it without emotion. When shall we see each other again! when shall we breakfast under the three lime-trees with the swans who so trustingly fed out of our hands, while your tame doves picked up the crumbs at our feet, and the little coco, surprised and jealous, looked at the audacious birds with his wise eyes,--a picture at which the '_blasé_' man of the world shrugs his shoulders contemptuously, but which touches our hearts in all its native simplicity. Lord H---- is not one of those Irish nobles who withdraw the whole of their revenues from their country: he sometimes resides there: but he understands his interest so ill, that instead of placing himself at the head of the people, he sets himself in opposition to them. The natural consequence ensues: Lord Llandall, though a Protestant, is beloved:--Lord H---- is hated, though personally he does not appear to me to deserve it. I heard much of his excessive cruelties towards the Catholics, and I was indeed witness to his violent temper on this subject. I think, however, that in this case, as in so many others, the mere change of one's own point of view alters all the relations of things. This is a grand rule of the practical philosophy of life, and the effect is certain: for the objects are only raw material matter; every thing depends on the manner in which the individual understands and shapes them. How many situations may thus be transformed from black into rose-coloured, as soon as one resolutely takes off the black spectacles, or puts on the rose-coloured ones. With what spectacles will you read my letter?--I hear your answer, and kiss you for it. Heaven guard you, and keep you in this mind! Your devoted L----. LETTER XXXIX. _Ban----, October 17th, 1828._ BELOVED JULIA, Since yesterday I have been an inhabitant of a pretty Gothic cottage at the foot of a mountain. From one of my windows I see fertile fields: from the other, wood, lake, and rocks. The master of the house is Mr. O'R----'s brother, who possesses besides this charming residence a very pretty wife, to whom I pay my court a little, for the gentlemen drink and hunt too much for my taste. The family estate would have naturally devolved on my whimsical friend; but as he was always rather a wild bird, who from his boyhood had a strong propensity for whiskey-punch and a joyous life, his father, having the disposal of it, left it to his youngest son. The brothers are nevertheless the best possible friends; and the light-hearted kindly nature of the eldest finds no wormwood in the wine which he drinks at his brother's table; while on the other side, the younger respects the poverty of his kind-hearted and amusing elder, (who gets regularly drunk every evening,) and lets him want for nothing. Such a connexion does honour to both, the more, because at the fathers death the lawyers were of opinion that the will might have been set aside. Both have doubtless acted with as much wisdom as kindness to leave it uncontested, and thus keep the oyster for themselves. We passed the whole day in rambling about these magnificent mountain-paths. Others went out snipe-shooting, after which we sat _at the dinner table till 2 o'clock in the morning_. Very soon after the dessert was served, the ladies, as usual, left us: and now the drinking began in earnest. Coffee was brought very late; on the heels of which followed a stimulating 'souper' of 'devils' of all sorts,[144] raw oysters and pickles. This formed the prelude to potheen punch, of which several drank from twelve to sixteen large tumblers, whilst O'R---- kept the whole company 'in a roar of laughter' by his inexhaustible wit and mad tricks. Besides this, every man was forced to sing a song: I among the rest, a German one, of which nobody understood a word, but all were very politely delighted. At two, I retired; but all the others staid. As my chamber was unfortunately directly over them, it was long before I could sleep for their noise and laughter. _October 18th._ You will wonder at the somewhat coarse and low life I led here, and to say the truth I wonder at it myself; but it is 'genuine,' that is to say, perfectly natural to these people, and nothing assumed; and that has ever a charm of its own, at least for me. Besides, the lady of the house is really charming, lively and graceful as a French-woman, with a foot like a zephyr. This morning we hunted hares, and many a bold leap was taken. In the evening they produced the most celebrated piper of Ireland, Keans Fitzpatrick, called the King of the Pipers, having been honoured with the approbation of 'His most gracious Majesty King George the Fourth.' Indeed, the melodies which the blind minstrel draws from his strange instrument are often as surprising as they are beautiful, and his skill is equal to his highly polished and noble air. These pipers, who are almost all blind, derive their origin from remote antiquity. They are gradually fading away, for all that is old must vanish from the earth. _October 19th._ In the course of the day we met two men of very suspicious appearance in a wood. My companion very cooly pointed them out to me as notorious robbers, who had managed, partly by cunning, partly by the general terror they inspired, to preserve their liberty;--another proof how defective is the government and how entirely perverted are all the relations and sentiments of society; two things by which Ireland is specially characterized. Both of these men, who called themselves farmers because they rented a little bit of potatoe-field were of a singularly striking and national aspect. The one, a slender man of about forty, handsome, with a wild but imposing physiognomy, was a highly picturesque figure, even in his rags. Contempt of all danger was impressed upon his noble brow;--indifference in all disgrace played scornfully about his audacious mouth. His history confirmed the language of his features. He wore three or four military medals, which he had gained in the wars in Spain and France. In consequence of repeated proofs of his remarkable courage he had been raised to the rank of a non-commissioned officer, from which his disorderly conduct soon caused him to be degraded: he had then served a second time, again distinguished himself, and again for the same reasons as before been disgraced, though not convicted of any capital offence.--He is now strongly suspected of being the leader of the band of robbers who infest the Galtees, and have committed several murders. His companion was in external appearance the complete reverse of him; he was, for an Irish farmer, unusually well clad, that is to say, in whole clothes; sixty years old, short and thick-set, and in his whole aspect almost like a Quaker. In his sanctified countenance, however, lurked such an expression of cunning and of pitiless determination, that he appeared to me much more terrible than the other. He was prosecuted two years ago for forging bank-notes; and was very nearly convicted, when he was rescued from the gallows by a dexterous lawyer to whom he entrusted his case. With tears of gratitude he put fifty pounds into the hand of his deliverer, lamenting most pathetically that he could not requite him better. The advocate was satisfied with his success, and put the notes into his pocket-book. What was his indignation at finding that Paddy had paid him in the very notes from the consequences of the manufacture of which he had just saved him! When the Irish take a bad turn, (and the only wonder is that they do not all do so,) they are the most dangerous people in the world; their most prominent qualities--courage, levity, and cunning,--are but too efficient in enabling them to dare every thing and to effect much. _Oct. 21st._ I had so often laid the hospitality of these worthy squires under contribution, that I was obliged 'en conscience' to make some return. I therefore invited them all to dine with me before my departure. In the morning I gave a cock-fight, 'car il faut hurler avec les loups;' then a concert of the great piper; then we had a ride; and lastly 'grand festin, grand chère, et bon feu.' During our ride we came to a spot at which a magistrate named Baker was shot three years ago. He was a man exactly in the stile of the Bailiffs (_Amtmäner_) in Ifflands's Plays; only, alas! there was no noble character to thwart and counteract him. The day before his death, in discharging a man whom he had imprisoned for six weeks on a charge of suspected revolutionary practices, he publicly said, "Last month I sent you word that I wanted to speak to you;--you would not come. I have given you this little lesson for it, which I hope will make you more complying in future: if not, in six weeks more you shall swing; of that you may rest assured!" The county was at that time under 'martial law,' in consequence of some disturbances; and almost unlimited power was given to the local authorities, whose insolence and atrocity therefore knew no bounds. The immediate cause of Baker's death was of a kind which deprives one of all pity for him. He was indebted £500 to a dairyman, partly for articles supplied to his household, partly for money he had borrowed. This he had promised to pay as soon as the man found a suitable match for his daughter, whose portion the money was to be. In a few years this took place, and the dairyman humbly entreated to be paid. Baker, however, continually put him off under various pretences; and finding he could obtain nothing but vain promises, the poor fellow at length threatened him with an action, and set off for Cork to consult a lawyer. Taking advantage of his absence, Baker appeared the next day at his house, followed by a detachment of soldiers, and with infernal hypocrisy asked his wife, then pregnant of her seventh child, whether she knew of any concealed arms, and told her that her husband was strongly accused of having secreted some. The woman answered without fear or hesitation, that she was sure no such thing existed in her house; that her husband would never have any thing to do with such plots; as Mr. Baker himself, who was an old acquaintance, well knew. "Take care what you say," said Baker; "for if any thing is found after you have denied it, you are subject to transportation for life." The woman persisted in her denial "Well, then, at your peril be it," said he. "Soldiers, search the house thoroughly, and bring me word what you find." They found nothing; but a second search being made, under Baker's own superintendance, a loaded pistol was produced by some man, who pretended to have found it under some straw; into which it was always suspected Baker himself had just thrust it. The woman was immediately dragged away, and being regarded as convicted by the presence of the corpus delicti, was, after a short trial, sentenced to transportation. In a few days her husband returned, and moved heaven and earth to obtain her pardon. In vain did he entreat that at least he might be suffered to go to Botany Bay instead of his unhappy wife, the pregnant mother of six children. He offered to give Baker the £500. But this fiend remained inexorable, jeeringly reminding the despairing husband "that he wanted the money to portion off his daughter, who," he added, "might now keep house for him, if after the consequences of the search he had still any house to keep. That he need not trouble himself about his wife's travelling expenses, for that the Government would generously provide for them." The law had its course; the poor woman was transported, and is perhaps now at Port Jackson. The husband, made furious by despair, and joined by her brothers and two other men, shortly after avenged her, by Baker's cruel death. They fell upon him in the open fields, hunted him like a wild beast, and killed him slowly by a number of shots. All were taken and hanged. Tales of horror like this were formerly of daily occurrence in this unhappy land, and even now have not entirely ceased. That such a contrast should exist between England and Ireland, and under the same Government too; that it should be suffered to endure for centuries, is indeed afflicting to every philanthropic mind. Unbridled bigotry, and rapacity unwilling to disgorge any part of its former prey, are the causes;--six millions of human beings the victims. I have nothing remarkable to relate concerning my dinner-party: it was like its predecessors, and lasted far too long. It was formerly the custom to give parties, of which the sole and avowed object was desperate drinking,--a fashion which is comparatively fallen into disuse. It was a common thing for a man to lock himself into a room with a hogshead of wine and some jolly companions, and not to leave it till the last drop was emptied. Barrington mentions such a party in his memoirs. It was given in a shooting lodge, in which the wall had been covered with mortar only the day before, and was of course still wet. Here the company were locked in with a pipe of claret, just arrived from France; and when some of them who had tumbled against the wall, awoke in the morning from their night's debauch, they found themselves so thoroughly identified with it that they were obliged to be cut away, some with the loss of their clothes and others of their hair. After my guests had exhausted their store of anecdotes, which were not precisely of a kind to entertain you with, they resorted to all sorts of practical jokes and 'tours de force.' One of these was quite new to me. It is an experiment which any body may try, and it struck me as curious enough. The wildest and fiercest game-cock may be rendered motionless, and compelled to lie in deathlike stillness as long as you please, by simply laying him on a table, with his beak close to a white line drawn across it. Nothing is necessary but first to draw this line with chalk, then to take the cock in your hands and lay him on the table with his beak turned towards it. You press him down, and there he will lie as if bound by some spell; his beak stretched out, and his eyes immoveably fixed on the white line, till you take him away. The experiment must be tried by candlelight. 'Voilà de grandes bagatelles, mais à la guerre comme à la guerre.' _Oct. 22d._ As Fitzpatrick the piper, whom I had sent for to my party yesterday, was still in the town, I had him come to play 'privatim' in my room while I breakfasted, and observed his instrument more accurately. It is, as you know, peculiar to Ireland, and contains a strange mixture of ancient and modern times. The primitive simple bagpipe is blended with the flute, the oboe, and some tones of the organ and of the bassoon: altogether it forms a strange but pretty complete concert. The small and elegant bellows which are connected with it are fastened to the left arm by means of a riband, and the leathern tube communicating between them and the bag lies across the body; while the hands play on an upright pipe with holes like a flageolet, which forms the end of the instrument, and is connected with four or five others joined together like a colossal Pan's pipe. During the performance, the right arm moves incessantly backwards and forwards on the body, in order to fill the bellows. The opening of a valve brings out a deep humming sound, which forms an 'unisono' accompaniment to the air. By this agitation of his whole body, while his fingers were busied on the pipes I have described, Fitzpatrick produced tones which no other instrument could give out. The sight, in which you must picture to yourself the handsome old man with his fine head of snow-white hair, is most original and striking; it is, if I may say so, tragi-comic. His bagpipe was very splendidly adorned, the pipes were of ebony ornamented with silver, the riband embroidered, and the bag covered with flame-coloured silk fringed with silver. I begged him to play me the oldest Irish airs; wild compositions, which generally begin with a plaintive and melancholy strain like the songs of the Slavonic nations, but end with a jig, the national dance, or with a martial air. One of these melodies gave the lively representation of a fox-hunt, another seemed to me borrowed from the Hunters' Chorus in the Freischütz; it was five hundred years older. 'Les beaux esprits se rencontrent dans tous les âges.' After playing some time, the venerable piper suddenly stopped, and said smiling, with singular grace, "It must be already well known to you, noble Sir, that the Irish bagpipe yields no good tones when sober: it requires the evening, or the stillness of night, joyous company, and the delicious fragrance of steaming whiskey-punch. Permit me, therefore, to take my leave." I offered such a present as I thought worthy of this fine old man, whose image will always float before me as a true representative of Irish nationality. With Fitzpatrick I take my leave of you, dearest Julia, to set out on my return to Dublin, whence I calculate on despatching my next letter to you. Your faithful L----. LETTER XL. _Dublin, October 24th, 1828._ GOOD AND DEAR FRIEND, After leading a half savage life so long, the tameness of the city appears quite strange. I can now imagine the home-sickness of the North American Indians, even the most civilized of whom always return to their woods at last. Freedom has such a matchless charm. Yesterday, after dinner, I left Cashel, taking Captain S----'s brother in the carriage with me. While daylight lasted we saw at least twenty ruins, far and near. One of the most beautiful stands at the foot of an isolated hill, Killough Hill, called the garden of Ireland, because, according to the popular tradition, every indigenous plant in Ireland is to be found on it. The cause of this unwonted fertility is, that it was formerly the summer residence of the fairy queen, whose gardens bloomed here. The soil still retains some portion of its wondrous virtues. The ruin has likewise one of the mysterious slender round towers without any entrance. Some few of them have an opening or door, not at the bottom, however, but in the middle. It is impossible to conceive a more romantic watch-tower for the fairy hill. The weather was remarkably mild and beautiful, and the full moon so brilliant that I could read with perfect ease in my carriage. We slept, nevertheless, through a great part of the night. I found a letter from you in Dublin;--a thousand thanks for all the kindness and affection towards me which it contains. Do not be too anxious as to the situation of your friend. Tell her she must act as necessity requires, avert what can be averted, postpone inevitable evil as long as possible, but always bear calmly what is actually present. This at least is my philosophy. Your quotation from Madame de Sevigné amused me extremely. Her letters are certainly extraordinary; repeating the same things, and those trivial enough, though volume after volume; yet by the new turn she continually gives them, always entertaining, sometimes bewitching; depicting court, city and country with equal grace; taking a somewhat affected love for the most insignificant of women as her main theme, yet never wearying: these were certainly conditions which no one but herself could have fulfilled. She is not in the least degree romantic, nor was she, while living, remarkably distinguished; but she is, without question, the best-bred model 'du ton le plus parfait.' Without doubt she also possessed 'good temper' bestowed by nature, ennobled and refined by art. Art is at least visible throughout; and probably her letters, which she knew were eagerly read by many, were carefully polished, and were calculated as much for society as for her daughter; for the admirable lightness of her style betrays much more of care than the 'épanchement' of the moment permits. The representation of the manners of the day has a considerable effect in heightening the interest of the letters, but I doubt whether such letters written now would enjoy equal success. We are become both too serious and too avaricious. 'Les jolis riens ne suffisent plus.' We want excitement, and violent excitement. Where a giant like Byron appears, little prettinesses sink into insignificance. I was just now reading in his works,--for I never travel without them. I fell upon the description of a scene precisely like many I have lately witnessed. In what elevated language did I find my own feelings expressed! I translate it for you as well as I can, in a sort of poetic prose, and as literally as possible:-- Der Himmel wandelt sich!--Welch ein Wechsel! O Nacht-- Und Sturm und Finsterniss, wohl seyd ihr wundermächtig! Doch lieblich Eure Macht--dem Lichte gleich, Das aus dem dunklen Aug des Weibes bricht.--Weithin Von Gipfel zu Gipfel, die schmetternden Felsen entlang Springt der eilende Donner. Nicht die einsame Wolke allein, Jeder Berg hat eine Zunge gefunden, Und Jura sendet durch den Nebelvorhang Antwort Zurück, dem lauten Zuruf der jubelnden Alpen. Das ist eine Nacht!--o herrliche Nacht! Du wurdest nicht gesandt für Schlummer. Lass auch mich Ein Theilnehmer seyn an Deiner wilden, fernhin schallenden Freude Ein Theil vom Sturme--und ein Theil deiner selbst-- Wie der See erleuchtet glänzt--gleich dem phosphorischen Meer! Und die vollen Regentropfen--wie sie herabtanzen auf seine Wellen! Und nun wird Alles wieder schwarz--und von neuem Hallt der Berge Chorus wieder, in lauter Lust, Als säng' er Triumph über eines jungen Erdbebens Geburt![145] Is not that beautiful? What true poetic feeling! What a pity that we have no good translation of his works. Göthe alone were able to give a perfectly satisfactory version of them,--if he were not occupied in creating what equals them in grandeur, and surpasses them in lightness, grace and sweetness. _October 25th._ I called yesterday at the Lord Lieutenant's house in the Phoenix Park. He invited me to dine with him to-day. The party was brilliant. He is beloved in Ireland for his impartiality, and for the favour he has always shown to the cause of emancipation. His exploits as a general officer are well known, and no man has a more graceful and polished address in society. A more perfect work of art than his false leg I never saw. The Marquis, although not young, has still a very fine person, and his artificial leg and foot rival the other 'à s'y méprendre.' The only thing which betrays it, is some little difficulty in walking. On the whole, I know few Englishmen who have so good a 'tournure' as the present Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. When he resides in the city, a very rigid etiquette, like that of a little court, is observed; but in the country he lives like a private gentleman. The power and dignity of a Lord Lieutenant are considerable as representative of the King; but he holds them only at the pleasure of the ministry. Among other privileges he has that of creating Baronets; and in former times inn-keepers, and men even less qualified, have received that dignity. When his functions cease he gains no accession of rank by the past performance of them. His salary during his continuance in office is £50,000 per annum, and a residence free of charge; so that he can very well lay by his own income. This, however, the present Lord Lieutenant does not appear disposed to do: his establishment is very liberal and splendid. He is surrounded too by very interesting men, who unite extreme good breeding with frankness and cordiality, and seem to judge of party questions with moderation and good sense. From what I have said, it may safely be presumed that Lord Anglesea's residence here will not be of long duration; and indeed I heard some hints to that effect. As he suffers dreadfully from Ticdouloureux, I recommended H---- to him, as a person remarkable for cures of that complaint, and gave his physician the book in which he treats of it. The Marquis said, smiling, "I shall find no difficulty in obtaining leave of absence;" at the same time casting a significant glance on his private secretary. This confirmed me in the surmise I have just expressed. It will be a great calamity for Ireland, who rejoices in the new and unaccustomed blessing of a governor who views the disgusting religious dissensions by which she has so long been torn, with the eye of a philosopher. Before I drove to the Phoenix Park I attended divine worship in a Catholic chapel. It is a handsome building: the interior is a large oval, with a colonnade of Ionic pillars running round it, surmounted by a beautiful dome, and an excellent alto-relievo in the arched roof above the altar: it represents the Ascension. The figure and expression of our Saviour are peculiarly admirable. The fancy of the artist has placed him before us such as we must imagine him. The Catholics affirm that they possess genuine portraits of Christ. Indeed, in the south of Germany I once saw an advertisement of a collection of genuine portraits of God Almighty. The chief altar stands quite alone, and is of a simple and beautiful form: it is of white marble, and was made in Italy. The slab on the top and the base are of dark marble. The front façade is divided into three compartments, on the middle is a monstrous pyx of gold bronze, and on each side bas-reliefs of praying angels. Above, on the centre of the altar, stands a magnificent temple of splendid gems and gold, in which the real pyx is kept, and near it two no less magnificent golden candlesticks. On each side of the altar stands a tripod, supported by angels with folded wings; on the tablet at the top are placed the Host and the wine. The details are executed in the best possible taste, and a grand simplicity reigns through the whole. From the roof hangs a massive silver chain, supporting an antique lamp of the same metal, which is kept perpetually burning. It is certainly one of the most beautiful institutions of the Catholic religion, that some churches stand open day and night to all who long for communion with Heaven. In Italy I scarcely ever went to rest without visiting one of these; and giving myself up to the wondrous effect produced in the stillness of night by the red fantastic light thrown on the vaulted roof by the few scattered lamps, I never failed to find some solitary figure, kneeling in supplicating reverence before one of the altars, busied only with his God and himself, and utterly unmindful of all that passed around. In one of these churches stood the gigantic statute of St. Christopher, leaning against the middle pillar, and touching the roof with his head. On his shoulders was his heavy burthen, the miraculous child; and in his hand, as a staff, a full-grown trunk of a tree, with fresh green boughs, which were renewed every month. The light of a lamp suspended above, surrounded the infant Christ with a glory, and threw some rays, as if in benediction, upon the pious giant. When I compare the Catholic service as it is performed here, with that of the English Protestant church, I must unquestionably prefer the former. It may perhaps contain some superfluous ceremonies, some which even border on the burlesque, such as the tossing about of the censers, the continual shifting of dresses, &c.; but still this form of worship has a sort of antique grandeur which imposes and satisfies. The music was excellent; the singers very good, and, which amazingly enhanced the effect, invisible. Some Protestants call this a taint of sensuality; but I cannot discover why the scream of an unmusical Lutheran congregation, which rends one's ears, should be more pious than good music, executed by people who have been well taught.[146] Even with a view to the contents of the sermon, the comparison was greatly to the advantage of the Catholic church. While the Protestant congregation at Tuam was entertained with miracles, swine, and evil spirits, the discourse here was purely moral and practical. The eloquent preacher had taken envy as his subject, and said among other excellent remarks, "If you would know whether you are entirely free from this crime, so afflicting to humanity, so degrading to the individual who cherishes it,--examine yourselves thoroughly, whether you never experienced an unquiet and dissatisfied feeling at the constant and growing prosperity of another; whether you never felt a slight satisfaction at the tidings that some mischance had happened to a fortunate neighbour? This is a serious inquiry, and few will make it earnestly without advantage." The way in which every one reads silently in his prayer-book, while the sublime music elevates the soul, and withdraws it from the earthly and trivial, appears to me far preferable to the loud responses and prayers of the Anglican church. During this interval of silent veneration, little heed is given to the ceremonies, the change of raiment, or the incensing the priests. But even allowing for these slight blemishes, the Catholic church strikes the mind, as a whole, as something congruous and harmonious with itself, and venerable from its antiquity and its consistency: the English Protestant church, on the contrary, as something patch-work, incongruous, and unconnected. In connexion with the German church (of course I mean as it is understood by such men as Krug and Paulus,) these two establishments might be likened to three individuals who were in a magnificent place, affording every variety of enjoyment, and of valuable information; but shut out from God's sun and his beautiful open creation by a high wall. The first of the three was satisfied with the glitter of the jewels and the light of the tapers, and never cast one wistful glance toward the few chinks in the wall which admitted some glimpse of daylight. The other two were restless and dissatisfied; they felt that there was something still better and fairer abroad, and determined to get over the high wall, cost what it would. Well provided with every thing they thought they should want, they began this great undertaking. They had many perils, many inconveniences to encounter, but at length they reached the top. Here, indeed, they could behold the sun's radiant countenance, but clouds often concealed it, and the beautiful green of the meadows beneath was often deformed by weeds and thorns, amidst which terrible wild beasts roamed prowling about. But nothing could daunt the second of the three, nor turn him from his enterprise; his intense desire for freedom conquered all fear and all doubt; unhesitatingly, he let himself down into the new world, and as he left every thing behind him that he might be perfectly unimpeded, he soon disappeared within the sacred enclosure. As to the third, he remains still sitting on the wall, between heaven and earth; still living on the food, and delighting in the finery he brought with him from below, and unable to wean himself from it, though the rays of the sun, which now fall uninterrupted on the false tinsel, shows it in all its worthlessness. Like the ass in the fable, he hesitates between the two bundles of hay, without knowing which to prefer. Backward he cannot go, and he has not courage to go forward; the flesh-pots of Canaan detain him where he is--so long as they last. _October 27th._ If I do not choose to make '_allotria_,' that is to talk of things which have nothing to do with my travels or my residence here, living in the world will make my letters very barren. I could draw out a scheme or formula and have it lithographed, leaving a few blanks to be filled _ad libitum_. For instance, "Rose late, and out of humour. Walked, rode, or drove out to make visits. Dined with Lord----, or Mr.----; dinner good, or bad; conversation, common places. Evening, a tiresome party, rout, ball, or above all, amateur concert. N. B. My ears still ache." In London, might be added, as a standing remark, "The crowd nearly suffocated me, and the heat was greater than on the highest bench of a Russian vapour bath. Physical exertion to-day =5 degrees (reckoning a fox-hunt at 20,) intellectual profit therefrom =0. Result, 'Diem perdidi.'" It is not quite so bad here: in this season the fatigue one has to undergo does not exceed that of a large German town; but there are a great superabundance of invitations which one cannot civilly refuse. For how truly can I say with the English poet, "How various are the feelings of guests in that world which is called great and gay, but which is the most melancholy and tedious of any to those who cannot share in its gaiety!" _October 28th._ I am just returned from a dinner-party, in which there was rather a provincial tone, but no want of pretension. Some things were comical enough; but the worst of it is, one buys a little laughing with such a quantity of ennui. The dinner too was a real 'mystification' for a 'gourmet,' and the house and park correspond with it. My propitious star placed me at table next to Lord P----, a celebrated political character, who has taken his stand on the good and noble side, and has remained faithful to the cause of emancipation. It gave me great pleasure to find that his views of things agreed so perfectly with those which I had been led to entertain from my own observations on the spot. One of his expressions struck me by its 'naïveté.' I remarked to him, that from what I saw, even emancipation could do little good; for that the real evil was, that the soil was the property of an aristocracy, whose interests would always lead them to reside in England; and above all, the sums which were extorted from the poor Catholics by the Protestant church. So long as this remained unaltered, I saw no hope of any better state of things. "Yes," replied he; "but to alter _that_ is impossible. If the Protestant clergy were deprived of their wealth they would lose all their importance." "How can that be?" replied I, laughing. "Is it possible that virtue, mild instruction, and pious devotion to the duties of his office, would not ensure to a clergyman, even of the highest rank, more respect with a moderate income than immoderate luxury; or are 20,000_l._ a-year really necessary 'to make a Bishop or Archbishop appear decently in society?'" "My dear Sir," answered Lord P----, "such a thing may exist and maintain itself abroad, but will never do in Old England, where, above all, money, and _much money_, is required and necessary to obtain respectability and consideration." This remark was not applied to the aristocracy; but it is not the less true that money is essential to its very existence, although it now affects, with no little display of haughtiness, to estimate noble birth far above mere wealth. Lady M----, who was present, entertained the company as usual by her wit. She amused me with some diverting anecdotes * * * * * * * * It is remarkable, that in no country does one meet half so many old maids as in England; and very frequently they are rich. Their excessive pride of wealth, which leads them to think no rank and greatness sufficient for them, or the exaggerated romantic notions in which they are brought up, are the causes of this phenomenon. English girls insist on being loved entirely and solely for themselves. French women make no such pretension, judging rightly enough, that this devoted affection will grow out of marriage, where there are the qualities fitted to produce it; and that where these do not exist, it will not _endure_, whatever the lover may say or believe to the contrary. The English, like true Turks, keep the intellects of their wives and daughters in as narrow bounds as possible, with a view of securing their absolute and exclusive property in them as much as possible, and in general their success is perfect.[147] A foreigner serves as an amusement, a plaything to Englishwomen, but always inspires them with some degree of fear and reserve. It is extremely rare for them to bestow as much of their confidence upon him as upon a countryman. They regard him as a half atheist, or a superstitious worshipper of Baal, and sometimes amuse themselves with attempting to convert him. I do not speak here of the London Exclusives; they give the same result as the rubbing together of all colours,--none remains. _October 29th._ The beautiful weather tempted me out into the country. I rode about the whole day, and saw two fine seats, Malahide and Howth. They have one peculiarity in common; both have remained for nine hundred years in the possession of the same family, which no English seat that I have seen or heard of can boast. Malahide has also an historical interest, for it belongs to the Talbots; and the armour of the celebrated warrior, with the mark of a blow from a partisan on the breast is preserved here. One-half of the castle is extremely old, the other was demolished by Cromwell, and rebuilt in the antique style. In the former part they showed me chairs five hundred years old, and a room in which the rich 'boiserie,' the carved ceiling and the floor, all of black oak, had remained unchanged for seven hundred years. The new part contains many interesting pictures. There is a portrait of the Duchess of Portsmouth, so lovely that I almost envied Charles the Second even in his grave, the glory of making her a Duchess. An old picture of Mary Stuart, although represented at an advanced period of her life, confirmed me in my conviction of the resemblance of the portrait of this unfortunate and beautiful queen, which I saw in the County Wicklow. I looked with interest at a scene at the court of Madrid, with a portrait of the king seated in great solemnity in a scarlet robe; Charles the First, as Prince of Wales, dancing rather 'légèrement,' a minuet with the Infanta; and the gay, seducing Buckingham magnificently dressed, and paying assiduous court to one of the ladies of honour. Howth Castle, belonging to the St. Lawrence family, and inhabited by Lord Howth, who is no absentee, has been more modernized, and with no happy effect. The Grecian portico accords but ill with the small Gothic windows and the high gables. Here likewise the sword and armour of a celebrated ancestor with a romantic name is carefully preserved. He was called Sir Armoricus Tristram, and in the year 1000 gave battle to the Danes on this spot, and I think lost his life. The antique stables were full of noble hunters: Lord Howth's hounds are also very celebrated. On my return I went to the theatre, where Ducrow, the English Franconi, ennobles his art by his admirable representation of animated statues. This is a high enjoyment to a lover of art, and far surpasses the 'Tableaux' which are in such favour on the continent. When the curtain draws up, you see a motionless statue on a lofty pedestal in the centre of the stage. This is Ducrow; and it is hardly credible how an elastic dress can fit so exquisitely and so perfectly represent marble, only here and there broken by a bluish vein. He appeared first as the Hercules Farnese. With the greatest skill and precision he then gradually quitted his attitude from one gradation to another, of display of strength; but at the moment in which he presented a perfect copy of the most celebrated statues of antiquity, he suddenly became fixed as if changed to marble. Helmet, sword, and shield, were now given to him, and transformed him in a moment into the wrathful Achilles, Ajax, and other Homeric heroes. Then came the Discobolus and others, all equally perfect and true. The last was the attitude of the fighting Gladiator, succeeded by a masterly representation of the dying Gladiator. This man must be an admirable model for painters and sculptors: his form is faultless, and he can throw himself into any attitude with the utmost ease and grace. It struck me how greatly our unmeaning dancing might be ennobled, if something like what I have described were introduced, instead of the absurd and vulgar hopping and jumping with which we are now entertained. It gave me pain to see this fine artist, (for he certainly merits no less a name,) ride nine horses at once, in the character of a Chinese sorcerer; drive twelve at once in that of a Russian courier; and lastly, go to bed with a poney dressed as an old woman. I must now bid you good night, and good-bye for some days. To-morrow morning early this letter will go by post. Your faithful L----. LETTER XLI. _Dublin, October 30th, 1828._ DEAREST JULIA, Oh what reproaches! However, three letters at once are a compensation for every thing. I read the news from home till I nearly appeased my appetite for it, and can hardly express my gratitude to you * * * * * * * * You are indeed right; such an ally as you would be of great use to me. Governess Prose would have kept Poetry better within bounds; and the boy who never grows old, and whose nature it is to play with gay soap-bubbles, would perhaps, under the guidance of a sage Mentor, have tried to pluck some more solid earthly fruit, instead of grasping at the rainbow balls. 'Mais tout ce qui est, est pour le mieux!' Let us never forget this axiom. Voltaire was wrong to turn it into jest; and Panglos was really in the right. This persuasion can alone console us under all afflictions; and for myself, I confess it is the essence of my religion. Your letter No. I. is wisdom and goodness itself: but, dear Julia, as far as the former is concerned, it is powder and shot thrown away upon me. I am too much--what shall I call it?--a man of feeling and impulse, and shall never be wise, _i. e._ prudent in a worldly sense. But I am so much the more accessible to kindness,--yours only excepted; the measure of which is already so full and overflowing, that not a drop more can find entrance into my heart. With this full heart you must once for all be satisfied; your poor friend can give you no more. But is it possible that you can find room for fears that these two years of absence can have changed me towards you? that I may no longer find in you what I formerly found,--and so on. Do you know what the English would call this?--'Nonsense.' That I can wish nothing more intensely than to see you again, my unwearied correspondence might surely convince you; but you quite forget that * * * * * * * * How often have I told you that I am not suited to the world! My defects as well as my merits, nay even the intellectual character which you imagine you find in me, are only so many stumbling-blocks in my way. A man who is intelligent, somewhat poetical, good-natured and sincere, is commonly awkward and ill at ease in every-day society. Like all those,--to use the words of an English writer,--whose feelings and affections paralyze their advantages, I do not find out till too late what was the prudent and discreet course: "an artless disposition," continues the Englishman, "which is ill adapted to enter the lists with the cunning and the cold selfishness of the world." I know a distinguished man, a hundredfold my superior, who in this respect is in the same predicament, and who continually laments that he has been transformed from a poet into a statesman. "I ought to have ended my life as I began it," said he; "wandering about the world unknown, and rejoicing undisturbed in the beauty and grandeur of God's works; or remote from men, shut up in my study, alone with my books, my fancy, and my faithful dog."[148] _Oct. 31st._ I spent a very pleasant evening to-day at Lady M----'s. The company was small, but amusing, and enlivened by the presence of two very pretty friends of our hostess, who sang in the best Italian style. I talked a great deal with Lady M---- on various subjects, and she has talent and feeling enough always to excite a lively interest in her conversation. On the whole, I think I did not say enough in her favour in my former letter; at any rate, I did not then know one of her most charming qualities,--that of possessing two such pretty relatives. The conversation fell upon her works, and she asked me how I liked her Salvator Rosa? "I have not read it," replied I; "because," (I added by way of excusing myself, 'tant bien que mal,') "I like your fictions so much, that I did not choose to read any thing historical from the pen of the most imaginative of romance writers." "O, that is only a romance," said she; "you may read it without any qualms of conscience." "Very well," thought I; "probably that will apply to your travels too,"--but this I kept to myself. "Ah," said she, "believe me, it is only ennui that sets my pen in motion; our destiny in this world is such a wretched one that I try to forget it in writing." (Probably the Lord Lieutenant had not invited her, or some other great personage had failed in his engagement to her, for she was quite out of spirits.) "What a fearful puzzle is this world," said she: "Is there a presiding Power or not? And if there be one, and he were malevolent! what a horrible idea!" "But in Heaven's name," replied I, "how can a woman of sense, like you,--forgive me,--utter such nonsense?" "Ah, I know well enough all that you can say on that subject," said she; "certainly, no man can give me." This obscurity in a most acute mind was unintelligible to me, even in a woman. ('Ne vous en fachez pas, Julie!') Lady M----'s husband, formerly a physician, now a philosopher and author, and what the French call 'un bon homme,' affecting moreover the man of taste and judgment, gave me a book of his, containing a thoroughly materialist system of philosophy: there are, however, some good things in it, and it has altogether more merit than I should have expected from the author. I was busied in reading it half the night. From the unconnected and daring character of the whole, I however concluded either that Lady M---- had written a considerable portion of it herself, or at least that these views of things had thrown her mind into such a state of doubt and confusion, that she had actually imagined the question whether God might not possibly be malevolent. Your celebrated people are but men like others, Heaven knows!--scholars and statesmen, philosophers and poets. At every acquaintance of this sort that I make, I think of Oxenstierna, who, when his young son expressed some hesitation and diffidence as to the part he should play at the Congress of Münster in the presence of so many great and wise men, replied with a smile, "Ah, my son, depart in peace, and see by what manner of men the world is governed!" _Nov. 1st._ 'Les Catholiques me font la cour ici.' The * * * sent me word through his wife, that as I was a lover of their church music, I should go to their chapel to-day, where the choir would be remarkably full and good, and he himself was to perform the service. I heard indeed some magnificent vocal music, (in which female voices took part,) accompanied only by some few notes of a powerful organ. It was a high enjoyment--this sublime music, which filled the soul with a fulness of delight, and raised it on its soft wings above the cares of this lower world, while the whole congregation knelt in reverent supplication. You will begin to think, dear Julia, that I intend to imitate the Duke of C----, and turn Catholic. And to say the truth, the motives which lead to such a change do not appear to me wholly absurd. Protestantism,--such Protestantism as we commonly find,--is not a whit more rational, and far less poetical and attractive to the senses. I am fully persuaded, however, that a new Luther or a new Messiah is at hand, and will help us through all our difficulties and doubts: then we shall not need to cast a look behind us;--till then, I can quite imagine that many may find more consistency, at least, in the Catholic faith. It is no imperfect half-idolatry, but perfect and consistent,--a ladder descending from heaven to earth, whose last steps are those deified creatures, those kind sympathizing saints of both sexes, who are so near to us, and who know so well our human wishes, emotions, and passions! * * * * * * * * When the priest and the acolytes toss about the censers; when the bishop every minute puts on a fresh embroidered garment,--now standing still before the altar, now running forwards, then backwards, then touching the ground with his forehead, and at length turning himself about like a weather-cock with the pyx, and then keeping his eyes fixed upon it as upon a microscope,--I am perfectly prepared to hear any of the miracles, wonders, or monstrous absurdities with which religion has been overlaid. But when a man in simple garb, and quiet reasonable appearance, gets up and speaks to me of patience, of purity, of eternal truth and eternal love, and then goes on to ascribe to the God of justice and of love, and to his noblest and purest interpreter on earth, fables and atrocities which shock every sound and unperverted understanding, and then requires me to receive them as something holy and divine,--I turn disgusted from such hypocrisy or such folly. A bigot may reply, Your sound understanding is no measure for the ways or the works of God. To which I answer, But _your_ God is a human being; and our understanding and our reason, with our knowledge of external nature, and the experience thence derived, are the only true and genuine revelation of God, of which we are all sharers and which no one can doubt. Man is so formed by nature, that it is his inevitable destiny for ever to carry on through these means his own education, for ever to advance in the career of improvement. Thus Christianity was a consequence of this progressive civilization; as were at an earlier period the Mosaic law, and at a later the Reformation, and its second act the French Revolution. Its latest results are the universal liberty of thought and of printing which have sprung from the latter event, and all that is now preparing by their more tranquil but so much the more certain operation. In every case we find only the results of the same gradual civilization. No man can know the highest point which this civilization will reach; but be that point what it may, it must always retain its human character, and be furthered by human means. _November 2d._ My last and longest visit this morning was to the sweet girls I met at Lady M----'s. I took them some Italian music, which they sang like nightingales, and with a total absence of all pretension and all affectation. Their father is a distinguished physician; and like most of the 'doctors' of eminence here, a 'Baronet' or 'Knight,' a title which is not esteemed a mark of nobility in England, although some families of great antiquity and consideration bear it. There are, however, Creti and Pleti, as among our lower nobility. A Baronet is generally called not by his family, but by his Christian name; as Sir Charles, Sir Anthony; as in Vienna they say, Graf Tinterle, Kürst Muckerle, and so on. The medical Knight of whom I now speak, received his title in consequence of the establishment of excellent baths, and is a very interesting man. His wife seemed to me still more remarkable for talent. She is very superior to her celebrated relative in accurate tact and judgment, and possesses an extraordinary power of mimicry, whose comic bent does not always spare her own family. The daughters, though perfectly different, are both very original; the one in the gentle, the other in the wild 'genre.' I always call her Lady M----'s 'wild Irish girl.' All three have a characteristic nationality,[149] and indeed have never quitted Ireland. In the evening Lady M---- told me that the translations of her works, which were often so bad as to destroy the sense, were a source of great vexation to her. In her Letters on Italy for instance, where she says of the Genoese, "They bought the scorn of all Europe," the translator read for _scorn_, _corn_, and wrote, 'Gênes dans ce temps achetait tout le blé de l'Europe.' _November 3d._ I rose early, and went to the window, when a genuine Irish scene presented itself to my eyes; such a one as no other country can show. Opposite to me in the street sat an old woman selling apples, and smoking her pipe with great satisfaction. Nearer to the house a man in a ragged dress was performing all sorts of antics, assisted by his monkey. A regular ring of people, four or five deep, surrounded him, and at every fresh trick there was a loud shout, accompanied by such 'demonstrations,' cries and gesticulations, that you would have thought they were quarrelling, and would soon get to blows. The recommencement of the acting, however, immediately caused a deathlike stillness. But now the most lively person of the audience could not be satisfied to remain a mere spectator; she must take a part in the action; and with uncontrollable gaiety sprang into the magic circle, seized the terrified monkey, and outdid him in antics, leaps, and grimaces of every kind, which were rewarded by the redoubled shouts and laughter of the multitude. The rage for acting grew infectious; many joined the first actress; the order which had hitherto prevailed became more and more lost in wild confusion; the original performer, anxious for the safety of his ally the monkey, or fearful lest he should be corrupted by bad example, broke hastily off. His retreat soon assumed the air of a hurried flight; the whole crowd rushed, screaming and shouting, after him; every one tried to be close at his heels, some jeered at him, and several shilelahs, which pleasure had till now kept sheathed, came to view. Others took the part of the fleeing artist, who meanwhile disappeared; and before they knew what they were about, the pursuit ended in a universal battle among the pursuers. A bachelor's dinner at Lord S----'s, at which I was present, closed my day nearly as tumultuously, though not quite so violently, and kept me awake till midnight. 'Voilà tout ce que j'ai à vous conter d'au-jourdhui.' _November 6th._ I spend a great deal of my time with the little nightingales, see Lady M---- frequently, and avoid general society as much as I can. The young ladies keep a burlesque journal, in which they write a chronicle of their daily 'fata,' illustrated with the most extravagant drawings, which is infinitely diverting. After that we sing, talk, or act pictures, in which the mother, with her talent for the drama, contrives admirable dresses out of the most heterogeneous materials. You would have laughed if you had seen the 'wild Irish girl,' with moustaches and whiskers marked with charcoal, pocket-handkerchief and stick in her hand, come in as my caricature. These girls have an inexhaustible fund of grace and vivacity, extremely un-English, but truly Irish. The eldest, who is eighteen, has brown eyes, and hair of a most singular kind and expression, the latter has a sort of deep golden hue without being red, and in the former is a tranquil humid glow, over which comes at times a perfectly red light like that of fire; but yet it always remains only an intense glow, not a lightning-flash like that which often glances from the eyes of the little wild girl. With her, all is flame; and under her maidenly blushes there often breaks out the determination and high spirit of a boy. Indiscreet, and carried away by the impulse of the moment, she sometimes gives way to too great vivacity, which, however, from her sweet simplicity and inimitable grace, does but enhance the charm which distinguishes her. To-day when my carriage was announced, I exclaimed with a sigh, "Ah, que cette voiture vient mal à propos!" "Eh bien," cried she, with the perfect air of a little hussar, (she was still in male costume,) "envoyez la au diable." A very severe and reproving look from her mamma, and one of terror from her gentle sister, covered all of her little face, that was not concealed by her disguise, over and over with scarlet: she cast down her eyes ashamed, and looked indescribably pretty. _Nov. 17th._ Lady M---- received me to-day in her authoress-boudoir, where I found her writing, not without some view to effect, elegantly dressed, and with a mother-of-pearl and gold pen in her hand. She was employed on a new book, for which she had invented a very good title, "Memoirs of Myself and for Myself." She asked me whether she should put 'of myself' or 'for myself' first. I decided for the former as the more natural order; for I observed she must _write_, before she can _have written_. Upon this we fell into a sportive contest, in which she reproached me with my German pedantry, and maintained that hitherto 'bonnet blanc' and 'blanc bonnet' had been the same; the justice of which I was obliged to admit. The motto she had chosen was from Montaigne, 'Je n'enseigne pas, je raconte.' She read me some passages, which I thought very good. This woman, who appears so superficial, is quite another being when she takes the pen in her hand. She told me that she intended to go next winter to Paris, and wished to go on into Germany, but that she had a great dread of the Austrian police. I advised her to go to Berlin. "Shall not I be persecuted there?" said she. "God forbid!" rejoined I: "in Berlin talent is worshipped: only I advise you to take at least one of your pretty young friends, who is fond of dancing and dances well, so that you may be invited to the balls at court, and may thus have an opportunity of becoming acquainted with our amiable and accomplished young military men: they are well worth knowing, and you may not find any other way of being introduced to them." At this moment her husband entered, and begged me to get his philosophical work translated into German, that he might not figure there only as aide-de-camp to his wife, but fly with his own wings. I promised all he wished; but observed that a new prayer-book would have a better chance of success at the present day than a new system of philosophy, of which we had enough already. In the evening I took a box in the Equestrian theatre for the young ladies, who go out very little. Their 'naif' delight at the varied skill of the riders was most charming to witness. The little one never turned her eyes for a moment from Ducrow's terrific feats; she trembled all over with anxiety and eagerness, and kept her hands fast clenched the whole time. There was a child of wonderful beauty in the company, just seven years old, who danced on horseback, performed a variety of parts with uncommon grace, and especially that of Napoleon, in which the tiny girl mimicked the abrupt manners of the Emperor most divertingly, and was rewarded by thunders of applause. My young friends wished to have a nearer view of her, and I accordingly went behind the scenes, where she was just undressed, and stood naked as a little Cupid before the looking-glass. Her part was finished for the night; and as soon as she was dressed again I took her in my arms, and brought 'l'enfant prodige,' as she was called in the bills, in triumph to the box. After the first caresses were over, the little creature was the most attentive spectator of the performance among us, though one might have thought she had enough of it every day. Only a paper of sweetmeats which I gave her had power to distract her attention for a few minutes. She sat for some time on the lap of the elder Miss ----, who put her down rather suddenly, and accidentally scratched the child's arm against a pin in her dress, so as to draw blood. We were all afraid she would cry; but the miniature Napoleon was only angry, beat the offender as hard as she could, and cried out indignantly, "Fy, for shame, you stung me like a bee!" With that she sprung on the lap of the younger, laid her little arms over the edge of the box, and fixed her eyes again with undisturbed attention on the Siege of Saragossa. Between the acts Lady C----, to whom I had related the laughable mistake concerning me in Limerick, told her I was Napoleon's son. She turned quickly round, looked at me fixedly for a while, and then exclaimed with the most serious 'grandezza,' "O, I have played your father very often, and always gained uncommon applause by it." Thus natural, droll, and completely free from embarrassment, the little thing captivated us all: and we saw with regret the end of the performance approaching--the signal for us to part with her. She would not let anybody but me carry her down, because I had brought her up. When we arrived behind the scenes, where every place was filled with horses, I scarcely knew how we should get through. She cried out eagerly, while she slapped my arm impatiently with her little velvet hand, "Come, are you afraid? only do you go on, I'll keep the horses in order;" and so saying she distributed to the right and left, blows on the noses of her old acquaintances, who obediently made way for us to pass. "Now set me down!" said she; and scarcely did her feet touch the ground, when with the swiftness of a little hare she flew across the back part of the stage, and vanished in the crowd. Children are certainly the most graceful of all creatures when they are not crippled and distorted by education: seldom, however, does so much genuine nature appear on the stage, yet seldomer perhaps on the theatre of the great world. _Nov. 18th._ I forgot to mention to you that I have met O'Connell again here. I heard him speak at the meetings of the Catholic Association, the present Irish Parliament, which I visited to-day for the second time. I was received, as a well-disposed foreigner, with applause, and O'Connell immediately made room for me between himself and Lord C----. The room is not very large, and as dirty as the English House of Commons. Here too every man keeps his hat on, except while he is speaking: here too are good and bad orators; but certainly occasionally less dignified manners than there. The heat was suffocating, and I had to sit out five hours; but the debate was so interesting that I scarcely remarked the annoyances. O'Connell was undoubtedly the best speaker. Although idolized by the greater number, he was severely attacked by several, and defended himself with equal address and moderation: on the other hand, he assailed the Government without reserve; and in my opinion in too strong expressions. It was easy to perceive that much intrigue and several firmly united parties, whose minds were made up beforehand, were to be found here, as in other bodies of the like kind, and consequently that the discussion was often only a sort of sham-fight. The leaders at least had however studied their parts well. The three most prominent speakers are O'Connell, Shiel, and Lawless. Mr. Fin and Mr. Ford also spoke well, and with great dignity of manner. Shiel is a man of the world, and has even more ease in society than O'Connell: but as a speaker he appeared to me too affected, too artificial; and all he said, too much _got up_; his manner was theatrical, and there was no real feeling in the 'delivery' of his speech, as the English expressively call it. I am not surprised that, in spite of his undoubted talents, he is so much less popular than O'Connell. Both are very vain, but the vanity of O'Connell is more frank, more confiding, and sooner satisfied; that of Shiel, irritable, sore, and gloomy. The one is therefore, with reference to his own party, steeped in honey; the other in gall; and the latter, though contending for the same cause, is evidently jealous of his colleague, whom he vainly thinks to surpass. Mr. L----s is the Don Quixote of the Association. His fine head and white hair, his wild but noble dignity, and his magnificent voice, excite an expectation of something extraordinary when he rises: but the speech, which commences in an earnest tone, soon falls into the most incredible extravagancies, and sometimes into total absurdity, in which friend and foe are assailed with equal fury. He is therefore little heeded; laughed at when he rages like King Lear, unmindful of his audience, and of all that is passing around him. The dominant party, however, use him to make a noise when they want him. To-day he outdid himself to such a degree in the flight he took, that he suddenly erected the standard of Deism in the midst of the Catholic, arch-Catholic Association. Perhaps, indeed, this was only done to give occasion to O'Connell to call him indignantly to order, and to bring in a pious tirade; for on the orator's rostrum as on the tub, on the throne as in the puppet-show booth, clap-traps are necessary. I rested myself this evening in the accustomed place. 'Tableaux' were again the order of the day. I had to appear successively as Brutus, an Asiatic Jew, Francis the First, and Saladin. Miss J---- was a captivating little fellow as a student of Alcala; and her eldest sister, as a fair slave, a welcome companion to Saladin. As the beautiful Rebecca she also assorted not ill with the Oriental Jew. All these metamorphoses were accomplished by the mother with the help only of four candles, two looking-glasses, a few shawls and coloured handkerchiefs, a burnt cork, a pot of rouge, and different heads of hair. Yet Talma could not have dressed Brutus better, nor altered the physiognomy more completely, than with these slight materials Lady C---- had the skill to do. To conclude, we drew caricatures, and at my request each sister attempted a portrait of the other. Both succeeded very well, and are now placed in my gallery. _Nov. 19th._ To-day I found myself compelled to do something which was very disagreeable to me, and which I had long deferred; I was obliged to resort to my 'grand expedient,' in order to conquer my aversion. You will laugh when I tell you what this is; but I find it a powerful aid in great things as well as in small. The truth is, there are few men who are not sometimes capricious, and yet oftener vacillating. Finding that I am not better than others in this respect, I invented a remedy of my own, a sort of _artificial resolution_ respecting things which are difficult of performance,--a means of securing that firmness in myself which I might otherwise want, and which man is generally obliged to sustain by some external prop.[150] My device then is this:--I give my word of honour most solemnly to myself, to do, or to leave undone, this or that. I am of course extremely cautious and discreet in the use of this expedient, and exercise great deliberation before I resolve upon it; but when once it is done, even if I afterwards think I have been precipitate or mistaken, I hold it to be perfectly irrevocable, whatever inconveniences I foresee likely to result. And I feel great satisfaction and tranquillity in being subject to such an immutable law. If I were capable of breaking it after such mature consideration, I should lose all respect for myself;--and what man of sense would not prefer death to such an alternative? for death is only a necessity of nature, and consequently not an evil;--it appears to us so only in connexion with our present existence; that is to say, the instinct of self-preservation recoils from death; but reason, which is eternal, sees it in its true form, as a mere transition from one state to another. But a conviction of one's own unconquerable weakness is a feeling which must embitter the whole of life. It is therefore better, if it comes to the struggle, to give up existence for the present with a feeling of inward triumph, than to crawl on with a chronic disease of the soul. I am not made dependent by my promise; on the contrary, it is just that which maintains my independence. So long as my persuasion is not firm and complete, the mysterious formula is not pronounced; but when once that has taken place, no alteration in my own views--nothing short of physical impossibility--must, for the welfare of my soul, alter my will. But whilst I thus form to myself a firm support in the most extreme cases, do you not see that I also possess a formidable weapon of attack, if I were compelled to use it, however small and inconsiderable the means may appear to many? I, on the contrary, find something very satisfactory in the thought, that man has the power of framing such props and such weapons out of the most trivial materials, indeed out of nothing, merely by the force of his will, which hereby truly deserves the name of omnipotent. I cannot answer for it that this reasoning will not appear to you, dear Julia, distorted and blameworthy: indeed it is not made for a woman; while on the other hand a completely powerful mind would perhaps as little stand in need of it. Every man must however manage himself according to his own nature; and as no one has yet found the art of making a reed grow like an oak, or a cabbage like a pine-apple, so must men, as the common but wise proverb has it, cut their coat according to their cloth.[151] Happy is he who does not trust himself beyond his strength! But without being so tragical about the matter, this _grand expedient_ is of admirable use in trifles. For example, to fulfil tedious, irksome duties of society with the resignation of a calm victim,--to conquer indolence so as to get vigorously through some long deferred work,--to impose upon oneself some wholesome restraint, and thus heighten one's enjoyment afterwards,--and many, many more such cases, which this occasionally sublime, but generally childish life presents. After dinner, to drive away blue devils, I took a long ride into the country towards the mountains. After riding about twelve miles I came to a bare region of interminable bog extending in all directions. You would have thought yourself a hundred miles from any capital. The character of the country was not wild, not so desert as a plain of sand, but awfully void, lonely, and monotonous. One single wretched cabin was visible, but in ruins, and uninhabited; and a white footpath winded along toilfully through the brown heather, like a huge worm. The whole ground was lightly powdered with snow, and the wind blew icy cold over the bare heights. Nevertheless the melancholy of the scene had such a strange attraction for me, that necessity alone made me turn my horse's head homewards. Nearer to Dublin I found an isolated mountain, on which was a strange caprice;--a house built in imitation of a rock; and in fact so like one, that it deceived me till I saw the entrance. I reached my inn by moonlight, with a face burning with the keen air. I had invited Father L'Estrange to dine with me, 'car j'aime les prêtres, comme Voltaire la Bible, malgré tout ce que j'en dis.' I found too a letter from you; but I must complain that you do not write to me sufficiently in detail. Do consider that every trifle from home is precious. Whether my favourite horse is well; whether my sweet little friend the parroquet sometimes calls on my name; whether your domestic tyrant Fancy is more or less naughty; whether the parrots are 'in good spirits,' the new plantations thriving, the visitors to the baths gay;--all these particulars have an extraordinary interest at a distance of some hundreds of miles. But I see clearly that if I have a mind to know all these things I must take you by surprise, if it be but for one day. You know that I hate all scenes and solemnities, all tumultuous meetings, and all leave-takings; 'un beau matin' therefore you will find me comfortably established in your breakfast-room, where I shall receive you with a smile, as if my long journey had been but a dream; 'et toute la vie, hélas! est elle autre chose?' Seriously, we ought to learn to take all these things much more coolly and easily than we fancy possible.--An English dandy may serve you as an admirable model. His best friend and comrade was going to India; and in his emotion at taking leave of him, was going to grasp both his hands, and to shake them perhaps for the last time: the 'Incroyable,' half warding him off, held out the tip of his little finger to him, while he lisped smiling, "Strange and horridly fatiguing English custom, for two men to move each other's arms up and down like the handle of a pump!" Your portrait did not give me so much pleasure as it ought. The features are much too hard, and must be 'softened' before it can pass as a representative of the original,--whose image, however, is too vividly pressed on my heart to want any refreshing. Your ever faithful L----. LETTER XLII. _Dublin, November 20th, 1828._ BELOVED FRIEND, I frequently meet a man here, B--H--, whose company is highly interesting to me. Although a clergyman, he is one of the few independent thinkers who are able to throw off the tyranny of early impressions and old habits, and to see by the light of reason, in other words, of divine revelation, alone. In his opinion, too, a crisis in religious affairs is at hand. "Ecclesiastical establishments," said he to-day, "are manifestly the monstrous offspring of the sublime and the ridiculous, of eternal truth and dark ignorance, of genuine philosophy and gross idolatry. The more men learn, the more science enables us to understand external nature and the nature of our own being by well-established facts, the milder, the more moral will our manners as well as our governments become. More slowly, religions will follow. Even the Christian religion, though in its origin one of the mightiest efforts towards the amelioration of mankind, ever prompted by the deepest meditation, and the purest heart has, as the history of our church shows in almost every page since its establishment, deluged the world a hundred times with blood, and given birth to a succession of the most frantic absurdities; while philosophy and science have continually acted as humanizers, without ever demanding such victims, or committing such outrages. The question is, whether Newton, in discovering the secrets of Heaven,--whether the inventors of the compass or the printing-press,--have not done more for mankind, _i. e._ more to further the progress of civilization, than any of the numerous founders of sects and religions, who require that men should swear exclusive allegiance to them. There may, indeed, come a time in which religion and poetry will be regarded as sisters,--in which a religion of state will appear as ludicrous as a poetry of state. Were I a Turk, I should say to myself, It is certainly difficult to get so entirely free of all the prejudices and superstitions of childhood, as to regard the persuasion of millions, with a firm unshaken eye, as folly: but having once convinced myself that it is so, I will not remain a Turk. As Christian, I say, I will adhere to the _pure doctrine_ which my reason can revere; but I will have the courage to reject the mass of unpoetical fables, and all the misrepresentations and disfigurements of the time of its birth, and still more the bloody and ferocious heathenism incorporated with it by succeeding ages, even though two hundred millions of men should sincerely receive them as divine, on the authority of men erring as themselves. This was the principle on which Luther acted, when he took the first steps towards Reform; but the light which he purified stands greatly in need of a fresh cleansing. Honour and reverence be to the churchman who shall be great and pure-minded enough to feel himself called to this god-like work! who shall endeavour to execute it without compromise or fear of men, though the multitude of hypocrites and pharisees will cry out against him; for history clearly shows that he has nothing else to expect. "Has it not ever been the few who have seen and acknowledged the better and the true? Has it not ever been the many who have proscribed and persecuted them? Was truth on the side of the fanatical herd who gave the poison-cup to Socrates? or of that which crucified Jesus? or of that which burnt Huss? No; it was not till centuries afterwards that the multitude embraced the persecuted faith, and hardened themselves into the same stubborn and furious orthodoxy for it, which they had displayed against it. The want of a religion is unquestionably one of the most imperious cravings of our nature, especially where laws and institutions are yet in their infancy. He who cannot frame one for himself, must receive the _form_ of it from others:--such will always be the many. This easily explains the grounds upon which the power of the church and the priesthood must ever rest, and why men are thus kept in leading-strings for hundreds, nay thousands of years. But to strengthen and perpetuate this power, knowledge must always be repressed in favour of faith. Where inquiry is free, one fraud after another disappears, though slowly;--light bursts at length even upon the darkest corner. When this point is once reached, the fetters laid upon conscience are broken, and every individual demands a boundless field for the exercise of his faith and of his judgment. Absolute sultans, fat dervises, and haughty satraps, must then fall together, like the dead lees in generous wine. How miserable a figure do those make, who, at the dawn of such a day, think they can stop the rising of the sun by turning their backs upon it, or by holding their antiquated, decayed, and worm-eaten screen, which is no longer in a state to exclude even a moonbeam, before their eyes! They may for a while succeed in keeping _themselves_ in the shade, but they cannot shroud the bright forehead of the day. On the contrary, their struggles, as impotent as they are passionate, are the surest harbingers of its inevitable approach." I agree, for the most part, with B---- H----; but whether his sanguine hopes will so soon, or indeed ever on this earth, be realized, is another question. That the world can no longer be governed on jesuitical principles, and that the liberty of the press, if firmly maintained, works, and will work, incalculable wonders, I am well convinced:--but men will still be men, and force and fraud will, I fear, ever predominate over reason. In the forenoon I visited the courts of justice with Father L'Estrange, to hear the military-looking O'Connell plead, in his powdered long-tailed wig, black gown, and bands. We afterwards went to the meeting of the Association, to see the great Agitator in a totally different character. The meeting was very stormy. Mr. L----s spoke like a madman, and attacked O'Connell himself so violently that he almost lost his wonted dignity. He made an admirable reply; though he strained too much after wit, which was not always in the best taste. After this, a dozen spoke at once. The secretary called to order, but had not authority enough to enforce obedience. In short, the scene began to be rather indecorous, till at last a handsome young man with enormous whiskers and an 'outré' dress, (the dandy of the Association,) sprang on the table, and uttered a thundering speech which obtained great applause, and thus restored peace. I dined at Lady M----'s. She had invited me by a note, such as I have received a dozen of during my stay here:--I must mention them as characteristic, for I never in my life saw worse calligraphy or a more negligent style from a lady's pen. The aim of the great authoress was manifest;--to announce the most perfect 'insouciance,' the most entire 'abandon,' in the affairs of ordinary life; just as the great solo dancers in Paris affect to walk with their toes turned in, that they may not betray the dancer by profession. At table Lady M----, with her aid-de-camp K. Cl----, 'faisoient les frais d'esprit obligé.' Mr. Shiel, too, appeared in the character of an agreeable man of the world. The most amusing part of the entertainment, however, was the acting of proverbs by Lady M---- and her sister, who both extemporized admirably in French. Among others, they performed 'Love me, love my dog,' as follows: Dramatis personæ:--Lady M----, an old coquette; Lady C----, an Irish 'fortune-hunter;' her eldest daughter, the French femme-de-chambre; the youngest, a captain of the Guards, a lover of the lady. Scene the first:--Lady M---- with her maid at her toilet. Confidential advice of Josephine, in the course of which she betrays various laughable secrets of the toilet. Distress of the coquette at the first appearance of wrinkles. Assurances of the Abigail that, by candle-light, nobody can be handsomer. As a proof of this, the various lovers are adduced, and love-affairs of former times recapitulated. "La comtesse convient de ses conquêtes," and with much humour draws a picture of her triumphs. "Chut!" cries the waiting-maid, "j'entends le capitaine." This personage, an exclusive, enters with great 'fracas,' carrying a little dog under his arm, and after some tender compliments tells her that he is obliged to rejoin his regiment, and wishes to leave her his little Fidèle, that the fair countess may never forget to remain 'fidèle' to him. Burlesque protestations, sobs, embraces, farewells. Scarcely is the captain gone, when the Irishman appears with a marriage-contract in his hand, by which the countess is to assign over her whole fortune to him. Like a man well versed in womankind, he treats her somewhat cavalierly, though with a display of passion, so that after a feeble defence and a little scene, she consents. Meanwhile the Irishman observes the little dog, and asks with some surprise whose it is. She stammers out a sort of apologetic answer. O'Connor MacFarlane now plays the part of the infuriate jealous lover. The women vainly attempt to appease him; he storms, and insists on the instant dismissal of the intruder. The countess makes an attempt to faint--but all is in vain; even Josephine, who during the discussion of the marriage-contract has just received a purse behind her mistress' back, takes the part of the incensed Irishman, who with one hand holds back his lady, and with the other at length throws the unfortunate little dog out at the door. But, alas! at this very moment the captain returns to bring the collar which he had forgotten, and Fidèle jumps into his arms. The terrified women take to flight; the men measure each other with their eyes. O'Connor MacFarlane utters dreadful menaces; but the captain draws his sword, and his antagonist jumps out at the window,--The skeleton is meagre; but the spirit, humour, and wit, by which it was filled out, rendered it extremely entertaining. The imperfections of the costume made it only more piquant. The ladies, for instance, had put on a coat and waistcoat over their own dresses, and stuck a hat on their heads; their swords were riding-whips, and Fidèle a muff. Lady M---- afterwards related to me many interesting circumstances respecting the celebrated Miss O'Neil, whom, as you know, I regard as the greatest dramatic artist it has ever fallen to my lot to admire. She said that this extraordinary young woman, who from the very commencement of her career had given evidence of the highest genius, remained utterly neglected at the theatre in Dublin, where she performed for some years. She was at that time so poor, that when she returned home at night after the greatest exertions, she found no other refreshment than a plate of potatoes and a miserable bed which she shared with three sisters. Lady M---- once visited her, and found the poor girl mending her two pair of old stockings, which she was obliged to wash daily for her appearance on the stage. Lady M---- now procured for her various articles of dress, and took upon herself in some degree the care of her toilet, which had been extremely neglected. She obtained more applause after this, though still but little. At this time one of the managers of the London theatres accidentally came to Dublin, saw her, and had the good taste and judgment immediately to engage her for the metropolis. Here she at once produced the most extraordinary sensation; and from a poor unknown young actress, rose in one moment to be the first star of the theatrical firmament of England. I still remember her acting with rapture: I have never since been able to endure the part of Juliet, played even by our best actresses; all appear to me stiff, affected, unnatural. One must have seen the whole thread of the life of the Shakspearian Juliet thus spun before one's eyes to conceive the effect. At first, it was only the sportive youthful joyousness of the caressing child: then, when awakened by love, a new sun appeared to rise upon her; all her attitudes and movements assumed a more soft, voluptuous air; her countenance, her whole person became radiant,--she was the southern maiden devoting her whole soul and life to her beloved with all the fire of her clime. Thus did she burst into the loveliest and richest blossom;--but care and sorrow soon ripened the noble fruit before our eyes. The most imposing dignity, the deepest conjugal tenderness, the firmest resolve in extremity, now took the place of glowing passion, of the quick sense which seemed framed but to enjoy:--and how was her despair depicted at the last, when all was lost! How fearful, how heart-rending, how true, and yet how ever beautiful, did she know how to rise even to the very last moment! Certain of her aim, she sometimes ventured to the very utmost verge of her art, and did what no other could have attempted without falling into the ridiculous: but in her, it was just these efforts which operated as electric shocks. Her madness and death in Belvidera, for instance, had such a terrific physical truth, that the sight of it was hardly endurable; and yet it was only the agony of the soul, showing through every fibre of her body, which had an effect so powerful, so almost annihilating, on the spectator. I remember well that on the evening in which I saw that, I remained wholly insensible to any physical impression; and even the next morning, when I awoke, wept bitterly over Belvidera's fate. I was certainly very young then, but my feelings were those of many; and it was a striking fact, that Germans, Frenchmen, and Italians, were equally enthusiastic admirers of her; though, generally speaking, one must have a thorough knowledge of the language and character of the nation, to feel perfectly satisfied with its actors. _She_, however, had no trace of mannerism; it was only human nature in its truest and noblest form, which spoke to every human heart. She could not be properly called beautiful; yet she had a stately person, noble shoulders and arms, and beautiful hair. But her peculiar charm was that indefinable pathetic expression which at the first glance moved the inmost feelings of the heart. In such features, you think you discover the trace of every passion, though an unearthly calm is spread over them like ice over a volcano. The inhabitants of Dublin had long remained blind to so much genius and talent; but the year after, when the celebrated, admired, adored Miss O'Neil returned from London to act a few of her most popular parts, the infectious enchantment was so powerful, that not only the whole public was in the greatest state of tumult and agitation, but many ladies were carried out from the theatre fainting. One became really insane from witnessing Belvidera's madness, and actually died in a mad-house. Really such facts as these render the enthusiasm of the many almost disgusting. This great actress was also distinguished for her remarkably amiable character: she entirely supported her family, even at the time of her greatest poverty. She made her first appearance at a little private theatre in the country: this was afterwards shut, and only occasionally used by a dilettanti company, when the profits of their performance were given to the poor of the county. They wrote to Miss O'Neil, who was then in England, and begged her to consecrate this place, which had witnessed her first efforts, by the last triumph of her genius, now the admiration of the three kingdoms; whatever terms she might propose would be agreed to. She replied, that she felt herself extremely flattered and honoured by the request; but that so far from accepting any pecuniary compensation, she would gladly seize the opportunity of offering this tribute to the cradle of her humble talents. Only on this condition, and that of being allowed to contribute her mite to her poor countrymen, would she appear on the day appointed.--I was assured by eye-witnesses that they had never seen a more perfect piece of acting than her's on this occasion. Never had Miss O'Neil been better supported,--never did she so surpass herself. It was a curious accident that a young Irish gentleman of fortune fell in love with her that very day, and shortly after married her. He robbed the public of an inestimable treasure; but who can blame him? Miss O'Neil has now several children, is still charming, and lives happily on her husband's property. She has never trodden a stage, either public or private, since her marriage. [The conclusion of this letter, which, as it appears from the beginning of the following one, contains a description of some public entertainments and occurrences, is missing.] LETTER XLIII. _Dublin, December 7th, 1828._ DEAR JULIA, The descriptions of public dinners and the * * * * * * * * are now at an end, and I must conduct you to a breakfast at the Post-office. The Director, Sir Edward Lee, a very agreeable and accomplished man, who gave the entertainment, first conducted us, in company with a number of elegant ladies, through the various offices 'pour nous faire gagner de l'appetit.' In one of them, called the 'Dead Letter Office,' a very strange incident occurred in our presence. All letters, the address of which is unintelligible, or which are addressed to persons who cannot be discovered, are taken into this office, where they are opened at the end of a fortnight, and, if they contain nothing important, burnt. This seems to me rather a barbarous custom, since many a heart might be broken from the loss of what a Post-office clerk might think 'of no importance.' So it is, however, and we found three men busied in the operation. Several of us seized these doomed epistles, and turned them over with great curiosity, when the clerk who stood nearest to me took up rather a large packet on which there was no address whatever, only the post-mark of an Irish country town. How great was his surprise and that of all of us, when on opening it we saw not a single line of writing, but £2700 in bank-notes! This, at least, appeared 'of importance' to all, and an order was immediately given to write to the town in question to make inquiry about it. In the evening I went to pay the 'nightingales' a visit, but found them flown, and only their father at home, with whom I had a scientific conversation. He showed me several curious newly-invented instruments;--one among them for ascertaining the exact strength of the lungs, and therefore invaluable in consumptive diseases. He told me that a person high in office was given over last year by all of the most eminent physicians in Dublin, as far gone in pulmonary consumption. Believing his danger to be imminent, he had made up his mind to give up his place, and to go to Montpellier, as the only means of prolonging his life. Sir A---- was at last consulted, and resolved to try this instrument, which he had just received from London. Scarcely could he believe his eyes when he found on experiment that the lungs of the patient were two degrees stronger than his own,--he being in perfect health. The disease was now discovered to be in the liver, though it had exhibited every symptom of consumption; and in four months the patient was entirely cured, and kept his lucrative place which he had determined to give up. I shall not describe to you the various instruments of torture which I saw; 'tant pis pour l'humanité, qu'il en faut tant.' A prettier thing was a barometer, in the figure of a lady, who at the approach of bad weather holds up her umbrella, in a hard rain opens it, and in settled fine weather uses it as a walking-stick. To use a lady as a continually changing prophet of weather. 'Quelle insolence!' _December 8th._ Sir A----, who has a place in the Bank, showed that building to me this morning. The edifice is fine, and formerly served as a place of meeting for both houses of the Irish Parliament, whose restoration is now so ardently desired. The thing most worth seeing is the printing of bank-notes. The whole machinery is moved by a magnificent steam-engine, while a smaller one fills the boiler with water and the furnace with coals, so that human assistance is scarcely wanted. In the first room the printing ink is prepared; in the next the bank-notes receive their various marks and ornaments. This process is very rapidly performed. Only one man is employed at each press; and while he places the blank papers, one after another, under the stamp, the number of printed notes marks itself in the inside of a closed box. In the next room they are numbered. This is done on a small chest; and the machinery numbers them, as if by invisible hands, from one to a thousand. The man employed there has nothing to do but to blacken the numbers as they come out with printer's ink, and to lay the notes in their proper order. All the rest is accomplished by the machine. Every note which returns to the Bank after circulation is immediately torn, and kept seven years, at the expiration of which time it is burnt. This last operation leaves a residuum of indigo, copper, and the materials of the paper, which looks like metal, and glitters with all the colours of the rainbow. Of course many hundred notes go to make up an ounce of this substance, of which I carried away a beautiful piece. We afterwards ascended the roof of this great building, a sort of world in miniature, whence, like the 'Diable Boiteux,' we could see into the surrounding houses; but at length so confused ourselves, that we thought we should need Ariadne's clue to enable us to find our way down again. I arrived too late, in consequence, at dinner at Sir E---- L----'s; a thing which is not taken so ill in England as with us. _Dec. 9th._ Lord Howth invited me to a stag-hunt, whence I am just returned, equally tired and pleased. My lessons in Cashel were now of great use to me, for Lord Howth is one of the best and most determined riders in Great Britain. He had given me a very good horse, in spite of which I fell twice: this also happened once to Lord Howth himself, and I followed him so well that I think I brought no discredit on our cavalry. At length more than two-thirds of our fifty red-coats were missing. I was particularly struck with an officer who had lost an arm, and nevertheless was one of the first: his admirable horse had not refused or missed a single leap. This sort of hunt is a very agreeable diversion now and then; but how a man can devote himself to so utterly unintellectual an amusement three times a week, for six months of every year, and always pursue it with the same passion, does, I own, remain unintelligible to me. What, besides, makes stag-hunting much less interesting in England than on the continent, is, that the stags are tame, and are trained to the sport like race-horses. They are brought to the place of rendezvous in a kind of box, and there turned out. When they have run a certain distance, the hunt begins, and before it ends the hounds are called off, and the stag is put into the box again and kept for another hunt. Is not this horribly prosaic, and scarcely compensated by the 'agrément' of being in continual risk of breaking one's neck over a wide ditch, or one's head against a high wall? _December 10th._ For some weeks past I have been a frequent visitor at the Gymnastic Academy. These exercises are become very fashionable in Great Britain and Ireland. Certainly they are of inestimable value in the training of youth; they are a highly improved _Turnen_,[152] but without politics. When one considers what facilities are now at hand for the physical as well as moral education of man; how those whom nature has misshapen are placed within cases of iron till they are transformed into Apollos; how noses and ears are created; and how academies are daily advertised in the newspapers, in which the most profound erudition is engaged to be communicated in three years,[153]--one really longs to be a child again, that one might come in for a share of all these advantages. It appears as if the law of gravitation operated in the moral as well as in the physical world, and that 'the march of intellect' went on in an increasing ratio like the rapidity of a falling cannon-ball. A few more political revolutions in Europe, the perfecting of steam-power for soul and body, and God knows what we may get to, even without the discovery of the art of steering air-balloons. But to return to the Gymnasium, the utility of which, at least, is undoubted. It strengthens the frame to such a degree, and imparts such agility to the limbs, that a man really doubles or trebles his existence by it. It is literally the fact, that I saw a young man, the arch of whose breast, after an uninterrupted practice of three months, had increased seven inches; the muscles of his arms and thighs had at the same time enlarged to three times their volume, and were as hard as iron. But even much older people,--men of sixty,--though they cannot expect to effect such changes, may strengthen themselves very considerably by moderate exercise in the gymnasium. I constantly found men of this age, who played their part very well among the young ones who had but recently begun. Some perseverance is however necessary; for the older a man is, the more painful and fatiguing is the beginning. Many feel themselves for months as if they had been on the rack, or were set fast with universal rheumatism. A Frenchman was at the head of the establishment, although his predecessor had sacrificed himself, two years before, to the glory of his art: his name was Beaujeu. He was endeavouring to show two ladies, (for there are also feminine gymnastics,) how easy exercise No. 7. was. The pole broke, and so did, in consequence of his fall, his spine. He died in a few hours; and, with an elevation and enthusiasm worthy of a greater cause, exclaimed with his last breath, "Voilà le coup de grâce pour la gymnastique en Irlande." His prediction, however, was not fulfilled, for both gentlemen and ladies are more gymnastically-minded than ever. _December 14th._ As I have been unwell for several days and unable to go out, I have no interesting news to give you. You must therefore receive with indulgence a few detached thoughts, the offspring of solitude; or if they tire you, leave them unread. PARLOUR PHILOSOPHY. What is good or evil fortune? As the former has seldom fallen to my lot, I have often proposed the question to myself. Blind and accidental, it certainly is not; but necessary, and part of a series, like every thing else in the universe, though its causes do not always depend on ourselves. How far, however, we really have it in our power to bring it on ourselves, is a salutary inquiry for every one. Lucky and unlucky occasions present themselves to every man in the course of his life; and the art of seizing the one and averting the other with address, is commonly what procures for a man the reputation of fortunate. It cannot however be denied that, in the case of some men, the most powerful and the wisest combinations continually fail, by what we call accident; nay, that there is a sort of secret foreboding or presentiment, which gives us the dim feeling that our project will not succeed. I have often been tempted to think that luckiness and unluckiness are a sort of subjective properties which we bring with us into the world, like health, strength, a finely organized brain, and so on; and whose preponderating power must always attract things magnetically to themselves. Like all other properties, this of luckiness may be cultivated or let to lie dormant, may be increased or diminished. The will does much; and thence the proverbs, Nothing venture nothing have, (_Wagen gewinnt_:) Boldness and luck go together, (_Kühnheit gehört zum Glück_.) It is also observable that luckiness, like the other faculties, falls off with age, that is, with the vigour of the material. This is certainly not the consequence of weaker or more ill-advised plans or rules, but appears truly to be the decline of a secret power which, so long as it is young and vigorous, governs fortune, but in later years is no longer able to hold her in. High play affords very good studies on this subject; and perhaps this is the only poetical side of that dangerous passion: for nothing affords so true a picture of life as the hazard-table; nothing affords a better criterion to the observer, by which to try his own character, and that of others. All rules which avail in the struggle of life, avail also in this; and penetration combined with energy is always sure, if not to conquer, at least to make a very able defence. But if it is combined with the talent or gift of luckiness, a sort of Napoleon of the gaming-table is the result. I am not now speaking of that class of gentlemen 'qui corrigent la fortune.' But even here the resemblance is still true: for how often in the world do you meet men who govern fortune by fraud?--the most unfortunate, be it said by the by, of all speculators. Their occupation is truly drawing water in a sieve; the collecting of rotten nuts. For what is enjoyment without security? and what can outward fortune avail where the internal equilibrium is destroyed? There are men who, although endowed with distinguished qualities, never know how to make them available in the world, unless they have been from the beginning of their career placed by fate in their right position. They can never reach it by their own efforts; because a too feminine fancy, liable to the constant impression of extraneous forms, prevents them from seeing things as they really are, and causes them to live in a world of airy floating phantasms. They set about their projects with ardour and talent; but their fancy hurries after, mounted on her poetical steed, and conducts them so rapidly through her kingdom of dreams, to their end, that they can no longer endure the slow and weary journey through the difficulties and obstacles of the real road. Thus they suffer one project after another to fall to the ground before it has attained to maturity. And yet, like every thing else in the world, this unfortunate turn of mind has its advantages. It prevents a man, indeed, from making his fortune, as it is commonly called, but affords incalculable comfort under misfortune, and an elasticity of spirit that nothing can entirely crush,--for the race of pleasure-giving creatures of the imagination is absolutely inexhaustible. A whole city of castles in the air is always at the command of mortals of this class, and they enjoy, in hope, an everlasting variety of realities. Such people may be of infinite use to other more sedate, reflecting, and matter-of-fact men, if these latter do but understand the art of awakening their enthusiasm. Their intellectual faculties derive from a positive steady _purpose_, and from the constraint which it imposes, a degree of constancy and persevering energy which their own interest could never have inspired; and their ardour is more durable for the good of others than for their own. From similar causes, if they are placed by some superior power on the summit of the hill from the commencement of their lives, they will accomplish great things by themselves; for in this case the most grand and varied materials are already furnished; and along with them, the enthusiasm which persons of this character want, is produced, and fixed on some adequate and determinate object. There is nothing entirely new, uncertain, and baseless to create or to found;--only to employ, to improve, to elevate, to adorn, what already lies under their eye and hand, with the acuteness and address of a skilful artist. From such an eminence, which is their proper station, their keen, far-sighted glance, supported by a thousand executive heads and hands, strengthened by their own inward poetic eye, will reach further than that of more everyday natures. But at the foot or on the slope of the hill this acuteness of the mental sight is of no use to them, because their horizon is bounded; and for climbing the toilsome ascent, their indolent limbs will not serve them, nor could they resist the airy phantoms which would tempt them from their path. They live and die, therefore, on the hill, without ever reaching its summit, and consequently without ever being fully conscious of their own power. Of such men, the well-known saying might be reversed, and we might say with truth, 'Tel brille au _premier_ rang qui s'éclipse au _second_.' However beautiful and noble the words Morality and Virtue may sound, the universal distinct recognition of them as _the useful_ is the only thing that will be truly salutary and beneficial to human society. He who clearly sees that the sinner is like the savage who hews down the whole tree in order to come at the fruit, often sour, or tasteless, or unwholesome; while the virtuous man is like the prudent gardener who, waiting their maturity, gathers all the sweet produce, with the joyful consciousness that he has destroyed no future crop;--this man's virtue will probably stand on the most secure basis. The more enlightened men in general are, as to what is good or profitable for them, the better and more humane will their manners and conduct towards each other become. Action and reaction will then proceed in a beneficent circle;--enlightened individuals will establish better forms of government and better institutions, and these again will increase the intelligence of all who live under them. If matters once reached such a point, that a truly rational and elevating system of education freed us from the chimeras of dark times, dismissed all constraint on religious opinions among other obsolete absurdities, while it clearly demonstrated the inward and outward necessity of Love and Virtue to the happy existence of human society; while by the establishment of wise, firm, and consistent laws and political institutions, sprung from the conviction of this necessity, it imposed sufficient restraint to ensure the permanent adherence to these by the salutary habits produced,--Paradise would exist on earth. Mere penal laws, whether for here or hereafter, without this profound conviction,--all worldly policy, in the sense of clever, adroit knaves,--all prophets, all superhuman extra-revelations, heaven, hell, and priests,--will never bring us to this:[154] indeed, so long as all these hang on the spokes, the wheel of improvement will revolve but slowly and painfully. For this reason, so many strive with all their might against such a result; nay, even Protestants _protest backwards_, and many desire to establish a new continental embargo to shut out foreign light. 'Au reste,' one cannot take it amiss of any man 'qu'il prêche pour sa paroisse.' To require from an English archbishop with 50,000_l._ a year that he should be an enlightened man, is as preposterous as to expect from the Shah of Persia that he should transform himself into a constitutional monarch of his own free will. There are few men who would voluntarily refuse a rich and splendid sinecure, where nothing is required of them but to fling a little dust in the people's eyes, or to be a despot ruling millions with his nod. It is the business of human society, if possible, to put things upon such a footing that none of us, be our good-will for it ever so great, can either get such a sinecure or become such a despot. When I was a child, it often happened to me that I could get no rest for thinking of the fate of Hannibal, or that I was in despair at the battle of Pultawa;--now I am grieving over Columbus. We are greatly indebted to the distinguished American, Washington Irving, for this history. It is a beautiful tribute to the great navigator, brought from the land which he gave to the civilized world, and which appears destined to be the last station traversed by the cycle of human perfectibility. What a man was this sublime endurer! Too great for his age: for forty years he was deemed by it but a madman; during the rest of his life he was the victim of its hatred and jealousy, under which he sank at length in want and misery. But such is the world: and it would be enough to make us mad, did we fix our minds upon particulars, and did not reflection soon teach us that for wise Nature the individual is nothing, the species every thing. We live for and through mankind, and every thing finds its compensation in the great whole. This reflection suffices to tranquillize any reasonable man; for every seed springs up,--if not exactly for the hand that sowed it, yet be it evil or good, not one is lost to the human race. What has often and bitterly vexed me, is to hear people lament the wretchedness of this life, and call the world a vale of sorrows. This is not only the most crying ingratitude (humanly speaking,) but the true sin against the Holy Ghost. Is not enjoyment and well-being manifestly throughout the world the positive natural state of animated beings? Is not suffering, evil, organic imperfection or distortion, the negative shadow in this general brightness? Is not creation a continual festival to the healthy eye,--the contemplation of which, and of its splendour and beauty, fills the heart with adoration and delight? And were it only the daily sight of the enkindling sun and the glittering stars, the green of the trees and the gay and delicate beauty of flowers, the joyous song of birds, and the luxuriant abundance and rich animal enjoyment of all living things,--it would give us good cause to rejoice in life. But how much still more wondrous wealth is unfolded in the treasures of our own minds! what mines are laid open by love, art, science, the observation and the history of our own race, and, in the deepest deep of our souls, the pious reverential sentiment of God and his universal work! Truly we were less ungrateful were we less happy; and but too often we stand in need of suffering to make us conscious of this. A cheerful grateful disposition is a sort of sixth sense, by which we perceive and recognise happiness. He who is fully persuaded of its existence may, like other unthinking children, break out into occasional complaints, but will sooner return to reason; for the deep and intense feeling of the happiness of living, lies like a rose-coloured ground in his inmost heart, and shines softly through the darkest figures which fate can draw upon it. _Paradoxes of my friend B---- H----._ Yes, certainly the spirit rules in us and we in it; and is eternal, and the same which rules through all worlds; but that which we call our human soul, we frame to ourselves here. The apparent double being in us,--of which one part follows the impulses of sense, while the other reflects upon the nature and movements of its companion, and restrains it,--naturally arises from the (so to say) double nature and destiny of man, who is framed to live as an individual, and also as an integral part of society. The gift of speech was a necessary condition of this latter form of existence, which without it could never have arisen. A solitary man is, and must remain, nothing better than an extremely intelligent brute; he has no more a soul than any other such:--the experiment may be repeated any day. But as soon as the man begins to live with other men, as soon as the interchange of observations is rendered possible to him by speech, he begins to perceive that the individual must submit to what is for the good of the whole--of the society, that is, to which he belongs; that he must make some sacrifices to its maintenance: this is the first rise of the moral principle, the essence of the soul. The feeling of his own weakness and uncertainty next gives birth to religion; the feeling of need of others like himself, to love. Selfishness and humanity now enter upon that continual antagonism which is called, I know not why, the inexplicable riddle of life; though with my view of the matter, nothing appears to me more natural and consequential. The real problem for mankind is, merely to establish the proper balance between these two poles. The more perfectly this is attained, the better and the happier is thenceforward the condition of the man, the family, the state. Either extreme is pernicious. The individual who tries to benefit himself alone, must succumb at length to the power of the many. The romantic enthusiast who starves himself to feed others, will be called by men, (who are ready enough to admire any sacrifice made to them, though they often laugh at it too,) magnanimous, or foolish, according to their peculiar fancy: but such conduct can never be general, and can never become a _norma_ or pattern for imitation--in other words, _a duty_. Martyrs who give themselves to the flames in honour of the sacred number three, or let the nails grow through the back of the hands to the glory of Brama, belong to this same class, though to the lowest step of it; and receive, according to the prevalent notions of their age, the appellation of saint or madman, but are at all events mere exceptions, (_Abnormitäten_.) Not that I mean to deny that a rational abnegation and sacrifice of oneself for the good of others is noble and beautiful: by no means. It is unquestionably a beautiful, that is, a beneficent example of the victory of the social over the selfish principle, which forms a refreshing contrast to the far too numerous instances of those whose views never extend beyond themselves, and who end in becoming the pitiless remorseless criminals against whom society is compelled to declare everlasting war. But since we are bound to ourselves more nearly than to society, by that law of self-preservation which is necessary to our existence, egotists are more common than philanthropists, vicious men than virtuous. The former are the truly rude and ignorant, the latter the civilized and instructed. (An 'avviso' by the by to all governments who wish to rule in the dark.) But as even the most civilized have a substratum of rudeness, just as the most highly polished marble when broken exhibits the rough grain beneath, philanthropy herself cannot deny that she is the offspring of self-interest,--that she is indeed only self-interest diffused over the whole of mankind. Where this feeling, therefore, displays itself in a very grand and energetic manner, though it be for the sole advantage of the individual, the possessors of it, such as are commonly called great men and heroes, compel the admiration even of those who disapprove their course of action. Nay, experience teaches us, that men who, with consummate indifference to the good of others, have heaped innumerable sufferings on their fellow men, if they have at the same time manifested a gigantic and over-mastering power, and been favoured by fortune, have invariably been the objects of the high admiration even of those who suffered under them. This shows what I said before, that necessity and fear are the germs of human society, and continue to be the mightiest levers under all circumstances; and that power, (or strength,) is always the object of the greatest reverence and admiration. Alexander and Cæsar cut a greater figure in history than Horatius Cocles and Regulus, (admitting the latter not to be fabulous personages.) Disinterestedness, friendship, philanthropy, generosity, are flowers of rarer growth; they generally unfold themselves at a later season, and with a more delicate fragrance. To the philosophic mind the highest power manifests itself in perfect goodness: and devotedness to others in the end becomes the highest enjoyment to the individual himself. Another, and, as it seems to me, a striking proof that what we call Morality is entirely the growth of social life, is, that, as it appears to me, we recognise no such principle in our conduct towards other beings. If it were in our power, we should willingly enough pluck a star from heaven and analyse it for the benefit of _our_ science; nor, if we had an angel in our power, should we be very scrupulous in our treatment of him, were we certain we had nothing to fear from him. That our treatment of the lower animals, and in too many cases of the negroes, is utterly and purely selfish, and that we must have reached a high point of civilization before even we cease to torment them or to let them suffer _uselessly_ and _wantonly_, is but too obvious a fact. Nay more; men, even among each other, throw off the positive moral principle, as soon as a power which they recognise as competent partially dissolves the obligations of society. As soon as war is declared, the most virtuous soldier kills his fellow man 'ex officio,' though perhaps he be but the compulsory servant of a despot whom in his heart he regards as the scum of the earth: or the Pope, in the name of the religion of love, absolves men from every sentiment of truth, rectitude or humanity; and immediately the pious burn, torture, kill, lie, 'con amore,' and die satisfied and blessed, in fulfilment of their duty, and to the glory of God! The lower animals, which are destined to live for themselves alone, know no virtue, and _have, therefore, no soul_, as it is truly said. Yet in the domestic animals, notwithstanding the low order of their reasoning faculty,--from education and from the sort of social intercourse in which they live with man, we may perceive very obvious traces of morality, and the gradual creation of a perception of right and wrong. We see that they are capable of disinterested love; capable even of great self-sacrifice without the motive of fear:--in short, they enter upon the same path as men, their _souls_ begin to germinate and expand; and had animals the faculty of speech, it is possible they would advance to a level with ourselves. Our best and most useful study would be, to endeavour to see what we are, and wherefore we are so, without vain hypotheses or tedious discussions:--this is the only road to a permanent spread of clear and enlightened ideas, and consequently to true happiness. It may be questioned whether German philosophy has not chosen too poetical a path; whether it do not rather resemble a rocket, which soars into the heavens in a thousand sparkles and tries to assimilate itself to the stars, but soon vanishes into nothing,--than a fire which gives out beneficent light and heat. How many eccentric systems of this kind, from Kant to Hegel, have glittered their moment, and then either rapidly expired, or lived on, divided into obscure and unprofitable fragments! It is very problematical whether society have reaped so much practical advantage from them as from the now so little valued French philosophers, who stuck to what was near at hand; and in the first place so effectually divided the main nerve of the boa of priestly superstition with their sharp operating-knives, that it has never since been able to do more than feebly drag itself about. The philosopher ought surely to embrace actual life in his speculations, (the greatest of all sages was not less practical, than comprehensively intelligent;) and men who instruct mankind in this manner stand higher in the history of its benefactors than the most astonishing of the firework-makers above mentioned. The true and only object of philosophy is unquestionably the investigation of truth;--of such truth, be it observed, as _can be investigated_, for such alone can give any results. To inquire into the incomprehensible is to thrash straw. The most direct way to the attainment of discoverable truth is in my opinion now, as in the days of Aristotle, only that of experiment. At a later stage of science we may venture to say with justice, because the law _is_ so, experience _must_ confirm my conclusions; but this law could only have been discovered by means of prior experiment. Lalande might very fairly maintain that such and such stars must stand in such and such relations, although the most accurate observation seemed to prove the contrary, because he already _knew_ the unalterable rule; but without Newton's falling apple, &c.,--without the previous and long-continued observations of individual phenomena, and the truths thence elicited,--the secrets of the heavens were still a book with seven seals. But if philosophy would seek out truth, she ought above all to seek it in relation to the human species. Histories of mankind, in the widest sense, and whatever can be deduced from them for the behoof of the present and the future, must ever be her chief object. By following this direction, we may gradually succeed in arriving, from the knowledge of what has been and is, at the knowledge of causes; _i. e._ why things are so, and not otherwise: and then again, going back from fact to fact, may approach to fundamental laws, and thus find out a _norma_ or rule for the future. Although the first causes of all existence should forever remain undiscoverable by us, it were sufficient, could we clearly and distinctly ascertain what were the original powers of _our_ being, what they have become, and what direction we ought to endeavour to give to their further growth. Here the reflection will forcibly present itself, that a further progression and improvement are only possible in the element of freedom, and with an unrestrained interchange of ideas. The most noble and important invention by or for mankind, was therefore indisputably that of printing. Happily, it was born quick and active, for the human intellect was at its birth sufficiently matured to employ this mighty engine for the furtherance of the greatest ends. This invention alone has since rendered it possible to call into life that gigantic power, which nothing will long be able to withstand--public opinion. By this I do not mean the clamours of the mob, but the judgment of the best and wisest, which, since they have found an organ, have penetrated to all, and in the end must effect the destruction of those mere clamours. Without printing, there would have been no Luther;--and until that epoch, had Christianity really been able to make its way? At the time of the thirty years' war, at the time of the English Queen Mary, at the time of the Inquisition, 'horribile dictu!' had Christianity rendered men more merciful, more moral, more benign? I see little evidence of it. Freedom of the press was the great step which at once brought us infinitely nearer to the grand end--the universal diffusion of intelligence; and has given such an impulse to human affairs, that we now learn and accomplish more in ten years than our ancestors did in a hundred. The mass of information and intelligence thus accumulated, is what we must look to for the amelioration of the condition of mankind. In every age there have been illustrious men,--men, perhaps, whom no succeeding age will surpass or equal: but they stood alone; and although their effect on the world was not utterly lost, they could generally diffuse but a partial and momentary light, which the lapse of time dimmed or quite obscured. Let us take as an instance Christ, who, as Gibbon has shown, appeared under peculiarly favourable circumstances. How many men have called, and do call, themselves after his name; and how many are _true_ Christians? He, the most liberal, the most tolerant, the most sincere and benign of men, has served for nearly two thousand years as a shield to despotism, persecution, and falsehood, and lent his exalted and sacred name to a new form of heathenism. It is therefore, I repeat, only the _mass_ of knowledge, the intelligence which has pervaded _a whole nation_, which can form the basis of permanent, solid and rational institutions, through which society and individuals may be made better and happier. Towards this the world now tends. Politics, in the highest signification of the word, is the religion of the present time. For that, all the enthusiasm of mankind is awakened; and should crusades now be undertaken, that alone would be the object. The notion of representative chambers has now-a-days a more electric effect than that of a ruling church; and even the fame of the warrior begins to grow pale, by the side of that enlightened statesman and citizen. "Prove all things, and hold fast that which is good!" But now 'trêve de bavardage.' In the mountains I should not have bored you with so much of it; but within the dingy walls of a city I feel as Faust did within those of his study. But a little breeze has sprung up. To-morrow a fresher gale will swell my sails. Wherever I am,--in prison, or under the blue sky,--I am, and shall ever be, Your true, heartily devoted, L----. P. S. This is my last letter from Dublin. I have had my carriage packed and sent to S----; dismissed my Englishmen, and shall travel under the 'nom de guerre' you know of,--which is now become 'romantic,' by Bath and Paris with one honest Irish servant. I shall neither hurry, nor stay longer than necessary. The most difficult business--taking leave of friends--is done, and nothing now detains me. LETTER XLIV. _Holyhead, December 15th, 1828._ DEAR AND FAITHFUL FRIEND, You have often called me child-like, and no praise is more grateful to me. Yes, Heaven be praised, dear Julia! children we shall both remain, so long as we live, though a hundred wrinkles sat upon our brows. But children are fond of play, are rather 'inconsequent,' and are ever on the watch for pleasure: 'C'est là l'essentiel.' Thus then you must judge of me, and never expect much more from me. Do not therefore reproach me with wandering about without an object. Good Heaven! has not Parry, with his _object_, been obliged to sail three times to the north pole, and at last return without attaining it? Has not Napoleon for twenty years heaped victory on victory to pine away at last on St. Helena, because he had attained his object too early and too well? And what is generally the object of men? Not one of them can give an exact and definite account of it. The ostensible aim is always merely a part of the whole, often only the means to an end; and even the real and ulterior end frequently changes its form and its motives as these change their aspect. Thus it was with me. People have also _collateral_ objects, which often seem the principal ones, because they do better to announce. Thus again it was with me. 'Au bout du compte' I am satisfied,--and what can one have more? Neptune must have a peculiar affection for me, for whenever he gets me in his power he keeps me as long as he can. The wind was directly contrary, and blew with great violence. On the sea and on high mountains the _lucky principle_ in me becomes extremely feeble. I scarcely ever had a favourable wind at sea; nor a clear sky, when I had climbed thousands of feet nearer to it. Yesterday evening at eleven o'clock I quitted Dublin in a post-chaise in a beautiful clear moonlight night. The air was mild and balmy as in summer. I recapitulated the last two years, and called up all their events in review before me. The result did not displease me. I have erred here and there, but I find my mind on the whole become firmer and clearer. In detail I have also gained and learned some things. I have not impaired my physical machine: and lastly, I have imprinted many an agreeable picture in the volume of my memory. I feel my good spirits and my enjoyment of life ten times stronger than they were in the morbid state of mind in which I quitted you; and as this is of more value than all external things, after giving myself patient audience, I looked forward into the unknown future with cheerfulness, and relished the present with delight. The present consisted in the furious driving of the half-drunk postilions: we went along a lofty embankment, or causeway, close to the sea, in the pale moonlight, '_hop, hop, hop, dahin im sausenden Gallop_,' till we reached a very handsome inn at Howth, where I slept. A magnificent Newfoundland dog of enormous size gave me his company at tea, and again in the morning at breakfast. Perfectly white with a black face, the colossal creature looked like a polar bear, who in a fit of absence had put on the head of one of his black relatives. I wanted to buy him, but the host would not part with him on any terms. In the night I had a strange dream:--I found myself entangled in political affairs, in consequence of which my person was watched and my life threatened. My first escape from death was at a great hunting party, in which four or five disguised huntsmen fell upon me in the thickest part of the wood, and fired upon me, but did not hit me. The next thing was an attempt to poison me: and I had already swallowed a green powder, which had been given to me as medicine, when the Duke of Wellington came in, and said to me very coolly, "It's nothing; I have just taken the same, here is the antidote." After taking this, the usual operation of an antidote followed. (Probably this was from anticipation of my voyage.) In a short time I was better than before.--I set out, and was soon near the end of my journey, when I was attacked by robbers, who pulled me out of my carriage, and dragged me through brambles and ruins to a very high narrow wall, along the top of which we hastily stepped, while it seemed to totter under our feet. We walked on and on, and it seemed to have no end; and besides the fear, I was tormented by gnawing hunger, from which the robbers suffered equally. At last they called out to me that I must find them something to eat, or they would kill me. Just then I thought I heard a soft voice whisper "Show them that door." I looked up, and saw a high building like an abbey, overgrown with ivy and overshadowed by black pines, without door or window, except a 'porte cochère' of bronze, shut, and of colossal height. With sudden determination I exclaimed, "Fools! why do you ask food of me, when the great storehouse is before you?" "Where?" growled the captain. "Open that gate," replied I. As soon as the band perceived it, all rushed upon it, the captain foremost;--but before they could touch it, the huge gates slowly and silently unclosed themselves. A strange sight presented itself. We looked into a vast hall which appeared to us of endless length; the roof overarched our heads at a giddy height; all around was magnificently adorned with gold, and with beautiful bas-reliefs and pictures, which seemed to have life and motion. On either side against the wall was ranged an interminable row of grim-looking wooden figures, with faces rudely painted, clad in gold and steel, with drawn sword and lance, and mounted upon stuffed horses. In the middle the vista was closed by a gigantic black steed, bearing a rider thrice as big and as terrible as the rest. He was cased from top to toe in black iron. As if inspired, I cried out, "Ha, Rudiger! is it thou! venerable ancestor, save me!" The words echoed like a loud thunder-clap in a hundred peals along the vaulted roof; and we thought we saw the wooden figures and their stuffed horses roll their eyes horribly. We all shuddered;--when suddenly the gigantic knight flourished aloft his terrible battle-sword like a lightning-flash, and in an instant his steed with fearful bounds and curvetings was close upon us; when a clock struck with awful sound, and the giant stood again a motionless statue before us. Overpowered by terror, we all took to flight as quickly as our legs would carry us. To my shame I must confess I did not remain behind. I had reached an old wall, but fear turned my feet to lead. I now perceived a side door, and was going to attempt to get through it, when a frightful voice yelled in my ear "Half past seven." I was ready to sink on the earth from terror,--a strong hand grasped me,--I opened my eyes bewildered, and my Irish servant stood before me--to announce to me that if I did not get up immediately, the steam-packet would infallibly sail without me.--You see, dear Julia, as soon as I set out on my travels, adventures await me, though but in my sleep. I found the people occupied in getting on board a handsome carriage, stuffed with I think even more comforts and superfluities than I take with me when I travel in this manner. The valet and servants were busy, alert, and respectful; while a young man of about twenty, with light hair carefully curled, and very elegantly dressed in deep mourning, sauntered up and down the deck with all the indolence of an English 'man of fashion,' taking not the smallest notice of his property or what his people were doing. As I afterwards learned, he had just succeeded to an estate of 20,000_l._ a year in Ireland, and was now going abroad to spend it. He was hastening to Naples; and appeared such a good-natured young fellow that even sea-sickness did not put him out of humour. While talking with him, I thought--reflecting upon the difference between us, 'Voilà le commencement et la fin!' One whom the world sends forth, and says 'Partake of me;' and the other whom she calls home, and says 'Digest me.' May Heaven only preserve my stomach in good order for the operation! But these melancholy thoughts arose only from the 'qualms' of the steam-boiler and the sea; and after a little reflection I rejoiced in the sight of this young creature, so rich in hopes, as much as if the illusions had been my own. This evening I intend to proceed with the mail, and hope that a good dinner will put an end to the nausea left by the long transit. _Shrewsbury, Dec. 16th, Evening._ Things did not turn out so well as I expected: the dinner was by no means good, but on the contrary, vile; and the voyage left me a 'migraine,' with which I was obliged to set out at midnight. Fortunately we were but two in the comfortable four-seated coach, so that each had a whole side to himself. I slept tolerably; and the air and gentle motion had so beneficial an effect, that at seven, when I waked, my head-ache was nearly gone. The Holyhead mail is bound to go two German miles in an hour, all stoppages included.[155] We arrived here to breakfast, and I staid to see the city. I visited first the castle, the greater part of which is of extreme antiquity: it is built of red stone: the inside is somewhat modernized. The view from the old 'keep,' on which there is now a summer-house, over the river Severn and a rich and fertile valley, is very beautiful and cheerful. Close by is the prison, in which I saw the poor devils at work in the treadmill. They were all dressed in yellow cloth, like so many Saxon postilions, to whose phlegm this exercise would often be advantageous. From this new-fashioned establishment for education I wandered, (travelling back eight hundred years in a minute,) to the remains of an old abbey, of which only the church is in good preservation and in use. The painted windows in this, as in almost all the churches in England, were destroyed by Cromwell's fanatics, but are here remarkably well restored with newly-painted glass. The founder of the abbey, Roger Montgomery, (first Earl of Shrewsbury and one of William the Conqueror's followers,) lies buried in the church under a fine monument. Near him lies a Templar, exactly like the one at Worcester, except in the colouring. He lies with his legs crossed in the manner which distinguishes the tombs of his order. The Earl of Shrewsbury not only built and endowed the abbey, but died within its walls as a monk, in expiation of his sins. Thus did the elasticity of the human mind soon find means to lay spiritual curb and bridle on the rough power of the knights. The city is very remarkable, from its numerous ancient houses of the most extraordinary form and architecture. I frequently stood still in the streets to sketch one in my pocket-book: this always collected a crowd about me, who stared at me astonished, and not unfrequently disturbed me. The English ought not to wonder, therefore, if the same thing happens to them in Turkey and Egypt. _Hereford, Dec. 17th._ It cannot be denied that after being deprived of it for some time, one returns to 'English comfort' with increased relish. Change, however, is the soul of life, and gives to every thing in its turn a fresh value. The good inns, the neatly served 'breakfasts and dinners,' the spacious, carefully warmed beds, the civil and adroit waiters, struck me, after Irish deficiencies, very agreeably, and soon reconciled me to the higher prices. At ten in the morning I left Shrewsbury again in the mail, and reached Hereford at eight in the evening. As it was not cold I got outside, and gave my place within to my servant. Two or three ordinary sort of men, and a pretty animated boy of eleven, were my companions. The conversation was furiously political. The boy was the son of a man of considerable landed property, and was travelling home from school, a hundred miles off, to spend his Christmas holidays. This custom of throwing children so early on their own resources, unquestionably gives them through life that feeling of independence and self-reliance which the English possess above all other nations, and especially above the Germans. The joy and vivacious restlessness of the child as he approached his home, both touched and delighted me. There was something so natural and so intense in it, that I involuntarily thought of my own childhood,--of that invaluable, and at the time unvalued, happiness which we know only in retrospect. _Monmouth, Dec. 18th._ To-day, dear Julia, I have once more had one of those romantic days which I have long been deprived of; one of those days whose varied pictures delight one like fairy tales in childhood. I am indebted for it to the celebrated scenery of the river Wye, which even in winter asserted its claim to be considered one of the most beautiful parts of England. Before I quitted Hereford I paid a very early visit to the cathedral, in which I found nothing remarkable except a handsome porch. I was near being too late for the mail, which in England waits for nobody. I literally caught it flying, but used it only for the thirteen miles from Hereford to Ross, which we traversed in an extremely short time, though with four blind horses. At Ross I hired a boat, sent it forwards five miles to Goderich Castle, and took my way thither on foot. My road lay first through a churchyard, on an eminence commanding a beautiful view; then through a rich luxuriant country like that on Lake Lugano, to the ruin, where I found the little boat with two rowers and my Irishman already waiting. I had to cross the river, which is here rather impetuous, in order to reach the hill crowned with the old castle.--The ascent on the slippery turf was arduous enough. As I entered the lofty archway, a blast of wind took my cap off my head, as if the spirit of the place would teach me respect to the shade of its knightly possessor. The awe and admiration could not be enhanced, however, with which I wandered through the dark passages and the spacious courts, and climbed the crumbling staircase. In summer and autumn the Wye is never free from visitors; but as it probably never entered the head of a methodical Englishman to make a tour in winter, the people are not at all prepared for it, and during the whole day I found neither guide nor any sort of help for travellers. The ladder, without which it is impossible to reach the top of the highest tower, was not forthcoming; it had been removed to winter quarters. With the help of the boatmen and my servant I constructed a Jacob's-ladder, by means of which I scrambled up. From the battlements you overlook a boundless stretch of country:--the robber knights who inhabited this fortress had the advantage of seeing travellers on the road at many miles distance. After I had duly grubbed into every hole and corner, and descended the hill on the other side, I breakfasted with great enjoyment in the boat, while it was rapidly borne along on the swift current. The weather was beautiful, the sun shone bright,--a very rare occurrence at this season,--and the air was as warm as in a pleasant April day with us. The trees had indeed no leaves; but as their branches were extremely thick, and they were intermixed with many evergreens, and the grass was even greener and brighter than in summer, the landscape lost much less in beauty than might have been imagined. The soil is uncommonly fruitful; the gentle hills are clothed from top to bottom with wood and copse; few ploughed fields, chiefly meadows interspersed with trees, while every bend of the winding stream presents a church, a village, or a country house, in a succession of the most varied pictures. For some time we hovered on the boundaries of three counties,--Monmouth on the right, Hereford on the left, and Gloucester before us. In a picturesque spot, opposite to iron-works whose flames are visible even by day, stands a house, one-half of which bears the stamp of modern times, the other half that of gray antiquity. This is the place in which Henry the Fifth passed his childhood, under the care of the Countess of Salisbury. Lower down in the valley stands the little humble church in which he was christened and she was buried. Agincourt and Falstaff, knightly times, and the creations of Shakspeare, occupied my fancy, till Nature, older and greater than all, soon made me forget them: for now our little bark glided into the rocky region, where the foaming stream and its shores assume the grandest character. These are craggy and weather-beaten walls of sandstone, of gigantic dimension, perpendicular or overhanging, projecting abruptly from amid oaks, and hung with rich festoons of ivy. The rains and storms of ages have beaten and washed them into such fantastic forms, that they appear like some caprice of human art. Castles and towers, amphitheatres and fortifications, battlements and obelisks, mock the wanderer, who fancies himself transported into the ruins of a city of some extinct race. Some of these picturesque masses are often loosened by the action of the weather, and fall thundering from rock to rock with a terrific plunge into the river, which is here extremely deep. The boatmen showed me the remains of one of these blocks, and the monument of an unfortunate Portuguese whom it buried in its fall. This extraordinary formation reaches for nearly eight miles, to within about three of Monmouth, where it terminates in a solitary colossal rock called the Druid's Head. Seen from a certain point it exhibits a fine antique profile of an old man sunk in deep sleep. Just as we rowed by, the moon rose immediately above it, and gave it a most striking effect. A short time afterwards we passed through a narrow part of the stream between two shores wooded to their summits, till we came in sight of a large bare _plateau_ of rock, called King Arthur's Plain;--the fabulous hero is said to have encamped here. In half an hour we reached Monmouth, a small ancient town, in which Henry the Fifth was born. A lofty statue of him adorns the roof of the town-hall; but nothing remains of the castle in which he first saw the light, save an ornamented Gothic window, and a court in which turkeys, geese and ducks were fattened. This would have been more suitable to the birth-place of Falstaff. I went into a bookseller's shop to buy a 'Guide,' and unexpectedly made the acquaintance of a very amiable family. It consisted of the old bookseller, his wife, and two pretty daughters, the most perfect specimens of innocent country girls I ever met with. I went in just as they were at tea; and the father, a very good-natured man, but unusually loquacious, for an Englishman, took me absolutely and formally prisoner, and began to ask me the strangest questions about the Continent and about politics. The daughters, who obviously pitied me--probably from experience--tried to restrain him; but I let him go on, and surrendered myself for half an hour 'de bonne grâce,' by which I won the good-will of the whole family to such a degree, that they all pressed me most warmly to stay some days in this beautiful country, and to take up my abode with them. When I rose at length to go, they positively refused to take any thing for the book, and 'bongré, malgré,' I was forced to keep it as a present. Such conquests please me, because their manifestation can come only from the heart. _Chepstow, Dec. 19th._ As I was dressed early, and after a rapid breakfast was going to set out, I discovered, not without a disagreeable surprise, that my purse and pocket-book were missing. I remembered perfectly that I laid them before me in the coffee-room last night; that I was quite alone, and that I dined and wrote to you there; that I referred to the notes in my pocket-book for my letter, and used my purse to pay the boatmen. It was clear, therefore, that I must have left it there, and the waiter have taken possession of it. I rang for him, recapitulated the above facts, and asked, looking earnestly at him, if he had found nothing? The man looked pale and embarrassed, and stammered out that he had seen nothing but a bit of paper with writing on it, which he believed was still lying under the table. I looked, and found it in the place he mentioned. All this appeared to me very suspicious. I made some representations to the host, a most disagreeable-looking fellow, which indeed contained some implied threats: but he answered shortly, That he knew his people; that a theft had not occurred in his house for thirty years, and that my behaviour was very offensive to him;--that if I pleased, he would immediately send to a magistrate, have all his servants sworn, and his house searched. But then, added he with a sneer, you must not forget that all your things, even to the smallest trifle, must be examined too; and if nothing is found on any of us, you must pay the costs and make me a compensation. 'Qu'allai-je faire dans cette galère?' thought I, and saw clearly that my best way was to put up with my loss--about ten pounds--and to depart. I therefore took some more bank-notes out of my travelling-bag, paid the reckoning, which was pretty moderate, and thought I distinctly recognised one of my own sovereigns in the change he gave me:--it had a little cut over George the Fourth's eye. Persuaded that host and waiter were partners in one concern, I shook off the dust of my feet, and stepped into the postchaise with the feelings of a man who has escaped from a den of thieves. To render a service to future travellers, I stopped the chaise, and went to inform my friend the bookseller of my mishap. The surprise and concern of all were equal. In a few minutes the daughters began to whisper to their mother, made signs to one another, then took their father on one side; and after a short deliberation, the youngest came up to me and asked me, blushing and embarrassed, "Whether this loss might not have caused me a 'temporary embarrassment,' and whether I would accept a loan of five pounds, which I could restore whenever I returned that way;" at the same time trying to push the note into my hand. Such genuine kindness touched me to the heart: it had something so affectionate and disinterested, that the greatest benefit conferred under other circumstances would perhaps have inspired me with less gratitude than this mark of unaffected good-will. You may imagine how cordially I thanked them. "Certainly," said I, "were I in the slightest difficulty, I should not be too proud to accept so kind an offer; but as this is not in the least degree the case, I shall lay claim to your generosity in another way, and beg permission to be allowed to carry back to the Continent a kiss from each of the fair girls of Monmouth." This was granted, amid much laughter and good-natured resignation. Thus freighted, I went back to my carriage. As I had gone yesterday by water, I took my way to-day along the bank of the river to Chepstow. The country retains the same character,--rich, deeply-wooded and verdant: but in this part it is enlivened by numerous iron-works, whose fires gleam in red, blue, and yellow flames, and blaze up through lofty chimneys, where they assume at times the form of huge glowing flowers, when the fire and smoke, pressed down by the weight of the atmosphere, are kept together in a compact motionless mass. I alighted to see one of these works. It was not moved, as most are, by a steam-engine, but by an immense water-wheel, which again set in motion two or three smaller. This wheel had the power of eighty horses; and the whirling rapidity of its revolutions, the frightful noise when it was first set going, the furnaces around vomiting fire, the red-hot iron, and the half-naked black figures brandishing hammers and other ponderous instruments, and throwing around the red hissing masses, formed an admirable representation of Vulcan's smithy. About midway in my journey the country changed, as it did yesterday, into a stern rocky region. In the centre of a deep basin, encompassed by mountains of various forms, we descried immediately above the silver stream the celebrated ruins of Tintern Abbey. It would be difficult to imagine a more favourable situation, or a more sublime ruin. The entrance to it seems as if contrived by the hand of some skilful scene-painter to produce the most striking effect. The church, which is large, is still almost perfect: the roof alone and a few of the pillars are wanting. The ruins have received just that degree of care which is consistent with the full preservation of their character; all unpicturesque rubbish which could obstruct the view is removed, without any attempt at repair or embellishment. A beautiful smooth turf covers the ground, and luxuriant creeping plants grow amid the stones. The fallen ornaments are laid in picturesque confusion, and a perfect avenue of thick ivy-stems climb up the pillars and form a roof over-head. The better to secure the ruin, a new gate of antique workmanship, with iron ornaments, is put up. When this is suddenly opened, the effect is most striking and surprising. You suddenly look down the avenue of ivy-clad pillars, and see their grand perspective lines closed, at a distance of three hundred feet, by a magnificent window eighty feet high and thirty broad: through its intricate and beautiful tracery you see a wooded mountain, from whose side project abrupt masses of rock. Over-head the wind plays in the garlands of ivy, and the clouds pass swiftly across the deep blue sky. When you reach the centre of the church, whence you look to the four extremities of its cross, you see the two transept windows nearly as large and as beautiful as the principal one: through each you command a picture perfectly different, but each in the wild and sublime style which harmonizes so perfectly with the building. Immediately around the ruin is a luxuriant orchard. In spring, how exquisite must be the effect of these gray venerable walls rising out of that sea of fragrance and beauty! A Vandal lord and lord lieutenant of the county conceived the pious design of restoring the church. Happily, Heaven took him to itself before he had time to execute it. From Tintern Abbey the road rises uninterruptedly to a considerable height above the river, which is never wholly out of sight. The country reaches the highest degree of its beauty in three or four miles, at the Duke of Beaufort's villa called the Moss House. Here are delightful paths, which lead in endless windings through wild woods and evergreen thickets, sometimes on the edge of lofty walls of rock, sometimes through caves fashioned by the hand of Nature, or suddenly emerge on open plateaus to the highest point of this chain of hills, called the Wind-cliff, whence you enjoy one of the most extensive and noble views in England. At a depth of about eight hundred feet, the steep descent below you presents in some places single projecting rocks; in others, a green bushy precipice. In the valley, the eye follows for several miles the course of the Wye, which issues from a wooden glen on the left hand, curves round a green garden-like peninsula rising into a hill studded with beautiful clumps of trees, then forces its foaming way to the right, along a huge wall of rock nearly as high as the point where you stand, and at length, near Chepstow Castle, which looks like a ruined city, empties itself into the Bristol Channel, where ocean closes the dim and misty distance. On this side of the river, before you, the peaked tops of a long ridge of hills extend along nearly the whole district which your eyes commands. It is thickly clothed with wood, out of which a continuous wall of rock festooned with ivy picturesquely rears its head. Over this ridge you again discern water,--the Severn, five miles broad, thronged with a hundred white sails, on either shore of which you see blue ridges of hills full of fertility and rich cultivation. The grouping of this landscape is perfect: I know of no picture more beautiful. Inexhaustible in details, of boundless extent, and yet marked by such grand and prominent features, that confusion and monotony, the usual defects of a very wide prospect, are completely avoided. Piercefield Park, which includes the ridge of hills from Wind-cliff to Chepstow, is therefore without question the finest in England, at least for situation. It possesses all that Nature can bestow; lofty trees, magnificent rocks, the most fertile soil, a mild climate favourable to vegetation of every kind, a clear foaming stream, the vicinity of the sea, solitude, and, from the bosom of its own tranquil seclusion, a view into the rich country I have described, which receives a lofty interest from a ruin the most sublime that the imagination of the finest painter could conceive,--I mean Chepstow Castle. It covers five acres of ground, and lies close to the park on the side next the town, though it does not belong to it. England is indebted to Cromwell for almost all her ruined castles, as she is to Henry the Eighth for her crumbling churches and religious houses. The former were destroyed with fire and sword; the latter only suppressed, and left to the corroding tooth of time, and the selfishness and wantonness of man. Both agents have been equally efficacious; and these two great men have produced an effect they did not contemplate, but which resembles that of their persons,--a picturesque one. I strolled through the park on foot, and let the carriage follow by the high road: I reached the ruin at the verge of twilight, which increased the awful grandeur of its appearance. The castle contains several extensive courts, and a chapel; a part of it is in good preservation. Large nut and yew-trees, orchards and beautiful turf, adorn the interior; trailing plants of all kinds festoon the walls. In the least ruinous part of the castle lives a woman with her family, who pays the Duke of Beaufort, the possessor, a rent, for permission to show the ruins to strangers, of whom she consequently demands a shilling. You see that in England, 'on fait flèche de tout bois,' and that an English nobleman with an income of sixty thousand a year, neither disdains to take the widow's mite, nor to lay strangers under regular contribution. To be sure there are some little German sovereigns who unfortunately do much the same. Satisfied with the employment of my day, as well as tired with climbing, and soaked with rain which had fallen within the last hour, I hastened to my inn, my dishabille, and my dinner,--I felt something unusual in the pocket of my dressing-gown. I pulled it out surprised; and with shame I saw--my purse and pocket-book. It but now occurred to me that I had slipped them into this unaccustomed place from the fear of leaving them on the table. This shall serve as a lesson to me for the future, never to draw any unfavourable conclusions merely from the embarrassment and confusion of an accused person. The bare thought that others could suspect them may produce the same symptoms in men of irritable nerves and a quick sense of honour, as the consciousness of guilt in others. You will trust to the heart you know so well, that I instantly despatched a letter to my friend the bookseller, exculpating the host and waiter, and enclosing two pounds as some compensation to the latter, which I begged him to deliver with my sincere apologies.--I ate my dinner with more relish after I had atoned for my offence to the best of my power. Your faithful L----. LETTER XLV. _Bristol, December 20th, 1828._ DEAR JULIA, I hope you follow me on the map, which will make my letters more intelligible to you, though you cannot enjoy with me the beautiful views, of which I shall bring you back faithful copies in the port-folio of my memory. I revisited the magnificent castle this morning. A blooming girl was my guide, and formed a graceful contrast to the blackened towers, the dreadful prison of the regicide Marten, and the dark dungeons, to which we descended by a long staircase. I next visited a church with a remarkably beautiful Saxon porch, and a highly ornamented font in the same style. Here the unfortunate Marten lies buried. He was one of Charles the First's judges, and was imprisoned in Chepstow Castle for forty years, without ever, as it is asserted, losing his spirits. After the first few years his confinement seems to have been less vigorous, and to have gone on gradually becoming less severe. At least the girl showed me three rooms, of which the lowest was a most horrible hole,--while she _ciceronised_ in the following words: "Here Marten was put at first, while he was wicked; but when he became serious, he was moved a story higher; and at last, when he was _religious_, he had the room with the beautiful view." At two o'clock I set out for Bristol on a crowded stage-coach; notwithstanding the violent rain, I with difficulty obtained a place on the box. We crossed a handsome bridge, affording the best point of view of the castle, which stands on a perpendicular rock overhanging the Wye, a position which gives it its peculiarly picturesque character. We kept Piercefield Park, and its wall of rocks on one side the river, long in view. I remarked to the proprietor of the stage, who drove, that the possessor of this beautiful estate must be a happy man. "By no means," replied he; "the poor devil is over head and ears in debt, has a numerous family, and wishes with all his heart to find a good purchaser for Piercefield. Three months ago every thing was settled with a rich Liverpool merchant, who was going to buy it for his youngest son; but before the bargain was completed, this son married an actress, the father disinherited him, and the thing went off." Here was matter for moralizing. Meantime the weather grew worse; and at length ended in a complete storm. We had it in our backs indeed, but the passage across the Channel was extremely unpleasant: the four horses, all the luggage, and the passengers, were huddled 'pèle mêle' into a little boat, which was so crowded one could hardly move. The post next to the horses was really one of danger, for they sometimes shyed at the sails, especially when they were shifted. On one of these occasions a gentleman fell, together with the box on which he was sitting, directly under them. The good-natured animals, however, only trod on him a little, they did not attempt to kick him. The boat, driven violently by the wind, lay quite on her side; and the waves incessantly dashed over us, and wetted us from head to foot. When we reached the end of our voyage, the landing was equally wearisome and dirty; and I lost, to my great annoyance, a part of Lord Byron's works. I was told that accidents often happen at this ferry, from the frequent storms and the numerous rocks. About six months ago the boat went down with the mail, and several persons lost their lives. We could not reach the usual landing-place, where there is a house, and were obliged to disembark on the shore, whence we walked to the inn along a strand of red and white veined marble. Here we got into another stage, filled with twenty persons, and drove (but not so quickly as the mail,) to Bristol.--I could see nothing of this admired city but the bright lamps and gay well-stored shops. _Bath, December 21st. Evening._ When I question my memory what it is that makes the Wye so much more beautiful than most rivers, I find that it is the marked and bold character of its shores, which never fall away into tame monotonous lines, nor exhibit an unmeaning variety: that it is almost always skirted by wood, rocks, or meadows enlivened by houses; seldom by fields, or cultivated land, which though useful are rarely picturesque. Its numerous and bold windings cause an incessant change in the grouping of the shores, so that the same objects present themselves under a hundred different and beautiful aspects. This, by the way, is doubtless the ground of the preference landscape gardeners have given to winding roads over straight, and not that imaginary line of beauty about which so much has been said. As the objects which present themselves along the Wye are almost always few, and in large masses, they invariably form beautiful pictures,--for pictures require to be bounded or framed. Nature creates according to a standard which we cannot judge of in its total effect; the _highest harmony_ of which must therefore be lost to us:--Art strives to form a part of this into an ideal whole, which the eye and mind of man can take in. This is in my opinion the idea which lies at the bottom of landscape gardening. But Nature herself here and there furnishes a perfect pattern or model for such creations of art,--a landscape microcosm; and seldom can more such models be found within the same distance than in the course of this voyage, where every bend of the river presents a fresh feast of _art_, if I may so speak. Pope somewhere says, "Pleased Vaga echoes through its winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds." The German language with all its richness is somewhat awkward and intractable for translation, especially from the English, which from being made up of various languages, possesses a peculiar facility in rendering foreign thoughts.[156] To me these two lines appear almost untranslatable: as often as I have attempted it, the thought lost all its grace;--perhaps, however, the awkwardness was mine. It is no small advantage to the Wye, that two of the most beautiful ruins in the world lie on its banks; and never was I more convinced than here, that a prophet has no honour in his own country. How else would so many Englishmen travel thousands of miles to fall into ecstacies at beauties of a very inferior order to these! I must ask one more question;--why ruins have so much stronger an effect on the mind than the highest perfect specimen of architectural beauty? It seems almost as if these works of man did not attain their full perfection till Nature had tempered and corrected them:--and yet it is well that man should again step in, just at that point where Nature begins to efface all traces of his hand. A vast and well-preserved ruin is the most beautiful of buildings. I have already mentioned that the environs of Bristol have a high and a deserved reputation. In luxuriance of vegetation and fertility they can be surpassed by none,--in picturesque effect by few; 'C'est comme la terre promise.' Whatever one beholds, and (as a gourmand I add) whatever one tastes, is in full perfection. Bristol, a city of a hundred thousand inhabitants, lies in a deep valley: Clifton, which rises in terraces on the hills immediately above it, seems only a part of the same town: it is easy to conceive that extraordinary effects must result from such a situation. Three venerable Gothic churches rise out of the confused mass of houses in the valley. Like the proud remains of feudal and priestly dominion (for these, though hostile brothers, went hand in hand,) they appear to rear their gray heads with a feeling of their ancient greatness, in scorn of the mushroom growth of modern times. One of them especially, Radcliffe Church, is a wonderful structure;--unfortunately, the sandstone of which it is built has suffered so much from time, that its ornaments are nearly fretted away. I went in while the organ was playing; and although I entered in the most quiet and respectful manner, and placed myself in a corner whence I could catch a stolen glance at the interior, the illiberality of the English Church would not allow me this satisfaction, and the preacher sent an old woman to tell me that I must sit down. As it is not the custom in Catholic churches to interrupt the devotions of a congregation on such light grounds even if strangers go in without any caution to view whatever is worth seeing in the church, I might justly wonder that English Protestant piety should have so little confidence in its own strength, as to be thus blown about by the slightest breath. The riddle was explained to me afterwards: I should have had to _pay_ for my seat, and the truly pious motive was _the sixpence_. However, I had had enough, and left their 'mummery'[157] without paying. As soon as I returned to the inn I ordered a post-chaise, seated myself on the driver's seat,--not like the Emperor of China, as the place of honour, but as the place for seeing,--and began my excursions in the environs. I first visited the warm baths. They are situated just at the beginning of a rocky valley, which has a great resemblance to the Planische Grund near Dresden, only that the rocks are higher and the expanse of water much finer. Just in this spot we met the mayor in his state equipage, much more splendid than that of our kings on the continent. It formed a curious contrast with the solitary rocky scenery. As he passed, the postilion pointed out to me a distant ruined tower called 'Cook's Folly,' the property of a former mayor, a merchant, who ruined himself in building it, and now lives in a ruin. He could not complete the Gothic castle which he began to build in a most beautiful situation; perhaps it is a greater ornament to the scene in its present state. Ascending from the rocky valley we reached an extensive table-land, which serves as a race-course, and thence over rising ground to Lord de Clifford's park, the entrance to which is very beautiful. You drive for about a mile and a half on the side of a high hill, through a winding avenue of primeval oaks, planted far enough from each other to stretch out their giant arms on every side to their full extent before they touch. Beneath their branches you catch the finest views of the rich vale of Bristol. It is like a noble gallery of pictures; under every tree you find a different one. To the right, on the rising ground appears a dark belt of plantation edging the green turf. Laurel, arbutus, and other evergreens border the road, till at a sudden turn the house and flower-garden burst upon the eye in all their decorated beauty. At the end of this park lies a ridge of hills, along whose narrow crest you drive some miles, and arrive at a noble sea view. At our feet lay the Russian fleet at anchor. It is bound to the Mediterranean, and in the storm of last week narrowly escaped shipwreck on this coast:--the English declare this was entirely caused by the ignorance and unskilfulness of the sailors. I afterwards made the acquaintance of the captain and five other officers. To my great surprise they spoke _no_ foreign language, so that our conversation was limited to signs: in other respects they seemed a polite and civilized sort of people. Not far from this park is an interesting establishment called 'The Cottages.' The proprietor, Mr. Harford, has endeavoured to realize the 'beau idéal' of a village. A beautiful green space in the midst of the wood is surrounded by a winding road; on it are built nine cottages, all of different forms and materials;--stone, brick, wood, &c., and roofed with thatch, tiles, and slate; each surrounded with different trees, and enwreathed with various sorts of clematis, rose, honeysuckle, and vine. The dwellings, which are perfectly detached though they form a whole, have separate gardens, and a common fountain, which stands in the centre of the green, overshadowed by old trees. The gardens, divided by neat hedges, form a pretty garland of flowers and herbs around the whole village. What crowns the whole is, that the inhabitants are all poor families, whom the generous proprietor allows to live in the houses rent free. No more delightful or well-chosen spot could be found as a refuge for misfortune: its perfect seclusion and snugness breathe only peace and forgetfulness of the world. Immediately opposite to the wood, a modern Gothic castle rears its head at a distance, from amid ancient oaks. I wished to see it, as well as the park around it, but could not get permission. Whenever the high road lies through an English park, a part of the wall is replaced by a ha-ha, or a transparent iron fence, that the passer-by may throw a modest and curious glance into the forbidden paradise: but this effort exhausts the stock of liberality usually possessed by an English land-owner. As it was Sunday too, I gave up all hope of moving the churlish porter to make any exception in my favour: on his brow was clearly written the converse of Dante's infernal inscription, 'Voi che venite--di _entrare_ lasciate ogni speranza.' I returned by way of Clifton, from which Bristol appeared to lie under my feet. The scene was greatly enlivened by the multitude of gaily-dressed church-goers of both sexes, whom I met in every road and lane. In strong contrast with these cheerful groups, was a large house painted entirely black, with white windows, and looking like an enormous catafalque. I was told it was the public hospital, and a gentleman offered to show it to me. The interior was much more attractive than the exterior: its fine spacious apartments, and the exquisite cleanliness which pervades every part, must render it a most comfortable abode for the sick and suffering. In no place did I perceive the slightest offensive smell, except in the apothecary's shop. The right wing of the building is appropriated to male, the left to female patients; in both, the lower story to medical, the upper to surgical cases. The operating room was remarkably elegant, furnished with several marble basins, into which water was turned by cocks, so that in any part of the room the blood could be instantly washed away. In the centre was a mahogany sort of couch with leather cushions for the patients. In short, there was everything that an ameteur could desire. But beneficent as is their art, surgeons are generally rather unfeeling; the gentleman who accompanied me did not form an exception. In one of the apartments I observed a woman who had completely covered herself with the bed-clothes, and asked him in a low voice, what was her disease. "O," replied he quite aloud, "that is an incurable case of aneurism; as soon as it bursts she must die." The shrinking motion and the low groan under the bed-clothes, showed me but too clearly what agony this intelligence caused, and made me deeply regret my inquiry. In one of the men's wards I saw a man lying in bed, white and motionless as marble; and as we were at a considerable distance, I asked the nature of his disorder. "I don't know myself," replied my companion, "but I'll soon ask him." "For Heaven's sake don't" said I: but he was off in an instant, felt the man's hand as it lay motionless, and came back saying with a laugh, "He is cured, for he is dead." Towards evening I hired one of the little carriages that ply between Bath and Bristol, and drove to the former place. I was alone, and slept all the way. On waking from my 'siesta,' I beheld in the moonlight an extensive illuminated palace on a bare height, and learned that this was the benevolent endowment of a mere private man, for fifty poor widows, who live here in comfort, indeed in luxury. Numerous other rows of lamps soon gleamed in the horizon, and in a few minutes we rolled over the pavement of Bath. _Bath, Dec. 22d._ Since the day on which I communicated to you the important intelligence that the sun had shone, I have not seen his beneficent face. But, in spite of fog and rain, I have wandered about the whole day long in this wonderful city, which, originally built in the bottom of a deep and narrow hollow, has gradually crept up the sides of all the surrounding hills. The magnificence of the houses, gardens, streets, terraces, and semicircular rows of houses called 'crescents,' which adorn every hill, is imposing and worthy of English opulence. Notwithstanding this, and the beauty of the surrounding country, _fashion_ has deserted Bath, and fled with a sort of feverish rage to the unmeaning, treeless and detestably prosaic Brighton. Bath is still much resorted to by invalids, and even the forty thousand opulent inhabitants suffice to enliven it; but the fashionable world is no longer to be seen here. The once celebrated king of Bath, the formerly 'far-famed Nash,' has lost more of his 'nimbus' than any of his colleagues. He who now fills the office, instead of driving through the streets with six horses and a retinue of servants, (the constant _cortége_ of his august predecessor,) goes modestly on foot. No Duchess of Queensbury will he send out of the ball-room for not being dressed according to law. The abbey church made a great impression upon me. I saw it for the first time splendidly lighted, which greatly heightened the singular aspect of its interior. I have often remarked that almost all the ancient churches of England are disfigured by scattered modern monuments. Here, however, there are so many, and they are placed with such an odd kind of symmetry, that the complete contrast they present to the simple and sublime architecture produces a new and peculiar kind of picturesque effect.--Imagine a noble lofty Gothic church, of the most graceful proportions, brilliantly lighted, and divided in the centre by a crimson curtain. The half immediately before you is an empty space, without chair, bench, or altar; the ground alone presents a continual mosaic of gravestones with inscriptions. The walls are inlaid in the same manner up to a certain height, where a horizontal line divides them, without any intervening space, from the busts, statues, tablets and monuments of every kind, of polished black or white marble, or of porphyry, granite, or other coloured stone, which are ranged above:--the whole looks like a gallery of sculpture. Up to the line under these monuments, all was in brilliant light; higher up, it gradually softened away; and under the tracery of the arched roof, faded into dim twilight. The clerk and I were quite alone in this portion of the building, while a still more brilliant light gleamed from the other side of the glowing curtain, whence the softened voices of the congregation seemed to visit us from some invisible sanctuary. Many interesting names are recorded here; among others, the celebrated wit, Quin, to whom Garrick erected a marble bust with a poetical inscription.--Waller's bust has lost the nose;--it is asserted that James the Second, in a fit of bigotry, struck it off with his sword shortly after his accession to the throne. _Dec. 23d._ Have you ever heard of the eccentric Beckford--a kind of Lord Byron in prose--who built the most magnificent residence in England, surrounded his park with a wall twelve feet high, and for twelve years suffered nobody to enter it? All on a sudden he sold this wondrous dwelling, Fonthill Abbey, with all the rare and costly things it contained, by auction, and went to Bath, where he lives in just as solitary a manner as before. He has built a second high tower, (there was a celebrated one at Fonthill,) in the middle of a field; the roof of it is a copy of the so-called Lantern of Diogenes, (the monument of Lysicrates,) at Athens. Thither I drove to-day, and could imagine that the view from it must be as striking as it is said to be. There was however no admittance, and I was obliged to content myself with the pictures of my fancy. The tower is still unfinished, though very lofty; and stands, like a ghost, in the wide open solitude of a high table-land. The possessor is said, at one time, to have been worth three millions sterling, and is still very rich. I was told that he was seldom visible, but that when he rode out it was with the following retinue:--First rides a grayheaded old steward; behind him, two grooms with long hunting whips; then follows Mr. Beckford himself, surrounded by five or six dogs; two more grooms with whips close the procession. If in the course of the ride one of the dogs is refractory, the whole train halts, and castigation is immediately applied with the whips; this course of education is continued through the whole ride. Mr. Beckford formerly wrote a very singular, but most powerful romance, in French: it was translated into English, and greatly admired. A high tower plays a conspicuous part in that also: the _dénouement_ is, that the Devil carries off everybody. I must send you another anecdote or two of this extraordinary man.--When he was living at Fonthill, a neighbouring Lord was tormented by such an intense curiosity to see the place that he caused a high ladder to be set against the wall, and climbed over by night. He was soon discovered, and taken before Mr. Beckford; who, on hearing his name, contrary to his expectations, received him very courteously, conducted him all over his house and grounds in the morning, and entertained him in a princely manner; after which he retired, taking the most polite leave of his Lordship. The latter, delighted at the successful issue of his enterprise, was hastening home; but found all the gates locked, and no one there to open them. He returned to the house to beg assistance; but was told that Mr. Beckford desired that he would return as he had come,--that he would find the ladder standing where he had left it. His Lordship replied with great asperity, but it was of no use; he must e'en return to the place of his clandestine entrance, and climb the ladder. Cured for ever of his curiosity, and venting curses on the spiteful misanthrope, he quitted the forbidden paradise. After Fonthill was sold, Mr. Beckford lived for a while in great seclusion in one of the suburbs of London. In the immediate neighbourhood was a nursery garden, extremely celebrated for the beauty and rarity of its flowers. He walked in it daily, and paid fifty guineas a-week to the owner of it for permission to gather whatever flowers he liked. In the evening I visited the theatre, and found a very pretty house, but a very bad play. It was Rienzi, a miserable modern tragedy, which, with the graceless ranting of the players, excited neither tears nor laughter,--only disgust and ennui. I soon left Melpomene's desecrated temple, and visited my friend the clerk of the Abbey Church, to ask permission to see the church by moonlight. As soon as he had let me in, I dismissed him; and wandering like a solitary ghost among the pillars and tombs, I called up the more solemn tragedy of life, amid the awful stillness of night and death. _Dec. 24th._ The weather is still so bad, and hangs such a drapery over all distant objects, that I can make no excursions, and am obliged to confine myself to the town; which indeed, by the number and variety of its prospects, affords interesting walks enough. I begin every time with my favourite monumental church, and finish with it. The architect who built this magnificent structure went quite out of the beaten track of ornaments and proportions. On the outside, for instance, near the great door, are two Jacob's ladders reaching to the roof, where the ascending angels are lost from sight. The busy heaven-stormers are extremely pretty; and the design appears to me conceived completely in the spirit of that fanciful architecture, which blended the most childish with the most sublime; the greatest minuteness of ornaments with the vastest effect of masses; which imitated the whole range of natural productions,--gigantic trunks of trees, and delicate foliage and flowers; awful rocks, and gaudy gems, men and beasts; and combined them all so as to strike our imaginations with wonder, reverence, and awe. This has always appeared to me the true romantic, _i. e._ true German, architecture;--the offspring of our most peculiar spirit and fashion of mind. But I think we are now wholly estranged from it; it belongs to a more imaginative and meditative age. We may still admire and love its models, but we can create nothing of the same kind, which does not bear the most obvious stamp of flat imitation. Steam-engines and Constitutions now prosper better than the arts,--of whatever kind.--To each age, its own. As I love contrasts, I went this evening straight from the temple crowded with the dead, to the market-place, equally populous in another way, and equally well lighted, where all sorts of provisions are sold under covered galleries. Every thing here is inviting and elegant; subjects for a thousand master-pieces of Flemish pencils; and a luxurious sight for the 'gastronome,' who here contemplates _his_ beauties of Nature. Enormous pieces of beef, of a juicy red streaked with golden fat; well-fed poultry, looking as if stuffed with eider-down; magnificent vegetables; bright yellow butter; ripe and fresh fruit, and tempting fish, presented a picture such as my astonished eyes never beheld. The whole was heightened by the brilliancy of a hundred variegated lamps, and decorated with laurel and red-berried holly. Instead of one _Weihnachtstisch_,[158] here were a hundred; the caricatures of market-women did admirably for the gingerbread dolls, (_Pfefferkuchenpuppen_,) and we buyers for the curious and wondering children. The most brilliant assembly could hardly have amused me more. When I saw a grave-looking sheep holding a candle in each foot, and thus lighting himself; or a hanging fowl, in whose rump they had stuck a red wax taper; a calf's head with a lantern between its teeth, next neighbour to a great gander illuminated by two huge altar tapers; or an ox-tail, through which a gas tube was passed, ending pompously in a tuft of flame,--I made the most diverting comparisons with an assembly in my native land; and found the resemblances often more striking than those of the celebrated portrait-painters W---- and S----. Living is very cheap here, especially in the so-called boarding-houses, where a man is well lodged and admirably boarded for two or three guineas a-week, and finds agreeable and easy society: equipages are not wanted, as sedan-chairs are still in use. Eight-and-twenty hours have at length appeased the angry heavens, and to-day was what is here called "a glorious day,"--a day, that is, in which the sun occasionally peeps out from between the clouds. You may be sure that I took advantage of it: I ascended the hill near the town, from which you have a bird's-eye view of the whole, and can distinguish almost every separate house. The Abbey church lies, like the kernel, in the centre; the streets radiate upwards in every direction, and in the bottom of the valley the Avon winds like a silver riband. I continued my way along a pretty walk to Prior Park, a large and formerly splendid mansion, built by a haughty Lord, but now possessed by a meek Quaker, who lets the house stand empty, and, true to the simplicity of his faith, lives in the stable. Thus passed the morning.--By twilight and moonlight I took another walk to the other side of the town, and found the view still more magnificent in the stillness of the clear night. The sky was of a pale green, and on the right hand masses of black deeply indented clouds were piled up. The hills cut their rounded outlines sharply upon the clear sky, while the whole valley was filled with one curtain of blue mist, through which you saw the glimmering of a thousand lamps, without being able to distinguish the houses. It seemed a sea of mist, out of which countless stars twinkled with multiplied rays. I closed the day with a hot bath in the principal bathing establishment; and found the accommodations convenient, clean and cheap, and the attendants prompt and respectful. _Dec. 26th._ The bad habit of reading in bed occasioned me a laughable misfortune last night. My hair caught fire, and I was forced to bury my head in the bed-clothes to extinguish it. The injury is horrible;--one entire half of my hair was destroyed, so that I have been obliged to have it cut almost close to my head all over. Happily my strength does not reside in my hair. A letter from you consoled me on waking. Your fable of the nightingale is charming. Had L---- imagined that, and in his twentieth year said, "Be dead to the world till your five-and-thirtieth," how brilliantly and prosperously could he now (according to the world's standard) enter it. In the course of that time I too have often accused the world and others; but when dispassionately viewed, this is as foolish as it is unjust. The world is, and will be, the world; and to reproach it with all the evil that accrues to us from it, is to be like the child who would beat the fire because he has burnt his finger in it. L---- should therefore regret nothing; for if he had slept fifteen years like a marmot, he would not have enjoyed animation or consciousness. Let us stick to the belief, 'que tout est pour le mieux dans ce meilleur des mondes.' Heartily wishing that you may always clearly perceive this great truth, I take my leave of you most tenderly, and am, as ever, Your faithful L----. LETTER XLVI. _Salisbury, December 27th, 1828._ BELOVED FRIEND, Yesterday evening at seven o'clock I left Bath, again by the mail, for Salisbury. My only companion was a widow in deep mourning; notwithstanding which, she had already found a lover, whom we took up outside the town. He entertained us, whenever he spoke of any thing but farming, with those horrible occurrences of which the English are so fond that the columns of their newspapers are daily filled with them. Perhaps he was one of their 'accident makers,' for he was inexhaustible in horrors. He asserted that the Holyhead mail (the same by which I came) had been washed away by a waterspout; and horses, coachman, and one of the passengers, drowned. After some hours the loving pair left me, at a place where the widow was proprietress of an inn (probably the real object of John Bull's tenderness,) and I was quite alone. My solitude was not of long duration, for a very pretty young girl, whom we overtook in the dark, begged that we would take her on to Salisbury, as she must otherwise pass the night in the nearest village. I very willingly took upon myself the cost of her journey. She was very grateful; and told me she was a dress-maker, and had gone to pass her Christmas with her parents; and that she had staid rather too late, but had reckoned on the chance of getting a cast by the mail.--We reached this city at midnight, where a good supper but a cold and smoky bedchamber awaited me. _December 28th._ Early in the morning I was awakened by the monotonous patter of a gentle rain, so that I am still sitting over my breakfast and my book. A good book is a true electrical machine: one's own thoughts often dart forth like flashes;--they generally, however, vanish as quickly; for if one tries to fix them at the moment with pen and ink, the enjoyment is at an end; and afterwards, as with dreams, it is not worth the pains. The book by which I electrified myself to-day, is a very ingenious and admirable combination of the fundamentals of history, geography, and astronomy, adapted for self-instruction. These little encyclopædias are really one of the great conveniences of our times. Accurate knowledge of details is indeed necessary to the accomplishment of any thing useful, but the walls must be built before the rooms can be adorned. In either sort of study, superficial or profound, I hold self-instruction to be the most efficacious; at least so it has always been with me. It is, however, certain that many men can, in no way, acquire any real knowledge. If, for instance, they study history, they never perceive the Eternal and the True: to them it remains a mere chronicle, which their admirable memory enables them to keep at their fingers' ends. Every other science is learned in a like mechanical manner, and consists of mere words. And yet _this_ is precisely the sort of knowledge commonly called fundamental; indeed, most examiners by profession require no other. The absurdities still committed by these learned persons in many places, would furnish abundance of most diverting anecdotes if they were brought to light. I know a young man who had to undergo a diplomatic examination a short time ago, in a certain _Residenz_. He was asked "how much a cubic foot of wood weighed?" Pity he did not answer, "How much does a gold coin weigh?" or, "How much brains does a dolt's head contain?" Another was asked in the course of a military examination, "Which was the most remarkable siege?" The respondent (a nationalized German) answered, without the slightest hesitation, "The siege of Jericho, because the walls were blown down with trumpets." Conundrums might be made out of these examinations; indeed I rather think that tiresome diversion sprung from them. Many clergymen still ask, "Do you believe in the Devil?" A 'mauvais plaisant,' who did not care much for being turned back, lately replied, 'Samiel, help!' _Evening._ About three o'clock the sky cleared a little; and as I had waited only for that, I jumped into the bespoken gig, and drove as hard as an old hunter would carry me to Stonehenge, the great druidical temple, burial place, or sacrificial altar. The country round Salisbury is fertile, but without trees and in no way picturesque. The wondrous Stonehenge stands on a wide, bare, elevated plain. The orange disk of the cloudless sun touched the horizon just as, astounded at the inexplicable monument before me, I approached the nearest stone, which the setting beams tinged with rose-colour. It is no wonder that popular superstition ascribes this singular group to demoniac power, for scarcely could another such work be achieved with all the mechanical means and contrivances of our times. How then was it possible for a nearly barbarous people to erect such masses, or to transport them thirty miles, the distance of the _nearest_ quarry?[159] Some have maintained that it was merely a sport of Nature, but no one who sees it will assent to this. I was not the only spectator. A solitary stranger was visible from time to time, who, without seeming to perceive me, had been going round and round among the stones incessantly for the last quarter of an hour. He was evidently counting, and seemed very impatient at something. The next time he emerged, I took the liberty to ask him the cause of his singular demeanour; on which he politely answered, "that he had been told no one could count these stones aright; that every time the number was different; and that this was a trick which Satan, the author of the work, played the curious: that he had within the last two hours confirmed the truth of this statement seven times, and that he should inevitably lose his senses if he tried again." I advised him to leave off, and go home, as it was growing dark, and Satan might play him a worse trick than this. He fixed his eyes upon me sarcastically, and with what the Scotch call a very 'uncanny' expression, looked about him as if for somebody; then suddenly exclaiming "Good-bye, Sir!" strode off, like Peter Schlemil, casting no shadow, ('tis true the sun was set,) with seven-league steps across the down, where he disappeared behind the hill. I now likewise hastened to depart, and trotted on towards the high tower of Salisbury Cathedral, which was just visible in the twilight. Scarcely had I gone a mile, when the high crazy gig broke, and the driver and I were thrown, not very softly, on the turf. The old horse ran off with the shafts, neighing merrily, towards the city. While we were crawling up, we heard the trotting of a horse behind us;--it was the stranger, who galloped by on a fine black horse, and cried out to me, "The Devil sends his best compliments to you, Sir, 'au revoir;'" and darted off like a whirlwind. This jest was really provoking. "O, you untimely jester!" exclaimed I, "give us help, instead of your 'fadaises.'" But the echo of his horse's hoofs alone answered me through the darkness. The driver ran almost a mile after our horse, but came back without any tidings of him. As there was not even a hut near, we were obliged to make up our minds to walk the remaining six miles. Never did a road seem to me more tedious; and I found little compensation in the wonders which the driver related of his hunter, when, twenty years ago, he was the 'leader of the Salisbury hunt.' _December 29th._ I have turned this day to very good account, but brought home a violent head-ache in the evening, probably the effect of my last night's adventure. Salisbury's far-famed Cathedral boasts of the highest tower in Europe. It is four hundred and ten feet high,--five feet higher than the Minster at Strasburg, if I mistake not. It is at any rate far more beautiful. The exterior is peculiarly distinguished by an air of newness and neatness, and by the perfection of its details. For this it is indebted to two grand repairs which in the course of time it has undergone; the first, under the superintendence of Sir Christopher Wren; the second, of Mr. Wyatt. The site of this church is also peculiar. It stands like a model, perfectly free and isolated on a smooth-shaven plain of short turf, on one side of which is the Bishop's palace, on the other high lime-trees. The tower terminates in an obelisk-like spire, with a cross, on which, rather ominously, a weather-cock is planted. This tasteless custom disgraces most of the Gothic churches in England. The tower is five-and-twenty inches out of the perpendicular. This is not visible, except on the inside, where the inclination of the pillars is perceptible. The interior of this magnificent temple is in the highest degree imposing, and has been improved by Wyatt's genius. It was an admirable idea to remove the most remarkable old monuments from the walls and obscure corners, and to place them in the space between the grand double avenues of pillars, whose unbroken height would almost turn the head giddy. Nothing can have a finer effect than these rows of Gothic sarcophagi, on which the figures of knights or priests lie stretched in their eternal sleep, while their habiliments or armour of stone or metal are lighted with rainbow-tints from the painted windows. Among Templars and other knights, I discovered 'Richard Longsword,' who came to England with the Conqueror: near him, a giant figure in alabaster, the sword-bearer of Henry the Seventh, who fell at Bosworth Field, where he fought with two long swords, one in each hand, with which he is here represented. The cloisters are also very beautiful. Long finely proportioned corridors run at right-angles around the chapter-house, which is supported, like the Remter in Marienburg, by a single pillar in the centre. The bas-reliefs, which surround it in a broad entablature, seem to be of very fine workmanship, but were half destroyed in Cromwell's time. In the centre stands a worm-eaten oaken table of the thirteenth century, on which--as it seems from tolerably credible tradition--the labourers employed in building the church were paid every evening, at the rate of a penny a-day. The ascent of the spire is very difficult: the latter half must be climbed by slender ladders, like the Stephansthurm in Vienna. At length you reach a little door in the roof, thirty feet under the extreme point. Out of this door, the man who weekly oils the weathercock ascends, in so perilous a manner that it appears inconceivable how a man of seventy can accomplish it. From this door, or rather window, to the top, is, as I have said, a distance of thirty feet, along which there are no other means of climbing than by iron hooks projecting from the outside. The old man gets out of the little window backwards; then, on account of a sort of penthouse over the window, is obliged to bend his body forward, and in that posture to feel for the first hook, without being able to see it. When he has reached it, and caught fast hold, he swings himself up to it, hanging in the air, while he feels out the projection over the window with his feet, after which he climbs from hook to hook. It would certainly be easy to contrive a more convenient and less dangerous ascent; but he has been used to it from his childhood, and will not have it altered. Even at night he has made this terrific ascent, and is delighted that scarcely any strangers, not even sailors, who generally climb the most impracticable places, have ventured to follow him. As we reached the first outer gallery around the tower, the guide pointed out to me a hawk which hung poised in air twenty or thirty feet above us. "For many years," said he, "a pair of these birds have built in the tower, and live on the Bishop's pigeons. I often see one or other of them hanging above the cross, and then suddenly pounce upon a bird: they sometimes let it fall on the roof or gallery of the church, but never stop to pick up prey which has once fallen,--they let it lie and rot there, if I don't remove it." The Bishop's palace and garden lay in a picturesque group beneath us, and all the chimneys were smoking merrily, for, 'His Lordship' was just arrived, but was preparing for a journey to a watering-place. The guide thought that they saw the 'Lord Bishop' twice or three times a-year in the cathedral. 'His Lordship' never preaches: his sacred functions consist, as it seems, in the spending of fifteen thousand a-year with as much good taste as it has pleased God to bestow upon him;--the labour is sufficiently performed by subalterns. This beautiful Establishment is the only one we on the Continent want to complete our felicity,--the only one which it is worth our while to copy from England. On my return, I walked for some time longer in the darkening church, amid the noble monuments of old heroes, whom my imagination summoned from their tombs. I took care to secure a more substantial carriage than that of yesterday, and drove very comfortably to Wilton, the beautiful seat of the Earl of Pembroke. Here is a valuable collection of antiques, tastefully arranged by the deceased Earl, who was a great lover of art. It is placed in a broad gallery running round the inner court, communicating with the apartments on the ground-floor, and finely lighted from one side. It affords a most interesting walk, winter and summer, and is within a few steps of every room. The windows are ornamented with the coats of arms, in coloured glass, of all the families with which the Earls of Pembroke have been allied by marriage,--a rich collection, which includes even the royal arms of England. In the halls are placed the coats of armour of the old warriors of the family, and those of their most distinguished prisoners; among them, the Grand Constable Montmorenci, a French Prince of the blood, and several others. Unquestionably these old recollections of a high and puissant aristocracy have their poetical side. The Châtelaine who conducted me about seemed herself to have crept out of a colossal coat of armour: she was full six feet high, and of a very masculine aspect, nor could anybody be better versed in the history of the Middle Ages. On the other hand, she murdered the names of Roman emperors and Grecian sages most barbarously. She explained some rather equivocal subjects quite circumstantially, and in very droll connoisseur language. One of the adjoining rooms is filled with family portraits, which derive more of their value and splendour from the hand of Holbein or Vandyke than from the personages they represent. After a certain lapse of time, the nobility of genius outshines that of birth, 'comme de raison.' The house contains several other valuable pictures; among which an Interment of Christ by Albrecht Dürer, executed in the most finished manner in water-colours, was the most striking. The Countess's garden, upon which the library opens, is laid out in the old French style, and is terminated by a small very richly ornamented temple, which has one great singularity. It was built by Holbein, but does no credit to his taste: it is, on the contrary, an ugly overloaded thing. The garden is extremely pretty and elegant: it reflects honour on English women of rank, that most of them are distinguished for their taste and skill in this beautiful art. We should fall into a great mistake if we hoped that any English gardener whatever were capable of producing such master-pieces of garden decoration as I have described to you in my former letters.[160] These all owe their existence to the genius and the charming taste for the embellishment of _home_ which characterize their fair owners. As it was positively forbidden to admit any stranger without a written order from the possessor, I should not have obtained a sight of the house had I not practised a stratagem, which the lord of the mansion will of course forgive, if he ever knows it. I announced myself to the Châtelaine as a Russian relative of the family, with a name she could neither read nor speak.--It is really too annoying to drive four miles for an express purpose, and then to turn back without accomplishing it: I therefore lay my _obligé_ falsehood entirely at the door of these inhuman English manners. With us, people are not so cruel; and never will an Englishman have to complain of similar illiberality in Germany. On the other side of the town lies an interesting place, Langford, the seat of the Earl of Radnor; an extensive park, and very old castle of strange triangular form, with enormously massy towers whose walls are like mosaic. In insignificant, low and ill-furnished rooms I found one of the most precious collections of pictures; master-pieces of the greatest painters; hidden treasures, which nobody sees and nobody knows of,--of which so many exist in English private houses. There is a Sunrise and a Sunset by Claude. The morning exhibits Æneas with his followers landing on the happy shores of Italy, and makes one envy the new-comers to the paradise which this picture discloses to them. In the evening scene, the setting sun gilds the magnificent ruins of temples and palaces, which are surrounded by a solitary wild country;--they are allegorical representations of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. Water, clouds, sky, trees, the transparent quivering atmosphere,--it is all, as ever in Claude, Nature herself. It is difficult to imagine how a man in his five-and-thirtieth year could be a cook and a colour-grinder, and in his five-and-fortieth give to the world such unequalled productions. The wondrously beautiful head of a Magdalen by Guido, whose tearful eyes and warm rosy mouth certainly seem to invite rather to a thousand kisses than to repentance; a Holy Family by Andrea del Sarto, brilliant in all the pomp of colour; and many other 'chef-d'oeuvres' of the most illustrious masters, riveted me for many hours. A portrait of Count Egmont would have served but ill as a frontispiece to Göthe's tragedy; for the joyous-hearted, magnificent visionary, here appears a corpulent man of forty, with a bald pate and a thoroughly every-day physiognomy. His friend of Orange, hanging near him, exhibited a face of far different intellectual character. Between them hung the gloomy Alba, who pursued cruelty as a luxury. Besides the pictures and some antiques, this seat contains a rare and precious curiosity,--a chair or throne of steel, which the city of Augsburgh gave to the Emperor Rudolph the Second, which Gustavus Adolphus stole, and an ancestor of Lord Radnor's bought at Stockholm. The workmanship is admirable. How do all the fine steel works of our day,--those of Birmingham, or the Berlin iron ornaments--fade before this splendid piece of art into miserable trifles and toys! You think you see before you a work of Benvenuto Cellini; and know not which to admire most, the fine execution and the elegance of the details, or the tasteful and artist-like disposition of the whole. _London, December 31st._ Yesterday I was obliged to sacrifice to my hereditary foe 'migraine:' to-day I travelled in continual rain to the metropolis, and shall depart to-morrow morning for France.--The country had little in it attractive; but the conversation on the outside of the coach was the more animated. It turned, during nearly the whole day, on a famous 'boxing-match,' in which a Yankee had, it seemed, cheated a John Bull; and, bribed by the principal patrons of the art, had won ten thousand pounds. Cheating, in every kind of 'sport,' is as completely in the common order of things in England, among the highest classes as well as the lowest, as false play was in the time of the Count de Grammont. It is no uncommon thing to hear 'gentlemen' boast of it almost openly; and I never found that those who are regarded as 'the most knowing ones' had suffered in their reputation in consequence;--'au contraire,' they pass for cleverer than their neighbours; and you are only now and then warned with a smile to take care what you are about with them. Some of the highest members of the aristocracy are quite notorious for their achievements of this description. I heard from good authority, that the father of a nobleman of sporting celebrity, to whom some one was expressing his solicitude lest his son should be cheated by a 'Blacklegs,' answered, "I am much more afraid for the Blacklegs than for my son!" _To every country its customs!_[161]--Another characteristic trait of England, though in a lower step in society, was, that the coachman who drove us had lost two hundred pounds in this same unlucky match, and only laughed at it; giving us significantly to understand that he should soon find another dupe, who should pay it him back with interest. What advances must the 'march of intellect' make on the continent before the postillions of the Prince of Tour and Taxis, or the Eilwagen drivers of the Herr von Nagler will be able to lay such bets with their passengers! Some miles from Windsor we passed through a sort of country uncommon in England, consisting only of sand and pebbles. A magnificent building, with a park and garden, has been erected here,--the New Military College, which is fitted up with all the luxury of a princely residence. The sand and stones made me feel at home,--not so the palace. While I was eyeing the soil with looks of tender affection, 'car a toute âme bien née la patrie est chère,' we saw a gray old fox, which with sweeping brush galloped across the heath. Our bet-loving coachman saw him first, and cried out, "By God, a fox! a fox!" "It's a dog," replied a passenger. "I bet you five to four 'tis a fox," rejoined the steed-compelling hero. "Done!" replied the doubter--and soon had to pay; for it was indeed an indubitable fox, though of extraordinary size. Several hounds, who had lost the scent, now ran in sight, and a few red coats were also visible. All the passengers on the mail screamed and hallooed to them which way the fox was gone, but could not make them understand. The time of the mail is rigorously fixed, and all unnecessary delays forbidden: but here was a national calamity impending; the pack and the hunters had _lost the fox_! The coachman drew up, and several sprang down to show the party, which now every moment increased, the right way. We did not get afloat again till we saw the whole hunt once more in full pursuit; whereupon we all waved our hats, and shouted 'Tally-ho!' As soon as our consciences were thus entirely set at ease, and the fox delivered over to his inevitable fate, the coachman whipped on his horses to make up for the delay, and the rest of the way we dashed along at a rattling gallop, as if the Wild Huntsman himself were at our heels. _Dover, January 1st, 1829._ The box of the mail-coach is become my throne, from which I occasionally assume the reins of government, and direct four rapid steeds with great skill. I proudly overlook the country, hurry _forwards_, which every governor cannot boast; and yet wish for wings that I might the sooner get home to you. I found all the towers in Canterbury decorated with flags in celebration of New-year's day. I commemorated it in the proudest and most beautiful of all English cathedrals. This romantic edifice, begun by the Saxons, continued by the Normans, and recently restored with great judgment, forms three distinct and yet connected churches; with many irregular chapels and staircases, black and white marble floors, and a forest of pillars in harmonious confusion. The yellow tone of the sandstone is very advantageous, especially in the Norman part of the church, where it is beautifully relieved by the black marble columns. Here lies the brazen effigy of the Black Prince, on a sarcophagus of stone. Over him hang his half-mouldered gloves, and the sword and shield he wore at Poictiers. A number of other monuments adorn the church;--among them, those of Henry the Fourth and Thomas à Becket, who was killed in one of the adjoining chapels. A great part of the old painted window is preserved, and is unrivalled in the splendour of its colours. Some parts of it are only patterns and arabesques, like transparent carpets of velvet: others appear like jewellery formed of every variety of precious stones. But few contain historical subjects. What gives this magnificent cathedral a great pre-eminence over every other in England, is, that there is no screen in the middle to cut and obstruct the view, and you see the whole extent of the aisle,--from four to five hundred paces long,--at one glance. The organ is concealed in one of the upper galleries, and when it sounds produces a magical effect. I timed my visit so luckily, that just as I was going out, almost in the dark, the choristers began to sing, and their beautiful music filled the church, at the same time that the last sunbeam glowed through the window in tints of sapphire and ruby. The Archbishop of Canterbury is primate of England, and the only subject in Great Britain, except the princes of the blood, who has the dignity of prince. I believe, however, he enjoys it only in his see, not in London. This Protestant clergyman has sixty thousand a year and may marry;--more I know not by which to distinguish him from the Catholic ecclesiastical princes. _Calais, Jan. 2nd._ At length I set my foot once more in beloved France. However little advantageous is the first contrast, I yet greet this, my half-native soil, the purer air, the easier, kinder, franker manners, almost with the feeling of a man escaped from a long imprisonment. We waked at five o'clock in the morning at Dover, and got on board the packet in utter darkness. We had already walked up and down for at least half an hour before there appeared any preparation for sailing. On a sudden the rumour was spread that the 'boiler' was damaged. The most timid immediately made their escape to shore; the others cried out for the Captain, who was nowhere to be found. At last he sent a man to tell us that we could not sail without danger, and our luggage was accordingly transferred to a French steam-packet which was to sail at eight o'clock. I employed the interval in seeing the sun rise from the fort which crowns the lofty chalk cliffs above the town. The English, who have money enough to execute every useful plan, have cut a passage through the cliff, forming a kind of funnel, in which two winding staircases lead to the height of two hundred and forty feet. The view from the top is highly picturesque, and the sun arose out of the sea, almost cloudless, over the extensive prospect. I was in such an ecstacy at the scene that I nearly lost my passage. The vessel sailed the moment I was on board. A violent wind carried us over in two hours and a half. The sea-sickness, this time, was endurable; and an excellent dinner, such an one as no English inn can offer, soon restored me. This Hotel (Bourbon) is, as far as cookery goes, one of the best in France. _Jan. 3rd._ My first morning walk in France was quite delicious to me. The unbroken sunshine; the clear sky, which I had not seen for so long; a town in which the houses are not put in eternal mourning by coal smoke, and stood out bright and sharp from the atmosphere, made me feel at home again, and I walked down to the harbour to take my last farewell of the sea. There it lay before me, boundless everywhere except in one spot, where a black line of something like cloud, probably the concentrated fog and smoke of the island, denoted the existence of the English coast. I followed the jetty (a sort of wooden dam), and found myself at length entirely alone. I saw nothing living but a sea-bird, swimming by with the swiftness of lightning, often diving, and then after an interval of several minutes reappearing at some distant spot. He continued this sport a long while; and so agile and full of enjoyment did the creature seem, that I could almost fancy he took pleasure in exhibiting his feats to me. I was giving in to a train of fancies which insensibly grew out of this exhibition, when I heard the step and the voices of an English family behind me,--and away we went, bird and I. On the ramparts I met a French _bonne_ with two English children, miracles of beauty, and very elegantly dressed in scarlet cachemire and white. The youngest had taken fast hold of a tree; and with true English love of liberty and determination, refused in the most decided manner to go home. The poor French girl vainly murdered all sorts of English coaxings and threats which she could command. "Mon darling, come, allons," exclaimed she, in a tone of distress. "I wont," was the laconic answer. The stubborn little creature interested me so much that I walked up to the tree to try my luck with her. I had better success; for after a few jokes in English, she followed me readily, and I led her in triumph to her _bonne_. But as I was going away, the little devil seized me with all her might by the coat, and said, laughing aloud, "No no, you shan't go now; you forced me away from the tree, and now I'll force you to stay with us!" And I actually could not escape, till, amid playing and battling, during which she never quitted her hold of me, we reached the door of her parents' house. "Now I have done with you," cried the little thing, while she ran shouting and laughing into the house. "You little flirt!" cried I after her, "French education will bring forth little fruit in you." Returning to the town, I visited the celebrated B----. I see you turn over the 'Dictionnaire Historique et des Contemporains' in vain. Has he distinguished himself in a revolution, or a counter-revolution? Is he a warrior or a statesman? 'Vous n'y êtes pas.' He is less and greater,--as you choose to take it. In a word, he is the most illustrious, and was, in his time, the most puissant of dandies London ever knew. At one period B---- ruled a whole generation by the cut of his coat; and leather breeches went out of fashion because all men despaired of being able to reach the perfection of his. When at length, for weighty reasons, he turned his back on Great Britain, he bequeathed to the land of his birth, as his last gift, the immortal secret of starched cravats, the unfathomableness of which had so tormented the 'élégants' of the metropolis that, according to the 'Literary Gazette,' two of them had put an end to their lives in despair, and a youthful Duke had died miserably 'of a broken heart.' The foundation of this malady had however been laid earlier. On one occasion, when he had just received a new coat, he modestly asked B---- his opinion of it. B----, casting a slight glance at it, asked, with an air of surprise, "Do you call that thing a coat?" The poor young man's sense of honour received an incurable wound. Although it is no longer dress by which a man gives the ton in London, it is merely the vehicle that is altered--not the thing. The influence which Br----, without birth or fortune, without a fine person or a superior intellect, merely by a lofty sort of impudence, a droll originality, love of company, and talent in dress, acquired and maintained for many years in London society, forms an admirable criterion by which the tone and quality of that society may be estimated; and as I have briefly described in my former letters some of those who now occupy the place B---- once filled, you will perhaps agree with me, that he excelled them in good-humour and social qualities, as well as in innocence of manners. It was a more frank, and, at the same time, more original and harmless folly, which bore the same comparison to that of his successors, that the comedy and the morality of Holberg do to those of Kotzebue. Play at length accomplished what even the hostility of the heir to the throne could not. He lost every thing, and was obliged to flee; since which time he has lived in Calais, and every bird of passage from the fashionable world dutifully pays the former patriarch the tribute of a visit, or of an invitation to dinner. This I did also, though under my assumed name. Unfortunately, in the matter of dinner I had been forestalled by another stranger, and I cannot therefore judge how a coat really ought to look; or whether his long residence in Calais, added to increasing years, have rendered the dress of the former king of fashion less classical; for I found him at his second toilet, in a flowered chintz dressing-gown, velvet night-cap with gold tassel, and Turkish slippers, shaving, and rubbing the remains of his teeth with his favourite red root. The furniture of his rooms was elegant enough, part of it might even be called rich, though faded; and I cannot deny that the whole man seemed to me to correspond with it. Though depressed by his present situation, he exhibited a considerable fund of humour and good-nature. His air was that of good society; simple and natural, and marked by more urbanity than the dandies of the present race are capable of. With a smile he showed me his Paris peruque, which he extolled at the cost of the English ones, and called himself 'le ci-devant jeune homme qui passe sa vie entre Paris et Londres.' He appeared somewhat curious about me; asked me questions concerning people and things in London, without belying his good breeding by any kind of intrusiveness; and then took occasion to convince me that he was still perfectly well-informed as to all that was passing in the English world of fashion, as well as of politics. "Je suis au fait de tout," exclaimed he; "mais à quoi celà me sert-il? On me laisse mourir de faim ici. J'éspère pourtant que mon ancien ami, le Duc de W---- enverra un beau jour le Consul d'ici à la Chine, et qu' ensuite il me nommera à sa place. Alors je suis sauvé." * * * And surely the English nation ought in justice to do something for the man who invented starched cravats! How many did I see in London in the enjoyment of large sinecures, who had done far less for their country. As I took my leave, and was going down stairs, he opened the door and called after me, "J'éspère que vous trouverez votre chemin, mon Suisse n'est pas là, je crains." "Hélas!" thought I, "point d'argent, point de Suisse." That I may not leave you too long without intelligence, I despatch this letter from hence. Probably I shall soon follow it. I shall, however, stay at least a fortnight in Paris, and execute all your commissions. Meanwhile think of me with your usual affection. Your faithful L----. LETTER XLVII. _Paris, January 5th, 1829._ MY MOST DEAR AND VALUED FRIEND, I could not write to you yesterday, because the diligence takes two days and a night to go from Calais to Paris, though it stops but once in twelve hours to eat, and then only for half an hour. The ride is not the most agreeable. The whole country, and even its metropolis, certainly appears somewhat dead, miserable, and dirty, after the rolling torrent of business, the splendour and the neatness of England. The contrast is doubly striking at this short distance. When you look at the grotesque machine in which you are seated, the wretchedly harnessed cart-horses by which you are slowly dragged along, and remember the noble horses, the elegant light-built coaches, the beautiful harness ornamented with bright brass and polished leather of England, you think you are transported a thousand miles in a dream. The bad roads, the miserable and dirty towns, awaken the same feeling. On the other hand, four things are manifestly better here,--climate, eating and drinking, cheapness, and sociability. 'Mais commençons par le commencement.' After I had exchanged my incognito passport for one equally provisional, and valid only as far as Paris, in the course of which operation I had nearly forgotten my new name, I approached the wonderful structure, which in France people have agreed to call a diligence. The monster was as long as a house, and consisted, in fact, of four distinct carriages, grown, as it were, together; the berline in the middle; a coach with a basket for luggage behind; a coupé in front; and a cabriolet above, where the conducteur sits, and where I also had perched myself. This conducteur, an old soldier of Napoleon's Garde, was dressed like a wagoner, in a blue _blouze_, with a stitched cap of the same material on his head. The postillion was a still more extraordinary figure, and really looked almost like a savage: he too wore a _blouze_, under which appeared monstrous boots coated with mud; but besides this he wore an apron of untanned black sheep's-skin, which hung down nearly to his knees. He drove six horses, harnessed three-and-three, which drew a weight of six thousand pounds over a very bad road. The whole road from Calais to Paris is one of the most melancholy and uninteresting I ever saw. I should therefore have read nearly all the way, had not the conversation of the conducteur afforded me better entertainment. His own heroic deeds and those of the Garde were an inexhaustible theme; and he assured me without the slightest hesitation, "que les trente mille hommes dont il faisoit partie dans ce tempslà," (that was his expression,) "auraient été plus que suffisans pour conquérir toutes les nations de la terre, et que les autres n'avaient fait que gâter l'affaire." He sighed every time he thought of his Emperor. "Mais c'est sa faute," exclaimed he, "ah! s---- d---- il serait encore Empéreur, si dans les cent jours il avait seulement voulu employer _de jeunes gens qui désiraient faire fortune_, au lieu de ces vieux Maréchaux qui étaient trop riches, et qui avaient tous peur de leurs femmes. N'étaient ils pas tous gros et gras commes des monstres? Ah! parlez moi d'un jeune, Colonel, comme nous en avions! Celui-là vous aurait flanqué ça de la jolie manière.--Mais après tout l'Empéreur aurait dû se faira tuer à Waterloo comme notre Colonel. Eh bien, Monsieur, ce brave Colonel avait reçu trois coups de feu, un à la jambe, et deux dans le corps, et pourtant il nous ménait encore à l'attaque, porté par deux grénadiers. Mais quand tout fut en vain et tout fini pour nous; Camérades, dit-il, j'ai fait ce que j'ai pû, mais nous voilà.--Je ne puis plus rendre service à l'Empéreur, à quoi bon vivre plus long temps? Adieu donc, mes Camérades--Vive l'Empéreur! Et le voilà qui tire son pistolet, et le décharge dans sa bouche. C'est ainsi, ma foi, que l'Empéreur aurait dû finir aussi." Here we were interrupted by a pretty girl, who ran out of a poor-looking house by the road side, and called up to us, (for we were at least eight ells from the ground,) "Ah ça, Monsieur le Conducteur, oubliez vous les craipes?" "O ho! es tu là, mon enfant?" and he rapidly scrambled down the accustomed break-neck steps, made the postillion stop, and disappeared in the house. After a few minutes he came out with a packet, seated himself with an air of great satisfaction by me, and unfolded a prodigious store of hot smoking German _Plinzen_, a dish which, as he told me, he had learned to like so much in Germany, that he had imported it into his own country. Conquests are, you see, productive of some good. With French politeness he immediately begged me to partake of his 'goûté,' as he called it; and patriotism alone would have led me to accept his offer with pleasure. I must however admit that no farmer in Germany could have prepared his national dish better. He was greatly troubled and distressed by a strange machine, nearly in the form of a pump, placed near his seat, with which he was incessantly busied; now pumping at it with all his might, then putting it in order, screwing it round or turning it backwards and forwards. On inquiry, I learned that this was a most admirable newly-invented piece of machinery, for the purpose of retarding the diligence without the aid of a drag-shoe. The conducteur was amazingly proud of this contrivance, never called it by any other name than 'sa méchanique,' and treated it with equal tenderness and reverence. Unhappily this prodigy broke the first day; and as we were forced in consequence to creep more slowly than before, the poor hero had to endure a good many jokes from the passengers, on the frailty of his 'méchanique,' as well as on the name of his huge vehicle, 'l'Hirondelle,' a name which truly seemed to have been given it in the bitterest irony. It was irresistibly droll to hear the poor devil, at every relay, regularly advertise the postillion of the misfortune which had happened. The following dialogue, with few variations, always ensued: "Mon enfant, il faut que tu saches que je n'ai plus de méchanique." "Comment, s---- d----, plus de méchanique?" "Ma méchanique fait encore un peu, vois-tu, mais c'est très peu de chose, le principal brancheron est au diable." "Ah, diable!" It was impossible to be worse seated, or to travel more uncomfortably or tediously than I in my lofty cabriolet: and indeed I had now been for some time deprived of my most familiar comforts: yet never were my health or my spirits better than during this whole journey: I felt uninterrupted cheerfulness and content, because I was completely free. Oh! inestimable blessing of freedom, never do we value thee enough! If every man would but clearly ascertain what were actually necessary to his individual happiness and content, and would unconditionally choose what best promised to secure that end, and heartily reject all the rest (for we cannot have everything at once in this world), how many mistakes were avoided, how much petty ambition crushed, how much true joy and pleasure promoted! All would find a great over-proportion of happiness in life, instead of torturing themselves to the very brink of the grave to obtain what gives them neither tranquillity nor enjoyment. I will not weary you with any further details of so uninteresting a journey. It was like the melo-drame "One o'clock," and as tiresome. The day we left Calais we stopped at one to dine; at one in the morning we supped: the next day at one we had breakfast or dinner at Beauvais, where a pretty girl who waited on us, and a friend of Bolivar's, who told us a great deal about the disinterestedness of the Liberator, made us regret our quick departure; and again, at one in the morning, we had to fight for our luggage at the Custom-house at Paris. My servant put mine upon a 'charrette' which a man crowded before us through the dark and dirty streets to the Hotel St. Maurice, where I am now writing to you in a little room in which the cold wind whistles through all the doors and windows, so that the blazing fire in the chimney warms me only on one side. The silken hangings, as well as the quantity of dirt they cover; the number of looking-glasses; the large blocks of wood on the fire; the tile parquet,--all recall vividly to my mind that I am in France, and not in England. I shall rest here a few days and make my purchases, and then hasten to you, without, if possible, seeing _one_ acquaintance; 'car celà m'entrainerait trop,' Do not, therefore, expect to hear anything new from old Paris. A few detached remarks are all that I shall have to offer you. _January 6th._ To make some defence against the extreme cold, which I have always found most insufferable in France and Italy, from the want of all provision against it, I was obliged to-day to have all the chinks in my little lodging stuffed with 'bourlets.' When this was done, I sallied forth to take the customary first walk of strangers,--to the Boulevards, the Palais Royal, Tuilleries, &c. for I was curious to see what alterations had taken place in the course of seven years. On the Boulevards I found all just as it was: in the Palais Royal, the Duke of Orleans has begun to substitute new stone buildings and an elegant covered way for the narrow old wooden galleries, and other holes and corners. When it is finished, this palace will certainly be one of the most magnificent, as it has always been one of the most singular and striking, in the world. Perhaps there is no other instance of a royal prince inhabiting the same house with several hundred shopkeepers, and as many inmates of a less reputable description, and deriving from them a revenue much more than sufficient for his 'mênus plaisirs.' In England a nobleman would think the existence of such a society under his roof impossible; but could it by any means find admittance, he would at least take care to have it cleaner. In the palace of the Tuilleries and the Rue Rivoli all the improvements which Napoleon began were in much the same state as he left them. In this point of view Paris has lost much in the Imperial dynasty, which would have rendered it a truly magnificent city, and the luxury of decoration must soon have been followed by that of cleanliness. One is tempted to wish that the Pont de Louis Seize were among the unfinished things; for the ludicrously theatrical statues, at least twice too big in proportion to the bridge, and seeming to crush the pillars they stand upon, have much more the air of bad 'acteurs de province' than of the heroes they are meant to represent. As cooks are to be numbered among the heroes of France, first on account of their unequalled skill, and secondly of their sense of honour, (remember Vatel,) I come naturally in this place to the restaurateurs. Judging by the most eminent whom I visited to-day, I think they have somewhat degenerated. They have, to be sure, exchanged their inconveniently long 'carte' for an elegantly bound book; but the quality of the dishes and wines seems to have deteriorated in proportion to the increase of luxury in the announcement of them. After coming to this melancholy conviction, I hastened to the once celebrated 'Rocher de Cancale.' But Baleine has launched into the sea of eternity; and the traveller who now trusts to the rock of Cancale, builds upon the sand: 'Sic transit gloria mundi.' On the other hand I must give all praise to the Theatre de Madame, where I spent my evening. Léontine Fay is a most delightful actress, and a better 'ensemble' it would be difficult to find. Coming directly from England, I was particularly struck with the consummate truth and nature with which Léontine Fay represented the French girl educated in England, yet without suffering this _nuance_ to break in any degree the harmony and keeping of the character. It is impossible to discover in her admirable acting the slightest imitation of Mademoiselle Mars; and yet it presents as true, as tender, as pathetic a copy of nature, in a totally different manner.--The second piece, a farce, was given with that genuine ease and comic expression which make these French 'Riens' so delightful and amusing in Paris, while they appear so vapid and absurd in a German translation. The story is this:--A provincial uncle secretly leaves his little country town, in which he has just been chosen a member of a 'Société de la Vertu,' in order to reclaim his nephew, of whom he has received the most discouraging accounts, from his wild courses. Instead of which his nephew's companions get hold of him, and draw him into all sorts of scrapes and excesses. Mademoiselle Minette brings, by her coquetry, old Martin to give her a kiss, at which moment her lover, the waiter, comes in with a pig's head, stands speechless with amazement, and at length letting the head slide slowly off the dish, cries out, "N'y a't-il pas de quoi perdre la tête?" This certainly is a silly jest enough, yet one must be very stoically inclined not to laugh heartily at the admirable drollery of the acting. The rest is as diverting: Martin, alarmed at having been caught in such an adventure, at length consoles himself with the thought that he is not known here; and in the midst of his 'embarras,' accepts an invitation to a 'déjeuner' from Dorval, who has just come in. The 'déjeuner' is given at the theatre. Martin at first is very temperate; but at length the truffles and dainties tempt him, 'et puis il faut absolument les arroser d'un peu de Champagne.' After much pressing on the part of his hosts, and much moralizing on his own, he consents to drink one glass 'à la vertu.' 'Hélas, il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute.' A second glass follows, 'à la piété;'--a third, 'à la miséricorde;' and before the guests depart, we hear Martin, drunk and joyous, join in the toast, 'Vivent les femmes et le vin!' Play follows:--at first he will only join in a game of piquet; from piquet he is led on to écarté, and from écarté to hazard; loses a large sum, and at last learns, 'pour le combler de confusion,' that he and his plan were betrayed from the first, and that his nephew had put _him_ to the trial instead of being tried by him, and had unfortunately found him very frail. He gladly agrees to all that is required of him, 'pourvu qu'on lui garde le secret;' and the piece concludes with the arrival of his old friend, who comes by extra post to announce to him that he (Martin) was yesterday elected by acclamation president of the 'Société de la Vertu' in his native town. _Jan. 7th._ In spite of the 'bourlets' and a burning pile of wood in my chimney, I continue to be almost frozen in my 'entresol.' There prevails moreover a constant 'clair-obscur,' so that I see the writing implements before me as if behind a veil. The small windows and high opposite houses render this irremediable; you must forgive me, therefore, if my writing is more unintelligible than usual. You must have remarked that the preposterously high rate of postage in England taught me to write more carefully, and especially smaller; so that a Lavater of handwritings might study my character in the mere aspect of my letters to you. It is in this, as in life; we are often led by good motives to begin to contract in various ways: soon however the lines involuntarily expand; and before we are conscious of it, the unfelt but irresistible power of habit leads us back to our old latitude. An English officer, whom I found to-day in the Café Anglais, repeatedly asked the astonished 'garçon' for 'la charte,' concluding I suppose, that in liberal France it formed a part of the furniture of every café. Although the French seldom take any notice of the 'qui pro quos' of foreigners, this was too remarkable not to draw forth a smile from several. I thought, however,--how willingly would some reverse the Englishman's blunder, and give the French people 'cartes' instead of 'chartes.' I was greatly surprised in the evening at the Opéra Français, which I had left a kind of bedlam, where a few maniacs screamed with agony as if on the rack, and where I now found sweet singing in the best Italian style, united to very good acting. Rossini, who, like a second Orpheus, has tamed even this savage opera, is a real musical benefactor; and natives as well as foreigners have reason to bless him for the salvation of their ears. I prefer this now, though it is not the fashion to do so, to the Italian Opera. It combines nearly all that one can desire in a theatre;--the good singing and acting I have mentioned, with magnificent decorations, and the best ballet in the world. If the text of the operas were fine poetry, I know not what further could be wished; but even as they are, one may be very well content; for instance, with the 'Muette de Portici,' which I saw to-day. Mademoiselle Noblet's acting is full of grace and animation, without the least exaggeration. The elder Nourrit is an admirable Massaniello, though he, and he alone, sometimes screamed too loud. The costumi were models; but Vesuvius did not explode and flame properly, and the clouds of smoke which sunk into the earth instead of ascending from it, were a phenomenon which I had not the good fortune to witness when I 'assistai' at a real eruption of that mountain. _Jan. 8th._ A French writer somewhere says, "L'on dit que nous sommes des enfans;--oui, pour les faiblesses, mais pas pour le bonheur." This, thank God! I can by no means say of myself. 'Je le suis pour l'un et pour l'autre,' in spite of my three dozen years. I amuse myself here in the solitude of this great city uncommonly well, and can fancy myself a young man just entering the world, and everything new to me. In the mornings I see sights, saunter from one museum to another, or go 'shopping.' (This word signifies to go from shop to shop buying trifles, such as luxury is always inventing in Paris and London.) I have already collected a hundred little presents for you, so that my small apartment can hardly contain them, and yet I have scarcely spent eighty pounds sterling for them. In England it is the _dearness_, but here the _cheapness_, that is expensive. I am often constrained to laugh when I see that a cunning French shopkeeper thinks he has cheated a stiff islander admirably, while the latter goes off in astonishment at having bought things for a sixth part of what he had given for the very same in London. I continue my scientific researches among the restaurateurs, which occupy me till evening, when I go to the theatre, though I have not time to complete the course either of the one or the other. During my 'shopping' to-day in the Palais Royal, I observed an _affiche_ announcing the wonderful exhibition of the death of Prince Poniatowski at Leipsic. I am loath to omit anything of this national kind, so that I ascended a miserable dirty staircase, where I found a shabbily dressed man sitting near a half-extinguished lamp, in a dark room without a window. A large table standing before him was covered with a dirty table-cloth. As soon as I entered he arose and hastened to light three other lamps, which however would not burn, whereupon he began to declaim vehemently. I thought the explanation was beginning, and asked what he had said, as I had not given proper attention. "Oh rien," was the reply, "je parle seulement à mes lampes qui ne brûlent pas clair." After this conversation with the lamps had accomplished its end, the cloth was removed, and discovered a work of art which very much resembled a Nüremberg toy, with little moving figures, but on the assurance of the owner was well worth the entrance money. In a nasal singing tone he began as follows: "Voilà le fameux Prince Poniatowski, se tournant avec grace vers les officiers de son corps en s'ecriant, Quand on a tout perdu et qu'on n'a plus d'espoir, la vie est un opprobre et la mort un devoir. "Remarquez bien, Messieurs, (he always addressed me in the plural,) comme le cheval blanc du prince se tourne aussi lestement qu'un cheval véritable. Voyez, pan à droite--pan à gauche,--mais le voilà qui s'élance, se cabre, se précipite dans la rivière, et disparait." All this took place; the figure was drawn by a thread first to the right, then to the left, then forward; and at last, by pulling away a slide painted to represent water, fell into a wheelbarrow that stood under the table. "Ah!--bien!--voilà le prince Poniatowski noyé! Il est mort!--C'est la première partie. Maintenant, Messieurs, vous allez voir tout à l'heure la chose la plus surprénante qui ait jamais éte montrée en France. Tous ces petits soldats innombrables que vous appercevez devant vous (there were somewhere about sixty or seventy), sont tous vraiment habillés; habits, gibernes, armes, tout peut s'ôter et se remettre à volonté! Les canons servent commes les canons véritables, et sont admirés par tous les officiers de génie qui viennent ici." In order to give ocular demonstration of this, he took the little cannon off the carriage, and the sword-belt off the soldier, nearest to him, which was to serve as sufficient proof of his assertion. "Ah,--bien! vous allez maintenant, Messieurs, voir manoeuvrer cette petite armée comme sur le champ de bataille. Chaque soldat et chaque cheval feront séparément les mouvements propres, voyez!" Hereupon the whole body of puppets, who had not moved during the first act, (probably out of respect for Prince Poniatowski,) now made two simultaneous movements to the sound of a drum which a little boy beat under the table: the soldiers shouldered their arms, and set them down again; the horses reared and kicked. While this was going on, the expositor recounted the French bulletin of the affair with increasing pathos,--and thus closed the second act. I thought there could hardly be anything better to come; and as a few fresh spectators had dropped in, and I found it impossible any longer to endure the horrid stench of two lamps which had gone out, I fled from the field of battle and all its wonders. Tragical enough was it, however, to see that gallant selfdevoting hero so represented. I was much pleased at the Opera with young Nourrit's Count Ory. Connoisseurs may exclaim as they like against Rossini;--it is not the less true that in this, as in his other works, streams of melody enchant the ear,--now melting in tones of love, now thundering in tempests; rejoicing, triumphant, at the banquet of the knights, or rising in solemn adoration to heaven. It is curious enough that in this licentious opera, the prayer of the knight, which is represented as merely a piece of hypocrisy, is the very same which Rossini had composed for Charles the Tenth's coronation. Madame Cinti sung the part of the Countess very well; Mademoiselle Javoureck, as her page, showed very handsome legs, and the bass singer was excellent. The ballet I thought not so good as usual. Albert and Paul are not grown lighter with years, and, except Noblet and Taglioni, there was no good female dancer. In the opera, I remarked that the same actor who played one of the principal parts in the 'Muette,' sustained a very obscure one to-night in the chorus of knights. Such things often occur here, and are worthy of all imitation. It is only when the best performers are obliged to concur in the 'ensemble,' be the part allotted to them great or small, that a truly excellent whole can be produced. For this 'ensemble' much more is generally done in France than in Germany, where the illusion is frequently broken by trifles which are sacrificed to the ease and convenience of the manager or actor. Hoffman used to say, that of all incongruities none had ever shocked him more than when, on the Berlin stage, a _Geheimerath_ of Iffland's, after deporting himself in the most prosaic manner possible, suddenly, instead of going out at the door in a human manner, vanished through the wall like mere air. _Jan. 10._ It is an agreeable surprise to find the Museum, after all that it has restored, still so abundantly rich. Dénon's new 'Salles' now afford a worthy station to most of the statues. It is only a pity that the old galleries are not arranged in the same style. Much would not be lost by the demolition of the painted ceilings, which have no great merit in themselves, and harmonize so ill with statues. Sculpture and painting should never be mixed. I shall not dwell on the well-known master-pieces; but let me mention to you some which particularly struck me, and which I do not remember to have seen before. First: A beautiful Venus, discovered a few years since in Milo, and presented to the King by the Duc de Rivière. She is represented as _victrix_; according to the opinion of antiquarians, either showing the apple, or holding the shield of Mars with both hands. Both arms are wanting, so that these are only hypotheses. But how exquisite is the whole person and attitude! What life, what tender softness, and what perfection of form! The proud triumphant expression of the face has the truth and nature of a woman, and the sublimity and power of a deity. Second: A female figure clothed in full drapery (called in the Catalogue 'Image de la Providence');--a noble, idealized woman;--mildness and benignity in her countenance, divine repose in her whole person. The drapery perfect in grace and execution. Third: Cupid and Psyche, from the Villa Borghese. Psyche, sunk on her knees, is imploring Cupid's forgiveness, and the sweet smile on his lips shows that her prayer is inwardly accepted. Laymen, at least, can hardly look without rapture on the exquisite beauty of the forms, and the lovely expression of the countenances. The group is in such preservation, that only one hand of the God of Love appears to have been restored. Fourth: A Sleeping Nymph. The ancients, who understood how to present every object under the most beautiful point of view, frequently adorned their sarcophagi with such figures, as emblems of death. The sleep is evidently deep; but the attitude is almost voluptuous:--the limbs exquisitely turned, and half concealed by drapery. The figure excites the thought rather of the new young life to come, than of the death which must precede it.[162] Fifth: A Gipsy,--remarkable for the mixture of stone and bronze. The figure is of the latter: the Lacedæmonian mantle, of the former. The head is modern, but has a very charming arch expression, perfectly in character for a Zingarella, such as Italy still contains. Sixth: A magnificent Statue in an attitude of prayer. The head and neck, of white marble, have the severe ideal beauty of the antique; and the drapery, of the hardest porphyry, could not be more light and flowing in silk or velvet. Seventh: The colossal Melpomene gives its name to one of the new galleries, and below it an elegant bronze railing encloses some admirably executed imitations of antique mosaic by Professor Belloni. This is a very interesting invention, and I wonder to see it so little encouraged by the rich. Eighth: The bust of the youthful Augustus. A handsome, mild, and intelligent head; very different in expression, though with the same outline of features, from the statue which represents the emperor at a later period of life, when the power of circumstances and the influence of parties had hurried him into so many acts of tyranny and cruelty, till at length his native gentleness returned with the attainment of uncontested and unlimited power. Ninth: His great general, Agrippa. Never did I behold a more characteristic physiognomy, with a nobler outline. It is curious that the forehead and the upper part of the region of the eye have a strong resemblance to a man, who, though in a different sphere of activity, must be numbered among the great,--I mean Alexander von Humboldt. In the other part of the face the resemblance wholly disappears. The more I looked at this iron head, the more I was convinced that exactly such an one was necessary to enable the soft Augustus to become and to remain lord of the world. Tenth: The last, and at the same time most interesting to me, was a bust of Alexander, the only authentic one, as Dénon affirms, in existence; a perfect study for physiognomists and craniologists: for the fidelity of the artists of antiquity represented all the parts with equal care after the model of nature. This head has indeed all the truth of a portrait, not in the slightest degree idealized,[163]--not even remarkably beautiful in feature; but, in the extraordinary proportions and expression, distinctly telling the history of the great original. The 'abandon' of the character, sometimes amounting to levity, is clearly betrayed by the graceful inclination of the neck and the voluptuous beauty of the mouth. The forehead and jaw are strikingly like those of Napoleon, as is also the entire form of the skull, both behind and before (animal and intellectual.) The forehead is not too high,--it bespeaks no ideologist--but compact, and of iron strength. The features are generally regular and well turned, though, as I have already remarked, they have no pretensions to ideal beauty. Around the eye and nose reigns acuteness of mind, united with determined courage and a singular elevated astuteness, and at the same time with that disposition towards sensual pleasures, which combine to render Alexander such as he stands alone in history,--a youthful hero, no less invincible than amiable,--a hero realizing all the dreams of poetry and fiction. Gifted with the same combination of qualities, neither Charles the Twelfth of Sweden nor Napoleon would have met their overthrow in Russia; nor would the one now be regarded as a mere Don Quixote, nor the other as a man who employed his powers only as a calculating tyrant. The whole forms a being whose aspect is in the highest degree attractive, and, though imposing, awakens in the spectator courage, love, and confidence. He feels himself happy and secure within the reflection of this wondrous countenance; and sees that such a man, in any condition of life, must have excited admiration and enthusiasm, and have exercised boundless influence. I must mention one lovely bas-relief, and a singularly beautiful altar. The Bas-relief, for which, like so many others, France is indebted to Napoleon, is from the Borghese collection. It represents Vulcan forging the shield for Æneas: Cyclops around him, all with genuine Silenus' and fauns' faces, are delightfully represented. But the most delightful figure of the group is a lovely little Cupid, half hiding himself behind the door with the cap of one of the Cyclops. All in this elegant composition is full of life, humour, and motion, and the truth of the forms and correctness of the outlines are masterly. The Altar, dedicated to twelve Deities, is in form like a Christian font. The twelve busts in alto-relievo surround it like a beautiful wreath. The workmanship is exquisite, and the preservation nearly perfect. The gods are placed in the following order: Jupiter, Minerva, Apollo, Juno, Neptune, Vulcan, Mercury, Vesta, Ceres, Diana, all separate; lastly, Mars and Venus united by Cupid. I wonder that this graceful design has never been executed on a small scale in alabaster, porcelain or glass, for ladies' bazaars, as the well-known doves and other antique subjects are. Nothing could be better adapted for the purpose; and yet there was not even a plaster cast of it to be found at Jaquet's (the successor to Getti, 'mouleur du Musée;') nor had he any of the subjects I have mentioned, merely because they are not among the most celebrated; though some that are, are certainly not of a very attractive character. Men are terribly like 'les moutons de Panurge:' they implicitly follow authority, and suffer that to prescribe to them what they shall like. In the picture-galleries, the forced restitutions would be considerably less remarked, if the places were not filled by so many pictures of the modern French school, which I confess, with very few exceptions, produce somewhat the effect of caricatures upon me. The theatrical attitudes, the stage dignity, which even David's pictures frequently exhibit, and the continual exaggeration of passion, appear like the work of learners, compared with the noble fidelity to nature of the Italian masters, and even make us regret the charming truth and reality of the German and Flemish schools. Of all these famous moderns, Girodet displeased me the most: no healthy taste can look at his Deluge without disgust. Gérard's entry of Henry the Fourth appears to me a picture whose fame will endure. The number of Rubens' and Lesueur's pictures which have been brought from the Luxemburg, but ill replace the Raphaels, Leonardo da Vincis, and Vandykes, which have disappeared. In short, all that had been brought here since the Restoration, whether new or old, makes but an unfavourable impression. This is not lessened by the bad busts of painters which have been placed at regular intervals, and which, even were they better as specimens of sculpture, are wholly out of place in a collection of paintings. The magnificent long gallery affords, however, as before, the most agreeable winter walk; and the liberality which leaves it constantly accessible to strangers cannot be sufficiently praised. When I think how still more deplorable is the state of painting in England, how little Italy and Germany now merit their former fame, I am tempted to fear that this art will share the fate of painting on glass; nay, that its most precious secrets are already irrecoverably lost. The breadth, power, truth and life of the old masters, their technical knowledge of colouring,--where are they now to be found? Thorwaldson, Rauch, Danneker, Canova, rival the antique;[164] but where is the painter who can be placed by the side of the second-rate artists of the golden age of painting? In a side court of the Museum stands the colossal Sphinx from Drovetti's collection, destined for the court of the Louvre. It is of pale-red granite, and the sculpture is as grand as the mass is stupendous. It is perfectly intact, except the nose; this had just been replaced by one of plaster of Paris, which had not received its last coat of colouring. The sight of it made me involuntarily laugh; and, thinking of the strange chain of events which had brought this giant hither, I internally exclaimed, "What do you here, you huge Ægyptian, after a lapse of three thousand years,--in this new Babylon, where no sphinx can keep a secret, and where silence never found a home?" In the evening I went to the Théatre Porte St. Martin to see Faust, which was performed for the eightieth or ninetieth time. The culminating point of this melodrame is a waltz which Mephistopheles dances with Martha; and in truth it is impossible to dance more diabolically. It never fails to call forth thunders of applause,--and in one sense deserves it; for the pantomime is extremely expressive, and affects one in the same manner as jests intermingled with ghost stories. Mephistopheles, though ugly, has the air of a gentleman, which is more than can be said for our German devils. The most remarkable part of the scenery is the Blocksberg, with all its horrors, which leave those of the Wolf's Glen far behind. Illumined by lurid lights of all colours, gleaming from behind dark pines and clefts in the rock, it swarmed with living skeletons, glittering snakes, horrible monsters of deformity, headless or bleeding bodies, hideous witches, huge fiery giants' eyes glaring out of bushes, toads as big as men, and many other agreeable images of the like kind. In the last act, the scene-painter had gone rather too far, having represented heaven and hell _at the same time_. Heaven, which of course occupied the upper part of the scene, shone with a very beautiful pale-blue radiance; but this was so unbecoming to the complexion of Gretchen's soul, as well as to that of the angels who pirouetted round her, that they looked more like the corpses on the Blocksberg than the blessed in heaven.--The devils, who danced immediately under the wooden floor of heaven, had a much more advantageous tone of colour, which they certainly deserved for the zeal with which they tore the effigy of Faust into pieces till the curtain fell. The theatre itself is tastefully decorated with gay paintings and gold on a ground of white satin. The many-coloured flowers, birds and butterflies, have a very lively agreeable effect. The interior of the boxes is light blue, and the lining an imitation of red velvet. Besides the annoying cry of the limonadiers, who, to a German ear, make such singular abbreviations of the words 'orgeat, limonade, glace,' there was a Jew who wandered about with 'lorgnettes,' which he let at ten sous for the evening;--a trade which I don't remember to have observed before, and which is very convenient to the public. This letter will probably travel to you by sledges, for we have a truly Russian climate, though unhappily no Russian stoves. Heaven send you a better temperature in B----! Your L---- LETTER XLVIII. _Paris, January 12th, 1829._ DEAREST JULIA, It certainly is a fine thing to have such a walk as the Louvre daily at one's command, and to take refuge from snow and rain in the hall of gods, and among the creations of genius.--'Vive le roi!' for this liberality at least. I spent my forenoon in the magnificent gallery, and also visited the Egyptian Museum, of which I shall tell you more anon. At dinner, I found an interesting companion in a Général de l'Empire, whom I accidentally met, and whose conversation I preferred to the theatre. He related a number of incidents of which he had been eye and ear-witness:--they give a more vivid picture and a deeper view of all the bearings and relations of things at that time, than are to be gathered from memoirs, in which the truth can never be revealed wholly without concealment or colouring. It would occupy too much time to repeat them all to you now; and besides, they would lose much of their vivacity: I therefore reserve the greater part for oral relations.--Only one or two. It is not to be denied, said my informant, that many vulgarities were observable in the interior of Napoleon's family, which betrayed 'roture.' (By this he did not mean inferior birth, but a defective and ignoble education.) The greatest hatred and the most pitiful mutual intrigues reigned between the Bonaparte family and the Empress Josephine, who at length fell their victim. At first, Napoleon took the part of his wife, and was often reproached for it by his mother, who called him tyrant, Tiberius, Nero, and other considerably less classical names, to his face. The General assured me, that Madame had frequently told him that Napoleon, from his earliest infancy, had always tried to rule despotically, and had never shown the slightest regard for any one but himself and those immediately belonging to him. He had tyrannized over all his brothers, with the exception of Lucien, who never suffered the least offence or injury to go unrevenged. She had often, she said, observed with astonishment how perfectly the brothers had retained their relative characters. The General affirmed, that Madame Letitia had the firmest persuasion that Napoleon would end ill; and made no secret of it, that she hoarded only against that catastrophe. Lucien shared in this persuasion; and as early as the year 1811, used the following remarkable words in speaking to the General: "L'ambition de cet homme est insatiable, et vous vivrez peut-être pour voir sa carcasse et toute sa famille jettées dans les égouts de Paris." At Napoleon's coronation, the Empress-mother, in whose household the General held some office after he had quitted the military service (what, he did not tell me,) gave him strict charge to observe how many arm-chairs, chairs, and stools, had been placed for the imperial family, and to make his report to her unobserved as soon as she entered. The General, who had but little experience in court etiquette, wondered at this strange commission, executed it, however, punctually, and informed her there were but two 'fauteuils,' one chair, and so many 'tabourets.' "Ah! je le pensais bien," cried Madame Mère, red with rage, "la chaise est pour moi--mais ils se trompent dans leur calcul!" Walking quickly up to the ominous chair, she asked the chamberlain on duty, with lips quivering with passion, 'Where was her seat?' He motioned, with a deep bow, to the chair. The queens had already seated themselves on the 'tabourets.' To snatch hold of the chair, throw it down on the feet of the unfortunate chamberlain, who nearly screamed with pain, and to rush into the closet where the Emperor and Josephine were waiting, was the affair of a moment to the exasperated mother. The most indecent scene followed, during which the Empress-mother declared in the most vehement terms, that if a 'fauteuil,' were not instantly given her, she would leave the Salle, after explaining aloud the reason for her conduct. Napoleon, although furiously exasperated, was obliged to make 'bonne mine à mauvais jeu,' and got out of the scrape by throwing the whole blame on poor Count Ségur; "et l'on vit bientôt," added the General, "le digne Comte arriver tout effaré, et apporter lui-même un fauteuil à sa Majesté l'Empératrice Mère." It is characteristic, and a proof that the thing originated in no respect with Josephine, but entirely with the Emperor himself, that at the marriage of Maria Louisa the very same incident was repeated,--only that the humbled and intimidated mother had no longer courage to resist. Napoleon was brought up a bigot; and although too acute to remain so, or indeed perhaps ever to have been so sincerely, habit--which exercises so strong an influence over us all--rendered it impossible for him ever to divest himself entirely of first impressions. When any thing suddenly struck him, he sometimes involuntarily made the sign of the Cross,--a gesture which appeared most extraordinary to the sceptical children of the revolution. Now for one amiable trait of Charles the Fourth, whom the world would be so little apt to suspect of any delicate attention. Those who knew him intimately, however, know that he was liberal and kind, though weak and ignorant; and much better as a man than as a king. When Lucien went to Spain as ambassador from the Republic, the General, my informant, accompanied him as secretary of legation. Lucien's predecessor had 'affiché' all the coarseness of republican manners, to the infinite scandal of the most formal and stately court in the world; and the Spaniards dreaded still greater rudeness and arrogance from the brother of the First Consul. Lucien, however, had the good taste to take the completely opposite course; appeared at court in shoes and bag-wig, and fulfilled all the duties of ceremony and etiquette with such punctuality, that the whole court was in a perfect ecstacy of delight and gratitude. Lucien was not only extremely popular, but the perfect idol of the whole royal family. He returned their friendship, the General affirmed, sincerely, and often earnestly warned the King against the Prince of the Peace, as well as against the insatiable ambition of his own brother, of whom he spoke on every occasion without the slightest reserve. The confidence, however, of the old King in his 'grand ami,' as he called Napoleon, remained unshaken to the last. Before his departure, Lucien crowned his popularity by a magnificent fête, the like of which had never been seen in Spain, and which cost nearly four hundred thousand francs. The highest persons about the court, a number of grandees, and the whole royal family honoured it with their presence; and the latter seemed not to know how sufficiently to express their attachment to the ambassador. A few days afterwards, all the members of the legation received splendid presents; the ambassador alone was omitted; and republican familiarity permitted many jokes upon him in the palace of the embassy. Meanwhile the audience of leave was over, Lucien's departure fixed for the following day, and all hopes of the expected present at an end, when an officer of the Walloon guard came with an escort to the hotel, bringing a large picture in a packing-case, as a present from the King to Napoleon. When Lucien was informed of this, he said, it was doubtless Titian's Venus, which he had often admired in the King's presence, and which was certainly a very valuable picture, but that the carriage of it was inconvenient to him, and he must confess he had rather the King had not sent it. However, the officer was most politely thanked, and dismissed; and Lucien, taking out a valuable shirt-pin from his breast, begged him to accept it. The ambassador now ordered the case to be unpacked, the picture taken out of its frame (which could be left behind), and rolled so that it could be carried on the imperial of a carriage. The secretary did as he desired:--scarcely was the wrapping-cloth raised, when, instead of the admired Venus, a face anything but beautiful--that of the King himself smiled upon him. He was just flying off in mischievous delight to inform the ambassador of the comical mistake, when on entirely removing the cloth, a yet greater surprise detained him:--the whole picture was set round like a miniature with large diamonds, which Lucien afterwards sold in Paris for four millions of francs. This was truly a royal surprise, and the ambassador speedily recalled his order for leaving the frame. The General asserted that Lucien was very intimate with the Queen of Portugal, who gave him a political rendezvous at Badajoz. He thought D---- M---- was the result of this meeting. Certain it is, as you may remember I wrote you from London, that that prince is strikingly like Napoleon. _January 13th._ The turn of the Gaiété came to-day in my inspection of theatres, and I make bold to declare that I was very much amused. These little melodrames and vaudevilles are now--the French may be as grand about it as they please--their real and proper national drama; and perhaps they are not altogether innocent of the striking defection of the public to the romantic banner. People were heartily tired of the meagre fare of the "--------------------------- pathos tragique Qui longtems ennuya en termes magnifiques." There was one evening on which I gave you no theatrical intelligence. The cause of this was the horrible ennui I had suffered at the Théatre Français. Mademoiselle Mars did not play, and I found the parts of the great and matchless Talma and Fleury sunk into the most deplorable hands. In full contrast with this classical dulness, was the excellence of the melodrame of the Gaiété; and in spite of all the long litany that may be repeated by classicists as to coarse colouring, 'coups de théatre,' improbabilities, and so forth, I am persuaded that no unprejudiced fresh mind could see it without lively interest.--Let us now go back to the Théatre Français. After a Greco-French tragedy, in which antique dresses vainly strove to convert Frenchmen into Greeks, in which the provincial hero Joanny vainly tried to exhibit a faint copy of the godlike Talma, and Duchesnois, who is now really 'au delà de la permission' ugly, with whining, antiquated and stony manner, vainly quivered out the end of every sentence with her hands in the air (also à la Talma,) while all the rest exhibited a truly hopeless picture of mediocrity, the 'Mercure galant' was given as a conclusion. The faded embroidered silk clothes, as well as the awkwardness with which they were worn by the modern actors, spoke of the remote date of this piece. The ladies, on the other hand, had dressed according to their own taste, and were in the newest fashion. The comedy is utterly without plot, and the wit flat and coarse. Setting aside 'que tous les genres sont bons hors le genre ennuyeux,' the contents of this latter piece were really better fitted to a booth in a fair. What appears still more extraordinary is, that this stately, classical, national theatre, has itself been driven to give melodrames, (as to their contents at least,) though without music; and that these are the only representations which draw audiences. The only profitable modern piece, L'Espion, is a sufficient proof of this. Thus does one theatre after another plant the romantic standard with more or less success; and tragedies and plays 'a la Shakspeare,' as the French call them, daily make their appearance, in which all the time-honoured unities are thrown over the shoulder without any more qualms of conscience on the part of authors or the public. The revolution has regenerated France in every respect,--even their poetry is new; and ungrudging, never-envying Germany calls out joyfully to her, "Glück auf." _January 14th._ To-day I visited some new buildings; among others the Bourse. It is surrounded with a stately colonnade, whose magnitude and total effect is imposing; but the long narrow-arched windows behind the pillars are in very bad taste. Modern necessities harmonize ill with ancient architecture. The interior is grand, and the illusion produced by the painting on the roof complete: you would swear they were bas-reliefs,--and very bad ones. I remarked to-day for the first time how much the Boulevards are improved by the removal of several houses: the Portes St. Martin and St Dénis are seen to much greater advantage than before. Louis the Fourteenth deserves these monuments; for in truth, all that is grand and beautiful in Paris may be ascribed to him or to Napoleon. The rows of trees have been carefully preserved; and not, as on the Dönhofsplatz in Berlin, large trees cut down and little miserable sticks planted in their stead. The numerous 'Dames blanches' and Omnibuses have a most singular appearance. These are carriages containing twenty or thirty persons: they traverse the Boulevards incessantly, and convey the weary foot-passenger at a very moderate price. These ponderous machines are drawn by three unfortunate horses. In the present slippery state of the pavement I have several times seen all three fall together. It is said that England is the hell of horses: if, however, the metempsychosis should be realized, I beg leave to be an English horse rather than a French one. It rouses one's indignation to see how these unhappy animals are often treated, and it were to be wished that the police would here, as in England, take them under its protection. I remember once to have seen a poor hackney-coach horse maltreated by a coachman in London. "Come with me," said the Englishman with whom I was walking; "you shall soon see that fellow punished." He very coolly called the man and ordered him to drive to the nearest police office. He alighted, and accused the coachman of having wantonly maltreated and tortured his horse. I was called on to give evidence to the same effect; and the fellow was sentenced to pay a considerable fine; after which we made him drive us back:--you may imagine his good humour. Omnibuses are to be found in other parts of the city, and the longest 'course' costs only a few sous.--I know few things more amusing than to ride about in them in an evening, without any definite aim, and only for the sake of the rich caricatures one meets with, and the odd conversations one hears. I was often tempted to believe that I was at the Variétés; and I recognised the originals of many of Brunets and Odry's faithful portraits. You know how much I like to wander about the world thus, an observer of men and manners; especially of the middle classes, among whom alone any characteristic peculiarities are now-a-days to be found, and who are also the happiest,--for the medal is completely reversed. The middle classes, down to the artisan, are now the _really privileged_, by the character of the times and of public opinion. The higher classes find themselves, with their privileges and pretensions, condemned to a state of incessant opposition and humiliation. If their claims be adequately supported by wealth, their condition is tolerable; though even then, from ostentation,--the hereditary vice of those among the rich who are not slaves to avarice,--their money procures them far less substantial enjoyment than it does to those a step or two below them. If their rank is not upheld by property, they are of all classes in society,--except criminals and those who suffer from actual hunger,--the most pitiable. Every man ought therefore maturely to estimate his position in the world, and to sacrifice nothing to vanity or ambition; for no epoch of the world was ever less fertile in rewards for such deference to the bad and frivolous part of public opinion. I do not mean, of course, the ambition of true merit, which is rewarded by its own results, and can be adequately rewarded by them alone. We nobles are now cheaply instructed in wise forbearance and practical philosophy of every kind;--and Heaven be thanked! With such thoughts I arrived in a 'Dame blanche' at Franconi's theatre, to which a blind man might find his way by the scent. The performances are certainly in odiously bad taste, and a public which had no better amusements must end by becoming but one degree above the animals they look at. I speak of the senseless dramatic pieces acted here;--the mere feats of activity and skill are often very interesting. I was particularly delighted with the slack rope-dancer called Il Diavolo, who outdoes all his competitors as completely as Vestris surpasses his. A finer form, greater agility and steadiness and more finished grace, are hardly conceivable. He is the flying Mercury descended again on earth in human shape; the air appears his natural element, and the rope a mere superfluity, with which he enwreathes himself as with a garland. You see him at an enormous height lie along perfectly at his ease when the rope is in full swing; then float close to the boxes with the classic grace of an antique; then, with his head hanging down and his legs upwards, execute an 'entrechat' in the clouds of the stage-heaven. You may suppose that he is perfect master of all the ordinary _tours de force_ of his art. He really deserves his name; 'Il Diavolo non può far' meglio.' _Jan. 14th._ As appendix to my yesterday's letter, I bought you a 'Dame blanche' filled with bonbons; and, as a present for Mademoiselle H---- next Christmas, a bronze pendule with a running fountain at its foot, and a real working telegraph on the top. Tell her she may use the latter to keep up conversations which none but the initiated can understand. Paris is inexhaustible in such knicknacks: they are generally destined for foreigners; the French seldom buy them, and think them, justly enough, 'de mauvais goût.' To have done with theatres I visited three this evening. First I saw two acts of the new and most miserable tragedy, Isabelle de Bavière, at the Théatre Français. My previous impressions were confirmed; and not only were the performers (with the exception of Joanny, who acted the part of Charles the Sixth pretty well) mediocrity itself, but the costumes, scenery, and all the appointments were below those of the smallest theatre on the Boulevards. The populace of Paris was represented by seven men and two women; the 'Pairs de France' by three or four wretched sticks, literally in rags, with gold paper crowns on their heads, like those in a puppet-show. The house was empty, and the cold insufferable. I drove as quickly as I could to the 'Ambigu Comique,' where I found a pretty new house with very fresh decorations. As interlude, a sort of ballet was performed, which contained not a bad parody on the German Landwehr, and at any rate was not tiresome. I could not help wondering, however, that the French do not feel about the Landwehr and the Prussian horns, as the Burgundians did about the Alp horns of the Swiss, whose tones they were not particularly fond of recalling; for, as the Chronicle says, 'à Granson les avoient trop ouis.' My evening closed with the Italian Opera. Here you find the most select audience; it is the fashionable house. The theatre is prettily decorated, the lighting brilliant, and the singing exceeds expectation. Still it is curious, that even with a company composed entirely of Italians the singing is never the same,--there is never that complete and inimitable whole, which you find in Italy: their fire seems chilled in these colder regions,--their humour dried up; they know that they shall be applauded, but that they no longer form one family with the audience; the buffo, as well as the first tragic singer, feels that he is but half understood, and, even musically speaking, but half felt. In Italy the Opera is nature, necessity; in Germany, England, and France, an enjoyment of art, or a way of killing time. The Opera was La Cenerentola. Madame Malibran Garcia does not, in my opinion, equal Sontag in this part: she has, however, her own 'genre,' which is the more attractive the longer one hears her; and I do not doubt that she too has parts in which she would bear away the palm from all competitors. She has married an American; and her style of singing appeared to me quite American,--that is, free, daring, and republican: whilst Pasta, like an aristocrat, or rather like an autocrat, hurries one despotically away with her; and Sontag warbles forth melting and 'mezza-voce' tones, as if from the heavenly regions. Bordogni, the tenore, had the difficult task of singing without a voice, and did all that was possible under such circumstances: Zuchelli was, as ever, admirable; and Santini his worthy rival. Both acting and singing had throughout more of life, power and grace, than on any other Italian stage out of Italy. On my return to my hotel, I was surprised by one of those Parisian 'agrémens' which are really a disgrace to such a city. Though my hotel is one of the most respectable, and in the most frequented part of the town, I thought I was alighting at a 'cloaque.' They were clearing certain excavations, an operation by which the houses here are poisoned twice a year. I have already burned a dozen pastiles, but can create no radical reaction. _Jan 15th._ I seated myself in a cabriolet early this morning, to make a wider excursion than usual. I directed the driver first to Nôtre Dame, and regretted as I passed the Pont Neuf that this spot had been assigned to the statue of Henry the Fourth. It stands most disproportionately on the naked base of the obelisk which Napoleon had projected, and for which the spot was chosen with great sagacity; whereas now, surrounded by the broad and high masses of building which form the back-ground of the little statue and enclose it in a colossal triangle, the prancing horse looks like a skipping insect. While I was following this train of observations, and thinking what Paris would have become had Napoleon's reign been prolonged, my driver suddenly cried out "Voilà la Morgue!" I told him to stop ('car j'aime les émotions lugubres),' and entered this house of death, which I had never before seen. Behind a lattice is a clean little room with eight wooden biers painted black, placed in a row, the heads turned to the wall, the feet towards the spectator. Upon these the dead bodies are laid naked, and the clothes and effects of each hung upon the white wall behind him, so that they can easily be recognised. There was only one; an old man with a genuine French physiognomy, rings in his ears and on his fingers. He lay with a smile on his face and open eyes like a wax figure, and with exactly such a mien as if he were about to offer his neighbour a pinch of snuff, when death surprised him. His clothes were good,--"superbes," as a ragged fellow near me said, while he looked at them with longing eyes. There were no marks of violence visible on the body; so that the stroke of death had probably surprised the old man in some remote part of the city, and was still unknown to his relatives: misery seemed to have no share in his fate. One of the guardians of the place told me a curious fact;--in winter, the number of deaths by drowning, which is now the fashionable mode of self-destruction in Paris, is less by two-thirds than in summer. The cause of this can be no other, however ridiculous it may sound, than that the water is too cold, for the Seine is scarcely ever frozen. But as trifles and every-day things govern the great events of life much more than we are apt to think, so they appear to exercise their power even in death, and despair itself is still 'douillet,' and enthralled by the senses. You remember the three portals of Nôtre Dame, with the oaken doors ornamented with beautiful designs and arabesques in bronze, and how striking is the whole façade, how interesting its details. Unfortunately, like the temple at Jerusalem, the interior is defaced by stalls and booths. This interior, always so unworthy of the exterior, is rendered still more mean by a new coat of paint. Continuing my drive, I alighted for a minute at the Panthéon. It is a pity that the situation and _entourage_ of this building are so unfavourable. The interior appeared to me almost too simple and bare of ornament, which does not suit this style; and Girodet's new ceiling is hardly visible without a telescope. The opening of the cupola is too small and too high to enable one to see anything of the painting distinctly. I saw a piece of carpet hanging to one of the pillars, and asked what it meant: I was told that it was the work of the unhappy Marie Antoinette, and presented to the church by Madame. Over the side altar was written 'Autel privilégié.' The association of ideas which this inscription suggested, led me to the neighbouring ménagerie, and I drove to the Jardin des Plantes. It was too cold for the animals, and almost all, living and dead, were shut up, so that I could only visit a Polar bear. I found him patiently and quietly clearing out his den with his fore paws. He did not suffer my presence to interrupt him in the least, but went on working like a labourer. He used his paws as brooms, then brought the straw and snow into his hole to make himself a comfortable bed, and at length with a sort of grumble of satisfaction slowly stretched himself out upon it. His neighbour Martin, the brown bear who once on a time ate a sentinel, is quite well, but not visible to-day. On my way back I visited a third church, St. Eustache. The interior is grander than that of the Panthéon or Nôtre Dame, and is enlivened by a few painted windows and pictures. There was indeed a sort of exhibition of the latter, on occasion of some festival: I cannot say that much good taste was conspicuous in it. A more agreeable thing was the fine music, in which the trumpets produced an overpowering effect. Why is not this sublime instrument oftener introduced into church music? As I drove across the Place des Victoires, I sent up a sigh to Heaven over the nothingness of fame and its monuments. On this place, as you well remember, stood Désaix's statue, which he had really deserved of France. Now it is thrown aside, and a Louis the Fourteenth in Roman armour, with a long wig, and mounted on a horse which looks like a wooden one, occupies its place. I had some difficulty in silencing the melancholy moralizings which this sight excited in me, by the more sensual impressions I received in the 'salon des Frères Provençaux,' from excellent truffles, and the perusal of a somewhat less praiseworthy fashionable novel. I was even forced to drink a whole bottle of champagne before I could exclaim with Solomon, "All is vanity!" and add, "Therefore enjoy the present moment without thinking too much about it." In this good frame of mind I passed through, for the last time, the Palais Royal, where so many gay 'colifichets' and new inventions sparkled upon me from the well-lighted shops, that I almost took the full moon, which hung small and yellow over one of the opposite chimneys, for a new toy; and should not have been much surprised if the man in the moon or Mademoiselle Garnerin had stepped out of it, and vanished again down one of Véry's chimneys. But as nothing of this sort happened, I followed the brilliant front of the Variétés, which eclipsed the dim oil lamps around, and entered, 'pour y faire ma digestion en riant.' This end was perfectly attained; for though the little theatre has lost Potier, it still retains its power over the risible muscles. It has gained--for the eyes at least--an extremely pretty little actress, Mademoiselle Valérie, and a much better and fresher exterior than formerly. Among the agreeable novelties is a drop curtain of real cloth, instead of the usual painted draperies. The rich folds of dark blue contrasted well with the crimson, gold, and white, of the theatre. It is not rolled up stiffly and awkwardly like the others, but draws back gracefully to either side. The great theatres would do well to imitate this. _Jan. 16th._ Formerly _Anas_ were the fashion; now it is _Amas_, 'et le change est pour le mieux.' To these _Amas_ I dedicated my morning, and began with the _Ama_ of geography, the Georama. Here you suddenly find yourself in the centre of the globe,--which Dr. Nürnberger has not yet reached with his projected shaft; but in which you find the hypothesis of a sea of light confirmed, for it is so light that the whole crust of the earth is rendered transparent, and you can distinctly see even the political boundaries of countries. The excessive cold somewhat chilled my curiosity, so that I can only tell you that no globe elucidates geography so well as the Georama. It were to be wished that all Lancasterian schools could be thus introduced into the bowels of the earth: such a company too might warm themselves 'mutuellement.' The lakes appear, as in reality, beautifully blue and transparent, the volcanoes little fiery points, and the black chains of mountains are easily followed by the eye. I was amused to see that the great lakes in China had the precise outline of the grotesque and frightful faces of Chinese gods. The largest was really, without any effort of the imagination, the exact copy of the flying dragon so frequent on their porcelain. I hug myself amazingly on this discovery;--who knows if it will not throw some light on Chinese mythology? I was much displeased at seeing no notice taken of the recent discoveries at the North Pole, in Africa, and the Himalaya mountains. The whole affair appeared to me somewhat 'en décadence.' Instead of the pretty woman who generally sits at the bureau of all exhibitions of this sort in Paris, there was a terrific person who might have passed for the Lépreux d'Aosta. The Diorama, a mile or so further, on the Boulevards, contains views of St. Gothard and of Venice. The former, on the Italian side, which I have seen 'in naturâ,' was well painted and very like; but as there is no change of light and shadow, as in the far superior Diorama in London, there is not the same variety and charm. Venice was a bad painting, and the light so yellow that it looked as if its just indignation at the French, who destroyed its political existence and then did not even keep it, had given it the jaundice. The Neorama places you in the centre of St. Peter's; the illusion however is but faint, and the crowd of motionless figures, in a thing which pretends to perfect imitation, tends to break it. Only the sleeping or the dead can be appropriately introduced into such a scene. The festival of St. Peter is represented. Pope, cardinals, priests, and the Pope's guard 'en haye,' fill the church; and are so badly painted to boot, that I took His Holiness for an old dressing-gown hung before the Jove-like statue of Peter. Passing over the well-known Panoramas and Cosmoramas, I bring you at last to the Uranorama in the new Passage Vivienne. This is a very ingenious piece of mechanism, exhibiting the course of the planets and the solar system. I confess that I never had so clear an idea of these matters as after the hour I spent here. I shall tell you more about it by word of mouth. If you like to spend twelve hundred francs, you can have a small model of the whole machine, which every good library ought to possess. Thus then I began with the central point of the earth, then admired the various glories of its surface, and after a cursory visit to the planets, left off in the sun. There wanted nothing but a final _Ama_ representing the seventh heaven and the houris, to complete my journey: I should have seen more than the Egyptian dervise in the five seconds during which his head was immersed in the pail of water. It is better that I drop the curtain here over my sayings and doings. When it is drawn up again in your presence, I shall stand before you. After I have refreshed all the powers of my mind there, I shall tell you my further plans;--to dream away a winter amid pomegranates and oleanders; to wander awhile under the palm-trees of Africa, and to look down on the wonders of Egypt from the summit of her pyramids. Till then, no more letters. Yours most faithfully, L----. THE END. FOOTNOTES: [1] The words or sentences in single inverted commas are those which occur in the original in any language other than German.--TRANS. [2] The North Germans are distinguished for energy, activity, acuteness, and high mental culture; the South Germans for easy good-nature, simplicity, contented animal enjoyment, and greater obsequiousness. In Vienna they call every gentleman Euer Gnaden, 'Your Grace,' and he is of course Gnadig, when he is kind or civil. But perhaps the author here alludes rather to a certain ceremonious stiffness of the burghers of Frankfurt, proud people who give their superiors their due, as they expect it of their inferiors.--(_Reichsstadtisches Wesen_). What is clear is, that he means that the inhabitants of the South are not so superior to antiquated distinctions as those of the North. The Prussians have been called the French of the North.--TRANS. [3] Sir Walter Scott's official declaration, that all the works here alluded to were by him alone, was not then made public.--EDIT. [4] I have striven to preserve the colouring, as well as the substance of Göthe's conversation. To those who have any conception of his merits, it cannot but be interesting to see, as nearly as possible, the very words which fell from lips so inspired and so venerable--TRANS. [5] I cannot help almost suspecting that my departed friend has here put his own opinions into the mouth of Göthe.--EDIT. [6] I do not think that the exalted old man will be offended at the publication of this conversation. Every word--even the most insignificant--which has fallen from _his mouth_, is a precious gift to many. And even should my departed friend in any respect have misunderstood him, or have reported him inaccurately, nothing has been here retained, which, in my opinion, can be called an indiscretion.--EDIT. [7] German miles.--TRANSL. [8] A gulden is twenty-pence.--TRANSL. [9] I remember to have read of a Greek monastery in Wallachia, the four towers of which appeared as if they would every moment fall in; yet this optical deception was produced only by the inclination of the windows, and of the friezes which run round the towers. [10] Here follows the well-known story of Mrs. Montague's May-day entertainment of the chimney-sweeps, and the incident to which it is usually said to have owed its rise. After this comes an account of the mad attempt of Mr. Montague, the ci-devant sweep, together with a Mr. Barnett, to descend the falls of Schaffhausen in a boat, where both were of course lost. All this, being both familiar to us, and inaccurately told, has been omitted. The cicerone, who professed to have been a servant of this Mr. Montague, had probably heard the incident related of Mr. Sedley Burdett and Lord Frederick Montague. It only proves how necessary was the author's disclaimer of responsibility.--TRANSL. [11] English physicians expect a guinea at every visit.--EDITOR. [12] Let me take this opportunity of advising those of my Berlin friends who mean to run horses, to have them trained by well-recommended English grooms; for it is far from being the fact, that every English groom without exception understands the business, as I have satisfactorily convinced myself. They think they have trained a horse, when by blood-letting, medicine and exercise, they have reduced him to a skeleton, and taken away all his strength, which real training increases tenfold. Both the well and ill trained are equally thin; but in the latter it is the leanness of debility and exhaustion; in the former, the removal of all unnecessary flesh and fat, and the highest power and developement of the muscles.--EDITOR. [13] The art of carving, which is too much neglected in Germany, forms part of a good English education. [14] When leaving the presence of the King, ladies are compelled to go out backwards (as one of them assured me.) It is against the laws of etiquette,--the observance of which is, particularly, so extremely rigorous in England,--to turn their backs upon Majesty. This has been reduced to a regular military evolution, sometimes very embarrassing to a new recruit. The ladies take close order with their backs to the door, towards which they retreat in a diagonal line. As soon as the fugel-woman reaches it, she faces to the right about, passes through, and the others follow her. Lady C---- commands. [15] Probably _Berliners_. This accords with what has been said in the note p. 5, as to the North German acute and satirical character, as contrasted with Southern _bonhommie_.--TRANSL. [16] A very useful piece of furniture to introduce at Court.--EDITOR. [17] _Idee des Wildes_:--The double sense of the word _wild_ in German,--which when used substantively, exactly corresponds to our _game_ (feræ naturæ,) though adjectively it is the same as the English adjective,--makes it impossible to render this.--TRANS. [18] The reader will see that there is great confusion in this account of the state and tenure of landed property in England, which, indeed, it is extremely difficult to make a foreigner understand. It cannot be too often repeated, that no attempt is made to correct the author's impressions or statements. To do so, is not to translate but to forge. The mistakes and misrepresentations are numerous,--almost as numerous as those in English works on Germany, which is saying a good deal.--TRANSL. [19] Some letters which contain only personal anecdotes are here suppressed. I remark this only to account to my fair readers,--who must have been delighted at the punctuality with which the departed author devoted the close of every day to his absent friend,--for a silence of twenty days.--EDITOR. [20] I must remark, that ever since Prussia was promised a Charter, (_Charte_,) my departed friend, to be more accurate, made an orthographical distinction, spelling charts, _Carte_, and playing cards, _Karte_.--He hopes this caution will not be thrown away.--EDITOR. [21] _Rechnung._--Account, reckoning, bill. The reader, if he happen to know the fact, may apply the right word.--TRANSL. [22] The author's feelings towards Englishmen are evidently so bitter, that his testimony must be received with great allowance. On the other hand, it will be confessed by all who are not blinded by intense self-complacency and insular conceit, that it is extremely rare to find a foreigner of any country, who has encountered English people either abroad or at home, without having his most honest allowable self-love wounded in a hundred ways.--TRANSL. [23] Let me here remark, that those who judge of England only by their visit to it in 1814, form extremely erroneous notions. That was a moment of enthusiasm, a boundless joy of the whole nation at its deliverance from its most dreaded enemy, which rendered it peculiarly kind and amiable towards those who had contributed to its destruction. [24] English-German readers will probably find the original of these lines without difficulty.--TRANSL. [25] The traditional personage whom we call the Wandering Jew, the Germans call _der ewige Jude_, the eternal or everlasting Jew.--TRANSL. [26] It is true that our charming Sontag, the queen of song, has lately done nearly the same thing, having contracted a left-handed marriage with Count R----. EDITOR. [27] As the biography of Punch seems becoming rather diffuse, and is tolerably well known here (though not so well as might be imagined), this is omitted.--TRANSL. [28] My deceased friend executed a singular idea, and left a relic which his survivors preserve with melancholy pleasure. He had filled several large folio volumes with drawings, prints, autographs, and even small pamphlets; not as is commonly the case with 'scrap-books,' all sorts of things 'pèle mèle;'--he inserted only those things which he had himself seen and witnessed, in the same order in which he had seen them. Every sketch or engraving was accompanied by a note, the sum of which notes gives a consecutive sketch of his whole career in this world; a perfect _atlas of his life_, as he often called it.--EDIT. [29] It is a very characteristic trait of the gay careless character of this amiable old man, that he let a number of large boxes, containing his effects, stand at Dresden from the time he quitted it. At length he was induced to intrust some one with the charge of overlooking the contents. This person, who knew his very narrow circumstances, was not a little surprised at finding the presents made to him as English ambassador, set with jewels of considerable value, still in their packing cases. [30] How may this be effected? Only when a man brings himself to acknowledge that religion is entirely and solely an affair of the heart and feelings; to which the head can be profitable only by standing as watchman of the sanctuary, and guarding it with the sword of reason from its two hereditary foes, superstition and intolerance. If he cannot be satisfied with this, if he will insist upon understanding what our nature forbids us to understand, he must fall into one of two difficulties; either he must take refuge in a so-called positive religion, or in a system of speculative philosophy. Both are unsatisfactory, as soon as he seeks to find more in them than an interesting sport of the fancy or of the intellect. While the profound innate sentiment of God, of Love, and of the Good, in every healthy state of the mind, stands with a steady irrefragable security, as clear to the lowest capacity, as to the highest, not merely as a belief, but as the true essence of his being,--his proper individual self. And this, without either reason or understanding being brought into immediate activity;--though both, when reflection is called in, must entirely confirm the sentiment.--EDITOR. [31] It is very problematical which is the worst in the eyes of the pious,--to have no religion at all, or one different from their own. Louis XIV., who was unquestionably a champion of religion, decided for the latter opinion. The Duke of Orleans proposed to him an ambassador to Spain, whom he accepted, but the next day recalled, because he had heard he was a Jansenist. "By no means, Your Majesty," said the Duke; "for, as far as I know, he does not even believe in a God." "May I depend upon that?" asked the king gravely. "Certainly," replied the Duke, smiling. "Well, then, let him take the post, in God's name." [32] Bourienne's Memoirs have unfortunately furnished us with fewer materials for forming a judgment on Napoleon's real character than was expected. Bourienne paints Napoleon as Bourienne, and if the dwarf had run around the feet of the giant for a century, he could never have looked in his eyes. In one thing, however, which was quite 'à sa portée,' he was right; namely, that the grand enemy by which Napoleon was overthrown, was the commercial class, so impoliticly driven to extremity; a class now-a-days far more powerful than church or army, and which will yield only to the still stronger power of public opinion, if ever they should come into collision.--EDITOR. [33] This is no exaggeration, as those who have had any opportunity of observing the strong personal attachment of the Prussian people to their present King can attest.--TRANS. [34] By 'romantic' the author apparently means the style of the domestic architecture of Elizabeth's and the succeeding reigns, which affected nothing like the air of places of defence--TRANSL. [35] I know not whether the reader will admit this apology.--EDITOR. [36] It would have been but an act of justice had the author added, that _under these very circumstances_, not only the head of the family, but those who bear his illustrious name, and are destined to inherit his honours, are singularly free from the _morgue_ and arrogance with which he justly charges the English aristocracy--TRANSL. [37] There are so many pictures of Henry and Elizabeth in England, that you must forgive my frequent mention of them. There are shades of difference in all. [38] The description is abridged. It is feared the English reader has already been sated with parks and houses.--TRANSL. [39] Literally, 'Little rooms to let;' I think we call the game, 'Seats,'--TRANSL. [40] German for 'Cock-a-doodle-doo.'--TRANSL. [41] Cases moreover do occur, in which the conscience is, so to speak, right and wrong at the same time. An act may be necessary, which is unquestionably, viewed on one side, culpable, but which is chosen as the lesser of two evils; in which case no reasonable moralist will contend that it is unpardonable. In telling a compulsory lie, for instance, we must ever make a considerable sacrifice of our moral dignity, though by refusing to tell it, we might be guilty of the basest treachery to parents or friends.--EDITOR. [42] I must explain this exclamation. When Napoleon, after the defeat at Aspern, put off in a frail boat with a few followers for the Island of Lobau, General Tchernicheff, then a very young man, was by his side. He relates, that the Emperor sate profoundly absorbed in thought, spoke to nobody, and only now and then broke into the half-suppressed exclamation, 'O monde, O monde!' He might, perhaps, silently add, 'tu m'échappes'--as a few years more verified.--EDITOR. [43] And is still.--EDITOR. [44] It is natural enough that it should be difficult for the English, who trouble themselves so little about anything non-English, to distinguish the respective ranks of German, Russian, and French princes, and that they therefore place them sometimes too high, sometimes too low. In England and France, there are properly no Princes but those of the blood royal. If Englishmen or Frenchmen bear such titles, they are foreign ones, and were given to the younger sons of noble families; for instance, the Prince de Polignac, as second son, bears the Roman title of Prince; the eldest, is Duke de Polignac. With the exception of a man of very exalted merit, there are no Princes in Germany who are not of old family and high rank, with the appurtenant rights and privileges; therefore Princes have in that country the first rank immediately after the reigning houses. In Russia, on the other hand, the title of Prince is as good as nothing, since the service alone gives rank, privilege or importance; and in Italy, the title is not worth much more. The English mix all this up together, and seldom know what sort of tone to take with a foreigner, or what place to assign to him. [45] My departed friend was possessed with a sort of fixed idea that a new Church was at hand. What a pity that he did not live to witness what is now forming! I have just read the following consolatory announcement in the _Allgemeine Zeitung_:-- "To the Unknown. "In these pages, hard words have, as I hear, been applied to me and to the new Church. Strike, my friends, but hear. Only one word, to warn you of the sin. Again I say, it draws near, raising up the veil more and more,--a glory which the tongue of man cannot express, and the spirit of man can only faintly imagine. If we can scarcely conceive that _all_ will become new, how can we so suddenly conceive a new _All_? But to fall violently on the vanguard, and to insult the banner, before we know the hosts which are approaching, and the mighty men who lead them, is not advisable. Beloved brethren, how were it with you, if, with scoffing still on your lips, you recognized Him? He comes in an hour when ye think not."--EDITOR. [46] In this case it were, indeed, desirable that our laws should be brought nearer to the comprehension of the people; that instead of a hundred different provincial and local laws, we had _one_ code for the whole monarchy; so that an act should not be legal in one village, which ten miles off is illegal; in short, that the P----Jurists should at length become workers in bronze, and not tinkers.--EDITOR. [47] 'Art living, dearest, or dead?' [48] _Jahrzehende_, _Jahrhunderte_, _Jahrtausende_, from _Jahre_. Corresponding to these convenient forms, we have only _centuries_. It is to be remarked, too, that each has its adjectival and adverbial form. The poverty of the English, and still more of the French language makes it impossible to translate adequately into them from the German.--TRANSL. [49] The account of the intermediate days has been suppressed.--EDITOR. [50] A note explanatory of this word is omitted, as unnecessary in England.--TRANS. [51] This is quite contrary to what the author has himself remarked on the picture of Seneca, and contrary I think to the fact.--TRANSL. [52] As there are quarter, half, three-quarter, and whole blood horses in England, just so, and into even more subtle distinctions, is the fashionable world divided. [53] The reader may be curious to see this fine passage in its spirited translation. I have not been able to prevail on myself to attempt to translate it back into other English than that of the speaker.--TRANS. "Nicht um Plätze zu erlangen, nicht um Reichthümer zu erwerben ja nicht einmal um den Catholiken unsres Landes ihr natürliches und menschliches Recht wiedergegeben zu sehen, eine Wohlthat, um die ich seit 25 Jahren Gott und die Nation vergebens anrufe, nicht für alles dieses habe ich mich dem neuen Ministerium angeschlossen, nein, sondern nur, weil, wohin ich mein Auge wende, nach Europa's civilisirten Staaten, oder nach Amerika's ungeheurem Continent, nach dem Orient oder Occident, ich überall die Morgenröthe der _Freiheit_ tagen sehe,--ja, ihr allein habe ich mich angeschlossen, indem ich dem Manne folge, der ihr Vorfechter zu seyn, eben so würdig als willig ist!" [54] This, we find, was only a figure of speech.--EDIT. [55] This declaration of the Duke has frequently been alluded to since, even in the Lower House. The following, which I heard from the amiable lady to whom it was addressed, is less known.--In the month of November of this year, (1830,) the Premier was conversing with Princess C---- and the Duchess of D----, on various characteristics of the French and English nations, and their respective advantages. "Ce qui est beau en Angleterre," said the Duke with evident self-complacency, "c'est que ni le rang, ni les richesses, ni la faveur ne sauraient élever un Anglois aux premières places. Le génie seul les obtient et les conserve chez nous." The ladies cast down their eyes; and in a week from that time the Duke of Wellington was out of office.--EDITOR. [56] How little did my departed friend suspect that this badly organized head was destined to bring such evils upon the world! Good will indeed arise out of that, as out of all evil; but _we_ shall hardly reap the fruits.--EDITOR. [57] Daughter of the lady to whom these letters are addressed, by her former husband, Count Pappenheim--TRANSL. [58] _Eine alte Freiheit._--At the great Councils of the Church, the political meetings, such as coronations and the like, and other assemblages in the middle ages, a part of the city or encampment where they were held, was appropriated to the persons of forbidden professions who resorted thither; such as jugglers, gamblers, light women, &c. This part was called the _Freiheit_ or Free Quarter.--TRANSL. [59] _Mid dem todten Mann_, I believe is Englished as above--TRANSL. [60] I thought of omitting this part, which certainly belongs too much to confidential correspondence to interest the generality of readers. But as it really paints the departed author with uncommon fidelity, and he often refers to it in subsequent letters, I hope I shall be forgiven for retaining it.--EDITOR. [61] A word difficult to translate. Foresight (_Vorsichtssinn_) does not express it adequately; it is rather the power of calling to mind in a moment everything that can possibly result from an action; and thus, almost involuntarily, of painting it from every point of view, which often cripples the energy. [62] The individual in question is Dr. Herschel, of whose head Mr. Deville possesses two casts corresponding to the description above. Mr. Deville bears testimony to the accuracy in the main of the above report, though the language is, he says, considerably more ornate than that which he is likely to have used.--TRANSL. [63] It is a matter of history that even the true old German knights had contracted the bad habit of occasionally interlarding their discourse with French phrases.--EDITOR. [64] _Fässer._ _Fass_, a butt, barrel, tun, tub, &c.--_Grosse Quart._ I do not know whether these measures correspond to the English words, or whether I have used the appropriate technical expressions--TRANSL. [65] Literally, _Das Kind mit dem Bade verschutten_--"To throw out the child with the bath;" a common German proverb.--TRANSL. [66] Misspelt in the original.--TRANSL. [67] Here follows a short passage which I have not been able, on a hurried search, to find.--TRANSL. [68] I do not know the exact equivalent of these titles. _Hofdamen_, literally is Court-ladies.--TRANSL. [69] _Nadelholz_: a generic word including all trees with leaves like a needle,--pine, fir, larch, &c.--TRANSL. [70] The minute description of the arrangements of the light-house is omitted, as most English readers are acquainted with them.--TRANSL. [71] A boy born in the month of October Will be a critic, and a right surly one.--TRANSL. [72] Judging from the results, he must have seen cause to alter his opinion.--EDITOR. [73] I make no attempt to translate this, because the mere words would convey no idea to English readers; and I have no inclination to write, nor probably they to read, a commentary.--TRANSL. [74] The Germans do not say _original sin_, but _hereditary sin_ (_Erbsünde_).--_Erbadel_ (hereditary nobility) being formed exactly in the same manner, there is a sort of _jeu de mots_, which the words in use here will not represent.--TRANSL. [75] For the curious in Austrian philosophy and philology, I subjoin the original of the above, which loses, unhappily, its zest in plain English, as it would in good German.--TRANSL. "Nix is halt dümmer," sagte er, "als sich um de Zukunft gräme! Schaun's, als i hierher kam, war's grade Sommer, und die Season schon vorbei. Nu hatt' en Andrer sich gegrämt, grad in so schlechter Zeit herkommen zu seyn; aber i dacht, 's wird sich schon hinziehen, und richtig, 's hat sich bis zum November hingezogen! Unterdessen hat mich der Esterhazy ufs Land genemmen, wo i mich gar herrlich amüsirt hab, und nu is noch a Monat schlecht, dann wird's wieder full, die Bälle und die Routs gehn an, und i kann's nie mehr besser wünschen! Wär' i nu nich a rechter Narr gewesen, mi zu gräme ohne Noth? hab i ni recht? Man muss in der Welt grad wie ne H---- leben und nimmer zuviel an die Zukunft denken." [76] '_Ihren Kindern den heiligen Christ bescheerte._' The presents which it is the universal custom in Germany to make to children on a Christmas eve, are given in the name of the infant;--the _Christkindchen_ so dear to all German children.--TRANSL. [77] _Befreiungskrieg._ The war against Napoleon is commonly known by that name in Germany.--TRANSL. [78] A _parforce jagd_ is, in one word, _a hunt_; for _jagd_, like _chasse_, includes shooting and other field-sports; but, as will be seen, I could not leave out the _parforce_ without destroying the sentence.--TRANSL. [79] This refers to the ancient fable of _Reinecke Fuchs_.--TRANSL. [80] The Germans say, "_Sand in die Augen streuen_," to scatter _sand_ (not dust) in the eyes. Here, as in so many other cases, difference of idiom destroys a 'jeu de mots.'--TRANSL. [81] Adelaide, Princess Carolath, born Countess von Pappenheim; daughter of the Noble Lady to whom these letters are addressed, by the Bavarian General-of-division Count von Pappenheim, and mentioned in a former part of the work under the name of Emily.--TRANSL. [82] A learned antiquarian once told me that the old painters generally painted on a ground of chalk, and used preparations for fixing their colours, whence they are so permanent, fresh, and brilliant. Strange that people don't give themselves the trouble to try this experiment! [83] The verses alluded to are these: "Oh what were Love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart; I but know that I love thee--whatever thou art." [84] The translation seems to be inferior to the others by the Author and hardly worth copying.-- [85] "_Uns in ihrer Nationalität hineinzudenken_," (to think ourselves forth into their nationality);--a compound word which may give some faint idea of the advantages a writer in the German language must ever possess over his translator.--TRANSL. [86] Of German money, of course, is meant.--TRANSL. [87] Owing to the adoption of the French word _pigeon_, instead of the English word _dove_, this sentence loses its point. I did not however venture to astonish my readers by translating _Tauben-club_, Dove-club, though that would have done more justice to the author's meaning. In Norfolk and Suffolk, where some very pure English is still preserved among the 'vulgar,' _dove_, or as they call it _dow_, is still the common appellative of the whole genus,--as in the cognate language.--TRANSL. [88] The peculiar Alpine cry at the end of the Tyrol songs, which is heard to an immense distance, is called the _Jodle_.--TRANSL. [89] It is very extraordinary that English writers should constantly torture themselves to discover the causes of the enormous poor-rates, and of the more and more artificial and threatening state of the working classes, when there exists so obvious a discouragement to the outlay of capital and industry on land, (some of which with us would be called good, but here is esteemed not worth cultivation,) as tithes:--a man does not care to devote his capital and his sweat to a priest.--EDITOR. [90] _Hauslichkeit._ We have not the word--unhappily.--TRANSL. [91] The curious in such matters may find some amusement in the inquiry, whether or not there exists in England one drop of _stiftfähiges blut_--of that sort, namely, common throughout Germany, which can prove its seventy-two quarterings.--TRANSL. [92] Certainly the motto of the Paris Society, 'Aide-toi, le ciel t'aidera,' has never been carried so far 'in praxi.'--EDITOR. [93] It is one of the greatest beauties of English landscape, that during the whole winter almost every house is adorned with the luxuriant blossoms and garlands of the monthly rose. [94] Count Brühl is inspector of Theatres at Berlin, and in virtue of that office exercises _surveillance_ over the costumes, on the correctness of which he piques himself.--TRANSL. [95] Where the contrary is not specified, the reader will understand English miles, four and a half of which go to a German mile.--EDITOR. [96] _Inexpressibles_ is the name which this article of dress has received in England, where "in good society" a woman sometimes leaves her husband and children and runs off with her lover, but is always too decorous to be able to endure the sound of the word _breeches_.--EDITOR. [97] A mountain spirit. See Musaus's Popular Tales.--TRANSL. [98] By S----, the author apparently means Berlin.--TRANSL. [99] In every nation the post ought to be extra-post. Many people indeed regret that the greater part of the State-machine is not driven by it. This might give it a jog, and put an end to the halt which it has made for half a century.--EDITOR. [100] The English reader must be told, what to him will sound strangely enough, that "Wohlgeboren" is a higher title than "Edelgeboren."--TRANSLATOR. [101] I am acquainted with other qualities of this 'artiste,' which would do honour to many of the 'industriel' noblemen of our time. For instance, he sends in his bill only once in five years, and is the most magnanimous of creditors. 'Avis aux lecteurs.' [102] N. B. When the nobility is fitly constituted; that is to say, when it is a true national nobility, such as England in part possesses, or such as Gravell well describes in his "Regent."--EDITOR. [103] My departed friend doubtless means to apply this to a certain class of functionaries, who, for good reasons, love nothing so well as mediocrity; for if I guess the scene aright, no where is merit more nobly honoured in the highest places. Of this the whole nation recently saw a most gratifying example in the affectionate respect paid to a revered statesman, whose merits are as exalted as his station. If there is a man who doubts of the former, it can be no other than himself.--EDITOR. [104] If I were not certain that my friend wrote this passage in the year 1827, I should take it to be a reminiscence of President Jackson's first speech. The President proposes that all the public officers of the United States (with very few exceptions) be changed every fifth year. "Eheu jam satis!" What would our _Regiérungs Räthe_ (Government counsellors) say to such a scheme? Entire general commissions broken up, in the fullest sense of the word, at a blow! For who knows whether, at the end of five years, they would be thought worth the money they cost, and renewed at all?--EDITOR. [105] Privy counsellors who have any functions, are distinguished from those who have none, by the addition to their title of _wirklicher_ (real, actual).--TRANSL. [106] The intention of this law was noble and liberal, though it cut the knot rather roughly. But how has it been executed? A book might be written, _ought_ to be written, on this subject. The execution of this business is precisely in the style of a certain Herr von Wanze, who, in the disguise of a farmer, taught the opulent peasant Pharao at Kirmesse.{*} {*} village festival.--_Transl._ "You put down your money," said he, "and I deal the cards right and left. What falls to the left I win; what falls to the right you lose."--EDITOR. [107] It is but fair, however, to say that the exceptions to this description are many. When for instance Göthe does not disdain to send forth "a man of forty" among the minors; when Tieck takes pity upon us, and gives us a _real genuine "Novelle"_; L. Shefer moves our heart and spirit by his wild lightnings; Kruse makes a criminal trial graceful and attractive; or some Therese, Friederike, &c. discloses the otherwise impenetrable mysteries of the female heart (not to mention the varied merits of our other best tale-writers);--it is evident that there are workmen who could supply excellent and perfect wares it the whole manufacture were not spoiled by the established machinery.--EDITOR. [108] It is but fair, however, to say that the exceptions to this description are many. When for instance Göthe does not disdain to send forth "a man of forty" among the minors; when Tieck takes pity upon us, and gives us a _real genuine "Novelle"_; L. Shefer moves our heart and spirit by his wild lightnings; Kruse makes a criminal trial graceful and attractive; or some Therese, Friederike, &c. discloses the otherwise impenetrable mysteries of the female heart (not to mention the varied merits of our other best tale-writers);--it is evident that there are workmen who could supply excellent and perfect wares it the whole manufacture were not spoiled by the established machinery.--EDITOR. [109] It is only in English that the word _artist_ is absurdly restricted to painters, sculptors, and engravers. An artist is, in the German sense, a man who cultivates the fine arts,--poetry, painting, music, &c.--TRANSL. [110] This pendulum may be used by acute servants as a sort of thermo- or hygro-meter of the patience of their respective masters and mistresses.--EDITOR. [111] The inhabitants themselves cannot perfectly decide which termination is the right.{*} {*} This is a joke which will be understood only by those who are acquainted with the peculiarities of the Berlin dialect. The inhabitants continually confound verbs which govern the dative _mir_ (to me,) with those which require the accusative _mich_ (me); for which they are much laughed at by the rest of Germany. The first syllable of course alludes to the sandy plain in which Berlin stands.--_Transl._ [112] N.B. Not to forget to ask our learned Professor Blindemann what he thinks of this interpretation. [113] Among others, to the Commissioners of the Elbe Navigation, who have just made such a noble end of their labours, and have all received Orders for the same. I wonder whether Providence also will bestow an Order on me? [114] To add a word in earnest: I would ask, who does not honour the humane motives which gave rise to the Bible and Missionary societies? But are these, even were they not subject, as unfortunately too often happens, to the most scandalous abuses, the right means to the end? The result in almost every case teaches us the direct contrary. It ought to be considered that God sent Christianity as the _second_ covenant; the _first_ was based entirely upon _earthly_ interests and _despotic power_. If I did not fear to appear to treat the matter too lightly, I should almost be inclined to say that we ought to begin by converting savages into Jews, before we attempt to make them Christians. This would also harmonize in a peculiar way with that powerful lever, commercial interest. Men would be civilized much more quickly by the business of buying and selling, than by Paul's Epistles to the Corinthians. This might also serve as an index or guide; and the conformity of such a course with the laws of nature would be proved by repeated experience, wherever the same process were to be gone through. To try to make men Christians who are in so low a state of civilization as the almost merely animal inhabitants of parts of Africa, appears to me nearly as unreasonable as to send teachers of the European languages to the apes. To this stage of human culture two things are applicable, self-interest, and force beneficently employed: and in this point of view, even conversions by the sword are not so injudicious and absurd as those by Bible Societies; always provided, that they are accomplished without unnecessary cruelty, and undertaken from truly benevolent motives.{*} {*} It cannot be denied that the most efficient attempts at conversion, and those which left the most permanent consequences, were those of Charlemagne, and of the Spaniards in South America. It was only a pity that the Spaniards forced their own idolatry upon men who were, in fact, better Christians than themselves. (It is assumed, be it observed, that we have a vocation and a right to endeavour to raise people to our state of civilization without any will of theirs; but this we shall not discuss here.) The other method, namely, to work upon savages by their own present and obvious interest, can be accomplished only by trade, and appears to be the most just and mild of all; but it must also be accompanied by a certain degree of compulsion and constraint, to produce any rapid and permanent results. The worst effect of the attempts to hasten on the universality of Christianity is doubtless this; that as soon as the savage comes in collision with Christians, they must perceive that the latter,--whether governments, corporations, or individuals--while they preach benevolence, do in fact, in almost every case, act hostilely both to each other and to them. Their simple understandings, which are not rectified by higher culture, can in no way reconcile this contradiction. And as they, like children, take in little of a new faith but the mythos, it is not much to be wondered at if the liberals or free-thinkers among them exclaim, "Fable for fable, murder for murder, slave-dealing for slave-dealing, where is the difference?" Had the Christian powers _really_ abolished the slave-trade, and destroyed the nest of robbers which, to the shame of Europe, still exist on the coast of Africa; had England, instead of sending one solitary traveller after another (men who made themselves ridiculous and contemptible by displaying their Anglo-Christian arrogance without the means of supporting it,) to be assassinated by the natives, or to die of the climate,--sent into the interior an expedition fitted to command respect, and seasoned by previous residence on the coast;--had this expedition been so constituted as, by its dignity and by beneficent compulsion, to give a more humane character to trade; and had it sought to remove all obstacles to this object, even were it sometimes by force of arms;--it is indubitable that a great part of Africa would at this moment be infinitely more civilized than it will be by centuries of missions and Bible importations. Some may ask, 'A quoi bon tout cela?' others, what right have we to meddle in other people's affairs? The answer to these questions would lead us too far. For my own part, I confess I so far agree with the Jesuits, that I acknowledge that a noble end,--that is, a project calculated for the greatest possible advantage of others, and united with the power of carrying it into effect,--sanctifies all appropriate means which are, in the same sense, noble, so far at least as open force is concerned; for deceit, treachery, and dishonesty can never lead to good.--EDIT. [115] In German all substantives begin with a capital letter.--TRANSL. [116] A fictitious name, which might be Englished, Mr. Cant.--TRANSL. [117] It is a great mistake to think that this is a subject only for ridicule or for rational indignation. The alliance of the so-called SAINTS, is not without danger to all men of large and liberal opinions. There is a fermentation of Jesuitical masses, who avail themselves of the form of Protestantism, because Catholicism will no longer answer their purpose. They are guided by the same principles to which the Jesuits owed their power, governed by the same 'esprit de corps,' constituted according to a like regular organization; instead of the 'aquetta,' indeed, they use, and with signal success, the ten times more formidable poison of calumny, which, like other instruments of darkness, is so easily employed by a secret association.--Germany has much more to dread from such _saints_, than from the dreams of freedom, promulgated by a set of enthusiastic young students on the Wartburg.--EDIT. [118] _Wappenvögel_ (armorial-birds,) an expression which appears affected in English, though the passage is unintelligible without it.--TRANSL. [119] A warning to all makers of puns and _jeu de mots_ to know their tools. Our author probably is still in blissful ignorance of the _i_ which spoils his joke.--TRANS. [120] "To come out," as applied to young girls in England, means to go into the world. Parents sometimes let them wait for this happiness till they are twenty, or even older. Till then, they learn the world only from novels; in later life they consequently often act upon them, where the principles of domestic virtue (for there is such a thing now and then in England) have not been deeply and firmly laid.--EDITOR. [121] Nothing can be more ridiculous than the declamation of German writers concerning the poverty which reigns in England; where, according to them, there are only a few enormously rich, and crowds of extremely indigent. It is precisely the extraordinary number of people of competent fortune, and the ease with which the poorest can earn, not only what is strictly necessary, but even some luxuries, if he chooses to work vigorously, which make England independent and happy. One must not indeed repeat after the Opposition newspapers. [122] Probably presented by Macpherson himself.--EDITOR. [123] The common people in England put the knife as well as the fork to their mouths. The higher classes, on the contrary, regard this as the true sin against the Holy Ghost, and cross themselves internally when they see a foreign Ambassador now and then eat so;--it is an affront to the whole nation. [124] In a more loose and general sense, every man of respectable appearance is called a gentleman. [125] This has nothing to do with morality, only with '_scandale_.' [126] So the Irish delight to call him, proud of his '_landsmannschaft_ (countrymanship). [127] This is no exaggeration. I have heard such things here, proved by legal evidence, and seen such misery as never were witnessed in the times of villanage in Germany, and are hardly to be paralleled in countries where slavery now prevails.--EDITOR. [128] I have often had occasion to remark, that the love of music in England is a mere affair of fashion. There is no nation in Europe which plays music better or understands it worse. [129] "_Böhmische Dörfer._" The _jeu de mots_ is inevitably lost.--TRANSL. [130] An excellent dish! the receipt, _vivâ voce_. [131] Eligible to certain chapters and ecclesiastical orders, to which none could be admitted who could not prove their seventy-two quarterings.--TRANSL. [132] The maître d'hotel who lately published Memoirs of Napoleon, vindicates the Emperor from this reproach with indignation. His memoirs are certainly most flattering to that great man, for they prove 'qu'il est resté héros même pour son valet de chambre.'--EDIT. [133] _Poetry and Truth_,--the title of Göthe's auto-biographical work. [134] "I purpose to take a long sleep." [135] All the Catholic children in Ireland are carefully instructed, and can at least read; while the Protestant are often utterly ignorant. The morals of the Catholic priesthood in Ireland are every where exemplary, as were those of the Reformers in France. The oppressed Church is every where the most virtuous; the causes of which are easily found.--EDITOR. [136] The wish of my departed friend is already in part fulfilled, and the future is big with yet greater changes.--EDITOR. [137] The translation of the title of the book is of a piece with all the rest. _Leiden_ does not mean _sorrows_, but _sufferings_.--TRANS. [138] 'Sportsman'--'sport'--are as untranslatable as 'Gentleman.' It is by no means a mere hunter or shooter; but a man who follows all amusements of that and the cognate kinds, with ardour and address. Boxing, horse-racing, duck-shooting, fox-hunting, cock-fighting, are all 'sport.'--EDITOR. [139] Nothing important or solemn can go on in England without a dinner; be it religious, political, literary, or of what kind it may.--ED. [140] These disabilities have, as is universally known, been since removed.--EDITOR. [141] A piece of the true cross was kept here, and gave its name to the monastery. Every separate building, was, for this reason, ornamented with a lofty cross of stone, of which only one is preserved.--EDITOR. [142] A Moor, who was a very enlightened man for his country, and resided a long time in England, said to Captain L----, "I should not like to serve so powerless a monarch as the King of England. How different a feeling it gives one to be the servant of a sovereign who is the image of God's omnipotence on earth, at whose nod a thousand heads must fly like chaff before the wind!"--'Il ne faut donc pas disputer des goûts.' [143] 'Your Grace' is the title of Protestant archbishops in England, and is given by all well-bred people, by courtesy, also to the Catholic archbishops, although the English law does not recognise their rank. [144] These, as my departed friend often declared, were remarkably well prepared in Ireland. They consist of poultry boiled dry, with Cayenne pepper, or served with a most burning and pungent sauce.--EDITOR, (addressed to gourmands.) [145] The sky is changed!--and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night:--Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,-- A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black,--and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. [146] Much has lately been done towards improving, I might say humanizing, the music in the churches in Prussia; and the influence of this improvement on the congregations have been universally found to be very beneficial.--EDITOR. [147] Nothing can be a more astonishing proof of the difficulty of comparing the moral and intellectual character of two countries than this remark. Every Englishman accustomed to the cultivated society of his own country, must be struck by the extraordinary inferiority of German female education, in proportion to the high superiority of that of men. The solution is probably this:--The Author was chiefly confined to fashionable society here, and mixed little with the more instructed classes. In Germany, it is precisely the women of the middling classes who are so lamentably deficient in education,--a defect, of course, there as every where attributable to those who govern their destiny, and who profess sentiments even more unworthy than those here attributed to Englishmen. The motive ascribed to the latter is surely more strong and more noble than the desire of possessing a thorough cook or a contented drudge.--TRANS. [148] We ought perhaps to apologize for suffering this and other similar passages to be printed. But whoever has read thus far, must interest himself in some degree for or against the Author: and in either case these unrestrained judgments upon himself cannot be wholly unwelcome to the reader who likes what is characteristic. Those who like only facts, may easily pass them over.--EDITOR. [149] This is seldom to be met with in fashionable society, from the tyrannical demands of English education, which have a very wide influence in the three kingdoms. You observe, therefore, that I often confound English and Irish under one common name; I ought more properly to call them British. [150] Even religion and morality do not reach all the intricate circumstances and cases which occur in human society:--witness that conventional honour which is frequently at war with both, and whose laws are yet obeyed by the best and wisest of men. [151] Nach ihrer Decke strecken. [152] The German name for the system of gymnastics introduced by the celebrated Dr. Jahn, and mixed up, by the young men who cultivated them, with the political opinions designated by the governments as '_Demagogic_.'--TRANS. [153] The Prussian Landwehr system also forms perfect soldiers, horse or foot, in two years.--EDITOR. [154] It is perhaps hardly worth remarking, that at the time in which eternal hell-fire was the most sincerely and generally believed in, morality was at the very lowest ebb, and the number of great crimes a thousandfold what it now is.--EDITOR. [155] Our _Eilkutschen_ will never approach the English stage-coaches till the post is entirely free, and till there is an equal competition of travellers: neither is to be expected.--EDITOR. [156] Few persons will agree with this position of the Author. If it be true, how doubly discreditable to English translators is the comparison of their performances with such translations as Voss's Homer, Schleiermacher's Plato, Schlegel's Shakspeare and Calderon, &c. For any approach to these wonderful transfusions, where are we to look? At the abortive attempts at presenting to England any idea of Göthe?--TRANS. [157] 'Popish mummery' is the name given by English Protestants to the Catholic worship;--their own fully answers to the same description.--EDITOR. [158] The decorated well-replenished table well set out in every family on Christmas eve.--TRANS. [159] The description in detail is omitted, as familiar to the English reader.--TRANS. [160] The letters alluded to belong to the first part, which see.--EDITOR.--(See Preface.) [161] _Ländlich, sittlich,_--a German proverb, to which I do not recollect any corresponding English one.--TRANSL. [162] Thus should we ever regard, represent, and treat death. It is only a perverted view of Christianity (perhaps the Jewish groundwork of it), which has made death so gloomy, and with a coarse animal feeling, as unpoetical as it is disgusting, chosen skeletons and marks of decomposition as its emblems.--EDITOR. [163] As Napoleon said of his own head: "Carrée, autant de base que de hauteur."--EDITOR. [164] A countryman of August Wilhelm Schlegel ought to take shame to himself for the omission of the illustrious name of Flaxman, whose genius was cast in a mould far more purely, severely and elegantly _Greek_, than that of any modern sculptor whatever.--TRANS. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: over fastidiuot=> over fastidious {pg xiv} over fastidiuot=> over fastidiuos {pg xiv} neices=> nieces {pg xv} surgcial instrument=> surgical instrument {pg xv} Il est d'angereux=> Il est dangereux {pg 1} Est ist doch schön=> Es ist doch schön {pg 7} description of his travels=> descriptions of his travels {pg 4} self-controling=> self-controlling {pg 9} á peu de chose près=> à peu de chose près {pg 28} bow you head=> bow you head {pg 28} Göethe=> Göthe {pg 29} Ist gleich bie trübe=> Ist gleich die trübe {pg 41} travelled a ceriain prescribed=> travelled a certain prescribed {pg 37} une mine de dolèance=> une mine de doléance {pg 51} Duke d'Enghein=> Duke d'Enghien {pg 59} artifical rockeries=> artificial rockeries {pg 66} Liecester=> Leicester {pg 77} a la fourchette=> á la fourchette {pg 82} Opposito to the=> Opposite to the {pg 82} aud refreshed=> and refreshed {pg 90} c'est a y revenir demain=> c'est á y revenir demain {pg 92} piana-forte=> piana-forte {pg 106} so ageeeable=> so ageeable {pg 108} exrmples of=> examples of {pg 114} neice=> niece {pg 136} Ernst is das Leben, heiter ist die Kunst=> Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist die Kunst {pg 127} must have suck fast=> must have stuck fast {pg 131} celebrathed=> celebrated {pg 135} the conseqence=> the consequence {pg 137} Nicht um Platze zu erlangen=> ish überall die Morgenröthe {pg n. 136} c'est qui ni le rang=> c'est que ni le rang {pg n. 138} saurient eléver=> sauraient éléver {pg n. 138} in extravance=> in extravagance {pg 146} frightful sqeeze=> frightful squeeze {pg 157} conscientiousnes=> conscientiousness {pg 160} judging of a scull=> judging of a skull {pg 160} down to the clear steam=> down to the clear stream {pg 162} too long absorded=> too long absorded {pg 164} Ich emfehle mich unterthänigst=> Ich empfehle mich unterthänigst {pg 167} Fasser=> Fässer {pg n. 168} Madame von Furstenburgh=> Madame von Furstenburg {pg 174} leaned over to Napaleon=> leaned over to Napoleon {pg 177} auf des Stromes tiefunsterstem Grund=> auf des Stromes tiefunterstem Grund {pg 177} or eatables=> for eatables {pg 178} which you fancy your hear=> which you fancy you hear {pg 198} cenceive=> conceive {pg 202} its grearest breadth=> its greatest breadth {pg 202} vous étes trop poli=> vous êtes trop poli {pg 205} crowed=> crowd {pg 208} the operatious=> the operations {pg 208} number of curiosites=> number of curiosities {pg 210} bien que l'éspérance=> bien que l'espérance {pg 212} artifical=> artificial {pg 212} of which there not more=> of which there were not more {pg 212} its is advantageous=> it is advantageous {pg 212} in the syle=> in the style {pg 215} dans l'orielle=> dans l'oreille {pg 216} Tbe actors=> The actors {pg 217} dictinctly=> distinctly {pg 218} magnficence=> magnificence {pg 226} exhibiton=> exhibition {pg 226} war er=> was Er {pg 228} appetit=> appétit {pg 232} soms time=> some time {pg 233} accuratety=> accurately {pg 235} would he a poor=> would be a poor {pg 238} contatenation=> concatenation {pg 239} ths scissars=> the scissars {pg 239} where he lives, at formerly=> where he lives, as formerly {pg 242} thousend=> thousand {pg 244} hnge=> huge {pg 246} thomselves=> themselves {pg 247} indvidual=> individual {pg 248} noble mein=> noble mien {pg 249} Cardinel Wolsey=> Cardinal Wolsey {pg 256} dèjeunè champêtre=> déjeuné champêtre {pg 261} viel=> veil {pg 269} autorite sans replique=> autorité sans replique {pg 270} assassinated=> assassinated {pg n. 291} this expedtion been=> this expedition been {pg n. 291} monkies=> monkeys {pg 297} justisfy=> justify {pg 299} at the last dry=> at the last day {pg 299} most vehements thanks=> most vehement thanks {pg 305} wholly unmixep=> wholly unmixed {pg 308} jeau de mots=> jeau de mots {pg n. 316} bad chacacter=> bad character {pg 327} coucluded=> concluded {pg 329} edler Man=> edler Mann {pg 334} jeau de mots=> jeau de mots {pg n. 316} Voila ce que c'est que la foi=> Voilà ce que c'est que la foi {pg 318} the dinner=> the diner {pg 342} it more poetical=> is more poetical {pg 353} Bohmische Dorfer=> Böhmische Dörfer {pg n. 353} too see over=> to see over {pg 357} stiftsfähiges blut=> stiftsfähiges Blut {pg 368} snow-white form=> snow-white foam {pg 370} resté heros=> resté heros {pg n. 375} imposible to pass=> impossible to pass {pg 382} the ancients kings=> the ancient kings {pg 384} a la lettre=> á la lettre {pg 386} In in instant=> In an instant {pg 387} inkeeper's daughter=> innkeeper's daughter {pg 389} to approach near the earth's=> to approach nearer the earth's {pg 391} its quiet enough=> it's quiet enough {pg 402} priests here assembed=> priests here assembled {pg 409} une réligion=> une religion {pg 411} tous les ages=> tous les âges {pg 419} find old man=> fine old man {pg 419} attrocities=> atrocities {pg 429} aid-de-camp=> aide-de-camp {pg 432} could he believed=> could he believe {pg 411} recieve their various marks=> receive their various marks {pg 442} non de guerre=> nom de guerre {pg 451} abrubtly=> abruptly {pg 456} Hir air was=> His air was {pg 478} eusuite=> ensuite {pg 478} Helas=> Hélas {pg 478} be too wore=> he too wore {pg 479} le sécret=> le secret {pg 483} moutous=> moutons {pg 483} 
45909	----	THE Cathedral Towns AND INTERVENING PLACES OF ENGLAND, IRELAND, AND SCOTLAND: A DESCRIPTION OF CITIES, CATHEDRALS, LAKES, MOUNTAINS, RUINS, AND WATERING-PLACES. BY THOMAS W. SILLOWAY AND LEE L. POWERS. "A dwarf standing on the shoulders of a giant may see farther than the giant himself."--DIDIMUS STELLA. BOSTON: CUPPLES AND HURD. 94 BOYLSTON STREET. 1887. _Copyright, 1883_, BY A. WILLIAMS AND COMPANY. THIRD EDITION. UNIVERSITY PRESS: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. TO LUTHER GARDNER ROBBINS, THE GOOD COMPANION AND FRIEND OF ONE OF THE AUTHORS FOR MORE THAN A QUARTER OF A CENTURY, AND OF THE OTHER FOR SOME YEARS, This Volume IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED AS A SMALL TOKEN OF REGARD AND ESTEEM. INTRODUCTORY. The Authors, having travelled somewhat leisurely over important parts of Ireland and Scotland, and in a yet more deliberate and critical manner over the principal parts of England,--observing not only salient points in the life of each country, but at the same time passing in review their history and work,--and believing that a synopsis of what their New England eyes, ears, and minds saw, heard, and discovered, would be acceptable to the public, one of them prepared a series of articles which were published in one of the weekly papers of Boston. The interest awakened, and a belief that these reminiscences should be put into a more permanent form, have inclined the authors to amend the articles as the case seemed to demand, and they are thus presented in this volume. When the original papers were prepared, a departure from the usual custom of writers on travel was made. Instead of simply recording personal observations, the labor was extended by the incorporation of historic and biographic facts, the authors hoping that, while their work would be valuable and interesting as a compend to those familiar with the facts, it would also be entertaining and instructive to that large class, in all communities, who are without the means of obtaining such information. Care was therefore exercised to obtain data verified by the testimony of various authors. The articles having been published in narrative style, it has been thought well to present them again in that form; and the authors wish to say by way of apology, if one be needed, that the opinions and criticisms expressed are such as impressed their own minds, and are not reflections of the minds of others. With this explanation, and craving the indulgence and patience of the reader, they send forth their volume. CONTENTS. Ireland. CHAPTER PAGE I. NEW YORK TO QUEENSTOWN, CORK 3 II. BLARNEY, KILLARNEY, THE LAKES 18 III. MUCKROSS ABBEY, LIMERICK, DUBLIN 36 IV. WATERFORD, CARRICK-ON-SUIR, KILKENNY, DUBLIN AGAIN 57 England. V. LIVERPOOL, CHESTER, SHREWSBURY, WORCESTER, HEREFORD 75 VI. GLOUCESTER, BRISTOL, BATH, SALISBURY, SARUM, AMESBURY, STONEHENGE, WILTON 95 VII. BEMERTON, WINCHESTER, READING, NEWBURY 114 VIII. LONDON 129 IX. OXFORD 161 X. WARWICK, STRATFORD-ON-AVON, LEAMINGTON, KENILWORTH, COVENTRY, BIRMINGHAM, LICHFIELD 167 XI. STOKE-UPON-TRENT, STAFFORDSHIRE, MANCHESTER, LEEDS, CARLISLE 187 Scotland. XII. GLASGOW, ROB-ROY COUNTRY, THE LAKES, CALLENDER, STIRLING 199 XIII. STIRLING CASTLE, EDINBURGH 212 XIV. MELROSE, ABBOTSFORD 233 England. XV. NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE, DURHAM 243 XVI. YORKSHIRE, YORK, SHEFFIELD, LINCOLN 253 XVII. BOSTON, PETERBORO, LYNN 270 XVIII. WELLS, NORWICH, ELY 282 XIX. CAMBRIDGE 295 XX. LONDON, WINDSOR, STOKE POGES 315 XXI. LONDON, HAMPTON COURT, ROCHESTER, CHATHAM, CANTERBURY 328 XXII. DOVER, BRIGHTON, CALAIS 343 INDEX 357 IRELAND. CATHEDRAL TOWNS. CHAPTER I. NEW YORK TO QUEENSTOWN--CORK. On Saturday the 12th day of April, 1878, at half-past 3 P. M., the good Inman steamer City of Richmond, with us on board, loosed her cables, and the floating palace moved out into North River majestically,--as only such vessels can move,--passed the forts, and sailed on, till at dusk, yet before dark, the Highlands of Neversink--a misnomer to us then--retired from view, and, Byron-like, we felt and said, "My native land, good-night." Suppered, and enjoyed the look of that waste of sky and waters till ten o'clock, and then consigned ourselves to the embrace of "Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep." The morrow was Sunday. We were up betimes, and on deck for new views, fresh air, and to see how things compared with those of last night. All was well,--comparatively smooth sea, and good breeze. We had sailed 224 miles, and so were that much from home. Breakfasted, and on deck again,--this time to see nearly all our cabin passengers, about one hundred complete. They appeared well, and we thought our lot had been cast in a pleasant place; and so it proved. There were conspicuous the essentials of comfort for the voyage,--among them inclined-back, cane-finished lounging-chairs, and good blanket robes, brought by providential people who had travelled before, or who had friends who had journeyed and in whose advice they had confidence. No matter if it be July or August, it is a good friend who effectually advises one to carry a great coat, shawl, or blanket robe. The sun shone bright, and the inhabitants of the City of Richmond were happy. At 10 A. M. came the roll-call of sailors and table-waiters, arranged in squads at special points. An officer and the captain passed in front, the name of each was distinctly called, the old, old response, _Here_, passed along the line, and the work was done. Of course a large part of the passengers were near by, inspecting, and they were presuming enough to think all was going on right, and the work well done. Next came an officer giving information that divine service was to be held in the cabin at 11 A. M., and inviting singers to be at a certain location. One of our party, having before tried the ship's piano, was installed as pianist. At the hour appointed, nearly all on board, including the sailors, had assembled, and it seemed very like a church meeting. The pulpit was a desk placed on a common table, covered with a cloth; a Bible and prayer-book were on it, and our captain officiated,--a man of fine physique, apparently about sixty years old, and, but for the absence of clerical robes, very bishop-like in appearance. He went finely through the service of the Church of England, employing about an hour, and concluded by saying: "I am now to preach my usual sermon, which is to take up a collection for the widows and orphans of sailors." A good charity,--and a befitting response was made. At one o'clock, dinner; next, various methods of using the time, the principal of which was reading or lounging about decks. Soon came a change in conditions. Wind breezed up and we had more than a fifteen-mile power; and so sails were in order--our first sight of operations of the kind. Next came white-capped waves; and at 5 P. M. had come those indescribably hateful movements of the ship, that many a one has felt before,--down first at bow, and next up at stern, and _vice versa_ continuing. "Confound," said they of the physically weakening brigade, "the deliberation, yet fearful determination and success with which these movements are made,"--as though transforming us first into lead and then into feathers; and soon follows an aggravating roll, playing with us as though we were alternately puff-balls and cannon-shot. But neither waves nor ship were to be _confounded_ to accommodate us. Instead, both ship and sea appeared to be in league with the old-fashioned adversary. It seemed, to the subjugated ones, as though his Satanic Majesty was down under the propellers, with a mighty power straightening himself up, and lifting as only he could do; and then, as aid, there appeared to be an imp scarcely less powerful, pulling down at the bow, and in addition, many a fellow of like nature under each side of the ship, lifting up and letting go alternately. What masters of the art! How easily they did it! Disgusted with the company and their doings, one after the other of our associates paid tribute to whom tribute was due; and what was left of our disgusted organisms went below as best they could. And here the curtain drops; for, though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. It is 6 P. M., Sunday. We were told that the winds increased to a gale; rain, snow-squalls and hail came into the fray. The vessel staggered; the stanch bulwarks were but a partial barrier to that fury-lashed sea; and the decks were often swept with the newest of new brooms. Next in our record is Friday P. M. Fair weather. Ship has come out ahead. Imps and their master are defeated and gone; the decks, as by talismanic transformation, are peopled again with the old brigade; and then for hours is in order a statement of what each has done and has not done. Well, the history of one lot of mortals, conditioned thus, is that of all. It is a question often arising with people who have never been to sea, how passengers manage to occupy their time and break up the monotony of the passage. On a long voyage, days and hours doubtless move sluggishly, but on a simple passage to England this is not so. A thousand things, that on land would be of no account, on shipboard attract attention and please. "Men are but children of a larger growth," and there are playthings in abundance. There's a discount on reserve, and at sea a general freedom in conversation obtains; aristocracy is at a discount, and democracy at a premium. Reading, lolling around in a delightfully don't-care sort of a way, are done in first-class manner; smoking, cards, and checkers occupy some, while others are busy lookers-on. Talking things over,--politics, religion, science, and a large amount of nothing in particular; promenading; watching steamers and sailing vessels; observing schools of fish, or single ones, ocean currents, peculiar clouds, and work the sailors are doing; eating four meals, or eating none, but instead hating the thought of increasing one's self,--these and like things fill the eight or ten days. And so we were entertained and employed to the journey's end,--greatly interested in the chart at the head of the companion-way, which at noon daily had marked upon it a distinct line showing the direction and extent of sea passed over the preceding twenty-four hours. So our voyage continued till the next Sunday, at 6 P. M., when the monotony was broken by one of the officers confidentially saying he thought he saw land. Of all intelligence to a tourist this is most welcome. One of the passengers--nameless here--looked to the left far ahead, and really saw what the officers did; but to his less disciplined or sea-educated eyes it appeared to be a ship, and so he declared; but in a half-hour more sounded from stem to stern the intelligence of discovered land, and then the fancied ship had been transformed into a dim-appearing, small mountain. It was the Skellig Rocks, the first-seen land of Ireland, fifty miles from Cape Clear. Passing on came to view Dursey Island, with its Bull, Cow, and Calf rocks, and then--alas for us waiters and watchers!--night came and we must forbear. At 4 o'clock A. M. on that fine Easter Monday morning, April 21, a good company on deck saw plainly on the left, and not far away, the veritable land. There lay in the distance the old mountains of Munster, and Fastnet Rock, a pyramidal formation standing majestic in the water five miles or so out from the high, dark, rocky coast. Next a lighthouse came into view, desolate but surrounded by an indescribable beauty. Soon we pass into George's Channel. The land is treeless, but clothed with elegant verdure. The surf beats wildly and unhindered against its rocky ramparts. Here and there, nestling cosily on the hillsides, are small Irish cabins, one-story high, built of stone, plastered and whitewashed, having thatched roofs, a few small windows, and a single door. Next appear a few Martello Towers of stone, some twenty-five feet in diameter, and perhaps forty feet high,--designed as fortresses, having formerly, if not at present, cannon on their level, and, it may be, revolving tops. And now appear fresh evidences of civilization, in the fishing-boats with tan-colored sails; and next we arrive at a little hamlet, Crooked Haven, the seat of the telegraph to Queenstown. We next pass Kinsale Head; in less than an hour more Daunt's Rock, with its bell-buoy; and after that a sail of five miles carries us to the opening into Queenstown Harbor, and we are at the end of the voyage. It is now 5 o'clock A. M. Our ship for the first time in eight days shuts off steam; her pace slackens; and--as though while not tired, yet willing to rest--she floats leisurely. How majestic and calm! The small "tender" steamer is alongside, and now what scenes begin! How others retire before the hurry, the bustle, the good-nature everywhere manifest. A veritable "Paradise Regained." No matter for corns trodden upon, nor lack of respect for dignity or age. Every one destined for a landing minds his own business. Never was work of the kind done better. All the Queenstown passengers on board, the tender starts for the desired haven. The City of Richmond starts her machinery, and is soon lost to view on her journey of eighteen hours to Liverpool; but we on board the small steamer are full of admiration for the new sights and sounds. Have just passed through the great opening two miles across, and one mile deep or through, and so are inside the harbor lines. In passing, on our left were high, verdant hills. On the right were higher hills, crowned with a few chalk-white buildings,--the lighthouse and its keeper's dwelling, the grounds enclosed with a wall, white like the buildings, resembling fairy-work in that setting of emerald. And now has opened an expanse of great extent and rare beauty. "No finer harbor in the world can there be," think and ejaculate all, at that early day, when few if any of the party have travelled; and "No finer in the world is there," say we now, when we have gone a good part of the world over. To the right, encircling and on a magnificent scale, stretch the green hills on a curved line, half enclosing a basin five miles long and three wide. As before named the hills are grandly verdant, and dotted over here and there with single stone shanties, as white as snow. Scattered about promiscuously in profusion is the Furze--a shrub from two to six feet high, in general appearance not unlike our savin--in full bloom, with a profusion of chrome-yellow blossoms, fragrant and like the odor of a ripe peach. A few groves intermingle, and thus a finished look is given, inclining the beholder to call all perfect and needing no change. To the left is a scene more broken in outline and less elevated and extended. There is a sublime repose and feminine beauty to the right and around the shore to the town; but on the left is a masculine effect, and a sort of vigorous business air obtains. In the foreground of this side of the harbor, and not far from the shore, are three islands, on which are the barracks, the penitentiary for eight hundred convicts, and the naval storehouses, four or five stories high. These are modern and appropriate-looking stone edifices, built, as all such establishments are, "regardless of expense." In front of the opening to the harbor, and two miles away, lies the town itself, containing 10,039 inhabitants, and till 1849 called the Cove of Cork. In that year, in commemoration of a visit of Queen Victoria, it took the name of Queenstown. We are for the first time inside a harbor of the land of the shamrock, and beholding the soil of the Emerald Isle. Only one who has sailed and waited and, Columbus-like, watched the approach to land, and has read and thought well about the Old Country, can know the feelings that fill the breast of one about to land. This pleasant anticipation is here, for fancy resolves itself into reality and fact. He is about to "know how it is himself," and as no one can know it for him. The town lay stretched out in front, right and left, rising by abrupt terraces or cross streets--parallel to the water--to a great height, with a few streets leading upward. The wharves are of wood; and these, which partake largely of the nature of a quay along the line of the water, are old and more or less decayed in appearance, as are many of the buildings in the vicinity. The houses to the right of our landing and along the shore, and continuing up quite a distance on the hill, are of the usual stone construction, being mostly one or two stories high. The streets are very narrow, and far from being cleanly kept. The rear yards of the houses, as they back up against the hill, are very small; and as one walks through an elevated street, and looks down into these contracted and filthy back-yards and on the roofs of the houses, he is led to pity the occupants, for there is presented the evidence of poverty and wretchedness. To the left of the landing, and above this portion of the town, is a better population and condition. The principal avenue and business portion of the place is at hand. A wide, clean, and properly built thoroughfare, used more or less as a market-place and stand for teams, stretches for a fourth of a mile, with stores of fair capacity and good variety, and a few are of more than average style. The buildings are nearly all of stone, light in color, and three or four stories high. From the nature of the land, and intermingled as the buildings above the main street are with gardens and trees, a picturesque appearance is presented; and the view of the great basin or harbor, from these elevated streets is indescribably grand. The streets here, and especially the continuing roads, are well macadamized and clean. At the centre of the town a large and elegant Roman Catholic Cathedral, built of dark limestone and in the decorated Gothic style of architecture, is about finished. One peculiarity of the place is a lack of fruit-trees in the gardens. The common dark-leaved ivy abounds, and is found growing wild on road-walls, and along the roadsides in profusion. As a front-yard or lawn shrub, fuchsias, such as are raised in America in pots, are common, and often in large clumps like our elder, six or eight feet high. Another peculiarity is an absence of clothes-lines. Instead, the practice prevails of spreading newly washed clothes on the grass, with small stones to keep them from being blown away. Another thing of interest is the common and general use of diminutive donkeys to draw small carts, used by boys and girls, from eight to sixteen years old, for common porterage. They are also used for milk-wagons. Each wagon has an oaken tank, holding about half a barrel; straight-sided, larger at the bottom than at the top, having a cover and padlock; the measure hanging on one side. There is straw behind, and at the front end the boy or girl is driving. These donkeys are usually of a cream-color or gray. All are cheap and coarse-looking, and a majority of them are aged, with their hair two thirds worn off. They are the very personification of good-nature, and do their work well. So far as value is concerned they are "worth their weight in gold," but they cost, when in best condition, not more than ten dollars each. Witnessing their patience, the great services they render, and the small amount of recompense they have while living, we incline to the opinion that, as a result of the working of the laws of cause and effect, there may be expected for them good conditions in their Hereafter. They are angels in disguise, and we wish they were in use in America as commonly as they are here. Other objects that attracted attention were the public wells built in especial parts of the town. They are enclosed springs of water, or it may be reservoirs supplied by pipes; the places are from six to ten feet square, and only a few feet deep, a descent to which is made by stone steps into the small, stone-covered rooms. The people using them for the most part carry the water to their houses in earthen jars holding two or three gallons each. The water is carried by girls and women, seldom by boys and men; at least we could see none engaged in the service. As may be imagined, considering the filthy nature of some of the people who thus obtain the water, it is necessary to have a placard declaring the enforcement of law on any one who dips a dirty or questionable article into one of the wells, or interferes with the purity of the water. Signs render a large service in the place, and some of them make queer statements,--at least so they appear to Americans. For instance, one reads: HERE MARGARET AHEARN IS LICENSED TO SELL TOBACCO. The street letter-boxes had this inscription: CLEARED AT 8 A.M. AND 6 P.M., AND ON SUNDAYS AT 5 P.M. At 2 P. M. this same day with some reluctance we left what was to us a place of interest, and took the nice little black-painted steamer Erin, for a sail from this Lower Harbor of Cork, as it formerly was called, to the city itself. The journey, covering a distance of eleven miles, may be made by rail or steamer. The wise, pleasure-seeking tourist goes by river. On board the little steamer, having paid a shilling (twenty-four cents) for the passage, valises at our side,--and that is all of our baggage, or as we ought now, being in foreign lands, to term it, _luggage_,--we take our last admiring look at this queen of harbors, and with inexpressible reluctance bid adieu to its beautiful scenery, submitting to our fate in anticipation of another visit, as the steamer that takes us to America will be here for a day to receive the mails. We steam to the left end of the basin, and, rounding to the right, pass into the lovely River Lee,--an extremely picturesque stream averaging here perhaps a quarter of a mile in width. The weather is cool, but pleasant for the season. Vegetation in certain respects is three or four weeks in advance of that about Boston. This applies to grass, lilacs and shrubs of the kind, and spring flowers; but garden vegetables, from planted seeds, are not at all in advance. In fact, up to this time, April 22, little planting has been done. The atmosphere of the southern parts of Ireland and of England being very damp, and the entire winter mild, certain kinds of vegetation advance; but cultivated work has no especial advantage over New England, where the first fruits of the gardener's labor are gathered as early as in those islands. But to return from our digression, we proceed on our short voyage to Cork, and are now on our passage up the River Lee. The scenery on the right bank, on the Queenstown side, is somewhat hilly and of pleasing aspect, though not especially striking or unusual; but that of the opposite shore is elegant and picturesque in the extreme. About a mile from the mouth of the river is the beautiful village of Monkstown, a semi-watering-place, having tourists' hotels and a castle. Monkstown Castle is in ruins, having been built in the year 1636. It is related that Anastatia Goold, a woman of masculine qualities, during the absence of her husband in Spain, conceived the idea of building this as a family mansion, and to pay for it, hit upon the scheme of supplying her workmen with their family stores. She purchased them at wholesale, and retailed them at a profit which paid the entire cost of the castle, with the exception of a single groat (eight cents of our money). The river above this widens into a small lake, and is called Loch Mahon. Three and a half miles farther up we arrive at the smart little village of Glenbrook; and one and a half miles farther, we come to another pretty town, called Passage. Soon appears Blackrock, a small promontory, on which is a structure suggesting an ancient castle, built on a tongue of land extending into the clear water of the river. The mansion, however, is old only in style and outline, for it is of modern construction. Blackrock is supposed to be the place from which William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania, set sail, A. D. 1682, landing after a passage of six weeks. We were for the hour sumptuously entertained. Small castles, coves, headlands, near and distant scenery, and a luxurious vegetation lent a fascination and charm, which was but the beginning of a series of similar entertainments, not to end till after the first of September. CORK. Arrived at the castle, not far in the distance is seen, through the opening of the hills making the river banks, the shipping of the city of Cork, which is practically the capital of South Ireland. We find it a large commercial metropolis, built closely on both sides of the River Lee. The latter is parted at the city, and thus the left side of Cork stands mainly on an island, connected with the other side by nine stone or iron bridges. It has in all a population of 97,887, and is the third city of Ireland in importance and commerce, being excelled only by Dublin and Belfast. On one side of the river as we pass into the city, at our left hand, are shipyards, repair and dry docks, and a vast amount of work of the kind is done. It may be added, there is presented to view in the harbor a forest of masts, and here may be seen the shipping of all nations. Near these and just above them, up along farther in the city and bordering the river, are fine Boulevards,--narrow parks or promenades well graded, called the Mardyke, and set out with shade-trees. The opposite side of the river, at the entrance of the harbor proper, is occupied by elegant lawns, with shrubbery and shade-trees in front of fine mansions and villas; and again, along the river above these, begins the business part of the city. A good quay extends half a mile on both sides of the river. These have walls of cut, dark limestone, crowned by a substantial railing as a protecting balustrade. The larger part of the place, so far as its business portion is concerned, is built on level ground, and here the streets are wide, well paved and clean, and with the buildings, all of which are of brick or stone, a majority of the latter being painted in light colors, present a pleasing and finished appearance. All things seen are anything but what is imagined by a stranger when he hears one speak of Irish Cork. Here and there, as at Queenstown, may be seen some of the old Irish male stock, with corduroys and long stockings, velvet coats, peculiar felt hats, heavy shoes--strangers to Day and Martin's specialty; but these are exceptions, about as much so as they are in the Irish sections of New York or Boston. Generally speaking, the dress of the people, male and female, of Irish cities is not peculiar, and aside from these exceptional instances they do not vary from those of London or Boston. As regards a good civilization--everywhere in the business parts of the city, manifested by large and well-filled stores and fine warehouses, and by well dressed and industrious people--our impressions were very favorable. The city in this region, like all large places, has its quota of men loafing about its bridges and wharves, waiting, Micawber like, "for something to turn up." So has Atlantic Avenue, Boston. In these respects Boston is Corkish, or Cork is like Boston. About the steamer wharves and at the railway station (we don't now talk of _depots_, for to be true to foreign dialect, we must say _station_) it is the same. At these, and along the thoroughfare from it, are boys, Yankee-like, ready to turn an honest penny or to earn one; and very demonstrative they are, and the cabmen as well. Americans are often outdone by them. One of these boys, at the moment of our landing from the steamer, seized our valises and _would_ carry them. He _in_sisted and we _re_sisted, and at length the American element in us--"the spirit of '76"--was aroused, and in the ascendant; and to convince him that he ought to let go his hold, down came a hand on his arm with a force, and accompanied by a tone of voice and ejaculation, that meant business. "Keep off! Let go!" was the order and advice, and he did both. Here, as at Queenstown, the little donkeys were on hand, and rendering a large and patient service. The public buildings are not very important, but substantial and good of their kind. Conspicuous among the new edifices is the Episcopal Cathedral now being erected. It is of stone, very imposing, with three towers, and in the Romanesque style of architecture. The Roman Catholic Cathedral, SS. Peter and Paul, also of dark limestone, having cut or hammered dressing, is a Gothic structure of considerable size, with a good tower at the centre of the front end, crowned with four turrets, and having a neat but small lawn, surrounded with an iron fence, about the cathedral's front. It was erected after designs by the celebrated F. W. Pugin, and cost $150,000. The interior, although not old, was dirty and presented a dingy appearance. We were told by the verger (sexton) that times being hard, business dull, and the people poor, accounted for the condition. We differed in opinion in other respects than theologically, but made no mention of the fact, and passed out. Of course we must see, and soon at that, the church of St. Ann's, Shandon, and so made for that. It ought before to have been said that soon after crossing the river the land rises quite fast; so that as one stands in the business part, and in the thoroughfare along the line of the river,--and looks across the entire section of the city from the river backwards, the distant parts are seen towering much above the business portion. High up, along from the centre to the right, appear shade-trees and good gardens, with other evidences of a better civilization; but from these along to the left is presented a view quite the opposite of the front, or harbor, view of Queenstown. There, the low population is to the right and near the water; while here it begins half-way up the hill at the centre, and extends a half-mile or more to the left; and, as we leave the centre named, the buildings on the hillside, and the group or lot widening till they reach from the river to the top of the hill, are so arranged that, with houses of several stories and of remarkably quaint design, the high roofs appear in ranges one above the other, and the great hillside presents a strange, antique, thoroughly European appearance. They are of stone, built in the most substantial manner, and are unlike anything that can be found in America. But we resume our journey to St. Ann's, Shandon. As observed from the river streets, it stands not far from the Catholic Cathedral, nor far from the centre of the hillside, as regards extent right and left, or elevation. The edifice was built in 1722. The tower was built of hewn stone, taken from the Franciscan Abbey--where James II. heard mass--and from the ruins of Lord Barry's castle. It is of dark limestone on the three principal sides, and, like the body of the church, with red sandstone on the rear side above the church roof. The edifice is made celebrated by what are termed and somewhat well known as The Sweet Bells of Shandon, made conspicuous by the poem of Father Prout:-- "Sweet Bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee." The church is Protestant Episcopal, and is of a debased Roman architecture. It has a square tower rising a proper distance above the roof, and this is crowned by a series of three square sections of somewhat ill proportions as regards their low height; and the top one is finished with a small dome surmounted by an immense fish as a vane, the tower and steeple being perhaps one hundred and twenty feet high. We did not hear the bells, save as they played a few notes at the quarter-hours. The one on which the hours are struck is probably the largest tenor bell, and weighs perhaps 2000 pounds. What we did hear of them did not arouse enthusiasm. We simply thought them good average bells, and made more than that, in song and story, simply by Father Prout's poem. One thing about the tower struck us forcibly, and that was the monstrous dials, full twelve feet in diameter, painted directly on the stonework of the tower, with a rim of stone at the figure circle. Next, a few words in relation to the population and condition of this part of the city. It will be remembered that we are now in the centre of the hillside, as seen from the business parts of the place, and at an elevation of full sixty feet,--in the conspicuous, and what ought to be aristocratic, quarter of the metropolis. But alas for what "might have been." The street in front, and the passage along the side of this building, are ill cared for and filthy in the extreme. A burial-ground forms part of the premises on both sides of the edifice, and is as neglected and disgraceful as one can well imagine. On the right is a thoroughfare alongside of the church, leading through the cemetery to some institution--perhaps a parish-school or hospital--in the rear of the church, and fronting on this passage-way. Here are cast-off shoes, broken crockery, stones thrown about by the boys, and unmentionable filth in abundance. At the right are broken monuments, badly defaced gravestones, and half-dilapidated tombs, all betokening a general lack of care over the premises. Walking from the front of the church to the narrow and filthy streets that compose the neighborhood, we noticed such odors, sights, and conditions as we had before erroneously associated with all of Cork. We here saw a low Ireland at its best--or worst, as we may choose to term it; for here abounded dirt, degradation, poverty, and general squalor, up to the height of our early imagination. The houses are of stone, plastered and whitewashed, most of them one or two stories high, with roofs covered with very small and thick slates. We soon had enough of this kind of "Erin go bragh." If we did not know all that was possible to be known, imagination would, in spite of us, aggravatingly supply what was lacking. As we passed out of this "Paradise Lost," or at least the one not regained, we could but feel that to make less display of service within their churches, depend less for good fame on the Sweet Bells of Shandon, and render a more reasonable and practical service, would be more rational, Christian and right. We are told that the ancient Pharisees made the outside clean, and the inside was full of dead men's bones, and all manner of uncleanness. These people have reversed this, and without visible improvement. Next must be named a thing of interest, and that is the Bazaar. It is a one-story building of immense size, and in appearance like a railway freight-house. Built of stone, and centrally situated, it is filled with every conceivable kind of second-hand goods. Separated, market-like, into stalls, it is so arranged and confusing as to make a labyrinth of avenues and divisions. Here are such things as old hardware, boots and shoes,--some as poor and valueless as we throw away, some better and newly blacked,--clothing for both sexes, crockery,--and we might continue the list. The Bazaar is managed by women, and the place and its commodities are as indescribable as the nationality of the Man in the Moon. As at Queenstown, we saw much drunkenness, and often met, singly or in squads, the Red-coats, or English soldiers; but more concerning these will be said in another place. The space we devote to this city is perhaps more than its share, but less can hardly be said, and our references to it are ended by a quotation or two from its history. It is said that Cromwell, during his short sojourn in Cork, caused the church bells to be cast into cannon. On being remonstrated with against the profanity, he replied that as a priest had been the inventor of gunpowder, the best use of the bells would be to cast them into _canons_. It was here that William Penn, founder of our Pennsylvania, became a convert to Quakerism. He visited the place to look after his father's property, changed his religion under the preaching of Thomas Loe, and on Sept. 3, 1667, was apprehended with others and taken before the Mayor's Court, charged with "attending unlawful assemblies." Refusing to give bonds for good behavior he was imprisoned, but wrote to the Lord President of the council of Munster, who ordered his discharge. He was identified with the Quakers from this time till his decease, at Ruscombe, England, July 30, 1718, at the age of seventy-four. Cork has an interesting ancient history. It was long the seat of a Pagan temple, on the site of which St. Fionn Bar, the anchorite, founded a monastery in the beginning of the seventh century. The Danes in the ninth century overran the kingdom, and were probably the real founders of the city, and they surrounded it with walls; though the St. Fionn Bar monastery had continued through the centuries, and it is recorded that, on the intrusion of the Danes, the seminary had full seven hundred scholars "who had flocked there from all parts." The inhabitants, under the Danes and their successors, frequently devastated the entire vicinity, and were in turn punished by the neighboring chiefs. In 1493 Perkin Warbeck, the impostor king and pretender to the throne of England in the reign of Henry VII., was received here with great pomp and display. In consequence of participation in this act, the mayor was hanged and beheaded, and the city lost its charter, which was not restored till 1609. An ancient historian, Ralph Holinshed, whose works were published in 1577, thus describes this city. "On the land side they are encumbered with evil neighbors--the Irish outlaws, that they are fein to watch their gates hourlie, to keep them shut at service time, and at meales, from sun to sun, nor suffer anie stranger to enter the citie with his weapon, but the same to leave at a lodge appointed. They walk out at seasons for recreation with power of men furnished. They trust not the country adjoining, but match in wedlock among themselves onlie, so that the whole citie is well-nigh linked one to the other in affinite." In the War of the Protectorate, Cork maintained its condition as a loyal city till 1649, when it was surprised and taken by Cromwell, whose acts and cruelties are well known the civilized world over. CHAPTER II. BLARNEY--KILLARNEY--THE LAKES. At 9 A. M. Tuesday, April 23, we took a jaunting-car for famed Blarney Castle. Before proceeding with our story we must speak of our team, for it is the mode of conveyance for tourists over the Emerald Isle, and Ireland would hardly seem like Ireland without the jaunting-car. It is a vehicle with two wheels and a single horse. The driver is mounted up, sulky-style, in front. There are two seats, lengthwise and back-to-back, for a couple of adult persons, facing outwards, and most of the time _holding on_, though a little practice convinces one that the danger of falling is less than anticipated. Large numbers of these teams are in the main streets of all the principal Irish towns, waiting for employment. The usual price for a jaunt is eight shillings, or about $2.00 of American money. The one selected, whose driver was over anxious to carry the two Amirikins, as he called us, offered to do the job for 7_s._ 6_d._ Yankee-like, having made a good bargain,--and the driver, unyankee-like, having as at an auction bid against himself,--we mounted, and were soon on our way to the place so renowned in history. First, we will consider the roads. The ride is exceedingly pleasant, and over one of the smooth and hard roads which are everywhere to be found in Ireland. We go out of Cork southwardly, and pass through a small and not over-nice settlement called Black Pool, by no means inaptly named. The scenery is very pleasing, and so is the road we travel. The view on the north side of the river, though not wild or romantic, has beautiful landscapes, made up of fine hills and valleys, streams and groves, with, now and then, unlooked-for ruins of a monastery or small castle, or of distant round-towers. There are no long straight roads, but there is an ever varying aspect, and the ways are clean to a fault. It is a characteristic of Ireland, England, and nearly all European countries, to have well-built faced-stone walls along the roadside, and an entire absence of the random weeds and bushes which so commonly grow along the walls and sides of the roads in America. It is a disgrace to our Young American civilization that it should be an exception, where the sides of our roads, and especially in the vicinity of farmhouses, are clean, and in lawn-like condition, as is always the case abroad. We have much to learn from Ireland,--a deal of our practice to unlearn, and considerable to do,--before we can compare favorably with Europe in this respect. A waste of acres exists in consequence of this neglect on nearly all New England farms. In the aggregate there are hundreds of thousands of acres which, if kept clean and cultivated for grass, would be profitable. Even if done at the town's expense, the income would go far towards paying the cost of keeping in repair the adjoining highway. The State should pass a law making this neglect a finable offence; and the sooner all States do this the better our civilization will be. We continue on our way enjoying inexpressibly the exhilarating air and sunny, May-like day, and entertained somewhat by the clack of the driver, who, as best he can, tries to make his old story appear to us as new as possible, but, in spite of our or his efforts, we get the impression that he has told that story before. We next get a good but distant view of Carrigrohan Castle, belonging to one Mr. McSwiney--the name of both castle and owner Irish enough. It is situated on a precipitous limestone-rock formation on the opposite bank of the river. At length--one hour passed, and about four miles traversed--we arrive at the old, dirty, low, dilapidated, Irish town of Blarney, which, for situation and surroundings, is as beautiful as every place in Ireland can't help being. Blarney has been immortalized in song by Millikin, Croker, and old, peculiar Father Prout. A ride of two miles, and we are at the grounds of the castle itself. It was built in the fifteenth century by Cormac McCarthy, or possibly by the Countess of Desmond, and became the home of the famous family of McCarthys. It is now a magnificent old ruin, well situated near a little lake, and surrounded by grand old trees. Admission to the premises is readily gained, as the grounds are open to the public free, such small, optional fee being given to the guide as the tourist may incline to present. The castle consists mainly of the massive Donjon Tower, about forty feet square, and one hundred and ten feet high, and some ruined walls of less height, once part of adjoining apartments. Much of the tower and lower walls is completely covered with ivy, and most of the foliage is from twelve to sixteen inches thick. There is a picturesqueness about such a place that is indescribable. The grand and colossal scale on which it is constructed; the rich greenness of the lawns; the shade of portions of the immediately adjoining groves; the sombre hue of the stonework, and the dark green of the mantling ivy; the gleam of the little lake as discovered through the vistas; the age of the edifice, so apparent; the consciousness that this is a veritable ruin, and what is left of an unparalleled splendor of other days, now calm as if resting fixed in its immortality,--these combine to resolve imagination into reality, and produce sensations that are felt, but never transferred from one mortal to another. Perhaps there enters into emotion a suggestion of decline and decay still operating. "The vulgar crowd," as old English expression would put it, are possessed not by the finer æsthetic conditions, but by those more tangible and material. The famed Blarney Stone is one of the coping-stones of the outside projecting cornice, near the top of the tower, and resting on large, but plain, stone corbels, or brackets. In appearance from the ground, it is six feet long and eighteen inches thick, and projects two feet or so. Many years ago it appeared to be insecure, and two iron bars were put on the outside, securing it in its position. There are courses of stone upon it, falling back from the front surface, and making a parapet to the tower. It was over this parapet that persons, head downwards, held and aided by others, performed the task of kissing the stone. A stairway on the inside leads nearly to the top of the tower; but now, for a more convenient and safe way of performing the operation, another stone, bearing date 1703, is kept within the tower. Its magic is as effectual, while it is reached with comparative safety. It is indeed marvellous that a few lines of worse than doggerel poetry have materially aided in giving this stone a notoriety that is world-wide, and which, but for this aid, would hardly have been heard of outside of its neighborhood. It was long a superstitious belief that whoever kissed it would ever after be in possession of such sweet, persuasive, and convincing eloquence as to put the listener entirely under the control of the speaker. Rev. Father Prout's allusion to the stone is in part as follows:-- There is a stone there that whoever kisses, Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent; 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a member of Parliament. A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or An out and outer, to be let alone! Don't hope to hinder him or to bewilder him, Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone. The grounds by which the castle are surrounded were once adorned with statues, bridges, grottos, but all are now gone, and Father Prout deplores the condition as follows:-- The muses shed a tear, When the cruel auctioneer, With his hammer in his hand to sweet Blarney came. Blarney Lake is a beautiful piece of water, set in a charming framework of trees and natural shrubbery, and is about five minutes' walk from the castle. Tradition, handed down through many generations, has it that at certain seasons a herd of white cows come up from the centre of the lake, look admiringly but with a melancholy pleasure on the ruined castle, for a few moments' graze on the lawns near it, and then with a soldierly march retire to their oblivion-like resting-place, there to remain till the time comes next year for their weird and fairy-like visit. Another legend is--and this country abounds with them--that the Earl of Chantry having forfeited the castle, and having had it confiscated and ruined at the Revolution, carried his plate and deposited it in a particular part of the lake, and that three McCarthys, and they only, are in possession of the secret of the place where it was cast in. When either of the three dies, he communicates the intelligence to some other member of the family, and thus the secret is kept, never to be publicly revealed till a McCarthy is again Lord of Blarney. Within the castle grounds runs the small River Coman, and on its banks is an old Cromlech, or druidical altar; and there are also a number of pillar-stones, similar to those at Stonehenge, on which are worn inscriptions of ancient Ogham characters. Differing as the place did from anything yet seen by us, and our anticipations more than fulfilled, we, after a two hours' sojourn, reluctantly mounted the jaunting-car and took our way back to Cork. After dining at the Victoria, at half-past three of this same day, we took steam-cars for the town of Killarney; and here we must speak of the railroads. As this was our first experience in travelling on one of them, we may with propriety say something of them once for all; for one statement applies to railroads, not only in Ireland, England, and Scotland, but in all those parts of Europe where we have travelled. Solid are the roadbeds, not troubled by frosts as ours are. Stone or iron are the bridges, and of the most durable kind, often with brick abutments and arches. Of course, at times, there are the bridges for common roads that pass over them. The substantial tunnels are sometimes miles long. There are well-made grass enbankments, nicely kept. The stations are quite good and cleanly, and there is invariably an exquisite neatness about the outside, where flower-patches and borders are carefully cultivated. The restaurants are poor and uninviting. Especially is this description true of England. Large and strong engines, on which is an absence of superfluous decorations of brass, or costly-to-keep-clean finish, are universal. The cars, as we say, but _coaches_ as they term them, are of three classes, first, second, and third. The best of them are undesirable to Americans, but submitted to in the absence of those with which they are familiar. Prices for travel vary. That of first-class is slightly more per mile than in ours. The second-class is something less, or, on an average, two thirds the cost of ours. Two cents per mile is the usual tariff. Perhaps one quarter of the people ride first-class, and the remainder are about equally divided between the second and third. The first-class are what we may describe as from four to six common mail-stages, built together as one, but wide enough for five persons on each seat. There is a door in the middle, opening on the platforms, and of course half of the passengers must ride backward. This is true also of the other classes, with slight exceptions in some of the cars of Switzerland; and even these, at their best, make an American homesick, and sigh for those of his native land. A light, or window, in the doors, and a small one at the end of each seat, is the universal rule. Second and third-class cars are nearly alike, save perhaps that there are cushions in the former, while there are none in the latter; though by no means does the purchase of a second-class ticket ensure cushions. The cars of these classes are straight-sided, like our freight cars, with side doors and small windows like those of the first-class. There are no fires, poor lights for night travel; no toilet saloons, nor any conveniences as in ours. Once in, the door is shut by an official, and usually locked till we land at the next station. In the cars of the first two classes the partitions extend from floor to roof, with seats against both sides; but in a few of the third-class there is simply a wide rail for resting the back, or a partition of the same height. When we saw any of these, though having it may be a second-class ticket, we would, to be as homelike as possible, avail ourselves of them. One does not object to second-class passage; and even the third is far from being as questionable as at first thought, to one unused to travelling, it might seem. It is generally the intensely aristocratic class, of the _noli-me-tangere_ kind, who ride first-class,--or Americans inexperienced in travel. Officials are at all stations in abundance. They are ready cheerfully--but in their own way, to be sure--to give any information a traveller may require. In all parts of the Continent over which we journeyed, we had no special trouble in understanding them, or in making them understand us. So many English and Americans travel that the employees soon learn how to reply to the usual questions put to them. A little knowledge, however, of German and of French--as much as applies to common things, and as may with a little exertion be learned from most of the guide-books--helps the tourist amazingly. As regards the time made by these railroads, we rode on some of them faster than on ours at home, and are justified in saying that their promptness of arrival at stations is incredible. The roads with which we are conversant are in advance of ours in this respect. In but one instance did we find a train late; and waiting at junctions for other trains was apparently unknown. The conductors are expected to run their trains on time, and they do so unless prevented by accidents. We have been thus minute in stating the facts, as they are sure to be of interest to persons contemplating a journey. And now we pursue our way, having left Cork at 3 o'clock P. M., towards Killarney and its famed lakes, which to us have all the charms of the best Castles in the Air; for who that has thought of the famous Lakes of Killarney has not fancied something good enough for a place in the neighborhood of Eden in its palmy days? Tickets in first-class cars cost us $2.25 each. After a ride of two hours we arrive at Mallow, and after three hours more, at Killarney. The first look of the town indicates a village well shaded with trees, and one is led to anticipate anything but the reality. The houses are built in the usual Irish style,--that is, they are of plastered and whitewashed stone, and the roofs are thatched. Generally they are not over one story in height, and a low story at that. They stand on crooked and narrow streets--or alleys, rather. There is an absence of cleanliness, and little to sustain distant impressions. One of the things that early attract the tourist's attention is the general poverty of many of the inhabitants, their lack of employment and visible means of support. Beggars are bold and used to their calling; and both they and the swarm of would-be guides are annoying if treated with common civility. There is an ancient look about buildings and people, and we get the suggestion that we see things as they were a century ago. Nothing is new and fresh but the foliage. Everything has the old odor of an ancient place. The town has a population of 5,187, exclusive of 400 inmates of the almshouse--one to every thirteen of the population. Killarney is situated about a mile and a half from the nearest of the three lakes. There are two or three streets of some pretensions, on which are buildings three or four stories high, used as stores and hotels. Our hotel, the Innisfallen House, was kept, as all such small taverns are, by a woman. It was a thoroughly antiquated Irish institution, and for this reason we selected it. Experienced by long years of practice, our hostess was the _man_ of the house, and had an eye to business that would do honor to the manager of the Vendome or the Brunswick at Boston. There are few public buildings. The newish Roman Catholic Cathedral is a large structure of limestone, of good early English architecture, built from designs by Pugin. It is hardly in keeping with the town as it is, and only the eye of faith can see its harmony with the Killarney of the future. Here may be related an incident illustrating a custom which is doubtless a relic of other days. After our visit to the cathedral, at about 7 P. M., we were surprised by the sight of a peculiar crowd of people coming up the street we had entered. It was a procession, numbering some hundred or more, carrying a coffin to the cathedral. The coffin was oaken, moulded at the top and bottom edges with black, and having three ornamental, black, iron plates--eight inches square, with rings in them--on each side. Black, round-headed nails ornamented the ends. The coffin was not covered, and rested on the shoulders of six men, three on each side. As by magic, three bearers would occasionally step out, and others take their places. Back of those who headed the procession were two rows of women, from fifty to seventy years old, with black dresses, and shawls over their heads. These were howling, two or more at a time keeping up the noise; and thus, without break or intermission, there was a continued wailing, in syllables of a slow but measured and distinct utterance, sounding like "Ar-ter-_ow_-ow-_ow_-er." This was repeated till the perfection of monotony was attained. When near the cathedral the procession halted and the wailing ceased. The crowd numbered, it may be, a hundred. Arriving at the side door the coffin was carried in, and about twenty persons, probably the near relatives, entered. The remainder, including the Americans,--who, now "being in Turkey, were doing as the Turkeys do,"--remained outside, and stood or knelt uncovered. In a few moments all was ended; the friends came out of the cathedral, the crowd dispersed, and "rag, tag, and bobtail" resumed their usual vocations, the dead man having been left in the building, with the approved and requisite number of candles "to light him to glory." Turning into another street, another and similar crowd was encountered. This time the coffin was covered with black cloth, but decorated like the other, with mouldings, nails, and iron plates. In five minutes more came another. We were told the bodies were to remain in the cathedral till to-morrow, when mass could be held and they would be buried. This is a custom of the place each evening, and has been continued from time immemorial. It results from bad judgment as to what is a good use of the present, or what is a befitting preparation for the hereafter. It is a type of superstition gone to seed, and shows a love for sitting in "the region and shadow of death." Now we ramble over the town, and through some of the well-kept and stone-walled roads. In spite of the condition of the most populous parts, there is a delight and charm in these suburbs. In that pleasant evening air, within sound of the vesper bells, enveloped in the general stillness of that village atmosphere, there came good and vivid impressions of the antiquity of the place. Without an effort came the remembrance that, through the past centuries, thousands and tens of thousands of sight-seers, poets, historians, and people of great and of small renown, had walked these streets, meditated, used the time as we were doing, and passed on,--their feet never to press this historic soil again,-- Like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever. The next morning we took a jaunting-car, and began our tour of the lakes. A most elegant day it was, like good old George Herbert's Sunday--the "bridal of the earth and sky." Admirable in all respects were the roads and their surroundings,--a perpetual reminder of worse kept ones at home. We pass an elegant stone building, the Union Workhouse and County Lunatic Asylum, on the right, leaving the cathedral on our left, and ride on through that lovely scenery. It is not wild or romantic, in the common signification of those words. On our right, off in the fields and on elevated ground, are the ruins of Aghadoe, overlooking an immense valley, where reposes--out of sight to us at our left, Lough Leane, the lower and largest of the three celebrated lakes. Next, three miles out, are the ruins of Aghadoe castle and church. All that remains are the fragments of a tower thirty or forty feet in height. Of its history, or the date of its foundation, no records are extant. The church is a fine ruin, and shows the remains of a long low building, consisting of two chapels, joined at their rear ends. The easterly chapel is in the Gothic style, bearing date A. D. 1158, and is dedicated to the Holy Trinity. Full seven hundred years are gone, more than a third of the Christian era, since that stone pile was placed where it is. The other chapel is older yet, of a rude, Romanesque architecture, and was built under the patronage of St. Finian. The two are separated by a solid wall, through which there was once a communication, closed up long before the vacating and destruction of the building. The roof and woodwork being gone, nothing but stone remains. The two chapels, extending to the east and west, are eighty feet long and twenty feet wide. Continuing our ride a mile farther, we turn to the left, and pass the Aghadoe House,--a fine and well-kept estate, the residence of the Dowager Lady Headley. Next, we turn sharp to the right, and are at the estate of James O'Connell, Esq., brother of the late distinguished agitator, Daniel O'Connell. Continuing, we pass the Killalee House, and the ruins of its church. Six and a half miles now from Killarney, we have on our left, the elegant estate of Beaufort House. We cross the little River Laune, which is filled with surplus water from the small, or upper lake, and here appears to view Dunloe Castle, the seat of Daniel Mahoney, Esq. The building has a modern look, and was originally the residence of the powerful and noted O'Sullivan Mor. We must not fail to notice the Cave of Dunloe. It is situated in a field some distance off, is of great antiquity, and was discovered in 1838. It contains peculiar stones, which are presumed to belong to an ancient Irish library; and, strange to say, the books are the large stones composing the roof. Their angles contain the writings, which are simple, short, vertical lines, arranged, tally-like, above and below a horizontal one. Special numbers or combinations of these lines designate letters. It is the Ogham alphabet. We are now near the cottage of the celebrated Kate Kearney, whom Moore has immortalized in his "Sweet Innisfallen,"-- "Kate Kearney, Who lives on the banks of Killarney." The house is solitary, and stands on the left of the roadside, with high hills about it. It is but one story high, and is some forty feet long, and twenty wide. It is made of stone, plastered and whitewashed, has a thatched roof, and is occupied by the reputed granddaughter of the famous Kate, and of course she bears the same name. On our arrival, she appeared at her door as usual--an old woman of sixty years, of small stature. She wore a short dress, heavy shoes, the inevitable kerchief, or miniature shawl, folded diamond-ways over her shoulders, and a frilled white muslin cap on her head. She held a mug in one hand, and a common wine bottle in the other, with glass tumbler to match. She poured out the goat's milk, and then naïvely, with an almost young-maidenly tone of voice, asked: "And will ye not have put into it a drop of the mountain dew?" We must, though total abstinence men, run a bit of risk now, to do all that curious tourists do, so we said Yes. A drop or two mingled with the milk, when the thought instantly came that at home the dew would have been so like whiskey that we couldn't convince ourselves it was not, and so we cried "Hold! Enough!" She held, and it _was_ enough. A shilling was presented; but no, she had done business too long, and her distinguished grandmother before her, to be outgeneralled by Yankees, and so came a demand for more, which was refused. Her maiden-like demure condition changed, and we left, thinking discretion and valor were synonymous terms; and she, probably of the same opinion, retired to try her luck with the next comer that way. And now we enter the Gap of Dunloe, one of the notable places of Ireland. It is a narrow, wild, and romantic mountain pass, between highlands known as Macgillicuddy's Reeks on the right, and Purple Mountain on the left. The length of the pass is about four miles, and the road is circuitous and hilly. At the side, and at times crossing it, is a narrow stream called the Loe, at as many places expanded into five small lakes, or pools. The mountain-sides are rocky and often precipitous, and the road is here and there little more than a cart-path, winding right and left romantically between these hills, from which echoes finely the sound of our voices, or the bugle blown or the musket fired by peasants for the tourists' amusement. The journey is one thrillingly interesting, and about the only one of the kind that can be made on the island. One of the five lakes, each of which has a name, is called Black Lough; and it is in this--a basin some one hundred feet long and thirty feet wide, with walls of stone, partially filled with a dark water--that St. Patrick is said to have banished the last snake. The guides have the story at their tongue's end, and glibly relate it in a schoolboy-like fashion, never tripping, nor leading one to so much as surmise that they have not told the story before. The team takes us but a short distance into the gap, and we avail ourselves of animals called horses, who are ever on hand for the purpose. The guides owning them have followed us for a mile or more, in spite of our protestations, acting as though they knew we should hire their beasts, although we had with business-like earnestness told them that we thought we would walk. These animals were of a doubtful nature, that would confuse Darwin. They were either high-grade mules with short ears, or low-grade horses with long ones. We finally agreed with the owners, paying fifty cents each for the _what-is-its_, the guides engaging to take the animals back when we were done with them. Emerging from the gap we come out at the Black Valley stretching away to our left, and hemmed in, amphitheatre-like, by the base of the hills. The first view of this sombre moor reminds one of the heath-pictures in "Macbeth." Kohl says of it: "Had there been at the bottom, among the rugged masses of black rock, some smoke and flame instead of water, we might have imagined we were looking into the infernal regions." We ride down a winding road in the great amphitheatre, and along to its extremity, and are at the end of our journey with the horses; and now we are to walk a half-mile through a footpath, over fields and through pleasant groves, to the once fine garden and present ruins of Lord Brandon's Cottage. Here, we are at the upper lake; and our boatmen, by arrangement of the hostess at Innisfallen House, were there awaiting our arrival at 1 P. M. They had, as usual, gone direct from Killarney to the lower lake, and had rowed over that and the two others to this point, having made, in reversed order, the tour over the lakes we are to take. At 1.30 P. M., Thursday, April 25, we are in the row-boat with our two oarsmen, starting from the shore of the upper lake which is the smallest of the three,--a sheet of water two and a half miles long, three fourths of a mile wide, and covering 430 acres, being about two thirds as large as the middle lake, and only a little more than a twelfth as large as the lower one. And here we must say, what of choice we would not say, that in most instances, where the imagination has free play, realities do not fulfil anticipations. The fulsome and unqualified praises which have been bestowed on these really beautiful and justly celebrated lakes incline one to expect too much, and to overestimate their sublimity. This element, so ever present on the lakes of Scotland, is here often lacking. There is, however, a cleanliness in the remarkably irregular outline of their shores, and a beautiful decoration made by varying tinted and luxuriant vegetation, that largely compensates for a lack of vast boldness, and of great and precipitous rocky walls; and enough mountain views are in the near distance to give the scenery a majestic appearance, at times even grand in general effect. The heavy woodlands, with here and there a craggy cliff, as at the Eagle's Nest, combine to produce a charm not found about ordinary lakes. Yet it must in justice be said that our Lake George, and parts of Winnepiseogee, are their equals. The upper lake, at its westerly end, contains twelve islands, which in the aggregate cover six acres,--none of them, however, containing more than one acre, and some of them less than a quarter of one. McCarthy's is the one first reached. Arbutus is another, and the largest in the lake. It takes its name from the shrub, _arbutus unendo_. The leaves are a glossy green, and so arranged at the ends of the branches, that the waxen, flesh-like blossoms, as they hang in graceful racemes, or the later crimson fruit, seem embraced by a mantle of the richest verdure. All the islands abound in ivy, and the rocks and trees are often thoroughly bedecked with it. This lake is surely the finest of the three, and is so mainly from the fact of its having these islands and the great irregularity of the shore, embellished by the beautiful accompanying foliage. Being more immediately in the vicinity of the highlands, it has much of stern mountain effect and grandeur. From some points of view this little sheet of water appears to be entirely land-locked. Towards the lower end it becomes narrow, and is only a strip of water half a mile long. This is called Newfoundland Bay. On from this it is a yet narrower stream, varying from thirty to one hundred feet wide, and two miles long, which is the connecting part with the middle lake. To add a fascination, and intensify the interest of the tourist, every rock of respectable dimensions, and every island or cove, has its high-sounding name; for we pass Coleman's Eye, the Man of War, the Four Friends. We now arrive at the Eagle's Nest, a craggy formation 700 feet above the water, in the rugged clefts of which the eagle builds its eyrie. The young birds are taken from the nest between the middle of June and the first of July, and the rocks are so precipitous that the nests are only reached by means of ropes let down from above. The echoes from this and the surrounding rocks are very fine, and we hear them grandly repeated from hilltop to hilltop--ever continued, and passed on with a clearly perceptible interval, till, weaker and weaker by their long, rough travel, they grow fainter, and at last melt away in some unknown cavern, or, as it were, infinitely distant glen, and are lost in the great realm of nothingness from whence they came. Continuing on, we reach a fairy-like place, the Meeting of Waters, where our river, arriving at the middle lake, glides to the left around the end of Dinish Island, which reaches from, and is bounded by, this and the lower lake. Now we are at the Old Weir Bridge, very antiquated,--consisting of two unequal arches, through which the water rushes with great earnestness and force. The boatmen do nothing but guide the boat, and it is a moment of intense interest to the novice, as we dash under one of the arches. Soon we are in the middle, or, as it is called, the Mucross, or Torc Lake. This contains 680 acres, or forty more than a square mile. The principal islands are the Dinish and the Brickeen, and these are in fact the side and end walls, or the dividing barrier between it and the lower lake. There are three passages between them. This lake is oblong and narrow. In a line nearly straight we pass to the high, Gothic, single-arched bridge connecting it with the lower lake. Brickeen contains 19 acres, and is twenty or more feet up from the lake, and well wooded. Dinish is also well wooded. It contains 34 acres, and is a sort of watering-place. It has a small, rough, rustic stone wharf; also a cottage-hotel with pleasure-grounds; and by making previous arrangements dinner may be had. Our provident hostess, having an eye to our comfort and another to her income, had sent by the boatmen a basket of luncheon, and so we dined on the lake itself, and not on the shore of it. Of the beauty of Torc Lake much may be said. It has a charm peculiarly its own. Shut in with a considerably uniform wall-work of islands, it is an immense pool of clear water, in which the overhanging shrubbery is finely reflected. Its air of repose and quiet beauty makes it of interest to persons of a retiring nature, and those to whom the vastness of mountain scenery does not so pleasantly appeal. We now pass under the great Gothic arch of Brickeen Bridge, and are in Lough Leane, or the lower lake. It has an area of five thousand acres, being five miles long, and three wide, with a very irregular shore, comprising, high and low lands, coves and inlets, a few mountain recesses, and a great variety of pleasing scenery. Its islands are thirty in number, few of which, however, measure more than an acre in extent. The largest are Rabbit Island, of more than twelve acres, and Innisfallen, of twenty-one acres. Many of them have a fancied resemblance to particular things, and so are named Lamb, Elephant, Gun, Horse, Crow, Heron, Stag. The chief beauties of this great sheet of water are its generally placid surface, the mountains bordering it on the south and west, and its unlikeness to either of the others, in its low lands, and its estates stretching off to the north and east. It abounds in quiet nooks, bays, and inlets, breaking its margin; and the barren rocks on one side contrast finely with the verdure of the shore on the other. Sir Walter Scott has given a magic charm to Loch Katrine by reciting its legends; but, had he been so disposed, he could have given a like halo to these lakes, for legends of O'Donoghue and of the McCarthys abound, and supply such romantic materials as few countries can boast. As a sample we quote but one:-- Once in seven years, on a fine morning, before the sun's rays have begun to disperse the mist from the bosom of the lake, O'Donoghue comes riding over it on an elegant snowwhite horse, with fairies hovering about him, and strewing his path with flowers. As he approaches his ancient residence, everything resolves itself into its original condition and magnificence; the castle itself, banquet halls, library, his prison, and his pigeon house, are as they were in the olden time. Any one who desires, and is courageous enough to follow him over the lake, may cross even the deepest parts dry-footed, and ride with him into the caves of the adjoining mountains, where his treasures are deposited and concealed; and the daring visitor will receive a liberal gift for his company and venture, but before the sun has arisen, and in the early twilight, O'Donoghue recrosses the water, and vanishes amid the ruins of the castle, to be seen no more till the next seven years have expired. The part of the lake first entered is called Glena Bay, and as the opposite shore, some three miles away, is low, the distant surface of the lake seems to melt into the horizon, producing an effect not made by either of the other lakes. Here on the little bay's shore is the picturesque cottage of Lady Kenmare; and in the woods and highlands, which for a couple and more miles bound the western shore of the lake, are red deer, and the place was once a famous hunting-ground. We pursue our course, not stopping at O'Sullivan's Cascade, a waterfall consisting of three sections, situated a short distance back in the forest; nor do we go over to Innisfallen Island, distant but two miles to our left and in full view, though it is remarkably interesting on account of historical associations. Of all the islands of the lakes it is the most picturesque and beautiful. It contains glades and lawns, thickets of flowering shrubs and evergreens, with an abundance of arbutus and hollies of great size and beauty, and also oak and ash trees of magnificent foliage and growth. Innisfallen contains about twenty-one acres, and commands one of the most desirable and lovely views of the entire lake and surrounding mountain scenery. The most interesting object on it, however, is the grand ruin of the ancient abbey, founded in the year 600, by St. Finian. In this celebrated place the strange and interesting "Annals of Innisfallen" were composed. They contain fragments of the Old Testament, and a compendious, though not very valuable, annual history down to the time of St. Patrick, and one more perfect from the fourth to the fourteenth century. The originals, written more than five hundred years ago, are now in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. A translation of this work has been repeatedly attempted, but has never been far enough advanced to issue from the press. The Annals are a special record of Munster, but are filled with a dry record of great crimes and their punishment, wars, lists of princes and clergy, and elaborate accounts of the disputes and violent deaths of the ancient kings of Kerry. They record that in 1180, seven hundred years ago, the abbey was the place of securest deposit for all the gold and silver, and the rare and rich goods of the country; that it was plundered by Mildwin, son of Daniel O'Donoghue, as was also the church of Ardfert; and that many persons were slain in the cemetery of the McCarthys. In parting, the temptation is resistless to quote the lines of Moore relating to this renowned and beautiful place:-- Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine; How fair thou art, let others tell, While but to _feel_ how fair be mine. Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee, on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle. We next pass on towards our place of landing. Before us and not far off is Ross Island, situated on the eastern shore of the lake. It is not really an island, but a peninsula, which at times of high water, however, is difficult to reach without crossing a bridge. The place has a finished look, having good lawns and many well-kept avenues and walks. In 1804 a copper mine was opened on it, and for a time afforded a large quantity of rich ore. Croker asserts that during the four years it was worked, $400,000 worth of ore was disposed of at Swansea, at a valuation of $200 per ton, and he informs us that "several small veins of oxide of copper split off the main lode and ran towards the surface. The ore of these veins was much more valuable than the other, and consequently the miners--who were paid for the quality as well as quantity--opened the smaller veins so near the surface that water broke through into the mine, in such an overwhelming degree that an engine of thirty-horse power could make no impression on the inundation." The work was then abandoned. No doubt exists that these mines had been worked in times of antiquity, perhaps by the Danes; for while working them in 1804, rude stone hammers were found, and other unequivocal proofs of preoccupation at an early time. Ross Castle is a commanding and conspicuous object, standing isolated near the shore, on comparatively level land. It is visible from almost every part of the lake. This castle is generally visited from the land, and is less than two miles from the town of Killarney. Though now in ruins, it has a massive square tower and appendages of considerable size, and is of pleasing outline. The dark stone walls are in good preservation, and well decorated with ivy, which gives the ruin a most stately, yet romantic and picturesque effect. The grounds are well kept, and are free to the public; though a small optional fee is in order to the lass who comes out of her cottage near by, unlocks the door of the great tower, and, with a tongue not very glib, tells what little she knows of local history. The castle was built by the O'Donoghues, and was long occupied by that celebrated family. In 1652 it was well defended; at the Revolution it held out long against the English invaders, and was the last one in Munster to surrender. On the 26th of July of that year Lord Muskerry, then holding a commission of colonel under the Irish, being hard pushed, occupied the castle, and defended himself against Lord Ludlow; and it was not until he brought vessels of war (in history called _ships_) by the lake, that the surrender was made. An old legend existed,--and legends are powerful for good or for ill,--that Ross Castle was impregnable till ships of war attacked it. These were brought, it may be, to take advantage of the superstition. When they were in view, the heart of the inmates of the fortress failed; they were paralyzed with superstitious fear, and could not be induced to strike another blow. Lord Ludlow, in his Memoirs, thus tells the story:-- We had received our boats [these were probably the _ships_], each of which was capable of containing one hundred and twenty men. I ordered one of them to be rowed about the water, in order to find out the most convenient place for landing upon the enemy, which they perceiving, thought fit, by timely submission, to prevent the danger threatened them. After the surrender five thousand Munster men laid down their arms, and Lord Broghill, who had accompanied Ludlow, received a grant of £1,000 ($5,000) yearly out of the estate of Lord Muskerry, the defender of the castle. We have ended our tour over the lakes, and have visited these justly celebrated ruins, and are now ready for a walk of three quarters of an hour to our hotel at Killarney. To say that we enjoyed the day, even beyond our most sanguine anticipations, would not overcolor the picture. The drive of the morning through that sublime old scenery, to us so new; the ever fresh and pleasing emotions continually awakened; the romantic ride through the Gap of Dunloe, where the mountains are so near us, and we so near them; Kate's cottage; the Inferno-like look of the Black Valley; the walk to the upper lake, and the fairy-like sail over its waters,--all these recollections are enough for one day. At 6 P. M., as the sun declined, and the mellow tints of its evening rays were thrown aslant the waters, we wended our way home. Yet were we not entirely content, but must make one more tour, this time to Muckross Abbey. CHAPTER III. MUCKROSS ABBEY--LIMERICK--DUBLIN. The time for visiting Muckross Abbey is most auspicious, the sun being still above the horizon; and the approaching tranquillity befits a trip of the kind. The ruins we have before inspected have been castles, or fort-like structures, designed as a home for some royal family, yet sufficiently strong and impregnable to ward off the attacks of a formidable enemy. What we are now to see is not a place designed for ease, comfort, and defence against ill conditions in this life, but rather to ensure pleasure and safety in the life to come. The spot is about five miles from Killarney, and owned by Mr. Herbert, a gentleman held in the highest esteem by rich and poor. There is a neat gate-lodge, beyond which the visitor finds gratuitous admission at any hour before 6 P. M.; after that, and properly enough, a shilling is due to the gatekeeper. Our team left outside the gate, we pass through a grand avenue, and soon opens to view one of the finest and most enchanting mediæval ruins to be found in Ireland,--exquisitely interesting in every part, and beyond the power of any one to adequately describe. The ruins are on a large knoll, surrounded by trees, conspicuous among which is the yew. These trees are formed much like large cedars, and resemble them in general outline; but the foliage is dark-green, so dark as at first sight to appear almost black. The branches are very large, and spread out into flat or fanlike masses, to near the ground. The abbey was founded in 1140, and is now 742 years old. As we examine it, and more especially an ancient yew-tree, surrounded by the cloisters, known to have been there for more than 600 years, we are deeply impressed with the thought that we are communing with things relating to long past generations. It had its last repairs in 1602, was soon after abandoned, and is now without a roof, but is otherwise in good preservation. The ruins are very large and varied. They consist of both an abbey and a church. The cloisters belong to the former, and form a stone colonnade, some ten feet wide, connected by the arches with the open-to-the-sky area, some seventy-five feet square, in the centre of which stands the venerable yew already mentioned. In the retirement and obscurity of these cloisters, walked and meditated and prayed hundreds,--and in the large aggregate of years it may be thousands,--to whom no other spot on the broad earth was, in their judgment, so good and befitting for their pious purpose. Here for centuries piety intensified, was transformed into superstition, germinated, blossomed, and fruited. The different rooms of the abbey are still in good preservation, the entire structure being of masonry. The kitchen, with its immense fireplace, appears as it was centuries ago; and a little room about six feet square in one of the towers, and opening out of the kitchen, was occupied for eleven years as a sleeping-room by the hermit, John Drake, a hundred or more years ago. His patriarchal demeanor and solemn yet cheerful aspect obtained for him a people's veneration, and his piety and general seclusion excited general interest. To this day he is spoken of with scarcely less esteem than would be one of the early monks of the abbey itself. The floors of the rooms in the second story, the building being roofless, are well overgrown with the finest lawn grass. As one walks thoughtfully up the narrow, winding, stone stairs, into the dormitory, hospital, lavatory and other apartments,--in all but few in number,--the solid and venerable walls, the open sky above him, and the green grass (emblematic of human life in its best estate) beneath his feet,--under the influence of these, in spite of himself he becomes absorbed in meditation, and holds communion with those who lived and labored here centuries ago, and at length passed on to "the house appointed for all the living." Reluctantly we left the abbey, and walked through the antique passage-ways and cramped stone stairway down into the church, where, in the midst of singular beauty, were the unwelcome evidences of inevitable decay. Here are the roofless walls of the nave, choir, and transept; here are windows elegant in design, with their stone traceries yet perfect. In places, the friendly, sombre ivy is spread, like a kind mantle of charity, covering defects of broken wall, and disguising the empty place of some fallen stone. "How old all material is," we instinctively say; and yet how new the results of labor,--the vine, the shrub, the tree. How velvety and carpet-like is the grass on parts of this very floor, once pressed by the toil-worn, blistered feet of pious penance-doers, and even now a place of deposit for their mouldering bodies. Instead of desk or altar or font, of kingly stall or peasant's seat, are ancient mural stones. Here are monuments, the outward tokens of reverence and respect for the blue blood of royalty, or the saintship of those who hundreds of years ago--their work done, the checkered scenes of life over--went down to the "silent mansions of the dead." In the piscina, in the lavatory, in the place for sacred vessels, the swallow unscared builds its nest; and along the altar-steps the lizard crawls, or basks in the sunshine unalarmed. Here sleep in their low, common--and yet _uncommon_--resting-places, they of the old dispensation, side by side with men of the new. O'Sullivan, O'Donohue, Mc'Carthy--nobles and kings of Munster, before whom the multitude trembled and reverentially bowed--mingle their dust with nineteenth-century leaders. An incident, showing a notable instance of faithfulness in the performance of an agreement, may be related. At the time of the surrender of these ruins, it was stipulated that, in consideration of the fact of their being the repository of dust so peculiar and sacred, no Protestant should ever be buried within these walls; and while it would otherwise have been the choice of the late owner of the premises--Mr. Herbert the elder, Member of Parliament for Kerry and Chief Secretary of Ireland--to be here buried, this was not done. On elevated grounds outside the abbey precincts, a very large, ornamental, mediæval, granite cross was erected by subscription of both Catholics and Protestants as a mark of love and esteem for him whom they call "One of the best of men." Muckross Abbey Mansion, not far away, the seat of H. A. Herbert, Esq., the present owner of the grounds, is a fine stone building, of Elizabethan architecture. We knew of the Torc Cascade not far off; but as darkness had imperceptibly come upon us, and we were informed that little water was then passing over the fall, we did not go there, but listened to a description from our guide, who told us that the waters are precipitated in a sheet of splendid foam over a ledge of rocks, breaking into mist and spray; that the volume of water then resumes its hurried course through a deep ravine, narrow and irregular, through groups of fir and pine trees, and at last crosses the beautiful pleasure-grounds, till it falls into Muckross Lake. At no time shall we probably have a more appropriate place to speak of the mountains of Ireland; and, at the risk of being charged with digression, we make the venture. Ireland is not a prairie-like country; yet, though for the most parts hilly and undulatory, it cannot be called mountainous. In this vicinity are the principal mountains of the Emerald Isle. It was for a long time thought that Mangerton, of the Macgillicuddy's Reeks, was the highest peak in Ireland, but a late survey makes Carrantual, of the same range, the highest. They are respectively 2,756 and 3,414 feet high. For the aid of those who may not be able to judge heights readily, yet are familiar with our New England mountains, we will say that the Grand Monadnock, at Jaffrey, N. H., is 3,186 feet high, and the Wachusett, at Princeton, Mass., 2,018 feet. The distance from Muckross to the summit of Carrantual is not far from five miles. The ascent is easy, and may be made with horses. Four miles from Muckross is what is called the Devil's Punch Bowl, a tarn or mountain lake, 2,206 feet above the level of the sea, and more than two thousand feet above the surface of the lakes, they being not far from two hundred feet above sea-level. It is an ovalish basin containing about twenty-eight acres, being two thirds the size of Boston Common, the latter having within its fence lines an area of a few feet over forty-three and three fourths acres. On all sides of the tarn are shelving cliffs. History has it that C. J. Fox swam entirely around it in 1772. Purple Mountain, opposite Macgillicuddy's Reeks, with the Gap of Dunloe between, is somewhat lower than these, but we have not the figures of its elevation. After our visit to the abbey, we returned to the hotel--in name only, Innisfallen--and remained over night. Having breakfasted, valise in hand we wended our way back through the village streets to the railroad station, and took passage to Limerick. "And sure," says the reader, "that is another Irish city, and no mistake," and you are right. Our ride was exceedingly pleasant. The country was at its best, so far as vegetation was concerned,--especially its grass, for cattle-raising is the general farm occupation of the people. Here and there was a patch of potatoes, but no fruit-trees, and few good vegetable gardens. There were no stone walls or fences; if there were any land divisions they were hedges, and few at that. The more one travels in foreign countries, the more he is convinced of the folly of so much fence-work as we have on New England farms. It is a waste of labor and material, an abuse of the ground itself, and a loss of the land, usually uncultivated, lying close against the partitions; and, in addition, the shade is objectionable. Of course some divisions are needed; but many of them exist, as a necessity, only in the farmer's imagination. There are but few New England farms where a large amount of labor and time are not worse than wasted in repairs of cross walls, set up by our fathers and grandfathers, which would be used to a much better purpose if employed in their demolition. LIMERICK. After a ride of five hours, having on the way passed back through Mallow, we arrived in Limerick, where we took rooms at the Royal George Hotel. Valises deposited, and the usual toilet operations gone through with, we walk out to see this place, so like Cork and Dublin. Limerick is the capital of the county of Limerick. It is on a narrow arm of the sea, or mouth of the River Shannon, with a population of 49,670. It consists of an English town, built on an island of the Shannon, and also an Irish one; and it has a suburb called Newton Perry, on the left bank of the river. These three portions are connected by five bridges, one of which, the Wellesley Bridge, cost $425,000. We were pleasantly surprised with the appearance of the place, with the cleanness of the streets, and their good pavements, and the general order and substantial condition of all we saw. We speak now of the English portion, which is in fact the larger and principal division of the place. The surface is level, and the buildings are mostly of dark-colored brick. They are generally three or four stories high, without decoration, save simple brick cornices and arched doorways to the houses. There are solid and plainly finished fronts to the stores. The streets are of strikingly uniform appearance, presenting only here and there anything to attract notice. It has its slums like Cork; but of these we need not speak now. We next begin our walk to the cathedral, for this was the first of the cathedrals we had reached. The greater part of the edifice, as it now stands, was built during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and so is six hundred years old. We readily found it, and came to one of the iron gates leading to the burial-ground in front of it. The dark and antiquated look of the old, massive structure impressed us favorably, and touched the right chord. We had seen castles and abbeys in fine ruin, but they belonged to a dead past. We were hungering for something ancient in which the living present was playing its part, and nothing feeds this hunger so well as a cathedral, especially those that, at the Reformation, passed over from Catholicism to Protestantism, as this has done. After demonstrations at the iron gate the verger soon appeared, coming from the cathedral tower some hundred or more feet away. This burial-ground is the principal way of access to the cathedral, and has good walks from the gates to the edifice. The entire ground, perhaps a half-acre in extent, is neat and well kept, and has many ancient-looking gravestones and low slab-monuments. Our verger was a portly man of some sixty years, a master of the situation. An adept at the business, he soon understood our case and our nationality, and we thought we understood him. Both parties being in good humor and knowing their business, we proceeded from point to point over the edifice, he all the time trying to earn his fee of a shilling each, and we aiding him as best we could, by seeming to pay respectful attention, yet doing as much thinking outside of his thoughts as we chose, and in our own way. The cathedral is large and imposing to view from the outside, irregular in outline, and antique-looking in the extreme. It is built of a dark-dinged, brownish colored stone, and is of Gothic architecture. It has a tower one hundred and twenty feet high, but no spire above it. At the time of our visit the building was under process of extensive restorations of the interior. There are many ancient monuments in the various parts of the building, some of them centuries old. It would be interesting to allude freely to them, but our limits will not permit. One illustration must suffice, and that is quoted for its simplicity and quaintness. It was read off by our guide with a promptness and precision, both of words and declamation, that suggested familiarity, and that we were by no means the first who had heard it. MEMENTO MORY HERE LIETH LITTELL SAMVELL BARINGTON THAT GREAT VNDER TAKER OF FAMIOVS CITTIS CLOCK AND CHIMS MAKER HE MADE HIS ONE TIME GOE ERLY AND LATTER BVT NOW HE IS RETVRNED TO GOD HIS CREATOR THE 19 OF NOVEMBER THEN HE SCEST AND TO HIS MEMORY THIS HERE IS PLEAST BY HIS SON BEN 1693. After a good examination of the venerable edifice and its appendages below, we ascended the tower, our verger accompanying,--for which an extra shilling each must be paid. From here we had an admirable view of the city; but nothing seen from above, or inside the cathedral below, interested us more than the chime of bells in the tower. Wherever the English language is spoken, these bells receive honorable mention, for it is these to which reference is made in that plaintive but sweet poetry,--and who has not sympathized with its sentiment?-- "Those evening bells, those evening bells, How many a tale their music tells." There are eight of them, each hung with a wheel to aid its ringing. Four of them are old, and the others comparatively new. The largest weighs about three thousand pounds. Having said something in regard to the business part of the city and cathedral, we next take a look at other parts of the former, and consider a few items of history. Newton Perry, the new section, contains wide streets and promenades, and on these are fine residences of wealthy inhabitants, many of whom are merchants doing business in the city proper, which we will now speak of. George Street, a grand thoroughfare, continues on one side through Richmond Place to the Military Walk, and on the other along Patrick Street, through Rutland Street, to Matthew Bridge--named in honor of Father Matthew, the apostle of Temperance. Henry and Catherine streets are also important. In Perry Square is a column surmounted by a statue to Lord Monteagle, and in Richmond Place there is a bronze statue of Daniel O'Connell. St. John's Cathedral, Roman Catholic, completed in 1860, is a Gothic edifice, erected at a cost of $85,000. The principal industries of the place are the manufacture of flax, army-clothing, lace, and gloves. The city carries on an extensive traffic, and, having hundreds of well-stocked stores, it is the wholesale as well as retail market for towns of the vicinity. There is at the border of the city the remains of a castle built in the time of King John, a somewhat dilapidated, but still noble structure. It has seven massive towers, which are connected by a wall of great thickness, and affords an example of the best Norman strongholds of the country, if not of the world, and inside the castle walls are buildings used as barracks. The castle is situated in the Irish part of the city. Here are narrow and unclean streets, and a low grade of population, many of whom live in destitution; though, so far as degradation is concerned, we found less than in Cork. What struck us forcibly in this section was the number of buildings--one or two, and even three stories high--dilapidated, abandoned, and without roofs. They were the rule and not the exception. There seemed to be a dislike on the part of owners to take down an old house; but when, in the last extremity, it became absolutely unfit for a day's more occupancy, they preferred to abandon it, and let it tumble down piecemeal. On the floors, in holes in the walls, about the chimneys, weeds were growing, and especially the not inappropriately named snapdragon. Fine specimens of these, of all the usual colors, were in full bloom and growing luxuriantly. Having spoken of the Irish and English parts of Ireland, an explanation may be in order. Soon after the union of the two countries at the beginning of the present century, English people of wealth and influence established themselves in the principal cities of Ireland. They built stores and dwelling-houses, and it is safe to say that now two thirds of each large city are occupied by English people, the Irish inhabitants remaining in their old quarters. This large preponderance of English influence and life gives to Ireland's large cities an English look, and it is only when one enters the Irish part that he feels he is not in an English town. This is notably true of Cork, Limerick, Dublin, and other southern cities; while Belfast and Londonderry, at the north, have had so much commerce and exchange of thought with Scotland as well as England, as almost to transform their citizens into English people. In Limerick may be seen Norman walls and remains in abundance, some of them a thousand years old. The harbor is sufficiently capacious to accommodate a large amount of shipping, and extends a mile along the river, which has a breadth of four hundred and fifty feet, with here and there a semi-basin or dock. Limerick was the last place of Ireland which surrendered to English rule, and only submitted to the Parliamentarians, under Ireton in 1651, after a determined resistance and gallant defence. During a siege in 1691 a large gun was planted on the top of the cathedral tower, and rendered most effectual service. "Muscular Christianity" was then at a premium. The old city has experienced and withstood many sieges, the last of which were those under Cromwell and William III. After several repulses, William, in 1691, offered advantageous terms to the besieged which were accepted by the troops then under the command of Sarsfield, Earl of Lucen, and the surrender was made to General De Ginkle. Part of the treaty was signed here, on a stone now called the Treaty Stone which, for safety and as a monument of interest, is now kept on a pedestal at the end of Thomond Bridge. The treaty guaranteed to Roman Catholics certain religious privileges and rights, and promised amnesty to all who took the oath of allegiance; but it was afterwards, to the disgrace of the victors, recklessly broken, especially in regard to the points first named, and to this day the place is called "the city of the broken treaty." Limerick has from time immemorial been a military seat, and is now the headquarters of the southwest military district. Anciently it was the royal residence of the Irish kings. There are within the limits of the city over twenty places of worship. It has many charitable and educational institutions, and much enterprise and business activity. Save the old and slummish portion, which is not of very great extent, and is under comparatively good control, it has a thoroughly English look, or, perhaps we may say, an old American look. We greatly enjoyed our visit, and were happily disappointed; for our minds were disabused of opinions we before erroneously entertained, and supposed to be true, concerning this famous city. DUBLIN. At 1.30 P. M., on Friday, April 26, we left for Dublin, and after a ride of four hours reached that city. The landscape on the way was interesting, though not presenting anything very picturesque or romantic. We were, however, continually impressed with the fact that Ireland is well named the Emerald Isle; for not a bare acre is to be seen, and over hill and dale luxuriant vegetation is found. We could but feel sorry that the laws of primogeniture and entailment of property yet prevail, and that England thus deprives herself and poor Ireland, her disconsolate child, of the rich blessings of an interested and land-loving, as well as soil-working people. The land is owned by a few lords. Estates must be kept entire, and so handed down through the male heirs from generation to generation. No absolute sale is possible, and a homestead can rarely be bought. The farm, be it little or great, cannot be owned by the tiller, but is held by the lord of the domain. An estate may not be divided among his descendants, but must pass to each successive heir in its entirety. It cannot be sold to those who would use it and improve its value. Without homesteads, with no prospect of anything but unsatisfying labor, with scarce the surety of earning a scanty subsistence,--there is, among the common people, a lack of interest in agricultural efforts. Thousands of laborers leave this land, the fairest on which God's impartial sun shines; few are left to care for the soil; and so, as the shortest cut across this field of deliberately created difficulty, nearly all the land is laid down to grass. In our ride of more than one hundred miles, hardly one fruit-tree was seen, or one nice garden. The country suffers for want of skilled yeomanry, to whom anticipation of ownership of the soil is "a cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night," to pilot them out of the bondage they are in. The laws of justice and divine compensation are, however, at work, and change for the better is at hand; amendment after amendment, even now foreshadowed, will come, for He who ruleth over all will "turn and overturn," "till he whose right it is shall reign." But to return to the Queen City of Ireland,--its greatest place socially and commercially speaking. Dublin is finely situated at the head of Dublin Bay. It is built solidly, on comparatively level land, on both sides of the River Liffey, running from west to east. The city has a population of 242,722; including the adjoining suburb, 295,841. The river is navigable to Carlisle Bridge at the centre of the city, and from the mouth of the river up to the bridge it has good docks and wharves. Its commerce is varied and extensive. Unfortunately there was at the entrance of the harbor a sand-bar, on which, at low water, the depth varied from nine to twenty-four feet. This is now no great source of annoyance, as a portion of it has been removed, and large ships, taking advantage of the tides, may come up to the wharves. A great part of the city is regularly built, having wide and well-paved streets, and magnificent stores and public buildings. They are of splendid architecture, and of every style and kind, from the classic Greek and Roman, to the elegant Renaissance, and from the Gothic of antiquity to the most refined of our own day. The latter, however, in its best estate,--save perhaps in its new grouping and combination of the best of the old ideas, with a rejection of the questionable features--is not much in advance of its original sources. Like all large places, there is a slum where the people are poor and low; but in these respects Dublin is not the equal of Cork and some other parts of Southern Ireland. As we go north towards Belfast and Londonderry we find an advance in what constitutes a higher and better civilization. The influence of the people of the North of England, and more especially of Scotland, has modified it. It may be said that where inflexible Episcopacy, acting on Catholicism, has prevailed, different results have come. While the good but ignorant Catholic has no affinity for Presbyterianism, he has a great respect for the industrious, well-appearing, just-dealing Scotchman, and he entertains an active suspicion in regard to the more formal Episcopalian, who has ruthlessly, as he thinks, appropriated the grand old churches where rest the bones of revered saints, and where his fathers worshipped for many generations. Some especial influence certainly has modified Northern Ireland's action, nature, and life. There is a deal more implied in the phrase North of Ireland, and in its antithesis, Far-downer, than appears to the casual observer. There is no city of Ireland where wealth and poverty are more contiguous, and where aristocracy and democracy are nearer neighbors, than at Dublin. Nine bridges, two of which are iron, cross the river, and a magnificent avenue nine miles long, called the Circular Road, environs the city. The Bank of Ireland, near the college, is a low but very large building, and was once the House of Parliament. Trinity College opposite--and both are in the very centre of the most crowded business portion of the city--has fine stone buildings, with large and elegantly kept lawns, one opening into the other. The institution was founded by Pope John XXII., closed by Henry VIII., and reopened by Queen Elizabeth, who incorporated it in 1592. Of the many public buildings, such as hospitals, museums, libraries, it is useless to speak. They are noble institutions, and worthy the capital of even England itself. It has a very large pleasure-ground called Phoenix Park, on the edge of the city. This park is well laid out, and is for Dublin what Central Park is for New York, or Fairmount for Philadelphia. There is in it one of the largest and most admirably kept zoölogical gardens of the world. Glasnevin Cemetery, their Mount Auburn or Greenwood, is an elegant city of the dead. Here repose the remains of Daniel O'Connell, under a high, round tower visible from all parts of the grounds. The profusion of sweet-scented lime-trees, and the taste and beauty of the scenery and artificial work, enable it to vie with any cemetery in Europe. In a city like Dublin, where there is so much that is good and great, one is tempted to enlarge the range of his thoughts, and is loth to leave the spot. Before speaking of the Cathedral of St. Patrick, we will give a brief history of cathedral service itself. Till the time of Constantine, Christians were not allowed to erect temples. Early, churches meant only assemblies, not buildings; and by cathedrals were meant their consistories, or places of meeting. It was in 312 that this emperor first granted absolute toleration to Christians. In 325 the Council of Nice was convened, and made, under his sanction, an open declaration that Christianity be thereafter the recognized official religion of the land. The earliest record we have of a distinctive cathedral service is near the end of the fourth century; although there are traces of it at an earlier date, too indistinct to be reliable. St. Basil, at the close of the fourth century says:-- The people flocked to the churches before daylight, first to pray on bended knees, then rising to sing psalms, either in alternate chorus, or one chanting, others following in an under-voice; and this was done in all Egypt, Libya, Thebes, Palestine, Arabia, and Syria. In seventy years the Christians had many church edifices, or _ecclesia cathedralis_ (church meeting-places), and a pretty well developed and organized prayer and singing service; but cathedral or church service did not come to great perfection till the days of Gregory the Great, who was born A. D. 540, and died in 604. Chanting had its origin in the church of Antioch during the episcopate of Lontius, A. D. 347-356. Theodoret informs us that Flavianus and Diodorus divided the choir into two parts, and made them sing the Psalms of David alternately, and that this method began first at Antioch. At the Council of Laodicea, held between 360 and 370, it was determined that there should be canonical singers, who should sing out of written books. We may imagine something of the state of affairs before the order passed; for Balsamon says that, prior to the convening of this council, the laity would many times, and at their pleasure, begin to sing such hymns and songs in the church as were crude and unusual. To obviate this the canon was made, ordering that none should begin to sing but those whose office it was to do so, the laity having permission, however, to sing with them in the entire service; and so was inaugurated our modern congregational singing, to be led, however, by an appointed choir. Choir-singing was carried into Rome in 380, under Pope Damasus; and in the time of Gregory the Great, about 620, it was brought to great perfection. Gregory sent Austin to introduce it into England. He found the clergy there unwilling to receive it, and it is said that he caused twelve hundred of them to be slaughtered at once. In 670 Theodore was sent by Vitalian to fill the See of Canterbury, and he succeeded in introducing the cathedral service; and he also has the credit of introducing organs into divine worship. The year 679 is the earliest certain date of cathedral worship in Great Britain. In France Gregorian chant-work began about the year 787, and was patronized by Charles the Great. In the reigns of Henry VIII. and Edward VI. thirty-two commissioners were appointed to examine all canons, constitutions, and ordinances, provincial and synodal, and they declared against a cathedral service. The judicious and pious Hooker, ceremony-loving, and jealous of the interests of the church, yet under the ban and interdicted, could not suppress his thought, and he says:-- Cathedrals are as glasses, wherein the face and very countenance of apostolical antiquity remaineth, even as yet to be seen, notwithstanding the alterations which the hand of time and the course of the world hath brought. So the work continued till a final establishment of present customs, and Seymour says of cathedrals and their service as at present carried on:-- They serve as parish churches, only on a more elaborate scale; and there can be no valid objection raised to their maintenance, except by those who condemn an intoned service, and the introduction of a highly cultivated musical choir. The canons preach in turn, and, provided the preaching is orthodox and purely evangelical [a hit this, undoubtedly, at Dean Stanley, Canon Farrar, and others of like sentiment], and the old story of Christ's blood and righteousness and substitution is set forth as enough for all the spiritual necessities of mankind, there can be no just grounds of complaint against the peculiar mode of our present cathedral worship. St. Patrick's being the first cathedral in which we attend services, the foregoing statement is made, preparatory to a consideration of this and other cathedrals we are to visit. It should be remembered that in all of them the service is intoned or sung, with the exception of the sermon itself, that being a part of the service only on Sundays or other important days. So strong is the force of habit, that the sermon also is generally delivered in a drawling, monotonous tone. This was a marked feature of the style of Dean Stanley in sermons delivered during his visit to America. Very strange did his elocution sound to American ears, and it was only tolerated because it came from a man so really great and truly honored. St. Patrick's Cathedral is one of the most interesting churches in Ireland, and hours can be spent with pleasure and advantage in the grand old structure. It is said that St. Patrick here erected a place of worship, and baptized his converts with water taken from a well in the floor of the present cathedral, which is still shown to the visitor. As evidence of its antiquity as a place of worship, and of the importance and character of the original building, we have it as a well attested fact that in 890--almost a thousand years ago, and four and a half centuries after the establishment of worship here by St. Patrick, and the building of his church--Gregory of Scotland, with his adherents, attended worship here. The present edifice, the seat of the Bishop of Dublin, was begun by Archbishop Comyn in 1190. It was doubled in its capacity by Archbishop Minot, who held the See in 1370, repairs on the old cathedral, and the extension, being necessitated by a fire which destroyed a large portion of the building in 1362. The edifice is of dark or blackish stone. It is irregular in outline, being cruciform in plan, with nave, choir, transepts, lady-chapel and porch. A number of monuments are scattered about the interior, among them a tablet to the memory of the Duke of Schomberg, with an inscription by Jonathan Swift, at one time Dean of the cathedral. In another part are mural tablets, high up from the floor, to the memory of the Dean, who died Oct. 19, 1745, and was here buried. Near by is the monument to Mrs. Hester Johnson, the _Stella_ of his poetry. A monument of note near the door commemorates Boyle, Earl of Cork, who died 1629. It is of a peculiar design, and attractive by its quaint oddity. It is of black marble, ornamented in parts by wood mouldings and carving, which were painted in positive colors, but are now dull and somewhat obscured. It represents the earl and his wife in recumbent positions, surrounded by their sixteen children. These figures are of wood, and carved in a grotesque style, barbaric enough to be pleasing examples of sculpture to a "Heathen Chinee." The exterior of the cathedral presents a very aged appearance, and the two parts of the structure, erected by the two bishops in 1190 and 1370, are distinctly marked. The tower has plain buttresses at the corners, each ending in embattled turrets. A low, stone spire above this is attached to the section built by Bishop Comyn, and was erected some time after the other parts of the cathedral. Each part is of Gothic architecture, and is of the style prevailing at the period of its erection. Elaborate decoration does not appear in any part, and as the edifice fronts on a cramped, narrow street, and is near the surrounding buildings, no extended view of it can be obtained. In 1860 the late Sir B. L. Guinness,--the noted brewer of Dublin, whose celebrated ales and porter are known the civilized world over,--at his own expense, undertook a complete restoration of the cathedral; and after years of continued labor, by a large body of workmen, the whole was finished at a cost of $720,000. Changes were made in the interior by the removal of modernish screens, and the exterior, while it has the same antiquated look, is in perfect repair. The interior with its lofty groined ceiling and arches, its stately columns, its rich oaken stalls, its beautiful stained glass windows, the great organ at the left of the communion table, the rich pulpit,--especially dedicated by Mr. Guinness to the late Dean Peckham as a memorial,--these combine to make the venerable structure rank well with many of the cathedrals of England. We hardly need to say that it is under the administration of the Church of England. This was our first Sunday on land, April 28, and we decided that we would attend worship here in the forenoon. The Bishop of Dublin, and his canons, curates, and robed adult choir, were in attendance, and the cathedral was about one third filled. The service, as we afterwards found to be the universal custom in England, was intoned instead of read. It was disturbed, too, by the constant echoes; and, being unfamiliar with an intoned service, we were but poorly interested, and hoped for better things in the sermon, which was by one of the canons. It proved to be a weak statement of common things, a labored effort to prove what all admitted at the start. We would, however, speak lightly of no religious work, and were thankful for the treat we had enjoyed of seeing this time-honored sanctuary in use, and that we had listened to its grand music, and also to even a poor rendition of its beautiful service. At 2 P. M. we are out again for a ramble, this time to visit the fine grounds and buildings of the Royal Hospital, built by the celebrated architect of St. Paul's Cathedral at London, Sir Christopher Wren, in 1669. The building is large, though but two stories in height, and has ample grounds, and two-hundred-year-old avenues, well shaded by large trees. The institution is now used as a military station. We were freely admitted to the principal parts, were delighted with the old and good portraits in the ancient dining-hall,--and inexpressibly so with the chapel, for here are to be seen transcripts of the mind of Wren. He appears to best advantage as a designer, when he undertook to make pulpits and altar-pieces; and here, about the large circular-headed altar-window, he has almost excelled himself. This, like all the stall work, is finished in oak, and is as elaborate and as perfect as though of modern construction, though it is more than two hundred years old. Reluctantly we left these hallowed premises for a walk in the great Phoenix Park near by, and in the Zoölogical Garden. On our walk home to the hotel, we made it in our way to pass the companion church of St. Patrick, the other cathedral; for, incredible as it may seem, Dublin has another Protestant Episcopal cathedral-church, one scarcely inferior to St. Patrick's in renown. It is the venerable Church of the Holy Trinity, more commonly known by the name of Christ Church Cathedral. As is well known, a cathedral is so called because it is the seat of a bishop. Of course Dublin has but one bishop, and he is at St. Patrick's. The edifice we are to describe has, in turn with St. Patrick's, been the bishop's church, and from that circumstance the name has obtained its present use. This edifice is of great interest and antiquity. According to the "Black Book of Christ's Church," a very ancient record, its vaults, or what is now the crypt, were built by the Danes before the first visit of St. Patrick to Dublin in the fifth century, but who is erroneously reported to have celebrated mass in them. The present edifice, in comparison with these vaults, is quite modern, for it was not built till five hundred years after; but enough of antiquity remains to excite our admiration, for this building was begun in the year 1038,--845 years ago, 152 years before the building of St. Patrick's, and about half-way between the date of the birth of Christ and our own day. The statement that St. Patrick said mass in the crypt of this cathedral is simply a legend, for he had ended his ministry early in the fifth century. A sort of tavern was kept for centuries in this crypt; while services were being performed above, the votaries of Bacchus were adoring their god beneath. It was no uncommon thing in that age for churches to provide accommodation for the tramps and bummers of the time. As late as the close of the sixteenth century, the benches at the door of Old St. Paul's, London, were used by beggars and drunkards to sleep on, and the place was surrendered to idlers of all descriptions. Christ Church Cathedral was greatly enlarged by Lawrence O'Tool, who, in 1163, changed the canons, originally secular, into the regular canons of Arras, as they were termed. Next, Strongbow, the Earl of Pembroke, and Fitzstephen, both Norman adventurers, made repairs and additions about the year 1170; and again Raymond le Gros, at a yet later day, added the steeple, choir, and two small chapels. In 1190, but twenty years after, it was practically rebuilt by John Comyn, who at the same time was building St. Patrick's; and about the year 1360 John de St. Paul erected the chancel. With occasional repairs the edifice remained as it was, 523 years ago, till a few years since, when great dilapidation had taken place, and extensive restorations were needed. Not to be outdone by Mr. Guinness at St. Patrick's, Henry Roe, Esq., the well-known distiller of Dublin, emulating the example of his friend, ordered, at his own expense, complete repairs on both the exterior and interior, costing a full million of dollars. The work was done under the architectural supervision of G. A. Street, and paid for by Mr. Roe as the work proceeded. At the time of our second visit, May 2, although not entirely finished, the building had been reopened, and an assemblage of the most distinguished prelates of the Episcopalian order held a four days' service, largely musical, at the grand opening, of which we speak hereafter. The building, though very massive and suggestive of strength, is not beautiful in proportions or decoration. It has a clumsy look, but is consistent in design throughout. The interior has the same appearance. While it is finished in the highest style of workmanship, and in the best possible imitation of the original plan, it is mainly pleasing in variety of design, its thoroughness of work, and in the faithful representation it probably gives of the cathedral as it was centuries ago. When one looks at the nicely cut stone and fine finish, he can but believe that it is a vast improvement in workmanship on its original self. It has many ancient monuments of the quaintest sort, often with rude and grotesque designs. Conspicuous among these is one of the Earl of Pembroke, or, as he is more commonly called, Strongbow, the Norman invader, who died in 1166. It represents the renowned warrior in a recumbent posture, clothed in mail armor, with his wife Eva by his side. Reasonable doubts exist of the authenticity of the monument. Its honors are divided between him and the Earl of Desmond, the Lord Chief Justice, who was looked upon with suspicion and jealousy on account of his kindness to the Irish people, and in consequence of this jealousy was beheaded at Drogheda in 1497. This monument was removed from its original location, by order of Sir Henry Sidney, in 1569. This cathedral is a place of resort for those who are interested in the elaborate service performed every Sunday forenoon. It has a lawn on one side of it, somewhat larger than any at St. Patrick's. This is well fenced in from the side street, and parallel with the side of the cathedral; but the rear end and side are in close contiguity to common buildings, and the neighborhood is entirely made up of ordinary houses of brick or stone, which are filled with tenants, often having families on each floor. The streets are narrow, and while not remarkably dirty, they are anything but tidy in appearance. This portion of the city, and St. Patrick's neighborhood--which is not more than a five minutes' walk away--are probably the oldest settled parts of the city; a low population having taken possession still retain their foothold, as they do about the great churches at Cork and Limerick. There are many interesting facts shown on the ancient records of this cathedral. In 1434 the mayor and some distinguished citizens of Dublin did penance, by walking barefoot through the streets to the cathedral, for having committed manslaughter; for taking the Earl of Ormonde prisoner "in a hostile manner;" for breaking open the doors of St. Mary's Abbey, dragging out the abbot, "and carrying him forth like a corpse, some bearing him by the feet, and others by the arms and shoulders." In 1450 a parliament was held in the cathedral by Henry VI.; another was held in 1493. In 1497 liberty from arrests, and all other molestations, was granted, by the city of Dublin, to those who should come to visit any shrine or relic of this edifice. In 1528 the prior of this cathedral, with the priors of St. John of Jerusalem and of All Saints, caused two plays to be acted, on a stage erected by Hoggin Green, representing the Passion of the Saviour, and the several deaths the apostles suffered. This was a sort of Irish Oberammergau play. Seven years later, in 1535, a great change in public sentiment had come; for in this year George Brown, an Augustin friar who had been consecrated bishop, removed all images and relics from this and the other churches of the diocese, and in their stead placed the Creed, the Lord's Prayer, and the Ten Commandments in gilded frames. In 1538 the _Baculus Jesu_, or holy staff, said to have belonged to St. Patrick, and deposited here in 1180, was publicly burned. In 1554 Bishop Brown, who was the first Protestant prelate of Dublin, was deprived of his office by Queen Mary. Four years later another reaction had taken place. In 1559 Parliament was held in the cathedral; the Act of Uniformity was passed; the Litany was sung in English, for the first time in Ireland, before the Earl of Sussex, the Lord Lieutenant; and a large English Bible was chained in the middle of the choir, free for the people to read. By order of Queen Elizabeth, Thomas Lockwood, the dean, removed all Popish relics and images, that had been restored in the days of Queen Mary in 1570. Penance was performed here by Richard Dixon, Bishop of Cork, who was also deprived of his See for gross immoralities. In 1633 the Lord-deputy sent an urgent letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, asking him to prevent a longer use of the vaults under the cathedral as ale and tobacco shops. In 1738 a peal of bells was cast by Abel Rudhall of Gloucester, England, and placed in the tower. He had cast the Sweet Bells of Shandon at St. Ann's, Cork. He was also the maker of the bells at Christ Church, Boston, which were cast but six years later, in 1744. There were at the cathedral originally but eight bells. Five have recently been added. In 1821 George IV., and in 1868 the Prince and Princess of Wales, attended service in the cathedral. All cathedrals have a similar history. A cathedral's history is but a record of humanity's march through the centuries, through superstition, blood, and contest, onward and upward to advanced and yet advancing conditions, till finally--if there be truth in divine writ or the aspirations of humanity--"the kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ." Sackville Street is a splendid business avenue leading from Carlisle Bridge. It is full one hundred feet wide, and filled with a hurrying, Broadway or Washington Street-like population. On the left stands the classical portico of the post-office, composed of six large Ionic columns, and their entablature and pediment. It is surmounted by figures of Hibernia, Mercury, and Fidelity. In front, at the centre of the street, is Nelson's monument, a splendid column 112 feet high,--exclusive of the crowning statue of the hero of Trafalgar, which is in itself 13 feet in height. This is a fine piece of sculpture, and is from the studio of a native sculptor, Thomas Kirk. The monument was erected by public subscription and cost over $34,000. In consequence of the general levelness of the city of Dublin, from the top of this column, though not of very great height, may be seen almost the entire surrounding country, from the Mourne Mountains in the county of Down on the north, around to the Wicklow Mountains on the south. Spread out before the observer are the plains of Meath and Kildare, extending far westward, and parted by the hills of Dublin and its bay; and to the eastward appears the Irish Sea. The Custom House and the Four Courts of Dublin are immense structures, of classical architecture, and well decorated with statuary. On the former are statues representing Navigation, Wealth, Commerce, Industry, Europe, Asia, America, and Africa. Other parts have the arms of Ireland. There is a fine allegorical representation of Britannia and Hibernia in a great marine shell, with a group of merchantmen approaching, and Neptune driving away Famine and Despair. The Court House has on the upper angle of its great portico pediment a statue of Moses, and at the lower ends statues of Mercy and Justice. On other parts are Wisdom and Authority. The great entrance hall is 64 feet in diameter; at the centre stands a colossal statue of Truth, bearing in her upraised hand a torch, from which issue gas jets for illuminating the rotunda. We attended a court session. The rooms were cramped in size, and dark from the few smoked and unwashed windows. A peculiar impression was made, reminding us of a by-gone custom and age, when we saw the lawyers,--or barristers as they are called,--old and young, arrayed in loose black alpaca robes, open in front and flying as they walk, and wearing gray wigs of scrupulously curled hair. These are for sale in especial stores, and their use is imperative when one addresses the judge of any save the lowest common police court. Previous anticipations of what was to be seen in Ireland's great metropolis were in the main realized. We expected, however, to see more Irish and less English elements. The city is quite American in appearance. Except for a more durable and classical look to its buildings, and the cut-stone embankments on both sides of the river; excepting also its heavier horse-cars and their roads,--_tramways_, as they are called,--little is seen that may not recall our large cities, especially Buffalo and Cincinnati. In fact, we were strongly reminded of these by the stores, houses, and streets, the quantity of business doing, and the average appearance of the people. Sunday was observed, much as it is in Boston or New York, by a general suspension of business, the streets being filled with well-dressed, orderly people. Bells often saluted the ear, horse-cars and omnibuses were well patronized, and the parks were visited by thousands, all in a state of sobriety that we are not sure of seeing in a large American city. We now for a time leave the city, but in another chapter shall speak of it again. CHAPTER IV. WATERFORD--CARRICK-ON-SUIR--KILKENNY--DUBLIN AGAIN. Business now called us back to the lower part of Ireland, and we will here take a look at Waterford and other places. Waterford is one of the most noted places of Southern Ireland, and has for centuries played an important part in history and commerce. We arrived here at 6.30 P. M., after a ride of five and a half hours from Dublin. The city is situated on the right bank of the River Suir, nine miles from its entrance into Waterford Harbor. It has an extensive suburb, with a pleasant settlement called Ferrybank, on the other side of the river, opposite a part of the city. The population of Waterford proper is 23,349. The quay is the finest in Ireland. It is 120 feet wide, extends for three quarters of a mile along the river, and is well built of stone. Bordering this, on the land side, are stores of various kinds. It looks like an old commercial place, and the general dingy look of everything suggests great dampness of atmosphere. There are not many buildings of importance. Few of the streets are wide, but most of them are narrow and crooked, and lanes and alleys abound. We were impressed with the aspect of poverty. The shore opposite is bold, rocky, and precipitous, and, at the lower end, about the bridge and railway station, is romantic and picturesque. The old, long bridge is a structure of stone, and of considerable consequence. It was erected in Ireland's memorable year, 1798, and near this place one of her most important battles was fought, which ended to her disadvantage, and resulted, in 1801, in the surrender of her power, and the establishment of English rule. It is too much to expect that England, who so long ago established its authority in India, and in our time in Cyprus, thousands of miles away, should resist the temptation of subjugating a land so indefensible as Ireland, which lay at her very door. The bridge having been built in her last great battle year, a stone slab in the parapet records the fact. Here are the inevitable barracks. They are of stone, three stories high, and very extensive. There were evidences of military rule in every place yet visited. The soldiers are all young. None are over thirty years of age, and many not more than eighteen. All are stout and robust, and each is a picked man. The uniform coats are red, with gilt buttons, the pants are a dark plaid; they look dandyish. These men are the best physique of the nation, and, as a whole, put to a bad use. They are always to be found on the street, either singly, by twos, or in squads, each with a switch-cane, said to be furnished by the government. The police are English, for no Irish person is trusted, and they are finely dressed in dark clothes. They are very civil and gentlemanly, and, like the soldiers, are picked men. Save on a single occasion in Dublin, we saw no disturbance of any kind, nor any service rendered by the police. What interested us most was an old tower on this main thoroughfare, situated at the extreme end of the quay on the land side, and just out to the sidewalk line, in close contiguity with the surrounding buildings. It is fifty feet high, and about thirty-five feet in diameter, and is built of irregular ledge stone, of a dark gray or brownish color; is very plain, as far as a projection near the top, of a few inches; above this it is continued up plain some two or three feet higher, having a conical roof which comes down apparently inside of the stone work. There is a single door in the first story. Just above this, to the left, is a stone tablet, about two and a half feet wide and five feet high, with pilasters and pediment top,--the whole much like a dormer window. The inscription is as follows:-- IN THE YEAR 1003 THIS TOWER WAS ERECTED BY REGINALD THE DANE. IN 1171 IT WAS HELD AS A FORTRESS BY STRONGBOLD, EARL OF PEMBROKE. IN 1463 BY STATUTE 3D, EDWARD IV, A MINT WAS ESTABLISHED HERE. IN 1819 IT WAS REEDIFIED IN ITS ORIGINAL FORM AND APPROPRIATED TO THE POLICE ESTABLISHMENT BY THE CORPORATION BODY OF THE CITY OF WATERFORD. RT. HON. SIR JOHN NEWPORT, BT., M. P., MAYOR, HENRY ALCOCK, ESQ.,} WILLIAM WEEKS, ESQ.} SHERIFFS. The city is very old, and was founded about the year 850, or more than one thousand years ago, at which time Sithric the Dane made it his capital. In 1171 Strongbow and Raymond le Gros took the place, and put to death most of the Danish inhabitants. King John gave it its first charter, and resided here for some time. The place was unsuccessfully besieged by Cromwell, but was afterwards captured by the intrepid Ireton. There are remains of old fortifications and monasteries. Curraghmore, the seat of the Marquis of Waterford, containing four thousand acres, is near the city. After a stay till 9 P. M. of this day, we took train for the town of CARRICK-ON-SUIR, where we arrived at 9.45, and took room at Madame Phalan's Hotel. It is a very comfortable place, and thoroughly Irish, but of a good sort,--a little old inn of the first water; and, as usual, a woman sixty years old was the "man of the house." A good night's rest, and, next morning a tramp over the town, and the business for which we had come was attended to. The place was very clean and neat, the buildings being of stone, with slate roofs. Many were plastered on the outside, painted in tints of cream-color or gray, and blocked off to represent stone. They are generally two or three stories high. We have spoken of the slate roofs. Some were new and clean, like the best in Boston. Others were ancient, and made of thick slates, little better than thin stones of small size, and often mortared up so as to give a very clumsy appearance. On many of them were large patches of thick, green, velvety moss, and not unfrequently growing in it, and in the roof-gutters, were specimens of snapdragon in full bloom. The people refrain from removing these excrescences, unless for repairs which compel them to do so. We were delighted with the old market-place, and with the thoroughly Irish houses, one story high, built of stone, plastered and whitewashed, and situated in narrow lanes, which were paved with round cobble-stones, and kept remarkably clean. The place shows cultivation and a good civilization. It is a market-town, and a parish of Tipperary, and is situated on the pretty River Suir, crossed by a bridge built over five hundred years ago. It has a population of 8,520. It was formerly enclosed by walls, and has a parish church of great antiquity. A fine Roman Catholic Church has lately been built, and a large school is connected with it, having an elegant building of gray limestone. There is a castle of some repute, formerly belonging to the celebrated Ormonde family. The town also has a prison, a hospital, and barracks. Improvements in the river, made in 1850, rendered it navigable for vessels of considerable capacity, which can now come up to the town, which has quite a trade in cotton, corn, and general produce. Monthly fairs are held in the market-place. There are some shade-trees, and the town in many parts has a rural look. But few very Irish-looking people are seen. While the town is unmistakably Irish, it is of a high grade; and, notwithstanding many of its buildings are quaint and old, for the most part it is modern, though not of course like New England. The place has two banks, and a number of good stores. We had seen no place quite like Carrick, but, as we aftewards found, it anticipated Kilkenny. The good wine was, however, kept till the last, for we had an exquisite suburban trip. At 1.30 P. M. we took a team, standing in the street for hire, for our journey to Pilltown. We didn't care to inquire where the village got its name, and doubt of success had we made the attempt. A half-mile out, and we were in love with the scenery. There presented itself every kind of view imaginable,--hills, fields, groves, and mountains in the distance. We thought then, and we think now, that little section is the garden of Ireland. How fine the landscapes! how balmy and clear the atmosphere! what good vegetation, and what sleek horses, beautiful healthy cows, and splendid sheep! and how very civil they were, and how confiding, when we strangers came near them! We were so full of satisfaction that we had but little real ability to appreciate what we saw next,--a street as wide and clean as can be desired, some of the neatest possible one-story stone houses, with appropriate front-yards with flowers in them; and nowhere to be found, in either street or yard or house, so far as we could see, a thing to amend or alter. Well, we almost knew there was an especial cause for all this. No lot of mortals, fallen from the assumed high plane of Adam and Eve, ever existed,--at all events that we have heard of,--who would of themselves get into this Eden-like condition. We inquired the cause, and soon the mystery was at an end, for we were told that Lord Bestborough,--we hope that name is given right,--a much beloved landholder, owned all, and gave annual prizes for the best kept houses and grounds. A committee of ladies and gentlemen have the matter in charge; they make two especial visits, and award five prizes in all, the largest being two pounds, or ten dollars. We rode on, and were soon at the original Purcell estate, which has for some hundreds of years been occupied by the family of that name, from which one of the writers came in the course of human progress. In talking of our own company, we are not inclined to say _descent_, and especially in these days of Darwinism; so we draw it mild when we refrain from saying _ascent_, and are contented with suggesting that we have advanced or progressed. We may have been prejudiced, but very delightful was the scenery in this region. The river took a grand quarter-circle sweep just back of the old farm, and was here a quarter of a mile wide, with remarkably fine English grass-meadows, half a mile wide, bordering it. The distant hills were irregular and well wooded, and over them was a fine haze, like that of our Blue Hills at Milton. The great ravines had dark places of interest, and made all very picturesque. Not more than two or three scattered farmhouses were in view. No noise was heard save that of the small birds; but conspicuous was the song of the Irish Thrush. Two coal-vessels were at anchor in the river, and these added a strange element to the scene. We hallooed to one vessel and beckoned, and a boat was put out to ferry us over. In making for Purcell's we had mistaken the road, and so had walked a mile or more out of the way, and were on the wrong side of the river. It wouldn't be Yankeeish to go back, but rather to go ahead, especially when, Davy Crockett-like, we were sure we were right,--for, to use an Irishism, we were right when we were wrong. The boat came, and we, like the two kings of ancient Munster--Strongbow and Raymond le Gros--stepped in and were rowed over. We gave a shilling to the boatman, and landed, and were now all right. It would not be becoming to tell all that we saw, said, and did. We had never seen one of that family, nor they us; nor had they seen any other Yankees; and if any mortals were surprised, they were. Photographs of some kindred were, however, in that very house. The whole matter of relationship was thoroughly talked over, and in the room where the great-grandfather died, we took tea. We stood in front of the large kitchen fireplace, where for almost a century he used to sit, and were delighted with a sight of old New-Englandish pots, kettles, trammels, hooks, and large high andirons, about which the burning furze crackled. Keats has it, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." This is a joy forever,--that old fireplace; but the beauty is nowhere, not even, thought we, in the "mind's eye Horatio." To leave a cathedral or a fine old ruin, a picture gallery or museum, caused less trouble than our parting with this good old Irish homestead; but the spell must be broken. As we walked through the long, winding lane, each side well hedged, we were delighted anew. In what profusion were the modest daisies in the pathway; how many, many snails, their houses on their backs, were on the bushes; and then, those exquisite primroses, in such vast numbers,--of the most delicate, refined straw-tint imaginable. The entire vegetation was so clean! And then the stillness--nothing but sweet-singing birds to make a noise. Half a mile off, on a rise of land to our right, was a little village of perhaps twenty houses,--and the church, the mother building of them all. Here, once a Purcell was the priest. He built the house we had visited, and was a brother of the great-grandfather. _Advanced_ as we are, and removed from Romanism, yet there was a charm about that old spot. Though dead a century, that venerable priestly ancestor yet speaketh. We wended our way to Fiddown Station. How refinedly Irish that name is, and also that of the village Polroon; but alas, the euphony had become exhausted before we went in imagination a half-mile back from Polroon, and over to Purcell's Village, for that has the æsthetic name of Moincoin. Our walk from this place was three miles, but the distance was short enough amidst such air and scenery. A ride in the steam-cars, of an hour from Fiddown, and at 9 P. M. we were back, not in Carrick-on-Suir, but in Waterford, at the Imperial Hotel, near the old Strongbold Tower before described. Not much of Irish about the hotel! Next morning breakfast was ordered at 6 A. M. Then we went out and copied the tower inscription before given. At 7.15 took cars for Kilkenny, where we arrived at 8.30. The general look of the landscape between the places, and in fact all the way down from Dublin, was very like that of New England along shore. Trees and woods are in about the same proportion as with us, and, excepting the houses, we saw nothing that we might not have seen in a similar ride at home. KILKENNY. "Kilkenny is sure another of the Irish places," says the reader; and it is hardly less so by reputation than Sligo, Dundalk, and Drogheda. It is the shire town of the county of Kilkenny, and a county of itself, situated on the River Nore, 63 miles from Dublin, and 30 miles from Waterford, having a population of 12,664. It is divided by the river into an Irish and an English town, the former in the vicinity of the cathedral, and the latter near the castle. In ancient times the place figured largely as a seat of parliaments, and was often the scene of stirring events. As viewed from the railway, which is one of the best points of observation, Kilkenny is one of the most picturesque rural places that can be imagined. On the left of the centre, and on low ground, is the castle. The original was built by Earl Strongbow in 1172, and, destroyed by Donald O'Brien soon after. The present structure was built in 1195. In 1319 James Butler, third Earl of Ormonde, purchased the estate of the Pembroke (or Strongbold) family, and with his descendants it has since remained. It is in perfect condition, and occupied by the Marquis of Ormonde. It is a very large edifice, of an old granite appearance, is situated on a slight elevation, and the river runs rapidly by its base. The location is at the centre of population, the main avenues adjoining the grounds. The general effect reminds us of Warwick Castle. Richard II. spent two weeks here on a visit to the Earl in 1399. In March, 1650, Cromwell, having invested the place, opened a cannonade on the castle and made a breach in its walls; but the attackers were twice repulsed, and the breach quickly repaired, Cromwell was traitorously admitted by the mayor and a few of his townsmen; and as he was in company with Ireton, Sir Walter Butler, who was in charge of the place, deemed it expedient to capitulate, and did so on honorable terms. He and his officers were highly complimented by Cromwell, who informed them that he had lost more men in storming the town than he did in taking Drogheda, and that but for treachery he should have retired from the siege. To the right of the centre and on very high ground we see the Cathedral of St. Canice, one of the most interesting ecclesiastical structures of Ireland. It was begun in 1180 by Felix O'Dullany, who transferred the See of Sagir from Aghabo to Kilkenny. So extensive was the design of the building that its projectors, never expecting to see it finished, contentedly covered in the choir and consecrated it, leaving to others the task of consummating the work. It is cruciform in plan, 226 feet long, and 123 feet wide at the transepts. It has a low and long look, and the tower, which is also low, gives the structure a depressed appearance. The interior, however, is grand and imposing. The pillars are of plain black marble, surmounted by high Gothic arches. The arches under the tower, which is at the intersection of nave, choir, and transepts, rest on four massive marble columns. The great western window is triplicated, and a large cross and two Gothic finials crown the centre, angles, and apex of the great gable. The exterior is in tolerable repair, and the interior is in perfect condition, having been fully restored by Dean Vignolles. The monumental remains are numerous and interesting. Among them is that of Peter Butler, the eighth Earl of Ormonde, and his Amazonian Countess, known by the Irish as Morgyrhead Ghearhodh. Irish enough the name is, and for that reason we quote it. They died in the sixteenth century. The Countess was of the family of Fitzgerald, and did not dishonor her blood, for she was masculine in organization, and as warlike as any of her race. History says of her that "she was always attended by numerous vassals, richly clothed and accoutred, the whole forming a gay pageant and formidable army;" and it was more than whispered, by the gossips of her day, that, like Rob Roy, she levied blackmail on her less powerful neighbors. Near the cathedral is one of the finest monumental round-towers of Ireland, 108 feet in height and in perfect preservation; though like all these solitary towers, its use is yet enveloped in mystery. No place of Ireland presents a better opportunity of research for the lover of antiquities than the county of Kilkenny, for it is not too much to say that here ruins abound. A writer in "Hall's Hibernia" says:-- So numerous are church ruins in this region, that on our way we were guided through numerous alleys and by-lanes, to examine relics of the olden time. We found wretched hovels propped up by carved pillars; and in several instances discovered Gothic doorways converted into pigstyes. This was not quite our experience. Our impressions were that the town, in the English part, was business-like and attractive, the streets clean and well paved, and the inhabitants well dressed. In the Irish portion there was the usual quota of one-story houses, and a poor population. The Roman Catholic Church, recently built, is an elegant structure, with lofty towers and spires above them, and stands, as viewed from the railroad, at about the centre of the place. Kilkenny is celebrated as the seat of witchcraft trials. One of the most remarkable was that of Lady Alice Kettel in 1325. There were, however, but three executions. It should in justice to Ireland be said that, with all its superstitions, it had comparatively few inhabitants who were barbarous enough to force presumed witches to trial. New England was more than her equal. Aside from these three at Kilkenny, there was but one such execution in all Ireland; and that was at Antrim, in 1699, seven years after the first appearance of the delusion in New England, which occurred at the house of Rev. Mr. Parris, in Salem, in 1692. The Antrim trial was the last, and was told as a story in pamphlet form, entitled, "The Bewitching of a Child in Ireland." It had a large circulation, and was foolishly copied by Professor Sinclair into his work entitled "Satan's Invisible World Discovered;" and is frequently referred to by Sir Walter Scott, in his "Letters on Demonology." While speaking of Sir Walter, we are reminded of the fact that Kilkenny, as well as Melrose had its Sir Walter. His name was John Banim. He wielded a facile pen, had a peculiar temperament, and represented the character of his country and its people with more fidelity and interest, if not romantic effect, than any other Irish novelist. We are admonished that we must here end our talk about this lovely Kilkenny; and, as we turn once more for a final view as our train moves away from the station, it is not without feelings allied to those which Longfellow describes in his own sweet way:-- A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. We are fully aware that we have not often spoken of Roman Catholic churches, cathedrals, nunneries, and schools; and at first sight it would appear that in this Catholic country more attention should have been paid to these things; but recognizing the narrow space that could with propriety be devoted to any one place, we have reluctantly had to forego the pleasure of describing many points of interest. The reader may rest assured that it would have given us unalloyed pleasure to speak of hospitals, charity-schools, asylums, almshouses, and a thousand charitable institutions we saw and heard of. All these abound. That kind-heartedness, so characteristic of the Irish nature; that hospitality which is part of their being, making their houses, large or small, in Ireland or America, hospitals, asylums, or hotels,--these qualities show themselves, in constant and varying forms, in buildings designed as comfortable retreats for the unfortunate. Descriptions have been given only of such buildings as are of remarkable antiquity, and possessed of more than ordinary interest. At best, these chapters can only be a brief and meagre synopsis of an inexhaustible store; but perhaps they will tempt the reader to consult the more elaborate thought of others, as found in histories and gazetteers. No more comfortable road up the hill of general knowledge exists, than that which one travels while reading such works. In the former, and measurably in the latter, he finds truth stranger than fiction, and romance supported by an obscured reality, at once enchanting and almost incredible. In passing over the roads from place to place there is one continual panorama of interesting objects, each of which is out of the usual line of observation of such travellers as ourselves,--Americans, Yankees, with New England lineage and descent through a line of more than a hundred years. These scenes are so interesting that hundreds of chapters might be written about them; and when the work ended, description proper would be just begun. What novel can be more interesting, or what entertainment more enchanting, than to read about Galbally, where a monastery was founded, as early as 1204, for the Grayfriars, by a member of the celebrated family of O'Brien. It justly boasts of its beautiful Glen Aherlow, eight miles long and two wide, which truthful descriptions say, is not surpassed in interest by anything in the country. It has also a Druidical Temple, consisting of three circles of stone, the principal one of which is 150 feet in diameter, consisting of forty stones, of which the largest is 13 feet long, 6 feet wide, and 4 feet thick! The Rock of Cashel, but twelve miles from Limerick,--a large lone rock, rising boldly out of a plain,--is of world-wide celebrity, by reason of its association with one of the most interesting ruins in the kingdom, which still repose on its summit,--those of a grand castle, held by the chiefs of the family Hy Dunnamoi, now called O'Donohue. They consist chiefly of a round-tower, ninety feet high; a small church in the Norman style, with a stone roof; a cathedral church, in Gothic style; and a castle and monastery; and yet in addition, are the fine ruins of Hore Abbey at the base of the rock. Let the intelligent reader know of these, and he has at hand strange and enchanting romances in no way inferior to "Kenilworth," or "The Lady of the Lake." We shall be pardoned for seeming egotism when we name Loughmore Castle,--a fine old building in ruins, showing yet a massive castellated front, with strong square towers at each end, the one at the right being of great antiquity, the remainder having been built in the sixteenth century. On the opposite side are the church and chapel of Loughmore. The estate was long the seat of the Purcells, from whom, in a maternal line, has probably descended one of the authors of this volume. Let our investigator continue his research, and he will be informed of the remarkable ruins of Kildare, thirty miles out from Dublin, among which is the Chapel of St. Brigid, called the Firehouse, it being the locality of the perennial fire which the nuns maintained day and night, during a thousand years, for the benefit of strangers and the poor. A thousand years of never extinguished charity-fire! How incomprehensible the fact and story! Ireland is indeed a land of romance, which is merged in the obscurities of a time which the records of man do not reach or measure. Superstition and general ignorance long prevailed, but the temperament and organism of the race have made a history peculiar to itself. There's a deal of strength and nationality in the blood. Dilute it, generation after generation, and its idiosyncracies are still there. Where can romance inhere, if not in conditions like these? What, if not legends of fairies, visions, miracles, could result from the operations of this religious turn of mind, and its accompanying superstitious beliefs? Castle, church, monastery, abbey, tower, must come into being; and their convictions were so influential that these people "builded better than they knew." We arrive at Maryboro at 7.30 P. M., and here we meet with our first and last experience of a tardy train, which is an hour and a half late at a junction. We remained over night at Borland's Hotel, paying for supper, lodging, and breakfast, $1.50 apiece. At 8.40 A. M. next day, May 2, took train for Dublin again, arriving at 11 _A. M._ This was to be our last day in Erin, and so we went directly to the steamer Longford and engaged "passage out of Ireland," paying for the passage to Liverpool $2.37 each. And now for one more tramp over the Irish metropolis. We had been informed of the completion of Christ Church Cathedral, and that on this day the great public opening was to take place. We soon discovered that we were unfortunate in not being one of the dignitaries, as they only had tickets of admission. But no Yankee of good blood would be three thousand miles from home, and lose a sight on which a million dollars had been expended; and so, with as much faith that we should gain admission to their building, as most of the prelates perhaps had of one day entering "the house not made with hands," we made our demand, and were of course repulsed. Remembering the daring of Strongbow, whose bones were reposing inside the cathedral, and that _we_ were of Irish extraction, we were emboldened, and bethought ourselves of who we were; for, like one of old, we were citizens "of no mean country," and were ready to fight spiritually with the beasts of Ephesus. We made an effort, and came off conquerors. "Americans," said we. That was the charm which held the attention of the official, robed and consequential, with whom we talked, and who was moved by that talismanic word. Although he had refused, and with righteous indignation declared he could not--and perhaps felt that he would not--let us in; yet, as soon as he knew who we were, he came down from his lofty position and the cathedral door swung open. His whole being was filled with a consciousness of the good of which he was the happy author. We complacently bowed our compliments, as all triumphing Americans should do; then we went in and surveyed everything, and in due time were out and taking our last look of the city. At 6 P. M. we were on board our steamer; and soon she steamed out of the harbor and into the bay and channel, and we were once more on the briny deep. A pleasant sail, and a comparatively quiet one, landed us at 7 A. M., on Saturday, May 3, on the soil of Old England. We have with comparative thoroughness--that is, for a tourist's statement--given an account of Old Ireland; and now, before we begin our similar account of Old England, we think it well to add a page or two more, and give a few leading points in regard to Ireland as a whole; for in these chapters, be it anew remembered, we are to try and give such incidental information as will be useful as well as entertaining to the general reader, so that he will know more of the country than he would learn from mere statements about a few things we chanced to see. As is well known, the Emerald Isle--so called from the luxuriance of vegetation induced by a mild and moist climate--is one of the four divisions of Great Britain, England, Wales, and Scotland being the others. It is separated from England by the Irish Sea and St. George's Channel, and contains an area of 32,531 square miles. This is not far from the size of the State of Maine, which contains 35,000. Ireland is divided into four provinces, Leinster, Munster, Ulster, and Connaught, and these comprise thirty-two counties. Its greatest population was in 1841, when it amounted to 8,199,853. During the next ten years, owing to famine and emigration, it decreased 1,600,000, that is to 6,599,853; and this was about 200,000 less than in 1821, when the first census was taken. The number of inhabited houses in 1861 was 995,156; in ten years they decreased to 960,352. The average number of persons to a house was seven, giving for 1871 a population of 6,722,464. This is not far from the present population, which is more than ten times that of the State of Maine, 626,915, and twice that of all New England, 3,487,924. As New England has 68,460 miles of surface, and Ireland 32,531, it follows that the latter has about four times as many persons to the square mile as the former. Ireland has ninety-two harbors and sixty-two lighthouses. There are in all 2,830,000 acres of bog land that is available for fuel, or about one seventh of all the island. At Dublin the mean temperature for the year is fifty degrees, which is seven degrees warmer than the average of Boston; and there is an average of but three degrees of difference between the extreme northern and southern parts. There is a perpetual moisture, which induces vegetation and maintains unfailing pasturage. This is due to the prevalence of westerly winds, which bring with them the warm moist atmosphere of the Gulf Stream. The average rainfall is thirty-six inches, or about six inches less than at Boston. Ireland boasts of great antiquity. We will, however, speak of it only from the time of St. Patrick, who was sent here by Germanus of Rome, to convert the people to Christianity. He arrived about the middle of the fifth century, and died in 493, leaving the island nominally Christian. Schools and monasteries were established; and so noted did the country become for the learning and piety of its ecclesiastics, that it was called _Insula Sanctorum_, Isle of Saints. In the year 646 many Anglo Saxons settled on the island, and in 684 it had become of sufficient importance to be invaded by Egfrid, king of Northumberland, who destroyed churches and monasteries. From this time invasions were common. In 1002 Brian Boru, who was king of the province of Munster, was powerful enough to expel the Danes who had come in, and was crowned at Tara, "King of all Ireland." Hence Moore's poem, "The Harp that once through Tara's Halls." Brian Boru wrought great reforms, for he founded churches and schools, opened roads, built bridges, and fitted out fleets. He introduced surnames, heretofore not in use, and made the marriage contract permanent. The Danes again invaded Ireland in 1014; and on Good Friday--April 23, of that year--Brian, an old man of eighty years, was killed in his tent, although his party had triumphed. Internal dissensions and civil wars followed. The island soon fell into a state of degeneracy, and lost its good character as the Isle of Saints. St. Bernard called the attention of the Church authorities of Rome to its condition, and Pope Eugenius III. sent Cardinal Papiron to restore discipline. In March, 1152, a synod was held at Kells, when the supremacy of Rome was acknowledged, and the archbishoprics of Dublin and of Tuam were established. In 1155 a bull is said to have been issued by Pope Adrian IV. conferring the sovereignty of Ireland on Henry II. of England. Next came invasions by two bands of Normans, one under Robert Fitzstephen in 1169, and another under Earl Pembroke (Strongbow) in the same year. Henry II. issued a proclamation recalling Strongbow, and all Englishmen, under pain of outlawry. Then there was a series of interesting battles, sometimes one party being successful, and sometimes the other. In 1341 Edward III. ordered that all offices held by Irishmen, or by Englishmen who had estates or wives in Ireland, should be vacated, and filled by Englishmen who had no personal interest whatever in the Green Isle. Great resistance and trouble followed, and the English triumphed. A parliament was held in Dublin in 1537, when the Act of Supremacy was passed, declaring Henry VIII. supreme head of the Church, prohibiting intercourse with the court of Rome, and making it treason to refuse the oath of supremacy. Then began a new series of wars and troubles. Each subsequent page of history is stained with blood. Insurrections and resistance were oft repeated. Finally, in 1798, new battles were fought, the English being in the end victorious. The next year a bill of amnesty was passed, and the country settled down into comparative quiet. Jan. 1, 1801, Articles of Union were agreed upon, and from then till now, with occasional outbreaks and riots, England has maintained her hold. Much of the work done by Henry VIII. has been good in its results; but much has proved to be wrong in the extreme. The principle of entailing landed estates tends to impoverish the people, drive them to emigration, and so depopulate the country. These are the seeds of decay for not only Ireland, but for England herself. It is a wrong "so rank it smells to heaven," and deliverance is sure to come. And now, we bid adieu to Ireland, where we have enjoyed so much, and for whose good time coming we watch and wait in sympathy with her sons. ENGLAND. CHAPTER V. LIVERPOOL--CHESTER--SHREWSBURY--WORCESTER--HEREFORD. Steamers leave Dublin every week-night for Liverpool, as they do Fall River for New York, and the distance is about the same. It involves a trip of a few miles out of Dublin harbor and bay, across St. George's channel, and four miles up the River Mersey at the other end. It is an English custom to put the name of the river last, while Americans put it first. It would sound very odd to an American to hear the remark River Ohio or River Mississippi; and so it would to an Englishman, to hear the expression Thames River. Every wise tourist, on visiting New York for the first time, is on deck early to see the approaches to the harbor, and the scenery below the city. One visiting Liverpool will do likewise; for this is to be his first view of the Mother Country. We were on our steamer's deck at 5 o'clock A. M., on Friday morning, May 3. In the distance, on our right, towered up, though somewhat obscurely, the bold headland of Holyhead, a part of Wales. As we approach it we discover the great gorge in the rock, and the bridge over it, and also the white lighthouse and long, substantial breakwater for the defence of the harbor. Sweeping in a curved course to the southeastward we see the Welsh high uplands, with their thrifty farms and many windmills. Behind these, as a splendid background, the Welsh mountains loom up, and the peaks of Snowden and other highlands show themselves. We now pass an interesting object,--an assemblage of rocks called the Skerries, three miles or so distant from the Welsh shore. They are very dangerous, and are lighted, being directly in the way of passage to the River Mersey. Next we arrive at Point Lynas, the pilot-station for Liverpool. Near it is Orme's Head, a rough promontory on which is a lighthouse, having a Fresnel light, one of the most powerful in the world. To add to the picturesqueness of the scenery, here and there are little Welsh villages, cosily situated, and nestling at the base of the hills. Among them is Llandudno and the watering-places; and so we anticipate a higher type of civilization, signs of which are on every hand. Not far from the mouth of the Mersey, fresh evidences of commercial life present themselves. Steamers, pilot-boats, and tugs thicken, and we know we are nearing a port of no ordinary importance. We pass the Northwest Lightship, and soon after hear the bell-buoy on the bar sending out its plaintive warning as it pitches and rolls. Like faithful sentinels are Formby and Crosby lightships; and at the right is Rock Light, at New Brighton. This place is the end of the peninsula, which for five miles stretches down the river, and is the shore opposite Liverpool and its suburbs. It is a pleasant and cheap watering-place, and one much sought by the common people. Steamboats from Liverpool run half-hourly between the places. New Brighton has a good beach, and there are many restaurants along the upper side. An old stone fort is one of the objects of interest, and free to visitors. On any fair day may be seen thousands of people promenading over the beach, or riding in teams or on Irish donkeys, which are at various stations ready for hire, most of them owned by aged men and women, and let for a single ride or by the hour. Here are stands for the sale of round clams (_quahaugs_, as we call them), muscles, periwinkles, and, it may be, a few poor oysters. There are also cheap refreshment tables, and facilities for the entertainment of children, such as Punch and Judy, swings, revolving horses. From this place, along the right bank of the river, the landscape is diversified with low hills, clean fields, woods, and groves, with here and there a little settlement. Opposite the city proper lies Birkenhead, a busy place, with docks and shipping, of its own, and a population of 65,980. In 1818 Birkenhead had but fifty inhabitants, but they have trebled since 1851, a rapidity seldom witnessed in the Old World. Up the Mersey on the left side, the landscape is picturesque and rural. Along the river, on comparatively level land, with a slight rise at the rear, and some especially elevated points at the extreme upper end, lies the substantial and sombre city of Liverpool. It has literally forests of masts. There are no wharves extending into the river, but at stated intervals are openings into the famous docks. These are controlled by oaken gates, of which there are eight in all, some of them a hundred feet wide. They are opened and closed twice daily, at turns of the tide. The docks are built of hewn stone, the oldest of a perishable sandstone, but the newer of granite. They are built somewhat in the rear of the outer or river docks, and open into each other. The spaces between them are used like our wharves, as sites for large warehouses and sheds of deposit. These docks and landing-places extend five miles on the Liverpool side of the river, and two miles on the Birkenhead side. In the aggregate, the docks cover 404 acres, or about two thirds of a square mile. The aggregate length of the wharf space is sixteen miles on the Liverpool side, and ten miles at Birkenhead. The cost was $50,000,000, $35,000,000 of which was expended at Liverpool. The Landing Stage, as it is called, where passage is taken to the steamers, is an enormous floating platform, supported on iron tanks, and is along the business centre of the city, outside of the main street or sea-wall, which is five miles long, eleven feet thick, and forty feet in average height from its foundations. At the beginning of the eighteenth century Liverpool had but one dock; but between 1830 and 1860, over twenty-five new ones were opened. The place is of considerable antiquity, and is first spoken of, in any authentic record, in a charter of Henry II., bearing date 1173, by which document the privileges of a seaport were secured; and in 1207 King John granted it a municipal charter. Henry III. constituted it a free borough in 1229. It made but little progress for centuries, and was a scene of sanguinary conflict in 1644, for during the contest between Charles I. and his Parliament, this place resisted the King. After a month's determined opposition, it was taken by Prince Rupert, and was soon afterwards largely reduced in population by pestilence and famine. In 1699 it had not more than five thousand inhabitants. There is no other foreign city so influenced by the United States. Its condition, advancement, and progress have been in proportion to our advancement; for upon the fluctuations of trade it has, for a third of a century, been somewhat dependent. The general look of the city is like that of the older parts of New York or Boston, which it resembles more than it does any place in Europe. Its streets are generally wide, clean, and are always well paved. Its buildings are very substantial. They are of brick or stone; but from the large amount of smoke from the bituminous coal, and the damp, and--in winter--foggy atmosphere, they have an old and dingy appearance. Particularly is this true of most of the churches, with their square towers. The city proper has few very good church edifices; but it has many old ones, some of them surrounded by burial-grounds, in the very heart of the city. These churchyards are not only treeless, but they are without shrubs, or even grass. An acre is sometimes covered with slabs of stone, level with the ground. They are about three feet wide and six long, set close together, with hardly a crevice, and on them are cut the epitaphs. St. George's Hall, a colossal and superb structure, has one of the largest organs in the world, and exhibitions of it are given two or three times a week for the small admission fee of a sixpence (twelve cents). At the time of our visit, there were full one thousand people present. It has a good art-gallery, in which are many fine paintings by the Masters. Drunkenness abounds. In no other place did we see so much drunkenness or so many rum shops. A visit to the police court, and a stay of a couple of hours there, exhibited more inebriation, poverty, and destitution than we could imagine as existing as we walked through the streets of the city. We were informed by the judge that he had on his book one hundred and ninety-four cases for drunkenness alone, or crimes growing immediately out of it; and that in some way all must be disposed of that day, as to-morrow was likely to bring as many or more. Some offenders had been before his court over sixty times. Such victims were released, as would be so many wild animals or lepers, the kind-hearted judge simply lecturing them, and expressing his sorrow for what in these years he had been compelled to witness daily. He was humane in all his considerations. We could but tell him that he was a remarkable man, to be able for years to be in the presence of this mass of evil and degradation, and not become hardened in feeling, but retain a sympathetic yet judicious determination and manhood. Never did a case occur where with more propriety the old remark might be justly made, "the right man in the right place." We went away somewhat sad, as we thought of the upright judge's remark, made so innocently, that we intelligent Americans prohibited this evil and governed it better than did the people of England. Said he: "Close up the rum shops as your people do, and my occupation would end." Alas! Would that we did thus close them, for so would most of our judges' occupations be gone. But no! In enlightened Boston there are churches, schoolhouses, and asylums,--and thousands of vile rum-holes sandwiched between, making void the good done by the former, and furnishing inmates for station-house and prison. The suburbs of Liverpool are very fine, and in appearance much like those of Boston. Horse-cars and omnibuses constantly ply between the city and these places. Sefton Park is inexpressibly fine in itself, and in its distant rural scenery; and Toxton (Brookline, we might consider it) is of great rural beauty. The distant view of the old red church tower, cathedral-like and grand, situated on elevated ground, peering up out of shade-trees that obscured other parts of the building, and even the larger portion of the village itself; small lakes gleaming in the sun; the evidence of high civilization,--made us long to see more of Old England,--of these "sweet Auburns," lovely villages of the plain; and we were soon gratified, for at 2.20 o'clock P. M., Saturday, we took cars for the city of CHESTER. Who that travels would risk his reputation as a person of taste, and not go to Chester? A fare of $1.50 each brought us to this Mecca; for as the Jews of old must go to Mt. Zion, so must the England-visiting American go to Chester. First, a few words about the city itself; and here the brain acts sluggishly, and the pen rebels at the thought of describing what has been described so many times before. We arrived after an hour and forty minutes' ride from Liverpool. Chester is the capital of Cheshire, and is situated on the River Dee, with a population of 35,701. It was a Roman station known as Deva Castra. It is nearly surrounded by the river, and the original portion of the city is encompassed with an ancient wall having low towers at special points. This wall is in perfect condition, and is the best specimen of its kind in all England. The foundations are Roman, and part of this work is visible, and is an item of much interest. The upper portions, resting on the Roman base, date from the time of Edward I., who was born at Westminster in 1239, and died 1307; and so the wall is nearly six hundred years old. It is about eight feet thick at the top, and varies in thickness at the bottom according to its height, which, of course, is determined by the irregular surface of the land. The space enclosed is a parallelogram, planned like all Roman camps, with a gate or entrance in the middle of each of the four sides, the main streets intersecting at the centre of the town. There are at stated intervals stone stairs, leading up to the walk at the top of the wall, and this is a common promenade for the public, and more especially for strangers, as from this elevation, a large portion of the entire city is seen, and the view of the outside scenery is most enchanting. There are streets, and a busy population of dwellers on both sides of the walls. Here, too, is a noble field called Grosvenor Park, many acres in extent, used as pleasure-grounds for the public, or as a parade for soldiers, whose barracks are near. As a background, bordering it, half a mile away, are the grounds of fine mansions, half embowered with trees. As we pass around to the left, we see the muddy banks and meadow-like borders of the River Dee. Opposite this, making the other shore, is a dirty fishing-town, with its principal street extending up from the river. This is called Sty Lane,--at least by some people. Here we saw from the walls, where we were walking, a Hogarthlike nest of dilapidated buildings and destitution. There were the sights and sounds of a veritable Saturday-night row, in which men, women, and children were promiscuously mingled. It was a good specimen of a bad original. After a sight like this, we were inclined to give Hogarth less credit as an inventor than we had before done; for he had sights worthy his pencil at hand, without an effort of his imagination. Continuing our walk along to where the river runs sluggishly beside the walls, we extend our delightful tramp. Encircling the old town thus, occupies us nearly an hour. On our way, just inside the walls, are ruins of small lodges, antique and ivy-clad; and on the top of the wall itself is a little tower, on which is an inscription, cut in a stone tablet, telling that from its floor King Charles I. beheld the defeat of Rowton Moor, in 1645. These walls are built of a dark-reddish stone, well laid in white mortar, and have a very antiquated appearance. There is a breastwork, or parapet, three feet high on each side for protection, and capped with long, rough-cut stones. Having finished our circuit we, much against our inclination, go down one of the stairways, and into the street within the walls, where we continue our explorations, confessing that our early dislike of the task of writing up this city has about vanished. So marked was the early impression of peculiar interest and novelty, and so fully satisfying to our anticipations, that when we finally left the city we could not help feeling as did one of old when he said, with the change of but one word,--"If I ever forget thee O Chester, may my right hand forget her cunning." We were not the first Americans who have thought and felt thus; no one who has ever seen Chester will or can forget her. The cry once was, "Great is Diana of the Ephesians." We ejaculate "Great is Chester of the Britons." The queer old streets are interesting in the extreme. Narrow and short, but clean, they are said to be at right-angles with each other; and perhaps they are. The buildings are quaint, antique, and of all designs, the second story often projecting beyond the first, and the third beyond the second, and the gable end out over that. Their general appearance so attracts attention that nothing in particular is noted, so far as relates to the arrangement of the city itself. The Rows, as they are called, that is, the covered sidewalks in the older and business streets, are built in under the second stories, and are paved. The different store-sections are out of level, each with its neighbor, though tolerably level through the length of the entire streets. Often the ceilings of these walks are low enough to touch with the hand; generally the floor, or pavement, is raised from two to four feet above the grade of the street. Of course the shops are back of these. The idea is not a bad one. In times of foul weather or of strong sun, the Rows are protections. The entire width between the buildings being given to teams, renders it much safer for pedestrians. The majority of the buildings are built with their ends to the street, showing gables with the high roof or attic ends, with elaborate decorations, and these afford a fine opportunity for a display of quaint finish. Many of these buildings have a framework of oak, more or less carved, with brickwork fitted into the frame, and plastered and painted, generally with subdued tints. The people are to be commended for the good taste and judgment displayed in their rebuilding; for when a new edifice takes the place of one removed, the new design, while it may increase the height of the stories, and add other real improvements and conveniences, yet preserves the old style. Chester is a lively, bustling, and enterprising business place--a gem in its way. Of course the cathedral comes in for early attention. So long as Charles Kingsley--Canon Kingsley, for here he was made canon in 1869--is remembered, so long will the cathedral be of interest. It is situated in the very centre of the city. Jammed in among other buildings, with no quiet grass and aged trees about it, the pavements lead up to its very doors. It is irregular in outline, dark-reddish-brown in color, aged in appearance, with a massive low tower, but no spire above it. The transept, choir, and nave windows are of monstrous size, not much higher than wide, filled with elegant perpendicular Gothic tracery, and divided into many compartments. The interior is in good repair,--_restored_, as it is termed. Here, as in all cathedrals, there is a stone floor, and hundreds of inscriptions that tell of those who are quietly resting beneath. "Their labors done, securely laid In this, their last retreat, Unheeded o'er their silent dust The storms of life shall beat." The building was originally the abbey of St. Werburgh, built for the Benedictines,--begun in 1095 by Hugh Lupus, assisted by St. Anselm,--and retains its original design. The next object of interest, and one truly remarkable, is the church of St. John, once the cathedral. It is situated about five minutes' walk away from the cathedral proper, and, unlike that, stands in a large green, or close, for centuries used as a burial-ground. The red tower is very high, yet without a spire, and partly in ruins. It stands almost alone in solitary beauty, with picturesque ivy-clad cloisters and arches, presenting a striking and wonderful group, which tells of the remote past. The old tower, colossal and grand, but in such decay as to make it dangerous to ring the bells (and fallen since we saw it), is connected with what was formerly the nave of the church; and this is now, with slight additions for a chancel, all that is used, a new end having years ago been put on at the line of transepts. St. John's is of early English architecture in some parts, and late Norman in others, having large, plain, round columns that carry the arches of the clerestory. These columns lean outward from the perpendicular, making the nave wider at the top, and the widening was thought to have been caused by a settling of the old stone groining. On making repairs a few years since, the height of the clerestory walls was foolishly reduced some four feet, and a lower wood ceiling put in to lessen the weight on the columns; but it was at length discovered that the original was built for effect,--whether for good or for ill, we will not decide. In picturesqueness never excelled, St. John's Church, with its grounds and accompanying ruins, not only divides the honors with the cathedral, but by many would be named first. Chester is the seat of rare monuments of the past. The castle, built by Lupus, Earl of Chester, seven hundred and more years ago, while it has been largely re-constructed, is used as the shire hall, and contains many portraits of noted men who have been distinguished in the city's history. Near the castle is a fine old stone bridge crossing the Dee, with a single arch of two hundred feet. There is, in the suburbs, a curious manorhouse, once belonging to the abbey of St. Werburgh; Eaton Hall, the seat of the Marquis of Westminster; and a ground where famous races are held. Cheese fairs occur once a month, promiscuous fairs three times a year, and markets twice a week; and the city gives the title of Earl to the Prince of Wales. At 10 A. M. we visited the military barracks, and in the parade-ground, with thousands of other spectators, witnessed the usual Sunday drill, and also the military evolutions, such as striking tents and stacking arms. Some five hundred soldiers were engaged in these operations on this Christian Sunday, made especially sacred by its associations with the Prince of Peace. At this hour, amid the sound of innumerable chimes of from three to five bells each, were the intermingling sound of trumpets and the clamor of war,--so confused yet each so prominent as to make one doubt which had the inside track, church or army, God or Satan. In the afternoon we were at the cathedral, and, the service being intoned, the echoes made confusion worse confounded. We finally saw more clearly than ever before the force of the remark of one of old, when he said: "In the church I had rather speak five words with my understanding, that by my voice I might teach others also, than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue." We have thought, while enveloped in this confusion, that it would be well for the managers of cathedral services everywhere, to be thoughtful as St. Paul was, and say: "Whether pipe or harp, except they give a distinction in the sounds, how shall it be known what is piped or harped?" There is one especial object of American interest. In the chapter-house there hang over the doors two flags that were carried by the Cheshire Regiment--the 22d--at the Battle of Bunker Hill in our American Revolution; and they were also carried by General Wolfe at the taking of Quebec in 1759, sixteen years before. It will thus be seen that soldiers from this county were at Charlestown, June 17, 1775. There are some very ancient houses of particular note. They are of the old timbered and panel-plastered fashion, with very fine specimens of profuse and sometimes grotesque carving. Among them is God's Providence House. Its three stories and gable project over each other as before described. The historical fact is that, when the plague prevailed, there were deaths in every house on the street save this one, and after all was over, the owner put this inscription upon it, which remains to this day: GOD'S PROVIDENCE IS MY SALVATION. Of bold and high decoration, by carving of the wooden parts, is Stanley House, with its three gables. This is one of the best specimens of ancient timber and plaster-work to be found in England. On Bridge Street there is an ancient Roman bath that well repays a visit, for we are there permitted to look upon work a thousand years old. Do we realize or comprehend the fact? No; but the impression, with a photographic fidelity, has been made on the mind, and will never be effaced. Let what will happen, so long as memory acts and intelligence remains, the good influence of these impressions will endure. The mind is truly, as the poet has expressed it,-- Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled, You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. In closing our description of grand old Chester, we will name the fact that in Trinity Church are the tombs of the poet Thomas Parnell, who was born at Dublin, 1679, and died at Chester in July, 1717; and of the eminent commentator, Matthew Henry, born at Broad Oak, Flintshire, 1662, and died at Nantwich, June 22, 1714. He became pastor of a church in Chester--perhaps Trinity--in 1687, and remained till 1702, a period of twenty-five years. The Commentary was the result of his lectures in exposition of the Bible, the whole of which is said to have been thus passed in critical review during his ministry at Chester. He continued the lectures at Hackney, to which place he removed in 1712. The first collected edition was published at London, in five volumes, in 1710, but to Chester really belongs the honor of being the place where this work, so well known the Protestant world over, had its birth. It would be pleasant to linger in this venerable place. We had enjoyed so much antiquity at Chester that we could hardly endure the shock of being suddenly dropped into some modern spot; and so the place set down in our programme as next in order was the one, of all others, admirably in keeping with our purpose. This was the good old domestic town of SHREWSBURY, of well-known Cake notoriety. We took passage at 5.10 P. M. this same Sunday evening; and while the sun was high above the horizon, at 7 o'clock, we were safely landed at Station Hotel. Soon after supper, as English people call it, we were out for a tramp. There's always an indescribable impatience in the tourist to see the place. There's a great deal of the can't-comfortably-wait condition, and it generally has soon to be gratified. We were early in love with the town. How comfortably we had been let down from Chester, and how unharmed we felt! The quaintness discovered in the narrow streets and the ancient buildings made it a second Chester; but we thought we saw in the mansions more of stateliness, costliness, and evidences of a substantial English aristocracy. The better class of houses were like the first-class three-story brick mansions at Salem and Newburyport, making one feel at home. Here and there were newer buildings of modern style, which made a worthy connecting link between the old dispensation and the new; for there were buildings as modern as are anywhere built, and some as ancient as are to be found anywhere, almost equalling those so justly adored at Chester. Shrewsbury is the shire town of Shropshire, and has a population of 23,406. It has the remains of an ancient castle, and some of the old walls of the city are yet standing. The River Severn, a sluggish and muddy stream, some three hundred feet wide, divides the town. The older portion is connected by two bridges, and also by a cheap rope-ferry, with the other side, on which are rural residences and public-entertainment grounds. When we speak of the River Severn our interest is intensified by the thought of a great historic fact. In 1428, by order of Clement VIII., the body of Wycliffe, which since 1415 had been buried in a dunghill, to which it had been consigned by order of the Council of Constance, was exhumed and burned to ashes, and these were thrown into the little River Swift, a tributary of the Avon. This gave birth to the fine old verse:-- The Avon to the Severn runs, The Severn to the sea; And Wycliffe's dust shall spread abroad Wide as the waters be. The river curves, and partly encircles the city; and on its banks we found the public park, and near it St. Chad's circular stone church, with its large square tower above a portico, crowned with a belfry, under which are great clock dials. The park is simply an ordinarily well-kept grass ground, of perhaps one third the size of Boston Common. It has three or four superb avenues of old lime-trees, and Quarry Walk is one of the finest in Europe. Tradition has it that all of these linden-trees were set out by one man, more than a century and a half ago. The ruins of Battlefield Church, now little appreciated, roofless and dilapidated, are four miles away. This is famous as being the place where _Sir John Falstaff_ "fought an hour by Shrewsbury Clock." The town was an important one as early as the twelfth century, and prominent at times as being the place of royal residence. Parliaments were held here in 1283 and in 1398. In 1403--ninety years before the discovery of America by Columbus--the famous Battle of Hotspur was fought near here, in which that distinguished soldier was killed. In 1277 it was the temporary residence of Edward I., and to this place he removed the King's Bench and Court of Exchequer during the Wars of the Roses. The inhabitants took part with the House of York, and it was the asylum of the queen of Edward IV. after having given birth to the princes Edward and Richard, the two children who are supposed to have been murdered in the Tower of London by Richard III. As will be seen, the place is intimately connected with historic facts. Remembrance of this contributes a charm not well expressed in words. As we walked over these streets, through which distinguished personages have walked, and by houses which intelligent people have occupied for a thousand years,--as we thought of many generations who here lived, labored, and died, their dust now mingling with the soil of its ancient burial-grounds, or resting in the tombs of its venerable churches, within sound of the same vesper bells to which we were listening at the close of this pleasant Sunday evening,--as these reflections took possession of our minds, the quiet sanctity of the Puritan New England Sunday was about us, and we felt that we were in a befitting place to end a day so well and interestingly begun at Chester. Sunday night is passed, and Monday, May 5, is at hand. As usual we are impatient for more experiences. Our thoughts are mingled with regrets, tinted with righteous indignation, that American tourists so neglect these places, and hurry to others of more metropolitan renown, but of less real interest to any one who would see England in her best estate. Their loss--a great one--is nobody's gain. A fine walk this of to-day, through street after street of good business activity. Now was the time to attend to another duty. In passing a store we saw a notice, high up on a building, that here were made the original Shrewsbury cakes. We found that the recipe had been in use for over one hundred years, dating from 1760; that for as long a time the cakes had been there manufactured, and were now enjoying an enviable reputation the world over; and also that it was not an uncommon occurrence to send them by express to the United States. They are put up in round, blue, paper-covered, pasteboard boxes, about six inches in diameter and four inches deep, the cakes being of a nature that will bear transportation. We are soon in possession of them, but examination does not make us over-enthusiastic. If at home we should be even less so. They are thin cakes, say less than a quarter of an inch thick, and five inches in diameter,--apparently made without spice, but very sweet, fat, and crisp. As nearly as we could judge they are composed simply of flour, sugar, eggs, and butter, the latter in generous proportions. There's a deal in a name, and in the reputation gained through the sluggish lapse of a century's advertising and vigilant attention to business. Our young saleswoman is quite pert in her independence, and scorns the idea of selling or even hinting at a recipe for their manufacture; and we go away consoling ourselves with the idea that we have many times eaten similar things at home, and shall again, and animated by the conviction that, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." It may be our judgment is at fault, and that they are in possession of a precious as well as a remunerative secret. Continuing our walk, we met with St. Mary's Church, which has every requirement of a cathedral except a bishop. Had we not seen churches of the kind before, we should have gone deeply into enthusiasm now; for here was a grand structure, thoroughly antique, with nave, choir, transepts, chapels, ancient monuments, and fine windows,--one very large, as good as any in all England, and six hundred years old. It is an inclination of the tourist to ejaculate at every new place, "This is the most interesting we have seen." We are at a loss to know why St. Mary's is not oftener spoken of as among the favored few, for it is all of that. Shrewsbury, grand old town, full of interest, and antiquities we have not time to name, is itself a museum of antiquity. We know much more than we did when we first surveyed it, but travel and observation have not at all dimmed our admiration. At 11.10 A. M. we move on to our next place, which was the prototype of, and gave its name to, the Heart of our Massachusetts Commonwealth, WORCESTER. We arrived at 2 P. M. in a mild rain, the first we had been compelled to walk out in since our journey began. Valises deposited at a hotel, we were, as usual, soon out to survey the place. Like Shrewsbury, it is situated on the River Severn, which runs along the rear part of the place. It contains 33,221 inhabitants, was once a walled city, and vestiges of the walls remain. The Danes destroyed it and rebuilt it about 894, and it was burned by Hardicanute, the last of the Danish royal dynasty in England, in 1041. It suffered from frequent incursions of the Welsh, and was one of the principal cities of the ancient Britons. In the early period of the Saxon dynasty it became the second bishopric of Mercia. Having espoused the cause of Charles I. it was greatly troubled by the soldiers of Parliament; but on Sept. 3, 1651, the final battle, termed by Cromwell "a crowning mercy," was here fought by the Royalists under Charles on the one side, and Cromwell on the other, which resulted in routing the former, and ended in a defeat from which he never recovered. Samuel Butler the poet, of "Hudibras" celebrity, received the rudimentary elements of his education in the schools here; and the celebrated Lord John Somers was born here in 1651. The city is built mostly of brick, and, from the number of gardens and shade-trees, has a rural appearance. The river is crossed by an old stone bridge of several arches, and along the bank next the city proper, and below the land elevation, is a promenade, a mile or more long, following the curve of the river. In portions of the place an active business is done, and enterprise is everywhere manifest. Except that the buildings are of brick or stone, it well reminds one of our Massachusetts Worcester. A few of the houses are two or three centuries old. It is a marked place for antiquities, and foremost among them is the cathedral, which is built of light-drab sandstone, in the form of a double cross, having four transepts. It is 426 feet long; the western transepts are 180 feet through, and the eastern, 128 feet. The tower is at the centre, or at the junction of the nave, choir, and east transepts, and is 193 feet high. It is very elaborately decorated, ending with a rich battlement and lofty turrets. It was founded in 680, but the present edifice dates from the fourteenth century. It has surrounding grounds, and is in most perfect repair, both the exterior and interior having been lately restored. A few words once for all are needed in relation to this word _restored_. As will readily be conceived, buildings erected of a somewhat perishable material are more or less in constant decay. The degree depends on the nature of the stone, its exposure, and the extent of its elaboration; but all stone is subject to disintegration, and the buildings were so long in process of erection, that the older portions were in need of repair before the newer were finished. In these latter days, being more neglected, much dilapidation existed, and important parts of the edifices were threatened with entire destruction. A new spirit of enterprise has been infused into the people, and repairs have been vigorously prosecuted. In some instances, large portions have been refaced on the outside. In the instance of Worcester Cathedral, the great tower was nearly rebuilt ten years ago. More particularly has there been an interest in the work of re-decorating the interiors. This has consisted, first of all, in the removal of whitewash, which had been put on. A time has been when the common judgment of all bishops approved its use. It gave a clean look, but injured the general effect. Cathedrals are generally finished over head with stone arches and ribs; and the wooden roof is slated, tiled, or covered with metal. Sometimes the stonework of the ceilings was plastered and blocked off in imitation of stone. The present taste--without doubt largely induced by the late Sir Gilbert Scott--is to clean off this wash and leave the stone as nearly as possible in its natural condition. It was a common practice in olden times to color and ornament stonework, and as the wash has been removed, paintings, often grotesque, are found, and always left as a memento of the past. Eventually, all cathedrals will probably be decorated in high colors and fancy designs. Some such paintings are already begun in unimportant parts by way of experiment. As the walls now look somewhat bare, and as a love for display in service is on the increase, there is a strong desire for new glass of the very highest colors. It is to be expected that the same spirit will not rest till the decoration is also in gorgeous hues. In a few cases the stone is so well put together, and of such a tint, as to make it sacrilege to interfere with it; but in a majority of churches such decorating would harmonize well with the gay windows and rich interior stone finish, and really be an improvement. Another change is the removal of the organs from the choirscreens, originally located at the line of choir and transepts. They have been removed in a majority of cases to the side of the choir, and much to the improvement of the edifice. All cathedrals that we visited have been restored more or less as described, and a majority of them are finished. When a restoration of stonework has been made of any especial part, as new door-work or a window, the work has been done in the style of the period. Of course all changes since the last period of Gothic architecture--the perpendicular--have been made in that style; so that at times we find in one structure all the styles, from the Norman down through the whole four. This method of operation must receive general, if not universal sanction, since we find it invariably pursued. On cathedrals generally are chimes of bells, on which the quarter and half hours are struck by a few notes; and in Worcester Cathedral is, also, a large barrel, of music-box construction, by which at especial times in the day, as at 9 A. M., 12 M., 3 and 6 P. M., an entire tune is played on the bells. For every day of the month there is a new tune, a list of the music being at the door. On the day of our visit was played "The Harp that once through Tara's Halls." It would be an impossibility to describe in detail these great works of art, the cathedrals of England. Little more can be done than name things of especial interest. So far as the interior of Worcester Cathedral is concerned, it is very inviting, and has interesting monuments. The impression is not quite what one would imagine as he thinks of an edifice over four hundred feet long, for sight never conveys an idea of its actual length; but the impression is that you are looking at a colossal church--one larger than you have ever before seen. You admire the lofty tower, think it of elegant design, proportions, and finish, that it looks new,--as it really is,--but get no impressions of the great age of the building. From the bridge, looking back to the left, you see an elegant picture--the river low down, a terraced walk at its side, the land surface some ten or fifteen feet above. An eighth of a mile or so distant, half embowered in fine trees, is the cathedral. The upper parts loom high above the branches, and the tower rises still higher. The rear end of the cathedral choir, with its great east window, projects beyond the grove, and is in full view from our point of observation. From this place the city has a rural rather than a commercial or manufacturing appearance. Let one stand on the bridge and view this scene, and listen to the sweet notes of the bells. The mellow and refined sound--we had almost said the intellectual demonstration--of the cathedral bells, as by an intuition of its own, institutes a comparison between this day of civilization and that of the rude savage, and then if ever, one sees and knows that the world moves. In the cathedral are monuments of marked and distinguished men. Here reposes the dust of King John; and bedimmed with dust, in sombre repose and ancient glory, is an effigy to his memory. He died in 1216, or more than 667 years ago. Here lies the body of Bishop Stillingfleet, who was made Bishop of Worcester in 1689, and died ten years later. Adjoining the cathedral are fine cloisters, or covered and partly enclosed corridors, for walking and meditation. These on the open side are built with piers and arches, filled with stone tracery. They open into the quadrangle, which is grassed over, but roofless, of which the cloisters form the sides. On the grounds, and in those adjoining, are the residences of the bishop and other dignitaries of the cathedral; also, the Cathedral, or King's School. One can hardly imagine the beauty of these great cathedral grounds,--the grouping of its buildings; the finely kept lawns; the shady walks; the atmosphere of repose, broken only by the sound of the rooks, that are in the ancient tree-tops, or by the quarter-hour bells so sweetly disturbing it, and solemnly proclaiming that a new division of time has been joined to those before the flood. How admonitory the sounds are! Not to all listeners are they thought-hardening, but the reverse. Now and then, by night and by day, all do _think_, and so the inanimate bells preach effectually, and as the living preacher cannot always do. Among the many interesting churches here is St. Andrew's, with its fine old tower and spire, 245 feet high,--a Bunker Hill monument in height, with 25 feet added. The pottery manufactories must be named, for their productions are among the finest of our times, competing even with those of Sévres. The management of these establishments kindly opens them to the public, and all parts of the work may be inspected. Their warerooms present a display that is interesting in the extreme. The results of many years of experiment are here on exhibition, and they are remarkable triumphs of mind over matter. The fine blending of tints, the high degree of finish attained in representing fruits, landscapes, and flowers, are truly wonderful. We were informed that our own Boston has its constant share of these products. Remaining over night, in the evening we are entertained by a thunder-shower, the first we have experienced for the season. Heavy thunder and vivid lightning, accompanied by warm and refreshing rain, remind us of home. We should have before stated that in this, as in all the English cathedral towns, service is held in the cathedral at 11 A. M. and 3 P. M. daily. There is no sermon, but the regular morning and evening prayers of the Church. We were present and enjoyed the grand organ music and singing; but the intoned services and its accompaniment of echoes, confused and neutralized the spirit of worship. A few persons, perhaps twenty in all, were present, aside from the clergy and choir. Most of them were strangers, as we were, drawn thither by curiosity, but treated in the kindest manner, and every facility given for enjoyment. We were even invited into the stalls, which are the chief seats in the synagogue. We occupied them readily; at the expense of being accused of Phariseeism we may say, in a whisper, that we desired them. We went to the top of the tower and were delighted by the view of highland, vale, river, grove, and the city itself. Here, as in all cathedrals, men are in waiting to show persons over the edifice, and call their attention to things of especial interest. They are dressed in black, with white cravats and flowing black robes, which add much dignity to their appearance. At 10 A. M., Tuesday, we left Worcester for another cathedral town, HEREFORD. At 11.30 we have just arrived, and find our pronunciation at fault. _Her_-e-ford, say the people, not _Here_-ford, as we had spoken it. Well, thus corrected, we speak it as well as they to the manner born. Our ride here, and in fact all the way from Liverpool, has been through no very striking scenery. The land is well kept, and about one quarter of it is under cultivation. We notice the absence of land divisions. As few as possible are used, and those are hedges. Here we call the reader's attention to the plan of travel we are pursuing. We decided not to hurry to London, as most Americans do,--stopping only at Chester, Stratford-on-Avon, and Oxford; we would see Ireland and Scotland well, and England thoroughly. We therefore, on leaving Ireland, went directly to Liverpool, which is on the extreme western side of England, and about two thirds of the way north from its lower coast. Thence we went southerly to Chester, then to Worcester, and now we are at Hereford. It is our intention to work down to Salisbury and Winchester, stopping at other cathedral towns on the way, and thence to take a northerly route to London. This line of travel carries us over the entire western part of the island. Hereford is a substantial English town. It has many antique buildings, of the jutting-story construction,--good examples of the timber-and-plaster pattern,--and wide streets. There is a thrifty look about the inhabitants, and their number is 18,335,--or was in 1871, for that is the year from which date the statistics. We could but think of some of the celebrated men who had looked upon these identical scenes. We thought of the Kembles, who here managed the theatre. They are of world-wide celebrity, beginning with old Roger, born in this town in 1721, and dying in 1802,--the father of twelve children, among whom are Sarah (Mrs. Siddons), and John Philip, the eldest son, and Charles, the youngest, born, respectively in 1757 and 1775, and dying in 1823 and 1854. We thought also of David Garrick of histrionic renown, born here in 1716, the personal friend of Dr. Samuel Johnson of dictionary notoriety. We walk to the River Wye, on which the town is situated, and which is crossed by an ancient, six-arched bridge. The cathedral, as at Worcester, is to the left, and on land rather elevated from the river. Hereford strongly resembles that place, though without the river promenade, and with less refinement. The cathedral, of course, must have attention. Founded in 1072, it was building during the next two hundred years. Mostly in the Norman style, it is 325 feet long, 110 feet through the transepts, and has a grand old central tower, 160 feet high, ending with a battlement and corner turrets. The color of its stone is light drab, much resembling that at Worcester. Every part is in good repair, and the interior has a very imposing look. We were by no means prepared for the bold finish and fine windows for the chapels and cloisters, and, above all, for the well kept lawn and trees of the Bishop's Palace, and other ecclesiastical houses. The Lady Chapel is one of the finest in England, and the cathedral library has very valuable manuscripts, among them one of Wycliffe's Bibles, very rare. The monuments date back to the eleventh century. In what profusion are the antique slabs, with their great brass crosses. How the very atmosphere of the place is fragrant with the memory of the sainted dead! In visiting these cathedrals, in looking on the ruins of ancient abbey or monastery,--so complete in themselves, and exhibiting such evidence of former grandeur,--one is inclined to feel that each is _the_ cathedral of all England,--the Mecca of all the Church; for what is lacking? Not capacity or costliness; not lack of graves of kings, earls, barons, or lords, for here beneath our feet repose the dust of enough such for an entire kingdom. Webster well said of another place: "I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set our foot upon some revered history." The part the town has taken in the wars gives her renown. How often the Welsh came here and made fearful devastation! Could the sleepers, now at rest forever, speak again, they would tell of the invasions of the Saxon era, and the strange Baronial wars; of the sanguinary conflicts of the Plantagenets, and of the battles of the seventeenth century; of the long siege, when a brave defence of the place was made by the people, their town being one of the very last to submit to the Parliament. All is peaceful now, and we, on this pleasant day, were dreamily wandering along the lines dividing a great past from a greater present, and both from a yet more remarkable future. Without ability to comprehend all this, we were trying to get a little entertainment, if we dared not hope for something greater. A wide door is opened when one in meditative mood goes into a town like this, knows of the great past, sees the present, and then, in spite of himself, projects his thoughts into the future,--the near and the distant blending into one. The sweet chimes on the bells proclaim the end of an hour; then the short pause,--how still! and now how clearly marked is the new hour. The great diapason bell of the tower solemnly pronounces its four strokes, and we wend our way to the station for Gloucester. CHAPTER VI. GLOUCESTER--BRISTOL--BATH--SALISBURY--SARUM--AMESBURY--STONEHENGE--WILTON. At 6 P. M., after a scant two hours' ride, we take rooms at the Gloucester House, and are out on a walk in another beautiful town, the River Severn running through it,--a town more like Worcester than like Hereford, though in population (18,330) strikingly like the latter. The city is of British origin, but is very ancient. It was once a Roman station by the name of Colonia Glevum, and under the Emperor Claudius received the name of Claudia Castra. The Saxons, after they had taken it, gave it the name of Glean-ceaster; hence our modern word Gloucester. It had its part in battles, and in the seventeenth century was strongly fortified and took part with the Royalists. The place was of so much importance that Henry VIII. made it a bishop's seat, and so its great abbey church became a cathedral. The edifice is in fine repair, and is noted for its elegant cloisters,--the finest of any cathedral in the world. They are of very liberal dimensions, and adorned with fanlike tracery of extraordinary finish; and the openings into the great courtyard are filled with glass. The cathedral itself is one of rare beauty. It is 423 feet long, and 147 feet wide at the transepts; and the great central tower is 176 feet high to the base of the corner pinnacles, which tower up 49 feet higher. The cloisters are 148 feet long on each of their four sides. We shall not attempt a closer description of this than of other cathedrals, though every part is a study. It has but a small number of noted monuments, but among them are some of unusual interest. One, always attracting attention, is of Robert, Duke of Normandy. It is a recumbent effigy of bog-oak, covered with wire network. Being a Crusader, the legs are crossed, as is the customary representation. Robert was imprisoned by his brother Henry, his eyes were put out, and for twenty-eight years he continued in this miserable condition till death came to his relief. Another monument is to the memory of Edward II., who was murdered Sept. 21, 1327. Another commemorates Bishop Warburton, who was made bishop of the diocese in 1759, and died here in 1779. Near the entrance is a monument to Dr. Edward Jenner, the discoverer of vaccination, or inoculation, as a preventive of smallpox. He died at Berkley, in the county of Gloucestershire, and was buried in this cathedral in 1823, at the age of seventy-five. In this city, in 1735, was born Robert Raikes, who in 1781 hired rooms for Sunday-schools, and employed women at a shilling a day to teach poor children, whom he found in the streets, the rudiments of common education. The school was held from 10 A. M. to 12 M. An hour's recess was followed by a lesson in reading, and then they went to church. After service the catechism was repeated till 5 P. M., "when they were charged to go home at once, and quietly." This was the origin of our present system of Sunday-schools, that of Mr. Raikes being the first of which we have any account. Here also, on the 16th of December, 1714, was born the celebrated preacher, George Whitefield, who died at Newburyport, Mass., Sept. 30, 1770, and whose remains are entombed under the pulpit of the Old South (Presbyterian) Church of that place. One mural tablet was of especial interest to us,--a white marble slab, high up on one of the transept walls, thought to be in memory of a relative of the founder of the chimes on Christ Church at the North End of Boston. It reads as follows:-- ABRAHAM RUDHALL BELL FOUNDER FAM'D FOR HIS GREAT SKILL BELOV'D AND ESTEEM'D FOR HIS SIGNAL GOOD NATURE AND INTEGRITY DIED JAN'Y 25TH 1785-6 AGED 78. One of the bells at our Christ Church bears this inscription: "Abel Rudhall of Gloucester cast us all, Anno. 1744." As Abraham would have been about forty-two years old at the time, perhaps he was the son of this Abel. The organ in the cathedral is one of great power and brilliancy of tone. It was built by the celebrated Renatus Harris of London, who built many of the large organs of England. Reluctantly we left these beautiful grounds, and entertaining a regret unusually deep. The walks are kept scrupulously clean, and the flowers in the vicinity of the student's precincts were charming. As we sauntered about we could not but think of the great who have here held court. Beneath the shadow of these very walls walked Edward the Confessor, and many a Norman lord. In the old abbey Henry III. was crowned three hundred years ago; and who can walk and meditate here and not think of Richard III., Duke of Gloucester? We cannot refrain from quoting the quaint description given of him by Sir Thomas More:-- Richarde, the thirde sonne of Richard, Duke of Yorke, was in witte and corage equal with his two brothers, in bodye and prowesse far under them both, little of stature, ill fetured of limmes, croke backed, his left shoulder much higher than his right, hard favored of visage, and such as in stater called warlye, in other menne otherwise, he was malicious, wrathful, envious and from his birth ever frowarde. It is for truth reported that he came into the world with the feet forwarde, and also ontothed, as if nature changed her course in hys beginnynge, which in the course of his lyfe manny thinges unnaturallye committed. Just outside the cathedral grounds, in a little park, stands a monument to the memory of John Hooper, who, in the reign of Queen Mary, was one of the first to suffer martyrdom, and was on this spot burned at the stake Feb. 9, 1555. Over three hundred years are gone since the smoke of the martyr arose from this spot. How changed the scene! Over the vast domain, none now for conscience sake have power to destroy. As reluctantly as can be imagined, we turned away. Very dear to us already had become old Gloucester. With an indescribable feeling we left the hallowed spot, and at 11 A. M., on Wednesday, May 8, took cars for Bristol. Our people do not think enough of the Mother Country. They hurry breathlessly and thoughtlessly, with but confused perceptions, to yet more foreign lands; they do not rest by the way in these fine old towns, drink in the inspiration which pervades their very atmosphere, and so make themselves ever after able better to interpret history. Another has well expressed it: "To him who is of a mind rightly framed, the world is a thousand times more populous than to the men to whom everything that is not flesh and blood is nothing." BRISTOL. Arrived at 2 o'clock P. M., after a ride of three hours from Gloucester. First impressions of the place were much like those one experiences at our American Pittsburg, for smoke prevailed, and the dingy appearance of the buildings confirmed the belief, that this condition of the atmosphere was not exceptional. The city is a seaport, situated on both sides of the rivers Avon and Frome, at their confluence, and eight miles from their entrance into the Severn, which is the head of Bristol Channel. The population is 182,524, and the city presents a bustling, hurried appearance. It is provided with docks built in the time of George III., at a cost of $30,000,000, and in commercial influence was long the second city in the kingdom. There are five substantial bridges connecting the several portions of the city. Tides rise very high,--those denominated spring tides forty-eight feet, and the neap ones twenty-three feet, compelling the use of a floating landing. Our luggage left at the station, in anticipation of but a short stay, we walked out in quest of the cathedral, and soon, as we fancied, saw it in the distance. We entered, admiring much about it, yet disappointed in its general appearance, for it looked old but not cathedralish. It didn't seem to have the genuine antique atmosphere. There were old monuments, but not old enough. The color was dark-reddish brown, very sombre, and in places the building was decayed. At the risk of showing our ignorance we asked the female verger--for it was a woman this time--if this was the cathedral. Lo, our good judgment had prevailed, and we were informed that it was St. Mary Radcliff Church. We were glad of the mistake, for here the celebrated Joseph Butler--author of the renowned "Analogy," who was made Bishop of Bristol in 1738, and died at Bath, June 16, 1752--was buried. Before us was a monument to his memory, the inscription written by the poet Southey. There were other monuments of considerable antiquity, which in number and interest greatly excelled those of the real cathedral. Of most interest to the visitor is the fact that in one part of this structure the wonderful young Thomas Chatterton--who died in this city August 24, 1770, at the age of eighteen--wrote his astonishing literary forgeries. We were ushered up a flight of narrow stone stairs, from one of the transepts, into a room where yet remains a dusty chest, formerly belonging to a wealthy merchant in the reign of Edward IV. It was in this that Chatterton said he found his manuscripts,--declaring that, after being sealed up for centuries, these documents, among others, were there in 1727 when the chest was opened. It was in this room, with its unglazed openings, with the rooks as his companions, his only light that of the moon,--for he claimed that by her illumination he could write best,--were penned these remarkable impositions. History says that during the entire Sundays he would wander in the fields of Bristol, and lay for hours on the grass, gazing, rapt in meditation, on the tower of this old church. We can hardly forbear stating briefly the nature of his remarkable deception. Let it be remembered that Chatterton died at the age of eighteen. His father, who was one of the schoolmasters of Bristol, died three months before his birth. At the age of five he was sent to school; so obtuse was his intellect, that in a year and a half "he was dismissed as an incorrigible dunce." His mother finally taught him to read, and to the astonishment of all he became at once an intellectual prodigy. At the age of eight he was again sent to school, and remained till his fifteenth year. He took little interest in his associates, but gave his attention to miscellaneous reading. In 1767, the year he left school, he was apprenticed to a Bristol attorney. Very studious, but remarkably eccentric, he kept his own counsel, employing his leisure time in the study of theology, history, and especially the phraseology of Old English. The next season, when in his seventeenth year, he performed the work which immortalizes his name. The old chest was opened by the proper authorities a half-century before. The parchments were of no especial value, and they remained undisturbed, till Chatterton's father used some of them as covers for schoolbooks. Some of them his son obtained; their curious chirography and phraseology excited his attention, and he conceived the idea of writing something of the kind himself. He asserted that some were written by Canynge, the original owner of the _cofre_, or trunk, and others by Thomas Rowley, the ecclesiastic and poet. He carefully copied the style of writing, followed the phraseology, and, by a process known only to himself, succeeded in giving a stained and timeworn look to his parchments, deceptive to all who examined them. To Burgam, the celebrated pewterer, ambitious of obtaining the heraldic honors of his family, he gave a full pedigree, tracing his descent directly from the noble family of De Bergham. The historian of Bristol was aided in his ecclesiastical researches, and put in possession of a full account of the churches as they were three hundred years before, according to Thomas Rowley. A theological student was presented with part of a sermon by Rowley. One of the wealthy citizens of Bristol received from him a poem, entitled "Romaunt of the Cnyghte," said to have been written by the recipient's ancestor four hundred years before. To the Town and Country Magazine he made contributions, and Horace Walpole gratefully received anecdotes of eminent travellers and painters. So he continued cultivating, in the singular atmosphere of his temperament, this strange enthusiasm for the antique, and felt most comfortable while deceiving the public; but at length more critical eyes were turned toward him. Walpole, entertaining suspicions, submitted the parchments to Gray, who unhesitatingly pronounced them forgeries. They were returned to young Chatterton, who, indignant, avenged himself by a bitter attack on his antagonist. He led next a singular life of semi-seclusion and misery, writing articles for the reviews, sermons for clergymen, and songs for beer-gardens; all the time maintaining a gay exterior, though very poor, for he had an unconquerable vanity. Confiding in no one, he declined a dinner offered him by his landlady, even when he had been three days without food. Finally he expended his last pennies for arsenic, and was found dead in his room, August, 1770. He was buried in the pauper burial-ground in Shoe Lane, Bristol, and afterwards some of the citizens erected a monument to his memory. Here, in 1495, and probably for some years before, lived John Cabot, the discoverer of the North American Continent, and while living here, March 5, 1496, he and his three sons obtained a patent from Henry VII., authorizing them, and their heirs and assigns, to go on voyages of discovery; and so we have it that a Bristol ship early touched our shores. Newfoundland was colonized by people from this place in 1610, under the supervision of a merchant by the name of Guy, whose colonists--while not successful in making a permanent settlement of the island, being superseded in 1621 or 1623 by others--were the first among foreigners to make this place their fixed residence. Bristol was one of the first places in Great Britain, whence regular steam communication was established with the United States. April 4, 1838, the steamship Sirius, of 700 tons burthen, and with engines of 250 horse-power, sailed from Cork for New York. Four days later, April 8, the Great Western, of 1,340 tons, having engines of 450 horse-power, sailed from Bristol. Both arrived in New York on the 23d, the former making the passage in eighteen, and the latter, in fourteen days, arriving respectively on the morning and noon of the day named. This city is the seat of manufacture of the well-known Bristol Brick, so long used for domestic purposes throughout America. An operative in one of the works visited the United States in 1820, and discovered similar sand in South Hampton, N. H., since which period a brick of equal value has been made in our own country. The cathedral itself was next visited. It is on the other side of the River Avon, and is not a large structure, but is in good repair within and without. It is built of red sandstone, and has no grounds about it, but is situated in the midst of a populous neighborhood. It was founded in the time of King Stephen, who was born A. D. 1100, and died in 1154. It is 175 feet long, 128 feet wide, and has a large, solid, clumsy tower, 140 feet high. Here, as usual, we were entertained by the three-o'clock service. As an inducement to stay, we were informed by the verger that a new anthem was to be performed. We remained in chairs near the door, and were soon greeted with the usual imposing procession,--the verger with his elevated mace, followed by the robed choir of twelve men and boys, the two canons, and the bishop. With much order and becoming dignity they took their places before an audience of twelve persons. The service was intoned, making an unintelligent jumble of echoes and indistinct sounds, to us annoying in the extreme. We venture to say: "We think it don't pay." At the risk of being dealt with as were some of old for making a similar remark, we are inclined to ask, "Why was this waste of ointment made?" There are some monuments of interest in the cathedral, but none of great renown. As we walked through the long and many streets, we were impressed with the city's extent. The land rises abruptly from the rivers, making many of the streets quite hard to climb. Very observable was the great number of houses in which the first stories were occupied as shops, the families of their keepers residing in the rooms above. A good idea, and one not practised enough. There were several Tremont and Park streets. Some of the buildings are modern in style, though for the most part they have an old and substantial appearance. Many of the oldest were originally so well built as to need no change, save for trading purposes. The immediate suburbs are elevated. There are hills, amphitheatre like, on all sides; and on those adjoining the city proper are the fine grounds and mansions of the merchants and wealthier families. It is a place of manufactures and much commerce, and the central part, about the rivers, has the appearance of an American city. There are many old institutions, and they have venerable buildings. We can only name a few. One of these is St. Stephen's Church, built in 1470, twenty years before the discovery of America. Others are the Old Guild Hall, built in the time of Richard II., who died A. D. 1400; the Corn Exchange, of modern Corinthian architecture, costing $250,000; the Royal Infirmary, which annually treats seven thousand five hundred patients. The city supports six hundred schools, educating twenty-five thousand pupils. Almshouses and hospitals, charity institutions and infirmaries, abound. After a somewhat hurried examination of the place, we took train at 5.30 P. M. for BATH, where, after an hour's ride, we arrived at 6.30 P. M. This is situated on the River Avon, and has a population of 52,542. It is one of the most ancient cities of Great Britain, was founded before the Roman invasion, and was an important station on the Roman road, leading from London to Wales. The remains of a Corinthian temple have been found; also many ancient Roman coins, vases, and altars. The city is chiefly built on level ground, or on a gentle slope; but it has along its rear side very elevated land, arranged in terraces and lawns, presenting, with its costly residences, an imposing background, giving to the place an air of consequence and picturesqueness. The city is principally built of brown stone, not at all dingy or sombre in appearance. A short ramble satisfied us that this was one of the aristocratic places of England. Substantial and clean was everything we beheld. Nothing anywhere was new; but the old was of the very best. It is a fashionable place of resort for invalids, and we saw in the great thoroughfares carriages drawn by men and occupied by invalids of all ages. We said then and say now: "Let all who go to London go also to Bath." It is England's Queen City, and one of which she may well feel proud. The cathedral is a perpendicular Gothic structure, very old, but in most perfect repair. It is 210 feet long, and has a tower 170 feet high, and is made of the reddish-drab sandstone of which the city is principally built. The stone ceiling of the church is of open fan-work, the finest of the kind in England. The whiteness of the whole interior is very striking, and accords with the neat exterior. There are no grounds about it, or even a fence; the streets are paved with large flagstones, reaching close to the building itself. The church and the world are in intimate proximity. Here again the cathedral chimes saluted us every fifteen minutes, all day and all night. To the thoughtful their few notes speak with living lips. Sometimes they have two notes, and it requires but slight imagination to interpret them as saying "Quarter hour;" or three notes, and then they say "Quarter hour gone;" or four, and then we have it "Quarter hour more gone." The intervals are but short when the knell of departing time is not thus sounded. The poet Young says,-- We take no note of time, But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. The advice is good, and we gave it a tongue; but it makes a deal of difference what the tongue says. If it waken regrets at the loss of time, when an eternity remains, then it had better have no tongue. These divisions of time are made by men, and are but incidentally a part of the Creator's plan. These sweet sounds are fresh music-flowers, strewn over the graves wherein are buried the new minutes of the quarter-hour just departed. The city takes its name from its famous hot baths, and was frequented by the Romans for the purpose of using its waters, known to them by the name _Aqua Solis_, (sun-water). Baths were erected here in the time of Claudius, who died A. D. 54. These waters are saline and chalybeate, but they also contain sulphur and iron. The principal ones are called King's, Queen's, and the Cross baths, and the waters are constantly boiling at a temperature of from 109 to 117 degrees Fahrenheit. There are two others though of less note, called the Abbey and the Hot baths. Rooms for drinking the water and for bathing are constantly patronized, and at times the population of the city includes 14,000 visitors. King's Bath is the most popular. It is a fine old classic structure, fronting on one of the principal streets, in which is what is called the Pump Room, a saloon 85 feet long, 48 feet wide, and 34 feet high, elegantly finished and well furnished, where every convenience is provided the invalid for rest and refreshment, and for drinking the water from a constantly flowing fountain. These rooms are attended by matrons who for the small fee of a penny, furnish all the water desired. It is not unpleasant to the taste, though unmistakably impregnated with the materials named. It steams up well from the goblet, and is so warm that one must drink it in separate swallows. The old room was erected in 1760, and has been used by millions of people. The baths connected with this building were the only ones we visited, and are a sample of the others. The visitor pays his shilling (24 cents), and receives a ticket which admits him to another part of the edifice, where he finds dressingrooms and toilet conveniences. He presently passes out into a small room, about four feet wide by eight feet long, closed on three sides; the fourth partly open, but protected by a screen reaching two thirds up to the top of the opening. The floor is covered with hot water, four feet deep, and stone steps lead into it. The bather can remain inside, or he may enter the great swimming-bath, filled with the same water. That is precisely what we did. Opening the screen, we found the great reservoir to be perhaps seventy-five feet square. Three sides were enclosed by rooms, similar to ours; the fourth side was a very ancient wall of stone, reaching ten feet or more above the water, in which were antique tablets telling of the foundation of the baths. The space was open to the sky. The water was so warm as at first to disincline one to enter it, but by degrees the sensation became far from unpleasant. Steam was constantly arising. The water was not clear, though clean, but had a dull clay-water, yellowish look, and was quiet, except in a space of ten feet square at the centre, where it constantly boiled up, at times with a rushing noise. We remained there nearly an hour, admiring and wondering. In the great pump-room is a statue of the celebrated Richard Nash, familiarly known as Beau Nash, who died at Bath in 1761. He was at one time the leader of fashion. At the entertainment given by members of the Middle Temple to William III. he was employed to conduct the festivities. So marked was his success that the king offered to knight him, but conscious of his lack of means to support the honor, he declined it. More than any other person he aided in making Bath a place of fashionable resort. By his labors, propriety in dress and civility of manners were enforced in public resorts, till at length he was styled the King of Bath. He was an eccentric, and obtained his living at the gaming-table. He lived in great style, travelled in a coach with six outriders, and dispensed charity in a prodigal and reckless manner. Near the close of his life an act of Parliament was passed prohibiting gambling. Having depended entirely upon that, he afterwards lived in comparative indigence, and died in poverty, Feb. 3, 1761. Strange to say, he was ungainly in person, having coarse and even ugly features, and dressed in a tawdry style. It is remarkable that such a person could induce a system of public refinement, and be honored by this statue. Goldsmith was so interested in his strange career, that he anonymously published a biography of him in 1762, the year after his decease. We can readily imagine what the place was prior to the time of Nash. Macaulay, quoting from Wood's "History of Bath," written in 1747, says:-- A writer who published an account of that city sixty years after the Revolution, has accurately described the changes which had taken place within his own recollections. He assures us that, in his younger days, the gentlemen who visited the springs slept in rooms hardly as good as the garrets which he lived to see occupied by footmen. The floors of the dining-rooms were uncarpeted, and were colored brown with a wash made of soot and small beer, in order to hide the dirt. Not a wainscot was painted. Not a hearth or chimney-piece was of marble. A slab of common freestone, and fire-irons which had cost from three to four shillings, were sufficient for any fireplace. The best apartments were hung with coarse woollen stuff, and were furnished with rush-bottomed chairs. Samuel Pepys in his remarkably interesting diary, under date June 13, 1668, gives an account of his visit to the baths, and in his own quaint way tells the story as follows:-- Up at four o'clock, being by appointment called up to the Cross Bath, where we were carried one after another, myself and wife, and Betty Turner, Willett and W. Hewer, and by-and-by, though we designed to have done before company came, much company came; very fine ladies; and the manner pretty enough, only methinks it cannot be clean to go, so many bodies together in the same water. Good conversation among them that are acquainted here and stay together. Strange to see how hot the water is; and in some places, though this is the most temperate bath, the springs are so hot as the feet are not able to endure. But strange to see when women and men, here, that live all the seasons in these waters cannot but be parboiled, and look like the creatures of the bath! Carried away, wrapped in a sheet, and in a chair home; and there one after another thus carried, (I staying about two hours in the water) home to bed, sweating for an hour, and by-and-by comes music to play to me, extraordinary good as ever I heard in London almost, or anywhere.... _Sunday_, June 14: Up and walked up and down the town, and saw a pretty good market-place and many good streets, and fair storehouses, and so to the great church, and there saw Bishop Montague's tomb; and, when placed, did there see many brave people come, and among others, two men brought in, in litters, and set down in the chancel to hear; but I did not know one face. Here a good organ; but a vain pragmatical fellow preached a ridiculous, affected sermon, and made me angry, and some gentlemen that sat next me did sing well. 15th, _Monday_. Looked into the baths, and find the King and Queen's full of a mixed sort, of good and bad, and the Cross only almost for the gentry. In 1768, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the dramatist, removed here, where his father's family had previously settled. At the age of nineteen, in conjunction with his friend Hathead, he began his literary career. In 1772, at the age of twenty-one, he fell in love with Miss Linley, the popular singer of Bath. To save her from the persecutions of the libertine Matthews, he fled with her to France, and they were secretly married at Calais. Delighted inexpressibly with this Queen City of the South of England, the antipodes of everything in the South of Ireland, we left it at 2.30 P. M. for SALISBURY, where, after a ride of four hours, we arrived at 6.30 P. M. We found this city possessing something of the look of old Chester, with narrow streets, projecting stories, queer oriel windows, and having 12,903 inhabitants. The clean streets are drained by small brooks running through them. The city was founded at Old Sarum, two miles north of its present location, and removed to this spot in 1217. It stands on a level and fertile plain, and is partially enclosed with the remains of the old walls. Little manufacturing is done, nor is trade followed to a great extent, the community being more inclined to agricultural pursuits. Of course the cathedral is the great object of attraction, for it is very large and imposing, and has the highest spire in the kingdom, 404 feet in height. Spires are the exceptions on cathedrals, for of all the twenty-nine, only six have spires above their towers,--Salisbury, Litchfield, Norwich, Chichester, Oxford, and low ones on the front of that at Peterboro. The others have towers without the spire, but from association they are looked upon as finished, as in the case of King's Chapel and the old Brattle Square Church in Boston. At Salisbury we have the perfection of a central tower, and a spire, of charming outlines and graceful proportions. The cathedral was erected between the years 1220 and 1260, and is the only one in Great Britain where a single style of architecture was employed, and the pure Early English prevailed throughout. It was completely restored on the exterior in 1868, and the interior was in process of restoration at the time of our visit. In plan it is a double cross, its extreme length being 442 feet. The stone is of a dark soapstone color, and, being partially covered with very thin lichens, it has a dingy look; but the clean-cut outlines and smooth surface of the stone, the unusual height of the building, standing at the centre of a large close, furnishes such a good opportunity for viewing it that it presents an imposing appearance. It has many ancient monuments, and a beautiful altar-piece of the Resurrection. The grounds are walled in, and a half square-mile is within the enclosure. The English oaks are very large, the pathways clean and hard, and the lawn elegant. Rooks were to be seen in large numbers. Their circling flight as they wheeled from tree to tree; the stillness, unbroken save by their incessant cries; the prevailing air of repose; the aristocratic aspect of the Bishop's residence, and those of the other functionaries; the memories that have clustered around the spot, during the six hundred and sixty years since Bishop Poore founded the cathedral,--all conspired to invest the place with sanctity. Here again came the thought, "This is _the_ cathedral,"--as though all England were but the diocese, and this the seat of the entire Church. The great bourdon bell in the tower solemnly proclaims the hour of 8 P. M., and we wend our way over the dike, skirting the narrow river, to get a moonlight view of the cathedral. How often we turn to look anew on that symmetrical tower and lofty spire, and how satisfying the gaze. We turn back again and admire the fields spread around us; we are delighted with the hills, and with the winding river, narrow and clear, whose banks we are treading. The little mill-village ahead lures us on; but the cathedral is more potent. We turn again and gaze, walk backwards and admire, till the little hamlet a half-mile away is reached. We walk over the trembling footbridge and along the rude milldam, and try to be entertained; but no, we must turn our footsteps, for in full view is the "all in all." So we walk back, and think and admire anew, till night comes over us, and we and the cathedral are draped with a common pall. Through the night, as the chimes broke the stillness, and the great bell set its heavy notes as milestones of time, we felt the greatness of our surroundings. OLD SARUM. On Friday A. M., at nine o'clock, we took team at Salisbury for this place. Few spots in history are of more interest than this and its neighbor, Stonehenge,--the former two, and the latter a little less than nine miles from Salisbury. Sarum was an important settlement made by the early Britons, which afterwards became a Roman station, and the residence of the West Saxon kings. King Alfred fortified it, and in the eleventh century it was made a bishop's see. In 1217, however, Bishop Poore removed two miles away, and there established what is now Salisbury Cathedral, and so the city itself. As a matter of course, Sarum declined. The people followed the bishop, and what was once a place of note became almost extinct. Only one house remains on the grounds, but there are yet traces of the walls, cathedral, and castle. A more complete ruin is not to be found elsewhere in Great Britain, and a strange enchantment hovers about the scene. The ride from Salisbury is very pleasant. From the level land on which the new city (though over 660 years old) stands we pass into a very undulating country, a quarter of which is covered with groups of shrubbery and trees. On the greenest of green grass, thousands of sheep and many cows are grazing, but no houses are in sight. A rare beauty exists everywhere, and many evidences of civilization. Salisbury is in our rear. Above all we see the cathedral tower and spire, distinct in outline, like a faithful sentinel standing there and guarding us. We alight from our team, hitch the horse by the roadside, and turn to our left into a path parallel with the main road, and running a short distance across the field. We walk on along the edge of a grove, and come upon a solitary house, which is the only human habitation at Old Sarum. It is a stone house of moderate size, two stories high, plastered and whitewashed, with a red tiled roof. It is situated back some fifty feet from our path, is well fenced, and surrounded by shade-trees and shrubbery. It has a very English appearance. A sign over the gate informs the traveller that it is a place of transient entertainment. It fronts on the main road, and we are now at the rear entrance. Salisbury itself--or Boston, for a sixpence or a dime--can at a moment's notice furnish better entertainment than can be provided there. Yonder elevated land, in this same field, is our better restaurant. We walk delightedly over the pathway thither. What thoughts take possession of the mind. Here ancient Britons, conquering Romans, and Saxon kings and queens walked a thousand years ago. The same sky bent over them; the same soil was beneath their feet. Odors from flowers and the same balmy atmosphere regaled them. The birds sang to them as they sing to us now. We approach the venerable enclosure. It is a vast circular enbankment some twenty feet high, with here and there bushes and small trees. The general symmetry suggests the work of human hands, but the abandoned appearance tells of antiquity. Our road leads down over a depression, the old moat,--and then up again, and in through an opening, on both sides of which is ragged masonry of flint, cobble-stones, and white mortar. We now discover that the huge mound is a mortar-wall, overgrown with grass on both sides, this opening having been rudely broken through it. Walls, a thousand and more years old! What desolation; what strange fascination! We enter and go up to the top of the embankment. What tongue or pen can adequately describe the emotions awakened? The views in all directions are charming. No mountains are visible to inspire awe; no great metropolis is to be seen; but "sweet fields of living green" hills innumerable, pleasant groves, feeding sheep, tinkling cow-bells, and air sweet with wild flowers and modest daisies (crushed at every tread beneath the feet) are about us; but we leave these, to study the grand old ruin. At the centre is a hollowed, though comparatively level space, of five hundred feet in diameter, covered with grass, bushes, and small mounds. The depression is not far from twenty feet deep, the earth and grass sloping up to the walk, about ten feet wide, which encircles it. The outer edge is irregularly hemmed in by bushes. Outside of this is a mote fifty feet wide, and thirty feet deep. Encircling all is a plateau two hundred feet wide, and another mote, thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep. The motes were once filled with water, but now grass has superseded it. Instead of being a barrier against approaching foes, they have better uses. In the language of Whittier, applied to an old New England burial-ground:-- There sheep that graze the neighboring plain Like white ghosts come and go; The farm horse drags his fetlock chain, The cow-bell tinkles slow. With variation of tense another verse of the same poem applies to it:-- It knows the glow of eventide, The sunrise and the noon, And sanctified and glorified It sleeps beneath the moon. The time has come to leave, and we return to our team. Old Sarum has been seen, and is never to be forgotten. Where are they who here thought and labored a thousand years ago? Gone, without a solitary exception, gone to the silent mansions of the dead. AMESBURY. Three miles more and we are at Amesbury, the town for which our Massachusetts Amesbury was named. One of us having been born within five miles of the latter, we must of course see its prototype. We found it to be remarkably neat but queer. The streets and avenues are hard and smooth. There are no modern buildings. It is substantial, not thickly settled, rural to a fault, but bears marks of high antiquity. Here are the remains of a celebrated abbey, now used as the parish church. The outline is varied but low. A mile or two away was born, at Milston in 1672, Joseph Addison. One cannot help being reminded that this was a fitting place for the beginning of such a career. In all our wanderings we have seen no town resembling this,--odd in the plan of the roads, peculiar in its fixed appearance, nothing suggesting change or repair. Most of the buildings are brick, two stories in height, and a market-place is at the centre. How admirable the surroundings,--Salisbury, Sarum, Stonehenge, Wilton, Bemerton. This ride was, all things considered, the most delightful in our journey through England. The scenery was nowhere wild or romantic, but the reverse. The landscape was undulating, with great valleys well supplied with groves, the whole forming a panoramic view of unsurpassed elegance. STONEHENGE. A ride of six miles, and we reach Stonehenge, on the Salisbury Plain. The plain is three or four miles in extent, comparatively level, well grassed, and surrounded with hills. No house could be seen, nor any sign of civilization save the road and the sheep and the cattle so quietly grazing. A sign at the left of the roadside directed us into a cart-path over the field. Our driver, an old visitor, informed us that yonder, a distance requiring a slow five minutes' ride, were the famed ruins, in the midst of this vast field, without a tree for company. Alighting there we found an elderly man in attendance to describe the ruins, and see that tourists did no harm. We were informed that the present owner of the domain, Lord----, was pleased to have visitors come, and that all were welcome, but strictly prohibited from removing fragments or defacing the stones. Two large ovals are inside of two circles. On these, or lying about them, are large rough-squared oblong stones, many of them four feet wide, two feet thick, and fifteen feet long. While keeping the same general form, the others vary in size down to half these dimensions. All have a blackened grayish appearance, with spots of thin moss on them. Several of them are set like posts in the ground, some perpendicular, others aslant. Some rest on the top of these, reaching from one to another. Some stand alone; others have fallen, and lie flat. Some of them are broken or lean against others. To complete the scene is a flat stone called the altar, inside of the inner oval. This is a slab about fifteen feet long and four feet wide. The grass growing about them is well trodden down and cropped by the sheep. There were originally one hundred and forty stones, and they varied in weight from six to seventy tons. They are much weather-worn, though many of them retain sharp angles; and on the top of the pillars are small rude tenons, with corresponding mortices in those that once rested upon them. The large ones appear to be about twelve feet high, and they stand four or five feet apart. The outer circle has seventeen stones remaining out of the original thirty; the inner has but eight whole stones, and fragments of twelve others. The inner oval consisted of twenty smaller stones, of which eleven are yet standing. The other oval had ten stones, of which eight remain. Scattered over the plain, in sight of these ruins, are about three hundred mounds or tumuli, varying from six feet to forty in diameter. They are conical in form, and well grassed over. Some of these have been opened, and they prove to be places of sepulture; for in them were charred human bones, fragments of pottery, and British and Roman ornaments and weapons. On making excavations at the altar, remains of oxen, deer, and other animals were found, mingled with burnt wood and pieces of ancient pottery. Evidence tends to show that this was a Druidic temple. Geoffrey of Monmouth assumes that it was built by order of Aurelianus Ambrosius, the last British king, in honor of four hundred and sixty Britons slain by Hengist the Saxon. Polydore Vergil declares that it is a monument to Hengist, who died about A. D. 488. The temple theory has more evidence in its favor, and finds the largest number of supporters. WILTON. After a stay of an hour we ride on, not over the road we came by, but first by a cart-path over the field among the mounds, and afterwards for a half-mile out into another road. We now go back through the nice little town of Wilton, where carpets of that name were first manufactured. The excellent roads are at times very white, because of the chalkstones which enter into this construction. Halfway from Stonehenge lies Wilton, with a population of less than two thousand. The carpet manufacture has declined till but comparatively few are now made. Most of the houses are of brick, with tiled roofs, having neat flower-gardens in front, and grapevines on the walls. It was once a seat of monastic establishments, but the edifices are torn down with a single exception,--the Hospital of St. John. One place of antiquity yet remains, namely, the Wilton House, the seat of the Earl of Pembroke, which contains a gallery of rare paintings, and stands on the site of the abbey founded by a sister of King Egbert, A. D. 800. The place is open to the inspection of the public on certain days,--uncertain ones to us or our driver,--but we must drive around it. On approaching we saw an old but rich Roman gateway, with the usual porter's lodge, and a fine avenue, short but well shaded, as an approach to the square in front. Alighting, we were informed that this was not Admission Day, and the Noble Lord not being at home could not be appealed to; so we reluctantly departed; but before going, we had through the gateway a good view of the grounds, and of the mansion itself, bowered in trees. Large, of Italian architecture, built of a light-drab stone, it is said to have been designed by the celebrated architect, Inigo Jones--who died in 1652--aided, it may be, by Holbein. As we turned away we could but think of a similar experience which took place just two hundred and ten years before, June 11, 1668. The eccentric Pepys visited the ruins at Stonehenge, Wilton, and this very spot, and with an experience like our own. The record in his Diary is as follows:-- Went to the inne; and there not being able to hire coach horses, and not willing to use our own, we got saddle-horses, very dear, give the boy that went to look for them sixpence. So the three women behind, W. Hewer, Murford, and our guide, and I, single to Stonehenge, over the plain, and some great hills, even to fright us, come thither, and find them prodigeous as any tales I ever heard of them, and worth going this journey to see. God knows what their use was! they are hard to tell, but yet we may be told. Gave the shepherd-woman, for leading our horses, fourpence, so back by Wilton, my Lord Pembroke's House, which we could not see, he being just coming to town; but the situation I do not like, nor the house at present, much, it being in a low rich valley. CHAPTER VII. BEMERTON--WINCHESTER--READING--NEWBURY. In sight of Salisbury Cathedral, and but two miles away, is Bemerton, an ideal spot, combining those qualities that go to make up one of the best specimens of a rural hamlet of Old England,--clean roads, well built walls, highly cultivated land, beautiful trees, grounds with no evidences of poverty or want. A spot that does not appear to have been at all interfered with by any outside trouble, is this little municipality; and how fit a place for "Holy George Herbert" to live and die in. Whoever remembers the hymn beginning, Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, will wish to see the place of the author's labors and final repose. He died here in 1632. Charles I. gave him the living; but only for the two years before his death was he rector of the parish. We rode down a quiet lane, and on the left found the miniature church, the smallest we had ever seen. We didn't measure it, but thought it to be about seventeen feet wide, forty feet long, including the chancel, and not more than ten feet high to the eaves. It is built of stone, with a moderately high roof, covered with old reddish tiles. Of Gothic architecture, it had a modest belfrey, a chancel at the east end, with a colored-glass east window, and all the altar appliances of a miniature church. It is built with its side to the lane, only a few feet back, with an entrance through a porch. There are two windows on each side. There are no pews, but the floor is partly occupied with high-backed, flag-bottomed chairs, of which there is room for but three on each side of the aisle. About the building is an old burial-ground, where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." Here the sweet spirit of Herbert was at home; here from choice he did his work. "Having served his generation, by the will of God he fell on sleep," and beneath the altar his ashes repose. To this spot pilgrimages were made by distinguished men in the days of his rectorship, for he was one of the few not without honor in his own country. Sir Henry Wotton, Lord Bacon, Dr. John Donne,--the poet and Dean of St. Paul's at London, who died the year before Herbert,--these were among the companions who received inspiration from the humble rector of this little church. Honest Isaac Walton could not rest till he had written a biography of him, though it was not published till 1670, more than a third of a century after the good rector's decease. How choice a place is the Bemerton parsonage. If holy ground anywhere exists, this spot has indisputable claims to the title. Across the road, not more than thirty feet away, is the house in which Herbert lived, much in its old condition, though somewhat enlarged. Humble and unpretentious, it is still the Bemerton parsonage, and occupied by Rev. Mr. Piggot, the present rector. The house is a story and a half high, standing sidewise to the road, and parallel to the church, which might be its twin. Mr. Piggot, a gentleman of means and taste, was absent; but with extreme courtesy his man-servant met us at the door, and cheerfully showed us over the house, especially into the study which makes it historic. The efforts he made for our pleasure, the permission granted us to walk at will over the old garden, indicated the present incumbent as one who would do honor to the memory of the sweet singer of that Israel. How charming that Eden! Walks and lawns are as they were in Herbert's day. There is the medlar tree he planted, now more than two hundred and fifty years old,--decrepit, and supported by props. The trunk, six or eight inches in diameter, is protected by thin metal plates, and cared for like an invalid or a pet child. It yet bears a little fruit, and is a living link between the centuries, bridging over the long chasm from George Herbert to ourselves. The little River Avon, at the rear of the garden and washing its banks, still runs as it did then, and every foot of the acre is sacred. In the immediate rear of the old house, opposite from the river, perhaps two hundred feet away, is a beautiful lawn. Vines climb the housewalls and flowering shrubs complete the picture. Inside the house, works of _vertu_ and evidences of scholarly life abound. All is befitting to the dear memory of Herbert. Exquisite is the beauty of the road, and perfect the shade of the overhanging trees. What a charm seemed to permeate everything! "Take it for all in all, We shall not look upon its like again." Carrying with us better influences than had come from the hills and on the great plain of Sarum and Stonehenge, we bade Bemerton farewell. Passing through Fisherton, a suburban village of Salisbury,--like Bemerton, watered by the Avon,--we reached Salisbury at noon, and at two o'clock took a train for WINCHESTER, where we arrived at four. This is historically of remarkable interest, and may be named as one of the few places the tourist cannot afford to miss. It is built mostly of brick, contains 16,336 inhabitants, and is pleasantly situated on the River Itchen, which, though not itself navigable, is used as a canal to the sea. While the buildings have a modern look, and especially the shop windows, one cannot walk far before he feels that he is in one of the old places of England. This was an important place in the days of the Britons, and the Romans are supposed to have built its walls. In the year 519 Cerdic, the Saxon chief, captured and made it the seat of government. Under the Danes it became the capital of England, and so remained till after the reign of Henry II., who died in 1189. It was at the height of its glory in the reign of Henry I., who died in 1135, but in the time of Henry VI. it had materially declined. He is believed to have been killed in the Tower at London, A. D. 1471. Winchester was the principal residence of the sovereigns till the accession of George I., A. D. 1714. Henry III. was born here in 1207, and here Henry VIII. sumptuously entertained Charles V. In this place also Isaac Walton--author of the Complete Angler, and of celebrated biographies--was born Dec. 15, 1683. The atmosphere is surcharged with great events. Every foot of ground is classic, and in nearly every street may be found mementoes of something famous. We Americans, born and educated under new conditions, are poorly calculated to measure these ancient historic remains; yet by kindred and historic associations we are the very people to best get large and just impressions of England's worth. At Worcester, Gloucester, Bath, Salisbury, we were richly entertained. At the mention of either place, memory is immediately roused to incidents crowding into reconsideration! Either of these places might take its position as chief! So now of grand old Winchester. How hard it is to write and not be intensely eulogistic. It has enough antiquity for a whole country. On one street is a monument commemorative of the plague of 1669. In the distance, a mile or so from the city, may be seen the hospital of St. Cross, founded in the reign of St. Stephen, who was crowned in 1135, and died 1154, nearly eight centuries ago. We come to the venerable St. Lawrence, the mother church of all in the city, into which each new bishop has, for a thousand years, made solemn entry when he took charge of the See. At the time of the Reformation, there were ninety churches and chapels, besides monasteries where thousands, under a blind religious policy, were being supported at public expense; but the Reformation drove these drones from their seclusion, reduced the churches to but nine, broke up abbeys, and true progress began. The city was formerly walled in, and had four gates, but all except the west gate have been removed; and that now stands sentinel-like in the midst of a commercial population, which all day, and late into the night, hurries through the old arch. Its durability, has apparently demanded few repairs. For centuries upon centuries the chamber over it was the deposit for the national standards of weights and measures, as instituted under King Edgar, who died 975. Who has not heard of the Winchester Bushel? Nine hundred years old is the phrase, yet to-day the identical measures are in existence. We found that they had recently been removed from their long resting-place, to the museum of Guild Hall, a place of great interest. Our first request was to be shown the measures, and there before us was the famous bushel, resting on a low stand. It is of brass, or some similar composition, and dark bronze-like in appearance. We guessed it to be nearly a quarter of an inch thick, and, lifting it, found it to be quite heavy, weighing perhaps thirty pounds. It is in form like a shallow kettle, some sixteen inches in diameter, and eight inches deep, with straight sides, well rounded lower corners, the bottom slightly concave; it rests on three small feet, and has stiff pitcher-like handles on each side. The metallic weights are round, and deep as compared to their diameters. They are various in form and decoration, having been altered under different administrations. The measures of length are brass. All these relics are kept in glass cases. In this museum are other rare antiques, among them exhumed Roman pottery, ancient proclamations, and rare documents,--among which was one relating to the practice of touching for cure of King's Evil, or scrofula. After reciting cures wrought, and the public press on the occasion, it makes proclamation of rules governing the operation, and naming certain times as set apart for the king's visit and work. Next, we visit the banqueting-hall of the ancient castle, in which the first parliaments of England were held. While the building has been remodelled and extended, for judicial uses, this hall remains unchanged. It is elaborately finished in oak, which is now like ebony in appearance. The room is, perhaps, one hundred and twenty feet long, fifty feet wide, and forty feet high. At one end, lying flat against the wall, some twenty feet from the floor, is the Round Table of King Arthur, who must have reigned as early as A. D. 525. Much as we dislike to spoil good stories, we ought to say that doubt exists whether this personage ever lived, for the balance is in favor of the theory that the entire story of King Arthur and his knights is only an English legend; but here is the _table_, and the only one that claims to be genuine. It appears like a dial,--a round wooden tablet, three inches thick, and eighteen feet in diameter. At the centre is a circle, some two feet in diameter, in which is painted a flower. From this lines radiate to the circumference, making twenty-four divisions. In one of them is a portrait of King Arthur; the other divisions are alternately white and green. Not far from this hall was the palace, built for Charles II.,--a tame structure of light-reddish stone, three stories high, and of Italian architecture. The old courtyard is now a gravelled parade-ground, and the palace is used for barracks:-- "To what base uses we may yet return." The music and revelry of the festive board, conspicuous in which perhaps was the fascinating voice of Nell Gwynn, are now supplanted by the notes of the ear-piercing fife and startling bugle, the clatter of arms and the beat of the drum. The courtly king is two hundred years dead. New people walk these grounds, few ever giving thought to the fact that here the highest of the land once dwelt. "The cathedral," says the reader, "what of that?" Of course it had an early visit, the first hour after our arrival, and it lives in most pleasant recollection. We have said understandingly what has been written of cathedrals before. We have needed all the adjectives of the language, but at times have felt the poverty of words to express our meaning when a cathedral was under consideration. Winchester Cathedral! How futile will be the attempt to speak worthily of it; but the reader should have some facts concerning it. The longest of all the twenty-nine cathedrals, it has the finest nave in the kingdom, and a history of more than nine hundred years. It is another of the architectural wonders of Great Britain. The lawn and great trees furnish a befitting environment, and a genuine cathedral atmosphere envelops the venerable ecclesiastical residences near by. The ruins of the monastery and abbey lend their charm, and the grand cathedral stands solemn and majestic in their midst. Founded in 648, in 980 the stones were refashioned into their present forms, which have continued to this day. Centuries have now passed since all was complete; and save for the repair of a crumbling stone, or a restoration of some portions to original conditions, nothing needs to be done. It is 527 feet in length, seven more than Quincy Market in our Boston, and 186 feet wide at the transepts. The low demure-looking tower, only 26 feet taller than the roof, is 130 feet high. In color, it is much like Salisbury Cathedral,--a dark indistinct gray, with thin moss-patches. Parts of the exterior are very rich in decoration, and a feeling akin to admiration is inspired as one gazes at the turreted walls. We enter the nave. This part was built under the administration of William of Wykeham, who was also the architect. He was made bishop of the See in 1366, and died in 1404. It is imposing in its proportions; and simple, though gracefully elegant, is the decoration of columns, arches, and ceiling. White throughout as new-fallen snow, every moulding and carving is of such admirable size as to be clear and distinct in outline. The interior is more than one hundred feet high. The light is solemnly toned down, and everywhere there is an impression of vastness. And how can pen or tongue adequately picture the great reredos, the strange monuments, and the countless mementoes of departed worth? Again comes the impression, this is _the_ cathedral. Here sleeps Isaac Walton. Wood, the historian, says of him: "In his last years he lived mostly in families of eminent clergymen of England, of whom he was much beloved." Dec. 15, 1683, at the age of ninety, he died in Winchester, at the residence of his son-in-law. Who that reads his "Complete Angler, or the Contemplative Man's Recreation," does not admire the sweet temper and good sense, the cheerful disposition and honest purpose of the old saint, enthusiastic in his devotion to his pastime and calling? Nature and his spirit were in remarkable harmony. A large flat stone tells us that here his dust was deposited nearly three centuries ago, but the bookstores of England and America prove that, like the great Webster, he still lives. "So works the man of just renown, On men when centuries have flown; For what a good man would attain, The narrow bounds of life restrain; And this the balm of Genius gives: Man dies, but after death he lives." On a marble pedestal reposes the effigy of Wykeham, once painted in gaudy colors,--perfect yet in every line of his benignant countenance, of his stole and his canonical robe. Beneath this monument has rested his revered dust for nearly five hundred years. Forty-three years after the burial of the great bishop, on the 13th of April, 1447, the solemn stillness was disturbed by a procession to deposit the remains of Henry of Beaufort, the successor of Wykeham in 1404, afterward made cardinal of St. Eusebius, by Martin V. This is he of whom Shakespeare said, "He died and made no sign." How unlike John Knox, of whom Carlyle says: "When he lay a-dying it was asked of him, 'Hast thou hope?' He spake nothing, but raised his finger and pointed upward, and so he died." Beaufort was a remarkable man. He was president of the court when Joan of Arc was on trial; by his countenance and aid she was sentenced to death. What influence this dust once had on kings! Out of Beaufort's vast cathedral revenues, $150,000 was advanced to his nephew, Henry V. To the infant Henry VI., who was brought up under his immediate care, he advanced $50,000. But we must not play the historian now, and only call attention to the fact that, in the play of Henry VI., Shakespeare represents him as dying in great remorse. As a redeeming quality be it said, that when spirit and body must part companionship, the good angel of charity took possession of him, and his great property went to works of charity. The hospital of St. Cross speaks for him more eloquently than monumental stone, or the chantry where he ministered in the great cathedral itself. Here too is kingly dust, that of William II., son of the Conqueror,--William Rufus, as they called him, because of his red hair. Shot in the New Forest in the year 1100, by Walter Tyrrel, Lord of Poix, he died instantly, at the age of forty-four, and for 783 years his royal body has been mouldering here. But he is only one of many, for over each side range of the choir stalls are oak chests,--containing what? Records of the church or important papers of State? Jewels of deceased bishops, or their robes? No; but the mortal remains of Wessex and Saxon kings. Each chest is perhaps three feet long, eighteen inches square, and bears on its side the name of its occupant. These bones were once buried in the crypt, between the years 1126 and 1171, but were put into these chests by order of Bishop De Blow. Three hundred and eighty-four parishes pay their homage to the Bishop of Winchester. No See in all England is as rich in its revenues as this. As we pass to other visits the thought comes that, like Newton, we have picked up but a few pebbles on a limitless shore. As the immortal Sumner said, "the description is, to the reality, as a farthing candle held up to the sun." At 12 M. we leave for the old city of Newbury, but on our way to take a look at READING, where we arrive May 10, after a pleasant ride of two hours. We found a modern city, more than usually American in general appearance. There are, however, examples of antiquity, and one learns that he is in no new place, but in one modernized from the old. There are 32,324 inhabitants. It is an important railroad and canal centre, and is noted for the manufacture of Reading Biscuits, even now to be found in the large stores of America. Before the days of Bond at Wilmington, Kennedy at Cambridgeport, and the Pearsons at Newburyport, these crackers were common in New England, and in fact all over the United States. Reading is a market for the sale of velvets, silks, and agricultural products and implements, and from it, large exportations are made. The seed-gardens and conservatories of Sutton & Sons are well known throughout Great Britain. On visiting their conservatories we saw the finest collection of calceolaries and primroses that we have ever seen, or ever expect to see. The air of England is especially adapted to the development of these plants, and the firm has made them a specialty. The finely shaded and wide avenues, and the large number of comfortable dwelling-houses with their gardens, and the general look of the business portions, fully reminded us of Worcester, Mass., though unlike the latter, it is built on level ground. Reading has three ancient parish churches, and a grammar school founded by Henry VIII.; also the remains of an abbey founded by Henry I., who died 1135. The ancient grounds now contain a fine public walk. Parliaments were held here as early as the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries, and so the place was notable as being frequently visited by kings and nobles. An item of interest is that Archbishop Laud, the notorious persecutor of the Non-conformists, who was executed on Tower Hill, London, Jan. 10, 1645, was born here Oct. 7, 1573. One of his infamous deeds was to cause Dr. Leighton, a Presbyterian pastor of Scotland (the author, in 1628, of a book entitled "Sion's Plea against the Prelacy"), to be condemned to pay a fine of $50,000; be twice publicly whipped and pilloried in Cheapside, London; to have his ears cut off, his nostrils split open, and his cheeks branded S. S. (Sower of Sedition); and, in addition, to be imprisoned ten years in the Fleet Prison. This was an exceptional example of his cruelty, but even his _mild_ rule was barbaric. He was the son of a wealthy clothier of Reading, and held offices as follows: President of St. John's College at Oxford, 1611, at the age of thirty-eight; Dean of Gloucester, 1616; Prebend of Westminster, 1620; Bishop of St. David's, 1621; Bishop of Bath and Wells, 1626; Bishop of London, 1628; Archbishop of Canterbury, 1633. A reaction in public sentiment took place. The cruelties of the church, instigated by him, had an effect similar to that of the Fugitive Slave Law in the United States. The poison carried with it an antidote. Immediately after the Long Parliament, he was impeached for high treason, and presently we find the archbishop of the realm languishing in the Tower. An imprisonment of three years followed before he was brought to wearisome trial, when he defended himself with distinguished ability, but received a sentence that, in the light of patient investigation, is pronounced unjust and illegal. One can hardly read the history of these English towns, or walk through their streets, however modern they may appear, and not discover that he is in Old England and not in Young America. We carried away pleasant memories of this place. The modernish brick and stone buildings, with their tiled roofs, many of them new and of a bright-red color; the Avon Canal, with its slowly moving Bristol boats; the sluggish rivers Thames and Kennet, affording avenues of transportation like our great railways,--all conspired to make us think of home; but St. Mary's Church, half a thousand years old, with Norman columns and arches on one side of the nave, and Early English on the other,--with its neat and quaint burial-ground about it,--made us realize anew that we were yet in _Old_ England. At 4.30 P. M. we took train for Newbury. There was never a more desirable country to ride over, or a more delightful season at which to see England to best advantage. What our country shows at this season of the year is here also to be seen. A general absence of fruit-trees is painfully apparent. A small part of the land only is devoted to cultivated crops. Grass prevails. Beef, mutton, and dairy products absorb the attention. No modern buildings of any kind are to be seen. In the cities are red-tiled roofs, while a few are slated; but thatched roofs abound in the country. The surface of the land is undulating. General comfort prevails; and the impression is that in his way, the English farmer is working to his own advantage and is satisfied. He has no fences to keep in repair,--only hedges as land divisions. When we saw cattle and horses, and even sheep, restrained by these often apparently thin barriers, we got the impression that the animals were more easily managed than are ours in America. It is possible they inherit these traits of obedience. It may be that the long training of their sires and dams has made their offspring tractable also, for like begets like, the world over. NEWBURY. This is aside from the main road between Reading and London, and is reached by a short passage over the Hungerford branch. On arrival we went immediately to the Jack House tavern. The present building is a part of the dwelling-house once owned and occupied by the famous Jack of Newbury, who figured in English history. He was a celebrated clothier, or cloth manufacturer, and born at Winchcomb, in Gloucestershire, about 1470. On a slab, in the floor of the parish church of St. Nicholas, are brass effigies and the following inscription:-- OFF YO CHARITIE PRAY FOR THE SOULE OF JOHN SMALWADE, ALIAS WINCHCOM, AND ALYS HIS WIFE. JOHN DYDD THE XV DAY OF FEBRUARY MCCCCCXIX. He espoused the cause of Henry VIII., and at his own expense equipped 200 men and sent them _towards_ Flodden Field. When the company arrived at Stoney Stratford they were met and reviewed by Queen Catharine, who complimented them in the highest terms; but immediately news came from the Earl of Surrey that the soldiers might be dismissed, for a victory had been gained over the Scots, whose king had been slain in battle. Jack was much disappointed, but his feelings were relieved by the promise of a visit from his Majesty, which was made at a later day. We are told that he much enjoyed "showing the king his factory, and that the floor of the room wherein the banquet was held was covered with broadcloth instead of rushes." Jack was very generous, and did much for the poor and for public institutions. The tower of the church, and a large part of its nave, were paid for by him. In the year 1811 an extraordinary feat was accomplished here. Two sheep were sheared; the wool was carded, spun, warped, loomed, and woven; the cloth was burred, milled, dyed, dried, sheared, and pressed; a coat was made by White of Newbury, and worn by Sir J. Throgmorton, in the presence of five thousand spectators,--all within thirteen hours and twenty minutes. The widow of Mr. Coxter, who had charge of the exploit, completed her one hundredth year, January 1, 1875. Another important personage here was Rev. Dr. Twiss, rector of St. Nicholas. He was the presiding officer, or prolocutor, of the Assembly of divines at Westminster, when the famous catechisms were compiled, though they were not adopted till after his death. The Larger Cathechism was sent to the House of Commons, October 22, 1647, and the Shorter on November 25 of the same year; but for some reason they were not adopted till July, 1648, two hundred and thirty-five years ago. The shorter catechism soon found its way to New England, and was printed in the New England Primer,--a little educational, but somewhat proselyting work, asserting that "In Adam's fall, we sinnèd all." It became the principal instruction book in New England families and in some of the public schools. In spite of its old and heavy theology, it was the most comprehensive schoolbook then published, and, with all the light and advance of the nineteenth century, has never been excelled. The hot-house system of cramming was not then known; but this concise handbook, well understood, did a masterly work which we can never expect to see excelled, till the child is treated as a human being, and tasks not exacted (irrespective of intellectual capacities) at which parents and teachers would themselves rebel. Speaking of students,--Mr. Benjamin Woodbridge, of our American Newbury, Mass., the first graduate of Harvard College, went to Newbury, England, and became rector of St. Nicholas, after the death of the celebrated Dr. Twiss, so that our town has double honors. Mr. Woodbridge remained rector more than twenty years,--a learned and eloquent preacher,--till at last, in consequence of his strongly non-conformist doctrines, imbibed partly in New England, he was driven from his pulpit, and suffered great persecution. After this he was an independent preacher for twenty years, and died at the age of sixty-two, in the year 1685. In spite of his doctrines he was buried with honor in the church where he so long ministered. Speaking of him in connection with Harvard College, Cotton Mather says: "He was the leader of the whole company and ... a star of the first magnitude in his constellation." And the historian Calamy says: "He was a great man every way, ... the first graduate of the college, ... the lasting glory as well as the first fruits of the Academy." Rev. John Cotton, one of the earliest pastors of the First Church in Boston, dying in 1652, was, at the time he left England for America (and had been for twenty years before) the Vicar of St. Botolph's, the great parish church of Boston, England,--a fact that gave our Boston its name. Woodbridge was the personal friend of Cotton, and wrote the following epitaph on the latter's tombstone; and this doubtless suggested to Benjamin Franklin the celebrated epitaph he prepared for himself. A LIVING BREATHING BIBLE; TABLES WHERE BOTH _Covenants_, AT LARGE, ENGRAVEN WERE; _Gospel_ AND LAW, IN 'S HEART, HAD EACH ITS COLUMN; HIS HEAD AN INDEX TO THE SACRED VOLUME; HIS VERY NAME A _Title Page_; AND NEXT, HIS LIFE A _Commentary_ ON THE TEXT. O WHAT A MONUMENT OF GLORIOUS WORTH, WHEN IN A _New Edition_, HE COMES FORTH, WITHOUT ERRATAS MAY WE THINK HE'L BE IN _Leaves_ AND COVERS OF ETERNITY! The town is situated on the River Kennet, which runs through the centre of the business part, and is crossed by a single-arched stone bridge. There are 6,602 inhabitants. It has but few streets, which are well paved, but quiet lanes abound. There is picturesqueness everywhere, and especially in the vicinity of the old St. Nicholas Church, where the grouping of roads, river, canal, meadows, trees, peculiar buildings, produce an effect seldom excelled. The Lombardy poplar is conspicuous, as it often is in these landscapes. One place of note is Donnington Castle, once the home of the poet Chaucer, to which he retired in 1397. As he died Oct. 25, 1400, this was probably his residence at the time of his decease. The Shaw House, completed in 1581, an elegant structure in the Elizabethan style of architecture, is still standing, with its ample grounds, now as it was nearly three hundred years ago. It was the headquarters of Cromwell during his campaign in the neighborhood, battles being fought here in 1643 and 1644. A couple of curious incidents are connected with the parish church of St. Nicholas. Some hundreds of years ago a person bequeathed a sum of money, the income to be used for purchasing bread for the poor. While we were in the church on Saturday, the baker brought the lot for distribution on Sunday; and on the morrow, during service, the new bread being piled on a table in the great room, the fragrance of this charity, like sweet incense, permeated the place. The work will continue preaching about "the bread of life" and the practical part of Christianity. This custom is not peculiar to this church. We saw it in some of the old churches of London also, the glass case on the vestibule wall being filled on Saturday, to be delivered on the next day to the worthy poor. A new rector had been installed over St. Nicholas parish the week before, and the secular paper stated that on the arrival of the incumbent in the city the church bells were rung. On Saturday before the Sunday when he preached his first sermon, he (according to old custom) entered the church, locked the door, rang the large bell, and then unlocked the door and let in the vestrymen, delivering the key to them, and they in turn to the sexton. On the following day, Sunday, he formally read and subscribed to the Thirty-nine Articles. Whether he is to interpret them as would the Dean of Westminster, or the Archbishop of Canterbury, we are not able to say. A few months ago, in making repairs to the chancel, some brass plates, or mural tablets, were found, which are now placed on the walls with others. Two of them read as follows:-- A MEMORIAL OF MY FATHER, MR. HUGH SHEPLEIGH, SOMETIMES RECTOR AND PASTOR OF THIS CHURCH AND TOWN OF NEWBURY, WHO WAS BORN AT PRESCOTT IN LANCASHIRE 1526 AND BUERIED HEERE THE THIRD OF MAYE 1596 AGED 70 YEARES. HERE LIES THE BODIE OF FRANCIS TRENCHARD OF NORMANTOWN IN COVENTIE OF WILTS ESQUIRE, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE SIXT OF NOVEMBER 1635, LEAVING ISSUE ELIZABETH HIS ONLY CHILD. Finally, a word concerning the old pulpit. It is of stone, octagonal in form, not very large or high, but of somewhat elaborate design. To protect it from injury in the time of Cromwell, the parish officers caused it to be whitewashed, thus making it appear to be a cheap affair and unworthy of attention. It remained in this condition till recently, when its true nature was accidentally discovered. Originally it was gilded in some parts, and painted in positive colors, as red, green, yellow. The wash has been removed, and it is now proposed to restore it to its former condition. One attempts much when he begins to recite a few among the thousands of interesting facts connected with Old England. We have tried to be judicious, and are entitled to more credit for what we omit than for what we describe. Having gone down the western side of England (with regrets for having passed by Exeter and Wells, at both of which are cathedrals) we continue from the southern part northerly towards London, stopping by the way at Newbury and Reading. We at 10 A. M. on this same Sunday, having attended an early service at St. Nicholas's, take our start for the famed metropolis. Once more we rode over the Hungerford branch, back to READING. The day was warm. Probably the mercury stood at about 75 degrees. After a walk over the town we attended divine service. At 2 P. M. we were back in the station, waiting for the train. Having dined we had some time on our hands, and so we took out our notebook and wrote about what follows. The sermon was extempore, though well thought out, and ingenious and unlooked-for in thought and expression. The elements of good preaching were there, but the theologic atmosphere was bad. There was too much East and too little West in it. The subject was the spies that went up to investigate the Canaan question. Most of the English preachers delight to talk about Moses, Caleb, and Jeremiah, forgetting, or not seeming to know, of men who have lived three thousand years later. It's easy to tell about what _was_, rather than to observe and investigate, and know what really _is_, and is surely _to be_. The best thing about this sermon was that the preacher discovered an inclination to look with leniency on opposing thinkers in the domain of theology, and to treat them as Christians. He didn't _like_ the new ideas, but advised his hearers to accept the situation and trust that God would in time tire out the investigators, and so things would relapse into their ancient condition. He was oblivious that his Congregationalism was entirely indebted for its existence to the fact that, years ago, some people did the very thing he condemned, investigate theological questions and ascertain whether their "thus saith the Lord" was real or fancied,--that is to say, discover whether the interpretations of the Word were according to fact and true philosophy, or only traditional. The beam in his eyes disabled him from taking a mote from the eyes of others. He declared that the Israelites had the pillar of fire and the cloud, and so have we the Bible; but the propriety of investigating the true meaning of either was not to be tolerated. At one o'clock we are just out of church. Have heard an old sermon in Old England,--a good one, however, of the kind. We go on our way rejoicing for many things, but not sorry that the long service is over, though sorry that in the light of the nineteenth-century thought, men of education, watchmen on the walls of Zion, do not better discern the signs of the times. We are, however, inclined to say with Ovid,-- Our bane and physic the same earth bestows, And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose. Our seat taken in the railway carriage, we are on our way to great London. We think over our roundabout way to the place, which most Americans reach the first or second day from Liverpool. A _can't wait_ condition takes possession of them, and they hurry on. We landed at Queenstown twenty days ago. How long a time to get to London,--twice as long as a passage across the Atlantic Ocean! Yet what a vast experience in the three weeks! What sights we have seen, what thoughts conceived! What seeds of thought have been sown to bear fruit in the future! Into how many new channels has thought been turned! We ride in meditation thus over miles of this good country. CHAPTER VIII. LONDON. At 3.30 P. M. we are in Paddington Station at the West End of London, feeling much at home, for the trainhouse is like the Lowell and Providence depots at Boston, though larger. Our impressions of London are not as anticipated. There is less crowding of the buildings and narrowness of the streets. The houses are neither new nor old. Our older western cities well represent this part of London. Half of Cincinnati and Cleveland, or a quarter-section of Buffalo, typifies this part of London better than do our eastern cities. A native of those cities would feel at home in the vicinity of this railway station, and would hardly imagine, from buildings, streets, teams, or people, that he was not amid scenes familiar from his youth up. By recommendation of a railway companion we took rooms at a lodging-house near the station. After dinner we began our tour. The map was brought into requisition, and--after passing through a few streets, and being yet more impressed with the American Westernish look of everything--we at length, in a half-hour's walk, arrived at Hyde Park. It is "a fine old Common," as Bostonians would call it, containing four hundred acres. It has long been used for public purposes, for it became public property in 1535. It was sold by Parliament in 1652, but was recovered by the Crown after the Restoration in 1660. Like our Common, it was for years a pasture ground; but it was improved, and became a resort for thousands of pleasure-seekers. In 1730-33 a body of water was introduced, arranged in curvilinear outline, and therefore named the Serpentine. Now there are gravelled avenues and groups of trees. While not presenting the uniformity of the trees bounding the principal avenues on Boston Common, it is still an admirable park; and its vast extent, in the very heart of London, makes it a resort for hundreds of thousands. On this fine Sunday afternoon a great number were enjoying it. What struck us forcibly was the general uniformity in the appearance of the people; none were representatives either of a very poor class or of a very rich one. Parts of the grounds are cultivated with flowers, like Boston Common and Public Garden combined. Near this is Kensington Garden, and other similar places, making the West End of London remarkably favored in these respects. A long walk over one of the principal avenues of this place, and we were in the neighborhood of Buckingham Palace, the Queen's winter residence. It is a large, oblong building, of brown freestone, four stories high, and hotel-like in appearance. Back some hundred or more feet from the square, made by the junction of two or three great thoroughfares, it has a high but open iron fence enclosing the grounds. There are two principal gateways, and an amplitude of rear grounds and gardens. Many shops are within a minute's walk of the premises. Some portions of the vicinity are very aristocratic, like Grosvenor Square and its radiating streets, in which are palatial residences in close blocks. Contiguous to parks, and having the public thoroughfares about it, one hardly feels that this is the famed Buckingham Palace. We are aware that we have began to talk about London. We will, however, not promise anything like a formal description,--certainly, no complete one. London is great beyond description. All that will be undertaken is a statement of what we saw, with the addition of any fact that history may suggest as immediately interesting. Very clean are the streets. Never were better pavements, especially on the sidewalks. There is no look of the London we had pictured. We had expected too much of a frivolous Parisian look in London's West End. A few avenues were up to our anticipation; but _all_, even here, is not up to this high mark. There is nothing ancient in appearance; and yet nothing looks entirely new. We should judge that everything had been finished twenty years before, and left untouched. Some shade-trees, some flower-yards, a garden here and there, are to be seen; but generally all is solid and rich. A generous number of carriages and people are in the thoroughfares, but no great crowd. Imagine these things, and you have the aristocratic West End of London. We walked on, and soon in the distance caught a view of the towers of Westminster Abbey. We went through street after street, out of right-angles with each other, but not crooked nor very narrow; light and airy was the atmosphere, at this season free from smoke or the London fog. There was a Boston May-day look about everything. It was cool enough to make overcoats useful every day till the first of June. At 6 P. M. we had reached the abbey, and were a mile or more from our lodgings. The roads, or avenues, in the vicinity of the edifice are very wide, and form squares about its venerable grounds, the focus of a business centre. Nowhere, though, was there an over-crowded condition. At times there were crowds,--much more so than at others; but never what might be expected in the neighborhood of the Abbey, Parliament Houses, Westminster Bridge, and other noted places that centre here. We are really seeing New London. Streets are newly finished, widened, and everything is modern; and yet few things exist that appear to be very new. The smoke subdues all freshness. England is old. Nature recognizes the fact, and sees to it that an ancient dignity is not disturbed. Nineteenth-century life has asserted its existence, but the old, old fog and smoke are great factors in keeping up the look of dignity that too much new brilliant work might lower. Buildings are mostly of sandstone; some of brick; no trace of wood anywhere. Elegant stores are from three to six stories in height. They vary in architecture as do those of Boston or New York. Think of such a place, and you have the Westminster part of London. But what of the abbey itself? Well, much more than we can tell. Had we not seen grand cathedrals we should probably be more profuse in adjectives in speaking of this edifice. The structure is large and imposing, but does not on the exterior give one an impression of vastness or great antiquity, though it looks anything but modern. It is built of Portland stone, as are all the old churches of London, including St. Paul's Cathedral,--a sandstone of considerable hardness and durability, of a light appearance, approaching white. The general effect is that of white marble, slightly tinged with blue,--a milk and water hue. Now comes a qualification which applies to all the old buildings of Portland stone; and that is, that parts--which are in shadow, or not exposed to the sun--are either blackened or (as is invariably the case with many prominent parts of each structure) jet-black, and of a solid color. Casual examination would suggest soot, or the results of fog and smoke; but chemical analysis shows it to be a sort of fungi, or deposit of an animal nature,--the shady situation and porosity of the stone, aided by the moist atmosphere, being favorable to its growth. Imagine, then, a large structure, of Gothic architecture, blackened in entire sections, but mostly white. Picture to your mind a large front end, with two square towers, projecting but little from the principal front, and each ending with four turrets, not of great height,--then a side-wall broken by buttresses and transept,--and you have the exterior of Westminster Abbey. Next, think of a good-sized Gothic church, of the same stone, with a square tower at the front end, and this building set at right angles to the great abbey,--the rear end of the former not far from the rear end of the abbey. Picture further to yourself a surrounding iron fence, and a burial-ground, with a graded, gravelly surface, containing many slabs. Combine these pictures in one, and you have St. Margaret's, Westminster, the rectorship of which is in the hands of the celebrated F. W. Farrar, D. D., who is also canon of the abbey. The interior of the abbey is rather dark and sombre. Its windows are of stained glass, most of which is modern. The columns and arches, the groined ceiling, and all the interior finish is of a dark gray limestone, of dirty soapstone color. The moulding is very rich. On the whole it has a narrow look, is very high in effect in the nave, and has elaborate altar and screen work. There are no pews, of course, but enough flagbottom chairs to cover the floor of the nave. From morning to night visitors are in this venerable place,--hundreds in a day, coming from all parts of the civilized world. This is true of St. Paul's, and of every cathedral. The task would be endless to describe the monuments. The abbey floor is made of monumental slabs, and on many of them are the stories of mortals whose dust is beneath. On columns and walls are mural tablets and monumental marbles. Benedict Arnold, true to English interests, but untrue to American; and John Wesley, faithful to the interests of humanity and God, but uncompromising towards formality, oppression, and sin,--have commemorative tablets, almost near enough to touch each other. It pleased us Americans to see Arnold's near the floor and Wesley's on the wall,--higher, as his spirit always was, and probably now is. Here is the Poet's Corner, where repose not only tablet and stone, but the precious dust itself of Samuel Johnson, David Garrick, Dr. Barrow, and other notables; and now a bust of our own Longfellow. How subdued the voice and tread of visitor and verger! What propriety every moment and everywhere! The threshold crossed, the hurrying world is left behind. The hum of industry, the subdued noise of carriages and commercial life steal in, but the sound, like the listeners, is toned into accord with the place. The dead control the living. The influence of the venerable pile is potent. That "all who live must die, passing through nature to eternity," is here fully apparent. Dean Stanley and Canon Farrar are not more eloquent than Isaac Barrow. Samuel Johnson, with his ponderous procession of words, and Dickens, his very opposite, though dead, yet speak. Milton, through his elevated bust,--though a paraded advertisement of the egotist who "caused it to be erected here,"--looks down upon a semi-barbaric effigy five hundred years old. Handel, too, is there. They all, a glorious company,--in life divided, but in death associated,--make the place hallowed. How well, while thus in meditative mood, is one able to realize, and as he nowhere else can, that "in the midst of life we are in death." The impression thus made can never be effaced, for, with the faithful exactness of a photographic process, it is indelibly stamped on the spirit itself. While these pages were passing through the press, the dearest and best earthly friend of one of the authors passed on to "the city which hath foundations," that "house of God not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." By a strange and interesting coincidence, while this particular chapter was under consideration, there was found in her small pocket-book the appropriate poetic thought of another, which we here append:-- I do not know what sea shall bathe My tired and earth-worn feet, When they lay life's soiled sandals off, And enter rest complete; But I shall call that still sea, Peace! And in its limpid tide Lave all the dust of travel off, And find me purified! I do not know what sounds shall greet My soul's awakening sense, Nor what new sights await me when I take my journey hence. Though folded be my earthly tent, My soul hath where to stay, And she shall not be shelterless One moment of the way! And I fear no bewilderment, No shock of sudden change; To journey to one's home and friends Will surely not seem strange! And peace is on the waiting sea, And rest is on its shore; And further on--I dare not dream Of all that lies in store. How sweet and divine the influence,--in what sublime accord with our theme and place! To her dear memory, who--with a companion-mother yet in the flesh--of all friends most encouraged our proposed adventure; who more deeply and sincerely than any other mortals were solicitous for our safety and happiness while wandering among strangers and historic shadows in foreign lands; and who welcomed us with inexpressible gratitude on our return,--to them both, with filial affection, we inscribe this chapter; and among the world's great we erect shrine and monument to our own revered dead,--greater, to our hearts, than the monarchs or heroes who beneath cathedral pavements sleep. We return to the material aspect of the abbey and speak of its history. How full of incident! How long the catalogue of devotees and prelates and crusaders, of monks and nuns, of heroes both of the very old time and of the new. The abbey was founded near the close of the seventh century, and was in full operation by the middle of the eighth. The larger portion of the present structure was completed in the thirteenth century. It is a coincidence that the years since its completion, and its length in feet, exclusive of the Henry VII. chapel, are equal,--511. The extreme breadth at transepts is 203 feet; and the height of the nave, from the pavement to the highest point of the groined arch, is 102 feet. The towers are 225 feet to top of the pinnacles. This west front, added by Sir Christopher Wren, though of good general outline, is faulty in architectural detail. English sovereigns, from Edward the Confessor to Queen Victoria, have all been crowned here, and the coronation chair, a clumsy, square structure of wood, is shown the visitor. Monuments of Queen Elizabeth and of Mary Stuart--who died respectively March 24, 1603, and December 28, 1684--are in the south aisle. The latter, as well as Mary Tudor, is buried in the Henry VII. chapel, a most elegant example of perpendicular Gothic architecture, at the choir end of the abbey. We left the place after a cursory examination, in expectation of repetitions of the visit. The Houses of Parliament, only a few hundred feet away, are built of a light-brown sandstone, with an elaborate finish in every part. As we observed the disintegration already at work, we could but deplore the fact that such bad counsel obtained, when the structure was erected, as to be incredibly lavish in working up the outside finish to this extraordinary richness, while unwilling to reduce the decoration, so as to expend the labor on a more durable stone, even at the expense of some extravagance of detail. Attempts at minute description cannot be expected here. The Thames washes the terrace on the rear. The end with the great bell-tower, the most elegant in the world, is but a few feet from the main avenue, and almost at the London end of Westminster Bridge. The premises are enclosed by a grand, cast-iron fence. These grounds, though limited, are ample; and about this end, and its principal front, are thoroughfares of the best parts of the great city. The structure covers eight acres, and contains eleven hundred apartments. There are a hundred staircases, and two miles of corridors. The corner-stone was laid April 27, 1840, and the total cost of the edifice, up to 1874, was $20,000,000. The principal rooms for the House of Lords and House of Commons, compared to the size of the building, are much too small. The former is 100 feet long, 45 feet only in width and height, was opened for use in 1847, and is the most gorgeous legislative hall in the world. The latter is 60 feet long, and 55 feet wide and high. While elaborate in finish, it is not, of course, the equal of its companion. The windows of both, and in fact through the entire building, are of exquisitely stained glass. The Victoria Tower, at the southwest angle, is 75 feet square, and 340 feet high,--a magnificent work finished in 1857. The central octagonal tower, with a spire above it, is 60 feet diameter and 300 feet high. The Clock Tower, at the end towards Westminster Bridge, at an angle of the building, is 40 feet square, 300 feet high, and has four dials 30 feet diameter. The great bell on which the hours are struck is called Great Stephen. It was cast in 1858, and weighs over eight tons, taking the place of a broken one which was called Big Ben of Westminster. There is a chime of bells on which the quarter and half hours are chimed. As may be imagined, frescoes and statuary abound. There is no part of the exterior of the structure where exuberance of carving is not to be found,--all of course in the same stone of which the building is composed. A minute's walk from the front of the Houses of Parliament, and we are at the London end of Westminster Bridge, looking over the turbid waters of England's celebrated river. How much is implied when one speaks of the River Thames! John Denhan, like all Londoners, was in love with it, and said:-- Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons By his old sire, to his embraces runs,-- Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity. The river is about fifteen hundred feet wide, and runs with quite a current toward the sea. The muddy water rises and falls twelve or more feet with the tide. Standing at our right are the Parliament Houses, with a vast length of nine hundred feet, their grounds adjoining the bridge. We pass from the bridge to the left, and along the river. Bounding it is the Victoria Embankment, built of finely hammered granite, and finished with a moulded parapet. At proper intervals are pedestals, surmounted by ornamental and appropriate lamp-posts. At especial points are stone stairways down to the floating rafts and steamer landings. This embankment extends between Westminster and Blackfriars Bridges, and is a mile long. It was finished in 1870, at a cost of $10,000,000. It is one hundred feet wide on the roadway, and follows the curving line of the river. Next the sea-wall is a sidewalk of liberal width, with shade-trees. Outside of this, and about sixty feet wide, is the macadamized roadway. Beyond, and extending to the fence lines, is another sidewalk; and bordering this are small public squares fronting important buildings. Prominent among these is Somerset House, with its three thousand windows and one thousand rooms. From Blackfriars Bridge the river is bordered by buildings, wooden landings, and small docks,--continuing thus for a mile or more, to the Tower of London. The high buildings are built of brick, in a common and cheap warehouse style, hardly in keeping with this important part of the city. London Bridge terminates among these; but it is elevated, so that its entrance is above the waterside buildings, and has a spacious approach, as its importance demands. At Blackfriars Bridge--the end of the Victoria Embankment--the road diverges to the left somewhat, and runs up towards St. Paul's Cathedral, which is on slightly elevated ground, perhaps a half-mile away. It is about two thirds of the way between Blackfriars and London Bridge, and not far from an eighth of a mile from the river. The triangle thus formed is filled with warehouses. The streets are well paved, clean, and full of business. The avenues are not very wide; some of them are quite crooked; and there are many lanes and alleys, or short-cuts across-lots. Parts of New York, as, for instance, about Williams and Fulton streets,--or even Boston, in North Street,--well represent the vicinity of London Bridge, Paul's and Wharf avenues. We have now traversed the embankment for two and a half miles, and begin our survey of the opposite side. Beginning at the Lambeth end of Westminster Bridge, we have another elegant river-wall,--the southern one, or Albert Embankment,--built like the other, and at a cost of $5,500,000. It extends from Westminster Bridge nearly to Vauxhall Bridge to the right, and opposite the Houses of Parliament. The new St. Thomas Hospital buildings, four or five in number, are of brick with granite dressings, facing the embankment, and of course the Parliament Houses on the other side of the river. Above this is the Chelsea Embankment, opened in 1874. It continues on to the old Battersea Bridge, the whole presenting a massive stone wall. Beyond it, back from the river at this end, is a series of pleasure grounds, Lambeth Place, etc. This is the old Episcopal seat of the Church, and the usual residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. It is noted as being the place of ecclesiastical councils for many centuries. From the bridge down to the left opposite the Victoria Embankment, and for the entire distance opposite that part of the city, are wharves, docks, storehouses, such as may be found along the shore of any commercial place; but the shipping proper lies farther down the river, below London bridge. There are the docks, built at enormous cost, and extending for miles below the Tower, which is not far from a mile below St. Paul's. On the opposite side is the city of Southwark, containing a population of 200,000. The shore is lined with quays, and has an unfinished appearance. The tide runs very low, and often the mud is exposed to view against the buildings on both sides of the river, especially on the London side in the vicinity of Blackfriars. The river is crossed by many fine bridges; among them are London, Southwark, Blackfriars, Waterloo, Hungerford, Westminster, Vauxhall, and Chelsea, besides two or three large ones for the railroads. London and Waterloo bridges are of stone, and are respectively 928 feet and 1,242 feet long, and 53 feet and 42 feet wide. The first has five arches, and the other nine. Built in 1831 and 1817, they cost $10,000,000 and $5,750,000, respectively. Southwark, Blackfriars, Westminster, and Vauxhall are iron bridges. Hungerford is a suspension bridge, and Chelsea is wooden. Blackfriars and Westminster are elegant structures, somewhat recently built. Steamers in great numbers ply between London and Westminster bridges, and to Chelsea and points beyond. So frequent are these in their passages up and down the river, that the passenger makes no especial calculation as regards time, but goes to the nearest floating-station, and need not wait long for a conveyance. This is a comfortable method of travel, of which hundreds of thousands daily avail themselves. It has been aptly called the Silent Highway, for, in spite of the traffic on the shores, there is a peculiar quiet on the river. We can hardly think of a subject we should be more pleased to write about, and there are few by which our readers would be more entertained, than these old bridges in London. Only one of them can have attention, and that shall be London Bridge, more especially the old one. A London Bridge is mentioned in a charter of William the Conqueror, granted to the monks of Westminster Abbey in 1067; but the earliest historical account of any is that made by the old chroniclers of its destruction, Nov. 16, 1091, "on which day a furious southeast wind threw down six hundred private houses in the city, besides several churches; and the tide in the river came rushing up with a violence that swept the bridge entirely away." Next, in 1097, we learn from a Saxon chronicle, the credit of rebuilding it is given to King Rufus. It was of wood, and destroyed in 1136, by a fire which "laid the city in waste from St. Paul's to Aldgate." The historian Stow speaks of it as having been wholly rebuilt in 1163 by Peter Colechurch, priest and chaplain. The first London Bridge of stone was begun in 1173, or 710 years ago, and finished in 1209. Stow says, "the new stone bridge was founded somewhat to the west of the old timber one." The new one had twenty arches. The road was 926 feet long and 40 feet wide between the parapets,--surely a magnificent structure to be erected six hundred years before the American Revolution. This great thoroughfare was destined to be despoiled of its ample dimensions, for, as soon as 1280, mention is made, on the pay-roll of the ninth year of Edward I., of "innumerable people dwelling upon the bridge." In course of time it was resolved into a complete street, buildings having been built on each side, partly on the bridge and partly projecting over the river, in solid line, with the exception of three openings on each side, at unequal distances, from which might be obtained views up and down the river. Strange to say, on the east side, over the tenth pier, was a fine Gothic chapel, dedicated to Thomas à Becket. It was thirty feet in front on the bridge, and consisted of a crypt, and a chapel above, and was used for divine services down to the Reformation. Near the Southwark end of the bridge, on the eleventh pier, was a tower, which Stow tells us was begun in 1426. On the top of this tower the heads of persons who had been executed were "stuck up for public gaze." When it was removed in 1577, the exposed heads were taken to the Southwark end of the bridge, and the gate there received the name of Traitor's Gate. When William Wallace resisted Edward I., his heart was plucked out, and his head placed aloft on this old tower. This was in 1305. There was displayed, in 1408, the head of the Earl of Northumberland, the father of the gallant Hotspur. There also were placed here, in 1535, the heads of Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, and his friend Sir Thomas More. That of the former was first shown to Queen Anne Boleyn, and the next day "parboiled and placed upon the pole." It is related:-- In spite of the parboiling, it grew fresher and fresher, so that in his lifetime he never looked so well, for his cheeks being beautified with a comely red, the face looked as though it had beholden the people passing by, and would have spoken to them; wherefore the people coming daily to see the strange sight, the passage, even the bridge, was so stopped with their going and coming, that almost neither cart nor horse could pass; therefore at the end of fourteen days the executioner was commanded to throw down the head in the night time into the river of Thames, and in place thereof was set the head of the most blessed and constant martyr, Sir Thomas More, his companion in all his troubles. The German traveller Hentuner, who was here in 1597, records, that he saw above thirty heads at one time; and some old prints of the tower show its roof nearly covered by spiked skulls. The bridge remained till the year 1832 when the present structure was built. During the long interval it was often endangered by fire,--once in 1212, as Stow relates:-- A great fire enveloped the church of St. Mary Overy's, which extended to the bridge, and, sweeping into it, struck a vast crowd of people who were collected upon it, who were hemmed in thus between two advancing masses of flame, and thus perished miserably above 3,000 persons, whose bodies were found in part or half burned, beside those that were wholly burned to ashes and could not be found. In 1281 "five of the arches were carried away by ice, and a swell in the river, succeeding a severe snow-storm and great frost." Stow says:-- In 1437, at noon of January, 14th, the great stone gate, with the tower upon it next to Southwark, fell down, and two of the farthest arches of the same bridge, yet no men perished in body, which was a great work of God. We might continue the record of fires and disasters, of murders on the bridge and in the houses, as well as of tumults and other strange proceedings. How many remarkable pageants have here taken place. In 1381, on the 13th of June, the celebrated Wat Tyler forced his way over the bridge and into the city, in spite of the mayor, Sir William Walworth, and his military and police, and the "raised draw fastened up with a mighty iron chain to prevent the entry." On the 29th of August, 1392, King Richard II. passed over it, having come in joyous procession with his consort, Queen Anne, by whose mediation he had just become reconciled with the people of London. The account says:-- Men, women, and children, in order, presented him with two fair white steeds, trapped in cloth of gold, parted with red and white, hanged full of silver bells, the which present he thankfully received, and afterwards held on his way towards Westminster. Over it, Feb. 21, 1432, young King Henry VI. came, and made a magnificent entry after his coronation at Paris. But we must forbear. Even a portion of remarkable events, that might be related, would more than fill this book. The Thames, as before mentioned, has been aptly termed the Silent Highway. For centuries boating and ferriage have been important here. The watermen, as they were called, formed a numerous and somewhat influential body. In our day the horse-railroad companies are thought to be powerful, and Temple Place, narrow Tremont Street, and wide Scollay Square are said to be under their control. The railroad wars of our day (_e. g._, between the Union and Charles River railways) only remind us of the London conflicts of eight hundred years ago. Bridgemen and watermen were then in opposition, as representatives of elevated and surface railways are at odds now. Great opposition was made by the watermen to the building of bridges over the Thames. "Othello's occupation," they thought, would be gone, and that was, in their estimation, enough to condemn the project. John Taylor, a waterman, lauded the river as follows:-- But noble Thames, whilst I can hold a pen I will divulge thy glory unto men; Thou in the morning, when my corn is scant, Before the evening doth supply my want. Soon came a new trouble, for then, as now, misfortunes did not come singly. Coaches came into use, and coaches and a new bridge at the same time threatened large invasions on the realm of the watermen, and Taylor was not slow to complain of this. In a poem entitled "Thief," published in 1622, he says:-- When Queen Elizabeth came to the crown A coach in England was then scarcely known. He could tolerate coaches for royalty, but their use by common people was more than he could well endure, and so he continues in the following strain:-- 'T is not fit that Fulsome madams, and new scurvey squires, Should jolt the streets at pomp, at their desires, Like great triumphant Tamberlaines each day, Drawn with pamperèd jades of Belgia, That almost all the streets are choked outright, Where men can hardly pass, from morn till night, While Watermen want work. And he tried his hand at prose as follows:-- This infernal swarm of trade spillars [coaches] have so overrun the land, that we can get no living upon the water; for I dare truly affirm that every day in any term, especially if the court be at Whitehall, they do rob us of our livings, and carry five hundred and sixty fares daily from us. And he grows earnest, and means business, when he again talks as follows:-- I pray you look into the streets, and the chambers or lodgings in Fleet Street or the Strand, how they are pestered with them [coaches], especially after a mask, or a play at court, where even the very earth quakes and trembles, the casements shatter, tatter, and clatter, and such a confused noise is made, so that a man can neither sleep, speak, hear, write, or eat his dinner or supper quiet of them. Alas for poor John Taylor, and the occupation of his associates, who longed and sighed for the good old times and customs of the fathers, and deplored these new-fangled notions! The winter of 1684-5 was very severe; and Sir John Evelyn, in his celebrated Diary, records an unusual spectacle on the famous river. His statement is as follows:-- Jan. 9th I went crosse the Thames on the ice, now become so thick as to beare not onely streetes and booths, in which they roasted meate, and had divers shops of wares, quite acrosse as in toune, but coaches, carts, and horses passed over. So I went from Westminster Stayres to Lambeth and dined with the Archbishop.... 16th. The Thames was filled with people and tents, selling all sorts of wares as in the city.... 24th. The frost continuing, more and more severe, the Thames before London was still planted with booths in formal streetes, all sorts of trades and shops furnished and full of commodities, even to a printing presse, where the people and ladys tooke a fancey to have their names printed and the day and yeare set down when printed on the Thames; this humour took so universally, that t'was estimated the printer gained £5 a day, for printing a line onely, at six pence a name, besides what he got by ballads, &c. Coaches plied from Westminster to the Temple, and from several other stayres to and fro, as in the streets, sleds, sliding with skeets, a bull-baiting, horse and coach races, puppet plays and interludes, cooks, tippling, and other lewed places. So it seemed to be a backanalian triumph, or carnival on the water, whilst it was a severe judgement on the land, the trees not only splitting as if by lightening struck, but men and cattle perishing in divers places, and the very seas lock'd up with ice that no vessels could stir out or come in.... Feb. 5th. It began to thaw but froze again. My coach crossed from Lambeth to the Horse ferry at Milbank, Westminster. The booths were almost all taken downe, but there was first a map or Landskip cut in copper, representing all the manner of the camp and the several actions and pastimes thereon, in memory of so signal frost.... Jan. 10th. After eight weekes missing the foraine posts, there came abundance of intelligence from abroad. We now take our leave of the Thames. Often shall we sail over it during our stay. It is a highway of nations like the ocean itself. Ideal is the Rhine; matter of fact is the Thames; but it is greater than the Amazon in the best kind of greatness. We have employed much space in describing the West End of London--the Abbey, Parliament Houses, the River. It will be remembered that these were seen within the first few hours after our arrival. At 6 P. M. of the same day, Sunday, we continue our walk from the river embankment, and up to St. Paul's. This edifice stands on slightly elevated ground, and being very large, with its lofty dome, is of course readily seen from any point along the river for some miles away. It is about a mile from Westminster to the cathedral. The land rises but slightly, but the small elevation was a fact worthy of note; and so in Pannier Alley, a narrow passage some six or eight feet wide, not far from the cathedral, is a stone tablet, which has a rude carving representing a naked boy sitting on a pannier, and on the lower part or pedestal is the following:-- WHEN Y'V SOVGHT THE CITTY ROVND YET STILL THIS IS THE HIGHEST GROVND AVGVST THE 27 1688. St. Paul's is located at a business centre. In front of its principal end is a square, out of which runs Fleet Street, from Ludgate Hill. This is one of the busy thoroughfares of the city. About the cathedral, fenced in with an open iron fence not much unlike that of Boston Common, is the burial-ground, enclosing all of it but the Fleet Street end; and the space is not more than fifty feet from the fence to the building. The whole is grassed over, and has gravestones scattered promiscuously about. On either side, and across the rear end, is a street, with a roadway and one sidewalk, with stores bordering it. This space is of the same width as the burial part of the grounds, and the entire place has for centuries been known as Paul's Churchyard; for such it was before the great fire of 1666. For many years it was celebrated for its second-hand bookstores. Newgate Street, Cheapside, and other avenues of trade are at the left and rear, making the situation of the cathedral very much exposed. In general the buildings of London are modern, the streets are clean, and there is no look of great antiquity or a very cramped condition. A scene is presented to view very unlike what one imagines when he hears of Old London; for so much has been said of its antiquities, great age, its fogs and smoke, that most people entertain ideas which are far from the truth. Speaking of this, it may well be said, once for all, that no great thoroughfare of London is more crowded than Broadway, New York; and none is narrower, unless we except Cheapside, by Bow Church; and that is no worse than our Washington Street, between Court and Milk. Just now we can think of no other street more resembling Cheapside, as regards width, amount of travel, and general variety and style of its buildings. It must be remembered that, while London has a history of two thousand years, yet most of it has been many times rebuilt, and its streets have been widened. Boston has a history only one tenth as long, 240 years, yet we find in it little evidence of great age. London has however notable examples,--Guild Hall, Temple Church, St. Paul's, and fifty churches built after the great fire of 1666; but these do not probably look older than they did one or two centuries ago. In fact they do not impress one as being of a remarkable age; and, not being seen in a group, the city as a whole looks modern. The greatest improvements have of course been made in Old London proper,--that part once within the walls, which, compared to the present London, is simply as original Boston is when compared to itself as a whole, and including the annexations. London is indeed vast in dimensions, and has a population of 3,266,987; but outside of Old London are the annexed places. This new territory is built principally of brick, and is in comparatively modern style. Land having been cheap, the streets are of good width; and since the territory has become part of London, it is paved, lighted, and well cared for. So let no one imagine for this, the world's metropolis, a great over-crowded city different from Boston or New York,--a vast labyrinth of narrow and crooked streets, in which are evidences of bad conditions, the results of life in a dark age,--for nothing of the kind is true. In some portions, _e. g._ not far from Covent Garden Market, there are streets where very poor people reside, and are crowded, but not in very old and peculiar buildings. In no way are the conditions worse than in sections of New York and Boston. London is a very large and very fine city, modern in general appearance. For five months in the year, from May 1 to October 1, the climate is not very different from our own, though it has a slightly lower temperature, and a moister atmosphere. It rains with great ease, unlooked-for showers are imminent, and an umbrella accompanies a man almost as often as his hat. During the remaining portion of the year fog is frequent, and, as the heavy atmosphere prevents smoke from passing off, the difficulties are intensified. At any time in the four winter months this is a serious trouble. We have wandered from our especial subject to speak of these matters, as we are sure that most people entertain wrong opinions concerning them; but now we go back to the cathedral. St. Paul's is built of white stone, in general appearance like white marble. Parts of it are as white as ever, and kept clean by sun and storm; other parts are black as soot. This edifice was built to take the place of Old St. Paul's, which was destroyed in the great fire of 1666. The commission for the new building was given under the great seal, Nov. 12, 1673. The first stone was laid with imposing ceremonies under the administration of Bishop Henry Compton, by the architect Sir Christopher Wren, assisted by his master-mason, Thomas Strong. An interesting fact is related in connection with the beginning of an important part of the structure, and the relation is as follows:-- Sometime during the early part of its works, when Sir Christopher was arranging and setting out the dimensions of the great cupola, an incident occurred which some superstitious observers regarded as a lucky omen. The architect had ordered a workman to bring to him a flat stone, to use as a station; which, when brought, was found to be a fragment of a tombstone, containing the only remaining word of an inscription in capital letters: RESURGAM. ("I shall rise again.") It is possible that this incident suggested to the sculptor, Colley Cibber, the emblem--a phoenix in its fiery nest--over the south portico, and inscribed with the same word. A kindred thought is, that the rising again of the cathedral and the city from their ashes was the hint to the artist, and that he availed himself of the emblem and word as grandly suggestive. The work was continued so that "April 1, 1685, the walls of the choir, with its aisles, being 170 feet long and 121 feet broad, with the stupendous arched vaults below the pavement, were finished; as also the new chapter-house and vestries. The two beautiful circular porticoes of the north and south entrances, and the massy piers which support the cupola, a circle of 108 feet diameter within the walls, were brought to the same height." In the diary of Sir John Evelyn, under date of Oct. 5, 1694, we have the following: "I went to St. Paul's to see the choir, now finished as to the stonework, and the scaffolds struck both without and within in that part." On Dec. 2, 1696, the choir was opened for divine service, the first held on the spot since the great fire of 1666. This was on the day appointed for thanksgiving for the Peace of Ryswick; and service has been continued without interruption to this day, or a period of nearly two hundred years. On Feb. 1, 1699, the morning-prayer chapel was opened for services with appropriate ceremony; and finally, in 1710, when Sir Christopher had attained the seventy-eighth year of his age, about thirteen years before his death, the highest stone of the cupola was laid by his only son, Mr. Christopher Wren, assisted by the venerable architect, Mr. Strong the master-mason, and the Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons, of which Sir Christopher was for many years the active and honored Master. Thus the cathedral was built under one architect, one master-mason, and one bishop, though a period of thirty-five years was employed in its erection. The cost was $3,739,770, including $53,000 for the stone wall, iron fence, and other accessories. We cannot refrain from quoting the copy of a document which Sir Christopher caused to be posted in various parts of the structure. It explains itself, and also redounds to the credit of the great architect. SEPTEMBER 25,1695:--Whereas, among laborers &c., that ungodly custom of swearing is too frequently heard, to the dishonor of God and contempt of authority; and to the end, therefore, that such impiety may be utterly banished from these works, intended for the service of God and the honor of religion--it is ordered, that customary swearing shall be a sufficient crime to dismiss any laborer that comes to the call; and the clerk of the works, upon sufficient proof, shall dismiss them accordingly. And if any master working by task, shall not, upon admonition, reform this profanation among his apprentices, servants, and laborers, it shall be construed to his fault; and he shall be liable to be censured by the commissioners. This is the only cathedral of England in the Roman or Italian style of architecture. On examining the structure we found that we had previously formed a just conception of it. It had a more modern and clean appearance on the exterior than we had expected; but, while it was grand and imposing, it did not impress us with the feeling of vastness. There being no points of view from which its great length can be seen to advantage, we have never yet obtained a right impression of it, and could not help smiling at what may be the obtuseness of our intellect, in being unable to get enthusiastic as Sir John Denham did, when in contemplation of it he wrote as follows:-- Crowned with that sacred pile, so vast, so high, That whether 'tis a part of earth or sky, Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud Aspiring mountain or descending cloud. Its length is 500 feet; width at transepts 285 feet, and at the west front 180 feet. The campaniles are each 222 feet high. The dome is 145 feet in diameter, and 365 feet high from the grading. The Golden Gallery, as it is called, is a balustrade-enclosed walk, at the apex of the dome outside, and is reached by a circuitous walk and climb of 616 steps. From this, one can go up, through the lantern or cupola, into the great copper ball crowning the structure, and surmounted by a large gilded copper cross. On another day we went into it. The last part of the passage is made by climbing through an opening inside of eight five-inch-thick iron scrolls that assist in supporting it, and are in part designed as decoration. These are about six feet high, with openings a few inches wide between them, through which the wind rushes, and through which views of the entire city may be obtained. Our hats left in the clock-room below, we passed up through this division and through an opening perhaps eighteen inches in diameter at the bottom of the ball; and there, a company of four, not uncomfortably crowded, we had a _high time_. Strong iron bracework was about on the inside, and an iron post or principal support, perhaps five inches square, was at the centre. There was a very slight vibration, but much less than we anticipated, and it gave us no impression of insecurity. The hum of great London was below. We could hear no distinct sound save the whistle of the wind around the cross, or through the iron scrollwork. The day was comparatively still, though some air was stirring. We will not attempt to picture our feelings while here, at almost the highest point over London to which a mortal has ever climbed. Old St. Paul's had a spire that extended up 165 feet above this, and so men have climbed up 520 feet, to the top of the highest building ever erected in Great Britain. On this building they have been to the top of the cross, 20 feet higher than we were when in the ball; but this is exceptional, and we had done almost as well as the best. Here had sat the immortal Wren. Here had been kings and queens, the nobility of all lands, poets, philosophers, prelates, and many of no renown. As we pass down we examine the Whispering Gallery, inside of the cathedral, in the drum of the dome. We look down as before from the top, or eye of the inner dome,--on pavement and pygmies below. How awe-inspiring and vast! From this height, as also from the more elevated position above, we were fully impressed with the immensity of the structure, and were able to realize something of the greatness of the architect who conceived it. The attendant in the Whispering Gallery tells us to put our ears against the side wall, and he would whisper to us and exhibit this accidental wonder. He, being opposite, against the wall, says in a whisper: "This Cathedral was built by Sir Christopher Wren, and was finished in the year 1710. This dome is, &c., &c." All was as distinctly heard as if we were by his side. We had heard for ourselves the wonder. We had experienced all that any one can experience, so far as the material work is concerned. When we put our name on the visitors' book we felt that we did more than that, for we joined the company of those who for two and a half centuries have been doing as we did. As long as mind endures, as often as the hand of thought reaches out, it must gather whether it will or not. It is not far from 6 P. M. of this Sunday. Service is being held, and the great nave is half filled. The audience are trying to hear, and a part of them are sincerely worshipping; the remainder, like ourselves, are "seeing the cathedral." The sounds were confused and the echo troublesome, though not so much so as at other places. We were favorably impressed with the great length of the cathedral, and with its general look of vastness,--not awe-stricken, but filled with delight at the privilege we were enjoying in being in great St. Paul's. The large piers and arches, and the arched ceiling (tunnel-like, but here and there pierced with small and too flat domes), all appeared heavy and substantial,--built to last. Elegant colored-glass windows are about the apse, or chancel end, but the others are of small square lights of clear glass. A common square black and white marble tiled floor; monuments and tablets here and there against the columns and walls; an elegant oak organ-case, in two parts, on the side walls of the choir, and just back of the high, iron screen-work that separates the choir from the nave; the rich oaken stalls,--these make up the interior of St. Paul's. The great central dome has dim paintings by Sir James Thornhill, done at the time the cathedral was built. Seen, as the inside of the great dome is, through smoke, which the rays of light from the large windows above penetrate and make visible (this effect is ever present during the light), the great dome awakens a feeling of solemnity. We felt something of what we were contemplating. The shades of night were falling; the assembly had broken up, and here and there were solitary visitors, moving about weird-like in the dim light as if loth to leave. We at length passed out, and returned to our lodgings at West End. What ground has been gone over between the hours of 4 and 8 P. M. Hyde Park, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, Parliament Houses, the almost classic river, a look at St. Paul's,--and we are at home and resting. The comparatively recent construction of St. Paul's deprives it of such ancient monuments as may be found at the Abbey, and in other English cathedrals. Those here are of white marble; and, although some of them are nearly a century old, they yet have a newness of design akin to statuary. One to the memory of Lord Nelson is the most costly and attractive. It is in one of the alcoves, or small chapels, at the west end, and the entire room, some twenty feet square, is devoted to it. It is elaborate and highly decorated. There is another of some eminence at the left side of the choir. It is a life-size statue of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer. He is buried at the Abbey; but one so poor as to live in the obscurity of a garret, at length became so great as to win the second monument in this important church. "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will." The monuments of this church are of consequence as regards their elegance of design. In no other English cathedral is there so large a percentage of works of this kind. Impediments to the introduction of monuments were offered; and it was not till 1791 that the opposition was overcome, when application was made to erect a stone to the memory of John Howard, the philanthropist, who died at Kherson, Russia, Jan. 26, 1790. The door thus being opened, under the supervision of the Royal Academy many others have been erected, among which those of men of military fame prevail. The first monument was set up in 1795. In the south aisle, against the wall, is a full-size statue of Bishop Reginald Heber. He is dressed in canonical robes, his right hand on his breast, his left resting on a Bible standing endwise. He died at Trichinopoly, India, April 3, 1826, at the age of 42, and is celebrated as being the author of the well-known hymn beginning, "From Greenland's icy mountains." The cathedral has a fine basement, hardly inferior in interest to the great room of the cathedral above it, and always visited by the tourist. Here, as at the Whispering Gallery, the fee of a shilling is charged. The room is fifteen feet high, and is clean and airy. The floor is paved with stone slabs, and a large number of windows thoroughly light it. Innumerable columns of stone, for the support of the arching overhead, and floor resting upon it, give the room a forest-like appearance; though by no means depriving it also of the look of a vast chapel, for at the proper place there is an altar and its appurtenances. In this vicinity are a few effigies and tablets from the first cathedral. Forming an architectural museum, are a lot of relics that were found in the ground at the building of this cathedral, and so are of Roman origin, or were used as parts of the old cathedral. Under the centre of the great dome, in this crypt, stands the granite sarcophagus in which rests the dust of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, who died at Walmer Castle, near Deal, Sept. 14, 1852, at the age of eighty-three. This sarcophagus is grand. So justly great is the public esteem for the man, that monuments to his memory are almost as common in England as are tablets of "the Lion and the Unicorn fighting for the crown," or as Washington Streets and men named "George W." are in America. In the crypt is the gorgeous catafalque on which were borne the remains of Wellington at the funeral procession,--the elegant wheels made from cannon captured by him. For a small fee persons are admitted within the iron fence to make examinations,--always accompanied by a guide, whose duty is to see that visitors carry away nothing save the story he tells them. To us the most interesting object in the entire cathedral is in this crypt. At the right hand, as one faces the rear end, and well along on the side, is the last resting-place of the architect of the building, Sir Christopher Wren. The spot was selected by himself, and is really, though unpretending, a choice place of sepulture. It is under one of the windows, and is very light; and, if we mistake not, rays of the sun at times fall on the tomb. There is no imposing monument,--only a level stone slab some three feet wide and six feet long, two feet from the floor, bearing this simple statement:-- HERE LYETH SR. CHRISTOPHER WREN THE BUILDER OF THIS CATHEDRAL CHURCH OF ST. PAUL &C. WHO DYED IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD MDCCXXIII AND OF HIS AGE XCI. On the western jamb of the window is a marble tablet, six feet three inches long, and three feet high, sunk into a panel, finished with a well cut egg-and-tongue moulding, and inscribed as follows:-- LECTOR SI MONUMENTUM REQUIRIS CIRCUMSPICE. (Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you.) He contracted a cold in coming from Hampton Court to London, which doubtless hastened his death, but he died as he had lived, in great serenity. In the last days of his life he was accustomed to take a nap after dinner. On the 25th of February, 1723, his constant servant, thinking he slept longer than usual, went into his room and found him dead in his chair. Two events of special interest took place in this year. On the 16th of July was born Sir Joshua Reynolds, the eminent painter. Elmes says:-- The placid soul of Wren might, by a poetical license, be imagined to have informed the equally placid mind of Reynolds, for no two men could be found to form a more just parallel; equally distinguished for industry, love of art, placidity, modesty, communicativeness, and disinterestedness.... At the head of your respected arts, ye both lie in honor, and in possession of the love and reverence of your countrymen, beneath the same vast dome that honors both your memories. Goodness and ye fill up one monument. In this year also, 1723, was erected our old Christ Church on Salem Street, Boston. The design of this has been attributed to Wren, and we are inclined to think that indirectly he aided its conception. As he died at the great age of ninety-one, and was very feeble before his death, it can hardly be presumed that he made the drawings; but he may have dictated them. More probably he may have made a design some years before, which, being at hand, found its way to Boston; or the plan may have been made by a former apprentice, who carried on his master's work. Again, this design may have been copied, almost without the change of a line, from St. Bartholomew's-by-the-Wardrobe; for that, so far as the interior is concerned, is its prototype, even to the painted cherub-heads in the spandrils of the arches over the galleries. St. Bartholomew's was built from Wren's designs in 1692, and so was 31 years old at the time of the erection of our Boston church. The London church is 79 feet long, 59 feet wide, and 38 feet high. The dimensions of Christ Church are 70 feet, 50 feet, and 35 feet. Aside from the likeness of their interiors, there is a singular agreement in the pillar-capitals and gallery fronts, and also in the mouldings, combinations, altar-work, and vases. Their exteriors have little in common. There are two ranges of windows in each; but those of the London church are circular-headed on the second range, and only segmental for the first, like those at Boston King's Chapel; while at our Christ Church all the windows have circular tops. The London church has a plain flat-roofed tower, 80 feet high, without a steeple, though it is quite possible there may at some time have been one. This tower is at the right-hand corner instead of at the centre of the front. The steeple on our Christ Church was blown down in the great gale of 1815, and rebuilt by Bulfinch, it is said, according to the original design. In its important features, and even details, this steeple is much like Wren's. This is not the place to argue the case,--but we repeat, the probabilities are that Christ Church was indirectly designed by the distinguished architect of St. Paul's. The National Gallery of Paintings is a building of large dimensions, situated on Trafalgar Square, one of the main business centres, which is not far from half a mile from the Thames, and about midway between Westminster and St. Paul's. It contains eleven rooms for the display of over six hundred pictures, all of them being choice works of the Masters. The building is open to the public daily. The British Museum is an enormous building, light and airy. In it, free to the public, is an unsurpassed collection of preserved animals, which can better be imagined than described. How wide is the field to which one is introduced, in the works of art or places of entertainment, in this vast metropolis! Museums and galleries abound. Accessible to the public, they are practically free, and better than can be found elsewhere in the world. How abundant are the means of travel. The cab system is here at its perfection. The low prices are regulated by law. It costs one passenger a shilling, and two passengers a shilling and sixpence, to go a reasonable distance,--farther than from the Boston North End depots to those at the other part of the city. Cabs are plenty and are to be found standing in the centre of all principal thoroughfares. It is the law also that a tariff-card, in readable type, shall be put up inside of every cab. Omnibuses abound, always with seats on the top as well as inside. The horse-cars, or trams, are heavier than ours, and not so handsome, but they are clean and well managed. Like the omnibuses, they have seats on top, where the travellers sit back to back. Then there is the underground railway. This runs almost around the entire city, and has a double track. Steam trains, of many carriages, are constantly passing both ways. At convenient points are stations where passengers descend and return by wide stairways through well-lighted and spacious trainhouses. This road is in all respects a great success. Perhaps half of it is through tunnels, but much of it is open to the sky, and the cars are lighted artificially. So frequent are the trains that one goes to the station at random, as he would to an omnibus, sure of not having long to wait. We have spoken of the oft-running and well-patronized boats on the river. London is perfectly supplied with facilities for transit. Not for a moment would the over-crowded horse-cars, often seen here in our Boston be tolerated. We do not remember once standing in any public conveyance in England or on the Continent. The public parks of London are very numerous, and are admirably located for convenience. Their total extent is greater than in any other city of the world. Prominent among these are Hyde Park, containing 400 acres; St. James's and Regent's parks, containing 450 acres each; and Kensington Gardens with 290. All these are within the metropolitan district, and are as readily accessible to the public as Boston Common or the Public Garden. Besides these, London's suburban parks are of incredible number and extent. It is enough to name some of them, and say that all these, and many more, are within six or eight miles of the centre of the city and easily reached. Victoria Park has 300 acres, Finsbury 115, Hackney Downs 50, Woolwich Common and Greenwich Park 174 each, Peckham, Rye, and Southwark 63 each, Wandworth Common 302, Wimbledon 628. A little farther off is Richmond Park with 2,253 acres, the largest park near London. Then comes Windsor with 3,800, and Hampton Court and Bushey Park 1,842 each, and finally Kew Park and Gardens (the finest botanic garden in England), containing 684 acres. Most of them date back for centuries. Kew Garden is remarkable for its neatness, and hundreds of thousands annually visit it. In the vicinity are refreshment houses, kept in good order, which make the gardens a favorite place of resort, on Sundays as well other days. Volumes might be written in regard to these parks, and then only vague descriptions would be given. None of them are finished like Central Park, New York,--that is, as far as bridges and lodges are concerned,--but in all else the London parks are its equals, and the city has done nobly for the comfort and health of the public. The more one experiences of London life, the more he realizes its greatness. Everywhere he discovers what is well adapted to the wants and tastes of our century; the old appears new, and the new old. Within a few minutes' walk of each other are over forty churches built immediately after the fire of 1666, two hundred years ago. Some of them have fine interiors, as St. Bride's, St. Stephen's Walbrook, Bow Church, St. Martin's in the Fields, and St. Clement Danes. In beauty, save perhaps the pews, these excel the churches newly built, with the exception of a few modern Gothic structures. Few of the churches named have many worshippers; the population has removed, but veneration for the old spots, and an inherent disinclination to change, say "Stay!" and so the old churches stand forlorn. So interesting are all the old churches of London, that it is with an effort we refrain from speaking of them in detail. One, however, we feel justified in naming, and in giving a few items of its history. St. Sepulchre's is near the Old Bailey prison. Here preached John Rogers, the first of the martyrs during the reign of Queen Mary. He was burned at the stake in Smithfield, Feb. 4, 1555. The place of his execution is now a small square near his church. He is the John Rogers of the New England Primer, wherein we are told that "his wife followed him to the place of execution, with nine small children, and one at the breast." The perplexing question of number has been solved, for other accounts say distinctly that there were ten children in all. Of more than common interest to Americans is the fact that in St. Sepulchre's church are buried the remains of Capt. John Smith, who in 1606 made the settlement of Virginia at Jamestown, and whose life was saved by the intercession of Pocahontas. He was born at Willoughby, England, in 1579, and died in London, June 21, 1631. He made voyages of discovery along the coast of New England, landing at the Isles of Shoals. Just 250 years afterwards, in 1864, a stone monument was erected to his memory on Star Island. There was formerly in this church a monument in remembrance of him, which has long been removed. We have been fortunate enough to obtain the poetical part of the inscription:-- Here lies one conquered, that hath conquered kings, Subdued large territories, and done things Which to the world impossible would seem, But that the truth is held in more esteem. Shall I report his former service done, In honor of his God and Christendom? How that he did divide, from pagans three, Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?-- For which great service, in that climate done, Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion, Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear, Three conquered heads, got by his sword and spear; Or shall I tell of his adventures since, Done in Virginia, that large continent? How that he subdued kings unto his yoke, And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke; And made their land, being of so large a station An habitation for our Christian nation; Where God is glorified, their wants supplied; Which else, for necessaries, must have died. But what avails his conquests, now he lies Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies? Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep, Until the keeper, that all souls doth keep, Return to judgment; and that after thence With angels he may have his recompense. By the will of Robert Dow, a London citizen and merchant-tailor, who died in 1612, the annual sum of 26s. 8d. was bequeathed for the delivery of a solemn exhortation to the condemned prisoners of Newgate near by, on the night previous to their execution. Says the historian Stow:-- It was provided that the clergyman of St. Sepulchre's should come in the night time, and likewise early in the morning, to the window of the prison where they lie, and there ringing certain tolls with a hand-bell appointed for the purpose, should put them in mind of their present condition and ensuing execution, desiring them to be prepared therefore as they ought to be. When they are in the cart, and brought before the wall of the church [on the way to Tyburn], there he shall stand ready with the same bell, and after certain tolls, rehearse the appointed prayer, desiring all the people there present to pray for them. A work entitled "Annals of Newgate" says, it was for many years a custom for the bellman of St. Sepulchre's, on the eve of execution, to go under the walls of Newgate, and to repeat the following verses in the hearing of the criminals in the condemned cell:-- All you that in the condemn'd cell do lie, Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die. Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near, When you before th' Almighty must appear. Examine well yourselves, in time repent, That you may not t' eternal flames be sent; And when St. 'Pulchre's bell to-morrow tolls, The Lord have mercy on your souls! Past twelve o'clock! We visited many of these venerable churches, generally always on week-days, and found female sextons in attendance,--sometimes almost ready to hang their harps on the willows, as they related the decline from days of old. Our Old South, on Washington Street, is not nearer to commercial activity, nor more removed from the resident population, than are a hundred churches in the world's metropolis. On our visit to St. Clement Danes, in the Strand,--an elegant structure without and within, nearly 200 years old,--we inquired for Dr. Samuel Johnson's pew, for he there attended church; and we found it near the end of the left gallery, a front pew, No. 18. There are columns as in King's Chapel, Boston, and against one of these the old lexicographer sat for years, often with the smooth-thinking and easy-going Boswell beside him. Making mention of one of these occasions, Boswell says:-- On the 9th of April, 1773, being Good Friday, I breakfasted with him, on tea and cross-buns; Dr. Levet, as Frank called him, making tea. He carried me with him to the church of St. Clement Danes, where he had his seat; and his behavior was, as I had imagined to myself, solemnly devout. I shall never forget the tremulous earnestness with which he pronounced the awful petition of the Litany: "In the hour of death, and at the day of judgment, good Lord deliver us!" We went to church both in the morning and evening. In the interval between the services we did not dine; but he read the Greek Testament, and I turned over several of his books. In memory of the former occupant, a brass plate, some six inches high and eight inches wide, is let into the back of the pew, and reads as follows:-- In this pew, and beside this pillar, for many years attended divine service the celebrated Dr. Samuel Johnson, the philosopher, the poet, the lexicographer, the profound moralist, and chief writer of his time. Born 1709, died 1784. In the remembrance and honor of noble faculties, nobly employed, some of the inhabitants of the parish of St. Clement Danes have placed this slight memorial, A. D. 1851. The inscription is said to have been prepared by Dr. Croly, rector of St. Stephen's Walbrook. Each of us sat where the verger informed us Johnson used to sit. The pulpit is placed as it is in King's Chapel, and the Johnson pew is within easy reach of it. We thought of Dr. Taylor, the rector, who was called up at night, when Johnson's wife Tetty died, to go to Johnson's house, and attempt to soothe and assuage his grief. He had a great mind and, when stricken, great was his sorrow. The record is:-- The letter calling him was brought to Dr. Taylor at his house in the cloisters, Westminster, about three in the morning, and as it signified his earnest desire to see him, he got up and went to Johnson and found him in tears, and in extreme agitation. After a little while together Johnson requested him to join with him in prayer. He then prayed extempore, as did Dr. Taylor, and thus, by means of that piety which was ever his primary object, his troubled mind was in some degree soothed and composed. Dr. Taylor once told Boswell that, on entering the room, Johnson expressed his grief in the strongest manner he had ever read, and that he much regretted his language was not preserved. It was doubtless in this house in Gough Square, that Johnson passed ten melancholy years. Sad indeed must have been his distress, when he was compelled to write the following to his friend Richardson, the novelist. GOUGH SQUARE, 16th March, 1756. SIR,--I am obliged to entreat your assistance. I am now under arrest for five pounds eighteen shillings. Mr. Strahan, from whom I would have received the necessary help in this case, is not at home, and I am afraid of not finding Mr. Miller. If you will be so good as to send me this sum, I will very gratefully repay you, and add to it all former obligations. I am, sir, your most obedient and most humble servant, SAM. JOHNSON. Sent Six Guineas. Witness, WILLIAM RICHARDSON. This reminds us of Will's Coffee House where Johnson, Addison, Goldsmith, and others of like spirit so often congregated. We found it an ordinary three-story brick building, at the corner of a street near Covent Garden. There is a common liquor store in the first story, and a tenement above. There are three particular things one who visits London should always see,--the Tower, Hampton Court, and the Bunhill Burial-ground. The Tower, as it is familiarly called, is not a tower simply, nor any single building, but twelve acres of ground enclosed by a massive stone wall, one side of which borders the Thames. Inside the enclosure are stone buildings, the principal of which is the large one in the centre. It is several stories high, square in plan, measures about one hundred and fifty feet on each side, and has square towers at each angle. These are continued up some twenty feet above the main building, and each is crowned with a Moorish dome and a weather vane. The White Tower, as it is called, is another of the buildings, and was erected in 1078. One finds a comfortable waiting-room just inside the grounds, and there is always a company of visitors in waiting. When twenty are present, one of the guards leads the way hurriedly through the portcullis, calling attention to the several parts of the edifices. We go through the Museum of Armor. On each side are effigy horses, facing towards the passage-way, and on them are images of the kings dressed in the armor worn in life. We go into the dungeon where for twelve years Sir Walter Raleigh was confined; the ancient chapel of St. John, five hundred years old; the modern armory; the dungeon-keep where are deposited the crown-jewels and other articles of royal value, all enclosed in glass, and protected by iron-work. Hastily we see the Traitor's Gate, through which Raleigh, Sidney, and Russell were taken into the Tower; the room opposite, where the two sons of Edward IV. were murdered at the instigation of Richard III.; the Beauchamp Tower, where Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Gray were detained; the old banquet-hall, in which are sixty thousand rifles. For particulars the reader is referred to "Historical Memorials of the Tower," by Lord de Ros, published at London in 1867. Hampton Court is reached by steam railway, and is fifteen miles from London. This palace was founded by Cardinal Wolsey; and of his building, three large quadrangles, in the Tudor style, remain. Large additions were made by William III., from designs by Sir Christopher Wren. The state rooms contain a splendid collection of paintings by Holbein, Vandyke, Kneller, and West, and also the seven original cartoons of Raphael. Some of the rooms are still furnished as sleeping-rooms, as they were when occupied by kings and queens centuries ago. The public are freely admitted to the entire premises. The extensive grounds are laid out in Dutch style, with fine avenues. In its greenhouse is the largest and the most productive grapevine in Europe. It was planted in 1767, and at the time of our visit it was said to have over three thousand bunches of Black Hamburg grapes upon it. The roots of the vine are in a garden, and the trunk, which is about six inches in diameter, extends three feet from the ground, along the wall of the house, which it then enters. Inside, the vine spreads over the entire top, which is built in the usual conservatory style, with a roof having but one slope. It is hardly needful to say that these grapes are raised solely for the royal family. There are hundreds of acres in the grounds, and adjoining it is a park, the circumference of which is over five miles,--a delightful spot to visit. The trees, embowered avenues, terraces, gardens, and long vistas yet remain as they were centuries ago. The soil, once sacred to the tread of royalty, is now a republican delight to the multitude. A remarkable depositary of the sainted dead is Bunhill Burial-ground, in one of the busiest parts of London, on a great thoroughfare, opposite the house in which John Wesley died on the 2d of March, 1791. Almost adjoining this is the church in which Wesley preached. The burial-ground was laid out for a sacred purpose; the burial of Non-conformists and their friends, who have made the ground classic. No cathedral cemetery, to which they could not be admitted, has an honor greater than this. Here rests the sacred poet, Isaac Watts, whose monument tells us that he died Nov. 25, 1748. There is a monument to the memory of Susannah Wesley, the mother of nineteen children, two of whom were John and Charles. Here is the grave of John Bunyan, who died Aug. 31, 1688; and that of Daniel Defoe, the author of "Robinson Crusoe." Could the doctrine of a literal resurrection be true, no grander company would assemble at one spot, or walk forth into glory clad in whiter robes than theirs. No pope or bishop, of Roman Church or English, could understand the plaudit, "Well done good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord," better than would they. These came up out of great tribulation, and so would shine resplendent. London is great. A volume appropriated to each of a thousand things would not tell the story. Her history has a vast reach and the records have been well kept. Her population is a round four and a half millions,--as much as New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Cincinnati, Boston, and ten more of our largest New England cities combined. Her great Library at the Museum has as many books as Harvard and Yale colleges, and the Boston Public Library, all put together. Our stay here was from Sunday, May 12, to Saturday the 25th, about two weeks, and no hour of time was unemployed. We were amid scenes of which history had made the letter somewhat familiar; and now personal observation made the spirit a living reality. No one can know London till he sojourns there for months, visiting its places of interest, and reading anew the history of each in the admirable works written for the purpose. As regards the habits of daily life we find but little that is peculiar. The influence of the press and of travel have changed the system of domestic as well as political economy. Both nations, American and English, have given and received. It savors perhaps of egotism, but it is exceedingly easy to say that the influence of the daughter excels that of the mother. There are more traces of America in England, than of England in America. The modifications have been from our direction, for it is true now, as in Bishop Berkeley's day, that "Westward the star of empire takes its way." Liberalism in England is not Communism, and will never be. Liberty may be ill-used by fanatics, but the sound sense of England will take care of itself, and "out of the bitter will come forth sweet." There are some points of English polity to be spoken of, but not now. On this Saturday, May 25, we take a train at 1 P. M. for Oxford. CHAPTER IX. OXFORD. We now begin a tour through the central part of England, in a northerly direction towards Scotland, for we intend to see England with unusual thoroughness. Our first place of sojourn is Oxford, where we arrive at 3.30 P. M., Saturday, May 25, having had a two and half hours' ride from London. The place presents a rural appearance, trees and gardens being interspersed among the buildings. Nowhere is there a commercial look, for it is emphatically a university town, and dependent mainly for support on its colleges. It was made a seat of learning at an early day, and is thus referred to by Pope Martin II. A. D. 882. Situated between the rivers Cherwell and Isis, it has a population of 31,544, and is irregularly built, with many narrow and crooked streets. Many of the buildings are old, yet in good repair. Tradition says that this was a favorite resort of Alfred the Great. In one of the public streets the martyrs Latimer, Ridley, and Cranmer were burned. The spot is opposite Balliol College, and marked by a very imposing brown sandstone Gothic monument about thirty feet high, erected in 1841, from designs by Gilbert Scott. Latimer and Ridley were led to the stake Oct. 16, 1555. A bag of gunpowder was fastened about the body of the former,--probably as an act of charity, to hasten his death,--and so he died immediately. While being bound, he said to his companion: "Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out." It never has been extinguished, and will continue to "shine brighter and brighter, to the perfect day." Latimer and Ridley, John Rogers, who was burned at Smithfield, Feb. 4 of the same year, and Cranmer, burned in Oxford March 21, 1556, were graduates of Cambridge, the rival university of Oxford. These two distinguished seats of learning are to England what Harvard College and Yale are to New England. Cambridge has long been recognized as liberal and reformatory in tendency, while Oxford has prided herself on her conservatism. Dean Stanley, in a late speech, ventured the remark that Cambridge was celebrated for educating men to be martyrs, and Oxford for burning them. Cranmer was a fellow-laborer with Latimer and Ridley. He was arrested and cited to appear at Rome within eighty days, but could not do so, and was condemned as contumacious. He was at first firm, but the fear of death overcame him and he recanted, and repeated his recantation many times, but without avail. In his last effort he declared that he had been the greatest of persecutors, and comparing himself to the penitent thief, humbly begged for pardon; but in spite of all, on March 21, 1556, Queen Mary--who had a bitter hatred towards him, as did the bishops, who were resolved not only on his degradation but his death--directed him to prepare for the stake. A recantation was given him, which he was ordered to read publicly to the spectators. He transcribed and signed it, and kept a copy, which he altered, making a disavowal of his recantations. After listening to a sermon, he finally avowed himself a Protestant, declaring that he would die in his old faith; that he believed neither in papal supremacy nor in transubstantiation, proclaiming that the hand which had signed his recantation should be the first to suffer from the fire. He was taken to the spot where Latimer and Ridley were burnt the October before, and died like them, his death adding light to the candle which could never be put out. As the flames rose about him he thrust in his right hand, and held it there till it was consumed, crying aloud, "This hand hath offended; this unworthy right hand." His last audible words were, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." The city has been for centuries one of great respectability and repute, and Charles I. once made it his headquarters. The cathedral attached to Christ's College is on the site of a priory, founded in the eighth century. It is Gothic, of the style of the twelfth century, and has a spire 146 feet high. This is one of the five cathedrals of England having spires; but it is, however, only a remnant of a church which, probably, when entire, had little merit. St. Peter's is the oldest church in Oxford; but St. Mary's is also venerable, and has a steeple 180 feet high. The Bodleian Library, opened in 1602, contains three hundred thousand volumes. There is connected with the library a museum containing many portraits of distinguished people. In this room, among other prominent objects of interest, is an oaken chair, once a part of the ship in which Sir Francis Drake made his celebrated voyage around the world. He set sail from Plymouth, England, Dec. 13, 1577, over three hundred years ago, and reached home again in November, 1580. He died and was buried at sea, near Puerto Bello, Dec. 27, 1595. The poet Cowley, in 1662, composed the following verse, which is engraven on a silver plate and affixed to the chair:-- To this great ship, which round the Globe has run, And matched in race the chariot of the sun, This Pythagorian ship (for it may claim Without presumption, so deserved a name) By knowledge once, and transformation now, In her new shape this sacred port allow. Drake and his ship, could not have wished from Fate, An happier station, or more blest estate; For lo! a seat of endless rest is given, To her in Oxford, and to him in Heaven. Here is exhibited the lantern used by Guy Fawkes in the memorable plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament, Nov. 5, 1605. It is an ordinary lantern, with holes through the tin. In fact, it is precisely like those used in New England fifty years ago. The college buildings are mostly built of yellowish sandstone, now bedimmed with age, and many of them are much decayed. They are unlike our college buildings, being constructed with an imposing façade, through whose centre is an arch, under the second story, opening into an enclosed quadrangle. These quadrangles vary in dimensions, from one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet square, and the students' rooms open into them. Out of the quadrangle nearest the street, similar arches may often lead into other quadrangles in the rear of the first, or at its sides; so that the establishment may be extended, in a series of buildings, without losing its primal characteristics. These roofless squares have velvet grass, with wide walks around the outside, against the buildings, and cross-paths leading to the doorways and arches. Scrupulously clean is every inch of college ground in Oxford. Not a piece of paper litters the lawn; and many students have flower-pots at their windows. Fuschias, petunias, nasturtiums, and geraniums were abundant. The buildings vary in design, but are all three or four stories high. Some of them are built out flush; and others have corridors, cloister-like, under the second story, around their quadrangles. Connected with many colleges are large parks, for centuries used as places of academic resort. They have avenues and trees like Boston Common, and the main avenue at Merton College has a circuit miles in length. Too much cannot be said in praise of those classic grounds. Flower-plats are cultivated, and fine shrubbery; and there are brooks, embankments, and bridges. In a word, if paradise ever was lost, much of it has here been regained. It is no stretch of the imagination to think that Milton, educated amidst similar grounds at Cambridge, was on their account more inclined to meditate on "Paradise Regained." The antiquity of Oxford as a seat of learning is undisputed. It is so referred to by Giraldus Cambrensis, in 1180, more than seven hundred years ago. Vacarius, a Lombard, lectured here on civil law, about the year 1149. The first use of the word University (_universitas_), in this sense, appears in a statute of King John in 1201. It was applied to similar institutions in Paris, in an ordinance of Pope Innocent III., bearing date 1215. The place was so recognized as a desirable resort for persons of education, that Wood, its principal historian, says: "At one time there were within its precincts thirty thousand persons claiming to be scholars, though of course not all belonging to the university." Its first charter was granted by Henry III. in 1244. On the 10th of February, 1355, a disturbance occurred,--or what in our day would be designated a rebellion,--which ended in an edict from the Bishop of Lincoln, whose diocese included Oxford, that thereafter there should be annually celebrated in St. Mary's Church a mass for the souls of those who were killed, and that the mayor, two bailiffs, and sixty of the principal citizens should be present and offer a penny each at the great altar, in default of which they were to pay one hundred marks yearly to the University. The penance was afterwards mitigated, but was not abolished till 1825; so that, in some form, it remained for nearly five hundred years. Passing over many interesting facts, we name the colleges in the order of their foundation. The University comprises twenty colleges: University, founded 1249; Balliol, 1263 to 1268; Merton, 1264 (removed from Malden in 1274); Exeter, 1314; Oriel, 1326; Queen's, 1340; New, 1386; Lincoln, 1427; All Souls, 1437; Magdalen, 1456; Brazenose, 1509; Corpus Christi, 1516; Christ Church, 1546-1547; Trinity, 1554; St. John's, 1555; Jesus, 1571; Wadham, 1613; Pembroke, 1620; Worcester, 1714; Keble (by subscription, as a memorial to Rev. John Keble), 1870. The number of undergraduates for the year 1873-4 was 2,392; the whole number of members on the books was 8,532. The college buildings are located near each other, though they extend over an area of at least a square mile. Three or four are sometimes on a single street, their grounds adjoining. The undergraduates in each college average one hundred and twenty--or if all the students and members be included, the average is four hundred and twelve: numbers, which are small when compared with those of our leading American colleges. These colleges are in most respects as independent of each other as if they were in different towns. Each has its own Master, or, as we should say, President. It governs its own affairs to the minutest detail, but acts always in subordination to certain regulations made by the Council of Management, which is composed of all the Masters. No institutions have exerted a greater influence on the world than this and its companion at Cambridge. As we walked along the shadow of these venerable walls, beneath the shade of their old trees, or sat beside the gently flowing streams; as we went into the dining-halls and looked upon the portraits of renowned men and upon their heraldry; as we sat on the benches which had been occupied by eminent men; as in the chapels we were inspired with new reverence for things great and good; as we wandered at will--at this time of college vacation--from close to close, and remembered the name and fame of the ecclesiastics, poets, historians, philosophers, scientists,--new school and old, High Church, Low Church, and No Church,--and thought of the six hundred years of results since the charter and first foundation,--we felt that Oxford was inexpressibly great. The fine weather--which, as we say at home, was apparently _settled_--enabled us, for the first time since our landing, to dispense with overcoats; but, as the sequel proved, only for an hour. The new foliage, the odor of flowers, the birds, the familiar croak and incessant wheeling of the rooks, seemed part and parcel of the premises, as if, like the trees and buildings, they had been there for a century. We attended worship at St. Peter's, heard the service read, not intoned, and listened to a matter-of-fact sermon, about as well delivered as the average of sermons at home; and at 5.30 P. M., of this same Sunday, were ready to move on to Stratford-upon-Avon, the home of Shakespeare. Our visit was in vacation time, but many students remained in the city, and we noted their fine physique. None of them were puny, and hardly one had the "student's look." They were good specimens of Young England, square-built, solid, healthy, and stocky. Uniformity of size, demeanor, and conversation prevailed. With the pleasantest memories of Oxford, so admirably adapted to its great purposes, we moved out of the station towards the home of one who did so much to make great thoughts the common property of literature and life. CHAPTER X. WARWICK--STRATFORD-ON-AVON--LEAMINGTON--KENILWORTH--COVENTRY--BIRMINGHAM --LICHFIELD. When we started Sunday for Stratford we only thought of briefly visiting Old Warwick on our way; but after a two hours' ride, arriving here, we were tempted to remain over night, and were soon at a comfortable hotel, a commercial-travellers' house, near the station. It being but eight o'clock, and not yet sunset, we walked out for a view of the historic place, which we soon decided was one of much interest. Half the houses were picturesque, many of them built in the timbered and plastered style. All sorts of thoroughfares were there, from broad and level, to narrow crooked and hilly. Evening service being just ended, an unusual number of well dressed people were in the streets, and the hour reminded us of a New England Sunday. Warwick is situated on the right bank of the Avon, and has a population of 10,986. The castle is one of the finest feudal structures in England. It is grandly situated, its colossal rear making a bank of the river, and there are meadows and groves near by. All is in most perfect repair, and on Monday it was our good privilege to visit it and its remarkable grounds. It is occupied by the Earl of Warwick, who kindly permits strangers to examine the premises at certain times. One passes through the arched gateway, on one side of which is a room containing a museum of antiquities. A prim young miss, daughter of the matronly gatekeeper, glibly but bashfully gives the history of an enormous punchbowl and other interesting things. An optional fee makes things agreeable, and we pass through the grand avenue, turning back now and then to look at the high solid walls of the ivy-covered tower. We go through a remarkable lawn and gravelled avenues, and not far in the distance at our right, partially embowered in green,--at times on a level with us, at others on the little hillsides,--we see the ruins of monastic establishments. How scrupulously everything is cared for, bearing evidence of constant watchfulness of the servants, such as only the English aristocracy can secure. Next we walk over the great lawn, to the greenhouse five hundred feet away. We are invited there by the venerable gardener, but not without hope of reward. Here is the celebrated Warwick Vase; and who, claiming knowledge of art, has not heard of it? It stands on a pedestal six feet high. It is of marble, now of yellowish tinge, but tolerably white. It is remarkably rich in carvings, and of great age, its early history being lost in antiquity. It appeared to be six feet in diameter, and the same in height. It was years ago found in a lake near Tivoli, and presented to the Earl of Warwick. All over the civilized world may be seen copies of this vase, made by permission of the owner. Standing at the door of this conservatory, and facing towards the castle, a scene of wonderful beauty is presented. The spot is somewhat elevated, and we look for miles over hills, velvet fields, and woodlands. Conspicuous among the trees, making our picture's foreground, are spreading cedars of Lebanon. The river meanders on its quiet way; and the winding road, half hidden, adds its charm. Bordering the lawn which makes our left foreground is the cheerful castle, in color a sort of buff-tinged granite. It is by no means ancient in appearance, but the reverse, except in its design. The main tower is 128 feet high, and dates back full five hundred years. There is another, 147 feet high, of uncertain date. Ivy has its way, and covers parts of the great structure. The castle is colossal, its outlines broken by octagonal and square towers. Let us visit the castle itself. An additional shilling is to be paid to the young woman who guides us, and who only commences her tour when the proper number of visitors has accumulated. We pass through four or five large rooms, of elegantly finished oak and pine, painted and gilded. The furniture and upholstery are rich in design,--some ancient, some modern, but all in keeping with the place. Pictures abound,--many of them are by the Masters. Bric-a-brac is in profusion, much of it hundreds of years old, presented to former earls by royalty. There is also a museum of armor. In one room is a chimney, or open fireplace, with its cheerful fire. It is some nine feet wide, projecting well into the room, and is high enough to walk into. What fine views from the rear windows! Beyond are the meadows and the groves; and to the right, extending countryward, are the hills and scenery before described. The town was formerly walled, and there yet remains a gateway, surmounted by a chapel. Half a mile up the main street is Leicester Hospital, endowed centuries ago by the Earl of Leicester, and charmingly described by Hawthorne. Here is the ancient chair, said to be a thousand years old, accurate copies of which are for sale. Near by is the church, built in 1693, with its massive tower of delightful proportions. How charming are the old mansions with their profusion of trees, all combining to make Warwick a most inviting place. In the twilight, at the late hour of 9.30, the worshippers were coming out of old St. Mary's Church, which is situated at the most public centre, in the midst of a venerable churchyard. It is an ancient Gothic edifice, having an end tower with a tall spire above it. The dim-lighted interior carried us back into a distant age. What ground have we gone over in a few hours!--hours not over-crowded by any means. Monday we are up early for a new ramble,--first to see the town anew; next to visit the castle already described; and then to go over the Old Hospital, and to hear its history from a guide-inmate. Built and endowed by one of the old earls hundreds of years ago, it has apartments of two or three rooms each, accomodating perhaps ten families. These are for old soldiers, who are past a given age and possess certain requisites. They must have wives, and on the death of one soldier his place passes to another. About $350 a year is given them for subsistence, out of an endowment fund, and of course the rent is free. On the death of the husband, $100 is given to the widow, who must vacate the premises. If the wife dies first, then the husband also gives up the apartment and endowment, and goes into the common home, in another part of the building. Great neatness prevails, and all is under supervision of the chaplain, or Master. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. We arrived here at 2 P. M., after a ride of an hour, and took coach to the famed Red Horse Hotel, made famous by Washington Irving's "Sketch Book." The parlor, a low room some twelve feet square on the first floor, fronting on the street, is used by visitors. This is the room occupied for months by Irving, and his armchair is still in use. The tongs and shovel, and the iron poker--Sir Geoffrey's Sceptre--are still there, though the latter, having become classic, is on exhibition and not for use. The town is small, and is somewhat of a business place at the very centre; but it is mostly rural, though a few of the streets are paved and the buildings of some consequence. It is situated on the River Avon, a small stream, and has a population of 3,833. It was a place of some consequence as early as the eighth century. It of course derives its principal interest from associations with the great poet, born here, probably, April 23, 1564, and who died here on his birthday in 1616. The house in which he died was torn down by its proprietor many years ago, much to the regret of the inhabitants, as well as the visitor; but that in which he was born, and lived for many years, still stands. It is situated on a principal street, though in a quiet locality, and stands close to the sidewalk, with no yard in front. It is two stories high, having a pitched roof, with some breaks in it for windows; and is now supposed to be as in Shakespeare's early days. It is a timbered building, with bricks filling the spaces, plastered over and painted a light-gray or steel color. Its extreme length on the street may be forty-five feet. Like our Mount Vernon, it is owned by an association, and kept for the inspection of those interested in places of the kind. Two matrons--some sixty-five years of age, genial in demeanor and at home in conversation, and having the whole story at their tongues' end--take turns with each other in doing the agreeable, which costs each visitor a modest shilling. We are shown the kitchen, or living-room, into which the street door opens. It has no furniture except a chair or two for the accomodation of visitors. The fireplace is still there,--the worn hearth and the oak floor. Next we see the dining-room, and the chamber in which tradition says Shakespeare was born. The low ceilings and the saggy condition of everything aid the imagination; it is easy to feel that probably he was born here. In an adjoining room are collected many things once owned by the great bard; letters written by him, and other writings with which he was associated; portraits of him by various artists. The number of daily visitors is large. After a walk of ten minutes we are at the Church of the Holy Trinity, a Gothic structure, large and in thorough repair. Situated in the centre of a burial-ground, and enclosed with trees, it is very long, and has a tower and lofty spire. A source of revenue to the parish are Shakespeare's remains. A shilling is paid, and we enter on the side, near the west end, pass down the nave, and come to the holy of holies. The chancel is perhaps thirty feet long and twenty feet deep, enclosed by a simple altar rail at the front. On its left end wall, some six feet up from the floor, is the celebrated bust of the poet. It is painted, as described by Briton, in 1816:-- The bust is the size of life; it is formed out of a block of soft stone, and was originally painted in imitation of nature. The hands and face were of flesh color, the eyes of a light hazel, and the hair and beard auburn; the doublet, or coat, was scarlet, and covered with a loose black gown, or tabard, without sleeves; the upper part of the cushion was green, the under half crimson, and the tassels gilt. After remaining in this state above one hundred and twenty years, Mr. John Ward, grandfather to Mrs. Siddons and Mr. Kemble, caused it to be repaired and the original colors preserved, in 1784, from the profits of the representation of "Othello." In 1793 Malone foolishly caused it to be painted white. In his right hand he holds a pen, and appears to be in the act of writing on a sheet of paper lying on the cushion in front of him. Beneath is a tablet containing the following inscription. The first two lines in Latin are translated as follows:-- In judgment a Nestor, in genius a Socrates, in arts a Maro; The earth covers him, the people mourn for him, Olympus has him. And next are those in English:-- STAY, PASSENGER, WHY GOEST THOU SO FAST? READ, IF THOU CAN'ST, WHOM ENVIOUS DEATH HATH PLAST WITHIN THIS MONUMENT,--SHAKESPEARE; WITH WHOME QUICK NATVRE DIDE; WHOSE NAME DOTH DECK YS TOMBE FAR MORE THAN COST; SIETH ALL YT HE HATH WRITT, LEAVES LIVING ART, BUT PAGE TO SERVE HIS WITT OBIIT ANO. DEI. 1616; �TATIS 53, DIE. 23 AP. Near the monument, and in the chancel, is a plain stone, beneath which the body lies buried; and upon it is the following inscription said to have been written by the poet himself:-- GOOD FREND, FOR IESVS SAKE FORBEARE TO DIGG THE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE; BLESETE BE YE. MAN YT. SPARES THES STONES, AND CVRST BE HE YT. MOVES MY BONES. In the charnel house of this ancient church are many human bones. These Shakespeare had doubtless often seen, and he probably shuddered at the idea that his own might be added to this promiscuous heap. This thought seems to have been present when he makes Hamlet ask: "Did these bones cost no more i' the breeding, but to play at loggats with them? _Mine ache to think on't._" This dislike perhaps influenced him to bestow a curse or a blessing, as future authorities might disturb or respect his remains. His wife lies beside him. On her gravestone is a brass plate, with the following inscription by an unknown author:-- HEERE LYETH INTERRED THE BODY OF ANNE, WIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE 6TH DAY OF AVGV: 1623, BEING OF THE AGE OF 67 YEARES. There is also a Latin verse, written by her daughter, and rendered into English as follows:-- Thou, Mother, hast afforded me thy paps,-- Hast given me milk and life; alas! for gifts So great, I give thee only stones. How would I rather some good Angel should remove This stone from hence; that, as Christ's body rose, So should thy form! But wishes naught avail. Com'st thou soon, O Christ! let my imprisoned Mother, from this tomb soar to seek the star. A brief outline of Shakespeare's[1] life is as follows:-- Tradition says that he was born April 23, 1564. The ancient parchment parish register--which we were permitted to see--shows that he was baptized three days after. At the age of nineteen, an unusual proceeding took place in the quiet old town, for the authorities were asked to permit the marriage of the young man to Anne Hathaway, and after but one publication of the banns, instead of three, as was both practice and law. A bond signed by Fulk Sandalls and John Rychardson, for indemnity to the officers of the Bishop of Worcester's ecclesiastical court,--for granting the questionable permission which they did, and issuing the document,--bears date Nov. 28, 1582. The marriage took place during the Christmas holidays, but the exact day is to this time shrouded in mystery. On the 26th day of May, 1583, six months after the hastened marriage ceremony, the parish register has a record of the baptism of his first child Susanna, and on the 2d day of February, 1585, of his second daughter. It is presumed that his first play, the "First Part of Henry VI." was brought out at Blackfriars Theatre, London, in 1590, while its author was at the age of twenty-seven; and it is reported that he produced a play once in every six months afterwards, till the completion of all attributed to him. On the burning of the Globe theatre of London, (Southwark), which was simply a summer theatre and without a roof, he removed back to the town of his nativity in 1613, where he died April 23, 1616, on his fifty-second birthday, and realizing his own lines,-- We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. We have no reliable account of the cause of his comparatively early death; but the Rev. John Ward, vicar of Stratford-on-Avon, in 1662, forty-six years after his death, writes as follows:-- Shakspeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson had a merie meeting, and drank too hard; for Shakspeare, it seems, died of a feavour there contracted. The next object of interest is the spot where was born and resided Anne Hathaway, the wife of Shakespeare. This is in a cluster of farmhouses called Shottery, situated within the parish of Holy Trinity, and about a mile away from Shakespeare's birthplace. From a gateway on the common road, a circuitous lane continues half a mile through gates or bars, then resolves itself into a footpath, fenced in by light wirework. The houses are of the usual rural style. At last we are at the cottage where, three hundred years ago, the Shakesperian courting was done. It stands endwise to a beautiful road, but some fifty feet from it, and enclosed by a wall. No house in England is more picturesque, either in itself, or its surroundings. It looks ancient, though in good repair. It is not far from sixty feet long, a story and a half high, or fifteen feet, with a pitched roof covered with thatch. The small upper windows, cut into the eaves, show the thatch a foot and a half thick. The building is of stone, plastered and whitewashed. It is entered from the side, and occupied seemingly by two or three families. There are vines climbing over it, and flowers in the long yard by the entrance; and there is a museum in the Anne Hathaway part. We have not ceased regretting that we did not go in there; let the reader be admonished not to go and do likewise. Children were at play in the old road, as they were three centuries ago. We had come three thousand miles to look upon what they hardly think of; but without the right kind of eyes one is blind. Another says, and says well: "A dwarf, standing on a giant's shoulder, may see more than the giant himself." There may be an undeveloped--_unevolved_, perhaps we should say--Shakespeare among those boys. He was once thoughtless and playful as they. Here Shakespeare walked and thought. A good road extended from Shottery Village to his home, but the short-cut across the fields alone would satisfy his mind. Philosophy and poetry were at their best in the shorter footpath, away from the "busy haunts of men." He could go quicker to the house he _would_ go to in the early eve, and quicker also to the one to which he _must_ return at the early morn! So it continued, until about Christmas of 1582, when hope ended in fruition, and Richard Hathaway's daughter became Anne Shakespeare, so to remain for forty-one years till 1623,--seven after her William had been gathered to his fathers. It is a coincidence worthy of notice, that Shakespeare's mother also survived her husband, John Shakespeare, seven years. The bond of indemnity--holding the magistrates safe from penalties that might be imposed by the Bishop of Worcester or his consistory court--was in the sum of $200. The signature of the bondsman bears the mark of R. H., the initials of Richard Hathaway, the bride's father; so he of course approved the proceeding. At 8 P. M. we took cars for the beautiful town of LEAMINGTON, where we arrived after an hour's ride, and remained over night, much enjoying our accommodation at the Avenue Hotel. Next morning, after breakfast, took a stroll out over the town. It is a noted place of aristocratic resort for pleasure, and for its springs--a sort of cross between English Bath and American Saratoga. Everywhere were facilities for the enjoyment of pleasure or health-seeking tourists. It would seem as though one could hardly be sick here. It was in this place that Sir Walter Scott wrote "Kenilworth," and as one breathes the exhilarating air, he is inclined to reduce the honors usually accorded to the great writer, and imagine that it is nothing strange that, with such surroundings, he wrote as he did. A visit to Leamington, and one is in the secret of Sir Walter's power when he wrote that smoothest of romances. Perhaps we ought to make a more economical use of adjectives in describing the neatness of streets and the beauty of public and private grounds, for this is the universal and not exceptional condition. The pink hawthorn is in bloom, and such pansies as we never saw at home. Remember, this is May 28. We have not anywhere in our travels seen Indian corn growing, and think it is not raised. We have seen no fields of potatoes, only small patches for family use; and these are six inches out of the ground. Carrots and early cabbages are fully grown and exposed for sale. We visited one grapery, where the Black Hamburg vines were forty years old and in good bearing, the grapes being about the size of peas. The vines were set in the borders of the greenhouse, which were two and a half feet wide, and the vines were three and a half feet apart,--the stocks, or trunks, being not more than an inch and a half in diameter. On the outside of a small conservatory was a fine heliotrope, one and a half inches in diameter, nine years old, which had often been well pruned and was in profuse bloom. The town has a population of 22,730, and is very pleasantly situated on the River Leam, a tributary of the Avon, and is one of the handsomest towns in England, and more American in appearance than any other place we saw on our journey. The spring waters are saline, sulphurous, and chalybeate. They came into use in 1797, and are visited constantly by the _élite_ of the land. KENILWORTH. "Kenilworth Castle!" says the reader. That and more! The station is reached by a half-hour's ride from Leamington, being about five miles in a direct line from Stratford, Leamington, and Coventry. The country is hilly and abounds with fertile fields, on which are grazing sheep, cows, and horses in countless numbers. Everything has an inhabited look. Elms, oaks, horse-chestnuts, and poplars abound. There are fine groves that might be called woods. The town itself is a small one of 4,250 inhabitants. It has manufactures of ribbons, gauzes, combs, and chemicals, and is a market-town, to whose public square the farmers bring their produce, while traders, from temporary stands, offer for sale all kinds of wares. For centuries these market-days have been a part of the weekly life of the people. There is a very ancient church, and the ruins of an abbey, founded in 1122; but the great object of interest is the ruins of its celebrated castle, made so familiar by Sir Walter Scott's romance. The spot was reached by a pleasant walk of about a mile from the station. When we had passed through a well shaded country road,--through the woods, as we should say in America,--there was presented to view a most enchanting scene. Ahead of us, say five minutes' walk, our road seemed to terminate in a gently rising plain, a miniature common, on which were three or four stone residences, partly public and partly private in appearance. The scene reminded us of a New England common. To the left, bounding the road, was a stone wall; from this, gently sloping, for perhaps two hundred feet, was a grazing pasture. At the upper end of this were the ruins, not of the castle proper, but of some of its outbuildings. These massive and ivy-dressed ruins alone would have satisfied us, and we mistook them for the castle itself, but we went up to the little plateau, and round to the left hand, to get admission to the grounds; for we were now somewhat educated on the ruins question, and believed there was more in waiting for us. Lads and lasses, and some very old women, offered their services and guide-books. They told their story well, but we told ours better. We found the gateway, paid our shillings, and decided to be our own guides. First, there was a flower garden,--centuries ago cultivated as now, but then only for the inmates of the castle. Here was also a museum, containing many articles once used in the castle. We did not get up enthusiasm enough to go in; and now content ourselves by saying, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." Beyond another gate, we find ourselves in a closely cropped sheep-pasture. No lawn in our Boston suburbs equals this carpet of green, acres in extent. To our left, five hundred feet away, were the ruins observed before. We don't discount this beauty even now, and we never will. Put those ruins in Brookline or Brighton, and we'd stand our ground even with Englishmen. But what shall we say about the ruins of the castle itself,--there on our right, two hundred feet away? This is Cæsar's Tower. Square in plan, the surface is broken with piers and vertical projections of varying width; the top is perhaps sixty feet from the ground, and made irregular by its decay. It is roofless, of course, and has walls sixteen feet thick at the bottom; half the surface is covered with dark-leaved ivy, precisely such as is grown in our houses. We go nearer; now on our right, two hundred feet on our front, and left, leaving a half enclosed square, are other portions of this great castle. What variety of outline! What solidity! There are patches of ivy fifty feet square. Measuring a single trunk, conformed to the crevices of the wall, we found it to be 3 feet 10 inches wide, and 16 inches thick at the centre, decreasing to a thickness of 3 inches at the edges. We should have been unable to believe this story, had it been told by others, and will not find fault with any one who now doubts our accuracy. The castle was founded by Geoffrey de Clinton, treasurer to Henry I.; and in 1286 it was the place of a great chivalric meeting, at which it is said, "silks were worn for the first time in England." The very gorgeous entertainment given here in 1575, to Queen Elizabeth, is immortalized by Scott in "Kenilworth." Of the original castle, all now remaining is the corner tower. All else, though to all appearances as old looking, is of later date. The hall erected by John of Gaunt, who died Feb. 3, 1399, is 86 feet long and 45 wide, having mullioned windows on each side, and large fireplaces at each end. The domain passed to the crown, and was bestowed by Henry III., who died Nov. 16, 1272, on Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester. When he was defeated and killed, his adherents held it for six months, but at length made favorable terms of capitulation. Edward II., who was murdered Sept. 21, 1327, was a prisoner in it for some time. It next fell into the hands of Edward III., who died June 21, 1377. Then it fell to John of Gaunt, who died twenty-two years afterwards, when it passed to his son, Henry Bolingbroke (Henry IV.); and on his accession to the throne, Sept. 30, 1399, it became again vested in the crown, and so remained until Queen Elizabeth bestowed it on her favorite Dudley, Earl of Leicester. She visited it three times, the last visit being so graphically described by Sir Walter. It was dismantled and unroofed in the time of Cromwell, and has never been repaired. At the Restoration it fell to the Clarenden family, and is now the property of the family of Eardley-Wilmot. The ruin is more stately than most others, and was built on a grander scale. There is no particle of wood about it; all is enduring masonry. The floors are like its lawns, overgrown with beautiful grass, interspersed with wild flowers. Birds build their nests in the crevices; ivy hangs over it like a careless mantle. The residence of kings and queens, of the bluest blood of the land, and for a period of four hundred years,--could the old walls speak, what tales would they tell! Intrigues, amours, sorrows, intenser than the peasant ever dreamed of. The rise and fall of dynasties, the advancing and receding of the waves of national life, were felt most definitely here, and full four centuries were employed in the record. A home, a prison, the Elizabethan house of love,--it is to-day a marvellous curiosity-shop for the civilized world. Where young royalty prattled and crept, the speckled reptile, with "a precious jewel in its head," leaps and the snail crawls. The curtain of two centuries drops its thick folds between our age and Kenilworth's royal activity. COVENTRY. We arrived here at 2.45 P. M. May 28, after a short ride from Kenilworth. Few places in England are better known in history than this quaint old town. It is situated on the River Sherbourne, and has a population of 39,470. The town derives its name from a Benedictine Priory, founded in 1044 by Leofric, Lord of Mercia, and his Lady Godiva. The cellar of the old institution still exists, 115 feet long and 15 feet wide. No place affords a better example of an old English town than Coventry. In one section little if any change has been made, and here are timber-and-plaster houses, in streets so narrow that the projecting upper stories are but a few feet apart. There are three churches, all with high towers and spires; and they are so located as to form an apparent triangle when seen from almost any point of view, and are seemingly an eighth of a mile apart. The steeple of St. Michael's is 363 feet high, and Trinity is 237 feet. They are of Gothic architecture, and two of them elaborately finished. There is a free school, founded in the time of Henry VIII.; and St. Mary's Hall was built in the fifteenth century. It is 60 feet long, 30 feet wide, and 34 feet high, with a curiously carved oak ceiling, and has a splendid colored window. It was built by Trinity Guild, and is now used for public meetings. As long ago as the fifteenth century an active trade was carried on in caps, bonnets, and camlet-cloth. These have given place to silks, fringes, and watches, more of the latter being made here than in London. Coventry was anciently defended by walls and towers; but only a small portion of the former and three of the latter remain, the others having been destroyed by Charles II., on account of the favors shown by the citizens to his enemies. Twelve parliaments were held here, which shows the ancient repute of the place. The people were noted for their love of shows and processions. Religious dramas, called mysteries, were performed here as early as 1416, and often in the presence of royalty. Until the present century, an annual pageant honored the memory of Lady Godiva, and is even now occasionally revived. The story is, that she obtained from her husband, Leofric, the remission of certain heavy taxes, of which the citizens complained, on condition that she should ride naked through the streets at noonday. She ordered the people to keep within doors, and to close their shutters; and then, veiled by her long flowing hair, she mounted her palfrey, and rode through the town unseen,--except by an inquisitive tailor. He has been immortalized under the sobriquet of Peeping Tom, and it is said that he was punished by instant blindness. This is the story on which Tennyson founded his poem. It was first recorded by Matthew of Westminster, in 1307, two hundred and fifty years after its supposed occurrence. When the pageant takes place now, a strikingly clad female is the leading character. There is a bust of Peeping Tom at the junction of two streets, the angle of which is rounded, three stories high, and painted drab. From an upper-story window, without a sash, the figure of Tom leans out in an inquisitive attitude. He is painted in the various colors of flesh and clothes, appears to be about forty years old, and wears a sort of military cap and coat. He has peeped out on the main street for centuries, the observed of all observers. The spot is said to be the one from which the original Tom was so rash as to look. We believe he is yet a source of revenue to the stores in the neighborhood, for there are often groups of strangers in the vicinity. To catch a share of the traffic, there are other Peeping Toms. In the venturesome spirit of the veritable Tom, some of these imitations are proclaimed, in painted placards, to be the great _original_,--"original in that place!" somebody said! At 9 A. M. of Wednesday we left for BIRMINGHAM, where we arrived at 11 o'clock, and found the place, as we had anticipated, very smoky in atmosphere, and largely inhabited by poor working-people. High taxes, lack of education, and hard usage keep the people down. The public buildings and stores are spacious, but our surroundings were uncomfortable and we made but a three hours' stay. Birmingham is a city of immense manufactures, and may well be considered the great workshop of England. Here John Bull everywhere has on his workshop paper cap, and shows the brawniest of brawny arms, and the smuttiest of smutty faces. A Birmingham dry-goods clerk, by reason of the smoky atmosphere, is about as untidy as an average American mechanic. The city lies on ground sloping to the River Rhea, and canals radiate to several railroads. It has three parks: Adderly, triangular in shape, opened in 1856; Calthorpe, near the river, in 1857; and Ashton, in 1858. The older portions are on low grounds. The Town Hall is of Anglesea marble, 160 feet long, 100 feet wide, and 83 feet high, and is of Corinthian architecture, in imitation of the temple of Jupiter Stator at Rome. The public hall is 145 feet long, 65 feet wide, and 65 feet high,--that is, 30 feet longer than Boston Music Hall, 15 feet narrower, and of the same height. The organ is one of the most powerful in Europe, and has 78 stops. The old church of St. Martin has a massive tower, and a spire 210 feet high. This church contains monuments of the De Berminghams, the ancient lords of the place. It has 343,696 inhabitants, is first mentioned in Doomsday Book under the name of Bermingeham, and remained an obscure village for centuries. Its first impetus towards manufactures was given at the close of the last century, by the introduction of the steam-engine,--especially by the demand for muskets created by the American Revolution and the French wars. There are many large factories, but more than elsewhere is it customary for persons of limited means to carry on manufactures on a small scale. They generally employ men to work by the piece and at home; or, where steam is required, they hire rooms furnished with the requisite power. In 1865 there were 724 steam-engines in the place, with 9,910 horse-power. There were 1,013 smelting and casting furnaces, and 20,000 families were engaged in manufactures. The value of hardware and cutlery exported in 1864 was $20,000,000. There were also exports of firearms, glass, leather, machinery, iron and steel wire, plate, copper, brass, zinc, tin, and coal, to the amount of $185,000,000. History says that 5,000,000 firearms were furnished during the Napoleonic wars; and during the first two years of the Civil War in America, 1,027,336 were exported to the United States. 30,000 wedding rings have in a single year passed through the assay office. This city is noted for its steel pens. At the Gillott establishment 500 workmen are employed, and 1,000,000 gross are produced annually. The whole number of pens made in the city is 9,000,000 annually, and 500 tons of steel are consumed in their manufacture. Every kind of manufacture in metals is carried on here, and to name the items would bewilder us. Birmingham is the workshop of Great Britain, and we may say of the world, for no other place approaches it in the extent and variety of metallic work. Our next move was for LICHFIELD. We reached it after an hour's ride from Birmingham, arriving at 3 P. M. Valises deposited at a very homelike chateau, not far from the station, we were out for sights. Through a couple of short and narrow streets, where the brick buildings were painted in light colors, we passed into an opening dignified by the name of Square, measuring perhaps a hundred feet on each side. On the right-hand corner is an ancient Gothic church. On our left, making another corner, is the house in which, on the 18th of September, 1709, was born Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer, son of "Michael Johnson, bookseller and stationer, sometime magistrate of Lichfield," and who died, leaving his family in poverty. The house is three stories in height, with a hipped roof. It has nothing striking about it, and is forty feet or so square, of stone or brick, plastered on the outside, and painted cream-color. In the youth of Johnson, it contained a store, but has long since been remodelled, and the store is now the common room of the dwelling-house. The houses about it are closely built; no yard, garden, or tree is in sight. In front, in the centre of the square, is a statue of Johnson, on a pedestal much too high. The statue is in a sitting posture, and looks too young for a man who did not come into public notoriety until much beyond the age represented by this sculpture. The unpretentious birthplace is more interesting than the monument. These streets, through which he so many times walked,--the church in which he so many times attended worship, and in which he was baptized,--these were too real not to make their impression. We could see the scrofulous boy of ten years, with his disfigured face and injured sight and hearing, his education already begun, and he a student of Latin at the Lichfield free school. He was five years there, then one at Stourbridge; and at the age of sixteen desired to enter Oxford, but was prevented by poverty. Going as assistant to one more fortunate in worldly affairs than himself, at length, in 1728, he was admitted to Pembroke, where, the record says, "he was disorderly, but not vicious." He died in London, Dec. 13, 1784. What incidents and great events go to make up his history for those intervening years! Wherever the English language is spoken it is influenced by his labors. Not much antiquity is anywhere apparent in Lichfield. Take Johnson and the cathedral away, and there would be nothing of moment, for it has little business. We soon arrive in the vicinity of the cathedral, and the scene changes as by magic. The cathedral, with its centre and two western towers and spires, is of vast length and good height, built of a very red sandstone. It is about an eighth of a mile off, and well embowered with trees, with the river between us and them. The lower portions of the cathedral are hid from view. To the left, and not as far up, is another group of buildings, among them the Lichfield Museum. On the second floor we find the place in charge of a matronly lady, who is at home in her work, and admirably fitted for the position. We look at old armor, at pictures, and relics "brought over the sea and from foreign parts," but better remains behind. In a glass case are exhibited things once owned and handled by the great writer who, next to the cathedral, gives Lichfield its interest and renown. Here are his silver shoe-buckles, the blue and white pint-mug from which he drank, the favorite saucer on which his wife Tetty used to put his morning breakfast biscuit; and here also are letters written by him. This was one of the especial treats of our tour. We found the great cathedral in perfect repair. A small close surrounds it, with lawns, trees, and rooks. After a general look at it we take a turn along the river, and off to the rear and right of the cathedral, to walk around the promenade enclosing, like Chestnut Hill, the city reservoir. Encircling the water, we come upon an exquisite little Gothic church and burial-ground. The area of the reservoir and its avenues is perhaps fifty acres,--the size of Boston Common,--and as one stands on the rear avenue, facing the town, the scene is most enchanting. The place is surrounded by a mixed landscape, in which fine trees abound; at the extreme left is the village, seen partially through the trees. On the right is the cathedral, nearly hid by the trees. Along the entire line are fields, gardens, and mansion-houses; and, behind all, are high lands, extending towards us, and around back of the little gem of a church. Behind us are aristocratic residences with intensely rural surroundings. On to our left, and behind, is the venerable St. John's Church, whose bell is plaintively tolling for evening prayers. From this to the town are brick buildings, and homes with their little gardens. When other scenes are forgotten, this evening in Lichfield will be as charming as now. Johnson would have been even more uncouth, but for the good influence of scenes like this; and his early removal hence deprived him of visions of daily and educating beauty. In these churches--in St. Michael's near his home--he worshipped, and seeds were planted which in after life bore their pious fruit. He was not wholly rough in nature, nor entirely given to a love of literary gossip and coffee-house ease. Not solely inclined to entertainment by Garrick or Boswell, he loved the clergy as well, for he was a deeply religious man in his own way. The cathedral is 400 feet long, 187 feet wide at the transepts, and has three spires,--the central 353 feet high, and the others, at the west end, 183 feet each. The western front is the best in England. No cathedral suffered more, in the destruction of its monuments at the time of the Reformation, than this. With the exception of the stone effigies of two prelates, and a few others of less importance, all were destroyed. There are, however, monuments of later date. One of the most noted is that to Lady Mary Wortley Montague,--a figure in marble, with an inscription recording her agency in introducing into England inoculation for smallpox. She was a native of Lichfield, and Dr. Smollett says: "Her letters will be an important monument to her memory, and will show, as long as the English language endures, the sprightliness of her wit, the solidity of her judgment, and the excellence of her real character." The bust of Dr. Johnson was placed in the cathedral, as the inscription states, as "a tribute of respect to the memory of a man of extensive learning, a distinguished moral writer, and a sincere Christian." Near by is a cenotaph erected by Mrs. Garrick to the memory of her husband, the eminent dramatist and actor, who was the pupil and friend of Johnson, and died at London, Jan. 20, 1779. The bishops of this cathedral have been men of especial note. Among them may be named Bishop Schrope, who was translated from this See to that of York, and was celebrated for his resistance to the usurpations of Henry IV., in consequence of which he was beheaded in 1405, and was long revered as a martyr. Rowland Lee was appointed bishop of Lichfield in 1534. He solemnized the marriage of Henry VIII. with Anne Boleyn, in the nunnery of Sopewell, near St. Alban's. During the establishment of the reformed religion he was mortified to see his cathedral at Coventry entirely destroyed, notwithstanding his earnest endeavors to save it. Ralph Bayne was one of the foremost persecutors of Queen Mary's reign, and caused women to be burnt at the stake. On the accession of Elizabeth to the throne, he refused to administer the sacrament to her, for which refusal an act of parliament deprived him of his See. William Lloyd was one of the seven bishops committed to the Tower by James II., for refusing to read the Declaration of Liberty of Conscience, as it was called; although the real intention of it was to undermine the Protestant religion, and to set up popery again in its place. John Hough, who was made bishop of this See in 1699, was, at the time of the Reformation, Master of Magdalen College at Oxford, and in like manner resisted the royal order. He was elected head of the college against the king's will, and so was forcibly ejected by the commissioners; but he was restored the next year. One of the most memorable of all the bishops is Hackett, who came here in 1661. It was he who did so much in the way of restorations, after the destructive work of Cromwell, who dealt roughly with the Lichfield Cathedral. All churches, as well as abbeys, monasteries, and priories, were Roman Catholic institutions, and they suffered greatly in the suppression of papal worship. Statuary was destroyed, no matter what its value. Pictures and frescoes were defaced, altars torn down, and everything reduced to Cromwell's ideas of a Protestant level. This involved the destruction of a vast number of shrines and monuments, those of bishops and prelates suffering especial desecration. The iconoclasm was thorough. Roofs were taken off, buildings dismantled, and their rebuilding or occupancy prohibited under severe penalties. This accounts for the many fine ruins in Great Britain; Melrose Abbey, Furness Abbey, and a thousand others, are now in decay in consequence of these desecrations. We deplore the loss of works of art and antiquity, but we must not judge from a nineteenth-century and American standpoint. Had papist institutions been left where for centuries they had been entrenched, Protestantism could have made little headway. People of low intellect, with its accompanying ignorance and superstition, are best reached through the senses. Pageants, images, pictures, devout genuflections, were powerful then as now. The authorities of the Roman Church knew this as they now know it. The new Protestant government of England realized that these religious emblems were great obstacles in its way, and was uncompromising in their extermination. The next generation, coming up under a new administration, was more tractable. This was unavoidable, if the rulers would prevent friction in the new machinery. Let us not speak ill of the bridge that carried freedom and toleration safely over. This cathedral was for various causes an object of hostility. The adjacent green was fortified, and was alternately in possession of each party; and of course the cathedral suffered the injuries of a constant siege. History has it that two thousand cannon-shot and fifteen hundred hand-grenades were discharged against it. The central spire was battered down, and the others shared nearly the same fate. The statuary of the west front, around these towers, was shattered; the painted windows were broken; the monuments were mutilated; and the mural stones were stripped of their brasses. Dugdale says:-- It was greatly profaned by Cromwell's soldiers, who hunted a cat every day in it with hounds, and delighted themselves with the echo of their sport along the vaulted roofs. Nor was this all; they profaned it still further by bringing a calf into it, wrapt in linen, which they carried to the font, and there sprinkled it with water, and gave it a name in scorn and derision of the holy sacrament. When Bishop Hackett was appointed to the See in 1661 he found the cathedral in this hopeless confusion; but, in spite of such discouraging conditions, on the very morning after his arrival he prepared for improvements. With laudable zeal he aroused his servants early, set his coach-horses, with teams and laborers, to removing the rubbish, and himself laid the first hand to the work. A subscription soon amounted to $45,000, of which the bishop contributed $10,000. The dean and chapter contributed a like sum; and the remainder was raised by the bishop, who solicited aid from every nobleman and gentleman in the diocese, and of almost every stranger who visited the cathedral. He obtained from Charles II. a grant of one hundred timber-trees out of Needwood Forest, and in eight years saw his cathedral perfectly restored. With joy and great solemnity it was re-consecrated Dec. 24, 1669. The next year Bishop Hackett contracted for six bells, only one of which was hung in his lifetime. His biographer Plume says:-- During his last illness he went out of his bed-chamber into the next room to hear it; seemed well pleased with the sound, blessed God who had favored him in life to hear it, and observed at the same time that it was his "own passing-bell." He then retired to his chamber, and never left it again till he was carried to his grave. That bell still sounds from the tower. The same decorations present themselves, and by these the good bishop yet speaketh. Unfortunate are the visitors who, amid scenes and sounds like these, having eyes, see not, and having ears, do not hear. The war history of one cathedral is the history of all, for each was desecrated, and each has had some Bishop Hackett; though not every restorer was as capable as he in purse and brain. Restorations were everywhere begun, and in many instances the new work exceeded the old; but superstition and ignorance were common even among the high clergy, and oppression accompanied their daily life, as it did that of our New England ancestry. At 10.20 A. M. of Thursday, May 30, we left for that peculiarly named town, Stoke-upon-Trent. CHAPTER XI. STOKE-UPON-TRENT--STAFFORDSHIRE--MANCHESTER--LEEDS--CARLISLE. We arrived at Stoke-upon-Trent at noon. Our valises deposited at the coat-room of the station, we sallied out for a restaurant dinner and a visit to the pottery of the Mintons. There are many places of crockery manufacture here, all having a dingy look; most of them are of brick or stone, and two or three stories high. The buildings are not large, but each establishment has several, with chimneys forty to sixty feet high, tapering largely as they rise. The greatest facilities are furnished for visiting the works. We greatly enjoyed our visit, and theoretically know just how it is done; yet we couldn't excel practically the youngest apprentice. It is hardly in order to give lessons, but some information may be worth a passing word. The clay is uncommon and found in but few places. It has also to be peculiarly prepared. When ready to be moulded it looks very much like putty or wheaten dough. The dish is made in the usual manner, on the potter's wheel, or on a mould. It is partially dried and then baked in a great oven, from which it comes out white as chalk. If it is to be white and undecorated, it is then dipped into a tank of liquid sizing, in appearance like dirty milk. It drips off, and is then put again into an oven and subjected to intense heat. The sizing melts or vitrifies, and turns into glazing. The oven cools off slowly, and the ware is taken out glossy and ready for sale. If the dish is to be ornamented, the figures are put on with a stencil-plate, or printed on the white ware after the first baking and before the glazing. Of course any desired color can be rubbed over the stencil. If the ware is to be printed, this is done with a soft roller, which takes its tint and impression from a stamp. This roller is passed over the stamp as a similar article is rolled over printer's type; only the figure is imprinted on the pottery, not with the stamp or type itself, but with the roller, from whose soft surface the figure is readily absorbed by the moist clay. After this the ware is dipped into sizing and finished as before described. If the ware is to be rudely ornamented with flowers, these are often painted on it by hand, after the first baking, women and girls being employed for the purpose. Of course glazing and burning must always follow the decoration. If colored stripes are desired, these also are put on by hand. If ware is to be elegantly adorned, with pictures of flowers, animals, or landscapes,--in a word, Sèvres or Worcester ware,--this also is done by the patient hand-labor at the benches. A hundred women are sometimes at work in a single room, as if they were making water-color drawings. If gold lines are to be put on, this is done with gold paint. It is black when it comes from the furnace, but is then rubbed down with cornelian burnishers and the gold color restored. China is no more nor less than thin ware made of a peculiar clay. Of the secrets of coloring we know nothing. Hundreds of years have been employed in experimenting on the minor details; and with all their generous entertainment of strangers, and perhaps of angels unawares,--not being sure the visitor is not a fallen one, and so inclined to abuse the information,--the artisans are not free to impart information which seems small, but is really of the utmost importance. The town is situated on the River Trent, as its name implies, and the entire parish, including Stanley and many other suburbs, has a population of 89,262. It has numerous wharves and warehouses, and is intersected by the great Trent canal and the Staffordshire railway. It has the honor of being the birthplace of Rev. John Lightfoot, the celebrated ecclesiastical writer and Hebrew scholar. He was born here March 29, 1602, and died at Ely, where he was prebend at the cathedral, Dec. 6, 1675. The town receives its notoriety solely from its potteries. Our second visit was to the warerooms of Minturn & Hollins, who are celebrated, as are the original Minturns, for the elegance of their work, which is well known in America as well as Europe. Their display was wonderful for fineness of execution and exquisite coloring. Our notebook, as well as our vivid recollection, defines it as "an inexpressibly smoky place, with hundred of chimneys, in groups of from ten to twenty, belching forth thick and black smoke." At 4 P. M. we took a train for another great workshop, and on our way must needs go through, not Samaria, but Staffordshire, which is one of the best examples of a _smoke district_; and--like Niagara in this--that one is enough for a world. STAFFORDSHIRE. In this region the smelting and manufacture of iron abounds. Hundreds of chimneys, large and small, single and in groups, begin to meet the view as soon as we are fairly out of Stoke Village. Everywhere the air is permeated with dense though by no means very disagreeable smoke; that is, it did not produce half the ill effect on the eyes or the body that it did on the shirt bosoms and the mind. The vast extent of the domain astonished us. As we merged into the thicker part, the sun was entirely obscured, the people were weird-like, and all things wore a smoky aspect. Condensed masses of smoke hung like thunder-clouds, and they were lighted up by the glare that issued Pandemonium-like from a hundred chimney-tops. In the dimness below, the men at the blastfurnaces, handling red-hot rods, or pouring molten iron into moulds, seemed like so many imps, and we had a vivid representation of the _other place_, that was talked of a hundred years ago. We were glad of the experience, for it was unlike anything seen before, or likely to be seen again; but how we enjoyed a change to clear atmosphere and a blue sky, and how increased was our ability to enjoy the "Sweet fields of living green, And rivers of delight," by which the swift train presently hustled us! We need not say that bituminous and not anthracite coal is used in England. It burns with a brilliant red flame, and its smoke is either black, gray, or white. It is found in great profusion (as hard coal is in our Pennsylvania) in the same regions with iron ore. It is as common to see coal-mine openings--their cheap houses over them, and their railways,--as to see iron mines. No manufacturing region would seem complete without them. It is providential that these two useful minerals, coal and iron, are found together, and so conveniently near the geographical centre of Great Britain as to make them accessible to each section of the island. We are at our journey's end, in MANCHESTER, after the ride of less than two hours. It was not our intention to remain here long, and our first view of the place confirmed the wisdom of our decision. It is a large city, smoky from the thousands of manufactories, with nothing antique to be seen. Our older western cities, like Cincinnati, much resemble Manchester. Our stay was occupied principally with an observant walk of some miles through the principal avenues and among the manufactories. There are grand buildings, but the general smoky outlook prevails. Manchester is situated on both sides of the River Irwell, and has a suburb called Salford. The city proper has a population of 351,189, and the latter 124,801,--475,990 in all. There are two municipal governments, but the two cities are practically one, being united by eight bridges. This spot was a chief station of the Druids, who here had an altar called Meyne. In A. D. 500 it was an unfrequented woodland. In 620 it was taken by Edwin, king of Northumbria, and soon after was occupied by a company of Angles. It next passed to the Danes, who were expelled about 920, by the king of Mercia. A charter, giving it the privilege of a borough, was granted in 1301. The first mention of Manchester cotton was in 1352, and designated coarse woollen cloth, made from unprepared fleece. At the time of the Civil Wars it had become a place of active industry, and suffered much from both parties. In 1650 its manufactures had wonderfully increased, and ranked among the first in extent and importance; and its people were described as the most industrious in the northern part of the kingdom. The value of cotton exports, as early as 1780, was $1,775,300; in 1856 it was $190,000,000; and in 1862 more than one half the operatives were thrown out of employment in consequence of the American Civil War, which deprived Manchester of the raw material. In 1871 there were connected with the cotton and woollen manufactures 322 factories, employing 33,671 persons, and using 21,000 horse-power of steam. In the manufacture of metal goods, glass, chemicals, and leather, there were 467 manufactories, 14,895 work-people, and 3,996 horse-power. The mechanical list, including builders, and cabinet-makers, involved 2,783 shops and 73,235 employees, using 28,515 horse-power. The Royal Exchange, commenced in 1868 and just completed, is one of the finest structures in Great Britain, costing $1,250,000. Hospitals and charitable institutions are plentiful. The schools are of a high grade, and the city is one of the most enterprising in England. At 10.20 A. M., Friday, we left for Leeds. These three places, Birmingham, Manchester, and Leeds, are an epitome of English manufactures, and we can hardly pass without examining them, though we confess to a daintiness obtained from the beauties amidst which we had been passing the weeks; and we feel that we shall be glad when our tour through the manufacturing districts ends, for we are impressed anew with the proverb, "God made the country, but man made the town." LEEDS is situated on both sides, but chiefly on the left side, of the River Aire, and has a population of 259,212. The site was once a Roman station, and the mediæval name was Loidis. As a manufacturing town it dates back to the sixteenth century. The larger part of the city has an old look. The streets generally are narrow and crooked, but well kept. The new streets are wide and contain many fine buildings; and the tramways and omnibuses give it a Bostonian appearance. The spacious town-hall was completed in 1858. Like all the principal English cities, it has its share of statues, and a fine one of Robert Peel is in front of the court-house. It is said to have 225 places of public worship. In woollen manufactures and leather-tanning Leeds surpasses all other places in the kingdom. 12,000 persons are employed in manufacturing woollen goods alone. The city is a railroad centre. There are 200 collieries in the surrounding district. It is reported that one quarter of the inhabitants are engaged in manufactures of some kind, and yet pauperism flourishes fearfully. There is a library founded in 1768, by the renowned Dr. Priestley, of scientific as well as theologic fame. He was pastor of a church in Leeds, and gave much attention to religious subjects. After an industrious life of some years here,--a large portion of which was employed in scientific pursuits and authorship,--he removed to Birmingham, and was pastor of a church there. At length he went to America, arriving in New York, June 4, 1794, and dying at Northumberland, Pa., Feb. 6, 1804. A celebration, in honor of his discovery of oxygen, was inaugurated by American chemists at the place of his death, Aug. 1, 1874, and on the same day his statue was unveiled in Birmingham, England. In 1860 another statue was placed in the museum of Oxford University. A catalogue of his publications, prepared for the library of Congress, for the Centennial of 1876, comprises more than three hundred works on chemistry, history, theology, metaphysics, politics, and other subjects. The markets of Leeds are large. New potatoes, May 31, were for sale, smaller than English walnuts. The fish markets are supplied with more varieties than we have seen anywhere else. The flower marts have great displays of perfect plants, especially pelargoniums and geraniums. Kirkstall Abbey is about three miles away, on the edge of the city. Nothing can excel the beauty of this ancient place. It is situated near a country road, and slopes to the river a distance of perhaps a thousand feet. The walls are varied in outlines and heights. The tower and walls are quite complete, and the adjoining ruins are as fine as any in England. They comprise many rooms, roofless for centuries. The low-cropped grass, with its thick math, fills them, and there are ten or twelve elm-trees, full two feet in diameter, growing in the deserted apartments. In one part is the small enclosed garden, perfect as at the first. In the walls are places of burial of the pietists who once dwelt here; and on one side are rooms, opening into the garden, that once were monks' cells and their later place of sepulture. There are many stone coffins; and the apartments and the close, with the ivy-mantled walls, are of extreme beauty. The position is remarkably fine. Removed from other habitations; quietly situated at the side of the great road, and on this meadow-like lawn; the river running leisurely by, washing the borders; the old trees; its ingenuity of arrangement,--this gem is a connecting link between the old dispensation and the new. We could but wish we might do as Scott advises of Melrose Abbey, "visit it by the pale moonlight;" but we did not have that privilege. We could only see it at the close of this fine day, when the low sun sent its rays aslant the openings, and gave an indescribable tranquillity to the place. This is one of the few spots we would again make an effort to see. As the lamented Bayard Taylor was lured from his course of travel by Longfellow's "Belfry of Bruges," and could not rest till he had been there, so this Kirkstall Abbey influences us, and will till the end of earthly journeys. Built in 1157, in the Reformation it was abandoned and unroofed, its relics destroyed, its tombs rifled, and ruin begun; and now for more than three hundred years, as if subservient to the will of Cromwell, and mute with alarm and solitary in its shame, it has stood beautiful and enduring, though dying atom by atom in its own loneliness. On Saturday, June 1, a pleasant day, though so cool that overcoats were still comfortable, we took train for CARLISLE. This is another cathedral town, and the last in England we are to visit till we have passed through Scotland. We have journeyed from London northerly to Oxford; then, northwesterly to the manufacturing towns; and now we are to go from Carlisle to Glasgow, and we expect to see London again in a couple of weeks after. The places are most of them but a few hours' ride apart. The trip is quite like one from Boston, through Worcester, Springfield, Albany, to our western cities, and then southerly, via Washington and Philadelphia and New York, to Boston, and as easily performed. We arrived at 2 P. M., and were fortunate in making our visit on a market-day, when the place was full of people; for here was an opportunity to see an English market-day at its best. On hundreds of tables, and in stalls and booths, every conceivable kind of domestic article was displayed for sale,--crockery, tinware, dry-goods (such as White or Jordan & Marsh never have for sale), new and second-hand clothing, hardware, provisions of all kinds; and a happier set of people we had not seen. Both buyer and seller were in fine mood, and good cheer prevailed. These market-days are a part of the common life of the people, and to abolish them would be taken as one more sign of the near approach of the final consummation of all things. The city is situated on the River Eden, and is a grand old place with good buildings and streets, all replete with fine specimens of English people and life. It is one of the very oldest in England and was a Roman station. Its proximity to the border made it an important place at the time of the wars between the English and the Scotch. The cathedral is situated not far from the centre of business, and the iron fence on one side of its grounds marks the bounds of an important thoroughfare. The ground is not large--perhaps an acre in extent--and is well kept. The cathedral itself was originally an important building, but is not now remarkable for size or beauty. Cromwell destroyed the greater part of the nave. The building is only 137 feet long, but it is 124 feet wide at the transepts, and the height is 75 feet from floor to vaultings. The parapet of the tower is 127 feet from the ground. The cathedral was nearly destroyed by fire in 1292, and the present choir was completed 1350. This fire is said to have consumed thirteen hundred houses. The tower was built in 1401. The edifice was originally dedicated to the Virgin Mary, but Henry VIII., after he had suppressed the priory connected with it, named it the Church of the Holy and Undivided Trinity. Up to that time it had been under the administration of twenty-nine different bishops,--many of them men of note, of whom it would be pleasant to speak did our limits not forbid. Owen Oglethorpe, the thirtieth bishop, was noted as the only one who could be prevailed upon to crown Queen Elizabeth, all others having refused to do so. History says that "during the performance of the ceremony he was commanded by the queen not to elevate the host; to prevent the idolatry of the people, and to omit it because she liked it not." It is a question whether he obeyed. Wood says: "He sore repented him of crowning the queen all the days of his life, which were for that special cause both short and wearisome." He was fined $1,250 by the council for not appearing at a public disputation, and was soon afterwards deprived of his office. A worthy and well-known bishop of this cathedral was James Usher, who was appointed in 1642. He was an Irishman by birth, and had since 1625 been Archbishop of Armagh in Ireland. He died March 21, 1655, at the age of seventy-five, and Cromwell ordered him a magnificent funeral, which took place at Westminster Abbey, and the great Protector signed a warrant to the Lords of the Treasury, to pay Dr. Bernard $1,000 to defray the expenses of it. Bishop Usher was a theological writer, noted as the author of the system of chronology which is frequently printed in the margin of the Bible. On the restoration of the church, Richard Sterne was elected bishop. He is celebrated as having been domestic chaplain to the notorious Archbishop Laud, and attending him on the scaffold. He was also a prisoner in the Tower, with several others, on complaint made by Cromwell, that they had used the Cambridge College plate for the king's relief at York; but in 1664 he was translated to York Minster, and died there in 1683. One of the honors of this cathedral is that, in 1782, William Paley, the writer on Political Economy, Natural Theology, and Evidences of Christianity, was its archdeacon, and it was here that these works were written. His burial-place and monument are both in the cathedral. Near the market-place are the remains of a castle, built by the Normans in 1092. It is much dilapidated, but prominent portions are in excellent preservation. A race of people at the zenith of power erected and used this castle. This race declined, and a new one came out of its decay. Kingdoms have since risen and gone into oblivion. The march of humanity has for eight centuries been going on its way, but the castle remains,--changed only as time has disintegrated the stone, and so gradually that no one generation has realized the transformation. More substantial material for thought may be obtained from these old English places, than from almost any other spots in Europe. At 6 P. M. this Saturday night we took train for Glasgow, and so are for a short time to be among the stalwart Caledonians. SCOTLAND. CHAPTER XII. GLASGOW--THE ROB-ROY COUNTRY--THE LAKES--CALLENDER--STIRLING. On their own soil, or anywhere in the world, the record of the Scotch is good. Those hard-working and reflective qualities, nurtured by John Knox, have borne fruit. Not dependent on priest or bishop for rule or thought, the people have long felt their individual responsibility. Industry, frugality, integrity, have been nursed by the child with its mother's milk. A hard theology cramped the mind in exploring fields of philosophy, and the range of thought has been limited. The people employed so much time in preparing for another life, that they had but little to devote to making themselves comfortable in this world. Indeed, comfort was considered suspicious; but these conditions were preparing them to contend with German Rationalism, and the blending of the two will make a good harvest. While the Scotch element has been eminently conservative, and so a brake on the wheels of a hurried advance, the German element has been doing its work of lifting thought to a higher plane. Each has given and received, and American thought, engendered three thousand miles away, is a golden mean between the two. Calvinism in America has been at its best, and also, we trust, at its worst. The German mind has also influenced America. The flint and the steel strike fire, and it is consuming the superstitions of one system, and purifying the rationalism of the other. At 6.30 P. M. we ride out of the Carlisle station. The sun is yet high, and the fine scenery of Northern England meets our view. It is more hilly than it is farther south, and better wooded. Everything looks more like New England. Gardens prevail, and many things to remind us of home. Nothing struck us more strangely than the length of the days, and, to use an Irishman's expression, "the evening end of them." At 9 o'clock P. M. we can see to read and write; and at Paris a month later, July 4, we could see to write distinctly at 9.30 P. M., and could see the time by the watch at 9.50. After a ride of three hours, we glide into the station at GLASGOW. This chief commercial and manufacturing city of Scotland is situated on the River Clyde, twenty-one miles from its mouth, and forty-one miles southwest of Edinburgh, and has a population of 477,141, or, including the suburbs, 547,538. The level city is three miles long, and lies on both sides of the river, which is five hundred feet wide, crossed by two suspension and three stone bridges, and has several ferries. It became a _burgh_, or town, as early as 1190, and was then granted the privilege of holding an annual fair. In 1556 it ranked the eleventh among the towns of Scotland. It is the fourth town in Great Britain in its exports, and the second in wealth and population. The Romans had a station on the Clyde at the location of the present city. In 1300 a battle was fought in what is now High Street, between the English and Wallace, and in it the noted Percy was slain. In 1650 Reformed Superintendents superseded Catholic Bishops; and in 1638 the famous Assembly of the Presbyterian church was held here, and Episcopacy was abjured. For several years after, the city was a prey to both parties in the civil wars, and fire, plague, plunder, and famine desolated the place. June 4, 1690, the charter of William and Mary conferred on the townsmen the right of electing their own magistrates. Glasgow is well laid out; the streets are wide and clean, and there is little to be seen that is peculiar. The aspect is commercial. Stores and warehouses prevail, and the question often arises, "Where do the people live?" The centres of population are around outside the business portion, and the mansions exhibit more thoroughness of construction than fancy in decoration. We are in one of the great places of Scotland, not in one of France or Germany; this fact is everywhere apparent. Liverpool represents it, not Paris. The city has four parks. The Green has 140 acres, on the north bank of the river, and near the east end of the city. Kelvingrove Park has 40 acres at the west end; Queen's Park, 100 acres. Alexandra Park has 85 acres, on elevated ground, portions of it commanding views of the entire city. A stream runs through it, and primeval groves, grand avenues, lawns, and flower-plots make the place one of great attraction. On Sunday, at the time of our visit, tens of thousands were enjoying it. Adjoining this are the grounds of Glasgow University, yet more elevated. The grand edifice is of a domesticated Gothic architecture, built of gray limestone, and stands on the highest ground. It was finished in 1870, and cost $1,650,000. This college was founded in 1443 by James II., but it had only a feeble existence till 1560, when Queen Mary bestowed upon it one half of all the confiscated church property of the city. The library was founded in 1473, and contains 105,000 volumes. It has an observatory and a good cabinet, and the grounds contain 22 acres. The city is supplied with water from the celebrated Loch Katrine, by an aqueduct 26 miles long, and it sustains two theatres, two museums, and as many public libraries. It has 175 churches and chapels, and a very fine botanic garden of 40 acres, which is kept in perfect condition and open free to visitors. The cathedral is of all edifices of the kind the most ancient looking. It is on the border of the city, and enclosed with a high iron fence, being surrounded by a small burial-ground. A peculiarity is that many tombs and monuments are entirely encaged, the top included. The iron-work, generally about four feet wide, seven feet long, and seven feet high, is rusty and produces a disagreeable effect. We were disgusted with the appearance of the grounds of this metropolitan church, really the finest old Gothic building in Scotland. It is not large but is on a site that overlooks most of the city. It was begun in 1192, and was ready for consecration in 1197. It enjoyed an unmolested use for the papal worship during four hundred years; but, notwithstanding this long service, it was not finished till the present century. Its noteworthy features are the crypt and a profusion of brilliant stained glass. Near the cathedral is a cemetery called the Necropolis, situated on very elevated ground, and highly attractive. The place is approached from the cathedral by a grand stone bridge, and has a park-like entrance and inside avenues at the base of the hill. This burial-place, built for all time, was provided by private munificence, and makes the cage-work and ill-managed grounds of the cathedral look all the more heathenish. The cemetery is not large but may comprise three or four acres. It is on high land, that, but for the terraces and inclined avenues traversing the hillside, would be very difficult of ascent; but good engineering makes it most inviting. The views from this spot of the city and suburbs are very grand, and it is constantly resorted to as a park. One peculiarity of the place is the number of neat monuments, and a general absence of ordinary gravestones. The monuments are nearly all of white marble, and set in close rows. There are more beautiful designs than we have seen before or since. The taste manifested is exquisite, and would do honor to Paris,--instead of dishonor, as do the monuments of the noted Père La Chaise, the Mount Auburn of France. In this ground is an imposing monument, erected to martyrs, whose blood is "the seed of the church." The statements on this monument interest not only the people of Glasgow but Americans; and so, although the cold and intense wind makes it a work of difficulty, we copy them. They have been read by thousands and will be read by thousands more; they inspire fortitude, and will thus be a perpetual honor to the noble ones whom they commemorate. On the west side is the following:-- TO TESTIFY GRATITUDE FOR INESTIMABLE SERVICES IN THE CAUSE OF RELIGION, EDUCATION, AND CIVIL LIBERTY; TO AWAKEN ADMIRATION OF THAT INTEGRITY, DISINTERESTEDNESS, AND COURAGE WHICH STOOD UNSHAKEN IN THE MIDST OF TRIALS, AND IN THE MAINTENANCE OF THE HIGHEST OBJECTS; FINALLY, TO CHERISH UNCEASING REVERENCE FOR THE PRINCIPLES AND BLESSINGS OF THAT GREAT REFORMATION BY THE INFLUENCE OF WHICH OUR COUNTRY THROUGH THE MIDST OF DIFFICULTIES HAS RISEN TO HONOR, PROSPERITY, AND HAPPINESS, THIS MONUMENT IS ERECTED BY VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTION TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN KNOX; THE CHIEF INSTRUMENT UNDER GOD OF THE REFORMATION IN SCOTLAND, ON THE 22ND DAY OF SEPTEMBER 1825. HE DIED--REJOICING IN THE FAITH OF THE GOSPEL-- AT EDINBURGH-- ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER A.D. 1572, IN THE 67TH YEAR OF HIS AGE. On the north side is the following:-- PATRICK HAMILTON, A YOUTH OF HIGH RANK AND DISTINGUISHED ATTAINMENTS, WAS THE FIRST MARTYR IN SCOTLAND FOR THE CAUSE OF THE REFORMATION. HE WAS CONDEMNED TO THE FLAMES AT ST. ANDREWS IN 1528 IN THE TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR OF HIS AGE. FROM 1530 TO 1540 PERSECUTION RAGED IN EVERY QUARTER; MANY SUFFERED THE MOST CRUEL DEATHS; AND MANY FLED TO ENGLAND AND THE CONTINENT. AMONG THESE EARLY MARTYRS WERE JEROME RUSSELL AND ALEXANDER KENNEDY TWO YOUNG MEN OF GREAT PIETY AND TALENTS WHO SUFFERED AT GLASGOW IN 1538. IN 1544 GEORGE WISHART RETURNED TO SCOTLAND FROM WHICH HE HAD BEEN BANISHED, AND PREACHED THE GOSPEL IN VARIOUS QUARTERS. IN 1546 THIS HEAVENLY MINDED MAN, THE FRIEND AND INSTRUCTOR OF KNOX, WAS ALSO COMMITTED TO THE FLAMES AT ST. ANDREWS. The south side has the following:-- THE REFORMATION PRODUCED A REVOLUTION IN THE SENTIMENTS OF MANKIND THE GREATEST AS WELL AS THE MOST BENEFICENT THAT HAS HAPPENED SINCE THE PUBLICATION OF CHRISTIANITY. IN 1547, AND IN THE CITY WHERE HIS FRIEND GEORGE WISHART HAD SUFFERED, JOHN KNOX, SURROUNDED WITH DANGERS, FIRST PREACHED THE DOCTRINE OF THE REFORMATION. IN 1559 ON THE 24TH OF AUGUST, THE PARLIAMENT OF SCOTLAND ADOPTED THE CONFESSION OF FAITH PRESENTED BY THE REFORMED MINISTER, AND DECLARED POPERY TO BE NO LONGER THE RELIGION OF THIS KINGDOM. JOHN KNOX BECAME THE MINISTER OF EDINBURGH, WHERE HE CONTINUED TO HIS DEATH THE INCORRUPTIBLE GUARDIAN OF OUR BEST INTERESTS. "I CAN TAKE GOD TO WITNESS," HE DECLARED, "THAT I NEVER PREACHED CONTEMPT OF ANY MAN AND WISE MEN WILL CONSIDER THAT A TRUE FRIEND CANNOT FLATTER; ESPECIALLY IN A CASE THAT INVOLVES THE SALVATION OF THE BODIES AND SOULS, NOT OF A FEW PERSONS, BUT OF A WHOLE REALM." WHEN LAID IN THE GRAVE THE REGENT SAID, "THERE LIETH HE WHO NEVER FEARED THE FACE OF MAN, WHO WAS OFTEN THREATENED WITH THE DAG AND DAGGER, YET HATH ENDED HIS DAYS IN PEACE AND HONOR." On the east side we have the following:-- AMONG THE EARLY AND DISTINGUISHED FRIENDS OF THE REFORMATION, SHOULD BE ESPECIALLY REMEMBERED SIR JAMES SANDILANDS, OF CALDER, ALEXANDER EARL OF GLENCAIRN, ARCHIBALD, EARL OF ARGYLL, AND LORD JAMES STEWART, AFTERWARDS KNOWN BY THE NAME OF "THE GOOD REGENT:" JOHN ERSKINE OF DUN, AND JOHN ROW, WHO WERE DISTINGUISHED AMONG THE REFORMED MINISTERS FOR THEIR CULTIVATION OF ANCIENT AND MODERN LITERATURE. CHRISTOPHER GOODMAN AND JOHN WILLOCK, WHO CAME FROM ENGLAND TO PREACH THE GOSPEL IN SCOTLAND; JOHN WINRAM, JOHN SPOTTISWOOD, AND JOHN DOUGLASS, WHO WITH JOHN ROW AND JOHN KNOX COMPILED THE FIRST CONFESSION OF FAITH WHICH WAS PRESENTED TO THE PARLIAMENT OF SCOTLAND, AND ALSO THE FIRST BOOK OF DISCIPLINE. The monument is composed of a plinth, some six feet square, upon which is another of less dimensions, with the sides somewhat inclined inward, bearing the inscriptions; then, two low plinths smaller yet; and resting on these is a Grecian Doric column some two feet or more in diameter; and on the abacus, or cap, at its corners, are ornaments above it. Next there is a low pedestal, or corniced plinth, and the whole is surmounted by a life-size statue of John Knox. The whole may be about thirty-five feet high. The city, though largely given to traffic, has extensive manufactures. Among these are the St. Rollox chemical works, the largest in the world, covering sixteen acres, and employing a thousand men. The chimney is 450 feet high, 220 feet higher than the large one at East Cambridge, Mass.; or, to make it more definite, it is exactly the height of the East Cambridge chimney with Bunker Hill Monument on top of it, for they are respectively 230 and 220 feet high. There is one in Glasgow ten feet higher than this,--that belonging to the artificial manure works, which measures 460 feet. At 11.30 on this Sunday we attended service at one of the Presbyterian churches. As an act of charity let the church be nameless, for we must add that the services were very tedious. The prayer was extraordinarily long and prosy; six verses were sung in each psalm; the explanatory remarks on the Scripture readings were long and tame; and the sermon, of a full hour's length, while well written and delivered, was a rehash of the commonest platitudes. While the theologic world moves, this parish was too near an ancient theologic centre to derive much advantage from the motion. It is yet a philosophic question whether the exact axis of a revolving shaft moves at all, and we can but think that a part of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland is near such a fixed centre. But we went to hear some actual Scotch Presbyterianism, and were not sorry that we did so; though conscious that we could have displayed fortitude under our disappointment, had we found the stanch Knoxites discussing the signs of the times. We love this old church for the vast good it has done. As our ships need anchors, so the Church Universal needs conservatives; and, in spite of our liberalism, she will have them as long as they are needed. There was more order in Glasgow, more of the Puritan's quiet Sunday, than we ever saw before, at home or abroad. There are no horse-cars or omnibuses visible, and few teams of any kind. No shops were open, though there were many drunken people. Sunday drinking is prohibited; though the sale is licensed on other days, as in Boston. It is said to be "under wholesome management." Transpose the syllables, and instead of _wholesome_ say _somewhole_, and you have the truth. At the Albion Hotel we had thought ourselves in a temperance house, at least for Sunday; but all day long groups of all ages and conditions and both sexes were at the bar; and so large was the number that a sentinel only let in new customers when others went out. Till ten at night the rum-mill was in operation. License men to do wrong, and you throw the reins on the back of your horse. Spend less time in the church, and devote more to enforcing the law, and God's kingdom will sooner come. June 1 is as cold and damp as a Boston day in March or April. Great coats are near us, as good friends ought to be. At 10 P. M. to bed,--not to sleep, nor, as Shakespeare has it, to dream, but to hear the incessant tramp of the tipplers; "aye, _there's_ the rub;" but we drop a veil over the theme. We arose at dawn, breakfasted by-and-by, and at 7 P. M. continued our tour towards Edinburgh, sorry for some things that must be said, if we would fully describe the Glasgow that now _is_,--not the Glasgow that is to be. The passage to Edinburgh may be made in a few hours, but we are to go the way of all tourists who can afford a day or two for the journey. We follow down the Clyde for some miles, amid pleasing, though not very interesting scenery. There on our left are the ruins of Dumbarton Castle, situated on a cliff, and picturesque amidst their solitary beauty. This was once a fortress, and is the place from which Mary, Queen of Scots, took passage for France when a child. A few miles more, and we arrive at Balloch. This is a little hamlet at the south end of Loch Lomond. This lake covers forty-five square miles, and is one of the Scottish lake-group, corresponding to the Killarney lakes in Ireland. We here embark in a fine little steamer. The lake is not large in appearance, as its small bays occupy much of its area; and in most respects it resembles the upper lake of Killarney, or our lakes George and Winnipiseogee. The water is clear, and the margin prettily wooded; and this end is well studded with islands. There is a grandeur about the highlands of Scotland not to be seen on the Irish lakes. Prominent among the mountains is Ben Lomond, standing out in sublime greatness. It is 3,192 feet high; but, while really lower than some hills at Killarney, its contour intensifies its impression. We appreciate its companionship, and, as we sail on, are constantly introduced to Ben Lomond's companions. Ben Dhu, as it is familiarly called, though the real name is Ben MacDhui, is 4,296 feet high. These highlands are rugged in their outline, and present vast glens, crags, ravines, and broken peaks, being unlike those of southern Ireland, which are generally smooth and rounded. The mountain haze is seen in great perfection, and the hills are well wooded, and exhibit a splendid verdure. There is a peculiar moisture and softness in the air, with a fragrant and stimulating quality. In contradistinction to the Irish lakes, these of Scotland have a bold and masculine appearance. We speak of elegance and nicety at Ireland's lakes, but here we have, added to those qualities, vastness and power reflected from their mountains. We admire Glen Luss, Bannochar, and Glen Fruin, as well as other objects of interest touched upon in the "Lady of the Lake," especially in the rower's song, "Hail to the Chief," for we are at the very scene of the poem. It adds a charm to recall the fact that many a time Sir Walter Scott here sailed and admired; and afterwards recalled his thought,--intensifying it and materializing all, till his verse became a thing of life. Our steamer touches at Landing Luss, on the left, and at Rowardennan on the right; then we cross to Tarbet on the left, and after an inspiring sail of two hours we are at Inversnaid. This is an old fort and a landing. It is of no importance as a fort, but was built in 1713, as a defence against the Macgregors, led by the celebrated Rob Roy. The principal interest in the place lies in the fact of its having been the _lairdship_ of Rob Roy before he became an outlaw and a freebooter. Lower down, at the foot of Ben Lomond, we are shown the prison, a rocky fastness at the edge of the water, where it is said he confined his captives. Every nook of these Highlands is full of romance. The writings of Sir Walter have surcharged the very atmosphere with it; and people who are ever so matter-of-fact at home, here become permeated with the etherialistic influence. Ideality has free play. At home they say, "I don't believe a word of it." Here they are different people, and say, "It may have been so." Rob Roy, whose history has been immortalized by Scott in his novel of that name, was largely connected with this neighborhood. A few words concerning him may be of service to the reader who has not the history at hand. He was born about 1660, the exact time and place not being known. He died, it is said, at Aberfoyle in 1738, at about the age of seventy-seven. His true name was Robert Macgregor, which, when the clan Macgregor was outlawed by the Parliament of Scotland in 1693, he changed for that of his mother, and was afterward known as Robert Campbell. Prior to the Great Rebellion of 1715 he was a cattle-dealer. He was very artful and intriguing, and gave the Duke of Montrose an excuse for seizing his lands, and then retaliated by reprisals on the Duke; and for many years he continued his double-facedness, levying blackmail on his dupes and enemies, in spite of a garrison of English soldiers stationed near his residence. We now leave our steamer and take open teams, with four fine horses to each, for a ride of eight miles to Loch Katrine. Never a finer ride than this, over the beautiful heaths of Scotland. The mountain scenery is exquisite in all directions. At times we ride along precipitous paths, where we can look down from "awfully giddy heights to valleys low," the road winding amid the hills and constantly changing beauties. A heavily wooded country and splendid vegetation prevail, and there is no trace of barrenness, as in the Gap of Dunloe. We go along the shore of the meandering river and Lake Arklett, and now the driver tells us that here was the cottage of Helen Macgregor. Mountains are about us, and here is an enclosed plain, perhaps half a mile wide and a mile long, level as our house floors, and nearly covered with heather,--which is a sort of heath, quite like that grown by us as a house-plant, and, being of a dark tint, gives a purplish hue to the moor. The space we are now going over, all between the two lakes, is the country referred to in the novel. Over these very roads that singular fellow rode and walked. The air here was remarkably exhilarating. It seemed new, as if it was for the first time breathed. The ride was much too short. There were millions of reasons for wishing it longer, so many things were waiting to entertain us on the right hand and on the left, before and behind us, under foot and overhead. It was good for us to be there, and the inclination was strong upon us to build tabernacles. At length Loch Katrine was reached. It contains an area of only five square miles, and is the one, though twenty-seven miles away, from which water is taken for the city of Glasgow. It is claimed that it is one of the finest lakes in the world, and it is certain that no one can imagine its superior. The teams leave us at a very comfortable two-story hotel, at the head of the lake, and here we are to dine; which service over, we walk out for a ramble, as an hour is to elapse before the steamer arrives from the other end of the lake. A wide road separates the hotel from the latter; a wharf extends from it, and to the left is a sea-wall, perhaps a hundred feet long, with a protective rail along the top. To the left of that, and in the corner, on the border of the lake, is a fine grove belonging to the hotel, with swings and other entertainments for tourists. In the rear of the house are the stables; and back of these, and around and back of the grove, is a hill which anywhere but in Scotland would be called a mountain. To the right of the hotel, and bordering the lake, were a grove and field, with here and there a cottage. The mountains in the distance loomed up grandly; and the borders of the lake, while more or less irregular and indented, had a very clean-cut look. The lake was not very wide here,--perhaps a fourth of a mile,--and it stretched on, without much change. We take the little steamer here at Stronaclacher,--we had almost forgotten to tell the name,--and as we look down into the crystal water, it seems too pure for a steamer to sail in, for it is quite equal in clearness to Seneca Lake, New York, and reminds one of it. Remove the town of Geneva from its cosy situation at the end of the lake; put there a long wooden hotel; border the shores with a heavily wooded country to the water's edge; add some mountains off in the distance to the right and the left, at Ovid, Lodi, and Hector; put some more opposite on the other side of the lake, and a large lot of them at Watkins; then condense all to one quarter the size, and you have the size and shape of Loch Katrine. We have now left the Rob-Roy Country, and are in that of the "Lady of the Lake," for this Lake Katrine is the one Sir Walter had in mind when he penned that fairy-like romance. We come first to a little island, well covered with trees and thick shrubbery, where the meeting of Fitzjames and Douglas is assumed to have taken place, and where the charming heroine was seen in her boat. Ragged Ben Venu appears; and ahead of that are the sharp peaks of Ben A'an, the whole surrounded by heavy woodlands, here and there extending well up the mountains, and marked by great glens and gorges. After the sail of an hour, much too soon we change our vehicle; and here, at the little wharf, carriages are ready to take us to Callender. Our party numbers about thirty, and we are to go through the Trosachs, which comprise some of the finest scenery in Scotland. We soon arrived at Ardcheanocrohan, a fifteen-lettered place, whose name we were shy in pronouncing; and we confess it takes some courage to write it, but we presume it's good Scotch. As we stand at the door of the tavern,--that's just what it is,--or rather as we sit on our coach-seat in front of the building and look across the lake, there, in superb repose, three or four miles away, is the Clachan of Aberfoyle, well remembered by the readers of "Rob Roy." We ride through mountain scenery, equalling if not excelling any at the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and strongly reminding one of the Notch. Our road winds to the right, and Loch Achry comes to view,--a lovely gem we would fain transport to America. In due time we arrive at the Turk Water, and the place celebrated in the "Lady of the Lake," where, as Sir Walter says,-- When the Brigg of Turk was won, The foremost horseman rode alone. This is a single-arched stone bridge, which crosses this stream. We are now introduced to the great pine-lands of the Glenfinlas. The trees are very tall, and the scenery is wild and unusual. In front is the heathery Craig Moor, Glenfinlas Hills, with their winding valleys, and Loch Vennachar with its clear water and bordering shrubs. We pass a waterfall, which runs out of Loch Katrine, and helps to supply Glasgow with its water. This used to be known by the uneuphonious name of Coilantogle Ford, and is the spot where Fitzjames and Roderick Dhu had their conflict. Now appears the stately Ben Ledi, one of the tallest giants. We pass on, over the Callender bridge, and are at the town of CALLENDER, an old settlement of small account. It has a main street bordered by stone and brick houses with pleasant grounds. We take the train for Stirling, and lose sight of the hill-country which for hours has enraptured us. It was the treat of a lifetime, and as such to be appreciated and enjoyed. We pass the town of Dumblane, to which allusion is made in the song of "Jessie, the Flower of Dunblane," and then over the famed Bridge of Allan, familiar by the ballad of "Allan Water." After a ride of an hour, at 5 P. M. we approach STIRLING. This is a place of special note. It is situated on the River Forth, thirty-one miles from Edinburgh, and has a population of 14,279. In beauty of situation it rivals the capital. The buildings present an appearance of modernized antiquity, being interspersed with mansions of the Scottish Nobles. The society here is highly aristocratic. Stirling was a favorite place of residence for James V., who died at Falkland, Dec. 13, 1542. He was one of the kings of Scotland, born at Linlithgow Palace, April 13, 1512. The old House of Parliament, built by him, is still standing, and now used as barracks. The ancient Gothic church is the one in which James VI. was crowned, and there are the remains of an unfinished palace, begun in 1570, by the Regent, the Earl of Mar. Near the town are the ruins of the famed Cambuskenneth Abbey; and not far from the town, perhaps three miles away, is the celebrated field of Bannockburn, on which the battle was fought June 24, 1314. War had raged between England and Scotland for many years under Edward II., who, in contentions with his parliament, had neglected Scotland. Robert Bruce III. recovered all of Scotland with the exception of the fortress in Stirling, which alone held out for the English; and even that, the governor, Mowbray, had agreed to surrender, if it was not relieved before the feast of John the Baptist. Edward was aroused by this report, and he encamped near it at the head of a large army. He was met by Bruce with 30,000 picked men, on the eve before the day fixed for surrender. The battle of Bannockburn was the result, and ended in the utter defeat of the English. Bruce was now able to dictate terms, and he exchanged prisoners for his wife, sister, and other relatives, who had long been in captivity to the English. This success being attained, the Scotch assumed the offensive, and invaded Ireland; and, meeting with success there, Edward Bruce, brother of Robert, was crowned king of that country, May 2, 1316. As one stands at the castle, 220 feet above the surrounding land, two miles away lies Bannockburn; a few stone walls and a grove designate the famed spot. The eye takes in a wide scene of unparalleled beauty. Cows and sheep graze peacefully there, with no one to disturb or molest. The air is free from suggestions of smoke of powder or boom of cannon. CHAPTER XIII. STIRLING CASTLE--EDINBURGH. Grand old Stirling Castle! It is situated on high ground. On one side the land is very precipitous; in fact the walls are on the actual verge of the high bluff, and there is an almost vertical fall of more than two hundred feet. In all directions is a view never excelled. There lie the quiet fields, extending from the base of the hill, while the river, like a serpent of gigantic but graceful proportions, curves across them. Here and there are charming groves and solid woodlands, and on, in the distant west, are the famed Highlands. To the north and east are the Ochil Hills, with their companions, the Campsie Hills, on the south; and on the rear lies Stirling town, naïvely antique. How natural is it to look farther over the great landscape. As we face the town, off at our right, on a great hill,--almost a crag,--is the Wallace Monument, of which we will speak by and by. In the distance are the bewitching ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey and the Abbey Craig, the Bridge and the Water of Allan, the Great Carse, the Valley of the Forth, the Field of Bannockburn, and a thousand points of beauty. It is no wonder that here kings and queens have delighted to stay. The building is open to visitors, and for the small fee of a shilling one may take his fill of delight. The edifice is a thorough castle. Built of brownish stone, it has a subdued look; but its low towers and battlements, its varied outline and its great extent, all impress the beholder with reverence. It would be a work of many chapters to describe in detail the various articles on exhibition,--reminders of remarkable events. Here is the Douglas Room, where James II. assassinated the powerful and aggravating Earl of Douglas in 1440. The windows are shown from which these men leaned and conversed before the bloody work; for they remain precisely as they were more than four hundred years ago. There resided all the king Jameses, from the First to the Sixth inclusive, as did Mary Queen of Scots. The castle is used as barracks for English soldiers, though a portion of the building is fearfully vacant, and one prominent quarter is a museum of antiquities. We return through the large courtyards by which we entered, and through the great arched opening, in which is run up the ponderous portcullis, or strong lattice gateway, whose "Massive bar had oft rolled back the tide of war." The home of kings and of the most noted persons of the civilized world! Soil made sacred by the tread of nobility. But we were free men, unhindered observers, at liberty to examine and criticise, in unqualified republican American fashion, things once too sacred for common people to look upon. How changed! What has done this but popular education, and the growth of religious liberty,--elements underlying the Magna Charta, which has discounted royalty, and opened the great doors of civilization? Where are now the kings, the queens? Their places of habitation are our intellectual banquet-hall; their household goods form a museum of curiosities for all who are disposed to visit it. Our next visit was to Gray Friars Church, founded by James IV. in 1594, and here a strange thing met our view. The edifice is in the usual form of a Latin cross. A large door has been made in the centre of each transept, which are used as large vestibules for the two auditoriums into which the choir and nave of the edifice have been converted. The choir, which is the oldest part and of Norman architecture, is used as a chapel for the soldiers, and the nave as one of the parish churches of the city. Both are in use, and services are held in them at the same hours. The military church is under the English government, and of course the service is Episcopalian; while the other is Scotch Presbyterian. Of course the church was originally Roman Catholic, but in the old times John Knox often preached there. How little endures! One set of people exist and build and occupy. Here their saints are made, die, and are buried, and the stones become sacred to their memory. But by-and-by other people come into possession. In a day the accumulated sanctities are despoiled, and, as it were, evaporate. Nothing but the soil stands secure from mutation and danger. In a place like this we realize the force of the statement: "One generation goeth and another cometh, but the earth abideth forever." Near by is Guildhall. At the house adjoining we make our desires known, and the young lady attendant, key in hand, accompanies us to the old room, which is perhaps thirty feet wide, fifty feet long, and twenty feet high. The quintessence of antiquity is here. Imagination in full play could conceive nothing more fascinatingly mediæval. Dimly lighted, the heavy oak finish looked the more quaint and feudalistic. What things of interest we behold! Here are pictures which centuries have mellowed, and here, in the middle of the room, is the pulpit in which John Knox preached a memorable sermon at the coronation of the infant king, James VI., Aug. 29, 1567. It is octagonal, and made of oak; and only the upper part, or that in which the preacher stood, is left, its floor resting upon the floor of the hall. We stood in it, and, like John Knox on a certain occasion, pronounced the text, "Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man in whom there is no help." Here was an old Crusader's hat, which we tried on. It is large, not much decayed, has a broad brim, and is made of soft felt; in fact it is what is now called a slouched hat. Near by is a burial-ground, unlike anything we had ever seen. It contains some two or three acres, has through the central part a romantic ravine, and in it are monuments and old statues embowered in trees. Adjoining it is a lofty elevation of natural stone, from which are charming views. There are monuments devoted to the martyrs who died in defence of principle. The gravestones are thick, and the place contains but few things that can be paralleled elsewhere. There are fine trees, thick shrubbery, and an atmosphere of romance. Off at a distance of a mile or so, accessible by horse-cars, is the Wallace Monument, standing on Moncrief, like a lone sentinel. Moncrief is a piece of ground quite park-like in its aspect; a good avenue is graded for a quarter-mile through the woods, winding so as to make an easy ascent to the summit, which is a very small level table-land. The entire city is visible, with the castle as a background; and off to the right, in the distance, are the famed Highlands. In the near foreground is the river, with a background of woods. Here and there are villages and hamlets, and Bannockburn is seen to best advantage, and places where battles were fought by Wallace and Bruce. The monument stands at the centre of the table-land, which is 226 feet above the streets of the city. The monument is square in plan, about 40 feet on each side, and 200 feet high. It is built of brown stone, with trimmings that resemble granite. It is of a castellated design, and in appearance is hundreds of years old, though in reality it has been finished but six years. The keeper's house adjoins it, and is incorporated into the structure. Either the castle, the Wallace Monument, the old church, the Guildhall, or near burial-ground amply repay the effort required to make a visit to Stirling. The monument was erected to the memory of Wallace, as its name implies, and a few words concerning him may be of interest. William Wallace was born in 1276. He had a fierce and warlike disposition, and, while at the high-school at Dundee, he stabbed the son of the English governor of Dundee Castle, and fled. For a long time he was an outlaw and dwelt in the fastnesses of Scotland. He had great personal accomplishments, and many persons became his followers. He organized an army, and held it in readiness for invasions. An insurrection having broken out in 1297, when he was but twenty-one years old, he attacked an English Count at Scone, took many prisoners, and killed many more. Under his direction, Sir William Douglas surprised and compelled the English garrisons of Durisdeer and Sanquhar, which were holding the castles, to surrender. So great was his intrepidity and daring, and so formidable had his army become, that Edward I.--the sovereign against whom he was fighting, and to whom the people of Scotland were opposed--sent 40,000 men and cavalry, under command of Sir Henry Percy and Sir Robert Clifford, to oppose him. Wallace made an attack on them when they arrived, but was repulsed and fell back to Irvine in Ayrshire. Soon after this, however, disputes arose among the Scottish leaders, which resulted in an agreement which Wallace and Murray did not approve; so they retired into the northern countries, quickly recruited a formidable army, and surprised and captured the English garrisons at Aberdeen, Dunnottar, Forfar, and Montrose. Wallace had also begun a siege at Dundee; but being informed of the advance of a large English force in the direction of Stirling, he abandoned the siege, and, gathering adherents as he went, reached Stirling with 40,000 foot and 180 horse. The English mustered 50,000 foot and 1,000 horse, under the Earl of Surrey. Messengers, deserters from the Scottish army, were sent to persuade Wallace to capitulate, and a free pardon was unconditionally offered, but the overtures were rejected. The English crossed the river, and the noted battle of Cambuskenneth was fought near Stirling Bridge, Sept. 10, 1297. The result was that the English were driven to Berwick, almost completely cut to pieces. Inflated by success, Wallace, by general consent,--in the absence of the lawful monarch, King John, who was then confined in the Tower of London,--was declared guardian of Scotland. A severe famine followed, and Wallace, to obtain supplies, invaded the northern counties of England. He laid waste the country, returned with his spoils, and began to reorganize Scotland. Edward, smarting under the terrible defeat, and realizing the insecurity of his possessions near the border, raised an army of 80,000 infantry and 7,000 horse. A portion of the force landed by sea on the northeast coast, and there suffered a reverse; but the main body advanced by land northward, and on July 22, 1298, met the Scottish forces at Falkirk, where a decisive battle was fought, and Wallace's army was defeated with a loss of 15,000. This was really the fall of his remarkable power. He was only 22 years old, and from this time carried on a guerilla warfare for several years, until at length he went to Paris to seek French intervention. In 1304 he was declared an outlaw, large rewards were offered by King Edward for his arrest, and he was immediately betrayed by Sir John Menteith. The day after his arrival in London, the form of a trial was gone through with at Westminster, and in derision of his pretensions he was decorated with a crown of laurel. He was condemned to death, and the same day, Aug. 23, 1305, at the age of thirty-five, he was dragged at the tails of horses to Smithfield, and there hung, drawn, and quartered; his head being sent to London bridge, where it was perched on the top of the Southwark Tower, while his other limbs were exposed to the anathemas of the populace at Newcastle, Berwick, Perth, and at Stirling, the seat of his daring deeds. It is for this patriot that this lofty monument was erected, 570 years after the close of his eventful life, which also gives a basis for Burns's "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!" The castle is now used for barracks; and at the time of our visit some hundreds of men were here stationed,--all of that robust nature for which English soldiers are celebrated. A sad waste of the flower of Great Britain, and the day is not far distant when the mistake will be seen. The ambition for increased territory is one of England's elements of weakness. Too much distant territory is breaking her down. Soldiers are everywhere required to maintain possession. This takes her picked men, and the people must be taxed to feed an army of drones. We were especially interested in one thing here. The ground, within the castle walls, is paved with small cobble-stones, like our gutters. Springing up among them were knot-grass and small weeds. Three or four soldiers, with sharp-pointed case-knives, were digging up this grass, scrupulously removing every trace of it. We asked why this was being done, and were informed that it was a punishment. For infraction of some rule soldiers were sentenced to this menial work--in the presence of comrades and visitors--for a day, or perhaps a week; and some were also deprived of dinner. The misdemeanor might have been not returning at the proper time when off by permission, being drunk while away, insubordination, deceiving officers, uncleanliness, or neglect of accoutrements. We have devoted much attention to Stirling, for it is connected with events not only in the history of Scotland, but of England as well. At 12.30 P. M. the day after arrival, Tuesday, June 4, we took train for Edinburgh, the chief city of Scotland, and in many respects one of the finest cities in the world. The ride from Stirling is through a pleasant country, much like that between Worcester and Springfield. It is but an hour and a half before we see the spreading smoke-cloud, and we know from experience that there is the city. The suburbs remind one of an approach to Baltimore, Washington, and other Southern cities. Most of the houses are brick, and two stories high. All are dingy, though not very ancient or peculiar in design. We are at a central point in Scotland, but we see nothing intensely _outlandish_. American tourists mistake in supposing everything to be unlike home. Most things are such as are familiar, or not sufficiently eccentric to arouse astonishment. The press, pictures, and travel compel interchange of ideas and methods. They are common levellers, producing wonderful uniformity in buildings, dress, and habits. All these tend to oneness, and help to make "the whole world kin." Strange objects are exceptional. They belong to other days, and are interesting to their possessors and the present generation--as they are to us, who have come from a longer distance to see them--as curiosities. History is common property. Bunker Hill has an interest to the intelligent Scotchman, that Bannockburn has to us. But we are at Edinburgh, and ready to say, as was said of Jerusalem of old: "Beautiful for situation is Mount Zion, the joy of the whole earth." EDINBURGH. The name was probably given to it by Edwin, king of Northumbria, about the year 449, and for more than four hundred years afterwards it remained little better than a village of mud-and-fagot houses, collected on Castle Hill. In 854, more than a thousand years ago, Simon of Durham speaks of it as a village of importance. In the beginning of the thirteenth century Alexander II. held a parliament here, and this fact gave the place so much importance in the reign of David II. that it was the chief place in Scotland. In 1384, Froissart, a French historian, visited it, and speaks of it as the Paris of Scotland. The assassination of James I. (of Scotland) at Perth, in 1437, led to the selection of Edinburgh as the capital of the kingdom. James II. caused it to be walled in. The place now has a population of 196,600. It comprises two distinct parts, the old and the new, and these are separated, a half-mile or more, by a deep ravine which, however, is under the highest state of cultivation, and used as a park. As one stands at a central point on the elegant avenue of the new portion, in front of him is this ravine; and beyond this is the Old City with its dark-colored, quaint, ten-storied buildings pierced with many windows. Innumerable gables present themselves, the stories often jutting out over each other; and the compact buildings rise in the rear, generally conforming to the slope of the land. On the extreme right on the further side is the castle, at a very rocky elevation, and forms a fit termination to the aggregation of sombre houses. At the extreme left of the Old City, and terminating it, are the lofty elevations known as Salisbury Crags and Arthur's Seat. These seem to be veritable mountains, and their blue haze adds a charm nowhere else to be seen near a great city. At the lower end, in front of the crags, the land is level, and the city extends around to Calton Hill, another grand eminence. The old part of the city and the new are well matched. This new part is covered with important buildings and grand avenues. Among the former are structures of Grecian architecture, for museums and art-galleries. The thoroughfare on which we stand, Princes Street, is one of the finest in the world. It is wide and level, and has fine buildings along its whole length on the side opposite the park, and so facing the old city. At its centre, near the park fence, is the noted monument to Sir Walter Scott. Throughout the New City many of the brown stone houses are of classic architecture; and while there is an absence of the light effect, in color and design, of the buildings in Paris, yet there is an air of comfort that well compensates for this lack, and speaks distinctly of those traits for which the reliable and thoughtful Scotch are celebrated. The world furnishes no better counterpart to Paris than Edinburgh. The ravine was for centuries a lake; but it was drained in 1788, and afterwards turned into gardens. The foundation of the first house in the New City was laid Oct. 26, 1767, just 106 years ago, by Mr. Craig, who was the general engineer of the New Town. He was a nephew of Thomson the poet, author of "The Seasons." From that time to the present the city has been extending in all directions. We can name but few of its interesting points, for Edinburgh is not only a place of deposit for objects of interest, but is a museum of itself. Calton Hill is at the lower end of the New Town. There a road winds to the top, a sort of pasture, from which a comprehensive view of Edinburgh is to be had, as well as an extensive view of the country outside. From this eminence is seen the Frith of Forth, an arm of the sea two miles away. The island of Inchkeith nestles cosily in it, and the long pier of Leith, a city of 56,000 inhabitants, stretches itself out into its waters. The imposing Ochil Hills form the background, and in a clear day Ben Lomond and Ben Ledi loom up majestically. The city extends well up and around the base of Calton Hill. At one part of the grounds is an amphitheatre-like spot, given to the citizens by James II. as an arena for tournaments. The sides are called Caltoun Craigs and Greenside. According to the marvel-loving Pennant, it was here that the Earl of Bothwell made his first impression on Queen Mary, by the daring feat of galloping his horse down the precipitous face of the hill. The most prominent objects are Nelson's Monument and the National Monument. The former is on a rocky elevation, 350 feet above the sea. It is a square structure with embattled bastions at the corners, the whole of castellated design; and from the centre rises a round tower, crowned by a circular lantern of less diameter, the whole 100 feet high. At the top is a flagstaff, from which a large ball drops at one o'clock, Greenwich time, moved by mechanism in the Royal Observatory. The time-gun is fired from the castle at the same moment, so that all within seeing or hearing distance are apprised of the hour. The National Monument was begun in 1816, the proposition being to erect a structure in imitation of the Parthenon at Athens, as a memorial of soldiers who fell at Waterloo. Thirty thousand dollars were subscribed at the first public meeting. An attempt was made to place the affair under the patronage of George IV., and the interest declined. The foundation was laid in 1822, and remained untouched till 1824,--when, with $67,500 on hand, work was resumed. All the money was expended, as was the case with the New York Court-house in the structure of white marble, the three colossal steps, and the ten columns in front, with the two flanking pillars on each side, together with the architrave, or horizontal stones, upon them. To this day it remains in this condition. The general sentiment seems to be that this unfinished building, mute in its solitary grandeur, is a more appropriate memorial than a completed building could be. There is a monument to Dugald Stewart, the distinguished professor of mathematics, and afterwards of moral philosophy, in Edinburgh University; and another to John Playfair, also a professor of mathematics, well known the civilized world over. The Burns Monument at the base of the hill is a stone structure some forty feet square, surmounted by a circular section surrounded by Corinthian columns, on which is a pedestal, crowned by a low dome and terminated by four griffins. For a small admission fee we were admitted, and were charmed by the relics exposed to view, once the property of the Scottish Bard. It is useless to attempt to name them, but many were linked with a melancholy interest to a poet, whose life, like that of Keats, "was writ in water." Sir Walter Scott's Monument is doubtless the finest in the world. It is built of brown sandstone, in elaborate Gothic architecture, and is two hundred feet high. It was erected in 1844, at an expense of $80,500, from a competitive design furnished by George Meikle Kemp, a young self-taught architect of great promise, who died before the monument's completion, he having been drowned in the Union Canal, when going home one dark night. Beneath the open Gothic rotunda, with its groined arches, is the colossal marble statue of Sir Walter, in a sitting posture, by John Steell. Many of the niches on the exterior are occupied by statues of characters in Scott's romances. At the centre of the great monument, and up 100 feet from the base, is a room in which are relics of the great bard; and near the top, at the height of 175 feet, is a gallery on the outside of the monument, from which are fine views of the city. As one looks down on the busy mass below; when he sees the ruins of this animated map spread out beneath him,--hills, ravine, parks, monuments, princely edifices, as the busy hum of life surges up to him,--he loses sight of "the good time coming," and is satisfied with that which has come already. Holyrood Palace is situated on the level ground between Calton Hill and Salisbury Crags, the portion connecting the old and new parts of the city. The edifice is built of a brown freestone, and the palace is open to visitors for a small fee. The only portion of great antiquity is the northwest tower, in which are the original Queen Mary apartments, erected by James V., who died in 1542. Long ago abandoned as a place of royal residence, this palace, when it is now used at all, is occupied by the clergy of the Presbyterian, or the established Church of Scotland, at the time of their annual convocation, which lasts about two weeks. Here the ministers are entertained during their stay. How passing strange! The home of rulers distinguished for hostility to anything but a ceremonial religion is now used as the house of convocation for strong Dissenters! Much of it is vacant. We go first into the picture-gallery, which was the banquet-hall. It was in this room that Charles I., when but a prince, held grand levees. The room is 150 feet long and 27 feet wide, elegantly finished in oak. Here are pictures of 106 Scottish sovereigns, from Fergus to James VII. They are mostly fancy portraits, and painted by order of Charles II. to flatter the vanity of the pleasure-seeking king. Their merits are delicately hinted in the wonderment of Christopher Croftangier, that each and all of the Scottish kings should have "a nose like the knocker of a door." The paintings more recently added are genuine. There are rooms which remain furnished as they were centuries ago. Among them is Lord Darnley's Chamber, and here are many relics of Queen Mary, and a portrait of Darnley when a youth. From this room is the private staircase by which Rizzio's assassins ascended to Mary's apartments above. The murder of Rizzio is conspicuous in the annals of Scotland. Henry Stuart Darnley was the second husband of Mary, Queen of Scots. When it became known that the queen proposed to marry again, Darnley, who was possessed of a very handsome person and accomplished in many of the fine arts of the day, proceeded to Scotland, urged his suit, and was accepted. The marriage took place in the chapel of Holyrood, adjoining the palace, July 29, 1565. "He was," says Randolph, "conceited, arrogant, and an intolerable fool." He was overbearing, and towards Mary was petulant and insolent. He repaid her kindness by profligacy and infidelity, and finally alienated her affections by participating in the murder of her secretary, the Italian Rizzio, March 9, 1566, within a year after marriage. While she and Rizzio were together in the Queen's apartment, Darnley rushed in, and held the Queen while Ruthven, George Douglas, and other conspirators stabbed Rizzio. Mary pleaded with loud cries for the life of her favorite secretary; but, hearing that he was dead, she dried her tears and said: "I will now have revenge. I will never rest till I give you as sorrowful a heart as I have at this present." Darnley afterwards repented, and aided Mary in driving his confederates from the kingdom; but his vices and follies were deep-seated, and the breach widened. On the 19th of June of this same year their son James (afterwards James I. of England) was born. In the next January, Darnley was taken with the smallpox, and removed to a house which stood by itself at a place called the Kirk of Field, near Edinburgh, it being feared that if he remained at Holyrood Palace he might communicate the disease to the young prince. The Queen visited him a few times during his sickness, and manifested apparent sympathy. On the night of February 9 the house was blown up with gunpowder, and the dead bodies of Darnley and his servant were found in a mangled condition not far from the ruins. Bothwell, already the Queen's lover, was the chief actor in this tragedy, and in three months they were married. The room of most interest is the apartment of Queen Mary. This, like some of the other rooms, is finished with a heavy-panelled oak ceiling, and has an uncarpeted oak floor. There is also rich panel-work about the deeply recessed windows and doors. The room is not large,--about 18 feet by 20 feet square, and 12 feet high. It contains a few chairs, a table, and bed,--the latter with high corner posts, square framework at the top, and a canopy of red tapestry silk. Though three hundred years have passed since their owner died, the furniture, together with the mattress and richly embroidered quilts, are still in a fair state of preservation, and the bed appears ready for instant use. It was in this room that the Queen held many angry disputations with her hated opponent, John Knox. She is reported at one time to have demanded of the reformer, "Think you that subjects, having the power, may resist their princes?" and to have received the bold reply, intrepid as the heart of him whose brain conceived it, "If princes exceed their bounds, madam, no doubt they may be resisted with power." At another interview the Queen turned her back in derision of her faithful attendants. Knox, who never let slip a chance to fight the "beasts at Ephesus," addressed himself to the maids of honor and remarked: "O fair ladies, how pleasing were this lyfe of yours if it would always abyde, and then in the end we might pass to heaven with all this gay gear. But fye upon that knave Death, that will come, wheddir we will or not." On the adjoining premises are ruins replete with interest. Both Holyrood palace and chapel are thought-inducing. Beneath this roof, within these walls, have been concocted schemes which have influenced the destinies of the world. That chapel, now a glorious ruin, was consecrated a thousand years ago by the prayers and resolves and sacrifices of pious monks, and later by deposits of dust, which once made the world tremble. There is an impassable gulf between that day and this. Scarcely more appreciative than the mantling ivy or the crumbling stones, or the inanimate dust of regal sleepers, are we concerning past realities. At best we but "see through a glass darkly." The abbey ruins at Holyrood, and almost adjoining the palace, are enchanting. The walls of the building are nearly whole, and reasonably free from decay, and have been in their present condition for centuries. Ivy clambers over large portions of it. The rich door-work is almost entire, and many windows, save the glass, are perfect, and the carpet is of thick grass. Here Charles I. was crowned king of Scotland, and also James II. and James III. Mary and Darnley were married here; and within these walls the Papal Legate presented to James IV., from Pope Julius II., the sword of state, which is preserved among the regalia of Scotland. The last time the chapel was used for worship was in the reign of James VII., who had Mass celebrated in it,--which excited the populace to its destruction at the Revolution. Several of the kings of Scotland were buried in the monastery, but the remains were desecrated by the mob of 1688; and it is doubtful whether the bones of David II., who died Feb. 22, 1370, James II., who died in 1460, James V., who died Dec. 13, 1542, Darnley, who died Feb. 9, 1567, are now in the royal vault. Rizzio, by command of Queen Mary, was at first interred in this tomb, but, to prevent scandal, he was afterwards removed to that part of the chapel nearest the palace. In the centre of the square in front of the palace is a large and elaborate fountain, a copy of one that stood in the court of Linlithgow Palace. The spot was once occupied by a statue of the Queen, which is said to have been so ugly that, at her majesty's request, it was buried six feet deep in the courtyard of the royal stables. Perhaps it will some day be exhumed, and become a puzzle to the archæologists of distant centuries. In the garden is a curious sun-dial, described as Queen Mary's, but really of later date, for it was constructed in the reign of Charles I. The apex of the pedestal has twenty sides, on each of which is a dial. Outside the palace gate is a circular building known as Queen Mary's Bath, where she is reported to have enhanced her charms by bathing in white wine. It was by this lodge that Rizzio's assassins made their escape. During some repairs in 1789 a richly inlaid dagger was found sticking in a part of the roof. It was of very antique form, and corroded with rust. The presumption is that it was concealed there by the conspirators. Next demanding attention are the highlands near the lower end of the city, and back of the older part. These are within a few minutes' walk of the main streets, and make a lofty background called Salisbury Crags. They are very bluff-like on the side towards the town; but the top and rear are more level, and covered with grass, and a grand avenue is graded circuitously to the table-land, from which there are remarkable views of the entire city, for this point is 576 feet above the level of the sea. As one looks at this elevation from the city, it has a dark appearance, and is enveloped in that blue haze, or atmosphere, so peculiar to our Blue Hills at Milton. In the rear of this table-land, perhaps an eighth of a mile away, is Arthur's Seat, 822 feet above the sea-level,--247 feet higher than the table-land of the Crags. The macadamized avenue continues as far as this, and from the summit are visible twelve counties and innumerable mountain peaks, and among them the Grampian Hills. The Old City lies stretched out from the highlands, and it is entertaining to the most ardent antiquary, although great changes have taken place. Here are buildings varying from four to ten stories in height, with gables to the street, and over-jutting stories in abundance. We think of this main street as it must have been in the days of the Stuarts, when these projecting gables, over-jutting windows, and hanging stairs were gayly decorated with flags and streamers, and the roadway was thronged with spectators as some royal pageant passed along. Peculiar to this street are its _closes_, or _wynds_. These are spaces in the rear of the front buildings, surrounded by tenements, and having a contracted opening from the main street. They are occupied by a low class of people, but were formerly the residences of distinguished persons. Riddle's Close is one, in which David Hume began his History of England, though he finished it in another part of the city, Jack's Land, in the Canongate. At the end of the place is a house once belonging to Bailie MacMoran, who was shot dead by the high-school boys in 1598, when he was attempting to restore subordination during a barring-out. Farther down is Brodie's Close, named for Deacon Brodie, who was executed for a daring burglary in 1788. Till the very eve of his trial he was a citizen of renown, considered exemplary and pious; but it was proved beyond question that for years he had been concerned in extensive robberies. Lady Stair's Close is near by, and is named for Lady Elizabeth Stair. While her first husband, Viscount Primrose was abroad, that singular event happened which is so well described in Sir Walter Scott's story, "My Aunt Margaret's Mirror." She occupied the house in the close where the date, 1622, is over the doorway. Baxter's Close contains the first lodging occupied by Robert Burns, in 1786. He stayed with his friend John Richmond, who was a law student and clerk, and they two were the only persons in the house. On the opposite side is a house, bearing on its front, in Gothic letters, one of those legends that the custom of those days sanctioned: BLISST--BE--THE--LORD--IN--HIS--GIFTIS--FOR--NOV--AND--EVIR. Near this spot is the chapel called the Maison Dieu. It was in this that the General Assembly met in 1578, when perpetual banishment was given to high ecclesiastical titles. The act was as follows:-- It is here concludid that Bischopes sould be callit be thair awin names, or be the names of Breither in all tyme coming, and that lordlie name and authoritie be banissed from the kirk of God, quhilk hes bot ae Lord Chryst Jesus. In this chapel, in 1661, the martyred Marquis of Argyle lay in state for some days, till at length his body was buried at Kilmun and his head affixed to a gable of the Tolbooth, an old building, once the Parliament House, but then a prison. The church of all churches in Edinburgh is St. Giles's. Many repairs and restorations have been made upon it, so that only a portion of the tower retains its original design. The first mention of the venerable edifice is in the charter of David II., in 1359. The structure was large and cruciform, and after the Reformation the four parts were appropriated to various uses. One was devoted to religious services, and it was here that the Solemn League and Covenant of the Scotch Covenanters was sworn to and subscribed by the Parliament, the General Assembly, and the Commissioners, in 1643. Another part was used as a prison. The town council used to meet in it; the town clerk held his office here, and a transept was used for the police. A writer says of it:-- The city corporation treated it like a carpet-bag, which could never be crammed so full but that room might be made for something more, which could not be put elsewhere. So earnest were they to utilize--we may say secularize--the old structure, that even the spaces on the outside, between the butresses, were from A. D. 1555 down to 1817, a period of 262 years, filled in with small shops, whose chimneys belched smoke against the old edifice. This was the parish church of Edinburgh at the Reformation, and is celebrated as the place where John Knox made his appeals to the piety and patriotism of the metropolis,--appeals which, more than all other means, established the Reformation not only in this country, but the civilized world over. An exciting scene took place here in 1637. Archbishop Laud had arranged for the introduction of the liturgy, to establish by authority the service of the Church of England. As the custom was, Jenny Geddes brought a stool with her to church, and when the obnoxious prayers were begun, and the Bishop of Edinburgh had just requested the Dean to read the Collect for the day, Jenny arose and exclaimed: "_Colic_, said ye; the Devil colic the wame o' ye; wud ye say Mass at my lug?" and she sent her stool flying at the Dean's head. The famous stool is still preserved in the Antiquarian Museum. The ancient cemetery of the church is now covered by the second House of Parliament, and used as a court-house. John Knox died Nov. 24, 1572. He was buried in the burial-ground not far from the church. This large area is now the approach to the court-house, and is paved with large flagstones. As nearly as can be ascertained, this burial-place is designated by the letters J. K., cut in one of these stones; and this is the only monument that Edinburgh can show for one of her greatest citizens. Over the grave of Knox was once a stone with that celebrated epitaph by Regent Morton:-- HERE LIES HE WHO NEVER FEARED THE FACE OF MAN. On the outer walls of St. Giles's is a monument to John Napier, who died here April 4, 1617, and was celebrated as the inventor of logarithms. The Tolbooth was originally a parliament house, and at last a prison. It is referred to in Sir Walter Scott's "Heart of Midlothian," and is marked as the northwest corner of St. Giles's by the figure of a heart cut in the pavement. The house in which Knox resided is one of the quaintest imaginable. It is not far from St. Giles's, and is very irregular in outline, of a dark brown color, three and a half projecting stories in height. He occupied it from 1560 to 1572, when he died in the 67th year of his age. Over the door is the inscription:-- LUFE GOD ABUF ALL, AND YE NYCHTBOUR AS YISELF. One can imagine some of the remarkable questions here considered, for matters pregnant with great issues were held in this building. At one time the care of all the Scotch churches, and even of the nation itself, rested heavily on the spirit of John Knox; but he was not often the morose fanatic he is sometimes represented. Few men enjoyed social intercourse more than he, or more readily availed themselves of an opportunity for its enjoyment. A few days before his death he desired his servant to tap a cask of wine that had been presented to him, that he might share it with friends who were paying him a visit, remarking that he was "not likely to tarry till it be finished." We must content ourselves with an extract from the Diary of James Melville, in which he gives a graphic description of his preaching, and more especially that of his last days:-- In the opening of his text he was moderat the space of an halff houre: but when he enterit to application, he made me sa to grew and tremble, that I could nocht hald a pen to wryt. Mr. Knox wald sumtyme come in and repose him in our college-yard, and call us scholars to him, and bless us, and exort us to know God and His wark in our country, and to stand by the guid caus. I saw him every day in his doctrine [preaching] go hulie and fear [cautiously] with a furring of martriks about his neck, a staff in the ane hand, and guid godlie Richart Ballenden, his servand, holdin up the other oxtar, from the abbey to the paroche kirk, and by the said Richart and another servand, lifted up to the pulpit, where he behovdit to lean at his first entrie, but or he had done with his sermon, he was sa active and vigorous that he was like to ding that pulpit in blads and flee out of it. As early as 1746 a theatre was established in Edinburgh, and the church of those days, intensely conservative though it was, rather encouraged than opposed it, for Dr. Carlyle says:-- When Mrs. Siddons first appeared in Edinburgh during the sitting of the General Assembly, the court was obliged to fix all its important business for the alternate days when she did not act, as the younger members of the clergy, as well as the laity, took their stations in the theatre on those days by three in the afternoon. On St. John Street near by, Smollett, the historian and novelist for a time resided with his sister, Mrs. Telfer. The next building to this was the Canongate Kilwinning Lodge, where Robert Burns, poet-laureate to the lodge, was made a Royal Arch Mason. At No. 13 lived Lord Monboddo and his beautiful daughter, Miss Burnet, whose death Burns so touchingly commemorated. Lord Monboddo anticipated Darwin, for he propounded the theory that the human family had ascended from the monkey. His contemporaries were not disposed to favor his opinions, which exposed the noble lord to the jocular request, "Show us your tail, Monboddo." At No. 10 was the residence of James Ballantine, the printer of the first editions of the Waverley Novels, whose commercial failure involved Sir Walter Scott, as a partner, in the anxieties which beclouded the best years of his life, and compelled him to overtask his strength in the honorable ambition to "owe no man anything." Ballantine was in the habit of giving a great dinner at this house on the occasion of every new publication by Sir Walter, and therefore it is linked with the memory of most of Scott's literary contemporaries, who, with the Duke of Buccleuch, were usually invited to the feast. At Panmure Close the celebrated Adam Smith lived for twelve years, and died July 8, 1790. Before closing this account of places of especial interest--and we have spoken of but one of a thousand--we must name what is called the Abbey Sanctuary, the only one remaining in Scotland. This is a large territory, in the vicinity of Holyrood Palace, and includes the whole range of Arthur's Seat, Salisbury Crags, and the Queen's Park. It was set apart centuries ago, as a district into which poor but honest debtors might flee for safety from imprisonment. So long as they could prove that they were not fraudulent bankrupts, they were safe in this land of refuge, and on the Sabbath they could go over the city, wherever they pleased, until sunset. This freedom naturally tempted some of them to transgress the hour, and they were then in peril of the bumbailiffs; but history says that "as the bailiffs would no more dare to cross the sacred strand than a witch can pursue its victim over a running stream, there were often tremendous _treats_ at the foot of Canongate." On one such occasion the fugitive fell just as he was at the strand, or boundary line. His body was on the safe side, but his legs were captured, and held by the bailiffs till an arrangement was made for his temporary relief. The question of jurisdiction came up in Parliament, and after much grave discussion it was decided and resolved that, "as the bailiff could do nothing with a man's legs unless he had the body they belonged to, the debtor must be allowed to take his legs along with him." Sir Walter Scott's residence for some years was No. 39 Castle Street, and a literary Frenchman has remarked that "it was a right number for Sir Walter, as it was fitting that the Three Graces and Nine Muses should take their station there." It was in this house that occurred the ludicrous incident which Sir Walter utilizes in the "Bride of Lammermoor," when he represents the faithful Caleb Balderstone as excusing the non-appearance of dinner by the fact of a fall of soot down the chimney. Sir Walter had invited numerous guests to dinner. As they were chatting together the butler entered with a face like that of him "who drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night." Beckoning to his master he informed him of the catastrophe which had taken place. Sir Walter carried his guests to Oman's Hotel in Charlotte Square, where the mishap added zest to the banquet thus speedily prepared. The castle is not only interesting to Scotland, but to the civilized world. Burns says of it:-- "There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some rude veteran, gray in arms, And marked with many a seamy scar; The ponderous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repelled the invader's shock." Castle Rock, on which it is built, is a very high elevation at the upper end of the Old City, and has the almost undisputed honor of having been occupied by a native tribe long before the Roman Conquest. St. Margaret's Chapel is older than 1373, in which year Sir William Kirkcaldy, who held the fortress for Queen Mary, was compelled by his garrison to surrender to the combined forces of the Scotch and English, but not till after the fortress was laid in ruins. The barracks adjoining the castle--now a portion of the structure, an ugly pile, half house and half factory in appearance--was erected in 1796. This structure being one of the four fortresses of Scotland which, by the Treaty of Union, were to be kept fortified, is always occupied by a regiment of the line. There is but one approach to it, and that is by the main avenue up from the old part of the city, which ends in a square called the Half Moon Battery. This is a level plain of the form indicated by its name, and contains an acre graded with clean gravel. Salutes are fired on public occasions, and a daily gun, at 1 P. M., marks the Greenwich time. This is fired by means of a wire stretching over the city from the Royal Observatory at Calton Hill. The sound can be so distinctly heard on a calm day that it is the regulator of time for a circle of forty miles' diameter. Admittance is gained by passing over a drawbridge across the moat, once filled with water, but now used as a playground by the soldiers. The castle is open to the public on payment of a shilling. The old dark stone walls tower up, castle-like, before us,--sombre, massive, aged, and varied in outline. The structural assemblage is what we had imagined a large castellated fortress to be. We walk over the bridge, and through the Portcullis Arch, above which is the old State Prison, where the Marquis of Argyle and other illustrious captives were confined previous to their execution. The last state prisoners lodged here were Watt and Downie, accused of high treason in 1794, the former being executed. The gate passed, we are met by one of the guides, who leads us through the contracted grounds and into the building. First comes the Crown Room, where the regalia are kept. These consist of a crown, a sceptre, a sword of state, and a silver rod-of-office, supposed to be that of the Lord Treasurer. They were long thought to be lost; but, after lying in an oak chest from the date of the union with England in 1707, they were restored to the light in 1818, chiefly through the instrumentality of Sir Walter Scott, the Prince Regent having granted a commission for a search of the Crown Room. The Scotch people are justly proud of these symbols of their independence, these relics of a long line of monarchs, beginning with the hero of Bannockburn. A part of the crown, at least, was worn by Robert Bruce; and, not to mention other sovereigns, it encircled the brows of Queen Mary, her son James VI., and her grandson Charles I. The sword was a gift from Pope Julius II. to James IV. In Queen Mary's Room that lady was delivered, June 19, 1566, of her son James VI. of Scotland, afterward James I. of England. This part of the castle was built by the Queen the year preceding, for her palace, and so is 317 years old. There is a vaulted dungeon below this room, partly excavated in the solid rock; and at the south side of the castle there are other dungeons, in which were confined prisoners taken in the wars of the First Napoleon. The miniature chapel of Queen Margaret stands on the highest part of the castle rock. The pious queen of Malcolm Canmore probably erected the chapel, and she certainly worshipped there till her death, Nov. 17, 1093, almost eight hundred years ago. It is a complete church, but measures only 16½ feet long, and 10½ feet wide within the nave. It looks inexpressibly ancient, but is in excellent preservation. The old cannon, Mons Meg, stands on the battery. It is large and peculiarly formed, with a heavy wooden carriage, considerably decorated with carvings. It is commonly reported to have been made at Mons, France, in 1476; but several authorities in archæology, including Sir Walter Scott, maintain that there is good evidence of its having been made in Scotland, and that it was forged at Castle Douglas for James II. by McKim, a local blacksmith, when the king was besieging the Castle of Thrieve. The maker called the cannon Mollance Meg, the first word being the name of the estate given him by the grateful monarch because of its manufacture, and Meg being the name of his wife. It was injured when firing a salute in honor of the Duke of York's visit in 1682. In 1684 it was removed to the Tower of London, but it was restored to the castle in 1829, by order of George IV. As may readily be imagined, there are good views of the entire city and its surroundings. The Castle Esplanade was for centuries the promenade of the citizens of Old Edinburgh; and as such it is referred to, with King's Park and Leith Pier, in various acts for the better observance of the Lord's Day. It has often been the scene of public executions. Foret, the vicar of Dollar, and others of the early Reformers were here burnt at the stake during the persecution raised by Mary of Guise and the Romish hierarchy. Language does not suffice to express our regret as we think of what we have _not_ spoken of, as the suburbs also are full of charms; but we must forego all, and take the train for Melrose, where we arrived at 12 o'clock Thursday, June 6, after a ride of an hour and a half. We are now on our way back to London by a somewhat circuitous route, and mainly in a southerly direction, on the east side of England. CHAPTER XIV. MELROSE--ABBOTSFORD. The ride from Edinburgh is through a farming district, and strongly reminds one of southern New England. As the reader anticipates, we are to stop at Melrose for two purposes; to visit the ruins of its abbey, and to make the short tour of five miles to Abbotsford. The town of Melrose is intensely rural and charming. In 1851 it had a population of 7,487. It has a number of small and comfortable hotels, and carriages are on hire at reasonable prices. There are avenues for rambling; and at the border-line is a grand hill, which stretches along the entire length of the village. The road winds along the hill at a good elevation, and displays to advantage the valley of the Tweed and the hills on the opposite side, from three to five miles away. In the level parts of the great valley the land is under excellent cultivation, though largely devoted to grazing. The groves, the heavy woodlands, and the single trees which remain from the primeval forest are arranged with scrupulous care and a view to the picturesque. It would seem that one like Scott could not help being inspired by scenes like these. As one considers beautiful Edinburgh, he gets the impression that _there_ is the more befitting residence for the great romancer; but once in Melrose, and on the top of these lovely hills, he feels that here Scott was in his element. Our first step was to go to a hotel, dine, and determine the proper course for sight-seeing. Talking the matter over with our hostess we were advised to join a party of two or three others, take a team, and go first to Abbotsford, and stop on our way back at the abbey, which was in fact but a few minutes' walk from the hotel. The advice was accepted, and we were soon on the way to Abbotsford. We passed through several streets, and into the suburbs; then, over pleasant roads, by beautiful farms, the lovely Tweed more or less of the time in view; and next, through narrow lanes, till we came in sight of Abbotsford. The place has a low look, for it is on the slightly elevated part of the meadow, in a northern parish of Melrose. Sir Walter bought the estate in 1811, being then at the age of forty. He soon after rebuilt the mansion, enlarging it as his fortunes permitted. He named it from an adjoining ford, called the Abbot's Ford, on the River Tweed, which here is a small stream that runs through the estate. It is quite sluggish in summer, about thirty feet wide, but greatly swollen by freshets. The house is large, and low in general appearance. It is built of gray limestone, is very irregular in castellated outline, with numerous small towers and gables. It is so low that we can look down upon it from the travelled road. The estate is approached by a lane from the main road. The garden is walled in, and the meadow-land outside reaches to the river. The external walls of the house and garden have built into them relics of ancient abbeys and carvings from old castles. At the decease of Sir Walter, Sept. 21, 1832, the building was occupied by James Hope Scott, Esq.; and his wife, the sole surviving daughter of Sir Walter, lived there until her death, Oct. 26, 1858. It then went by inheritance to their daughter, but during her minority it was let for the use of a Roman Catholic seminary. On the day of our visit we found her in possession; but during the larger part of the day visitors are admitted to the principal rooms of the first story. The business affairs appear to be managed by a matron who, after taking our shillings, explains, systematically and hurriedly, the various objects of interest for about half an hour,--all the time she can afford, and as much perhaps as we should give if standing in her place. The house is a source of great revenue, for no pleasant day passes without visitors. In the reception-room we await the return of the maiden, who is just then guiding another party. They come into the room wearing an expression that says they _have seen_, if they have not conquered. They wend their way slowly out of the grounds, up the narrow lane, to their carriages, and then, though breathing freer, they continue so absorbed in admiration that they have no energy to expend in regrets over the shortness of their stay. The experience of one party is that of all who have brains to comprehend the facts. A visit to Abbotsford is like a flash of lightning, which, for the moment, lights up miles of landscape, and then leaves the beholder to mentally repicture what is still there, but veiled from his view. An experience like this was ours at Strasburg, where a momentary light from our high hotel window exhibited the cathedral, the lofty roofs of the houses, and the storks standing on one leg on the chimney-tops. Brief was our half-hour at Abbotsford, but it was enough to write the spot indelibly upon memory's tablets. But we now follow our guide, and are ushered first into the study. This is a room not far from twenty feet square and fifteen feet high. It is finished in oak, and has a heavy wrought ceiling of the same material. On one side is a coal grate, surrounded by a red marble mantel, with a lamp upon it, and a small marble obelisk monument. The grate, fire-screen, and poker remain as they were fifty-one years ago. At the centre of the room is the mahogany desk at which he sat,--plain and flat-topped. It has five drawers on each side, with an opening for the sitter's feet between the rows. The armchair is near it,--a good-sized comfortable chair, and covered with light-brown leather. The wall-spaces are filled with books, and a light cast-iron gallery extends partly around the room. Above this gallery are other reference books. On the side opposite the chimney, in front of a window, is a sort of casket, having a plate-glass top. It needs not that the maid should tell us that here are the last clothes worn by the poet. A well written paper so states, but the pictures of him have long before given the information. For their description we appeal to our note-books. At the left are the shoes,--large, thick, and made of coarse leather. They are moderately low-cut, much strained by his high instep, well blacked, and considerably worn. They have no binding or lining, and are tied with leather strings laced through four or five holes. In the centre is a well ironed and carefully folded pair of pants, once black and white, but now yellowish plaid,--the plaids a scant quarter-inch square; and there is the large waistcoat with alternating brown and white stripes, perhaps a sixteenth of an inch wide, and running lengthwise. Next there is a large white and wide-brimmed stove-pipe fur hat, with rather a short nap. It shows hard usage, for there are a number of dents in it. Finally, there is a dark-blue frock-coat,--said to have gilt buttons, but they are folded out of sight. How pleasing it would be to pass into a reverie in this great presence! We pass into the splendid and unusual library. The ceiling has oak mouldings and deep panels, said to be copies from an ancient castle. The sides are covered with books from floor nearly to ceiling. The furniture is rich and various, much of it presented by distinguished men. In a square showcase on a table are exposed for exhibition small articles that were given to Sir Walter by kings, queens, and other persons of noble blood. Among them are snuff-boxes,--gold, silver, ivory, pearl, shell, and papier-maché. The floor is of polished oak, and without carpets. The library is not far from twenty-five feet wide, forty-five long, and fifteen feet high. We next pass into the dining-room, which is about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long, and is the one in which the great owner breathed his last. It also has an oak floor, and is without furniture, save a few chairs for the use of visitors. At one end is a large bay-window, looking out on the great lawn, extending from the house to the Tweed. It adds a peculiar interest to know that Sir Walter so loved nature that, when he saw the great consummation approaching, he desired to be removed from his chamber to this room, where he might once more gaze upon this scene and his favorite river, which was flowing away like his own life. A couch was brought, and placed against the side wall, with its foot towards the window, and there the silver cord was loosed, the golden bowl broken, the pitcher shattered at the fountain, the wheel broken at the cistern, and the poet was no more a mortal. The temptation is resistless to say a few words about Scott's previous life. He had become worn down with his attempts to earn enough to meet the claims made against him, $400,000, in consequence of the failure of his publisher, Ballantine. At first he left Abbotsford and went to London to do this work. Becoming a mere wreck of his former self, he went to the shores of the Mediterranean; but at last, when hope deferred had made the heart sick, he returned to London, went to a small hotel, the St. James, at 76 Jermyn Street, and there passed three melancholy weeks before going to his home on the Tweed. Mr. Lockhart, who was with him, gives the following graphic account: When we reached the hotel, he recognized us with many marks of tenderness, but signified that he was totally exhausted; so no attempt was made to remove him farther, and he was put to bed immediately. To his children, all assembled once more about him, he repeatedly gave his blessing in a very solemn manner, as if expecting immediate death; but he was never in a condition for conversation, and sank either into sleep or delirious stupor upon the slightest effort. Mr. Ferguson, who was seldom absent from his pillow, says:-- When I first saw Sir Walter, he was lying on the second-floor-back room of the St. James Hotel in Jermyn Street, in a state of stupor, from which, however, he would be roused for a moment by being addressed; and then he recognized those about him, but immediately relapsed. I think I never saw anything more magnificent than the symmetry of his colossal bust, as he lay on the pillow with his chest and neck exposed. During the time he was in Jermyn Street he was calm but never collected, and in general was either in absolute stupor or in a waking dream. He never seemed to know where he was, but imagined himself to be still in the steamboat. The rattling of carriages and the noises of the street sometimes disturbed this illusion, and then he fancied himself at the polling of Jedburgh, where he had been insulted and stoned.... At length his constant yearnings to return to Abbotsford induced his physicians to consent to his removal,--a consent which, the moment it was notified to him, seemed to infuse new vigor into his frame. It was on a calm, clear afternoon of the 7th of July [1832] that every preparation was made for his embarkation on board the steamboat. He was placed on a chair by his faithful servant, Nicholson, half-dressed, and loosely wrapped in a quilted dressing-gown. He requested Lockhart and myself to wheel him towards the light of the open window, and we both remarked the vigorous lustre of his eye. He sat there silently gazing on space for more than half an hour, apparently wholly occupied with his own thoughts, and having no distinct perception of where he was, or how he came there. He suffered himself to be lifted into his carriage, which was surrounded by a crowd, among whom were many gentlemen on horseback, who loitered about to gaze on the scene. His children were deeply affected, and Mrs. Lockhart trembled from head to foot and wept bitterly. Thus surrounded by those nearest to him, he alone was unconscious of the cause or the depth of their grief, and while yet alive seemed to be carried to his grave. He embarked on the steamer, and after a four days' sail, on the 11th of July his eye once more brightened as he caught sight of the familiar waters of the Tweed, and when at length he recognized the towers of his own Abbotsford, he sprang up in the carriage with delight. He was carried to his chamber, where he remained till his death on the 21st of September. We have no apology to make for this digression, for Scott has given to Scotland and English literature a new glory. We now resume our walk over the house, and pass through the museum, which is some twelve feet wide and forty feet long. Various kinds of armor prevail, and many interesting things that were presented to the "Lord of the domain." Fifty-one years are gone since the great poet was here, but all else remains as it was. We sit down in his study, as if waiting for him to come; and so real is everything that, should the sound of his heavy feet be heard in the hall, should he enter in person, the gulf of years would as by magic be bridged over and forgotten. He arranged this house only for his home; but he unwittingly made it a Jerusalem for countless pilgrims. We passed meditatingly up the lane, mounted the team, and in spite of the clack of the driver, of hills and dales,--in spite of anything material,--those unmaterial memories held sway. We had been to Abbotsford, and its inspiration would evermore be _ours_. An odor or a sunset was never fully described, though some can tell the story better than others. A lamp lighted from another does not reduce the original flame, and so it is with visits to any shrine. A million may go to Abbotsford, but it loses nothing by these draughts of pleasure. Our carriage ride ended, we are at Melrose Abbey. How many times Sir Walter stood on this spot. His advice was:-- If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight, For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild but to flout the ruins gray. This we could not do, but we saw the abbey at the close of a fine day, as the sun threw its rays aslant in long lines across the grand ruins. We are met by a young maiden whose father has charge of the premises. We pay our shilling to enter, and first of all are impressed with the great _beauty_ of the place. It is a large church, once belonging to the abbey, the latter having long since been destroyed. The nave, aisles, and transepts are roofless. Here and there, neatly piled against the walls, are fallen stones that once were part of the edifice. The floor is covered with that velvety grass which delights to take possession of places like this; and it is not to be blamed, for the grass is emblematic of mortals who would do the same if they could. The walls are solid and lofty, and a part of the groined ceiling of the choir remains. The windows are perfect in their stone tracery of mullions and transoms. Instinctively we look for the great chancel with its east window,--and adore, and see the force of Scott's description:-- The moon on the east oriel shone Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined. Thou wouldst have thought some fairy hand 'Twixt poplars straight the osier wand, In many a freakish knot had twined; Then framed a spell when work was done And changed the willow wreaths to stone. In this wall, under this window, was buried the heart of Robert Bruce. Here are tombs of men too great to have their dust mingle with common soil. We are delighted with the ivy, climbing at random,--sometimes very thick and grand in its mantling power. We pass out of the side door, and are in the burial-ground of two or three acres. Not cared for by mortals, Nature--in great unison with her possessions and conscious of her sacred trust--prohibits the intrusion of rambling vine or unsightly weed. How varied are the views of tower and gable, of buttress unbroken or in partial ruin! Remove a stone, or repair one, and you do injury. Here repose the ashes of monk and nun, who centuries ago entered their free immortality. The abbey was founded by David I. in 1136, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary ten years after. It was occupied first by monks of the Cistercian order, who had come from Yorkshire. In 1322, after a peaceable occupancy of 176 years, its quiet was disturbed by the invasion of an army under the authority of Edward II., and the building was greatly injured. Robert Bruce soon after commenced its rebuilding, after the present design. It was not favored, however, with long repose, for in 1385 it suffered again; but it was again repaired, and then enjoyed a rest of 160 years. In 1545 it once more suffered severely from English invaders. Again repaired, it remained quiet for a time, but during the Reformation, under Cromwell, its choicest sculptures were mutilated. To the shame of human nature be it said, in later times many of its stones have been carried away for the erection of other buildings; but yet, after full five centuries have flown, it remains one of the few grand and satisfying examples of Gothic architecture in the world. We leave the ruins for a ramble over the town. In the business parts there is neatness and a limited commercial life. Then we go to the rear, through one of the most romantic roads imaginable, and up the hillside for the views already described. We had arranged to leave town that night, but the entire hill seemed to beseech us to "Come up hither." We halted "between two opinions." One of the hard questions was to decide whether to go or to stay. Body and spirit were in antagonism; but remembering a long line of good places ahead, we urged our unwilling feet to descend this hill of Zion, which yielded "a thousand sacred sweets." If anything makes travelling companions mute, it is such a condition. No jokes, no attempts to say smart things, no more eulogistic talk about fine scenery are in order; the effort is to try and forget we are losing it. The walk to a station is not a Galop, but is rather a Dead March in such a mood. At 5 P. M. we take cars for Newcastle-on-Tyne, and so in a few hours shall be out of Scotland, for we are on the border. Dundee, Dunfermline, Aberdeen, are unvisited,--and Dryburgh Abbey, where Scott's ashes repose, though it is but five miles away. Jedburgh Abbey also is unseen; but we trust the reader will some day go over this ground, and then he can really sympathize with our loss. ENGLAND. CHAPTER XV. NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE--DURHAM. We arrived in Newcastle at 10 P. M., after a five hours' ride from Melrose. The city has quite a history, and as we desired to break the long ride to Durham, we were ready to stop here over night, for we made it a rule to refrain from night travel. This is the chief town of old Northumberland, on the right bank of the River Tyne, eight miles from its mouth, and has a population of 128,443. It is built on three steep hills, although between them are the business portions on level ground. It extends two miles along the river, and is connected with Gateshead, on the opposite side of the river, by a handsome stone bridge. There are remains of ancient fortifications. The streets are spacious, and there are many elegant buildings, but there is that smoky condition characteristic of large manufacturing places. There are here fine buildings for public baths and wash-houses, built in 1859. The High Level Bridge across the Tyne was built by Robert Stevenson. It is supported by six massive piers 124 feet apart, and has a carriage-way 90 feet above the river; and 28 feet over that is the viaduct, 118 feet above the water. The cost was $1,172,250. There is an antiquarian museum in the old castle tower, containing the largest collection of lapidary inscriptions and sculptures in England. The castle was built in 1080, by Robert, eldest son of William the Conqueror. It has been restored in many parts. Though very small, being scarcely more than a low tower some 75 feet in diameter, it is one of the finest specimens of Norman architecture in the kingdom. Situated at the junction of the principal streets, and being readily seen from the station, the contrast between the ancient and modern is impressive. The harbor, now greatly improved, has a quay 1550 feet long. The traffic is principally in bituminous coal, for which the city is the greatest mart in the world; hence the adage about the impropriety of carrying coals to Newcastle. This trade has been important from ancient time, for the burgesses obtained from Henry III. in 1239--more than 644 years ago--"a license to dig coal," and by the time of Edward I. the business had so increased that Newcastle paid a tax of £200. In 1615 the trade had so advanced as to employ 400 ships, and the traffic extended into France and the Netherlands. 200,000 tons of coke are sent out annually. Lead is also shipped in large quantities. The ore is brought from Cumberland, and the northwestern Northumberland Hills, and also from Durham, and is here worked into piglead, and manufactured into sheets and pipes. This trade is even more ancient than the coal traffic. About a mile from the place is the holy well of Jesus Mound, now called Jesmond, which was formerly a favorite pilgrim resort. During the reign of Charles I. the city was taken by the Scottish army in 1640, and again in 1644. The Church of St. Nicholas is an ancient but spacious structure of decorated English style, having a tower and spire 193 feet high, of elegant and graceful proportions. St. Andrew's Church is an ancient Norman edifice with a large, low, embattled tower. There are other churches of considerable renown,--such as All Saints, with a circular interior, and Grecian steeple 202 feet high; and last but by no means least, the Roman Catholic Church of St. Mary, of magnificent early English architecture. At 9.30 A. M. of the next day, Friday, we left for DURHAM, where we arrived in an hour. In all England no more picturesquely situated place exists, for it is embowered in trees, and stands on a rocky hill, rising from the River Wear. On the summit is the cathedral built of yellow stone. It has three towers without spires, which, together with the roof and a part of the church walls, rise imposingly out of the surrounding foliage. The place has a population of 14,406. The river banks are skirted by overhanging gardens with fine walks, beyond which the houses rise above each other, till all are crowned by the cathedral itself. To add an intensity of beauty, on the summit of a rocky eminence near by are the remains of a Norman castle. The division north of the castle contains most of the stores, and has one of those English commercial conveniences, a market-place. Among the public buildings are a town-hall in the Tudor baronial style, a theatre, seven parish churches, a school of art, and a university. The old Church of St. Nicholas, now in thorough repair, is one of the finest specimens of church architecture in the North of England. The old castle is opposite the cathedral. It was founded by William the Conqueror, who died Sept. 9, 1087, so that the structure is eight hundred years old; and was built for the purpose of maintaining the royal authority in the adjacent district, especially by resisting the inroads of the Scots. Many additions have been made to it, so that it is now difficult to say which parts are old and which new; but no question exists in relation to the great antiquity of the foundations and lower portions, and of the very ancient date of some of the higher parts of much above them. For many years it was the residence of the bishops of Durham, but of late has been given up to the use of the university. The See of Durham is the richest in England. The revenues are very great, and one bishop left $1,000,000 at his decease a few years ago. Collieries and railroads have given a powerful impetus to this aristocratic place, which has now considerable trade and large carpet manufactures. It has long been noted for Durham Mustard, a commodity to be found in the best groceries of America. In the vicinity of Durham is Neville's Cross, erected by Lord Neville, in commemoration of the defeat of David II. of Scotland, in 1346. There is also a Roman fortress, called the Maiden Castle. Durham is permeated and enveloped not only with a pleasure-inspiring element, but with those æsthetic conditions which, although obscured, here and there crop out in cathedral towns. These latter words contain the secret of all this interest--_cathedral towns_. Once England was absolutely controlled by the Church. There is a vast deal more in the expression Church and State, than is generally understood by a young American. The Church, both temporally and spiritually, was above king, prince, potentate, or judge. This was distinctly claimed by a bull of Pope Urban, and was acknowledged till the time of Henry VIII., who struck it a death-blow by proclaiming _himself_ Head of the Church. How far this was in advance of the act of Richard Coeur de Lion,--"the lion-hearted," who died April 6, 1199,--who, when he left for the Holy Land, placed his realm definitely in the hands of the Bishop of Durham, where it had practically been for a long time before. Of course the all-absorbing object of interest is the cathedral itself. As much soil is not covered by any other building in all England of more historic renown. It is indeed a feast of intellectual "wine on the lees, and well refined." It was founded in 1093, and so was four hundred years old when the realm was being disturbed by reports that Columbus was seeking aid for the exploration of a new continent of doubtful existence. It is 507 feet long, and 200 feet wide at the transepts. It has a central tower 214 feet high, and two others that are alike, at the west end, facing down to the river, almost on the verge of the cliff-like embankments. On account of its great height it is commanding in appearance. These west towers are 143 feet high, with a lofty gable between them. The whole west front is elaborately finished, though not bold in detail. There is great boldness of outline, though no deep and very distinct ornamentation. The material is yellowish sandstone, somewhat dingy, but plainly betraying its original tint. The edifice is mainly of Norman architecture, but repairs and restorations have been made; and, according to usage, each new part was in the style of architecture presented at the period of restoration,--which was not _restoration_ but _alteration_; for there was really no restoration of _design_, and sometimes not even a reproduction of _form_. All styles of ecclesiastical architecture are to be found in one building,--from the Norman, down through the Early English, to the latest or Perpendicular Gothic. This is illustrated in Durham Cathedral, for here are examples of each style, though the Norman prevails; especially in the never overpraised interior, where the ponderous round columns, with their diagonal and lozenge decorations, and the huge round arches, with splendid chevron mouldings, intersecting arches,--and every contour and combination peculiar to the best of the old Norman works,--exist in their perfection. While the beautiful work at Winchester and York Minster, and at Salisbury and Lincoln--in their soaring columns and lofty arches, their rich traceries and decorations, their long lines of groined ceilings, and (as at Salisbury and Lichfield) their grand heavenward-pointing spires--suggest the Resurrection, and the aspiration of humanity, and so do honor to Christianity as distinguished from the low and grovelling tendency of Egyptian or Grecian temple, or even Roman,--while Gothic architecture is suggestive of these higher qualities, the solid columns and arches of Norman Durham speak of eternity, and suggest that nothing good dies. These two were the great steps taken by humanity as it became Christianized. First came a consciousness of existing good, and an accompanying desire to perpetuate it. Next came aspiration,--a reaching out and up, after still better life. The Egyptian or Grecian mind was satisfied with things as they were, and found consequent satisfaction in the low temple of Edfu or the unpinnacled Parthenon. It was for the Christian aspiration to demand and only be partially satisfied with--tall columns and lofty arches, high towers and spires, reaching sometimes, like that at Salisbury, more than four hundred feet toward "The third heaven where God resides, That holy happy place." The ponderous pyramids of Egypt, the fantastic temples of India, had height and breadth, but not a suggestion of anything above and beyond themselves. They were, after all, only heaps of material, plain like the pyramids,--or gorgeous and uncouth Indian piles, having in view the honor of some earthly king or some imaginary god, one among many. There was no attempt to do honor to the "King of kings, and Lord of lords." Nowhere were the contributions of the people concentrated for their own good, and for the blessing of generations to come. A cathedral embodies this idea. It is a connecting link between the old dispensation and the new; and, unlike our Bible, it has no blank leaves between the Old and New Testaments. Two things in Durham Cathedral demand our particular attention. One is the Sanctuary Ground, and the other is Galilee Chapel at the west end. Outside the cathedral, at the great northern side door, there is a large and grotesque brass knocker,--a head with staring, hollow eyes, and a ring in its mouth. In olden time a criminal, fleeing from justice, who was able to reach and lift this knocker, was safe from arrest. A monk was all the time stationed inside to open the door to every applicant. The ground-floor of the northwestern tower was the sanctuary ground. A work on the "Antiquities of Durham Cathedral" gives the following statement:-- The culprit upon knocking at the ring affixed to the north door was admitted without delay, and after confessing his crime, with every minute circumstance connected with it, the whole of which was committed to writing in the presence of witnesses, a bell in the Galilee tower ringing all the while, to give notice to the town that some one had taken refuge in the church, there was put upon him a black gown with a yellow cross upon its left shoulder, as a badge of Cuthbert, whose _girth_, or peace, he had claimed. When thirty-seven days had elapsed, if no pardon could be obtained, the malefactor, after certain ceremonies before the shrine, solemnly abjured his native land forever, and was straightway, by the agency of the intervening parish constables, conveyed to the coast, bearing in his hand a white wooden cross, and was sent out of the kingdom by the first ship which sailed after his arrival. The old knocker remains at its post, though centuries have passed since it last rendered its sacred service, and was tremblingly grasped by a panting fugitive. We assumed this role, but, fortunately or unfortunately, could not knock as a genuine culprit could. The Old Galilee is a room perhaps 55 feet by 75, divided by columns and arches into five sections. The architecture is decorated Norman, finely mixed with Early English, the Norman, or circular arches resting on rather slender columns. It was built by Bishop Pudsey in the twelfth century. In this chapel are the remains of the Venerable Bede, and more venerated dust reposes not in any cathedral. He was probably born in Monkton in Durham, in 672, and died at Girvy, May 26, 735. He was educated in a monastery, and his learning and ability as a scholar and writer were remarkable. He was ordained a priest at the age of thirty. His "Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation" was a work of great labor, and is still the most reliable authority on the early period of which it treats. He compiled it from chronicles and traditions handed down in the convents, and from miscellaneous testimony; and it is remarkably free from those exaggerations and contortions which fill many books of later monkish historians. His other literary labors were extraordinary, and his devotion to such work was singularly enthusiastic. It is stated that during his final illness, he continued to dictate to an amanuensis the conclusion of a translation of St. John's Gospel into Anglo Saxon; and that as soon as he had completed the last sentence he requested the assistant to place him on the floor of his cell, where he said a short prayer, and expired as the last words passed his lips. In the cathedral are copies of his "Historia Ecclesiastica," as first printed in German in 1475; others are in the British Museum and in Paris. They were translated from the Latin into Anglo Saxon by King Alfred in 1644, and into English in 1722,--and many times since, the latest translation having been made in 1871. It should be stated that pretended bones of Bede are scattered throughout the world; and though his monument is here, but little if any of his mortal remains are beneath it. Large volumes of manuscripts in his handwriting are in the library of the cathedral, and they are of inexpressible interest. It is related in the old chronicles that, being blind during the latter days of his life, he was led one day by a dissembling guide to a pile of rough stones, and told that there was present a company of persons desiring to hear him preach. Inclined to gratify their request he preached to them, and when he finished, the stones, animated by divine power, ejaculated, like an assembled multitude, "Deo gracias, Amen." In this Galilee room are also the remains of St. Cuthbert, the patron saint of the church, who died in 687. He was, in 644, prior at Melrose Abbey. His austerity and fondness for monastic life were remarkable, and in order to gratify his feelings he retired to the Island of Farne. It was a very barren place, and destitute of wood or water, but he dug wells and cultivated grain. The fame of his holiness brought many visitors, among them Elfleda, daughter of King Osway the Northumbrian, with whom he condescended to converse through a window; but for more effectual seclusion from the self-invited crowd, he dug a trench around his cabin and filled it with water. In 684 he was induced to yield to the prayer of King Egfrid and accept the bishopric of Hexam, and from this he removed to Lindisfarne. After two years he resigned this office, so uncongenial to his taste, and retired to end his life in his former hut on the Isle of Farne. He died in it, and when the Danes invaded the ecclesiastical domain of Lindisfarne, the fleeing monks carried his remains with them from place to place, till at last they were deposited on the banks of River Wear, where a shrined convent arose, then a church, and finally this cathedral at Durham. The legends concerning him are among the literary treasures of the cathedral, and by reason of the traditions as well as history are not unworthily appreciated. No one dead has spoken more effectually to the living than he. His name and fame, as a great intercessor with the Almighty, were for centuries a household word. He was considered by the northern peasantry as the saint of saints, and constant, tedious, and sacrificing pilgrimages were made to his shrine. Bede says that his body was found incorrupt eleven years after burial, and that it so continued. The coffin was opened in 1827, and the corpse found to be enveloped in five silken robes. The eyes were of glass, movable by the least jar, and the hair was of a fine gold wire. These things were done by deceptive priests, who annually pretended to take or cut hair from his head, which they said grew immediately. This is not the St. Cuthbert who was a Benedictine monk, a pupil of Bede, and who attended him in his last hours, and finally wrote the memoir of his life. There was yet another Cuthbert who was Bishop of Canterbury from 740 to 758. The cathedral has but few monuments, and these are not of great interest. It is somewhat remarkable that monuments seem to prevail in some cathedrals, and that there is an absence of them in the others. Some communities then, as in our own day, appeared to consider the commemoration of the dead as a religious duty, and others to neglect the practice, or consider it hardly worthy of their attention. The places of New England burial in their respective variety of care or neglect attest this. "For thus our fathers testified,-- That he might read who ran,-- The emptiness of human pride, The nothingness of man." This cathedral has had a long list of bishops, and among them very distinguished men. The name Durham has an ecclesiastical charm to a churchman, and to him the phrase, "Bishop of Durham," suggests honor, dignity, and renown. Here once presided Bishop Poore, the famous architect of the cathedral of Salisbury. He was translated from that See to this, and was bishop here from 1228 to 1237, when he died; and then, in 1311, Richard Kellow was elected bishop. He brought with him an inflexible piety, but colored with the extremest humility of the cloister. He was celebrated for a steady and unflinching sense of duty. The meanest vassal shared his protection, and neither wealth nor rank could with him screen a criminal from punishment; and the proudest baron within his bishopric was once obliged to submit to the public penance imposed by a humble ecclesiastic, who, without forgetting his duties, made the imposition, and was sustained by Kellow. Richard Fox, the founder of Corpus Christi College at Oxford, was bishop here from 1494 to 1501, when he was translated to Winchester. He was afflicted with blindness for many years before his death, but under the pressure of age and infirmity, yet doing his work well, his spirit of integrity was yet unbroken; and when Cardinal Wolsey, desiring his place, wished him to resign his bishopric, he replied that he could no longer distinguish black from white, yet he could discriminate right from wrong, truth from falsehood, and could well discern the malice of an ungrateful man. He then warned the proud favorite of the king to beware, lest ambition should render him blind to his surely approaching ruin; and he bade him attend closer to the king's legitimate business, and leave Winchester to her bishop. The aged prelate died in 1528, and was buried in his own chapel in Winchester Cathedral, where his tomb and its monument exist as fine specimens of the latest style of Gothic architecture. The cardinal was himself Bishop of Durham for six years, and by reason of his grasping spirit and hold on the king, he was at the same time Archbishop of York; but at the death of Fox, the longed-for chair was vacant; he at once resigned York, and was made Bishop of Winchester. He continued to hold the See of Durham, but was never afterwards known to visit it. It would be pleasant as well as instructing to review the life of this remarkable man, but limits forbid. Other bishops could with advantage be spoken of,--and they are many, and the record is interesting,--but we must forbear. We only say in closing, that very eminent and conspicuous among them is the name of Joseph Butler, who was made Bishop of Durham in 1750, having been translated from the See of Bristol. He was born in Wantage, May 18, 1692, and died at Bath, while there on a visit in hope of recovering his health, June 16, 1752. No man has possessed more strength of mind, or better acuteness and clearness of reasoning than he, and of this his well known "Analogy of Religion" is ample proof. Nor have any excelled him in goodness of heart. He held the See but eighteen months; and, although in advanced years, he is spoken of to this day as a person of genuine modesty and a natural sweetness of disposition. It is said that when engaged in the more immediate work of his office,--preaching,--that a divine illumination seemed to pervade his entire being, and to fill the whole atmosphere. His pale and wan countenance was lighted up by a transfiguring light, as though the Holy Ghost were indeed speaking through him. We must refrain from a long description of relics and especial things of interest seen here, but will name a small box in which are three gold seal-rings, not long ago removed from the coffins of bishops; one from the finger of Flumbard, who died in 1128; one from William of St. Barbery, 1153; and the other from Galfred Rufus, 1140. Next, are rings and other iron-work from St. Cuthbert's coffin; also, gold hair-wire, and parts of his robe. Books written by monks, and other things of moment and interest, are in profusion. We would speak of the remarkable marble pulpit just put in, which cost $25,000,--of the elegant stained windows, of the grand old carved reredos, with the great number of statuettes; but we must forbear, and now take leave of the grand old place and of Durham itself. We have named but a few of the many things of great interest and moment. As each of these chapters terminates, there is painfully apparent a consciousness of what has _not_ been described or even named, as well as regrets at the fact of a mere skeleton of description when the best thing has been done. If, however, enough has been said, and left unsaid, to create a taste for further reading, pursuit of information, consultation of histories, cyclopædias, and repositories of information relating to these things, then our best work is done, and our highest anticipations realized. And now at 3.45 P. M., this same day of arrival, we leave for York, the seat of the celebrated York Minster, of not only English celebrity but of world-wide renown. CHAPTER XVI. YORKSHIRE--YORK--SHEFFIELD--LINCOLN. We are now leaving Durham for a ride of sixty-seven miles to the city of York, the other fashionable metropolis of England. The passage is through the county of Yorkshire, which, for the combination of good agriculture, population, manufactures, beauty of scenery, and historical renown, is not excelled if equalled by any other county of Great Britain. The people are peculiar, and have a dialect of their own; they are tall in stature, shrewd at bargains, and are tenacious of their own manners and customs. Here abound grand mansions, and large tracts of land laid down as parks, and so we find less uncared land than in any other part of England. One cannot travel over this country and not think of the time when William the Conqueror, by his hostility to the inhabiting Saxons, caused destruction and ruin to prevail. History says:-- He wasted the land between York and Durham, so that for threescore miles there was left in manner, no habitation for the people, by reason whereof it laid waste and desert for nine or ten years. The goodlie cities, with the towers and steeples set upon a statelie height, and reaching as it were into the air; the beautiful fields and pastures watered with the course of sweet and pleasant rivers; if a stranger should then have beheld, and also knowne what they were before, he would have lamented. We do not stop here, but can hardly fail to think of the Conquerer himself. As he lay in the agonies of death he cried out:-- Laden with many and grievous sins, O Christ, I tremble, and being ready to be taken by Thy will into the terrible presence of God, I am ignorant what I should do, for I have been brought up in feats of arms even from a child. I am greatly polluted with the effect of much blood. A royal diadem that never any of my predecessors did bear I have gotten; and although manly greediness on my triumph doth rejoice, yet inwardly a careful fear pricketh and biteth me when I consider that in all these cruel rashness hath raged. But we must leave these intervening lands and speak of the famed city itself. YORK. This is _Old_ York, while our New Amsterdam that was, Manhattan Island, is the _New_ one. It is the capital of Yorkshire, and situated on both sides of the River Ouse, at its junction with the River Foss, and is 175 miles from London. Its population is 43,709. The river is crossed by a fine stone bridge, while there are also several others of less repute. The city is very compactly built. It is but three miles in circuit, and was once entirely, and is now partly, surrounded by walls originally erected by the Romans. It was entered by gates, four of which remain as they were centuries ago. The streets are not very wide, but are well paved and very neat, and the city presents a solid and substantial appearance. It has a good commercial or trade aspect in the market parts, and in the other portions has a homelike atmosphere, and a very large number of hotels, for the place is one of resort for fashionable winter life. It is the emporium of style for the northern part of England, and in this respect is hardly inferior to London. The buildings are mainly of brick, three or four stories high. Its history reaches far back into antiquity. During the Roman dominion, York was the seat of the general government, and was important while London was yet rude and semi-barbaric. Are we fully prepared to realize that the Roman Emperor Septimus Severus lived here, and here died in the year 212, or but 179 years after the death of Christ? Here also died in 306, Constantius Cholorus, the father of Constantine the Great. 1577 years are gone since the death of the distinguished individual named! In the war with William the Conqueror, the citizens joined with the Scots and Danes for his repulsion, but on their defeat they razed their homes and city to the ground. It was rebuilt, and was destroyed by fire in 1137. During the great massacre of the Jews, which took place in England after the coronation of Richard I., several hundred Jewish inhabitants of York, having in vain attempted to defend themselves in the castle, slew their wives and children, set fire to their houses, and themselves perished in the flames. Lord Fairfax captured the place from the Royalists in 1644, and in 1688 James II., for its arbitrary measures in opposition to the crown, took away its charter, and its fortunes and conditions then varied for more than two thousand years. Indeed, its soil is classic ground. Here the Emperor Hadrian, one of imperial Rome's distinguished ones, dwelt, more kingly and regal than has since lived any king. Over these roads Severus, the great Emperor, has passed, and on Stiver's Hill, west of the city, the funeral obsequies over his mortal remains took place. Here Constantine, the first great Christian of many who came out of paganism, also dwelt. Everywhere there is a classic renown. Do we, as we are walking here on this fine summer day, comprehend the scheme? The birds in these trees sing as sweetly as in olden time; the sheep graze quietly on the outlying plains as they did a thousand years ago. The shadows, made by passing clouds, chase each other across our path as others did over theirs. Here are the same sun and similar clouds, and birds and trees, but the seasons of a thousand and a half of years intervene. Millions of beings have lived and died. Their dust has mingled with parent soil; it has been caught up, and transformed into plant and flower and tree; and, passing through fruit, or flesh of animal, into humanity, has gone back again and become mingled, and out into life yet again, and its history has been repeated in new organizations and bodies and forms. We talk not of transmigration of soul, but we may say that the process has developed a better phase of humanity; and these last productions are more imperial and royal than Hadrian, Septimus, or Constantine; than William the Conqueror, Edward the Confessor, than Cromwell, Jeffries, or Laud. Upward and onward has been the march. The millennium has come in this way, and humanity has marched with steady tread towards it. Queen Victoria and Dean Stanley and John Bright and Gladstone are the blossoms, or a flowering-out,--a grand fruitage. In them, also, are the seed and germs of a yet greater progress, and another day is to gather fruit from these later trees, the leaves of which "are for the healing of the nations." York gave birth, May 8, 1731, to Beilby Porteus, a distinguished prelate, who was chaplain to Secker, the Archbishop of Canterbury, in 1762, chaplain to George III. in 1769, Bishop of Chester in 1776, and Bishop of London, 1787, where he presided till his death, May 14, 1808. And she is also honored as being the birthplace of John Flaxman, the renowned sculptor, who was born July 6, 1755, and died at London, Dec. 9, 1826. Among his well-known productions are the monuments of the poet Collins at Winchester Cathedral, of Lord Nelson and of Howe, of Sir Joshua Reynolds, of Mansfield, and of Kemble. In early days he supported himself by making designs for the Wedgewoods, manufacturers of celebrated pottery and works of ceramic art; and by-and-by he astonished the world by his artistic illustration of Homer and �schylus, and afterwards of Dante. He was also the author of Scriptural compositions,--excelling in fine diction as well as in deep religious fervor and pathos. Here, A. D. 735, more than 1100 years ago, was born Flaccus Albinus Alcuin, even for that early day an eminent scholar and churchman, and a pupil of the Venerable Bede. He was a schoolmaster and librarian at the cathedral; and later, by invitation of Emperor Charlemagne, in 780, he went to France, probably to Aix la Chapelle, and opened a school, where his instructions were attended by the Emperor and his court; and this school is presumed to be the germ of the present University of Paris. He was the intimate friend and confidential adviser of the Emperor, and so even the destinies of nations are traced directly to him. Although he was the most learned man of his age, eloquent, pious, and renowned, yet his extreme modesty and fineness of temperament and nature caused him to shrink from the responsibilites of a bishop; and, though repeatedly urged to permit his ordination as such, he peremptorily refused, and would accept no higher office than that of deacon. He died lamented as few ever can be, May 19, 804, 1079 years ago. Here was born in 1606, and died in 1682, Sir Thomas Herbert, the renowned traveller. Anticipating Stanley two and a half centuries, he published in 1634 his celebrated work, "Some Years' Travels into Africa, and the Great Asia, especially the Territories of the Persian Monarchy." He was made a baron by Charles II. Though a stanch and avowed Presbyterian, so kind was he, and so courteous in disposition and manner, that Charles I. retained him as one of his attendants to the last, long after all the others had been dismissed. We close the list of notable men by naming but one more of a vast number,--William Etty, the painter, born here March 10, 1787. He was a pupil of Sir Thomas Lawrence, and for a time unsuccessful; but in 1831 one of his pictures was admitted to the exhibition given by the Royal Academy, and this brought him before the public as an artist of ability. It was his "Cleopatra's Arrival at Celicia," in which the nude female form was depicted with remarkable correctness and voluptuous glow of color. He is now considered to have been one of the chief artists of the English school. He wrote his own biography, which was published in the London Art Journal in 1849. He died at York, Nov. 13, of the same year, at the age of sixty-two. The temptation is irresistible to add that in Keighly, a near town, on the 8th of December, 1823, was born that distinguished preacher and eminent lecturer, Rev. Robert Collyer, late of Unity Church, Chicago, now of the Church of the Messiah, New York; so that, by _personal_ ties, _Old_ and _New_ York are worthily connected. Of the noble record of men of Yorkshire, there is none of which she may entertain a juster pride, than that of our great American divine. We now leave York as a city, and her especial celebrities, to speak of two things of great interest to all tourists, viz: the remains of the abbey, and the famed York Minster. The Abbey of St. Mary, now a mass of elegant ruins, is not far from the Minster. It was founded by William Rufus, who was slain in the New Forest, Aug. 2, 1100. The college connected with the abbey was founded by Henry VI., who is believed to have been killed in the Tower of London in May, 1471. The grounds are acres in extent, and are well kept as a choice park, with great neatness and care. We enter them through a gate, at the side of which is a lodge, where tickets are procured, and guide-books, containing engravings, and an account of the premises from their first use for the abbey and its collegiate purposes. Elegant lawns and undulatory lands are here; grand old trees, large and vigorous; finely graded avenues and paths; clumps of flowering shrubs, among them the best of rhododendrons, which on the day of our visit were in fine bloom; and to add to the beauty of the scenery, sheep, such as England, and perhaps only Yorkshire, can boast; Jersey and Alderney cows quietly grazing,--neither sheep nor cows noticing the visitors, the best possible specimens of mind-their-own business-individuals seen on our whole journey. These all combine to give a tranquillity and finish to the landscape, such as befit the place now in use for centuries,--glorious in age, and charming in its loveliness. The ruins are of the choicest and most enchanting kind, with high walls, columns, arches, mouldings, buttresses, and every detail in full, of window and door; and such a carpet of nice low-cropped but thick grass as is seldom seen. What finish everywhere! How little to touch in the way of repair or amendment! Here, as on all ruins, is the companion-like ivy, doing its good work. These ruins seem to be at home. The others we have seen appeared to have a solitary beauty; but here, so in the city, and surrounded by every-day life, finish, care, and animation, they are not companionless. There is a sweet and indescribably good influence about a place like this. How one enjoys the odor of these flowers, the shade of these venerable trees, and of the walls themselves. How easy it is to commune in the extemporized reverie,--and it's no hard task here to extemporize one; how easy it is to "call up spirits from the vasty deep." We examine the great things, and then sit down and admire; next we walk around and get new views. We think of novitiate, of nun, of monk, of collegian, dead and gone five hundred years. Next we go to the museum, a building on the grounds and part of the good premises. Between the main ruins and this building are small ruins, or evidences of things that were, but are not. We go in, and, as at the gate-lodge, a woman is in attendance, and desires a shilling, and we are willing, for the treat, to each give her one. We go in, and what interests are awakened! Old Rome herself can do no better. Not works of Englishmen are now to be examined, or of Briton even,--of Scot or of Celt, but of them of the Eternal City bred and born. A new station for the railway was built a few years ago, and in digging for the foundation a large lot of things of Roman manufacture were found, which, with others once belonging to the venerable abbey, are now deposited here. Among the more noted objects of interest are stone coffins, in which are bodies, covered by a coarse cloth, and as they are imbedded in lime, it would appear that it must have been put about them in a liquid form. Some of these date back fifteen hundred years. Next are pieces of Roman pavement, into which are wrought various devices; and there are also many common, red-clay, earthen pots and jars, or vases of different sizes; a majority of them would hold about three gallons each. These were filled with ashes and burnt bones. They were nearly full, and the materials had either been forced in quite compactly or this solidity came by reason of age. In a glass case, some sixteen inches square and six inches deep, is the scalp of a Roman lady, almost entire, showing the brown hair very perfect, and arranged as it was at the time of her death. This was taken from a leaden coffin in which were found the remains, the date showing that they were buried full sixteen hundred years ago. There is also a display of pottery and household implements, old Roman statuary and utensils; and monumental stones and things of the kind are here in abundance. Aside from these, and in addition, are many things once belonging to the abbey,--the whole a befitting appendage to these ancient grounds. It would seem that there is, in this famed enclosure alone, enough to amply repay one for a journey from America to York. If these ancient things could speak, they would want no more potent words put into their mouths than those of Burns, when he says O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us, To see, oursels, as others see us. We are depending a bit on punctuation to aid the thought and application. Not so much as having heard of these ruins beforehand, we were the more surprised; in plastic condition of mind the impression was made, and it is indelible. "Forget what we may, let what will of our thought become bedimmed,--let memories of St. Mary's remain and be good and fresh as now," said we then, and repeat ever. Our first visit to York Minster was made soon after our arrival. At 6 P. M. the doors are closed, and as it was near or quite that hour, we were content with the good and great privilege of examining the elegant grounds and magnificent exterior. The former are quite large and properly enclosed. The same carpet-like lawn-grass abounds, with a few grand avenues and paths over it, and trees of good age. All was cathedral-precinct-like, tranquil and sanctified; but even here sin and its consequences were present in material form, and the manifestation was quite what happens in Boston, where we have no venerable cathedral nor such grounds. Off a hundred or more feet from the building, reclining on the grass and asleep, was a man beastly drunk. Two policemen came and aroused him and led him away. As at home, boys and women were interested and followed. To the credit of the policemen they did their work well, and in a way befitting the place, they could not well use less force, and they needed to use no more. As we saw the old, old sight, we thought of the terse and comprehensive verdict of Boston's once famous coroner, Pratt, who had held an inquest on one found not only dead drunk, as this man was, but _drunk dead_; and the simple verdict was, "Rum did it." Many instances occur where we have to repeat the old verdict. It's a good safety-valve to our feelings, and having said a true, a comprehensive, an all-the-ground-covering thing, we "rest the case." Rum does it there and here and everywhere, the world over. The great edifice is built of a yellowish and perishable sandstone; parts of it are now in much decay, and the dust or sand lay in small heaps, even about the threshold of the main entrance doors. It reminded us of the yellow dirt we call powder-post, from a dry-rot decaying pine timber. For the most part, however, the structure is in good repair, and in a short time this great west front will be attended to. The decorations of this part are very rich and elaborate. The whole is of exquisite proportions and design, even to minute details. This is the most highly wrought of all the cathedral churches of England. It is the largest so far as extent of ground covered, though not the longest, as it is excelled in length by Winchester, and perhaps by one or two others. The history of the establishment begins in the seventh century; but the present edifice was not begun till after 1150, and it was not completed till 1472, and had been twenty years finished when Columbus discovered America. It is in the form of a cross, with a magnificent square central tower at the intersection, 213 feet high, or only seven feet lower than Bunker Hill monument, though it has not that effect of height. There are two other towers flanking the west front. These are each 196 feet high. They end with an elegant light parapet, and turrets at the four corners and centres. The extreme length is 524 feet. The breadth at transepts is 247 feet. The great east window is 78 feet high and 32 feet wide, filled with elegant stained glass representing about 200 historic events. The tower has a peal of 12 bells, one of which weighs 11½ tons, and is with the exception of that on the great clock tower at the Houses of Parliament, and the new one just placed on the tower of St. Paul's at London, the largest bell in the kingdom. We have spoken especially of its exterior, and are to speak of its interior and its bishops; but before we do so, we are inclined to think we shall once for all render a good service if we devote part of our space to saying a few words in defining or explaining these terms, _minster_ and _cathedral_, for as a general thing they are not well understood. We have previously said something on the point, but at the risk of being accused of repetition, will more definitely state the case. Till the time of Constantine no houses for Christian worship existed. After his conversion to Christianity, or as soon as A. D. 325, they were not only tolerated but encouraged. Soon some of them came to be large and imposing, and the assemblies were composed of rich and influential persons. These congregations being able to well support and appreciate preachers of ability and renown, such divines were established at important stations. By and by assistants were demanded; next, canons or special preachers; and yet again others, as assistants in parish work. A place like this was called a cathedral, and all such churches were known by that name. In process of time the term came to denote only the one church in a diocese at which the bishop presided, or was identified with, and is so used to this day. There were of course other large churches or edifices quite equalling in financial standing, or in social and general dignity and influence, the cathedral itself, and these were not inclined to pay obedience to the bishop, and they simply remained as they were,--in fellowship, if we may use the expression, with the whole Church, but yet independent of it so far as the bishop's, or any outside authority, was concerned; so it is seen that Independency did not originate with the Puritans or Dissenters. Westminster Abbey is of this class, and this accounts for the independent condition of Dean Stanley, who from his office of Dean of Westminster, owed no allegiance to the Bishop of London, although the abbey is but a mile from, and in sight of, St. Paul's Cathedral. An abbey like Westminster is, if we may so say, the church of an abbey once at Westminster; while the abbey itself was destroyed, the church has remained. A _minster_ like this at York, or that at Beverly, is the church edifice, or place of religious worship, of a former monastery, and so is called York minster. Next a word in regard to the Archbishopric of York. An archbishop is the head bishop, to preside at meetings of the house of bishops, and to exercise some especial functions, like the president of an association, but subject to rules and regulations in the performance of his work as set forth by ecclesiastical laws made by the convocation of bishops. Canterbury has from the first been the seat of the archbishop, and of course great importance and dignity attach to the place where the archbishop's seat is. York having for centuries been very important in wealth and social standing, and possessing the grand old minster, disputed this claim, and at times was influential enough to seriously interfere with the ancient arrangement; and, as a sort of compromise, York was advanced to a position second only to that of Canterbury. Its bishop, or head official, is dignified with the title of Archbishop of York, and is therefore the second primate of England; or, as we may better express it, he is the vice-bishop of the entire English Church. The principal seat of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and of the whole Church, is at Lambeth Palace, on the Thames below Southwark, and opposite the Houses of Parliament. Here are held all great convocations of bishops, and the business of the Church is done here; but by ancient usage Canterbury Cathedral is the seat of the archbishop, or, as he is termed, the Primate of all England. Some years ago an arrangement was made whereby some few places, or Sees, hereafter named, were given into the charge of the Archbishop of York, so that he is an archbishop by virtue of his office, though yet inferior to his lordship of Canterbury. We next proceed, after the long digression, to speak of the interior of the cathedral, or minster. It is grand and imposing, and its great width and height impress the beholder with a feeling of reverence and awe. The windows are of painted glass. Most of them are ancient and dim-appearing, and probably were never of rich design or very brilliant color. Every part of this vast interior is in the best possible repair, and the utmost neatness prevails. The cathedral has a crypt, or basement, and centuries ago it was customary to hold services in it. By the payment of a sixpence each, persons are permitted to visit it in company with the verger; and at all cathedrals, and in waiting, are these guides. It should be understood that visitors are freely and gratuitously admitted at any time from sunrise to sunset to all the cathedrals, but for visiting especial parts, such as the top of the tower, the crypt, if there is one, or places where valuable relics are kept, this small fee named is taken, first, as payment of salary for the guides, who are in constant attendance, and next, the surplus goes for repairs of the cathedral; and we may add that we visited none where workmen were not making repairs. We cheerfully paid our fee and went down into the grand old crypt, now full one thousand years old. Indescribable are the sensations experienced and the emotions awakened as one is here. The place is but dimly lighted, and there are antique and grotesque columns and arches, solid, prison-like masonry, and groined ceilings of stone. It is not hard to imagine the former sound of sandal-footed monks or nuns, of subdued voices engaged in prayer,--to know of the odor of incense, wandering about the columns and arches as it did of old. All is solid, fortress-like, and secure; but in spite of solidity and thick stone walls, the aspirations of monks and nuns went out through them, for their prayers were not confined. Centuries now are gone since their spirits went out of their bodies, and the custom even of their service here came to an end. The new dispensation has come, "a better covenant, established on better promises." The race has advanced; and now, nought but the grand and vast light room above, the incense of an intelligent devotion, and the music of the great organ can render the desired aids to devotion. We find here a superb reminder of a vast antiquity, in a piece of Saxon work in stone, of the _herring-bone_ pattern. This was part of an ancient Saxon church, built before the visit of the Normans. Do we comprehend the fact? No. We believe the story, and admire the place; and next, as best we can, we try and know the thing as no one can know it for us, but with only partial success. At the rear of the altar is the tomb and monument of Tobias Matthew, one of the early translators of the Bible into the English language, who was the author of the address, or preface, to the King James translation in present use. The chapter-house is entered from the north transept, and is a room of remarkable elegance. All is of course built of stone. The ceiling is strangely elaborate, and there is a wainscot around the room, at the top of which is elegant flower and leaf work, and vines, with a profusion of grotesque figures of nondescript animals. At the right side of the choir is a chapel, in which are kept a few things of unusual interest. Here is a Bible and Prayer Book, presented by Charles I. to the cathedral; also a copy of the Bible, in two large folio volumes, given by Charles II. Next, we have a fine old chair in which sat at their coronation all the Saxon kings. There is also a silver crozier of seven pounds' weight, and 200 years old. As at Durham, here also are exhibited gold seal-rings once worn by bishops, and each is nearly or quite seven hundred years old. What as a whole was most entertaining was a drinking-vessel, in the shape of a buffalo horn. It is over one thousand years old. The grant of land on which this cathedral stands was made by Prince Ulpus, and, according to the usage of the time, wine was put into this horn, and in presence of the cathedral authorities was drank by the Prince, or donor; and the horn was then presented, to be forever kept as evidence of the grant. The last royal marriage solemnized in the minster was of Edward III., of the Norman line, to Philippa, daughter of the Count of Hainault, Jan. 24, 1328. The elaborate choir-screen is of a light-tinted stone, and in niches contains statuettes of all the kings of England from William the Conqueror, who died at Rouen, Sept. 9, 1087, to Henry VI., who died in 1471 in the Tower of London. The structure was injured by fire in the roof in 1829, and again in 1840. The archbishop's palace is on the north side of the cathedral. It was built near the close of the twelfth century, and is used as the library of the dean and chapter. The archbishop's present residence is at Bishopthorpe, a short distance from the city. His ecclesiastical province includes the dioceses of Carlisle, Chester, Durham, Manchester, Ripon, Sodor and Man, York, and Newcastle-on-Tyne. At 2 P. M. of this Saturday, June 8, we took train for SHEFFIELD, where we arrived at 5.30, after a ride of 3½ hours. It was our anticipation of remaining here till dark, about 9 P. M.; but, owing to an earlier departure of the train than we anticipated, we were compelled to be satisfied with a stay of but one hour. Not entertaining a desire for long tarries in these great manufacturing centres, we found this visit answered our purpose well enough. The city is situated at the junction of the River Sheaf, and three smaller streams uniting with the River Don. These streams together form a grand water-power, which is used in this great seat of manufactures. The city is very compactly built on the side of a hill in amphitheatre form, and open to the northeast. It has a dingy look, and is much smoked. The streets are well paved, of good width, and are quite inviting. It has a population of 261,019. Sheffield was one of the Saxon towns, and received its charter as a market-town from Edward I. in 1296. Early in the fifteenth century it was under control of the earls of Shrewsbury, who had a castle here, and a manorhouse in a park a mile east. It was in one of these that the greater part of the captivity of Mary Queen of Scots was passed. The castle was demolished by order of Parliament in 1648; and in 1707 the park of the manor was divided into farms. The place is celebrated for its manufacture of cutlery, as well as for a vast amount of other metallic goods, as steel wire, Britannia, and German silver-work. The cutlery business was of very early date, and a Cutler's Company was incorporated by statute of James I. in the sixteenth century. It had a large monopoly, which, interfering with the business of the place, was somewhat restricted in 1801, and wholly abolished in 1814, after a use and authority of nearly 300 years. In 1864 the breaking away of the Bradfield reservoir in the hills above the city, like the disaster at our Mill River, Massachusetts, destroyed $5,000,000 worth of property, and caused the loss of 300 lives. The town, by reason of neglect of proper drainage, is very unhealthy; and in addition is the unhealthfulness of some of the occupations, so that the bills of mortality are greater here than in any other place of England. The railway stations being about a mile apart, we went on foot, and so were able, aided by the amphitheatre-like form of the place, to obtain a pretty correct judgment in regard to it; and then our remaining ride out through it, and the view from the suburbs, confirmed all; and so we felt that it was enough to say we had seen the famed Sheffield,--a place where from time out of mind have been made knives, bearing the stamp of Rogers & Sons. We had hoped to catch a view of their famed manufactory, but did not. This name, and that of Day & Martin, High Holborn, London, are familiar to every American schoolboy. What civilized community has not at some time used things from both places? At 6.30 P. M. this Saturday night, when, as in any of our great New England manufacturing places, thousands were released from their week's labors, and were out on the streets for their Saturday night purchases, and a great crowd of people were at the station, bound somewhere,--amid this scene, and making two of the crowd, we took our seats in the car for LINCOLN, and in two hours arrived there. Another cathedral town, and a grand one, the capital of Lincolnshire and a county in itself. It is situated on the River Witham, and has a population of 26,762. It has grand elements of antiquity flavoring its history. It abounds with ancient remains, including the castle of William the Conqueror, and traces of town walls, a gateway of which, still standing, is one of the most perfect relics of Roman architecture to be found in the country. It has a fine old conduit; also the palace of King John of Gaunt, and many antique houses. There is no single place of England where there is a better blending of the very old and the very new than is to be found here. After the departure of the Romans, Lincoln became the capital of the Saxon kingdom of Mercia, and suffered much during the struggles of the Saxons and Danes. It was at the time of the Conquest, and long after, one of the richest places in England. It suffered greatly during the baronial wars, and also in the civil ones, when its grand cathedral was used for barracks. The city is well built. It has an old and substantial look, though not one of antiquity like parts of Chester and Shrewsbury. These two are the ones of all England that carry us--by many of their houses, stores, public buildings, and entire streets--far back into an exquisitely interesting antiquity. Here we have all the marks of age, of good old-fashioned domestic life and comfort,--whole streets of stores of a fair average grade, and a busy population; and so it is a good place of residence, and a very desirable spot to visit. The principal buildings are the county-hall and jail, within the old castle walls; the ancient guildhall; a session-house; city jail, and house of correction; and a grammar school founded in 1583. There is a very old Roman canal called Fossdike, connecting the city with the River Trent. The place is distinguished for having given birth to the renowned King John of Gaunt, or Ghent, the fourth son of Edward III., born in 1340, and died 1399. The principal industries are breweries, tanneries, iron-foundries, grist-mills, boat-yards, and rope-walks, and in the vicinity are good nurseries, lime-kilns, and brick-yards. It may be said that this, as well as most English cities, is built mainly of brick. The land is level at the railroad station, and in a part of the business portions, and then rises very abruptly and at an inclination quite hard to climb. Full two thirds of the place are on this hill. The streets here are much steeper than any in our Boston, at the West End, and a few of the thoroughfares are so conditioned as to make it necessary to put iron hand-rails on the sides of buildings, and even at the edgestones of sidewalks. All is very clean, well paved and lighted, and thoroughly supplied with water. At the top of the hill and surrounded by houses, mansions, and stores, are the grounds of its grand and indescribably fine cathedral. As we have before said, when we approach one of these structures, so imposing and wonder-inspiring,--so out of proportion with everything else to be seen or imagined in the region,--when we suddenly come upon one of these, we are inclined to consider this to be _the_ cathedral, and as though there was, or could be, but one in all England, and this enough for all, and that the remainder were simply parish churches. We wonder every time anew, how they could have come into existence; where the means for their erection came from, and what influence could possibly have been brought to bear on any lot of mortals to induce the required interest. The later thought is that it was done centuries ago, when monastery and abbey and priory and convent were in full action, church and state one, Papacy powerful in the extreme, this life nothing, and the other everything. A superstitious reverence was superior to an intelligent Christian faith; and so time, labor, money, all were free to erect these great centres of religion and faith. Next, the country was divided into communities with interests of their own, and composed, as it were, of tribes, often hostile to each other, though entertaining a common superstition and reverence for what they thought to be truth and divine things. There were few roads across the country, and so comparatively little intercommunication or exchange of thought. With no books and no newspapers, the people were shut in and ignorant; and only was the condition disturbed and the lines removed when by some invasion,--as of Saxons or Normans, of Danes or of Scots,--or the result of civil war, the kingdom of Mercia or of Northumbria became weakened and was absorbed by a stronger power. These cathedral towns or provinces were then realms with an identity of their own; and so cathedrals were not only possible, but necessities, and were begun, and continued, and used for centuries, till by-and-by, isolation being unnatural, the great laws of association acting,--for "He made of one blood all nations of men, to dwell on all the face of the earth,"--as enlightenment came, advancement came also; a union of interest followed, which meant a division for use of the best things; and then cathedrals became in a sense common property, not only to people of England, but by-and-by to those of America as well. Protestantism has not thus far been favorable to the production of cathedrals equalling those of old; but it has of late begotten a new spirit and desire for restorations and repairs, and is to-day, and for a half-century has been, conscious of its responsibilities to care for and preserve these great achievements of genius and taste; and so this seed sown will germinate and bear its fruit, which will be in the "good time coming." Those of that day, greatly advanced and advancing, will build new ones outglorying even the old. This is sure to come. The race does not recede. At times the work goes slowly, and seems to be retarded. The march is yet on and up, despite appearances to the contrary. As one in looking at a company of persons passing up the inclined road of the tower of Pisa, when the company are in particular positions would consider them at a standstill, so to observers of humanity, inaction appears sometimes to be the condition; but it is on and up, and when farther around on the great road, the whole is seen at a flank view, and the entire procession is found to be grandly advancing. We are now back from a long detour, and speak of this elegant cathedral. It is built of a drab-colored stone, and is in fine repair. We pass through a large arched gateway, with keeper's lodge at the left hand, and into the cathedral precincts. Not now have we a great lawn or close, but nicely macadamized streets and roads in front of the great structure, and along the right side and back around the rear. On these borders are buildings belonging to the corporation,--schools, canons' residences, and those of curates. On the other side of the building, and at part of the rear end, is a fine old burial-ground, of some two acres, and charming in the extreme. All is on a grand scale--cathedral, streets, and grounds. The great front has a peculiar construction, with two elegant towers just back of it, each 180 feet high, of very elaborate finish. There is another grand tower, at centre of building, 53 feet square, and 300 feet high, equalling Bunker Hill Monument in height, with a third of another like it on its top! In this is the famous bell, Tom of Lincoln. Cathedral bells have often had names,--that is, the large ones,--as Big Ben at Westminster, Great Peter, Large David, and others. The cathedral is 524 feet long, and 250 feet wide at the transepts. It is in all respects one of the finest in the kingdom. The interior is very light, having large windows; many of them are of elegant colored glass, and superior to those at York Minster. This cathedral, like the others, has a good history. In 1075 Remigius removed the Episcopal see from Dorchester to Lincoln, and was the first bishop. Immediately after his arrival he began to build this church. It is known to have been nearly finished, or at all events ready for use, in 1092. Remigius, feeling his end to be near, being then very aged, invited all the prelates of the realm to be present at its consecration, which was to take place on the 9th of May. Robert, Bishop of Hereford, was the only one who refused the invitation, and his excuse was that he foresaw that the cathedral could not be dedicated in the lifetime of Bishop Remigius. In those days astrology was much believed in, and its predictions were relied on as prophetic truth; and strange to say, the Bishop of Hereford's casting was right, for Remigius died May 8, 1092, the day before that set for the consecration. Robert Bloet was the second bishop, and he completed the work and dedicated it in 1124, which was not till thirty-two years after the time originally set. Of course great repairs and restorations have from time to time been made, and there have been large extensions and additions. The interior has an unusual number of old and new monuments. We are hoping that the few hints we throw out will induce readers to investigate the cathedral question, and an abundance of good information can be found in Winkle's "Cathedral Churches of England and Wales." It was indeed a hard blow to the Romish Church to lose these fine buildings. There was, however, an advance made, but "the end is not yet." The intelligence of this nineteenth century will not long be satisfied with present conditions. Another and fresh Reformation is sure to come. As in John Wesley's day, the great Church needs new life infused into it. Rather than ask Methodists to come and be absorbed by herself, as has of late been suggested, better that the venerable Mother Church go and dwell with the Daughter; but neither will be done. The grand old historic Church will in good time come into the ranks of a more every-day and less formal life; and the Methodist, while retaining a good per-cent of her activity, and the element that reaches the common people, will drop some of her peculiarities; and as humanity advances, both will move toward each other, and, acting in unison, hasten the time when there will be but "one fold, and one shepherd." At noon of this day we left for Boston; and, as ever, the step was somewhat reluctantly taken, because we were in love with Lincoln; but Boston also had charms, and so we wended our way there on this fine Whitsunday. This is the paradise of the year for travel in England, and this is an Eden-like portion of the old kingdom to go over. How hallowed the hour is; what better one in which to go from this cathedral town, almost celebrated for its hostility to all that savored of non-conformity, to the one where New England Boston's John Cotton, her early minister,--here not vicar nor even curate,--left, because of his non-conformity, 243 years ago. CHAPTER XVII. BOSTON--PETERBORO--LYNN. Arrived at 2 P. M. on Whitsunday, June 9. What a charm has this word Boston. It is to us of greater interest than any spot in Old England. Now the anticipations of years were about to be realized. This, our mother city, is a seaport of Lincolnshire, situated on both sides of the River Witham, and six miles from the sea. It is on the Great Western Railway, 107 miles northeast of London, and has a population of 15,576, which was the number of our Boston's population in 1765, more than a century ago. The two divisions of the town are connected by an iron bridge of 86½ feet span, so it will be seen the river is quite narrow at this part, which is about the centre of its population and business. The place may be said to be noted for the neatness of its streets. It is well lighted, and supplied with water from a distance of 14 miles. There is a grammar school, established in 1554, and founded by William and Mary. It has a court-house and a market-house, and there are commodious salt-water baths, established in 1830 for the use of the public. Its principal manufactures are sail-cloth, cordage, leather, and brass and iron work. A monastery was established here in 654, by the Saxon St. Botolph, and was destroyed by the Danes in 870. Hence, as Lombard says, "the name of Botolph's town, commonly and corruptly called Boston." During the civil wars Boston was for a time the headquarters of Cromwell's army. Its decline subsequent to the sixteenth century was caused by the prevalence of the plague, and also by the increasing difficulty of the river's navigation. The healthfulness of the place has been greatly improved by drainage of the surrounding fens, and commercial prosperity has been somewhat restored by the improvements of the river. Vessels of 300 tons may now unlade in the heart of the city. The city is celebrated as the birthplace of John Fox, the martyrologist, in 1517. His "Book of Martyrs" first appeared in London in 1563. In his introduction he says that it details "the great persecutions and horrible troubles that have been wrought and practised by Romishe prelates, especially in this realme of England and Scotlande, from the yeare of our Lorde a thousande, unto the tyme now present." The work met with great success, though its truthfulness has always been denied by the Catholics. He died in London in 1587, at the age of seventy. The building of most interest of course to us Americans is the grand old church of St. Botolph, for it was in this church that John Cotton was vicar, and going as he did from there to our Boston, and being minister of its first church, our city was named Boston in honor of him. The edifice is built with its west end, at the centre of which is the elegant tower, with only a narrow road in front, facing the river, the rear end extending well up into the fine square, or most business-like part of the city. It is of a brown sandstone, 291 feet long, 99 feet wide; and the grand west-end tower, with its fine lantern, but with no spire above it, is 291 feet high, or just the length of the entire church. There is a good burial-ground around it, kept with remarkable neatness. The interior is very grand and imposing, having the usual range of columns and Gothic arches, and all is in color a very light cream-tint, or almost white. The great east window of the chancel was paid for by the subscriptions of American Bostonians, and is a worthy and elegant testimonial. This is the largest church without transepts in the kingdom. It was built in 1309, and so is now 574 years old, but in most perfect repair. All the surroundings are very neat, and the parish is one of great influence and importance. Rev. John Cotton, who connects our Boston so intimately with it, was born at Derby, England, Dec. 4, 1585. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he was entered in his thirteenth year. In 1612, or at the age of 27, he became vicar of St. Botolph's, where he remained for 20 years, and was noted for fine elocutionary power, and as a controversialist. He inclined toward the doctrines and worship of the Puritans, and was so influential that he carried a large part of his people with him; and great danger was threatened to the parish in denominational points of view. He would not kneel at the sacrament, and his non-conformism at length became so apparent, and was pronounced so odious, that he was ordered to appear before Archbishop Laud's high-commission court. He was too confirmed in his opinions to recant; and for safety fled to London, where he remained for some time, and then left for America, arriving in our Boston, Sept. 4, 1633. In October he was installed as colleague with Mr. John Wilson, pastor of the church. He was for a long time the leading spirit and mind in the New England Church. His death was occasioned by a severe cold, taken by exposure while crossing the ferry to Cambridge, where he went to preach, his death occurring Dec. 23, 1652, the length of his ministry in each of the two churches, here and in old Boston, being alike. He was very learned, and was a fine Greek critic; he is said to have written Latin with great elegance, and it is stated that he could discourse freely in Hebrew. He was a strong Calvinist, often spending twelve hours a day in reading Calvin's works. He was very strict in his observance of the Sabbath, and in accordance with his interpretation, and from the authoritative nature of the statement that "the evening and the morning were the first day," he argued for the keeping, as holy time, from Saturday evening at sunset, till sunset of Sunday; and so influential was he that he stamped the impress of his belief and custom on all New England, and thousands yet living remember well the practice. In fact it would not be difficult to find individuals, if not families, who yet observe the custom. He was zealous for the interests of both civil and religious matters, as he understood them, and was rigid and intolerant of those who differed from him in opinion, however honest their convictions. He was a great foe of Roger Williams, and did much towards making him odious, and caused him at length to be banished from Boston in 1635, when he went to what is now Providence, R. I. As he says: "Having a sense of God's merciful providence unto me in my distress, I called the place Providence, and desired it might be for a shelter for persons distressed for conscience." Mr. Cotton wrote and published some works, among them one called "Milk for Babes," designed for children, but containing what would in our time be considered strong and indigestible theological meat, and so it is very properly withheld. His daughter was wife of the celebrated Dr. Increase Mather, pastor of the Second Church in our Boston, who was president of Harvard College in 1681. Their son, the renowned Dr. Cotton Mather, who was born in Boston, Feb. 12, 1663, and died Feb. 13, 1728, was named for his grandfather, John Cotton. Our time of arrival was too late for attending service as we thought to do, and so we enjoyed a walk over the city, and much to our pleasure. As before named, the river runs through the centre of the place; and at the principal parts a wall is built along its banks, with good cut stone for a half-mile or more, with the proper stairways down to the water. The remainder of the way, and at the outskirts, the banks are very muddy and irregular, with deep gorges or indentations. They were, as we saw them at low water, full twenty feet deep, and struck us very unpleasantly. One sight impressed us rather strangely--a series of sheep, swine (perhaps), and cattle pens, with low fences for divisions, along the centre of the main street or thoroughfare, but having a good wide avenue on each side. Hotels, or taverns, seemed to abound, and, as in all England, they have peculiar names. So interesting was this idea to us, while the theme was new, that at one time we began to note them down, but soon found the work so increasing on our hands as to compel us to desist. A few of them--though of course not all in Boston--are as follows, Old Hen and Chickens, Ring O' Bells, Little Nag's Head, Raven and Bell, Dog and Partridge, Grapes and Bell, Five Ways Inn, Packhorse Tap, Hop-pole Inn, Leather Bottle, The Old Fox Inn, The Three Cups, Haunch of Venison, Running Horse, Fighting Cocks. These are but examples of what may be seen in almost any English town. We are sorry to have to add that in old Boston, as in the new one, rum-holes and drinking places abound. In this, the mother emulates the daughter. There are very pleasant walks out from the place, and we much enjoyed those near the suburbs, they were so much unlike anything to be seen here at home. Some of the streets of this Old Boston are very narrow and crooked, though not especially antique, nor very ancient in appearance; yet these low two-story buildings had an entire absence of so much as an intimation of anything new, though all was very clean and tidy. The walk around to the left, at the edge of the river in this district, is very charming, for from here St. Botolph's great tower is seen to fine advantage, and we shall never forget the sweet sound of the bells at sunset. We continued our walk back into the square at the rear of the church, and now met a very large crowd of people. No homeward-bound Catholic audience in our Boston outnumbers them. It seems a service had been held at 6.30 P. M., of which unfortunately we were not aware. We availed ourselves of the opportunity of the open house, and so had a good visit to the church itself. In one of the walls was a marble tablet set up to the memory of John Cotton. It was put there by American subscriptions, through the labors and efforts of Hon. Edward Everett. The tablet, and the great east window; this old tiled floor, on which we stood, so many times walked over by Boston's great minister; these walls and columns and arches, which for twenty years resounded with his voice,--how befitting were the influences to make holy to us the Sabbath. We had walked in the morning about the great cathedral at Lincoln, to which See this St. Botolph's pays allegiance and tribute, and where Cotton himself had many times worshipped, and had doubtless preached. We had perchance kept the early part of the day in a manner he would not approve; but now sunset had come, and freedom of action, according to his law of interpretation. Boston has yet remaining a few of the antique buildings, and they are prized highly. We saw one, a good specimen of the kind. It was of the timber-and-plaster construction, two stories high, with three gables; and all was recently put in perfect repair, and it is said to be 600 years old. Near the venerable church is the workingmen's reading-room, in which there is a case of books donated by our city of Boston, or, it may be, by some of her citizens. We were happy to be able to make a small contribution in the shape of half a dozen of our city newspapers--Heralds, Travellers, and Journals. We had taken a room at a quiet, comfortable, little commercial-travellers' house,--and most of England's towns have them,--and so now, at 10 P. M., after a good inspiring ramble along the other side of the river, among nice little two-story brick houses with their pretty gardens, we ended the day. Monday A. M., up early for a new ramble over the place. It appeared charmingly homelike. The good market-square was just being used, and stores, or shops, were opening. We must and did pass up once more into the burial-ground, or churchyard, of St. Botolph's. We admired over again the lofty tower and belfry, which is a landmark forty miles at sea. We tried to think of it, and see it as it is, hundreds after hundreds of years old. As the strong breeze of that clear morning blew over it, and whistled about its turrets, we saw its great power of resistance to storms, but the results of them were apparent. Time-worn, weather-beaten, and old it looked to be; and by-and-by came the thoughts that never do come early,--that all is ancient, and was very old before our country was thought of. We walked along the farther side, to the great east division,--for there are two distinct parts to the fine old edifice,--and then, as we looked critically at the large windows, unusual in dimensions, and filled to repletion with most elegant stone tracery, we left, admiring St. Botolph's. Next we passed over the bridge, passing by the nice cream-colored hotel, and through the long and not over-wide streets, with two-story-high brick houses on either side, and here and there, on side streets, a few gardens, all not much like things American, though not peculiar enough to give them great interest; and so we passed on to the station, and had _been_ to Boston,--a treat to us then, and ever since, and the time cannot be so extended as to injure the charm. We love _new_ Boston now all the better since we have seen the _old_, and know it had an honorable parentage. We now, at 8.30 A. M. on this fine Whit-Monday, June 10, leave Boston for Peterboro', another of the good cathedral towns. We have only just begun our seventh week of travel. As we here remember all we have thus far written, and think that only six weeks have been employed in making this grand tour, we are bewildered, and inclined to ask: Did we ever employ, or shall we ever use, another six weeks to so good advantage? We ride on among the hills and over fertile fields, amidst fine vegetation--fresh from some showers of yesterday, which we didn't name, they were so little disturbing. We are charmed on this tour, and admire the industry everywhere manifest; as out of our Boston, good cultivation of the land is a rule, and no exception. Here are elegant landscapes, fine trees, single and in groups, and woods, or what the English Bostonians call _forests_. We had wondered how these things were,--whether all the trees had not been cut off. We were prepared to see miles of territory treeless. But no! trees abound, and over pretty much all the territory we have been through. Except for long lines or masses of woods, or timber-lands, such as we see at home, the aspect varies little from that of the average of New England. All that strikes one forcibly is an absence of ruggedness, and such rocky or barren conditions as we often find in New Hampshire or Connecticut, or along the Maine shore. Take the good, fertile, undulating part of New England; remove fences and stone walls, and, instead, put about a tenth as many divisions, made by hedges; reduce the number of apple orchards,--and you have the English landscape. As you near the seaboard of England from any side, you get the rocks, and more of the seaboard look. This is strikingly so at the south part of the kingdom, towards Canterbury and Brighton. Very New Englandish, even like Essex County from Salem to Newburyport, does all appear. But now at 10.30 A. M. on this Monday, after a beautiful and refreshing ride of 2¾ hours, we are at the famed cathedral city of PETERBORO'. Who that in other days saw the old, entertaining, and good Penny Magazine doesn't know something of this grand old place, and the cathedral with its three great west arches, and its central tower without a spire? This was a semi-holiday; it so seemed, for most of the inhabitants were in the streets, and at liberty. A pleasant day; but, though the 10th of June, it was cool enough to make our overcoats comfortable, and we wore them till noon. Valises deposited, this time at the station, we went direct to the cathedral. It was a way we had. These great objects of interest are centres from which all other good things appear to radiate. Make for one of them and you make no mistake, for entertainment is at hand. You are well pleased; all thoughts are occupied; other persons are there before you, and are like-conditioned. Never one cathedral yet visited when we were first of the lot, or alone. The doors are always ajar and the verger in readiness, as though stationed there and in waiting for us in particular, even as though we had telegraphed that we were to come. Not at all officious are they, or over-inclined to get in our way. Never are they troublesome or interfering with even our thoughts, or quiet examination alone,--but tractable and ready, at the first overture on our part, to civilly answer any question, to explain, to tell us what we want to know. They are masters of the art of judiciously informing us that there are yet things hid from view that we can see if we wish, and how gently they name the small fee required. If there had been normal schools, or rather one, in all England, and it had been a requisite before employment in these cathedrals that they should attend the school, graduate, and then pass examination in the way of doing these things,--had this been done, no more propriety and judiciousness could be manifested. We were surprised with the building. We admired it. We had been so highly fed on food of the kind we were getting dainty, but this was taken in with a relish. What a fine close around the old structure! How quiet! How varied its landscape! Well, the whole this time was enchanting, for it was unlike others. So many nooks and corners for pretty rambles; so many old walls and ruins about the premises; for very extended was the thing here in the centuries gone. We were in admiration with the grounds in their many departments; for once the cathedral itself was second; but soon we turned to the thing that makes the grounds what they are, and were at first sight struck with the good repair of the entire structure, and with its clean and solid appearance. The architecture is Norman and Early English. It is very old, for the See was established, or rather the cathedral was founded, by Peada, one of the kings of Mercia, which was one of the ancient divisions of England. It was destroyed by the Danes, and afterwards rebuilt as it is. It is 476 feet long, with transepts 203 wide, and has a central tower 150 feet high, ending with lofty turrets at the four corners. There are also two small spires at the ends of the great west front. This part forms a section 150 feet in height and breadth, and consists of three magnificent arches 80 feet high, surmounted by pediments and pinnacles, flanked by the small towers before named; and in this front the cathedral is peculiar. It was begun in 906, and at the time of the Reformation was considered one of the most splendid religious edifices in the kingdom. The interior is very grand and imposing. It is light-colored, almost white, having been restored, as it is called; which means that repairs have been thoroughly made in every part, and all washes, or tinted coatings, have been cleaned off, and as near as possible the work left in its original or natural color. There was a time, however, when all cathedrals had more or less of gorgeous decorations in fresco and high positive colors; next a white or tinted preparation covered all; and now, as that has been removed, more or less of the old frescoes show, but of course in a badly disfigured condition, and are only interesting as relics of another age. The probabilities are, the time will come when all will be re-frescoed in the gay colors of old. At the Reformation everything savoring of art, in the way of painting in churches, was condemned. A great reaction seems to be taking place, and the church has discovered that it is quite possible to use and not abuse these things; and in some instances artists were at work in cathedrals, painting small portions as specimens for re-decorating the entire work. Some examples of frescoed ceilings are already complete. Peterboro' is now very white and clean, and the effect of its great interior is most pleasing. It abounds in monuments, and many of them are of great antiquity and interest. Our statement must be so meagre that we dislike at all to enter the field of description, but will venture a little. Catherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII., is buried here; and it is said that on account of the fact of this being her place of burial, the king was pleased to give orders that the cathedral be mildly dealt with, and so it escaped that destructive action that so much injured all the others. Mary, Queen of Scots, was also buried here, but when her son James I. came to the throne, her remains were removed to Westminster Abbey, where they now repose. The graves of these two eminent women were together, and now the verger tells us: "There lies Catherine of Aragon, and there next to her, and for years was buried, Queen Mary, but by reason of that letter," pointing to a letter, glass and framed, hanging near by, "her remains were removed to Westminster." We peruse the letter in the king's handwriting, and muse on the fact with a melancholy interest, and pass on. So much was this cathedral admired by King Edgar, that he bestowed such valuable gifts upon it that he caused the name of the city to be changed to Goldenburg, the Golden Town, which title at length gave place to its present name, derived from St. Peter, to whom the cathedral was dedicated. The dean and chapter, by virtue of their office, exercise so much authority in the civil government of the city as to make it practically under their jurisdiction. This being Whit-Monday, and a holiday, the cathedral was open free in all parts to the public, and hundreds were going and coming all the time we were in it,--a large part of them doubtless from out of town. We were thus favored with a view of an English town on a holiday, and traces were present of what gave the country the title of Merrie Englande. All the people were well dressed, sober, courteous, and full of enjoyment. Band-concerts and horse-trots were in order, and a balloon ascension in a park. The eating-houses were full, and from our experience of the results of the practice "first come, first served," it practically meant, that he that did not first come, was likely to be served poorly, or perhaps, what was better, not served at all. Peterboro' has the honor of being the birthplace of the renowned Dr. William Paley, who was born in July, 1743, and died May 25, 1805. He was graduated at Christ College, Cambridge, in 1763; in 1782 was made Archdeacon of Carlisle. In 1785 appeared his celebrated work, "Principles of Moral and Political Economy," the copyright of which brought him $5,000. In 1794 was published his "View of the Evidences of Christianity," and in 1802 his great work, "Natural Theology." These works were long used as text-books in theological studies, and mark their author as one of superior intellect and of profound reasoning powers. While the deductions of his reasoning and arguments from given data are freely admitted, yet later thought--and the breaking forth of that light from the Scriptures, which the Pilgrims' minister, John Robinson of Leyden, expected would come--has destroyed some of his data, or premises from which he argued, and of course the results are anything but such as in his day, and as seen from his standpoint, appeared reasonable or right. In the vicinity of Peterboro' is Milton Park, the seat of Earl Fitzwilliam. The estate is said to be a most elegant one, and freely open to the public at certain hours of the day. This custom is one that strikes the tourist very favorably, and always awakens a sense of gratitude. No cathedral or building of importance is ever closed from, say, 9 A. M. to 6 P. M., and facilities are furnished the visitor to examine all parts. Much of it is entirely free, and when a fee is charged it is a reasonable one, and only such as will prevent a rush of loafers to the premises; and the fee goes to pay the salary of the attendant, or for repairs of the structure. And now at 3 P. M. came another time for "moving on," so we took train for LYNN. As will be observed, we are at times in places of very familiar names, and to us this is one, and a place also we much desired to see; for from this, our Lynn in New England took its name. It was arrived at after an hour's ride, and is a beautiful place, in certain respects reminding one of our Lynn, for, although the houses are mostly of two or of three stories in height, and of brick or stone, yet they have so many gardens intervening, and a general freedom from compactness for a majority of the place, as to give it a somewhat rural character; though in the more immediate business part it has an old, perhaps aged look, and is compact and very business-like. The streets are well paved and lighted; there are many fine stores, and the old market-square is surrounded by very substantial stone buildings. The city is situated on the River Ouse, nine miles from the North Sea; so that, as at our Lynn, the salt water flows by its few wharves, and tides rise and fall regularly. There are here also salt marshes, and, while we were there, the tide being out, the banks of the river showed to worst, or, as we should say for our purpose, to best advantage, for we would see them at their worst, and, from the "lay of the land," could imagine them at their best. The water was, at this time of tide, down some 20 feet from the surface of land, and was perhaps 800 feet wide. The banks were quite irregular and very muddy from their top down to the water, and the river, while running in one general direction, was rather crooked. From the opposite bank was a grand sort of upland meadow, of perhaps a quarter of a mile width, and beyond this, slightly higher land, stretching well to the right and left; and of a most pleasing nature was this landscape, for there were fine mansions embowered in fine groups of trees, splendid lawns, and every evidence of a good civilization. Taken as a whole, this peculiar river, with schooners, yachts, scows and fishing-boats; a general lack of finish to anything about the river except the grand meadow and fine domain bordering it; the, to us, very natural and pleasing odor of the salt water,--even New-England-Lynn-like, as it was on this fine warm summer afternoon,--these combined to make us definite in our praise of this Lynn Harbor. At our back was the city, and along at the edge of the river were just such old, and, if not dilapidated, certainly not lately built or repaired wharves; and on them were just such things, for fishermen's use, as are required to make a place of the kind in harmony with itself and complete. There were old warehouses, three and four stories high, quite thickly bordering on the wharf-street, or narrow roadway. Not a thing that was new any time during this half-century, and most of it was old on the other side of 1800; but the aggregate was complete, for this, like our Lynn, is a semi-commercial place. Back of these storehouses were the town streets, and the good business portion; and here in the midst was one of the best possible examples of a very large, almost cathedralish, ancient, stone, Gothic church, St. Margaret's, founded in the twelfth century. It was enclosed in part by a high but open iron fence, and the usual ancient burial-ground was about it. Another church of antiquity and note is St. Nicholas. It was erected in the fourteenth century, and is, for a thing of the kind, one of the finest in the kingdom. It is in the Gothic style, 200 feet long, and 78 feet wide. The city has a population of 17,266, which was the population of our Lynn sometime between the years 1850 and 1860. It has been said that the place is situated on the River Ouse, that stream being the principal river, but there are four other small streams, or navigable rivers, running into the city, and these are crossed by more than a dozen bridges. Anciently the place was defended on the land side by a fosse, which is a ditch or moat, with here and there strong bastions, or battery structures; and there are the remains of an ancient embattled wall and of one gateway. The city has a free grammar school, founded in the fifteenth century. To give it character as a place of antiquity, it has the ruins of a convent and an octagonal Ladye Tower. It has several ancient hospitals for the poor, an ancient guildhall, a jail, theatre, library, mechanics' institution, a large market-house, and a fort. Up to fifty years ago the trade of Lynn took rank as the fifth in England. A bar of shifting sand at the mouth of the river seriously troubled it, and a decline came, but its good prospects are now on the increase. It has quite large exports of corn and wool, and it has shipyards, breweries, iron-foundries, cork-works, and rope and tobacco manufactories; and steamers ply between this place and Hull. Lynn was remarkable for its fidelity to the royal cause in the time of King John, who died Oct. 19, 1216; and, as a reward for its fidelity, the king presented the place with a silver cup and sword. The people were also very loyal, and espoused the cause of Charles I., who was beheaded in London, Jan. 30, 1649. Our rambles along the river and through the streets of this place were very entertaining; a rural atmosphere prevailed, as before named, through a large part of it, and a good, healthy, substantial, business-like air through the remainder. At 4.30 P. M. we took cars for Wells. CHAPTER XVIII. WELLS--NORWICH--ELY. We arrived at 6 o'clock. The ride from Peterboro', through Lynn, and to Wells, was a pleasing one, for the land in the entire region was different from any we had seen. There were but few elevations, and, instead, meadows and fens abounded. Dikes and ditches were frequent. Windmills, as in Holland, were common, and in many respects we were riding over veritable Lynn Marshes, as we had done a thousand times, at home. At length, arriving here, we anticipated seeing the cathedral, but alas for human endeavors and calculations! this was to be _the_ place of our entire journey mistake. Wells proper, that of cathedral renown, was hundreds of miles away. This is a little, east-side-of-England seaport town of 3,760 inhabitants. Many of the houses are one-story, stone, plastered, and whitewashed. We felt in one quarter very at-homeish, for the street alongshore was much like one at Gloucester or Rockport, or in Joppa at Newburyport, Mass. There was an intense odor of fish, and the fishermen themselves were Joppa-fishermen-like, and not simply sailors. Heavy clothing was theirs, and of a cut and style not like Boston or Paris. Their boots were innocent of a waste of blacking, _souwesters_ for hats, and Guernsey frocks. We didn't have very hard work to be reconciled, and "making the best of it" wasn't enough in the nature of a sacrifice to transform it into a virtue. We were seeing a fine old English seaboard town, and now we have an unexpected source of thought to draw from. We have it sure, and ever shall. The mistaken detour was a blessing in disguise, a cloud with a silver lining. Next A. M., after a fine night's rest in that invigorating atmosphere, at 7 o'clock took train, and rode along landscapes not much like the other before passed over, for we were soon out into higher land, with some fields, and amid many fine gardens, groves, and woods,--in fact, in a quite New-England-appearing territory; and at 9 A. M., on this June 11, arrived at NORWICH. No doubt this time in the minds of either of us whether or not this was _the_ Norwich, for in grand relief, off a quarter of a mile, was the cathedral, with its centre tower and spire, 315 feet high, which is one of the five spired-cathedrals of England. The city is well situated on the River Wensum, and has a population of 80,390, and is the capital of the county of Norfolk. It is a very ancient place, for there are good evidences that it was founded A. D. 446, or more than 1400 years ago. On the departure of the Romans, who settled it, it was taken by the Saxons, and in 575 it had improved and become the capital of Anglia. In 1002 it was attacked by a Danish fleet under command of Sweyn their king, and was captured and burnt to ashes. In 1328 the foundation of its permanent prosperity was laid by Edward III., who made it the staple town of Suffolk and Norfolk; and, conferring important privileges thereby, induced large numbers of Flemings to settle in it. A larger number yet arrived during the reign of Queen Elizabeth; and so great was the industry and ingenuity of the people, that their manufactures soon became famed throughout the world. The city has given birth to many distinguished men. Among these may be named the following: Matthew Parker, a distinguished Archbishop of Canterbury, and so, Primate of all England. He was the second Protestant Bishop of Canterbury, and died at London, May 17, 1575. A more extended notice of him will be given in the description of the cathedral of Canterbury. Next is Dr. Samuel Clark, born Oct. 11, 1675, and died May 17, 1729. He graduated at Cambridge, and was of a very philosophical turn of mind. Having mastered the system of Philosophy of Descartes and Newton in his 22d year, he published a work on physics, which became popular and a text-book in the university. He next turned his attention to theology, and became chaplain to Dr. More, Bishop of Norwich. In 1706 he translated into English "Newton's Optics," which so pleased the great mathematician that he presented him with £500, and Queen Anne made him one of her chaplains and rector of St. James Westminster, and this was when he was less than 31 years old. He was a very scholarly and voluminous writer, and all his works are marked by erudition and are on important themes. He was a philosopher, and a scientific thinker, as well as an historical, or theological one; and on the death of Sir Isaac Newton, he was offered the place of Master of the Mint, but strongly attached to his profession as a Christian teacher, he declined the office, as being unsuitable to his ecclesiastical character. His death occurred at the age of fifty-three, and few have died more worthily or universally lamented. Here also was born, May 21, 1780, Elizabeth Fry, the celebrated Quakeress and philanthropist, who was, in 1798, converted to pure Quakerism through the instrumentality of William Savary, the American Quaker, then on a visit to England. She died at Ramsgate, Oct. 12, 1845, greatly lamented the Christian World over. Here also was born, Nov. 12, 1769, Mrs. Amelia Opie, the well known poetess and prose writer, who died here Dec. 2, 1853. And here was born, June 12, 1802, that remarkable writer, Harriet Martineau; and, in 1805, her hardly less celebrated brother Rev. James Martineau, the distinguished Unitarian divine; and thus we find the list of notables increasing to a degree that demands a refrain of enumeration even. The old city is hardly less celebrated as having been the seat of very marked and interesting historical events. In 1381 Bishop Spencer led an army, and successfully repulsed an attack made on it by 80,000 insurgents, led by Sitester, a dyer, in the Wat Tyler Rebellion. Muscular Christianity was at a premium, sure, in those days, and a political sermon was then looked upon as a mild offence. In 1531 Bilney and Lews and Ket were burned at the stake for their religious opinions. In the reign of Elizabeth 4,000 Flemings fled from the cruelties of the Duke of Alva, and established in this place the manufacture of bombazines, which work is carried on to the present day. In 1695 a mint was established here. In the years 1407-1483 was built, of curiously arranged cobble, or round flintstones, the present guildhall, with panels in the front, ornamented with armorial shields of the time of Henry VIII. In one of the rooms is the sword of Admiral Winthuysen, taken at the battle of St. Vincent, Feb. 14, 1797. In Pottergate Street is the old Bridewell, built in 1380, of flintstone, and once the home of Appleyard, the first mayor of Norwich. A recital of interesting facts and description of relics could be made which alone would require chapters of the length we are using. The temptation is very great, when we are saying anything of these grand old historic and antique centres, to enlarge, and give a greater amount of those interesting old facts; but a moment's reflection calls attention to the impropriety of making an encyclopædia, and we forbear, and turn to the more modern ideas. The manufactures of the place are at the present time, as they always have been, very varied; and prominent among them is that of woollen goods, which are of a great and ancient celebrity, for the Flemings obtained long wool, spun in the village of Worsted, nine miles away, and of this made that peculiar cloth. This kind of yarn thus took the name of _worsted_, and is so known to this day. It is said that there are 1400 looms working in this city and the neighborhood. The city has a business-like appearance, and a commanding look in its main thoroughfares. It is well built of brick and stone, and everywhere, at intervals, there are the evidences of age, in the old stone churches, of which there are more than forty in the city,--some of them very venerable, and built of split cobble-flintstone, and many of them of great antiquity. The city has a noble feudal relic in the shape of a castle founded by Uffa in 575. It was extended and improved by Anna in 642, and again in 872 by Alfred the Great, or more than 1,000 years ago; and now still stands, grand and imposing, at the centre of the city, on a quite lofty eminence with precipitous sides, and is surrounded by its massive wall and donjon tower, but has been in modern times altered on the interior, to fit it for its present use as a jail. Another part is remodelled for use as the shire hall. The bishop's palace and the deanery are imposing structures, old and interesting, and approached, as the cathedral itself is, through what is called the Eppingham Gate, a remarkable structure consisting of a lofty pointed arch, flanked with semi-octagonal buttresses, and enriched with columns, mouldings, and 38 male and female statues in canopied niches. The market-place is large, and ranks as one of the finest in the world. The city was formerly surrounded by walls; fragments of them still remain, but most have been removed and the material used for more useful purposes. It was provided with numerous watch-towers, and was entered by 12 gates. Owing to the quantity of ground used, just out of the centre of the city, for gardens and orchards, as the place is approached by rail it presents a very rural appearance; and being built mostly on a hillside, and quite steep in parts, it strongly resembles its namesake in our Connecticut, and it covers a much larger space, or territory, than any other English place of a like population. Not a few of the streets are narrow and winding, and many of the houses that line such are antique with overhanging stories, and presenting long rows of gables; they are, however, generally of brick, and more interesting for their antiquity than for any merits of architecture. Great improvements have been made in the suburbs, and even in the city proper; new streets have been opened, old ones widened, and many modern and tasteful buildings erected. Hospitals and charity schools and institutions abound. The literary and scientific institutions have a library of 18,000 volumes, and the mechanics' and young men's institutes have 11,000. There are numerous public parks or gardens, bowling-greens, and great facilities for the amusement and pleasure of its inhabitants. A grand and venerable old place is this of Norwich,--full of inducements for a visit, or even a permanent stay. It should have been named that the suburbans, and those living on the outskirts, give much attention to farming, and that Norwich is in some respects like our Brighton, for it has weekly market-days for the sale of cattle, and has the largest market in the kingdom, with the single exception of those near London. The stores, many in number, and a large portion of them of high grade, present for sale every conceivable article, and argue of a high civilization. "The cathedral,--what of that?" says the reader. Well, it is by no means forgotten, and we next tell of that. It is situated on low and level land, and is from a distance looked down upon, or over to, rather than up to, as is the case at Durham, Lincoln, and in fact in many other places. It is built of a dark-gray sandstone, and has a rather sombre look, and is located in the midst of grounds, about in which are walls and ruins of the old monastery, and the original garden walls yet remain; so that while the cathedral is not out among buildings of ordinary character, but has ample grounds and shrubbery around it, yet it has no grand close, or park, as at Salisbury, Hereford, and many others; but all is complete within these precincts, and charming in the extreme. A charming quiet pervades these ancient-appearing and large premises, and all is befitting the venerable structure. Like all cathedrals, this boasts of a good antiquity. The See was removed from Thetford to Norwich in 1096. The first establishment consisted of sixty monks; they took possession of the premises in 1106, and Bishop Herbert laid the cathedral foundation in 1115. The work advanced, so that on Advent Sunday, 1278,--or 163 years after the laying of the corner-stone,--it was consecrated by Bishop Middleton, in presence of King Edward I. and Queen Eleanor. In 1272 the tower was badly injured by lightning; and this was but the precursor of a greater evil, for on the 18th of September of that year a riot occurred among the populace, and they turned their attention to the edifice. Most of the court buildings were destroyed, the cathedral itself much injured, several of the sub-deacons and lay-servants killed in the cloisters, the treasury ransacked, and all the monks but two driven away. In 1289 Bishop Walpole began a spire of wood, covered with lead, completed in 1295, which remained some years, when it was blown down, and much injury was done to the roofs. Bishop Percy erected the present stone spire in the years 1364-1369, so that as we now see it, it is 536 years old. The building is 416 feet long, transepts, 185 feet wide; and the tower, which is 45½ feet square, is 140 feet high, with a stone spire, 169½ feet above this, or an aggregate 309½, exclusive of iron-work, above it. The cloisters are 150 feet square, and the open close about them is one of the finest in England. The interior is very solid in appearance, yet as well decorated as any in the kingdom. Indescribable is the solemnity of grand effect. How complete all is; and how of eternity itself do the great Norman columns speak! Had we not already employed so much eulogy in praise of other cathedrals, we now could use adjectives to advantage; but language has never yet adequately described a cathedral's interior. There is more to the thing than matters of curiosity and a tame entertainment. We first are interested, next admire; soon a feeling of awe and solemnity is inspired, and the strong sensations tone down, and one feels to be in the presence of men of other generations. Bishops of distinguished renown have here held sway more than half a thousand years ago. Here have kings and queens worshipped. These arches through the centuries have echoed back a million songs and psalms and prayers; about, amid this lofty vaulting, have the odors and smoke of Roman Catholic incense wandered on; and here at the foot of these ponderous columns, and at these shrines, have thousands, yea millions, of pious devotees tried to do honor to the King of kings and the Lord of lords; and here also by-and-by, in aid of reformation, was ruthless work done, and images of saints and grand sculptures, made by monks and pious ones, were hurled from their quiet resting-places, to be broken and to be cast out, after centuries of service,--to be as common things, ground to powder and trodden under foot of men. The good Scripture statement is that there is joy among the redeemed over repenting mortals. If joy, then knowledge and observation of what mortals do. Is it too much to think that, with extended vision and enlightened conditions, seeing truth clearly, and rid of its dress and habiliments of superstition and enslaving penance and wordy ritual, that even the seeming desecration, speaking of advancing conditions and better ones for after worshippers,--that listening to this, they too rejoiced in the work, and that always after they have been interested here at these great shrines, and are present and communing? Is there not now, as of old, a great cloud of witnesses? When one walks through the vast cathedral nave, and the sound of his feet makes echoes that pass from one to another of their lofty arches, is it too much to think that these are not all the sounds awakened or elements set in motion? "Things are not what they seem," for the poet has well said:-- As the temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. This place so sacred, and now in grand repose, has been desecrated to an incredible degree. The world's people and the monks have at times come to blows. In recounting the desecrations which took place during one of the civil wars, Sir Thomas Browne says, that "more than one hundred monumental brasses were taken from the mural slabs in this cathedral, and were carried away and destroyed." Bishop Hall says:-- The rebel musketeers committed abominable excesses in this cathedral church, which they converted into an ale-house. They sallied out habited in the surplices and vestments, sounding on the organ pipes, and grossly parodying the litany, and burned the service-books, six copies, and records in the market-place. No cathedral makes a greater show of monuments, in wider variety of design, or commemorative of more influential and distinguished men; and first may be named the elegant memorial window at the west end of the nave, to the memory of Bishop Edward Stanley, who was father of the celebrated and now worthily lamented Dean of Westminster at London. The bishop was born in 1779, and died at Norwich in 1849, having been made bishop of this cathedral in 1837. In the presbytery is a table-tomb to the memory of Sir W. Boleyn, who died in 1505. He was the great-grandfather of Queen Elizabeth. Near by is a wall tablet commemorating Bishop George Horne, who died Jan. 17, 1792. He was distinguished as a preacher, and became President of Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1768, Chaplain to the King in 1771, Dean of Canterbury in 1781, and Bishop of Norwich, 1790. He was a very voluminous writer; his chief work is his "Commentary on the Psalms," on which he labored for twenty years, and published it in 1776. As one lingers among these remains he is forcibly struck with the antiquity of the monuments, and finds himself counting their age by hundreds of years; and among them are the following bishops with the year of their death. They will be given in the order in which they are met with, not regarding priority of dates: Bishop Nix, 1536; Parkhurst, 1575; Dean Gardner, 1589; Bishop Herbert, 1682; Goldwell, 1499; Wakering, 1425; Overell, 1619; Bathurst, 1837; Prior N. de Brampton, 1268; Prior Bonoun, 1480; Reynolds, 1676; R. Pulvertoft, 1494; and so might the list be continued. Here are bishops, deans, curates, priors, sir-knights-templars, members of parliament; and distinguished women also, for not unfrequently appears the title of Dame, as Dame Calthorp, who died in 1582. As we think of these for whom monumental stones have been raised, and the hundreds in the old grounds, who are "unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown;" of monk, nun, abbot, and abbess; Catholic and Protestant; of them of ancient dispensation, as well as of them of the new; the whole a great company, more in the aggregate than all they who in the city entire are yet in the flesh,--as we loiter here and think of these things, we see the force of the remark, "One generation cometh and another goeth, but the earth abideth forever." We have said, after all, comparatively nothing concerning this place of so much interest and renown, but time with us moves as it did with those who a thousand years ago labored and died here. The great bell in the tower solemnly counts off the hour of 3 o'clock, and we wend our way from these sacred precincts, and drop the curtain, but not without the promise that whenever again at London, we will come over to Norwich; and now at 3.30 of the same Tuesday, we take cars for the next cathedral town, which is famous old ELY. We are at the seat of another of the famed cathedrals, having arrived in just an hour's ride from Norwich; so on this remarkably fine day as it is proving to be,--at home in Boston, America, we should call it a first-class middle-of-May one,--valises deposited at the railroad station, our stay not to be long, we are soon walking about the city. This is a small rural place, situated on the River Ouse, and with a population of 8,000. It is exceedingly rural in aspect, and has but little look of business or manufactures. Half embowered with trees, the octagonal tower of the cathedral is looming up in the distance, a half-mile away. The place has one principal street, and but few others of more than ordinary importance, and while clean to a fault, it has many old buildings, and little that is new; and, as before intimated, gardens and lawns are common, and the entire place has a charmingly rural character. The churches of St. Mary and of Holy Trinity are remarkable for their age and an ancient splendor. There was a convent founded here about 673, by Etheldreda, wife of Egfrid, King of Northumberland, and she was its first abbess. It was destroyed by the Danes in 870, and one hundred years later was rebuilt by Ethelwold, Bishop of Winchester, who placed in it monks instead of nuns. The city is on an island, and is said to have received its name from the great quantity of eels that used to be taken here. It has some manufactures of earthen-ware, and tobacco-pipes, and there are also flax and hemp-seed oil-mills, and lime-kilns; but the principal source of income for the laboring people is agriculture, and it has very extensive gardens for the cultivation of market vegetables, the produce of which is mainly sent to Cambridge, sixteen miles away, for use at the colleges. The monastery and former abbey being established here, made it at an early day one of the celebrated religious centres of England; and, as often the case, the church of the institution was important, and in time became a cathedral. The See was established in 1107. In 1066 Thurston was abbot, and he defended the Isle of Ely seven years against William the Conqueror. In 1081 Simeon, a prior of Winchester, was abbot, and laid the foundation of the present cathedral. In 1107, as before stated, the See was established, and Hervey, who had been Bishop of Bangor,--and, it is said for good reasons, had been driven away,--was elected Abbot of Ely; that is, he was head of the monastery. He made an effort to have this a seat of the bishop, and, succeeding, was himself made its first bishop. Simeon, who laid the cathedral foundation, lived only long enough to finish the choir and one transept, and of his work this transept only now remains. The nave, the great western tower as high as the first battlements, and the south transept were finished, the former in 1174, and the latter in 1189. The great western portico was begun in 1200, and finished in 1215. In 1552 extensions were made, and in 1322 the octagonal lantern of the tower was begun, and it was finished in 1328. A spire of wood was built on this in 1342, which was afterwards removed. Various repairs and restorations have been from then till now going on, and we have it at present in fine condition of repair. It is built of a grayish, or dark soapstone-colored stone, resembling the cathedral at Salisbury; and on the stone is a large lot of lichens,--a species of fungus or moss, such as is often seen on our common stones of field walls, though so very thin and close to the stone as at times to appear simply like a stain on the material. The building is 517 feet long, 179 feet wide at the transepts, and the nave and aisles are respectively 78 feet wide and 70 feet high. A marked and important feature of this cathedral is the great west tower, on the four corners of which are large octagonal buttress piers, ending in very lofty turrets, crowned with battlements; and inside of these, but somewhat lower, is an octagonal lantern section, also crowned with an embattled parapet. The tower is very elaborate and elegant in its finish and proportions, and is in all 306 feet high. Another peculiarity of the cathedral is that at the intersection of the nave, transepts, and choir, are four subordinate sides in which are elegant windows, and the whole great octagon, ending at the outside lines with groined work; and the centre part is a lantern which is open well up into the great tower over it. The interior of this cathedral is elegant and wonderfully elaborate, and is excelled by no cathedral in the kingdom. Here, if anywhere, may it be said that rich Gothic architecture is "frozen music." Speak as favorably as one will of other cathedrals, they may yet be lavish in praise of Ely; and it may be added that the painted glass windows are incredibly fine and in keeping with the grand building they illuminate. Of one thing we repeatedly speak, and it is that we are glad that we did not see the interior of a cathedral like this first; else many of the others would have appeared tame and weak. All, however, have their own peculiar glories, and, as productions of art, do their own respective work. There are but few monuments of note in the cathedral. There were once, however, many of bishops, priors, and deans, but all have been destroyed or removed but two; they are of Bishop Gray and of Lewis de Luxemburg, who was made bishop in 1438, and who held the bishopric by special dispensation of the Pope, being at the same time Archbishop of Rouen, France, and also a cardinal. Among the eminent men who have been bishops of this cathedral is Matthew Wren, who was elected bishop in 1638. He was uncle of the distinguished architect of St. Paul's at London, Sir Christopher Wren, and he held the following offices at different periods: Master of St. Peter's College, Cambridge; Dean of Windsor; and Bishop of Hereford, and also of Norwich. He was a great sufferer during the Usurpation and the Rebellion, but outlived both, and before his death saw peace and tranquility restored. In looking over the list of Ely's bishops, one is astonished to observe how eminent they must have been, if we may judge from their having previously been bishops in other cathedrals. Simon Langham, elected here in 1332, was a cardinal, and, after being here, was bishop at Canterbury. Thomas de Armdel, of 1374, was translated to York, and then to Canterbury. John Morton, of 1478, was afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas Goodrich, of 1534, was once Bishop of Westminster, and also of Norwich. Simon Patrick, of 1691, was at Chichester as bishop, and was dean at Peterboro'. Remarkable confidence seems to have been reposed in the bishops of Ely for uprightness and integrity, and a business talent as well; for as many as twelve of them were chancellors of England, and four of them founded colleges or were masters at Cambridge. As we try to select a few items of especial interest from the vast amount before us, the task is bewildering, and when a final work has been done, it is so meagre and paltry as to cause uncomfortable thoughts, and put to flight all anticipations of even a reasonable satisfaction. These vast buildings, so elegant in decoration, so aged, so satisfying to the beholder, as remarkable works of skill in decorative and constructive points of view, are great museums and libraries of themselves; and to the reflective observer there _are_ "sermons in stones." When here and at like places, we are amid the results of the anticipations and prayers and labors of centuries. We go back to the day when a lot of mortals, full of a pious aspiration for the good and the true,--yet superstitious,--were travelling over these spots in quest of a best place for study and repose; and they at last here rested, and founded an abbey or monastery, a priory it may be, or a simple nunnery. By-and-by the foundation of a great church was to be laid, but with no hope or expectation of ever seeing those foundation walls of an entire cathedral reach even the earth's surface: comprehending the scheme, they plied themselves to the task, and labored and died; others came, the walls arose, and centuries passed. Tower, battlement, and roof climbed heavenward, and then came consecration and worship, but never rest. Death of prelate, then monuments were in order; repairs of cathedral; civil wars, rebellions, destruction of the art-work of centuries; overturnings of doctrines, disputes, and surrender of cathedral, and all its sacred belongings come; new doctrines are inaugurated, and become the law of the land. Generations after generations are born and die. The cathedral grows old, aged; the grounds only remain as they were; and _not_ as they were, for the soil is raised by the dust of the thousands that are buried and moulder in it, and so, in transfigured glory, even the old trees that throw their grateful shadows have in their fibre earth that was once the royal bone and flesh and sinew of bishop, cardinal, or king. At places in cathedral premises are charnel houses, or rooms where are deposited bones and remains exhumed, or taken from tombs, and these are thrown into promiscuous heaps to moulder on a little longer, and, having become resolved back to mother earth, to be quietly shovelled out as food for grass and flowers on the great lawns. These are the seen, the temporal; but the unseen, the eternal, is no less fact, nor less real, for the influence these men exerted lives and acts. The mortal is greater than any material thing he builds. That decays, and as an organized thing ceases to be, but the influence of thought dies never. We know not into whose little mass of earth, whose narrow house, the rootlets of the tree whose branches shade us have gone, and taken up their infinitesimal particles of human earth, and carried it on to make leaf and blossom, or fibre of wood or bark. We know it has been done, and is yet doing, and has been so for centuries; for, as Shakespeare has it:-- Imperious Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away; Oh that the earth, which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw! Not seen as fact, with material eyes, but known beyond peradventure by the less material thought; so it is of the deeds done,--living and acting, when the authors are dead, as the world judges and declares. But are not the great arch and pillar of nave influential now? Is not the elegant decoration of cut stone refining to those of this day? Does not the largeness even of the cathedral inspire us now to do large things? Does not the patience of monk, of old bishop, of the master mind of those back ages,--content to but lay a foundation and then resignedly die,--does not that beget the like, even in this hurrying nineteenth-century time? And the determination of Cromwell or of Henry VIII., even though destructionists,--iconoclasts not only of stone, but unwittingly of superstitions and religious tyranny,--though in a sense tyrants themselves, does not their work make it comfortable for free conscientious worship now? Does not the work of such ones and their sustaining bishops,--of martyrs, by their faithfulness and sacrifices even of life itself,--do not these make our good conditions possible, which but for them would never have been? Cathedral _is_ museum and library; it is shrine,--inspiring thought and evolving new good, and in no way inferior to picture-gallery or depository of mechanical production or of curious art. A long digression this, and but for the license we at the start reserved, apology would be due. We greatly enjoyed Ely and all things in it. A fine long walk came next, from the cathedral off half a mile into a back road, where, amid the good suburban shade of overhanging garden trees, and enveloped in the nice odor of flowers, we took our last view of the old structure, and turned our feet to the station. Dreamish was the whole thing. A few hours ago we were not in sight of the famed place, where has crystallized the greatness engendered by centuries. A choice bit of earth, covered over and enveloped in extraordinary history and momentous events, the site of any cathedral is. A few hours only there at the shrine, and the material curtain for us two drops, and never perhaps to be raised while we are in the flesh. It was another scene of lightning-like presentation, but the photograph was taken. The impression is clear, clean-cut of detail and outline; and though it may be dimmed it will never be effaced, nor beyond recall. We leave the famed place, and, entering the station, sit mute in our car. The common things of every-day life take us in charge. Engine, embankments, bridges, tunnels, fields, every-day things, terribly modern, come up in front, and gently absorb attention. The mind quietly and imperceptibly yields. We are kindly let down, and the spell is broken. We are on our way to Cambridge. It's 6.30 P. M. only, and that's early for these long English June days. Classic and worthily renowned Cambridge! Our thoughts go _on_ and not _back_ now. When one has been thinking of a great thing, it's a comfort, when ruthlessly removing from it, to be permitted to think of another as great or greater. CHAPTER XIX. CAMBRIDGE. Our arrival here was at 7.30 P. M. on Thursday, June 11, with but an hour's ride from Ely. This city, as is well known, is the other great university place of England, with its sister Oxford, and is in many respects like that; for aside from its being a great seat of learning, the general look and surroundings are much the same. Fine meadows surround the city, and the River Cam runs through it, as does the Cherwell at Oxford. The place is one of great antiquity, for in Doomsday-book it is described as an important place, and is there called Grente-bridge, from one of the then names of the river. Its present name is derived from the more modern name, Cam, which is nearer correct. The pronunciation by the inhabitants was Cambridge, giving _a_ its sound as in _can_, instead of its long sound as in _came_, by our usage. In 871 it was burnt by the Danes; rebuilt; and burnt in 1010. Subsequent to this it has been the scene, at various periods, of great historical events, but we will leave its ancient history and speak of it as it now is. The present population, including about 8,500 students, is 35,372. What makes it of peculiar interest to people of Massachusetts is, that from it is taken the name of our Cambridge, which was done in honor of some of the early settlers, who were graduates here, and also of Rev. John Harvard, who removed from here to America, and died at our Charlestown, Sept. 24, 1638. At his death he made a donation to our college of money and his library of 300 books. No more beautiful place of sojourn in the kingdom of Great Britain exists than this. There is at one of the principal business sections quite a commercial aspect, there being good stores for the sale of goods of all kinds, and the bookstores are exquisitely tempting. Here and there are fine old mansions elegantly embowered in trees; and winding about among them, and for long distances, are the most rural of roads imaginable for quiet rambles, strongly reminding one of the more retired parts of our Roxbury, most of them being shaded by venerable trees. There are examples of churches, with their surrounding graveyards, which boast of very great antiquity, and they also greet us with a _look_ of centuries. The people are blest with a becoming and good reverence for these time-honored enclosures and venerable buildings, and they religiously repair them when needed, but refrain from amending. Happily for them, public sentiment is such that no Old South campaigns, such as balls, fairs, and "Carnivals of Authors," are required before they will refrain from putting them out of existence. An atmosphere of learning, and suggestions of high cultivation, and that of centuries' duration and exercise, prevails and is everywhere apparent. Even the business portion seems to be subdued, refined, and classic. After making due allowance for the fact of knowledge of the nature of the place and interest in it exciting, perhaps, a too intense admiration, one gets the impression that the children are more refined, and that even the street horses are better behaved than elsewhere; he all the time feels as though he was enveloped in an atmosphere of unusual propriety, for there's a sort of Sunday-air about everything. As at Oxford, the colleges are many in number, and the buildings are of peculiar construction, entirely unlike ours in America. We have given a full description of those at Oxford, and remarks concerning them apply alike to these, for in most respects they do not vary much from each other. It may be said that, take at random one half of those at Oxford, and exchange buildings and grounds with an equal number from Cambridge,--take them promiscuously, and put each respectively in the place of the other,--and you would in no way attract especial attention so far as style, size, or kind of architecture is concerned. Of course all vary from each other, but part of those in one place do not vary from part of those of another, any more than each varies from its neighbor. Here are the same courts, or closes, called _courts_ at Cambridge, and _quads_ at Oxford. They are always entered by a principal arch or gateway from a main street, and there enclosed is the elegant lawn of that indescribably velvet-like grass, for which such places are celebrated, and which the mild and moist climate so well takes care of and favors. Then there is a grand and scrupulously clean gravel-walk around it, and up against the buildings; and it may be there are good paths across it, leading to other openings, through under the first story to another court of like nature, and yet again to others,--for some colleges have four or more of these. Everywhere exists a neatness that is remarkable,--no particle of paper nor bit of anything to mar the nicety. Windows innumerable are filled on their outside sills with pots of flowers. We often say, as we pass through the courts and observe the perfect repair every building is in,--the cleanliness, the comfortable quiet,--"How perfect, and what a good public sentiment among the students there must be to make the condition possible." Aside from these courts, some, and perhaps most of the colleges, have very large and great park-like grounds and of many acres in extent, with walks ancient and shaded with venerable trees. The lazy River Cam moves leisurely through them, as if loath to leave, and as though admiring its visit and stay. As we stood on one of the grand old bridges crossing it,--and there are quite a number on the grounds leading from one division of the park to another, and sometimes, as at St. John's College, connecting two buildings,--as we stood looking down into the water we almost felt that it, as we did, realized that the visit was one of a lifetime, and not to be hurried over. How inducive of thought are these old classic grounds, centuries in use? Poets, philosophers, and martyrs, the most renowned men of the world, have here walked as we are walking. Oxford has had her great men, and we bow reverently at the thought or even mention of their names. How the destinies of the kingdom and those of the world have been influenced by men to whom Oxford was _alma mater_; but an intense conservatism has always nestled in her bosom and been suckled at her breasts. For centuries it was Oxford's conscientious duty and work to be conservator of religion and philosophy, and, as she understood it, to see that the ship did not drag anchor, drift, nor move a particle from her ancient moorings of received doctrines and principles; and so, if burning of martyrs would aid the cause, martyrs must be burned, and Hooper and Latimer and Ridley and Cranmer, _Cambridge_ men, must be ensamples and victims. As a result the flame of poetry burned low in that university, and if the world was to have a Milton and a Spenser, a Gray and a Byron, Christ's, Pembroke, and Trinity of Cambridge must furnish them. So of great philosophers! Cambridge's Trinity must furnish Newton and Bacon; and, as named, the great martyrs Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley must go from Jesus, Clare, and Pembroke of this university; and what vast influence in our New England was exerted by the labors of John Robinson, the Pilgrims' minister and spiritual adviser, who although he died before he was permitted to look on this promised land, yet was to the moment of his death their best earthly friend; and so we may speak of Elder Brewster and of John Cotton; of Shepard of Lynn, and Parker and Noyes of Newbury, and all their fellow-contemporaries in the work of the ministry,--hardly one, save the two last named, who did not graduate at Cambridge! Archbishop Laud declared Sidney, Sussex, and Immanuel Colleges here to be "the nurseries of Puritanism." To use the thought of Dean Stanley: "It seems to have been the mission of Cambridge to _make_ martyrs, and the work of Oxford to _burn_ them." But we pass on and notice the colleges themselves. From their great number and the long history each has, it will be impossible to give even a respectable synopsis of their history, and we can do but little more than name them, as was done for Oxford, in the order of their founding, with the date, and give a sample only of names of the eminent men who have been educated at each; and first in the list is St. Peter's, founded 1284, by Hugh de Balsham, Bishop of Ely. The library contains 6,000 volumes, and has fine old antique portraits of some of the masters and fellows, dating from 1418 to 1578. Among its eminent men were the famous Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, who died 1447. Thomas Gray, author of the renowned "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," died in 1771, and Lord Chief Justice Ellenboro', 1818. The second in antiquity is Clare College, founded by Dr. Richard Badew, Chancellor of the University, in 1326. Elizabeth Clare, the third sister and co-heiress of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, of her bounty built the college buildings, and in 1347 endowed it with land; and from thence it obtained the name which it has held for over five centuries. The grounds named are inconceivably elegant, and a graceful poet of Oxford, in speaking of them, remarks as follows:-- Ah me! were ever river-banks so fair, Gardens so fit for nightingales as these? Were ever haunts so meet for summer breeze, Or pensive walk in evening's golden air? Was ever town so rich in court and tower, To woo and win stray moonlight every hour? Some of her eminent men are, beside the martyr Latimer: John Tillotson, Archbishop of Canterbury, died in 1594; Ralph Cudworth, D. D., the celebrated writer, 1688; and Rev. James Hervey, author of the Meditations, 1758. The next is Pembroke, founded in 1347, by Mary de St. Paul, second wife of Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke. She obtained her charter from Edward III. Her husband had died suddenly in France in 1324. The venerable appearance of the buildings caused Queen Elizabeth, when she visited it for the first time, to salute it in a Latin exclamation, a translation of which is, "O house antique and religious." The thought may have been suggested by a remembrance of John Rogers, and of Bradford and Ridley, who suffered martyrdom in the preceding reign, and who were all of this college, the last named having been its master, or, as we say, its president. The chapel was built in 1665, from designs by Sir Christopher Wren, architect of St. Paul's London. The library contains 10,000 volumes. This college has been called Collegium Episcopale, from the great number of bishops who were here educated. Among her eminent men was the martyr Ridley, who was burned at the stake in 1555; Edmund Spenser the poet, 1599; and William Pitt, 1806. Gonville and Caius College (Caius is called _Keys_ by the students) is next. It was founded by Edmund de Gonville in 1348. He proceeded to erect buildings, but did not live to carry his design into full execution; he, however, left money for their completion. In 1557 John Caius, M. D., physician to Queen Mary, endowed the college largely, and, having procured a charter of incorporation, it took his name. Dr. Caius was master of his college from 1559 till within a few weeks of his death in 1573. There are in the college grounds three gates, which lead to as many of the courts. One, erected by the Doctor in 1565, has the Latin inscription over it, HUMILITATIS, meaning, this is the gate of Humility. The second was built in 1567. This has two inscriptions, one on each side. One is VIRTUTIS, the gate of Virtue. On the other side is JO CAIUS POSSUIT SAPIENTI�, "John Caius built this in honor of Wisdom." The third is inscribed HONORIS, the gate of Honor, and was built in 1574. On the north wall of the chapel is an inscription to the founder of the college. It is in Latin, a free translation of which is as follows: "Virtue our Death survives. I was Caius, aged 63, Died July 29, Anno Domini 1573." Dr. Caius gave to the college a beautiful Caduceus, or silver mace, ornamented with four twining serpents; it is two feet and a half long, and, by his direction, is borne before the master at the principal college festivities. This has been marked as the Medical College of Cambridge, and has produced a long roll of eminent physicians, among whom is William Harvey, the discoverer of the circulation of blood, in 1657. It has also produced several antiquarians, who were distinguished for their valuable researches. Among her eminent men may be named Sir Thomas Gresham, founder of the Royal Exchange, London,--died 1579; also the distinguished Bishop Jeremy Taylor, 1667. The next in order, the fifth, is Trinity Hall. This is the only college which retains its original designation of _hall_. A few years ago there were three others so called, Pembroke, Clare, and St. Catherine's. The first of these changed appellation about thirty years ago; the two latter quite recently, to avoid being confounded with the _private halls_ contemplated in the University act, but afterwards changed to _hostels_. This college was one of the hostels for the accommodation of students, but was purchased by John de Cranden, Prior of Ely, for the monks to study in; and in the year 1350 it was obtained of the prior and convent of Ely by William Bateman, Bishop of Norwich, with the lands thereto appertaining, who constituted it a "perpetual college of scholars of canon and civil law in the University of Cambridge;" and, in accordance with the founder's intentions, it is particularly appropriated to the study of civil law. It is situated on the banks of the river, and has three courts. The eminent men are Stephen Gardiner, a distinguished Bishop of Winchester, died 1555; Lord Howard of Effingham, commander against the renowned Spanish Armada, 1573; Thomas Tusser the poet, and author of the somewhat celebrated "One Hundred Points of Good Husbandry," 1580; and, above all, the distinguished Earl of Chesterfield, Philip Dormer Stanhope, 1773. Among the bright lights of modern times may be named the late Lord Lytton, the novelist, poet, and statesman; and also Sir Alexander Cockburn, Lord Chief Justice of England, who took so conspicuous a part in the controversy between England and America concerning the Alabama Claims. The sixth is Corpus Christi. Two ancient Saxon guilds were united to form it, and in 1352 King Edward II. granted a license for its founding. This college has one modern and elegant building, the corner-stone of which was laid July 3, 1823. All its appointments are grand. It has in its museum some plate that is very old and curious; an antique drinking-horn, presented to the guild of Corpus Christi, in 1347, by John Goldcorne; the cup of the Three Kings,--a small bowl of dark wood mounted with silver; thirteen silver-gilt spoons, terminated by figures of Christ and the apostles; an elegant salt-cellar nearly a foot high; a magnificent ewer and basin; and a cup with a cover weighing 53 ounces. Among her eminent men are the justly renowned Mathew Parker, Archbishop of Canterbury, died 1575; Christopher Marlowe the dramatist, 1593; John Fletcher, the dramatist, and colleague with Beaumont, 1625; and Archbishop Tennison of Canterbury, 1715. The seventh is King's. This royal and very magnificent institution arose from the munificence of the meek but unfortunate King Henry VI., who endowed it in 1443. His misfortunes prevented him from carrying out designs which would have made it greatly excel any other college. It was aided, however, by Edward IV. and Richard III., but it was reserved for his thrifty nephew, Henry VII., by devotions in his lifetime and by his will, to provide funds for the completion of the noble edifice. However pressed for space, we must employ enough to speak of the remarkable chapel, which is one of the great objects of attraction at Cambridge, and one of the most interesting buildings in Christendom. It is of what is known as the perpendicular Gothic architecture. Its length is 316 feet. The corner-stone was laid by Henry VI., July 25, 1446. The work progressed till 1484, when it came to a standstill for want of funds; but in 1508 Henry VII. took it in hand, contributing £5,000, and his executors bestowed £5,000 more in 1513. It was not till July 29, 1515, in the seventh year of Henry VIII., that the exterior was finished. This was just 69 years from its commencement. Nothing more was done till 1526, when arrangements were made for the fine painted glass windows. The elegant screen-work and elaborate oak stalls were put up in 1534. All this work is very curiously carved, and was done when Anne Boleyn was queen; the west side is ornamented with several lover's knots, and the arms of Queen Anne impaled with those of the king. On this screen, in the old cathedral style, is the organ, which is of very large capacity, and in 1860 £2,000 was expended on it. It would be next to an impossibility to adequately describe this magnificent interior. It is of very great height, and the ceiling is of fan-tracery of the most elaborate design of open-work cut in stone. Arms of all the kings of England, from Henry V. to James I., are here. The painted glass windows, twenty-five in number, are remarkably large, and for brilliancy of color and artistic design are surpassed by none in the world. They represent Old and New Testament scenes. The designs are entirely English, and the date of their manufacture ranges from 1516 to 1532, so that the very latest is more than 346 years old, or 88 years before the Pilgrims set sail for America. Choral service is performed in the chapel every afternoon. The grounds are very grand, and too much cannot be thought or said of this institution. Among her eminent men were Robert Woodlark, founder of St. Catherine College; Sir Francis Walsingham, secretary of state to Queen Elizabeth; Bishop Pearson, author of the celebrated "Exposition of the Creed;" and Sir Robert Walpole, the renowned and royal minister of state. We cannot leave these grounds without asking the reader to go with us to the great and single-arch stone bridge,--King's Bridge,--and for a moment enjoy the grand views to be had from it. To the right is to be seen the front of the Fellows' Building and the west end of the great chapel. Immediately in front is Clare College, with its picturesque bridge. The bridges and avenues make a grand view, bounded in the distance by the grounds of Trinity College. On the other side the view is of a more retired character. In the distance to the left are the spires and turrets of Queen's College, and extending along the side of the river is the terraced walk and quiet shady grove of the same institution. The venerable avenue at right-angles with this, tradition has long pointed out as the favorite walk of Erasmus; and in deference to this tradition the University purchased it of the town, by whom it was doomed at one time to destruction. Queen's College is the eighth in order. This, in its architecture, history, and plan, is one of the most picturesque and interesting of all the colleges. It was founded in 1448 by Margaret of Anjou, consort of Henry VI., who, amidst a career perhaps one of the most troubled and chequered on record, found time and means to emulate the example of her royal husband, and, while he was erecting King's College, became the foundress of this. The civil wars interrupted the work, but Andrew Doket, the first master, by good management secured the patronage of Elizabeth Woodville, consort of Edward IV., who set apart a portion of her income for its endowment, and she has since been annually celebrated as a co-foundress. Among the things of especial interest is a sun-dial, said to have been made by Sir Isaac Newton; and next is the Erasmus Court and tower. When the erudite and ingenious Erasmus visited England, at the invitation of his friend Bishop Fisher, then Chancellor of the University, he chose this college as his place of residence, "having his study," says Fuller, "at the top of the southwest tower of the court now called by his name." This college, like many others, has gardens and fine grounds on both sides of the river. They are connected by a wooden bridge of one span,--an ingenious piece of carpentry, and frequently called the Mathematical Bridge. To the right of this is the Grove, a most inviting place for quiet meditation. The terraced walk on the banks of the river is a delightful spot, shaded by lofty overhanging elms, at the end of which a striking view is obtained beneath the great stone arch of King's Bridge. The eminent members here, or a few of the vast lot, were John Fisher, the master of the college and Bishop of Rochester, who was beheaded 1535; Thomas Fuller, D. D., the great Church historian, 1561; Dr. Isaac Milner, master, and Bishop of Carlisle, 1820; and Samuel Lee, the eminent linguist, 1852. On the opposite side of the street is the ninth college, St. Catharine's, founded in 1475, by Robert Woodlark, D. D. The chapel was consecrated 1704, by Simon Patrick, Bishop of Ely. The especially eminent men here are John Bradford, martyred 1555; John Strype, the learned ecclesiastical historian, 1737; and Benjamin Hoadley, Bishop of Winchester. It was he who gave rise to what is known as the celebrated Bangorian Controversy, in 1761. The next college in order of date, the tenth, is Jesus. It has a most rural situation and pleasing aspect, for it is located back some distance from the road, and is charmingly surrounded with gardens, which give it a very domestic character. As a general thing, the main college buildings at Cambridge are out, bounding the street or road; but this one is beautifully situated as named, and its retired position is said to have called forth the remark of James I., that if he lived at the University he would pray at King's, eat at Trinity, and study and sleep at Jesus. It occupies the site of an old Benedictine nunnery, dedicated to St. Rhadegund, founded in the reign of Henry II. Towards the close of the fifteenth century the nuns became notorious for their dissolute lives and extravagance; and in a few years the buildings fell into decay, and their remains were so wasted that only two nuns were left. At this period John Alcock, Bishop of Ely, determined to convert it into a college; and in 1497 he obtained letters-patent to put the college into possession of the property belonging to the nunnery, and the latter institution was dissolved. The college has four courts, and its chapel is second only to that at King's College. Among its ancient men were Cranmer the martyr, burnt at Oxford 1556; Lawrence Sterne, the author of "Tristram Shandy," 1768; and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1835. The next, and the eleventh, is Christ's. This was founded 1456, by Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, and mother of Henry VII. It arose out of a hostel called God's House, which had been endowed by Rev. William Byngham of London in 1442. In 1505, Lady Margaret obtained a license from her own son, Henry VII., to change its name to Christ's College, and endow it. The library contains 9,000 books, among which are many that are ancient and very valuable; there are also a great number of manuscripts and curious old works, particularly a splendid copy of the Nuremburg Chronicle in Latin, printed in 1494. The college also possesses some beautiful old plate, which belonged to the foundress, especially two exquisite saltcellers, engraved with Beaufort badges, and a set of Apostle spoons. The garden is very tastefully laid out, and contains a bowling-green, a summer-house, and a bath; but the great attraction of all others to visitors is the celebrated mulberry-tree planted by John Milton when he was a student. The trunk is much decayed, but the damaged parts are covered with sheet lead. It is banked up with earth covered with grass, being also carefully propped up, and every means used for its preservation; though so aged, it is still vigorous, and produces excellent fruit. From the southeast of this garden most charming views are had through the foliage, of King's College Chapel and other buildings. Among the eminent men were Latimer the martyr, 1557; John Milton, 1674; Archdeacon Paley, author of the Evidences, 1805; and Francis Quarles, author of the Emblems, 1644. Our next, and twelfth, is St. John's, and derives its name from a hospital dedicated to St. John the Evangelist, founded in the reign of Henry II., which occupied the site of the present college. It was founded, like the one last named, by Countess Richmond, mother of Henry VII. After having founded Christ College, she was induced by Bishop Fisher of Rochester to found this. In 1505 she took measures for converting St. John's Hospital into a college, but various causes prevented its being done in her lifetime; but she added a codicil to her will empowering her executors to carry out her design. She died June 29, 1509, and the college was opened July 29, 1516. Rich endowments, made since, have raised it considerably above the original design, and it now ranks as second college of the University. The new chapel is one of the most elegant structures in the kingdom. The corner-stone was laid in 1864. It was from designs by Scott, and cost £53,000. It is 193 feet long, and 52 feet wide, divided into chapel proper and ante-chapel. The tower is 163 feet high including the pinnacles. It is very massive, and is open on the inside to a height of 84 feet. As at King's College, attempts at full description must not be made. It is enough to say that the finish of the interior is extravagantly elegant, and that the windows are remarkable for their wealth of imagery, and brilliant color. We will venture to say that the ceiling of the great chapel is vaulted in oak, in nineteen bays, decorated by a continuous line of full-length figures, and by scrollwork in polychrome. In the central bay at the east end is a representation of Our Lord in Majesty. The other eighteen bays contain figures illustrating the eighteen Christian centuries after the first one, and are indescribably grand in design and execution. They are mainly devoted to representation of the bishops, college-founders, or of her most eminent men, and we give the ninth century panel as an illustration. It portrays Henry Martyn, missionary of India, William Wilberforce, statesman, William Wordsworth, poet, Thomas Whytehead, missionary to New Zealand, Dr. Wood, Master of St. John's College and Dean of Ely. Passing out of the third court by an archway on the south side, a picturesque old bridge of three arches leads us to the college walks and gardens, which are more pleasantly laid out and more diversified than any others of the University; from them a fine view is obtained of the library and bridge of Trinity College. These walks consist of a series of terraces, and retired paths encompassing meadows, which are planted with fine trees, among which are some stately elms. Beyond these is the Fellows' Garden, or Wilderness, a large piece of ground containing a bowling-green; and the trees are planted in such order as to resemble, when in leaf, the interior of a church. These grounds are said to have been laid out by Matthew Prior, the poet. Of her eminent ones may be named the famous Ben Jonson, 1637; Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, beheaded 1641; Mark Akenside and Henry Kirk White, poets, who died 1770 and 1806. The thirteenth is Magdalen, which occupies a portion of the site of a Benedictine priory, established about 1430. On the suppression of monasteries by Henry VIII. this college would soon have become extinct, had not Lord Audley of Walden procured in 1542 a grant of it, and a charter to establish on its site a college to be named St. Mary Magdalen College. It has but two courts, and the first is next the street. Among the matters of especial interest is the library of Samuel Pepys, Esq., who died in 1703, and left his whole collection of books and manuscripts to this college. In the library is that curious and inexpressibly interesting manuscript, the original of the celebrated Diary of Mr. Pepys. We confess that nothing in any of the college libraries was of so much interest as were these works of the gossipy Pepys, and so while at this college it was our good fortune to examine the original manuscripts of the remarkable Diary in six volumes, about eight inches or so square, and two inches thick. If we say that the short-hand resembles almost strictly any of our present styles of phonography, with here and there a word fully written out, we give the best possible idea of it. All is exceedingly clean and free from any blot or blemish, and just such as may be imagined would have been prepared by the nice Pepys. The Diary was to us, before, one of a few choice books; and now since we have seen his work, and his portrait by Sir G. Kneller, we are more than ever if possible in mood to think well of him who has written as none but he could or would write. The distinguished personages of this college, besides Pepys, are Bryan Walton, Bishop of Chester and editor of the Polyglot Bible, who died in 1661; Dr. James Dupont, the celebrated Greek Professor, and master of the college, 1679; and that other learned divine and college master, Dr. Daniel Wheatland, 1740. The fourteenth is Trinity, and without question this is the noblest collegiate institution of the kingdom, whether we regard the number of its members, or the extent and value of its buildings, or the illustrious men who have been educated within its walls. A large volume might be written in relation to these, and then but a synopsis be given. It is composed, or rather was organized, of others,--St. Michael's House, founded in 1324, King's Hall, in 1337, and Physwick's Hostel, the most important institution of that kind in Cambridge, and with this was included, six other minor hostels. These, in 1546, were surrendered to Henry VIII. as a preparatory step to the founding of one magnificent college, and he by letters-patent, Dec. 19, 1546, founded this in honor of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, and endowed it with very considerable possessions; but his death in a few weeks after stopped whatever further he may have contemplated. His son and successor Edward VI. issued the statutes of the college, and his daughter, Queen Mary, considerably augmented its endowments. The courts, five in number, are very elegant and full of interest, but we must pass all by, simply stating that what is called the Old Court is said to be the most spacious quadrangle in the world and is in dimensions as follows, for the four sides respectively, omitting inches, 287 feet, 344 feet, 256 feet, and 325 feet, giving an area of 79,059 square feet. There is nothing done in the preparation of this series of articles that demands a greater sacrifice of inclination to the contrary than does this abrupt termination of what would be a long and interesting statement, but limited space forbids even the record of full regrets. Of thousands of eminent men here educated may be named the illustrious philosophers Bacon and Newton, who died in 1626, 1727; also Crowley, Dryden, Byron, and Crabbe, poets; Dr. Isaac Barrow, the learned divine; Richard Porson, the eminent Greek critic and scholar; and Lord Macaulay, the historian and essayist; and we cannot well refrain from adding that there also was educated England's greatest modern poet, Alfred Tennyson. Having begun a somewhat extended description of the colleges composing this famed university, we are devoting more space to them than at first anticipated, but feel justified, as the subject is one of great interest to us all, our own University City being most intimately related to it; and so we speak of the remaining of the seventeen colleges before we proceed to speak of other items of interest. The next in order, the fifteenth, is one of very great moment to us of New England, for our interests are so closely connected with it; and that is Emanuel, which occupies the site of a dissolved monastery of Dominicans, or Black Friars. On the dissolution of monasteries this site was granted to Edward Ebrington and Humphrey Metcalf, of whose heirs it was purchased by Sir Walter Mildmay. This distinguished statesman was one of the most eminent adherents of what were termed Puritanical principles; and, with possibly the idea of establishing a nursery of those doctrines, in the year 1584 he obtained from Queen Elizabeth a charter for the incorporation of this college. No college of the University has done so much toward deciding the fortunes, and it may be said the existence of New England, as has this. Established in 1584, which was but 29 years after the burning of the martyrs at Smithfield and Oxford, and coming into existence as it were in spite of those deeds of darkness, it became the one of all others to which those stanch men and advancing ones would send their sons, and a grand and mighty power was wielded, and strength and even respectability were given to the movement. This college is intimately connected with our history; and New England will not have done her duty, nor availed herself of a good privilege that is hers, till in these college-grounds she has erected a memorial to those determined and worthy men who did so much for New England. John Robinson, the Pilgrims' minister, who was to have come to America the next spring but who died before his eyes could be gladdened by the sight, was educated at Emanuel. To our disgrace be it said, his dust to-day moulders in the soil of Holland, without so much as a plain slab to tell of his resting-place; and only as the guide in the church informs one, in reply to a request to be pointed to the spot, is the resting-place of the great departed ever seen. Thomas Shepard and Henry Dunster, the latter our Harvard's second president,--these also to-day in their death, as they did in life, honor this as their Alma Mater. The library contains 20,000 volumes, and some very rare and valuable manuscripts. The building itself was for nearly a century the college chapel; but so much of the Puritan element was here, that the chapel proper was never consecrated. Little however, did this trouble the worshippers, but the contrary was the case. By-and-by the church was in the ascendant, and then, in 1677, a new chapel had been built from designs by the celebrated Wren, "built due east and west," and all the appliances came of a non-dissenting church, consecrated by Bishop, and from then till now in good established use. Here were educated William Sancroft, the renowned Bishop of London at the time of building St. Paul's Cathedral, and afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, in 1693; Sir William Temple, statesman and essayist, 1700; and Dr. Parr, 1825. This, with the next college to be described, was considered by Archbishop Laud, as a very dangerous institution, and he designated the two as nurseries of Puritanism. That sister college--the sixteenth, Sidney Sussex--was built on the site of a monastery of Gray Friars. On the subjugation of their institution it was granted by Henry VIII. to Trinity College, of whom it was purchased by the executors of Frances, daughter of Sir William Sidney, and widow of Thomas Radcliffe, third Earl of Sussex; who, by will dated Dec. 6, 1588, bequeathed £5,000 and some other property to found this college, and the corner-stone was laid May 20, 1590. The building was completed in three years, and the college at once took a high rank and good standing. It will always be celebrated for its connection with Oliver Cromwell, who entered here as a student April 26, 1616, at the age of seventeen, and on the college books is the following record:-- _Oliverus Cromwell Huntingdoniensis admissus ad commeatum siciorum Aprilis vicesimo sexto, tutore mag Ricardo Howlet._ An amusing interpolation in a different and later handwriting appears, and speaks of him as:-- _Grandis impostor; carnifax perditissimus, etc._ His father dying the next year, and leaving no property, the son was obliged to leave college; but, as Bishop Burnett was pleased to say, "some Latin stuck to him." His room was one in which is an Oriel window, on Bridge Street. There is in the master's lodge a fine portrait of the great Protector, made near the close of his life, and it is said to be remarkably faithful to the original. The long coarse gray hair is parted in the middle and reaches venerably to the shoulders. The forehead is high, majestic, and bold, and has a deeply marked line between the eyes, which are gray, and suggesting the repose of a vast power. The complexion is high-colored, mottled, and the features are large and rugged like the nature of the man himself; but it has--now that the feverish dream of his eventful life has declined--come to appear to have, by new interpretations and as seen through new mediums, a calm, dignified, and, some would say, a benevolent look. It is enough for one college that for a year Cromwell was her foster-child. And now, for centuries, founding at Cambridge ends. Puritanism has set the world astir. The church, reformed as she prided herself to be, had her hands full to look after the already educated ones, and so no more founding of colleges for a long time was to be done; and we bridge over the chasm of 121 years, till, in 1717, Sir George Downing qualifiedly devised several valuable estates for the founding of a college within the precincts of the University; and so this is the seventeenth, and the last in order. He died in 1749. The sole inheritor of the property died in 1764, and left the estates to his lady; but the terms of Sir George's will being that if his heirs died without issue the property was to go to the founding of a college as named, the estate was claimed by the University; and after years of litigation the validity of the will was established, and the seal was affixed to the charter of the new college, Sept. 22, 1800. The corner-stone was laid with great ceremony, May 18, 1807, and it was opened in May, 1821, or more than 225 years from the date of the opening of the next one preceding it. The date of the founding of the first one, St. Peter's, being 1257, a period of 564 years intervened between the establishment of that first and this last one; and in all, from then till now, 626 years have passed, or more than a third of all the time since the birth of Christ. However pleasant it would be to pass in review a few of the thoughts that come as it were demanding attention, we must pass all. Replete with interest are these two great centres of learning, Cambridge and Oxford, England's Yale and Harvard. How the destinies of men and nations, the civilized world over, have been not only influenced, but made and controlled by their influence! What hallowed grounds are these classic walks amid these trees, by the River Cam! How interesting are these venerable weather-worn walls, these courts, these half-destroyed stairs of stone, rasped away, and deep into, by feet of men distinguished and great in all the departments of intellectual life! It was our intention to have spoken extendedly of the government of these institutions, and of many things pertaining to them, but we must refer the reader to the more appropriate sources of information for that. We would have spoken also of those grand old dining-halls, of which every college has one. Some of them are many centuries old, with quaint rich finish of old English oak, high open-timber roofs, fine windows, and grand old portraits adorning their walls. These halls are museums of interest inexpressible. Here are the very benches on which the boys sat, the greatest men of earth in embryo. The libraries, with their mementoes, their curious and rare old articles and books and paintings! How well we know that not one of our readers, who has not seen these things, can even approximately comprehend what we write. The old and new chapels! What repositories of greatness, and what charms inhere! We would have spoken of great things outside the University, for there are many that are indeed great, and they crowd themselves up now, if for nothing more, for an honorable mention. The Fitzwilliam Museum has grand picture-galleries, and works of art and antiquity incredible; the building itself is a marvel of good architecture. Old St. Benedict's Church, one of the most perfect examples of Saxon architecture in England, is a thousand years old, with an extremely ancient burial-ground surrounding it. Old and grand St. Edward's was erected in 1350,--533 years ago. Here Latimer preached. How venerable and calm, interesting to admiration, is its little cemetery, 500 years old. The Church of St. Mary the Great, begun in 1478, completed in 1519, was towerless till 1608; and in the 130th year later arose the grand and imposing tower we now behold. That classical structure, the University Library, has 230,000 printed books and 3,000 manuscripts, of every language and tongue,--all this in addition to the 17 other libraries of the respective colleges! The great Geological Museum is excelled by none in the world; St. Michael's Church, built in 1324, is elegant now and in grand repair; as one has expressed it, "the old structure is to-day the most seemly and creditable in the town." The ancient Round Church consecrated in 1101, and afterwards restored, in a sense is itself a worshipper, as well as a place of worship for humanity. We must speak of that curious fragment of architecture of the twelfth century, the School of Pythagoras. How quaint, how more than ancient! And we can only speak of--and, as it were, by the act slight that other antiquity--Barnwell Priory, founded in 1112, by old Payne Peverd, for Augustine canons. Once a place of magnificence, it declined, with none to care for it. At length a single department remained, and now that has come to the ignominious use of a common private stable. The Anatomical Museum, and the fine Botanical Gardens of thirty-eight acres, deserve mention. They shall have that much; they deserve volumes in their praise. In closing a list of these objects of interest we name only one more, the Hobson Conduit. This is one of the things of general interest, for the students of the University for 200 years have looked upon it time-and-time-again. It is an octagonal structure, monumental in design, crowned with a cyma-recta dome, and having niches in each of the principal sides. Below these is a moulded octagonal section, resting on a square plain base. It was built in 1610, and stands at the city end of an artificial water-course leading from a place called the Nine Wells, three miles distant, and supplies the city with water. From the Hobson Conduit pipes distribute it over the place. Hobson's name is closely connected with Cambridge. He was born here in 1544, and is said to have been the first person in the kingdom who adopted the system of letting out horses for hire, and history says he did a flourishing business with the University students. He made it an unalterable rule that every horse should have an equal portion of rest as well as labor, and would never let one go out except in its turn; hence the celebrated saying often heard nowadays, when more than two hundred years old, repeated in America, "Hobson's choice,--this or none." He died Jan. 1, 1631, and though he had attained the patriarchal age of eighty-six, his death is attributed to his being obliged to discontinue his journey to London, while the plague was raging in Cambridge, and to this fact Milton alludes in the two humorous epitaphs he wrote on him. There is one matter of interest yet remaining to be spoken of, and that relates to the government of the University. As before named, there are in all seventeen colleges. Each is an independent body, but is subject to the code of laws of the University, and in their administration all bear their share. The principal officer of the University is the Chancellor. His power is, strange to say, only nominal, and is, at that, delegated to a Vice-Chancellor elected annually from one of the heads of colleges. He is considered for the year the governor of this literary commonwealth. On all official occasions he is preceded by three Esquire Bedells, each bearing a large silver mace. There are next, elected annually, two Proctors, to attend to the discipline of the students of all the colleges, and assist in the general management of the University. Next is the Public Orator, who acts as the mouthpiece on all public occasions. We next have what are called Syndices, who are members of committees chosen to transact all special University business. There are many other minor officers, but those are the more important. The members of the University are, like our own, divided into two great orders, graduates and undergraduates, or those who have taken their degrees, and those who are yet students, and not graduated. Each college also has its head, or, as we term it, President. At this University they are termed Masters, or sometimes, though less generally, Heads. Then, each has more or less members who are called Fellows. These are such as are maintained by the college revenues. Next are Pensioners; these are the ordinary students, who simply pay their own expenses, receiving no pecuniary advantage from the college. What are termed Scholars are students who, having displayed superior attainments, are elected by examination to have rooms rent free, payments of money, and other advantages, as a good and honorable residence and welcome at their Alma Mater. Finally are the Sizars. These are students of limited means, who have their commons free, and receive other emoluments. It may be well to mention that each college has its own peculiar undergraduate's gown, and that most of the degrees and faculties are distinguished by different costumes. The total number of members of the University is about 8,000. The University sends to the House of Commons two members, who are chosen by the collective body of the senate. The revenues of the separate colleges are large, and derived from endowments and fees; but those of the University are small and rarely exceed £5,500 a year. The students are divided into four classes: Noblemen, who pay £50 caution money; Fellow-Commoners, who pay £25, and who receive their name from their privilege of dining,--having their commons at the table of their fellows; Pensioners, who pay £15, and form the great body of the students not on the foundation; and Sizars, who pay £10 and are students whose poverty prevents their taking advantage of many of the privileges of the University, though they are not shut out from any of its educational facilities. Sizars were once obliged to perform the most menial offices, but for many years this custom has been abolished. The matriculation fees for these classes of students are respectively as follows, £16, £11, £5. 10_s._, and £5. 5_s._ There are various degrees of payment for tuition, according to the degree and condition of the members, and slightly varying in the several colleges. The annual, unavoidable average expenses of an undergraduate or student are about £70, or $350. There are in the University 430 fellowships tenable for life, but in most cases conditioned upon taking holy orders within a given period, and their value varies from £100 to £300 per annum. Since the days of Newton, Cambridge has been the chosen seat of mathematical science, but the tendency to make it a stronghold of learning in all the various branches has been increasing of late years. It would be a pleasing work to follow on and give more extended notes of this great seat of learning. One while here is conscious that he is in no common place, for on this spot many of the mighty and really influential of earth began their great careers. No equal quantity of the earth's surface has been trodden by greater men than have walked here, and reverently we take our leave of the famed place, well conscious of what we have _not_ spoken of. The returns of 1880 gave the number in college as 1,399; 1,409 in lodgings; total, 2,808. The following returns, compiled by the University Marshals, show the present number of residents at the various colleges, and also the number of unattached students. In the returns, graduates as well as undergraduates are included. In college. In lodgings. Total resident. Trinity 335 340 675 St. John's 215 195 410 Jesus 74 147 221 Caius 100 98 198 Trinity-Hall 53 105 158 Christ's 70 80 150 Pembroke 49 87 136 Corpus Christi 79 45 124 Clare 56 68 124 King's 68 30 98 Emanuel 66 27 93 Magdalen 47 16 63 Queen's 41 19 60 St. Catharine's 39 21 60 St. Peter's 55 3 58 Downing 30 26 56 Sidney 41 12 53 Non-Ascripti 0 162 162 ----- ----- ----- 1,418 1,481 2,899 We now take our departure for London, completing the round trip which has employed twenty days inclusive. No like number can ever be filled with more satisfaction, or be replete with a greater interest. The route gone over is in all respects one that the experience has proved admirable and to be relied upon, as giving a sample of the best things that England and Scotland have to exhibit. CHAPTER XX. LONDON--WINDSOR--STOKE POGES. We are now, at 10.30 A. M., back in London, after a ride of two hours from Cambridge. The old charm of London still remains. It never would grow old. We have two days left, before we start for the continent, and employ them to the best advantage we can. The first, and a very natural act, is to go to our banker's in Philpot Lane, for letters and papers from home, and also to obtain some of that, the love of which one of old thought the root of all evil. Next, home to our old lodgings at No. 46 Woburn Place, for reading documents and writing replies. Next we take an omnibus ride down through High Holborn to Newgate Street, and alight near St. Paul's. It's full time that we go there again, and to worship in our own way. Delighted even more than at first, we find ourselves unable to comprehend it. First views are never as comprehensive as later ones. A feast of contemplation here, and then a walk through Cheapside, to view once more the Fire Monument. It stands in Fish Street and was built to commemorate the great fire of 1666. In design it is first a platform, on which is a pedestal 21 feet square, with a moulded base 28 feet square. It has a bold cornice, and all, to the top of this, is 40 feet high. On the top of this pedestal is a Roman Doric column, and above all is a vase, or urn, with what was designed to represent a flame issuing out of its top. The flame is gilded, and the entire monument is 215 feet high, or but five feet less than ours at Bunker Hill. It is so located that, should it be laid down lengthwise in a certain direction, extending from its present location, it would exactly reach the spot at which the fire originated in Pudding Lane. Here we stop by the way to remark that in London the idea--and no bad one--prevails of retaining old familiar names. Philpot Lane is yet the cognomen for the place of eminent bankers. Mincing Lane is the seat for certain kinds of merchandise traffic. Fish Street retains its name as at the time of the fire; and Piccadilly, Cheapside, Paternoster Row, High Holborn, and Crutched Friars are, to most Americans, even as common as household words. The monument is built of the white Portland sandstone; and inside, Bunker Hill Monument like, are circular stairs, 345 in number, leading to the iron gallery around on top of the capital of the great column. This gallery was inclosed some years ago with iron-work from the top of the rail, up some 8 feet, and covered at the top, forming an iron cage to prevent people from throwing themselves off with suicidal intentions, as was at times done. The great pedestal at the base contains in its four panels bas-reliefs, commemorative of the fire and events connected with the structure's erection. The monument is open daily, and for a small fee visitors are admitted to the gallery cage, from which very commanding views are had of the larger part of Old London, as well as the River Thames, and many outlying places in all directions. As from the top of the cathedral, the prospect is charming, and one is delighted as he views and contemplates this largest city of the world, more than two thousand years old, spread out below him; and how as by magic comes the thought that, from this elevated position, kings, queens, the most renowned ones of the old world and the new, have, as we are doing, looked out upon and been lost in contemplation of the scene! The monument was built from designs furnished by Sir Christopher Wren. It was begun in 1671, and finished in 1677. It is justly esteemed as the noblest column in the world, being 24 feet higher than the Trajan Column at Rome. Next a walk to London Bridge, where, as Pepys would have said, "by boat to Westminster." As stated in our other remarks on London, this is an exceedingly pleasant way to travel from one part of London to the other; the boats ply often and thousands thus travel. And next, another tour through the grand old Abbey, and about the vicinity of Parliament House and Westminster Bridge; and so the day was well filled up. As at first, very interesting are these London rambles. Friday, we are ready to take steam-cars for the famed city of WINDSOR, for which we start at 9 A. M. The ride of 23 miles is through well cultivated lands. The best of England are these fine suburbs. For 2,000 years have these same fields been cultivated, but they seem new and as virgin soil to-day. They are not povertized by continual takings-off and no returns, but manures are applied, constant attention is paid, and grand results come. At length arrived, we find ourselves in the pretty rural city, with a population of 11,769. It is situated on the right bank of the Thames, and presents a very neat appearance, with a smart enterprising condition everywhere apparent. The streets are well paved and lighted, and while there is little that is antique to be seen, yet it is interesting from its look of substantial and finished appearance. Here, at the seeming centre of the place, or at least in the midst of a solid population, is the famed Windsor Castle, and of course this is what we have especially come to see. It is the occasional residence of the Queen, and the buildings cover twelve acres of ground, being surrounded by a terrace on three sides, which is 2,500 feet in length. They stand in an enclosure called the Little Park, which is four miles in circumference, and connected on the south by a long and remarkably fine avenue of trees with the Great Park, which is 18 miles in outline; and then again west of this is the Windsor Forest, having a circuit of 56 miles. Windsor has long been a seat of residence for royal blood, for here resided the Saxon kings before the Norman Conquest. The present castle however is less ancient, as it was founded by William the Conqueror, who died Sept. 9, 1087. It was, however, largely rebuilt by order of Edward III., under the supervision of William of Wykeham, the celebrated Bishop of Winchester, who was architect of the remarkably elegant nave of his cathedral, and died Sept. 24, 1404. The antiquity of the castle is from these dates readily seen; and we may add that one of the reasons which induced us so often in these articles to give dates of the death of important individuals, was to enable the reader to have data as regards the age of buildings, or of the time of occurrence of events narrated. Various repairs were made after that; but, so far as general arrangement and design are concerned, no changes were made for centuries, and they so continued till 1824-8, when new work was done and all put in complete condition under the superintendence of Sir Jeffrey Wyatville. Visitors are freely admitted to the grounds and the castle, and a company is always present, thousands availing themselves of the privilege. We enter through the gateway from the city thoroughfare, which, as stated, is here very populous, and is even a commercial part of the place. Not far inside the grounds, which here are simply macadamized, with no tree or shrub or grass lawn present, we first visit the grand St. George's Chapel, strongly reminding one of the chapel of King's College at Cambridge. The interior is magnificent, with lofty columns and arches, splendid traceried-stone, vaulted ceiling, a rich altar-screen, and stall-work of oak. It has no transepts, but, like the prototype named, is one long, high, and not over-wide room. Beneath the chancel is what is called the Royal Vault, in which are the remains of Henry VI., died 1471; Edward IV., 1483; his queen, Margaret of Anjou, 1481; Henry VIII., 1547; Jane Seymour, his wife, 1537; Charles I., 1649; George III., 1820; his wife, Charlotte Sophia, 1817; George IV., 1830; his daughter, the Princess Charlotte; and later, the Duke of Kent, the Duke of York, William IV. and his queen, and other members of the royal family. "Very royal dust this, and in great quantity," says an intense and high civilization; but, stript of its outward insignia, the royalty has gone, for no more is their dust respected by the great laws of nature, than is that of the beggar who sues for an humble pittance at the church door. The great destroyer makes all equal. Death is indeed a great leveller. The king in his marble sarcophagus is a beggar; and the beggar, uncoffined, it may be, in his common earth-grave, is a king. Harriet Martineau has well said:-- All men are equal in their birth, Heirs of the earth and skies; All men are equal when that earth Fades from their dying eyes. At the rear of St. George's is an ancient chapel, but of late refitted on the interior as a mausoleum, or place of burial, of the late Prince Albert, and in a style of magnificence rarely seen and never excelled. This was done at the expense and order of Queen Victoria. The finish around the room, for a quarter of its great height, is of very elaborate workmanship of marbles of various colors; and above this are beautiful Gothic windows of painted glass, the most brilliant and costly in the kingdom. The room may be 40 feet wide, 75 feet long, and 40 feet high; and at one end is the altar, and a most elegant cenotaph to the especial memory of the worthy Prince. Astonishingly magnificent is all. We pass from the chapel to the great Central Tower. This is on a mound of earth, and may be fifty feet in diameter and as many feet high. From the top may be seen miles of the surrounding country, and all is indescribably grand. Off some miles, and quietly nestling, embowered in trees, is Newstead Abbey, where Byron received his rudimentary education; and in another direction, five miles away, are two objects of remarkable interest. One is the famous Eton School, one of the celebrated academical institutions of England. The other, to us Americans, if the statement is true, is a place yet more interesting,--the mansion-house, with its ample grounds, once occupied by William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania. Yet a mile beyond is another spot of great fame and renown, the burial-place of the poet Thomas Gray; and so in sight is the identical old church, to which he refers in his Elegy:-- Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping Owl does to the Moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. A guide, stationed on the flattish roof of the great tower, is glib of tongue, telling of this and that thing to be seen. As he goes around with his company the entire circuit of the parapet, a part of the statement is that he has been stationed here now for eleven years. He likes Americans, he says, and can tell them the moment they appear in view. He thinks them very intelligent; but is amused, he adds, when he asks them where William Penn was buried, for not a man or a woman of them knows. We of course were a source of amusement to him, and were pleased to be the innocent cause of his mirth. Anything, consolingly we thought to ourselves, to break the monotony of his life; and so we were happy in the thought of the contribution we had made, and so unwittingly. Down from this, and a walk about the premises, to here and there look over the walls, on the scenes outside and below. A guide came up, and, informing us that he was one of the appointed ones, we submitted; and so he became the fifth wheel to our coach. We were, however, _taken in_,--the first time and the last in our journey. When we went to the door of the castle proper we found _he_ must remain outside, or we must pay for his admission. We thought we could find our way to the gate without him, and so we were rid of our encumbrance, though not without a tilt of large words in strong Saxon. That door passed, we were in the waiting-room; and soon our turn came, and that of about a dozen others, to make a tour of the place. Certain rooms only are open to visitors. A portion of the structure is devoted to the private uses of the Queen and the royal family; but the reception-room, banquet-hall, and many semi-private rooms, most elegantly furnished, are open to visitors, and the articles exhibited are many of them of great value, having belonged to former kings and queens. The guide passes through these rooms with his company, explaining, as he passes, that this room is used for such a purpose, or was occupied as a sleeping-room by King So-and-So, or his queen, and that the furniture is now precisely as it was at the time of their death. All is very interesting. But never is the situation or fact fully comprehended. To enjoy the sights and be entertained in these royal apartments, once so very private, and into which no common visitor was permitted to enter, is one thing; but to realize the great fact is another. How strange that these domicils of kings, and of the high blue-blood of the great realm of England, should come to be museums, gratifying the curiosity of American republicans, the very antipodes of all that is royal or monarchical. After a very pleasant stay inside the buildings, we take a look at the exterior and the grounds. The latter, so far as seen by the visit we made, were simply bare, macadamized squares, but just outside the walls, on the other sides, are the great and elegant park-grounds, arenas, gardens, ponds, waterfalls, fountains, fine old tree-shaded walks; and every production that brain can devise or wealth procure has been lavished on these acres. The building called Windsor Castle is a vast deal more than a single edifice; and so, in considering it, let not that mistake be made. It is composed of many parts, or portions, with large open courts, or squares, wholly or partially surrounded by the buildings. The latter are quite irregular in outline, and none of them are very high; but there are a plenty of square and round towers of different sizes, with battlements around their tops, of castle-like finish, and a variety of windows, to give it the castle look. If any mistake was made by us in advance, it was to anticipate too compact a building, and not enough of great extent,--one too old and ancient in appearance, and of too high an elevation. From the rise of ground on which the castle stands, the whole is conspicuous from many points on the railway, for miles distant; and the view of the granite-like colored structure--clean, large in extent, very irregular in outline of upper part as seen from these points, the whole beautifully embosomed in thick foliage of trees--presents a charming effect. When the Queen is present, which is for a few weeks at a time at intervals, a large flag floats from the top of the great tower, and that is evidence of her royal presence. We pass out of the great gate and are again in a seemingly republican street, and things resume an American aspect and appearance. Another dreamish condition we have been in, and now seem back on the substantial ground of common humanity and, we may add, common sense. We breathe freer, _and_ as we think the whole scheme over, of the work doing by John Bright, by Gladstone, and a host of others,--when we remember that now for the first time in English history all of the people, _think_, _talk_, and _act_,--we know the outcome will be good and an advance be made. Having been alternately filled with admiration and disgust,--with indescribable charm and wonder, and with grand anticipations of the good time coming,--we say "Another dream-day has come and is passing," and we reluctantly move on and ruthlessly tear ourselves away from these bewitching conditions and contemplations; and now at 3 P. M. are ready for a visit to the famed Stoke Poges. Ever memorable, and to all coming time it will be, as the spot made classic by Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard." At 3.30 P. M. we leave the castle gate, and negotiate for our team to Stoke Poges, a place of very uneuphonious name, but classic and known the civilized world over. Teams for hire are in abundance, and are with their drivers in waiting for employment. The appearance of a stranger, especially if an American, is a signal for an attack. We had long since learned the art of management of a case of the kind at Montreal and Quebec in our own country, and the flank movement is to appear to be in want of anything _but_ a team. One must work up alongside the boundary line of fact and truth; and the tendency is to at times cross it and get over on the other side. When taking most notice, and doing best work of selecting, the Yankee, to appearance, never did hire a team, and never will. To make the story short we will say that without a beating down as regards price, but to accommodate the driver, who was spoiling to carry us for $3.00,--when at first he, with all his fellows, made a mistake, and asked $5.00,--we were at length seated in his team; and, while the army of other drivers were retiring crestfallen, were being trundled in the heavy English top-buggy, top turned back, and were being grandly transported through the pretty streets of Windsor, out among the fine gardens, and half-metropolitan, half-suburban scenery, on our way to Stoke. Never will be forgotten that inspiring ride, for all the way it was through charming scenery. At times over broad thoroughfares, in which the refinement of a high civilization had for 500 years concentrated; then into narrow lanes finely hedged on their sides, shaded by grand old elms and ever-fragrant lindens, sweet in their good foliage and new blossoms; and so on and on--new scenes charming, the clear air invigorating, thoughts of Old England inspiring--we, after the ride of three miles, are at one of the great seats of academical education--the famed Eton School, as well known, and for centuries it has been, as any college at Cambridge or Oxford. This, and that at Newstead Abbey, the old London St. Paul's, the Blue-Coat School, and the Westminster one, are a part of England's history and are as renowned as the soil itself. What a charm there is to the story of Eton and Rugby! The grounds are ample, well laid out, and contain fine old trees and shrubbery,--few or no houses encroaching, or in the neighborhood; the whole territory has a very retired and rural appearance. There is nothing however of the very antique or ancient look such as we anticipated. As a whole, all was to us, with our pre-conceived idea, too modern and new. The buildings are of brick. They are somewhat broken in outline and design, but suggested a factory-like appearance. How many poets, philosophers, and men in all the learned walks of life here fitted for the great universities! How very renowned and sacredly classic are these grounds! We would stop by the way and enumerate, but must forbear and pass on to the more immediate object of our tour; for off in the distance, charmingly embowered in trees, is the sharp-pointed spire of the poetically immortalized church, resting on its "ivy-mantled tower." The spire is built of a whitish stone and is very sharply pointed. How alluring and attractive it is, how entrancing is the thought that about it, and so near us, is the "yew tree's shade," of which the pensive poet speaks! We ride on, and pass down into the old lane leading to Lord Taunton's park; we go into his carriage-path, and how charming the finish of everything, and what sublime repose! We pass along and arrive on our left at a pleasant, homelike cottage, with a neatly kept yard in front. How familiar the scene! Honest old hollyhocks, delicate petunias, gorgeous marigolds, sweet mignonette, and such things as are intensely American, and countryish at that, are in profusion. The arrival of a team--and many come every day--is the signal for a buxom, rosy-cheeked damsel to come out of the cottage and open the gate. No remarks by her. She does not comprehend the scheme. All is mechanically done, and is a result of usage and every-day life. If she thinks at all, it is to wonder why the visitors come. A lesser thing never comprehends a greater. To her, as to any one without a proper standard, as Wordsworth said,-- A primrose by a river's brim, A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. The fence across our road, of which she opens the gate, is of open-work, iron, plain paling, and encloses one side of the churchyard of which Gray wrote:-- Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. It is an enclosure of perhaps two acres, and simply fenced in from a large grazing-field. The place is by no means solitary in appearance, though no house save the cottage is near it, or in near view, for it is out in the full sunlight, and has for company and suburbs, fine groves, lawns, distant hills, and every accompaniment of good rural character. As Whittier says of our New England burial-grounds,-- With flowers or snowflakes for its sod, Around the seasons ran, And evermore the love of God Rebuked the fear of man. The ground inside has a very clean and well-kept, though not especially ancient look. There are many gravestones, and but few monuments. A wide modern path, or carriage-way, leads from the gate to the church itself. The latter, which is perhaps 500 feet from the gate, has a very ancient look. It is low, and built of small flintstones. The roof is very high and presents two gable-ends, with a large Gothic window in each; at the other end two gables are also shown, with one some higher than the other. The tower is at the extreme right of the building, up at the farther end, and outside of and against the high part before named. It is square, quite large for its height, having a battlement around the top, and every part of it is so covered with ivy as to expose no portion of the stonework to view. The spire above this is very clean, and of a whitish stone. A large portion of the church itself is covered, or mantled, as Gray expressed it, with ivy; and it may here be added that the ivy is of the common, dark, substantial-leaved kind that we so commonly cultivate in pots, or, in the warmer parts of our country, on the outside of buildings. Who can stand in this place, gazing on this ancient church as the poet Gray many a time did, and not think of that terse and expressive line of the great poem, where he speaks of the quietness of the evening:-- And all the air a solemn stillness holds. The famed "yew-tree's shade" is here, for at our left, as we pass up the great path, or driveway, and near the end of the church which is on our right, with little more than the path named between it and the great tree, the latter stands sentinel-like, as it has stood for a century,--its dark, sombre, fanlike horizontal branches reaching almost to the ground, and throwing pall-like shadows over our way. The side walls of the enclosure on two sides, and near the church, are of brick, and their tops and parts of their sides are grandly covered with ivy; and to the right, in the adjoining lot, are trees and thick shrubbery; and we are again reminded of Whittier, where he says of one of our country burial-grounds:-- Without the wall a birch-tree shows Its drooped and tasseled head; Within, a stag-horned sumach grows, Fern-leaved, with spikes of red. Under the large window of the left gable-end, the one nearest the road, and up five or more feet from the ground, is a marble slab, some fifteen inches high and two feet long, which bears the following inscription:-- OPPOSITE TO THIS STONE, IN THE SAME TOMB UPON WHICH HE HAS SO FEELINGLY RECORDED HIS GRIEF AT THE LOSS OF A BELOVED PARENT, ARE DEPOSITED THE REMAINS OF THOMAS GRAY, THE AUTHOR OF THE ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. HE WAS BURIED AUGUST 6, 1771. The mother was memorable for her sorrows and her devotion to her family. Her husband was selfish, morose, passionate, and tyrannical. The mother kept a little china-shop to help educate her son. He wrote, for her tombstone in this burial-ground, as follows:-- HERE SLEEP THE REMAINS OF DOROTHY GRAY, WIDOW: THE CAREFUL, TENDER MOTHER OF MANY CHILDREN, ONE OF WHOM ALONE HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO SURVIVE HER. Beautiful in all its conditions was this churchyard; and while we were here the birds sang merrily, and the sounds of summer and the odor of a new fresh vegetation made it a paradise complete. That quiet and repose, usual to a spot so removed from the "busy haunts of men," this hamlet of the dead, seemed to underlie all, and the "calm retreat" was all we had anticipated. As we pass out of the gate and into the outlying field, to the left is a stately stone monument, not long ago built to the poet's memory. It is of good design, and on it are befitting quotations from his poetry; but after all we were sorry to see it. The churchyard, the church itself, the ivy-mantled tower, the Elegy, these are his better monument. He needs no other. It were foolish to "gild refinèd gold or paint the lily." It is well to say of these, as was said for the great architect of St. Paul's, Sir Christopher Wren, "If you seek his monument, look around you." It should be stated, in passing, that another spot claims, and with some little show of reason, that it, and not this, is the famous "country churchyard;" but, after giving thought to the matter, it appears that till new evidence to the contrary is produced, this spot will have the honors. As the Elegy has made this place celebrated, and immortalized its name as well as that of its composer, it may be well to say that when Gray had completed it, he handed his manuscript to friends, but he himself doubted its merits, and conscientiously thought it weak and too sentimental. Others, however, saw its value, and, to the author's astonishment, so great was its fame, that on being published, it was soon translated into Greek, Latin, Italian, Portuguese, French, German, and even into Hebrew. He was born in Cornhill, London, Dec. 26, 1716. On the 30th of July, 1771, while at dinner, he was attacked with convulsions, and died a few days after, in his 55th year. Of his memorable prose remarks we give but one selection, which shows the industrious habits and inside life of the man. He said:-- I am persuaded the best way of living is always to have something going forward. Happy are they who, if they cannot do anything greater, can create a rosebush or erect a honeysuckle. As we think of this we are reminded of the like opinion held by the great Daniel Webster, who entertained so much regard for the Elegy that he had portions of it read to him but a few hours before his departure. When the statesman was once asked what was in his opinion the best way to enable one to be comfortable during the heat of summer, he replied: "Always have something to do. Keep busy, and you'll have no time to think of the heat." It is said of General Wolf, that while he was floating on the River St. Lawrence, on the evening of Sept. 12, 1759,--the night before his memorable attack on Quebec, in which on the next day he lost his life,--he was beguiling an hour in reading Gray's poems, and closing the book, said: "I had rather be the author of that poem, the Elegy, than to be the captor of Quebec." We now turn our feet homeward, and as our carriage passes, we take a distant look, perhaps half a mile away, of the old mansion and grounds once occupied by William Penn, or at least in which he is said to have resided. Of the proof of this we may say that we have none, aside from the assertion of the guide stationed on the tower at the castle and of people who reside in the region. Our history of the great man is somewhat meagre concerning his last days. One of his last official public acts in America was to aid in making our Philadelphia a city, the charter of which was signed Oct. 28, 1701. He soon after returned to England, and was for the next succeeding years involved in much trouble on account of his business matters in Pennsylvania, by reason of the vicious conduct of his son, to whom he had intrusted his affairs, and commissioned to act as his representative. And then as now, troubles never come singly; for after his already eventful life, at the age of 64 a new and grievous trouble was in store for him. At this time died his trusted friend and agent in London, a Quaker by the name of Ford, who left to his executors false claims against Penn to a very large amount. Conscious of his integrity, and to avoid the extortion, he suffered himself to be committed to the Fleet Prison in London. This was in 1708, and he remained there a long time, till finally released by his friends, who, as best they could, compounded with the creditors. In 1712 he made arrangements with the crown for a transfer of his rights in Pennsylvania, receiving from it $60,000. He soon after was afflicted with paralysis; and though living yet six more years, and experiencing other shocks which greatly impaired his vigor and faculties, especially his memory and power of motion, he finally died at Ruscombe, Berkshire, July 30, 1718, at the age of 74, and was buried in Jordan, a Quaker burial-ground, near the village of Chalfont, in Buckinghamshire. In passing we remark that, during the plague at London in 1665, Milton made Ruscombe his residence, and that here he finished his great poem, "Paradise Lost." And who can say how much of the coloring of the celebrated poem is not to be attributed to the trouble the people of London, as well as the great bard, were, in consequence of the plague, experiencing? This parish is about twenty miles north of Stoke Pogis, in the county of Buckingham, as before named. We took our team back for Windsor, and train from there to London, arriving at 8.30 P. M.,--well repaid for our labors of the eventful day, if labor which was a perpetual pleasure can be so called. For the first time in one's life, being at and seeing Windsor Castle and the seat of the great Elegy! A great thing doing and done! A long breath, and no befitting remark; only silence, thankfulness, and contemplation avail. CHAPTER XXI. LONDON--HAMPTON COURT--ROCHESTER--CHATHAM--CANTERBURY. Saturday, this 15th day of June, back in London, we employ the day most pleasantly in visiting the London Docks, Hyde Park, some of the public gardens, and in taking general rambles about the city. One is seldom at a loss in a great city like this, with thousands of facilities everywhere for entertainment, how to employ time. Old but ever-new are these thoroughfares, the river, museums, and galleries. Sunday A. M. visited several of the old churches, and made it a special business to take a look at as many as possible of those erected by Sir Christopher Wren immediately after the great fire of 1666. They are found in great number in the vicinity of Bow Church and St. Paul's, and some of these interiors are very elegant. St. Stephen's Walbrook is, next after the cathedral, a work of much ingenuity and merit. The building is small, and the exterior ordinary; but the splendid interior is a marvel of beauty and elegance, though more than 200 years old. Arriving at Westminster Abbey, we found the great church filled to repletion, and hardly standing-room inside the door; but with the push peculiar to Americans we got in, and saw, but could scarcely hear, the distinguished Dean Stanley. Although we could not hear, yet we had unbounded satisfaction in the thought that even in the land of cathedrals, and where a deal of dull and prosy preaching is done, the Dean with his broad views, was here preaching Sunday after Sunday, and being listened to by so vast an assembly. Next we took a walk over Westminster Bridge to Southwark, and into a church there, and listened to a twenty-minute sermon from a young man of good talent and preaching abilities. The discourse took the negative form, the subject being, What we have _not_ done for the Lord. It was a labored statement, enumerating sins of omission in great detail, was very evangelical, and perhaps did a good work. Dined at a restaurant in Southwark, and at 2 P. M. took steam-cars for HAMPTON COURT, and our notebook says, "We were not only delighted, but astonished at the place." As we have said something of the place before, we now simply add that we found hundreds of people in the palace, and thousands in the fine grounds. The establishment is open Sundays as well as week-days, and it is a great place of resort. 1,100 oil-paintings are in the picture-galleries; and they are of all subjects, and most of them from the Masters. Another part of the palace of note and interest is the grand Hall of Henry VIII. The ceiling is of oak, very rich and heavy in design and ornamentation. Tradition has it that Shakespeare's plays were first acted in this old hall. Portraits of Cardinal Wolsey, and of Henry VIII. and each of his six wives are on the walls. It is said, and is probably a fact, that in this room James I. held that memorable conference with the disputants of the Established Church and the Puritans, when he made the celebrated remark, "No bishop, no king." History has it that he afterwards wrote to a friend:-- I kept up such a revel with the Puritans these two days as was never heard the like; where I have peppered them as roundly as ye have done the Papists. They fled me from argument to argument, without ever answering me directly, as I was forced to say to them. Remained here in this Eden till night, and back to London. Monday A. M. began our last day of tramping over this old metropolis, here and there attending to little matters till now neglected, now and then happening in, just for a few moments, to look at some grand old church,--as St. Bride's, and that marvel of good taste and construction, St. Martin-in-the-Fields, London; and so with visits and letter-writing the day was filled up, and all preparations made to leave London for France, but to stop by the way at Rochester, Canterbury, and finally at that "jumping-off place," Dover. Tuesday, at 9 A. M., we took train for good old ROCHESTER, where we arrived at 11 o'clock, after a fine journey of two hours in this extreme southern part of England. This is a cathedral town, and quite old in look, but clean to a fault and very interesting. It has a population of 18,352, and is situated on the River Medway, crossed by a long, ancient, stone bridge of 11 arches, erected in the reign of King John, who died 1216. On an abrupt eminence near the river, and on the edge of the place, are the remains of old fortifications, and at a short distance from these is the grand old castle with its monstrous square tower, and a beautiful mantling of ivy. The castle was quite large, and is a most pleasing structure. These grounds are some acres in extent. They are laid out in grand taste as pleasure-grounds or parks, with avenues, lawns, fine trees, retreats, flower-beds; and every element required for the pleasure-seeker is here. The high ground gave elegant views of the surrounding country, and the pure, free, and invigorating air was most charming. The place has no manufactures of importance, but considerable trade, for it supports a large number of shops and small stores; one of the very best specimens of an old English market-town is Rochester. There is some commerce, as it is a port of entry, and considerable shipbuilding is carried on. On the other side of the river, and connected by the bridge, is Chatham, concerning which we will give a few facts later. The long, narrow, winding main street of Rochester contains many antique buildings, which well remind one of old Shrewsbury. For a visit of a few hours, this one to Rochester amply repays. What is of most interest here is the cathedral. It has no close, or grounds, but is strangely jammed in among buildings, in behind those on the main street, and fronts on a street which is hardly better than a lane; and many of the buildings on this lane, and in fact up against as it were the cathedral itself, are houses of great antiquity. Everything here is England as it _was_, but is very clean and tidy. Nowhere on an equal territory have we seen more antique charms than in the door-neighborhood of this cathedral. The edifice was originally a priory, founded in 604, and rebuilt about 1076. It has recently been restored, and is in good condition. It is in two very distinct parts; one is Norman, and is a fine example, and the remainder is Early English. It was originally built by Gundulph, its first bishop, soon after the Norman Conquest. Its length is 383 feet and it has a low tower but no spire. There are many old and antique monuments, and but for an act of Dean Stanley of Westminster Abbey, and a few others, it would have been the last resting-place of the remains of Charles Dickens. In speaking of the monuments, the verger pointed to a stone in the pavement,--about three feet wide and five feet or so long, as now remembered,--which was up some few inches from its resting-place, and so left. "There," said he, "is the spot in which Dickens would have been buried. The stone was pried up and an excavation being made for building the brick grave, when information came that personal friends of Mr. Dickens had received notice of the desire of Dean Stanley, and other eminent men, that he should be buried in Westminster Abbey." The work of tomb-making ceased, and so Rochester was deprived of the honor of being custodian of his remains. Mr. Dickens's place of residence was at Gad's Hill, about three miles from Rochester, and he attended worship in this cathedral. His death occurred at that place, June 9, 1870. The cathedral is small compared to others, but it is very interesting and has an antiquity of look not found in any other cathedral. The bishopric here is, next after Canterbury, which is not far away, the most ancient in England. There is connected with the institution a cathedral grammar school, founded by Henry VIII. in 1542; also what is called the Poor Traveller's House, founded by Richard Watts, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, "for the nightly entertainment of six poor travellers." The old church of St. Nicholas is a grand old structure, built in 1420, and put in good repair and restoration in 1624. There are also several ancient walls, gateways, and ruins of monastic institutions. CHATHAM, as before spoken of, is on the east bank of the River Medway, at its confluence with the Thames, and is a large place, having a population of 44,135, including 8,000 dockyard men and soldiers. It includes the village of Brompton, just below it. It is a rather dirty and poorly built town, and, for a thing unusual, it has many old wooden buildings. On one side all the works are shut in by strong fortifications. Forts Pitt and Clarence are on the Brompton side, and on the Rochester side are Fort Gillingham and Upnor Castle, which is now used as a menagerie. The walk on the Rochester side and along the river, and used as an approach to the park at the base of the rock, is a very fine one, and has on it an ancient stone balustrade, perhaps once used as a parapet for the bridge. At 1.40 P. M. took train for CANTERBURY. We have remarked one thing especially in relation to the cultivation of land, and the agricultural habits of the people; and it is that as we approach the seabord from any part of England, and now particularly in the southern part, more attention is paid to the cultivation of garden vegetables and fruit, than is the case in the interior. Soon after leaving London and going southerly, as we did towards Rochester, we began to meet with fine gardens and fruit-raising, strongly reminding us of the eastern shore of Massachusetts. Cherries are raised in great quantities for London market, and now, June 18, while they are not ripe, are at that state of maturity at which they are in Boston forced upon the market. Black Tartarian and the common Ox Heart, and perhaps the Eltons, seem to prevail. We have seen some strawberries in the London markets, but none that were ripe, or, at all events, high-colored. They had a whitish look; and at the time of writing, after the experience in other countries, occupying the entire fruit season, we are sure that in fruit-raising of all kinds, New England is never excelled, unless we possibly except some portions of the Rhine Valley, where plums abound; but even there, no advantage is had over many places in New York State, as for instance on Seneca Lake. Roses are just now at their best. So far as date or time in the season is concerned, they have no advantage over the neighborhood of Boston, or any part of southern New England. Some green peas are in the market, but are really now only just at their best time of blossom. At times, as we pass on the railroad, we see acres of them; also other vegetables for the supply of markets. It has quite an Arlington or North Cambridge look, and we are much at home in the neighborhood of this fine agricultural district; and we cannot but be delighted with the industry of the people here, and the manner in which they manage their farms. We are at a loss to know why the idea is not more contagious than it appears to be. "Alas for poor Ireland," we feel and say,--that garden of the kingdom, as it might and should be. New-Englandize it, and the Irish millennium would come. After our pleasant ride of about two hours, at 3.30 P. M. we arrive at the famed seat of all the Church of England, the great See of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and our first impression is a delight on landing in this quiet, ancient, neat, grandpaved, and in all respects well-cared-for, aristocratic town. How quaint are many of these venerable houses, Chester-like, with projecting stories,--all in fine repair and good preservation! The place is pleasantly situated on the River Stow, 56 miles from London, and has a population of 16,508. It has no commercial importance, but is one of the principal markets of a rich agricultural district; and its pretty and inviting location has made it a favorite place of residence, as is evident from the many fine villas and mansion-seats in the vicinity. It has an ancient guildhall, a corn and hop exchange, and a Philosophical Museum. The town existed in the time of the Romans, and many of their coins and remains have been found in and near the city. It was the capital of the Saxon Kingdom of Kent; and it was here that Augustine baptized Ethelbert and 10,000 Saxons in 597, or nearly 1,300 years ago. Augustine was the first Archbishop of England, and died here sometime between 604 and 614. Aside from the cathedral there are several grand old churches in the city. One of the most interesting is St. Martin's, very old and antique, and full of interest. In St. Dunstan's the head of Sir Thomas More--who was executed July 6, 1535, and buried here by his daughter--was found in 1835, or just 300 years after. He was disloyal to the throne and refused to acknowledge the royal supremacy. On the 1st of July he was brought to the bar of the Court of High Commission, charged with traitorously attempting to deprive the king of his title as Supreme Head of the Church. He was condemned and returned to the Tower. On the morning of his execution he was dressed in his most elaborate costume, preserved his composure to the last, and, as the fatal stroke was about to fall, signed for a moment's delay while he moved aside his beard, murmuring: "Pity that should be cut; that has not committed treason." There are in Canterbury various relics of past ages. One of the most interesting of these is the great St. Augustine Monastery, once long used as a brewery, but which was at length redeemed from its ignominious use by the munificence of Mr. Beresford Hope, who purchased it, and presented it to the Church as a missionary college, himself also defraying all expenses of the restorations and enlargements. By the liberality of Alderman Simonds a field called Dane John, containing a high conical mound, was laid out as a public park, and pleasant promenades have been built for the public. On the top of this fine hill has been built a rural structure, of an observatory nature, and from it most commanding and splendid views are had of the surrounding country. What of course attracts the attention of visitors most, and holds it, is the famed cathedral,--at once the most interesting, all things considered, of any like structure in the kingdom; for it boasts of not only a vast antiquity, but of having been at an early day a church of so much wealth and importance, as to make it _the_ seat of the Church, and of her Archbishop, "the primate of all England." The chapter consists of the archbishop, a dean, six canons, two archdeacons, six preachers, and five minor canons, besides the twelve choristers. The annual income of the archbishop is $75,000. The foundation of the institution goes back far into antiquity; and we leave the minor items relating to its early history, and simply say that the cathedral had so far advanced, as to be ready for consecration in 1130. It, as all other cathedrals did, met with reverses and ill-conditions innumerable. Indeed, so varied is its history, and so full of great events, that we are discouraged at the thought of attempting the task of making a selection. It has been wonderful in its power and influence, and has in turn had in its embrace men of master minds, whose power has been of most decided character for good or ill; and we are sorry to have to say, that often the latter has transcended the former. A bishop of especial ability and power, if but loyal to the Church and its doctrines, as for the time understood and interpreted, was sure to be sooner or later installed here. "Translated to the See of Canterbury" is a familiar expression, and has been for centuries. How have the fortunes and condition of the entire kingdom, and the whole English-speaking world, been influenced by things said and done here! No spot beneath the broad canopy of the sky is so marked as this. Here Puritanism found its great foes and untiring enemies; and when we speak of this fact, or name the word _Puritan_, how much is involved! Non-conformist, Pilgrim New England, what she at first was and now is,--all that is involved and comprehended! _Archbishop of Canterbury!_ Name but the three words, and what echoes are awakened, and wander through the corridors of time! No place is really more intimately connected with Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay than is this. The invisible telegraph of momentous events--a continuous unbroken line--exists, and is as real as the material cable that reposes on the floor of the sea; and when all of them shall have become extinct, this, forever revivified and renewed, will increase in power and be an instrument for good, "till the angel, standing with one foot on the land and the other on the sea, shall declare that time shall be no more." Not long before the accession of Queen Victoria to the throne in 1838, a most thorough repair of the cathedral was made, and it is now one of the most perfect in England. In our examinations of these great structures, admiring each of them, we have at times tried to decide which one of all we would, if the thing were possible, transport to America. At times the elegant interior of Winchester, with its fine long nave, is in the front rank. Then appears the great Lincoln, splendid within and without. Next, these are crowded aside by imperial York Minster. Then comes antique but sublime old Durham; how can we part companionship with that? or Salisbury, with its commanding spire, 404 feet high, and its rich transept end? Next, rich gem-bedecked Ely comes well up in front. Finally we make one herculean move, and, as the waking giant shakes his locks and spreads his arms, we make an effort to be unsympathetic; and ignoring these grand old friends, all of whom with charms peculiar to themselves have wooed and captivated us,--leaving them, a noble army of martyrs,--we say _Canterbury_. The effort has cost us much sacrifice. "Not that we love Cæsar less, but that we love Rome more." The grounds about the structure are very fine and inviting, though they do not possess those charms that exist at Salisbury and Peterboro. The cathedral was founded by Archbishop Lanfranc, and enlarged and consecrated by Archbishop Corbel in 1130, in presence of Henry I. of England, David, king of Scotland, and all the bishops of England. The roof, or exterior covering, of the stone vaulting is of wood, and was seriously troubled by fire in 1174, when the choir and other portions of the interior were greatly damaged; and as late as Sept. 3, 1872, a portion of the roof, 150 feet in length, was badly damaged by fire and water, but all is now in perfect condition of repair. The cathedral is in extreme length 514 feet, and is 159 feet wide at the transepts. It has a magnificent central tower, of elaborate decorations, which is 285 feet high; also two very beautiful western towers terminating in embattlements and lofty turrets. The stone is of a dark-gray tint, and the structure has a sublime and imposing appearance. The interior is indescribably grand, and has one especial peculiarity, which is that the choir, or head of the cross,--which is the plan of the cathedral,--is elevated some seven feet or so above the floor of the nave, and is reached by a flight of marble steps. The arrangement, if anything, adds to the grand effect. Beneath is the crypt, or basement, which is common to but few cathedrals. Here are very ancient columns, and a solid stone, groined ceiling; all is but dimly lighted, and was once a chapel in which monks worshipped. A painful silence now reigns throughout; and all is still and solemn, save as the footfalls on its pavements, or our voice,--or it may be sounds from the great cathedral floor coming down through the stone vaulting, subdued and subduing,--break the spell. Except for these, a silence of the tomb prevails. More than half a thousand years are gone since here the fumes of incense and the sound of papal prayers and the repetition of the Mass were begun. Centuries now are passed since all ceased. Dust of many pious ones has been here laid in its last resting-place, and "after life's fitful fever they sleep well." Nations have risen since then, and kingdoms have been transformed. The great realm of thought has been enlarged and extended, and humanity has become enlightened and advanced. Then, monk and nun were the rule, but they are not now even the exception. All are forever gone, and a hard theology, one anticipating an everlasting triumph of evil over good; penance, tormenting the body for the good of the soul,--or, later advanced tenet, that of tormenting the mind for the soul's good,--are discounted. Personal accountability, divine sovereignty, the Golden Rule, progress never ending for the individual and the race, are in the ascendant; and so crypt and dark room are deserted, and only tell of human life and endeavor as they were. This cathedral has many monuments, and well it may have. How long is her line of bishops and illustrious men! A history of 700 and more years of active work, must have made conditions of note and renown; but we leave these monuments as we must, and say a few things of two or three of the noted ones who here kept holy time. Every reader of history has anticipated the name we speak of first, Thomas à Becket. At the north cross-aisle, or transept, is a small alcove, or chapel, on the right side of which is a table-altar. On the 29th of December, 1170, but forty years after the cathedral's consecration, and more than 700 years ago, as he was kneeling at this altar, he was assassinated, killed on the spot; and now a small place, six inches square, is shown in the floor, where some of his blood fell. The stone was long ago cut out and sent to Rome. Few mortals have had a history as eventful as his. Born in London, in the olden time of 1117, he was educated, and finally appointed Archdeacon of Canterbury; and, in turn, prebend of Lincoln, and of St. Paul's at London. Nothing short of distinguished abilities and intellect could have brought such honored conditions as these. When at the age of forty-one, in 1158, Henry II. made him Chancellor of England. So powerful was he in influence over the King, that in 1162, on the death of Theobold the Bishop of Canterbury, the King pressed his election to this See. He was appointed, and so was the first native Englishman who held the archbishopric of Canterbury. He was first ordained a priest, and then made Primate of all England. He resigned his office of Chancellor against the desires of the king, and in retaliation was deprived of his archdeaconship which he wished to retain along with his archbishopric. He at once began to exercise great authority. He became reserved and austere, and soon acquired great renown for his sturdy defence of the prerogatives of the Church against the threatened encroachments of the crown and the nobility. In 1164 he strongly opposed the famous constitutions presented by Clarendon, and bitter feuds arose between him and the King. The hostility of the King to him was great, and his persecutions increased. He became exceedingly unpopular with the nobility, and at length fled from England. He spent nearly two years in an abbey in Burgundy, and was encouraged by the Pope, who, refusing to accept his resignation of the See of Canterbury, reconfirmed him as Primate of all England, except the See of York. The strife between King Henry and Becket increased, but after a long continuance of the quarrel, in 1170 a reconciliation took place, and on his return to England the people gave him an enthusiastic reception; but he soon revived his old troubles by publishing the suspension of the Archbishop of York, and the King taunted his attendants for remissness in revenging the overbearing prelate. This excited four barons of the court, Reginald Fitzurse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Moreville and Richard Brito, who undertook the work of his assassination. Dec. 28, 1170, they met at the castle of Ranulth de Broc, near Canterbury, accompanied by a body of armed men. The next day they went to the Archbishop's palace and there had a stormy interview, and on the same evening invaded the cathedral at vesper service. Becket prevented all opposition to their ingress by declining, as he said, "to convert a church into a castle," and implored the assailants to spare everybody but himself. They attempted to drag him from the church, so as not to desecrate it by bloodshed; but while manfully wrestling with De Tracy, Becket received a blow, inflicting a slight wound, which, falling obliquely, broke the arm of his cross-bearer, Edward Grimes. The Archbishop then kneeled at the altar, when the three other barons gave him the death blow, and his brains were scattered on the floor. The cathedral was then ordered by the Pope to be closed for one year. In 1172 Alexander III. canonized Becket as St. Thomas of Canterbury. In 1221 his remains were deposited by Henry III. in a rich shrine, which became a great resort for pilgrims. After the Reformation, Henry VIII. despoiled the shrine of its treasures of silver and gold, which were of incredible value; and he had the saint's name stricken from the calendar, and his bones burnt to ashes and scattered. The shrine was in the cathedral, back of the high altar, and now its only traces are in the marble floor where it rested, and in the worn and sunken line encircling it, made by the feet and knees of pilgrims who for three centuries had there paid tribute. As we stood there we could in imagination see the incessant train coming in with demure look, and with a pious reverence kneel and offer their humble petition for the repose of his soul and for the prosperity of the religion he defended. Fearfully in earnest were these honest but superstitious ones, and so was Henry VIII. when he said to the enslaving service, "Thus far shalt thou go and no farther, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed." What determination, what intrepidity, were requisite for the inauguration of reform like this! What master-work to do! Becket and his adherents meant well, but they were superstitious and blind to truth and fact. Henry VIII. did a great work, but when he did it he also did unchristian things. So of Queen Mary, when to the stake must go Rogers and Hooper, Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley. We cannot well stop there. Puritanism established, somebody was responsible for the persecutions of Roger Williams, of Marmaduke Stevenson, and others. Persecution for opinion's sake is not yet done, but "out of the bitter comes forth the sweet." Becket and his coadjutors, the kings and queens of England, Boston ministers and judges of old, form one long connected chain of defenders of the faith,--not always of clear vision, but outside of themselves governed and overruled; and so, by the work done, humanity steps up higher, and walks on towards the perfection attainable, and in the end sure to be attained. That work, done in the time of Becket, was the transition period from the Papal Church to the Protestant. Our next man of renown was the noted Archbishop Laud; and his administration was the transition period, from intense formality and ritualism, into a somewhat similar form of Christian worship and work, out of which has come our New England's existence and element and life,--and so, indirectly, our Great West, which in its early days New England people and customs did so much to mould and establish. William Laud was born at Reading in England, Oct. 7, 1573, but eighteen years after the death of the martyrs at Oxford. He nursed from his mother's breast the spirit of the time, or, like Laurence Sterne's _Tristram Shandy_, was able to date his nature and inclinations to acting and influencing elements at a day the very earliest in his history. He was educated at St. John's College, Oxford; obtained his fellowship in 1593, clerical orders in 1601; and in 1605 became chaplain to Charles, Lord Mountjoy, Earl of Devonshire; and here, he showed pliability of conscience which was ever a distinguishing feature of his life, for he was willing to perform the marriage ceremony between the Earl and Lady Rich, whose first husband was still living. In 1608 he was made bishop of Nene, being then but thirty-five years of age. In 1611 he was president of the college at which he was educated. In 1616 he was Dean of Gloucester; was a prebendary of Westminster in 1620, and Bishop of St. David's in 1621. In 1624 he was member of the Court of High Commission; in 1626, Bishop of Bath and Wells, and in 1628 Bishop of London; and now begins his great life-work, for he became confidential adviser of Charles I. in ecclesiastical affairs. Succeeding Buckingham in the royal favor he began to play important parts in politics, and his first object and step was to force Puritans, and all Dissenters from the Established Church, into conformity. Macaulay says:-- Under this direction every corner of the realm was subjected to a constant minute inspection. Every little congregation of Separatists was tracked out and broken up. Even the devotion of private families could not escape the vigilance of his spies. Such fear did his rigor inspire, that the deadly hatred of the Church, which festered in innumerable bosoms, was generally disguised under an outward show of conformity. In 1628 Robert Leighton, a Scottish prelate, published a book, "Sion's Plea against the Prelacy." At the instigation of Laud he was in 1630 brought before the Star Chamber, condemned to pay a fine of £10,000; and he was twice publicly whipped and pilloried in Cheapside, London, had his ears cut off, his nostrils split open, and his cheeks branded with S. S. (Sower of Sedition), and he was incarcerated ten years in the Fleet Prison. Flattered with success, Laud, being present at the coronation of Charles in Scotland, urged the _forced_ establishment of Episcopacy and uniformity in that country, which resulted in revolt; and, contrary to the ambitious and narrow-minded Bishop's anticipation, ended in the adoption of the National Covenant, and so Presbyterianism triumphed. On his return from the ceremonies of coronation, and doubtless in aid of their enterprise to "kill out Puritanism" and to "harry the Puritans out of the land," he was appointed to the See of Canterbury. He became a politician in the more odious sense of that word, and so worked himself in as one of the committee of the king's revenue, and in 1634 he became a commissioner of the treasury; and soon after, and finally, was made Censor of the Press under decree of the Star Chamber in 1637. He was powerful, overbearing, and injudicious, and the public odium soon manifested itself largely against him. The Long Parliament in 1640, impeached him for high treason, and he was committed to the Tower. After an imprisonment of more than three years he was tried and condemned,--and, as now thought, according to the letter of the law, illegally,--and was executed in the Tower, Jan. 10, 1645, at the age of seventy-two. Of the many other noted and eminent men of Canterbury's almost interminable list, we take but one, and that was the second Protestant bishop, Matthew Parker. He was eminent as a churchman, as much so as Laud, but was a man of good judgment, and more than any other person gave the character of worship which the Established Church of England now has. He was born at Norwich, Aug. 6, 1504, and entered Corpus Christi College at Cambridge in 1520; in 1533 was licensed to preach, and soon was made Chaplain to Anne Boleyn. He was Dean of Clare College in 1535; chaplain to Henry VIII. in 1537; Master of Corpus Christi College in 1544; and Dean of Lincoln Cathedral in 1552. Having married in 1547, on the accession of Queen Mary he was deprived of his office, and obliged to remain in obscurity. He then translated the Psalms into English verse, and wrote a treatise entitled "A Defense of Priests' Marriages." His fortune at length turned, for on the accession of Queen Elizabeth, and a reform in the religion, he was chosen Archbishop of Canterbury, and Dec. 17, 1559, was consecrated in the chapel at Lambeth. He was successful in dispelling the Queen's lingering affection for images, and he filled all the vacant Sees with decided Protestants, and did all in his power to render the rites and ceremonies of the church uniform. He founded schools, made valuable presents to the colleges at Cambridge, was one of the first chosen to review the Book of Common Prayer; and was employed in the revision of the Bishop's Bible, which passed under his inspection, and was published at his own expense in 1568. He was the author of several other standard works, and at last, after a life of remarkable activity and usefulness, he died at London, May 17, 1575, at the age of seventy-one, deeply lamented. 1575! 200 years before the declaration of our American Independence, and almost half a century before the Pilgrims set sail for America! He did much towards establishing Protestantism, and making Puritanism possible; and so he was the John the Baptist to prepare for the bad work of Laud and his coadjutors,--which caused the persecution of the non-conformists, and, indirectly, the emigration to the New World, and the great good which is its outcome. Laud, thunder-storm-like, induced a clearer theologic atmosphere. There is a thing yet untouched we would speak of, but must forbear a long recital. In speaking of the crypt, we strangely forgot to mention that, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, there were a company of French silk-weavers, who were driven from their native land, and sought refuge in England. They were called Walloons, and the crypt of the cathedral was granted them by the Queen as a place of worship. In the time of Charles II., who died in 1688, they were the most noted silk-weavers in England. The blood was strong; and, strange to tell, to this day the humble remnant, after the lapse of centuries, still claim and use this room as their place of worship. There is a tinge of melancholy that comes over one as he thinks of their devotion and humble sanctuary, but it is Sabbath home to them, and so is at once cathedral and gate of heaven. At the Altar of Martyrdom, where Becket died, in 1170 was that appalling scene of riot, distress, and death. 129 years gone, and how changed! Then was gathered another crowd, and all was peace, happiness, and life, for Edward I. and Margaret were there to be married in 1299. On the 8th of June, 1376, great commotion was in the Episcopal Palace near by, for there lay in the agonies of death their great-grandson, Edward the Black Prince, who was so called from the color of his armor. Two days after he was buried in the cathedral; and now, after 500 years, we look upon his effigy in bronze, old and black, but highly wrought, and once and for years of rich gilt. Above his tomb are suspended the helm, surcoat, shield, and gauntlet he wore on the field of Cressy. In this cathedral is the ancient chair in which all the old kings of Kent were crowned. And so we might go on; and when many pages had been written, the door would but be opened, and an inexhaustible store of things of inexpressible interest present themselves, and be in waiting for consideration. We must now begin to think of parting companionship with these cathedral towns, for we are to move on yet more southerly till Dover is reached; and so for a time is to end our good stay in historic Old England, the mother country of us all. We confess to a feeling of dislike, and at the same time to a consciousness of grand satisfaction of what we have enjoyed, and so that feeling, if permitted to prevail, would neutralize the anticipation of good to come. We now, at 6 P. M., take cars for Dover. The ride is like that before it, very much like one over lands in New England, on the South Shore Road, towards Hingham and Cohasset. There are rocks, and even ledges, increasing as we advance. There are grand fields of hops, an incredible number of them, and gardens with the new vegetables of all kinds, as in our Old Colony at that time of the year. Now at 7.30, after a ride of an hour and a half, we come in sight of the bluffs and chalk-cliffs and abrupt hills--a wonder to us indeed. "How extensive, how white!" we say. And now comes the well-known odor of the heavily charged salt air of the sea. Cohasset, Nantasket, or Nahant, even at their best, could do no better. We are as it were in a new world of observation, feeling, and thought; and on landing there is opened to us a vast panorama of sea view, of high life and animation, a new paradise,--not an old one regained, for we never at home nor abroad had one like this to lose. CHAPTER XXII. DOVER--BRIGHTON--CALAIS. Arrived at 7.30 P. M. and took room at Hotel de Paris--a high-sounding name; but not very Parisian was the institution; however, it was neat and every way good and worthy. Took tea, and then a walk out. As before intimated, we are now in a southern border-town, and the waters of the Channel wash its shore. Dover is 62 miles southeast of London, and 21 miles northwest from the coast of France, being England's nearest seaport. The population is 28,270 of permanent residents, but it varies by reason of its large number of hotel boarders. It is situated on a small but beautiful bay, and is of an amphitheatre form, between lofty cliffs, and alongshore by the valley of a small river called the Dour. The older portion is rather poorly and irregularly built, and is principally on one street that runs parallel to the river, or valley, and having hills as a background. The newer part is along the shore of the bay, and consists of watering-place hotels, boarding-houses, and aristocratic private residences, many of which have fine grounds about them. These continue for a mile or more, and at the lower end terminate at lofty chalk-cliffs of a stupendous height,--producing a grand and unusual appearance, being very precipitous and of a chalky whiteness. In front of the buildings named is a grand watering-place promenade-avenue, in front of which, the entire length, is a pebbly beach, and this is washed by the waters of the bay. Thousands of people, old and young, were here, and much of gay life and fashion displayed. Never will be lost sight of the grand entertainment we thus had, and which was so unexpected to us. The harbor consists of three basins, though in general appearance but one; and the entrance of the harbor is sheltered by a pier or breakwater of stone, 1,700 feet long. The castle of Dover is one of the interesting edifices in England. It stands on one of the great hills, a short distance from the town, and its walls inclose thirty-five acres. It is supposed to have been founded by the Romans; but some portions of it are Saxon, some Norman, and some belong to a later period. It contains a separate keep, as it is called, now used as a magazine, and other parts are barracks for 2,000 men. Within the castle precincts stands an octagonal watch-tower, interesting not only as the earliest specimen of Roman architecture in England, but also as one of the most ancient examples of mason-work in Great Britain. This town is one of very great antiquity. In the neighborhood of Dover, Julius Cæsar made his first attempt to land on the British coast. The antiquity of this event is made more apparent by a remembrance of the fact that he died 44 years before Christ. We are informed by history that "he was induced to change his point of debarkation, owing to the abruptness of the shore and other difficulties." Under the Saxon kings it became a position of great importance in the defence of Kent, which was then all of the southern part of England. In the reign of Edward the Confessor, who died in 1066, this was one of what were called the Five, or Cinque Ports; the others were Hastings, Romney, Hythe, and Sandwich. As these ports were opposite to France, they received peculiar advantages in the early days of English history, on condition of providing in times of war a certain number of ships at their own expense. They were governed by an officer called the Lord-warden of the Cinque Ports. The Duke of Wellington was lord-warden of them at the time of his death, which was at the official residence, Walmer Castle, near Deal, Sept. 14, 1852. According to Camden, the first warden was appointed by William the Conqueror, who died in 1087, but their charter has been traced directly to the times of Edward the Saxon king, as before named. This port was considered as the key of the kingdom. After the establishment of Norman rule, it suffered the vengeance of William the Conqueror, to whom it made strong opposition. In 1213 King John performed at Dover the ceremony of submission to the Pope, giving up his authority to the papal nuncio. In 1295 the French made a descent upon the place and committed great depredations; and so for centuries it was the theatre of attacks and defences, but we pass all, intimating, however, that no more interesting history exists than that relating to these invasions of the territory of England by the various people who had an eye to the possession of new territory,--for which practice England herself has for centuries been celebrated, and which found its last expression in obtaining possession of Cyprus. In 1847 a mass from one of the chalk-cliffs scaled off and fell to the base. It was 254 feet in height, 15 feet thick, and was calculated to weigh 48,000 tons. Shortly after, another fell, of 10,000 cubic yards. The principal cliff is 350 feet high above the water, which is more than half as high again as our Bunker Hill Monument. Another, called Shakespeare's Cliff, is located just in the rear of, and is a background of, the town, and is perforated by the tunnel of the Southeastern Railway. Nothing is or can be more picturesque and grand than these chalk-white, clean-faced, and very perpendicular walls, covered as they are on their top and rear slopes with a splendid grass verdure. The blue water of the bay; the old weather-beaten part of the city,--quite European, though not all antique; and the long line of fine beach; the grand avenue above it, so alive with gay teams and pleasure-seekers; the mile-range of hotels and mansions; and to the left, the lofty promontory land, with the castle on its top and the high lands extending well out into the sea, its waves beating at times grandly against these milk-white ramparts,--this group of things forms a scene of remarkable splendor and interest. Our stay here was exceedingly pleasant and was exhilarating in the extreme. We, the next A. M. at 9.30, took our steamer for Calais, which is the nearest port of France, 21 miles over the channel. Before, however, closing our work, we will speak of one more place in England,--in a sense a counterpart of Dover. It is the famed watering-place, Brighton. Though we did not visit it for some months after this,--till on the 10th of August,--yet as it is the only place of England we visited not yet described, we take occasion to speak of it now, and so complete our record. BRIGHTON. We took cars at London for Brighton one Saturday night, and after a two hours' ride arrived at the famed watering-place. The first impression was that we were in a large and old place, and in anything but one to which people would resort for pleasure; for the place in the vicinity of the station, and especially for the entire length of a long street leading down from it, had a very commercial and business-like appearance; and, as we passed down its entire length and looked to the right and left, compactly built streets, houses, and shops, and even fine stores and warehouses, seemed to extend as far as the eye could reach; no tree nor garden, nor even front-yard anywhere, but one mass of solid buildings, and surely a great population. Our only hope and tangible evidence that we had not mistaken this for the watering-place Brighton--as we had mistaken the little fishing-place Wells, for the cathedral town--was a very large lot of well-to-do, stylishly dressed people, all passing down this great main street. We of course followed, for just then we considered ourselves watering-place visitors, and so in a sense aristocratic. At length the end of the street gained, all fears were dispelled, for there in front lay the grand harbor, and for aught we could see to the contrary, thousands of miles of good ocean were stretching out from it. Here, as at Dover, was a grand avenue, along for some two or three miles, with a most remarkable shore, and its fine beach extending for miles. A very good cut-stone wall is built the entire length of the city, dividing the beach from the grand avenue, and along these thousands were promenading. The style of hotels is quite in advance of those at Dover. They are many in number, and are of a quite similar appearance as compared to each other, none of them, however, being striking as works of art or architecture. They are of stone or brick, and of a cream-color; all are from three to five stories high, very plain, without porticos or much of any decoration; and while they had a neat and inviting look, yet none of them appeared to be very new or modern, but substantial, and, perhaps of most appropriate construction for their exposed situation. The land rises amphitheatre-like from the water, and, as before named, has a solid and very substantial look. It has a population of 90,000, and extends for three miles along the coast, from Kemptown on the east to Hove on the west. It was not a place of especial resort till about a century ago, when Dr. Richard Russell published a work on the use of sea-water which attracted much attention; and its celebrity as a watering-place became established when George IV.--who at the time, 1784, was simply the Prince of Wales--made it his place of residence, and began the erection of a peculiar building, called the Pavilion, which was finished in 1787. The grounds were some five acres in extent, and finely laid out by the building of avenues, paths, lawns, flower-beds, and the setting out of good shrubbery and trees. The estate is very centrally located, and in the midst of a neighborhood of the best inhabitants. The town ultimately purchased it of the crown, for the sum of $265,000, and threw the premises open to the public as pleasure-grounds. In all our travels we saw no finer taste displayed in the arrangement of elegant colored-plant designs, nor on as large a scale, as we saw here. They were indeed marvels of genius and beauty. Our visit to these grounds was after tea Sunday night, when hundreds of people were enjoying the treat; and among the few very choice and pleasant hours in England, these are to be named. For the pleasure of sojourners, two novel things exist. They are what are called _chain-piers_, and extend out into the sea; and are as exposed as would be similar structures built out into the ocean from our Chelsea or Nantasket Beach, for the relative situation is the same. One was erected in 1822-3, at an expense of $150,000. It is 1,134 feet long, and extends, of this length, 1,014 feet into the sea. As 5,280 feet are a mile, it will be seen that this is about one quarter of a mile in length. The other, which is located about half a mile or so from that named, was erected in 1867. It is 1,115 feet long. They are built in suspension-bridge style, with good stone towers, and iron-work for cords and suspension. They are frequented by thousands for the fine views and sea air. The sea-wall before alluded to is a grand structure, varying in height as the rise or fall of the land requires; and is in height, above the beach, all the way from 20 feet,--which is about the average height, for a mile at the central part of the town,--and then rising to full 60 feet, as it extends towards the elevated land at the left. The broad avenue continues to this, and well up on the elevation, and from this the finest imaginable views of the ocean in front and the city are at hand, and to the rear and right may be had. At the base of this wall, and near the shore, is an aquarium, the buildings being low but large, tasty, and admirably adapted for their purpose. It was opened to the public in 1872. In the western quarter is a battery of six 42-pounders, erected in 1793. On the eastern side is Queen's Park, and on the western is a chalybeate spring. There are twenty-five chapels and churches belonging to the established church, and thirty of other denominations. Of them all, none had so much charm to us as Trinity Chapel, where once the thoughtful and good Frederick W. Robertson preached, and sacrificed himself for humanity. We, as it were instinctively, on Sunday wended our way there, for although long since, as Cotton Mather would have said, he had "passed on to the celestials," yet it was our highest thought to see the place. We found it a very ordinary building, in a fair neighborhood. The edifice was of no especial pretension, outside or inside. It had a frontage of perhaps 45 feet, was of a debased Grecian architecture, with no look of chapel, save what was given to it by a very unpretending cupola, or bell-tower, resting on the roof. Inside it was quite as simple and in the same style; common galleries were on the two sides and the door end; and while all was neat, yet there was no display nor churchly look. Here the scholarly man thought and labored, and, as it were, died. Robertson was born at London, Feb. 3, 1816; graduated at Brazenose College, Oxford, 1840; and, after being curate at Winchester, Cheltenham, and Oxford, in 1847 he became minister here; and after a most laborious experience in his parish, and outside of it, and remarkably so for the working-men and the poor, he fell a victim of overwork and left the scenes of his earthly labors, Aug. 15, 1853, at the age of but 37. His broad views of the divine government and human destiny cost him the loss of sympathy he otherwise would have had. Conscientious to a remarkable degree, intellectual and finished beyond most others, and withal sensitive, he inwardly deplored his conditions and surroundings; but never yielded, and at last passed on, to be fully appreciated only when the spirit and body had parted companionship. Hardly had his sermons been issued from the press before their depth of thought, their comprehensive reach, their elegant diction, and sweet temper were appreciated; and now, no denomination, evangelical or unevangelical, is there whose clergyman will not speak in their praise. Wherever the English language is spoken, the fine productions of Frederick William Robertson will be spoken of as a choice thing, and an honor to the English tongue. There are five banks and six newspapers in the town; and one hundred fishing-boats are owned and used, manned by 500 men. The principal fish taken, and in abundance, are mackerel, herrings, soles, brill, and turbot; and mullet and whiting are often caught. The place is very old, for in the old Doomsday Book it is spoken of, and there called by the name of Brighthelmstone. Having before spoken of Doomsday Book, we will take time enough here to say that it is an old register of lands in England, framed by order of William the Conqueror, and was begun somewhere from 1080 to 1085, and was finished sure in 1086. The book is yet preserved in the chapter-house of Westminster. A facsimile was published by the government in 1783, having been ten years in passing through the press. It is a valuable and interesting work, and is in itself a sort of complete registry of English possessions. Brighton under the longer name is there referred to. It, like Dover, and in fact all border towns, suffered often from invasions, and the French plundered and burnt it in 1513. During the reigns of Henry VIII. and Queen Elizabeth, fortifications were erected for its protection. Two hundred years ago it was a fishing-town, and had 600 families. Now, the fishing still continues, but its many hotels, its grand summer boarding-houses, and its population furnish a ready market at home. On one portion of the Sunday we attended worship in the Quaker meeting-house. The word _church_ cannot be used with propriety here, for the place was anything but that. We chanced in our walks to fall in with it,--and need we have asked who worshipped there?--a good stone building, unpretending but very neat, end to the road, and back full 100 feet from the street, with a beautiful park-like garden enclosed in front. We went in, and the same nicety was everywhere. Plain, but of a rather higher grade than we were used to seeing in places of worship of this sect. The house was quite large, and was nearly filled. Some four or five of the more elect ones were at their usual place on the high-seats, and facing the audience. All of them were moved by the spirit to speak, and to our pleasure did so. The tone of remark was to speak ill of themselves, and suggest the deplorable conditions incident to an earthly life; but the advice they gave was salutary, the opinion honest and sincere, and good was done. This was the extreme opposite of the ornate Episcopal service, and as we had had that first on entering England, it was well we had this last on leaving it. It was not our intention to furnish evidence against ourselves, and tell that after remaining but a short time in Trinity Chapel we were too uninterested to stay, and so quietly walked out, being near the door, and going we knew not exactly where, came in here; but we have now told the story, and so the reader will not be at a loss to know why we had nothing to say of service there. Much more would we say of this Brighton,--its fine air, views, fashionable life, and desirable conditions, but we rest the case here. When we have written one of these articles, we find an abundance more material left than we have used. The task of omitting material is a great one. What _not_ to say is what troubles us. Although an account of the passage to Calais, and a description of that place would not ordinarily be in order in a work pertaining to the places here described; yet there being involved certain items of historical interest to Americans we venture to say a few words pertaining to things across the channel, and with that end our work. Having digressed this much, we now go back to old Dover, where the last accounts left us, and at 9.30 A. M. of Wednesday, June 19, are on board the steamer for a few hours' sail, across the channel to Calais. Our voyage was far from being an unpleasant one. We were not entirely out of sight of land, as Dover was behind or Calais before us all the time, for in fair weather these are always in view. The steamers are strong and adapted for their work. They are about the size of those that ply in our harbor, the John A. Andrew if you please; but white paint for a steamer is quite distasteful to people of the region we are in. Black is to them the fine and good color. No money is to be expended for nice inside finish as in the Andrew; but everything is solid and neat, and we ought to be generous enough to say, "as good as need be," and we _will_ say it. Generally this Channel is rough and boisterous. Currents and winds through this great valley of the land and sea are so in conflict, that seldom is there a calmer or even as calm a time as we had. Now the two hours end, and we are nearing shore. England has been left behind, with pleasant memories that it wouldn't take much reflection to transform into regrets; yet all is lighted up with good anticipations, for we two Bostonians are soon to stand on the soil of Imperial France. The thought even now kindles peculiar emotions. Sunny France! an elastic people, brilliant in exploit; its great metropolis the epitome of a remarkable civilization! We thus thought of it then, and thus we think of it now. The steamer slackens her speed, and we are on the upper deck, ready to land at CALAIS. But two hours' sail across the Channel, and we are now, at 12 M. of Wednesday, June 19, standing on French soil, and though but 21 miles from England, and people of the two places have been for centuries crossing the Channel and communicating with each other, still, things here are peculiar and have an outlandish look. It is like Dover, somewhat of a watering-place; and there is a fine beach, with a large chateau-like hotel on the right shore as we enter. The wharf at which we land is an old wooden structure, and everything about it has an aged look. We did not go up into the city, but remained at the wharf for the departure of the train which was already there and in waiting. We now began to hear French talked as the rule, and English as the exception. The station was quite a large and substantial structure of brick, and here was what was called a _café_, or, as we should say, a restaurant. The art of restaurating is not well developed outside of America. Lager beer, sandwiches, and a few ordinary cakes are about all that can be found. In a distant part of the building dinner could be had at a cost of about a dollar. In fact people when they came into the car were complaining loudly: first, of the lack of things to eat; next, of quantity; and finally, of exorbitant prices. This was a fair sample of a majority of all we met with. A mild rain was falling, and we contented ourselves with remaining about the station nearly an hour. Calais is one of the seaports of France, 19 miles from Boulogne, and 150 miles north of Paris, which--added to the 21 miles from Calais to Dover, and the 62 miles from there to London--makes the distance from the place last named to Paris 233 miles, or the same distance as between New York and Boston. Its population in 1866 was 12,727, or about double that of our Calais, Maine, that being 5,944. Both are border towns, with the English opposite. It is situated on a rather barren district, the surrounding country being of cheap land, and under poor cultivation. A great difference exists in these respects on the two sides of the water. The place is well fortified by a citadel and quite a number of forts; being one of the border towns, it has, like those of England, been subject to constant invasions. The harbor is formed of long wooden piers, and is very shallow. It has a lighthouse 190 feet high, which is very commanding in effect, and adds much to the look of the place as one of commerce. Steamers ply daily, and at times quite often, across the Straits of Dover to England. The streets are broad and level, and so far as we saw, were well paved. The houses were neat, and mostly of stone or brick, though a portion of them were wooden. What are called the ramparts afford a good promenade, and it is said that, as a general thing, English is the spoken language. Among the noteworthy buildings is the old church of Nôtre Dame,--a favorite name for French churches,--the words meaning _Our Lady_, an allusion to the Virgin Mary. This church contains the celebrated painting of the Assumption by Vandyke. The Hôtel de Ville is a very old and large structure containing the public city offices, and has a high tower and belfry, with clock and chime of bells. Another ancient structure is the Hôtel de Guise, an edifice erected for the wool-stapler's guild--an institution founded by Edward III. There are various statues and busts of distinguished men in the more public places; but what is a very conspicuous object is the Tower of Guet, which dates back to 1214, or 669 years ago. It was for centuries used as a lighthouse; and, though having a history of one third of the time from the Christian era, as Longfellow has said of the Belfry of Bruges, "still it watches o'er the town." Prior to the twelfth century Calais was an insignificant fishing-village; but Baldwin IV., Count of Flanders, was especially pleased with the location, and realizing its importance as a seaport, and its possibilities as a place of resort for sea-bathing and summer residence, greatly improved it, and about the year 997, expended much money for its advancement. Philip of France, Count of Boulogne, in the early part of the thirteenth century enlarged and strengthened its fortifications. It was invaded by the English, and in 1347 it was, after a long siege, taken by King Edward II.; and in the negotiations for peace, Eustace St. Pierre, and five companions were accepted as a ransom for the entire population, and finally, they themselves had their lives spared by the intercession of the wife of Edward, Queen Philippa. From that time it remained in possession of the English a period of 211 years, when in 1558, it was besieged by the French under the Duke of Guise; and with the exception of the years 1596-8, when it was in the hands of the Spaniards, it has remained in comparatively quiet possession of the French. It has been from first to last a somewhat memorable place, and has played an important part in history. Charles II. of England, after the battle of Worcester, Sept. 3, 1651, fled to France; but the peace of 1655 forced him to leave the country and he went to Bruges, and remained there and at Brussels till he heard of Cromwell's death in 1658, when, in order to avail himself of the great confusion it caused in England, he ventured to station himself at Calais, which he did in August of 1659; and, with this as his headquarters, he opened negotiations with General Monk, which ended in his being proclaimed king of England, May 8, 1660. It was here also that James II. mustered his forces for the invasion of Ireland; and finally it is memorable as the place where Louis XVIII. landed, April 21, 1814, after his exile, and the spot is marked by a column and an inscription of the event. There is a matter of such interest, more especially to us Bostonians, connected with the channel between Dover and Calais, we cannot well refrain from noticing it; and it is, that on the 7th of January, 1785, two men were here for the first time successful in conducting a balloon on any extended scale, and guiding it to a particular destination; and we are happy to be able to state that a very distinguished Bostonian was one of these, the celebrated physician Dr. John Jeffries, who was born in our Boston, Feb. 4, 1744, being at the time first named, a resident of London, and in a successful practice of his profession. Being largely interested in scientific pursuits, and especially those relating to atmospheric pressure, he was invited by one François Blanchard, a Frenchman and an aeronaut, to attempt with him the task of crossing this channel. They started from the cliffs of Dover at the time before named, and safely landed in the forest of Guines in France. The doctor, in consequence of his venture, received great attentions from learned and scientific men and societies in London and Paris. Blanchard, who had planned the voyage and furnished the balloon, was rewarded by Louis XVI. with a gift of 12,000 francs, or $2,500, and a life-pension of 1,200 francs annually. He died in Paris, March 7, 1809, at the age of 71. Dr. Jeffries removed back to Boston in 1789, four years after the balloon passage, and died there Sept. 16, 1819, at the age 75, and was buried in the Granary burial-ground on Tremont Street. There are two things of especial interest that may be named as we speak of Dr. Jeffries. One is that it was he and John Winslow of Boston who first recognized the body of General Warren who fell at the battle of Bunker Hill. It lay where it fell till the succeeding day, when, being recognized, it was buried on the same spot. The other fact is that he was one of the early permanent settlers of East Boston, at what is now--and long has been known as--Jeffries Point. Although in a degree foreign to our purpose, yet we extend our remarks and name an incident of connecting interest, which took place in this year of Dr. Jeffries' decease. After the death of Blanchard in 1809, his wife, Marie Madeline Sophie Armant, who had accompanied him on many of the sixty-six voyages he had made, continued making like aerial excursions for the following ten years; till on a day of June in this year, 1819, she ascended from the Tivoli Garden in Paris, when her balloon, which was illuminated with fireworks, took fire while at a considerable height, and she, falling, was dashed to pieces. In a few months after, as named, died Dr. Jeffries, and so ended the earthly career of the trio most interested in that first great balloon enterprise between Dover and Calais, thirty-four years before. * * * * * There are yet a few places of interest, which, although not included in our journey, are so readily reached by detours from places we did visit, that we deem it advisable to name them. Conspicuous among them are the three cathedrals not described in our work: these are CHICHESTER, one of the five English cathedrals with a spire; WELLS, celebrated for its elaborately carved west façade and the wide grounds in front of it; and EXETER, having also a highly decorated west end, with the two transepts ending as towers. Chichester is easily reached by a ride by rail of 28½ miles from Brighton; Exeter by one of 80 miles from Bristol; and Wells, by one of 19 miles from Bath. LAKE WINDERMERE, in no way inferior in picturesque beauty to the lakes of Ireland or Scotland, may be visited by a ride of 15 miles from Lowgill, a station between Leeds and Carlisle. GLASTONBURY ABBEY ruins are excelled in beauty and interest by none in England; they may be reached by a ride of 6 miles from Wells, and may be visited while making the tour to the cathedral. TINTERN ABBEY, remarkable for its beauty, may be visited from Gloucester. It is a ride by rail of 40 miles to Chepstow, and then by coach for 14 miles further. It hardly need be added that these ruins are over the Welsh border. FOUNTAIN'S ABBEY ruins, renowned and of indescribable beauty and interest, are 13½ miles from Harrowgate, a town that may be reached by a ride of 27 miles by rail from either York or Leeds. In the vicinity of both Fountain's Abbey and Harrowgate are the celebrated ruins of BOLTON PRIORY, and no day can be more interestingly employed than one devoted to these unusual and remarkable places. In Scotland, 30 miles from Glasgow, is the town of AYR, in which are the ruins of the Kirk of Alloway, the scene of "Tam O' Shanter." Near-by is the cottage in which Robert Burns was born; and a fourth of a mile away, on the banks of his celebrated Doon, is a fine monument to his memory. The famous ruins of JEDBURG ABBEY are reached by a carriage-ride of eight miles from Melrose. The town itself is peculiar in the quaintness of many of its streets and buildings, and it is a principle with the inhabitants to preserve these antiquities. DRYBURG ABBEY ruins are beautiful in the extreme, and a fit resting-place for the remains of Sir Walter Scott. They are within four miles of Melrose. But we find the theme lengthening, and must forbear; and in closing will simply say, that the GIANT'S CAUSEWAY may be reached to advantage by a jaunt from Dublin to Belfast, one of the chief cities of Ireland, 88 miles north of the capital; thence to Londonderry, one of the most finished and intelligent places of the Emerald isle; and thence to the northern border, and by steamer to the Causeway. The spot may also be reached direct by steamer from Belfast. * * * * * And now we take a respectful leave of our readers, trusting that our humble work may be acceptable, and that their knowledge has been increased, or their memory refreshed, as to things in England, Ireland, and Scotland. INDEX. A ABBEYS: Dryburg, 355; Fountain's, 354; Glastonbury, 354; Jedburg, 355; Kirkstall, 192 _et seq._; Melrose, 238; Muckross, 36 _et seq._; St. Finian, 32 _et seq._; Tintern, 354; Westminster, 131 _et seq._ ABBOTSFORD: Sir Walter Scott's residence, 234 _et seq._; his last days at, 236 _et seq._ ALPHABET, Ogham, 27. AMESBURY, 110. AYR, 354. B BANIN, John, 65. BATH: city of, 102; cathedral of, 102; bell-chimes, baths, and pump-room, 104, 105; ancient customs, 105; Beau Nash, 104, 105; Samuel Pepy's visit to, 1668, 105 _et seq._; Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 106. BECKET, Thomas à: biography of, 336; shrine of, 338. BEDE, the Venerable, 248 _et seq._ BEMERTON: little church of, and rectory, 114; Rev. George Herbert's ministry, 115. BIRKENHEAD, 96. BIRMINGHAM: city of, 179; parks, 180; statistics concerning, 180 _et seq._ BLACK VALLEY, Ireland, 28. BLARNEY: ride to, 18; castle of, 19 _et seq._; legends concerning, 21. BOLTON Priory, 354. BORU, Brian, 70. BOSTON: town of, 270; St. Botolph's Church, 271; Rev. John Cotton, 271 _et seq._; English hotel names, 273. BOYLE, Earl of, 49. BRIDGE, old London, 138 _et seq._ BRIGID, St., chapel of, 67. BRIGHTON: city of, 345; beach and promenade, 346; residence of George IV., pavilion, 346; chain piers, 347; church of Rev. F. W. Robertson, 348; Doomsday Book, 348; history of, 349; Quaker meeting, 349. BRIGHTON, NEW, 76. BRISTOL: city of, 97; St. Mary Radcliffe Church, 98; Thomas Chatterton's forgeries, 99; first steamships to America, 100; cathedral of, 100; old institutions, 102. C CABOT, John, 100. CALAIS (France): passage to, 350; city of, 351; ancient buildings, 351; history of, 352; balloon ascension, 353; American Dr. John Jeffries, 359. CALLENDER, 210. CAMBRIDGE: city of, 295; respect for antiquities, 296; colleges, 296 _et seq._; Fitzwilliam Museum, ancient churches, 310, 311; University Library, School of Pythagoras, Barnwell Priory, Hobson's Conduit, "Hobson's choice," 311; government of the University, expense of education, 312; college statistics, 314. CANTERBURY: cultivation of land in vicinity of, 331; town of, 332; Dane John, 333; cathedral, 333 _et seq._; Thomas à Becket, 336 _et seq._; eminent men of, 340; Walloons, 341; Edward the Black Prince, 342. CAR, Irish jaunting, 18. CARLISLE: city of, 193; cathedral of, 193; celebrated bishops, 194; castle, 195; William Paley, 195. CARRICK-ON-SUIR, 59. CASCADE, Torc, 38. CASHEL, rock of, 66. CASTLES: Blarney, 19; Carlisle, 195; Donnington, 125; Edinburgh, 228; Kilkenny, 63; Loughmore, 67; Monkstown, and Anastatia Goold's exploit at building it, 11; Ross, 34. CATHEDRALS: Bath, 102; Bristol, 101; Canterbury, 333; Chester, 81; Chichester, 354; Christ Church (Dublin), 51; Durham, 246; Ely, 290; Exeter, 354; Glasgow, 201; Gloucester, 95; Hereford, 93; Lichfield, 182; Lincoln, 268; Norwich, 286; Oxford, 162; Peterboro, 276; Rochester, 330; St. Canice, 63; St. Patrick's, 48; St. Paul's, 143; Salisbury, 106; Wells, 354; Winchester, 119; Worcester, 88. CATHEDRAL SERVICE: history of, 47; chanting introduced, 48. CAUSEWAY, Giant's, 355. Chatham, 331. CHATTERTON, Thomas, biography of, and literary forgeries, 98 _et seq._ CHESTER: city of, 79; ancient walls of, 79, 80; ruins, ancient buildings, cathedral, 81; St. John's Church, 82; God's Providence House, barracks, cathedral service, military parade, American Revolution flags, 83; Roman bath, eminent men, 84. CHICHESTER, cathedral of, 354. CHURCHES: Christ's, Boston, Mass., 151; St. Clement Danes, London, 156; St. John's, Chester, 82; St. Sepulchre's, London, 154. CORK: city of, 11; Holinshead's history of, 16. COTTON, Rev. John: epitaph of, 125; biography of, 271. COVENTRY: city of, 178; Lady Godiva and Peeping Tom, 179. D DOVER: ride to, 342; castle of, 343; town of, 343; harbor of, 343; history of, 344; chalk-cliffs, 345. DRAKE, John, the hermit, 37. DUBLIN: city of, 44 _et seq._; St. Patrick's Cathedral, 48; Christ Church Cathedral, 50; Phoenix Park, 51; Royal Hospital, 50; parliaments held here, reformed religion inaugurated, 53; custom-house, courts, 55. DUNLOE, cave and gap of, 27. DURHAM: city of, 244; cathedral of, 246; sanctuary ground, 247; Old Galilee, 248; Venerable Bede, St. Cuthbert, 249 _et seq._; monuments, 250; bishops of, 250; relics, 251. E EDINBURGH: city of, 218; New City of, Calton Hill, Nelson's Monument, National Monument, 219, 220; Burns memorial, Sir Walter Scott's memorial, 220; Holyrood palace, 221; Holyrood chapel, 223; Queen's fountain and bath, 224; Salisbury Crags, Old City, 224; wynds, or closes, Maison Dieu, 225; St. Giles's Church, cemetery, 226, 227; Tolbooth, John Knox's house, 227; reminiscences of Knox, 227; theatres and customs relating to, distinguished residents, 228; abbey sanctuary, 228; Sir Walter Scott's residence, 228; castle, 228 _et seq._; St. Margaret's chapel, 231; old cannon, Mons Meg, 231; castle esplanade, 231 _et seq._ ELY: town of, 289; cathedral of, 290. ESTATES, landed, 44 _et seq._ ETON SCHOOL, 322. G GHEARHODH, MORGYRHEAD, Countess of, 58. GIANT'S CAUSEWAY, 355. GINKLE, General De, 44. GLASGOW: city of, 199; Presbyterianism, 199; history, streets, and parks, 200; college, cathedral, necropolis, 201; Martyrs' Monument, 202 _et seq._; great chimneys, 204; Presbyterian meeting, Sunday intemperance, 205. GLASTONBURY, 354. GLENA BAY, 32. GLOUCESTER: city of, 95; history and cathedral of, 95 _et seq._; Dr. Jenner's inoculation for smallpox, Robert Raikes's Sunday-school, Rev. George Whitefield, 96; martyr Hooper burned here at the stake, Thomas More's description of Richard III., 97. GRAY, Thomas, the poet, 325. GREEN, Hoggin, his Oberammergau Play, 53. GUINNESS, Sir B. L., his munificent donation for restoration of Christ Church Cathedral, 50. H HAMPTON COURT, 158, 329. HENRY, Rev. Matthew, ministry of, and Commentary, 84. HERBERT: Henry A., 38; Rev. George, 115. HEREFORD: city of, 92; celebrated characters of, River Wye, 93; cathedral, 93 _et seq._ HOOPER, Rev. John, the martyr, 97. I INNISFALLEN, island of, 32. IRELAND: coast of, 6; spring season in, 10; statistics of, 6, 8, 69; history of, 69 _et seq._; English in, 40. J JENNER, Dr. Edward, his inoculation for smallpox, 96. JEFFRIES, Dr. John, his balloon ascension, 353. JOHNSON, Dr. Samuel, 156 _et seq._ K KEARNEY, Kate, her cottage and eye to business, 27. KEMBLE: Roger, Charles, John Philip, Sarah (Mrs. Siddons), 93. KENILWORTH, castle and grounds of, 176 _et seq._ KETTEL, Lady Alice, her trial for witchcraft, 64. KILKENNY: town of, 62; of, St. Canice Cathedral, 63; witchcraft delusion, round tower, 64. KILLARNEY: town of, 23; curious funeral custom, 24; ride to lakes, scenery, 26; description of lakes, 29 _et seq._; legends, 31. KNOX, Rev. John, residence of, 227. L LAKES: of Ireland, 29 _et seq._; Scotland, 206 _et seq._; Windermere (England,) 354. LANDED ESTATES, and laws of primogeniture, bane of the country, 44. LAUD, William: archbishop, 122; place of birth, 339. LEAMINGTON, 174. LEE, river, passage up to Cork, villages and scenery, 10. LEEDS: city of, 191; collieries, Rev. Dr. Priestley, 191 _et seq._; season, Kirkstall Abbey, 192 _et seq._ LICHFIELD: city of, 181; Dr. Samuel Johnson's birthplace, 181 _et seq._; cathedral, 182 _et seq._; celebrated bishops, 184; cathedral desecrations and repairs, 185 _et seq._ LIMERICK: city of, 40; cathedral, 40; chime-bells, castle, 42; resistance to England, 43 _et seq._ LINCOLN: city of, 265; industries of, 266; cathedral, 268 _et seq._ LIVERPOOL: passage to, from Dublin, 75; approach to harbor of, 75 _et seq._; docks and landing-stage, 77; history of place, 77; intemperance, court scenes, 78; St. George's Hall, suburbs, Toxton, Sefton Park, 79. LOE, Thomas, who converted William Penn to Quakerism, 16. LONDON: city of, 129; West End of, Hyde Park, 129 _et seq._; Westminster Abbey, 131 _et seq._; Houses of Parliament, 134 _et seq._; River Thames, 135; Victoria Embankment, 136; Albert Embankment, 137; bridges, 137; old London bridge, 138; old watermen's troubles on the Thames, 140 _et seq._; river frozen over, 141 _et seq._; St. Paul's, 143 _et seq._; streets of, 143; climate of, 144; National Gallery, British Museum, 152; cabs, parks, 153; old churches, 154; tower of, 157; Hampton Court, 158; Bunhill burial-ground, 159; Fire Monument, 315. LUDLOW, Lord, captor of Ross Castle, 34. LYNN, 279 _et seq._ M MANCHESTER: history of, 190; manufactures, 190 _et seq._ MARYBORO, 67. MELROSE: journey to, 233; abbey of, 238 _et seq._ MORE, Sir Thomas, his description of Richard III., 97. MOUNTAINS: of Ireland, 38 _et seq._; of Scotland, 206 _et seq._ MUSKERRY, Lord, defender of Ross Castle, 34. N NASH, Beau, 104 _et seq._ NEWBURY: passage to, from Reading, 123; old Jack House, 123; Jack of Newbury, 123 _et seq._; extraordinary cloth manufacture, Rev. Dr. Twiss, Westminster Catechisms, New England Primer, Benjamin Woodbridge, 124 _et seq._; Donnington Castle, 125; Chaucer's house, St. Nicholas Church, curious customs and ancient epitaphs, 126 _et seq._ NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE, 243. NORWICH: history of, 283; eminent persons, 283 _et seq._; relics, 284; cathedral, 286 _et seq._; bishops of, 289. O OXFORD: city of, 161; martyrs, 161 _et seq._; cathedral, Bodleian Library, 162; curiosities, 163; colleges, 163 _et seq._; students, 165 _et seq._ P PENN, William: sailed for America, 11; conversion to Quakerism, 16. PEPYS, Samuel, 105, 106, 113. PETERBORO': city of, 276; cathedral, 276 _et seq._; Whit-Monday, 278; eminent personages, 279. PROUT, Father, 21. PUNCH BOWL, the Devil's, 39. PURCELL, ancient estate of, 60 _et seq._ Q QUEENSTOWN: harbor of, 6; city of, 8; peculiar customs, 9. R RAIKES, Robert, father of Sunday-schools, 96. RAILWAYS, foreign, 22 _et seq._ READING: city of, 121; birthplace of Archbishop Laud, 122; Congregationalist meeting, 127 _et seq._ ROBERTSON, Rev. F. W., 348. ROB ROY: country, 207; biography of, 207 _et seq._ ROCHESTER: city of, 329; cathedral, 330 _et seq._ ROE, Henry, Esq., his work of restoring St. Patrick's Cathedral, 52. ROSS, island and castle, 33 _et seq._ RUDHALL, Abel, and Abraham, celebrated bell-founders, 96. S SALISBURY: city of, 106; cathedral, 106 _et seq._ SARUM, Old, ruins of, 108 _et seq._ SCOTT, Sir Walter: Edinburgh residence, 228; Abbotsford, 234 _et seq._; closing days and hours of his life, 236 _et seq._ SERVICE: intonation of, 48; reform of Church of England, in Ireland, 54. SHAKESPEARE, 170, 174. SHANDON: St. Ann's Church of, 13; "sweet bells of," 14. SHEFFIELD, 264 _et seq._ SHERIDAN, Richard Brinsley, 106. SHREWSBURY: city of, 85; River Severn, St. Chad's Church, Quarry Walk, parliaments, historical incidents, 86 _et seq._; celebrated cakes, St. Mary's Church, the Shrewsbury clock by which Sir John Falstaff fought an hour, 87 _et seq._ SLOVENLINESS of American roads, 19. SMITH, Captain John, monument and epitaph in St. Sepulchre's Church, London, 154 _et seq._ STAFFORDSHIRE, smoke and iron district, 189. STEAMSHIPS, first that crossed the ocean, 100. STIRLING: wars there, 210 _et seq._; castle, 212 _et seq._; old Gray Friars Church, 213; ancient guildhall, 213 _et seq._; ancient burial-ground, Wallace Monument, 214 _et seq._; biography of Wallace, 215 _et seq._ STOKE POGIS: ride to, from Windsor, 321 _et seq._; church grounds, 322 _et seq._; the "ivy mantled tower" church, 323; Gray's Elegy and biography, 325. STOKE-UPON-TRENT: city of, 187; pottery manufacture, 187 _et seq._; birthplace of Rev. John Lightfoot, 188. STONEHENGE, 110 _et seq._ STRATFORD-ON-AVON: town of, 169 _et seq._; Shakespeare's birthplace, church, 170 _et seq._; his wife's monument, 172; biography of him, 172 _et seq._; Shottery, residence of Anne Hathaway, his bride, 173 _et seq._ SUPREMACY, act of, 70. SWIFT, Dean of St Patrick's, Dublin, 49. T THEOLOGY, influence of Scotch on the Irish, 46. TORC CASCADE, 38. TOWER, Reginald, ancient, at Waterford, 58. TRENT, river, 187 _et seq._ TWISS, Rev. William, 124 _et seq._ TYNE, Newcastle on, 243. V VALLEY, Black, in Ireland, 28. W WALTON, Isaac, 116, 119. WALLOONS, the French silk-weavers, at Canterbury, 341. WARBECK, Perkin, 16. WARWICK: city of, 167; castle of, 167 _et seq._; Leicester Hospital, 169. WATERFORD: city of, 57; ancient Reginald tower, 58; barracks, soldiers, police, history of city, 59. WELLS: fishing-town of, 282; cathedral town, 354. WHITEFIELD, Rev. George, his place of birth, death, and burial, 96. WILTON: town of, 112; Samuel Pepys' visit to, in 1668, 113. WINCHESTER: history of, 116; celebrated men, old museum, 117; touching for cure of King's Evil, banqueting hall, King Arthur's Round Table, Charles II.'s palace, cathedral, _118 et seq._; Isaac Walton's tomb, 119; marked historical events, 120; remains of bishops, 120 _et seq._ WINDSOR: town of, 316; castle, 317 _et seq._; St. George's Chapel, Prince Albert's mausoleum, 318. WORCESTER: history of, 88; cathedral, 88 _et seq._; bell and clock-chimes, landscapes, 90 _et seq._; St. Andrew's Church, 91; potteries, 91 _et seq._; cathedral service attended, 92. WORSHIP: origin of houses of Christian, 260; cathedrals and minsters, cause of their erection, 266 _et seq._; progress made and making, 269. WOODBRIDGE, Benjamin, first graduate of Harvard College, 124 _et seq._ Y YORK: city of, 254; history of, 254 _et seq._; distinguished personages, 255 _et seq._; St. Mary's Abbey, ruins of, 257 _et seq._; relics, 258; York Minster, 259 _et seq._; archbishopric of, 261 _et seq._; interesting relics, 263; Minster's history, 268 _et seq._ YORKSHIRE, 253. FOOTNOTE: [1] There is no uniformity in the spelling of this name. The oldest records of the family give it as _Shakspere_. In the poet's will it is spelled _Shakspeare_, and is so signed by him. Whenever he and his friend Ben Jonson caused it to be printed, they spelled it Shakespeare. In this form we find it in almost every book of that period where it appears at all. And so we have it on his wife's tombstone. The probabilities are, that the later spelling was the one most approved by the poet himself, as giving more correctly the usual pronunciation. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE -Plain print and punctuation errors fixed. 
34238	----	RURAL RIDES BY WILLIAM COBBETT T. Nelson & Sons CONTENTS. Rural Ride from London, through Newbury, to Burghclere, Hurstbourn Tarrant, Marlborough, and Cirencester, to Gloucester 5 Rural Ride from Gloucester, to Bollitree in Herefordshire, Ross, Hereford, Abingdon, Oxford, Cheltenham, Burghclere, Whitchurch, Uphurstbourn, and thence to Kensington 21 Rural Ride from Kensington to Dartford, Rochester, Chatham, and Faversham 40 Norfolk and Suffolk Journal 45 Rural Ride from Kensington to Battle, through Bromley, Sevenoaks, and Tunbridge 54 Rural Ride through Croydon, Godstone, East Grinstead, and Uckfield, to Lewes, and Brighton; returning by Cuckfield, Worth, and Red-hill 61 Rural Ride from London, through Ware and Royston, to Huntingdon 73 Rural Ride from Kensington to St. Albans, through Edgware, Stanmore, and Watford, returning by Redbourn, Hempstead, and Chesham 78 Rural Ride from Kensington to Uphusband; including a Rustic Harangue at Winchester, at a Dinner with the Farmers 85 Rural Ride through Hampshire, Berkshire, Surrey, and Sussex 107 Rural Ride from Kensington to Worth, in Sussex 148 Rural Ride from the (London) Wen across Surrey, across the West of Sussex, and into the South-East of Hampshire 150 Rural Ride through the South-East of Hampshire, back through the South-West of Surrey, along the Weald of Surrey, and then over the Surrey Hills down to the Wen 171 Rural Ride through the North-East part of Sussex, and all across Kent, from the Weald of Sussex, to Dover 200 Rural Ride from Dover, through the Isle of Thanet, by Canterbury and Faversham, across to Maidstone, up to Tonbridge, through the Weald of Kent and over the Hills by Westerham and Hays, to the Wen 221 Rural Ride from Kensington, across Surrey, and along that county 245 Rural Ride from Chilworth, in Surrey, to Winchester 256 Rural Ride from Winchester to Burghclere 269 Rural Ride from Burghclere to Petersfield 287 Rural Ride from Petersfield to Kensington 296 Rural Ride down the Valley of the Avon in Wiltshire 327 Rural Ride from Salisbury to Warminster, from Warminster to Frome, from Frome to Devizes, and from Devizes to Highworth 348 Rural Ride from Highworth to Cricklade, and thence to Malmsbury 368 Rural Ride from Malmsbury, in Wiltshire, through Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, and Worcestershire 386 Rural Ride from Ryall, in Worcestershire, to Burghclere, in Hampshire 405 Rural Ride from Burghclere, to Lyndhurst, in the New Forest 426 Rural Ride from Lyndhurst to Beaulieu Abbey; thence to Southampton, and Weston; thence to Botley, Allington, West End, near Hambledon; and thence to Petersfield, Thursley, and Godalming 449 Rural Ride from Weston, near Southampton, to Kensington 462 Rural Ride to Tring, in Hertfordshire 485 Northern Tour 494 Eastern Tour 498 Midland Tour 535 Tour in the West 550 Progress in the North 551 RURAL RIDES, ETC. JOURNAL: FROM LONDON, THROUGH NEWBURY, TO BERGHCLERE, HURSTBOURN TARRANT, MARLBOROUGH, AND CIRENCESTER, TO GLOUCESTER. _Berghclere, near Newbury, Hants, October 30, 1821, Tuesday (Evening)._ Fog that you might cut with a knife all the way from London to Newbury. This fog does not _wet_ things. It is rather a _smoke_ than a fog. There are no two things in _this world_; and, were it not for fear of _Six-Acts_ (the "wholesome restraint" of which I continually feel) I might be tempted to carry my comparison further; but, certainly, there are no two things in _this world_ so dissimilar as an English and a Long Island autumn.--These fogs are certainly the _white clouds_ that we sometimes see aloft. I was once upon the Hampshire Hills, going from Soberton Down to Petersfield, where the hills are high and steep, not very wide at their base, very irregular in their form and direction, and have, of course, deep and narrow valleys winding about between them. In one place that I had to pass, two of these valleys were cut asunder by a piece of hill that went across them and formed a sort of bridge from one long hill to another. A little before I came to this sort of bridge I saw a smoke flying across it; and, not knowing the way by experience, I said to the person who was with me, "there is the turnpike road (which we were expecting to come to); for, don't you see the dust?" The day was very fine, the sun clear, and the weather dry. When we came to the pass, however, we found ourselves, not in dust, but in a fog. After getting over the pass, we looked down into the valleys, and there we saw the fog going along the valleys to the North, in detached parcels, that is to say, in clouds, and, as they came to the pass, they rose, went over it, then descended again, keeping constantly along just above the ground. And, to-day, the fog came by _spells_. It was sometimes thinner than at other times; and these changes were very sudden too. So that I am convinced that these fogs are _dry clouds_, such as those that I saw on the Hampshire Downs. Those did not _wet_ me at all; nor do these fogs wet any thing; and I do not think that they are by any means injurious to health.--It is the fogs that rise out of swamps, and other places, full of putrid vegetable matter, that kill people. These are the fogs that sweep off the new settlers in the American Woods. I remember a valley in Pennsylvania, in a part called _Wysihicken_. In looking from a hill, over this valley, early in the morning, in November, it presented one of the most beautiful sights that my eyes ever beheld. It was a sea bordered with beautifully formed trees of endless variety of colours. As the hills formed the outsides of the sea, some of the trees showed only their tops; and, every now-and-then, a lofty tree growing in the sea itself raised its head above the apparent waters. Except the setting-sun sending his horizontal beams through all the variety of reds and yellows of the branches of the trees in Long Island, and giving, at the same time, a sort of silver cast to the verdure beneath them, I have never seen anything so beautiful as the foggy valley of the Wysihicken. But I was told that it was very fatal to the people; and that whole families were frequently swept off by the "_fall-fever_."--Thus the _smell_ has a great deal to do with health. There can be no doubt that Butchers and their wives fatten upon the smell of meat. And this accounts for the precept of my grandmother, who used to tell me to _bite my bread and smell to my cheese_; talk, much more wise than that of certain _old grannies_, who go about England crying up "the _blessings_" of paper-money, taxes, and national debts. The fog prevented me from seeing much of the fields as I came along yesterday; but the fields of Swedish Turnips that I did see were good; pretty good; though not clean and neat like those in Norfolk. The farmers here, as every where else, complain most bitterly; but they hang on, like sailors to the masts or hull of a wreck. They read, you will observe, nothing but the country newspapers; they, of course, know nothing of the _cause_ of their "bad times." They hope "the times will mend." If they quit business, they must sell their stock; and, having thought this worth so much money, they cannot endure the thought of selling for a third of the sum. Thus they hang on; thus the landlords will first turn the farmers' pockets inside out; and then their turn comes. To finish the present farmers will not take long. There has been stout fight going on all this morning (it is now 9 o'clock) between the _sun_ and the _fog_. I have backed the former, and he appears to have gained the day; for he is now shining most delightfully. Came through a place called "a park" belonging to a Mr. MONTAGUE, who is now _abroad_; for the purpose, I suppose, of generously assisting to compensate the French people for what they lost by the entrance of the Holy Alliance Armies into their country. Of all the ridiculous things I ever saw in my life this place is the most ridiculous. The house looks like a sort of church, in somewhat of a gothic style of building, with _crosses_ on the tops of different parts of the pile. There is a sort of swamp, at the foot of a wood, at no great distance from the front of the house. This swamp has been dug out in the middle to show the water to the eye; so that there is a sort of river, or chain of diminutive lakes, going down a little valley, about 500 yards long, the water proceeding from the _soak_ of the higher ground on both sides. By the sides of these lakes there are little flower gardens, laid out in the Dutch manner; that is to say, cut out into all manner of superficial geometrical figures. Here is the _grand en petit_, or mock magnificence, more complete than I ever beheld it before. Here is a _fountain_, the basin of which is not four feet over, and the water spout not exceeding the pour from a tea-pot. Here is a _bridge_ over a _river_ of which a child four years old would clear the banks at a jump. I could not have trusted myself on the bridge for fear of the consequences to Mr. MONTAGUE; but I very conveniently stepped over the river, in imitation of the _Colossus_. In another part there was a _lion's mouth_ spouting out water into the lake, which was so much like the vomiting of a dog, that I could almost have pitied the poor Lion. In short, such fooleries I never before beheld; but what I disliked most was the apparent impiety of a part of these works of refined taste. I did not like the crosses on the dwelling house; but, in one of the gravel walks, we had to pass under a gothic arch, with a cross on the top of it, and in the point of the arch a niche for a saint or a virgin, the figure being gone through the lapse of centuries, and the pedestal only remaining as we so frequently see on the outsides of Cathedrals and of old Churches and Chapels. But, the good of it was, this gothic arch, disfigured by the hand of old Father Time, was composed of Scotch fir wood, as rotten as a pear; nailed together in such a way as to make the thing appear, from a distance, like the remnant of a ruin! I wonder how long this sickly, this childish, taste is to remain. I do not know who this gentleman is. I suppose he is some honest person from the 'Change or its neighbourhood; and that these _gothic arches_ are to denote the _antiquity of his origin_! Not a bad plan; and, indeed, it is one that I once took the liberty to recommend to those Fundlords who retire to be country-'squires. But I never recommended the _Crucifixes_! To be sure, the Roman Catholic religion may, in England, be considered as a _gentleman's religion_, it being the most _ancient_ in the country; and therefore it is fortunate for a Fundlord when he happens (if he ever do happen) to be of that faith. This gentleman may, for anything that I know, be a _Catholic_; in which case I applaud his piety and pity his taste. At the end of this scene of mock grandeur and mock antiquity I found something more rational; namely, some hare hounds, and, in half an hour after, we found, and I had the first hare-hunt that I had had since I wore a smock-frock! We killed our hare after good sport, and got to Berghclere in the evening to a nice farm-house in a dell, sheltered from every wind, and with plenty of good living; though with no gothic arches made of Scotch fir! _October 31. Wednesday._ A fine day. Too many hares here; but our hunting was not bad; or, at least, it was a great treat to me, who used, when a boy, to have my legs and thighs so often filled with thorns in running after the hounds, anticipating, with pretty great certainty, a "_waling_" of the back at night. We had greyhounds a part of the day; but the ground on the hills is so _flinty_, that I do not like the country for coursing. The dogs' legs are presently cut to pieces. _Nov. 1. Thursday._ Mr. BUDD has Swedish Turnips, Mangel-Wurzel, and Cabbages of various kinds, transplanted. All are very fine indeed. It is impossible to make more satisfactory experiments in _transplanting_ than have been made here. But this is not a proper place to give a particular account of them. I went to see the best cultivated parts round Newbury; but I saw no spot with half the "feed" that I see here, upon a spot of similar extent. _Hurstbourn Tarrant, Hants, Nov. 2. Friday._ This place is commonly called _Uphusband_, which is, I think, as decent a corruption of names as one would wish to meet with. However, Uphusband the people will have it, and Uphusband it shall be for me. I came from Berghclere this morning, and through the park of LORD CAERNARVON, at Highclere. It is a fine season to look at woods. The oaks are still covered, the beeches in their best dress, the elms yet pretty green, and the beautiful ashes only beginning to turn off. This is, according to my fancy, the prettiest park that I have ever seen. A great variety of hill and dell. A good deal of water, and this, in one part, only wants the _colours_ of American trees to make it look like a "creek;" for the water runs along at the foot of a steepish hill, thickly covered with trees, and the branches of the lowermost trees hang down into the water and hide the bank completely. I like this place better than _Fonthill_, _Blenheim_, _Stowe_, or any other gentleman's grounds that I have seen. The _house_ I did not care about, though it appears to be large enough to hold half a village. The trees are very good, and the woods would be handsomer if the larches and firs were _burnt_, for which only they are fit. The great beauty of the place is the _lofty downs_, as steep, in some places, as the roof of a house, which form a sort of boundary, in the form of a part of a crescent, to about a third part of the park, and then slope off and get more distant, for about half another third part. A part of these downs is covered with trees, chiefly beech, the colour of which, at this season, forms a most beautiful contrast with that of the down itself, which is so green and so smooth! From the vale in the park, along which we rode, we looked apparently almost perpendicularly up at the downs, where the trees have extended themselves by seed more in some places than others, and thereby formed numerous salient parts of various forms, and, of course, as many and as variously formed glades. These, which are always so beautiful in forests and parks, are peculiarly beautiful in this lofty situation and with verdure so smooth as that of these chalky downs. Our horses beat up a score or two of hares as we crossed the park; and, though we met with no _gothic arches_ made of Scotch fir, we saw something a great deal better; namely, about forty cows, the most beautiful that I ever saw, as to colour at least. They appear to be of the Galway-breed. They are called, in this country, _Lord Caernarvon's breed_. They have no horns, and their colour is a ground of white with black or red spots, these spots being from the size of a plate to that of a crown piece; and some of them have no small spots. These cattle were lying down together in the space of about an acre of ground: they were in excellent condition, and so fine a sight of the kind I never saw. Upon leaving the park, and coming over the hills to this pretty vale of Uphusband, I could not help calculating how long it might be before some Jew would begin to fix his eye upon Highclere, and talk of putting out the present owner, who, though a _Whig_, is one of the best of that set of politicians, and who acted a manly part in the case of our deeply injured and deeply lamented Queen. Perhaps his Lordship thinks that there is no fear of the Jews as to _him_. But does he think that his tenants can sell fat hogs at 7_s._ 6_d._ a score, and pay him more than a third of the rent that they have paid him while the debt was contracting? I know that such a man does not lose his estate at once; but, without rents, what is the estate? And that the Jews will receive the far greater part of his rents is certain, unless the interest of the Debt be reduced. LORD CAERNARVON told a man, in 1820, that _he did not like my politics_. But what did he mean by my _politics_? I have no politics but such as he _ought_ to like. I want to do away with that infernal _system_, which, after having beggared and pauperized the Labouring Classes, has now, according to the Report, made by the Ministers themselves to the House of Commons, plunged the owners of the land themselves into a state of distress, for which those Ministers themselves can hold out no remedy! To be sure, I labour most assiduously to destroy a system of distress and misery; but is that any reason why a _Lord_ should dislike my politics? However, dislike or like them, to them, to those very politics, the Lords themselves _must come at last_. And that I should exult in this thought, and take little pains to disguise my exultation, can surprise nobody who reflects on what has passed within these last twelve years. If the Landlords be well; if things be going right with them; if they have fair prospects of happy days; then what need they care about me and _my politics_; but, if they find themselves in "_distress_," and do not know how to get out of it; and, if they have been plunged into this distress by those who "dislike my politics;" is there not _some reason_ for men of sense to hesitate a little before they _condemn_ those politics? If no great change be wanted; if things could remain even; then men may, with some show of reason, say that I am disturbing that which ought to be let alone. But if things cannot remain as they are; if there must be a _great change_; is it not folly, and, indeed, is it not a species of idiotic perverseness, for men to set their faces, without rhyme or reason, against what is said as to this change by _me_, who have, for nearly twenty years, been warning the country of its danger, and foretelling that which has now come to pass and is coming to pass? However, I make no complaint on this score. People disliking my politics "neither picks my pocket, nor breaks my leg," as JEFFERSON said by the writings of the Atheists. If they be pleased in disliking my politics, I am pleased in liking them; and so we are both enjoying ourselves. If the country wants no assistance from me, I am quite sure that I want none from it. _Nov. 3. Saturday._ Fat hogs have lately sold, in this village, at 7_s._ 6_d._ a score (but would hardly bring that now), that is to say, at 4-1/2_d._ a pound. The hog is weighed whole, when killed and dressed. The head and feet are included; but so is the lard. Hogs fatted on peas or barley-meal may be called the very best meat that England contains. At Salisbury (only about 20 miles off) fat hogs sell for 5_s._ to 4_s._ 6_d._ a score. But, then, observe, these are _dairy hogs_, which are not nearly so good in quality as the corn-fed hogs. But I shall probably hear more about these prices as I get further towards the West. Some wheat has been sold at Newbury-market for 6_l._ a load (40 bushels); that is, at 3_s._ a bushel. A considerable part of the crop is wholly unfit for bread flour, and is not equal in value to good barley. In not a few instances the wheat has been carried into the gate, or yard, and thrown down to be made dung of. So that, if we were to take the average, it would not exceed, I am convinced, 5_s._ a bushel in this part of the country; and the average of all England would not, perhaps, exceed 4_s._ or 3_s._ 6_d._ a bushel. However, LORD LIVERPOOL has got a _bad harvest_ at last! That _remedy_ has been applied! Somebody sent me some time ago that stupid newspaper, called the _Morning Herald_, in which its readers were reminded of my "_false prophecies_," I having (as this paper said) foretold that wheat would be at _two shillings a bushel before Christmas_. These gentlemen of the "_respectable_ part of the press" do not mind lying a little upon a pinch. [See Walter's "Times" of Tuesday last, for the following: "_Mr. Cobbett has thrown open the front of his house at Kensington, where he proposes to sell meat at a reduced price_."] What I said was this: that, if the crop were good and the harvest fine, and gold continued to be paid at the Bank, we should see wheat at four, not two, shillings a bushel before Christmas. Now, the crop was, in many parts, very much blighted, and the harvest was very bad indeed; and yet the average of England, including that which is destroyed, or not brought to market at all, will not exceed 4_s._ a bushel. A farmer told me, the other day, that he got _so little_ offered for some of his wheat, that he was resolved not to take any more of it to market; but to give it to hogs. Therefore, in speaking of the price of wheat, you are to take in the unsold as well as the sold; that which fetches nothing as well as that which is sold at high price.--I see, in the Irish papers, which have overtaken me on my way, that the system is working the Agriculturasses in "the sister-kingdom" too! The following paragraph will show that the _remedy_ of a _bad harvest_ has not done our dear sister much good. "A very numerous meeting of the Kildare Farming Society met at Naas on the 24th inst., the Duke of Leinster in the Chair; Robert de la Touche, Esq., M.P., Vice-President. Nothing can more strongly prove the BADNESS OF THE TIMES, and very _unfortunate state of the country_, than the necessity in which the Society finds itself of _discontinuing its premiums, from its present want of funds_. The best members of the farming classes have got so much in arrear in their subscriptions that they have declined to appear or to dine with their neighbours, and general depression damps the spirit of the most industrious and _hitherto prosperous_ cultivators." You are mistaken, Pat; it is not the _times_ any more than it is the _stars_. Bobadil, you know, imputed his beating to the _planets_: "planet-stricken, by the foot of Pharaoh!"--"No, Captain," says Welldon, "indeed it was a _stick_." It is not the _times_, dear Patrick: it is _the government_, who, having first contracted a great debt in depreciated money, are now compelling you to pay the interest at the rate of three for one. Whether this be _right_, or _wrong_, the Agriculturasses best know: it is much more their affair than it is mine; but, be you well assured, that they are only at the beginning of their sorrows. Ah! Patrick, whoever shall live only a few years will see a _grand change_ in your state! Something a _little more rational_ than "Catholic Emancipation" will take place, or I am the most deceived of all mankind. This _Debt_ is your best, and, indeed, your _only friend_. It must, at last, give the THING a _shake_, such as it never had before.--The accounts which my country newspapers give of the failure of farmers are perfectly dismal. In many, many instances they have put an end to their existence, as the poor deluded creatures did who had been ruined by the South Sea Bubble! I cannot help feeling for these people, for whom my birth, education, taste, and habits give me so strong a partiality. Who can help feeling for their wives and children, hurled down headlong from affluence to misery in the space of a few months! Become all of a sudden the mockery of those whom they compelled, perhaps, to cringe before them! If the Labourers exult, one cannot say that it is unnatural. If _Reason_ have her fair sway, I am exempted from all pain upon this occasion. I have done my best to prevent these calamities. Those farmers who have attended to me are safe while the storm rages. My endeavours to stop the evil in time cost me the earnings of twenty long years! I did not sink, no, nor _bend_, beneath the heavy and reiterated blows of the accursed system, which I have dealt back blow for blow; and, blessed be God, I now see it _reel_! It is staggering about like a sheep with water in the head: turning its pate up on one side: seeming to listen, but has no hearing: seeming to look, but has no sight: one day it capers and dances: the next it mopes and seems ready to die. _Nov. 4. Sunday._ This, to my fancy, is a very nice country. It is continual hill and dell. Now and then a _chain_ of hills higher than the rest, and these are downs, or woods. To stand upon any of the hills and look around you, you almost think you see the ups and downs of sea in a _heavy swell_ (as the sailors call it) after what they call a gale of wind. The undulations are endless, and the great variety in the height, breadth, length, and form of the little hills, has a very delightful effect.--The soil, which, to look _on_ it, appears to be more than half flint stones, is very good in quality, and, in general, better on the tops of the lesser hills than in the valleys. It has great tenacity; does not _wash away_ like sand, or light loam. It is a stiff, tenacious loam, mixed with flint stones. Bears Saint-foin well, and all sorts of grass, which make the fields on the hills as green as meadows, even at this season; and the grass does not burn up in summer.--In a country so full of hills one would expect endless runs of water and springs. There are none: absolutely none. No water-furrow is ever made in the land. No ditches round the fields. And, even in the _deep valleys_, such as that in which this village is situated, though it winds round for ten or fifteen miles, there is no run of water even now. There is the _bed_ of a brook, which will run before spring, and it continues running with more or less water for about half the year, though, some years, it never runs at all. It rained all Friday night; pretty nearly all day yesterday; and to-day the ground is as dry as a bone, except just along the street of the village, which has been kept in a sort of stabble by the flocks of sheep passing along to and from Appleshaw fair. In the deep and long and narrow valleys, such as this, there are meadows with very fine herbage and very productive. The grass very fine and excellent in its quality. It is very curious that the soil is much _shallower_ in the vales than on the hills. In the vales it is a sort of hazle-mould on a bed of something approaching to gravel; but on the hills it is stiff loam, with apparently half flints, on a bed of something like clay first (reddish, not yellow), and then comes the chalk, which they often take up by digging a sort of wells; and then they spread it on the surface, as they do the clay in some countries, where they sometimes fetch it many miles and at an immense expense. It was very common, near Botley, to chalk land at an expense of sixteen pounds an acre.----The land here is excellent in quality generally, unless you get upon the highest chains of hills. They have frequently 40 bushels of wheat to the acre. Their barley is very fine; and their Saint-foin abundant. The turnips are, in general, very good at this time; and the land appears as capable of carrying fine crops of them as any land that I have seen. A fine country for sheep: always dry: they never injure the land when feeding off turnips in wet weather; and they can lie down on the dry; for the ground is, in fact, never wet except while the rain is actually falling. Sometimes, in spring-thaws and thunder-showers, the rain runs down the hills in torrents; but is gone directly. The flocks of sheep, some in fold and some at large, feeding on the sides of the hills, give great additional beauty to the scenery.--The woods, which consist chiefly of oak thinly intermixed with ash, and well set with underwood of ash and hazle, but mostly the latter, are very beautiful. They sometimes stretch along the top and sides of hills for miles together; and as their edges, or outsides, joining the fields and the downs, go winding and twisting about, and as the fields and downs are naked of trees, the sight altogether is very pretty.--The trees in the deep and long valleys, especially the Elm and the Ash, are very fine and very lofty; and from distance to distance, the Rooks have made them their habitation. This sort of country, which, in irregular shape, is of great extent, has many and great advantages. Dry under foot. Good roads, winter as well as summer, and little, very little, expense. Saint-foin flourishes. Fences cost little. Wood, hurdles, and hedging-stuff cheap. No shade in wet harvests. The water in the wells excellent. Good sporting country, except for coursing, and too many flints for that.--What becomes of all the _water_? There is a spring in one of the cross valleys that runs into this, having a basin about thirty feet over, and about eight feet deep, which, they say, sends up water once in about 30 or 40 years; and boils up so as to make a large current of water.--Not far from UPHUSBAND the _Wansdike_ (I think it is called) crosses the country. SIR RICHARD COLT HOARE has written a great deal about this ancient boundary, which is, indeed, something very curious. In the ploughed fields the traces of it are quite gone; but they remain in the _woods_ as well as on the downs. _Nov. 5. Monday._ A _white frost_ this morning. The hills round about beautiful at sun-rise, the rooks making that noise which they always make in winter mornings. The Starlings are come in large flocks; and, which is deemed a sign of a hard winter, the Fieldfares are come at an early season. The haws are very abundant; which, they say, is another sign of a hard winter. The wheat is high enough here, in some fields, "to hide a hare," which is, indeed, not saying much for it, as a hare knows how to hide herself upon the bare ground. But it is, in some fields, four inches high, and is green and gay, the colour being finer than that of any grass.--The fuel here is wood. Little coal is brought from Andover. A load of fagots does not cost above 10_s._ So that, in this respect, the labourers are pretty well off. The wages here and in Berkshire, about 8_s._ a week; but the farmers talk of lowering them.--The poor-rates heavy, and heavy they must be, till taxes and rents come down greatly.--Saturday, and to-day Appleshaw sheep-fair. The sheep, which had taken a rise at Weyhill fair, have fallen again even below the Norfolk and Sussex mark. Some Southdown Lambs were sold at Appleshaw so low as 8_s._ and some even lower. Some Dorsetshire Ewes brought no more than a pound; and, perhaps, the average did not exceed 28_s._ I have seen a farmer here who can get (or could a few days ago) 28_s._ round for a lot of fat Southdown Wethers, which cost him just that money, when they were lambs, _two years ago_! It is impossible that they can have cost him less than 24_s._ each during the two years, having to be fed on turnips or hay in winter, and to be fatted on good grass. Here (upon one hundred sheep) is a loss of 120_l._ and 14_l._ in addition at five per cent. interest on the sum expended in the purchase; even suppose not a sheep has been lost by death or otherwise.--I mentioned before, I believe, that fat hogs are sold at Salisbury at from 5_s._ to 4_s._ 6_d._ the _score_ pounds, dead weight.--Cheese has come down in the same proportion. A correspondent informs me that one hundred and fifty Welsh Sheep were, on the 18th of October, offered for 4_s._ 6_d_, a head, and that they went away unsold! The skin was worth a shilling of the money! The following I take from the _Tyne Mercury_ of the 30th of October. "Last week, at Northawton fair, Mr. Thomas Cooper, of Bow, purchased three milch cows and forty sheep, for 18_l._ 16_s._ 6_d._!" The skins, four years ago, would have sold for more than the money. The _Hampshire Journal_ says that, on 1 November (Thursday) at Newbury Market, wheat sold from 88_s._ to 24_s._ the Quarter. This would make an average of 56_s._ But very little indeed was sold at 88_s._, only the prime of the old wheat. The best of the new for about 48_s._, and then, if we take into view the great proportion that cannot go to market at all, we shall not find the average, even in this rather dear part of England, to exceed 32_s._, or 4_s._ a bushel. And if we take all England through, it does not come up to that, nor anything like it. A farmer very sensibly observed to me yesterday that "if we had had such a crop and such a harvest a few years ago, good wheat would have been 50_l._ a load;" that is to say, 25_s._ a bushel! Nothing can be truer than this. And nothing can be clearer than that the present race of farmers, generally speaking, must be swept away by bankruptcy, if they do not, in time, make their bow, and retire. There are two descriptions of farmers, very distinct as to the effects which this change must naturally have on them. The word _farmer_ comes from the French, _fermier_, and signifies _renter_. Those only who rent, therefore, are, properly speaking, _farmers_. Those who till their own land are _yeomen_; and when I was a boy it was the common practice to call the former _farmers_ and the latter _yeoman-farmers_. These yeomen have, for the greater part, been swallowed up by the paper-system which has drawn such masses of money together. They have, by degrees, been _bought out_. Still there are some few left; and these, if not in debt, will stand their ground. But all the present race of mere renters must give way, in one manner or another. They must break, or drop their style greatly; even in the latter case, their rent must, very shortly, be diminished more than two-thirds. Then comes the _Landlord's turn_; and the sooner the better.--In the _Maidstone Gazette_ I find the following: "Prime beef was sold in Salisbury market, on Tuesday last, at 4_d._ per lb., and good joints of mutton at 3-1/2_d._; butter 11_d._ and 12_d._ per lb.--In the West of Cornwall, during the summer, pork has often been sold at 2-1/2_d._ per lb."--This is very true; and what can be better? How can Peel's Bill work in a more delightful manner? What nice "_general working of events_!" The country rag-merchants have now very little to do. They have _no discounts_. What they have out they _owe_: it is so much _debt_: and, of course, they become poorer and poorer, because they must, like a mortgager, have more and more to pay as prices fall. This is very good; for it will make them disgorge a part, at least, of what they have swallowed, during the years of high prices and depreciation. They are worked in this sort of way: the Tax-Collectors, the Excise-fellows, for instance, hold their sittings every six weeks, in certain towns about the country. They will receive the country rags, if the rag man can find, and will give, security for the due payment of his rags, when they arrive in London. For want of such security, or of some formality of the kind, there was a great bustle in a town in this county not many days ago. The Excise-fellow demanded sovereigns, or Bank of England notes. Precisely how the matter was finally settled I know not; but the reader will see that the Exciseman was only taking a proper precaution; for if the rags were not paid in London, the loss was his. _Marlborough, Tuesday noon, Nov. 6._ I left Uphusband this morning at 9, and came across to this place (20 miles) in a post-chaise. Came up the valley of Uphusband, which ends at about 6 miles from the village, and puts one out upon the Wiltshire Downs, which stretch away towards the West and South-west, towards Devizes and towards Salisbury. After about half a mile of down we came down into a level country; the flints cease, and the chalk comes nearer the top of the ground. The labourers along here seem very poor indeed. Farmhouses with twenty ricks round each, besides those standing in the fields; pieces of wheat 50, 60, or 100 acres in a piece; but a group of women labourers, who were attending the measurers to measure their reaping work, presented such an assemblage of rags as I never before saw even amongst the hoppers at Farnham, many of whom are common beggars. I never before saw _country_ people, and reapers too, observe, so miserable in appearance as these. There were some very pretty girls, but ragged as colts and as pale as ashes. The day was cold too, and frost hardly off the ground; and their blue arms and lips would have made any heart ache but that of a seat-seller or a loan-jobber. A little after passing by these poor things, whom I left, cursing, as I went, those who had brought them to this state, I came to a group of shabby houses upon a hill. While the boy was watering his horses, I asked the ostler the _name_ of the place; and, as the old women say, "you might have knocked me down with a feather," when he said, "_Great Bedwin_." The whole of the houses are not intrinsically worth a thousand pounds. There stood a thing out in the middle of the place, about 25 feet long and 15 wide, being a room stuck up on unhewed stone pillars about 10 feet high. It was the Town Hall, where the ceremony of choosing the _two Members_ is performed. "This place sends Members to Parliament, don't it?" said I to the ostler. "Yes, Sir." "Who are Members _now_?" "I _don't know_, indeed, Sir."--I have not read the _Henriade_ of Voltaire for these 30 years; but in ruminating upon the ostler's answer, and in thinking how the world, yes, _the whole world_, has been deceived as to this matter, two lines of that poem came across my memory: Représentans du peuple, les Grands et le Roi: Spectacle magnifique! Source sacrée des lois![1] The Frenchman, for want of understanding the THING as well as I do, left the eulogium incomplete. I therefore here add four lines, which I request those who publish future editions of the Henriade to insert in continuation of the above eulogium of Voltaire. Représentans du peuple, que celui-ci ignore, Sont fait à miracle pour garder son Or! Peuple trop heureux, que le bonheur inonde! L'envie de vos voisins, admiré du monde![2] The first line was suggested by the ostler; the last by the words which we so very often hear from the bar, the bench, the _seats_, the pulpit, and the throne. Doubtless my poetry is not equal to that of Voltaire; but my rhyme is as good as his, and my _reason_ is a great deal better.--In quitting this villanous place we see the extensive and uncommonly ugly park and domain of LORD AYLESBURY, who seems to have tacked park on to park, like so many outworks of a fortified city. I suppose here are 50 or 100 farms of former days swallowed up. They have been bought, I dare say, from time to time; and it would be a labour very well worthy of reward by the public, to trace to its source the money by which these immense domains, in different parts of the country, have been formed!--MARLBOROUGH, which is an ill-looking place enough, is succeeded, on my road to SWINDON, by an extensive and very beautiful down about 4 miles over. Here nature has flung the earth about in a great variety of shapes. The fine short smooth grass has about 9 inches of mould under it, and then comes the chalk. The water that runs down the narrow side-hill valleys is caught, in different parts of the down, in basins made on purpose, and lined with clay apparently. This is for watering the sheep in summer; sure sign of a really dry soil; and yet the grass never _parches_ upon these downs. The chalk holds the moisture, and the grass is fed by the dews in hot and dry weather.--At the end of this down the high-country ends. The hill is high and steep, and from it you look immediately down into a level farming country; a little further on into the dairy-country, whence the North-Wilts cheese comes; and, beyond that, into the vale of Berkshire, and even to Oxford, which lies away to the North-east from this hill.--The land continues good, flat and rather wet to Swindon, which is a plain country town, built of the stone which is found at about 6 feet under ground about here.--I come on now towards Cirencester, thro' the dairy county of North Wilts. _Cirencester, Wednesday (Noon), 7 Nov._ I slept at a Dairy-farm house at Hannington, about eight miles from Swindon, and five on one side of my road. I passed through that villanous hole, Cricklade, about two hours ago; and, certainly, a more rascally looking place I never set my eyes on. I wished to avoid it, but could get along no other way. All along here the land is a whitish stiff loam upon a bed of soft stone, which is found at various distances from the surface, sometimes two feet and sometimes ten. Here and there a field is fenced with this stone, laid together in walls without mortar or earth. All the houses and out-houses are made of it, and even covered with the thinnest of it formed into tiles. The stiles in the fields are made of large flags of this stone, and the gaps in the hedges are stopped with them.--There is very little wood all along here. The labourers seem miserably poor. Their dwellings are little better than pig-beds, and their looks indicate that their food is not nearly equal to that of a pig. Their wretched hovels are stuck upon little bits of ground _on the road side_, where the space has been wider than the road demanded. In many places they have not two rods to a hovel. It seems as if they had been swept off the fields by a hurricane, and had dropped and found shelter under the banks on the road side! Yesterday morning was a sharp frost; and this had set the poor creatures to digging up their little plats of potatoes. In my whole life I never saw human wretchedness equal to this: no, not even amongst the free negroes in America, who, on an average, do not work one day out of four. And this is "_prosperity_," is it? These, Oh, Pitt! are the fruits of thy hellish system! However, this _Wiltshire_ is a horrible county. This is the county that the _Gallon-loaf_ man belongs to. The land all along here is good. Fine fields and pastures all around; and yet the cultivators of those fields so miserable! This is particularly the case on both sides of Cricklade, and in it too, where everything had the air of the most deplorable want.--They are sowing wheat all the way from the Wiltshire downs to Cirencester; though there is some wheat up. Winter-Vetches are up in some places, and look very well.--The turnips of both kinds are good all along here.--I met a farmer going with porkers to Highworth market. They would weigh, he said, four score and a half, and he expected to get 7_s._ 6_d._ a score. I expect he will not. He said they had been fed on barley-meal; but I did not believe him. I put it to his honour whether whey and beans had not been their food. He looked surly, and pushed on.--On this stiff ground they grow a good many beans, and give them to the pigs with whey; which makes excellent pork for the _Londoners_; but which must meet with a pretty hungry stomach to swallow it in Hampshire. The hogs, all the way that I have come, from Buckinghamshire, are, without a single exception that I have seen, the old-fashioned black-spotted hogs. Mr. BLOUNT at Uphusband has one, which now weighs about thirty score, and will possibly weigh forty, for she moves about very easily yet. This is the weight of a good ox; and yet, what a little thing it is compared to an ox! Between Cricklade and this place (Cirencester) I met, in separate droves, about two thousand Welsh Cattle, on their way from Pembrokeshire to the fairs in Sussex. The greater part of them were heifers in calf. They were purchased in Wales at from 3_l._ to 4_l._ 10_s._ each! None of them, the drovers told me, reached 5_l._ These heifers used to fetch, at home, from 6_l._ to 8_l._, and sometimes more. Many of the things that I saw in these droves did not fetch, in Wales, 25_s._ And they go to no _rising_ market! Now, is there a man in his senses who believes that this THING can go on in the present way? However, a fine thing, indeed, is this fall of prices! My "cottager" will easily get his cow, and a young cow too, for less than the 5_l._ that I talked of. These Welsh heifers will calve about May; and they are just the very thing for a cottager. _Gloucester, Thursday (morning), Nov. 8._ In leaving Cirencester, which is a pretty large town, a pretty nice town, and which the people call _Cititer_, I came up hill into a country, apparently formerly a down or common, but now divided into large fields by stone walls. Anything so ugly I have never seen before. The stone, which, on the other side of Cirencester, lay a good way under ground, here lies very near to the surface. The plough is continually bringing it up, and thus, in general, come the means of making the walls that serve as fences. Anything quite so cheerless as this I do not recollect to have seen; for the Bagshot country, and the commons between Farnham and Haslemere, have _heath_ at any rate; but these stones are quite abominable. The turnips are not a _fiftieth_ of a crop like those of Mr. Clarke at Bergh-Apton in Norfolk, or Mr. Pym at Reigate in Surrey, or of Mr. Brazier at Worth in Sussex. I see thirty acres here that have less _food_ upon them than I saw the other day upon half an acre at Mr. Budd's at Berghclere. _Can_ it be good farming to plough and sow and hoe thirty acres to get what _may_ be got upon half an acre? Can that half acre cost more than a tenth part as much as the thirty acres? But if I were to go to this thirty-acre farmer, and tell him what to do to the half acre, would he not exclaim with the farmer at Botley: "What! _drow_ away all that 'ere ground between the _lains_! Jod's blood!"--With the exception of a little dell about eight miles from Cititer, this miserable country continued to the distance of ten miles, when, all of a sudden, I looked down from the top of a high hill into _the vale of Gloucester_! Never was there, surely, such a contrast in this world! This hill is called _Burlip Hill_; it is much about a mile down it, and the descent so steep as to require the wheel of the chaise to be locked; and even with that precaution, I did not think it over and above safe to sit in the chaise; so, upon Sir Robert Wilson's principle of taking care of _Number One_, I got out and walked down. From this hill you see the Morvan Hills in Wales. You look down into a sort of _dish_ with a flat bottom, the Hills are the sides of the dish, and the City of Gloucester, which you plainly see, at seven miles distance from Burlip Hill, appears to be not far from the centre of the dish. All here is fine; fine farms; fine pastures; all enclosed fields; all divided by hedges; orchards a plenty; and I had scarcely seen one apple since I left Berkshire.--GLOUCESTER is a fine, clean, beautiful place; and, which is of a vast deal more importance, the labourers' dwellings, as I came along, looked good, and the labourers themselves pretty well as to dress and healthiness. The girls at work in the fields (always my standard) are not in rags, with bits of shoes tied on their feet and rags tied round their ankles, as they had in Wiltshire. JOURNAL: FROM GLOUCESTER, TO BOLLITREE IN HEREFORDSHIRE, ROSS, HEREFORD, ABINGDON, OXFORD, CHELTENHAM, BERGHCLERE, WHITCHURCH, UPHURSTBOURN, AND THENCE TO KENSINGTON. _Bollitree Castle, Herefordshire, Friday, 9 Nov. 1821._ I got to this beautiful place (Mr. WILLIAM PALMER'S) yesterday, from Gloucester. This is in the parish of _Weston_, two miles on the Gloucester side of Ross, and, if not the first, nearly the first, parish in Herefordshire upon leaving Gloucester to go on through Ross to Hereford.--On quitting Gloucester I crossed the Severne, which had overflowed its banks and covered the meadows with water.--The soil good but stiff. The coppices and woods very much like those upon the clays in the South of Hampshire and in Sussex; but the land better for corn and grass. The goodness of the land is shown by the apple-trees, and by the sort of sheep and cattle fed here. The sheep are a cross between the Ryland and Leicester, and the cattle of the Herefordshire kind. These would starve in the pastures of any part of Hampshire or Sussex that I have ever seen.--At about seven miles from Gloucester I came to hills, and the land changed from the whitish soil, which I had hitherto seen, to a red brown, with layers of flat stone of a reddish cast under it. Thus it continued to Bollitree. The trees of all kinds are very fine on the hills as well as in the bottoms.--The spot where I now am is peculiarly well situated in all respects. The land very rich, the pastures the finest I ever saw, the trees of all kinds surpassing upon an average any that I have before seen in England. From the house, you see, in front and winding round to the left, a lofty hill, called _Penyard Hill_, at about a mile and a half distance, covered with oaks of the finest growth: along at the foot of this wood are fields and orchards continuing the slope of the hill down for a considerable distance, and, as the ground lies in a sort of _ridges_ from the wood to the foot of the slope, the hill-and-dell is very beautiful. One of these dells with the two adjoining sides of hills is an orchard belonging to Mr. PALMER, and the trees, the ground, and everything belonging to it, put me in mind of the most beautiful of the spots in the North of Long Island. Sheltered by a lofty wood; the grass fine beneath the fruit trees; the soil dry under foot though the rain had scarcely ceased to fall; no moss on the trees; the leaves of many of them yet green; everything brought my mind to the beautiful orchards near Bayside, Little Neck, Mosquito Cove, and Oyster Bay, in Long Island. No wonder that this is a country of _cider_ and _perry_; but what a shame it is that here, at any rate, the owners and cultivators of the soil, not content with these, should, for mere fashion's sake, waste their substance on _wine_ and _spirits_! They really deserve the contempt of mankind and the curses of their children.--The woody hill mentioned before, winds away to the left, and carries the eye on to the _Forest of Dean_, from which it is divided by a narrow and very deep valley. Away to the right of Penyard Hill lies, in the bottom, at two miles distance, and on the bank of the river Wye, the town of Ross, over which we look down the vale to Monmouth and see the Welsh hills beyond it. Beneath Penyard Hill, and on one of the _ridges_ before mentioned, is the parish church of Weston, with some pretty white cottages near it, peeping through the orchard and other trees; and coming to the paddock before the house are some of the largest and loftiest trees in the country, standing singly here and there, amongst which is the very largest and loftiest walnut-tree that I believe I ever saw, either in America or in England. In short, there wants nothing but the autumnal _colours_ of the American trees to make this the most beautiful spot I ever beheld.--I was much amused for an hour after daylight this morning in looking at the _clouds_, rising at intervals from the dells on the side of Penyard Hill, and flying to the top, and then over the Hill. Some of the clouds went up in a roundish and compact form. Others rose in a sort of string or stream, the tops of them going over the hill before the bottoms were clear of the place whence they had arisen. Sometimes the clouds gathered themselves together along the top of the hill, and seemed to connect the topmost trees with the sky.----I have been to-day to look at Mr. PALMER'S fine crops of _Swedish Turnips_, which are, in general, called "_Swedes_." These crops having been raised according to _my plan_, I feel, of course, great interest in the matter. The Swedes occupy two fields: one of thirteen, and one of seventeen acres. The main part of the seventeen-acre field was _drilled_, on ridges, four feet apart, a single row on a ridge, at different times, between 16th April and 29th May. An acre and a half of this piece was _transplanted_ on four-feet ridges 30th July. About half an acre across the middle of the field was sown _broad-cast_ 14th April.--In the thirteen-acre field there is about half an acre sown _broad-cast_ on the 1st of June; the rest of the field was _transplanted_; part in the first week of June, part in the last week of June, part from the 12th to 18th July, and the rest (about three acres) from 21st to 23rd July. The drilled Swedes in the seventeen-acre field, contain full 23 tons to the acre; the transplanted ones in _that_ field, 15 tons, and the broad-cast not exceeding 10 tons. Those in the thirteen-acre field which were transplanted before the 21st July, contain 27 if not 30 tons; and the rest of _that_ field about 17 tons to the acre. The broad-cast piece here (half an acre) may contain 7 tons. The shortness of my time will prevent us from ascertaining the weight by actual weighings; but such is the crop, according to the best of my judgment, after a very minute survey of it in every part of each field.--NOW, here is a little short of 800 tons of food, about a fifth part of which consists of _tops_; and, of course, there is about 640 tons of _bulb_. As to the _value_ and _uses_ of this prodigious crop I need say nothing; and as to the time and manner of sowing and raising the plants for transplanting, the act of transplanting, and the after cultivation, Mr. PALMER has followed the directions contained in my "_Year's Residence in America_;" and, indeed, he is forward to acknowledge that he had never thought of this mode of culture, which he has followed now for three years, and which he has found so advantageous, until he read that work, a work which the _Farmer's Journal_ thought proper to treat as a _romance_.--Mr. PALMER has had some _cabbages_ of the large, drum-head kind. He had about three acres, in rows at four feet apart, and at little less than three feet apart in the rows, making _ten thousand_ cabbages on the three acres. He kept ninety-five wethers and ninety-six ewes (large fatting sheep) upon them for _five weeks_ all but two days, ending in the first week of November. The sheep, which are now feeding off yellow turnips in an adjoining part of the same field, come back over the cabbage-ground and _scoop out the stumps_ almost to the ground in many cases. This ground is going to be ploughed for wheat immediately. Cabbages are a very fine _autumn crop_; but it is the _Swedes_ on which you must rely for the spring, and on _housed_ or _stacked_ Swedes too; for they will _rot_ in many of our winters, if left in the ground. I have had them rot myself, and I saw, in March 1820, hundreds of acres rotten in Warwickshire and Northamptonshire. Mr. PALMER greatly prefers the _transplanting_ to the drilling. It has numerous advantages over the drilling; greater regularity of crop, greater certainty, the only _sure_ way of avoiding the _fly_, greater crop, admitting of two months later preparation of land, can come _after vetches_ cut up for horses (as, indeed, a part of Mr. PALMER'S transplanted Swedes did), and requiring less labour and expense. I asserted this in my "_Year's Residence_;" and Mr. PALMER, who has been very particular in ascertaining the fact, states positively that the expense of transplanting is not so great as the hoeing and setting out of the drilled crops, and not so great as the common hoeings of broad-cast. This, I think, settles the question. But the advantages of the wide-row culture by no means confine themselves to the green and root crop; for Mr. PALMER drills his wheat upon the same ridges, without ploughing, after he has taken off the Swedes. He drills it at _eight inches_, and puts in from eight to ten gallons to the acre. His crop of 1820, drilled in this way, averaged 40 bushels to the acre; part drilled in November, and part so late as February. It was the common Lammas wheat. His last crop of wheat is not yet ascertained; but it was better after the Swedes than in any other of his land. His manner of taking off the crop is excellent. He first cuts off and carries away the _tops_. Then he has an implement, drawn by two oxen, walking on each side of the ridge, with which he cuts off the _tap root_ of the Swedes without disturbing the land of the ridge. Any child can then pull up the bulb. Thus the ground, clean as a garden, and in that compact state which the wheat is well known to like, is ready, at once, for drilling with wheat. As to the _uses_ to which he applies the crop, tops as well as bulbs, I must speak of these hereafter, and in a work of a description different from this. I have been thus particular here, because the _Farmer's Journal_ treated my book as a pack of lies. I know that my (for it is _mine_) system of cattle-food husbandry will finally be that of _all England_, as it already is that of America; but what I am doing here is merely in self-defence against the slanders, the malignant slanders, of the _Farmer's Journal_. Where is a _Whig lord_, who, some years ago, wrote to a gentleman that "_he_ would have _nothing to do_ with any _reform_ that _Cobbett_ was engaged in"? But in spite of the brutal _Journal_, farmers are not such fools as this lord was: they will not reject a good crop because they can have it only by acting upon my plan; and this lord will, I imagine, yet see the day when he will be less averse from having to do with a reform in which "Cobbett" shall be engaged. _Old Hall, Saturday night, Nov. 10._ Went to Hereford this morning. It was market-day. My arrival became known, and, I am sure, I cannot tell how. A sort of _buz_ got about. I could perceive here, as I always have elsewhere, very ardent friends and very bitter enemies; but all full of curiosity. One thing could not fail to please me exceedingly: my friends were _gay_ and my enemies _gloomy_: the former smiled, and the latter, in endeavouring to screw their features into a sneer, could get them no further than the half sour and half sad: the former seemed in their looks to say, "Here he is," and the latter to respond, "Yes, G---- d---- him!"--I went into the market-place, amongst the farmers, with whom, in general, I was very much pleased. If I were to live in the county two months, I should be acquainted with every man of them. The country is very fine all the way from Ross to Hereford. The soil is always a red loam upon a bed of stone. The trees are very fine, and certainly winter comes later here than in Middlesex. Some of the oak trees are still perfectly green, and many of the ashes as green as in September.--In coming from Hereford to this place, which is the residence of Mrs. PALMER and that of her two younger sons, Messrs. PHILIP and WALTER PALMER, who, with their brother, had accompanied me to Hereford; in coming to this place, which lies at about two miles distance from the great road, and at about an equal distance from HEREFORD and from Ross, we met with something, the sight of which pleased me exceedingly: it was that of a very pretty pleasant-looking lady (and _young_ too) with two beautiful children, riding in a little sort of chaise-cart, drawn by _an ass_, which she was driving in reins. She appeared to be well known to my friends, who drew up and spoke to her, calling her Mrs. _Lock_, or _Locky_ (I hope it was not _Lockart_), or some such name. Her husband, who is, I suppose, some young farmer of the neighbourhood, may well call himself Mr. _Lucky_; for to have such a wife, and for such a wife to have the good sense to put up with an ass-cart, in order to avoid, as much as possible, feeding those cormorants who gorge on the taxes, is a blessing that falls, I am afraid, to the lot of very few rich farmers. Mrs. _Lock_ (if that be her name) is a real _practical radical_. Others of us resort to radical coffee and radical tea; and she has a radical carriage. This is a very effectual way of assailing the THING, and peculiarly well suited for the practice of the female sex. But the self-denial ought not to be imposed on the wife only: the husband ought to set the example: and let me hope that _Mr. Lock_ does not indulge in the use of wine and spirits while Mrs. Lock and her children ride in a jackass gig; for if he do, he wastes, in this way, the means of keeping her a chariot and pair. If there be to be any expense not absolutely necessary; if there be to be anything bordering on extravagance, surely it ought to be for the pleasure of that part of the family who have the least number of objects of enjoyment; and for a husband to indulge himself in the guzzling of expensive, unnecessary, and really injurious drink, to the tune, perhaps, of 50 or 100 pounds a year, while he preaches economy to his wife, and, with a face as long as my arm, talks of the low price of corn, and wheedles her out of a curricle into a jack-ass cart, is not only unjust but _unmanly_. _Old Hall, Sunday night, 11 Nov._ We have ridden to-day, though in the rain for a great part of the time, over the fine farm of Mr. PHILIP PALMER, at this place, and that of Mr. WALTER PALMER, in the adjoining parish of PENCOYD. Everything here is good, arable land, pastures, orchards, coppices, and timber trees, especially the elms, many scores of which approach nearly to a hundred feet in height. Mr. PHILIP PALMER has four acres of Swedes on four-feet ridges, drilled on the 11th and 14th of May. The plants were very much injured by the _fly_; so much, that it was a question whether the whole piece ought not to be ploughed up. However, the gaps in the rows were filled up by transplanting; and the ground was twice ploughed between the ridges. The crop here is very fine; and I should think that its weight could not be less than 17 tons to the acre.--Of Mr. WALTER PALMER'S Swedes, five acres were drilled, on ridges nearly four feet apart, on the 3rd of June; four acres on the 15th of June; and an acre and a half transplanted (after vetches) on the 15th of August. The weight of the first is about twenty tons to the acre; that of the second not much less; and that of the last even, five or six tons. The first two pieces were mauled to pieces by the _fly_; but the gaps were filled up by transplanting, the ground being digged on the tops of the ridges to receive the plants. So that, perhaps, a third part or more of the crop is due to the _transplanting_. As to the last piece, that transplanted on the 15th of August, after vetches, it is clear that there could have been no crop without transplanting; and, after all, the crop is by no means a bad one.--It is clear enough to me that this system will finally prevail all over England. The "loyal," indeed, may be afraid to adopt it, lest it should contain something of "radicalism." Sap-headed fools! They will find something to do, I believe, soon, besides railing against _radicals_. We will din "_radical_" and "_national faith_" in their ears, till they shall dread the din as much as a dog does the sound of the bell that is tied to the whip. _Bollitree, Monday, 12 Nov._ Returned this morning and rode about the farm, and also about that of Mr. WINNAL, where I saw, for the first time, a plough going _without being held_. The man drove the three horses that drew the plough, and carried the plough round at the ends; but left it to itself the rest of the time. There was a skim coulter that turned the sward in under the furrow; and the work was done very neatly. This gentleman has six acres of _cabbages_, on ridges four feet apart, with a distance of thirty inches between the plants on the ridge. He has weighed one of what he deemed an average weight, and found it to weigh fifteen pounds without the stump. Now, as there are 4,320 upon an acre, the weight of the acres is _thirty tons_ all but 400 pounds! This is a prodigious crop, and it is peculiarly well suited for food for sheep at this season of the year. Indeed it is good for any farm-stock, oxen, cows, pigs: all like these loaved cabbages. For hogs in yard, after the stubbles are gone; and before the tops of the Swedes come in. What masses of manure may be created by this means! But, above all things, for _sheep_ to feed off upon the ground. Common turnips have not half the substance in them weight for weight. Then they are in the ground; they are _dirty_, and in wet weather the sheep must starve, or eat a great deal of dirt. This very day, for instance, what a sorry sight is a flock of fatting sheep upon turnips; what a mess of dirt and stubble! The cabbage stands boldly up above the ground, and the sheep eats it all up without treading a morsel in the dirt. Mr. WINNAL has a large flock of sheep feeding on his cabbages, which they will have finished, perhaps, by January. This gentleman also has some "_radical Swedes_," as they call them in Norfolk. A part of his crop is on ridges _five_ feet apart with _two rows_ on the ridge, a part on _four_ feet ridges with _one_ row on the ridge. I cannot see that anything is gained in weight by the double rows. I think that there may be nearly twenty tons to the acre. Another piece Mr. WINNAL transplanted after vetches. They are very fine; and, altogether, he has a crop that any one but a "_loyal_" farmer might envy him.--This is really the _radical_ system of husbandry. _Radical_ means, _belonging to the root; going to the root_. And the main principle of this system (first taught by _Tull_) is that the _root_ of the plant is to be fed by _deep tillage_ while it is growing; and to do this we must have our _wide distances_. Our system of husbandry is happily illustrative of our system of politics. Our lines of movement are fair and straightforward. We destroy all weeds, which, like tax-eaters, do nothing but devour the sustenance that ought to feed the valuable plants. Our plants are all _well fed_; and our nations of Swedes and of cabbages present a happy uniformity of enjoyments and of bulk, and not, as in the broad-cast system of Corruption, here and there one of enormous size, surrounded by thousands of poor little starveling things, scarcely distinguishable by the keenest eye, or, if seen, seen only to inspire a contempt of the husbandman. The Norfolk boys are, therefore, right in calling their Swedes _Radical Swedes_. _Bollitree, Tuesday, 13 Nov._ Rode to-day to see a _grove_ belonging to Mrs. WESTPHALIN, which contains the very finest trees, _oaks_, _chestnuts_, and _ashes_, that I ever saw in England. This grove is worth going from London to Weston to see. The Lady, who is very much beloved in her neighbourhood, is, apparently, of the _old school_; and her house and gardens, situated in a beautiful dell, form, I think, the most comfortable looking thing of the kind that I ever saw. If she had known that I was in her grove, I dare say she would have expected it to blaze up in flames; or, at least, that I was come to view the premises previous to confiscation! I can forgive persons like her; but I cannot forgive the Parsons and others who have misled them! Mrs. WESTPHALIN, if she live many years, will find that the best friends of the owners of the land are those who have endeavoured to produce such _a reform of the Parliament_ as would have prevented the ruin of tenants.--This parish of WESTON is remarkable for having a Rector _who has constantly resided for twenty years_! I do not believe that there is an instance to match this in the whole kingdom. However, the "_reverend_" gentleman may be assured that, before many years have passed over their heads, they will be very glad to reside in their parsonage houses. _Bollitree, Wednesday, 14 Nov._ Rode to the forest of Dean, up a very steep hill. The lanes here are between high banks, and on the sides of the hills the road is a rock, the water having long ago washed all the earth away. Pretty works are, I find, carried on here, as is the case in all the other _public forests_! Are these things _always_ to be carried on in this way? Here is a domain of thirty thousand acres of the finest timber-land in the world, and with coal-mines endless! Is this _worth nothing_? Cannot each acre yield ten trees a year? Are not these trees worth a pound apiece? Is not the estate worth three or four hundred thousand pounds a year? And does it yield _anything to the public_, to whom it belongs? But it is useless to waste one's breath in this way. We must have a _reform of the Parliament_: without it the whole thing will fall to pieces.--The only good purpose that these forests answer is that of furnishing a place of being to labourers' families on their skirts; and here their cottages are very neat, and the people look hearty and well, just as they do round the forests in Hampshire. Every cottage has a pig or two. These graze in the forest, and, in the fall, eat acorns and beech-nuts and the seed of the ash; for these last, as well as the others, are very full of oil, and a pig that is put to his shifts will pick the seed very nicely out from the husks. Some of these foresters keep cows, and all of them have bits of ground, cribbed, of course, at different times, from the forest: and to what better use can the ground be put? I saw several wheat stubbles from 40 rods to 10 rods. I asked one man how much wheat he had from about 10 rods. He said more than two bushels. Here is bread for three weeks, or more perhaps; and a winter's straw for the pig besides. Are these things nothing? The dead limbs and old roots of the forest give _fuel_; and how happy are these people, compared with the poor creatures about Great Bedwin and Cricklade, where they have neither land nor shelter, and where I saw the girls carrying home bean and wheat stubble for fuel! Those countries, always but badly furnished with fuel, the desolating and damnable system of paper-money, by sweeping away small homesteads, and laying ten farms into one, has literally _stripped_ of all shelter for the labourer. A farmer, in such cases, has a whole domain in his hands, and this not only to the manifest injury of the public at large, but in _open violation of positive law_. The poor forger is hanged; but where is the prosecutor of the monopolizing farmer, though the _law_ is as clear in the one case as in the other? But it required this infernal system to render every wholesome regulation nugatory; and to reduce to such abject misery a people famed in all ages for the goodness of their food and their dress. There is one farmer, in the North of Hampshire, who has nearly eight thousand acres of land in his hands; who grows fourteen hundred acres of wheat and two thousand acres of barley! He occupies what was formerly 40 farms! Is it any wonder that _paupers increase_? And is there not here cause enough for the increase of _poor_, without resorting to the doctrine of the barbarous and impious MALTHUS and his assistants, the _feelosofers_ of the Edinburgh Review, those eulogists and understrappers of the Whig-Oligarchy? "This farmer has done nothing _unlawful_," some one will say. I say he has; for there is a law to forbid him thus to monopolize land. But no matter; the laws, the management of the affairs of a nation, _ought to be such as to prevent the existence of the temptation to such monopoly_. And, even now, the evil ought to be remedied, and could be remedied, in the space of half a dozen years. The disappearance of the paper-money would do the thing in time; but this might be assisted by legislative measures.--In returning from the forest we were overtaken by my son, whom I had begged to come from London to see this beautiful country. On the road-side we saw two lazy-looking fellows, in long great-coats and bundles in their hands, going into a cottage. "What do you deal in?" said I, to one of them, who had not yet entered the house. "In the _medical way_," said he. And I find that vagabonds of this description are seen all over the country with _tea-licences_ in their pockets. They vend _tea_, _drugs_, and _religious tracts_. The first to bring the body into a debilitated state; the second to finish the corporeal part of the business; and the third to prepare the spirit for its separation from the clay! Never was a system so well calculated as the present to degrade, debase, and enslave a people! Law, and as if that were not sufficient, enormous subscriptions are made; everything that can be done is done to favour these perambulatory impostors in their depredations on the ignorant, while everything that can be done is done to prevent them from reading, or from hearing of, anything that has a tendency to give them rational notions, or to better their lot. However, all is not buried in ignorance. Down the deep and beautiful valley between Penyard Hill and the Hills on the side of the Forest of Dean, there runs a stream of water. On that stream of water there is a _paper-mill_. In that paper-mill there is a set of workmen. That set of workmen do, I am told, _take the Register_, and have taken it for years! It was to these good and sensible men, it is supposed, that the _ringing of the bells_ of Weston church, upon my arrival, was to be ascribed; for nobody that I visited had any knowledge of the cause. What a subject for lamentation with corrupt hypocrites! That even on this secluded spot there should be a leaven of common-sense! No: _all_ is not enveloped in brute ignorance yet, in spite of every artifice that hellish Corruption has been able to employ; in spite of all her menaces and all her brutalities and cruelties. _Old Hall, Thursday, 15 Nov._ We came this morning from Bollitree to _Ross-Market_, and, thence, to this place. Ross is an old-fashioned town; but it is very beautifully situated, and if there is little of _finery_ in the appearance of the inhabitants, there is also little of _misery_. It is a good, plain country town, or settlement of tradesmen, whose business is that of supplying the wants of the cultivators of the soil. It presents to us nothing of rascality and roguishness of look which you see on almost every visage in the _borough-towns_, not excepting the visages of the women. I can tell a borough-town from another upon my entrance into it by the nasty, cunning, leering, designing look of the people; a look between that of a bad (for _some_ are good) Methodist Parson and that of a pickpocket. I remember, and I never shall forget, the horrid looks of the villains in Devonshire and Cornwall. Some people say, "O, _poor fellows_! It is not _their_ fault." No? Whose fault is it, then? The miscreants who bribe them? True, that these deserve the halter (and some of them may have it yet); but are not the takers of the bribes _equally_ guilty? If we be so very lenient here, pray let us ascribe to the _Devil_ all the acts of thieves and robbers: so we do; but we _hang_ the thieves and robbers, nevertheless. It is no very unprovoking reflection, that from these sinks of atrocious villany come a very considerable part of the men to fill places of emolument and trust. What a clog upon a Minister to have people, bred in such scenes, forced upon him! And why does this curse continue? However, its natural consequences are before us; and are coming on pretty fast upon each other's heels. There are the landlords and farmers in a state of absolute ruin: there is the Debt, pulling the nation down like as a stone pulls a dog under water. The system seems to have fairly wound itself up; to have tied itself hand and foot with cords of its own spinning!--This is the town to which POPE has given an interest in our minds by his eulogium on the "_Man of Ross_," a portrait of whom is hanging up in a house in which I now am.--The market at Ross was very _dull_. No wheat in demand. No buyers. It must _come down_. Lord Liverpool's _remedy_, a bad harvest, has assuredly failed. Fowls 2_s._ a couple; a goose from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 3_s._; a turkey from 3_s._ to 3_s._ 6_d._ Let a turkey come down to _a shilling_, as in France, and then we shall soon be to rights. _Friday, 16 Nov._ A whole day most delightfully passed a hare-hunting, with a pretty pack of hounds kept here by Messrs. Palmer. They put me upon a horse that seemed to have been made on purpose for me, strong, tall, gentle and bold; and that carried me either over or through everything. I, who am just the weight of a four-bushel sack of good wheat, actually sat on his back from daylight in the morning to dusk (about nine hours) without once setting my foot on the ground. Our ground was at Orcop, a place about four miles' distance from this place. We found a hare in a few minutes after throwing off; and in the course of the day we had to find four, and were never more than ten minutes in finding. A steep and naked ridge, lying between two flat valleys, having a mixture of pretty large fields and small woods, formed our ground. The hares crossed the ridge forward and backward, and gave us numerous views and very fine sport.--I never rode on such steep ground before; and really, in going up and down some of the craggy places, where the rains had washed the earth from the rocks, I did think, once or twice, of my neck, and how Sidmouth would like to see me.--As to the _cruelty_, as some pretend, of this sport, that point I have, I think, settled in one of the Chapters of my "_Year's Residence in America_." As to the expense, a pack, even a full pack of harriers, like this, costs less than two bottles of wine a day with their inseparable concomitants. And as to the _time_ thus spent, hunting is inseparable from _early rising_: and with habits of early rising, who ever wanted time for any business? _Oxford, Saturday, 17 Nov._ We left OLD HALL (where we always breakfasted by candle-light) this morning after breakfast; returned to Bollitree; took the Hereford coach as it passed about noon; and came in it through Gloucester, Cheltenham, Northleach, Burford, Whitney, and on to this city, where we arrived about ten o'clock. I could not leave _Herefordshire_ without bringing with me the most pleasing impressions. It is not for one to descend to particulars in characterising one's personal friends; and, therefore, I will content myself with saying, that the treatment I met with in this beautiful county, where I saw not one single face that I had, to my knowledge, ever seen before, was much more than sufficient to compensate to me, personally, for all the atrocious calumnies, which, for twenty years, I have had to endure; but where is my country, a great part of the present hideous sufferings of which will, by every reflecting mind, be easily traced to these calumnies, which have been made the ground, or pretext, for rejecting that counsel by listening to which those sufferings would have been prevented; where is my country to find a compensation?----At _Gloucester_ (as there were no meals on the road) we furnished ourselves with nuts and apples, which, first a handful of nuts and then an apple, are, I can assure the reader, excellent and most wholesome fare. They say that nuts of all sorts are unwholesome; if they had been, I should never have written Registers, and if they were now, I should have ceased to write ere this; for, upon an average, I have eaten a pint a day since I left home. In short, I could be very well content to live on nuts, milk, and home-baked bread.----From _Gloucester_ to _Cheltenham_ the country is level, and the land rich and good. The fields along here are ploughed in ridges about 20 feet wide, and the angle of this species of _roof_ is pretty nearly as sharp as that of some slated roofs of houses. There is no wet under; it is the top wet only that they aim at keeping from doing mischief.--_Cheltenham_ is a nasty, ill-looking place, half clown and half cockney. The town is one street about a mile long; but, then, at some distance from this street, there are rows of white tenements, with green balconies, like those inhabited by the tax-eaters round London. Indeed, this place appears to be the residence of an assemblage of tax-eaters. These vermin shift about between London, Cheltenham, Bath, Bognor, Brighton, Tunbridge, Ramsgate, Margate, Worthing, and other spots in England, while some of them get over to France and Italy: just like those body-vermin of different sorts that are found in different parts of the tormented carcass at different hours of the day and night, and in different degrees of heat and cold. Cheltenham is at the foot of a part of that chain of hills which form the sides of that _dish_ which I described as resembling the vale of Gloucester. Soon after quitting this resort of the lame and the lazy, the gormandizing and guzzling, the bilious and the nervous, we proceeded on, between stone walls, over a country little better than that from Cirencester to Burlip-hill.----A very poor, dull, and uninteresting country all the way to Oxford. _Burghclere (Hants), Sunday, 18 Nov._ We left Oxford early, and went on, through _Abingdon_ (Berks) to _Market-Ilsley_. It is a saying, hereabouts, that at Oxford they make the living pay for the dead, which is precisely according to the Pitt-System. Having smarted on this account, we were afraid to eat again at an Inn; so we pushed on through Ilsley towards Newbury, breakfasting upon the residue of the nuts, aided by a new supply of apples bought from a poor man, who exhibited them in his window. Inspired, like Don Quixote, by the _sight of the nuts_, and recollecting the last night's bill, I exclaimed: "Happy! thrice happy and blessed, that golden age, when men lived on the simple fruits of the earth and slaked their thirst at the pure and limpid brook! when the trees shed their leaves to form a couch for their repose, and cast their bark to furnish them with a canopy! Happy age; when no Oxford landlord charged two men, who had dropped into a common coach-passenger room, and who had swallowed three pennyworths of food, 'four shillings for _teas_,' and 'eighteen pence for _cold meat_,' 'two shillings for _moulds and fire_' in this common coach-room, and 'five shillings for _beds_!'" This was a sort of grace before meat to the nuts and apples; and it had much more merit than the harangue of Don Quixote; for he, before he began upon the nuts, had stuffed himself well with goat's flesh and wine, whereas we had absolutely _fled_ from the breakfast-table and blazing fire at Oxford.--Upon beholding the masses of buildings at Oxford devoted to what they call "_learning_," I could not help reflecting on the drones that they contain and the wasps they send forth! However, malignant as some are, the great and prevalent characteristic is _folly_: emptiness of head; want of talent; and one half of the fellows who are what they call _educated_ here, are unfit to be clerks in a grocer's or mercer's shop.--As I looked up at what they call _University Hall_, I could not help reflecting that what I had written, even since I left Kensington on the 29th of October, would produce more effect, and do more good in the world, than all that had for a hundred years been written by all the members of this University, who devour, perhaps, not less than _a million pounds a year_, arising from property, completely at the disposal of the "Great Council of the Nation;" and I could not help exclaiming to myself: "Stand forth, ye big-wigged, ye gloriously feeding Doctors! Stand forth, ye _rich_ of that church whose _poor_ have had given them _a hundred thousand pounds a year_, not out of your riches, but out of the _taxes_, raised, in part, from the _salt_ of the labouring man! Stand forth and face me, who have, from the pen of my leisure hours, sent, amongst your flocks, a hundred thousand sermons in ten months! More than you have all done for the last half century!"--I exclaimed in vain. I dare say (for it was at peep of day) that not a man of them had yet endeavoured to unclose his eyes.--In coming thro' Abingdon (Berks) I could not help thinking of that great financier, Mr. John Maberly, by whom this place has, I believe, the honour to be represented in the Collective Wisdom of the Nation.--In the way to Ilsley we came across a part of that fine tract of land, called the _Vale of Berkshire_, where they grow _wheat_ and _beans_, one after another, for many years together. About three miles before we reached Ilsley we came to _downs_, with, as is always the case, chalk under. Between Ilsley and Newbury the country is enclosed; the land middling, a stony loam; the woods and coppices frequent, and neither very good, till we came within a short distance of Newbury. In going along we saw a piece of wheat with cabbage-leaves laid all over it at the distance, perhaps, of eight or ten feet from each other. It was to catch the _slugs_. The slugs, which commit their depredations in the _night_, creep under the leaves in the morning, and by turning up the leaves you come at the slugs, and crush them, or carry them away. But besides the immense daily labour attending this, the slug, in a field sowed with wheat, has a _clod_ to creep under at every foot, and will not go five feet to get under a cabbage-leaf. Then again, if the day be _wet_, the slug works by day as well as by night. It is the sun and drought that he shuns, and not the light. Therefore the only effectual way to destroy slugs is to sow lime, in dust, and _not slaked_. The slug is wet, he has hardly any skin, his _slime_ is his covering; the smallest dust of hot lime kills him; and a few bushels to the acre are sufficient. You must sow the lime at _dusk_; for then the slugs are sure to be out. Slugs come after a crop that has long afforded a great deal of shelter from the sun; such as peas and vetches. In gardens they are nursed up by strawberry beds and by weeds, by asparagus beds, or by anything that remains for a long time to keep the summer-sun from the earth. We got about three o'clock to this nice, snug little farmhouse, and found our host, Mr. Budd, at home. _Burghclere, Monday, 19 Nov._ A thorough wet day, the only day the greater part of which I have not spent out of doors since I left home. _Burghclere, Tuesday, 20 Nov._ With Mr. Budd, we rode to-day to see the _Farm of Tull_, at _Shalborne_, in Berkshire. Mr. Budd did the same thing with Arthur Young twenty-seven years ago. It was a sort of _pilgrimage_; but as the distance was ten miles, we thought it best to perform it on horseback.--We passed through the parish of _Highclere_, where they have _enclosed commons_, worth, as tillage land, not one single farthing an acre, and never will and never can be. As a common it afforded a little picking for geese and asses, and in the moory parts of it, a little fuel for the labourers. But now it really can afford nothing. It will all fall to common again by degrees. This madness, this blind eagerness to gain, is now, I hope, pretty nearly over.--At _East Woody_ we passed the house of a Mr. Goddard, which is uninhabited, he residing at Bath.--At _West Woody_ (Berks) is the estate of Mr. Sloper, a very pretty place. A beautiful sporting country. Large fields, small woods, dry soil. What has taken place here is an instance of the workings of the system. Here is a large gentleman's house. But the proprietor _lets it_ (it is, just now, empty), and resides in a _farmhouse_ and farms his own estate. Happy is the landlord who has the good sense to do this in time. This is a fine farm, and here appears to be very judicious farming. Large tracts of turnips; clean land; stubbles ploughed up early; ploughing with oxen; and a very large and singularly fine flock of sheep. Everything that you see, land, stock, implements, fences, buildings; all do credit to the owner; bespeak his sound judgment, his industry and care. All that is wanted here is the _radical husbandry_; because that would enable the owner to keep three times the quantity of stock. However, since I left home, I have seen but very few farms that I should prefer to that of Mr. Sloper, whom I have not the pleasure to know, and whom, indeed, I never heard of till I saw his farm. At a village (certainly named by some _author_) called _Inkpen_, we passed a neat little house and paddock, the residence of a Mr. Butler, a nephew of Dr. Butler, who died Bishop of Oxford, and whom I can remember hearing preach at Farnham in Surrey when I was a very very little boy. I have his features and his wig as clearly in my recollection as if I had seen them but yesterday; and I dare say I have not thought of Doctor Butler for forty years before to-day. The "loyal" (oh, the pious gang!) will say that my memory is good as to the face and wig, but bad as to the Doctor's _Sermons_. Why, I must confess that I have no recollection of them; but, then, do I not _make Sermons myself_?----At about two miles from Inkpen we came to the end of our pilgrimage. The farm, which was Mr. _Tull's_; where he used the first drill that ever was used; where he practised his husbandry; where he wrote that book, which does so much honour to his memory, and to which the cultivators of England owe so much; this farm is on an open and somewhat bleak spot in Berkshire, on the borders of Wiltshire, and within a very short distance of a part of Hampshire. The ground is a loam, mixed with flints, and has the chalk at no great distance beneath it. It is, therefore, free from _wet_; needs no water furrows; and is pretty good in its nature. The house, which has been improved by Mr. Blandy, the present proprietor, is still but a plain farmhouse. Mr. Blandy has lived here thirty years, and has brought up ten children to man's and woman's estate. Mr. Blandy was from home, but Mrs. Blandy received and entertained us in a very hospitable manner.--We returned, not along the low land, but along the top of the downs, and through Lord Caernarvon's park, and got home after a very pleasant day. _Burghclere, Wednesday, 21 Nov._ We intended to have a hunt; but the foxhounds came across and rendered it impracticable. As an instance of the change which rural customs have undergone since the hellish paper-system has been so furiously at work, I need only mention the fact, that, forty years ago, there were _five_ packs of _foxhounds_ and _ten_ packs of _harriers_ kept within _ten miles_ of Newbury; and that now there is _one_ of the former (kept, too, by _subscription_) and _none_ of the latter, except the few couple of dogs kept by Mr. Budd! "So much the better," says the shallow fool, who cannot duly estimate the difference between a resident _native_ gentry, attached to the soil, known to every farmer and labourer from their childhood, frequently mixing with them in those pursuits where all artificial distinctions are lost, practicing hospitality without ceremony, from habit and not on calculation; and a gentry, only now-and-then residing at all, having no relish for country-delights, foreign in their manners, distant and haughty in their behaviour, looking to the soil only for its rents, viewing it as a mere object of speculation, unacquainted with its cultivators, despising them and their pursuits, and relying for influence, not upon the good will of the vicinage, but upon the dread of their power. The war and paper-system has brought in nabobs, negro-drivers, generals, admirals, governors, commissaries, contractors, pensioners, sinecurists, commissioners, loan-jobbers, lottery-dealers, bankers, stock-jobbers; not to mention the long and _black list_ in gowns and three-tailed wigs. You can see but few good houses not in possession of one or the other of these. These, with the Parsons, are now the magistrates. Some of the _consequences_ are before us; but they have not all yet arrived. A taxation that sucks up fifty millions a year _must_ produce a new set of proprietors every twenty years or less; and the proprietors, while they last, can be little better than tax-collectors to the government, and scourgers of the people.--I must not quit _Burghclere_ without noticing Mr. Budd's _radical_ Swedes and other things. His is but miniature farming; but it is very good, and very interesting. Some time in May, he drilled a piece of Swedes on four feet ridges. The fly took them off. He had cabbage and mangel-wurzel plants to put in their stead. Unwilling to turn back the ridges, and thereby bring the dung to the top, he planted the cabbages and mangel-wurzel on the ridges where the Swedes had been drilled. This was done in June. Late in July, his neighbour, a farmer Hulbert, had a field of Swedes that he was hoeing. Mr. Budd now put some manure in the furrows between the ridges, and ploughed a furrow over it from each ridge. On this he planted Swedes, taken from farmer Hulbert's field. Thus his plantation consisted of rows of plants _two feet apart_. The result is a prodigious crop. Of the mangel-wurzel (greens and all) he has not less than twenty tons to the acre. He can scarcely have less of the cabbages, some of which are _green savoys_ as fine as I ever saw. And of the Swedes, many of which weigh from five to nine pounds, he certainly has more than twenty tons to the acre. So that here is a crop of, at the very least, _forty tons to the acre_. This piece is not much more than half an acre; but he will, perhaps, not find so much cattle food upon any four acres in the county. He is, and long has been, feeding four milch cows, large, fine, and in fine condition, upon cabbages sometimes, and sometimes on mangel-wurzel leaves. The butter is excellent. Not the smallest degree of bitterness or bad taste of any sort. Fine colour and fine taste. And here, upon not three quarters of an acre of ground, he has, if he manage the thing well, enough food for these four cows to the month of May! Can any system of husbandry equal this? What would he do with these cows, if he had not this crop? He could not keep one of them, except on hay. And he owes all this crop to transplanting. He thinks that the transplanting, fetching the Swede plants and all, might cost him ten or twelve shillings. It was done by women, who had never done such a thing before.----However, he must get in his crop before the hard weather comes; or my Lord Caernarvon's hares will help him. They have begun already; and it is curious that they have begun on the mangel-wurzel roots. So that hares, at any rate, have set the seal of merit upon this root. _Whitchurch, Thursday (night), 22 Nov._ We have come round here, instead of going by Newbury in consequence of a promise to Mr. BLOUNT at Uphusband, that I would call on him on my return. We left Uphusband by lamp-light, and, of course, we could see little on our way. _Kensington, Friday, 23 Nov._ Got home by the coach. At leaving Whitchurch we soon passed the mill where the Mother-Bank paper is made! Thank God, this mill is likely soon to want employment! Hard by is a pretty park and house, belonging to "_'Squire_" Portal, the _paper-maker_. The country people, who seldom want for sarcastic shrewdness, call it "_Rag Hall_"!--I perceive that they are planting oaks on the "_wastes_," as the _Agriculturasses_ call them, about _Hartley Row_; which is very good; because the herbage, after the first year, is rather increased than diminished by the operation; while, in time, the oaks arrive at a timber state, and add to the beauty and to the _real wealth_ of the country, and to the real and solid wealth of the descendants of the planter, who, in every such case, merits unequivocal praise, because he plants for his children's children.--The planter here is LADY MILDMAY, who is, it seems, Lady of the Manors about here. It is impossible to praise this act of hers too much, especially when one considers her _age_. I beg a thousand pardons! I do not mean to say that her Ladyship is _old_; but she has long had grand-children. If her Ladyship had been a reader of old dread-death and dread-devil Johnson, that teacher of moping and melancholy, she never would have planted an oak tree. If the writings of this time-serving, mean, dastardly old pensioner had got a firm hold of the minds of the people at large, the people would have been bereft of their very souls. These writings, aided by the charm of pompous sound, were fast making their way, till light, reason, and the French revolution came to drive them into oblivion; or, at least, to confine them to the shelves of repentant, married old rakes, and those of old stock-jobbers with young wives standing in need of something to keep down the unruly ebullitions which are apt to take place while the "dearies" are gone hobbling to 'Change.----"After _pleasure_ comes _pain_," says Solomon; and after the sight of Lady Mildmay's truly noble plantations, came that of the clouts of the "gentlemen cadets" of the "_Royal Military College of Sandhurst_!" Here, close by the road side, is the _drying-ground_. Sheets, shirts, and all sorts of things were here spread upon lines, covering, perhaps, an acre of ground! We soon afterwards came to "_York_ Place" on "_Osnaburg_ Hill." And is there never to be an _end_ of these things? Away to the left, we see that immense building, which contains children _breeding up to be military commanders_! Has this plan cost so little as two millions of pounds? I never see this place (and I have seen it forty times during the last twenty years) without asking myself this question: Will this thing be suffered to go on; will this thing, created by money _raised by loan_; will this thing be upheld by means of taxes, _while the interest of the Debt is reduced_, on the ground that the nation is _unable to pay the interest in full_?--Answer that question, Castlereagh, Sidmouth, Brougham, or Scarlett. KENTISH JOURNAL: FROM KENSINGTON TO DARTFORD, ROCHESTER, CHATHAM, AND FAVERSHAM. _Tuesday, December 4, 1821, Elverton Farm, near Faversham, Kent._ This is the first time, since I went to France, in 1792, that I have been on this side of _Shooters' Hill_. The land, generally speaking, from Deptford to Dartford is poor, and the surface ugly by nature, to which ugliness there has been made, just before we came to the latter place, a considerable addition by the enclosure of a common, and by the sticking up of some shabby-genteel houses, surrounded with dead fences and things called gardens, in all manner of ridiculous forms, making, all together, the bricks, hurdle-rods and earth say, as plainly as they can speak, "Here dwell _vanity_ and _poverty_." This is a little excrescence that has grown out of the immense sums which have been drawn from other parts of the kingdom to be expended on Barracks, Magazines, Martello-Towers, Catamarans, and all the excuses for lavish expenditure which the war for the Bourbons gave rise to. All things will return; these rubbishy flimsy things, on this common, will first be deserted, then crumble down, then be swept away, and the cattle, sheep, pigs and geese will once more graze upon the common, which will again furnish heath, furze and turf for the labourers on the neighbouring lands.--After you leave Dartford the land becomes excellent. You come to a bottom of chalk, many feet from the surface, and when that is the case the land is sure to be good; no _wet_ at bottom, no deep ditches, no water furrows necessary; sufficiently moist in dry weather, and no water lying about upon it in wet weather for any length of time. The chalk acts as a filtering-stone, not as a sieve, like gravel, and not as a dish, like clay. The chalk acts as the soft stone in Herefordshire does; but it is not so congenial to trees that have tap-roots.--Along through Gravesend towards Rochester the country presents a sort of gardening scene. Rochester (the Bishop of which is, or lately was, _tax Collector for London and Middlesex_) is a small but crowded place, lying on the south bank of the beautiful Medway, with a rising ground on the other side of the city. _Stroud_, which you pass through before you come to the bridge, over which you go to enter Rochester; _Rochester_ itself, and _Chatham_, form, in fact, one main street of about two miles and a half in length.--Here I was got into the scenes of my cap-and-feather days! Here, at between sixteen and seventeen, I enlisted for a soldier. Upon looking up towards the fortifications and the barracks, how many recollections crowded into my mind! The girls in these towns do not seem to be _so pretty_ as they were thirty-eight years ago; or, am I not so quick in discovering beauties as I was then? Have thirty-eight years corrected my taste, or made me a hypercritic in these matters? Is it that I now look at them with the solemnness of a "professional man," and not with the enthusiasm and eagerness of an "amateur?" I leave these questions for philosophers to solve. One thing I will say for the young women of these towns, and that is, that I always found those of them that I had the great happiness to be acquainted with, evince a sincere desire to do their best to smooth the inequalities of life, and to give us, "brave fellows," as often as they could, strong beer, when their churlish masters of fathers or husbands would have drenched us to death with small. This, at the out-set of life, gave me a high opinion of the judgment and justice of the female sex; an opinion which has been confirmed by the observations of my whole life.--This Chatham has had some monstrous _wens_ stuck on to it by the lavish expenditure of the war. These will moulder away. It is curious enough that I should meet with a gentleman in an inn at Chatham to give me a picture of the house-distress in that enormous wen, which, during the war, was stuck on to Portsmouth. Not less than fifty thousand people had been drawn together there! These are now dispersing. The coagulated blood is diluting and flowing back through the veins. Whole streets are deserted, and the eyes of the houses knocked out by the boys that remain. The jackdaws, as much as to say, "Our turn to be inspired and to teach is come," are beginning to take possession of the Methodist chapels. The gentleman told me that he had been down to Portsea to sell half a street of houses, left him by a relation; and that nobody would give him anything for them further than as very cheap fuel and rubbish! Good God! And is this "prosperity?" Is this the "prosperity of the war?" Have I not, for twenty long years, been regretting the existence of these unnatural embossments; these white-swellings, these odious wens, produced by _Corruption_ and engendering crime and misery and slavery? We shall see the whole of these wens abandoned by the inhabitants, and, at last, the cannons on the fortifications may be of some use in battering down the buildings.--But what is to be the fate of the great wen of all? The monster called, by the silly coxcombs of the press, "the metropolis of the empire"? What is to become of that multitude of towns that has been stuck up around it? The village of Kingston was smothered in the town of Portsea; and why? Because taxes, drained from other parts of the kingdom, were brought thither. The dispersion of the wen is the only real difficulty that I see in settling the affairs of the nation and restoring it to a happy state. But dispersed it _must_ be; and if there be half a million, or more, of people to suffer, the consolation is, that the suffering will be divided into half a million of parts. As if the swelling out of London, naturally produced by the Funding System, were not sufficient; as if the evil were not sufficiently great from the inevitable tendency of the system of loans and funds, our pretty gentlemen must resort to positive institutions to augment the population of the Wen. They found that the increase of the Wen produced an increase of thieves and prostitutes, an increase of all sorts of diseases, an increase of miseries of all sorts; they saw that taxes drawn up to one point produced these effects; they must have a "_penitentiary_," for instance, to check the evil, and that they must needs have in the Wen! So that here were a million of pounds, drawn up in taxes, employed not only to keep the thieves and prostitutes still in the _Wen_, but to bring up to the Wen workmen to build the penitentiary, who and whose families, amounting, perhaps, to thousands, make an addition to the cause of that crime and misery, to check which is the object of the Penitentiary! People would follow, they must follow, the million of money. However, this is of a piece with all the rest of their goings on. They and their predecessors, Ministers and _House_, have been collecting together all the materials for a dreadful explosion; and if the explosion be not dreadful, other heads must point out the means of prevention. _Wednesday, 5 Dec._ The land on quitting Chatham is chalk at bottom; but before you reach Sittingbourne there is a vein of gravel and sand under, but a great depth of loam above. About Sittingbourne the chalk bottom comes again, and continues on to this place, where the land appears to me to be as good as it can possibly be. Mr. WILLIAM WALLER, at whose house I am, has grown, this year, Mangel-Wurzel, the roots of which weigh, I think, on an average, twelve pounds, and in rows, too, at only about thirty inches distant from each other. In short, as far as _soil_ goes, it is impossible to see a finer country than this. You frequently see a field of fifty acres, level as a die, clean as a garden and as rich. Mr. _Birkbeck_ need not have crossed the Atlantic, and Alleghany into the bargain, to look for land _too rich to bear wheat_; for here is a plenty of it. In short, this is a country of hop-gardens, cherry, apple, pear and filbert orchards, and quick-set hedges. But, alas! what, in point of _beauty_, is a country without woods and lofty trees! And here there are very few indeed. I am now sitting in a room, from the window of which I look, _first_, over a large and level field of rich land, in which the drilled wheat is finely come up, and which is surrounded by clipped quickset hedges with a row of apple trees running by the sides of them; _next_, over a long succession of rich meadows, which are here called marshes, the shortest grass upon which will fatten sheep or oxen; _next_, over a little branch of the salt water which runs up to Faversham; _beyond that_, on the Isle of Shepry (or Shepway), which rises a little into a sort of ridge that runs along it; rich fields, pastures and orchards lie all around me; and yet, I declare, that I a million times to one prefer, as a spot to _live on_, the heaths, the miry coppices, the wild woods and the forests of Sussex and Hampshire. _Thursday, 6 Dec._ "Agricultural distress" is the great topic of general conversation. The _Webb Hallites_ seem to prevail here. The fact is, farmers in general read nothing but the newspapers; these, in the Wen, are under the control of the Corruption of one or the other of the factions; and in the country, nine times out of ten, under the control of the parsons and landlords, who are the magistrates, as they are pompously called, that is to say, Justices of the Peace. From such vehicles what are farmers to learn? They are, in general, thoughtful and sensible men; but their natural good sense is perverted by these publications, had it not been for which we never should have seen "_a sudden transition from war to peace_" lasting seven years, and more _sudden_ in its destructive effects at last than at first. _Sir Edward Knatchbull_ and _Mr. Honeywood_ are the members of the "Collective Wisdom" for this county. The former was, till of late, a _Tax-Collector_. I hear that he is a great advocate for _corn-bills_! I suppose he does not wish to let people who have _leases_ see the bottom of the evil. He may get his rents for this year; but it will be his last year, if the interest of the Debt be not very greatly reduced. Some people here think that corn is _smuggled in_ even now! Perhaps it is, _upon the whole_, best that the delusion should continue for a year longer; as that would tend to make the destruction of the system more sure, or, at least, make the cure more radical. _Friday, 7 Dec._ I went through _Faversham_. A very pretty little town, and just ten minutes' walk from the market-place up to the Dover turnpike-road. Here are the _powder-affairs_ that Mr. HUME so well exposed. An immensity of buildings and expensive things. Why are not these premises let or sold? However, this will never be done until there be a _reformed Parliament_. Pretty little VAN, that beauty of all beauties; that orator of all orators; that saint of all saints; that financier of all financiers, said that if Mr. HUME were to pare down the expenses of government to _his_ wish, there would be others "the Hunts, Cobbetts, and Carliles, who would still want the expense to be less." I do not know _how low_ Mr. Hume would wish to go; but for myself I say that if I ever have the power to do it, I will reduce the expenditure, and that in quick time too, down to what it was in the reign of Queen Anne; that is to say, to less than is now paid to tax-gatherers for their labour in collecting the taxes; and, monstrous as VAN may think the idea, I do not regard it as impossible that I may have such power; which I would certainly not employ to do an act of _injustice_ to any human being, and would, at the same time, maintain the throne in more real splendour than that in which it is now maintained. But I would have nothing to do with any VANS, except as door-keepers or porters. _Saturday, 8 Dec._ Came home very much pleased with my visit to Mr. WALKER, in whose house I saw no drinking of wine, spirits, or even beer; where all, even to the little children, were up by candle-light in the morning, and where the most perfect sobriety was accompanied by constant cheerfulness. _Kent_ is in a deplorable way. The farmers are skilful and intelligent, generally speaking. But there is infinite _corruption_ in Kent, owing partly to the swarms of West Indians, Nabobs, Commissioners, and others of nearly the same description, that have selected it for the place of their residence; but owing still more to the immense sums of public money that have, during the last thirty years, been expended in it. And when one thinks of these, the conduct of the people of Dover, Canterbury, and other places, in the case of the ever-lamented Queen, does them everlasting honour. The _fruit_ in Kent is more _select_ than in Herefordshire, where it is raised for _cyder_, while, in Kent, it is raised for sale in its fruit state, a great deal being sent to the _Wen_, and a great deal sent to the North of England and to Scotland. The orchards are beautiful indeed. Kept in the neatest order, and, indeed, all belonging to them excels anything of the kind to be seen in Normandy; and as to apples, I never saw any so good in France as those of Kent. This county, so blessed by Providence, has been cursed by the System in a peculiar degree. It has been the _receiver_ of immense sums, raised on the other counties. This has puffed its _rents_ to an unnatural height; and now that the drain of other counties is stopped, it feels like a pampered pony turned out in winter to live upon a common. It is in an extremely "unsatisfactory state," and has certainly a greater mass of suffering to endure than any other part of the kingdom, the _Wens_ only excepted. Sir EDWARD KNATCHBULL, who is a child of the System, does appear to see no more of the cause of these sufferings than if he were a baby. How should he? Not very bright by nature; never listening but to one side of the question; being a man who wants high rents to be paid him; not gifted with much light, and that little having to strive against prejudice, false shame, and self interest, what wonder is there that he should not see things in their true light? NORFOLK AND SUFFOLK JOURNAL. _Bergh-Apton, near Norwich, Monday, 10 Dec. 1821._ From the _Wen_ to Norwich, from which I am now distant seven miles, there is nothing in Essex, Suffolk, or this county, that can be called a _hill_. Essex, when you get beyond the immediate influence of the gorgings and disgorgings of the Wen; that is to say, beyond the demand for crude vegetables and repayment in manure, is by no means a fertile county. There appears generally to be a bottom of _clay_; not _soft chalk_, which they persist in calling clay in Norfolk. I wish I had one of these Norfolk men in a coppice in Hampshire or Sussex, and I would show him what _clay_ is. Clay is what pots and pans and jugs and tiles are made of; and not soft, whitish stuff that crumbles to pieces in the sun, instead of baking as hard as a stone, and which, in dry weather, is to be broken to pieces by nothing short of a sledge-hammer. The narrow ridges on which the wheat is sown; the water furrows; the water standing in the dips of the pastures; the rusty iron-like colour of the water coming out of some of the banks; the deep ditches; the rusty look of the pastures--all show, that here is a bottom of clay. Yet there is gravel too; for the oaks do not grow well. It was not till I got nearly to SUDBURY that I saw much change for the better. Here the bottom of chalk, the soft dirty-looking chalk that the Norfolk people call clay, begins to be the bottom, and this, with very little exception (as far as I have been) is the bottom of all the lands of these two fine counties of Suffolk and Norfolk.--SUDBURY has some fine meadows near it on the sides of the river Stour. The land all along to Bury Saint Edmund's is very fine; but no trees worth looking at. _Bury_, formerly the seat of an Abbot, the last of whom was, I think, hanged, or somehow put to death, by that matchless tyrant, Henry VIII., is a very pretty place; extremely clean and neat; no ragged or dirty people to be seen, and women (_young_ ones I mean) very pretty and very neatly dressed.--On this side of Bury, a considerable distance lower, I saw a field of _Rape_, transplanted very thick, for, I suppose, sheep feed in the spring. The farming all along to Norwich is very good. The land clean, and everything done in a masterly manner. _Tuesday, 11 Dec._ Mr. SAMUEL CLARKE, my host, has about 30 acres of _Swedes_ in rows. Some at 4 feet distances, some at 30 inches; and about 4 acres of the 4-feet Swedes were transplanted. I have seen thousands of acres of Swedes in these counties, and here are the largest crops that I have seen. The widest rows are decidedly the largest crops here; and, the _transplanted_, though under disadvantageous circumstances, amongst the best of the best. The wide rows amount to at least 20 tons to the acre, exclusive of the greens taken off two months ago, which weighed 5 tons to the acre. Then, there is the inter tillage, so beneficial to the land, and the small quantity of manure required in the broad rows, compared to what is required when the seed is drilled or sown upon the level. Mr. NICHOLLS, a neighbour of Mr. CLARKE, has a part of a field transplanted on _seven turn ridges_, put in when in the other part of the field, drilled, the plants were a fortnight old. He has a much larger crop in the transplanted than in the drilled part. But, if it had been a _fly-year_, he might have had _none_ in the drilled part, while, in all probability, the crop in the transplanted part would have been better than it now is, seeing that a _wet_ summer, though favourable to the hitting of the Swedes, is by no means favourable to their attaining a great size of bulb. This is the case this year with all turnips. A great deal of leaf and neck, but not bulbs in proportion. The advantages of transplanting are, _first_, you make sure of a crop in spite of fly; and, _second_, you have six weeks or two months longer to prepare your ground. And the advantages of wide rows are, _first_, that you want only about half the quantity of manure; and, _second_, that you _plough_ the ground two or three times during the summer. _Grove, near Holt, Thursday, 13th Dec._ Came to the Grove (Mr. Withers's), near Holt, along with Mr. Clarke. Through _Norwich_ to _Aylsham_ and then to _Holt_. On our road we passed the house of the late _Lord Suffield_, who married Castlereagh's wife's sister, who is a daughter of the late Earl of Buckinghamshire, who had for so many years that thumping sinecure of eleven thousand a year in Ireland, and who was the son of a man that, under the name of Mr. Hobart, cut such a figure in supporting Lord North and afterwards Pitt, and was made a peer under the auspices of the latter of these two heaven-born Ministers. This house, which is a very ancient one, was, they say, the birth-place of Ann de Boleyne, the mother of Queen Elizabeth. Not much matter; for she married the king while his real wife was alive. I could have excused her, if there had been no marrying in the case; but hypocrisy, always bad, becomes detestable when it resorts to religious ceremony as its mask. She, no more than Cranmer, seems, to her last moments, to have remembered her sins against her lawful queen. Fox's "_Book of Martyrs_," that ought to be called "the _Book of Liars_," says that Cranmer, the recanter and re-recanter, held out his offending hand in the flames, and cried out "that hand, that hand!" If he had cried out _Catherine! Catherine!_ I should have thought better of him; but it is clear that the whole story is a lie, invented by the protestants, and particularly by the sectarians, to white-wash the character of this perfidious hypocrite and double apostate, who, if bigotry had something to do in bringing him to the stake, certainly deserved his fate, if any offences committed by man can deserve so horrible a punishment.--The present LORD SUFFIELD is that Mr. EDWARD HARBORD, whose father-in-law left him 500_l._ to buy a seat in Parliament, and who refused to carry an address to the late beloved and lamented Queen, because Major Cartwright and myself were chosen to accompany him! Never mind, my Lord; you will grow less fastidious! They say, however, that he is really good to his tenants, and has told them, that he will take anything that they can give. There is some sense in this! He is a great Bible Man; and it is strange that he cannot see, that things are out of order, when _his_ interference in this way can be at all _necessary_, while there is a Church that receives a tenth part of the produce of the earth.--There are some oak woods here, but very poor. Not like those, not near like the worst of those, in Hampshire and Herefordshire. All this eastern coast seems very unpropitious to trees of all sorts.--We passed through the estate of a Mr. Marsin, whose house is near the road, a very poor spot, and the first really poor ground I have seen in Norfolk. A nasty spewy black gravel on the top of a sour clay. It is worse than the heaths between Godalming and Liphook; for, while it is too poor to grow anything but heath, it is too cold to give you the chirping of the grasshopper in summer. However, Mr. Marsin has been too wise to enclose this wretched land, which is just like that which Lord Caernarvon has enclosed in the parishes of Highclere, and Burghclere, and which, for tillage, really is not worth a single farthing an acre.--Holt is a little, old-fashioned, substantially-built market-town. The land just about it, or, at least, towards the east, is poor, and has been lately enclosed. _Friday, 14th Dec._ Went to see the estate of Mr. Hardy at Leveringsett, a hamlet about two miles from Holt. This is the first time that I have seen a _valley_ in this part of England. From Holt you look, to the distance of seven or eight miles, over a very fine valley, leaving a great deal of inferior hill and dell within its boundaries. At the bottom of this general valley, Mr. Hardy has a very beautiful estate of about four hundred acres. His house is at one end of it near the high road, where he has a malt-house and a brewery, the neat and ingenious manner of managing which I would detail if my total unacquaintance with machinery did not disqualify me for the task. His estate forms a valley of itself, somewhat longer than broad. The tops, and the sides of the tops of the hills round it, and also several little hillocks in the valley itself, are judiciously planted with trees of various sorts, leaving good wide roads, so that it is easy to ride round them in a carriage. The fields, the fences, the yards and stacks, the buildings, the cattle, all showed the greatest judgment and industry. There was really nothing that the most critical observer could say was _out of order_. However, the forest trees do not grow well here. The oaks are mere scrubs, as they are about Brentwood in Essex, and in some parts of Cornwall; and, for some unaccountable reason, people seldom plant the _ash_, which no wind will _shave_, as it does the oak. _Saturday, 15 Dec._ Spent the evening amongst the Farmers, at their Market Room at Holt; and very much pleased at them I was. We talked over the _cause of the low prices_, and I, as I have done everywhere, endeavoured to convince them, that prices must fall a great deal lower yet; and that no man, who wishes not to be ruined, ought to keep or take a farm, unless on a calculation of best wheat at 4_s._ a bushel and a best Southdown ewe at 15_s._ or even 12_s._ They heard me patiently, and, I believe, were well convinced of the truth of what I said. I told them of the correctness of the predictions of their great countryman, Mr. PAINE, and observed, how much better it would have been, to take his advice, than to burn him in effigy. I endeavoured (but in such a case all human powers must fail!) to describe to them the sort and size of the talents of the Stern-path-of-duty man, of the great hole-digger, of the jester, of the Oxford scholar, of the loan-jobber (who had just made an enormous grasp), of the Oracle, and so on. Here, as everywhere else, I hear every creature speak loudly in praise of _Mr. Coke_. It is well known to my readers, that I think nothing of him as a _public_ man; that I think even his good qualities an injury to his country, because they serve the knaves whom he is duped by to dupe the people more effectually; but, it would be base in me not to say, that I hear, from men of all parties, and sensible men too, expressions made use of towards him that affectionate children use towards the best of parents. I have not met with a single exception. _Bergh Apton, Sunday, 16 Dec._ Came from Holt through Saxthorpe and Cawston. At the former village were on one end of a decent white house, these words, "_Queen Caroline; for her Britons mourn_," and a crown over all in black. I need not have looked to see: I might have been sure that the owner of the house was a _shoe-maker_, a trade which numbers more men of sense and of public spirit than any other in the kingdom.--At Cawston we stopped at a public house, the keeper of which had taken and read the Register for years. I shall not attempt to describe the pleasure I felt at the hearty welcome given us by Mr. Pern and his wife and by a young miller of the village, who, having learnt at Holt that we were to return that way, had come to meet us, the house being on the side of the great road, from which the village is at some distance. This is the birth-place of the famous _Botley Parson_, all the history of whom we now learned, and, if we could have gone to the village, they were prepared to _ring the bells_, and show us the old woman who nursed the _Botley Parson_! These Norfolk _baws_ never do things by halves. We came away, very much pleased with our reception at Cawston, and with a promise, on my part, that, if I visited the county again, I would write a Register there; a promise which I shall certainly keep. _Great Yarmouth, Friday (morning), 21st Dec._ The day before yesterday I set out for Bergh Apton with Mr. CLARKE, to come hither by the way of _Beccles_ in Suffolk. We stopped at Mr. Charles Clarke's at Beccles, where we saw some good and sensible men, who see clearly into all the parts of the works of the "Thunderers," and whose anticipations, as to the "general working of events," are such as they ought to be. They gave us a humorous account of the "rabble" having recently crowned a Jackass, and of a struggle between them and the "Yeomanry Cavaltry." This _was_ a place of most ardent and blazing _loyalty_, as the pretenders to it call it; but, it seems it now blazes less furiously; it is milder, more measured in its effusions; and, with the help of low prices, will become bearable in time. This Beccles is a very pretty place, has watered meadows near it, and is situated amidst fine lands. What a _system_ it must be to make people wretched in a country like this! Could he be _heaven-born_ that invented such a system? GAFFER GOOCH'S father, a very old man, lives not far from here. We had a good deal of fun about the Gaffer, who will certainly never lose the name, unless he should be made a Lord.--We slept at the house of a friend of Mr. Clarke on our way, and got to this very fine town of Great Yarmouth yesterday about noon. A party of friends met us and conducted us about the town, which is a very beautiful one indeed. What I liked best, however, was the hearty welcome that I met with, because it showed, that the reign of calumny and delusion was passed. A company of gentlemen gave me a dinner in the evening, and, in all my life I never saw a set of men more worthy of my respect and gratitude. Sensible, modest, understanding the whole of our case, and clearly foreseeing what is about to happen. One gentleman proposed, that, as it would be impossible for all to go to London, there should be a _Provincial Feast of the Gridiron_, a plan, which, I hope, will be adopted--I leave Great Yarmouth with sentiments of the sincerest regard for all those whom I there saw and conversed with, and with my best wishes for the happiness of all its inhabitants; nay, even the _parsons_ not excepted; for, if they did not come to welcome me, they collected in a group to _see_ me, and that was one step towards doing justice to him whom their order have so much, so foully, and, if they knew their own interest, so foolishly slandered. _Bergh Apton, 22nd Dec. (night)._ After returning from Yarmouth yesterday, went to dine at Stoke-Holy-Cross, about six miles off; got home at mid-night, and came to Norwich this morning, this being market-day, and also the day fixed on for a Radical Reform Dinner at the Swan Inn, to which I was invited. Norwich is a very fine city, and the Castle, which stands in the middle of it, on a hill, is truly majestic. The meat and poultry and vegetable market is beautiful. It is kept in a large open square in the middle, or nearly so, of the City. The ground is a pretty sharp slope, so that you see all at once. It resembles one of the French markets, only _there_ the vendors are all standing and gabbling like parrots, and the meat is lean and bloody and nasty, and the people snuffy and grimy in hands and face, the contrary, precisely the contrary of all which is the case in this beautiful market at Norwich, where the women have a sort of uniform brown great coats, with white aprons and _bibs_ (I think they call them) going from the apron up to the bosom. They equal in neatness (for nothing can surpass) the market women in Philadelphia.--The cattle-market is held on the hill by the castle, and many _fairs_ are smaller in bulk of stock. The corn-market is held in a very magnificent place, called Saint Andrew's Hall, which will contain two or three thousand persons. They tell me, that this used to be a most delightful scene; a most joyous one; and, I think, it was this scene that Mr. CURWEN described in such glowing colours when he was talking of the Norfolk farmers, each worth so many thousands of pounds. Bear me witness, reader, that _I never was dazzled_ by such sights; that the false glare never put my eyes out; and that, even then, twelve years ago, I warned Mr. CURWEN of the _result_! Bear witness to this, my Disciples, and justify the doctrines of him for whose sakes you have endured persecution. How different would Mr. CURWEN find the scene _now_! What took place at the dinner has been already recorded in the Register; and I have only to add with regard to it, that my reception at Norfolk was such, that I have only to regret the total want of power to make those hearty Norfolk and Norwich friends any suitable return, whether by act or word. _Kensington, Monday, 24 Dec._ Went from Bergh Apton to Norwich in the morning, and from Norwich to London during the day, carrying with me great admiration of and respect for this county of _excellent farmers_, and hearty, open and spirited men. The Norfolk people are quick and smart in their motions and in their speaking. Very neat and _trim_ in all their farming concerns, and very skilful. Their land is good, their roads are level, and the bottom of their soil is dry, to be sure; and these are great advantages; but they are diligent, and make the most of everything. Their management of all sorts of stock is most judicious; they are careful about manure; their teams move quickly; and, in short, it is a county of most excellent cultivators.--The churches in Norfolk are generally large and the towers lofty. They have all been well built at first. Many of them are of the Saxon architecture. They are, almost all (I do not remember an exception), placed on the _highest_ spots to be found near where they stand; and, it is curious enough, that the contrary practice should have prevailed in _hilly_ countries, where they are generally found in valleys and in low, sheltered dells, even in those valleys! These churches prove that the people of Norfolk and Suffolk were always a superior people in point of wealth, while the size of them proves that the country parts were, at one time, a great deal more populous than they now are. The great drawbacks on the beauty of these counties are, their flatness and their want of fine woods; but, to those who can dispense with these, Norfolk, under a wise and just government, can have nothing to ask more than Providence and the industry of man have given. LANDLORD DISTRESS MEETINGS. For, in fact, it is not the _farmer_, but the _Landlord_ and _Parson_, who wants relief from the "_Collective_." The tenant's remedy is, quitting his farm or bringing down his rent to what he can afford to give, wheat being 3 or 4 shillings a bushel. This is his remedy. What should _he_ want high prices for? They can do _him_ no good; and this I proved to the farmers last year. The fact is, the Landlords and Parsons are urging the farmers on to get _something done_ to give them high rents and high tithes. At _Hertford_ there has been a meeting at which _some_ sense was discovered, at any rate. The parties talked about the _fund-holder_, the _Debt_, the _taxes_, and so on, and seemed to be in a very warm temper. Pray, keep yourselves _cool_, gentlemen; for you have a great deal to endure yet. I deeply regret that I have not room to insert the resolutions of this meeting. There is to be a meeting at _Battle_ (East Sussex) on the 3rd instant, at which _I mean to be_. I want to _see_ my friends on the _South Downs_. To see how they _look_ now. [At a public dinner given to Mr. Cobbett at Norwich, on the market-day above mentioned, the company drank the toast of _Mr. Cobbett and his "Trash,"_ the name "two-penny trash," having being at one time applied by Lord Castlereagh to the _Register_. In acknowledging this toast Mr. Cobbett addressed the company in a speech, of which the following is a passage:] "My thanks to you for having drunk my health, are great and sincere; but much greater pleasure do I feel at the approbation bestowed on that _Trash_, which has, for so many years been a mark for the finger of scorn to be pointed at by ignorant selfishness and arrogant and insolent power. To enumerate, barely to name, all, or a hundredth part of, the endeavours that have been made to stifle this _Trash_ would require a much longer space of time than that which we have now before us. But, gentlemen, those endeavours must have _cost money_; money must have been expended in the circulation of Anti-Cobbett, and the endless bale of papers and pamphlets put forth to check the progress of the _Trash_: and, when we take into view the immense sums expended in keeping down the spirit excited by the _Trash_, who of us is to tell, whether these endeavours, taken altogether, may not have added _many millions_ to that debt, of which (without any hint at a _concomitant measure_) some men have now the audacity, the unprincipled, the profligate assurance to talk of reducing the interest. The Trash, Gentlemen, is now triumphant; its triumph we are now met to celebrate; proofs of its triumph I myself witnessed not many hours ago, in that scene where the best possible evidence was to be found. In walking through St. Andrew's Hall, my mind was not so much engaged on the grandeur of the place, or on the gratifying reception I met with; those hearty shakes by the hand which I so much like, those smiles of approbation, which not to see with pride would argue an insensibility to honest fame: even these, I do sincerely assure you, engaged my mind much less than the melancholy reflection, that, of the two thousand or fifteen hundred farmers then in my view, there were probably _three-fourths_ who came to the Hall with aching hearts, and who would leave it in a state of mental agony. What a thing to contemplate, Gentlemen! What a scene is here! A set of men, occupiers of the land; producers of all that we eat, drink, wear, and of all that forms the buildings that shelter us; a set of men industrious and careful by habit; cool, thoughtful, and sensible from the instructions of nature; a set of men provident above all others, and engaged in pursuits in their nature stable as the very earth they till: to see a set of men like this plunged into anxiety, embarrassment, jeopardy, not to be described; and when the particular individuals before me were famed for their superior skill in this great and solid pursuit, and were blessed with soil and other circumstances to make them prosperous and happy: to behold this sight would have been more than sufficient to sink my heart within me, had I not been upheld by the reflection, that I had done all in my power to prevent these calamities, and that I still had in reserve that which, with the assistance of the sufferers themselves, would restore them and the nation to happiness." SUSSEX JOURNAL: TO BATTLE, THROUGH BROMLEY, SEVEN-OAKS, AND TUNBRIDGE. _Battle, Wednesday, 2 Jan. 1822._ Came here to-day from Kensington, in order to see what goes on at the Meeting to be held here to-morrow, of the "Gentry, Clergy, Freeholders, and Occupiers of Land in the Rape of Hastings, to take into consideration the distressed state of the Agricultural interest." I shall, of course, give an account of this meeting after it has taken place.--You come through part of _Kent_ to get to _Battle_ from the Great _Wen_ on the Surrey side of the Thames. The first town is Bromley, the next Seven-Oaks, the next Tunbridge, and between Tunbridge and this place you cross the boundaries of the two counties.--From the Surrey Wen to Bromley the land is generally a deep loam on a gravel, and you see few trees except elm. A very ugly country. On quitting Bromley the land gets poorer; clay at bottom; the wheat sown on five, or seven, turn lands; the furrows shining with wet; rushes on the wastes on the sides of the road. Here there is a common, part of which has been enclosed and thrown out again, or, rather, the fences carried away.--There is a frost this morning, some ice, and the women look rosy-cheeked.--There is a very great variety of soil along this road; bottom of yellow clay; then of sand; then of sand-stone; then of solider stone; then (for about five miles) of chalk; then of red clay; then chalk again; here (before you come to Seven-Oaks) is a most beautiful and rich valley, extending from east to west, with rich corn-fields and fine trees; then comes sand-stone again; and the hop-gardens near Seven-Oaks, which is a pretty little town with beautiful environs, part of which consists of the park of _Knowle_, the seat of the Duchess of Dorset. It is a very fine place. And there is another park, on the other side of the town. So that this is a delightful place, and the land appears to be very good. The gardens and houses all look neat and nice. On quitting Seven-Oaks you come to a bottom of gravel for a short distance, and to a clay for many miles. When I say that I saw teams _carting_ gravel from this spot to a distance of nearly _ten miles_ along the road, the reader will be at no loss to know what sort of bottom the land has all along here. The bottom then becomes sand-stone again. This vein of land runs all along through the county of Sussex, and the clay runs into Hampshire, across the forests of Bere and Waltham, then across the parishes of Ouslebury, Stoke, and passing between the sand hills of Southampton and chalk hills of Winchester, goes westward till stopped by the chalky downs between Romsey and Salisbury.--Tunbridge is a small but very nice town, and has some fine meadows and a navigable river.--The rest of the way to Battle presents, alternately, clay and sand-stone. Of course the coppices and oak woods are very frequent. There is now and then a hop-garden spot, and now and then an orchard of apples or cherries; but these are poor indeed compared with what you see about Canterbury and Maidstone. The agricultural state of the country or, rather, the quality of the land, from Bromley to Battle, may be judged of from the fact, that I did not see, as I came along, more than thirty acres of Swedes during the fifty-six miles! In Norfolk I should, in the same distance, have seen five hundred acres! However, man was not the maker of the land; and, as to human happiness, I am of opinion, that as much, and even more, falls to the lot of the leather-legged chaps that live in and rove about amongst those clays and woods as to the more regularly disciplined labourers of the rich and prime parts of England. As "God has made the back to the burthen," so the clay and coppice people make the dress to the stubs and bushes. Under the sole of the shoe is _iron_; from the sole six inches upwards is a high-low; then comes a leather bam to the knee; then comes a pair of leather breeches; then comes a stout doublet; over this comes a smock-frock; and the wearer sets brush and stubs and thorns and mire at defiance. I have always observed, that woodland and forest labourers are best off in the main. The coppices give them pleasant and profitable work in winter. If they have not so great a corn-harvest, they have a three weeks' harvest in April or May; that is to say, in the season of barking, which in Hampshire is called _stripping_, and in Sussex _flaying_, which employs women and children as well as men. And then in the great article of _fuel_! They _buy_ none. It is miserable work, where this is to be bought, and where, as at Salisbury, the poor take by turns the making of fires at their houses to boil four or five tea-kettles. What a winter-life must those lead, whose turn it is not to make the fire! At Launceston in Cornwall a man, a tradesman too, told me, that the people in general could not afford to have fire in ordinary, and that he himself paid 3_d._ for boiling a leg of mutton at another man's fire! The leather-legged-race know none of these miseries, at any rate. They literally get their fuel "by _hook_ or by _crook_," whence, doubtless, comes that old and very expressive saying, which is applied to those cases where people _will have a thing_ by one means or another. _Battle, Thursday (night), 3 Jan. 1822._ To-day there has been a _Meeting_ here of the landlords and farmers in this part of Sussex, which is called the _Rape of Hastings_. The object was to agree on a petition to Parliament praying for _relief_! Good God! Where is this to _end_? We now see the effects of those _rags_ which I have been railing against for the last twenty years. Here were collected together not less than 300 persons, principally landlords and farmers, brought from their homes by their distresses and by their alarms for the future! Never were such things heard in any country before; and, it is useless to hope, for terrific must be the consequences, if an effectual remedy be not speedily applied. The town, which is small, was in a great bustle before noon; and the Meeting (in a large room in the principal inn) took place about one o'clock. Lord Ashburnham was called to the chair, and there were present Mr. Curteis, one of the county members, Mr. Fuller, who formerly used to cut _such a figure_ in the House of Commons, Mr. Lambe, and many other gentlemen of landed property within the Rape, or district, for which the Meeting was held. Mr. Curteis, after Lord Ashburnham had opened the business, addressed the Meeting. Mr. Fuller then tendered some Resolutions, describing the fallen state of the landed interest, and proposing to pray, _generally_, for relief. Mr. Britton complained, that it was not proposed to pray for some _specific measure_, and insisted, that the cause of the evil was the rise in the value of money without a corresponding reduction in the taxes.--A Committee was appointed to draw up a petition, which was next produced. It merely described the distress, and prayed generally for relief. Mr. Holloway proposed an addition, containing an imputation of the distress to restricted currency and unabated taxation, and praying for a reduction of taxes. A discussion now arose upon two points: first, whether the addition were admissible at all! and, second, whether Mr. Holloway was qualified to offer it to the Meeting. Both the points having been, at last, decided in the affirmative, the addition, or amendment, was put, and _lost_; and then the original petition was adopted. After the business of the day was ended, there was a dinner in the inn, in the same room where the Meeting had been held. I was at this dinner; and Mr. Britton having proposed my health, and Mr. Curteis, who was in the Chair, having given it, I thought it would have looked like mock-modesty, which is, in fact, only another term for hypocrisy, to refrain from expressing my opinions upon a point or two connected with the business of the day. I shall now insert a substantially correct sketch of what the company was indulgent enough to hear from me at the dinner; which I take from the report contained in the _Morning Chronicle_ of Saturday last. The report in the Chronicle has all the _pith_ of what I advanced relative to _the inutility of Corn Bills_, and relative to _the cause of further declining prices_; two points of the greatest importance in themselves, and which I was, and am, uncommonly anxious to press upon the attention of the public. The following is a part of the speech so reported:-- "I am decidedly of opinion, Gentlemen, that a Corn Bill of no description, no matter what its principles or provisions, can do either tenant or landlord any good; and I am not less decidedly of opinion, that though prices are now low, they must, all the present train of public measures continuing, be yet lower, and continue lower upon an average of years and of seasons.--As to a Corn Bill; a law to prohibit or check the importation of human food is a perfect novelty in our history, and ought, therefore, independent of the reason, and the recent experience of the case, to be received and entertained with great suspicion. Heretofore, _premiums_ have been given for the exportation, and at other times, for the importation, of corn; but of laws to prevent the importation of human food our ancestors knew nothing. And what says recent experience? When the present Corn Bill was passed, I, then a farmer, unable to get my brother farmers to join me, _petitioned singly_ against this Bill; and I stated to my brother farmers, that such a Bill could do us no good, while it would not fail to excite against us the ill-will of the other classes of the community; a thought by no means pleasant. Thus has it been. The distress of agriculture was considerable in magnitude then; but what is it now? And yet the Bill was passed; that Bill which was to remunerate and protect is still in force; the farmers got what they prayed to have granted them; and their distress, with a short interval of tardy pace, has proceeded rapidly increasing from that day to this. What, in the way of Corn Bill, can you have, Gentlemen, beyond absolute prohibition? And, have you not, since about April, 1819, had absolute prohibition? Since that time no corn has been imported, and then only thirty millions of bushels, which, supposing it all to have been wheat, was a quantity much too insignificant to produce any sensible depression in the price of the immense quantity of corn raised in this kingdom since the last bushel was imported. If your produce had fallen in this manner, if your prices had come down very low, immediately after the importation had taken place, there might have been some colour of reason to impute the fall to the importation; but it so happens, and as if for the express purpose of contradicting the crude notions of Mr. Webb Hall, that your produce has fallen in price at a greater rate, in proportion as time has removed you from the point of importation; and, as to the circumstance, so ostentatiously put forward by Mr. Hall and others, that there is still some of the imported corn _unsold_, what does it prove but the converse of what those Gentlemen aim at, that is to say, that the holders _cannot afford_ to sell it at present prices; for, if they could gain but ever so little by the sale, would they keep it wasting and costing money in warehouse? There appears with some persons to be a notion, that the importation of corn is a _new thing_. They seem to forget, that, during the last war, when agriculture was so _prosperous_, the _ports were always open_; that prodigious quantities of corn were imported during the war; that, so far from importation being prohibited, high _premiums_ were given, paid out of the taxes, partly raised upon English farmers, to induce men to import corn. All this seems to be forgotten as much as if it had never taken place; and now the distress of the English farmer is imputed to a cause which was never before an object of his attention, and a desire is expressed to put an end to a branch of commerce which the nation has always freely carried on. I think, Gentlemen, that here are reasons quite sufficient to make any man but Mr. Webb Hall slow to impute the present distress to the importation of corn; but, at any rate, what can you have beyond absolute efficient prohibition? No law, no duty, however high; nothing that the Parliament can do can go beyond this; and this you now have, in effect, as completely as if this were the only country beneath the sky. For these reasons, Gentlemen, (and to state more would be a waste of your time and an affront to your understandings,) I am convinced, that, in the way of Corn Bill, it is impossible for the Parliament to afford you any, even the smallest, portion of relief. As to the other point, Gentlemen, the tendency which the present measures and course of things have to carry prices _lower_, and considerably lower than they now are, and to keep them for a permanency at that low rate, this is a matter worthy of the serious attention of all connected with the land, and particularly of that of the renting farmer. During the _war_ no importations distressed the farmer. It was not till peace came that the cry of distress was heard. But, during the war, there was a boundless issue of paper money. Those issues were instantly narrowed by the peace, the law being, that the Bank should pay in cash six months after the peace should take place. This was the cause of that distress which led to the present Corn Bill. The disease occasioned by the preparations for cash-payments, has been brought to a crisis by Mr. Peel's Bill, which has, in effect, doubled, if not tripled, the real amount of the taxes, and violated all contracts for time; given triple gains to every lender, and placed every borrower in jeopardy. _Kensington, Friday, 4 Jan. 1822._ Got home from _Battle_. I had no time to see the town, having entered the Inn on Wednesday in the dusk of the evening, having been engaged all day yesterday in the Inn, and having come out of it only to get into the coach this morning. I had not time to go even to see _Battle Abbey_, the seat of the Webster family, now occupied by a man of the name of _Alexander_! Thus they _replace them_! It will take a much shorter time than most people imagine to put out all the ancient families. I should think, that six years will turn out all those who receive nothing out of taxes. The greatness of the estate is no protection to the owner; for, great or little, it will soon yield him _no_ rents; and, when the produce is nothing in either case, the small estate is as good as the large one. Mr. Curteis said, that the _land_ was _immovable_; yes; but the _rents are not_. And, if freeholds cannot be seized for common contract debts, the carcass of the owner may. But, in fact, there will be no rents; and, without these, the ownership is an empty sound. Thus, at last, the burthen will, as I always said it would, fall upon the _land-owner_; and, as the fault of supporting the system has been wholly his, the burthen will fall upon the _right back_. Whether he will now call in the people to help him to shake it off is more than I can say; but, if he do not, I am sure that he must sink under it. And then, will _revolution No. I._ have been accomplished; but far, and very far indeed, will that be from being the _close_ of the drama!--I cannot quit Battle without observing, that the country is very pretty all about it. All hill, or valley. A great deal of wood-land, in which the underwood is generally very fine, though the oaks are not very fine, and a good deal covered with _moss_. This shows, that the clay ends before the _tap_-root of the oak gets as deep as it would go; for, when the clay goes the full depth, the oaks are always fine.--The woods are too large and too near each other for hare-hunting; and, as to coursing it is out of the question here. But it is a fine country for shooting and for harbouring game of all sorts.--It was rainy as I came home; but the woodmen were at work. A great many _hop-poles_ are cut here, which makes the coppices more valuable than in many other parts. The women work in the coppices, shaving the bark of the hop-poles, and, indeed, at various other parts of the business. These poles are shaved to prevent _maggots_ from breeding in the bark and accelerating the destruction of the pole. It is curious that the bark of trees should generate maggots; but it has, as well as the wood, a _sugary_ matter in it. The hickory wood in America sends out from the ends of the logs when these are burning, great quantities of the finest syrup that can be imagined. Accordingly, that wood breeds maggots, or worms as they are usually called, surprisingly. Our _ash_ breeds worms very much. When the tree or pole is cut, the moist matter between the outer bark and the wood putrifies. Thence come the maggots, which soon begin to eat their way into the wood. For this reason the bark is shaved off the hop-poles, as it ought to be off all our timber trees, as soon as cut, especially the ash.--Little boys and girls shave hop-poles and assist in other coppice work very nicely. And it is pleasant work when the weather is dry overhead. The woods, bedded with leaves as they are, are clean and dry underfoot. They are warm too, even in the coldest weather. When the ground is frozen several inches deep in the open fields, it is scarcely frozen at all in a coppice where the underwood is a good plant, and where it is nearly high enough to cut. So that the woodman's is really a pleasant life. We are apt to think that the birds have a hard time of it in winter. But we forget the warmth of the woods, which far exceeds anything to be found in farm yards. When Sidmouth started me from my farm, in 1817, I had just planted my farm yard round with a pretty coppice. But, never mind, Sidmouth and I shall, I dare say, have plenty of time and occasion to talk about that coppice, and many other things, before we die. And, can I, when I think of these things, now, _pity_ those to whom Sidmouth _owed his power_ of starting me!--But let me forget the subject for this time at any rate.--Woodland countries are interesting on many accounts. Not so much on account of their masses of green leaves, as on account of the variety of sights and sounds and incidents that they afford. Even in winter the coppices are beautiful to the eye, while they comfort the mind with the idea of shelter and warmth. In spring they change their hue from day to day during two whole months, which is about the time from the first appearance of the delicate leaves of the birch to the full expansion of those of the ash; and, even before the leaves come at all to intercept the view, what in the vegetable creation is so delightful to behold as the bed of a coppice bespangled with primroses and blue-bells? The opening of the birch leaves is the signal for the pheasant to begin to crow, for the blackbird to whistle, and the thrush to sing; and, just when the oak-buds begin to look reddish, and not a day before, the whole tribe of finches burst forth in songs from every bough, while the lark, imitating them all, carries the joyous sounds to the sky. These are amongst the means which Providence has benignantly appointed to sweeten the toils by which food and raiment are produced; these the English Ploughman could once hear without the sorrowful reflection that he himself was a _pauper_, and that the bounties of nature had, for him, been scattered in vain! And shall he never see an end to this state of things? Shall he never have the due reward of his labour? Shall unsparing taxation never cease to make him a miserable dejected being, a creature famishing in the midst of abundance, fainting, expiring with hunger's feeble moans, surrounded by a carolling creation? O! accursed paper-money! Has hell a torment surpassing the wickedness of thy inventor? SUSSEX JOURNAL: THROUGH CROYDON, GODSTONE, EAST-GRINSTEAD, AND UCKFIELD, TO LEWES, AND BRIGHTON; RETURNING BY CUCKFIELD, WORTH, AND RED-HILL. _Lewes, Tuesday, 8 Jan., 1822._ Came here to-day, from home, to see what passes to-morrow at a Meeting to be held here of the Owners and Occupiers of Land in the Rapes of Lewes and Pevensey.--In quitting the great Wen we go through Surrey more than half the way to Lewes. From Saint _George's Fields_, which now are covered with houses, we go, towards Croydon, between rows of houses, nearly half the way, and the whole way is nine miles. There are, erected within these four years, two entire miles of stock-jobbers' houses on this one road, and the work goes on with accelerated force! To be sure; for, the taxes being, in fact, tripled by Peel's Bill, the fundlords increase in riches; and their accommodations increase of course. What an at once horrible and ridiculous thing this country would become, if this thing could go on only for a few years! And these rows of new houses, added to the Wen, are proofs of growing prosperity, are they? These make part of the increased capital of the country, do they? But how is this Wen to be _dispersed_? I know not whether it be to be done by knife or by caustic; but, dispersed it must be! And this is the only difficulty, which I do not see the _easy_ means of getting over.--Aye! these are dreadful thoughts! I know they are: but, they ought not to be banished from the mind; for they will _return_, and, at every return, they will be more frightful. The man who cannot coolly look at this matter is unfit for the times that are approaching. Let the interest of the Debt be once well reduced (and that must be sooner or later) and then what is to become of _half a million_ at least of the people congregated in this Wen? Oh! precious "Great Man now no more!" Oh! "Pilot that weathered the Storm!" Oh! "Heaven-born" pupil of Prettyman! Who, but him who can number the sands of the sea, shall number the execrations with which thy memory will be loaded!--From London to Croydon is as ugly a bit of country as any in England. A poor spewy gravel with some clay. Few trees but elms, and those generally stripped up and villanously ugly.--Croydon is a good market-town; but is, by the funds, swelled out into a _Wen_.--Upon quitting Croydon for Godstone, you come to the chalk hills, the juniper shrubs and the yew trees. This is an extension westward of the vein of chalk which I have before noticed (see page 54) between Bromley and Seven-Oaks. To the westward here lie Epsom Downs, which lead on to Merrow Downs and St. Margaret's Hill, then, skipping over Guildford, you come to the Hog's Back, which is still of chalk, and at the west end of which lies Farnham. With the Hog's Back this vein of chalk seems to end; for then the valleys become rich loam, and the hills sand and gravel till you approach the Winchester Downs by the way of Alresford.--Godstone, which is in Surrey also, is a beautiful village, chiefly of one street with a fine large green before it and with a pond in the green. A little way to the right (going from London) lies the vile rotten Borough of _Blechingley_; but, happily for Godstone, out of sight. At and near Godstone the gardens are all very neat, and at the Inn there is a nice garden well stocked with beautiful flowers in the season. I here saw, last summer, some double violets as large as small pinks, and the lady of the house was kind enough to give me some of the roots.--From Godstone you go up a long hill of clay and sand, and then descend into a level country of stiff loam at top, clay at bottom, corn-fields, pastures, broad hedgerows, coppices, and oak woods, which country continues till you quit Surrey about two miles before you reach East-Grinstead. The woods and coppices are very fine here. It is the genuine _oak-soil_; a bottom of yellow clay to any depth, I dare say, that man can go. No moss on the oaks. No dead tops. Straight as larches. The bark of the young trees with dark spots in it; sure sign of free growth and great depth of clay beneath. The wheat is here sown on five-turn ridges, and the ploughing is amongst the best that I ever saw.--At East-Grinstead, which is a rotten Borough and a very shabby place, you come to stiff loam at top with sand stone beneath. To the south of the place the land is fine, and the vale on both sides a very beautiful intermixture of woodland and corn-fields and pastures.--At about three miles from Grinstead you come to a pretty village, called Forest-Row, and then, on the road to Uckfield, you cross Ashurst Forest, which is a heath, with here and there a few birch scrubs upon it, verily the most villanously ugly spot I ever saw in England. This lasts you for five miles, getting, if possible, uglier and uglier all the way, till, at last, as if barren soil, nasty spewy gravel, heath and even that stunted, were not enough, you see some rising spots, which instead of trees, presents you with black, ragged, hideous rocks. There may be Englishmen who wish to see the coast of _Nova Scotia_. They need not go to sea; for here it is to the life. If I had been in a long trance (as our nobility seem to have been), and had been waked up here, I should have begun to look about for the Indians and the Squaws, and to have heaved a sigh at the thought of being so far from England.--From the end of this forest without trees you come into a country of but poorish wettish land. Passing through the village of Uckfield, you find an enclosed country, with a soil of a clay cast all the way to within about three miles of Lewes, when you get to a chalk bottom, and rich land. I was at Lewes at the beginning of last harvest, and saw the fine farms of the Ellmans, very justly renowned for their improvement of the breed of _South-Down sheep_, and the younger Mr. John Ellman not less justly blamed for the part he had taken in propagating the errors of Webb Hall, and thereby, however unintentionally, assisting to lead thousands to cherish those false hopes that have been the cause of their ruin. Mr. Ellman may say that he _thought_ he was right; but if he had read my _New Year's Gift_ to the Farmers, published in the preceding January, he could not think that he was right. If he had not read it, he ought to have read it, before he appeared in print. At any rate, if no other person had a right to censure his publications, I _had_ that right. I will here notice a calumny, to which the above visit to Lewes gave rise; namely, that I went into the neighbourhood of the Ellmans, to find out whether they ill-treated their labourers! No man that knows me will believe this. The facts are these: the Ellmans, celebrated farmers, had made a great figure in the evidence taken before the Committee. I was at WORTH, about twenty miles from Lewes. The harvest was begun. Worth is a woodland country. I wished to know the state of the crops; for I was, at that very time, as will be seen by referring to the date, beginning to write my First Letter to the Landlords. Without knowing anything of the matter myself, I asked my host, Mr. Brazier, what good corn country was nearest to us. He said Lewes. Off I went, and he with me, in a post-chaise. We had 20 miles to go and 20 back in the same chaise. A bad road, and rain all the day. We put up at the White Hart, took another chaise, went round, and saw the farms, through the window of the chaise, having stopped at a little public-house to ask which were they, and having stopped now and then to get a sample out of the sheaves of wheat, came back to the White Hart, after being absent only about an hour and a half, got our dinner, and got back to Worth before it was dark; and never asked, and never intended to ask, one single question of any human being as to the conduct or character of the Ellmans. Indeed the evidence of the elder Mr. Ellman was so fair, so honest, and so useful, particularly as relating _to the labourers_, that I could not possibly suspect him of being a cruel or hard master. He told the Committee, that when he began business, forty-five years ago, every man in the parish brewed his own beer, and that now, not one man did it, unless he gave him the malt! Why, here was by far the most valuable part of the whole volume of evidence. Then, Mr. Ellman did not present a parcel of _estimates_ and God knows what; but a plain and honest statement of facts, the rate of day wages, of job wages, for a long series of years, by which it clearly appeared how the labourer had been robbed and reduced to misery, and how the poor-rates had been increased. He did not, like Mr. George and other Bull-frogs, sink these interesting facts; but honestly told the truth. Therefore, whatever I might think of his endeavours to uphold the mischievous errors of Webb Hall, I could have no suspicion that he was a hard master. _Lewes, Wednesday, 9 Jan. 1822._ The Meeting and the Dinner are now over. Mr. Davies Giddy was in the Chair: the place the County Hall. A Mr. Partington, a pretty little oldish smart truss nice cockney-looking gentleman, with a yellow and red handkerchief round his neck, moved the petition, which was seconded by Lord Chichester, who lives in the neighbourhood. Much as I had read of that great Doctor of _virtual representation_ and _Royal Commissioner of Inimitable Bank Notes_, Mr. Davies Giddy, I had never seen him before. He called to my mind one of those venerable persons, who administer spiritual comfort to the sinners of the "sister-kingdom;" and, whether I looked at the dress or the person, I could almost have sworn that it was the identical _Father Luke_, that I saw about twenty-three years ago, at Philadelphia, in the farce of the Poor Soldier. Mr. Blackman (of Lewes I believe) disapproved of the petition, and, in a speech of considerable length, and also of considerable ability, stated to the meeting that the evils complained of arose from the _currency_, and not from the _importation of foreign corn_. A Mr. DONAVON, an Irish gentleman, who, it seems, is a magistrate in this "disturbed county," disapproved of discussing anything at such a meeting, and thought that the meeting should merely state its distresses, and leave it to the wisdom of Parliament to discover the remedy. Upon which Mr. Chatfield observed: "So, Sir, we are in a trap. We cannot get ourselves out though we know the way. There are others, who have got us in, and are able to get us out, but they do not know how. And we are to tell them, it seems, that we are in the trap; but are not to tell them the way to get us out. I don't like long speeches, Sir; but I like common sense." This was neat and pithy. Fifty professed orators could not, in a whole day, have thrown so much ridicule on the speech of Mr. Donavon.--A Mr. Mabbott proposed an amendment to include all classes of the community, and took a hit at Mr. Curteis for his speech at Battle. Mr. Curteis defended himself, and I thought very fairly. A Mr. Woodward, who said he was a farmer, carried us back to the necessity of the war against France; and told us of the horrors of plunder and murder and rape that the war had prevented. This gentleman put an end to my patience, which Mr. Donavon had put to an extremely severe test; and so I withdrew.--After I went away Mr. Blackman proposed some resolutions, which were carried by a great majority by show of hands. But, pieces of paper were then handed about, for the voters to write their names on for and against the petition. The greater part of the people were gone away by this time; but, at any rate, there were more _signatures_ for the petition than for the resolutions. A farmer in Pennsylvania having a visitor, to whom he was willing to show how well he treated his negroes as to food, bid the fellows (who were at dinner) _to ask for a second or third cut of pork if they had not enough_. Quite surprised at the novelty, but emboldened by a repetition of the injunction, one of them did say, "Massa, I wants another cut." He had it; but as soon as the visitor was gone away, "D--n you," says the master, while he belaboured him with the "cowskin," "I'll make you know _how to understand me_ another time!" The signers of this petition were in the dark while the show of hands was going on; but when it came to _signing_ they knew well _what Massa meant_! This is a petition to be sure; but it is no more the petition of the farmers in the Rapes of Lewes and Pevensey than it is the petition of the Mermaids of Lapland.--There was a _dinner_ after the meeting at the _Star-Inn_, at which there occurred something rather curious regarding myself. When at Battle, I had no intention of going to Lewes, till on the evening of my arrival at Battle, a gentleman, who had heard of the before-mentioned calumny, observed to me that I would do well not to go to Lewes. That very observation, made me resolve to go. I went, as a spectator, to the meeting; and I left no one ignorant of the place where I was to be found. I did not covet the noise of a dinner of from 200 to 300 persons, and I did not intend to go to it; but, being pressed to go, I finally went. After some previous common-place occurrences, Mr. Kemp, formerly a member for Lewes, was called to the chair; and he having given as a toast, "_the speedy discovery of a remedy for our distresses_," Mr. Ebenezer Johnstone, a gentleman of Lewes, whom I had never seen or heard of until that day, but who, I understand, is a very opulent and most respectable man, proposed _my health_, as that of a person likely to be able to point out the wished-for remedy.--This was the signal for the onset. Immediately upon the toast being given, a Mr. Hitchins, a farmer of Seaford, duly prepared for the purpose, got upon the table, and, with candle in one hand and _Register_ in the other, read the following garbled passage from my _Letter to Lord Egremont_.--"But, let us hear what the younger Ellman said: 'He had seen them employed in drawing beach gravel, as had been already described. One of them, the leader, worked with a bell about his neck.' Oh! the envy of surrounding nations and admiration of the world! Oh! what a 'glorious Constitution!' 'Oh! what a happy country! Impudent Radicals, to want to reform a Parliament, under which men enjoy such blessings! On such a subject it is impossible (under Six-Acts) to trust one's pen! However, this I will say; that here is much more than enough to make me rejoice in the ruin of the farmers; and I do, with all my heart, thank God for it; _seeing, that it appears absolutely necessary, that_ the present race of them should be totally broken up, in Sussex at any rate, _in order to put an end to this cruelty and insolence towards the labourers, who are by far the greater number and who are men, and a little better men too, than such employers as these, who are, in fact, monsters in human shape_!'" I had not the Register by me, and could not detect the garbling. All the words that I have put in Italics, this HITCHINS left out in the reading. What sort of man he must be the public will easily judge.--No sooner had Hitchins done, than up started Mr. Ingram, a farmer of Rottendean, who was the second person in the drama (for all had been duly prepared), and moved that I should be _put out of the room_! Some few of the Webb Hallites, joined by about six or eight of the dark, dirty-faced, half-whiskered, tax-eaters from Brighton (which is only eight miles off) joined in this cry. I rose, that they might see the man that they had to put out. Fortunately _for themselves_, not one of them attempted to approach me. They were like the mice that resolved that a bell should be put round the cat's neck!--However, a considerable hubbub took place. At last, however, the Chairman, Mr. Kemp, whose conduct was fair and manly, having given my health, I proceeded to address the company in substance as stated here below; and, it is curious enough, that even those who, upon my health being given, had taken their hats and gone out of the room (and amongst whom Mr. Ellman the younger was one) came back, formed a crowd, and were just as silent and attentive as the rest of the company! [NOTE, written at _Kensington, 13 Jan._--I must here, before I insert the speech, which has appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_, the Brighton papers, and in most of the London papers, except the base sinking _Old Times_ and the brimstone-smelling _Tramper_, or _Traveller_, which is, I well know, a mere tool in the hands of two snap-dragon Whig-Lawyers, whose greediness and folly I have so often had to expose, and which paper is maintained by a contrivance which I will amply expose in my next; I must, before I insert this speech, remark, that Mr. Ellman the younger has, to a gentleman whom I know to be incapable of falsehood, disavowed the proceeding of Hitchins; on which I have to observe, that the disavowal, to have any weight, must be public, or be made to me. As to the provocation that I have given the Ellmans, I am, upon reflection, ready to confess that I may have laid on the lash without a due regard to mercy. The fact is, that I have so long had the misfortune to be compelled to keep a parcel of badger-hided fellows, like SCARLETT, in order, that I am, like a drummer that has been used to flog old offenders, become _heavy handed_. I ought to have considered the Ellmans as _recruits_ and to have suited my tickler to the tenderness of their backs.--I hear that Mr. Ingram of Rottendean, who moved for my being turned out of the room, and who looked so foolish when he had to turn himself out, is an Officer of Yeomanry "_Gavaltry_." A ploughman spoiled! This man would, I dare say, have been a very good husbandman; but the unnatural working of the paper-system has sublimated him out of his senses. That greater Doctor, Mr. Peel, will bring him down again.--Mr. Hitchins, I am told, after going away, came back, stood on the landing-place (the door being open), and, while I was speaking, exclaimed, "Oh! the fools! How they open their mouths! How they suck it all in."--Suck _what_ in, Mr. Hitchins? Was it honey that dropped from my lips? Was it flattery? Amongst other things, I said that I liked the plain names of _farmer_ and _husbandman_ better than that of _agriculturist_; and, the prospect I held out to them, was that of a description to catch their applause?--But this Hitchins seems to be a very silly person indeed.] The following is a portion of the speech:-- "The toast having been _opposed_, and that, too, in the extraordinary manner we have witnessed, I will, at any rate, with your permission, make a remark or two on that manner. If the person who has made the opposition had been actuated by a spirit of fairness and justice, he would not have confined himself to a detached sentence of the paper from which he has read; but, would have taken the whole together; for, by taking a particular sentence, and leaving out all the rest, what writing is there that will not admit of a wicked interpretation? As to the particular part which has been read, I should not, perhaps, if I had seen it _in print_, and had had time to cool a little [it was in a Register sent from Norfolk], have sent it forth in terms so very general as to embrace all the farmers of this county; but, as to those of them who put _the bell round the labourer's neck_, I beg leave to be now repeating, in its severest sense, every word of the passage that has been read.--Born in a farm-house, bred up at the plough-tail, with a smock-frock on my back, taking great delight in all the pursuits of farmers, liking their society, and having amongst them my most esteemed friends, it is natural, that I should feel, and I do feel, uncommonly anxious to prevent, as far as I am able, that total ruin which now menaces them. But the labourer, was I to have no feeling for him? Was not he my _countryman_ too? And was I not to feel indignation against those farmers, who had had the hard-heartedness to put the bell round his neck, and thus wantonly insult and degrade the class to whose toils they owed their own ease? The statement of the fact was not mine; I read it in the newspaper as having come from Mr. Ellman the younger; he, in a very laudable manner, expressed his _horror_ at it; and was not I to express _indignation_ at what Mr. Ellman felt horror? That Gentleman and Mr. Webb Hall may monopolize all the wisdom in matters of political economy; but are they, or rather is Mr. Ellman alone, to engross all the feeling too? [It was here denied that Mr. Ellman had said the bell had been put on by _farmers_.] Very well, then, the complained of passage has been productive of benefit to the farmers of this county; for, as the thing stood in the newspapers, the natural and unavoidable inference was, that that atrocious, that inhuman act, was an act of Sussex farmers." _Brighton, Thursday, 10 Jan., 1822._ Lewes is in a valley of the _South Downs_, this town is at eight miles' distance, to the south south-west or thereabouts. There is a great extent of rich meadows above and below Lewes. The town itself is a model of solidity and neatness. The buildings all substantial to the very out-skirts; the pavements good and complete; the shops nice and clean; the people well-dressed; and, though last not least, the girls remarkably pretty, as, indeed, they are in most parts of Sussex; round faces, features small, little hands and wrists, plump arms, and bright eyes. The Sussex men, too, are remarkable for their good looks. A Mr. Baxter, a stationer at Lewes, showed me a _farmer's account book_ which is a very complete thing of the kind. The Inns are good at Lewes, the people civil and not servile, and the charges really (considering the taxes) far below what one could reasonably expect.--From Lewes to Brighton the road winds along between the hills of the South Downs, which, in this mild weather, are mostly beautifully green even at this season, with flocks of sheep feeding on them.--Brighton itself lies in a valley cut across at one end by the sea, and its extension, or _Wen_, has swelled up the sides of the hills and has run some distance up the valley.--The first thing you see in approaching Brighton from Lewes is a splendid _horse-barrack_ on one side of the road, and a heap of low, shabby, nasty houses, irregularly built, on the other side. This is always the case where there is a barrack. How soon a Reformed Parliament would make both disappear! Brighton is a very pleasant place. For a _wen_ remarkably so. The _Kremlin_, the very name of which has so long been a subject of laughter all over the country, lies in the gorge of the valley, and amongst the old houses of the town. The grounds, which cannot, I think, exceed a couple or three acres, are surrounded by a wall neither lofty nor good-looking. Above this rise some trees, bad in sorts, stunted in growth, and dirty with smoke. As to the "palace" as the Brighton newspapers call it, the apartments appear to be all upon the ground floor; and, when you see the thing from a distance, you think you see a parcel of _cradle-spits_, of various dimensions, sticking up out of the mouths of so many enormous squat decanters. Take a square box, the sides of which are three feet and a half, and the height a foot and a half. Take a large Norfolk-turnip, cut off the green of the leaves, leave the stalks 9 inches long, tie these round with a string three inches from the top, and put the turnip on the middle of the top of the box. Then take four turnips of half the size, treat them in the same way, and put them on the corners of the box. Then take a considerable number of bulbs of the crown-imperial, the narcissus, the hyacinth, the tulip, the crocus, and others; let the leaves of each have sprouted to about an inch, more or less according to the size of the bulb; put all these, pretty promiscuously, but pretty thickly, on the top of the box. Then stand off and look at your architecture. There! That's "_a Kremlin_"! Only you must cut some church-looking windows in the sides of the box. As to what you ought to put _into_ the box, that is a subject far above my cut.--Brighton is naturally a place of resort for _expectants_, and a shifty ugly-looking swarm is, of course, assembled here. Some of the fellows, who had endeavoured to disturb our harmony at the dinner at Lewes, were parading, amongst this swarm, on the cliff. You may always know them by their lank jaws, the stiffeners round their necks, their hidden or _no_ shirts, their stays, their false shoulders, hips, and haunches, their half-whiskers, and by their skins, colour of veal kidney-suet, warmed a little, and then powdered with dirty dust.--These vermin excepted, the people at Brighton make a very fine figure. The trades-people are very nice in all their concerns. The houses are excellent, built chiefly with a blue or purple brick; and bow-windows appear to be the general taste. I can easily believe this to be a very healthy place: the open downs on the one side and the open sea on the other. No inlet, cove, or river; and, of course, no swamps.--I have spent this evening very pleasantly in a company of reformers, who, though plain tradesmen and mechanics, know I am quite satisfied, more about the questions that agitate the country, than any equal number of Lords. _Kensington, Friday, 11 January, 1822._ Came home by the way of Cuckfield, Worth, and Red-Hill, instead of by Uckfield, Grinstead and Godstone, and got into the same road again at Croydon. The roads being nearly parallel lines and at no great distance from each other, the soil is nearly the same, with the exception of the fine oak country between Godstone and Grinstead, which does not go so far westward as my homeward bound road, where the land, opposite the spot just spoken of, becomes more of a moor than a clay, and though there are oaks, they are not nearly so fine as those on the other road. The tops are flatter; the side _shoots_ are sometimes higher than the middle shoot; a certain proof that the _tap-root_ has met with something that it does not like.--I see (Jan. 15) that Mr. Curteis has thought it necessary to state in the public papers, that _he_ had _nothing to do_ with my being at the dinner at Battle! Who the Devil thought he had? Why, was it not an ordinary; and had I not as much right there as he? He has said, too, that _he did not know_ that I was to be at the dinner. How should he? Why was it necessary to apprise him of it any more than the porter of the inn? He has said, that he did not hear of any deputation to invite me to the dinner, and, "_upon inquiry_," cannot find that there was any. Have I said that there was any invitation at all? There was; but I have not said so. I went to the dinner for my half-crown like another man, without knowing, or caring, who would be at it. But, if Mr. Curteis thought it necessary to say so much, he might have said a little more. He might have said, that he twice addressed himself to me in a very peculiar manner, and that I never addressed myself to him except in answer; and, if he had thought "_inquiry_" necessary upon this subject also, he might have found that, though always the first to speak or hold out the hand to a hard-fisted artisan or labourer, I never did the same to a man of rank or riches in the whole course of my life. Mr. Curteis might have said, too, that unless I had gone to the dinner, the party would, according to appearances, have been very _select_; that I found him at the head of one of the tables, with less than thirty persons in the room; that the number swelled up to about one hundred and thirty; that no person was at the other table; that I took my seat at it; and that that table became almost immediately crowded from one end to the other. To these Mr. Curteis, when his hand was in, might have added, that he turned himself in his chair and listened to my speech with the greatest attention; that he bade me, by name, good night, when he retired; that he took not a man away with him; and that the gentleman who was called on to replace him in the chair (whose name I have forgotten) had got from his seat during the evening to come and shake me by the hand. All these things Mr. Curteis might have said; but the fact is, he has been bullied by the base newspapers, and he has not been able to muster up courage to act the manly part, and which, too, he would have found to be the _wise_ part in the end. When he gave the toast "_more money and less taxes_," he turned himself towards me, and said, "That is a toast that I am sure _you approve of_, Mr. Cobbett." To which I answered, "It would be made good, Sir, if _members of Parliament would do their duty_."--I appeal to all the gentlemen present for the truth of what I say. Perhaps Mr. Curteis, in his heart, did not like to give my health. If that was the case, he ought to have left the chair, and retired. _Straight forward_ is the best course; and, see what difficulties Mr. Curteis has involved himself in by not pursuing it! I have no doubt that he was agreeably surprised when he saw and heard me. Why not _say_ then: "After all that has been said about Cobbett, he is a devilish pleasant, frank, and clever fellow, at any rate."--How much better this would have been, than to act the part that Mr. Curteis has acted.----The Editors of the _Brighton Chronicle and Lewes Express_ have, out of mere modesty, I dare say, fallen a little into Mr. Curteis's strain. In closing their account (in their paper of the 15th) of the Lewes Meeting, they say that I addressed the company at some length, as reported in their Supplement published on Thursday the 10th. And then they think it necessary to add: "For OURSELVES, we can say, that we never saw Mr. Cobbett until the meeting at Battle." Now, had it not been for pure maiden-like bashfulness, they would, doubtless, have added, that when they did see me, they were profuse in expressions of their gratitude to me for having merely _named their paper_ in my Register a thing, which, as I told them, I myself had forgotten. When, too, they were speaking, in reference to a speech made in the Hall, of "one of the finest specimens of oratory that has ever been given in any assembly," it was, without doubt, out of pure compassion for the perverted taste of their Lewes readers, that they suppressed the fact, that the agent of the paper at Lewes sent them word, that it was useless for them to send any account of the meeting, unless that account contained Mr. Cobbett's speech; that he, the agent, could have sold a hundred papers that morning, if they had contained Mr. Cobbett's speech; but could not sell one without it. I myself, by mere accident, heard this message delivered to a third person by their agent at Lewes. And, as I said before, it must have been pure tenderness towards their readers that made the editors suppress a fact so injurious to the reputation of those readers in point of _taste_! However, at last, these editors seem to have triumphed over all feelings of this sort; for, having printed off a placard, advertising their Supplement, in which placard no mention was made of _me_, they, grown bold all of a sudden, took a _painting brush_, and in large letters put into their placard, "_Mr. Cobbett's Speech at Lewes_;" so that, at a little distance, the placard seemed to relate to nothing else; and there was "the finest specimen of oratory" left to find its way into the world under the auspices of my rustic harangue. Good God! What will this world come to! We shall, by-and-bye, have to laugh at the workings of envy in the very worms that we breed in our bodies!--The fast-sinking Old Times news-paper, its cat-and-dog opponent the New Times, the Courier, and the Whig-Lawyer Tramper, called the "Traveller;" the fellows who conduct these vehicles; these wretched fellows, their very livers burning with envy, have hasted to inform their readers, that "they have authority to state that Lord Ashburnham and Mr. Fuller were not present at the dinner at Battle where Cobbett's health was drunk." These fellows have now "authority" to state, that there were no two men who dined at Battle, that I should not prefer as companions to Lord Ashburnham and Mr. Fuller, commonly called "Jack Fuller," seeing that I am no admirer of _lofty reserve_, and that, of all things on earth, I abhor a head like a drum, all noise and emptiness. These scribes have also "authority" to state, that they amuse me and the public too by declining rapidly in their sale from their exclusion of my country lectures, which have only begun. In addition to this The Tramper editor has "authority" to state, that one of his papers of 5th Jan. has been sent to the Register-office by post, with these words written on it: "This scoundrel paper has taken no notice of Mr. Cobbett's speech." All these papers have "authority" to state beforehand, that they will insert no account of what shall take place, within these three or four weeks, at _Huntingdon_, at _Lynn_, at _Chichester_, and other places where I intend to be. And, lastly, the editors have full "authority" to state, that they may employ, without let or molestation of any sort, either private or public, the price of the last number that they shall sell in the purchase of hemp or ratsbane, as the sure means of a happy deliverance from their present state of torment. HUNTINGDON JOURNAL: THROUGH WARE AND ROYSTON, TO HUNTINGDON. _Royston, Monday morning, 21st Jan., 1822._ Came from London, yesterday noon, to this town on my way to Huntingdon. My road was through Ware. Royston is just within the line (on the Cambridgeshire side), which divides Hertfordshire from Cambridgeshire. On this road, as on almost all the others going from it, the enormous _Wen_ has swelled out to the distance of about six or seven miles.--The land till you come nearly to Ware which is in Hertfordshire, and which is twenty-three miles from the _Wen_, is chiefly a strong and deep loam, with the gravel a good distance from the surface. The land is good wheat-land; but I observed only three fields of Swedish turnips in the 23 miles, and no wheat drilled. The wheat is sown on ridges of great width here-and-there; sometimes on ridges of ten, at others on ridges of seven, on those of five, four, three, and even two, feet wide. Yet the bottom is manifestly not very wet generally; and that there is not a bottom of clay is clear from the poor growth of the oak trees. All the trees are shabby in this country; and the eye is incessantly offended by the sight of _pollards_, which are seldom suffered to disgrace even the meanest lands in Hampshire or Sussex. As you approach Ware the bottom becomes chalk of a dirtyish colour, and, in some parts, far below the surface. After you quit Ware, which is a mere market town, the land grows by degrees poorer; the chalk lies nearer and nearer to the surface, till you come to the open common-fields within a few miles of Royston. Along here the land is poor enough. It is not the stiff red loam mixed with large blue-grey flints, lying upon the chalk, such as you see in the north of Hampshire; but a whitish sort of clay, with little yellow flattish stones amongst it; sure signs of a hungry soil. Yet this land bears wheat sometimes.--Royston is at the foot of this high poor land; or, rather in a dell, the open side of which looks towards the North. It is a common market town. Not mean, but having nothing of beauty about it; and having on it, on three of the sides out of the four, those very ugly things, common-fields, which have all the nakedness, without any of the smoothness, of Downs. _Huntingdon, Tuesday morning, 22nd Jan., 1822._ Immediately upon quitting Royston, you come along, for a considerable distance, with enclosed fields on the left and open common-fields on the right. Here the land is excellent. A dark, rich loam, free from stones, on chalk beneath at a great distance. The land appears, for a mile or two, to resemble that at and near Faversham in Kent, which I have before noticed. The fields on the left seem to have been enclosed by Act of Parliament; and they certainly are the most beautiful tract of _fields_ that I ever saw. Their extent may be from ten to thirty acres each. Divided by quick-set hedges, exceedingly well planted and raised. The whole tract is nearly a perfect level. The cultivation neat, and the stubble heaps, such as remain out, giving a proof of great crops of straw, while, on land with a chalk bottom, there is seldom any want of a proportionate quantity of grain. Even here, however, I saw but few Swedish turnips, and those not good. Nor did I see any wheat drilled; and observed that, in many parts, the broad-cast sowing had been performed in a most careless manner, especially at about three miles from Royston, where some parts of the broad lands seemed to have had the seed flung along them with a shovel, while other parts contained only here and there a blade; or, at least, were so thinly supplied as to make it almost doubtful whether they had not been wholly missed. In some parts the middles only of the ridges were sown thickly. This is shocking husbandry. A Norfolk or a Kentish farmer would have sowed a bushel and a half of seed to the acre here, and would have had a far better plant of wheat.--About four miles, I think it is, from Royston you come to the estate of Lord Hardwicke. You see the house at the end of an avenue about two miles long, which, however, wants the main thing, namely, fine and lofty trees. The soil here begins to be a very stiff loam at top; clay beneath for a considerable distance; and, in some places, beds of yellow gravel with very large stones mixed in it. The land is generally cold; a great deal of draining is wanted; and yet the bottom is such as not to be favourable to the growth of the _oak_, of which sort I have not seen one _handsome_ tree since I left London. A grove, such as I saw at Weston in Herefordshire, would, here, be a thing to attract the attention of all ranks and all ages. What, then, would they say, on beholding a wood of Oaks, Hickories, Chestnuts, Walnuts, Locusts, Gum-trees, and Maples in America!--Lord Hardwicke's avenue appears to be lined with Elms chiefly. They are shabby. He might have had _ash_; for the ash will grow _anywhere_; on sand, on gravel, on clay, on chalk, or in swamps. It is surprising that those who planted these rows of trees did not observe how well the ash grows here! In the hedge-rows, in the plantations, everywhere the ash is fine. The ash is the _hardiest_ of all our large trees. Look at trees on any part of the sea coast. You will see them all, even the firs, lean from the sea breeze, except the ash. You will see the oak _shaved up_ on the side of the breeze. But the ash stands upright, as if in a warm woody dell. We have no tree that attains a greater height than the ash; and certainly none that equals it in beauty of leaf. It bears pruning better than any other tree. Its timber is one of the most useful; and as underwood and fire-wood it far exceeds all others of English growth. From the trees of an avenue like that of Lord Hardwicke a hundred pounds worth of fuel might, if the trees were ash, be cut every year in prunings necessary to preserve the health and beauty of the trees. Yet, on this same land, has his lordship planted many acres of larches and firs. These appear to have been planted about twelve years. If instead of these he had planted ash, four years from the seed bed and once removed; had cut them down within an inch of the ground the second year after planting; and had planted them at four feet apart, he would now have had about six thousand ash-poles, on an average twelve feet long, on each acre of land in his plantation; which, at three-halfpence each, would have been worth somewhere nearly forty pounds an acre. He might now have cut the poles, leaving about 600 to stand upon an acre to come to trees; and while these were growing to timber, the underwood would, for poles, hoops, broom-sticks, spars, rods, and faggots, have been worth twenty-five or thirty pounds an acre every ten years. Can beggarly stuff, like larches and firs, ever be profitable to this extent? Ash is timber, fit for the wheelwright, at the age of twenty years, or less. What can you do with a rotten fir thing at that age?----This estate of Lord Hardwicke appears to be very large. There is a part which is, apparently, in his own hands, as, indeed, the whole must soon be, unless he give up all idea of rent, or, unless he can _choack off_ the fundholder or get again afloat on the sea of paper-money. In this part of his land there is a fine piece of _Lucerne_ in rows at about eighteen inches distant from each other. They are now manuring it with _burnt-earth_ mixed with some dung; and I see several heaps of burnt-earth hereabouts. The directions for doing this are contained in my _Year's Residence_, as taught me by Mr. William Gauntlet, of Winchester.--The land is, all along here, laid up in those wide and high ridges, which I saw in Gloucestershire, going from Gloucester to Oxford, as I have already mentioned. These ridges are ploughed _back_ or _down_; but they are ploughed up again for every sowing.--At an Inn near Lord Hardwicke's I saw the finest parcel of dove-house pigeons I ever saw in my life.--Between this place and Huntingdon is the village of Caxton, which very much resembles almost a village of the same size in _Picardy_, where I saw the women dragging harrows to harrow in the corn. Certainly this village resembles nothing English, except some of the rascally rotten boroughs in Cornwall and Devonshire, on which a just Providence seems to have entailed its curse. The land just about here does seem to be really bad. The face of the country is naked. The few scrubbed trees that now-and-then meet the eye, and even the quick-sets, are covered with a yellow moss. All is bleak and comfortless; and, just on the most dreary part of this most dreary scene, stands almost opportunely, "_Caxton Gibbet_," tendering its friendly one arm to the passers-by. It has recently been fresh-painted, and written on in conspicuous characters, for the benefit, I suppose, of those who cannot exist under the thought of wheat at four shillings a bushel.--Not far from this is a new house, which, the coachman says, belongs to a Mr. Cheer, who, if report speaks truly, is not, however, notwithstanding his name, guilty of the sin of making people either drunkards or gluttons. Certainly the spot, on which he has built his house, is one of the most ugly that I ever saw. Few spots have everything that you could wish to find; but this, according to my judgment, has everything that every man of ordinary taste would wish to avoid.--The country changes but little till you get quite to Huntingdon. The land is generally quite open, or in large fields. Strong, wheat-land, that wants a good deal of draining. Very few turnips of any sort are raised; and, of course, few sheep and cattle kept. Few trees, and those scrubbed. Few woods, and those small. Few hills, and those hardly worthy of the name. All which, when we see them, make us cease to wonder, that this country is so famous for _fox-hunting_. Such it has doubtless been in all times, and to this circumstance Huntingdon, that is to say, Huntingdun, or Huntingdown, unquestionably owes its name; because _down_ does not mean _unploughed_ land, but open and _unsheltered_ land, and the Saxon word is _dun_.--When you come down near to the town itself, the scene suddenly, totally, and most agreeably, changes. The _River Ouse_ separates Godmanchester from Huntingdon, and there is, I think, no very great difference in the population of the two. Both together do not make up a population of more than about five thousand souls. Huntingdon is a slightly built town, compared with Lewes, for instance. The houses are not in general so high, nor made of such solid and costly materials. The shops are not so large and their contents not so costly. There is not a show of so much business and so much opulence. But Huntingdon is a very clean and nice place, contains many elegant houses, and the environs are beautiful. Above and below the bridge, under which the Ouse passes, are the most beautiful, and by far the most beautiful, meadows that I ever saw in my life. The meadows at Lewes, at Guildford, at Farnham, at Winchester, at Salisbury, at Exeter, at Gloucester, at Hereford, and even at Canterbury, are nothing, compared with those of Huntingdon in point of beauty. Here are no reeds, here is no sedge, no unevennesses of any sort. Here are _bowling-greens_ of hundreds of acres in extent, with a river winding through them, full to the brink. _One_ of these meadows is the _race-course_; and so pretty a spot, so level, so smooth, so green, and of such an extent I never saw, and never expected to see. From the bridge you look across the valleys, first to the West and then to the East; the valleys terminate at the foot of rising ground, well set with trees, from amongst which church spires raise their heads here-and-there. I think it would be very difficult to find a more delightful spot than this in the world. To my fancy (and every one to his taste) the prospect from this bridge far surpasses that from Richmond Hill.--All that I have yet seen of Huntingdon I like exceedingly. It is one of those pretty, clean, unstenched, unconfined places that tend to lengthen life and make it happy. JOURNAL: HERTFORDSHIRE, AND BUCKINGHAMSHIRE: TO ST. ALBANS, THROUGH EDGWARE, STANMORE, AND WATFORD, RETURNING BY REDBOURN, HEMPSTEAD, AND CHESHAM. _Saint Albans, June 19, 1822._ From Kensington to this place, through Edgware, Stanmore, and Watford, the crop is almost entirely hay, from fields of permanent grass, manured by dung and other matter brought from the _Wen_. Near the Wen, where they have had the _first haul_ of the Irish and other perambulating labourers, the hay is all in rick. Some miles further down it is nearly all in. Towards Stanmore and Watford, a third, perhaps, of the grass remains to be cut. It is curious to see how the thing regulates itself. We saw, all the way down, squads of labourers, of different departments, migrating from tract to tract; leaving the cleared fields behind them and proceeding on towards the work to be yet performed; and then, as to the classes of labourers, the _mowers_, with their scythes on their shoulders, were in front, going on towards the standing crops, while the _haymakers_ were coming on behind towards the grass already cut or cutting. The weather is fair and warm; so that the public-houses on the road are pouring out their beer pretty fast, and are getting a good share of the wages of these thirsty souls. It is an exchange of beer for sweat; but the tax-eaters get, after all, the far greater part of the sweat; for, if it were not for the tax, the beer would sell for three-halfpence a pot instead of fivepence. Of this threepence-halfpenny the Jews and Jobbers get about twopence-halfpenny. It is curious to observe how the different labours are divided as to the _nations_. The mowers are all _English_; the haymakers all _Irish_. Scotchmen toil hard enough in Scotland; but when they go from home it is not to _work_, if you please. They are found in gardens, and especially in gentlemen's gardens. Tying up flowers, picking dead leaves off exotics, peeping into melon-frames, publishing the banns of marriage between the "_male_" and "_female_" blossoms, tap-tap-tapping against a wall with a hammer that weighs half an ounce. They have backs as straight and shoulders as square as heroes of Waterloo; and who can blame them? The digging, the mowing, the carrying of loads, all the break-back and sweat-extracting work, they leave to be performed by those who have less _prudence_ than they have. The great purpose of human art, the great end of human study, is to obtain _ease_, to throw the burden of labour from our own shoulders, and fix it on those of others. The crop of hay is very large, and that part which is in, is in very good order. We shall have hardly any hay that is not fine and sweet; and we shall have it, carried to London, at less, I dare say, than 3_l._ a load, that is 18 cwt. So that here the _evil_ of "_over-production_" will be great indeed! Whether we shall have any projects for taking hay into _pawn_ is more than any of us can say; for, after what we have seen, need we be surprised if we were to hear it proposed to take butter and even milk into pawn. In after times, the mad projects of these days will become proverbial. The Oracle and the over-production men will totally supplant the _March-hare_.--This is, all along here, and especially as far as Stanmore, a very dull and ugly country: flat, and all grass-fields and elms. Few _birds_ of any kind, and few _constant_ labourers being wanted; scarcely any cottages and gardens, which form one of the great beauties of a country. Stanmore is on a hill; but it looks over a country of little variety, though rich. What a difference between the view here and those which carry the eye over the coppices, the corn-fields, the hop-gardens and the orchards of Kent! It is miserable land from Stanmore to Watford, where we get into Hertfordshire. Hence to Saint Albans there is generally chalk at bottom with a red tenacious loam at top, with flints, grey on the outside and dark blue within. Wherever this is the soil, the wheat grows well. The crops, and especially that of the barley, are very fine and very forward. The wheat, in general, does not appear to be a heavy crop; but the ears seem as if they would be full from bottom to top; and we have had so much heat, that the grain is pretty sure to be plump, let the weather, for the rest of the summer, be what it may. The produce depends more on the weather, previous to the coming out of the ear, than on the subsequent weather. In the Northern parts of America, where they have, some years, not heat enough to bring the Indian Corn to perfection, I have observed that, if they have about fifteen days with the thermometer at _ninety_, before the ear makes its appearance, the crop never fails, though the weather may be ever so unfavourable afterwards. This allies with the old remark of the country people in England, that "_May_ makes or mars the wheat;" for it is in May that the ear and the grains are _formed_. _Kensington, June 24, 1822._ Set out at four this morning for Redbourn, and then turned off to the Westward to go to High Wycombe, through Hempstead and Chesham. The _wheat_ is good all the way. The barley and oats good enough till I came to Hempstead. But the land along here is very fine: a red tenacious flinty loam upon a bed of chalk at a yard or two beneath, which, in my opinion, is the very best _corn land_ that we have in England. The fields here, like those in the rich parts of Devonshire, will bear perpetual grass. Any of them will become upland meadows. The land is, in short, excellent, and it is a real corn-country. The _trees_, from Redbourn to Hempstead are very fine; oaks, ashes, and beeches. Some of the finest of each sort, and the very finest ashes I ever saw in my life. They are in great numbers, and make the fields look most beautiful. No villanous things of the _fir-tribe_ offend the eye here. The custom is in this part of Hertfordshire (and I am told it continues into Bedfordshire) to leave a _border_ round the ploughed part of the fields to bear grass and to make hay from, so that, the grass being now made into hay, every corn field has a closely mowed grass walk about ten feet wide all round it, between the corn and the hedge. This is most beautiful! The hedges are now full of the shepherd's rose, honeysuckles, and all sorts of wild flowers; so that you are upon a grass walk, with this most beautiful of all flower gardens and shrubberies on your one hand, and with the corn on the other. And thus you go from field to field (on foot or on horseback), the sort of corn, the sort of underwood and timber, the shape and size of the fields, the height of the hedge-rows, the height of the trees, all continually varying. Talk of _pleasure-grounds_ indeed! What, that man ever invented, under the name of pleasure-grounds, can equal these fields in Hertfordshire?--This is a profitable system too; for the ground under hedges bears little corn, and it bears very good grass. Something, however, depends on the nature of the soil: for it is not all land that will bear grass, fit for hay, perpetually; and, when the land will not do that, these headlands would only be a harbour for weeds and couch-grass, the seeds of which would fill the fields with their mischievous race.--Mr. TULL has observed upon the great use of headlands.--It is curious enough, that these headlands cease soon after you get into Buckinghamshire. At first you see now-and-then a field _without_ a grass headland; then it comes to now-and-then a field _with_ one; and, at the end of five or six miles, they wholly cease. Hempstead is a very pretty town, with beautiful environs, and there is a canal that comes near it, and that goes on to London. It lies at the foot of a hill. It is clean, substantially built, and a very pretty place altogether. Between Hempstead and Chesham the land is not so good. I came into Buckinghamshire before I got into the latter place. Passed over two commons. But, still, the land is not bad. It is drier; nearer the chalk, and not so red. The wheat continues good, though not heavy; but the barley, on the land that is not very good, is light, begins to look _blue_, and the backward oats are very short. On the still thinner lands the barley and oats must be a very short crop.--People do not sow _turnips_, the ground is so dry, and, I should think, that the _Swede-crop_ will be very short; for _Swedes_ ought to be _up_ at least by this time. If I had Swedes to sow, I would sow them now, and upon ground very deeply and finely broken. I would sow directly after the plough, not being half an hour behind it, and would roll the ground as hard as possible. I am sure the plants would come up, even without rain. And, the moment the rain came, they would grow famously.--Chesham is a nice little town, lying in a deep and narrow valley, with a stream of water running through it. All along the country that I have come the labourers' dwellings are good. They are made of what they call _brick-nog_; that is to say, a frame of wood, and a single brick thick, filling up the vacancies between the timber. They are generally covered with tile. Not _pretty_ by any means; but they are good; and you see here, as in Kent, Susses, Surrey, and Hampshire, and, indeed, in almost every part of England, that most interesting of all objects, that which is such an honour to England, and that which distinguishes it from all the rest of the world, namely, those _neatly kept and productive little gardens round the labourers' houses_, which are seldom unornamented with more or less of flowers. We have only to look at these to know what sort of people English labourers are: these gardens are the answer to the _Malthuses_ and the _Scarletts_. Shut your mouths, you Scotch Economists; cease bawling, Mr. Brougham, and you Edinburgh Reviewers, till _you_ can show us something, not _like_, but approaching towards a likeness of _this_! The orchards all along this country are by no means bad. Not like those of Herefordshire and the north of Kent; but a great deal better than in many other parts of the kingdom. The cherry-trees are pretty abundant and particularly good. There are not many of the _merries_, as they call them in Kent and Hampshire; that is to say, the little black cherry, the name of which is a corruption from the French, _merise_, in the singular, and _merises_ in the plural. I saw the little boys, in many places, set to keep the birds off the cherries, which reminded me of the time when I followed the same occupation, and also of the toll that I used to take in payment. The children are all along here, I mean the little children, locked out of the doors, while the fathers and mothers are at work in the fields. I saw many little groups of this sort; and this is one advantage of having plenty of room on the outside of a house. I never saw the country children better clad, or look cleaner and fatter than they look here, and I have the very great pleasure to add, that I do not think I saw three acres of _potatoes_ in this whole tract of fine country, from St. Albans to Redbourn, from Redbourn to Hempstead, and from Hempstead to Chesham. In all the houses where I have been, they use the roasted rye instead of coffee or tea, and I saw one gentleman who had sown a piece of rye (a grain not common in this part of the country) for the express purpose. It costs about three farthings a pound, roasted and ground into powder.--The pay of the labourers varies from eight to twelve shillings a-week. Grass mowers get two shillings a-day, two quarts of what they call strong beer, and as much small beer as they can drink. After quitting Chesham, I passed through a wood, resembling, as nearly as possible, the woods in the more cultivated parts of Long Island, with these exceptions, that there the woods consist of a great variety of trees, and of more beautiful foliage. Here there are only two sorts of trees, beech and oak: but the wood at bottom was precisely like an American wood: none of that stuff which we generally call underwood: the trees standing very thick in some places: the shade so complete as never to permit herbage below: no bushes of any sort; and nothing to impede your steps but little spindling trees here and there grown up from the seed. The trees here are as lofty, too, as they generally are in the Long Island woods, and as straight, except in cases where you find clumps of the tulip-tree, which sometimes go much above a hundred feet high as straight as a line. The oaks seem here to vie with the beeches, in size as well as in loftiness and straightness. I saw several oaks which I think were more than eighty feet high, and several with a clear stem of more than forty feet, being pretty nearly as far through at that distance from the ground as at bottom; and I think I saw more than one, with a clear stem of fifty feet, a foot and a half through at that distance from the ground. This is by far the finest _plank oak_ that I ever saw in England. The road through the wood is winding and brings you out at the corner of a field, lying sloping to the south, three sides of it bordered by wood and the field planted as an orchard. This is precisely what you see in so many thousands of places in America. I had passed through Hempstead a little while before, which certainly gave its name to the Township in which I lived in Long Island, and which I used to write _Hampstead_, contrary to the orthography of the place, never having heard of such a place as _Hempstead_ in England. Passing through Hempstead I gave my mind a toss back to Long Island, and this beautiful wood and orchard really made me almost conceit that I was there, and gave rise to a thousand interesting and pleasant reflections. On quitting the wood I crossed the great road from London to Wendover, went across the park of Mr. Drake, and up a steep hill towards the great road leading to Wycombe. Mr. Drake's is a very beautiful place, and has a great deal of very fine timber upon it. I think I counted pretty nearly 200 oak trees, worth, on an average, five pounds a-piece, growing within twenty yards of the road that I was going along. Mr. Drake has some thousands of these, I dare say, besides his beech; and, therefore, _he_ will be able to stand a tug with the fundholders for some time. When I got to High Wycombe, I found everything a week earlier than in the rich part of Hertfordshire. High Wycombe, as if the name was ironical, lies along the bottom of a narrow and deep valley, the hills on each side being very steep indeed. The valley runs somewhere about from east to west, and the wheat on the hills facing the south will, if this weather continue, be fit to reap in ten days. I saw one field of oats that a bold farmer would cut next Monday. Wycombe is a very fine and very clean market town; the people all looking extremely well; the girls somewhat larger featured and larger boned than those in Sussex, and not so fresh-coloured and bright-eyed. More like the girls of America, and that is saying quite as much as any reasonable woman can expect or wish for. The Hills on the south side of Wycombe form a park and estate now the property of Smith, who was a banker or stocking-maker at Nottingham, who was made a Lord in the time of Pitt, and who purchased this estate of the late Marquis of Landsdowne, one of whose titles is Baron Wycombe. Wycombe is one of those famous things called Boroughs, and 34 votes in this Borough send Sir John Dashwood and Sir Thomas Baring to the "collective wisdom." The landlord where I put up "_remembered_" the name of Dashwood, but had "_forgotten_" who the "_other_" was! There would be no forgettings of this sort, if these thirty-four, together with _their_ representatives, were called upon to pay the share of the National Debt due from High Wycombe. Between High Wycombe and Beaconsfield, where the soil is much about that last described, the wheat continued to be equally early with that about Wycombe. As I approached Uxbridge I got off the chalk upon a gravelly bottom, and then from Uxbridge to Shepherd's Bush on a bottom of clay. Grass-fields and elm-trees, with here and there a wheat or a bean-field, form the features of this most ugly country, which would have been perfectly unbearable after quitting the neighbourhoods of Hempstead, Chesham and High Wycombe, had it not been for the diversion I derived from meeting, in all the various modes of conveyance, the cockneys going to _Ealing Fair_, which is one of those things which nature herself would almost seem to have provided for drawing off the matter and giving occasional relief to the overcharged _Wen_. I have traversed to-day what I think may be called an average of England as to corn-crops. Some of the best, certainly; and pretty nearly some of the worst. My observation as to the wheat is, that it will be a fair and average crop, and extremely early; because, though it is not a heavy crop, though the ears are not long they will be full; and the earliness seems to preclude the possibility of blight, and to ensure plump grain. The barley and oats must, upon an average, be a light crop. The peas a light crop; and as to beans, unless there have been rains where beans are mostly grown, they cannot be half a crop; for they will not endure heat. I tried masagan beans in Long Island, and could not get them to bear more than a pod or two upon a stem. Beans love cold land and shade. The earliness of the harvest (for early it must be) is always a clear advantage. This fine summer, though it may not lead to a good crop of turnips, has already put safe into store such a crop of hay as I believe England never saw before. Looking out of the window, I see the harness of the Wiltshire wagon-horses (at this moment going by) covered with the chalk-dust of that county; so that the fine weather continues in the West. The saint-foin hay has all been got in, in the chalk countries, without a drop of wet; and when that is the case, the farmers stand in no need of oats. The grass crops have been large everywhere, as well as got in in good order. The fallows must be in excellent order. It must be a sloven indeed that will sow his wheat in foul ground next autumn; and the sun, where the fallows have been well stirred, will have done more to enrich the land than all the dung-carts and all the other means employed by the hand of man. Such a summer is a great blessing; and the only draw-back is, the dismal apprehension of not seeing such another for many years to come. It is favourable for poultry, for colts, for calves, for lambs, for young animals of all descriptions, not excepting the game. The partridges will be very early. They are now getting into the roads with their young ones, to roll in the dust. The first broods of partridges in England are very frequently killed by the wet and cold; and this is one reason why the game is not so plenty here as it is in countries more blest with sun. This will not be the case this year; and, in short, this is one of the finest years that I ever knew. WM. COBBETT. RURAL RIDE, OF 104 MILES, FROM KENSINGTON TO UPHUSBAND; INCLUDING A RUSTIC HARANGUE AT WINCHESTER, AT A DINNER WITH THE FARMERS, ON THE 28TH SEPTEMBER. _Chilworth, near Guildford, Surrey, Wednesday, 25th Sept., 1822._ This morning I set off, in rather a drizzling rain, from Kensington, on horseback, accompanied by my son, with an intention of going to Uphusband, near Andover, which is situated in the North West corner of Hampshire. It is very true that I could have gone to Uphusband by travelling only about 66 miles, and in the space of about eight hours. But my object was not to see inns and turnpike-roads, but to see the _country_; to see the farmers at home, and to see the labourers in the fields; and to do this you must go either on foot or on horse-back. With a gig you cannot get about amongst bye-lanes and across fields, through bridle-ways and hunting-gates; and to _tramp it_ is too slow, leaving the labour out of the question, and that is not a trifle. We went through the turnpike-gate at Kensington, and immediately turned down the lane to our left, proceeded on to Fulham, crossed Putney bridge into Surrey, went over Barnes Common, and then, going on the upper side of Richmond, got again into Middlesex by crossing Richmond bridge. All Middlesex is _ugly_, notwithstanding the millions upon millions which it is continually sucking up from the rest of the kingdom; and, though the Thames and its meadows now-and-then are seen from the road, the country is not less ugly from Richmond to Chertsey bridge, through Twickenham, Hampton, Sunbury, and Sheperton, than it is elsewhere. The soil is a gravel at bottom with a black loam at top near the Thames; further back it is a sort of spewy gravel; and the buildings consist generally of tax-eaters' showy, tea-garden-like boxes, and of shabby dwellings of labouring people who, in this part of the country, look to be about half _Saint Giles's_: dirty, and have every appearance of drinking gin. At Chertsey, where we came into Surrey again, there was a Fair for horses, cattle, and pigs. I did not see any sheep. Everything was exceedingly _dull_. Cart colts, two and three years old, were selling for _less than a third_ of what they sold for in 1813. The cattle were of an inferior description to be sure; but the price was low almost beyond belief. Cows, which would have sold for 15_l._ in 1813, did not get buyers at 3_l._ I had no time to inquire much about the pigs, but a man told me that they were dirt-cheap. Near Chertsey is _Saint Anne's Hill_ and some other pretty spots. Upon being shown this hill I was put in mind of Mr. Fox; and that brought into my head a grant that he obtained of _Crown lands_ in this neighbourhood, in, I think, 1806. The Duke of York obtained, by Act of Parliament, a much larger grant of these lands, at Oatlands, in 1804, I think it was. But this was natural enough; this is what would surprise nobody. Mr. Fox's was another affair; and especially when taken into view with what I am now going to relate. In 1804 or 1805, Fordyce, the late Duchess of Gordon's brother, was Collector General (or had been) of taxes in Scotland, and owed a large arrear to the public. He was also Surveyor of Crown lands. The then Opposition were for hauling him up. Pitt was again in power. Mr. Creevey was to bring forward the motion in the House of Commons, and Mr. Fox was to support it, and had actually spoken once or twice, in a preliminary way on the subject. Notice of the motion was regularly given; it was put off from time to time, and, at last, _dropped_, Mr. Fox _declining_ to support it. I have no books at hand; but the affair will be found recorded in the Register. It was not owing to Mr. Creevey that the thing did not come on. I remember well that it was owing to Mr. Fox. Other motives were stated; and those others might be the real motives; but, at any rate, the next year, or the year after, Mr. Fox got transferred to him a part of that estate, which belongs to the _public_, and which was once so great, called the _Crown lands_; and of these lands Fordyce long had been, and then was, the Surveyor. Such are the facts: let the reader reason upon them and draw the conclusion. This county of Surrey presents to the eye of the traveller a greater contrast than any other county in England. It has some of the very best and some of the worst lands, not only in England, but in the world. We were here upon those of the latter description. For five miles on the road towards Guildford the land is a rascally common covered with poor heath, except where the gravel is so near the top as not to suffer even the heath to grow. Here we entered the enclosed lands, which have the gravel at bottom, but a nice light, black mould at top; in which the trees grow very well. Through bye-lanes and bridle-ways we came out into the London road, between Ripley and Guildford, and immediately crossing that road, came on towards a village called Merrow. We came out into the road just mentioned, at the lodge-gates of a Mr. Weston, whose mansion and estate have just passed (as to occupancy) into the hands of some new man. At Merrow, where we came into the Epsom road, we found that Mr. Webb Weston, whose mansion and park are a little further on towards London, had just walked out, and left it in possession of another new man. This gentleman told us, last year, at the _Epsom Meeting_, that he was _losing his income_; and I told him _how it was_ that he was losing it! He is said to be a very worthy man; very much respected; a very good landlord; but, I dare say, he is one of those who approved of yeomanry cavalry to keep down the "Jacobins and Levellers;" but who, in fact, as I always told men of this description, have _put down_ themselves and their landlords; for without them this thing never could have been done. To ascribe the whole to _contrivance_ would be to give to Pitt and his followers too much credit for profundity; but if the knaves who assembled at the Crown and Anchor in the Strand, in 1793, to put down, by the means of prosecutions and spies, those whom they called "Republicans and Levellers;" if these knaves had said, "Let us go to work to induce the owners and occupiers of the land to convey their estates and their capital into our hands," and if the Government had corresponded with them in views, the effect could not have been more complete than it has, thus far, been. The yeomanry actually, as to the effect, drew their swords to keep the reformers at bay, while the tax-eaters were taking away the estates and the capital. It was the sheep surrendering up the dogs into the hands of the wolves. Lord Onslow lives near Merrow. This is the man that was, for many years, so famous as a driver of four-in-hand. He used to be called _Tommy Onslow_. He has the character of being a very good landlord. I know he called me "a d----d _Jacobin_" several years ago, only, I presume, because I was labouring to preserve to him the means of still driving four-in-hand, while he, and others like him, and their yeomanry cavalry, were working as hard to defeat my wishes and endeavours. They say here, that, some little time back, his Lordship, who has, at any rate, had the courage to retrench in all sorts of ways, was at Guildford in a gig with one horse, at the very moment, when Spicer, the Stock-broker, who was a Chairman of the Committee for prosecuting Lord Cochrane, and who lives at Esher, came rattling in with four horses and a couple of out-riders! They relate an observation made by his Lordship, which may, or may not, be true, and which therefore, I shall not repeat. But, my Lord, there is another sort of courage; courage other than that of retrenching, that would become you in the present emergency: I mean _political_ courage, and especially the courage of _acknowledging your errors_; confessing that you were wrong when you called the reformers Jacobins and levellers; the courage of now joining them in their efforts to save their country, to regain their freedom, and to preserve to you your estate, which is to be preserved, you will observe, by no other means than that of a Reform of the Parliament. It is now manifest, even to fools, that it has been by the instrumentality of a base and fraudulent paper-money that loan-jobbers, stock-jobbers and Jews have got the estates into their hands. With what eagerness, in 1797, did the nobility, gentry, and clergy rush forward to give their sanction and their support to the system which then began, and which has finally produced, what we now behold! They assembled in all the counties, and put forth declarations that they would take the paper of the Bank, and that they would support the system. Upon this occasion the county of Surrey was the very first county; and on the list of signatures the very _first_ name was _Onslow_! There may be sales and conveyances; there may be recoveries, deeds, and other parchments; but this was the real transfer; this was the real signing away of the estates. To come to Chilworth, which lies on the south side of St. Martha's Hill, most people would have gone along the level road to Guildford and come round through Shawford under the hills; but we, having seen enough of streets and turnpikes, took across over Merrow Down, where the Guildford race-course is, and then mounted the "Surrey Hills," so famous for the prospects they afford. Here we looked back over Middlesex, and into Buckinghamshire and Berkshire, away towards the North-West, into Essex and Kent towards the East, over part of Sussex to the South, and over part of Hampshire to the West and South-West. We are here upon a bed of chalk, where the downs always afford good sheep food. We steered for St. Martha's Chapel, and went round at the foot of the lofty hill on which it stands. This brought us down the side of a steep hill, and along a bridle-way, into the narrow and exquisitely beautiful vale of Chilworth, where we were to stop for the night. This vale is skirted partly by woodlands and partly by sides of hills tilled as corn fields. The land is excellent, particularly towards the bottom. Even the arable fields are in some places, towards their tops, nearly as steep as the roof of a tiled house; and where the ground is covered with woods the ground is still more steep. Down the middle of the vale there is a series of ponds, or small _lakes_, which meet your eye, here and there, through the trees. Here are some very fine farms, a little strip of meadows, some hop-gardens, and the lakes have given rise to the establishment of powder-mills and paper-mills. The trees of all sorts grow well here; and coppices yield poles for the hop-gardens and wood to make charcoal for the powder-mills. They are sowing wheat here, and the land, owing to the fine summer that we have had, is in a very fine state. The rain, too, which, yesterday, fell here in great abundance, has been just in time to make a really good wheat-sowing season. The turnips, all the way that we have come, are good. Rather backward in some places; but in sufficient quantity upon the ground, and there is yet a good while for them to grow. All the fall fruit is excellent, and in great abundance. The grapes are as good as those raised under glass. The apples are much richer than in ordinary years. The crop of hops has been very fine here, as well as everywhere else. The crop not only large, but good in quality. They expect to get _six_ pounds a hundred for them at Weyhill fair. That is _one_ more than I think they will get. The best Sussex hops were selling in the Borough of Southwark at three pounds a hundred a few days before I left London. The Farnham hops _may_ bring double that price; but that, I think, is as much as they will; and this is ruin to the hop-planter. The _tax_, with its attendant inconveniences, amounts to a pound a hundred; the picking, drying, and bagging, to 50_s._ The carrying to market not less than 5_s._ Here is the sum of 3_l._ 10_s._ of the money. Supposing the crop to be half a ton to the acre, the bare tillage will be 10_s._ The poles for an acre cannot cost less than 2_l._ a-year; that is another 4_s._ to each hundred of hops. This brings the outgoings to 82_s._ Then comes the manure, then come the poor-rates, and road-rates, and county rates; and if these leave one single farthing for _rent_ I think it is strange. I hear that Mr. Birkbeck is expected home from America! It is said that he is coming to receive a large legacy; a thing not to be overlooked by a person who lives in a country where he can have _land for nothing_! The truth is, I believe, that there has lately died a gentleman, who has bequeathed a part of his property to pay the creditors of a relation of his who some years ago became a bankrupt, and one of whose creditors Mr. Birkbeck was. What the amount may be I know not; but I have heard, that the bankrupt had a _partner_ at the time of the bankruptcy; so that there must be a good deal of difficulty in settling the matter in an equitable manner. The _Chancery_ would drawl it out (supposing the present system to continue) till, in all human probability, there would not be as much left for Mr. Birkbeck as would be required to pay his way back again to the Land of Promise. I hope he is coming here to remain here. He is a very clever man, though he has been very abusive and very unjust with regard to me. _Lea, near Godalming, Surrey, Thursday, 26 Sept._ We started from Chilworth this morning, came down the vale, left the village of Shawford to our right, and that of Wonersh to our left, and crossing the river Wey, got into the turnpike-road between Guildford and Godalming, went on through Godalming, and got to Lea, which lies to the north-east snugly under Hindhead, about 11 o'clock. This was coming only about eight miles, a sort of rest after the 32 miles of the day before. Coming along the road, a farmer overtook us, and as he had known me from seeing me at the Meeting at Epsom last year, I had a part of my main business to perform, namely, to talk politics. He was going to _Haslemere_ fair. Upon the mention of that sink-hole of a Borough, which sends, "_as clearly as the sun at noonday_," the celebrated Charles Long, and the scarcely less celebrated Robert Ward, to the celebrated House of Commons, we began to talk, as it were, spontaneously, about Lord Lonsdale and the Lowthers. The farmer wondered why the Lowthers, that were the owners of so many farms, should be for a system which was so manifestly taking away the estates of the landlords and the capital of the farmers, and giving them to Jews, loan-jobbers, stock-jobbers, placemen, pensioners, sinecure people, and people of the "dead weight." But his wonder ceased; his eyes were opened; and "his heart seemed to burn within him as I talked to him on the way," when I explained to him the nature of _Crown lands_ and "_Crown tenants_," and when I described to him certain districts of property in Westmoreland and other parts. I had not the book in my pocket, but my memory furnished me with quite a sufficiency of matter to make him perceive that, in supporting the present system, the Lowthers were by no means so foolish as he appeared to think them. From the Lowthers I turned to Mr. Poyntz, who lives at Midhurst in Sussex, and whose name as a "_Crown tenant_" I find in a Report lately laid before the House of Commons, and the particulars of which I will state another time for the information of the people of Sussex. I used to wonder myself what made Mr. Poyntz call me a Jacobin. I used to think that Mr. Poyntz must be a fool to support the present system. What I have seen in that Report convinces me that Mr. Poyntz is no fool, as far as relates to his own interest, at any rate. There is a mine of wealth in these "_Crown lands_." Here are farms, and manors, and mines, and woods, and forests, and houses, and streets, incalculable in value. What can be so proper as to apply this public property towards the discharge of a part, at least, of that public debt, which is hanging round the neck of this nation like a mill-stone? Mr. Ricardo proposes to seize upon a part of the private property of every man, to be given to the stock-jobbing race. At an act of injustice like this the mind revolts. The foolishness of it, besides, is calculated to shock one. But in the _public property_ we see the suitable thing. And who can possibly object to this, except those, who, amongst them, now divide the possession or benefit of this property? I have once before mentioned, but I will repeat it, that _Marlborough House_ in Pall Mall, for which the Prince of Saxe Coburg pays a rent to the Duke of Marlborough of three thousand pounds a-year, is rented of this generous public by that most Noble Duke at the rate of less than _forty pounds_ a-year. There are three houses in Pall Mall, the whole of which pay a rent _to the public_ of about fifteen pounds a-year, I think it is. I myself, twenty-two years ago, paid three hundred pounds a-year for one of them, to a man that I thought was the owner of them; but I now find that these houses belong to the public. The Duke of Buckingham's house in Pall Mall, which is one of the grandest in all London, and which is not worth less than seven or eight hundred pounds a-year, belongs to the public. The Duke is the tenant; and I think he pays for it much less than twenty pounds a-year. I speak from memory here all the way along; and therefore not positively; I will, another time, state the particulars from the books. The book that I am now referring to is also of a date of some years back; but I will mention all the particulars another time. Talk of _reducing rents_, indeed! Talk of _generous landlords_! It is the public that is the generous landlord. It is the public that lets its houses and manors and mines and farms at a cheap rate. It certainly would not be so good a landlord if it had a Reformed Parliament to manage its affairs, nor would it suffer so many snug _Corporations_ to carry on their snugglings in the manner that they do, and therefore it is obviously the interest of the rich tenants of this poor public, as well as the interest of the snugglers in Corporations, to prevent the poor public from having such a Parliament. We got into free-quarter again at Lea; and there is nothing like free-quarter, as soldiers well know. Lea is situated on the edge of that immense heath which sweeps down from the summit of Hindhead across to the north over innumerable hills of minor altitude and of an infinite variety of shapes towards Farnham, to the north-east, towards the Hog's Back, leading from Farnham to Guildford, and to the east, or nearly so, towards Godalming. Nevertheless, the enclosed lands at Lea are very good and singularly beautiful. The timber of all sorts grows well; the land is light, and being free from stones, very pleasant to work. If you go southward from Lea about a mile you get down into what is called, in the old Acts of Parliament, the _Weald_ of Surrey. Here the land is a stiff tenacious loam at top with blue and yellow clay beneath. This Weald continues on eastward, and gets into Sussex near East Grinstead: thence it winds about under the hills, into Kent. Here the oak grows finer than in any part of England. The trees are more spiral in their form. They grow much faster than upon any other land. Yet the timber must be better; for, in some of the Acts of Queen Elizabeth's reign, it is provided, that the oak for the Royal Navy shall come out of the Wealds of Surrey, Sussex, or Kent. _Odiham, Hampshire, Friday, 27 Sept._ From Lea we set off this morning about six o'clock to get free-quarter again at a worthy old friend's at this nice little plain market-town. Our direct road was right over the heath through Tilford to Farnham; but we veered a little to the left after we came to Tilford, at which place on the Green we stopped to look at an _oak tree_, which, when I was a little boy, was but a very little tree, comparatively, and which is now, take it altogether, by far the finest tree that I ever saw in my life. The stem or shaft is short; that is to say, it is short before you come to the first limbs; but it is full _thirty feet round_, at about eight or ten feet from the ground. Out of the stem there come not less than fifteen or sixteen limbs, many of which are from five to ten feet round, and each of which would, in fact, be considered a decent stick of timber. I am not judge enough of timber to say anything about the quantity in the whole tree, but my son stepped the ground, and as nearly as we could judge, the diameter of the extent of the branches was upwards of ninety feet, which would make a circumference of about three hundred feet. The tree is in full growth at this moment. There is a little hole in one of the limbs; but with that exception, there appears not the smallest sign of decay. The tree has made great shoots in all parts of it this last summer and spring; and there are no appearances of _white_ upon the trunk, such as are regarded as the symptoms of full growth. There are many sorts of oak in England; two very distinct; one with a pale leaf, and one with a dark leaf: this is of the pale leaf. The tree stands upon Tilford-green, the soil of which is a light loam with a hard sand stone a good way beneath, and, probably, clay beneath that. The spot where the tree stands is about a hundred and twenty feet from the edge of a little river, and the ground on which it stands may be about ten feet higher than the bed of that river. In quitting Tilford we came on to the land belonging to Waverly Abbey, and then, instead of going on to the town of Farnham, veered away to the left towards Wrecklesham, in order to cross the Farnham and Alton turnpike-road, and to come on by the side of Crondall to Odiham. We went a little out of the way to go to a place called the _Bourn_, which lies in the heath at about a mile from Farnham. It is a winding narrow valley, down which, during the wet season of the year, there runs a stream beginning at the _Holt Forest_, and emptying itself into the _Wey_ just below Moor-Park, which was the seat of Sir William Temple when Swift was residing with him. We went to this Bourn in order that I might show my son the spot where I received the rudiments of my education. There is a little hop-garden in which I used to work when from eight to ten years old; from which I have scores of times run to follow the hounds, leaving the hoe to do the best that it could to destroy the weeds; but the most interesting thing was a _sand-hill_, which goes from a part of the heath down to the rivulet. As a due mixture of pleasure with toil, I, with two brothers, used occasionally to _desport_ ourselves, as the lawyers call it, at this sand-hill. Our diversion was this: we used to go to the top of the hill, which was steeper than the roof of a house; one used to draw his arms out of the sleeves of his smock-frock, and lay himself down with his arms by his sides; and then the others, one at head and the other at feet, sent him rolling down the hill like a barrel or a log of wood. By the time he got to the bottom, his hair, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, were all full of this loose sand; then the others took their turn, and at every roll there was a monstrous spell of laughter. I had often told my sons of this while they were very little, and I now took one of them to see the spot. But that was not all. This was the spot where I was receiving my _education_; and this was the sort of education; and I am perfectly satisfied that if I had not received such an education, or something very much like it; that, if I had been brought up a milksop, with a nursery-maid everlastingly at my heels, I should have been at this day as great a fool, as inefficient a mortal, as any of those frivolous idiots that are turned out from Winchester and Westminster Schools, or from any of those dens of dunces called Colleges and Universities. It is impossible to say how much I owe to that sand-hill; and I went to return it my thanks for the ability which it probably gave me to be one of the greatest terrors, to one of the greatest and most powerful bodies of knaves and fools, that ever were permitted to afflict this or any other country. From the Bourn we proceeded on to Wrecklesham, at the end of which we crossed what is called the river Wey. Here we found a parcel of labourers at parish-work. Amongst them was an old playmate of mine. The account they gave of their situation was very dismal. The harvest was over early. The hop-picking is now over; and now they are employed _by the Parish_; that is to say, not absolutely digging holes one day and filling them up the next; but at the expense of half-ruined farmers and tradesmen and landlords, to break stones into very small pieces to make nice smooth roads lest the jolting, in going along them, should create bile in the stomachs of the overfed tax-eaters. I call upon mankind to witness this scene; and to say, whether ever the like of this was heard of before. It is a state of things, where all is out of order; where self-preservation, that great law of nature, seems to be set at defiance; for here are farmers _unable_ to pay men for working for them, and yet compelled to pay them for working in doing that which is really of no use to any human being. There lie the hop-poles unstripped. You see a hundred things in the neighbouring fields that want doing. The fences are not nearly what they ought to be. The very meadows, to our right and our left in crossing this little valley, would occupy these men advantageously until the setting in of the frost; and here are they, not, as I said before, actually digging holes one day and filling them up the next; but, to all intents and purposes, as uselessly employed. Is this Mr. Canning's "_Sun of Prosperity_?" Is this the way to increase or preserve a nation's wealth? Is this a sign of wise legislation and of good government? Does this thing "work well," Mr. Canning? Does it prove that we want no change? True, you were born under a Kingly Government; and so was I as well as you; but I was not born under _Six-Acts_; nor was I born under a state of things like this. I was not born under it, and I do not wish to live under it; and, with God's help, I will change it if I can. We left these poor fellows, after having given them, not "religious Tracts," which would, if they could, make the labourer content with half starvation, but something to get them some bread and cheese and beer, being firmly convinced that it is the body that wants filling and not the mind. However, in speaking of their low wages, I told them that the farmers and hop-planters were as much objects of compassion as themselves, which they acknowledged. We immediately, alter this, crossed the road, and went on towards Crondall upon a soil that soon became stiff loam and flint at top with a bed of chalk beneath. We did not go to Crondall; but kept along over Slade Heath, and through a very pretty place called Well. We arrived at Odiham about half after eleven, at the end of a beautiful ride of about seventeen miles, in a very fine and pleasant day. _Winchester, Saturday, 28th September._ Just after daylight we started for this place. By the turnpike we could have come through Basingstoke by turning off to the right, or through Alton and Alresford by turning off to the left. Being naturally disposed towards a middle course, we chose to wind down through Upton-Gray, Preston-Candover, Chilton-Candover, Brown-Candover, then down to Ovington, and into Winchester by the north entrance. From Wrecklesham to Winchester we have come over roads and lanes of flint and chalk. The weather being dry again, the ground under you, as solid as iron, makes a great rattling with the horses' feet. The country where the soil is stiff loam upon chalk is never bad for corn. Not rich, but never poor. There is at no time anything deserving to be called dirt in the roads. The buildings last a long time, from the absence of fogs and also the absence of humidity in the ground. The absence of dirt makes the people habitually cleanly; and all along through this country the people appear in general to be very neat. It is a country for sheep, which are always sound and good upon this iron soil. The trees grow well, where there are trees. The woods and coppices are not numerous; but they are good, particularly the ash, which always grows well upon the chalk. The oaks, though they do not grow in the spiral form, as upon the clays, are by no means stunted; and some of them very fine trees; I take it that they require a much greater number of years to bring them to perfection than in the _Wealds_. The wood, perhaps, may be harder; but I have heard that the oak, which grows upon these hard bottoms, is very frequently what the carpenters call _shaky_. The underwoods here consist, almost entirely, of hazle, which is very fine, and much tougher and more durable than that which grows on soils with a moist bottom. This hazle is a thing of great utility here. It furnishes rods wherewith to make fences; but its principal use is, to make _wattles_ for the folding of sheep in the fields. These things are made much more neatly here than in the south of Hampshire and in Sussex, or in any other part that I have seen. Chalk is the favourite soil of the _yew-tree_; and at Preston-Candover there is an avenue of yew-trees, probably a mile long, each tree containing, as nearly as I can guess, from twelve to twenty feet of timber, which, as the reader knows, implies a tree of considerable size. They have probably been a century or two in growing; but, in any way that timber can be used, the timber of the yew will last, perhaps, ten times as long as the timber of any other tree that we grow in England. Quitting the Candovers, we came along between the two estates of the two Barings. Sir Thomas, who has supplanted the Duke of Bedford, was to our right, while Alexander, who has supplanted Lord Northington, was on our left. The latter has enclosed, as a sort of outwork to his park, a pretty little down called Northington Down, in which he has planted, here and there, a clump of trees. But Mr. Baring, not reflecting that woods are not like funds, to be made at a heat, has planted his trees _too large_; so that they are covered with moss, are dying at the top, and are literally growing downward instead of upward. In short, this enclosure and plantation have totally destroyed the beauty of this part of the estate. The down, which was before very beautiful, and formed a sort of _glacis_ up to the park pales, is now a marred, ragged, ugly-looking thing. The dying trees, which have been planted long enough for you not to perceive that they have been planted, excite the idea of sterility in the soil. They do injustice to it; for, as a down, it was excellent. Everything that has been done here is to the injury of the estate, and discovers a most shocking want of taste in the projector. Sir Thomas's plantations, or, rather, those of his father, have been managed more judiciously. I do not like to be a sort of spy in a man's neighbourhood; but I will tell Sir Thomas Baring what I have heard; and if he be a man of sense I shall have his thanks, rather than his reproaches, for so doing. I may have been misinformed; but this is what I have heard, that he, and also Lady Baring, are very charitable; that they are very kind and compassionate to their poor neighbours; but that they tack a sort of condition to this charity; that they insist upon the objects of it adopting their notions with regard to religion; or, at least, that where the people are not what they deem _pious_, they are not objects of their benevolence. I do not say, that they are not perfectly sincere themselves, and that their wishes are not the best that can possibly be; but of this I am very certain, that, by pursuing this principle of action, where they make one good man or woman, they will make one hundred hypocrites. It is not little books that can make a people good; that can make them moral; that can restrain them from committing crimes. I believe that books of any sort never yet had that tendency. Sir Thomas does, I dare say, think me a very wicked man, since I aim at the destruction of the funding system, and what he would call a robbery of what he calls the public creditor; and yet, God help me, I have read books enough, and amongst the rest, a great part of the religious tracts. Amongst the labouring people, the first thing you have to look after is, _common honesty_, _speaking the truth_, and _refraining from thieving_; and to secure these, the labourer must have _his belly-full_ and be _free from fear_; and this belly-full must come to him from out of his _wages_, and not from benevolence of any description. Such being my opinion, I think Sir Thomas Baring would do better, that he would discover more real benevolence, by using the influence which he must naturally have in his neighbourhood, to prevent a diminution in the wages of labour. _Winchester, Sunday Morning, 29 Sept._ Yesterday was market-day here. Everything cheap and falling instead of rising. If it were _over-production_ last year that produced the _distress_, when are our miseries to have an end! They will end when these men cease to have sway, and not before. I had not been in Winchester long before I heard something very interesting about the _manifesto_, concerning the poor, which was lately issued here, and upon which I remarked in my last Register but one, in my Letter to Sir Thomas Baring. Proceeding upon the true military principle, I looked out for free-quarter, which the reader will naturally think difficult for _me_ to find in a town containing a _Cathedral_. Having done this, I went to the Swan Inn to dine with the farmers. This is the manner that I like best of doing the thing. _Six-Acts_ do not, to be sure, prevent us from _dining_ together. They do not authorize Justices of the Peace to kill us, because we meet to dine without their permission. But I do not like Dinner-Meetings on _my_ account. I like much better to go and fall in with the lads of the land, or with anybody else, at their own places of resort; and I am going to place myself down at Uphusband, in excellent free-quarter, in the midst of all the great fairs of the West, in order, before the winter campaign begins, that I may see as many farmers as possible, and that they may hear my opinions, and I theirs. I shall be at Weyhill fair on the 10th of October, and, perhaps, on some of the succeeding days; and, on one or more of those days, I intend to dine at the White Hart, at Andover. What other fairs or places I shall go to I shall notify hereafter. And this I think the frankest and fairest way. I wish to see many people, and to talk to them: and there are a great many people who wish to see and to talk to me. What better reason can be given for a man's going about the country and dining at fairs and markets? At the dinner at Winchester we had a good number of opulent yeomen, and many gentlemen joined us after the dinner. The state of the country was well talked over; and, during the _session_ (much more sensible than some other _sessions_ that I have had to remark on), I made the following _RUSTIC HARANGUE._ GENTLEMEN,--Though many here are, I am sure, glad to _see me_, I am not vain enough to suppose that anything other than that of wishing to hear my opinions on the prospects before us can have induced many to choose to be here to dine with me to-day. I shall, before I sit down, propose to you a _toast_, which you will drink, or not, as you choose: but I shall state one particular wish in that shape, that it may be the more distinctly understood, and the better remembered. The wish to which I allude relates to the _tithes_. Under that word I mean to speak of all that mass of wealth which is vulgarly called _Church property_: but which is, in fact, _public property_, and may, of course, be disposed of as the Parliament shall please. There appears at this moment an uncommon degree of anxiety on the part of the parsons to see the farmers enabled to pay _rents_. The business of the parsons being only with _tithes_, one naturally, at first sight, wonders why they should care so much about _rents_. The fact is this: they see clearly enough, that the landlords will never long go without rents, and suffer them to enjoy the tithes. They see, too, that there must be a struggle between the _land_ and the _funds_: they see that there is such a struggle. They see, that it is the taxes that are taking away the rent of the landlord and the capital of the farmer. Yet the parsons are afraid to see the taxes reduced. Why? Because, if the taxes be reduced in any great degree (and nothing short of a great degree will give relief), they see that the interest of the Debt cannot be paid; and they know well, that the interest of the Debt can never be reduced, until their tithes have been reduced. Thus, then, they find themselves in a great difficulty. They wish the taxes to be kept up and rents to be paid too. Both cannot be, unless some means or other be found out of putting into, or keeping in, the farmer's pocket, money that is not now there. The scheme that appears to have been fallen upon for this purpose is the strangest in the world, and it must, if attempted to be put into execution, produce something little short of open and general commotion; namely, that of reducing the wages of labour to a mark so low as to make the labourer a walking skeleton. Before I proceed further, it is right that I communicate to you an explanation, which, not an hour ago, I received from Mr. Poulter, relative to the _manifesto_, lately issued in this town by a Bench of Magistrates of which that gentleman was Chairman. I have not the honour to be personally acquainted with Mr. Poulter, but certainly, if I had misunderstood the manifesto, it was right that I should be, if possible, made to understand it. Mr. Poulter, in company with another gentleman, came to me in this Inn, and said, that the bench did not mean that their resolutions should have the effect of _lowering the wages_: and that the sums, stated in the paper, were sums to be given in the way of _relief_. We had not the paper before us, and, as the paper contained a good deal about relief, I, in recollection, confounded the two, and said, that I had understood the paper agreeably to the explanation. But upon looking at the paper again, I see, that, as to the _words_, there was a clear recommendation to make the _wages_ what is there stated. However, seeing that the Chairman himself disavows this, we must conclude that the bench put forth words not expressing their meaning. To this I must add, as connected with the manifesto, that it is stated in that document, that such and such justices were present, and a large and respectable number of yeomen who had been invited to attend. Now, Gentlemen, I was, I must confess, struck with this addition to the bench. These gentlemen have not been accustomed to treat farmers with so much attention. It seemed odd, that they should want a set of farmers to be present, to give a sort of sanction to their acts. Since my arrival in Winchester, I have found, however, that having them present was not all; for that the names of some of these yeomen were actually inserted in the manuscript of the manifesto, and that those names were expunged _at the request of the parties named_. This is a very singular proceeding, then, altogether. It presents to us a strong picture of the diffidence, or modesty (call it which you please) of the justices; and it shows us, that the yeomen present did not like to have _their names_ standing as giving sanction to the resolutions contained in the manifesto. Indeed, they knew well, that those resolutions never could be acted upon. They knew that they could not live in safety even in the same village with labourers, paid at the rate of 3, 4, and 5 shillings a-week. To return, now, Gentlemen, to the scheme for squeezing rents out of the bones of the labourer, is it not, upon the face of it, most monstrously absurd, that this scheme should be resorted to, when the plain and easy and just way of insuring rents must present itself to every eye, and can be pursued by the Parliament whenever it choose? We hear loud outcries against the poor-rates; the _enormous_ poor-rates; the _all-devouring_ poor-rates; but what are the facts? Why, that, in Great Britain, _six millions_ are paid in poor-rates, _seven millions_ (or thereabouts) in _tithes_, and _sixty millions_ to the fund-people, the army, placemen, and the rest. And yet nothing of all this seems to be thought of but the _six_ millions. Surely the other and so much larger sums might to be thought of. Even the _six_ millions are, for the far greater part, _wages_ and not poor-rates. And yet all this outcry is made about these _six_ millions, while not a word is said about the other _sixty-seven_ millions. Gentlemen, to enumerate all the ways, in which the public money is spent, would take me a week. I will mention two classes of persons who are receivers of taxes: and you will then see with what _reason_ it is, that this outcry is set up against the poor-rates and against the amount of wages. There is a thing called the _Dead Weight_. Incredible as it may seem, that such a vulgar appellation should be used in such a way and by such persons, it is a fact, that the Ministers have laid before the Parliament an account, called the account of the _Dead Weight_. This account tells how five millions three hundred thousand pounds are distributed annually amongst half-pay officers, pensioners, retired commissaries, clerks, and so forth, employed during the last war. If there were nothing more entailed upon us by that war, this is pretty smart-money. Now unjust, unnecessary as that war was, detestable as it was in all its principles and objects, still, to every man, who really did _fight_, or who performed a soldier's duty abroad, I would give _something_: he should not be left destitute. But, Gentlemen, is it right for the nation to keep on paying for life crowds of young fellows such as make up the greater part of this _dead weight_? This is not all, however, for, there are the widows and the children, who have, and are to have, _pensions too_. You seem surprised, and well you may; but this is the fact. A young fellow who has a pension for life, aye, or an old fellow either, will easily get a wife to enjoy it with him, and he will, I'll warrant him, take care that _she_ shall not be _old_. So that here is absolutely a premium for entering into the holy state of matrimony. The husband, you will perceive, cannot prevent the wife from having the pension after his death. She is _our widow_, in this respect, not his. She marries, in fact, with a jointure settled on her. The more children the husband leaves the better for the widow; for each child has a pension for a certain number of years. The man, who, under such circumstances, does not marry, must be a woman-hater. An old man actually going into the grave, may, by the mere ceremony of marriage, give any woman a pension for life. Even the widows and children of insane officers are not excluded. If an officer, now insane, but at large, were to marry, there is nothing, as the thing now stands, to prevent his widow and children from having pensions. Were such things as these ever before heard of in the world? Were such premiums ever before given for breeding gentlemen and ladies, and that, too, while all sorts of projects are on foot to check the breeding of the labouring classes? Can such a thing _go on_? I say it cannot; and, if it could, it must inevitably render this country the most contemptible upon the face of the earth. And yet, not a word of complaint is heard about these five millions and a quarter, expended in this way, while the country rings, fairly resounds, with the outcry about the six millions that are given to the labourers in the shape of poor-rates, but which, in fact, go, for the greater part, to pay what ought to be called _wages_. Unless, then, we speak out here; unless we call for redress here; unless we here seek relief, we shall not only be totally ruined, but we shall _deserve it_. The other class of persons, to whom I have alluded, as having taxes bestowed on them, are the _poor clergy_. Not of the _church_ as by _law_ established, to be sure, you will say! Yes, Gentlemen, even to the poor clergy of the established Church. We know well how _rich_ that Church is; we know well how many millions it annually receives; we know how opulent are the bishops, how rich they die; how rich, in short, a body it is. And yet _fifteen hundred thousand pounds_ have, within the same number of years, been given, out of the taxes, partly raised on the labourers, for the relief of the _poor_ clergy of that Church, while it is notorious that the livings are given in numerous cases by twos and threes to the same person, and while a clamour, enough to make the sky ring, is made about what is given in the shape of _relief to the labouring classes_! Why, Gentlemen, what do we want more than this one fact? Does not this one fact sufficiently characterize the system under which we live? Does not this prove that a change, a great change, is wanted? Would it not be more natural to propose to get this money back from the Church, than to squeeze so much out of the bones of the labourers? This the Parliament can do if it pleases; and this it will do, if you do your duty. Passing over several other topics, let me, Gentlemen, now come to what, at the present moment, most nearly affects you; namely, the _prospect as to prices_. In the first place, this depends upon whether Peel's Bill will be repealed. As this depends a good deal upon the Ministers, and as I am convinced, that they know no more what to do in the present emergency than the little boys and girls that are running up and down the street before this house, it is impossible for me, or for any one, to say what will be done in this respect. But my opinion is decided, that the Bill will _not_ be repealed. The Ministers see, that, if they were _now_ to go back to the paper, it would not be the paper of 1819; but a paper never to be redeemed by gold; that it would be _assignats_ to all intents and purposes. That must of necessity cause the complete overthrow of the Government in a very short time. If, therefore, the Ministers see the thing in this light, it is impossible, that they should think of a repeal of Peel's Bill. There appeared, last winter, a strong disposition to repeal the Bill; and I verily believe, that a repeal in effect, though not in name, was actually in contemplation. A Bill was brought in, which was described beforehand as intended to prolong the issue of small notes, and also to prolong the time for making Bank of England notes a legal tender. This would have been a repealing of Peel's Bill in great part. The Bill, when brought in, and when passed, as it finally was, contained no clause relative to legal tender; and without that clause it was perfectly nugatory. Let me explain to you, Gentlemen, what this Bill really is. In the seventeenth year of the late King's reign, an act was passed for a time limited, to prevent the issue of notes payable to bearer on demand, for any sums less than five pounds. In the twenty-seventh year of the late King's reign, this Act was made _perpetual_; and the preamble of the Act sets forth, that it is made perpetual, because the _preventing of small notes being made has been proved to be for the good of the nation_. Nevertheless, in just ten years afterwards; that is to say, in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven, when the Bank stopped payment, this salutary Act was _suspended_; indeed, it was absolutely necessary, for there was no gold to pay with. It continued suspended until 1819, when Mr. Peel's Bill was passed, when a Bill was passed to suspend it still further, until the year 1825. You will observe, then, that, last winter there were yet three years to come, during which the banks might make small notes if they would. Yet this new Bill was passed last winter to authorize them to make small notes until the year 1833. The measure was wholly uncalled for. It appeared to be altogether unnecessary; but, as I have just said, the intention was to introduce into this Bill a clause to continue the _legal tender_ until 1833; and that would, indeed, have made a great alteration in the state of things; and, if extended to the Bank of England, would have been, in effect, a complete repeal of Peel's Bill. It was fully expected by the country bankers, that the legal tender clause would have been inserted; but, before it came to the trial, the Ministers gave way, and the clause was not inserted. The reason for their giving way, I do verily believe, had its principal foundation in their perceiving, that the public would clearly see, that such a measure would make the paper-money merely assignats. The legal tender not having been enacted, the Small-note Bill can do nothing towards augmenting the quantity of circulating medium. As the law now stands, Bank of England notes are, in effect, a _legal tender_. If I owe a debt of twenty pounds, and tender Bank of England notes in payment, the law says that you shall not arrest me; that you may bring your action, if you like; that I may pay the notes into Court; that you may go on with your action; that you shall pay all the costs, and I none. At last you gain your action; you obtain judgment and execution, or whatever else the everlasting law allows of. And what have you got then? Why the _notes_; the same identical notes the Sheriff will bring you. You will not take them. Go to law with the Sheriff then. He pays the _notes_ into Court. More costs for you to pay. And thus you go on; but without ever touching or seeing gold! Now, Gentlemen, Peel's Bill puts an end to all this pretty work on the first day of next May. If you have a handful of a country banker's rags _now_, and go to him for payment, he will tender you Bank of England notes; and if you like the paying of costs you may go to law for gold. But when the first of next May comes, he must put gold into your hands in exchange for your notes, if you choose it; or you may clap a bailiff's hand upon his shoulder: and if he choose to pay into Court, he must pay in gold, and pay your costs also as far as you have gone. This makes a strange alteration in the thing! And everybody must see, that the Bank of England, and the country bankers; that all, in short, are preparing for the first of May. It is clear that there must be a farther diminution of the paper-money. It is hard to say the precise degree of effect that this will have upon prices; but that it must bring them down is clear; and, for my own part, I am fully persuaded, that they will come down to the standard of prices in France, be those prices what they may. This, indeed, was acknowledged by Mr. Huskisson in the Agricultural Report of 1821. That two countries so near together, both having gold as a currency or standard, should differ very widely from each other, in the prices of farm-produce, is next to impossible; and therefore, when our legal tender shall be completely done away, to the prices of France you must come; and those prices cannot, I think, in the present state of Europe, much exceed three or four shillings a bushel for good wheat. You know, as well as I do, that it is impossible, with the present taxes and rates and tithes, to pay any rent at all with prices upon that scale. Let loan-jobbers, stock-jobbers, Jews, and the whole tribe of tax-eaters say what they will, you know that it is impossible, as you also know it would be cruelly unjust to wring from the labourer the means of paying rent, while those taxes and tithes remain. Something must be taken off. The labourers' wages have already been reduced as low as possible. All public pay and salaries ought to be reduced; and the tithes also ought to be reduced, as they might be to a great amount without any injury to religion. The interest of the debt ought to be largely reduced; but, as none of the others can, with any show of justice, take place, without a reduction of the tithes, and as I am for confining myself to one object at present, I will give you as a Toast, leaving you to drink it or not, as you please, _A large Reduction of Tithes_. * * * * * Somebody proposed to drink this Toast with _three times three_, which was accordingly done, and the sound might have been heard down to the close.--Upon some Gentleman giving _my health_, I took occasion to remind the company that the last time I was at Winchester we had the memorable fight with Lockhart "the Brave" and his sable friends. I reminded them that it was in that same room that I told them that it would not be long before Mr. Lockhart and those sable gentlemen would become enlightened; and I observed that, if we were to judge from a man's language, there was not a land-owner in England that more keenly felt than Mr. Lockhart the truth of those predictions which I had put forth at the Castle on the day alluded to. I reminded the company that I sailed for America in a few days after that meeting; that they must be well aware that, on the day of the meeting, I knew that I was taking leave of the country, but, I observed, that I had not been in the least depressed by that circumstance; because I relied, with perfect confidence, on being in this same place again, to enjoy, as I now did, a triumph over my adversaries. After this, Mr. Hector gave a _Constitutional Reform in the Commons' House of Parliament_, which was drunk with great enthusiasm; and Mr. Hector's health having been given, he, in returning thanks, urged his brother yeomen and freeholders to do their duty by coming forward in county meeting and giving their support to those noblemen and gentlemen that were willing to stand forward for a reform and for a reduction of taxation. I held forth to them the example of the county of Kent, which had done itself so much honour by its conduct last spring. What these gentlemen in Hampshire will do it is not for me to say. If nothing be done by them, they will certainly be ruined, and that ruin they will certainly deserve. It was to the farmers that the Government owed its strength to carry on the war. Having them with it, in consequence of a false and bloated prosperity, it cared not a straw for anybody else. If they, therefore, now do their duty; if they all, like the yeomen and farmers of Kent, come boldly forward, everything will be done necessary to preserve themselves and their country; and if they do not come forward, they will, as men of property, be swept from the face of the earth. The noblemen and gentlemen who are in Parliament, and who are disposed to adopt measures of effectual relief, cannot move with any hope of success unless backed by the yeomen and farmers, and the middling classes throughout the country generally. I do not mean to confine myself to yeomen and farmers, but to take in all tradesmen and men of property. With these at their back, or rather, at the back of these, there are men enough in both Houses of Parliament to propose and to urge measures suitable to the exigency of the case. But without the middling classes to _take the lead_, those noblemen and gentlemen can do nothing. Even the Ministers themselves, if they were so disposed (and they must be so disposed at last) could make none of the reforms that are necessary, _without being actually urged on by the middle classes of the community_. This is a very important consideration. A new man, as Minister, might indeed propose the reforms himself; but these men, Opposition as well as Ministry, are so _pledged_ to the things that have brought all this ruin upon the country, that they absolutely stand in need of an overpowering call from the people to justify them in doing that which they themselves may think just, and which they may know to be necessary for the salvation of the country. They dare not take the lead in the necessary reforms. It is too much to be expected of any men upon the face of the earth, pledged and situated as these Ministers are; and therefore, unless the people will do their duty, they will have themselves, and only themselves, to thank for their ruin, and for that load of disgrace, and for that insignificance worse than disgrace which seems, after so many years of renown, to be attaching themselves to the name of England. _Uphusband, Sunday Evening, 29 Sept. 1822._ We came along the turnpike-road, through Wherwell and Andover, and got to this place about 2 o'clock. This country, except at the village and town just mentioned, is very open, a thinnish soil upon a bed of chalk. Between Winchester and Wherwell we came by some hundreds of acres of ground that was formerly most beautiful down, which was broken up in dear-corn times, and which is now a district of thistles and other weeds. If I had such land as this I would soon make it down again. I would for once (that is to say if I had the money) get it quite clean, prepare it as for sowing turnips, get the turnips if possible, feed them off early, or plough the ground if I got no turnips; sow thick with Saint-foin and meadow-grass seeds of all sorts, early in September; let the crop stand till the next July; feed it then slenderly with sheep, and dig up all thistles and rank weeds that might appear; keep feeding it, but not too close, during the summer and the fall; and keep on feeding it for ever after as a down. The Saint-foin itself would last for many years; and as it disappeared, its place would be supplied by the grass; that sort which was most congenial to the soil, would at last stifle all other sorts, and the land would become a valuable down as formerly. I see that some plantations of ash and of hazle have been made along here; but, with great submission to the planters, I think they have gone the wrong way to work, as to the mode of preparing the ground. They have planted _small trees_, and that is right; they have _trenched_ the ground, and that is also right; but they have brought the bottom soil to the top; and that is _wrong_, always; and especially where the bottom soil is gravel or chalk, or clay. I know that some people will say that this is a _puff_; and let it pass for that; but if any gentleman that is going to plant trees will look into my _Book on Gardening_, and into the Chapter on _Preparing the Soil_, he will, I think, see how conveniently ground may be trenched without bringing to the top that soil in which the young trees stand so long without making shoots. This country, though so open, has its beauties. The homesteads in the sheltered bottoms with fine lofty trees about the houses and yards form a beautiful contrast with the large open fields. The little villages, running straggling along the dells (always with lofty trees and rookeries) are very interesting objects, even in the winter. You feel a sort of satisfaction, when you are out upon the bleak hills yourself, at the thought of the shelter which is experienced in the dwellings in the valleys. Andover is a neat and solid market-town. It is supported entirely by the agriculture around it; and how the makers of _population returns_ ever came to think of classing the inhabitants of such a town as this under any other head than that of "_persons employed in agriculture_," would appear astonishing to any man who did not know those population return makers as well as I do. The village of Uphusband, the legal name of which is Hurstbourn Tarrant, is, as the reader will recollect, a great favourite with me, not the less so certainly on account of the excellent free-quarter that it affords. THROUGH HAMPSHIRE, BERKSHIRE, SURREY, AND SUSSEX, BETWEEN 7th OCTOBER AND 1ST DECEMBER, 1822, 327 MILES. _7th to 10th Oct. 1822._ At Uphusband, a little village in a deep dale, about five miles to the North of Andover, and about three miles to the South of the Hills at _Highclere_. The wheat is sown here, and up, and, as usual, at this time of the year, looks very beautiful. The wages of the labourers brought down to _six shillings a week_! a horrible thing to think of; but, I hear, it is still worse in Wiltshire. _11th October._ Went to Weyhill fair, at which I was about 46 years ago, when I rode a little pony, and remember how proud I was on the occasion; but I also remember that my brothers, two out of three of whom were older than I, thought it unfair that my father selected me; and my own reflections upon the occasion have never been forgotten by me. The 11th of October is the Sheep-fair. About 300,000_l._ used, some few years ago, to be carried home by the sheep-sellers. To-day, less, perhaps, than 70,000_l._, and yet the _rents_ of these sheep-sellers are, perhaps, as high, on an average, as they were then. The countenances of the farmers were descriptive of their ruinous state. I never, in all my life, beheld a more mournful scene. There is a horse-fair upon another part of the down; and there I saw horses keeping pace in depression with the sheep. A pretty numerous group of the tax-eaters, from Andover and the neighbourhood, were the only persons that had smiles on their faces. I was struck with a young farmer trotting a horse backward and forward to show him off to a couple of gentlemen, who were bargaining for the horse, and one of whom finally purchased him. These _gentlemen_ were two of our "_dead-weight_," and the horse was that on which the farmer had pranced in the _Yeomanry Troop_! Here is a turn of things! Distress; pressing distress; dread of the bailiffs alone could have made the farmer sell his horse. If he had the firmness to keep the tears out of his eyes, his heart must have paid the penalty. What, then, must have been his feelings, if he reflected, as I did, that the purchase-money for the horse had first gone from his pocket into that of the _dead-weight_! And, further, that the horse had pranced about for years for the purpose of subduing all opposition to those very measures, which had finally dismounted the owner! From this dismal scene, a scene formerly so joyous, we set off back to Uphusband pretty early, were overtaken by the rain, and got a pretty good soaking. The land along here is very good. This whole country has a chalk bottom; but, in the valley on the right of the hill over which you go from Andover to Weyhill, the chalk lies far from the top, and the soil has few flints in it. It is very much like the land about Malden and Maidstone. Met with a farmer who said he must be ruined, unless another "good war" should come! This is no uncommon notion. They saw high prices _with_ war, and they thought that the war was the _cause_. _12 to 16 of October._ The fair was too dismal for me to go to it again. My sons went two of the days, and their account of the hop-fair was enough to make one gloomy for a month, particularly as my townsmen of Farnham were, in this case, amongst the sufferers. On the 12th I went to dine with and to harangue the farmers at Andover. Great attention was paid to what I had to say. The crowding to get into the room was a proof of nothing, perhaps, but _curiosity_; but there must have been a _cause_ for the curiosity, and that cause would, under the present circumstances, be matter for reflection with a wise government. _17 October._ Went to Newbury to dine with and to harangue the farmers. It was a fair-day. It rained so hard that I had to stop at Burghclere to dry my clothes, and to borrow a great coat to keep me dry for the rest of the way; so as not to have to sit in wet clothes. At Newbury the company was not less attentive or less numerous than at Andover. Some one of the tax-eating crew had, I understand, called me an "incendiary." The day is passed for those tricks. They deceive no longer. Here, at Newbury, I took occasion to notice the base accusation of _Dundas_, the Member for the County. I stated it as something that I had heard of, and I was proceeding to charge him conditionally, when Mr. Tubb of Shillingford rose from his seat, and said, "I myself, Sir, heard him say the words." I had heard of his vile conduct long before; but I abstained from charging him with it till an opportunity should offer for doing it in his own country. After the dinner was over I went back to Burghclere. _18 to 20 October._ At Burghclere, one half the time writing, and the other half hare-hunting. _21 October._ Went back to Uphusband. _22 October._ Went to dine with the farmers at Salisbury, and got back to Uphusband by ten o'clock at night, two hours later than I have been out of bed for a great many months. In quitting Andover to go to Salisbury (17 miles from each other) you cross the beautiful valley that goes winding down amongst the hills to Stockbridge. You then rise into the open country that very soon becomes a part of that large tract of downs, called Salisbury Plain. You are not in Wiltshire, however, till you are about half the way to Salisbury. You leave Tidworth away to your right. This is the seat of Asheton Smith; and the fine _coursing_ that I once saw there I should have called to recollection with pleasure, if I could have forgotten the hanging of the men at Winchester last Spring for resisting one of this Smith's game-keepers! This Smith's son and a Sir John Pollen are the members for Andover. They are chosen by the Corporation. One of the Corporation, an Attorney, named Etwall, is a Commissioner of the Lottery, or something in that way. It would be a curious thing to ascertain how large a portion of the "public services" is performed by the voters in Boroughs and their relations. These persons are singularly kind to the nation. They not only choose a large part of the "representatives of the people;" but they come in person, or by deputy, and perform a very considerable part of the "_public services_." I should like to know how many of them are employed about the _Salt-Tax_, for instance. A list of these public-spirited persons might be produced to show the _benefit_ of the Boroughs. Before you get to Salisbury, you cross the valley that brings down a little river from Amesbury. It is a very beautiful valley. There is a chain of farmhouses and little churches all the way up it. The farms consist of the land on the flats on each side of the river, running out to a greater or less extent, at different places, towards the hills and downs. Not far above Amesbury is a little village called Netherhaven, where I once saw an _acre of hares_. We were coursing at Everly, a few miles off; and one of the party happening to say, that he had seen "an acre of hares" at Mr. Hicks Beech's at Netherhaven, we, who wanted to see the same, or to detect our informant, sent a messenger to beg a day's coursing, which being granted, we went over the next day. Mr. Beech received us very politely. He took us into a wheat stubble close by his paddock; his son took a gallop round, cracking his whip at the same time; the hares (which were very thickly in sight before) started all over the field, ran into a _flock_ like sheep; and we all agreed, that the flock did cover _an acre of ground_. Mr. Beech had an old greyhound, that I saw lying down in the shrubbery close by the house, while several hares were sitting and skipping about, with just as much confidence as cats sit by a dog in a kitchen or a parlour. Was this _instinct_ in either dog or hares? Then, mind, this same greyhound went amongst the rest to course with us out upon the distant hills and lands; and then he ran as eagerly as the rest, and killed the hares with as little remorse. Philosophers will talk a long while before they will make men believe, that this was _instinct alone_. I believe that this dog had much more reason than half of the Cossacks have; and I am sure he had a great deal more than many a Negro that I have seen. In crossing this valley to go to Salisbury, I thought of Mr. Beech's hares; but I really have neither thought of nor seen any _game_ with pleasure, since the hanging of the two men at Winchester. If no other man will petition for the repeal of the law, under which those poor fellows suffered, I will. But let us hope, that there will be no need of petitioning. Let us hope, that it will be repealed without any express application for it. It is curious enough that laws of this sort should _increase_, while _Sir James Mackintosh_ is so resolutely bent on "_softening the criminal code_!" The company at Salisbury was very numerous; not less than 500 farmers were present. They were very attentive to what I said, and, which rather surprised me, they received very docilely what I said against squeezing the labourers. A fire in a farmyard had lately taken place near Salisbury; so that the subject was a ticklish one. But it was my very first duty to treat of it, and I was resolved, be the consequence what it might, not to neglect that duty. _23 to 26 October._ At Uphusband. At this village, which is a great thoroughfare for sheep and pigs, from Wiltshire and Dorsetshire to Berkshire, Oxfordshire, and away to the North and North East, we see many farmers from different parts of the country; and, if I had had any doubts before, as to the deplorableness of their state, those would now no longer exist. I did, indeed, years ago, prove, that if we returned to cash payments without a reduction of the Debt, and without a rectifying of contracts, the present race of farmers must be ruined. But still, when the thing actually comes, it astounds one. It is like the death of a friend or relation. We talk of its approach without much emotion. We foretell the _when_ without much seeming pain. We know it _must be_. But, when it comes, we forget our foretellings, and feel the calamity as acutely as if we had never expected it. The accounts we hear, daily, and almost hourly, of the families of farmers actually coming to the _parish-book_, are enough to make any body but a Boroughmonger feel. That species of monster is to be moved by nothing but his own pecuniary sufferings; and, thank God, the monster is now about to be _reached_. I hear, from all parts, that the parsons are in great alarm! Well they may, if their hearts be too much set upon the treasures of this world; for I can see no possible way of settling this matter justly, without resorting to their temporalities. They have long enough been calling upon all the industrious classes for "sacrifices for the good of the country." The time seems to be come for them to do something in this way themselves. In a short time there will be, because there can be, no rents. And, we shall see, whether the landlords will then suffer the parsons to continue to receive a tenth part of the produce of the land! In many places the farmers have had the sense and the spirit to _rate_ the tithes to the _poor-rates_. This they _ought_ to do in all cases, whether the tithes be taken up in kind or not. This, however, sweats the fire-shovel hat gentleman. It "bothers his wig." He does not know what to think of it. He does not know _who to blame_; and, where a parson finds things not to his mind, the first thing he always does is, to look about for somebody to accuse of sedition and blasphemy. Lawyers always begin, in such cases, to hunt the books, to see if there be no _punishment_ to apply. But the devil of it is, neither of them have now any body to lay on upon! I always told them, that there would arise an enemy, that would laugh at all their anathemas, informations, dungeons, halters and bayonets. One positive good has, however, arisen out of the present calamities, and that is, the _parsons_ are grown more _humble_ than they were. Cheap corn and a good thumping debt have greatly conduced to the producing of the Christian virtue, _humility_, necessary in us all, but doubly necessary in the priesthood. The parson is now one of the parties who is taking away the landlord's estate and the farmer's capital. When the farmer's capital is gone, there will be no rents; but, without a law upon the subject, the parson will still have his tithe, and a tithe upon the _taxes_ too, which the land has to bear! Will the landlords stand this? No matter. If there be no reform of the Parliament, they must stand it. The two sets may, for aught I care, worry each other as long as they please. When the present race of farmers are gone (and that will soon be) the landlord and the parson may settle the matter between them. They will be the only parties interested; and which of them shall devour the other appears to be of little consequence to the rest of the community. They agreed most cordially in creating the Debt. They went hand in hand in all the measures against the Reformers. They have made, actually made, the very thing that now frightens them, which now menaces them with _total extinction_. They cannot think it unjust, if their prayers be now treated as the prayers of the Reformers were. _27 to 29 October._ At Burghclere. Very nasty weather. On the 28th the fox-hounds came to throw off at _Penwood_, in this parish. Having heard that _Dundas_ would be out with the hounds, I rode to the place of meeting, in order to look him in the face, and to give him an opportunity to notice, on his own peculiar dunghill, what I had said of him at Newbury. He came. I rode up to him and about him; but he said not a word. The company entered the wood, and I rode back towards my quarters. They found a fox, and quickly lost him. Then they came out of the wood and came back along the road, and met me, and passed me, they as well as I going at a foot pace. I had plenty of time to survey them all well, and to mark their looks. I watched Dundas's eyes, but the devil a bit could I get them to turn _my way_. He is _paid_ for the present. We shall see, whether he will go, or send an ambassador, or neither, when I shall be at Reading on the 9th of next month. _30 October._ Set off for London. Went by Alderbridge, Crookham, Brimton, Mortimer, Strathfield Say, Heckfield Heath, Eversley, Blackwater, and slept at Oakingham. This is, with trifling exceptions, a miserably poor country. Burghclere lies along at the foot of a part of that chain of hills, which, in this part, divide Hampshire from Berkshire. The parish just named is, indeed, in Hampshire, but it forms merely the foot of the Highclere and Kingsclere Hills. These hills, from which you can see all across the country, even to the Isle of Wight, are of chalk, and with them, towards the North, ends the chalk. The soil over which I have come to-day, is generally a stony sand upon a bed of gravel. With the exception of the land just round Crookham and the other villages, nothing can well be poorer or more villanously ugly. It is all first cousin to Hounslow Heath, of which it is, in fact, a continuation to the Westward. There is a clay at the bottom of the gravel; so that you have here nasty stagnant pools without fertility of soil. The rushes grow amongst the gravel; sure sign that there is clay beneath to hold the water; for, unless there be water constantly at their roots, rushes will not grow. Such land is, however, good for _oaks_ wherever there is soil enough on the top of the gravel for the oak to get hold, and to send its tap-root down to the clay. The oak is the thing to plant here; and, _therefore_, this whole country contains not one single plantation of oaks! That is to say, as far as I observed. Plenty of _fir_-trees and other rubbish have been recently planted; but no oaks. At _Strathfield Say_ is that everlasting monument of English Wisdom Collective, the _Heir Loom Estate_ of the "_greatest Captain of the Age_!" In his peerage it is said, that it was wholly out of the power of the nation to reward his services fully; but, that "she did what she could!" Well, poor devil! And what could any body ask for more? It was well, however, that she give what she did while she was drunk; for, if she had held her hand till now, I am half disposed to think, that her gifts would have been very small. I can never forget that we have to pay interest on 50,000_l._ of the money merely owing to the coxcombery of the late Mr. Whitbread, who actually moved that _addition_ to one of the grants proposed by the Ministers! Now, a great part of the grants is in the way of annuity or pension. It is notorious, that, when the grants were made, the pensions would not purchase more than a third part of as much wheat as they will now. The grants, therefore, have been augmented threefold. What right, then, has any one to say, that the _labourers' wages_ ought to fall, unless he say, that these pensions ought to be reduced! The Hampshire Magistrates, when they were putting forth their _manifesto_ about the allowances to labourers, should have noticed these pensions of the Lord Lieutenant of the County. However, real starvation cannot be inflicted to any very great extent. The present race of farmers must give way, and the attempts to squeeze rents out of the wages of labour must cease. And the matter will finally rest to be settled by the landlords, parsons, and tax-eaters. If the landlords choose to give the greatest captain three times as much as was granted to him, why, let him have it. According to all account, he is no _miser_ at any rate; and the estates that pass through his hands may, perhaps, be full as well disposed of as they are at present. Considering the miserable soil I have passed over to-day, I am rather surprised to find Oakingham so decent a town. It has a very handsome market-place, and is by no means an ugly country-town. _31 October._ Set off at daylight and got to Kensington about noon. On leaving Oakingham for London, you get upon what is called _Windsor Forest_; that is to say, upon as bleak, as barren, and as villanous a heath as ever man set his eyes on. However, here are new enclosures without end. And here are houses too, here and there, over the whole of this execrable tract of country. "What!" Mr. Canning will say, "will you not allow that the owners of these new enclosures and these houses know their own interests? And are not these _improvements_, and are they not a proof of an addition to the national capital?" To the first I answer, _May be so_; to the two last, _No_. These new enclosures and houses arise out of the beggaring of the parts of the country distant from the vortex of the funds. The farmhouses have long been growing fewer and fewer; the labourers' houses fewer and fewer; and it is manifest to every man who has eyes to see with, that the villages are regularly wasting away. This is the case all over the parts of the kingdom where the tax-eaters do not haunt. In all the really agricultural villages and parts of the kingdom, there is a _shocking decay_; a great dilapidation and constant pulling down or falling down of houses. The farmhouses are not so many as they were forty years ago by three-fourths. That is to say, the infernal system of Pitt and his followers has annihilated three parts out of four of the farm houses. The labourers' houses disappear also. And all the _useful_ people become less numerous. While these spewy sands and gravel near London are enclosed and built on, good lands in other parts are neglected. These enclosures and buildings are a _waste_; they are means _misapplied_; they are a proof of national decline and not of prosperity. To cultivate and ornament these villanous spots the produce and the population are drawn away from the good lands. There all manner of schemes have been resorted to to get rid of the necessity of _hands_; and, I am quite convinced, that the population, upon the whole, has not increased, in England, one single soul since I was born; an opinion that I have often expressed, in support of which I have as often offered arguments, and those arguments have _never been answered_. As to this rascally heath, that which has ornamented it has brought misery on millions. The spot is not far distant from the Stock-Jobbing crew. The roads to it are level. They are smooth. The wretches can go to it from the 'Change without any danger to their worthless necks. And thus it is "_vastly improved, Ma'am_!" A set of men who can look upon this as "improvement," who can regard this as a proof of the "increased capital of the country," are pretty fit, it must be allowed, to get the country out of its present difficulties! At the end of this blackguard heath you come (on the road to Egham) to a little place called _Sunning Hill_, which is on the Western side of Windsor Park. It is a spot all made into "grounds" and gardens by tax-eaters. The inhabitants of it have beggared twenty agricultural villages and hamlets. From this place you go across a corner of Windsor Park, and come out at Virginia Water. To Egham is then about two miles. A much more ugly country than that between Egham and Kensington would with great difficulty be found in England. Flat as a pancake, and, until you come to Hammersmith, the soil is a nasty stony dirt upon a bed of gravel. Hounslow-heath, which is only a little worse than the general run, is a sample of all that is bad in soil and villanous in look. Yet this is now enclosed, and what they call "cultivated." Here is a fresh robbery of villages, hamlets, and farm and labourers' buildings and abodes! But here is one of those "_vast improvements, Ma'am_," called _Barracks_. What an "improvement!" What an "addition to the national capital!" For, mind, Monsieur de Snip, the Surrey Norman, actually said, that the new buildings ought to be reckoned an addition to the national capital! What, Snip! Do you pretend that the nation is _richer_, because the means of making this barrack have been drawn away from the people in taxes? Mind, Monsieur le Normand, the barrack did not drop down from the sky nor spring up out of the earth. It was not created by the unhanged knaves of paper-money. It came out of the people's labour; and, when you hear Mr. Ellman tell the Committee of 1821, that forty-five years ago every man in his parish brewed his own beer, and that now not one man in that same parish does it; when you hear this, Monsieur de Snip, you might, if you had brains in your skull, be able to estimate the effects of what has produced the barrack. Yet, barracks there must be, or _Gatton_ and _Old Sarum_ must fall; and the fall of these would break poor Mr. Canning's heart. _8 November._ From London to Egham in the evening. _9 November._ Started at day-break in a hazy frost, for Reading. The horses' manes and ears covered with the hoar before we got across Windsor Park, which appeared to be a blackguard soil, pretty much like Hounslow Heath, only not flat. A very large part of the Park is covered with heath or rushes, sure sign of execrable soil. But the roads are such as might have been made by Solomon. "A greater than Solomon is here!" some one may exclaim. Of that I know nothing. I am but a traveller; and the roads in this park are beautiful indeed. My servant, whom I brought from amongst the hills and flints of Uphusband, must certainly have thought himself in Paradise as he was going through the Park. If I had told him that the buildings and the labourers' clothes and meals, at Uphusband, were the _worse_ for those pretty roads with edgings cut to the line, he would have wondered at me, I dare say. It would, nevertheless, have been perfectly true; and this is _feelosofee_ of a much more useful sort than that which is taught by the Edinburgh Reviewers. When you get through the Park you come to Winkfield, and then (bound for Reading) you go through Binfield, which is ten miles from Egham and as many from Reading. At Binfield I stopped to breakfast, at a very nice country inn called the _Stag and Hounds_. Here you go along on the North border of that villanous tract of country that I passed over in going from Oakingham to Egham. Much of the land even here is but newly enclosed; and it was really not worth a straw before it was loaded with the fruit of the labour of the people living in the parts of the country distant from the _Fund-Wen_. What injustice! What unnatural changes! Such things cannot be, without producing convulsion in the end! A road as smooth as a die, a real stock-jobber's road, brought us to Reading by eleven o'clock. We dined at one; and very much pleased I was with the company. I have seldom seen a number of persons assembled together, whose approbation I valued more than that of the company of this day. Last year the prime Minister said, that his speech (the grand speech) was rendered necessary by the "pains that had been taken, in different parts of the country," to persuade the farmers, that the distress had arisen out of the _measures of the government_, and _not from over-production_! To be sure I had taken some pains to remove that stupid notion about over-production, from the minds of the farmers; but did the stern-path-man _succeed_ in counteracting the effect of my efforts? Not he, indeed. And, after his speech was made, and sent forth cheek by jowl with that of the sane Castlereagh, of hole-digging memory, the truths inculcated by me were only the more manifest. This has been a fine meeting at Reading! I feel very proud of it. The morning was fine for me to ride in, and the rain began as soon as I was housed. I came on horse-back 40 miles, slept on the road, and finished my harangue at the end of _twenty-two hours_ from leaving Kensington; and, I cannot help saying, that is pretty well for "_Old_ Cobbett." I am delighted with the people that I have seen at Reading. Their kindness to me is nothing in my estimation compared with the sense and spirit which they appear to possess. It is curious to observe how things have _worked_ with me. That combination, that sort of _instinctive_ union, which has existed for so many years, amongst all the parties, to _keep me down_ generally, and particularly, as the _County-Club_ called it, to keep me out of Parliament "_at any rate_," this combination has led to the present _haranguing_ system, which, in some sort, supplies the place of a seat in Parliament. It may be said, indeed, that I have not the honour to sit in the same room with those great Reformers, Lord John Russell, Sir Massey Lopez, and his guest, Sir Francis Burdett; but man's happiness here below is never perfect; and there may be, besides, people to believe, that a man ought not to break his heart on account of being shut out of such company, especially when he can find such company as I have this day found at Reading. _10 November._ Went from Reading, through Aldermaston for Burghclere. The rain has been very heavy, and the water was a good deal out. Here, on my way, I got upon Crookham Common again, which is a sort of continuation of the wretched country about Oakingham. From Highclere I looked, one day, over the flat towards Marlborough; and I there saw some such rascally heaths. So that this villanous tract, extends from East to West, with more or less of exceptions, from Hounslow to Hungerford. From North to South it extends from Binfield (which cannot be far from the borders of Buckinghamshire) to the South Downs of Hampshire, and terminates somewhere between Liphook and Petersfield, after stretching over Hindhead, which is certainly the most villanous spot that God ever made. Our ancestors do, indeed, seem to have ascribed its formation to another power; for the most celebrated part of it is called "_the Devil's Punch Bowl_." In this tract of country there are certainly some very beautiful spots. But these are very few in number, except where the chalk-hills run into the tract. The neighbourhood of Godalming ought hardly to be considered as an exception; for there you are just on the outside of the tract, and begin to enter on the _Wealds_; that is to say, clayey woodlands. All the part of Berkshire, of which I have been recently passing over, if I except the tract from Reading to Crookham, is very bad land and a very ugly country. _11 November._ Uphusband _once more_, and, for the sixth time this year, over the North Hampshire Hills, which, notwithstanding their everlasting flints, I like very much. As you ride along, even in a _green lane_, the horses' feet make a noise like _hammering_. It seems as if you were riding on a mass of iron. Yet the soil is good, and bears some of the best wheat in England. All these high, and indeed, all chalky lands, are excellent for sheep. But, on the top of some of these hills, there are as fine meadows as I ever saw. Pasture richer, perhaps, than that about Swindon in the North of Wiltshire. And the singularity is, that this pasture is on the _very tops_ of these lofty hills, from which you can see the Isle of Wight. There is a stiff loam, in some places twenty feet deep, on a bottom of chalk. Though the grass grows so finely, there is no apparent wetness in the land. The wells are more than three hundred feet deep. The main part of the water, for all uses, comes from the clouds; and, indeed, these are pretty constant companions of these chalk hills, which are very often enveloped in clouds and wet, when it is sunshine down at Burghclere or Uphusband. They manure the land here by digging _wells_ in the fields, and bringing up the chalk, which they spread about on the land; and which, being free-chalk, is reduced to powder by the frosts. A considerable portion of the land is covered with wood; and as, in the clearing of the land, the clearers followed the good soil, without regard to shape of fields, the forms of the woods are of endless variety, which, added to the never-ceasing inequalities of the surface of the whole, makes this, like all the others of the same description, a very pleasant country. _17 November._ Set off from Uphusband for Hambledon. The first place I had to get to was Whitchurch. On my way, and at a short distance from Uphusband, down the valley, I went through a village called _Bourn_, which takes its name from the water that runs down this valley. A _bourn_, in the language of our forefathers, seems to be a river, which is, part of the year, _without water_. There is one of these bourns down this pretty valley. It has, generally, no water till towards Spring, and then it runs for several months. It is the same at the Candovers, as you go across the downs from Odiham to Winchester. The little village of _Bourn_, therefore, takes its name from its situation. Then there are two _Hurstbourns_, one above and one below this village of Bourn. _Hurst_ means, I believe, a Forest. There were, doubtless, one of those on each side of Bourn; and when they became villages, the one above was called _Up_-hurstbourn, and the one below, _Down_-hurstbourn; which names have become _Uphusband_ and _Downhusband_. The lawyers, therefore, who, to the immortal honour of high-blood and Norman descent, are making such a pretty story out for the Lord Chancellor, relative to a Noble Peer who voted for the Bill against the Queen, ought to leave off calling the seat of the noble person _Hursperne_; for it is at Downhurstbourn where he lives, and where he was visited by Dr. Bankhead! Whitchurch is a small town, but famous for being the place where the paper has been made for the _Borough-Bank_! I passed by the _mill_ on my way out to get upon the downs to go to Alresford, where I intended to sleep. I hope the time will come, when a monument will be erected where that mill stands, and when on that monument will be inscribed _the curse of England_. This spot ought to be held accursed in all time henceforth and for evermore. It has been the spot from which have sprung more and greater mischiefs than ever plagued mankind before. However, the evils now appear to be fast recoiling on the merciless authors of them; and, therefore, one beholds this scene of paper-making with a less degree of rage than formerly. My blood used to boil when I thought of the wretches who carried on and supported the system. It does not boil now, when I think of them. The curse, which they intended solely for others, is now falling on themselves; and I smile at their sufferings. Blasphemy! Atheism! Who can be an Atheist, that sees how _justly_ these wretches are treated; with what exact measure they are receiving the evils which they inflicted on others for a time, and which they intended to inflict on them for ever! If, indeed, the monsters had continued to prosper, one might have been an Atheist. The true history of the rise, progress and fall of these monsters, of their _power_, their _crimes_ and their _punishment_, will do more than has been done before to put an end to the doubts of those who have doubts upon this subject. Quitting Whitchurch, I went off to the left out of the Winchester-road, got out upon the high-lands, took an "observation," as the sailors call it, and off I rode, in a straight line, over hedge and ditch, towards the rising ground between Stratton Park and Micheldever-Wood; but, before I reached this point, I found some wet meadows and some running water in my way in a little valley running up from the turnpike road to a little place called _West Stratton_. I, therefore, turned to my left, went down to the turnpike, went a little way along it, then turned to my left, went along by Stratton Park pales down East Stratton-street, and then on towards the Grange Park. Stratton Park is the seat of Sir Thomas Baring, who has here several thousands of acres of land; who has the living of Micheldever, to which, I think, Northington and Swallowfield are joined. Above all, he has Micheldever Wood, which, they say, contains a thousand acres, and which is one of the finest oak-woods in England. This large and very beautiful estate must have belonged to the Church at the time of Henry the Eighth's "_reformation_." It was, I believe, given by him to the family of _Russell_; and it was, by them, sold to Sir Francis Baring about twenty years ago. Upon the whole, all things considered, the change is for the better. Sir Thomas Baring would not have moved, nay, he _did not_ move, for the pardon of _Lopez_, while he left Joseph Swann in gaol for _four years and a half_, without so much as hinting at Swann's case! Yea, verily, I would rather see this estate in the hands of Sir Thomas Baring than in those of Lopez's friend. Besides, it seems to be acknowledged that any title is as good as those derived from the old wife-killer. Castlereagh, when the Whigs talked in a rather rude manner about the sinecure places and pensions, told them, that the title of the sinecure man or woman was _as good as the titles of the Duke of Bedford_! this was _plagiarism_, to the sure; for _Burke_ had begun it. He called the Duke the _Leviathan of grants_; and seemed to hint at the propriety of _over-hauling_ them a little. When the men of Kent petitioned for a "_just_ reduction of the National Debt," Lord John Russell, with that wisdom for which he is renowned, reprobated the prayer; but, having done this in terms not sufficiently unqualified and strong, and having made use of a word of equivocal meaning, the man, that cut his own throat at North Cray, pitched on upon him and told him, that the fundholder had as much right to his dividends, as _the Duke of Bedford had to his estates_. Upon this the noble reformer and advocate for Lopez mended his expressions; and really said what the North Cray philosopher said he ought to say! Come, come: Micheldever Wood is in very proper hands! A little girl, of whom I asked my way down into East Stratton, and who was dressed in a camlet gown, white apron and plaid cloak (it was Sunday), and who had a book in her hand, told me that Lady Baring gave her the clothes, and had her taught to read and to sing hymns and spiritual songs. As I came through the Strattons, I saw not less than a dozen girls clad in this same way. It is impossible not to believe that this is done with a good motive; but it is possible not to believe that it is productive of good. It must create hypocrites, and hypocrisy is the great sin of the age. Society is in a _queer_ state when the rich think, that they must _educate_ the poor in order to insure their _own safety_: for this, at bottom, is the great motive now at work in pushing on the education scheme, though in this particular case, perhaps, there may be a little enthusiasm at work. When persons are glutted with riches; when they have their fill of them; when they are surfeited of all earthly pursuits, they are very apt to begin to think about the next world; and, the moment they begin to think of that, they begin to look over the _account_ that they shall have to present. Hence the far greater part of what are called "charities." But it is the business of _governments_ to take care that there shall be very little of this _glutting_ with riches, and very little need of "charities." From Stratton I went on to Northington Down; then round to the South of the Grange Park (Alex. Baring's), down to Abbotson, and over some pretty little green hills to Alresford, which is a nice little town of itself, but which presents a singularly beautiful view from the last little hill coming from Abbotson. I could not pass by the Grange Park without thinking of _Lord and Lady Henry Stuart_, whose lives and deaths surpassed what we read of in the most sentimental romances. Very few things that I have met with in my life ever filled me with sorrow equal to that which I felt at the death of this most virtuous and most amiable pair. It began raining soon after I got to Alresford, and rained all the evening. I heard here, that a Requisition for a County Meeting was in the course of being signed in different parts of the county. They mean to petition for Reform, I hope. At any rate, I intend to go to see what they do. I saw the _parsons_ at the county meeting in 1817. I should like, of all things, to see them at another meeting _now_. These are the persons that I have most steadily in my eye. The war and the debt were for the _tithes_ and the _boroughs_. These must stand or fall together now. I always told the parsons, that they were the greatest fools in the world to put the tithes on board _the same boat_ with the boroughs. I told them so in 1817; and, I fancy, they will soon see all about it. _November 18._ Came from Alresford to Hambledon, through Titchbourn, Cheriton, Beauworth, Kilmston, and Exton. This is all a high, hard, dry, fox-hunting country. Like that, indeed, over which I came yesterday. At Titchbourn, there is a park, and "great house," as the country-people call it. The place belongs, I believe, to a Sir somebody _Titchbourne_, a family, very likely half as old as the name of the village, which, however, partly takes its name from the _bourn_ that runs down the valley. I thought, as I was riding alongside of this park, that I had heard _good_ of this family of Titchbourne, and, I therefore saw the park _pales_ with sorrow. There is not more than one pale in a yard, and those that remain, and the rails and posts and all, seem tumbling down. This park-paling is perfectly typical of those of the landlords who are _not tax-eaters_. They are wasting away very fast. The tax-eating landlords think to swim out the gale. They are deceived. They are "deluded" by their own greediness. Kilmston was my next place after Titchbourn, but I wanted to go to Beauworth, so that I had to go through Cheriton; a little, hard, iron village, where all seems to be as old as the hills that surround it. In coming along you see Titchbourn church away to the right, on the side of the hill, a very pretty little view; and this, though such a hard country, is a pretty country. At Cheriton I found a grand camp of _Gipsys_, just upon the move towards Alresford. I had met some of the scouts first, and afterwards the advanced guard, and here the main body was getting in motion. One of the scouts that I met was a young woman, who, I am sure, was six feet high. There were two or three more in the camp of about the same height; and some most strapping fellows of men. It is curious that this race should have preserved their dark skin and coal-black straight and coarse hair, very much like that of the American Indians. I mean the hair, for the skin has nothing of the copper-colour as that of the Indians has. It is not, either, of the Mulatto cast; that is to say, there is no yellow in it. It is a black mixed with our English colours of pale, or red, and the features are small, like those of the girls in Sussex, and often singularly pretty. The tall girl that I met at Titchbourn, who had a huckster basket on her arm, had most beautiful features. I pulled up my horse, and said, "Can you tell me my fortune, my dear?" She answered in the negative, giving me a look at the same time, that seemed to say, it was _too late_; and that if I had been thirty years younger she might have seen a little what she could do with me. It is, all circumstances considered, truly surprising, that this race should have preserved so perfectly all its distinctive marks. I came on to Beauworth to inquire after the family of a worthy old farmer, whom I knew there some years ago, and of whose death I had heard at Alresford. A bridle road over some fields and through a coppice took me to Kilmston, formerly a large village, but now mouldered into two farms, and a few miserable tumble-down houses for the labourers. Here is a house, that was formerly the residence of the landlord of the place, but is now occupied by one of the farmers. This is a fine country for fox-hunting, and Kilmston belonged to a Mr. Ridge who was a famous fox-hunter, and who is accused of having spent his fortune in that way. But what do people mean? He had a right to spend his _income_, as his fathers had done before him. It was the Pitt-system, and not the fox-hunting, that took away the principal. The place now belongs to a Mr. Long, whose origin I cannot find out. From Kilmston I went right over the downs to the top of a hill called _Beacon Hill_, which is one of the loftiest hills in the country. Here you can see the Isle of Wight in detail, a fine sweep of the sea; also away into Sussex, and over the New Forest into Dorsetshire. Just below you, to the East, you look down upon the village of Exton; and you can see up this valley (which is called a _Bourn_ too) as far as West Meon, and down it as far as Soberton. Corhampton, Warnford, Meon-Stoke and Droxford come within these two points; so that here are six villages on this bourn within the space of about five miles. On the other side of the main valley down which the bourn runs, and opposite Beacon Hill, is another such a hill, which they call _Old Winchester Hill_. On the top of this hill there was once a camp, or, rather fortress; and the ramparts are now pretty nearly as visible as ever. The same is to be seen on the Beacon Hill at Highclere. These ramparts had nothing of the principles of modern fortification in their formation. You see no signs of salliant angles. It was a _ditch_ and _a bank_, and that appears to have been all. I had, I think, a full mile to go down from the top of Beacon Hill to Exton. This is the village where that _Parson Baines_ lives who, as described by me in 1817, bawled in Lord Cochrane's ear at Winchester in the month of March of that year. Parson _Poulter_ lives at Meon-Stoke, which is not a mile further down. So that this valley has something in it besides picturesque views! I asked some countrymen how Poulter and Baines did; but their answer contained too much of _irreverence_ for me to give it here. At Exton I crossed the Gosport turnpike road, came up the cross valley under the South side of Old Winchester Hill, over Stoke down, then over West-End down, and then to my friend's house at West-End in the parish of Hambledon. Thus have I crossed nearly the whole of this country from the North-West to the South-East, without going five hundred yards on a turnpike road, and, as nearly as I could do it, in a straight line. The whole country that I have crossed is loam and flints, upon a bottom of chalk. At Alresford there are some watered meadows, which are the beginning of a chain of meadows that goes all the way down to Winchester, and hence to Southampton; but even these meadows have, at Alresford, chalk under them. The water that supplies them comes out of _a pond_, called Alresford Pond, which is fed from the high hills in the neighbourhood. These counties are purely agricultural; and they have suffered most cruelly from the accursed Pitt-system. Their hilliness, bleakness, roughness of roads, render them unpleasant to the luxurious, effeminate, tax-eating crew, who never come near them, and who have pared them down to the very bone. The villages are all in a state of _decay_. The farm-buildings dropping down, bit by bit. The produce is, by a few great farmers, dragged to a few spots, and all the rest is falling into decay. If this infernal system could go on for forty years longer, it would make all the labourers as much slaves as the negroes are, and subject to the same sort of discipline and management. _November 19 to 23._ At West End. Hambledon is a long, straggling village, lying in a little valley formed by some very pretty but not lofty hills. The environs are much prettier than the village itself, which is not far from the North side of Portsdown Hill. This must have once been a considerable place; for here is a church pretty nearly as large as that at Farnham in Surrey, which is quite sufficient for a large town. The means of living has been drawn away from these villages, and the people follow the means. Cheriton and Kilmston and Hambledon and the like have been beggared for the purpose of giving tax-eaters the means of making "_vast improvements, Ma'am_," on the villanous spewy gravel of Windsor Forest! The thing, however, must go _back_. Revolution here or revolution there: bawl, bellow, alarm, as long as the tax-eaters like, _back_ the thing must go. Back, indeed, _it is going_ in some quarters. Those scenes of glorious loyalty, the sea-port places, are beginning to be deserted. How many villages has that scene of all that is wicked and odious, Portsmouth, Gosport, and Portsea; how many villages has that hellish assemblage beggared! It is now being scattered _itself_! Houses which there let for forty or fifty pounds a-year each, now let for three or four shillings a-week each; and thousands, perhaps, cannot be let at all to any body capable of paying rent. There is an absolute tumbling down taking place, where, so lately, there were such "vast improvements, Ma'am!" Does Monsieur de Snip call those improvements, then? Does he insist, that those houses form "an addition to the national capital?" Is it any wonder that a country should be miserable when such notions prevail? And when they can, even in the Parliament, be received with cheering? _Nov. 24, Sunday._ Set off from Hambledon to go to Thursley in Surrey, about five miles from Godalming. Here I am at Thursley, after as interesting a day as I ever spent in all my life. They say that "_variety_ is charming," and this day I have had of scenes and of soils a variety indeed! To go to Thursley from Hambledon the plain way was up the downs to Petersfield, and then along the turnpike-road through Liphook, and over Hindhead, at the north-east foot of which Thursley lies. But, I had been over that sweet Hindhead, and had seen too much of turnpike-road and of heath, to think of taking another so large a dose of them. The map of Hampshire (and we had none of Surrey) showed me the way to Headley, which lies on the West of Hindhead, down upon the flat. I knew it was but about five miles from Headley to Thursley; and I, therefore, resolved to go to Headley, in spite of all the remonstrances of friends, who represented to me the danger of breaking my neck at Hawkley and of getting buried in the bogs of Woolmer Forest. My route was through East-Meon, Froxfield, Hawkley, Greatham, and then over Woolmer Forest (a _heath_ if you please), to Headley. Off we set over the downs (crossing the bottom sweep of Old Winchester Hill) from West-End to East-Meon. We came down a long and steep hill that led us winding round into the village, which lies in a valley that runs in a direction nearly east and west, and that has a rivulet that comes out of the hills towards Petersfield. If I had not seen anything further to-day, I should have dwelt long on the beauties of this place. Here is a very fine valley, in nearly an eliptical form, sheltered by high hills sloping gradually from it; and not far from the middle of this valley there is a hill nearly in the form of a goblet-glass with the foot and stem broken off and turned upside down. And this is clapped down upon the level of the valley, just as you would put such goblet upon a table. The hill is lofty, partly covered with wood, and it gives an air of great singularity to the scene. I am sure that East-Meon has been a _large place_. The church has a _Saxon Tower_, pretty nearly equal, as far as I recollect, to that of the Cathedral at Winchester. The rest of the church has been rebuilt, and, perhaps, several times; but the _tower_ is complete; it has had _a steeple_ put upon it; but it retains all its beauty, and it shows that the church (which is still large) must, at first, have been a very large building. Let those, who talk so glibly of the increase of the population in England, go over the country from Highclere to Hambledon. Let them look at the size of the churches, and let them observe those numerous small enclosures on every side of every village, which had, to a certainty, _each its house_ in former times. But let them go to East-Meon, and account for that church. Where did the hands come from to make it? Look, however, at the downs, the many square miles of downs near this village, all bearing the _marks of the plough_, and all out of tillage for many many years; yet, not one single inch of them but what is vastly superior in quality to any of those great "improvements" on the miserable heaths of Hounslow, Bagshot, and Windsor Forest. It is the destructive, the murderous paper-system, that has transferred the fruit of the labour, and the people along with it, from the different parts of the country to the neighbourhood of the all-devouring _Wen_. I do not believe one word of what is said of the increase of the population. All observation and all reason is against the fact; and, as to the _parliamentary returns_, what need we more than this: that _they_ assert, that the population of Great Britain has increased from ten to fourteen millions in the last _twenty years_! That is enough! A man that can suck that in will believe, literally believe, that the moon is made of green cheese. Such a thing is too monstrous to be swallowed by any body but Englishmen, and by any Englishman not brutified by a Pitt-system. TO MR. CANNING. _Worth (Sussex), 10 December, 1822._ SIR, The agreeable news from France, relative to the intended invasion of Spain, compelled me to break off, in my last Letter, in the middle of my _Rural Ride_ of Sunday, the 24th of November. Before I mount again, which I shall do in this Letter, pray let me ask you what _sort of apology_ is to be offered to the nation, if the French Bourbons be permitted to take quiet possession of Cadiz and of the Spanish naval force? Perhaps you may be disposed to answer, when you have taken time to reflect; and, therefore, leaving you to _muse_ on the matter, I will resume my ride. _November 24._ (Sunday.) From Hambledon to Thursley (continued). From East-Meon, I did not go on to Froxfield church, but turned off to the left to a place (a couple of houses) called _Bower_. Near this I stopped at a friend's house, which is in about as lonely a situation as I ever saw. A very pleasant place however. The lands dry, a nice mixture of woods and fields, and a great variety of hill and dell. Before I came to East-Meon, the soil of the hills was a shallow loam with flints, on a bottom of chalk; but on this side of the valley of East-Meon; that is to say, on the north side, the soil on the hills is a deep, stiff loam, on a bed of a sort of gravel mixed with chalk; and the stones, instead of being grey on the outside and blue on the inside, are yellow on the outside and whitish on the inside. In coming on further to the North, I found, that the bottom was sometimes gravel and sometime chalk. Here, at the time when _whatever it was_ that formed these hills and valleys, the stuff of which Hindhead is composed seems to have run down and mixed itself with the stuff of which _Old Winchester Hill_ is composed. Free chalk (which is the sort found here) is excellent manure for stiff land, and it produces a complete change in the nature of _clays_. It is, therefore, dug here, on the North of East-Meon, about in the fields, where it happens to be found, and is laid out upon the surface, where it is crumbled to powder by the frost, and thus gets incorporated with the loam. At Bower I got instructions to go to Hawkley, but accompanied with most earnest advice not to go that way, for that it was impossible to get along. The roads were represented as so bad; the floods so much out; the hills and bogs so dangerous; that, really, I began to _doubt_; and, if I had not been brought up amongst the clays of the Holt Forest and the bogs of the neighbouring heaths, I should certainly have turned off to my right, to go over Hindhead, great as was my objection to going that way. "Well, then," said my friend at Bower, "if you _will_ go that way, by G--, you must go down _Hawkley Hanger_;" of which he then gave me _such_ a description! But, even this I found to fall short of the reality. I inquired simply, whether _people were in the habit_ of going down it; and, the answer being in the affirmative, on I went through green lanes and bridle-ways till I came to the turnpike-road from Petersfield to Winchester, which I crossed, going into a narrow and almost untrodden green lane, on the side of which I found a cottage. Upon my asking the way to _Hawkley_, the woman at the cottage said, "Right up the lane, Sir: you'll come to a _hanger_ presently: you must take care, Sir: you can't ride down: will your horses _go alone_?" On we trotted up this pretty green lane; and indeed, we had been coming gently and generally up hill for a good while. The lane was between highish banks and pretty high stuff growing on the banks, so that we could see no distance from us, and could receive not the smallest hint of what was so near at hand. The lane had a little turn towards the end; so that, out we came, all in a moment, at the very edge of the hanger! And never, in all my life, was I so surprised and so delighted! I pulled up my horse, and sat and looked; and it was like looking from the top of a castle down into the sea, except that the valley was land and not water. I looked at my servant, to see what effect this unexpected sight had upon him. His surprise was as great as mine, though he had been bred amongst the North Hampshire hills. Those who had so strenuously dwelt on the dirt and dangers of this route, had said not a word about beauties, the matchless beauties of the scenery. These hangers are woods on the sides of very steep hills. The trees and underwood _hang_, in some sort, to the ground, instead of _standing on_ it. Hence these places are called _Hangers_. From the summit of that which I had now to descend, I looked down upon the villages of Hawkley, Greatham, Selborne and some others. From the south-east, round, southward, to the north-west, the main valley has cross-valleys running out of it, the hills on the sides of which are very steep, and, in many parts, covered with wood. The hills that form these cross-valleys run out into the main valley, like piers into the sea. Two of these promontories, of great height, are on the west side of the main valley, and were the first objects that struck my sight when I came to the edge of the hanger, which was on the south. The ends of these promontories are nearly perpendicular, and their tops so high in the air, that you cannot look at the village below without something like a feeling of apprehension. The leaves are all off, the hop-poles are in stack, the fields have little verdure; but, while the spot is beautiful beyond description even now, I must leave to imagination to suppose what it is, when the trees and hangers and hedges are in leaf, the corn waving, the meadows bright, and the hops upon the poles! From the south-west, round, eastward, to the north, lie the _heaths_, of which Woolmer Forest makes a part, and these go gradually rising up to Hindhead, the crown of which is to the north-west, leaving the rest of the circle (the part from north to north-west) to be occupied by a continuation of the valley towards Headley, Binstead, Frensham and the Holt Forest. So that even the _contrast_ in the view from the top of the hanger is as great as can possibly be imagined. Men, however, are not to have such beautiful views as this without some trouble. We had had the view; but we had to go down the hanger. We had, indeed, some roads to get along, as we could, afterwards; but we had to get down the hanger first. The horses took the lead, and crept partly down upon their feet and partly upon their hocks. It was extremely slippery too; for the soil is a sort of marle, or, as they call it here, maume, or mame, which is, when wet, very much like _grey soap_. In such a case it was likely that I should keep in the rear, which I did, and I descended by taking hold of the branches of the underwood, and so letting myself down. When we got to the bottom, I bade my man, when he should go back to Uphusband, tell the people there, that _Ashmansworth Lane_ is not the _worst_ piece of road in the world. Our worst, however, was not come yet, nor had we by any means seen the most novel sights. After crossing a little field and going through a farm-yard, we came into a lane, which was, at once, road and river. We found a hard bottom, however; and when we got out of the water, we got into a lane with high banks. The banks were quarries of white stone, like Portland-stone, and the bed of the road was of the same stone; and, the rains having been heavy for a day or two before, the whole was as clean and as white as the steps of a fund-holder or dead-weight door-way in one of the Squares of the _Wen_. Here were we, then, going along a stone road with stone banks, and yet the underwood and trees grew well upon the tops of the banks. In the solid stone beneath us, there were a horse-track and wheel-tracks, the former about three and the latter about six inches deep. How many many ages it must have taken the horses' feet, the wheels, and the water, to wear down this stone, so as to form a hollow way! The horses seemed alarmed at their situation; they trod with fear; but they took us along very nicely, and, at last, got us safe into the indescribable dirt and mire of the road from Hawkley Green to Greatham. Here the bottom of all the land is this solid white stone, and the top is that _mame_, which I have before described. The hop-roots penetrate down into this stone. How deep the stone may go I know not; but, when I came to look up at the end of one of the piers, or promontories, mentioned above, I found that it was all of this same stone. At Hawkley Green, I asked a farmer the way to Thursley. He pointed to one of two roads going from the green; but it appearing to me, that that would lead me up to the London road and over Hindhead, I gave him to understand that I was resolved to get along, somehow or other, through the "low countries." He besought me not to think of it. However, finding me resolved, he got a man to go a little way to put me into the Greatham road. The man came, but the farmer could not let me go off without renewing his entreaties, that I would go away to Liphook, in which entreaties the man joined, though he was to be paid very well for his trouble. Off we went, however, to Greatham. I am thinking, whether I ever did see _worse_ roads. Upon the whole, I think, I have; though I am not sure that the roads of New Jersey, between Trenton and Elizabeth-Town, at the breaking up of winter, be worse. Talk of _shows_, indeed! Take a piece of this road; just a cut across, and a rod long, and carry it up to London. That would be something like a _show_! Upon leaving Greatham we came out upon Woolmer Forest. Just as we were coming out of Greatham, I asked a man the way to Thursley. "You _must_ go to _Liphook_, Sir," said he. "But," I said, "I _will not_ go to Liphook." These people seemed to be posted at all these stages to turn me aside from my purpose, and to make me go over that _Hindhead_, which I had resolved to avoid. I went on a little further, and asked another man the way to Headley, which, as I have already observed, lies on the western foot of Hindhead, whence I knew there must be a road to Thursley (which lies at the North East foot) without going over that miserable hill. The man told me, that I must go across the _forest_. I asked him whether it was a _good_ road: "It is a _sound_ road," said he, laying a weighty emphasis upon the word _sound_. "Do people _go_ it?" said I. "_Ye-es_," said he. "Oh then," said I, to my man, "as it is a _sound_ road, keep you close to my heels, and do not attempt to go aside, not even for a foot." Indeed, it was a _sound_ road. The rain of the night had made the fresh horse tracks visible. And we got to Headley in a short time, over a sand-road, which seemed so delightful after the flints and stone and dirt and sloughs that we had passed over and through since the morning! This road was not, if we had been benighted, without its dangers, the forest being full of quags and quicksands. This is a tract of Crown lands, or, properly speaking, _public lands_, on some parts of which our Land Steward, Mr. Huskisson, is making some plantations of trees, partly fir, and partly other trees. What he can plant the _fir_ for, God only knows, seeing that the country is already over-stocked with that rubbish. But this _public land_ concern is a very great concern. If I were a Member of Parliament, I _would_ know what timber has been cut down, and what it has been sold for, since year 1790. However, this matter must be _investigated_, first or last. It never can be omitted in the winding up of the concern; and that winding up must come out of wheat at four shillings a bushel. It is said, hereabouts, that a man who lives near Liphook, and who is so mighty a hunter and game pursuer, that they call him _William Rufus_; it is said that this man is _Lord of the Manor of Woolmer Forest_. This he cannot be without _a grant_ to that effect; and, if there be a grant, there must have been a _reason_ for the grant. This _reason_ I should very much like to know; and this I would know if I were a Member of Parliament. That the people call him the _Lord of the Manor_ is certain; but he can hardly make preserves of the plantations; for it is well known how marvellously _hares_ and _young trees_ agree together! This is a matter of great public importance; and yet, how, in the present state of things, is an _investigation_ to be obtained? Is there a man in Parliament that will call for it? Not one. Would a dissolution of Parliament mend the matter? No; for the same men would be there still. They are the same men that have been there for these thirty years; and the _same men_ they will be, and they _must be_, until there be _a reform_. To be sure when one dies, or cuts his throat (as in the case of Castlereagh), another _one_ comes; but it is the _same body_. And, as long as it is that same body, things will always go on as they now go on. However, as Mr. Canning says the body "_works well_," we must not say the contrary. The soil of this tract is, generally, a black sand, which, in some places, becomes _peat_, which makes very tolerable fuel. In some parts there is clay at bottom; and there the _oaks_ would grow; but not while there are _hares_ in any number on the forest. If trees be to grow here, there ought to be no hares, and as little hunting as possible. We got to Headly, the sign of the Holly-Bush, just at dusk, and just as it began to rain. I had neither eaten nor drunk since eight o'clock in the morning; and as it was a nice little public-house, I at first intended to stay all night, an intention that I afterwards very indiscreetly gave up. I had _laid my plan_, which included the getting to Thursley that night. When, therefore, I had got some cold bacon and bread, and some milk, I began to feel ashamed of stopping short of my _plan_, especially after having so heroically persevered in the "stern path," and so disdainfully scorned to go over Hindhead. I knew that my road lay through a hamlet called _Churt_, where they grow such fine _bennet-grass_ seed. There was a moon; but there was also a hazy rain. I had heaths to go over, and I might go into quags. Wishing to execute my plan, however, I at last brought myself to quit a very comfortable turf-fire, and to set off in the rain, having bargained to give a man three shillings to guide me out to the Northern foot of Hindhead. I took care to ascertain, that my guide knew the road perfectly well; that is to say, I took care to ascertain it as far as I could, which was, indeed, no farther than his word would go. Off we set, the guide mounted on his own or master's horse, and with a white smock frock, which enabled us to see him clearly. We trotted on pretty fast for about half an hour; and I perceived, not without some surprise, that the rain, which I knew to be coming from the _South_, met me full in the face, when it ought, according to my reckoning, to have beat upon my right cheek. I called to the guide repeatedly to ask him if he was _sure that he was right_, to which he always answered "Oh! yes, Sir, I know the road." I did not like this, "_I know the road_." At last, after going about six miles in nearly a Southern direction, the guide turned short to the left. That brought the rain upon my right cheek, and, though I could not very well account for the long stretch to the South, I thought, that, at any rate, we were _now_ in the right track; and, after going about a mile in this new direction, I began to ask the guide _how much further we had to go_; for I had got a pretty good soaking, and was rather impatient to see the foot of Hindhead. Just at this time, in raising my head and looking forward as I spoke to the guide, what should I see, but a long, high, and steep _hanger_ arising before us, the trees along the top of which I could easily distinguish! The fact was, we were just getting to the outside of the heath, and were on the brow of a steep hill, which faced this hanging wood. The guide had begun to descend, and I had called to him to stop; for the hill was so steep, that, rain as it did and wet as my saddle must be, I got off my horse in order to walk down. But, now behold, the fellow discovered, that he _had lost his way_!--Where we were I could not even guess. There was but one remedy, and that was to get back, if we could. I became guide now; and did as Mr. Western is advising the Ministers to do, _retraced_ my steps. We went back about half the way that we had come, when we saw two men, who showed us the way that we ought to go. At the end of about a mile, we fortunately found the turnpike-road; not, indeed, at the _foot_, but on the _tip-top_ of that very Hindhead, on which I had so repeatedly _vowed_ I would not go! We came out on the turnpike some hundred yards on the Liphook side of the buildings called _the Hut_; so that we had the whole of three miles of hill to come down at not much better than a foot pace, with a good pelting rain at our backs. It is odd enough how differently one is affected by the same sight, under different circumstances. At the "_Holly Bush_" at Headly there was a room full of fellows in white smock frocks, drinking and smoking and talking, and I, who was then dry and warm, _moralized_ within myself on their _folly_ in spending their time in such a way. But, when I got down from Hindhead to the public-house at Road-Lane, with my skin soaking and my teeth chattering, I thought just such another group, whom I saw through the window sitting round a good fire with pipes in their mouths, the _wisest assembly_ I had ever set my eyes on. A real _Collective Wisdom_. And, I most solemnly declare, that I felt a greater veneration for them than I have ever felt even for the _Privy Council_, notwithstanding the Right Honorable Charles Wynn and the Right Honorable Sir John Sinclair belong to the latter. It was now but a step to my friend's house, where a good fire and a change of clothes soon put all to rights, save and except the having come over Hindhead after all my resolutions. This mortifying circumstance; this having been _beaten_, lost the guide the _three shillings_ that I had agreed to give him. "Either," said I, "you did not know the way well, or you did: if the former, it was dishonest in you to undertake to guide me: if the latter, you have wilfully led me miles out of my way." He grumbled; but off he went. He certainly deserved nothing; for he did not know the way, and he prevented some other man from earning and receiving the money. But, had he not caused me to _get upon Hindhead_, he would have had the three shillings. I had, at one time, got my hand in my pocket; but the thought of having been _beaten_ pulled it out again. Thus ended the most interesting day, as far as I know, that I ever passed in all my life. Hawkley-hangers, promontories, and stone-roads will always come into my mind when I see, or hear of, picturesque views. I forgot to mention, that, in going from Hawkley to Greatham, the man, who went to show me the way, told me at a certain fork, "That road goes to _Selborne_." This put me in mind of a book, which was once recommended to me, but which I never saw, entitled "_The History and Antiquities of Selborne_," (or something of that sort) written, I think, by a parson of the name of _White_, brother of Mr. _White_, so long a Bookseller in Fleet-street. This parson had, I think, the living of the parish of Selborne. The book was mentioned to me as a work of great curiosity and interest. But, at that time, the THING was biting _so very sharply_ that one had no attention to bestow on antiquarian researches. Wheat at 39_s._ a quarter, and Southdown ewes at 12_s._ 6_d._ have so weakened the THING'S jaws and so filed down its teeth, that I shall now certainly read this book if I can get it. By-the-bye if _all the parsons_ had, for the last thirty years, employed their leisure time in writing the histories of their several parishes, instead of living, as many of them have, engaged in pursuits that I need not here name, neither their situation nor that of their flocks would, perhaps, have been the worse for it at this day. _Thursley (Surrey), Nov. 25._ In looking back into Hampshire, I see with pleasure the farmers bestirring themselves to get a County Meeting called. There were, I was told, nearly five hundred names to a Requisition, and those all of land-owners or occupiers.--Precisely what they mean to petition for I do not know; but (and now I address myself to you, Mr. Canning,) if they do not petition _for a reform of the Parliament_, they will do worse than nothing. You, Sir, have often told us, that the HOUSE, however got together, "works well." Now, as I said in 1817, just before I went to America to get out of the reach of our friend, the _Old Doctor_, and to use my _long arm_; as I said then, in a Letter addressed to Lord Grosvenor, so I say now, show me the inexpediency of reform, and I will hold my tongue. Show us, prove to us, that the House "works well," and I, for my part, give the matter up. It is not the construction or the motions of a machine that I ever look at: all I look after is _the effect_. When, indeed, I find that the effect is deficient or evil, I look to the construction. And, as I now see, and have for many years seen, evil effect, I seek a remedy in an alteration in the machine. There is now nobody; no, not a single man, out of the regions of Whitehall, who will pretend, that the country can, without the risk of some great and terrible convulsion, go on, even for twelve months longer, unless there be a great change of some sort in the mode of managing the public affairs. Could you see and hear what I have seen and heard during this Rural Ride, you would no longer say, that the House "works well." Mrs. Canning and your children are dear to you; but, Sir, not more dear than are to them the wives and children of, perhaps, two hundred thousand men, who, by the Acts of this same House, see those wives and children doomed to beggary, and to beggary, too, never thought of, never regarded as more likely than a blowing up of the earth or a falling of the sun. It was reserved for this "working well" House to make the fire-sides of farmers scenes of gloom. These fire-sides, in which I have always so delighted, I now approach with pain. I was, not long ago, sitting round the fire with as worthy and as industrious a man as all England contains. There was his son, about 19 years of age; two daughters from 15 to 18; and a little boy sitting on the father's knee. I knew, but not from him, that there was _a mortgage_ on his farm. I was anxious to induce him _to sell without delay_. With this view I, in an hypothetical and round-about way, approached _his case_, and at last I came to final consequences. The deep and deeper gloom on a countenance, once so cheerful, told me what was passing in his breast, when turning away my looks in order to seem not to perceive the effect of my words, I saw the eyes of his wife full of tears. She had made the application; and there were her children before her! And am I to be _banished for life_ if I express what I felt upon this occasion! And does this House, then, "work well?" How many men, of the most industrious, the most upright, the most exemplary, upon the face of the earth, have been, by this one Act of this House, driven to despair, ending in madness or self-murder, or both! Nay, how many scores! And, yet, are we to be banished for life, if we endeavour to show, that this House does not "work well?"--However, banish or banish not, these facts are notorious: _the House_ made all the _Loans_ which constitute the debt: _the House_ contracted for the Dead Weight: _the House_ put a stop to gold-payments in 1797: _the House_ unanimously passed Peel's Bill. Here are _all_ the causes of the ruin, the misery, the anguish, the despair, and the madness and self-murders. Here they are _all_. They have all been Acts of this House; and yet, we are to be banished if we say, in words suitable to the subject, that this House does not "_work well_!" This one Act, I mean this _Banishment Act_, would be enough, with posterity, to characterize this House. When they read (and can believe what they read) that it actually passed a law to banish for life any one who should write, print, or publish anything having a _tendency_ to bring it into _contempt_; when posterity shall read this, and believe it, they will want nothing more to enable them to say what sort of an assembly it was! It was delightful, too, that they should pass this law just after they had passed _Peel's Bill_! Oh, God! thou art _just_! As to _reform_, it _must come_. Let what else will happen, it must come. Whether before, or after, all the estates be transferred, I cannot say. But, this I know very well; that the later it come, the _deeper_ will it go. I shall, of course, go on remarking, as occasion offers, upon what is done by and said in this present House; but I know that it can do nothing efficient for the relief of the country. I have seen some men of late, who seem to think, that even a reform, enacted, or begun, by this House, would be an evil; and that it would be better to let the whole thing go on, and produce its natural consequence. I am not of this opinion: I am for a reform as soon as possible, even though it be not, at first, precisely what I could wish; because, if the debt blow up before the reform take place, confusion and uproar there must be; and I do not want to see confusion and uproar. I am for a reform of _some sort_, and _soon_; but, when I say of _some sort_, I do not mean of Lord John Russell's sort; I do not mean a reform in the Lopez way. In short, what I want is, to see the _men_ changed. I want to see _other men_ in the House; and as to _who_ those other men should be, I really should not be very nice. I have seen the Tierneys, the Bankeses, the Wilberforces, the Michael Angelo Taylors, the Lambs, the Lowthers, the Davis Giddies, the Sir John Sebrights, the Sir Francis Burdetts, the Hobhouses, old or young, Whitbreads the same, the Lord Johns and the Lord Williams and the Lord Henries and the Lord Charleses, and, in short, all _the whole family_; I have seen them all there, all the same faces and names, all my life time; I see that neither adjournment nor prorogation nor dissolution makes any change in _the men_; and, caprice let it be if you like, I want to see a change _in the men_. These have done enough in all conscience; or, at least, they have done enough to satisfy me. I want to see some fresh faces, and to hear a change of some sort or other in the sounds. A "_hear, hear_," coming everlastingly from the same mouths, is what I, for my part, am tired of. I am aware that this is not what the "_great reformers_" in the House mean. They mean, on the contrary, no such thing as a change of men. They mean that _Lopez_ should sit there for ever; or, at least, till succeeded by a legitimate heir. I believe that Sir Francis Burdett, for instance, has not the smallest idea of an Act of Parliament ever being made without his assistance, if he chooses to assist, which is not very frequently the case. I believe that he looks upon a seat in the House as being his property; and that the other seat is, and ought to be, held as a sort of leasehold or copyhold under him. My idea of reform, therefore; my change of faces and of names and of sounds will appear quite horrible to him. However, I think the nation begins to be very much of my way of thinking; and this I am very sure of, that we shall never see that change in the management of affairs, which we most of us want to see, unless there be a pretty complete change of men. Some people will blame me for speaking out so broadly upon this subject. But I think it the best way to disguise nothing; to do what is _right_; to be sincere; and to let come what will. _Godalming, November 26 to 28._ I came here to meet my son, who was to return to London when we had done our business.--The turnips are pretty good all over the country, except upon the very thin soils on the chalk. At Thursley they are very good, and so they are upon all these nice light and good lands round about Godalming. This is a very pretty country. You see few prettier spots than this. The chain of little hills that run along to the South and South-East of Godalming, and the soil, which is a good loam upon a sand-stone bottom, run down on the South side, into what is called the _Weald_. This Weald is a bed of clay, in which nothing grows well but oak trees. It is first the Weald of Surrey and then the Weald of Sussex. It runs along on the South of Dorking, Reigate, Bletchingley, Godstone, and then winds away down into Kent. In no part of it, as far as I have observed, do the oaks grow finer than between the sand-hill on the South of Godstone and a place called Fellbridge, where the county of Surrey terminates on the road to East Grinstead. At Godalming we heard some account of a lawsuit between Mr. Holme Sumner and his tenant, Mr. Nash; but the particulars I must reserve till I have them in black and white. In all parts of the country, I hear of landlords that begin to _squeak_, which is a certain proof that they begin to feel the bottom of their tenants' pockets. No man can pay rent; I mean any rent at all, except out of capital; or, except under some peculiar circumstances, such as having a farm near a spot where the fundholders are building houses. When I was in Hampshire, I heard of terrible breakings up in the Isle of Wight. They say, that the general rout is very near at hand there. I heard of one farmer, who held a farm at seven hundred pounds a-year, who paid his rent annually, and punctually, who had, of course, seven hundred pounds to pay to his landlord last Michaelmas; but who, before Michaelmas came, thrashed out and sold (the harvest being so early) the whole of his corn; sold off his stock, bit by bit; got the very goods out of his house, leaving only a bed and some trifling things; sailed with a fair wind over to France with his family; put his mother-in-law into the house to keep possession of the house and farm, and to prevent the landlord from entering upon the land for a year or better, unless he would pay to the mother-in-law a certain sum of money! Doubtless the landlord had already sucked away about three or four times seven hundred pounds from this farmer. He would not be able to enter upon his farm without a process that would cost him some money, and without the farm being pretty well stocked with thistles and docks, and perhaps laid half to common. Farmers on the coast opposite France are not so firmly bounden as those in the interior. Some hundreds of these will have carried their allegiance, their capital (what they have left), and their skill, to go and grease the fat sow, our old friends the Bourbons. I hear of a sharp, greedy, hungry shark of a landlord, who says that "some law must be passed;" that "Parliament must do something to prevent this!" There is a pretty fool for you! There is a great jackass (I beg the real jackass's pardon), to imagine that the people at Westminster can do anything to prevent the French from suffering people to come with their money to settle in France! This fool does not know, perhaps, that there are Members of Parliament that live in France more than they do in England. I have heard of one, who not only lives there, but carries on vineyards there, and is never absent from them, except when he comes over "to attend to his duties in Parliament." He perhaps sells his wine at the same time, and that being genuine, doubtless brings him a good price; so that the occupations harmonize together very well. The Isle of Wight must be rather peculiarly distressed; for it was the scene of monstrous expenditure. When the _pure_ Whigs were in power, in 1806, it was proved to them and to the Parliament, that in several instances, _a barn_ in the Isle of Wight was rented by the "envy of surrounding nations" for more money than the rest of the whole farm! These barns were wanted as _barracks_; and, indeed, such things were carried on in that Island as never could have been carried on under anything that was not absolutely "the admiration of the world." These sweet pickings, caused, doubtless, a great rise in the rent of the farms; so that, in this Island, there is not only the depression of price, and a greater depression than anywhere else, but also the loss of the pickings, and these together leave the tenants but this simple choice; beggary or flight; and as most of them have had a pretty deal of capital, and will be likely to have some left as yet, they will, as they perceive the danger, naturally flee for succour to the Bourbons. This is, indeed, something new in the History of English Agriculture; and were not Mr. Canning so positive to the contrary, one would almost imagine that the thing which has produced it does not work so very well. However, that gentleman seems resolved to prevent us, by his _King of Bohemia_ and his two _Red Lions_, from having any change in this thing; and therefore the landlords, in the Isle of Wight, as well as elsewhere, must make the best of the matter. _November 29._ Went on to Guildford, where I slept. Everybody, that has been from Godalming to Guildford, knows, that there is hardly another such a pretty four miles in all England. The road is good; the soil is good; the houses are neat; the people are neat: the hills, the woods, the meadows, all are beautiful. Nothing wild and bold, to be sure, but exceedingly pretty; and it is almost impossible to ride along these four miles without feelings of pleasure, though you have rain for your companion, as it happened to be with me. _Dorking, November 30._ I came over the high hill on the south of Guildford, and came down to Chilworth, and up the valley to Albury. I noticed, in my first Rural Ride, this beautiful valley, its hangers, its meadows, its hop-gardens, and its ponds. This valley of Chilworth has great variety, and is very pretty; but after seeing Hawkley, every other place loses in point of beauty and interest. This pretty valley of Chilworth has a run of water which comes out of the high hills, and which, occasionally, spreads into a pond; so that there is in fact a series of ponds connected by this run of water. This valley, which seems to have been created by a bountiful providence, as one of the choicest retreats of man; which seems formed for a scene of innocence and happiness, has been, by ungrateful man, so perverted as to make it instrumental in effecting two of the most damnable of purposes; in carrying into execution two of the most damnable inventions that ever sprang from the minds of man under the influence of the devil! namely, the making of _gunpowder_ and of _banknotes_! Here in this tranquil spot, where the nightingales are to be heard earlier and later in the year than in any other part of England; where the first bursting of the buds is seen in Spring, where no rigour of seasons can ever be felt; where everything seems formed for precluding the very thought of wickedness; here has the devil fixed on as one of the seats of his grand manufactory; and perverse and ungrateful man not only lends him his aid, but lends it cheerfully! As to the gunpowder, indeed, we might get over that. In some cases that may be innocently, and, when it sends the lead at the hordes that support a tyrant, meritoriously employed. The alders and the willows, therefore, one can see, without so much regret, turned into powder by the waters of this valley; but, the _Bank-notes_! To think that the springs which God has commanded to flow from the sides of these happy hills, for the comfort and the delight of man; to think that these springs should be perverted into means of spreading misery over a whole nation; and that, too, under the base and hypocritical pretence of promoting its _credit_ and maintaining its _honour_ and its _faith_! There was one circumstance, indeed, that served to mitigate the melancholy excited by these reflections; namely, that a part of these springs have, at times, assisted in turning rags into _Registers_! Somewhat cheered by the thought of this, but, still, in a more melancholy mood than I had been for a long while, I rode on with my friend towards _Albury_, up the valley, the sand-hills on one side of us and the chalk-hills on the other. Albury is a little village consisting of a few houses, with a large house or two near it. At the end of the village we came to a park, which is the residence of Mr. Drummond.--Having heard a great deal of this park, and of the gardens, I wished very much to see them. My way to Dorking lay through Shire, and it went along on the outside of the park. I _guessed_, as the Yankees say, that there must be a way through the park to Shire; and I fell upon the scheme of going into the park as far as Mr. Drummond's house, and then asking his leave to go out at the other end of it. This scheme, though pretty bare-faced, succeeded very well. It is true that I was aware that I had not a _Norman_ to deal with; or, I should not have ventured upon the experiment. I sent in word that, having got into the park, I should be exceedingly obliged to Mr. Drummond if he would let me go out of it on the side next to Shire. He not only granted this request, but, in the most obliging manner, permitted us to ride all about the park, and to see his gardens, which, without any exception, are, to my fancy, the prettiest in England; that is to say, that I ever saw in England. They say that these gardens were laid out for one of the Howards, in the reign of Charles the Second, by Mr. Evelyn, who wrote the _Sylva_. The mansion-house, which is by no means magnificent, stands on a little flat by the side of the parish church, having a steep, but not lofty, hill rising up on the south side of it. It looks right across the gardens, which lie on the slope of a hill which runs along at about a quarter of a mile distant from the front of the house. The gardens, of course, lie facing the south. At the back of them, under the hill, is a high wall; and there is also a wall at each end, running from north to south. Between the house and the gardens there is a very beautiful run of water, with a sort of little wild narrow sedgy meadow. The gardens are separated from this by a hedge, running along from east to west. From this hedge there go up the hill, at right angles, several other hedges, which divide the land here into distinct gardens, or orchards. Along at the top of these there goes a yew hedge, or, rather, a row of small yew trees, the trunks of which are bare for about eight or ten feet high, and the tops of which form one solid head of about ten feet high, while the bottom branches come out on each side of the row about eight feet horizontally. This hedge, or row, is _a quarter of a mile long_. There is a nice hard sand-road under this species of umbrella; and, summer and winter, here is a most delightful walk! Behind this row of yews, there is a space, or garden (a quarter of a mile long you will observe) about thirty or forty feet wide, as nearly as I can recollect. At the back of this garden, and facing the yew-tree row, is a wall probably ten feet high, which forms the breastwork of a _terrace_; and it is this terrace which is the most beautiful thing that I ever saw in the gardening way. It is a quarter of a mile long, and, I believe, between thirty and forty feet wide; of the finest green sward, and as level as a die. The wall, along at the back of this terrace, stands close against the hill, which you see with the trees and underwood upon it rising above the wall. So that here is the finest spot for fruit trees that can possibly be imagined. At both ends of this garden the trees in the park are lofty, and there are a pretty many of them. The hills on the south side of the mansion-house are covered with lofty trees, chiefly beeches and chestnut: so that a warmer, a more sheltered, spot than this, it seems to be impossible to imagine. Observe, too, how judicious it was to plant the row of yew trees at the distance which I have described from the wall which forms the breastwork of the terrace: that wall, as well as the wall at the back of the terrace, are covered with fruit trees, and the yew tree row is just high enough to defend the former from winds, without injuring it by its shade. In the middle of the wall, at the back of the terrace, there is a recess about thirty feet in front and twenty feet deep, and here is a _basin_, into which rises a spring coming out of the hill. The overflowings of this basin go under the terrace and down across the garden into the rivulet below. So that here is water at the top, across the middle, and along at the bottom of this garden. Take it altogether, this, certainly, is the prettiest garden that I ever beheld. There was taste and sound judgment at every step in the laying out of this place. Everywhere utility and convenience is combined with beauty. The terrace is by far the finest thing of the sort that I ever saw, and the whole thing altogether is a great compliment to the taste of the times in which it was formed. I know there are some ill-natured persons who will say that I want a revolution that would turn Mr. Drummond out of this place and put me into it. Such persons will hardly believe me, but upon my word I do not. From everything that I hear, Mr. Drummond is very worthy of possessing it himself, seeing that he is famed for his justice and his kindness _towards the labouring classes_, who, God knows, have very few friends amongst the rich. If what I have heard be true, Mr. Drummond is singularly good in this way; for, instead of hunting down an unfortunate creature who has exposed himself to the lash of the law; instead of regarding a crime committed as proof of an inherent disposition to commit crime; instead of rendering the poor creatures desperate by this species of _proscription_, and forcing them on to the _gallows_, merely because they have once merited the _Bridewell_; instead of this, which is the common practice throughout the country, he rather seeks for such unfortunate creatures to take them into his employ, and thus to reclaim them, and to make them repent of their former courses. If this be true, and I am credibly informed that it is, I know of no man in England so worthy of his estate. There may be others to act in like manner; but I neither know nor have heard of any other. I had, indeed, heard of this, at Alresford in Hampshire; and, to say the truth, it was this circumstance, and this alone, which induced me to ask the favour of Mr. Drummond to go through his park. But, besides that Mr. Drummond is very worthy of his estate, what chance should I have of getting it if it came to a _scramble_? There are others who like pretty gardens as well as I; and if the question were to be decided according to the law of the strongest, or, as the French call it, by the _droit du plus fort_, my chance would be but a very poor one. The truth is, that you hear nothing but _fools_ talk about revolutions _made for the purpose of getting possession of people's property_. They never have their spring in any such motives. They are _caused by Governments themselves_; and though they do sometimes cause a new distribution of property to a certain extent, there never was, perhaps, one single man in this world that had anything to do, worth speaking of, in the causing of a revolution, that did it with any such view. But what a strange thing it is, that there should be men at this time to fear _the loss of estates_ as the consequence of a convulsive revolution; at this time, when the estates are actually passing away from the owners before their eyes, and that, too, in consequence of measures which have been adopted for what has been called the _preservation of property_, against the designs of Jacobins and Radicals! Mr. Drummond has, I dare say, the means of preventing his estate from being actually taken away from him; but I am quite certain that that estate, except as a place to live at, is not worth to him, at this moment, one single farthing. What could a revolution do for him _more_ than this? If one could suppose the power of doing what they like placed in the hands of the labouring classes; if one could suppose such a thing as this, which never was yet seen; if one could suppose anything so monstrous as that of a revolution that would leave no public authority anywhere; even in such a case, it is against nature to suppose that the people would come and turn him out of his house and leave him without food; and yet that they must do, to make him, as a landholder, worse off than he is; or, at least, worse off than he must be in a very short time. I saw, in the gardens at Albury Park, what I never saw before in all my life; that is, some plants of the _American Cranberry_. I never saw them in America; for there they grow in those swamps, into which I never happened to go at the time of their bearing fruit. I may have seen the plant, but I do not know that I ever did. Here it not only grows, but bears; and there are still some cranberries on the plants now. I tasted them, and they appeared to me to have just the same taste as those in America. They grew in a long bed near the stream of water which I have spoken about, and therefore it is clear that they may be cultivated with great ease in this country. The road, through Shire along to Dorking, runs up the valley between the chalk-hills and the sand-hills; the chalk to our left and the sand to our right. This is called the Home Dale. It begins at Reigate and terminates at Shalford Common, down below Chilworth. _Reigate, December 1._ I set off this morning with an intention to go across the Weald to Worth; but the red rising of the sun and the other appearances of the morning admonished me to keep upon _high ground_; so I crossed the Mole, went along under Boxhill, through Betchworth and Buckland, and got to this place just at the beginning of a day of as heavy rain, and as boisterous wind, as, I think, I have ever known in England. _In_ one rotten borough, one of the most rotten too, and with another still more rotten _up upon the hill_, in Reigate, and close by Gatton, how can I help reflecting, how can my mind be otherwise than filled with reflections on the marvellous deeds of the Collective Wisdom of the nation! At present, however (for I want to get to bed) I will notice only one of those deeds, and that one yet "_incohete_," a word which Mr. Canning seems to have coined for the _nonce_ (which is not a coined word), when Lord Castlereagh (who cut his throat the other day) was accused of making a _swap_, as the horse-jockeys call it, of a _writer-ship_ against a _seat_. It is _barter_, _truck_, _change_, _dicker_, as the Yankees call it, but as our horse-jockeys call it _swap_, or _chop_. The case was this: the chop had been _begun_; it had been entered on; but had not been completed; just as two jockeys may have _agreed_ on a chop and yet not actually _delivered_ the horses to one another. Therefore, Mr. Canning said that the act was _incohete_, which means, without cohesion, without consequence. Whereupon the House entered on its Journals a solemn resolution, that it was its duty to _watch over its purity with the greatest care_; but that the said act being "_incohete_" the House did not think it necessary to proceed any further in the matter! It unfortunately happened, however, that in a very few days afterwards--that is to say, on the memorable eleventh of June, 1809--Mr. Maddocks accused the very same Castlereagh of having actually sold and delivered a seat to Quintin Dick for three thousand pounds. The accuser said he was ready to bring to the bar proof of the fact; and he moved that he might be permitted so to do. Now, then, what did Mr. Canning say? Why, he said that the reformers were a low degraded crew, and he called upon the House to make a stand against democratical encroachment? And the House did not listen to him, surely? Yes, but it did! And it voted by a thundering majority, that it would not hear the evidence. And this vote was, by the leader of the Whigs, justified upon the ground that the deed complained of by Mr. Maddocks was according to a practice which was as notorious as _the sun at noon day_. So much for the word "_incohete_," which has led me into this long digression. The deed, or achievement, of which I am now about to speak is not the Marriage Act; for that is _cohete_ enough: that has had plenty of consequences. It is the New Turnpike Act, which, though passed, is as yet "incohete;" and is not to be cohete for some time yet to come. I hope it will become _cohete_ during the time that Parliament is sitting, for otherwise it will have _cohesion_ pretty nearly equal to that of the Marriage Act. In the first place this Act makes _chalk_ and _lime_ everywhere liable to turnpike duty, which in many cases they were not before. This is a monstrous oppression upon the owners and occupiers of clay lands; and comes just at the time, too, when they are upon the point, many of them, of being driven out of cultivation, or thrown up to the parish, by other burdens. But it is the provision with regard to the _wheels_ which will create the greatest injury, distress and confusion. The wheels which this law orders to be used on turnpike roads, on pain of enormous toll, cannot be used on the _cross-roads_ throughout more than nine-tenths of the kingdom. To make these roads and the _drove-lanes_ (the private roads of farms) fit for the cylindrical wheels described in this Bill, would cost a pound an acre, upon an average, upon all the land in England, and especially in the counties where the land is poorest. It would, in these counties, cost a tenth part of the worth of the fee-simple of the land. And this is enacted, too, at a time when the wagons, the carts, and all the dead stock of a farm; when the whole is falling into a state of irrepair; when all is actually perishing for want of means in the farmer to keep it in repair! This is the time that the Lord Johns and the Lord Henries and the rest of that Honourable body have thought proper to enact that the whole of the farmers in England shall have new wheels to their wagons and carts, or, that they shall be punished by the payment of heavier tolls! It is useless, perhaps, to say anything about the matter; but I could not help noticing a thing which has created such a general alarm amongst the farmers in every part of the country where I have recently been. _Worth (Sussex), December 2._ I set off from Reigate this morning, and after a pleasant ride of ten miles, got here to breakfast.--Here, as everywhere else, the farmers appear to think that their last hour is approaching.--Mr. _Charles B----'s farms_; I believe it is _Sir_ Charles B----; and I should be sorry to withhold from him his title, though, being said to be a very good sort of a man, he might, perhaps, be able to shift without it: this gentleman's farms are subject of conversation here. The matter is curious in itself, and very well worthy of attention, as illustrative of the present state of things. These farms were, last year, taken into hand by the owner. This was stated in the public papers about a twelvemonth ago. It was said that his tenants would not take the farms again at the rent which he wished to have, and that therefore he took the farms into hand. These farms lie somewhere down in the west of Sussex. In the month of August last I saw (and I think in one of the Brighton newspapers) a paragraph stating that Mr. B----, who had taken his farms into hand the Michaelmas before, had already got in his harvest, and that he had had excellent crops! This was a sort of bragging paragraph; and there was an observation added which implied that the farmers were great fools for not having taken the farms! We now hear that Mr. B---- has let his farms. But, now, mark how he has let them. The custom in Sussex is this: when a tenant quits a farm, he receives payment, according to valuation, for what are called the dressings, the half-dressings, for seeds and lays, and for the growth of underwood in coppices and hedge-rows; for the dung in the yards; and, in short, for whatever he leaves behind him, which, if he had stayed, would have been of value to him. The dressings and half-dressings include not only the manure that has been recently put into the land, but also the summer ploughings; and, in short, everything which has been done to the land, and the benefit of which has not been taken out again by the farmer. This is a good custom; because it ensures good tillage to the land. It ensures, also, a fair start to the new tenant; but then, observe, it requires some money, which the new tenant must pay down before he can begin, and therefore this custom presumes a pretty deal of capital to be possessed by farmers. Bearing _these_ general remarks in mind, we shall see, in a moment, the case of Mr. B----. If my information be correct, he has let his farms: he has found tenants for his farms; but not tenants to pay him anything for dressings, half-dressings, and the rest. He was obliged to pay the out-going tenants for these things. Mind that! He was obliged to pay them according to the custom of the country; but he has got nothing of this sort from his in-coming tenants! It must be a poor farm, indeed, where the valuation does not amount to some hundreds of pounds. So that here is a pretty sum sunk by Mr. B----; and yet even on conditions like these, he has, I dare say, been glad to get his farms off his hands. There can be very little security for the payment of rent where the tenant pays no in-coming; but even if he get no rent at all, Mr. B---- has done well to get his farms off his hands. Now, do I wish to insinuate that Mr. B---- asked too much for his farms last year, and that he wished to squeeze the last shilling out of his farmers? By no means. He bears the character of a mild, just, and very considerate man, by no means greedy, but the contrary. A man very much beloved by his tenants; or, at least, deserving it. But the truth is, he could not believe it possible that his farms were so much fallen in value. He could not believe it possible that his estate had been taken away from him by the legerdemain of the Pitt System, which he had been supporting all his life: so that he thought, and very naturally thought, that his old tenants were endeavouring to impose upon him, and therefore resolved to take his farms into hand. Experience has shown him that farms yield no rent, in the hands of the landlord at least; and therefore he has put them into the hands of other people. Mr. B----, like Mr. Western, has not read the _Register_. If he had, he would have taken any trifle from his old tenants, rather than let them go. But he surely might have read the speech of his neighbour and friend Mr. Huskisson, made in the House of Commons in 1814, in which that gentleman said that, with wheat at less than double the price that it bore before the war, it would be impossible for any rent at all to be paid. Mr. B---- might have read this; and he might, having so many opportunities, have asked Mr. Huskisson for an explanation of it. This gentleman is now a great advocate for _national faith_; but may not Mr. B---- ask him whether there be no faith to be kept with the landlord? However, if I am not deceived, Mr. B---- or Sir Charles B---- (for I really do not know which it is) is a member of the Collective! If this be the case he has had something to do with the thing himself; and he must muster up as much as he can of that "patience" which is so strongly recommended by our great new state doctor Mr. Canning. I cannot conclude my remarks on this Rural Ride without noticing the new sort of language that I hear everywhere made use of with regard to the parsons, but which language I do not care to repeat. These men may say that I keep company with none but those who utter "sedition and blasphemy;" and if they do say so, there is just as much veracity in their words as I believe there to be charity and sincerity in the hearts of the greater part of them. One thing is certain; indeed, two things: the first is, that almost the whole of the persons that I have conversed with are farmers; and the second is, that they are in this respect all of one mind! It was my intention, at one time, to go along the south of Hampshire to Portsmouth, Fareham, Botley, Southampton, and across the New Forest into Dorsetshire. My affairs made me turn from Hambledon this way; but I had an opportunity of hearing something about the neighbourhood of Botley. Take any one considerable circle where you know everybody, and the condition of that circle will teach you how to judge pretty correctly of the condition of every other part of the country. I asked about the farmers of my old neighbourhood, one by one; and the answers I received only tended to confirm me in the opinion that the whole race will be destroyed; and that a new race will come, and enter upon farms without capital and without stock; be a sort of bailiffs to the landlords for a while, and then, if this system go on, bailiffs to the Government as trustee for the fundholders. If the account which I have received of Mr. B----'s new mode of letting be true, here is one step further than has been before taken. In all probability the stock upon the farms belongs to him, to be paid for when the tenant can pay for it. Who does not see to what this tends? The man must be blind indeed who cannot see confiscation here; and can he be much less than blind if he imagine that relief is to be obtained by the _patience_ recommended by Mr. Canning? * * * * * Thus, Sir, have I led you about the country. All sorts of things have I talked of, to be sure; but there are very few of these things which have not their interest of one sort or another. At the end of a hundred miles or two of travelling, stopping here and there; talking freely with everybody; hearing what gentlemen, farmers, tradesmen, journeymen, labourers, women, girls, boys, and all have to say; reasoning with some, laughing with others, and observing all that passes; and especially if your manner be such as to remove every kind of reserve from every class; at the end of a tramp like this, you get impressed upon your mind a true picture, not only of the state of the country, but of the state of the people's minds throughout the country. And, Sir, whether you believe me or not, I have to tell you that it is my decided opinion that the people, high and low, with one unanimous voice, except where they live upon the taxes, _impute their calamities to the House of Commons_. Whether they be right or wrong is not so much the question in this case. That such is the fact I am certain; and having no power to make any change myself, I must leave the making or the refusing of the change to those who have the power. I repeat, and with perfect sincerity, that it would give me as much pain as it would give to any man in England, to see a change _in the form of the Government_. With _King_, _Lords_, and _Commons_, this nation enjoyed many ages of happiness and of glory. _Without Commons_, my opinion is, it never can again see anything but misery and shame; and when I say Commons I _mean_ Commons; and by Commons, I mean men elected by the free voice of the untitled and unprivileged part of the people, who, in fact as well as in law, are the Commons of England. I am, Sir, your most obedient and most humble servant, WM. COBBETT. JOURNAL: RIDE FROM KENSINGTON TO WORTH, IN SUSSEX. _Monday, May 5, 1823._ From London to Reigate, through Sutton, is about as villanous a tract as England contains. The soil is a mixture of gravel and clay, with big yellow stones in it, sure sign of really bad land. Before you descend the hill to go into Reigate, you pass _Gatton_ ("Gatton and Old Sarum"), which is a very rascally spot of earth. The trees are here a week later than they are at Tooting. At Reigate they are (in order to save a few hundred yards length of road) cutting through a hill. They have lowered a little hill on the London side of Sutton. Thus is the money of the country actually thrown away: the produce of labour is taken from the industrious, and given to the idlers. Mark the process; the town of Brighton, in Sussex, 50 miles from the Wen, is on the seaside, and is thought by the stock-jobbers to afford a _salubrious air_. It is so situated that a coach, which leaves it not very early in the morning, reaches London by noon; and, starting to go back in two hours and a half afterwards, reaches Brighton not very late at night. Great parcels of stock-jobbers stay at Brighton with the women and children. They skip backward and forward on the coaches, and actually carry on stock-jobbing, in 'Change Alley, though they reside at Brighton. This place is, besides, a place of great resort with the _whiskered_ gentry. There are not less than about twenty coaches that leave the Wen every day for this place; and there being three or four different roads, there is a great rivalship for the custom. This sets the people to work to shorten and to level the roads; and here you see hundreds of men and horses constantly at work to make pleasant and quick travelling for the Jews and jobbers. The Jews and jobbers pay the turnpikes, to be sure; but they get the money from the land and labourer. They drain these, from John-a-Groat's House to the Land's End, and they lay out some of the money on the Brighton roads! "Vast _improvements_, ma'am!" as Mrs. _Scrip_ said to Mrs. _Omnium_, in speaking of the new enclosures on the villanous heaths of Bagshot and Windsor.--Now, some will say, "Well, it is only a change from hand to hand." Very true, and if Daddy Coke of Norfolk like the change, I know not why I should dislike it. More and more new houses are building as you leave the Wen to come on this road. _Whence come_ the means of building these new houses and keeping the inhabitants? Do they come out of _trade_ and _commerce_? Oh, no! they come from _the land_; but if Daddy Coke like this, what has any one else to do with it? Daddy Coke and Lord Milton like "national faith;" it would be a pity to disappoint their liking. The best of this is, it will bring _down to the very dirt_; it will bring down their faces to the very earth, and fill their mouths full of sand; it will thus pull down a set of the basest lick-spittles of power and the most intolerable tyrants towards their inferiors in wealth that the sun ever shone on. It is time that these degenerate dogs were swept away at any rate. The Blackthorns are in full bloom, and make a grand show. When you quit Reigate to go towards Crawley, you enter on what is called the _Weald of Surrey_. It is a level country, and the soil is a very, very strong loam, with clay beneath to a great depth. The fields are small, and about a third of the land covered with oak-woods and coppice-woods. This is a country of wheat and beans; the latter of which are about three inches high, the former about seven, and both looking very well. I did not see a field of bad-looking wheat from Reigate-hill foot to Crawley, nor from Crawley across to this place, where, though the whole country is but poorish, the wheat looks very well; and if this weather hold about twelve days, we shall recover the lost time. They have been stripping trees (taking the bark off) about five or six days. The nightingales sing very much, which is a sign of warm weather. The house-martins and the swallows are come in abundance; and they seldom do come until the weather be set in for mild. _Wednesday, 7th May._ The weather is very fine and warm; the leaves of the _Oaks_ are coming out very fast: some of the trees are nearly in half-leaf. The _Birches_ are out in leaf. I do not think that I ever saw the wheat look, take it all together, so well as it does at this time. I see in the stiff land no signs of worm or slug. The winter, which destroyed so many turnips, must, at any rate, have destroyed these mischievous things. The oats look well. The barley is very young; but I do not see anything amiss with regard to it.--The land between this place and Reigate is stiff. How the corn may be in other places I know not; but in coming down I met with a farmer of Bedfordshire, who said that the wheat looked very well in that county; which is not a county of clay, like the Weald of Surrey. I saw a Southdown farmer, who told me that the wheat is good there, and that is a fine corn-country. The bloom of the fruit trees is the finest I ever saw in England. The pear-bloom is, at a distance, like that of the _Gueldre Rose_; so large and bold are the bunches. The plum is equally fine; and even the Blackthorn (which is the hedge-plum) has a bloom finer than I ever saw it have before. It is rather _early_ to offer any opinion as to the crop of corn; but if I were compelled to bet upon it, I would bet upon a good crop. Frosts frequently come after this time; and if they come in May, they cause "things to come about" very fast. But if we have no more frosts: in short, if we have, after this, a good summer, we shall have a fine laugh at the Quakers' and the Jews' press. Fifteen days' sun will bring _things about_ in reality. The wages of labour in the country have taken a rise, and the poor-rates an increase, since first of March. I am glad to hear that the _Straw Bonnet_ affair has excited a good deal of attention. In answer to applications upon the subject, I have to observe, that all the information on the subject will be published in the first week of June. Specimens of the _straw_ and _plat_ will then be to be seen at No. 183, Fleet Street. FROM THE (LONDON) WEN ACROSS SURREY, ACROSS THE WEST OF SUSSEX, AND INTO THE SOUTH EAST OF HAMPSHIRE. _Reigate (Surrey), Saturday, 26 July, 1823._ Came from the Wen, through Croydon. It rained nearly all the way. The corn is good. A great deal of straw. The barley very fine; but all are backward; and if this weather continue much longer, there must be that "heavenly blight" for which the wise friends of "social order" are so fervently praying. But if the wet now cease, or cease soon, what is to become of the "poor souls of farmers" God only knows! In one article the wishes of our wise Government appear to have been gratified to the utmost; and that, too, without the aid of any express form of prayer. I allude to the hops, of which it is said that there will be, according to all appearance, none at all! Bravo! Courage, my Lord Liverpool! This article, at any rate, will not choak us, will not distress us, will not make us miserable by "over-production!"--The other day a gentleman (and a man of general good sense too) said to me: "What a deal of wet we have: what do you think of the weather _now_?"--"More rain," said I. "D--n those farmers," said he, "what luck they have! They will be as rich as Jews!"--Incredible as this may seem, it is a fact. But, indeed, there is no folly, if it relate to these matters, which is, now-a-days, incredible. The hop affair is a pretty good illustration of the doctrine of "relief" from "diminished production." Mr. Ricardo may now call upon any of the hop-planters for proof of the correctness of his notions. They are ruined, for the greater part, if their all be embarked in hops. How are they to pay rent? I saw a planter the other day who sold his hops (Kentish) last fall for sixty shillings a hundred. The same hops will now fetch the owner of them eight pounds, or a hundred and sixty shillings. Thus the _Quaker_ gets rich, and the poor devil of a farmer is squeezed into a gaol. The _Quakers_ carry on the far greater part of this work. They are, as to the products of the earth, what the _Jews_ are as to gold and silver. How they profit, or, rather, the degree in which they profit, at the expense of those who own and those who till the land, may be guessed at if we look at their immense worth, and if we at the same time reflect that they never work. Here is a sect of non-labourers. One would think that their religion bound them under a curse not to work. Some part of the people of all other sects work; sweat at work; do something that is useful to other people; but here is a sect of buyers and sellers. They make nothing; they cause nothing to come; they breed as well as other sects; but they make none of the raiment or houses, and cause none of the food to come. In order to justify some measure for paring the nails of this grasping sect, it is enough to say of them, which we may with perfect truth, that if all the other sects were to act like them, _the community must perish_. This is quite enough to say of this sect, of the monstrous privileges of whom we shall, I hope, one of these days, see an end. If I had the dealing with them, I would soon teach them to use the _spade_ and the _plough_, and the _musket_ too when necessary. The rye along the road side is ripe enough; and some of it is reaped and in shock. At Mearstam there is a field of cabbages, which, I was told, belonged to Colonel Joliffe. They appear to be early Yorks, and look very well. The rows seem to be about eighteen inches apart. There may be from 15,000 to 20,000 plants to the acre; and I dare say that they will weigh three pounds each, or more. I know of no crop of cattle food equal to this. If they be early Yorks, they will be in perfection in October, just when the grass is almost gone. No five acres of common grass land will, during the year, yield cattle food equal, either in quantity or quality, to what one acre of land in early Yorks will produce during three months. _Worth (Sussex), Wednesday, 30 July._ Worth is ten miles from Reigate on the Brighton-road, which goes through Horley. Reigate has the Surrey chalk hills close to it on the North, and sand-hills along on its South, and nearly close to it also. As soon as you are over the sand-hills, you come into a country of _deep_ clay; and this is called the _Weald_ of Surrey. This Weald winds away round, towards the West, into Sussex, and towards the East, into Kent. In this part of Surrey it is about eight miles wide, from North to South, and ends just as you enter the parish of Worth, which is the first parish (in this part) in the county of Sussex. All across the Weald (the strong and stiff clays) the corn looks very well. I found it looking well from the Wen to Reigate, on the villanous spewy soil between the Wen and Croydon; on the chalk from Croydon to near Reigate; on the loam, sand and chalk (for there are all three) in the valley of Reigate; but not quite so well on the sand. On the clay all the corn looks well. The wheat, where it has begun to die, is dying of a good colour, not black, nor in any way that indicates blight. It is, however, all backward. Some few fields of white wheat are changing colour; but for the greater part it is quite green; and though a sudden change of weather might make a great alteration in a short time, it does appear that the harvest must be later than usual. When I say this, however, I by no means wish to be understood as saying that it must be so late as to be injurious to the crop. In 1816, I saw a barley-rick making in November. In 1821, I saw wheat uncut, in Suffolk, in October. If we were now to have good, bright, hot weather, for as long a time as we have had wet, the whole of the corn in these Southern counties would be housed, and great part of it threshed out, by the 10th of September. So that all depends on the weather, which appears to be clearing up in spite of Saint Swithin. This Saint's birth-day is the 15th of July; and it is said that if rain fall on his birth-day it will fall on _forty days_ successively. But I believe that you reckon retrospectively as well as prospectively; and if this be the case, we may, this time, escape the extreme unction; for it began to rain on the 26th of June; so that it rained 19 days before the 15th of July; and as it has rained 16 days since, it has rained, in the whole, 35 days, and, of course, five days more will satisfy this wet soul of a saint. Let him take his five days; and there will be plenty of time for us to have wheat at four shillings a bushel. But if the Saint will give us no credit for the 19 days, and will insist upon his forty daily drenchings _after_ the fifteenth of July; if he will have such a soaking as this at the celebration of the anniversary of his birth, let us hope that he is prepared with a miracle for feeding us, and with a still more potent miracle for keeping the farmers from riding over us, filled, as Lord Liverpool thinks their pockets will be, by the annihilation of their crops! The upland meadow grass is, a great deal of it, not cut yet along the Weald. So that in these parts there has been not a great deal of hay spoiled. The clover hay was got in very well; and only a small part of the meadow hay has been spoiled in this part of the country. This is not the case, however, in other parts, where the grass was forwarder, and where it was cut before the rain came. Upon the whole, however, much hay does not appear to have been spoiled as yet. The farmers along here, have, most of them, begun to cut to-day. This has been a fine day; and it is clear that they expect it to continue. I saw but two pieces of Swedish turnips between the Wen and Reigate, but one at Reigate, and but one between Reigate and Worth. During a like distance in Norfolk or Suffolk, you would see two or three hundred fields of this sort of root. Those that I do see here look well. The white turnips are just up, or just sown, though there are some which have rough leaves already. This Weald is, indeed, not much of land for turnips; but from what I see here, and from what I know of the weather, I think that the turnips must be generally good. The after-grass is surprisingly fine. The lands which have had hay cut and carried from them are, I think, more _beautiful_ than I ever saw them before. It should, however, always be borne in mind that this _beautiful_ grass is by no means the _best_. An acre of this grass will not make a quarter part so much butter as an acre of rusty-looking pasture, made rusty by the rays of the sun. Sheep on the commons _die_ of the _beautiful_ grass produced by long-continued rains at this time of the year. Even geese, hardy as they are, die from the same cause. The rain will give quantity; but without sun the quality must be poor at the best. The woods have not shot much this year. The cold winds, the frosts, that we had up to Midsummer, prevented the trees from growing much. They are beginning to shoot now; but the wood must be imperfectly ripened. I met at Worth a beggar, who told me, in consequence of my asking where he belonged, that he was born in South Carolina. I found, at last, that he was born in the English army, during the American rebel-war; that he became a soldier himself; and that it had been his fate to serve under the Duke of York, in Holland; under General Whitelock, at Buenos Ayres; under Sir John Moore, at Corunna; and under "the Greatest Captain," at Talavera! This poor fellow did not seem to be at all aware that in the last case he partook in _a victory_! He had never before heard of its being a victory. He, poor fool, thought that it was _a defeat_. "Why," said he, "we _ran away_, Sir." Oh, yes! said I, and so you did afterwards, perhaps, in Portugal, when Massena was at your heels; but it is only in certain cases that running away is a mark of being defeated; or, rather, it is only with certain commanders. A matter of much more interest to us, however, is that the wars for "social order," not forgetting Gatton and Old Sarum, have filled the country with beggars, who have been, or who pretend to have been, soldiers and sailors. For want of looking well into this matter, many good and just, and even sensible men are led to give to these army and navy beggars what they refuse to others. But if reason were consulted, she would ask what pretensions these have to a preference? She would see in them men who had become soldiers or sailors because they wished to live without that labour by which other men are content to get their bread. She would ask the soldier beggar whether he did not voluntarily engage to perform services such as were performed at Manchester; and if she pressed him for _the motive_ to this engagement, could he assign any motive other than that of wishing to live without work upon the fruit of the work of other men? And why should reason not be listened to? Why should she not be consulted in every such case? And if she were consulted, which would she tell you was the most worthy of your compassion, the man who, no matter from what cause, is become a beggar after forty years spent in the raising of food and raiment for others as well as for himself; or the man who, no matter again from what cause, is become a beggar after forty years living upon the labour of others, and during the greater part of which time he has been living in a barrack, there kept for purposes explained by Lord Palmerston, and always in readiness to answer those purposes? As to not giving to beggars, I think there is a law against giving! However, give to them people will, as long as they ask. Remove the _cause_ of the beggary, and we shall see no more beggars; but as long as there are _boroughmongers_ there will be beggars enough. _Horsham (Sussex), Thursday, 31 July._ I left Worth this afternoon about 5 o'clock, and am got here to sleep, intending to set off for Petworth in the morning, with a view of crossing the South Downs and then going into Hampshire through Havant, and along at the southern foot of Portsdown Hill, where I shall see the earliest corn in England. From Worth you come to Crawley along some pretty good land; you then turn to the left and go two miles along the road from the Wen to Brighton; then you turn to the right, and go over six of the worst miles in England, which miles terminate but a few hundred yards before you enter Horsham. The first two of these miserable miles go through the estate of Lord Erskine. It was a bare heath, with here and there, in the better parts of it, some scrubby birch. It has been, in part, planted with fir-trees, which are as ugly as the heath was: and, in short, it is a most villanous tract. After quitting it, you enter a forest; but a most miserable one; and this is followed by a large common, now enclosed, cut up, disfigured, spoiled, and the labourers all driven from its skirts. I have seldom travelled over eight miles so well calculated to fill the mind with painful reflections. The ride has, however, this in it: that the ground is pretty much elevated, and enables you to look about you. You see the Surrey hills away to the North; Hindhead and Blackdown to the North West and West; and the South Downs from the West to the East. The sun was shining upon all these, though it was cloudy where I was. The soil is a poor, miserable, clayey-looking sand, with a sort of sandstone underneath. When you get down into this town, you are again in the Weald of Sussex. I believe that _Weald_ meant _clay_, or low, wet, stiff land. This is a very nice, solid, country town. Very clean, as all the towns in Sussex are. The people very clean. The Sussex women are very nice in their dress and in their houses. The men and boys wear smock-frocks more than they do in some counties. When country people do not they always look dirty and comfortless. This has been a pretty good day; but there was a little rain in the afternoon; so that St. Swithin keeps on as yet, at any rate. The hay has been spoiled here, in cases where it has been cut; but a great deal of it is not yet cut. I speak of the meadows; for the clover-hay was all well got in. The grass, which is not cut, is receiving great injury. It is, in fact, in many cases rotting upon the ground. As to corn, from Crawley to Horsham there is none worth speaking of. What there is is very good, in general, considering the quality of the soil. It is about as backward as at Worth: the barley and oats green, and the wheat beginning to change colour. _Billingshurst (Sussex), Friday Morning, 1 Aug._ This village is 7 miles from Horsham, and I got here to breakfast about seven o'clock. A very pretty village, and a very nice breakfast in a very neat little parlour of a very decent public-house. The landlady sent her son to get me some cream, and he was just such a chap as I was at his age, and dressed just in the same sort of way, his main garment being a blue smock-frock, faded from wear, and mended with pieces of new stuff, and, of course, not faded. The sight of this smock-frock brought to my recollection many things very dear to me. This boy will, I dare say, perform his part at Billingshurst, or at some place not far from it. If accident had not taken me from a similar scene, how many villains and fools, who have been well teazed and tormented, would have slept in peace at night, and have fearlessly swaggered about by day! When I look at this little chap; at his smock-frock, his nailed shoes, and his clean, plain, and coarse shirt, I ask myself, will anything, I wonder, ever send this chap across the ocean to tackle the base, corrupt, perjured Republican Judges of Pennsylvania? Will this little, lively, but, at the same time, simple boy, ever become the terror of villains and hypocrites across the Atlantic? What a chain of strange circumstances there must be to lead this boy to thwart a miscreant tyrant like Mackeen, the Chief Justice and afterwards Governor of Pennsylvania, and to expose the corruptions of the band of rascals, called a "Senate and a House of Representatives," at Harrisburgh, in that state! I was afraid of rain, and got on as fast as I could: that is to say, as fast as my own diligence could help me on; for, as to my horse, he is to go only _so fast_. However, I had no rain; and got to Petworth, nine miles further, by about ten o'clock. _Petworth (Sussex), Friday Evening, 1 Aug._ No rain, until just at sunset, and then very little. I must now look back. From Horsham to within a few miles of Petworth is in the Weald of Sussex; stiff land, small fields, broad hedge-rows, and invariably thickly planted with fine, growing oak trees. The corn here consists chiefly of wheat and oats. There are some bean-fields, and some few fields of peas; but very little barley along here. The corn is very good all along the Weald; backward; the wheat almost green; the oats quite green; but, late as it is, I see no blight; and the farmers tell me that there is no blight. There may be yet, however; and therefore our Government, our "_paternal_ Government," so anxious to prevent "over production," need not _despair_ as yet, at any rate. The beans in the Weald are not very good. They got lousy before the wet came; and it came rather too late to make them recover what they had lost. What peas there are look well. Along here the wheat, in general, may be fit to cut in about 16 days' time; some sooner; but some later, for some is perfectly green. No Swedish turnips all along this country. The white turnips are just up, coming up, or just sown. The farmers are laying out lime upon the wheat fallows, and this is the universal practice of the country. I see very few sheep. There are a good many orchards along in the Weald, and they have some apples this year; but, in general, not many. The apple trees are planted very thickly, and, of course, they are small; but they appear healthy in general; and in some places there is a good deal of fruit, even this year. As you approach Petworth, the ground rises and the soil grows lighter. There is a hill which I came over, about two miles from Petworth, whence I had a clear view of the Surrey chalk-hills, Leithhill, Hindhead, Blackdown, and of the South Downs, towards one part of which I was advancing. The pigs along here are all black, thin-haired, and of precisely the same sort of those that I took from England to Long Island, and with which I pretty well stocked the American states. By-the-by, the trip, which Old Sidmouth and crew gave me to America, was attended with some interesting consequences; amongst which were the introducing of the Sussex pigs into the American farmyards; the introduction of the Swedish turnip into the American fields; the introduction of American apple trees into England; and the introduction of the making, in England, of the straw plat, to supplant the Italian; for, had my son not been in America, this last would not have taken place; and in America he would not have been, had it not been for Old Sidmouth and crew. One thing more, and that is of more importance than all the rest, Peel's Bill arose out of the "puff-out" Registers; these arose out of the trip to Long Island; and out of Peel's Bill has arisen the best bothering that the wigs of the Boroughmongers ever received, which bothering will end in the destruction of the Boroughmongering. It is curious, and very _useful_, thus to trace events to their causes. Soon after quitting Billingshurst I crossed the river Arun, which has a canal running alongside of it. At this there are large timber and coal yards, and kilns for lime. This appears to be a grand receiving and distributing place. The river goes down to Arundale, and, together with the valley that it runs through, gives the town its name. This valley, which is very pretty, and which winds about a good deal, is the dale of the Arun: and the town is the town of the Arun-dale. To-day, near a place called Westborough Green, I saw a woman bleaching her home-spun and home-woven linen. I have not seen such a thing before, since I left Long Island. There, and, indeed, all over the American States, North of Maryland, and especially in the New England States, almost the whole of both linen and woollen used in the country, and a large part of that used in towns, is made in the farmhouses. There are thousands and thousands of families who never use either, except of their own making. All but the weaving is done by the family. There is a loom in the house, and the weaver goes from house to house. I once saw about three thousand farmers, or rather country people, at a horse-race in Long Island, and my opinion was, that there were not five hundred who were not dressed in home-spun coats. As to linen, no farmer's family thinks of buying linen. The Lords of the Loom have taken from the land, in England, this part of its due; and hence one cause of the poverty, misery, and pauperism that are becoming so frightful throughout the country. A national debt and all the taxation and gambling belonging to it have a natural tendency to draw wealth into great masses. These masses produce a power of _congregating_ manufactures, and of making the many work at them, for the _gain of a few_. The taxing Government finds great convenience in these congregations. It can lay its hand easily upon a part of the produce; as ours does with so much effect. But the land suffers greatly from this, and the country must finally feel the fatal effects of it. The country people lose part of their natural employment. The women and children, who ought to provide a great part of the raiment, have nothing to do. The fields _must_ have men and boys; but where there are men and boys there will be _women_ and _girls_; and as the Lords of the Loom have now a set of real slaves, by the means of whom they take away a great part of the employment of the countrywomen and girls, these must be kept by poor-rates in whatever degree they lose employment through the Lords of the Loom. One would think that nothing can be much plainer than this; and yet you hear the _jolterheads_ congratulating one another upon the increase of Manchester, and such places! My straw affair will certainly restore to the land some of the employment of its women and girls. It will be impossible for any of the "rich ruffians;" any of the horse-power or steam-power or air-power ruffians; any of these greedy, grinding ruffians, to draw together bands of men, women and children, and to make them slaves, in the working of straw. The raw material comes of itself, and the hand, and the hand alone, can convert it to use. I thought well of this before I took one single step in the way of supplanting the Leghorn bonnets. If I had not been certain that no rich ruffian, no white slave holder, could ever arise out of it, assuredly one line upon the subject never would have been written by me. Better a million times that the money should go to Italy; better that it should go to enrich even the rivals and enemies of the country; than that it should enable these hard, these unfeeling men, to draw English people into crowds and make them slaves, and slaves too of the lowest and most degraded cast. As I was coming into this town I saw a new-fashioned sort of stone-cracking. A man had a sledge-hammer, and was cracking the heads of the big stones that had been laid on the road a good while ago. This is a very good way; but this man told me that he was set at this because the farmers had _no employment_ for many of the men. "Well," said I, "but they pay you to do this!" "Yes," said he. "Well, then," said I, "is it not better for them to pay you for working _on their land_?" "I can't tell, indeed, Sir, how that is." But only think; here is half the haymaking to do: I saw, while I was talking to this man, fifty people in one hay-field of Lord Egremont, making and carrying hay; and yet, at a season like this, the farmers are so poor as to be unable to pay the labourers to work on the land! From this cause there will certainly be some falling off in production. This will, of course, have a tendency to keep prices from falling so low as they would do if there were no falling off. But can this _benefit_ the farmer and landlord? The poverty of the farmers is seen in their diminished stock. The animals are sold _younger_ than formerly. Last year was a year of great slaughtering. There will be less of everything produced; and the quality of each thing will be worse. It will be a lower and more mean concern altogether. Petworth is a nice market town; but solid and clean. The great abundance of _stone_ in the land hereabouts has caused a corresponding liberality in paving and wall building; so that everything of the building kind has an air of great strength, and produces the agreeable idea of durability. Lord Egremont's house is close to the town, and, with its out-buildings, garden walls, and other erections, is, perhaps, nearly as big as the town; though the town is not a very small one. The Park is very fine, and consists of a parcel of those hills and dells which Nature formed here when she was in one of her most sportive modes. I have never seen the earth flung about in such a wild way as round about Hindhead and Blackdown; and this Park forms a part of this ground. From an elevated part of it, and, indeed, from each of many parts of it, you see all around the country to the distance of many miles. From the South East to the North West, the hills are so lofty and so near, that they cut the view rather short; but for the rest of the circle you can see to a very great distance. It is, upon the whole, a most magnificent seat, and the Jews will not be able to get it from the _present_ owner; though, if he live many years, they will give even him a _twist_. If I had time, I would make an actual survey of one whole county, and find out how many of the old gentry have lost their estates, and have been supplanted by the Jews, since Pitt began his reign. I am sure I should prove that in number they are one-half extinguished. But it is _now_ that they go. The little ones are, indeed, gone; and the rest will follow in proportion as the present farmers are exhausted. These will keep on giving rents as long as they can beg or borrow the money to pay rents with. But a little more time will so completely exhaust them that they will be unable to pay; and as that takes place, the landlords will lose their estates. Indeed many of them, and even a large portion of them, have, in fact, no estates now. They are _called_ theirs; but the mortgagees and annuitants receive the rents. As the rents fall off, sales must take place, unless in cases of entails; and if this thing go on, we shall see Acts passed to _cut off entails_, in order that the Jews may be put into full possession. Such, thus far, will be the result of our "glorious victories" over the French! Such will be, in part, the price of the deeds of Pitt, Addington, Perceval, and their successors. For having applauded such deeds; for having boasted of the Wellesleys; for having bragged of battles won by _money_ and by money _only_, the nation deserves that which it will receive; and as to the landlords, they, above all men living, deserve punishment. They put the power into the hands of Pitt and his crew to torment the people; to keep the people down; to raise soldiers and to build barracks for this purpose. These base landlords laughed when affairs like that of Manchester took place. They laughed at the _Blanketteers_. They laughed when Canning jested about Ogden's rupture. Let them, therefore, now take the full benefit of the measures of Pitt and his crew. They would fain have us believe that the calamities they endure do not arise from the acts of the Government. What do they arise from, then? The Jacobins did not contract the _Debt_ of 800,000,000_l._ sterling. The Jacobins did not create a _Dead Weight_ of 150,000,000_l._ The Jacobins did not cause a pauper-charge of 200,000,000_l._ by means of "new enclosure bills," "vast improvements," paper-money, potatoes, and other "proofs of prosperity." The Jacobins did not do these things. And will the Government pretend that "Providence" did it? That would be "blasphemy" indeed.----Poh! These things are the price of efforts to crush freedom in France, _lest the example of France should produce a reform in England_. These things are the price of that undertaking; which, however, has not yet been crowned with _success_; for the question is _not yet decided_. They boast of their victory over the French. The Pitt crew boast of their achievements in the war. They boast of the battle of Waterloo. Why! what fools could not get the same, or the like, if they had as much _money_ to get it with? Shooting with a _silver gun_ is a saying amongst game-eaters. That is to say, _purchasing_ the game. A waddling, fat fellow that does not know how to prime and load will, in this way, beat the best shot in the country. And this is the way that our crew "beat" the people of France. They laid out, in the first place, six hundred millions which they borrowed, and for which they mortgaged the revenues of the nation. Then they contracted for a "dead weight" to the amount of one hundred and fifty millions. Then they stripped the labouring classes of the commons, of their kettles, their bedding, their beer-barrels; and, in short, made them all paupers, and thus fixed on the nation a permanent annual charge of about 8 or 9 millions, or a gross debt of 200,000,000_l._ By these means, by these anticipations, our crew did what they thought would keep down the French nation for ages; and what they were sure would, for the present, enable them to keep up the _tithes_ and other things of the same sort in England. But the crew did not reflect on the _consequences_ of the anticipations! Or, at least, the landlords, who gave the crew their power, did not thus reflect. These consequences are now come, and are coming; and that must be a base man indeed who does not see them with pleasure. _Singleton (Sussex), Saturday, 2 Aug._ Ever since the middle of March I have been trying remedies for the _hooping-cough_, and have, I believe, tried everything, except riding, wet to the skin, two or three hours amongst the clouds on the South Downs. This remedy is now under trial. As Lord Liverpool said, the other day, of the Irish Tithe Bill, it is "under experiment." I am treating my disorder (with better success, I hope) in somewhat the same way that the pretty fellows at Whitehall treat the disorders of poor Ireland. There is one thing in favour of this remedy of mine, I shall _know_ the effect of it, and that, too, in a short time. It rained a little last night. I got off from Petworth without baiting my horse, thinking that the weather looked suspicious; and that St. Swithin meaned to treat me to a dose. I had no great-coat, nor any means of changing my clothes. The hooping-cough made me anxious; but I had fixed on going along the South Downs from Donnington Hill down to Lavant, and then to go on the flat to the South foot of Portsdown Hill, and to reach Fareham to-night. Two men, whom I met soon after I set off, assured me that it would not rain. I came on to Donnington, which lies at the foot of that part of the South Downs which I had to go up. Before I came to this point, I crossed the Arun and its canal again; and here was another place of deposit for timber, lime, coals, and other things. White, in his history of Selborne, mentions a hill, which is one of the Hindhead group, from which two springs (one on each side of the hill) send water into the _two seas_: the _Atlantic_ and the _German Ocean_! This is big talk: but it is a fact. One of the streams becomes the _Arun_, which falls into the Channel; and the other, after winding along amongst the hills and hillocks between Hindhead and Godalming, goes into the river _Wey_, which falls into the Thames at Weybridge. The soil upon leaving Petworth, and at Petworth, seems very good; a fine deep loam, a sort of mixture of sand and soft chalk. I then came to a sandy common; a piece of ground that seemed to have no business there; it looked as if it had been tossed from Hindhead or Blackdown. The common, however, during the rage for "improvements," has been _enclosed_. That impudent fellow, Old Rose, stated the number of Enclosure Bills as an indubitable proof of "national prosperity." There was some _rye_ upon this common, the sight of which would have gladdened the heart of Lord Liverpool. It was, in parts, not more than eight inches high. It was ripe, and, of course, the straw dead; or I should have found out the owner, and have bought it to make _bonnets_ of! I defy the Italians to grow worse rye than this. The reader will recollect that I always said that we could grow _as poor_ corn as any Italians that ever lived. The village of Donton lies at the foot of one of these great chalk ridges which are called the South Downs. The ridge in this place is, I think, about three-fourths of a mile high, by the high road, which is obliged to go twisting about, in order to get to the top of it. The hill sweeps round from about West North West, to East South East; and, of course, it keeps off all the heavy winds, and especially the South West winds, before which, in this part of England (and all the South and Western part of it) even the oak trees seem as if they would gladly flee; for it shaves them up as completely as you see a quickset hedge shaved by hook or shears. Talking of hedges reminds me of having seen a box-hedge, just as I came out of Petworth, more than twelve feet broad, and about fifteen feet high. I dare say it is several centuries old. I think it is about forty yards long. It is a great curiosity. The apple trees at Donnington show their gratitude to the hill for its shelter; for I have seldom seen apple trees in England so large, so fine, and, in general, so flourishing. I should like to have, or to see, an orchard of American apples under this hill. The hill, you will observe, does not shade the ground at Donnington. It slopes too much for that. But it affords complete shelter from the mischievous winds. It is very pretty to look down upon this little village as you come winding up the hill. From this hill I ought to have had a most extensive view. I ought to have seen the Isle of Wight and the sea before me; and to have looked back to Chalk Hill at Reigate, at the foot of which I had left some bonnet-grass bleaching. But, alas! _Saint Swithin_ had begun his works for the day before I got to the top of the hill. Soon after the two turnip-hoers had assured me that there would be no rain, I saw, beginning to poke up over the South Downs (then right before me) several parcels of those white, curled clouds that we call _Judges' Wigs_. And they are just like Judges' wigs. Not the _parson-like_ things which the Judges wear when they have to listen to the dull wrangling and duller jests of the lawyers; but those _big_ wigs which hang down about their shoulders, when they are about to tell you a little of _their intentions_, and when their very looks say, "_Stand clear_!" These clouds (if rising from the South West) hold precisely the same language to the great-coatless traveller. Rain is _sure_ to follow them. The sun was shining very beautifully when I first saw these Judges' wigs rising over the hills. At the sight of them he soon began to hide his face! and before I got to the top of the hill of Donton, the white clouds had become black, had spread themselves all around, and a pretty decent and sturdy rain began to fall. I had resolved to come to this place (Singleton) to breakfast. I quitted the turnpike road (from Petworth to Chichester) at a village called Upwaltham, about a mile from Donnington Hill; and came down a lane, which led me first to a village called Eastdean; then to another called Westdean, I suppose; and then to this village of Singleton, and here I am on the turnpike road from Midhurst to Chichester. The lane goes along through some of the finest farms in the world. It is impossible for corn land and for agriculture to be finer than these. In cases like mine, you are pestered to death to find out the way to _set out_ to get from place to place. The people you have to deal with are innkeepers, ostlers, and post-boys; and they think you mad if you express your wish to avoid turnpike roads; and a great deal more than half mad if you talk of going, even from necessity, by any other road. They think you a strange fellow if you will not ride six miles on a turnpike road rather than two on any other road. This plague I experienced on this occasion. I wanted to go from Petworth to Havant. My way was through Singleton and Funtington. I had no business at Chichester, which took me too far to the South; nor at Midhurst, which took me too far to the West. But though I stayed all day (after my arrival) at Petworth, and though I slept there, I could get no directions how to set out to come to Singleton, where I am now. I started, therefore, on the Chichester road, trusting to my enquiries of the country people as I came on. By these means I got hither, down a long valley, on the South Downs, which valley winds and twists about amongst hills, some higher and some lower, forming cross dells, inlets, and ground in such a variety of shapes that it is impossible to describe; and the whole of the ground, hill as well as dell, is fine, most beautiful corn land, or is covered with trees or underwood. As to St. Swithin, I set him at defiance. The road was flinty, and very flinty. I rode a foot pace; and got here wet to the skin. I am very glad I came this road. The corn is all fine; all good; fine crops, and no appearance of blight. The barley extremely fine. The corn not forwarder than in the Weald. No beans here; few oats comparatively; chiefly wheat and barley; but great quantities of Swedish turnips, and those very forward. More Swedish turnips here upon one single farm than upon all the farms that I saw between the Wen and Petworth. These turnips are, in some places, a foot high, and nearly cover the ground. The farmers are, however, plagued by this St. Swithin, who keeps up a continual drip, which prevents the thriving of the turnips and the killing of the weeds. The _orchards_ are good here in general. Fine walnut trees, and an abundant crop of walnuts. This is a series of villages all belonging to the Duke of Richmond, the outskirts of whose park and woods come up to these farming lands, all of which belong to him; and I suppose that every inch of land that I came through this morning belongs either to the Duke of Richmond or to Lord Egremont. No _harm_ in that, mind, if those who till the land have _fair play_; and I should act unjustly towards these noblemen if I insinuated that the husbandmen have not fair play as far as the landlords are concerned; for everybody speaks well of them. There is, besides, _no misery_ to be seen here. I have seen no wretchedness in Sussex; nothing to be at all compared to that which I have seen in other parts; and as to these villages in the South Downs, they are beautiful to behold. Hume and other historians rail against the _feudal_-system; and we, "enlightened" and "free" creatures as we are, look back with scorn, or, at least, with surprise and pity, to the "vassalage" of our forefathers. But if the matter were well enquired into, not slurred over, but well and truly examined, we should find that the people of these villages were _as free_ in the days of William Rufus as are the people of the present day; and that vassalage, only under other names, exists now as completely as it existed then. Well; but out of this, if true, arises another question: namely, Whether the millions would derive any benefit from being transferred from these great Lords who possess them by hundreds, to Jews and jobbers who would possess them by half-dozens, or by couples? One thing we may say with a certainty of being right: and that is, that the transfer would be bad for the Lords themselves. There is an appearance of comfort about the dwellings of the labourers all along here that is very pleasant to behold. The gardens are neat, and full of vegetables of the best kinds. I see very few of "Ireland's lazy root;" and never, in this country, will the people be base enough to lie down and expire from starvation under the operation of the _extreme unction_! Nothing but a _potato-eater_ will ever do that. As I came along between Upwaltham and Eastdean, I called to me a young man, who, along with other turnip-hoers, was sitting under the shelter of a hedge at breakfast. He came running to me with his victuals in his hand; and I was glad to see that his food consisted of a good lump of household bread and not a very small piece of _bacon_. I did not envy him his appetite, for I had at that moment a very good one of my own; but I wanted to know the distance I had to go before I should get to a good public-house. In parting with him, I said, "You do get some _bacon_ then?" "Oh, yes! Sir," said he, and with an emphasis and a swag of the head which seemed to say, "We _must_ and _will_ have _that_." I saw, and with great delight, a pig at almost every labourer's house. The houses are good and warm; and the gardens some of the very best that I have seen in England. What a difference, good God! what a difference between this country and the neighbourhood of those corrupt places _Great Bedwin_ and _Cricklade_. What sort of _breakfast_ would this man have had in a mess of _cold potatoes_? Could he have _worked_, and worked in the wet, too, with such food? Monstrous! No society ought to exist where the labourers live in a hog-like sort of way. The _Morning Chronicle_ is everlastingly asserting the mischievous consequences of the want of _enlightening_ these people "_i' th a Sooth_;" and telling us how well they are off in the North. Now this I know, that in the North the "enlightened" people eat _sowens_, _burgoo_, _porridge_, and _potatoes_: that is to say, _oatmeal and water_, or the root of _extreme unction_. If this be the effect of their _light_, give me the _darkness_ "o' th a Sooth." This is according to what I have heard. If, when I go to the North, I find the labourers _eating more meat_ than those of the "Sooth," I shall then say that "enlightening" is a very good thing; but give me none of that "light," or of that "grace," which makes a man content with oatmeal and water, or that makes him patiently lie down and die of starvation amidst abundance of food. The _Morning Chronicle_ hears the labourers crying out in Sussex. They are right to cry out in time. When they are actually brought down to the extreme unction it is useless to cry out. And next to the extreme unction is the _porridge_ of the "enlightened" slaves who toil in the factories for the Lords of the Loom. Talk of _vassals_! Talk of _villains_! Talk of _serfs_! Are there any of these, or did feudal times ever see any of them, so debased, so absolutely slaves, as the poor creatures who, in the "enlightened" North, are compelled to work fourteen hours in a day, in a heat of eighty-four degrees; and who are liable to punishment for looking out at a window of the factory! This is really a soaking day, thus far. I got here at nine o'clock. I stripped off my coat, and put it by the kitchen fire. In a parlour just eight feet square I have another fire, and have dried my shirt on my back. We shall see what this does for a hooping-cough. The clouds fly so low as to be seen passing by the sides of even little hills on these downs. The Devil is said to be busy in a _high_ wind; but he really appears to be busy now in this South West wind. The Quakers will, next market day, at Mark Lane, be as busy as he. They and the Ministers and St. Swithin and Devil all seem to be of a mind. I must not forget the _churches_. That of Donnington is very small for a church. It is about twenty feet wide and thirty long. It is, however, sufficient for the population, the amount of which is two hundred and twenty-two, not one half of whom are, of course, ever at church at one time. There is, however, plenty of room for the whole: the "tower" of this church is about double the size of a _sentry-box_. The parson, whose name is Davidson, did not, when the Return was laid before Parliament, in 1818, reside in the parish. Though the living is a large living, the parsonage house was let to "a lady and her three daughters." What impudence a man must have to put this into a Return! The church at Upwaltham is about such another, and the "tower" still less than that at Donnington. Here the population is seventy-nine. The parish is a rectory, and in the Return before mentioned, the parson (whose name was Tripp) says that the church will hold the population, but that the parsonage house will not hold him! And why? Because it is "a miserable cottage." I looked about for this "miserable cottage," and could not find it. What on impudent fellow this must have been! And, indeed, what a state of impudence have they not now arrived at! Did he, when he was ordained, talk anything about a fine house to live in? Did Jesus Christ and Saint Paul talk about fine houses? Did not this priest most solemnly vow to God, upon the altar, that he would be constant, in season and out of season, in watching over the souls of his flock? However, it is useless to remonstrate with this set of men. Nothing will have any effect upon them. They will keep grasping at the tithes as long as they can reach them. "_A miserable cottage!_" What impudence! What, Mr. Tripp, is it a fine house that you have been appointed and ordained to live in? Lord Egremont is the patron of Mr. Tripp; and he has a _duty_ to perform too; for the living is _not his_: he is, in this case, only an hereditary _trustee_ for the public; and he ought to see that this parson resides in the parish, which, according to his own Return, yields him 125_l._ a-year. Eastdean is a Vicarage, with a population of 353, a church which the parson says will hold 200, and which I say will hold 600 or 700, and a living worth 85_l._ a-year, in the gift of the Bishop of Chichester. Westdean is united with Singleton, the living is in the gift of the Church at Chichester and the Duke of Richmond alternately; it is a large living, it has a population of 613, and the two churches, says the parson, will hold 200 people! What careless, or what impudent fellows these must have been. These two churches will hold a thousand people, packed much less close than they are in meeting houses. At Upwaltham there is a toll gate, and when the woman opened the door of the house to come and let me through, I saw some _straw plat_ lying in a chair. She showed it me; and I found that it was made by her husband, in the evenings, after he came home from work, in order to make him a hat for the harvest. I told her how to get better straw for the purpose; and when I told her that she must cut the grass, or the grain, _green_, she said, "Aye, I dare say it is so: and I wonder we never thought of that before; for we sometimes make hats out of rushes, cut green, and dried, and the hats are very durable." This woman ought to have my _Cottage Economy_. She keeps the toll-gate at Upwaltham, which is called Waltham, and which is on the turnpike road from Petworth to Chichester. Now, if any gentleman who lives at Chichester will call upon my Son, at the Office of the Register in Fleet Street, and ask for a copy of _Cottage Economy_, to be given to this woman, he will receive the copy, and my thanks, if he will have the goodness to give it to her, and to point to her the Essay on Straw Plat. _Fareham (Hants), Saturday, 2 August._ Here I am in spite of St. Swithin!--The truth is, that the Saint is like most other oppressors; _rough_ him! _rough_ him! and he relaxes. After drying myself, and sitting the better part of four hours at Singleton, I started in the rain, boldly setting the Saint at defiance, and expecting to have not one dry thread by the time I got to Havant, which is nine miles from Fareham, and four from Cosham. To my most agreeable surprise, the rain ceased before I got by Selsey, I suppose it is called, where Lord Selsey's house and beautiful and fine estate is. On I went, turning off to the right to go to Funtington and Westbourn, and getting to Havant to bait my horse, about four o'clock. From Lavant (about two miles back from Funtington) the ground begins to be a sea side flat. The soil is somewhat varied in quality and kind; but with the exception of an enclosed common between Funtington and Westbourn, it is all good soil. The corn of all kinds good and earlier than further back. They have begun cutting peas here, and near Lavant I saw a field of wheat nearly ripe. The Swedish turnips very fine, and still earlier than on the South Downs. Prodigious crops of walnuts; but the apples bad along here. The South West winds have cut them off; and, indeed, how should it be otherwise, if these winds happen to prevail in May, or early in June? On the new enclosure, near Funtington, the wheat and oats are both nearly ripe. In a new enclosure, near Westbourn, I saw the only really blighted wheat that I have yet seen this year. "Oh!" exclaimed I, "that my Lord Liverpool, that my much respected stern-path-of-duty-man, could but see that wheat, which God and the seedsman intended to be _white_; but which the Devil (listening to the prayers of the Quakers) has made _black_! Oh! could but my Lord see it, lying flat upon the ground, with the May-weed and the Couch-grass pushing up through it, and with a whole flock of rooks pecking away at its ears! Then would my much valued Lord say, indeed, that the 'difficulties' of agriculture are about to receive the 'greatest abatement!'" But now I come to one of the great objects of my journey: that is to say, to see the state of the corn along at the South foot and on the South side of Portsdown Hill. It is impossible that there can be, anywhere, a better corn country than this. The hill is eight miles long, and about three-fourths of a mile high, beginning at the road that runs along at the foot of the hill. On the hill-side the corn land goes rather better than half way up; and on the sea-side the corn land is about the third (it may be half) a mile wide. Portsdown Hill is very much in the shape of an oblong tin cover to a dish. From Bedhampton, which lies at the Eastern end of the hill, to Fareham, which is at the Western end of it, you have brought under your eye not less than eight square miles of corn fields, with scarcely a hedge or ditch of any consequence, and being, on an average, from twenty to forty acres each in extent. The land is excellent. The situation good for manure. The spot the _earliest in the whole kingdom_. Here, if the corn were backward, then the harvest must be backward. We were talking at Reigate of the prospect of a backward harvest. I observed that it was a rule that if no _wheat were cut_ under Portsdown Hill on the hill _fair-day_, 26th July, the harvest must be generally backward. When I made this observation the fair-day was passed; but I determined in my mind to come and see how the matter stood. When, therefore, I got to the village of Bedhampton, I began to look out pretty sharply. I came on to Wimmering, which is just about the mid-way along the foot of the hill, and there I saw, at a good distance from me, five men reaping in a field of wheat of about 40 acres. I found, upon enquiry, that they began this morning, and that the wheat belongs to Mr. Boniface, of Wimmering. Here the first sheaf is cut that is cut in England: that the reader may depend upon. It was never known that the average even of Hampshire was less than ten days behind the average of Portsdown Hill. The corn under the hill is as good as I ever saw it, except in the year 1813. No beans here. No peas. Scarcely any oats. Wheat, barley, and turnips. The Swedish turnips not so good as on the South Downs and near Funtington; but the wheat full as good, rather better; and the barley as good as it is possible to be. In looking at these crops one wonders whence are to come the hands to clear them off. A very pleasant ride to-day; and the pleasanter for my having set the wet Saint at defiance. It is about thirty miles from Petworth to Fareham; and I got in in very good time. I have now come, if I include my _boltings_, for the purpose of looking at farms and woods, a round hundred miles from the Wen to this town of Fareham; and in the whole of the hundred miles I have not seen one single wheat-rick, though I have come through as fine corn countries as any in England, and by the homesteads of the richest of farmers. Not one single wheat-rick have I seen, and not one rick of any sort of corn. I never saw nor heard of the like of this before; and if I had not witnessed the fact with my own eyes I could not have believed it. There are some farmers who have corn in their barns, perhaps; but when there is no _rick_ left, there is very little corn in the hands of farmers. Yet the markets, St. Swithin notwithstanding, do not rise. This harvest must be three weeks later than usual, and the last harvest was three weeks earlier than usual. The last crop was begun upon at once, on account of the badness of the wheat of the year before. So that the last crop will have had to give food for thirteen months and a half. And yet the markets do not rise! And yet there are men, farmers, mad enough to think that they have "got past the bad place," and that things will come about, and are coming about! And Lethbridge, of the Collective, withdraws his motion because he has got what he wanted: namely, a return of good and "_remunerating_ prices!" The _Morning Chronicle_ of this day, which has met me at this place, has the following paragraph. "The weather is much improved, though it does not yet assume the character of being fine. At the Corn Exchange since Monday the arrivals consist of 7,130 quarters of wheat, 450 quarters of barley, 8,300 quarters of oats, and 9,200 sacks of flour. The demand for wheat is next to Zero, and for oats it is extremely dull. To effect sales, prices are not much attended to, for the demand cannot be increased at the present currency. The farmers should pay attention to oats, for the foreign new, under the King's lock, will be brought into consumption, unless a decline takes place immediately, and a weight will thereby be thrown over the markets, which under existing circumstances will be extremely detrimental to the agricultural interests. Its distress however does not deserve much sympathy, for as soon as there was a prospect of the payment of rents, the cause of the people was abandoned by the Representatives of Agriculture in the Collected Wisdom, and Mr. Brougham's most excellent measure for increasing the consumption of Malt was neglected. Where there is no sympathy, none can be expected, and the land proprietors need not in future depend on the assistance of the mercantile and manufacturing interests, should their own distress again require a united effort to remedy the general grievances." As to the mercantile and manufacturing people, what is the land to expect from them? But I agree with the _Chronicle_ that the landlords deserve ruin. They abandoned the public cause the moment they thought that they saw a prospect of getting rents. That prospect will soon disappear, unless they pray hard to St. Swithin to insist upon forty days wet _after_ his birth-day. I do not see what the farmers can do about the price of oats. They have no power to do anything, unless they come with their cavalry horses and storm the "King's lock." In short, it is all confusion in men's minds as well as in their pockets. There must be something completely out of joint when the Government are afraid of the effects of a good crop. I intend to set off to-morrow for Botley, and go thence to Easton; and then to Alton and Crondall and Farnham, to see how the _hops_ are there. By the time that I get back to the Wen I shall know nearly the real state of the case as to crops; and that, at this time, is a great matter. THROUGH THE SOUTH-EAST OF HAMPSHIRE, BACK THROUGH THE SOUTH-WEST OF SURREY, ALONG THE WEALD OF SURREY, AND THEN OVER THE SURREY HILLS DOWN TO THE WEN. _Batley (Hampshire), 5th August, 1823._ I got to Fareham on Saturday night, after having got a soaking on the South Downs on the morning of that day. On the Sunday morning, intending to go and spend the day at Titchfield (about three miles and a half from Fareham), and perceiving, upon looking out of the window, about 5 o'clock in the morning, that it was likely to rain, I got up, struck a bustle, got up the ostler, set off and got to my destined point before 7 o'clock in the morning. And here I experienced the benefits of early rising; for I had scarcely got well and safely under cover, when St. Swithin began to pour down again, and he continued to pour during the whole of the day. From Fareham to Titchfield village a large part of the ground is a common enclosed some years ago. It is therefore amongst the worst of the land in the country. Yet I did not see a bad field of corn along here, and the Swedish turnips were, I think, full as fine as any that I saw upon the South Downs. But it is to be observed that this land is in the hands of dead-weight people, and is conveniently situated for the receiving of manure from Portsmouth. Before I got to my friend's house, I passed by a farm where I expected to find a wheat-rick standing. I did not, however; and this is the strongest possible proof that the stock of corn is gone out of the hands of the farmers. I set out from Titchfield at 7 o'clock in the evening, and had seven miles to go to reach Botley. It rained, but I got myself well furnished forth as a defence against the rain. I had not gone two hundred yards before the rain ceased; so that I was singularly fortunate as to rain this day; and I had now to congratulate myself on the success of the remedy for the hooping-cough which I used the day before on the South Downs; for really, though I had a spell or two of coughing on Saturday morning when I set out from Petworth, I have not had, up to this hour, any spell at all since I got wet upon the South Downs. I got to Botley about nine o'clock, having stopped two or three times to look about me as I went along; for I had, in the first place, to ride, for about three miles of my road, upon a turnpike road of which I was the projector, and, indeed, the maker. In the next place I had to ride, for something better than half a mile of my way, along between fields and coppices that were mine until they came into the hands of the mortgagee, and by the side of cottages of my own building. The only matter of much interest with me was the state of the inhabitants of those cottages. I stopped at two or three places, and made some little enquiries; I rode up to two or three houses in the village of Botley, which I had to pass through, and just before it was dark I got to a farmhouse close by the church, and what was more, not a great many yards from the dwelling of that delectable creature, the Botley parson, whom, however, I have not seen during my stay at this place. Botley lies in a valley, the soil of which is a deep and stiff clay. Oak trees grow well; and this year the wheat grows well, as it does upon all the clays that I have seen. I have never seen the wheat better in general, in this part of the country, than it is now. I have, I think, seen it heavier; but never clearer from blight. It is backward compared to the wheat in many other parts; some of it is quite green; but none of it has any appearance of blight. This is not much of a barley country. The oats are good. The beans that I have seen, very indifferent. The best news that I have learnt here is, that the Botley parson is become quite a gentle creature, compared to what he used to be. The people in the village have told me some most ridiculous stories about his having been hoaxed in London! It seems that somebody danced him up from Botley to London, by telling him that a legacy had been left him, or some such story. Up went the parson on horseback, being in too great a hurry to run the risk of coach. The hoaxers, it appears, got him to some hotel, and there set upon him a whole tribe of applicants, wet-nurses, dry-nurses, lawyers with deeds of conveyance for borrowed money, curates in want of churches, coffin-makers, travelling companions, ladies' maids, dealers in Yorkshire hams, Newcastle coals, and dealers in dried night-soil at Islington. In short, if I am rightly informed, they kept the parson in town for several days, bothered him three parts out of his senses, compelled him to escape, as it were, from a fire; and then, when he got home, he found the village posted all over with handbills giving an account of his adventure, under the pretence of offering 500_l._ reward for a discovery of the hoaxers! The good of it was the parson ascribed his disgrace _to me_, and they say that he perseveres to this hour in accusing me of it. Upon my word, I had nothing to do with the matter, and this affair only shows that I am not the only friend that the parson has in the world. Though this may have had a tendency to produce in the parson that amelioration of deportment which is said to become him so well, there is something else that has taken place, which has, in all probability, had a more powerful influence in this way; namely, a great reduction in the value of the parson's living, which was at one time little short of five hundred pounds a year, and which, I believe, is now not the half of that sum! This, to be sure, is not only a natural but a necessary consequence of the change in the value of money. The parsons are neither more nor less than another sort of landlords. They must fall, of course, in their demands, or their demands will not be paid. They may take in kind, but that will answer them no purpose at all. They will be less people than they have been, and will continue to grow less and less, until the day when the whole of the tithes and other Church property, as it is called, shall be applied to public purposes. _Easton (Hampshire), Wednesday Evening, 6th August._ This village of Easton lies at a few miles towards the north-east from Winchester. It is distant from Botley, by the way which I came, about fifteen or sixteen miles. I came through Durley, where I went to the house of farmer Mears. I was very much pleased with what I saw at Durley, which is about two miles from Botley, and is certainly one of the most obscure villages in this whole kingdom. Mrs. Mears, the farmer's wife, had made, of the crested dog's tail grass, a bonnet which she wears herself. I there saw girls platting the straw. They had made plat of several degrees of fineness; and they sell it to some person or persons at Fareham, who, I suppose, makes it into bonnets. Mrs. Mears, who is a very intelligent and clever woman, has two girls at work, each of whom earns per week as much (within a shilling) as her father, who is a labouring man, earns per week. The father has at this time only 7_s._ per week. These two girls (and not very stout girls) earn six shillings a week each: thus the income of this family is, from seven shillings a week, raised to nineteen shillings a week. I shall suppose that this may in some measure be owing to the generosity of ladies in the neighbourhood, and to their desire to promote this domestic manufacture; but if I suppose that these girls receive double compared to what they will receive for the same quantity of labour when the manufacture becomes more general, is it not a great thing to make the income of the family nineteen shillings a week instead of seven? Very little, indeed, could these poor things have done in the field during the last forty days. And, besides, how clean; how healthful; how everything that one could wish is this sort of employment! The farmer, who is also a very intelligent person, told me that he should endeavour to introduce the manufacture as a thing to assist the obtaining of employment, in order to lessen the amount of the poor-rates. I think it very likely that this will be done in the parish of Durley. A most important matter it is, _to put paupers in the way of ceasing to be paupers_. I could not help admiring the zeal as well as the intelligence of the farmer's wife, who expressed her readiness to teach the girls and women of the parish, in order to enable them to assist themselves. I shall hear, in all probability, of their proceedings at Durley, and if I do, I shall make a point of communicating to the Public an account of those interesting proceedings. From the very first, from the first moment of my thinking about this straw affair, I regarded it as likely to assist in bettering the lot of the labouring people. If it has not this effect, I value it not. It is not worth the attention of any of us; but I am satisfied that this is the way in which it will work. I have the pleasure to know that there is one labouring family, at any rate, who are living well through my means. It is I, who, without knowing them, without ever having seen them, without even now knowing their names, have given the means of good living to a family who were before half-starved. This is indisputably my work; and when I reflect that there must necessarily be, now, some hundreds of families, and shortly, many thousands of families, in England, who are and will be, through my means, living well instead of being half-starved, I cannot but feel myself consoled; I cannot but feel that I have some compensation for the sentence passed upon me by Ellenborough, Grose, Le Blanc, and Bailey; and I verily believe, that in the case of this one single family in the parish of Durley I have done more good than Bailey ever did in the whole course of his life, notwithstanding his pious Commentary on the Book of Common Prayer. I will allow nothing to be good, with regard to the labouring classes, unless it make an addition to their victuals, drink, or clothing. As to their _minds_, that is much too sublime matter for me to think about. I know that they are in rags, and that they have not a belly-full; and I know that the way to make them good, to make them honest, to make them dutiful, to make them kind to one another, is to enable them to live well; and I also know that none of these things will ever be accomplished by Methodist sermons, and by those stupid, at once stupid and malignant things, and roguish things, called Religious Tracts. It seems that this farmer at Durley has always read the Register, since the first appearance of little _Two-penny Trash_. Had it not been for this reading, Mrs. Mears would not have thought about the grass; and had she not thought about the grass, none of the benefits above mentioned would have arisen to her neighbours. The difference between this affair and the spinning-jenny affairs is this: that the spinning-jenny affairs fill the pockets of "rich ruffians," such as those who would have murdered me at Coventry; and that this straw affair makes an addition to the food and raiment of the labouring classes, and gives not a penny to be pocketed by the rich ruffians. From Durley I came on in company with farmer Mears through Upham. This Upham is the place where Young, who wrote that bombastical stuff, called "Night Thoughts," was once the parson, and where, I believe, he was born. Away to the right of Upham lies the little town of Bishop's Waltham, whither I wished to go very much, but it was too late in the day. From Upham we came on upon the high land, called Black Down. This has nothing to do with that Black-down Hill, spoken of in my last ride. We are here getting up upon the chalk hills, which stretch away towards Winchester. The soil here is a poor blackish stuff, with little white stones in it, upon a bed of chalk. It was a down not many years ago. The madness and greediness of the days of paper-money led to the breaking of it up. The corn upon it is miserable; but as good as can be expected upon such land. At the end of this tract we come to a spot called Whiteflood, and here we cross the old turnpike road which leads from Winchester to Gosport through Bishop's Waltham. Whiteflood is at the foot of the first of a series of hills over which you come to get to the top of that lofty ridge called Morning Hill. The farmer came to the top of the first hill along with me; and he was just about to turn back, when I, looking away to the left, down a valley which stretched across the other side of the down, observed a rather singular appearance, and said to the farmer, "What is that coming up that valley? is it smoke, or is it a cloud?" The day had been very fine hitherto; the sun was shining very bright where we were. The farmer answered, "Oh, it's smoke; it comes from Ouselberry, which is down in that bottom behind those trees." So saying, we bid each other good day; he went back, and I went on. Before I had got a hundred and fifty yards from him, the cloud which he had taken for the Ouselberry smoke came upon the hill and wet me to the skin. He was not far from the house at Whiteflood; but I am sure that he could not entirely escape it. It is curious to observe how the clouds sail about in the hilly countries, and particularly, I think, amongst the chalk-hills. I have never observed the like amongst the sand-hills, or amongst rocks. From Whiteflood you come over a series of hills, part of which form a rabbit-warren called Longwood warren, on the borders of which is the house and estate of Lord Northesk. These hills are amongst the most barren of the downs of England; yet a part of them was broken up during the rage for improvements; during the rage for what empty men think was an augmenting of the _capital_ of the country. On about twenty acres of this land, sown with wheat, I should not suppose that there would be twice twenty bushels of grain! A man must be mad, or nearly mad, to sow wheat upon such a spot. However, a large part of what was enclosed has been thrown out again already, and the rest will be thrown out in a very few years. The down itself was poor; what, then, must it be as corn-land! Think of the destruction which has here taken place. The herbage was not good, but it was something; it was something for every year, and without trouble. Instead of grass it will now, for twenty years to come, bear nothing but that species of weeds which is hardy enough to grow where the grass will not grow. And this was "augmenting the capital of the nation." These new enclosure-bills were boasted of by George Rose and by Pitt as proofs of national prosperity! When men in power are ignorant to this extent, who is to expect anything but consequences such as we now behold. From the top of this high land called _Morning Hill_, and the real name of which is _Magdalen Hill_, from a chapel which once stood there dedicated to Mary Magdalen; from the top of this land you have a view of a circle which is upon an average about seventy miles in diameter; and I believe in no one place so little as fifty miles in diameter. You see the Isle of Wight in one direction, and in the opposite direction you see the high lands in Berkshire. It is not a pleasant view, however. The fertile spots are all too far from you. Descending from this hill, you cross the turnpike-road (about two miles from Winchester), leading from Winchester to London through Alresford and Farnham. As soon as you cross the road, you enter the estate of the descendant of Rollo, Duke of Buckingham, which estate is in the parish of Avington. In this place the Duke has a farm, not very good land. It is in his own hands. The corn is indifferent, except the barley, which is everywhere good. You come a full mile from the roadside down through this farm, to the Duke's mansion-house at Avington, and to the little village of that name, both of them beautifully situated, amidst fine and lofty trees, fine meadows, and streams of clear water. On this farm of the Duke I saw (in a little close by the farmhouse) several hens in coops with broods of pheasants instead of chickens. It seems that a gamekeeper lives in the farmhouse, and I dare say the Duke thinks much more of the pheasants than of the corn. To be very solicitous to preserve what has been raised with so much care and at so much expense is by no means unnatural; but, then, there is a measure to be observed here; and that measure was certainly outstretched in the case of Mr. Deller. I here saw, at this gamekeeping farmhouse, what I had not seen since my departure from the Wen; namely, a wheat-rick! Hard, indeed, would it have been if a Plantagenet, turned farmer, had not a wheat-rick in his hands. This rick contains, I should think, what they call in Hampshire ten loads of wheat, that is to say, fifty quarters, or four hundred bushels. And this is the only rick, not only of wheat, but of any corn whatever, that I have seen since I left London. The turnips upon this farm are by no means good; but I was in some measure compensated for the bad turnips by the sight of the Duke's turnip-hoers, about a dozen females, amongst whom there were several very pretty girls, and they were as merry as larks. There had been a shower that had brought them into a sort of huddle on the road side. When I came up to them, they all fixed their eyes upon me, and, upon my smiling, they bursted out into laughter. I observed to them that the Duke of Buckingham was a very happy man to have such turnip-hoers, and really they seemed happier and better off than any work-people that I saw in the fields all the way from London to this spot. It is curious enough, but I have always observed that the women along this part of the country are usually tall. These girls were all tall, straight, fair, round-faced, excellent complexion, and uncommonly gay. They were well dressed too, and I observed the same of all the men that I saw down at Avington. This could not be the case if the Duke were a cruel or hard master; and this is an act of justice due from me to the descendant of Rollo. It is in the house of Mr. Deller that I make these notes, but as it is _injustice_ that we dislike, I must do Rollo justice; and I must again say that the good looks and happy faces of his turnip-hoers spoke much more in his praise than could have been spoken by fifty lawyers, like that Storks who was employed, the other day, to plead against the Editor of the _Bucks Chronicle_, for publishing an account of the selling-up of farmer Smith, of Ashendon, in that county. I came through the Duke's Park to come to Easton, which is the next village below Avington. A very pretty park. The house is quite in the bottom; it can be seen in no direction from a distance greater than that of four or five hundred yards. The river Itchen, which rises near Alresford, which runs down through Winchester to Southampton, goes down the middle of this valley, and waters all its immense quantity of meadows. The Duke's house stands not far from the river itself. A stream of water is brought from the river to feed a pond before the house. There are several avenues of trees which are very beautiful, and some of which give complete shelter to the kitchen garden, which has, besides, extraordinarily high walls. Never was a greater contrast than that presented by this place and the place of Lord Egremont. The latter is all loftiness. Everything is high about it; it has extensive views in all directions. It sees and can be seen by all the country around. If I had the ousting of one of these noblemen, I certainly, however, would oust the Duke, who, I dare say, will by no means be desirous of seeing arise the occasion of putting the sincerity of the compliment to the test. The village of Easton is, like that of Avington, close by the waterside. The meadows are the attraction; and, indeed, it is the meadows that have caused the villages to exist. _Selborne (Hants), Thursday, 7th August, Noon._ I took leave of Mr. Deller this morning, about 7 o'clock. Came back through Avington Park, through the village of Avington, and, crossing the Itchen river, came over to the village of Itchen Abas. _Abas_ means _below_. It is a French word that came over with Duke Rollo's progenitors. There needs no better proof of the high descent of the Duke, and of the antiquity of his family. This is that Itchen Abas where that famous Parson-Justice, the Reverend Robert Wright, lives, who refused to hear Mr. Deller's complaint against the Duke's servant at his own house, and who afterwards, along with Mr. Poulter, bound Mr. Deller over to the Quarter Sessions for the alleged assault. I have great pleasure in informing the public that Mr. Deller has not had to bear the expenses in this case himself; but that they have been borne by his neighbours, very much to the credit of those neighbours. I hear of an affair between the Duke of Buckingham and a Mr. Bird, who resides in this neighbourhood. If I had had time I should have gone to see Mr. Bird, of whose treatment I have heard a great deal, and an account of which treatment ought to be brought before the public. It is very natural for the Duke of Buckingham to wish to preserve that game which he calls his hobby-horse; it is very natural for him to delight in his hobby; but _hobbies_, my Lord Duke, ought to be gentle, inoffensive, perfectly harmless little creatures. They ought not to be suffered to kick and fling about them: they ought not to be rough-shod, and, above all things, they ought not to be great things like those which are ridden by the Life-guards: and, like them, be suffered to dance, and caper, and trample poor devils of farmers under foot. Have your hobbies, my Lords of the Soil, but let them be gentle; in short, let them be hobbies in character with the commons and forests, and not the high-fed hobbies from the barracks at Knightsbridge, such as put poor Mr. Sheriff Waithman's life in jeopardy. That the game should be preserved, every one that knows anything of the country will allow; but every man of any sense must see that it cannot be preserved by sheer force. It must be rather through love than through fear; rather through good-will than through ill-will. If the thing be properly managed, there will be plenty of game without any severity towards any good man. Mr. Deller's case was so plain: it was so monstrous to think that a man was to be punished for being on his own ground in pursuit of wild animals that he himself had raised: this was so monstrous, that it was only necessary to name it to excite the indignation of the country. And Mr. Deller has, by his spirit and perseverance, by the coolness and the good sense which he has shown throughout the whole of this proceeding, merited the commendation of every man who is not in his heart an oppressor. It occurs to me to ask here, who it is that finally _pays_ for those "counsels' opinions" which Poulter and Wright said they took in the case of Mr. Deller; because, if these counsels' opinions are paid for by the county, and if a Justice of the Peace can take as many counsels' opinions as he chooses, I should like to know what fellow, who chooses to put on a bobtail wig and call himself a lawyer, may not have a good living given to him by any crony Justice at the expense of the county. This never can be legal. It never can be binding on the county to pay for these counsels' opinions. However, leaving this to be enquired into another time, we have here, in Mr. Deller's case, an instance of the worth of counsels' opinions. Mr. Deller went to the two Justices, showed them the Register with the Act of Parliament in it, called upon them to act agreeably to that Act of Parliament; but they chose to take counsels' opinion first. The two "counsel," the two "lawyers," the two "learned friends," told them that they were right in rejecting the application of Mr. Deller and in binding him over for the assault; and, after all, this Grand Jury threw out the Bill, and in that throwing out showed that they thought the counsels' opinions not worth a straw. Being upon the subject of matter connected with the conduct of these Parson-Justices, I will here mention what is now going on in Hampshire respecting the accounts of the _Treasurer of the County_. At the last Quarter Sessions, or at a Meeting of the Magistrates previous to the opening of the Sessions, there was a discussion relative to this matter. The substance of which appears to have been this; that the Treasurer, Mr. George Hollis, whose accounts had been audited, approved of, and passed every year by the Magistrates, is in arrear to the county to the amount of about four thousand pounds. Sir Thomas Baring appears to have been the great stickler against Mr. Hollis, who was but feebly defended by his friends. The Treasurer of a county is compelled to find securities. These securities have become _exempted_, in consequence of the annual passing of the accounts by the Magistrates! Nothing can be more just than this exemption. I am security, suppose, for a Treasurer. The Magistrates do not pass his accounts on account of a deficiency. I make good the deficiency. But the Magistrates are not to go on year after year passing his accounts, and then, at the end of several years, come and call upon me to make good the deficiencies. Thus say the securities of Mr. Hollis. The Magistrates, in fact, are to blame. One of the Magistrates, a Reverend Mr. Orde, said that the Magistrates were more to blame than the Treasurer; and really I think so too; for, though Mr. Hollis has been a tool for many many years, of Old George Rose and the rest of that crew, it seems impossible to believe that he could have intended anything dishonest, seeing that the detection arose out of an account published by himself in the newspaper, which account he need not have published until three months later than the time when he did publish it. This is, as he himself states, the best possible proof that he was unconscious of any error or any deficiency. The fact appears to be this; that Mr. Hollis, who has for many years been Under Sheriff as well as Treasurer of the County, who holds several other offices, and who has, besides, had large pecuniary transactions with his bankers, has for years had his accounts so blended that he has not known how this money belonging to the county stood. His own statement shows that it was all a mass of confusion. The errors, he says, have arisen entirely from the negligence of his clerks, and from causes which produced a confusion in his accounts. This is the fact; but he has been in good fat offices too long not to have made a great many persons think that his offices would be better in _their_ hands; and they appear resolved to oust him. I, for my part, am glad of it; for I remember his coming up to me in the Grand Jury Chamber, just after the people at St. Stephen's had passed Power-of-Imprisonment Bill in 1817; I remember his coming up to me as the Under Sheriff of Willis, the man that we now call Flemming, who has _begun_ to build a house at North Stoneham; I remember his coming up to me, and with all the base sauciness of a thorough-paced Pittite, _telling me to disperse or he would take me into custody_! I remember this of Mr. Hollis, and I am therefore glad that calamity has befallen him; but I must say that after reading his own account of the matter; after reading the debate of the Magistrates; and after hearing the observations and opinions of well-informed and impartial persons in Hampshire who dislike Mr. Hollis as much as I do; I must say that I think him perfectly clear of all intention to commit anything like fraud, or to make anything worthy of the name of false account; and I am convinced that this affair, which will now prove extremely calamitous to him, might have been laughed at by him at the time when wheat was fifteen shillings a bushel. This change in the affairs of the Government; this penury now experienced by the Pittites at Whitehall, reaches, in its influence, to every part of the country. The Barings are now the great men in Hampshire. They were not such in the days of George Rose while George was able to make the people believe that it was necessary to give their money freely to preserve the "blessed comforts of religion." George Rose would have thrown his shield over Mr. Hollis; his broad and brazen shield. In Hampshire the _Bishop_, too, is changed. The present is doubtless as pious as the last, every bit; and has the same Bishop-like views; but it is not the same family; it is not the Garniers and Poulters and Norths and De Grays and Haygarths; it is not precisely the same set who have the power in their hands. Things, therefore, take another turn. The Pittite jolter-heads are all broken-backed; and the Barings come forward with their well-known weight of metal. It was exceedingly unfortunate for Mr. Hollis that Sir Thomas Baring happened to be against him. However, the thing will do good altogether. The county is placed in a pretty situation: its Treasurer has had his accounts regularly passed by the Magistrates; and these Magistrates come at last and discover that they have for a long time been passing accounts that they ought not to pass. These Magistrates have exempted the securities of Mr. Hollis, but not a word do they say about making good the deficiencies. What redress, then, have the people of the county? They have no redress, unless they can obtain it by petitioning the Parliament; and if they do not petition, if they do not state their case, and that boldly too, they deserve everything that can befall them from similar causes. I am astonished at the boldness of the Magistrates. I am astonished that they should think of calling Mr. Hollis to account without being prepared for rendering an account of their own conduct. However, we shall see what they will do in the end. And when we have seen that, we shall see whether the county will rest quietly under the loss which it is likely to sustain. I must now go back to Itchen Abas, where, in the farm-yard of a farmer, Courtenay, I saw another wheat-rick. From Itchen Abas I came up the valley to Itchen Stoke. Soon after that I crossed the Itchen river, came out into the Alresford turnpike road, and came on towards Alresford, having the valley now upon my left. If the hay be down all the way to Southampton in the same manner that it is along here, there are thousands of acres of hay rotting on the sides of this Itchen river. Most of the meadows are watered artificially. The crops of grass are heavy, and they appear to have been cut precisely in the right time to be spoiled. Coming on towards Alresford, I saw a gentleman (about a quarter of a mile beyond Alresford) coming out of his gate with his hat off, looking towards the south-west, as if to see what sort of weather it was likely to be. This was no other than Mr. Rolleston or Rawlinson, who, it appears, has a box and some land here. This gentleman was, when I lived in Hampshire, one of those worthy men, who, in the several counties of England, executed "without any sort of remuneration" such a large portion of that justice which is the envy of surrounding nations and admiration of the world. We are often told, especially in Parliament, of the _disinterestedness_ of these persons; of their worthiness, their piety, their loyalty, their excellent qualities of all sorts, but particularly of their _disinterestedness_, in taking upon them the office of Justice of the Peace; spending so much time, taking so much trouble, and all for nothing at all, but for the pure love of their King and country. And the worst of it is, that our Ministers _impose_ upon this disinterestedness and generosity; and, as in the case of Mr. Rawlinson, at the end of, perhaps, a dozen years of _services_ voluntarily rendered to "King and country," they force him, sorely against his will, no doubt, to become a Police Magistrate in London! To be sure there are five or six hundred pounds a-year of public money attached to this; but what are these paltry pounds to a "country gentleman," who so disinterestedly rendered us services for so many years? Hampshire is fertile in persons of this disinterested stamp. There is a _'Squire_ Greme, who lives across the country, not many miles from the spot where I saw "Mr. Justice" Rawlinson. This 'Squire also has served the country for nothing during a great many years; and of late years, the 'Squire Junior, eager, apparently to emulate his sire, has become a distributor of stamps for this famous county of Hants! What _sons_ 'Squire Rawlinson may have is more than I know at present, though I will endeavour to know it, and to find out whether they also be _serving_ us. A great deal has been said about the debt of gratitude due from the people to the Justices of the Peace. An account, containing the names and places of abode of the Justices, and of the public money, or titles, received by them and by their relations; such an account would be a very useful thing. We should then know the real amount of this debt of gratitude. We shall see such an account by-and-by; and we should have seen it long ago if there had been, in a certain place, only one single man disposed to do his duty. I came through Alresford about eight o'clock, having loitered a good deal in coming up the valley. After quitting Alresford you come (on the road towards Alton) to the village of Bishop's Sutton; and then to a place called Ropley Dean, where there is a house or two. Just before you come to Ropley Dean, you see the beginning of the Valley of Itchen. The _Itchen_ river falls into the salt water at Southampton. It rises, or rather has its first rise, just by the road side at Ropley Dean, which is at the foot of that very high land which lies between Alresford and Alton. All along by the Itchen river, up to its very source, there are meadows; and this vale of meadows, which is about twenty-five miles in length, and is in some places a mile wide, is, at the point of which I am now speaking, only about twice as wide as my horse is long! This vale of Itchen is worthy of particular attention. There are few spots in England more fertile or more pleasant; and none, I believe, more healthy. Following the bed of the river, or, rather, the middle of the vale, it is about five-and-twenty miles in length, from Ropley Dean to the village of South Stoneham, which is just above Southampton. The average width of the meadows is, I should think, a hundred rods at the least; and if I am right in this conjecture, the vale contains about five thousand acres of meadows, large part of which is regularly watered. The sides of the vale are, until you come down to within about six or eight miles of Southampton, hills or rising grounds of chalk, covered more or less thickly with loam. Where the hills rise up very steeply from the valley the fertility of the corn-lands is not so great; but for a considerable part of the way the corn-lands are excellent, and the farmhouses, to which those lands belong, are, for the far greater part, under covert of the hills on the edge of the valley. Soon after the rising of the stream, it forms itself into some capital ponds at Alresford. These, doubtless, were augmented by art, in order to supply Winchester with fish. The fertility of this vale, and of the surrounding country, is best proved by the fact that, besides the town of Alresford and that of Southampton, there are seventeen villages, each having its parish church, upon its borders. When we consider these things we are not surprised that a spot situated about half way down this vale should have been chosen for the building of a city, or that that city should have been for a great number of years a place of residence for the Kings of England. Winchester, which is at present a mere nothing to what it once was, stands across the vale at a place where the vale is made very narrow by the jutting forward of two immense hills. From the point where the river passes through the city, you go, whether eastward or westward, a full mile up a very steep hill all the way. The city is, of course, in one of the deepest holes that can be imagined. It never could have been thought of as a place to be defended since the discovery of gunpowder; and, indeed, one would think that very considerable annoyance might be given to the inhabitants even by the flinging of the flint-stones from the hills down into the city. At Ropley Dean, before I mounted the hill to come on towards Rotherham Park, I baited my horse. Here the ground is precisely like that at Ashmansworth on the borders of Berkshire, which, indeed, I could see from the ground of which I am now speaking. In coming up the hill, I had the house and farm of Mr. Duthy to my right. Seeing some very fine Swedish turnips, I naturally expected that they belonged to this gentleman, who is Secretary to the Agricultural Society of Hampshire; but I found that they belonged to a farmer Mayhew. The soil is, along upon this high land, a deep loam, bordering on a clay, red in colour, and pretty full of large, rough, yellow-looking stones, very much like some of the land in Huntingdonshire; but here is a bed of chalk under this. Everything is backward here. The wheat is perfectly green in most places; but it is everywhere pretty good. I have observed, all the way along, that the wheat is good upon the stiff, strong land. It is so here; but it is very backward. The greater part of it is full three weeks behind the wheat under Portsdown Hill. But few farmhouses come within my sight along here; but in one of them there was a wheat-rick, which is the third I have seen since I quitted the Wen. In descending from this high ground, in order to reach the village of East Tisted, which lies on the turnpike road from the Wen to Gosport through Alton, I had to cross Rotherham Park. On the right of the park, on a bank of land facing the north-east, I saw a very pretty farmhouse, having everything in excellent order, with fine corn-fields about it, and with a wheat-rick standing in the yard. This farm, as I afterwards found, belongs to the owner of Rotherham Park, who is also the owner of East Tisted, who has recently built a new house in the park, who has quite metamorphosed the village of Tisted within these eight years, who has, indeed, really and truly improved the whole country just round about here, whose name is Scot, well known as a brickmaker at North End, Fulham, and who has, in Hampshire, supplanted a Norman of the name of Powlet. The process by which this transfer has taken place is visible enough, to all eyes but the eyes of the jolterheads. Had there been no Debt created to crush liberty in France and to keep down reformers in England, Mr. Scot would not have had bricks to burn to build houses for the Jews and jobbers and other eaters of taxes; and the Norman Powlet would not have had to pay in taxes, through his own hands and those of his tenants and labourers, the amount of the estate at Tisted, first to be given to the Jews, jobbers, and tax-eaters, and then by them to be given to "'Squire Scot" for his bricks. However, it is not 'Squire Scot who has assisted to pass laws to make people pay double toll on a Sunday. 'Squire Scot had nothing to do with passing the New Game-laws and Old Ellenborough's Act; 'Squire Scot never invented the New Trespass law, in virtue of which John Cockbain of Whitehaven in the county of Cumberland was, by two clergymen and three other magistrates of that county, sentenced to pay one half-penny for damages and seven shillings costs, for going upon a field, the property of William, Earl of Lonsdale. In the passing of this Act, which was one of the first passed in the present reign, 'Squire Scot, the brickmaker, had nothing to do. Go on, good 'Squire, thrust out some more of the Normans: with the fruits of the augmentations which you make to the Wen, go, and take from them their mansions, parks, and villages! At Tisted I crossed the turnpike road before mentioned, and entered a lane which, at the end of about four miles, brought me to this village of Selborne. My readers will recollect that I mentioned this Selborne when I was giving an account of Hawkley Hanger, last fall. I was desirous of seeing this village, about which I have read in the book of Mr. White, and which a reader has been so good as to send me. From Tisted I came generally up hill till I got within half a mile of this village, when, all of a sudden, I came to the edge of a hill, looked down over all the larger vale of which the little vale of this village makes a part. Here Hindhead and Black-down Hill came full in my view. When I was crossing the forest in Sussex, going from Worth to Horsham, these two great hills lay to my west and north-west. To-day I am got just on the opposite side of them, and see them, of course, towards the east and the south-east, while Leith Hill lies away towards the north-east. This hill, from which you descend down into Selborne, is very lofty; but, indeed, we are here amongst some of the highest hills in the island, and amongst the sources of rivers. The hill over which I have come this morning sends the Itchen river forth from one side of it, and the river Wey, which rises near Alton, from the opposite side of it. Hindhead which lies before me, sends, as I observed upon a former occasion, the Arun forth towards the south and a stream forth towards the north, which meets the river Wey, somewhere above Godalming. I am told that the springs of these two streams rise in the Hill of Hindhead, or, rather, on one side of the hill, at not many yards from each other. The village of Selborne is precisely what it is described by Mr. White. A straggling irregular street, bearing all the marks of great antiquity, and showing, from its lanes and its vicinage generally, that it was once a very considerable place. I went to look at the spot where Mr. White supposes the convent formerly stood. It is very beautiful. Nothing can surpass in beauty these dells and hillocks and hangers, which last are so steep that it is impossible to ascend them, except by means of a serpentine path. I found here deep hollow ways, with beds and sides of solid white stone; but not quite so white and so solid, I think, as the stone which I found in the roads at Hawkley. The churchyard of Selborne is most beautifully situated. The land is good, all about it. The trees are luxuriant and prone to be lofty and large. I measured the yew-tree in the churchyard, and found the trunk to be, according to my measurement, twenty-three feet, eight inches, in circumference. The trunk is very short, as is generally the case with yew-trees; but the head spreads to a very great extent, and the whole tree, though probably several centuries old, appears to be in perfect health. Here are several hop-plantations in and about this village; but for this once the prayers of the over-production men will be granted, and the devil of any hops there will be. The bines are scarcely got up the poles; the bines and the leaves are black, nearly, as soot; full as black as a sooty bag or dingy coal-sack, and covered with lice. It is a pity that these hop-planters could not have a parcel of Spaniards and Portuguese to louse their hops for them. Pretty devils to have liberty, when a favourite recreation of the Donna is to crack the lice in the head of the Don! I really shrug up my shoulders thinking of the beasts. Very different from such is my landlady here at Selborne, who, while I am writing my notes, is getting me a rasher of bacon, and has already covered the table with a nice clean cloth. I have never seen such quantities of grapes upon any vines as I see upon the vines in this village, badly pruned as all the vines have been. To be sure, this is a year for grapes, such, I believe, as has been seldom known in England, and the cause is the perfect ripening of the wood by the last beautiful summer. I am afraid, however, that the grapes come in vain; for this summer has been so cold, and is now so wet, that we can hardly expect grapes which are not under glass to ripen. As I was coming into this village, I observed to a farmer who was standing at his gateway, that people ought to be happy here, for that God had done everything for them. His answer was, that he did not believe there was a more unhappy place in England: for that there were always quarrels of some sort or other going on. This made me call to mind the King's proclamation, relative to a reward for discovering the person who had recently _shot at the parson of this village_. This parson's name is Cobbold, and it really appears that there was a shot fired through his window. He has had law-suits with the people; and I imagine that it was these to which the farmer alluded. The hops are of considerable importance to the village, and their failure must necessarily be attended with consequences very inconvenient to the whole of a population so small as this. Upon inquiry, I find that the hops are equally bad at Alton, Froyle, Crondall, and even at Farnham. I saw them bad in Sussex; I hear that they are bad in Kent; so that hop-planters, at any rate, will be, for once, free from the dreadful evils of abundance. A correspondent asks me what is meant by the statements which he sees in the _Register_, relative to the _hop-duty_? He sees it, he says, continually falling in amount; and he wonders what this means. The thing has not, indeed, been properly explained. It is a _gamble_; and it is hardly right for me to state, in a publication like the _Register_, anything relative to a gamble. However, the case is this: a taxing system is necessarily a system of gambling; a system of betting; stock-jobbing is no more than a system of betting, and the wretched dogs that carry on the traffic are little more, except that they are more criminal, than the waiters at an _E O Table_, or the markers at billiards. The hop duty is so much per pound. The duty was imposed at two separate times. One part of it, therefore, is called the Old Duty, and the other part the New Duty. The old duty was a penny to the pound of hops. The amount of this duty, which can always be ascertained at the Treasury as soon as the hopping season is over, is the surest possible guide in ascertaining the total amount of the growth of hops for the year. If, for instance, the duty were to amount to no more than eight shillings and fourpence, you would be certain that only a hundred pounds of hops had been grown during the year. Hence a system of gambling precisely like the gambling in the funds. I bet you that the duty will not exceed so much. The duty has sometimes exceeded two hundred thousand pounds. This year it is supposed that it will not exceed twenty, thirty, or forty thousand. The gambling fellows are betting all this time; and it is, in fact, an account of the betting which is inserted in the _Register_. This vile paper-money and funding-system; this system of Dutch descent, begotten by Bishop Burnet, and born in hell; this system has turned everything into a gamble. There are hundreds of men who live by being the agents to carry on gambling. They reside here in the Wen; many of the gamblers live in the country; they write up to their gambling agent, whom they call their stockbroker; he gambles according to their order; and they receive the profit or stand to the loss. Is it possible to conceive a viler calling than that of an agent for the carrying on of gambling? And yet the vagabonds call themselves gentlemen; or, at least, look upon themselves as the superiors of those who sweep the kennels. In like manner is the hop-gamble carried on. The gambling agents in the Wen make the bets for the gamblers in the country; and, perhaps, millions are betted during the year, upon the amount of a duty, which, at the most, scarcely exceeds a quarter of a million. In such a state of things how are you to expect young men to enter on a course of patient industry? How are you to expect that they will seek to acquire fortune and fame by study or by application of any kind? Looking back over the road that I have come to-day, and perceiving the direction of the road going from this village in another direction, I perceive that this is a very direct road from Winchester to Farnham. The road, too, appears to have been, from ancient times, sufficiently wide; and when the Bishop of Winchester selected this beautiful spot whereon to erect a monastery, I dare say the roads along here were some of the best in the country. _Thursley (Surrey), Thursday, 7th August._ I got a boy at Selborne to show me along the lanes out into Woolmer forest on my way to Headley. The lanes were very deep; the wet _malme_ just about the colour of rye-meal mixed up with water, and just about as clammy, came in many places very nearly up to my horse's belly. There was this comfort, however, that I was sure that there was a bottom, which is by no means the case when you are among clays or quick-sands. After going through these lanes, and along between some fir-plantations, I came out upon Woolmer Forest, and, to my great satisfaction, soon found myself on the side of those identical plantations which have been made under the orders of the smooth Mr. Huskisson, and which I noticed last year in my ride from Hambledon to this place. These plantations are of fir, or, at least, I could see nothing else, and they never can be of any more use to the nation than the sprigs of heath which cover the rest of the forest. Is there nobody to inquire what becomes of the income of the Crown lands? No, and there never will be, until the whole system be changed. I have seldom ridden on pleasanter ground than that which I found between Woolmer Forest and this beautiful village of Thursley. The day has been fine, too; notwithstanding I saw the Judges' terrific wigs as I came up upon the turnpike road from the village of Itchen. I had but one little scud during the day: just enough for St. Swithin to swear by; but when I was upon the hills I saw some showers going about the country. From Selborne, I had first to come to Headley, about five miles. I came to the identical public-house where I took my blind guide last year, who took me such a dance to the southward, and led me up to the top of Hindhead at last. I had no business there. My route was through a sort of hamlet called Churt, which lies along on the side and towards the foot of the north of Hindhead, on which side, also, lies the village of Thursley. A line is hardly more straight than is the road from Headley to Thursley; and a prettier ride I never had in the course of my life. It was not the less interesting from the circumstance of its giving me all the way a full view of Crooksbury Hill, the grand scene of my exploits when I was a taker of the nests of crows and magpies. At Churt I had, upon my left, three hills out upon the common, called the _Devil's Jumps_. The Unitarians will not believe in the Trinity, because they cannot account for it. Will they come here to Churt, go and look at these "Devil's Jumps," and account to me for the placing of these three hills, in the shape of three rather squat sugar-loaves, along in a line upon this heath, or the placing of a rock-stone upon the top of one of them as big as a church tower? For my part, I cannot account for this placing of these hills. That they should have been formed by mere chance is hardly to be believed. How could waters rolling about have formed such hills? How could such hills have bubbled up from beneath? But, in short, it is all wonderful alike: the stripes of loam running down through the chalk-hills; the circular parcels of loam in the midst of chalk-hills; the lines of flint running parallel with each other horizontally along the chalk-hills; the flints placed in circles as true as a hair in the chalk-hills; the layers of stone at the bottom of hills of loam; the chalk first soft, then some miles further on, becoming chalk-stone; then, after another distance, becoming burr-stone, as they call it; and at last becoming hard, white stone, fit for any buildings; the sand-stone at Hindhead becoming harder and harder till it becomes very nearly iron in Herefordshire, and quite iron in Wales; but, indeed, they once dug iron out of this very Hindhead. The clouds, coming and settling upon the hills, sinking down and creeping along, at last coming out again in springs, and those becoming rivers. Why, it is all equally wonderful, and as to not believing in this or that, because the thing cannot be proved by logical deduction, why is any man to believe in the existence of a God any more than he is to believe in the doctrine of the Trinity? For my part, I think the "Devil's jumps," as the people here call them, full as wonderful and no more wonderful than hundreds and hundreds of other wonderful things. It is a strange taste which our ancestors had, to ascribe no inconsiderable part of these wonders of nature to the Devil. Not far from the Devil's jumps is that singular place which resembles a sugar-loaf inverted, hollowed out, and an outside rim only left. This is called the "_Devil's Punch Bowl_;" and it is very well known in Wiltshire, that the forming, or, perhaps, it is the breaking up, of Stonehenge is ascribed to the Devil, and that the mark of one of his feet is now said to be seen in one of the stones. I got to Thursley about sunset, and without experiencing any inconvenience from the wet. I have mentioned the state of the corn as far as Selborne. On this side of that village I find it much forwarder than I found it between Selborne and Ropley Dean. I am here got into some of the very best barley-land in the kingdom; a fine, buttery, stoneless loam, upon a bottom of sand or sand-stone. Finer barley and turnip-land it is impossible to see. All the corn is good here. The wheat not a heavy crop; but not a light one; and the barley all the way along from Headley to this place as fine, if not finer, than I ever saw it in my life. Indeed I have not seen a bad field of barley since I left the Wen. The corn is not so forward here as under Portsdown Hill; but some farmers intend to begin reaping wheat in a few days. It is monstrous to suppose that the price of corn will not come down. It must come down, good weather or bad weather. If the weather be bad, it will be so much the worse for the farmer, as well as for the nation at large, and can be of no benefit to any human being but the Quakers, who must now be pretty busy, measuring the crops all over the kingdom. It will be recollected that in the Report of the Agricultural Committee of 1821, it appeared, from the evidence of one Hodgson, a partner of Cropper, Benson, and Co. Quakers, of Liverpool, that these Quakers sent a set of corn-gaugers into the several counties, just before every harvest; that these fellows stopped here and there, went into the fields, measured off square yards of wheat, clipped off the ears, and carried them off. These they afterwards packed up and sent off to Cropper and Co. at Liverpool. When the whole of the packets were got together, they were rubbed out, measured, weighed, and an estimate made of the amount of the coming crop. This, according to the confession of Hodgson himself, enabled these Quakers to speculate in corn, with the greater chance of gain. This has been done by these men for many years. Their disregard of worldly things; their desire to lay up treasures in heaven; their implicit yielding to the Spirit; these have induced them to send their corn-gaugers over the country regularly year after year; and I will engage that they are at it at this moment. The farmers will bear in mind that the New Trespass-law, though clearly not intended for any such purpose, enables them to go and seize by the throat any of these gaugers that they may catch in their fields. They could not do this formerly; to cut off standing corn was merely a trespass, for which satisfaction was to be attained by action at law. But now you can seize the caitiff who is come as a spy amongst your corn. Before, he could be off and leave you to find out his name as you could; but now you can lay hold of him, as Mr. Deller did of the Duke's man, and bring him before a Magistrate at once. I do hope that the farmers will look sharp out for these fellows, who are neither more nor less than so many spies. They hold a great deal of corn; they want blight, mildew, rain, hurricanes; but happy I am to see that they will get no blight, at any rate. The grain is formed; everywhere everybody tells me that there is no blight in any sort of corn, except in the beans. I have not gone through much of a bean country. The beans that I have seen are some of them pretty good, more of them but middling, and still more of them very indifferent. I am very happy to hear that that beautiful little bird, the American partridge, has been introduced with success to this neighbourhood, by Mr. Leech at Lea. I am told that they have been heard whistling this summer; that they have been frequently seen, and that there is no doubt that they have broods of young ones. I tried several times to import some of these birds; but I always lost them, by some means or other, before the time arrived for turning them out. They are a beautiful little partridge, and extremely interesting in all their manner. Some persons call them _quail_. If any one will take a quail and compare it with one of these birds, he will see that they cannot be of the same sort. In my "Year's Residence in America," I have, I think, clearly proved that these birds are partridges, and not quails. In the United States, north of New Jersey, they are called quail: south and south-west of New Jersey they are called partridges. They have been called quail solely on account of their size; for they have none of the manners of quail belonging to them. Quails assemble in flocks like larks, starlings, or rooks. Partridges keep in distinct coveys; that is to say, the brood lives distinct from all other broods until the ensuing spring, when it forms itself into pairs and separates. Nothing can be a distinction more clear than this. Our own partridges stick to the same spot from the time that they are hatched to the time that they pair off, and these American partridges do the same. Quails, like larks, get together in flocks at the approach of winter, and move about according to the season, to a greater or less distance from the place where they were bred. These, therefore, which have been brought to Thursley, are partridges; and if they be suffered to live quietly for a season or two, they will stock the whole of that part of the country, where the delightful intermixture of corn-fields, coppices, heaths, furze-fields, ponds, and rivulets is singularly favourable to their increase. The turnips cannot fail to be good in such a season and in such land; yet the farmers are most dreadfully tormented with the weeds, and with the superabundant turnips. Here, my Lord Liverpool, is over production indeed! They have sown their fields broad-cast; they have no means of destroying the weeds by the plough; they have no intervals to bury them in; and they _hoe_, or _scratch_, as Mr. Tull calls it; and then comes St. Swithin and sets the weeds and the hoed-up turnips again. Then there is another hoeing or scratching; and then comes St. Swithin again: so that there is hoe, hoe, muddle, muddle, and such a fretting and stewing; such a looking up to Hindhead to see when it is going to be fine; when, if that beautiful field of twenty acres, which I have now before my eyes, and wherein I see half a dozen men hoeing and poking and muddling, looking up to see how long it is before they must take to their heels to get under the trees to obtain shelter from the coming shower; when, I say, if that beautiful field had been sowed upon ridges at four feet apart, according to the plan in my _Year's Residence_, not a weed would have been to be seen in the field, the turnip-plants would have been three times the size that they now are, the expense would have not been a fourth part of that which has already taken place, and all the muddling and poking about of weeds, and all the fretting and all the stewing would have been spared; and as to the amount of the crop, I am now looking at the best land in England for Swedish turnips, and I have no scruple to assert that if it had been sown after my manner, it would have had a crop double the weight of that which it now will have. I think I know of a field of turnips, sown much later than the field now before me, and sown in rows at nearly four feet apart, which have a crop double the weight of that which will be produced in yon beautiful field. _Reigate (Surrey), Friday, 8th August._ At the end of a long, twisting-about ride, but a most delightful ride, I got to this place about nine o'clock in the evening. From Thursley I came to Brook, and there crossed the turnpike-road from London to Chichester through Godalming and Midhurst. Thence I came on, turning upon the left upon the sand-hills of Hambledon (in Surrey, mind). On one of these hills is one of those precious jobs, called "_Semaphores_." For what reason this pretty name is given to a sort of Telegraph house, stuck up at public expense upon a high hill; for what reason this outlandish name is given to the thing, I must leave the reader to guess; but as to the thing itself; I know that it means this: a pretence for giving a good sum of the public money away every year to some one that the Borough-system has condemned this labouring and toiling nation to provide for. The Dead Weight of nearly about six millions sterling a year; that is to say, this curse entailed upon the country on account of the late wars against the liberties of the French people, this Dead Weight is, however, falling, in part, at least, upon the landed jolterheads who were so eager to create it, and who thought that no part of it would fall upon themselves. Theirs has been a grand mistake. They saw the war carried on without any loss or any cost to themselves. By the means of paper-money and loans, the labouring classes were made to pay the whole of the expenses of the war. When the war was over, the jolterheads thought they would get gold back again to make all secure; and some of them really said, I am told, that it was high time to put an end to the gains of the paper-money people. The jolterheads quite overlooked the circumstance that, in returning to gold, they doubled and trebled what they had to pay on account of the debt, and that, at last, they were bringing the burden upon themselves. Grand, also, was the mistake of the jolterheads when they approved of the squanderings upon the Dead Weight. They thought that the labouring classes were going to pay the whole of the expenses of the Knights of Waterloo, and of the other heroes of the war. The jolterheads thought that they should have none of this to pay. Some of them had relations belonging to the Dead Weight, and all of them were willing to make the labouring classes toil like asses for the support of those who had what was called "fought and bled" for Gatton and Old Sarum. The jolterheads have now found, however, that a pretty good share of the expense is to fall upon themselves. Their mortagees are letting them know that _Semaphores_ and such pretty things cost something, and that it is unreasonable for a loyal country gentleman, a friend of "social order" and of the "blessed comforts of religion" to expect to have Semaphores and to keep his estate too. This Dead Weight is, unquestionably, a thing, such as the world never saw before. Here are not only a tribe of pensioned naval and military officers, commissaries, quartermasters, pursers, and God knows what besides; not only these, but their wives and children are to be pensioned, after the death of the heroes themselves. Nor does it signify, it seems, whether the hero were married before he became part of the Dead Weight or since. Upon the death of the man, the pension is to begin with the wife, and a pension for each child; so that, if there be a large family of children, the family, in many cases, actually gains by the death of the father! Was such a thing as this ever before heard of in the world? Any man that is going to die has nothing to do but to marry a girl to give her a pension for life to be paid out of the sweat of the people; and it was distinctly stated, during the Session of Parliament before the last, that the widows and children of insane officers were to have the same treatment as the rest! Here is the envy of surrounding nations and the admiration of the world! In addition, then, to twenty thousand parsons, more than twenty thousand stock-brokers and stock-jobbers perhaps; forty or fifty thousand tax-gatherers; thousands upon thousands of military and naval officers in full pay; in addition to all these, here are the thousands upon thousands of pairs of this Dead Weight, all busily engaged in breeding gentlemen and ladies; and all while Malthus is wanting to put a check upon the breeding of the labouring classes; all receiving a _premium for breeding_! Where is Malthus? Where is this check-population parson? Where are his friends, the Edinburgh Reviewers? Faith, I believe they have given him up. They begin to be ashamed of giving countenance to a man who wants to check the breeding of those who labour, while he says not a word about those two hundred thousand breeding pairs, whose offspring are necessarily to be maintained at the public charge. Well may these fatteners upon the labour of others rail against the Radicals! Let them once take the fan to their hand, and they will, I warrant it, thoroughly purge the floor. However, it is a consolation to know, that the jolterheads who have been the promoters of the measures that have led to these heavy charges; it is a consolation to know that the jolterheads have now to bear part of the charges, and that they cannot any longer make them fall exclusively upon the shoulders of the labouring classes. The disgust that one feels at seeing the whiskers, and hearing the copper heels rattle, is in some measure compensated for by the reflection, that the expense of them is now beginning to fall upon the malignant and tyrannical jolterheads who are the principal cause of their being created. Bidding the _Semaphore_ good-bye, I came along by the church at Hambledon, and then crossed a little common and the turnpike-road from London to Chichester through Godalming and Petworth; not Midhurst, as before. The turnpike-road here is one of the best that I ever saw. It is like the road upon Horley Common, near Worth, and like that between Godstone and East Grinstead; and the cause of this is, that it is made of precisely the same sort of stone, which, they tell me, is brought, in some cases, even from Blackdown Hill, which cannot be less, I should think, than twelve miles distant. This stone is brought, in great lumps, and then cracked into little pieces. The next village I came to after Hambledon was Hascomb, famous for its _beech_, insomuch that it is called _Hascomb Beech_. There are two lofty hills here, between which you go out of the sandy country down into the Weald. Here are hills of all heights and forms. Whether they came in consequence of a boiling of the earth, I know not; but, in form, they very much resemble the bubbles upon the top of the water of a pot which is violently boiling. The soil is a beautiful loam upon a bed of sand. Springs start here and there at the feet of the hills; and little rivulets pour away in all directions. The roads are difficult merely on account of their extreme unevenness; the bottom is everywhere sound, and everything that meets the eye is beautiful; trees, coppices, corn-fields, meadows; and then the distant views in every direction. From one spot I saw this morning Hindhead, Blackdown Hill, Lord Egremont's house and park at Petworth, Donnington Hill, over which I went to go on the South Downs, the South Downs near Lewes; the forest at Worth, Turner's Hill, and then all the way round into Kent and back to the Surrey Hills at Godstone. From Hascomb I began to descend into the low country. I had Leith Hill before me; but my plan was, not to go over it or any part of it, but to go along below it in the real Weald of Surrey. A little way back from Hascomb, I had seen _a field of carrots_; and now I was descending into a country where, strictly speaking, only three things will grow well,--grass, wheat, and oak trees. At Goose Green I crossed a turnpike-road leading from Guildford to Horsham and Arundel. I next came, after crossing a canal, to a common called Smithwood Common. Leith Hill was full in front of me, but I turned away to the right, and went through the lanes to come to Ewhurst, leaving Crawley to my right. Before I got to Ewhurst, I crossed another turnpike-road, leading from Guildford to Horsham, and going on to Worthing or some of those towns. At Ewhurst, which is a very pretty village, and the Church of which is most delightfully situated, I treated my horse to some oats, and myself to a rasher of bacon. I had now to come, according to my project, round among the lanes at about a couple of miles distance from the foot of Leith Hill, in order to get first to Ockley, then to Holmwood, and then to Reigate. From Ewhurst the first three miles was the deepest clay that I ever saw, to the best of my recollection. I was warned of the difficulty of getting along; but I was not to be frightened at the sound of clay. Wagons, too, had been dragged along the lanes by some means or another; and where a wagon-horse could go, my horse could go. It took me, however, a good hour and a half to get along these three miles. Now, mind, this is the real _weald_, where the clay is _bottomless_; where there is no stone of any sort underneath, as at Worth and all along from Crawley to Billingshurst through Horsham. This clayey land is fed with water soaking from the sand-hills; and in this particular place from the immense hill of Leith. All along here the oak-woods are beautiful. I saw scores of acres by the road-side, where the young oaks stood as regularly as if they had been planted. The orchards are not bad along here, and, perhaps, they are a good deal indebted to the shelter they receive. The wheat very good, all through the weald, but backward. At Ockley I passed the house of a Mr. Steer, who has a great quantity of hay-land, which is very pretty. Here I came along the turnpike-road that leads from Dorking to Horsham. When I got within about two or three miles of Dorking, I turned off to the right, came across the Holmwood into the lanes leading down to Gadbrook Common, which has of late years been enclosed. It is all clay here; but in the whole of my ride I have not seen much finer fields of wheat than I saw here. Out of these lanes I turned up to "Betchworth" (I believe it is), and from Betchworth came along a chalk-hill to my left and the sand-hills to my right, till I got to this place. _Wen, Sunday, 10th August._ I stayed at Reigate yesterday, and came to the Wen to-day, every step of the way in a rain; as good a soaking as any devotee of St. Swithin ever underwent for his sake. I promised that I would give an account of the effect which the soaking on the South Downs, on Saturday the 2nd instant, had upon the hooping-cough. I do not recommend the remedy to others; but this I will say, that I had a spell of the hooping-cough, the day before I got that soaking, and that I have not had a single spell since; though I have slept in several different beds, and got a second soaking in going from Botley to Easton. The truth is, I believe, that rain upon the South Downs, or at any place near the sea, is by no means the same thing with rain in the interior. No man ever catches cold from getting wet with sea-water; and, indeed, I have never known an instance of a man catching cold at sea. The air upon the South Downs is saltish, I dare say; and the clouds may bring something a little partaking of the nature of sea-water. At Thursley I left the turnip-hoers poking and pulling and muddling about the weeds, and wholly incapable, after all, of putting the turnips in anything like the state in which they ought to be. The weeds that had been hoed up twice were growing again, and it was the same with the turnips that had been hoed up. In leaving Reigate this morning, it was with great pleasure that I saw a field of Swedish turnips, drilled upon ridges at about four feet distance, the whole field as clean as the cleanest of garden ground. The turnips standing at equal distances in the row, and having the appearance of being, in every respect, in a prosperous state. I should not be afraid to bet that these turnips, thus standing in rows at nearly four feet distance, will be a crop twice as large as any in the parish of Thursley, though there is, I imagine, some of the finest turnip-land in the kingdom. It seems strange that men are not to be convinced of the advantage of the row-culture for turnips. They will insist upon believing that there is some _ground lost_. They will also insist upon believing that the row-culture is the most expensive. How can there be ground lost if the crop be larger? And as to the expense, take one year with another, the broad-cast method must be twice as expensive as the other. Wet as it has been to-day, I took time to look well about me as I came along. The wheat, even in this ragamuffin part of the country, is good, with the exception of one piece, which lies on your left hand as you come down from Banstead Down. It is very good at Banstead itself, though that is a country sufficiently poor. Just on the other side of Sutton there is a little good land, and in a place or two I thought I saw the wheat a little blighted. A labouring man told me that it was where the heaps of dung had been laid. The barley here is most beautiful, as, indeed, it is all over the country. Between Sutton and the Wen there is, in fact, little besides houses, gardens, grass plats and other matters to accommodate the Jews and jobbers, and the mistresses and bastards that are put out a-keeping. But, in a dell, which the turnpike-road crosses about a mile on this side of Sutton, there are two fields of as stiff land, I think, as I ever saw in my life. In summer time this land bakes so hard that they cannot plough it unless it be wet. When you have ploughed it, and the sun comes again, it bakes again. One of these fields had been thus ploughed and cross-ploughed in the month of June, and I saw the ground when it was lying in lumps of the size of portmanteaus, and not very small ones either. It would have been impossible to reduce this ground to small particles, except by the means of sledge hammers. The two fields, to which I alluded just now, are alongside of this ploughed field, and they are now in wheat. The heavy rain of to-day, aided by the south-west wind, made the wheat bend pretty nearly to lying down; but you shall rarely see two finer fields of wheat. It is red wheat; a coarsish kind, and the straw stout and strong; but the ears are long, broad and full; and I did not perceive anything approaching towards a speck in the straw. Such land as this, such very stiff land, seldom carries a very large crop; but I should think that these fields would exceed four quarters to an acre; and the wheat is by no means so backward as it is in some places. There is no corn, that I recollect, from the spot just spoken of, to almost the street of Kensington. I came up by Earl's Court, where there is, amongst the market gardens, a field of wheat. One would suppose that this must be the finest wheat in the world. By no means. It rained hard, to be sure, and I had not much time for being particular in my survey; but this field appears to me to have some blight in it; and as to crop, whether of corn or of straw, it is nothing to compare to the general run of the wheat in the wealds of Sussex or of Surrey; what, then, is it, if compared with the wheat on the South Downs, under Portsdown Hill, on the sea-flats at Havant and at Tichfield, and along on the banks of the Itchen! Thus I have concluded this "rural ride," from the Wen and back again to the Wen, being, taking in all the turnings and windings, as near as can be, two hundred miles in length. My objects were to ascertain the state of the crops, both of hops and of corn. The hop-affair is soon settled, for there will be no hops. As to the corn, my remark is this: that on all the clays, on all the stiff lands upon the chalk; on all the rich lands, indeed, but more especially on all the stiff lands, the wheat is as good as I recollect ever to have seen it, and has as much straw. On all the light lands and poor lands the wheat is thin, and, though not short, by no means good. The oats are pretty good almost everywhere; and I have not seen a bad field of barley during the whole of my ride; though there is no species of soil in England, except that of the fens, over which I have not passed. The state of the farmers is much worse than it was last year, notwithstanding the ridiculous falsehoods of the London newspapers, and the more ridiculous delusion of the jolterheads. In numerous instances the farmers, who continue in their farms, have ceased to farm for themselves, and merely hold the land for the landlords. The delusion caused by the rise of the price of corn has pretty nearly vanished already; and if St. Swithin would but get out of the way with his drippings for about a month, this delusion would disappear, never to return. In the meanwhile, however, the London newspapers are doing what they can to keep up the delusion; and in a paper called _Bell's Weekly Messenger_, edited, I am told, by a place-hunting lawyer; in that stupid paper of this day I find the following passage:--"So late as January last, the average price of wheat was 39_s._ per quarter, and on the 29th ult. it was above 62_s._ As it has been rising ever since, it may _now be quoted as little under 65s._ So that in this article alone there is a rise of more than _thirty-five_ per cent. Under these circumstances, it is not likely that we shall hear anything of _agricultural distress_. A writer of considerable talents, but no prophet, had _frightened_ the kingdom by a confident prediction that wheat, after the 1st of May, would sink to 4_s._ per bushel, and that under the effects of Mr. Peel's Bill, and the payments in cash by the Bank of England, it would _never again exceed that price_! Nay, so assured was Mr. Cobbett of the mathematical certainty of his deductions on the subject, that he did not hesitate to make use of the following language: 'And farther, if what I say do not come to pass, I will give any one leave to broil me on a gridiron, and for that purpose I will get one of the best gridirons I can possibly get made, and it shall be hung out as near to my premises as possible, in the Strand, so that it shall be seen by everybody as they pass along.' The 1st of May has now passed, Mr. Peel's Bill has not been repealed, and the Bank of England has paid its notes in cash, and yet wheat has risen nearly 40 per cent." Here is a tissue of falsehoods! But only think of a country being "_frightened_" by the prospect of a low price of provisions! When such an idea can possibly find its way even into the shallow brain of a cracked-skull lawyer; when such an idea can possibly be put into print at any rate, there must be something totally wrong in the state of the country. Here is this lawyer telling his readers that I had frightened the kingdom by saying that wheat would be sold at four shillings a bushel. Again I say that there must be something wrong, something greatly out of place, some great disease at work in the community, or such an idea as this could never have found its way _into print_. Into the head of a cracked-skull lawyer it might, perhaps, have entered at any time; but for it to find its way into print there must be something in the state of society wholly out of joint. As to the rest of this article, it is a tissue of downright lies. The writer says that the price of wheat is sixty-five shillings a quarter. The fact is that, on the second instant, the price was fifty-nine shillings and seven-pence: and it is now about two shillings less than that. Then again, this writer must know that I never said that wheat would not rise above four shillings a bushel; but that, on the contrary, I always expressly said that the price would be affected by the seasons, and that I thought that the price would vibrate between three shillings a bushel and seven shillings a bushel. Then again, Peel's Bill has, in part, been repealed; if it had not, there could have been no small note in circulation at this day. So that this lawyer is "_All Lie_." In obedience to the wishes of a lady, I have been reading about the plans of Mr. Owen; and though I do not as yet see my way clear as to how we can arrange matters with regard to the young girls and the young fellows, I am quite clear that his institution would be most excellent for the disposal of the lawyers. One of his squares would be at a great distance from all other habitations; in the midst of _Lord Erskine's estate_ for instance, mentioned by me in a former ride; and nothing could be so fitting, his Lordship long having been called _the father of the Bar_; in the midst of this estate, with no town or village within miles of them, we might have one of Mr. Owen's squares, and set the bob-tailed brotherhood most effectually at work. Pray can any one pretend to say that a spade or shovel would not become the hands of this blunder-headed editor of _Bell's Messenger_ better than a pen? However, these miserable falsehoods can cause the delusion to exist but for a very short space of time. The quantity of the harvest will be great. If the quality be bad, owing to wet weather, the price will be still lower than it would have been in case of dry weather. The price, therefore, must come down; and if the newspapers were conducted by men who had any sense of honour or shame, those men must be covered with confusion. RIDE THROUGH THE NORTH-EAST PART OF SUSSEX, AND ALL ACROSS KENT, FROM THE WEALD OF SUSSEX, TO DOVER. _Worth (Sussex), Friday, 29 August 1823._ I have so often described the soil and other matters appertaining to the country between the Wen and this place that my readers will rejoice at being spared the repetition here. As to the harvest, however, I find that they were deluged here on Tuesday last, though we got but little, comparatively, at Kensington. Between Mitcham and Sutton they were making wheat-ricks. The corn has not been injured here worth notice. Now and then an ear in the butts _grown_; and grown wheat is a sad thing! You may almost as well be without wheat altogether. However, very little harm has been done here as yet. At Walton Heath I saw a man who had suffered most terribly from the _game-laws_. He saw me going by, and came out to tell me his story; and a horrible story it is, as the public will find, when it shall come regularly and fully before them. Apropos of game-works: I asked who was _the Judge_ at the Somersetshire Assizes the other day. A correspondent tells me that it was Judge Burrough. I am well aware that, as this correspondent observes, "gamekeepers ought not to be _shot at_." This is not the point. It is not a _gamekeeper_ in the usual sense of that word; it is a man seizing another without a warrant. That is what it is; and this, and Old Ellenborough's Act, are _new things_ in England, and things of which the laws of England, "the birthright of Englishmen," knew nothing. Yet farmer Voke ought not to have shot at the gamekeeper, or seizer, without warrant: he ought not to have shot at him; and he would not had it not been for the law that put him in danger of being transported on the evidence of this man. So that it is clearly the terrible law that, in these cases, produces the violence. Yet, admire with me, reader, the singular turn of the mind of Sir James Mackintosh, whose whole soul appears to have been long bent on the "amelioration of the Penal Code," and who has never said one single word about this new and most terrible part of it! Sir James, after years of incessant toil, has, I believe, succeeded in getting a repeal of the laws for the punishment of "witchcraft," of the very existence of which laws the nation was unacquainted. But the devil a word has he said about the _game-laws_, which put into the gaols a full third part of the prisoners, and to hold which prisoners the gaols have actually been enlarged in all parts of the country! Singular turn of mind! Singular "humanity!" Ah! Sir James knows very well what he is at. He understands the state of his constituents at Knaresborough too well to meddle with game-laws. He has a "friend," I dare say, who knows more about game-laws than he does. However, the poor _witches_ are safe: thank Sir James for that. Mr. Carlile's sister and Mrs. Wright are in gaol, and may be there for life! But the poor witches are safe. No hypocrite: no base pretender to religion; no atrocious, savage, _black_-hearted wretch, who would murder half mankind rather than not live on the labours of others; no monster of this kind can now persecute the poor witches, thanks to Sir James who has obtained security for them in all their rides through the air, and in all their sailings upon the horseponds! _Tonbridge Wells (Kent), Saturday, 30 August._ I came from Worth about seven this morning, passed through East Grinstead, over Holthigh Common, through Ashurst, and thence to this place. The morning was very fine, and I left them at Worth, making a wheat-rick. There was no show for rain till about one o'clock, as I was approaching Ashurst. The shattering that came at first I thought nothing of; but the clouds soon grew up all round, and the rain set in for the afternoon. The buildings at Ashurst (which is the first parish in Kent on quitting Sussex) are a mill, an alehouse, a church, and about six or seven other houses. I stopped at the alehouse to bait my horse; and, for want of bacon, was compelled to put up with bread and cheese for myself. I waited in vain for the rain to cease or to slacken, and the _want of bacon_ made me fear as to a _bed_. So, about five o'clock, I, without great coat, got upon my horse, and came to this place, just as fast and no faster than if it had been fine weather. A very fine soaking! If the South Downs have left any little remnant of the hooping-cough, _this_ will take it away to be sure. I made not the least haste to get out of the rain, I stopped, here and there, as usual, and asked questions about the corn, the hops, and other things. But the moment I got in I got a good fire, and set about the work of drying in good earnest. It costing me nothing for drink, I can afford to have plenty of fire. I have not been in the house an hour; and all my clothes are now as dry as if they had never been wet. It is not getting wet that hurts you, if you keep moving while you are wet. It is the suffering of yourself to be _inactive_ while the wet clothes are on your back. The country that I have come over to-day is a very pretty one. The soil is a pale yellow loam, looking like brick earth, but rather sandy; but the bottom is a softish stone. Now-and-then, where you go through hollow ways (as at East Grinstead) the sides are solid rock. And, indeed, the rocks sometimes (on the sides of hills) show themselves above ground, and, mixed amongst the woods, make very interesting objects. On the road from the Wen to Brighton, through Godstone and over Turner's Hill, and which road I crossed this morning in coming from Worth to East Grinstead; on that road, which goes through Lindfield, and which is by far the pleasantest coach-road from the Wen to Brighton; on the side of this road, on which coaches now go from the Wen to Brighton, there is a long chain of rocks, or, rather, rocky hills, with trees growing amongst the rocks, or apparently out of them, as they do in the woods near Ross in Herefordshire, and as they do in the Blue Mountains in America, where you can see no earth at all; where all seems rock, and yet where the trees grow most beautifully. At the place of which I am now speaking, that is to say, by the side of this pleasant road to Brighton, and between Turner's Hill and Lindfield, there is a rock, which they call "_Big-upon-Little_;" that is to say, a rock upon another, having nothing else to rest upon, and the top one being longer and wider than the top of the one it lies on. This big rock is no trifling concern, being as big, perhaps, as a not very small house. How, then, _came_ this big upon little? What lifted up the big? It balances itself naturally enough; but what tossed it up? I do not like to _pay_ a parson for teaching me, while I have "_God's own word_" to teach me; but, if any parson will tell me _how_ big _came_ upon little, I do not know that I shall grudge him a trifle. And if he cannot tell me this: if he say, All that we have to do is to _admire_ and _adore_; then I tell him that I can admire and adore without his _aid_, and that I will keep my money in my pocket. To return to the soil of this country, it is such a loam as I have described with this stone beneath; sometimes the top soil is lighter and sometimes heavier; sometimes the stone is harder and sometimes softer; but this is the general character of it all the way from Worth to Tonbridge Wells. This land is what may be called the _middle kind_. The wheat crop about 20 to 24 bushels to an acre, on an average of years. The grass fields not bad, and all the fields will grow grass; I mean make upland meadows. The woods good, though not of the finest. The land seems to be about thus divided: 3-tenths _woods_, 2-tenths _grass_, a tenth of a tenth _hops_, and the rest _corn-land_. These make very pretty surface, especially as it is a rarity to see a _pollard tree_, and as nobody is so beastly as to _trim trees up_ like the elms near the Wen. The country has no _flat_ spot in it; yet the hills are not high. My road was a gentle rise or a gentle descent all the way. Continual new views strike the eye; but there is little variety in them: all is pretty, but nothing strikingly beautiful. The labouring people look pretty well. They have pigs. They invariably do best in the _woodland_ and _forest_ and _wild_ countries. Where the mighty grasper has _all under his eye_, they can get but little. These are cross-roads, mere parish roads; but they are very good. While I was at the alehouse at Ashurst, I heard some labouring men talking about the roads; and they having observed that the parish roads had become so wonderfully better within the last seven or eight years, I put in my word, and said: "It is odd enough, too, that the parish roads should become _better and better_ as the farmers become _poorer and poorer_!" They looked at one another, and put on a sort of _expecting_ look; for my observation seemed to _ask for information_. At last one of them said, "Why, it is because the farmers _have not the money to employ men_, and so they are put on the roads." "Yes," said I, "but they must pay them there." They said no more, and only _looked hard at one another_. They had, probably, never thought about this before. They seemed puzzled by it, and well they might, for it has bothered the wigs of boroughmongers, parsons and lawyers, and will bother them yet. Yes, this country now contains a body of occupiers of the land, who suffer the land to go to decay for want of means to pay a sufficiency of labourers; and, at the same time, are compelled to pay those labourers for doing that which is of no use to the occupiers! There, Collective Wisdom! Go: brag of that! Call that "the envy of surrounding nations and the admiration of the world." This is a great _nut_ year. I saw them hanging very thick on the way-side during a great part of this day's ride; and they put me in mind of the old saying, "That a great _nut_ year is a great year for that class whom the lawyers, in their Latin phrase, call the 'sons and daughters of nobody.'" I once asked a farmer, who had often been overseer of the poor, whether he really thought that there was any ground for this old saying, or whether he thought it was mere banter? He said that he was sure that there were good grounds for it; and he even cited instances in proof, and mentioned one particular year, when there were four times as many of this class as ever had been born in a year in the parish before; an effect which he ascribed solely to the crop of nuts of the year before. Now, if this be the case, ought not Parson Malthus, Lawyer Scarlett, and the rest of that tribe, to turn their attention to the nut-trees? The _Vice Society_, too, with that holy man Wilberforce at its head, ought to look out sharp after these mischievous nut-trees. A law to cause them all to be grubbed up, and thrown into the fire, would, certainly, be far less unreasonable than many things which we have seen and heard of. The corn, from Worth to this place, is pretty good. The farmers say it is a small crop; other people, and especially the labourers, say that it is a good crop. I think it is not large and not small; about an average crop; perhaps rather less, for the land is rather light, and this is not a year for light lands. But there is no blight, no mildew, in spite of all the prayers of the "loyal." The wheat about a third cut, and none carried. No other corn begun upon. Hops very bad till I came within a few miles of this place, when I saw some which I should suppose would bear about six hundredweight to the acre. The orchards no great things along here. Some apples here and there; but small and stunted. I do not know that I have seen to-day any one _tree_ well loaded with fine apples. _Tenterden (Kent), Sunday, 31 August._ Here I am after a most delightful ride of twenty-four miles, through Frant, Lamberhurst, Goudhurst, Milkhouse Street, Benenden, and Rolvenden. By making a great stir in rousing waiters and "boots" and maids, and by leaving behind me the name of "a d--d noisy, troublesome fellow," I got clear of "_the Wells_," and out of the contagion of its Wen-engendered inhabitants, time enough to meet the first rays of the sun, on the hill that you come up in order to get to Frant, which is a most beautiful little village at about two miles from "_the Wells_." Here the land belongs, I suppose, to Lord Abergavenny, who has a mansion and park here. A very pretty place, and kept, seemingly, in very nice order. I saw here what I never saw before: the bloom of the _common heath_ we wholly overlook; but it is a very pretty thing; and here, when the plantations were made, and as they grew up, heath was _left to grow_ on the sides of the roads in the plantations. The heath is not so much of a dwarf as we suppose. This is four feet high; and, being in full bloom, it makes the prettiest border that can be imagined. This place of Lord Abergavenny is, altogether, a very pretty place; and, so far from grudging him the possession of it, I should feel pleasure at seeing it in his possession, and should pray God to preserve it to him, and from the unholy and ruthless touch of the Jews and jobbers; but I cannot forget this Lord's _sinecure_! I cannot forget that he has, for doing nothing, received of the public money more than sufficient to buy such an estate as this. I cannot forget that this estate may, perhaps, have actually been bought with that money. Not being able to forget this, and with my mind filled with reflections of this sort, I got up to the church at Frant, and just by I saw a _School-house_ with this motto on it: "_Train up a child as he should walk_," &c. That is to say, try to breed up the Boys and Girls of this village in such a way that they may never know anything about Lord Abergavenny's sinecure; or, knowing about it, that they may think it _right_ that he should roll in wealth coming to him in such a way. The projectors deceive nobody but themselves! They are working for the destruction of their own system. In looking back over "_the Wells_" I cannot but admire the operation of the gambling system. This little _toad-stool_ is a thing created entirely by the gamble; and the means have, hitherto, come out of the wages of labour. These means are _now_ coming out of the farmer's capital and out of the landlord's estate; the labourers are stripped; they can give no more: the saddle is now fixing itself upon the right back. In quitting Frant I descended into a country more woody than that behind me. I asked a man whose fine woods those were that I pointed to, and I fairly gave _a start_ when he said the Marquis Camden's. Milton talks of the _Leviathan_ in a way to make one draw in one's shoulders with fear; and I appeal to any one, who has been at sea when a whale has come near the ship, whether he has not, at the first sight of the monster, made a sort of involuntary movement, as if to _get out of the way_. Such was the movement that I now made. However, soon coming to myself, on I walked my horse by the side of my pedestrian informant. It is Bayham Abbey that this great and awful sinecure placeman owns in this part of the county. Another great estate he owns near Sevenoaks. But here alone he spreads his length and breadth over more, they say, than ten or twelve thousand acres of land, great part of which consists of oak-woods. But, indeed, what estates might he not purchase? Not much less than thirty years he held a place, a sinecure place, that yielded him about thirty thousand pounds a-year! At any rate, he, according to Parliamentary accounts, has received, of public money, little short of a million of guineas. These, at 30 guineas an acre, would buy thirty thousand acres of land. And what did he have all this money _for_? Answer me that question, Wilberforce, you who called him a "bright star," when he gave up _a part_ of his enormous sinecure. He gave up all but the _trifling_ sum of nearly three thousand pounds a-year! What a bright star! And _when_ did he give it up? When the _Radical_ had made the country ring with it. When his name was, by their means, getting into every mouth in the kingdom; when every Radical speech and petition contained the name of Camden. Then it was, and not till then, that this "bright star" let fall part of its "brilliancy." So that Wilberforce ought to have thanked the _Radicals_, and not Camden. When he let go his grasp, he talked of the merits of his father. His father was a lawyer, who was exceedingly well paid for what he did without a million of money being given to his son. But there is something rather out of common-place to be observed about this father. This father was the contemporary of Yorke, who became Lord Hardwicke. Pratt and Yorke, and the merit of Pratt was that he was constantly opposed to the principles of Yorke. Yorke was called a _Tory_ and Pratt a _Whig_; but the devil of it was, both got to be Lords; and, in one shape or another, the families of both have, from that day to this, been receiving great parcels of the public money! Beautiful system! The Tories were for _rewarding Yorke_; the Whigs were for _rewarding Pratt_. The Ministers (all in good time!) humoured both parties; and the stupid people, divided into _tools of two factions_, actually applauded, now one part of them, and now the other part of them, the squandering away of their substance. They were like the man and his wife in the fable, who, to spite one another, gave away to the cunning mumper the whole of their dinner bit by bit. _This species_ of folly is over at any rate. The people are no longer fools enough to be _partisans_. They make no distinctions. The nonsense about "court party" and "country party" is at an end. Who thinks anything more of the name of _Erskine_ than of that of _Scott_? As the people told the two factions at Maidstone when they, with Camden at their head, met to congratulate the Regent on the marriage of his daughter, "they are all tarred with the same brush;" and tarred with the same brush they must be, until there be a real reform of the Parliament. However, the people are no longer deceived. They are not duped. They _know_ that the thing is that which it is. The people of the present day would laugh at disputes (carried on with so much gravity!) about the _principles_ of Pratt and the _principles_ of Yorke. "You are all tarred with the same brush," said the sensible people of Maidstone; and, in those words, they expressed the opinion of the whole country, borough-mongers and tax-eaters excepted. The country from Frant to Lamberhurst is very woody. I should think five-tenths woods and three grass. The corn, what there is of it, is about the same as farther back. I saw a hop-garden just before I got to Lamberhurst, which will have about two or three hundredweight to the acre. This Lamberhurst is a very pretty place. It lies in a valley with beautiful hills round it. The pastures about here are very fine; and the roads are as smooth and as handsome as those in Windsor Park. From the last-mentioned place I had three miles to come to Goudhurst, the tower of the church of which is pretty lofty of itself, and the church stands upon the very summit of one of the steepest and highest hills in this part of the country. The church-yard has a view of about twenty-five miles in diameter; and the whole is over a very fine country, though the character of the country differs little from that which I have before described. Before I got to Goudhurst, I passed by the side of a village called Horsenden, and saw some very large hop-grounds away to my right. I should suppose there were fifty acres; and they appeared to me to look pretty well. I found that they belonged to a Mr. Springate, and people say that it will grow half as many hops as he grew last year, while people in general will not grow a tenth part so many. This hop growing and dealing have always been a _gamble_; and this puts me in mind of the horrible treatment which Mr. Waddington received on account of what was called his _forestalling_ in hops! It is useless to talk: as long as that gentleman remains uncompensated for his sufferings there can be no hope of better days. Ellenborough was his counsel; he afterwards became Judge; but nothing was ever done to undo what Kenyon had done. However, Mr. Waddington will, I trust, yet live to obtain justice. He has, in the meanwhile, given the thing now-and-then a blow; and he has the satisfaction to see it reel about like a drunken man. I got to Goudhurst to breakfast, and as I heard that the Dean of Rochester was to preach a sermon in behalf of the _National Schools_, I stopped to hear him. In waiting for his Reverence I went to the Methodist Meeting-house, where I found the Sunday School boys and girls assembled, to the almost filling of the place, which was about thirty feet long and eighteen wide. The "Minister" was not come, and the Schoolmaster was reading to the children out of a _tract-book_, and shaking the brimstone bag at them most furiously. This schoolmaster was a _sleek_-looking young fellow: his skin perfectly tight: well fed, I'll warrant him: and he has discovered the way of living, without work, on the labour of those that do work. There were 36 little fellows in smock-frocks, and about as many girls listening to him; and I dare say he eats as much meat as any ten of them. By this time the _Dean_, I thought, would be coming on; and, therefore, to the church I went; but to my great disappointment I found that the parson was operating _preparatory_ to the appearance of the Dean, who was to come on in the afternoon, when I, agreeably to my plan, must be off. The sermon was from 2 Chronicles, ch. 31. v. 21., and the words of this text described King Hezekiah as a most _zealous man_, doing whatever he did _with all his heart_. I write from _memory_, mind, and, therefore, I do not pretend to quote exact words; and I may be a little in error, perhaps, as to chapter or verse. The object of the preacher was to hold up to his hearers the example of Hezekiah, and particularly in the case of the school affair. He called upon them to subscribe with all their hearts; but, alas! how little of _persuasive power_ was there in what he said! No effort to make them see _the use of the schools_. No inducement _proved_ to exist. No argument, in short, nor anything to move. No appeal either to the _reason_, or to the _feeling_. All was general, common-place, cold observation; and that, too, in language which the far greater part of the hearers could not understand. This church is about 110 feet long and 70 feet wide in the clear. It would hold _three thousand people_, and it had in it 214, besides 53 Sunday School or National School boys; and these sat together, in a sort of lodge, up in a corner, 16 feet long and 10 feet wide. Now, will any Parson Malthus, or anybody else, have the impudence to tell me that this church was built for the use of a population not more numerous than the present? To be sure, when this church was built, there could be no idea of a Methodist meeting coming to _assist_ the church, and as little, I dare say, was it expected that the preachers in the church would ever call upon the faithful to subscribe money to be sent up to one Joshua Watson (living in a Wen) to be by him laid out in "promoting Christian knowledge;" but, at any rate, the Methodists cannot take away above four or five hundred; and what, then, was this great church built _for_, if there were no more people, in those days, at Goudhurst, than there are now? It is very true that the _labouring_ people have, in a great measure, ceased to go to church. There were scarcely any of that class at this great country church to-day. I do not believe there were _ten_. I can remember when they were so numerous that the parson could not attempt to begin till the rattling of their nailed shoes ceased. I have seen, I am sure, five hundred boys and men in smock-frocks coming out of church at one time. To-day has been a fine day: there would have been many at church to-day, if ever there are; and here I have another to add to the many things that convince me that the labouring classes have, in great part, ceased to go to church; that their way of thinking and feeling with regard to both church and clergy are totally changed; and that there is now very little _moral hold_ which the latter possess. This preaching for money to support the schools is a most curious affair altogether. The King sends a _circular letter_ to the bishops (as I understand it) to cause subscriptions for the schools; and the bishops (if I am rightly told) tell the parish clergy to send the money, when collected, to Joshua Watson, the Treasurer of a Society in the Wen, "for promoting Christian Knowledge!" What! the church and all its clergy put into motion to get money from the people to send up to one Joshua Watson, a wine-merchant, or, late a wine-merchant, in Mincing Lane, Fenchurch Street, London, in order that the said wine-merchant may apply the money to the "promoting of Christian Knowledge!" What! all the deacons, priests, curates perpetual, vicars, rectors, prebends, doctors, deans, archdeacons and fathers in God, right reverend and most reverend; all! yea all, engaged in getting money together to send to a wine-merchant that he may lay it out in the promoting of Christian knowledge _in their own flocks_! Oh, brave wine-merchant! What a prince of godliness must this wine-merchant be! I say wine-merchant, or late wine-merchant, of Mincing Lane, Fenchurch Street, London. And, for God's sake, some good parson, do send me up a copy of the King's circular, and also of the bishop's order to send the money to Joshua Watson; for some precious sport we will have with Joshua and his "Society" before we have done with them! After "service" I mounted my horse and jogged on through Milkhouse Street to Benenden, where I passed through the estate, and in sight of the house of Mr. Hodges. He keeps it very neat and has planted a good deal. His _ash_ do very well; but the _chestnut_ do not, as it seems to me. He ought to have the American chestnut, if he have any. If I could discover _an everlasting hop-pole_, and one, too, that would grow faster even than the ash, would not these Kentish hop-planters put me in the Kalendar along with their famous Saint Thomas of Canterbury? We shall see this one of these days. Coming through the village of Benenden, I heard a man at my right talking very loud about _houses! houses! houses!_ It was a Methodist parson, in a house close by the roadside. I pulled up, and stood still, in the middle of the road, but looking, in silent soberness, into the window (which was open) of the room in which the preacher was at work. I believe my stopping rather disconcerted him; for he got into shocking _repetition_. "Do you _know_," said he, laying great stress on the word _know_: "do you _know_, that you have ready for you houses, houses I say; I say do you know; do you know that you have houses in the heavens not made with hands? Do you know this from _experience_? Has the blessed Jesus _told you so_?" And on he went to say that, if Jesus had told them so, they would be saved, and that if He had not, and did not, they would be damned. Some girls whom I saw in the room, plump and rosy as could be, did not seem at all daunted by these menaces; and, indeed, they appeared to me to be thinking much more about getting houses for themselves _in this world first_; just to _see a little_ before they entered, or endeavoured to enter, or even thought much about, those "_houses_" of which the parson was speaking: _houses_ with pig-styes and little snug gardens attached to them, together with all the other domestic and conjugal circumstances, these girls seemed to me to be preparing themselves for. The truth is, these fellows have no power on the minds of any but the miserable. Scarcely had I proceeded a hundred yards from the place where this fellow was bawling, when I came to the very situation which he ought to have occupied, I mean the _stocks_, which the people of Benenden have, with singular humanity, fitted up with a _bench_, so that the patient, while he is receiving the benefit of the remedy, is not exposed to the danger of catching cold by sitting, as in other places, upon the ground, always damp, and sometimes actually wet. But I would ask the people of Benenden what is the _use_ of this humane precaution, and, indeed, what is the use of the stocks themselves, if, while a fellow is ranting and bawling in the manner just described, at the distance of a hundred yards from the stocks, the stocks (as is here actually the case) are almost hidden by grass and nettles? This, however, is the case all over the country; not nettles and grass indeed smothering the stocks, but I never see any feet peeping through the holes anywhere, though I find Methodist parsons everywhere, and though _the law compels the parishes to keep up_ all the pairs of stocks that exist in all parts of them; and, in some parishes, they have to keep up several pairs. I am aware that a good part of the use of the stocks is the _terror_ they ought to produce. I am not supposing that they are of no use because not continually furnished with legs. But there is a wide difference between _always_ and _never_; and it is clear that a fellow who has had the stocks under his eye all his lifetime, and has _never_ seen a pair of feet peeping through them, will stand no more in awe of the stocks than rooks do of an old shoyhoy, or than the Ministers or their agents do of Hobhouse and Burdett. Stocks that never pinch a pair of ankles are like Ministerial responsibility; a thing to talk about, but for no other use; a mere mockery; a thing laughed at by those whom it is intended to keep in check. It is time that the stocks were again _in use_, or that the expense of keeping them up were put an end to. This mild, this gentle, this good-humoured sort of correction is _not enough_ for our present rulers. But mark the consequence; gaols ten times as big as formerly; houses of correction; tread-mills; the hulks; and the country filled with _spies_ of one sort and another, _game-spies_, or other spies, and if a hare or pheasant come to an untimely death, _police-officers_ from the Wen are not unfrequently called down to find out and secure the bloody offender! _Mark this_, Englishmen! Mark how we take to those things which we formerly ridiculed in the French; and take them up too just as that brave and spirited people have shaken them off! I saw, not long ago, an account of a Wen police-officer being sent into the country, where he assumed _a disguise_, joined some poachers (as they are called), got into their secrets, went out in the night with them, and then (having laid his plans with the game-people) assisted to take them and convict them. What! is this _England_! Is this the land of "manly hearts?" Is this the country that laughed at the French for their submissions? What! are police-officers kept for this? Does the law say so? However, thank God Almighty, the estates are passing away into the hands of those who have had borrowed from them the money to uphold this monster of a system. The Debt! The blessed Debt, will, at last, restore to us freedom. Just after I quitted Benenden, I saw some bunches of _straw_ lying upon the quickset hedge of a cottage garden. I found upon inquiry, that they were bunches of the straw of grass. Seeing a face through the window of the cottage, I called out and asked what that straw was for. The person within said, it was to make _Leghorn-plat_ with. I asked him (it was a young man) how he knew how to do it. He said he had got a little book that had been made by Mr. Cobbett. I told him that I was the man, and should like to see some of his work; and asked him to bring it out to me, I being afraid to tie my horse. He told me that he was a _cripple_, and that he could not come out. At last I went in, leaving my horse to be held by a little girl. I found a young man, who has been a cripple for fourteen years. Some ladies in the neighbourhood had got him the book, and his family had got him the grass. He had made some very nice plat, and he had knitted the greater part of the crown of a bonnet, and had done the whole very nicely, though, as to the knitting, he had proceeded in a way to make it very tedious. He was knitting upon a block. However, these little matters will soon be set to rights. There will soon be persons to teach knitting in all parts of the country. I left this unfortunate young man with the pleasing reflection that I had, in all likelihood, been the cause of his gaining a good living, by his labour, during the rest of his life. How long will it be before my calumniators, the false and infamous London press, will, take the whole of it together, and leave out its evil, do as much good as my pen has done in this one instance! How long will it be ere the ruffians, the base hirelings, the infamous traders who own and who conduct that press; how long ere one of them, or all of them together, shall cause a cottage to smile; shall add one ounce to the meal of the labouring man! Rolvenden was my next village, and thence I could see the lofty church of Tenterden on the top of a hill at three miles distance. This Rolvenden is a very beautiful village; and, indeed, such are all the places along here. These villages are not like those in the _iron_ counties, as I call them; that is, the counties of flint and chalk. Here the houses have gardens in front of them as well as behind; and there is a good deal of show and finery about them and their gardens. The high roads are without a stone in them; and everything looks like _gentility_. At this place I saw several _arbutuses_ in one garden, and much finer than we see them in general; though, mind, this is no proof of a mild climate; for the arbutus is a native of one much colder than that of England, and indeed than that of Scotland. Coming from Benenden to Rolvenden I saw some Swedish turnips, and, strange as the reader will think it, the first I saw after leaving Worth! The reason I take to be this: the farms are all furnished with grass-fields as in Devonshire about Honiton. These grass-fields give hay for the sheep and cattle in winter, or, at any rate, they do all that is not done by the white turnips. It may be a question whether it would be more _profitable_ to break up and sow Swedes; but this is the reason of their not being cultivated along here. White turnips are more easily got than Swedes; they may be sown later; and, with good hay, they will fat cattle and sheep; but the Swedes will do this business without hay. In Norfolk and Suffolk the land is not generally of a nature to make hay-fields. Therefore the people there resort to Swedes. This has been a sad time for these hay-farmers, however, all along here. They have but just finished haymaking; and I see, all along my way, from East Grinstead to this place, hay-ricks the colour of dirt and _smoking_ like dung-heaps. Just before I got to this place (Tenterden), I crossed a bit of marsh land, which I found, upon inquiry, is a sort of little branch or spray running out of that immense and famous tract of country called _Romney Marsh_, which, I find, I have to cross to-morrow, in order to get to Dover, along by the sea-side, through Hythe and Folkestone. This Tenterden is a market town, and a singularly bright spot. It consists of one street, which is, in some places, more, perhaps, than two hundred feet wide. On one side of the street the houses have gardens before them, from 20 to 70 feet deep. The town is upon a hill; the afternoon was very fine, and, just as I rose the hill and entered the street, the people had come out of church and were moving along towards their houses. It was a very fine sight. _Shabbily-dressed people do not go to church._ I saw, in short, drawn out before me, the dress and beauty of the town; and a great many very, very pretty girls I saw; and saw them, too, in their best attire. I remember the girls in the _Pays de Caux_, and, really, I think those of Tenterden resemble them. I do not know why they should not; for there is the _Pays de Caux_ only just over the water, just opposite this very place. The hops about here are not so very bad. They say that one man, near this town, will have eight tons of hops upon ten acres of land! This is a great crop any year: a very great crop. This man may, perhaps, sell his hops for 1,600 pounds! What a _gambling_ concern it is! However, such hop-growing always was and always must be. It is a thing of perfect hazard. The church at this place is a very large and fine old building. The tower stands upon a base thirty feet square. Like the church at Goudhurst, it will hold three thousand people. And let it be observed that, when these churches were built, people had not yet thought of cramming them with _pews_, as a stable is filled with stalls. Those who built these churches had no idea that worshipping God meant going to _sit_ to hear a man talk out what he called preaching. By _worship_ they meant very different things; and, above all things, when they had made a fine and noble building, they did not dream of disfiguring the inside of it by filling its floor with large and deep boxes made of deal boards. In short, the floor was the place for the worshippers to stand or to kneel; and there was _no distinction_; no _high_ place and no _low_ place; all were upon a level _before God_ at any rate. Some were not stuck into pews lined with green or red cloth, while others were crammed into corners to stand erect or sit on the floor. These odious distinctions are of Protestant origin and growth. This lazy lolling in pews we owe to what is called the _Reformation_. A place filled with benches and boxes looks like an eating or a drinking place; but certainly not like a place of worship. A Frenchman, who had been driven from St. Domingo to Philadelphia by the Wilberforces of France, went to church along with me one Sunday. He had never been in a Protestant place of _worship_ before. Upon looking round him, and seeing everybody comfortably seated, while a couple of good stoves were keeping the place as warm as a slack oven, he exclaimed: "_Pardi! On sert Dieu bien à son aise ici?_" That is: "Egad! they serve God very much at their ease here!" I always think of this, when I see a church full of pews; as, indeed, is now always the case with our churches. Those who built these churches had no idea of this: they made their calculations as to the people to be contained in them, not making any allowance for _deal boards_. I often wonder how it is that the present parsons are not ashamed to call the churches _theirs_! They must know the origin of them; and how they can look at them, and at the same time revile the Catholics, is astonishing to me. This evening I have been to the Methodist Meeting-house. I was attracted, fairly drawn all down the street, by the _singing_. When I came to the place the parson was got into prayer. His hands were clenched together and held up, his face turned up and back so as to be nearly parallel with the ceiling, and he was bawling away, with his "do thou," and "mayest thou," and "may we," enough to stun one. Noisy, however, as he was, he was unable to fix the attention of a parcel of girls in the gallery, whose eyes were all over the place, while his eyes were so devoutly shut up. After a deal of this rigmarole called prayer, came the _preachy_, as the negroes call it; and a _preachy_ it really was. Such a mixture of whining cant and of foppish affectation I scarcely ever heard in my life. The text was (I speak from memory) one of Saint Peter's epistles (if he have more than one) the 4th Chapter and 18th Verse. The words were to this amount: that, _as the righteous would be saved with difficulty, what must become of the ungodly and the sinner_! After as neat a dish of nonsense and of impertinences as one could wish to have served up, came the distinction between the _ungodly_ and the _sinner_. The sinner was one who did moral wrong; the ungodly, one who did no moral wrong, but who was not regenerated. _Both_, he positively told us, were to be damned. One was just as bad as the other. Moral rectitude was to do nothing in saving the man. He was to be damned unless born again, and how was he to be born again unless he came to the regeneration-shop and gave the fellows money? He distinctly told us that a man perfectly moral might be damned; and that "the vilest of the vile and the basest of the base" (I quote his very words) "would be saved if they became regenerate; and that colliers, whose souls had been as black as their coals, had by regeneration become bright as the saints that sing before God and the Lamb." And will the _Edinburgh Reviewers_ again find fault with me for cutting at this bawling, canting crew? Monstrous it is to think that the Clergy of the Church really encourage these roving fanatics. The Church seems aware of its loss of credit and of power. It seems willing to lean even upon these men; who, be it observed, seem, on their part, to have taken the Church under their protection. They always pray for the _Ministry_; I mean the ministry at _Whitehall_. They are most "loyal" souls. The THING _protects them_; and they lend their aid _in upholding the_ THING. What silly; nay, what base creatures those must be who really give their money, give their pennies, which ought to buy bread for their own children; who thus give their money to these lazy and impudent fellows, who call themselves ministers of God, who prowl about the country living easy and jovial lives upon the fruit of the labour of other people. However, it is, in some measure, these people's fault. If they did not give, the others could not receive. I wish to see every labouring man well fed and well clad; but, really, the man who gives any portion of his earnings to these fellows deserves to want: he deserves to be pinched with hunger: misery is the just reward of this worst species of prodigality. The _singing_ makes a great part of what passes in these meeting-houses. A number of women and girls singing together make very sweet sounds. Few men there are who have not felt _the power_ of sounds of this sort. Men are sometimes pretty nearly bewitched without knowing how. _Eyes_ do a good deal, but _tongues_ do more. We may talk of sparkling eyes and snowy bosoms as long as we please; but what are these with a croaking, masculine voice? The parson seemed to be fully aware of the importance of this part of the "service." The subject of his hymn was something about _love_: Christian love; love of Jesus; but still it was about _love_; and the parson read, or gave out, the verses in a singularly _soft_ and _sighing_ voice, with his head on one side, and giving it rather a swing. I am satisfied that the singing forms great part of the _attraction_. Young girls like to sing; and young men like to hear them. Nay, old ones too; and, as I have just said, it was the singing that _drew_ me three hundred yards down the street at Tenterden, to enter this meeting-house. By-the-by, I wrote some Hymns myself, and published them in "_Twopenny Trash_." I will give any Methodist parson leave to put them into his hymn-book. _Folkestone (Kent), Monday (Noon), 1 Sept._ I have had a fine ride, and, I suppose, the Quakers have had a fine time of it at Mark Lane. From Tenterden I set off at five o'clock, and got to Appledore after a most delightful ride, the high land upon my right, and the low land on my left. The fog was so thick and white along some of the low land, that I should have taken it for water, if little hills and trees had not risen up through it here and there. Indeed, the view was very much like those which are presented in the deep valleys, near the great rivers in New Brunswick (North America) at the time when the snows melt in the spring, and when, in sailing over those valleys, you look down from the side of your canoe and see the lofty woods beneath you! I once went in a log-canoe across a _sylvan sea_ of this description, the canoe being paddled by two Yankees. We started in a stream; the stream became a wide water, and that water got deeper and deeper, as I could see by the trees (all was woods), till we got to sail amongst the _top branches of the trees_. By-and-by we got into a large open space; a piece of water a mile or two, or three or four wide, with _the woods under us_! A fog, with the tops of trees rising through it, is very much like this; and such was the fog that I saw this morning in my ride to Appledore. The church at Appledore is very large. Big enough to hold 3,000 people; and the place does not seem to contain half a thousand old enough to go to church. In coming along I saw a wheat-rick making, though I hardly think the wheat can be dry under the bands. The corn is all good here; and I am told they give twelve shillings an acre for reaping wheat. In quitting this Appledore I crossed a canal and entered on Romney Marsh. This was grass-land on both sides of me to a great distance. The flocks and herds immense. The sheep are of a breed that takes its name from the marsh. They are called Romney Marsh sheep. Very pretty and large. The wethers, when fat, weigh about twelve stone; or, one hundred pounds. The faces of these sheep are white; and, indeed, the whole sheep is as white as a piece of writing-paper. The wool does not look dirty and oily like that of other sheep. The cattle appear to be all of the _Sussex_ breed. Red, loosed-limbed, and, they say, a great deal better than the Devonshire. How curious is the _natural economy_ of a country! The _forests_ of Sussex; those miserable tracts of heath and fern and bushes and sand, called Ashdown Forest and Saint Leonard's Forest, to which latter Lord Erskine's estate belongs; these wretched tracts and the not much less wretched farms in their neighbourhood, _breed the cattle_, which we see _fatting_ in Romney Marsh! They are calved in the spring; they are weaned in a little bit of grass-land; they are then put into stubbles and about in the fallows for the first summer; they are brought into the yard to winter on rough hay, peas-haulm, or barley-straw; the next two summers they spend in the rough woods or in the forest; the two winters they live on straw; they then pass another summer on the forest or at _work_; and then they come here or go elsewhere to be fatted. With cattle of this kind and with sheep such as I have spoken of before, this Marsh abounds in every part of it; and the sight is most beautiful. At three miles from Appledore I came through Snargate, a village with five houses, and with a church capable of containing two thousand people! The vagabonds tell us, however, that we have a wonderful increase of population! These vagabonds will be hanged by-and-by, or else justice will have fled from the face of the earth. At Brenzett (a mile further on) I with great difficulty got a rasher of bacon for breakfast. The few houses that there are are miserable in the extreme. The church here (only a _mile_ from the last) nearly as large; and nobody to go to it. What! will the _vagabonds_ attempt to make us believe that these churches were _built for nothing_! "_Dark ages_" indeed those must have been, if these churches were erected without there being any more people than there are now. But _who_ built them? Where did the _means_, where did the hands come from? This place presents another proof of the truth of my old observation: _rich land_ and _poor labourers_. From the window of the house, in which I could scarcely get a rasher of bacon, and not an egg, I saw numberless flocks and herds fatting, and the fields loaded with corn! The next village, which was two miles further on, was Old Romney, and along here I had, for great part of the way, corn-fields on one side of me and grass-land on the other. I asked what the amount of the crop of wheat would be. They told me better than five quarters to the acre. I thought so myself. I have a sample of the red wheat and another of the white. They are both very fine. They reap the wheat here nearly two feet from the ground; and even then they cut it three feet long! I never saw corn like this before. It very far exceeds the corn under Portsdown Hill, that at Gosport and Tichfield. They have here about eight hundred large, very large, sheaves to an acre. I wonder how long it will be after the end of the world before Mr. Birbeck will see the American "Prairies" half so good as this Marsh. In a garden here I saw some very fine onions, and a prodigious crop; sure sign of most excellent land. At this Old Romney there is a church (two miles only from the last, mind!) fit to contain one thousand five hundred people, and there are, for the people of the parish to live in, twenty-two, or twenty-three, houses! And yet the _vagabonds_ have the impudence to tell us that the population of England has vastly increased! Curious system that depopulates Romney Marsh and peoples Bagshot Heath! It is an unnatural system. It is the _vagabond's_ system. It is a system that must be destroyed, or that will destroy the country. The rotten borough of New Romney came next in my way; and here, to my great surprise, I found myself upon the sea-beach; for I had not looked at a map of Kent for years, and, perhaps, never. I had got a list of places from a friend in Sussex, whom I asked to give me a route to Dover, and to send me through those parts of Kent which he thought would be most interesting to me. Never was I so much surprised as when I saw _a sail_. This place, now that the _squanderings_ of the THING are over, is, they say, become miserably poor. From New Romney to Dimchurch is about four miles: all along I had the sea-beach on my right, and, on my left, sometimes grass-land and sometimes corn-land. They told me here, and also further back in the Marsh, that they were to have 15s. an acre for reaping wheat. From Dimchurch to Hythe you go on the sea-beach, and nearly the same from Hythe to Sandgate, from which last place you come over the hill to Folkestone. But let me look back. Here has been the squandering! Here has been the pauper-making work! Here we see some of these causes that are now sending some farmers to the workhouse and driving others to flee the country or to cut their throats! I had baited my horse at New Romney, and was coming jogging along very soberly, now looking at the sea, then looking at the cattle, then the corn, when my eye, in swinging round, lighted upon a great round building standing upon the beach. I had scarcely had time to think about what it could be when twenty or thirty others, standing along the coast, caught my eye; and, if any one had been behind me, he might have heard me exclaim, in a voice that made my horse bound, "The _Martello Towers_ by ----!" Oh, Lord! To think that I should be destined to behold these monuments of the wisdom of Pitt and Dundas and Perceval! Good God! Here they are, piles of bricks in a circular form about three hundred feet (_guess_) circumference at the base, about forty feet high, and about one hundred and fifty feet circumference at the top. There is a door-way, about midway up, in each, and each has two windows. Cannons were to be fired from the top of these things in order to defend the country against the French Jacobins! I think I have counted along here upwards of thirty of these ridiculous things, which, I dare say, cost five, perhaps ten, thousand pounds each; and one of which was, I am told, _sold_ on the coast of Sussex the other day for two hundred pounds! There is, they say, a chain of these things all the way to Hastings! I dare say they cost millions. But far indeed are these from being all, or half, or a quarter of the squanderings along here. Hythe is half _barracks_; the hills are covered with barracks; and barracks most expensive, most squandering, fill up the side of the hill. Here is a canal (I crossed it at Appledore) made for the length of thirty miles (from Hythe, in Kent, to Rye, in Sussex) to _keep out the French_; for those armies who had so often crossed the Rhine and the Danube were to be kept back by a canal, made by Pitt, thirty feet wide at the most! All along the coast there are works of some sort or other; incessant sinks of money; walls of immense dimensions; masses of stone brought and put into piles. Then you see some of the walls and buildings falling down; some that have never been finished. The whole thing, all taken together, looks as if a spell had been, all of a sudden, set upon the workmen; or, in the words of the Scripture, here is the "_desolation of abomination, standing in high places_." However, all is right. These things were made with the hearty good will of those who are now coming to ruin in consequence of the Debt, contracted for the purpose of making these things! This is all _just_. The load will come, at last, upon the right shoulders. Between Hythe and Sandgate (a village at about two miles from Hythe) I first saw the French coast. The chalk cliffs at Calais are as plain to the view as possible, and also the land, which they tell me is near Boulogne. Folkestone lies under a hill here, as Reigate does in Surrey, only here the sea is open to your right as you come along. The corn is very early here, and very fine. All cut, even the beans; and they will be ready to cart in a day or two. Folkestone is now a little place; probably a quarter part as big as it was formerly. Here is a church one hundred and twenty feet long and fifty feet wide. It is a sort of little Cathedral. The church-yard has evidently been three times as large as it is now. Before I got into Folkestone I saw no less than eighty-four men, women, and boys and girls gleaning or leasing, in a field of about ten acres. The people all along here complain most bitterly of the _change of times_. The truth is, that the squandered millions are gone! The nation has now to suffer for this squandering. The money served to silence some; to make others bawl; to cause the good to be oppressed; to cause the bad to be exalted; to "crush the Jacobins:" and what is the _result_? What is the _end_? The _end_ is not yet come; but as to the result thus far, go, ask the families of those farmers who, after having for so many years threatened to shoot Jacobins, have, in instances not a few, shot themselves! Go, ask the ghosts of Pitt and of Castlereagh what has thus far been the _result_! Go, ask the Hampshire farmer, who, not many months since, actually blowed out his own brains with one of those very pistols which he had long carried in his Yeomanry Cavalry holsters, to be ready "to keep down the Jacobins and Radicals!" Oh, God! inscrutable are Thy ways; but Thou art just, and of Thy justice what a complete proof have we in the case of these very Martello Towers! They were erected to keep out the Jacobin French, lest they should come and assist the Jacobin English. The _loyal_ people of this coast were fattened by the building of them. Pitt and his loyal _Cinque Ports_ waged interminable war against Jacobins. These very towers are now used to keep these _loyal_ Cinque Ports themselves in order. These towers are now used to lodge men, whose business it is to sally forth, not upon Jacobins, but upon _smugglers_! Thus, after having sucked up millions of the nation's money, these loyal Cinque Ports are squeezed again: kept in order, kept down, by the very towers which they rejoiced to see rise to keep down the Jacobins. _Dover, Monday, Sept. 1st, Evening._ I got here this evening about six o'clock, having come to-day thirty-six miles; but I must defer my remarks on the country between Folkestone and this place; a most interesting spot, and well worthy of particular attention. What place I shall date from after Dover I am by no means certain; but be it from what place it may, the continuation of my Journal shall be published in due course. If the Atlantic Ocean could not cut off the communication between me and my readers, a mere strip of water, not much wider than an American river, will hardly do it. I am, in real truth, undecided, as yet, whether I shall go on to France or back to the _Wen_. I think I shall, when I go out of this Inn, toss the bridle upon my horse's neck, and let him decide for me. I am sure he is more fit to decide on such a point than our Ministers are to decide on any point connected with the happiness, greatness, and honour of this kingdom. RURAL RIDE FROM DOVER, THROUGH THE ISLE OF THANET, BY CANTERBURY AND FAVERSHAM, ACROSS TO MAIDSTONE, UP TO TONBRIDGE, THROUGH THE WEALD OF KENT, AND OVER THE HILLS BY WESTERHAM AND HAYS, TO THE WEN. _Dover, Wednesday, Sept. 3, 1823 (Evening)._ On Monday I was balancing in my own mind whether I should go to France or not. To-day I have decided the question in the negative, and shall set off this evening for the Isle of Thanet, that spot so famous for corn. I broke off without giving an account of the country between Folkestone and Dover, which is a very interesting one in itself, and was peculiarly interesting to me on many accounts. I have often mentioned, in describing the parts of the country over which I have travelled; I have often mentioned the _chalk-ridge_ and also the _sand-ridge_, which I had traced, running parallel with each other from about Farnham, in Surrey, to Sevenoaks, in Kent. The reader must remember how particular I have been to observe that, in going up from Chilworth and Albury, through Dorking, Reigate, Godstone, and so on, the two chains, or ridges, approach so near to each other, that, in many places, you actually have a chalk-bank to your right and a sand-bank to your left, at not more than forty yards from each other. In some places, these chains of hills run off from each other to a great distance, even to a distance of twenty miles. They then approach again towards each other, and so they go on. I was always desirous to ascertain whether these chains, or ridges, continued on thus _to the sea_. I have now found that they do. And, if you go out into the channel, at Folkestone, there you see a sand-cliff and a chalk-cliff. Folkestone stands upon the sand, in a little dell about seven hundred or eight hundred yards from the very termination of the ridge. All the way along, the chalk-ridge is the most lofty, until you come to Leith Hill and Hindhead; and here, at Folkestone, the sand-ridge tapers off in a sort of flat towards the sea. The land is like what it is at Reigate, a very steep hill; a hill of full a mile high, and bending exactly in the same manner as the hill at Reigate does. The turnpike-road winds up it and goes over it in exactly the same manner as that at Reigate. The land to the south of the hill begins a poor, thin, white loam upon the chalk; soon gets to be a very fine rich loam upon the chalk; goes on till it mingles the chalky loam with the sandy loam; and thus it goes on down to the sea-beach, or to the edge of the cliff. It is a beautiful bed of earth here, resembling in extent that on the south side of Portsdown Hill rather than that of Reigate. The crops here are always good if they are good anywhere. A large part of this fine tract of land, as well as the little town of Sandgate (which is a beautiful little place upon the beach itself), and also great part of the town of Folkestone belong, they tell me, to Lord Radnor, who takes his title of Viscount from Folkestone. Upon the hill begins, and continues on for some miles, that stiff red loam, approaching to a clay, which I have several times described as forming the soil at the top of this chalk-ridge. I spoke of it in the Register of the 16th of August last, page 409, and I then said, that it was like the land on the top of this very ridge at Ashmansworth in the north of Hampshire. At Reigate you find precisely the same soil upon the top of the hill, a very red, clayey sort of loam, with big yellow flint stones in it. Everywhere, the soil is the same upon the top of the high part of this ridge. I have now found it to be the same, on the edge of the sea, that I found it on the north-east corner of Hampshire. From the hill, you keep descending all the way to Dover, a distance of about six miles, and it is absolutely six miles of down hill. On your right, you have the lofty land which forms a series of chalk cliffs, from the top of which you look into the sea; on your left, you have ground that goes rising up from you in the same sort of way. The turnpike-road goes down the middle of a valley, each side of which, as far as you can see, may be about a mile and a half. It is six miles long, you will remember; and here, therefore, with very little interruption, very few chasms, there are _eighteen square miles of corn_. It is a patch such as you very seldom see, and especially of corn so good as it is here. I should think that the wheat all along here would average pretty nearly four quarters to the acre. A few oats are sown. A great deal of barley, and that a very fine crop. The town of Dover is like other sea-port towns; but really much more clean, and with less blackguard people in it than I ever observed in any sea-port before. It is a most picturesque place, to be sure. On one side of it rises, upon the top of a very steep hill, the Old Castle, with all its fortifications. On the other side of it there is another chalk-hill, the side of which is pretty nearly perpendicular, and rises up from sixty to a hundred feet higher than the tops of the houses, which stand pretty nearly close to the foot of the hill. I got into Dover rather late. It was dusk when I was going down the street towards the quay. I happened to look up, and was quite astonished to perceive cows grazing upon a spot apparently fifty feet above the tops of the houses, and measuring horizontally not, perhaps, more than ten or twenty feet from a line which would have formed a continuation into the air. I went up to the same spot, the next day, myself; and you actually look down upon the houses, as you look out of a window upon people in the street. The valley that runs down from Folkestone is, when it gets to Dover, crossed by another valley that runs down from Canterbury, or, at least, from the Canterbury direction. It is in the gorge of this cross valley that Dover is built. The two chalk-hills jut out into the sea, and the water that comes up between them forms a harbour for this ancient, most interesting, and beautiful place. On the hill to the north stands the Castle of Dover, which is fortified in the ancient manner, except on the sea-side, where it has the steep _Cliff_ for a fortification. On the south side of the town, the hill is, I believe, rather more lofty than that on the north side; and here is that Cliff which is described by Shakspeare in the Play of King Lear. It is fearfully steep, certainly. Very nearly perpendicular for a considerable distance. The grass grows well, to the very tip of the cliff; and you see cows and sheep grazing there with as much unconcern as if grazing in the bottom of a valley. It was not, however, these natural curiosities that took me over _this_ hill; I went to see, with my own eyes, something of the sorts of means that had been made use of to squander away countless millions of money. Here is a hill containing, probably, a couple of square miles or more, hollowed like a honeycomb. Here are line upon line, trench upon trench, cavern upon cavern, bomb-proof upon bomb-proof; in short the very sight of the thing convinces you that either madness the most humiliating, or profligacy the most scandalous must have been at work here for years. The question that every man of sense asks, is: What reason had you to suppose that the _French could ever come to this hill_ to attack it, while the rest of the country was so much more easy to assail? However, let any man of good plain understanding go and look at the works that have here been performed, and that are now all tumbling into ruin. Let him ask what this cavern was for; what that ditch was for; what this tank was for; and why all these horrible holes and hiding-places at an expense of millions upon millions? Let this scene be brought and placed under the eyes of the people of England, and let them be told that Pitt and Dundas and Perceval had these things done to prevent the country from being conquered; with voice unanimous the nation would instantly exclaim: Let the French or let the devil take us, rather than let us resort to means of defence like these. This is, perhaps, the only set of fortifications in the world ever framed for mere _hiding_. There is no appearance of any intention to annoy an enemy. It is a parcel of holes made in a hill, to hide Englishmen from Frenchmen. Just as if the Frenchmen would come to this hill! Just as if they would not go (if they came at all) and land in Romney Marsh, or on Pevensey Level, or anywhere else, rather than come to this hill; rather than come to crawl up Shakspeare's cliff. All the way along the coast, from this very hill to Portsmouth, or pretty nearly all the way, is a flat. What the devil should they come to this hill for, then? And, when you ask this question, they tell you that it is to have an army here _behind_ the French, after they had marched into the country! And for a purpose like this; for a purpose so stupid, so senseless, so mad as this, and withal, so scandalously disgraceful, more brick and stone have been buried in this hill than would go to build a neat new cottage for every labouring man in the counties of Kent and of Sussex! Dreadful is the scourge of such Ministers. However, those who supported them will now have to suffer. The money must have been squandered purposely, and for the worst ends. Fool as Pitt was; unfit as an old hack of a lawyer, like Dundas, was to judge of the means of defending the country, stupid as both these fellows were, and as their brother lawyer, Perceval, was too: unfit as these lawyers were to judge in any such a case, they must have known that this was an useless expenditure of money. They must have known that; and, therefore, their general folly, their general ignorance, is no apology for their conduct. What they wanted, was to prevent the landing, not of Frenchmen, but of French principles; that is to say, to prevent the example of the French from being alluring to the people of England. The devil a bit did they care for the Bourbons. They rejoiced at the killing of the king. They rejoiced at the atheistical decree. They rejoiced at everything calculated to alarm the timid and to excite horror in the people of England in general. They wanted to keep out of England those principles which had a natural tendency to destroy borough-mongering, and to put an end to peculation and plunder. No matter whether by the means of Martello Towers, making a great chalk-hill a honey-comb, cutting a canal thirty feet wide to stop the march of the armies of the Danube and the Rhine: no matter how they squandered the money, so that it silenced some and made others bawl to answer their great purpose of preventing French example from having an influence in England. Simply their object was this: to make the French people miserable; to force back the Bourbons upon them as a _means_ of making them miserable; to degrade France, to make the people wretched; and then to have to say to the people of England, Look there: _see what they have got by their attempts to obtain liberty_! This was their object. They did not want Martello Towers and honey-combed chalk-hills, and mad canals: they did not want these to keep out the French armies. The borough-mongers and the parsons cared nothing about the French armies. It was the French example that the lawyers, borough-mongers, and parsons wished to keep out. And what have they done? It is impossible to be upon this honey-combed hill, upon this enormous mass of anti-jacobin expenditure, without seeing the chalk-cliffs of Calais and the corn-fields of France. At this season, it is impossible to see those fields without knowing that the farmers are getting in their corn there as well as here; and it is impossible to think of that fact without reflecting, at the same time, on the example which the farmers of France hold out to the farmers of England. Looking down from this very anti-jacobin hill, this day, I saw the parsons' shocks of wheat and barley, left in the field after the farmer had taken his away. Turning my head, and looking across the Channel, "There," said I, pointing to France, "There the spirited and sensible people have ridded themselves of this burden, of which our farmers so bitterly complain." It is impossible not to recollect here, that, in numerous petitions, sent up, too, by the _loyal_, complaints have been made that the English farmer has to carry on a competition against the French farmer who has _no tithes to pay_! Well, _loyal gentlemen_, why do not you petition, then, to be relieved from tithes? What do you mean else? Do you mean to call upon our big gentlemen at Whitehall for them to compel the French to pay tithes? Oh, you loyal fools! Better hold your tongues about the French not paying tithes. Better do that, at any rate; for never will they pay tithes again. Here is a large tract of _land_ upon these hills at Dover, which is the property of the public, having been purchased at an enormous expense. This is now let out as pasture land to people of the town. I dare say that the letting of this land is a curious affair. If there were a Member for Dover who would do what he ought to do, he would soon get before the public a list of the tenants, and of the rents paid by them. I should like very much to see such list. Butterworth, the bookseller in Fleet-street; he who is a sort of metropolitan of the methodists, is one of the Members for Dover. The other is, I believe, that Wilbraham or Bootle or Bootle Wilbraham, or some such name, that is a Lancashire magistrate. So that Dover is prettily set up. However, there is nothing of this sort, that can in the present state of things, be deemed to be of any real consequence. As long as the people at Whitehall can go on paying the interest of the Debt in full, so long will there be no change worth the attention of any rational man. In the meanwhile, the French nation will be going on rising over us; and our Ministers will be cringing and crawling to every nation upon earth who is known to possess a cannon or a barrel of powder. This very day I have read Mr. Canning's Speech at Liverpool, with a Yankee Consul sitting on his right hand. Not a word now about the bits of bunting and the fir frigates; but now, America is the lovely daughter, who, in a moment of excessive love, has gone off with a lover (to wit, the French) and left the tender mother to mourn! What a fop! And this is the man that talked so big and so bold. This is the clever, the profound, the blustering, too, and, above all things, "the high spirited" Mr. Canning. However, more of this, hereafter. I must get from this Dover, as fast as I can. _Sandwich, Wednesday, 3rd Sept. Night._ I got to this place about half an hour after the ringing of the eight o'clock bell, or Curfew, which I heard at about two miles' distance from the place. From the town of Dover you come up the Castle-Hill, and have a most beautiful view from the top of it. You have the sea, the chalk cliffs of Calais, the high land at Boulogne, the town of Dover just under you, the valley towards Folkestone, and the much more beautiful valley towards Canterbury; and, going on a little further, you have the Downs and the Essex or Suffolk coast in full view, with a most beautiful corn country to ride along through. The corn was chiefly cut between Dover and Walmer. The barley almost all cut and tied up in sheaf. Nothing but the beans seemed to remain standing along here. They are not quite so good as the rest of the corn; but they are by no means bad. When I came to the village of Walmer, I enquired for the Castle; that famous place, where Pitt, Dundas, Perceval, and all the whole tribe of plotters against the French Revolution had carried on their plots. After coming through the village of Walmer, you see the entrance of the Castle away to the right. It is situated pretty nearly on the water's edge, and at the bottom of a little dell, about a furlong or so from the turnpike-road. This is now the habitation of our Great Minister, Robert Bankes Jenkinson, son of Charles of that name. When I was told, by a girl who was leasing in a field by the road side, that that was Walmer Castle, I stopped short, pulled my horse round, looked steadfastly at the gateway, and could not help exclaiming: "Oh, thou who inhabitest that famous dwelling; thou, who hast always been in place, let who might be out of place! Oh, thou everlasting placeman! thou sage of 'over-production,' do but cast thine eyes upon this barley-field, where, if I am not greatly deceived, there are from seven to eight quarters upon the acre! Oh, thou whose _Courier_ newspaper has just informed its readers that wheat will be seventy shillings the quarter, in the month of November: oh, thou wise man, I pray thee come forth, from thy Castle, and tell me what thou wilt do if wheat should happen to be, at the appointed time, thirty-five shillings, instead of seventy shillings, the quarter. Sage of over-production, farewell. If thou hast life, thou wilt be Minister, as long as thou canst pay the interest of the Debt in full, but not one moment longer. The moment thou ceasest to be able to squeeze from the Normans a sufficiency to count down to the Jews their full tale, that moment, thou great stern-path-of-duty man, thou wilt begin to be taught the true meaning of the words _Ministerial Responsibility_." Deal is a most villanous place. It is full of filthy-looking people. Great desolation of abomination has been going on here; tremendous barracks, partly pulled down and partly tumbling down, and partly occupied by soldiers. Everything seems upon the perish. I was glad to hurry along through it, and to leave its inns and public-houses to be occupied by the tarred, and trowsered, and blue-and-buff crew whose very vicinage I always detest. From Deal you come along to Upper Deal, which, it seems, was the original village; thence upon a beautiful road to Sandwich, which is a rotten Borough. Rottenness, putridity is excellent for land, but bad for Boroughs. This place, which is as villanous a hole as one would wish to see, is surrounded by some of the finest land in the world. Along on one side of it, lies a marsh. On the other sides of it is land which they tell me bears _seven quarters_ of wheat to an acre. It is certainly very fine; for I saw large pieces of radish-seed on the road side; this seed is grown for the seedsmen in London; and it will grow on none but rich land. All the corn is carried here except some beans and some barley. _Canterbury, Thursday Afternoon, 4th Sept._ In quitting Sandwich, you immediately cross a river up which vessels bring coals from the sea. This marsh is about a couple of miles wide. It begins at the sea-beach, opposite the Downs, to my right hand, coming from Sandwich, and it wheels round to my left and ends at the sea-beach, opposite Margate roads. This marsh was formerly covered with the sea, very likely; and hence the land within this sort of semi-circle, the name of which is Thanet, was called an _Isle_. It is, in fact, an island now, for the same reason that Portsea is an island, and that New York is an island; for there certainly is the water in this river that goes round and connects one part of the sea with the other. I had to cross this river, and to cross the marsh, before I got into the famous Isle of Thanet, which it was my intention to cross. Soon after crossing the river, I passed by a place for making salt, and could not help recollecting that there are no excisemen in these salt-making places in France, that, before the Revolution, the French were most cruelly oppressed by the duties on salt, that they had to endure, on that account, the most horrid tyranny that ever was known, except, perhaps, that practised in an _Exchequer_ that shall here be nameless; that thousands and thousands of men and women were every year sent to the galleys for what was called smuggling salt; that the fathers and even the mothers were imprisoned or whipped if the children were detected in smuggling salt: I could not help reflecting, with delight, as I looked at these salt-pans in the Isle of Thanet; I could not help reflecting, that in spite of Pitt, Dundas, Perceval, and the rest of the crew, in spite of the caverns of Dover and the Martello Towers in Romney Marsh: in spite of all the spies and all the bayonets, and the six hundred millions of Debt and the hundred and fifty millions of dead-weight, and the two hundred millions of poor-rates that are now squeezing the borough-mongers, squeezing the farmers, puzzling the fellows at Whitehall and making Mark-lane a scene of greater interest than the Chamber of the Privy Council; with delight as I jogged along under the first beams of the sun, I reflected, that, in spite of all the malignant measures that had brought so much misery upon England, the gallant French people had ridded themselves of the tyranny which sent them to the galleys for endeavouring to use without tax the salt which God sent upon their shores. Can any man tell why we should still be paying five, or six, or seven shillings a bushel for salt, instead of one? We did pay fifteen shillings a bushel, tax. And why is two shillings a bushel kept on? Because, if they were taken off, the salt-tax-gathering crew must be discharged! This tax of two shillings a bushel, causes the consumer to pay five, at the least, more than he would if there were no tax at all! When, great God! when shall we be allowed to enjoy God's gifts, in freedom, as the people of France enjoy them? On the marsh I found the same sort of sheep as on Romney Marsh; but the cattle here are chiefly Welsh; black, and called runts. They are nice hardy cattle; and, I am told, that this is the description of cattle that they fat all the way up on this north side of Kent.----When I got upon the corn land in the Isle of Thanet, I got into a garden indeed. There is hardly any fallow; comparatively few turnips. It is a country of corn. Most of the harvest is in; but there are some fields of wheat and of barley not yet housed. A great many pieces of lucerne, and all of them very fine. I left Ramsgate to my right about three miles, and went right across the island to Margate; but that place is so thickly settled with stock-jobbing cuckolds, at this time of the year, that, having no fancy to get their horns stuck into me, I turned away to my left when I got within about half a mile of the town. I got to a little hamlet, where I breakfasted; but could get no corn for my horse, and no bacon for myself! All was corn around me. Barns, I should think, two hundred feet long; ricks of enormous size and most numerous; crops of wheat, five quarters to an acre, on the average; and a public-house without either bacon or corn! The labourers' houses, all along through this island, beggarly in the extreme. The people dirty, poor-looking; ragged, but particularly _dirty_. The men and boys with dirty faces, and dirty smock-frocks, and dirty shirts; and, good God! what a difference between the wife of a labouring man here, and the wife of a labouring man in the forests and woodlands of Hampshire and Sussex! Invariably have I observed, that the richer the soil, and the more destitute of woods; that is to say, the more purely a corn country, the more miserable the labourers. The cause is this, the great, the big bull frog grasps all. In this beautiful island every inch of land is appropriated by the rich. No hedges, no ditches, no commons, no grassy lanes: a country divided into great farms; a few trees surround the great farm-house. All the rest is bare of trees; and the wretched labourer has not a stick of wood, and has no place for a pig or cow to graze, or even to lie down upon. The rabbit countries are the countries for labouring men. There the ground is not so valuable. There it is not so easily appropriated by the few. Here, in this island, the work is almost all done by the horses. The horses plough the ground; they sow the ground; they hoe the ground; they carry the corn home; they thresh it out; and they carry it to market: nay, in this island, they _rake_ the ground; they rake up the straggling straws and ears; so that they do the whole, except the reaping and the mowing. It is impossible to have an idea of anything more miserable than the state of the labourers in this part of the country. After coming by Margate, I passed a village called Monckton, and another called Sarr. At Sarr there is a bridge, over which you come out of the island, as you go into it over the bridge at Sandwich. At Monckton they had _seventeen men working on the roads_, though the harvest was not quite in, and though, of course, it had all to be threshed out; but, at Monckton, they had _four threshing machines_; and they have three threshing machines at Sarr, though there, also, they have several men upon the roads! This is a shocking state of things; and, in spite of everything that the Jenkinsons and the Scots can do, this state of things must be changed. At Sarr, or a little way further back, I saw a man who had just begun to reap a field of canary seed. The plants were too far advanced to be cut in order to be bleached for the making of plat; but I got the reaper to select me a few green stalks that grew near a bush that stood on the outside of the piece. These I have brought on with me, in order to give them a trial. At Sarr I began to cross the marsh, and had, after this, to come through the village of Up-street, and another village called Steady, before I got to Canterbury. At Up-street I was struck with the words written upon a board which was fastened upon a pole, which pole was standing in a garden near a neat little box of a house. The words were these. "PARADISE PLACE. _Spring guns and steel traps are set here._" A pretty idea it must give us of Paradise to know that spring guns and steel traps are set in it! This is doubtless some stock-jobber's place; for, in the first place, the name is likely to have been selected by one of that crew; and, in the next place, whenever any of them go to the country, they look upon it that they are to begin a sort of warfare against everything around them. They invariably look upon every labourer as a thief. As you approach Canterbury, from the Isle of Thanet, you have another instance of the squanderings of the lawyer Ministers. Nothing equals the ditches, the caverns, the holes, the tanks, and hiding-places of the hill at Dover; but, considerable as the City of Canterbury is, that city within its gates stands upon less ground than those horrible erections, the barracks of Pitt, Dundas, and Perceval. They are perfectly enormous; but thanks be unto God, they begin to crumble down. They have a sickly hue: all is lassitude about them: endless are their lawns, their gravel walks, and their ornaments; but their lawns are unshaven, their gravel walks grassy, and their ornaments putting on the garments of ugliness. You see the grass growing opposite the door-ways. A hole in the window strikes you here and there. Lamp-posts there are, but no lamps. Here are horse-barracks, foot-barracks, artillery-barracks, engineer-barracks: a whole country of barracks; but, only here and there a soldier. The thing is actually perishing. It is typical of the state of the great Thing of things. It gave me inexpressible pleasure to perceive the gloom that seemed to hang over these barracks, which once swarmed with soldiers and their blithe companions, as a hive swarms with bees. These barracks now look like the environs of a hive in winter. Westminster Abbey Church is not the place for the monument of Pitt; the statue of the great snorting bawler ought to be stuck up here, just in the midst of this hundred or two of acres covered with barracks. These barracks, too, were erected in order to compel the French to return to the payment of tithes; in order to bring their necks again under the yoke of the lords and the clergy. That has not been accomplished. The French, as Mr. Hoggart assures us, have neither tithes, taxes, nor rates; and the people of Canterbury know that they have a _hop-duty_ to pay, while Mr. Hoggart, of Broad-street, tells them that he has farms to let, in France, where there are hop-gardens and where there is no hop-duty. They have lately had races at Canterbury; and the Mayor and Aldermen, in order to get the Prince Leopold to attend them, presented him with the Freedom of the City; but it rained all the time and he did not come! The Mayor and Aldermen do not understand things half so well as this German Gentleman, who has managed his matters as well, I think, as any one that I ever heard of. This fine old town, or, rather, city, is remarkable for cleanliness and niceness, notwithstanding it has a Cathedral in it. The country round it is very rich, and this year, while the hops are so bad in most other parts, they are not so very bad just about Canterbury. _Elverton Farm, near Faversham, Friday Morning, Sept. 5._ In going through Canterbury, yesterday, I gave a boy six-pence to hold my horse, while I went into the Cathedral, just to thank St. Swithin for the trick that he had played my friends, the Quakers. Led along by the wet weather till after the harvest had actually begun, and then to find the weather turn fine, all of a sudden! This must have soused them pretty decently; and I hear of one, who, at Canterbury, has made a bargain by which he will certainly lose two thousand pounds. The land where I am now is equal to that of the Isle of Thanet. The harvest is nearly over, and all the crops have been prodigiously fine. In coming from Canterbury, you come to the top of a hill, called Baughton Hill, at four miles from Canterbury on the London road; and you there look down into one of the finest flats in England. A piece of marsh comes up nearly to Faversham; and, at the edge of that marsh lies the farm where I now am. The land here is a deep loam upon chalk; and this is also the nature of the land in the Isle of Thanet and all the way from that to Dover. The orchards grow well upon this soil. The trees grow finely, the fruit is large and of fine flavour. In 1821 I gave Mr. William Waller, who lives here, some American apple-cuttings; and he has now some as fine Newtown Pippins as one would wish to see. They are very large of their sort; very free in their growth; and they promise to be very fine apples of the kind. Mr. Waller had cuttings from me off several sorts, in 1822. These were cut down last year; they have, of course, made shoots this summer; and great numbers of these shoots have fruit-spurs, which will have blossom, if not fruit, next year. This very rarely happens, I believe; and the state of Mr. Waller's trees clearly proves to me that the introduction of these American trees would be a great improvement. My American apples, when I left Kensington, promised to be very fine; and the apples, which I have frequently mentioned as being upon cuttings imported last Spring, promised to come to perfection; a thing which, I believe, we have not an instance of before. _Merryworth, Friday Evening, 5th Sept._ A friend at Tenterden told me that, if I had a mind to know Kent, I must go through Romney Marsh to Dover, from Dover to Sandwich, from Sandwich to Margate, from Margate to Canterbury, from Canterbury to Faversham, from Faversham to Maidstone, and from Maidstone to Tonbridge. I found from Mr. Waller, this morning, that the regular turnpike route, from his house to Maidstone, was through Sittingbourne. I had been along that road several times; and besides, to be covered with dust was what I could not think of, when I had it in my power to get to Maidstone without it. I took the road across the country, quitting the London road, or rather, crossing it, in the dell, between Ospringe and Green-street. I instantly began to go up hill, slowly, indeed; but up hill. I came through the villages of Newnham, Doddington, Ringlestone, and to that of Hollingbourne. I had come up hill for thirteen miles, from Mr. Waller's house. At last, I got to the top of this hill, and went along, for some distance, upon level ground. I found I was got upon just the same sort of land as that on the hill at Folkestone, at Reigate, at Ropley, and at Ashmansworth. The red clayey loam, mixed up with great yellow flint stones. I found fine meadows here, just such as are at Ashmansworth (that is to say, on the north Hampshire hills.) This sort of ground is characterized by an astonishing depth that they have to go for the water. At Ashmansworth, they go to a depth of more than three hundred feet. As I was riding along upon the top of this hill in Kent, I saw the same beautiful sort of meadows that there are at Ashmansworth; I saw the corn backward; I was just thinking to go up to some house, to ask how far they had to go for water, when I saw a large well-bucket, and all the chains and wheels belonging to such a concern; but here was also the tackle for a _horse_ to work in drawing up the water! I asked about the depth of the well; and the information I received must have been incorrect; because I was told it was three hundred yards. I asked this of a public-house keeper farther on, not seeing anybody where the farm-house was. I make no doubt that the depth is, as near as possible, that of Ashmansworth. Upon the top of this hill, I saw the finest field of beans that I have seen this year, and, by very far, indeed, the _finest piece of hops_. A beautiful piece of hops, surrounded by beautiful plantations of young ash, producing poles for hop-gardens. My road here pointed towards the west. It soon wheeled round towards the south; and, all of a sudden, I found myself upon the edge of a hill, as lofty and as steep as that at Folkestone, at Reigate, or at Ashmansworth. It was the same famous chalk-ridge that I was crossing again. When I got to the edge of the hill, and before I got off my horse to lead him down this more than mile of hill, I sat and surveyed the prospect before me, and to the right and to the left. This is what the people of Kent call the _Garden of Eden_. It is a district of meadows, corn-fields, hop-gardens, and orchards of apples, pears, cherries and filberts, with very little if any land which cannot, with propriety, be called good. There are plantations of Chestnut and of Ash frequently occurring; and as these are cut when long enough to make poles for hops, they are at all times objects of great beauty. At the foot of the hill of which I have been speaking, is the village of Hollingbourne; thence you come on to Maidstone. From Maidstone to this place (Merryworth) is about seven miles, and these are the finest seven miles that I have ever seen in England or anywhere else. The Medway is to your left, with its meadows about a mile wide. You cross the Medway, in coming out of Maidstone, and it goes and finds its way down to Rochester, through a break in the chalk-ridge. From Maidstone to Merryworth I should think that there were hop-gardens on one half of the way on both sides of the road. Then looking across the Medway, you see hop-gardens and orchards two miles deep, on the side of a gently rising ground: and this continues with you all the way from Maidstone to Merryworth. The orchards form a great feature of the country; and the plantations of Ashes and of Chestnuts that I mentioned before, add greatly to the beauty. These gardens of hops are kept very clean, in general, though some of them have been neglected this year owing to the bad appearance of the crop. The culture is sometimes mixed: that is to say, apple-trees or cherry-trees or filbert-trees and hops, in the same ground. This is a good way, they say, of raising an orchard. I do not believe it; and I think that nothing is gained by any of these mixtures. They plant apple-trees or cherry-trees in rows here; they then plant a filbert-tree close to each of these large fruit-trees; and then they cultivate the middle of the ground by planting potatoes. This is being too greedy. It is impossible that they can gain by this. What they gain one way they lose the other way; and I verily believe, that the most profitable way would be, never to mix things at all. In coming from Maidstone I passed through a village called Teston, where Lord Basham has a seat. _Tonbridge, Saturday morning, 6th Sept._ I came off from Merryworth a little before five o'clock, passed the seat of Lord Torrington, the friend of Mr. Barretto. This Mr. Barretto ought not to be forgotten so soon. In 1820 he sued for articles of the peace against Lord Torrington, for having menaced him, in consequence of his having pressed his Lordship about some money. It seems that Lord Torrington had known him in the East Indies; that they came home together, or soon after one another; that his Lordship invited Mr. Barretto to his best parties in India; that he got him introduced at Court in England by Sidmouth; that he got him made a _Fellow of the Royal Society_; and that he tried to get him introduced into Parliament. His Lordship, when Barretto rudely pressed him for his money, reminded him of all this, and of the many difficulties that he had had to overcome with regard to his _colour_ and so forth. Nevertheless, the dingy skinned Court visitant pressed in such a way that Lord Torrington was obliged to be pretty smart with him, whereupon the other sued for articles of the peace against his Lordship; but these were not granted by the Court. This Barretto issued a hand-bill at the last election as a candidate for St. Albans. I am truly sorry that he was not elected. Lord Camelford threatened to put in his black fellow; but he was a sad swaggering fellow; and had, at last, too much of the borough-monger in him to do a thing so meritorious. Lord Torrington's is but an indifferent looking place. I here began to see Southdown sheep again, which I had not seen since the time I left Tenterden. All along here the villages are at not more than two miles' distance from each other. They have all large churches, and scarcely anybody to go to them. At a village called Hadlow, there is a house belonging to a Mr. May, the most singular looking thing I ever saw. An immense house stuck all over with a parcel of chimneys, or things like chimneys; little brick columns, with a sort of caps on them, looking like carnation sticks, with caps at the top to catch the earwigs. The building is all of brick, and has the oddest appearance of anything I ever saw. This Tonbridge is but a common country town, though very clean, and the people looking very well. The climate must be pretty warm here; for in entering the town, I saw a large Althea Frutex in bloom, a thing rare enough, any year, and particularly a year like this. _Westerham, Saturday, Noon, 6th Sept._ Instead of going on to the Wen along the turnpike road through Sevenoaks, I turned to my left when I got about a mile out of Tonbridge, in order to come along that tract of country called the Weald of Kent; that is to say, the solid clays, which have no bottom, which are unmixed with chalk, sand, stone, or anything else; the country of dirty roads and of oak trees. I stopped at Tonbridge only a few minutes; but in the Weald I stopped to breakfast at a place called Leigh. From Leigh I came to Chittingstone causeway, leaving Tonbridge Wells six miles over the hills to my left. From Chittingstone I came to Bough-beach, thence to Four Elms, and thence to this little market-town of Westerham, which is just upon the border of Kent. Indeed, Kent, Surrey, and Sussex form a joining very near to this town. Westerham, exactly like Reigate and Godstone, and Sevenoaks, and Dorking, and Folkestone, lies between the sand-ridge and the chalk-ridge. The valley is here a little wider than at Reigate, and that is all the difference there is between the places. As soon as you get over the sand hill to the south of Reigate, you get into the Weald of Surrey; and here, as soon as you get over the sand hill to the south of Westerham, you get into the Weald of Kent. I have now, in order to get to the Wen, to cross the chalk-ridge once more, and, at a point where I never crossed it before. Coming through the Weald I found the corn very good; and, low as the ground is, wet as it is, cold as it is, there will be very little of the wheat which will not be housed before Saturday night. All the corn is good, and the barley excellent. Not far from Bough-beach, I saw two oak trees, one of which was, they told me, more than thirty feet round, and the other more than twenty-seven; but they have been hollow for half a century. They are not much bigger than the oak upon Tilford Green, if any. I mean in the trunk; but they are hollow, while that tree is sound in all its parts, and growing still. I have had a most beautiful ride through the Weald. The day is very hot; but I have been in the shade; and my horse's feet very often in the rivulets and wet lanes. In one place I rode above a mile completely arched over by the boughs of the underwood, growing in the banks of the lane. What an odd taste that man must have who prefers a turnpike-road to a lane like this. Very near to Westerham there are hops: and I have seen now and then a little bit of hop garden, even in the Weald. Hops will grow well where lucerne will grow well; and lucerne will grow well where there is a rich top and a dry bottom. When therefore you see hops in the Weald, it is on the side of some hill, where there is sand or stone at bottom, and not where there is real clay beneath. There appear to be hops, here and there, all along from nearly at Dover to Alton, in Hampshire. You find them all along Kent; you find them at Westerham; across at Worth, in Sussex; at Godstone, in Surrey; over to the north of Merrow Down, near Guildford; at Godalming; under the Hog's-back, at Farnham; and all along that way to Alton. But there, I think, they end. The whole face of the country seems to rise, when you get just beyond Alton, and to keep up. Whether you look to the north, the south, or west, the land seems to rise, and the hops cease, till you come again away to the north-west, in Herefordshire. _Kensington, Saturday night, 6 Sept._ Here I close my day, at the end of forty-four miles. In coming up the chalk hill from Westerham, I prepared myself for the red stiff clay-like loam, the big yellow flints and the meadows; and I found them all. I have now gone over this chalk-ridge in the following places: at Coombe in the north-west of Hampshire; I mean the north-west corner, the very extremity of the county. I have gone over it at Ashmansworth, or Highclere, going from Newbury to Andover; at King's Clere, going from Newbury to Winchester; at Ropley, going from Alresford to Selborne; at Dippinghall, going from Crondall to Thursly; at Merrow, going from Chertsey to Chilworth; at Reigate; at Westerham, and then, between these, at Godstone; at Sevenoaks, going from London to Battle; at Hollingbourne, as mentioned above, and at Folkestone. In all these places I have crossed this chalk-ridge. Everywhere, upon the top of it, I have found a flat, and the soil of all these flats I have found to be a red stiff loam mingled up with big yellow flints. A soil difficult to work; but by no means bad, whether for wood, hops, grass, orchards, or corn. I once before mentioned that I was assured that the pasture upon these bleak hills was as rich as that which is found in the north of Wiltshire, in the neighbourhood of Swindon, where they make some of the best cheese in the kingdom. Upon these hills I have never found the labouring people poor and miserable, as in the rich vales. All is not appropriated where there are coppices and wood, where the cultivation is not so easy and the produce so very large. After getting up the hill from Westerham, I had a general descent to perform all the way to the Thames. When you get to Beckenham, which is the last parish in Kent, the country begins to assume a cockney-like appearance; all is artificial, and you no longer feel any interest in it. I was anxious to make this journey into Kent, in the midst of harvest, in order that I might _know_ the real state of the crops. The result of my observations and my inquiries, is, that the crop is a _full average_ crop of everything except barley, and that the barley yields a great deal more than an average crop. I thought that the beans were very poor during my ride into Hampshire; but I then saw no real bean countries. I have seen such countries now; and I do not think that the beans present us with a bad crop. As to the quality, it is, in no case (except perhaps the barley), equal to that of last year. We had, last year, an Italian summer. When the wheat, or other grain has to _ripen in wet weather_, it will not be _bright_, as it will when it has to ripen in fair weather. It will have a dingy or clouded appearance; and perhaps the flour may not be quite so good. The wheat, in fact, will not be so heavy. In order to enable others to judge, as well as myself, I took samples from the fields as I went along. I took them very fairly, and as often as I thought that there was any material change in the soil or other circumstances. During the ride I took sixteen samples. These are now at the Office of the Register, in Fleet-street, where they may be seen by any gentleman who thinks the information likely to be useful to him. The samples are numbered, and there is a reference pointing out the place where each sample was taken. The opinions that I gather amount to this: that there is an average crop of everything, and a little more of barley. Now then we shall see how all this tallies with the schemes, with the intentions and expectations of our matchless gentlemen at Whitehall. These wise men have put forth their views in the _Courier_ of the 27th of August, and in words which ought never to be forgotten, and which, at any rate, shall be recorded here. "GRAIN.--During the present unsettled state of the weather, it is impossible for the best informed persons to anticipate upon good grounds what will be the future price of agricultural produce. Should the season even yet prove favourable for the operations of the harvest, there is every probability of the average price of grain continuing at that exact price which will prove most conducive to the interests of the corn growers, and at the same time encouraging to the agriculture of our colonial possessions. We do not speak lightly on this subject, for we are aware that His Majesty's Ministers have been fully alive to the inquiries from all qualified quarters as to the effect likely to be produced on the markets from the addition of the present crops to the stock of wheat already on hand. The result of these inquiries is, that in the highest quarters there exists the full expectation, that towards the month of November, the price of wheat will nearly approach to seventy shillings, a price which, while it affords the extent of remuneration to the British farmer recognized by the corn laws, will at the same time admit of the sale of the Canadian bonded wheat; and the introduction of this foreign corn, grown by British colonists, will contribute to keeping down our markets, and exclude foreign grain from other quarters." There's nice gentlemen of Whitehall! What pretty gentlemen they are! "_Envy of surrounding nations_," indeed, to be under command of pretty gentlemen who can make calculations so nice, and put forth predictions so positive upon such a subject! "_Admiration of the world_," indeed, to live under the command of men who can so control seasons and markets; or, at least, who can so dive into the secrets of trade, and find out the contents of the fields, barns, and ricks, as to be able to balance things so nicely as to cause the Canadian corn to find a market, without injuring the sale of that of the British farmer, and without admitting that of the French farmer and the other farmers of the continent! Happy, too happy, rogues that we are, to be under the guidance of such pretty gentlemen, and right just is it that we should be banished for life, if we utter a word _tending_ to bring such pretty gentlemen into contempt. Let it be observed, that this paragraph _must_ have come from Whitehall. This wretched paper is the demi-official organ of the Government. As to the owners of the paper, Daniel Stewart, that notorious fellow, Street, and the rest of them, not excluding the brother of the great Oracle, which brother bought, the other day, a share of this vehicle of baseness and folly; as to these fellows, they have no control other than what relates to the expenditure and the receipts of the vehicle. They get their news from the offices of the Whitehall people, and their paper is the mouth-piece of those same people. Mark this, I pray you, reader; and let the French people mark it, too, and then take their revenge for the Waterloo insolence. This being the case, then; this paragraph proceeding from the pretty gentlemen, what a light it throws on their expectations, their hopes, and their fears. They see that wheat at seventy shillings a quarter is _necessary_ to them! Ah! pray mark that! They see that wheat at seventy shillings a quarter is necessary to them; and, therefore, they say that wheat will be at seventy shillings a quarter, the price, as they call it, necessary to remunerate the British farmer. And how do the conjurers at Whitehall know this? Why, they have made full inquiries "in qualified quarters." And the qualified quarters have satisfied the "highest quarters," that, "towards the month of November, the price of wheat will nearly approach to seventy shillings the quarter!" I wonder what the words towards the "end of November," may mean. Devil's in't if middle of September is not "_towards_ November;" and the wheat, instead of going on towards seventy shillings, is very fast coming down to forty. The beast who wrote this paragraph; the pretty beast; this "envy of surrounding nations" wrote it on the 27th of August, _a soaking wet Saturday_! The pretty beast was not aware, that the next day was going to be fine, and that we were to have only the succeeding Tuesday and half the following Saturday of wet weather until the whole of the harvest should be in. The pretty beast wrote while the rain was spattering against the window; and he did "not speak lightly," but was fully aware that the highest quarters, having made inquiries of the qualified quarters, were sure that wheat would be at seventy shillings during the ensuing year. What will be the price of wheat it is impossible for any one to say. I know a gentleman, who is a very good judge of such matters, who is of opinion that the average price of wheat will be thirty-two shillings a quarter, or lower, before Christmas; this is not quite half what the _highest quarters_ expect, in consequence of the inquiries which they have made of the _qualified quarters_. I do not say, that the average of wheat will come down to thirty-two shillings; but this I know, that at Reading, last Saturday, about forty-five shillings was the price; and, I hear, that, in Norfolk, the price is forty-two. The _highest quarters_, and the infamous London press, will, at any rate, be prettily exposed, before Christmas. Old Sir Thomas Lethbridge, too, and Gaffer Gooch, and his base tribe of Pittites at Ipswich; Coke and Suffield, and their crew; all these will be prettily laughed at; nor will that "tall soul," Lord Milton, escape being reminded of his profound and patriotic observation relative to "this self-renovating country." No sooner did he see the wheat get up to sixty or seventy shillings than he lost all his alarms; found that all things were right, turned his back on Yorkshire Reformers, and went and toiled for Scarlett at Peterborough: and discovered, that there was nothing wrong, at last, and that the "self-renovating country" would triumph over all its difficulties!--So it will, "tall soul;" it will triumph over all its difficulties; it will renovate itself; it will purge itself of rotten boroughs, of vile borough-mongers, their tools and their stopgaps; it will purge itself of all the villanies which now corrode its heart; it will, in short, free itself from those curses, which the expenditure of eight or nine hundred millions of English money took place in order to make perpetual: it will, in short, become free from oppression, as easy and as happy as the gallant and sensible nation on the other side of the Channel. This is the sort of renovation, but not renovation by the means of wheat at seventy shillings a quarter. Renovation it will have: it will rouse and will shake from itself curses like the pension which is paid to Burke's executors. This is the sort of renovation, "tall soul;" and not wheat at 70_s._ a quarter, while it is at twenty-five shillings a quarter in France. Pray observe, reader, how the "tall soul" _catched_ at the rise in the price of wheat: how he _snapped_ at it: how quickly he ceased his attacks upon the Whitehall people and upon the System. He thought he had been deceived: he thought that things were coming about again; and so he drew in his horns, and began to talk about the self-renovating country. This was the tone of them _all_. This was the tone of all the borough-mongers; all the friends of the System; all those, who, like Lethbridge, had begun to be staggered. They had deviated, for a moment, into our path! but they popped back again the moment they saw the price of wheat rise! All the enemies of Reform, all the calumniators of Reformers, all the friends of the System, most anxiously desired a rise in the price of wheat. Mark the curious fact, that all the vile press of London; the whole of that infamous press; that newspapers, magazines, reviews: the whole of the base thing; and a baser surely this world never saw; that the whole of this base thing rejoiced, exulted, crowed over me, and told an impudent lie, in order to have the crowing; crowed, for what? _Because wheat and bread were become dear!_ A newspaper hatched under a corrupt Priest, a profligate Priest, and recently espoused to the hell of Pall Mall; even this vile thing crowed because wheat and bread had become dear! Now, it is notorious, that, heretofore, every periodical publication in this kingdom was in the constant habit of lamenting, when bread became dear, and of rejoicing, when it became cheap. This is notorious. Nay, it is equally notorious, that this infamous press was everlastingly assailing bakers, and millers, and butchers, for not selling bread, flour, and meat cheaper than they were selling them. In how many hundreds of instances has this infamous press caused attacks to be made by the mob upon tradesmen of this description! All these things are notorious. Moreover, notorious it is that, long previous to every harvest, this infamous, this execrable, this beastly press, was engaged in stunning the public with accounts of the _great crop_ which was just coming forward! There was always, with this press, a prodigiously large crop. This was invariably the case. It was never known to be the contrary. Now these things are perfectly well known to every man in England. How comes it, then, reader, that the profligate, the trading, the lying, the infamous press of London, has now totally changed its tone and bias. The base thing never now tells us that there is a great crop or even a good crop. It never now wants cheap bread and cheap wheat and cheap meat. It never now finds fault of bakers and butchers. It now always endeavours to make it appear that corn is dearer than it is. The base _Morning Herald_, about three weeks ago, not only suppressed the fact of the fall of wheat, but asserted that there had been a rise in the price. Now _why is all this_? That is a great question, reader. That is a very interesting question. Why has this infamous press, which always pursues that which it thinks its own interest; why has it taken this strange turn? This is the reason: stupid as the base thing is, it has arrived at a conviction, that if the price of the produce of the land cannot be kept up to something approaching ten shillings a bushel for good wheat, the hellish system of funding must be blown up. The infamous press has arrived at a conviction, that that cheating, that fraudulent system by which this press lives, must be destroyed unless the price of corn can be kept up. The infamous traders of the press are perfectly well satisfied, that the interest of the Debt must be reduced, unless wheat can be kept up to nearly ten shillings a bushel. Stupid as they are, and stupid as the fellows down at Westminster are, they know very well, that the whole system, stock-jobbers, Jews, cant and all, go to the devil at once, as soon as a deduction is made from the interest of the Debt. Knowing this, they want wheat to sell high; because it has, at last, been hammered into their skulls, that the interest cannot be paid in full, if wheat sells low. Delightful is the dilemma in which they are. Dear bread does not suit their manufactories, and cheap bread does not suit their Debt. "_Envy of surrounding nations_," how hard it is that Providence will not enable your farmers to sell dear and the consumers to buy cheap! These are the things that you want. Admiration of the world you are; but have these things you will not. There may be those, indeed, who question whether you yourself know what you want; but, at any rate, if you want these things, you will not have them. Before I conclude, let me ask the reader to take a look at the _singularity_ of the tone and tricks of this Six-Acts Government. Is it not a novelty in the world to see a Government, and in ordinary seasons, too, having its whole soul absorbed in considerations relating to the price of corn? There are our neighbours, the French, who have got a Government engaged in taking military possession of a great neighbouring kingdom to free which from these very French, we have recently expended a _hundred and fifty millions of money_. Our neighbours have got a Government that is thus engaged, and we have got a Government that employs itself in making incessant "inquiries in all the qualified quarters" relative to the price of wheat! Curious employment for a Government! Singular occupation for the Ministers of the Great George! They seem to think nothing of Spain, with its eleven millions of people, being in fact added to France. Wholly insensible do they appear to concerns of this sort, while they sit thinking, day and night, upon the price of the bushel of wheat! However, they are not, after all, such fools as they appear to be. Despicable, indeed, must be that nation, whose safety or whose happiness does, in any degree, depend on so fluctuating a thing as the price of corn. This is a matter that we must take as it comes. The seasons will be what they will be; and all the calculations of statesmen must be made wholly independent of the changes and chances of seasons. This has always been the case, to be sure. What nation could ever carry on its affairs, if it had to take into consideration the price of corn? Nevertheless, such is the situation of _our Government_, that its very existence, in its present way, depends upon the price of corn. The pretty fellows at Whitehall, if you may say to them: Well, but look at Spain; look at the enormous strides of the French; think of the consequences in case of another war; look, too, at the growing marine of America. See, Mr. Jenkinson, see, Mr. Canning, see, Mr. Huskisson, see, Mr. Peel, and all ye tribe of Grenvilles, see, what tremendous dangers are gathering together about us! "_Us!_" Aye, about _you_; but pray think what tremendous dangers wheat at four shillings a bushel will bring about _us_! This is the git. Here lies the whole of it. We laugh at a Government employing itself in making calculations about the price of corn, and in employing its press to put forth market puffs. We laugh at these things; but we should not laugh, if we considered, that it is on the price of wheat that the duration of the power and the profits of these men depends. They know what they want; and they wish to believe themselves, and to make others believe, that they shall have it. I have observed before, but it is necessary to observe again, that all those who are for the System, let them be Opposition or not Opposition, feel as Whitehall feels about the price of corn. I have given an instance, in the "tall soul;" but it is the same with the whole of them, with the whole of those who do not wish to see this infernal System changed. I was informed, and I believe it to be true, that the Marquis of Lansdowne said, last April, when the great rise took place in the price of corn, that he had always thought that the cash-measures had but little effect on prices; but that he was now satisfied that those measures had no effect at all on prices! Now, what is our situation; what is the situation of this country, if we must have the present Ministry, or a Ministry of which the Marquis of Lansdowne is to be a Member, if the Marquis of Lansdowne did utter these words? And again, I say, that I verily believe he did utter them. Ours is a Government that now seems to depend very much upon the _weather_. The old type of a ship at sea will not do now, ours is a weather Government; and to know the state of it, we must have recourse to those glasses that the Jews carry about. Weather depends upon the winds, in a great measure; and I have no scruple to say, that the situation of those two Right Honourable youths, that are now gone to the Lakes in the north; that their situation, next winter, will be rendered very irksome, not to say perilous, by the present easterly wind, if it should continue about fifteen days longer. Pitt, when he had just made a monstrous issue of paper, and had, thereby, actually put the match which blowed up the old She Devil in 1797--Pitt, at that time, congratulated the nation, that the wisdom of Parliament had established a solid system of finance. Anything but solid it assuredly was; but his system of finance was as worthy of being called solid, as that system of Government which now manifestly depends upon the weather and the winds. Since my return home (it is now Thursday, 11th September), I have received letters from the east, from the north, and from the west. All tell me that the harvest is very far advanced, and that the crops are free from blight. These letters are not particular as to the weight of the crop; except that they all say that the barley is excellent. The wind is now coming from the east. There is every appearance of the fine weather continuing. Before Christmas, we shall have the wheat down to what will be a fair average price in future. I always said that the late rise was a mere puff. It was, in part, a scarcity rise. The wheat of 1821 was grown and bad. That of 1822 had to be begun upon in July. The crop has had to last thirteen months and a half. The present crop will have to last only eleven months, or less. The crop of barley, last year, was so very bad; so very small; and the crop of the year before so very bad in quality that wheat was malted, last year, in great quantities, instead of barley. This year, the crop of barley is prodigious. All these things considered wheat, if the cash-measures had had no effect, must have been a hundred and forty shillings a quarter, and barley eighty. Yet the first never got to seventy, and the latter never got to forty! And yet there was a man who calls himself a statesman to say that that mere puff of a rise satisfied him that the cash-measures had never had any effect! Ah! they are all _afraid_ to believe in the effect of those cash-measures: they tremble like children at the sight of the rod, when you hold up before them the effect of those cash-measures. Their only hope, is, that I am wrong in my opinions upon that subject; because, if I am right, their System is condemned to speedy destruction! I thus conclude, for the present, my remarks relative to the harvest and the price of corn. It is the great subject of the day; and the comfort is, that we are now speedily to see whether I be right or whether the Marquis of Lansdowne be right. As to the infamous London press, the moment the wheat comes down to forty shillings; that is to say, an average Government return of forty shillings, I will spend ten pounds in placarding this infamous press, after the manner in which we used to placard the base and detestable enemies of the QUEEN. This infamous press has been what is vulgarly called "running its rigs," for several months past. The _Quakers_ have been urging it on, under-handed. They have, I understand, been bribing it pretty deeply, in order to calumniate me, and to favour their own monopoly, but, thank God, the cunning knaves have outwitted themselves. They won't play at cards; but they will play at _Stocks_; they will play at Lottery Tickets, and they will play at Mark-lane. They have played a silly game, this time. Saint Swithin, that good old Roman Catholic Saint, seemed to have set a trap for them: he went on, wet, wet, wet, even until the harvest began. Then, after two or three days' sunshine, shocking wet again. The ground soaking, the wheat growing, and the "_Friends_;" the gentle Friends, seeking the Spirit, were as busy amongst the sacks at Mark-lane as the devil in a high wind. In short they bought away, with all the gain of Godliness, _and a little more_, before their eyes. All of a sudden, Saint Swithin took away his clouds; out came the sun; the wind got round to the east; just sun enough and just wind enough; and as the wheat ricks everywhere rose up, the long jaws of the Quakers dropped down; and their faces of slate became of a darker hue. That sect will certainly be punished, this year; and, let us hope, that such a change will take place in their concerns as will compel a part of them to labour, at any rate; for, at present, their sect is a perfect monster in society; a whole sect, not one man of whom earns his living by the sweat of his brow. A sect a great deal worse than the Jews; for some of them do work. However, GOD send us the easterly wind, for another fortnight, and we shall certainly see some of this sect at work. RURAL RIDE: FROM KENSINGTON, ACROSS SURREY, AND ALONG THAT COUNTY. _Reigate, Wednesday Evening, 19th October, 1825._ Having some business at Hartswood, near Reigate, I intended to come off this morning on horseback, along with my son Richard, but it rained so furiously the last night, that we gave up the horse project for to-day, being, by appointment, to be at Reigate by ten o'clock to-day: so that we came off this morning at five o'clock, in a post-chaise, intending to return home and take our horses. Finding, however, that we cannot quit this place till Friday, we have now sent for our horses, though the weather is dreadfully wet. But we are under a farmhouse roof, and the wind may whistle and the rain fall as much as they like. _Reigate, Thursday Evening, 20th October._ Having done my business at Hartswood to-day about eleven o'clock, I went to a sale at a farm, which the farmer is quitting. Here I had a view of what has long been going on all over the country. The farm, which belongs to _Christ's Hospital_, has been held by a man of the name of Charington, in whose family the lease has been, I hear, a great number of years. The house is hidden by trees. It stands in the Weald of Surrey, close by the _River Mole_, which is here a mere rivulet, though just below this house the rivulet supplies the very prettiest flour-mill I ever saw in my life. Everything about this farmhouse was formerly the scene of _plain manners_ and _plentiful living_. Oak clothes-chests, oak bedsteads, oak chests of drawers, and oak tables to eat on, long, strong, and well supplied with joint stools. Some of the things were many hundreds of years old. But all appeared to be in a state of decay and nearly of _disuse_. There appeared to have been hardly any _family_ in that house, where formerly there were, in all probability, from ten to fifteen men, boys, and maids: and, which was the worst of all, there was a _parlour_. Aye, and a _carpet_ and _bell-pull_ too! One end of the front of this once plain and substantial house had been moulded into a "_parlour_;" and there was the mahogany table, and the fine chairs, and the fine glass, and all as bare-faced upstart as any stock-jobber in the kingdom can boast of. And there were the decanters, the glasses, the "dinner-set" of crockery-ware, and all just in the true stock-jobber style. And I dare say it has been _'Squire_ Charington and the _Miss_ Charington's; and not plain Master Charington, and his son Hodge, and his daughter Betty Charington, all of whom this accursed system has, in all likelihood, transmuted into a species of mock gentlefolks, while it has ground the labourers down into real slaves. Why do not farmers now _feed_ and _lodge_ their work-people, as they did formerly? Because they cannot keep them _upon so little_ as they give them in wages. This is the real cause of the change. There needs no more to prove that the lot of the working classes has become worse than it formerly was. This fact alone is quite sufficient to settle this point. All the world knows, that a number of people, boarded in the same house, and at the same table, can, with as good food, be boarded much cheaper than those persons divided into twos, threes, or fours, can be boarded. This is a well-known truth: therefore, if the farmer now shuts his pantry against his labourers, and pays them wholly in money, is it not clear, that he does it because he thereby gives them a living _cheaper_ to him; that is to say, a _worse_ living than formerly? Mind, he has _a house_ for them; a kitchen for them to sit in, bed rooms for them to sleep in, tables, and stools, and benches, of everlasting duration. All these he has: all these _cost him nothing_; and yet so much does he gain by pinching them in wages, that he lets all these things remain as of no use, rather than feed labourers in the house. Judge, then, of the _change_ that has taken place in the condition of these labourers! And be astonished, if you can, at the _pauperism_ and the _crimes_ that now disgrace this once happy and moral England. The land produces, on an average, what it always produced; but there is a new distribution of the produce. This 'Squire Charington's father used, I dare say, to sit at the head of the oak-table along with his men, say grace to them, and cut up the meat and the pudding. He might take a cup of _strong beer_ to himself, when they had none; but that was pretty nearly all the difference in their manner of living. So that _all_ lived well. But the _'Squire_ had many _wine-decanters_ and _wine-glasses_ and "a _dinner set_" and a "_breakfast set_," and "_desert knives_:" and these evidently imply carryings on and a consumption that must of necessity have greatly robbed the long oak table if it had remained fully tenanted. That long table could not share in the work of the decanters and the dinner set. Therefore, it became almost untenanted; the labourers retreated to hovels, called cottages; and, instead of board and lodging, they got money; so little of it as to enable the employer to drink wine; but, then, that he might not reduce them to _quite starvation_, they were enabled to come to him, in the _king's name_, and demand food _as paupers_. And, now, mind, that which a man receives in the _king's name_, he knows well he has _by force_; and it is not in nature that he should _thank_ anybody for it, and least of all the party _from whom it is forced_. Then, if this sort of force be insufficient to obtain him enough to eat and to keep him warm, is it surprising, if he think it no great offence against God (who created no man to starve) to use another sort of FORCE more within his own control? Is it, in short, surprising, if he resort to _theft_ and _robbery_? This is not only the _natural_ progress, but it _has been_ the progress in England. The blame is not justly imputed to 'Squire Charington and his like: the blame belongs to the infernal stock-jobbing system. There was no reason to expect, that farmers would not endeavour to keep pace, in point of show and luxury, with fund-holders, and with all the tribes that _war_ and _taxes_ created. Farmers were not the authors of the mischief; and _now_ they are compelled to shut the labourers out of their houses, and to pinch them in their wages in order to be able to pay their own taxes; and, besides this, the manners and the principles of the working class are so changed, that a sort of self-preservation bids the farmer (especially in some counties) to keep them from beneath his roof. I could not quit this farmhouse without reflecting on the thousands of scores of bacon and thousands of bushels of bread that had been eaten from the long oak-table which, I said to myself, is now perhaps, going at last, to the bottom of a bridge that some stock-jobber will stick up over an artificial river in his cockney garden. "_By ---- it shan't_," said I, almost in a real passion: and so I requested a friend to buy it for me; and if he do so, I will take it to Kensington, or to Fleet-street, and keep it for the good it has done in the world. When the old farmhouses are down (and down they must come in time) what a miserable thing the country will be! Those that are now erected are mere painted shells, with a Mistress within, who is stuck up in a place she calls a _parlour_, with, if she have children, the "young ladies and gentlemen" about her: some showy chairs and a sofa (a _sofa_ by all means): half a dozen prints in gilt frames hanging up: some swinging book-shelves with novels and tracts upon them: a dinner brought in by a girl that is perhaps better "educated" than she: two or three nick-nacks to eat instead of a piece of bacon and a pudding: the house too neat for a dirty-shoed carter to be allowed to come into; and everything proclaiming to every sensible beholder, that there is here a constant anxiety to make a _show_ not warranted by the reality. The children (which is the worst part of it) are all too clever to _work_: they are all to be _gentlefolks_. Go to plough! Good God! What, "young gentlemen" go to plough! They become _clerks_, or some skimmy-dish thing or other. They flee from the dirty _work_ as cunning horses do from the bridle. What misery is all this! What a mass of materials for producing that general and _dreadful convulsion_ that must, first or last, come and blow this funding and jobbing and enslaving and starving system to atoms! I was going, to-day, by the side of a plat of ground, where there was a very fine flock of _turkeys_. I stopped to admire them, and observed to the owner how fine they were, when he answered, "We owe them entirely _to you_, Sir, for we never raised one till we read your _Cottage Economy_." I then told him, that we had, this year, raised two broods at Kensington, one black and one white, one of nine and one of eight; but, that, about three weeks back, they appeared to become dull and pale about the head; and, that, therefore, I sent them to a farmhouse, where they recovered instantly, and the broods being such a contrast to each other in point of colour, they were now, when prowling over a grass field amongst the most agreeable sights that I had ever seen. I intended of course, to let them get their full growth at Kensington, where they were in a grass plat about fifteen yards square, and where I thought that the feeding of them, in great abundance, with lettuces and other greens from the garden, together with grain, would carry them on to perfection. But I found that I was wrong; and that, though you may raise them to a certain size, in a small place and with such management, they then, if so much confined, begin to be sickly. Several of mine began actually to droop: and, the very day they were sent into the country, they became as gay as ever, and, in three days, all the colour about their heads came back to them. This town of Reigate had, in former times, a Priory, which had considerable estates in the neighbourhood; and this is brought to my recollection by a circumstance which has recently taken place in this very town. We all know how long it has been the fashion for us to take it for _granted_, that the monasteries were _bad things_; but, of late, I have made some hundreds of thousands of very good Protestants begin to suspect, that monasteries were better than _poor-rates_, and that monks and nuns, who _fed the poor_, were better than sinecure and pension men and women, who _feed upon the poor_. But, how came the monasteries! How came this that was at Reigate, for instance? Why, it was, if I recollect correctly, _founded by a Surrey gentleman_, who gave this spot and other estates to it, and who, as was usual, provided that masses were to be said in it for his soul and those of others, and that it should, as usual, give aid to the poor and needy. Now, upon the face of the transaction, what _harm_ could this do the community? On the contrary, it must, one would think, do it _good_; for here was this estate given to a set of landlords who never could quit the spot; who could have no families; who could save no money; who could hold no private property; who could make no will; who must spend all their income at Reigate and near it; who as was the custom, fed the poor, administered to the sick, and taught some, at least, of the people, _gratis_. This, upon the face of the thing, seems to be a very good way of disposing of a rich man's estate. "Aye, but," it is said, "he left his estate away from his relations." That is not _sure_, by any means. The contrary is fairly to be presumed. Doubtless, it was the custom for Catholic Priests, before they took their leave of a dying rich man, to advise him to think of the _Church and the Poor_; that is to say to exhort him to bequeath something to them; and this has been made a monstrous charge against that Church. It is surprising how blind men are, when they have a mind to be blind; what despicable dolts they are, when they desire to be cheated. We, of the Church of England, must have a special deal of good sense and of modesty, to be sure, to rail against the Catholic Church on this account, when our Common Prayer Book, copied from an Act of Parliament, _commands our Parsons to do just the same thing_! Ah! say the Dissenters, and particularly the Unitarians; that queer sect, who will have all the wisdom in the world to themselves; who will believe and won't believe; who will be Christians and who won't have a _Christ_; who will laugh at you, if you believe in the Trinity, and who would (if they could) boil you in oil if you do not believe in the Resurrection: "Oh!" say the Dissenters, "we know very well, that your _Church Parsons_ are commanded to get, if they can, dying people to give their money and estates to the Church and _the poor_, as they call the concern, though the _poor_, we believe, come in for very little which is got in this way. But what is _your Church_? We are the real Christians; and we, upon our souls, never play such tricks; never, no never, terrify old women out of their stockings full of guineas." "And, as to us," say the Unitarians, "we, the most _liberal_ creatures upon earth; we, whose virtue is indignant at the tricks by which the Monks and Nuns got legacies from dying people to the injury of heirs and other relations; we, who are the really enlightened, the truly consistent, the benevolent, the disinterested, the exclusive patentees of the _salt of the earth_, which is sold only at, or by express permission from our old and original warehouse and manufactory, Essex-street, in the Strand, first street on the left, going from Temple Bar towards Charing Cross; we defy you to show that Unitarian Parsons...." Stop your protestations and hear my Reigate anecdote, which, as I said above, brought the recollection of the Old Priory into my head. The readers of the Register heard me, several times, some years ago, mention Mr. Baron Maseres, who was, for a great many years, what they call Cursitor Baron of the Exchequer. He lived partly in London and partly at Reigate, for more, I believe, than half a century; and he died, about two years ago, or less, leaving, I am told, _more than a quarter of a million of money_. The Baron came to see me, in Pall Mall, in 1800. He always came frequently to see me, wherever I was in London; not by any means omitting to _come to see me in Newgate_, where I was imprisoned for two years, with a thousand pounds fine and seven years heavy bail, for having expressed my indignation at the flogging of Englishmen, in the heart of England, under a guard of German bayonets; and to Newgate he always came in _his wig and gown_, in order, as he said, to show his abhorrence of the sentence. I several times passed a week, or more, with the Baron at his house, at Reigate, and might have passed many more, if my time and taste would have permitted me to accept of his invitations. Therefore, I knew the Baron well. He was a most conscientious man; he was when I first knew him, still a very clever man; he retained all his faculties to a very great age; in 1815, I think it was, I got a letter from him, written in a firm hand, correctly as to grammar, and ably as to matter, and he must then have been little short of ninety. He never was a bright man; but had always been a very sensible, just and humane man, and a man too who always cared a great deal for the public good; and he was the only man that I ever heard of, who refused to have his salary augmented, when an augmentation was offered, and when all other such salaries were augmented. I had heard of this: I asked him about it when I saw him again; and he said: "There was no _work_ to be added, and I saw no justice in adding to the salary. It must," added he, "be _paid by somebody_, and the more I take, the less that somebody must have." He did not save money for money's sake. He saved it because his habits would not let him spend it. He kept a house in Rathbone Place, chambers in the Temple, and his very pretty place at Reigate. He was by no means stingy, but his scale and habits were cheap. Then, consider, too, a bachelor of nearly a hundred years old. His father left him a fortune, his brother (who also died a very old bachelor), left him another; and the money lay in the funds, and it went on doubling itself over and over again, till it became that immense mass which we have seen above, and which, when the Baron was making his will, he had neither Catholic priest nor Protestant parson to exhort him to leave to the church and the poor, instead of his relations; though, as we shall presently see, he had somebody else to whom to leave his great heap of money. The Baron was a most implacable enemy of the Catholics, as Catholics. There was rather a peculiar reason for this, his grand-father having been a _French Hugonot_ and having fled with his children to England, at the time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantz. The Baron was a very humane man; his humanity made him assist to support the French emigrant priests; but, at the same time, he caused Sir Richard Musgrave's book against the Irish Catholics to be published at his own expense. He and I never agreed upon this subject; and this subject was, with him, a _vital_ one. He had no asperity in his nature; he was naturally all gentleness and benevolence; and, therefore, he never _resented_ what I said to him on this subject (and which nobody else ever, I believe, ventured to say to him): but he did not like it; and he liked it less because I certainly beat him in the argument. However, this was long before he visited me in Newgate: and it never produced (though the dispute was frequently revived) any difference in his conduct towards me, which was uniformly friendly to the last time I saw him before his memory was gone. There was great excuse for the Baron. From his very birth he had been taught to hate and abhor the Catholic religion. He had been told, that his father and mother had been driven out of France by the Catholics: and there was _that mother_ dinning this in his ears, and all manner of horrible stories along with it, during all the tender years of his life. In short, the prejudice made part of his very frame. In the year 1803, in August, I think it was, I had gone down to his house on a Friday, and was there on a Sunday. After dinner he and I and his brother walked to the Priory, as is still called the mansion house, in the dell at Reigate, which is now occupied by Lord Eastnor, and in which a Mr. Birket, I think, then lived. After coming away from the Priory, the Baron (whose native place was Betchworth, about two or three miles from Reigate) who knew the history of every house and every thing else in this part of the country, began to tell me why the place was called _the Priory_. From this he came to the _superstition_ and _dark ignorance_ that induced people to found monasteries; and he dwelt particularly on the _injustice to heirs and relations_; and he went on, in the usual Protestant strain, and with all the bitterness of which he was capable, against those _crafty priests_, who thus _plundered families_ by means of the influence which they had over people in their dotage, or who were naturally weak-minded. Alas! poor Baron! he does not seem to have at all foreseen what was to become of his own money! What would he have said to me, if I had answered his observations by predicting, that _he_ would give his great mass of money to a little parson for that parson's own private use; leave only a mere pittance to his own relations; leave the little parson his house in which we were then sitting (along with all his other real property); that the little parson would come into the house and take possession; and that his own relations (two nieces) would walk out! Yet, all this has actually taken place, and that, too, after the poor old Baron's four score years of jokes about the tricks of _Popish_ priests, practised, in the _dark ages_, upon the _ignorant_ and _superstitious_ people of Reigate. When I first knew the Baron he was a staunch _Church of England man_. He went to church every Sunday once, at least. He used to take me to Reigate church; and I observed, that he was very well versed in his prayer book. But a decisive proof of his zeal as a Church of England man is, that he settled an annual sum on the incumbent of Reigate, in order to induce him to preach, or pray (I forget which), in the church, twice on a Sunday, instead of once; and, in case this additional preaching, or praying, were not performed in Reigate church, the annuity was to go (and sometimes it does now go) to the poor of an adjoining parish, and not to those of Reigate, lest I suppose, the parson, the overseers, and other rate-payers, might happen to think that the Baron's annuity would be better laid out in food for the bodies than for the souls of the poor; or, in other words, lest the money should be taken annually and added to the poor-rates to ease the purses of the farmers. It did not, I dare say, occur to the poor Baron (when he was making this settlement), that he was now giving money to make a church parson put up additional prayers, though he had, all his lifetime, been laughing at those, who, in the _dark_ ages, gave money, for this purpose, to Catholic priests. Nor did it, I dare say, occur, to the Baron, that, in his contingent settlement of the annuity on the poor of an adjoining parish, he as good as declared his opinion, that he distrusted the piety of the parson, the overseers, the churchwardens, and, indeed, of all the people of Reigate: yes, at the very moment that he was providing additional prayers for them, he in the very same parchment, put a provision, which clearly showed that he was thoroughly convinced that they, overseers, churchwardens, people, parson and all, loved money better than prayers. What was this, then? Was it hypocrisy; was it ostentation? No: mistake. The Baron thought that those who could not go to church in the morning ought to have an opportunity of going in the afternoon. He was aware of the power of money; but, when he came to make his obligatory clause, he was compelled to do that which reflected great discredit on the very church and religion, which it was his object to honour and uphold. However, the Baron _was_ a staunch churchman as this fact clearly proves: several years he had become what they call an _Unitarian_. The first time (I think) that I perceived this, was in 1812. He came to see me in Newgate, and he soon began to talk about _religion_, which had not been much his habit. He went on at a great rate, laughing about the Trinity; and I remember that he repeated the Unitarian distich, which makes _a joke_ of the idea of there being a devil, and which they all repeat to you, and at the same time laugh and look as cunning and as priggish as Jack-daws; just as if they were wiser than all the rest of the world! I hate to hear the conceited and disgusting prigs, seeming to take it for granted, that they only are wise, because others _believe_ in the incarnation, without being able to reconcile it to _reason_. The prigs don't consider, that there is no more _reason_ for the _resurrection_ than for the _incarnation_; and yet having taken it into their heads to _come up again_, they would murder you, if they dared, if you were to deny the _resurrection_. I do most heartily despise this priggish set for their conceit and impudence; but, seeing that they want _reason_ for the incarnation; seeing that they will have _effects_, here, ascribed to none but _usual causes_, let me put a question or two to them. 1. _Whence_ comes the _white clover_, that comes up and covers all the ground, in America, where hard-wood trees, after standing for thousands of years, have been burnt down? 2. _Whence_ come (in similar cases as to self-woods) the hurtleberries in some places, and the raspberries in others? 3. _Whence_ come fish in new made places where no fish have ever been put? 4. _What causes_ horse-hair to become living things? 5. _What causes_ frogs to come in drops of rain, or those drops of rain to turn to frogs, the moment they are on the earth? 6. _What causes_ musquitoes to come in rain water caught in a glass, covered over immediately with oil paper, tied down and so kept till full of these winged torments? 7. _What causes_ flounders, real little _flat fish_, brown on one side, white on the other, mouth side-ways, with tail, fins, and all, _leaping alive_, in the _inside_ of a rotten sheep's, and of every rotten sheep's, _liver_? There, prigs; answer these questions. Fifty might be given you; but these are enough. Answer these. I suppose you will not deny the facts? They are all notoriously true. The _last_, which of itself would be quite enough for you, will be attested on oath, if you like it, by any farmer, ploughman, and shepherd, in England. Answer this question 7, or hold your conceited gabble about the "_impossibility_" of that which I need not here name. Men of sense do not attempt to discover that which it is _impossible_ to discover. They leave things pretty much as they find them; and take care, at least, not to make changes of any sort, without very evident necessity. The poor Baron, however, appeared to be quite eaten up with his "_rational_ Christianity." He talked like a man who has made a _discovery_ of his _own_. He seemed as pleased as I, when I was a boy, used to be, when I had just found a rabbit's stop, or a black-bird's nest full of young ones. I do not recollect what I said upon this occasion. It is most likely that I said nothing in contradiction to him. I saw the Baron many times after this, but I never talked with him about religion. Before the summer of 1822, I had not seen him for a year or two, perhaps. But, in July of that year, on a very hot day, I was going down Rathbone Place, and, happening to cast my eye on the Baron's house, I knocked at the door to ask how he was. His man servant came to the door, and told me that his master was at dinner. "Well," said I, "never mind; give my best respects to him." But the servant (who had always been with him since I knew him) begged me to come in, for that he was sure his master would be glad to see me. I thought, as it was likely that I might never see him again, I would go in. The servant announced me, and the Baron said, "Beg him to walk in." In I went, and there I found the Baron at dinner; but _not quite alone_; nor without _spiritual_ as well as carnal and vegetable nourishment before him: for, there, on the opposite side of his _vis-à-vis_ dining table, sat that nice, neat, straight, prim piece of mortality, commonly called the Reverend Robert Fellowes, who was the Chaplain to the unfortunate Queen until Mr. Alderman Wood's son came to supply his place, and who was now, I could clearly see, in a fair way enough. I had dined, and so I let them dine on. The Baron was become quite a child, or worse, as to mind, though he ate as heartily as I ever saw him, and he was always a great eater. When his servant said, "Here is Mr. Cobbett, Sir;" he said, "How do you do, Sir? I have read much of your writings, Sir; but _never had the pleasure to see your person before_." After a time I made him recollect me; but he, directly after, being about to relate something about America, turned towards me, and said, "_Were you ever in America_, Sir?" But I must mention one proof of the state of his mind. Mr. Fellowes asked me about the news from Ireland, where the people were then in a state of starvation (1822), and I answering that, it was likely that many of them would actually be starved to death, the Baron, quitting his green goose and green pease, turned to me and said, "_Starved_, Sir! Why don't they go to _the parish_?" "Why," said I, "you know, Sir, that there are no poor-rates in Ireland." Upon this he exclaimed, "What! no poor-rates in Ireland! Why not? I did not know that; I can't think how that can be." And then he rambled on in a childish sort of way. At the end of about half an hour, or, it might be more, I shook hands with the poor old Baron for the last time, well convinced that I should never see him again, and not less convinced, that I had seen his _heir_. He died in about a year or so afterwards, left to his own family about 20,000_l._, and to his ghostly guide, the Holy Robert Fellowes, all the rest of his immense fortune, which, as I have been told, amounts to more than a quarter of a million of money. Now, the public will recollect that, while Mr. Fellowes was at the Queen's, he was, in the public papers, charged with being an _Unitarian_, at the same time that he officiated _as her chaplain_. It is also well known, that he never publicly contradicted this. It is, besides, the general belief at Reigate. However, this we know well, that he is a parson, of one sort or the other, and that he is not a Catholic priest. That is enough for me. I see this poor, foolish old man leaving a monstrous mass of money to this little Protestant parson, whom he had not even known more, I believe, than about three or four years. When the will was made I cannot say. I know nothing at all about that. I am supposing that all was perfectly fair; that the Baron had his senses when he made his will; that he clearly meant to do that which he did. But, then, I must insist, that, if he had left the money to a _Catholic priest_, to be by him expended on the endowment of a convent, wherein to say masses and to feed and teach the poor, it would have been a more sensible and public-spirited part in the Baron, much more beneficial to the town and environs of Reigate, and beyond all measure more honourable to his own memory. _Chilworth, Friday Evening, 21st Oct._ It has been very fine to-day. Yesterday morning there was _snow_ on Reigate Hill, enough to look white from where we were in the valley. We set off about half-past one o'clock, and came all down the valley, through Buckland, Betchworth, Dorking, Sheer and Aldbury, to this place. Very few prettier rides in England, and the weather beautifully fine. There are more meeting-houses than churches in the vale, and I have heard of no less than five people, in this vale, who have gone crazy on account of religion. To-morrow we intend to move on towards the West; to take a look, just a look, at the Hampshire Parsons again. The turnips seem fine; but they cannot be large. All other things are very fine indeed. Everything seems to prognosticate a hard winter. All the country people say that it will be so. RIDE: FROM CHILWORTH, IN SURREY, TO WINCHESTER. _Thursley, four miles from Godalming, Surrey, Sunday Evening, 23rd October, 1825._ We set out from Chilworth to-day about noon. This is a little hamlet, lying under the South side of St. Martha's Hill; and, on the other side of that hill, a little to the North West, is the town of Guilford, which (taken with its environs) I, who have seen so many, many towns, think the prettiest, and, taken, all together, the most agreeable and most happy-looking, that I ever saw in my life. Here are hill and dell in endless variety. Here are the chalk and the sand, vieing with each other in making beautiful scenes. Here is a navigable river and fine meadows. Here are woods and downs. Here is something of everything but _fat marshes_ and their skeleton-making _agues_. The vale, all the way down to Chilworth from Reigate, is very delightful. We did not go to Guildford, nor did we cross the _River Wey_, to come through Godalming; but bore away to our left, and came through the village of Hambleton, going first to Hascomb, to show Richard the South Downs from that high land, which looks Southward over the _Wealds_ of Surrey and Sussex, with all their fine and innumerable oak trees. Those that travel on turnpike roads know nothing of England.--From Hascomb to Thursley almost the whole way is across fields, or commons, or along narrow lands. Here we see the people without any disguise or affectation. Against a _great road_ things are made for _show_. Here we see them _without any show_. And here we gain real knowledge as to their situation.--We crossed to-day, three turnpike roads, that from Guildford to Horsham, that from Godalming to Worthing, I believe, and that from Godalming to Chichester. _Thursley, Wednesday, 26th Oct._ The weather has been beautiful ever since last Thursday morning; but there has been a white frost every morning, and the days have been coldish. _Here_, however, I am quite at home in a room, where there is one of my _American Fire Places_, bought, by my host, of Mr. Judson of Kensington, who has made many a score of families comfortable, instead of sitting shivering in the cold. At the house of the gentleman, whose house I am now in, there is a good deal of _fuel-wood_; and here I see in the parlours, those fine and cheerful fires that make a great part of the happiness of the Americans. But these fires are to be had only in this sort of fire-place. Ten times the fuel; nay, no quantity, would effect the same object, in any other fire-place. It is equally good for coal as for wood; but, for _pleasure_, a wood-fire is the thing. There is, round about almost every gentleman's or great farmer's house, more wood suffered to rot every year, in one shape or another, than would make (with this fire-place) a couple of rooms constantly warm, from October to June. _Here_, peat, turf, saw-dust, and wood, are burnt in these fire-places. My present host has three of the fire-places. Being out a-coursing to-day, I saw a queer-looking building upon one of the thousands of hills that nature has tossed up in endless variety of form round the skirts of the lofty Hindhead. This building is, it seems, called a _Semaphore_, or _Semiphare_, or something of that sort. What this word may have been hatched out of I cannot say; but it means _a job_, I am sure. To call it an _alarm-post_ would not have been so convenient; for people not endued with Scotch _intellect_ might have wondered why the devil we should have to pay for alarm-posts; and might have thought, that, with all our "glorious victories," we had "brought our hogs to a fine market," if our dread of the enemy were such as to induce us to have alarm-posts all over the country! Such unintellectual people might have thought that we had "conquered France by the immortal Wellington," to little purpose, if we were still in such fear as to build alarm-posts; and they might, in addition, have observed, that, for many hundred of years, England stood in need of neither signal posts nor standing army of mercenaries; but relied safely on the courage and public spirit of the people themselves. By calling the thing by an outlandish name, these reflections amongst the unintellectual are obviated. _Alarm-post_ would be a nasty name; and it would puzzle people exceedingly, when they saw one of these at a place like Ashe, a little village on the north side of the chalk-ridge (called the Hog's Back) going from Guildford to Farnham. What can this be _for_? Why are these expensive things put up all over the country? Respecting the movements of _whom_ is wanted this _alarm-system_? Will no member ask this in Parliament? Not one: not a man: and yet it is a thing to ask about. Ah! it is in vain, THING, that you thus are _making your preparations_; in vain that you are setting your trammels! The DEBT, the blessed debt, that best ally of the people, will break them all; will snap them, as the hornet does the cobweb; and, even these very "Semaphores," contribute towards the force of that ever-blessed debt. Curious to see how things _work_! The "glorious revolution," which was made for the avowed purpose of maintaining the Protestant ascendancy, and which was followed by such terrible persecution of the Catholics; that "glorious" affair, which set aside a race of kings, because they were Catholics, served as the _precedent_ for the American revolution, also called "glorious," and this second revolution compelled the successors of the makers of the first, to begin to cease their persecutions of the Catholics! Then, again, the debt was made to raise and keep armies on foot to prevent reform of Parliament, because, as it was feared by the Aristocracy, reform would have humbled them; and this debt, created for this purpose, is fast sweeping the Aristocracy out of their estates, as a clown, with his foot, kicks field-mice out of their nests. There was a hope, that the debt could have been reduced by stealth, as it were; that the Aristocracy could have been saved in this way. That hope now no longer exists. In all likelihood the funds will keep going down. What is to prevent this, if the interest of Exchequer Bills be raised, as the broad sheet tells us it is to be? What! the funds fall in time of peace; and the French funds not fall, in time of peace! However, it will all happen just as it ought to happen. Even the next session of Parliament will bring out matters of some interest. The thing is now working in the surest possible way. The great business of life, in the country, appertains, in some way or other, to the _game_, and especially at this time of the year. If it were not for the game, a country life would be like an _everlasting honey-moon_, which would, in about half a century, put an end to the human race. In towns, or large villages, people make a shift to find the means of rubbing the rust off from each other by a vast variety of sources of contest. A couple of wives meeting in the street, and giving each other a wry look, or a look not quite civil enough, will, if the parties be hard pushed for a ground of contention, do pretty well. But in the country, there is, alas! no such resource. Here are no walls for people to take of each other. Here they are so placed as to prevent the possibility of such lucky local contact. Here is more than room of every sort, elbow, leg, horse, or carriage, for them all. Even _at Church_ (most of the people being in the meeting-houses) the pews are surprisingly too large. Here, therefore, where all circumstances seem calculated to cause never-ceasing concord with its accompanying dullness, there would be no relief at all, were it not for the _game_. This, happily, supplies the place of all other sources of alternate dispute and reconciliation; it keeps all in life and motion, from the lord down to the hedger. When I see two men, whether in a market-room, by the way-side, in a parlour, in a church-yard, or even in the church itself, engaged in manifestly deep and most momentous discourse, I will, if it be any time between September and February, bet ten to one, that it is, in some way or other, about _the game_. The wives and daughters hear so much of it, that they inevitably get engaged in the disputes; and thus all are kept in a state of vivid animation. I should like very much to be able to take a spot, a circle of 12 miles in diameter, and take an exact account of all the _time_ spent by each individual, above the age of ten (that is the age they begin at), in talking, during the game season of one year, about the game and about sporting exploits. I verily believe that it would amount, upon an average, to six times as much as all the other talk put together; and, as to the anger, the satisfaction, the scolding, the commendation, the chagrin, the exultation, the envy, the emulation, where are there any of these in the country, unconnected with _the game_? There is, however, an important distinction to be made between _hunters_ (including coursers) and _shooters_. The latter are, as far as relates to their exploits, a disagreeable class, compared with the former; and the reason of this is, their doings are almost wholly their own; while, in the case of the others, the achievements are the property of the dogs. Nobody likes to hear another talk _much_ in praise of his own acts, unless those acts have a manifest tendency to produce some good to the hearer; and shooters do talk _much_ of their own exploits, and those exploits rather tend to _humiliate_ the hearer. Then, a _great shooter_ will, nine times out of ten, go so far as almost to _lie a little_; and, though people do not tell him of it, they do not like him the better for it; and he but too frequently discovers that they do not believe him: whereas, hunters are mere followers of the dogs, as mere spectators; their praises, if any are called for, are bestowed on the greyhounds, the hounds, the fox, the hare, or the horses. There is a little rivalship in the riding, or in the behaviour of the horses; but this has so little to do with the personal merit of the sportsmen, that it never produces a want of good fellowship in the evening of the day. A shooter who has been _missing_ all day, must have an uncommon share of good sense, not to feel mortified while the slaughterers are relating the adventures of that day; and this is what cannot exist in the case of the hunters. Bring me into a room, with a dozen men in it, who have been sporting all day; or, rather let me be in an adjoining room, where I can hear the sound of their voices, without being able to distinguish the words, and I will bet ten to one that I tell whether they be hunters or shooters. I was once acquainted with a _famous shooter_ whose name was William Ewing. He was a barrister of Philadelphia, but became far more renowned by his gun than by his law cases. We spent scores of days together a-shooting, and were extremely well matched, I having excellent dogs and caring little about my reputation as a shot, his dogs being good for nothing, and he caring more about his reputation as a shot than as a lawyer. The fact which I am going to relate respecting this gentleman, ought to be a warning to young men, how they become enamoured of this species of vanity. We had gone about ten miles from our home, to shoot where partridges were said to be very plentiful. We found them so. In the course of a November day, he had, just before dark, shot, and sent to the farmhouse, or kept in his bag, _ninety-nine_ partridges. He made some few _double shots_, and he might have a _miss_ or two, for he sometimes shot when out of my sight, on account of the woods. However, he said that he killed at every shot; and, as he had counted the birds, when we went to dinner at the farmhouse and when he cleaned his gun, he, just before sun-set, knew that he had killed _ninety-nine_ partridges, every one upon the wing, and a great part of them in woods very thickly set with largish trees. It was a grand achievement; but, unfortunately, he wanted to make it _a hundred_. The sun was setting, and, in that country, darkness comes almost at once; it is more like the going out of a candle than that of a fire; and I wanted to be off, as we had a very bad road to go, and as he, being under strict petticoat government, to which he most loyally and dutifully submitted, was compelled to get home that night, taking me with him, the vehicle (horse and gig) being mine. I, therefore, pressed him to come away, and moved on myself towards the house (that of old John Brown, in Bucks county, grandfather of that General Brown, who gave some of our whiskered heroes such a rough handling last war, which was waged for the purpose of "deposing James Madison"), at which house I would have stayed all night, but from which I was compelled to go by that watchful government, under which he had the good fortune to live. Therefore I was in haste to be off. No: he would kill the _hundredth_ bird! In vain did I talk of the bad road and its many dangers for want of moon. The poor partridges, which we had scattered about, were _calling_ all around us; and, just at this moment, up got one under his feet, in a field in which the wheat was three or four inches high. He shot and _missed_. "That's it," said he, running as if to _pick up_ the bird. "What!" said I, "you don't think you _killed_, do you? Why there is the bird now, not only alive, but _calling_ in that wood;" which was at about a hundred yards distance. He, in that _form of words_ usually employed in such cases, asserted that he shot the bird and saw it fall; and I, in much about the same form of words, asserted, that he had _missed_, and that I, with my own eyes, saw the bird fly into the wood. This was too much! To _miss_ once out of a hundred times! To lose such a chance of immortality! He was a good-humoured man; I liked him very much; and I could not help feeling for him, when he said, "Well, _Sir_, I killed the bird; and if you choose to go away and take your dog away, so as to prevent me from _finding_ it, you must do it; the dog is _yours_, to be sure." "The _dog_," said I, in a very mild tone, "why, Ewing, there is the spot; and could we not see it, upon this smooth green surface, if it were there?" However, he began to _look about_; and I called the dog, and affected to join him in the search. Pity for his weakness got the better of my dread of the bad road. After walking backward and forward many times upon about twenty yards square with our eyes to the ground, looking for what both of us knew was not there, I had passed him (he going one way and I the other), and I happened to be turning round just after I had passed him, when I saw him, putting his hand behind him, _take a partridge out of his bag and let it fall upon the ground_! I felt no temptation to detect him, but turned away my head, and kept looking about. Presently he, having returned to the spot where the bird was, called out to me, in a most triumphant tone; "_Here! here!_ Come here!" I went up to him, and he, pointing with his finger down to the bird, and looking hard in my face at the same time, said, "There, Cobbett; I hope that will be a _warning_ to you never to be obstinate again"! "Well," said I, "come along:" and away we went as merry as larks. When we got to Brown's, he told them the story, triumphed over me most clamorously; and, though he often repeated the story to my face, I never had the heart to let him know, that I knew of the imposition, which puerile vanity had induced so sensible and honourable a man to be mean enough to practise. A _professed shot_ is, almost always, a very disagreeable brother sportsman. He must, in the first place, have a head rather of the emptiest to _pride himself_ upon so poor a talent. Then he is always out of temper, if the game fail, or if he miss it. He never participates in that great delight which all sensible men enjoy at beholding the beautiful action, the docility, the zeal, the wonderful sagacity of the pointer and the setter. He is always thinking about _himself_; always anxious to surpass his companions. I remember that, once, Ewing and I had lost our dog. We were in a wood, and the dog had gone out, and found a covey in a wheat stubble joining the wood. We had been whistling and calling him for, perhaps, half an hour, or more. When we came out of the wood we saw him pointing, with one foot up; and, soon after, he, keeping his foot and body unmoved, gently turned round his head towards the spot where he heard us, as if to bid us come on, and, when he saw that we saw him, turned his head back again. I was so delighted, that I stopped to look with admiration. Ewing, astonished at my want of alacrity, pushed on, shot one of the partridges, and thought no more about the conduct of the dog than if the sagacious creature had had nothing at all to do with the matter. When I left America, in 1800, I gave this dog to Lord Henry Stuart, who was, when he came home, a year or two afterwards, about to bring him to astonish the sportsmen even in England; but those of Pennsylvania were resolved not to part with him, and, therefore they _stole_ him the night before his Lordship came away. Lord Henry had plenty of pointers after his return, and he _saw_ hundreds; but always declared, that he never saw any thing approaching in excellence this American dog. For the information of sportsmen I ought to say, that this was a small-headed and sharp-nosed pointer, hair as fine as that of a greyhound, little and short ears, very light in the body, very long legged, and swift as a good lurcher. I had him a puppy, and he never had any _breaking_, but he pointed staunchly at once; and I am of opinion, that this sort is, in all respects, better than the heavy breed. Mr. Thornton, (I beg his pardon, I believe he is now a Knight of some sort) who was, and perhaps still is, our Envoy in Portugal, at the time here referred to was a sort of partner with Lord Henry in this famous dog; and gratitude (to the memory of _the dog_ I mean), will, I am sure, or, at least, I hope so, make him bear witness to the truth of my character of him; and, if one could hear an Ambassador _speak out_, I think that Mr. Thornton would acknowledge, that his calling has brought him in pretty close contact with many a man who was possessed of most tremendous political power, without possessing half the sagacity, half the understanding, of this dog, and without being a thousandth part so faithful to his trust. I am quite satisfied, that there are as many _sorts_ of men as there are of dogs. Swift was a man, and so is Walter the base. But is the _sort_ the same? It cannot be _education_ alone that makes the amazing difference that we see. Besides, we see men of the very same rank and riches and education, differing as widely as the pointer does from the pug. The name, _man_, is common to all the sorts, and hence arises very great mischief. What confusion must there be in rural affairs, if there were no names whereby to distinguish hounds, greyhounds, pointers, spaniels, terriers, and sheep dogs, from each other! And, what pretty work, if, without regard to the _sorts_ of dogs, men were to attempt to _employ them_! Yet, this is done in the case of _men_! A man is always _a man_; and, without the least regard as to the _sort_, they are promiscuously placed in all kinds of situations. Now, if Mr. Brougham, Doctors Birkbeck, Macculloch and Black, and that profound personage, Lord John Russell, will, in their forth-coming "London University," teach us how to divide men _into sorts_, instead of teaching us to "augment the capital of the nation," by making paper-money, they will render us a real service. That will be _feelosofy_ worth attending to. What would be said of the 'Squire who should take a fox-hound out to find partridges for him to shoot at? Yet, would this be _more_ absurd than to set a man to law-making who was manifestly formed for the express purpose of sweeping the streets or digging out sewers? _Farnham, Surrey, Thursday, Oct. 27th._ We came over the heath from Thursley, this morning, on our way to Winchester. Mr. Wyndham's fox-hounds are coming to Thursley on Saturday. More than three-fourths of all the interesting talk in that neighbourhood, for some days past, has been about this anxiously-looked-for event. I have seen no man, or boy, who did not talk about it. There had been a false report about it; the hounds did _not come_; and the anger of the disappointed people was very great. At last, however, the _authentic_ intelligence came, and I left them all as happy as if all were young and all just going to be married. An abatement of my pleasure, however, on this joyous occasion was, that I brought away with me _one_, who was as eager as the best of them. Richard, though now only 11 years and 6 months old, had, it seems, one fox-hunt, in Herefordshire, last winter; and he actually has begun to talk rather _contemptuously_ of hare hunting. To show me that he is in no _danger_, he has been leaping his horse over banks and ditches by the road side, all our way across the country from Reigate; and he joined with such glee in talking of the expected arrival of the fox-hounds, that I felt some little pain at bringing him away. My engagement at Winchester is for Saturday; but, if it had not been so, the deep and hidden ruts in the heath, in a wood in the midst of which the hounds are sure to find, and the immense concourse of horsemen that is sure to be assembled, would have made me bring him away. Upon the high, hard and open countries, I should not be afraid for him; but here the danger would have been greater than it would have been right for me to suffer him to run. We came hither by the way of Waverley Abbey and Moore Park. On the commons I showed Richard some of my old hunting scenes, when I was of his age, or younger, reminding him that I was obliged to hunt on foot. We got leave to go and see the grounds at Waverley, where all the old monks' garden walls are totally gone, and where the spot is become a sort of lawn. I showed him the spot where the strawberry garden was, and where I, when sent to gather _hautboys_, used to eat every remarkably fine one, instead of letting it go to be eaten by Sir Robert Rich. I showed him a tree, close by the ruins of the Abbey, from a limb of which I once fell into the river, in an attempt to take the nest of a _crow_, which had artfully placed it upon a branch so far from the trunk as not to be able to bear the weight of a boy eight years old. I showed him an old elm tree, which was hollow even then, into which I, when a very little boy, once saw a cat go, that was as big as a middle-sized spaniel dog, for relating which I got a great scolding, for standing to which I, at last, got a beating; but stand to which I still did. I have since many times repeated it; and I would take my oath of it to this day. When in New Brunswick I saw the great wild grey cat, which is there called a _Lucifee_; and it seemed to me to be just such a cat as I had seen at Waverley. I found the ruins not very greatly diminished; but it is strange how small the mansion, and ground, and everything but the trees, appeared to me. They were all great to my mind when I saw them last; and that early impression had remained, whenever I had talked or thought, of the spot; so that, when I came to see them again, after seeing the sea and so many other immense things, it seemed as if they had all been made small. This was not the case with regard to the trees, which are nearly as big here as they are anywhere else; and the old cat-elm, for instance, which Richard measured with his whip, is about 16 or 17 feet round. From Waverley we went to Moore Park, once the seat of Sir William Temple, and when I was a very little boy, the seat of a Lady, or a Mrs. Temple. Here I showed Richard Mother Ludlum's Hole; but, alas! it is not the enchanting place that I knew it, nor that which Grose describes in his Antiquities! The semicircular paling is gone; the basins, to catch the never-ceasing little stream, are gone; the iron cups, fastened by chains, for people to drink out of, are gone; the pavement all broken to pieces; the seats, for people to sit on, on both sides of the cave, torn up and gone; the stream that ran down a clean paved channel, now making a dirty gutter; and the ground opposite, which was a grove, chiefly of laurels, intersected by closely mowed grass-walks, now become a poor, ragged-looking alder-coppice. Near the mansion, I showed Richard the hill, upon which Dean Swift tells us he used to run for exercise, while he was pursuing his studies here; and I would have showed him the garden-seat, under which Sir William Temple's heart was buried, agreeably to his will; but the seat was gone, also the wall at the back of it; and the exquisitely beautiful little lawn in which the seat stood, was turned into a parcel of divers-shaped cockney-clumps, planted according to the strictest rules of artificial and refined vulgarity. At Waverley, Mr. Thompson, a merchant of some sort, has succeeded (after the monks) the Orby Hunters and Sir Robert Rich. At Moore Park, a Mr. Laing, a West Indian planter or merchant, has succeeded the Temples; and at the castle of Farnham, which you see from Moore Park, Bishop Prettyman Tomline has, at last, after perfectly regular and due gradations, succeeded William of Wykham! In coming up from Moore Park to Farnham town, I stopped opposite the door of a little old house, where there appeared to be a great parcel of children. "There, Dick," said I, "when I was just such a little creature as that, whom you see in the door-way, I lived in this very house with my grand-mother Cobbett." He pulled up his horse, and looked _very hard at it_, but said nothing, and on we came. _Winchester, Sunday noon, Oct. 30._ We came away from Farnham about noon on Friday, promising Bishop Prettyman to notice him and his way of living more fully on our return. At Alton we got some bread and cheese at a friend's, and then came to Alresford by Medstead, in order to have fine turf to ride on, and to see, on this lofty land that which is, perhaps, the finest _beech-wood_ in all England. These high down-countries are not garden plats, like Kent; but they have, from my first seeing them, when I was about _ten_, always been my delight. Large sweeping downs, and deep dells here and there, with villages amongst lofty trees, are my great delight. When we got to Alresford it was nearly dark, and not being able to find a room to our liking, we resolved to go, though in the dark, to Easton, a village about six miles from Alresford down by the side of the Hichen River. Coming from Easton yesterday, I learned that Sir Charles Ogle, the eldest son and successor of Sir Chaloner Ogle, had sold to some _General_, his mansion and estate at Martyr's Worthy, a village on the North side of the Hichen, just opposite Easton. The Ogles had been here for _a couple of centuries_ perhaps. They are _gone off now_, "for good and all," as the country people call it. Well, what I have to say to Sir Charles Ogle upon this occasion is this: "It was _you_, who moved at the county meeting, in 1817, that _Address to the Regent_, which you brought ready engrossed upon parchment, which Fleming, the Sheriff, declared to have been carried, though a word of it never was heard by the meeting; which address _applauded the power of imprisonment bill, just then passed_; and the like of which address, you will not in all human probability, ever again move in Hampshire, and, I hope, nowhere else. So, you see, Sir Charles, there is one consolation, at any rate." I learned, too, that Greame, a famously loyal 'squire and justice, whose son was, a few years ago, made a Distributor of Stamps in this county, was become so modest as to exchange his big and ancient mansion at Cheriton, or somewhere there, for a very moderate-sized house in the town of Alresford! I saw his household goods advertised in the Hampshire newspaper, a little while ago, to be sold by public auction. I rubbed my eyes, or, rather, my spectacles, and looked again and again; for I remembered the loyal 'Squire; and I, with singular satisfaction, record this change in his scale of existence, which has, no doubt, proceeded solely from that prevalence of mind over matter, which the Scotch _feelosofers_ have taken such pains to inculcate, and which makes him flee from greatness as from that which diminishes the quantity of "_intellectual_ enjoyment;" and so now he, "Wondering man can want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile." And they really tell me, that his present house is not much bigger than that of my dear, good old grandmother Cobbett. But (and it may not be wholly useless for the 'Squire to know it) she never burnt _candles_; but _rushes_ dipped in grease, as I have described them in my _Cottage Economy_; and this was one of the means that she made use of in order to secure a bit of good bacon and good bread to eat, and that made her never give me _potatoes_, cold or hot. No bad hint for the 'Squire, father of the distributor of Stamps. Good bacon is a very nice thing, I can assure him; and, if the quantity be small, it is all the sweeter; provided, however, it be not _too small_. This 'Squire used to be a great friend of Old George Rose. But his patron's taste was different from his. George preferred a big house to a little one; and George _began_ with a little one, and _ended_ with a big one. Just by Alresford, there was another old friend and supporter of Old George Rose, 'Squire Rawlinson, whom I remember a very great 'squire in this county. He is now a _Police_-'squire in London, and is one of those guardians of the Wen, respecting whose proceedings we read eternal columns in the broad-sheet. This being Sunday, I heard, about 7 o'clock in the morning, a sort of a jangling, made by a bell or two in the _Cathedral_. We were getting ready to be off, to cross the country to Burghclere, which lies under the lofty hills at Highclere, about 22 miles from this city; but hearing the bells of the cathedral, I took Richard to show him that ancient and most magnificent pile, and particularly to show him the tomb of that famous bishop of Winchester, William of Wykham; who was the Chancellor and the Minister of the great and glorious King, Edward III.; who sprang from poor parents in the little village of Wykham, three miles from Botley; and who, amongst other great and most munificent deeds, founded the famous College, or School, of Winchester, and also one of the Colleges at Oxford. I told Richard about this as we went from the inn down to the cathedral; and, when I _showed him the tomb_, where the bishop lies on his back, in his Catholic robes, with his mitre on his head, his shepherd's crook by his side, with little children at his feet, their hands put together in a praying attitude, he looked with a degree of inquisitive earnestness that pleased me very much. I took him as far as I could about the cathedral. The "service" was now begun. There is a _dean_, and God knows how many _prebends_ belonging to this immensely rich bishopric and chapter; and there were, at this "service," _two or three men and five or six boys_ in white surplices, with a congregation of _fifteen women_ and _four men_! Gracious God! If William of Wykham could, at that moment, have been raised from his tomb! If Saint Swithin, whose name the cathedral bears, or Alfred the Great, to whom St. Swithin was tutor: if either of these could have come, and had been told, that _that_ was _now_ what was carried on by men, who talked of the "_damnable_ errors" of those who founded that very church! But it beggars one's feelings to attempt to find words whereby to express them upon such a subject and such an occasion. How, then, am I to describe what I felt, when I yesterday saw in Hyde Meadow, a _county bridewell_, standing on the very spot, where stood the Abbey which was founded and endowed by Alfred, which contained the bones of that maker of the English name, and also those of the learned monk, St. Grimbald, whom Alfred brought to England _to begin the teaching at Oxford_! After we came out of the cathedral, Richard said, "Why, Papa, nobody can build such places _now_, can they?" "No, my dear," said I. "That building was made when there were no poor wretches in England, called _paupers_; when there were no _poor-rates_; when every labouring man was clothed in good woollen cloth; and when all had a plenty of meat and bread and beer." This talk lasted us to the inn, where, just as we were going to set off, it most curiously happened, that a parcel which had come from Kensington by the night coach, was put into my hands by the landlord, containing, amongst other things, a pamphlet, sent to me from Rome, being an Italian translation of No. I. of the "_Protestant Reformation_." I will here insert the title for the satisfaction of Doctor Black, who, some time ago, expressed his utter astonishment, that "_such_ a work should be published in the _nineteenth_ century." Why, Doctor? Did you want me to stop till the _twentieth_ century? That would have been a little too long, Doctor. Storia Della Riforma Protestante In Inghilterra ed in Irlanda La quale Dimostra Come un tal' avvenimento ha impoverito E degradato il grosso del popolo in que' paesi in una serie di lettere indirizzate A tutti i sensati e guisti inglesi Da Guglielmo Cobbett E Dall' inglese recate in italiano Da Dominico Gregorj. Roma 1825. Presso Francesco Bourlie. Con Approvazione. There, Doctor Black. Write _you_ a book that shall be translated into _any_ foreign language; and when you have done that, you may _again_ call mine "pig's meat." RURAL RIDE: FROM WINCHESTER TO BURGHCLERE. _Burghclere, Monday Morning, 31st October 1825._ We had, or I had, resolved not to breakfast at Winchester yesterday: and yet we were detained till nearly noon. But at last off we came, _fasting_. The turnpike-road from Winchester to this place comes through a village called Sutton Scotney, and then through Whitchurch, which lies on the Andover and London road, through Basingstoke. We did not take the cross-turnpike till we came to Whitchurch. We went to King's Worthy; that is about two miles on the road from Winchester to London; and then, turning short to our left, came up upon the downs to the north of Winchester race-course. Here, looking back at the city and at the fine valley above and below it, and at the many smaller valleys that run down from the high ridges into that great and fertile valley, I could not help admiring the taste of the ancient kings who made this city (which once covered all the hill round about, and which contained 92 churches and chapels) a chief place of their residence. There are not many finer spots in England; and if I were to take in a circle of eight or ten miles of semi-diameter, I should say that I believe there is not one so fine. Here are hill, dell, water, meadows, woods, corn-fields, downs: and all of them very fine and very beautifully disposed. This country does not present to us that sort of beauties which we see about Guildford and Godalming, and round the skirts of Hindhead and Blackdown, where the ground lies in the form that the surface-water in a boiling copper would be in if you could, by word of command, _make it be still_, the variously-shaped bubbles all sticking up; and really, to look at the face of the earth, who can help imagining that some such process has produced its present form? Leaving this matter to be solved by those who laugh at mysteries, I repeat that the country round Winchester does not present to us beauties of _this sort_; but of a sort which I like a great deal better. Arthur Young calls the vale between Farnham and Alton _the finest ten miles_ in England. Here is a river with fine meadows on each side of it, and with rising grounds on each outside of the meadows, those grounds having some hop-gardens and some pretty woods. But though I was born in this vale I must confess that the ten miles between Maidstone and Tunbridge (which the Kentish folks call the _Garden of Eden_) is a great deal finer; for here, with a river three times as big, and a vale three times as broad, there are, on rising grounds six times as broad, not only hop-gardens and beautiful woods, but immense orchards of apples, pears, plums, cherries and filberts, and these, in many cases, with gooseberries and currants and raspberries beneath; and, all taken together, the vale is really worthy of the appellation which it bears. But even this spot, which I believe to be the very finest, as to fertility and diminutive beauty, in this whole world, I, for my part, do not like so well; nay, as a spot to _live on_, I think nothing at all of it, compared with a country where high downs prevail, with here and there a large wood on the top or the side of a hill, and where you see, in the deep dells, here and there a farm-house, and here and there a village, the buildings sheltered by a group of lofty trees. This is my taste, and here, in the north of Hampshire, it has its full gratification. I like to look at the winding side of a great down, with two or three numerous flocks of sheep on it, belonging to different farms; and to see, lower down, the folds, in the fields, ready to receive them for the night. We had, when we got upon the downs, after leaving Winchester, this sort of country all the way to Whitchurch. Our point of destination was this village of Burghclere, which lies close under the north side of the lofty hill at Highclere, which is called Beacon Hill, and on the top of which there are still the marks of a Roman encampment. We saw this hill as soon as we got on Winchester Downs; and without any regard to _roads_, we _steered_ for it, as sailors do for a land-mark. Of these 13 miles (from Winchester to Whitchurch) we rode about eight or nine upon the _green-sward_, or over fields equally smooth. And here is one great pleasure of living in countries of this sort: no sloughs, no ditches, no nasty dirty lanes, and the hedges, where there are any, are more for boundary marks than for fences. Fine for hunting and coursing: no impediments; no gates to open; nothing to impede the dogs, the horses, or the view. The water is not _seen running_; but the great bed of chalk _holds it_, and the sun draws it up for the benefit of the grass and the corn; and, whatever inconvenience is experienced from the necessity of deep wells, and of driving sheep and cattle far to water, is amply made up for by the goodness of the water, and by the complete absence of floods, of drains, of ditches and of water-furrows. As _things now are_, however, these countries have one great drawback: the poor day-labourers suffer from the want of fuel, and they have nothing but their _bare pay_. For these reasons they are greatly worse off than those of the _woodland countries_; and it is really surprising what a difference there is between the faces that you see here and the round, red faces that you see in the _wealds_ and the _forests_, particularly in Sussex, where the labourers _will_ have a _meat-pudding_ of some sort or other; and where they _will_ have _a fire_ to sit by in the winter. After steering for some time, we came down to a very fine farmhouse, which we stopped a little to admire; and I asked Richard whether _that_ was not a place to be happy in. The village, which we found to be Stoke-Charity, was about a mile lower down this little vale. Before we got to it, we overtook the owner of the farm, who knew me, though I did not know him; but when I found it was Mr. Hinton Bailey, of whom and whose farm I had heard so much, I was not at all surprised at the fineness of what I had just seen. I told him that the word _charity_, making, as it did, part of the name of this place, had nearly inspired me with boldness enough to go to the farmhouse, in the ancient style, and ask for something to eat, for that we had not yet breakfasted. He asked us to go back; but at Burghclere we were _resolved to dine_. After, however, crossing the village, and beginning again to ascend the downs, we came to a labourer's (_once a farmhouse_), where I asked the man whether he had any _bread and cheese_, and was not a little pleased to hear him say "_Yes_." Then I asked him to give us a bit, protesting that we had not yet broken our fast. He answered in the affirmative at once, though I did not talk of payment. His wife brought out the cut loaf, and a piece of Wiltshire cheese, and I took them in hand, gave Richard a good hunch, and took another for myself. I verily believe that all the pleasure of eating enjoyed by all the feeders in London in a whole year does not equal that which we enjoyed in gnawing this bread and cheese as we rode over this cold down, whip and bridle-reins in one hand, and the hunch in the other. Richard, who was purse bearer, gave the woman, by my direction, about enough to buy two quartern loaves: for she told me that they had to buy their bread _at the mill_, not being able to bake themselves for _want of fuel_; and this, as I said before, is one of the draw-backs in this sort of country. I wish every one of these people had an _American fire-place_. Here they might, then, even in these bare countries, have comfortable warmth. Rubbish of any sort would, by this means, give them warmth. I am now, at six o'clock in the morning, sitting in a room, where one of these fire-places, with very light _turf_ in it, gives as good and steady a warmth as it is possible to feel, and which room has, too, been _cured of smoking_ by this fire-place. Before we got this supply of bread and cheese, we, though in ordinary times a couple of singularly jovial companions, and seldom going a hundred yards (except going very fast) without one or the other speaking, began to grow _dull_, or rather _glum_. The way seemed long; and, when I had to speak in answer to Richard, the speaking was as brief as might be. Unfortunately, just at this critical period, one of the loops that held the straps of Richard's little portmanteau broke; and it became necessary (just before we overtook Mr. Bailey) for me to fasten the portmanteau on before me, upon my saddle. This, which was not the work of more than five minutes, would, had I had _a breakfast_, have been nothing at all, and, indeed, matter of laughter. But _now_ it was _something_. It was his "_fault_" for capering and jerking about "_so_." I jumped off, saying, "_Here!_ I'll carry it _myself_." And then I began to take off the remaining strap, pulling with great violence and in great haste. Just at this time my eyes met his, in which I saw _great surprise_; and, feeling the just rebuke, feeling heartily ashamed of myself, I instantly changed my tone and manner, cast the blame upon the saddler, and talked of the effectual means which we would take to prevent the like in future. Now, if such was the effect produced upon me by the want of food for only two or three hours; me, who had dined well the day before and eaten toast and butter the over-night; if the missing of only one breakfast, and that, too, from my own whim, while I had money in my pocket to get one at any public-house, and while I could get one only for asking for at any farm-house; if the not having breakfasted could, and under such circumstances, make me what you may call "_cross_" to a child like this, whom I must necessarily love so much, and to whom I never speak but in the very kindest manner; if this mere absence of a breakfast could thus put me _out of temper_, how great are the allowances that we ought to make for the poor creatures who, in this once happy and now miserable country, are doomed to lead a life of constant labour and of half-starvation. I suppose that, as we rode away from the cottage, we gnawed up, between us, a pound of bread and a quarter of a pound of cheese. Here was about _fivepence_ worth at present prices. Even this, which was only a mere _snap_, a mere _stay-stomach_, for us, would, for us two, come to 3_s._ a week all but a penny. How, then, gracious God! is a labouring man, his wife, and, perhaps, four or five small children, to exist upon 8_s._ or 9_s._ a week! Aye, and to find house-rent, clothing, bedding and fuel out of it? Richard and I ate here, at this snap, more, and much more, than the average of labourers, their wives and children, have to eat in a whole day, and that the labourer has to _work_ on too! When we got here to Burghclere we were again as _hungry_ as hunters. What, then, must be the life of these poor creatures? But is not the state of the country, is not the hellishness of the system, all depicted in this one disgraceful and damning fact, that the magistrates, who settle on what the _labouring poor_ ought to have to live on, ALLOW THEM LESS THAN IS ALLOWED TO FELONS IN THE GAOLS, and allow them _nothing for clothing and fuel, and house-rent_! And yet, while this is notoriously the case, while the main body of the working class in England are fed and clad and even lodged worse than felons, and are daily becoming even worse and worse off, the King is advised to tell the Parliament, and the world, that we are in a state of _unexampled prosperity_, and that this prosperity must be _permanent_, because _all the_ GREAT _interests_ are _prospering_! THE WORKING PEOPLE ARE NOT, THEN, "A _GREAT_ INTEREST"! THEY WILL BE FOUND TO BE ONE, BY-AND-BY. What is to be the _end_ of this? What can be the _end_ of it, but dreadful convulsion? What other can be produced by a system, which allows the _felon_ better food, better clothing, and better lodging than the _honest labourer_? I see that there has been a grand _humanity-meeting_ in Norfolk to assure the Parliament that these humanity-people will _back_ it in any measures that it may adopt for freeing the NEGROES. Mr. Buxton figured here, also Lord Suffield, who appear to have been the two principal actors, or _showers-off_. This same Mr. Buxton opposed the Bill intended to relieve the poor in England by breaking a little into the brewers' monopoly; and as to Lord Suffield, if he really wish to _free slaves_, let him go to Wykham in this county, where he will see some drawing, like horses, gravel to repair the roads for the stock-jobbers and dead-weight and the seat-dealers to ride smoothly on. If he go down a little further, he will see CONVICTS at PRECISELY THE SAME WORK, harnessed in JUST THE SAME WAY; but the convicts he will find hale and ruddy-cheeked, in dresses sufficiently warm, and bawling and singing; while he will find the labourers thin, ragged, shivering, dejected mortals, such as never were seen in any other country upon earth. There is not a negro in the West Indies who has not more to eat in a day, than the average of English labourers have to eat in a week, and of better food too. Colonel Wodehouse and a man of the name of Hoseason (whence came he?) who opposed this humanity-scheme talked of the sums necessary to pay the owners of the slaves. They took special care not to tell the humanity-men _to look at home for slaves to free_. No, no! that would have applied to themselves, as well as to Lord Suffield and humanity Buxton. If it were worth while to _reason_ with these people, one might ask them whether they do not think that _another war_ is likely to relieve them of all these cares, simply by making the colonies transfer their allegiance or assert their independence? But to reason with them is useless. If they can busy themselves with compassion for the negroes, while they uphold the system that makes the labourers of England more wretched, and beyond all measure more wretched, than any negro slaves are, or ever were, or ever can be, they are unworthy of anything but our contempt. But the "education" canters are the most curious fellows of all. They have seen "education," as they call it, and crimes, go on increasing together, till the gaols, though six times their former dimensions, will hardly suffice; and yet the canting creatures still cry that crimes arise from want of what they call "education!" They see the felon better fed and better clad than the honest labourer. They see this; and yet they continually cry that the crimes arise from a want of "education!" What can be the cause of this perverseness? It is not perverseness: it is _roguery_, _corruption_, and _tyranny_. The tyrant, the unfeeling tyrant, squeezes the labourers for gain's sake; and the corrupt politician and literary or tub rogue find an excuse for him by pretending that it is not want of food and clothing, but want of education, that makes the poor, starving wretches thieves and robbers. If the press, if only the press, were to do its duty, or but a tenth part of its duty, this hellish system could not go on. But it favours the system by ascribing the misery to wrong causes. The causes are these: the tax-gatherer presses the landlord; the landlord the farmer; and the farmer the labourer. Here it falls at last; and this class is made so miserable that a _felon's_ life is better than that of a _labourer_. Does there want any _other cause_ to produce crimes? But on these causes, so clear to the eye of reason, so plain from experience, the press scarcely ever says a single word; while it keeps bothering our brains about education and morality; and about ignorance and immorality leading to _felonies_. To be sure immorality leads to felonies. Who does not know that? But who is to expect morality in a half-starved man, who is whipped if he do not work, though he has not, for his whole day's food, so much as I and my little boy snapped up in six or seven minutes upon Stoke-Charity Down? Aye! but if the press were to ascribe the increase of crimes to the true causes it must _go further back_. It must go to the _cause of the taxes_. It must go to the debt, the dead-weight, the thundering standing army, the enormous sinecures, pensions, and grants; and this would suit but a very small part of a _press_ which lives and thrives principally by one or the other of these. As with the press, so is it with Mr. Brougham and all such politicians. They stop short, or, rather, they begin in the middle. They attempt to prevent the evils of the deadly ivy by cropping off, or, rather, bruising a little, a few of its leaves. They do not assail even its branches, while they appear to look upon the _trunk_ as something _too sacred_ even to be _looked at_ with vulgar eyes. Is not the injury recently done to about _forty thousand poor families_ in and near Plymouth, by the Small-note Bill, a thing that Mr. Brougham ought to think about before he thinks anything more about _educating_ those poor families? Yet will he, when he again meets the Ministers, say a word about this monstrous evil? I am afraid that no Member will say a word about it; but I am rather more than afraid that _he_ will not. And _why_? Because, if he reproach the Ministers with this crying cruelty, they will ask him first how this is to be prevented without a repeal of the Small-note Bill (by which Peel's Bill was partly repealed); then they will ask him, how the prices are to be kept up without the small-notes; then they will say, "Does the honourable and learned Gentleman _wish to see wheat at four shillings a bushel again_?" B. No (looking at Mr. Western and Daddy Coke), no, no, no! Upon my honour, no! MIN. Does the honourable and learned Gentleman wish to see Cobbett again at county meetings, and to see petitions again coming from those meetings, calling for a reduction of the interest of the...? B. No, no, no, upon my soul, no! MIN. Does the honourable and learned Gentleman wish to see that "_equitable_ adjustment," which Cobbett has a thousand times declared can never take place without an application, to new purposes, of that great mass of public property, commonly called Church property? B. (Almost bursting with rage). How _dare_ the honourable gentlemen to suppose me capable of such a thought? MIN. We suppose nothing. We only ask the question; and we ask it, because to put an end to the small-notes would inevitably produce all these things; and it is impossible to have small-notes to the extent necessary to _keep up prices_, without having, now-and-then, _breaking banks_. Banks cannot break without _producing misery_; you must have the _consequence_ if you will have the _cause_. The honourable and learned Gentleman wants the feast without the reckoning. In short, is the honourable and learned Gentleman for putting an end to "_public credit_"? B. No, no, no, no! MIN. Then would it not be better for the honourable and learned Gentleman to _hold his tongue_? All men of sense and sincerity will at once answer this last question in the affirmative. They will all say that this is not _opposition_ to the Ministers. The Ministers do not _wish_ to see 40,000 families, nor any families at all (who give them _no real annoyance_), reduced to misery; they do not _wish_ to cripple their own tax-payers; very far from it. If they could carry on the debt and dead-weight and place and pension and barrack system, without reducing any _quiet_ people to misery, they would like it exceedingly. But they _do_ wish to carry on that system; and he does not _oppose_ them who does not endeavour to put an end to the system. This is done by nobody in Parliament; and, therefore, there is, in fact, _no opposition_; and this is felt by the whole nation; and this is the reason why _the people_ now take so little interest in what is said and done in Parliament, compared to that which they formerly took. This is the reason why there is no man, or men, whom the people seem to care at all about. A great portion of the people now clearly understand the nature and effects of the system; they are not now to be deceived by speeches and professions. If Pitt and Fox had _now to start_, there would be no "Pittites" and "Foxites." Those happy days of political humbug are gone for ever. The "gentlemen _opposite_" are opposite only as to mere _local position_. They sit on the opposite side of the House: that's all. In every other respect they are like parson and clerk; or, perhaps, rather more like the rooks and jackdaws: one _caw_ and the other _chatter_; but both have the same object in view: both are in pursuit of the same sort of diet. One set is, to be sure, IN place, and the other OUT; but, though the rooks keep the jackdaws on the inferior branches, these latter would be as clamorous as the rooks themselves against _felling the tree_; and just as clamorous would the "gentlemen opposite" be against any one who should propose to put down the system itself. And yet, unless you do _that_, things must go on in the present way, and _felons_ must be _better fed_ than _honest labourers_; and starvation and thieving and robbing and gaol-building and transporting and hanging and penal laws must go on increasing, as they have gone on from the day of the establishment of the debt to the present hour. Apropos of _penal laws_, Doctor Black (of the Morning Chronicle) is now filling whole columns with very just remarks on the new and terrible law, which makes the taking of an apple _felony_; but he says not a word about the _silence_ of Sir Jammy (the humane _code-softener_) upon this subject! The "_humanity_ and _liberality_" of the Parliament have relieved men addicted to _fraud_ and to _certain other crimes_ from the disgrace of the pillory, and they have, since Castlereagh cut his own throat, relieved _self-slayers_ from the disgrace of the cross-road burial; but the same Parliament, amidst all the workings of this rare humanity and liberality, have made it _felony to take an apple off a tree_, which last year was a trivial trespass, and was formerly no offence at all! However, even this _is necessary_, as long as this bank-note system continue in its present way; and all complaints about severity of laws, levelled at the poor, are useless and foolish; and these complaints are even base in those who do their best to uphold a system which has brought _the honest labourer to be fed worse than the felon_. What, short of such laws, can prevent _starving men_ from coming to take away the dinners of those who have plenty? "_Education_"! Despicable cant and nonsense! What education, what moral precepts, can quiet the gnawings and ragings of hunger? Looking, now, back again for a minute to the little village of _Stoke-Charity_, the name of which seems to indicate that its rents formerly belonged wholly to the poor and indigent part of the community: it is near to Winchester, that grand scene of ancient learning, piety, and munificence. Be this as it may, the parish formerly contained ten farms, and it now contains but two, which are owned by Mr. Hinton Bailey and his nephew, and, therefore, which may probably become _one_. There used to be ten well-fed families in this parish at any rate: these, taking five to a family, made fifty well-fed people. And now all are half-starved, except the curate and the two families. The _blame_ is not the land-owner's; it is nobody's; it is due to the infernal _funding_ and _taxing_ system, which _of necessity_ drives property into large masses in order to _save itself_; which crushes little proprietors down into labourers; and which presses them down in that state, there takes their wages from them and makes them _paupers_, their share of food and raiment being taken away to support debt and dead-weight and army and all the rest of the enormous expenses which are required to sustain this intolerable system. Those, therefore, are fools or hypocrites who affect to wish to better the lot of the poor labourers and manufacturers, while they, at the same time, either actively or passively, uphold the system which is the manifest cause of it. Here is a system which, clearly as the nose upon your face, you see taking away the little gentleman's estate, the little farmer's farm, the poor labourer's meat-dinner and Sunday-coat; and while you see this so plainly, you, fool or hypocrite, as you are, cry out for supporting the system that causes it all! Go on, base wretch; but remember that of such a progress dreadful must be the end. The day will come when millions of long-suffering creatures will be in a state that they and you now little dream of. All that we now behold of _combinations_, and the like, are mere _indications_ of what the great body of the suffering people _feel_, and of the thoughts that are passing in their minds. The _coaxing_ work of _schools_ and _tracts_ will only add to what would be quite enough without them. There is not a labourer in the whole country who does not see to the bottom of this _coaxing_ work. They are _not deceived_ in this respect. Hunger has opened their eyes. I'll engage that there is not, even in this obscure village of Stoke-Charity, one single creature, however forlorn, who does not understand all about the _real motives_ of the school and the tract and the Bible affair as well as Butterworth, or Rivington, or as Joshua Watson himself. Just after we had finished the bread and cheese, we crossed the turnpike road that goes from Basingstoke to Stockbridge; and Mr. Bailey had told us that we were then to bear away to our right, and go to the end of a wood (which we saw one end of), and keep round with that wood, or coppice, as he called it, to our left; but we, seeing Beacon Hill more to the left, and resolving to go, as nearly as possible, in a straight line to it, steered directly over the fields; that is to say, pieces of ground from 30 to 100 acres in each. But a hill which we had to go over had here hidden from our sight a part of this "coppice," which consists, perhaps, of 150 or 200 acres, and which we found sweeping round, in a crescent-like form so far, from towards our left, as to bring our land-mark over the coppice at about the mid-length of the latter. Upon this discovery we slackened sail; for this coppice might be a mile across; and though the bottom was sound enough, being a coverlet of flints upon a bed of chalk, the underwood was too high and too thick for us to face, being, as we were, at so great a distance from the means of obtaining a fresh supply of clothes. Our leather leggings would have stood anything; but our coats were of the common kind; and before we saw the other side of the coppice we should, I dare say, have been as ragged as forest-ponies in the month of March. In this dilemma I stopped and looked at the coppice. Luckily two boys, who had been cutting sticks (to _sell_, I dare say, at least _I hope so_), made their appearance, at about half a mile off, on the side for the coppice. Richard galloped off to the boys, from whom he found that in one part of the coppice there was a road cut across, the point of entrance into which road they explained to him. This was to us what the discovery of a canal across the isthmus of Darien would be to a ship in the Gulf of Mexico wanting to get into the Pacific without doubling Cape Horne. A beautiful road we found it. I should suppose the best part of a mile long, perfectly straight, the surface sound and smooth, about eight feet wide, the whole length seen at once, and, when you are at one end, the other end seeming to be hardly a yard wide. When we got about half-way, we found a road that crossed this. These roads are, I suppose, cut for the hunters. They are very pretty, at any rate, and we found this one very convenient; for it cut our way short by a full half mile. From this coppice to Whitchurch is not more than about four miles, and we soon reached it, because here you begin to descend into the _vale_, in which this little town lies, and through which there runs that _stream_ which turns the mill of 'Squire Portal, and which mill makes the Bank of England Note-Paper! Talk of the Thames and the Hudson with their forests of masts; talk of the Nile and the Delaware bearing the food of millions on their bosoms; talk of the Ganges and the Mississippi sending forth over the world their silks and their cottons; talk of the Rio de la Plata and the other rivers, their beds pebbled with silver and gold and diamonds. What, as to their effect on the condition of mankind, as to the virtues, the vices, the enjoyments and the sufferings of men; what are all these rivers put together compared with the _river of Whitchurch_, which a man of threescore may jump across dry-shod, which moistens a quarter of a mile wide of poor, rushy meadow, which washes the skirts of the park and game preserves of that bright patrician who wedded the daughter of Hanson, the attorney and late solicitor to the Stamp-Office, and which is, to look at it, of far less importance than any gutter in the Wen! Yet this river, by merely turning a wheel, which wheel sets some rag-tearers and grinders and washers and re-compressers in motion, has produced a greater effect on the condition of men than has been produced on that condition by all the other rivers, all the seas, all the mines and all the continents in the world. The discovery of America, and the consequent discovery and use of vast quantities of silver and gold, did, indeed, produce great effects on the nations of Europe. They changed the value of money, and caused, as all such changes must, _a transfer of property_, raising up new families and pulling down old ones, a transfer very little favourable either to _morality_, or to real and _substantial liberty_. But this cause worked _slowly_; its consequences came on by slow _degrees_; it made a transfer of property, but it made that transfer in so small a degree, and it left the property quiet in the hands of the new possessor _for so long a time_, that the effect was not violent, and was not, at any rate, such as to uproot possessors by whole districts, as the hurricane uproots the forests. Not so the product of the little sedgy rivulet of Whitchurch! It has, in the short space of a hundred and thirty-one years, and, indeed, in the space of the last _forty_, caused greater changes as to property than had been caused by all other things put together in the long course of seven centuries, though during that course there had been a sweeping, confiscating Protestant reformation. Let us look back to the place where I started on this present rural ride. Poor old Baron Maseres, succeeded at Reigate by little Parson Fellowes, and at Betchworth (three miles on my road) by Kendrick, is no bad instance to begin with; for the Baron was nobly descended, though from French ancestors. At Albury, fifteen miles on my road, Mr. Drummond (a banker) is in the seat of one of the Howards, and close by he has bought the estate, just pulled down the house, and blotted out the memory of the Godschalls. At Chilworth, two miles further down the same vale, and close under St. Martha's Hill, Mr. Tinkler, a powder-maker (succeeding Hill, another powder-maker, who had been a breeches-maker at Hounslow), has got the old mansion and the estate of the old Duchess of Marlborough, who frequently resided in what was then a large quadrangular mansion, but the remains of which now serve as out farm-buildings and a farmhouse, which I found inhabited by a poor labourer and his family, the farm being in the hands of the powder-maker, who does not find the once noble seat good enough for him. Coming on to Waverley Abbey, there is Mr. Thompson, a merchant, succeeding the Orby Hunters and Sir Robert Rich. Close adjoining, Mr. Laing, a West India dealer of some sort, has stepped into the place of the lineal descendants of Sir William Temple. At Farnham the park and palace remain in the hands of a Bishop of Winchester, as they have done for about eight hundred years: but why is this? Because they are public property; because they cannot, without express laws, be transferred. Therefore the product of the rivulet of Whitchurch has had no effect upon the ownership of these, which are still in the hands of a Bishop of Winchester; not of a William of Wykham, to be sure; but still, in those of a bishop, at any rate. Coming on to old Alresford (twenty miles from Farnham) Sheriff, the son of a Sheriff, who was a Commissary in the American war, has succeeded the Gages. Two miles further on, at Abbotston (down on the side of the Itchen) Alexander Baring has succeeded the heirs and successors of the Duke of Bolton, the remains of whose noble mansion I once saw here. Not above a mile higher up, the same Baring has, at the Grange, with its noble mansion, park and estate, succeeded the heirs of Lord Northington; and at only about two miles further, Sir Thomas Baring, at Stratton Park, has succeeded the Russells in the ownership of the estates of Stratton and Micheldover, which were once the property of Alfred the Great! Stepping back, and following my road, down by the side of the meadows of the beautiful river Itchen, and coming to Easton, I look across to Martyr's Worthy, and there see (as I observed before) the Ogles succeeded by a general or a colonel somebody; but who, or whence, I cannot learn. This is all in less than four score miles, from Reigate even to this place, where I now am. Oh! mighty rivulet of Whitchurch! All our properties, all our laws, all our manners, all our minds, you have changed! This, which I have noticed, has all taken place within forty, and most of it within _ten_ years. The _small gentry_, to about the _third_ rank upwards (considering there to be five ranks from the smallest gentry up to the greatest nobility), are _all gone_, nearly to a man, and the small farmers along with them. The Barings alone have, I should think, swallowed up thirty or forty of these small gentry without perceiving it. They, indeed, swallow up the biggest race of all; but innumerable small fry slip down unperceived, like caplins down the throats of the sharks, while these latter _feel_ only the codfish. It frequently happens, too, that a big gentleman or nobleman, whose estate has been big enough to resist for a long while, and who has swilled up many caplin-gentry, goes down the throat of the loan-dealer with all the caplins in his belly. Thus the Whitchurch rivulet goes on, shifting property from hand to hand. The big, in order to save themselves from being "_swallowed up quick_" (as we used to be taught to say in our Church Prayers against Buonaparte), make use of their _voices_ to get, through place, pension, or sinecure, something back from the taxers. Others of them _fall in love_ with the _daughters_ and _widows_ of paper-money people, big brewers, and the like; and sometimes their daughters _fall in love_ with the paper-money people's sons, or the fathers of those sons; and, whether they be _Jews_, or not, seems to be little matter with this all-subduing passion of love. But the _small gentry_ have no resource. While _war_ lasted, "_glorious_ war," there was a resource; but _now_, alas! not only is there no war, but there is _no hope of war_; and not a few of them will actually come to the _parish-book_. There is no place for them in the army, church, navy, customs, excise, pension-list, or anywhere else. All these are now wanted by "their _betters_." A stock-jobber's family will not look at such penniless things. So that while they have been the active, the zealous, the efficient instruments, in compelling the working classes to submit to half-starvation, they have at any rate been brought to the most abject ruin themselves; for which I most heartily thank God. The "harvest of war" is never to return without a total blowing up of the paper-system. Spain must belong to France, St. Domingo must pay her tribute. America must be paid for slaves taken away in war, she must have Florida, she must go on openly and avowedly making a navy for the purpose of humbling us; and all this, and ten times more, if France and America should choose; and yet we can have _no war_ as long as the paper-system last; and, if _that cease_, then _what is to come_! _Burghclere, Sunday Morning, 6th November._ It has been fine all the week until to-day, when we intended to set off for Hurstbourn-Tarrant, vulgarly called Uphusband, but the rain seems as if it would stop us. From Whitchurch to within two miles of this place it is the same sort of country as between Winchester and Whitchurch. High, chalk bottom, open downs or large fields, with here and there a farmhouse in a dell sheltered by lofty trees, which, to my taste, is the most pleasant situation in the world. This has been, with Richard, one whole week of hare-hunting, and with me, three days and a half. The weather has been amongst the finest that I ever saw, and Lord Caernarvon's preserves fill the country with hares, while these hares invite us to ride about and to see his park and estate, at this fine season of the year, in every direction. We are now on the north side of that Beacon Hill for which we steered last Sunday. This makes part of a chain of lofty chalk-hills and downs, which divides all the lower part of Hampshire from Berkshire, though the ancient ruler, owner, of the former took a little strip all along on the flat, on this side of the chain, in order, I suppose, to make the ownership of the hills themselves the more clear of all dispute; just as the owner of a field-hedge and bank owns also the ditch on his neighbour's side. From these hills you look, at one view, over the whole of Berkshire, into Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire and Wiltshire, and you can see the Isle of Wight and the sea. On this north side the chalk soon ceases, and the sand and clay begin, and the oak-woods cover a great part of the surface. Amongst these is the farmhouse in which we are, and from the warmth and good fare of which we do not mean to stir until we can do it without the chance of a wet skin. This rain has given me time to look at the newspapers of about a week old. Oh, oh! The Cotton Lords are tearing! Thank God for that! The Lords of the Anvil are snapping! Thank God for that too! They have kept poor souls, then, in a heat of 84 degrees to little purpose after all. The "great interests" mentioned in the King's Speech do not, _then_, all continue to flourish! The "prosperity" was not, then, "permanent," though the King was advised to assert so positively that it was! "Anglo-Mexican and Pasco-Peruvian" fall in price, and the Chronicle assures me that "the respectable owners of the Mexican Mining shares mean to take measures to protect their _property_." Indeed! Like _protecting_ the Spanish Bonds, I suppose? Will the Chronicle be so good as to tell us the names of these "_respectable_ persons"? Doctor Black must know their names; or else he could not know them to be _respectable_. If the parties be those that I have heard, these mining works may possibly operate with them as an emetic, and make them throw up a part at least of what they have taken down. There has, I see, at New York, been that confusion which I, four months ago, said would and must take place; that breaking of merchants and all the ruin which, in such a case, spreads itself about, ruining families and producing fraud and despair. Here will be, between the two countries, an interchange of cause and effect, proceeding from the dealings in _cotton_, until, first and last, two or three hundred thousands of persons have, at one spell of paper-money work, been made to drink deep of misery. I pity none but the poor English creatures, who are compelled to work on the wool of this accursed weed, which has done so much mischief to England. The slaves who cultivate and gather the cotton are well fed. They do not suffer. The sufferers are these who spin it and weave it and colour it, and the wretched beings who cover with it those bodies which, as in the time of old Fortescue, ought to be "clothed throughout in good woollens." One newspaper says that Mr. Huskisson is gone to Paris, and thinks it _likely_ that he will endeavour to "inculcate in the mind of the Bourbons wise principles of _free trade_!" What the devil next! Persuade them, I suppose, that it is for _their good_ that English goods should be admitted into France and into St. Domingo with little or no duty? Persuade them to make a treaty of commerce with him; and, in short, persuade them to make _France help to pay the interest of our debt and dead-weight_, lest our system of paper should go to pieces, and lest that should be followed by _a radical reform_, which reform would be injurious to "the monarchical principle!" This newspaper politician does, however, _think_ that the Bourbons will be "too dull" to comprehend these "_enlightened_ and _liberal_" notions; and I think so too. I think the Bourbons, or, rather, those who will speak for them, will say: "No thank you. You contracted your debt without our participation; you made your _dead-weight_ for your own purposes; the seizure of our museums and the loss of our frontier towns followed your victory of Waterloo, though we were 'your Allies' at the time; you made us pay an enormous Tribute after that battle, and kept possession of part of France till we had paid it; you _wished_, the other day, to keep us out of Spain, and you, Mr. Huskisson, in a speech at Liverpool, called our deliverance of the King of Spain an _unjust and unprincipled act of aggression_, while Mr. Canning _prayed to God_ that we might not succeed. No thank you, Mr. Huskisson, no. No coaxing, Sir: we saw, then, too clearly the _advantage we derived from your having a debt and a dead weight_ to wish to assist in relieving you from either. 'Monarchical principle' here, or 'monarchical principle' there, we know that your mill-stone debt is our best security. We like to have your wishes, your prayers, and your abuse against us, rather than your _subsidies_ and your _fleets_: and so farewell, Mr. Huskisson: if you like, the English may drink French wine; but whether they do or not, the French shall not wear your rotten cottons. And as a last word, how did you maintain the 'monarchical principle,' the 'paternal principle,' or as Castlereagh called it, the 'social system,' when you called that an unjust and unprincipled aggression which put an end to the bargain by which the convents and other church-property of Spain were to be transferred to the Jews and Jobbers of London? Bon jour, Monsieur Huskisson, ci-devant membre et orateur du club de quatre vingt neuf!" If they do not actually say this to him, this is what they will think; and that is, as to the effect, precisely the same thing. It is childishness to suppose that any nation will act from a desire of _serving all other nations, or any one other nation, as well as itself_. It will make, unless compelled, no compact by which it does not think itself _a gainer_; and amongst its gains it must, and always does, reckon the injury to its rivals. It is a stupid idea that _all nations are to gain_ by anything. Whatever is the gain of one must, in some way or other, be a loss to another. So that this new project of "free trade" and "mutual gain" is as pure a humbug as that which the newspapers carried on during the "glorious days" of loans, when they told us, at every loan, that the bargain was "equally advantageous to the contractors and to the public!" The fact is, the "free trade" project is clearly the effect of a _consciousness of our weakness_. As long as we felt _strong_, we felt _bold_, we had no thought of _conciliating_ the world; we upheld a system of _exclusion_, which long experience proved to be founded in _sound policy_. But we now find that our debts and our loads of various sorts cripple us. We feel our incapacity for the _carrying of trade sword in hand_: and so we have given up all our old maxims, and are endeavouring to persuade the world that we are anxious to enjoy no advantages that are not enjoyed also by our neighbours. Alas! the world sees very clearly the cause of all this; and the world _laughs at us_ for our imaginary cunning. My old doggrel, that used to make me and my friends laugh in Long Island, is precisely pat to this case. When his maw was stuffed with paper, How JOHN BULL did prance and caper! How he foam'd and how he roar'd: How his neighbours all he gored! How he scrap'd the ground and hurl'd Dirt and filth on all the world! But JOHN BULL of paper empty, Though in midst of peace and plenty, Is modest grown as worn-out sinner, As Scottish laird that wants a dinner; As WILBERFORCE, become content A rotten burgh to represent; As BLUE and BUFF, when, after hunting On Yankee coasts their "_bits of bunting_," Came softly back across the seas, And silent were as mice in cheese. Yes, the whole world, and particularly the French and the Yankees, see very clearly the _course_ of this fit of modesty and of liberality into which we have so recently fallen. They know well that a _war_ would play the very devil with our national faith. They know, in short, that no Ministers in their senses will think of supporting the paper-system through another war. They know well that no Ministers that now exist, or are likely to exist, will venture to endanger the paper-system; and therefore they know that (for England) they may now do just what they please. When the French were about to invade Spain, Mr. Canning said that his last despatch on the subject was to be understood as a _protest_ on the part of England against permanent occupation of any part of Spain by France. There the French are, however; and at the end of two years and a half he says that he knows nothing about any intention that they have to quit Spain, or any part of it. Why, Saint Domingo _was_ independent. We had traded with it as an independent state. Is it not clear that if we had said the word (and had been known to be able to _arm_), France would not have attempted to treat that fine and rich country as a colony? Mark how wise this measure of France! How _just_, too; to obtain by means of a tribute from the St. Domingoians compensation for the _loyalists_ of that country! Was this done with regard to the loyalists of _America_ in the reign of the good jubilee George III.? Oh, no! Those loyalists had to be paid, and many of them have even yet, at the end of more than half a century, to be paid out of taxes raised on _us_, for the losses occasioned by their disinterested loyalty! This was a masterstroke on the part of France; she gets about seven millions sterling in the way of tribute; she makes that rich island yield to her great commercial advantages; and she, at the same time, paves the way for effecting one of two objects; namely, getting the island back again, or throwing our islands into confusion whenever it shall be her interest to do it. This might have been prevented by _a word_ from us if we had been ready for _war_. But we are grown _modest_; we are grown _liberal_; we do not want to engross that which fairly belongs to our neighbours! We have undergone a change somewhat like that which marriage produces on a blustering fellow who while single can but just clear his teeth. This change is quite surprising, and especially by the time that the second child comes the man is _loaded_; he looks like a loaded man; his voice becomes so soft and gentle compared to what it used to be. Just such are the effects of _our load_: but the worst of it is our neighbours are _not_ thus loaded. However, far be it from me to _regret_ this, or any part of it. The load is the people's best friend. If that could, _without reform_: if that could be shaken off, leaving the seat-men and the parsons in their present state, I would not live in England another day! And I say this with as much seriousness as if I were upon my death-bed. The wise men of the newspapers are for a repeal of the _Corn Laws_. With all my heart. I will join anybody in a petition for their repeal. But this will not be done. We shall stop short of this extent of "liberality," let what may be the consequence to the manufacturers. The Cotton Lords must all go, to the last man, rather than a repeal, these laws will take place: and of this the newspaper wise men may be assured. The farmers can but just rub along now, with all their high prices and low wages. What would be their state, and that of their landlords, if the wheat were to come down again to 4, 5, or even 6 shillings a bushels? Universal agricultural bankruptcy would be the almost instant consequence. Many of them are now deep in debt from the effects of 1820, 1821, and 1822. One more year like 1822 would have broken the whole mass up, and left the lands to be cultivated, under the overseers, for the benefit of the paupers. Society would have been nearly dissolved, and the state of nature would have returned. The Small-Note Bill, co-operating with the Corn Laws, have given a respite, and nothing more. This Bill must remain _efficient_, paper-money must cover the country, and the corn-laws must remain in force; or an "equitable adjustment" must take place; or, to a state of nature this country must return. What, then, as _I want_ a repeal of the corn-laws, and also _want_ to get rid of the paper-money, I must want to see this return to a state of nature? By no means. I want the "equitable adjustment," and I am quite sure that no adjustment can be _equitable_ which does not apply _every penny's worth of public property_ to the payment of the fund-holders and dead-weight and the like. Clearly just and reasonable as this is, however, the very mention of it makes the FIRE-SHOVELS, and some others, half mad. It makes them storm and rant and swear like Bedlamites. But it is curious to hear them talk of the impracticability of it; when they all know that, by only two or three Acts of Parliament, Henry VIII. did ten times as much as it would now, I hope, be necessary to do. If the duty were imposed _on me_, no statesman, legislator or lawyer, but a simple citizen, I think I could, in less than twenty-four hours, draw up an Act that would give satisfaction to, I will not say _every man_, but to, at least, ninety-nine out of every hundred; an Act that would put all affairs of money and of religion to rights at once; but that would, I must confess, soon take from us that amiable _modesty_, of which I have spoken above, and which is so conspicuously shown in our works of free trade and liberality. The weather is clearing up; our horses are saddled, and we are off. RIDE, FROM BURGHCLERE TO PETERSFIELD. _Hurstbourne Tarrant (or Uphusband), Monday, 7th November 1825._ We came off from Burghclere yesterday afternoon, crossing Lord Caernarvon's park, going out of it on the west side of Beacon Hill, and sloping away to our right over the downs towards Woodcote. The afternoon was singularly beautiful. The downs (even the poorest of them) are perfectly green; the sheep on the downs look, this year, like fatting sheep: we came through a fine flock of ewes, and, looking round us, we saw, all at once, seven flocks, on different parts of the downs, each flock on an average containing at least 500 sheep. It is about six miles from Burghclere to this place; and we made it about twelve; not in order to avoid the turnpike-road, but because we do not ride about to _see_ turnpike-roads; and, moreover, because I had seen this most monstrously hilly turnpike-road before. We came through a village called Woodcote, and another called Binley. I never saw any inhabited places more recluse than these. Yet into these the all-searching eye of the taxing Thing reaches. Its Exciseman can tell it what is doing even in the little odd corner of Binley; for even there I saw, over the door of a place, not half so good as the place in which my fowls roost, "_Licensed to deal in tea and tobacco_." Poor, half-starved wretches of Binley! The hand of taxation, the collection for the sinecures and pensions, must fix its nails even in them, who really appeared too miserable to be called by the name of _people_. Yet there was one whom the taxing Thing had licensed (good God! _licensed!_) to serve out cat-lap to these wretched creatures! And our impudent and ignorant newspaper scribes talk of the _degraded state of the people of Spain_! Impudent impostors! Can they show a group so wretched, so miserable, so truly enslaved as this, in all Spain? No: and those of them who are not sheer fools know it well. But there would have been misery equal to this in Spain if the Jews and Jobbers could have carried the Bond-scheme into effect. The people of Spain were, through the instrumentality of patriot loan-makers, within an inch of being made as "enlightened" as the poor, starving things of Binley. They would soon have had people "licensed" to make them pay the Jews for permission to chew tobacco, or to have a light in their dreary abodes. The people of Spain were preserved from this by the French army, for which the Jews cursed the French army; and the same army put an end to those "bonds," by means of which _pious_ Protestants hoped to be able to get at the convents in Spain, and thereby put down "idolatry" in that country. These bonds seem now not to be worth a farthing; and so after all the Spanish people will have no one "licensed" by the Jews to make them pay for turning the fat of their sheep into candles and soap. These poor creatures that I behold here _pass their lives amidst flocks of sheep_; but never does a morsel of mutton enter their lips. A labouring man told me, at Binley, that he had not tasted meat since harvest; and his looks vouched for the statement. Let the Spaniards come and look at this poor, shotten-herring of a creature; and then let them estimate what is due to a set of "enlightening" and loan-making "patriots." Old Fortescue says that "the English are clothed in good woollens throughout," and that they have "plenty of flesh of all sorts to eat." Yes; but at this time the nation was not mortgaged. The "enlightening" patriots would have made Spain what England now is. The people must never more, after a few years, have tasted mutton, though living surrounded with flocks of sheep. _Easton, near Winchester, Wednesday Evening, 9th Nov._ I intended to go from Uphusband to Stonehenge, thence to Old Sarum, and thence through the New Forest, to Southampton and Botley, and thence across into Sussex, to see Up-Park and Cowdry House. But, then, there must be no loss of time: I must adhere to a certain route as strictly as a regiment on a march. I had written the route: and Laverstock, after seeing Stonehenge and Old Sarum, was to be the resting-place of yesterday (Tuesday); but when it came, it brought rain with it after a white frost on Monday. It was likely to rain again to-day. It became necessary to change the route, as I must get to London by a certain day; and as the first day, on the new route, brought us here. I had been three times at Uphusband before, and had, as my readers will, perhaps, recollect, described the bourn here, or the _brook_. It has, in general, no water at all in it from August to March. There is the bed of a little river; but no water. In March, or thereabouts, the water begins to boil up in thousands upon thousands of places, in the little narrow meadows, just above the village; that is to say a little higher up the valley. When the chalk hills are full; when the chalk will hold no more water; then it comes out at the lowest spots near these immense hills and becomes a rivulet first, and then a river. But until this visit to Uphusband (or Hurstbourne Tarrant, as the map calls it), little did I imagine that this rivulet, dry half the year, was the head of the river Teste, which, after passing through Stockbridge and Rumsey, falls into the sea near Southampton. We had to follow the bed of this river to Bourne; but there the water begins to appear; and it runs all the year long about a mile lower down. Here it crosses Lord Portsmouth's out-park, and our road took us the same way to the village called Down Husband, the scene (as the broad-sheet tells us) of so many of that Noble Lord's ringing and cart-driving exploits. Here we crossed the London and Andover road, and leaving Andover to our right and Whitchurch to our left, we came on to Long Parish, where, crossing the water, we came up again on that high country which continues all across to Winchester. After passing Bullington, Sutton, and Wonston, we veered away from Stoke-Charity, and came across the fields to the high down, whence you see Winchester, or rather the Cathedral; for at this distance you can distinguish nothing else clearly. As we had to come to this place, which is three miles _up_ the river Itchen from Winchester, we crossed the Winchester and Basingstoke road at King's Worthy. This brought us, before we crossed the river, along through Martyr's Worthy, so long the seat of the Ogles, and now, as I observed in my last Register, sold to a general or colonel. These Ogles had been deans, I believe; or prebends, or something of that sort: and the one that used to live here had been, and was when he died, an "admiral." However, this last one, "Sir Charles," the loyal address mover, is my man for the present. We saw, down by the water-side, opposite to "Sir Charles's" _late_ family mansion, a beautiful strawberry garden, capable of being watered by a branch of the Itchen which comes close by it, and which is, I suppose, brought there on purpose. Just by, on the greensward, under the shade of very fine trees, is an alcove, wherein to sit to eat the strawberries, coming from the little garden just mentioned, and met by bowls of cream coming from a little milk-house, shaded by another clump a little lower down the stream. What delight! What a terrestrial paradise! "Sir Charles" might be very frequently in this paradise, while that Sidmouth, whose Bill he so applauded, had many men shut up in loathsome dungeons! Ah, well! "Sir Charles," those very men may, perhaps, at this moment, envy neither you nor Sidmouth; no, nor Sidmouth's son and heir, even though Clerk of the Pells. At any rate it is not likely that "Sir Charles" will sit again in this paradise contemplating another _loyal address_, to carry to a county meeting ready engrossed on parchment, to be presented by Fleming and supported by Lockhart and the "Hampshire parsons." I think I saw, as I came along, the new owner of the estate. It seems that he bought it "stock and fluke" as the sailors call it; that is to say, that he bought moveables and the whole. He appeared to me to be a keen man. I can't find out where he comes from, or what he or his father has been. I like to see the revolution going on; but I like to be able to trace the parties a little more _closely_. "Sir Charles," the loyal address gentleman, lives in London, I hear. I will, I think, call upon him (if I can find him out) when I get back, and ask how he does now? There is one Hollest, a George Hollest, who figured pretty bigly on that same loyal address day. This man is become quite an inoffensive harmless creature. If we were to have another county meeting, he would not, I think, threaten to put the sash down upon anybody's head! Oh! Peel, Peel, Peel! Thy Bill, oh, Peel, did sicken them so! Let us, oh, thou offspring of the great Spinning Jenny promoter, who subscribed ten thousand pounds towards the late "glorious" war; who was, after that, made a Baronet, and whose biographers (in the Baronetage) tell the world that he had a "presentiment that he should be the founder of a family." Oh, thou, thou great Peel, do thou let us have only two more years of thy Bill! Or, oh, great Peel, Minister of the interior, do thou let us have repeal of Corn Bill! Either will do, great Peel. We shall then see such _modest_ 'squires, and parsons looking so queer! However, if thou wilt not listen to us, great Peel, we must, perhaps (and only perhaps), wait a little longer. It is sure to come _at last_, and to come, too, in the most efficient way. The water in the Itchen is, they say, famed for its clearness. As I was crossing the river the other day, at Avington, I told Richard to look at it, and I asked him if he did not think it very clear. I now find that this has been remarked by very ancient writers. I see, in a newspaper just received, an account of dreadful fires in New Brunswick. It is curious that in my Register of the 29th October (dated from Chilworth in Surrey) I should have put a question relative to the White-Clover, the Huckleberries, or the Raspberries, which start up after the burning down of woods in America. These fires have been at two places which I saw when there were hardly any people in the whole country; and if there never had been any people there to this day it would have been a good thing for England. Those colonies are a dead expense, without a possibility of their ever being of any use. There are, I see, a church and a barrack destroyed. And why a barrack? What! were there bayonets wanted already to keep the people in order? For as to an _enemy_, where was he to come from? And if there really be an enemy anywhere there about, would it not be a wise way to leave the worthless country to him, to use it after his own way? I was at that very Fredericton, where they say thirty houses and thirty-nine barns have now been burnt. I can remember when there was no more thought of there ever being a barn there than there is now thought of there being economy in our Government. The English money used to be spent prettily in that country. What do _we_ want with armies and barracks and chaplains in those woods? What does anybody want with them; but _we_, above all the rest of the world? There is nothing there, no house, no barrack, no wharf, nothing, but what is bought with taxes raised on the half-starving people of England. What do _we_ want with these wildernesses? Ah! but they are wanted by creatures who will not work in England, and whom this fine system of ours sends out into those woods to live in idleness upon the fruit of English labour. The soldier, the commissary, the barrack-master, all the whole tribe, no matter under what _name_; what keeps them? They are paid "by Government;" and I wish that we constantly bore in mind that the "Government" pays _our_ money. It is, to be sure, sorrowful to hear of such fires and such dreadful effects proceeding from them; but to me it is beyond all measure _more sorrowful_ to see _the labourers of England worse fed than the convicts in the gaols_; and I know very well that these worthless and jobbing colonies have assisted to bring England into this horrible state. The honest labouring man is allowed (aye, by the magistrates) less food than the felon in the gaol; and the felon is clothed and has fuel; and the labouring man has nothing allowed for these. These worthless colonies, which find places for people that the Thing provides for, have helped to produce this dreadful state in England. Therefore, any _assistance_ the sufferers should never have from me, while I could find an honest and industrious English labourer (unloaded with a family too) fed worse than a felon in the gaols; and this I can find in every part of the country. _Petersfield, Friday Evening, 11th November._ We lost another day at Easton; the whole of yesterday, it having rained the whole day; so that we could not have come an inch but in the wet. We started, therefore, this morning, coming through the Duke of Buckingham's Park, at Avington, which is close by Easton, and on the same side of the Itchen. This is a very beautiful place. The house is close down at the edge of the meadow land; there is a lawn before it, and a pond, supplied by the Itchen, at the end of the lawn, and bounded by the park on the other side. The high road, through the park, goes very near to this water; and we saw thousands of wild-ducks in the pond, or sitting round on the green edges of it, while, on one side of the pond, the hares and pheasants were moving about upon a gravel walk on the side of a very fine plantation. We looked down upon all this from a rising ground, and the water, like a looking-glass, showed us the trees, and even the animals. This is certainly one of the very prettiest spots in the world. The wild water-fowl seem to take particular delight in this place. There are a great many at Lord Caernarvon's; but there the water is much larger, and the ground and wood about it comparatively rude and coarse. Here, at Avington, everything is in such beautiful order; the lawn before the house is of the finest green, and most neatly kept; and the edge of the pond (which is of several acres) is as smooth as if it formed part of a bowling-green. To see so many _wild_-fowl in a situation where everything is in the _parterre_-order has a most pleasant effect on the mind; and Richard and I, like Pope's cock in the farmyard, could not help _thanking_ the Duke and Duchess for having generously made such ample provision for our pleasure, and that, too, merely to please us as we were passing along. Now this is the advantage of going about on _horseback_. On foot the fatigue is too great, and you go too slowly. In any sort of carriage you cannot get into the _real country places_. To travel in stage coaches is to be hurried along by force, in a box, with an air-hole in it, and constantly exposed to broken limbs, the _danger_ being much greater than that of ship-board, and the _noise_ much more disagreeable, while the _company_ is frequently not a great deal more to one's liking. From this beautiful spot we had to mount gradually the downs to the southward; but it is impossible to quit the vale of the Itchen without one more look back at it. To form a just estimate of its real value, and that of the lands near it, it is only necessary to know that from its source at Bishop's Sutton this river has, on its two banks, in the distance of nine miles (before it reaches Winchester) thirteen parish churches. There must have been some _people_ to erect these churches. It is not true, then, that Pitt and George III. _created the English nation_, notwithstanding all that the Scotch _feelosofers_ are ready to swear about the matter. In short, there can be no doubt in the mind of any rational man that in the time of the Plantagenets England was, out of all comparison, more populous than it is now. When we began to get up towards the downs, we, to our great surprise, saw them covered with _Snow_. "Sad times coming on for poor Sir Glory," said I to Richard. "Why?" said Dick. It was too cold to talk much; and, besides, a great sluggishness in his horse made us both rather serious. The horse had been too hard ridden at Burghclere, and had got cold. This made us change our route again, and instead of going over the downs towards Hambledon, in our way to see the park and the innumerable hares and pheasants of Sir Harry Featherstone, we pulled away more to the left, to go through Bramdean, and so on to Petersfield, contracting greatly our intended circuit. And, besides, I had never seen Bramdean, the spot on which, it is said, Alfred fought his last great and glorious battle with the Danes. A fine country for a battle, sure enough! We stopped at the village to bait our horses; and while we were in the public-house an Exciseman came and rummaged it all over, taking an account of the various sorts of liquor in it, having the air of a complete master of the premises, while a very pretty and modest girl waited on him to produce the divers bottles, jars, and kegs. I wonder whether Alfred had a thought of anything like this when he was clearing England from her oppressors? A little to our right, as we came along, we left the village of Kingston, where 'Squire Græme once lived, as was before related. Here, too, lived a 'Squire Ridge, a famous fox-hunter, at a great mansion, now used as a farmhouse; and it is curious enough that this 'Squire's son-in-law, one Gunner, an attorney at Bishop's Waltham, is steward to the man who now owns the estate. Before we got to Petersfield we called at an old friend's and got some bread and cheese and small beer, which we preferred to strong. In approaching Petersfield we began to descend from the high chalk-country, which (with the exception of the valleys of the Itchen and the Teste) had lasted us from Uphusband (almost the north-west point of the county) to this place, which is not far from the south-east point of it. Here we quit flint and chalk and downs, and take to sand, clay, hedges, and coppices; and here, on the verge of Hampshire, we begin again to see those endless little bubble-formed hills that we before saw round the foot of Hindhead. We have got in in very good time, and got, at the Dolphin, good stabling for our horses. The waiters and people at inns _look so hard at us_ to see us so liberal as to horse-feed, fire, candle, beds, and room, while we are so very very sparing in the article of _drink_! They seem to pity our taste. I hear people complain of the "exorbitant charges" at inns; but my wonder always is how the people can live with charging so little. Except in one single instance, I have uniformly, since I have been from home, thought the charges too low for people to live by. This long evening has given me time to look at the Star newspaper of last night; and I see that, with all possible desire to disguise the fact, there is a great "_panic_" brewing. It is impossible that this thing can go on, in its present way, for any length of time. The talk about "speculations"; that is to say, adventurous dealings, or, rather, commercial gamblings; the talk about _these_ having been the cause of the breakings and the other symptoms of approaching convulsion is the most miserable nonsense that ever was conceived in the heads of idiots. These are _effect_; not _cause_. The cause is the _Small-note Bill_, that last brilliant effort of the joint mind of Van and Castlereagh. That Bill was, as I always called it, a _respite_; and it was, and could be, nothing more. It could only put off the evil hour; it could not prevent the final arrival of that hour. To have proceeded with Peel's Bill was, indeed, to produce total convulsion. The land must have been surrendered to the overseers for the use of the poor. That is to say, without an "Equitable Adjustment." But that adjustment as prayed for by Kent, Norfolk, Hereford, and Surrey, might have taken place; it _ought_ to have taken place: and it must, at last, take place, or, convulsion must come. As to the _nature_ of this "adjustment," is it not most distinctly described in the Norfolk Petition? Is not that memorable petition now in the Journals of the House of Commons? What more is wanted than to act on the prayer of that very petition? Had I to draw up a petition again, I would not change a single word of that. It pleased Mr. Brougham's "best public instructor" to abuse that petition, and it pleased Daddy Coke and the Hickory Quaker, Gurney, and the wise barn-orator, to calumniate its author. They succeeded; but their success was but shame to them; and that author is yet destined to triumph over them. I have seen no London paper for ten days until to-day; and I should not have seen this if the waiter had not forced it upon me. I know _very nearly_ what will happen by _next May_, or thereabouts; and as to the manner in which things will work in the meanwhile, it is of far less consequence to the nation than it is what sort of weather I shall have to ride in to-morrow. One thing, however, I wish to observe, and that is, that, if any attempt be made to repeal the _Corn-Bill_, the main body of the farmers will be crushed into total ruin. I come into _contact_ with few who are not gentlemen or very substantial farmers; but I know the state of the _whole_; and I know that, even with present prices, and with _honest labourers fed worse than felons_, it is _rub-and-go_ with nineteen-twentieths of the farmers; and of this fact I beseech the ministers to be well aware. And with this fact staring them in the face! with that other horrid fact, that, by the regulations of the _magistrates_ (who cannot avoid it, mind,), the honest labourer is fed worse than the convicted felon; with the breakings of merchants, so ruinous to confiding foreigners, so disgraceful to the name of England; with the thousands of industrious and care-taking creatures reduced to beggary by bank-paper; with panic upon panic, plunging thousands upon thousands into despair: with all this notorious as the Sun at noon-day, will they again advise their Royal Master to tell the Parliament and the world that this country is "in a state of unequalled prosperity," and that this prosperity "must be permanent, because _all_ the great interests are _flourishing_?" Let them! That will not alter the _result_. I had been, for several weeks, saying that the _seeming prosperity_ was _fallacious_; that the cause of it must lead to _ultimate_ and shocking ruin; that it could not last, because it arose from causes so manifestly _fictitious_; that, in short, it was the fair-looking, but poisonous, fruit of a miserable expedient. I had been saying this for several weeks, when, out came the King's Speech and gave me and my doctrines the _lie direct_ as to every point. Well: now, then, we shall _soon see_. RURAL RIDE FROM PETERSFIELD TO KENSINGTON. _Petworth, Saturday, 12th Nov. 1825._ I was at this town in the summer of 1823, when I crossed Sussex from Worth to Huntington in my way to Titchfield in Hampshire. We came this morning from Petersfield, with an intention to cross to Horsham, and go thence to Worth, and then into Kent; but Richard's horse seemed not to be fit for so strong a bout, and therefore we resolved to bend our course homewards, and first of all to fall back upon our resources at Thursley, which we intend to reach to-morrow, going through North Chapel, Chiddingfold, and Brook. At about four miles from Petersfield we passed through a village called Rogate. Just before we came to it I asked a man who was hedging on the side of the road how much he got a day. He said, 1_s._ 6_d._: and he told me that the _allowed_ wages was 7_d._ a day for the man _and a gallon loaf a week for the rest of his family_; that is to say, one pound and two and a quarter ounces of bread for each of them; and nothing more! And this, observe, is one-third short of the bread allowance of gaols, to say nothing of the meat and clothing and lodging of the inhabitants of gaols. If the man have full work; if he get his eighteen-pence a day, the whole nine shillings does not purchase a gallon loaf each for a wife and three children, and two gallon loaves for himself. In the gaols the convicted felons have a pound and a half each of bread a day to begin with: they have some meat generally, and it has been found absolutely necessary to allow them meat when they work at the tread-mill. It is impossible to make them work at the tread-mill without it. However, let us take the bare allowance of bread allowed in the gaols. This allowance is, for five people, fifty-two pounds and a half in the week; whereas the man's nine shillings will buy but fifty-two pounds of bread; and this, observe, is a vast deal better than the state of things in the north of Hampshire, where the day-labourer gets but eight shillings a week. I asked this man how much a day they gave to a young able man who had no family, and who was compelled to come to the parish-officers for work. Observe that there are a great many young men in this situation, because the farmers will not employ single men _at full wages_, these full wages being wanted for the married man's family, just to keep them alive according to the calculation that we have just seen. About the borders of the north of Hampshire they give to these single men two gallon loaves a week, or, in money, two shillings and eight-pence, and nothing more. Here, in this part of Sussex, they give the single man seven-pence a day, that is to say, enough to buy two pounds and a quarter of bread for six days in the week, and as he does not work on the Sunday there is no seven-pence allowed for the Sunday, and of course nothing to eat: and this is the allowance, settled by the magistrates, for a young, hearty, labouring man; and that, too, in the part of England where, I believe, they live better than in any other part of it. The poor creature here has seven-pence a day for six days in the week to find him food, clothes, washing, and lodging! It is just seven-pence, less than one half of what the meanest foot soldier in the standing army receives; besides that the latter has clothing, candle, fire, and lodging into the bargain! Well may we call our happy state of things the "envy of surrounding nations, and the admiration of the world!" We hear of the efforts of Mrs. Fry, Mr. Buxton, and numerous other persons, to improve the situation of felons in the gaols; but never, no never, do we catch them ejaculating one single pious sigh for these innumerable sufferers, who are doomed to become felons or to waste away their bodies by hunger. When we came into the village of Rogate, I saw a little group of persons standing before a blacksmith's shop. The church-yard was on the other side of the road, surrounded by a low wall. The earth of the church-yard was about four feet and a half higher than the common level of the ground round about it; and you may see, by the nearness of the church windows to the ground, that this bed of earth has been made by the innumerable burials that have taken place in it. The group, consisting of the blacksmith, the wheelwright, perhaps, and three or four others, appeared to me to be in a deliberative mood. So I said, looking significantly at the church-yard, "It has taken a pretty many thousands of your fore-fathers to raise that ground up so high." "Yes, Sir," said one of them. "And," said I, "for about nine hundred years those who built that church thought about religion very differently from what we do." "Yes," said another. "And," said I, "do you think that all those who made that heap there are gone to the devil?" I got no answer to this. "At any rate," added I, "they never worked for a pound and a half of bread a day." They looked hard at me, and then looked hard at one another; and I, having trotted off, looked round at the first turning, and saw them looking after us still. I should suppose that the church was built about seven or eight hundred years ago, that is to say, the present church; for the first church built upon this spot was, I dare say, erected more than a thousand years ago. If I had had time, I should have told this group that, before the Protestant Reformation, the labourers of Rogate received four-pence a day from Michaelmas to Lady-day; five-pence a day from Lady-day to Michaelmas, except in harvest and grass-mowing time, when able labourers had seven-pence a day; and that, at this time, bacon was _not so much as a halfpenny a pound_: and, moreover, that the parson of the parish maintained out of the tithes all those persons in the parish that were reduced to indigence by means of old age or other cause of inability to labour. I should have told them this, and, in all probability a great deal more, but I had not time; and, besides, they will have an opportunity of reading all about it in my little book called the _History of the Protestant Reformation_. From Rogate we came on to Trotten, where a Mr. Twyford is the squire, and where there is a very fine and ancient church close by the squire's house. I saw the squire looking at some poor devils who were making "wauste improvements, ma'am," on the road which passes by the squire's door. He looked uncommonly hard at me. It was a scrutinizing sort of look, mixed, as I thought, with a little surprise, if not of jealousy, as much as to say, "I wonder who the devil you can be?" My look at the squire was with the head a little on one side, and with the cheek drawn up from the left corner of the mouth, expressive of anything rather than a sense of inferiority to the squire, of whom, however, I had never heard speak before. Seeing the good and commodious and capacious church, I could not help reflecting on the intolerable baseness of this description of men, who have remained mute as fishes, while they have been taxed to build churches for the convenience of the Cotton-Lords and the Stock-Jobbers. First, their estates have been taxed to pay interest of debts contracted with these Stock-jobbers, and to make wars for the sale of the goods of the Cotton-Lords. This drain upon their estates has collected the people into great masses, and now the same estates are taxed to build churches for them in these masses. And yet the tame fellows remain as silent as if they had been born deaf and dumb and blind. As towards the labourers, they are sharp and vigorous and brave as heart could wish; here they are bold as Hector. They pare down the wretched souls to what is below gaol allowance. But, as towards the taxers, they are gentle as doves. With regard, however, to this Squire Twyford, he is not, as I afterwards found, without some little consolation; for one of his sons, I understand, is, like squire Rawlinson of Hampshire, _a police justice in London_! I hear that Squire Twyford was always a distinguished champion of loyalty; what they call a staunch friend of Government; and it is therefore natural that the Government should be a staunch friend to him. By the taxing of his estate, and paying the Stock-Jobbers out of the proceeds, the people have been got together in great masses, and, as there are Justices wanted to keep them in order in those masses, it seems but reasonable that the squire should, in one way or another, enjoy some portion of the profits of keeping them in order. However, this cannot be the case with every loyal squire; and there are many of them who, for want of a share in the distribution, have been totally extinguished. I should suppose Squire Twyford to be in the second rank upwards (dividing the whole of the proprietors of land into five ranks). It appears to me that pretty nearly the whole of this second rank is gone; that the Stock-Jobbers have eaten them clean up, having less mercy than the cannibals, who usually leave the hands and the feet; so that this squire has had pretty good luck. From Trotten we came to Midhurst, and, having baited our horses, went into Cowdry Park to see the ruins of that once noble mansion, from which the Countess of Salisbury (the last of the Plantagenets) was brought by the tyrant Henry the Eighth to be cruelly murdered, in revenge for the integrity and the other great virtues of her son, Cardinal Pole, as we have seen in Number Four, paragraph 115, of the "History of the Protestant Reformation." This noble estate, one of the finest in the whole kingdom, was seized on by the king, after the possessor had been murdered on his scaffold. She had committed no crime. No crime was proved against her. The miscreant Thomas Cromwell, finding that no form of trial would answer his purpose, invented a new mode of bringing people to their death; namely, a Bill, brought into Parliament, condemning her to death. The estate was then granted to a Sir Anthony Brown, who was physician to the king. By the descendants of this Brown, one of whom was afterwards created Lord Montague, the estate has been held to this day; and Mr. Poyntz, who married the sole remaining heiress of this family, a Miss Brown, is now the proprietor of the estate, comprising, I believe, _forty or fifty manors_, the greater part of which are in this neighbourhood, some of them, however, extending more than twenty miles from the mansion. We entered the park through a great iron gateway, part of which being wanting, the gap was stopped up by a hurdle. We rode down to the house and all round about and in amongst the ruins, now in part covered with ivy, and inhabited by innumerable starlings and jackdaws. The last possessor was, I believe, that Lord Montague who was put an end to by the celebrated _nautical adventure_ on the Rhine along with the brother of Sir Glory. These two sensible worthies took it into their heads to go down a place something resembling the waterfall of an overshot mill. They were drowned just as two young kittens or two young puppies would have been. And as an instance of the truth that it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, had it not been for this sensible enterprise, never would there have been a Westminster Rump to celebrate the talents and virtues of Westminster's Pride and England's Glory. It was this Lord Montague, I believe, who had this ancient and noble mansion completely repaired, and fitted up as a place of residence: and a few days, or a very few weeks, at any rate, after the work was completed, the house was set on fire (by accident, I suppose), and left nearly in the state in which it now stands, except that the ivy has grown up about it and partly hidden the stones from our sight. You may see, however, the hour of the day or night at which the fire took place; for there still remains the brass of the face of the clock, and the hand pointing to the hour. Close by this mansion there runs a little river which runs winding away through the valleys, and at last falls into the Arron. After viewing the ruins, we had to return into the turnpike road, and then enter another part of the park, which we crossed, in order to go to Petworth. When you are in a part of this road through the park you look down and see the house in the middle of a very fine valley, the distant boundary of which, to the south and south-west, is the South Down Hills. Some of the trees here are very fine, particularly some most magnificent rows of the Spanish chestnut. I asked the people at Midhurst where Mr. Poyntz himself lived; and they told me at the _lodge_ in the park, which lodge was formerly the residence of the head keeper. The land is very good about here. It is fine rich loam at top, with clay further down. It is good for all sorts of trees, and they seem to grow here very fast. We got to Petworth pretty early in the day. On entering it you see the house of Lord Egremont, which is close up against the park-wall, and which wall bounds this little vale on two sides. There is a sort of town-hall here, and on one side of it there is the bust of Charles the Second, I should have thought; but they tell me it is that of Sir William Wyndham, from whom Lord Egremont is descended. But there is _another building_ much more capacious and magnificent than the town-hall; namely, the Bridewell, which, from the modernness of its structure, appears to be one of those "wauste improvements, Ma'am," which distinguish this _enlightened_ age. This structure vies, in point of magnitude with the house of Lord Egremont itself, though that is one of the largest mansions in the whole kingdom. The Bridewell has a wall round it that I should suppose to be twenty feet high. This place was not wanted, when the labourer got twice as much instead of half as much as the common standing soldier. Here you see the true cause why the young labouring man is "_content_" to exist upon 7_d._ a day, for six days in the week, and nothing for Sunday. Oh! we are a most free and enlightened people; our happy constitution in church and state has supplanted Popery and slavery; but we go to a Bridewell unless we quietly exist and work upon 7_d._ a day! _Thursley, Sunday, 13th Nov._ To our great delight we found Richard's horse quite well this morning, and off we set for this place. The first part of our road, for about three miles and a half, was through Lord Egremont's Park. The morning was very fine; the sun shining; a sharp frost after a foggy evening; the grass all white, the twigs of the trees white, the ponds frozen over; and everything looking exceedingly beautiful. The spot itself being one of the very finest in the world, not excepting, I dare say, that of the father of Saxe Cobourg itself, who has, doubtless, many such fine places. In a very fine pond, not far from the house and close by the road, there are some little artificial islands, upon one of which I observed an arbutus loaded with its beautiful fruit (quite ripe), even more thickly than any one I ever saw even in America. There were, on the side of the pond, a most numerous and beautiful collection of water-fowl, foreign as well as domestic. I never saw so great a variety of water-fowl collected together in my life. They had been ejected from the water by the frost, and were sitting apparently in a state of great dejection: but this circumstance has brought them into a comparatively small compass; and we facing our horses about, sat and looked at them, at the pond, at the grass, at the house, till we were tired of admiring. Everything here is in the neatest and most beautiful state. Endless herds of deer, of all the varieties of colours; and, what adds greatly to your pleasure in such a case, you see comfortable retreats prepared for them in different parts of the woods. When we came to what we thought the end of the park, the gate-keeper told us that we should find other walls to pass through. We now entered upon woods, we then came to another wall, and there we entered upon farms to our right and to our left. At last we came to a third wall, and the gate in that let us out into the turnpike road. The gate-keeper here told us, that the whole enclosure was _nine miles round_; and this, after all, forms, probably, not a quarter part of what this nobleman possesses. And is it wrong that one man should possess so much? By no means; but in my opinion it is wrong that a system should exist which compels this man to have his estate taken away from him unless he throw the junior branches of his family for maintenance upon the public. Lord Egremont bears an excellent character. Everything that I have ever heard of him makes me believe that he is worthy of this princely estate. But I cannot forget that his two brothers, who are now very old men, have had, from their infancy, enormous revenues in sinecure places in the West Indies, while the general property and labour of England is taxed to maintain those West Indies in their state of dependence upon England; and I cannot forget that the burden of these sinecures are amongst the grievances of which the West Indians justly complain. True, the taxing system has taken from the family of Wyndham, during the lives of these two gentlemen, as much, and even more, than what that family has gained by those sinecures; but then let it be recollected, that it is not the helpless people of England who have been the cause of this system. It is not the fault of those who receive 7_d._ a day. It is the fault of the family of Wyndham and of such persons; and, if they have chosen to suffer the Jews and jobbers to take away so large a part of their income, it is not fair for them to come to the people at large to make up for the loss. Thus it has gone on. The great masses of property have, in general, been able to take care of themselves: but the little masses have melted away like butter before the sun. The little gentry have had not even any disposition to resist. They merit their fate most justly. They have vied with each other in endeavours to ingratiate themselves with power, and to obtain compensation for their losses. The big fishes have had no feeling for them; have seen them sink with a sneer, rather than with compassion; but, at last, the cormorant threatens even themselves; and they are struggling with might and main for their own preservation. They everywhere "most liberally" take the Stock-jobber or the Jew by the hand, though they hate him mortally at the same time for his power to outdo them on the sideboard, on the table, and in the equipage. They seem to think nothing of the extinguishment of the small fry; they hug themselves in the thought that they escape; and yet, at times, their minds misgive them, and they tremble for their own fate. The country people really gain by the change; for the small gentry have been rendered, by their miseries, so niggardly and so cruel, that it is quite a blessing, in a village, to see a rich Jew or Jobber come to supplant them. They come, too, with far less cunning than the half-broken gentry. Cunning as the Stock-Jobber is in Change Alley, I defy him to be cunning enough for the country people, brought to their present state of duplicity by a series of cruelties which no pen can adequately describe. The Stock-Jobber goes from London with the _cant of humanity_ upon his lips, at any rate; whereas the half-broken Squire takes not the least pains to disguise the hardness of his heart. It is impossible for any just man to regret the sweeping away of this base race of Squires; but the sweeping of them away is produced by causes that have a wider extent. These causes reach the good as well as the bad: all are involved alike: like the pestilence, this horrible system is no respecter of persons; and decay and beggary mark the whole face of the _country_. North Chapel is a little town in the Weald of Sussex where there were formerly post-chaises kept; but where there are none kept now. And here is another complete revolution. In almost every country town the post-chaise houses have been lessened in number, and those that remain have become comparatively solitary and mean. The guests at inns are not now gentlemen, but _bumpers_, who, from being called (at the inns) "riders," became "travellers," and are now "commercial gentlemen," who go about in _gigs_, instead of on horseback, and who are in such numbers as to occupy a great part of the room in all the inns, in every part of the country. There are, probably, twenty thousand of them always out, who may perhaps have, on an average throughout the year, three or four thousand "ladies" travelling with them. The expense of this can be little short of fifteen millions a year, all to be paid by the country-people who consume the goods, and a large part of it to be drawn up to the Wen. From North Chapel we came to Chiddingfold, which is in the Weald of Surrey; that is to say, the country of oak-timber. Between these two places there are a couple of pieces of that famous commodity, called "Government property." It seems that these places, which have extensive buildings on them, were for the purpose of making gunpowder. Like most other of these enterprises, they have been given up, after a time, and so the ground and all the buildings, and the monstrous fences, erected at enormous expense, have been sold. They were sold, it seems, some time ago, in lots, with the intention of being pulled down and carried away, though they are now nearly new, and built in the most solid, substantial, and expensive manner; brick walls eighteen inches through, and the buildings covered with lead and slate. It appears that they have been purchased by a Mr. Stovell, a Sussex banker; but for some reason or other, though the purchase was made long ago, "Government" still holds the possession; and, what is more, it keeps people there to take care of the premises. It would be curious to have a complete history of these pretty establishments at Chiddingford; but this is a sort of history that we shall never be treated with until there be somebody in Parliament to rummage things to the bottom. It would be very easy to call for a specific account of the cost of these establishments, and also of the quantity of powder made at them. I should not be at all surprised, if the concern, all taken together, brought the powder to a hundred times the price at which similar powder could have been purchased. When we came through Chiddingfold, the people were just going to church; and we saw a carriage and pair conveying an old gentleman and some ladies to the churchyard steps. Upon inquiry, we found that this was Lord Winterton, whose name, they told us, was Turnour. I thought I had heard of all the Lords, first or last; but, if I had ever heard of this one before, I had forgotten him. He lives down in the Weald, between the gunpowder establishments and Horsham, and has the reputation of being a harmless, good sort of man, and that being the case I was sorry to see that he appeared to be greatly afflicted with the gout, being obliged to be helped up the steps by a stout man. However, it is as broad, perhaps, as it is long: a man is not to have all the enjoyments of making the gout, and the enjoyments of abstinence too: that would not be fair play; and I dare say that Lord Winterton is just enough to be content with the consequences of his enjoyments. This Chiddingfold is a very pretty place. There is a very pretty and extensive green opposite the church; and we were at the proper time of the day to perceive that the modern system of education had by no means overlooked this little village. We saw _the schools_ marching towards the church in military order. Two of them passed us on our road. The boys looked very hard at us, and I saluted them with "There's brave boys, you'll all be parsons or lawyers or doctors." Another school seemed to be in a less happy state. The scholars were too much in uniform to have had their clothes purchased by their parents; and they looked, besides, as if a little more victuals and a little less education would have done as well. There were about twenty of them without one single tinge of red in their whole twenty faces. In short I never saw more deplorable looking objects since I was born. And can it be of any use to expend money in this sort of way upon poor creatures that have not half a bellyful of food? We had not breakfasted when we passed them. We felt, at that moment, what hunger was. We had some bits of bread and meat in our pockets, however; and these, which, were merely intended as stay-stomachs, amounted, I dare say, to the allowance of any half-dozen of these poor boys for the day. I could, with all my heart, have pulled the victuals out of my pocket and given it to them; but I did not like to do that which would have interrupted the march, and might have been construed into a sort of insult. To quiet my conscience, however, I gave a poor man that I met soon afterwards sixpence, under pretence of rewarding him for telling me the way to Thursley, which I knew as well as he, and which I had determined, in my own mind, not to follow. We had now come on the Turnpike road from my Lord Egremont's Park to Chiddingfold. I had made two or three attempts to get out of it, and to bear away to the north-west, to get through the oak-woods to Thursley; but I was constantly prevented by being told that the road which I wished to take would lead me to Haslemere. If you talk to ostlers, or landlords, or post-boys; or, indeed, to almost anybody else, they mean by a _road_ a _turnpike road_; and they positively will not talk to you about any other. Now, just after quitting Chiddingfold, Thursley lies over fine woods and coppices, in a north-west direction, or thereabouts; and the Turnpike road, which goes from Petworth to Godalming, goes in a north-north-east direction. I was resolved, be the consequences what they might, not to follow the Turnpike road one single inch further; for I had not above three miles or thereabouts to get to Thursley, through the woods; and I had, perhaps, six miles at least to get to it the other way; but the great thing was to see the interior of these woods; to see the stems of the trees, as well as the tops of them. I saw a lane opening in the right direction; I saw indeed, that my horses must go up to their knees in clay; but I resolved to enter and go along that lane, and long before the end of my journey I found myself most amply compensated for the toil that I was about to encounter. But talk of toil! It was the horse that had the toil; and I had nothing to do but to sit upon his back, turn my head from side to side and admire the fine trees in every direction. Little bits of fields and meadows here and there, shaded all over, or nearly all over, by the surrounding trees. Here and there a labourer's house buried in the woods. We had drawn out our luncheons and eaten them while the horses took us through the clay; but I stopped at a little house, and asked the woman, who looked very clean and nice, whether she would let us dine with her. She said "Yes," with all her heart, but that she had no place to put our horses in, and that her dinner would not be ready for an hour, when she expected her husband home from church. She said they had a bit of bacon and a pudding and some cabbage; but that she had not much bread in the house. She had only one child, and that was not very old, so we left her, quite convinced that my old observation is true, that people in the woodland countries are best off, and that it is absolutely impossible to reduce them to that state of starvation in which they are in the corn-growing part of the kingdom. Here is that great blessing, abundance of fuel at all times of the year, and particularly in the winter. We came on for about a mile further in these clayey lanes, when we renewed our inquiries as to our course, as our road now seemed to point towards Godalming again. I asked a man how I should get to Thursley? He pointed to some fir-trees upon a hill, told me I must go by them, and that there was no other way. "Where then," said I, "is Thursley?" He pointed with his hand, and said, "Right over those woods; but there is no road there, and it is impossible for you to get through those woods." "Thank you," said I; "but through those woods we mean to go." Just at the border of the woods I saw a cottage. There must be some way to that cottage; and we soon found a gate that let us into a field, across which we went to this cottage. We there found an old man and a young one. Upon inquiry we found that it was _possible_ to get through these woods. Richard gave the old man threepence to buy a pint of beer, and I gave the young one a shilling to pilot us through the woods. These were oak-woods with underwood beneath; and there was a little stream of water running down the middle of the woods, the annual and long overflowings of which has formed a meadow sometimes a rod wide, and sometimes twenty rods wide, while the bed of the stream itself was the most serpentine that can possibly be imagined, describing, in many places, nearly a complete circle, going round for many rods together, and coming within a rod or two of a point that it had passed before. I stopped the man several times, to sit and admire this beautiful spot, shaded in great part by lofty and wide-spreading oak trees. We had to cross this brook several times, over bridges that the owner had erected for the convenience of the fox-hunters. At last, we came into an ash-coppice, which had been planted in regular rows, at about four feet distances, which had been once cut, and which was now in the state of six years' growth. A road through it, made for the fox-hunters, was as straight as a line, and of so great a length, that, on entering it, the farther end appeared not to be a foot wide. Upon seeing this, I asked the man whom these coppices belonged to, and he told me to Squire Leech, at Lea. My surprise ceased, but my admiration did not. A piece of ordinary coppice ground, close adjoining this, and with no timber in it, and upon just the same soil (if there had been such a piece), would, at ten years' growth, be worth, at present prices, from five to seven pounds the acre. This coppice, at ten years' growth, will be worth twenty pounds the acre; and, at the next cutting, when the stems will send out so many more shoots, it will be worth thirty pounds the acre. I did not ask the question when I afterwards saw Mr. Leech, but, I dare say, the ground was trenched before it was planted; but what is that expense when compared with the great, the permanent profit of such an undertaking? And, above all things, what a convenient species of property does a man here create. Here are no tenants' rack, no anxiety about crops and seasons; the rust and the mildew never come here; a man knows what he has got, and he knows that nothing short of an earthquake can take it from him, unless, indeed, by attempting to vie with the stock-jobber in the expense of living, he enable the stock-jobber to come and perform the office of the earthquake. Mr. Leech's father planted, I think it was, forty acres of such coppice in the same manner; and, at the same time, he _sowed the ground with acorns_. The acorns have become oak trees, and have begun and made great progress in diminishing the value of the ash, which have now to contend against the shade and the roots of the oak. For present profit, and, indeed, for permanent profit, it would be judicious to grub up the oak; but the owner has determined otherwise. He cannot endure the idea of destroying an oak wood. If such be the profit of planting ash, what would be the profit of planting locust, even for poles or stakes? The locust would outgrow the ash, as we have seen in the case of Mr. Gunter's plantation, more than three to one. I am satisfied that it will do this upon any soil, if you give the trees fifteen years to grow in; and, in short, that the locusts will be trees when the ash are merely poles, if both are left to grow up in single stems. If in coppice, the locust will make as good poles; I mean as large and as long poles in six years, as the ash will in ten years: to say nothing of the superior durability of the locust. I have seen locusts, at Mr. Knowles's, at Thursley, sufficient for a hop-pole, for an ordinary hop-pole, with only five years' growth in them, and leaving the last year's growth to be cut off, leaving the top of the pole three-quarters of an inch through. There is nothing that we have ever heard of, of the timber kind, equal to this in point of quickness of growth. In parts of the county where hop-poles are not wanted, espalier stakes, wood for small fencing, hedge stakes, hurdle stakes, fold-shores, as the people call them, are always wanted; and is it not better to have a thing that will last twenty years, than a thing that will last only three? I know of no English underwood which gives a hedge stake to last even _two years_. I should think that a very profitable way of employing the locust would be this. Plant a coppice, the plants two feet apart. Thus planted, the trees will protect one another against the wind. Keep the side shoots pruned off. At the end of six years, the coppice, if well planted and managed, will be, at the very least, twenty feet high to the tips of the trees. Not if the grass and weeds are suffered to grow up to draw all the moisture up out of the ground, to keep the air from the young plants, and to intercept the gentle rains and the dews; but trenched ground, planted carefully, and kept clean; and always bearing in mind that hares and rabbits and young locust trees will never live together; for the hares and rabbits will not only bite them off, but will gnaw them down to the ground, and, when they have done that, will scratch away the ground to gnaw into the very root. A gentleman bought some locust trees of me last year, and brought me a dismal account in the summer of their being all dead; but I have since found that they were all eaten up by the hares. He saw some of my refuse; some of those which were too bad to send to him, which were a great deal higher than his head. His ground was as good as mine, according to his account; but I had no hares to fight against; or else mine would have been all dead too. I say, then, that a locust plantation, in pretty good land, well managed, would be twenty feet high in six years; suppose it, however, to be only fifteen, there would be, at the bottom, wood to make two locust PINS for ship-building; two locust pins at the bottom of each tree. Two at the very least; and here would be twenty-two thousand locust pins to the acre, probably enough for the building of a seventy-four gun ship. These pins are about eighteen inches long, and, perhaps, an inch and half through; and there is this surprising quality in the wood of the locust, that it is just as hard and as durable at five or six years' growth as it is at fifty years' growth. Of which I can produce an abundance of instances. The _stake_ which I brought home from America, and which is now at Fleet-street, had stood as a stake for about eight and twenty years, as certified to me by Judge Mitchell, of North Hampstead in Long Island, who gave me the stake, and who said to me at the time, "Now are you really going to take that crooked miserable stick to England!" Now it is pretty well known, at least, I have been so informed, that our Government have sent to America in consequence of my writings about the locust, to endeavour to get locust pins for the navy. I have been informed that they have been told that the American Government has bought them all up. Be this as it may, I know that a waggon load of these pins is, in America itself, equal in value to a waggon load of barrels of the finest flour. This being undeniable, and the fact being undeniable that we can grow locust pins here, that I can take a seed to-day, and say that it shall produce two pins in seven years' time, will it not become an article of heavy accusation against the Government if they neglect even one day to set about tearing up their infernal Scotch firs and larches in Wolmer Forest and elsewhere, and putting locust trees in their stead, in order, first to provide this excellent material for ship-building; and next to have some fine plantations in the Holt Forest, Wolmer Forest, the New Forest, the Forest of Dean, and elsewhere, the only possible argument against doing which being, that I may possibly take a ride round amongst their plantations, and that it may be everlastingly recorded that it was I who was the cause of the Government's adopting this wise and beneficial measure? I am disposed to believe, however, that the Government will not be brutish enough, obstinately to reject the advice given to them on this head, it being observed, however, that I wish to have no hand in their proceedings, directly or indirectly. I can sell all the trees that I have for sale to other customers. Let them look out for themselves; and as to any reports that their creatures may make upon the subjects I shall be able to produce proofs enough that such reports, if unfavourable, are false. I wrote, in a Register from Long Island, that I could if I would tell insolent Castlereagh, who was for making Englishmen dig holes one day and fill them up the next, how he might _profitably put something into those holes_, but that I would not tell him as long as the Borough-mongers should be in the state in which they then were. They are no longer in that state, I thank God. There has been no positive law to alter their state, but it is manifest that there must be such law before it be long. Events are working together to make the country worth living in, which, for the great body of the people, is at present hardly the case. Above all things in the world, it is the duty of every man, who has it in his power, to do what he can to promote the creation of materials for the building of ships in the best manner; and it is now a fact of perfect notoriety, that, with regard to the building of ships, it cannot be done in the best manner without the assistance of this sort of wood. I have seen a specimen of the locust wood used in the making of furniture. I saw it in the posts of a bed-stead; and any thing more handsome I never saw in my life. I had used it myself in the making of rules; but I never saw it in this shape before. It admits of a polish nearly as fine as that of box. It is a bright and beautiful yellow. And in bedsteads, for instance, it would last for ever, and would not become loose at the joints, like oak and other perishable wood; because, like the live oak and the red cedar, no worm or insect ever preys upon it. There is no fear of the quantity being too great. It would take a century to make as many plantations as are absolutely wanted in England. It would be a prodigious creation of real and solid wealth. Not such a creation as that of paper money, which only takes the dinner from one man and gives it to another, which only gives an unnatural swell to a city or a watering place by beggaring a thousand villages; but it would be a creation of money's worth things. Let any man go and look at a farmhouse that was built a hundred years ago. He will find it, though very well built with stone or brick, actually falling to pieces, unless very frequently repaired, owing entirely to the rotten wood in the window-sills, the door-sills, the plates, the pins, the door frames, the window frames, and all those parts of the beams, the joists, and the rafters, that come in contact with the rain or the moisture. The two parts of a park pailing which give way first, are, the parts of the post that meet the ground, and the pins which hold the rails to the post. Both these rot long before the pailing rots. Now, all this is avoided by the use of locust as sills, as joists, as posts, as frames, and as pins. Many a roof has come down merely from the rotting of the pins. The best of spine oak is generally chosen for these pins. But after a time, the air gets into the pin-hole. The pin rots from the moist air, it gives way, the wind shakes the roof, and down it comes, or it swags, the wet gets in, and the house is rotten. In ships, the pins are the first things that give way. Many a ship would last twenty years after it is broken up, if put together with locust pins. I am aware that some readers will become tired of this subject; and, nothing but my conviction of its being of the very first importance to the whole kingdom could make me thus dwell upon it. We got to Thursley after our beautiful ride through Mr. Leech's coppices, and the weather being pretty cold, we found ourselves most happily situated here by the side of an _American fire-place_, making extremely comfortable a room which was formerly amongst the most uncomfortable in the world. This is another of what the malignant parsons call Cobbett's Quackeries. But my real opinion is that the whole body of them, all put together, have never, since they were born, conferred so much benefit upon the country, as I have conferred upon it by introducing this fire-place. Mr. Judson of Kensington, who is the manufacturer of them, tells me that he has a great demand, which gives me much pleasure; but really, coming to conscience, no man ought to sit by one of these fire-places that does not go the full length with me both in politics and religion. It is not fair for them to enjoy the warmth without subscribing to the doctrines of the giver of the warmth. However, as I have nothing to do with Mr. Judson's affair, either as to the profit or the loss, he must sell the fire-places to whomsoever he pleases. _Kensington, Sunday, 20th Nov._ Coming to Godalming on Friday, where business kept us that night, we had to experience at the inn the want of our American fire-place. A large and long room to sit in, with a miserable thing called a screen to keep the wind from our backs, with a smoke in the room half an hour after the fire was lighted, we, consuming a full bushel of coals in order to keep us warm, were not half so well off as we should have been in the same room, and without any screen, and with two gallons of coals, if we had our American fire-place. I gave the landlord my advice upon the subject, and he said he would go and look at the fire-place at Mr. Knowles's. That was precisely one of those rooms which stand in absolute need of such a fire-place. It is, I should think, five-and-thirty, or forty feet long, and pretty nearly twenty feet wide. I could sooner dine with a labouring man upon his allowance of bread, such as I have mentioned above, than I would, in winter time, dine in that room upon turbot and sirloin of beef. An American fire-place, with a good fire in it, would make every part of that room pleasant to dine in in the coldest day in winter. I saw a public-house drinking-room, where the owner has tortured his invention to get a little warmth for his guests, where he fetches his coals in a waggon from a distance of twenty miles or thereabouts, and where he consumes these coals by the bushel, to effect that which he cannot effect at all, and which he might effect completely with about a fourth part of the coals. It looked like rain on Saturday morning, we therefore sent our horses on from Godalming to Ripley, and took a post-chaise to convey us after them. Being shut up in the post-chaise did not prevent me from taking a look at a little snug house stuck under the hill on the road side, just opposite the old chapel on St. Catherine's-hill, which house was not there when I was a boy. I found that this house is now occupied by the family Molyneux, for ages the owners of Losely Park, on the out-skirts of which estate this house stands. The house at Losely is of great antiquity, and had, or perhaps has, attached to it the great manors of Godalming and Chiddingfold. I believe that Sir Thomas More lived at Losely, or, at any rate, that the Molyneuxes are, in some degree, descended from him. The estate is, I fancy, theirs yet; but here they are, in this little house, while one Gunning (an East Indian, I believe) occupies the house of their ancestors. At Send, or Sutton, where Mr. Webb Weston inhabited, there is a Baron somebody, with a De before his name. The name is German or Dutch, I believe. How the Baron came there I know not; but as I have read his name amongst the _Justices of the Peace_ for the county of Surrey, he must have been born in England, or the law has been violated in making him a Justice of the Peace, seeing that no person not born a subject of the king, and a subject in this country too, can lawfully hold a commission under the crown, either civil or military. Nor is it lawful for any man born abroad of Scotch or Irish parents, to hold such commission under the crown, though such commissions have been held, and are held, by persons who are neither natural-born subjects of the king, nor born of English parents abroad. It should also be known and borne in mind by the people, that it is unlawful to grant any pension from the crown to any foreigner whatever. And no naturalization act can take away this disability. Yet the Whigs, as they call themselves, granted such pensions during the short time that they were in power. When we got to Ripley, we found the day very fine, and we got upon our horses and rode home to dinner, after an absence of just one month, agreeably to our original intention, having seen a great deal of the country, having had a great deal of sport, and having, I trust, laid in a stock of health for the winter, sufficient to enable us to withstand the suffocation of this smoking and stinking Wen. But Richard and I have done something else, besides ride, and hunt, and course, and stare about us, during this month. He was eleven years old last March, and it was now time for him to begin to know something about letters and figures. He has learned to work in the garden, and having been a good deal in the country, knows a great deal about farming affairs. He can ride anything of a horse, and over anything that a horse will go over. So expert at hunting, that his first teacher, Mr. Budd, gave the hounds up to his management in the field; but now he begins to talk about nothing but _fox-hunting_! That is a dangerous thing. When he and I went from home, I had business at Reigate. It was a very wet morning, and we went off long before daylight in a post-chaise, intending to have our horses brought after us. He began to talk in anticipation of the sport he was going to have, and was very inquisitive as to the probability of our meeting with fox-hounds, which gave me occasion to address him thus: "Fox-hunting is a very fine thing, and very proper for people to be engaged in, and it is very desirable to be able to ride well and to be in at the death; but that is not ALL; that is not everything. Any fool can ride a horse, and draw a cover; any groom or any stable-fellow, who is as ignorant as the horse, can do these things; but all gentlemen that go a fox-hunting [I hope God will forgive me for the lie] are scholars, Richard. It is not the riding, nor the scarlet coats, that make them gentlemen; it is their scholarship." What he thought I do not know; for he sat as mute as a fish, and I could not see his countenance. "So," said I, "you must now begin to learn something, and you must begin with arithmetic." He had learned from mere play, to read, being first set to work of his own accord, to find out what was said about Thurtell, when all the world was talking and reading about Thurtell. This had induced us to give him Robinson Crusoe; and that had made him a passable reader. Then he had scrawled down letters and words upon paper, and had written letters to me, in the strangest way imaginable. His knowledge of figures he had acquired from the necessity of knowing the several numbers upon the barrels of seeds brought from America, and the numbers upon the doors of houses. So that I had pretty nearly a blank sheet of paper to begin upon; and I have always held it to be stupidity to the last degree to attempt to put book-learning into children who are too young to reason with. I began with a pretty long lecture on the utility of arithmetic; the absolute necessity of it, in order for us to make out our accounts of the trees and seeds that we should have to sell in the winter, and the utter impossibility of our getting paid for our pains unless we were able to make out our accounts, which accounts could not be made out unless we understood something about arithmetic. Having thus made him understand the utility of the thing, and given him a very strong instance in the case of our nursery affairs, I proceeded to explain to him the meaning of the word arithmetic, the power of figures, according to the place they occupied. I then, for it was still dark, taught him to add a few figures together, I naming the figures one after another, while he, at the mention of each new figure said the amount, and if incorrectly, he was corrected by me. When we had got a sum of about 24, I said now there is another line of figures on the left of this, and therefore you are to put down the 4 and carry 2. "What is _carrying_?" said he. I then explained to him the _why_ and the _wherefore_ of this, and he perfectly understood me at once. We then did several other little sums; and, by the time we got to Sutton, it becoming daylight, I took a pencil and set him a little sum upon paper, which, after making a mistake or two, he did very well. By the time we got to Reigate he had done several more, and at last, a pretty long one, with very few errors. We had business all day, and thought no more of our scholarship until we went to bed, and then we did, in our post-chaise fashion, a great many lines in arithmetic before we went to sleep. Thus we went on mixing our riding and hunting with our arithmetic, until we quitted Godalming, when he did a sum very nicely in _multiplication of money_, falling a little short of what I had laid out, which was to make him learn the four rules in whole numbers first, and then in money, before I got home. Friends' houses are not so good as inns for executing a project like this; because you cannot very well be by yourself; and we slept but four nights at inns during our absence. So that we have actually stolen the time to accomplish this job, and Richard's Journal records that he was more than fifteen days out of the thirty-one coursing or hunting. Nothing struck me more than the facility, the perfect readiness with which he at once performed addition of money. There is a _pence table_ which boys usually learn, and during the learning of which they usually get no small number of thumps. This table I found it wholly unnecessary to set him. I had written it for him in one of the leaves of his journal book. But, upon looking at it, he said, "I don't want this, because, you know, I have nothing to do but to _divide by twelve_." That is right, said I, you are a clever fellow, Dick; and I shut up the book. Now, when there is so much talk about education, let me ask how many pounds it generally costs parents to have a boy taught this much of arithmetic; how much time it costs also; and, which is a far more serious consideration, how much mortification, and very often how much loss of health, it costs the poor scolded broken-hearted child, who becomes dunder-headed and dull for all his life-time, merely because that has been imposed upon him as a task which he ought to regard as an object of pleasant pursuit. I never even once desired him to stay a moment from any other thing that he had a mind to go at. I just wrote the sums down upon paper, laid them upon the table, and left him to tackle them when he pleased. In the case of the multiplication-table, the learning of which is something of a job, and which it is absolutely necessary to learn perfectly, I advised him to go up into his bed-room and read it twenty times over out loud every morning before he went a hunting, and ten times over every night after he came back, till it all came as pat upon his lips as the names of persons that he knew. He did this, and at the end of about a week he was ready to set on upon multiplication. It is the irksomeness of the thing which is the great bar to learning of every sort. I took care not to suffer irksomeness to seize his mind for a moment, and the consequence was that which I have described. I wish clearly to be understood as ascribing nothing to extraordinary _natural_ ability. There are, as I have often said, as many _sorts_ of men as there are of dogs; but I do not pretend to be of any peculiarly excellent sort, and I have never discovered any indications of it. There are, to be sure, sorts that are naturally stupid; but, the generality of men are not so; and I believe that every boy of the same age, equally healthy, and brought up in the same manner, would (unless of one of the stupid kinds) learn in just the same sort of way; but not if begun to be thumped at five or six years old, when the poor little things have no idea of the utility of anything; who are hardly sensible beings, and have but just understanding enough to know that it will hurt them if they jump down a chalk pit. I am sure, from thousands of instances that have come under my own eyes, that to begin to teach children book-learning before they are capable of reasoning, is the sure and certain way to enfeeble their minds for life; and, if they have natural genius, to cramp, if not totally to destroy that genius. I think I shall be tempted to mould into a little book these lessons of arithmetic given to Richard. I think that a boy of sense, and of age equal to that of my scholar, would derive great profit from such a little book. It would not be equal to my verbal explanations, especially accompanied with the other parts of my conduct towards my scholar; but at any rate, it would be plain; it would be what a boy could understand; it would encourage him by giving him a glimpse at the reasons for what he was doing: it would contain principles; and the difference between principles and rules is this, that the former are persuasions and the latter are commands. There is a great deal of difference between carrying 2 for such and such a reason, and carrying 2 because you _must_ carry 2. You see boys that can cover reams of paper with figures, and do it with perfect correctness too; and at the same time, can give you not a single reason for any part of what they have done. Now this is really doing very little. The rule is soon forgotten, and then all is forgotten. It would be the same with a lawyer that understood none of the principles of law. As far as he could find and remember cases exactly similar in all their parts to the case which he might have to manage, he would be as profound a lawyer as any in the world; but if there was the slightest difference between his case and the cases he had found upon record, there would be an end of his law. Some people will say, here is a monstrous deal of vanity and egotism; and if they will tell me, how such a story is to be told without exposing a man to this imputation, I will adopt their mode another time. I get nothing by telling the story. I should get full as much by keeping it to myself; but it may be useful to others, and therefore I tell it. Nothing is so dangerous as supposing that you have eight wonders of the world. I have no pretensions to any such possession. I look upon my boy as being like other boys in general. Their fathers can teach arithmetic as well as I; and if they have not a mind to pursue my method, they must pursue their own. Let them apply to the outside of the head and to the back, if they like; let them bargain for thumps and the birch rod; it is their affair and not mine. I never yet saw in my house a child that was _afraid_; that was in any fear whatever; that was ever for a moment under any sort of apprehension, on account of the learning of anything; and I never in my life gave a command, an order, a request, or even advice, to look into any book; and I am quite satisfied that the way to make children dunces, to make them detest books, and justify that detestation, is to tease them and bother them upon the subject. As to the _age_ at which children ought to begin to be taught, it is very curious, that, while I was at a friend's house during my ride, I looked into, by mere accident, a little child's abridgment of the History of England: a little thing about twice as big as a crown-piece. Even into this abridgment the historian had introduced the circumstance of Alfred's father, who, "through a _mistaken notion_ of kindness to his son, had suffered him to live to the age of twelve years without any attempt being made to give him education." How came this writer to know that it was a _mistaken notion_? Ought he not rather, when he looked at the result, when he considered the astonishing knowledge and great deeds of Alfred--ought he not to have hesitated before he thus criticised the notions of the father? It appears from the result that the notions of the father were perfectly correct; and I am satisfied, that if they had begun to thump the head of Alfred when he was a child, we should not at this day have heard talk of Alfred the Great. * * * * * Great apologies are due to the OLD LADY from me, on account of my apparent inattention towards her, during her recent, or rather, I may say, her present, fit of that tormenting disorder which, as I observed before, comes upon her by _spells_. Dr. M'CULLOCH may say what he pleases about her being "_wi' bairn_." I say it's the wet gripes; and I saw a poor old mare down in Hampshire in just the same way; but God forbid the catastrophe should be the same, for they shot poor old Ball for the hounds. This disorder comes by spells. It sometimes seems as if it were altogether going off; the pulse rises, and the appetite returns. By-and-by a fresh grumbling begins to take place in the bowels. These are followed by acute pains; the patient becomes tremulous; the pulse begins to fall, and the most gloomy apprehensions begin again to be entertained. At every spell the pulse does not cease falling till it becomes lower than it was brought to by the preceding spell; and thus, spell after spell, finally produces the natural result. It is useless at present to say much about the equivocating and blundering of the newspapers, relative to the cause of the fall. They are very shy, extremely cautious; become wonderfully _wary_, with regard to this subject. They do not know what to make of it. They all remember, that I told them that their prosperity was delusive; that it would soon come to an end, while they were telling me of the falsification of all my predictions. I told them the Small-note Bill had only given a _respite_. I told them that the foreign loans, and the shares, and all the astonishing enterprises, arose purely out of the Small-note Bill; and that a short time would see the Small-note Bill driving the gold out of the country, and bring us back to another restriction, OR, to wheat at four shillings a bushel. They remember that I told them all this; and now, some of them begin to _regard me as the principal cause of the present embarrassments_! This is pretty work indeed! What! I! The poor deluded creature, whose predictions were all falsified, who knew nothing at all about such matters, who was a perfect pedlar in political economy, who was "a conceited and obstinate old dotard," as that polite and enlightened paper, the _Morning Herald_, called me: is it possible that such a poor miserable creature can have had the power to produce effects so prodigious? Yet this really appears to be the opinion of one, at least, of these Mr. Brougham's best possible public instructors. The _Public Ledger_, of the 16th of November, has the following passage:-- "It is fully ascertained that the Country Banking Establishments in England have latterly been compelled to limit their paper circulation, for the writings of Mr. COBBETT are widely circulated in the Agricultural districts, and they have been so successful as to induce the _Boobies_ to call for gold in place of country paper, a circumstance which has _produced a greater effect on the currency than any exportation of the precious metals_ to the Continent, either of Europe or America, could have done, although it too must have contributed to render money for a season scarce." And, so, the "_boobies_" call for gold instead of country bank-notes! Bless the "_boobies_"! I wish they would do it to a greater extent, which they would, if they were not so dependent as they are upon the ragmen. But, does the _Public Ledger_ think that those unfortunate creatures who suffered the other day at Plymouth, would have been "_boobies_," if they had gone and got sovereigns before the banks broke? This brother of the broad sheet should act justly and fairly as I do. He should ascribe these demands for gold to Mr. Jones of Bristol and not to me. Mr. Jones taught the "boobies" that they might have gold for asking for, or send the ragmen to jail. It is Mr. Jones, therefore, that they should blame, and not me. But, seriously speaking, what a mess, what a pickle, what a horrible mess, must the thing be in, if any man, or any thousand of men, or any hundred thousand of men, can change the value of money, unhinge all contracts and all engagements, and plunge the pecuniary affairs of a nation into confusion? I have been often accused of wishing to be thought the cleverest man in the country; but surely it is no vanity (for vanity means unjust pretension) for me to think myself the cleverest man in the country, if I can of my own head, and at my own pleasure, produce effects like these. Truth, however, and fair dealing with my readers, call upon me to disclaim so haughty a pretension. I have no such power as this public instructor ascribes to me. Greater causes are at work to produce such effects; causes wholly uncontrollable by me, and, what is more, wholly uncontrollable in the long run by the Government itself, though heartily co-operating with the bank directors. These united can do nothing to arrest the progress of events. Peel's Bill produced the horrible distresses of 1822; the part repeal of that bill produced a respite, that respite is now about to expire; and neither Government nor bank, nor both joined together, can prevent the ultimate consequences. They may postpone them for a little; but mark, every postponement will render the catastrophe the more dreadful. I see everlasting attempts by the "Instructor" to cast blame upon the bank. I can see no blame in the bank. The bank has issued no small notes, though it has liberty to do it. The bank pays in gold agreeably to the law. What more does anybody want with the bank. The bank lends money I suppose when it chooses; and is not it to be the judge when it shall lend and when it shall not? The bank is blamed for putting out paper and causing high prices; and blamed at the same time for not putting out paper to accommodate merchants and keep them from breaking. It cannot be to blame for both, and, indeed, it is blameable for neither. It is the fellows that put out the paper and then break that do the mischief. However, a breaking merchant, whom the bank will no longer prop up, will naturally blame the bank, just as every insolvent blames a solvent that will not lend him money. When the foreign loans first began to go on, Peter M'Culloch and all the Scotch were cock o' whoop. They said that there were prodigious advantages in lending money to South America, that the interest would come home to enrich us; that the amount of the loans would go out chiefly in English manufactures; that the commercial gains would be enormous; and that this country would thus be made rich, and powerful, and happy, by employing in this way its "surplus capital," and thereby contributing at the same time to the uprooting of despotism and superstition, and the establishing of freedom and liberality in their stead. Unhappy and purblind, I could not for the life of me see the matter in this light. My perverted optics could perceive no _surplus capital_ in bundles of bank-notes. I could see no gain in sending out goods which somebody in England was to pay for, without, as it appeared to me, the smallest chance of ever being paid again. I could see no chance of gain in the purchase of a bond, nominally bearing interest at six per cent., and on which, as I thought, no interest at all would ever be paid. I despised the idea of paying bits of paper by bits of paper. I knew that a bond, though said to bear six per cent. interest, was not worth a farthing, unless some interest were paid upon it. I declared, when Spanish bonds were at seventy-five, that I would not give a crown for a hundred pounds in them, if I were compelled to keep them unsold for seven years; and I now declare, as to South American bonds, I think them of less value than the Spanish bonds now are, if the owner be compelled to keep them unsold for a year. It is very true, that these opinions agree with my _wishes_; but they have not been created by those wishes. They are founded on my knowledge of the state of things, and upon my firm conviction of the folly of expecting that the interest of these things will ever come from the respective countries to which they relate. Mr. Canning's despatch, which I shall insert below, has, doubtless, had a tendency (whether expected or not) to prop up the credit of these sublime speculations. The propping up of the credit of them can, however, do no sort of good. The keeping up the price of them for the present may assist some of the actual speculators, but it can do nothing for the speculation in the end, and this speculation, which was wholly an effect of the Small-note Bill, will finally have a most ruinous effect. How is it to be otherwise? Have we ever received any evidence, or anything whereon to build a belief, that the interest on these bonds will be paid? Never; and the man must be mad; mad with avarice or a love of gambling, that could advance his money upon any such a thing as these bonds. The fact is, however, that it was not _money_: it was paper: it was borrowed, or created, for the purpose of being advanced. Observe, too, that when the loans were made, money was at a lower value than it is now; therefore, those who would have to pay the interest, would have too much to pay if they were to fulfil their engagement. Mr. Canning's State Paper clearly proves to me, that the main object of it is to make the loans to South America finally be paid, because, if they be not paid, not only is the amount of them lost to the bond-holders, but there is an end, at once, to all that brilliant _commerce_ with which that shining Minister appears to be so much enchanted. All the silver and gold, all the Mexican and Peruvian dreams vanish in an instant, and leave behind the wretched Cotton-Lords and wretched Jews and Jobbers to go to the workhouse, or to Botany Bay. The whole of the loans are said to amount to about twenty-one or twenty-two millions. It is supposed, that twelve millions have actually been sent out in goods. These goods have perhaps been paid for here, but they have been paid for out of English money or by English promises. The money to pay with has come from those who gave money for the South American bonds, and these bond-holders are to be repaid, if repaid at all, _by the South Americans_. If not paid at all, then England will have sent away twelve millions worth of goods for nothing; and this would be the Scotch way of obtaining enormous advantages for the country by laying out its "_surplus capital_" in foreign loans. I shall conclude this subject by inserting a letter which I find in the _Morning Chronicle_, of the 18th instant. I perfectly agree with the writer. The Editor of the _Morning Chronicle_ does not, as appears by the remark which he makes at the head of it; but I shall insert the whole, his remark and all, and add a remark or two of my own.--[See _Register_, vol. 56, p. 556.] "This is a pretty round sum--a sum, the very naming of which would make anybody but half-mad Englishmen stare. To make comparisons with _our own debt_ would have little effect, that being so monstrous that every other sum shrinks into nothingness at the sight of it. But let us look at the United States, for they have _a debt_, and a debt is a debt; and this debt of the United States is often cited as an apology for ours, even the parsons having at last come to cite the United States as presenting us with a system of perfection. What, then, is this debt of the United States? Why, it was on the 1st of January, 1824, this 90,177,962; that is to say dollars; that is to say, at four shillings and sixpence the dollar, just _twenty millions sterling_; that is to say, 594,000 pounds _less_ than our 'surplus capital' men have lent to the South Americans! But now let us see what is the net revenue of this same United States. Why, 20,500,755, that is to say, in sterling money, three millions, three hundred and thirty thousand, and some odd hundreds; that is to say, almost to a mere fraction, a _sixth part_ of the whole gross amount of the debt. Observe this well, that the whole of the debt amounts to only six times as much as one single year's net revenue. Then, again, look at the exports of the United States. These exports, in one single year, amount to 74,699,030 dollars, and in pounds sterling £16,599,783. Now, what can the South American State show in this way? Have they any exports? Or, at least, have they any that any man can speak of with certainty? Have they any revenue wherewith to pay the interest of a debt, when they are borrowing the very means of maintaining themselves now against the bare name of their king? We are often told that the Americans borrowed their money to carry on their Revolutionary war with. _Money!_ Aye; a farthing is money, and a double sovereign is no more than money. But surely some regard is to be had to the _quantity_; some regard is to be had to the amount of the money; and is there any man in his senses that will put the half million, which the Americans borrowed of the Dutch, in competition, that will name on the same day, this half million, with the twenty-one millions and a half borrowed by the South Americans as above stated? In short, it is almost to insult the understandings of my readers, to seem to institute any comparison between the two things; and nothing in the world, short of this gambling, this unprincipled, this maddening paper-money system, could have made men look with patience for one single moment at loans like these, tossed into the air with the hope and expectation of re-payment. However, let the bond-owners keep their bonds. Let them feel the sweets of the Small-note Bill, and of the consequent puffing up of the English funds. The affair is theirs. They have rejected my advice; they have listened to the broad sheet; and let them take all the consequences. Let them, with all my heart, die with starvation, and as they expire, let them curse Mr. BROUGHAM'S best possible public Instructor." _Uphusband (Hampshire), Thursday, 24th Aug. 1826._ We left Burghclere last evening, in the rain; but as our distance was only about seven miles, the consequence was little. The crops of corn, except oats, have been very fine hereabouts; and there are never any pease, nor any beans, grown here. The sainfoin fields, though on these high lands, and though the dry weather has been of such long continuance, look as green as watered meadows, and a great deal more brilliant and beautiful. I have often described this beautiful village (which lies in a deep dell) and its very variously shaped environs, in my _Register_ of November, 1822. This is one of those countries of chalk and flint and dry-top soil and hard roads and high and bare hills and deep dells, with clumps of lofty trees, here and there, which are so many rookeries: this is one of those countries, or rather, approaching towards those countries, of downs and flocks of sheep, which I like so much, which I always get to when I can, and which many people seem to flee from as naturally as men flee from pestilence. They call such countries _naked_ and _barren_, though they are, in the summer months, actually covered with meat and with corn. I saw, the other day, in the Morning Herald London "best public instructor," that all those had _deceived themselves_, who had expected to see the price of agricultural produce brought down by the lessening of the quantity of paper-money. Now, in the first place, corn is, on an average, a seventh lower in price than it was last year at this time; and what would it have been, if the crop and the stock had now been equal to what they were last year? All in good time, therefore, good Mr. Thwaites. Let us have a little time. The "best public instructors" have, as yet, only fallen, in number sold, about a third, since this time last year. Give them a little time, good Mr. Thwaites, and you will see them come down to your heart's content. Only let us fairly see an end to small notes, and there will soon be not two daily "best public instructors" left in all the "entire" great "British Empire." But, as man is not to live on bread alone, so corn is not the _only_ thing that the owners and occupiers of the land have to look to. There are timber, bark, underwood, wool, hides, pigs, sheep, and cattle. All those together make, in amount, four times the corn, at the very least. I know that _all_ these have greatly fallen in price since last year; but I am in a sheep and wool country, and can speak positively as to them, which are two articles of very great importance. As to sheep; I am speaking of Southdowns, which are the great stock of these counties; as to sheep they have fallen one-third in price since last August, lambs as well as ewes. And, as to the wool, it sold, in 1824, at 40_s._ a tod: it sold last year, at 35_s._ a tod; and it now sells at 19_s._ a tod! A tod is 28lb. avoirdupois weight; so that the price of Southdown wool now is 8_d._ a pound and a fraction over; and this is, I believe, cheaper than it has ever been known within the memory of the oldest man living! The "best public instructor" may, perhaps, think, that sheep and wool are a trifling affair. There are many thousands of farmers who keep each a flock of at least a thousand sheep. An ewe yields about 3lb. of wool, a wether 4lb., a ram 7lb. Calculate, good Mr. Thwaites, what a difference it is when this wool becomes 8_d._ a pound instead of 17_d._, and instead of 30_d._ as it was not many years ago! In short, every middling sheep farmer receives, this year, about 250_l._ less, as the produce of sheep and wool, than he received last year; and, on an average, 250_l._ is more than half his rent. There is a great falling off in the price of horses, and of all cattle except fat cattle; and, observe, when the prospect is good, it shows a rise in the price of lean cattle; not in that of the meat which is just ready to go into the mouth. Prices will go on gradually falling, as they did from 1819 to 1822 inclusive, unless upheld by untoward seasons, or by an issue of assignats; for, mind, it would be no joke, no sham, _this time_; it would be an issue of as real, as _bona fide_ assignats as ever came from the mint of any set of rascals that ever robbed and enslaved a people in the names of "liberty and law." _East Everley (Wiltshire), Sunday, 27th August, Evening._ We set off from Uphusband on Friday, about ten o'clock, the morning having been wet. My sons came round, in the chaise, by Andover and Weyhill, while I came right across the country towards Ludgarshall, which lies in the road from Andover to this place. I never knew the _flies_ so troublesome, in England, as I found them in this ride. I was obliged to carry a great bough, and to keep it in constant motion, in order to make the horse peaceable enough to enable me to keep on his back. It is a country of fields, lanes, and high hedges; so that no _wind_ could come to relieve my horse; and, in spite of all I could do, a great part of him was covered with foam from the sweat. In the midst of this, I got, at one time, a little out of my road, in, or near, a place called Tangley. I rode up to the garden-wicket of a cottage, and asked the woman, who had two children, and who seemed to be about thirty years old, which was the way to Ludgarshall, which I knew could not be more than about _four miles_ off. She did _not know_! A very neat, smart, and pretty woman; but she did not know the way to this rotten borough, which was, I was sure, only about four miles off! "Well, my dear good woman," said I, "but you _have been_ at LUDGARSHALL?"--"No."--"Nor at Andover?" (six miles another way)--"No."--"Nor at Marlborough?" (nine miles another way)--"No."--"Pray, were you born in this house?"--"Yes."--"And how far have you ever been from this house?"--"Oh! I have been _up in the parish_ and over _to Chute_." That is to say, the utmost extent of her voyages had been about two and a half miles! Let no one laugh at her, and, above all others, let not me, who am convinced, that the _facilities_, which now exist, of _moving human bodies from place to place_, are amongst the _curses_ of the country, the destroyers of industry, of morals, and, of course, of happiness. It is a great error to suppose, that people are rendered stupid by remaining always in the same place. This was a very acute woman, and as well behaved as need to be. There was, in July last (last month) a Preston-man, who had never been further from home than Chorley (about eight or ten miles), and who started off, _on foot_, and went, _alone_, to Rouen, in France, and back again to London, in the space of about ten days; and that, too, without being able to speak, or to understand, a word of French. N.B. Those gentlemen, who, at Green-street, in Kent, were so kind to this man, _upon finding that he had voted for me_, will be pleased to accept of my best thanks. Wilding (that is the man's name) was full of expressions of gratitude towards these gentlemen. He spoke of others who were good to him on his way; and even at Calais he found friends on my account; but he was particularly loud in his praises of the gentlemen in Kent, who had been so good and so kind to him, that he seemed quite in an extasy when he talked of their conduct. Before I got to the rotten-borough, I came out upon a Down, just on the border of the two counties, Hampshire and Wiltshire. Here I came up with my sons, and we entered the rotten-borough together. It contained some rashers of bacon and a very civil landlady; but it is one of the most mean and beggarly places that man ever set his eyes on. The curse attending corruption seems to be upon it. The look of the place would make one swear, that there never was a clean shirt in it, since the first stone of it was laid. It must have been a large place once, though it now contains only 479 persons, men, women, and children. The borough is, as to all practical purposes, as much private property as this pen is my private property. Aye, aye! Let the petitioners of Manchester bawl, as long as they like, against all other evils; but, until they touch this _master-evil_, they do nothing at all. Everley is but about three miles from Ludgarshall, so that we got here in the afternoon of Friday: and, in the evening a very heavy storm came and drove away all flies, and made the air delightful. This is a real _Down_-country. Here you see miles and miles square without a tree, or hedge, or bush. It is country of green-sward. This is the most famous place in all England for _coursing_. I was here, at this very inn, with a party eighteen years ago; and the landlord, who is still the same, recognized me as soon as he saw me. There were forty brace of greyhounds taken out into the field on one of the days, and every brace had one course, and some of them two. The ground is the finest in the world; from two to three miles for the hare to run to cover, and not a stone nor a bush nor a hillock. It was here proved to me, that the hare is, by far, the swiftest of all English animals; for I saw three hares, in one day, _run away_ from the dogs. To give dog and hare a fair trial, there should be but _one_ dog. Then, if that dog got so close as to compel the hare _to turn_, that would be a proof that the dog ran fastest. When the dog, or dogs, never get near enough to the hare to induce her to _turn_, she is said, and very justly, to "_run away_" from them; and, as I saw three hares do this in one day, I conclude, that the hare is the swiftest animal of the two. This inn is one of the nicest, and, in summer, one of the pleasantest, in England; for, I think, that my experience in this way will justify me in speaking thus positively. The house is large, the yard and the stables good, the landlord _a farmer_ also, and, therefore, no cribbing your horses in hay or straw and yourself in eggs and cream. The garden, which adjoins the south side of the house, is large, of good shape, has a terrace on one side, lies on the slope, consists of well-disposed clumps of shrubs and flowers, and of short-grass very neatly kept. In the lower part of the garden there are high trees, and, amongst these, the tulip-tree and the live-oak. Beyond the garden is a large clump of lofty sycamores, and in these a most populous rookery, in which, of all things in the world, I delight. The village, which contains 301 souls, lies to the north of the inn, but adjoining its premises. All the rest, in every direction, is bare down or open arable. I am now sitting at one of the southern windows of this inn, looking across the garden towards the rookery. It is nearly sun-setting; the rooks are skimming and curving over the tops of the trees; while, under the branches, I see a flock of several hundred sheep, coming nibbling their way in from the Down, and going to their fold. Now, what ill-natured devil could bring Old Nic Grimshaw into my head in company with these innocent sheep? Why, the truth is this: nothing is _so swift_ as _thought_: it runs over a life-time in a moment; and, while I was writing the last sentence of the foregoing paragraph, _thought_ took me up at the time when I used to wear a smock-frock and to carry a wooden bottle like that shepherd's boy; and, in an instant, it hurried me along through my no very short life of adventure, of toil, of peril, of pleasure, of ardent friendship and not less ardent enmity; and after filling me with wonder, that a heart and mind so wrapped up in everything belonging to the gardens, the fields and the woods, should have been condemned to waste themselves away amidst the stench, the noise, and the strife of cities, it brought me _to the present moment_, and sent my mind back to what I have yet to perform about Nicholas Grimshaw and his _ditches_! My sons set off about three o'clock to-day, on their way to Herefordshire, where I intend to join them, when I have had a pretty good ride in this country. There is no pleasure in travelling, except on horse-back, or on foot. Carriages take your body from place to place; and if you merely want to be _conveyed_, they are very good; but they enable you to see and to know nothing at all of the country. _East Everley, Monday Morning, 5 o'clock, 28th Aug. 1826._ A very fine morning; a man, _eighty-two years of age_, just beginning to mow the short-grass, in the garden: I thought it, even when I was young, the _hardest work_ that man had to do. To _look on_, this work seems nothing; but it tries every sinew in your frame, if you go upright and do your work well. This old man never knew how to do it well, and he stoops, and he hangs his scythe wrong; but, with all this, it must be a surprising man to mow short-grass, as well as he does, at _eighty_. _I wish I_ may be able to mow short-grass at eighty! That's all I have to say of the matter. I am just setting off for the source of the Avon, which runs from near Marlborough to Salisbury, and thence to the sea; and I intend to pursue it as far as Salisbury. In the distance of thirty miles, here are, I see by the books, more than thirty churches. I wish to see, with my own eyes, what evidence there is that those thirty churches were built without hands, without money, and without a congregation; and thus to find matter, if I can, to justify the mad wretches, who, from Committee-Rooms and elsewhere, are bothering this half-distracted nation to death about a "surplus popalashon, mon." My horse is ready; and the rooks are just gone off to the stubble-fields. These rooks rob the pigs; but they have _a right_ to do it. I wonder (upon my soul I do) that there is no lawyer, Scotchman, or Parson-Justice, to propose a law to punish the rooks for _trespass_. RIDE DOWN THE VALLEY OF THE AVON IN WILTSHIRE. "Thou shalt not muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn; and, The labourer is worthy of his reward."--Deuteronomy, ch. xxv, ver. 4; 1 Cor. ix, 9; 1 Tim. v, 9. _Milton, Monday, 28th August._ I came off this morning on the Marlborough road about two miles, or three, and then turned off, over the downs, in a north-westerly direction, in search of the source of the Avon River, which goes down to Salisbury. I had once been at Netheravon, a village in this valley; but I had often heard this valley described as one of the finest pieces of land in all England; I knew that there were about thirty parish churches, standing in a length of about thirty miles, and in an average width of hardly a mile; and I was resolved to see a little into the _reasons_ that could have induced our fathers to build all these churches, especially if, as the Scotch would have us believe, there were but a mere handful of people in England _until of late years_. The first part of my ride this morning was by the side of Sir John Astley's park. This man is one of the members of the county (gallon-loaf Bennet being the other). They say that he is good to the labouring people; and he ought to be good for _something_, being a member of Parliament of the Lethbridge and Dickenson stamp. However, he has got a thumping estate; though it be borne in mind, the working-people and the fund-holders and the dead-weight have each their separate mortgage upon it; of which this Baronet has, I dare say, too much justice to complain, seeing that the amount of these mortgages was absolutely necessary to carry on Pitt and Perceval and Castlereagh Wars; to support Hanoverian soldiers in England; to fight and beat the Americans on the Serpentine River; to give Wellington a kingly estate; and to defray the expenses of Manchester and other yeomanry cavalry; besides all the various charges of Power-of-Imprisonment Bills and of Six-Acts. These being the cause of the mortgages, the "worthy Baronet" has, I will engage, too much justice to complain of them. In steering across the down, I came to a large farm, which a shepherd told me was Milton Hill Farm. This was upon the high land, and before I came to the edge of this _Valley of Avon_, which was my land of promise; or, at least, of great expectation; for I could not imagine that thirty churches had been built _for nothing_ by the side of a brook (for it is no more during the greater part of the way) thirty miles long. The shepherd showed me the way towards Milton; and at the end of about a mile, from the top of a very high part of the down, with a steep slope towards the valley, I first saw this _Valley of Avon_; and a most beautiful sight it was! Villages, hamlets, large farms, towers, steeples, fields, meadows, orchards, and very fine timber trees, scattered all over the valley. The shape of the thing is this: on each side _downs_, very lofty and steep in some places, and sloping miles back in other places; but each _outside_ of the valley are downs. From the edge of the downs begin capital _arable fields_ generally of very great dimensions, and, in some places, running a mile or two back into little _cross-valleys_, formed by hills of downs. After the corn-fields come _meadows_, on each side, down to the _brook_ or _river_. The farm-houses, mansions, villages, and hamlets, are generally situated in that part of the arable land which comes nearest the meadows. Great as my expectations had been, they were more than fulfilled. I delight in this sort of country; and I had frequently seen the vale of the Itchen, that of the Bourn, and also that of the Teste, in Hampshire; I had seen the vales amongst the South Downs; but I never before saw anything to please me like this valley of the Avon. I sat upon my horse, and looked over Milton and Easton and Pewsy for half an hour, though I had not breakfasted. The hill was very steep. A road, going slanting down it, was still so steep, and washed so very deep, by the rains of ages, that I did not attempt to _ride_ down it, and I did not like to lead my horse, the path was so narrow. So seeing a boy with a drove of pigs, going out to the stubbles, I beckoned him to come up to me; and he came and led my horse down for me. Endless is the variety in the shape of the high lands which form this valley. Sometimes the slope is very gentle, and the arable lands go back very far. At others, the downs come out into the valley almost like piers into the sea, being very steep in their sides, as well as their ends towards the valley. They have no slope at their other ends: indeed they have no _back ends_, but run into the main high land. There is also great variety in the width of the valley; great variety in the width of the meadows; but the land appears all to be of the very best; and it must be so, for the farmers confess it. It seemed to me, that one way, and that not, perhaps, the least striking, of exposing the folly, the stupidity, the inanity, the presumption, the insufferable emptiness and insolence and barbarity, of those numerous wretches, who have now the audacity to propose to _transport_ the people of England, upon the principle of the monster Malthus, who has furnished the unfeeling oligarchs and their toad-eaters with the pretence, that _man has a natural propensity to breed faster than food can be raised for the increase_; it seemed to me, that one way of exposing this mixture of madness and of blasphemy was to take a look, now that the harvest is in, at the produce, the mouths, the condition, and the changes that have taken place, in a spot like this, which God has favoured with every good that he has had to bestow upon man. From the top of the hill I was not a little surprised to see, in every part of the valley that my eye could reach, a due, a large portion of fields of Swedish turnips, all looking extremely well. I had found the turnips, of both sorts, by no means bad, from Salt Hill to Newbury; but from Newbury through Burghclere, Highclere, Uphusband, and Tangley, I had seen but few. At and about Ludgarshall and Everley, I had seen hardly any. But when I came, this morning, to Milton Hill farm, I saw a very large field of what appeared to me to be fine Swedish turnips. In the valley, however, I found them much finer, and the fields were very beautiful objects, forming, as their colour did, so great a contrast with that of the fallows and the stubbles, which latter are, this year, singularly clean and bright. Having gotten to the bottom of the hill, I proceeded on to the village of Milton. I left Easton away at my right, and I did not go up to Watton Rivers where the river Avon rises, and which lies just close to the South-west corner of Marlborough Forest, and at about 5 or 6 miles from the town of Marlborough. Lower down the river, as I thought, there lived a friend, who was a great farmer, and whom I intended to call on. It being my way, however, always to begin making enquiries soon enough, I asked the pig-driver where this friend lived; and, to my surprise, I found that he lived in the parish of Milton. After riding up to the church, as being the centre of the village, I went on towards the house of my friend, which lay on my road down the valley. I have many, many times witnessed agreeable surprise; but I do not know, that I ever in the whole course of my life, saw people so much surprised and pleased as this farmer and his family were at seeing me. People often _tell_ you, that they are _glad to see_ you; and in general they speak truth. I take pretty good care not to approach any house, with the smallest appearance of a design to eat or drink in it, unless I be _quite sure_ of a cordial reception; but my friend at Fifield (it is in Milton parish) and all his family really seemed to be delighted beyond all expression. When I set out this morning, I intended to go all the way down to the city of Salisbury _to-day_; but, I soon found, that to refuse to sleep at Fifield would cost me a great deal more trouble than a day was worth. So that I made my mind up to stay in this farm-house, which has one of the nicest gardens, and it contains some of the finest flowers, that I ever saw, and all is disposed with as much good taste as I have ever witnessed. Here I am, then, just going to bed after having spent as pleasant a day as I ever spent in my life. I have heard to-day, that Birkbeck lost his life by attempting to cross a river on horse-back; but if what I have heard besides be true, that life must have been hardly worth preserving; for, they say, that he was reduced to a very deplorable state; and I have heard, from what I deem unquestionable authority, that his two beautiful and accomplished daughters are married to two common labourers, one a Yankee and the other an Irishman, neither of whom has, probably, a second shirt to his back, or a single pair of shoes to put his feet into! These poor girls owe their ruin and misery (if my information be correct), and, at any rate, hundreds besides Birkbeck himself, owe their utter ruin, the most scandalous degradation, together with great bodily suffering, to the vanity, the conceit, the presumption of Birkbeck, who, observe, richly merited all that he suffered, not excepting his death; for, he sinned with his eyes open; he rejected all advice; he persevered after he saw his error; he dragged thousands into ruin along with him; and he most vilely calumniated the man, who, after having most disinterestedly, but in vain, endeavoured to preserve him from ruin, endeavoured to preserve those who were in danger of being deluded by him. When, in 1817, before he set out for America, I was, in Catherine Street, Strand, London, so earnestly pressing him not to go to the back countries, he had one of these daughters with him. After talking to him for some time, and describing the risks and disadvantages of the back countries, I turned towards the daughter and, in a sort of joking way, said: "Miss Birkbeck, take my advice: don't let anybody get _you_ more than twenty miles from Boston, New York, Philadelphia, or Baltimore." Upon which he gave me a most _dignified_ look, and observed: "Miss Birkbeck has _a father_, Sir, whom she knows it to be her duty to obey." This snap was enough for me. I saw, that this was a man so full of self-conceit, that it was impossible to do anything with him. He seemed to me to be bent upon his own destruction. I thought it my duty to warn _others_ of their danger: some took the warning; others did not; but he and his brother adventurer, Flower, never forgave me, and they resorted to all the means in their power to do me injury. They did me no injury, no thanks to them; and I have seen them most severely, but most justly, punished. _Amesbury, Tuesday, 29th August._ I set off from Fifield this morning, and got here about one o'clock, with my clothes wet. While they are drying, and while a mutton chop is getting ready, I sit down to make some notes of what I have seen since I left Enford ... but, here comes my dinner: and I must put off my notes till I have dined. _Salisbury, Wednesday, 30th August._ My ride yesterday, from Milton to this city of Salisbury, was, without any exception, the most pleasant; it brought before me the greatest number of, to me, interesting objects, and it gave rise to more interesting reflections, than I remember ever to have had brought before my eyes, or into my mind, in any one day of my life; and therefore, this ride was, without any exception, the most pleasant that I ever had in my life, as far as my recollection serves me. I got a little wet in the middle of the day; but I got dry again, and I arrived here in very good time, though I went over the Accursed Hill (Old Sarum), and went across to Laverstoke, before I came to Salisbury. Let us now, then, look back over this part of Wiltshire, and see whether the inhabitants ought to be "transported" by order of the "Emigration Committee," of which we shall see and say more by-and-by. I have before described this valley generally; let me now speak of it a little more in detail. The farms are all large, and, generally speaking, they were always large, I dare say; because _sheep_ is one of the great things here; and sheep, in a country like this, must be kept in _flocks_, to be of any profit. The sheep principally manure the land. This is to be done only by _folding_; and, to fold, you must have a _flock_. Every farm has its portion of down, arable, and meadow; and, in many places, the latter are watered meadows, which is a great resource where sheep are kept in flocks; because these meadows furnish grass for the suckling ewes, early in the spring; and, indeed, because they have always food in them for sheep and cattle of all sorts. These meadows have had no part of the suffering from the drought, this year. They fed the ewes and lambs in the spring, and they are now yielding a heavy crop of hay; for I saw men mowing in them, in several places, particularly about Netheravon, though it was raining at the time. The turnips look pretty well all the way down the valley; but, I see very few, except Swedish turnips. The early common turnips very nearly all failed, I believe. But the stubbles are beautifully bright; and the rick-yards tell us that the crops are good, especially of wheat. This is not a country of pease and beans, nor of oats, except for home consumption. The crops are wheat, barley, wool, and lambs, and these latter not to be sold to butchers, but to be sold, at the great fairs, to those who are going to keep them for some time, whether to breed from, or finally to fat for the butcher. It is the pulse and the oats that appear to have failed most this year; and therefore this Valley has not suffered. I do not perceive that they have many _potatoes_; but what they have of this base root seem to look well enough. It was one of the greatest villains upon earth (Sir Walter Raleigh), who (they say) first brought this root into England. He was hanged at last! What a pity, since he was to be hanged, the hanging did not take place before he became such a mischievous devil as he was in the latter two-thirds of his life! The stack-yards down this valley are beautiful to behold. They contain from five to fifteen banging wheat-ricks, besides barley-ricks, and hay-ricks, and also besides the contents of the barns, many of which exceed a hundred, some two hundred, and I saw one at Pewsey, and another at Fittleton, each of which exceeded two hundred and fifty feet in length. At a farm, which, in the old maps, is called Chissenbury Priory, I think I counted twenty-seven ricks of one sort and another, and sixteen or eighteen of them wheat-ricks. I could not conveniently get to the yard, without longer delay than I wished to make; but I could not be much out in my counting. A very fine sight this was, and it could not meet the eye without making one look round (and in vain) _to see the people who were to eat all this food_; and without making one reflect on the horrible, the unnatural, the base and infamous state, in which we must be, when projects are on foot, and are openly avowed, for _transporting_ those who raise this food, because they want to eat enough of it to keep them alive; and when no project is on foot for transporting the idlers who live in luxury upon this same food; when no project is on foot for transporting pensioners, parsons, or dead-weight people! A little while before I came to this farm-yard, I saw, in one piece, about four hundred acres of wheat-stubble, and I saw a sheep-fold, which, I thought, contained an acre of ground, and had in it about four thousand sheep and lambs. The fold was divided into three separate flocks; but the piece of ground was one and the same; and I thought it contained about an acre. At one farm, between Pewsey and Upavon, I counted more than 300 hogs in one stubble. This is certainly the most delightful farming in the world. No ditches, no water-furrows, no drains, hardly any hedges, no dirt and mire, even in the wettest seasons of the year: and though the downs are naked and cold, the valleys are snugness itself. They are, as to the downs, what _ah-ahs!_ are, in parks or lawns. When you are going over the downs, you look _over_ the valleys, as in the case of the _ah-ah_; and if you be not acquainted with the country, your surprise, when you come to the edge of the hill, is very great. The shelter, in these valleys, and particularly where the downs are steep and lofty on the sides, is very complete. Then, the trees are everywhere lofty. They are generally elms, with some ashes, which delight in the soil that they find here. There are, almost always, two or three large clumps of trees in every parish, and a rookery or two (not _rag_-rookery) to every parish. By the water's edge there are willows; and to almost every farm there is a fine orchard, the trees being, in general, very fine, and, this year, they are, in general, well loaded with fruit. So that, all taken together, it seems impossible to find a more beautiful and pleasant country than this, or to imagine any life more easy and happy than men might here lead, if they were untormented by an accursed system that takes the food from those that raise it, and gives it to those that do nothing that is useful to man. Here the farmer has always an abundance of straw. His farm-yard is never without it. Cattle and horses are bedded up to their eyes. The yards are put close under the shelter of a hill, or are protected by lofty and thick-set trees. Every animal seems comfortably situated; and, in the dreariest days of winter, these are, perhaps, the happiest scenes in the world; or, rather, they would be such, if those, whose labour makes it all, trees, corn, sheep and everything, had but _their fair share_ of the produce of that labour. What share they really have of it one cannot exactly say; but, I should suppose, that every labouring _man_ in this valley raises as much food as would suffice for fifty, or a hundred persons, fed like himself! At a farm at Milton there were, according to my calculation, 600 quarters of wheat and 1200 quarters of barley of the present year's crop. The farm keeps, on an average, 1400 sheep, it breeds and rears an usual proportion of pigs, fats the usual proportion of hogs, and, I suppose, rears and fats the usual proportion of poultry. Upon inquiry, I found that this farm was, in point of produce, about one-fifth of the parish. Therefore, the land of this parish produces annually about 3000 quarters of wheat, 6000 quarters of barley, the wool of 7000 sheep, together with the pigs and poultry. Now, then, leaving green, or moist, vegetables out of the question, as being things that human creatures, and especially _labouring_ human creatures, ought never to use _as sustenance_, and saying nothing, at present, about milk and butter; leaving these wholly out of the question, let us see how many people the produce of this parish would keep, supposing the people to live all alike, and to have plenty of food and clothing. In order to come at the fact here, let us see what would be the consumption of one family; let it be a family of five persons; a man, wife, and three children, one child big enough to work, one big enough to eat heartily, and one a baby; and this is a pretty fair average of the state of people in the country. Such a family would want 5 lb. of bread a-day; they would want a pound of mutton a-day; they would want two pounds of bacon a-day; they would want, on an average, winter and summer, a gallon and a half of beer a-day; for I mean that they should live without the aid of the Eastern or the Western slave-drivers. If _sweets_ were absolutely necessary for the baby, there would be quite _honey_ enough in the parish. Now, then, to begin with the bread, a pound of good wheat makes a pound of good bread; for, though the offal be taken out, the water is put in; and, indeed, the fact is, that a pound of wheat will make a pound of bread, leaving the offal of the wheat to feed pigs, or other animals, and to produce other human food in this way. The family would, then, use 1825 lb. of wheat in the year, which, at 60 lb. a bushel, would be (leaving out a fraction) 30 bushels, or three quarters and six bushels, _for the year_. Next comes the mutton, 365 lb. for the year. Next the bacon, 730 lb. As to the quantity of mutton produced; the sheep are bred here, and not fatted in general; but we may fairly suppose, that each of the sheep _kept_ here, each of the _standing-stock_, makes first, or last, half a fat sheep; so that a farm that keeps, on an average, 100 sheep, produces annually 50 fat sheep. Suppose the mutton to be 15 lb. a quarter, then the family will want, within a trifle of, seven sheep a year. Of bacon or pork, 36 score will be wanted. Hogs differ so much in their propensity to fat, that it is difficult to calculate about them: but this is a very good rule: when you see a fat hog, and know how many _scores_ he will weigh, set down to his account a sack (half a quarter) of barley for every score of his weight; for, let him have been _educated_ (as the French call it) as he may, this will be about the real cost of him when he is fat. A sack of barley will make a score of bacon, and it will not make more. Therefore, the family would want 18 quarters of barley in the year for bacon. As to the _beer_, 18 gallons to the bushel of malt is very good; but, as we allow of no spirits, no wine, and none of the slave produce, we will suppose that a _sixth_ part of the beer is _strong_ stuff. This would require two bushels of malt to the 18 gallons. The whole would, therefore, take 35 bushels of malt; and a bushel of barley makes a bushel of malt, and, by the _increase_ pays the expense of malting. Here, then, the family would want, for beer, four quarters and three bushels of barley. The annual consumption of the family, in victuals and drink, would then be as follows: Qrs. Bush. Wheat 3 6 Barley 22 3 ---------- Sheep 7 This being the case, the 3000 quarters of wheat, which the parish annually produces, would suffice for 800 families. The 6000 quarters of barley, would suffice for 207 families. The 3500 fat sheep, being half the number kept, would suffice for 500 families. So that here is, produced in the parish of Milton, _bread_ for 800, _mutton_ for 500, and _bacon and beer_ for 207 families. Besides victuals and drink, there are clothes, fuel, tools, and household goods wanting; but there are milk, butter, eggs, poultry, rabbits, hares, and partridges, which I have not noticed, and these are all eatables, and are all eaten too. And as to clothing, and, indeed, fuel and all other wants beyond eating and drinking, are there not 7000 fleeces of Southdown wool, weighing, all together, 21,000 lb., and capable of being made into 8400 yards of broad cloth, at two pounds and a half of wool to the yard? Setting, therefore, the wool, the milk, butter, eggs, poultry, and game against all the wants beyond the solid food and drink, we see that the parish of Milton, that we have under our eye, would give bread to 800 families, mutton to 580, and bacon and beer to 207. The reason why wheat and mutton are produced in a proportion so much greater than the materials for making bacon and beer, is, that the wheat and the mutton are more loudly demanded _from a distance_, and are much more cheaply conveyed away in proportion to their value. For instance, the wheat and mutton are wanted in the infernal Wen, and some barley is wanted there in the shape of malt; but hogs are not fatted in the Wen, and a larger proportion of the barley is used where it is grown. Here is, then, bread for 800 families, mutton for 500, and bacon and beer for 207. Let us take the average of the three, and then we have 502 families, for the keeping of whom, and in this good manner too, the parish of Milton yields a sufficiency. In the wool, the milk, butter, eggs, poultry, and game, we have seen ample, and much more than ample, provision for all wants other than those of mere food and drink. What I have allowed in food and drink is by no means excessive. It is but a pound of bread, and a little more than half-a-pound of meat a day to each person on an average; and the beer is not a drop too much. There are no green and moist vegetables included in my account; but, there would be some, and they would not do any harm; but, no man can say, or, at least, none but a base usurer, who would grind money out of the bones of his own father; no other man can, or will, say, that I have been _too liberal_ to this family; and yet, good God! what extravagance is here, if the labourers of England be now treated justly! Is there a family, even amongst those who live the hardest, in the Wen, that would not shudder at the thought of living upon what I have allowed to this family? Yet what do labourers' families get, compared to this? The answer to that question ought to make us shudder indeed. The amount of my allowance, compared with the amount of the allowance that labourers now have, is necessary to be stated here, before I proceed further. The wheat 3 qrs. and 6 bushels at present price (56_s._ the quarter) amounts to 10_l._ 10_s._ The barley (for bacon and beer) 22 qrs. 3 bushels, at present price (34_s._ the quarter), amounts to 37_l._ 16_s._ 8_d._ The seven sheep, at 40_s._ each, amount to 14_l._ The total is 62_l._ 6_s._ 8_d._; and this, observe, for _bare victuals and drink_; just food and drink enough to keep people in working condition. What then _do_ the labourers get? To what fare has this wretched and most infamous system brought them! Why such a family as I have described is allowed to have, _at the utmost_, only about 9_s._ a week. The parish allowance is only about 7_s._ 6_d._ for the five people, including clothing, fuel, bedding and everything! Monstrous state of things! But let us suppose it to be _nine shillings_. Even that makes only 23_l._ 8_s._ a year, for food, drink, clothing, fuel and everything, whereas I allow 62_l._ 6_s._ 8_d._ a year for the bare eating and drinking; and that is little enough. Monstrous, barbarous, horrible as this appears, we do not, however, see it in half its horrors; our indignation and rage against this infernal system is not half roused, till we see the small number of labourers who raise all the food and the drink, and, of course, the mere trifling portion of it that they are suffered to retain for their own use. The parish of Milton does, as we have seen, produce food, drink, clothing, and all other things, enough for 502 families, or 2510 persons upon my allowance, which is a great deal more than three times the present allowance, because the present allowance includes clothing, fuel, tools, and everything. Now, then, according to the "Population Return," laid before Parliament, this parish contains 500 persons, or, according to my division, one hundred families. So that here are about _one hundred_ families to raise food and drink enough, and to raise wool and other things to pay for all other necessaries, for _five hundred_ and _two_ families! Aye, and five hundred and two families fed and lodged, too, on my liberal scale. Fed and lodged according to the present scale, this one hundred families raise enough to supply more, and many more, than fifteen hundred families; or seven thousand five hundred persons! And yet those who do the work are half starved! In the 100 families there are, we will suppose, 80 able working men, and as many boys, sometimes assisted by the women and stout girls. What a handful of people to raise such a quantity of food! What injustice, what a hellish system it must be, to make those who raise it skin and bone and nakedness, while the food and drink and wool are almost all carried away to be heaped on the fund-holders, pensioners, soldiers, dead-weight, and other swarms of tax-eaters! If such an operation do not need putting an end to, then the devil himself is a saint. Thus it must be, or much about thus, all the way down this fine and beautiful and interesting valley. There are 29 agricultural parishes, the two last being in town; being Fisherton and Salisbury. Now, according to the "Population Return," the whole of these 29 parishes contain 9,116 persons; or, according to my division, 1,823 families. There is no reason to believe, that the proportion that we have seen in the case of Milton does not hold good all the way through; that is, there is no reason to suppose, that the produce does not exceed the consumption in every other case in the same degree that it does in the case of Milton. And indeed if I were to judge from the number of houses and the number of ricks of corn, I should suppose that the excess was still greater in several of the other parishes. But, supposing it to be no greater; supposing the same proportion to continue all the way from Watton Rivers to Stratford Dean, then here are 9,116 persons raising food and raiment sufficient for 45,580 persons, fed and lodged according to my scale; and sufficient for 136,740 persons, according to the scale on which the unhappy labourers of this fine valley are now fed and lodged! And yet there is an "_Emigration Committee_" sitting to devise the means of getting _rid_, not of the idlers, not of the pensioners, not of the dead-weight, not of the parsons, (to "relieve" whom we have seen the poor labourers taxed to the tune of a million and a half of money) not of the soldiers; but to devise means of getting rid of _these working people_, who are grudged even the miserable morsel that they get! There is in the men calling themselves "English country gentlemen" something superlatively base. They are, I sincerely believe, the most cruel, the most unfeeling, the most brutally insolent: but I know, I can prove, I can safely take my oath, that they are the most base of all the creatures that God ever suffered to disgrace the human shape. The base wretches know well, that the _taxes_ amount to more than _sixty millions_ a year, and that the _poor-rates_ amount to about _seven millions_; yet, while the cowardly reptiles never utter a word against the taxes, they are incessantly railing against the poor-rates, though it is, (and they know it) the taxes that make the paupers. The base wretches know well, that the sum of money given, even to the fellows that gather the taxes, is greater in amount than the poor-rates; the base wretches know well, that the money, given to the dead-weight (who ought not to have a single farthing), amounts to more than the poor receive out of the rates; the base wretches know well, that the common foot-soldier now receives more pay per week (7_s._ 7_d._) exclusive of clothing, firing, candle, and lodging; the base wretches know, that the common foot-soldier receives more to go down his own single throat, than the overseers and magistrates allow to a working man, his wife and three children; the base wretches know all this well; and yet their railings are confined to the _poor_ and the _poor-rates_; and it is expected that they will, next session, urge the Parliament to pass a law to enable overseers and vestries and magistrates _to transport paupers beyond the seas_! They are base enough for this, or for any thing; but the whole system will go to the devil long before they will get such an act passed; long before they will see perfected this consummation of their infamous tyranny. It is manifest enough, that the _population_ of this valley was, at one time, many times over what it is now; for, in the first place, what were the twenty-nine churches built _for_? The population of the 29 parishes is now but little more than one-half of that of the single parish of Kensington; and there are several of the churches bigger than the church at Kensington. What, then, should all these churches have been built _for_? And besides, where did the hands come from? And where did the money come from? These twenty-nine churches would now not only hold all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, but all the household goods, and tools, and implements, of the whole of them, farmers and all, if you leave out the wagons and carts. In three instances, Fifield, Milston, and Roach-Fen, the _church-porches_ will hold all the inhabitants, even down to the bed-ridden and the babies. What then? will any man believe that these churches were built for such little knots of people? We are told about the _great_ superstition of our fathers, and of their readiness to gratify the priests by building altars and other religious edifices. But we must think those priests to have been most devout creatures indeed, if we believe that they chose to have the money laid out in _useless_ churches, rather than have it put into their own pockets! At any rate, we all know that Protestant Priests have no whims of _this sort_; and that they never lay out upon churches any money that they can, by any means, get hold of. But, suppose that we were to believe that the Priests had, in old times, this unaccountable taste; and suppose we were to believe that a knot of people, who might be crammed into a church-porch, were seized, and very frequently too, with the desire of having a big church to go to; we must, after all this, believe that this knot of people were more than _giants_, or that they had surprising _riches_, else we cannot believe that they had _the means_ of gratifying the strange wishes of their Priests and their own not less strange _piety_ and _devotion_. Even if we could believe that they thought that they were paving their way to heaven, by building churches which were a hundred times too large for the population, still we cannot believe, that the building could have been effected without bodily force; and, where was this force to come from, if the people were not more numerous than they now are? What, again, I ask, were these twenty-nine churches stuck up, not a mile from each other; what were twenty-nine churches made _for_, if the population had been no greater than it is now? But, in fact, you plainly see all the traces of a great ancient population. The churches are almost all large, and built in the best manner. Many of them are very fine edifices; very costly in the building; and, in the cases where the body of the church has been altered in the repairing of it, so as to make it smaller, the _tower_, which everywhere defies the hostility of time, shows you what the church must formerly have been. This is the case in several instances; and there are two or three of these villages which must formerly have been _market-towns_, and particularly Pewsy and Upavon. There are now no less than nine of the parishes out of the twenty-nine, that have either no parsonage-houses, or have such as are in such a state that a Parson will not, or cannot, live in them. Three of them are without any parsonage-houses at all, and the rest are become poor, mean, falling-down places. This latter is the case at Upavon, which was formerly a very considerable place. Nothing can more clearly show, than this, that all, as far as buildings and population are concerned, has been long upon the decline and decay. Dilapidation after dilapidation have, at last, almost effaced even the parsonage-houses, and that too in _defiance of the law_, ecclesiastical as well as civil. The land remains; and the crops and the sheep come as abundantly as ever; but they are now sent almost wholly away, instead of remaining, as formerly, to be, in great part, consumed in these twenty-nine parishes. The _stars_, in my map, mark the spots where manor-houses, or gentlemen's mansions, formerly stood, and stood, too, only about sixty years ago. Every parish had its manor house in the first place; and then there were, down this Valley, twenty-one others; so that, in this distance of about thirty miles, there stood fifty mansion houses. Where are they _now_? I believe there are but eight that are at all worthy of the name of mansion houses; and even these are but poorly kept up, and, except in two or three instances, are of no benefit to the labouring people; they employ but few persons; and, in short, do not half supply the place of any eight of the old mansions. All these mansions, all these parsonages, aye, and their goods and furniture, together with the clocks, the brass kettles, the brewing-vessels, the good bedding and good clothes and good furniture, and the stock in pigs, or in money, of the inferior classes, in this series of once populous and gay villages and hamlets; all these have been by the accursed system of taxing and funding and paper-money, by the well-known exactions of the state, and by the not less real, though less generally understood, extortions of the _monopolies_ arising out of paper-money; all these have been, by these accursed means, conveyed away, out of this Valley, to the haunts of the tax-eaters and the monopolizers. There are many of the _mansion houses_, the ruins of which you yet behold. At Milton there are two mansion houses, the walls and the roofs of which yet remain, but which are falling gradually to pieces, and the garden walls are crumbling down. At Enford, Bennet, the Member for the county, had a large mansion house, the stables of which are yet standing. In several places, I saw, still remaining, indubitable traces of an ancient manor house, namely a dove-cote or pigeon-house. The poor pigeons have kept possession of their heritage, from generation to generation, and so have the rooks, in their several rookeries, while the paper-system has swept away, or rather swallowed-up, the owners of the dove-cotes and of the lofty trees, about forty families of which owners have been ousted in this one Valley, and have become dead-weight creatures, tax-gatherers, barrack-fellows, thief-takers, or, perhaps, paupers or thieves. Senator Snip congratulated, some years ago, that preciously honourable "Collective _Wisdom_" of which he is a most worthy Member; Snip congratulated it on the success of the late war in creating capital! Snip is, you must know, a great _feelosofer_, and a not less great _feenanceer_. Snip cited, as a proof of the great and glorious effects of paper-money, the new and fine houses in London, the new streets and squares, the new roads, new canals and bridges. Snip was not, I dare say, aware that this same paper-money had destroyed forty mansion houses in this Vale of Avon, and had taken away all the goods, all the substance, of the little gentry and of the labouring class. Snip was not, I dare say, aware that this same paper-money had, in this one Vale of only thirty miles long, dilapidated, and, in some cases, wholly demolished, nine out of twenty-nine even of the parsonage houses. I told Snip at the time (1821), that paper-money could create no valuable thing. I begged Snip to bear this in mind. I besought all my readers, and particularly Mr. Mathias Atwood (one of the members for _Lowther_-town), not to believe that paper-money ever did, or ever could, _create_ anything of any value. I besought him to look well into the matter, and assured him that he would find that though paper-money could _create_ nothing of value, it was able to _transfer_ everything of value; able to strip a little gentry; able to dilapidate even parsonage houses; able to rob gentlemen of their estates, and labourers of their Sunday-coats and their barrels of beer; able to snatch the dinner from the board of the reaper or the mower, and to convey it to the barrack-table of the Hessian or Hanoverian grenadier; able to take away the wool, that ought to give warmth to the bodies of those who rear the sheep, and put it on the backs of those who carry arms to keep the poor, half-famished shepherds in order! I have never been able clearly to comprehend what the beastly Scotch _feelosofers_ mean by their "national wealth;" but, as far as I can understand them, this is their meaning: that national wealth means that which is _left_ of the products of the country over and above what is _consumed_, or _used_, by those whose labour causes the products to be. This being the notion, it follows, of course, that the _fewer_ poor devils you can screw the products out of, the _richer_ the nation is. This is, too, the notion of Burdett as expressed in his silly and most nasty, musty aristocratic speech of last session. What, then, is to be done with this _over-produce_? Who is to have it? Is it to go to pensioners, placemen, tax-gatherers, dead-weight people, soldiers, gendarmerie, police-people, and, in short, to whole millions _who do no work at all_? Is this a cause of "national wealth"? Is a nation made _rich_ by taking the food and clothing from those who create them, and giving them to those who do nothing of any use? Aye, but this over-produce may be given to _manufacturers_, and to those who supply the food-raisers with what they want besides food. Oh! but this is merely an _exchange_ of one valuable thing for another valuable thing; it is an exchange of labour in Wiltshire for labour in Lancashire; and, upon the whole, here is no _over-production_. If the produce be exported, it is the same thing: it is an exchange of one sort of labour for another. But _our course_ is, that there is not an exchange; that those who labour, no matter in what way, have a large part of the fruit of their labour taken away, and receive nothing in exchange. If the over-produce of this Valley of Avon were given, by the farmers, to the weavers in Lancashire, to the iron and steel chaps of Warwickshire, and to other makers or sellers of useful things, there would come an abundance of all these useful things into this valley from Lancashire and other parts: but if, as is the case, the over-produce goes to the fund-holders, the dead-weight, the soldiers, the lord and lady and master and miss pensioners and sinecure people; if the over-produce go to them, as a very great part of it does, nothing, not even the parings of one's nails, can come back to the valley in exchange. And, can this operation, then, add to the "national wealth"? It adds to the "wealth" of those who carry on the affairs of state; it fills their pockets, those of their relatives and dependents; it fattens all tax-eaters; but it can give no wealth to the "nation," which means the whole of the people. National Wealth means the Commonwealth or Commonweal; and these mean, the general good, or happiness, of the people, and the safety and honour of the state; and these are not to be secured by robbing those who labour, in order to support a large part of the community in idleness. Devizes is the market-town to which the corn goes from the greater part of this Valley. If, when a wagon-load of wheat goes off in the morning, the wagon came back at night loaded with cloth, salt, or something or other, equal in value to the wheat, except what might be necessary to leave with the shopkeeper as his profit; then, indeed, the people might see the wagon go off without tears in their eyes. But now they see it go to carry away, and to bring next to nothing in return. What a _twist_ a head must have before it can come to the conclusion that the nation gains in wealth by the government being able to cause the work to be done by those who have hardly any share in the fruit of the labour! What a _twist_ such a head must have! The Scotch _feelosofers_, who seem all to have been, by nature, formed for negro-drivers, have an insuperable objection to all those establishments and customs which occasion _holidays_. They call them a great hindrance, a great bar to industry, a great drawback from "national wealth." I wish each of these unfeeling fellows had a spade put into his hand for ten days, only ten days, and that he were compelled to dig only just as much as one of the common labourers at Fulham. The metaphysical gentlemen would, I believe, soon discover the _use of holidays_! But _why_ should men, why should _any_ men, work _hard_? Why, I ask, should they work incessantly, if working part of the days of the week be sufficient? Why should the people at Milton, for instance, work incessantly, when they now raise food and clothing and fuel and every necessary to maintain well five times their number? Why should they not have some holidays? And, pray, say, thou conceited Scotch feelosofer, how the "national wealth" can be increased by making these people work incessantly, that they may raise food and clothing, to go to feed and clothe people who do not work at all? The state of this Valley seems to illustrate the infamous and really diabolical assertion of Malthus, which is, that the human kind have a natural tendency _to increase beyond the means of sustenance for them_. Hence, all the schemes of this and the other Scotch writers for what they call checking population. Now, look at this Valley of Avon. Here the people raise nearly twenty times as much food and clothing as they consume. They raise five times as much, even according to my scale of living. They have been doing this for many, many years. They have been doing it for several generations. Where, then, is their natural tendency to increase beyond the means of sustenance for them? Beyond, indeed, the means of that sustenance which a system like this will leave them. Say that, Sawneys, and I agree with you. Far beyond the means that the taxing and monopolizing system will leave in their hands: that is very true; for it leaves them nothing but the scale of the poor-book; they must cease to breed at all, or they must exceed this mark; but the _earth_, give them their fair share of its products, will always give sustenance in sufficiency to those who apply to it by skilful and diligent labour. The villages down this Valley of Avon, and, indeed, it was the same in almost every part of this county, and in the North and West of Hampshire also, used to have great employment for the women and children in the carding and spinning of wool for the making of broad-cloth. This was a very general employment for the women and girls; but it is now wholly gone; and this has made a vast change in the condition of the people, and in the state of property and of manners and of morals. In 1816, I wrote and published a _Letter to the Luddites_, the object of which was to combat their hostility to the use of machinery. The arguments I there made use of were general. I took the matter in the abstract. The _principles_ were all correct enough; but their application cannot be universal; and we have a case here before us, at this moment, which, in my opinion, shows that the mechanic inventions, pushed to the extent that they have been, have been productive of great calamity to this country, and that they will be productive of still greater calamity; unless, indeed, it be their brilliant destiny to be the immediate cause of putting an end to the present system. The greater part of manufactures consists of _clothing_ and _bedding_. Now, if by using a machine, we can get our coat with less labour than we got it before, the machine is a desirable thing. But, then, mind, we must have the machine at home, and we ourselves must have the profit of it; for, if the machine be elsewhere; if it be worked by other hands; if other persons have the profit of it; and if, in consequence of the existence of the machine, we have hands at home, who have nothing to do, and whom we must keep, then the machine is an injury to us, however advantageous it may be to those who use it, and whatever traffic it may occasion with foreign States. Such is the case with regard to this cloth-making. The machines are at Upton-Level, Warminster, Bradford, Westbury, and Trowbridge, and here are some of the hands in the Valley of Avon. This Valley raises food and clothing; but, in order to raise them, it must have _labourers_. These are absolutely necessary; for without them this rich and beautiful Valley becomes worth nothing except to wild animals and their pursuers. The labourers are _men_ and _boys_. Women and girls occasionally; but the men and the boys are as necessary as the light of day, or as the air and the water. Now, if beastly Malthus, or any of his nasty disciples, can discover a mode of having men and boys without having women and girls, then, certainly, the machine must be a good thing; but if this Valley must absolutely have the women and the girls, then the machine, by leaving them with nothing to do, is a mischievous thing; and a producer of most dreadful misery. What, with regard to the poor, is the great complaint now? Why, that the _single man_ does not receive the same, or anything like the same, wages as the _married_ man. Aye, it is the wife and girls that are the burden; and to be sure a burden they must be, under a system of taxation like the present, and with no work to do. Therefore, whatever may be saved in labour by the machine is no benefit, but an injury to the mass of the people. For, in fact, all that the women and children earned was so much clear addition to what the family earns now. The greatest part of the clothing in the United States of America is made by the farm women and girls. They do almost the whole of it; and all that they do is done at home. To be sure, they might buy cheap; but they must buy for less than nothing, if it would not answer their purpose to _make_ the things. The survey of this Valley is, I think, the finest answer in the world to the "Emigration Committee" fellows, and to Jerry Curteis (one of the Members for Sussex), who has been giving "evidence" before it. I shall find out, when I can get to see the _report_, what this "Emigration Committee" would be _after_. I remember that, last winter, a young woman complained to one of the Police Justices that the Overseers of some parish were going to transport her orphan brother to Canada, because he became chargeable to their parish! I remember, also, that the Justice said, that the intention of the Overseers was "premature," for that "the Bill had not yet passed"! This was rather an ugly story; and I do think that we shall find that there have been, and are, some pretty propositions before this "Committee." We shall see all about the matter, however, by-and-by; and, when we get the transporting project fairly before us, shall we not then loudly proclaim "the envy of surrounding nations and admiration of the world"! But, what ignorance, impudence, and insolence must those base wretches have, who propose to transport the labouring people, as being too numerous, while the produce, which is obtained by their labour, is more than sufficient for three, four, or five, or even ten times their numbers! Jerry Curteis, who has, it seems, been a famous witness on this occasion, says that the poor-rates, in many cases, amount to as much as the rent. Well: and what then, Jerry? The rent may be high enough too, and the farmer may afford to pay them both; for a very large part of what you call _poor-rates_ ought to be called _wages_. But, at any rate, what has all this to do with the necessity of emigration? To make out such necessity, you must make out that you have more mouths than the produce of the parish will feed. Do then, Jerry, tell us, another time, a little about the quantity of food annually raised in four or five adjoining parishes; for, is it not something rather damnable, Jerry, to talk of _transporting_ Englishmen, on account of the _excess of their numbers_, when the fact is notorious that their labour produces five or ten times as much food and raiment as they and their families consume! However, to drop Jerry, for the present, the baseness, the foul, the stinking, the carrion baseness, of the fellows that call themselves "country gentlemen," is, that the wretches, while railing against the poor and the poor-rates; while affecting to believe that the poor are wicked and lazy; while complaining that the poor, the working people, are too numerous, and that the country villages are too populous: the carrion baseness of these wretches is, that, while they are thus _bold_ with regard to the working and poor people, they never even whisper a word against pensioners, placemen, soldiers, parsons, fundholders, tax-gatherers, or tax-eaters! They say not a word against the prolific dead-weight to whom they give a premium for breeding, while they want to check the population of labourers! They never say a word about the too great populousness of the Wen; nor about that of Liverpool, Manchester, Cheltenham, and the like! Oh! they are the most cowardly, the very basest, the most scandalously base reptiles that ever were warmed into life by the rays of the sun! In taking my leave of this beautiful vale, I have to express my deep shame, as an Englishman, at beholding the general _extreme poverty_ of those who cause this vale to produce such quantities of food and raiment. This is, I verily believe it, the _worst used labouring people upon the face of the earth_. Dogs and hogs and horses are treated with more civility; and as to food and lodging, how gladly would the labourers change with them! This state of things never can continue many years! _By some means or other_ there must be an end to it; and my firm belief is, that that end will be dreadful. In the meanwhile I see, and I see it with pleasure, that the common people know that they are ill used; and that they cordially, most cordially, hate those who ill-treat them. During the day I crossed the river about fifteen or sixteen times, and in such hot weather it was very pleasant to be so much amongst meadows and water. I had been at Netheravon about eighteen years ago, where I had seen a great quantity of hares. It is a place belonging to Mr. Hicks Beach, or Beech, who was once a member of parliament. I found the place altered a good deal; out of repair; the gates rather rotten; and (a very bad sign!) the roof of the dog-kennel falling in! There is a church, at this village of Netheravon, large enough to hold a thousand or two of people, and the whole parish contains only 350 souls, men, women and children. This Netheravon was formerly a great lordship, and in the parish there were three considerable mansion-houses, besides the one near the church. These mansions are all down now; and it is curious enough to see the former _walled gardens_ become _orchards_, together with other changes, all tending to prove the gradual decay in all except what appertains merely to _the land_ as a thing of production for the distant market. But, indeed, the people and the means of enjoyment must go away. They are _drawn_ away by the taxes and the paper-money. How are _twenty thousand new houses_ to be, all at once, building in the Wen, without people and food and raiment going from this valley towards the Wen? It must be so; and this unnatural, this dilapidating, this ruining and debasing work must go on, until that which produces it be destroyed. When I came down to Stratford Dean, I wanted to go across to Laverstoke, which lay to my left of Salisbury; but just on the side of the road here, at Stratford Dean, rises the _Accursed Hill_. It is very lofty. It was originally a hill in an irregular sort of sugar-loaf shape: but it was so altered by the Romans, or by somebody, that the upper three-quarter parts of the hill now, when seen from a distance, somewhat resemble _three cheeses_, laid one upon another; the bottom one a great deal broader than the next, and the top one like a Stilton cheese, in proportion to a Gloucester one. I resolved to ride over this Accursed Hill. As I was going up a field towards it, I met a man going home from work. I asked how he _got on_. He said, very badly. I asked him what was the cause of it. He said the _hard times_. "What _times_," said I; "was there ever a finer summer, a finer harvest, and is there not an _old_ wheat-rick in every farm-yard?" "Ah!" said he, "_they_ make it bad for poor people, for all that." "_They?_" said I, "who is _they_?" He was silent. "Oh, no, no! my friend," said I, "it is not _they_; it is that Accursed Hill that has robbed you of the supper that you ought to find smoking on the table when you get home." I gave him the price of a pot of beer, and on I went, leaving the poor dejected assemblage of skin and bone to wonder at my words. The hill is very steep, and I dismounted and led my horse up. Being as near to the top as I could conveniently get, I stood a little while reflecting, not so much on the changes which that hill had seen, as on the changes, the terrible changes, which, in all human probability, it had _yet to see_, and which it would have greatly _helped to produce_. It was impossible to stand on this accursed spot, without swelling with indignation against the base and plundering and murderous sons of corruption. I have often wished, and I, speaking out loud, expressed the wish now: "May that man perish for ever and ever, who, having the power, neglects to bring to justice the perjured, the suborning, the insolent and perfidious miscreants, who openly sell their country's rights and their own souls." From the Accursed Hill I went to Laverstoke where "Jemmy Burrough" (as they call him here), the Judge, lives. I have not heard much about "Jemmy" since he tried and condemned the two young men who had wounded the game-keepers of Ashton Smith and Lord Palmerston. His Lordship (Palmerston) is, I see, making a tolerable figure in the newspapers as a _share-man_! I got into Salisbury about half-past seven o'clock, less tired than I recollect ever to have been after so long a ride; for, including my several crossings of the river and my deviations to look at churches and farm-yards, and rick-yards, I think I must have ridden nearly forty miles. RIDE FROM SALISBURY TO WARMINSTER, FROM WARMINSTER TO FROME, FROM FROME TO DEVIZES, AND FROM DEVIZES TO HIGHWORTH. "Hear this, O ye that swallow up the needy, even to make the poor of the land to fail: saying, When will the new moon be gone that we may sell corn? And the Sabbath, that we may set forth wheat, making the Ephah small and the Shekel great, and falsifying the balances by deceit; that we may buy the poor for silver, and the needy for a pair of shoes; yea, and sell the refuse of the wheat? Shall not the land tremble for this; and every one mourn that dwelleth therein? I will turn your feasting into mourning, saith the Lord God, and your songs into lamentations."--Amos, chap. viii. ver. 4 to 10. _Heytesbury (Wilts), Thursday, 31st August, 1826._ This place, which is one of the rotten boroughs of Wiltshire, and which was formerly a considerable town, is now but a very miserable affair. Yesterday morning I went into the Cathedral at Salisbury about 7 o'clock. When I got into the nave of the church, and was looking up and admiring the columns and the roof, I heard a sort of _humming_, in some place which appeared to be in the transept of the building. I wondered what it was, and made my way towards the place whence the noise appeared to issue. As I approached it, the noise seemed to grow louder. At last, I thought I could distinguish the sounds of the human voice. This encouraged me to proceed; and, still following the sound, I at last turned in at a doorway to my left, where I found a priest and his congregation assembled. It was a parson of some sort, with a white covering on him, and five women and four men: when I arrived, there were five couple of us. I joined the congregation, until they came to the _litany_; and then, being monstrously hungry, I did not think myself bound to stay any longer. I wonder what the founders would say, if they could rise from the grave, and see such a congregation as this in this most magnificent and beautiful cathedral? I wonder what they would say, if they could know _to what purpose_ the endowments of this Cathedral are now applied; and above all things, I wonder what they would say, if they could see the half-starved labourers that now minister to the luxuries of those who wallow in the wealth of those endowments. There is one thing, at any rate, that might be abstained from, by those that revel in the riches of those endowments; namely, to abuse and blackguard those of our forefathers, from whom the endowments came, and who erected the edifice, and carried so far towards the skies that beautiful and matchless spire, of which the present possessors have the impudence to boast, while they represent as ignorant and benighted creatures, those who conceived the grand design, and who executed the scientific and costly work. These fellows, in big white wigs, of the size of half a bushel, have the audacity, even within the walls of the Cathedrals themselves, to rail against those who founded them; and Rennell and Sturges, while they were actually, literally, fattening on the spoils of the monastery of St. Swithin, at Winchester, were publishing abusive pamphlets against that Catholic religion which had given them their very bread. For my part, I could not look up at the spire and the whole of the church at Salisbury, without _feeling_ that I lived in degenerate times. Such a thing never could be made _now_. We _feel_ that as we look at the building. It really does appear that if our forefathers had not made these buildings, we should have forgotten, before now, what the Christian religion was! At Salisbury, or very near to it, four other rivers fall into the Avon--the Wyly river, the Nadder, the Born, and another little river that comes from Norrington. These all become one, at last, just below Salisbury, and then, under the name of the Avon, wind along down and fall into the sea at Christchurch. In coming from Salisbury, I came up the road which runs pretty nearly parallel with the river Wyly, which river rises at Warminster and in the neighbourhood. This river runs down a valley twenty-two miles long. It is not so pretty as the valley of the Avon; but it is very fine in its whole length from Salisbury to this place (Heytesbury). Here are watered meadows nearest to the river on both sides; then the gardens, the houses, and the corn-fields. After the corn-fields come the downs; but, generally speaking, the downs are not so bold here as they are on the sides of the Avon. The downs do not come out in promontories so often as they do on the sides of the Avon. The _Ah-ah!_ if I may so express it, is not so deep, and the sides of it not so steep, as in the case of the Avon; but the villages are as frequent; there is more than one church in every mile, and there has been a due proportion of mansion houses demolished and defaced. The farms are very fine up this vale, and the meadows, particularly at a place called Stapleford, are singularly fine. They had just been mowed at Stapleford, and the hay carried off. At Stapleford, there is a little cross valley, running up between two hills of the down. There is a little run of water about a yard wide at this time, coming down this little vale across the road into the river. The little vale runs up three miles. It does not appear to be half a mile wide; but in those three miles there are four churches; namely, Stapleford, Uppington, Berwick St. James, and Winterborne Stoke. The present population of these four villages is 769 souls, men, women, and children, the whole of whom could very conveniently be seated in the chancel of the church at Stapleford. Indeed, the church and parish of Uppington seem to have been united with one of the other parishes, like the parish in Kent which was united with North Cray, and not a single house of which now remains. What were these four churches _built for_ within the distance of three miles? There are three parsonage houses still remaining; but, and it is a very curious fact, neither of them good enough for the parson to live in! Here are seven hundred and sixty souls to be taken care of, but there is no parsonage house for a soul-curer to stay in, or at least that he _will_ stay in; and all the three parsonages are, in the return laid before Parliament, represented to be no better than miserable labourers' cottages, though the parish of Winterborne Stoke has a church sufficient to contain two or three thousand people. The truth is, that the parsons have been receiving the revenues of the livings, and have been suffering the parsonage houses to fall into decay. Here were two or three mansion houses, which are also gone, even from the sides of this little run of water. To-day has been exceedingly hot. Hotter, I think, for a short time, than I ever felt it in England before. In coming through a village called Wishford, and mounting a little hill, I thought the heat upon my back was as great as I had ever felt it in my life. There were thunder storms about, and it had rained at Wishford a little before I came to it. My next village was one that I had lived in for a short time, when I was only about ten or eleven years of age. I had been sent down with a horse from Farnham, and I remember that I went by _Stone-henge_, and rode up and looked at the stones. From Stone-henge I went to the village of Steeple Langford, where I remained from the month of June till the fall of the year. I remembered the beautiful villages up and down this valley. I also remembered, very well, that the women at Steeple Langford used to card and spin dyed wool. I was, therefore, somewhat filled with curiosity to see this Steeple Langford again; and, indeed, it was the recollection of this village that made me take a ride into Wiltshire this summer. I have, I dare say, a thousand times talked about this Steeple Langford and about the beautiful farms and meadows along this valley. I have talked of these to my children a great many times; and I formed the design of letting two of them see this valley this year, and to go through Warminster to Stroud, and so on to Gloucester and Hereford. But, when I got to Everley, I found that they would never get along fast enough to get into Herefordshire in time for what they intended; so that I parted from them in the manner I have before described. I was resolved, however, to see Steeple Langford myself, and I was impatient to get to it, hoping to find a public-house, and a stable to put my horse in, to protect him, for a while, against the flies, which tormented him to such a degree, that to ride him was work as hard as threshing. When I got to Steeple Langford, I found no public-house, and I found it a much more miserable place than I had remembered it. The _Steeple_, to which it owed its distinctive appellation, was gone; and the place altogether seemed to me to be very much altered for the worse. A little further on, however, I came to a very famous inn, called Deptford Inn, which is in the parish of Wyly. I stayed at this inn till about four o'clock in the afternoon. I remembered Wyly very well, and thought it a gay place when I was a boy. I remembered a very beautiful garden belonging to a rich farmer and miller. I went to see it; but, alas! though the statues in the water and on the grass-plat were still remaining, everything seemed to be in a state of perfect carelessness and neglect. The living of this parish of Wyly was lately owned by Dampier (a brother of the Judge), who lived at, and I believe had the living of, Meon Stoke in Hampshire. This fellow, I believe, never saw the parish of Wyly but once, though it must have yielded him a pretty good fleece. It is a Rectory, and the great tithes must be worth, I should think, six or seven hundred pounds a year, at the least. It is a part of our system to have certain _families_, who have no particular merit, but who are to be maintained, without why or wherefore, at the public expense, in some shape, or under some name, or other, it matters not much what shape or what name. If you look through the old list of pensioners, sinecurists, parsons, and the like, you will find the same names everlastingly recurring. They seem to be a sort of creatures that have an _inheritance in the public carcass_, like the maggots that some people have in their skins. This family of Dampier seems to be one of these. What, in God's name, should have made one of these a Bishop and the other a Judge! I never heard of the smallest particle of talent that either of them possessed. This Rector of Wyly was another of them. There was no harm in them that I know of, beyond that of living upon the public; but where were their merits? They had none, to distinguish them, and to entitle them to the great sums they received; and, under any other system than such a system as this, they would, in all human probability, have been gentlemen's servants or little shopkeepers. I dare say there is some of the _breed_ left; and, if there be, I would pledge my existence, that they are, in some shape or other, feeding upon the public. However, thus it must be, until that change come which will put an end to men paying _fourpence_ in tax upon a pot of beer. This Deptford Inn was a famous place of meeting for the _Yeomanry Cavalry_, in glorious anti-jacobin times, when wheat was twenty shillings a bushel, and when a man could be crammed into gaol for years, for only _looking_ awry. This inn was a glorious place in the days of Peg Nicholson and her Knights. Strangely altered now. The shape of the garden shows you what revelry used to be carried on here. Peel's Bill gave this inn, and all belonging to it, a terrible souse. The unfeeling brutes, who used to brandish their swords, and swagger about, at the news of what was called "a victory," have now to lower their scale in clothing, in drink, in eating, in dress, in horseflesh, and everything else. They are now a lower sort of men than they were. They look at their rusty sword and their old dusty helmet and their once gay regimental jacket. They do not hang these up now in the "parlour" for everybody to see them: they hang them up in their bedrooms, or in a cockloft; and when they meet their eye, they look at them as a cow does at a bastard calf, or as the bridegroom does at a girl that the overseers are about to compel him to marry. If their children should happen to see these implements of war twenty or thirty years hence, they will certainly think that their fathers were the greatest fools that ever walked the face of the earth; and that will be a most filial and charitable way of thinking of them; for it is not from ignorance that they have sinned, but from excessive baseness; and when any of them now complain of those acts of the Government which strip them, (as the late Order in Council does), of a fifth part of their property in an hour, let them recollect their own base and malignant conduct towards those persecuted reformers, who, if they had not been suppressed by these very yeomen, would, long ago, have put an end to the cause of that ruin of which these yeomen now complain. When they complain of their ruin, let them remember the toasts which they drank in anti-jacobin times; let them remember their base and insulting exultations on the occasion of the 16th of August at Manchester; let them remember their cowardly abuse of men, who were endeavouring to free their country from that horrible scourge which they themselves now feel. Just close by this Deptford Inn is the farm-house of the farm where that Gourlay lived, who has long been making a noise in the Court of Chancery, and who is now, I believe, confined in some place or other for having assaulted Mr. Brougham. This fellow, who is confined, the newspapers tell us, on a charge of being insane, is certainly one of the most malignant devils that I ever knew anything of in my life. He went to Canada about the time that I went last to the United States. He got into a quarrel with the Government there about something, I know not what. He came to see me, at my house in the neighbourhood of New York, just before I came home. He told me his Canada story. I showed him all the kindness in my power, and he went away, knowing that I was just then coming to England. I had hardly got home, before the Scotch newspapers contained communications from a person, pretending to derive his information from Gourlay, relating to what Gourlay had described as having passed between him and me; and which description was a tissue of most abominable falsehoods, all having a direct tendency to do injury to me, who had never, either by word or deed, done anything that could possibly have a tendency to do injury to this Gourlay. What the vile Scotch newspapers had begun, the malignant reptile himself continued after his return to England, and, in an address to Lord Bathurst, endeavoured to make his court to the Government by the most foul, false and detestable slanders upon me, from whom, observe, he had never received any injury, or attempt at injury, in the whole course of his life; whom he had visited; to whose house he had gone, of his own accord, and that, too, as he said, out of _respect_ for me; endeavoured, I say, to make his court to the Government by the most abominable slanders against me. He is now, even now, putting forth, under the form of letters to me, a revival of what he pretends was a _conversation_ that passed between us at my house near New York. Even if what he says were true, none but caitiffs as base as those who conduct the English newspapers, would give circulation to his letters, containing, as they must, the substance of a conversation purely private. But I never had any conversation with him: I never talked to him at all about the things that he is now bringing forward. I heard the fellow's stories about Canada: I thought he told me lies; and, besides, I did not care a straw whether his stories were true or not; I looked upon him as a sort of gambling adventurer; but I treated him as is the fashion of the country in which I was, with great civility and hospitality. There are two fellows of the name of Jacob and Johnson at Winchester, and two fellows at Salisbury of the name of Brodie and Dowding. These reptiles publish, each couple of them, a newspaper; and in these newspapers they seem to take particular delight in calumniating me. The two Winchester fellows insert the letters of this half crazy, half cunning, Scotchman, Gourlay; the other fellows insert still viler slanders; and, if I had seen one of their papers, before I left Salisbury, which I have seen since, I certainly would have given Mr. Brodie something to make him remember me. This fellow, who was a little coal-merchant but a short while ago, is now, it seems, a paper-money maker, as well as a newspaper maker. Stop, Master Brodie, till I go to Salisbury again, and see whether I do not give you a _check_, even such as you did not receive during the late run! Gourlay, amongst other whims, took it into his head to write against the poor laws, saying that they were a bad thing. He found, however, at last, that they were necessary to keep him from starving; for he came down to Wyly, three or four years ago, and threw himself upon the parish. The overseers, who recollected what a swaggering blade it was, when it came here to teach the moon-rakers "hoo to farm, mon," did not see the sense of keeping him like a gentleman; so they set him to crack stones upon the highway; and that set him off again, pretty quickly. The farm that he rented is a very fine farm, with a fine large farm-house to it. It is looked upon as one of the best farms in the country: the present occupier is a farmer born in the neighbourhood; a man such as ought to occupy it; and Gourlay, who came here with his Scotch impudence to teach others how to farm, is much about where and how he ought to be. Jacob and Johnson, of Winchester, know perfectly well that all the fellow says about me is lies; they know also that their parson readers know that it is a mass of lies: they further know that the parsons know that they know that it is a mass of lies; but they know that their paper will sell the better for that; they know that to circulate lies about me will get them money, and this is what they do it for, and such is the character of English newspapers, and of a great part of the readers of those newspapers. Therefore, when I hear of people "suffering;" when I hear of people being "ruined;" when I hear of "unfortunate families;" when I hear a talk of this kind, I stop, before I either express or feel compassion, to ascertain _who_ and _what_ the sufferers are; and whether they have or have not participated in, or approved of, acts like those of Jacob and Johnson and Brodie and Dowding; for if they have, if they have malignantly calumniated those who have been labouring to prevent their ruin and misery, then a crushed ear-wig, or spider, or eft, or toad, is as much entitled to the compassion of a just and sensible man. Let the reptiles perish: it would be injustice; it would be to fly in the face of morality and religion to express sorrow for their ruin. They themselves have felt for no man, and for the wife and children of no man, if that man's public virtues thwarted their own selfish views, or even excited their groundless fears. They have signed addresses, applauding everything tyrannical and inhuman. They have seemed to glory in the shame of their country, to rejoice in its degradation, and even to exult in the shedding of innocent blood, if these things did but tend, as they thought, to give them permanent security in the enjoyment of their unjust gains. Such has been their conduct; they are numerous: they are to be found in all parts of the kingdom: therefore again I say, when I hear of "ruin" or "misery," I must know what the conduct of the sufferers has been before I bestow my compassion. _Warminster (Wilts), Friday, 1st Sept._ I set out from Heytesbury this morning about six o'clock. Last night, before I went to bed, I found that there were some men and boys in the house, who had come all the way from Bradford, about twelve miles, in order to get _nuts_. These people were men and boys that had been employed in the _cloth factories_ at Bradford and about Bradford. I had some talk with some of these nutters, and I am quite convinced, not that the cloth making is at _an end_; but that it _never will be again what it has been_. Before last Christmas these manufacturers had full work, at one shilling and threepence a yard at broad-cloth weaving. They have now a quarter work, at one shilling a yard! One and three-pence a yard for this weaving has been given at all times within the memory of man! Nothing can show more clearly than this, and in a stronger light, the great change which has taken place in the _remuneration of labour_. There was a turn out last winter, when the price was reduced to a shilling a yard; but it was put an end to in the usual way; the constable's staff, the bayonet, the gaol. These poor nutters were extremely ragged. I saved my supper, and I fasted instead of breakfasting. That was three shillings, which I had saved, and I added five to them, with a resolution to save them afterwards, in order to give these chaps a breakfast for once in their lives. There were eight of them, six men and two boys; and I gave them two quartern loaves, two pounds of cheese, and eight pints of strong beer. The fellows were very thankful, but the conduct of the landlord and landlady pleased me exceedingly. When I came to pay my bill, they had said nothing about my bed, which had been a very good one; and, when I asked why they had not put the bed into the bill, they said they would not charge anything for the bed since I had been so good to the poor men. Yes, said I, but I must not throw the expense upon you. I had no supper, and I have had no breakfast; and, therefore, I am not called upon to pay for them: but _I have had_ the bed. It ended by my paying for the bed, and coming off, leaving the nutters at their breakfast, and very much delighted with the landlord and his wife; and I must here observe that I have pretty generally found a good deal of compassion for the poor people to prevail amongst publicans and their wives. From Heytesbury to Warminster is a part of the country singularly bright and beautiful. From Salisbury up to very near Heytesbury, you have the valley, as before described by me. Meadows next the water; then arable land; then the downs; but when you come to Heytesbury, and indeed a little before, in looking forward you see the vale stretch out, from about three miles wide to ten miles wide, from high land to high land. From a hill before you come down to Heytesbury, you see through this wide opening into Somersetshire. You see a round hill rising in the middle of the opening; but all the rest a flat enclosed country, and apparently full of wood. In looking back down this vale one cannot help being struck with the innumerable proofs that there are of a decline in point of population. In the first place, there are twenty-four parishes, each of which takes a little strip across the valley, and runs up through the arable land into the down. There are twenty-four parish churches, and there ought to be as many _parsonage-houses_; but seven of these, out of the twenty-four, that is to say, nearly one-third of them, are, in the returns laid before Parliament (and of which returns I shall speak more particularly by-and-by), stated to be such miserable dwellings as to be unfit for a parson to reside in. Two of them, however, are gone. There are no parsonage-houses in those two parishes: there are the scites; there are the glebes; but the houses have been suffered to fall down and to be totally carried away. The tithes remain, indeed, and the parson sacks the amount of them. A journeyman parson comes and works in three or four churches of a Sunday; but the master parson is not there. He generally carries away the produce to spend it in London, at Bath, or somewhere else, to show off his daughters; and the overseers, that is to say, the farmers, manage the poor in their own way, instead of having, according to the ancient law, a third-part of all the tithes to keep them with. The falling down and the beggary of these parsonage-houses prove beyond all question the decayed state of the population. And, indeed, the mansion-houses are gone, except in a very few instances. There are but five left, that I could perceive, all the way from Salisbury to Warminster, though the country is the most pleasant that can be imagined. Here is water, here are meadows; plenty of fresh-water fish; hares and partridges in abundance, and it is next to impossible to destroy them. Here are shooting, coursing, hunting; hills of every height, size, and form; valleys, the same; lofty trees and rookeries in every mile; roads always solid and good; always pleasant for exercise; and the air must be of the best in the world. Yet it is manifest that four-fifths of the mansions have been swept away. There is a parliamentary return, to prove that nearly a third of the parsonage houses have become beggarly holes or have disappeared. I have now been in nearly threescore villages, and in twenty or thirty or forty hamlets of Wiltshire; and I do not know that I have been in one, however small, in which I did not see a house or two, and sometimes more, either tumbled down, or beginning to tumble down. It is impossible for the eyes of man to be fixed on a finer country than that between the village of Codford and the town of Warminster; and it is not very easy for the eyes of man to discover labouring people more miserable. There are two villages, one called Norton Bovant, and the other Bishopstrow, which I think form, together, one of the prettiest spots that my eyes ever beheld. The former village belongs to Bennet, the member for the county, who has a mansion there, in which two of his sisters live, I am told. There is a farm at Bishopstrow, standing at the back of the arable land, up in a vale, formed by two very lofty hills, upon each of which there was formerly a Roman Camp, in consideration of which farm, if the owner would give it to me, I would almost consent to let Ottiwell Wood remain quiet in his seat, and suffer the pretty gentlemen of Whitehall to go on without note or comment till they had fairly blowed up their concern. The farm-yard is surrounded by lofty and beautiful trees. In the rick-yard I counted twenty-two ricks of one sort and another. The hills shelter the house and the yard and the trees, most completely, from every wind but the south. The arable land goes down before the house, and spreads along the edge of the down, going, with a gentle slope, down to the meadows. So that, going along the turnpike road, which runs between the lower fields of the arable land, you see the large and beautiful flocks of sheep upon the sides of the down, while the horn-cattle are up to their eyes in grass in the meadows. Just when I was coming along here, the sun was about half an hour high; it shined through the trees most brilliantly; and, to crown the whole, I met, just as I was entering the village, a very pretty girl, who was apparently going a gleaning in the fields. I asked her the name of the place, and when she told me it was Bishopstrow, she pointed to the situation of the church, which, she said, was on the other side of the river. She really put me in mind of the pretty girls at Preston who spat upon the "individual" of the Derby family, and I made her a bow accordingly. The whole of the population of the twenty-four parishes down this vale, amounts to only 11,195 souls, according to the Official return to Parliament; and, mind, I include the parish of Fisherton Anger (a suburb of the city of Salisbury), which contains 893 of the number. I include the town of Heytesbury, with its 1,023 souls; and I further include this very good and large market town of Warminster, with its population of 5,000! So that I leave, in the other twenty-one parishes, only 4,170 souls, men, women, and children! That is to say, a hundred and ninety-eight souls to each parish; or, reckoning five to a family, thirty-nine families to each parish. Above one half of the population never could be expected to be in the church at one time; so that here are one-and-twenty churches built for the purpose of holding two thousand and eighty people! There are several of these churches, any one of which would conveniently contain the whole of these people, the two thousand and eighty! The church of Bishopstrow would contain the whole of the two thousand and eighty very well indeed; and it is curious enough to observe that the churches of Fisherton Anger, Heytesbury, and Warminster, though quite sufficient to contain the people that go to church, are none of them nearly so big as several of the village churches. All these churches are built long and long before the reign of Richard the Second; that is to say, they were founded long before that time, and if the first churches were gone, these others were built in their stead. There is hardly one of them that is not as old as the reign of Richard the Second; and yet that impudent Scotchman, George Chalmers, would make us believe that, in the reign of Richard the Second, the population of the country was hardly anything at all! He has the impudence, or the gross ignorance, to state the population of England and Wales at _two millions_, which, as I have shown in the last Number of the Protestant Reformation, would allow only twelve able men to every parish church throughout the kingdom. What, I ask, for about the thousandth time I ask it; what were these twenty churches built for? Some of them stand within a quarter of a mile of each other. They are pretty nearly as close to each other as the churches in London and Westminster are. What a monstrous thing, to suppose that they were built without there being people to go to them; and built, too, without money and without hands! The whole of the population in these twenty-one parishes could stand, and without much crowding too, in the bottoms of the towers of the several churches. Nay, in three or four of the parishes, the whole of the people could stand in the church porches. Then the _church-yards_ show you how numerous the population must have been. You see, in some cases, only here and there the mark of a grave, where the church-yard contains from half an acre to an acre of land, and sometimes more. In short, everything shows that here was once a great and opulent population; that there was an abundance to eat, to wear, and to spare; that all the land that is now under cultivation, and a great deal that is not now under cultivation, was under cultivation in former times. The Scotch beggars would make us believe that _we_ sprang from beggars. The impudent scribes would make us believe that England was formerly nothing at all till they came to enlighten it and fatten upon it. Let the beggars answer me this question; let the impudent, the brazen scribes, that impose upon the credulous and cowed-down English; let them tell me _why_ these twenty-one churches were built; what they were built FOR; why the large churches of the two Codfords were stuck up within a few hundred yards of each other, if the whole of the population could then, as it can now, be crammed into the chancel of either of the two churches? Let them answer me this question, or shut up their mouths upon this subject, on which they have told so many lies. As to the produce of this valley, it must be at least ten times as great as its consumption, even if we include the three towns that belong to it. I am sure I saw produce enough in five or six of the farm-yards, or rick-yards, to feed the whole of the population of the twenty-one parishes. But the infernal system causes it all to be carried away. Not a bit of good beef, or mutton, or veal, and scarcely a bit of bacon is left for those who raise all this food and wool. The labourers here _look_ as if they were half-starved. They answer extremely well to the picture that Fortescue gave of the French in his day. Talk of "liberty," indeed; "civil and religious liberty": the Inquisition, with a belly full, is far preferable to a state of things like this. For my own part, I really am ashamed to ride a fat horse, to have a full belly, and to have a clean shirt upon my back, while I look at these wretched countrymen of mine; while I actually see them reeling with weakness; when I see their poor faces present me nothing but skin and bone, while they are toiling to get the wheat and the meat ready to be carried away to be devoured by the tax-eaters. I am ashamed to look at these poor souls, and to reflect that they are my countrymen; and particularly to reflect that we are descended from those amongst whom "beef, pork, mutton, and veal, were the food of the poorer sort of people." What! and is the "Emigration Committee" sitting, to invent the means of getting rid of some part of the thirty-nine families that are employed in raising the immense quantities of food in each of these twenty-one parishes? Are there _schemers_ to go before this conjuration Committee; Wiltshire _schemers_, to tell the Committee how they can get rid of a part of these one hundred and ninety-eight persons to every parish? Are there schemers of this sort of work still, while no man, no man at all, not a single man, says a word about getting rid of the dead-weight, or the supernumerary parsons, both of whom have actually a premium given them for breeding, and are filling the country with idlers? We are reversing the maxim of the Scripture: our laws almost say, that those that work shall not eat, and that those who do not work shall have the food. I repeat, that the baseness of the English land-owners surpasses that of any other men that ever lived in the world. The cowards know well that the labourers that give value to their land are skin and bone. They are not such brutes as not to know that this starvation is produced by taxation. They know well, how unjust it is to treat their labourers in this way. They know well that there goes down the common foot soldier's single throat more food than is allowed by them to a labourer, his wife, and three children. They know well that the present standing army in time of peace consumes more food and raiment than a million of the labourers consume; aye, than two millions of them consume; if you include the women and the children; they well know these things; they know that their poor labourers are taxed to keep this army in fatness and in splendour. They know that the dead-weight, which, in the opinion of most men of sense, ought not to receive a single farthing of the public money, swallow more of good food than a third or a fourth part of the real labourers of England swallow. They know that a million and a half of pounds sterling was taken out of the taxes, partly raised upon the labourers, to enable the poor Clergy of the Church of England to marry and to breed. They know that a regulation has been recently adopted, by which an old dead-weight man is enabled to sell his dead-weight to a young man; and that thus this burden would, if the system were to be continued, be rendered perpetual. They know that a good slice of the dead-weight money goes _to Hanover_; and that even these Hanoverians can sell their dead-weight claim upon us. The "country gentlemen" fellows know all this: they know that the poor labourers, including all the poor manufacturers, pay one-half of their wages in taxes to support all these things; and yet not a word about these things is ever said, or even hinted, by these mean, these cruel, these cowardly, these carrion, these dastardly reptiles. Sir James Graham, of Netherby, who, I understand, is a young fellow instead of an old one, may invoke our pity upon these "ancient families," but he will invoke in vain. It was their duty to stand forward and prevent Power-of-Imprisonment Bills, Six Acts, Ellenborough's Act, Poaching Transportation Act, New Trespass Act, Sunday Tolls, and the hundreds of other things that could be named. On the contrary, _they were the cause of them all_. They were the cause of all the taxes, and all the debts; and now let them take the consequences! _Saturday, September 2nd._ After I got to Warminster yesterday, it began to rain, which stopped me in my way to Frome in Somersetshire, which lies about seven or eight miles from this place; but, as I meant to be quite in the northern part of the county by to-morrow noon, or there-abouts, I took a post-chaise in the afternoon of yesterday and went to Frome, where I saw, upon my entrance into the town, between two and three hundred weavers, men and boys, cracking stones, moving earth, and doing other sorts of work, towards making a fine road into the town. I drove into the town, and through the principal streets, and then I put my chaise up a little at one of the inns. This appears to be a sort of little Manchester. A very small Manchester, indeed; for it does not contain above ten or twelve thousand people, but it has all the _flash_ of a Manchester, and the innkeepers and their people look and behave like the Manchester fellows. I was, I must confess, glad to find proofs of the irretrievable decay of the place. I remembered how ready the bluff manufacturers had been to _call in the troops_ of various descriptions. "Let them," said I to myself, "call the troops in now, to make their trade revive. Let them now resort to their friends of the yeomanry and of the army; let them now threaten their poor workmen with the gaol, when they dare to ask for the means of preventing starvation in their families. Let them, who have, in fact, lived and thriven by the sword, now call upon the parson-magistrate to bring out the soldiers to compel me, for instance, to give thirty shillings a yard for the superfine black broad cloth (made at Frome), which Mr. Roe, at Kensington, offered me at seven shillings and sixpence a yard just before I left home! Yes, these men have ground down into powder those who were earning them their fortunes: let the grinders themselves now be ground, and, according to the usual wise and just course of Providence, let them be crushed by the system which they have delighted in, because it made others crouch beneath them." Their poor work-people cannot be worse off than they long have been. The parish pay, which they now get upon the roads, is 2_s._ 6_d._ a week for a man, 2_s._ for his wife, 1_s._ 3_d._ for each child under eight years of age, 3_d._ a week, in addition, to each child above eight, who can go to work: and, if the children above eight years old, whether girls or boys, do not go to work upon the road, they have _nothing_! Thus, a family of five people have just as much, and eight pence over, as goes down the throat of one single foot soldier; but, observe, the standing soldier; that "truly English institution" has clothing, fuel, candle, soap, and house-rent, over and above what is allowed to this miserable family! And yet the base reptiles, who are called "country gentlemen," and whom Sir James Graham calls upon us to commit all sorts of acts of injustice in order to _preserve_, never utter a whisper about the expenses of keeping the soldiers, while they are everlastingly railing against the working people, of every description, and representing them, and them only, as the cause of the loss of their estates! These poor creatures at Frome have pawned all their things, or nearly all. All their best clothes, their blankets and sheets; their looms; any little piece of furniture that they had, and that was good for anything. Mothers have been compelled to pawn all the tolerably good clothes that their children had. In case of a man having two or three shirts, he is left with only one, and sometimes without any shirt; and, though this is a sort of manufacture that cannot very well come to a complete end, still it has received a blow from which it cannot possibly recover. The population of this Frome has been augmented to the degree of one-third within the last six or seven years. There are here all the usual signs of accommodation bills and all false paper stuff, called money: new houses, in abundance, half finished; new gingerbread "places of worship," as they are called; great swaggering inns; parcels of swaggering fellows going about, with vulgarity imprinted upon their countenances, but with good clothes upon their backs. I found the working people at Frome very intelligent; very well informed as to the cause of their misery; not at all humbugged by the canters, whether about religion or loyalty. When I got to the inn, I sent my post-chaise boy back to the road, to tell one or two of the weavers to come to me at the inn. The landlord did not at first like to let such ragged fellows upstairs. I insisted, however, upon their coming up, and I had a long talk with them. They were very intelligent men; had much clearer views of what is likely to happen than the pretty gentlemen of Whitehall seem to have; and, it is curious enough, that they, these common weavers, should tell me, that they thought that the trade never would come back again to what it was before; or, rather, to what it has been for some years past. This is the impression everywhere; that the _puffing is over_; that we must come back again to something like reality. The first factories that I met with were at a village called Upton Lovell, just before I came to Heytesbury. There they were a-doing not more than a quarter work. There is only one factory, I believe, here at Warminster, and that has been suspended, during the harvest, at any rate. At Frome they are all upon about a quarter work. It is the same at Bradford and Trowbridge; and, as curious a thing as ever was heard of in the world is, that here are, through all these towns, and throughout this country, weavers from the North, singing about the towns ballads of Distress! They had been doing it at Salisbury, just before I was there. The landlord at Heytesbury told me that people that could afford it generally gave them something; and I was told that they did the same at Salisbury. The landlord at Heytesbury told me, that every one of them had a _license to beg_, given them, he said, "by the Government." I suppose it was some _pass_ from a Magistrate; though I know of no law that allows of such passes; and a pretty thing it would be, to grant such licenses, or such passes, when the law so positively commands, that the poor of every parish shall be maintained in and by every such parish. However, all law of this sort, all salutary and humane law, really seems to be drawing towards an end in this now miserable country, where the thousands are caused to wallow in luxury, to be surfeited with food and drink, while the millions are continually on the point of famishing. In order to form an idea of the degradation of the people of this country, and of the abandonment of every English principle, what need we of more than this one disgraceful and truly horrible fact, namely, that _the common soldiers, of the standing army in time of peace, subscribe, in order to furnish the meanest of diet to keep from starving the industrious people who are taxed to the amount of one-half of their wages, and out of which taxes the very pay of these soldiers comes_! Is not this one fact; this disgraceful, this damning fact; is not this enough to convince us, that _there must be a change_; that there must be a complete and radical change; or, that England must become a country of the basest slavery that ever disgraced the earth? _Devizes, (Wilts), Sunday Morning, 3rd Sept._ I left Warminster yesterday at about one o'clock. It is contrary to my practice to set out at all, unless I can do it early in the morning; but at Warminster I was at the South-West corner of this county, and I had made a sort of promise to be to-day at Highworth, which is at the North-East corner, and which parish, indeed, joins up to Berkshire. The distance, including my little intended deviations, was more than fifty miles; and, not liking to attempt it in one day, I set off in the middle of the day, and got here in the evening, just before a pretty heavy rain came on. Before I speak of my ride from Warminster to this place, I must once more observe, that Warminster is a very nice town; everything belonging to it is _solid_ and _good_. There are no villanous gingerbread houses running up, and no nasty, shabby-genteel people; no women trapesing about with showy gowns and dirty necks; no jew-looking fellows with dandy coats, dirty shirts, and half-heels to their shoes. A really nice and good town. It is a great corn-market: one of the greatest in this part of England; and here things are still conducted in the good, old, honest fashion. The corn is brought and pitched in the market before it is sold; and, when sold, it is paid for on the nail; and all is over, and the farmers and millers gone home by day-light. Almost everywhere else the corn is sold by sample; it is sold by juggling in a corner; the parties meet and drink first; it is night work; there is no fair and open market; the mass of the people do not know what the prices are; and all this favours that _monopoly_ which makes the corn change hands many times, perhaps, before it reaches the mouth, leaving a profit in each pair of hands, and which monopoly is, for the greater part, carried on by the villanous tribe of _Quakers_, _none of whom ever work_, and all of whom prey upon the rest of the community, as those infernal devils, the wasps, prey upon the bees. Talking of the Devil, puts one in mind of his imps; and talking of _Quakers_, puts one in mind of Jemmy Cropper of Liverpool. I should like to know precisely (I know pretty nearly) what effect "late panic" has had, and is having, on Jemmy! Perhaps the reader will recollect, that Jemmy told the public, through the columns of base Bott Smith, that "Cobbett's prophecies were falsified as soon as spawned." Jemmy, canting Jemmy, has now had time to ruminate on that! But does the reader remember James's project for "making Ireland as happy as England"? It was simply by introducing cotton-factories, steam-engines, and power-looms! That was all; and there was Jemmy in Ireland, speech-making before such Lords and such Bishops and such 'Squires as God never suffered to exist in the world before: there was Jemmy, showing, proving, demonstrating, that to make the Irish cotton-workers would infallibly make them _happy_! If it had been now, instead of being two years ago, he might have produced the reports of the starvation-committees of Manchester to confirm his opinions. One would think, that this instance of the folly and impudence of this canting son of the monopolizing sect, would cure this public of its proneness to listen to cant; but nothing will cure it; the very existence of this sect, none of whom ever work, and the whole of whom live like fighting-cocks upon the labour of the rest of the community; the very _existence_ of such a sect shows, that the nation is, almost in its nature, _a dupe_. There has been a great deal of railing against the King of Spain; not to becall the King of Spain is looked upon as a proof of want of "liberality," and what must it be, then, to _applaud_ any of the acts of the King of Spain! This I am about to do, however, think Dr. Black of it what he may. In the first place, the mass of the people of Spain are better off, better fed, better clothed, than the people of any other country in Europe, and much better than the people of England are. That is one thing; and that is almost enough of itself. In the next place, the King of Spain has refused to mortgage the land and labour of his people for the benefit of an infamous set of Jews and Jobbers. Next, the King of Spain has most essentially thwarted the Six-Acts people, the Manchester 16th of August, the Parson Hay, the Sidmouth's Circular, the Dungeoning, the Ogden's rupture people; he has thwarted, and most cuttingly annoyed, these people, who are also the poacher-transporting people, and the new trespass law, and the apple-felony and the horse-police (or gendarmerie) and the Sunday-toll people: the King of Spain has thwarted all these, and he has materially assisted in blowing up the brutal big fellows of Manchester; and therefore I applaud the King of Spain. I do not much like weasels; but I hate rats; and therefore I say success to the weasels. But there is one act of the King of Spain which is worthy of the imitation of every King, aye, and of every republic too; his edict for taxing traffickers, which edict was published about eight months ago. It imposes a pretty heavy annual tax on every one who is a _mere buyer and seller_, and who neither produces nor consumes, nor makes, nor changes the state of, the article, or articles, that he buys and sells. Those who bring things into the kingdom are deemed producers, and those who send things out of the kingdom are deemed changers of the state of things. These two classes embrace all _legitimate merchants_. Thus, then, the farmer, who produces corn and meat and wool and wood, is not taxed; nor is the coach-master who buys the corn to give to his horses, nor the miller who buys it to change the state of it, nor the baker who buys the flour to change its state; nor is the manufacturer who buys the wool to change its state; and so on: but the Jew or Quaker, the _mere dealer_, who buys the corn of the producer to sell it to the miller, and to deduct _a profit_, which must, at last, fall upon the consumer; this Jew, or Quaker, or self-styled Christian, who acts the part of Jew or Quaker, is taxed by the King of Spain; and for this I applaud the King of Spain. If we had a law like this, the pestiferous sect of non-labouring, sleek and fat hypocrites could not exist in England. But ours is, altogether, _a system of monopolies_, created by taxation and paper-money, from which monopolies are inseparable. It is notorious that the brewer's monopoly is the master even of the Government; it is well known to all who examine and reflect that a very large part of our bread comes to our mouths loaded with the profit of nine or ten, or more, different dealers; and I shall, as soon as I have leisure, prove as clearly as anything ever was proved, that the people pay two millions of pounds a year in consequence of the Monopoly in tea! that is to say, they pay two millions a year more than they would pay were it not for the monopoly; and, mind, I do not mean the monopoly of the East India Company, but the monopoly of the Quaker and other Tea Dealers, who buy the tea of that Company! The people of this country are eaten up by monopolies. These compel those who labour to maintain those who do not labour; and hence the success of the crafty crew of Quakers, the very _existence_ of which sect is a disgrace to the country. Besides the corn market at Warminster, I was delighted, and greatly surprised, to see the _meat_. Not only the very finest veal and lamb that I had ever seen in my life, but so exceedingly beautiful that I could hardly believe my eyes. I am a great connoisseur in joints of meat; a great judge, if five-and-thirty years of experience can give sound judgment. I verily believe that I have bought and have roasted more whole sirloins of beef than any man in England; I know all about the matter; a very great visitor of Newgate market; in short, though a little eater, I am a very great provider. It is a fancy, I like the subject, and therefore I understand it; and with all this knowledge of the matter, I say I never saw veal and lamb half so fine as what I saw at Warminster. The town is famed for fine meat; and I knew it, and, therefore, I went out in the morning to look at the meat. It was, too, 2_d._ a pound cheaper than I left it at Kensington. My road from Warminster to Devizes lay through Westbury, a nasty odious rotten-borough, a really rotten place. It has cloth factories in it, and they seem to be ready to tumble down as well as many of the houses. God's curse seems to be upon most of these rotten-boroughs. After coming through this miserable hole, I came along, on the north side of the famous hill, called Bratton Castle, so renowned in the annals of the Romans and of Alfred the Great. Westbury is a place of great ancient grandeur; and it is easy to perceive that it was once ten or twenty times its present size. My road was now the line of separation between what they call South Wilts and North Wilts, the former consisting of high and broad downs and narrow valleys with meadows and rivers running down them; the latter consisting of a rather flat, enclosed country: the former having a chalk bottom; the latter a bottom of marl, clay, or flat stone: the former a country for lean sheep and corn; and the latter a country for cattle, fat sheep, cheese, and bacon: the former by far, to my taste, the most beautiful; and I am by no means sure that it is not, all things considered, the most rich. All my way along, till I came very near to Devizes, I had the steep and naked downs up to my right, and the flat and enclosed country to my left. Very near to Bratton Castle (which is only a hill with deep ditches on it) is the village of Eddington, so famed for the battle fought here by Alfred and the Danes. The church in this village would contain several thousands of persons; and the village is reduced to a few straggling houses. The land here is very good; better than almost any I ever saw; as black, and, apparently, as rich, as the land in the market-gardens at Fulham. The turnips are very good all along here for several miles; but this is, indeed, singularly fine and rich land. The orchards very fine; finely sheltered, and the crops of apples and pears and walnuts very abundant. Walnuts _ripe now_, a month earlier than usual. After Eddington I came to a hamlet called Earl's Stoke, the houses of which stand at a few yards from each other on the two sides of the road; every house is white; and the front of every one is covered with some sort or other of clematis, or with rose-trees, or jasmines. It was easy to guess that the whole belonged to one owner; and that owner I found to be a Mr. Watson Taylor, whose very pretty seat is close by the hamlet, and in whose park-pond I saw what I never saw before; namely, some _black swans_. They are not nearly so large as the white, nor are they so stately in their movements. They are a meaner bird. _Highworth (Wilts), Monday, 4th Sept._ I got here yesterday, after a ride, including my deviations, of about thirty-four miles, and that, too, _without breaking my fast_. Before I got into the rotten-borough of Calne, I had two _tributes_ to pay to the Aristocracy; namely, two _Sunday tolls_; and I was resolved that the country in which these tolls were extorted should have not a farthing of my money that I could by any means keep from it. Therefore I fasted until I got into the free-quarters in which I now am. I would have made my horse fast too, if I could have done it without the risk of making him unable to carry me. RIDE FROM HIGHWORTH TO CRICKLADE AND THENCE TO MALMSBURY. _Highworth (Wilts), Monday, 4th Sept. 1826._ When I got to Devizes on Saturday evening, and came to look out of the inn-window into the street, I perceived that I had seen that place before, and always having thought that I should like to _see_ Devizes, of which I had heard so much talk as a famous corn-market, I was very much surprised to find that it was not new to me. Presently a stage-coach came up to the door, with "Bath and London" upon its panels; and then I recollected that I had been at this place on my way to Bristol last year. Devizes is, as nearly as possible, in the centre of the county, and the _canal_ that passes close by it is the great channel through which the produce of the country is carried away to be devoured by the idlers, the thieves, and the prostitutes, who are all tax-eaters, in the Wens of Bath and London. Pottern, which I passed through in my way from Warminster to Devizes, was once a place much larger than Devizes; and it is now a mere ragged village, with a church large, very ancient, and of most costly structure. The whole of the people here might, as in most other cases, be placed in the _belfry_, or the church-porches. All the way along the mansion-houses are nearly all gone. There is now and then a great place, belonging to a borough-monger, or some one connected with borough-mongers; but all the _little gentlemen_ are gone; and hence it is that parsons are now made justices of the peace! There are few other persons left who are at all capable of filling the office in a way to suit the system! The monopolizing brewers and rag-rooks are, in some places, the "magistrates;" and thus is the whole thing _changed_, and England is no more what it was. Very near to the sides of my road from Warminster to Devizes there were formerly (within a hundred years) 22 mansion-houses of sufficient note to be marked as such in the county-map then made. There are now only seven of them remaining. There were five parish-churches nearly close to my road; and in one parish out of the five the parsonage-house is, in the parliamentary return, said to be "too small" for the parson to live in, though the church would contain two or three thousand people, and though the living is a Rectory, and a rich one too! Thus has the church-property, or, rather, that public property which is called church property, been dilapidated! The parsons have swallowed the _tithes_ and the rent of the glebes; and have, successively, suffered the parsonage-houses to fall into decay. But these parsonage-houses were, indeed, not intended for large families. They were intended for a priest, a main part of whose business it was to distribute the tithes amongst the poor and the strangers! The parson, in this case, at Corsley, says, "too small for an incumbent with a family." Ah! there is the mischief. It was never intended to give men tithes as a premium for breeding! Malthus does not seem to see any harm in _this_ sort of increase of population. It is the _working_ population, those who raise the food and the clothing, that he and Scarlett want to put a stop to the breeding of! I saw, on my way through the down-countries, hundreds of acres of ploughed land in _shelves_. What I mean is, the side of a steep hill made into the shape of _a stairs_, only the rising parts more sloping than those of a stairs, and deeper in proportion. The side of the hill, in its original form, was too steep to be ploughed, or, even, to be worked with a spade. The earth, as soon as moved, would have rolled down the hill; and besides, the rains would have soon washed down all the surface earth, and have left nothing for plants of any sort to grow in. Therefore the sides of hills, where the land was sufficiently good, and where it was wanted for the growing of corn, were thus made into a sort of steps or shelves, and the horizontal parts (representing the parts of the stairs that we put our feet upon) were ploughed and sowed, as they generally are, indeed, to this day. Now no man, not even the hireling Chalmers, will have the impudence to say that these shelves, amounting to thousands and thousands of acres in Wiltshire alone, were not made by the hand of man. It would be as impudent to contend that the churches were formed by the flood, as to contend that these shelves were formed by that cause. Yet thus the Scotch scribes must contend; or they must give up all their assertions about the ancient beggary and want of population in England; for, as in the case of the churches, what were these shelves made _for_? And could they be made at all without a great abundance of hands? These shelves are everywhere to be seen throughout the down-countries of Sussex, Hampshire, Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, Devonshire, and Cornwall; and besides this, large tracts of land, amounting to millions of acres, perhaps, which are now downs, heaths, or woodlands, still, if you examine closely, bear the marks of the plough. The fact is, I dare say, that the country has never varied much in the gross amount of its population; but formerly the people were pretty evenly spread over the country, instead of being, as the greater part of them now are, collected together in great masses, where, for the greater part, the idlers live on the labour of the industrious. In quitting Devizes yesterday morning I saw, just on the outside of the town, a monstrous building, which I took for _a barrack_; but upon asking what it was, I found it was one of those other marks of the JUBILEE REIGN; namely, _a most magnificent gaol_! It seemed to me sufficient to hold one-half of the able-bodied men in the county! And it would do it too, and do it well! Such a system must come to an end, and the end must be dreadful. As I came on the road, for the first three or four miles, I saw great numbers of labourers either digging potatoes for their Sunday's dinner, or coming home with them, or going out to dig them. The land-owners, or occupiers, let small pieces of land to the labourers, and these they cultivate with the spade for their own use. They pay in all cases a high rent, and in most cases an enormous one. The practice prevails all the way from Warminster to Devizes, and from Devizes to nearly this place (Highworth). The rent is, in some places, a shilling a rod, which is, mind, 160_s._ or 8_l._ an acre! Still the poor creatures like to have the land: they work in it at their spare hours; and on Sunday mornings early: and the overseers, sharp as they may be, cannot ascertain precisely how much they get out of their plat of ground. But, good God! what a life to live! What a life to see people live; to see this sight in our own country, and to have the base vanity to _boast_ of that country, and to talk of our "constitution" and our "liberties," and to affect to _pity_ the Spaniards, whose working people live like gentlemen, compared with our miserable creatures. Again I say, give me the Inquisition and well-healed cheeks and ribs, rather than "civil and religious liberty," and skin and bone. But the fact is that, where honest and laborious men can be compelled to starve quietly, whether all at once or by inches, with old wheat ricks, and fat cattle under their eye, it is a mockery to talk of their "liberty," of any sort; for the sum total of their state is this, they have "liberty" to choose between death by starvation (quick or slow) and death by the halter! Between Warminster and Westbury I saw thirty or more men _digging_ a great field of I dare say twelve acres. I thought, "surely that 'humane,' half-mad fellow, Owen, is not got at work here; that Owen who, the _feelosofers_ tell us, went to the Continent to find out how to prevent the increase of the labourers' children." No: it was not Owen: it was the overseer of the parish, who had set these men to dig up this field previously to its being sown with wheat. In short, it was a digging instead of a ploughing. The men, I found upon inquiry, got 9_d._ a day for their work. Plain digging in the market gardens near London is, I believe, 3_d._ or 4_d._ a rod. If these poor men, who were chiefly weavers or spinners from Westbury, or had come home to their parish from Bradford or Trowbridge; if they digged six rods each in a day, and _fairly_ did it, they must work well. This would be 1-1/2_d._ a rod, or 20_s._ an acre; and that is as cheap as ploughing, and four times as good. But how much better to give the men higher wages, and let them do more work? If married, how are their miserable families to live on 4_s._ 6_d._ a week? And, if single, they must and will have more, either by poaching, or by taking without leave. At any rate, this is better than the _road work_: I mean better for those who pay the rates; for here is something which they get for the money that they give to the poor; whereas, in the case of the road-work, the money given in relief is generally wholly so much lost to the rate-payer. What a curious spectacle this is: the manufactories _throwing the people back again upon the land_! It is not above eighteen months ago that the Scotch FEELOSOFERS, and especially Dr. Black, were calling upon _the farm labourers to become manufacturers_! I remonstrated with the Doctor at the time; but he still insisted that such a transfer of hands was the only remedy for the distress in the farming districts. However (and I thank God for it), the _feelosofers_ have enough to do at _home_ now; for the poor are crying for food in dear, cleanly, warm, fruitful Scotland herself, in spite of a' the Hamiltons and a' the Wallaces and a' the Maxwells and a' the Hope Johnstones and a' the Dundases and a' the Edinbro' Reviewers and a' the Broughams and Birckbecks. In spite of all these, the poor of Scotland are now helping themselves, or about to do it, for want of the means of purchasing food. From Devizes I came to the vile rotten borough of Calne leaving the park and house of Lord Lansdown to my left. This man's name is Petty, and, doubtless, his ancestors "came in with the Conqueror;" for _Petty_ is, unquestionably, a corruption of the French word _Petit_; and in this case there appears to have been not the least degeneracy; a thing rather rare in these days. There is a man whose name was Grimstone (that is, to a certainty, _Grindstone_), who is now called Lord Verulam, and who, according to his pedigree in the Peerage, is descended from a "standard-bearer of the Conqueror!" Now, the devil a bit is there the word Grindstone, or Grimstone, in the Norman language. Well, let them have all that their French descent can give them, since they will insist upon it, that they are not of this country. So help me God, I would, if I could, _give them Normandy_ to live in, and, if the people would let them, to possess. This Petty family began, or, at least, made its first _grand push_, in poor, unfortunate Ireland! The _history_ of that push would amuse the people of Wiltshire! Talking of Normans and high-blood, puts me in mind of Beckford and his "Abbey"! The public knows that the _tower_ of this thing fell down some time ago. It was built of Scotch-fir and cased with stone! In it there was a place which the owner had named, "The Gallery of Edward III., the frieze of which (says the account) contains the achievements of seventy-eight Knights of the Garter, from whom the owner is lineally descended"! Was there ever vanity and impudence equal to these! the negro-driver brag of his high blood! I dare say that the old powder-man, Farquhar, had as good pretension; and I really should like to know whether he took out Beckford's name and put in his own, as the lineal descendant of the seventy-eight Knights of the Garter. I could not come through that villanous hole, Calne, without cursing Corruption at every step; and when I was coming by an ill-looking, broken-winded place, called the town-hall, I suppose, I poured out a double dose of execration upon it. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire;" for in about ten miles more I came to another rotten-hole, called Wotton-Basset! This also is a mean, vile place, though the country all round it is very fine. On this side of Wotton-Basset I went out of my way to see the church at Great Lyddiard, which in the parliamentary return is called Lyddiard _Tregoose_. In my old map it is called _Tregose_; and to a certainty the word was _Tregrosse_; that is to say, _très grosse_, or _very big_. Here is a good old mansion-house and large walled-in garden and a park belonging, they told me, to Lord Bolingbroke. I went quite down to the house, close to which stands the large and fine church. It appears _to have been_ a noble place; the land is some of the finest in the whole country; the trees show that the land is excellent; but all, except the church, is in a state of irrepair and apparent neglect, if not abandonment. The parish is large, the living is a rich one, it is a Rectory; but though the incumbent has the great and small tithes, he, in his return, tells the Parliament that the parsonage-house is "worn out and incapable of repair!" And observe that Parliament lets him continue to sack the produce of the tithes and the glebe, while they know the parsonage-house to be crumbling-down, and while he has the impudence to tell them that he does not reside in it, though the law says that he shall! And while this is suffered to be, a _poor_ man may be transported for being in pursuit of a hare! What coals, how hot, how red, is this flagitious system preparing for the backs of its supporters! In coming from Wotton-Basset to Highworth, I left Swindon a few miles away to my left, and came by the village of Blunsdon. All along here I saw great quantities of hops in the hedges, and very fine hops, and I saw at a village called Stratton, I think it was, the finest _campanula_ that I ever saw in my life. The main stalk was more than four feet high, and there were four stalks, none of which were less than three feet high. All through the country, poor, as well as rich, are very neat in their gardens, and very careful to raise a great variety of flowers. At Blunsdon I saw a clump, or, rather, a sort of orchard, of as fine walnut-trees as I ever beheld, and loaded with walnuts. Indeed I have seen great crops of walnuts all the way from London. From Blunsdon to this place is but a short distance, and I got here about two or three o'clock. This is a _cheese country_; some corn, but, generally speaking, it is a country of dairies. The sheep here are of the large kind; a sort of Leicester sheep, and the cattle chiefly for milking. The ground is a stiff loam at top, and a yellowish stone under. The houses are almost all built of stone. It is a tolerably rich, but by no means a gay and pretty country. Highworth has a situation corresponding with its name. On every side you go up-hill to it, and from it you see to a great distance all round and into many counties. _Highworth, Wednesday, 6th Sept._ The great object of my visit to the Northern border of Wiltshire will be mentioned when I get to Malmsbury, whither I intend to go to-morrow, or next day, and thence through Gloucestershire, in my way to Herefordshire. But an additional inducement was to have a good long political _gossip_ with some excellent friends, who detest the borough-ruffians as cordially as I do, and who, I hope, wish as anxiously to see their fall effected, and no matter by what means. There was, however, arising incidentally a third object, which, had I known of its existence, would of itself have brought me from the south-west to the north-east corner of this county. One of the parishes adjoining to Highworth is that of Coleshill, which is in Berkshire, and which is the property of Lord Radnor, or Lord Folkestone, and is the seat of the latter. I was at Coleshill twenty-two or three years ago, and twice at later periods. In 1824 Lord Folkestone bought some Locust trees of me; and he has several times told me that they were growing very finely; but I did not know that they had been planted at Coleshill; and, indeed, I always thought that they had been planted somewhere in the south of Wiltshire. I now found, however, that they were growing at Coleshill, and yesterday I went to see them, and was, for many reasons, more delighted with the sight than with any that I have beheld for a long while. These trees stand in clumps of 200 trees in each, and the trees being four feet apart each way. These clumps make part of a plantation of 30 or forty acres, perhaps 50 acres. The rest of the ground; that is to say, the ground where the clumps of Locusts do not stand, was, at the same time that the Locust clumps were, planted with chestnuts, elms, ashes, oaks, beeches, and other trees. These trees were stouter and taller than the Locust trees were, when the plantation was made. Yet, if you were now to place yourself at a mile's distance from the plantation, you would not think that there was any plantation at all except the clumps. The fact is that the other trees have, as they generally do, made as yet but very little progress; are not, I should think, upon an average, more than 4-1/2 feet, or 5 feet, high; while the clumps of Locusts are from 12 to 20 feet high; and I think that I may safely say that the average height is sixteen feet. They are the most beautiful clumps of trees that I ever saw in my life. They were indeed planted by a clever and most trusty servant, who, to say all that can be said in his praise, is, that he is worthy of such a master as he has. The trees are, indeed, in good land, and have been taken good care of; but the other trees are in the same land; and, while they have been taken the same care of since they were planted, they had not, I am sure, worse treatment before planting than these Locust trees had. At the time when I sold them to my Lord Folkestone, they were in a field at Worth, near Crawley, in Sussex. The history of their transport is this. A Wiltshire wagon came to Worth for the trees on the 14th of March 1824. The wagon had been stopped on the way by the snow; and though the snow was gone off before the trees were put upon the wagon, it was very cold, and there were sharp frosts and harsh winds. I had the trees taken up, and tied up in hundreds by withes, like so many fagots. They were then put in and upon the wagon, we doing our best to keep the roots inwards in the loading, so as to prevent them from being exposed but as little as possible to the wind, sun, and frost. We put some fern on the top, and, where we could, on the sides; and we tied on the load with ropes, just as we should have done with a load of fagots. In this way they were several days upon the road; and I do not know how long it was before they got safe into the ground again. All this shows how hardy these trees are, and it ought to admonish gentlemen to make pretty strict enquiries, when they have gardeners, or bailiffs, or stewards, under whose hands Locust trees die, or do not thrive. N.B. Dry as the late summer was, I never had my Locust trees so fine as they are this year. I have some, they write me, five feet high, from seed sown just before I went to Preston the first time, that is to say, on the 13th of May. I shall advertise my trees in the next Register. I never had them so fine, though the great drought has made the number comparatively small. Lord Folkestone bought of me 13,600 trees. They are at this moment worth the money they cost him, and, in addition the cost of planting, and in addition to that, they are worth the fee simple of the ground (very good ground) on which they stand; and this I am able to demonstrate to any man in his senses. What a difference in the value of Wiltshire if all its Elms were Locusts! As fuel, a foot of Locust-wood is worth four or five of any English wood. It will burn better green than almost any other wood will dry. If men want woods, beautiful woods, and _in a hurry_, let them go and see the clumps at Coleshill. Think of a wood 16 feet high, and I may say 20 feet high, in twenty-nine months from the day of planting; and the plants, on an average, not more than two feet high when planted! Think of that: and any one may see it at Coleshill. See what efforts gentlemen make _to get a wood_! How they look at the poor slow-growing things for years; when they might, if they would, have it at once: really almost at a wish; and, with due attention, in almost any soil; and the most valuable of woods into the bargain. Mr. Palmer, the bailiff, showed me, near the house at Coleshill, a Locust tree, which was planted about 35 years ago, or perhaps 40. He had measured it before. It is eight foot and an inch round at a foot from the ground. It goes off afterwards into two principal limbs; which two soon become six limbs, and each of these limbs is three feet round. So that here are six everlasting gate-posts to begin with. This tree is worth 20 pounds at the least farthing. I saw also at Coleshill the most complete farmyard that I ever saw, and that I believe there is in all England, many and complete as English farmyards are. This was the contrivance of Mr. Palmer, Lord Folkestone's bailiff and steward. The master gives all the credit of plantation and farm to the servant; but the servant ascribes a good deal of it to the master. Between them, at any rate, here are some most admirable objects in rural affairs. And here, too, there is no misery amongst those who do the work; those without whom there could have been no Locust-plantations and no farmyard. Here all are comfortable; gaunt hunger here stares no man in the face. That same disposition which sent Lord Folkestone to visit John Knight in the dungeons at Reading keeps pinching hunger away from Coleshill. It is a very pretty spot all taken together. It is chiefly grazing land; and though the making of cheese and bacon is, I dare say, the most profitable part of the farming here, Lord Folkestone fats oxen, and has a stall for it, which ought to be shown to foreigners, instead of the spinning jennies. A fat ox is a finer thing than a cheese, however good. There is a dairy here too, and beautifully kept. When this stall is full of oxen, and they all fat, how it would make a French farmer stare! It would make even a Yankee think that "Old England" was a respectable "mother" after all. If I had to show this village off to a Yankee, I would blindfold him all the way to, and after I got him out of, the village, lest he should see the scare-crows of paupers on the road. For a week or ten days before I came to Highworth I had, owing to the uncertainty as to where I should be, had no newspapers sent me from London; so that, really, I began to feel that I was in the "dark ages." Arrived here, however, the _light_ came bursting in upon me, flash after flash, from the Wen, from Dublin, and from Modern Athens. I had, too, for several days, had nobody to enjoy the light with. I had no sharers in the "_anteelactual_" treat, and this sort of enjoyment, unlike that of some other sorts, is augmented by being divided. Oh! how happy we were, and how proud we were, to find (from the "instructor") that we had a king, that we were the subjects of a sovereign, who had graciously sent twenty-five pounds to Sir Richard Birnie's poor-box, there to swell the amount of the munificence of fined delinquents! Aye, and this, too, while (as the "instructor" told us) this same sovereign had just bestowed, unasked for (oh! the dear good man!), an annuity of 500_l._ a year on Mrs. Fox, who, observe, and whose daughters, had already a banging pension, paid out of the taxes, raised in part, and in the greatest part, upon a people who are half-starved and half-naked. And our admiration at the poor-box affair was not at all lessened by the reflection that more money than sufficient to pay all the poor-rates of Wiltshire and Berkshire will, this very year, have been expended on new palaces, on pullings down and alterations of palaces before existing, and on ornaments and decorations in and about Hyde Park, where a bridge is building, which, I am told, must cost a hundred thousand pounds, though all the water that has to pass under it would go through a sugar-hogshead; and does, a little while before it comes to this bridge, go through an arch which I believe to be smaller than a sugar-hogshead! besides, there was a bridge here before, and a very good one too. Now will Jerry Curteis, who complains so bitterly about the poor-rates, and who talks of the poor working people as if their poverty were the worst of crimes; will Jerry say anything about this bridge, or about the enormous expenses at Hyde Park Corner and in St. James's Park? Jerry knows, or he ought to know, that this bridge alone will cost more money than half the poor-rates of the county of Sussex. Jerry knows, or he ought to know, that this bridge must be paid for out of the taxes. He must know, or else he must be what I dare not suppose him, that it is the taxes that make the paupers; and yet I am afraid that Jerry will not open his lips on the subject of this bridge. What they are going at at Hyde Park Corner nobody that I talk with seems to know. The "great Captain of the age," as that nasty palaverer, Brougham, called him, lives close to this spot, where also the "English ladies'" naked Achilles stands, having on the base of it the word WELLINGTON in great staring letters, while all the other letters are very, very small; so that base tax-eaters and fund-gamblers from the country, when they go to crouch before this image, think it is the image of the Great Captain himself! The reader will recollect that after the battle of Waterloo, when we beat Napoleon with nearly a million of foreign bayonets in our pay, pay that came out of that _borrowed money_, for which we have _now_ to wince and howl; the reader will recollect that at that "glorious" time, when the insolent wretches of tax-eaters were ready to trample us under foot; that, at that time, when the Yankees were defeated on the Serpentine River, and before they had thrashed Blue and Buff so unmercifully on the ocean and on the lakes; that, at that time, when the creatures called "English ladies" were flocking from all parts of the country to present rings, to "Old Blucher"; that, at that time of exultation with the corrupt, and of mourning with the virtuous, the Collective, in the hey-day, in the delirium, of its joy, resolved to expend three millions of money on triumphal arches, or columns, or monuments of some sort or other, to commemorate the glories of the war! Soon after this, however, low prices came, and they drove triumphal arches out of the heads of the Ministers, until "prosperity, unparalleled prosperity" came! This set them to work upon palaces and streets; and I am told that the triumphal-arch project is now going on at Hyde Park Corner! Good God! If this should be true, how apt will everything be! Just about the time that the arch, or arches, will be completed; just about the time that the scaffolding will be knocked away, down will come the whole of the horrid borough-mongering system, for the upholding of which the vile tax-eating crew called for the war! All these palaces and other expensive projects were hatched two years ago; they were hatched in the days of "prosperity," the plans and contracts were made, I dare say, two or three years ago! However, they will be completed much about in the nick of time! They will help to exhibit the system in its true light. The "best possible public instructor" tells us that Canning is going to Paris. For what, I wonder? His brother, Huskisson, was there last year; and he did nothing. It is supposed that the "revered and ruptured Ogden" orator is going to try the force of his oratory in order to induce France and her allies to let Portugal alone. He would do better to arm some ships of war! Oh! no: never will that be done again; or, at least, there never will again be war for three months as long as this borough and paper system shall last! This system has run itself out. It has lasted a good while, and has done tremendous mischief to the people of England; but it is over; it is done for; it will live for a while, but it will go about drooping its wings and half shutting its eyes, like a cock that has got the pip; it will never crow again; and for that I most humbly and fervently thank God! It has crowed over us long enough: it has pecked us and spurred us and slapped us about quite long enough. The nasty, insolent creatures that it has sheltered under its wings have triumphed long enough: they are now going to the workhouse; and thither let them go. I _know_ nothing of the politics of the Bourbons; but though I can easily conceive that they would not like to see an end of the paper system and a consequent Reform in England; though I can see very good reasons for believing this, I do not believe that Canning will induce them to sacrifice their own obvious and immediate interests for the sake of preserving our funding system. He will not get them out of Cadiz, and he will not induce them to desist from interfering in the affairs of Portugal, if they find it their interest to interfere. They know that we _cannot go to war_. They know this as well as we do; and every sane person in England seems to know it well. No war for us _without Reform_! We are come to this at last. No war with _this Debt_; and this Debt defies every power but that of _Reform_. Foreign nations were, as to our real state, a good deal enlightened by "late panic." They had hardly any notion of our state before that. That opened their eyes, and led them to conclusions that they never before dreamed of. It made them see that that which they had always taken for a mountain of solid gold was only a great heap of rubbishy, rotten paper! And they now, of course, estimate us accordingly. But it signifies not what _they_ think, or what _they_ do; unless they will subscribe and pay off this _Debt_ for the people at Whitehall. The foreign governments (not excepting the American) all hate the English Reformers; those of Europe, because our example would be so dangerous to despots; and that of America, because we should not suffer it to build fleets and to add to its territories at pleasure. So that we have not only our own borough-mongers and tax-eaters against us; but also all foreign governments. Not a straw, however, do we care for them all, so long as we have for us the ever-living, ever-watchful, ever-efficient, and all-subduing _Debt_! Let our foes subscribe, I say, and pay off that _Debt_; for until they do that we snap our fingers at them. _Highworth, Friday, 8th Sept._ "The best public instructor" of yesterday (arrived to-day) informs us that "A number of official gentlemen connected with finance have waited upon Lord Liverpool"! Connected with finance! And "a number" of them too! Bless their numerous and united noddles! Good God! what a state of things it is altogether! There never was the like of it seen in this world before. Certainly never; and the end must be what the far greater part of the people anticipate. It was this very Lord Liverpool that ascribed the _sufferings_ of the country to a _surplus of food_; and that, too, at the very time when he was advising the King to put forth a begging proclamation to raise money to prevent, or, rather, put a stop to, starvation in Ireland; and when, at the same time, public money was granted for the causing of English people to emigrate to Africa! Ah! Good God! who is to record or recount the endless blessings of a Jubilee-Government! The "instructor" gives us a sad account of the state of the working classes in Scotland. I am not glad that these poor people suffer: I am very sorry for it; and if I could relieve them out of my own means, without doing good to and removing danger from the insolent borough-mongers and tax-eaters of Scotland, I would share my last shilling with the poor fellows. But I must be glad that something has happened to silence the impudent Scotch quacks, who have been, for six years past, crying up the doctrine of Malthus, and railing against the English poor-laws. Let us now see what _they_ will do with their poor. Let us see whether they will have the impudence to call upon _us_ to maintain their poor! Well, amidst all this suffering, there is one good thing; the Scotch political economy is blown to the devil, and the Edinburgh Review and Adam Smith along with it. _Malmsbury (Wilts), Monday, 11th Sept._ I was detained at Highworth partly by the rain and partly by company that I liked very much. I left it at six o'clock yesterday morning, and got to this town about three or four o'clock in the afternoon, after a ride, including my deviations, of 34 miles; and as pleasant a ride as man ever had. I got to a farmhouse in the neighbourhood of Cricklade, to breakfast, at which house I was very near to the source of the river Isis, which is, they say, the first branch of the Thames. They call it the "Old Thames," and I rode through it here, it not being above four or five yards wide, and not deeper than the knees of my horse. The land here and all round Cricklade is very fine. Here are some of the very finest pastures in all England, and some of the finest dairies of cows, from 40 to 60 in a dairy, grazing in them. Was not this _always_ so? Was it created by the union with Scotland; or was it begotten by Pitt and his crew? Aye, it was always so; and there were formerly two churches here, where there is now only one, and five, six, or ten times as many people. I saw in one single farmyard here more food than enough for four times the inhabitants of the parish; and this yard did not contain a tenth, perhaps, of the produce of the parish; but while the poor creatures that raise the wheat and the barley and cheese and the mutton and the beef are living upon potatoes, an accursed _Canal_ comes kindly through the parish to convey away the wheat and all the good food to the tax-eaters and their attendants in the Wen! What, then, is this "an improvement?" is a nation _richer_ for the carrying away of the food from those who raise it, and giving it to bayonet men and others, who are assembled in great masses? I could broom-stick the fellow who would look me in the face and call this "an improvement." What! was it not better for the consumers of the food to live near to the places where it was grown? We have very nearly come to the system of Hindostan, where the farmer is allowed by the _Aumil_, or tax-contractor, only so much of the produce of his farm to eat in the year! The thing is not done in so undisguised a manner here: here are assessor, collector, exciseman, supervisor, informer, constable, justice, sheriff, jailor, judge, jury, jack-ketch, barrack-man. Here is a great deal of ceremony about it; all is done according to law; it is the _free-est_ country in the world: but somehow or other the produce is, at last, _carried away_; and it is eaten, for the main part, by those who do not work. I observed some pages back that when I got to Malmsbury I should have to explain my main object in coming to the North of Wiltshire. In the year 1818 the Parliament, by _an Act_, ordered the bishops to cause the beneficed clergy to give in an account of their livings, which account was to contain the following particulars relating to each parish: 1. Whether a Rectory, Vicarage, or what. 2. In what rural Deanery. 3. Population. 4. Number of Churches and Chapels. 5. _Number of persons they_ (the churches and chapels) _can contain_. In looking into this account as it was finally made up and printed by the parliamentary officers, I saw that it was impossible for it to be true. I have always asserted, and, indeed, I have clearly proved, that one of the two last population returns is false, barefacedly false; and I was sure that the account of which I am now speaking was equally false. The falsehood consisted, I saw principally, in the account of the capacity of the church to contain people; that is, under the head No. 5, as above stated. I saw that in almost every instance this account must of necessity be false, though coming from under the pen of a beneficed clergyman. I saw that there was a constant desire to make it appear that the church was now become too small! And thus to help along the opinion of a great recent increase of population, an opinion so sedulously inculcated by all the tax-eaters of every sort, and by the most brutal and best public instructor. In some cases the falsehood of this account was impudent almost beyond conception; and yet it required going to the spot to get unquestionable proof of the falsehood. In many of the parishes, in hundreds of them, the population is next to nothing, far fewer persons than the church porch would contain. Even in these cases the parsons have seldom said that the church would contain more than the population! In such cases they have generally said that the church can contain "the population!" So it can; but it can contain ten times the number! And thus it was that, in words of truth, a lie in meaning was told to the Parliament, and not one word of notice was ever taken of it. Little Langford, or Landford, for instance, between Salisbury and Warminster, is returned as having a population under twenty, and a church that "can contain the population." This church, which I went and looked at, can contain, very conveniently, two hundred people! But there was one instance in which the parson had been singularly impudent; for he had stated the population at eight persons, and had stated that the church could contain eight persons! This was the account of the parish of Sharncut, in this county of Wilts. It lies on the very northermost edge of the county, and its boundary, on one side, divides Wiltshire from Gloucestershire. To this Sharncut, therefore, I was resolved to go, and to try the fact with my own eyes. When, therefore, I got through Cricklade, I was compelled to quit the Malmsbury road and go away to my right. I had to go through a village called Ashton Keines, with which place I was very much stricken. It is now a straggling village; but to a certainty it has been a large market town. There is a market-cross still standing in an open place in it; and there are such numerous lanes, crossing each other, and cutting the land up into such little bits, that it must, at one time, have been a large town. It is a very curious place, and I should have stopped in it for some time, but I was now within a few miles of the famous Sharncut, the church of which, according to the parson's account, _could_ contain eight persons! At the end of about three miles more of road, rather difficult to find, but very pleasant, I got to Sharncut, which I found to consist of a church, two farmhouses, and a parsonage-house, one part of the buildings of which had become a labourer's house. The church has no tower, but a sort of crowning-piece (very ancient) on the transept. The church is sixty feet long, and, on an average, twenty-eight feet wide; so that the area of it contains one thousand six hundred and eighty square feet; or, one hundred and eighty-six square yards! I found in the church eleven pews that would contain, that were made to contain, eighty-two people; and these do not occupy a third part of the area of the church; and thus more than two hundred persons at the least might be accommodated with perfect convenience in this church, which the parson says "_can_ contain _eight_"! Nay, the church porch, on its two benches, would hold twenty people, taking little and big promiscuously. I have been thus particular in this instance, because I would leave no doubt as to the barefacedness of the lie. A strict inquiry would show that the far greater part of the account is a most impudent lie, or, rather, string of lies. For as to the subterfuge that this account was true, because the church "_can_ contain _eight_," it is an addition to the crime of lying. What the Parliament meant was, what "is the greatest number of persons that the church can contain at worship;" and therefore to put the figure of 8 against the church of Sharncut was to tell the Parliament a wilful lie. This parish is a rectory; it has great and small tithes; it has a glebe, and a good solid house, though the parson says it is unfit for him to live in! In short, he is not here; a curate that serves, perhaps, three or four other churches, comes here at five o'clock in the afternoon. The _motive_ for making out the returns in this way is clear enough. The parsons see that they are getting what they get in a declining and a mouldering country. The size of the church tells them, everything tells them, that the country is a mean and miserable thing, compared with what it was in former times. They feel the facts; but they wish to disguise them, because they know that they have been one great cause of the country being in its present impoverished and dilapidated state. They know that the people look at them with an accusing eye: and they wish to put as fair a face as they can upon the state of things. If you talk to them, they will never acknowledge that there is any misery in the country; because they well know how large a share they have had in the cause of it. They were always haughty and insolent; but the anti-jacobin times made them ten thousand times more so than ever. The cry of Atheism, as of the French, gave these fellows of ours a fine time of it: they became identified with loyalty, and what was more, with property; and at one time, to say, or hint, a word against a parson, do what he would, was to be an enemy of God and of all property! Those were the glorious times for them. They urged on the war: they were the loudest of all the trumpeters. They saw their tithes in danger. If they did not get the Bourbons restored, there was no chance of re-establishing tithes in France; and then the example might be fatal. But they forgot that, to restore the Bourbons, a debt must be contracted; and that, when the nation could not pay the interest of that debt, it would, as it now does, begin to look hard at the tithes! In short, they over-reached themselves; and those of them who have common sense now see it: each hopes that the thing will last out his time; but they have, unless they be half-idiots, a constant dread upon their minds: this makes them a great deal less brazen than they used to be; and I dare say that, if the parliamentary return had to be made out again, the parson of Sharncut would not state that the church "_can_ contain _eight persons_." From Sharncut I came through a very long and straggling village, called Somerford, another called Ocksey, and another called Crudwell. Between Somerford and Ocksey I saw, on the side of the road, more _goldfinches_ than I had ever seen together; I think fifty times as many as I had ever seen at one time in my life. The favourite food of the goldfinch is the seed of the _thistle_. This seed is just now dead ripe. The thistles are all cut and carried away from the fields by the harvest; but they grow alongside the roads; and, in this place, in great quantities. So that the goldfinches were got here in flocks, and as they continued to fly along before me for nearly half a mile, and still sticking to the road and the banks, I do believe I had, at last, a flock of ten thousand flying before me. _Birds_ of every kind, including partridges and pheasants and all sorts of poultry, are most abundant this year. The fine, long summer has been singularly favourable to them; and you see the effect of it in the great broods of chickens and ducks and geese and turkeys in and about every farm-yard. The churches of the last-mentioned villages are all large, particularly the latter, which is capable of containing very conveniently 3 or 4,000 people. It is a very large church; it has a triple roof, and is nearly 100 feet long; and master parson says, in his return, that it "_can_ contain _two hundred_ people"! At Ocksey the people were in church as I came by. I heard the singers singing; and, as the church-yard was close by the road-side, I got off my horse and went in, giving my horse to a boy to hold. The fellow says that his church "_can_ contain _two hundred_ people." I counted pews for about 450; the singing gallery would hold 40 or 50; two-thirds of the area of the church have no pews in them. On benches these two-thirds would hold 2,000 persons, taking one with another! But this is nothing rare; the same sort of statement has been made, the same kind of falsehoods, relative to the whole of the parishes throughout the country, with here and there an exception. Everywhere you see the indubitable marks of _decay_ in mansions, in parsonage-houses and in people. Nothing can so strongly depict the great decay of the villages as the state of the parsonage-houses, which are so many parcels of public property, and to prevent the dilapidation of which there are laws so strict. Since I left Devizes, I have passed close by, or very near to, thirty-two parish churches; and in fifteen out of these thirty-two parishes the parsonage-houses are stated, in the parliamentary return, either as being unfit for a parson to live in, or, as being wholly tumbled down and gone! What, then, are there Scotch vagabonds; are there Chalmerses and Colquhounds, to swear, "mon," that Pitt and Jubilee George _begat_ all us Englishmen; and that there were only a few stragglers of us in the world before! And that our dark and ignorant fathers, who built Winchester and Salisbury Cathedrals, had neither hands nor money! When I got in here yesterday, I went at first to an inn; but I very soon changed my quarters for the house of a friend, who and whose family, though I had never seen them before, and had never heard of them until I was at Highworth, gave me a hearty reception, and precisely in _the style_ that I like. This town, though it has nothing particularly engaging in itself, stands upon one of the prettiest spots that can be imagined. Besides the river Avon, which I went down in the south-east part of the country, here is another river Avon, which runs down to Bath, and two branches, or sources, of which meet here. There is a pretty ridge of ground, the base of which is a mile, or a mile and a half wide. On each side of this ridge a branch of the river runs down through a flat of very fine meadows. The town and the beautiful remains of the famous old Abbey stand on the rounded spot which terminates this ridge; and just below, nearly close to the town, the two branches of the river meet; and then they begin to be called _the Avon_. The land round about is excellent, and of a great variety of forms. The trees are lofty and fine: so that what with the water, the meadows, the fine cattle and sheep, and, as I hear, the absence of _hard_-pinching poverty, this is a very pleasant place. There remains more of the Abbey than, I believe, of any of our monastic buildings, except that of Westminster, and those that have become Cathedrals. The church-service is performed in the part of the Abbey that is left standing. The parish church has fallen down and is gone; but the tower remains, which is made use of for the bells; but the Abbey is used as the church, though the church-tower is at a considerable distance from it. It was once a most magnificent building; and there is now a _door-way_, which is the most beautiful thing I ever saw, and which was nevertheless built in Saxon times, in "the _dark_ ages," and was built by men who were not begotten by Pitt nor by Jubilee-George.--What _fools_, as well as ungrateful creatures, we have been and are! There is a broken arch, standing off from the sound part of the building, at which one cannot look up without feeling shame at the thought of ever having abused the men who made it. No one need _tell_ any man of sense; he _feels_ our inferiority to our fathers upon merely beholding the remains of their efforts to ornament their country and elevate the minds of the people. We talk of our skill and learning, indeed! How do we know how skilful, how learned _they_ were? If in all that they have left us we see that they surpassed us, why are we to conclude that they did not surpass us in all other things worthy of admiration? This famous Abbey was founded, in about the year 600, by Maidulf, a Scotch Monk, who upon the suppression of a Nunnery here at that time selected the spot for this great establishment. For the great magnificence, however, to which it was soon after brought it was indebted to Aldhelm, a Monk educated within its first walls by the founder himself; and to St. Aldhelm, who by his great virtues became very famous, the Church was dedicated in the time of King Edgar. This Monastery continued flourishing during those _dark_ ages, until it was sacked by the great enlightener, at which time it was found to be endowed to the amount of 16,077_l._ 11_s._ 8_d._ of the money of the present day! Amongst other, many other, great men produced by this Abbey of Malmsbury was that famous scholar and historian, William de Malmsbury. There is a _market-cross_ in this town, the sight of which is worth a journey of hundreds of miles. Time, with his scythe, and "enlightened Protestant piety," with its pick-axes and crow-bars; these united have done much to efface the beauties of this monument of ancient skill and taste and proof of ancient wealth; but in spite of all their destructive efforts, this Cross still remains a most beautiful thing, though possibly, and even probably, nearly, or quite, a thousand years old. There is a _market-cross_ lately erected at Devizes, and intended to imitate the ancient ones. Compare that with this, and then you have pretty fairly a view of the difference between us and our forefathers of the "dark ages." To-morrow I start for Bollitree, near Ross, Herefordshire, my road being across the county, and through the city of Gloucester. RIDE, FROM MALMSBURY, IN WILTSHIRE, THROUGH GLOUCESTERSHIRE, HEREFORDSHIRE, AND WORCESTERSHIRE. _Stroud (Gloucestershire), Tuesday Forenoon, 12th Sept. 1826._ I set off from Malmsbury this morning at 6 o'clock, in as sweet and bright a morning as ever came out of the heavens, and leaving behind me as pleasant a house and as kind hosts as I ever met with in the whole course of my life, either in England or America; and that is saying a great deal indeed. This circumstance was the more pleasant, as I had never before either seen or heard of these kind, unaffected, sensible, _sans façons_, and most agreeable friends. From Malmsbury I first came, at the end of five miles, to Tutbury, which is in Gloucestershire, there being here a sort of dell, or ravine, which, in this place, is the boundary line of the two counties, and over which you go on a bridge, one-half of which belongs to each county. And now, before I take my leave of Wiltshire, I must observe that, in the whole course of my life (days of _courtship_ excepted, of course), I never passed seventeen pleasanter days than those which I have just spent in Wiltshire. It is, especially in the southern half, just the sort of country that I like; the weather has been pleasant; I have been in good houses and amongst good and beautiful gardens; and in _every_ case I have not only been most kindly entertained, but my entertainers have been of just the stamp that I like. I saw again this morning large flocks of _goldfinches_ feeding on the thistle-seed on the roadside. The French call this bird by a name derived from the thistle, so notorious has it always been that they live upon this seed. _Thistle_ is, in French, _Chardon_; and the French call this beautiful little bird _Chardonaret_. I never could have supposed that such flocks of these birds would ever be seen in England. But it is a great year for all the feathered race, whether wild or tame: naturally so, indeed; for every one knows that it is the _wet_, and not the _cold_, that is injurious to the breeding of birds of all sorts, whether land-birds or water-birds. They say that there are this year double the usual quantity of ducks and geese: and, really, they do seem to swarm in the farmyards, wherever I go. It is a great mistake to suppose that ducks and geese _need_ water, except to drink. There is, perhaps, no spot in the world, in proportion to its size and population, where so many of these birds are reared and fatted as in Long Island; and it is not in one case out of ten that they have any ponds to go to, or, that they ever see any water other than water that is drawn up out of a well. A little way before I got to Tutbury I saw a woman digging some potatoes in a strip of ground, making part of a field, nearly an oblong square, and which field appeared to be laid out in strips. She told me that the field was part of a farm (to the homestead of which she pointed); that it was by the farmer _let out_ in strips to labouring people; that each strip contained a rood (or quarter of a statute acre); that each married labourer rented one strip; and that the annual rent was _a pound_ for the strip. Now the taxes being all paid by the farmer; the fences being kept in repair by him; and, as appeared to me, the land being exceedingly good: all these things considered, the rent does not appear to be too high.--This fashion is certainly a _growing_ one; it is a little step towards a coming back to the ancient small life and lease holds and common-fields! This field of strips was, in fact, a sort of common-field; and the "agriculturists," as the conceited asses of landlords call themselves at their clubs and meetings, might, and they would if their skulls could admit any thoughts except such as relate to high prices and low wages; they might, and they would, begin to suspect that the "dark age" people were not so very foolish when they had so many common-fields, and when almost every man that had a family had also a bit of land, either large or small. It is a very curious thing that the enclosing of commons, that the shutting out of the labourers _from all share_ in the land; that the prohibiting of them to look at a wild animal, almost at a lark or a frog; it is curious that this hard-hearted system should have gone on, until, at last, it has produced effects so injurious and so dangerous to the grinders themselves that they have, of their own accord, and for their own safety, begun to make a step towards the ancient system, and have, in the manner I have observed, made the labourers sharers in some degree in the uses at any rate of the soil. The far greater part of these strips of land have potatoes growing in them; but in some cases they have borne wheat, and in others barley, this year; and these have now turnips; very young, most of them, but in some places very fine, and in every instance nicely hoed out. The land that will bear 400 bushels of potatoes to the acre will bear 40 bushels of wheat; and the ten bushels of wheat to the quarter of an acre would be a crop far more valuable than a hundred bushels of potatoes, as I have proved many times in the Register. Just before I got into Tutbury I was met by a good many people, in twos, threes, or fives, some running and some walking fast, one of the first of whom asked me if I had met an "old man" some distance back. I asked what _sort_ of a man: "A _poor_ man." "I don't recollect, indeed; but what are you all pursuing him for?" "He has been _stealing_." "What has he been stealing?" "Cabbages." "Where?" "Out of Mr. Glover, the hatter's, garden." "What! do you call that _stealing_; and would you punish a man, a poor man, and, therefore, in all likelihood, a hungry man too, and, moreover an old man; do you set up a hue-and-cry after, and would you punish, such a man for taking a few cabbages, when that Holy Bible, which, I dare say, you profess to believe in, and perhaps assist to circulate, teaches you that the hungry man may, without committing any offence at all, go into his neighbour's vineyard and eat his fill of grapes, one bunch of which is worth a sack-full of cabbages?" "Yes; but he is a very bad character." "Why, my friend, very poor and almost starved people are apt to be 'bad characters;' but the Bible, in both Testaments, commands us to be merciful to the poor, to feed the hungry, to have compassion on the aged; and it makes no exception as to the 'character' of the parties." Another group or two of the pursuers had come up by this time; and I, bearing in mind the fate of Don Quixote when he interfered in somewhat similar cases, gave my horse the hint, and soon got away; but though doubtless I made no converts, I, upon looking back, perceived that I had slackened the pursuit! The pursuers went more slowly; I could see that they got to talking; it was now the step of deliberation rather than that of decision; and though I did not like to call upon Mr. Glover, I hope he was merciful. It is impossible for me to witness scenes like this; to hear a man called _a thief_ for such a cause; to see him thus eagerly and vindictively pursued for having taken some cabbages in a garden: it is impossible for me to behold such a scene, without calling to mind the practice in the United States of America, where, if a man were even to talk of prosecuting another (especially if that other were poor, or old) for taking from the land, or from the trees, any part of a growing crop, for his own personal and immediate use; if any man were even to talk of prosecuting another for such an act, such talker would be held in universal abhorrence: people would hate him; and, in short, if rich as Ricardo or Baring, he might live by himself; for no man would look upon him as a neighbour. Tutbury is a very pretty town, and has a beautiful ancient church. The country is high along here for a mile or two towards Avening, which begins a long and deep and narrow valley, that comes all the way down to Stroud. When I got to the end of the high country, and the lower country opened to my view, I was at about three miles from Tutbury, on the road to Avening, leaving the Minching-hampton road to my right. Here I was upon the edge of the high land, looking right down upon the village of Avening, and seeing, just close to it, a large and fine mansion-house, a beautiful park, and, making part of the park, one of the finest, most magnificent woods (of 200 acres, I dare say), lying facing me, going from a valley up a gently-rising hill. While I was sitting on my horse admiring this spot, a man came along with some tools in his hand, as if going somewhere to work as plumber. "Whose beautiful place is that?" said I. "One 'Squire Ricardo, I think they call him, but ..."--You might have "knocked me down with a feather," as the old women say,... "but" (continued the plumber) "the Old Gentleman's dead, and" ... "God ---- the old gentleman and the young gentleman too!" said I; and, giving my horse a blow, instead of a word, on I went down the hill. Before I got to the bottom, my reflections on the present state of the "market" and on the probable results of "watching the turn of it," had made me better humoured; and as one of the first objects that struck my eye in the village was the sign of the CROSS, and of the Red, or Bloody, Cross too, I asked the landlord some questions, which began a series of joking and bantering that I had with the people, from one end of the village to the other. I set them all a laughing; and, though they could not know my name, they will remember me for a long while.--This estate of Gatcomb belonged, I am told, to a Mr. Shepperd, and to his fathers before him. I asked where this Shepperd was NOW? A tradesman-looking man told me that he did not know where he was; but that he had heard that he was living somewhere near to Bath! Thus they go! Thus they are squeezed out of existence. The little ones are gone; and the big ones have nothing left for it but to resort to the bands of holy matrimony with the turn of the market watchers and their breed. This the big ones are now doing apace; and there is this comfort at any rate; namely, that the connection cannot make them baser than they are, a boroughmonger being, of all God's creatures, the very basest. From Avening I came on through Nailsworth, Woodchester, and Rodborough, to this place. These villages lie on the sides of a narrow and deep valley, with a narrow stream of water running down the middle of it, and this stream turns the wheels of a great many mills and sets of machinery for the making of _woollen-cloth_. The factories begin at Avening, and are scattered all the way down the valley. There are steam-engines as well as water powers. The work and the trade is so flat that in, I should think, much more than a hundred acres of ground which I have seen to-day covered with rails or racks for the drying of cloth, I do not think that I have seen one single acre where the racks had cloth upon them. The workmen do not get half wages; great numbers are thrown on the parish; but overseers and magistrates in this part of England do not presume that they are to leave anybody to starve to death; there is law here; this is in England, and not in "the North," where those who ought to see that the poor do not suffer talk of their dying with hunger as Irish 'Squires do; aye, and applaud them for their patient resignation! The Gloucestershire people have no notion of dying with hunger; and it is with great pleasure that I remark that I have seen no woe-worn creature this day. The sub-soil here is a yellowish ugly stone. The houses are all built with this; and, it being ugly, the stone is made _white_ by a wash of some sort or other. The land on both sides of the valley, and all down the bottom of it, has plenty of trees on it; it is chiefly pasture land, so that the green and the white colours, and the form and great variety of the ground, and the water and altogether make this a very pretty ride. Here are a series of spots, every one of which a lover of landscapes would like to have painted. Even the buildings of the factories are not ugly. The people seem to have been constantly well off. A pig in almost every cottage sty; and that is the infallible mark of a happy people. At present, indeed, this valley suffers; and though cloth will always be wanted, there will yet be much suffering even here, while at Uly and other places they say that the suffering is great indeed. _Huntley, Between Gloucester and Ross._ From Stroud I came up to Pitchcomb, leaving Painswick on my right. From the lofty hill at Pitchcomb I looked down into that great flat and almost circular vale, of which the city of Gloucester is in the centre. To the left I saw the Severn, become a sort of arm of the sea; and before me I saw the hills that divide this county from Herefordshire and Worcestershire. The hill is a mile down. When down, you are amongst dairy-farms and orchards all the way to Gloucester, and this year the orchards, particularly those of pears, are greatly productive. I intended to sleep at Gloucester, as I had, when there, already come twenty-five miles, and as the fourteen, which remained for me to go in order to reach Bollitree, in Herefordshire, would make about nine more than either I or my horse had a taste for. But when I came to Gloucester I found that I should run a risk of having no bed if I did not bow very low and pay very high; for what should there be here but one of those scandalous and beastly fruits of the system called a "Music-Meeting!" Those who founded the Cathedrals never dreamed, I dare say, that they would have been put to such uses as this! They are, upon these occasions, made use of as _Opera-Houses_; and I am told that the money which is collected goes, in some shape or another, to the Clergy of the Church, or their widows, or children, or something. These assemblages of player-folks, half-rogues and half-fools, began with the small paper-money; and with it they will go. They are amongst the profligate pranks which idleness plays when fed by the sweat of a starving people. From this scene of prostitution and of pocket-picking I moved off with all convenient speed, but not before the ostler made me pay 9_d._ for merely letting my horse _stand_ about ten minutes, and not before he had _begun_ to abuse me for declining, though in a very polite manner, to make him a present in addition to the 9_d._ How he ended I do not know; for I soon set the noise of the shoes of my horse to answer him. I got to this village, about eight miles from Gloucester, by five o'clock: it is now half past seven, and I am going to bed with an intention of getting to Bollitree (six miles only) early enough in the morning to catch my sons in bed if they play the sluggard. _Bollitree, Wednesday, 13th Sept._ This morning was most beautiful. There has been rain here now, and the grass begins (but only begins) to grow. When I got within two hundred yards of Mr. Palmer's I had the happiness to meet my son Richard, who said that he had been up an hour. As I came along I saw one of the prettiest sights in the _flower_ way that I ever saw in my life. It was a little orchard; the grass in it had just taken a start, and was beautifully fresh; and very thickly growing amongst the grass was the purple flowered _Colchicum_ in full bloom. They say that the leaves of this plant, which come out in the spring and die away in the summer, are poisonous to cattle if they eat much of them in the spring. The flower, if standing by itself, would be no great beauty; but contrasted thus with the fresh grass, which was a little shorter than itself, it was very beautiful. _Bollitree, Saturday, 23rd Sept._ Upon my arrival here, which, as the reader has seen, was ten days ago, I had a parcel of _letters_ to open, amongst which were a large lot from Correspondents, who had been good enough to set me right with regard to that conceited and impudent plagiarist, or literary thief, "Sir James Graham, Baronet of Netherby." One correspondent says that I have reversed the rule of the Decalogue by visiting the sins of the son upon the father. Another tells me anecdotes about the "Magnus Apollo." I hereby do the father justice by saying that, from what I have now heard of him, I am induced to believe that he would have been ashamed to commit flagrant acts of plagiarism, which the son has been guilty of. The whole of this plagiarist's pamphlet is bad enough. Every part of it is contemptible; but the passage in which he says that there was "no man of any authority who did not under-rate the distress that would arise out of Peel's Bill;" this passage merits a broom-stick at the hands of any Englishman that chooses to lay it on, and particularly from me. As to _crops_ in Herefordshire and Gloucestershire, they have been very bad. Even the wheat here has been only a two-third part crop. The barley and oats really next to nothing. _Fed off_ by cattle and sheep in many places, partly for want of grass and partly from their worthlessness. The cattle have been nearly starved in many places; and we hear the same from Worcestershire. In some places one of these beautiful calves (last spring calves) will be given for the wintering of another. Hay at Stroud was six pounds a ton: last year it was 3_l._ a ton: and yet meat and cheese are lower in price than they were last year. Mutton (I mean alive) was last year at this time 7-1/2_d._; it is now 6_d._ There has been in North Wilts and in Gloucestershire half the quantity of cheese made this year, and yet the price is lower than it was last year. Wool is half the last year's price. There has, within these three weeks or a month, been a prodigious increase in the quantity of cattle food; the grass looks like the grass late in May; and the late and stubble-turnips (of which immense quantities have been sown) have grown very much, and promise large crops generally; yet lean sheep have, at the recent fairs, fallen in price; they have been lessening in price, while the facility of keeping them has been augmenting! Aye; but the paper-money has not been augmenting, notwithstanding the Branch-Bank at Gloucester! This bank is quite ready, they say, to take deposits; that is to say, to keep people's spare money for them; but to lend them none, without such security as would get money, even from the claws of a miser. This trick is, then, what the French call a _coup-manqué_; or a missing of the mark. In spite of everything, as to the season, calculated to cause lean sheep to rise in price, they fell, I hear, at Wilton fair (near Salisbury) on the 12th instant, from 2_s._ to 3_s._ a head. And yesterday, 22nd Sept., at Newent fair, there was a fall since the last fair in this neighbourhood. Mr. Palmer sold, at this fair, sheep for 23_s._ a head, rather better than some which he sold at the same fair last year for 34_s._ a head: so that here is a falling off of a third! Think of the dreadful ruin, then, which must fall upon the renting farmers, whether they rent the land, or rent the money which enables them to call the land their own! The recent Order in Council _has_ ruined many. I was, a few days after that Order reached us, in Wiltshire, in a rick yard, looking at the ricks, amongst which were two of beans. I asked the farmer how much the Order would take out of his pocket; and he said it had already taken out more than a hundred pounds! This is a pretty state of things for a man to live in! The winds are less uncertain than this calling of a farmer is now become, though it is a calling the affairs of which have always been deemed as little liable to accident as anything human. The "best public instructor" tells us, that the Ministers are about to give the _Militia-Clothing_ to the poor Manufacturers! Coats, waistcoats, trousers, shoes and stockings! Oh, what a kind as well as wise "envy of surrounding nations" this is! Dear good souls! But what are the _women_ to do? No _smocks_, pretty gentlemen! No royal commission to be appointed to distribute smocks to the suffering "females" of the "_disturbed_ districts!" How fine our "manufacturing population" will look all dressed in _red_! Then indeed will the farming fellows have to repent, that they did not follow the advice of Dr. Black, and fly to the "_happy_ manufacturing districts," where employment, as the Doctor affirmed, was so abundant and so permanent, and where wages were so high! Out of evil comes good; and this state of things has blown the Scotch _poleeteecal ecoonoomy_ to the devil, at any rate. In spite of all their plausibility and persevering brass, the Scotch writers are now generally looked upon as so many tricky humbugs. Mr. Sedgwick's affair is enough, one would think, to open men's eyes to the character of this greedy band of _invaders_; for invaders they are, and of the very worst sort: they come only to live on the labour of others; never to work themselves; and, while they do this, they are everlastingly publishing essays, the object of which is, to keep the Irish out of England! Dr. Black has, within these four years, published more than a hundred articles, in which he has represented the invasion of the Irish as being ruinous to England! What monstrous impudence! The Irish come to help do the work; the Scotch to help eat the taxes; or, to tramp "_aboot mon_" with a pack and licence; or, in other words, to cheat upon a small scale, as their superiors do upon a large one. This tricky and greedy set have, however, at last, overreached themselves, after having so long overreached all the rest of mankind that have had the misfortune to come in contact with them. They are now smarting under the scourge, the torments of which they have long made others feel. They have been the principal inventors and executors of all that has been damnable to England. They are _now_ bothered; and I thank God for it. It may, and it must, finally deliver us from their baleful influence. To return to the kind and pretty gentlemen of Whitehall, and their _Militia-Clothing_: if they refuse to supply the women with smocks, perhaps they would have no objection to hand them over some petticoats; or at any rate, to give their husbands a _musket_ a piece, and a little powder and ball; just to amuse themselves with, instead of the employment of "digging holes one day and filling them up the next," as suggested by "the great statesman, now no more," who was one of that "noble, honourable, and venerable body" the Privy Council (to which Sturges Bourne belongs), and who cut his own throat at North Cray, in Kent, just about three years after he had brought in the bill, which compelled me to make the Register contain two sheets and a quarter, and to compel printers to give, before they began to print, bail to pay any fines that might be inflicted on them for anything that they might print. Let me see: where was I? Oh! the muskets and powder and ball ought, certainly, to go with the red clothes; but how strange it is, that the _real relief_ never seems to occur, even for one single moment, to the minds of these pretty gentlemen; namely, _taking off the taxes_. What a thing it is to behold poor people receiving taxes, or alms, to prevent them from starving; and to behold one half, at least, of what they receive, taken from them in taxes! What a sight to behold soldiers, horse and foot, employed to prevent a distressed people from committing acts of violence, when the _cost_ of the horse and foot would, probably, if applied in the way of relief to the sufferers, prevent the existence of the distress! A cavalry horse has, I think, ten pounds of oats a day and twenty pounds of hay. These at present prices, cost 16_s._ a week. Then there is stable room, barracks, straw, saddle and all the trappings. Then there is the wear of the horse. Then the pay of them. So that one single horseman, with his horse, do not cost so little as 36_s._ a week; and that is more than the parish allowance to five labourers' or manufacturers' families, at five to a family; so that one horseman and his horse cost what would feed twenty-five of the distressed creatures. If there be ten thousand of these horsemen, they cost as much as would keep, at the parish rate, two hundred and fifty thousand of the distressed persons. Aye; it is even so, parson Hay, stare at it as long as you like. But, suppose it to be only half as much: then it would maintain a hundred and twenty-five thousand persons. However, to get rid of all dispute, and to state one staring and undeniable fact, let me first observe, that it is notorious, that the poor-rates are looked upon as enormous; that they are deemed an insupportable burden; that Scarlett and Nolan have asserted, that they threaten to swallow up the land; that it is equally notorious that a large part of the poor-rates ought to be called _wages_; all this is undeniable, and now comes the damning fact; namely, that the whole amount of these poor-rates falls far short of the cost of the standing army in time of peace! So that, take away this army, which is to keep the distressed people from committing acts of violence, and you have, at once, ample means of removing all the distress and all the danger of acts of violence! _When_ will this be done? Do not say, "_Never_," reader: if you do, you are not only a slave, but you ought to be one. I cannot dismiss this _militia-clothing_ affair, without remarking, that I do not agree with those who _blame_ the Ministers for having let in the foreign corn _out of fear_. Why not do it from that motive? "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom." And what is meaned by "fear of the Lord," but the fear of doing wrong, or of persevering in doing wrong? And whence is this fear to arise? From thinking of the _consequences_, to be sure: and, therefore if the Ministers did let in the foreign corn for fear of popular commotion, they acted rightly, and their motive was as good and reasonable as the act was wise and just. It would have been lucky for them if the same sort of motive had prevailed, when the Corn Bill was passed; but that _game-cock_ statesman, who at last, sent a spur into his own throat, was then in high feather, and he, while soldiers were drawn up round the Honourable, Honourable, Honourable House, said, that he did not for his part, care much about the Bill; but, since the mob had clamoured against _it_, he was resolved to support it! Alas! that such a _cock_ statesman should have come to such an end! All the towns and cities in England petitioned against that odious Bill. Their petitions were rejected, and that rejection is _amongst_ the causes of the present embarrassments. Therefore I am not for blaming the Ministers for acting from _fear_. They did the same in the case of the poor Queen. Fear taught them wisely, then, also. What! would you never have people act from _fear_? What but fear of the law restrains many men from committing crimes? What but fear of exposure prevents thousands upon thousands of offences, moral as well as legal? Nonsense about "acting from fear." I always hear with great suspicion your eulogists of "_vigorous_" government; I do not like your vigorous governments; your game-cock governments. We saw enough of these, and _felt_ enough of them too, under Pitt, Dundas, Perceval, Gibbs, Ellenborough, Sidmouth and Castlereagh. I prefer governments like those of Edward I. of England and St. Louis of France; _cocks_ as towards their enemies and rivals, and _chickens_ as towards their own people: precisely the reverse of our modern "country gentlemen," as they call themselves; very lions as towards their poor, robbed, famishing labourers, but more than lambs as towards tax-eaters, and especially as towards the fierce and whiskered _dead-weight_, in the presence of any of whom they dare not say that their souls are their own. This base race of men, called "country gentlemen" must be speedily changed by almost a miracle; or they, big as well as little, must be swept away; and if it should be desirable for posterity to have a just idea of them, let posterity take this one fact; that the tithes are now, in part, received by men, who are Rectors and Vicars, and who, at the same time receive half-pay as naval or military officers; and that not one English "country gentleman" has had the courage even to complain of this, though many gallant half-pay officers have been dismissed and beggared, upon the ground, that the half-pay is not a reward for past services, but a retaining fee for future services; so that, put the two together, they amount to this; that the half-pay is given to church parsons, that they may be, when war comes, ready to serve as officers in the army or navy! Let the world match that if it can! And yet there are scoundrels to say, that we do not want a _radical reform_! Why there must be such a reform, in order to prevent us from becoming a mass of wretches too corrupt and profligate and base even to carry on the common transactions of life. _Ryall, near Upton on Severn (Worcestershire), Monday, 25th Sept._ I set off from Mr. Palmer's yesterday, after breakfast, having his son (about 13 years old) as my travelling companion. We came across the country, a distance of about 22 miles, and, having crossed the Severn at Upton, arrived here, at Mr. John Price's, about two o'clock. On our road we passed by the estate and park of _another Ricardo_! This is Osmond; the other is David. This one has ousted two families of Normans, the Honeywood Yateses, and the Scudamores. They suppose him to have ten thousand pounds a year in rent here! Famous "watching the turn of the market"! The Barings are at work down in this country too. They are everywhere, indeed, depositing their eggs about, like cunning old guinea-hens, in sly places, besides the great, open showy nests that they have. The "instructor" tells us, that the Ricardos have received sixty-four thousand pounds Commission, on the "Greek Loans," or, rather, "Loans to the Greeks." Oh, brave Greeks, to have such patriots to aid you with their financial skill; such patriots as Mr. Galloway to make engines of war for you, while his son is making them for the Turks; and such patriots as Burdett and Hobhouse to talk of your political relations! Happy Greeks! Happy Mexicans, too, it seems; for the "best instructor" tells us, that the Barings, whose progenitors came from Dutchland about the same time as, and perhaps in company with, the Ricardos; happy Mexicans too; for, the "instructor" as good as swears, that the Barings will see that the dividends on your loans are paid in future! Now, therefore, the riches, the loads, the shiploads of silver and gold are now to pour in upon us! Never was there a nation so foolish as this! But, and this ought to be well understood, it is not _mere_ foolishness; not mere harmless folly; it is foolishness, the offspring of _greediness_ and of a _gambling_, which is little short of a _roguish_ disposition; and this disposition prevails to an enormous extent in the country, as I am told, more than in the monstrous Wen itself. Most delightfully, however, have the greedy, mercenary, selfish, unfeeling wretches, been bit by the _loans_ and _shares_! The King of Spain gave the wretches a sharp bite, for which I always most cordially thank his Majesty. I dare say, that his sponging off of the roguish Bonds has reduced to beggary, or caused to cut their throats, many thousands of the greedy, fund-loving, stock-jobbing devils, who, if they regard it likely to raise their "securities" one per cent., would applaud the murder of half the human race. These vermin all, without a single exception, approved of, and rejoiced at, Sidmouth's _Power-of-Imprisonment Bill_, and they applauded his _Letter of Thanks to the Manchester Yeomanry Cavalry_. No matter what it is that puts an end to a system which engenders and breeds up vermin like these. Mr. Hanford, of this county, and Mr. Canning of Gloucestershire, having dined at Mr. Price's yesterday, I went, to-day, with Mr. Price to see Mr. Hanford at his house and estate at Bredon Hill, which is, I believe, one of the highest in England. The ridge, or, rather, the edge of it, divides, in this part, Worcestershire from Gloucestershire. At the very highest part of it there are the remains of an encampment, or rather, I should think, citadel. In many instances, in Wiltshire, these marks of fortifications are called castles still; and, doubtless, there were once castles on these spots. From Bredon Hill you see into nine or ten counties; and those curious bubblings-up, the Malvern Hills, are right before you, and only at about ten miles' distance, in a straight line. As this hill looks over the counties of Worcester, Gloucester, Hereford and part of Warwick and the rich part of Stafford; and, as it looks over the vales of Esham, Worcester, and Gloucester, having the Avon and the Severn, winding down them, you certainly see from this Bredon Hill one of the very richest spots of England, and I am fully convinced, a richer spot than is to be seen in any other country in the world; I mean _Scotland excepted_, of course, for fear Sawney should cut my throat, or, which is much the same thing squeeze me by the hand, from which last I pray thee to deliver me, O Lord! The Avon (this is the _third_ Avon that I have crossed in this Ride) falls into the Severn just below Tewkesbury, through which town we went in our way to Mr. Hanford's. These rivers, particularly the Severn, go through, and sometimes overflow, the finest meadows of which it is possible to form an idea. Some of them contain more than a hundred acres each; and the number of cattle and sheep, feeding in them, is prodigious. Nine-tenths of the land, in these extensive vales, appears to me to be pasture, and it is pasture of the richest kind. The sheep are chiefly of the Leicester breed, and the cattle of the Hereford, white face and dark red body, certainly the finest and most beautiful of all horn-cattle. The grass, after the fine rains that we have had, is in its finest possible dress; but, here, as in the parts of Gloucestershire and Herefordshire that I have seen, there are no turnips, except those which have been recently sown; and, though amidst all these thousands upon thousands of acres of the finest meadows and grass land in the world, hay is, I hear, seven pounds a ton at Worcester. However, unless we should have very early and even hard frosts, the grass will be so abundant, that the cattle and sheep will do better than people are apt to think. But, be this as it may, this summer has taught us, that our climate is the _best for produce_, after all; and that we cannot have Italian sun and English meat and cheese. We complain of the _drip_; but it is the drip that makes the beef and the mutton. Mr. Hanford's house is on the side of Bredon Hill; about a third part up it, and is a very delightful place. The house is of ancient date, and it appears to have been always inhabited by and the property of Roman Catholics; for there is, in one corner of the very top of the building, up in the very roof of it, a Catholic chapel, as ancient as the roof itself. It is about twenty-five feet long and ten wide. It has arch-work, to imitate the roof of a church. At the back of the altar there is a little room, which you enter through a door going out of the chapel; and, adjoining this little room, there is a closet, in which is a trapdoor made to let the priests down into one of those hiding places, which were contrived for the purpose of evading the grasp of those greedy Scotch minions, to whom that pious and tolerant Protestant, James I., delivered over those English gentlemen, who remained faithful to the religion of their fathers, and, to set his country free from which greedy and cruel grasp, that honest Englishman, Guy Fawkes, wished, as he bravely told the King and his Scotch council, "_to blow the Scotch beggars back to their mountains again_." Even this King has, in his works (for James was an author), had the justice to call him "the English Scævola"; and we Englishmen, fools set on by knaves, have the folly, or the baseness, to burn him in effigy on the 5th November, the anniversary of his intended exploit! In the hall of this house there is the portrait of Sir Thomas Winter, who was one of the accomplices of Fawkes, and who was killed in the fight with the sheriff and his party. There is also the portrait of his lady, who must have spent half her life-time in the working of some very curious sacerdotal vestments, which are preserved here with great care, and are as fresh and as beautiful as they were the day they were finished. A parson said to me, once, by letter: "Your religion, Mr. Cobbett, seems to me to be altogether _political_." "Very much so, indeed," answered I, "and well it may, since I have been furnished with a creed which makes part of an Act of Parliament." And, the fact is, I am no Doctor of Divinity, and like a religion, any religion, that tends to make men innocent and benevolent and happy, by taking the best possible means of furnishing them with plenty to eat and drink and wear. I am a Protestant of the Church of England, and, as such, blush to see, that more than half the parsonage-houses are wholly gone, or are become mere hovels. What I have written on the "Protestant Reformation," has proceeded entirely from a sense of justice towards our calumniated Catholic forefathers, to whom we owe all those of our institutions that are worthy of our admiration and gratitude. I have not written as a Catholic, but as an Englishman; yet a sincere Catholic must feel some little gratitude towards me; and, if there was an ungrateful reptile in the neighbourhood of Preston, to give, as a toast, "Success to Stanley and Wood," the conduct of those Catholics that I have seen here has, as far as I am concerned, amply compensated for his baseness. This neighbourhood has witnessed some pretty thumping transfers from the Normans. Holland, one of Baring's partners, or clerks, has recently bought an estate of Lord Somers, called Dumbleton, for, it is said, about eighty thousand pounds. Another estate of the same Lord, called Strensham, has been bought by a Brummigeham Banker of the name of Taylor, for, it is said, seventy thousand pounds. "Eastnor Castle," just over the Malvern Hills, is still building, and Lord Eastnor lives at that pretty little warm and snug place, the priory of Reigate, in Surrey, and close by the not less snug little borough of the same name. MEMORANDUM. When we were petitioning _for reform_, in 1817, my Lord Somers wrote and published a pamphlet, under his own name, condemning our conduct and our principles, and insisting that we, if let alone, should produce "_a revolution_, and _endanger all property_!" The Barings are adding field to field and tract to tract in Herefordshire; and, as to the Ricardos, they seem to be animated with the same laudable spirit. This Osmond Ricardo has a park at one of his estates, called Broomsborough, and that park has a new porter's lodge, upon which there is a span new cross as large as life! Aye, big enough and long enough to crucify a man upon! I had never seen such an one before; and I know not what sort of thought it was that seized me at the moment; but, though my horse is but a clumsy goer, I verily believe I got away from it at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour. My companion, who is always upon the look-out for cross-ditches, or pieces of timber, on the road-side, to fill up the time of which my jog-trot gives him so wearisome a surplus, seemed delighted at this my new pace; and, I dare say he has wondered ever since what should have given me wings just for that once and that once only. _Worcester, Tuesday, 26th Sept._ Mr. Price rode with us to this city, which is one of the cleanest, neatest, and handsomest towns I ever saw: indeed, I do not recollect to have seen any one equal to it. The _cathedral_ is, indeed, a poor thing, compared with any of the others, except that of Hereford; and I have seen them all but those of Carlisle, Durham, York, Lincoln, Chester, and Peterborough; but the _town_ is, I think, the very best I ever saw; and which is, indeed, the greatest of all recommendations, the _people_ are, upon the whole, the most suitably dressed and most decent looking people. The town is precisely in character with the beautiful and rich country, in the midst of which it lies. Everything you see gives you the idea of real, solid wealth; aye! and thus it was, too, before, long before, Pitt, and even long before "good Queen Bess" and her military law and her Protestant racks, were ever heard or dreamed of. At Worcester, as everywhere else, I find a group of cordial and sensible friends, at the house of one of whom, Mr. George Brooke, I have just spent a most pleasant evening, in company with several gentlemen, whom he had had the goodness to invite to meet me. I here learned a fact, which I must put upon record before it escape my memory. Some few years ago (about seven, perhaps), at the public sale by auction of the goods of a then recently deceased Attorney of the name of Hyde, in this city, there were, amongst the goods to be sold, the portraits of _Pitt_, _Burdett_, and _Paine_, all framed and glazed. Pitt, with hard driving and very lofty praises, fetched fifteen shillings; Burdett fetched twenty-seven shillings. Paine was, in great haste, knocked down at five pounds; and my informant was convinced, that the lucky purchaser might have had fifteen pounds for it. I hear Colonel Davies spoken of here with great approbation: he will soon have an opportunity of showing us whether he deserve it. The hop-picking and bagging is over here. The crop, as in the other hop-countries, has been very great, and the quality as good as ever was known. The average price appears to be about 75_s._ the hundred weight. The reader (if he do not belong to a hop-country) should be told, that hop-planters, and even all their neighbours, are, as hop-ward, _mad_, though the most sane and reasonable people as to all other matters. They are ten times more jealous upon this score than men ever are of their wives; aye, and than they are of their mistresses, which is going a great deal farther. I, who am a _Farnham_ man, was well aware of this foible; and therefore, when a gentleman told me, that he would not brew with Farnham hops, if he could have them as a gift, I took special care not to ask him how it came to pass, that the Farnham hops always sold at about double the price of the Worcester; but, if he had said the same thing to any other Farnham man that I ever saw, I should have preferred being absent from the spot: the hops are bitter, but nothing is their bitterness compared to the language that my townsman would have put forth. This city, or this neighbourhood, at least, being the birth-place of what I have called, the "Little-Shilling project," and Messrs. Atwood and Spooner being the originators of the project, and the project having been adopted by Mr. Western, and having been by him now again recently urged upon the Ministers, in a Letter to Lord Liverpool, and it being possible that some worthy persons may be misled, and even ruined, by the confident assertions and the pertinacity of the projectors; this being the case, and I having half an hour to spare, will here endeavour to show, in as few words as I can, that this project, if put into execution, would produce injustice the most crying that the world ever heard of, and would, in the present state of things, infallibly lead to a violent revolution. The project is to "lower the standard," as they call it; that is to say, to make a _sovereign pass for more than 20s._ In what _degree_ they would reduce the standard they do not say; but a vile pamphlet writer, whose name is Crutwell, and who is a beneficed parson, and who has most foully abused me, because I laugh at the project, says that he would reduce it one half; that is to say, that he would make a sovereign pass for two pounds. Well, then, let us, for plainness' sake, suppose that the present sovereign is, all at once, to pass for two pounds. What will the consequences be? Why, here is a parson, who receives his tithes in kind and whose tithes are, we will suppose, a thousand bushels of wheat in a year, on an average; and he owes a thousand pounds to somebody. He will pay his debt with 500 sovereigns, and he will still receive his thousand bushels of wheat a year! I let a farm for 100_l._ a year, by the year; and I have a mortgage of 2000_l._ upon it, the interest just taking away the rent. Pass the project, and then I, of course, raise my rent to 200_l._ a year, and I still pay the mortgagee 100_l._ a year! What can be plainer than this? But, the Banker's is the fine case. I deposit with a banker a thousand whole sovereigns to-day. Pass the project to-morrow, and the banker pays me my deposit with a thousand half sovereigns! If, indeed, you could double the quantity of corn and meat and all goods by the same Act of Parliament, then, all would be right; but that quantity will remain what it was before you passed the project; and, of course, the money being doubled in nominal amount, the price of the goods would be doubled. There needs not another word upon the subject; and whatever may be the national inference respecting the intellects of Messrs. Atwood and Spooner, I must say, that I do most sincerely believe, that there is not one of my readers, who will not feel astonishment, that any men, having the reputation of men of sound mind, should not clearly see, that such a project must almost instantly produce a revolution of the most dreadful character. _Stanford Park, Wednesday, 27th Sept. (Morning)._ In a letter which I received from Sir Thomas Winnington (one of the Members for this county), last year, he was good enough to request that I would call upon him, if I ever came into Worcestershire, which I told him I would do; and accordingly here we are in his house, situated, certainly, in one of the finest spots in all England. We left Worcester yesterday about ten o'clock, crossed the Severn, which runs close by the town, and came on to this place, which lies in a north-western direction from Worcester, at 14 miles distance from that city, and at about six from the borders of Shropshire. About four miles back we passed by the park and through the estate of Lord Foley, to whom is due the praise of being a most indefatigable and successful _planter of trees_. He seems to have taken uncommon pains in the execution of this work; and he has the merit of disinterestedness, the trees being chiefly oaks, which he is _sure_ he can never see grow to timber. We crossed the Teme River just before we got here. Sir Thomas was out shooting; but he soon came home, and gave us a very polite reception. I had time, yesterday, to see the place, to look at trees, and the like, and I wished to get away early this morning; but, being prevailed on to stay to breakfast, here I am, at six o'clock in the morning, in one of the best and best-stocked private libraries that I ever saw; and, what is more, the owner, from what passed yesterday, when he brought me hither, convinced me that he was acquainted with the _insides_ of the books. I asked, and shall ask, no questions about who got these books together; but the collection is such as, I am sure, I never saw before in a private house. The house and stables and courts are such as they ought to be for the great estate that surrounds them; and the park is everything that is beautiful. On one side of the house, looking over a fine piece of water, you see a distant valley, opening between lofty hills: on another side the ground descends a little at first, then goes gently rising for a while, and then rapidly, to the distance of a mile perhaps, where it is crowned with trees in irregular patches, or groups, single and most magnificent trees being scattered all over the whole of the park; on another side, there rise up beautiful little hills, some in the form of barrows on the downs, only forty or a hundred times as large, one or two with no trees on them, and others topped with trees; but, on one of these little hills, and some yards higher than the lofty trees which are on this little hill, you see rising up the tower of the parish church, which hill is, I think, taken all together, amongst the most delightful objects that I ever beheld. "Well, then," says the devil of laziness, "and could you not be contented to live here all the rest of your life; and never again pester yourself with the cursed politics?" "Why, I think I have laboured enough. Let others work now. And such a pretty place for coursing and for hare-hunting and woodcock shooting, I dare say; and then those pretty wild-ducks in the water, and the flowers and the grass and the trees and all the birds in spring and the fresh air, and never, never again to be stifled with the smoke that from the infernal Wen ascendeth for ever more and that every easterly wind brings to choke me at Kensington!" The _last word_ of this soliloquy carried me back, slap, to my own study (very much unlike that which I am in), and bade me think of the GRIDIRON; bade me think of the complete triumph that I have yet to enjoy: promised me the pleasure of seeing a million of trees of my own, and sown by my own hands this very year. Ah! but the hares and the pheasants and the wild ducks! Yes, but the delight of seeing Prosperity Robinson hang his head for shame: the delight of beholding the tormenting embarrassments of those who have so long retained crowds of base miscreants to revile me; the delight of ousting spitten-upon Stanley and bound-over Wood! Yes, but, then, the flowers and the birds and the sweet air! What, then, shall Canning never again hear of the "revered and ruptured Ogden!" Shall he go into his grave without being again reminded of "driving at the whole herd, in order to get at "the _ignoble animal_!" Shall he never again be told of Six-Acts and of his wish "to extinguish that _accursed torch of discord for ever_!" Oh! God forbid! farewell hares and dogs and birds! what, shall Sidmouth, then, never again hear of his _Power of Imprisonment Bill_, of his _Circular_, of his _Letter of Thanks to the Manchester Yeomanry_! I really jumped up when this thought came athwart my mind, and, without thinking of the breakfast, said to George who was sitting by me, "Go, George, and tell them to saddle the horses;" for, it seemed to me, that I had been meditating some crime. Upon George asking me, whether I would not stop to breakfast? I bade him not order the horses out yet; and here we are, waiting for breakfast. _Ryall, Wednesday Night, 27th Sept._ After breakfast we took our leave of Sir Thomas Winnington, and of Stanford, very much pleased with our visit. We wished to reach Ryall as early as possible in the day, and we did not, therefore, stop at Worcester. We got here about three o'clock, and we intend to set off, in another direction, early in the morning. RIDE FROM RYALL, IN WORCESTERSHIRE, TO BURGHCLERE, IN HAMPSHIRE. "Alas, the country! How shall tongue or pen Bewail her now, _un_country gentlemen! The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, The first to make a malady of peace! For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn. But corn, like ev'ry mortal thing, must fall: Kings, conquerors, and, _markets most of all_." LORD BYRON. _Ryall, Friday Morning, 29th September, 1826._ I have observed, in this country, and especially near Worcester, that the working people seem to be better off than in many other parts, one cause of which is, I dare say, that _glove manufacturing_, which cannot be carried on by fire or by wind or by water, and which is, therefore, carried on by the _hands_ of human beings. It gives work to women and children as well as to men; and that work is, by a great part of the women and children, done in their cottages, and amidst the fields and hop-gardens, where the husbands and sons must live, in order to raise the food and the drink and the wool. This is a great thing for the land. If this glove-making were to cease, many of these women and children, now not upon the parish, must instantly be upon the parish. The glove-trade is, like all others, slack from this last change in the value of money; but there is no horrible misery here, as at Manchester, Leeds, Glasgow, Paisley, and other Hell-Holes of 84 degrees of heat. There misery walks abroad in skin, bone and nakedness. There are no subscriptions wanted for Worcester; no militia-clothing. The working people suffer, trades'-people suffer, and who is to escape, except the monopolizers, the Jews, and the tax-eaters, when the Government chooses to raise the value of money, and lower the price of goods? The whole of the industrious part of the country must suffer in such a case; but, where manufacturing is mixed with agriculture, where the wife and daughters are at the needle, or the wheel, while the men and the boys are at plough, and where the manufacturing, of which one or two towns are the centres, is spread over the whole country round about, and particularly where it is, in very great part, performed by females at their _own homes_, and where the earnings come _in aid of the man's wages_; in such case the misery cannot be so great; and accordingly, while there is an absolute destruction of life going on in the hell-holes, there is no _visible_ misery at, or near, Worcester; and I cannot take my leave of this county without observing, that I do not recollect to have seen one miserable object in it. The working people all seem to have good large gardens, and pigs in their styes; and this last, say the _feelosofers_ what they will about her "antallectual enjoyments," is the _only_ security for happiness in a labourer's family. Then, this glove-manufacturing is not like that of cottons, a mere gambling concern, making Baronets to-day and Bankrupts to-morrow, and making those who do the work slaves. Here are no masses of people, called together by a _bell_, and "kept _to it_" by a driver; here are no "patriots," who, while they keep Englishmen to it by fines, and almost by the scourge, in a heat of 84 degrees, are petitioning the Parliament to "give freedom" to the South Americans, who, as these "patriots" have been informed, use a great quantity of _cottons_! The dilapidation of parsonage-houses and the depopulation of villages appears not to have been so great just round about Worcester, as in some other parts; but they have made great progress even here. No man appears to fat an ox, or hardly a sheep, except with a view of sending it to London, or to some other infernal resort of monopolizers and tax-eaters. Here, as in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire and Herefordshire, you find plenty of large churches without scarcely any people. I dare say, that, even in this county, more than one half of the parishes have either no parsonage-houses at all; or, have not one that a parson thinks fit for him to live in; and, I venture to assert, that one or the other of these is the case in four parishes out of every five in Herefordshire! Is not this a monstrous shame? Is this "a church"? Is this "law"? The parsons get the tithes and the rent of the glebe-lands, and the parsonage-houses are left to tumble down, and nettles and brambles to hide the spot where they stood. But, the fact is, the Jew-system has swept all the little gentry, the small farmers, and the domestic manufacturers away. The land is now used to raise food and drink for the monopolizers and the tax-eaters and their purveyors and lackeys and harlots; and they get together in Wens. Of all the mean, all the cowardly reptiles, that ever crawled on the face of the earth, the _English land-owners_ are the most mean and the most cowardly: for, while they support the churches in their several parishes, while they see the population drawn away from their parishes to the Wens, while they are taxed to keep the people in the Wens, and while they see their own Parsons pocket the tithes and the glebe-rents, and suffer the parsonage-houses to fall down; while they see all this, they, without uttering a word in the way of complaint, suffer themselves and their neighbours to be taxed, to build new churches for the monopolizers and tax-eaters in those Wens! Never was there in this world a set of reptiles so base as this. Stupid as many of them are, they must clearly see the flagrant injustice of making the depopulated parishes pay for the aggrandizement of those who have caused the depopulation, aye, actually pay taxes _to add to_ the Wens, and, of course, to cause a further depopulation of the taxed villages; stupid beasts as many of them are, they must see the flagrant injustice of this, and mean and cowardly as many of them are, some of them would remonstrate against it; but, alas! the far greater part of them are, themselves, getting, or expecting, _loaves and fishes_, either in their own persons, or in those of their family. They smouch, or want to smouch, some of the taxes; and, therefore, they must not complain. And thus the thing goes on. These landowners see, too, the churches falling down and the parsonage-houses either tumbled down or dilapidated. But, then, mind, they have, amongst them, the giving away of the benefices! Of course, all they want is the income, and, the less the parsonage-house costs, the larger the spending income. But, in the meanwhile, here is a destruction of public property; and also, from a diversion of the income of the livings, a great injury, great injustice, to the middle and the working classes. Is this, then, is this "church" a thing to remain untouched? Shall the widow and the orphan, whose money has been borrowed _by the land-owners_ (including the Parsons) to purchase "victories" with; shall they be stripped of their interest, of their very bread, and shall the Parsons, who have let half the parsonage-houses fall down or become unfit to live in, still keep all the tithes and the glebe-lands and the immense landed estates, called Church Lands? Oh, no! Sir James Graham "of Netherby," though you are a descendant of the Earls of Monteith, of John of the bright sword, and of the Seventh Earl of Galloway, K.T. (taking care, for God's sake, not to omit the K.T.); though you may be the _Magnus Apollo_; and, in short, be you what you may, you shall never execute your project of sponging the fund-holders and of leaving Messieurs the Parsons untouched! In many parishes, where the livings are good too, there is neither parsonage-house nor church! This is the case at Draycot Foliot, in Wiltshire. The living is a Rectory; the Parson has, of course, both great and small tithes; these tithes and the glebe-land are worth, I am told, more than three hundred pounds a year; and yet there is neither church nor parsonage-house; both have been suffered to fall down and disappear; and, when a new Parson comes to take possession of the living, there is, I am told, a temporary tent, or booth, erected, upon the spot where the church ought to be, for the performance of the _ceremony of induction_! What, then!--Ought not this church to be repealed? An Act of Parliament made this church; an Act of Parliament can unmake it; and is there any but a monster who would suffer this Parson to retain this income, while that of the widow and the orphan was taken away? Oh, no? Sir James Graham of Netherby, who, with the _gridiron before you_, say, that there was "no man, of any authority, who foresaw the effects of Peel's Bill;" oh, no! thou stupid, thou empty-headed, thou insolent aristocratic pamphleteer, the widow and the orphan _shall not_ be robbed of their bread, while this Parson of Draycot Foliot keeps the income of his living! On my return from Worcester to this place, yesterday, I noticed, at a village called Severn Stoke, a very curiously-constructed grape house; that is to say a hot-house for the raising of grapes. Upon inquiry, I found, that it belonged to a Parson of the name of St. John, whose parsonage house is very near to it, and who, being _sure_ of having the benefice when the then Rector should die, bought a piece of land, and erected his grapery on it, just facing, and only about 50 yards from, the windows, out of which the _old parson_ had to look until the day of his death, with a view, doubtless, of piously furnishing his aged brother with a _memento mori_ (remember death), quite as significant as a death's head and cross-bones, and yet done in a manner expressive of that fellow-feeling, that delicacy, that abstinence from self-gratification, which are well known to be characteristics almost peculiar to "the cloth"! To those, if there be such, who may be disposed to suspect that the grapery arose, upon the spot where it stands, merely from the desire to have the vines in bearing state, against the time that the old parson should die, or, as I heard the Botley Parson once call it, "kick the bucket;" to such persons I would just put this one question; did they ever either from Scripture or tradition, learn that any of the Apostles or their disciples, erected graperies from motives such as this? They may, indeed, say, that they never heard of the Apostles erecting any graperies at all, much less of their having erected them from such a motive. Nor, to say the truth, did I ever hear of any such erections on the part of those Apostles and those whom they commissioned to preach the word of God; and, Sir William Scott (now a _lord_ of some sort) never convinced me, by his parson-praising speech of 1802, that to give the church-clergy a due degree of influence over the minds of the people, to make the people revere them, it was necessary that the parsons and their wives should shine at _balls_ and in _pump-rooms_. On the contrary, these and the like have taken away almost the whole of their spiritual influence. They never had much; but, lately, and especially since 1793, they have had hardly any at all; and, wherever I go, I find them much better known as _Justices of the Peace_ than as Clergymen. What they would come to, if this system could go on for only a few years longer, I know not: but go on, as it is now going, it cannot much longer; there must be _a settlement of some sort_: and that settlement never can leave that mass, that immense mass, of public property, called "church property," to be used as it now is. I have seen, in this country, and in Herefordshire, several pieces of Mangel Wurzel; and, I hear, that it has nowhere failed, as the turnips have. Even the Lucerne has, in some places, failed to a certain extent; but Mr. Walter Palmer, at Pencoyd, in Herefordshire, has cut a piece of Lucerne four times this last summer, and, when I saw it, on the 17th Sept. (12 days ago), it was got a foot high towards another cut. But, with one exception (too trifling to mention), Mr. Walter Palmer's Lucerne is on the Tullian plan; that is, it is in rows at four feet distance from each other; so that you plough between as often as you please, and thus, together with a little hand weeding between the plants, keep the ground, at all times, clear of weeds and grass. Mr. Palmer says, that his acre (he has no more) has kept two horses all the summer; and he seems to complain, that it has done no more. Indeed! A stout horse will eat much more than a fatting ox. This grass will fat any ox, or sheep; and would not Mr. Palmer like to have ten acres of land that would fat a score of oxen? They would do this, if they were managed well. But is it _nothing_ to keep a team of four horses, for five months in the year, on the produce of two acres of land? If a man say that, he must, of course, be eagerly looking forward to another world; for nothing will satisfy him in this. A good crop of early cabbages may be had between the rows of Lucerne. _Cabbages_ have, generally, wholly failed. Those that I see are almost all too backward to make much of heads; though it is surprising how fast they will grow and come to perfection as soon as there is _twelve hours of night_. I am here, however, speaking of the large sorts of cabbage; for the smaller sorts will loave in summer. Mr. Walter Palmer has now a piece of these, of which I think there are from 17 to 20 _tons_ to the acre; and this, too, observe, after a season which, on the same farm, has not suffered a turnip of any sort to come. If he had had 20 acres of these, he might have almost laughed at the failure of his turnips, and at the short crop of hay. And this is a crop of which a man may always be _sure_, if he take proper pains. These cabbages (Early Yorks or some such sort) should, if you want them in June or July, be sown early in the previous August. If you want them in winter, sown in April, and treated as pointed out in my _Cottage Economy_. These small sorts stand the winter better than the large; they are more nutritious; and they occupy the ground little more than half the time. _Dwarf Savoys_ are the finest and richest and most nutritious of cabbages. Sown early in April, and planted out early in July, they will, at 18 inches apart each way, yield a crop of 30 to 40 tons by Christmas. But all this supposes land very good, or, very well manured, and plants of a good sort, and well raised and planted, and the ground well tilled after planting; and a crop of 30 tons is worth all these and all the care and all the pains that a man can possibly take. I am here amongst the finest of cattle, and the finest sheep of the Leicester kind, that I ever saw. My host, Mr. Price, is famed as a breeder of cattle and sheep. The cattle are of the Hereford kind, and the sheep surpassing any animals of the kind that I ever saw. The animals seem to be made for the soil, and the soil for them. In taking leave of this county, I repeat, with great satisfaction, what I before said about the apparent comparatively happy state of the labouring people; and I have been very much pleased with the tone and manner in which they are spoken to and spoken of by their superiors. I hear of no _hard_ treatment of them here, such as I have but too often heard of in some counties, and too often witnessed in others; and I quit Worcestershire, and particularly the house in which I am, with all those feelings which are naturally produced by the kindest of receptions from frank and sensible people. _Fairford (Gloucestershire), Saturday Morning, 30th Sept._ Though we came about 45 miles yesterday, we are up by day-light, and just about to set off to sleep at Hayden, near Swindon, in Wiltshire. _Hayden, Saturday Night, 30th Sept._ From Ryall, in Worcestershire, we came, yesterday (Friday) morning, first to Tewksbury in Gloucestershire. This is a good, substantial town, which, for many years, sent to Parliament that sensible and honest and constant hater of Pitt and his infernal politics, James Martin, and which now sends to the same place his son, Mr. John Martin, who, when the memorable _Kentish Petition_ was presented, in June 1822, proposed that it should not be received, or that, if it were received, "the House should not separate, until it had resolved, that the interest of the Debt should never be reduced"! Castlereagh abused the petition; but was for _receiving_ it, in _order to fix on it a mark of the House's reprobation_. I said, in the next Register, that this fellow was _mad_; and, in six or seven weeks from that day, he cut his own throat, and was declared to have been mad at the time when this petition was presented! The mess that "_the House_," will be in will be bad enough as it is; but what would have been its mess, if it had, in its strong fit of "good faith," been furious enough to adopt Mr. Martin's "resolution"! The Warwickshire Avon falls into the Severn here, and on the sides of both, for many miles back, there are the finest meadows that ever were seen. In looking over them, and beholding the endless flocks and herds, one wonders what can become of all the meat! By riding on about eight or nine miles farther, however, this wonder is a little diminished; for here we come to one of the devouring Wens; namely, Cheltenham, which is what they call a "watering place;" that is to say, a place, to which East India plunderers, West India floggers, English tax-gorgers, together with gluttons, drunkards, and debauchees of all descriptions, female as well as male, resort, at the suggestion of silently laughing quacks, in the hope of getting rid of the bodily consequences of their manifold sins and iniquities. When I enter a place like this, I always feel disposed to squeeze up my nose with my fingers. It is nonsense, to be sure; but I conceit that every two-legged creature, that I see coming near me, is about to cover me with the poisonous proceeds of its impurities. To places like this come all that is knavish and all that is foolish and all that is base; gamesters, pickpockets, and harlots; young wife-hunters in search of rich and ugly and old women, and young husband-hunters in search of rich and wrinkled or half-rotten men, the former resolutely bent, be the means what they may, to give the latter heirs to their lands and tenements. These things are notorious; and Sir William Scott, in his speech of 1802, in favour of the non-residence of the Clergy, expressly said, that they and their families ought to appear at watering places, and that this was amongst the means of making them respected by their flocks! Memorandum: he was a member for Oxford when he said this! Before we got into Cheltenham, I learned from a coal-carter which way we had to go, in order to see "_The New Buildings_," which are now nearly at a stand. We rode up the main street of the town, for some distance, and then turned off to the left, which soon brought us to the "desolation of abomination." I have seldom seen anything with more heartfelt satisfaction. "Oh!" said I to myself, "the accursed THING has certainly got a _blow_, then, in every part of its corrupt and corrupting carcass!" The whole town (and it was now ten o'clock) looked delightfully dull. I did not see more than four or five carriages, and, perhaps, twenty people on horse-back; and these seemed, by their hook-noses and round eyes, and by the long and sooty necks of the women, to be, for the greater part, _Jews and Jewesses_. The place really appears to be sinking very fast; and I have been told, and believe the fact, that houses, in Cheltenham, will now sell for only just about one-third as much as the same would have sold for only in last October. It is curious to see the names which the vermin owners have put upon the houses here. There is a new row of most gaudy and fantastical dwelling places, called "Colombia Place," given it, doubtless, by some dealer in _Bonds_. There is what a boy told us was the "_New Spa_;" there is "_Waterloo-house_!" Oh! how I rejoice at the ruin of the base creatures! There is "_Liverpool-Cottage_," "_Canning-Cottage_," "_Peel-Cottage_;" and the good of it is, that the ridiculous beasts have put this word _cottage_ upon scores of houses, and some very mean and shabby houses, standing along, and making part of an unbroken street! What a figure this place will cut in another year or two! I should not wonder to see it nearly wholly deserted. It is situated in a nasty, flat, stupid spot, without anything pleasant near it. A putting down of the one pound notes will soon take away its _spa_-people. Those of the notes, that have already been cut off, have, it seems, lessened the quantity of ailments very considerably; another brush will cure all the complaints! They have had some rains in the summer not far from this place; for we saw in the streets very fine turnips for sale as vegetables, and broccoli with heads six or eight inches over! But as to the meat, it was nothing to be compared with that of Warminster, in Wiltshire; that is to say, the veal and lamb. I have paid particular attention to this matter, at Worcester and Tewksbury as well as at Cheltenham; and I have seen no veal and no lamb to be compared with those of Warminster. I have been thinking, but cannot imagine how it is, that the Wen-Devils, either at Bath or London, do not get this meat away from Warminster. I hope that my observations on it will not set them to work; for, if it do, the people of Warminster will never have a bit of good meat again. After Cheltenham we had to reach this pretty little town of Fairford, the regular turnpike road to which lay through Cirencester; but I had from a fine map, at Sir Thomas Winnington's, traced out a line for us along through a chain of villages, leaving Cirencester away to our right, and never coming nearer than seven or eight miles to it. We came through Dodeswell, Withington, Chedworth, Winston, and the two Colnes. At Dodeswell we came up a long and steep hill, which brought us out of the great vale of Gloucester and up upon the Cotswold Hills, which name is tautological, I believe; for I think that _wold_ meaned _high lands of great extent_. Such is the Cotswold, at any rate, for it is a tract of country stretching across, in a south-easterly direction from Dodeswell to near Fairford, and in a north-easterly direction, from Pitchcomb Hill, in Gloucestershire (which, remember, I descended on the 12th September) to near Witney in Oxfordshire. Here we were, then, when we got fairly up upon the Wold, with the vale of Gloucester at our back, Oxford and its vale to our left, the vale of Wiltshire to our right, and the vale of Berkshire in our front: and from one particular point, I could see a part of each of them. This Wold is, in itself, an ugly country. The soil is what is called a _stone brash_ below, with a reddish earth mixed with little bits of this brash at top, and, for the greater part of the Wold, even this soil is very shallow; and as fields are divided by walls made of this brash, and as there are, for a mile or two together, no trees to be seen, and as the surface is not smooth and green like the downs, this is a sort of country, having less to please the eye than any other that I have ever seen, always save and except the _heaths_ like those of Bagshot and Hindhead. Yet, even this Wold has many fertile dells in it, and sends out, from its highest parts, several streams, each of which has its pretty valley and its meadows. And here has come down to us, from a distance of many centuries, a particular race of sheep, called the _Cotswold_ breed, which are, of course, the best suited to the country. They are short and stocky, and appear to me to be about half way, in point of size, between the Rylands and the South Downs. When crossed with the Leicester, as they are pretty generally in the North of Wiltshire, they make very beautiful and even large sheep; quite large enough, and, people say, very profitable. A _route_, when it lies through _villages_, is one thing on a _map_, and quite another thing on the ground. Our line of villages, from Cheltenham to Fairford was very nearly straight upon the map; but, upon the ground, it took us round about a great many miles, besides now and then a little going back, to get into the right road; and, which was a great inconvenience, not a public-house was there on our road, until we got within eight miles of Fairford. Resolved that not one single farthing of my money should be spent in the Wen of Cheltenham, we came through that place, expecting to find a public-house in the first or second of the villages; but not one was there, over the whole of the Wold; and though I had, by pocketing some slices of meat and bread at Ryall, provided against this contingency, as far as related to ourselves, I could make no such provision for our horses, and they went a great deal too far without baiting. Plenty of farm-houses, and, if they had been in America, we need have looked for no other. Very likely (I hope it at any rate) almost any farmer on the Cotswold would have given us what we wanted, if we had asked for it; but the fashion, the good old fashion, was, by the hellish system of funding and taxing and monopolizing, driven across the Atlantic. And is England _never_ to see it return! Is the hellish system to last _for ever_! Doctor Black, in remarking upon my Ride down the vale of the Salisbury Avon, says, that there has, doubtless, been a falling off in the population of the villages, "lying amongst the chalk-hills;" aye, and lying everywhere else too; or, how comes it, that four-fifths of the parishes of Herefordshire, abounding in rich land, in meadows, orchards, and pastures, have either no parsonage-houses at all, or have none that a Parson thinks fit for him to live in? I vouch for the fact; I will, whether in Parliament or not, prove the fact to the Parliament: and, if the fact be such, the conclusion is inevitable. But how melancholy is the sight of these decayed and still decaying villages in the dells of the Cotswold, where the building materials, being stone, the ruins do not totally disappear for ages! The village of Withington (mentioned above) has a church like a small cathedral, and the whole of the population is now only 603 persons, men, women, and children! So that, according to the Scotch fellows, this immense and fine church, which is as sound as it was 7 or 800 years ago, was built by and for a population, containing, at most, only about 120 grown up and able-abodied men! But here, in this once populous village, or I think town, you see _all_ the indubitable marks of most melancholy decay. There are several lanes, crossing each other, which _must_ have been _streets_ formerly. There is a large open space where the principal streets meet. There are, against this open place, two large, old, roomy houses, with gateways into back parts of them, and with large stone _upping-blocks_ against the walls of them in the street. These were manifestly considerable _inns_, and, in this open place, markets or fairs, or both used to be held. I asked two men, who were threshing in a barn, how long it was since their public-house was put down, or dropped? They told me about sixteen years. One of these men, who was about fifty years of age, could remember _three_ public-houses, one of which was what was called an _inn_! The place stands by the side of a little brook, which here rises, or rather issues, from a high hill, and which, when it has winded down for some miles, and through several villages, begins to be called the River Colne, and continues on, under this name, through Fairford and along, I suppose, till it falls into the Thames. Withington is very prettily situated; it was, and not very long ago, a gay and nappy place; but it now presents a picture of dilapidation and shabbiness scarcely to be equalled. Here are the yet visible remains of two gentlemen's houses. Great farmers have supplied their place, as to inhabiting; and, I dare say, that some tax-eater, or some blaspheming Jew, or some still more base and wicked loan-mongering robber is now the owner of the land; aye, and all these people are his _slaves_ as completely, and more to their wrong, than the blacks are the slaves of the planters in Jamaica, the farmers here, acting, in fact, in a capacity corresponding with that of the negro-drivers there. A part, and, perhaps, a considerable part, of the decay and misery of this place, is owing to the use of _machinery_, and to the _monopolizing_, in the manufacture of Blankets, of which fabric the town of Witney (above mentioned) was the centre, and from which town the wool used to be sent round to, and the yarn, or warp, come back from, all these Cotswold villages, and quite into a part of Wiltshire. This work is all now gone, and so the women and the girls are a "surplus _popalashon, mon_," and are, of course, to be dealt with by the "Emigration Committee" of the "Collective Wisdom"! There were, only a few years ago, above thirty blanket-manufacturers at Witney: twenty-five of these have been swallowed up by the five that now have all the manufacture in their hands! And all this has been done by that system of gambling and of fictitious money, which has conveyed property from the hands of the many into the hands of the few. But wise Burdett _likes_ this! He wants the land to be cultivated by few hands, and he wants machinery, and all those things, which draw money into _large masses_; that make a nation consist of a few of very rich and of millions of very poor! Burdett must look sharp; or this system will play him a trick before it come to an end. The crops on the Cotswold have been pretty good; and I was very much surprised to see a scattering of early turnips, and, in some places, decent crops. Upon this Wold I saw more early turnips in a mile or two, than I saw in all Herefordshire and Worcestershire and in all the rich and low part of Gloucestershire. The high lands always, during the year, and especially during the summer, receive much more of rain than the low lands. The clouds hang about the hills, and the dews, when they rise, go, most frequently, and cap the hills. Wheat-sowing is yet going on on the Wold; but the greater part of it is sown, and not only sown, but up, and in some places, high enough to "hide a hare." What a difference! In some parts of England, no man thinks of sowing wheat till November, and it is often done in March. If the latter were done on this Wold there would not be a bushel on an acre. The ploughing and other work, on the Wold, is done, in great part, by oxen, and here are some of the finest ox-teams that I ever saw. All the villages down to Fairford are pretty much in the same dismal condition as that of Withington. Fairford, which is quite on the border of Gloucestershire, is a very pretty little market-town, and has one of the prettiest churches in the kingdom. It was, they say, built in the reign of Henry VII.; and one is naturally surprised to see, that its windows of beautiful stained glass had the luck to escape, not only the fangs of the ferocious "good Queen Bess;" not only the unsparing plundering minions of James I.; but even the devastating ruffians of Cromwell. We got in here about four o'clock, and at the house of Mr. Iles, where we slept, passed, amongst several friends, a very pleasant evening. This morning, Mr. Iles was so good as to ride with us as far as the house of another friend at Kempsford, which is the last Gloucestershire parish in our route. At this friend's, Mr. Arkall, we saw a fine dairy of about 60 or 80 cows, and a cheese loft with, perhaps, more than two thousand cheeses in it; at least there were many hundreds. This village contains what are said to be the remnants and ruins of a mansion of John of Gaunt. The church is very ancient and very capacious. What tales these churches do tell upon us! What fools, what lazy dogs, what presumptuous asses, what lying braggarts, they make us appear! No people here, "_mon, teel the Scots cam to seevelize_" us! Impudent, lying beggars! Their stinking "_kelts_" ought to be taken up, and the brazen and insolent vagabonds whipped back to their heaths and their rocks. Let them go and thrive by their "cash-credits," and let their paper-money poet, Walter Scott, immortalize their deeds. That conceited, dunderheaded fellow, George Chalmers, _estimated_ the whole of the population of England and Wales at a few persons more than _two millions_, when England was just at the highest point of her power and glory, and when all these churches had long been built and were resounding with the voice of priests, who resided in their parishes, and who relieved all the poor out of their tithes! But this same Chalmers signed his _solemn conviction_, that Vortigern and the other Ireland-manuscripts, which were written by a lad of sixteen, were written by SHAKSPEARE. In coming to Kempsford we got wet, and nearly to the skin. But our friends gave us coats to put on, while ours were dried, and while we ate our breakfast. In our way to this house, where we now are, Mr. Tucky's, at Heydon, we called at Mr. James Crowdy's, at Highworth, where I was from the 4th to the 9th of September inclusive; but it looked rainy, and, therefore, we did not alight. We got wet again before we reached this place; but, our journey being short, we soon got our clothes dry again. _Burghclere (Hampshire), Monday, 2nd October._ Yesterday was a really _unfortunate day_. The morning promised fair; but its promises were like those of Burdett! There was a little snivelling, wet, treacherous frost. We had to come through Swindon, and Mr. Tucky had the kindness to come with us, until we got three or four miles on this side (the Hungerford side) of that very neat and plain and solid and respectable market town. Swindon is in Wiltshire, and is in the real fat of the land, all being wheat, beans, cheese, or fat meat. In our way to Swindon, Mr. Tucky's farm exhibited to me what I never saw before, four score oxen, all grazing upon one farm, and all nearly fat! They were, some Devonshire and some Herefordshire. They were fatting on the grass only; and, I should suppose, that they are worth, or shortly will be, thirty pounds each. But the great pleasure, with which the contemplation of this fine sight was naturally calculated to inspire me, was more than counterbalanced by the thought, that these fine oxen, this primest of human food, was, aye, every mouthful of it, destined to be devoured in the Wen, and that, too, for the far greater part, by the Jews, loan-jobbers, tax-eaters, and their base and prostituted followers, dependents, purveyors, parasites and pimps, literary as well as other wretches, who, if suffered to live at all, ought to partake of nothing but the offal, and ought to come but one cut before the dogs and cats! Mind you, there is, in my opinion, no land in England that surpasses this. There is, I suppose, as good in the three last counties that I have come through; but _better_ than this is, I should think, impossible. There is a pasture-field, of about a hundred acres, close to Swindon, belonging to a Mr. Goddard, which, with its cattle and sheep, was a most beautiful sight. But everything is full of riches; and, as fast as skill and care and industry can extract these riches from the land, the unseen grasp of taxation, loan-jobbing and monopolizing takes them away, leaving the labourers not half a belly-full, compelling the farmer to pinch them or to be ruined himself, and making even the landowner little better than a steward, or bailiff, for the tax-eaters, Jews and jobbers! Just before we got to Swindon, we crossed a canal at a place where there is a wharf and a coal-yard, and close by these a gentleman's house, with coach-house, stables, walled-in-garden, paddock _orné_, and the rest of those things, which, all together, make up _a villa_, surpassing the second and approaching towards the first class. Seeing a man in the coal-yard, I asked him to what gentleman the house belonged: "to the _head un_ o' the canal," said he. And, when, upon further inquiry of him, I found that it was the villa of the chief manager, I could not help congratulating the proprietors of this aquatic concern; for, though I did not ask the name of the canal, I could readily suppose, that the profits must be prodigious, when the residence of the manager would imply no disparagement of dignity, if occupied by a Secretary of State for the Home, or even for the Foreign, department. I mean an _English_ Secretary of State; for, as to an _American_ one, his salary would be wholly inadequate to a residence in a mansion like this. From Swindon we came up into the _down-country_; and these downs rise higher even than the Cotswold. We left Marlborough away to our right, and came along the turnpike road towards Hungerford, but with a view of leaving that town to our left, further on, and going away, through Ramsbury, towards the northernmost Hampshire hills, under which Burghclere (where we now are) lies. We passed some fine farms upon these downs, the houses and homesteads of which were near the road. My companion, though he had been to London, and even to France, had never seen _downs_ before; and it was amusing to me to witness his surprise at seeing the immense flocks of sheep, which were now (ten o'clock) just going out from their several folds to the downs for the day, each having its shepherd, and each shepherd his dog. We passed the homestead of a farmer Woodman, with _sixteen_ banging wheat-ricks in the rick-yard, two of which were old ones; and rick-yard, farm-yard, waste-yard, horse-paddock, and all round about, seemed to be swarming with fowls, ducks, and turkeys, and on the whole of them not one feather but what was white! Turning our eyes from this sight, we saw, just going out from the folds of this same farm, three separate and numerous flocks of sheep, one of which (the _lamb_-flock) we passed close by the side of. The shepherd told us, that his flock consisted of thirteen score and five; but, apparently, he could not, if it had been to save his soul, tell us how many hundreds he had: and, if you reflect a little, you will find, that his way of counting is much the easiest and best. This was a most beautiful flock of lambs; short legged, and, in every respect, what they ought to be. George, though born and bred amongst sheep-farms, had never before seen sheep with dark-coloured faces and legs; but his surprise, at this sight, was not nearly so great as the surprise of both of us, at seeing numerous and very large pieces (sometimes 50 acres together) of very good early turnips, Swedish as well as White! All the three counties of Worcester, Hereford and Gloucester (except on the Cotswold) do not, I am convinced, contain as great a weight of turnip bulbs, as we here saw in one single _piece_; for here there are, for miles and miles, no hedges, and no fences of any sort. Doubtless they must have had _rain_ here in the months of June and July; but, as I once before observed (though I forget _when_) a chalk bottom does not suffer the surface to burn, however shallow the top soil may be. It seems to me to absorb and to _retain_ the water, and to keep it ready to be drawn up by the heat of the sun. At any rate the fact is, that the surface above it does not burn; for there never yet was a summer, not even this last, when the downs did not _retain their greenness to a certain degree_, while the rich pastures, and even the meadows (except actually _watered_) were burnt so as to be as brown as the bare earth. This is a most pleasing circumstance attending the down-countries; and there are no _downs_ without a chalk bottom. Along here, the country is rather _too bare_: here, until you come to Auborne, or Aldbourne, there are _no meadows_ in the valleys, and no trees, even round the homesteads. This, therefore, is too naked to please me; but I love _the downs_ so much, that, if I had to choose, I would live even here, and especially I would _farm_ here, rather than on the banks of the Wye in Herefordshire, in the vale of Gloucester, of Worcester, or of Evesham, or, even in what the Kentish men call their "garden of Eden." I have now seen (for I have, years back, seen the vales of Taunton, Glastonbury, Honiton, Dorchester and Sherburne) what are deemed the richest and most beautiful parts of England; and, if called upon to name the spot, which I deem the brightest and most beautiful and, of its extent, _best_ of all, I should say, the villages of _North Bovant and Bishopstrow_, between Heytesbury and Warminster in Wiltshire; for there is, as appertaining to rural objects, _everything_ that I delight in. Smooth and verdant downs in hills and valleys of endless variety as to height and depth and shape; rich corn-land, unencumbered by fences; meadows in due proportion, and those watered at pleasure; and, lastly, the homesteads, and villages, sheltered in winter and shaded in summer by lofty and beautiful trees; to which may be added, roads never dirty and a stream never dry. When we came to Auborne, we got amongst trees again. This is a _town_, and was, manifestly, once a large town. Its church is as big as three of that of Kensington. It has a market now, I believe; but, I suppose, it is, like many others, become merely nominal, the produce being nearly all carried to Hungerford, in order to be forwarded to the Jew-devils and the tax-eaters and monopolizers in the Wen, and in small Wens on the way. It is a _decaying place_; and, I dare say, that it would be nearly depopulated, in twenty years' time, if this hellish jobbing system were to last so long. A little after we came through Auborne, we turned off to our right to go through Ramsbury to Shallburn, where Tull, the father of the drill-husbandry, began and practised that husbandry at a farm called "Prosperous." Our object was to reach this place (Burghclere) to sleep, and to stay for a day or two; and, as I knew Mr. Blandy of Prosperous, I determined upon this route, which, besides, took us out of the turnpike-road. We stopped at Ramsbury, to bait our horses. It is a large, and, apparently, miserable village, or "town" as the people call it. It was in remote times a _Bishop's See_. Its church is very large and very ancient. Parts of it were evidently built long and long before the Norman Conquest. Burdett owns a great many of the houses in the village (which contains nearly two thousand people), and will, if he live many years, own nearly the whole; for, as his eulogist, William Friend, the Actuary, told the public, in a pamphlet, in 1817, he has resolved, that his numerous _life-holds shall run out_, and that those who were life-holders under his Aunt, from whom he got the estate, shall become _rack-renters to him_, or quit the occupations. Besides this, he is continually purchasing lands and houses round about and in this place. He has now let his house to a Mr. Acres; and, as the _Morning Herald_ says, is safe landed at Bordeaux, with his family, for the winter! When here, he did not occupy a square inch of his land! He let it all, park and all; and only reserved "a right of road" from the highway to his door. "He had and has _a right_ to do all this." A _right_? Who denies that? But is this giving us a specimen of that "liberality and generosity and hospitality" of those "English Country Gentlemen," whose praises he so loudly sang last winter? His name is Francis Burdett _Jones_, which last name he was obliged to take by his Aunt's will; and he actually used it for some time after the estate came to him! "Jones" was too common a name for him, I suppose! Sounded too much of the _vulgar_! However, what I have principally to do with, is, his _absence from the country_ at a time like this, and, if the newspapers be correct, his intended absence during the whole of next winter; and such a winter, too, as it is likely to be! He, for many years, complained, and justly, of the _sinecure placemen_; and, are we to suffer him to be, thus, a sinecure Member of Parliament! This is, in my opinion, a great deal worse than a sinecure placeman; for this is shutting an active Member out. It is a dog-in-manger offence; and, to the people of a place such as Westminster, it is not only an injury, but a most outrageous insult. If it be true, that he intends to stay away, during the coming session of Parliament, I trust, not only, that he never will be elected again; but, that the people of Westminster will call upon him to resign; and this, I am sure they will do too. The next session of Parliament _must_ be a most important one, and that he knows well. Every member will be put to the test in the next session of Parliament. On the question of Corn-Bills every man must declare, for, or against, the people. He would declare against, if he dared; and, therefore, he gets out of the way! Or, this is what we shall have a clear right to presume, if he be absent from the next session of Parliament. He knows, that there must be something like a struggle between the land-owners and the fund-holders. His interest lies with the former; he wishes to support the law-church and the army and all sources of aristocratical profit; but, he knows, that the people of Westminster would be on the other side. It is better, therefore, to hear at Bordeaux, about this struggle, than to be engaged in it! He must know of the great embarrassment, distress, and of the great bodily suffering, now experienced by a large part of the people; and has he _a right_, after having got himself returned a member for such a place as Westminster, to go out of the country, at such a time and leave his seat vacant? He must know that, during the ensuing winter, there _must_ be great distress in Westminster itself; for there will be a greater mass of the working people out of employ than there ever was in any winter before; and this calamity will, too, be owing to that infernal system, which he has been supporting, to those paper-money Rooks, with whom he is closely connected, and the existence of whose destructive rags he expressed his wish to prolong: he knows all this very well: he knows that, in every quarter the distress and danger are great; and is it not, then, his duty to be here? Is he, who, at his own request, has been intrusted with the representing of a great city to get out of the way at a time like this, and under circumstances like these? If this be so, then is this great, and _once_ public-spirited city, become more contemptible, and infinitely more mischievous, than the "accursed hill" of Wiltshire: but this is _not so_; the _people_ of Westminster are what they always were, full of good sense and public spirit: they have been cheated by a set of bribed intriguers; and _how_ this has been done, I will explain to them, when I _punish_ Sir Francis Burdett Jones for the sins, _committed for him_, by a hired Scotch writer. I shall dismiss him, for the present, with observing, that, if I had in me a millionth part of that malignity and vindictiveness, which he so basely showed towards me, I have learned anecdotes sufficient to enable me to take ample vengeance on him for the stabs which he, in 1817, knew, that he was sending to the hearts of the defenceless part of my family! While our horses were baiting at Ramsbury, it began to rain, and by the time that they had done, it rained pretty hard, with every appearance of continuing to rain for the day; and it was now about eleven o'clock, we having 18 or 19 miles to go before we got to the intended end of our journey. Having, however, for several reasons, a very great desire to get to Burghclere that night, we set off in the rain; and, as we carry no great coats, we were wet to the skin pretty soon. Immediately upon quitting Ramsbury, we crossed the River Kennet, and, mounting a highish hill, we looked back over friend Sir Glory's park, the sight of which brought into my mind the visit of Thimble and Cowhide, as described in the "intense comedy," and, when I thought of the "baker's being starved to death," and of the "heavy fall of snow," I could not help bursting out a laughing, though it poured of rain and though I already felt the water on my skin.--MEM. To ask, when I get to London, what is become of the intense "Counsellor Bric;" and whether he have yet had the justice to put the K to the end of his name. I saw a lovely female shoy-hoy, engaged in keeping the rooks from a newly-sown wheat field on the Cotswold Hills, that would be a very _suitable match_ for him; and, as his manners appear to be mended; as he now praises to the skies those 40_s._ freeholders, whom, in my hearing, he asserted to be "_beneath brute beasts_;" as he does, in short, appear to be rather less offensive than he was, I should have no objection to promote the union; and, I am sure, _the farmer_ would like it of all things; for, if Miss _Stuffed o' straw_ can, when _single_, keep the devourers at a distance, say, you who know him, whether the sight of the _husband's head_ would leave a rook in the country! Turning from viewing the scene of Thimble and Cowhide's cruel disappointment, we pushed through coppices and across fields, to a little village, called Froxfield, which we found to be on the great Bath-Road. Here, crossing the road and also a run of water, we, under the guidance of a man, who was good enough to go about a mile with us, and to whom we gave a shilling and the price of a pot of beer, mounted another hill, from which, after twisting about for awhile, I saw, and recognised the out-buildings of Prosperous farm, towards which we pushed on as fast as we could, in order to keep ourselves in motion so as to prevent our catching cold; for it rained, and incessantly, every step of the way. I had been at Prosperous before; so that I knew Mr. Blandy, the owner, and his family, who received us with great hospitality. They took care of our horses, gave us what we wanted in the eating and drinking way, and clothed us, shirts and all, while they dried all our clothes; for not only the things on our bodies were soaked, but those also which we carried in little thin leather rolls, fastened on upon the saddles before us. Notwithstanding all that could be done in the way of dispatch, it took more than three hours to get our clothes dry. At last, about three quarters of an hour before sunset, we got on our clothes again and set off: for, as an instance of real bad luck, it ceased to rain the moment we got to Mr. Blandy's. Including the numerous angles and windings, we had nine or ten miles yet to go; but I was so anxious to get to Burghclere, that, contrary to my practice as well as my principle, I determined to encounter the darkness for once, though in cross-country roads, presenting us, at every mile, with ways crossing each other; or forming a Y; or kindly giving us the choice of three, forming the upper part of a Y and a half. Add to this, that we were in an enclosed country, the lanes very narrow, deep-worn, and banks and hedges high. There was no moon; but it was starlight, and, as I could see the Hampshire Hills all along to my right, and knew that I must not get above a mile or so from them, I had a guide that could not deceive me; for, as to _asking_ the road, in a case like this, it is of little use, unless you meet some one at every half mile: for the answer is, _keep right on_; aye, but in ten minutes, perhaps, you come to a Y, or to a T, or to a +. A fellow told me once, in my way from Chertsey to Guildford, "Keep _right on_, you can't miss your way." I was in the perpendicular part of the T, and the top part was only a few yards from me. "_Right on_," said I, "what over _that bank_ into the wheat?" "No, no," said he, "I mean _that road_, to be sure," pointing to the road that went off to the _left_. In _down-countries_, the direction of shepherds and pig and bird boys is always in precisely the same words; namely, "_right_ over the down," laying great stress upon the word _right_. "But," said I, to a boy, at the edge of the down at King's Worthy (near Winchester), who gave me this direction to Stoke Charity; "but, what do you mean by _right_ over the down?" "Why," said he, "_right_ on to Stoke, to be sure, Zur." "Aye," said I, "but how am I, who was never here before, to know _what is_ right, my boy?" That posed him. It set him to thinking: and after a bit he proceeded to tell me, that, when I got up the hill, I should see _some trees_; that I should go along by them; that I should then see _a barn_ right before me; that I should go down to that barn; and that I should then see a _wagon track_ that would lead me all down to Stoke. "Aye!" said I, "_now_ indeed you are a real clever fellow." And I gave him a shilling, being part of my savings of the morning. Whoever tries it will find, that the _less they eat and drink_, when travelling, the better they will be. I act accordingly. Many days I have no breakfast and no dinner. I went from Devizes to Highworth without breaking my fast, a distance, including my deviations, of more than _thirty miles_. I sometimes take, from a friend's house, a little bit of meat between two bits of bread, which I eat as I ride along; but whatever I save from this fasting work, I think I have a clear right to give away; and, accordingly, I generally put the amount, in copper, into my waistcoat pocket, and dispose of it during the day. I know well, _that I am the better_ for not stuffing and blowing myself out, and with the savings I make many and many a happy boy; and, now-and-then, I give a whole family a good meal with the cost of a breakfast, or a dinner, that would have done me mischief. I do not do this because I grudge inn-keepers what they charge; for my surprise is, how they can live without charging _more_ than they do in general. It was dark by the time that we got to a village, called East Woodhay. Sunday evening is the time _for courting_, in the country. It is not convenient to carry this on before faces, and, at farmhouses and cottages, there are no spare apartments; so that the pairs turn out, and pitch up, to carry on their negociations, by the side of stile or a gate. The evening was auspicious; it was _pretty dark_, the _weather mild_, and _Old Michaelmas_ (when yearly services end) was fast approaching; and, accordingly, I do not recollect ever having before seen so many negociations going on, within so short a distance. At West Woodhay my horse _cast a shoe_, and, as the road was abominably flinty, we were compelled to go at a snail's pace: and I should have gone crazy with impatience, had it not been for these ambassadors and ambassadresses of Cupid, to every pair of whom I said something or other. I began by asking the fellow _my road_; and, from the tone and manner of his answer, I could tell pretty nearly what prospect he had of success, and knew what to say to draw something from him. I had some famous sport with them, saying to them more than I should have said by daylight, and a great deal less than I should have said, if my horse had been in a condition to carry me away as swiftly as he did from Osmond Ricardo's terrific cross! "There!" exclaims Mrs. Scrip, the stock-jobber's young wife, to her old hobbling wittol of a spouse, "You see, my love, that this mischievous man could not let even these poor _peasants_ alone." "_Peasants!_ you dirty-necked devil, and where got you that word? You, who, but a few years ago, came, perhaps, up from the country in a wagon; who _made_ the bed you now _sleep_ in; and who got the husband by helping him to get his wife out of the world, as some young party-coloured blade is to get you and the old rogue's money by a similar process!" We got to Burghclere about eight o'clock, after a very disagreeable day; but we found ample compensation in the house, and all within it, that we were now arrived at. _Burghclere, Sunday, 8th Sept._ It rained steadily this morning, or else, at the end of these six days of hunting for George, and two for me, we should have set off. The rain gives me time to give an account of Mr. Budd's crop of Tullian Wheat. It was sown in rows and on ridges, with very wide intervals, ploughed all summer. If he reckon that ground only which the wheat grew upon, he had one hundred and thirty bushels to the acre; and even if he reckoned the whole of the ground, he had 28 bushels all but two gallons to the acre! But the best wheat he grew this year was dibbled in between rows of Swedish Turnips, in November, four rows upon a ridge, with an eighteen-inch interval between each two rows, and a five-feet interval between the outside rows on each ridge. It is the white cone that Mr. Budd sows. He had ears with 130 grains in each. This would be the farming for labourers in their little plots. They might grow thirty bushels of wheat to the acre, and have crops of cabbages, in the intervals, at the same time; or, of potatoes, if they liked them better. Before my arrival here, Mr. Budd had seen my description of the state of the labourers in Wiltshire, and had, in consequence, written to my son James (not knowing where I was) as follows: "In order to see how the labourers are now _screwed down_, look at the following facts: Arthur Young, in 1771 (55 years ago) allowed for a man, his wife and three children 13_s._ 1_d._ a week, according to present money-prices. By the Berkshire Magistrates' table, made in 1795, the allowance was, for such family, according to the present money-prices, 11_s._ 4_d._ Now it is, according to the same standard, 8_s._ According to your father's proposal, the sum would be (supposing there to be no malt tax) 18_s._ a week; and little enough too." Is not that enough to convince any one of the hellishness of this system? Yet Sir Glory applauds it. Is it not horrible to contemplate millions in this half-starving state; and, is it not the duty of "England's Glory," who has said that his estate is "_a retaining fee_ for defending the rights of the people;" is it not his duty to stay in England and endeavour to restore the people, the millions, to what their fathers were, instead of going abroad; selling off his carriage horses, and going abroad, there to spend some part, at least, of the fruits of English labour? I do not say, that he has _no right_, generally speaking, to go and spend his money abroad; but, I do say, that having got himself elected for such a city as Westminster, he had no right, at a time like this, to be absent from Parliament. However, what cares he? His "retaining fee" indeed! He takes special care to augment that fee; but I challenge all his shoe-lickers, all the base worshippers of twenty thousand acres, to show me one single thing that he has ever done, or, within the last twelve years, attempted to do, for his _clients_. In short, this is a man that must now be brought to book; he must not be suffered to insult Westminster any longer: he must turn-to or turn out: he is a sore to Westminster; a set-fast on its back; a cholic in its belly; a cramp in its limbs; a gag in its mouth: he is a nuisance, a monstrous nuisance, in Westminster, and he must be abated. RIDE, FROM BURGHCLERE TO LYNDHURST, IN THE NEW FOREST. "The Reformers have yet many and powerful foes; we have to contend against a host, such as never existed before in the world. Nine-tenths of the press; all the channels of speedy communication of sentiment; all the pulpits; all the associations of rich people; all the taxing-people; all the military and naval establishments; all the yeomanry cavalry tribes. Your allies are endless in number and mighty in influence. But, we have _one ally_ worth the whole of them put together, namely, the DEBT! This is an ally, whom no honours or rewards can seduce from us. She is a steady, unrelaxing, persevering, incorruptible ally. An ally that is proof against all blandishments, all intrigues, all temptations, and all open attacks. She sets at defiance all '_military_,' all '_yeomanry cavalry_.' They may as well fire at a ghost. She cares no more for the sabres of the yeomanry or the Life Guards than Milton's angels did for the swords of Satan's myrmidons. This ally cares not a straw about _spies_ and _informers_. She laughs at the employment of _secret-service money_. She is always erect, day and night, and is always firmly moving on in our cause, in spite of all the terrors of gaols, dungeons, halters and axes. Therefore, Mr. JABET, be not so pert. The combat is not so unequal as you seem to imagine; and, confident and insolent as you now are, the day of your humiliation may not be far distant."--LETTER TO MR. JABET, of Birmingham, _Register_, v. 31, p. 477. (Nov. 1816.) _Hurstbourn Tarrant (commonly called Uphusband), Wednesday, 11th October, 1826._ When quarters are good, you are apt to _lurk_ in them; but, really it was so wet, that we could not get away from Burghclere till Monday evening. Being here, there were many reasons for our going to the great fair at Weyhill, which began yesterday, and, indeed, the day before, at Appleshaw. These two days are allotted for the selling of sheep only, though the horse-fair begins on the 10th. To Appleshaw they bring nothing but those fine curled-horned and long-tailed ewes, which bring the house-lambs and the early Easter-lambs; and these, which, to my taste, are the finest and most beautiful animals of the sheep kind, come exclusively out of Dorsetshire and out of the part of Somersetshire bordering on that county. To Weyhill, which is a village of half a dozen houses on a down, just above Appleshaw, they bring from the down-farms in Wiltshire and Hampshire, where they are bred, the Southdown sheep; ewes to go away into the pasture and turnip countries to have lambs, wethers to be fatted and killed, and lambs (nine months old) to be kept to be sheep. At both fairs there is supposed to be about two hundred thousand sheep. It was of some consequence to ascertain how the _price_ of these had been affected by "_late_ panic," which ended the "respite" of 1822; or by the "plethora of money" as loan-man Baring called it. I can assure this political Doctor, that there was no such "plethora" at Weyhill, yesterday, where, while I viewed the long faces of the farmers, while I saw consciousness of ruin painted on their countenances, I could not help saying to myself, "the loan-mongers think they are _cunning_; but, by ----, they will never escape the ultimate consequences of this horrible ruin!" The prices, take them on a fair average, were, at both fairs, just about one-half what they were last year. So that my friend Mr. Thwaites of the _Herald_, who had a lying Irish reporter at Preston, was rather hasty, about three months ago, when he told his _well-informed_ readers, that, "those politicians were deceived, who had supposed that prices of farm produce would fall in consequence of '_late_ panic' and the subsequent measures"! There were Dorsetshire ewes that sold last year, for 50_s._ a head. We could hear of none this year that exceeded 25_s._ And only think of 25_s._ for one of these fine, large ewes, nearly fit to kill, and having two lambs in her, ready to be brought forth in, on an average, six weeks' time! The average is _three lambs_ to _two of these ewes_. In 1812 these ewes were from 55_s._ to 72_s._ each, at this same Appleshaw fair; and in that year I bought South-down ewes at 45_s._ each, just such as were, yesterday, sold for 18_s._ Yet the sheep and grass and all things are the same in _real value_. What a false, what a deceptious, what an infamous thing, this paper-money system is! However, it is a pleasure, it is real, it is great delight, it is boundless joy to me, to contemplate this infernal system in its hour of _wreck_: swag here: crack there: scroop this way: souse that way: and such a rattling and such a squalling: and the parsons and their wives looking so frightened, beginning, apparently, to think that the day of _judgment_ is at hand! I wonder what master parson of Sharncut, whose church _can_ contain _eight persons_, and master parson of Draycot Foliot, who is, for want of a church, inducted under a _tent_, or temporary _booth_; I wonder what they think of South-down lambs (9 months old) selling for 6 or 7 shillings each! I wonder what the Barings and the Ricardos think of it. I wonder what those master parsons think of it, who are half-pay naval, or military officers, as well as master parsons of the church made by _law_. I wonder what the Gaffer Gooches, with their parsonships and military offices, think of it. I wonder what Daddy Coke and Suffield think of it; and when, I wonder, do they mean to get into their holes and barns again to cry aloud against the "roguery of reducing the interest of the Debt"; when, I wonder, do these manly, these modest, these fair, these candid, these open, and, above all things, these _sensible_, fellows intend to assemble again, and to call all "the House of Quidenham" and the "House of Kilmainham," or _Kinsaleham_, or whatever it is (for I really have forgotten); to call, I say, all these about them, in the holes and the barns, and then and there again make a formal and solemn protest against COBBETT and against his roguish proposition for reducing the interest of the Debt! Now, I have these fellows on the hip; and brave sport will I have with them before I have done. Mr. Blount, at whose house (7 miles from Weyhill) I am, went with me to the fair; and we took particular pains to ascertain the prices. We saw, and spoke to, Mr. John Herbert, of Stoke (near Uphusband) who was _asking_ 20_s._, and who did not expect to _get_ it, for South-down ewes, just such as he _sold_, last year (at this fair), for 36_s._ Mr. Jolliff, of Crux-Easton, was _asking_ 16_s._ for just such ewes as he sold, last year (at this fair) for 32_s._ Farmer Holdway had sold "for less than half" his last year's price. A farmer that I did not know, told us, that he had sold to a great sheep-dealer of the name of Smallpiece at the latter's own price! I asked him what that "own price" was; and he said that he was ashamed to say. The horse-fair appeared to have no business at all going on; for, indeed, how were people to purchase horses, who had got only half-price for their sheep? The sales of sheep, at this one fair (including Appleshaw), must have amounted, this year, to a hundred and twenty or thirty thousand pounds less than last year! Stick a pin there, master "Prosperity Robinson," and turn back to it again anon! Then came the horses; not equal in amount to the sheep, but of great amount. Then comes the cheese, a very great article; and it will have a falling off, if you take quantity into view, in a still greater proportion. The hops being a monstrous crop, their _price_ is nothing to judge by. But all is fallen. Even corn, though, in many parts, all but the wheat and rye have totally failed, is, taking a quarter of each of the _six sorts_ (wheat, rye, barley, oats, pease, and beans), 11_s._ 9_d._ cheaper, upon the whole; that is to say, 11_s._ 9_d._ upon 258_s._ And, if the "_late_ panic" had not come, it must and it would have been, and according to the small bulk of the crop, it ought to have been, 150_s._ _dearer_, instead of 11_s._ 9_d._ cheaper. Yet, it is too dear, and far too dear, for the working people to eat! The masses, the assembled masses, must starve, if the price of bread be not reduced; that is to say, in Scotland and Ireland; for, _in England_, I hope that the people will "_demand_ and _insist_" (to use the language of the Bill of Rights) on a just and suitable provision, agreeably to the law; and, if they do not get it, I trust that law and justice will, in due course, be done, and strictly done, upon those who refuse to make such provision. Though, in time, the price of corn will come down without any repeal of the Corn Bill; and though it would have come down now, if we had had a good crop, or an average crop; still the Corn Bill ought now to be repealed, because people must not be _starved_ in waiting for the next crop; and the "landowners' monopoly," as the son of "John with the bright sword" calls it, ought to be swept away; and the sooner it is done, the better for the country. I know very well that the landowners must lose their estates, if such prices continue, and if the present taxes continue; I know this very well; and, I like it well; for, the landowners _may cause the taxes to be taken off if they will_. "Ah! wicked dog!" say they, "What, then, you would have us lose the half pay and the pensions and sinecures which our children and other relations, or that we ourselves, are pocketing out of the taxes, which are squeezed, in great part, out of the labourer's skin and bone!" Yes, upon my word, I would; but if you prefer losing your estates, I have no great objection; for it is hard that, "in a free country," people should not have their choice of the different roads to the poor-house. Here is the _rub_: the vote-owners, the seat-owners, the big borough-mongers, have directly and indirectly, so large a share of the loaves and fishes, that the share is, in point of clear income, equal to, and, in some cases, greater than, that from their estates; and, though this is not the case with the small fry of jolterheads, they are so linked in with, and overawed by, the big ones, that they have all the same feeling; and that is, that to cut off half-pay, pensions, sinecures, commissionerships (such as that of Hobhouse's father), army, and the rest of the "good things," would be nearly as bad as to take away the estates, which, besides, are, in fact, in many instances, nearly gone (at least from the present holder) already, by the means of mortgage, annuity, rent-charge, settlement, jointure, or something or other. Then there are the parsons, who with their keen noses, have smelled out long enough ago, that, if any serious settlement should take place, _they go_ to a certainty. In short, they know well how the whole nation (the interested excepted) feel towards them. They know well, that were it not for their allies, it would soon be queer times with them. Here, then, is the _rub_. Here are the reasons why the taxes are not taken off! Some of these jolterheaded beasts were ready to cry, and I know one that did actually cry to a farmer (his tenant) in 1822. The tenant told him, that "Mr. Cobbett had been _right_ about this matter." "What!" exclaimed he, "I hope you do not read Cobbett! He will ruin you, and he would ruin us all. He would introduce anarchy, confusion, and destruction of property!" Oh, no, Jolterhead! There is no _destruction_ of property. Matter, the philosophers say, is _indestructible_. But, it is all easily _transferable_, as is well-known to the base Jolterheads and the blaspheming Jews. The former of these will, however, soon have the faint sweat upon them again. Their tenants will be ruined _first_: and, here what a foul robbery these landowners have committed, or at least, enjoyed and pocketed the gain of! They have given their silent assent to the one-pound note abolition Bill. They knew well that this must reduce the price of farm produce _one-half_, or thereabouts; and yet, they were prepared to take and to insist on, and they do take and insist on, as high rents as if that Bill had never been passed! What dreadful ruin will ensue! How many, many farmers' families are now just preparing the way for their entrance into the poor-house! How many; certainly many a score farmers did I see at Weyhill, yesterday, who came there as it were _to know their fate_; and who are gone home thoroughly convinced, that they shall, as farmers, never see Weyhill fair again! When such a man, his mind impressed with such conviction, returns home and there beholds a family of children, half bred up, and in the notion that they were _not_ to be mere working people, what must be his _feelings_? Why, if he have been a bawler against Jacobins and Radicals; if he have approved of the Power-of-Imprisonment Bill and of Six-Acts; aye, if he did not rejoice at Castlereagh's cutting his own throat; if he have been a cruel screwer down of the labourers, reducing them to skeletons; if he have been an officious detecter of what are called "poachers," and have assisted in, or approved of, the hard punishments, inflicted on them; then, in either of these cases, I say, that his feelings, though they put the suicidal knife into his own hand, are short of what he deserves! I say this, and this I repeat with all the seriousness and solemnity with which a man can make a declaration; for, had it not been for these base and selfish and unfeeling wretches, the deeds of 1817 and 1819 and 1820 would never have been attempted. These hard and dastardly dogs, armed up to the teeth, were always ready to come forth to destroy, not only to revile, to decry, to belie, to calumniate in all sorts of ways, but, if necessary, absolutely to cut the throats of, those who had no object, and who could have no object, other than that of preventing a continuance in that course of measures, which have finally produced the ruin, and threaten to produce the absolute destruction, of these base, selfish, hard and dastardly dogs themselves. _Pity_ them! Let them go for pity to those whom they have applauded and abetted. The farmers, I mean the renters, will not now, as they did in 1819, stand a good long emptying out. They had, in 1822, lost nearly all. The present stock of the farms is not, in one half of the cases, the property of the farmer. It is borrowed stock; and the sweeping out will be very rapid. The notion that the Ministers will "do something" is clung on to by all those who are deeply in debt, and all who have leases, or other engagements for time. These _believe_ (because they anxiously _wish_) that the paper-money, by means of some sort or other, will be put out again; while the Ministers _believe_ (because they anxiously _wish_) that the thing can go on, that they can continue to pay the interest of the debt, and meet all the rest of their spendings, without one-pound notes and without bank-restriction. Both parties will be deceived, and in the midst of the strife, that the dissipation of the delusion will infallibly lead to, the whole THING is very likely to go to pieces; and that, too, _mind_, tumbling into the hands and placed at the mercy, of a people, the millions of whom have been fed upon less, to four persons, than what goes down the throat of one single common soldier! Please to _mind_ that, Messieurs the admirers of select vestries! You have _not done it_, Messieurs Sturges Bourne and the Hampshire Parsons! You _thought_ you had! You meaned well; but it was a _coup-manqué_, a missing of the mark, and that, too, as is frequently the case, by over-shooting it. The attempt will, however, produce its just consequences in the end; and those consequences will be of vast importance. From Weyhill I was shown, yesterday, the wood, in which took place the battle, in which was concerned poor Turner, one of the young men, who was hanged at Winchester, in the year 1822. There was another young man, named Smith, who was, on account of another game-battle, hanged on the same gallows! And this for the preservation of the _game_, you will observe! This for the preservation of the _sports_ of that aristocracy for whose sake, and solely for whose sake, "Sir James Graham, of Netherby, descendant of the Earls of Monteith and of the seventh Earl of Galloway, K.T." (being sure not to omit the K.T.); this hanging of us is for the preservation of the sports of that aristocracy, for the sake of whom this Graham, this barefaced plagiarist, this bungling and yet impudent pamphleteer, would _sacrifice_, would reduce to beggary, according to his pamphlet, _three hundred thousand families_ (making, doubtless, _two millions_ of persons), in the middle rank of life! It is for the preservation, for upholding what he insolently calls the "dignity" of this sporting aristocracy, that he proposes to rob all mortgagees, all who have claims upon land! The feudal lords in France had, as Mr. Young tells us, a right, when they came in, fatigued, from hunting or shooting, to cause the belly of one of their vassals to be ripped up, in order for the lord to soak his feet in the bowels! Sir James Graham of the bright sword does not propose to carry us back so far as this; he is willing to stop at taking away the money and the victuals of a very large part of the community; and, monstrous as it may seem, I will venture to say, that there are scores of the Lord-Charles tribe who think him moderate to a fault! But, to return to the above-mentioned hanging at Winchester (a thing never to be forgotten by me), James Turner, aged 28 years, was accused of assisting to kill Robert Baker, gamekeeper to Thomas Asheton Smith, Esq., in the parish of South Tidworth; and Charles Smith, aged 27 years, was accused of shooting at (not killing) Robert Snellgrove, assistant gamekeeper to Lord Palmerston (Secretary at War), at Broadlands, in the parish of Romsey. Poor Charles Smith had better have been hunting after _shares_ than after _hares_! _Mines_, however _deep_, he would have found less perilous than the pleasure grounds of Lord Palmerston! I deem this hanging at Winchester worthy of general attention, and particularly at this time, when the aristocracy near Andover, and one, at least, of the members for that town, of whom this very Thomas Asheton Smith was, until lately, one, was, if the report in the _Morning Chronicle_ (copied into the Register of the 7th instant) be correct, endeavouring, at the late Meeting at Andover, to persuade people, that they (these aristocrats) wished to keep up the price of corn for the sake of the labourers, whom Sir John Pollen (Thomas Asheton Smith's son's present colleague as member for Andover) called "poor devils," and who, he said, had "hardly a rag to cover them!" Oh! wished to keep up the price of corn for the good of the "poor devils of labourers who have hardly a rag to cover them!" Amiable feeling, tender-hearted souls! Cared not a straw about _rents_! Did not; oh no! did not care even about the farmers! It was only for the sake of the poor, naked devils of labourers, that the colleague of young Thomas Asheton Smith cared; it was only for those who were in the same rank of life as James Turner and Charles Smith were, that these kind Andover aristocrats cared! This was the only reason in the world for their wanting corn to sell at a high price? We often say, "_that_ beats everything;" but really, I think, that these professions of the Andover aristocrats do "_beat everything_." Ah! but, Sir John Pollen, these professions come _too late_ in the day: the people are no longer to be deceived by such stupid attempts at disguising hypocrisy. However, the attempt shall do this: it shall make me repeat here that which I published on the Winchester hanging, in the _Register_ of the 6th of April, 1822. It made part of a "Letter to Landlords." Many boys have, since this article was published, grown up to the age of thought. Let them now read it; and I hope, that they will _remember it well_. * * * * * I, last fall, addressed ten letters to you on the subject of the _Agricultural Report_. My object was to convince you, that you would be ruined; and, when I think of your general conduct towards the rest of the nation, and especially towards the labourers, I must say that I have great pleasure in seeing that my opinions are in a fair way of being verified to the full extent. I dislike the _Jews_; but the Jews are not so inimical to the industrious classes of the country as you are. We should do a great deal better with the 'Squires from 'Change Alley, who, at any rate, have nothing of the ferocious and bloody in their characters. Engrafted upon your native want of feeling is the sort of military spirit of command that you have acquired during the late war. You appeared, at the close of that war, to think that you had made a _conquest_ of the rest of the nation for ever; and, if it had not been for the burdens which the war left behind it, there would have been no such thing as air, in England, for any one but a slave to breathe. The Bey of Tunis never talked to his subjects in language more insolent than you talked to the people of England. The DEBT, the blessed Debt, stood our friend, made you soften your tone, and will finally place you where you ought to be placed. This is the last Letter that I shall ever take the trouble to address to you. In a short time, you will become much too insignificant to merit any particular notice; but just in the way of _farewell_, and that there may be something on record to show what care has been taken of the partridges, pheasants, and hares, while the estates themselves have been suffered to slide away, I have resolved to address this one more Letter to you, which resolution has been occasioned by the recent _putting to death_, at Winchester, of two men denominated _Poachers_. This is a thing, which, whatever you may think of it, has not been passed over, and is not to be passed over, without full notice and ample record. The account of the matter, as it appeared in the public prints, was very short; but the fact is such as never ought to be forgotten. And, while you are complaining of your "distress," I will endeavour to lay before the public that which will show, that the _law_ has not been unmindful of even your _sports_. The time is approaching, when the people will have an opportunity of exercising their judgment as to what are called "Game-Laws;" when they will look back a little at what has been done for the sake of insuring sport to landlords. In short, landlords as well as labourers will _pass under review_. But, I must proceed to my subject, reserving reflections for a subsequent part of my letter. The account, to which I have alluded, is this: "HAMPSHIRE. The Lent Assizes for this county concluded on Saturday morning. The Criminal Calendar contained 58 prisoners for trial, 16 of whom have been sentenced to suffer death, but two only of that number (_poachers_) were left by the Judges for execution, viz.: James Turner, aged 28, for aiding and assisting in killing Robert Baker, gamekeeper to Thomas Asheton Smith, Esq., in the parish of South Tidworth, and Charles Smith, aged 27, for having wilfully and maliciously shot at Robert Snellgrove, assistant gamekeeper to Lord Palmerston, at Broadlands, in the parish of Romsey, with intent to do him grievous bodily harm. The Judge (Burrough) observed, it became _necessary to these cases_, that the _extreme sentence of the law should be inflicted_, to _deter others, as resistance to gamekeepers was now arrived at an alarming height_, and many lives had been lost." The first thing to observe here is, that there were _sixteen_ persons sentenced to suffer death; and that the only persons actually put to death, were those who had been endeavouring to get at the hares, pheasants or partridges of Thomas Asheton Smith, and of our Secretary at War, Lord Palmerston. Whether the Judge Burrough (who was long Chairman of the Quarter Sessions in Hampshire), uttered the words ascribed to him, or not, I cannot say; but the words have gone forth in print, and the impression they are calculated to make is this: that it was necessary to put these two _men to death_, in order to deter others from resisting gamekeepers. The putting of these men to death has excited a very deep feeling throughout the County of Hants; a feeling very honourable to the people of that county, and very natural to the breast of every human being. In this case there appears to have been a killing, in which Turner _assisted_; and Turner might, by possibility, have given the fatal blow; but in the case of Smith, there was no killing at all. There was a mere _shooting at_, with intention to do him bodily harm. This latter offence was not a crime for which men were put to death, even when there was no assault, or attempt at assault, on the part of the person shot at; this was not a crime punished with death, until that terrible act, brought in by the late Lord Ellenborough, was passed, and formed a part of our matchless Code, that Code which there is such a talk about _softening_; but which softening does not appear to have in view this Act, or any portion of the Game-Laws. In order to form a just opinion with regard to the offence of these two men that have been hanged at Winchester, we must first consider the motives by which they were actuated, in committing the acts of violence laid to their charge. For, it is the intention, and not the mere act, that constitutes the crime. To make an act murder, there must be _malice aforethought_. The question, therefore, is, did these men attack, or were they the attacked? It seems to be clear that they were the attacked parties: for they are executed, according to this publication, to deter others from _resisting_ gamekeepers! I know very well that there is Law for this; but what I shall endeavour to show is, that the Law ought to be altered; that the people of Hampshire ought to petition for such alteration; and that if you, the Landlords, were wise, you would petition also, for an alteration, if not a total annihilation of that terrible Code, called the Game-Laws, which has been growing harder and harder all the time that it ought to have been wearing away. It should never be forgotten, that, in order to make punishments efficient in the way of example, they must be thought just by the Community at large; and they will never be thought just if they aim at the protection of things belonging to one particular class of the Community, and, especially, if those very things be grudged to this class by the Community in general. When punishments of this sort take place, they are looked upon as unnecessary, the sufferers are objects of pity, the common feeling of the Community is in their favour, instead of being against them; and it is those who cause the punishment, and not those who suffer it, who become objects of abhorrence. Upon seeing two of our countrymen hanging upon a gallows, we naturally, and instantly, run back to the cause. First we find the fighting with gamekeepers; next we find that the men would have been transported if caught in or near a cover with guns, after dark; next we find that these trespassers are exposed to transportation because they are in pursuit, or supposed to be in pursuit, of partridges, pheasants, or hares; and then, we ask, where is the foundation of a law to punish a man with transportation for being in pursuit of these animals? And where, indeed, is the foundation of the Law, to take from any man, be he who he may, the right of catching and using these animals? We know very well; we are instructed by mere feeling, that we have a right to live, to see and to move. Common sense tells us that there are some things which no man can reasonably call his property; and though poachers (as they are called) do not read _Blackstone's Commentaries_, they know that such animals as are of a wild and untameable disposition, any man may seize upon and keep for his own use and pleasure. "All these things, so long as they remain in possession, every man has a right to enjoy without disturbance; but if once they escape from his custody, or he voluntarily abandons the use of them, they return to the common stock, and any man else has an equal right to seize and enjoy them afterwards." (Book 2, Chapter 1.) In the Second Book and Twenty-sixth Chapter of _Blackstone_, the poacher might read as follows: "With regard likewise to wild animals, all mankind had by the original grant of the Creator a right to pursue and take away any fowl or insect of the air, any fish or inhabitant of the waters, and any beast or reptile of the field: and this natural right still continues in every individual, unless where it is restrained by the civil laws of the country. And when a man has once so seized them, they become, while living, his qualified property, or, if dead, are absolutely his own: so that to steal them, or otherwise invade this property, is, according to the respective values, sometimes a criminal offence, sometimes only a civil injury." Poachers do not read this; but that reason which is common to all mankind tells them that this is true, and tells them, also, _what to think_ of any positive law that is made to restrain them from this right granted by the Creator. Before I proceed further in commenting upon the case immediately before me, let me once more quote this English Judge, who wrote fifty years ago, when the Game Code was mild indeed, compared to the one of the present day. "Another violent alteration," says he, "of the English Constitution consisted in the depopulation of whole countries, for the purposes of the King's royal diversion; and subjecting both them, and all the ancient forests of the kingdom, to the unreasonable severities of forest laws imported from the continent, whereby the slaughter of a beast was made almost as penal as the death of a man. In the Saxon times, though no man was allowed to kill or chase the King's deer, yet he might start any game, pursue and kill it upon his own estate. But the rigour of these new constitutions vested the sole property of all the game in England in the King alone; and no man was entitled to disturb any fowl of the air, or any beast of the field, of such kinds as were specially reserved for the royal amusement of the Sovereign, without express license from the King, by a grant of a chase or free warren: and those franchises were granted as much with a view to preserve the breed of animals, as to indulge the subject. From a similar principle to which, though the forest laws are now mitigated, and by degrees grown entirely obsolete, yet from this root has sprung up a bastard slip, known by the name of the Game-Law, now arrived to and wantoning in its highest vigour: both founded upon the same unreasonable notions of permanent property in wild creatures; and both productive of the same tyranny to the commons: but with this difference; that the forest laws established only one mighty hunter throughout the land, the game-laws have raised a little Nimrod in every manor." (Book 4, Chapter 33.) When this was written nothing was known of the present severity of the law. Judge Blackstone says that the Game Law was then wantoning in its _highest vigour_; what, then, would he have said, if any one had proposed to make it _felony_ to resist a gamekeeper? He calls it tyranny to the commons, as it existed in his time; what would he have said of the present Code; which, so far from being thought a thing to be _softened_, is never so much as mentioned by those humane and gentle creatures, who are absolutely supporting a sort of reputation, and aiming at distinction in Society, in consequence of their incessant talk about softening the Criminal Code? The Law may say what it will, but the feelings of mankind will never be in favour of this Code; and whenever it produces putting to death, it will, necessarily, excite horror. It is impossible to make men believe that any particular set of individuals should have a permanent property in wild creatures. That the owner of land should have a quiet possession of it is reasonable and right and necessary; it is also necessary that he should have the power of inflicting pecuniary punishment, in a moderate degree, upon such as trespass on his lands; but his right can go no further according to reason. If the law give him ample compensation for every damage that he sustains, in consequence of a trespass on his lands, what right has he to complain? The law authorises the King, in case of invasion, or apprehended invasion, to call upon all his people to take up arms in defence of the country. The Militia Law compels every man, in his turn, to become a soldier. And upon what ground is this? There must be some reason for it, or else the law would be tyranny. The reason is, that every man has _rights_ in the country to which he belongs; and that, therefore, it is his duty to defend the country. Some rights, too, beyond that of merely living, merely that of breathing the air. And then, I should be glad to know, what rights an Englishman has, if the pursuit of even wild animals is to be the ground of transporting him from his country? There is a sufficient punishment provided by the law of trespass; quite sufficient means to keep men off your land altogether! how can it be necessary, then, to have a law to transport them for coming upon your land? No, it is not for coming upon the land, it is for coming after the wild animals, which nature and reason tells them, are as much theirs as they are yours. It is impossible for the people not to contrast the treatment of these two men at Winchester with the treatment of some gamekeepers that have killed or maimed the persons they call poachers; and it is equally impossible for the people, when they see these two men hanging on a gallows, after being recommended to mercy, not to remember the almost instant pardon, given to the exciseman, who was not recommended to mercy, and who was found guilty of wilful murder in the County of Sussex! It is said, and, I believe truly, that there are more persons imprisoned in England for offences against the game-laws, than there are persons imprisoned in France (with more than twice the population) for all sorts of offences put together. When there was a loud outcry against the cruelties committed on the priests and the seigneurs, by the people of France, Arthur Young bade them remember the cruelties committed on the people by the game-laws, and to bear in mind how many had been made galley-slaves for having killed, or tried to kill, partridges, pheasants, and hares! However, I am aware that it is quite useless to address observations of this sort to you. I am quite aware of that; and yet, there are circumstances, in your present situation, which, one would think, ought to make you _not very gay_ upon the hanging of the two men at Winchester. It delights me, I assure you, to see the situation that you are in; and I shall, therefore, now, once more, and for the last time, address you upon that subject. We all remember how haughty, how insolent you have been. We all bear in mind your conduct for the last thirty-five years; and the feeling of pleasure at your present state is as general as it is just. In my _ten Letters_ to you, I told you that you would lose your estates. Those of you who have any capacity, except that which is necessary to enable you to kill wild animals, see this now, as clearly as I do; and yet you evince no intention to change your courses. You hang on with unrelenting grasp; and cry "pauper" and "poacher" and "radical" and "lower orders" with as much insolence as ever! It is always thus: men like you may be convinced of error, but they never change their conduct. They never become just because they are convinced that they have been unjust: they must have a great deal more than that conviction to make them just. * * * * * Such was what I _then_ addressed to the Landlords. How well it fits the _present_ time! They are just in the same sort of _mess_, now, that they were in 1822. But, there is this most important difference, that the paper-money cannot _now_ be put out, in a quantity sufficient to save them, without producing not only a "_late_ panic," worse than the last, but, in all probability, a total blowing up of the whole system, game-laws, new trespass-laws, tread-mill, Sunday tolls, six-acts, sun-set and sun-rise laws, apple-felony laws, select-vestry laws, and all the whole THING, root and trunk and branch! Aye, not sparing, perhaps, even the tent, or booth of induction, at Draycot Foliot! Good Lord! how should we be able to live without game-laws! And tread-mills, then? And Sunday-tolls? How should we get on without pensions, sinecures, tithes, and the other "glorious institutions" of this "mighty _empire_"? Let us turn, however, from the thought; but, bearing this in mind, if you please, Messieurs the game-people; that if, no matter in what shape and under what pretence; if, I tell you, paper be put out again, sufficient to raise the price of a Southdown ewe to the last year's mark, the whole system goes to atoms. I tell you that; mind it; and look sharp about you, O ye fat parsons; for tithes and half-pay will, be you assured, never, from that day, again go in company into parson's pocket. In this North of Hampshire, as everywhere else, the churches and all other things exhibit indubitable marks of decay. There are along under the north side of that chain of hills, which divide Hampshire from Berkshire, in this part, taking into Hampshire about two or three miles wide of the low ground along under the chain, eleven churches along in a string in about fifteen miles, the chancels of which would contain a great many more than all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, sitting at their ease with plenty of room. How should this be otherwise, when, in the parish of Burghclere, one single farmer holds by lease, under Lord Carnarvon, as one farm, the lands that men, now living, can remember to have formed fourteen farms, bringing up, in a respectable way, fourteen families. In some instances these small farmhouses and homesteads are completely gone; in others the buildings remain, but in a tumble-down state; in others the house is gone, leaving the barn for use as a barn or as a cattle-shed; in others the out-buildings are gone, and the house, with rotten thatch, broken windows, rotten door-sills, and all threatening to fall, remains as the dwelling of a half-starved and ragged family of labourers, the grand-children, perhaps, of the decent family of small farmers that formerly lived happily in this very house. This, with few exceptions, is the case all over England; and, if we duly consider the nature and tendency of the hellish system of taxing, of funding, and of paper-money, it must do so. Then, in this very parish of Burghclere, there was, until a few months ago, a famous cock-parson, the "Honourable and Reverend" George Herbert, who had grafted the _parson_ upon the _soldier_ and the _justice_ upon the parson; for he died, a little while ago, a half-pay officer in the army, rector of two parishes, and chairman of the quarter sessions of the county of Hants!! Mr. HONE gave us, in his memorable "_House that Jack built_," a portrait of the "Clerical Magistrate." Could not he, or somebody else, give us a portrait of the _military_ and of the _naval parson_? For such are to be found all over the kingdom. Wherever I go, I hear of them. And yet, there sits Burdett, and even Sir Bobby of the Borough, and say not a word upon the subject! This is the case: the King dismissed Sir Bobby from the half-pay list, scratched his name out, turned him off, stopped his pay. Sir Bobby complained, alleging, that the half-pay was a reward for past services. No, no, said the Ministers: it is a _retaining fee_ for _future_ services. Now, the law is, and the Parliament declared, in the case of parson Horne Tooke, that once a parson always a parson, and that a parson cannot, of course, again serve as an officer under the crown. Yet these military and naval parsons have "a retaining fee for future military and naval services!" Never was so barefaced a thing before heard of in the world. And yet there sits Sir Bobby, stripped of his "retaining fee," and says not a word about the matter; and there sit the _big Whigs_, who gave Sir Bobby the subscription, having sons, brothers, and other relations, military and naval parsons, and the _big Whigs_, of course, bid Sir Bobby (albeit given enough to twattle) hold his tongue upon the subject; and there sit Mr. Wetherspoon (I think it is), and the rest of Sir Bobby's Rump, toasting "the _independence_ of the Borough and its member!" "That's our case," as the lawyers say: match it if you can, devil, in all your roamings up and down throughout the earth! I have often been thinking, and, indeed, expecting, to see Sir Bobby turn parson himself, as the likeliest way to get back his half-pay. If he should have "a call," I do hope we shall have him, for parson at Kensington; and, as an inducement, I promise him, that I will give him a good thumping Easter-offering. In former RIDES, and especially in 1821 and 1822, I described very fully this part of Hampshire. The land is a chalk bottom, with a bed of reddish, stiff loam, full of flints, at top. In those parts where the bed of loam and flints is deep the land is arable or woods: where the bed of loam and flints is so shallow as to let the plough down to the chalk, the surface is downs. In the deep and long valleys, where there is constantly, or occasionally, a stream of water, the top soil is blackish, and the surface meadows. This has been the distribution from all antiquity, except that, in ancient times, part of that which is now downs and woods was _corn-land_, as we know from the _marks of the plough_. And yet the Scotch fellows would persuade us, that there were scarcely any inhabitants in England before it had the unspeakable happiness to be united to that fertile, warm, and hospitable country, where the people are so well off that they are _above_ having poor-rates! The tops of the hills here are as good corn-land as any other part; and it is all excellent corn-land, and the fields and woods singularly beautiful. Never was there what may be called a more _hilly_ country, and _all in use_. Coming from Burghclere, you come up nearly a mile of steep hill, from the top of which you can see all over the country, even to the Isle of Wight; to your right a great part of Wiltshire; into Surrey on your left; and, turning round, you see, lying below you, the whole of Berkshire, great part of Oxfordshire, and part of Gloucestershire. This chain of lofty hills was a great favourite with Kings and rulers in ancient times. At Highclere, at Combe, and at other places, there are remains of great encampments, or fortifications; and Kingsclere was a residence of the Saxon Kings, and continued to be a royal residence long after the Norman Kings came. KING JOHN, when residing at Kingsclere, founded one of the charities which still exists in the town of Newbury, which is but a few miles from Kingsclere. From the top of this lofty chain, you come to Uphusband (or the Upper Hurstbourn) over two miles or more of ground, descending in the way that the body of a snake descends (when he is going fast) from the high part, near the head, down to the tail; that is to say, over a series of hill and dell, but the dell part going constantly on increasing upon the hilly part, till you come down to this village; and then you, continuing on (southward) towards Andover, go up, directly, half a mile of hill so steep, as to make it very difficult for an ordinary team with a load to take that load up it. So this _Up_-hurstbourn (called so because _higher up the valley_ than the other Hurstbourns), the flat part of the road to which, from the north, comes in between two side-hills, is in as narrow and deep a dell as any place that I ever saw. The houses of the village are, in great part, scattered about, and are amongst very lofty and fine trees; and, from many, many points round about, from the hilly fields, now covered with the young wheat, or with scarcely less beautiful sainfoin, the village is a sight worth going many miles to see. The lands, too, are pretty beyond description. These chains of hills make, below them, an endless number of lower hills, of varying shapes and sizes and aspects and of relative state as to each other; while the surface presents, in the size and form of the fields, in the woods, the hedgerows, the sainfoin, the young wheat, the turnips, the tares, the fallows, the sheep-folds and the flocks, and, at every turn of your head, a fresh and different set of these; this surface all together presents that which I, at any rate, could look at with pleasure for ever. Not a sort of country that I like so well as when there are _downs_ and a _broader valley_ and _more of meadow_; but a sort of country that I like next to that; for, here, as there, there are no ditches, no water-furrows, no dirt, and never any drought to cause inconvenience. The chalk is at bottom, and it takes care of all. The crops of wheat have been very good here this year, and those of barley not very bad. The sainfoin has given a fine crop of the finest sort of hay in the world, and, this year, without a drop of wet. I wish, that, in speaking of this pretty village (which I always return to with additional pleasure), I could give _a good account_ of the state of _those, without whose labour there would be neither corn nor sainfoin nor sheep_. I regret to say, that my account of this matter, if I give it truly, must be a dismal account indeed! For I have, in no part of England, seen the labouring people so badly off as they are here. This has made so much impression on me, that I shall enter fully into the matter with names, dates, and all the particulars in the IVth Number of the "POOR MAN'S FRIEND." This is one of the great purposes for which I take these "Rides." I am persuaded, that, before the day shall come when my labours must cease, _I shall have mended the meals of millions_. I may over-rate the effects of my endeavours; but, this being my persuasion, I should be guilty of a great neglect of duty, were I not to use those endeavours. _Andover, Sunday, 15th October._ I went to Weyhill, yesterday, to see the close of the hop and of the cheese fair; for, after the sheep, these are the principal articles. The crop of hops has been, in parts where they are grown, unusually large and of super-excellent quality. The average price of the Farnham _hops_ has been, as nearly as I can ascertain, seven pounds for a hundredweight; that of Kentish hops, five pounds, and that of the Hampshire and Surrey hops (other than those of Farnham), about five pounds also. The prices are, considering the great weight of the crop, very good; but, if it had not been for the effects of "_late_ panic" (proceeding, as Baring said, from a "plethora of money,") these prices would have been a full third, if not nearly one half, higher; for, though the crop has been so large and so good, there was hardly any stock on hand; the country was almost wholly without hops. As to cheese, the price, considering the quantity, has been not one half so high as it was last year. The fall in the positive price has been about 20 per cent., and the quantity made in 1826 has not been above two-thirds as great as that made in 1825. So that, here is a fall of _one-half_ in real relative price; that is to say, the farmer, while he has the same rent to pay that he paid last year, has only half as much money to receive for cheese, as he received for cheese last year; and observe, on some farms, cheese is almost the only saleable produce. After the fair was over, yesterday, I came down from the Hill (3 miles) to this town of Andover; which has, within the last 20 days, been more talked of, in other parts of the kingdom, than it ever was before from the creation of the world to the beginning of those 20 days. The Thomas Asheton Smiths and the Sir John Pollens, famous as they have been under the banners of the Old Navy Purser, George Rose, and his successors, have never, even since the death of poor Turner, been half so famous, they and this Corporation, whom they represent, as they have been since the Meeting which they held here, which ended in their defeat and confusion, pointing them out as worthy of that appellation of "Poor Devils," which Pollen thought proper to give to those labourers without whose toil his estate would not be worth a single farthing. Having laid my plan to sleep at Andover last night, I went with two Farnham friends, Messrs. Knowles and West, to dine at the ordinary at the George Inn, which is kept by one Sutton, a rich old fellow, who wore a round-skirted sleeved fustian waistcoat, with a dirty white apron tied round his middle, and with no coat on; having a look the _eagerest_ and the _sharpest_ that I ever saw in any set of features in my whole life-time; having an air of authority and of mastership, which, to a stranger, as I was, seemed quite incompatible with the meanness of his dress and the vulgarity of his manners; and there being, visible to every beholder, constantly going on in him a pretty even contest between the servility of avarice and the insolence of wealth. A great part of the farmers and other fair-people having gone off home, we found preparations made for dining only about ten people. But, after we sat down, and it was seen that we designed to dine, guests came in apace, the preparations were augmented, and as many as could dine came and dined with us. After the dinner was over, the room became fuller and fuller; guests came in from the other inns, where they had been dining, till, at last, the room became as full as possible in every part, the door being opened, the door-way blocked up, and the stairs, leading to the room, crammed from bottom to top. In this state of things, Mr. Knowles, who was our chairman, gave _my health_, which, of course, was followed by a _speech_; and, as the reader will readily suppose, to have an opportunity of making a speech was the main motive for my going to dine at _an inn_, at any hour, and especially at _seven o'clock_ at night. In this speech, I, after descanting on the present devastating ruin, and on those successive acts of the Ministers and the Parliament by which such ruin had been produced; after remarking on the shuffling, the tricks, the contrivances from 1797 up to last March, I proceeded to offer to the company _my reasons_ for believing, that no attempt would be made to relieve the farmers and others, by putting out the paper-money again, as in 1822, or by a bank-restriction. Just as I was stating these my reasons, on a prospective matter of such deep interest to my hearers, amongst whom were land-owners, land-renters, cattle and sheep dealers, hop and cheese producers and merchants, and even one, two or more, country bankers; just as I was engaged in stating _my reasons_ for my opinion on a matter of such vital importance to the parties present, who were all listening to me with the greatest attention; just at this time, a noise was heard, and a sort of row was taking place in the passage, the cause of which was, upon inquiry, found to be no less a personage than our landlord, our host Sutton, who, it appeared, finding that my speech-making had cut off, or, at least, suspended, all intercourse between the dining, now become a drinking, room and the _bar_; who, finding that I had been the cause of a great "restriction in the exchange" of our money for his "neat" "genuine" commodities downstairs, and being, apparently, an ardent admirer of the "liberal" system of "free trade"; who, finding, in short, or, rather, supposing, that, if my tongue were not stopped from running, his taps would be, had, though an old man, fought, or, at least, forced his way up the thronged stairs and through the passage and door-way, into the room, and was (with what breath the struggle had left him) beginning to bawl out to me, when some one called to him, and told him that he was causing an interruption, to which he answered, that that was what he had come to do! And then he went on to say, in so many words, that my speech injured his sale of liquor! The disgust and abhorrence, which such conduct could not fail to excite, produced, at first, a desire to quit the room and the house, and even a proposition to that effect. But, after a minute or so, to reflect, the company resolved not to quit the room but to turn him out of it who had caused the interruption; and the old fellow, finding himself _tackled_, saved the labour of shoving, or kicking, him out of the room, by retreating out of the door-way with all the activity of which he was master. After this I proceeded with my speech-making; and, this being ended, the great business of the evening, namely, drinking, smoking, and singing, was about to be proceeded in by a company, who had just closed an arduous and anxious week, who had before them a Sunday morning to sleep in, and whose wives were, for the far greater part, at a convenient distance. An assemblage of circumstances more auspicious to "free trade" in the "neat" and "genuine," has seldom occurred! But, now behold, the old fustian-jacketed fellow, whose head was, I think, _powdered_, took it into that head not only to lay "restrictions" upon trade, but to impose an absolute embargo; cut off entirely all supplies whatever from his bar to the room, _as long as I remained in that room_. A message to this effect, from the old fustian man, having been, through the waiter, communicated to Mr. Knowles, and he having communicated it to the company, I addressed the company in nearly these words: "Gentlemen, born and bred, as you know I was, on the borders of this county, and fond, as I am of bacon, _Hampshire hogs_ have, with me, always been objects of admiration rather than of contempt; but that which has just happened here, induces me to observe, that this feeling of mine has been confined to hogs of _four legs_. For my part, I like your company too well to quit it. I have paid this fellow _six shillings_ for the wing of a fowl, a bit of bread, and a pint of small beer. I have a right to sit here; I want no drink, and those who do, being refused it here, have a right to send to other houses for it, and to drink it here." However, Mammon soon got the upper hand downstairs, all the fondness for "free trade" returned, and up came the old fustian-jacketed fellow, bringing pipes, tobacco, wine, grog, sling, and seeming to be as pleased as if he had just sprung a mine of gold! Nay, he, soon after this, came into the room with two gentlemen, who had come to him to ask where I was. He actually came up to me, making me a bow, and, telling me that those gentlemen wished to be introduced to me, he, with a fawning look, laid his hand upon my knee! "Take away your _paw_," said I, and, shaking the gentlemen by the hand, I said, "I am happy to see you, gentlemen, even though introduced by this fellow." Things now proceeded without interruption; songs, toasts, and speeches filled up the time, until half-past two o'clock this morning, though in the house of a landlord who receives the sacrament, but who, from his manifestly ardent attachment to the "liberal principles" of "free trade," would, I have no doubt, have suffered us, if we could have found money and throats and stomachs, to sit and sing and talk and drink until two o'clock of a Sunday afternoon instead of two o'clock of a Sunday morning. It was not politics; it was not _personal_ dislike to me; for the fellow knew nothing of me. It was, as I told the company, just this: he looked upon their bodies as so many gutters to drain off the contents of his taps, and upon their purses as so many small heaps from which to take the means of augmenting his great one; and, finding that I had been, no matter how, the cause of suspending this work of "reciprocity," he wanted, and no matter how, to restore the reciprocal system to motion. All that I have to add is this: that the next time this old sharp-looking fellow gets _six shillings_ from me, for a dinner, he shall, if he choose, _cook me_, in any manner that he likes, and season me with hand so unsparing as to produce in the feeders thirst unquenchable. To-morrow morning we set off for the New Forest; and, indeed, we have lounged about here long enough. But, as some apology, I have to state, that, while I have been in a sort of waiting upon this great fair, where one hears, sees, and learns so much, I have been writing No. IV. of the "_Poor Man's Friend_," which, price twopence, is published once a month. I see, in the London newspapers, accounts of _dispatches from Canning_! I thought that he went solely "on a party of pleasure!" So, the "dispatches" come to tell the King how the pleasure party gets on! No: what he is gone to Paris for is to endeavour to prevent the "_Holy_ Allies" from doing anything which shall sink the English Government in the eyes of the world, and _thereby favour the radicals_, who are enemies of _all_ "regular Government," and whose success in England would _revive republicanism_ in France. This is my opinion. The subject, if I be right in my opinion, was too ticklish to be committed to paper: Granville Levison Gower (for that is the man that is now Lord Granville) was, perhaps, not thought quite a match for the French as _a talker_; and, therefore, the Captain of Eton, who, in 1817, said, that the "ever living luminary of British prosperity was only hidden behind a cloud;" and who, in 1819, said, that "Peel's Bill had set the currency question at rest for ever;" therefore the profound Captain is gone over to see what _he_ can do. But, Captain, a word in your ear: we do not care for the Bourbons any more than we do for you! My real opinion is, that there is nothing that can put England to rights, that will not shake the Bourbon Government. This is my opinion; but I defy the Bourbons to save, or to assist in saving, the present system in England, unless they and their friends will subscribe and pay off your debt for you, Captain of toad-eating and nonsensical and shoe-licking Eton! Let them pay off your debt for you, Captain; let the Bourbons and their allies do that; or they cannot save you; no, nor can they help you, even in the smallest degree. _Rumsey (Hampshire), Monday Noon, 16th Oct._ Like a very great fool, I, out of senseless complaisance, waited, this morning, to breakfast with the friends, at whose house we slept last night, at Andover. We thus lost two hours of dry weather, and have been justly punished by about an hour's ride in the rain. I settled on Lyndhurst as the place to lodge at to-night; so we are here, feeding our horses, drying our clothes, and writing the account of our journey. We came, as much as possible, all the way through the villages, and, almost all the way, avoided the turnpike-roads. From Andover to Stockbridge (about seven or eight miles) is, for the greatest part, an open corn and sheep country, a considerable portion of the land being downs. The wheat and rye and vetch and sainfoin fields look beautiful here; and, during the whole of the way from Andover to Rumsey, the early turnips of both kinds are not bad, and the stubble turnips very promising. The downs are green as meadows usually are in April. The grass is most abundant in all situations, where grass grows. From Stockbridge to Rumsey we came nearly by the river side, and had to cross the river several times. This, the River Teste, which, as I described, in my Ride of last November, begins at Uphusband, by springs, bubbling up, in March, out of the bed of that deep valley. It is at first a bourn, that is to say, a stream that runs only a part of the year, and is the rest of the year as dry as a road. About 5 miles from this periodical source, it becomes a stream all the year round. After winding about between the chalk hills, for many miles, first in a general direction towards the south-east, and then in a similar direction towards the south-west and south, it is joined by the little stream that rises just above and that passes through the town of Andover. It is, after this, joined by several other little streams, with names; and here, at Rumsey, it is a large and very fine river, famous, all the way down, for trout and eels, and both of the finest quality. _Lyndhurst (New Forest), Monday Evening, 16th October._ I have just time, before I go to bed, to observe that we arrived here, about 4 o'clock, over about 10 or 11 miles of the best road in the world, having a choice too, for the great part of the way, between these smooth roads and green sward. Just as we came out of Rumsey (or Romsey), and crossed our River Teste once more, we saw to our left, the sort of park, called _Broadlands_, where poor Charles Smith, who (as mentioned above) was hanged for _shooting at_ (_not killing_) one Snellgrove, an assistant-gamekeeper of Lord Palmerston, who was then our Secretary at War, and who is in that office, I believe, now, though he is now better known as a Director of the grand Mining Joint-Stock Company, which shows the great _industry_ of this Noble and "Right Honourable person," and also the great scope and the various nature and tendency of his talents. What would our old fathers of the "dark ages" have said, if they had been told, that their descendants would, at last, become so enlightened as to enable Jews and loan-jobbers to take away noblemen's estates by mere "watching the turn of the market," and to cause members, or, at least, one Member, of that "most Honourable, Noble, and Reverend Assembly," the King's Privy Council, in which he himself sits: so _enlightened_, I say, as to cause one of this "most Honourable and Reverend body" to become a Director in a mining speculation? How one _pities_ our poor, "dark-age, bigoted" ancestors, who would, I dare say, have been as ready to _hang_ a man for proposing such a "liberal" system as this, as they would have been to hang him for _shooting at_ (not killing) an assistant game-keeper! Poor old fellows! How much they lost by not living in our enlightened times! I am here close by the Old Purser's son George Rose's! RIDE: FROM LYNDHURST (NEW FOREST) TO BEAULIEU ABBEY; THENCE TO SOUTHAMPTON AND WESTON; THENCE TO BOTLEY, ALLINGTON, WEST END, NEAR HAMBLEDON; AND THENCE TO PETERSFIELD, THURSLEY, GODALMING. But where is now the goodly audit ale? The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail? The farm which never yet was left on hand? The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land? The impatient hope of the expiring lease? The doubling rental? What an evil's peace! In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, In vain the Commons pass their patriot Bill; The _Landed Interest_--(you may understand The phrase much better leaving out the _Land_)-- The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, For fear that plenty should attain the poor. Up, up again, ye rents! exalt your notes, Or else the Ministry will lose their votes, And patriotism, so delicately nice, Her loaves will lower to the market price. LORD BYRON, _Age of Bronze_. _Weston Grove, Wednesday, 18 Oct., 1826._ Yesterday, from Lyndhurst to this place, was a ride, including our round-abouts, of more than forty miles; but the roads the best in the world, one half of the way green turf; and the day as fine an one as ever came out of the heavens. We took in a breakfast, calculated for a long day's work, and for no more eating till night. We had slept in a room, the access to which was only through another sleeping room, which was also occupied; and, as I had got up about _two o'clock_ at Andover, we went to bed, at Lyndhurst, about _half-past seven_ o'clock. I was, of course, awake by three or four; I had eaten little over night; so that here lay I, not liking (even after day-light began to glimmer) to go through a chamber, where, by possibility, there might be "a lady" actually _in bed_; here lay I, my bones aching with lying in bed, my stomach growling for victuals, imprisoned by my _modesty_. But, at last, I grew impatient; for, modesty here or modesty there, I was not to be penned up and starved: so, after having shaved and dressed and got ready to go down, I thrusted George out a little before me into the other room; and through we pushed, previously resolving, of course, not to look towards _the bed_ that was there. But, as the devil would have it, just as I was about the middle of the room, I, like Lot's wife, turned my head! All that I shall say is, first, that the consequences that befel her did not befal me, and, second, that I advise those, who are likely to be hungry in the morning, not to sleep in _inner rooms_; or, if they do, to take some bread and cheese in their pockets. Having got safe downstairs, I lost no time in inquiry after the means of obtaining a breakfast to make up for the bad fare of the previous day; and finding my landlady rather tardy in the work, and not, seemingly, having a proper notion of the affair, I went myself, and, having found a butcher's shop, bought a loin of small, fat, wether mutton, which I saw cut out of the sheep and cut into chops. These were brought to the inn; George and I ate about 2lb. out of the 5lb., and, while I was writing a letter, and making up my packet, to be ready to send from Southampton, George went out and found a poor woman to come and take away the rest of the loin of mutton; for our _fastings_ of the day before enabled us to do this; and, though we had about forty miles to go, to get to this place (through the route that we intended to take), I had resolved, that we would go without any more _purchase_ of victuals and drink this day also. I beg leave to suggest to my _well-fed_ readers; I mean, those who have at their command more victuals and drink than they can possibly swallow; I beg to suggest to such, whether this would not be a good way for them all to find the means of bestowing charity? Some poet has said, that that which is given in _charity_ gives a blessing on both sides; to the giver as well as the receiver. But I really think that if, _in general_, the food and drink given, came out of food and drink _deducted_ from the usual quantity swallowed by the giver, the _blessing_ would be still greater, and much more certain. I can speak for myself, at any rate. I hardly ever eat more than _twice_ a day; when at home, never; and I never, if I can well avoid it, eat any meat later than about one or two o'clock in the day. I drink a little tea, or milk and water at the usual tea-time (about 7 o'clock); I go to bed at eight, if I can; I write or read, from about four to about eight, and then hungry as a hunter, I go to breakfast, eating _as small a parcel_ of cold meat and bread as I can prevail upon my teeth to be satisfied with. I do just the same at dinner time. I very rarely taste _garden-stuff_ of any sort. If any man can show me, that he has done, or can do, _more work_, bodily and mentally united; I say nothing about good health, for of that the public can know nothing; but I refer to _the work_: the public know, they see, what I can do, and what I actually have done, and what I do; and when any one has shown the public, that he has done, or can do, more, then I will advise my readers attend to him, on the subject of diet, and not to me. As to _drink_, the less the better; and mine is milk and water, or _not-sour_ small beer, if I can get the latter; for the former I always can. I like the milk and water best; but I do not like much water; and, if I drink much milk, it loads and stupefies and makes me fat. Having made all preparations for a day's ride, we set off, as our first point, for a station, in the Forest, called New Park, there to see something about _plantations_ and other matters connected with the affairs of our prime cocks, the Surveyors of Woods and Forests and Crown Lands and Estates. But, before I go forward any further, I must just step back again to Rumsey, which we passed rather too hastily through on the 16th, as noticed in the RIDE that was published last week. This town was, in ancient times, a very grand place, though it is now nothing more than a decent market-town, without anything to entitle it to particular notice, except its church, which was the church of an Abbey Nunnery (founded more, I think, than a thousand years ago), and which church was the burial place of several of the Saxon Kings, and of "Lady Palmerstone," who, a few years ago, "died in child-birth"! What a mixture! But there was another personage buried here, and who was, it would seem, a native of the place; namely, Sir William Petty, the ancestor of the present Marquis of Lansdown. He was the son of _a cloth-weaver_, and was, doubtless, himself a weaver when young. He became a surgeon, was first in the service of Charles I.; then went into that of Cromwell, whom he served as physician-general to his army in Ireland (alas! poor Ireland), and, in this capacity, he resided at Dublin till Charles II. came, when he came over to London (having become very rich), was knighted by that profligate and ungrateful King, and he died in 1687, leaving a fortune of 15,000_l._ a year! This is what his biographers say. He must have made pretty good use of his time while physician-general to Cromwell's army, in poor Ireland! _Petty_ by nature as well as by name, he got, from Cromwell, a "patent for _double-writing_, invented by him;" and he invented a "_double-bottomed ship to sail against wind and tide_, a model of which is still preserved in the library of the Royal Society," of which he was a most worthy member. His great art was, however, the amassing of money, and the getting of _grants of lands in poor Ireland_, in which he was one of the most successful of the English adventurers. I had, the other day, occasion to observe that the word _Petty_ manifestly is the French word _Petit_, which means _little_; and that it is, in these days of degeneracy, pleasing to reflect that there is _one family_, at any rate, that "Old England" still boasts one family, which retains the character designated by its pristine name; a reflection that rushed with great force into my mind, when, in the year 1822, I heard the present noble head of the family say, in the House of Lords, that he thought that a currency of paper, convertible into gold, was the best and most solid and safe, especially since _Platina_ had been discovered! "Oh, God!" exclaimed I to myself, as I stood listening and admiring "below the bar;" "Oh, great God! there it is, there it is, still running in the blood, that genius which discovered the art of double writing, and of making ships with double-bottoms to sail against wind and tide!" This noble and profound descendant of Cromwell's army-physician has now seen that "paper, convertible into gold," is not quite so "solid and safe" as he thought it was! He has now seen what a "late panic" is! And he might, if he were not so very well worthy of his family name, openly confess that he was deceived, when, in 1819, he, as one of the Committee, who reported in favour of Peel's Bill, said that the country could pay the interest of the debt in gold! Talk of a _change of Ministry_, indeed! What is to be _gained_ by putting this man in the place of any of those who are in power now? To come back now to Lyndhurst, we had to go about three miles to New Park, which is a _farm_ in the New Forest, and nearly in the centre of it. We got to this place about nine o'clock. There is a good and large mansion-house here, in which the "Commissioners" of Woods and Forests reside, when they come into the Forest. There is a garden, a farm-yard, a farm, and a nursery. The place looks like a considerable gentleman's seat; the house stands in a sort of _park_, and you can see that a great deal of expense has been incurred in levelling the ground, and making it pleasing to the eye of my lords "the Commissioners." My business here was to see, whether anything had been done towards the making of _Locust plantations_. I went first to Lyndhurst to make inquiries; but I was there told that New Park was the place, and the only place, at which to get information on the subject; and I was told, further, that the Commissioners were now at New Park; that is to say those experienced tree planters, Messrs. Arbuthnot, Dawkins, and Company. Gad! thought I, I am here coming in close contact with a branch, or at least a twig, of the great THING itself! When I heard this, I was at breakfast, and, of course, dressed for the day. I could not, out of my extremely limited wardrobe, afford a clean shirt for the occasion; and so, off we set, just as we were, hoping that their worships, the nation's tree planters, would, if they met with us, excuse our dress, when they considered the nature of our circumstances. When we came to the house, we were stopped by a little fence and fastened gate. I got off my horse, gave him to George to hold, went up to the door, and rang the bell. Having told my business to a person, who appeared to be a foreman, or bailiff, he, with great civility, took me into a nursery which is at the back of the house; and I soon drew from him the disappointing fact that my lords, the tree-planters, had departed the day before! I found, as to _Locusts_, that a patch were sowed last spring, which I saw, which are from one foot to four feet high, and very fine and strong, and are, in number, about enough to plant two acres of ground, the plants at four feet apart each way. I found that, last fall, some few Locusts had been put out into plantations of other trees already made; but that they had _not thriven_, and had been _barked_ by the hares! But a little bunch of these trees (same age), which were planted in the nursery, ought to convince my lords, the tree-planters, that, if they were to do what they ought to do, the public would very soon be owners of fine plantations of Locusts, for the use of the navy. And, what are the _hares_ kept _for_ here? _Who_ eats them? What _right_ have these Commissioners to keep hares here, to eat up the trees? Lord Folkestone killed his hares before he made his plantation of Locusts; and, why not kill the hares in the _people's_ forest; for the _people's_ it is, and that these Commissioners ought always to remember. And then, again, why this farm? What is it _for_? Why, the pretence for it is this: that it is necessary to give the deer _hay_, in winter, because the lopping down of limbs of trees for them to _browse_ (as used to be the practice) is injurious to the growth of timber. That will be a very good reason for having a _hay-farm_, when my lords shall have proved two things; first, that hay, in quantity equal to what is raised here, could not be bought for a twentieth part of the money that this farm and all its trappings cost; and, second, that there ought to be any deer kept! What are these deer _for_? Who are to _eat_ them? Are they for the Royal Family? Why, there are more deer bred in Richmond Park alone, to say nothing of Bushy Park, Hyde Park, and Windsor Park; there are more deer bred in Richmond Park alone, than would feed all the branches of the Royal Family and all their households all the year round, if every soul of them ate as hearty as ploughmen, and if they never touched a morsel of any kind of meat but venison! For what, and _for whom_, then, are deer kept, in the New Forest; and why an expense of hay-farm, of sheds, of racks, of keepers, of lodges, and other things attending the deer and the game; an expense, amounting to more money annually than would have given relief to all the starving manufacturers in the North! And again I say, _who_ is all this venison and game _for_? There is more game even in Kew Gardens than the Royal Family can want! And, in short, do they ever taste, or even hear of, any game, or any venison, from the New Forest? What a pretty thing here is, then! Here is another deep bite into us by the long and sharp-fanged Aristocracy, who so love Old Sarum! Is there a man who will say that this is right? And that the game should be kept, too, to eat up trees, to destroy plantations, to destroy what is first paid for the planting of! And that the public should pay keepers to preserve this game! And that the _people_ should be _transported_ if they go out by night to catch the game that they pay for feeding! Blessed state of an Aristocracy! It is pity that it has got a nasty, ugly, obstinate DEBT to deal with! It might possibly go on for ages, deer and all, were it not for this DEBT. This New Forest is a piece of property, as much belonging _to the public_ as the Custom-House at London is. There is no man, however poor, who has not a right in it. Every man is owner of a part of the deer, the game, and of the money that goes to the keepers; and yet, any man may be _transported_, if he go out by night to catch any part of this game! We are compelled to pay keepers for preserving game to eat up the trees that we are compelled to pay people to plant! Still however there is comfort; we _might_ be worse off; for the Turks made the Tartars pay a tax called _tooth-money_; that is to say, they eat up the victuals of the Tartars, and then made them pay for the _use of their teeth_. No man can say that we are come quite to that yet: and, besides, the poor Tartars had no DEBT, no blessed Debt to hold out hope to them. The same person (a very civil and intelligent man) that showed me the nursery, took me, in my way, back, through some plantations of _oaks_, which have been made amongst fir-trees. It was, indeed, a plantation of Scotch firs, about twelve years old, in rows, at six feet apart. Every third row of firs was left, and oaks were (about six years ago) planted instead of the firs that were grubbed up; and the winter shelter, that the oaks have received from the remaining firs, has made them grow very finely, though the land is poor. Other oaks planted in the _open, twenty years_ ago, and in land deemed better, are not nearly so good. However, these oaks, between the firs, will take fifty or sixty good years to make them timber, and, until they be _timber_, they are of very little use; whereas the same ground, planted with Locusts (and the _hares_ of "my lords" kept down), would, at this moment, have been worth fifty pounds an acre. What do "my lords" care about this? _For them_, for "my lords," the New Forest would be no better than it is now; no, nor _so good_ as it is now; for there would be no hares for them. From New Park, I was bound to Beaulieu Abbey, and I ought to have gone in a south-easterly direction, instead of going back to Lyndhurst, which lay in precisely the opposite direction. My guide through the plantations was not apprised of my intended route, and, therefore, did not instruct me. Just before we parted, he asked me _my name_: I thought it lucky that he had not asked it before! When we got nearly back to Lyndhurst, we found that we had come three miles out of our way; indeed, it made six miles altogether; for we were, when we got to Lyndhurst, three miles further from Beaulieu Abbey than we were when we were at New Park. We wanted, very much, to go to the site of this ancient and famous Abbey, of which the people of the New Forest seemed to know very little. They call the place _Bewley_, and even in the maps it is called _Bauley_. _Ley_, in the Saxon language, means _place_, or rather _open place_; so that they put _ley_ in place of _lieu_, thus beating the Normans out of some part of the name at any rate. I wished, besides, to see a good deal of this New Forest. I had been, before, from Southampton to Lyndhurst, from Lyndhurst to Lymington, from Lymington to Sway. I had now come in on the north of Minstead from Romsey, so that I had seen the north of the Forest and all the west side of it, down to the sea. I had now been to New Park and had got back to Lyndhurst; so that, if I rode across the Forest down to Beaulieu, I went right across the middle of it, from north-west to south-east. Then, if I turned towards Southampton, and went to Dipten and on to Ealing, I should see, in fact, the whole of this Forest, or nearly the whole of it. We therefore started, or, rather, turned away from Lyndhurst, as soon as we got back to it, and went about six miles over a heath, even worse than Bagshot-Heath; as barren as it is possible for land to be. A little before we came to the village of Beaulieu (which, observe, the people call _Beuley_), we went through a wood, chiefly of beech, and that beech seemingly destined to grow food for pigs, of which we saw, during this day, many, many thousands. I should think that we saw at least a hundred hogs to one deer. I stopped, at one time, and counted the hogs and pigs just round about me, and they amounted to 140, all within 50 or 60 yards of my horse. After a very pleasant ride, on land without a stone in it, we came down to the Beaulieu river, the highest branch of which rises at the foot of a hill, about a mile and a half to the north-east of Lyndhurst. For a great part of the way down to Beaulieu it is a very insignificant stream. At last, however, augmented by springs from the different sand-hills, it becomes a little river, and has, on the sides of it, lands which were, formerly, very beautiful meadows. When it comes to the village of Beaulieu, it forms a large pond of a great many acres; and on the east side of this pond is the spot where this famous Abbey formerly stood, and where the external walls of which, or a large part of them, are now actually standing. We went down on the western side of the river. The Abbey stood, and the ruins stand, on the eastern side. Happening to meet a man, before I got into the village, I, pointing with my whip across towards the Abbey, said to the man, "I suppose there is a bridge down here to get across to the Abbey." "That's not the Abbey, Sir," says he: "the Abbey is about four miles further on." I was astonished to hear this; but he was very positive; said that some people called it the Abbey; but that the Abbey was further on; and was at a farm occupied by farmer John Biel. Having chapter and verse for it, as the saying is, I believed the man; and pushed on towards farmer John Biel's, which I found, as he had told me, at the end of about four miles. When I got there (not having, observe, gone over the water to ascertain that the other was the spot where the Abbey stood), I really thought, at first, that this must have been the site of the Abbey of Beaulieu; because, the name meaning _fine place_, this was a thousand times finer place than that where the Abbey, as I afterwards found, really stood. After looking about it for some time, I was satisfied that it had not been an Abbey; but the place is one of the finest that ever was seen in this world. It stands at about half a mile's distance from the water's edge at high-water mark, and at about the middle of the space along the coast, from Calshot castle to Lymington haven. It stands, of course, upon a rising ground; it has a gentle slope down to the water. To the right, you see Hurst castle, and that narrow passage called the Needles, I believe; and, to the left, you see Spithead, and all the ships that are sailing or lie anywhere opposite Portsmouth. The Isle of Wight is right before you, and you have in view, at one and the same time, the towns of Yarmouth, Newton, Cowes and Newport, with all the beautiful fields of the island, lying upon the side of a great bank before, and going up the ridge of hills in the middle of the island. Here are two little streams, nearly close to the ruin, which filled ponds for fresh-water fish; while there was the Beaulieu river at about half a mile or three quarters of a mile to the left, to bring up the salt-water fish. The ruins consist of part of the walls of a building about 200 feet long and about 40 feet wide. It has been turned into a barn, in part, and the rest into cattle-sheds, cow-pens, and inclosures and walls to inclose a small yard. But there is another ruin, which was a church or chapel, and which stands now very near to the farm-house of Mr. John Biel, who rents the farm of the Duchess of Buccleugh, who is now the owner of the abbey-lands and of the lands belonging to this place. The little church or chapel, of which I have just been speaking, appears to have been a very beautiful building. A part only of its walls is standing; but you see, by what remains of the arches, that it was finished in a manner the most elegant and expensive of the day in which it was built. Part of the outside of the building is now surrounded by the farmer's garden: the interior is partly a pig-stye and partly a goose-pen. Under that arch which had once seen so many rich men bow their heads, we entered into the goose-pen, which is by no means one of the _nicest_ concerns in the world. Beyond the goose-pen was the pig-stye, and in it a hog, which, when fat, will weigh about 30 score, actually rubbing his shoulders against a little sort of column which had supported the font and its holy water. The farmer told us that there was a hole, which, indeed, we saw, going down into the wall, or rather, into the column where the font had stood. And he told us that many attempts had been made to bring water to fill that hole, but that it never had been done. Mr. Biel was very civil to us. As far as related to us, he performed the office of hospitality, which was the main business of those who formerly inhabited the spot. He asked us to dine with him, which we declined, for want of time; but, being exceedingly hungry, we had some bread and cheese and some very good beer. The farmer told me that a great number of gentlemen had come there to look at that place; but that he never could find out what the place had been, or what the place at Beuley had been. I told him that I would, when I got to London, give him an account of it; that I would write the account down, and send it down to him. He seemed surprised that I should make such a promise, and expressed his wish not to give me so much trouble. I told him not to say a word about the matter, for that his bread and cheese and beer were so good that they deserved a full history to be written of the place where they had been eaten and drunk. "God bless me, Sir, no, no!" I said, I will, upon my soul, farmer. I now left him, very grateful on our part for his hospitable reception, and he, I dare say, hardly being able to believe his own ears, at the generous promise that I had made him, which promise, however, I am now about to fulfil. I told the farmer a little, upon the spot, to begin with. I told him that the name was all wrong: that it was no _Beuley_ but _Beaulieu_; and that Beaulieu meant _fine place_; and I proved this to him, in this manner. You know, said I, farmer, that when a girl has a sweet-heart, people call him her _beau_? Yes, said he, so they do. Very well. You know, also, that we say, sometimes, you shall have this in _lieu_ of that; and that when we say _lieu_, we mean in _place_ of that. Now the _beau_ means _fine_, as applied to the young man, and the _lieu_ means _place_; and thus it is, that the name of this place is _Beaulieu_, as it is so fine as you see it is. He seemed to be wonderfully pleased with the discovery; and we parted, I believe, with hearty good wishes on his part, and, I am sure, with very sincere thanks on my part. The Abbey of Beaulieu was founded in the year 1204, by King John, for thirty monks of the reformed Benedictine Order. It was dedicated to the blessed Virgin Mary; it flourished until the year 1540, when it was suppressed, and the lands confiscated, in the reign of Henry VIII. Its revenues were, at that time, _four hundred and twenty-eight pounds, six shillings and eight pence a year_, making, in money of the present day, upwards of _eight thousand five hundred pounds_ a year. The lands and the abbey, and all belonging to it, were granted by the king, to one Thomas Wriothesley, who was a court-pander of that day. From him it passed by sale, by will, by marriage or by something or another, till, at last, it has got, after passing through various hands, into the hands of the Duchess of Buccleugh. So much for the abbey; and, now, as for the ruins on the farm of Mr. John Biel: they were the dwelling-place of Knights' Templars, or Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. The building they inhabited was called an Hospital, and their business was to relieve travellers, strangers, and persons in distress; and, if called upon, to accompany the king in his wars to uphold christianity. Their estate was also confiscated by Henry VIII. It was worth, at the time of being confiscated, upwards of _two thousand pounds a year_, money of the present day. This establishment was founded a little before the Abbey of Beaulieu was founded; and it was this foundation and not the other that gave the name of Beaulieu to both establishments. The Abbey is not situated in a very fine place. The situation is low; the lands above it rather a swamp than otherwise; pretty enough altogether; but by no means a fine place. The Templars had all the reason in the world to give the name of Beaulieu to their place. And it is by no means surprising that the monks were willing to apply it to their Abbey. Now, farmer John Biel, I dare say that you are a very good Protestant; and I am a monstrous good Protestant too. We cannot bear the Pope, nor "they there priests that makes men confess their sins and go down upon their marrow-bones before them." But, master Biel, let us give the devil his due; and let us not act worse by those Roman Catholics (who by-the-bye were our forefathers) than we are willing to act by the devil himself. Now then, here were a set of monks, and also a set of Knights' Templars. Neither of them could marry; of course, neither of them could have wives and families. They could possess no private property; they could bequeath nothing; they could own nothing; but that which they owned in common with the rest of their body. They could hoard no money; they could save nothing. Whatever they received, as rent for their lands, they must necessarily spend upon the spot, for they never could quit that spot. They did spend it all upon the spot: they kept all the poor; Beuley, and all round about Beuley, saw no misery, and had never heard the damned name of pauper pronounced, as long as those monks and Templars continued! You and I are excellent Protestants, farmer John Biel; you and I have often assisted on the 5th of November to burn Guy Fawkes, the Pope and the Devil. But, you and I, farmer John Biel, would much rather be life holders under monks and Templars, than rack-renters under duchesses. The monks and the knights were the _lords_ of their manors; but the farmers under them were not rack-renters; the farmers under them held by lease of lives, continued in the same farms from father to son for hundreds of years; they were real yeomen, and not miserable rack-renters, such as now till the land of this once happy country, and who are little better than the drivers of the labourers, for the profit of the landlords. Farmer John Biel, what the Duchess of Buccleugh does, you know, and I do not. She may, for anything that I know to the contrary, leave her farms on lease of lives, with rent so very moderate and easy, as for the farm to be half as good as the farmer's own, at any rate. The Duchess may, for anything that I know to the contrary, feed all the hungry, clothe all the naked, comfort all the sick, and prevent the hated name of _pauper_ from being pronounced in the district of Beuley; her Grace may, for anything that I know to the contrary, make poor-rates to be wholly unnecessary and unknown in your country; she may receive, lodge, and feed the stranger; she may, in short, employ the rents of this fine estate of Beuley, to make the whole district happy; she may not carry a farthing of the rents away from the spot; and she may consume, by herself, and her own family and servants, only just as much as is necessary to the preservation of their life and health. Her Grace may do all this; I do not say or insinuate that she does not do it all; but, Protestant here or Protestant there, farmer John Biel, this I do say, that unless her Grace do all this, the monks and the Templars were better for Beuley than her Grace. From the former station of the Templars, from real Beaulieu of the New Forest, we came back to the village of Beaulieu, and there crossed the water to come on towards Southampton. Here we passed close along under the old abbey walls, a great part of which are still standing. There is a mill here which appears to be turned by the fresh water, but the fresh water falls, here, into the salt water, as at the village of Botley. We did not stop to go about the ruins of the abbey; for you seldom make much out by minute inquiry. It is the political history of these places; or, at least, their connexion with political events, that is interesting. Just about the banks of this little river, there are some woods and coppices, and some corn-land; but, at the distance of half a mile from the water-side, we came out again upon the intolerable heath, and went on for seven or eight miles over that heath, from the village of Beaulieu to that of Marchwood. Having a list of trees and enclosed lands away to our right all the way along, which list of trees from the south-west side of that arm of the sea which goes from Chalshot castle to Redbridge, passing by Southampton, which lies on the north-east side. Never was a more barren tract of land than these seven or eight miles. We had come seven miles across the forest in another direction in the morning; so that a poorer spot than this New Forest, there is not in all England; nor, I believe, in the whole world. It is more barren and miserable than Bagshot heath. There are less fertile spots in it, in proportion to the extent of each. Still, it is so large, it is of such great extent, being, if moulded into a circle, not so little, I believe, as 60 or 70 miles in circumference, that it must contain some good spots of land, and, if properly and honestly managed, those spots must produce a prodigious quantity of timber. It is a pretty curious thing, that, while the admirers of the paper-system are boasting of our "_waust improvements Ma'am_," there should have been such a visible and such an enormous dilapidation in all the solid things of the country. I have, in former parts of this ride, stated, that, in some counties, while the parsons have been pocketing the amount of the tithes and of the glebe, they have suffered the parsonage-houses either to fall down and to be lost, brick by brick, and stone by stone, or to become such miserable places as to be unfit for anything bearing the name of a gentleman to live in; I have stated, and I am at any time ready to prove, that, in some counties, this is the case in more than one half of the parishes! And now, amidst all these "waust improvements," let us see how the account of timber stands in the New Forest! In the year 1608, a survey of the timber, in the New Forest, was made, when there were loads of oak timber fit for the navy, 315,477. Mark that, reader. Another survey was taken in the year 1783; that is to say, in the glorious Jubilee reign. And, when there were, in this same New Forest, loads of oak timber fit for the navy, 20,830. "Waust improvements, Ma'am," under "the Pilot that weathered the storm," and in the reign of Jubilee! What the devil, some one would say, could have become of all this timber? Does the reader observe that there were three hundred and fifteen thousand, four hundred and seventy-seven _loads_? and does he observe that a load is _fifty-two cubic feet_? Does the reader know what is the price of this load of timber? I suppose it is now, taking in lop, top and bark, and bought upon the spot (timber fit for the navy, mind!), ten pounds a load at the least. But let us suppose that it has been, upon an average, since the year 1608, just the time that the Stuarts were mounting the throne; let us suppose that it has been, on an average, four pounds a load. Here is a pretty tough sum of money. This must have gone into the pockets of somebody. At any rate, if we had the same quantity of timber now that we had when the Protestant Reformation took place, or even when Old Betsy turned up her toes, we should be now three millions of money richer than we are; not in _bills_; not in notes payable to bearer on demand; not in Scotch "cash credits;" not, in short, in lies, falseness, impudence, downright blackguard cheatery and mining shares and "Greek cause" and the devil knows what. I shall have occasion to return to this New Forest, which is, in reality, though, in general, a very barren district, a much more interesting object to Englishmen than are the services of my Lord Palmerston, and the warlike undertakings of Burdett, Galloway and Company; but I cannot quit this spot, even for the present, without asking the Scotch population-mongers and Malthus and his crew, and especially George Chalmers, if he should yet be creeping about upon the face of the earth, what becomes of all their notions of the scantiness of the ancient population of England; what becomes of all these notions, of all their bundles of ridiculous lies about the fewness of the people in former times; what becomes of them all, if historians have told us one word of truth, with regard to the formation of the New Forest, by William the Conqueror. All the historians say, every one of them says, that this King destroyed several populous towns and villages in order to make this New Forest. RIDE: FROM WESTON, NEAR SOUTHAMPTON, TO KENSINGTON. _Western Grove, 18th Oct. 1826._ I broke off abruptly, under this same date, in my last Register, when speaking of William the Conqueror's demolishing of towns and villages to make the New Forest; and I was about to show that all the historians have told us lies the most abominable about this affair of the New Forest; or, that the Scotch writers on population, and particularly Chalmers, have been the greatest of fools, or the most impudent of impostors. I, therefore, now resume this matter, it being, in my opinion, a matter of great interest, at a time, when, in order to account for the present notoriously _bad living_ of the people of England, it is asserted, that they are become greatly more numerous than they formerly were. This would be no defence of the Government, even if the fact were so; but, as I have, over and over again, proved, the fact is false; and, to this I challenge denial, that either churches and great mansions and castles were formerly made without hands; or, England was, seven hundred years ago, much more populous than it is now. But what has the formation of the New Forest to do with this? A great deal; for the historians tell us that, in order to make this Forest, William the Conqueror destroyed "many populous towns and villages, and thirty-six parish churches!" The devil he did! How _populous_, then, good God, must England have been at that time, which was about the year 1090; that is to say, 736 years ago! For, the Scotch will hardly contend that the _nature of the soil_ has been changed for the worse since that time, especially as it has not been cultivated. No, no; _brassy_ as they are, they will not do that. Come, then, let us see how this matter stands. This Forest has been crawled upon by favourites, and is now much smaller than it used to be. A time may, and _will_ come, for inquiring HOW George Rose, and others, became _owners_ of some of the very best parts of this once-public property; a time for such inquiry _must_ come, before the people of England will ever give their consent to _a reduction of the interest of the debt_! But this we know, that the New Forest formerly extended, westward, from the Southampton Water and the River Oux, to the River Avon, and northward, from Lymington Haven to the borders of Wiltshire. We know that this was its utmost extent; and we know, also, that the towns of Christchurch, Lymington, Ringwood, and Fordingbridge, and the villages of Bolder, Fawley, Lyndhurst, Dipden, Eling, Minsted, and all the other villages that now have churches; we know, I say (and, pray mark it), that all these towns and villages existed before the Norman Conquest: because the _Roman names_ of several of them (all the towns) are in print, and because an account of them all is to be found in _Doomsday Book_, which was made by this very William the Conqueror. Well, then, now Scotch population-liars, and you Malthusian blasphemers, who contend that God has implanted in man a _principle_ that _leads him to starvation_; come, now, and face this history of the New Forest. Cooke, in his Geography of Hampshire, says, that the Conqueror destroyed here "many populous towns and villages, and thirty-six parish churches." The same writer says, that, in the time of Edward the Confessor (_just_ before the Conqueror came), "two-thirds of the Forest was inhabited and cultivated." Guthrie says nearly the same thing. But let us hear the two historians, who are now pitted against each other, Hume and Lingard. The former (vol. II. p. 277) says: "There was one pleasure to which William, as well as all the Normans and ancient Saxons, was extremely addicted, and that was hunting: but this pleasure he indulged more at the expense of his unhappy subjects, whose interests he always disregarded, than to the loss or diminution of his own revenue. Not content with those large forests, which former Kings possessed, in all parts of England, he resolved to make a new Forest, near Winchester, the usual place of his residence: and, for that purpose, he _laid waste_ the county of Hampshire, _for an extent of thirty miles, expelled the inhabitants_ from their houses, seized their property, even _demolished churches and convents_, and made the sufferers no compensation for the injury." Pretty well for a pensioned Scotchman: and now let us hear Dr. Lingard, to prevent his Society from _presenting whose work to me_, the sincere and pious Samuel Butler was ready to go down upon his _marrow bones_; let us hear the good Doctor upon this subject. He says (vol. I. pp. 452 and 453), "Though the King possessed sixty-eight forests, besides parks and chases, in different parts of England, he was not yet satisfied, but for the occasional accommodation of his court, afforested an _extensive tract of country_ lying between the city of Winchester and the sea coast. The _inhabitants were expelled_: the cottages and the _churches were burnt_; and more than _thirty square miles_ of a _rich and populous_ district were _withdrawn from cultivation_, and converted into a _wilderness_, to afford sufficient range for the deer, and ample space for the royal diversion. The memory of this act of despotism has been perpetuated in the name of the New Forest, which it retains at the present day, after the lapse of seven hundred and fifty years." "_Historians_" should be careful how they make statements relative to _places_ which are within the scope of the reader's _inspection_. It is next to impossible not to believe that the Doctor has, in this case (a very interesting one), merely _copied_ from HUME. Hume says, that the King "_expelled_ the inhabitants;" and Lingard says "the inhabitants _were expelled_;" Hume says that the King "_demolished_ the churches;" and Lingard says that "the churches were _burnt_;" but Hume says, churches "and _convents_," and Lingard _knew_ that to be a lie. The Doctor was too learned upon the subject of "_convents_" to follow the Scotchman here. Hume says that the King "laid _waste_ the country for an _extent of thirty miles_." "The Doctor says that a district of _thirty square miles_ was withdrawn from cultivation, and converted into a _wilderness_." Now, what HUME meaned by the loose phrase, "an _extent of thirty miles_," I cannot say; but this I know, that Dr. Lingard's "thirty square miles" is a piece of ground only five and a half miles each way! So that the Doctor has got here a curious "_district_," and a not less curious "_wilderness_;" and what number of _churches_ could WILLIAM find to _burn_, in a space five miles and a half each way? If the Doctor meaned thirty _miles square_, instead of _square miles_, the falsehood is so monstrous as to destroy his credit for ever; for here we have Nine Hundred Square Miles, containing _five hundred and seventy-six thousand acres of land_; that is to say, 56,960 acres more than are contained in the whole of the county of Surrey, and 99,840 acres more than are contained in the whole of the county of Berks! This is "_history_," is it! And these are "_historians_." The true statement is this: the New Forest, according to its ancient state, was bounded thus: by the line, going from the river Oux to the river Avon, and which line there separates Wiltshire from Hampshire; by the river Avon; by the sea from Christchurch to Calshot Castle; by the Southampton Water; and by the river Oux. These are the boundaries; and (as any one may, by scale and compass, ascertain), there are, within these boundaries, about 224 square miles, containing 143,360 acres of land. Within these limits there are now remaining eleven parish churches, all of which were in existence before the time of William the Conqueror; so that, if he destroyed thirty-six parish churches, what a populous country this must have been! There must have been forty-seven parish churches; so that there was, over this whole district, one parish church to every four and three quarters square miles! Thus, then, the churches must have stood, on an average, at within one mile and about two hundred yards of each other! And observe, the parishes could, on an average, contain no more, each, than 2,966 acres of land! Not a very large farm; so that here was a parish church to every large farm, unless these historians are all fools and liars. I defy any one to say that I make hazardous assertions: I have plainly described the ancient boundaries: there are _the maps_: any one can, with scale and compass, measure the area as well as I can. I have taken the statements of historians, as they call themselves: I have shown that their histories, as they call them, are fabulous; OR (and mind this _or_) that England was, at one time, and that too, eight hundred years ago, _beyond all measure more populous than it is now_. For, observe, notwithstanding what Dr. Lingard asserts; notwithstanding that he describes this district as "_rich_," it is the very poorest in the whole kingdom. Dr. Lingard was, I believe, born and bred at Winchester; and how, then, could he be so careless; or, indeed, so regardless of truth (and I do not see why I am to mince the matter with him), as to describe this as a _rich district_? Innumerable persons have seen _Bagshot-Heath_; great numbers have seen the barren heaths between London and Brighton; great numbers, also, have seen that wide sweep of barrenness which exhibits itself between the Golden Farmer Hill and Black-water. Nine-tenths of each of these are less barren than four-fifths of the land in the New Forest. Supposing it to be credible that a man so prudent and so wise as William the Conqueror; supposing that such a man should have pitched upon a _rich_ and _populous_ district wherewith to make a chase; supposing, in short, these historians to have spoken the truth, and supposing this barren land to have been all inhabited and cultivated, and the people so numerous and so rich as to be able to build and endow a parish church upon every four and three quarters square miles upon this extensive district; supposing them to have been so rich in the produce of the soil as to want a priest to be stationed at every mile and 200 yards, in order to help them to eat it; supposing, in a word, these historians not to be the most farcical liars that ever put pen upon paper, this country must, at the time of the Norman conquest, have literally _swarmed_ with people; for, _there is the land now_, and all the land, too: neither Hume nor Dr. Lingard can change the nature of that. There it is, an acre of it not having, upon an average, so much of productive capacity in it as one single square rod, taking the average, of Worcestershire; and if I were to say one single _square yard_, I should be right; there is the land; and if that land were as these historians say it was, covered with people and with churches, what the devil must Worcestershire have been! To this, then, we come at last: having made out what I undertook to show; namely, that the historians, as they call themselves, are either the greatest fools or the greatest liars that ever existed, or that England was beyond all measure more populous eight hundred years ago than it is now. Poor, however, as this district is, and culled about as it has been for the best spots of land by those favourites who have got grants of land or leases or something or other, still there are some spots here and there which would grow trees; but never will it grow trees, or anything else _to the profit of this nation_, until it become _private property_. Public property must, in some cases, be in the hands of public officers; but this is not an affair of that nature. This is too loose a concern; too little controllable by superiors. It is a thing calculated for jobbing, above all others; calculated to promote the success of favouritism. Who can imagine that the persons employed about plantations and farms for the public, are employed because _they are fit_ for the employment? Supposing the commissioners to hold in abhorrence the idea of paying for services to themselves under the name of paying for services to the public; supposing them never to have heard of such a thing in their lives, can they imagine that nothing of this sort takes place, while they are in London eleven months out of twelve in the year? I never feel disposed to cast much censure upon any of the persons engaged in such concerns. The temptation is too great to be resisted. The public must pay for everything _à pois d'or_. Therefore, no such thing should be in the hands of the public, or, rather, of the government; and I hope to live to see this thing completely taken out of the hands of this government. It was night-fall when we arrived at Eling, that is to say, at the head of the Southampton Water. Our horses were very hungry. We stopped to bait them, and set off just about dusk to come to this place (Weston Grove), stopping at Southampton on our way, and leaving a letter to come to London. Between Southampton and this place, we cross a bridge over the Itchen river, and, coming up a hill into a common, which is called Town-hill Common, we passed, lying on our right, a little park and house, occupied by the Irish Bible-man, Lord Ashdown, I think they call him, whose real name is French, and whose family are so very _well known_ in the most unfortunate sister-kingdom. Just at the back of his house, in another sort of paddock-place, lives a man, whose name I forget, who was, I believe, a coachmaker in the East Indies, and whose father, or uncle, kept a turnpike gate at Chelsea, a few years ago. See the effects of "_industry_ and _enterprise_"! But even these would be nothing, were it not for this wondrous system by which money can be snatched away from the labourer in this very parish, for instance, sent off to the East Indies, there help to make a mass to put into the hands of an adventurer, and then the mass may be brought back in the pockets of the adventurer and cause him to be called a 'Squire by the labourer whose earnings were so snatched away! Wondrous system! Pity it cannot last for ever! Pity that it has got a Debt of a thousand millions to pay! Pity that it cannot turn paper into gold! Pity that it will make such fools of Prosperity Robinson and his colleagues! The moon shone very bright by the time that we mounted the hill; and now, skirting the enclosures upon the edge of the common, we passed several of those cottages which I so well recollected, and in which I had the satisfaction to believe that the inhabitants were sitting comfortably with bellies full by a good fire. It was eight o'clock before we arrived at Mr. Chamberlayne's, whom I had not seen since, I think, the year 1816; for in the fall of that year I came to London, and I never returned to Botley (which is only about three miles and a half from Weston) to stay there for any length of time. To those who like water-scenes (as nineteen-twentieths of people do) it is the prettiest spot, I believe, in all England. Mr. Chamberlayne built the house about twenty years ago. He has been bringing the place to greater and greater perfection from that time to this. All round about the house is in the neatest possible order. I should think that, altogether, there cannot be so little as _ten acres of short grass_; and when I say _that_, those who know anything about gardens will form a pretty correct general notion as to the _scale_ on which the thing is carried on. Until of late, Mr. Chamberlayne was owner of only a small part, comparatively, of the lands hereabouts. He is now the owner, I believe, of the whole of the lands that come down to the water's edge and that lie between the ferry over the Itchen at Southampton, and the river which goes out from the Southampton Water at Hamble. And now let me describe, as well as I can, what this land and its situation are. The Southampton Water begins at Portsmouth, and goes up by Southampton, to Redbridge, being, upon an average, about two miles wide, having, on the one side, the New Forest, and on the other side, for a great part of the way, this fine and beautiful estate of Mr. Chamberlayne. Both sides of this water have rising lands divided into hill and dale, and very beautifully clothed with trees, the woods and lawns and fields being most advantageously intermixed. It is very curious that, at the _back_ of each of these tracts of land, there are extensive heaths, on this side as well as on the New Forest side. To stand here and look across the water at the New Forest, you would imagine that it was really _a country of woods_; for you can see nothing of the heaths from here; those heaths over which we rode, and from which we could see a windmill down among the trees, which windmill is now to be seen just opposite this place. So that the views from this place are the most beautiful that can be imagined. You see up the water and down the water, to Redbridge one way and out to Spithead the other way. Through the trees, to the right, you see the spires of Southampton, and you have only to walk a mile, over a beautiful lawn and through a not less beautiful wood, to find, in a little dell, surrounded with lofty woods, the venerable ruins of _Netley Abbey_, which make part of Mr. Chamberlayne's estate. The woods here are chiefly of oak; the ground consists of a series of hill and dale, as you go long-wise from one end of the estate to the other, _about six miles in length_. Down almost every little valley that divides these hills or hillocks, there is more or less of water, making the underwood, in those parts, very thick, and dark to go through; and these form the most delightful contrast with the fields and lawns. There are innumerable vessels of various sizes continually upon the water; and, to those that delight in water-scenes, this is certainly the very prettiest place that I ever saw in my life. I had seen it many years ago; and, as I intended to come here on my way home, I told George, before we set out, that I would show him _another Weston_ before we got to London. The parish in which his father's house is, is also called Weston, and a very beautiful spot it certainly is; but I told him I questioned whether I could not show him a still prettier Weston than that. We let him alone for the first day. He sat in the house, and saw great multitudes of pheasants and partridges upon the lawn before the window: he went down to the water-side by himself, and put his foot upon the ground to see the tide rise. He seemed very much delighted. The second morning, at breakfast, we put it to him, which he would rather have; this Weston or the Weston he had left in Herefordshire; but, though I introduced the question in a way almost to extort a decision in favour of the Hampshire Weston, he decided instantly and plump for the other, in a manner very much to the delight of Mr. Chamberlayne and his sister. So true it is that, when people are uncorrupted, they always _like home best_, be it, in itself, what it may. Everything that nature can do has been done here; and money most judiciously employed has come to her assistance. Here are a thousand things to give pleasure to any rational mind; but there is one thing, which, in my estimation, surpasses, in pleasure, to contemplate, all the lawns and all the groves and all the gardens and all the game and everything else; and that is, the real, unaffected goodness of the owner of this estate. He is a member for Southampton; he has other fine estates; he has great talents; he is much admired by all who know him; but he has done more by his justice, by his just way of thinking with regard to the labouring people, than in all other ways put together. This was nothing new to me; for I was well informed of it several years ago, though I had never heard him speak of it in my life. When he came to this place, the common wages of day-labouring men were _thirteen shillings a week_, and the wages of carpenters, bricklayers, and other tradesmen, were in proportion. Those wages he _has given, from that time to this_, without any abatement whatever. With these wages, a man can live, having, at the same time, other advantages attending the working for such a man as Mr. Chamberlayne. He has got less money in his bags than he would have had, if he had ground men down in their wages; but if his sleep be not sounder than that of the hard-fisted wretch that can walk over grass and gravel, kept in order by a poor creature that is half-starved; if his sleep be not sounder than the sleep of such a wretch, then all that we have been taught is false, and there is no difference between the man who feeds and the man who starves the poor: all the Scripture is a bundle of lies, and instead of being propagated it ought to be flung into the fire. It is curious enough that those who are the least disposed to give good wages to the labouring people, should be the most disposed to discover for them _schemes for saving their money_! I have lately seen, I saw it at Uphusband, a prospectus, or scheme, for establishing what they call a _County Friendly Society_. This is a scheme for getting from the poor a part of the wages that they receive. Just as if a poor fellow could _put anything by_ out of eight shillings a week! If, indeed, the schemers were to pay the labourers twelve or thirteen shillings a week; then these might have something to lay by at some times of the year; but then, indeed, there would be _no poor-rates wanted_; and it is to _get rid of the poor-rates_ that these schemers have invented their society. What wretched drivellers they must be: to think that they should be able to make the pauper keep the pauper; to think that they shall be able to make the man that is half-starved lay by part of his loaf! I know of no county where the poor are worse treated than in many parts of this county of Hants. It is happy to know of one instance in which they are well treated; and I deem it a real honour to be under the roof of him who has uniformly set so laudable an example in this most important concern. What are all his riches to me? They form no title to my respect. 'Tis not for me to set myself up in judgment as to his taste, his learning, his various qualities and endowments; but of these his unequivocal works I am a competent judge. I know how much good he must do; and there is a great satisfaction in reflecting on the great happiness that he must feel, when, in laying his head upon his pillow of a cold and dreary winter night, he reflects that there are scores, aye, scores upon scores, of his country-people, of his poor neighbours, of those whom the Scripture denominates his brethren, who have been enabled, through him, to retire to a warm bed after spending a cheerful evening and taking a full meal by the side of their own fire. People may talk what they will about _happiness_; but I can figure to myself no happiness surpassing that of the man who falls to sleep with reflections like these in his mind. Now observe, it is a duty, on my part, to relate what I have here related as to the conduct of Mr. Chamberlayne; not a duty towards _him_; for I can do him no good by it, and I do most sincerely believe, that both he and his equally benevolent sister would rather that their goodness remained unproclaimed; but it is a duty towards my country, and particularly towards my readers. Here is a striking and a most valuable practical example. Here is a whole neighbourhood of labourers living as they ought to live; enjoying that happiness which is the just reward of their toil. And shall I suppress facts so honourable to those who are the cause of this happiness, facts so interesting in themselves, and so likely to be useful in the way of example; shall I do this, aye, and, besides this, _tacitly_ give a _false account_ of Weston Grove, and this, too, from the stupid and cowardly fear of being accused of flattering a rich man? Netley Abbey ought, it seems, to be called Letley Abbey, the Latin name being Lætus Locus, or Pleasant Place. _Letley_ was made up of an abbreviation of the _Lætus_ and of the Saxon word _ley_, which meaned _place_, _field_, or _piece of ground_. This Abbey was founded by Henry III. in 1239, for 12 Monks of the Benedictine order; and when suppressed by the wife-killer, its revenues amounted to 3,200_l._ a year of our present money. The possessions of these monks were, by the wife-killing founder of the Church of England, given away (though they belonged to the public) to one of his court sycophants, Sir William Paulet, a man the most famous in the whole world for sycophancy, time-serving, and for all those qualities which usually distinguish the favourites of kings like the wife-killer. This Paulet changed from the Popish to Henry the Eighth's religion, and was a great actor in punishing the papists; when Edward VI. came to the throne, this Paulet turned protestant, and was a great actor in punishing those who adhered to Henry VIIIth's religion: when Queen Mary came to the throne, this Paulet turned back to papist, and was one of the great actors in sending protestants to be burnt in Smithfield: when Old Bess came to the throne, this Paulet turned back to protestant again, and was, until the day of his death, one of the great actors in persecuting, in fining, in mulcting, and in putting to death those who still had the virtue and the courage to adhere to the religion in which they and he had been born and bred. The _head_ of this family got, at last, to be Earl of Wiltshire, Marquis of Winchester, and Duke of Bolton. This last title is now _gone_; or, rather, it is changed to that of "Lord Bolton," which is now borne by a man of the name of Orde, who is the son of a man of that name, who died some years ago, and who married a daughter (I think it was) of the last "Duke of Bolton." Pretty curious, and not a little interesting, to look back at the _origin_ of this Dukedom of Bolton, and, then, to look at the person now bearing the title of _Bolton_; and, then, to go to Abbotston, near Winchester, and survey the ruins of the proud palace, once inhabited by the Duke of Bolton, which ruins, and the estate on which they stand, are now the property of the Loan-maker, Alexander Baring! Curious turn of things! Henry the wife-killer and his confiscating successors _granted_ the estates of Netley, and of many other monasteries, to the head of these Paulets: to maintain these and other similar grants, a thing called a "Reformation" was made: to maintain the "Reformation," a "Glorious Revolution" was made: to maintain the "Glorious Revolution" a _Debt_ was made: to maintain the Debt, a large part of the rents must go to the Debt-Dealers, or Loan-makers: and thus, at last, the Barings, only in this one neighbourhood, have become the successors of the Wriothesleys, the Paulets, and the Russells, who, throughout all the reigns of confiscation, were constantly _in the way_, when a distribution of good things was taking place! Curious enough all this; but, the thing will not _stop here_. The Loan-makers think that they shall outwit the old grantee-fellows; and so they might, and the people too, and the devil himself; but they cannot out-wit _events_. Those events _will have a thorough rummaging_; and of this fact the "turn-of-the-market" gentlemen may be assured. Can it be _law_ (I put the question to _lawyers_), can it be _law_ (I leave reason and justice out of the inquiry), can it be _law_, that, if I, to-day, see dressed in good clothes, and with a full purse, a man who was notoriously penniless yesterday; can it be law, that I (being a justice of the peace) have a right to demand of that man _how he came by his clothes and his purse_? And, can it be _law_, that I, seeing with an estate a man who was notoriously not worth a crown piece a few years ago, and who is notoriously related to nothing more than one degree above beggary; can it be _law_, that I, a magistrate, seeing this, have not a right to demand of this man how he came by his estate? No matter, however; for, if both these be law now, they will not, I trust, be law in a few years from this time. Mr. Chamberlayne has caused the ancient _fish-ponds_, at Netley Abbey, to be "reclaimed," as they call it. What a loss, what a national loss, there has been in this way, and in the article of water fowl! I am quite satisfied that, in these two articles and in that of _rabbits_, the nation has lost, has had annihilated (within the last 250 years) food sufficient for two days in the week, on an average, taking the year throughout. These are things, too, which cost so little labour! You can see the marks of old fish-ponds in thousands and thousands of places. I have noticed, I dare say, five hundred, since I left home. A trifling expense would, in most cases, restore them; but now-a-days all is looked for at shops: all is to be had by trafficking: scarcely any one thinks of providing for his own wants out of his own land and other his own domestic means. To buy the thing, _ready made_, is the taste of the day; thousands, who are housekeepers, buy their dinners ready cooked; nothing is so common as to rent breasts for children to suck: a man actually advertised, in the London papers, about two month ago, to supply childless husbands with heirs! In this case the articles were, of course, to be _ready made_; for to make them "to order" would be the devil of a business; though in desperate cases even this is, I believe, sometimes resorted to. _Hambledon, Sunday, 22nd Oct. 1826._ We left Weston Grove on Friday morning, and came across to Botley, where we remained during the rest of the day, and until after breakfast yesterday. I had not seen "the Botley Parson" for several years, and I wished to have a look at him now, but could not get a sight of him, though we rode close before his house, at much about his breakfast time, and though we gave him the strongest of invitation that could be expressed by hallooing and by cracking of whips! The fox was too cunning for us, and do all we could, we could not provoke him to put even his nose out of kennel. From Mr. James Warner's at Botley we went to Mr. Hallett's, at Allington, and had the very great pleasure of seeing him in excellent health. We intended to go back to Botley, and then to go to Titchfield, and, in our way to this place, over Portsdown Hill, whence I intended to show George the harbour and the fleet, and (of still more importance) the spot on which we signed the "Hampshire Petition," in 1817; that petition which foretold that which the "Norfolk Petition" confirmed; that petition which will be finally acted upon, or.... That petition was the very _last thing that I wrote at Botley_. I came to London in November 1816; the Power-of-Imprisonment Bill was passed in February, 1817; just before it was passed, the Meeting took place on Portsdown Hill; and I, in my way to the hill from London, stopped at Botley and wrote the petition. We had one meeting afterwards at Winchester, when I heard parsons swear like troopers, and saw one of them hawk up his spittle, and spit it into Lord Cochrane's poll! Ah! my bucks, we have you _now_! You are got nearly to the end of your tether; and, what is more, _you know it_. Pay off the Debt, parsons! It is useless to swear and spit, and to present addresses applauding Power-of-Imprisonment Bills, unless you can pay off the Debt! Pay off the Debt, parsons! They say you can _lay_ the devil. Lay _this_ devil, then; or, confess that he is too many for you; aye, and for Sturges Bourne, or Bourne Sturges (I forget which), at your backs! From Arlington, we, fearing that it would rain before we could get round by Titchfield, came across the country over Waltham Chase and Soberton Down. The chase was very green and fine; but the down was the very greenest thing that I have seen in the whole country. It is not a large down; perhaps not more than five or six hundred acres; but the land is good, the chalk is at a foot from the surface, or more; the mould is a hazel mould; and when I was upon the opposite hill, I could, though I knew the spot very well, hardly believe that it was a down. The green was darker than that of any pasture or even any sainfoin or clover that I had seen throughout the whole of my ride; and I should suppose that there could not have been many less than a thousand sheep in the three flocks that were feeding upon the down when I came across it. I do not speak with anything like positiveness as to the measurement of this down; but I do not believe that it exceeds six hundred and fifty acres. They must have had more rain in this part of the country than in most other parts of it. Indeed, no part of Hampshire seems to have suffered very much from the drought. I found the turnips pretty good, of both sorts, all the way from Andover to Rumsey. Through the New Forest, you may as well expect to find loaves of bread growing in fields as turnips, where there are any fields for them to grow in. From Redbridge to Weston, we had not light enough to see much about us; but when we came down to Botley, we there found the turnips as good as I had ever seen them in my life, as far I could judge from the time I had to look at them. Mr. Warner has as fine turnip fields as I ever saw him have, Swedish turnips and white also; and pretty nearly the same may be said of the whole of that neighbourhood for many miles round. After quitting Soberton Down, we came up a hill leading to Hambledon, and turned off to our left to bring us down to Mr. Goldsmith's at West End, where we now are, at about a mile from the village of Hambledon. A village it _now_ is; but it was formerly a considerable market-town, and it had three fairs in the year. There is now not even the name of market left, I believe; and the fairs amount to little more than a couple or three gingerbread-stalls, with dolls and whistles for children. If you go through the place, you see that it has been a considerable town. The church tells the same story; it is now a tumble-down rubbishy place; it is partaking in the fate of all those places which were formerly a sort of rendezvous for persons who had things to buy and things to sell. _Wens_ have devoured market-towns and villages; and _shops_ have devoured _markets and fairs_; and this, too, to the infinite injury of the most numerous classes of the people. Shop-keeping, merely as shop-keeping, is injurious to any community. What are the shop and the shop-keeper for? To receive and distribute the produce of the land. There are other articles, certainly; but the main part is the produce of the land. The shop must be paid for; the shop-keeper must be kept; and the one must be paid for and the other must be kept by the consumer of the produce; or, perhaps, partly by the consumer and partly by the producer. When fairs were very frequent, shops were not needed. A manufacturer of shoes, of stockings, of hats; of almost any thing that man wants, could manufacture at home in an obscure hamlet, with cheap house-rent, good air, and plenty of room. He need pay no heavy rent for shop; and no disadvantages from confined situation; and, then, by attending three or four or five or six fairs in a year, he sold the work of his hands, unloaded with a heavy expense attending the keeping of a shop. He would get more for ten shillings in a booth at a fair or market, than he would get in a shop for ten or twenty pounds. Of course he could afford to sell the work of his hands for less; and thus a greater portion of their earnings remained with those who raised the food and the clothing from the land. I had an instance of this in what occurred to myself at Weyhill fair. When I was at Salisbury, in September, I wanted to buy a whip. It was a common hunting-whip, with a hook to it to pull open gates with, and I could not get it for less than seven shillings and sixpence. This was more than I had made up my mind to give, and I went on with my switch. When we got to Weyhill fair, George had made shift to lose his whip some time before, and I had made him go without one by way of punishment. But now, having come to the fair, and seeing plenty of whips, I bought him one, just such a one as had been offered me at Salisbury for seven and sixpence, for four and sixpence; and, seeing the man with his whips afterwards, I thought I would have one myself; and he let me have it for three shillings. So that, here were two whips, precisely of the same kind and quality as the whip at Salisbury, bought for the money which the man at Salisbury asked me for one whip. And yet, far be it from me to accuse the man at Salisbury of an attempt at extortion: he had an expensive shop, and a family in a town to support, while my Weyhill fellow had been making his whips in some house in the country, which he rented, probably for five or six pounds a year, with a good garden to it. Does not every one see, in a minute, how this exchanging of fairs and markets for shops creates _idlers and traffickers_; creates those locusts, called middle-men, who create nothing, who add to the value of nothing, who improve nothing, but who live in idleness, and who live well, too, out of the labour of the producer and the consumer. The fair and the market, those wise institutions of our forefathers, and with regard to the management of which they were so scrupulously careful; the fair and the market bring the producer and the consumer in contact with each other. Whatever is gained is, at any rate, gained by one or the other of these. The fair and the market bring them together, and enable them to act for their mutual interest and convenience. The shop and the trafficker keeps them apart; the shop hides from both producer and consumer the real state of matters. The fair and the market lay everything open: going to either, you see the state of things at once; and the transactions are fair and just, not disfigured, too, by falsehood, and by those attempts at deception which disgrace traffickings in general. Very wise, too, and very just, were the laws against _forestalling_ and _regrating_. They were laws to prevent the producer and the consumer from being cheated by the trafficker. There are whole bodies of men; indeed, a very large part of the community, who live in idleness in this country, in consequence of the whole current of the laws now running in favour of the trafficking monopoly. It has been a great object with all wise governments, in all ages, from the days of Moses to the present day, to confine trafficking, mere trafficking, to as few hands as possible. It seems to be the main object of this government to give all possible encouragement to traffickers of every description, and to make them swarm like the lice of Egypt. There is that numerous sect, the Quakers. This sect arose in England: they were engendered by the Jewish system of usury. Till _excises_ and _loanmongering_ began, these vermin were never heard of in England. They seem to have been hatched by that fraudulent system, as maggots are bred by putrid meat, or as the flounders come in the livers of rotten sheep. The base vermin do not pretend to work: all they talk about is dealing; and the government, in place of making laws that would put them in the stocks, or cause them to be whipped at the cart's tail, really seem anxious to encourage them and to increase their numbers; nay, it is not long since Mr. Brougham had the effrontery to move for leave to bring in a bill to make men liable to be hanged upon the bare word of these vagabonds. This is, with me, something never to be forgotten. But everything tends the same way: all the regulations, all the laws that have been adopted of late years, have a tendency to give encouragement to the trickster and the trafficker, and to take from the labouring classes all the honour and a great part of the food that fairly belonged to them. In coming along yesterday, from Waltham Chase to Soberton Down, we passed by a big white house upon a hill that was, when I lived at Botley, occupied by one Goodlad, who was a cock justice of the peace, and who had been a chap of some sort or other, in _India_. There was a man of the name of Singleton, who lived in Waltham Chase, and who was deemed to be a great poacher. This man, having been forcibly ousted by the order of this Goodlad and some others from an encroachment that he had made in the forest, threatened revenge. Soon after this, a horse (I forget to whom it belonged) was stabbed or shot in the night-time in a field. Singleton was taken up, tried at Winchester, convicted and _transported_. I cannot relate exactly what took place. I remember that there were some curious circumstances attending the conviction of this man. The people in that neighbourhood were deeply impressed with these circumstances. Singleton was transported; but Goodlad and his wife were both dead and buried, in less, I believe, than three months after the departure of poor Singleton. I do not know that any injustice really was done; but I do know that a great impression was produced, and a very sorrowful impression, too, on the minds of the people in that neighbourhood. I cannot quit Waltham Chase without observing, that I heard, last year, that a Bill was about to be petitioned for, to enclose that Chase! Never was so monstrous a proposition in this world. The Bishop of Winchester is Lord of the Manor over this Chase. If the Chase be enclosed, the timber must be cut down, young and old; and here are a couple of hundred acres of land, worth ten thousand acres of land in the New Forest. This is as fine timber land as any in the wealds of Surrey, Sussex or Kent. There are two enclosures of about 40 acres each, perhaps, that were simply surrounded by a bank being thrown up about twenty years ago, only twenty years ago, and on the poorest part of the Chase, too; and these are now as beautiful plantations of young oak trees as man ever set his eyes on; many of them as big or bigger round than my thigh! Therefore, besides the sweeping away of two or three hundred cottages; besides plunging into ruin and misery all these numerous families, here is one of the finest pieces of timber land in the whole kingdom, going to be cut up into miserable clay fields, for no earthly purpose but that of gratifying the stupid greediness of those who think that they must gain, if they add to the breadth of their private fields. But if a thing like this be permitted, we must be prettily furnished with Commissioners of woods and forests! I do not believe that they will sit in Parliament and see a Bill like this passed and hold their tongues; but if they were to do it, there is no measure of reproach which they would not merit. Let them go and look at the two plantations of oaks, of which I have just spoken; and then let them give their consent to such a Bill if they can. _Thursley, Monday Evening, 23rd October._ When I left Weston, my intention was, to go from Hambledon to Up Park, thence to Arundel, thence, to Brighton, thence to East-bourne, thence to Wittersham in Kent, and then by Cranbrook, Tunbridge, Godstone and Reigate to London; but when I got to Botley, and particularly when I got to Hambledon, I found my horse's back so much hurt by the saddle, that I was afraid to take so long a stretch, and therefore resolved to come away straight to this place, to go hence to Reigate, and so to London. Our way, therefore, this morning, was over Butser-hill to Petersfield, in the first place; then to Lyphook and then to this place, in all about twenty-four miles. Butser-hill belongs to the back chain of the South Downs; and, indeed, it terminates that chain to the westward. It is the highest hill in the whole country. Some think that Hindhead, which is the famous sand-hill over which the Portsmouth road goes at sixteen miles to the north of this great chalk-hill; some think that Hindhead is the highest hill of the two. Be this as it may, Butser-hill, which is the right-hand hill of the two between which you go at three miles from Petersfield going towards Portsmouth; this Butser-hill, is, I say, quite high enough; and was more than high enough for us, for it took us up amongst clouds that wet us very nearly to the skin. In going from Mr. Goldsmith's to the hill, it is all up hill for five miles. Now and then a little stoop; not much; but regularly, with these little exceptions, up hill for these five miles. The hill appears, at a distance, to be a sharp ridge on its top. It is, however, not so. It is, in some parts, half a mile wide or more. The road lies right along the middle of it from west to east, and, just when you are at the highest part of the hill, it is very narrow from north to south; not more, I think, than about a hundred or a hundred and thirty yards. This is as interesting a spot, I think, as the foot of man ever was placed upon. Here are two valleys, one to your right and the other to your left, very little less than half a mile down to the bottom of them, and much steeper than a tiled roof of a house. These valleys may be, where they join the hill, three or four hundred yards broad. They get wider as they get farther from the hill. Of a clear day you see all the north of Hampshire; nay, the whole county, together with a great part of Surrey and of Sussex. You see the whole of the South Downs to the eastward as far as your eye can carry you; and, lastly, you see over Portsdown Hill, which lies before you to the south; and there are spread open to your view the isle of Portsea, Porchester, Wimmering, Fareham, Gosport, Portsmouth, the harbour, Spithead, the Isle of Wight and the ocean. But something still more interesting occurred to me here in the year 1808, when I was coming on horseback over the same hill from Botley to London. It was a very beautiful day and in summer. Before I got upon the hill (on which I had never been before), a shepherd told me to keep on in the road in which I was, till I came to the London turnpike road. When I got to within a quarter of a mile of this particular point of the hill, I saw, at this point, what I thought was a cloud of dust; and, speaking to my servant about it, I found that he thought so too; but this cloud of dust disappeared all at once. Soon after, there appeared to arise another cloud of dust at the same place, and then that disappeared, and the spot was clear again. As we were trotting along, a pretty smart pace, we soon came to this narrow place, having one valley to our right and the other valley to our left, and, there, to my great astonishment, I saw the clouds come one after another, each appearing to be about as big as two or three acres of land, skimming along in the valley on the north side, a great deal below the tops of the hills; and successively, as they arrived at our end of the valley, rising up, crossing the narrow pass, and then descending down into the other valley and going off to the south; so that we who sate there upon our horses, were alternately in clouds and in sunshine. It is an universal rule, that if there be a fog in the morning, and that fog go from the valleys to the tops of the hills, there will be rain that day; and if it disappear by sinking in the valley, there will be no rain that day. The truth is, that fogs are clouds, and clouds are fogs. They are more or less full of water; but they are all water; sometimes a sort of steam, and sometimes water that falls in drops. Yesterday morning the fogs had ascended to the tops of the hills; and it was raining on all the hills round about us before it began to rain in the valleys. We, as I observed before, got pretty nearly wet to the skin upon the top of Butser-hill; but we had the pluck to come on and let the clothes dry upon our backs. I must here relate something that appears very interesting to me, and something, which, though it must have been seen by every man that has lived in the country, or, at least, in any hilly country, has never been particularly mentioned by anybody as far as I can recollect. We frequently talk of clouds coming from _dews_; and we actually see the heavy fogs become clouds. We see them go up to the tops of hills, and, taking a swim round, actually come and drop down upon us and wet us through. But I am now going to speak of clouds coming out of the sides of hills in exactly the same manner that you see smoke come out of a tobacco pipe, and rising up, with a wider and wider head, like the smoke from a tobacco-pipe, go to the top of the hill or over the hill, or very much above it, and then come over the valleys in rain. At about a mile's distance from Mr. Palmer's house at Bollitree, in Herefordshire, there is a large, long beautiful wood, covering the side of a lofty hill, winding round in the form of a crescent, the bend of the crescent being towards Mr. Palmer's house. It was here that I first observed this mode of forming clouds. The first time I noticed it, I pointed it out to Mr. Palmer. We stood and observed cloud after cloud come out from different parts of the side of the hill, and tower up and go over the hill out of sight. He told me that that was a certain sign that it would rain that day, for that these clouds would come back again, and would fall in rain. It rained sure enough; and I found that the country people, all round about, had this mode of the forming of the clouds as a sign of rain. The hill is called Penyard, and this forming of the clouds they call Old Penyard's _smoking his pipe_; and it is a rule that it is sure to rain during the day if Old Penyard smokes his pipe in the morning. These appearances take place, especially in warm and sultry weather. It was very warm yesterday morning: it had thundered violently the evening before: we felt it hot even while the rain fell upon us at Butser-hill. Petersfield lies in a pretty broad and very beautiful valley. On three sides of it are very lofty hills, partly downs and partly covered with trees: and, as we proceeded on our way from the bottom of Butser-hill to Petersfield, we saw thousands upon thousands of clouds, continually coming puffing out from different parts of these hills and towering up to the top of them. I stopped George several times to make him look at them; to see them come puffing out of the chalk downs as well as out of the woodland hills; and bade him remember to tell his father of it when he should get home, to convince him that the hills of Hampshire could smoke their pipes as well as those of Herefordshire. This is a really curious matter. I have never read, in any book, anything to lead me to suppose that the observation has ever found its way into print before. Sometimes you will see only one or two clouds during a whole morning, come out of the side of a hill; but we saw thousands upon thousands, bursting out, one after another, in all parts of these immense hills. The first time that I have leisure, when I am in the high countries again, I will have a conversation with some old shepherd about this matter; if he cannot enlighten me upon the subject, I am sure that no philosopher can. We came through Petersfield without stopping, and baited our horses at Lyphook, where we stayed about half an hour. In coming from Lyphook to this place, we overtook a man who asked for relief. He told me he was a weaver, and, as his accent was northern, I was about to give him the balance that I had in hand arising from our savings in the fasting way, amounting to about three shillings and sixpence; but, unfortunately for him, I asked him what place he had lived at as a weaver; and he told me that he was a Spitalfields weaver. I instantly put on my glove and returned my purse into my pocket, saying, go, then, to Sidmouth and Peel and the rest of them "and get relief; for I have this minute, while I was stopping at Lyphook, read in the _Evening Mail_ newspaper, an address to the King from the Spitalfields' weavers, for which address they ought to suffer death from starvation. In that address those base wretches tell the King, that they were loyal men: that they detested the designing men who were guilty of seditious practices in 1817; they, in short, express their approbation of the Power-of-imprisonment Bill, of all the deeds committed against the Reformers in 1817 and 1819; they, by fair inference, express their approbation of the thanks given to the Manchester Yeomanry. You are one of them; my name is William Cobbett, and I would sooner relieve a dog than relieve you." Just as I was closing my harangue, we overtook a country-man and woman that were going the same way. The weaver attempted explanations. He said that they only said it in order to get relief; but that they did not mean it in their hearts. "Oh, base dogs!" said I: "it is precisely by such men that ruin is brought upon nations; it is precisely by such baseness and insincerity, such scandalous cowardice, that ruin has been brought upon them. I had two or three shillings to give you; I had them in my hand: I have put them back into my purse: I trust I shall find somebody more worthy of them: rather than give them to you, I would fling them into that sand-pit and bury them for ever." How curiously things happen! It was by mere accident that I took up a newspaper to read: it was merely because I was compelled to stay a quarter of an hour in the room without doing anything, and above all things it was miraculous that I should take up the _Evening Mail_, into which, I believe, I never before looked, in my whole life. I saw the royal arms at the top of the paper; took it for the _Old Times_, and, in a sort of lounging mood, said to George, "Give me hold of that paper, and let us see what that foolish devil Anna Brodie says." Seeing the words "_Spitalfields_," I read on till I got to the base and scoundrelly part of the address. I then turned over, and looked at the title of the paper and the date of it, resolving, in my mind, to have satisfaction, of some sort or other, upon these base vagabonds. Little did I think that an opportunity would so soon occur of showing my resentment against them, and that, too, in so striking, so appropriate, and so efficient a manner. I dare say, that it was some tax-eating scoundrel who drew up this address (which I will insert in the Register, as soon as I can find it); but that is nothing to me and my fellow sufferers of 1817 and 1819. This infamous libel upon us is published under the name of the Spitalfields weavers; and, if I am asked what the poor creatures were to do, being without bread as they were, I answer by asking whether they could find no knives to cut their throats with; seeing that they ought to have cut their throats ten thousand times over, if they could have done it, rather than sanction the publication of so infamous a paper as this. It is not thus that the weavers in the north have acted. Some scoundrel wanted to inveigle them into an applauding of the Ministers; but they, though nothing so infamous as this address was proposed to them, rejected the proposition, though they were ten times more in want than the weavers of Spitalfields have ever been. They were only called upon to applaud the Ministers for the recent Orders in Council; but they justly said that the Ministers had a great deal more to do, before they would merit their applause. What would these brave and sensible men have said to a tax-eating scoundrel, who should have called upon them to present an address to the King, and in that address to applaud the terrible deeds committed against the people in 1817 and 1819! I have great happiness in reflecting that this baseness of the Spitalfields weavers will not bring them one single mouthful of bread. This will be their lot; this will be the fruit of their baseness: and the nation, the working classes of the nation, will learn, from this, that the way to get redress of their grievances, the way to get food and raiment in exchange for their labour, the way to ensure good treatment from the Government, is not to crawl to that Government, to lick its hands, and seem to deem it an honour to be its slaves. Before we got to Thursley, I saw three poor fellows getting in turf for their winter fuel, and I gave them a shilling apiece. To a boy at the bottom of Hindhead, I gave the other sixpence, towards buying him a pair of gloves; and thus I disposed of the money which was, at one time, actually out of my purse, and going into the hand of the loyal Spitalfields weaver. We got to this place (Mr. Knowles's of Thursley) about 5 o'clock in the evening, very much delighted with our ride. _Kensington, Thursday, 26th Oct._ We left Mr. Knowles's on Thursday morning, came through Godalming, stopped at Mr. Rowland's at Chilworth, and then came on through Dorking to Colley Farm, near Reigate, where we slept. I have so often described the country from Hindhead to the foot of Reigate Hill, and from the top of Reigate Hill to the Thames, that I shall not attempt to do it again here. When we got to the river Wey, we crossed it from Godalming Pismarsh to come up to Chilworth. I desired George to look round the country, and asked him if he did not think it was very pretty. I put the same question to him when we got into the beautiful neighbourhood of Dorking, and when we got to Reigate, and especially when we got to the tip-top of Reigate Hill, from which there is one of the finest views in the whole world; but ever after our quitting Mr. Knowles's, George insisted that that was the prettiest country that we had seen in the course of our whole ride, and that he liked Mr. Knowles's place better than any other place that he had seen. I reminded him of Weston Grove; and I reminded him of the beautiful ponds and grass and plantations at Mr. Leach's; but he still persisted in his judgment in favour of Mr. Knowles's place, in which decision, however, the greyhounds and the beagles had manifestly a great deal to do. From Thursley to Reigate inclusive, on the chalk-side as well as on the sand-side, the crops of turnips, of both kinds, were pretty nearly as good as I ever saw them in my life. On a farm of Mr. Drummond's at Aldbury, rented by a farmer Peto, I saw a piece of cabbages, of the large kind, which will produce, I should think, not much short of five and twenty tons to the acre; and here I must mention (I do not know _why_ I must, by the bye) an instance of my own skill in measuring land by the eye. The cabbages stand upon half a field and on the part of it furthest from the road where we were. We took the liberty to open the gate and ride into the field, in order to get closer to the cabbages to look at them. I intended to notice this piece of cabbages, and I asked George how much ground he thought there was in the piece. He said, _two acres_: and asked me how much I thought. I said that there were _above four acres_, and that I should not wonder if there were _four acres and a half_. Thus divided in judgment, we turned away from the cabbages to go out of the field at another gate, which pointed towards our road. Near this gate we found a man turning a heap of manure. This man, as it happened, had hoed the cabbages by the acre, or had had a hand in it. We asked him how much ground there was in that piece of cabbages, and he told us, _four acres and a half_! I suppose it will not be difficult to convince the reader that George looked upon me as a sort of conjuror. At Mr. Pym's, at Colley farm, we found one of the very finest pieces of mangel wurzel that I had ever seen in my life. We calculated that there would be little short of _forty tons to the acre_; and there being three acres to the piece, Mr. Pym calculates that this mangel wurzel, the produce of these three acres of land, will carry his ten or twelve milch-cows nearly, if not wholly, through the winter. There did not appear to be a spurious plant, and there was not one plant that had gone to seed, in the whole piece. I have never seen a more beautiful mass of vegetation, and I had the satisfaction to learn, after having admired the crop, that the seed came from my own shop, and that it had been saved by myself. Talking of the shop, I came to it in a very few hours after looking at this mangel wurzel; and I soon found that it was high time for me to get home again; for here had been pretty devils' works going on. Here I found the "Greek cause," and all its appendages, figuring away in grand style. But I must make this matter of separate observation. I have put an end to my Ride of August, September, and October, 1826, during which I have travelled five hundred and sixty-eight miles, and have slept in thirty different beds, having written three monthly pamphlets, called the "Poor Man's Friend," and have also written (including the present one) eleven Registers. I have been in three cities, in about twenty market towns, in perhaps five hundred villages; and I have seen the people nowhere so well off as in the neighbourhood of Weston Grove, and nowhere so badly off as in the dominions of the Select Vestry of Hurstbourn Tarrant, commonly called Uphusband. During the whole of this ride, I have very rarely been a-bed after day-light; I have drunk neither wine nor spirits. I have eaten no vegetables, and only a very moderate quantity of meat; and, it may be useful to my readers to know, that the riding of twenty miles was not so fatiguing to me at the end of my tour as the riding of ten miles was at the beginning of it. Some ill-natured fools will call this "_egotism_." Why is it egotism? Getting upon a good strong horse, and riding about the country has no merit in it; there is no conjuration in it; it requires neither talents nor virtues of any sort; but _health_ is a very valuable thing; and when a man has had the experience which I have had in this instance, it is his duty to state to the world and to his own countrymen and neighbours in particular, the happy effects of early rising, sobriety, abstinence and a resolution to be active. It is his duty to do this: and it becomes imperatively his duty, when he has seen, in the course of his life, so many men; so many men of excellent hearts and of good talents, rendered prematurely old, cut off ten or twenty years before their time, by a want of that early rising, sobriety, abstinence and activity from which he himself has derived so much benefit and such inexpressible pleasure. During this ride I have been several times wet to the skin. At some times of my life, after having indulged for a long while in codling myself up in the house, these soakings would have frightened me half out of my senses; but I care very little about them: I avoid getting wet if I can; but it is very seldom that rain, come when it would, has prevented me from performing the day's journey that I had laid out beforehand. And this is a very good rule: to stick to your intention whether it be attended with inconveniences or not; to look upon yourself as _bound_ to do it. In the whole of this ride, I have met with no one untoward circumstance, properly so called, except the wounding of the back of my horse, which grieved me much more on his account than on my own. I have a friend, who, when he is disappointed in accomplishing anything that he has laid out, says that he has been _beaten_, which is a very good expression for the thing. I was beaten in my intention to go through Sussex and Kent; but I will retrieve the affair in a very few months' time, or, perhaps, few weeks. The COLLECTIVE will be here now in a few days; and as soon as I have got the Preston Petition fairly before them, and find (as I dare say I shall) that the petition will not be _tried_ until February, I shall take my horse and set off again to that very spot, in the London turnpike-road, at the foot of Butser-hill, whence I turned off to go to Petersfield, instead of turning the other way to go to Up Park: I shall take my horse and go to this spot, and, with a resolution not to be beaten next time, go along through the whole length of Sussex, and sweep round through Kent and Surrey till I come to Reigate again, and then home to Kensington; for I do not like to be beaten by horse's sore back, or by anything else; and, besides that, there are several things in Sussex and Kent that I want to see and give an account of. For the present, however, farewell to the country, and now for the Wen and its villanous corruptions. RURAL RIDE: TO TRING, IN HERTFORDSHIRE. _Barn-Elm Farm, 23rd Sept. 1829._ As if to prove the truth of all that has been said in _The Woodlands_ about the impolicy of cheap planting, as it is called, Mr. Elliman has planted another and larger field with a mixture of ash, locusts, and larches; not upon _trenched_ ground, but upon ground moved with the plough. The larches made great haste to _depart this life_, bequeathing to Mr. Elliman a very salutary lesson. The ash appeared to be alive, and that is all: the locusts, though they had to share in all the disadvantages of their neighbours, appeared, it seems, to be doing pretty well, and had made decent shoots, when a neighbour's sheep invaded the plantation, and, being fond of the locust leaves and shoots, as all cattle are, reduced them to mere stumps, as it were to put them upon a level with the ash. In _The Woodlands_, I have strongly pressed the necessity of effectual fences; without these, you plant and sow in vain: you plant and sow the plants and seeds of disappointment and mortification; and the earth, being always grateful, is sure to reward you with a plentiful crop. One half acre of Mr. Elliman's plantation of locusts before-mentioned, time will tell him, is worth more than the whole of the six or seven acres of this _cheaply_ planted field. Besides the 25,000 trees which Mr. Elliman had from me, he had some (and a part of them fine plants) which he himself had raised from seed, in the manner described in _The Woodlands_ under the head "Locust." This seed he bought from me; and, as I shall sell but a very few more locust plants, I recommend gentlemen to sow the seed for themselves, according to the directions given in _The Woodlands_, in paragraphs 383 to 386 inclusive. In that part of _The Woodlands_ will be found the most minute directions for the sowing of this seed, and particularly in the preparing of it for sowing; for, unless the proper precautions are taken here, one seed out of one hundred will not come up; and, with the proper precautions, one seed in one hundred will not fail to come up. I beg the reader, who intends to sow locusts, to read with great care the latter part of paragraph 368 of _The Woodlands_. At this town of Tring, which is a very pretty and respectable place, I saw what reminded me of another of my endeavours to introduce useful things into this country. At the door of a shop I saw a large _case_, with the lid taken off, containing _bundles of straw for platting_. It was straw of spring wheat, tied up in small bundles, with the ear on; just such as I myself have grown in England many times, and bleached for platting, according to the instructions so elaborately given in the last edition of my _Cottage Economy_; and which instructions I was enabled to give from the information collected by my son in America. I asked the shopkeeper where he got this straw: he said, that it came from Tuscany; and that it was manufactured there at Tring, and other places, for, as I understood, some single individual master-manufacturer. I told the shopkeeper, that I wondered that they should send to Tuscany for the straw, seeing that it might be grown, harvested, and equally well bleached at Tring; that it was now, at this time, grown, bleached, and manufactured into bonnets in Kent; and I showed to several persons at Tring a bonnet, made in Kent, from the straw of wheat grown in Kent, and presented by that most public-spirited and excellent man, Mr. John Wood, of Wettersham, who died, to the great sorrow of the whole country round about him, three or four years ago. He had taken infinite pains with this matter, had brought a young woman from Suffolk at his own expense, to teach the children at Wettersham the whole of this manufacture from beginning to end; and, before he died, he saw as handsome bonnets made as ever came from Tuscany. At Benenden, the parish in which Mr. Hodges resides, there is now a manufactory of the same sort, begun, in the first place, under the benevolent auspices of that gentleman's daughters, who began by teaching a poor fellow who had been a cripple from his infancy, who was living with a poor widowed mother, and who is now the master of a school of this description, in the beautiful villages of Benenden and Rolvenden, in Kent. My wife, wishing to have her bonnet cleaned some time ago, applied to a person who performs such work, at Brighton, and got into a conversation with her about the _English Leghorn_ bonnets. The woman told her that they looked very well at first, but that they would not retain their colour, and added, "They will not clean, ma'am, like this bonnet that you have." She was left with a request to clean that; and the result being the same as with all Leghorn bonnets, she was surprised upon being told that that was an "English Leghorn." In short, there is no difference at all in the two; and if these people at Tring choose to grow the straw instead of importing it from Leghorn; and if they choose to make plat, and to make bonnets just as beautiful and as lasting as those which come from Leghorn, they have nothing to do but to read my Cottage Economy, paragraph 224 to paragraph 234, inclusive, where they will find, as plain as words can make it, the whole mass of directions for taking the seed of the wheat, and converting the produce into bonnets. There they will find directions, first, as to the sort of wheat; second, as to the proper land for growing the wheat; third, season for sowing; fourth, quantity of seed to the acre, and manner of sowing; fifth, season for cutting the wheat; sixth, manner of cutting it; seventh, manner of bleaching; eighth, manner of housing the straw; ninth, platting; tenth, manner of knitting; eleventh, manner of pressing. I request my correspondents to inform me, if any one can, where I can get some spring wheat. The botanical name of it is, _Triticum �stivum_. It is sown in the spring, at the same time that barley is; these Latin words mean _summer wheat_. It is a small-grained, bearded wheat. I know, from experience, that the little brown-grained winter wheat is just as good for the purpose: but that must be sown earlier; and there is danger of its being thinned on the ground, by worms and other enemies. I should like to sow some this next spring, in order to convince the people of Tring, and other places, that they need not go to Tuscany for the straw. Of "_Cobbett's Corn_" there is no considerable piece in the neighbourhood of Tring; but I saw some plants, even upon the high hill where the locusts are growing, and which is very backward land, which appeared to be about as forward as my own is at this time. If Mr. Elliman were to have a patch of good corn by the side of his locust trees, and a piece of spring wheat by the side of the corn, people might then go and see specimens of the three great undertakings, or rather, great additions to the wealth of the nation, introduced under the name of _Cobbett_. I am the more desirous of introducing this manufacture at Tring on account of the very marked civility which I met with at that place. A very excellent friend of mine, who is professionally connected with that town, was, some time ago, apprised of my intention of going thither to see Mr. Elliman's plantation. He had mentioned this intention to some gentlemen of that town and neighbourhood; and I, to my great surprise, found that a _dinner had been organized_, to which I was to be invited. I never like to disappoint anybody; and, therefore, to this dinner I went. The company consisted of about forty-five gentlemen of the town and neighbourhood; and, certainly, though I have been at dinners in several parts of England, I never found, even in Sussex, where I have frequently been so delighted, a more sensible, hearty, entertaining, and hospitable company than this. From me, something in the way of speech was expected, as a matter of course; and though I was, from a cold, so hoarse as not to be capable of making myself heard in a large place, I was so pleased with the company, and with my reception, that, first and last, I dare say I addressed the company for an hour and a half. We dined at two, and separated at nine; and, as I declared at parting, for many, many years, I had not spent a happier day. There was present the editor, or some other gentleman, from the newspaper called _The Bucks Gazette and General Advertiser_, who has published in his paper the following account of what passed at the dinner. As far as the report goes, it is substantially correct; and, though this gentleman went away at a very early hour, that which he has given of my speech (which he has given very judiciously) contains matter which can hardly fail to be useful to great numbers of his readers. MR. COBBETT AT TRING. "Mr. Elliman, a draper at Tring, has lately formed a considerable plantation of the locust tree, which Mr. Cobbett claims the merit of having introduced into this country. The number he has planted is about 30,000, on five acres and a half of very indifferent land, and they have thrived so uncommonly well, that not more than 500 of the whole number have failed. The success of the plantation being made known to Mr. Cobbett, induced him to pay a visit to Tring to inspect it, and during his sojourn it was determined upon by his friends to give him a dinner at the Rose and Crown Inn. Thursday was fixed for the purpose; when about forty persons, agriculturists and tradesmen of Tring and the neighbouring towns, assembled, and sat down to a dinner served up in very excellent style, by Mr. Northwood, the landlord: Mr. Faithful, solicitor, of Tring, is the chair. "The usual routine toasts having been given, "The Chairman said he was sure the company would drink the toast with which he should conclude what he was about to say, with every mark of respect. In addressing the company, he rose under feelings of no ordinary kind, for he was about to give the health of a gentleman who had the talent of communicating to his writings an energy and perspicuity which he had never met with elsewhere; who conveyed knowledge in a way so clear, that all who read could understand. He (the Chairman) had read the Political Register, from the first of them to the last, with pleasure and benefit to himself, and he would defy any man to put his finger upon a single line which was not in direct support of a kingly government. He advocated the rights of the people, but he always expressed himself favourable to our ancient form of government; he certainly had strongly, but not too strongly, attacked the corruption of the government; but had never attacked its form or its just powers. As a public writer, he considered him the most impartial that he knew. He well recollected--he knew not if Mr. Cobbett himself recollected it--a remarkable passage in his writings: he was speaking of the pleasure of passing from censure to praise, and thus expressed himself. 'It is turning from the frowns of a surly winter, to welcome a smiling spring come dancing over the daisied lawn, crowned with garlands, and surrounded with melody.' Nature had been bountiful to him; it had blessed him with a constitution capable of enduring the greatest fatigues; and a mind of superior order. Brilliancy, it was said, was a mere meteor; it was so: it was the solidity and depth of understanding such as he possessed, that were really valuable. He had visited this place in consequence of a gentleman having been wise and bold enough to listen to his advice, and to plant a large number of locust trees; and he trusted he would enjoy prosperity and happiness, in duration equal to that of the never-decaying wood of those trees. He concluded by giving Mr. Cobbett's health." "Mr. Cobbett returned thanks for the manner in which his health had been drunk, and was certain that the trees which had been the occasion of their meeting would be a benefit to the children of the planter. Though it might appear like presumption to suppose that those who were assembled that day came solely in compliment to him, yet it would be affectation not to believe that it was expected he should say something on the subject of politics. Every one who heard him was convinced that there was something wrong, and that a change of some sort must take place, or ruin to the country would ensue. Though there was a diversity of opinions as to the cause of the distress, and as to the means by which a change might be effected, and though some were not so deeply affected by it as others, all now felt that a change must take place before long, whether they were manufacturers, brewers, butchers, bakers, or of any other description of persons, they had all arrived at the conviction that there must be a change. It would be presumptuous to suppose that many of those assembled did not understand the cause of the present distress, yet there were many who did not; and those gentlemen who did, he begged to have the goodness to excuse him if he repeated what they already knew. Politics was a science which they ought not to have the trouble of studying; they had sufficient to do in their respective avocations, without troubling themselves with such matters. For what were the ministers, and a whole tribe of persons under them, paid large sums of money from the country but for the purpose of governing its political affairs. Their fitness for their stations was another thing. He had been told that Mr. Huskisson was so ignorant of the cause of the distress, that he had openly said, he should be glad if any practical man would tell him what it all meant. If any man present were to profess his ignorance of the cause of the distress it would be no disgrace to him; he might be a very good butcher, a very good farmer, or a very good baker: he might well understand the business by which he gained his living; and if any one should say to him, because he did not understand politics, 'You are a very stupid fellow!' he might fairly reply, 'What is that to you?' But it was another thing to those who were so well paid to manage the affairs of the country to plead ignorance of the cause of the prevailing distress. * * * * * "Mr. Goulburn, with a string of figures as long as his arm, had endeavoured to prove in the House of Commons that the withdrawal of the one-pound notes, being altogether so small an amount, little more than two millions, would be of no injury to the country, and that its only effect would be to make bankers more liberal in discounting with their fives. He would appeal to the company if they had found this to be the case. Mr. Goulburn had forgotten that the one-pound notes were the legs upon which the fives walked. He had heard the Duke of Wellington use the same language in the other House. Taught, as they now were, by experience, it would scarcely be believed, fifty years hence, that a set of men could have been found with so little foresight as to have devised measures so fraught with injury. "He felt convinced that if he looked to the present company, or any other accidentally assembled, that he would find thirteen gentlemen more fit to manage the affairs of the kingdom than were those who now presided at the head of Government; not that he imputed to them any desire to do wrong, or that they were more corrupt than others; it was clear, that with the eyes of the public upon them they must wish to do right; it was owing to their sheer ignorance, their entire unfitness to carry on the Government, that they did no better. Ignorance and unfitness were, however, pleas which they had no business to make. It was nothing to him if a man was ignorant and stupid, under ordinary circumstances; but if he entrusted a man with his money, thinking that he was intelligent, and was deceived, then it was something; he had a right to say, 'You are not what I took you for, you are an ignorant fellow; you have deceived me, you are an impostor.' Such was the language proper to all under such circumstances: never mind their titles! "A friend had that morning taken him to view the beautiful vale of Aylesbury, which he had never before seen; and the first thought that struck him, on seeing the rich pasture, was this, 'Good God! is a country like this to be ruined by the folly of those who govern it?' When he was a naughty boy, he used to say that if he wanted to select Members for our Houses of Parliament, he would put a string across any road leading _into_ London, and that the first 1000 men that ran against his string, he would choose for Members, and he would bet a wager that they would be better qualified than those who now filled those Houses. That was when he was a naughty boy; but since that time a Bill had been passed which made it banishment for life to use language that brought the Houses of Parliament into contempt, and therefore he did not say so now. The Government, it should be recollected, had passed all these Acts with the hearty concurrence of both Houses of Parliament; they were thus backed by these Houses, and they were backed by ninety-nine out of one hundred of the papers, which affected to see all their acts in rose-colour, for no one who was in the habit of reading the papers, could have anticipated, from what they there saw, the ruin which had fallen on the country. Thus we had an ignorant Government, an ignorant Parliament, and something worse than an ignorant press; the latter being employed (some of them with considerable talent) to assail and turn into ridicule those who had the boldness and honesty to declare their dissent from the opinion of the wisdom of the measures of Government. It was no easy task to stand, unmoved, their ridicule and sarcasms, and many were thus deterred from expressing the sentiments of their minds. In this country we had all the elements of prosperity; an industrious people, such as were nowhere else to be found; a country, too, which was once called the finest and greatest on the earth (for whatever might be said of the country in comparison with others, the turnips of England were worth more, this year, than all the vines of France). It was a glorious and a great country until the Government had made it otherwise; and it ought still to be what it once was, and to be capable to driving the Russians back from the country of our old and best ally--the Turks. During the time of war, we were told that it was necessary to make great sacrifices to save us from disgrace. The people made those sacrifices; they gave up their all. But had the Government done its part; had it saved us from disgrace? No: we were now the laughing-stock of all other countries. The French and all other nations derided us; and by and by it would be seen that they would make a partition of Turkey with the Russians, and make a fresh subject for laughter. Never since the time of Charles had such disgrace been brought upon the country; and why was this? When were we again to see the labourer receiving his wages from the farmer instead of being sent on the road to break stones? Some people, under this state of things, consoled themselves by saying things would come about again; they had come about before, and would come about again. They deceived themselves, things did not come about; the seasons came about, it was true; but something must be _done_ to bring things about. Instead of the _neuter_ verb (to speak as a grammarian) they should use the _active_; they should not say things will _come_ about, but things must be _put_ about. He thought that the distress would shortly become so great, perhaps, about Christmas, that the Parliamentary gentlemen, finding they received but a small part of their rents, without which they could not do, any more than the farmer, without his crops, would endeavour to bring them about; and the measures they would propose for that purpose, as far as he could judge, would be Bank restriction, and the re-issue of one-pound notes, and what the effect of that would be they would soon see. One of those persons who were so profoundly ignorant, would come down to the House prepared to propose a return to Bank restriction and the issue of small notes, and a bill to that effect would be passed. If such a bill did pass, he would advise all persons to be cautious in their dealings; it would be perilous to make bargains under such a state of things. Money was the measure of value; but if this measure was liable to be three times as large at one time as at another, who could know what to do? how was any one to know how to purchase wheat, if the bushel was to be altered at the pleasure of the Government to three times its present size? The remedy for the evils of the country was not to be found in palliatives; it was not to be found in strong measures. The first step must be taken in the House of Commons, but that was almost hopeless; for although many persons possessed the right of voting, it was of little use to them; whilst a few great men could render their votes of no avail. If we had possessed a House of Commons that represented the feelings and wishes of the people, they would not have submitted to much of what had taken place; and until we had a reform we should never, he believed, see measures emanating from that House which would conduce to the glory and safety of the country. He feared that there would be no improvement until a dreadful convulsion took place, and that was an event which he prayed God to avert from the country. "The Chairman proposed '_Prosperity to Agriculture_,' when "Mr. Cobbett again rose, and said the Chairman had told him he was entitled to give a sentiment. He would give prosperity to the towns of Aylesbury and Tring; but he would again advise those who calculated upon the return of prosperity, to be careful. Until there was an equitable adjustment, or Government took off part of the taxes, which was the same thing, there could be no return of prosperity." After the reporter went away, we had a great number of toasts, most of which were followed by more or less of speech; and, before we separated, I think that the seeds of common sense, on the subject of our distresses, were pretty well planted in the lower part of Hertfordshire, and in Buckinghamshire. The gentlemen present were men of information, well able to communicate to others that which they themselves had heard; and I endeavoured to leave no doubt in the mind of any man that heard me, that the cause of the distress was the work of the Government and House of Commons, and that it was nonsense to hope for a cure until the people had a real voice in the choosing of that House. I think that these truths were well implanted; and I further think that if I could go to the capital of every county in the kingdom, I should leave no doubt in the minds of any part of the people. I must not omit to mention, in conclusion, that though I am no eater or drinker, and though I tasted nothing but the breast of a little chicken, and drank nothing but water, the dinner was the best that ever I saw called a _public dinner_, and certainly unreasonably cheap. There were excellent joints of meat of the finest description, fowls and geese in abundance; and, finally, a very fine haunch of venison, with a bottle of wine for each person; and all for _seven shillings and sixpence per head_. Good waiting upon; civil landlord and landlady; and, in short, everything at this very pretty town pleased me exceedingly. Yet, what is Tring but a fair specimen of English towns and English people? And is it right, and is it to be suffered, that such a people should be plunged into misery by the acts of those whom they pay so generously, and whom they so loyally and cheerfully obey? As far as I had an opportunity of ascertaining the facts, the farmers feel all the pinchings of distress, and the still harsher pinchings of anxiety for the future; and the labouring people are suffering in a degree not to be described. The shutting of the male paupers up in pounds is common through Bedfordshire and Buckinghamshire. Left at large during the day, they roam about and maraud. What are the farmers to do with them? God knows how long the peace is to be kept, if this state of things be not put a stop to. The natural course of things is, that an attempt to impound the paupers in cold weather will produce resistance in some place; that those of one parish will be joined by those of another; that a formidable band will soon be assembled; then will ensue the rummaging of pantries and cellars; that this will spread from parish to parish; and that, finally, mobs of immense magnitude will set the law at open defiance. Jails are next to useless in such a case: their want of room must leave the greater part of the offenders at large; the agonizing distress of the farmers will make them comparatively indifferent with regard to these violences; and, at last, general confusion will come. This is by no means an unlikely progress, or an unlikely result. It therefore becomes those who have much at stake, to join heartily in their applications to Government, for a timely remedy for these astounding evils. NORTHERN TOUR. _Sheffield, 31st January 1830._ On the 26th instant I gave my third lecture at Leeds. I should in vain endeavour to give an adequate description of the pleasure which I felt at my reception, and at the effect which I produced in that fine and opulent capital of this great county of York; for the _capital_ it is in fact, though not in name. On the first evening, the play-house, which is pretty spacious, was not completely filled in all its parts; but on the second and the third, it was filled brim full, boxes, pit and gallery; besides a dozen or two of gentlemen who were accommodated with seats on the stage. Owing to a cold which I took at Huddersfield, and which I spoke of before, I was, as the players call it, not in very good _voice_; but the audience made allowance for that, and very wisely preferred sense to sound. I never was more delighted than with my audience at Leeds; and what I set the highest value on, is, that I find I produced a prodigious effect in that important town. There had been a meeting at Doncaster, a few days before I went to Leeds from Ripley, where one of the speakers, a Mr. Becket Denison, had said, speaking of the taxes, that there must be an application of the _pruning hook_ or of the _sponge_. This gentleman is a banker, I believe; he is one of the Beckets connected with the Lowthers; and he is a brother, or very near relation of that Sir John Becket who is the Judge Advocate General. So that, at last, others can talk of the pruning hook and the sponge, as well as I. From Leeds I proceeded on to this place, not being able to stop at either Wakefield or Barnsley, except merely to change horses. The people in those towns were apprised of the time that I should pass through them; and, at each place, great numbers assembled to see me, to shake me by the hand, and to request me to stop. I was so hoarse as not to be able to make the post-boy hear me when I called to him; and, therefore, it would have been useless to stop; yet I promised to go back if my time and my voice would allow me. They do not; and I have written to the gentlemen of those places to inform them, that when I go to Scotland in the spring, I will not fail to stop in those towns, in order to express my gratitude to them. All the way along, from Leeds to Sheffield, it is coal and iron, and iron and coal. It was dark before we reached Sheffield; so that we saw the iron furnaces in all the horrible splendour of their everlasting blaze. Nothing can be conceived more grand or more terrific than the yellow waves of fire that incessantly issue from the top of these furnaces, some of which are close by the way-side. Nature has placed the beds of iron and the beds of coal alongside of each other, and art has taught man to make one to operate upon the other, as to turn the iron-stone into liquid matter, which is drained off from the bottom of the furnace, and afterwards moulded into blocks and bars, and all sorts of things. The combustibles are put into the top of the furnace, which stands thirty, forty, or fifty feet up in the air, and the ever blazing mouth of which is kept supplied with coal and coke and iron stone, from little iron wagons forced up by steam, and brought down again to be re-filled. It is a surprising thing to behold; and it is impossible to behold it without being convinced that, whatever other nations may do with cotton and with wool, they will never equal England with regard to things made of iron and steel. This Sheffield, and the land all about it, is one bed of iron and coal. They call it black Sheffield, and black enough it is; but from this one town and its environs go nine-tenths of the knives that are used in the whole world; there being, I understand, no knives made at Birmingham; the manufacture of which place consists of the larger sort of implements, of locks of all sorts, and guns and swords, and of all the endless articles of hardware which go to the furnishing of a house. As to the land, viewed in the way of agriculture, it really does appear to be very little worth. I have not seen, except at Harewood and Ripley, a stack of wheat since I came into Yorkshire; and even there, the whole I saw; and all that I have seen since I came into Yorkshire; and all that I saw during a ride of six miles that I took into Derbyshire the day before yesterday; all put together would not make the one-half of what I have many times seen in one single rick-yard of the vales of Wiltshire. But this is all very proper: these coal-diggers, and iron-melters, and knife-makers, compel us to send the food to them, which, indeed, we do very cheerfully, in exchange for the produce of their rocks, and the wondrous works of their hands. The trade of Sheffield has fallen off less in proportion than that of the other manufacturing districts. North America, and particularly the United States, where the people have so much victuals to cut, form a great branch of the custom of this town. If the people of Sheffield could only receive a tenth part of what their knives sell for by retail in America, Sheffield might pave its streets with silver. A _gross_ of knives and forks is sold to the Americans for less than three knives and forks can be bought at retail in a country store in America. No fear of rivalship in this trade. The Americans may lay on their tariff, and double it, and triple it; but as long as they continue to _cut_ their victuals, from Sheffield they must have the things to cut it with. The ragged hills all round about this town are bespangled with groups of houses inhabited by the working cutlers. They have not suffered like the working weavers; for, to make knives, there must be the hand of man. Therefore, machinery cannot come to destroy the wages of the labourer. The home demand has been very much diminished; but still the depression has here not been what it has been, and what it is, where the machinery can be brought into play. We are here just upon the borders of Derbyshire, a nook of which runs up and separates Yorkshire from Nottinghamshire. I went to a village, the day before yesterday, called _Mosborough_, the whole of the people of which are employed in the making of _sickles_ and _scythes_; and where, as I was told, they are very well off even in these times. A prodigious quantity of these things go to the United States of America. In short, there are about twelve millions of people there continually consuming these things; and the hardware merchants here have their agents and their stores in the great towns of America, which country, as far as relates to this branch of business, is still a part of old England. Upon my arriving here on Wednesday night, the 27th instant, I by no means intended to lecture until I should be a little recovered from my cold; but, to my great mortification, I found that the lecture had been advertised, and that great numbers of persons had actually assembled. To send them out again, and give back the money, was a thing not to be attempted. I, therefore, went to the Music Hall, the place which had been taken for the purpose, gave them a specimen of the state of my voice, asked them whether I should proceed, and they, answering in the affirmative, on I went. I then rested until yesterday, and shall conclude my labours here to-morrow, and then proceed to "_fair Nottingham_," as we used to sing when I was a boy, in celebrating the glorious exploits of "Robin Hood and Little John." By the by, as we went from Huddersfield to Dewsbury, we passed by a hill which is celebrated as being the burial-place of the famed Robin Hood, of whom the people in this country talk to this day. At Nottingham, they have advertised for my lecturing at the play-house, for the 3rd, 4th, and 5th of February, and for a public breakfast to be given to me on the first of those days, I having declined a dinner agreeably to my original notification, and my friends insisting upon something or other in that sort of way. It is very curious that I have always had a very great desire to see Nottingham. This desire certainly originated in the great interest that I used to take, and that all country boys took, in the history of Robin Hood, in the record of whose achievements, which were so well calculated to excite admiration in the country boys, this Nottingham, with the word "_fair_" always before it, was so often mentioned. The word _fair_, as used by our forefathers, meant fine; for we frequently read in old descriptions of parts of the country of such a district or such a parish, containing a _fair_ mansion, and the like; so that this town appears to have been celebrated as a very fine place, even in ancient times; but within the last thirty years, Nottingham has stood high in my estimation, from the conduct of its people; from their public spirit; from their excellent sense as to public matters; from the noble struggle which they have made from the beginning of the French war to the present hour: if only forty towns in England equal in size to Nottingham had followed its bright example, there would have been no French war against liberty; the Debt would have been now nearly paid off, and we should have known nothing of those manifold miseries which now afflict, and those greater miseries which now menace, the country. The French would not have been in Cadiz; the Russians would not have been at Constantinople; the Americans would not have been in the Floridas; we should not have had to dread the combined fleets of America, France, and Russia; and, which is the worst of all, we should not have seen the jails four times as big as they were; and should not have seen Englishmen reduced to such a state of misery as for the honest labouring man to be fed worse than the felons in the jails. EASTERN TOUR. "You permit the Jews openly to preach in their synagogues, and call Jesus Christ an impostor; and you send women to jail (to be brought to bed there, too), for declaring their unbelief in Christianity."--_King of Bohemia's Letter to Canning, published in the Register, 4th of January, 1823._ _Hargham, 22nd March, 1830._ I set off from London on the 8th of March, got to Bury St. Edmund's that evening; and, to my great mortification, saw the county-election and the assizes both going on at Chelmsford, where, of course, a great part of the people of Essex were met. If I had been aware of that, I should certainly have stopped at Chelmsford in order to address a few words of sense to the unfortunate constituents of Mr. Western. At Bury St. Edmund's I gave a lecture on the ninth and another on the tenth of March, in the playhouse, to very crowded audiences. I went to Norwich on the 12th, and gave a lecture there on that evening, and on the evening of the 13th. The audience here was more numerous than at Bury St. Edmund's, but not so numerous in proportion to the size of the place; and, contrary to what has happened in most other places, it consisted more of town's people than of country people. During the 14th and 15th, I was at a friend's house at Yelverton, half way between Norwich and Bungay, which last is in Suffolk, and at which place I lectured on the 16th to an audience consisting chiefly of farmers, and was entertained there in a most hospitable and kind manner at the house of a friend. The next day, being the 17th, I went to Eye, and there lectured in the evening in the neat little playhouse of the place, which was crowded in every part, stage and all. The audience consisted almost entirely of farmers, who had come in from Diss, from Harleston, and from all the villages round about, in this fertile and thickly-settled neighbourhood. I stayed at Eye all the day of the 18th, having appointed to be at Ipswich on the 19th. Eye is a beautiful little place, though an exceedingly rotten borough. All was harmony and good humour: everybody appeared to be of one mind; and as these friends observed to me, so I thought, that more effect had been produced by this one lecture in that neighbourhood, than could have been produced in a whole year, if the Register had been put into the hands of every one of the hearers during that space of time; for though I never attempt to put forth that sort of stuff which the "intense" people on the other side of St. George's Channel call "_eloquence_," I bring out strings of very interesting facts; I use pretty powerful arguments; and I hammer them down so closely upon the mind, that they seldom fail to produce a lasting impression. On the 19th I proceeded to Ipswich, not imagining it to be the fine, populous, and beautiful place that I found it to be. On that night, and on the night of the 20th, I lectured to boxes and pit, crowded principally with opulent farmers, and to a gallery filled, apparently, with journeymen tradesmen and their wives. On the Sunday before I came away, I heard, from all quarters, that my audiences had retired deeply impressed with the truths which I had endeavoured to inculcate. One thing, however, occurred towards the close of the lecture of Saturday, the 20th, that I deem worthy of particular attention. In general it would be useless for me to attempt to give anything like _a report_ of these speeches of mine, consisting as they do of words uttered pretty nearly as fast as I can utter them, during a space of never less than two, and sometimes of nearly three hours. But there occurred here something that I must notice. I was speaking of _the degrees_ by which the established church had been losing its _legal influence_ since the peace. First, the _Unitarian Bill_, removing the penal act which forbade an impugning of the doctrine of the Trinity; second, the repeal of the _Test Act_, which declared, in effect, that the religion of any of the Dissenters was as good as that of the church of England; third, the repeal of the penal and excluding laws with regard to the _Catholics_; and this last act, said I, does in effect declare that the thing called "the _Reformation_" was _unnecessary_. "No," said one gentleman, in a very loud voice, and he was followed by four or five more, who said "No, No." "Then," said I, "we will, if you like, put it _to the vote_. Understand, gentlemen, that _I do not say_, whatever I may think, that the Reformation was unnecessary; but I say that _this act amounts to a declaration_ that it was unnecessary; and, without losing our good humour, we will, if that gentleman choose, put this question to the vote." I paused a little while, receiving no answer, and perceiving that the company were with me, I proceeded with my speech, concluding with the complete demolishing blow which the church would receive by the bill for giving civil and political power for training to the bar, and seating on the bench, for placing in the commons and amongst the peers, and for placing in the council, along with the King himself, _those who deny that there ever existed a Redeemer_; who give the name of _impostor_ to him whom _we worship as God_, and who boast of having hanged him upon the cross. "Judge you, gentlemen," said I, "of the figure which England will make, when its laws will seat on the bench, from which people have been sentenced to suffer most severely for denying the truth of Christianity; from which bench it has been held that _Christianity is part and parcel of the law of the land_; judge you of the figure which England will make amongst Christian nations, when a Jew, a blasphemer of Christ, a professor of the doctrines of those who murdered him, shall be sitting upon that bench; and judge, gentlemen, what we must think of _the clergy_ of this church of ours, _if they remain silent_ while such a law shall be passed." We were entertained at Ipswich by a very kind and excellent friend, whom, as is generally the case, I had never seen or heard of before. The morning of the day of the last lecture, I walked about five miles, then went to his house to breakfast, and stayed with him and dined. On the Sunday morning, before I came away, I walked about six miles, and repeated the good cheer at breakfast at the same place. Here I heard the first singing of the birds this year; and I here observed an instance of that _petticoat government_, which, apparently, pervades the whole of animated nature. A lark, very near to me in a ploughed field, rose from the ground, and was saluting the sun with his delightful song. He was got about as high as the dome of St. Paul's, having me for a motionless and admiring auditor, when the hen started up from nearly the same spot whence the cock had risen, flew up and passed close by him. I could not hear what she said; but supposed that she must have given him a pretty smart reprimand; for down she came upon the ground, and he, ceasing to sing, took a twirl in the air, and came down after her. Others have, I dare say, seen this a thousand times over; but I never observed it before. About twelve o'clock, my son and I set off for this place (Hargham), coming through Needham Market, Stowmarket, Bury St. Edmund's, and Thetford, at which latter place I intended to have lectured to-day and to-morrow, where the theatre was to have been the scene, but the mayor of the town thought it best not to give his permission until the assizes (which commence to-day the 22nd) should be over, lest the judge should take offence, seeing that it is the custom, while his Lordship is in the town, to give up the civil jurisdiction to him. Bless his worship! what in all the world should he think would take me to Thetford, _except it being a time for holding the assizes_? At no _other_ time should I have dreamed of finding an audience in so small a place, and in a country so thinly inhabited. I was attracted, too, by the desire of meeting some of my "_learned friends_" from the Wen; for I deal in arguments founded on the _law of the land_, and on _Acts of Parliament_. The deuce take this mayor for disappointing me; and, now, I am afraid that I shall not fall in with this learned body during the whole of my spring tour. Finding Thetford to be forbidden ground, I came hither to Sir Thomas Beevor's, where I had left my two daughters, having, since the 12th inclusive, travelled 120 miles, and delivered six lectures. Those 120 miles have been through a fine _farming country_, and without my seeing, until I came to Thetford, but one spot of waste or common land, and that not exceeding, I should think, from fifty to eighty acres. From this place to Norwich, and through Attleborough and Wymondham, the land is all good, and the farming excellent. It is pretty nearly the same from Norwich to Bungay, where we enter Suffolk. Bungay is a large and fine town, with three churches, lying on the side of some very fine meadows. Harleston, on the road to Eye, is a very pretty market-town: of Eye, I have spoken before. From Eye to Ipswich, we pass through a series of villages, and at Ipswich, to my great surprise, we found a most beautiful town, with a population of about twelve thousand persons; and here our profound Prime Minister might have seen most abundant evidence of prosperity; for the _new houses_ are, indeed, very numerous. But if our famed and profound Prime Minister, having Mr. Wilmot Horton by the arm, and standing upon one of the hills that surround this town, and which, each hill seeming to surpass the other hill in beauty, command a complete view of every house, or, at least, of the top of every house, in this opulent town; if he, thus standing, and thus accompanied, were to hold up his hands, clap them together, and bless God for the proofs of prosperity contained in the new and red bricks, and were to cast his eye southward of the town, and see the numerous little vessels upon the little arm of the sea which comes up from Harwich, and which here finds its termination; and were, in those vessels, to discover an additional proof of prosperity; if he were to be thus situated, and to be thus feeling, would not some doubts be awakened in his mind; if I, standing behind him, were to whisper in his ear, "Do you not think that the greater part of these new houses have been created by taxes, which went to pay the about 20,000 _troops_ that were stationed here for pretty nearly 20 years during the war, and some of which are stationed here still? Look at that immense building, my Lord Duke: it is fresh and _new_ and fine and splendid, and contains indubitable marks of opulence; but it is a BARRACK; aye, and the money to build that barrack, and to maintain the 20,000 troops, has assisted to beggar, to dilapidate, to plunge into ruin and decay, hundreds upon hundreds of villages and hamlets in Wiltshire, in Dorsetshire, in Somersetshire, and in other counties who shared not in the ruthless squanderings of the war. But," leaning my arm upon the Duke's shoulder, and giving Wilmot a poke in the poll to make him listen and look, and pointing with my fore-finger to the twelve large, lofty, and magnificent churches, each of them at least 700 years old, and saying, "Do you think Ipswich was not larger and far more populous 700 years ago than it is at this hour?" Putting this question to him, would it not check his exultation, and would it not make even Wilmot begin to reflect? Even at this hour, with all the unnatural swellings of the war, there are not two thousand people, _including the bed-ridden and the babies_, to each of the magnificent churches. Of adults, there cannot be more than about 1400 to a church; and there is one of the churches which, being well filled, as in ancient times, would contain from four to seven thousand persons, for the nave of it appears to me to be larger than St. Andrew's Hall at Norwich, which Hall was formerly the church of the Benedictine Priory. And, perhaps, the great church here might have belonged to some monastery; for here were three Augustine priories, one of them founded in the reign of William the Conqueror, another founded in the reign of Henry the Second, another in the reign of King John, with an Augustine friary, a Carmelite friary, an hospital founded in the reign of King John; and here, too, was the college founded by Cardinal Wolsey, the gateway of which, though built in brick, is still preserved, being the same sort of architecture as that of Hampton Court, and St. James's Palace. There is no doubt but that this was a much greater place than it is now. It is the great outlet for the immense quantities of corn grown in this most productive county, and by farmers the most clever that ever lived. I am told that wheat is worth six shillings a quarter more, at some times, at Ipswich than at Norwich, the navigation to London being so much more speedy and safe. Immense quantities of flour are sent from this town. The windmills on the hills in the vicinage are so numerous that I counted, whilst standing in one place, no less than seventeen. They are all painted or washed white; the sails are black; it was a fine morning, the wind was brisk, and their twirling altogether added greatly to the beauty of the scene, which, having the broad and beautiful arm of the sea on the one hand, and the fields and meadows, studded with farm-houses, on the other, appeared to me the most beautiful sight of the kind that I had ever beheld. The town and its churches were down in the dell before me, and the only object that came to disfigure the scene was THE BARRACK, and made me utter involuntarily the words of BLACKSTONE: "The laws of England recognise no distinction between the citizen and the soldier; they know of no standing soldier: no inland fortresses; no barracks." "Ah!" said I to myself, but loud enough for any one to have heard me a hundred yards, "such _were_ the laws of England when mass was said in those magnificent churches, and such they continued until a _septennial_ Parliament came and deprived the people of England of their rights." I know of no town to be compared with Ipswich, except it be Nottingham; and there is this difference in the two; that Nottingham stands high, and, on one side, looks over a very fine country; whereas Ipswich is in a dell, meadows running up above it, and a beautiful arm of the sea below it. The town itself is substantially built, well paved, everything good and solid, and no wretched dwellings to be seen on its outskirts. From the town itself, you can see nothing; but you can, in no direction, go from it a quarter of a mile without finding views that a painter might crave, and then, the country round about it, so well cultivated; the land in such a beautiful state, the farm-houses all white, and all so much alike; the barns, and everything about the homesteads so snug: the stocks of turnips so abundant everywhere; the sheep and cattle in such fine order; the wheat all drilled; the ploughman so expert; the furrows, if a quarter of a mile long, as straight as a line, and laid as truly as if with a level: in short, here is everything to delight the eye, and to make the people proud of their country; and this is the case throughout the whole of this county. I have always found Suffolk farmers great boasters of their superiority over others; and I must say that it is not without reason. But, observe, this has been a very _highly-favoured county_: it has had poured into it millions upon millions of money, drawn from Wiltshire, and other inland counties. I should suppose that Wiltshire alone has, within the last forty years, had two or three millions of money drawn from it, _to be given to Essex and Suffolk_. At one time there were not less than sixty thousand men kept on foot in these counties. The increase of London, too, the swellings of the immortal Wen, have assisted to heap wealth upon these counties; but, in spite of all this, the distress pervades all ranks and degrees, except those who live on the taxes. At Eye, butter used to sell for eighteen-pence a pound: it now sells for nine-pence halfpenny, though the grass has not yet begun to spring; and eggs were sold at thirty for a shilling. Fine times for me, whose principal food is eggs, and whose sole drink is milk, but very bad times for those who sell me the food and the drink. Coming from Ipswich to Bury St. Edmund's, you pass through Needham-market and Stowmarket, two very pretty market towns; and, like all the other towns in Suffolk, free from the drawback of shabby and beggarly houses on the outskirts. I remarked that I did not see in the whole county one single instance of paper or rags supplying the place of glass in any window, and did not see one miserable hovel in which a labourer resided. The county, however, is _flat_: with the exception of the environs of Ipswich, there is none of that beautiful variety of hill and dale, and hanging woods, that you see at every town in Hampshire, Sussex, and Kent. It is curious, too, that though the people, I mean the poorer classes of people, are extremely neat in their houses, and though I found all their gardens dug up and prepared for cropping, you do not see about their cottages (and it is just the same in Norfolk) that _ornamental gardening_; the walks, and the flower borders, and the honey-suckles, and roses, trained over the doors, or over arched sticks, that you see in Hampshire, Sussex, and Kent, that I have many a time sitten upon my horse to look at so long and so often, as greatly to retard me on my journey. Nor is this done for show or ostentation. If you find a cottage in those counties, by the side of a _by lane_, or in the midst of a forest, you find just the same care about the garden and the flowers. In those counties, too, there is great taste with regard _to trees_ of every description, from the hazel to the oak. In Suffolk it appears to be just the contrary: here is the great dissight of all these three eastern counties. Almost every bank of every field is studded with _pollards_, that is to say, trees that have been _beheaded_, at from six to twelve feet from the ground, than which nothing in nature can be more ugly. They send out shoots from the head, which are lopped off once in ten or a dozen years for fuel, or other purposes. To add to the deformity, the ivy is suffered to grow on them, which, at the same time, checks the growth of the shoots. These pollards become hollow very soon, and, as timber, are fit for nothing but gate-posts, even before they be hollow. Upon a farm of a hundred acres these pollards, by root and shade, spoil at least six acres of the ground, besides being most destructive to the fences. Why not plant six acres of the ground with timber and underwood? Half an acre a year would most amply supply the farm with poles and brush, and with everything wanted in the way of fuel; and why not plant hedges to be unbroken by these pollards? I have scarcely seen a single farm of a hundred acres without pollards, sufficient to find the farm-house in fuel, without any assistance from coals, for several years. However, the great number of farm-houses in Suffolk, the neatness of those houses, the moderation in point of extent which you generally see, and the great store of the food in the turnips, and the admirable management of the whole, form a pretty good compensation for the want of beauties. The land is generally as clean as a garden ought to be; and, though it varies a good deal as to lightness and stiffness, they make it all bear prodigious quantities of Swedish turnips; and on them pigs, sheep, and cattle, all equally thrive. I did not observe a single poor miserable animal in the whole county. To conclude an account of Suffolk, and not to sing the praises of Bury St. Edmund's, would offend every creature of Suffolk birth; even at Ipswich, when I was praising _that place_, the very people of that town asked me if I did not think Bury St. Edmund's the nicest town in the world. Meet them wherever you will, they have all the same boast; and indeed, as a town _in itself_, it is the neatest place that ever was seen. It is airy, it has several fine open places in it, and it has the remains of the famous abbey walls and the abbey gate entire; and it is so clean and so neat that nothing can equal it in that respect. It was a favourite spot in ancient times; greatly endowed with monasteries and hospitals. Besides the famous Benedictine Abbey, there were once a college and a friary; and as to the abbey itself, it was one of the greatest in the kingdom; and was so ancient as to have been founded only about forty years after the landing of Saint Austin in Kent. The land all round about it is good; and the soil is of that nature as not to produce much dirt at any time of the year; but the country about it is _flat_, and not of that beautiful variety that we find at Ipswich. After all, what is the reflection now called for? It is that this fine county, for which nature has done all that she can do, soil, climate, sea-ports, people; everything that can be done, and an internal government, civil and ecclesiastical, the most complete in the world, wanting nothing but to _be let alone_, to make every soul in it as happy as people can be upon earth; the peace provided for by the county rates; property protected by the law of the land; the poor provided for by the poor-rates; religion provided for by the tithes and the church-rates; easy and safe conveyance provided for by the highway-rates; extraordinary danger provided against by the militia-rates; a complete government in itself; _but having to pay a portion of sixty millions a year in taxes, over and above all this; and that, too, on account of wars carried on, not for the defence of England_, not for the upholding of _English liberty and happiness_, but for the purpose of crushing liberty and happiness in other countries; and all this because, and only because, a septennial Parliament has deprived the people of their rights. That which we _admire_ most is not always that which would be _our choice_. One might imagine, that after all that I have said about this fine county, I should certainly prefer it as a place of residence. I should not, however: my choice has been always very much divided between the woods of Sussex and the downs of Wiltshire. I should not like to be compelled to decide; but if I were compelled, I do believe that I should fix on some vale in Wiltshire. Water meadows at the bottom, corn-land going up towards the hills, those hills being _Down land_, and a farm-house, in a clump of trees, in some little cross vale between the hills, sheltered on every side but the south. In short, if Mr. Bennet would give me a farm, the house of which lies on the right-hand side of the road going from Salisbury to Warminster, in the parish of Norton Bovant, just before you enter that village; if he would but be so good as to do that, I would freely give up all the rest of the world to the possession of whoever may get hold of it. I have hinted this to him once or twice before, but I am sorry to say that he turns a deaf ear to my hinting. _Cambridge, 28th March, 1830._ I went from Hargham to Lynn on Tuesday, the 23rd; but owing to the disappointment at Thetford, everything was deranged. It was market-day at Lynn, but no preparations of any sort had been made, and no notification given. I therefore resolved, after staying at Lynn on Wednesday, to make a short tour, and to come back to it again. This tour was to take in _Ely_, Cambridge, St. Ives, Stamford, Peterborough, Wisbeach, and was to bring me back to Lynn, after a very busy ten days. I was particularly desirous to have a little political preaching at Ely, the place where the flogging of the English local militia under a guard of German bayonets cost me so dear. I got there about noon on Thursday, the 25th, being market-day; but I had been apprised even before I left Lynn, that no place had been provided for my accommodation. A gentleman at Lynn gave me the name of one at Ely, who, as he thought, would be glad of an opportunity of pointing out a proper place, and of speaking about it; but just before I set off from Lynn, I received a notification from this gentleman, that he could do nothing in the matter. I knew that Ely was a small place, but I was determined to go and see the spot where the militia-men were flogged, and also determined to find some opportunity or other of relating that story as publicly as I could at Ely, and of describing the _tail_ of the story; of which I will speak presently. Arrived at Ely, I first walked round the beautiful cathedral, that honour to our Catholic forefathers, and that standing disgrace to our Protestant selves. It is impossible to look at that magnificent pile without _feeling_ that we are a fallen race of men. The cathedral would, leaving out the palace of the bishop, and the houses of the dean, canons, and prebendaries, weigh more, if it were put into a scale, than all the houses in the town, and all the houses for a mile round the neighbourhood if you exclude the remains of the ancient monasteries. You have only to open your eyes to be convinced that England must have been a far greater and more wealthy country in those days than it is in these days. The hundreds of thousands of loads of stone, of which this cathedral and the monasteries in the neighbourhood were built, must all have been brought by sea from distant parts of the kingdom. These foundations were laid more than a thousand years ago; and yet there are vagabonds who have the impudence to say that it is the Protestant religion that has made England a great country. Ely is what one may call a miserable little town: very prettily situated, but poor and mean. Everything seems to be on the decline, as, indeed, is the case everywhere, where the clergy are the masters. They say that this bishop has an income of £18,000 a year. He and the dean and chapter are the owners of all the land and tithes, for a great distance round about, in this beautiful and most productive part of the country; and yet this famous building, the cathedral, is in a state of disgraceful irrepair and disfigurement. The great and magnificent windows to the east have been shortened at the bottom, and the space plastered up with brick and mortar, in a very slovenly manner, for the purpose of saving the expense of keeping the glass in repair. Great numbers of the windows in the upper part of the building have been partly closed up in the same manner, and others quite closed up. One door-way, which apparently had stood in need of repair, has been rebuilt in modern style, because it was cheaper; and the churchyard contained a flock of sheep acting as vergers for those who live upon the immense income, not a penny of which ought to be expended upon themselves while any part of this beautiful building is in a state of irrepair. This cathedral was erected "to the honour of God and the Holy Church." My daughters went to the service in the afternoon, in the choir of which they saw God honoured by the presence of _two old men_, forming the whole of the congregation. I dare say, that in Catholic times, five thousand people at a time have been assembled in this church. The cathedral and town stand upon a little hill, about three miles in circumference, raised up, as it were, for the purpose, amidst the rich fen land by which the hill is surrounded, and I dare say that the town formerly consisted of houses built over a great part of this hill, and of, probably, from fifty to a hundred thousand people. The people do not now exceed above four thousand, including the bedridden and the babies. Having no place provided for lecturing, and knowing no single soul in the place, I was thrown upon my own resources. The first thing I did was to walk up through the market, which contained much more than an audience sufficient for me; but, leaving the market people to carry on their affairs, I picked up a sort of labouring man, asked him if he recollected when the local militia-men were flogged under the guard of the Germans; and, receiving an answer in the affirmative, I asked him to go and show me the spot, which he did; he showed me a little common along which the men had been marched, and into a piece of pasture-land, where he put his foot upon the identical spot where the flogging had been executed. On that spot, I told him what I had suffered for expressing my indignation at that flogging. I told him that a large sum of English money was now every year sent abroad to furnish half pay and allowances to the officers of those German troops, and to maintain the widows and children of such of them as were dead; and I added, "You have to work to help to pay that money; part of the taxes which you pay on your malt, hops, beer, leather, soap, candles, tobacco, tea, sugar, and everything else, goes abroad every year to pay these people: it has thus been going abroad ever since the peace; and it will thus go abroad for the rest of your life, if this system of managing the nation's affairs continue;" and I told him that about one million seven hundred thousand pounds had been sent abroad on this account, _since the peace_. When I opened, I found that this man was willing to open too; and he uttered sentiments that would have convinced me, if I had not before been convinced of the fact, that there are very few, even amongst the labourers, who do not clearly understand the cause of their ruin. I discovered that there were two Ely men flogged upon that occasion, and that one of them was still alive and residing near the town. I sent for this man, who came to me in the evening when he had done his work, and who told me that he had lived seven years with the same master when he was flogged, and was bailiff or head man to his master. He has now a wife and several children; is a very nice-looking, and appears to be a hard-working, man, and to bear an excellent character. But how was I to harangue? For I was determined not to quit Ely without something of that sort. I told this labouring man who showed me the flogging spot, my name, which seemed to surprise him very much, for he had heard of me before. After I had returned to my inn, I walked back again through the market amongst the farmers; then went to an inn that looked out upon the market-place, went into an up-stairs room, threw up the sash, and sat down at the window, and looked out upon the market. Little groups soon collected to survey me, while I sat in a very unconcerned attitude. The farmers had dined, or I should have found out the most numerous assemblage, and have dined with them. The next best thing was, to go and sit down in the room where they usually dropped in to drink after dinner; and, as they nearly all smoke, to take a pipe with them. This, therefore, I did; and, after a time, we began to talk. The room was too small to contain a twentieth part of the people that would have come in if they could. It was hot to suffocation; but, nevertheless, I related to them the account of the flogging, and of my persecution on that account; and I related to them the account above stated with regard to the English money now sent to the Germans, at which they appeared to be utterly astonished. I had not time sufficient for a lecture, but I explained to them briefly the real cause of the distress which prevailed; I warned the farmers particularly against the consequences of hoping that this distress would remove itself. I portrayed to them the effects of the taxes; and showed them that we owe this enormous burden to the want of being fairly represented in the Parliament. Above all things, I did that which I never fail to do, showed them the absurdity of grumbling at the six millions a year given in relief to the poor, while they were silent, and seemed to think nothing of the sixty millions of taxes collected by the Government at London, and I asked them how any man of property could have the impudence to call upon the labouring man to serve in the militia, and to deny that that labouring man had, in case of need, a clear right to a share of the produce of the land. I explained to them how the poor were originally relieved; told them that the revenues of the livings, which had their foundation in _charity_, were divided amongst the poor. The demands for repair of the churches, and the clergy themselves; I explained to them how church-rates and poor-rates came to be introduced; how the burden of maintaining the poor came to be thrown upon the people at large; how the nation had sunk by degrees ever since the event called the Reformation; and, pointing towards the cathedral, I said, "Can you believe, gentlemen, that when that magnificent pile was reared, and when all the fine monasteries, hospitals, schools, and other resorts of piety and charity, existed in this town and neighbourhood; can you believe, that Ely was the miserable little place that it now is; and that that England which had never heard of the name of _pauper_, contained the crowds of miserable creatures that it now contains, some starving at stone-cracking by the way-side, and others drawing loaded wagons on that way?" A young man in the room (I having come to a pause) said: "But, Sir, were there no poor in Catholic times?" "Yes," said I, "to be sure there were. The Scripture says, that the poor shall never cease out of the land; and there are five hundred texts of Scripture enjoining on all men to be good and kind to the poor. It is necessary to the existence of civil society, that there should be poor. Men have two motives to industry and care in all the walks of life: one, to acquire wealth; but the other and stronger, to avoid poverty. If there were no poverty, there would be no industry, no enterprise. But this poverty is not to be made a punishment unjustly severe. Idleness, extravagance, are offences against morality; but they are not offences of that heinous nature to justify the infliction of starvation by way of punishment. It is, therefore, the duty of every man that is able; it is particularly the duty of every government, and it was a duty faithfully executed by the Catholic Church, to take care that no human being should perish for want in a land of plenty; and to take care, too, that no one should be deficient of a sufficiency of food and raiment, not only to sustain life, but also to sustain health." The young man said: "I thank you, Sir; I am answered." I strongly advised the farmers to be well with their work-people; for that, unless their flocks were as safe in their fields as their bodies were in their beds, their lives must be lives of misery; that if their sacks and barns were not places of as safe deposit for their corn as their drawers were for their money, the life of the farmer was the most wretched upon earth, in place of being the most pleasant, as it ought to be. _Boston, Friday, 9th April, 1830._ Quitting Cambridge and Dr. Chafy and Serjeant Frere, on Monday, the 29th of March, I arrived at St. Ives, in Huntingdonshire, about one o'clock in the day. In the evening I harangued to about 200 persons, principally farmers, in a wheelwright's shop, that being the only _safe_ place in the town, of sufficient dimensions and sufficiently strong. It was market-day; and this is a great cattle-market. As I was not to be at Stamford in Lincolnshire till the 31st, I went from St. Ives to my friend Mr. Wells's, near Huntingdon, and remained there till the 31st in the morning, employing the evening of the 30th in going to Chatteris, in the Isle of Ely, and there addressing a good large company of farmers. On the 31st, I went to Stamford, and, in the evening, spoke to about 200 farmers and others, in a large room in a very fine and excellent inn, called Standwell's Hotel, which is, with few exceptions, the nicest inn that I have ever been in. On the 1st of April, I harangued here again, and had amongst my auditors some most agreeable, intelligent, and public-spirited yeomen, from the little county of Rutland, who made, respecting the _seat in Parliament_, the proposition, the details of the purport of which I communicated to my readers in the last Register. On the 2nd of April, I met my audience in the playhouse at Peterborough; and though it had snowed all day, and was very wet and sloppy, I had a good large audience; and I did not let this opportunity pass without telling my hearers of the part that their _good_ neighbour, Lord Fitzwilliam, had acted with regard to the _French war_, with regard to _Burke and his pension_; with regard to the _dungeoning law_, which drove me across the Atlantic in 1817, and with regard to the putting into the present Parliament, aye, and for that very town, that very Lawyer Scarlett, whose state prosecutions are now become so famous. "Never," said I, "did I say that behind a man's back that I would not say to his face. I wish I had his face before me: but I am here as near to it as I can get: I am before the face of his friends: here, therefore, I will say what I think of him." When I had described his conduct, and given my opinion on it, many applauded, and not one expressed disapprobation. On the 3rd, I speechified at Wisbeach, in the playhouse, to about 220 people, I think it was; and that same night, went to sleep at a friend's (a total stranger to me, however) at St. Edmund's, in the heart of the Fens. I stayed there on the 4th (Sunday), the morning of which brought a hard frost: ice an inch thick, and the total destruction of the apricot blossoms. After passing Sunday and the greater part of Monday (the 5th) at St. Edmund's, where my daughters and myself received the greatest kindness and attention, we went, on Monday afternoon, to Crowland, where we were most kindly lodged and entertained at the houses of two gentlemen, to whom also we were personally perfect strangers; and in the evening, I addressed a very large assemblage of most respectable farmers and others, in this once famous town. There was another hard frost on the Monday morning; just, as it were, to _finish_ the apricot bloom. On the 6th I went to Lynn, and on that evening and on the evening of the 7th, I spoke to about 300 people in the playhouse. And here there was more _interruption_ than I have ever met with at any other place. This town, though containing as good and kind friends as I have met with in any other, and though the people are generally as good, contains also, apparently, a large proportion of _dead-weight_, the offspring, most likely, of the _rottenness of the borough_. Two or three, or even _one_ man, may, if not tossed out at once, disturb and interrupt everything in a case where constant attention to _fact_ and _argument_ is requisite, to insure utility to the meeting. There were but _three_ here; and though they were finally silenced, it was not without great loss of time, great noise and hubbub. Two, I was told, were _dead-weight_ men, and one a sort of _higgling merchant_. On the 8th I went to Holbeach, in this noble county of Lincoln; and, gracious God! what a _contrast_ with the scene at Lynn! I knew not a soul in the place. Mr. Fields, a bookseller and printer, had invited me by letter, and had, in the nicest and most unostentatious manner, made all the preparations. Holbeach lies in the midst of some of the richest land in the world; a small market-town, but a parish more than twenty miles across, larger, I believe, than the county of Rutland, produced an audience (in a very nice room, with seats prepared) of 178, apparently all wealthy farmers, and men in that rank of life; and an audience so _deeply_ attentive to the dry matters on which I had to address it, I have very seldom met with. I was delighted with Holbeach; a neat little town; a most beautiful church with a spire, like that of "the man of Ross, pointing to the skies;" gardens very pretty; fruit-trees in abundance, with blossom-buds ready to burst; and land, dark in colour, and as fine in substance as flour, as fine as if sifted through one of the sieves with which we get the dust out of the clover seed; and when cut deep down into with a spade, precisely, as to substance, like a piece of hard butter; yet nowhere is the _distress_ greater than here. I walked on from Holbeach, six miles, towards Boston; and seeing the fatness of the land, and the fine grass and the never-ending sheep lying about like _fat hogs_, stretched in the sun, and seeing the abject state of the labouring people, I could not help exclaiming, "God has given us the best country in the world; our brave and wise and virtuous fathers, who built all these magnificent churches, gave us the best government in the world, and we, their cowardly and foolish and profligate sons, have made this once-paradise what we now behold!" I arrived at Boston (where I am now writing) to-day, (Friday, 9th April) about ten o'clock. I must arrive at Louth before I can say _precisely_ what my future route will be. There is an immense fair at Lincoln next week; and a friend has been _here_ to point out the proper days to be there; as, however, this Register will not come from the press until after I shall have had an opportunity of writing something at Louth, time enough to be inserted in it. I will here go back, and speak of the country that I have travelled over, since I left Cambridge on the 29th of March. From Cambridge to St. Ives the land is generally in open, unfenced fields, and some common fields; generally stiff land, and some of it not very good, and wheat, in many places, looking rather thin. From St. Ives to Chatteris (which last is in the Isle of Ely), the land is better, particularly as you approach the latter place. From Chatteris I came back to Huntingdon and once more saw its beautiful meadows, of which I spoke when I went thither in 1823. From Huntingdon, through Stilton, to Stamford (the two last in Lincolnshire), is a country of rich arable land and grass fields, and of beautiful meadows. The enclosures are very large, the soil red, with a whitish stone below; very much like the soil at and near Ross in Herefordshire, and like that near Coventry and Warwick. Here, as all over this country, everlasting fine sheep. The houses all along here are built of the stone of the country: you seldom see brick. The churches are large, lofty, and fine, and give proof that the country was formerly much more populous than it is now, and that the people had a vast deal more of wealth in their hands and at their own disposal. There are three beautiful churches at Stamford, not less, I dare say, than three [_quære_] hundred years old; but two of them (I did not go to the other) are as perfect as when just finished, except as to the _images_, most of which have been destroyed by the ungrateful Protestant barbarians, of different sorts, but some of which (_out of the reach_ of their ruthless hands) are still in the niches. From Stamford to Peterborough is a country of the same description, with the additional beauty of _woods_ here and there, and with meadows just like those at Huntingdon, and not surpassed by those on the Severn near Worcester, nor by those on the Avon at Tewkesbury. The cathedral at Peterborough is exquisitely beautiful, and I have great pleasure in saying, that, contrary to the _more magnificent_ pile at Ely, it is kept in good order; the Bishop (Herbert Marsh) residing a good deal on the spot; and though he _did_ write a pamphlet to justify and urge on the war, the ruinous war, and though he _did_ get a _pension_ for it, he is, they told me, very good to the poor people. My daughters had a great desire to see, and I had a great desire they should see, the burial-place of that ill-used, that savagely-treated, woman, and that honour to woman-kind, Catherine, queen of the ferocious tyrant, Henry the Eighth. To the infamy of that ruffian, and the shame of after ages, there is no _monument_ to record her virtues and her sufferings; and the remains of this daughter of the wise Ferdinand and of the generous Isabella, who sold her jewels to enable Columbus to discover the new world, lie under the floor of the cathedral, commemorated by a short inscription on a plate of brass. All men, Protestants or not Protestants, feel as I feel upon this subject; search the _hearts_ of the bishop and of his dean and chapter, and these feelings are there; but to do _justice_ to the memory of this illustrious victim of tyranny, would be to cast a reflection on that event to which they owe their rich possessions, and, at the same time, to suggest ideas not very favourable to the descendants of those who divided amongst them the plunder of the people arising out of that event, and which descendants are their patrons, and give them what they possess. From this cause, and no other, it is, that the memory of the virtuous Catherine is unblazoned, while that of the tyrannical, the cruel, and the immoral Elizabeth, is recorded with all possible veneration, and all possible varnishing-over of her disgusting amours and endless crimes. They relate at Peterborough, that the same sexton who buried Queen Catherine, also buried here Mary, Queen of Scots. The remains of the latter, of very questionable virtue, or, rather, of unquestionable vice, were removed to Westminster Abbey by her son, James the First; but those of the virtuous Queen were suffered to remain unhonoured! Good God! what injustice, what a want of principle, what hostility to all virtuous feeling, has not been the fruit of this Protestant Reformation; what plunder, what disgrace to England, what shame, what misery, has that event not produced! There is nothing that I address to my hearers with more visible effect than a statement of _the manner in which the poor-rates and the church-rates came_. This, of course, includes an account of _how the poor were relieved in Catholic times_. To the far greater part of people this is information _wholly new_; they are _deeply interested_ in it; and the impression is very great. Always before we part, Tom Cranmer's church receives a considerable blow. There is in the cathedral a very ancient monument, made to commemorate, they say, the murder of the abbot and his monks by the Danes. Its date is the year 870. Almost all the cathedrals, were, it appears, originally churches of monasteries. That of Winchester and several others, certainly were. There has lately died, in the garden of the bishop's palace, a tortoise that had been _there_ more, they say, than two hundred years; a fact very likely to be known; because, at the end of thirty or forty, people would begin to talk about it as something remarkable; and thus the record would be handed down from father to son. From Peterborough to Wisbeach, the road, for the most part, lies through the _Fens_, and here we passed through the village of Thorney, where there was a famous abbey, which, together with its valuable domain, was given by the savage tyrant, Henry VIII., to John Lord Russell (made a lord by that tyrant), the founder of the family of that name. This man got also the abbey and estate at Woburn; the priory and its estate at Tavistock; and in the next reign he got Covent Garden and other parts adjoining; together with other things, all then _public property_. A history, a _true history_ of this family (which I hope I shall find time to write) would be a most valuable thing. It would be a nice little specimen of the way in which these families became possessed of a great part of their estates. It would show how the poor-rates and the church-rates came. It would set the whole nation _right_ at once. Some years ago I had a set of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ (Scotch), which contained an account of every other _great family_ in the kingdom; but I could find in it no account of _this_ family, either under the word Russell or the word Bedford. I got into a passion with the book, because it contained no account of the mode of raising the birch-tree; and it was sold to _a son_ (as I was told) of Mr. Alderman Heygate; and if that gentleman look into the book, he will find what I say to be true; but if I should be in error about this, perhaps he will have the goodness to let me know it. I shall be obliged to any one to point me out any printed account of this family; and particularly to tell me where I can get an old folio, containing (amongst other things) Bulstrode's argument and narrative in justification of the sentence and execution of Lord William Russell, in the reign of Charles the Second. It is impossible to look at the now-miserable village of Thorney, and to think of its once-splendid abbey; it is impossible to look at the _twenty thousand acres_ of land around, covered with fat sheep, or bearing six quarters of wheat or ten of oats to the acre, without any manure; it is impossible to think of these without feeling a desire that the whole nation should know all about the _surprising merits_ of the possessors. Wisbeach, lying farther up the arm of the sea than Lynn, is, like the latter, a little town of commerce, chiefly engaged in exporting to the south, _the corn_ that grows in this productive country. It is a good solid town, though not handsome, and has a large market, particularly for corn. To Crowland, I went, as before stated, from Wisbeach, staying two nights at St. Edmund's. Here I was in the heart of the Fens. The whole country as _level_ as the table on which I am now writing. The horizon like the sea in a dead calm: you see the morning sun come up, just as at sea; and see it go down over the rim, in just the same way as at sea in a calm. The land covered with beautiful grass, with sheep lying about upon it, as fat as hogs stretched out sleeping in a stye. The kind and polite friends, with whom we were lodged, had a very neat garden, and fine young orchard. Everything grows well here: earth without a stone so big as a pin's head; grass as thick as it can grow on the ground; immense bowling-greens separated by ditches; and not the sign of dock or thistle or other weed to be seen. What a contrast between these and the heath-covered sand-hills of Surrey, amongst which I was born! Yet the labourers, who spuddle about the ground in the little _dips_ between those sand-hills, are better off than those that exist in this fat of the land. _Here_ the grasping system takes _all_ away, because it has the means of coming at the value of all: _there_, the poor man enjoys _something_, because he is thought too poor to have anything: he is there allowed to have what is deemed _worth nothing_; but here, where every inch is valuable, not one inch is he permitted to enjoy. At Crowland also (still in the Fens) was a great and rich _abbey_, a good part of the magnificent ruins of the church of which are still standing, one corner or part of it being used as the _parish church_, by the worms, which have crept out of the dead bodies of those who lived in the days of the founders; "And wond'ring man could want the larger pile, Exult, and claim the corner with a smile." They tell you, that all the country at and near Crowland was a mere swamp, a mere bog, _bearing nothing_, bearing nothing worth naming, until the _modern drainings_ took place! The thing called the "Reformation," has lied common sense out of men's minds. So _likely_ a thing to choose a barren swamp whereon, or wherein, to make the site of an abbey, and of a benedictine abbey too! It has been always observed, that the monks took care to choose for their places of abode, pleasant spots, surrounded by productive land. The likeliest thing in the world for these monks to choose a swamp for their dwelling-place, surrounded by land that produced nothing good! The thing gives the lie to itself: and it is impossible to reject the belief, that these Fens were as productive of corn and meat a thousand years ago, and more so, than they are at this hour. There is a curious triangular bridge here, on one part of which stands the statue of one of the ancient kings. It is all of great age; and everything shows that Crowland was a place of importance in the earliest times. From Crowland to Lynn, through Thorney and Wisbeach, is all Fens, well besprinkled, formerly, with monasteries of various descriptions, and still well set with magnificent churches. From Lynn to Holbeach you get out of the real Fens, and into the land that I attempted to describe, when, a few pages back, I was speaking of Holbeach. I say attempted; for I defy tongue or pen to make the description adequate to the matter: to know what the thing is, you must _see_ it. The same land continues all the way on to Boston: endless grass and endless fat sheep; not a stone, not a weed. _Boston, Sunday, 11th April, 1830._ Last night, I made a speech at the playhouse to an audience, whose appearance was sufficient to fill me with pride. I had given notice that I should perform _on Friday_, overlooking the circumstance that it was Good Friday. In apologising for this inadvertence, I took occasion to observe, that even if I had persevered, the clergy of the church could have nothing to object, seeing that they were now silent while a bill was passing in Parliament to put _Jews_ on a level with _Christians_; to enable Jews, the blasphemers of the Redeemer, to sit on the bench, to sit in both Houses of Parliament, to sit in council with the King, and to be kings of England, if entitled to the Crown, which, by possibility, they might become, if this bill were to pass; that to this bill _the clergy had offered no opposition_; and that, therefore, how could they hold sacred the anniversary appointed to commemorate the crucifixion of Christ by the hands of the blaspheming and bloody Jews? That, at any rate, if this bill passed; if those who called Jesus Christ an _impostor_ were thus declared to be _as good_ as those who adored him, there was not, I hoped, a man in the kingdom who would pretend, that it would be just to compel the people to pay tithes, and fees, and offerings, to men for _teaching Christianity_. This was a _clincher_; and as such it was received. This morning I went out at six, looked at the town, walked three miles on the road to Spilsby, and back to breakfast at nine. Boston (_bos_ is Latin for _ox_) though not above a fourth or fifth part of the size of its _daughter_ in New England, which got its name, I dare say, from some persecuted native of this place, who had quitted England and all her wealth and all her glories, to preserve that _freedom_, which was still more dear to him; though not a town like New Boston, and though little to what it formerly was, when agricultural produce was the great staple of the kingdom and the great subject of foreign exchange, is, nevertheless, a very fine town; good houses, good shops, pretty gardens about it, a fine open place, nearly equal to that of Nottingham, in the middle of it a river and a canal passing through it, each crossed by a handsome and substantial bridge, a fine market for sheep, cattle, and pigs, and another for meat, butter, and fish; and being, like Lynn, a great place for the export of corn and flour, and having many fine mills, it is altogether a town of very considerable importance; and, which is not to be overlooked, inhabited by people none of whom appear to be in misery. The great pride and glory of the Bostonians, is _their church_, which is, I think, 400 feet long, 90 feet wide, and has a tower (or steeple, as they call it) 300 feet high, which is both a land-mark and a sea-mark. To describe the richness, the magnificence, the symmetry, the exquisite beauty of this pile, is wholly out of my power. It is impossible to look at it without feeling, first, admiration and reverence and gratitude to the memory of our fathers who reared it; and next, indignation at those who affect to believe, and contempt for those who do believe, that, when this pile was reared, the age was _dark_, the people rude and ignorant, and the country _destitute of wealth_ and _thinly peopled_. Look at this church, then; look at the heaps of white rubbish that the parsons have lately stuck up under the "_New-church Act_," and which, after having been built with money forced from the nation by odious taxes, they have stuffed full of _locked-up pens_, called _pews_, which they let for money, as cattle- and sheep- and pig-pens are let at fairs and markets; nay, after having looked at this work of the "_dark_ ages," look at that great, heavy, ugly, unmeaning mass of stone called St. PAUL'S, which an American friend of mine, who came to London from Falmouth and had seen the cathedrals at Exeter and Salisbury, swore to me, that when he first saw it, he was at a loss to guess whether it were a _court-house_ or a _jail_; after looking at Boston Church, go and look at that great, gloomy lump, created by a Protestant Parliament, and by taxes wrung by force from the whole nation; and then say which is the age really meriting the epithet _dark_. St. Botolph, to whom this church is dedicated, while he (if saints see and hear what is passing on earth) must lament that the piety-inspiring mass has been, in this noble edifice, supplanted by the monotonous hummings of an oaken hutch, has not the mortification to see his church treated in a manner as if the new possessors sighed for the hour of its destruction. It is taken great care of; and though it has cruelly suffered from _Protestant repairs_; though the images are gone and the stained glass; and though the glazing is now in squares instead of lozenges; though the nave is stuffed with _pens_ called pews; and though other changes have taken place detracting from the beauty of the edifice, great care is taken of it as it now is, and the inside is not disfigured and disgraced by a _gallery_, that great and characteristic mark of Protestant taste, which, as nearly as may be, makes a church like a playhouse. Saint Botolph (on the supposition before mentioned) has the satisfaction to see, that the base of his celebrated church is surrounded by an iron fence, to keep from it all offensive and corroding matter, which is so disgusting to the sight round the magnificent piles at Norwich, Ely and other places; that the churchyard, and all appertaining to it, are kept in the neatest and most respectable state; that no money has been spared for these purposes; that here the eye tells the heart, that gratitude towards the fathers of the Bostonians is not extinguished in the breasts of their sons; and this the Saint will know that he owes to the circumstances, that the parish is a poor vicarage, and that the care of his church is in the hands of _the industrious people_, and not in those of a fat and luxurious dean and chapter, wallowing in wealth derived from the people's labour. _Horncastle, 12th April._ A fine, soft, showery morning saw us out of Boston, carrying with us the most pleasing reflections as to our reception and treatment there by numerous persons, none of whom we had ever seen before. The face of the country, for about half the way, the soil, the grass, the endless sheep, the thickly-scattered and magnificent churches, continue as on the other side of Boston; but, after that, we got out of the low and level land. At Sibsey, a pretty village five miles from Boston, we saw, for the first time since we left Peterborough, land rising above the level of the horizon; and, not having seen such a thing for so long, it had struck my daughters, who overtook me on the road (I having walked on from Boston), that the sight had an effect like that produced by the first _sight of land_ after a voyage across the Atlantic. We now soon got into a country of hedges and dry land and gravel and clay and stones; the land not bad, however; pretty much like that of Sussex, lying between the forest part and the South Downs. A good proportion of woodland also; and just before we got to Horncastle, we passed the park of that Mr. Dymock who is called "the Champion of England," and to whom, it is said hereabouts, that we pay out of the taxes eight thousand pounds a year! This never can be, to be sure; but if we pay him only a hundred a year, I will lay down my _glove_ against that of the "Champion," that we do not pay him even _that_ for five years longer. It is curious, that the moment you get out of the _rich land_, the churches become _smaller_, _mean_, and with scarcely anything in the way of _tower_ or _steeple_. This town is seated in the middle of a large valley, not, however, remarkable for anything of peculiar value or beauty; a purely agricultural town; well built, and not mean in any part of it. It is a great rendezvous for horses and cattle, and sheep-dealers, and for those who sell these; and accordingly, it suffers severely from the loss of the small paper-money. _Horncastle, 13th April, Morning._ I made a speech last evening to from 130 to 150, almost all farmers, and most men of apparent wealth to a certain extent. I have seldom been better pleased with my audience. It is not the clapping and huzzaing that I value so much as the _silent attention_, the _earnest look_ at me from _all eyes_ at once, and then when the point is concluded, the _look and nod at each other_, as if the parties were saying, "_Think of that!_" And of these I had a great deal at Horncastle. They say that there are _a hundred parish churches within six miles of this town_. I dare say that there was one farmer from almost every one of those parishes. This is sowing the seeds of truth in a very sure manner: it is not scattering broadcast; it is really _drilling the country_. There is one deficiency, and that, with me, a great one, throughout this country of corn and grass and oxen and sheep, that I have come over during the last three weeks; namely, the want of _singing birds_. We are now just in that season when they sing most. Here, in all this country, I have seen and heard only about four sky-larks, and not one other singing bird of any description, and, of the small birds that do not sing, I have seen only one _yellow-hammer_, and it was perched on the rail of a pound between Boston and Sibsey. Oh! the thousands of linnets all singing together on one tree, in the sand-hills of Surrey! Oh! the carolling in the coppices and the dingles of Hampshire and Sussex and Kent! At this moment (5 o'clock in the morning) the groves at Barn Elm are echoing with the warblings of thousands upon thousands of birds. The _thrush_ begins a little before it is light; next the _black-bird_; next the _larks_ begin to rise; all the rest begin the moment the sun gives the signal; and, from the hedges, the bushes, from the middle and the topmost twigs of the trees, comes the singing of endless variety; from the long dead grass comes the sound of the sweet and soft voice of the _white-throat_ or _nettle-tom_, while the loud and merry song of the _lark_ (the songster himself out of sight) seems to descend from the skies. MILTON, in his description of paradise, has not omitted the "song of earliest birds." However, everything taken together, here, in Lincolnshire, are more good things than man could have had the conscience to _ask_ of God. And now, if I had time and room to describe the state of _men's affairs_ in the country through which I have passed, I should show that the people at Westminster would have known, how to turn paradise itself into hell. I must, however, defer this until my next, when I shall have been at Hull and Lincoln, and have had a view of the whole of this rich and fine country. In the meanwhile, however, I cannot help congratulating that _sensible_ fellow, Wilmot Horton, and his co-operator, Burdett, that Emigration is going on at a swimming rate. Thousands are going, and that, too, _without mortgaging the poor-rates_. But, _sensible_ fellows! it is not the _aged_, the _halt_, the _ailing_; it is not the _paupers_ that are going; but men with from 200_l._ to 2,000_l._ in their pocket! This very year, from two to five millions of pounds sterling will actually be carried _from England_ to the United States. The Scotch, who have money to pay their passages, go to New York; those who have none get carried to Canada, that they may thence get into the United States. I will inquire, one of these days, what _right_ Burdett has to live in England more than those whom he proposes to send away. _Spittal, near Lincoln, 19th April 1830._ Here we are, at the end of a pretty decent trip since we left Boston. The next place, on our way to Hull, was Horncastle, where I preached politics in the playhouse to a most respectable body of farmers, who had come in the wet to meet me. Mr. John Peniston, who had invited me to stop there, behaved in a very obliging manner, and made all things very pleasant. The country _from_ Boston continued, as I said before, flat for about half the way to Horncastle, and we then began to see the high land. From Horncastle I set off two hours before the carriage, and going through a very pretty village called Ashby, got to another at the foot of a hill, which, they say, forms part of the _Wolds_; that is, a ridge of hills. This second village is called Scamblesby. The vale in which it lies is very fine land. A hazel mould, rich and light too. I saw a man here ploughing for barley, after turnips, with _one horse_: the horse did not seem to work hard, and the man was _singing_: I need not say that he was young; and I dare say he had the good sense to keep his legs under another man's table, and to stretch his body on another man's bed. This is a very fine _corn country_: chalk at bottom: stony near the surface, in some places: here and there a chalk-pit in the hills: the shape of the ground somewhat like that of the broadest valleys in Wiltshire; but the fields not without fences as they are there: fields from fifteen to forty acres: the hills not downs, as in Wiltshire; but cultivated all over. The houses white and thatched, as they are in all chalk countries. The valley at Scamblesby has a little rivulet running down it, just as in all the chalk countries. The land continues nearly the same to Louth, which lies in a deep dell, with beautiful pastures on the surrounding hills, like those that I once admired at Shaftesbury, in Dorsetshire, and like that near St. Austle, in Cornwall, which I described in 1808. At Louth the wise corporation had _refused_ to let us have the playhouse; but my friends had prepared a very good place; and I had an opportunity of addressing crowded audiences two nights running. At no place have I been better pleased than at Louth. Mr. Paddison, solicitor, a young gentleman whom I had the honour to know slightly before, and to know whom, whether I estimate by character or by talent, would be an honour to any man, was particularly attentive to us. Mr. Naull, ironmonger, who had had the battle to fight for me for twenty years, expressed his exultation at my triumph in a manner that showed that he justly participated it with me. I breakfasted at Mr. Naull's with a gentleman 88 or 89 years of age, whose joy at shaking me by the hand was excessive. "Ah!" said he, "where are _now_ those savages who, at Hull, threatened to kill me for raising my voice against this system?" This is a very fine town, and has a beautiful church, nearly equal to that at Boston. We left Louth on the morning of Thursday the 15th, and got to Barton on the Humber by about noon, over a very fine country, large fields, fine pastures, flocks of those great sheep, of from 200 to 1,000 in a flock; and here at Barton, we arrived at the northern point of this noble county, having never seen one single acre of waste land, and not one acre that would be called bad land, in the south of England. The _Wolds_, or high-lands, lie away to our right, from Horncastle to near Barton; and on the other side of the Wolds lie the _Marshes of Lincolnshire_, which extend along the coast from Boston to the mouth of the Humber, on the bank of which we were at Barton, Hull being on the opposite side of the river, which is here about five miles wide, and which we had to cross in a steam-boat. But let me not forget Great Grimsby, at which we changed horses, and breakfasted, in our way from Louth to Barton. "What the devil!" the reader will say, "should you want to recollect _that_ place for? Why do you want not to forget that sink of corruption? What could you find there to be snatched from everlasting oblivion, except for the purpose of being execrated?" I did, however, find something there worthy of being made known, not only to every man in England but to every man in the world; and not to mention it here would be to be guilty of the greatest injustice. To my surprise I found a good many people assembled at the inn-door, evidently expecting my arrival. While breakfast was preparing, I wished to speak to the bookseller of the place, if there were one, and to give him a list of my books and writings, that he might place it in his shop. When he came, I was surprised to find that he had it already, and that he, occasionally, sold my books. Upon my asking him how he got it, he said that it was brought down from London and given to him by a Mr. Plaskitt, who, he said, had all my writings, and who, he said, he was sure would be very glad to see me; but that he lived above a mile from the town. A messenger, however, had gone off to carry the news, and Mr. Plaskitt arrived before we had done breakfast, bringing with him a son and a daughter. And from the lips of this gentleman, a man of as kind and benevolent appearance and manners as I ever beheld in my life, I had the following facts; namely, "that one of his sons sailed for New York some years ago; that the ship was cast away on the shores of Long Island; that the captain, crew, and passengers all perished; that the wrecked vessel was taken possession of by people on the coast; that his son had a watch in his trunk, or chest, a purse with fourteen shillings in it, and divers articles of wearing apparel; that the Americans, who searched the wreck, _sent all these articles safely to England to him_"; "and," said he, "I keep the purse and the money at home, and _here is the watch in my pocket_"! It would have been worth the expense of coming from London to Grimsby, if for nothing but to learn this fact, which I record, not only in justice to the free people of America, and particularly in justice to my late neighbours in Long Island, but in justice to the character of mankind. I publish it as something to counterbalance the conduct of the atrocious monsters who plunder the wrecks on the coast of Cornwall, and, as I am told, on the coasts here in the east of the island. Away go, then, all the accusations upon the character of the Yankees. People may call them _sharp_, _cunning_, _overreaching_; and when they have exhausted the vocabulary of their abuse, the answer is found in this one fact, stated by Mr. Joshua Plaskitt, of Great Grimsby, in Lincolnshire, Old England. The person who sent the things to Mr. Plaskitt was named Jones. It did not occur to me to ask his christian name, nor to inquire what was the particular place where he lived in Long Island. I request Mr. Plaskitt to contrive to let me know these particulars; as I should like to communicate them to friends that I have on the north side of that island. However, it would excite no surprise there, that one of their countrymen had acted this part; for every man of them, having the same opportunity, would do the same. Their forefathers carried to New England the nature and character of the people of Old England, before national debts, paper-money, septennial bills, standing armies, dead-weights, and jubilees, had beggared and corrupted the people. At Hull I _lectured_ (I laugh at the word) to about seven hundred persons on the same evening that I arrived from Louth, which was on Thursday the 15th. We had what they call the summer theatre, which was crowded in every part except on the stage; and the next evening the stage was crowded too. The third evening was merely accidental, no previous notice having been given of it. On the Saturday I went in the middle of the day to Beverley; saw there the beautiful minster, and some of the fine horses which they show there at this season of the year; dined with about fifty farmers; made a speech to them and about a hundred more, perhaps; and got back to Hull time enough to go to the theatre there. The country round Hull appears to exceed even that of Lincolnshire. The three mornings that I was at Hull I walked out in three different directions, and found the country everywhere fine. To the east lies the Holderness country. I used to wonder that Yorkshire, to which I, from some false impression in my youth, had always attached the idea of _sterility_, should send us of the south those beautiful cattle with short horns and straight and deep bodies. You have only to see the country to cease to wonder at this. It lies on the north side of the mouth of the Humber; is as flat and fat as the land between Holbeach and Boston, without, as they tell me, the necessity of such numerous ditches. The appellation "Yorkshire _bite_"; the acute sayings ascribed to Yorkshiremen; and their quick manner, I remember, in the army. When speaking of what country a man was, one used to say, in defence of the party, "York, but honest." Another saying was that it was a bare common that a Yorkshireman would go over without taking a bite. Every one knows the story of the gentleman who, upon finding that a boot-cleaner in the south was a Yorkshireman, and expressing his surprise that he was not become master of the inn, received for answer, "Ah, sir, but master is York too!" And that of the Yorkshire boy who, seeing a gentleman eating some eggs, asked the cook to give him a little _salt_; and upon being asked what he could want with salt, he said, "Perhaps that gentleman may give me an egg presently." It is surprising what effect sayings like these produce upon the mind. From one end to the other of the kingdom, Yorkshiremen are looked upon as being keener than other people; more eager in pursuit of their own interests; more sharp and more selfish. For my part, I was cured with regard to the _people_ long before I saw Yorkshire. In the army, where we see men of all counties, I always found Yorkshiremen distinguished for their frank manners and generous disposition. In the United States, my kind and generous friends of Pennsylvania were the children and descendants of Yorkshire parents; and, in truth, I long ago made up my mind that this hardness and sharpness ascribed to Yorkshiremen arose from the sort of envy excited by that quickness, that activity, that buoyancy of spirits, which bears them up through adverse circumstances, and their conquent success in all the situations of life. They, like the people of Lancashire, are just the very reverse of being _cunning_ and _selfish_; be they farmers, or be they what they may, you get at the bottom of their hearts in a minute. Everything they think soon gets to the tongue, and out it comes, heads and tails, as fast as they can pour it. Fine materials for Oliver to work on! If he had been sent to the _west_ instead of the north, he would have found people there on whom he would have exercised his powers in vain. You are not to have every valuable quality in the same man and the same people: you are not to have prudent caution united with quickness and volubility. But though, as to the character of the _people_, I, having known so many hundreds of Yorkshiremen, was perfectly enlightened, and had quite got the better of all prejudices many years ago, I still, in spite of the matchless horses and matchless cattle, had a general impression that Yorkshire was a _sterile_ county, compared with the counties in the south and the west; and this notion was confirmed in some measure by my seeing the moory and rocky parts in the West Riding last winter. It was necessary for me to come and see the country on the banks of the Humber. I have seen the vale of Honiton, in Devonshire, that of Taunton and of Glastonbury, in Somersetshire: I have seen the vales of Gloucester and Worcester, and the banks of the Severn and the Avon: I have seen the vale of Berkshire, that of Aylesbury, in Buckinghamshire: I have seen the beautiful vales of Wiltshire; and the banks of the Medway, from Tunbridge to Maidstone, called the Garden of Eden: I was born at one end of Arthur Young's "finest ten miles in England:" I have ridden my horse across the Thames at its two sources; and I have been along every inch of its banks, from its sources, to Gravesend, whence I have sailed out of it into the channel; and having seen and had ability to judge of the goodness of the land in all these places, I declare that I have never seen any to be compared with the land on the banks of the Humber, from the Holderness country included, and with the exception of the land from Wisbeach to Holbeach, and Holbeach to Boston. Really, the single parish of Holbeach, or a patch of the same size in the Holderness country, seems to be equal in value to the whole of the county of Surrey, if we leave out the little plot of hop-garden at Farnham. Nor is the town of Hull itself to be overlooked. It is a little city of London: streets, shops, everything like it; clean as the best parts of London, and the people as bustling and attentive. The town of Hull is _surrounded_ with commodious docks for shipping. These docks are separated, in three or four places, by draw-bridges; so that, as you walk round the town, you walk by the side of the docks and the ships. The town on the outside of the docks is pretty considerable, and the walks from it into the country beautiful. I went about a good deal, and I nowhere saw marks of beggary or filth, even in the outskirts: none of those nasty, shabby, thief-looking sheds that you see in the approaches to London: none of those off-scourings of pernicious and insolent luxury. I hate commercial towns in general: there is generally something so loathsome in the look, and so stern and unfeeling in the manners of seafaring people, that I have always, from my very youth, disliked sea-ports; but really the sight of this nice town, the manners of its people, the civil, and kind and cordial reception that I met with, and the clean streets, and especially the pretty gardens in every direction, as you walk into the country, has made Hull, though a sea-port, a place that I shall always look back to with delight. Beverley, which was formerly a very considerable city, with three or four gates, one of which is yet standing, had a great college, built in the year 700 by the Archbishop of York. It had three famous hospitals and two friaries. There is one church, a very fine one, and the minster still left; of which a bookseller in the town was so good as to give me copper-plate representations. It is still a very pretty town; the market large; the land all round the country good; and it is particularly famous for horses; those for speed being shown off here on the market-days at this time of the year. The farmers and gentlemen assemble in a very wide street, on the outside of the western gate of the town; and at a certain time of the day the grooms come from their different stables to show off their beautiful horses; blood horses, coach horses, hunters, and cart horses; sometimes, they tell me, forty or fifty in number. The day that I was there (being late in the season) there were only seven or eight, or ten at the most. When I was asked at the inn to go and see "_the horses_," I had no curiosity, thinking it was such a parcel of horses as we see at a market in the south; but I found it a sight worth going to see; for besides the beauty of the horses, there were the adroitness, the agility, and the boldness of the grooms, each running alongside of his horse, with the latter trotting at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour, and then swinging him round, and showing him off to the best advantage. In short, I was exceedingly gratified by the trip to Beverley: the day was fair and mild; we went by one road and came back by another, and I have very seldom passed a pleasanter day in my life. I found, very much to my surprise, that at Hull I was very nearly as far north as at Leeds, and, at Beverley, a little farther north. Of all things in the world, I wanted to speak to Mr. Foster of the _Leeds Patriot_; but was not aware of the relative situation till it was too late to write to him. Boats go up the Humber and the Ouse to within a few miles of Leeds. The Holderness country is that piece of land which lies between Hull and the sea: it appears to be a perfect flat; and is said to be, and I dare say is, one of the very finest spots in the whole kingdom. I had a very kind invitation to go into it; but I could not stay longer on that side of the Humber without neglecting some duty or other. In quitting Hull, I left behind me but one thing, the sight of which had not pleased me; namely, a fine gilded equestrian statue of the Dutch "_Deliverer_," who gave to England the national debt, that fruitful mother of mischief and misery. Until this statue be replaced by that of Andrew Marvell, that real honour of this town, England will never be what it ought to be. We came back to Barton by the steam-boat on Sunday in the afternoon of the 18th, and in the evening reached this place, which is an inn, with three or four houses near it, at the distance of ten miles from Lincoln, to which we are going on Wednesday, the 21st. Between this place and Barton we passed through a delightfully pretty town called Brigg. The land in this, which is called the high part of Lincolnshire, has generally stone, a solid bed of stone of great depth, at different distances from the surface. In some parts this stone is of a yellowish colour, and in the form of very thick slate; and in these parts the soil is not so good; but, generally speaking, the land is excellent; easily tilled; no surface water; the fields very large; not many trees; but what there are, particularly the ash, very fine, and of free growth; and innumerable flocks of those big, long-woolled sheep, from one hundred to a thousand in a flock, each having from eight to ten pounds of wool upon its body. One of the finest sights in the world is one of these thirty or forty-acre fields, with four or five or six hundred ewes, each with her one or two lambs skipping about upon grass, the most beautiful that can be conceived, and on lands as level as a bowling-green. I do not recollect having seen a mole-hill or an ant-hill since I came into the country; and not one acre of waste land, though I have gone the whole length of the country one way, and am now got nearly half way back another way. Having seen this country, and having had a glimpse at the Holderness country, which lies on the banks of the sea, and to the east and north-east of Hull, can I cease to wonder that those devils, the Danes, found their way hither so often. There were the fat sheep then, just as there are now, depend upon it; and these numbers of noble churches, and these magnificent minsters, were reared because the wealth of the country remained _in the country_, and was not carried away to the south, to keep swarms of devouring tax-eaters, to cram the maws of wasteful idlers, and to be transferred to the grasp of luxurious and blaspheming Jews. You always perceive that the churches are large and fine and lofty, in proportion to the richness of the soil and the extent of the parish. In many places where there are _now_ but a very few houses, and those comparatively miserable, there are churches that look like cathedrals. It is quite curious to observe the difference in the style of the churches of Suffolk and Norfolk, and those of Lincolnshire, and of the other bank of the Humber. In the former two counties the churches are good, large, and with a good, plain, and pretty lofty tower. And in a few instances, particularly at Ipswich and Long Melford, you find magnificence in these buildings; but in Lincolnshire the magnificence of the churches is surprising. These churches are the indubitable proof of great and solid wealth, and formerly of great population. From everything that I have heard, the _Netherlands_ is a country very much resembling Lincolnshire; and they say that the church at Antwerp is like that at Boston; but my opinion is, that Lincolnshire alone contains more of these fine buildings than the whole of the continent of Europe. Still, however, there is the almost total want of the _singing birds_. There had been a shower a little while before we arrived at this place; it was about six o'clock in the evening; and there is a thick wood, together with the orchards and gardens, very near to the inn. We heard a little twittering from one thrush; but at that very moment, if we had been as near to just such a wood in Surrey, or Hampshire, or Sussex, or Kent, we should have heard ten thousand birds singing altogether; and the thrushes continuing their song till twenty minutes after sunset. When I was at Ipswich, the gardens and plantations round that beautiful town began in the morning to ring with the voices of the different birds. The nightingale is, I believe, _never heard_ anywhere on the eastern side of Lincolnshire; though it is sometimes heard in the same latitude in the dells of Yorkshire. How ridiculous it is to suppose that these frail birds, with their slender wings and proportionately heavy bodies, _cross the sea_, and come back again! I have not yet heard more than half a dozen skylarks; and I have, only last year, heard ten at a time make the air ring over one of my fields at Barn-Elm. This is a great drawback from the pleasure of viewing this fine country. It is time for me now, withdrawing myself from these objects visible to the eye, to speak of the state of _the people_, and of the manner in which their affairs are affected by the workings of the system. With regard to the labourers, they are, everywhere, miserable. The wages for those who are employed on the land are, through all the counties that I have come, twelve shillings a week for married men, and less for single ones; but a large part of them are not even at this season employed on the land. The farmers, for want of means of profitable employment, suffer the men to fall upon the parish; and they are employed in digging and breaking stone for the roads; so that the roads are nice and smooth for the sheep and cattle to walk on in their way to the all-devouring jaws of the Jews and other tax-eaters in London and its vicinity. None of the best meat, except by mere accident, is consumed here. To-day (the 20th of April) we have seen hundreds upon hundreds of sheep, as fat as hogs, go by this inn door, their toes, like those of the foot-marks at the entrance of the lion's den, all pointing towards the Wen; and the landlord gave us for dinner a little skinny, hard leg of old ewe mutton! Where the man got it I cannot imagine. Thus it is: every good thing is literally driven or carried away out of the country. In walking out yesterday, I saw three poor fellows digging stone for the roads, who told me that they never had anything but bread to eat, and water to wash it down. One of them was a widower with three children; and his pay was eighteen-pence a-day; that is to say, about three pounds of bread a day each, for six days in the week; nothing for Sunday, and nothing for lodging, washing, clothing, candle-light, or fuel! Just such was the state of things in France at the eve of the revolution! Precisely such; and precisely the same were the _causes_. Whether the effect will be the same I do not take upon myself positively to determine. Just on the other side of the hedge, while I was talking to these men, I saw about two hundred fat sheep in a rich pasture. I did not tell them what I might have told them; but I explained to them why the farmers were unable to give them a sufficiency of wages. They listened with great attention; and said that they did believe that the farmers were in great distress themselves. With regard to the farmers, it is said here that the far greater part, if sold up, would be found to be insolvent. The tradesmen in country towns are, and must be, in but little better state. They all tell you they do not sell half so many goods as they used to sell; and, of course, the manufacturers must suffer in the like degree. There is a diminution and deterioration, every one says, in the stocks upon the farms. _Sheep-washing_ is a sort of business in this country; and I heard at Boston that the sheep-washers say that there is a gradual falling off in point of the numbers of sheep washed. The farmers are all gradually sinking in point of property. The very rich ones do not feel that ruin is absolutely approaching; but they are all alarmed; and as to the poorer ones, they are fast falling into the rank of paupers. When I was at Ely a gentleman who appeared to be a great farmer told me, in presence of fifty farmers at the White Hart inn, that he had seen that morning _three men_ cracking stones on the road as paupers of the parish of Wilbarton; and that all these men had been _overseers of the poor of that same parish within the last seven years_. Wheat keeps up in price to about an average of seven shillings a bushel; which is owing to our two successive bad harvests; but fat beef and pork are at a very low price, and mutton not much better. The beef was selling at Lynn for five shillings the stone of fourteen pounds, and the pork at four and sixpence. The wool (one of the great articles of produce in these countries) selling for less than half of its former price. And here let me stop to observe that I was well informed before I left London that merchants were exporting our long wool to France, where it paid _thirty per cent. duty_. Well, say the landowners, but we have to thank Huskisson for this at any rate; and that is true enough; for the law was most rigid against the export of wool; but what will the _manufacturers_ say? Thus the collective goes on, smashing one class and then another; and, resolved to adhere to the taxes, it knocks away, one after another, the props of the system itself. By every measure that it adopts for the sake of obtaining security, or of affording relief to the people, it does some act of crying injustice. To save itself from the natural effects of its own measures, it knocked down the country bankers, in direct violation of the law in 1822. It is now about to lay its heavy hand on the big brewers and the publicans, in order to pacify the call for a reduction of taxes, and with the hope of preventing such reduction in reality. It is making a trifling attempt to save the West Indians from total ruin, and the West India colonies from revolt; but by that same attempt it reflects injury on the British distillers, and on the growers of barley. Thus it cannot do justice without doing injustice; it cannot do good without doing evil; and thus it must continue to do, until it take off, in reality, more than one half of the taxes. One of the great signs of the poverty of people in the middle rank of life is the falling off of the audiences at the playhouses. There is a playhouse in almost every country town, where the players used to act occasionally; and in large towns almost always. In some places they have of late abandoned acting altogether. In others they have acted, very frequently, to not more than _ten or twelve persons_. At Norwich the playhouse had been shut up for a long time. I heard of one manager who has become a porter to a warehouse, and his company dispersed. In most places the insides of the buildings seem to be tumbling to pieces; and the curtains and scenes that they let down seem to be abandoned to the damp and the cobwebs. _My_ appearance on the boards seemed to give new life to the drama. I was, until the birth of my third son, a constant haunter of the playhouse, in which I took great delight; but when _he_ came into the world I said, "Now, Nancy, it is time for us to leave off going to the play." It is really melancholy to look at things now, and to think of things then. I feel great sorrow on account of these poor players; for, though they are made the tools of the Government and the corporations and the parsons, it is not their fault, and they have uniformly, whenever I have come in contact with them, been very civil to me. I am not sorry that they are left out of the list of vagrants in the new Act; but in this case, as in so many others, the men have to be grateful to the _women_; for who believes that this merciful omission would have taken place, if so many of the peers had not contracted matrimonial alliances with players; if so many playeresses had not become peeresses. We may thank God for disposing the hearts of our law-makers to be guilty of the same sins and foibles as ourselves; for when a lord had been sentenced to the pillory, the use of that ancient mode of punishing offences was abolished: when a lord (CASTLEREAGH), who was also a minister of state, had cut his own throat, the degrading punishment of burial in cross-roads was abolished; and now, when so many peers and great men have taken to wife play-actresses, which the law termed _vagrants_, that term, as applied to the children of Melpomene and Thalia, is abolished! Laud we the Gods that our rulers cannot after all divest themselves of flesh and blood! For the Lord have mercy upon us if their great souls were once to soar above that tenement! Lord Stanhope cautioned his brother peers a little while ago against the angry feeling which was _rising up in the poor against the rich_. His Lordship is a wise and humane man, and this is evident from all his conduct. Nor is this angry feeling confined to the counties in the south, where the rage of the people, from the very nature of the local circumstances, is more formidable; woods and coppices and dingles and bye-lanes and sticks and stones ever at hand, being resources unknown in counties like this. When I was at St. Ives, in Huntingdonshire, an open country, I sat with the farmers, and smoked a pipe by way of preparation for evening service, which I performed on a carpenter's bench in a wheelwright's shop; my friends, the players, never having gained any regular settlement in that grand mart for four-legged fat meat, coming from the Fens, and bound to the Wen. While we were sitting, a hand-bill was handed round the table, advertising _farming stock_ for sale; and amongst the implements of husbandry "an _excellent fire-engine, several steel traps, and spring guns_"! And that is the life, is it, of an _English farmer_? I walked on about six miles of the road from Holbeach to Boston. I have before observed upon the inexhaustible riches of this land. At the end of about five miles and three quarters I came to a public-house, and thought I would get some breakfast; but the poor woman, with a tribe of children about her, had not a morsel of either meat or bread! At a house called an inn, a little further on, the landlord had no meat except a little bit of chine of bacon; and though there were a good many houses near the spot, the landlord told me that the people were become so poor that the butchers had left off killing meat in the neighbourhood. Just the state of things that existed in France on the eve of the Revolution. On that very spot I looked round me, and counted more than two thousand fat sheep in the pastures! How long; how long, good God! is this state of things to last? How long will these people starve in the midst of plenty? How long will fire-engines, steel traps, and spring guns be, in such a state of things, a protection to property? When I was at Beverley a gentleman told me, it was Mr. Dawson of that place, that some time before a farmer had been sold up by his landlord; and that, in a few weeks afterwards, the farmhouse was on fire, and that when the servants of the landlord arrived to put it out they found the handle of the pump taken away, and that the homestead was totally destroyed. This was told me in the presence of several gentlemen, who all spoke of it as a fact of perfect notoriety. Another respect in which our situation so exactly resembles that of France on the eve of the Revolution is the _fleeing from the country_ in every direction. When I was in Norfolk there were four hundred persons, generally young men, labourers, carpenters, wheelwrights, millwrights, smiths, and bricklayers; most of them with some money, and some farmers and others with good round sums. These people were going to Quebec in timber-ships, and from Quebec by land into the United States. They had been told that they would not be suffered to land in the United States from on board of ship. The roguish villains had deceived them: but no matter; they will get into the United States; and going through Canada will do them good, for it will teach them to detest everything belonging to it. From Boston, two great barge loads had just gone off by canal to Liverpool, most of them farmers; all carrying some money, and some as much as two thousand pounds each. From the North and West Riding of Yorkshire numerous wagons have gone carrying people to the canals leading to Liverpool; and a gentleman, whom I saw at Peterboro', told me that he saw some of them; and that the men all appeared to be respectable farmers. At Hull the scene would delight the eyes of the wise Burdett; for here the emigration is going on in the "Old Roman Plan." Ten large ships have gone this spring, laden with these fugitives from the fangs of taxation; some bound direct to the ports of the United States; others, like those at Yarmouth, for Quebec. Those that have most money go direct to the United States. The single men, who are taken for a mere trifle in the Canada ships, go that way, have nothing but their carcasses to carry over the rocks and swamps, and through the myriads of place-men and pensioners in that miserable region; there are about fifteen more ships going from this one port this spring. The ships are fitted up with berths as transports for the carrying of troops. I went on board one morning, and saw the people putting their things on board and stowing them away. Seeing a nice young woman, with a little baby in her arms, I told her that she was going to a country where she would be sure that her children would never want victuals; where she might make her own malt, soap, and candles without being half put to death for it, and where the blaspheming Jews would not have a mortgage on the life's labour of her children. There is at Hull one farmer going who is seventy years of age; but who takes out five sons and fifteen hundred pounds! Brave and sensible old man! and good and affectionate father! He is performing a truly parental and sacred duty; and he will die with the blessing of his sons on his head for having rescued them from this scene of slavery, misery, cruelty, and crime. Come, then, Wilmot Horton, with your sensible associates, Burdett and Poulett Thomson; come into Lincolnshire, Norfolk, and Yorkshire; come and bring Parson Malthus along with you; regale your sight with this delightful "stream of emigration"; congratulate the "greatest captain of the age," and your brethren of the Collective: congratulate the "noblest assembly of free men," on these the happy effects of their measures. Oh! no, Wilmot! Oh! no, generous and sensible Burdett, it is not the aged, the infirm, the halt, the blind, and the idiots that go: it is the youth, the strength, the wealth, and the spirit, that will no longer brook hunger and thirst in order that the maws of tax-eaters and Jews may be crammed. You want the Irish to go, and so they will _at our expense_, and all the bad of them, to be kept at our expense on the rocks and swamps of Nova Scotia and Canada. You have no money to send them away with: the tax-eaters want it all; and thanks to the "improvements of the age," the steam-boats will continue to bring them in shoals in pursuit of the orts of the food that their task-masters have taken away from them. After evening lecture at Horncastle a very decent farmer came to me and asked me about America, telling me that he was resolved to go, for that if he stayed much longer he should not have a shilling to go with. I promised to send him a letter from Louth to a friend at New York, who might be useful to him there and give him good advice. I forgot it at Louth; but I will do it before I go to bed. From the Thames, and from the several ports down the Channel, about two thousand have gone this spring. All the flower of the labourers of the east of Sussex and west of Kent will be culled out and sent off in a short time. From Glasgow the sensible Scotch are pouring out amain. Those that are poor and cannot pay their passages, or can rake together only a trifle, are going to a rascally heap of sand and rock and swamp, called Prince Edward's Island, in the horrible Gulf of St. Lawrence; but when the American vessels come over with Indian corn and flour and pork and beef and poultry and eggs and butter and cabbages and green pease and asparagus for the soldier-officers and other tax-eaters, that we support upon that lump of worthlessness; for the lump itself bears nothing but potatoes; when these vessels come, which they are continually doing, winter and summer; towards the fall, with apples and pears and melons and cucumbers; and, in short, everlastingly coming and taking away the amount of taxes raised in England; when these vessels return, the sensible Scotch will go back in them for a dollar a head, till at last not a man of them will be left but the bed-ridden. Those villanous colonies are held for no earthly purpose but that of furnishing a pretence of giving money to the relations and dependents of the aristocracy; and they are the nicest channels in the world through which to send English taxes to enrich and strengthen the United States. Withdraw the English taxes, and, except in a small part in Canada, the whole of those horrible regions would be left to the bears and the savages in the course of a year. This emigration is a famous blow given to the borough-mongers. The way to New York is now as well known and as easy, and as little expensive as from old York to London. First, the Sussex parishes sent their paupers; they invited over others that were not paupers; they invited over people of some property; then persons of greater property; now substantial farmers are going; men of considerable fortune will follow. It is the letters written across the Atlantic that do the business. Men of fortune will soon discover that to secure to their families their fortunes, and to take these out of the grasp of the inexorable tax-gatherer, they must get away. Every one that goes will take twenty after him; and thus it will go on. There can be no interruption but _war_; and war the Thing dares not have. As to France or the Netherlands, or any part of that hell called Germany, Englishmen can never settle there. The United States form another England without its unbearable taxes, its insolent game-laws, its intolerable dead-weight, and its tread-mills. EASTERN TOUR ENDED, MIDLAND TOUR BEGUN. _Lincoln, 23rd April 1830._ From the inn at Spittal we came to this famous ancient Roman station, and afterwards grand scene of Saxon and Gothic splendour, on the 21st. It was the third or fourth day of the _Spring fair_, which is one of the greatest in the kingdom, and which lasts for a whole week. Horses begin the fair; then come sheep; and to-day, the horned-cattle. It is supposed that there were about 50,000 sheep, and I think the whole of the space in the various roads and streets, covered by the cattle, must have amounted to ten acres of ground or more. Some say that they were as numerous as the sheep. The number of horses I did not hear; but they say that there were 1,500 fewer in number than last year. The sheep sold 5_s._ a head, on an average, lower than last year; and the cattle in the same proportion. High-priced horses sold well; but the horses which are called tradesmen's horses were very low. This is the natural march of the Thing: those who live on the taxes have money to throw away; but those who _pay_ them are ruined, and have, of course, no money to lay out on horses. The country from Spittal to Lincoln continued to be much about the same as from Barton to Spittal. Large fields, rather light loam at top, stone under, about half corn-land and the rest grass. Not so many sheep as in the richer lands, but a great many still. As you get on towards Lincoln, the ground gradually rises, and you go on the road made by the Romans. When you come to the city you find the ancient castle and the magnificent cathedral on the _brow_ of a sort of ridge which ends here; for you look all of a sudden down into a deep valley, where the greater part of the remaining city lies. It once had _fifty-two churches_; it has now only eight, and only about 9,000 inhabitants! The cathedral is, I believe, the _finest building in the whole world_. All the others that I have seen (and I have seen all in England except Chester, York, Carlisle, and Durham) are little things compared with this. To the task of describing a thousandth-part of its striking beauties I am inadequate; it surpasses greatly all that I had anticipated; and oh! how loudly it gives the lie to those brazen Scotch historians who would have us believe that England was formerly a _poor_ country! The whole revenue raised from Lincolnshire, even by this present system of taxation, would not rear such another pile in two hundred years. Some of the city gates are down; but there is one standing, the arch of which is said to be two thousand years old; and a most curious thing it is. The sight of the cathedral fills the mind alternately with wonder, admiration, melancholy, and rage: wonder at its grandeur and magnificence; admiration of the zeal and disinterestedness of those who here devoted to the honour of God those immense means which they might have applied to their own enjoyments; melancholy at its present neglected state; and indignation against those who now enjoy the revenues belonging to it, and who creep about it merely as a pretext for devouring a part of the fruit of the people's labour. There are no men in England who ought to wish for _reform_ so anxiously as the working clergy of the church of England; we are all oppressed; but they are oppressed and insulted more than any men that ever lived in the world. The clergy in America; I mean in free America, not in our beggarly colonies, where clerical insolence and partiality prevail still more than here; I mean in the United States, where every man gives what he pleases, and no more: the clergy of the episcopal church are a hundred times better off than the working clergy are here. They are, also, much more respected, because their _order_ has not to bear the blame of enormous exactions; which exactions here are swallowed up by the aristocracy and their dependents; but which swallowings are imputed to every one bearing the name of parson. Throughout the whole country I have maintained the necessity and the justice of resuming the church property; but I have never failed to say that I know of no more meritorious and ill-used men than the working clergy of the established church. _Leicester, 26th April 1830._ At the famous ancient city of Lincoln I had crowded audiences, principally consisting of farmers, on the 21st and 22nd; exceedingly well-behaved audiences; and great impression produced. One of the evenings, in pointing out to them the wisdom of explaining to their labourers the cause of their distress, in order to ward off the effects of the resentment which the labourers now feel everywhere against the farmers, I related to them what my labourers at Barn-Elm had been doing since I left home: and I repeated to them the complaints that my labourers made, stating to them, from memory, the following parts of that spirited petition: "That your petitioners have recently observed that many great sums of the money, part of which we pay, have been voted to be given to persons who render no services to the country; some of which sums we will mention here; that the sum of 94,900_l._ has been voted for disbanded _foreign_ officers, their _widows_ and _children_; that your petitioners know that ever since the peace this charge has been annually made; that it has been on an average 110,000_l._ a-year, and that, of course, this band of foreigners have actually taken away out of England, since the peace, one million and seven hundred thousand pounds; partly taken from the fruit of our labour; and if our dinners were actually taken from our table and carried over to Hanover, the process could not be to our eyes more visible than it now is; and we are astonished that those who fear that we, who make the land bring forth crops, and who make the clothing and the houses, shall swallow up the rental, appear to think nothing at all of the swallowings of these Hanoverian men, women, and children, who may continue thus to swallow for half a century to come. "That the advocates of the project for sending us out of our country to the rocks and snows of Nova Scotia, and the swamps and wilds of Canada, have insisted on the necessity of _checking marriages_ amongst us, in order to cause a decrease in our numbers; that, however, while this is insisted on in your honourable House, we perceive a part of our own earnings voted away to encourage marriage amongst those who do not work, and who live at our expense; and that to your petitioners it does seem most wonderful, that there should be persons to fear that we, the labourers, shall, on account of our numbers, swallow up the rental, while they actually vote away our food and raiment to increase the numbers of those who never have produced, and who never will produce, anything useful to man. "That your petitioners know that more than one-half of the whole of their wages is taken from them by the taxes; that these taxes go chiefly into the hands of idlers; that your petitioners are the bees, and that the tax-receivers are the drones; and they know, further, that while there is a project for sending the bees out of the country, no one proposes to send away the drones; but that your petitioners hope to see the day when the checking of the increase of the drones, and not of the bees, will be the object of an English Parliament. "That, in consequence of taxes, your petitioners pay six-pence for a pot of worse beer than they could make for one penny; that they pay ten shillings for a pair of shoes that they could have for five shillings; that they pay seven-pence for a pound of soap or candles that they could have for three-pence; that they pay seven-pence for a pound of sugar that they could have for three-pence; that they pay six shillings for a pound of tea that they could have for two shillings; that they pay double for their bread and meat of what they would have to pay if there were no idlers to be kept out of the taxes; that, therefore, it is the taxes that make their wages insufficient for their support, and that compel them to apply for aid to the poor-rates; that, knowing these things, they feel indignant at hearing themselves described as _paupers_, while so many thousands of idlers, for whose support they pay taxes, are called _noble Lords_ and _Ladies_, _honourable Gentlemen_, _Masters_, and _Misses_; that they feel indignant at hearing themselves described as a nuisance to be got rid of, while the idlers who live upon their earnings are upheld, caressed and cherished, as if they were the sole support of the country." Having repeated to them these passages, I proceeded: "My workmen were induced thus to petition in consequence of the information which I, their master, had communicated to them; and, Gentlemen, why should not your labourers petition in the same strain? Why should you suffer them to remain in a state of ignorance relative to the cause of their misery? The eye sweeps over in this county more riches in one moment than are contained in the whole county in which I was born, and in which the petitioners live. Between Holbeach and Boston, even at a public-house, neither bread nor meat was to be found; and while the landlord was telling me that the people were become so poor that the butchers killed no meat in the neighbourhood. I counted more than two thousand fat sheep lying about in the pastures in that richest spot in the whole world. Starvation in the midst of plenty; the land covered with food, and the working people without victuals: everything taken away by the tax-eaters of various descriptions: and yet you take no measures for redress; and your miserable labourers seem to be doomed to expire with hunger, without an effort to obtain relief. What! cannot you point out to them the real cause of their sufferings; cannot you take a piece of paper and write out a petition for them; cannot your labourers petition as well as mine; are God's blessings bestowed on you without any spirit to preserve them; is the fatness of the land, is the earth teeming with food for the body and raiment for the back, to be an apology for the want of that courage for which your fathers were so famous; is the abundance which God has put into your hands, to be the excuse for your resigning yourselves to starvation? My God! is there no spirit left in England except in the miserable sand-hills of Surrey?" These words were not uttered without effect I can assure the reader. The assemblage was of that stamp in which thought goes before expression; but the effect of this example of my men in Surrey will, I am sure, be greater than anything that has been done in the petitioning way for a long time past. We left Lincoln on the 23rd about noon, and got to Newark, in Nottinghamshire, in the evening, where I gave a lecture at the theatre to about three hundred persons. Newark is a very fine town, and the Castle Inn, where we stopped, extraordinarily good and pleasantly situated. Here I was met by a parcel of the printed petitions of the labourers at Barn-Elm. I shall continue to _sow these_, as I proceed on my way. It should have been stated at the head of the printed petition that it was presented to the House of Lords by his Grace the Duke of Richmond, and by Mr. Pallmer to the House of Commons. The country from Lincoln to Newark (sixteen miles) is by no means so fine as that which we have been in for so many weeks. The land is clayey in many parts. A pleasant country; a variety of hill and valley; but not that richness which we had so long had under our eye: fields smaller; fewer sheep, and those not so large, and so manifestly loaded with flesh. The roads always good. Newark is a town very much like Nottingham, having a very fine and spacious market-place; the buildings everywhere good; but it is in the villages that you find the depth of misery. Having appointed positively to be at Leicester in the evening of Saturday, the 24th, we could not stop either at Grantham or at Melton Mowbray, not even long enough to view their fine old magnificent churches. In going from Newark to Grantham, we got again into Lincolnshire, in which last county Grantham is. From Newark nearly to Melton Mowbray, the country is about the same as between Lincoln and Newark; by no means bad land, but not so rich as that of Lincolnshire, in the middle and eastern parts; not approaching to the Holderness country in point of riches; a large part arable land, well tilled; but not such large homesteads, such numerous great stacks of wheat, and such endless flocks of lazy sheep. Before we got to Melton Mowbray the beautiful pastures of this little verdant county of Leicester began to appear. Meadows and green fields, with here and there a corn field, all of smaller dimensions than those of Lincolnshire, but all very beautiful; with gentle hills and woods too; not beautiful woods, like those of Hampshire and of the wilds of Surrey, Sussex and Kent; but very pretty, all the country around being so rich. At Mowbray we began to get amongst the Leicestershire sheep, those fat creatures which we see the butchers' boys battering about so unmercifully in the streets and the outskirts of the Wen. The land is warmer here than in Lincolnshire; the grass more forward, and the wheat, between Mowbray and Leicester, six inches high, and generally looking exceedingly well. In Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire I found the wheat in general rather thin, and frequently sickly; nothing like so promising as in Suffolk and Norfolk. We got to Leicester on the 24th at about half-after five o'clock; and the time appointed for the lecture was six. Leicester is a very fine town; spacious streets, fine inns, fine shops, and containing, they say, thirty or forty thousand people. It is well stocked with jails, of which a new one, in addition to the rest, has just been built, covering three acres of ground! And, as if _proud_ of it, the grand portal has little turrets in the castle style, with _embrasures_ in miniature on the caps of the turrets. Nothing speaks the want of reflection in the people so much as the self-gratulation which they appear to feel in these edifices in their several towns. Instead of expressing shame at these indubitable proofs of the horrible increase of misery and of crime, they really boast of these "improvements," as they call them. Our forefathers built abbeys and priories and churches, and they made such use of them that jails were nearly unnecessary. We, their sons, have knocked down the abbeys and priories; suffered half the parsonage-houses and churches to pretty nearly tumble down, and make such uses of the remainder, that jails and tread-mills and dungeons have now become the most striking edifices in every county in the kingdom. Yesterday morning (Sunday the 25th) I walked out to the village of Knighton, two miles on the Bosworth road, where I breakfasted, and then walked back. This morning I walked out to Hailstone, nearly three miles on the Lutterworth road, and got my breakfast there. You have nothing to do but to walk through these villages, to see the cause of the increase of the jails. Standing on the hill at Knighton, you see the three ancient and lofty and beautiful spires rising up at Leicester; you see the river winding down through a broad bed of the most beautiful meadows that man ever set his eyes on; you see the bright verdure covering all the land, even to the tops of the hills, with here and there a little wood, as if made by God to give variety to the beauty of the scene, for the river brings the coal in abundance, for fuel, and the earth gives the brick and the tile in abundance. But go down into the villages; invited by the spires, rising up amongst the trees in the dells, at scarcely ever more than a mile or two apart; invited by these spires, go down into these villages, view the large, and once the most beautiful, churches; see the parson's house, large, and in the midst of pleasure-gardens; and then look at the miserable sheds in which the labourers reside! Look at these hovels, made of mud and of straw; bits of glass, or of old off-cast windows, without frames or hinges, frequently, but merely stuck in the mud wall. Enter them, and look at the bits of chairs or stools; the wretched boards tacked together to serve for a table; the floor of pebble, broken brick, or of the bare ground; look at the thing called a bed; and survey the rags on the backs of the wretched inhabitants; and then wonder, if you can, that the jails and dungeons and tread-mills increase, and that a standing army and barracks are become the favourite establishments of England! At the village of Hailstone, I got into the purlieu, as they call it in Hampshire, of a person well known in the Wen; namely, the Reverend Beresford, rector of that fat affair, St. Andrew's, Holborn! In walking through the village, and surveying its deplorable dwellings, so much worse than the cow-sheds of the cottagers on the skirts of the forests in Hampshire, my attention was attracted by the surprising contrast between them and the house of their religious teacher. I met a labouring man. Country people _know everything_. If you have ever made a _faux pas_, of any sort of description; if you have anything about you of which you do not want all the world to know, never retire to a village, keep in some great town; but the Wen, for your life, for there the next-door neighbour will not know even your name; and the vicinage will judge of you solely by the quantity of money that you have to spend. This labourer seemed not to be in a very great hurry. He was digging in his garden; and I, looking over a low hedge, _pitched him up_ for a gossip, commencing by asking him whether that was the parson's house. Having answered in the affirmative, and I, having asked the parson's name, he proceeded thus: "His name is Beresford; but though he lives there, he has not this living now, he has got the living of St. Andrew's, Holborn; and they say it is worth a great many thousands a year. He could not, they say, keep this living and have that too, because they were so far apart. And so this living was given to Mr. Brown, who is the rector of Hobey, about seven miles off." "Well," said I, "but _how comes Beresford to live here now_, if the living be given to another man?" "Why, Sir," said he, "this Beresford married a daughter of Brown; and so, you know (smiling and looking very archly), Brown comes and takes the payment for the tithes, and pays a curate that lives in that house there in the field; and Beresford lives at that fine house still, just as he used to do." I asked him what the living was worth, and he answered twelve hundred pounds a year. It is a rectory, I find, and of course the parson has great tithes as well as small. The people of this village know a great deal more about Beresford than the people of St. Andrew's, Holborn, know about him. In short, the country people know all about the whole thing. They will be long before they act; but they will make no noise as a signal for action. They will be moved by nothing but actual want of food. This the Thing seems to be aware of; and hence all the innumerable schemes for keeping them quiet: hence the endless jails and all the terrors of hardened law: hence the schemes for coaxing them, by letting them have bits of land: hence the everlasting bills and discussions of committees about the state of the poor, and the state of the poor-laws: all of which will fail; and at last, unless reduction of taxation speedily take place, the schemers will find what the consequences are of reducing millions to the verge of starvation. The labourers here, who are in need of parochial relief, are formed into what are called _roundsmen_; that is to say, they are sent round from one farmer to another, each maintaining a certain number for a certain length of time; and thus they go round from one to the other. If the farmers did not pay three shillings in taxes out of every six shillings that they give in the shape of wages, they could afford to give the men four and sixpence in wages, which would be better to the men than the six. But as long as this burden of taxes shall continue, so long the misery will last, and it will go on increasing with accelerated pace. The march of circumstances is precisely what it was in France, just previous to the French revolution. If the aristocracy were wise, they would put a stop to that march. The middle class are fast sinking down to the state of the lower class. _A community of feeling_ between these classes, and that feeling an angry one, is what the aristocracy has to dread. As far as the higher clergy are concerned, this community of feeling is already complete. A short time will extend the feeling to every other branch; and then, the hideous consequences make their appearance. Reform; a radical reform of the Parliament; this reform _in time_; this reform, which would reconcile the middle class to the aristocracy, and give renovation to that which has now become a mass of decay and disgust; this reform, given with a good grace, and not taken by force, is the only refuge for the aristocracy of this kingdom. Just as it was in France. All the tricks of financiers have been tried in vain; and by-and-by some trick more pompous and foolish than the rest; Sir Henry Parnell's trick, perhaps, or something equally foolish, would blow the whole concern into the air. _Worcester, 18th May, 1830._ In tracing myself from Leicester to this place, I begin at Lutterworth, in Leicestershire, one of the prettiest country towns that I ever saw; that is to say, prettiest _situated_. At this place they have, in the church (they say), the identical _pulpit_ from which Wickliffe preached! This was not his birth-place; but he was, it seems, priest of this parish. I set off from Lutterworth early on the 29th of April, stopped to breakfast at Birmingham, got to Wolverhampton by two o'clock (a distance altogether of about 50 miles), and lectured at six in the evening. I repeated, or rather continued, the lecturing, on the 30th, and on the 3rd of May. On the 6th of May went to Dudley, and lectured there: on the 10th of May, at Birmingham; on the 12th and 13th, at Shrewsbury; and on the 14th, came here. Thus have I come through countries of corn and meat and iron and coal; and from the banks of the Humber to those of the Severn, I find all the people, who do not share in the taxes, in a state of distress, greater or less, _Mortgagers_ all frightened out of their-wits; _fathers_ trembling for the fate of their children; and _working people_ in the most miserable state, and, as they ought to be, in the _worst of temper_. These will, I am afraid, be the _state-doctors_ at last! The farmers are cowed down: the poorer they get, the more cowardly they are. Every one of them sees the cause of his suffering, and sees general ruin at hand; but every one hopes that by some trick, some act of meanness, some contrivance, _he shall escape_. So that there is no hope of any change for the better but from the _working people_. The farmers will sink to a very low state; and thus the Thing (barring _accidents_) may go on, until neither farmer nor tradesman will see a joint of meat on his table once in a quarter of a year. It appears likely to be precisely as it was in France: it is now just what France was at the close of the reign of Louis XV. It has been the fashion to ascribe the _French Revolution_ to the writings of Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, and others. These writings had _nothing at all_ to do with the matter: no, _nothing at all_. The _Revolution_ was produced by _taxes_, which at last became unbearable; by debts of the State; but, in fact, by the despair of the people, produced by the weight of the taxes. It is curious to observe how ready the supporters of tyranny and taxation are to ascribe rebellions and revolutions to disaffected leaders; and particularly to writers; and, as these supporters of tyranny and taxation have had the press at their command; have had generally the absolute command of it, they have caused this belief to go down from generation to generation. It will not do for them to ascribe revolutions and rebellions to the true cause; because then the rebellions and revolutions would be justified; and it is their object to cause them to be condemned. Infinite delusion has prevailed in this country, in consequence of the efforts of which I am now speaking. Voltaire was just as much a cause of the French Revolution as I have been the cause of imposing these sixty millions of taxes. The French Revolution was produced by the grindings of taxation; and this I will take an opportunity very soon of proving, to the conviction of every man in the kingdom who chooses to read. In the iron country, of which Wolverhampton seems to be a sort of central point, and where thousands, and perhaps two or three hundred thousand people, are assembled together, the _truck_ or _tommy_ system generally prevails; and this is a very remarkable feature in the state of this country. I have made inquiries with regard to the origin, or etymology, of this word _tommy_, and could find no one to furnish me with the information. It is certainly, like so many other good things, to be ascribed to _the army_; for, when I was a recruit at Chatham barracks, in the year 1783, we had brown bread served out to us twice in the week. And, for what reason God knows, we used to call it _tommy_. And the sergeants, when they called us out to get our bread, used to tell us to come and get our _tommy_. Even the officers used to call it tommy. Any one that could get white bread, called it bread; but the brown stuff that we got in lieu of part of our pay was called _tommy_; and so we used to call it when we got abroad. When the soldiers came to have bread served out to them in the several towns in England, the name of "tommy" went down by tradition; and, doubtless, it was taken up and adapted to the truck system in Staffordshire and elsewhere. Now, there is nothing wrong, nothing _essentially_ wrong, in this system of barter. Barter is in practice in some of the happiest communities in the world. In the new settled parts of the United States of America, to which money has scarcely found its way, to which articles of wearing apparel are brought from a great distance, where the great and almost sole occupations are, the rearing of food, the building of houses, and the making of clothes, barter is the rule and money payment the exception. And this is attended with no injury and with very little inconvenience. The bargains are made, and the accounts kept _in money_; but the payments are made in produce or in goods, the price of these being previously settled on. The store-keeper (which we call shop-keeper) receives the produce in exchange for his goods, and exchanges that produce for more goods; and thus the concerns of the community go on, every one living in abundance, and the sound of misery never heard. But when this tommy system; this system of barter; when this makes its appearance where money has for ages been the medium of exchange, and of payments for labour; when this system makes its appearance in such a state of society, there is something wrong; things are out of joint; and it becomes us to inquire into the real cause of its being resorted to; and it does not become us to join in an outcry against the employers who resort to it, until we be perfectly satisfied that those employers are guilty of oppression. The manner of carrying on the tommy system is this: suppose there to be a master who employs a hundred men. That hundred men, let us suppose, to earn a pound a week each. This is not the case in the iron-works; but no matter, we can illustrate our meaning by one sum as well as by another. These men lay out weekly the whole of the hundred pounds in victuals, drink, clothing, bedding, fuel, and house-rent. Now, the master finding the profits of his trade fall off very much, and being at the same time in want of money to pay the hundred pounds weekly, and perceiving that these hundred pounds are carried away at once, and given to shopkeepers of various descriptions; to butchers, bakers, drapers, hatters, shoemakers, and the rest; and knowing that, on an average, these shopkeepers must all have a profit of thirty _per cent._, or more, he determines to _keep this thirty per cent. to himself_; and this is thirty pounds a week gained as a shop-keeper, which amounts to 1,560_l._ a year. He, therefore, sets up a tommy shop: a long place containing every commodity that the workman can want, liquor and house-room excepted. Here the workman takes out his pound's worth; and his house-rent he pays in truck, if he do not rent of his master; and if he will have liquor, beer, or gin, or anything else, he must get it by trucking with the goods that he has got at the tommy shop. Now, there is nothing essentially unjust in this. There is a little inconvenience as far as the house-rent goes; but not much. The tommy is easily turned into money; and if the single saving man does experience some trouble in the sale of his goods, that is compensated for in the more important case of the married man, whose wife and children generally experience the benefit of this payment in kind. It is, to be sure, a sorrowful reflection, that such a check upon the drinking propensities of the fathers should be necessary; but _the necessity exists_; and, however sorrowful the fact, the fact, I am assured, is, that thousands upon thousands of mothers have to bless this system, though it arises from a loss of trade and the poverty of the masters. I have often had to observe on the cruel effects of the suppression of markets and fairs, and on the consequent power of extortion possessed by the country shop-keepers. And what a thing it is to reflect on, that these shopkeepers have the whole of the labouring men of England constantly in their debt; have on an average a mortgage on their wages to the amount of five or six weeks, and make them pay any price that they choose to extort. So that, in fact, there is a tommy system in every village, the difference being, that the shop-keeper is the tommy man instead of the farmer. The only question is in this case of the manufacturing tommy work, whether the master charges a higher price than the shop-keepers would charge; and, while I have not heard that the masters do this, I think it improbable that they should. They must desire to avoid the charge of such extortion; and they have little temptation to it; because they buy at best hand and in large quantities; because they are sure of their customers, and know to a certainty the quantity that they want; and because the distribution of the goods is a matter of such perfect regularity, and attended with so little expense, compared with the expenses of the shopkeeper. Any farmer who has a parcel of married men working for him, might supply them with meat for four-pence the pound, when the butcher must charge them seven-pence, or lose by his trade; and to me, it has always appeared astonishing, that farmers (where they happen to have the power completely in their hands) do not compel their married labourers to have a sufficiency of bread and meat for their wives and children. What would be more easy than to reckon what would be necessary for house-rent, fuel, and clothing; to pay that in money once a month, or something of that sort, and to pay the rest in meat, flour, and malt? I may never occupy a farm again; but if I were to do it, to any extent, the East and West Indies, nor big brewer, nor distiller, should ever have one farthing out of the produce of my farm, except he got it through the throats of those who made the wearing apparel. If I had a village at my command, not a tea-kettle should sing in that village: there should be no extortioner under the name of country shop-keeper, and no straight-backed, bloated fellow, with red eyes, unshaven face, and slip-shod till noon, called a publican, and generally worthy of the name of _sinner_. Well-covered backs and well-lined bellies would be my delight; and as to talking about controlling and compelling, what a controlling and compelling are there now! It is everlasting control and compulsion. My bargain should be so much in money, and so much in bread, meat, and malt. And what is the bargain, I want to know, _with yearly servants_? Why, so much in money and the rest in bread, meat, beer, lodging and fuel. And does any one affect to say that this is wrong? Does any one say that it is wrong to exercise control and compulsion over these servants; such control and compulsion is not only the master's right, but they are included in his bounden _duties_. It is his duty to make them rise early, keep good hours, be industrious, and careful, be cleanly in their persons and habits, be civil in their language. These are amongst the uses of the means which God has put into his hands; and are these means to be neglected towards married servants any more than towards single ones? Even in the well-cultivated and thickly-settled parts of the United States of America, it is the general custom, and a very good custom it is, to pay the wages of labour _partly in money and partly in kind_; and this practice is extended to carpenters, bricklayers, and other workmen about buildings, and even to tailors, shoemakers, and weavers, who go (a most excellent custom) to farm-houses to work. The bargain is, so much money _and found_; that is to say, found in food and drink, and sometimes in lodging. The money then used to be, for a common labourer, in Long Island, at common work (not haying or harvesting), three York shillings a day, and found; that is to say, three times seven-pence halfpenny of our money; and three times seven-pence halfpenny a day, which is eleven shillings and three-pence a week, and found. This was the wages of the commonest labourer at the commonest work. And the wages of a good labourer now, in Worcestershire, _is eight shillings a week, and not found_. Accordingly, they are miserably poor and degraded. Therefore, there is in this mode of payment nothing _essentially_ degrading; but the tommy system of Staffordshire, and elsewhere, though not unjust in itself, indirectly inflicts great injustice on the whole race of shop-keepers, who are necessary for the distribution of commodities in great towns, and whose property is taken away from them by this species of monopoly, which the employers of great numbers of men have been compelled to adopt for their own safety. It is not the fault of the masters, who can have no pleasure in making profit in this way: it is the fault of the taxes, which, by lowering the price of their goods, have compelled them to resort to this means of diminishing their expenses, or to quit their business altogether, which a great part of them cannot do without being left without a penny; and if a law could be passed and enforced (which it cannot) to put an end to the tommy system, the consequence would be, that instead of a fourth part of the furnaces being let out of blast in this neighbourhood, one-half would be let out of blast, and additional thousands of poor creatures would be left solely dependent on parochial relief. A view of the situation of things at Shrewsbury, will lead us in a minute to the real cause of the tommy system. Shrewsbury is one of the most interesting spots that man ever beheld. It is the capital of the county of Salop, and Salop appears to have been the original name of the town itself. It is curiously enclosed by the river Severn, which is here large and fine, and which, in the form of a _horse-shoe_, completely surrounds it, leaving, of the whole of the two miles round, only one little place whereon to pass in and out on land. There are two bridges, one on the east, and the other on the west; the former called the English, and the other, the Welsh bridge. The environs of this town, especially on the Welsh side, are the most beautiful that can be conceived. The town lies in the midst of a fine agricultural country, of which it is the great and almost only mart. Hither come the farmers to sell their produce, and hence they take, in exchange, their groceries, their clothing, and all the materials for their implements and the domestic conveniences. It was fair-day when I arrived at Shrewsbury. Everything was on the decline. Cheese, which four years ago sold at sixty shillings the six-score pounds, would not bring forty. I took particular pains to ascertain the fact with regard to the cheese, which is a great article here. I was assured that shop-keepers in general did not now sell half the quantity of goods in a month that they did in that space of time four or five years ago. The _ironmongers_ were not selling a fourth-part of what they used to sell five years ago. Now, it is impossible to believe that a somewhat similar falling off in the sale of iron must not have taken place all over the kingdom; and need we then wonder that the iron in Staffordshire has fallen, within these five years, from thirteen pounds to five pounds a ton, or perhaps a great deal more; and need we wonder that the _iron-masters_, who have the same rent and taxes to pay that they had to pay before, have resorted to the tommy system, in order to assist in saving themselves from ruin! Here is the real cause of the tommy system; and if Mr. Littleton really wishes to put an end to it, let him prevail upon the Parliament to take off taxes to the amount of forty millions a year. Another article had experienced a still greater falling off at Shrewsbury; I mean the article of corn-sacks, of which there has been a falling off of _five-sixths_. The sacks are made by weavers in the North; and need we wonder, then, at the low wages of those industrious people, whom I used to see weaving sacks in the miserable cellars at Preston! Here is the true cause of the tommy system, and of all the other evils which disturb and afflict the country. It is a great country; an immense mass of industry and resources of all sorts, _breaking up_; a prodigious mass of enterprise and capital diminishing and dispersing. The enormous taxes co-operating with the Corn-bill, which those taxes have engendered, are driving skill and wealth out of the country in all directions; are causing iron-masters to make France, and particularly Belgium, blaze with furnaces, in the lieu of those which have been extinguished here; and that have established furnaces and cotton-mills in abundance. These same taxes and this same Corn-bill are sending the long wool from Lincolnshire to France, there to be made into those blankets which, for ages, were to be obtained nowhere but in England. This is the true state of the country, and here are the true causes of that state; and all that the corrupt writers and speakers say about over-population and poor-laws, and about all the rest of their shuffling excuses, is a heap of nonsense and of lies. I cannot quit Shrewsbury without expressing the great satisfaction that I derived from my visit to that place. It is the only town into which I have gone, in all England, without knowing, beforehand, something of some person in it. I could find out no person that took the Register; and could discover but one person who took the _Advice to Young Men_. The number of my auditors was expected to be so small, that I doubled the price of admission, in order to pay the expense of the room. To my great surprise, I had a room full of gentlemen, at the request of some of whom I repeated the dose the next night; and if my audience were as well pleased with me as I was with them, their pleasure must have been great indeed. I saw not one single person in the place that I had ever seen before; yet I never had more cordial shakes by the hand; in proportion to their numbers, not more at Manchester, Oldham, Rochdale, Halifax, Leeds, or Nottingham, or even Hull. I was particularly pleased with the conduct of the _young_ gentlemen at Shrewsbury, and especially when I asked them, whether they were prepared to act upon the insolent doctrine of Huskisson, and quietly submit to this state of things "_during the present generation_"? TOUR IN THE WEST. _3rd July, 1830._ Just as I was closing my third Lecture (on Saturday night), at Bristol, to a numerous and most respectable audience, the news of the above event [the death of George IV.] arrived. I had advertised, and made all the preparations, for lecturing at Bath on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday; but, under the circumstances, I thought it would not be proper to proceed thither, for that purpose, until after the burial of the King. When that has taken place, I shall, as soon as may be, return to Bath, taking Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire in my way; from Bath, through Somerset, Devon, and into Cornwall; and back through Dorset, South Wilts, Hants, Sussex, Kent, and then go into Essex, and, last of all, into my native county of Surrey. I shall then have seen all England with my own eyes, except Rutland, Westmoreland, Durham, Cumberland, and Northumberland; and these, if I have life and health till next spring, I shall see, in my way to Scotland. But never shall I see another place to interest me, and so pleasing to me, as Bristol and its environs, taking the whole together. A good and solid and wealthy city: a people of plain and good manners; private virtue and public spirit united; no empty noise, no insolence, no flattery; men very much like the Yorkers and Lancastrians. And as to the seat of the city and its environs, it surpasses all that I ever saw. A great commercial city in the midst of corn-fields, meadows and woods, and the ships coming into the centre of it, miles from anything like sea, up a narrow river, and passing between two clefts of a rock probably a hundred feet high; so that from the top of these clefts, you _look down_ upon the main-top gallant masts of lofty ships that are gliding along! PROGRESS IN THE NORTH. _Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 23rd September, 1832._ From Bolton, in Lancashire, I came, through Bury and Rochdale, to Todmorden, on the evening of Tuesday, the 18th September. I have formerly described the valley of Todmorden as the most curious and romantic that was ever seen, and where the water and the coal seemed to be engaged in a struggle for getting foremost in point of utility to man. On the 19th I staid all day at Todmorden to write and to sleep. On the 20th I set off for Leeds by the stage coach, through Halifax and Bradford; and as to _agriculture_, certainly the poorest country that I have ever set my eyes on, except that miserable _Nova Scotia_, where there are the townships of Horton and of Wilmot, and whither the sensible suckling statesman, Lord Howick, is wanting to send English country girls, lest they should breed if they stay in England! This country, from Todmorden to Leeds, is, however, covered over with population, and the two towns of Halifax and Bradford are exceedingly populous. There appears to be nothing produced by the earth but the natural grass of the country, which, however, is not bad. The soil is a sort of yellow-looking, stiffish stuff, lying about a foot thick, upon a bed of rocky stone, lying upon solid rock beneath. The grass does not seem to burn here; nor is it bad in quality; and all the grass appears to be wanted to rear milk for this immense population, that absolutely covers the whole face of the country. The only grain crops that I saw were those of very miserable oats; some of which were cut and carried; some standing in _shock_, the sheaves not being more than about a foot and a half long; some still standing, and some yet _nearly green_. The land is very high from Halifax to Bradford, and proportionably cold. Here are some of those "Yorkshire Hills" that they see from Lancashire and Cheshire. I got to Leeds about four o'clock, and went to bed at eight precisely. At five in the morning of the 21st, I came off by the coach to Newcastle, through Harrowgate, Ripon, Darlington, and Durham. As I never was in this part of the country before, and can, therefore, never have described it upon any former occasion, I shall say rather more about it now than I otherwise should do. Having heard and read so much about the "Northern Harvest," about the "Durham ploughs," and the "Northumberland system of husbandry," what was my surprise at finding, which I verily believe to be the fact, that there is not as much corn grown in the North-Riding of Yorkshire, which begins at Ripon, and in the whole county of Durham, as is grown in the Isle of Wight alone. A very small part, comparatively speaking, is _arable_ land; and all the outward appearances show that that which is arable was formerly pasture. Between Durham and Newcastle there is a pretty general division of the land into grass fields and corn fields; but, even here, the absence of _homesteads_, the absence of barns, and of labourers' cottages, clearly show that agriculture is a sort of novelty; and that nearly all was pasturage not many years ago, or at any rate only so much of the land was cultivated as was necessary to furnish straw for the horses kept for other purposes than those of agriculture, and oats for those horses, and bread corn sufficient for the graziers and their people. All along the road from Leeds to Durham I saw hardly any wheat at all, or any wheat stubble, no barley, the chief crops being oats and beans mixed with peas. These everywhere appeared to be what we should deem most miserable crops. The oats, tied up in sheaves, or yet uncut, were scarcely ever more than two feet and a half long, the beans were about the same height, and in both cases the land so full of grass as to appear to be _a pasture_, after the oats and the beans were cut. The land appears to be divided into very extensive farms. The corn, when cut, you see put up into little stacks of a circular form, each containing about _three_ of our southern wagon-loads of sheaves, which stacks are put up round about the stone house and the buildings of the farmer. How they thrash them out I do not know, for I could see nothing resembling a barn or a barn's door. By the corn being put into such small stacks, I should suppose the thrashing places to be very small, and capable of holding only one stack at a time. I have many times seen one single rick containing a greater quantity of sheaves than fifteen or twenty of these stacks; and I have seen more than twenty stacks, each containing a number of sheaves equal to, at least, fifteen of these stacks; I have seen more than twenty of these large stacks, standing at one and the same time, in one single homestead in Wiltshire. I should not at all wonder if Tom Baring's farmers at Micheldever had a greater bulk of wheat-stacks standing now than any one would be able to find of that grain, especially, in the whole of the North-Riding of Yorkshire, and in one half of Durham. But this by no means implies that these are beggarly counties, even exclusive of their waters, coals, and mines. They are not _agricultural_ counties; they are not counties for the producing of bread, but they are counties made for the express purpose of producing meat; in which respect they excel the southern counties, in a degree beyond all comparison. I have just spoken of the _beds of grass_ that are everywhere seen after the oats and the beans have been out. Grass is the natural produce of this land, which seems to have been made on purpose to produce it; and we are not to call land _poor_ because it will produce nothing but meat. The size and shape of the fields, the sort of fences, the absence of all homesteads and labourers' cottages, the thinness of the country churches, everything shows that this was always a country purely of pasturage. It is curious, that, belonging to every farm, there appears to be a large quantity of turnips. They are sowed in drills, cultivated between, beautifully clean, very large in the bulb, even now, and apparently having been sowed early in June, if not in May. They are generally the white globe turnip, here and there a field of the Swedish kind. These turnips are not fed off by sheep and followed by crops of barley and clover, as in the South, but are raised, I suppose, for the purpose of being carried in and used in the feeding of oxen, which have come off the grass lands in October and November. These turnip lands seem to take all the manure of the farm; and, as the reader will perceive, they are merely an adjunct to the pasturage, serving, during the winter, instead of hay, wherewith to feed the cattle of various descriptions. This, then, is not a country of farmers, but a country of graziers; a country of pasture, and not a country of the plough; and those who formerly managed the land here were not husbandmen, but herdsmen. Fortescue was, I dare say, a native of this country; for he describes England as a country of shepherds and of herdsmen, not working so very hard as the people of France did, having more leisure for contemplation, and, therefore, more likely to form a just estimate of their rights and duties; and he describes them as having, at all times, in their houses, plenty of flesh to eat, and plenty of woollen to wear. St. Augustine, in writing to the Pope an account of the character and conduct of his converts in England, told him that he found the English an exceedingly good and generous people; but they had one fault, their fondness for flesh-meat was so great, and their resolution to have it so determined, that he could not get them to abstain from it, even on the fast-days; and that he was greatly afraid that they would return to their state of horrible heathenism, rather than submit to the discipline of the church in this respect. The Pope, who had more sense than the greater part of bishops have ever had, wrote for answer: "Keep them within the pale of the church, at any rate, even if they slaughter their oxen in the churchyards: let them make shambles of the churches, rather than suffer the devil to carry away their souls." The taste of our fathers was by no means for the potato; for the "nice _mealy_ potato." The Pope himself would not have been able to induce them to carry "cold potatoes in their bags" to the plough-field, as was, in evidence before the special commissions, proved to have been the common practice in Hampshire and Wiltshire, and which had been before proved by evidence taken by unfeeling committees of the boroughmonger House of Commons. Faith! these old papas of ours would have burnt up not only the stacks, but the ground itself, rather than have lived upon miserable roots, while those who raised none of the food were eating up all the bread and the meat. Brougham and Birkbeck, and the rest of the Malthusian crew, are constantly at work preaching _content to the hungry and naked_. To be sure, they themselves, however, are not content to be hungry and naked. Amongst other things, they tell the working-people that the working-folks, especially in the North, used to have no bread, except such as was made of oats and of barley. That was better than potatoes, even the "nice mealy ones;" especially when carried cold to the field in a bag. But these literary impostors, these deluders, as far as they are able to delude; these vagabond authors, who thus write and publish for the purpose of persuading the working-people to be quiet, while they sack luxuries and riches out of the fruit of their toil; these literary impostors take care not to tell the people, that these oatcakes and this barley-bread were always associated with great lumps of flesh-meat; they forget to tell them this, or rather these half-mad, perverse, and perverting literary impostors suppress the facts, for reasons far too manifest to need stating. The cattle here are the most beautiful by far that I ever saw. The sheep are very handsome; but the horned cattle are the prettiest creatures that my eyes ever beheld. My sons will recollect that when they were little boys I took them to see the "Durham Ox," of which they drew the picture, I dare say, a hundred times. That was upon a large scale, to be sure, the model of all these beautiful cattle: short horns, strait back, a taper neck, very small in proportion where it joins on the small and handsome head, deep dewlap, small-boned in the legs, hoop-ribbed, square-hipped, tail slender. A great part of them are white, or approaching very nearly to white: they all appear to be half fat, cows and oxen and all; and the meat from them is said to be, and I believe it is, as fine as that from Lincolnshire, Herefordshire, Romney Marsh, or Pevensey Level; and I am ready, at any time, to swear, if need be, that one pound of it fed upon this grass is worth more, to me at least, than any ten pounds or twenty pounds fed upon oil-cake, or the stinking stuff of distilleries; aye, or even upon turnips. This is all _grass-land_, even from Staffordshire to this point. In its very nature it produces grass that fattens. The little producing-land that there is even in Lancashire and the West-Riding of Yorkshire, produces grass that would fatten an ox, though the land be upon the tops of hills. Everywhere, where there is a sufficiency of grass, it will fatten an ox; and well do we Southern people know that, except in mere vales and meadows, we have no land that will do this; we know that we might put an ox up to his eyes in our grass, and that it would only just keep him from growing worse: we know that we are obliged to have turnips and meal and cabbages and parsnips and potatoes, and then, with some of our hungry hay for them to _pick their teeth with_, we make shift to put fat upon an ox. Yet, so much are we like the beasts which, in the fable, came before Jupiter to ask him to endow them with faculties incompatible with their divers frames and divers degrees of strength, that we, in this age of "_waust improvements, Ma'um_," are always hankering after laying fields down in pasture, in the South, while these fellows in the North, as if resolved to rival us in "improvement" and perverseness, must needs break up their pasture-lands, and proclaim defiance to the will of Providence, and, instead of rich pasture, present to the eye of the traveller half-green starveling oats and peas, some of them in blossom in the last week of September. The land itself, the earth, of its own accord, as if resolved to vindicate the decrees of its Maker, sends up grass under these miserable crops, as if to punish them for their intrusion; and, when the crops are off, there comes a pasture, at any rate, in which the grass, like that of Herefordshire and Lincolnshire, is not (as it is in our Southern countries) mixed with weeds; but, standing upon the ground as thick as the earth can bear it, and fattening everything that eats of it, it forbids the perverse occupier to tear it to pieces. Such is the land of this country; all to the North of Cheshire, at any rate, leaving out the East-Riding of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, which are adapted for corn in some spots and for cattle in others. These Yorkshire and Durham cows are to be seen in great numbers in and about London, where they are used for the purpose of giving milk, of which I suppose they give great quantities; but it is always an observation that if you have these cows you must _keep them exceedingly well_: and this is very true; for, upon the food which does very well for the common cows of Hampshire and Surrey, they would dwindle away directly and be good for nothing at all; and these sheep, which are as beautiful as even imagination could make them, so round and so loaded with flesh, would actually perish upon those downs and in those folds where our innumerable flocks not only live but fatten so well, and with such facility are made to produce us such quantities of fine mutton and such bales of fine wool. There seems to be something in the soil and climate, and particularly in the soil, to create everywhere a sort of cattle and of sheep fitted to it; Dorsetshire and Somersetshire have sheep different from all others, and the nature of which it is to have their lambs in the fall instead of having them in the spring. I remember when I was amongst the villages on the Cotswold-hills, in Gloucestershire, they showed me their sheep in several places, which are a stout big-boned sheep. They told me that many attempts had been made to cross them with the small-boned Leicester breed, but that it had never succeeded, and that the race always got back to the Cotswold breed immediately. Before closing these rural remarks, I cannot help calling to the mind of the reader an observation of LORD JOHN SCOTT ELDON, who, at a time when there was a great complaint about "agricultural distress" and about the fearful increase of the poor-rates, said, "that there was no such distress _in Northumberland_, and no such increase of the poor-rates:" and so said my dignitary, Dr. Black, at the same time: and this, this wise lord, and this not less wise dignitary of mine, ascribed to "the bad practice of the farmers o' the Sooth paying the labourers their wages out of the poor-rates, which was not the practice in the North." I thought that they were telling what the children call _stories_; but I now find that these observations of theirs arose purely from that want of knowledge of the country which was, and is, common to them both. Why, Lord John, there are no such persons here as we call farmers, and no such persons as we call farm-labourers. From Cheshire to Newcastle, I have never seen _one single labourer's cottage by the side of the road_! Oh, Lord! if the good people of this country could but see the endless strings of vine-covered cottages and flower-gardens of the labourers of Kent, Sussex, Surrey, and Hampshire; if they could go down the vale of the Avon in Wiltshire, from Marlborough Forest to the city of Salisbury, and there see _thirty_ parish churches in a distance of thirty miles; if they could go up from that city of Salisbury up the valley of Wylly to Warminster, and there see one-and-thirty churches in the space of twenty-seven miles; if they could go upon the top of the down, as I did, not far (I think it was) from St. Mary Cotford, and there have under the eye, in the valley below, _ten parish churches within the distance of eight miles_, see the downs covered with innumerable flocks of sheep, water meadows running down the middle of the valley, while the sides rising from it were covered with corn, sometimes a hundred acres of wheat in one single piece, while the stack-yards were still well stored from the previous harvest; if John Scott Eldon's countrymen could behold those things, their quick-sightedness would soon discover why poor-rates should have increased in the South and not in the North; and, though their liberality would suggest an apology for my dignitary, Dr. Black, who was freighted to London in a smack, and has ever since been impounded in the Strand, relieved now and then by an excursion to Blackheath or Clapham Common; to find an apology for their countryman, Lord John, would be putting their liberality to an uncommonly severe test; for he, be it known to them, has chosen his country abode, not in the Strand like my less-informed dignitary, Dr. Black, nor in his native regions in the North; but has, in the beautiful county of Dorset, amidst valleys and downs precisely like those of Wiltshire, got as near to the sun as he could possibly get, and there, from the top of his mansion he can see a score of churches, and from his lofty and ever-green downs, and from his fat valleys beneath, he annually sends his flocks of long-tailed ewes to Appleshaw fair, thence to be sold to all the southern parts of the kingdom, having L. E. marked upon their beautiful wool; and, like the two factions at Maidstone, all tarred with the same brush. It is curious, too, notwithstanding the old maxim, that we all try to get as nearly as possible in our old age to the spot whence we first sprang. Lord John's brother William (who has some title that I have forgotten) has taken up his quarters on the healthy and I say beautiful Cotswold of Gloucestershire, where, in going in a postchaise from Stowe-in-the-Wold to Cirencester, I thought I should never get by the wall of his park; and I exclaimed to Mr. Dean, who was along with me, "Curse this Northumbrian ship-broker's son, he has got one half of the county;" and then all the way to Cirencester I was explaining to Mr. Dean _how the man had got his money_, at which Dean, who is a Roman Catholic, seemed to me to be ready to cross himself several times. No, there is no apology for Lord John's observations on the difference between the poor-rates of the South and the North. To go from London to his country-houses he must go across Surrey and Hampshire, along one of the vales of Wiltshire, and one of the vales of Dorsetshire, in which latter county he has many a time seen in one single large field _a hundred wind-rows_ (stacks made in the field in order that the corn may get quite dry before it be put into great stacks); he has many a time seen, on one farm, two or three hundred of these, each of which was very nearly as big as the stacks which you see in the stack-yards of the North Riding of Yorkshire and of Durham, where a large farm seldom produces more than ten or a dozen of these stacks, and where the farmer's property consists of his cattle and sheep, and where little, very little, agricultural labour is wanted. Lord John ought to have known the cause of the great difference, and not to have suffered such nonsense to come out of a head covered with so very large a wig. I looked with particular care on the sides of the road all the way through Yorkshire and Durham. The distance, altogether, from Oldham in Lancashire, to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, is about a hundred and fifty miles; and, leaving out the _great_ towns, I did not see so many churches as are to be seen in any twenty miles of any of the valleys of Wiltshire. All these things prove that these are by nature counties of pasturage, and that they were formerly used solely for that purpose. It is curious that there are none of those lands here which we call "meadows." The rivers run in _deep beds_, and have generally very steep sides; no little rivulets and occasional overflowings that make the meadows in the South, which are so very beautiful, but the grass in which is not of the rich nature that the grass is in these counties in the North: it will produce milk enough, but it will not produce beef. It is hard to say which part of the country is the most valuable gift of God; but every one must see how perverse and injurious it is to endeavour to produce in the one that which nature has intended to confine to the other. After all the unnatural efforts that have been made here to ape the farming of Norfolk and Suffolk, it is only _playing at farming_, as stupid and "loyal" parents used to set their children _to play at soldiers during the last war_. If any of these sensible men of Newcastle were to see the farming in the South Downs, and to see, as I saw in the month of July last, four teams of large oxen, six in a team, all ploughing in one field in preparation for wheat, and several pairs of horses, in the same field, dragging, harrowing, and rolling, and had seen on the other side of the road from five to six quarters of wheat standing upon the acre, and from nine to ten quarters of oats standing alongside of it, each of the two fields from fifty to a hundred statute acres; if any of these sensible men of Newcastle could see these things, they would laugh at the childish work that they see going on here under the name of farming; the very sight would make them feel how imperious is the duty on the law-giver to prevent distress from visiting the fields, and to take care that those whose labour produced all the food and all the raiment, shall not be fed upon potatoes and covered with rags; contemplating the important effects of their labour, each man of them could say as I said when this mean and savage faction had me at my trial, "I would see all these labourers hanged, and be hanged along with them, rather than see them live upon potatoes." _Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 24th September, 1832._ Since writing the above I have had an opportunity of receiving information from a very intelligent gentleman of this county, who tells me, that in Northumberland there are some lands which bear very heavy crops of wheat; that the agriculture in this county is a great deal better than it is farther south; that, however, it was a most lamentable thing that the paper-money price of corn tempted so many men to break up these fine pastures; that the turf thus destroyed cannot be restored probably in a whole century; that the land does not now, with present prices, yield a clear profit, anything like what it would have yielded in the pasture; and that thus was destroyed the _goose with the golden eggs_. Just so was it with regard to the _downs_ in the south and the west of England, where there are hundreds of thousands of acres, where the turf was the finest in the world, broken up for the sake of the paper-money prices, but now left to be _downs again_; and which will not be _downs_ for more than a century to come. Thus did this accursed paper-money cause even the fruitful qualities of the earth to be anticipated, and thus was the soil made _worth less_ than it was before the accursed invention appeared! This gentleman told me that this breaking up of the pasture-land in this country had made the land, though covered again with artificial grasses, unhealthy for sheep; and he gave as an instance the facts, that three farmers purchased a hundred and fifty sheep each, out of the same flock; that two of them, who put their sheep upon these recently broken-up lands, lost their whole flocks by the rot, with the exception of four in the one case and four in the other, out of the three hundred: and that the third farmer, who put his sheep upon the old pastures, and kept them there, lost not a single sheep out of the hundred and fifty! These, ever accursed paper-money, are amongst thy destructive effects! I shall now, laying aside for the present these rural affairs, turn to the politics of this fine, opulent, solid, beautiful, and important town; but as this would compel me to speak of particular transactions and particular persons, and as this _Register_ will come back to Newcastle before I am likely to quit it, the reader will see reasons quite sufficient for my refraining to go into matters of this sort, until the next _Register_, which will in all probability be dated from Edinburgh. While at Manchester, I received an invitation to lodge while here at the house of a friend, of whom I shall have to speak more fully hereafter; but every demonstration of respect and kindness met me at the door of the coach in which I came from Leeds, on Friday, the 21st September. In the early part of Saturday, the 22nd, a deputation waited upon me with _an address_. Let the readers, in my native county and parish, remember that I am now at the end of thirty years of calumnies poured out incessantly upon me from the poisonous mouths and pens of three hundred mercenary villains, called newspaper editors and reporters; that I have written and published more than a hundred volumes in those thirty years; and that more than a thousand volumes (chiefly paid for out of the taxes) have been written and published for the sole purpose of impeding the progress of those truths that dropped from my pen; that my whole life has been a life of sobriety and labour; that I have invariably shown that I loved and honoured my country, and that I preferred its greatness and happiness far beyond my own; that, at four distinct periods, I might have rolled in wealth derived from the public money, which I always refused on any account to touch; that, for having thwarted this Government in its wastefulness of the public resources, and particularly for my endeavours to produce that Reform of the Parliament which the Government itself has at last been compelled to resort to; that, for having acted this zealous and virtuous part, I have been twice stripped of all my earnings by the acts of this Government; once lodged in a felon's jail for two years, and once driven into exile for two years and a half; and that, after all, here I am on a spot within a hundred miles of which I never was before in my life; and here I am receiving the unsolicited applause of men amongst the most intelligent in the whole kingdom, and the names of some of whom have been pronounced accompanied with admiration, even to the southernmost edge of the kingdom. _Hexham, 1st Oct., 1832._ I left Morpeth this morning pretty early, to come to this town, which lies on the banks of the Tyne, at thirty-four miles distant from Morpeth, and at twenty distant from Newcastle. Morpeth is a great market-town, for cattle especially. It is a solid old town; but it has the disgrace of seeing an enormous new jail rising up in it. From cathedrals and monasteries we are come to be proud of our jails, which are built in the grandest style, and seemingly as if to imitate the Gothic architecture. From Morpeth to within about four miles of Hexham, the land is but very indifferent; the farms of an enormous extent. I saw in one place more than a hundred corn-stacks in one yard, each having from six to seven Surrey wagon-loads of sheaves in a stack; and not another house to be seen within a mile or two of the farmhouse. There appeared to be no such thing as barns, but merely a place to take in a stack at a time, and thrash it out by a machine. The country seems to be almost wholly destitute of people. Immense tracks of corn-land, but neither cottages nor churches. There is here and there a spot of good land, just as in the deep valleys that I crossed; but, generally speaking, the country is poor; and its bleakness is proved by the almost total absence of the oak tree, of which we see scarcely one all the way from Morpeth to Hexham. Very few trees of any sort, except in the bottom of the warm valleys; what there are, are chiefly the _ash_, which is a very hardy tree, and will live and thrive where the _oak_ will not grow at all, which is very curious, seeing that it comes out into leaf so late in the spring, and sheds its foliage so early in the fall. The trees which stand next in point of hardiness are the _sycamore_, the _beech_, and the _birch_, which are all seen here; but none of them fine. The _ash_ is the most common tree, and even it flinches upon the hills, which it never does in the South. It has generally become yellow in the leaf already; and many of the trees are now bare of leaf before any frost has made its appearance. The cattle all along here are of a coarse kind; the cows swag-backed and badly shaped; Kiloe oxen, except in the dips of good land by the sides of the bourns which I crossed. Nevertheless, even here, the fields of turnips, of both sorts, are very fine. Great pains seem to be taken in raising the crops of these turnips: they are all cultivated in rows, are kept exceedingly clean, and they are carried in as winter food for all the animals of a farm, the horses excepted. As I approached Hexham, which, as the reader knows, was formerly the seat of a famous abbey, and the scene of a not less famous battle, and was, indeed, at one time the _see_ of a bishop, and which has now churches of great antiquity and cathedral-like architecture; as I approached this town, along a valley down which runs a small river that soon after empties itself into the Tyne, the land became good, the ash trees more lofty, and green as in June; the other trees proportionably large and fine; and when I got down into the vale of Hexham itself, there I found the _oak_ tree, certain proof of a milder atmosphere; for the _oak_, though amongst the hardest _woods_, is amongst the tenderest of plants known as natives of our country. Here everything assumes a different appearance. The Tyne, the southern and northern branches of which meet a few miles above Hexham, runs close by this ancient and celebrated town, all round which the ground rises gradually away towards the hills, crowned here and there with the remains of those castles which were formerly found necessary for the defence of this rich and valuable valley, which, from tip of hill to tip of hill, varies, perhaps, from four to seven miles wide, and which contains as fine corn-fields as those of Wiltshire, and fields of turnips, of both kinds, the largest, finest, and best cultivated, that my eyes ever beheld. As a proof of the goodness of the land and the mildness of the climate here, there is, in the grounds of the gentleman who had the kindness to receive and to entertain me (and that in a manner which will prevent me from ever forgetting either him or his most amiable wife); there is, standing in his ground, _about an acre of my corn_, which will ripen perfectly well; and in the same grounds, which, together with the kitchen-garden and all the appurtenances belonging to a house, and the house itself, are laid out, arranged, and contrived, in a manner so judicious, and to me so original, as to render them objects of great interest, though, in general, I set very little value on the things which appertain merely to the enjoyments of the rich. In these same grounds (to come back again to the climate), I perceived that the rather tender evergreens not only lived but throve perfectly well, and (a criterion infallible) the _biennial stocks_ stand the winter without any covering or any pains taken to shelter them; which, as every one knows, is by no means always the case, even at Kensington and Fulham. At night I gave a lecture at an inn, at Hexham, in the midst of the domains of that impudent and stupid man, Mr. Beaumont, who, not many days before, in what he called a speech, I suppose, made at Newcastle, thought proper, as was reported in the newspapers, to utter the following words with regard to me, never having, in his life, received the slightest provocation for so doing. "The liberty of the press had nothing to fear from the Government. It was the duty of the administration to be upon their guard to prevent extremes. There was a crouching servility on the one hand, and an excitement to disorganization and to licentiousness on the other, which ought to be discountenanced. The company, he believed, as much disapproved of that political traveller who was now going through the country--he meant Cobbett--as they detested the servile effusions of the Tories." Beaumont, in addition to his native stupidity and imbecility, might have been drunk when he said this, but the servile wretch who published it was not drunk; and, at any rate, Beaumont was my mark, it not being my custom to snap at the stick, but at the cowardly hand that wields it. Such a fellow cannot be an object of what is properly called _vengeance_ with any man who is worth a straw; but, I say, with SWIFT, "If a _flea_ or a _bug_ bite me, I will kill it if I can;" and, acting upon that principle, I, being at Hexham, put my foot upon this contemptible creeping thing, who is offering himself as a candidate for the southern division of the county, being so eminently fitted to be a maker of the laws! The newspapers have told the whole country that Mr. John Ridley, who is a tradesman at Hexham, and occupies some land close by, has made a stand against the demand for tithes; and that the tithe-owner recently broke open, in the night, the gate of his field, and carried away what he deemed to be the tithe; that Mr. Ridley applied to the magistrates, who could only refer him to a court of law to recover damages for the trespass. When I arrived at Hexham, I found this to be the case. I further found that Beaumont, that impudent, silly and slanderous Beaumont, is the _lay-owner_ of the tithes in and round about Hexham; he being, in a right line, doubtless, the heir or successor of the abbot and monks of the Abbey of Hexham; or, the heir of the donor, Egfrid, _king of Northumberland_. I found that Beaumont had leased out his tithes to _middle men_, as is the laudable custom with the pious bishops and clergy of the law-church in Ireland. _North Shields, 2nd Oct., 1832._ These sides of the Tyne are very fine: corn-fields, woods, pastures, villages; a church every four miles, or thereabouts; cows and sheep beautiful; oak trees, though none very large; and, in short, a fertile and beautiful country, wanting only the gardens and the vine-covered cottages that so beautify the counties in the South and the West. All the buildings are of stone. Here are coal-works and railways every now and then. The working people seem to be very well off; their dwellings solid and clean, and their furniture good; but the little gardens and orchards are wanting. The farms are all large; and the people who work on them either live in the farmhouse, or in buildings appertaining to the farmhouse; and they are all well fed, and have no temptation to acts like those which sprang up out of the ill-treatment of the labourers in the South. Besides, the mere country people are so few in number, the state of society is altogether so different, that a man who has lived here all his life-time, can form no judgment at all with regard to the situation, the wants, and the treatment of the working people in the counties of the South. They have begun to make a railway from Carlisle to Newcastle; and I saw them at work at it as I came along. There are great _lead mines_ not far from Hexham; and I saw a great number of little one-horse carts bringing down the _pigs of lead_ to the point where the Tyne becomes navigable to Newcastle; and sometimes I saw loads of these _pigs_ lying by the road-side, as you see parcels of timber lying in Kent and Sussex, and other timber counties. No fear of their being stolen: their weight is their security, together with their value compared with that of the labour of carrying. Hearing that Beaumont was, somehow or other, connected with this lead-work, I had got it into my head that he was a pig of lead himself, and half expected to meet with him amongst these groups of his fellow-creatures; but, upon inquiry, I found that some of the lead-mines belonged to him; descending, probably, in that same right line in _which the tithes descended to him_; and as the Bishop of Durham is said to be the owner of great lead-mines, Beaumont and the bishop may possibly be in the _same boat_ with regard to the subterranean estate as well as that upon the surface; and if this should be the case, it will, I verily believe, require all the piety of the bishop, and all the wisdom of Beaumont, to keep the boat above water for another five years. _North Shields, 3rd Oct., 1832._ I lectured at South Shields last evening, and here this evening. I came over the river from South Shields about eleven o'clock last night, and made a very firm bargain with myself never to do the like again. This evening, after my lecture was over, some gentlemen presented an address to me upon the stage, before the audience, accompanied with the valuable and honourable present of the late Mr. Eneas Mackenzie's _History of the County of Northumberland_; a very interesting work, worthy of every library in the kingdom. From Newcastle to Morpeth; from Morpeth to Hexham; and then all the way down the Tyne; though everywhere such abundance of fine turnips, and in some cases of mangel-wurzel, you see scarcely any _potatoes_: a certain sign that the working people do not live like hogs. This root is raised in Northumberland and Durham, to be used merely as garden stuff; and, used in that way, it is very good; the contrary of which I never thought, much less did I ever say it. It is the using of it as a _substitute_ for bread and for meat, that I have deprecated it; and when the Irish poet, Dr. Drennen, called it "the lazy root, and the root of misery," he gave it its true character. Sir Charles Wolseley, who has travelled a great deal in France, Germany and Italy, and who, though Scott-Eldon scratched him out of the commission of the peace, and though the sincere patriot Brougham will not put him in again, is a very great and accurate observer as to these interesting matters, has assured me that, in whatever proportion the cultivation of potatoes prevails in those countries, in that same proportion the working-people are wretched. From this degrading curse; from sitting round a dirty board, with potatoes trundled out upon it, as the Irish do: from going to the field with cold potatoes in their bags, as the working-people of Hampshire and Wiltshire _did_, but which they have not done since the appearance of certain _coruscations_, which, to spare the feelings of the "Lambs, the Broughams, the Greys, and the Russells," and their dirty bill-of-indictment-drawer Denman, I will not describe, much less will I eulogize; from this degrading curse the county of Northumberland is yet happily free! _Sunderland, 4th Oct., 1832._ This morning I left North Shields in a post-chaise, in order to come hither through Newcastle and Gateshead, this affording me the only opportunity that I was likely to have of seeing a plantation of Mr. Annorer Donkin, close in the neighbourhood of Newcastle; which plantation had been made according to the method prescribed in my book, called the "Woodlands;" and to see which plantation I previously communicated a request to Mr. Donkin. That gentleman received me in a manner which will want no describing to those who have had the good luck to visit Newcastle. The plantation is most advantageously circumstanced to furnish proof of the excellence of my instructions as to planting. The predecessor of Mr. Donkin also made plantations upon the same spot, and consisting precisely of the same sort of trees. The two plantations are separated from each other merely by a road going through them. Those of the predecessor have been made _six-and-twenty years_; those of Mr. Donkin _six years_; and, incredible as it may appear, the trees in the latter are full as lofty as those in the former; and, besides the equal loftiness, are vastly superior in point of shape, and, which is very curious, retain all their freshness at this season of the year, while the old plantations are brownish and many of the leaves falling off the trees, though the sort of trees is precisely the same. As a sort of reward for having thus contributed to this very rational source of his pleasure, Mr. Donkin was good enough to give me an elegant copy of the fables of the celebrated Bewick, who was once a native of Newcastle and an honour to the town, and whose books I had had from the time that my children began to look at books, until taken from me by that sort of rapine which I had to experience at the time of my memorable flight across the Atlantic, in order to secure the use of that long arm which I caused to reach them from Long Island to London. In Mr. Donkin's kitchen-garden (my eyes being never closed in such a scene) I saw what I had never seen before in any kitchen-garden, and which it may be very useful to some of my readers to have described to them. _Wall-fruit_ is, when destroyed in the spring, never destroyed by _dry-cold_; but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, by wet-frosts, which descend always perpendicularly, and which are generally fatal if they come between the expansion of the blossom and the setting of the fruit; that is to say, if they come after the bloom is quite open, and before it has disentangled itself from the fruit. The great thing, therefore, in getting _wall-fruit_, is to keep off these frosts. The French make use of boards, in the neighbourhood of Paris, projecting from the tops of the walls and supported by poles; and some persons contrive to have curtains to come over the whole tree at night and to be drawn up in the morning. Mr. Donkin's walls have a top of stone; and this top, or cap, projects about eight inches beyond the face of the wall, which is quite sufficient to guard against the wet-frosts which always fall perpendicularly. This is a country of stone to be sure; but those who can afford to build walls for the purpose of having wall-fruit, can afford to cap them in this manner: to rear the wall, plant the trees, and then to save the expense of the cap, is really like the old proverbial absurdity, "of losing the ship for the sake of saving a pennyworth of tar." At Mr. Donkin's I saw a portrait of Bewick, which is said to be a great likeness, and which, though imagination goes a great way in such a case, really bespeaks that simplicity, accompanied with that genius, which distinguished the man. Mr. Wm. Armstrong was kind enough to make me a present of a copy of the last performance of this so justly celebrated man. It is entitled "_Waits for Death_," exhibiting a poor old horse just about to die, and preceded by an explanatory writing, which does as much honour to the heart of Bewick as the whole of his designs put together do to his genius. The sight of the picture, the reading of the preface to it, and the fact that it was the last effort of the man; altogether make it difficult to prevent tears from starting from the eyes of any one not uncommonly steeled with insensibility. You see nothing here that is pretty; but everything seems to be abundant in value; and one great thing is, the working people live well. Theirs is not a life of ease to be sure, but it is not a life of hunger. The pitmen have twenty-four shillings a week; they live rent-free, their fuel costs them nothing, and their doctor cost them nothing. Their work is terrible, to be sure; and, perhaps, they do not have what they ought to have; but, at any rate, they live well, their houses are good and their furniture good; and though they live not in a beautiful scene, they are in the scene where they were born, and their lives seem to be as good as that of the working part of mankind can reasonably expect. Almost the whole of the country hereabouts is owned by that curious thing called the _Dean and Chapter_ of Durham. Almost the whole of South Shields is theirs, granted upon leases with fines at stated periods. This Dean and Chapter are the _lords of the Lords_. Londonderry, with all his huffing and strutting, is but a tenant of the Dean and Chapter of Durham, who souse him so often with their _fines_ that it is said that he has had to pay them more than a hundred thousand pounds within the last ten or twelve years. What will Londonderry bet that, he is not the _tenant of the public_ before this day five years? There would be no difficulty in these cases, but on the contrary a very great convenience; because all these tenants of the Dean and Chapter might then purchase out-and-out, and make that property freehold, which they now hold by a tenure so uncertain and so capricious. _Alnwick, 7th Oct., 1832._ From Sunderland I came, early in the morning of the 5th of October, once more (and I hope not for the last time) to Newcastle, there to lecture on the paper-money, which I did, in the evening. But before I proceed further, I must record something that I heard at Sunderland respecting that babbling fellow Trevor! My readers will recollect the part which this fellow acted with regard to the "liberal Whig prosecution;" they will recollect that it was he who first mentioned the thing in the House of Commons, and suggested to the wise Ministers the propriety of prosecuting me; that Lord Althorp and Denman _hummed_ and _ha'd_ about it; that the latter had _not read it_, and that the former would offer no opinion upon it; that Trevor came on again, encouraged by the works of the curate of Crowhurst, and by the bloody old _Times_, whose former editor and now printer is actually a candidate for Berkshire, supported by that unprincipled political prattler, Jephthah Marsh, whom I will call to an account as soon as I get back to the South. My readers will further recollect that the bloody old _Times_ then put forth another document as a confession of Goodman, made to Burrell, Tredcroft, and Scawen Blunt, while the culprit was in Horsham jail with a halter actually about his neck. My readers know the _result_ of this affair; but they have yet to learn some circumstances belonging to its progress, which circumstances are not to be stated here. They recollect, however, that from the very first I treated this TREVOR with the utmost disdain; and that at the head of the articles which I wrote about him I put these words, "TREVOR AND POTATOES;" meaning that he hated me because I was resolved, fire or fire not, that working men should not live upon potatoes in my country. Now, mark; now, chopsticks of the South, mark the sagacity, the justice, the promptitude, and the excellent taste of these lads of the North! At the last general election, which took place after the "liberal Whig prosecution" had been begun, Trevor was a candidate for the city of Durham, which is about fourteen miles from this busy town of Sunderland. The freemen of Durham are the voters in that city, and some of these freemen reside at Sunderland. Therefore this fellow (I wish to God you could _see_ him!) went to Sunderland to canvass these freemen residing there; and they pelted him out of the town; and (oh appropriate missiles!) pelted him out with the "accursed root," hallooing and shouting after him--"_Trevor and potatoes!_" Ah! stupid coxcomb! little did he imagine, when he was playing his game with Althorp and Denman, what would be the ultimate effect of that game! From Newcastle to Morpeth (the country is what I before described it to be). From Morpeth to this place (Alnwick), the country, generally speaking, is very poor as to land, scarcely any trees at all; the farms enormously extensive; only two churches, I think, in the whole of the twenty miles; scarcely anything worthy the name of a tree, and not one single dwelling having the appearance of a labourer's house. Here appears neither hedging nor ditching; no such thing as a sheep-fold or a hurdle to be seen; the cattle and sheep very few in number; the farm servants living in the farm-houses, and very few of them; the thrashing done by machinery and horses; a country without people. This is a pretty country to take a minister from to govern the South of England! A pretty country to take a Lord Chancellor from to prattle about _Poor Laws_ and about _surplus population_! My Lord Grey has, in fact, spent his life here, and Brougham has spent his life in the Inns of Court, or in the botheration of speculative books. How should either of them know anything about the eastern, southern, or western counties? I wish I had my dignitary Dr. Black here; I would soon make him see that he has all these number of years been talking about the bull's horns instead of his tail and his buttocks. Besides the indescribable pleasure of having seen Newcastle, the Shieldses, Sunderland, Durham, and Hexham, I have now discovered the true ground of all the errors of the Scotch _feelosofers_ with regard to population, and with regard to poor-laws. The two countries are as different as any two things of the same nature can possibly be; that which applies to the one does not at all apply to the other. The agricultural counties are covered all over with parish churches, and with people thinly distributed here and there. Only look at the two counties of Dorset and Durham. Dorset contains 1,005 square miles; Durham contains 1,061 square miles. Dorset has 271 _parishes_; Durham has 75 parishes. The population of Dorset is scattered over the whole of the county, there being no town of any magnitude in it. The population of Durham, though larger than that of Dorset, is almost all gathered together at the mouths of the Tyne, the Wear, and the Tees. Northumberland has 1,871 square miles; and Suffolk has 1,512 square miles. Northumberland has _eighty-eight parishes_; and Suffolk has _five hundred and ten parishes_. So that here is a county one third part smaller than that of Northumberland with six times as many villages in it! What comparison is there to be made between states of society so essentially different? What rule is there, with regard to population and poor-laws, which can apply to both cases? And how is my Lord Howick, born and bred up in Northumberland, to know how to judge of a population suitable to Suffolk? Suffolk is a county teeming with production, as well as with people; and how brutal must that man be who would attempt to reduce the agricultural population of Suffolk to that of the number of Northumberland! The population of Northumberland, larger than Suffolk as it is, does not equal it in total population by nearly one-third, notwithstanding that one half of its whole population have got together on the banks of the Tyne. And are we to get rid of our people in the South, and supply the places of them by horses and machines? Why not have the people in the fertile counties of the South, where their very existence causes their food and their raiment to come? Blind and thoughtless must that man be who imagines that all but _farms_ in the South are unproductive. I much question whether, taking a strip three miles each way from the road, coming from Newcastle to Alnwick, an equal quantity of what is called _waste ground_, together with the cottages that skirt it, do not exceed such strip of ground in point of produce. Yes, the cows, pigs, geese, poultry, gardens, bees and fuel that arise from those _wastes_, far exceed, even in the capacity of sustaining people, similar breadths of ground, distributed into these large farms in the poorer parts of Northumberland. I have seen not less than ten thousand geese in one tract of common, in about six miles, going from Chobham towards Farnham in Surrey. I believe these geese alone, raised entirely by care and by the common, to be worth more than the clear profit that can be drawn from any similar breadth of land between Morpeth and Alnwick. What folly is it to talk, then, of applying to the counties of the South, principles and rules applicable to a country like this! To-morrow morning I start for "Modern Athens"! My readers will, I dare say, perceive how much my "_antalluct_" has been improved since I crossed the Tyne. What it will get to when I shall have crossed the Tweed, God only knows. I wish very much that I could stop a day at Berwick, in order to find some _feelosofer_ to ascertain, by some chemical process, the exact degree of the improvement of the "_antalluct_." I am afraid, however, that I shall not be able to manage this; for I must get along; beginning to feel devilishly home-sick since I have left Newcastle. * * * * * They tell me that Lord Howick, who is just married by-the-by, made a speech here the other day, during which he said, "that the Reform was only the means to an end; and that the end was cheap government." Good! stand to that, my Lord, and, as you are now married, pray let the country fellows and girls marry too: let us have _cheap government_, and I warrant you that there will be room for us all, and plenty for us to eat and drink. It is the drones, and not the bees, that are too numerous; it is the vermin who live upon the taxes, and not those who work to raise them, that we want to get rid of. We are keeping fifty thousand tax-eaters to breed gentlemen and ladies for the industrious and laborious to keep. These are the opinions which I promulgate; and whatever your flatterers may say to the contrary, and whatever _feelosofical_ stuff Brougham and his rabble of writers may put forth, these opinions of mine will finally prevail. I repeat my anxious wish (I would call it a _hope_ if I could) that your father's resolution may be equal to his sense, and that he will do that which is demanded by the right which the people have to insist upon measures necessary to restore the greatness and happiness of the country; and, if he show a disposition to do this, I should deem myself the most criminal of all mankind, if I were to make use of any influence that I possess to render his undertaking more difficult than it naturally must be; but, if he show not that disposition, it will be my bounden duty to endeavour to drive him from the possession of power; for, be the consequences to individuals what they may, the greatness, the freedom, and the happiness of England must be restored. END. ESTABLISHED 1798 T. NELSON AND SONS PRINTERS AND PUBLISHERS THE NELSON CLASSICS. _Uniform with this Volume and Same Price._ DESCRIPTIVE NOTES ON SOME OF THE VOLUMES. Shakespeare (6 vols.). This is a complete edition of the plays and poems of the greatest of the world's writers. It is printed from a carefully selected fount of type, and is one of the prettiest, as well as one of the cheapest, editions of Shakespeare ever published. The Count of Monte-Cristo (2 vols.). ALEXANDRE DUMAS. In "Monte-Cristo" Dumas left the path of historical fiction for the romance of his own time. It is the most famous of the world's treasure stories, and tells how a young man, imprisoned on a false charge in a French fortress, learns from a fellow-prisoner the secret of great wealth hidden on a Mediterranean island; how he finds the treasure, and spends his remaining years rewarding his friends and avenging himself on his enemies. Scenes of Clerical Life. GEORGE ELIOT. With the three stories in this volume--"Amos Barton," "Mr. Gilfil's Love Story," and "Janet's Repentance"--George Eliot made her first entry into fiction, and they still remain perhaps her most characteristic and delightful work. Wild Wales. GEORGE BORROW. This book was the result of Borrow's wanderings after the publication of "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye." He tramped on foot throughout the country, and the work is a classic of description, both of the scenery and people. Toilers of the Sea. VICTOR HUGO. The Laughing Man. VICTOR HUGO. Les Misérables (2 Vols.). VICTOR HUGO. 'Ninety-Three. VICTOR HUGO. Victor Hugo took the romantic novel as invented by Sir Walter Scott and gave it a new and philosophic interest. All his great romances have a purpose. "Les Misérables" exposes the tyranny of human laws; "The Toilers of the Sea" shows the conflict of man with nature; "The Laughing Man" expounds the tyranny of the aristocratic ideal as exemplified in England. But being a great artist as well as a great thinker, he never turned his romances into pamphlets. Drama is always his aim, and no novelist has attained more often the supreme dramatic moment. The cheapest books in the world. Produced in the same excellent form and convenient size as the other Nelson Libraries, they contain works which are out of copyright. Full List on application. THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, London, Edinburgh, Dublin, New York, Paris, and Leipzig. THE NELSON CLASSICS. _Uniform with this Volume and Same Price._ CONDENSED LIST. 1. A Tale of Two Cities. 2. Tom Brown's Schooldays. 3. The Deerslayer. 4. Henry Esmond. 5. Hypatia. 6. The Mill on the Floss. 7. Uncle Tom's Cabin. 8. The Last of the Mohicans. 9. Adam Bede. 10. The Old Curiosity Shop. 11. Oliver Twist. 12. Kenilworth. 13. Robinson Crusoe. 14. The Last Days of Pompeii. 15. Cloister and the Hearth. 16. Ivanhoe. 17. East Lynne. 18. Cranford. 19. John Halifax, Gentleman. 20. The Pathfinder. 21. Westward Ho! 22. The Three Musketeers. 23. The Channings. 24. The Pilgrim's Progress. 25. Pride and Prejudice. 26. Quentin Durward. 27. Villette. 28. Hard Times. 29. Child's History of England. 30. The Bible in Spain. 31. Gulliver's Travels. 32. Sense and Sensibility. 33. Kate Coventry. 34. Silas Marner. 35. Notre Dame. 36. Old St. Paul's. 37. Waverley. 38. 'Ninety-Three. 39. Eothen. 40. Toilers of the Sea. 41. Children of the New Forest. 42. The Laughing Man. 43. A Book of Golden Deeds. 44. Great Expectations. 45. Guy Mannering. 46. Modern Painters (Selections) 47. Les Misérables--I. 48. Les Misérables--II. 49. Monastery. 50. Romola. 51. The Vicar of Wakefield. 52. Emma. 53. Lavengro. 54. Emerson's Essays. 55. The Bride of Lammermoor. 56. The Abbot. 57. Tom Cringle's Log. 58. Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. 59. The Scarlet Letter. 60. Old Mortality. 61. The Romany Rye. 62. Hans Andersen. 63. The Black Tulip. 64. Little Women. 65. The Talisman. 66. Scottish Life and Character. 67. The Woman in White. 68. Tales of Mystery. 69. Fair Maid of Perth. 70. Parables from Nature. 71. Peg Woffington. 72. Windsor Castle. 73. Edmund Burke. 74. Ingoldsby Legends. 75. Pickwick Papers--I. 76. Pickwick Papers--II. 77. Verdant Green. 78. The Heir of Redclyffe. 79. Wild Wales. 80. Two Years Before the Mast. 81. Jane Eyre. 82. David Copperfield--I. 83. David Copperfield--II. 84. Hereward the Wake. 85. Wide Wide World. 86. Michael Strogoff. 87. Shirley. 88. Jack Sheppard. 89. Masterman Ready. 90. Martin Chuzzlewit--I. 91. Martin Chuzzlewit--II. 92. Twenty Years After. 93. Lorna Doone--I. 94. Lorna Doone--II. 95. Marguerite de Valois. 96. The Old Lieutenant and his Son. 97. Sylvia's Lovers. 98. Rob Roy. 99. Shakespeare--I. 100. Shakespeare--II. 101. Shakespeare--III. 102. Shakespeare--IV. 103. Shakespeare--V. 104. Shakespeare--VI. 105. Sybil. 106. Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World. 107. Nicholas Nickleby--I. 108. Nicholas Nickleby--II. 109. Christmas Books. 110. Book of Snobs, and Barry Lyndon. 111. The Golden Treasury. 112. The Fortunes of Nigel. 113. Scenes of Clerical Life. 114. Tales of the Gods and Heroes. 115. Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles. 116. House of the Seven Gables. 117. Barchester Towers. 118. Tales of the West. 119. Lays of Ancient Rome, and other Poems. 120. Coral Island. 121. First Love and Last Love. 122. Count of Monte-Cristo--I. 123. Count of Monte-Cristo--II. 124. Dombey and Son--I. 125. Dombey and Son--II. 126. Vanity Fair--I. 127. Vanity Fair--II. 128. The Antiquary. 129. Martin Rattler. 130. The Smuggler. 131. Ravenshoe. 132. Ecce Homo. 133. Framley Parsonage. 134. Coningsby. 135. Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family. 136. Rural Rides. 137. Anna Karenina--I. 138. Anna Karenina--II. 139. Voyage of the "Beagle." 140. The Daisy Chain. 141. Eugénie Grandet. 142. Elsie Venner. 143. The Phantom Regiment. 144. Salem Chapel. 145. Longfellow's Poems--I. 146. Longfellow's Poems--II. 147. Tom Brown at Oxford. 148. The Essays of Elia. THOMAS NELSON AND SONS. Footnotes: [1] I will not swear to the very _words_; but this is the meaning of Voltaire: "Representatives of the people, the Lords and the King: _Magnificent_ spectacle! _Sacred_ source of the Laws!" [2] "Representatives of the people, of whom the people know nothing, must be miraculously well calculated to have the care of their money! Oh! People too happy! overwhelmed with blessings! The _envy_ of _your neighbours_, and _admired_ by the _whole world_!" Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. Punctuation has been corrected without note. The following misprints have been corrected: "nore" corrected to "more" (page 34) "practi ing" corrected to "practicing" (page 37) "1852" corrected to "1822" (page 68) "grews" corrected to "grows" (page 79) "shillings-day" corrected to "shillings a-day" (page 82) "turnip" corrected to "turnips" (page 164) "then" corrected to "them" (page 246) "orginally" corrected to "originally" (page 347) "conmissioners" corrected to "commissioners" (page 466) "Lincolshire" corrected to "Lincolnshire" (page 555) "laboureres" corrected to "labourers" (page 558) Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original.